Work Text:
Dustin steps onto the bus backwards, his bag slung over one shoulder.
“Have a good night, Will. Enjoy your Valentine’s Day.”
Will answers by miming a clumsy hanging motion with his scarf. Dustin laughs, gives him a mocking salute, then the bus pulls away and disappears into the dense Manhattan traffic.
The sidewalk empties around him. Will stands still a second too long, watching the headlights fade. Then he starts walking again, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat.
It’s cold. A dry cold that stings his cheeks and stiffens his fingers. Couples cross paths, brush past each other, cling together. Will lowers his head slightly and quickens his pace. He vaguely thinks about going home, kicking off his shoes, putting something in the microwave without really being hungry.
“Will.”
He keeps walking. His name echoes a second time, closer.
“Will, wait.”
He stops. Turns slowly, on guard.
Under a streetlamp, slightly set back from the road, someone stands there, shoulders subtly hunched as if unsure whether to stay. Hands in his pockets. An uncertain look.
Mike.
It takes Will a fraction of a second to accept it. The face is more defined, the shoulders broader. But it’s him. The same nervous crease at the corner of his mouth. The same way he never quite knows what to do with his hands.
Will has an absurd, almost reassuring thought: it’s fine.
He’s told himself for years that he’d moved on. That Mike belonged to some blurry, adolescent “before,” with no real importance.
And for a fraction of a second, he still believes it.
“Mike,” Will says, without thinking.
The other smiles—then almost immediately pulls it back.
“Yeah. Hi.”
They stand there, motionless, at a distance too wide to be natural. Cars pass behind them, indifferent.
“I—” Mike starts. “I thought that— I mean—” He stops, shakes his head. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure it was you.”
Will nods. He doesn’t know what to say. He just watches. Mike has changed, yes—but not that much. He still has that slightly tense air, like he’s always expecting to mess something up.
“It’s been a while,” Will finally says.
“Yeah.” Mike exhales through his nose. “A while.”
Silence settles between them. Not uncomfortable. Not comfortable either. Just heavy.
Will adjusts his scarf.
“Dustin left.”
He vaguely gestures toward the bus stop behind him.
“Okay.”
Mike looks in the indicated direction, then back at him. He hesitates. Rocks slightly on his feet.
“You were… heading home?”
Will shrugs.
“I think so.”
Mike nods. Once. Twice. Like he’s about to leave. He doesn’t.
“Wait.”
Will looks up at him.
Mike pulls one hand from his pocket and runs it through his hair, a nervous, automatic gesture.
“I’m hungry.”
Will blinks.
“Right now?”
“Well…”
Mike grimaces slightly.
“Not really hungry. Just… I don’t feel like going home yet.”
He looks at him—really looks at him.
“There’s a place open nearby. If you want.”
It’s not a clear invitation. Not a request either. It’s a door left ajar.
Will hesitates for a second. Then he nods.
“Okay.”
Mike exhales quietly, relieved, and already turns to walk. Will follows, without thinking too much.
They walk side by side, not touching. Not yet.
Will catches himself recognizing details he thought he’d forgotten.
The way Mike walks a little too fast when he’s nervous. The silence he leaves when he doesn’t know what to say.
He doesn’t think of them as memories. They come back like something his body remembers.
--
They walk for a few minutes without speaking. The city makes noise for them: engines, distant horns, doors slamming. Will keeps his eyes forward. He feels Mike’s presence beside him—close without really being close. Enough to make him aware of every step he takes.
Mike stops in front of a modest Italian restaurant. The window is fogged up, the light inside too yellow to be flattering. He hesitates for a second before pushing the door open.
“That okay?”
Will nods.
“Yeah.”
Inside, it’s warm. Not unpleasant, but abrupt after the cold. Will takes off his coat slowly, as if he needs a few seconds to readjust to the air, the noise, the people around. There are couples, of course. A few occupied tables. Nothing crowded.
Mike chooses a table slightly off to the side, his back to the wall. Old habit. Will sits across from him.
They pick up the menus without really reading them.
“You still like lasagna?”
Mike asks, almost absentmindedly.
Will looks up, surprised.
“…yeah.”
Mike smiles, eyes still on the menu.
“Like back then.”
Will could have smiled and moved on. He could have told himself it didn’t mean anything. But something tightens gently in his chest—because he’d forgotten how much Mike used to pay attention to him.
The waiter arrives. They order without discussion, each in their own bubble. When the silence returns, it’s denser than before, but less fragile.
Mike crosses his arms on the table, then uncrosses them almost immediately. He can’t sit still.
“So…” He clears his throat. “What are you doing now?”
Will looks at his glass of water for a moment.
“I finished college. I… do odd jobs. Galleries, museums. I’m trying to figure out where I’m headed.”
“Okay.” Mike nods, serious. “That’s good.”
Will gives a brief smile. He isn’t sure it is “good,” but he appreciates that Mike doesn’t press.
“And you?”
he asks.
Mike exhales softly, like he’s been waiting for the question.
“I quit too.”
“Quit?”
“Yeah.” He taps the table with his fingers. “I wasn’t made for it. I really tried. Seriously. But…”
He stops, searching for words.
“I felt like I was playing a role. All the time.”
Will doesn’t respond. He listens. He learned how to do that early.
“So now I work with a friend. Nothing impressive. But it pays the rent.”
“In New York, that’s already something,”
Will murmurs.
Mike smiles faintly.
“Yeah.”
The server brings their plates. The conversation pauses naturally. Will eats slowly. The food is good—simple. He relaxes despite himself.
Mike eats faster, then slows down when he notices Will’s pace. He watches him without meaning to, looks away when Will glances up.
“You…” Mike hesitates. “Where do you live now?”
“Not far.” Will shrugs. “A small apartment. Nothing special.”
“Okay.”
That “okay” again. Mike uses it like a crutch.
They eat in silence for a few minutes. Not an empty silence. An attentive one.
“Will,” Mike says again, lower. “I didn’t think I’d see you like this.”
Will looks up.
“Like what?”
“Like nothing happened.” He gives a nervous smile. “Well… not really like nothing happened.”
Will looks down at his plate.
“Me neither.”
Mike nods, serious.
“Yeah.”
They order dessert almost without consulting each other. A chocolate lava cake to share. The server sets a single plate between them, gives them a knowing smile, and disappears.
Will looks at the plate.
“He thinks we’re together.”
Mike freezes for half a second. Then he shrugs, falsely relaxed.
“It happens.”
They eat from their respective sides. The chocolate is still warm. Will awkwardly wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
Mike watches him. Too long.
“What?”
Will asks, without looking up.
“Nothing.” Mike looks away. “Just… you haven’t changed that much.”
Heat rushes to Will’s face. He doesn’t answer. He finishes his share, focused on the texture of the cake.
When they leave the restaurant, the cold air hits them again. Will shivers. Mike notices immediately.
“You cold?”
“A little.”
Mike hesitates, then takes off his coat. He holds it between them, unsure.
“You want…?”
Will hesitates too. Then shakes his head.
“I’m okay. Thanks.”
Mike nods. He doesn’t push. He puts the coat back on.
They start walking again.
The city is still waiting for them.
--
They walk without hurrying. The city is still alive despite the hour, as if New York refuses to admit the day is over. Shop windows still lit carve the street into patches of light and shadow. Will keeps his hands in his pockets. Mike walks beside him, sometimes a little too close, sometimes a little too far.
Their shoulders brush once. Accidentally.
Then a second time. Less so.
Will doesn’t pay attention to it. Or rather, he pretends not to.
They reach Washington Square Park. The place is far from empty. Groups talk on benches, couples linger near the arch, and a guy plays music from an old boombox set on the ground. Something slightly dated, rhythmic—hard to identify, but catchy enough that a few people have started moving without really thinking about it.
Mike slows, watching the scene.
“It’s still lively,”
he murmurs, almost surprised.
“New York never sleeps,”
Will replies automatically.
They move closer. Will stops near a fountain, resting his hands on the cold stone edge. He watches people dance, smile, make fun of themselves. He feels both outside of it—and strangely calm.
Mike stays standing beside him, rocking lightly on one foot.
“You dance?”
he asks suddenly.
Will turns toward him, surprised.
“Me?” He shakes his head immediately. “No.”
“Like… ever?”
“Like never in front of people.”
Mike smiles slightly.
“Okay.” He keeps watching the makeshift dance area. “Me neither, actually.”
Will raises an eyebrow, skeptical.
“I don’t really buy that.”
Mike exhales through his nose.
“I am. I’m worse than I look.”
They stay quiet for a few seconds. The music changes. A slower, steadier song. Less bouncy.
Mike looks at Will, hesitates.
“We could just…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Move a little. Not really dance.”
Will opens his mouth to refuse. Closes it. He looks around. No one is really watching them. No one cares.
“Okay,”
he finally says.
Mike blinks, surprised.
“Seriously?”
Will shrugs.
“No one knows me here.”
“Okay,” Mike answers a little too fast.
They move closer to the music. Will immediately feels ridiculous. He doesn’t know what to do with his arms, his legs—his body in general. He barely moves, just enough not to be completely still.
Mike tries too. He’s not good. Not really. But he cares less than Will does. He lets himself go, awkward, too focused to worry about how he looks.
“You’re really stiff,” he whispers.
“Thanks, that helps a lot,” Will replies without looking at him.
Mike laughs. A real laugh, brief.
“Wait.”
He steps closer, hesitates, then places his hands over Will’s, guiding them gently.
“Like this. Just… follow the rhythm.”
Will tenses, then forces himself to breathe. He lets it happen. Not comfortable, but enough to keep going.
He looks up. Mike is focused, serious—not mocking. That helps.
What unsettles him most, though, is that it’s Mike.
Mike guiding his hands. Mike paying attention to him without laughing, without irony.
Will had almost managed to forget that it had always been like this with him.
The music slows further. People draw closer to each other. Will feels the distance between him and Mike shrink without either of them really deciding it.
Mike’s hand slides from his wrists to his hips. He pauses for a fraction of a second, like he’s wondering if he’s going too far. Will doesn’t step back.
So Mike leaves his hands there.
Will places his own on Mike’s coat, awkwardly. He feels the warmth through the fabric. His heart beats faster. He focuses on the music so he doesn’t panic.
He understands then what he’s stubbornly refused to face: he never stopped feeling.
He just learned how to live without Mike.
Mike leans slightly toward him.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
Will nods.
“Yeah.”
They move slowly. Not really dancing. More like a shared sway. The music wraps around them, muffling the too-fast heartbeats, the slightly uneven breathing.
Mike is taller. Will feels it without thinking. It forces him to tilt his head up. Their faces are close. Too close for it to mean nothing.
The song ends. Will exhales without realizing it. He steps back slightly.
“See?” Mike murmurs with a discreet smile. “You survived.”
“Barely,” Will replies.
Mike smiles more openly.
The music shifts to something more upbeat. Mike hesitates, then gently grabs Will’s hand before he can protest.
“One more.”
“Mike—”
“—Just one.”
Will gives in. He lets himself be pulled along, a little more confident this time. He moves more, still awkward but not frozen. Mike follows him, laughs when Will steps on his foot, apologizes when he almost makes him stumble.
At some point, they hum along without realizing it. Not the words—just the melody. Will catches himself smiling.
When the music finally stops, they return to the fountain. Will sits on the edge. Mike stays standing, facing him.
They look at each other without speaking.
The square suddenly feels calmer.
Mike runs a hand through his hair, nervous.
“I’m really glad I ran into you,” he finally says.
Will lowers his gaze, then looks back up.
“Me too.”
They stay there, the city noise around them, something obvious and fragile hanging in the space between their silences.
--
They leave the square without really deciding to. Mike walks beside Will, his hands back in his pockets—but their steps are more in sync now. The cold is still biting, but Will pays less attention to it. He can still feel the warmth of the dance in his shoulders, his arms.
They talk little. A few ordinary sentences, exchanged without real importance. The kind of conversation meant mostly to hide something else.
“You live this way?” Mike asks, slowing down.
“Yeah. Two more streets.”
“Okay.”
Silence returns. Not heavy—just dense.
Will feels Mike’s arm brush against his from time to time. Each time, he wonders if it’s on purpose. Each time, he doesn’t move away.
They stop in front of Will’s building. Nothing impressive. A dark façade, a narrow entrance, a yellowish light over the door. Will stops. Mike does too.
They stand there for a few seconds, facing each other, unsure how to end this.
“So…” Mike starts.
He doesn’t finish.
Will rummages in his pockets, pulls out his keys, lets them jingle uselessly. He looks up.
“Do you want to…” He stops himself. “I mean… if you want to come up…”
Mike shakes his head almost immediately.
“No.”
Then, seeing Will’s expression, he adds quickly:
“Not because I don’t want to. Just…” He exhales. “My roommate’s in pretty bad shape. I should’ve gone back earlier. He’s capable of anything when he’s drunk.”
Will nods. He understands. Even if part of him wanted something else.
“Okay.”
Another silence settles in. More fragile than the others.
Mike looks down at the ground, then back up at Will. He hesitates again, visibly torn between leaving and staying one second longer.
“I’m really glad I saw you again,” he finally says.
“Me too.”
And this time, it’s not just the evening he means.
Mike smiles. A real one, this time. He takes a step back, like he’s about to leave—then stops.
“Will.”
Will looks up.
Mike steps closer again. Slowly. Not abruptly. He stops just a few inches away. Close enough for Will to feel his warmth, his breath.
“Sorry if—” He shakes his head. “No. Forget it.”
He hesitates one last fraction of a second. Then he leans in.
The kiss is brief. Almost awkward. The kind of kiss that starts as a question.
Mike’s lips brush against Will’s, linger just long enough to leave no doubt. Will doesn’t pull away. He closes his eyes and responds, gently, unhurried.
When they part, their foreheads remain almost touching. They’re breathing a little too fast.
“Okay,” Mike murmurs, like he needs to say it out loud.
Will gives a shy smile.
“Okay.”
Mike pulls a small piece of paper from his pocket, scribbles something quickly against the wall, and hands it to Will.
“Call me.”
Will takes it, his fingers brushing Mike’s in the process.
“I promise.”
Mike smiles, steps back at last, then turns and disappears down the street. Will watches him vanish at the corner before going inside.
He climbs the stairs slowly. Once inside his apartment, he sets down his coat, slips off his shoes without turning on the light. He sits for a moment on the edge of the couch, the paper still clenched in his hand.
The evening wasn’t supposed to turn out like this.
And yet, as he lets himself fall back with a small smile, Will knows he wouldn’t change a thing.
--
The apartment is silent. Too silent.
Will sits on the couch for a while, lights off, coat still on. He pulls the crumpled paper from his pocket and unfolds it carefully, as if the motion could undo what just happened. Streetlight filters faintly into the room.
The number is written crookedly. Rushed. Typically Mike.
He hesitates. For a long time.
He realizes it’s not the call that makes him hesitate.
It’s finally admitting that Mike never truly stopped occupying a place.
Then he stands, grabs the phone mounted on the kitchen wall, and dials slowly, double-checking each digit. The tone rings once. Twice.
A click.
“Hi, you’ve reached Mike and Dean. We’re probably not home. Leave a message.”
The voice is slightly muffled, recorded too close to the microphone. Will smiles despite himself.
He inhales. Freezes. Then speaks.
“Hi… it’s Will.”
He stops. Already too long.
“I just wanted to… say I got home safe.”
A pause.
“And that… well… it was a good night.”
He closes his eyes.
“Call me when you can.” He hesitates one last second. “Talk soon.”
He hangs up gently, as if the phone could hear his unease.
Will stays there, the receiver still in his hand, his heart a little too fast, a little too light.
Then, without thinking, he smiles.
A part of him already knew that —whatever came next— Mike would always be part of his story.