Archive of Our Own ^beta

Will does not realize how badly things have gone wrong until Mike says it.

They are standing in the garage, the air thick with the smell of oil and dust and something older, something that used to feel like safety and now feels like a trap. Lucas is still there, hovering awkwardly near the door, already half-gone in the way people are when they know they are witnessing something they have no power to fix.

Will’s hands are clenched at his sides. He can feel his pulse in his fingers, a dull, insistent throb that matches the ache in his chest.

“That’s the problem, Mike!” Will says – yells, the words come out sharply, already straining at the edges. He hates that he sounds like this, hates that he cannot pull it back once it starts. “You guys are never in the mood anymore. You’re ruining our party!”

Mike’s shoulders tense. He exhales sharply, like he has been holding his breath for too long. “That’s not true.”

Will does not let himself hesitate. If he stops now, he knows he will lose the nerve. “Really,” he says, his voice rising again despite himself. “Where’s Dustin right now.”

Mike goes still. He does not answer. He does not know.

Will feels the argument slipping out of his control almost immediately.

His voice comes out too loud, too high, echoing in the garage in a way that makes his chest tighten with embarrassment and frustration all at once. He is not trying to pick a fight. He is trying to explain what it feels like to be left behind, to watch something important unravel while everyone else pretends it is not happening.

Mike pushes back, quick and defensive, insisting nothing has changed, and that only makes it worse. 

When Eleven comes up, it is not meant as an attack on her. Will barely even thinks about her as a girl at that moment. She is a symbol of change, of attention redirected, of a future Will cannot reach. But his voice is already shaking, already too loud, and the words land harsher than he intends.

Mike bristles immediately, defending her, and the room seems to tilt.

“El is not stupid! It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!” Mike says.

For a second, Will cannot breathe.

The sentence echoes in his head, loud and relentless. It feels like being exposed, like being stripped down to something fragile and ugly that he has spent years trying to protect.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Every thought scatters. His face burns. His chest feels too tight, like his ribs are closing in around his heart.

There is a pause, stretching unbearably.

“I’m not trying to be a jerk,” Mike says finally, his voice lower now, uneasy. “But we’re not kids anymore. What did you think, really. That we were never gonna get girlfriends? That we’d just stay in my basement all day for the rest of our lives?”

The words settle over Will slowly, crushing and final.

He thinks of the basement, of dice rolling across the table, of laughter echoing off concrete walls, of a future that had once felt fixed and safe and certain. He thinks of how desperately he has wanted that future to stay intact, how hard he has been holding onto it, like letting go would mean losing everything.

“Yeah,” Will says quietly. “I did. I really did.”

Will turns away before he can see what is on Mike’s face, before the tears burning behind his eyes can fall. His hands shake as he grabs his bike, his chest aching with every breath.

He rides away into the rain without looking back, despite Mike’s protests.

He does not go home. He cannot face his mother, cannot explain why his chest feels like it is caving in. He rides instead, through the rain and the mud, until the familiar outline of Castle Byers emerges from the trees.

The fort looks smaller than he remembers. Everything does, lately.

He climbs inside, his hands slipping on the wet wood, his knee scraping painfully against a board. 

Inside, it smells like damp leaves and old memories. Will sinks down into the mud. His breathing is uneven, hitching as the tears finally come. He lets himself cry, shoulders shaking, chest aching with every breath.

It feels stupid. All of it feels stupid. The fort. The games. The way he thought things could stay the same forever.

He looks up at the photographs still tacked to the side, edges curled with age. They show four boys grinning at the camera, dressed as Ghostbusters, holding their proton packs as though they are treasures. They look so sure of each other. So happy.

Will’s chest tightens painfully.

“This is stupid,” he says, his voice breaking. “So stupid!”

The anger comes rushing in all at once, hot and overwhelming, surging up to fill the hollow place the argument has left behind. He reaches up and rips one of the photographs down. Then another. The sound of tearing paper is loud in the small space, sharp and final. 

His hands are shaking as he looks around the fort, at the warped boards and crooked nails, at the careful way he once pieced all of this together. Castle Byers was supposed to be a place that lasted. It was supposed to be safe.

It feels like a lie now.

Will’s gaze lands on the old bat propped against the side of the fort, the one he left here after one of their early games, after pretending the woods were full of monsters that could be beaten if you were brave enough. He grabs it without thinking, his fingers wrapping tightly around the worn handle.

His chest heaves as he swings.

The crack of wood splitting is loud in the small space, violent and final. The impact reverberates up his arms, stinging his palms, but he barely notices. He swings again, harder this time, the bat slamming into the wall, knocking loose a board that clatters to the ground.

Each of his strikes is fueled by everything he did not say, by every moment he swallowed his feelings and told himself it was fine, that it would pass, that things would go back to the way they were. His nails rip. Boards splinter. The fort shudders under the force of it.

Will lets out a sound that is almost a sob as he brings the bat down again, shattering another support beam. The fort groans, tilting slightly, pieces collapsing inward. The photographs flutter down around him, landing in the mud at his feet, their smiling faces streaked and torn.

He stares at them for a moment, his vision blurred, his chest tight and aching.

Then the air suddenly shifts.

At first, it is so subtle he almost misses it, the way the sound of the rain dulls, like someone has turned a dial down too far. The woods beyond the broken walls of the fort go strangely quiet. The familiar smells of damp leaves and wet earth fade into something thinner, colder.

Will’s stomach drops.

He knows this feeling. His body recognizes it before his mind does.

“No,” he whispers, panic flaring sharp and immediate. “No, not again.”

The pressure builds behind his eyes, sharp and sudden, making him squeeze them shut. His skin prickles all over, every nerve ending lighting up at once. He knows this feeling. He has spent too much of his life knowing this feeling.

The space in front of him wavers.

“Mom,” he whispers, hoarse. “Mom, Mike–”

For a terrifying moment, it feels like he is being pulled apart, like every piece of him is being stretched in a different direction. His stomach lurches violently. The mud beneath his hands vanishes.

Will gasps as the world drops out from under him.

It bends in on itself, the edges of the fort stretching, warping, like reality is thinning. Will scrambles backward, his hands slipping in the mud, his heart slamming so hard it feels like it might break through his ribs.

He blacks out.

—

When Will wakes, the first thing he notices is the light.

It presses against his eyelids, insistent and too bright, dragging him back into his body before he’s ready. His head throbs dully, like he has been dropped from a height and not quite landed yet. For a few disoriented seconds, he does not remember where he is at all.

Then everything rushes back.

The garage. Mike’s voice. The rain. The fort splintering under his hands.

He sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes fly open.

He bolts upright with a gasp, heart slamming wildly against his ribs, every muscle tensed as if bracing for impact. His chest tightens immediately, breath coming too fast, too shallow, his body reacting before his mind can catch up.

He scrambles backward instinctively, palms sliding against a smooth surface, his pulse roaring in his ears. The air feels strange, thin and unfamiliar, and the light is all wrong, glaring instead of dim and sickly. 

His thoughts spiral anyway, fear snapping into place with brutal efficiency.

But – no, something is different.

It takes a moment for his thoughts to catch up, for his panic to find its shape. Light is not what comes after the Upside Down. His chest tightens as his mind supplies what should be there instead. The damp, sagging walls. The air thick with decay, clinging to his throat. The darkness that presses in until it feels like it has weight.

He does not see any of it.

The room stays stubbornly solemn.

Will’s breathing stutters as he forces himself to look again, really look, instead of letting his fear fill in the gaps. The floor beneath his hands is wood, smooth and cool, not mud or rot. 

Will stays where he is for a long moment, his heart still racing, his body slow to let go of the expectation that something will lunge at him if he moves. When nothing happens, he finally straightens, wiping his damp, clean palms against his shirt without realizing he is doing it.

He takes a cautious step forward.

Then another.

The house does not react to him. It does not creak ominously or seem to notice his presence at all. That, somehow, is what unsettles him the most.

He wanders slowly, each movement deliberate, as if he might wake up again if he rushes. The living room opens up around him, wider than he first thought. A long bookshelf lines one wall, sagging slightly under the weight of its contents. Will drifts closer, his chest tightening as he scans the spines.

There are sketchbooks, some thick and worn, others newer, their covers clean. Art books with glossy pages and titles he does not recognize at first, until he realizes they are about painters and movements he has only ever seen in libraries or textbooks. There are novels too, their spines cracked, bookmarks sticking out at odd angles. A few old paperbacks look especially familiar, corners bent, covers faded from being read too many times.

This is someone’s life, laid out in quiet pieces.

On the wall opposite the shelves hang paintings.

Will stops in front of them, breath catching slightly. They are not framed the way museum pieces are, but carefully – lovingly – like they matter. Landscapes first, woods and fields and skies caught in different seasons, each one rendered with a confidence that makes his fingers twitch. Then portraits, looser, more expressive. Faces half-turned, eyes caught mid-thought, mouths curved as if about to speak.

He moves on, drifting into what looks like a small workspace. An easel stands near the window, a canvas stretched tight, half-finished. Brushes sit in jars on a nearby table, their bristles stained with dried paint. Sketches are scattered everywhere, some pinned neatly to a corkboard, others stacked haphazardly in uneven piles.

Will drifts closer to the shelves without quite deciding to.

He hesitates, then reaches out.

His fingers hover for a moment before he pulls one free.

The sketchbook is heavier than he expected. When he opens it, the paper inside is thick, textured beneath his thumb. 

His breath catches.

The first page has a sketch done so carefully. Deliberate. The lines are clean but not stiff, built up slowly, patiently, like whoever made it knew exactly when to press and when to ease off. The shading is familiar in a way that makes his chest tighten, the shadows laid down in layers instead of all at once.

Will swallows hard.

He does not know how he knows this, only that he does. The instinct hits him before the thought can form.

This is his.

What draws him isn’t familiarity or likeness, but the movement behind the lines. The hand works the way his does when he slows himself enough to feel it – the pencil’s weight, the confidence of certain strokes, the hesitation of others – all of it touching something deep and wordless in him.

He flips the page.

Then another.

Each drawing makes the same quiet, insistent claim. Landscapes, characters in costumes, faces caught mid-expression, hands folded or reaching, light captured in careful gradients. None of them are exact copies of things he has drawn before, but they all speak the same language.

This is not something pulled from his fear; he knows that now. There is no distortion, no wrongness in the proportions. The drawings feel grounded, intentional, like they were made in a place where time is allowed to stretch instead of snapping in half.

Will closes the sketchbook slowly and presses it back into place, his hand lingering on the spine as if letting go might make it disappear.

His gaze drifts to the walls again.

Paintings hang there, more than he noticed at first. 

Will steps closer to one without realizing he has moved.

It shows a boy standing in a doorway, light spilling in behind him, his face caught in a moment of serenity that feels uncomfortably familiar. The colors are soft, layered with care, like the painter took their time deciding where each shade belonged.

Will’s chest aches as he looks at it.

Something about the piece makes his skin prickle, the same way it does when a drawing finally starts to work after hours of trying. He cannot explain it, only that the painting feels right, like it was made by someone who understands how it feels to stand on the edge of something unnamed.

He tears his gaze away and keeps walking.

There is more everywhere he looks. Loose sketches pinned to a corkboard, some half-finished, others crossed out and started again. Jars of brushes near a window, bristles stained with dried paint. An easel set up as if whoever uses it simply stepped away for a moment and meant to come back.

The house feels settled and intentional, shaped by presence rather than presentation.

Will does not know how long he wanders. The knot in his chest eases and tightens by turns, uncertainty settling deeper with every step.

Then he hears it.

Laughter, drifting from somewhere deeper in the house.

Will stills, heart jumping hard against his ribs. The sound is warm and unguarded, and it pulls at him immediately, something familiar twisting low in his chest.

He hesitates only a moment before moving toward it. His steps are slow and careful, his body still braced for interruption, for the sound to vanish if he gets too close.

The hallway narrows, the light shifting as he goes, until he reaches a kitchen doorway.

More laughter draws him closer before he has time to stop himself.

Then he sees movement.

Will freezes, breath catching sharply as he flattens himself against the wall just outside the kitchen. His heart slams painfully against his ribs, instinct flaring hot and immediate. He leans back into the shadow there without thinking, every part of him suddenly aware of how exposed he is.

He peers around the edge of the doorway.

There, in the kitchen, are two people. Two boys, seemingly older than he was.

One of them sits on the counter – turned fully away from the doorway, shoulders relaxed, legs swinging idly. A white button-down hangs off his frame, clearly too big, the fabric slipping down his shoulder as he shifts.

Another boy stands in between his knees.

His hands rest at the counter on either side of the other boy’s hips, steady and unhurried. His head is tucked into the space between the other boy’s neck and shoulder, dark curls hiding his face as he leans in, mouth brushing along exposed skin in slow, deliberate passes.

Will hears the boy on the counter exhale sharply.

“God,” he breathes, the word barely there, more feeling than sound.

The other boy hums in response, low and pleased, pressing closer. His mouth lingers at the hollow of the throat, then drifts higher, slower, like he’s taking his time on purpose.

The boy on the counter lets out a quiet, broken sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so breathless. His fingers curl into dark curls, holding there without pulling, his knees shifting instinctively until they’re bracketing the other boy’s hips.

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath.

The reply is a soft chuckle against his skin, followed by a quiet, “Wasn’t planning to.”

A hand slides from his waist up his side, thumb brushing beneath the hem of the shirt. The boy on the counter arches just slightly into the touch, his head tipping back.

The other boy follows the movement immediately, mouth pressing there again, closer now. Their bodies settle into each other like it’s familiar, like they know exactly how the other fits.

The intimacy of it makes Will’s breath hitch.

He swallows hard, the sound loud in his own ears. His chest feels too tight, like the air has nowhere to go. He shifts his weight without thinking, trying to ease the ache in his lungs – 

 – and his elbow knocks lightly into the doorframe.

The sound is small. Barely more than a tap.

In the quiet kitchen, it might as well be a shout.

The movements stop.

The boy standing between the other’s knees stiffens instantly, his shoulders tensing as he pulls back. The boy on the counter straightens, legs stilling mid-swing, his body visibly going alert.

Will’s breath locks in his chest. His mind blanks, panic roaring up so fast it drowns out everything else. He does not wait to see what happens next. He does not wait for anyone to see him.

He turns and runs.

Behind him, a voice cuts sharply through the quiet.

“Wait–!”

Will does not stop.

His foot catches slightly on the edge of the hallway rug, but he barely feels it. He bolts down the hall, heart slamming, lungs burning, every instinct screaming at him to get away, to put distance between himself and whatever he has just seen.

He rounds a corner he does not remember passing before, skids slightly on the polished floor, and stumbles into a larger room at the back of the house. 

He slows despite himself.

The room feels different. It is larger than the others, the ceiling higher, the windows taller, sunlight pouring in without obstruction. It seeps through tall windows, illuminating the space in wide, clean strokes.

Will’s breath stutters as his eyes lift.

A portrait hangs on the far wall.

It’s framed carefully, centered as if the room was built around it. The glass catches the light, reflecting a faint image of Will himself as he stands there shaking and out of place.

He takes a step closer before he realizes he has moved.

The image sharpens as he approaches.

Two people stand side by side in the photograph, close enough that their shoulders touch. One of them is immediately recognizable.

Mike.

Will’s stomach drops.

Mike’s hair curls gently at the ends, even more than Will knows it to. He is smiling – still the wide, dumb, careless grin only Will knows – but also something softer. One arm rests easily around the waist of the person standing beside him, his hand settled there with quiet certainty.

Will’s gaze shifts slowly.

The second figure refuses to make sense at first. His mind skids uselessly, unable to latch onto anything solid. He notices the way the boy stands, the quiet confidence in it, but none of it connects. It feels like looking at something through water, distorted and unreal.

He takes another step closer, his breath coming shallow and uneven.

The understanding creeps in slowly, threading itself together before he can stop it. The shape of the face is wrong in the way things are wrong in nightmares, familiar but altered. The shape of the nose. The familiar curve of the mouth – his eyes, looking at the camera with an expression Will has never seen on his own face.

The room tilts sharply.

Will lifts his hand, fingers trembling, and stops just short of the glass. His reflection overlaps with the image, his younger face ghosted over the older one staring back at him, and the sight makes his chest seize painfully.

“That’s not possible,” he says, voice thin and unsteady.

The boy in the photograph is him.

Not exactly as he is now. Older, softened by time instead of worn down by it. His hair is longer, worn in a way Will has never dared to imagine for himself, and there is an ease in his posture that feels almost unbearable to look at.

He does not hear the footsteps at first.

He is still staring at the portrait, still trying to breathe through the ache spreading tight and hot across his chest, still caught on the impossible shape of himself standing beside Mike. The room feels too large, the air too thin, like he has stepped somewhere he was never meant to exist.

“Will?”

The voice comes from behind him, close enough that it sends a jolt through his spine. It is quiet and deliberate, not sharp with alarm or surprise, but weighted with something that makes his shoulders tense instantly, his body reacting before his mind can catch up.

He turns.

The person standing a few feet away brings him to a dead stop.

For a moment, his thoughts simply vanish. There is no language for what he is seeing, no way to frame it, only the sudden, dizzying sense of wrongness that crashes into him and knocks the breath from his lungs. His muscles lock, his heart lurching painfully in his chest as his body reacts on instinct alone.

The recognition is visceral, a sudden, sickening certainty that settles in his chest and makes his breath catch. This is not a stranger who looks familiar. This is something he knows too well, standing outside of him, looking back.

“No,” he says, the word breaking as it leaves him. “No, this isn’t– this isn’t real.”

The other boy watches him closely, eyes steady, expression intent without being overwhelming. There is no confusion there, no hesitation, only a careful focus that makes it painfully clear he understands exactly what Will is feeling.

“This isn’t the Upside Down,” Will says, more to himself than to anyone else. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“I know,” the other Will speaks, startling him. “It’s not.”

Will lets out a shaky breath. “I can’t be sure of that!”

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” he says. His voice is calm, even, carrying easily across the room. It sounds like Will’s voice, only steadier, like it has learned how to sit with itself instead of fighting every word on the way out. “But you’re not in danger.”

Will’s heart is still pounding too hard, his pulse loud in his ears. He shakes his head once, sharp and disbelieving, as if he can knock the moment loose. “You’re–” He swallows, throat tight. “You’re...”

“Yeah,” the other Will replies with complete understanding. He exhales slowly, like he is reminding himself to breathe too. “I am.”

“That’s not possible,” Will says again, because the words feel safer than the truth trying to claw its way up his chest. “This is another trick. It has to be.”

“I know why you’d think that,” he replies. His voice does not waver. “But this isn’t a trick. There’s no shadow here. No cold. No wrongness in the air. You felt it when you woke up.”

Will hates that he is right.

He stays where he is, rooted to the spot, his pulse still loud in his ears. The other Will watches him for a moment, reading the tight set of his shoulders, the way his hands keep curling and uncurling like he is bracing for impact that never comes.

“Come sit,” the other Will says quietly. “You don’t have to stand there.”

Will opens his mouth to argue, then realizes his legs feel unsteady. He swallows and nods once, stiff and reluctant, and follows him to sit on the edge of the bed.

The silence that follows is heavy, not awkward, just full.

“Where am I?” Will asks at last.

“Your house,” the other Will says. “In the future.”

Will lets out a breath through his nose, sharp and disbelieving. “That part I figured out.”

Future Will huffs softly, then sobers again. “You passed out in the woods. Something pulled you here. I’m not sure how long it will last.”

Will nods, jaw tight. He stares at the floor, at the clean lines of the wood, at the absence of rot and shadow. “This place is big,” he says after a moment.

“It is.”

“But you’re– I’m not a conman or anything, right?”

Future Will blinks, then lets out a quiet laugh. “No.”

“Okay,” Will says, relieved despite himself. “That would’ve been too m– no, no, wait. I’m skipping ahead.”

Will takes a breath.

“How exactly did I get here?” The words come out clipped, precise, like he’s afraid if he softens them they’ll fall apart. “Not–” He gestures vaguely. “Not philosophically. I mean how. One second I was in the woods, and then everything went wrong.”

Future Will nods slowly. “You passed out.”

“I know that part,” Will snaps, then immediately winces. He takes a breath. “I mean… the other part. The pulling. The way it felt like–” He presses his lips together, searching. “Like something grabbed me and yanked.”

Future Will’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Yeah.”

“So this is Upside Down stuff,” Will says, dread creeping back in. “I knew it.”

“It’s similar,” Future Will says carefully. “But it’s not related. It’s not a place. It’s more like… a fold.”

Will frowns. “A fold.”

“In time,” Future Will clarifies. “In you.”

Will stares at him. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know,” he says again, softer. “I’m sorry.”

Will’s hands curl into fists in his lap. “Why tonight,” he asks. “Why now?”

Future Will doesn’t answer right away.

That’s all the confirmation Will needs.

“Because I broke Castle Byers,” he says quietly.

Future Will inhales, slow and measured. “Because you hit a breaking point,” he corrects. “The fort was just… where it happened.”

“So this is my fault,” Will says. He laughs, breathless and sharp. “Great. Makes sense.”

“It’s not punishment,” Future Will says immediately. “And it’s not your fault. But–” He hesitates. “You cracked something open. Emotion does that to you. Strong emotion, especially when you’ve been suppressing it.”

Will looks up sharply. “So if I get upset, I just– what, start time traveling?”

Future Will snorts despite himself. “No. God, no. This is a fluke. A perfect storm.”

Will narrows his eyes. “You sound like mom.”

“That also makes sense.”

Will huffs, then goes still again. “How long does this last?” Will asks finally. “Because I can’t stay here.”

“You won’t,” Future Will says. “I’m not sure how long it’ll be, but you’ll go back soon.”

Will nods once, relief and dread twisting together in his chest. “Does anyone else know I’m here?”

Future Will answers quietly. “Mike knows.”

Will’s head lifts immediately. “What.”

“Yeah,” Future Will says, watching him closely. “He knows you’re here.”

Will shakes his head once, slow and disbelieving. “That doesn’t–” He stops, presses his lips together, tries again. “How.”

“You saw him,” Future Will says. “In the kitchen.”

Will goes very still.

The image rushes back with brutal clarity, sharper now that it has somewhere to land. It brings with it the warmth of laughter, the way the sound wrapped around him before he even saw them, the contrast of Mike’s dark curls against skin, and the way the other Will had tilted without thinking, as if his body knew exactly what it wanted and where to be. Will’s chest tightens suddenly.

“I– I didn’t see his face,” Will says quietly, and he isn’t sure why he says it, only that it feels important. “I mean. I didn’t recognize him.”

Future Will nods. “I know.”

Will swallows hard. His gaze drifts, unbidden, toward the wall where the photograph hangs, even though he has already seen it, even though the image has been burned into him since the moment he recognized himself in it.

“So,” Will says slowly, carefully, like each word might crack something open if he presses too hard, “that was him.”

“Yes.”

“And you,” Will adds, his voice dropping. “That was you.”

Future Will doesn’t look away. “It was.”

The room feels suddenly smaller, the air thinner. Will presses his palms into his knees, grounding himself in the solid, impossible reality of the mattress beneath him.

“That means,” Will says, and has to stop again, his throat tightening, “that means the picture wasn’t lying.”

“No,” Future Will says gently. “It wasn’t.”

Will lets out a shaky breath. “So you weren’t just standing next to him. You were–”

“With him,” Future Will finishes.

Will stares at the floor for a long moment, the grain of the wood blurring as his eyes lose focus. His thoughts keep looping back on themselves, snagging on the same details no matter how hard he tries to move past them. Mike’s laugh. The way it had sounded loose, unguarded, like it belonged somewhere safe. The way he had leaned in without hesitation, like closeness was a given instead of a risk.

“So,” Will says finally, and his voice comes out quieter than he expects. “He doesn’t… just show up here, right.”

Future Will tilts his head, obviously amused. “What do you mean?”

Will shifts on the bed, one shoulder lifting in a small, uncertain shrug. “I mean. He was there. In your kitchen. Like he still visits you– us a lot or something.” He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth, already backpedaling. “Not that he does. I just–”

“No, he doesn’t visit a lot,” Future Will says.

Will exhales without realizing he’s been holding his breath, his shoulders loosening just a fraction before he can stop them. “Okay,” he says, and there’s something thin and off about it, like the word doesn’t quite hold the weight he meant it to. “That makes sense.”

It isn’t relief so much as resignation, the brief hope he hadn’t admitted to folding in on itself almost immediately.

Future Will watches that happen, his expression shifting.

“We live together,” he says.

Will freezes.

His sense of balance wavers despite sitting down. His mouth opens, then closes again. He stares at himself seated in front of him like the words haven’t quite translated yet.

“…What.”

Future Will doesn’t look away, smiling fully this time. “Mike and I live together.”

Will’s jaw drops before he can stop it.

“Oh,” Will says faintly.

He stares at Future Will for a moment longer, then looks away, his gaze fixing on the edge of the bed like it might offer something solid to hold onto. His thoughts scramble, grasping for a version of this that doesn’t knock the breath out of him.

“So,” he says after a second, and there’s a strange, forced steadiness to his voice. “You’re… housemates.”

Future Will doesn’t answer right away.

Will nods to himself, filling the silence before it can swallow him. “That makes sense,” he continues quickly. “It’s a big place. Fees are probably high. And I mean, we’ve always–” He trails off, then shrugs. “We’ve always gotten along.”

Future Will watches him carefully.

“And the kitchen thing,” Will adds, waving a vague hand, not quite looking up. “That was just–” He searches for the word. “Comfort. Like when you hang around someone long enough and you stop worrying about personal space.”

He risks a glance up, like he’s checking to see if this explanation has been accepted.

Future Will’s expression is gentle and a little pained. “Will.”

“It’s not weird,” Will says quickly. “I mean, it is, but not in a–” He laughs, thin and breathless. “I’ve seen people do worse. And Mike’s always been bad with boundaries. He leans. He touches. He doesn’t think about it. That doesn’t mean anything.”

Future Will exhales, then actually laughs, sharp and incredulous. He rubs a hand over his face and shakes his head like he can’t believe he has to say it out loud.

“Will,” he says, flat and exhausted, “you didn’t walk in on housemates.”

Will stiffens. “I didn’t–”

“You walked in on foreplay,” Future Will cuts in flatly.

The word lands like a dropped plate.

Will knows it. He hates that he knows it. It’s a word half-explained in health class, muttered by older kids in the hallway, written in magazines he was never supposed to read all the way through. A word that always felt abstract, theoretical. Something that belonged to other people.

Not him and Mike.

Will’s mind goes blank anyway.

“If you were at least a minute late,” Future Will cuts in, still amused, still maddeningly calm. “If you hadn’t knocked into the doorframe, you would’ve seen something haunting.”

Will’s stomach flips, hard enough that he has to brace his hands against his knees. Heat crawls up his neck and settles behind his ears, sharp and humiliating. He can’t look up. He can’t look anywhere except the floor, like if he keeps his eyes down long enough the meaning might loosen its grip on him.

“That’s–” His voice comes out thin. He clears his throat and tries again. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Future Will watches him quietly, the amusement draining from his expression as the denial cracks.

“You’re thinking about the fight,” he says, not unkindly. “About what he said in the garage. About Jane.”

Will nods once, too hard. “He said something about me not liking girls,” he says, like repeating it might re-anchor the world. “He said it was stupid to think things could stay the same.”

“I know,” Future Will says. “And he meant what he understood at the time.”

Will laughs, short and breathless. “So he just – changes.”

“No,” Future Will says. “He learns.”

That lands worse somehow.

Will presses his lips together, his jaw tight. The kitchen scene keeps replaying whether he wants it to or not – Mike’s ease, the way nothing about him had looked uncertain or wrong or conflicted. He looked certain. Sure.

Will lets that sit for a moment. He does not look up right away. The word learns feels too small to carry everything it is being asked to hold.

“How,” he asks finally. His voice is quiet, but steady now, like he is afraid that if he raises it even a little the question will fall apart. “How did you get from there to here?”

Future Will does not answer immediately. When he does, his voice is thoughtful, careful in a way Will recognizes. It is the same way his mother sounds when she is explaining how to get somewhere, repeating the directions until he nods.

“Slowly,” he says. “Not all at once. And not the way you’re probably thinking.”

Will lifts his head then. His eyes are red, but focused. “Did he just wake up one day and realize,” he gestures vaguely, unable to finish the sentence, “that he wanted you – us?”

Future Will huffs a quiet laugh, not unkind. “No. God, no.”

“It took years,” he continues. “Years of messing things up. Of saying the wrong thing. Of not saying anything at all. Of thinking we were on different paths and trying very hard to pretend that didn’t hurt.”

Will hesitates, then speaks anyway. “So it doesn’t… get easier from here.”

Future Will exhales. Not tired. Just truthful.

“No,” he says. “You go through more.”

Will’s shoulders tense, but he does not pull away.

“Not like this,” Future Will continues, gesturing vaguely back toward the memory of the garage, the rain, the words that still echo. “Not always this sharp. But there are a lot of wrong moments, bad timing. Situations where you’re almost in the same place and still missing each other.”

Will frowns. “Because of me, or him?”

“Because of life,” Future Will answers gently. “Because you’re growing up in a time and in a town that doesn’t give you language for what you feel. Because he’s trying to be who he thinks he’s supposed to be. Because you both keep choosing safety at different times.”

That lands slowly.

“There are years where you’re close,” Future Will says. “Really close. And years where you’re circling each other without ever quite landing in the same place.”

Will’s fingers twist together in his lap. The thought circles for a long moment, half-formed and frightening in its simplicity, pressing against his chest until there’s nowhere left to put it.

“So I just keep…”

The words stall, unfamiliar. He swallows, breath catching, the realization settling with a quiet, irreversible weight.

“L– liking him.”

“Yes,” Future Will says. “And sometimes you think you stop because it hurts too much, but it never really goes away.”

Will lets out a breath that is almost a laugh. “Great.”

Future Will smiles faintly. “I didn’t say it was fun.”

He shifts slightly, grounding himself before he goes on. “But you don’t lose yourself in it. You don’t disappear. Even when it feels like you might.”

Will looks up at him then.

“You keep painting,” Future Will says. “You keep making things. You keep finding people who see you, even when Mike can’t yet. You build a life that doesn’t revolve around waiting.”

Will’s throat tightens. “And him.”

“And him,” Future Will agrees. “He stays. Not always in the way you want. Not always at the right time. But he never fully stops being part of your life.”

The room feels very still.

“So when it finally happens,” Will asks quietly, “it’s not because everything lined up.”

Future Will smiles, soft and certain. “It happens because you both finally stop running from the same truth.”

Will sits back slightly, absorbing that. The ache in his chest is still there, but it feels… survivable.

“And me,” he asks. “I don’t end up bitter.”

Future Will meets his eyes. “No. You end up honest.”

Will nods again.

“Okay,” he says.

Future Will watches him for a moment longer, then shifts, sitting back against the headboard instead of leaning forward. He gives Will space without making it feel like distance, which is somehow worse, because it means he’s learned how to do that.

“And you don’t lose him because of this fight,” Future Will says. “Not because you’re loud. Not because you’re angry. Not because he said the wrong thing in the wrong tone.”

Will flinches anyway.

“It does change things,” Future Will continues. “But not in the way you’re afraid of. This isn’t a moment where everything ends.”

Will swallows. His voice comes out rough. “He looked at me like I was stupid.”

“I know,” Future Will says quietly. “And it hurts every time you remember it. But that look? That wasn’t about you being wrong. It was about him being scared of what he couldn’t name yet.”

Will laughs softly, bitter and disbelieving. “So I’m supposed to be patient.”

“No,” Future Will says immediately. “You’re allowed to be hurt and angry. You’re allowed to want things and not know what to do with that wanting.”

He shifts again, crossing one ankle over the other. Will notices, distantly, the way his clothes sit differently on him – soft fabrics, loose lines, nothing rigid or apologetic about it. It looks lived-in. Chosen.

“It doesn’t happen in a calculated moment,” Future Will goes on. “There’s no perfect timing. You just… stop lying as much as you used to. First to yourself. Then, slowly, to the people who matter.”

Will’s chest tightens. “Does it get easier to say?”

Future Will thinks about it. “It gets less painful to not say.”

That feels like the truest thing anyone has told him all day.

Will stares at the floor again, then blurts, “Do I ever tell him?”

Future Will doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”

“When?”

He smiles faintly. “Later than you want. Earlier than you think you can survive.”

Will huffs out a breath. “Thought so.”

There’s a pause. It stretches, but it doesn’t feel dangerous.

“Can I ask you another thing?” Will says.

“Anything.”

“Do I still feel like this all the time,” he asks, gesturing vaguely at his chest, “like I’m the wrong shape for the world.”

Will hesitates, then adds, almost apologetically, “I spend a lot of time trying not to be noticed.”

Future Will doesn’t interrupt.

Will’s gaze drifts back to him again without quite meaning to. The longer hair first – not styled into anything sharp or deliberate, just allowed to fall where it wants, brushing his jaw when he tilts his head. Then the clothes – a soft shirt that drapes instead of clings, the fabric thin enough to move when he breathes, half-unbuttoned. A narrow chain rests against his throat, catching the light when he shifts.

There is something almost gentle about the way he exists like this. Not trying to look tough. Not trying to disappear. Just… allowed.

“You don’t seem like you’re doing that,” Will says quietly, his voice barely steady. “Trying not to be noticed.”

He swallows, heat rushing up his neck, embarrassed by how much this is affecting him.

Future Will’s expression softens in a way that makes Will’s throat ache. 

“No,” he says gently. “It doesn’t stay like that.”

The words land softly, but they land solid.

“You grow into yourself,” he continues. “Not by changing who you are, but by letting yourself exist for yourself,” he says, “that tight feeling in your chest? It loosens slowly. Until one day you realize you’re breathing easier – not in a dramatic way. In a true way.”

Will nods slowly. He blinks hard, once, then again.

“Okay,” he says, voice cracking just slightly. “Okay.”

A quiet knock at the door interrupts the moment. 

Will startles hard, shoulders jumping, instinct screaming run, hide, don’t be seen. Future Will reacts instantly, grounding a hand beside where he’s sat.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s just him.”

Will’s heart stutters. “I can’t– I don’t want–”

“I know,” Future Will says. “You don’t have to see him. You don’t have to talk. He won’t come in unless I say it’s okay.”

The knock comes again, softer this time.

“Baby?” Mike – Future Mike’s voice filters through the door, deeper and rougher than he knows, but familiar enough to hurt. “Everything okay?”

The word he used to call him lands before Will can stop it, sharp and dizzying all at once. He stares at the floor, heat rushing up his neck again.

Future Will glances at the door, then back at him. There’s something gentle in his expression now. Something fond. “I told him you were… overwhelmed.”

Will shakes his head quickly, panic tightening his throat. “Don’t let him see me.”

“I won’t,” Future Will says, immediate and sure, the promise settling into the space between them without needing to be repeated. “But I am going to tell him you’re safe.”

Will nods, fingers curling into his shirt.

Future Will stands and moves to the door, opening it only enough to speak through the narrow gap. Will hides his face away, pressing his palms into his knees.

“He’s okay,” Future Will says, his voice calm, unhurried, like he is speaking to someone who already understands him. “He just needs a minute.”

There is a pause on the other side of the door, longer than the one before, filled with the sound of Mike breathing. Will can hear it, faint but unmistakable, the way Mike always breathes when he is trying to stay calm.

“Can I–” Mike starts, then stops himself. “Is he hurt?”

Future Will doesn’t rush his answer. “No. He’s shaken. But he’s safe.”

Another pause follows, heavy and careful, like he is weighing every word before letting it out.

“Okay,” Mike says finally, softer now. “Okay. That’s all that matters. But I’m here if you need me.”

“I know.” Future Will replies. Will watches the way his shoulders settle, the way his breathing evens out just a fraction. It is subtle, but it is unmistakable. Mike’s presence has always done that to him.

“You don’t have to hover,” Future Will says gently.

Mike huffs a quiet breath on the other side of the door. “I know.”

Another pause. Then, more honestly, “I might anyway.”

Future Will smiles. Will can hear the happiness in his voice when he speaks again, “Thank you. That’s reassuring.”

There’s a soft shift of weight from the hallway, the faint sound of fabric brushing against the wall as Mike leans back. He does not try the handle. He does not push. He stays exactly where he is.

Future Will glances back at him, just once. 

“He’s not ready to be seen,” Future Will says to the door. His voice is steady, certain. “But he knows you’re here.”

Mike nods, even though Future Will can’t see it. Will knows he does anyway.

“That’s okay,” Mike says. 

“I’m not here only for my Will in the past. I’m here for my Will now, too.”

Future Will smiles.

“You sure you’re okay?” Mike asks.

Future Will nods. “Yeah. I will be.”

Mike holds his gaze for a long second, then nods back. “Okay.”

He doesn’t step closer. He just stays, steady and sure, like he always has been when it mattered most.

Will watches it all with a tight, aching chest.

When Future Will closes the door again, he turns to Will immediately, expression gentle and grounded, like he’s standing on solid ground and offering proof it exists.

“See?” he says quietly. “You’re not wrong for wanting him.”

Will nods, throat tight, eyes burning.

“And you’re not foolish for believing it could be real,” Future Will adds. “It is. It was. Even when you couldn’t see how yet.”

Will presses his lips together, breathing through the ache. “It still hurts.”

“I know,” Future Will says. “But it won’t always hurt like this.”

“Do I make him…,” he starts, then stops. He frowns, searching. “I don’t know how to say it.”

Future Will waits. He always does.

“Do I make him, like–” Will exhales sharply through his nose. “Work for it. Or something.” He winces, shaking his head. “That sounds bad. I don’t mean–”

“Suffer?” Future Will offers.

Will’s shoulders tense. “No! Well, yeah. That. Or– earn it. Or realize what he did. I don’t want him to be in pain, but I also want him to know–” He trails off, frustrated, words slipping through his fingers. “Just to know how much it hurt.”

Future Will considers him carefully.

Then he nods. Just once.

“Yes,” he says. “He’ll realize. He doesn’t get anything for free.”

Will looks up sharply. “Really?”

“Really,” Future Will says. “You don’t intentionally make him suffer, not exactly. I know you don’t want that. But you also don’t erase yourself to make things comfortable again.”

That settles into Will’s chest slowly.

“You stop pretending things didn’t hurt,” Future Will continues. “You stop smoothing everything over so he doesn’t have to sit with the weight of it. You let him see you clearly, even when that makes things harder.”

Will frowns slightly. “That sounds like revenge.”

Future Will laughs. “It’s not,” he says gently. “It isn’t dramatic. It takes time. He apologizes badly sometimes, either too late or not enough.”

Will exhales, something close to satisfaction flickering across his face before he can stop it. “Okay.”

“But he learns,” Future Will continues. “Because you give him the chance to, without sacrificing yourself in the process.”

Will nods slowly.

He hesitates, then asks the question he has been circling for minutes now.

“How much time,” he says. His voice is careful, but there is an edge to it. “I mean… you said it takes time. Until when?”

Future Will smiles and does not deflect it.

“A little over college,” he says.

Will’s head snaps up. “College.”

“Yes.”

“That’s–” Will stops, recalibrates. “That’s a lot of years.”

“It is,” Future Will agrees. “But it is not years of nothing. It is years of growing sideways instead of straight toward each other.”

Will frowns. “I don’t understand.”

Future Will shifts slightly, settling himself before answering. “You leave Hawkins. You learn how to exist without him being the center of everything you feel. He learns how to exist without assuming you will always be there waiting.”

Will processes that slowly.

“So we’re… apart.”

“Yes,” Future Will says. “Not broken. Just not tangled.”

Will swallows. “Then how does it change?”

Future Will looks at him steadily. “Because you come back different.”

“Different how?”

“You come back knowing who you are,” Future Will says. “You come back having known people, by other people, having been wanted without having to beg for it, having learned that your life does not collapse if Mike Wheeler is not paying attention to you.”

That lands hard.

“And him,” Will asks quietly.

Future Will’s mouth curves into something faint and knowing. “He realizes he does not get to be the most important person in your life by default anymore.”

Will scoffs. “That sounds like it wouldn’t scare him.”

“It will,” Future Will says. “A lot.”

“But… but he doesn’t run away?” Will asks.

“No,” Future Will replies. “He finally does the opposite.”

Will sits back slightly. “So that’s how he works for it.”

“Yes,” Future Will says. “He shows up when it would be easier not to. He listens instead of arguing. He learns how to love you properly.”

Will stares at the floor, heart thudding.

“And I don’t…,” he starts, then finishes, “I don’t chase him anymore.”

Future Will smiles. “No. You let him meet you where you are.”

The ache in Will’s chest is still there, but it feels different now. Less sharp. More solid.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Will sits with that for a moment, breathing through the familiar ache in his chest. It is still there, but it feels less like a wound and more like something healing badly, imperfectly, but honestly.

This time, it sounds like something he can live with.

Will sits there longer than he means to.

The room hums quietly around him, not with anything supernatural, just the low, steady sound of a house that knows itself. Sunlight shifts across the floor as clouds move outside, the light changing in slow, ordinary increments that feel strangely important.

He is not better. He knows that. The hurt is still there, familiarly threaded through him. But it is no longer eating everything else alive.

Future Will watches him with a stillness that feels practiced, like someone who has learned how to recognize this moment when it arrives.

“You’re getting pulled,” he says softly.

Will’s stomach tightens, the fear arriving late, carried in on the heels of relief. “Now?”

“Soon,” Future Will replies. “It’s already loosening.”

Will looks down at his hands. Mud has not followed him here, but he can still feel the ghost of it under his nails, the memory of wood splintering under his grip. These are the same hands that destroyed Castle Byers, smashed boards apart in the rain hours ago – or years ago, and the same hands that have turned pages and held brushes and reached for things he has been too afraid to name.

“I don’t want to forget,” Will says. The words come out more urgently than he means them to, but he does not take them back. “I don’t want this to turn into one of those things that feels like a dream when I wake up.”

Future Will leans forward. “You won’t forget what mattered.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Will says. His throat tightens. “I don’t want to wake up and think I made it all up because it hurt too much to be true.”

Future Will considers him for a long moment.

Then he reaches out – not touching, just close enough that Will can feel the warmth of him.

“You won’t remember everything,” he says honestly. “You won’t remember dates, or how old I am, or what the house looked like in detail.”

Will swallows.

“But you’ll feel this,” Future Will continues. “You’ll know that it doesn’t end here. You’ll know that wanting him isn’t a dead end. And you’ll know that you do not disappear just because someone cannot meet you where you are yet.”

Will blinks hard, his vision blurring despite his effort to keep it steady.

“That will be enough,” Future Will says gently. “It was for me.”

The air in the room begins to feel different then. There is no sharp pull this time, no sense of being torn loose. Instead, Will feels heavier, like gravity is slowly reclaiming him. The walls seem less expansive, the light less insistent, as if the future is no longer stretching itself around him to keep him here.

He grips the edge of the mattress when dizziness rolls through him, slower and kinder than before, like a tide instead of a wave.

“What about you,” Will asks, his voice unsteady despite himself. “Do you remember this happening?”

Future Will smiles, something soft and knowing in the curve of his mouth. “I just did.”

The truth of that lands with quiet weight.

The room begins to blur at the edges. The sounds dull, not vanishing, just receding. Will feels himself slipping, not falling, not being pulled, simply being returned to a place that still needs him unfinished.

“Hey,” he says quickly, panic flaring late and useless. “Wait– one more thing.”

Future Will steps closer, urgency flickering across his face now. “What?”

Will forces the words out before they dissolve. “When it hurts later,” he says. “When it still hurts. That doesn’t mean it didn’t matter, right?”

Future Will doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says firmly. “It means you’re still alive in it.”

The floor drops out from under him.

—

Will comes back to the rain.

Mud is cold beneath his hands, seeping through the fabric of his sleeves, the broken boards of Castle Byers pressing unevenly into his side. The sound of the rain crashes into him all at once, loud and relentless, hammering leaves and wood and earth until it fills his head completely. He gasps as his lungs finally draw a full breath, his heart racing, his body snapping back into itself with a jolt that leaves him shaking.

For a long moment, he does not move. He lies there staring up through the fractured roof of the fort at the dark stretch of sky beyond, rain dripping through the gaps to soak his hair and jacket. The cold bites into him, sharp and immediate.

Nothing has been fixed.

The fight in the garage still happened. Mike’s words remain lodged somewhere in his chest, blurred now, stripped of their edges. Tomorrow waits with the same unanswered questions.

Will shifts onto his side and draws one knee in, then the other, the movement small and automatic. His breathing evens without effort, the panic thinning out before it can take hold, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm he doesn’t have to force.

Rainwater slides down his neck, cold enough to make him flinch, but he doesn’t curl tighter. His fist comes to rest against his sternum, not pressing, not bracing – just there.

The ache remains where it always has, familiar and sore, yet it stays contained, no longer spilling outward. The space around it holds.

Something is different.

He cannot say what it is. There is no memory to point to, no image or voice he can hold onto. Will stares up at the broken boards and the rain-washed sky beyond them, and for some reason, the future no longer feels like a wall.

Will closes his eyes and breathes through the ache, and somewhere beneath it all, steady and unafraid, he thinks – feels that this is not where he ends.

For the first time in a long time, he lets himself believe it.

—

Thirteen years into the future, the house is quiet again.

Will sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded loosely in his lap, breathing slow and deliberate. 

There is a knock at the door.

“Baby?” Mike says. “Can I come in now?”

Will exhales and nods to himself. “Yeah.”

Mike opens the door and steps inside, closing it carefully behind him. He does not rush forward. He looks at Will first, properly, his expression shifting as he takes him in.

“Was he okay?” Mike asks.

“Yes,” Will says. “He’s okay. He was scared, but he’s steadier now.”

Mike lets out a breath he has clearly been holding. “I’m glad.”

He crosses the room and sits beside Will, close enough that their knees touch. The contact is familiar, grounding.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

“I keep thinking about that fight,” Mike says finally. “The one in the garage.”

Will turns his head slightly, listening.

“I said something cruel to you that time,” Mike continues. “I did not fully understand what I was feeling yet, but that does not excuse it. I made you feel small when you were only trying to hold onto something that mattered to you. To us.”

Will’s chest tightens, but he stays steady.

“I mean, I already realized I felt something different for you then,” Mike chuckles, shaking his head. “I was just terrified of what that meant. I was scared that if I admitted it, I wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore, and I was not ready to lose the version of myself that felt safe.”

Will nods. He understands that now in a way he couldn’t have back then. “You were trying really hard to be normal.”

The conversation shifts to something lighter. 

Mike snorts. “I was trying really hard not to look at the one thing that made everything else make sense.”

Will’s mouth curves despite himself. “You did a bad job.”

“Spectacularly,” Mike agrees. “I mean, come on. I was jealous of everyone you talked to. I memorized the sound of your bike. I panicked every time you pulled away even a little.” He shakes his head. “That’s not subtle.”

“And yet,” Will says dryly, “you still managed to convince yourself it meant nothing.”

Mike winces. “In my defense, I was a moron.”

Will laughs, soft and real, the sound easing something in his chest. “You were a scared kid in the eighties.”

Mike looks at him then, really looks. “So were you.”

Will shrugs lightly. “Yeah. But I knew what I wanted.”

Mike’s expression shifts – fond, regretful, warm all at once. He reaches out this time, resting his hand over Will’s where it’s folded in his lap.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up.”

Will squeezes his hand once. “You did catch up.”

“Eventually,” Mike says. “After you left. After you stopped orbiting me. That’s when it hit.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Turns out watching you build a whole life without me was deeply unromantic.”

Will rolls his eyes. “You were unbearable that year.”

Mike points at him. “You were dating a sculptor.”

“It was ceramics,” Will corrects.

“Still counts,” Mike says. “He had opinions about bowls.”

“He had passion,” Will says solemnly.

Mike groans and drops his head back. “See? This is what I mean. I nearly lost you to pottery.”

Will laughs again, leaning into Mike’s shoulder without thinking. Mike shifts instinctively to make room, pressing a kiss into Will’s hair.

“You didn’t,” Will says softly. “You couldn’t have.”

He lets his eyes close for a second. The room is quiet in a good way – the lived-in way. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask anything of you.

“He was so scared,” Will says after a moment. “The younger me. Scared and angry and convinced he’d already ruined everything.”

Mike’s thumb traces a slow circle against Will’s knuckle. “Did you tell him he didn’t?”

“I did,” Will says. “I told him that wanting you wasn’t a mistake.”

Mike swallows. “Thank you.”

Will turns his head, resting his temple against Mike’s shoulder. “You would’ve told him too.”

“Yeah,” Mike admits. “Eventually. Probably while pacing and making it worse first.”

Will smiles. “Definitely while pacing.”

They sit like that for a bit, breathing in sync without trying.

“You know, he saw what we were doing in the kitchen.”

Mike goes very still.

“…Saw,” Mike repeats carefully.

Will nods. “Not clearly. He didn’t even recognize us at first. But he understood enough.”

Mike’s face heats instantly. “Oh my god.”

Will lets out a quiet laugh. 

“I did not mean to traumatize my not-yet-boyfriend boyfriend from the past,” Mike groans, dropping his head into his hands. “That was not on the list today.”

“You also called me baby.”

Mike freezes. “I– what?”

Will raises his eyebrows, amused. “Very casually too.”

Mike’s ears turn red. “Okay, but that’s literally your name–”

“It was cute,” Will says, cutting him off with a kiss on his cheek.

Mike melts instantly. 

They lapse into another comfortable pause. The house creaks softly as it settles around them, familiar and safe.

Mike shifts again, nudging Will gently. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“You good?” he asks. Not about the past. About now.

Will considers it honestly, then smiles. “Yup. I am.”

Mike smiles, relieved in a way that still feels fresh every time. “Good. Because I was thinking leftover Chinese and that terrible documentary you pretend to hate.”

“I do hate it.”

“You’ve watched it four times.”

“For the cinematography,” Will says.

Mike laughs and pulls him closer. “Come on. Before you start thinking of something else again.” He shifts his grip and lifts Will, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Will exhales and lets himself be tugged up, arm sliding around Mike’s shoulders, his head resting briefly against his chest as they head for the kitchen.

As they step into the hallway, Will glances back once, not afraid this time – just thoughtful.

Somewhere, years ago, a boy is breathing through an ache he doesn’t yet have words for.

Will squeezes Mike’s hand as they move, their steps unhurried, in no particular rush to get anywhere else.

Of course it mattered.

It always did.

The house settles around them, warm and lived-in, holding the quiet proof that nothing fragile was ever lost – only carried forward, slowly, until it could finally be held without fear.