Chapter Text
New York is a far sight different from the closed-in, narrow and suffocating space that made up the oppressive town that was Hawkins.
The largest, most glaring difference was this — it was easy to disappear in the city. Max and Will, having moved into an apartment together while attending classes for their respective degrees in NYU, could disappear into bars and frat parties and crowded streets on a daily basis. They could wear whatever they wanted, have the strings of their thongs peek above the waistband of their jeans in a teasing peek, wear matching crop tops and piercings, and have no one bat an eye because the culture was changing, and self-expression was at an all-time peak. Wear whatever, do whatever, be whoever.
Here, everyone looked like everyone, and it was easy to blend in. No longer was Will one of less than five male omegas in Hawkins, doomed to the glares and glowers of the rest of the town's inhabitants and residents, all of them looking down on him for having the audacity to be the youngest in a family of all omegas. Instead, he could cast his gaze across the street and have it land on someone exactly like him — artsy, effeminate and soft, the inner chewy core of him exposed to the outside air for judgement and finding none.
It was freeing and exhilarating, a dizzying gust of fresh air after the stifling atmosphere that was Hawkins and after the terror that made up their godforsaken years spent in the town. Moving had felt like being handed a full gourmet course after snacking on cheap candy for months, like heading into a Victorian-era mansion after being stuck in a dingy, dusty warehouse for decades. It was the best change Will had ever gone through in his life and often, he found himself profusely thanking Jonathan for kicking his ass into fifth gear those last few months of high school, snapping him out of the depression that set in after El's death, cajoling him to finish his art portfolio for a scholarship at NYU.
Mike didn't really feel the same way.
While Max and Will opted to share the rental of an apartment to escape the cases of assault against omegas that was so common on campus, using government hush money to move into an omega-friendly block, he'd done otherwise. He had moved into a dorm on campus, sharing it with a roommate he had not even a smidgen of respect for. So had Lucas, and every outing the four of them had together was spent with the two airing their respective grievances, Max and Will occasionally sharing a look and rolling their eyes — which is the case for today.
They had started out the evening with a nice dinner and a few glasses of wine. And then, tipsy and rosy-cheeked, they headed for a favourite haunt of theirs, a bar that was frequented by most college students for the cheap beer, tacky music, and vibes of uplifting the vulgarity of the youth.
Under the buzzing strobe lights with the dance floor packed to the brim, full of perspiring bodies in scant clothing grooving atop an alcohol and beer-soaked floor, the four of them sequestered themselves into a thankfully free booth where Mike had immediately launched into a spirited takedown of his roommate.
It was far enough from the disco ball in the center, which meant they didn't need to shout to be heard, and Will had yet to decide if that was a curse or a blessing.
"He's just gross," Mike says now, waving his glass of vodka and sprite so viciously half of it spills out on Max's sleeve. Max yelps, and Lucas immediately dabs at the stain with the back of his hand. "He leaves his boxers on my bed. On my fucking bed, imagine that. And he doesn't even flush after he uses the toilet, everyone knows you have to flush a minimum of twice — "
Max, already three sheets to the wind and wasted to the high heavens, rolls her eyes while helping Lucas wipe the stain. "Are you sure this isn't just because he asked for Will's number?"
At that, both Mike and Will flush a beet red.
The incident in question had occurred about a month ago. Back then, Mike's hatred for his roommate, a freshman named James, had been nothing but a mere spark of dislike, occasionally poking its head out every now and then whenever James would do something untoward and disagreeable. And he did do a lot of things that were untoward and disagreeable, such as using up all of Mike's precious, luxury-brand shampoo, leaving the protein tin open to the air with the lid unfastened, using his towel on one occasion and leaving his beard trimmings stuck in the drainage of the sink. Jailable offences, according to Mike.
His worst crime yet, though, is apparently having the audacity to find Will attractive enough to hit on him.
The first occasion had been when Will and Mike were working on homework for one of their compulsory business modules. They were both slogging over equations, Mike's fingers dancing far too close to Will's hand for Will to keep focusing on his notes, when James had also sat down next to them.
He spent the next half hour continuing a conversation with Will so painful Will had momentarily considered bashing his own head in to get out of it. Mike, too, had snapped two pencils, a ruler, and somehow an eraser — how that had happened, Will still has no idea — before testily suggesting to Will that maybe it'd be best if they continued their homework someplace else.
The second occasion had been at said business module. James had snuck in even though it very obviously wasn't his class, stole the seat next to Will which was always reserved for Mike, ignored Will's protests about the robbery and proceeded to spend the entire class dreamily gazing at Will. Mike, who had been relegated to a back seat as a result of the theft, spent the entire session fuming so heavily it was a wonder no one — except for Will, obviously — could hear his heavy breathing.
The second class ended, he shot up and yanked Will towards the exit with a grip so rough Will ended up with finger-shaped bruises for a week afterward. He was too busy seething to notice them, and Will chose not to tell him, knowing he'd beat himself up over it.
The third and final straw that broke the camel's back — and the tightly closed lid containing the extent of Mike's hatred for James — was James directly asking Mike for Will's number. This occurred the morning after a frat party which Will attended in a top with spaghetti straps borrowed from Max, beneath a peach-coloured thin cardigan, thrown over tight jeans with a smattering of gloss brushed across his lips.
Nothing too crazy, just slightly wild enough that he had a line of suitors that night — all of whom he turned down, obviously, because his heart is and has always been reserved for someone else. One of those suitors was James, and he kept on trying till the next day, asking Mike if he could get him his hot omega friend's digits.
James had also, according to an incandescently furious Mike, red in the cheeks with his hands trembling so vigorously Will had wondered if he was having an attack of some sort, described Will as a hot piece of ass and that he was desperate to get between those thick thighs.
At this point, Will had begun spluttering and couldn't find the words appropriate enough to respond to such a scene being vividly painted out for him. Mike began wearing out the carpet of his living room floor, while Max howled with laughter until it turned to sobs of hilarity and Lucas simply collapsed on the floor, reduced to wheezing. Mike called the both of them fakers who did not care about protecting their pack omega, and stormed off to pour himself a glass of vodka, downing it in one go.
Somehow, the sight of it just caused Max and Lucas to laugh harder. Will, not knowing what to do, helplessly handed Mike a glass of water when he returned, reminding him to hydrate. His response caused Mike to calm down, sending a small smile his way that made Will swell up with warmth, his cheeks heating up from the gesture.
After that, James made himself Mike's Public Enemy Number One. His good deeds — of which there were few and far between, anyway — did not help his case any. If Mike could have gotten away with plotting his homicide, he would, prison time be damned.
Now, Mike recovers himself, and rolls his eyes.
"Not just that, Maxine," he snaps aggravatedly, crossing his arms and leaning against the plush seat of the booth. The long line of him, pressed up against Will from shoulder to thigh, feels like a searing path of heat designed to burn his skin, leave behind a continuous imprint. It's certainly more than a little distracting, making Will's thoughts stutter and trip over themselves, his heart racing in his chest. "He's a fucking pissant."
"If you say so," Max drawls, mouthing the word pissant to herself afterwards like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard. Will, playing with his glass of gin and coke, says nothing, and the conversation moves on. The music from afar continues, and they refill their glasses, shoes skidding against the soaked floor of the bar.
However, there's a stewing pit of discomfort that's begun forming in Will's stomach, that grows more and more intense, lingering.
It lingers while Lucas and Max argue about where they want to have date night the weekend after, while Mike continues to diss James every chance he gets. It lingers when Lucas and Mike are chased off to get drinks for them, and Max takes the opportunity to tell Will all about how her labmate rescued a calico cat the other day. It lingers when the two alphas come back with shots, and the four of them decide to down them one after another.
It lingers when they eventually make it outside at 3am in the morning, and Mike, who's somehow managed to remain the most sober of them all, decides that he will hail a cab and chaperone Will home. Lucas and Max, giggly and drunk and this close to making out in front of them, get into another taxi. Will, even in all his drunken glory, winces when he sees Lucas immediately fall on top of Max in the backseat of the car, his head disappearing somewhere in the vicinity of the front of her shirt. They'd have to pay their driver extra after that.
Honestly, the two of them are nauseating. But at least, Will thinks, they are together, they are in love, and they are free and eager to show it off to everyone around them. Here's Will, still hopelessly pining after his best friend, rigidly rooted in place while the world passes him by. It doesn't matter how comfortable he feels in his own skin now, it doesn't matter that his friends accept him for who he is, it doesn't matter which city he's in — Hawkins, Montauk, New York — because his fate is always the same. He is forever doomed to the position he finds himself currently in.
"You okay?" Mike says suddenly, and Will looks up, startled. "Not gonna hurl on me, are you? These are new shoes."
His tone is joking, as if he expects Will to pick up on it and continue the banter. Will doesn't, and the smile on Mike's face slowly falters as the seconds pass by in silence.
Standing where they are by the curb, there are no cabs. No passing taxis, no vehicles, the street empty all of a sudden. It mirrors the pit in Will's stomach, the sensation in his throat when he looks at Mike's eyes, the occasional strands of hair flopping into them. And it mirrors the emptiness in his heart when he takes in the way Mike's jacket strains around the muscles of his shoulders — the fruits of reluctantly tagging along with Lucas to the campus gym on their days off.
He means to build up to it, but the question falls out of his mouth like something unfettered and uncontrolled. "Why didn't you give James my number?" Will abruptly asks, and then presses his lips together, embarrassed at the accusation in his words.
Mike takes it exactly the way Will expected him to. His jaw drops, his eyes widen — and then they narrow, while he crosses his arms over his chest and takes a step back. A cab zooms past on the street, but neither of them pay it any attention. The tension between them has suddenly ratcheted up to a thousand, and Will doesn't know if he wants to dial it back.
It's not even about the number — Will finds James disgusting, and would much rather date a frog than go anywhere near the vicinity of him in a romantic way. But Mike keeps acting like he's got a mark on Will, a hold of Will somehow while still treating him as a best friend. He chaperones Will home after bar nights, he walks Will to and back from class, he calls Will every night to get to know how his day went, and he won't court Will. He won't kiss him, he won't date him, he won't love him. It is a constant thorn in Will's side, and Will wants to yank it out before it reaches his heart.
"Why didn't I — why did you want his number?" Mike asks dangerously. His scent is already filtering into the air between them like an oppressive blanket, full of potent irritation begging to turn to rage at the drop of a hat. "He's a jerk. Did you not hear the things he said about you?"
Yes, Will's heard them. He has heard it at the bodega down the street while they were looking for emergency pads for Max, at the local laundry while getting their washing done at midnight because that's when no one went, at the cafe they go to on campus between classes due to the cakes being made of genuine ambrosia, in whispered conversations during a study session at the library right before an exam they needed to ace to pass a module.
Mike has made it his mission to impress onto Will that James is the epitome of a knothead alpha, a dickhead of the highest order and an idiot to boot, but Will can't quite bring himself to care at this very moment. Not when there's something wild and unchained fluttering around beneath his skin, itching for release.
That's probably why the next few words he says are as insane as they sound.
"Yes, I did, but at least he wants me," Will hisses, and the words not like you die in his throat. And it's embarrassing, it's humiliating, to have to spell this out for Mike, but the truth of it is that Will knows he is not generally desired. On most days, his insecurities are scrawled across his face, his cheeks, his eyes, for everyone to see and plunder. In front of the mirror, he squeezes at bits of fat wherever he finds them and tastes the bitter deluge of self-loathing on his tongue.
When he talks to alphas in class, he is awkward and quiet, and the words trip out in a sequence of sentences that just makes him feel abashed for having put himself out there at all. It doesn't matter if he is approached by alphas and betas alike at frat parties, or if his sleazy professor seems to favour him in a league above the rest for reasons that have nothing to do with his academic prowess — Will is his own worst enemy.
Mike doesn't get it. Mike is gorgeous, from his shorn-short hair falling in artful waves around the chiselled lines of his face down to the slopes of his muscled arms, lean and toned, drawing the attention of every beta and omega — and a few alphas, too — in any room he walks into. He is beautiful in the way Greek gods are beautiful, the symmetry of handsomeness standing out from the rest, etched in the brown of his eyes and the curve of his lips.
And he is unabashed and opinionated, effortlessly taking charge of any situation he's in, be it engaging in spirited debate regarding the pros and cons of descriptive prose or the downside of neoliberal economic theory. The cherry on top of all that alpha-esque icing is that he is caring to a fault, even when he's caustic and abrasive about it. How could anyone not want him? He is beautiful. He doesn't get what it's like to be Will.
The irate expression on Mike's face, though, lets Will know he's about to sorely regret even asking his question to start with. And it lets him know that Mike is going to take that query and twist it into something that will haunt Will for days to come, dig at his most bruised parts and wound him in a way he cannot recover from. And then all of that comes true, when just mere seconds later, Mike says curtly, "At least respect yourself a little, Will. Or do you not have any dignity left?"
All breath leaves Will in a tight, quick whoosh, and the hurt that follows is so absolute and complete he cannot prevent his expression from crumpling in dismay. He feels his heart break cleanly into pieces, his soul shatter into scattered smithereens, and his eyes sting with traitorous tears at the sheer cruelty of the words. Mike's eyes widen, as if he's only just realised the truth of what he said, and he curses foully under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face.
"No. I didn't mean — that's not — "
"No," Will whispers, and then clears his throat to make his voice stronger. If he is going to go out like this, he'd prefer to do it with a fair bit more dignity than Mike seems to think he has. "Stand in it, Mike. What was it? That you think I have no dignity left? No self-respect? Am I just somebody desperate to you, Mike?"
Mike closes his mouth, opens it, then closes it again. He looks lost in the wake of Will's words, the ire having left his eyes and face as quickly as it had entered it. If Mike had been a cruel man, he would have continued the harm and extended his words into a continuous barrage of abuse until Will couldn't take any more. But that's what hurts about all of this — Mike is not a cruel man. Will is just adept at pushing him to that point, and then sorely regretting hitting that juncture afterwards, standing in the wreckage of their battle.
He can feel that same horrible sting continue singeing the corners of his eyes, signalling the onslaught of tears even as he tries to keep it at bay and stand strong. Nothing, he thinks, is going to be more humiliating than breaking down in front of Mike, right here and right now.
And then, Mike speaks. His voice is low and hoarse, trembling so very slightly. "He insulted you, Will."
Will chokes out a laugh. "Okay, so — "
"He called you a piece of ass. He looked at you and he — " Mike chokes himself off with a grunt, running his fingers through his hair as he growls out in frustration. The sound makes Will tremble and his knees shake, a reaction Mike will always garner in him. It doesn't make the hollow sensation in his stomach hurt any less, the words do you not have any dignity left revolving in his head.
It's these words that make Will say what he says next. The silence between them echoes, before he scuffs his shoe against the ground and measures out what he intends to tell Mike. "But he's interested," he says softly, beseechingly, trying not to let the waver in his voice show. He's trying to make a point to Mike, even if he doesn't really believe in his own words. "And… what's the harm in giving it a go?"
"What's the — Will, he's not going to treat you right," Mike snaps instantly, stepping closer. One more step, until Will's forced to tilt his head back just to continue looking into Mike's eyes. It's a heady sensation, and it makes Will's head spin from a mix of something other than the gin and shots sitting uncomfortably in his stomach. "Does he even know you? Does he know you hate mornings, and you like your coffee with more milk than is possibly natural? Does he know who's the first person you told after you got into NYU, biking all the way to his house in slippers and waving the envelope in his face? Does he know you hate pineapple pizza, which always leaves us with very little options on Pizza Night, but you won't budge because you say the flavour's gross? Does he have your drawings from our D&D campaigns, all the way until — "
It's a barrage of information, one detail after another, squirrelled away until it can all be fashioned into and wielded as the perfect weapon. With every sentence, Mike steps closer and closer until their chests brush together, until Will cannot get the smell of Mike's bergamot and cedarwood out of his lungs. The slope of Mike's nose is gorgeous from up close, as are the freckles dotting his cheeks and the searing, addictive intensity in his eyes as he bears down on Will, indignation and anger and something else rolling off him in waves.
All of it is overwhelming. Will still feels hurt from Mike's words, still feels lost, and he wants nothing more than to go home and cry into his pillows. He feels ridiculous, standing by the curbside like this and arguing with a boy who doesn't want him. It is humiliating, it is embarrassing, and Mike just won't let him go after tearing him down into a shadow of himself. Will hates it.
"Stop," he begs, and places a hand on Mike's chest, shoving at him. Mike naturally doesn't move an inch at the pitifully light shove. Instead, he wraps his fingers around Will's thin wrist, digging his fingers in so hard they're bound to leave little bruises he can probably trace tomorrow as a way to self-flagellate.
"You want to date him?" he hisses, and the derision in his voice, the sheer condescension of it, drips off like venom. Will has to swallow it down, swallow the shame that follows and pray the poison doesn't kill him. "He's going to fuck you and leave you. He doesn't care about you, Will. Not like that."
The brutal honesty of his words, sharp and designed to bruise exactly where Will's most vulnerable, hangs in the space between them.
Will's long gone sober, and the flush high up in Mike's cheeks isn't from alcohol but from the anger that is palpable in his scent and in the way he clenches his jaw, glaring down at the omega in front of him. The night air around them has gone stale and cold, somehow reacting to their anger and hurt, and their scents are now vividly sour from the weight of carrying on the argument to a point of no return. The street, too, is silent, as if observing what might happen next.
Miraculously, by some force of will or by Will simply wishing it so, the tears stay lodged in his throat and don't reveal themselves. Instead, he violently pushes it all down and says through numb lips, "I just want to be wanted."
All the anger leaves Mike in an instant. His shoulders slump, and the expression of rage and fury filters away, replaced by guilt and a horrible regret that Will cannot tolerate seeing. It is like Will is a stray puppy on the street Mike is taking pity on, considering whether to toss him a bone or leave him high and dry.
Will, now, wishes to be left high and dry. This is what Mike has done to him.
"Will — "
Even though he wants to will it all inside, the words tumble out. He's tired and he's hurt, and he's exposing the worst parts of himself for Mike to abuse further. "I just wanted someone to court me," Will says flatly, and yanks his wrist away, scrubbing the back of it across his face. The skin feels wet afterwards, the tears only willing to make their appearance there — where his best friend will never see evidence of how he's been able to break Will's heart cleanly into shattered fragments. "But — you're right. He won't treat me well. I'll wait for someone who will."
Something in Mike's face twists and breaks, as he blows out a forceful breath and clenches his fists once again. His scent turns even more sour, and Will wrinkles his nose at it. What can Mike possibly get even more upset at? "Will," he says urgently, and steps closer, hand reaching out for him. Will does not take it — he doesn't think he ever can, not after all that's transpired tonight. "You're not — you're not listening to me. I just wanted to — "
A cab rolls to a stop beside them, and both of them go instantly silent. The driver pokes his head out — a genial, kind-looking elderly gentleman, who looks between Will and Mike with raised bushy eyebrows. "You boys headed somewhere?"
"Yes," Will says brusquely, and gets into the front seat. Before he can tell Mike to stay away, the alpha's already bundling into the back, arms crossed in front of himself and face set in an obstinate expression of bitter guilt and resentment. The gesture is clear; even with Will furious at him, Mike's not willing to let him go off on his own, half-baked and stewing in his own sorrow.
After the words Mike's hurled at him tonight, the move should make him erupt in righteous, defensive anger. It should make Will put his foot down, and throw Mike out of the cab. It should make Will tell the driver it's only him for the trip and the alpha is an unnecessary tag-along. All it does, though, is make Will's inner omega curl up in satisfaction, his hindbrain revelling in their protector coming along to look after them.
But he has dignity, unlike what Mike said — he has his self-respect, and he will exercise it tonight. When the cab slows to a stop, he gets out quick as lightning, and forks over his share of the fare before slamming the backdoor shut the moment Mike attempts to crack it open.
"I can make my way up on my own," Will says sharply at the darkened window, scowling with all his might while using his scent to ward off any alpha, much less Mike, screaming at them to stay away. Then, he turns on his heel and hurries up the stairs, ignoring the valiant calls of "Will!" behind him.
His bravado disappears once he enters the apartment. He shucks off his clothes, and stands in the emptiness for a moment or two, turning in a huge circle, realising that with Max gone to Lucas' dorm room, it feels lonelier than before. There's nothing else for it, though, and with Mike's words resounding in his head, he goes through the motions, putting on his sleep shirt and shorts for the night.
In the safety of his bedroom, he collapses into his mattress and begins to cry — great, big, hulking sobs, the kind that's snotty and messy, tears falling all over the front of the shirt as mucus gets in his mouth. He thinks of the humiliation the night had ended in, the absurd manner with which he'd flayed himself open for Mike. He thinks of Lucas and Max in the back of the cab they'd gone to Lucas' dorm room in, and he thinks of himself and Mike, a sad sight in comparison. He thinks of what he sees when he looks in the mirror, and how it can never compare to what he wants to see. What he wants Mike to see.
The sounds of the cries scrape up his throat as shame and self-loathing and bitter sorrow curdle and curdle in his stomach, until it abruptly twists into nausea that wrecks his innards. Soon after, he has to dash for the bathroom to vomit a disgusting mix of dinner, alcohol and shots right back up, violent and abrupt. And even then, he still cries, the tears a reminder that while in some ways, New York is different from Hawkins — in others, it is one and the same.