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Summary
Will gasps dramatically. “You should totally do that,” he says, then breaks into another fit of giggles.
“What is it?” Mike asks, blinking a few times to adjust his eyes to the bright glow.
“Tarot reading. You know, psychics? Tell you your future and stuff.”
Mike grimaces, like the idea alone could attack him. “Ew, I don’t want to know my future. What if they’re like, you’re gonna die in– like, three days, or– if it was four days I think that would be okay, I have a test that day. I think. It’s all a scam. The psychics, I mean.”
Will laughs, genuine and soft, and Mike’s legs feel a little weaker at the sound – or maybe the alcohol, it was getting really hard to tell. “At least if they tell you you’re gonna die, you’ll be prepared.”
Or
Mike Wheeler gets told he's going to fall in love by a psychic - which is, of course, ridiculous. Until Will starts calling him pet names as a joke, and Mike realizes he would've much rather been told he was going to die.