Chapter Text
Will laid his paintings carefully on the table. There were six of them, painted using mixed techniques. Every painting showed details of different couples interacting: two young women holding hands while walking down an urban sidewalk, an old man adjusting the button on his wife’s knitted coat, a man resting his head on a pair of legs. Little mundane moments of regular life.
The pictures were colorful and bright. There was an easy rhythm to them, a comfortable pace. Will’s take on love—on how love should feel.
Ethan embraced him and said, “They are beautiful. Everyone will love them.”
“Are you sure they’re not a little corny?” Will asked.
“They are perfect.”
Lucy burst into the room noisily, followed by Timothy and June.
“Oh, great, you’re already here. Always so punctual,” Lucy said.
“Well, you know me,” Will answered with a smile. “I was at the door an hour before it opened.”
“Oh my God, they are gorgeous,” Timothy said, inspecting the paintings. “This one is my favorite, of course.” He pointed at the one portraying the two men.
“Well, you know the inspiration…” Will answered jokingly.
“Yes, and I will never get over him,” Tim said, acting dramatically.
“If I remember correctly,” June teased, “this is the guy you left for the Italian bartender.”
“Yes—and I will never get over him either.”
“And then you left him for the pretty friend of Ethan’s cousin,” Will added.
“What can I say? I have a big heart, full of people I can’t get over.”
“It´s not your heart that’s the problem,” Ethan laughed.
“Well, you should know,” Tim answered jokingly.
“Hey!” Will protested, smiling. “I’m standing right here.”
“Oh, relax,” Tim said. “That was ages ago. Before you worked your magic on him.” He rested his head on Will’s shoulder.
Ethan approached Will from the other side and kissed his cheek. “It’s true,” he whispered. “You are a sorcerer.”
Will felt a sharp ache in his chest at the sound of the word. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. The group continued their light conversation, joking and laughing, and Will brushed the feeling off, as he had learned to do.
They were preparing for their first official exhibition. Ethan had a contact with a small gallery that had agreed to show the graduates’ work. There were Will’s and June’s paintings, Timothy’s photographs, and Lucy’s detailed city maquettes. The group was deciding which pieces would be selected and how all of them would converse with one another.
The last few days were tinted with an electrified energy that made Will feel a little nervous, but it was a happy feeling, like something good was about to begin. Maybe it was the beginning of his life—the serious one, the adult life, the life that would endure through the years.
He had moved to New York five years earlier for art school. Everyone talked about how the big city was supposed to be scary, but Will learned that after leaving Hawkins, nothing else would ever feel truly scary. Not that kind of scary. Not the kind that broke your bones, invaded your body, paralyzed your thoughts.
The kind of fear that dissolves all hope. The kind that feels worse than death.
Nobody in this lovely group knew what it was like to feel that way, and Will was grateful for it.
He was grateful for being alive in a way that surprised him when he first arrived in New York. He had expected to feel sad, to remain sad a little longer, but the truth was that New York presented itself as an explosion of life. It was such a sensorial experience—the different smells, the tastes, the constant movement, the feeling that everything existed all at once. It was as if the whole world were contained inside a single city.
Everything excited him. Everything awakened his curiosity. He felt like a toddler experiencing it for the first time.
He also began to learn about himself, to question what he liked, what he wanted, with a desire he had never known back home, where he had spent so much time trying to be less of himself, to accommodate, to not be an inconvenience.
In this environment, he discovered that he was much more confident and joyful than he had ever believed possible. He learned that he liked bright colors, nice clothes, long walks. He liked the crowd, the endless windows on the buildings, the sense of so many lives happening at once, so many possibilities.
He found people who accepted him exactly as he said he was, whatever he chose to be.
And he found that he liked himself.
Everything was decided. The exhibition would take place in five days. Will was putting his paintings back into his folder when Ethan asked, “What is this?” and pulled out a drawing.
The carbon drawing showed a man’s silhouette suspended in the air, his fingers spread and petrified, his body torn apart by sharp, violent lines.
“Well… this is a bit dark,” Ethan said, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh, yeah. It’s nothing. It’s an old drawing. It’s not part of the exhibition.”
“I see.”
“What—what do you think?” Will asked tentatively.
“I don’t know. It’s not really my favorite. It doesn’t feel like your style.”
“Yeah. Sure. You’re right. It’s nothing.”
Will put the drawing back and closed the folder quickly, trying to shake off an involuntary feeling of sadness. Then he looked at his boyfriend.
“Lunch?”
.
Will couldn’t sleep that night. He stared at the ceiling for two hours before deciding to get up. Carefully, he removed Ethan’s hand from his chest and searched for his pants in the dark, trying not to make any sound that might wake him.
He found the pack of cigarettes hidden in his socks drawer and stepped out onto the balcony.
Will didn’t really like smoking, but sometimes, inevitably, his thoughts became dark, and he felt the urge to fill his body with hot, toxic air, searching for a feeling of wholeness.
He was happy in New York, yes. But he was never whole.
None of his new friends could ever truly understand. Ethan could never truly understand what had happened to him years before, and therefore they would never really understand Will.
Sometimes he woke up sweating, having to remind himself that he would never again be in the Upside Down. That Vecna was gone. That they had won. And then he would have to remember everything else that was also gone from his life.
In the first years, he thought of Eleven constantly, as if she were by his side. Or more than that, as if she were inside him somehow, a part of him. He talked to her in his head with every new experience.
He was painfully aware that everything still existed because of her, because of her strength, her courage, her sacrifice. He missed her deeply, but he also felt certain that she was still with him, and that he had to live to show her everything she had fought for.
He thought of his friends. Dustin had gone abroad to study. Lucas and Max were living together in Chicago. They talked regularly, but it had been a long time since they had seen each other.
And then, of course, there was Mike.
Every time Will lit a cigarette and waited for that feeling of completeness, Mike’s image filled his mind. In his thoughts, Mike was always the boy from his childhood—the one who carried everyone else, who lifted their spirits and showed the way.
But Mike had changed. And Will was afraid that maybe he had changed forever.
After Eleven’s sacrifice, Mike had gone fourteen months without speaking. Will visited him often, trying to pull him out of his grief, but his efforts were useless. Eventually, he simply sat beside Mike, day after day.
As graduation approached, Mike seemed to improve, and Will filled with hope. Mike began to resemble himself again, even organizing one final D&D campaign. It was a beautiful night, full of laughter and the simple joy of friendship.
Will learned the reason behind Mike’s change of heart—his theory that Eleven was alive, that she had escaped.
That night, they were all infected by that hope. Will truly believed it. He believed she was out there somewhere.
But as days turned into months, that hope began to fade, and life—the real one—began to impose itself again.
Will had to leave for college. He tried to convince Mike to move to New York with him, but Mike said he had to stay in Hawkins, so that she could find him when the time was right.
Will didn’t have the heart to discourage him. So he went alone.
At first, he called every day. He noticed Mike slowly sinking back into depression. Will tried to be there for him, but distance made it difficult. Eventually, the calls stopped.
And as much as it hurt to admit it, Will knew he had to get away from Mike. If he stayed, he would stay forever. He would have given himself completely—all of his love, all of himself—to a boy he could not save.
And Will wanted to live.
Now, on nights like this, letting that distance grow felt wrong and cruel. He had the desperate urge to call Mike, to take a bus to Hawkins, to see him, remind himself that he was real.
Instead, he picked up his phone and wrote:
“Hi Mike. How are you? I was thinking of you.”
The reply came immediately.
“Hi Will. I was just about to write you. I’m in New York—want to get a coffee?”