Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will’s glad for the rain. Glad for the way it hides the sun, makes his umbrella stand out less (matches his mood for the day, too, a part of him reveling in the irony of it all). Glad for the way the weather scares pedestrians into fleeing below awnings and into warm shops, leaving him near-alone (alone, today more than any other day he feels alone) on the streets of… hm. Will can’t seem to recall the name of the city. (He doesn’t try, doesn’t give his chest one more reason to ache, not today).

He used to live here. God, how long ago was it? Decades? A century? He doesn’t miss the place, prefers living in the anonymity a larger city provides. The only building he still recognizes is the crumbling old church across the street. It’s clearly been repaired a few times over, and yet his favorite stained glass is still the same pattern Will used to draw over and (“this is… you made this for me? It’s beautiful…”) over just for the fun of it. For the practice. If a geometric rose still appears in his sketchbook even to this day, then, well. At least Will knows that the reference won’t turn any heads, a rose of all things too simple to betray his stupid bleeding heart (and he never sells those pieces, anyhow, it would feel too much like a betrayal).

The rain has made the flower shop more crowded than usual, so Will skips it. A part of him protests (every time he visits he brings flowers, his hands are shaking, he always brings flowers, what’s wrong with him, his grip tight around an umbrella when they should be holding stems) but the practical side of him wins out. It was crowded in there, his umbrella would’ve gotten the floor wet. He didn’t want to bother the florist when the shop was so busy. Will walks faster (ignoring the near panic he’d felt at the sight of a pale, dark haired customer standing inside), feeling a shred of relief at the sound of raindrops against his umbrella.

Will’s glad for the rain.

—

Will’s watch (one of a pair, the amount of money he’s spent to keep it repaired and functioning is almost embarrassing) reads 6:04 by the time he makes it to the bridge. He took the scenic way (the long way, the way that avoids the graveyard), and at this time of year the sun is already close to setting, the rain pittering to a stop as the clouds break. Will keeps his umbrella up, shielding himself from the sun as he slows.

The bridge is ugly. By now it’s long been replaced with grey concrete foundations and an asphalt road, nothing like the quiet, run-down charm it used to hold (though Will wonders sometimes if he’s just being nostalgic. If he went back in time, would the bridge still hold the charm it does in his memory? Had he hated it then, too?). The one thing that remained the same was the railing separating pedestrians from the overgrown creek below. Iron bars topped at waist height by spiked, elegant shapes and crossed with thin rods, it was perfect for the hundreds of padlocks scattered across it. Will notes, in a distant sort of way, that there are more than the last time he was here.

Will starts his search, as he always does, on the west side of the bridge, putting the sun at his back. His eyes skip over newer, more colorful locks, bright and plastic in a way that’s unfamiliar. He notes locks with initials carved into them the same way he would note a stranger wearing a similar coat, sparing half a thought to wonder who they are before his search continues. On and on, he makes his way down the bridge, stopping occasionally to check locks as if he could ever forget where his own is, what it looks like. It’s carved into his heart the same way that he is, the same way their initials are carved into metal.

By the time Will reaches the most (achingly) familiar point in the bridge, the sun’s set enough that he could safely lower his umbrella, and yet he can’t seem to loosen his grip (his hand is shaking, his fingers starting to hurt against the handle, he should’ve braved the flower shop, if only for something softer to hold). The padlocks at this end of the bridge are the hardest to sort through one-handed, densely packed and overlapping to the point of obscuring the railing near-completely. Will turns them over one-by-one, more for the ritual of it than for any real attempt at a proper search (he knows where his is, even blind he could point out exactly where it’s buried and half-rusted to the bar he locked it to, however many years ago).

— 

He finds it. He finds it, and all his attempts at delay seem almost silly against the inevitability of an old padlock, worn with age. He finds it, and has to remember to breathe not for the relief of it, not for the air, but for the distraction, the comfort of a simple in-and-out motion one more shield. It’s fully dark now, enough to see what few stars the light of the city hasn’t robbed from him. Still, he doesn’t let go of his umbrella. He reaches out and cradles cold, rusted metal in one cold, shaking hand.

He traces the letters on the front. M+W. He allows himself, for a moment, to remember the day he carved them, with him by his side, smiling so much their faces hurt and giggling until their lungs ached, drunk on the night and the safety it provided them, two boys in love snatching moments where they could. Even then Will was already grieving him. There was no avoiding what he was, what he wasn’t. Will knew, even then, that he would be alone one day, that it would hurt to lose him. Now, Will knew that he’d underestimated. Will knew that ten years in love had led to a hundred more in heartbreak. 

He pulls a pocketknife out of his pocket and, slowly, carefully, re-carves the letters. He still couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Couldn’t bring himself to regret him. Perhaps that was the truth of the curse he’d been given, so long ago now it was nothing more than a distant memory, a half-finished idea that haunted his nightmares and dissolved upon waking. The guilt of his diet, the sun as his enemy, these and a million other consequences of his being were nothing more than trivial inconveniences compared to immortal existence without him. 

He finishes his carving. He leans against the railing and reminisces on ten years of memories until his hands stop shaking, until his breathing is an easy ruse once more. When his teeth sharpen against his lips, when the hunger is unavoidable, only then does he finally leave, following a vague path into the trees, a scent of deer his guide (tonight, of all nights, he won’t feed on a person). He leaves the worst of his grief behind at the lock on the bridge for another year, only carrying enough of an ache to remember.

Will doesn’t look back.

(If he had, maybe he would have seen the figure that followed after him, taking a path straight towards the lock he’d just left behind. Maybe he would’ve recognized the unruly black hair, the night-deep eyes, the jacket he’d left behind, now worn through and patched over. Would’ve recognized the heartbroken way the figure cups a familiar padlock, traces the letters that never seem to fade, no matter how many years it’s been. Maybe he would’ve stayed to talk.

Maybe.)

Chapter Text

To Will’s unending inconvenience, the rain doesn’t return, despite heavy clouds and a weather forecast (another promise of the modern age, another inconsistent betrayal) predicting otherwise. The sky, housing his infernal celestial enemy, has confined him to the city’s only livable inn, temptingly close yet all too far from the train station that could carry him back to his city. Cloudy as it was, it still wasn’t enough to guarantee safety, nor was it enough for an umbrella to be inconspicuous, and so he was stuck in this inn, this city (with all the memories and heartache held on every street, every corner) until nightfall, or until the sky deemed him worthy of rain. Will, never the religious man, prayed for the latter.

If life had been kind, Will would already be home. Life, instead, was a cruel mistress that had tempted him into the woods with the smell of deer, only to weaponize his damned heart against him with a fawn guarded by its mother (the sight pulled at his memory as much as his heartstrings, images that only served to twist the knife). He’d taken pity on them (had turned away to avoid aggravating his poor heart further), and had instead gone after whatever smaller things he could catch. He’d spent longer than he intended to out hunting, and the last train home had left without him in the meanwhile.

At the very least, the inn’s receptionist hadn’t mentioned his disheveled state. At the very least, the blinds in his room closed completely, the bed was clean, and the shower was far from the worst he’d seen. He was comfortably full, enough that he was more tempted by the smell of coffee than by the other guests in the attached cafe. (If he remembered these little things, if he could hold on to a bright side, perhaps he could forget where he was stuck, if only for a moment). 

This morning, the receptionist had smiled and waved at him when he had passed by her on his way to breakfast. She had asked how he was, if he was staying long. He was (avoiding the flash of dark hair outside the window, avoiding the memory of a fawn with its mother, avoiding how much the woman in front of him looked like an old acquaintance) fine, and would be leaving as soon as the trains would let him. She’d winced a little at that, told him that there was some problem or other on the tracks, and recommended that in the meantime he check out this shop or that bookstore.

Will had thanked her for the suggestions, but here he was, confined to the same cafe as this morning, waiting for the clouds to grow heavier.

At the very least he had things to pass the time (he’d intended to use them on the train home, blast that wicked sun). He’d packed a book (of a niche genre he used to enjoy, he couldn’t bring himself to open it while stuck in this city), an mp3 player (how could such modern songs still remind him of then?), and a fresh sketchpad (already half filled with messy renditions curly hair and dark eyes). 

Will passes the time at an agonizing crawl by drawing the strangers around him. He forces his mind into the present, sketches people sipping their drinks, chatting with each other, tapping away on phones or laptops. He even manages to sketch a fellow artist in the middle of their own sketching (it would’ve made him laugh. He scratches it out).

—

He thinks it’s around lunchtime when the clouds deign to grace him with a light, misting rain. It’s hardly noticeable, but it does mean he won’t be the only one carrying an umbrella, which (combined with the restless feeling roiling through his veins like the white water rapids just after a waterfall) is enough of an excuse to brave the open street. 

He knows, from pamphlets by the inn’s front desk, that there’s a new (by his standards) art gallery some blocks away. It feels like a safe decision, to waste time somewhere that doesn’t hold any memories, somewhere he can draw inspiration from that doesn’t take an axe to the mental walls he’s constructed. He takes the long route to (avoid a familiar road he’d taken a hundred times over) waste even more time, dilly dallying at shop windows (suppressing a flinch at any head of dark hair reflected in the glass).

— 

The gallery’s main exhibit is… alright. 

He’d walked through several rooms worth of pieces (gorgeously done, Will has to admit) done by one artist, dedicated to his wife, celebrating 50 years of marriage. Most of the pieces were in monochrome, with only a relatively small portion in full color. It was supposed to be a visual indicator of the percentage of years that their marriage has been legal, and it’s all been rearranged just so, but Will can’t bring himself to enjoy it. He doesn’t (he does he does he does) know why (he knows exactly why, knows exactly what face he’s avoiding picturing). Perhaps on any other day (in any other city) he would’ve liked it more.

At the very least, he completed his goal of wasting time. The sun (in all her infernal, hellish glory) has been well and properly covered by dark clouds and rain. It’s enough that Will finally starts to relax, allows himself a touch or two of nostalgia to creep into his heart while he meanders back towards the inn. He even manages to look at the old, crumbling church without his heart hurting too much.

He’d perhaps relaxed a little too much, forgetting to keep a hunter’s keen ear, forgetting where he was. He’s caught, completely unaware, by an all too familiar voice (no no no no no no nonono) calling out to him. He doesn’t want to turn around (it can’t be real it can’t be). He doesn’t have to. While he’s stood, frozen (notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal), a stranger  (is it? Could it be?) catches up to him, stands before him, looks him in the eyes.

He speaks, Mike speaks, Will’s Mike, speaks with a voice no different than his memories, a face unmarked by time.

He says, “is it really you?”

And the ground falls out from under Will’s feet.