Some days ago, I started this as a piece of writing, not knowing if it would ever turn into a fic. The response I got here completely overwhelmed me. So many of you asked me to tag you, to post it on AO3, to keep going, to finish it.
I’ve officially posted Chapter 1 of this story on AO3, and I’m planning to continue it there.
A big part of why I wanted to turn this into a fic is to sit with all the gaps the show left behind, especially when it comes to Mike. There's a reason for everything he did, let him explain!
You can read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78197451/chapters/204960601
And if you feel like it, comments and kudos over there mean everything. Truly. This writer runs on them, and I appreciate every single one more than I can say. 💙
For everyone who asked me to tag them: @georgeodowd @i-have-zero-chill @frogsdontcry @rain-puddles @marzix-sza @ode-to-berlermo @staphi @tchaik2 @catjuice123 @reluctantbylerblog @hawkins-family-video-backroom @danmeicoffeecat @thedayidiedwasthedaythatidied @wis3h3artt
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Mike Wheeler hadn’t expected New York to feel like this.
Not the city itself —the city was exactly what he’d imagined: loud, immense, too alive— but the quiet pressure that settled in his chest the moment he stepped out of the cab. A tight, persistent weight, like simply being in the same place as Will —even without seeing him yet— had shifted something that had been resting, untouched, for far too long.
They talked often. Long phone calls, sometimes awkward, sometimes so natural they felt pulled from another time. Will told him about the School of Visual Arts, about endless workshops, about professors who pushed him to loosen his grip on structure, to stop being afraid of what he created. He talked about spending hours shut inside the studio, about coming home tired with graphite-smudged fingers or paint on his hands, about how different the light in New York was compared to Hawkins, about how everything here seemed to move even when he stayed still.
Mike talked about the book. About how strange it felt to say it out loud. About the publishing house that had contacted him, about the invitation to travel and present something that, not long ago, had only existed in worn notebooks and half-organized files. Will sounded genuinely proud. Mike could hear it, even across the distance.
And then there was the other subject.
Will never mentioned him outright. He always came up indirectly, almost carefully: someone he’d met, someone he was seeing, someone who made him laugh. Will sounded excited. Lighter. As if he’d found a place to lean without needing permission. Without being afraid of the answer.
On one of those calls, without making much of it, Will said he was thinking about taking the next step. That maybe he wanted something serious. Something exclusive. Mike had leaned back against the wall of his bedroom, closed his eyes, and congratulated him. Said he thought it was a good thing. That he was happy for him. And in some way, it was true. But something inside him shifted out of alignment, like that sentence had pointed toward something he’d spent years choosing not to look at directly.
The publisher had offered him a hotel. Some nights covered, close to downtown. Will, of course, had offered his place. Said he had room. Said it wouldn’t be a problem. Mike had declined. Said everything was already arranged. That he didn’t want to be a bother.
He didn’t tell him the truth, though—the one that kept surfacing quietly at the back of his thoughts.
Now he was here. In New York. In the same city where Will was building a life that no longer centered on him. The interview with the publisher had gone better than he’d expected. They told him the contract would be ready the next day, that only a few details remained. Something concrete. Stable. Almost reassuring.
And still, he couldn’t feel at ease.
He hadn’t told Will he’d arrived. Not yet. Will’s address was written on a folded piece of paper tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket, carrying a presence that felt almost spectral. Knowing he could see him at any moment unsettled him more than the waiting itself.
"As soon as I get some free time, I’ll call you. We can hang out or something." he’d said over the phone.
Going back to the hotel didn’t feel like an option. Once there, the room began to feel too quiet, too small for everything circling his thoughts. The idea of staying alone with nothing but time to think pushed him back out into the street.
He walked without direction, bathed in yellow streetlights and neon, letting the city carry him along. He thought about the contract he was about to sign, about the book that was finally becoming something more than just his. He thought about Will—about how close he was, and how far he suddenly felt. Each step took him farther from the hotel and deeper into thoughts he couldn’t quite sort through.
The constant noise of traffic. Voices overlapping in different languages. The air smelled like smoke, hot street food, metal, and old rain. Without thinking too much about it, he stepped into a small, dim bar—one of those places where no one asked questions.
He ordered a drink. Then another. Lit a cigarette and leaned against the counter, absently tilting the glass in his hand, watching the liquid sway and settle again.
He thought of Will at eleven, drawing on the basement floor. He thought of Will at eighteen, saying goodbye with his eyes full of things he didn’t know how to say—things that were there, things Mike knew were there, things they had somehow silently agreed not to talk about anymore.
He thought of Will now, in New York, wanting to build something with someone else.
For a long time, Mike had told himself that what he felt was normal. That missing him made sense. That the discomfort had everything to do with distance and nothing more. But hearing Will talk about someone else—imagining him choosing another person—forced him to face a question he still didn’t know how to shape.
Maybe he didn’t just miss Will.
Maybe he missed the version of himself that existed when Will was close.
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