Chapter Text
1:07 a.m.
Will’s in his New York City apartment.
He sits at his desk, laptop open to a half-written film analysis, the glow of the screen painting his face in cold light. His eyes sting. His head hums with the dull warmth of a few too many drinks. He’d gone out earlier — just a couple friends from class, his boyfriend and a crowded bar in the East Village, one too many rounds he couldn’t quite refuse when he’s with those kinds of people.
Now he’s here again, doing what he always does after nights like that: working. Pretending the routine means something. Pretending that being busy keeps the quiet away.
From the outside, no one would guess that Will feels lonely. He’s the kind of person who always seems fine — smiling in group photos, remembered fondly at parties, the one who knows everyone’s name and rarely runs out of things to say. He has friends scattered across different corners of his life — art classmates, the bar crowd, a few from back home who still send the occasional DM. But there isn’t anyone who really knows him. Not anymore. And definitely not like before.
The alcohol helps, sometimes. So does the weed. He’s not an addict but just someone who’s learned to take the edge off when the quiet starts pressing too close. It’s funny, in a sad sort of way. Back in high school, specifically senior year, he used to scold Mike for smoking. Wrinkling his nose every time that familiar scent lingered on his clothes. “You smell like skunk— roadkill or something.” he’d say. And Mike would just laugh it off, that lazy, confident laugh that always disarmed him. Now, years later, Will finds himself doing the same thing; sitting by his window with a joint, watching the city lights blur into something softer, something he can stand to look at now.
There’s a hollow kind of irony in how people change. In how the things you once hated start to make sense once you’re older, like once you’ve lived long enough to understand the need for small escapes it just fits.
He rubs his eyes, blinking hard, the text on the screen blurring again. The cursor blinks back at him, patient, waiting. And just as he reaches for his cup of water — the only sober thing left on his desk — his phone buzzes.
A message.
From Mike.
For a moment, Will just stares at the name on the screen. His pulse flickers, like his body remembers something before his mind does. The last person he expects to hear from at 1 a.m— the last person who could make his chest tighten like this, after all this time.
Mike: sorry, i know it’s late in new york. are you up?
Will’s heart trips over itself. It’s not like Mike never texts him — they still do, sometimes. A random meme here and there. A reaction to an old photo one of them finds buried in their camera roll. Photos of their old friend group, all surrounding the desk in Mike’s basement with a D&D campaign going. Once every few months, a short message that starts with “remember this?” and ends with “good times.” Little echoes of what used to be, sent across a distance neither of them ever names.
But this, this feels different.
He stares at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. His room feels suddenly too quiet, the faint hum of the city outside only making it louder. He types yeah, I’m up and hits send before he can overthink it.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Mike: you free to call thought we could catch up a bit. it’s been forever.
Forever.
That word presses at something soft in Will’s chest.
He types back, yeah, sure, and before he can even put his phone down, the FaceTime call flashes across his MacBook screen. The familiar name, the green button. For a second, he hesitates — the kind of hesitation that sits halfway between longing and fear and then he clicks accept.
Mike’s face fills the screen.
Tousled black hair messed up, sitting somewhere that looks like a bedroom — faint light leaking in from a lamp in the room. He’s wearing a faded sweatshirt, eyes a little tired but soft. Painfully familiar.
There’s some differences though, his haircut isn’t how it was the last time he saw him in high school. His parents were very weird about his hair, saying he could only keep it short. Mike would rant to Will after his haircuts, saying they cut it too short, how he likes it longer and messy. But, because his parents hated it he did as he was told because as long as he was living under their roof— it was their words against his.
He’s not living under their roof anymore, clearly with his shaggy new haircut.
He doesn’t have that baby fat on his cheeks that Will would pinch at resulting in wrestling matches, and will always being the one to scream “Uncle!” It’s almost like seeing a brand new version of him— hauntingly familiar but yet so different. Mike’s social media presence was limited, a very quiet person. He would occasionally post a story here and there, rarely of himself. Only a few posts up, no recent ones. So it was jarring to see his face, so raw and authentically.
“Hey” Mike says, voice soft but warm. “Damn, you picked up quick. Didn’t think you’d actually be fully awake.”
Will shrugs, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Couldn’t sleep. Working on an essay.”
“Still the same?” Mike teases, leaning back in his chair. “You always do that— hang out all day, then go home and work like a maniac. What’s the assignment this time?”
“Written analysis” Will says. “For a film class.”
Mike hums, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve been drinking haven’t you?”
Will’s caught off guard. “What? No—”
“You’re tipsy.” Mike laughs, and it’s the same laugh — the one that used to make everything feel lighter. “Your face always gives it away. You get that look — like you’re pretending to be focused but your brain’s actually half asleep.”
Will feels his cheeks warm. He leans back in his chair, trying not to smile. “You still think you know me that well?”
“Don’t I?” Mike says, and it’s not cocky — just quiet, familiar. Like he’s reminding him of something.
The silence that follows is comfortable, almost easy. Like the years between them haven’t stretched as far as they think. They start talking— at first about normal things like school, work, their cities, people they both used to know. Old stories of distant memories with each other, and new memories without. But then, as the minutes stack into hours, the conversation drifts. They talk about music they used to listen to, shows they both still rewatch, how weird it is to feel grown-up and not at all grown.
It’s 3 a.m. before Will realizes they’ve been talking for over two hours. His laptop fan is roaring, hot against the desk, but he doesn’t care. Mike’s still there, sitting cross legged on his bed, now laughing about something dumb they did in sophomore year — something that probably wasn’t even funny then, but somehow feels sacred now.
They talk about everything and nothing. It’s the kind of conversation that lives in the space between nostalgia and familiarity; where words don’t matter as much as hearing each other breathe again.
When the topic starts to drift, Mike pauses, leans back, gaze tilted slightly away from the camera. “So, uh,” he says, almost sheepish, “I actually graduated early.”
Will blinks. “Wait, what? Seriously?”
“Yeah.” Mike laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I got tired of waiting for it to end.”
Will smiles faintly, though there’s something bittersweet in it. “That’s crazy. Congrats, though.”
“Thanks.” There’s a beat, a shift in Mike’s tone — softer, hesitant. “I was thinking… maybe I could come out to New York. Visit, or something.”
The words hang there, suspended.
Will feels them sink in slowly, like warmth after a long winter.
“Visit?” he repeats. “You mean it?”
Mike smiles, eyes flicking up at him. “Yeah. We made a promise, remember? Freshman year. We said once college was over, we’d meet up again. Maybe live in the same city, get an apartment — all that dumb stuff.”
Will laughs under his breath, but his chest feels tight. “That was— what, seven years ago?”
“Still counts,” Mike says, smiling at him through the screen. “I’m keeping my promise.”
And for the first time in years, Will can’t tell if what he’s feeling is excitement or fear — only that both make his pulse race.
The conversation tugged at something buried deep, something he hasn’t touched in years. He lets out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair, and before he knows it, the room around him dissolves — replaced by warm summer air and the smell of grass, the distant hum of cicadas, the sharp rattle of a skateboard hitting concrete.
It was freshman year. The summer before things started to shift.
Mike was in what his mother called his “trouble phase.” Skinned knees, nicotine breath, a small silver ring looped through his ear that hadn’t healed right yet. He spent every evening at the skatepark, testing his limits and the patience of anyone trying to sleep nearby. Max was the one who got him into it, their old friend. She was the best skater around and was even there to witness his first ever ollie after rolled-ankles attempts. Will was there too, was the first person to high five him.
Will wasn’t really a skater— but he showed up anyway. Every night. Sometimes he’d sit cross-legged on the edge of the ramp, cheering him on when he got a new trick, sometimes pacing in the grass with that worried look he always wore when Mike would fall, likely attempting a pop-shove it.
That night, the floodlights had shut off at curfew. It was just them two, the rest of their friends ran off, bored of watching Mike do the only trick he had down. The town was quiet, the way small towns always got once everyone else went home. Mike’s t-shirt lay forgotten on the grass beside him, sweat clinging to his skin as he dropped his board and collapsed onto the cool ground. Will flopped down next to him, landing with a grunt and a soft laugh.
The stars above were faint, washed out by the orange streetlights, but still there and blinking like they were trying. For a while, neither of them said anything. The only sound was Mike’s breathing and the distant hum of the highway.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” Will finally asked, turning his head toward Mike.
Mike blinked up at the sky. “Leaving where?”
“Here. This town. Everything.” He gestured lazily, as if to the cracked pavement and the line of dim streetlamps beyond it. “Feels like everyone just… stays.”
Mike was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said finally. “All the time.”
Will turned onto his side to look at him. “So where would you go?”
Mike smiled faintly, eyes still fixed upward. “Somewhere near the ocean, maybe. I’ve always liked the idea of waking up and seeing water first thing. California, probably. Go to one of those seaside colleges you see in movies.”
“California.” Will repeated, snorting softly. “I think the sun would cook you and eat you alive.”
Mike laughed. “And you? Where would you go?”
“New York,” Will said immediately, with the kind of certainty that only fourteen-year-olds could have. “Not too-too far— my mother would lose it if I went somewhere across the country. Plus I’ve always wanted to go. None of this small-town crap.” Will spoke with such great depth that made Mike think he had his mind set on it, because he really did. He continued:
“Maybe go to NYU. I’d major in something cool. Art, maybe.”
Mike turned to him, curious. “Art?”
Will shrugged, suddenly a little shy. “I don’t know. I like seeing things that make me feel something. Maybe I could make something like that someday.”
Mike smiled at him then — one of those small, genuine smiles that always seemed to undo Will a little. “I think you could. You already do, been drawing since we were six.”
The streetlight flickered nearby. Mike grinned. “We should make a deal.”
“A deal?”
“Yeah.” He propped himself up on his elbow. “When we grow up, after college — no matter where we end up — we’ll find each other again. You’ll be in New York, I’ll be at some beach school, but we’ll meet up again. Maybe get a place together or something.”
Will’s brows lifted, amused. “Like roommates?”
“Yeah. Or— I don’t know.” Mike shrugged, pretending not to care. “Just… not losing touch, I guess. Promise?”
Will hesitated for a second, then held out his pinky. “Promise.”
Mike laughed, looping his finger around Will’s. “You better not break it.”
“I won’t,” Will said, his voice quiet now, almost lost in the wind. “I never break promises.”
And they lay there for a long time after that, listening to the crickets and the faint rattle of boards hitting pavement somewhere far away. The night smelled like cut grass and summer and possibility.
Neither of them knew that this moment — this stupid, simple promise under a dying streetlight — would live inside them for years. That it would come back to them one night, years later, across a glowing screen, when Mike would say, “We made a promise, remember?”
And Will, sitting in his New York apartment at 3 a.m., would realize his promise didn’t fade away with time like he assumed their friendship had as the years passed by.