Chapter Text
Mike knocked, hopeful in that fragile, desperate way he’d had for months now.
Even if Will had made it painfully clear he didn’t want to talk to him, not in any form, Mike kept coming anyway. Every time he could scrape together a few hours for a trip to New York, he showed up at Will’s door, convinced that persistence would eventually earn him a chance to fix things, no matter if it irritated his family or outright infuriated his fiancée.
Because, he thought, if he kept showing up, if he kept proving he meant it, if he refused to disappear again… then Will would finally believe him. Every effort would be worth it in the end.
Little by little, things seemed to be getting better, mostly thanks to Will’s roommate, who acted like he was on Mike’s side. The frantic nodding or head shaking behind Will’s back, the notes slipped to him when he’d been told to leave, the short conversations when Will wasn’t around… All of it made Mike believe he was finally on the right path. The fact that Will warmed up enough to face him when he was at home gave him hope.
Sure, he still wasn’t invited inside, but if someone was home, the door always opened and he could hand over whatever offering he’d brought this time. Christian even looked excited to see what it was, more excited than Will ever did. And Will… Well, most times, he didn’t shove the gifts back into Mike’s hands anymore.
That had to mean something.
From the doorstep, Mike noticed Will always kept the flowers. He’d seen them in the living room and kitchen. He never brought roses, choosing bouquets he thought Will would enjoy. Yellow was Will’s favorite color, so as long as it dominated the arrangement, it felt right. He’d tried to pay attention to flower meanings, but half of the florists said the symbolism was outdated anyway.
The chocolates were easy successes. Will’s barely hidden smiles told him which ones worked: expensive, fruit‑filled, and definitely milk chocolate. Will didn’t enjoy bitterness. Sketchbooks were simple, too. Will always needed them, and Mike didn’t know enough to pick proper painting supplies or to choose those Will used.
Every letter was refused. Every plushie ended up on his fiancée’s desk, though he wasn’t sure she even liked them. Every book Christian suggested — Vidal’s The City and the Pillar, Forster’s Maurice, Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray — had been returned to the bookstore. The salesclerk always looked at him like he’d committed a crime. Was returning books frowned upon?
The chain with the small lock and key had not met the success he’d hoped for. Even though he had no idea why Christian had been adamant about that one, the rejection still stung. Maybe gold would have been better? But Will’s earrings and necklaces, as far as he could notice at least, were always silver or bronze.
Bronze. That probably would have been a better choice than silver.
Mike was getting familiar with the neighborhood now. He knew where to stop for food, where to catch a good live show, which motels didn’t come with free bedbugs. He had even found spots he wanted to visit with Will someday. The park was perfect for a walk. On Sundays, people read poetry aloud. Not his thing, but some pieces had stuck with him. The painting café felt like it had been designed for Will.
And the comic bookstore was, of course, a long walk, but worth it on a nice day. Worst case, there was always the bus or subway.
This time, Mike brought pastries in a cute yellow box from a new bakery. He wasn’t sure which ones Will preferred. Unsure, he picked a bit of everything. Christian wasn’t very picky when it came to food, it seemed, so he could have whatever Will wouldn’t want.
Or so he thought.
The angry look on Christian’s face told him immediately that something was wrong. Mike held out the box; Christian didn’t even glance at it.
“Uh… Will here? I just want to…”
“No,” Christian snapped, sharper than usual. “He’s not here.”
“Oh.” Mike lowered his hands, his eyes on the box. “Do you know when he’ll be back? You can take these—”
“He doesn’t live here anymore.”
“What?” Mike froze. Will had still been here last week, when he had refused the necklace. That couldn’t be possible.
Christian crossed his arms, eyes like daggers. “Yeah. Congratulations. You drove him out.”
That wasn’t fair. If it hadn’t been for his help, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to come for so long. Will might have called the cops on him like he had threatened to do the first time.
“He… moved?” Mike’s breath stuttered. It made no sense.
“Yep. Packed up everything and left. New place, new neighborhood, new everything. And before you ask, no, I’m not telling you where.” Christian stepped forward, his face getting close enough to Mike’s for him to take a step back. “Do you know how rare it is to find someone who pays rent on time, doesn’t steal your food, and actually cleans the bathroom? Will was the best roommate I’ve ever had. Fuck off and never come back.”
Mike braced for the door to slam when Christian went back inside, but instead he lingered on the threshold, jaw tight, eyes flicking away as if bracing himself. “By the way,” he added, with a tiny hesitation Mike didn’t understand, “he met someone. Leave him alone now.”
The door slammed. Mike barely heard it over the pounding of his own heart.
What was he supposed to do now?
No, he could not give up, but this time everyone seemed to be siding with Will. No one would help him — not Joyce, not Max, not Lucas, not Dustin, not Jonathan, not Robin. Either they didn’t know his new address, pretended not to know, or refused outright to get involved anymore.
He’d have to find another way.
Slowly, the leaves changed color and began to fall. Wedding planning consumed everything: cake tastings, venue visits, fittings, registries, endless conversations about colors and flowers and seating charts. Almost everyone around Mike was excited: his fiancée, her family, his family, their common friends.
Sometimes, in the middle of a cake tasting or a conversation about centerpieces, his mind drifted without warning. He caught himself imagining Will instead of his fiancée, and suddenly everything felt easier. Interesting. Fun.
Will rolling his eyes at the color palette, comparing it to comic villains.
Will leaning over to steal frosting from Mike’s spoon, like he had done once or twice during birthdays when they had lived together in Hawkins for over a year.
Will praising him in every suit he tried on.
Will asking Jonathan for his expert eye while flipping through photographers’ portfolios.
Will suggesting nerdy songs for their reception. It was their evening, they could pick whatever made them happy.
Those mental scenes were the only relief he got as he went through all of it like a man drowning. He smiled when he was supposed to. Nodded at the right moments. Said “yeah, that sounds great” even when he didn’t care. He had been numb for years, but the numbness wasn’t comforting anymore. It was no longer a shelter to hide behind.
It was suffocating.
Whenever he tried to picture his future, he saw nothing but a blank, empty space waiting to swallow him whole. The closer the wedding came, the less he could pretend it was cold feet.
It felt wrong.
It was wrong.
He needed to get Christian on his side again.
***
Snow came early this year, bringing winter’s cold with it. With Christmas season approaching, it meant the annual rush of finding everyone an appropriate gift was about to start.
One gift mattered more than the rest this year: the one destined for Max’s second kid. Being the godfather came with the promise of spoiling the kid rotten. Even if his mother reminded him it was too early for Will to give up on the idea of having a family of his own, being gay made the matters much more complicated. So he had every intention to pour all of his “paternal” affection into his godchild, though Max often stood in the way.
“What about a finger painting board?” Will asked, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear as he sat at the kitchen table, flipping through a pile of Christmas catalogs.
“Sure, as long as you’re the one cleaning the mess when it’s all over the walls and furniture,” Max objected over the phone. “Just bring your ass to the birthday party. He wants to see you.”
“You could always come to New York soon?” Will knew it was a lost cause. Max hated New York’s noise, its crowds, the impossible parking, the way she always got lost. People weren’t helpful, and while New Yorkers weren’t known for their friendliness, Will suspected Max wasn’t exactly asking politely.
“Uh, no thanks.”
“If I go… Hmm…” Will hesitated. Since he had moved, Mike hadn’t been able to bother him, and the rule Max decided still stood: no talking about Mike unless something new happened.
Max understood immediately.
“He’s not invited. Besides… he’s not leaving the house much these days.” Her tone was charged with anger as her voice rose at once. “He’s a fucking idiot and he pisses me off. I’m taking a break from his ass before I punch him.”
“What happened?”
“Uh, uh, not talking about it.” She exhaled hard, pushing the anger out. Then, softer, she asked. “So, you’ll be coming? Will you bring him? Your boyfriend?”
“Eh… I don’t know. Should I?”
“It’s been two, three months now?” Max asked, and Will could hear her smile.
It was silly, but it made him smile too. “Three. Since the fifth.”
“He remembered your birthday, right?”
“Yes.” Will felt his cheeks warm. He heard the giddy edge in his own voice and felt foolish, but Carlton made him happy. He couldn’t believe his luck. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. It was really nice. I should hang up now if I want to be able to pay the rent this month.”