Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I

Mike Wheeler:

The Lightbulb & The Nightstand

May 1st, 1993

“Are you afraid?”

“Of what?” 

The wood feels cold through Mike’s thin ‘HAWKINS CLASS OF ‘89’ shirt, biting at his elbows. The heating in Mike and Will’s barely works. We should really invest in a rug, he had once suggested, just for it to never be brought up again. 

Behind them, two double-hung windows sit on the exposed brick wall. The windows reflect the light of their CRT television; their only source of light, since they had indefinitely banned the big light.  

Mike adores their railroad apartment - a pleasant surprise to both of the boys, because yeah sure, the hallway is barely wide enough for two people, the walls are horribly thin (and smell suspiciously of cigarettes), and the East Village isn’t heaven. But it’s theirs. 

And it wasn’t that big of a culture shock, since the two had already been living in dorms with arguably worse conditions prior.

Their first year at NYU, they lived together in Brittany Hall, right near Union Square. Residence halls were quite a drastic switch from the orderly Wheeler household, but Will seemed to fit in just fine. He actually sort of came alive in cramped, chaotic spaces. Not like Mike, who needed to shut everything down and get some goddamn sleep. Their sophomore year, they lived together again in Seventh Street Hall. It was a suite, but luckily they still shared a room. 

At this time, Mike often found himself, ironically enough, missing his hometown. But with Will around, he felt a little more at ease. And then at some point, Mike had stopped thinking about Hawkins altogether. New York became his home.

Then finally, they moved here. Apartment 344, right before their junior year of university. When people first heard, they would smile and exclaim: “You must be so relieved to have some privacy!” Mike hadn’t known how to explain to them despite sharing an apartment, the extra space felt more like a loss. Mike went from missing the peace of his silent house to the comfort of his best friend chicken scratching in sketchbooks as he dozed off. 

Thankfully, they compensated for this with their weekly sleepover. Okay, bi-weekly. Sometimes tri-weekly.

“I dunno,” Will says. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, absentmindedly picking at the dried paint under his fingernails. “I mean - we’re graduating in two weeks.” He pauses. “I just have this feeling that… things might not go the way we planned.”

Mike frowns, turning his head slightly toward his best friend. It just hit him how fast their school years have flown by. Mike had already completed his senior thesis back in April, culminating four years of college; while Will’s studio senior exhibition is coming up in about a week.

And in exactly two weeks another chapter of their story would come to a close. He honestly hadn’t thought much about graduation. About full-time jobs, or marriage, or anything past this apartment, really. 

He turns fully onto his side, meeting Will’s eyes. Will is already looking at him. 

“We’ll be okay.” Mike says - because they are, have been, and because he’s never imagined a version of ‘okay’ that doesn’t involve the two of them. Still, though. Something in Will’s expression, distant and worrisome, makes him think a bit harder.

“...Do you want to hear the ‘story of us’ again?”

Will blinks, as if he’s been snapped back to reality and nods. Mike didn’t think his stories were that good, but Will liked hearing them, which gave him enough confidence. There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Sure. You’re the storyteller.” Will teases.

Mike exhales, a little relieved. “Well, once we graduate-” Will cringes when Mike says graduate. “...We’re gonna conquer the world.”

Will lets out a laugh, like he’s amused by Mike’s words, and it’s just another one of his fantasy stories, another pitched campaign. “Right. You would be this… great, renowned, writing proprietor.”

“And you’ll be a famous model artist,” Mike says easily, “And I’ll write some ridiculously expensive book about your insane life that those pretentious assholes put on their coffee tables as decoration.”

Will grins. “We’d have a vacation apartment in Paris.”  

Mike nods once as he watches the TV light crawl across the ceiling. He doesn’t know about that, he’d rather just stay here in New York. Maybe move neighbourhoods, at most. A bigger apartment drowned in sunlight would be nice… But definitely not in Paris. 

“We could have Border Collies.” He suggests. 

“-But no kids.”

“And just play D&D and Nintendo for the rest of our lives!” 

Will doesn’t continue the story. Mike notices the sudden change of mood - Will’s hands curl into fists, and his eyes unfocus, like he had slipped away into his own thoughts yet again. The boys stay on their sides, knees almost touching, still facing each other. Mike keeps his eyes on Will’s face, and he can’t help but wonder what version of the future Will is seeing instead.

His gaze lingers for a few seconds. In the TV’s glow, Mike understands why his best friend is so beloved. He doesn’t know why Will can’t see it himself, why he doesn’t think he deserves the future Mike has always imagined for him.

The silence stretches, and the news channel fills it:

“...New York State legislature has renewed rent regulation, allowing landlords to deregulate vacant apartments with a legal rent over $2000 from July-”

The disembodied voice cuts through the room and seems to bring Will back, as his eyes snap wide open. He looks at the TV hovering above the two, then at the stack of bills on the coffee table, and something clicks.

Will sits up fast from the floor - “Mike, did we pay the rent this month?!” 

Mike jolts upright with him, blind hands grabbing at the bills. “Oh, shit-!”

Carlton is nice. Carlton is rich. Carlton is… boring.

Will watches a lady walk five Border Collies through the window past Carlton’s shoulder. He had asked Will to meet him for lunch in Veselka before his afternoon film class about something “important”. 

It was a nice spot, not the kind of scene Mike would usually be in. Maybe that was for the best - Mike’s thoughts had a way of twisting the situation they were in. Stop thinking about Mike. Will had told him he couldn’t make it for lunch, and that he needed to stay back for an important lecture, which technically wasn’t a lie because it kind of felt like he was being lectured right now.

“It’s actually available,” Carlton says, circling his straw with the tip of his finger. “The lease just turned over, and I can cover the deposit upfront. I have enough, so… it’s totally doable.”

Why on Earth would someone have five Border Collies? They are really cute, though-

“Will?” 

Oh. 

Will averts his gaze back at Carlton, piecing together fragments of what he’d heard to come up with a response that might indicate he was actually listening. Spoiler: he wasn’t.

“Yeah, for sure. I mean - sorry, did you say Tribeca? That’s amazing, you should totally do it.” 

“Great, I can get the keys when we get back from Cambridge in two months, and put you on the lease too-”

“Wait - hold on, what?” Will stammers, blinking at him.

“Cambridge? Don’t tell me you forgot, we’re going to my family’s house- ”

“No, I know about Cambridge! I mean, the other thing!”

How could Will forget, it’s basically all Carlton could talk about these past few weeks, aside from graduation and supply shortages in New York. He was really smart, and had most things sorted out already. It was admirable, but sometimes Will just got tired - not of Carlton, but of the constant progress towards something more. He couldn’t blame him, though. Carlton’s family was ruthless when it came to this stuff. It made Will wonder what they’d think of him.

“Oh, right. You’d move in with me,” Carlton says, as if it’s obvious. It’s definitely not. 

And for some reason, when those words left Carlton’s mouth, Mike’s soft gaze from the night before appeared in Will’s mind. “You are moving in with me, aren’t you?”

“Um… yeah,” Will says quietly, shaking off the warmth of Mike’s eyes that had just flashed in his head.

“Yeah?”

No. “Yeah! But - there is actually… one other thing.”

“What… other thing?”  Carlton asks. His smile doesn’t falter, but he knows that expression on Will’s face, the one he makes just before he says-

“Mike…?” The name tastes like guilt on his tongue. Carlton exhales softly, a tiny furrow in his brow exposing his irritation. Will can feel it now, that tension every time he brings him up again. No matter how carefully he tries to balance the two, Mike’s name never lands the way he hopes it will.

“I mean,” Will continues. “I promised him I’d stay through the lease, and I’m pretty sure he wants to renew it in July-”

“It’s two months, can’t he just find another roommate?”

“Well - no.” Will says, matter-of-factly. The thought of Mike finding someone else to live with sends a chill down his spine. Four years as roommates, six if you count crashing in Mike’s basement during the great Hawkins quarantine - he can’t imagine it otherwise. “I mean, I guess, but he’s my best friend!”

“I had no idea.” He exclaims with sarcasm. 

“Carlton, I want to move in with you.” Will blurts out.

“Then move in with me!” Carlton says quickly. “You’ve been talking about leaving for months. I mean - this is our future, right? You’re not really going to let a junior lease keep you here.”

Wow. Harsh. 

“Look. I know this is a lot,” Carlton says, taking Will’s hands in his own. “But I don’t wanna wait around anymore for you, or for Mike. Don’t you want this too?”

Will meets his deep blue eyes. He really does love Carlton. He’s kind, steady, and has opened Will up to a world where he doesn’t need to hide anymore, where his sexuality doesn’t feel like a mistake. He admires him, he wants him. 

But there’s always that flicker of unease; they don’t share much else. Carlton is careful, generous, so normal yet so foreign to Will and his own wretched past. He wonders if he could ever truly escape from it. Even as Will leans into the warmth of those hands, he feels an ache in his chest. The knowledge that some part of himself will always belong somewhere else. No matter how much he tries to run. 

“I do, I just-” He stops, thinking about Mike lying on the freezing hardwood floors, that goofy smile, outlining their future playing D&D and Nintendo, fully believing it would last forever. And that… terrifies Will. More than anything. 

“Yeah,” Will says finally, and it feels like stepping off a cliff. “I’ll move in with you.”

”Rent Deregulation & What it Means for Students Off-Campus”

By Louise Wellings, WSN editor 

May 2, 1993

New York State lawmakers are expected to implement changes to the city’s rent regulation laws later this summer that could significantly affect tenants in rent-stabilized apartments. Under the proposed revisions, certain apartments that become vacant after July 7th may be eligible for deregulation if their legal rent meets a specific threshold. Once deregulated, these units would no longer be subject to limits on rent increases or guaranteed lease renewals, allowing landlords to charge market rates.

While these changes are primarily framed as a response to long-standing debates over housing supply and landlord costs, they may have unintended consequences for students living off-campus. Many students rely on shared, rent-stabilized apartments to keep housing affordable during the academic year. If a roommate moves out or a lease is not renewed, a stabilized apartment could lose its protections altogether, resulting in sudden rent increases or the loss of housing. 

As off-campus living becomes increasingly common among NYU students, understanding how rent deregulation works - and how easily protections can be lost - may prove essential in the months ahead.

 

“That is… not great.”

Mike skims the stapled packet dropped before him on the bench system desk, shared by other members working in the Washington Square News office.

The independent student newspaper runs five days a week during the semester, covering NYU and the neighborhoods around it, which lately seems to mean housing, housing, housing. Mike makes a decent amount from the job, but that doesn’t stop him from taking on other gigs. Most of what he earns from writing goes straight toward paying off his student debt, anyway.

As an editor, covering stories comes naturally for Mike. Take a situation, rearrange some facts, water it down until it sounds digestible enough for the masses.

Louise Wellings, a fellow news editor, has wheeled her office chair from the bench of desks behind him and wedged herself into Mike’s space. People had always expected them to date - Mike finds her to be a Lois Lane type of girl (not to be a huge nerd or anything), down to the name. But if anything, Louise reminds him of his sister, Nancy: same hair, same way of writing, same annoying-yet-admirable self-importance. 

So yeah - dating was off the table. Besides, he hadn’t thought about anything remotely romantic since Eleven escaped.

“Tell me about it,” she says, flicking her eyes away, eyebrows jumping in exaggerated sympathy. 

But Mike highly doubts she understands. He recently heard that Louise lives on the Upper East Side in a huge apartment, and that she already has a position lined up at Condé Nast, starting in the fall. Typical. “But they want it by tonight.”

She studies him for a moment, then lets her gaze drift back down to the headline. “Wait, are you actually moving? If you need a place, you’re always welcome to-” Mike is caught off guard by this.  

“What? No, no - Will and I are renewing our lease.”

“Ohh,” she says easily. “Your boyfriend, right?”

Mike winces. He knows the uneasy feeling isn’t malice toward his friend, but something else. Maybe it’s the way it reminds him of high school, of the jocks joking about them being “boyfriends”. Mike wasn’t homophobic or anything; it just wasn’t him, and he didn’t want anyone thinking it was.

“No-!” he exclaims. “He’s… my best friend.” 

She frowns slightly.

“And he’s seeing someone else,” Mike adds quickly. 

“Oh.” Louise says. “Sorry. You just talk about him like you…” She clocks his alarmed expression and turns away. “I dunno. Forget I said anything.”

She rolls her chair back to her desk, already onto something else. Mike flips through the packet, distracting himself with this new article. He fights the familiar urge to take a bite out of the paper - he should really talk to a  doctor about that. Focus on the article, Mike. 

If either Will or Mike moved out, the place they’d made a home out of would be gone and unsalvageable. As long as they stayed put, they were safe. If they didn’t… they wouldn’t be able to live in the apartment anymore.

That would be bad.

Mike exhales slowly, already turning the story into a version he can live with. If he were any good at this, he’d be the hero of it. Instead, he’s just the one writing around the problem, hoping it saves him.

Where’s Superman when you need him?

Ever since Mike and Will started living together in 1986, their routine had stayed the exact same. And Mike loved it.

Back then, it was the cafeteria instead of food trucks. Plastic trays instead of metal plates. They met at lunch every day, sat shoulder to shoulder, traded bites of whatever they hated least. After school, they were biking back to the Wheeler’s house, hours stretched thin between homework and D&D.

College only changed the scenery.

9 AM: Wake up to Will moving around the kitchen. Eat breakfast together. Say bye to Will. Go to morning classes.

11 AM: Call Will to complain about classes. Insist it’s urgent. Beg to meet up for lunch.

12 PM: Meet up with Will and walk until they find something cheap enough - pizza by the slice on St. Marks, a greasy diner, maybe a corner deli. Trade bites. Say bye to Will. Go to work.

4 PM: Meet up for shopping. Which is actually thrift stores and sidewalk sales, Will hunting for something ‘crafty’ and Mike arguing they do not need another paper lantern. Say bye to Will as he goes to an afternoon class. Stop by the apartment for studying before heading out for dinner.

7 PM: Grab dinner wherever the night takes them. Eat on a stoop or a bench or standing up because nothing is permanent. Walk home slow, the city fading around them, talk about everything. 

They’d made time for each other through four years of high school, through dorms and relationships and moving, through everything that tried to tear them apart back in Hawkins. No matter what, it was always the two of them against the world. Nothing ever changed, and nothing ever had to.

That’s why it felt so jarring when exactly twenty one months ago, something finally did.

Will got a boyfriend.

One spring day two years ago, Will told Mike he had been accepted into an NYU summer program in Paris, to which Mike had responded “But I don’t wanna go to Paris!” to which Will had shot back, “Well it’s a good thing you’re not invited.”

It was only four weeks, but the thought still made Mike nervous. He hadn’t been apart from Will for that long since the Byers moved to Lenora. Mike had never been much of a traveler anyway. Never liked the idea of leaving things behind and trusting they’d stay the same. He’d once told El once that he’d run away with her, somewhere with three waterfalls, where no one would find them. He hadn’t actually meant it, though. 

The guilt of that promise still lingers in his heart. Ever since that spring break in ‘86, Mike had learned that distance was never temporary, no matter how much you try to convince yourself.

Before Will left for Paris, Mike made Will promise he’d call him everyday. He didn’t. 

Apparently, calls are quite expensive when you’re three thousand miles across the Earth. Will called three times in the first two weeks, then supposedly ran out of money. At least, that’s what Mike told himself. 

It was fine. Will was coming back either way, he always did. 

Mike made use of the silence by doing the one thing he was good at: by fixing things. He cleaned the apartment until it was practically unrecognizable, threw out junk they’d been hoarding for years, fixed the broken lightbulb in the bathroom, as well as a drawer in Will’s nightstand that wouldn’t close after Will had pulled too hard.

He even went to Will’s favorite thrift shop, a Housing Works a few blocks over, to grab some small knickknacks. Will had dragged him there the first time a few months ago, explaining how it funded housing and care for people with AIDS, built out of protest and mutual aid. Mike thought it was pretty punk rock. It was… cool.

He pictured Will’s reaction to the apartment a few times. Then told himself it didn’t matter. Still though, he caught himself straightening things one last time, just in case.

But when Mike picked Will up from the airport after four lonely weeks, it was Mike in the driver’s seat, Will in the passenger’s seat, and some random man named Carlton in the backseat of their car singing Paula Abdul way too loud.

Who the fuck invited this guy?! 

Mike had never seen Carlton around campus before (Alright fine, ‘The City is Your Campus’, but still!). Also, Carlton was a poli sci major. He only minored in the arts. If you’re going to go on an art trip, at least commit to the bit. And then something wonderful happened in the ‘City of Love” that Mike did not want to hear about. 

Will went to Paris single. Came back with a boyfriend. And just like that, everything changed.

This strange boy Will called his boyfriend began to seep into Mike and Will’s little world, day by day. Lunch. Shopping. Dinner. Carlton. Carlton. Gross.

Some nights, he even stayed over, and Mike had to face him at the ass crack of dawn after listening to that agitating voice all night while God knows what was happening in Will’s bedroom. 

On several nights, neither of them were in New York at all. After Will and Carlton got together, it felt like they did nothing but go on trips. It felt like Carlton kept snatching Will from him. 

So yeah. Mike wasn’t exactly in love with Will’s boyfriend. 

But tonight, Will’s stupid boyfriend would be up late in his own apartment doing something for his spring thesis, so it was an ideal night. Mike, Will, and their shitty little apartment. Perfect. They had just spent three hours powering through their final projects with a lot of encouragement and a lot of metal cans. 

It’s 11:57 - late enough to sleep, early enough to have a second round of drinks. Will is not letting Mike choose the latter. So Mike slips into his pajama pants, an old shirt he found in the corner of his bedroom that says ‘BRONSKI BEAT: THE AGE OF CONSENT’, and joins Will in the bathroom.

As they silently brush the remnants of late night drinks from their mouths, Mike notices Will’s damp hair curling at the nape of his neck after his shower. The water bill was left on the kitchen counter - he should’ve taken care of that. 

The bathroom light hits perfectly, catching the subtle shine of damp hair, the curve of Will’s collarbone, the hazel in his eyes. Good thing he’d replaced the lightbulb - the lighting in this apartment is great! Mike’s eyes drift to Will’s torso. 

He’s wearing Mike’s Superman shirt, as it hangs slightly loose at the waist, clinging across his chest, stretching over his shoulders to show the curve of his biceps. Isn’t it crazy their apartment number is 344, like Clark Kent? How perfect. 

The apartment, that is. 

“I’m going to bed,” Will says, dropping his toothbrush in the cup. Mike does a triple take. Spit, rinse, sink, brush in cup - done. He follows Will out of the bathroom, through the hall and into his bedroom. This was Mike’s favorite part of the night. The few minutes before sleep when nothing was expected of them. When they could talk, or eat, or do absolutely nothing at all. Nothing more expected, nothing more wanted.

“Those tequila girls were right. We are like a married couple that doesn’t have sex anymore.” Will says, dropping back onto his bed, elbows propped behind him. His eyes flick up to Mike leaning against the doorframe.

Mike raises his brows, arms crossed. “Sure. Except for you having a boyfriend, me liking girls, and us both being guys, so there’s less… y’know.” he tilts his head “Real world probability.”

“Okay. No need to get so stingy. Just saying, it’s a pretty accurate description.” Will lets out a small, awkward laugh, eyes dropping to the comforter. The words come out awkwardly from Will’s mouth, and Mike couldn’t tell if Will was still a little drunk. He hadn’t had much, but Will’s tolerance was famously bad - he barely drank at all, especially since his dad was such a heavy drinker. Will doesn’t talk about it much. 

“I’m sorry if that’s weird.” 

“It’s fine, it’s just…” Mike watches Will hold his breath, heart tightening. He can see Will holding back, can see the way he’s bracing himself for the worst. 

And the worst comes out of Mike’s mouth:

“Do you and Carlton still have sex?”

Why would he say that??

“What?” Will’s eyebrows shoot up, his mouth parting slightly in surprise. 

“I’m just asking.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence before Will finally answers. “Why are you asking me this?”

Mike asks the same question to himself as he stands up straight off the doorframe, uncrossing his arms. Why is he asking him this? Oh, yeah. Because he fucking hates Carlton. And Mike figures: If Will really is going to date a guy with the personality of a floorboard and the interests of a middle schooler… Well, he might as well be satisfied. “I just wanna make sure my best friend’s boyfriend isn’t terrible.”

“Right…”

“So is he? Terrible?”

“Mike.”

“I’m not asking for details,” he says quickly. “It’s just a yes or no question.”

Will exhales through his nose, not understanding the sudden interest. He shifts himself higher up his bed and his head sinks into the yellow pillows. “Carlton’s a nice guy. I think you should give him a chance.”

Mike scoffs and crosses the room in two steps, dropping onto the bed next to the other boy. His knee knocks lightly against Will’s nightstand as he shifts, the drawer giving a soft, uneven rattle earning a small laugh out of Will. Mike shifts, turns toward him, and settles in.

“Sleep in your own bed,” Will teases.

“Why?” Mike moved closer, already tugging the blanket up with his foot. “This apartment is freezing.”

“Because you’re still drunk, and you snore when intoxicated.”

“That’s so not true, I’m completely sober!”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Mike hums, unconvinced, and settles in anyway, head finding its place against Will’s chest. At some point, neither of them notices when the blanket is fully over them, heat trapped, their legs tangled comfortably.

“I love you, Will.” The words slip out so easily. But it’s nothing to panic about, because it’s true. Will’s his best friend. It’s not like saying it to a girlfriend, where it actually counts. “Even if you love your terrible, rich boyfriend more than me.”

“My terrible, rich boyfriend doesn’t leave a dish with a casserole in it in the sink for three days.“

Mike lifts his head just enough to look at him. “Hey. What about that time you made a cake?”

Will pauses. Thinks. Then he smiles, soft and sleepy, and it makes Mike happy. 

“I love you, too.”

Mike lets his head drop back into place. He thinks- no- he knows for a fact that he could live like this forever. The city hums outside, distant and irrelevant. Will’s breathing evens out beneath him, slow and steady, and at some point Mike’s does too.

Eventually, they fall asleep. So peaceful. So… perfect.

Mike wakes up alone and lightheaded in Will’s bed, the morning sun hitting him straight in the face, burning his eyes. He groans and rolls onto his other side, away from the light. He’s been having recurring dreams of grinding his teeth until they break. Maybe the universe is trying to send him a message. Or maybe he just needs to invest in a mouth guard. Nah, it’s definitely the universe.

Suddenly, Mike hears faint rustling from across the room. That’s strange, Mike thinks. Will’s usually in the kitchen by now, making a single breakfast or a cup of coffee for just himself, since Mike refuses to have anything but ice cubes in the morning. 

He groggily forces his head off the soft pillow, and spots him. Will is on his knees in front of the open closet, bent over a plastic storage box. He looks half-asleep himself, hair all messed up, the same Superman shirt riding up his back, plaid shorts riding up his thighs. 

Mike blinks, brain lagging a full beat behind his wandering eyes. Will abruptly drops something into the box. Mike takes a closer look. Art supplies, sketchbooks, and… Will’s D&D binder?! That wakes Mike up. 

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing—?!” Mike says, throwing the blanket off himself and stumbling off the bed toward the closet. 

Will startles, quickly settles back on his knees, and looks up at Mike with a ‘caught’ expression. “I’m packing for my trip with Carlton. We’re going to his family’s place in Cambridge right after graduation, remember?”

Mike glances into the box. “And you’re packing your D&D binder?”

Will hesitates. “His… cousins like D&D.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Will rolls his eyes and turns back to the box. Mike is hovering over him. “Will. Friends don’t lie.” 

Will stands up, still looking above at Mike despite being on his feet. “I don’t know for sure.”

“Know what for sure?” Mike’s brows knit together.

“I just - I didn’t… want to do it without knowing if it’s okay with you first.” Will stutters. 

“Do what without knowing if what is okay with me first!?” Mike says harshly.

Will swallows. “Carlton asked me to move in with him.” The words come out fast like he’s ripping off a bandaid. “It’s this really great apartment in Tribeca. Which is what I’ve always wanted. You know that.” 

Mike did not know that. Since when was Will a nomad?! 

He gestures vaguely at the box. “I don’t want to say yes if you’re not okay with it. But he needs an answer by tomorrow, so… I kind of have to say something today.”

Confusion, disbelief and mostly hurt- all of it crashes into Mike at once.

“So… Cambridge was just… what? A cover? A trip you were planning on taking without coming back? Have you been lying to me this whole time?” His voice cracks at the end, and Mike hates himself for letting it sound so desperate.

“No - Cambridge’s real, Mike. I haven’t lied. I just… didn’t tell you about the other part.” Will definitely hears how selfish it sounds even as it leaves his mouth. “He told me about it yesterday, and I couldn’t just say no. And… the rent…”

“What, this - this is about the rent? Because Carlton has money, and you don’t have to be on his ass about paying the rent anymore?!”

Will is taken back by the unfamiliar edge in Mike’s voice. “It’s not about the money! I mean- okay, it is, partially, but - Mike!”

“I’ve been picking up countless of stupid jobs for this apartment. I was a fucking caddie! It was physically exhausting, and I smelled like grass and old people for a month.” Mike trails off. It’s true. Mike had never been on his feet for that long in his life. And he did smell like grass and old people for a month.

“Okay, fine - I’ll pay until the end of the lease. But you know, it’s only another two months anyway. And then we’ll graduate, and move on with our lives.”

Mike’s chest tightens. Feels like someone punched him square in the stomach. Moving out hadn’t even been on his radar. 

“Are you okay?” Will’s voice softens, almost pleading. 

Mike looks away. “I kind of thought that we were gonna renew our lease.”

Will exhales, and Mike couldn’t understand why Will didn’t seem to even care. “I know. But… maybe this is good. You can’t tie yourself down in one spot forever y’know. Change… change can be good.”

Will passes Mike and starts walking toward the kitchen with a sigh, heading for the coffee machine. Mike pads after him like a dog, practically leaning on his shoulder. Will groans, fumbling with the coffee grounds and trying to ignore Mike’s looming presence.

“I mean, I’m just saying… The Washington Square News is about to run this terrifying article on rent deregulation. If you move now, rents are gonna spike, I’ll be broke, kicked out by the landlord…” Will merely dodges Mike’s flailing arm as he goes on about the terrifying story that Mike himself helped to write.

“And then one day, like, ten years from now, you’ll be strolling down the streets of New York after some fancy trip to Europe with your terrible rich boyfriend-” Will grimaces at the words. 

“-and I’ll be homeless, pretending to read palms and tell the future as my source of income,”

Will sighs, sticking to the coffee like it’s his lifeline. If Mike keeps drifting closer like this, he’s going to be pressed against Will’s back before the kettle even finishes heating.

“…and you’ll feel bad and offer to move back in with me, but it’ll be too late! Prices will have spiked because you moved to Tribeca with Carlton, and we’ll never live together again, and that’ll be the end of our friendship as we know it-”

“Mike.” Will’s voice cuts through Mike’s monologue.

“Yeah?” Mike leans closer, head cocked like a confused puppy.

“Find. A new. Roommate.” Will finally meets Mike’s eyes for the first time since they entered the kitchen, lifts his mug, takes a sip, and walks out.

Mike stands there, stunned. In just five minutes, his whole future got turned upside down. 

Some Superman you are, Will Byers.

‘Steinhardt Seniors Present Thesis Work in BFA Exhibition’

By Mike Wheeler, WSN editor 

May 7, 1993

The Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development opened its Senior Studio BFA exhibition yesterday night, showcasing the culminating thesis work of studio art majors in a group show spanning multiple gallery spaces at 80 Washington Square East.

The exhibition, the result of a year-long Senior Studio sequence, features painting, sculpture, and mixed media works developed under the guidance of faculty mentors. Each student was given an individual gallery space to present a cohesive body of work reflecting their artistic practice.

Featured in one Steinhardt senior exhibition, Will Byers’ work centers on memory and emotional distance, using drawing and mixed media as an attempt to articulate mysterious moments. His practice reflects an ongoing interest in how relationships are felt with little to no explanation. 

In an interview with The Washington Square News, Byers reflected on his time at NYU, his approach to artmaking, and the ideas shaping his senior exhibition.

WSN: Could you tell me about your background in art, and how that brought you to studying here at NYU? 

Will: I’ve always liked art. When I was younger - way younger - probably before I could even talk, I was already drawing, like, space ships and jungle animals all over the house. My dad wasn’t a huge fan of that, so I learned pretty quickly to keep it on paper. Most of my inspiration growing up actually came from this game, Dungeons & Dragons. I thought it was really cool. I’d draw me and my friends as our characters, fighting monsters, saving the world together. It’s stupid. But that’s where I learned how to paint, how to sketch, how to build worlds. I think art’s always been an outlet for me. It’s hard to be yourself, to actually say what you feel. When I paint, I don’t have to explain it. Everything just falls into place. Is that weird?

WSN: I don’t think so. Could you tell us about NYU? 

I didn’t want to stay in one place for my whole life. Back home, a lot of who I was felt tied to other people’s expectations, and I wanted the chance to figure things out on my own. New York felt like a place where that was possible. Steinhardt’s studio art program stood out to me because it’s very hands-on and flexible - there’s room to work across painting, drawing, and sculpture without being pushed into one specific direction. They also offered me a combination of financial aid and scholarships that helped, especially as a studio art major where materials and personal space matter so much. My brother had already gone to Tisch, so I had an idea of the school and I wouldn’t feel too overwhelmed. But mostly, I chose Steinhardt because it gave me the space to grow and make work without having to explain myself all the time.

WSN: Many of your pieces reference fantasy imagery and imagined worlds. What draws you to that visual language?

Will:  People say different dimensions exist all around us, but we can’t perceive them. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation, but I like to think that when I feel an emotion or experience something, it connects me to that other world - wherever it is. Like, the smell of waffles or the sound of rain on wood… random things can pull me into those worlds, where I feel more connected to the feeling and can put it onto paper. For me, it’s a deeper way of feeling, a way to represent thoughts in a more abstract way.

WSN: What are you hoping to explore next, now that you’re graduating?

Will: Honestly… I don’t really know. Probably travel more, make more art, see how it all fits together. Just… keep doing what I love and see where it takes me.

(This interview has been edited for professional reasons.)

May 8th, 1993

“Wait, so like - who even are you? Like, why are you here?”

Mike is on the floor with his back against the couch, knees pulled in, red Solo cup tight in his hand. There are too many people for this flat in Bushwick, with voices overlapping and music blasting. He doesn’t really know anyone at this party. Not like he knows Will or the rest of his friends.

“I know the host,” Mike says. “Rachel?”

The blonde girl - who’s been hovering near him ever since her boyfriend (ex-boyfriend?) called her a whore and stormed out after she threw a drink at him - tilts her head. Her mascara’s smudged, but she seems enthralled. “Ohhh, okay. How’d you meet?”

“Through a mutual… uh.” Mike pauses. “Do you know Will?”

“Will,” she repeats. “Which Will? I know like seven.”

“Byers?”

Across the coffee table, a girl perks up like she’s just been summoned. “No shot. I think I’m fucking his boyfriend’s brother.”

The room reacts immediately with a mixture of laughter and groans. Mike blinks. How did he get here? 

It’s been a week since Will broke the news.

A week of cardboard boxes stacked by the door. A week of Mike inventing reasons not to go home. Late nights, extra shifts, parties like this one. He misses the apartment. He misses Will. But he can’t stand to see the place mid-disassembly, watching someone else move on while he stays exactly where he is. 

And Will is probably out right now with his new artist friends and dumbass boyfriend, living an entirely separate life. Mike is here because he needs to prove, to himself more than anyone, that he also has friends in New York.

It’s not like he can just hang out with the Party anymore. They went their separate ways, and it turns out saving the world doesn’t come with compensation for plane tickets. 

“Oh, you’re fucking…” Mike thinks for a second. “Tom?”

The girl nods proudly. “Yeah. Wait - how do you know Will?”

“We met in kindergarten,” Mike says, a little sharper than he means to. “We literally live together.” For now.

“Omigod,” the blonde says. “You’re that Mike!” Mike does not like the idea of there being a that version of him.

“You should know,” she adds, “Will speaks so highly of you.”

“Oh.” Mike straightens up without realizing it. “Yeah, well - we’re best friends. He’s been to my house for Christmas, like, three times growing up.” Talking about Will feels good. He’s been quiet most of the night, but he suddenly has an urge to keep speaking. 

“Why can’t he just go to his own house?” A boy with glasses asks from the couch. Where are these people coming from? And why are they so interested in Mike’s best friend? 

“He’s Jewish,” Mike says, because obviously. These people know nothing about Will Byers.

The Byers family hadn’t celebrated Christmas until Lonnie left, when an eight year old Mike Wheeler suggested, very earnestly, that Will ask Santa to make him another dad. Will had burst into tears. But still, it did something. Christmas became a thing for them after that.

“You know, he was just raving about how much he loved you last week.” The boy with glasses says.

Mike’s stomach drops. “You… hung out with Will last week? Where were you guys?”

“It was that new restaurant that just opened, Pó? On Cornelia Street?

“Pó? Is that, like- is it good?” Mike asks too quickly. “Did Will like it? Wait, who else was there?”

“It was me and my girlfriend,” the guy says, “and that guy he fucks. Like ‘carcinogen’ or some shit.” Carlton. But that works too. 

The blonde laughs a little too hard. “Nolan, stop! Sorry about him, he’s a pre-med major.”

“Pre-med isn’t a major, Poppy, how many times do I have to say this?!”

She, Poppy, apparently - turns back to Mike, eyes glittering with interest. “So who have you been fucking, Wheeler?”

“Oh,” Mike says automatically. “No, I don’t fuck. I make love.” He jokes.

“Mike Wheeler: Undateable,” Nolan declares too loudly, and the laughter swells again. He squints, and Mike feels like he’s getting his soul searched by this guy. “Dude, are you anemic? You’re like- really pale.”

Mike tilts his head to the side. “What? No! I’m perfectly healthy, I went to the doctor like three years ago-”

“Wait,” someone else says, frowning at Mike. “Aren’t you, like… way older than Will?”

Mike stares at them. Is everyone here stupid? Why can’t Will just call him and tell him to come home? “No, we met in kindergarten, I literally just said that-”

“But you seem older.”

“Will’s actually a month older than me.”

“Sure,” Poppy says slowly, leaning in closer toward Mike. “But you seem older. Like… way older. But also less grown-up. It’s weird.”

Someone who hasn’t spoken all night adds, unprompted, “And way less put together.”

Mike exhales and leans his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. He’s not in the mood to be defending himself right now. He hasn’t been in the mood for anything, lately. He just wants things to go back to the way they used to be. 

Things have been weird between him and Will this past week. They’re still best friends, and it’s not like they’ve stopped talking completely, but there’s that thin lace of tension tied between their words. If they could just talk about it… but there was nothing to talk about. Will is leaving, and when the lease ends, so is Mike.

Mike returns home earlier than he had planned. His ears are still ringing from a bass boosted “Forever Your Girl”. He’d assumed Will wouldn’t be home - probably still out with Carlton and friends at some East Side dive, nursing cheap drinks and laughing.

The key turns with a sharp click, and the apartment greets him with a BANG! Something really heavy must have fallen from one of the bedrooms. He looks around and spots… boxes, boxes, and more boxes. Awesome.  

He heads toward his room to check on whatever had fallen, but something stops him. The faintest echo of music; like - actually good music, unlike the shit from Bushwick. Real music, coming from the bedroom across the hall-

“-Through the storm we reach the shore,

You give it all, but I want more,

And I’m waiting for you,”

With or Without You by U2. He debates it for a moment, and turns to Will’s bedroom.  Things are weird between the two, but it’s not weird enough that he can’t walk into Will’s room. They’ve been doing that their whole lives. It’s normal.

Right?

Mike swings Will’s door open, to be greeted by Will sitting on the floor, as per usual. But this time there’s a big cardboard box next to him and his nightstand lies on its side in front of Will. The record player hums softly behind him.

“With or without you…”

Will is wearing a blue and white striped jumper going over his palms, fuzzy socks, and the same shorts from before. His hair’s all messed up, and Mike can’t describe him as anything but tired right now. 

“You’re back. Where’ve you been?” Will presses.

“I was… hanging out with some friends.” Friends. Mike doesn’t look at him when he says it. “Have you been here this whole time?”

Will snorts softly. “Yeah. I’ve been sitting here for the past hour like an idiot trying to disassemble my nightstand with zero progress.”

Mike looks at the oak nightstand. It’s on its side, sure - but the drawers are still in. No screws scattered on the floor, not even a scratch in the wood. The toolbox on the floor is completely full, aside from the screwdriver in Will’s hand, which also seems unused. Mike blinks.

An hour, my ass. 

It hits him then, that the nightstand was dropped earlier. Will must’ve tipped it over just before this, after hearing the door open. That was the sound. But then- why would Will lie to Mike about something as stupid as that? Why would Will lie at all? Will has kept things from Mike, sure, but he’s never outright lied to Mike in his life.

Will stretches his arm out toward Mike anyway, the same screwdriver in hand. “Can you help me out?”

Mike considers it. His hand twitches, it was basically a reflex to accept anything Will gives him. But then: “Why don’t ask your boyfriend to come over? I’m sure he’d be more than happy to help.”

“He left the apartment a few hours ago. He got pretty drunk.” Will cuts in. But that doesn’t really track, either. If Carlton really got drunk, why would he go home? His apartment isn’t walking distance, and Mike knows Will would never let someone he cares about drive home drunk. So many things aren’t adding up in Mike’s mind right now. 

‘And you give yourself away…’

On top of that, Mike hadn’t even noticed how shaky Will’s voice was until now. Will’s lips are sore, darker than usual, like a crimson red (not that he pays attention to that stuff). His eyes are glassy and pink around the edges. It’s like waking up with intense blood vessel dilation lining the eyes.

Oh. Will was crying. 

“Didn’t want him messing with screwdrivers drunk, right?” He laughs, voice cracking and getting higher towards the end of the sentence. Mike feels his stomach turn. He’s gonna be sick. 

Mike has a very strong feeling Will isn’t telling the truth - or at least, not the entire truth. He’s editing the story, Mike knows the feeling all too well. He doesn’t dare to press further. But whatever happened before he got home, it’s sitting heavy on Will’s chest. He looks down, taking a slow breath, grounding himself; Mike’s seen that before.

‘And you give, 

And you give yourself away…’

Will looks back up, forcing a smile. “Plus… you fixed that lightbulb, didn’t you? What’s disassembling a nightstand?”

And suddenly, a pattern clicks into place. Every time Will had cancelled lunch. Every time he got anxious when bringing up graduation. Every time he talked about how much he loved living here, with Mike- and then added, but Carlton says…

Of course! Will doesn’t want to move in with Carlton. He’s been going along with it, like a play. He wants to stay, but he just can’t because Carlton travels. Because Carlton has plans. And Will - accommodating, agreeable Will - follows, even if it means giving himself away. 

“My body bruised, she got me with,

Nothing to win,

And nothing left to lose…”

That has to be it. It’s the only explanation that makes sense… In Mike’s head, at least.

Mike feels stupid for not seeing this earlier, for letting himself believe Will would actually want to leave him. Just thinking about it, the idea almost feels ridiculous. 

Graduation is in one week. Will leaves the morning after. He’ll be gone until the start of July, and when he comes back, there’ll be exactly one week left on the lease.

Two weeks.

That’s all Mike has. Two weeks and once chance to remind Will: who he is, why they moved in together in the first place, and why this is home. 

Whatever this is - whatever direction Will’s life is being forced into - it needs fixing. And if there’s one thing Mike knows how to do, it’s fixing things.

And it starts with breaking apart this nightstand. 

May 12th, 1993

Mike is not schizophrenic. 

Yes, he makes up stories for D&D campaigns, uses his position at WSN to change descriptions to fit the story he made up in his head, and lies about being Australian to random waiters…

But those are conscious decisions! He is very much in tune with reality.

So in tune, in fact, that Mike notices things no one else does. 

In the days leading up to graduation, Mike writes. He writes down his observations; on Will and Carlton. Mostly Will, since they live together. Anything that feels off. Anything that could be useful for his newest mission: Operation Fix Will and Kill Carlton.

Observe:

“May 10th, 1993 

Will had a bagel with ham and cheese on it this morning. He gave me a bite and I thought it was pretty yummy. I also had a glass of milk. 

Will usually eats toast, and I’m pretty sure Carlton doesn’t eat pork. 

Which proves Will is still making choices for himself. Good.”

Today, Carlton is sitting next to Will on the bar stools at their kitchen island. The stools are reserved for Mike and Will. Today, Carlton is sitting in Mike’s spot, while Mike is sprawled on the couch behind them. Carlton is phasing Mike out.

Mike jots that down in his notepad. He’s watching them talk, laugh; listening to their conversation drift, inevitably, to their upcoming trip.

Right. That.

The day after graduation, they’re hopping a plane to Cambridge, Massachusetts for two weeks to visit Carlton’s family. By the time they’re back, there’ll be exactly one week left on the lease.

One week.

That’s not a lot of time left.

Shit. 

“You should pack a sweater,” Carlton says. “It could get cold.” Cambridge. June. Cold?

Wait. Mike gets it - Carlton is making Will pack extra things so his suitcase gets heavier. Then Will will have to pay a fee to get it on the plane. And since Will is poor, Carlton will offer to pay it for him. Which is exactly how financial dependence starts. Write that down, quickly!

Mike keeps watching them, jaw tight, pen digging into the paper.

“So, Mike,” Carlton says, facing Mike now. “You find a roommate yet?”

Both Will and Carlton are facing him. Mike freezes. He looks down at his notes, then back up at the couple. 

“Oh. Yeah. For sure.” He nods, then immediately drops his gaze to continue scribbling nonsense. 

Will raises his eyebrows. “Wait… really?” There’s something fragile in his voice now. He almost looks hurt. “Who?”

“Huh-? Oh, yeah, I’m moving in with, uh…” Mike thinks. 

“Louise.” Mike says absentmindedly. He remembers Louise once telling Mike if he ever needed a place to stay, he could crash. He doesn’t have to worry about that, though. Since Will is staying. 

Will’s bottom lip pushes out before he can stop it. “Louise from the paper? You’re- you’re moving in with her?”

Carlton lights up. “Oh, I love Louise. I didn’t know you guys were dating.”

“They’re not, they-” Will says quickly, then hesitates. He glances at Carlton, then back at Mike. “I mean… are you?”

“No. No.” Mike shakes his head. “We’re coworkers.”

Carlton nods. “Huh. That’s cool. Heard her place was nice. Upper East Side, I think.” Will lets out a measly “ohh”, turns back toward the counter, shoulders angling away from Mike. The conversation resumes without Mike. 

Their conversion returns to graduation, which is in three days - May fourteenth.

Carlton is graduating with a Bachelor’s in Political Science and a minor in Art History, with a near perfect GPA. Will couldn’t stop boasting about it when they first started dating. Mike could probably have high grades too, but most of his hours were spent working and hanging out with Will. His money came from hours and shifts instead of weekly deposits from his parents. 

Mike doesn’t really know why science needs to be political or why art needs history, but he’s not asking. Carlton loves explaining things. He’s got a family-connection internship lined up, guaranteed to turn full-time. Not that it matters, though. Carlton doesn’t even need a job.

Will, meanwhile, is graduating with a B.F.A. in Studio Art. He had been working on his thesis exhibition for months and didn’t have time for much else - it was required to log a minimum of twenty-five hours a week in his private studio, so he couldn’t work nearly as much as Mike. But Mike didn’t mind. Will interns at the Museum of Modern Art.

“Hey Will, Pó is still good for dinner, right?” Mike interrupts. He purposefully leaves out the fact that it won’t just be the two of them. Mrs. Byers and Hopper are visiting for three days in honour of their graduation. Well - Will’s graduation. But they’ve always treated Mike with more respect than most adults, so it’s all the same. Karen and Holly are also flying in  later - Mike only secured three guest tickets, and Ted oh so graciously offered to sit this one out so Nancy could attend. 

“Huh? Oh- yeah. For sure!” Will smiles brightly. “I’m excited.”

Mike returns it. Lately, he’s been doing more for Will: more dinners out, more late nights, more planned activities. He had tried to sit with Will in the studio while he worked on his senior exhibit, but Will refused to show him any of the paintings until the BFA show, which was shown just the other day. It was amazing. 

There were massive canvases taking up entire walls, smaller studies pinned up in careful clusters, and sculptures made of wood and metal arranged on low white platforms. Mike recognized a few D&D creatures right away - a beholder, the thessalhydra - and one large painting titled ‘The Sorcerer’. Will told him he’d been keeping that exact piece from Mike as a surprise. Mike was ecstatic. The colors were intense, the details sharp enough that he kept stepping closer without realizing it. It was just really cool! It looked like something you’d see in a book cover or a game manual, except it was Will’s.

But there was one artpiece Mike couldn’t quite decipher. 

It was smaller than the rest, half-hidden behind another model. A chalk painting, almost entirely blue and yellow. Two human-shaped figures stood at the edge of a shoreline beneath a wide, golden sunset. One figure was standing. The other sat by the water. Neither of them had faces or details, just the silhouettes. Only one of the figures, the standing one - had a reflection in the water, slightly stretched by the ripples. The standing figure was turned toward the other, while the sitting one looked down at the water. 

The sky took up most of the canvas, layered with uneven bands of greenish yellow fading into indigo, chalk dust still visible near the edges.

When asked about it, Will just shrugged and said he had some extra time. But it didn’t stop Mike from thinking about what his art really means to him.

Officially, this is all for his research. Keeping an eye on things, and making sure nothing slips past him.

Unofficially though… he just likes being around his best friend.

Maybe it’s because he’s paying closer attention now. Or maybe he always noticed and just never let himself appreciate it. 

Like how Will’s jaw drops at the smallest surprises. How his eyes water when he eats peppers, even though he insists it’s ‘so good!’. How he flips his hands over when he needs to tell left from right, checking for the tiny mole on his ring finger like his very own built-in compass. And most of all, Mike notices that despite how unfair life has been to him, Will is still kind.

And that feels important.

Carlton heads out after a bit, grabbing his coat, and Will follows him to the front door. “Sorry I can’t make it tonight.” 

So Will did tell Carlton about their plans tonight. Huh. 

Will smiles. “That’s alright. You’ll meet them at graduation.” He gives Carlton a quick peck on the cheek and nudges him toward the door. Mike rolls his eyes. 

“Desperate to see me leave, huh?” Carlton jokes.

“Just get out of here, man,” Mike blurts out. He didn’t mean for it to come out that sharp, but Carlton is really starting to piss him off. Will’s eyes dart nervously between the two.

“Gee, no need to be so stingy.” That’s what Will told Mike two weeks ago. Did he get that from Carlton?

Carlton turns back to Will. “I’ll see you in two days. Tell your mom and Hop bye for me, ’kay?”

Mike cringes at Carlton calling Hopper “Hop.” Who does he think he is, using Hawkins lingo like it’s nothing? Mike is beginning to notice Carlton and Will have been talking similarly. When did they get so close?

Finally, Carlton leaves. Will closes the door and lets out a long sigh. He slowly turns his head over to Mike, sitting on the couch with an eyebrow raised. They stare at each other for a second before bursting into laughter.

“What is your problem?” Will exclaims through a grin. 

“What’s my problem, what’s his problem?!”

“Mike, I told you to be nice to him.”

“I’m trying, alright? It’s just hard when he keeps saying stuff like ‘word up’ in conversation.”

Will smiles at Mike. They share a soft look - it holds a calmness neither of them have felt in a long time. It feels funny, but mostly sad. 

Because Mike knows deep down, no matter how many entries he writes, or digs he makes at Carlton - no matter how much he tries to convince himself, he knows the truth. They both do. Mike and Will’s story is going to end. And watering it down, paraphrasing the truth - that feels easier than reading. 

“My mom and Hop’s flight should land in, like, an hour,” Will says. “So we should probably get ready.”

Mike and Will wait on molded plastic chairs by the gate at JFK International Airport. They’re both tired of waiting, and have quite frankly run out of things to talk about.

“I don’t think eating paper is normal.”

“I don’t eat the paper Will, I just crave it. I think that’s normal for pregnant women.”

“You’re not pregnant, Mike.”

“Yet.”

Will furrows his eyebrows, turns away, and sinks into his chair.  

Jonathan, slouched in the seat beside them, lets out a tired huff and takes another sip of his coffee. He’s been running on fumes lately, riding out the success of his debut film, The Consumer, and the sudden, ironic demand for more. His next project is supposed to be a critique of that very demand, while also, inevitably, fulfilling it. Art imitates life. Or whatever.

Mike bumps Will’s knee with his own. Before Will can respond he spots them.

Joyce and Hopper come through sliding doors, looking inexplicably refreshed for two people who just got off a flight. Joyce’s brunette waves fall perfectly over her dark purple jumper as she cuts through the sea of exhausted travelers.

Hopper’s dressed in a worn jacket over a button-down, carrying everything - suitcases, garment bag, Joyce’s tote - while Joyce has her carry-on looped over her shoulder. 

“Mom!” Will waves, jumping out of his seat.

“My boys!" Joyce beams, and Mike likes to think she’s referring to all three of them. 

She crushes Will in a tight, motherly hug. “Oh, I’m so proud of you!”

“Mom, I haven’t even graduated yet,” Will laughs.

She pulls back just enough to hold his face. “I know. But still.” Then she spots Jonathan, now half-awake. “And you - you look like you’ve been working hard.”

Jonathan manages a smile as she goes in to embrace her eldest son. “Love you too, Mom.”

Her attention shifts to Mike, hovering just behind, rocking back and forth on heels with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Mike.” She says pleasantly. 

“Hi, Mrs. Byers.” He steps toward Joyce, slow and careful, before she enthusiastically pulls him into a hug just as warm.

“I’m proud of you, too. How have you been? Are we having dinner at your place?”

Will winces. “We’re okay, and we… don’t have a table.”

Hopper frowns. “No table? How do you even live?”

Jonathan cracks one eye open. “They don’t.”

Mike and Will exchange a look, grinning. “We make it work,” Mike says.

A second of silence passes before Joyce’s eyes sharpen, turning her head to Will with urgency. “Is a certain someone joining us tonight?”

Will shakes his head. “Not tonight. He has plans with some old friends. You’ll see him at graduation, though.” Jonathan hums, drifting into thought.

The night moves pretty quickly after that. The group split into two cabs - Mike rode alone with Hopper and the rest of the luggage, a silent ride to say the least. Mike attempted to break the silence during one instance, where the cab drove down a slope, and Mike blurted out “Hey, it looks like a valley!” only to be met by a gruff scoff. Jonathan, Will, and Joyce’s cab ran behind the other, running a few minutes late to dinner - the three of them looking more alive than when they left the airport. 

At Pó, the energy evens out. Joyce and Hopper bicker fondly over the menu, laugh too loud, and ask questions bordering care and invasiveness. Jonathan chokes on his drink when Hopper casually asks when he’s planning to ‘pop the question’ to Nancy. 

Everyone’s laughing, shining in the low restaurant light, and near the end of the meal, Mike glances up and catches Will’s eye across the table. For a brief, quiet second, the noise fades, and it feels like the world reduces to just the two of them. When it’s over, they split again into different groups - Joyce, Hopper, and Jonathan into one cab, Mike and Will into another, heading home.

“You look happy.” Mike says.

“I am happy. It was nice seeing everyone together again.” Will hesitates. “But… does it ever make you sad?”

“What, seeing my parents? More annoyed than sad, but I guess-”

“No, not like that.” Will looks out the window, watching the city smear past. “It’s just… the more time I spend with the people I love, the more I think about losing them. About how everything’s ending so fast. How nothing’s ever going to be the same again.”

Mike waits for a moment, studying Will’s expression. The taxi rattles over a pothole. He reaches for Will’s hand with no hesitation, lacing their fingers together in the space between them.

“I get it.”

Will turns to him. “You do?”

“Yeah. I really do” Mike swallows. “These past few days have been… scary. I spent so long thinking everything would stay the same.” His voice dips. “And it’s not. You’re moving, and-”

He stops.

Too much. Definitely too much.

He looks back to Will. Will’s expression shifts into something apologetic. “I’m sorry,” Will mumbles quietly.

“No, don’t apologize! I’m not mad at you for wanting to move. Or- I’m not mad because of you, I-” Mike stutters, trying to find the right words. “I’m actually- I’m actually not mad at all. It’s just… if something funny happens on the way to the deli, you’ll only tell one person, and that'll be Carlton. And I’ll never hear about it.” His voice trembles. He turns his face away.

Will squeezes his hand. “Mike. You’re not losing me. If I’m in Tribeca, or Hawkins, or-”

“Or Paris?”

Will huffs a small laugh. “Or Paris.” He leans closer. “It’s still us. It’s always us. As friends. Best friends.”

“Thanks,” Mike says. It comes out thin.

“Of course.”

The cab keeps moving. The city hums outside, taunting and unreal. After a while, Will’s head tips gently against Mike’s shoulder, breath evening out as he drifts off. Their hands stay glued together

Mike stays very still, afraid to wake him. He watches the way the streetlights slide across Will’s face, the rise and fall of his chest, the familiar weight of him there. And for a moment, despite everything - Mike feels things will be okay. 

May 14th, 1993

“Was that good? How did I look?”

It’s the morning of graduation, and Mike and Will are taking turns recording each other on the camcorder, trying different walks for when they cross the stage so they don’t make total fools out of themselves.

Will laughs at the VHS playback of Mike rehearsing his stage walk. Their convocations start in a little under an hour. They’d woken up at seven that morning to eat breakfast (Will had toast, Mike had ice cubes) and pick out their outfits. Mike tried to wear his old Hellfire shirt under his purple robe to emulate Dustin’s graduation moment back in high school because it was ‘totally powerful!’, but Will said absolutely not, and forced him into a dark blue dress-shirt. Will wore a yellow one to match. 

“I wish I could be there to see you on stage,” Will says, lowering the camera. Mike studied creative writing, and Will in studio art, meaning the boys both attend different colleges within NYU. Their school-specific graduations - ‘convocations’ - would be held separately before the all commencement ceremony at the Yankees Stadium with all NYU graduates. 

“You’ll see me at the Yankees,” Mike says.

“Yeah, but it’s not the same,” Will replies. “If you mess up the first time, you’ll fix it the second. So I’ll just be bored.”

Mike laughs. “You want to see me fall in front of our entire graduating class?”

“I didn’t say it.”

A knock sounds at the door. 

Will moves to answer it, and Mike immediately feels annoyed - they couldn’t wait just a minute longer? And who’s knocking at nine in the morning anyway? 

Of course. Carlton. He stands at the door, smiling in his purple robe, holding a bouquet of yellow roses.

“Oh my god, Carlton!” Will says, taking the gift. 

This is gross. Mike thinks, turning his head away, face filled with disgust. 

Shit, I probably look really homophobic right now. He turns his head back, forcing a smile that isn’t fooling anyone. “Hey, Carlton-” 

Carlton basically charges towards Mike, and punches him straight in the chest. “My guy, what is up?!”

Mike yelps, clutching his chest. This guy is crazy!

“The ceiling-ah, I get it. You’re funny man, bring it in!” Mike slowly shakes his head oh god no as Carlton hooks an around Mike’s neck, bringing him in for a hug. Mike immediately shoves himself free.

“Carlton, what are you doing here? I mean I’m happy you’re here, I just…” Will asks, setting the flowers down on the kitchen counter. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I wanted to see my perfect boyfriend,” Carlton says. Will’s cheeks immediately flush. “And pick up his boyfriend,” He turns to face… “Mike!”

Silence.

“Huh?” Mike and Will say in unison. 

“Sorry,” Carlton adds quickly. “Mike and I are in the same college. I’m here so we can go to our convocation together at Radio City Music Hall. You know. Guy-talk.”

No. 

No way. 

There is no fucking way. 

If you had told Mike two years ago that he’d be standing on a subway packed with NYU students in purple robes on their way to graduation, he would’ve said, “Yeah. I could see that.”

If you had told that same Mike he’d be standing there practically holding hands with Will’s boyfriend, gripping the same pole in an overcrowded subway car while said boyfriend talked nonstop like they were best friends, Mike would have chucked your head straight into a woodchipper.

“You know,” Carlton says, rocking back on his heels as the train rattles, “I just realized that since your last name is Wheeler and mine is Stemberg, we won’t even be able to talk during the ceremony!”

“Oh no.” Mike says flatly. Thank god.

Carlton squints at him. “Hey, man. You alright?”

Mike exhales, long and tired, gripping the pole tighter. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just… I’m nervous.”

“About what?” Carlton says too eagerly. 

Mike shrugs. “I dunno. There’s just- a lotta people.”

The train screeches around a curve. Someone bumps into Mike’s shoulder. Carlton steadies himself, then surprisingly lowers his voice for the first time.

“Yeah,” he says. “I get that.”

Mike blinks. “You do?”

“Totally. When I was a kid I used to freak out at stuff like this,” Carlton says. “Assemblies, concerts, even school dances. It was so… loud.” Mike found this wild coming from Carlton of all people.

“I’d get all numb and feel like I couldn’t breathe.” He laughs softly. “My mom thought I was being dramatic. Turns out I just really hate noise.”

Mike looks at him, caught off guard. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Carlton says. “Best thing I figured out was to just pick one thing to focus on. Like-” he gestures vaguely “-the floor pattern. Or someone’s shoes. Or, I dunno, a person you trust. Makes the room feel smaller…” He hesitates, then adds, “That’s kind of why I wanted to go to the convocation with you. So I wouldn’t feel so alone.” 

Mike processes that. He hadn’t expected it, especially not from Carlton. Carlton trusts him?

“…Thanks,” Mike says after a second. “Yeah. I don’t really like loud stuff either.”

Carlton smiles. “I figured.”

Mike looks away as the train pulls into the station, annoyed by the terrible realization settling in his chest. Carlton isn’t evil. He’s not even dumb. He’s just nice. Carlton doesn’t want to live with Will because he’s controlling, he wants to live with Will because he doesn’t want to be alone anymore. No wonder Will likes him so much. He’s almost perfect. 

Mike doesn’t like that one bit.

But then, he remembers: Will sitting on the floor of his bedroom, puffy red eyes and swollen lips. That wasn’t nothing. Or maybe it was, and he was just imagining things. 

Or just maybe… it had nothing to do with Carlton at all. 

And everything to do with something else.

Mike sinks into the velvet seat, knees bouncing, fingers worrying at the program until the paper softens at the edges. His throat feels dry as he looks up at the brightly lit stage, faculty in heavy robes shuffling behind the podium. Above them, a banner stretches from one side of the proscenium to the other: ‘CONGRATS, GRADS! College of Arts and Science’

He thinks back to what Carlton said in the subway. Pick one thing to focus on. A person you trust. Will isn’t here to calm him down, so Mike was already at a loss. He looks to his left.

Louise sits next to him, legs crossed neatly, program folded on her lap. Alphabetical order - Wellings. Right. She looks pretty today. Prettier than usual. There’s a compulsive, automatic flicker of a thought: You could focus on her, you’re supposed to focus on her. And then it quickly fizzles out, exhausting even to consider. He doesn’t have the energy for that anymore.

“They gutted your article.”

Louise turns her head to Mike. “Pardon?”

“The rent one,” Mike says, words tumbling out now that he’s started. “The published version. Half the stuff about deregulation thresholds is gone. And the quote from the housing coalition was completely reframed.”

She studies him for a moment, amused at his ranting, then laughs quietly. Mike thinks that might’ve been the longest sentence he’s ever said to her. “Wow. You actually read it.”

“I’m not that dubious.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Louise says, softer now. “I just didn’t think you actually read the final print. Most people don’t. And you told me, once it’s published, it’s kind of dead.”

“And I will never read my published work. But this one was your article. And it’s kinda important to me.”

“So you really are moving? What about your… Will?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “The lease is up on July seventh. Will’s leaving first, and I’m… following, I guess.”

“Where to?”

Mike hesitates, then asks, “I was kinda wondering if that offer of crashing was still up?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I guess, but you might have to tough it out on the couch. There are, like, seven people currently rotating through my place.”

He stares at her. “Holy shit. What are you running, a hostel?” 

“They’re all here for work or family.” She says, nudging him with her elbow. “Don’t worry, they’re all dog people.”

When the convocation was over, Mike felt lightheaded. He barely remembers crossing the stage - just the uneasy floaty feeling that followed. When it’s done, the graduates spill back into the main lobby, purple robes brushing past each other as everyone searches for familiar faces.

Mike spots his family almost immediately. His mom stands out in a bright red dress, hair perfectly set. Holly bounces beside her in a pale blue dress, already half-wrinkled twisting around to look at all the scenery at once.

Karen pulls him into a tight hug. “Michael, good job! That was great!”

“Thanks, Mom.” He pulls back, still a little dazed, and glances at Nancy lingering just behind them in a black dress that covers her from neck to wrist. “Nance. You look like you’re at my funeral.”

“It is a funeral,” she says dryly. “Welcome to adulthood. Your life is over.” Then her expression softens. “I’m proud of you, Mike.”

He smiles. Mike had always liked Nancy’s company. They don’t see each other much, even living in the same city - but it’s comforting knowing his sister is only a few minutes away if he’s ever having a crisis. 

His gaze drifts past her, catching on a familiar head of curls a few feet away. Carlton’s already halfway out of his robe, graduation cap gone, hair slightly flattened anyway. He looks… normal.

Mike hesitates, then lifts a hand. “Hey - Carlton!”

Carlton turns, spots him, and breaks into a smile as he walks over. “Oh, hey, man!”

Karen leans toward Nancy, lowering her voice. “Who…?”

“That’s Will’s friend,” Nancy whispers back. Will had never directly come out to Karen. She would probably be accepting, but neither Mike nor Nancy thinks it’s their place to clarify unless Will says so himself.

“Good to see you!” Mike says, a little too enthusiastically now that Carlton’s right in front of him. “Uh… where’s your family?”

Carlton shrugs. “They didn’t come. I mean, it’s not that big of a deal for them, anyway.” This confuses Mike - surely a college graduation isn’t ‘not that big of a deal’. 

Karen offers him a polite smile. “Well, I’m sure they’re very proud of you, Car…son?”

“Carlton,” he corrects gently. “Sure. I mean, I guess they are.” He shifts his weight. “Anyway, I’m gonna grab a snack before they run out. But I’ll see you at the Yankees Stadium, yeah?”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by the lobby of purple robes and proud parents.

“Well, he seems nice,” Holly says.

Mike frowns. “He’s alright.”

A mischievous smile creeps across Holly’s face. She leans in just enough that only Mike can hear her. “Ooh, sounds like someone’s jealous of Will’s new friend-”

“Shut up, Holly,” Mike mutters through his teeth.

Karen gives him the same curious look Joyce gave Will at the airport. “Mike, will you be joining us for dinner tonight, or do you have plans?”

Mike blinks. “Um… I dunno. I was just gonna hang out with Will before he leaves tomorrow. Why?”

“Mom wants to know if you’re with that girl with the big, frizzy hair,” Nancy says, pointing.

Mike turns and spots Louise across the lobby, talking animatedly with her family. She is a girl. And she is really cool. He just doesn’t feel anything about it. And she doesn’t feel anything either - not like that. He figures his mom saw them talking before; she’s easy to talk to. But she never got it. Once, Mike started explaining an old D&D campaign from eighth grade, and she just smiled and nodded like he was a Pennhurst resident. So their interactions were usually cut short from Mike’s own immaturity and embarrassment. 

“What? No, gross.” Karen’s eyes widen at Mike’s words. “I mean- not gross, I like Louise, just not like… in the way that-” Mike rambles, backpedaling so fast he nearly loses his footing. Nancy drifts into thought, still staring intently at her little brother explaining why he absolutely cannot date Louise.

Mike’s voice falters as he notices the expression settling over Nancy’s features.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna take the subway and find Will,” he says quickly. “I’ll see you guys later.”

After college-specific convocations and the all-commencement, the concourse at the Yankees Stadium comes alive. Sun soaked purple robes flood every direction, parents calling names, cameras flashing, and voices echoing off concrete. 

Mike slips away from his family, nodding through goodbyes drowned in his mind. He keeps scanning faces, craning his neck through caps and tassels. He has a plan: Lunch with his family, go home, help Will pack, dinner together, sleep in Will’s bed.

Finally, Mike sees his person in the crowd. 

“Will!”

They catch each other’s eyes and immediately run to each other, weaving through bodies until they collide, arms tight around each other. 

“Can you believe it?” Will says, breathless.

“There were way too many people in the stands,” Mike replies, pulling back just enough to look at Will. 

“I felt like Freddie Mercury at Wembley.”

Mike laughs. God, Will is glowing. Mike wants to sweep him off his feet, up to their apartment, and… have an intellectual chat over a good meal. 

“For takeout tonight,” Mike says, already planning, “what do you say to Cantonese noodles and-”

Suddenly, there’s an arm around Will’s waist. Hands at his hips, a body pressed flush against his back.

“Carlton, stop!” Will laughs, startled, leaning forward. Carlton releases him only to slide neatly into place at his side, arm draped over Will’s shoulders. Something sharp twists in Mike’s chest before he can name it.

“Are we still up for quick drinks?” Carlton asks.

Mike looks at him, pointed. “Quick drinks?”

Will answers. “After lunch with my family and some packing, we’re going to a bar with some friends. Just dinner and very light drinking. We have an early flight tomorrow.” He shoots Carlton a look at that last part.

Mike doesn’t know what message that was supposed to send, but an uninvited memory flashes in his mind for the second time today. “Don’t want him messing with screwdrivers drunk, right?”

“I wanna come too!” The words are out before he can stop them. 

Will turns, brows knitting together in confusion. Carlton hesitates, then chuckles a little.

“Are you sure, dude? It’s a gay bar.”

Oh. Mike feels heat rush up his neck. Does Carlton think he’s going to scream at the sight of a pride flag? The last thing Mike is afraid of is gay people. 

“I’m a hundred percent sure,” Mike says, firm. “I’m an ally. I support Housing Works and Elton John.”

They stare at him.

“And you guys,” Mike adds quickly. “Obviously.”

Carlton grins. “Word up, Wheeler. I’ll see you there!”

And just like that, he’s gone again, pulled away by the current of graduates and families.

Mike exhales. Will looks at him, something unreadable passing between them.

“Word up,” Will repeats, amused.

Mike snorts despite himself. “Word up.”

Will’s room is almost empty. 

The posters are gone. His desk is bare except for a thin layer of dust where his sketchbooks used to live. Half the room is taken up by cardboard boxes, labelled neatly in sharpie. 

Mike watches Will pack efficiently, like he’s desperate to empty his room as soon as possible and get the hell out. He lingers by the doorway for a second more, then walks into Will’s room, footsteps echoing in the hollow shell. 

“You don’t have to do all of this now,” Mike says. “There’s still time.”

Will doesn’t take his eyes off the flaps of a box he’s taping shut on his bed. “I’m leaving in the morning, and I won’t have time when I get back. The apartment with Carlton will be ready by then, and there’ll only be a week left on this lease. I might as well get everything done now.”

Mike glances around, then down at what he’s holding - the reason he came in here in the first place. A last-ditch effort. Maybe, somehow, to make Will change his mind.

“Remember this?” 

Mike holds up a battered box of ‘Dungeon!’, the 1975 board game, the precursor to everything. Their first campaign in the sanctuary of Mike’s basement, and their first time pretending they were someone else together. 

Will finally turns to Mike. His face softens immediately when he sees the box. He remembers. “Oh my god, this… why do you still have this? We were five.” 

Mike shrugs, and Will takes it from him anyway, then turns and drops the game into an open box with old art supplies and bubble-wrapped glass jars. They’re actually lightbulbs that were repurposed by Will to be spice containers; cajun, paprika, oregano. 

Once, Mike had dropped one of the lightbulbs, and the glass shattered across the kitchen tile, cutting into his heel. Cajun seasoning had burned in the wound for hours after. They used plastic containers from that point on.

“You should start packing too,” Will says. “Not just handing me artifacts.”

“I’ll do it later,” Mike says. “When you’re gone. It’ll be easier. Just focus on your own stuff, and I’ll take care of everything after that. Then, when you come back, it’ll be like we were never here.”

Will pauses, then nods. “‘Kay.” 

He turns back around and keeps packing. 

Mike swallows and clenches his fists. “Maybe in twenty years, after living in the suburbs, we’ll move back to New York at the same time.” He says, trying to lighten the mood. “Like those divorced adults who find fulfillment through old connections.”

“That’s what my mom and Hop did.”

“See? Proven model.” Mike smiles. “We should get apartments close to each other in Brooklyn.”

“Yeah,” Will says insincerely. “That’s what we’ll do.”

There’s a moment of silence. Will stops packing. He turns, looks at Mike, and there’s something unsettled in his expression. Then Will moves closer.

Suddenly they’re standing inches apart, the air between them tight and warm. Mike doesn’t move. He looks down at Will and his mind does this awful, treacherous thing where it stops thinking forward and starts noticing.

The green of his eyes catching the low light, the way his freckles fade in and out across his face, the small mole above his lip, and it all falls into place like a story Mike has skimmed over a thousand times without truly grasping the meaning. He’s not sure what to do, what to say, if he should do or say anything at all. 

“Hey, Mike?”

“Yeah?” He says breathlessly.

“Does Louise know you’re really messy?”

Mike lets out a scoff, fake-offended, relieved at the normalcy. “I told you, I’m just busy.”

“I mean it as a good thing,” Will says, light finally returning to his eyes. “You’ll always be messy. And you’ll always break glass.”

“I do not always break glass.”

“Not anymore,” Will counters. “Since I had to childproof the apartment. But… I like your messes. And your lightbulb shattering. It’s very you.”

“Well,” Mike begins, “you have things too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You can’t open drawers properly. You always yank them, and then they break, and then you make me fix them. I have to rescrew your nightstand drawer, like, once a month.”

Will snorts. “Wow. Guess you won’t have to put up with that anymore.”

Mike doesn’t make another sarcastic remark, or just say yeah, guess not. Because he never put up with it. He loved it. Every broken drawer was just another excuse for a sleepover, and late night talk. In fact, as Mike looks at the boy who would knock on his door in the dead of night, sheepishly asking for help fixing his nightstand, Mike realizes. After meeting Will all those years ago, there was never a moment where he didn’t like him. 

He looks around Will’s room again. Years of living together compressed into cardboard. Memories labeled in marker. Suddenly, everything starts to blur together. His throat tightens, peristalsis working overtime to digest the dose of reality. 

They were still going to see each other. They’d still be close. This wasn’t permanent. This wasn’t abandonment.

So why does it hurt like something is being taken from him? Why does it feel like panic?

Maybe it’s the room. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the way Will has been slowly drifting out of Mike’s orbit, into someone else’s.

Standing there, surrounded by the remains of their life together cooped up in moving boxes, Mike can finally admit it:

It hurts.

Because he’s jealous of Will’s boyfriend. 

Mike sits across from Will and Carlton, shoulder-to-shoulder and knees angled toward each other, in a vinyl booth in Julius’ Bar. 

Rebel Rebel hums through the bar speaker, and halfway through the second chorus, Mike changes his mind: he actually may scream if he has to sit here for another second. 

And he’s drunk the most tonight, for the sole purpose of managing his emotions so he doesn’t have a nervous breakdown. But instead, everything feels overwhelming. Every noise is too sharp, every smell too intense, and every movement too heavy. Mike might seriously be scared of gay people, because the nausea is becoming unbearable. 

The rest of the invited friends are on the dance floor. Will and Carlton are staying sober and civil. Will’s had about two drinks, and the latter hasn’t had any at all. Mike hates that. He kind of wishes Will would just go wild and start kissing some other guy. Wouldn’t that be a show.

He takes another sip from the longneck. 

“I want us all to be a family.” Mike slurs suddenly. “I could be part of your family, don’t ya think? Carlton, I love you. I wanna love you, but I need you to get drunk.” He nudges the bottle toward the boy, but Carlton doesn’t really react. He sits there perfectly sober with stiff shoulders, looking between Mike and Will unsure of who he should say something to. 

Mike’s eyes flick between Will’s displeased frown and Carlton’s confused expression. They start to blur together, faces warping into the same concerned shape. 

This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Will isn’t upset at anyone but Mike, and Carlton isn’t wasted. Nobody else is spiraling except for Mike. 

Mike’s eyes dart between Will’s displeased and Carlton’s puzzled faces. They’re beginning to blur together at the edges… okay, that’s enough. Mike needs a break. 

The music swells, the booth feels smaller, the air too thick. Mike can feel the moment slipping away from him, whatever imaginary version of the night he’d been clinging to dissolving in real time. He can’t sit here anymore. 

“Will,” Mike says, already shifting out of the booth. “Come with me. Bathroom.” 

Will looks at him, confused. “Mike-”

Mike is already moving. He steps into the aisle and reaches across the table, grabbing Will by the arm and tugging him up from the booth, yanking him out of Carlton’s grasp. 

Mike points back at the clutter of bottles and glasses on the table, majority belonging to Mike. “Carlton, you got this, money-wise?”

Carlton blinks, clearly not processing any of it yet. He looks from Mike’s hand on Will’s arm to Will’s face, then notices the waiter approaching from behind the booth, pad already out.

“Uh… I guess?” Carlton says.

Mike nods once, that settles it.

“Mike, seriously,” Will starts, trying to pull his arm free.

Mike doesn’t let go. His grip tightens around Will’s forearm, just firm enough that Will knows this isn’t a suggestion. He turns and starts walking, dragging Will with him through the bar.

They push past drunk bodies and swaying shoulders, the floor sticky under Mike’s shoes. The music pounds in his head, off-beat and overwhelming. The opening notes of Never Tear Us Apart by INXS blast through the speakers, loud enough to rattle in his chest.

“Where are you taking me?” Will asks, stumbling to keep up. “Mike, what are you doing?”

Mike doesn’t answer. He keeps moving, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the back of the bar.

He pushes open the door to the single-stall bathroom and pulls Will inside. The music drops to a muffled thud as the door slams shut. Will stumbles forward, catching himself against the sink just as Mike locks the door behind them.

“I was lying. I don’t love Carlton.”

Will freezes, looking up at Mike. His face is drained of colour, eyes wide. “Well I love him.”

Mike groans, throwing his palms over his eyes in frustration. “Since when, when did this…” He gestures stupidly with his hands, trying to find the words in his hazy mind. “Love thing happen?”

“It’s been happening.” Will says flatly.

“That’s such bullshit, come on, Will!” His voice starts shaking as he attempts to remain calm in front of Will. 

“No. You’re bullshit, you’ve been ruining the whole night, and you’re making me feel really bad right now!” Will’s voice cracks towards the end of the sentence, and Mike notices tears welling in his eyes.

It hits him like a punch. Will’s expression, lips sulking, glassy eyes, shoulders caving inward - is nearly identical to that one night on his bedroom floor. A terrible, terrible thought enters his mind. “You’re making me feel really bad right now.” Could it be that it was…

“I feel like ever since I started dating Carlton, I’ve had to walk on eggshells around you! Like I have to tone down the pride so you won’t get uncomfortable. I know you don’t like Carlton, and I’m… it’s fine. It’s okay that you feel that way, but you don’t have to make me feel like shit when I’ve been hiding my whole life!”

Oh. Mike wants to cry. He wants to disappear into the tile. He had only just realized that what he felt was jealousy, sharp and ugly and humiliating. He hadn’t realized it had been bleeding outward this badly. That it had been hurting Will.

He wants to beg for forgiveness and make it okay. 

“I’m trying, Will. I want to love him if you love him, but you…” Will’s eyes widen in disbelief. Mike knows he’s about to regret his own words, but he can’t stop himself. “You don’t love him!”

“I do!” Will shoots back.

“We make fun of him all the time.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Would you tell him what we say to his face?”

“No-”

“Then I guess it is a big deal.”

Will laughs, sharp and broken. “I should’ve known, I should’ve known you’re fucking weird! Everytime I go along with one of your stupid jokes at the cost of him, you get this… strange ego boost. Like you get off on me talking shit about Carlton. Sorry, I’m not perfect and worship his every move, but that doesn’t mean anything. I still love him.”

Mike’s stomach drops.

Because it’s true. Or at least, somewhat close to the truth. Some fucked up, selfish part of him does take pleasure in it. He likes hearing Will side with him, likes imagining he still comes first. That’s why he imagined Will with other men. Why he convinced himself Carlton made Will cry and not himself. God. He’s a terrible person. 

Will leans closer, rage sharp in his eyes. Mike’s heart skips a beat. Something heated and unwanted coils low in his gut and makes him feel sick with himself. “When I get back from Cambridge, I want you, and all of your things out. I never want to see you again.”

The words land like a gunshot in the enclosed space. Mike doesn’t know if it’s just a heat of the moment thing, or if Will genuinely means those words. He desperately hopes he doesn’t.

Will turns and reaches for the door. Hot, choking panic floods Mike’s senses. I’m going to lose him, Mike thinks. He desperately grabs Will’s wrist before he can leave and drags him back. His other hand slides up, fingers tangling hard in Will’s hair, pulling his face close. 

And kisses him. Hard. 

Mike’s hand slides from Will’s wrist up his arm like it’s following muscle memory, fingers curling into the back of Will’s head, holding him in place. Will’s lips are warm and familiar and exactly him, softer than Mike expects.

For half a second, Mike forgets where he is. For half a second, there’s only the shock of it - the way his chest tightens, the way something in him finally, finally latches on.

Then Will pushes him off. 

Mike expects Will to slap him, cry, both. He didn’t expect Will to come back as fast as he had left, grabbing Mike’s face and closing the space between the two.

Their chests are pressed close together, and Mike can feel Will’s rapid heartbeat as his hands move to Will’s waist, fingers digging into his skin through the thin barrier of fabric like Will might disappear if he lets go. 

Mike stumbles back under the force of Will’s urgency, pushing forward with hunger. His heel catches onto uneven tile, and the wall slams into Mike’s spine. He grips Will harder and turns them, pressing Will back against the wall instead. The bathroom is too small, heavy breathing and amorous gasps filling the bathroom, and the bass from outside bleeding through the walls. 

Their intoxicated mouths continue to roughly press into each other, and Mike’s cold hands sneak up Will’s loose-fitted shirt. His mouth trailed over Will’s neck leaving wet kisses down to his collarbone, as Will tightly clutches his hands on Mike’s shoulders, wanton moans loudly escaping from his lips. Mike doesn’t bother telling Will to quiet down - he wants everyone to hear how good he’s making him feel. 

The other boy urgently arches his hips, pushing further into Mike. The friction between them sends a shockwave through his body causing him to make a strangled noise. Mike draws back from Will’s neck just enough to whisper smugly: “Better than Paris, huh?”

Will freezes, the realization of what he’s doing and who he’s betraying settling in. Mike doesn’t even register it. He leans back in on instinct, chasing the closeness he thinks he didn’t just lose.

Will pulls away instead. “What did you say?” His voice is sharp, small. 

Mike freezes. He finally looks at Will’s face and the room feels different all at once. Will’s eyes are wide, searching his, like he’s trying to figure out what game this is, when it started, how he missed it. Did Mike say something wrong? 

“I-I’m just-” Mike swallows. His hands hover, unsure where they’re allowed to be now. “I was just… Did you not- do you not like it?” Maybe Will took it the wrong way, or maybe Mike had stupidly just reminded Will that he did, in fact, have a boyfriend that was right outside. 

Something shutters behind Will’s eyes. He looks terrified. 

“Oh my god,” Will breathes, more to himself than to Mike.

He slips out of Mike’s grasp, movements clumsy and rushed, like he needs space now. Mike reaches out without thinking, then stops himself. Will doesn’t look back. He’s already pushing past, out of the bathroom, down the hall, gone.

Mike stands there alone, heart pounding, replaying the sentence over and over, trying to figure out how four words could’ve sounded so wrong, how they could’ve meant something he never meant to say.

And just like that, everything he thought he had, everything he could hold onto, slipped through his fingers. Mike’s hands hover over the bathroom sink, over nothing he can fix anymore - the apartment is gone, Will is gone.

Mike is alone. And it hits him how utterly alone he really is.