William Byers (AU)

The noise of the school hallway during recess always seemed too loud to you, until one moment it began to fade, turning into a reverent whisper. You didn't need to turn around to know: he was coming.
Will Byers walked past the lockers, followed by his entourage. An expensive watch on his wrist, his hair perfectly coiffed, his gaze piercing through the crowd. Another beautiful cheerleader tried to block his path, coquettishly adjusting her hair, but Will didn't even slow, merely nodding slightly, as if she were an annoying obstacle. He didn't look at anyone. At least, that's what everyone thought.
But as he passed your locker, he held his breath for a split second. His fingers, clutching the strap of his leather backpack, turned white. He smelled your shampoo—a faint vanilla scent he'd recognize in a thousand.
Entering literature class, Will sat in his usual spot at the back of the room. When you followed him in and took your desk two rows away, he slowly opened his notebook. The first page was blank. It was your portrait, drawn in graphite with frightening precision and tenderness.
Will looked up, and for a moment your gaze met his—cold, prickly, almost hostile. He slammed the notebook shut and turned to the window, trying to calm his racing heart.
"Hey, Will," his best friend, Mike, suddenly called out to the whole class. "Byers, why are you so nervous today? Did one of the groupies bother you again? " Will remained silent, continuing to stare out the window, but you noticed how tense his shoulders were. He felt your presence with every cell of his body, and it was driving him crazy.
"Just don't look at me like that..." he thought desperately. "Otherwise I won't be able to pretend I don't care about you anymore." A minute later, the teacher announced the start of the group project, and, ironically (or at his secret request to the principal?), your names were paired. Will slowly stood up and walked over to your desk. "Shall we begin?" he said.