Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mike could remember the first time he thought about kissing Will.

He was fourteen, and it wasn’t really a daydream. It wasn’t some long, embarrassing fantasy like the ones Dustin had started whispering about lately, or the ones Lucas pretended he didn’t have. It wasn’t like that at all. It was just a thought. A passing one. The kind that flickered through his head and left before he could even decide what it meant.

It had been late August, one of those sticky, slow Hawkins afternoons where the air felt like syrup and everything smelled faintly like cut grass and warm asphalt. The basement was the only place in the house that felt remotely cool, and even then the air hung heavy and still, like it didn’t want to move.

Will was stretched out on the floor, stomach down, sketchbook open in front of him. One of Mike’s old cassettes played softly from the stereo—something Jonathan had lent them that Mike didn’t really get, but Will liked it, so he let it play. It was all soft guitars and sad singing, nothing like the loud stuff Dustin preferred.

Mike lay on his back on the couch, one arm hanging off the side, staring at the ceiling. The fan above him spun in lazy circles, making a faint clicking noise every time it completed a turn. He should probably tell his mom about that. He wouldn’t.

“Do you think Hopper would ever let El come back?” Mike asked, not looking at Will.

Will didn’t answer right away. His pencil kept moving across the page, scratching softly. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe when things calm down.”

Mike snorted. “When have things ever calmed down?”

Will smiled a little at that, but didn’t look up. “Maybe they will.”

Mike watched the fan for a few more turns. He’d gotten used to this by now—talking about El in this vague, careful way, like saying the wrong thing might make her disappear completely. She wasn’t gone, not really. He knew that. Hopper knew where she was. That had to mean something.

Still, the empty space she’d left behind felt weird and hollow. Like a missing tooth he kept prodding with his tongue.

But that day, the feeling wasn’t sharp. It was more like a quiet ache he’d grown used to. Something that lived in the background while the rest of his life went on. Without El, it almost felt like life was normal again; like the Upside Down was just a fantasy they had made up together, not a horror that they had lived. He doubted that Will felt like that. It made him feel guilty to think about it too much. 

“What’re you drawing?” Mike asked.

Will turned the sketchbook slightly so Mike could see. It was some kind of landscape—trees with twisted branches, a low, dark sky. The ground looked like it was melting or something.

“The Upside Down?” Mike guessed.

Will shrugged. “Sort of. Just… how it felt.”

Mike pushed himself up onto his elbows and studied the page. Will’s drawings had gotten better over the summer. More detailed. More real. Sometimes that was a good thing. Sometimes it wasn’t.

“It’s creepy,” Mike said.

Will grinned. “That’s the point.”

Mike slid off the couch and onto the floor beside him. The carpet was rough against his arms, but cooler than the air. He lay on his stomach, mirroring Will without really thinking about it, their shoulders nearly touching.

The music drifted through the room. Something slow and echoey. Mike didn’t know the song, but he liked the way it filled the silence.

Will’s hand moved steadily across the page. His fingers were smudged with graphite, a faint gray dusting along the sides. Mike watched the way his wrist bent, the careful pressure of the pencil. He’d seen Will draw a million times before, but suddenly it felt… different.

More interesting, somehow.

“You always draw the same trees,” Mike said.

Will nudged him with his shoulder. “They’re not the same.”

“They all look like they’re about to eat someone.”

“That’s because they probably would.”

Mike laughed. “Yeah, okay, fair.”

They fell quiet again. The basement felt safe in that moment. No monsters. No flashing lights. No frantic bike rides through the woods. Just the two of them, the fan, the music, and the smell of old carpet. He hoped Will felt safe here. 

Will turned the page and started a new sketch—this time something lighter, to Mike’s relief. A little castle on a hill. A knight in front of it. Mike always loved when Will drew nice things, or things that made him think of D&D instead of the horrors of the Upside down. It infuriated Mike to think about the fact that art was tainted for Will now because of all this. He liked when the purity of Will’s art could shine through. 

“Is that me?” Mike asked, studying the drawing.

Will hesitated. “Maybe.”

Mike grinned. “Do I at least get a sword?”

“Obviously.”

“Good.”

Will added a little shape to the drawing. “There. Now you do.”

Mike shifted a little closer so he could see better. Their shoulders pressed together now, warm through their T-shirts. Will didn’t move away. He just kept drawing.

Mike noticed the small freckle near the back of Will’s neck. He’d never paid attention to it before. It was just… there. Like it had always been.

The fan blew down from above them, making the hair at the bottom of Will’s neck blow in the wind of it in a gentle flick. 

Mike swallowed for no reason he could think of.

Will’s hair fell into his eyes as he leaned over the page. Without thinking, Mike reached out and brushed it back. Just a quick movement, like he’d done a hundred times before.

Will glanced up at him, surprised. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “It was in your face.”

Will smiled a little and went back to drawing.

Mike didn’t move his hand right away. It hovered in the air for a second before he pulled it back to his side. His heart was beating a little faster, but he wasn’t sure why.

They were really close. Close enough that if Mike leaned in just a little, their shoulders would slide together completely. Close enough that he could see the faint pink of Will’s lips when he glanced sideways, and could count his eyelashes if he really wanted to. 

And then the thought appeared.

Quiet. Simple. Almost curious.

What would happen if I kissed him?

Mike blinked.

The thought didn’t come with any big feelings attached. It wasn’t scary or exciting. It was just… there. Like wondering what would happen if he jumped off the couch or ate an entire box of Eggos in one sitting.

Just a question.

He looked at Will again. At the way his eyelashes rested against his cheeks. The small crease between his eyebrows when he focused. The way his mouth moved slightly as he sketched, like he was talking to himself in his head.

It wouldn’t be that hard. Just lean in a little. Just close the distance.

What would happen?

Would Will shove him away? Would he laugh? Would things be weird forever?

Mike felt a sudden rush of heat crawl up his neck.

That was stupid. Really stupid.

He didn’t like boys. He knew that. He’d liked El. He’d held her hand. He’d kissed her in the snow outside the school. That had felt right. Normal. Like something out of a movie.

This was different.

This was just… Will. His best friend. The kid he’d spent more time with than anyone else in the world.

Everyone had weird thoughts sometimes. It didn’t mean anything.

Mike rolled onto his back again, putting a little space between them.

“What?” Will asked, glancing over.

“Nothing,” Mike said quickly. “Just stretching.”

Will nodded and went back to the drawing.

Mike stared at the ceiling again, focusing on the fan, the clicking noise, the slow spin of the blades. He tried to think about literally anything else.

Dungeons & Dragons. Homework. The next time they might see El. Whether his mom would make meatloaf for dinner again.

Anything but that thought. That weird, stupid thought. 

It faded after a few minutes, dissolving into the warm, lazy quiet of the afternoon. By the time Will finished the drawing and started telling him about some idea for a new campaign, Mike barely remembered it at all.

It was just a weird, random thought.

That was all.

But green leaves turned to empty branches.

The summer heat gave way to cooler nights. School started again. Lockers slammed, teachers droned, and the days grew shorter without anyone really noticing.

Mike saw Will every day. In the halls, at lunch, in the basement after school. They biked through the neighborhood, played games, argued about rules, and pretended everything was normal.

Sometimes, when they sat too close on the couch or their hands brushed while reaching for the same dice, Mike felt a flicker of something he couldn’t name. But it passed so quickly he didn’t bother trying to figure it out.

Snow fell.

The first flakes came in late November, dusting the streets and rooftops. Hawkins looked softer under the white blanket, like someone had covered up all the bad things with powdered sugar.

Mike stood outside one evening, watching the snow drift down under the streetlights. He thought about El then. Wondered where she was. If she was warm. If she missed him.

When he saw her again, when she stepped out of the darkness with that small, shy smile, everything else disappeared. The cold, the fear, the months apart—it all collapsed into the way her hand felt in his.

He loved her. Or something close to it. Something big and bright and all-consuming.

The world spun forward.

Snow melted. Slush turned to muddy sidewalks. The air warmed again. Spring came, and with it came tests, new campaigns, and long afternoons that stretched into evening.

The thought about kissing Will didn’t come back.

Not really.

It drifted to the very back of his mind, buried under everything else—monsters, girlfriends, growing up, the constant, humming weirdness of their lives.

It nearly didn’t matter.

Nearly.

The second time Mike thought about kissing Will was years later. After the Upside Down, after the world kept on spinning like nothing had happened, when everything had happened. After they had both grown up enough to know the difference between what love was and what it wasn’t—at least, that was what he told himself.

The first two years after high school slipped by in a blur of schedules, part-time jobs, dorm rooms, and people who were nice enough but never quite right. Everyone had warned him it would happen. College did that, apparently. You went different places, met new people, built new lives. The old friendships stretched thin across distance until they either snapped or quietly faded into something softer, less demanding.

“That’s just what happens,” Lucas had said once, over the phone. “It’s normal.”

Mike had nodded, even though Lucas couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Normal.”

He tried to believe it.

He and Will called each other sometimes. They even wrote letters or sent cards here and there. Short messages. Birthdays. Once every few months, one of them would call, usually late at night, when everything felt heavier and lonelier than it should have.

They never fought. Nothing dramatic happened. There was no big falling-out. Just distance. Different cities. Different lives. Different routines.

Still, every time his phone rang up, Mike felt something in his chest loosen, like a knot being gently untangled. 

It took almost two years before one of them finally said it.

We should get coffee sometime. 

It had been so long—but that part was silent. 

The first time they met up, it was awkward.

Not painfully so, but enough that Mike noticed it. They stood outside the café for a few seconds longer than necessary, both of them smiling too wide, like they were trying to remember the right way to act around each other.

“Hey,” Will said.

“Hey.”

A short hug. Quick. Polite. Nothing like the old days when they’d practically tackled each other after a week apart.

They talked about classes. Professors. Roommates. The weather. It wasn’t bad, exactly. It just felt… careful. Like they were both afraid of saying the wrong thing and breaking whatever fragile connection still existed between them.

But it was still Will. He still laughed the same way. Still tilted his head when he listened. Still stirred his coffee three times before taking a sip, like he always had.

By the end of the hour, the awkwardness had softened a little.

“Same time next month?” Will asked.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

The second time was easier.

They hugged a little longer. Talked a little faster. Slipped into old jokes without even realizing it. Mike found himself watching the way Will’s hands moved when he spoke, the familiar cadence of his voice, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

It felt like finding an old sweater at the back of the closet—one he hadn’t worn in years, but that still fit perfectly.

By the third coffee, they were arguing about movies again.

By the fourth, they were talking about real things. Breakups. Homesickness. The strange, floating feeling of early adulthood, like you were supposed to know what you were doing but no one had actually given you a map.

By the fifth, it almost felt like before. Not exactly. They were older now. Softer around the edges. But the ease between them was back, slowly knitting itself together. They called each other more often now, and Mike was beginning to feel whole in a way he hadn’t realized he hadn’t before reconnecting with Will. Mike started looking forward to those afternoons more than anything else in his month.

The sixth time was the one he remembered.

It was cold out, one of those gray, wind-cutting days that made everyone walk a little faster with their heads down. The café windows were fogged up, and the whole place smelled like roasted coffee beans and wet coats.

They talked for almost two hours without noticing. About classes. About a professor Will hated. About a weird roommate Mike had. About a band they both used to listen to in middle school.

At some point, Will laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes.

“Oh my God,” he said, breathless. “I forgot how funny you are.”

Mike grinned. He felt like his chest was glowing in response to the compliment. 

The conversation never really slowed. It just drifted from one topic to another, easy and natural. Like it had never been hard at all. 

Eventually, though, the café started to empty out. Chairs scraped. A barista wiped down the counter. The afternoon light outside turned dim and bluish.

“I should get going,” Will said, glancing at the clock.

“Yeah. Me too.”

They stood up at the same time, grabbing their coats. For a second, they just looked at each other across the small table, neither of them quite sure how to end it.

Then Will stepped forward.

The hug wasn’t planned. It just happened.

Mike wrapped his arms around him, and something in his chest clicked into place. Will felt the same as he always had—warm, solid, familiar. Like coming home after a long trip.

Except this time, Mike noticed things he hadn’t before.

The way Will’s chin brushed his shoulder. The way his hands settled against Mike’s back. The quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing.

They didn’t pull away right away. He wondered if Will felt what he was feeling. The familiarity. The comfort in the closeness. He wondered if Will missed him like he missed Will. 

For a second, the world outside the café—cars, wind, passing people—faded into a dull blur. All Mike could think about was how close they were. How easy it would be to tilt his head, just slightly.

Just enough.

The thought came back, clearer this time. Stronger.

I could kiss him right now.

And the strangest part was—it didn’t feel random. It didn’t feel like a weird, passing curiosity like it had when they were fourteen.

It felt natural.

Like something he was supposed to do.

Like the most obvious thing in the world.

The realization hit him all at once, sharp and disorienting. His stomach flipped. His hands tightened slightly against Will’s back before he could stop himself.

What was that?

He didn’t like boys. Not really. He’d thought about it before, sure. Not seriously. Just the normal, confusing, college-type thoughts everyone had. It didn’t mean anything.

But this didn’t feel like that.

This felt specific.

This felt like Will.

They finally pulled apart, both of them smiling a little, like the hug had lasted longer than either of them expected.

“Call me when you get back?” Will said.

“Yeah,” Mike replied. “Of course.”

They stepped out into the cold, going in opposite directions down the sidewalk.

Mike only made it half a block before the thought returned, settling into his chest like it had always belonged there.

I wanted to kiss him.

There was something different about wanting it. He knew it wasn’t an impulsive thought, like the kind he had a few times as a kid, where he just noticed Will more than he probably should’ve. This was a deep want, a longing for something. For someone. For Will, not just a random guy at a party. It was Will that drew him in, that made him want that. 

And for the rest of the walk home, he couldn’t quite explain why that felt so right—and so terrifying at the same time.

3.

By the time Mike kissed his first boy, he was twenty.

It wasn’t a big, cinematic moment. There were no fireworks, no swelling music, no sudden clarity about who he was or what he wanted. It happened at a party in someone’s cramped apartment, with cheap beer and sticky floors and music that was too loud to think over.

The guy was nice. That was the first thing Mike noticed about him. Nice, and a little awkward, and he laughed at Mike’s jokes in a way that felt genuine instead of forced.

They talked for most of the night. Sat on the arm of a couch, knees bumping, voices raised over the music. When the guy leaned in, Mike didn’t pull away.

The kiss was… fine.

Not bad. Not amazing. Just a kiss. A little clumsy, a little soft. It didn’t feel wrong, which surprised him more than anything. When they pulled apart, the guy smiled, and Mike smiled back.

“Was that okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Yeah, it was.”

And it was. It just wasn’t anything else.

They dated for a few months after that.

Coffee between classes. Late-night movies. Studying together. It was comfortable in a way Mike appreciated. There was no pressure, no expectations of grand romantic gestures. Just two people trying to figure things out together.

Sometimes, though, Mike would catch himself thinking about Will in the middle of a conversation. Wondering what he’d say about a movie, or how he’d react to a joke, or whether he’d like this café or that street.

He didn’t think much of it. Will had always been his person. It made sense that his brain defaulted to him.

Still, there were moments.

Like when the guy reached across the table and laced their fingers together, and Mike’s first thought was, Will would hate this place. The coffee’s terrible.

Or when they kissed goodnight outside Mike’s building, and for a split second, the face in front of him didn’t look right. Not wrong—just unfamiliar.

He never said any of that out loud.

The relationship wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t… anything.

So when it ended, it didn’t feel like heartbreak. It felt like something deflating slowly. Like a balloon losing air.

“I just don’t think this is what I want,” the guy said gently, sitting on the edge of Mike’s bed. “You’re great, Mike. Really. But it feels like… like you’re somewhere else half the time.”

“What do you mean?”

“It feels like you don’t want me sometimes,” he said. “Like you’re waiting for someone else.”

“I’m not,” Mike argued. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not fighting with you. I’m just… done with feeling like this.”

“Do you want to break up?” Mike asked, his voice smaller than it had been. 

“Don’t you?” he shot back, sadness etched into his features. 

Mike swallowed. “Maybe.”

There wasn’t much else to say.

“I just need some space, I don't know.”

“That’s okay,” Mike said. 

They hugged. The guy left. And that was it.

Mike didn’t call anyone for the rest of the day.

He went to class. Came back. Lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, the same way he used to in his parents’ basement. The room felt too quiet.

He picked up his phone at least six times before actually dialing.

Will answered on the second ring.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm and familiar.

Mike’s chest loosened instantly. “Hey.”

“You okay? You never call this early.”

Mike hesitated. “I think we broke up.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—just thoughtful.

“Oh, Mike,” Will said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Mike said quickly. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t a big thing.”

“Still,” Will replied. “Breakups suck.”

Mike huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I guess.”

They talked for almost an hour that night. About the breakup. About Will’s classes. About some awful cafeteria food he’d had earlier. About a stupid movie Mike had watched the week before.

Nothing life-changing. Nothing dramatic.

But when Mike hung up, he felt lighter.

Like someone had reached into his chest and cleared out everything that was weighing him down. 

After that, they started talking more.

At first, it was just check-ins.

How was your day?

Did you finish that project?

You’d hate this professor.

Then it became longer calls. Late-night ones, usually. The kind where the conversation drifted from one topic to another until neither of them remembered how it started.

Will had this way of listening that made Mike feel like the only person in the world. Like whatever he was saying mattered, even when it was stupid or small.

And of course, he also found himself in bed with his ex—he was pretty sure they were broken up, but sometimes the lines appeared a bit blurry. Mike knew his head was a confusing place to be, as his ex made known several times. It wasn’t something that could be fixed, Mike didn’t think. But he did care about him. That much was true. And he was pretty sure that despite the time they still spent together physically, he was starting to hate Mike. 

One night, Mike was ranting about his ex to Will, who had the patience of a Saint, Mike thought. 

“He’s just so hot and cold with me,” Mike said, pacing his room. “Like, one night he spends the night and wants to be around me, then he tells me not to talk to him for a week. It’s just starting to make me feel like shit, I think.”

Will was quiet for a second.

“I mean,” Will said, voice careful, “It’s bullshit. You deserve someone who knows what they want, Mike. Who’s all in for you.”

Mike sighed, scrubbing his hand through his hair. 

“If that was me,” Will continued, “I would never do something like that to you.”

Mike stopped pacing.

“What?”

Something warm and electric shot through Mike’s chest.

I wish I was in his place.

That was what it sounded like.

He knew Will hadn’t said that. Not really. But the meaning felt obvious. It felt like it was sitting just beneath the words, waiting to be uncovered.

Mike didn’t say anything for a moment.

“You’re a good friend,” he finally settled on.

Will laughed softly. “Yeah. I try.”

Mike’s cheeks were on fire for the rest of the call. He couldn’t get Will’s words out of his head, couldn’t stop overthinking it and fitting it into the pre-determined box in his mind of what Will meant, or maybe what Mike wanted him to mean. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between the two, and that was starting to scare him. 

After that, it started happening more often.

Little comments. Small moments.

Will would call him before going out.

Which shirt sounds better? Be honest.

I know you can’t see it, but just imagine. 

“Okay, I knew you’d say that,” when he shared his thoughts. 

And Mike would read into it: I want you to like it. He couldn’t help it. It was his natural instinct at this point. 

Except Will hadn’t said that either.

But the thought kept creeping in.

Maybe there was something there. Maybe the distance was the only thing stopping them. Maybe Will just didn’t want to risk the friendship unless Mike said something first.

The idea grew slowly, like a plant turning toward the sun.

The night Mike finally said it, he almost didn’t.

They were on the phone, both lying in bed, the conversation drifting lazily between topics. Will was talking about a coworker who kept microwaving fish in the break room.

“Every day,” he said. “It’s like a personal attack.”

Mike laughed. “That’s disgusting.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. A comfortable one. Mike stared at the ceiling, phone pressed to his ear.

His heart started beating faster.

He thought about the letters. The calls. The outfit checks. The way Will said if that was me. The way he sounded sometimes—soft, careful, like he was holding something back. Maybe he was just waiting.

Mike had dared to let himself hope over these last few months. And that hope had built and built until now, when it felt like it was bubbling out of him like a bursting dam. Like if he didn’t say something he would die. 

Hope was a dangerous thing, when left unchecked.

“Hey,” Mike said.

“Yeah?”

Mike swallowed. “Can I tell you something kind of… weird?”

Will chuckled. “Since when do you ask permission first?”

“Just—okay. Forget it.”

“No, wait,” Will said quickly. “What is it?”

Mike hesitated. The dam broke. “I just—I have a bit of a crush on you, I think. And I just wanted to tell you that.”

For a moment, there was nothing.

Mike rushed on. “And we can totally just pretend I never said that too. I’m more than happy—”

Then Will laughed.

Not cruelly. Not sharply. Just a soft, surprised laugh, like he didn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

Mike’s stomach dropped.

“Oh,” Will said. “Mike.”

“Yeah,” Mike said, forcing a small laugh of his own. “I know. It’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb,” Will said quickly. “It’s just—you’re—” He hesitated. “We live almost two hours apart.”

Mike’s grip tightened on the phone.

“And,” Will continued gently, “A crush is—I don’t think we should, um. Yeah.”

“Oh,” Mike said.

There was a long pause.

“Okay,” Mike said finally. “Yeah. You’re right. Let’s just pretend I never said anything. I don’t want to make it weird. You’re my best friend, you know?”

“I know,” Will repeated softly. “You’re my favorite person, Mike. I just….”

“Me too,” Mike said.

And he meant it.

But the hope that had been building in his chest for weeks—maybe months—quietly collapsed in on itself. He had known, if he was really honest with himself, that Will wouldn’t feel the same way. He knew it. He had been deluding himself, all these months, to think anything different. Will hadn’t said anything directly—he should’ve known that he was turning it all into something it wasn’t. Part of him wondered if there was something wrong with him. What was so wrong with him that no one ever wanted him? There had to be something. First El, then his first boyfriend, and now Will. Maybe he should just give up on love. He wished he was the type that could. He didn’t know how to quit anything; everything that he’d ever had taken away from him was covered in clawmarks. 

After that, they went back to normal.

Or something close to it.

They still talked. Still called each other late at night when things felt heavy. On the surface, nothing had really changed.

But sometimes Will would say something small, offhand, and Mike’s heart would trip over itself again.

And he couldn’t help but imagine.

What if the distance wasn’t there?

What if the timing was different?

What if he was different?

What if Will had said something else that night? What if Mike hadn’t been a coward and hadn’t dulled it down to a stupid crush? What if he had done it in person, like he had really wanted to? 

Those thoughts never lasted long. He pushed them down every time they surfaced, the same way he had when he was fourteen, lying on the basement floor.

Just a random thought.

Just a passing feeling.

Just something that didn’t mean anything. Because it couldn’t. Because letting it mean something just meant that it would hurt, and he didn’t know how to shut that off. It had to be a passing, irrelevant, non-impactful thought, that had no effect on his life or mind or heart. 

Except now, it did.

Mike’s apartment smelled faintly of cardboard and detergent. Boxes lined the walls, half-packed, half-open, the chaos of an impending move to New York City pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shift.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at a stack of folded clothes, when the phone rang. His heart jumped—he hadn’t expected Will to call.

“Hey,” Will said immediately, voice warm.

“Hey,” Mike replied, trying to sound casual. His stomach knotted.

“I was thinking I should come over before the concert and we should do something! It’s your last weekend in Cinci for a while, I feel like we have to make the most of it.”

Mike smiled to himself. “I would love that.”

“Perfect,” Will said. “Soon, if that works? We can go to Nervous Dog and get some coffee.”

Mike swallowed. “Yeah, that’s great.”

“Perfect. See you, City Boy.”

Hanging up, Mike felt a mix of excitement and dread. This move to New York—this new life—should have been thrilling. But now that it was real, all he could think about was what he was leaving behind. Will.

Mike walked to their favorite café, the one they’d frequented throughout college for weekend study sessions and long conversations. Will was already there, perched on a stool by the window, reading a magazine. He looked up, caught Mike’s eye, and smiled.

“Hey,” Will said.

“Hey,” Mike replied, forcing a calm tone that didn’t quite match the nervous flutter in his chest.

They ordered coffee at the counter—black for Will, a cappuccino for Mike—and carried their drinks to a small table by the window. Sunlight fell over Will’s face, illuminating him in a way that Mike couldn’t look away from. Will was sunshine wrapped up into the body of a human being, in Mike’s opinion. 

“Are you scared?” Will asked. “New York is a lot further away than Ohio.”

“I know,” Mike said. “I feel like today is the first day that it’s felt real.”

“You’re going to do so well, Mike,” Will said earnestly. “I just know you’re going to thrive out there. You’re meant to be a writer. I swear, you were born for it.”

Mike smiled. “I’ll miss you guys a lot.”

“Oh we’ll be replaced in no time,” Will teased. “With some cool, hipster New York writer types. Definitely pretentious, definitely still cool.”

“As if,” Mike said. “I couldn’t replace you if I tried.”

That was probably too honest. But Will just smiled like it was the best news he’d heard all day. 

That’s how it was with them. They were meant to take care of each other. They fit together, they always had and they always would; Mike thought they were soulmates, probably, even if Will didn’t feel the same way that he did. 

He had hoped, more than once. But the timing had never been right. Will liked him, or had a crush at least, back when he was with El, but the timing had been all wrong. It was too late by the time Mike felt the same, and he knew that. He accepted that. 

He wished he could be like Will, and just force his feelings away by sheer willpower, but he couldn’t. If anything, they grew stronger with time. That was the worst part. Sitting here, looking at Will, he thought he wanted him more than he ever had. 

They had spent the whole day together by the time the concert rolled around. The Smiths concert was everything Mike remembered: loud, frenetic, crowded—but perfect in its chaos. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing small smiles when a favorite song came on, sometimes mouthing lyrics, sometimes just swaying to the beat. Mike could feel Will’s presence so close it was almost physical. 

“That was so good!” Will shouted as they made their way out, holding Mike by the forearm to lead the two of them through the crowd. 

Mike couldn’t help but imagine. He could see them together, he could imagine what it would be like. They fit together so well—they could have this all the time, just the two of them. They always had so much fun together, laughed together… there was no one Mike would rather spend time with. And yet, he had to let it go. It wasn’t what Will wanted. It wasn’t. He had to remind himself of that constantly. 

When they got back in the car, the energy from the concert lingered between them, humming like the last note of a song that hadn’t quite faded out yet. Mike couldn’t help the involuntary longing to put his hand on Will’s leg as he drove. His hand was nearly flexing against the wheel. He didn’t. 

Will was still grinning, leaning back in the passenger seat, hair a little messy from the crowd. “I swear, that was better than the last time I saw them.”

Mike snorted. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time,” Will shot back. 

The streetlights flickered past in a steady rhythm. The city at night felt softer, less overwhelming. Just them, the car, and the quiet hum of the engine.

Mike’s fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel. He kept his eyes on the road.

“So,” Will said after a moment, voice quieter now. “When do you leave again?”

“Next week,” Mike replied. “Tuesday morning.”

“That soon, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Another silence. Not uncomfortable, but heavier. The kind that carried things unsaid.

Mike cleared his throat. “I still don’t know how I feel about it, honestly.”

“About New York?”

“About… everything.” He shrugged. “It’s weird. I’ve wanted this for so long. Bigger city, more opportunities, all that. And now it’s actually happening and I just feel…” He searched for the word. “Numb, I guess.”

Will turned slightly in his seat to face him. “Scared?”

Mike let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. A little. It just feels like I’m leaving behind… all of it. Home. You. Everyone.”

“You’re not leaving us behind,” Will said gently. “You’re just going somewhere else for a while.”

“Still feels like it.”

The streetlights passed over Will’s face, lighting it up in brief, golden flashes.

“I get it,” Will said. “When I moved for school, I thought it would feel exciting all the time. But sometimes it just felt like I’d been dropped in the middle of a place where no one knew me. Like all the important parts of my life were back somewhere else.”

Mike nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”

“But you’ll find your people,” Will continued. “You always do. You’re good at that, even if you don’t think you are.”

Mike almost laughed at that, but it stuck in his throat. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like the only person who really gets me is you.”

Will’s expression softened. “Same.”

They drove another block in silence.

“You know,” Mike said, voice low, “sometimes everything that happened feels like another life.”

Will looked down at his hands. “Yeah.”

“But then I realize… it’s not. It’s still there. It’s part of us now. And no one else really gets that. Not really.”

“No,” Will said. “They don’t.”

“It’s like… we went through this whole other world together. Literally. And now we’re just supposed to go to college and get jobs and pretend we’re normal people.” Mike huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s kind of insane.”

Will smiled faintly. “We are normal. Just… with some extra baggage.”

“Yeah. Extra-dimensional baggage.”

Will laughed softly at that.

Mike’s grip on the wheel loosened a little. “I just keep thinking… no one else is ever going to understand it the way you do. Not completely. Not like we do.”

Will nodded. “That’s why we’ll always be best friends, you know? No matter where we go. No matter what happens. We’ve got this… thing that ties us together. No one else could ever really get it.”

Mike felt something twist inside his chest at the words best friends forever. It wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t untrue. But it felt smaller than what he wanted. Smaller than what he felt.

He forced a smile, eyes still on the road. “Yeah. Best friends.”

Will was quiet for a second, watching him.

“That’s not the only reason, you know.”

Mike glanced at him. “What?”

“That we’re… like this. That we’re close.” Will shrugged slightly. “It’s not just the Upside Down or the monsters or whatever. It’s just… you. And me.”

Mike’s heart picked up speed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Will said. “You’ve always been my person. Before all that stuff. After it. It’s not just trauma bonding or whatever people call it.” He smiled a little. “I just like you. A lot.”

Mike swallowed, warmth spreading through his chest. “I like you too.”

They pulled into the quiet street near Will’s parents’ house. The porch light was on, casting a soft glow over the driveway.

Mike slowed the car, then stopped at the curb. Neither of them moved to get out.

“So,” Will said softly, “I’ll visit. New York isn’t that far. I can take the train or something. We’ll find dumb places to eat. Go to weird record stores.”

Mike smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. And you can come back here whenever. It’s not like you’re disappearing.”

“It kind of feels like it,” Mike admitted.

Will shook his head. “You could never disappear on me. I’d find you.”

Mike let out a quiet laugh. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“It is,” Will said, smiling.

They sat there for another moment, the quiet stretching between them, soft and warm.

“I’m really going to miss you,” Mike said finally.

Will’s expression softened. “I’m going to miss you too.”

For a second, Mike thought maybe something else would happen. That the moment might tilt in a different direction. But it stayed gentle, steady, safe.

He should kiss him.

As Mike sucked in a breath, fully prepared to do something stupid, like he always did, the expression on Will’s face changed. He looked a bit panicked all the sudden, and before Mike had the chance to question it, Will leaned over the console and wrapped his arms around him in a quick, tight hug.

“Bye, Mike,” he said, his voice coming out higher than usual.

Mike hugged him back, heart aching in a way he couldn’t quite name. 

Will pulled away quicker than Mike would’ve wanted, opened the door, and stepped out into the warm night air without so much as a second look back at Mike. Mike tried not to let his feelings be hurt. It wasn’t like he didn’t say goodbye. And what was Mike expecting, really? Will wouldn’t cry for him, it was just a friend who already lived far away moving further away. Mike wasn’t sure what he expected, but it had definitely been more than that. 

Mike watched him go, the porch light catching in his hair, the door closing softly behind him.

He sat there for a long moment, hands still on the wheel.

He should have kissed him.

The idea burned in his chest all the way home.

5. 

Mike couldn’t stop checking the window.

Every few minutes he’d drift back toward the curtains, pull them aside just enough to look down at the street, then pretend he hadn’t just done that. The cab stand was in full view from his third-floor apartment, and every time a yellow taxi slowed, his chest tightened like a spring.

He told himself it was stupid. He was early. He knew that.

Still, he checked again.

The apartment was cleaner than it had ever been. Mike had vacuumed twice, wiped down the counters, even folded the throw blanket on the couch in a way that looked casual but not careless. He’d changed his shirt three times before settling on the one he was wearing now—soft, dark, a little worn in the collar.

Not like he was trying to impress anyone.

It was just Will.

Just Will, who he hadn’t seen in almost five months.

A taxi finally pulled up to the curb. The back door opened, and Mike didn’t even realize he’d moved until he was already halfway to the front door, heart racing like he was late for something.

By the time he yanked the door open, Will was already on the front step, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Hey,” Will said, breath puffing in the cold air.

Mike grinned. “Hey.”

For a second they just stood there, both a little frozen, like they weren’t sure what came next. Then Mike stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

It was quick. Friendly. Familiar.

But Mike felt it everywhere—Will’s coat, the chill of the outside air clinging to him, the solid, real weight of him after months of letters and phone calls.

“You made it,” Mike said, stepping back.

“Barely,” Will laughed. “The train was packed. I think someone threw up in the car next to mine.”

Mike shook his head, smiling. “The beautiful big apple. Come on. We’ve got like… an hour before the train to the show.”

Will’s face lit up. “You’re gonna love them. They’re weird.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

Mike stepped aside to let him in, shutting the door quickly against the sharp January wind. The apartment felt warmer immediately—smaller, somehow—now that Will was standing in it.

Will shrugged out of his coat, shaking a little from the cold. “God, it’s freezing here.”

“It’s New York,” Mike said. “It’s supposed to be miserable.”

“You chose this.”

“Rude. I happen to love it.”

Will looked around the apartment, eyes scanning like he was taking inventory. “You cleaned.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Will grinned, toeing off his shoes. “For me?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Mike grabbed Will’s backpack before he could argue further, tossing it onto the couch. “You want coffee? Or are we pretending we’re adults and having water?”

“Coffee,” Will said immediately. “I didn’t sleep on the train. Guy next to me was snoring like a chainsaw.”

Mike moved into the tiny kitchen area, feeling Will’s presence behind him like a magnetic field. They fell into an easy rhythm—Mike pouring, Will leaning against the counter, close enough that their elbows bumped every few seconds.

“So,” Mike said, handing him a mug. “How’s Indy?”

Will made a face. “Cold. Grey. The usual.”

“Thriving, then.”

“Obviously.”

There was a beat. Will stared into his coffee for a second, then looked up.

“I’m probably gonna end it with—” He shrugged. “You know.”

Mike kept his expression neutral. “Yeah?”

Will nodded. “It’s just… not that serious. We’ve been seeing each other a couple months, but I don’t know. It’s fine. He’s fine.” He winced a little at his own word choice. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Mike leaned back against the counter. He’d known about the guy—late-night phone calls had covered the basics. Will had tried to sound casual about it, like it didn’t matter. Mike had tried to sound casual hearing about it.

“Does he know?” Mike asked.

“That I’m probably gonna bail?” Will huffed a small laugh. “No. But I think he can tell I’m not… all in.”

Mike nodded slowly.

He tried not to think about the quiet, irrational surge of relief that bloomed in his chest.

“Are you?” Will asked suddenly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“Am I what?”

“Seeing anyone.”

Mike hesitated just a fraction too long.

“Uh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not really.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.

There had been people. A girl from one of his classes with bright red lipstick and a laugh that carried across rooms. A guy he’d met at a party in Brooklyn who had kissed him first and fast, like it was nothing. A handful of nights that blurred together—music too loud, hands too warm, bodies pressed close enough to forget things for a while.

But none of it stuck.

Because every time it got quiet—every time someone reached for him like they meant it—his brain filled in the wrong face.

He never told Will about any of it.

Will hated that.

“You’re so annoying about this,” Will said now, narrowing his eyes slightly. “You never tell me anything.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“That’s not true.”

Mike shrugged. “It’s not serious.”

“That’s not the point.”

Mike looked at him. “Then what is?”

Will opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked frustrated for half a second before smoothing it over. “We tell each other everything. Or we used to.”

“We still do.”

“Except for this,” Will said quietly.

Mike held his gaze, unsure how to explain something he didn’t even fully understand himself.

How was he supposed to say: I don’t tell you because it feels wrong? Because every time I’m with someone else, it feels like I’m cheating on something I never officially had?

Instead he just said, “There’s really nothing going on. Trust me.”

Will studied him for another moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t look convinced.

Mike cleared his throat. “Anyway. Fair’s fair. I came to Indy last time.”

Will’s expression shifted, easing. “You did.”

“Five months ago.”

“You’re still counting?”

“Of course I’m counting.”

Will smiled, softer now. “I just figured it was my turn.”

“Plus,” Mike added, grabbing his coat from the hook. “You needed to see the glamorous life I lead.”

“Is that what this is?” Will asked, stepping into his own coat. “Glamorous?”

Mike gestured toward the window where a garbage truck was currently blocking half the street. “Obviously.”

Will laughed, and the sound filled the apartment in a way that made Mike’s chest ache a little.

As they stepped out into the cold, the city air biting at their faces, Mike felt that familiar, electric awareness settle under his skin.

Will was here.

For the weekend.

Snow flurried lightly around them as they headed toward the subway, shoulders brushing, breath visible in the air. Mike shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out without thinking.

Beside him, Will glanced over.

“You look happy,” Will said.

Mike blinked. “I always look happy.”

“No,” Will said, watching him carefully. “You don’t.”

For a second, something quieter passed between them.

Then Mike bumped his shoulder lightly against Will’s. “You’re gonna miss the train.”

And they kept walking.

The venue was small—just a converted basement under a bar, the air warm and thick with bodies and the smell of cheap beer. A local band was already setting up when they arrived, guitars whining as they tuned.

Will was practically vibrating with excitement.

“They’re so good,” he said, leaning close so Mike could hear him over the noise. “You have to listen to the lyrics, though. They’re kind of… abstract.”

Mike snorted. “So you have no idea what they’re about.”

Will bumped his shoulder. “Shut up.”

The lights dimmed, and the band launched into their first song. The crowd pressed closer to the stage, and Mike felt Will’s arm brush against his.

He didn’t move away.

The music was loud, messy, and a little chaotic—but there was something infectious about it. Will was swaying beside him, mouthing words to songs Mike didn’t know, eyes bright under the flickering lights.

Mike found himself watching him more than the band.

Watching the way Will laughed when someone nearby shouted the wrong lyric. The way he pushed his hair back from his forehead. The way he leaned in closer during the louder parts, like he trusted Mike to anchor him there.

It was easy. So easy.

By the end of the set, they were both a little flushed, a little sweaty, and a little buzzed from the cheap drinks they’d shared.

“That was incredible,” Will said, breathless, as they pushed out into the cold night air.

Mike laughed. “You say that about everything.”

“No, I don’t.”

Mike just shook his head, grinning. “Come on. Train’s this way, right?”

They collapsed into two empty seats on the late-night subway, shoulders brushing as the train lurched forward. The car was half-empty, just a few tired commuters and a couple arguing quietly at the far end.

Will leaned his head back against the wall, smiling to himself.

“That was such a good night,” he said.

“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “You’ve got good taste. I’ll give you that.”

Will turned to look at him. “Only took you, what, ten years to admit it?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

They both laughed, the sound echoing softly in the mostly empty car.

Mike felt warm—not just from the alcohol, but from the easy, familiar rhythm of it. Sitting next to Will. Talking about nothing. Laughing over dumb jokes.

It felt like being sixteen again.

Except it didn’t.

Because now, when Will smiled at him, Mike’s chest did something strange and tight. Now he noticed the curve of Will’s mouth, the way his eyes softened at the corners when he laughed.

Now he imagined things.

Like what would happen if he just… moved a little closer.

If he slipped his arm around the back of the seat, behind Will’s shoulders. If he leaned in. If he kissed him right here, on this rattling subway train, under flickering fluorescent lights.

Would Will pull away?

Would he freeze?

Or would he kiss him back?

Mike swallowed, heart beating a little faster.

He didn’t move.

Instead, he glanced at Will—and found him already looking back.

Their eyes locked for just a second too long.

And something flickered across Will’s face. Not confusion. Not discomfort.

Something softer. Something almost… knowing.

Mike’s breath caught. He wanted to kiss him so badly his chest ached. He looked away first, suddenly very interested in the scuffed floor of the train.

Maybe he imagined it.

Maybe he was reading too much into everything again.

He stared at the reflection in the dark subway window as the train roared through the tunnel. Two blurry shapes sitting side by side.

Close.

But not touching.

He wondered, not for the first time, if that was all they were ever going to be.

Just shooting stars. Always in each other’s orbit—bright, beautiful, and burning. Impossible to ignore but never close enough to reach.

Maybe that was just how it was meant to be. After everything they’d been through. After all the years and monsters and almost-goodbyes.

Maybe this—late-night trains, loud concerts, easy laughter—was all they were supposed to have.

Maybe it had to be enough. Maybe it could be. 

Beside him, Will shifted slightly, their shoulders pressing together for a moment longer than necessary.

Neither of them moved away.

Will shifted slightly, like he was about to say something, then stopped.

The train screeched as it slowed into the next station. The doors slid open, letting in a burst of cold air and city noise.

Mike exhaled slowly, the moment dissolving as a few passengers stepped on.

“Which stop is ours again?” Will asked, voice softer than usual.

“Next one,” Mike said. “I’ll make sure you don’t get lost.”

Will smiled faintly. “Good. I’d hate to have to survive New York on my own.”

Mike bumped his shoulder lightly. “You’d last, like, ten minutes.”

“Rude.”

They both smiled, the tension easing back into something familiar. Safe.

But as the train started moving again, Mike let his shoulder rest against Will’s for just a second longer than he needed to.

Just enough to feel it.

Just enough to wonder.

And then the moment was gone.

 + 1

Mike liked Will’s apartment.

It wasn’t anything special—just a small second-floor place above a laundromat, with creaky floors and a radiator that hissed like it was always about to explode—but it felt warm. Lived in. There were sketchbooks stacked on the coffee table, a couple of posters taped to the wall, and a half-finished painting leaning against the bookshelf.

It felt like Will.

Mike stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching him pull on a sweater.

“I’m kind of nervous to meet your friends,” Mike confessed. 

“They’re nice,” Will said. “I promise. And they already like you.”

“They’ve never even met me.”

Will smiled faintly. “They like you because I like you.”

Something warm and uncomfortable curled in Mike’s chest at that. He tried to shrug it off.

“Guess I’ve got a reputation to maintain, then.”

“Yeah,” Will said, grabbing his coat. “Try not to embarrass me.”

“No promises.”

The bar was small and noisy, with low lighting and sticky tables. Will’s friends were already there, squeezed into a booth in the corner.

Three girls and a guy.

They lit up the second Will walked over. Will had that effect—Mike knew that all too well. 

“Will!” one of them said, pulling him into a hug and sliding over to make space. “You made it.”

“Hey, guys. This,” Will said, resting a hand lightly on Mike’s shoulder, “is Mike.”

The reaction was immediate.

“Mike Mike?” one of the girls asked. 

Will shot her a look that Mike didn’t understand as they slid into the booth. 

“Oh my god, hi,” one of the girls said, grinning. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Only good things,” the guy added. “Mostly.”

Mike shot Will a look. “Mostly?”

Will just smiled, cheeks faintly pink.

They made room for him without hesitation, and within minutes Mike felt like he’d known them for years. They were easy to talk to, quick to laugh, and they all treated Will like he was the center of gravity in the group. And he was. 

Will was different here.

More relaxed. More confident. He joked easily, teased them back, told stories that had everyone leaning in. He looked comfortable in his own skin in a way Mike hadn’t seen before.

It made Mike’s chest ache in a soft, proud sort of way.

He loved seeing this version of Will.

At one point, Will got up to go to the bar with the guy, leaving Mike alone with one of the girls—short dark hair, sharp eyes, and a smirk that said she’d been watching him all night.

“So, Mike,” she started. 

“Claire,” he echoed her name-calling. 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Mike laughed softly and shook his head. He couldn’t help the way his eyes trailed after Will at the thought. When he looked back at Claire she was grinning like the Cheshire cat. 

“You should do it,” she said.

“What?” Mike asked. 

She gestured up and down over Mike, then leaned toward him. “Will.”

“Do what?”

“Like you guys should fuck,” she clarified. “Or whatever it is you have going on.”

Mike sighed deeply, with as much exasperation as he could manage. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?” she pressed. “Do you love him?”

Mike choked out a laugh. “Claire—”

“You do, right? I told him you probably did.”

“That is,” Mike searched the far reaches of his mind for a way to shut this conversation down, “Not your business.”

“No, I’m not being a bitch, I promise. I think he loves you too,” she said, her tone softening. “I know it isn’t my business. But Will deserves to be happy, and I think you do too. And I think you could make each other happy. I think you already do.”

“You don’t even know me,” Mike said, a little pale.

“I know Will,” she shrugged. “Plus, I feel like I do, with how much he talks about you.”

Mike just nodded, trying to look unaffected, even as her words ran through him like adrenaline. He couldn’t help but feel good when the entire group recognized him by name alone, and this reaction lit him on fire even more. 

Across the room, Will laughed at something the bartender said, head tipped back slightly, eyes bright.

Hope bloomed in Mike’s chest, sudden and dangerous.

“Will is special,” Mike said plainly. “He’s been my best friend for my entire life.”

“Even if it went bad, you guys would make it through,” Claire said. 

Mike just smiled. Said nothing. 

Will came back and the night went on. Mike couldn’t help himself after that—he let himself be a little more tactile, hover a bit closer than he normally would. Every so often he would catch Claire grinning from across the table, but he refused to make eye contact. 

It seemed like as the night grew later, the air grew thicker. The more alcohol he drank, the more he leaned into Will, and talked to him from possibly a little but too close of a distance. Will never complained. 

Will came back with two beers, sliding one across the table to Mike.

“Peace offering,” he said. “They were out of the cheap stuff, so I had to get slightly less cheap stuff.”

Mike took it, their fingers brushing for just a second longer than necessary. “Wow. You’re really spoiling me tonight.”

Will huffed a quiet laugh, settling back into the booth. “Don’t get used to it.”

But his cheeks were a little pinker than before.

The conversation picked back up easily—stories about work, someone’s terrible roommate, a debate over which band deserved more credit than they ever got. Mike followed along, but he kept finding reasons to lean toward Will when he talked. Letting his knee rest against Will’s under the table. Tilting his head closer than he needed to so Will could hear him over the music.

At first, it was unconscious.

Then it wasn’t.

At one point, Will said something about a coworker who kept mispronouncing his name, and Mike leaned in, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“How do you even mess up ‘Will’?” Mike whispered. “It’s literally one syllable.”

Will smiled, eyes flicking down to Mike’s mouth for just a moment. “He keeps calling me Bill.”

Mike laughed softly. “Absolutely not. That doesn’t suit you at all.”

“Oh yeah? And what does?”

Mike didn’t think. “Will the Wise.”

Will laughed and smiled at the memory, which made Mike smile right back. “Or just Will.”

“Never ‘just,” Mike countered. 

Something shifted in Will’s expression—surprised, a little shy, like the words had landed deeper than Mike intended.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Claire, from across the table, raised her eyebrows and took a long sip of her drink.

Mike pretended not to see.

Later, when someone told a ridiculous story about a failed first date, Mike leaned closer to Will again, shoulder pressed firmly against his.

“Please tell me you’ve never done anything that bad,” he said.

Will’s mouth curved. “I don’t know. I’m kind of a disaster.”

Mike bumped his shoulder lightly. “No, you’re not.”

Will glanced at him. “You’re biased.”

“Yeah,” Mike admitted easily. “I probably am.”

Will blinked, clearly not expecting the honesty. The tips of his ears went red.

“You’ve had, like, actual dates,” Mike continued, voice low and teasing. “That automatically makes you more successful than me.”

Will studied him for a second. “You’re telling me no one in New York wants to date you?”

“They might,” Mike said. “I’m just… picky.”

“Picky,” Will echoed.

“Very.”

Will’s lips twitched. “That sounds fake.”

“It’s not fake,” Mike insisted, leaning in a little closer. “I just have very specific taste.”

Will swallowed, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat passed between them—quiet, charged, just slightly too long.

Then someone at the table shouted Will’s name, breaking the moment.

He blinked, turning back to the group. “What?”

Mike leaned back, taking a sip of his drink, heart beating a little faster than it should have.

Across the table, Claire caught his eye and grinned like she’d just witnessed something extremely entertaining.

Mike rolled his eyes at her, but he couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his mouth.

As the night wore on, the space between him and Will kept shrinking. Their knees stayed pressed together. Mike rested his arm along the back of the booth behind Will’s shoulders. Every time he leaned in to talk, Will tilted his head toward him automatically, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And every time, he looked a little surprised. A little flushed. But he never pulled away.

If anything, he leaned closer too.

The night wound down, and Mike was grateful for that. He didn’t go out very often these days. As they all stood up from the booth, chairs scraping softly against the floor, the group moved toward the door in a loose, laughing cluster. Will was still mid-story, hands moving as he talked, the last of his drink forgotten on the table. One of the girls looped her arm through his, teasing him about something he’d said earlier, and Will’s cheeks flushed with that easy, open smile Mike had been watching all night.

Mike hung back a step to grab his jacket, heart still beating a little faster than normal after the conversation. He could feel the words sitting in his chest, heavy and electric all at once.

When he straightened, Claire was right there beside him.

She didn’t say anything at first—just looked at him with a small, knowing smile. Then her eyes flicked toward Will, who was already pushing open the door for the others.

Claire leaned in slightly, close enough that only Mike could hear her.

“Don’t overthink it,” she murmured.

Before he could come up with any kind of response, she pulled back, gave him a quick, conspiratorial wink, and slipped past him to catch up with the group.

Mike stood there for half a second longer than necessary, staring after her. Then he looked at Will—really looked—and felt that same rush of hope flood his chest again.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and followed them out into the night.

By the time they stumbled back to the apartment, both of them were a little drunk and a lot quieter.

Will kicked off his shoes and leaned against the wall, rubbing his eyes. “I’m exhausted.”

“You’re the one who insisted on staying out,” Mike said.

“You were having fun.”

Mike smiled. “I was.”

Will looked at him for a second, something softer passing over his face. Then he shook it off. “You can take the bed. I’ll crash out here.”

“No way,” Mike said. “We’ll just do the living room. Like when we were kids.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’ll be fun.”

Will hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

They built a little nest out of blankets on the floor, dragging them off the couch and from the back of a chair until there was a soft, uneven pile between them. Will clicked off the overhead light and left the small lamp in the corner glowing, its shade casting the room in warm amber.

The apartment felt smaller like that. Quieter. The city noise outside softened to a low, distant hum.

It felt strangely nostalgic. Like a sleepover. Like being fourteen again.

Except they weren’t fourteen. And the air between them didn’t feel innocent anymore.

They lay on their sides, facing each other, cocooned in the same blanket. Mike could feel the warmth of Will’s body through the fabric, the slow rhythm of his breathing. Every time Will shifted even a little, the blanket tugged, pulling them closer without either of them really meaning to.

Mike’s head felt a little fuzzy from the alcohol, but his thoughts were sharp in one very specific direction.

They were too close.

Not friendly close. Not really.

Will’s hair fell into his eyes, messier than usual, and Mike had the sudden, ridiculous urge to reach over and fix it. He didn’t. He just watched him instead.

They started talking in hushed whispers—about the night, about Will’s friends, about how weird it felt to be back in Indiana after New York.

“Claire talks too much,” Will murmured, a little embarrassed. “She probably said something weird to you.”

Mike huffed a quiet laugh. “She’s intense.”

“That’s a nice way to put it.”

They both smiled at that, the kind of small, private smile that only really existed between the two of them.

Mike traced the edge of the blanket with his fingers. “Your friends are cool, though. They really like you.”

Will shrugged one shoulder. “They’re good people.”

“It’s different, seeing you there. With them.”

“Different how?”

Mike hesitated, searching for the right words. “You’re… confident. Like you know exactly who you are.” He swallowed. “It’s nice to see.”

Will looked at him for a long moment, expression softening. “I don’t always feel like that.”

“You seem like it.”

“Well,” Will said, voice quieter now, “It helps when you’re around.”

The words landed somewhere deep in Mike’s chest. He didn’t know what to do with them, so he just held onto them, letting the warmth spread.

The words settled between them, warm and fragile.

Mike swallowed. “You don’t need me there to be like that.”

“I know.” Will’s voice was steady, but softer than before. “I just… like when you are.”

Mike let that sit. He didn’t trust himself to answer it honestly without saying too much.

After a second, he cleared his throat. “Your painting in the living room.”

Will’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Which one?”

“The half-finished one. With the fire escape.” Mike shifted a little closer without meaning to. “It’s good.”

Will looked almost embarrassed. “It’s not done.”

“I know. It’s still good.”

Will studied him carefully, like he was trying to figure out if Mike was just being nice.

“I don’t know if I’m any good,” Will admitted. “Like… objectively.”

“You are,” Mike said immediately.

“You haven’t even seen my portfolio.”

“I don’t have to.” Mike’s mouth twitched. “I’ve known you since we were six. You’ve been drawing the same stupid wizard for, like, fifteen years.”

Will huffed out a laugh. “He’s not stupid.”

“He absolutely is.”

“He’s layered,” Will shot back, but he was smiling.

Mike’s expression softened. “You’ve always been good, Will. You see things differently. You always have.”

Will went quiet at that, eyes dropping to the blanket between them.

“You’re one to talk,” he said after a moment. “Mr. New York writer.”

Mike groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“I write short stories that three people read.”

“That’s not the point.”

Mike looked at him. “Then what is?”

Will hesitated, then reached out—slowly, like he was testing the air—and tugged lightly at the sleeve of Mike’s shirt.

“You’re doing it,” he said. “You left. You’re in New York. You’re writing. That’s huge.”

Mike felt his face heat. “It’s not that dramatic.”

“It kind of is,” Will said. “You always said you would. And you did.”

Mike looked at him for a long moment. “You’re going to do it too.”

“Do what?”

“Whatever it is you want.” He nodded toward the other room. “Art. Galleries. Weird downtown loft with terrible heating.”

Will smiled faintly. “You’re really selling it.”

“I’m serious.”

They were quiet again for a beat.

“It’s weird,” Mike said suddenly. “Missing Hawkins.”

Will let out a soft laugh. “I was literally thinking that earlier.”

“Right?” Mike shook his head slightly. “I never thought I’d say that.”

“Me neither.”

“Like… I miss the stupid woods.”

“The quarry,” Will added.

“Even the mall,” Mike said reluctantly.

Will smiled. “Okay, don’t go that far.”

Mike laughed under his breath, and the sound felt easy. Warm.

“Have you talked to the Party lately?” Will asked.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Actually.”

Will’s eyebrows lifted. “You called?”

“Look at me,” Mike said defensively. “I call now.”

Will smiled. “You hated calling.”

“I still kind of do.”

“But you do it anyway?”

Mike shrugged. “Yeah.”

There was a softness in Will’s expression that made Mike’s chest tighten again.

“That’s good,” Will said. “We should all do something together. Like an actual trip. Somewhere that’s not Hawkins.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Before we all get too… adult.”

Mike snorted quietly. “I refuse.”

“Same.”

They both smiled.

Then Will hesitated.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started, eyes flicking away briefly. “About after graduation.”

Mike felt something shift in the air again. Subtle. Important.

“What about it?”

“I don’t know if I want to stay here,” Will said. “Indy’s fine. But it’s not…” He trailed off, searching.

“Not big enough,” Mike offered.

Will looked back at him. “Yeah.”

Mike’s pulse ticked up.

“There’s a lot happening in New York,” Will continued carefully. “For artists. Galleries. Studio spaces. It’s kind of… the place.”

Mike tried very hard to keep his face neutral.

“Oh yeah?” he said lightly.

“Yeah.” Will swallowed. “I’ve been thinking about maybe moving there.”

The room felt smaller somehow.

“You should,” Mike said.

Will blinked. “Just like that?”

“Yeah.” Mike smiled, though his heart was pounding. “It’s a good place for artists.”

Will narrowed his eyes slightly. “That response is only, like, fifty percent selfless.”

Mike let out a quiet laugh. “Maybe forty.”

Will’s lips curved.

“Is the other sixty percent you not wanting me three states away?” he asked softly.

Mike held his gaze. Didn’t look away.

“Maybe,” he admitted.

Will’s breath hitched, just barely.

The space between them felt charged again—different from before. Bigger somehow. Like they were standing at the edge of something neither of them had fully named yet.

“Would you want me there?” Will asked.

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t casual.

It was careful.

Mike didn’t hesitate this time.

“Extremely, yes,” he said. “I would.”

The conversation drifted after that—half-formed thoughts, small jokes, comfortable silences. At some point, neither of them was really talking anymore. They were just lying there, eyes open in the low light, listening to each other breathe.

Mike’s heart started beating harder. Not suddenly. Slowly, steadily, like something building up inside him all night was finally reaching the surface.

“Will,” he said, almost against his will. 

Will looked at him, his eyes shining in the dim light. 

He thought about Claire’s words.

Do you love him?

He thought about the bar. The way Will laughed with his friends. The way his face lit up when he introduced Mike. The way he kept glancing back at him across the table, like he needed to make sure Mike was still there.

He thought about the blanket between them, and how it didn’t feel like it belonged there, separating them. Don’t overthink it, Claire had said. 

Mike didn’t really think after that.

He just moved.

He leaned forward, slow and careful, giving Will plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to. Their noses brushed first, then his lips met Will’s.

It was soft. Careful. Like he was afraid the moment might break if he pushed too hard.

For half a second, Will went completely still. Mike felt the hesitation like a held breath. And then Will melted into it, lips warm and slightly chapped from the cold outside, tilting his head just enough to make the kiss fit.

The world narrowed to that one point of contact.

Mike’s hand tightened slightly in the blanket. He could feel Will’s breath against his cheek, the faint tremble in his shoulders, the way his lips moved back—shy at first, then a little more sure.

It wasn’t a long kiss. Just enough to change everything.

Mike pulled back first, breath shaky, chest tight.

“I couldn’t help it,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Will blinked at him, eyes dark in the lamplight.

“Are you sorry?” he asked, voice barely audible.

Mike didn’t hesitate this time. “No.” His voice didn’t waver. His eyes stayed locked on Will’s. “I’m not.”

Will swallowed, gaze flicking down to Mike’s mouth and back up again. His hand shifted under the blanket, brushing Mike’s wrist. He didn’t pull away.

“Do it again.”

The words were soft, but there was something certain in them. Like he’d been waiting a long time to say them.

Mike’s chest felt too full. Too tight. Like if he didn’t kiss him again, something might burst.

So he did.

This time it wasn’t as hesitant. Still gentle, still careful, but deeper. Will’s hand slid up his arm, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. Mike felt the small, nervous pressure of it and answered by shifting closer, until their knees knocked together under the blanket.

Will let out a quiet breath into the kiss, almost a sigh. Mike felt it on his lips, warm and shaky, and it made his heart stutter.

They broke apart for a second, just to breathe, foreheads resting together. They weren’t shooting stars, Mike decided, they were a constellation. They only existed together. Shining, bright and beautiful. 

“Mike,” Will whispered.

“Yeah?”

Will didn’t say anything else. He just leaned in again.

And Mike understood.