Work Text:
Mike was often stupid. He always spilt coffee on his shirt right before work, multiple times that week alone, he’d hissed ‘mother fucker’ in front of his boss, who famously hated swearing, and he’d mistaken his cats for intruders in the middle of the night an embarrassing amount of times. The trouble with his present stupid wasn’t just that it was stupid, but that it was also impulsive and completely nonsensical.
But as Mike launched himself from the train platform, taking the steps two at a time to reach the platform on the other side of the tracks, he felt surprised. He didn’t feel the usual anxiety that coiled in his stomach when he knew he was being stupid.
His heart raced. Sweat dripped from beneath his woven hat. The looming fact that he’d have to call work and make up some bullshit made him want to jump in front of the tracks.
And still, he felt strangely calm as he slipped through the closing train doors.
A voice called out one last time before the doors shut around his elbow.
Last train to Montauk on track B.
The doors sealed behind him.
Mike stood there for a moment, breathing hard, smiling to himself. He felt childishly like someone who’d just gotten away with something.
It was Valentine’s Day, 1995, and for completely unexplainable reasons, he was skipping work to catch a train to Montauk.
He didn’t know why.
He didn’t even really like the beach. Especially not in February.
But really, Valentine’s Day was corporate bullshit anyway. Mike was positive somewhere, some greeting-card CEO was probably patting himself on the back and laughing maniacally at everyone stupid enough to buy into his crap. Just fat men in suits trying to get chronically single and sexually confused guys like Mike to hate themselves for twenty-four hours once a year.
The thought distracted him as he took an empty seat in the middle of the car and pressed his face against the cool glass. The sweat on his brow turned to ice.
I need to get my car fixed, he thought, watching his breath bloom against the window and disappear.
Some asshole had left an ugly scratch from the back seat all the way to the steering wheel. He’d just stood there staring at it that morning. What kind of person does some shit like that without saying anything?
Absently, Mike thought, probably him.
He didn’t want to think too hard about that.
Instead, he watched the snow flash past outside the train window, white streaks against the gray morning. It helped distract him from the fact that, honestly, he was scaring himself just a bit. Spontaneity wasn’t exactly the cure-all for his intense craving for control.
He couldn’t remember missing a single day of work at the little publishing house in Brooklyn in three years. But here he was. On his way to the beach. In the middle of the week. For absolutely no reason.
They arrived before Mike could even consider getting off at one of the earlier stops and turning back around. He jogged over to the pay phone on the platform, digging through the crumbs in his pocket until he managed to fish out a quarter.
“Hey, Cindy,” Mike said when the call finally went through. “It’s Mike. Mike Wheeler!”
He had to shout over the wind, which was currently pelting snow against the back of his jacket.
“Listen, I don’t feel very well today. I think maybe food poisoning.”
Mike thanked whatever social customs disallowed further questioning when you said those two magic words and hung up the pay phone.
That’s how he found himself leaving footprints in frozen sand—the angriest ocean he’d ever seen to his left, icy dunes to his right. The wind chafed his fingers raw as it bit into his skin.
Montauk in February.
He was a fucking genius.
Still, as the waves crashed against the shore and the cold seeped through his coat and down into his bones, that strange calm returned. Like he was supposed to be here today. Like he was waiting for something, even if he didn’t know what. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as if he could just burrow far enough into his jacket he wouldn’t feel like the cold was turning to frostbite and pulling a strange feeling from his chest like he was about to fall off the edge of a cliff and never stop.
Maybe he’d have to tell Dustin to stop giving him so much weed.
He passed a row of condos, wooden steps jutting out of the sand that offered the perfect perch for Mike to pull out his journal. He sat, pulling his collar up against the wind before wrapping his fingers around the familiar leather cover.
He flipped it open. And... paused.
There were pages ripped out.
He ran a finger along the jagged edge where dozens of entries should have been and blinked. Tried to think.
Had he done this?
Maybe he’d gotten too drunk last week or something. Started doing that sad crap where he got all self-pitying about his work. But when he skimmed the last entry, it... felt right? It was from over six years ago, but for some reason, he suddenly couldn’t remember writing in this journal since then.
His heart thumped. Maybe he’d grabbed the wrong journal this morning. An older one.
That had to be it.
But when Mike pulled out his pen and hovered it over the page, he knew it wasn’t.
Weird.
This whole day was fucking weird.
He wrote a few lines. Sketched the seagull in front of him. The words felt like they were crowding behind his teeth, piling up somewhere in his chest, but none of them would land on the page. Frustrated, he shut the book with a clap. He’d write later.
Mike continued walking, the sand crunching under his boots. At one point, he grabbed a stick and started digging a pointless hole.
Sand was overrated.
Really, it was just tiny rocks pretending to be something else.
He shoved a bit more of it aside with his foot. Maybe he’d dig a really big hole and bury himself. He might seriously consider it if he didn’t know Max would come dig him up personally just to get the money he still owed her for their flight back to Hawkins in the spring.
He sighed, wiping sand from his palms onto his jeans as he stood.
That’s when something bright flickered in the corner of his eye. He glanced up.
It was a boy in a hoodie, the color of a traffic cone.
Mike tried to keep his eyes on the sea. The cool air pulled tears from the corners as he bared his face to the wind. But he kept glancing back. He couldn’t help it.
That sweatshirt was like a damn lighthouse.
The boy stood near the waterline, throwing stones into the tide—small pebbles that might have skipped if the ocean had been a pond. Instead, the waves swallowed them instantly. With his other hand, he pushed a chunk of brown hair away from his face. A small streak by his ear was dyed blue.
Something about that little detail shocked Mike.
This highlighter boy stood like a bright mistake in the middle of the beach. A spot of color in a world that had forgotten how to be anything but gray. It made Mike want to do something ridiculous. Like smile. Or maybe throw himself into the ocean.
The boy paused suddenly and caught Mike looking. He blinked for a moment, thumbing a rock between his fingers before offering a small smile and an even smaller wave.
And here was Mike’s stupid coming back to do its useless job. His heart stopped dead in his chest.
Heat rushed to his face, and he immediately looked back down at the sand, nudging it with the toe of his shoe.
The boy was beautiful. Worse than that, he was pretty. Soft edges. Full lips that looked like they smiled often. The sight of him stole the air from Mike’s lungs.
If only I could meet someone new.
The thought hit him like a shot of tequila. It burned on the way down, but in a way that was exciting. He felt tipsy on it. On the idea of something different. Something bright.
Then again, his chances of that happening were probably slim, considering he was incapable of making eye contact with a beautiful man he didn’t know. The feeling abruptly turned to a hangover.
Maybe he should just get back together with El.
She was nice. Nice was good. And she loved him. Or she had, at a point in time.
Mike kept walking along the beach, but when he passed an empty-looking house, he was suddenly hit with the overwhelming thought of her again. The place looked almost exactly like her home on the beach. He paused, peering through the window for a moment before quickly moving on, feeling a little like a creep.
Eventually,y he reached one of the sandy paths that led up toward the street and the tiny downtown beyond.
He hesitated there.
He could go see El.
Just walk a few blocks, wish her a happy Valentine’s Day, try not to look like a total loser.
Or he could embrace the day's theme and be an idiot. He could turn around and run back down the beach and talk to the boy in the orange sweatshirt. Tell him he was pretty sure that color didn’t exist anywhere in nature.
Pray it didn’t make him sound like a stalker.
Mike sighed.
His stomach hurt suddenly, so he headed toward the diner down the street instead—leaving El to her probably very romantic holiday and the boy to throw his stones into the sea.
The diner was dead. A woman in a yellow dress and matching apron sat behind the counter, wiping menus. The whole place smelled like coffee grounds and grease and—
Mike paused. Something like deja vu hit him. He’d probably been here before. He was almost sure of it. Maybe someone he knew worked here. One of El’s friends? Or—
“You can sit wherever you like, hun. I’ll be over in a second.”
Mike looked up.
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”
He slid into a booth beside one of the large windows. Outside, the gray sky was slowly turning blue. He wanted to watch the light change.
“Coffee?”
The woman appeared beside him with a pot, steam curling from the spout.
Mike flipped his mug upright.
“Please.”
She poured until the dark liquid nearly reached the brim. He muttered thanks and opened the massive menu that was about five pages too long.
No way he was ordering diner lobster and giving himself actual food poisoning.
He lifted the mug to his lips and nearly choked on the bitter liquid as he watched a flash of orange slide into a booth across the room.
Mike was paralyzed for a moment.
Had the guy followed him from the beach?
No. That was ridiculous. The guy looked way too nice for that.
Whatever that meant.
Mike watched as the boy opened a small notebook and began sketching. Mike squinted at the page, but he was just far enough away that the drawing stayed a mystery.
Mike wanted to walk over there. Sit down across from him. Ask what he was drawing. Ask if maybe he’d draw him.
He winced at the thought.
Jesus. And he’d had the nerve to think this guy was the creep.
The boy paused mid-sketch, looked up.
Mike’s breath caught as their eyes locked.
Mike noticed absently that the boy’s eyes were the color of sea glass. He had never seen eyes like that before.
The boy looked shy for a moment before offering a small nod and tight smile. Mike immediately felt himself go crimson—from the tips of his ears all the way down to his toes.
He stared back into the black hole of his coffee mug.
Fuck.
He had definitely just freaked this poor guy out.
Why did he fall in love with every boy who showed him the smallest amount of attention?
As Max would say, he was totally pathetic.
Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry anymore.
He gulped the rest of the coffee, burning his tongue, then left a dollar on the table before sliding quickly out of the booth.
He glanced back only once before leaving.
The boy was chatting with the woman at the counter now. They were smiling, like maybe they knew each other.
Something unpleasant flipped in Mike’s stomach.
He turned and headed back toward the train station.
The platform was empty, thank God. He needed space to think. Something felt wrong. Not just weird but wrong. It wasn’t just that he was in Montauk on a Tuesday, thinking about calling his ex and falling in love with strangers wearing ridiculously colored hoodies.
Something else was off. Something was...missing?
Mike leaned his head back against the bench and closed his eyes as the sun finally broke through the clouds.
Okay.
Yeah, that was it.
He was missing something.
But what?
He patted his pockets.
Wallet. Keys. MetroCard.
He’d checked the lock on his apartment twice that morning. His car was already a piece of shit, so honestly, he wouldn’t even care if someone stole it. He’d fed the cats. None of his bills were overdue. Work thought he was sick. Ted was still kicking, the last time he’d checked, and he’d spoken to his mom over the phone a few days ago.
So, what the fuck was it?
What was he missing?
Mike was rubbing his eyes with long, frustrated fingers when he heard footsteps on the platform. He waited a moment before opening them.
When he did—
Orange.
Of course, it was orange. Who else would it be?
Mike felt his heart drop all the way into his shoes.
He wouldn’t have been surprised if the guy turned out to be one of those greeting-card CEOs personally sent to torment him. Mike might have actually considered that possibility if he hadn’t noticed the moment the boy looked up and froze, his breath fogging in the cold air.
He looked just as surprised as Mike felt.
Mike swallowed and forced a small smile.
A peace offering.
Something that hopefully said: look, if you stop killing me slowly with those big green eyes on my spontaneous day off, I’ll stop looking like a serial killer. Deal?
To Mike’s complete and immediate regret, the boy smiled back.
And it was probably the sweetest smile Mike had ever seen. It bordered on sickly.
Mike had to look away, back toward the tracks, just as the train roared toward the station.
Max was right.
He was supremely pathetic.
He boarded the train. Mike picked a seat facing east. Orange picked one facing west.
He bit the inside of his cheek and suppressed the urge to ask him to sit closer.
Instead, he turned his head and looked out the window.
He started biting his lip, a nervous habit he’d never grown out of.
Then he started counting the houses, naming their colors, trying to organize his thoughts. Some bullshit his therapist had said was supposed to ground him.
One. Yellow.
Two. Blue.
Three. White.
Four. Brown.
Five. Wh—
“Hi.”
Mike tore his eyes from the window, the sound of a voice breaking his concentration.
He knew it was Orange. He knew what he’d said. Still, all his brain could muster was—
“I’m sorry?”
The boy smiled with all of his teeth, raised a hand clad in a blue fingerless glove.
“I just said hi.”
His brain short-circuited.
“Oh. Hey. Hello. Hi.”
Max’s voice boomed in his head.
That’s three of the same word, Michael. Get it together.
He pressed his lips together to keep any more nonsense from spilling out.
Suddenly, Orange stood up and walked toward him. Mike was being totally normal about it, his leg definitely not bouncing a caffeinated hole into the floor of the train.
“Mind if I sit closer?” the boy asked, pausing and pointing at the seat in front of Mike.
Mike swallowed.
Yeah.
“Course not.”
The boy smiled that sweet smile and nodded quietly. This close, Mike could see the sparkle of a single golden hoop in the boy’s left ear. It was captivating, and Mike suddenly felt like one of those stupid cats chasing a reflection of light.
He couldn’t look away.
“How far are you going?”
Mike forced himself to make eye contact.
“Uh—Rockville Center.”
“You’re kidding. Me too.”
Mike blinked back. “Really?”
The boy laughed nervously. “What are the odds?”
Mike shrugged, not sure what else to say. He wished desperately that he had something interesting to tell this blue-haired boy. But then, suddenly, the boy pitched forward, his hands gripping the top of the seat.
“Hey, do I know you?”
His eyes bored into Mike, and Mike felt like he was leaking from every single one of them.
The boy barreled on.
“Do you ever go to the art supply store on Fifteenth Street?”
“Um—yeah. Yeah, sure. I’m always in there buying printer paper.”
The boy snapped his fingers.
“That’s it! I’ve definitely seen you. Broke art student working in there for, like, four years now.”
Before he could stop himself, Mike said—
“I think I would’ve remembered you.”
He shrugged like it was something he got a lot.
“Might be the hair.”
Mike furrowed his brow. “What might?”
“It changes a lot—the color. I keep dyeing it, here and there. That’s why you might not recognize me.”
Mike nodded, stopping himself from saying that, in that case, he definitely would’ve remembered him. Except for El and her purple-streaked hair, he didn’t know many people who had hair the color of a cereal box.
“It’s called blue ruin.”
“What is?”
The boy pinched the streak of hair by his ear between his fingers. “The color. Cool, huh?”
Mike watched it like he’d just pulled a hundred-dollar bill from behind his ear.
“Oh. Yeah. I love it.”
Since when did he say the L word?
Will didn’t react, just kept going.
“This company makes a whole line of colors with crazy names like that.”
Mike’s mouth twitched. “Crazy?”
“Yeah, totally crazy. Like—” he paused, remembering, “Red Menace. Yellow Fever. Green Revolution.”
Mike actually did love it. The way the words matched the colors—but not literally. It made him picture the shade exactly.
“I bet that’s a cool job,” Mike said. “Naming those colors.”
“Right?” Will leaned back, pleased. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
Mike smiled at the satisfied look on Will’s face. Slam fucking dunk.
“You think that’s a real job, though? I mean—how many colors could there be? Fifty?”
Will shook his head. “Colors, sure. Limited. But shades?” He glanced at Mike. “They don’t stop.”
There was something in the way he said it that made Mike feel like he wasn’t talking about hair anymore.
“You wouldn’t believe how many purples my sister’s used,” Will added. “Same color. Different every time. Someone's got that job.”
Mike lifted his hands. “Alright. I’m convinced.”
Will dropped his gaze, thinking—then snapped back up.
“Agent Orange.”
“What?”
“I just came up with that one.”
He smiled, small and proud. It was adorable. It hit Mike harder than it should have. He bit his lip to keep from smiling like an idiot.
“Why do you do it?” Mike asked, before he could think better of it. He desperately wanted to know more. "The dye. Why do you change your hair so much?”
Will looked out the window. The glass caught the gold of his earring and threw it back.
“I don’t know,” he said after a second. “I guess I apply my personality in a paste.”
Lie.
It felt like hitting the edge in Operation, and the shock went all the way up your arm—sharp, electric. He just knew it wasn’t true.
Mike shook his head. “No. I don’t buy that.”
Will turned back slowly, one eye narrowing. “You don’t?”
“You don’t seem like someone who’d—” Mike stopped himself. Too late. “I don’t know. That feels… fake. Doesn’t seem like you.”
There it was again—that flicker. Like he’d hit something live.
“Well,” Will said, a little sharper now, “you don’t know me.
Mike’s stomach dropped.
Right. Great. Good job.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean— I’m just trying to—” He winced. He was as smooth as a bed of fucking nails. “That sounded crazy.”
Weird. Crazy. Sorry.
He should just rotate between the three words and save time.
Will nodded, as he’d already filed Mike away under something disappointing.
“Crazy,” he murmured.
Mike stared at the floor. He could feel the conversation slipping, like trying to hold onto something underwater.
Then—
“My name’s Will. By the way.”
Mike looked up.
Will.
It fit in a way that didn’t make sense. Simple, clean. Like something you could hold onto. Which was funny, because nothing about this boy and his blue hair felt simple.
“I’m Mike.”
Will tilted his head.
“Hi, Mike.”
He reached a gloved hand out over the seat. Mike took it. Soft gloves, warmer than they should’ve been.
“Hi, Will.”
Mike was still gripping his hand as Will said, “Just—no Smiths references, okay? I get enough of those.”
Mike frowned. “What?”
Will rolled his eyes, “Don’t play dumb. ‘William, It Was Really Nothing’? That’s definitely your thing.”
Mike let out a short laugh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Will blinked. “You don’t know The Smiths?”
“No.”
“What are you, insane?”
Mike shrugged. “It’s been suggested.”
Will stared at him like he was trying to decide if he was joking.
“‘William, William, it was really nothing?’” he tried again.
Mike shook his head. “Sorry.”
Then, because apparently, he had the survival instincts of a toddler—
“It’s a nice name, though.”
Will froze, just for a second. Color crept up his cheeks, quick and unguarded.
And Mike—
Mike noticed. Too much. He wanted to follow that red down to his collarbone. See how far it went. Press his mouth to it, maybe. Just to see—
He looked away, hard.
“Uh—I mean, cool,” he corrected. “It’s German, right? Means strong-willed or something.”
He sounded like an idiot.
Will smiled anyway, smaller this time. “Doesn’t really fit.”
Mike glanced back at him. “Why not?”
Will shrugged. “I don’t think I’m strong-willed about anything.”
Mike didn’t think before he spoke. “Yeah. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
Silence.
Then—
“Why not?”
Mike blinked. “What?”
“Why wouldn’t you guess that about me?”
There was no edge to it. That was worse.
Mike scrambled. “I just meant—you don’t seem like you’d be… intense about things.”
“Oh,” Will said. “So now I’m not intense. But before I was crazy. Which one is it?”
Mike opened his mouth. Closed it.
Jesus Christ.
He let out a short breath, shaking his head, and moved across the aisle, putting space between them that shouldn’t have affected Mike as much as it did.
“I don’t need crazy,” he said, staring ahead. “And I definitely don’t need someone telling me I am.”
Mike didn’t argue. Or rather, didn’t trust himself to. If he opened his mouth, the stupid would just spill out again.
He just nodded, even though Will wasn’t looking.
God, he couldn’t even talk to someone without ruining it. Dustin would’ve said something normal. Lucas too. Even Max. She’d called him BB last week. Boring Bitch, she’d clarified over a bucket of popcorn, already teasing him before movie night had even begun. Like it was funny.
Maybe it was.
He was too distracted by how impressively dumb it was to appreciate the humor.
He should call Dustin. No—El. Send flowers. Yellow ones. She liked those. He thought. Or maybe just go home, smoke a heinous amount of weed, and order a hazardous amount of takeout. He leaned his head back. He could already smell greasy chow mein. Yeah, that was the move. He would keep his suffering isolated and with low casualties. Leave El alone. Avoid totally embarrassing himself in front of this stranger. Again.
“Mike?”
His eyes opened immediately.
Will was standing there, like he hadn’t just walked away.
“It’s Mike, right?”
“Yeah.”
Will hesitated, then sat beside him again.
“I’m sorry,” he said, quieter now. “I think I’m just having a weird day.”
Mike huffed out a breath. “Yeah. Me too.”
Will glanced over. “Oh yeah?”
Mike nodded toward the window. “Went to the beach in the middle of the week. Not my usual move.”
Will smiled. “Yeah... don’t really peg you as the spontaneous type.”
Yeah. Of course not.
Mike deflated a little. He knew Will was right—but he kind of wished he wasn’t. Wished that at twenty-four, he gave a greater impression than I love my 9-5 and my ten pm bedtime.
Mike shrugged. “Yeah. Well.”
He didn’t finish that.
Will looked down at his hands again, picking at the edge of his glove.
“My embarrassing admission,” he said slowly, “is that I really like talking to you right now.”
Mike stilled.
“I don’t know why,” Will went on. “I mean—I can’t tell, one moment to the next, what I’m gonna like. But right now…”
He looked up.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
It came out like a question, softening the edges of something that should’ve felt strange.
But Mike didn’t care about that.
Will liked talking to him.
And maybe it was the empty apartment waiting for him, or something that got pumped into the air on Valentine’s day that made everyone delirious, but the thought made his chest flutter. He wanted Will to say it again. Wanted him to say stay—stay until the train reached the end of the track, and they turned the lights out for the night.
Which was ridiculous.
He didn’t even know him.
Mike nodded, because apparently that was the only way he knew how to emote now.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I am too.”
Will exhaled, looking relieved.
For a moment, as Mike looked at the boy in front of him, it felt like the train had emptied out around them. Like they were the only two people left—not just on the car, but in all of New York. And it felt right. Like the two of them alone just made sense.
The train lurched to a stop, snapping the moment clean in half.
This is Rockville Center. All passengers for Rockville Center.
Mike smoothed his hands out on his jeans, fighting the urge to cement himself to the seat, urging Will to do the same.
“Guess this is us,” he said.
“Guess so.”
Will didn’t move.
He just looked at Mike.
Mike felt heat crawl up his neck.
Last call for Rockville Center.
Mike shifted. “We should probably—”
“Yeah. We should.”
They exited the train like they’d gotten on together. Like they were a pair. A couple. Something about it made Mike want to do something horrific like fold his hand in Wills.
Jesus. He needed sleep. Or hypothermia.
They moved off the platform into the cold. Will shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching in his thin hoodie. The gloves clearly weren’t doing much.
“Well,” Will said, breath fogging in the air, “guess I’ll see you around, Mike.”
Mike stopped. That was it.
Of course, that was it. He’d known that. Train ends, people leave. That’s how it works. Two strangers orbit each other for a few hours and then—
But Mike still felt like he was waiting for something. And for some reason, he was terrified that if he let Will walk away now, he’d never find it.
“Um—do you have a ride home?”
Will blinked, caught off guard. The streetlights flickered on, washing his eyes amber.
“Oh—no.” He shifted in the snow. “I usually just walk. It’s not that far.”
“How far?”
Mike didn’t care what the answer was.
“Sixteenth Street. Like… twenty minutes? If I walk fast.” Will gave a small laugh, like he’d said it a hundred times before.
Twenty minutes.
In this?
Mike shook his head. “It’s freezing, Will. Let me drive you.”
Will looked up, surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah. It’s what—ten minutes? You’ll freeze out here.”
Will hesitated—then nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”
Mike smiled before he could stop himself.
Ten more minutes.
He’d just bought ten more minutes.
They walked to his car. The long scratch along the side caught the light, and Mike’s stomach dropped before he remembered—right. This morning. Some asshole.
He slid into the driver’s seat. Will folded in beside him, immediately turning toward the vents as Mike cranked the heat. Will rubbed his hands together. In the low orange glow, Mike could see how pink they’d gone from the cold.
For a split second, something tender and soft flickered through him. He wanted to take Will’s frozen fingers, warm them between his own.
He gripped the steering wheel instead. Pulled out of the spot.
“You’re not, like, a stalker, right?” Will asked, adjusting his bag in his lap.
Mike huffed. “Not a stalker. You’re the one who talked to me, remember?”
“Oh, please. That’s, like, Stalker 101.”
The city slid past them in streaks of color—neon, brake lights, storefront glow—catching on Will’s face in flashes. Red, gold, blue. It made him look unreal.
Mike tightened his grip on the wheel.
“What, there’s a handbook or something?”
“Obviously.”
Mike snorted. “I should read that. Maybe you can lend me your copy. Since you’ve been following me all day.”
Will turned to him like he’d been hit—but he was smiling. “I have not. That was you.”
Mike glanced over. “Mhm. You’re the one with the book, Will. Not me.”
It struck Mike that this was the second time he’d said his name out loud.
Will.
He liked the way the syllable fit on his tongue, natural somehow. Did he know a Will? Surely he did, or had at some point. It was a common enough name.
This Will bared his teeth in a grin, shrugging. “Guess you caught me.”
They fell into a quieter rhythm after that. Just the hum of the engine, the low murmur of the city pressing in around them.
But Mike’s mind wouldn’t shut up.
He combed through his mind, trying to think of something interesting to ask him that didn’t actually make him look like a stalker. But he wanted everything, all at once—where Will grew up, what his childhood looked like, what his sister was like, if the purple hair came and went the same way his did. He wanted details, patterns, something to map.
But it was too much. Too fast. He didn’t wanna scare the poor guy away.
Beside him, Will went quiet. Rested his head against the window. The distance of it made something in Mike’s chest dip.
Maybe it wasn’t mutual. Mike swallowed, searching for something—anything—to say.
Will beat him to it.
“Sorry if I came off kinda… strange,” he said, still looking at the glass. “I’m not. Really.”
Mike almost laughed.
He wanted to say he was the strangest person he’d ever met, but then he’d have to clarify that it was because he was pretty sure Will was making him feel things he’d never once in his life felt before. Like he was suddenly awake after being dead for years. And that just wasn’t something you didn’t say to someone the first day you met them.
“Hey—no,” Mike said. “You’re fine. I didn’t think that.”
Will nodded, but didn’t look convinced.
Mike turned onto Sixteenth, and his stomach dropped. The ten minutes had gone by way too fast.
“That’s me,” Will said softly, pointing ahead.
Mike pulled up to the curb, heart thudding for no good reason.
Say something.
Ask for his number.
Do literally anything.
Be brave for one fucking second in your-
“Hey—”
Mike looked up.
Will was already outside, hoodie glowing under the streetlight.
“Did you maybe want to…” He hesitated, that uncertainty slipping back in. “Come up? Have a drink? I don’t have much, but I think there’s a couple beers—”
“Yes.”
Too fast. He’d replied way too fast. Mike winced internally.
But Will just smiled—wide, easy, like it didn’t scare him off at all.
“Cool.”
Mike found himself smiling back.
“Cool.”
--------------------------------------------------------
Mike was sweating under his cap as he watched Will shimmy a key into the lock.
The door clicked open, warmth spilling out immediately, a stark contrast to the bitter cold outside.
Will glanced back at him, smiling. “Sorry, it’s kind of messy. Didn’t think I’d be bringing anyone home.”
Mike shook his head. Whatever waited for them in the apartment couldn’t even begin to compare to Mike’s own place. His sink alone was basically a fire hazard.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Doesn’t bother me.”
He stepped inside, the space inky and dark. For a second, he just stood there, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
Will reached past him, flipped a switch, and the apartment came into view all at once.
Mike’s breath caught.
The entryway opened into a massive living space, ceilings stretching higher than anything Mike had ever lived in. Tall windows lined the far wall, framed by soft, cream-colored curtains that would flood the place with light in the morning.
He traveled further into the space, his eyes devouring every inch.
And then he saw what all that light was for.
Art.
Everywhere.
Paintings stacked against the walls. Sketches layered over each other. Small sculptures tucked onto every available surface.
It was a total mess, but nothing like the kind of mess Mike kept at home, which kinda smelled like sweat and ‘boy’. No, this was the kind of mess Mike wanted to get completely lost in.
Broke arts student.
Will had mentioned that, but standing in his apartment now, it was a glaring fact.
“Whoa,” Mike breathed.
Will followed his gaze, scanning the room like he was seeing it through Mike’s eyes.
“Oh. Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I could’ve put some of it away.”
He did that thing again—biting his lip, going quiet.
Mike had to look away. Kept his hands crossed against his chest so he didn’t get the sudden urge to pull that lip from between his teeth and put it in his own mouth. He felt like a hormonal teenager.
“No, it’s cool,” Mike said quickly, shrugging off his coat. “I like it. There’s a lot to look at.” He gestured vaguely. “My place is mostly books. And DVDs.”
Will looked up from where his fingers were tugging at the edge of his hoodie.
“That’s still art,” he said. “Just… different mediums.”
He hadn’t considered that. He’s never really considered himself an artist at all. But something about Will saying it that way made him think that he might like to be.
Mike was gonna attempt to say something to that effect when Will suddenly dropped his bag and turned on his heel.
“I’ll go grab that beer.”
Mike nodded, easing himself down onto a green couch to his right, eyes still scanning the room.
There was an easel near the windows.
It must only be half done. It was only the impression of an image. The underpainting. Mike wasn’t sure how he even knew that word, but it kind of fit. It was the outline of a person, maybe. He could make out a face washed in yellow, the outline of blue curls. Something about the silhouette made him pause.
“Here.”
Mike tore his eyes away, taking the bottle Will offered him.
“Thanks.”
He took a sip, the faint buzz settling his nerves just enough.
He glanced at Will’s empty hands. “You’re not having one?”
Will blinked, like he’d forgotten. “Oh—no. I don’t really drink. Makes me feel weird.”
Mike smirked. “Thought we established you’re not weird.”
Will flushed faintly around his ears. “Right.”
Mike took another sip, then nodded toward the room.
“So—you weren’t kidding about the art student thing.”
Will leaned back against the arm of the couch. “Graduated a few years ago. Still trying to break into things.” He shrugged. “Art Supply store keeps the lights on. Mostly, I just make whatever I feel like making. Better than getting graded for everything.”
Mike huffed softly. “Yeah. I get that.”
Workshops flashed through his mind—rooms full of people picking apart a piece of writing he’d spent hours trying to get right. God, he did not miss college.
His eyes drifted back to the painting.
“What's the story with that one? You gonna finish it?”
Will turned, following his gaze.
“Oh.” He looked closer, squinting at it. “Yeah, I—” He hesitated. “You know, I’m not actually sure.”
Mike leaned forward, immediately hooked. “What do you mean?”
Will shifted, eyes still fixed on the canvas.
“It’s gonna sound weird—”
“Not weird,” Mike cut in automatically.
Will glanced back at him, amused. “Right.”
He looked back at the painting.
“I don’t remember starting it. I mean—I must’ve. It’s in my apartment.” He gestured loosely. “But it’s just… the beginning of something.”
He pressed his lips together, thinking. “I can’t remember what I was trying to make.”
Mike frowned. “Maybe someone left it here?”
Will shook his head. “No. I’ve only had, like, three people over.”
Mike blinked. “Three?”
Will flushed, like maybe he’d said too much. “I’m not, like, an introvert or anything. Just… private, I guess.”
Mike tilted his head. “But you invited me over.”
Will paused, considering.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I guess I did.”
Something about the fact sat between them for a second—quiet, but heavy.
Mike glanced back at the painting. The yellow face. The navy curls. It felt like it was almost something. Almost someone. He couldn’t place it. And for some reason, that bothered him.
More than it should have.
Mike tucked the feeling away, swallowing it down with another sip of beer. He could drown it. That was normal. People did that. No need to start dissecting it like it meant something.
Nancy would probably hit him over the head with a shoe if she heard him say that out loud.
“Think you’ll finish it?” Mike asked, nodding toward the painting.
“I don’t know,” Will said, eyes still fixed on it. “It makes me kind of anxious. Like I’m… painting in my sleep or something.”
Mike snorted. “Sounds like a superpower to me. I’d kill to be writing in my sleep instead of grinding my teeth like a six-year-old.”
Will glanced at him, a small smile forming. “You’re a writer?”
Mike hesitated. He was. Technically.
There was a manuscript. It existed. Whether “existed” counted when it was collecting dust next to his Lord of the Rings books was… debatable.
He swirled his beer. “I dabble.”
Will laughed.
“You’re not very forthcoming, are you?”
Translation: you’re being an asshole. Which was really always a fair assessment of him.
Mike shrugged. “I like to keep an air of mystery.”
Will rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. Give me something.”
Mike huffed, but he was smiling now. “What do you want to know?”
Will thought for a second, studying him in that too-direct way of his.
“Why’d you come to New York?”
“School.”
“Which one?”
“NYU. Creative writing.” He lifted his bottle slightly. “Go Bobcats.”
Will nodded, filing it away like it mattered.
“Siblings?”
“Two sisters. One older—journalism. One younger—kind of a brat, but she’s into D&D, so I let it slide.”
Will’s mouth twitched. “We’re circling back to that. What’s your favorite color?”
Mike frowned. “Do people still have those?”
Will just waited.
Mike sighed. “Green.”
“Where’d you grow up?”
“Indiana.”
Will paused.
Mike smirked. “I know. Hard to believe a face like this came out of the Midwest.”
It was, without question, the dumbest thing he’d said all day.
Will laughed anyway.
“No, not that—” He shook his head, “I mean, yeah, that too. But I’m from Indiana.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Will tilted his head. “Which part are you from?”
Mike paused, thinking of Hawkins for a second, which was truly a second too long.
“A small town,” he said, a beat too late. “You’ve probably never heard of it.”
Will nodded easily. “Yeah. Same.”
He glanced at the little digital clock on the side table next to Will. It was almost midnight.
Holy shit. How was it almost midnight? He had to be up in six hours for the commute to work. Trouble was, not a single part of his body wanted to leave. Will followed his gaze to the clock and winced.
“God, is it that late already?”
Mike blew out a breath. “Yeah. I’ve gotta be up for work soon.”
“Shit, really? Don’t let me hold you hostage if you gotta go.”
Mike laughed softly. He was exactly where he wanted to be. “I could stay a little longer.”
Will tilted his head, the movement sending his chestnut hair tumbling into his eyes.
“What time do you have to get up?”
“Six. The commute into Brooklyn is ridiculously unpredictable.”
Will gaped. “Six a.m.?”
Mike drained his beer. “That’s the one.”
Will pressed his teeth together, looking conflicted. Mike’s heart jumped—he was definitely getting kicked out. Instead, Will leaned forward and snatched a black marker off the table littered with art supplies.
He popped the cap and held out his palm. “Hand, please.”
Mike hesitated. All day he’d thought about touching Will—about wrapping his hands around his waist, about warming the frozen tips of his fingers or brushing the hair from his eyes. But now that it was actually happening, no gloves to separate Will’s skin from his own, he froze.
He silently begged whatever god was out there that his hands weren’t clammy as he placed his hand in Will’s.
His hand was warm and soft. The hands of an artist. He began to draw on Mike’s skin—slow, careful strokes. A sequence of numbers.
Will’s number.
“Go get some sleep. Call me if you—” He shrugged, suddenly nervous. “You know. If you feel like it.”
Mike nodded, staring at the winning Powerball numbers or something.
“Yeah,” he said. “Course I will.”
Mike was barely down the hall, the warmth of Will’s living room already fading, when he heard the apartment door swing open again.
“Wish me a happy Valentine’s Day when you call!”
Mike grinned. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Will.”
Will smiled back. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mike.”
----------------------------------------------------------------
Mike nearly broke his door down when he got back to his apartment, too impatient to fumble with the key. He rushed inside, flicked on the lamp, and threw his coat and hat onto the couch.
His cat meowed from beneath the pile.
“Shit, sorry, Lando.”
She just licked her paw in response.
Mike grabbed the phone off the wall, nearly yanking it out of the holder as he started dialing. He twisted his wrist awkwardly, trying to read the numbers written across his hand.
The phone rang twice.
Then Will’s voice came through—somehow even better over the line.
“What took you so long?”
Mike laughed, the sound loosening something tight in his chest. Part of him had been convinced Will wouldn’t pick up. Or worse—that he’d been an idiot and Will had given him a fake number. But here he was, standing in his living room, the phone cord wrapped around his finger like a nervous teenager.
“I literally just walked through the door.”
“Mmm. You miss me?”
Ridiculously, He did. More than he should.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Yeah, I do.”
Will exhaled, soft and relieved on the other end.
“Hey, I got an idea for tomorrow night,” Will said, his tone shifting. “How good are you on ice?”
--------
That’s how Mike found himself on a Wednesday night at the edge of a frozen pond, his heart racing warmly in his chest as the rest of his body froze in the cold.
“It’s beautiful,” he breathed, staring out at the ice, painted silver by the moon as it peeked out from behind the clouds.
Will grinned beside him. “Right? It’s so pretty at night.”
Then, without warning, Will started shuffling quickly toward the center of the pond.
Mike’s stomach dropped.
“Jesus—wait, don’t go too far.”
“Don’t be a baby, Mike. The ice is, like, three feet thick.”
Mike shuffled forward a few careful inches, hands hovering awkwardly in front of him, trying not to eat shit. God, he was like a baby deer learning how to walk.
“I know, but—just be careful.”
He paused. For a second, something else flickered through his mind.
A different body of water. Still. Dark. A quiet, waveless tide lapping at a shoreline. A cliffside in the distance. His soul leaving his body as he stepped off the edge.
The quarry.
Mike shivered hard. He remembered jumping.
Remembered El— her shaved hair, the sound of her snapping that bully's arm with a simple click of her head. Remembers the body being pulled from the water. The stretcher. Dustin screaming as—
His brain stuttered. He clenched his teeth a moment, steadying his train of thought.
The stretcher. The body.
Who—who was that?
Maybe he was mixing it up with something he’d seen on the news. But no—no, he remembered yelling at El. He remembered biking home. Remembered crying in his mom’s arms—
His head throbbed with sudden, disorienting pressure.
It was like trying to remember a word he knew he knew—could feel the shape of it—but every letter was gone.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
“—Mike!”
The shout snapped him back.
Will was out on the ice, skidding and spinning, whooping to himself like an idiot.
He turned, grinning. “Come on! The water’s fine!”
Mike just stared at him for a second, the cold biting into his face as he tried to shake the quarry loose from his head.
Will’s expression shifted, his head tilting—that familiar way he had when he noticed things.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Mike said quickly, forcing his voice steady. “Just—just really focused on not falling on my ass right now.”
Will laughed, loud and bright, the sound echoing out across the frozen pond.
“You got it, just make sure you—”
His feet slipped out from under him.
His whole body collided with the ice, hard.
All the air left Mike’s lungs.
“Will!”
He shot toward Will, suddenly steady, fast—a freaking Olympian as he forced his body forward.
Will was shaking, his body facing away from Mike on its side. Mike’s brain started flipping through worst-case scenarios. Broken tailbone. Shattered collarbone. God damn concussion.
By the time he reached him, Mike was already dropping to his knees, hands gripping Will’s shoulders.
“Will—fuck, are you okay? Talk to me.”
Will flipped onto his back, his whole body shaking—
with laughter.
He was laughing so hard his face had gone red.
“Holy shit,” he gasped, “I’m gonna have a bruise on my ass the size of your face.”
Mike sagged with relief, dropping his head. “Jesus, man. You scared the shit out of me.”
Will smirked up at him. “Yeah, but it got you off the edge, at least.”
Mike exhaled, breath fogging the air. The quarry flickered again in the back of his mind, sharp and wrong.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess it did.”
Will stretched out flat on the ice, his hair fanning around his head like a dark halo. The streak of blue at his temple stood out stark against his skin.
“Come here,” he said, glancing over.
Mike hesitated only a second before lowering himself beside him, the cold biting through his jacket as he lay back.
The sky stretched out before them. An inky black blanket marked by small pockets of stars. Will shifted closer, his head settling lightly against Mike’s shoulder. Mike went very still.
“Which constellations do you know?” Will asked.
Mike blinked up at the sky. Most of them were probably satellites anyway.
“Uh… I don’t think I actually know any.”
Will huffed. “Oh, come on. You have to know at least one.”
Mike paused, then pointed vaguely off to the right.
“There’s… Odious.”
“Really?” Will’s voice lit up immediately. “Where?”
Mike pointed again—completely different spot. “See it? It’s like a swoop, and then a cross.”
Will squinted at the sky, following his finger, then turned his head to look at Mike.
“You’re full of shit, aren’t you?”
Mike bit his lip, failing to hide his grin.
“No, no. Odious the… emphatic,” he said, doubling down. “See the swoop, then the cross.”
Will swatted his arm, laughter spilling out of him. “Oh, shut the fuck up.”
Mike burst out laughing, and Will joined him, the two of them shaking against the ice as their breath fogged the air above them.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They’d stayed on the ice until the sun began to bleed through the trees, the hours slipping past like seconds as they talked about everything—books, movies, which toppings actually belonged on pizza.
“You know my sister would have to disagree with you,” Will had said when Mike mentioned his absolute disdain for Hawaiian.
“Sounds like you need a new sister,” Mike had snickered—and Will pinched him hard enough to make him yelp.
“She’d totally get along with my ex, though. She loves that crap.”
Now, as Mike drove past the train station, took a right toward Will’s apartment, he found himself stealing glances at him—watching, a little helplessly, as the rising sun painted him gold.
The truth was, he felt insane.
He felt wrong.
Mike wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. He wasn’t warm, wasn’t easy. He wasn’t the kind of person who left a trail of friendships behind him wherever he went. Mostly, he kept to himself. Or managed to piss someone off within ten minutes of meeting them.
But Will—
Will was easy.
In a way that didn’t make sense. In a way that made something in Mike’s chest feel off-balance, like he’d skipped steps in a process everyone else understood. Sometimes he felt like a stunted kid, with how long it took him to warm up to anyone who wasn’t already his friend of several years.
Max’s voice echoed in his head—
You’re like one of those stray dogs, Wheeler. The kind that has to sleep with your hoodie before it decides not to bite your face off.
Fair. And yet—
Here he was. The boy he’d met three days ago curled up in his passenger seat, snoring quietly. And Mike wanted to superglue the doors shut like a psychopath and leave them inside forever.
Maybe he was a serial killer or a stalker or something. He obviously felt insane enough for it.
He pulled up outside Will’s apartment building, the car rolling to a quiet stop.
For a moment, he just sat there. Watched him.
Will’s breath puffed softly from his parted lips. His hair stuck out in every direction, his jacket pulled up around his shoulders like a makeshift blanket.
He looked—
Mike swallowed.
He looked like something Mike wasn’t supposed to have. Wasn't supposed to want.
Mike sighed, dragging a hand down his face. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t just sit here all day watching him sleep like a creep.
Carefully, he reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. His fingers lingered for half a second too long on the strand of blue near his temple before he rested his hand lightly on his shoulder.
“Will,” he murmured.
He almost didn’t want him to wake up. Almost wanted to just… keep driving. Circle the block. Pretend they weren’t here yet.
Will shifted, taking in a sharp breath.
His eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused, soft with sleep.
“Morning,” Mike said, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “Sorry to—uh, wake you. We’re here.”
Will turned his head, squinting blearily at the apartment building. Then he looked back at Mike.
“Could I—” A yawn cut him off. He dragged a hand over his face. “Could I come over to yours? To sleep? I’m so tired.”
Mike stilled.
He… wanted to come over? To Mike’s apartment? The one with dishes in the sink that were about to kiss the ceiling, everything covered in a fine layer of cat hair? That apartment?
Will shifted, misreading the silence immediately. “Oh—sorry,” he said, sitting up straighter. “That was kinda weird. I didn’t mean to overstep or—”
“No.” It came out sharper than he’d intended.
“No.” Mike repeated, softening the syllables, “No, I want you to come over. You should come over.”
Will relaxed, a small smile forming. “Okay. Let me go grab my toothbrush.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Will hopped out of the car, immediately bracing against the cold as he jogged toward the building.
Mike watched him go, already missing him.
He should’ve just given him his own toothbrush, for Christ’s sake.
Yeah, his brain supplied helpfully, with all the cat hair on it. How charming would that be?.
He shook his head at his own absurdity.
God, he was losing it.
A sharp knock hit his window.
Mike jumped so hard he nearly choked.
“Jesus—”
For a split second, his brain went straight to cop. Illegal parking. Something stupid.
He turned, lowering the window just enough to peer out.
It was… a guy?
About his age. Dark curls. Basketball hoodie. Definitely not a cop.
“Uh, yeah?” Mike said.
The guy narrowed his eyes slightly. “Can I help you?”
Mike blinked. “What?”
The guy glanced past him—toward the apartment building—then back at Mike.
“Can I help you with something?” he repeated.
Mike was officially lost. “Uh, no. I don’t think so.”
The guy studied him for a second too long.
There was something in his expression—tight, frustrated. Like he was trying to ask a different question and couldn’t quite get there.
Mike shifted uncomfortably.
“What are you doing here, man?” the guy asked.
Something in Mike’s chest flickered.
Had he... seen them? Was this—what, some kind of confrontation? Suddenly,y Mike felt like he could stick his head out the window and be sick, and he hated himself for it. Hated that the idea of someone clocking him for just driving someone home made him start to sweat.
He braced himself, though. They hadn't done anything wrong. From the outside, it just looked like two guys getting back from a long night. Nothing weird about that. Nothing that should matter to this fucking rando.
Mike swallowed. “I’m not really sure what you’re asking me.”
The guy’s expression changed—like something clicked into place.
“Oh,” he said quietly, taking a step back. “Thanks.”
Mike frowned. “For—”
But the guy was already turning, walking away down the street.
Mike watched him in the side mirror, unease settling low in his gut as the distance between them grew.
Thanks?
For what?
He kept watching until the guy disappeared around the corner.
His fingers were still locked around the wheel when Will burst out of the building, a small bag slung over his shoulder.
Mike’s head snapped up.
Will’s eyes found him instantly. They were a pale shade of green in the sunlight.
“Ready?”
For a second, Mike just looked at him.
The weird, unsettled feeling in his chest didn’t go away—but it shifted. Softened. Like something being covered up instead of fixed.
“Yeah,” he said, forcing a small smile.
He shook his head, like he could physically dislodge the thought, and reached over to put the car in gear.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”