Chapter Text
Will, at first, isn’t sure when things went wrong.
A seedling of unrest had planted itself in the pit of his stomach, growing and spreading each day; a passive disturbance had taken root. He has lived his life along an unbroken streak of mundanity– the ever-present notion that his place in the world did not matter all that much in the cosmic sense.
His every choice, each action and word left no grand effect, no ripple on still water, rolling across the surface to reach far beyond its origin. He’s perfectly content to follow this pattern, the path set before him from years of keeping to himself. Family and few close friends would suffice for his social needs. With no desire to pull attention towards himself, Will appreciates the comfort and safety that this routine brings.
In fewer, far less dramatic words, he lives with the recognition of his own insignificance.
Something must have broken in him as a kid, that’s his running theory. Most of his early childhood is blocked out, only the especially cruel or humiliating memories sticking, ones that Will has tried vigorously scrubbing off the ridges and valleys of the grey matter in his brain.
Lonnie, at some unknown point in time, decided that Will would act as the scapegoat child of their family, throwing blame onto him for any of their problems.
First, he was a drain on their savings. Later, he was too queer for his father's approval, despite having no idea what the word meant for the longest time. He's not sure what difference his preferences could've made in the status of his parents' failing marriage, but that wasn't for a younger Will to question. It still felt like his fault regardless of how little sense it makes.
For a while there, he believed it to be true- everything that was spat or smacked or shouted at him.
He recalls many hours sat facing the shadows of a coat closet, one that Lonnie had installed a simple lock on its handle. A sliver of warm light outlined that door, offering Will a reminder of what he was being deprived of. That light revealed faint rivets in the wood from where the boy had clawed away with his untrimmed nails.
Either out of desperation or boredom, he didn’t care; it felt good to rip and tear and scratch, to tarnish and twist, to leave a mark. It’s creation by subtraction, something like carving a statue out of marble or limestone. Or the wonky clay figures he made in pottery class last semester.
Will’s life is better now, he thinks, as he taps his shoe back and forth on the classroom floor, its hard wooden surface echoing back a satisfying click-clack to fill his mind in moments of boredom. He’s at a nice prep-school, his step-father’s alma mater, granted its rigor does leave Will feeling dead tired half (most) of the time. He’s somehow wrangled a group of friends who seem to give a shit about him. Things could be worse.
He bites at the skin on his thumb, and the ripped hangnail stains the cuticle in seconds, but that doesn’t stop him from continuing to rip off the rest of the strip he started.
Class is starting soon, and Will sits alone, hunched over his desk at the edge of the room, waiting for Mike to appear and grace him with his presence. His Junior year of high school rests before his very eyes, the semester having just started a month prior.
Within the past couple days, autumnal decorations had begun popping up across the classrooms. Multicolored leaves string along the tops of chalkboards, fake pumpkins sit on his teachers’ desks, and the hallways look like an orange-black bomb went off.
Their school always goes all-out for this time of year. The faculty must have a decoration committee, or something equally frivolous. It still brings him an underlying sense of dread, though, to witness the transition of the seasons. A reminder of time gone by before he can catch up to it.
He wonders what everyone will go as for Halloween. Will usually plays it safe and simple with cat ears or skeleton makeup (with a stolen eyeliner from El’s purse, of course), but he’s considering going bigger this year. Make his own costume. A wizard, maybe, or a cleric, like from the games he, Dustin, Lucas, and Mike would play near religiously in their middle-school years.
It saddens him, how he’s felt them slip away in the past year. Will fears he may never see them again, after they graduate and return to their home states. They're spread across the map, three in the West and three in the East. California may call him back each summer, but Indiana feels closer to home than anywhere he’s ever known.
Will passes the time before class by fiddling with the sharp, fitted edges of his Hemingwood academy uniform: a neat collared button-up beneath deep-ruby knitted vests. He scratches at a spot on the very tip of his left cuff, the remnants of his morning coffee staring back.
Some professors don’t allow the students phone use during class, his government and history teacher being the strictest of the bunch. Mike's managed to earn himself two demerits from Professor Hobbs alone since the start of term. Will occupies himself instead with pulling out a notebook, resisting the persistent urge to check his notifications for the Party’s group chat. There’s bound to be something new, other than El’s habitual “good morning!” text or Mike asking for help on his French homework, which Dustin always obliges, if only to bolster his self-importance.
With autumn in full swing comes Hemingwood spirit week, which entails class competitions, themed daily events, and the notorious annual gameday, where teams of students compete for a tiny plaque in the school’s trophy room.
About ninety percent of the time, the Seniors win most competitions, either due to cheating or upperclassmen bias from the faculty, but Will doesn’t care much for the sports side of it. He is debating on signing up for helping with decorations, though, depending on what the Party is thinking of doing.
Checking his watch, Will begins to worry for Mike's attendance grade. He still hasn’t shown, and it's nearing 8AM.
Even though the two are roommates, Mike rarely leaves for their shared first period history class with Will. He’s more the type to set his alarm for 15 minutes before class begins and cram his morning routine into 10, giving himself just enough time to race to his desk each morning. When asked, Mike swears by it, citing how the routine gives him a burst of energy to start his morning, or that he packs all his daily exercise in those few frantic minutes.
Sounds more like excuses to oversleep, but he can’t find it in himself to scold Mike. His eccentricities are part of the whole package.
It’s exactly two minutes before the start of class and Professor Hobbs is already at the front, wiping the green board as chalk particles sweep into the air and form a haze around the older man before settling on the floor. Will bets there’s about a century’s worth of chalk mingled with the dust that coats the lesser-cleaned areas of Hemingwood, and most professors refuse to make the big switch to whiteboards and expo markers, for some strange infatuation with “holding tradition.”
The door creaks open, but Will doesn’t even have to look up to know who it is. He’s memorized the noises that make up Mike Wheeler from living with him since they were eleven years old. And also, his strange infatuation with said boy.
Will can’t help it, and god knows he’s tried. Mike's his best friend, but also the person who understands him the most, rivaled only by his sister.
The feelings were bound to come by the time dating and romance became all anybody cared about in his age group, and the two-year flaming train wreck that was Mike’s relationship with El only made it more apparent. He shudders at the thought of them together — it almost broke the Party in half. Will refuses to be a child of divorce for the second time.
He finally looks up as Mike slides into the chair next to him with one minute to spare, his hair frizzy, clearly dry-brushed without any product to hold a curl, but with a private smile directed towards Will. Their shared table has room for a third, but no one ever joins them, the unspoken understanding that it would be an unwelcome intrusion.
After years of being joined at the hip, the two have faced their fair share of rumors from the student body, most of them unkind.
It is Indiana, after all. And a school filled primarily with wealthy kids. Not the most charitable demographic.
Any time they’re slung some unseemly comment, Will looks to Mike’s reaction for a hint, anything that could clue him in on Mike’s thoughts on the matter. Mike brushes them off with ease, dismissing everything with an eye roll or the occasional snappy reply. Will’s too scared to ask, too scared to dig further for elaboration. He’s fine lingering at a halfway point between knowing and not knowing for certain if his feelings would ruin what they have.
At the chime of the morning bell, their professor perks up, turning from the board where he has written the daily agenda and towards his (literally) captive audience.
“Good morning, everyone,” he announces, expecting a response and feigning offense when he receives nothing but noncommittal grunts. It’s too early for enthusiasm. Professor Hobbs smacks the blocky chalkboard eraser against the wall, a heavy thump waking up the class and quieting the lasting murmurs in the back of the room.
“Since it’s the first of October, I thought we could have a little fun with a case study on the infamous ‘Salem Witch Trials’. Other than being a scandalous event, we can learn a lot about judicial practice, and how humans historically have analyzed evidence in legal settings.” He begins passing out thick packets of paper, no doubt filled with an unnecessary amount of detail, and Will reaches for one of his favorite clicky gel pens.
Before he can lift the pen to write his name, Will is met with the sight of Mike’s hand, palm laid flat across an empty notebook page, and he slides it over to his side of the table. Mike flicks his pen cap off and starts scratching out a sentence.
Usually, Mike saves the note-passing for later into their lessons, when the 75-minute block schedule finally eats away at his attention span and he feels the need to distract Will. He guesses they’re starting early today. Mike passes the notebook back to a spot right between the two of them, the rest of the page waiting for Will’s replies.
tonight is the night. we’re finally gonna do it ! meeting lucas + dustin downstairs @ 10PM, we’ll pick up the girls on our way to hunters hall.
Will doesn’t know if it’s just Mike’s expectation that they have some telepathic brain connection from being friends for half a decade, or if he’s being purposefully vague and cryptic. He leans over and writes on the line below, the black ink smudging as he finishes.
what r u talking about ???
Mike has the nerve to roll his eyes at Will, making a whole show of it, before diving back down with his pen.
the ritual ! I’ve been talking abt it ALL month. do u not check the gc ?
Oh, that’s what this is about.
After floating in Mike’s orbit for the past five years, he's learned that the he goes through phases of deep, all-encompassing obsession with whatever he’s found interesting at the moment. He’s got the general, entry-level nerd interests that the whole Party shares (sci-fi, fantasy, comics, video games). But on top of that, more often than not, Mike experiences brief yet passionate bouts of mania over his current fixation.
Normally, Will is entirely supportive and finds himself pulled along into these obsessions himself, at first to appease Mike, but then out of genuine interest. But this time it seriously freaked him out.
Mike’s summer obsession was with all things occult.
While Will absolutely loves horror, from films to books, and anything falling under the category of fiction, Mike’s delve into the occult was more so about the realities of spirits and dark magicks.
He’s not even sure if Mike actually believes any of it is real, but Will knows better. You shouldn’t mess with stuff like that, ever, on the chance that it is real. Which, it fully is. Will’s seen some shit. Impossible-to-fake kind of shit.
Will had hoped that Mike would’ve moved on by now, as he hadn’t spoken much of anything witchy or demonic since the semester started last month. But he evidently still thinks it would be a great idea to try out their own local legend – an old tradition some students do to boost their luck – the ritual. Will thinks it’s poorly named- not even a catchy title? He guesses it adds to the obscurity and mystery of the whole thing.
Even though it was banned a few decades back, kids still try it out every year during the month of October, both for fun and, naturally, out of spite for authority. No one even knows where it came from, only that it’s said to help students succeed. With the course load, no wonder so many have turned to pleading with the spirits for an easy A on their report cards.
But everyone knows how it goes, though. You live someplace long enough, and these sorts of things meld into your mind like osmosis. To carry out the ritual, you must recite a poem or song of sorts. Will thinks it’s inspired by their school mascot - the Hemingwood Fox. Perhaps the ritual is to appease some vulpine god, calling upon it to magically raise your grades.
you’re still on that ? how’d u rope in everyone else ?
lucas :) convinced him it would help us win on gameday this year !
That adds up. If there’s one thing Lucas does well, it’s rally the Party together. When Lucas made the basketball team in 9th grade, he dragged Mike kicking and screaming into those cold metal bleachers, until he stopped being such a brat and tried to enjoy the time together with his friends, cheering on the most popular of their bunch.
Will took Lucas for more of a skeptic, but honestly, he probably thinks doing the ritual will serve as some memorable ‘bonding moment’ for the Party, or at least hype them up to actually try on gameday. Being a group of generally unathletic nerds, everyone had been reluctant to sign up in the years prior, but Lucas practically begged on his knees to give it a chance this time.
don’t think this is a good idea.
Professor Hobbs throws a suspicious look towards the pair. Their time for chatting is almost up. Mike jots down one more reply.
it’ll be fine im literally an expert atp ! do it for the party ?
Will looks up, and Mike is already staring at him with those hurtful, pleading eyes, brows all scrunched up, and to top it all off, the signature pout. He blinks slowly, quite literally batting his eyelashes.
Mike knows the act has worked when Will turns away with a sigh, happy to actually focus on class and start their inch-thick packet of work. Will reasons that it would be worse if he wasn’t there and something bad happened to one of the Party members. He'll follow along, begrudgingly so.
“Is something the matter, Michael?” Hobbs peers over, glaring back and forth between Mike and Will with an unimpressed expression.
Mike answers for them. “I forgot my notebook at the dorms, and Will is sharing his with me. Sorry, it won’t happen again,” he ends with a wide smile, then looks over at Will and winks. He’s too much, and it drives Will absolutely mad. The excuse makes barely any sense, but Hobbs shakes his head and continues his lecture. For the hell of it, Mike reaches over to write another message.
omg he needs to mind his damn business :/
And Will has to cover his mouth to keep from laughing.