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Despite everything, the house is filled with music.
No. In spite of everything, the house is filled with music.
All of human existence has proven that people turn to creation in times of strife—when there is nothing left; when people have died; when lives are uprooted; when darkness feels inevitable; people still have their bodies, hearts, and feelings. Art is a vessel to release the pressure and express what cannot be processed in plain spoken language. Art materializes joy in an otherwise joyless world.
A house full of traumatized teenagers who know too much should be bursting at the seams with music.
Will stands in front of a nearly empty canvas, clutching his thin wooden paintbrush. He looks at Mike, then back at the canvas. Mike strums his guitar. It’s okay. It’s sounded worse.
“Thanks for doing this,” Mike softly remarks. Will dips into the pristine white.
“Yeah,” Will replies. “Of course.”
He lays his base and mixes an egg-yolk yellow. He doesn’t recognize this song. Maybe he would with lyrics. Mike bends his knee and frowns.
“I can never remember this part,” Mike says, looking up. Will washes the background, avoiding eye contact. “I thought—since El likes this song—playing it while you try to, like, capture my essence would show how deep and connected we are when I give her this,” Mike explains frustratedly. Will shifts. Soft light streams through the window, casting perfect illumination on the heavy curvature of Mike’s eyelids. He’s fascinating. His sharp and willowy appearance is composed mostly of soft shapes that catch the sunlight like a shaded garden.
“Good thing I just finished the outline,” Will musters, smiling slightly.
“Do I even need to play important songs yet?”
“Are you sure you even need to play the guitar?” Will retorts.
“Hey!”
What’s the saying? A painting for a painting makes the whole Will really nervous that his increasingly complicated web of lies and therefore his relationship with Mike is about to be slashed to shreds? But it’s maybe a little okay because this is really nice right now?
He begins blocking Mike’s shape. He needs to capture that light before it changes.
“I just mean, is guitar enough of a THING between you to need to be in this?” Will asks. Mike shrugs. Will makes a mental note of how the creases on his shoulders move.
“Does a portrait have to have your THING in it? Can’t it just be badass?”
“I don’t think a portrait of you sitting in the living room is going to be badass,” Will jokes.
“Give me laser eyes.”
“And a lightsaber?”
“Yeah. And there can be a huge, fire-breathing dragon behind me that I’m about to laser to death,” Mike grins. Will isn’t sure if he’s serious. “Like from El’s painting.”
Redirecting. “I just mean,” Will says. “If you want to capture this honest version of yourself, I don’t think you need to be doing anything.” He starts on Mike’s nose.
“Won’t that be boring?” Mike squirms a little. Something Will said struck a nerve.
“That’s not the point. And it won’t be boring.”
Mike looks down at his guitar and strums a few chords. “I killed a dragon in Will’s living room,” He sort of sing-talks. “With my sword and awesome laser eyes.”
“Now it’s a sword?” Will laughs. He notices that Mike’s fingers are calloused. He bobs his head along to his ad-libbed music.
“Sing along,” Mike urges.
“Then I called the dragon’s mom and held the dragon’s funeral,” Will adds. Mike nods. “And no one showed up ‘cause the dragon really sucked.”
Mike strums aggressively and sing-yells an “AAAAAAA.” Will joins. They jam with glowing fervor. Will’s mouth is dry, Mike’s face flushes.
“Guys.”
Immediate silence.
Jonathan is in his pajamas, arms crossed. He scans the area—Mike sits awkwardly on a kitchen chair in front of the window, hands at his sides and guitar around his neck. Will is perched across from him next to a cluttered array of partially-mixed paint and grey water. Mike’s half-started portrait divides them—flat and almost eyeless. “What are you doing?”
“Practicing self-expression,” Mike answers before Will can say anything.
“At nine in the morning?”
“It’s when the light comes through this window the best,” Will says.
“And after El leaves,” Mike HAS to point out.
“It’s a gift. Mike is still trying to fix things.”
Jonathan’s posture stiffens slightly. He tries to mask the fact that he’s cringing, but it’s too early and too obvious.
“A painting’s never gonna fix everything,” Jonathan remarks as he heads back to his room.
Mike furrows his brow. “What was that about?”
“He’s probably just cranky ‘cause he’s tired,” Will covers. “If you ditch the guitar, then-”
“I’m keeping the guitar.”
Will looks down at his painting. The eyes look off.
They rest in heavy silence for a moment. He searches Mike’s eyes for what’s missing. Mike stares back. Light shifts, paint dries.
A thump echoes from somewhere else in the cabin, followed by an exclamation. Definitely Jonathan. Possibly Argyle.
“Um,” Will says. “We should, uh, take a break.”
Mike blinks and looks away. “Yeah.”
He has to stop.
“Maybe we should come back to it tomorrow, actually. I think there are some parts I should work on before I need to see more, and El might be back soon, so I don’t wanna make you sit there all day…” Will suggests. Mike nods.
“I’ll practice some more songs.”
Will wipes his hands on a rag while Mike slings his guitar over his shoulder and gives a halfhearted wave.
The music exits with Mike.
Impending doom makes itself known when Will is alone, the glittering beams from the window fading without their subject. What is he doing? The world is literally ending and he’s painting a boy for his girlfriend to equalize a lie. It’s… sad. It’s sad. It’s so sad. He grabs his rag and violently wipes the eyes away. Tears burn his face. He throws down the towel and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.
What a stupid idea. A painting isn’t going to fix ANYTHING.
His wrist aches.
He picks the rag up off the floor and tosses it on his table, leaving the painting out to wallow in his room.
———
Mike returns the next day with How Soon is Now and a listless expression.
“Where are my eyes?” He peers around the painting, squinting as if painted sightlessness caused his own. “I thought you said you were working on stuff.”
“I’m gonna redo them,” Will replies. “Most of it has more detail.”
“Oh. Okay.” Mike sits abruptly.
Music with him is weird because it doesn’t even really matter if it’s good. Normally Will kind of cares. Neither of them can sing; Mike plays because his body is full of apocalypse and he needs to release it and Will paints the light that remains.
“‘I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does…’”
Mike obviously knows this song by heart, but not how to play it well. He glares at his guitar disdainfully.
“You’re gonna make El think you hate her if you want me to paint you like that,” Will remarks while he shades Mike’s new eyes.
“I swear I practiced this.”
“Do you have something more…” Will searches for the word. Positive. Exuberant. Not such a personal bummer.
“Romantic?” Mike looks up. Will looks away. “Uh… oh! More Than This.”
The eyes look even worse. Unfamiliar.
This song seems easier. Mike digs into the little solo, losing words while he finds chords.
It seems like there IS nothing more than this. Will hums along, swaying.
Until El walks through the door.
“What are you doing?” She asks, tilting her head. Short curls settle on her shoulder.
The room’s energy sizzles. Will frantically grabs his brush towel and throws it over the canvas while Mike wrestles his guitar strap over his head, pulling his jacket over his chin in the process. He hunts for a place to put it before setting it on the ground. Will holds his paint-covered fists at his sides.
“You’re back early,” Will notes, suspiciously out of breath. “How’s Max?”
“You’re acting weird,” El replies. “She is the same. Lucas is there. What are you painting?”
“It’s… a gift for… Nancy,” Mike lies. Will rests his hand on his temple, getting blue paint on his face. Jesus.
El frowns. “You are gifting Nancy a painting of yourself?”
Will shuts his eyes, head still down. He’d told Mike that El wouldn’t want a picture of him in the first place and that he could paint a picture of her instead, but he’d insisted that she’d ‘get it.’ He’d worried Mike might catch on to why he thought returning the favor was a terrible idea if he pushed, so he let it be.
“Uh-huh. For college,” Mike doubles down. “You know, because a painting is a really good gift. But it has to be a secret, because- because someone might spoil it.”
Will’s stomach churns.
“If you say so. Mike, can I… talk to you?” El’s expression hardens.
“Yeah, sure,” Mike says. He remains seated, picking up his guitar and plucking a few random strings.
“Alone.”
Will looks between them. Mike’s eyes widen and he pauses his absentminded strumming. He rises and follows El to her room, giving Will a hint of a pity nod.
Solitary, he pulls the rag off his painting and looks into its new eyes. Any smudges can be fixed, but the total wrongness of all of this has to be completely restarted. He grabs the edges of his canvas and carries it to his makeshift curtain-walled room (old window and shower curtains taped to the corner of the living room ceiling) for safekeeping.
Will doodles with headphones on for an hour, listening to the 60s mixtape that Jonathan had left on his nightstand for ‘chilling.’
He decides to stop when he hears footsteps and soft laughter. A page full of eyes stare at him expectantly— some are pretty good, but none are right. He crumples the page and tosses it in the trash.
When he opens the curtain, El stands alone in the living room. She adjusts her pink collar as she inspects Will’s abandoned paint set-up.
“Is everything okay?” Will asks, emerging. El turns her head to look back at him and nods.
“I’m becoming my own person,” She says.
“What?”
She turns to face him fully and steps toward him.
“We broke up. We could not communicate.”
A gasp catches in Will’s throat. Not because this is surprising, given that this had happened before and ultimately ended in Will’s heart decomposing in the woods, but because of the apparent finality.
“I’m sorry,” He responds. He pulls El into a gentle hug. She smells like the lavender soap his mom started buying when they moved.
“I am okay,” she whispers. “Will…”
Will pulls away. “Yeah?”
“I understand why someone would lie for him,”
Will steps back.
“The way he talked about your… commission… do not sacrifice yourself for him. And do not sacrifice me.”
“I’m so sorry,” he chokes. “Really, it was so-”
“It’s okay. But you should talk to him. And after, we will get ice cream,” El smiles and nudges his arm. She walks back to her room and leaves the door cracked.
And Will is bewildered in the living room again.
He makes a decision.
———
Will, ever the supportive best friend, bikes to Mike’s house despite threatening storm clouds and imminent planetary destruction.
Mike sits on his doorstep, brooding.
“Hey,” Will greets, tossing his bike aside.
“When El broke up with me, she told me she needed to be her own person and spend time with her family and friends. To understand who SHE really is without boys and drama,” Mike says, slowly looking up at Will.
“Oh,” Will replies. The air crackles with electricity and moisture. The energy is off.
“And she said… that there was no commission or… or speech. She didn’t even know what a commission was.”
Will swallows. The sky cracks open, pouring onto him like runny eggwhite— some droplets have just as much bizarre viscosity from mingling with the necrotic atmosphere. One rolls down his neck, dripping down his back.
His limbs feel detached from his body. “Um… there- there was. How long have you been sitting out here?”
“You lied to me,” Mike states plainly. Numbly.
“I-”
“You don’t… you don’t lie to me. That’s not what we do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What El said meant so much to me. But it was all bullshit. You just made it all up. Why would you…” Mike pauses, breathing heavily. Rainwater runs down his soggy hair and off the tip of his nose. “Why would you do that to me?”
“I didn’t make it all up,” Will spits. It’s hard to see. His body aches. His wet shirt clings to his arms like plastic wrap. It’s suffocating. Is this worse than possession? No, he decides, but it’s still pretty bad.
“You made me feel like she loved me and that I was really, really needed and then you took it all away from me. You made it sound so real, even though I thought she didn’t feel that way. I trusted you. Now you’re lying again.”
“I meant what I said! I just… meant it…” He can’t say it. The words push against his throat. “The only lie was about El. The painting was real.”
“The whole lie was about El. Jesus, Will, what is wrong with you? How could you do that?”
What is wrong with you. What is wrong with you. Every syllable echoes in his skull, sends a shudder down his spine. Mistake, freak, wrong et al. Authors of his life story. This was inevitable.
“What’s wrong with me is that I need you- I need to go,” Will exclaims, processing what he’s saying while he says it. He covers his mouth with his hand when he finishes, like something else could slip out and betray him. Like crying in the van.
Mike stands completely still, a deer in the headlights that Will is colliding with head-on. Glass shatters. Blood and hair cake the grill.
Except it’s just seconds of stillness in the rain.
“You…” Mike utters, barely a whisper. “What? We’re in the middle of a conversation. And you just got here.”
“It’s late and I’m tired.” Technically the truth.
“Come on, really? I just want you to tell me why you lied to me when that is our number one rule,” Mike throws up his arms. “Friends don’t lie. And if you’re willing to lie about something so important, I just don’t know how we can come back from this.”
Will has been slashed open by the antlers.
“I’m sorry I lied. I know it was wrong and- and stupid, but you’ve been missing what I’ve been saying this whole time.” Will crosses his arms and turns his head away from Mike. “What happened to not losing each other?” He adds, softer.
“You’re right, I don’t understand.” Mike steps forward and wipes a tear away with his palm. “Why did you lie if you didn’t want us to lose each other? Why? I loved that painting, Will, and what you said… ”
“I meant it. I did. I painted that stupid painting on my own and I meant everything I said. From me. Okay?”
Will searches for a point to focus on, his body becoming listless with every second he stands here. His hands are shaking. Mike stands still, inscrutable.
“You- from you? So you…”
“I need to go, Mike.” Will attempts to push past Mike to get to his bike.
“Wait,” Mike shouts. Will pauses. He looks at him. His eyes are red, his hair is sopping—like a dog caught in a river current. “Whenever we fight and you leave something bad happens. Stay in the basement, please.”
“I’m sorry I ruined everything,” Will says, shoving past Mike. Mike grabs his shoulder.
“That’s not true. And it’s not safe with everything going on. Whatever’s… happening with us isn’t worth dying for.”
Will wants to tell him it is. That it already has been. That he died a little inside when they said goodbye before he moved and every day since, every time Mike fights with him or touches his shoulder or says something dumb or something astonishingly smart. But he knows an emotional death is not the same as a physical one.
“Fine.”
Which is how Will ends up lying on the basement couch, picking at the dried paint under his fingernails. Though he’s technically safe, the basement’s casual familiarity becomes foreboding when he’s by himself. He’s never slept in the basement alone.
A shatter comes from upstairs, and the fact that it’s loud enough to resonate in the basement implies that something very wrong and frightening has occurred.
Crossroads: whether to go up and check it out or stay on the couch in the eerie yet secure darkness. It’s probably just Nancy or Mrs. Wheeler. Maybe it’s the shutters blowing against a window. Does this house even have shutters?
He peels off his blanket and gingerly climbs the stairs. At this point, he understands that any creature in the house would be looking for him. The hot scratch at the back of his neck has tingled since he’d gotten back and the world ended, but it’s hard to distinguish what feelings are his when his trembling hand twists the cold basement doorknob.
The kitchen light is on. He carefully tiptoes over.
There are no pulsating vines or blood-soaked writhing monsters tearing apart their kitchen island.
It’s just Mike, squatting as he gathers shards of a glass cup out of a puddle of water.
Their eyes meet. Silence. Mike pops up and then looks down at Will’s bare feet.
“Um,” Mike says. “You’ll cut your feet.”
“Are you okay?” Will asks, gesturing to the floor. Mike doesn’t answer for a moment. “‘Mike?”
“Yeah! Yeah. You should… you should totally go back to bed. I’m fine.” There’s an odd lilt in Mike’s voice.
“Listen, if you don’t want to talk to me because of the- because of what happened, that’s fine. But if something feels wrong, then we-”
“Nothing is wrong,” Mike replies quickly. He begins to reach out to Will, but retreats when he remembers the broken glass on the floor. “My hands were wet. And I was distracted.”
“Let me help. I can get the broom,” Will offers. Mike frowns.
“Don’t.” Mike urges. Will opens his mouth to protest, but Mike continues. “I want to be alone right now.”
It’s because of the painting. Inevitably, the thing he created with the hope of mending and encouragement has severed them irreparably. Mike is probably trying to amputate the rotting limb and cauterize the wound. No bandaid at all.
“The broom is in the basement…” Will says. Mike blinks at him.
“Okay.”
“So I can…”
“Sure, yeah, get it. But I don’t need help.”
Will’s chest aches as he descends the stairs and collects a broom and dustpan from the closet. He won’t cry. He’s cried too much.
When he comes back up, most of the big shards have been placed on the island. He reaches over the threshold and hands the broom to Mike. He wants to offer his help, but he knows Mike will bite back and hurt him more. It’s not intentional, but it stings.
“Thanks. Goodnight, Will,” Mike answers shakily with a soft smile.
“Goodnight. Don’t hurt yourself on that.”
Mike mumbles something that Will doesn’t catch.
“What?”
“Nothing. Goodnight.”
He goes back to the basement in a sleepy haze.
At around 3 AM, footsteps wake Will up. He lays on his back with one arm hanging over the side of the couch. A tall, ghostly figure with tendrils and a sort of flat claw-hand descends upon the basement and deposits something against the wall. He considers retracting his hand so that the creature can’t grab it, but ultimately decides to leave it hanging so he can roll off more easily. He clutches the fleece blanket with his free hand, trying to remain as still and invisible as possible.
No, wait.
It’s just Mike with the broom. Which is not a relief at this point. Will remains just as still and pretends to sleep, watching with heavy eyes.
Instead of turning and leaving, Mike walks toward Will and sits on the floor next to him.
Will’s heart beats too fast and too familiarly. He just wants tonight to be over so he can go home. He shuts his eyes tightly.
Mike’s hand wraps around his. His thumb brushes Will’s softly.
Will’s stomach drops.
“Thanks for staying, ‘cause I got to think about everything instead of freaking out about you being dead in the woods or whatever,” Mike whispers—barely audible, but in the dry basement silence it reverberates like a guttural scream. He squeezes Will’s hand. “I dunno. I don’t know what I’m doing. This is stupid. You aren’t even awake.”
Mike lets go and lays back.
When Will wakes up with both hands tucked under his head, he wonders if it was a dream.
But Mike is still on the ground, curled up without a blanket. Will takes his off and drapes it over Mike as he gets up, and Mike snuggles into its warmth.
Will’s now dry clothes hang over the bathtub’s lip. While he changes out of his borrowed pajamas back into yesterday’s jeans and flannel, he catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror. Reddened, tired eyes meet his own.
Each rock and bump match his heartbeat on the bike ride home. Smoggy spore-air permeates every pore, flooding his lungs and dusting his tongue which had avoided engaging last night. Always avoiding.
His body is tired.
He passes the desolate playground—once a popular spot for kids to play and teenagers to hide alcohol in the bushes, now a craggy mess. He sees Lucas out of the corner of his eye and swerves back around. Lucas dribbles a basketball on the uneven blacktop and dunks it in the basket.
“Nice,” Will says. Lucas jumps a little and then turns to face him. Sweat drips down his face.
“Hey!” He greets, waving and walking towards Will. “What are you doing over here?”
“Just heading back from Mike’s. Is it safe to exercise outside with this stuff in the air?”
“Dunno,” Lucas shrugs. “I think people are more resilient than we give ourselves credit for. Maybe not me, I just have a good sense of self-preservation, but I’ve made it this far. And it’s not so bad over here, like there’s a gap in the creepy smoke or something. I just needed to get out of the hospital for a minute.”
The basketball’s repetitive hollow thunk soothes the stressed buzz in Will’s head.
“Hey, can I tell you something?” Will asks. The peaceful break in the normally toxic environment combined with the nostalgic casualness of a playground basketball court makes this feel… possible. Will reassures himself that Lucas is a safe, kind, and rational person. They’re friends. Indisputably best friends, unlike Mike and him.
“Yeah, what’s up?” Lucas dunks the ball again. “If it’s about the breakup, I already heard. I give it a week.”
“It’s not about that. Not really. I just… will you promise not to tell anybody?” Will swallows a lump in his throat. Maybe this won’t be easy with Lucas. Maybe it’s a bad idea. He wonders what he could confess to get out of this.
“Totally. Unless you murdered someone or something.”
Will forces out a laugh. It sounds fake.
“You didn’t, right?” Lucas’ voice wavers.
“No! I’m… I’ve been…” he should have planned what he’s going to say. He planned what he would tell Jonathan and his mom (I Am Your Brother/Son I Like Boys Don’t Be Mad Thank You), but not Lucas, who seems to realize that this is something really serious. He stops dribbling and sits on an earthquake-raised lip of pavement by Will. His sneakers scratch into the gravel.
“I’ve known this for a while. Everything is so weird right now, but this has been… I guess it’s always something I’ve known. But, um, I wanted to tell you that I’m gay.”
Will inhales a shaky breath. It hits him that he’s never said the words out loud before. Lucas stands abruptly, and Will flinches slightly. His stomach flutters with a thousand unidentifiable feelings.
Lucas pulls him into a tight hug. Will’s bike clatters to the ground as he reaches up to wrap his arms around him.
He cries on his friend’s shoulder, an impossible weight lifting off of him.
Lucas releases him. “Cool. Thanks for telling me.”
Will laughs. A genuine, free laugh this time. “So you’re not upset?”
“No, I’m not a backwards idiot like other people in this town,” Lucas affirms lightly. “It kinda makes sense in retrospect.”
“You sound like Max.”
“Is she wrong? People here suck.”
“She’s right.”
“Does anyone else know?” Lucas questions, scanning the ground for his abandoned ball. Will shakes his head.
“I’ve never… said it out loud. I guess people know, but not like this. So please don’t tell anyone,” Will pleads again. Lucas locates the ball and scoops it up.
“Yeah. You can trust me. Got a cool secret boyfriend back in Cali?” He wiggles his eyebrows. It’s so weird to hear from a real person. He pushes the emerging thought of Mike out of his head and lets the momentary joy sink in.
“No. I’m still the same person,” Will sighs. He’s playing it up a little, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that the air is getting thicker, or that he’s wearing yesterday’s clothes, or that Lucas is showing off how much better he is at sports than Will.
“Dunno, girls have always been all over you.”
“Maybe we should get inside,” Will prompts.
Lucas pauses to feel the air. “Ugh.”
Lucas walks to the other side of the court and props up his bike. He places his ball in its basket and wheels it over to a flatter area. Will grabs his own bike and mounts it, leaning on his foot.
“Thanks,” Will says warmly. “Seriously.”
“Of course, dude. You know I’m always here for you.”
“You too.”
They wave and part ways.
The red afternoon sun glows hot with the ease of newfound freedom.
————
There’s a crushed Manila envelope on Will’s doorstep when he arrives. Hopper glares at it, inspecting its abstract shape.
“Suspicious package?” Will inquires as he props his bike against the cabin.
“Mike came by and left it,” Hopper replies. “He left when I told him you and El weren’t here. Weren’t you just at his house? Why was he alone?”
“I ran into Lucas. It was probably for El,” Will shrugs. He doesn’t want to address that the sleepover was out of necessity rather than enjoyment or that he hadn’t spoken a word to Mike since midnight. “Maybe some stuff he wanted to give back.”
“Why wouldn’t he send it back with you? It’s dangerous out here.” Hopper picks up the envelope. He furrows his eyebrows. “It’s light.”
“Can I see?” Will asks. Hopper thrusts the envelope into his outstretched hand. It IS really light, like it’s full of paper scraps.
“I’ll give it to El when she gets back,” Will decides, bringing it inside.
The cabin is cool and dark, and as he ducks through a gap in his curtain-room he’s glad that natural airflow and light aren’t an issue (but then again, it isn’t really a room, more like a bed and nightstand surrounded by curtains taped to the ceiling).
The apocalypse sucks.
He tosses the envelope on his bed and, just like Hopper, rests his hands on his hips and stares at it.
He could open it. See what Mike wanted to give El. Betray his last shred of trust.
He could also not, but then he wouldn’t know what’s inside, and curiosity scratches at the inside of his skull like a butter knife on dry toast.
It could be the painting, which is technically his and also a somewhat likely outcome. Terrible and heart-shattering, but likely. Disregarding that his painting wouldn’t fit into this size envelope. Mike probably tore it up into little tiny pieces and wrote a note that says something like, ‘I shredded this like you shredded my heart.’ Or something.
He rationalizes this as he plucks it off his bed and pinches the metal clasp. This is so fine and so ethical.
He gently lifts the flap and peers into the envelope.
It is not his painting.
It is not even close to his painting, it’s not even a drawing. A thin stack of softened, wrinkled binder paper with Mike’s familiar handwriting resides inside—no sign of any return or destruction; a new gesture.
He’s already gotten this far. He delicately extracts the first paper.
A letter.
I’m not good at explaining my feelings out loud. I’ve depended on mutual understanding and reconciliatory gestures after the fact for as long as I’ve known you, though I think I know how to share with you honestly more than I know how to communicate with anyone else. Nancy says I’m loud and annoying, but I’ve recently realized there’s a difference between being social and being open. I think you’re an open person with secrets and I’m a secretive person who’s open, if that makes sense. I don’t even know what I’m feeling half the time. When you moved, my sociability went with you. I didn’t know what to do, so I didn’t do anything. I was trapped in devastating liminality until Hellfire. However, I was also able to grasp my feelings and put them into words. I thought they were too much for a letter, so I never sent them. I brought them to California, but then the world ended, so… you know. We ended things on a really weird note last night and I had to take some time to understand how everything fit together. I’m getting it, which means I can give these to you—I’m still looking for words to say how I currently feel, but these are as close as we can get to being on the same page.
Love,
Mike
Will squeezes his eyes shut. Of course it’s not for him. What he would give for just a little bit of that love. A simple sign-off, but so telling.
His better judgment begs and pleads, but he still sifts through and extracts the smaller pieces of paper paper-clipped together, like they were ripped out of a journal.
Poems. Or songs. Probably poems.
He starts to read.
If I forget the way your voice sounds, I will remember how it made me feel.
I loved to go outside before you left
But now I hate it because I live in a forest
and the forest reminds me of you.
You are the forest and you made me feel
little birds on your branches singing
your roots in the earth holding soil together
Water in streams that flow from your mountains
Like a forest fire
You are the forest and I burn alone in this room.
Drawings on paper taped on the walls
I lie on my wood couch and spread on my wood floor
I lock the wooden door and ask
How I let you get into every crack of this space
when this space should snuff me out
You are the forest and you make me feel
Surrounded by you.
I find no release
Oxygen that fuels me comes from your leaves
You are the forest and you make me.
Will sets down the pages and puts his head in his hands. Mike had always wanted to write, but Will hadn’t read any of his work outside of DnD campaigns and short stories when they were kids. His soul is strewn across Will’s bed, a weeping wound expressed with scratchy blue pen ink.
“I lock the wooden door and ask how I let you get into every crack of this space when this space should snuff me out…” Will delivers, whispering to himself. He gets the double meaning. Thanks, honors lit. He flips to the next one.
He shouldn’t be reading these again, yet he already has a favorite.
He lays in bed, churning what he’s read until El comes home.
When he hears the door, he takes the Manila envelope to the living room to hand it to her as quickly as possible. The familiar aroma of frying egg wafts from the kitchen, where Jonathan and Argyle are huddled together in private conversation.
“Mike doesn’t seem over things,” He says, thrusting it towards her.
“What’s in there?” She asks, leaving Will’s hand outstretched.
“A letter, some poems… it’s kinda intense,” He explains, hoping that she won’t care that he essentially stole her mail. “He said you left things off on a weird note yesterday and he understands his feelings more.”
“He told you this last night?”
“No, he, um, wrote it in the letter.”
“Did he say it was for me?”
“Not definitively,” Will replies. This is a distressing line of questioning. The egg pops and Jonathan swears. Argyle laughs at him.
“It’s not for me,” El determines, wandering over to the kitchen. “We did not end on a weird note. Everything was mutual.”
Will looks down at the envelope, and then follows her. “There’s no way it’s for anyone else. He said he loves you.”
Jonathan looks up and raises his eyebrows.
“I bet I can figure it out.” Argyle declares. Will hands the package to him. Might as well.
Jonathan flips the egg onto a plate and turns his attention to Argyle, who is taking the papers out.
“‘I’ve depended on mutual understanding and reconciliatory gestures after the fact for as long as I’ve known you, though I think I know how to share with you honestly more than I know how to communicate with anyone else. Nancy says I’m loud and annoying, but I’ve recently realized there’s a difference between being social and being open,’” Argyle reads.
“That’s not how we were,” El affirms.
“He is loud and annoying,” Jonathan chides.
“What about these poems?” Argyle flips to one in the back. “‘Grab what’s in my heart with your bare hands.’”
Will’s favorite.
“Maybe one of you should read this out loud. This feels sorta invasive… unless he meant it for me, but that’d be crazy. Unless he really-”
“Will should,” El suggests. Will bristles.
“No, I can’t-” He begins to protest, but Jonathan cuts him off.
“Will, are you… comfortable with this?” He asks, putting a hand on his shoulder. Will looks between all of them. Argyle flips through the pages, squinting and turning them upside down. El leans against the counter expectantly, though it seems like she just wants to hear this so she can go do anything else. Jonathan has that familiar air of concern.
Nobody will care, he decides. Nobody has cared this whole time, for once.
“Yeah. I’ll read.”
Argyle hands him the poem. He needs to pretend like it’s not burned into his memory a little bit.
He recites.
“‘If I could escape I’d take you with me
And we’d follow a stone path to the end,
wielding wooden swords and riding on fantasy,
You can cut me open and I’ll play pretend.
I’ll call you baby real smooth
or just say your name with purpose and intention—
Something I haven’t gotten to do
There’s something I neglect to mention.
Find it in yourself to find it in me
Or I’ll bleed out in utopia without luxury.’”
The words feel like old honey in his mouth. Earthy and sweet, but thick and grainy with time-forged crystals that make it hard to spread or swallow.
Raw silence and dense stillness settle on the group. They collectively come to a conclusion, though nobody speaks— besides El, it’s the conclusion that none of them expected to make. Will knows he spoke with an understanding and longing that only a love poem’s requited recipient could access.
He sets the poem on the counter and inhales deeply and shakily.
He walks to the phone. He dials Mike.
Nancy picks up.
“Hello?” She answers.
“Is Mike there? It’s Will.”
“Yeah, he’s downstairs.”
“Could I talk to him?”
He hears a muffled yell, and then Nancy returns.
“Yup.”
Shuffling.
“Will?” Mike says.
“Hey, um, I got your letter.”
“Oh.”
“I just wanted to, like, call and tell you that I got it and… I thought the poems were really good. Can we talk?”
The line goes dead.
Will pulls the phone from his ear and stares at the receiver.
Figures.
He crawls into his curtain-room and sits on the floor, leaning against his bed. His heart pounds. He closes his eyes and listens to the rhythm, a continuous knocking for what seems like forever.
Eventually, the knocking grows louder and more inconsistent. It sounds like it’s approaching from somewhere else.
“Will.”
Mike.
Will opens his eyes. Mike towers over him.
“Can we finish the painting now?” Mike requests softly.
“What? Didn’t you guys break up?”
“Not for El. I’m commissioning it for you.”
Will pushes himself up on his bed frame and comes eye-to-eye with Mike.
The room is too warm.
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Will jokes. Their closeness is suddenly extremely apparent. “‘Cause I’ve seen it and stuff.”
“I mean, you haven’t seen it completely finished,” Mike retorts.
This is so weird.
“Okay.”
Will picks up the canvas and walks out to the living room. His family (plus Argyle) have vacated, leaving them alone. He sets it on the easel and gathers his brushes.
“Where’s your guitar?” Will asks while he opens his premixed paint. Mike drags a kitchen chair over to its usual spot and sits. The elephant in the room settles behind him.
“I don’t want to play guitar for the portrait. I just want to talk,” Mike says. Will’s heart skips a beat. “About everything.”
Will lays down a base under the eyes again. “Okay.”
“I’m kind of scared,” Mike admits. Will looks at him, and then looks back at the portrait. “I realized a lot of things all at once, and I thought… I guess I thought we broke things too much. Which was scary.”
“Me too.”
“I guess I did break things. But the difference between breaking that cup and what happened with us is that we can be fixed and, um, reform. Like that riddle about how something has to be broken before it can be used, the- the egg one?” The light catches Mike’s face the same way it did that one morning. It’s stunning. Will thinks he might be the most confused, distressed, and heartsick person in the world. He focuses on Mike’s eyelashes.
“Didn’t I tell you that one?”
“Yeah, and I couldn’t get it,” Mike smiles. “I think we were so on the wrong page that the egg had to break.”
A pause. Will meticulously adds a few thin lower lashes, ensuring his brush remains even and steady though his hands want nothing more than to shake.
“Can I ask you something? About one of your poems?” Will asks when he finishes.
“Oh. Yeah. What?” Mike squirms.
“What did you mean when you said you’d ‘bleed out in utopia without luxury’ in the one about finding something? I like it a lot, I just… don’t get it.”
“Um, I was experiencing this crazy intense feeling, love or- or something, I dunno, after you gave me the painting. And while I was writing I thought, like, if this doesn’t work out and you- I mean, the recipient can’t get what I’m not saying—because honestly, I didn’t really know what I was feeling or how to express that—, it’ll hurt and suck but feeling that feeling is so good that it’s still the ideal way I could feel though it also hurts and I’m dying. Or whatever,” Mike explains. Will UNDERSTANDS.
“Love or something?” The words Will hears the loudest, though it’s covered by dismissals. Mike’s face reddens.
“I think… I sorta wanted it to be all you. And I had to write something to get that out. The truth is, I’ve never felt more about someone than when you said what you did. I just didn’t know it was you. But it’s always been you, Will. I just need you to help me understand what I’m feeling,” Mike replies, thick with reticent desperation.
Will gasps and drops the paintbrush onto the table with a clatter, splattering paint on his arms. He meets Mike’s eyes. Captures them. Mike meets his back. Will blinks. They exist in stasis for a moment, engaging in searing connection— breathing, seeing, feeling too much but not enough. Nobody comes into the room. Nobody rips this moment from them.
Will steps forward, around the easel.
“I’m not inside your head,” He half-whispers. His voice cracks. “You tell me. I think you know. I don’t think I need to find it for you.”
Mile peers up at him. “The world is in the middle of ending and you’re painting me just because I asked you to. I get it.”
“You’re not so bad to look at,” Will ribs, still quiet. He’s close to tears. “So it’s…”
“Love, or something.”
Mike rises and steps towards Will. Will steps towards Mike. It’s a slow and almost awkward dance, neither clear who should get close to the other.
Eventually, Mike enter’s Will’s bubble. Will’s breathing picks up, his heart pounds.
And Mike opens his arms and wraps him in a warm, familiar hug. Their hearts beat against each other now, equally fast and anxious.
“Thank you for everything,” Mike mutters. “For letting me need you.”
“You could have drawn something yourself if you really wanted,” Will says. He has to. He feels Mike’s gentle laughter against his chest. He doesn’t know when they’ll let go. The simple proximity is so nice.
“You know that’s not what I mean. And also, no, I couldn’t. Not like you. You’re like… incomparable, actually.”
Will releases, but Mike holds on to his forearms. They make eye contact again, eyes glassy. Searching for affirmation. Pass go and collect $200. Cross the line. This can’t be real.
Will tentatively places his hand on Mike’s face. Mike nods and leans in.
Their lips meet.
Every force of creation—music, painting, poetry; simple human speech, acts of kindness; holding hands in the dark and laughing at stupid jokes; colors and shapes and textures and sounds and light and blues and yellows and greens—erupts with their touch like a microcosmic Big Bang.
They pull away and look at each other again, grinning.
“Um…” is all Will can mumble. What can be said? There’s nothing.
“Would’ve been cooler if it happened after I killed dragons with my laser eyes,” Mike says. “Like the song.”
“You suck,” Will snorts.
They kiss again, laughing into it.
“Let’s finish the painting, huh?” Will pats Mike on the shoulder and heads back to the canvas. Mike sits back in the chair. He has paint on his calloused hands from Will’s sleeves.
He poses, smiling.
They paint for a little, sharing hushed remarks about nothing in particular though weighted with the feeling of mutually understood Love or Something. A blanket of peace settles over them for the first time in a long time.
The eyes look really, really, really good.
“It’s you,” Will remarks, stepping back.
“It’s us,” Mike corrects.
In spite of everything, the house is filled with music.