Chapter Text
New York City, February 20, 1997
Will Byers loves his life. More specifically, he loves his home. After nearly eight years living in New York City he can’t help but feel a deep appreciation for the city that has shown him that he does deserve happiness and contentment.
Thanks to his incredible friends, his art, and his cozy apartment, Will felt like that omnipresent hole in his soul, the one that’s been there since Lonnie, is finally beginning to fill.
Will turned the street corner before taking a deep breath, stopping briefly to recollect himself with the support of a conveniently placed, though grimy, bench. He looked around for a distraction, which, seeing as he lives in New York City of all places, exists in abundance (yet another reason he loves it there).
His eyes tracked a frantic looking woman, pencil skirt restricting her legs as she attempted to sprint towards a yellow cab that was already pulling away. Will grimaced as she tripped, her stack of manila folders careening out of her arms and toward the pavement.
He looked away, more out of sympathy than pity, before standing up and continuing his short walk to the art studio.
The air around him was filled with the thrum of cars honking and pedestrians shouting, sounds of which he’s come to love in his time here. The humanity of it all grounds him, like an olive branch connecting him to a reality where he is just like everyone else: not a zombie boy, not a freak, not a fag.
When he finally arrived at the studio a few minutes later, he could see the owner, a gruff man named Benny, sweeping the paint-splattered, concrete floors.
“Hey Benny! Busy day today?” Will inquired as he opened the glass door, a tinny jingle sounding from the sensors above him.
“Hey kid. No, actually, you’re the first one all day. Have at it.” Benny retorted kindly
Will quirks his lip at that, looking forward to having the studio all to himself. He’s been renting a space here since right after graduation, when he saw one of Benny’s posters advertising the space taped up on the streetlight right outside his apartment.
As soon as the lobby door closed behind him, he reached into his ratty messenger bag to retrieve his Discman. He slid the headphones on and pressed play, the smooth sounds of the Cure drowning out the hum of the ancient AC unit in the open windowsill.
Will removed his denim jacket (it is still February after all) and unraveled his scarf. He laughs as the loose threads of yarn get caught on the many pins adorning the front of the jacket. He thinks back to the origin of the scarf and remembers El’s brief knitting stint a year ago. This hobby produced many jumbled, oddly-colored hats, blankets, and scarves just like his own, all of which are still worn by her friends and family.
Walking away from the coatrack, Will approaches the corner where he has been storing his latest project. It is one he had been commissioned to paint by the owner of a bar he and Lucas frequent, and he’s quite happy with it if he does say so himself.
He places the canvas squarely on his easel, smiling as he views the abstract scene before him: A busting, lively bar with blurs of blues and oranges and greens representing the crowd swaying to the music of a cover band, the members of whom are portrayed using more bursts of purples and reds, and lastly, a large pride flag made up of smears of color hanging behind them on the stage.
That was another thing. Will had never felt so accepted before moving to the city. Of course, he’d had his family and friends back in Hawkins, but it was so different being around people who were actually like him in that way.
When he first came here for college, he was absolutely terrified of what was in store for him. Initially, his only comfort had been that Lucas was moving to the city at the same time, attending Fordham and living less than half an hour from Will’s own dorm building.
Since then, he has gotten so incredibly lucky with the friends he’s. By the end of freshman orientation, he and El were thick as thieves, and once Joyce and Jim were introduced during parent’s weekend, it was evident they were bound to become a family sooner rather than later.
And then there’s Stan, his incredible roommate, who he met at that art show back in ‘93. If you ask either man, they’ve been living together since simply out of convenience and because of the reduced cost, but the reality of the situation is that neither boy really wanted to live alone, and the two seem to coexist better than most.
Of course, there were parts of his old life that could never be replicated in his new life, namely one specific part. Mike. It had been a while since the two had spoken, just a stilted, awkward two-minute phone call on New Years, and nothing since. Not to mention the fact that, in the approximately five years before, they've only talked a grand total of twelve times, all incredibly brief and borderline painful.
The studio door opens abruptly, jarring Will from his music-induced nostalgic daydreaming.
“Shit!” he squawked, the sudden sound causing him to spill some blue paint onto the floor.
“Hey, Will, your buddy is on the phone. Come take it?” Benny shouted from the gaping doorway, shaking the yellowing receiver of his archaic landline in his hand. He smiled apologetically, realizing he had spooked the younger man.
“Yeah, be right over, sorry!” Will yelped. He rushed to put his palette on the small table next to his easel and bolted to catch the closing door before it shut behind Benny. The man was already back to his sweeping when Will approached the phone.
“Hello? This is Will.” He offered curiously, still unaware of who was on the other side of the call.
“Will the Wise! How’s the painting coming along?” Lucas’s voice spouted from the earpiece, “I tried calling your place but no answer, so I knew I’d find you here.”
“I’m doing great, man, how are you? How’s Max? Painting is almost finished, thank God. Is there something you needed to ask?”
“Yeah, yeah, things are all good here too. I was just wondering if you wanted to do movie night tonight? I just rented that new Scream movie everyone keeps talking about, and Max and El said they’ll host this time. You in?” Lucas inquired giddily.
“I absolutely am, what time should I get there? Do you want me to bring anything?” Will continued chatting about the evening for a while until Benny gave him a look that clearly meant wrap it up.
Laughing, Will made his way back to the main studio space. He thought about his friends, his work, his life. Will was happy. He was so very happy.
—
San Francisco, February 15, 1997
Mike Wheeler was, for lack of better words, miserable.
How could he not be? His job was lousy. He’d been at the same publishing firm basically since graduation. At the time, he’d thought he would wow them all and get his own book out there in no time.
Instead, he was going on his third year as assistant editor– that’s right, he wasn’t even an editor proper– to the biggest douchebag Mike has ever had the displeasure of meeting.
Plus, he had been consistently single ever since his last girlfriend, Angela, broke things off with him eight months ago for being too emotionally unavailable or whatever. It hadn't been the first time he’d heard that line.
Mike scowled to himself as he yanked the door to his workplace open with one hand, a flimsy tray of overpriced coffee teetering dangerously in the other. His square-framed glasses sat askew on his nose, smudged to the point they were impairing his vision more than improving it.
“Michael, how are you doing this morning?” chirped Florence, the sweet front desk lady who smelled overpoweringly like cat piss and earl grey tea, “Thomas is waiting for you in meeting room six. I must say, he doesn’t seem to be in a very good mood this morning… I believe he’s got to speak with you about something serious.”
“Oh, great,” Mike groaned as he made his way further into the building. He tried his best to shoot a smile Florence’s way, but all he could manage was a half-hearted grimace as he wondered what Tommy, his dickhead superior, could possibly be mad about now.
Mike trudged his way down the main office hallway, dread pooling in his stomach as he came to a stop in front of the door to meeting room six. He listed all the reasons why he needed this job in his head as he tried to work up the courage to actually reach for the knob.
For one, they pay him incredibly well. I mean, it's how he was able to afford his nice apartment, new portable cell phone, and fancy coffee every morning.
He also needed the connections. He’d been working on his novel, The Mage of St. Markovia, for years. He had been putting all his hope in the fact that his job here would be able to help him secure a publishing deal for the book. Tommy even promised to pitch it to the boss this year, as long Mike proves himself ‘worthy,’ whatever the hell that means.
Mike continued thinking about his book, mind wandering to the many D & D campaigns he wrote as a kid and teenager that inspired the story. This, of course, reminded him of Will. A lot of things seemed to remind him of Will lately. He wasn’t sure why.
All of a sudden, the meeting room door flung open, Tommy’s angry face appearing behind it.
“There you are, Wheeler, fucking finally! God, what took you so long? I thought I was about to go find you myself,” The man half-grumbled, half-taunted as he snatched his now-cold coffee from the tray in Mike’s hand. The tray immediately reacted to the newly distributed weight, causing the remaining cup to tumble open and pour down the front of Mike’s white button-up.
“God damnit!” Mike cried out as he frantically pushed past Tommy in the doorway to grab the box of tissues sitting on the mahogany table. The other man leaned against the doorframe and watched, shaking his head and smirking.
After about thirty seconds of Mike hopelessly trying to salvage his now-beige shirt, he placed both hands on the table and sighed.
“Florence said there was something you wanted to talk about?” he questioned, irritated by both the series of events that just occurred and the fact that he still has to kiss Tommy’s ass afterwards.
“That’s right, so you can listen,” Tommy snarked condescendingly, “I told you to have the edits for that crappy romance book on my desk yesterday afternoon, but it's now decidedly not yesterday afternoon and I’m still missing those edits. What's that about, Mikey?”
Mike glared back at Tommy before trying to smother it with false remorse. “Well, you see, my job description doesn’t actually have me listed as doing your work, just my own,” he retorted caustically, “I don’t think the big man down the hall would be too happy knowing that you haven’t touched a manuscript since last calendar year.”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you, you little shit? You work under me, in case you’ve forgotten. How else do you plan on getting your stupid little novel published? God knows anyone but me would even consider reading that garbage.” Tommy spat back.
“You know what?” Mike laughed drily, “I don’t actually. Work for you, I mean.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I quit.”
Tommy gaped at Mike, mouth hanging open and brow furrowed in rage and confusion.
“And by the way, dickwad, my book is gonna be just fine without your bullshit help. In fact, I’m going to publish it this year. And it's going to be illustrated,” Mike continued, unsure what he was even saying anymore.
That last sentence seemed to finally snap Tommy from his trance as he began cackling at Mike.
“You know what, man? Fine. Quit. See if I care. But don’t even think about crawling back to begging for your job back when no one wants your shit book and you end up homeless,” He said, words full of malice, “and good luck finding an artist who would even begin to consider illustrating that trash.”
“Oh I don’t think that me coming back will be a problem,” Mike sneered back, still fueled by adrenaline and anger, “Not as long as you’re here.”
And with that, Mike picked up Tommy’s coffee (that he paid for, goddamnit), shoved his middle finger in Tommy’s direction without looking, and strode out the meeting room, slamming the door behind him.
He all but sprinted down the carpeted hallway and back into the office lobby. Florence threw a questionable glance his way, “Michael, where ar-” but Mike was already out the door by the time she opened her mouth to ask.
He kept running until he reached a patch of grass and collapsed onto his back, the empty coffee cup falling from his hand. He was panting, even though he’d only run around two blocks, and needed to catch his breath.
As he laid back staring up at the overcast sky, chest rising and falling rapidly, the gravity of his new situation came crashing down around him.
God, he was so fucked.