Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Five minutes to 10:00 and he snorts down the last line. One and a half. That should get him through. One isn’t doing it anymore. He likes the lecture, anyway. He just wishes he didn’t have to rush to his next class after it, but he chose it that way. It gives little time to think or eat. He doesn’t even eat anymore, he just forgets. 

He sniffs and heads out of the bathroom stall. One look in the mirror looking for residue (he looks terrible) and off to class. He had to switch, he tells himself. Coffee was not doing it anymore. He had always drank black coffee but it doesn’t work anymore. Nothing works anymore. I don’t work anymore. 

The coke needs to hit, he can’t be thinking these thoughts. Those are evening thoughts. Night thoughts, when misery and shame come like old, comforting friends. But right now there’s light, right now he should try to pretend.

He sits down and listens. He takes notes. Turn of the century novel. “Modernism and his friends”. Challenging convention through form, death of Victorian ideals. Essay illustrating themes in the novel of your choice. James Joyce.

The latter was a conscious pick. He liked Joyce and he liked how the coke made ideas flow. 

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man? Emphasis on cultural vs family values. The personal vs political. Riot against convention through art, form, five paragraphs…. Conclusion on the emergence of the self in turn of the century novel. Assimilation vs isolation. Argue against the condition of-

“Michael.”

It’s Professor Anderson. “I thought I dismissed class.”

He looks around, he’s the only one left. “Sorry, I was in my head.”

“Already taking notes?” he laughs.

“Yeah, I already started drafting my conclusion.”

“Really? You haven’t even chosen a novel, or have you? Let me guess Joyce?”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

Anderson pauses, like he is thinking something. “Remind me, Michael, you have class right after this?”

“Yeah, philosophy with Dr. Olivier.”

“I like Olivier, he’s a funny fellow,” he said in one of his English colloquialisms. “A little complicated to follow him in lecture. Anyhow, you have time before then?”

“I have roughly 20 minutes,” he said looking at his watch.

“Come into my office, then. I want to talk to you about your essay.”

He went, thinking he already knew what it was about, dreading that he knew what it was about. He sat in the cushioned chair right in front of Professor Anderson’s desk, nervous of what was to come. 

“So you are graduating this semester?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I heard you have plans to go directly into grad school after this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No gap year? No plans of traveling the world? You are young, after all, and grad school will still be here.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just not interested in other things besides school. I really like school.”

“I see. You like reading very much, I presume.”

“Yes, and writing. I like it very much.”

“Michael, to put it plainly I read your email and I’ve decided to write you a letter of recommendation. I always look forward to your work and I always enjoy reading what you write, for that same reason, a word of advice. Your choices are highly competitive schools, I hope you realize that…”

“Yes, I know.”

“So more reason to focus on your application supplements. If I may suggest, challenging yourself might work in your favor.”

“I don’t understand.”

“So you said Joyce. I like Joyce. But I liked it the first time you wrote your comparative essay on Ulysses. Simply put: you’ve done Joyce, try an author that challenges you.”

“I don’t really like Virginia Woolf.”

His grimace gave it away because Anderson laughed. “Doesn’t have to be Woolf, she’s definitely not for everyone. I believe she didn’t even like Ulysses on her first read, so there’s that. How about Thomas Hardy?”

“No offense, Professor Anderson, but I’m not really into the turn of the century English writers. I struggle to connect with them. At least it doesn’t come naturally, for me.”

“I see. You did write the most wonderful essay on Tess of the d'Ubervilles. Great usage of Greek tragedy and its philosophy. But that’s it, isn’t it? You like the tragedies.”

“I liked Tess, it’s a sad novel. She suffered so much for no reason.”

“I disagree, her suffering is Hardy’s statement against the unreasonably cruel treatment of ‘fallen’ women in Victorian society. And that is one of the core topics of my essay prompt, I’ll have you remember.  But to return to my statement from before, I could let you do Joyce, and granted you would write a nice little piece, but if I am to give you a glowing letter of recommendation, I would like to see you challenge yourself.”

“Pick a writer I haven’t done before.”

“Indeed.”

“Does it have to be Hardy?”

He laughs. “No, no, you already did it before. Perhaps one you’ve never done before. Tell me, have you read E.M. Forster?”

He sighs. “A Passage to India? I had to read it in one of my classes last semester. But Forster is not a modernist. None of his ideas are particularly unconventional, besides the typical class divide analysis you find in most English novels of the time.”

“Alas here you are wrong, you’ve heard of Maurice?”

“Maurice,” he repeated. He knew what it was, he dreaded it at once.

“Published after his death, extremely unconventional material. Yes, homosexuality, but even more modernist themes like inter-class examination, as you said, an emphasis on the body even before the sensualists got here. You know D.H. Lawrence wrote his Lady Chatterley after he read Forster’s draft?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, he did. And it’s rare that an unpublished work would influence a great novel and an entire literary movement. It’s a lean little book and I’m sure you would find subject matter to discuss.”

At this, Anderson began to rise from his chair and he surmised their conversation had concluded. They soon stood outside his door. “Tell me out of your choices, all good schools for certain, have you ever considered Columbia?”

“New York,” he said, without thinking.

“Yes, New York. A colleague of mine works in the English Department, he’s in the board of admissions as it were, Professor Hannigan. Would you like me to put in a word for you? Provided, of course, you’re interested in applying to Columbia.”

“Yes, of course. Put a word in.”

“Do you not like New York City?” he asked, laughing.

“No, why do you say that?”

“You seem a little pale.”

He says nothing so Anderson continues. “Granted I’m from London myself so I’m partial to a large buzzling city. I ended up in Chicago because the pay was better, if you can believe. But I understand New York can be too much for many people.” 

“No, I like New York. I have a friend who lives there.” 

“That’s splendid, Michael. Maybe give him a call if you’re on the fence about moving there. I’m sure he could convince you otherwise.”

With that said, Professor Anderson made his way down the hallway, onto another lecture, unthinking of the riot he started within him, the loud drumbeat emanating from his heart.

For his part, he stayed in the hallway a long time. Sliding down the wall, until he was on the ground, sitting, his face buried in his arms. Feeling and not thinking, feeling and not thinking.

He didn’t know for certain how he got roped into this. They were his friends and he should be nice. But he didn't like where things were going, where things seemed to be going. 

“It’s so funny you both go to Chicago,” Max says, her smile looking so fake.

“Yes, it’s crazy. I don’t go to the west side of the school, I guess.”

“The English division,” he says tiredly.

“Yeah, that’s right,” says the girl next to him. “Which is crazy because you would think Philosophy and English would be right next to each other. We have the same professor, though. Olivier?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think of him? I love him-”

“He’s funny.”

“Yeah, he has the weirdest sense of humor.”

He doesn’t, not really. He doesn’t say it because he doesn’t want to offend the girl sitting next to him. The brunette girl who is Max’s friend from childhood or something. The girl who goes to his school, the one they sat next to him. The girl who wasn’t even supposed to be here. The girl they sprung on him, suddenly she was sitting next to him. 

“I hope you don’t mind. I invited a friend.” How could he mind? Max had a capacity for evil.

“So, Mike, what kind of books do you like to read?”

“Emma loves Austen.”

“I like Russian tragedies.”

“Oh, I love Anna Karenina. It’s so romantic.”

“Yeah, I love how she gets hit by a train at the end.”

Both Max and Emma go quiet, even Lucas offers an awkward stare. He wants to laugh, he wishes Will was here. It would be funnier if he was here. Everything would be better-

“Mike is funny,” Max says, very restrained. “Aren’t you, Mike?”

“Not as funny as Professor Olivier.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Emma says. “So what do you like to do for fun?”

“You know, the usual. Reading…”

“Reading?”

“Writing…”

“Oh, I like reading, too.”

“Coke…”

Max kicks him under the table, but it’s too late. She stands up.

“I’m so sorry, Max, but something came up. I have to go.”

“Emma, I-”

Max glares at him and he knows, but he doesn’t care. What does it matter if she explodes? She planted the bomb when she brought her along without telling him. The bomb-

“Not cool, man,” Lucas says.

He doesn’t say anything back, he’s used to screwing things wrong. Getting everything wrong. Hurting those he loves. The bomb… He’s saving his words for the big one. 

Max returns, rage in her eyes. “What is wrong with you?!”

“What is wrong with me? I don’t even know her!”

“Couldn’t you be nice for once? Couldn’t you be normal for once?” 

I’ve never been normal. But he doesn’t say that, he deflects. 

“I don’t know her!”

“But couldn’t you have just tried to be a decent person? Would it have killed you to be fucking civil?”

“What are you talking about? I don’t know her! You guys lure me in all the way to fucking California in the middle of my final semester of college just to go on a blind date that you never told me about?! Oh, Mike, we miss you so much. Let’s go to the beach, let’s have fucking burritos, I don’t know. All of a sudden I’m on a dating show I didn’t sign up for! That’s shitty, Max. How do you want me to respond?”

“Shitty?” she repeats. “It’s shitty to try to get you to meet a nice girl, that’s shitty?”

He doesn’t say anything. “Whatever, I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not! You know what I am done! Lucas, I am done! I don’t care what everyone else says, I am done with your pity party, Wheeler! You think this is the Suffering Olympics? Do you think you’re going to get a medal for suffering? We all lost her, I lost her. But you know what? I moved on, I’ve lived, I’ve loved, I’m not stuck in my head being miserable for eternity for no fucking reason. I am tired of seeing you waste away, alone in your fucking college dorm, suffering for nothing at this point!”

“Max,” Lucas says quietly.

“No, Lucas, I’m tired! You, Dustin and Will just baby him!”

Will-

“So am I suffering or am I a baby?”

“You’re both!”

“Guys...”

“Oh, is there a medal I can win for that? Because according to you that’s all I’m interested in!”

“Can you quit being cynical for a moment and not see what’s going on? Your friends are worried about you! Dustin is worried about you, Lucas is worried about you, Will calls me and tells me we should reach out to you more. He’s fucking worried about you! I’m worried about you!”

“If Will is so worried about me he should call me, not you. Thanks for the fucking dinner.” 

He tosses cash onto the table and leaves.

No one follows him out. He can hear Max livid, he can feel her anger and Lucas calming her down. No one follows him.

Minutes pass. He stares at the starless sky. No moon, no light. He sits on the curbside, alone. 

You can’t get anywhere by walking here, and there’s no trains, it’s all cars. He sits and waits and contemplates what to do. He’s too embarrassed to go back inside.

I always fuck up.

“Hey, man.”

It’s Lucas and he sits right beside him.

“Let me guess, you’re worried about me?”

He laughs. “Yeah, I am. And so is Max. That’s where she’s coming from. I hope you don’t think she has it out for you, she just cares.”

“Yeah, she cares a lot.”

“She’s passionate about the things she cares about. She wants to help, Mike. That’s where she is coming from. Don’t take this the wrong way. I’m just as much to blame. I didn’t tell you either. But I am worried. About you.”

He can’t say anything to his friend. It hurts.

“I’m fine, Lucas.”

“Are you? Sometimes, I’m not so sure. I want to believe you. Max doesn’t think so, so she tries to make things better. In her own way, of course.”

“Well, her way, no offense, sucks.”

“I’m sorry, Mike. I know it’s hard and I don’t want to try to make you move on when you’re not ready. But it’s been so long and I get worried if you’re ever going to move on.”

“I have moved on.”

“Not really. I’ve never seen you date, you have never talked about a girl.”

“I don’t want to date.”

“But you can’t be alone forever. Surely you must want love, everyone does.”

“I think I’m fine without it.”

“Mike, you don’t really think that.”

“I do. It’s just. It’s just complicated Lucas…”

Something in him stirs. The desire for truth. Confession of sorts, as small as it might be. 

“It’s not about El… I mean it is about her, but it’s not really about her, you know? It’s about me and what I’ve done, what I am. I’m just… I’m just different. And it’s complicated and I’m flawed and I can’t hold a relationship. Not in this state, anyway. I feel lost all the time. I feel lonely all the time.”

Lucas nods. “I get that. It’s not easy, all of us being apart. We have our own lives but we still need each other. Will said just as much.”

“What about Will?”

“He’s worried about you too, you know?”

“Yeah, well he sure shows it. I haven’t heard from him in months.”  

“Well, why don’t you reach out to him?” 

“He’s too busy, otherwise he would call me or something.”

“That doesn’t sound like Will.”

“Being too busy? That’s exactly like Will. Well, Will nowadays anyway.” 

“You think he’s changed?”

“Yes. And no. He’s the same, but different. I miss how things used to be. I miss how everything used to be.”

“You miss him?”

“Always.”

He’s surprised it just came out, but it’s Lucas so he can’t hide. 

“Yeah, you guys could never be apart. You know, when I first moved in and we became friends, I used to be so jealous of you and Will. You guys seemed so close, and I wanted to be your friend so badly. I wanted to be your best friend so bad. But then I realized… I realized that what you guys had was different and it wasn’t like what we had. And that it was okay even if I didn’t know what it was.”

He looks at Lucas and Lucas looks at him. There is something comforting about his expression but he cannot name it. 

“Come on,” he says. “We’ll give you a ride home. Max promises not to talk if you don’t.”

He sighs. “Thanks, man.”

“For what?”

“For being my friend.” 

“Not your best friend?”

He laughs. “You are.”

“Nah, I gave up years ago. Turns out, I can never compete with Will.” 

He throws his bag on the seat next to his. 

He had done a line in the morning, that should hold him till the afternoon. He plans to read a few pages and write down some notes. 

Maurice.

It is only a book but it seems poisonous. 

He had briefly thought about borrowing it from the library but he has a bad habit of underlining his books. So he had found it in an old used bookstore near his school and he had purchased it as if it was porn, shamefully.

So he opened and read it, in a public place, as if it guaranteed his safety. 

But it started tamely, much like all the old Victorian novels he disliked. Nothing good came out of the era, he surmised. Except for the Russians who were writing the most beautiful prose, everything else was insipid and redundant. And he was sentencing Forster as another of these frauds of literature, until a bit came where little Maurice cried for his friend who had disappeared after his return from school. 

He did not know why the scene affected him so much. Maurice’s dream stuck with him. Something that was not insipid but its opposite, utterly indelible and complex. 

But the following chapter where the dream was expanded upon was the thing that really sealed his fate,that really shattered his heart. He almost wrote it down word by word which was stupid because he would not use any of this in his essay. 

“That is your friend”, he underlined. He could die for such a friend, he would allow such a friend to die for him; they would make any sacrifice for each other, and count the world nothing, neither death nor distance nor crossness could part them, because “this is my friend”.

He read this part again and again. “This is my friend”. 

And he kept reading and reading. An hour passed, and a few chapters in, Maurice had grown up and gone to college and met Durham. Durham who later became Clive, the object of Maurice’s affections. And they loved each other. 

They love each other. Did his hand shake when he wrote it down? He could not say, maybe he needed coke. 

It was almost 3pm now. But somehow he felt he could endure with just a cup of black coffee. He had the bad habit of leaving his things laying around in the library while he went next door to get coffee. Sometimes it was a line and a black coffee.

He thought he could read another set of chapters, he had already passed onto Part Two. 

Maurice had climbed onto Clive’s window and kissed him? 

Do such things happen in real life? Are these elevated and theatrical displays of romance even real?  Do you just show up at someone’s window unannounced and exchange love vows? Do you show up at someone’s doorstep with an apology and a kiss? What do you even say?

There are no notes on this. 

He doesn’t write anything. Love turns into tragedy real quick. Between sips of black coffee, the relationship between Clive and Maurice blossoms and then withers. The world is against them, the dean at school, Clive’s social position, the pressure to get married, and they can only escape the world for so long. Clive gets sick and he changes.

He changes. If only it was that easy.

A miracle cure in Greece. Clive found a miracle cure to stop loving him. Maurice. It’s about Maurice, right? And he tried. But he never found Greece. 

Everyone thinks this will make him happier. And Will hasn’t called in months. Everyone thinks this is what he needs. 

And Will hasn’t called in months. 

He feels bad for what he did to Max and her friend, he doesn’t want Lucas to worry.

He downs the next tequila shot. He’s high on coke and alcohol. It has to do the trick. Why does his next impulse seem even worse?

He’s at one of Steve’s stupid parties. His roommate. It’s almost graduation. Spring week or some fucking crap. Lucas and Max think this is what he needs, right?

He spots her. It doesn’t matter who she is. It doesn’t fucking matter. She’s blonde but he doesn’t care. There’s no preference. 

Brunette would be better. No.  Shorter hair. No, no, no. 

She’s wasted and he’s lucky because she indulges him. They talk about nothing. This has to work. This has to work. He will drink an entire tequila bottle if it works. He has almost drunk an entire bottle. 

“What’s your name again?” she asks, laughing.

“Mike.”

 It’s not funny, why is she laughing? Nothing is funny. 

They kiss and it’s nothing. He feels nothing, it’s like El and not quite. There is nothing here but it works because he is doing it. He’s doing it because he is not thinking. He kisses her, pushing himself onto her because it has to work and it works because she responds. He could do this, he thinks. 

“Come,” she says. And he doesn’t want to but it’s happening and he must see it through. 

I can’t have them worrying. 

He must try to be normal, like everyone else. That’s what college kids do, they have sex. That’s what college boys do, they have sex with girls. And he thinks he can do it. Because it’s dark enough and whose bed is this? 

It doesn’t matter, it’s just some dumb frat boy’s. His scent is probably still in the pillow and no, she takes her top off. 

And he feels sick when she takes off his shirt. 

And she’s still kissing him, sloppy, wet kisses. He can taste the tequila on his tongue or hers. Who can say? It’s not helping. He should be drunker but any more and he might puke.

This is what boys his age do. This is what men do. This is what normal people do. This is what-

She reaches to unbuckle his pants. 

“You have a condom, right?”

“Yeah,” he says. 

He planned it all already. 

She doesn’t know it but he planned it all. Max and Lucas are worried about him. Dustin is worried about him. Will hasn’t called. He has to get a girlfriend, he has to be normal. But first he has to be able to do it. Because if he gets a girlfriend at this age, she’s going to ask and he has to be able to do it. If he gets a wife, she’s going to ask and he has to be able to do it. It’s his last chance at normalcy. If he numbs it all down, he can do it. He can pretend.

But he’s not hard. Fuck. 

Why can’t he be hard? Think of something, think of anything. No, not that. She kisses him and it’s so dark, can’t he be allowed to pretend? Is it cheating if he pretends? Will has sex with his boyfriend all the time. 

He doesn’t understand how those two thoughts correlate but-

“Do you smoke?”

“What? No, it’s gross.”

Fuck. He should have gotten a smoker. If she smelled like cigarettes, if only he tasted him on her mouth then maybe then-

He’s not hard. That’s the reality. He follows a thought but it only gets so far. She takes off his pants and the situation gets more absurd. Can she feel it?

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I’m too drunk. I can’t when I’m too drunk.”

He’s already too drunk. He wants to puke.

“I’m sorry,” he says and leaves. 

Outside in the hallway with only his boxers on. He pukes onto the floor. It’s Steve who sees him and laughs, his stupid laugh. 

“Wheeler! You and Molly? That’s fucking crazy.”

He’s puking. He’s already dead inside anyway. He can’t do it. Not with coke, not fucking drunk. He can’t pretend. He might as well be dead. 

“You got another line?” he asks.

“Man, you’re crazy. You know for the longest time I thought you were gay.”

I am, he thinks and pukes again. 

It’s 5:15pm and his eyes hurt. But he wasn’t crying. No, he wasn’t crying when Clive broke up with Maurice. It wasn’t his callousness that broke him, it was Maurice’s sorrow. 

How could he sleep and rest if he had no friend? 

That line tore at him. 

Poor Maurice. All alone in the world. His loneliness stuck with him. A loneliness he knew well. His coffee was gone. Too late for another line, but maybe another cup. He could not eat reading this, he felt sick. He felt sick all the time, he realized.

Sick and longing for something he cannot name for it did not call. 

So was Maurice longing for Clive. His utter despair and loneliness almost drive him to suicide. But he does not kill himself, why? 

It’s nebulous in the text but he kindles some hope within himself. Some cure (which will not come). Some miracle (that doesn’t call). But the story continues and because Forster is a kind god, his cure is physical.

A hypnotherapist that might heal him, you think at first, but it’s the man through the window that really heals him. Yes, he climbs up his window and touches him. Touches him perhaps for the very first time. A sweet, gentle touch, he imagines. A touch he has longed for, he supposes. 

He underlines: and touched him. 

They are intimate with each other in a way Clive and Maurice never were. (He blushes when he reads this). And it changes Maurice, it frightens him.  But the man, Alec Scudder, is only a servant. They are from different social classes and it could never work. They are both men. How can any of this be? Alec is leaving for Argentina. They will part ways. 

Scudder had proved honest and kind. He was lovely to be with, a treasure, a charmer, a find in a thousand, the longed-for dream. But was he brave?

He underlines: But was he brave?

But was he brave? But was he brave? But was he brave? 

He began to understand that in Maurice’s world, in this world, love could not be had if both partners were not brave. How could they endure anything if there was no courage to endure?

But Alec refutes Maurice, much to his despair. He must sail away to a job he has promised to take and Maurice must stay and take his proper place in society. And just when love seems lost, when love fails, Alec misses his boat and that is all. Maurice finds him in the boathouse where he told him to meet. “And now we shan’t be parted no more, and that’s finished.”

That’s finished. A happy ending.

And Clive? He underlined the lines with a heavy hand, ripping almost pen onto paper.

To the end of his life Clive was not sure of the exact moment of departure, and with the approach of old age he grew uncertain whether the moment had yet occurred. The Blue Room would glimmer, ferns undulate. Out of some external Cambridge his friend began beckoning to him, clothed in the sun, and shaking out the scents and sounds of the May term. 

It is dark outside now. The library is quieter than it had been when he arrived earlier that afternoon. It’s almost closing time and his eyes hurt and his notes were full of stream-of-conscious thoughts. 

The vision of something always out of reach, the vision of vast freedom, of a memory full of sunlight when life felt light and love not a heavy burden… This is one of his notes.

But what of it? He couldn’t use it for his essay. Nothing he wrote could be used. 

He wrote but he was brave? a million times for nothing. The question mark repeated even when the use of it had withered. 

He felt restless and crushed and all the same and very different at the same time. 

It’s too late now. 

It’s always been too late. And it was 8:15 and he had less than two hours before the library closed. So he sat down and wrote what he could. Transmuting the pain he felt into something of worth. An essay for college.

Still something within protested. Something needs to change.

Then he did a line, it was the only thing keeping him alive. 

He had imagined New York to be different. 

He had imagined his entire life to be different. Why did he think graduation would fix all his problems? Why did he think once he left school, the world would open up, that things would make sense again? Nothing had ever made sense since he left Hawkins. Strange how an upside down world made more sense than a world rightside up. 

To the end of his life Clive was not sure of the exact moment of departure…

The ending lines of Maurice were echoing in his head all the time. And all he could do is keep doing lines to avoid thinking what the actual problem was. Change? Be brave?

Too fucking late, I don’t have time. 

He was running perpetually late all the time. He never slept quite right and New York moved so fucking fast. He had to drink coffee at midnight and do three lines in the morning to get to work. 

He was always late but the other interns liked him so they never marked him as such. He was unsure how he had gotten the gig, or rather how he had even gotten into Columbia. Professor Anderson’s letter of recommendation had to have been glowing. Something impressive for Professor Hannigan to take such a quick liking to him and offer him some extra credit over the summer. 

Teacher assistance or something of that sort, teach the freshmen coming in. And he was good at it, surprisingly. He found it easy to explain concepts or ideas to others. Stories, narrative, symbolism…

Incredible use of symbolism. Professor Anderson had written in the margins of his essay. He had thoroughly enjoyed his deconstruction of the symbolic modernist nature of Maurice. Great understanding of the material. 

He wanted to laugh. How could he understand something so well and not know how to implement it? How could he understand and still not know what to do with it? Who to tell about it? How to talk about it? 

He sighed. The air in the subway was muggy. It was a wet, humid summer in New York. It wouldn’t stop raining. He fucking hated it, the whole city stank.

Yes, he had envisioned his new life in New York rather differently. After reading Maurice, some sort of hope had been kindled in his heart. A sort of understanding (to quote Professor Anderson). 

He had understood a feeling he ran very far from and now he was willing to return to, consciously. He was willing to make the steps towards it. He wasn’t brave, but he could be less afraid. 

He went with Columbia, he went with New York. Yes, the school was good. Yes, a new city sounded like the perfect start. But he went with New York because there went his heart.

And there, he said it. 

No out loud, of course. And not that everyone knew. But everyone was happy for him to go to New York anyway. Mrs. Byers was sweetest about it. She insisted he should take the train every other weekend to visit her and Hopper. He said he would. 

Both his parents declared the opportunity to be great. And yes, his mother was glad Mrs. Byers would be so close by. “Especially in such a big city.” 

Dustin, Lucas and Max had similar responses. They were happy he would be moving to New York, that he would be isolated no longer, that he would be close to Will. 

But Will? He told him on the phone. He was the first person he wanted to tell so naturally he told him last. 

“Oh. That’s nice.”

That was all he ever said of it. And he couldn’t make anything of it. Was he happy? Was he annoyed? Did he even care?

( …and with the approach of old age he grew uncertain whether the moment had yet occurred. )

He had almost been here for a month and he hadn’t seen Will once. He was busy, he was certain, and he was busy, too. He had work and papers to grade and a novel to write. Yes, he started writing a novel in his despair. 

It wasn’t any good so far. It was a tragedy (of course) and featured a young woman as its protagonist (of course). But the story was cliche and his writing felt stale. 

As such, he kept alternating between the novel and his stream-of-conscious poetry, which Hannigan had insisted was the strongest work in his submission materials. Where the novel felt easy to write yet tedious at the same time, his poetry felt difficult to put into words but flowed seamlessly out of him. 

He found solace in both. But more so in the poetry. He liked to write on the long train rides back home.The subway became his writing desk, where the poetry kept going as long as the train kept moving. And between his creative life and his work life he had no time to think or feel. The coke and coffee kept him going, but he had made the horrible decision that he needed to quit coke before it was too late. 

His habit was getting worse and more and more expensive. It wasn’t healthy, he had always known. But he figured he would kick it away as he had done with alcohol. Except he had only replaced alcohol with coke, thus he made the decision to replace writing with coke. And it worked well, sometimes. 

He struggled. He still struggled. He was going through withdrawals, he was hardly sleeping. He was drinking ungodly amounts of coffee and writing like a maniac. But he was curving the habit, he was getting better, his writing was becoming something of worth. 

More and more he liked it. Though he always had a gnawing suspicion it was all crap. Just like him, he supposed. Nothing good could possibly come out of him. He was a bad person and loving someone good did not make him better. How could it? 

It was on one of those heavy, depressing, rainy days where the air was too humid to breathe that he got the call.

He had gotten home around 8pm when his phone rang. This was strange because he wasn’t expecting anyone to call. Maybe it was for his roommate. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mike, it’s Max!”

He had not expected that at all.

“Hey, Max. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to check up on you! How’s New York?”

“Very wet. Humid. Horrible. But it’s great. Work is great. And I’m writing so much, it’s great.”

“Yeah, that sounds very nice,” she said sarcastically. “How’s school?”

And he told her. Then she asked follow up questions about his job, his professors, his roommate, his novel, every sort of polite question a friend would ask. Yet somehow he knew none of the small talk was the reason for her call. 

“So have you gone out much?”

“Not really, just been working.”

“So you haven’t hung out with Will much?”

“Ah, no, I haven’t actually seen him.”

“What do you mean you haven’t seen him?”

“I just haven’t had time…”

“Mike! You guys are in the same city, how can you not see him?!”

“New York is very big and it’s very busy.”

“Bullshit. Will is your friend.”

“Well, I don’t even know where he lives.”

He heard her sigh, he knew her sounds of exasperation quite well. “Are you serious? What is wrong with you guys? I thought you were best friends.”

Best friends. He had said. Stupid, idiot. 

“Well, write it down,” Max said.

And he did write it down, forcefully and with a shaky hand. Will’s address.  

“What’s the point of living in the same city as your friend if you don’t see him! Go see him! Hang out, be friends. He could really use a friend.”

Something about her tone struck him. “What do you mean, Max?”

“Well, you don’t know?”

“No?”

“Will and Jonah broke up, like two weeks ago. Will’s going through it. It’s rough, okay? I wish I was there with him. That’s when I realized, wait, he has a friend in New York. You can be there for him when I can’t. And you need him too! Honestly, I’m trying not to yell because Lucas told me I should be nicer to you and if he hears me yelling at you on the phone he’s gonna be upset, but you guys should rely on each other. It drives me crazy that you don’t talk to him and he doesn’t talk…”

( The Blue Room would glimmer, ferns undulate... )

He had tuned out Max. Jonah and Will broke up. No one told him. What should he do? 

Nothing, said the voice. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

But what if Max was right? What if he needed a friend? Couldn’t he be a friend?

“...and it’s ridiculous because Will just yelled at me because of it. And then Lucas is like don't throw yourself into a Will and Mike thing. What is a Mike and Will thing anyway? I don’t know what that is. But even Dustin apparently knows not to get involved in it. All I know is he’s going through it and you’re not doing so good either. And yes, I’m sorry about setting you up on a date without your knowledge, but really Mike, if I’m honest, you really need to get-”

“Max, I gotta go.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’ll call you later. Something just came up at work.”

“Mike, I know it's like nine over there, you know. You just can’t lie-”

He needed coke, no, he needed to write. Write what? Whatever, no more thinking it wasn’t good. No plans, he wasn’t going to do anything with this new information. What would he do anyway?

( Out of some external Cambridge his friend began beckoning to him, clothed in the sun, and shaking out the scents and sounds of the May term… )

Get over it Michael, this isn’t Maurice. You can’t just climb into the window of someone’s room and live happily ever after. You can’t just show up on his doorstep, you can’t-

No, no, no. No more thinking. He rushes out.

I have to work on my novel, he thinks. I have to work on my novel. 

He spends the entire day at the public library. He types away furiously. It was the novel but now it’s poetry. He’s not sure which one is which. They have blended together. He has spent the entire Friday doing this. He hasn’t slept. Not at all.

He spent last night writing at his favorite cafe bar. It’s open after hours, it’s open past midnight and he writes and writes. Poetry is what he writes the most. He writes by hand at this point.

Now, it is Friday night, but it was only Thursday night a few hours ago. He cannot keep track of time. He thinks he needs coke, but he needs to sleep. Coffee, coffee, coffee. A slice of something cause his stomach hurts. 

He doesn’t want to eat because he’ll be strong enough to think. And he can’t think, not when it's stupid thoughts. Thoughts of seeing Will. Thoughts of calling Will. Thoughts of Will. Will is alone and he is alone. It is only natural. His hope re-kindled.

He didn’t care that I was in New York. He doesn’t care.

He wants to believe it because reality makes sense. He wants to believe it because reality is safe. 

It is past midnight when he thinks of grabbing a slice of pizza. The one with pineapple that he likes. Two bites and he will be full. He doesn’t want more coffee, he wants to sleep. But he can’t, he can’t. 

He’s falling asleep at the bar and realizes he should go home, it's pointless now.

He stops at 32nd St. for pizza. Two slices of Hawaiian to go. He takes three bites and he’s full. One long train ride home. Four hours of commute. 

It is almost 3am, he is used to wandering the lone hours of New York. The streets are his friends, his insomnia perpetually arranging their meetings. Something is always happening in New York, something is always alive in New York. Especially on a Friday night. 

He likes to people watch on the subway. Everyone is so strange and themselves, everyone is a character. He writes little stories in his head about the people he watches. Everyone is living out a secret life, a wishful fantasy. He invents stories to pass the time, somehow all their stories have happy endings. For his love tragedies, he always wrote happy endings. It was strange. He can’t remember when it started to be like that…

The train stops and he enters like a dream. 

He freezes because it is him and it cannot be him. They live in the same city but he never thought he would meet him like this.

“Ah, it’s you,” Will says. 

He sits next to him in an instant, too smooth and too quick. “I mean it is really you or am I really fucked up?”

Something in his expression makes him laugh. “It is me, Will, who else could it be?”

“Oh,” Will says and laughs. “That’s good. I was afraid for a second there. I thought dreamed you or something.”

“What are you on?” he asked, looking into his eyes. 

He had dark glitter all over them, and if it was even possible, the makeup made him look even more radiant than usual. He was in a state of disarray yet he looked so refined. It made no sense. Nothing about him or his love for him ever made sense. All he knew since he was a young boy was that he loved him and that was that. 

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs. He looks like a boy. “Drugs. Ecstasy. No, I’m coming down. I feel I’m coming down.” 

He takes out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth. “So what are you doing here? Partying hard?”

“What? No, just me and my sad pizza slices going home for the night.”

“Pizza? You have pizza?”

“With pineapple. You want some?”

“No, thanks. I didn’t know you liked that,” Will says, lighting his cigarette. 

“I do,” he says weakly. He doesn’t know why but he’s sweating, his palms are sweaty.

Will gestures the cigarette towards him, he takes it. He can never refuse him.

“So what are you doing here so late?”

“Just riding the subway.”

“Riding the subway at 3am? For fun? Really, Michael?” he laughs. “You’re so ridiculous… Are you okay, though? Are you feeling sad?”

“Me?” He stammers. “I’m fine, I guess. I’ve been having bad insomnia. Been writing alot. I kinda laid off the coke and now it's hard to stay asleep or awake. I don’t know anymore.”

“Who does?” he says, letting out a puff of smoke. 

“Will, I’m sorry about Jonah. Max told me.”

“She did? Fuck. Why… It’s… Yeah, it’s been weird. It was gonna happen, you know. The writing was on the fucking wall.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean I knew it wasn’t gonna work out. We’re just so different.”

“You always say that.”

“What?”

“Whenever you break up with your boyfriends, you say that. You always say you’re so different. That they’re so different from you.”

Will pauses. “How? How do you know that?”

“Because you always say it.”

“Do I really? Fuck. You know, it was Jonah who broke up with me. It’s weird, I always break up with them. But maybe I deserved it this time.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You weren’t there. I’m not exactly the world’s greatest boyfriend.”

“But you’re still you.”

“I’m still me?”

“Yeah, and you’re pretty good. I mean you’re just a good person.” 

“You always think I’m a good person. I’m probably not.”

“No, you are the best person to me. I can’t think of you any other way.”

Will says nothing, so he speaks again. “I am writing a novel right now. And some poetry. And I’ve written some, some poems about you.”

“What are you talking about? Am I high? Or are you high?”

Something is trying to come out of him, something is gnawing his way out. “No, I am not high. You might be high. But I’m talking about poems.”

“You’re writing poetry, Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“About me?” He asks this like a whisper, like a secret he is dying to keep. 

“Yeah. I actually wanted to ask you something. Something I’ve always been afraid to ask you.”

Will is perched up, his breaths suddenly shallow. “Yeah?”

“Will.”

“Yeah,” he says, taking a drag.

“Do you remember the painting you made for me? The one El commissioned.”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Why did you lie to me about it? Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

“What are you talking about Mike?”

“El didn’t commission it.”

Will scoffs. “Oh, what? She called you and told you?”

It’s out of character, even for him. The carelessness of the remark would hurt except it’s Will and Will would never purposely hurt him. 

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. But how would you know that she didn’t commission it, Mike?” 

“She told me. That same summer, she told me.”

Will looks at him incredulously. “And now you ask me about it? Seven fucking years later? It was such a long time ago. I don’t remember why I lied, I was stupid and fifteen and I don’t know I probably felt embarrassed? I don’t remember.”

He felt a stab in his heart. “Really? You don’t remember?” 

“It wasn’t that serious, Mike.”

But something in his voice betrays him. Will looks like himself suddenly. He is ten years old. They’re in the basement and Lucas just won the Spider-man comic book in their game of marbles. It wasn’t that serious, Mike. I’m okay. But he knows Will is about to cry and thus he presses on. 

But you wanted that comic book. “But you made that painting. You made it for me.” 

“Yeah, I did,” Will says. He is sixteen when he says it.

“For me?” he asks. He is sixteen when he asks.

“Yes.”

“I love that painting. I just wished I knew it was from you. I wish you didn’t lie to me about it.”

“What difference would it have made? You knew it all this time and it didn’t change anything.” 

“It meant everything.”

“It's past tense, Mike. Who cares?” 

“I have kept every drawing you ever made me.” 

“It’s all over,” he says. “My stop is next.”

They look at each other. He looks terrible, Will looks ethereal. His smeared glittery eyeshadow, his slight smirk, the smell of cologne and cigarettes. He loves him. He loves him so much that in that moment he could burst. 

“Will…”

He would only ask for fifteen minutes with him. Fifteen minutes without shame. Fifteen minutes and it would mean everything. He would never ask for anything else. 

“Well, it was nice catching up with you. Come visit me anytime. Maybe we can actually hang out.”

Will is about to leave, as quickly as he came. But instead he turns around, he turns around one last time. “Actually, would you want to come over?”

He looks at him and instantly stumbles with his words. “I don’t... I don’t think...”

“I didn’t think so,” he says with the sweetest smile.

And he watches him leave. 

It’s almost instinct at this point, Will leaves, he stays. The door always opened ajar, the one he stares at but never leaves through. Except the subway doors are closed and it’s only a few stops later that he realizes the gravity of his situation.

What am I doing? 

He has been asking himself this question for some time but only now can he answer it. I am stalling. I am afraid.

But is he brave?  Was he capable of such a feat? He did not know, he could only try. 

So he gets off on the next stop. And he wanders frantically, then aimlessly. What is he supposed to do? Take the train back and then get off where Will did? 

He does this, he is not thinking anymore. 

But when he gets off where Will did, he realizes he does not know where to go. He would follow him if he could. But it’s impossible now to catch him, he searches and searches in a crowd of strangers in the dead of night. 

He cannot remember his address. He wrote it down and can’t remember it. He wished he did but he doesn’t. And trying to recollect it only dampens his spirit and ignites his desperation. It’s all over, Will had said. 

He was right, he was right. 

No, he doesn’t want to think about it, he doesn’t want to cry. 

He now sees his entire life laid out for him. Both future and past meet. He is searching for Will, he is always searching for Will. His life will always consist of this, he realizes, he will be searching for Will. He will wander into strangers in the dark wishing it was him, he will knock at the door of every light of one of those buildings he stands below now, he will search and search and never find him. 

He will wander, alone and heartbroken, and nothing will ever suffice because he is always too late and too cowardly. Yes, that was his life. 

Perhaps he deserved to suffer, he killed her after all, didn’t he? It was his bomb, his idea, his plan, his game. Some fucking game. Why would Will ever return his affections after that? And if he did, why should he be happy? And wasn’t he a bad person for what he was? 

He was corrupted. He was beyond repair. And perhaps he could have lived a good life if he wasn’t too afraid. 

He suddenly hears it, the subway coming into the platform. He didn’t know he was already underground waiting for the train. He is Anna Karenina at the train station. 

He remembers the passage, still, the one he deconstructed for his essay. 

“My God! where am I to go?" she thought, going farther and farther along the platform. At the end she stopped. 

He does the same, following the end of the platform, going closer to the edge. But Tolstoy is a better writer. 

The train is coming… 

Anna Karenina missed it. She missed the first train because she was holding onto her luggage. He won’t, he’s not holding onto anything. He won’t miss. 

She is him, he is her. He recalls her own thoughts like they were his own. "...there, in the very middle, and I will punish him and escape from everyone and from myself."

Then she lunges herself forward, and he will do so too. The knot his stomach tightens, the weight on his heart is so intense that gravity itself will do the trick and pull him down. 

"Where am I? What am I doing? What for?"

But just then when his muscles prepare for the jump, there comes a voice calling out his name. And it’s not Will, it’s not God. 

It’s Blake, it’s stupid Blake.

“Mikey! Are you kidding me? What is this fucking coincidence?”

He embraces him rather forcefully, always acting like they are the best of friends. “Joey, Kev, this is Mikey. My ex’s ex.”

He realizes all three of them are very drunk and very well-dressed. They all look at him wide-eyed, does he really look that strange?

“Hey Blake,” he mutters. “I thought you were living in Amsterdam or something.”

“Yeah, I’m on a 24 hour bender before my flight leaves tomorrow morning. Well, this morning, in about six hours or some shit. Anyway, what are you doing? You look terrible. Did you and Will have a fight?”

“What? No!”

“I know he lives around here, Mikey. He lives with Jonah or something. I can’t believe he ended up with Jonah. Ugh, such a bore. Joey used to hook up with him.”

“He’s not that fucking good. You have nothing to be jealous about.” 

“What? No. You’re misunderstanding everything.”

“Are you guys having an affair?” 

“Did he reject you?” asks the one in the long fur coat. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“No, no…”

“No, Will, would never reject him. He’s crazy about Mikey. Like he never said it, but I can tell these kinds of things.”

“I knew it, this is why I told you not to get with him. You’re Sag, he’s an Aries. Fire and fire is too much fire!”

“No, I…”

“Hey, you weren’t thinking about jumping off that platform were you?” asks the one in the Union Jack jacket. “It’s never worth it. You’ll get over him.”

“No, Mikey, do not kill yourself.”

He doesn’t know what is happening. One minute he is trying to end his life, the next he is getting advice from Blake and his friends. 

“I wasn’t… It’s not…”

“It’s never that serious!” insists Long Fur Coat. “I almost killed myself after my ex left me. I was devastated.”

“You just didn’t eat for three days.”

“Whatever, it was horrible. Never break up with a Pisces.”

“I tried kill himself when my father disowned him. But fuck him, I disowned him and moved to New York.”

“You did?” he asks. 

“Mikey, don’t kill yourself,” Blake says. “Go talk to Will, apologize, and he’ll understand. Trust me, he is crazy about you. It’s obvious to me, this is why we didn’t work out. That and he was kinda boring for me, well, not boring boring but like I need someone more lively, someone with more of a zest for life. But he’s great for you!”

“I’m… I wouldn’t know what to say if I did.”

He didn’t know why he was opening up to these men, these strangers. Somehow he felt he could, somehow he felt he could be more open than ever with them. That they would somehow understand more than Lucas and Dustin ever could.

“You would! You already know! Love is difficult until it’s not.”

“What sign are you?” 

“I’m an Aries...”

“Oh, yeah, you need to speak or you’ll die. You’re literally killing yourself already.”

“I gotta say, Mikey, you’re one intense motherfucker. So writer of you to throw yourself off the subway platform. Very tortured.” 

“But, I don’t know what I would say to Will,” he says, letting it all out. “It’s been a long time and I feel I keep missing all my chances and every time I just fuck up. And I had this girlfriend and I was terrible to her and I practically killed her-”

“Oh, same, man, I was horrible to my first girlfriend.”

“And then, then, Will has had all these hot boyfriends-”

“Oh, Mikey, you’re so sweet.”

“And he’s probably happier without me. I just kinda suck. And I keep missing all my fucking chances with him because I can’t tell him the truth which is that I loved him and I’ve always loved him but I just have been so afraid to say it. And now I’m here in New York, going to Columbia just so I can be near him! It’s insane. I moved to another city just to be closer to him and I can’t even talk to him. And I’m addicted to coke and my writing sucks and I don’t know what else to do.”

“You are so brave,” says Long Fur Coat, taking a drag of his cigarette. “You’re such a writer. You need to write this down.”

“Well, Mikey, it’s kinda fucking obvious to me. Just tell him.”

“Tell him what? That I’m a loser and a coward. And I can’t even come out. I’ve read Maurice and I think I’m gonna end up like Clive. I am Clive!”

“Oh, I love that movie.”

“Oh, that shit fucked me up.”

“You’re not gonna end up like Hugh Grant. You already moved to another city because you wanted to be with Will. And he doesn’t know, all he needs to know is know. And then, he’ll know.”

“But what do I say?”

“Whatever is in your heart, you’re a writer, use your words.” 

“I don’t know how to come up with them. Not for Will.”

Blake takes a drag from their shared cigarette. “Haven’t you wrote some crap for him already? He says you wrote stories about him, his character or something?”

“His character?”

“They’re into this weird, nerdy game. It’s like knights and dragons and wizards. It’s weird, man.”

“Those are D&D stories I used to write for him. Now I write poetry for him.”

“Oh, poetry! How romantic!”

“I’ve written so much about him, actually.” 

“Yeah, bring him over a poem or something. Even if in the moment you don’t have words, your writing will speak for you. It’ll say what you can’t say.” 

Suddenly Blake is wiser than he ever gave him credit for. Suddenly Blake knows the secrets of the cosmos.

“But what if it’s not enough?”

“How can love ever not be enough?”

Now he is certain. Blake understands everything.

“Yes!” echoes Union Jack. 

“Oh my god, so true.”

“Anyway, we really have to get going. We’re so late for our friend’s show.” 

“You have a show? At four in the morning?!”

“Yeah, an art show! Anyway, lovely talking to you. Don’t kill yourself. Tell Will you love him and that…. Hm.”

He looks at Mike carefully. “I can see it now. Okay, I think it makes sense.” 

“See what?”

“Nothing. Let’s go, we are so late.”

“Good luck! Say hi to Will! He gave me a ciggy once and I never forgot!!”

“Oh and, I’m in fashion and I have to tell you, you have a long frame so athleisure clothes make you look frumpy. Stick to structured garments and classics!”

And just like that, they leave. They hop on the subway and disappear. A figment of his imagination, perhaps. 

Still he lingers on the platform for a long time. Thinking of the past and hoping for the future. His friends were right. He should write this down.

He thought of a poem for Will on the way home.