Chapter Text
Four years after high school Will learned that some homes were harder to leave than others, and that the hardest ones weren’t places at all.
Will sighed as he looked around their half-packed apartment, though he supposed it was just his now. The afternoon light streamed through the large windows that had sold him on this place three years ago, catching dust particles floating lazily through the air. Jake’s movie posters had been taken down, leaving rectangular shadows on the exposed brick wall. The vintage record player they’d found at a flea market in Brooklyn was gone, along with half of the records. The bookshelves looked sparse now, gaps where Jake’s photography books used to sit next to Will’s art monographs.
All of Jake’s things were packed up for the movers, neat boxes stacked by the door labeled in his careful handwriting. And Will’s things, his easel by the window, his prints on the remaining wall space, his collection of coffee mugs that Jake always said were excessive, were still here. I should be feeling more, he thought. I should feel my heart breaking.
After a number of awkward first dates, a few random hookups, and one messy almost-thing, Will had met Jake at the end of his sophomore year and they’d been together almost two years.
Jake was kind and patient and understanding in ways that Will had once thought he’d never find. Jake, who had learned to make Will’s favorite breakfast casserole from Joyce after meeting her once. Jake, who had held Will through all the nightmares. Jake, who had never pushed Will to talk about Hawkins but always listened when he did. Jake, who had looked at Will like he was something precious.
And yet standing there, watching Jake prepare to leave, Will felt… fine.
Then a pang of guilt washed over him for not feeling worse. Staying here right now was what felt right for him, in the city where he had found himself and now called home.
“It’s not too late, you know,” Jake said quietly, leaning against the doorframe of their bedroom, his bedroom. Will had to start thinking of it that way. “The movers can pack up your things too. We haven’t renewed the lease yet.”
Will’s stomach clenched. They’d had this conversation so many times over the past month. Ever since Jake had gotten the job offer in LA, the opportunity he’d been working toward. It was a good offer. A great one. The kind of thing you didn’t turn down.
“Jake—”
“I know, I know. Can we not do this again.” Jake ran a hand through his hair, a gesture Will had come to recognize as frustration carefully restrained. “I just don’t understand. You love your work here, sure, but there are galleries in LA. Studios. You could freelance anywhere.”
“It’s not that simple,” Will said, and he could hear how weak it sounded.
“Then explain it to me.” Jake moved closer, and his voice was gentle, not accusatory. That was what made this harder; Jake wasn’t being unfair. “Help me understand what I’m missing. Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re choosing New York over us, and I keep trying to figure out why.”
Will let himself be pulled into familiar arms, Jake’s chin resting on top of his head. The embrace felt safe, comfortable, like slipping into worn jeans. That should have been enough, shouldn’t it? That kind of easy comfort?
“I’m sorry,” Will mumbled against Jake’s shoulder. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I just—I can’t leave. Not right now.”
“Why not?” Jake asked, and there was something careful in his tone, like he was approaching something fragile. He took a deep breath and tightened his hold before whispering, “Will, is there… is there someone else?”
Will pulled back, startled. “What? No. Jake, I’m not—”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Jake’s arms were still around him, trying to keep him close for as long as possible. “I don’t think you’re cheating. But sometimes it feels like you’re waiting for something. And I don’t know if you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop or for me to say some magical words or for me to be someone—” He stopped suddenly, shaking his head. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
Will’s chest had gone tight, because Jake wasn’t wrong, exactly. Will was waiting for something; he just didn’t know what. There wasn’t someone else, he loved Jake. But there was this feeling, like standing in a room where you knew you’d forgotten something but couldn’t remember what.
His mom and Hopper had moved to Montauk soon after Will had started school, trading Hawkins for a beach house and the kind of peace they’d never had in Indiana. Jonathan was in Manhattan like Will, working on his films and sleeping on someone’s couch more often than not. Dustin had gone to Yale and had just gotten into a doctorate program, something incomprehensible involving astrophysics that he tried to explain every time they got drunk together. Lucas and Max had gotten an apartment together right outside of Boston, while Robin was finishing grad school at Smith and Nancy was working her way up at The Herald.
Even Mike had ended up close. He’d transferred to Wesleyan after just one year at that school in Indiana, some liberal arts college he’d chosen because it was far from everything. They’d all teased him mercilessly about it when he’d called to tell them, about how Mike Wheeler couldn’t live without his Party, couldn’t make it on his own.
But Will understood. It had been hard on him too, that first year, having everyone so far away. Getting letters every few weeks instead of being able to just bike over to the Wheelers’ basement. When Mike had called to announce the transfer and said he’d be just two hours away in Connecticut, something in Will’s chest had loosened. It had made it a little easier to breathe.
Being near people who understood him before he ever had to explain himself. A life built on a foundation that felt solid in a way nothing else ever had.
“How are you feeling about going back?” Jake asked, changing the subject with the kind of careful gentleness that made Will’s chest ache. Even now, hurt and confused, Jake was trying to take care of him.
Will let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Nervous, I think? I haven’t been back in two years. And you haven’t met everyone all at once yet—that’s going to be a lot.”
“I’ve met most of them,” Jake pointed out. “Joyce gave me her recipe, Hopper didn’t shoot me, Lucas and Max love me, I passed Dustin’s interrogation about my intention, even Mike was… fine. No awkwardness when others were around.”
Fine. Mike had been fine. Polite and distant and barely making eye contact, and Will had spent the first dinner wondering what he’d done wrong before reminding himself that this was just how Mike was now, guarded, careful, like he’d learned to keep people at arm’s length.
“You haven’t met them all together, though,” Will said. “That’s different. And you definitely haven’t met them all plus Steve and Nancy and Robin and everyone else’s parents and probably Murray, all crammed into the Wheelers’ house, and then add alcohol.”
Jake laughed, and some of the tension broke. “Are you trying to scare me off?”
“Maybe a little,” Will admitted. “Fair warning though, the moms will try and feed you until you can’t move, and Steve is going to try to figure out if you’re good enough for me, even though he has no authority to do that.”
“Sounds terrifying,” Jake said, but he was smiling now. “Good thing I’m prepared.”
“Are you though?” Will teased, falling back into their familiar rhythm, the easy banter that had always come naturally between them. “Because Dustin once made a guy cry during the ‘shovel talk.’ And that was before he got into Yale and became even more insufferable.”
“I survived meeting most of them individually, probably the most important ones at that,” Jake reminded him. “I think I can handle all your friends together.”
“They’re more than friends,” Will said automatically, and something in Jake’s expression shifted, just for a moment.
“I know,” Jake said quietly. “Believe me, I know.”
There was weight to those words that Will didn’t know how to address, so he didn’t. Instead, he squeezed Jake’s hand and changed the subject.
“We should probably finish packing. Mom called last night and said we should get to the Wheelers’ by early afternoon if we can. She and Hopper already started driving down from Montauk.”
“The Wheelers’ house,” Jake repeated. “That’s Mike’s family, right?”
“Yeah. They always hosted when everyone came back. They’ve got the space, and Karen loves having everyone there.” Will started folding one of his shirts, not meeting Jake’s eyes. “Usually we would stay in their basement, but we got a hotel block close to the venue.”
The basement. Where they’d played endless campaigns of D&D, where Will had painted that first map that Mike had praised so effusively. Where the Party had been born, in a way. Going back there with Jake felt strange, like bringing two parts of his life together that didn’t quite fit.
“Maybe I’ll finally understand all the inside jokes,” Jake said lightly, but there was something underneath it that Will couldn’t quite name, resignation, maybe, or acceptance for parts of Will’s history he’d never fully access.
“Maybe,” Will agreed, and tried not to worry about the whole Mike-and-Jake awkwardness and how many of those inside jokes involved Mike.
“So if we were to end up sleeping in the basement,” Jake said, pulling Will from his thoughts, “would it be middle school sleeping bag energy?”
Will laughed, grateful for the levity. “Probably?”
“And your mom will have cooked enough food for a small army,” Jake added.
“That’s a given.” Will closed his suitcase, the finality of the zipper somehow significant. “And I know I sound like a broken record, but this weekend is going to be intense. Lucas and Max’s wedding is a big deal for all of us. We’ve been through a lot together, and seeing them get married after everything… it matters.”
“After everything,” Jake repeated carefully. “You mean the stuff you can’t talk about.”
Will nodded. They’d had this conversation before, the boundaries around Hawkins, around the parts of his childhood that he couldn’t fully explain. Jake had been understanding, never pushing, accepting that there were scars Will carried that he couldn’t share. It was one of the things Will loved about him. Loved. Present tense. Because he did love Jake.
“It’s going to be good,” Will said, more to convince himself than Jake. “Seeing everyone, being back there for something happy. It’ll be good.”
“Yeah,” Jake agreed, pulling Will close one more time and pressing their lips together.
“It will.”
And Will closed his eyes and let himself believe it.
*-*
Mike stared at the rejection letter until the words blurred together. The formal letter was typed on expensive letterhead, but the message was the same as all the others:
We appreciate your submission, but it's not quite what we're looking for at this time. Your writing shows promise, but the market for genre fiction is quite saturated at the moment. We encourage you to keep honing your craft.
The paper crinkled in his grip. Sixteen. This was rejection number sixteen. He'd been counting, despite telling himself he wouldn't. The stack lived in his desk drawer now, a growing monument to almost-but-not-quite. His corner of the apartment felt too quiet despite the noise from the living room. Emma had taken her stuff two weeks ago. Her plants, her books, that stupid lamp she'd insisted on buying at a flea market because she said it "had character."
She'd been kind about the breakup, which somehow made it worse. "You're a great guy, Mike," she'd said, carefully wrapping her favorite mug in the newspaper. "You're just... somewhere else. And I don't think I'll ever be able to compete with whatever that is."
The phone rang in the kitchen, shrill and insistent. James yelled, "Wheeler! Phone!" Mike navigated through the obstacle course of their living space, pizza boxes, someone's laundry, textbooks that hadn't been returned to the bookstore. James handed him the receiver with a knowing smirk.
"Stop making that face," Mike muttered, covering the mouthpiece.
"I'm not making a face. This is just my face."
"Hello?" Mike said into the phone.
"Michael Wheeler, don't tell me you've forgotten about your favorite genius best friend already," Dustin's voice crackled through the line.
Despite everything, Mike smiled. "Pretty sure Lucas had that title now. You know, best man at his wedding and everything."
"Lucas is busy being in love and planning seating charts. I'm talking about the drive to Hawkins. You still have room in your car?"
"Yeah, of course. When do you want to leave?"
"Tomorrow morning? That way we can suffer through the cornfields together, and I can tell you all about my advisor's latest attempt to destroy my will to live."
"Sounds great," Mike said, and meant it. At least in the car, Dustin's chatter would fill the silence, keep Mike from thinking too much about what he was driving toward.
"You doing okay?" Dustin asked, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Is it the Emma thing?"
"Just got another rejection letter."
"Ah, shit. I'm sorry, man." A pause. "You know it doesn't mean anything, right? Publishing is all politics and luck and—"
"I know," Mike cut him off, not unkindly. He'd heard all the reassurances before. "It's fine. Just... part of the process, right?"
"Right," Dustin agreed, though he didn't sound convinced. "Hey, it'll be good to see everyone. All of us together again. Like old times."
"Yeah," Mike said, looking at his manuscript on the desk, the story he couldn't sell, the whole mess of his current existence. "Like old times."
After he hung up, Mike sat on his mattress and stared at his manuscript. Hundreds of pages, months of work and a story about a group of kids who fought monsters and saved the world and tried to figure out how to be normal afterward. His English professors had called it "emotionally honest." They'd written him glowing recommendation letters. None of it had mattered. The comic version sat next to the manuscript, pages of his terrible stick-figure sketches, notes in the margins about panel layouts and visual metaphors he couldn't execute. He'd never inherited Nancy's artistic talent. The story was there in his head, vivid and complete, but he couldn't translate it to paper. His Demogorgon looked like a sad flower. His Mind Flayer was just a blob with tentacles. It needed an artist. Someone who could see what he saw, who understood the weight of those memories because they'd lived them too. It needed…
No. Mike stopped that thought before it could fully form. He'd been down that road before, and it never led anywhere good.
"Wheeler!" James's voice interrupted again. "Your mom's on the phone. Says it's about the wedding." Mike groaned but got up to take the call.
"Hey, Mom."
"Michael, honey, I'm just confirming you're still planning to get here tomorrow?" Karen Wheeler's voice was warm and slightly harried. "Joyce called and said they should be here this afternoon and we were gonna start cooking. It was you and Emma right? I got your room all set up."
"Yeah, tomorrow afternoon. And it’ll be just me… oh and Dustin's riding with me."
"Ah… okay perfect, wonderful. Did Lucas know it’ll be just you? Plates and such." She wondered out loud, her voice softer and careful.
Mike's hand tightened on the phone. "Yup."
Changing the topic to something she thought would be lighter, his mom started again, "And I’m looking forward to meeting Jake, I already talked to your dad too… well you know who he is. I’m so happy for Will."
"Yeah, yeah that was good," Mike answered halfheartedly. No Emma but yes Jake, that was just great. Mike had met Jake a few times, the first time at a horribly awkward dinner with just the 3 of them. I want you to meet him first, maybe just you first and then the others? Will had said nervously when he called to ask to meet before Mike went home for the holidays.
The dinner where Mike had sat across from Will and Jake and tried not to notice how comfortable they looked together, how Jake's hand rested casually on Will's shoulder, how Will smiled at him in a way that was easy and uncomplicated. It was everything one could want for their best friend. And Will loved him and god if anyone deserved to be loved, it was Will.
He tuned back into his mom talking, "I swear, you boys still eat like teenagers."
"We've always appreciated your cooking, Mom."
"I know, sweetie. Oh, and your father wants to know if you need him to look at your car before you drive back. He's worried about that noise you mentioned at Christmas."
"It's fine, Mom. It was just, it's fine."
They talked for a few more minutes, logistics, sleeping arrangements, who was arriving when. Some people were flying in, others were driving today and tomorrow.
After Mike hung up, he sat with the information settling in his chest. Everyone would be there. The whole extended family that had formed in the aftermath of everything, all crammed into his parents' house for a weekend of celebration.
And Will would be there with Jake. Will, who Mike had seen alone maybe four or five times since college started, brief visits when their schedules aligned. They did see each other pretty often otherwise, along with the rest of the Party, getting together for someone's birthday or holiday breaks. Always in groups, always with other people around.
Mike couldn't remember the last time they'd talked, really talked, just the two of them. Will had grown up. Grown confident. The quiet kid who'd needed protecting had become someone who didn't need Mike at all anymore. He had his own life in New York, his art career taking off, a boyfriend who made him happy. Will had found love and everything Mike wished for him.
Mike was happy for him. He was. He just... he missed being needed by someone. Missed being the person Will turned to, the one who could make things better. Missed feeling like he had a purpose beyond collecting rejection letters and sleeping on a mattress in a warehouse.
Everyone was moving forward. Dustin with his PhD, Lucas getting married, Nancy with her journalism career, even Jonathan was making his weird art films. And Will was thriving in New York, creating beautiful things, living the life he'd always deserved.
Mike was just... stuck. Trying to tell a story no one wanted to read, trying to create something that mattered, failing at both. His manuscript sat on the desk, mocking him with its incompleteness. The story was there. He could feel it, see it in his head, every moment, every emotional beat. But he couldn't make it real.
They said the story couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. One chapter leaned into monsters and impossible worlds, the next into longing and first love, and the transition between the two felt abrupt. Without a clearer thematic throughline, they warned, readers would struggle to follow what the story was asking of them.
Mike took that to mean they couldn’t see it. That if he could just show them the tunnels the way they’d sprawled beneath Hawkins, or the shadow the way it pressed in around Will, the jumps would make sense. The science fiction parts would look like the danger they were, and the quieter moments would feel earned instead of sudden.
He couldn’t draw it. Couldn’t find anyone who understood it well enough to help him.
After hanging up, Mike lay back on his mattress and stared at the water-stained ceiling. Three days until he had to go back to Hawkins. Three days until he had to walk through town and pretend there wasn’t still a void in his life that no one seemed able to see. Three days until he had to face people who looked like they had everything figured out while he was still floundering.
But at least they’d all be together again. The Party, reunited. That had to count for something.
Even if Mike couldn’t shake the feeling that his place in it had already been replaced.