Chapter Text
August 27, 1989
«So it's true you're going to New York?»
Mike's broken voice made Will shiver.
It was a cold evening in late August, and the two of them were standing on Will's porch. Mike had suddenly appeared at his door, sweaty and out of breath.
«Mike, what—?» Will stammered.
«Dustin told me!» he said quickly. «Why didn't you tell me? Why am I the last to know?» Mike was angry, he felt betrayed. Everyone was leaving him, first El, then Dustin, then Max and Lucas, and now even his best friend.
«I wanted to tell you! I swear, I wanted to! It just— it just all happened so fast and…» Will tried to explain, he didn’t want to hurt his best friend.
«And what?» Mike asked angrily. Will looked into his eyes, they were moist, he was trying to hold back tears. «You promised me, Will! You promised me you wouldn’t leave!»
Will shook his head, «Mike, please listen to me! I can’t stay in Hawkins anymore… I can’t, I— I have too many bad memories here…»
A tear rolled down Mike’s face, «But I’m here.»
Now Will was on the verge of tears too, «We’ll stay in touch, Mike! I’ll call you every day and—»
Mike interrupted him with a snort of laughter. «It will never be the same as having you here.»
Will didn’t know what to say, he wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, to get mad at him for being so selfish, he wanted to kiss him..
«I have no future here,» he said instead, «I'm leaving tomorrow, and I don't want to argue with you before I leave Hawkins.» Will took a step closer to Mike and took his hand, holding it in his, «Distance won't make us strangers. I'll call you every day.»
Mike couldn't look at him, it was all too much, he couldn't take it anymore. He let go of Will's hand, «Spare yourself, if you want to make a new life there in New York, you have to let go of the past.» And so he turned and quickly went down the porch steps.
«Mike! Mike.. please you’re not thinking straight!» Will tried to call him from behind but Mike was already on his bike when the boy tried to catch up.
That was the last time the two spoke.
Will went to the Wheelers' the morning after, to try to straighten things out, but when he rang the bell, no one answered.
And when Mike showed up at the Byers' that afternoon to apologize and fix things, it was too late, Will had already left.
Will called him for three years straight, never getting an answer, At first, every day. After a while, just to hear his voice on the voicemail.
He had memorized what it said: “Hey, this is Mike Wheeler’s voicemail. If you’re hearing this, it means I’m not here—call back later or… don’t!”
Word for word.
After a while, he had stopped. He had forced himself to move on, telling himself it was the only thing left to do. Mike didn’t want to talk to him anymore—fine. He accepted it, or at least he tried to. He pushed the thought aside, convinced himself that some distances were meant to stay that way, even when they hurt.
November 6, 1992
Will loved his life in New York.
He lived in an apartment in the city center, owned a small art gallery in a Brooklyn neighborhood, and had a gorgeous boyfriend who loved him so much.
Or at least, he loved the Will he'd met in college, at a frat party.
Not the Will from Hawkins, because he didn't know him at all.
When he moved to New York, it wasn’t easy for him. Everything was new and unfamiliar, and scary.
He was all by himself.
He had left his closest friends and his family without looking back, because otherwise he wouldn’t have made it.
The first few months were exhausting; he still had his usual nightmares and would wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, his breathing rapid. Over time, he learned to calm himself down, because the only person who knew how to deal with him when he was afraid, was Mike.
But Mike had decided to ignore his calls, telling him to leave the past behind.
And so he did.
He’d started going out more, often attending fraternity parties, and, somewhat inexplicably, he found that he genuinely enjoyed it.
For the first time in a long while, those nights didn’t feel like an obligation or an escape—they felt natural, as if he were slowly finding his place in a world that had once seemed distant and unwelcoming.
That’s when he met his now boyfriend, Carlton.
Actually, it’s a funny story, because Will was clearly drunk that night and had collapsed on a couch. Carlton came up to him—they didn’t know each other yet—and asked him how he was doing. Will answered with a grunt, and then the guy helped him pull himself together. From that moment on, they became very close, but Will knew it wasn’t just friendship; he’d been through that before. So when he talked to him to make things clear, Carlton kissed him, and Will couldn’t help but kiss him back.
He felt as though he were walking on clouds. Everything was finally going the right way, and he had even managed to forget about Mike for a while.
That was, until the phone call came. When Will asked who it was, no one answered. All he could hear was breathing on the other end of the line—not just any breathing. His chest tightened immediately, because Will knew that sound, knew it so well he could have recognized it anywhere. He was certain it was Mike.
Before he could say anything else, before he could even fully process what was happening, Carlton interrupted him and quickly hung up the phone, cutting the line and the moment short, leaving Will standing there in stunned silence.
«Is everything okay?» Carlton asked when he noticed Will's upsetting.
«Yeah!» he replied, a little too quickly, «Yeah, totally, they uhm— they’ve must called the wrong number.»
Carlton didn't seem convinced by the answer, but shrugged, «Quick, we have to go, the art show starts soon.»
Will nodded and followed him out the door. There would be time later to face his feelings, to untangle what he was trying so hard to ignore.