boys in bars
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Summary
It's been nearly ten years since they saw each other. Ten years since they lived in the same state, much less occupied the same room. Ten years since they were friends; eight and a half since Will stopped referring to Mike as such, much less his best one.
Ten years, and here Mike is, and here Will is, and here’s the guy in the chinos who just bought Will’s first friend, first love, first heartbreak a drink. Here is what the poets call cosmic fucking irony, Will thinks: the setup for the world’s unfunniest a guy walks into a bar joke, and Will’s the punchline. Will’s been punched in the gut.
(or, after ten years of no contact, will encounters mike wheeler in a new york city bar, and he doesn't know what to do about it.)
Series
- Part 1 of boys in bars
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It's November sixth. Seven years ago, Mike’s world went to shit in the woods outside Hawkins Laboratory. For three years, his life was a bloody, twisted wreck with a hell of a lot of casualties. Somehow, this just feels like another extension of that, like the light at the end of the tunnel turned out to be a train, and it’s bearing down on him at full speed while he’s just standing there and letting it.
Seven years ago today, Mike Wheeler lost his best friend, and then he lost himself.
November 6, 1990, in the corner of a crowded room with another boy’s hands in his hair, he feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s finally got a little bit of himself back. He doesn’t know if it’s a part that’s worth keeping, is all.
(or, mike wheeler on kissing boys, growing up, losing your best friend, and finding him again.)
Series
- Part 2 of boys in bars
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“You kept my painting,” Will says. Sure enough, there’s the heart on Mike’s shield, just as red as the day Will painted it. It was Will’s heart that he painted, maybe. It was also Will’s heart that he pulled out and molded into the lie he thought Mike needed to hear, halfway between Salt Lake City and a secret government bunker in Nevada.
Will’s heart is in his throat now, and in Mike’s hands, and on Mike’s wall, framed and carefully displayed.
They stand there in silence for a minute, Will on one side of the room and Mike on the other and too many years of radio silence in between. The quiet is so heavy it’s like a weight on Will’s chest, crushing him, applying pressure—but to a wound or to a bruise, he doesn’t know.
“Will,” Mike says. “Why are you here?”
(or, will has some realizations and a lot of hard conversations, and not every loss is forever.)
Series
- Part 3 of boys in bars