Chapter Text
They never met again. Not for years, at least.
Chuckie always thought he would call him eventually. Someday. Pick up the phone, ask how he was doing, maybe even suggest grabbing a beer. But he never did.
He told himself it was better this way. Will needed to grow, to fly. Chuckie loved him too damn much to be the anchor dragging him back to Southie. So he let go. No calls. No postcards. Just a few quiet questions to the old crew to make sure Will was still alive and breathing out there, then he drowned the rest in beer and work.
The years stacked up. Chuckie got older, grumpier, meaner. Especially after he quit construction and got behind the wheel of a truck. The money was better and the road gave him the illusion of moving forward, even when everything inside felt stuck in the same goddamn place since Will left.
He’d passed through Worcester more times than he could count. Tonight was just another delivery. Same highways, same tired exits. He parked the rig and walked into a dimly lit diner, the yellow lightbulbs humming like dying insects overhead. Grease in the air. The low murmur of strangers. He dropped onto a stool at the counter and ordered steak with potatoes.
He was halfway through the meal, fork scraping the plate, when he heard it.
“Chuckie?”
The fork stopped mid-air. His whole body locked up.
After all this time.
Nobody — not a single soul — had said his name in that voice for seven goddamn years.
Slowly, like he was afraid the illusion would shatter, he set the fork down and turned on the stool.
And there he was.
Will Hunting.
Chuckie’s throat went dry. He drank in the sight like a man dying of thirst.
Black suit, crisp and expensive-looking. Suitcase in one hand. He stood taller, shoulders broader than Chuckie remembered. Hair still that bright blonde, but cut shorter, cleaner. There were new lines at the corners of his eyes — faint, but they told stories Chuckie hadn’t been part of. He looked… put together. Like a real man. Not the angry, restless kid Chuckie used to drag out of bar fights.
Seven years had changed him.
And somehow, under all that polish, it hadn’t changed him at all.
“Will?” Chuckie’s voice cracked, hoarse from disuse. He set his glass down hard enough that water sloshed over the rim. “What the fuck are ya doin’ here?”
Will laughed — that easy, familiar laugh that used to light up the whole block. It hit Chuckie like a punch to the ribs.
“I live here now. What about you?” he added with a small grin, nodding toward the parking lot.
Chuckie raised an eyebrow. “You live in fuckin’ Worcester?”
“Yeah. Long story.” Will’s smile faded a little as he looked at Chuckie’s face. “What’s with the beard? Looks good on you.”
Chuckie rubbed his jaw, suddenly self-conscious. “Uh… just lazy, I guess.”
An awkward silence settled between them. The kind that seven years of absence creates. Will slid onto the stool next to him without being invited. Chuckie ordered two coffees.
Will watched him take the first sip, then asked quietly, “So… how’ve you been, Chuck?”
“Good.” The word came out flat. Chuckie stared into his mug. “I'm alright. Same shit, different day.”
Will nodded, but the hurt flickered across his face. This wasn’t the Chuckie he remembered — the loudmouth who never shut up, who’d talk about nothing just to fill the silence.
“You still with the guys?” Will asked.
“Some of ‘em. Billy’s married now. Got a kid on the way. Morgan’s still Morgan.” Chuckie shrugged. “What about you? Figured you’d be curing cancer or some shit at NASA by now.”
Will let out a soft, tired chuckle and shook his head. “Nah. I’m just an ordinary accountant at an ordinary company. Pays the bills.”
Chuckie’s grip tightened on the mug. “Didn’t get no weddin’ invitation. You and Skylar tie the knot yet?”
Will took a slow breath. “We broke up. Three years ago.”
For a second, something ugly and satisfied flashed through Chuckie’s chest. He buried it fast. “Sorry to hear that.”
He wasn’t. Not even a little. Fuck that bitch.
Will noticed the shift. He always noticed. “You alright, Chuck? You seem… off.”
Chuckie pushed away from the counter abruptly. His heart was hammering too hard. “Yeah, I’m fine. Gotta get back on the road.”
“Where? Chuckie, wait—”
“I should head back to Boston, Will. Enjoy the coffee.”
Will stood up too, frowning. “Chuckie, what the hell’s wrong with you? It’s been seven years and you’re running out on me like I’m a stranger?”
Chuckie finally looked at him — really looked.
This wasn’t the memory he’d carried around all this time. He made it. This was Will, solid and steady, standing there like he finally belonged in his own skin. No more walls. No more running. The scared, brilliant, angry kid from Southie had actually made it.
And Chuckie hadn’t been there to see a single second of it. Yet, he felt proud. And the pride hurt worse than the anger.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he muttered. “Take care of yourself, Will.”
He clapped a heavy hand on Will’s shoulder — harder than necessary — tossed a crumpled wad of bills on the counter, and walked out. The bell above the door jingled like it was mocking him.
Outside, the night air was dark and cool against his heated skin. Chuckie stopped a few steps from the door, pulled a cigarette from his pack with shaking fingers, and lit it. He took a long, deep drag, the smoke burning his lungs. His eyes drifted back to the diner window. Through the glass he could still see Will standing there, watching the door. For one dangerous second, the urge to go back inside was so strong it nearly knocked the air out of him. Just turn around, sit back down, say all the things he’d swallowed for seven years.
He stared at the glowing tip of the cigarette, jaw tight. Then with a sharp curse under his breath, he flicked the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, crushed it under his boot, and walked straight to the truck without looking back.
Inside the truck, the silence was crushing. His hands shook as they gripped the steering wheel. He could still smell the diner grease on his clothes, still hear Will’s laugh echoing in his ears.
After so long… five fucking minutes and everything he’d buried was clawing its way back up.
“Fucking piece of shit…” he growled, slamming his fist into the wheel. “You stupid fucking piece of shit.”
He laughed once — sharp, broken — then started the engine and disappeared into the night.