Chapter Text
This was almost always a bad idea.
Will knew better than to stop for coffee on his way to class, especially when the café he frequented just so happened to be the place everyone else in New York went to at eight o’clock on a Thursday morning. Though, probably every café in New York is busy at this time, so he can’t really place blame on this establishment in particular. He was aware of its early morning chaos and chose to completely ignore that knowledge by stepping foot into the building. The bells attached to the top of the door had chimed inaudibly, silenced by the cacophony of the café—90s pop music ringing through the speakers, unwavering chatter among customers and staff alike, and at least two steamer wands screeching their signature high-pitched song.
Even through his headphones, he could hear every ounce of sound produced within these walls. It was the kind of scene that would make most people who are crunched for time say, “Forget it. I don’t need the caffeine that badly,” and step back out onto the sidewalk.
Will was not one of those people.
So he’d pushed through the boisterous crowd to the end of the line, wondering how this many café-goers could be so full of pep at this hour, when they were all here waiting on a beverage to, supposedly, supply that energy. It was backwards, and it was obnoxious. He wished they’d all stop babbling to each other so he could take a stab at, maybe, possibly, hearing himself think.
Not that he really wanted to hear himself think. Not with the anxiety that’s been bouncing against the walls of his brain like a ping-pong ball that doesn’t care to adhere to the laws of physics. It’s been endless. It’s plagued him since last night, when…
No. Enough of that. He’s done thinking about it now, not wanting to pay the ping-pong ball any more attention because its incessant ricochet is starting to give him a headache. Or maybe it was induced by the noise around him. Either way, it’s incredibly frustrating, because today—and since last night—some merciless god has been pulling the strings on Will’s life, making certain that every little thing goes wrong just to piss him off. That, he was sure of.
His morning began with the glorious realization that he’d slept through his alarm, which was likely due to him staying up past 2:00 AM because of that stupid, angry ping-pong ball. Just ping-ing and pong-ing. For hours. For the better half of that time, he’d been replaying conversations in his head. He tried to rework them, line by line, to better prove his point to the opposing party—as if he would feel better about the whole thing if he fixed his arguments retroactively, thinking that if he ruminated long enough, he could reshape his own memory and believe in it too. Maybe then, he could pretend that their conversation didn’t go as poorly as it did. He’d tried over and over to convince himself things were better than they were. In reality, it only exhausted him. And single-handedly ruined his sleep schedule.
Stumbling out of bed this morning, he’d stubbed his toe on the leg of his bedframe, which warranted multiple obscenities being half-whispered, half-exclaimed into the air for no one to hear except Will. What was worse than the injury itself was having no one there to ask if he was okay. Of course, he was okay. It was just a stubbed toe. But for most of his mornings over the past year, someone would’ve shown concern at his miniature outburst. Someone would’ve been there, mumbling a groggy, half-awake “What’s wrong? You okay?”
Instead, the only response he’d received was the impatient honking from the traffic on the streets below him. It felt humiliating, even in his solitude. He was simply embarrassed to admit he woke up alone this morning. Sure, he’d woken up alone on other occasions during the course of his year-long relationship, most often due to conflicting schedules, but he'd felt the absence more heavily today. His eyes had lingered on the undisturbed sheets on the far side of his bed, remembering the insults and accusations thrown against the walls of his room, accompanied by pointed fingers and angry eyes, ending promptly with the slam of the door and deafening silence. All things that had led to his unoccupied bed staring up at him, just mocking him with its lack of humanity.
Luckily, his normal wake-up time allows for slowness, so he didn’t have to scramble to get ready. He’d managed to give himself enough time to eat a bowl of Cheerios while his coffee brewed, the slow bubbling sounds of the coffee pot drowning out the otherwise heavy silence of his lonesome breakfast. Once finished, he’d poured some coffee into a mug and crafted it to perfection with a splash of cream and two spoonfuls of sugar. Then, in a perfect storm of gravity and a lapse in hand-eye coordination, he’d completely missed his mouth when trying to take a sip. The spilled coffee ran down his chin and made a new home on his last clean shirt, right in the center of his chest. Luckily, it wasn’t hot enough to burn him, but the rapidly set stain was enough to royally piss him off.
You’ve got to be kidding me, he thought. He’d been putting off the laundry for weeks, and now it’d come back to bite him. He grabbed a towel from the oven handle to wipe his face and what he could of his shirt. Then, in a burst of frustration, he poured the rest of the coffee down the sink and set the mug on the metal, next to the empty cereal bowl. He didn’t have it in him to attempt a second sip.
Irritated, he moved to his bedroom and shrugged off the now-stained button-up, tossing it into the overflowing laundry basket in the corner by the closet. He then dug through the closet to find something, anything, that he could wear in place of the soiled shirt. He searched through piles and piles of old clothing and landed on a hoodie he hadn’t worn since his junior year of high school. He held it up to observe, sighed, and shoved it over his head. It’s a size too small now, and the sleeves land an inch above his wrists. The Hawkins High logo splayed across his chest had almost entirely faded into the dark green material beneath it. He looked at himself in the mirror, tilted his head back in annoyance, then tossed his hands up in a “whatever, it is what it is” kind of motion and gave up on trying to look any more presentable for the day.
He slipped into his sneakers, threw on his dark brown Levi’s jacket, grabbed his worn canvas messenger bag containing unfinished art projects and other college necessities, and walked out the door. He fumbled with his keys, trying to find the right one, before the key ring slipped off his finger and fell to the ground.
“Jesus Christ,” he’d muttered, bending down to pick them up off the welcome mat, its colorful, geometric patterns starkly contrasting Will’s bitterness.
He restarted his search, found the correct key, and successfully locked the door. He moved to the stairwell, thinking he could finally get on with his day, when he heard a door shut loudly above him. He jumped at the sound and threw a hand to the metal railing to keep himself from falling down the concrete steps. He took a moment to steady himself, before shaking his head and rolling his eyes in annoyance. Then, he trotted down four flights of stairs in the freezing cold and began his walk to The Dragonfly Café.
At this point, he deserved this coffee.
But, just as the dense crowd had foreshadowed, Will is still waiting for his order to be announced. As he always does. As he knew he would. He checks his watch; it’s been at least 15 minutes since he’d put his order in. Though, he could be exaggerating because he doesn’t know exactly what time he got here. What he does know, however, is that he doesn’t have many more minutes to spare before he’s late for his lecture. He looks up and scans the room again, beginning to feel not only impatient, but claustrophobic. There was only so much deep breathing and toe-tapping a person could do before they were on the brink of an anxiety attack.
That’s where Will was. On the brink. All for a damn latte.
In the agony of his waiting, he remembers the Walkman he’d attached to his hip on the walk over. He’d removed his headphones while talking to the cashier and forgotten to put them back on in the chaos of navigating through the crowd to the pick-up area. He grabs the headphones from around his neck and repositions them on his ears, pressing “play” on the device.
The music starts back up near the beginning of “I Want to Break Free” by Queen. Will exhales a small, sarcastic laugh at the irony of the lyrics. This band always seems to narrate his personal life, in one way or another, whether he wants to admit it to himself or not. After what happened last night, that feeling of needing to escape or start over—that gut feeling he buries deep within him—is growing more potent and much harder to ignore.
He shakes his head to rid the thought, trying to avoid falling back into that pit of anxiety. He’d mulled over it enough last night; sleeping through his alarm was proof of that. Plus, he knows that once he starts spiraling down that pit, each subsequent thought will increase the difficulty of crawling out of it. He sighs. All he wants is this stupid latte so he can get on with his life–
The music stops.
Will looks down at his Walkman. It’s paused. “What the hell…?” he mutters to himself, pressing the play button again. After all the setbacks he’s experienced this morning, technical difficulties would take the cake. There’s nothing more frustrating than that.
But what’s confusing is…it doesn’t even make sense. Why would it pause the music, out of nowhere? That’s never happened before. It’s as if someone pushed the button without him seeing. He looks around, scanning the crowd in front of and beside him. He’s standing close to people, but not close enough for that to occur by accident. Unless some paranormal being is haunting him too, pressing buttons when he isn’t looking, just to mess with him. At least that would make for an interesting story. A ghost who hated Queen in a past life follows poor, pathetic Will Byers around and turns off his music when he isn’t looking. Funny.
Will sighs, trying to refocus on the lyrics.
I’ve fallen in love, yeah
God knows–
Out of the corner of his eye, Will catches a glimpse of a hand by his side as the music pauses again. Okay, so it wasn’t a ghost, and someone is choosing to be an asshole. On purpose. Just the kind of thing he wants to deal with today. Will spins around, looking for the owner of the hand and, therefore, the person responsible for interrupting what little peace he had left.
“What are you–?” he spits out, cutting off his own speech when his eyes meet that person’s face.
Will freezes entirely. Lips parted, eyes wide, and suddenly unable to speak. His words have been completely sucked from his chest like a vacuum. His eyes flicker back and forth across the features of the face opposite him, trying to decipher if that’s a real human or a hallucination as a result of his sleep deprivation. Or a ghost. An extremely lifelike ghost. He honestly would have found a paranormal explanation more plausible than this. Than him, standing two feet away.
It’s a face he’d recognize anywhere. One he hasn’t seen in four years, and hasn’t spoken to in three. But he still thinks about him each and every day, regardless of how wrong it might be to do so. In Will’s likely obvious staring, he takes in all of the boy’s matured features. His sharp bone structure, softened by the freckles peppered across his cheeks and nose, with a gentle smile aimed right at Will’s heart. God, he’s missed that smile. What he’s missed even more are those deep brown eyes, staring straight into his soul. The eyes he used to get lost in, the eyes he’s definitely getting lost in now. And it must be evident, because a small smile creeps onto the face across from him.
“Hi,” he says to Will, laughing a little. “You were saying?”
Will’s mouth begins to move, but no words pour out. Just opening and closing, like a fish begs for food. He reaches up, removing his headphones to lay around his neck so he can hear better. Though, he’s not sure it actually improves his hearing because it feels like he’s underwater. Everything sounds muffled and far quieter than it was a minute ago. He can’t see anything but the boy in front of him. His mouth goes dry. It’s like he has tunnel vision but for all five of his senses.
His hands linger on the headphones, still trying to wrap his head around what he’s seeing, because there’s no way this is happening. There’s no way he’s here, in New York, in the same café, at the same time as Will. The statistical odds can’t possibly be in his favor on a matter like this. This is impossible.
This is incredible.
“Mike?” Will manages to ask, not as a legitimate question, but in a holy-shit-is-that-really-you kind of way. Because holy shit, is that really him? With the way his morning has been going, Will wouldn’t be surprised if this is all some kind of sick illusion.
Mike chuckles at his astonishment, spreading open his unbuttoned coat by the hands in his pockets as if to reveal more of himself. Like a bird showing off its wings. “In the flesh.”
Will’s eyes move over the boy’s clothes. Aside from the dark blue wool coat, Mike is wearing a charcoal gray knitted sweater, black chinos, and black dress shoes to match. His hair is what Will remembered it to be, except slightly shorter on the sides. His soft black waves fall perfectly across his forehead, a few curls dangling just below his eyebrows. He’s always looked put together, even when he’s not trying. Will never thought his effortlessness was very fair.
He looks…great. Grown up. Like a professional.
It’s at this moment that Will becomes aware of his own, less-than-professional outfit, and cringes internally at the difference between the two of them. Just fuel to the fire, he thinks, directing that thought at the mean, puppeteering god in control of him today. His hands twitch toward the zipper of his jacket before he ultimately chooses not to hide his sweatshirt; if he did zip it up, that would almost certainly highlight his insecurity about his clothing choices. Plus, the longer he stands among this crowd, the warmer he feels. He supposes that insulating himself even further would not be his best idea. Instead, he hooks a thumb in the shoulder strap of his bag, pulling it closer to his stomach like a clutch. It doesn’t hide much, but it does mimic a sense of comfort.
Will shakes his head slowly, still trying to make sense of the figure in front of him. “How… Why are you…?”
Mike smirks at him, clearly finding Will’s confusion amusing, whereas Will doesn’t think it’s funny at all. Quite the opposite, actually. Mike clarifies his question for him. “Why am I here?”
Will eyebrows scrunch a fraction of a degree. “Y-Yeah. Why are you here?” He pauses and shakes his head, like he’s erasing his words from the air with the movement. “I mean– Not like ‘Why are you here?’ as in, like, ‘I don’t want you here’ or something. B-Because that’s, that’s not true– I just mean, um…” Oh my God, get it together. “I mean it’s nice to see you, I just mean, like, why are you…here?” He points to the ground to mime his question. “In New York?” Good job, Will. This is off to a great start.
Mike doesn’t seem to mind his rambling. He just flashes him that signature grin, the one Will has come to have a love-hate relationship with. That grin comforts him in a way no one else’s could. That grin also makes him want to shrink into a puddle of embarrassment and never speak again. Sometimes he thinks he, and everyone else, might be better off if he just sewed his mouth shut.
“I know what you meant,” Mike replies, and a fleeting sense of relief floods into Will’s shoulders. He lets them lower from his ears, feeling the headphones shift as he does so. “I, um, I live here now.”
Will’s jaw drops. That’s not the follow-up he’d expected at all. “You– You what? Since when?”
Mike looks toward the dragonfly-patterned wallpaper above the row of coffee machines and syrup bottles, scrunching his face in thought. “Uh, three months ago? Give or take.”
Will just stares at him, unsure of what to do with this information. Mike has been living in the same city as him for three months—three months—and he had no idea. Not that he could’ve known, really, not without seeing him or hearing from him, but…still. How many times have they passed each other in a crosswalk or taken the same crowded subway or been standing in the same café and Will was too lost in his own world to realize it? How many times could he have bumped into Mike before this?
Why didn’t he call to let him know?
“Oh, wow,” Will says, trying to blink away the surprise on his face. He wraps a second hand around his bag strap. “Okay, um… What– What brought you here? Why did you move?”
Mike looks sheepishly at his shoes, kicking the toe of one into the tiled floor. “I, uh, I got a new job. Publishing.” He lifts his head again to meet Will’s gaze, whose expression has finally turned into something other than complete bafflement.
“Mike, oh my God, that’s amazing!” Will responds excitedly, instinctively reaching out to touch Mike’s arm. Just as he would have done years ago, acting like no time has passed and nothing has changed between them. But it has changed. Things are different now. Mike’s eyes follow Will’s hand to where it rests on his arm, like he feels the difference too. Will retreats his hand to his jacket pocket, pretending he never touched him in the first place. “Um, where at? Where do you work?”
Mike draws his eyes back to Will’s, lifting that same arm to scratch the back of his head. He takes in a slow breath. “HarperCollins,” he exhales, like the words are heavy on his tongue.
Will’s eyebrows twitch upward. “HarperCollins? As in the biggest publishing company, like, ever? That HarperCollins?”
Mike chuckles at him. “That’s the one,” he says, his cheeks turning the slightest shade pinker. Will has noticed over the years that praise tends to make Mike shy, so he’ll take any chance to boost his ego. Or maybe he just likes to see Mike blush. It’s a pretty color on him.
Will stares at him in awe, and in curiosity. It makes sense, of course, that Mike would work there. He just feels like he’s missed so many steps, so much time, between the two of them. He should’ve known when Mike switched from wanting to write to wanting to publish. He should’ve known when he made the decision to move halfway across the country. He should’ve known so many things. He used to know Mike better than he knew his own brain, yet he feels brand new, standing in front of him now.
It feels like seeing a painting in a museum, up close for the first time. When you think you’ve read everything about it in art history books, but in person, you can see the brush strokes, the delicacy of the hand, all the intricacies that make it so valuable. You learn about it all over again.
To Will, Mike is that kind of painting. He is art. He always has been, and still is now—both old and new, both known and unfamiliar. Beautiful and striking and brilliant. Will could study him forever. He’d paint him right now, if only he had a canvas.
“Wow,” he breathes, the realization knocking the wind from his lungs.
“Yeah,” Mike replies. “I was surprised too.”
Will shakes his head, quick to clarify. “Oh, I didn’t– I mean, if anyone’s gonna work at a place like that, it would be you. I’m just…” he trails off, searching for the right thing to say. He waves a hand, as if trying to grab the word out of thin air. “Proud. Of you.” Nope, too much. “Impressed,” he substitutes, almost immediately.
Will feels his cheeks begin to heat. Did he seriously just admit that? Not that it wasn’t true. He is proud. But it’s been three years since they’ve spoken and even longer since they’ve seen each other in person. It’s probably far too soon for Will to be announcing his sentiments like that.
Mike studies him for a moment, the ghost of a grin still lingering on his lips. Will can’t quite get a read on his expression before Mike’s eyes drift past his head, seemingly locking on an object behind him. He clears his throat. “Are you, uh… Are you gonna get that?”
Will blinks at him, confused. “Get…what?”
“Your coffee,” Mike says, pointing toward the pick-up counter. “They called your name.”
Will turns around to see a lonesome latte on the wooden countertop, his name scribbled in black marker on the side of the plastic cup. He’s been so entranced by Mike’s presence that he’d forgotten why he was even here. Five minutes ago, this latte was the most important thing in his life, only to become an afterthought the second he locked eyes with Mike. His complete lack of awareness that his own name had been called is proving that tunnel vision to be more restrictive than he’d thought.
He turns back to Mike, shaking his head. “Right, yeah. Thanks.”
As Will begins to move through the thinning crowd, a barista calls out another order: “Black coffee for Mike!”
Will pushes through the last few people, muttering a few excuse-me’s and sorry’s along the way, likely not loud enough for anyone to hear. He arrives at the counter and picks up his drink, grabbing a straw from the basket to his right. He tears the paper at one end, places the straw between his teeth, and pulls down on the wrapper. He crumples the paper in his hand and turns back to the left, but stops short when he nearly collides with a tall, familiar body next to him. Mike reaches across the counter to grab his own drink, shooting a quick “thanks” to the barista and turns to fully face Will, who is now standing very, very close. Practically chest to chest, with only a foot of space between them.
Will watches Mike’s hand as he slides his paper cup across the counter toward himself. He then drags his attention up his arm and to his face, where he finds Mike peering down at him.
Mike’s eyes flicker to the straw still dangling from Will’s mouth. “Iced coffee? In December?”
Will face heats, whether from their sudden closeness or Mike’s remark, he doesn’t know. Maybe both. He breaks eye contact and grabs the straw from between his teeth, puncturing it through the opening in the lid. “Well, I’m gonna be inside all day, so I don’t really mind the cold for a few–“ Will pauses, eyes widening. “Oh, shit.”
Mike’s brow furrows. “What? What’s wrong?”
Will pulls back the sleeve of his jacket to see the time on his watch, praying it doesn’t say–
8:16. His class started one minute ago.
He drops his sleeve and looks back up at Mike. “I’m sorry, I have to go. I’m late.”
A look of defeat moves across Mike’s face, gone as quickly as it appeared. “Oh,” he responds quietly. “Yeah, yeah of course. I’ll follow you out,” he says, pointing toward the door.
Will nods and turns to move through the sea of people, keeping a tight hold on his coffee. He doesn’t want a stray elbow bumping into him and recreating a version of the incident he experienced this morning.
He successfully reaches the doors without a spill and pushes one open, Mike trailing behind him. He trots down the two concrete steps and reaches the sidewalk, turning quickly to face Mike again. Who is too close to him. Again.
Will takes a few steps back, eyes focusing instead on Mike’s hands, which are now occupied with putting on a pair of black gloves. Will brings a hand to his forehead, scratching just above his brow. “I’m, uh, really sorry. I-I wish I could stay and talk, but it was, um…” he trails off as Mike adjusts the gloves on his fingers, pulling the fabric more tightly around them. Will looks back up to find Mike has been moving through the action mindlessly; his eyes are trained on Will, not his own hands. Will steps back another inch and clears his throat. “It was really good to see you. I’m, uh, glad you’re doing well,” he finishes, offering a small smile.
Mike returns it. “Yeah, it was good to see you too,” he says. “I guess I’ll, uh…I’ll see you around?”
Will blinks at him. The sentence stings more than it should.
More than a decade of friendship. Reduced to a “see you around” in five seconds flat. He supposes it was more like three years of not speaking that led to this moment, but regardless, it feels sudden. Like moving out of your childhood home, with years of memories packed up in boxes. You look at the empty rooms one last time, knowing it’s the last you’ll see of them, and you know that once you step outside and close the door, you’ll never go back in. That “see you around” felt like closing the door on an empty house.
It felt oddly, disturbingly final.
Will shakes his head, pretending like this doesn’t actually bother him. “Yeah, totally. For sure. I’ll see you.”
Mike nods stiffly, seemingly unsure how to respond. Will can’t blame him. How do you end a conversation with someone like this? How do you close that door, especially when you so desperately want to keep it open? How do you resist the urge to rip the tape off of all those cardboard boxes and fill the rooms again? Will doesn’t know, but he feels that resistance tugging at his heart in a quiet ache, and he can’t help but wonder if Mike feels it too.
After a moment, Will decides to spare them both, shooting Mike one last smile before turning on his heel. He makes it about ten steps away before that ache of resistance morphs into a gnawing regret. The feeling is nearly identical to the one he felt while passing the “Leaving Hawkins” sign on the edge of town, marking the beginning of his and Jonathan’s twelve-hour drive to New York. The day he moved here. The last day he saw Mike in person. His pace slows, feeling an invisible tug in the opposite direction. Like if he doesn’t turn around now, he may never see Mike again. The one person he’s longed for since the day he left home.
How could he walk away, just like that? How could he not fight for the years they’d lost?
He can’t. So, he stops walking, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone bumps into his shoulder, mumbling a curse word or two under their breath at the inconvenience, but Will hardly registers the interaction, because…
Fuck it. He’s not closing the door.
He turns around before he can psych himself out of doing so, fully preparing to jog—or run—to reach Mike before he gets lost in a sea of pedestrians. There are very few things that Will would jog or run for, and Mike is one of them.
But it turns out, he doesn’t have to do either thing. Because Mike is standing in the exact same place on the sidewalk, looking directly at him. Even from his distance, Will can see Mike’s eyebrows raise and lips part, like he’s taking in a breath of pleasant surprise. Will’s heart nearly skips a beat at the sight. Was Mike thinking the same thing as him? Was he hoping Will would turn around and do exactly this?
Was he planning to chase after him too?
Realizing there’s no turning back, Will takes a few steps in Mike’s direction, mustering whatever bravery he has left. He shoves his free hand into his jacket pocket, pulling the fabric closer to his body—partly from the cold, but mostly as a protective shield. A comforting hug to quiet the nerves coursing through his veins.
He slows to a halt as he reaches Mike again, a healthy three feet between them. He takes a deep breath, desperately hoping this invitation doesn’t result in rejection. If it does, he might have to consider running again. Away from Mike, this time. “Are you, um… Are you busy tonight?” he asks him, voice slightly raised over the buzzing streets of New York.
Mike blinks a few times, like he’s just as surprised as Will is to be asking. “Ah…nope. No plans for me,” he responds, his breath visible in the cold December air.
Will exhales a small sigh of relief. One question down, one to go. He takes a few steps closer, having gained a fraction of confidence from Mike’s response, like he’s leveling up in a video game. “Would you want to, um, get dinner? Or something? There’s an Italian place just around the corner, called Bruno’s.” He points with his thumb over his shoulder, before stuffing his hand back in the safety of his pocket. “Have you been?”
Mike shakes his head. “Mm-mm.”
“Um, it’s, like, half-bar, half-restaurant,” Will explains. “Sometimes they have live music, if you’re lucky. It’s pretty good. Casual.” He pauses, and Mike just looks at him, waiting for him to finish. “I just thought maybe we could…catch up? You know, properly.”
A smile tugs at Mike’s lips. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds nice. Uh, what time? Would six work for you?”
Will mimics his expression. “Yeah. That works.”
Mike nods. “Great. I’ll see you at six, then.”
Finally satisfied, and feeling like he can breathe again, Will nods and turns, walking a few steps away. He doesn’t make it far when the sound of his own name stops him in his tracks.
“Will, wait!”
It’s a strange feeling, hearing your name spoken on the tongue of someone you haven’t heard from in years. He can’t even remember the last time he heard Mike say his name. It feels both foreign and familiar, and it somehow holds more weight than all the other words Mike has said today. Will turns and sees Mike striding toward him, pulling the gloves off his hands. “Here,” he says. “Take these.”
Will looks down at his outstretched hand, confused. “Mike, wh– No. I’m not stealing your gloves.”
“You’re not stealing. I’m offering.”
Will looks up at him, holding out a palm to refuse the offer. “Mike, seriously, it’s fine.”
Mike’s eyes move to Will’s hand around the coffee cup, studying it. “Your hand’s turning red. Take them.”
Will looks down at his hand, and…he can’t disagree. His skin is pinker. And very cold. He shakes his head. “Okay, but what about your hands? If I take those, then your hands will be cold.”
Mike shrugs. “Not really. I have this.” He raises his coffee cup and wiggles it. “This will keep my hands warm. Meanwhile, you’re holding an ice cube. Like, literally, you’re holding a cup of ice.”
Will narrows his gaze and attempts to bite back a smile, to which Mike tilts his head in response, shaking the gloves in the air to silently restate his offer. A knowing smile takes shape on his face, like he knows he’s right and Will would be silly to refuse the gloves at this point. Will knows it, too, so he lets out a sigh and reluctantly takes them from him.
Mike leaves his now-empty hand outstretched. “Give me that,” he states, pointing to the cup in Will’s hand. “I’ll hold it for you.”
Will glances down at his drink, then extends it outward, delivering it to Mike’s open hand. The moment slows as their fingertips brush against each other, the warmth of Mike’s skin sending a tiny jolt through Will’s body. He releases his hold on the cup and pulls his hand back, squeezing onto the gloves instead to soothe the spark that ran through him. His eyes dart up to Mike, who meets his gaze but quickly looks down.
“Um…thanks,” Will says quietly, trying not to read into Mike’s sudden aversion and choice of a curt nod over a verbal response. Will looks back down to pull the gloves on, more to smother the absence of Mike’s touch than the icy air, at this point. They are, however, a fighting force against the cold. The lining is soft, and his hands instantly warm a few degrees. “Wow,” he says, turning his palm up and down to observe their design. “These are…really nice.”
Mike shrugs, plastering a new, smug look on his face—a sharp contrast to his prior expression. It’s as if Will’s minute praise flipped a switch in his brain. “I prioritize warmth,” he says plainly.
Will looks up at him, adjusting the seams along his fingers. Mike’s playful confidence gives Will a boost of his own. “Oh, are you saying I don’t? Because I don’t have fancy gloves like you?”
Mike hums. “You don’t need fancy gloves, necessarily. But you could make better beverage choices in the dead of winter.” He grins at him, holding out Will’s coffee cup.
Will scoffs. “How dare you insult the one thing that brings me joy?” He takes the drink from Mike, bringing the straw to his lips to take a sip.
Mike’s eyes briefly follow the movement. “Not an insult, just a suggestion. Forgive me for trying to save you from frostbite,” he jokes, interlocking his fingers around the warmth of his to-go cup.
Will chews on his lip to keep from smiling. “Well, I suggest you let me enjoy my iced latte in peace,” he retorts. “Frostbite or not.”
A look of amusement crosses Mike’s face, and Will feels a sense of pride flow through him. He’s missed this, just talking and joking with him. Nothing feels forced or strained, it’s just…easy. Suddenly, it feels like they’re back in Hawkins and no time has passed, like they simply pressed pause on the remote that controls their lives, picking up right where they left off in ‘89. As much as Will missed him over the years, he always knew, deep down, that they’d find a way back to each other. They’d always find a way to press play again.
Ever since Will left home, he’d felt a hole in his heart, a nostalgic emptiness that he’d grown accustomed to. But he and Mike’s effortless banter is gently closing that gap, sewing him back together. Like a piece of him has been missing and he’s starting to feel whole again.
Mike breaks eye contact only to glance down at his watch. “Didn’t you say you were late for something?”
Will sighs, closing his eyes momentarily. “Shit. Yeah, you’re right.” He scratches the back of his head, really wishing this conversation could continue. “Um, thank you. For the gloves. I’ll see you at six, yeah? At Bruno’s?”
Mike smiles softly at him. “Yeah. See you then.”
Forcing himself to actually walk away this time, Will nods once and turns around, heading toward his lecture building a few blocks down. He looks at his gloved hand, flexing his fingers a few times before dropping it to his side. His hands are warm now. His whole body feels warm, despite the chilled air surrounding him. It feels like Mike reignited the fizzling flame in Will’s chest, the one instilled in him the day they met. It had burned so bright then, almost blinding against the yellow paint of the swingset. Will had felt invincible that day, swinging so high and so free, he thought he could touch the sky. It stayed alight and vivid until he left Hawkins. Until he left Mike. But the moment Mike locked eyes with him this morning, marked with his gentle stare and comforting smile, he lit that match all over again. Striking Will right in the heart, setting him ablaze.
He’d forgotten how it felt to be warm, and it’s dawning on him how much—and how long—he’s craved this feeling. He never wants to forget it again. He never wants that light to go out.
Will reaches up to grab the headphones laying around his neck, repositioning them on his ears instead. It’s a bit of a difficult task with a coffee cup obstructing his left hand, but he manages. Once situated, he presses the play button on his Walkman, and the song picks up where it left off in the café.
God knows I’ve fallen in love.