Chapter Text
1907. Valentine, New Hanover. United States of America.
Oftentimes, Will wastes his short breaks at work in his own thoughts. He traipses through each task, just biding time for a moment of peace where he can become someone else.
Yesterday, he was a rancher, milking cows by the light of early morning, when the sun was only a mere suggestion in the mellow purple skies of grassy, lavender-filled West Elizabeth. Last week, he’d been a French painter, extravagant and self-absorbed, falling out of beds and off bar stools as he drinks his way through the entirety of the Western hemisphere in search of some bolt of inspiration stashed among the common folk. There’s a particularly comforting image of a fisherman’s cabin and a crudely carved “SS BYERS” row boat that he goes back to every now and then.
He even has a small journal of sketches, capturing snippets of lives he’s imagined and bringing them into his own world, if only on paper.
Today, however, Will is none of these wonderful, frivolous things. He is a young man with too-long pants and calloused hands– yet weak by all accounts, and he’s in grave need of a haircut if his boss’s comments should mean so much to his self-esteem. Luckily, they do not.
He thinks himself too small for his body. There is the boy he used to be, frozen in time. He’s the one that takes the reins during Will’s daydreams. But at the end of each and every shift, all it amounts to is a million lives he’ll never live.
There is a dream inside of him– surely, there always is– but not today.
Right now, at this moment, he is exhausted. He’s readying himself for the next couple of hours destined to a packed, sweaty saloon, where he’ll be expected to dive through the crowds, dodging drunks as he cleans up vomit and broken glass before they become safety hazards.
It’s been a good long stretch of fifteen whole days since Will was last forced to crouch on his knees and scrub a stain of blood from those splintering floorboards. He’d like to make it to at least twenty-two, beating their current record of days-without-major-incident.
An early summer heatwave is flying through Valentine, so it’s only a matter of time before somebody gets roughed up over a bad game of cards and one too many beers. He swears it’s getting hotter by the year, and he’s been waking up with mosquito bites dotting his ankles.
Will leans his head against the hard wooden panels lining the exterior of Smithfield’s saloon.
As much as he loathes his job, it’s a royal palace compared to the shithole down the road- Keane’s- which attracts an even more uncivil crowd than he’s used to. It doesn’t have nice decor or a chaise longue upstairs to help soften the blow. At least it's quieter, he supposes, with all the traffic heading to Smithfield’s. He starts to envy the busboy who works there, even if he’s paid in pennies, although Will’s pay isn’t much more.
The late June sun begins to dip below the hilly landscape of western New Hanover, dry dirt cliffs dropping off into the languid flow of Will’s beloved Dakota River, where the land becomes lush and greener as it nears Big Valley.
His mind drifts to over a decade ago, when Jonathan would take him on fishing trips around the state.
They’d camped on the Montana River banks and Will opted to pick cattails and wild mint rather than placing a finger on any rods or slimy catches. He preferred Jonathan to do the dirty work, waiting until the fish were cooking over an open fire, when he would sprinkle on some of the herbs he’d found during their travels.
He’s about seven minutes into this lovely, mindless, mostly daydream-less break, puffing out a gust of cigarette smoke and watching as flies buzz around the kerosene wall lamps, when his peace is shattered.
Will doesn’t need to see Cliff’s face to know he’s coming to wrangle him back to work; he can hear his leather boots squeaking against the very floors he spent the last two hours scouring. Will thinks that if he has the money for fancy new shoes, he could easily afford to pay him more than a few dollars a week. And on time. But what does Will know about running a business?
He swears he sees Cliff’s handlebar mustache peek around the saloon entrance multiple seconds before his head appears. He must spend hours grooming that beast on his face with the way it defies gravity, and all.
“Break’s over. Lloyd’s out, so you’re working the bar tonight.” Great.
Will flicks ash off the tip of his cig, pointing it towards Cliff’s face.
“Are you the reason the hair gel’s been out of stock at Worth’s for the past two weeks?” He can’t help but ask, tilting his head with narrowed eyes. The general store sits right next door, just a couple steps away from the saloon.
“What did you just say to me?”
“Nothing,” Will responds, tossing the cigarette to the ground and ending its short life early with one strong stomp, “I was just being funny.”
“I don’t pay you to be funny,” he counters harshly. Not in the mood, I suppose. “I pay you to clean tables and serve drinks. It’s a quarter to nine, get in here. Now.”
“Speaking of pay…” he starts.
“One more word, William. Tonight is not the night you want to push me.”
This kicks Will into motion. He follows Cliff through the slotted saloon doors, the left one swinging off the handle a bit. He’d have to fix that later and, knowing his boss, for free. Will may be good with his hands, but he’d like to actually be reimbursed for his work one of these days. Not like he’s planning on saying anything, though. Cliff’s feeling testy enough as it is, and the last time he tried standing up to an employer, he was thrown on the street and left to roam from town to town in search of a new job. Lesson learned.
“Yessir,” he says quietly, head down.
He cannot afford to make a mess of this.
Truth be told, Will hates working the bar. He’d rather eat a bowl of dirt with a side of pine needles and a hearty swig of whiskey to wash it all down, than work the bar during peak hours.
While he does hate his normal shifts, at least when he’s in the crowd clearing tables and swiping up spilled booze, he’s essentially invisible. None of their regular, tanked up patrons can focus on anything more than the bottle in their hand or poker chips on a table. They see right through him. He’s simply a fixture of the establishment. Will’s about as notable as the carved wooden pillars holding up the beams of the building, something people hardly notice and occasionally lean on when they forget which way is up or down. That is to say, his work is crucial to keeping the saloon running, but he could easily be replaced within the day.
When you’re behind the bar, though, it’s an entirely different story. Hordes of lightly intoxicated, often angry men circle the counter to stare right into your eyes and shout their orders. It’s overwhelming, to say the least, and Will would rather not be perceived to that extent if he can help it.
Rather than blending into the atmosphere like a picture frame or a piece of furniture, Will becomes a person. A person that their patrons can yell obscenities at, cry their troubles to, and blame for their beer tasting like piss or a losing hand after gambling their savings away. The extra pay and the slight chance of a tip make the disturbing mix of verbal abuse and general annoyance almost worth it.
All that being said, when someone does notice Will, and actually treats him with some basic human decency, it comes as an uncomfortable shock to his system.
It’s going on three hours since his shift began and Will feels like if he pours one more glass of Kentucky bourbon, his wrist might snap clean off. He really needs to build up more muscle. Maybe that’ll get some regulars off his back for being 'too damn skinny.' Like he can afford to eat.
The crowd is busy and near deafening, as expected, and Will’s in the midst of hollering back a couple “okay!”’s and “coming right up!”’s without sounding like he wants to slink out the rear exit and eat a bullet, or walk the mere 100 yards to the nearest train tracks and lie down for the night. He doesn’t know how many pleasantries are left in him. Four times tonight, he’s been berated by drunks. Called all sorts of words he’d rather not repeat. It’s starting to get to him.
Cliff stepped out ten minutes ago, God knows why, and Will’s drowning. He fears if he speaks out of line, no one will come to his rescue when he’s on the receiving end of a sloppy punch.
Not that he needs rescuing. Despite his appearances, Will’s truly not fragile. He’s taken some pretty hard hits over the years, and is what his mother correctly described as “scrappy” after she found him biting his way out of a brawl with local boys back in Blackwater.
Anyway, assaulting a customer, self-defense or not, could win Will a swift kick out the door and a couple weeks of starving until he can convince someone else to hire him.
Just when he’s reached his limit, the saloon doors swing open with a group of around nine or so new heads trailing in. Perfect. Things aren’t cooling down anytime soon.
Will busies himself with refilling glasses at the counter, making sure to fill them just below the standard amount, as per Cliff’s instructions. The patrons don’t notice any difference and they’re saving on alcohol.
There’s something tugging at him, like a glimmer in his peripheral vision, pulling his attention like a freshly charged magnet. He tries not to, but his eyes keep wandering to the new group.
They’re a bit rowdy, circling the poker table as they watch the current game in action. Will would hate to have an audience like that. Good thing he doesn’t gamble, not with anything in his life, and definitely not his money.
Glass clinks around him as patrons drop their drinks haphazardly onto the wooden counter. He prays that no one breaks anything tonight, because he’s got no clue how he’s expected to man the bar and clean up the inevitable messes. This must be the busiest night of the saloon’s history. There’s men filling every seat, crawling up the grand staircase, and slipping in and out of the back door, with a handful of ladies sprawled across the sofa chairs upstairs.
When Will works calmer nights, he lingers around the parlor to catch a look at the fancy outfits - the lacey skirts and tight corsets, poofed hair with perfect ringlets, and shimmering neck jewels. Not that Will is interested in any of the girls, he just likes to imagine what work it took designing each piece. Something to inspire daydreams of dressmaking, he supposes.
There’s a loud chorus of cheers as an older man at the poker table makes the final call and shows a winning hand. He’s collecting a small pool of chips from the other players and waiting for them to hand over his prize. Everyone in the front corner of the saloon has their eyes glued to the dollar bills as they’re smacked on the table, frustration evident from the losers.
Everyone, but one man.
An overgrown boy, more accurately. He’s strangely tall among his peers, Will notices, and quite young in comparison. Couldn’t be older than twenty-one or twenty-two. He sticks out, dark wavy hair falling across pale skin and thin, long fingers wrapped around a beer bottle.
His gaze locks onto Will with a bitter grimace- lips scrunched like he’s tasted something unpleasant. Probably the shitty beer, if he had to take a guess. Will can’t be blamed for that, and he didn’t even serve him the beer anyway.
But most intriguing of all, he’s got a patch of burnt skin licking up his right temple. A faded scar.
Will looks away for a second, back down to the bourbon in his grasp, but he finds himself inexplicably drawn back, peering up through his lashes. Like he hasn’t moved a muscle, the stranger holds his gaze as he takes another sip from the bottle.
Will feels itchy, and his hands begin to sweat. This has never happened before.
What if this guy is looking for trouble? For an outlet to his anger, beyond just words? Will doesn’t feel like taking a beating tonight if he can avoid it.
A banging at the counter draws his attention away.
“Oy!” A gruff voice slurs from the stool to his left. Will startles and the bourbon slips to the floor with a crash. “What the hell are you doin'?”
Will blinks in surprise, overwhelmed by the chain of events. The asshole at the bar is still calling for him.
“Refill! Need more!” He shouts over the chatter flooding the room. The words barely make it to Will’s ears as he crouches down to start picking up the shards of sticky, bourbon-covered brown glass. “You deaf? Said ‘more’, what’re you waitin' for?”
“Just one moment, sir.” Will shouts back from where he’s hidden. “I need to clean this up before I can pour any more drinks.”
“That’s bullshit,” the man almost whines. What a baby. Can’t wait two minutes for your drink? “Cliff always gets it on time.”
Will rolls his eyes and huffs out a long breath. The shit he puts up with. He’s about halfway through plucking the shards and moving them to a metal bucket beside him, knees singing with overuse after standing for the past couple hours, when he places a finger on the sharpest edge of the shattered glass, slicing clean through the top layers of his skin.
He stares as warm blood pools in the thin gash. It’s not much of a wound at all, and will surely heal over the next day, but Will feels himself skidding over the edge. Between the bright red leaking from his index finger and the fully grown man crying out above him, Will’s just about done for the night.
“Where’s Cliff anyway?” He hears from the stools, the man presumably talking to himself, as no one around is paying him any mind. Why don’t you go find him if he means that much to you? Will would like to say, but knows better than to open his mouth.
“Why’de think leaving this milksop here in charge was a good idea? Can’t even pour drinks right. ‘M already havin’ a bad enough time staring at your sissy face, and now I gotta wait this long for a drink?”
Will finds that the words don’t really sting all that much. The pulsing pain from his hand is quite a good distraction from verbal harassment. He lets out another sigh, one hand wrapped around his wound to help stop the bleeding, and finally stands to face the man.
“Sorry, sir, but I accidentally cut myself on some glass. You’ll have to wait a little bit longer for that refill.” He replies curtly with a smile as polite as he can muster.
“You really gonna make me sit here and wait again? Nerve on you, boy, the nerve. I’ll come back there 'n teach you a lesson,” he slurs.
The man starts to climb over the stool and onto the counter, tossing his whiskey glass at Will’s head, but misses by solid foot.
This is exactly what Will feared when his boss left him to fend for himself. On the busiest night of his career. With hordes of patrons and only a thin layer of protection, the bar counter itself, between him and a pair of fists. Will might’ve been up for a scrap if he wasn’t actively bleeding and there weren’t shards of glass strewn about their metaphorical fighting ring.
Will freezes as the man begins to lunge towards him, and he backs up against the wall of bottles and glassware, arms flying up reflexively to guard his face. Just as he feels scratchy fingers graze his skin, a new voice cuts through the chaos.
“Hello there,” he greets calmly. Will lowers his arms to find the stranger from earlier with one hand gripped on the back of his assailant’s shirt collar.
He’s stronger than he looks, Will thinks, staring in awe.
He hasn’t looked over at Will yet, preoccupied with pulling the man down with a rough tug and patting him on the chest, right hand still tight around his neck. “Let’s get you down from there, yeah?” He says rather coolly, like he’s dealing with a misbehaving child.
“Get your hands off me.” He wriggles around, pushing the stranger away with a strong shove. “I’m a veteran, I'll have you know. Gangin’ up on a man like me, you’re mistaken. I’ll knock your teeth loose,” he threatens, spitting on the floor as he gears up for a fight. Such a baby. The spit must’ve hit the stranger’s shoes, as his demeanor completely shifts from mild annoyance to full on anger.
“Okay, you want a fight?” His lips tighten as he nods thoughtfully at the man, black hair spilling from beneath his dark brown hat. He pulls the hat down to reveal a neatly tied ponytail, strands of curls dangling on the sides and bangs covering his forehead. Throwing the hat to the table beside him, he flings a long arm towards the man and grabs him by the arm, leading them both to the doorway. “C’mon. We can finish outside.”
The saloon doors swing open and shut in a flash, and Will hears grunting as the fight begins. With the show starting, half the patrons in the building huddle around the windows or follow the fight to the road, while Will takes this as his chance to escape.
He lifts his bloody finger to his mouth, sucking on the wound as he shoves through the dispersing crowd and shoulders his way into the men’s restroom. The place is mostly spotless, as expected, since Will cleans it himself every other day. The horrors he’s found and been forced to dispose of here are nothing short of unspeakable, but despite tonight's traffic, it’s still fairly tidy.
He walks to the sink, running his finger under icy water to clean it off. The aid kit stored in the cabinets below comes in handy, and he’s wrapped the finger in layers of bandage in a three minutes’ time. Still, Will doesn’t feel like going back to the bar just yet, so he throws a leg up onto the sink, then the other, and rests his head against the mirror. This is the perfect atmosphere for a quick daydream, he thinks.
Just as the fuzzy edges of an image come to him– something delightful, a hat shop in Saint Denis, where he could spend all day drinking earl grey and poking pheasant quills into velvet chapeaux– the bathroom door creaks with a new arrival. This time, however, it’s a welcome intrusion.
The black haired stranger is standing in the doorway, almost shocked as he lays eyes on Will. He’s got his hat back on, but his disheveled hair has clearly fallen out of its updo, and his clothes are covered in dirt. The once pristine blue button-up is now dusty and rumpled, and he’s sporting a new bruise on his left cheek. Regardless, he’s smiling something big and bright, and Will feels mildly amused if not even more intrigued than he was before.
“Hello there,” the stranger says again, but with a gentler tone than the one directed at the drunk man he just finished fighting in the street.
“Howdy,” Will responds, staring directly at his roughed up cowboy hat. It looks like it’s been through quite a lot, but the guy had at least enough sentiment to spare it this one fight.
Will wonders who he is. He’s made it his mission to find out as much as he can tonight. If only for more daydreaming, that is. He never really gets much from the patrons, who are mostly local farmers. But this one is different. Like nothing Will has ever seen before.
The stranger laughs a short thing, his hand moving to readjust his hat, tucking some strands of hair back from his forehead and eyes. He’s red in the face from alcohol and adrenaline, and looks downright funny preening his hair while he’s a right mess from below the neck.
Will wants to draw it. All of it: how this guy appeared out of thin air to stop some asshole from jumping on him, those smooth, shiny black locks, goofy smile and faded burn scar on his temple, and the way he’s standing right now like he just won a gold medal of honor.
“You’re back quite early. Did you run away from that fight? Should we flee out the back door before they find us in here?” Will jokes, crossing his ankles as they dangle from his spot on the sink. His words are uncharacteristically confident, but something about this stranger has him feeling unguarded, free to open his mouth without fear of consequence.
“Lord, no. That’s against my creed. I actually had a friend out there counting the seconds. Beat my old knockout record,” he says, sauntering over towards the sink.
“You actually knocked him out?” Will asks, a little worried. That man was sort of old, and he could be lying dead in the street right now if this ‘savior’ of his wasn’t careful.
“No, no, just a joke,” he’s shaking his head, “I ‘taught him a lesson’ real quick,” he quotes the threat from earlier. “I’m Michael. Mike for short. And you?”
“William. Will for short.” Will throws him a funny look, a smidge incredulous, but laced with gratitude. He’s completely bewildered by the situation he’s found himself in.
There’s a handful of questions contending for first place, but only one comes out on top: “What’s with your shoes?”
“Are my clothes the only interesting thing about me?” He chuckles.
Will looks to the side and tilts his head, like he’s halfway agreeing, only to see if he can get Mike to laugh again. He succeeds. It's a sound sweet on the ears, Will thinks. High, unfettered, and youthful.
“Well, when they’re not covered in spit or mud, these beauties are genuine, handmade snakeskin leather boots.” He gestures downwards at the sight of own shoes. There’s pale grey-tan colored vamps with dark leather straps up the shaft of the boots. Is this guy rich, or something?
“How much did those run you?” Will asks.
Mike’s smile seems to brighten even more. “They were free. A gift from a friend back home.”
“And home is where?”
“Saint Denis. Born and bred.” That explains the slight accent. It’s there, but fleeting, like he’s been gone long enough to lose the drawl.
“But back to the boots, there’s more to the story than just that,” Mike says, holding his eye contact strong. He’s leaning against the wall a few feet short from the sink, far enough for comfort, but Will feels the prickles on his skin again. He’s not used to this sort of attention, or talking with others his age. He suddenly realizes how long it’s been since he made a proper friend.
“Oh? Do tell,” Will prompts. He feels a tad awkward as he’s not giving much to the conversation, but Mike seems to enjoy talking, so he’ll sit tight and listen.
“Well,” he starts, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. For a guy who was shooting daggers earlier in the night, he’s actually quite genial. “I was out west on a job. A work trip, if you will. You ever been to New Austin?”
Will shakes his head ‘no.’ He’d like to some day, though. He’s heard the landscapes are prettier than a dream, and it’s only a couple hours from his hometown. What he wouldn't give for a set of paints, a blank canvas, and a New Austin sunset before his eyes.
“It’s beautiful. Orange everywhere, but dry and big and empty. Lots of cacti, too. You walk off the path for a couple minutes and you'll leave with no less than five-hundred needles stuck in your pants. Anyway, I was out there with some of my colleagues and we were wandering through the brush when I hear rattling. Before we have time to react, I feel two fangs piercing my leg, right through my trousers.”
Will’s eyes bug out. He wasn’t expecting it to be a life-or-death situation, but with the way Mike put his neck on the line for a complete stranger tonight, it’s not too surprising.
“So I’m yelling, of course, and they rip the thing off of me. Or, out of me, I suppose. It was latched on pretty tight. Then it starts slithering away, but I’m faster,” he holds up both hands like he’s positioning a gun, “I trained my rifle and hit it square in the head in just three tries,” Mike explains, holding up three fingers to make his point.
Will notices he talks with his hands a whole lot, and as they’re flying about, he sees that Mike’s knuckles are raw, bleeding at the tips.
“Hold on. Your hands,” he cuts off Mike’s story.
“Oh, these?” He holds them up, palms facing Will. “What about them?”
Will can’t tell if he’s joking. “Your knuckles are bleeding,” he points out helpfully.
Mike turns them around to stare, like he wasn’t at all aware of his own injuries. “Ah, yeah. I scraped them during the fight. But it’s no big deal, they usually stop after a couple minutes.”
Will doesn’t know if he’s more appalled by Mike’s lack of care for his body, or his lack of medical knowledge.
“You can get infected, you know? Then they’d have to cut your hand off at the wrist, or else it’ll spread to the rest of your blood,” he explains, stern like his mother had been when he was a child. He’d scraped his knees playing once and within a minute she was on him with a wet cloth and some alcohol.
Instead of nodding along like Will expected, Mike starts laughing. This schmuck.
“This isn’t funny! You could die from an infection!”
“No, I get that, I really do,” Mike says, “I was just imagining myself walking around with a nub for a hand. You think I could get a hook instead?” He jokes, but Will doesn’t find it very funny. He’s seen plenty of good folk die over nothing but a cat scratch.
“Don’t be an ass,” Will chides, dropping down from his seat on the sink. He tugs Mike over by the arm, and now they’re face to face. Will’s neck heats up, and he doesn’t stop to question why.
“What do you have in store for me here?” Mike asks with a shy grin. He seemed all bold and daring just a moment ago, but now looks a bit nervous, if Will had to guess. He’s not sure what Mike has in mind.
“Stay right there,” Will orders as he walks around Mike and over to a small cabinet on the floor. Crouching, he pulls out a liquor bottle he keeps hidden for emergencies.
“Free drinks?” Mike jokes, smile stretching wide again.
“We’re out of antiseptic, so this’ll have to do.”
Turning back to Mike, he pulls him close to the sink. “This is gonna hurt quite a bit,” he warns.
Mike nods in response, then says, all smug, "I can handle it."
As Will pours the alcohol over his raw wounds, Mike grits his teeth, sucking in air that hisses as it flies past the gaps. He places the bottle down and starts running the scraped knuckles under cold water.
“So, I’m guessing that the snake you killed in your story is the one on those boots?” Will asks, trying to distract Mike from any lingering pain. Their close proximity has his nerves on high alert, and Will stumbles on a couple of his words. He prays Mike doesn’t point it out.
“The very same. I named them ‘Gehenna,’ ‘cause they almost sent me there in the process,” Mike says. Will laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. What kind of person names his own shoes?
“Feels fitting that you’re walking around with hell on your heels. What with the way you acted tonight,” Will remarks. He hopes it doesn’t come across as rude, but he’s still unsure why Mike even intervened in the first place.
Mike sighs at this comment just as Will finishes cleaning the scrapes on his fingers. The water is a light brown tone, and Will’s suddenly very glad he forced Mike to wash his hands. God knows what could’ve been wriggling around inside his open wounds. Will shudders at the thought. He once helped his mother pull what felt like a million maggots out of a man’s leg, and prays to never again witness anything as gruesome for the rest of his days.
“Alright then, next time I’ll just let the guy tackle you. You seem fit enough to fight back,” Mike says, looking him up and down. Will’s face reddens, and he’s not sure whether that was a compliment or just Mike poking fun at Will’s incompetence.
“I’ll have you know I am incredibly capable of defending myself,” he drops Mike’s hand onto the sink, turning to cut some bandage with a thin pair of scissors.
“Then why didn’t you, tonight?” Mike asks, staring into Will’s eyes with a strange ferocity. He’s expecting a genuine answer.
“Why did you stop him?” Will deflects. “Since we’re asking questions, and all.”
“Hmmm,” he hums, thoughtfully. “In the moment, I thought, ‘well who’s gonna run the saloon if the bartender gets bashed?’ and swooped in for the good of the people. It was purely a business decision.” Mike’s barely holding back a laugh as he finishes his statement, a wide, closed-lip smile stretching across his face.
What a big mouth, Will thinks, for all the shit that comes out of it. But Will’s beginning to crack up himself.
“Shut it,” he smacks Mike on the arm, then reaches for his hands again where they’re waiting patiently on the rim of the sink. Will notices he’s barely moved them at all, ready for each and every one of Will’s cues.
“I’m glad I bit the bullet instead of you. That old man was such a nut! He started yanking my hair halfway through and I thought I was done for,” Mike sighs dramatically. Will’s almost done wrapping his right hand, but he has to pause for a moment to picture this six-foot pinhead being swung around by his ponytail, by a geriatric civil war vet no less.
“I’d imagine your life would be much harder without all that hair,” Will comments, wanting to reach up and flick his hat off to get a better view. And maybe, if he’s lucky, a chance to feel those curls twirling through the gaps between his fingers. Like Mike was reading his mind, he slips the hat off with one hand and runs the other across his scalp.
“Really?” Mike asks jokingly, scrunching his nose, pulling back his bangs so it looks like he’s balding on top. “You don’t think I could pull off a clean cut?”
Will pictures Mike with a shaved head, or worse, completely bald, and his face sours reflexively. He must’ve looked downright disgusted, as the expression sends Mike into another fit of cracked, piercing laughter. Will’s had to reorient the two of them multiple times in this conversation so that he can finish what he’s actually meant to be doing- tending to Mike’s hands. It’s the least he can do, given it’s mostly his fault that Mike got injured, even if it was his own decision to insert himself into a risky situation.
“Hey, you changed the subject,” Will says, pointing a finger in Mike’s face, his front teeth jutting just below his top lip as he smiles.
“Well, if you actually want to know,” Mike starts as Will finishes up on his left hand, adding a humorous, dramatic click to his tone. The white bandages look stark against the rest of Mike’s outfit, and Will hopes he takes care to keep them clean.
Will’s hanging on his words as Mike takes a breath, his eye contact still holding just as strong. “I decided to jump in because you–”
The washroom door swings open with a long, whining creak, then smacks hard against the adjacent wall. Cliff stands in the doorway, right where Mike was just five minutes prior, looking pissed as all hell. He sees that handlebar mustache twitching, and knows he’s about to be chewed out. Will has half a mind to hide behind Mike, using him like a shield to Cliff’s incoming tirade. Luckily, Mike is gentleman enough to do it for him.
“Hello, sir,” Mike greets kindly as he steps in front of Will. “You see, a man attacked me and your employee, here, and he was going the extra mile to show me the medical supplies you keep on hand. It’s all my fault for pulling him away from the bar, I was bleeding real bad,” he explains, holding his two bandaged hands up to Cliff’s face for emphasis. Mike must’ve put on a pathetic, pleading face, because Cliff’s brows knit together, readying himself for an apology.
“Oh, my, that’s just awful. I am so sorry for–”
“It’s all thanks to your bartender here that I’m still standing on two legs. I swore I was a goner, but he stepped in and saved me,” Will hits him in the back, right between the shoulder blades, and he lets out a hmph sound mid-sentence. Too much, Mike.
Cliff leans to take a gander at Will over Mike’s shoulder, disbelieving. “Really? That’s–”
“Oh, yeah, it was tremendous. He might not look like it, but that boy can really throw a punch,” apparently Mike did not get the hint. Will’s feeling a bit mortified, but seeing the shocked yet somewhat proud look on Cliff’s face, maybe the tall-tale isn’t such a bad thing. “Knowing I’m in such safe hands, now I’ll have to return to this fine establishment and spend more money, twice- no- three times as much!”
Cliff’s face lights up at the mention of money. “That’s great to hear!”
“And you should really consider giving him a raise or maybe–”
“Alright!” Will cuts him off, laying a hand on Mike’s shoulder to finally get him to reel it in. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night. I should get back to the bar.”
Mike turns to look at him, smile bright as ever, and then his eyes fall to the hand still gripping his shoulder. Will snatches it away in an instant.
“Take your time,” Cliff brushes him off, making his way back to the main room, where the crowd has long since reconvened after the fight ended.
As much fun as Will was having for the past few minutes, he’s suddenly hyper aware of where he is. That itchy feeling is back, and he may burn after a moment more under Mike’s gaze. He shivers, a bolt of anxiety running up and down his back, and he has to run before he gets the chance to hear the rest of Mike’s admission.
“It was nice talking to you. Have a safe walk home, and try not to get into any trouble?” Will requests.
Mike raises one bandaged hand over his heart and bows his head lightly. “You have my word, William.”