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TAPE 000: THE PROLOGUE
The footage is shaky and bright. The sun is washing everything out. The sound is mostly just bike tires slowing down and the loud screech of the L-train in the distance.
The camera focuses on Will Byers. He’s leaning against a chain-link fence with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He looks completely worn out by the heat. His hair is damp at the temples, his white button down is sticking to his skin, and his bag is dropped on the ground by his feet.
Mike Wheeler is right in front of him. He’s wearing a thin gray t-shirt with a hole in the collar. He doesn’t look bothered by the heat. He has a pile of cheap white sunscreen in his hand and is rubbing it into Will’s face. He’s doing it with a level of intensity that looks almost aggressive.
WILL: (Muffled by the cigarette)"You’re going to get it in my eye, Mike. I can feel it."
MIKE: "Shut up. You’re turning bright red, Will. If you get a bad burn, I’m the one who has to hear you complain about it all night while we’re trying to sleep."
Mike’s thumb drags across the bridge of Will’s nose. He lingers there for a second too long, staring at Will’s face like he’s trying to figure something out.
JONATHAN (O.S.): (The camera zooms in close on Mike chasing aspirin with a drag from Will’s cigarette.)"Just keep doing what you’re doing. Hold that."
MIKE: (Without looking at the lens) "Jonathan, I am seconds away from throwing your expensive-ass lens into the East River. What is this even for? You’ve been filming us for three miles."
JONATHAN (O.S.): "It’s for my thesis, Mike. Losing Dogs. I already explained the whole concept to you last week. The aftermath? The habits people keep when they’re trying to survive?"
MIKE: (Swiping his greasy hands against his jeans) “Yeah, yeah. I remember very well. You basically called us losers without outright saying it!”
JONATHAN (O.S.): (Peeking his head out from behind the camera) “And I also vividly remember you telling me what a great idea. That I would definitely pass with this!
WILL: (He reaches down, grabs his keys, and pops the cap off a beer. He looks at the camera suspiciously) "Losing dogs? That’s what you’re calling us? It sounds….dark, Jonathan. I don’t really want people in your class seeing us like this. Or your pretentious professors. It feels private."
JONATHAN (O.S.): (His voice is flat, almost clinical) "I’m just recording what’s happening. If it feels private, that's because it's real. Don't overthink it."
Will sighs and smoke comes out of his nose. He looks tired but relaxed. He offers the beer to Mike first as a peace offering. Mike takes a quick drink and then hands it back.
As Will tilts his head back to drink, the camera zooms in slowly.
The cigarette is still between Will’s fingers. His neck is tilted back and his skin is shiny with sweat and sunscreen. The camera catches the movement of his throat as he swallows the cold beer.
The frame stays there.
In the corner of the shot, Mike has completely stopped moving. He isn't helping with the sunscreen anymore. He’s just staring at Will’s neck with his mouth open. He looks paralyzed, like he’s watching something he wasn't supposed to see. He looks terrified of his own thoughts.
JONATHAN (O.S.): (A very quiet, realization-heavy whisper) "...Holy. Shit."
MIKE: (His voice cracks slightly as he finally pulls his hand away from Will’s face) "Let’s go. I’m starving."
STATIC. TAPE ENDS.
THE DIRECTOR’S VISION: "LOSING DOGS"
Behind a handheld Panasonic AG-190, Jonathan Byers is doing swell.
Well, ‘swell’ is a relative term. He’s currently surviving on a diet of Surge and cheap black tea that’s been steeping so long it’s basically tar. He hasn't shaved in three weeks, his senior thesis is three months behind, and he’s pretty sure he owes the university enough money to buy a small island.
But as he watches the viewfinder, he feels a spark of cinematic genius.
His MFA project is titled ‘Betting on Losing Dogs.’ It’s a messy, grainy look at kids in the city. It's about the way they rot in apartments they can't afford and the way the shit they went through in their hometown follows them around like a ghost they can't shake.
And his primary targets are his brother and his best friend.
And this other guy it appears.
TAPE 005: THE REPLACEMENT
The footage is grainy and looks like shit, shot under the buzzing fluorescent kitchen lights. The apartment is a total mess of wire shelves, stacks of records, and empty Surge cans.
A rhythmic, wet thwack coming from the kitchen as Mike is currently slamming a bag of frozen nuggets against the counter to break them apart. In the background, the ancient orange phone is ringing with a loud, annoying sound.
JONATHAN (O.S.): "Mike, answer the phone. It’s been ringing for three minutes. It’s probably Jane. It’s ruining my take."
MIKE: (He looks terrible. His eyes are puffy, his nose is raw, and he’s wearing that Mudhoney sweatshirt with the purple border around the solarized concert photo that is peeling.) "I can't. If I move anywhere near the open window, I’ll sneeze and my brain will leak out. Tell her I’m dead. Tell her the city killed me."
WILL: (Walking into the shot, wearing a paint-splattered cardigan) "I’ll get it." (He picks up the phone, dragging the tangled cord across the floor.) "Hey, Jane. Yeah... no, Mike’s just being dramatic. He thinks he’s in a Tennessee Williams play today."
MIKE: "I’m a Dramatic Lit major, Will! I’m allowed to be atmospheric!"
There’s a heavy, solid knock on the door. It isn't the frantic kick of Argyle or a neighbor's tap. It’s a loud, confident knock.
Jonathan pans the camera toward the door as Will is the one to swing open.
Entry: A mystery guy.
The guy standing there looks like a mistake in reality. Tall, pale, dark hair. He’s wearing a vintage leather jacket that actually fits his shoulders, a giant heart stabbed with a sword embroidered with silver almost metallic looking thread on his back. He doesn't have a shitty backpack with holes; he has a nice duffel. He looks like Mike Wheeler if Mike had actually taken care of himself and had been raised by knights instead of suburban neglect. And lifted some weights. And grew taller like an inch. And had better hair.
"Greetings. I was told the Byers brothers dwell within these walls? I am Michael. Michael Brave. I have traversed the great void to fulfill the vacancy in your domestic circle."
The camera jerks as Jonathan snorts behind the lens.
JONATHAN (O.S.): "Domestic circle? Man, you’re just the guy paying the other half of the rent. Did you find the place okay?"
REGULAR MIKE: (Frozen with a frozen chicken nugget halfway to his mouth) "Who the hell is this? Why does he look like... why does he look like that?"
MICHAEL BRAVE: (He ignores Regular Mike entirely. He locks onto Will with an intense, serious stare. He walks inside, moving with a grace that makes the cramped apartment feel like a church.) "And you... you must be the Cleric. The artisan who brings color to this grey metropolis. My divine oath has led me to thy side, William. It is a sacred honor to finally stand in thy presence."
Before Will can say anything, Michael Brave reaches out, takes Will’s hand, and bows his head, kissing Will’s knuckles.
WILL: (His face turns bright red. He looks at the camera, then at Regular Mike, then back at Brave.) "Uh. Yeah. Hi. I'm Will. You... you can put your stuff on the couch. Mike—the other Mike—was sleeping there, but he can move."
REGULAR MIKE: (Sounding congested and pissed off) "I am not moving! I have a clinical condition! Jonathan, tell him! Tell this... this theatre-camp reject to get out!"
JONATHAN (O.S.): (Zooming in tight on Regular Mike’s miserable face) "Actually, Mike... he’s already paid the deposit. In cash. He’s staying. He’s better for the lighting.”
MICHAEL BRAVE: (Turning to Regular Mike, offering a hand with a grip that looks like it could crush a bone) "Fret not, namesake. I’ll be a good guest. Maybe you could show me where this 'surge' of energy is kept?"
REGULAR MIKE: "It’s a soda, you freak! It’s just a soda!"
JANE: (A tiny, distorted voice is scratching out of the speaker) "Hello? Will? Mike? What is happening now? Who is that?"
STATIC. TAPE ENDS.
Mike Wheeler does not like to be fucked in the ass.
But he currently is. Metaphorically, spiritually, and, as far as his living situation is concerned, quite literally.
He’s being fucked over by the rent prices in the East Village. He’s being fucked over by the pollen count currently turning his sinuses into a war zone. And most importantly, he is being fucked over by the man currently standing in his living room—a man who looks exactly like him.
A man currently kissing Will’s knuckles.
"Kill me," Mike whispers into the collar of his Mudhoney sweatshirt. It smells like three-day-old American Spirits and tragedy. "Just kill me now."
⸻
The L-train made that god-awful screeching sound as it barreled under the East River. Mike Wheeler stood by the doors and stared at his reflection in the dark glass. He looked like shit. He looked like a blurry background character in his own life that someone had tried to delete but forgot a few spots.
In Hawkins, he was the leader. He was the Paladin and the guy with the plan. In New York, he was just a Dramatic Lit major who couldn't even order a coffee without stuttering like an idiot. He felt gross, fueled by a diet of shitty beige food and spring allergies that made his face feel like it was falling off.
College wasn't the ‘fresh start’ he’d promised Will. It was just a slow realization that he was kind of a loser. He spent his days in cold lecture halls analyzing depressing plays and his nights in that same Mudhoney sweatshirt. Unwashed. Horrid.
And then there was Will.
Will was thriving in a way that felt like a personal insult to Mike’s misery. Will was the ‘chic magnet’ of the arts building. Mike watched him through the lens of Jonathan’s camera, or from the corner of a crowded party, and saw the way people drifted toward him. Will had this quiet, mysterious gravity. He’d be standing there with paint on his cheek or deep in thought and a cigarette behind his ear, and Mike would feel his chest cave in.
‘Why the fuck can't I just be normal?’ Mike thought. His fingers went to the silver hoop in his ear. Will had pierced it for him during a late-night moment of bravery that Mike hadn't felt since.
He was terrified that Will was outgrowing him. He was scared that NYC was turning Will into something amazing while it was just turning Mike into a mess. He felt like the ‘best friend’ crutch holding Will back from a life of fancy art galleries and people who didn't eat frozen nuggets for every meal.
He hated how much he stared. He hated calling them ‘just bros’ every time they got too close on the couch. His voice would crack like he was twelve again because he was so scared that if he told the truth, the whole shitty, beautiful world they’d built in the East Village would just break.
But the last few days had been a specific kind of hell.
Ever since Michael Brave moved in, the apartment had become a minefield. Mike was filled with an intense jealousy that felt like drinking battery acid.
Now, he had to go home to the apartment. Their domestic circle was being invaded by a version of himself that didn't have a staring problem. But this guy? This guy walked in and called him a Cleric. He used words like ‘divinity.’ He treated Will like something sacred instead of a roommate. He did the things Mike had been practicing in his head since 1985, reaching out to steady Will by the small of his back while they were in the kitchen, or brushing a stray hair from Will's forehead with a thumb and he did them without hesitating for a second.
TAPE 009: THE FEAST OF THE USURPER
The video starts with a loud, annoying mechanical whine as Jonathan fixes the focus. The apartment is hot as hell. The radiator is banging a steady, metallic rhythm that sounds like a headache. The frame is a mess. There is a shelf in the front loaded with tapes that aren't labeled, a half ripped The Cure poster on the wall and a half-empty bottle of store-brand allergy meds.
JONATHAN (O.S.): “Tape nine. We’ve got a new member. The vibe is... well, it’s awkward as hell. You could feel the tension the second you walk in. Luckily, our new friend brought a knife to handle it."
The camera pans over to the kitchen. Mike Brave has completely taken over. He was wearing a black tank top that shows off shoulders Mike Wheeler is clearly pissed he doesn't have. On the counter, there aren't any greasy deli wrappers. Instead, there's fresh asparagus, heirloom tomatoes, and a block of expensive tofu. He’s working a heavy cast-iron pan, searing the food like his life depends on it.
MICHAEL BRAVE: (Voice loud and steady, like he’s on a stage) “A man is but a hollow shell without real sustenance, William. A true Cleric cannot thrive on the ash of coffee and cigarettes alone. Thou must nourish the temple to keep thy vision clear for the work ahead."
REGULAR MIKE: (Visible in the corner of the frame, slumped at the wobbly table. He’s staring at a pile of grey, lukewarm fries on a paper plate. The smell of his own food suddenly feels like a personal failure compared to the garlic hitting the pan.) "It’s just a stir-fry, man. You’re making dinner, not a religious experience. And nobody has said 'thou' since the middle ages."
JONATHAN (O.S.): "Let him cook, Mike. For real. Look at how the light hits that tofu. It looks professional. It looks like he actually gives a shit."
The camera zooms in. Will is leaning against the fridge with his arms crossed over his messy cardigan. He’s just watching this ‘Paladin’ with total confusion.
WILL: "Where did you even find fresh asparagus at seven on a Tuesday, Michael? Everything around here is just gross lettuce and frozen pizza."
MICHAEL BRAVE: (He turns away from the heat and steps directly into Will’s personal space. He doesn't just stand near him; he looms, taking over the whole room. He reaches out, his thumb and finger stopping just a tiny bit away from the silver hoop in Will’s ear. Gently caressing his face.) “I have my ways, Artisan. A knight always knows where the best provisions are kept. I wouldst not see thee faint from hunger or rot away on the grey trash of this city while thou laborest over thy sacred drawings."
WILL: (He lets out a small, breathless laugh, his face turning a deep, dusty red. He looks down, unable to keep looking at the guy.) "I’m just drawing cartoon characters for my assignments, man. Not ancient scrolls. And I'm used to just... eating whatever I find in the back of the freezer."
MICHAEL BRAVE: (Voice dropping an octave, dead serious) "Not while I draw breath in this domestic circle. Thy strength is my charge."
The camera jerks to the left to catch Regular Mike. He has stopped eating. He’s gripping the fork so hard his knuckles are white, looking at his potatoes like they’re an insult. He knows Will hasn’t had a real meal in weeks because Mike is too lazy to cook anything that doesn't come in a box and Will barely has time to breathe, let alone stand over a stove.
REGULAR MIKE: (Voice cracking and bitter) "Hey, Sir Lancelot? The garlic is burning. You’re going to set off the alarm and the fire department is going to show up and see you acting like a personal chef for a guy who just wants to eat his cereal in peace."
MICHAEL BRAVE: (Without looking back, tossing the vegetables with a practiced flick of the wrist) "The scent is merely the essence of the earth awakening, namesake. Temper thy tongue and perhaps I shall spare a portion for thee."
JONATHAN (O.S.): (A quiet, mean laugh) "God, this is better than any script. Mike looks like he wants to bite someone's head off, but he’s still eating processed garbage while the better man is serving the artist a real meal."
STATIC. TAPE ENDS.
TAPE 010: THE HARMONY OF THE WEIRD
The door flies open so hard it slams against the blueish water stained wall, sending a bunch of empty Surge cans clattering across the floor. The hallway light flickered a gross yellow, framing Argyle in a neon-orange poncho and a backwards trucker hat.
ARGYLE: "Brothers! The winds of fate brought me here, and they smell like... wait." (He stops and sniffs the air like a dog). "Is that toasted sesame and ginger? Jonathan, did you finally sell a kidney for some real food, man? Because the vibe in here is suddenly very high-quality."
The camera moves from Argyle to the kitchen, where Mike the Brave is putting asparagus sticks on plates like a Michelin-star chef. Argyle’s eyes go wide. He looks at Brave, then slowly turns his head to see Regular Mike, who is still clutching his fork and looking like he’s about to cry.
ARGYLE: "Whoa... Jonathan. You actually did it. You grew a second Wheeler. It’s like the universe hit copy-paste and then clicked 'upgrade.'"
JONATHAN (O.S.): (Muffled laughing behind the lens) "He’s the subletter, Argyle. Meet Michael Brave. He brought his own cast iron and a savior complex."
ARGYLE: (Walking around Brave like he’s looking at an exhibit in a museum) "Sick. Totally sick. You’ve got a crazy vibe, man. Very shiny. Like you're the future of the species or something."
MICHAEL BRAVE: (He doesn't even blink. He just gives Argyle a stiff, formal nod). "I am Michael. I seek only to love and protect my oath and ensure the Cleric does not wither. Wilt thou join us at the table, Traveler? There is plenty for a man of thy... unique energy."
ARGYLE: "Will I? Bro, I am definitely in. I brought the good stuff to celebrate!" (He slams a greasy box and a crumpled bag of weed onto the messy table). "We’ve got the 'Purple Palm Tree Delight' and a pineapple-jalapeño pie. It’s a total flavor explosion!"
REGULAR MIKE: "It’s 10:00 PM on a Tuesday, Argyle. I have a 9:00 AM lecture tomorrow. We are not having a 'flavor explosion.'"
JONATHAN (O.S.): "Yes, we are. Shut the fuck up, Mike. This is just getting good."
The camera zooms in on Will. He’s finally sitting down, and Mike the Brave has put a perfect plate in front of him. Will looks back and forth between the two Mikes. One looks like a literal knight and the other looks like a damp basement. He catches Argyle’s eye and just gives a helpless, amused shrug.
WILL: "I think we’re definitely having some fun tonight, Mike."
ARGYLE: (Leaning over Regular Mike and patting his shoulder) "Don't be a bummer, Little Wheeler. Just because Big Wheeler over here is cooking real food doesn't mean your spirit isn't valid. You're just the... the low-budget version. The B-side. Everyone loves a B-side."
REGULAR MIKE: "I’m not a B-side! I’m the original! He’s the... he’s the shitty, pretentious knockoff from some Renaissance fair!"
JONATHAN (O.S.): (The camera zooms in on the weed as Argyle starts to roll a joint on a The Smiths record sleeve) "Keep that energy, Mike. It's going to look great in the final cut."
STATIC. TAPE ENDS.
The apartment felt like it was getting smaller by the second. The air was thick with the smell of garlic and the heavy presence of Michael Brave. Every time he moved, the floorboards groaned in a way Mike’s scrawny body could never make them do. He felt like a ghost haunting his own living room, just a pale, sneezing phantom watching a better man move into his life and take over.
Mike couldn't catch his breath. He watched Brave lean over to hand Will a napkin, his arm brushing Will’s shoulder with a casual confidence that made Mike’s head spin. Without saying a word, Mike snatched a pre-roll from Argyle’s pile on the table and climbed out the open window.
The fire escape was freezing. The rusted iron bars poked through his thin jeans, and the city air tasted like exhaust and damp bricks, but at least it didn't smell like tofu or expensive leather. He sat on the edge with his legs hanging over the dark, trashy alley and lit the joint. The end glowed a bright, lonely orange.
He took a drag and let the smoke burn his throat. It was the only thing that felt solid, the only thing that belonged entirely to him.
The window behind him slid up with a familiar metallic screech. Mike didn't have to look. He knew the soft sound of Will’s Vans anywhere. He’d spent half his life memorizing the sound of Will walking toward him. Will sat down on the grating, leaving that typical ‘just friends’ gap between their shoulders.
"You didn't eat," Will said quietly. Out here, framed by the shadows of the iron railings and the distant lights of the city, he looked smaller. Softer.
"I wasn't hungry," Mike muttered, his voice sounding flat and congested. "It's hard to eat when Sir Galahad is narrating the 'spirit of the asparagus' like he's on the Discovery Channel."
Will gave a small, tired laugh. "He’s a lot, Mike. I get it. But he’s... he’s just trying to be nice."
"He’s not being nice, Will. He’s being a freak," Mike snapped, finally turning to face him. The weed was starting to hit, making his heart beat a little faster and a little meaner. "He’s treating you like a project. 'The Artisan.' 'The Sacred Cleric.' It’s weird and it's creepy. And the way he’s touching you? Why aren't you weirded out by it?"
Will didn't answer right away. He looked out at the skyline, the wind tossing his hair across his forehead. "Maybe because I’ve spent my whole life feeling like a problem to be solved, Mike. Or some victim people have to save from a hole in the ground. He’s the first person who looks at me and sees someone worth praising. Even if the way he talks is bizarre, he makes me feel like I truly matter for once."
The words hit Mike like a punch to the stomach. I see you, he wanted to scream. I’ve been praising you in my head since we were five. I’ve been looking at you so hard it hurts. But he hadn't said it. He was the ‘B-Side.’ He was the guy who stayed quiet and called it ‘friendship’ because he was too terrified to lose the only thing he had.
A dark, desperate idea started forming in Mike’s head. It was petty and cruel, but it was the only weapon he had left.
"You know," Mike said, his voice dropping into a low, mean rasp, "if he’s such a 'Warrior,' he should be able to handle Argyle’s best stuff, right? Since he’s so in tune with the spirits and whatever."
Will frowned, sensing the shift in Mike’s energy. "What are you thinking, Mike?"
"I’m thinking we go back in. We get him high. Really, really high," Mike smirked, though his eyes weren't happy. "Let’s see how 'Noble' he is when he can’t remember how to use a fork. Let’s see if he still talks like a knight when he’s losing his mind over a bag of Funyuns."
It was a loser move. It was the move of a dog backed into a corner. But as Mike handed the joint to Will and felt their cold fingers touch for a second, he didn't care.
"Fine," Will whispered. He took a long hit, a small, reckless grin appearing on his face as he looked at Mike through the smoke.
TAPE 015: THE GREEN ESCAPE
The footage is a total wreck. The camera is tilted at a weird angle because Jonathan is currently sitting on a stack of milk crates and swaying back and forth. The lens is smudged with pizza grease, which makes the whole room look blurry and soft. The air in the apartment is a thick, visible fog of Argyle’s best weed.
JONATHAN (O.S.): (A long, wheezing laugh that sounds like a tea kettle) "Look at the light, man. It’s like the TV is bleeding static into the air. This is the real deal. We’re all getting higher than the rent."
The camera wobbles over to the couch. Will and Regular Mike are squeezed together on the saggy cushions. Will is wearing his messy cardigan with his head tilted back against the wall. His eyes are red and shiny. Regular Mike is right next to him, his shoulder pressed hard against Will’s. He’s clutching a bag of Funyuns like a shield and has a wide, glassy-eyed grin on his face.
WILL: "Mike... Mike, do you think the records feel it? The music? Or are they just... circles?"
REGULAR MIKE: (Giggling so hard he snorts, his stuffy nose making it sound like a small honk) "They’re definitely circles, Will. Sad, spinning circles. Just like us. We’re the records, man."
Will nods in agreement, blinking slowly.
REGULAR MIKE: (Leaning into Will, whispering loudly) "Will... Will, look at him. I just realized. The heart. The 'thou arts.' The way he keeps talking about his 'sire.' It’s... it’s him."
WILL: (Giggling, his voice sounding like it’s underwater) "Who, Mike? Who is he?"
REGULAR MIKE: (Hysterical, gripping a bag of Funyuns so hard they’re turning to dust) "It’s my high-level Paladin, Will! From the '84 campaign! He’s literally the character I built to protect your Cleric! I gave him those stats! I gave him that 'Divine Oath' speech! Oh my god, I’m being replaced by my own imagination!"
JONATHAN (O.S.): "That’s deep. Mike, you’re a philosopher now."
The camera moves slowly toward Michael Brave. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the radiator. He took a massive hit from the joint Regular Mike kept passing him as part of the plan to humiliate him, but it hasn't made him look stupid. It’s just made him more intense. His noble posture is beginning to fall apart, replaced by something much more raw.
MICHAEL BRAVE: (His voice is deep and a bit slurred, but he's still trying to sound like he’s on a stage) "The smoke is heavy, namesake. It feels like the very floor is made of clouds. I feel powerful. I feel the bond... the cord that ties my soul to the Cleric."
REGULAR MIKE: (Giving the camera a thumbs-up while looking at Will) "See? He’s feeling the spirit. Hey, Brave, you want another hit? Do it for the... for the dungeon master!"
MICHAEL BRAVE: (He takes the joint and his hand is shaking a little bit. He inhales deeply and then stares at Will with an intensity that isn't polite anymore. He looks hungry and weird.) "William... you’re glowing. In this fog, you’re a light. I have spent a lifetime in the dark... I will not be denied the light again."
The camera zooms in on Regular Mike’s face. His ‘evil plan’ look has officially turned into a look of ‘I’ve made a horrible mistake.’ He watches as the Paladin. The one he created to be the perfect man. Perfect Mike. Now starts literally crawling toward the couch on his knees, his eyes fixed on Will.
ARGYLE (O.S.): "Whoa, Jonathan! The Big Wheeler is on the move! He’s on a mission, bro! He’s questing!"
JONATHAN (O.S.): (Giggling hysterically as the camera shakes) "He’s going for the artist. Look at that focus. It’s actually terrifying."
MICHAEL BRAVE: (Reaching the edge of the couch, his hand gripping the cushion right next to Will’s leg) "Move aside, shadow. The Cleric needs his Shield."
He falls face first into the couch next to Will sniffing the air.
MICHAEL BRAVE: "The incense of this realm is potent, William. It thins the veil."
He reaches out and pulls Will into his lap as if Will weighs nothing at all. He settles Will against his chest with one arm wrapped firmly around his waist. His other hand is splayed over Will’s hip, holding him in place with a casual, massive strength.
WILL: (Dazed and flushed) "Michael... you're really strong. Everything is spinning."
MICHAEL BRAVE: "Then let me be thy anchor."
He leans down and presses his forehead against the side of Will’s head, whispering loud enough for the camera to catch. ‘Though this world has stripped thee of thy spells, thou art still my divinity. I wouldst slaughter every beast in this city to see thee smile.’
REGULAR MIKE: (He is sitting on the floor, staring at the sight of Will being held like something holy. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, and twitching. He looks like he’s actually having a breakdown.) "He's... he's touching his hip. Jonathan, his hand is right on his hip. Why does he get to do that? He’s been here for four days! I’ve known Will for twelve years and I’ve never... I’ve never even..."
JONATHAN (O.S.): (Zooming in on Mike’s shaking hands) "He is losing his mind."
MICHAEL BRAVE: (Looking at Mike with cold, superior eyes) "Thou art a strange, frail shadow of the man I know, namesake. Thou dost stare while I act. A Cleric needs a Shield, not a spectator."
REGULAR MIKE: (He stands up, his voice a high, frantic rasp) "I'm going to the fucking bathroom to die!"
TAPE ENDS. STATIC.
The bathroom door slammed shut, but it didn't block out the sound of Michael Brave’s deep, booming voice.
Cleric, Mike thought, gripping the edges of the sink until his knuckles turned white. He called him his Cleric. He picked him up. He picked him up like he was made of air.
Mike stared at himself in the cracked mirror. He looked like a wreck with puffy eyes, red nose, and a sweatshirt that hadn't seen a washing machine in weeks. And out there was a version of him that was a literal warrior. A version that didn't care about social cues or friendship boundaries.
He felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the weed. It was the realization that Michael Brave wasn't just better; he was devoted. He didn't have the fear that kept Regular Mike paralyzed. He didn't care if New York thought he was crazy. He just cared about Will.
"He's going to take him," Mike whispered, his voice cracking. "He's going to carry him away to some other dimension and I'm just going to be left here with my self loathing and my assignments i don’t give a shit about."
He leaned over the toilet, his brain spiraling into a loop of Michael Brave’s hand on Will’s hip. It was a physical ache, a total mental breakdown of jealousy that made the room tilt. He wasn't just a losing dog anymore; he was a dog watching someone else eat his dinner at a golden table.
TAPE 016: THE FALSE GOD
The camera isn't moving anymore. It’s sitting crooked on a stack of milk crates, and the shot is mostly just the sagging floral couch. The smoke in the room has turned into a heavy, still fog that catches the flickering blue light from the TV.
Jonathan is quiet now. The ‘director’ has finally shut up.
On the couch, Michael Brave isn't a mountain anymore. He’s slumped over, and his huge frame looks heavy and worn out. He’s still holding Will, but the protectiveness has turned into something desperate. His head is buried in the crook of Will’s neck, and his hand, which was so firm on Will’s hip earlier, is shaking against the corduroy.
WILL: (His voice is quiet and he's stopped giggling. He looks sobered by how much this guy actually weighs. He looks at the camera, then at Mike.) "Michael? You’re... you’re shaking. Mike, help me. Something is wrong with him."
REGULAR MIKE: (Sitting on the floor, staring up at them. The jealousy is gone, replaced by a cold, empty feeling. He’s watching his own power fantasy fall apart.) "He’s just high, Will. He’s greening out. Right, Sir Lancelot? The 'spirit of the flame' finally caught up to you?"
MICHAEL BRAVE: (He pulls back slowly. His eyes are bloodshot and full of a grief that looks centuries old. He speaks, and the old-timey words are still there, but the theatrical voice is gone. It sounds like a funeral.) "It is not the flame that burns, namesake. It is the cold. The silence of the void between worlds."
He looks at Will, but his eyes are unfocused, like he’s looking at a ghost.
MICHAEL BRAVE: "In the realm where I was born... we did not play these games. My William... he was bleeding in the tall grass. The beasts were circling. I did not speak of 'friendship' or 'brotherhood' then. I took his hand and I swore my soul to his, for I knew the sun might never rise again."
WILL: (His breath hitches. He looks frozen by how intense this is.) "And did it? Did the sun come up?"
MICHAEL BRAVE: "It did. And for two winters, I held the sun in my arms. We did not waste our time on 'almost' or lies. We lived." (He looks at Regular Mike, his lip curling in pity and disgust.) "But thou... thou art a strange, empty creature. Thou dost love thy fear as if it were a treasure. Thou wouldst rather starve in this grey cage than risk the hurt of a 'yes.'"
REGULAR MIKE: (A shaky whisper) "You don't know me. You're just.... You're a fiction."
MICHAEL BRAVE: "I am the truth of what thou couldst be, if thy heart were not made of glass. Thou dost love the story of the 'Losing Dog' because it asks nothing of thee. It is a shield made of straw. Thou dost watch the Artist wither in thy silence, and thou callest it 'loyalty.'"
He turns back to Will, his hand cupping Will’s face. The touch is heavy, almost too much.
MICHAEL BRAVE: "Thou art not my William. My Cleric sleepeth beneath the white trees of a world thou shalt never see. And thou... thou art a bird waiting for a cage door to open, not knowing that the lock has been broken for years."
Will flinches. He looks at Regular Mike, desperate for him to say something. A joke, a comeback. Anything to break the spell. But Mike just looks at the floor, picking at a loose thread on his Mudhoney sweatshirt. His silence proves everything the Paladin said was right.
MICHAEL BRAVE: "Thou art starving, Artisan. And it is not for asparagus."
JONATHAN (O.S.): (A quiet whisper, like he finally gets it) "The words are the same... but the story is over."
MICHAEL BRAVE: (He lets go of Will and stands up, swaying. He looks straight into the camera lens.) "Stop thy recording, Chronicler. There is no glory left to find in this mess. The play is over."
STATIC. TAPE ENDS.
ACT II — JONATHAN’S NOTEBOOK
The ink is smeared and the handwriting looks rushed.
"Observation: The words are the same, but the man is different. Michael Brave isn't actually a better version of Mike. He’s just a version that lived through the end of everything and realized that being brave isn't a choice anymore, it’s a requirement.
Mike is obsessed with the 'Almost.' He likes the safety of just wanting someone because if he never actually gets what he wants, he never has to worry about losing it. He thinks he’s protecting my brother by staying in this 'just friends' loop. He doesn't get that by refusing to just say the words, he's letting the whole relationship fall apart.
Losing dogs aren't just unlucky. They keep picking fights they know they'll lose because they're scared of what happens if they actually win. Mike is terrified of winning. He’s scared that if he actually touches Will, his whole world will stop.
Brave just told him that his world ended a long time ago and they're both just living in the aftermath."
TAPE 018: THE CHILDHOOD LOOP
The morning light is bright and harsh, cutting through the city smog and showing off every bit of dust and dirt in the apartment. The smoke from last night is gone, replaced by the gross smell of cold coffee and old food.
The camera is handheld again. Jonathan is standing in the living room doorway, filming from a distance. He’s using a zoom lens, framing Mike and Will through the wooden bars of a chair back. It makes them look like they’re stuck in a cage or a crib.
Regular Mike and Will are on the floor. They aren't looking at the kitchen where Michael Brave is quietly cleaning his pan. Instead, they are huddled over a shoe box full of old Polaroids and drawings from 1983.
REGULAR MIKE: (Letting out a forced, high laugh) "Oh my god, Will, look. This is the map from that old campaign. You spilled grape juice on the woods and tried to tell me it was 'magical blood' from a wounded elf."
WILL: (His voice sounds like he's trying too hard to keep the joke going, leaning into Mike’s space) "It was blood, Mike! The dice didn't lie. I remember you tried to argue about how the juice actually spilled for twenty minutes. You were such a nerd back then."
REGULAR MIKE: "I was a tactician. There’s a difference."
They are sitting really close, closer than they usually get when they’re sober. Mike’s shoulder is tucked under Will’s, their heads almost touching as they look at the scraps of their past. It looks sweet, but through the lens, it looks like they're hiding. They are talking in shorthand, using inside jokes like a secret language to block everyone else out.
JONATHAN (O.S.): (Whispering) "Look at them. They’re running back to the basement. They think if they stay ten years old, the things Brave said last night won't be true."
The camera moves slowly to the right. Michael Brave is at the sink. He’s wearing his leather jacket again, zipped all the way up like he’s ready for a storm. He isn't looking at the dishes; he is watching the two of them on the floor. He doesn't look jealous. He looks like a man watching a sad play he’s already seen a thousand times. He looks incredibly depressed as he grips the edge of the counter.
MICHAEL BRAVE: (His voice is low and heavy, cutting through their laughter) "Dost thou truly believe that paper and ink can shield thee from the sun, William? Thou dost hide in the shadows of thy youth while the world demandeth thy presence."
The laughter on the floor stops immediately. Mike and Will freeze, still huddled together, looking like two kids caught breaking a rule.
REGULAR MIKE: (Without looking up, his voice cracking) "We’re just remembering stuff, Brave. Not everything has to be a 'mission.' We’re allowed to just talk about our lives."
MICHAEL BRAVE: "These are not thy lives, namesake. These are thy ghosts. Thou art embalming thyself in the dust of Hawkins. Thou dost cling to the boy William because thou art too terrified to behold the man he hath become."
He steps closer, his heavy boots thudding on the floor. It’s a huge contrast to the quiet, fragile bubble Mike and Will have built. He looks down at the Polaroids of two skinny kids in a basement.
MICHAEL BRAVE: "In my realm, we burned the maps when they were no longer true. We walked into the fire because to stay behind was to die. Thou art staying behind on purpose. Thou art a Paladin of nothing but shadows."
WILL: (Pulling away from Mike, his eyes wet) "It’s not shadows, Michael. It’s... it’s all we have."
MICHAEL BRAVE: "It is all thou allowest thyself to have. It is a pittance. A crumb for a starving soul."
He turns and walks toward the window, looking out at the city. He looks like an adult in a room full of toddlers.
JONATHAN (O.S.): "They look like they’re playing house. And he looks like the guy who has to tell them the house is on fire.”
STATIC. TAPE ENDS.
ACT II — JONATHAN’S NOTEBOOK
"I’ve never seen anything more pathetic than this morning’s walk down memory lane.
They were so frantic about it. 'Remember this? Remember that?' Every memory was like a brick they were using to build a wall between them and the guy in the leather jacket. They think that by acting like kids, they’re staying safe.
Brave isn't a threat to their friendship. He’s a threat to the fact that they're stuck. He’s the only one in the room who sees that Will is an artist with a world to take on, and that Mike is a man with his heart locked in a box.
Mike and Will are addicted to the safety of being kids. But Brave... Brave is a reminder that the kids where he comes from had to grow up or get buried. He’s looking at them and seeing a waste of potential that’s almost holy in how tragic it is."
TAPE 020: BETTING ON LOSING DOGS
The footage looks different this time. It isn't shaky or handheld. The camera is on a tripod, and the shot is perfectly still. It captures the whole living room in one wide, steady view.
Regular Mike and Will are on the couch, watching cartoons on the small TV. They’re eating cereal straight from the box with their shoulders touching. It looks like a perfect, boring routine.
Michael Brave is in the background. He’s standing by the window with his back to them, looking like a statue of a grieving king.
Jonathan walks into the frame. He doesn't go behind the lens. Instead, he pulls a chair into the middle of the room, sits on it backwards, and faces Mike and Will.
REGULAR MIKE: (Mouth full of Froot Loops) "What are you doing, Jonathan? Are we doing an interview now?"
JONATHAN: "No. We’re done with the interviews. I’m just finishing my project."
He looks at them for a long, awkward moment. The silence lasts so long that the TV noises start to sound way too loud.
JONATHAN: "Do you guys know why I called this project Betting on Losing Dogs?"
WILL: (Laughing nervously and looking at Mike) "Because we’re broke? Because we live in this tiny place? We ruin our health with substances?"
JONATHAN: "No. It’s a gambling term. It’s about people who bet on the dog they know is going to lose. They do it on purpose."
REGULAR MIKE: (Putting the cereal box down, getting defensive immediately) "Okay, cool story. Can we go back to the show?"
JONATHAN: "They do it because if they bet on a winner, they have to have hope. And hope is scary. But if you bet on a loser? You get to feel smart when it fails. You get to say, 'See? I told you the world was mean.' You get to stay safe in your own little tragedy."
He points a finger at Mike.
JONATHAN: "That’s you, Mike. You’re betting against yourself every single day. You brought this guy in—" (He gestures to Michael Brave in the back) "—thinking he’d be a joke. Thinking he’d make you look normal. But he didn't. He made you look dead."
REGULAR MIKE: "Shut up, Jonathan."
JONATHAN: (Voice steady and blunt) "Look at him. He’s you without the fear. And you hate him for it. You hate him because he’s proof that you could have had everything you wanted if you just spoke up three years ago. But you didn't. You decided to play 'best friend.' You decided to stay stuck in 1985 because you’d rather live in the past than be real."
WILL: (His voice trembling) "Jonathan, stop. You’re being an asshole."
JONATHAN: (Turning to Will, his face softening but still being harsh) "And you, Will. You’re letting him do it. You’re starving for affection, and you’re letting him give you crumbs because you think you don't deserve a full meal. You think his silence is protecting you. It’s not. It’s a cage. You guys aren't tragic heroes in some play. You’re just afraid."
The room is completely silent. Michael Brave turns away from the window. He looks at Jonathan and gives a slow, serious nod of respect.
REGULAR MIKE: (Standing up, his face red and eyes watery) "You don't know what you're talking about! We’re happy! We’re fine!"
JONATHAN: "Are you? Or are you just comfortable? Because there’s a difference, Mike. And looking at him..." (Jonathan points to Brave) "...I think you know exactly what you’re missing. The play is over, Mike. The audience left an hour ago. It’s just us."
Jonathan stands up, walks over to the camera, and looks right into the lens.
JONATHAN: "Subject A and Subject B refuse to change. They’ve chosen the loop. End of study."
He reaches out.
SCREEN GOES BLACK.
ACT III — JONATHAN’S FINAL CUT
Written on the back of a rejection letter from a film festival.
"I thought I was filming how the city wears people down. I thought I was documenting people falling apart. But I was wrong. The city didn't do this to them. They did it to themselves.
They’ve preserved themselves in the past. They’re like bugs in amber. They think if they don't move, nothing can hurt them. But they don't realize that if they don't move, nothing can reach them, either.
I wanted to shake them. I wanted to scream. But a director isn't supposed to get involved... until he realizes the subjects are his family, and they're drowning in two inches of water."
TAPE 021: THE CHOICE
The footage is bleak. The morning light is a dull grey, coming through the dirty window. The apartment feels weirdly empty again, and the air is finally clear of the weed smoke and the smell of chicken nuggets.
Michael Brave is standing in the middle of the living room. He is buckling the straps on his leather duffel bag. The creaking of the leather is the only sound in the room. He’s got his jacket on and his boots laced up tight. He looks like a soldier packing up to leave.
Will is standing by the kitchen counter with his arms wrapped around his chest, looking tiny in his big cardigan. Regular Mike is on the couch, staring at his hands and bouncing his leg nervously.
WILL: (His voice is quiet and shaky) "You don't have to go, Michael. We have the space. We can figure it out."
MICHAEL BRAVE: (He finishes the buckle and swings the heavy bag onto his shoulder. He turns to Will with a look of tired kindness.) "No, Artisan. There is no space here. This house is full. It is filled with ghosts, and words unsaid, and a silence so loud it hurts the spirit."
He walks over to Will. He doesn't touch him this time. He keeps his hands at his sides, respecting the line that Regular Mike is too scared to cross.
MICHAEL BRAVE: "To look upon thee... it is both a comfort and a wound. Thou hast the face of my William, but thou dost not have his freedom. He died fighting the dark. Thou art choosing to live inside it."
WILL: "I'm not choosing the dark. I'm just... waiting."
MICHAEL BRAVE: "And that is its own kind of death. A slow one. I cannot stay and watch thee starve while the bread sits untouched on the table."
He looks at Regular Mike on the couch. Mike flinches but finally looks up. His eyes are red and puffy, looking both relieved and ashamed.
MICHAEL BRAVE: (Walking over to stand over Regular Mike) "And thee. My namesake. My shadow."
REGULAR MIKE: (Defensive, but sounding weak) "Just go, man. You made your point. You're the fucking hero. I get it. Hope you find a more moldy place than this."
MICHAEL BRAVE: (He didn't look angry; he looked hollow. His eyes were fixed on a point somewhere past the peeling wallpaper.) "I shall not find a place, namesake. I am to go where the land meets the salt. I shall bleed out near the ocean... it is the only thing that calms the fire in my blood."
REGULAR MIKE: (He froze, his eyes widening as he looked up) "Wait, what? You’re serious? You’re actually going to go... stab yourself? Like some Shakespearean tragedy?"
MICHAEL BRAVE: "Well, yes. My life hath no meaning without my Cleric. And it is clear to me now... that in this lifetime, two Paladins cannot dwell within William’s heart. One must be surrendered to the tide."
He adjusted the strap of his bag, the leather creaking like a funeral shroud.
MICHAEL BRAVE: "I am no hero. I am just a man who knows that time is the one beast thou canst not kill. Thou hast built a dungeon of comfort, Mike Wheeler. Thou art the Master of this game, and yet thou hast trapped thyself in the very first room."
Brave leans down until his face is inches from Mike’s.
MICHAEL BRAVE: "Unlock the door. Before the walls collapse on both of you."
He stands up straight. He looks around the messy, crowded apartment one last time at the peeling posters, the empty cans, and the pile of records.
MICHAEL BRAVE: "Farewell, Losing Dogs. May you one day find the courage to win."
He turns around. His heavy boots echo on the floor. The door opens with a rusty squeak and then slams shut. The lock clicks.
The silence that follows is heavy. Will looks at the door. Mike looks at the floor.
JONATHAN (O.S.): (No jokes this time. Just a quiet observation.) "And just like that... the unbelievably charming roommate is gone. Now it’s just the B-sides."
STATIC. TAPE ENDS.
ACT III — JONATHAN’S FINAL CUT
A note scribbled on the back of a photo of the empty hallway.
"He left his heavy pan behind.
I think he did it on purpose. A big, black iron reminder that something real was here, and now it's gone.
The apartment feels huge now, but not in a good way. It feels like a theater after the actors have gone home, while the audience—Mike and Will—are still sitting in the front row, waiting for an encore that isn't happening.
They’re alone with the truth now. No 'Paladin' to blame. No 'crazy roommate' to distract them. Just the two of them, the radiator, and the terrifying silence of three years of friendship that should have been something else. And me with Argyle of course."
⸻
Jonathan was frantically stuffing a vest into his backpack. He looks exhausted. A car horn honks over and over outside; it’s Argyle in the broken down Mercedes. “Brochacho! We gotta go! Like right now! Or Old Jerry will definitely kick our ass out of that diner before we can say ‘Purple Palm Tree Delight!’”
"I’m coming! I’m coming!" Jonathan yells out the window like a madman.
He grabs his keys and turns to the camera. He reaches out to hit the stop button but misses. He swears, frantically punches a few buttons out of panic, turns around, and runs out the door.
⸻
The light in the apartment had changed from a dusty afternoon grey to a deep, bruising blue. Shadows stretched long across the scuffed linoleum, swallowing the corners of the room where the memory of the week still seemed to hang around.
Regular Mike and Will were on the floor with their backs against the sagging base of the couch. Between them sat a mess of empty beer cans and a glass ashtray overflowing with the remains of the weed. The air was heavy, smelling like stale hops and the sweet, lingering scent of smoke. They were beyond wasted. They were in that strange, empty space where the world feels miles away but also dangerously close.
"He left the pan," Mike slurred, his head leaning to the side as he pointed a glowing cigarette toward the dark kitchen. "The iron thing. The skillet."
Will’s head was resting against the cushion, his eyes half-closed and glassy. "It’s a good pan, Mike. It’s seasoned. That’s what he said. 'Seasoned with the devotion of the oath.'"
He let out a wet, hiccuping giggle. "The only thing are devoted to is the corner store."
"I could use it," Mike muttered, staring at the ceiling. "I could be a cast-iron guy. How hard is it? You just heat it up and throw food in it."
"You’d burn water, Mike. You tried to make toast yesterday and set off the alarm. You’re not a skillet guy. You’re a microwave guy."
"Ouch. 'Microwave guy.' That’s a low blow, Byers."
The joke sat between them and turned sour. The mention of the pan brought Michael Brave back into the room. The memory of the man who spoke like a devoted servant to his lover. Like a Paladin to his Cleric. Mike took a long, aggressive drag of his cigarette and looked at Will. He really looked at him. The booze had stripped away his act, leaving only a raw, painful honesty.
"He was cool, though. Right? Like, objectively. If you ignore the 'thee' and 'thou' stuff. He was solid."
Will turned his head. His eyes were dark, catching the flickering orange glow of Mike’s cigarette. "He was intense. He was a lot."
"He was better," Mike snapped, his voice cracking.
"Mike—"
"No, shut up. He was. He came in here, he saw you, and he just did it. He didn't think twice. He didn't freak out. He just looked at you like you were the only person in the room. And he looked at me like I was a smudge on the wall." Mike crushed the beer can in his hand. The metal screeched in the quiet room. "I hated him. I wanted to punch him in his fucking face. But not because he was weird."
"Why then?" Will whispered.
Mike turned his whole body toward Will. They were barely an inch apart now, their knees knocking together. The ‘just friends’ wall was melting away in the beer and smoke.
"Because he touched you," Mike rasped.
"And I wanted to kill him for it. Because he was doing the thing I’ve been too much of a coward to do since we were fourteen."
Will’s breath hitched. The air conditioner hummed, a lonely sound in the dark.
"He was right, Will. I'm the B-side. I'm the loser. I've been betting against myself because I'm scared that if I actually try, if I actually tell you..."
"Tell me what, Mike?"
Mike closed his eyes. He looked like he was standing on the edge of a skyscraper. "That I don't want to be the microwave guy. I want to be the guy who stays. I want to be the guy who holds the sun. I just don't know how to be brave without feeling like I'm going to throw up."
Will didn't say anything at first. He just reached out and covered Mike’s fist. The one still white-knuckled around the crushed can. He pried Mike’s fingers open, tossed the metal aside, and locked their fingers together.
"You don't have to be a knight, Mike. I don't need a knight. I just need you to stop running away."
Mike let out a breath. He squeezed Will’s hand so hard his knuckles turned white.
Mike’s mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He smacked his lips, a dry, ugly sound, and squinted through the fog at Will.
"You got any gum?" he rasped. "My mouth is a desert. Like, biblical."
Will leaned back against the couch cushions and let his head fall sideways, watching Mike like he was a puzzle he’d already solved. A slow, lazy grin crept across his face, one that was too confident and too deliberate to be accidental. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the last neon pink square.
He didn’t rush.
He unwrapped it slowly, the crinkle of the wrapper loud in the quiet room. He popped it into his mouth and chewed once, then twice. Then he leaned forward just enough to blow a bubble straight into Mike’s face.
Pop.
"Last piece," Will murmured.
His voice dipped, lower and rougher, and something electric moved up Mike’s spine. Will tilted his head with his eyes half-closed, bold in a way he almost never allowed himself to be.
"Wanna share?"
Mike’s brain stalled. Fully and catastrophically. His jaw worked, but nothing came out. He nodded instead, a sharp and desperate movement.
For a fraction of a second, Will froze. The moment hung there, fragile and terrifying, as the weight of what he’d just offered crashed into him. Then something stubborn and reckless flickered behind his eyes.
He leaned in.
Will stuck out his tongue, and the gum sat bright and obscene at the tip. Mike reached for it, too fast and too needy, but Will caught his wrists and pressed them down into the couch with a strength that surprised them both.
"Germs," Will breathed.
The word landed like a dare.
Mike’s pulse slammed in his ears. He leaned forward, his vision narrowing until the world was reduced to heat and breath and the space between them. Their mouths brushed, barely, a dry and sparking contact so light it felt like a threat.
Mike didn’t rush it.
He tilted his head, careful and reverent, and took the gum from Will’s mouth. The intimacy of it knocked the air out of him. It was shared breath, sugar, and Will. It was too much and not enough at the same time.
He pulled back an inch, chewing slowly with his eyes blown wide.
"Hubba Bubba?" he whispered.
Will just nodded, his pupils so blown they swallowed the hazel of his eyes. He was flushed a deep, hot crimson, his breath hitching in his chest. Mike looked just as wrecked his hair a bird’s nest, eyes bloodshot and intense.
Mike was the one who broke.
He lunged forward, capturing Will’s mouth in a kiss that wasn't polite or cinematic. It was a desperate, starving collision. It was the sound of ten years of repression finally snapping. Mike’s tongue pushed back into Will's mouth, reclaiming the taste of the gum and the taste of Will in a wet, frantic scramble.
The collision of their teeth made a sharp clack in the quiet room as Mike pinned Will to the threadbare, slightly grimy rug. He moved like a man possessed. His hands were frantic as they found the hem of Will’s paint stained cardigan, yanking it up and over his head. Will didn't wait; he was already clawing at the buttons of Mike's shirt, ripping them open with a lack of coordination that only made the heat between them sharper.
Mike’s mouth left Will’s to find his ear, nipping at the lobe until Will let out a jagged, broken whimper. "Mike...."
"I couldn’t," Mike growled against his skin, his voice a low, primal wreck. "I would never let him have you..."
He moved down, his teeth grazing the line of Will’s jaw before sinking into the sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder.
He sucked hard, marking the skin, his thumb pressing into Will’s Adam's apple as it bobbed with a desperate swallow.
Mike’s teeth found Will’s collarbone, nipping and grinding against the bone until Will’s back arched off the rug. His fingers tangled in Mike’s hair, pulling him closer, deeper.
The friction was agonizing. Mike settled his weight between Will’s thighs, his hips beginning a slow, heavy grind against the rough denim of their jeans. It was a rhythmic, visceral pressure, the kind of hunger that didn't care about being pretty.
Will let out a choked sound, his legs locking around Mike’s waist, pulling their lower bodies together so tightly there wasn't room for air. They moved in a frantic,
uncoordinated dance on that gross, ancient rug, the dust motes dancing in the blue light above them.
“Mike, you’re so har—.”
Pause.
Argyle looked at the TV, where Mike was currently hovering over a half-naked Will.
Argyle blinked slowly.
"Whoa," Argyle said, his voice a low, dawning drone. "Heavy."
He stepped forward, reached out, and smacked the power button on the TV. The screen collapsed into a white dot. He snatched his papers off the table and backed toward the door, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
"Yo, Jonathan!" Argyle shouted toward the hallway. "I gotta roll, bro! But hey... maybe don't watch the end of Tape 24! Your brother is getting way too comfortable around that Wheeler guy! It’s a total bio-rhythm overload in there!"
The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.
Inside Mike’s bedroom, the air was thick enough to choke on. The room was a cramped, dark cave of clutter: stacks of overdue library books acting as a nightstand, a tangled nest of grey sheets on a mattress sitting right on the floor, and the faint, metallic smell of the radiator hissing in the corner. Posters of movies Mike hadn't even finished were peeling off the walls, held up by yellowed tape.
They were frozen on the mattress in a tangle of bare, overheated skin. Mike’s shirt was a discarded mess near the door, and Will’s pants had been kicked into the shadows of the closet.
As the sounds of Argyle leaving faded, they both stayed perfectly still, listening toward the bedroom door. They were focused on the sudden, ringing silence of the empty living room. They had been eavesdropping with a frantic intensity, held in place while Argyle’s voice boomed through the thin walls.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Mike’s heart was drumming against Will’s ribs, his lungs burning as he held his breath. Finally, Mike let out a long, shaky exhale. The tension in his shoulders snapped, and he slumped forward.
In the sudden, absolute silence, Mike looked down at Will. Will’s lips were swollen and a deep, bitten red. His chest was heaving, his ribs standing out against his pale skin in the blue light.
"I'm going to kill him," Mike whispered, his forehead dropping against Will's with a dull thud. His eyes were closed tight, his face twisting with leftover adrenaline and total embarrassment.
"Kill Jonathan first," Will breathed, his voice a wrecked rasp. He reached up, his fingers sliding into the messy curls at the back of Mike’s head, pulling him back down into the heat. "He's the one who left the camera on."
Mike groaned into the hollow of Will’s throat, but he didn't pull away.