Chapter Text
Senior year was supposed to be the year they stayed together.
That was what Will kept telling himself, anyway.
One last year.
One last year before everyone went off to different colleges, found new friends, started new lives.
One last year for Mike and Will to be Mike and Will.
Except somewhere between summer and the first day of school, they had stopped being friends.
Will sat at the lunch table with Lucas and Jane,
listening to Lucas complain about their history teacher.
A few months ago, he probably would’ve been sitting somewhere else.
With Mike.
He still wasn’t sure how strange it was that he had gotten used to sitting here.
Not because he didn’t like Lucas or Jane. He did.
They’d become good friends over the last few months, almost by accident.
It was just that neither of them was Mike.
And Will hated that he still noticed the difference.
Across the cafeteria, Mike was sitting with Dustin, Max, and another girl that Will doesn’t know.
They hadn’t really been friends before.
Not like this.
But apparently, when you stopped talking to your best friend, you had to find someone else to sit with.
Mike looks happy.
That shouldn’t bother him.
It does.
Will looks back down at his food.
He doesn’t know why he expected Mike to look miserable. Why would he? It had been a couple of months.
Apparently, Mike was doing just fine without him.
Good.
Will tells himself that’s good.
He doesn’t want Mike to be miserable.
He just wishes Mike didn’t look so damn happy about it.
“Will?” He hears a voice, cutting through the fog of his own thoughts.
He looks up.
Lucas is staring at him.
“What?” Will asks, furrowing his eyebrows
“I asked if you were coming over tomorrow.”
Lucas explains
“Oh.”
Will glances across the cafeteria again.
Mike isn’t looking at him this time.
“Yeah,” Will says quietly. “Sure.”
Lucas nods and goes back to talking.
Will tries to listen.
He really does.
But then he hears Mike laugh again.
And before he can stop himself, he looks over.
Mike is smiling at something Dustin said.
Will feels something twist in his chest.
He hates that he still notices things like that.
He hates that he still knows exactly what Mike’s real laugh sounds like.
He hates that he can tell when Mike is actually happy and when he’s pretending.
And most of all, he hates that some stupid part of him still wants to be the reason for that smile.
Will looks away.
He misses that smile.
He misses being the person Mike looked at like that.
He misses his best friend.
He misses—
Will stops himself.
No.
He’s not doing this again.
Mike made his choice that day.
Will doesn’t have to keep making excuses for him.
He turns back toward Lucas.
Senior year was supposed to be the year everyone stayed together.
Instead, Will can’t even sit at the same table as Mike.
Maybe that’s exactly what Mike wanted
—
The rest of the day goes painfully slow. Minutes seem to drag on for hours.
Will is sitting in the art room, staring at the half-finished sketch in front of him.
He should be working on his portfolio.
He knows that.
College applications are getting closer, and his portfolio is nowhere near finished. His teacher has reminded him about it at least three times this week.
Still, he can’t seem to make himself care.
He taps his pencil against the table.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
He finally puts it down.
Maybe he just needs a break.
Will pushes his chair back and stands, stretching his arms above his head. His back aches from sitting in the same position for too long.
He walks toward the hallway, hoping the fresh air will clear his head.
It doesn’t.
The second he steps into the hallway, he sees him.
Mike.
Will stops.
For a second, his brain doesn’t seem to catch up with what his eyes are seeing.
Mike is standing at the other end of the hallway, his guitar case hanging from one shoulder.
He looks tired.
Will notices that immediately.
There are faint shadows underneath his eyes, and his hair is messier than usual, like he’s been running his hands through it all day.
Will wonders if he’s sleeping okay.
The thought comes so naturally that it almost scares him.
He shouldn’t be wondering that anymore.
He shouldn’t care.
It’s not his business.
Mike looks up and their eyes meet.
Will’s stomach drops.
Neither of them moves.
For a moment, the hallway feels strangely quiet, even though Will can hear voices coming from one of the classrooms nearby.
He suddenly becomes aware of everything about himself.
The charcoal on his fingers, the pencil tucked behind his ear, the stupid paint stain on his sleeve.
He wonders if he looks as nervous as he feels.
Mike looks away first.
Then back.
“Hey.”
Will’s heart twists at the sound of his voice.
It shouldn’t.
It’s just Mike.
Just a word.
But Will hasn’t heard him say it to him like that in months
“Hey.” His voice comes out quieter than he intended.
Mike shifts his guitar strap higher onto his shoulder.
Will waits.
He doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for.
Maybe Mike will say something, maybe he’ll finally explain, maybe he’ll apologize.
Maybe he’ll say that he misses him.
Will hates himself for hoping for that last one.
Mike looks like he’s about to speak.
His mouth opens slightly, then closes.
Will’s heart sinks.
Of course.
Whatever he was going to say, he decided it wasn’t worth saying.
“I should probably go,” Mike says.
Will swallows.
“Yeah.”
Mike nods.
He starts walking toward him.
For a second, Will thinks he might stop.
He doesn’t.
Mike passes him and their shoulders almost brush.
Will catches the familiar scent of his shampoo.
It lasts for barely a second.
Still, it makes something in his chest ache.
He keeps his eyes forward.
Don’t look back.
Don’t-
He looks back.
Mike has stopped too.
They’re standing several feet apart now.
Mike turns around.
Their eyes meet again.
There is something in his expression that Will can’t quite place.
Regret, maybe.
Or sadness.
Will wants to ask.
He wants to cross the hallway, grab his arm, and demand to know what happened to them.
He wants to tell him that he misses him.
That he’s angry.
That he’s confused.
That he doesn’t understand how someone who used to know everything about him can suddenly feel like a stranger.
Instead, he says nothing.
Neither does Mike.
After a few seconds, Mike looks away.
Then he turns and walks down the hallway.
Will watches until he disappears around the corner.
He stays there for another moment.
He doesn’t know why.
There’s nothing left to see.
Still, some part of him keeps expecting Mike to come back.
He doesn’t.
Will looks down at his hands.
Charcoal covers his fingertips, dark and messy.
He rubs his thumb against one of them, smearing it across his palm.
He thinks about going back to his portfolio.
About college.
About everything he’s supposed to be doing.
But all he can think about is the way Mike looked at him.
Like he wanted to say something.
Like he almost did.
Will exhales slowly.
Maybe he imagined it.
Maybe Mike really doesn’t care anymore.
Maybe that’s easier.
He turns back toward the art room.
His portfolio is still waiting for him.
So is everything else.
—
When Will gets home, he drops his bag by the door and feels like he can finally breathe.
The house is quiet.
Not peaceful, exactly. Just quiet.
A week ago, Will would’ve stayed at school for hours after the final bell, finding excuses to work on his portfolio or help a teacher just so he wouldn’t have to come home to his father passed out on the couch.
It never really worked.
Eventually, he always had to come home.
Now that his father has left again, it’s just Will and his mom.
His brother is at college. Third year already.
Will still remembers when Jonathan left. He’d acted like it wasn’t a big deal at first, telling everyone he was fine, that it was normal, that Jonathan was supposed to go to college.
But sometimes Will misses having someone else in the house.
Someone who understood what it was like.
Someone who could tell when Mom was having a bad day without her saying anything.
His mom is still here, technically.
Just not very often.
She works a lot.
Will knows why. He knows she needs to.
Still, there are some days when he comes home and realizes he hasn’t spoken to another person since leaving school.
He kicks off his shoes and walks into the kitchen.
There’s a note stuck to the fridge.
Dinner’s in the fridge. Love you. Be home late.
Will smiles faintly.
He runs his thumb over the edge of the paper before pulling it off the fridge, reading it one more time even though he already knows what it says.
“Love you too,” he mumbles, even though she’s not there to hear it.
He puts the note back where he found it and opens the fridge.
He’s not really hungry.
He grabs a glass of water instead.
As he walks upstairs, the floor creaks beneath his feet. The familiar sound makes the house feel a little less empty.
His room is exactly how he left it.
Sketches are scattered across his desk, some finished, some abandoned halfway through. A few sheets of paper have fallen onto the floor, and one of his paintbrushes is sitting in an old mug beside his window because he’d forgotten to clean it properly.
Will drops into his chair.
His portfolio is still open.
He stares at the page.
College.
He should be thinking about college.
Everyone else seems to be.
Applications.
Essays.
Scholarships.
Where they’re going next year.
What they’re going to do with their lives.
Will picks up his pencil and rolls it between his fingers.
He has no idea.
He knows he wants to keep making art. He knows that much.
But sometimes he wonders if that’s enough.
He presses the pencil against the paper and starts sketching anyway.
For a few minutes, it works.
His hand moves almost automatically, following the shapes he sees in his head. The scratching of graphite against paper is calming, familiar.
Then his thoughts drift.
The pencil slows.
The hallway.
Mike.
Will presses his lips together.
He’d been trying not to think about him since lunch.
He’d failed.
Again.
He remembers the way Mike had looked at him.
Not angry.
Not annoyed.
Just…
Will doesn’t know.
Something.
His thumb rubs absently over the side of his index finger, picking at a tiny piece of graphite stuck to his skin.
Maybe Mike had wanted to say something.
Maybe he hadn’t.
Maybe Will was just desperate enough to see meaning in a look that didn’t have any.
He sets the pencil down.
He hates that he still does this.
He hates that Mike can walk into a hallway for ten seconds and somehow ruin his entire afternoon without even saying anything.
Will leans back in his chair and looks toward the ceiling.
They used to talk about everything.
Now he has no idea what Mike is thinking.
And somehow, that’s worse than being angry.
His phone buzzes.
Will reaches for it without thinking.
A message from Lucas.
Lucas
so u coming over tomorrow?
Will smiles a little.
He types back.
Will
probably
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Lucas
“probably” means yes btw
Will huffs out a quiet laugh.
Will
fine
He tosses the phone onto his bed.
For the first time since getting home, his shoulders loosen.
Maybe this is what he’s supposed to be doing.
Moving on.
Making new friends.
Focusing on the future instead of constantly looking backward.
His phone buzzes again.
Will reaches for it.
This time, the notification isn’t from Lucas.
It’s from an account he doesn’t recognize.
Hawkins High Secrets
Will frowns.
He doesn’t remember following it.
He opens the notification anyway.
The account already has dozens of posts.
Most of them are stupid.
Someone cheated on a test.
Someone stole money from the cafeteria.
Someone apparently has a crush on a teacher’s assistant.
Will scrolls through them, barely paying attention.
Then he stops.
A new post sits near the top.
Hawkins High Secrets:
Some people really think nobody notices when they stop talking to the person who used to mean everything to them.
Will’s thumb freezes against the screen.
He reads it again.
His stomach twists.
That’s-
No.
It could mean anything.
Hundreds of people go to Hawkins High.
It’s probably about some random couple who broke up.
Or friends who had a fight.
Or nothing important at all.
Will knows that.
He does.
Still, his eyes stay fixed on the screen.
The person who used to mean everything to them.
His thumb moves over the words without actually scrolling.
He thinks about Mike.
He thinks about the hallway.
The way Mike had looked like he wanted to say something.
Will locks his phone.
He drops it onto his bed and turns back toward his desk.
“It’s nothing,” he tells himself.
His voice sounds strange in the empty room.
He picks up his pencil again.
The broken tip scratches uselessly against the paper.
Will stares at the half finished drawing.
He doesn’t know why, but he can’t stop thinking about the post.
Maybe because some part of him knows exactly what it feels like.
To stop talking to someone who used to mean everything.
He looks down at his hand.
There’s still a faint smear of graphite across his thumb.
He rubs at it until it fades.
Then he forces himself to look back at the page.
It’s nothing.
Just gossip.
Just another stupid secret.
So why does it feel like it’s talking directly to him?