Chapter Text
Will idly strums his guitar, humming along to the melody. He’d been sitting cross-legged on the offensively orange beanbag on the floor of Jonathan’s home studio for nearly three hours, his hands switching between the guitar, water bottles, cigarettes, and greasy potato chips.
The current “challenge,” as Steve likes to call it, is to finish the song that will serve as the lead single for Will’s second studio album—a track that, right now, consists of the chorus harmony and two written lines that haven’t yet been fitted into the melody.
“It’s impossible,” Will declares, with a frustrated groan, for the tenth time in twenty minutes.
He flops backward onto the beanbag, head falling back and guitar sprawled across his lap, staring upside down at a poster of his debut album stuck to the wall just above him. "I wish you knew how to write," he mutters to his own face.
“Stop being so dramatic,” Jonathan says from somewhere above him, trying unsuccessfully to hide the smile in his voice. “You do know how to write. You wrote twelve tracks for a debut album all by yourself and dozens of other songs with Cleric.”
Steve murmurs in agreement, playing a few notes on the keyboard. “You’re just going through a creative block. You need to find some inspiration.”
Will sighs deeply. They’ve had the “inspiration talk” before. Usually, this is how it goes: Steve says Will needs inspiration. Will replies that he draws inspiration from city life, the queer political scene, the impact of art and music on his life, and his own feelings. Then Steve says something like, “Dude, all that is great, but what you truly need is a muse,” and Will gets annoyed with him, because not everything has to be about romance, so Jonathan cuts the argument short before it turns into a shouting match and suggests they wrap up the session early to go "blow off some steam" at a random bar downtown.
That’s how the last two weeks have gone, since Will realized he couldn't write a song good enough to serve as the lead single.
The worst part is, deep down he knows Steve is right. Secretly, some of his best songs from the first album were written with someone in mind—a muse, though he’ll never give Steve the satisfaction of actually using that word.
Unfortunately, the muse in question is Mike Wheeler, one of the biggest rock stars of their generation: filthy rich, mysterious, and painfully straight.
It’s not as if Mike is some mystical, unapproachable figure—no, in fact, that’s part of the problem.
Will met him back when he was still in Cleric and the Wise Ones, a band he formed with his best friends Robin, Max, Dustin, and Jane. At the time, Mike had recently released his debut EP to considerable acclaim, already gathering a larger fanbase than most other up-and-coming singers in the genre. Will’s band mostly played in small pubs and at bar mitzvahs; they commanded a certain level of respect, sure, but nothing compared to the Mike Wheeler phenomenon.
Shockingly, not only did Mike attend one of Cleric’s shows, but he made a point of seeking them out afterwards —Will, specifically. They talked all night, swapped numbers, and began talking regularly. For one glorious moment, Will believed that Mike might actually be interested in him romantically.
That was four years ago. After that came a string of girlfriends announced in the media, dozens of songs with feminine pronouns, and, on a night that was particularly bruising to Will’s ego, a message from a very drunk Mike saying, "I’m happy you’re my best friend forever."
So, yeah. What a muse Will’s landed.
He refuses to get his hopes up these days. Mike is a friend, as he's made it clear himself. It’s pointless to keep pouring his heart into songs that are too vulnerable, too honest, and dedicated to someone who will never be able to return those feelings. Even though he knows deep down that he’ll never be able to write songs as good as the ones dedicated to Mike Wheeler, the rational part of his brain knows that the only way forward is to move on.
Will sits up on the beanbag, setting his guitar on the floor beside him and stretching his arms. “Yeah, maybe,” he says, forcing a yawn. “But for today, my lack of inspiration isn’t going to be fixed by any muse. Let’s continue tomorrow, okay?” He stands up, ignoring Steve’s grumbling and Jonathan’s exasperated look, already grabbing his jacket from the couch and putting on his shoes.
"We’re going to have to decide something eventually, Will," Jonathan says, the corners of his mouth turned down—a sign of how much he hates having to be blunt with Will. “Remember, we aren't working independently anymore. The label expects a demo by next Tuesday.”
“I know, I know,” Will says, waving his hands in a dismissive gesture that hides just how much the topic truly unnerves him. “We’ll make a decision soon. I promise. See you guys later!”
He says his goodbyes, walking through the door and down the long hallway toward the studio exit. Outside, the air is cold and biting, a reminder that summer is long gone, and Will wishes he’d worn a scarf or an extra layer of clothing.
Will’s next stop of the evening is to meet Max, his best friend, confident, and occasional enabler, at a small unassuming diner they’d discovered a few months back. It had become a refuge for late-night confessions over greasy food, far away from the fans Will had gained in droves after his debut.
As he enters, the bell above the door jingling annoyingly, he spots Max already sitting at the corner table, hunched over her elbows and scrolling her phone, earphones plugged in and a hoodie covering most of her fiery red hair.
Will has to approach the table, toss his shoulder bag onto it, and slump into the leather seat across from Max before she realizes he’s arrived, jumping slightly in a startle.
“You’re in a good mood today,” she remarks sarcastically, poking Will’s head, which is currently dramatically slumped onto the table. “I take it the recording was a success, then.”
Will snorts, his face pressed against the cold metal of the table, muffling his words. “Oh, sure. If you consider ‘spending three hours staring at the back fo Steve's weird new haircut and not writing more than two verses’ a success, then yeah.”
Max laughs. “God, that haircut is weird. So, that bad, huh? What’s the problem this time?”
“The usual,” Will says, addressing both the waitress who has come to take his order and Max’s question.
“Hm,” Max murmurs, her eyes drifting back to her phone. “Let me guess: does it have something to do with your hopeless crush on knock-off Edward Cullen?”
This makes Will straighten up his spine, glaring at her with a look of disbelief and bitterness that never really fazed Max before. “I don’t have a—He’s not a—,” he stammers, feeling heat rise at the back of his neck. “Oh, Max, give me a break!”
Judging by Max’s satisfied look, she got exactly the reaction she wanted. “Relax, lovebird. I won’t mention your sickly pale boyfriend anymore.”
Before he can retort, Max’s expression softens. She sets her phone down on the table, turning her full attention to Will. “But seriously, Will. You’re clearly trying to avoid your feelings, and that’s what’s making you frustrated. Am I wrong?”
No, Will replies mentally, because just like with Steve, it’s never a good idea to admit to Max that she's right. Instead of a direct answer, he rubs both hands over his face and lets out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh.
“The thing is, Steve has a point—ugh, I hate saying that—when he says I’ve got a creative block. It’s just that… It’s easier to write when you have someone specific in mind.”
“Someone specific… Like Mike.” Max leans back, arms crossed, striking her ‘okay, now we’re getting serious’ pose.
Will stares. "There's really no getting around you, is there?"
Max stares back, sinking deeper into the booth. Will sighs and relents, for once, that it's probably easier to just go along with the conversation.
"Fine. Let's talk about it, then. First off: I have a massive crush on Mike Wheeler. Okay. That's acceptable. That's survivable, even."
One of Max's eyebrows shoot up, and Will can tell she's fighting the urge to smile. He continues.
"What's not acceptable is tying my ability to write good, honest, authentic music to my crush on him, because, guess what — it's not going anywhere. Mike and I aren't a thing and we will never be! So why would I limit myself as an artist and waste time writing love confessions that have nowhere to go?"
“Will…” Max says, her voice noticeably laced with concern, but Will raises a hand and presses on.
“I know how it looks when you guys see how much we talk, or the kind of things he texts me sometimes. But I promise, if there were any chance, I’d know by now,” Will says. “Believe me, I’ve analyzed this situation from every angle,” he adds, letting out a self-deprecating laugh.
“So, yeah. I guess I am avoiding my feelings, but only because I know they need to go away. What other choice do I have?”
Max is looking at Will with an expression that took him a while into their friendship to understand wasn’t pity, but rather a mix of protectiveness and empathy that his friends and brother reserved for him. Will leans back in his seat, avoiding her gaze, fiddling with the strap of his bag.
Silence hangs between them for a moment as the waitress sets their orders on the table. When she walks away, Max lifts a french fry to her mouth and breaks the ice.
“I get how hard this must be, Will. But I really don't think you should suppress your feelings just because it’s the easy way out. You know, a lot of people would kill to be with you. If that idiot Wheeler doesn’t see it, well, that’s his loss.”
She looks at him with her signature mischievous grin.
“You know what I think? You should be honest with him. And then, best-case scenario, you get dumped and make an entire album full of hate songs about Wheeler. God knows he deserves it.”
"I'm sorry, you want me to get rejected?"
Max shrugs, grabs another handful of fries, and dips them in the sauce. "Hey, I just think you deserve better, that's all. But it's not like that loser would reject you anyway, seeing as he's obviously just as whipped for you as you are for him."
"Yeah, right," Will huffs, stealing one of her fries. "Not in a million years."
Max points a fry at him, ominously. "Unfortunately, I'm always right."
Will wants to argue, to insist that Mike sees him as nothing more than best friends forever, mostly for the sake of his own peace of mind rather than to win a losing battle against Max, but the chime of the bell interrupts his train of thought. Whenever someone walks into the diner at this hour, Will always glances toward the door, almost unconsciously, checking to see if some obsessive fan has tracked him down. That’s what he does now, looking toward the entrance over his shoulder.
But it isn't a fan walking in.
It’s Mike Wheeler, dressed exactly like someone avoiding public attention: a black windbreaker with the hood up, a mask covering half his face, and a few strands of unruly black hair falling out of a beanie across his forehead — leaving only his eyes and a tiny patch of skin exposed — but Will would recognize those dark caramel-colored eyes anywhere.
Will quickly turns his head, shifting his attention back to the neglected milkshake on the table. He can feel the blood draining from his face, his heart pounding twice as fast, and his stomach churning in anticipation.
Across the table, Max’s electric blue eyes drift toward the entrance, and Will watches the disaster unfold in real time: she pauses, processes what’s happening, and her whole face lights up with delight.
"Max," Will hisses, a warning, shrinking until he’s practically fusing into his seat.
Naturally, she ignores him, just as she ignores all the decidedly unfriendly gestures and whispered words he follows up with, and gives a wide, open wave with her whole arm, a forced friendly smile appearing on her face. Will wishes for two things: that Mike hasn't noticed her, and that the ceiling would collapse onto their table and put him out of his misery.
"Oh, hey!" Mike, who obviously did notice and has walked over to their table, greets them from right beside Will. "Cool running into you guys here. What's up, Will?"
Will doesn't react for a second, until Max kicks his heel under the table — hard enough to bring his brain back to life. He looks up at Mike, trying not to lose his breath completely when he meets those dark eyes staring back at him.
"Um, hi, Mike! W-what a surprise. I didn't know you came to this place," he says, then laughs shakily, his voice coming out wrong and a little too high-pitched; he fights the urge to slap his own forehead while Max watches the situation with a look that’s far too amused for Will’s liking.
Fortunately, Mike completely overlooks Will’s mental un-wellness and just smiles softly — which Will only notices through the mask because of the crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. "This place is great for escaping unwanted attention. But then again, you know that better than I do, Sorcerer." He punctuates the sentence by lightly nudging Will’s sneaker with his own foot, lowering his mask enough to show his smiling lips. By now, Will is certain he’s as red as a ripe tomato, if the sudden heat flooding his face is any indication.
Hearing Mike say "Sorcerer", a nickname given to Will by his fans, while removing his mask, is enough to make part of Will’s brain combust. Static fills his ears, rivaled only by the sound of his heart pounding as if trying to break free from his chest.
Will manages a nervous smile at Mike, breaking eye contact to stare at the tabletop with an intensity that defies reason. "Yeah, right, Mike. You know way more about that than I do..." Will gathers the courage to look back at him, "...considering how rare it is to spot you in public. I mean, you move around like a ninja."
Mike seems strangely caught off guard by this; his eyes widen slightly and his shoulders tense up. But he quickly regains his composure and chuckles softly. "Well, can't waste all this handsomeness all at once, you know" Mike says sarcastically, causing Max to snort, though not quite so sarcastically. Will stares at her disapprovingly, and she shrugs, giving him an eye roll.
Fortunately, Mike doesn't seem to notice or care for the interaction; he turns away slightly to ask for the waitress for an espresso to go, then looks back at Will. "Hey, you know what's funny? I was at at record store, like ten minutes ago, and I saw your record there. Made me wonder when you're releasing the next one."
He stares at Will, eyes shiny and bright, head slightly tilted to the side adorably. Will swallows dry, feeling a step away from melting into a puddle. "Y-yeah?" he replies, shaky in more ways than one, "I'm actually working on the next one right now. But don't tell anyone."
Mike's eyes crinkle a bit more, his smile widening, and he mimics zipping his lips. Will's eyes follow the motion. "Your secret's safe with me. Can't wait to hear what kind of magic you come up with next, Sorcerer."
Before Will can even start thinking of a feasible answer to that, Mike's phone buzzes a few times, and he quietly excuses himself to check it. Suddenly, his posture stiffens and his brow furrows. Will catches a faint, resigned sigh as Mike puts the phone away and looks back at him, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
"Sorry, I'd love to chat a bit longer, but I have to go now. A... uh... unexpected thing came up. See you around, Will?"
"Sure, Mike. See ya," Will replies, offering a smile that’s probably a bit dopey. Mike smiles back, waves politely, puts his mask back on and walks away, hands in his pockets, his mask back on and his pace hurried. Will watches as his silhouette disappears into the night, and thinks, you forgot your coffee.
A wolf whistle cuts through the table, breaking Will's focus. He looks back at Max, who's looking at him with her best shit eating grin.
"Brother, was that the most sexually charged conversation I've ever witnessed."
Will chokes. "Max, what the hell?"
"What? I'm not blind. Or deaf. And unfortunately I was here to witness your mutual eye fucking—"
"Stop that!" Will hisses, looking around quickly to assess if the diner has magically become packed with people listening to their conversation, "That was not a sexually charged conversation. He was being polite!"
"Oh, right, polite," Max rolls her eyes, leaning back into her booth. "Oh, Sorcerer, you understand the perils of fame so well! Should we find a more recluse place so we can do some magic together?", she says, in a high-pitched, mocking voice. Will holds back his laughter, because he's absolutely not about to entertain Max.
"He does not sound like that. He didn't say anything even remotely close to that, and we were not eye fucking", he protests, his voice cracking on the end of the sentence.
"Sure, Will. He ignored my entire existence as soon as it was socially acceptable to do so, he called you a freaking pet name while I'm sitting right here, and he kept his eyes glued on you the whole time, because, let's see, he's only interested in being your best buddy. Yup, keep telling yourself that."
"It doesn't matter what that interaction looked like," Will says, letting his head fall back in frustration, "you can't argue with the facts. And the facts are: Mike has always had girlfriends, always used female pronouns in his love songs, and, yes, he made it clear he wants to be my best friend. So, no overanalyzing, thanks."
"Okay. Let's just say Wheeler isn't pathetically in love with you—"
"Max."
"—and that all your closest friends are hallucinating when we see something more in your interactions. What’s the plan? Keep living in this agonizing state of longing?"
Will pauses for a moment, exhaling deeply. He knows she’s right. Living for the "what ifs," searching for signs that ultimately lead nowhere, has been the source of so much of his anxiety regarding Mike. He knows that if he doesn't just rip off the band aid, he’ll never be able to look at Mike without hoping that something, someday, might happen.
"What exactly do you propose I do?" Will asks, stealing the last french fry off her plate.
"I don't know," Max says, shrugging. "Since you're so sure it's not mutual, why not have a little fun? Be more forward, flirt with him a little. If he doesn't reciprocate, he'll still be too clueless to actually reject you, and your friendship goes on as usual. If he does reciprocate, great, then you can spend the rest of your life admitting I was right, even though I’d prefer you chose literally any other man."
Will sips the last of his drink and considers it, for a second, surprised to realize he doesn't immediately oppose it. As mortifying as being more forward with Mike sounds, he can't help but feel a little spark of defiance in him every time he thinks back to the moments when Mike made the lines between whatever it is they have too blurry. Or all the stupid times Mike said something just a little too out of left field and made Will obssess over it for days, completely oblivious to the effect he has on Will.
Maybe he should be acting a little less like a swooning, shy maiden everytime Mike so much as smiles in his direction. Either it speeds up the process of getting turned down or, if the universe decides to throw him a bone, lands him exactly where he wants. What's there to lose?
Will's lost in thought about it, absentmindedly nodding while Max goes off on a tangent, spewing vitriol about some guy she met at party who's "as hot as he is annoying, which, how dare him", when he catches something outside from the corner of his eye.
His whole body tenses, chills running up his arms and spine, as he processes what is happening by the far end of the block, barely visible under the dim lighting and the darkened evening sky: a black, convulsing mass, all grimy limbs and rugged edges, moving with terrifying quickness down the side of a building before landing with a distant crash on top of a parked car. Suddenly, everything around them grows tense and quiet, even for a particularly empty diner. Max stops speaking and she freezes as she catches the sound and follows Will's line of sight outside.
A waitress gasps and runs to the back, calling out for someone. Max curses under her breath, already reaching for her bag with one hand and for Will's arm with the other. Will, on the other hand, stares outside the window, petrified, as a Demogorgon throws a car away with a swipe of a claw and starts stalking down the street, predatory and threatening, straight towards the diner.
"We have to go," Max says, tightening her grip on Will's arm, urging him to get up. Will is starkly aware now of the distant screams as the few people who are roaming the streets at this hour begin to run away from the monster.
He's distantly aware that he should be moving, but he's bound to his seat, eyes fixated on the sight of the monster lunging forward, thrashing its grotesque arms and claws around, its hideous flower-like face and mouth hung open as it screams into the night. Suddenly, he's plunged back into the body and mind of a twelve year-old, tiny, shivering and scared, that same hideous mouth open and full of teeth staring down at him — just a helpless, scared little kid who wandered too far away from his mom.
"Will," Max presses, more urgently, tugging on his sleeve. She sounds scared, too scared, unlike any other normal feeling that she usually expresses, and that is what snaps Will out of it. He jolts, scrambling to his feet and grabbing his bag and Max's arm.
"Let's go," he says, then again, louder, "Max, let's go!"
He yanks her arm and runs, dragging her behind him, bursting out of the diner and into the chilly night. The monster is close — too close, approaching the corner where the diner is in a hunched pose and long, ferocious strides.
Will's moving purely on instinct, barely watching where he's going, fighting the urge to squirm and shrivel up at every roar the creature lets out behind them. He and Max move quickly down the now nearly empty street, and Will realizes, filled by dread, that they're the only ones left wandering around in this part of town, and they're too far from home to make it there by feet. He curses, quietly, at the realization.
"Do you know where the nearest shelter is?" He yells, not looking back, his question nearly drowned out by a roar.
"Maybe three, four blocks north? Yeah, d-down the street around the corner!"
Will risks a glance back. The Demogorgon has reached the diner down the street, inspecting it leisurely from the outside. Will watches, with a full body shiver, as the monster growls in frustration, grabbing a nearby trashcan and smashing it through the window. His footsteps falter, and he nearly falls to the ground before Max grabs him, holding him up. The Demorgogon drops on all fours, flower face closing up as he drags it around on the floor, almost like he's sniffing for something.
Then its gaze follows the path down the street, toward where Max and Will are, and its hideous non-face locks in on them before opening up in a horrible roar. Max inverts their positions, grabbing at Will's wrist and yanking him forward with a disgruntled, "RUN!"
She doesn't need to shout twice. Will's legs work double time, trembling from the continuous effort, his feet skidding dangerously on the damp pavement as they round the corner, and then Will spots, about a block away, the familiar red metal railing and a set of stairs descending below street level. A man in a reflective vest stands at the top of the steps, waving frantically at a small cluster of people who are shuffling down into the dark.
Will hears the man yell as he rushes the civilians, "Come on, come on, keep moving!", then he catches sight of Will and Max and the monster barreling down the street behind them. He freezes for a moment, his eyes going wide, then he shouts, this time directed to Max and Will. "Run! Don't stop, just run!"
Again, Will doesn't need to be told twice. His lungs burn, his legs feel disconnected from the rest of him, but he pushes forward, matching Max's pace. The shelter is close now: twenty feet, fifteen. He even thinks, for a split second, that's it. We're safe.
Then, because apparently things always have to be too good to be true for Will, a deafening crunch of metal cuts through the buzzing in his ears.
Will glances back before he can stop himself. The Demogorgon has torn a parked car clean off the curb and is hoisting it over its head with one clawed arm. Will has time to think of one, creative curse before the monster swings its arms down, hurling the car directly at them.
There's no time to think. Will grabs Max by the shoulders and shoves her forward with everything he has left in him. She's thrown out of the car's path with a startled cry, and the vehicle crashes down where she'd been standing a second before, metal shrieking against asphalt, glass exploding outward in a hundred directions.
Will doesn't get so lucky. He launches backward from the force of his own push, landing hard on the pavement, and the wrecked car is now sitting between him and Max, and therefore, between him and the shelter.
He hears Max scream his name from the other side of the wreckage, and from somewhere behind him, alarmingly closer than half a minute before, the wet, guttural sound of the creature's non-face unfolding.
Will closes his eyes.
They say you see your whole life flash before your eyes before you die. Terrifyingly, all Will can think of is the back of Steve's bad new haircut, and the thought of that being the last thing running through his head is almost scarier than the Demogorgon.
Will waits for teeth, claws, the horrible pain of being eviscerated. Instead, there's a choked, strangled screech, a weight that doesn't quite reach him, and the faint rustle of fabric inches away from his face. His eyes snap open.
A cape sways in front of him, deep red, snapping once in the wind before going still. Will tilts his head up and finds Paladin standing over him, one gloved hand wrapped around the Demogorgon's throat, forcing the creature's flower-mouth closed as it thrashes and claws uselessly at the air.
Paladin doesn't so much as flinch. With a single, fluid motion, he hurls the monster backward, sending it skidding several yards down the street in a heap of twitching limbs. Then he turns to Will, the metal parts of his suit clanging as he crouches low.
"Hey. You alright?" he asks, his voice quieter and softer than Will expected.
Will opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Paladin doesn't seem to mind for the lack of answer — he offers a hand, patiently, but before Will can take it, the Demogorgon begins to scramble back on its feet, screeching, then charges toward them with its head low and its claws dragging sparks off the pavement.
Paladin moves before Will can even process the threat. He's airborne in an instant, cape flowing behind him, and delivers a kick square into the creature's chest that sends it crashing through the husk of a nearby storefront.
Then he goes back, scooping Will up by the waist like he weighs nothing at all, and the ground drops away beneath them. Will's stomach lurches with the sudden height, wind tearing at his hair, the street shrinking below into a smear of flashing lights and debris. He grips at Paladin's shoulders on instinct, fingers digging into the fabric beneath the metal breastplate of his suit, and doesn't dare look down again until they land, hard but careful, on the flat surface of a rooftop several blocks away.
Paladin sets him down gently, keeping one hand steady on his waist until Will finds his footing. "You good?" he asks, softer this time, his head tilted to the side in a way that makes something stir inside Will's stomach.
Will nods affirmatively in response, though he isn't sure of the answer. Paladin holds his gaze a second more, then straightens, already looking back toward the smoke rising over the scene they'd left behind.
"Stay here. I'll be right back."
And then he's gone, a red and silver streak vanishing into the dark, leaving Will alone on the rooftop with his heart hammering and his legs shaking. He stays that way for about thirty seconds until his phone buzzes in his pocket. He fumbles it out with unsteady hands and answers on the second ring.
"Will? Will, oh my god, are you—where are you, I couldn't get to you, then the guy dragged me into the shelter, and I—"
"Max, I'm okay," Will cuts in, and manages to get it out without his voice breaking. "I'm okay. I'm on a, uh, rooftop somewhere. Paladin got me out."
There's a pause on the other end, filled only with the distant wail of sirens through her phone speaker. "Paladin. Like, the Paladin. He just, what, swooped in and grabbed you?"
"Pretty much." Will sits down on the ledge, legs too weak to hold him upright any longer. "Oh. He dropped me off a few blocks away from my apartment, actually. Guess he knows the neighborhood."
"That's insane. That's. Okay, that's genuinely insane, Will, are you sure you're not hurt? You sound weird."
"I sound weird because a giant monster tried to eat me twenty minutes ago, Max."
"Fair point," she exhales, then pauses for a second. "I'm going to wait for you at your place. Text me once you figure out where the hell you are."
Will opens his mouth to answer, but a metallic groan interrupts him as the door to the rooftop access swings open, hinges protesting the movement. An older man in a gray jumpsuit steps out, a ring of keys hanging from his belt, and startles at the sight of Will perched on the ledge.
"Jesus, kid, you scared me half to death. How'd you even get up here?" He holds the door open with one arm, gesturing Will inside with the other. "Come on, get down before management calls for both our heads."
"I'll call you back," Will tells Max, hanging up before she can protest.
The janitor leads him down four flights of stairs, muttering the whole way down about liability and locked doors and how nobody tells him anything around here, and Will nods along without really listening, still trying to catch up to the night's events. By the time he's back on the street, the sirens have moved further off, and everything feels nearly normal.
"Rush home, son," the janitor says behind him, holding the door open. "This city's a fucking war zone, I swear to God, this Mayor—"
The man steps back into the building and closes the door behind him, rambling to himself about the administration, and Will starts walking. His apartment is close, seven or eight blocks at most, and after everything, the idea of putting one foot in front of the other to walk rather than run feels almost like relief.
He's walked three blocks when a gush of wind rushes above him, and he looks up to see a streak of red cutting low over the rooftops before Paladin lands a few feet ahead of him, boots striking the pavement with practiced grace.
"Hey," Paladin says, and he sounds almost bashful, rubbing the back of his neck with a gloved hand. "Sorry about dropping you off like that. I was gonna go back for you, promise. I just got, uh, a little held up."
Will blinks at him, caught off guard by the normalcy of the apology. He would expect a more impersonal, stoic tone, or maybe for the hero to not even remember him at all. Instead Paladin sounds like he's apologizing for standing him up for coffee.
"It's fine," Will says. "A janitor got me out eventually."
"Oh, thank god." Paladin's shoulders drop with visible relief, and Will has to fight the urge to laugh at how human the gesture looks on someone who, twenty minutes ago, was choking a massive monster with his bare hands. "I was picturing you still stuck up there, plotting my downfall."
"I mean, I did consider it."
That gets a laugh out of the hero, low and colorful, and Paladin falls into step beside him without being asked, matching his pace like it's an unspoken agreement that he'll walk Will home. Will tells himself the neighborhood is just empty enough for this to make sense: no fans, no cameras, nobody around to catch a famous superhero walking a mildly famous singer home. A smaller part of him, though, wonders if that's the only reason.
"You handled that better than most people, back there," Paladin says, after a moment. "Most people scream a lot more."
"I was screaming internally, it just didn't make it out."
"Efficient." Paladin glances over at him, and even with his face hidden beneath a mask, Will can tell he's smiling. "I like that."
They walk in comfortable silence for a while, and Will sneaks glances at the man beside him despite himself. He's seen Paladin on the news a hundred times, distant and untouchable, a blur flying around burning buildings, and he never considered that in person and up close, he'd just be a guy. Tall, a little awkward, prone to rambling apologies.
"Can I ask you something?" Will says, before he can think better of it.
"Shoot."
"Does it get easier? The whole…" he gestures vaguely at the sky, "…saving the world thing."
"I hardly save the world," Paladins says with another, brief, laugh, then considers the question for a moment, and when he answers, his voice lacks most of its earlier lightness. "No, not really. You just get better at ignoring how hard it is."
Will doesn't know what to say to that, so he nods looks at Paladin's side profile for a second longer, and they keep walking. His building comes into view sooner than he'd like, familiar brick and the crooked awning over the entrance, and he's almost disappointed by it.
"This is me," Will says, stopping at the base of the front steps.
"Right." Paladin lingers a second, hands finding his hips, weight shifting between his feet unsurely. "I'm glad you're okay, Will."
Something strange stirs in Will's chest, and then Paladin's stepping back, crouching low, and the absence of his proximity makes the wind feel a degree colder.
"Get home safe," the hero says, and then he's airborne, disappearing in an instant over the rooftops, his frame swallowed up by the dark.
Will stands there long after, replaying the whole night in his head: the easy talk, the laughter, the steady hands that held him mid-air. It all makes his head swim and his stomach swoop, a feeling so familiar and so infuriating. He lets himself back into his apartment, answers a text from Max saying he's home and drops down on his sofa, guitar in hand and mind sprinting a thousand miles per hour.
Max arrives, and he tells her everything and she falls asleep on the couch to a shitty movie they put on, and it isn't until after he's showered and is already in bed and with his eyes half-lidded, that he notices he never told Paladin what his name was.