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Mike Wheeler isn’t sure what he’s done to deserve this, but it must have been bad. He’s well on his way to be horrendously late to his meeting with the Cowers—one which his boss has been on his ass about for the past month. Yet, that doesn’t seem to matter to the universe. Of course it doesn’t.
“You’re saying I won’t be able to get out of New Orleans until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, sir. The airport will be closed tomorrow morning because of the incoming hurricane.”
Mike feels a growing number of eyes boring into the back of his head. He’s been here bickering for quite a bit. This airline staff member seems nearly about to strangle him, too. If only he had taken the flight change when the airline told him to. Two goddamn days ago.
“I can’t fly out today because there’s a problem with the aircraft. Alright, fine. I can’t fly out tomorrow morning because of the hurricane. That’s—that’s just great.” Mike slams his hand against the counter. “And what kind of compensation are you offering?”
“A free stay at the Hilton, free shuttle to and from the airport today and tomorrow, and an unlimited meal voucher for your stay,” the employee drones, eyes focused on the line behind Mike, clearly picturing the amount of times she’ll have to repeat that exact phrase.
“No recompensation for emotional suffering? No severance package when my boss fires me for missing this meeting tomorrow?” He has no idea why he’s saying all of this. He knows she doesn’t care. No one cares. It’s just been so long since he spoke about anything that wasn’t retirement, investments, or risk assessments—he can’t really stop himself.
“We’re doing all we can, sir.”
Somehow, her strained smile makes Mike come back to himself. “I—I know.” His hand is pulsing from hitting the counter. He hadn’t realized how much strength he put into the blow. “I’ll just do the two P.M. flight tomorrow.”
“Very well, can I see your previous boarding pass?” The rest of the agent’s words droned away as Mike thought about all that he had to do in the next twenty-four hours. Get some toothpaste, a toothbrush, maybe some underwear. Curse himself for checking his bags. Call Tuft and tell him he wouldn’t make it to the meeting tomorrow. Start looking for new financial consultant jobs. Move out of Indianapolis while he was at it. Start a farm in rural Minnesota, or something.
The customer service agent—Linda, her nametag says—Linda hands him his new boarding pass, and Mike darts away. He can’t stand being in the airport much longer, surrounded by the clicking of the keyboard at the desk, suitcases rolling across the floor, a child screaming a few gates down.
It’s not until he’s almost walked out of the double doors towards the airport shuttle that Mike realizes he never took those vouchers from customer service. Not the hotel one, not the shuttle one, not even the goddamn food one. “Fuck!” Mike shouts, attracting glares from a middle-aged couple standing a few feet away. He throws himself onto the nearest bench and pulls out his cell phone, frantically clicking through his phone book. Maybe Tuft had some contacts in New Orleans he could stay with. Or maybe—
Mike’s list of saved numbers is quite short. He mostly uses the phone for emergencies, so it doesn’t have much more than his mom, Nancy, Holly, his boss, and a few others. But as he reaches the bottom—the S’s, T’s, the W’s—he sees it.
Will Byers…………(504) 555-2940
Will lived in New Orleans. Had since college. And, sure, they hadn’t talked in quite a while—Mike kept forgetting to call—but…what other option did he really have? He presses the call button.
It doesn’t even ring. There’s silence, and then—
Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and call again.
Mike pulls his phone away from his ear as the call automatically ends. He looks at the number, mind racing. Could he have made a typo? Outside, the sky is dark, and there’s a rush of humid air that hits Mike every time the double door beside him opens. He thinks about that time a tornado tore the roof from a motel near Hawkins, and while tornadoes aren’t exactly hurricanes, Mike really doesn’t want to be twelve floors above ground when one hits.
Wait. Through his panic, Mike remembers something. The last Christmas card Will sent him—hadn’t it said something about him changing his number? And hadn’t he put that…? Mike begins ruffling through his briefcase, finding the copy of It Dustin had given him countless years ago.
There, between pages 20 and 21 was the Christmas card Will had sent him, with what appeared to be a hand-drawn cardinal on the cover. Inside, Will had written “Merry Christmas!” in big, blocky letters, continuing underneath with his typical small handwriting. “Changed my number recently! 504-555-0183. Give me a call when you get the chance. Will.”
Mike hadn’t called. It had been a difficult first and second quarter. Investments were down. But now, he didn’t have much else of a choice.
He enters the number in. Hits call. This time, the phone rings—one, two, three, four times. Mike begins to worry that Will won’t pick up when the line finally connects.
“Hello?” A voice says, deep, a bit stern. Mike sucks in a breath. He hasn’t heard Will’s voice in a long time.
“Hello? Will?” Mike thinks he should probably be more specific. “Will Byers?”
“Yes? And who am I speaking to?”
“Mike.”
“Mike Kingfisher?”
For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to Mike that Will might know other Mikes. “No. It’s Mike. Mike Wheeler.”
The other line is silent for an uncomfortable amount of time. Mike pulls the phone away to look at the screen, thinking he might have gotten disconnected. Or hung up on. He could maybe understand that. But, no, the timer at the top of the screen was still counting up. 0:31…0:32….
Mike watches the number grow until Will’s voice comes through the phone’s speakers once more. “Mike Wheeler. Why are you calling?”
That’s the thing. “Uh, I’m in New Orleans right now.”
“Well, Mike, you know I would love to catch up, but I’m sure you’re aware that there’s a hurricane coming tonight.”
“I know,” Mike nearly cuts him off. “I—I know there’s a hurricane coming. That’s kind of why I called. I, uh, I need a place to stay. During the hurricane.” In the silence that ensues, Mike wonders what exactly he would say if it were the other way around. If Will was calling him at Indianapolis International Airport, hoping for a place to stay.
“You didn’t book a hotel?”
That’s fair. “I—not for tonight. I was supposed to fly out today.”
“I’m sure all the ones by the airport are full by now.” Will sighs on the other end. He sounds exhausted. “Sure, that’s fine. You’re at MSY, yeah? Do you need me to come pick you up?”
“No, I can take a taxi.” Mike takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Will. I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Don’t mention it.” Will gives Mike his address quickly and hangs up.
✆ ✆ ✆
It starts to rain while Mike is in the taxi, the sky going from gray, to black, to pouring in less than a minute. It’s taking so long to get to Will’s house because they’re going like 30 on the highway, the windshield wipers of the taxi whipping back and forth in a meditative rhythm.
From what little Mike can see through the rain, he notices that there’s almost no cars on their side of the highway—the side driving towards New Orleans. In contrast, there’s almost bumper-to-bumper traffic on the other side. The driver must think he’s insane.
It’s another thirty minutes before they arrive at Will’s house, a bumpy turn bringing them onto the street Mike remembers Will telling him. Water streams down either end of the street, onto the major road, where it continues to flow down, downward, into storm drains. Mike feels too silly to ask if this is the hurricane already, or if it’s just a regular rainfall down here.
The taxi rolls to a stop in front of a thin, long house—a style that Mike knows has a specific name but cannot recall at the moment. It’s painted an off-white color, with blue trim on the two front doors. Two separate staircases lead to one porch. Mike pays the taxi driver the fare, with two twenties slipped in for driving him through the storm. He hesitates for a moment before opening the door. Even if he thought it worth it to open an umbrella for the short walk to the door, he doesn’t even have one with him.
And of course, with Mike’s limited vision through his glasses, his dress shoes have to slip on the drenched concrete. He awkwardly regains his balance, taking the stairs carefully until he reaches the door. He finally notices Will looking at him through the screen door.
Will. Mike wonders just how long it’s been since they last saw each other. Mike got the Christmas card, of course, but he hasn’t actually seen Will in person since, what? Lucas’ wedding in May of last year? Will had been wearing a light blue suit. Mike remembers him telling everyone at the afterparty how one of his paintings had been selected for a local art exhibition. He can’t remember much else—there had been an open bar.
“Please tell me you didn’t see that,” Mike whines.
“See what?” Will replies casually, unlocking the screen door. Mike steps into the house, hesitating to move in much further. He’s dripping onto Will’s wood floor. He was in the rain for ten seconds, and he’s dripping.
“Do you need a towel?” Will asks, and Mike nods vigorously. Will walks down the hallway at the end of the combined living room and kitchen, and Mike takes in the room. He hasn’t been to any place of Will’s since college, when he spent weeks convincing his parents to let him help Will move in. It had been fun, putting all of Will’s music posters up, wandering the empty campus, squeezing onto Will’s shitty twin bed before his roommate moved in a few days later.
Will’s house is much like his dorm in that it seems to live and breathe everything that makes up Will. By the door is an entryway table crammed with framed pictures. Mike doesn’t recognize most of the people squeezed into the frames with Will, but he does see a few with El, Jonathan, and Will’s mom. There’s a larger one near the front, taken at Lucas’ wedding. Their faces beam with smiles, Lucas in the center, arms all around each other. Mike is at one end, hanging from Max’s shoulder. His smile is lopsided, his eyes looking just past the camera.
He looks away from the pictures. There’s paintings all along the walls, of swamps, of fields, of the streets of New Orleans. There’s one in the kitchen that stands out to Mike. Two figures, stark blue, wade in a luminously red sea.
“Denis Lebecq,” Will says, reappearing at the end of the hallway, glancing at the painting. “Still can’t believe I have that in my home.”
Mike nods. “And the rest of these,” he gestures around the room. “Yours?”
Will shakes his head, smiling. “Not all of them.” He walks up to Mike, handing him the towel. “This one is me.” Mike begins drying his hair while looking over at the painting Will indicated. It’s a soybean field with a tiny barn in the center, sporting a curious purple color instead of the standard red.
“I thought so. It’s that farm down U.S. 50? Past the creek?”
Will nods. “East of Hawkins.”
“Right after you leave.”
“That was the idea, yeah.” He looks up at Mike. “Do you need something to clean your glasses?”
“Oh,” Mike squats down to rifle through his briefcase, towel tickling the back of his neck. “I have a cloth for it in here.”
“A change of clothes, then?”
Mike stills. “Yeah, that would be great.” Will disappears down the hallway once again.
Mike wipes his glasses while he waits, until he hears a shrill bark and an ensuing groan. “Lucy!” Will shouts, only moments before a small dog darts into the living room, nails clicking against the floor as her tiny legs barrel towards Mike.
Will appears a moment later. “Sorry, I was trying to keep her in my room.”
“It’s no problem,” Mike replies, putting his glasses back on and letting the dog put her paws on his knees, giving her head a pat. “Lucy?”
“The name’s from her previous owner. It didn’t feel right to change it.”
“How long have you had her?”
“Two years.” Will crouches down to scratch behind her ears, and Mike—with his glasses cleaned up—finally gets a good look at him. He looks just as he did at Lucas’ wedding, with shorter hair that still falls handsomely across his forehead. A white shirt tucks into his light, worn jeans—a splotch of purple paint running across one knee. It’s quite a jarring contrast to Mike’s suit and dress shoes.
“I put a change of clothes on my bed for you. It’s the room at the end of the hall.” Mike starts to remove his shoes as Will gets up, leaving Lucy to sniff the laces as he places them off to the side. He wipes away the puddle he left by the door and tries to pat dry his clothes as best as he can before walking to the back of the house.
He passes Will in the kitchen, where he’s tackling a couple of dishes left in the sink. “You can leave your clothes in the shower,” he says over his shoulder. Mike murmurs in agreement.
The hallway is lined with concert posters Will must have gone to: The Cranberries, Tipitina’s, 1993; The Cure, UNO Lakefront Arena, 1996; The Smashing Pumpkins, Aerial Theater, 1998; and several other smaller posters from bands Mike doesn’t recognize at all. On the other side are doors to the other rooms of the house. The first one: an office with a large computer atop a desk lined with thousands of pencil sketches—logo drafts, generic nature graphics, an anthropomorphic alligator. An easel lies in the corner, turned away so that Mike cannot see what’s on it. The next door is closed; the one after that, a bathroom, somewhat cramped, with one toothbrush and a tube of nearly-finished toothpaste. The last door, at the end of the hall, is Will’s bedroom.
The bed is in the center, haphazardly made, only two pillows laid at the end. To the left is a bedside table, featuring more pictures—one with Will, Joyce, and Jonathan, and another with El. Both look to be a few years old. Next to the photos is a weekly pill box, one remaining for today, and a book—a mystery-thriller, if Mike can gather anything from the blurb on the front.
Mike shifts his attention to what he came here for: the clothes, folded on the bed. They’re incredibly simple: a pair of navy sweatpants with a gray shirt, the logo of some musical festival on the front. Mike peels off his suit, hesitantly letting the items flop onto the floor, and puts the clothes on. They smell like laundry detergent and Will—a smell Mike is coming to recognize as warmth, flowery shampoo, and a hint of tobacco. He spends a second, glancing back at the photos on the bedside table, the pills, before heading back to the kitchen after hanging his clothes up in the shower.
Will eyes are drawn immediately to Mike when he returns, gaze darting down and then back up in a millisecond. He sets the last glass on the drying rack and turns to face Mike. “Do you want dinner? It’s getting late.” It’s not even that late, but the storm raging outside makes it impossible to see anything from outside besides a tree that scratches violently against the window.
“Sure.” Mike hasn’t eaten anything besides a breakfast sandwich. He didn’t even realize he was staring until Will said something.
“I have some chili left over. Better to finish it before we lose power.
“Lose power?” Mike shudders, and Will shrugs. Mike takes a seat at the dining table—a small, wooden table at the corner of the kitchen, two chairs on opposite sides.
They settle into a weird silence as Will grabs the leftovers from the fridge, adds them into two bowls, and puts them into the microwave one by one. There’s nothing practical to discuss now, no dogs to burst into the room. While Mike can remember the last time he saw Will, he’s struggling to recall the last time they were alone together. Maybe when Will’s mom had been sick. But that had been almost four years ago.
Mike isn’t sure if Will also finds the silence strange, but Will doesn’t really do anything to end it. Mike tries to think of it as an introductory meeting with a new client. He’s good at talking to people like that. Good enough.
He clears his throat, and Will’s gaze jerks away from the microwave. “Are you still doing graphic design at…?”
“At the Office of Tourism?” Will finishes. “Yeah. I recently started selling some works at an art market, too.”
“You sell a lot?”
Will’s smile flattens out. “Not really.”
Mike looks down. Talking with Will Byers is not like talking with a client. He always seems to say the wrong thing, letting words leave his mouth without thinking about them at all. The microwave beeps, and Mike jumps. Will takes the bowl from the microwave with a cloth and places it in front of Mike with a spoon. Mike thanks him softly.
The wind howls outside, and Mike breaks the silence once more, “Why didn’t you evacuate?”
“Huh?”
“On the way here, I saw everyone taking the highway out of here. Why are you still here?”
“If you’re worried, then don’t be. This house has survived every hurricane since I’ve lived in it.” Will gives the wall a knock, as if demonstrating its sturdiness.
Mike huffs in amusement. “I’m not worried.”
After a moment, Will continues, “I’m not sure where I would go.” He sighs. “My coworker Bryan always tells me I’m always welcome to come with him to his sister’s house in Shreveport, but I don’t know. I would feel guilty.”
Bryan. Mike files him away in the list of “people that exist in the part of Will’s life that Mike hardly sees,” alongside Mike Kingfisher and the supervisor that Will has talked about before, Michelle. He’s not even sure why he has this list. “Guilty?”
“I mean, my house is stable. This neighborhood doesn’t ever flood that badly. It feels like I should be here. Our hometown split in four, and we were at the Hawkins High gym the next day handing out sandwiches. This is nothing.” The microwave beeps again. “I’m not sure I’m making sense.”
“No, I think I understand.” The complete aversion to take up space around others, the guilt of accepting what they give, the belief that you should be better, because things could, and have, always been worse—Mike understands it. He shrinks a little in his seat, and the tag on the back of Will’s T-shirt itches his neck.
Will sits down across from him, and the noise of the bowl hitting the wood awakes Lucy from her nap on the living room’s couch. She scurries over to the dinner table, tail wagging, looking expectantly at the two men at the table.
Will rolls his eyes. “Just ignore her. She’s already had dinner, she’s just waiting for you to drop something on the floor.”
They settle into a constant, if stuttered conversation during dinner. Mike tells Will about his recent trip to San Francisco for work. Will tells Mike about the new graphics tablet his work gave him. Someone brings up Donnie Darko, and Will comments on the “simplicity and effectiveness” of Frank’s design. “I thought the mask was cool,” Mike replies, amused.
It feels easy. It feels like home. It feels like the earthy smell of his parent’s basement, like blue paint and multicolored, plastic binders. It feels like the wind against his face, like jumping from the swings at the highest point, like the burst of pain in your knees when you land.
There’s a tension to every word, a strain in Will’s voice as he talks. Mike wants to ask, but he knows he doesn’t want to hear the answer.
When Will drops his spoon into his empty bowl with a clink, Mike stands up, reaching for the bowl as a shrill ringtone rings from the other end of the living room. “Shit,” Mike blurts, darting to his briefcase.
“Who is it?” Will calls from behind him.
“Tuft.” Mike roots through his briefcase until he finds the stupid thing. “My boss,” he elaborates. “I’m sure he’s heard about the hurricane by now.”
Will doesn’t reply. Whatever Tuft is about to say, Mike really doesn’t want Will to overhear it. He runs into Will’s bathroom, locking the door behind him.
Mike can’t even get a word out, before his boss’ deep voice booms through the phone’s speakers. “Mike fucking Wheeler, are you in Chicago or not?” Mike hesitates, and Tuft adds, “There’s only one right answer to this question.”
“Uh, no, Tuft. The hurricane shut down the entire airport here.”
“Well, isn’t that great. And who are you supposed to inform when something goes haywire?”
Mike runs a hand through his hair, and several strands come out tangled on his fingers. “I was figuring out where I was going to stay.”
Tuft groans. “I’m sending Robinson instead. We’re going to have a talk when you get back. Don’t die before then.”
The hang up tone drones as Mike sits on the toilet, a wave of nausea rolling in his stomach. Tuft won’t fire him. Probably. Not immediately, at the very least. They’d had their issues before, and he managed to stay employed through those. Besides, he had too many outstanding clients. There was no way to hand them over to someone else so abruptly.
Mike stands up, turns the handle of the sink to let a slow stream of water fall. He splashes his face twice, letting the cool water ground him before he looks at himself in the mirror.
The dark circles below his eyes are deep, and his face far too pale—almost green. He reaches his hand up to give the mirror a quick press. He knows he shouldn’t, but the nausea is overwhelming. He already feels saliva beginning to pool in his mouth.
The mirror cabinet clicks open, hinges scraping against each other louder than expected, and Mike hopes Will didn’t follow him into the hallway. At first glance, the cabinet is normal: bandaids, some ibuprofen, an extra toothbrush, more toothpaste—and a few pill bottles Mike doesn’t recognize. His gaze fixes on the Prozac label that does sound familiar, as well as one with a red-outlined label warning against operating heavy machinery.
There’s nothing Mike can see that might help him, so he sits back down on the toilet and lets his stomach roil for the next few seconds, praying he won’t hear a knock on the door. When enough time passes that Mike knows he should leave the bathroom or risk questions he doesn’t want to answer, he splashes cool water on his face once more and leaves.
Will is putting Mike’s bowl into the dishwasher when he returns. He shuts the dishwasher and turns around to face Mike. “What did your boss want?”
Mike gives a dry laugh. “I’m off the case.” He shoves his phone back into his briefcase, hoping he won’t have to touch it until tomorrow, when he has to rebook his flight to Indianapolis. Fuck.
Will leans against the counter, looks down at his hand. “Do you like the job?”
“The pay is good,” Mike replies automatically. His dad’s stern face flashes in his head—that time he placed his hand on Mike’s shoulder and drilled it into Mike’s head that ‘a high-paying job will get you everything else you need in life: a woman, a family, freedom.’ He had been eight years old when he first heard that. “And I get to travel,” he continues.
“What’s your favorite place you’ve been to?”
“Ireland,” Mike smiles. “I had a meeting in a castle, of all places. Felt like a knight.”
Will smiles, too. He’s not looking at Mike. “I’d love to see Ireland.”
Mike’s mouth wants to open, say something like, We should go. Something like: I’ll take you there. It doesn’t feel appropriate.
“Anyways,” Will says, relieving Mike of the responsibility to respond. “I have a pull out couch that you can sleep on. I just need you to help me move the coffee table.”
Mike nods, and helps Will lift the table and set it down in the corner of the living room. The bump of the table legs against the floor disturbs Lucy’s nap on the couch, and she scampers back to Will’s room. “It’s not the best, I know. I wish I had a guest room, really, but El says the couch is comfortable enough, and she’s slept in it loads of times.”
Will pulls a lever at the foot of the couch, and the bottom folds out. “How often does El stay over here?”
“Every once and a while. They send her here sometimes to do fieldwork in the delta, so she’ll stay the night. Lucas, too, actually. He had to come down to examine this bridge that had collapsed—”
Mike stops listening. He probably hadn’t spoken to El since Lucas’ wedding. She sent him postcards occasionally, nothing written on them besides “Sincerely, El.” He started trying to send some to her, when he remembered.
Will is in the middle of unfolding a blanket when the lights flicker, a roar of thunder following. He freezes, arms outstretched, blanked draped in front of him, and looks up at the room light. Mike almost says something when the lights flicker once more, then go out completely. “Shit.”
“The power went out?” Mike asks. He can’t see Will at all. He just has a vague sense of movement in front of him.
“It was bound to happen.” Will’s feed pad against the kitchen tiles. “I’m getting some light.”
“You don’t have a generator?” Mike calls, walking into the kitchen with arms outstretched in front of him to avoid hitting any furniture.
“Hah! On my salary?” Mike doesn’t say anything else. He’s an idiot.
He sees a beam of white light come out of the office, and Will emerges with an emergency lantern in one hand, a heavy-duty flashlight in the other, and several candles of varying sizes balanced in his arms. He dumps the contents on the kitchen counter, opens a nearby drawer to grab a lighter, and lights the candles.
“Do you know when the power will come back on?”
“It depends,” Will shrugs. He sets the emergency lantern on the dining table, where it blankets the entire space—kitchen and living room—in a weak, ghostly glow. “Maybe tomorrow, if we’re lucky. Hopefully within a day or two.” On the counters, he spaces out the candles.
“It doesn’t freak you out?”
One of the candles loses its flame, and Will relights the lighter with a click that is almost drowned out by the torrential rain outside. “Not so much, anymore.” He watches the candle as the wick takes flame again. It stays lit.
“It used to?”
“It used to.” Will reaches between two cereal boxes on the counter and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “These help.”
Mike can’t believe he never knew these things. He can’t believe he hasn’t been around enough to know that. It’s become increasingly clear in the past few years, the past few hours, that there’s so much life happening outside the four walls of his cubicle at Tuft’s Financial Services. He’s not sure where he’s been.
It’s so loud outside, so quiet inside. Will lights his cigarette, holds the pack out to Mike. He shakes his head, then darts his eyes around the room, desperate for something else to say. “Tell me about the paintings,” he murmurs.
“All of them?”
Mike nods.
Will’s shoulders straighten up, and he adopts a professional tone that Mike has never heard before. His free hand sweeps through the air as the explains, looking like a museum tour guide. Mike listens thoughtfully while Will details where each painting came from, their meaning, brush strokes, coloring, depth, using words that fly over Mike’s head. He comments when appropriate, but there’s really not much he could say without sounding out of his element.
Will’s in the middle of discussing the feathering technique of a close up painting of a blue heron—a gift from his friend, Richard—when Mike blurts something that has been itching at the back of his mind. “A lot of these are from Richard.” He clears his throat. “Are you, uh…?”
“Seeing each other?” Will’s hand stills. He takes a drag of the cigarette. “No.”
Mike does his best to keep his voice from shaking. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Will’s mouth forms a strange sort of smile, like he wants to laugh, but not out of amusement. “No, not—no.”
Mike knows there have been others. There was a guy in college Will talked about—some guitar player with sad eyes who made even sadder music. He had gone off to Los Angeles for his music career, and Will hadn’t been willing to follow him. Several years later, there was another. A postdoc, working in some university lab. El had whispered to Mike at Dustin’s conferment ceremony how she thought they might move in together soon, but Will had gradually stopped mentioning him in the months that followed.
“You?” Will asks Mike, halting his train of thought.
“Not in a while.” And never for very long.
Will makes a noise of acknowledgement. The shadows fall sharply on his face, carving out the contours of his nose, the ridge of his upper lip. “I mean,” Will starts. Another drag. “It’s kind of difficult to get close to someone if you can’t explain why the lights flickering makes you have a panic attack. If you nearly can’t go outside when the weather drops below 40 degrees. If you scream in your sleep from nightmares you can’t explain because they’ll think you’re even more crazy than they already do.”
Mike is shocked by Will’s honesty. Maybe it’s the rain outside. Maybe it’s the way nothing feels real when it’s just Mike and Will in a dark kitchen—something that hasn’t happened in over a decade. Except, there’s no one watching them this time. No parents sleeping a few rooms over. No siblings that stay up late into the night. No college roommates coming back to the dorm soon. There’s no one that can reach them, this time.
Mike’s not sure what to do with this moment, really—this once-in-a-lifetime moment. But he doesn’t have to decide. Will’s honestly is like a breached dam.
“Why exactly are you here, Mike?”
Mike freezes. Will is looking at him head-on, brows furrowed, hand gripping the counter. “I needed a place during the hurricane—”
“That’s it?”
“I—yeah. What are you—”
“You never call, Mike.” Will’s voice is strained. “You never call, and all of a sudden you are calling, and you’re asking to come to my house, and you’re asking me about my paintings, and about whether I’m seeing someone, and I just—what do you want, Mike?”
Will’s eyes bore into him, and Mike wraps his arms in front of his chest. “I just wanted to know.” Will’s frown deepens. “Listen, Will, I—I’m sorry I don’t call as much.”
“Six times.”
“What?”
“Six times, Mike,” Will sighs. “That’s how many times you’ve called me first.”
Mike’s heart drops. “That can’t—”
“You called me on my birthday every year while we were in college. At midnight, eastern time. It was still eleven here. You stopped after we graduated.”
Mike remembers this. During his visit to California, he had forgotten it was Will’s birthday until that first evening when a sobered-up Jonathan had given Will a gift—the vinyl of Bauhaus’ Burning from the Inside. Later that night, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling of Will’s new bedroom, he swore to Will that he would never forget his birthday again. He had put it on his calendar every year, with a note in December to put it on the next one. “And the next time—”
“When my mom was sick.”
Mike remembers this, too. His mom had told him, the second she heard the news. He called Will a second later, heard the waver in his voice as he spoke, and booked the tickets to New York in the same breath. “And the last time?”
“New Year’s. 2000.”
It takes Mike a moment to even remember where he was when 1999 turned into 2000. Ah—there had been a party at work. Open bar. The rest is fuzzy. “What did I say?”
Will’s eyes widen. “You don’t remember?”
“I don’t even remember calling you.”
“Oh, god,” Will brings a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes. “You said—god, you said a lot of things.” Mike’s chest tightens. “You told me how much you missed me. You said you were sorry.”
The room is so hot. Shame bubbles up against Mike’s skin. Undeterred, Will continues, voice low. “You told me that you had finally realized. That it was too late now. But that you had to say it anyway.”
The shame swallows him whole, blots out his vision until all he sees is Will’s disappointed expression amongst a red sea. He’ll do anything to get rid of this feeling—this sticky, slimy feeling on his skin. He tightens his arms across himself, digging his nails into his flesh. “It was New Year’s, Will. I was drunk. You can’t blame me. I didn’t—”
“Didn’t mean it?” Will’s face is so placid, yet his eyes are so wild. “Look me in the eyes, and tell me you didn’t mean it.” There’s a space, there, at the end of his sentence, for something juvenile like Friends don’t lie. Maybe it’s something that would have been said, had this conversation happened fifteen years earlier.
Will’s gaze, unbroken, flays Mike open, leaves his skin raw and red, his organs cold, exposed to the open air. He can’t take it. “Why did you let me stay?”
Nearly an inch of ash has accumulated on the end of Will’s cigarette, but he takes another puff anyway. “You needed a place during the hurricane,” he finally says, defeated. Mike looks at him.
“That’s it?” Mike breathes.
Will finally taps the ash from his cigarette, mouth twisting into a wry smile. “It certainly didn’t help that even after all this time, I still have no self-preservation when it comes to you, Mike Wheeler.”
Will’s tone stabs Mike in the gut, twists the knife. “Will, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry unless you know what you’re apologizing for.”
“I’m sorry if I ever… took advantage of that.” He stumbles over the words, brain boiling. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize until it was too late.” Whether that’s about Will’s feelings, or his, it doesn’t really matter.
Will blows out a puff of smoke. “You didn’t know. I didn’t really tell you.”
“I should’ve known,” Mike stresses. Will doesn’t say anything. The candlelight flickers across Will’s face.
“Do you ever wonder how it might have been different?” Mike asks. Will frowns in confusion. “If I had realized sooner.”
Will thinks for a long time before he settles on an answer. “I used to.”
Mike nods. “I think about it.”
Will puts out the cigarette onto an ashtray, tendrils of smoke rising up and dissipating into the air. “I’m right here, Mike.”
Mike just needs to know. Needs to know, and remember, and hold it inside himself, and maybe it’ll keep something inside him afloat until he dies.
Their lips crash against each other just as a flash of lightning strikes outside. It’s hesitant at first, exploratory, shocked. Will tastes harsh, smoky—his lips are rough, but his skin is soft where Mike brings his hands up to grip Will’s waist.
And Will’s hands—jeez—they’re everywhere, after Mike makes that first move. It’s been so very long since Mike was touched like this—hands along his back, snaking up his neck, fingers curling into his hair, pulling. Mike feels an embarrassing whimper crawl from the back of his throat and hopes that it went unheard in the pounding of the rain, or the pounding of his heartbeat.
Will kisses with force, as tense as a rubber band before its snap, teeth scraping against Mike’s lip as if he wants to take something from him. Mike eventually stops trying to fight back, leaning into Will, pushing him back onto the counter. Mike will let him take whatever it is he needs. God only knows how much Mike owes him.
And yet, Mike’s mind, as it always does, wanders to the past—to the others who might have known Will in the same way that Mike is now. He wonders if Will kisses everyone this way, as if he’s trying to find something out, explore some deep underbelly, reach into Mike’s throat, into his heart, and see what he pulls out. Surely not, Mike wants to believe, but, regardless, he wants Will to know that there’s no one else that can give in as good as Mike will.
Mike touches Will all over—touches him where it doesn’t really make sense to touch him—the small of his back, the curve of his elbow, the edge of his ribs through his T-shirt. He knows he won’t have this for much longer, so he tries to remember as much as he can.
Will’s hand tries to get some of Mike’s hair out of his face, bumps his glasses down onto his nose, and Mike pulls away suddenly, adjusting them back onto his face. Will is so close, lips bright red and slicked with spit. The fabric of Will’s shirt still rubs softly against Mike’s hands, his skin warm. They look at each other, and there’s a stillness in the air—the rain almost seems quieter.
Before Will can say anything, Mike blurts, “Give me a moment,” before darting into Will’s bathroom once more. He locks the door behind him, again, and stares at himself in the mirror, lips also shiny, hair tousled.
I shouldn’t have fucking done that. Here was a box now opened, a twenty-year-or-so-old box, best left to collect dust in a basement in Hawkins, Indiana. Here were revelations that he could never go back from, touches he could never forget.
Will had been so insatiable. His hands had been everywhere. Mike wasn’t sure how he was supposed to get on a flight tomorrow afternoon and go back to work the day after. But he also wasn’t sure how he could do anything but that.
Outside the bathroom, Mike hears the click of Will’s lighter, footsteps down the hallway, a short huff from Lucy, and the rumble of a drawer opening and closing. In his line of work, he is so accustomed to looking in a mirror, fixing the sweep of his gelled hair, and opening a door with a wide smile and a plan for exactly how the conversation must go. Now, with his hand resting on the doorknob of Will’s bathroom door, there is no plan. His hair is a mess.
He opens the door, follows where Will must have walked with his gaze. Will has gotten into bed, wearing a different shirt, faded gray, donning a pair of reading glasses. He’s picked up the book that was on his bedside table, eyes glued to it as one of his hands fiddles with his pill box. Mike watches, awkwardly, while Will opens the pod for Wednesday and brings the pill to his mouth.
“Do you need water?” Mike says, without thinking.
Will’s eyes dart up at Mike, brows furrowed. Mike cringes. How could that be the first thing he says to Will, after—? Will shakes his head. “Don’t need it.” He tosses the pill into his mouth and swallows it dry. Mike can’t stop his eyes from darting down to Will’s throat as it bobs with the action. He needs to leave. He can’t get the feeling of Will’s fingers through his hair out of his head.
“Good night, Will,” he mutters, before he turns away.
“Good night, Mike,” he hears from behind him.
Mike settles onto the pull out couch in a blanket that smells like Will Byers. His lips still feel raw. Will must have blown out the candles while Mike was in the bathroom and turned the emergency lamp to its dimmest setting. Mike can partially see around the room, observing the outline of the photos on the table, a copy of Science magazine from last year on the coffee table, the pack of cigarettes abandoned on the counter—the life Will has built from the ground-up so far from their home. Mike feels sick.
Mike isn’t exactly sure when—there’s no clock to look at—but he falls into some sort of sleep.
✆ ✆ ✆
Mike awakes to a pressure on his chest, and opens his eyes to a long-faced dog scampering across him before darting back into the kitchen. Will emerges from the hallway a moment later, eyes drooping and hair sticking up in places. “I tried to keep her in my room!” he shouts as he sees Mike, sitting up.
“It’s fine,” Mike laughs as Lucy does another lap around the room. The sun shines through the windows, as if there hadn’t been a hurricane the night before. Mike shoves the blanket off. It’s even hotter now, in the daylight.
Will observes the motion and comments, “Still no power.” He opens a cupboard and takes out a bright red package. “I have…” He turns over the package to read the expiration date. “Almost-expired instant coffee and dubiously hot water.” Will’s mouth twists into a grimace, unimpressed by his own suggestion, and Mike shakes his head lightheartedly.
They have a simple breakfast, untoasted bread with Nutella spread unevenly on top. It’s a meal they would have made as kids, waking up the morning after a sleepover. Mike suddenly wonders if Will has to work today, but Will says no when Mike asks.
“I can take you to the airport,” he adds. Mike wants to refuse, but he stops himself. Will takes Mike’s plate as they finish eating, puts them into the sink, and looks back at Mike. “Do you need a change of clothes?”
Mike blinks, looks down at Will’s clothing on him. “No, I’ll just…wear my suit.”
Will shrugs, heading back to his room to get dressed himself. Mike follows, a few steps behind, turning into the bathroom to grab his suit.
His pants are stiff when he puts them on, the shirt wrinkled awkwardly. He elects to leave his suit jacket and tie off to avoid looking even more ridiculous. He’s able to steal some mouthwash and spray deodorant to freshen up as best he can, but Will doesn’t have the gel Mike typically uses for his hair. It curls in a way he rarely allows it to, unevenly splattered across his forehead and his cheeks. Mike attempts to tuck some of his hair behind his ears before he leaves, to very little avail.
Will is enjoying—or pretending to enjoy, more likely—the heinous coffee concoction he offered earlier when Mike walks into the kitchen once more. “Nice hair,” he teases.
“Don’t,” Mike pleads, jokingly, bringing his hands to his head to try and flatten the sides. The conversation has flown so deceptively easily this morning, and Mike wonders if they’re ever going to talk about it. But the sun has risen, and Mike is leaving so soon—too soon.
Will looks down at his watch. “Ready to head out?” Mike nods, walking over to the door where he can toss his clothes into his briefcase and put his socks and shoes on. Will follows him over, grabbing keys.
There’s a tree branch on the hood of Will’s car when they walk out—apparently nothing new, with Will’s blasé attitude as he tosses it off, arm straining with the effort. The same arm that had held Mike so desperately, just the night before. Mike does his best not to think about it as he gets into the passenger seat.
It had been almost impossible to see when Mike arrived, with the rain pounding down on the taxi, but in the daylight, he is able to take in some of the scenery outside. There are leaves and branches strewn everywhere, puddles lining the side of the street in some areas. But there’s also a nice neighborhood, brightly-colored houses, flower gardens that somehow survived the winds, and a power line with sun-bleached Mardi Gras beads hanging.
Eventually, they leave the residential area for the major road, and the major road for the highway. Mike leans back in his seat a bit, and Will says, “It’s only about fifteen more minutes.”
Fifteen more minutes. Until what? Until he returns to the real world, and Will returns to the real world, and they—they do what exactly?
Mike continues to look outside, away from Will. Billboards, there are billboards. A blue background with simple white text: Problems with Alcohol? We Can Help. Call Alcoholics Anonymous - (504) 555-5473. A woman sitting, head in her hands: DEPRESSED? JESUS IS THE ANSWER. (985) 33-TRUTH. Two men stood side-by-side: Protect Yourself and Your Partner. HIV Testing Available! The words “IT’S NOT TOO LATE” in bold, bright red letters in front of a can of soda, “...to try the new Vanilla Coca-Cola” written beneath.
Mike looks away, up ahead, where a green highway sign reading “N.O. Intl Airport” rears its ugly head in front of them. The turn signal clicks, like a ticking clock, as Will moves over to take the exit. Mike can’t leave like this.
The car goes down the exit ramp. Mike has to leave, even if it’s like this. The car speeds through the next few intersections, lights green all the way. Mike isn’t sure how he’s going to leave like this. The airport looms in front of them. Even if he doesn’t want to leave like this, Mike isn’t sure what to say.
He still hasn’t said anything, by the time Will pulls up to the drop-off point of the airport. Mike turns to Will.
“Do you need help with your bags?” Will asks, before Mike can say anything.
Mike glances at the backseat. It’s just a briefcase. “Uh, no, but thank you.” Will turns to face the front window, finger tapping on the steering wheel. He can’t leave like this. “Thank you for letting me stay.” It’s not enough. “I’m glad it was you…who I stayed with.”
Will is still looking out the front. Mike sits for a few seconds more, before supposing that Will doesn’t have anything else to say to him. His heart sinks, but he reaches for the door.
“Mike,” Will breathes, as the door unlatches. Mike stills. “You’ll call, right?”
He’ll call—when he boards, when he lands, before he goes to work each morning, before he goes to bed each night. He can’t let everything slip from his grasp—not again.
Mike glances back, not fully, just enough to see Will out of the corner of his eye. “I promise.”