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Hawkins had gone back to normal. Or at least, that was what everyone liked to say.
The streets had been repaved, the storefronts repainted, the cracks in the earth sealed over like scars no one wanted to touch anymore. The town pretended the sky had never split open, pretended monsters hadn’t crawled out of hell, pretended kids hadn’t died. People smiled again. They went to work. They moved on.
Mike Wheeler hadn’t.
He still woke up some nights with his heart pounding, breath stuck somewhere between a scream and a sob, his sheets tangled around his legs like they were trying to pull him under. Sometimes it was Vecna. Sometimes it was the sound of bones breaking. Sometimes—more often than he wanted to admit—it was Eleven’s face, frozen in that last moment, eyes full of love and fear and something like apology.
And sometimes, it was Will.
The house was too quiet now. Ted watched TV downstairs. Nancy was away more often than not, building a future Mike couldn’t quite picture for himself. The silence pressed in on him, thick and suffocating, until he felt like he might drown in it.
Dustin was gone. Utah, of all places. Mike still couldn’t wrap his head around it—Dustin Henderson in Utah, smiling through grainy phone calls, talking about Suzie like the world had finally given him something soft to land on. Mike was happy for him. He really was.
It just hurt anyway.
Max and Lucas were at college. They tried, he knew they did. Weekend visits. Long talks that started deep and meaningful and ended shallow, like they were afraid to dig too far back into what they’d survived together. They’d learned how to keep going.
Mike hadn’t.
And Will—
Mike swallowed hard, his throat tightening at the thought.
Will had left. Not in a dramatic way. No slammed doors, no fights. Just a quiet, steady decision to start over. New York. Art. College. A future that didn’t revolve around Hawkins or monsters or Mike Wheeler.
Mike couldn’t blame him. God, he really couldn’t.
Still, some nights, when the loneliness curled around his ribs and squeezed, Mike would think about how wrong he’d been about everything.
Because when it really came down to it—when the world was ending, when the noise got too loud—there had only ever been one person who truly understood him.
They had always understood each other.
Will had been the one who sat with him in silence, who didn’t push, who didn’t need explanations. Will had been the one Mike could talk to without feeling stupid or broken or too much. The one who knew when to joke and when to shut the fuck up.
They were supposed to go crazy together.
The realization hit him one night like a punch to the chest.
He was sitting on his bed, staring at the wall, at a spot where a painting used to hang, when it all came crashing down at once—the grief, the regret, the aching certainty that he had fucked this up beyond repair.
He’d chosen wrong. Over and over again.
And suddenly, the idea of staying in Hawkins another second felt unbearable.
Mike didn’t overthink it. If he did, he knew he’d talk himself out of it, convince himself he was being dramatic, selfish, stupid. So he stood up, grabbed his duffel bag from the closet, and started throwing shit into it with shaking hands.
Jeans. T-shirts. His black hoodie. A toothbrush.
That was it.
He didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t leave a note. He just slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out the door before he could lose his nerve.
New York hit him like a wall of sound and motion.
Cars honked constantly, people moved like they had somewhere important to be, the air thick with exhaust and possibility. The buildings stretched upward, massive and unyielding, casting long shadows over crowded sidewalks. It was overwhelming and alive and nothing like Hawkins.
Mike felt small. And for the first time in a year, that didn’t feel entirely like a bad thing.
He found the dorm easily enough. Joyce had mentioned the address once on the phone with his mom, her voice bright in that way it got when she talked about Will, like she was proud and terrified all at once.
Standing outside the building now, Mike’s stomach twisted.
He didn’t know the room number.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair.
A girl walked past him, headphones around her neck, laughing at something on her phone. Mike hesitated, then forced himself to speak.
“Uh—sorry,” he said. “Do you, um… do you know where Will Byers’ room is?”
She stopped, looking him over with open curiosity. She was short, with long brown curls that framed her face, wearing a pink crop top that hit just above her belly button and low-rise jeans like she’d stepped straight out of a magazine. Gold flower-shaped earrings caught the light as she tilted her head.
“Oh,” she said, grinning. “You mean Will and Carlton’s room?”
Mike’s brain short-circuited.
“Will and—who?”
Her smile widened. “Carlton. His roommate.”
Oh.
Right.
“Yeah,” Mike said, forcing a laugh that sounded wrong even to his own ears. “Right. Him.”
She studied him for another second, then stuck out her hand. “I’m Rosie. Will’s best friend.”
Best friend.
Mike shook her hand. “Mike.”
“Well, Mike,” Rosie said, dropping her hand, “you just missed him. He’s at a guitar course off-campus. Total nerd about it.”
“Of course he is,” Mike murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Rosie laughed. “But,” she added, leaning in slightly, her tone playful, “you’ll definitely catch him tonight. There’s a party at the club near campus. Everyone’s gonna be there.”
She winked.
Mike felt his heart stutter. “Tonight.”
“Midnight-ish,” Rosie said. “You can’t miss it. Just follow the noise.”
Mike nodded, numb. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
“No problem,” she said, already backing away. “Good luck, mystery guy.”
The hostel was cheap and smelled faintly of sweat and disinfectant. Mike lay on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling as midnight crept closer, his thoughts spiraling.
What if Will didn’t want to see him?
What if he laughed? Or worse—what if he was polite? Distant. Moved on in a way Mike hadn’t.
What if Carlton wasn’t just a roommate?
By the time Mike pulled on his jeans and black T-shirt, his hands were shaking.
The club was impossible to miss.
Music thudded through the walls, bass vibrating under his feet as he stepped inside. The air was thick—alcohol, cologne, sweat. Red, purple, and blue lights cut through the darkness, flashing over bodies pressed together, people dancing, shouting, laughing like nothing had ever hurt them.
Mike stood there for a moment, heart pounding, curls falling into his eyes, feeling wildly out of place.
Somewhere in this mess—this noise, this color, this chaos—was Will Byers.
And Mike had never been more terrified in his life.
Mike stayed frozen just inside the club, the music pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to rattle his ribs apart.
This was a mistake.
That thought came sharp and fast, slicing through his chest.
What if Will had changed?
What if New York had taken him and reshaped him into someone Mike didn’t recognize anymore—someone louder, brighter, someone who didn’t need quiet corners or shared silences? Someone who laughed easier. Someone who didn’t look back.
Mike swallowed, his mouth dry. He pushed forward anyway, weaving through bodies slick with sweat and perfume, his shoulder brushing strangers who didn’t even notice him. Every step felt heavier than the last.
He scanned faces desperately. Too tall. Too drunk. Too unfamiliar.
His heart started to sink.
Then he saw Rosie.
She was dancing with two other girls near the bar, all loose limbs and laughter, her curls bouncing wildly as she moved. The lights caught her face—red, purple, blue—and Mike noticed immediately that her lips were painted a fiery red tonight, matching the tight dress clinging to her hips. It was impossible not to see.
He pushed toward her, tapping her arm.
“Rosie,” he said loudly.
She turned, eyes lighting up when she recognized him. “Hey, mystery guy!”
“Will,” Mike said, not bothering with anything else. “Where is he?”
Rosie leaned closer, shouting over the music. “Somewhere in there,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the crowd behind her. “Trust me—you’ll know him when you see him.”
Mike frowned. “What does that mean?”
She just smiled, knowingly. “You’ll get it.”
That didn’t help. At all.
Mike turned away before she could say anything else and stepped straight into the thickest part of the crowd.
The song changed.
A slower beat rolled through the club, deeper, heavier—Fire in My Heart by Escape from New York. The bass pulsed low and steady, vibrating through the floor, through Mike’s chest, like a second heartbeat he hadn’t asked for. The lyrics blurred into the noise, but the emotion of it—raw, burning—cut straight through him.
Bodies swayed closer now, more intimate. Mike felt like he was walking underwater, every movement delayed, distorted, the lights streaking red and blue around him.
His chest ached.
And then—
He saw him.
At first, it didn’t register. His brain refused to connect the image in front of him with the Will Byers etched into every soft, painful corner of his memory.
Same face.
Same nose, slightly crooked.
Same dark hair falling into his eyes.
Will was standing just a few feet away, half-turned, bathed in red and violet light that flashed in time with the music. He wore a simple white T-shirt, thin with wear, the fabric clinging to his chest and shoulders, outlining a body Mike wasn’t prepared for—lean, defined, real in a way memory had never allowed him to imagine.
Mike’s breath hitched.
There were rings on Will’s hands. Several of them. Silver bands catching the light every time he moved, every time his fingers flexed. Those hands—God, those hands—were resting on someone else’s shoulders.
Someone Mike couldn’t see.
The guy stood with his back to Mike, tall enough to block everything but the intimate picture Will made leaning close, his face just inches away from the other boy’s ear.
Too close.
Mike’s heart slammed violently against his ribs, perfectly in sync with the beat of the song.
Will was smiling.
Not a small one. Not a polite one.
A real smile.
The kind that used to belong to Mike alone.
The club seemed to fade, the sound dulling until all Mike could hear was the rush of blood in his ears and the distant echo of fire in my heart bleeding through the speakers. The lights slowed, smeared across his vision like wet paint. Every instinct screamed at him to turn away, to leave before Will noticed him standing there like a ghost from a life he’d already moved past.
But he couldn’t move.
Will laughed softly at something the other boy murmured into his ear, his head tipping back just enough for Mike to see his face clearly.
That was when Mike noticed the earrings.
Small points of light—tiny diamonds, maybe—glinting in Will’s ears, reflecting red, blue, purple with every subtle movement. They framed his face, made him look unreal. Beautiful in a way that knocked the air straight out of Mike’s lungs.
He’d never seen Will like this.
Older. Surer. Still Will.
And then—
As if the universe had finally decided to be cruel on purpose—
Will turned his head.
The smile vanished instantly.
It was like watching something shatter in slow motion.
His eyes locked onto Mike’s.
The noise of the club dropped away completely now, replaced by a ringing silence so loud it hurt. Will froze, his body still, his hands unmoving on the other boy’s shoulders. His lips parted, breath catching visibly in his throat.
Mike couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t blink.
Couldn’t look away.
Will stared at him like he was seeing a ghost. Like Mike wasn’t supposed to exist here—in this city, in this room, in this version of Will’s life.
And then Mike saw it.
Will’s mouth moved.
Barely.
A single word, shaped like a question, like a prayer.
“Mike?”
And everything stopped.
Will didn’t move at first.
For a heartbeat—maybe two—he stayed exactly where he was, hands still resting on the other boy’s shoulders, body frozen in a way that felt almost unnatural in the middle of the club. The music kept pounding around them, Fire in My Heart bleeding into the walls, into the floor, into Mike’s bones.
Then, slowly, Will’s fingers loosened.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Just enough for Mike to see it.
The other guy shifted, confused. “Hey?” he said, leaning closer again, trying to pull Will back into the moment.
Will flinched.
“I—” His voice caught, barely audible even to himself. He swallowed, eyes never leaving Mike’s face. “I need a second.”
That was all.
He stepped back, fully now, hands dropping to his sides as if they didn’t belong anywhere anymore. The guy frowned, said something else Mike couldn’t hear, but Will was already gone—threading through the crowd with a single-minded focus that made Mike’s chest tighten painfully.
Will stopped a foot away from him.
Up close, he was overwhelming. Familiar and foreign all at once. Mike could see the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his jaw was set like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.
Will took one step closer.
Just one.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
His voice was quiet. Steady. But his eyes—his eyes were anything but.
Mike opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
The music swelled around them, bodies bumping into Mike’s shoulders, but neither of them moved. Will waited. He didn’t push. Didn’t fill the silence.
Mike finally managed a breath. “I— I couldn’t stay,” he said, the words tumbling out wrong. “In Hawkins. I just—”
Will exhaled sharply, turning his head for a second like he needed air, space, something. “Not here,” he said. “Come on.”
He didn’t grab Mike’s hand.
That somehow made it worse.
They stumbled out into the night a few minutes later, the club door slamming shut behind them, cutting the music off like a severed nerve. The city felt too loud even without it—sirens in the distance, engines idling, people shouting.
The taxi ride was unbearable.
Mike sat rigidly in his seat, hands clenched in his lap, knees bouncing uncontrollably. Will stared out the window, jaw tight, the neon lights sliding across his face in harsh colors. Neither of them spoke.
The silence screamed.
When they reached the dorm, Will paid without looking at Mike and got out, already walking toward the entrance like if he stopped moving he might shatter. Mike followed, heart in his throat, every step echoing with you shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be here.
Inside, Will’s room smelled faintly of old books, guitar polish, and something unmistakably him. Posters leaned slightly crooked on the walls, showing bands he still loved, shows he still watched. A guitar rested against the desk, strings catching the light from the single lamp on the nightstand. A window looked out over the city skyline, the faint hum of traffic in the distance. Clothes were scattered on a chair, a notebook lay open on the desk with scribbled guitar tabs. The room felt lived-in, personal, intimate, a reflection of Will himself.
Will closed the door behind them, his movements sharp, controlled, but tense. He turned back to Mike, fists clenched, eyes blazing.
“Why?” he asked immediately, frustration cracking through the calm. “Why now?”
Mike’s chest caved in.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, voice already breaking. “Everyone moved on, Will. Everyone. And I—I stayed stuck, and I thought that was just how it was supposed to be, but it’s not. It’s not without you.”
Will laughed once, sharp and humorless.
“You don’t get to do this,” he said. “You don’t get to disappear and then just—show up.”
“I know,” Mike said quickly. “I know, okay? I fucked up. I fucked everything up.”
His voice wavered, cracked completely, and suddenly he was crying—ugly, helpless sobs he couldn’t stop even as he tried to wipe them away with shaking hands.
“You were the only person who ever really saw me,” he said, words spilling out too fast now. “It was always you. I just didn’t—I didn’t know how to say it. I was so scared of losing you that I ended up doing exactly that.”
Will stood frozen, eyes shining, breathing shallow.
“I should’ve chosen you,” Mike whispered.
“Every time. I should’ve said something sooner. I should’ve been better. And I’m so fucking sorry—”
He didn’t get to finish.
Will crossed the space between them in two steps and kissed him.
Hard.
It wasn’t gentle or tentative. It was desperate, angry, loaded with everything Will hadn’t said and everything Mike had been carrying for a year. Will’s hand fisted in the front of Mike’s shirt, yanking him closer, cutting off the rest of his confession.
Mike gasped into the kiss, stunned for half a second before instinct took over and he kissed back just as fiercely. Will tasted like salt and heat and regret—tears still clinging to his lips, mixing with Mike’s own.
It was messy. It was overwhelming.
Mike felt it everywhere—in his chest, his hands, the back of his throat. The kiss tasted like everything they’d lost and everything they were finally admitting to.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were shaking.
And neither of them looked sorry.
The bed was small, cramped, cluttered with Carlton's scattered clothes, but they barely noticed. Mike pressed Will down onto it, lips crashing together with a force that stole their breath. Every kiss was frantic, desperate, and impossibly hungry, leaving both of them gasping and trembling.
"I love you," Mike panted between kisses, teeth grazing Will's lower lip, thumbs pressing into the lean muscles of his arms.
"I... I love you too..." Will whispered back, voice raw and trembling, before biting Mike's lip and moaning into the kiss.
Mike groaned, tugging Will impossibly close, hands roaming over his torso, feeling every curve and line, squeezing his biceps until Will shivered and cursed under his breath.
"Fuck... Will... shit..."
Will's fingers dug into Mike's back, holding on tight, chest rising and falling rapidly. "I...I can't...Mike... I'm with Carlton"
Mike laughed breathlessly, frustrated and desperate, pressing another fierce kiss to Will's jaw. "Fuck Carlton”.
Will's head fell back, gasping, lips brushing
Mike's again, surrendering for a moment to the fire they couldn't control. "Shit... I... I..."
They kissed again, urgent, rough, every motion laced with desire. When they broke apart for a fraction of a second, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving, both of them whispered:
"I love you."
"I... love you too..."
The words were barely out before their lips collided once more, hands tangling in hair, fingers gripping shoulders, arms, sides. Mike couldn't resist teasing Will's biceps again, making him gasp and arch against him.
"You're mine," Mike groaned into the kiss, desperate, trembling.
Will responded with a growl, nipping at his jaw, pressing closer. "Mine... always... I... love you"
Every kiss, every touch, every whispered declaration was urgent, chaotic, and impossibly intense.
They lay tangled together on Carlton’s bed, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, sweat still clinging to their skin. The room was quiet now, only the faint hum of the city outside the window, the soft rustle of clothes and the lingering scent of each other surrounding them.
Mike brushed a hand over Will’s hair, tracing the line of his jaw, thumb brushing against the curve of his lips. “Shit… I can’t believe we’re here,” he murmured, voice low, trembling.
Will’s head rested against Mike’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded, still catching his breath. “Neither can I… God, I… I didn’t think—”
Mike pressed a kiss to Will’s temple, silencing him gently. “Hey… I’m here now. That’s what matters. All that other shit… it doesn’t matter. I just…” He swallowed hard, eyes searching Will’s, raw and open. “…I just want to be part of your life. If you’ll let me.”
Will’s fingers tangled in Mike’s curls, squeezing him lightly, and for a moment, the world outside didn’t exist. “Mike…” he whispered, voice catching, eyes glimmering with emotion.
Mike’s lips curved into a small, tentative smile. His thumb brushed over Will’s cheek softly.
“So… will you let me?”