Chapter Text
The moon cast its light upon the rooftops and the stone-paved roads in the dead of night, while heavy rain fell over the town of Clayton. Will turned from side to side in bed until he finally gave up and lay on his back, staring at the wall in despair.
Two years had passed since Will and Carlton moved in together and left Hawkins. For six months, Will hadn't been able to sleep; he struggled deeply to adjust to his new life, and he felt alone—most of the time, he truly was alone.
Thoughts flickered through his mind. He turned his head and looked at the boy lying beside him in bed, dark curly hair spread across the white pillow. He could almost imagine.
Eventually, he fell asleep to the sound of raindrops tapping against the window.
When he woke in the morning, the space beside him was empty. He reached out and placed his hand on the sheet—it was cold.
He sighed and pushed the blanket off himself. Sitting up, he glanced at the clock beside him. It was only 7:35. Why wasn't Carlton here?
He walked downstairs to the living room and heard Carlton just as he was hanging up the phone. A smile was spread across his face, a cup of coffee in one hand and toast clenched between his lips.
He pulled the toast from his mouth. "Oh—sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." He stepped closer to Will and placed a brief kiss on his lips.
"Where are you going?" Will asked. Carlton usually didn't leave the house before eight-thirty.
"They need me early at work. Sorry, babe." He cast one last glance at Will and walked out the door, leaving Will motionless and miserable.
A few months earlier, Will had realized how much he hated living in this cold place, without his friends or his family.
Most of the time he spoke to his mom, Joyce. She always understood him—but she worried too much, so he tried not to call her too often. Sometimes he called Jonathan; he spoke to him the most.
As for his friends—occasionally. Max and Lucas stayed in Hawkins and moved in together. Jonathan moved to New York to study film. Dustin and Steve were traveling. Mike, Nancy, and Robin were still in Hawkins. Just thinking about Mike sent a chill through him.
The last time he'd been in Hawkins was the previous summer, and it hadn't gone the way he'd expected. He and Carlton traveled together and stayed with Joyce and Hopper. Hopper had become like a father to him, so that part didn't really scare him.
What scared him was Mike and Carlton being in the same room.
Mike reacted strangely. When Will came out, it didn't seem like Mike made such a big deal of it. He said it was okay, apologized for not being there for him, and even promised they'd stay best friends—then he never called him again after finding out about Carlton.
Will never understood why. But it was fine; maybe he was better off without Mike.
Anyway, when they walked into the restaurant where everyone had agreed to meet, Mike was already sitting there, his eyes fixed on Carlton. His hair was curly and messy again. Two years earlier, when they'd graduated , he'd styled it in a way that made him look far too much like his father. It was good to see him looking like himself again—though he looked nearly as miserable as Will felt.
Once everyone arrived, Mike began bombarding Carlton with questions.
"So," he said, "what did you say you're studying, Carlton?" He pronounced his name as if it burned his tongue.
"Oh—engineering and business. There are a lot of study and work opportunities in Clayton," Carlton replied, seemingly unaware of Mike's tone.
Will looked around. No one else seemed to notice Mike's irritation at all. Will wondered if he noticed because he knew Mike better than he knew himself—or because he hoped Mike was angry.
After that, Mike fell silent. Every now and then, he stole a glance at Will, and if Will caught him, Mike would look away and fiddle with the food on his plate.
Will sighed and pulled himself out of his thoughts. He went into the kitchen to pour himself some coffee and took the mug outside to sit. He hated being cold, but sometimes it reminded him of home—so he sat there despite the chill and the damp air left by the rain.
⸻
Will spent the day alone. He went out to buy a few things for dinner, then spent the rest of the day painting.
Painting was the only thing that quieted his thoughts well enough—he simply poured them through the brush onto the page. It was better than sharing what he felt with someone, because paper could hold him. It wouldn't judge him, and it wouldn't offer a philosophical answer that helped in no way at all.
When it grew late and Carlton still hadn't returned, Will cooked something for him and left it on the counter for when he came back, then went upstairs. He'd lost his appetite long ago; if he didn't have to eat, he wouldn't.
Will lay awake in bed. At some point, he heard the front door open downstairs—but Carlton didn't come up to check if he was asleep. He never did. Not that it mattered.
He never checked, and he always came home late, even though Will knew Carlton finished work at seven.
Will fell asleep and dreamed of Mike.
The next day passed the same way—except the weather was nicer and less rainy, so Will went for a run. He hated this place. Everything was different from Hawkins: the colors, the paths, the people. Everything felt strange. Will once thought the feeling would pass, that he'd grow used to the place and begin to feel at home—but it never happened, and it didn't seem like it ever would.
Since the move, Carlton spent time with Will only on weekends—if that. Occasionally, he reminded Will that he loved him, in ways only Carlton liked. Will couldn't find that love anywhere, and he didn't enjoy it.
That evening, Carlton didn't come back again. Will cooked for him again and went up to the bedroom.
In the middle of the night, he woke suddenly to cold hand on his face. Carlton was sitting beside him on the bed. He leaned in and kissed his lips.
"You know I love you, right?" he said, slipping under the blanket beside Will and pressing himself against him. Will was too tired to give him what he wanted.
He didn't understand why Carlton had woken him in the middle of the night just to say he loved him.
"You just got home?" Will mumbled sleepily.
Guilt flashed across Carlton's face, then vanished. "No, no—I got back a while ago and ate the delicious food you made. I just wanted to tell you I love you. Am I not allowed?"
He slid his hand under Will's shirt. Will's skin prickled, and he shifted slightly away.
"Carlton, I'm tired," Will murmured, almost pleading.
Carlton had never gone too far—at least as Will saw it—but he almost never listened. To Carlton, this was how you showed love. To Will, it was the only way to receive love, the only way Carlton would see him.
Carlton grew irritated and rolled to his side of the bed. "Why are you so grumpy?" he muttered.
Will was used to it—to being calm while Carlton accused him of being angry, simply because he didn't want to please him.
He only said, "Sorry," and curled inward, his back to Carlton.
They didn't speak again. They didn't touch again. Will fell asleep once more.
In the morning, Carlton was surprisingly still in bed—but he was asleep.
The air in the room was frozen. Their bed was cold. Frost clung to the window, rain falling without pause. Their room was almost empty, and it felt strange to Will. Back home, everything had been filled with pictures , with Will's drawings, with candles and objects. Here, there was only a single wardrobe Carlton thought looked modern and good—so he hadn't asked Will what he thought before buying it. Will never said anything.
The sheets were plain. The curtains were white. The nightstands and the bed were all the same colors. Will felt trapped.
He loved color—like Mike's house, like Hopper's house, like his old home, like California.
The only thing that remained the same was Will's clothing. He wouldn't hear a single word from Carlton about it; he'd bought those clothes with Jonathan. They were the only thing here that reminded him of who he'd been two years ago—happy, with his friends and with himself.
Now he was miserable and alone here. His entire environment was one man who cared about him only when he needed something, came home hours after work ended, and rarely asked Will how his day had been.
Will got out of bed slowly so as not to wake Carlton, left the room, and closed the door behind him. He went to the kitchen and made himself coffee. He used to hate coffee—he didn't know why he started drinking it after they moved here.
Fifteen minutes later, Carlton came downstairs dressed in his work suit, hair neatly styled to the side. He barely looked at Will as he entered the kitchen and poured himself coffee. Will stood up and washed his mug in the sink.
"Oh, I forgot my coat upstairs. Could you please go get it for me?" Carlton asked.
Will nodded and went upstairs.
He always did what Carlton asked—because that was who he was. If he could help, he would. That care was never returned.
Will pulled Carlton's raincoat from the closet—not the one he usually wore, but it was just as thick, so it didn't matter.
He was about to go back down when he heard Carlton talking on the phone. He didn't know why he froze and fell silent—why should he care who Carlton was talking to?
"Alright, I'm heading out now," Carlton said, lowering his voice.
"Come on, Sean, you know I love you. I won't be late."
He almost whispered it.
Will felt his legs nearly give way beneath him. He would've heard those words even if Carlton had whispered them. It was impossible he'd imagined it.
A lump rose in Will's throat. He heard the phone click shut and realized he only had a few seconds to go downstairs with the coat—so that's what he did.
"Have a good day. You staying late at the office again?" Will asked. He wore a gray shirt and checkered pajama pants; his hair was messy, his face unreadable.
"I'll try to come back early," Carlton said, taking the coat from Will's hands and leaving without another word.
Will stood in the hallway facing the front door, thoughts racing. He didn't know what to do. Forgetting it and burying it seemed like the only possible idea right now. What could he even do? Carlton was an excellent liar—he'd probably been lying all along.
Will had never imagined this would happen to him.
His legs shaking, he went upstairs and searched through Carlton's nightstand, rifling through his things, looking for proof—anything that would justify what he'd heard. He checked his pockets, then opened the closet and pulled out the coat. He searched its pockets, and when his fingers touched a slip of paper, he froze.
He sat down on the bed, legs trembling. It was nothing—probably just a receipt. He was overthinking it. His stomach churned; it didn't scare him—it just shocked him.
He unfolded the note. The handwriting inside was definitely not Carlton's:
You look better than usual today, Carl.
—Sean
Will stared at the paper in disbelief. Then he folded it, slipped it back into the coat, and took a deep breath. What could he do anyway? Carlton would be furious if he found out Will had overheard him and searched his coat.
He wished he had someone to ask for advice—but if he told his family, they'd be angry and tell him to leave Carlton. They didn't really know him. If Will did that, Carlton would hit him—and stop listening for the twentieth time when Will told him no.
No one knew Carlton was like this. He didn't look like it. He seemed calm and kind—and most of the time, he was. Except for the times he wasn't.
Will decided to go into the city to buy art supplies. Lately, more and more people had been buying his work. It was his job now—he earned from it, and he enjoyed it. It was almost the only positive thing he had here.
He got dressed—light jeans, a blue sweater, and his coat. He made the bed, brushed his teeth, went downstairs, put on his shoes by the door, grabbed his keys, and left.
The following days passed strangely for Will. Carlton didn't behave any differently, so Will assumed he was completely unaware of what he had heard. He was miserable and barely ate; he didn't understand what was missing in him, why Carlton had been lying to him all this time, and why he wasn't enough—he was never enough, no matter how much he gave of himself. For a while, he truly believed it was okay, that although he wasn't happy, at least he was loved, at least he thought it was possible to be loved, and he was glad. He was glad because he had given so much of himself, always meeting Carlton's expectations and desires, always doing what he wanted and beyond. He was always afraid that if he didn't do all of this, Carlton would stop loving him, and then Will would be alone, in every sense, and he didn't want that. He preferred to feel lonely rather than be alone.
Because when you have someone to please and someone to prove to that you can be loved, it's a lot easier.
On Friday morning, Will and Carlton sat at the kitchen table in silence. Carlton was reading the newspaper and eating the toast Will had made for him. Will sat quietly, staring at him. He had tried to get his attention a few minutes ago, and Carlton had mumbled something about being busy, so Will fell silent and didn't try anymore.
When he finished eating, Will cleared the dishes and washed them in the sink. "I thought maybe we could go do something tomorrow," he began, his back to Carlton. "What do you want to do?" Carlton replied after a few moments, "There's a museum I've really wanted to go to. It's not far from here, and there's an exhibition right now that I really like, by an artist who's an expert in all sorts of fields, especially portraits, and I love that."
Will lowered his voice and gripped a glass in his hands tightly. "Every year we've missed it, so I thought maybe tomorrow we could—" His voice was cut off when Carlton slammed his fist on the table. Will held the glass so tightly in shock that it shattered in his hands.
"Will, you're distracting me from reading. I'm not interested in those portraits. Go if you want." Carlton muttered and stood up.
Will stared out the window, his eyes focused on the neighbors' garden. Their garden was always full of flowers that Will loved. Sometimes he liked to go knock on their door and help the woman plant more. One of the stems was torn by the wind and flew away, scattering all its petals.
Will looked down and realized his palms were covered in blood from the broken glass.
"I wanted us to go together," Will muttered, but Carlton was already gone from the kitchen.
He gathered all the glass shards into a paper bag, closed it, and threw it in the trash. He finished washing the dishes, even though the water burned his wounds, and when he was done, he left the kitchen and saw Carlton sitting in the living room. It didn't seem to bother him at all what he had said to Will, or that he had left Will to clean up alone. He probably hadn't even noticed the broken glass.
Will went upstairs and locked himself in the bathroom. He took out the first-aid kit and disinfected his wounds. When he was a child, Mike's mother always disinfected his and Mike's wounds after they fell off their bikes when they were learning to ride. Will always found it painful, and Mike would hold his hand for encouragement. Will always pretended it hurts, even afterward, so Mike would keep holding his hand.
Will sat on the floor with his back to the door. He had to stop thinking about Mike; it was pointless. He had tortured himself with these thoughts since he was eight, never understanding what they really meant, and twelve years later, it only got worse. The worst part was that no one knew about it; he had never spoken these words aloud, and he never would, because it wouldn't change anything. Will would probably die thinking about what he could have had with Mike.
Will stayed sitting on the floor, his back against the door, his palms still burning from the glass, each breath feeling like a weight on his chest. The physical pain was sharp, but the inner pain, radiating from every touch from Carlton, every clipped word or cold look, was much heavier. He tried to move his hands, but they shook, as if they didn't belong to him. All the memories from the past years surged over him like a storm: cynical remarks, scornful looks, the feeling that he had to prove himself over and over, as if nothing he did was ever enough.
He remembered the nights when Carlton would just stand beside him, saying nothing, and Will would search for any sign that he was loved, any sign that he was okay. But there wasn't one. Once, he had tried to hug him after a hard day, and Carlton had pulled away instantly, as if physical touch was something meant only for him, not Will. Now, every such moment returned as utter helplessness.
The pain deepened as he thought of the museum he had suggested, of the exhibition that had meant something to him, feeling how every small desire, every flicker of hope, was erased in an instant by a fist or an inconsiderate word. All these years, he had believed he was enough—enough to be loved, enough to be someone worthy of love. But now, with blood on his hands and shattered glass, he knew—it had never been enough.
He also remembered his childhood, falling off his bike while Mike gently held his hand. Then, physical pain was something one could endure. Now, the pain was doubled: body and soul alike.
Will closed his eyes, trying to imagine another place, a place where he could be alone without fear, without pain, without feeling he had to be perfect to receive love. But even in his imagination, he was alone, as he had always been.
He got up and left the bathroom for his art room. He organized the paints and brushes he wanted and set up a canvas on its easel, sitting down in front of it, elbows resting on the table. The paints were arranged around him like weapons of emotions he couldn't find words for. His hands trembled slightly, not just from the cold that seeped into the house, but from tension and years of expectation, of strain, of the constant fear that if he didn't deliver, it wouldn't be enough.
He painted a single brushstroke on the canvas, and the lines that extended from it were not straight, not clean; they twisted and collided with each other, like his thoughts that were impossible to control.
His colors were bright—warm yellow, vivid orange, soft pink—but the lines were sharp, black and red, cutting across the space like arrows piercing the heart. Will watched the colors connect and tear apart at the same time, like flowers scattering their petals in the wind, recalling the neighbors' garden. Every drop of paint on the canvas, every stain he made, felt like a part of him, as if he were leaving there the pain he couldn't speak aloud.
He remembered times when Carlton had touched him, or just stood near him, and wasn't there when he needed him, and that pain returned as a black line crossing the colors. Each memory was recorded aggressively on the canvas—a line uncorrected, a stain unforgiven, a shape that rose and fell at the same time. His brush trembled, and he had to stop occasionally, take a deep breath, but he did not stop. The physical pain in his hands, the shards of glass still pricking him, seemed to accompany every motion.
Will was entirely absorbed in the moment. He painted thin, winding paths, as if they led somewhere—a place where his hands were strong and steady, not painful, a place where he could be brave. These lines were softer, almost gentle, but still surrounded by the blacks and reds reminding him that the world around him was still frightening and unpredictable.
Every time paint touched the canvas, he felt something release, but not completely; he still carried his sense of helplessness, his loneliness. He painted drops that fell downward, as if tears running from afar, breaking upon the bright colors and blending with them. It was as if all he felt—fear, sadness, longing, missing love—found its way out through the brush.
Will paused for a moment and looked at his work. It wasn't a perfect painting, not something someone else could easily understand, but he knew it was his way of looking at himself, of facing the pain, not pushing it away. Every line, every stain, told a story of years he had kept to himself, like a letter still unsent.
He set down the brush and rested his hands on the table, his gaze fixed on the canvas, confused, sad, but also a little lighter. The painting wouldn't change his reality, wouldn't replace what he was missing, but it felt like a place where his pain finally had a voice, even if only in lines and colors.
Will's canvas became a space of freedom and fracture at once, a world where bright and dark colors collided, crumpled, and merged, just like his emotions—pain, longing, unspoken love, sweet memory, and constant ache. He breathed deeply, studying the painting, and for perhaps the first time in a long while, he felt he wasn't completely alone, because part of him had come out, taken up space where no word could suffice.
He cleaned his workspace and decided to finish the painting later. He stood by the window; the sky was painted soft pink and purple. Winter sunsets were always his favorite—they reminded him of the endless sunsets the group had watched together, back when they were all still together. That thought brought sadness. He missed his sister. He knew that if she were still here, she'd be the first person he'd go to now; she would hug him and not let go, except maybe to bring him a waffle piled high with whipped cream. And when he cheered up a little, she would curse Carlton in the vocabulary of a little girl and ask Will to tell her where he was so she could humiliate him. The thought brought a faint smile to his face.
Will quietly went downstairs and saw Carlton sitting on the same couch as before, but his eyes were closed. For a moment, he saw in him the old Carlton. Will didn't love him as he loved Mike, but Carlton had been important to him; he had liked him, until he changed, and since then, Will had tried to keep up.
Will entered the kitchen and decided he would cook Carlton's favorite meal: lasagna. Then they would sit at the table, he would apologize for interrupting his reading, agree to whatever Carlton wanted, and everything would be fine.
He cooked the ground beef in a pan, added tomato sauce and boiling water in a pot, and while the two pots heated, he chopped vegetables. He made sure not to make noise so as not to disturb Carlton, but he hummed songs by The Cure to himself—his favorite band with Jonathan. Once all the vegetables were chopped and the meat and sauce were ready, he took a large baking dish and layered everything neatly. He enjoyed it; he truly loved cooking, and the thought that this would make Carlton happy and that he might say he loved him made Will happy.
Then the phone rang, again and again. The faint chime echoed through the room, but Will didn't think; he just stared at it from the table, his heart beating louder than any sound. His hand shook as he reached for the receiver, as if every movement was heavier than usual, each step requiring effort.
"Hello?" he finally said, his voice barely audible, trembling. A stranger's voice answered on the other end. Sharp, penetrating, echoing inside Will's head. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to react. Every thought vanished into fear, into the pressure rising in his chest.
"It's Sean," the voice said, clear and dramatic, almost too much. "Where are you? I thought we were supposed to meet."
Will's world stopped for a moment. He felt blood crawl into his ankles, his hands stiffen. Before he could think or respond, the phone slipped from his hands, hitting the surface with a sharp sound, then swayed in the air.
Just then, they heard the couch creak—a sharp, oppressive sound—as Carlton's quick movement forced it to bend. Carlton jumped up hastily, almost losing balance, the light across his face revealing immediate discomfort. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the dangling phone, the air in the room thick and suffocating.
"Who is it?" Carlton asked, his voice tense, almost roaring, but not entirely. Every word seemed on the verge of breaking. Will felt his chest heavy, as if normal breathing wouldn't be enough. He wanted to hide his fear, his absent courage, but his body froze.
Sean shouted something from the other end, but the words didn't reach him; all he heard were echoes, muffled thunders, as if the world had shrunk around him. Then the call ended. A heavy silence fell over the room, the quiet after the storm almost as sharp as the pain filling Will from within.
Will stood there, unable to move his lips, unable even to think of a word that could release the pressure. He had avoided this question, he waited till he could imagined himself strong enough, ready to face it, but now he knew: he didn't have the courage. Not here, not in front of Carlton, not with the sound of the call ending, not with this sense of total helplessness that wrapped around him like a heavy, wet blanket.
He exhaled slowly, recoiled a little, and all the bright colors of the day, the small joy of the painting, the light that had filtered through the window, disappeared, sucked into a fear that existed only for this moment. Will knew there was no turning back, at least not until he found true strength, not until he understood what to do with everything he felt, with everything Carlton stirred in him, and especially now, with Sean's name hanging in the air like a threat. Thoughts surged and seized him: what if he just stayed silent again? What if he dodged again, let him control things, as he always had? His mother had always told him he deserved to know, that he deserved not to bend to someone who crushed his feelings. Those memories ran through his mind, and he felt a wave of determination seep into his body, mixed with the fear that still remained. The fear didn't disappear, but eventually he realized enough was enough, he deserved to know the truth.
Will took a long breath. He felt that every second of silence was another push for Carlton to control him, another minute where he let someone else dictate his emotions. And he was truly tired of it.
Before he could think any further, before he could consider the consequences, before he could weigh all the reasons not to ask, the words simply left his mouth:
"Who is Sean?"
Carlton recoiled, just for a fraction of a second, an almost imperceptible movement, but Will saw it. He saw in his eyes the moment the mask almost fell. Then, just as quickly, Carlton straightened, his shoulders set, his face returning to calm, as if nothing had been said.
"Someone from work," he said at last, shrugging, his voice flat. "Why does it even matter?"
Something in Will broke completely. Not with noise, not with shouting, but quietly. Slowly. In the deep fatigue accumulated over months, maybe years.
He felt his tongue heavy, his mouth dry, but the words no longer agreed to stay inside.
"Carlton... I'm not stupid."
He almost whispered it, as if raising his voice even slightly would make everything collapse. The urge to shout, to throw all the truth at him, was strong, but the fear still sat on his chest, pressing, warning.
Carlton looked at him sharply. His face stiffened, the muscles in his jaw tensing.
"What did you say?"
Will swallowed. His heart was pounding in his ears, but he had already passed the point of no return.
"I heard you," he said, his voice trembling but clear. "I heard you say you love him."
He paused for a second, as if checking whether air was still reaching his lungs.
"And the letter? That didn't sound like something coworkers write. 'Looking good today, Carl.'"
He felt heat rise to his face, a mix of shame and anger.
"And now he's calling. Asking where you are. Friday night. What is that fucking supposed to mean, Carlton?"
The words poured out of him, sharp, disordered. Will barely recognized himself—he had never spoken like this. Not to Carlton, not to anyone. All the frustration came out at once: all the times he stayed silent, all the times he let them drive him crazy just to avoid being alone, all the moments he convinced himself it was love.
He was tired of being small.
Tired of being the one who understands, who tolerates, who gives in.
Tired of feeling like an object taken out only when needed.
Then Carlton moved.
Not suddenly, not aggressively. He just approached. One step. Then another.
Will instinctively recoiled until his back hit the fridge. The cold metal seeped through his skin, freezing him in place.
"You yelled at me?"
Carlton's voice was quiet. Too calm. Almost gentle.
And that was the part that scared Will the most.
"Go to the room, Will."
Carlton's voice was cold, clipped, leaving no room for question. "I'm not willing to hear your bullshit anymore. You're pathetic."
The words hit him even before the hand did. They cut deep, straight to the place Will had always feared they were true. Then the hand was already on him, heavy, pressing, fingers locking around his arm and pulling him upward, step by step.
Will tried to pull back, not really to escape—just to pause, buy himself another second of air—but Carlton's grip was too strong. He felt the nails scrape his skin, his heart running wild, screaming from the inside. He wanted to shout. He wanted to kick. He wanted to run, back down the stairs, out, anywhere but here.
His body wouldn't obey.
The door slammed behind them with a sharp, metallic sound. The noise echoed in the room like a seal. Carlton locked it. The click of the lock was quiet—and that's what made it so horrifying.
"Take off your clothes," Carlton said, as if it were a daily request, as if he hadn't just broken something fundamental between them. "I'll think about whether to forgive you for the stupid things you said after that."
Will felt himself shrink inward. Nausea rose in his throat, his head spun. Not again. Please, not again. And the real pain wasn't even the fear—it was knowing he already knew this moment. That he had stood here before. That he had already convinced himself in the past that this was the price he had to pay to avoid being alone.
"Do you understand what I have to suffer because of you?"
Carlton kept speaking, his voice low, dripping. "You push me into this. You always do."
The words wrapped around Will, choking him.
"No one else will love you like I do," Carlton said.
Will felt his heart contract.
"No one. You're nothing but your stupid paintings. Without them? You'd be nothing."
Carlton's weight suffocated Will, and he felt him undressing him, tears choking his throat.
And that was the moment something in Will didn't break ,it froze.
His mind partially disconnected, as if trying to protect him. He stared at the wall in front of him, at a small chipped spot of paint, and almost involuntarily thought of colors. Of canvas. Of how Mike would hold his hand when he fell and tell him it was okay to cry.
He didn't feel loved.
He felt trapped.
This wasn't supposed to be like this.
Love wasn't supposed to feel like this.