Chapter Text
—————————————————————————-
The air in Hawkins carried the same faint tang of rain, dust, and lingering memories that Will hadn’t expected to find again. He tightened the straps of his backpack as he crossed the small college quad, leaves crunching beneath his sneakers, the autumn chill threading through his jacket. Everything looked familiar—street signs, lampposts, the low hum of life—but something about returning here felt off, like stepping into a photograph that had been warped in time.
Will reached the apartment building he shared with Carlton. Their dorm-style suite had two bedrooms, a small kitchen, and a cramped living area that somehow felt both intimate and exposed. He turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, the door creaking lightly. The apartment smelled faintly of pine cleaner, old textbooks, and Carlton’s cologne—a sharp, confident scent that pressed against his senses in a way he had learned to both admire and avoid. Carlton was already in the living area, sprawled across the couch, laptop open, papers stacked in messy towers.
“Back,” Carlton said, shutting his laptop. “How was the trip?”
Will shrugged, setting his backpack down carefully. His eyes flicked automatically to the chain around his neck—the small lock resting heavy against his collarbone. Carlton’s key glinted faintly in the sunlight, dangling from his neck like a small, private signal. Once, the matching set had been a joke, a token of trust. Now it felt like a tether, one that Mike could never touch.
Mike noticed immediately.
He hadn’t meant to come by. He’d been walking back from the library, his own backpack slung over one shoulder, when he realized he’d passed the suite and something compelled him to stop. Across the hall, the door had been slightly ajar, and he could hear Will moving around inside. He lingered by the doorway, pretending to scroll through his phone while his gaze kept drifting toward Will. It wasn’t intrusive; technically, he was in the common hallway, not the apartment itself, but the vantage point gave him the view he couldn’t stop watching.
Mike hated the necklace. Not the metal, not even the symbolism—but the way it tied Will to someone else, something Mike wasn’t meant to touch. The small, precise weight of it against Will’s collarbone made Mike’s hands clench at his sides. He wanted to reach forward, pry it from his neck himself, reclaim even a sliver of the Will that had once looked at him with trust, curiosity, and fear. Instead, he lingered quietly, like a shadow pressed against the doorway, heart thudding too fast.
Will hummed to himself as he stacked textbooks on the counter, the faint clink of metal brushing against metal from his lock necklace. He glanced up briefly, almost as if sensing Mike’s presence without needing to turn his head.
“You’re staring again,” Will said suddenly, voice casual but sharp.
“I’m not,” Mike said too quickly, glancing down at his phone.
Will raised an eyebrow but didn’t press it. He leaned back against the counter, tugging at the chain under his sweatshirt. Mike watched the motion, heart tightening. That small gesture—the way he adjusted the lock almost absentmindedly—spoke volumes about boundaries, trust, and things Mike couldn’t have.
Carlton cleared his throat from the couch. “Dinner soon?” he asked, voice casual. “I can cook something.”
“I’m good,” Will said automatically, tugging slightly at the chain beneath his shirt. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible, but to Mike, it was a signal, a pulse of tension he couldn’t ignore.
Mike let himself breathe quietly, trying to make sense of the mix of warmth, nostalgia, and ache pressing in his chest. A memory came unbidden: a November morning in Hawkins, cold water rushing over Will’s lips from a spigot, the shock of it biting, pain shooting into his temple. Will had trembled, shivering, teeth chattering, and Mike had held him, whispering nonsense to distract him from the cold, from the fear. The memory pressed itself into Mike’s chest, sharp and immediate, like it had never left him.
He watched Will adjust the lock again, fingers brushing the smooth metal, eyes unfocused. The gesture was private, small—but it spoke of loyalty, restraint, and secrets held too close to the skin. Mike’s chest tightened further. He wanted to step in, to touch the lock himself, to prove in some small, impossible way that he was the one who could keep Will safe. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not yet.
Will’s eyes met his for a fraction of a second. Recognition passed between them—a quiet, unspoken language built over years of shared experience, of cold nights, of fear, and of survival. Mike looked away quickly, ashamed of the warmth rising in his chest, ashamed of the pull he still felt.
Will leaned back against the couch, laughing softly at something Carlton said, but the sound carried a subtle edge. Mike’s gaze tracked every twitch of his shoulder, every flick of a finger over the lock, every moment Will’s eyes drifted toward him without realizing it.
The room felt smaller than usual, like it was pressing in on them. Something about Will’s presence, the lock around his neck, the subtle movements he made—it unsettled Mike in ways he couldn’t name. And yet, he couldn’t look away.
Even in laughter, even in ordinary gestures, the tension was there. Quiet, persistent, like static beneath a hum. Like the lock itself, heavy against Will’s chest.
Mike didn’t look away.