Chapter Text
Will sat on the edge of his bed, phone trembling slightly in his hand as Carlton’s voice dripped with poison from the other end.
“You always make me feel like I’m the bad guy, Will,” Carlton spat. “You’re lucky I even care enough to stay with you.”
Will’s chest tightened. He knew the pattern by now: lie, cheat, gaslight, repeat. But somehow, even after years, Carlton’s words still got under his skin. He’d caught him again—just that afternoon. A slip, a text, a stolen glance in the mirror of some nightclub—but Carlton blamed him.
“I didn’t do anything,” Will whispered, voice small, shaky. “I don’t—”
“You didn’t see what I wanted you to see,” Carlton cut him off, sharp and dangerous. “You’re impossible sometimes. I don’t know why I even—”
Will flinched as Carlton’s hand slammed down onto the phone receiver, a violent gesture even across a call. The familiar, awful knot of panic built in Will’s stomach. His mind flashed to the worst memories, the ones he thought he’d buried: his father yelling, the crashes of fists against walls, the helplessness that had shaped too much of him.
This time, he couldn’t handle it alone.
He grabbed his jacket and ran down the street to Lucas and Max’s place, heart hammering so hard it hurt. They were his safe zone, the people who didn’t gaslight him, who didn’t make him feel like he deserved the abuse.
The door swung open, and Lucas immediately frowned. “Will? What’s wrong?”
Will dropped onto the couch, hands covering his face, and spilled it all—the cheating, the blaming, the cruelty, the panic that had set in. Max hovered by the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“That’s it,” Max said, voice flat but fierce. “He’s a dick, Will. You don’t deserve this. You think I’d let someone treat me like that?”
Lucas stepped closer, voice low and dangerous. “And if he tries anything—if he even thinks about touching you—he’ll regret it.”
Will looked up, voice small. “But… he’s always been—”
“Don’t,” Lucas cut in, tone deadly calm. “Don’t excuse it. You’re not a punching bag. You’re not supposed to take this.”
Carlton, predictably, wasn’t happy. Later, when Will returned home after their advice, he’d sent a string of furious messages, culminating in an actual attempt at violence. Will hadn’t answered. He hadn’t even picked up. But the threat lingered, curling in his chest like smoke.
It wasn’t until he finally shut the door to his apartment behind him that he let himself fall apart.
Crying wasn’t new to Will, but this… this was different. All the fear, the frustration, the repeated cycles of abuse and forgiveness, the echoes of his father’s anger—it came tumbling out at once. He pressed his hands to his face, sobbing into the fabric of his shirt, letting the day’s weight crush him entirely.
Hours passed, sunlight fading into night. By the time he wiped his eyes, he was drained, numb, and trembling in ways that were still very alive. He had his art supplies scattered around, untouched, and his academy’s work waited for him, but right now the only thing he could focus on was trying to breathe without thinking of Carlton.
Then the phone rang.
The landline.
Will froze. Not Carlton this time. Another voice.
“Will,” Mike said.
The word was low, almost growling, nothing like the awkward, fumbling tone Mike usually used when they’d last talked in person. It was different. Dangerous in a way that made Will’s chest squeeze.
“Mike?” Will managed, voice small, uncertain.
“I’m in New York,” Mike said quickly, almost clipped. “Landing tomorrow. Be ready at Café Lalo at seven. Don’t be late.”
The line went dead.
No explanation. No pause for Will to respond. No space left for him to ask why or what for or what the hell do you think you’re doing calling me like this after a year.
Just the low, hollow click of the receiver settling back into place.
Will stood there for a long moment, hand still wrapped around the phone, knuckles white. The apartment felt too quiet, like it was waiting for him to react properly and judging him for not doing it fast enough.
Mike hadn’t called in over a year.
Not once. Not a check-in, not a half-assed holiday message, not even a drunk apology masquerading as nostalgia. They hadn’t had a blowup, not really. No dramatic fight, no slammed doors. They’d just… eroded. Conversations getting shorter. Replies coming later. Calls turning into emails, emails into nothing at all.
They used to talk every day. About everything. About films Mike wanted to make, about the academy Will was building from scratch, about nothing and everything and the way silence felt safer when it was shared.
And somewhere in there, quietly, disastrously, they’d crossed a line.
Friends with benefits, they’d called it. Casual. Easy. Temporary. As if Will hadn’t memorized the way Mike’s voice changed when he said his name late at night. As if Mike hadn’t stayed longer than necessary, touched like he was trying to say something without admitting it out loud.
Will had known better. He always did. He just hadn’t listened.
When Mike’s career started to take off, the distance stopped being theoretical. Shoots ran long. Time zones stacked up. Mike became busier, sharper, harder to reach. Will became the thing Mike forgot to return to.
So Will had learned to let go. Or at least, he’d learned how to look like he had.
He’d told himself that what they’d had wasn’t serious. That it didn’t count. That Mike was just… Mike. Complicated. Ambitious. Bad at staying.
“I’m over him,” Will said aloud now, the words sounding thin in the air. “I am. It’s fine. He’s just Mike.”
He paced the apartment, ran a hand through his hair, laughed once under his breath like this was all very funny and not at all a problem. He’d built a life. A good one. A successful one. He had people who chose him. He had someone who stayed. Even if staying didn’t always mean being kind.
Still, his chest felt tight. Awake. Like something long dormant had been kicked hard enough to remember how to hurt.
Because Mike hadn’t said please.
He hadn’t said if you want.
He’d said be ready.
And the worst part was that some small, traitorous part of Will had already rearranged his tomorrow around it.
Will sat back down, staring at the phone like it might ring again, like Mike might suddenly remember how to soften his edges, how to ask instead of demand.
It didn’t.
And Will realized, with a quiet, sinking certainty, that maybe he hadn’t grown past Mike at all. Maybe he’d just learned how to live around the absence.
Which was somehow worse.