Chapter Text
Chapter 1: There She Goes
(Will POV)
Will has kept the tape in his backpack longer than he meant to.
Well technically it’s only been in his backpack since Mike called about 2 hours ago.
It’s still early June; the kind of day that makes the air feel sticky even in the shade. Will’s room is half-packed—not out of need, but because packing is something he can control. Boxes sit open on the floor in two areas – one side for his dorm, and the other side to be moved with his mom and Hopper to their new house in Montauk, NY. In a separate pile is a stack of college brochures, the top one already creased from being picked up and put down too many times: INDIANA UNIVERSITY - BLOOMINGTON, the name printed in block letters that look too final.
Mike is sprawled across Will’s bed, shoes off, one foot bouncing against the mattress. He flips through a comic he’s read a hundred times, like repetition can keep the future from happening.
Mike reaches over without asking and flips Will’s sketchbook open.
“Hey—” Will starts, but Mike is already squinting at the page like he has a right to it.
He takes Will’s pencil and adds a tiny, stupid spaceship in the corner, complete with a crooked little flag.
Will stares at it, then at Mike. “That’s not even—”
“Art,” Mike supplies, deadpan. “I know. That’s why it’s good.”
Will tries not to smile. He fails anyway.
Will’s fingers slide into his backpack pocket again. The cassette case is there. Smooth plastic. A stupid amount of effort contained in something small enough to misplace.
“Did you send it?” Mike asks, eyes still on the page.
Will pauses. “Yeah.”
Mike looks up. “Already?”
Will shrugs, trying for casual. “It was due.”
Mike’s mouth twists like he wants to make a joke and can’t find one that doesn’t feel sharp. “Of course you did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Will asks, too quick.
Mike lifts a shoulder. “Nothing. Just—you decided and you did it. Like that.”
Will turns toward his desk, pretending to straighten a brochure that doesn’t need straightening. “It’s just school.”
Mike snorts softly. “It’s not just school.”
The words sit in the room between them, heavier than they should be. Will doesn’t look back right away because he can feel his face doing something he doesn’t want Mike to see.
Mike closes the comic and sets it aside like he’s finally admitting it isn’t helping. “So,” he says. “That’s it. You’re going there.”
“Yeah,” Will says. He taps the brochure with one finger. “Good art program. Close enough. It makes sense.”
Mike reaches for it anyway. His thumb catches the crease at the corner, the paper softened from Will’s handling. He reads the name once—INDIANA UNIVERSITY - BLOOMINGTON—and then sets it back down like it stung, his fingertips lingering a beat too long.
“Right,” Mike says, but his tone is wrong—flat, like he’s repeating lines he doesn’t believe.
Will forces himself to turn. “What?”
Mike hesitates. His knee keeps bouncing, faster now. “Nothing. It’s just—everyone keeps acting like this is… normal.”
Will lets out a tight breath. “Is it not normal?”
Mike’s eyes flick to the boxes. The half-empty shelves. The places where things have already been taken down like the room is preparing to forget them.
“I don’t know,” Mike admits. “It feels—” He stops. Swallows. “It feels like you already left.”
Will’s throat tightens. He hates how much that lands.
“I’m still here,” Will says, quietly.
Mike nods like he knows. Like knowing doesn’t fix it. “Yeah. I know.”
A beat of silence.
Then Mike says, almost defensively, “I still haven’t picked.”
Will blinks. “You have time.”
“Do I?” Mike asks. There’s a flash of frustration, not at Will exactly, but at everything. “My mom keeps asking. My dad keeps sending me brochures like I’m supposed to wake up one morning and suddenly want to be some guy in a tie.”
Will gives a small, brittle laugh. “Yeah. Sounds terrible.”
Mike looks at him. Really looks, like he wants to say something else and is afraid of what it would sound like if he did.
“What if I don’t want any of it?” Mike asks, voice low.
Will’s chest aches, sharp and familiar. “You don’t have to know right now.”
Mike shakes his head. “But you do.”
Will’s hand curls into a fist at his side. “I picked a school,” he says. “That doesn’t mean I’m not—” He stops himself. He isn’t going to say scared out loud like it would make Mike reach for him.
Mike’s gaze drops briefly to Will’s hands, like he can tell Will is holding something back. “Are you?” he asks anyway.
Will swallows. “Yeah.”
The admission is small, but it changes the air. Mike’s face softens, something pained and tender at the same time.
“I don’t want you to go,” Mike says, too quietly.
Will’s heart stutters. He forces his voice to stay even. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Mike flinches. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” Will says quickly, because he does. Because if he lets that sentence hang the wrong way, it turns into an argument they don’t have time for.
Mike rubs the back of his neck, suddenly restless. “I just—” He laughs once, humorless. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Will’s fingers slip back into his backpack pocket like muscle memory. The tape is there, waiting. He feels, absurdly, like he’s about to step off something high.
He pulls it out before he can change his mind.
“Hey,” Will says.
Mike turns his head. “Yeah?”
Will holds the cassette case out. His hand is steady. He hates that his chest isn’t.
“I made you something,” he says.
Mike blinks. “Wait—really?” He takes it too fast, like his hands moved on instinct. “A mixtape?”
Will nods. “For the summer.” He swallows. Adds, as if it doesn’t matter, “Or for when you decide.”
Mike turns it over, reading the label: For Mike in Will’s careful handwriting.
Mike’s mouth opens. “What’s on—” he starts, and then stops, like finishing the question would make it real. He swallows and looks back down at the handwriting instead. “Never mind.”
Mike’s thumb rubs over the label, absent-minded. “Thanks,” he says, and his voice sounds strange—too sincere, like it might crack if he pushes it. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” Will says. Honest. Simple. The closest he can get.
Mike taps the case against his palm, thoughtful. “I’ll listen to it,” he says. Then, quieter, “I’ll listen to it tonight.”
Will’s stomach tightens. “You don’t have to like it.”
Mike lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I’m gonna like it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Mike says, and his eyes meet Will’s in a way that makes Will’s breath catch. “You always know what I like before I do.”
Will smiles, because he has to. Because the alternative is letting his face fall open.
Mike tucks the tape into his jacket pocket instead of setting it down. Will notices, and it feels like a bruise being pressed.
They sit there for a second longer than they should. The room hums with everything they didn’t say.
“It’s gonna be weird,” Mike says finally. “When you leave.”
Will nods. “Yeah.”
Mike’s knee bounces faster. He shifts his weight—and his knee bumps Will’s, clumsy and unintentional. Mike doesn’t react at all. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t pull away. He just keeps talking like nothing happened.
“We’ll still talk,” Mike says quickly. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Will repeats.
A few seconds later, Mike adjusts, creating space without thinking about it. The moment passes, unmarked.
Will tells himself it was nothing. The bed’s small. They’ve always been bad at personal space.
He tells himself that a lot.
From downstairs, Joyce calls Will’s name, asking if they want pizza.
Mike stands abruptly, like he’s grateful for the interruption. “Tell her yes,” he says. “I’m starving.”
Will nods, standing too. They head for the door, shoulder to shoulder in the hallway, close enough that Will can feel the warmth of him, not close enough to do anything about it.
Will doesn’t let himself hope.
But as Mike reaches the stairs, he pats his jacket pocket once—quick, unconscious, like checking the tape is still there.
Will sees it anyway.
And it hurts in the exact way hope always does.