Chapter Text
“Why didn’t he invite me?” Mike’s question struggled to leave his lips, trapped in between rapid breaths.
He brought two fingers to the bridge of his nose and pushed his glasses up to his forehead. The thin frames pressed into the skin like they were trying to infiltrate his mind; if only it was to calm his spiraling thoughts, not encourage them. He tried to breathe—to breathe like God granted him all the air in the world.
A sigh rattled on the other end of the phone. The brick of metal felt heavier in his hand, harder to grip. Or maybe his fingers turned weak, unable to hold anything, unable to stay strong.
The silence his sister handed him only furthered his feelings of unease. He shifted his weight onto one foot, leaning his lop-sided, limp body against the door frame next to him. “Nancy?”
Sounds of shuffling reached the phone. “Mike,” her tired voice flowed softly into his ears. “I don’t…”
Her words trailing off left only one sound for him to pick up on. A stuttering heartbeat—his own.
𓇢𓆸 2 days until the wedding
His shifts at Hawkins Post weren’t that bad. So long as he had his cup of coffee, the hours passed by as swift as a Boston breeze.
Boston was on his mind all the time now.
For the past couple of years, it was New York. Upon being asked, he’d be able to half-assedly sketch out an entire map of the city on a napkin—albeit, it wouldn’t be that neat. Every blink brought a dark, empty space he could resurrect New York in. To his right would be a drab, old diner that strictly sells wet pizza, and to his left a rundown studio buzzing with bustling artists whose heads could outright explode with the creativity dancing within them.
Even though it only existed in his mind—to fill space and such—every time he visits this studio, he steps up to the window nearest to the door, cups his hands around his eyes, and presses close to the cold glass.
Sometimes, all he can see inside are young adults wearing flashy blazers over graphic tees discussing each others’ art pieces.
Other times—rarer times—in the far right corner, he can see a familiar face drowning in work he brought upon himself. If the windows aren’t that foggy that visit, he can make out the figure huffing his chest and tapping his paintbrush on the table, all while endlessly ranting to someone on the phone.
He had always assumed it was a friend he was talking to, or family. For one reason or another, it never crossed his mind to think that this artist was talking to a lover.
“Michael.”
A soft thud sounded to his left as a stack of papers landed on his desk.
Sighing, he lifted his head to see the face he dreaded most: Jerry, his boss.
“I’ll need these edited by tomorrow morning.” The old gruff demanded, puffing cigar smoke through his mouth with every word.
Mike couldn’t help but frown. He pulled the stack closer to him and scanned the first page. It was discussing the latest news, the reconstruction of Hawkins General. Although, he was quick to notice the surface-level analysis on how the reconstruction affected uninsured patients.
He flipped through them until he reached the second tab—an article about the ethics of opening bars near downtown shops.
Another sigh slipped through his chapped lips, “Jerry—”
“Mr. Wright.” His boss corrected, giving him a pointed stare. The cigar twitched in his shaking fingers, dropping some ash onto Mike’s desk.
Mike’s face twisted in disgust at the sight.
“Mr. Wright,” He repeated reluctantly, keeping his eyes trained on the long wrinkles stretched across his boss’ face—something to distract himself from the grey specs littering his desk. “I can’t get all of these articles edited by tomorrow.” He emphasized his point by lightly slapping the stack. “I already have three unfinished ones that have to be done by the end of my shift for tomorrow’s publication.”
Mr. Wright raised a thin brow.
Working at Hawkins Post wasn't as bad as Nancy made it out to be. Compared to her experience there, he got more leniency. Whether it was because he was a better writer, or better-looking, was unimportant. The fact was that it wasn’t that bad.
That fact was overturned when Mr. Wright was promoted to Editor-in-Chief.
He was an old grump two years away from retirement, and every month he chose a victim to release his wrath on. November’s pick was Mike.
Perhaps he was envious of Mike’s prowess in writing, his charm in the office, his brilliant editing skills that couldn’t ever be replicated—even by those fancy new computers being trained in California. Mike isn’t an egotistical individual, just aware, and with that awareness came a strong confidence that got him to speak rather than die with his truths.
“Are you suggesting that I, the Editor-in-Chief, should reconsider my decision?” Mr. Wright challenged him, stating his role like it granted him unbeatable superiority—which it did, technically.
Mike nudged the stack of papers back to Mr. Wright, “Greg hasn’t been doing anything since October.”
“Mr. Hill has been working.” Mr. Wright’s undying love for professionalism slipped through. An irritated expression grew on his face. The two despised this dance, but they refused to surrender because that would be an admission of social inferiority.
Titles meant nothing in the social world. Power was distributed in accordance to one’s confidence and unwillingness to submit.
Mike’s eyes wandered to Greg/Mr. Hill, who was sitting at the desk across the room. The carpet under him was littered with small, orange crumbs, matching the ones in his beard. He held a crinkled bag of chips close to his chest, a hand shoved into its depths. His munches were loud and pronounced, interrupting the constant sounds of keyboard clicks and mouse taps that kept the office alive.
A tight cough twisted itself out of Mr. Wright, causing smoke to waft towards Mike’s face; he forced himself to keep a straight expression.
Ever so slowly, his boss leaned down and carried the papers off of the desk, putting his back into it. The cigar in his hand wobbled dangerously close to the right corner of the stack, and with each twitch, Mike thought it would finally graze the thin material and burn them all.
He wouldn’t complain if it did.
“The shit you have now should be done by the end of the day.” Mr. Wright grumbled, flinging around the last crumbs of his authority.
Mike nodded at his order. All the man was doing was restating the obvious in a stricter tone. It was pathetic, really.
“And if I catch you slacking again,” Mr. Wright nodded towards his computer screen. “I’ll shorten your breaks.”
With a huff of his chest, the man started walking to Greg’s sad, chips-covered desk. His stride was strong and prideful despite it all.
Mike’s eyes left his strained back and wandered to his computer, settling on an image that got him reprimanded a mere second ago. Even though he was bitching about all the work he had to finish by today, the current tab he had open has nothing to do with mediocre articles.
There’s a certain difficulty in living; the image on his screen proved it.
There’s difficulty in letting things go, and holding things close. There’s difficulty in supporting, and criticizing. There’s difficulty in breathing, and dying.
Sometimes whispering feels too loud, too free for your own good.
The screen was a pain to stare at. It was bright and his glasses did little to help protect his weak eyes, but the real perpetrator causing him this pain was the post it bore.
Will Byers is getting married, and he had to find out through Facebook.
[ Sorry for breaking the rhythm, but there's meant to be an image here. If you do not see it, click on the link in the beginning notes. If you do, ignore this + the numbers underneath the images. ]
He leaned back on his chair. The squeaky thing creaked under his weight, the sound almost identical to the twist his heart did at the sight of the post.
Will is getting married.
The sentence didn’t make sense in his head. It didn’t make sense when he first read it in the morning, munching on a bagel sandwich. It didn’t make sense when he was packing his lunch, it didn’t make sense when he was driving to the office, and it didn’t make sense when he finally sat down, stretched his limbs, reopened Will’s profile on his work computer, and read the post again. And again. And again.
There were so many things to digest.
From the thin font pronouncing sentences that did nothing but further cramp his brain muscles, to the pictures of another man—a stranger—attached to Will’s hip like a parasite. He was sitting in the backseat of this car, unaware of the speed Will was driving at. The car made dangerous swerves, drove through red lights, and refused to slow down at the many speed bumps texturizing the road. If only he leaned over to the front of the vehicle—he might’ve been able to put an early stop to whatever this was.
He reread the post.
“2 is a funny number! It took 2 years to get to this point with you, and now it’ll only take 2 days until we’re officially married. Time passes so fast, I wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t noted on my calendar HAHA! Just kidding. I love you Charles, my best friend.”
Mike leaned forwards, brushing his elbow against his cup of coffee. Even through his shirt, he could feel the heat beating inside the porcelain, but it didn’t compare to the hot blood his heart was pounding.
Facebook.
He had to find out through Facebook, and that was by accident too.
Like most new, high-tech things, he doesn’t use the platform. There was absolutely no purpose to it other than to make himself envious of others’ brighter, more substantially delightful lives. From adopting a new puppy to celebrating the completion of a PHD, these experiences exist to taunt and mock and brag, which meant they weren’t invited to Mike’s suburban habitat.
This doesn’t mean he doesn’t love his life—he does—but these things spark his impulsivity.
What if he adopted a puppy? What if he completed a PHD? What if he moved to Boston? What if he got married?
And so, he avoided Facebook.
He only opened the website at his parents’ request—a request he can’t quite recall and didn’t even fulfill.
Despite the fact that he and Will weren’t friends or followers or whatever the savvy term was, he stumbled upon the post, and the coincidence felt… inevitable.
Still, inevitability didn’t concern itself with boundaries or ethics. Were his eyes ever meant to read this? Was this information ever meant to be processed by his impetuous brain?
He was a person of questions and morals, so this felt like an invasion of privacy.
Unfortunately, he was also a person with great interest in Will Byers.
He readjusted his glasses, preparing to deconstruct the short paragraph for the millionth time. Now, at 1pm, his mind was definitely clearer, meaning that he could extract some new meaning—some subtext—to Will’s words.
It was just hope, but that is the drive of life.
Slowly, he moved his cursor towards the images attached to the post. The little, white arrow inched closer and closer to the first image, building suspense for nobody but the hand guiding it.
He hesitated when it reached it.
Ever since he saw the post, he’d been avoiding opening the attachments like they were laced with poison. The previews were enough to send him into an existential crisis, what would he do if he saw the full thing?
It was probably unwise to do this in a public setting—given his dramatic tendencies—but morbid curiosity was biting at him, urging him to see who this guy, Charles or whatever, is.
He clicked on the first image.
…
Alright, his hand was definitely more attractive than this guy’s. Where’s the texture? Where’s the veins?
Will is blind—delusional, even. If his hand looks like that, his face is surely worse. Not to mention that ring. Where’d he get it, the dollar store?
As stated before, as a person with great interest in Will Byers, he knows Will’s excellence and what it must grant him.
It didn’t grant him a literal shoelace wrapped around his finger.
If it were up to Mike, he would’ve stayed down in the mines until he found the best diamond mankind has ever seen. The thin band he was currently flaunting with pride would be replaced with thick gold, deep engravings, and sparkling gems clear enough to portray reflections.
The bubbling feeling of irritation began to foam on his skin’s surface; he was on the verge of a meltdown.
And yet, he moved his cursor to click on the arrow on the right, flicking to the next attachment.
…
This picture was worse than anything he has ever laid his eyes on in his 35 years of living. Even seeing a man’s torso ripped in half by a demogorgon doesn’t compare to this.
A man with Will on his arm.
What even is this? The guy doesn’t even have the courtesy to wrap an arm around Will’s waist. He just has Will gripping onto him for dear life like he’s some sort of accessory.
No, he has to be put down. There is no way Will is getting married to this douche. What kinda name is Charles, anyway? A douche’s. Definitely a douche’s.
He tore his eyes away from Will and Charles’ arms, desperate to find any other sign of this manchild’s negligence.
They reached his stupid face.
He didn’t look bad, but he didn’t look good either. He had thick, black brows that created a shadow over his almond eyes. Tan skin covered in freckles peeked over the collar of his shirt. His lips were red and full, but the lower one was a bit bitten, Mike noted.
His jaw was sharp and defined, adorning an embarrassingly thin stubble. And yeah, Mike doesn’t have one either, but he doesn’t need one. He’s perfect as is, with no desire to hide his features.
The guy was average. A solid 4/10—No, a 3/10. One point for each hair on his chin.
Mike couldn’t hold back a smirk. He was a 7.5, and he knew that because Will said so. They were having a sleepover in Mike’s basement, along with the rest of the Party, and Will couldn’t sleep. And so, Mike proposed a game of Truth or Dare, in which he asked Will to rate him.
He’s been confident about his looks ever since. Well, on most days. Or 3 days out of the week—maybe 2 weeks, actually.
That’s not the point. There’s a 4.5 difference between him and Charles, which is coincidentally Mike’s GPA if you were to add 1.1 to it.
Confident after emerging triumphant from the battle in his mind against Charles, Mike moved his cursor to click on the next picture.
As he was doing so, his eyes passed over Will’s face.
He froze, in both a physical and mental sense.
The juices in his brain ran dry as his jittery leg under the table halted its taps. A cold breeze twirled up the bone of his spine, straightening him into attention.
He hasn’t seen Will’s face this clearly in a long minute—2,628,000 minutes, to be exact.
From pixelated pictures Lucas sends him to faded photographs squished en route to his mailbox, none of them compared to the quality of the image before him.
He could see Will. Not blurry features, not blotches of color—Will. His Will.
A noise jolted from his throat, sounding similar to a choke. For some stupid reason, his brain never considered the fact that Will’s Facebook page would definitely carry clear pictures of him in its contents. Perhaps he was too caught up on the sheer absurdity of Will marrying this nobody to notice.
However, now that he is looking at Will’s face, he can’t move.
Despite the ogre hovering next to him, Will was glowing. His skin was clear and decorated with sweet beauty marks, his hair was thick and shiny like a shimmering waterfall, and his eyes stared back at Mike in a manner so captivating, he felt like he was about to levitate into the screen.
Lazily, Mike’s jaw went slack. The last picture he received of Will was back in January, and it was so pixelated, he didn’t notice the rosy flush that had grown on his cheeks and lips.
The brightness in his eyes, the smile that practically split his face in half, the bunny-like teeth peeking out. The familiar mole above his lip that Mike got to kiss only once before Will left.
A broken breath punched itself out of his lungs. His posture slumped down even further as his body cracked into two, crushed by the fact that this human embodiment of a lotus flower had drifted off far, far away from his lily pad.
He couldn’t look any longer.
With one speedy move of his hand, he closed the Facebook tab.
𓇢𓆸
The last time he saw Will in person was five years ago.
Back in ‘01, a neatly folded envelope addressed to him reached the front door.
He always wished he received more mail, something other than steady paychecks and penpals that eventually stopped responding, but as soon as he got something more personal, that entire dream shut down.
It was an invitation to Mrs. Maldonado’s Christmas Reunion party, and it was mandatory.
Her and Hop moved to Montauk back in the 90s, where she dropped the Byers surname and chopped her hair into a wavy pixie—and he got fat.
Whether or not distance was to blame, his communication with them was just as little as with their son. Still, an invitation traveled to his mailbox.
Phone calls, too.
“Oh, but you have to come, Mike.”
“I… I have a lot of work. Shifts at the Post, you know?”
“They’re making you work on Christmas Week?”
“Well, no. No—not really. I volunteered.”
“Mike. Everyone’s going to be there! Even your sister.”
“I know, I know.”
“The boys, too. Will, Lucas, Dustin…”
“Will’s gonna be there?”
“Yeah, he’s coming with Lucas and Ma—”
“I’ll talk to my boss.”
On December 25th, he arrived in the Hopper-Maldonado residence wearing an ill-fitted suit, carrying a couple of presents, and branding a new haircut that, surprisingly, didn’t get any compliments.
“Are you gonna join any conversations, or just sulk at the snack table?” Lucas had prodded.
Mike still remembers the red wine sloshing in his glass. The way the satisfying splashes distracted him from his thoughts for one, brief second. Nevertheless, his mind was quick to move the spotlight back to the main attraction of tonight.
Will, who was embracing Hopper at that moment, thanking him for the small gift he had slipped him in the hallway away from everyone's eyes—apart from Mike’s.
“I’m not sulking.” Mike recalls mumbling that to Lucas before walking away from the table, popping one of the mini donuts Dustin had supplied into his mouth on the way.
The party was soothing.
Instrumental music was playing the entire time, the lights were dimmed to a warm orange, and the decor was the traditional red and green that invited that comforting feeling of home into the space.
Still, Mike felt so tense, he couldn’t hold a glass in his hand for more than three seconds in fear his hardening grip would crush it.
No matter the distance between them, Will’s soft voice kept flowing into his ears, rising over the loud music and chatters bouncing through the room.
He talked to Max about his new job, Dustin about setting up his Nokia, Lucas about the perfect date he had gone on the week before, Robin about how entertaining her podcast is, Jonathan about his painting being chosen for this fancy gallery event, and Nancy about where to buy good skincare products.
Well, whatever Nancy had advised, it certainly worked and held up after five years.
The thing is, he hadn’t talked to Mike the entire night. Hell, he even chatted a bit with Steve of all people. (Frustratingly, the conversation was about dating tips.)
The only moments they exchanged words were when Mike arrived—“You look so good!” “Thanks, you… you do too.”—and when Will accidentally bumped into him on the way to the bathroom down the hall.
Both times, Mike’s heart had jumped out of his body. Both times, he had to make sure it was still secured under layers of flesh and a curling ribcage.
He had tried to start a conversation, but by the time he hyped himself up and made his way to wherever Will was lingering, Will had walked away or hopped into a new chat with someone.
His last attempt was the worst of them all.
Will had been playing a game of scrabble with Robin and Max—winning, actually.
Mike took the opportunity to waddle over, congratulate him, and move the chat to something else. Setting up topics to discuss in his brain like dominos—one would lead to the other in a good, not-awkward sequence, and they’d finally break the weird ice lodged in the ever-growing space between them.
However, when he reached the couch they were sitting at, Will had turned to him, given him a tight smile, then swiftly gotten up and left.
It was the only time Will had actually acknowledged Mike’s advances, and he had fled before Mike even said anything.
“Wanna play a game, Wheeler?” Robin asked after Will’s departure.
Mike had sighed and dropped to Will’s spot.
The night moved quickly, and before anyone had realized, it was time to end the reunion.
Everyone cried and hugged and kissed, as if they weren’t going home to neighboring residences and never-ending text threads.
If anyone had to be crying, it should’ve been Mike. He didn’t have anyone nearby to visit, or a text thread relevant enough to live more than a day.
Still, he played along—but not without an agenda.
Hastily, he hugged everyone, not holding them for more than four seconds. His eyes were trained on Will the entire time, who had been standing near the door ready to leave.
Mike pushed through people, giving brief hugs and sloppy kisses to the cheek, but he wasn’t fast enough.
The goodbyes lasted too long, and Will had left before Mike got the chance to embrace him.
𓇢𓆸
“I don’t know why he didn’t invite you,” Nancy sighed on the other end of the line. “Can you stop calling this number? This is my work phone, Mike.”
“Which is exactly why I’m calling it,” Mike rolled his eyes. “You don’t pick up when I call the other one.”
“Ever thought about why?” Nancy huffed.
The bustling sounds of New York’s streets echoed through the phone. He had caught Nancy at a “terrible time”, according to her. She was on her way to work, but what work could possibly be more important than his dilemma?
“What did the invitations look like?” He pondered aloud, pacing around his room in irregular strides. “Were they yellow, or did he go with casual white? Wait—when did you get yours?”
“Like, a month ago.” Nancy mumbled. “And yes, they were casual white.”
Mike paused his pacing, “A month ago?”
“Yep.” She popped the ‘p’ for emphasis.
“And you didn’t think to tell me, like, at all?”
Betrayal arose inside of him. It was like a snake with sharp blades for fangs sliced into his flesh, or a double-decker London bus toppled over and crushed his body into a flat candy wrapper.
“How could you do this to me, Nance?” He gasped, bringing a hand to his chest.
“Mike, it wasn’t my place—”
“No, I don’t wanna hear it.” He interrupted almost immediately. “You’ve betrayed me.”
He could literally hear her roll her eyes, “Right.”
“There’s only one way you can fix this.”
“Just spit it out.”
“Where’s the wedding taking place?”
For a moment, all that came from the other end was silence. He could still pick up footsteps on cement and angry car horns, but Nancy was quiet for long enough to make him concerned.
“I can’t tell you that.”
Mike frowned, “What? Why?”
“Because if he wanted you to know anything about his wedding, he’d tell you.” Nancy stated. “Again, it’s not my place to just dump all of this information on you because it’s not mine—it’s Will’s.”
His eyes dropped to the floor.
Dark blue carpet engulfed all the space around his bare feet. Any corner or crevice was covered with a deep navy color that he once found comforting. Now, it was suffocating—suffocating like the ocean.
“Yeah, you’re right.” He sighed. The frown weighing down his eyebrows was heavy enough to be painful.
“Nance, you know that—Ah, how do I word this?” He dropped to the edge of his bed and rested a hand on his forehead. “I… I’m his best friend. I don’t get it, why wouldn’t he invite me? Why—why wouldn’t he at least tell me?”
“Ask him,” she said softly. The sound of her voice was a stark contrast to the chaos of the city behind her. “Just give him a call, or text him through AIM.”
AOL Instant Messenger, another one of his internet opponents.
His eyes wandered to the laptop on his desk, chunky and white. Unlike most things in his room, it was quite clean and well-kept, but that’s only because he doesn’t use it. Other than work-related things, he didn’t have a reason to run the engine.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet and walked to it, settling a hand on his desk for stability; his body was growing weaker and weaker ever since he read Will’s post.
Twelve years ago when he saved up enough money to purchase a new desk that was advertised as “modern” and “tech-y” (the only tech thing about it was one additional drawer, defying traditional desk designs), he decided it would be a marvelous idea to place it under the window in his room.
Something about natural sunlight would help him focus better, he said to himself, and although he wishes he could stop listening to that “helpful” voice in his head, as it usually results in failure or humiliation, this advice was actually good.
Now, he could take in the view before him. The empty street outside looked the same it had always looked. The flickering lamppost that no one ever cared to fix, the abnormally large bump near the center of the road he had to always avoid while biking as a kid. At that age, he thought he would’ve moved out by this point.
He thought he’d be in contact with Will, too.
“I can’t text him…” Mike said slowly. “…because I don’t have his account friended.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Just help me, Nancy! Tell him for me, please.”
“Tell him that you want his screen name?”
“No! No, tell him my question. Tell him I don’t understand why I didn’t get invited.”
“Mike,” Nancy sighed. “The most I’m willing to do is give him your screen name.”
“…Fine.”
𓇢𓆸
Mike stared at his laptop screen.
He hasn’t used AIM for at least two months, and even then, he only used it to exchange funny internet memes with Lucas and Dustin.
Although, he sent a particularly goofy one to Max and was promptly blocked barely a minute later, so maybe they aren’t that funny.
The point is, he doesn’t really know how to use it properly. He accidentally made his username the same thing as his password, and although he figured out how to fix that after taking one look at the settings, he’s still relentlessly teased for it. Well, when anyone’s actually talking to him.
Now, he was nervously staring at the empty chatbox between him and Will.
It was frustratingly ridiculous, all of this was frustratingly ridiculous because the first time he’ll talk to his best friend in years isn’t through a planned meetup or a phone call—no—it was through the computer-version of passing notes.
It’s ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as how anxious Mike was. His leg was shaking under the desk, so much so he had to reposition it to stop his knee from hitting the table.
A part of his brain tried to reason with him.
Texting was infinitely better than calling because at least he could plan out his sentences coherently before sending them. He was very aware of his habit to speak before thinking, so perhaps this digital barrier can act as a filter.
He should type something. Breaking the ice here was no different from breaking the ice at Mrs. Maldonado’s Christmas Reunion.
What would he have said to Will back then? He rummaged through his thoughts like a squirrel does to leaves, swifting between memories and cheesy pickup lines he’s glad he didn’t use.
Perhaps he could finally congratulate him on winning that game of scrabble?
Before he could make up his mind, a ‘ping!’ sounded from his laptop—causing him to jump—and the most complex message a human has ever written appeared.
[ Pic 2 ]
Mike’s throat went dry.
“hi”
A short word, a short sentence. Well, is this even considered a sentence? There isn’t a period at the end.
Years passed in silence just for that, and it still managed to make Mike’s limbs go weak. Patheticness was a trait that only appeared in him when it came to Will, and to be completely honest, he isn’t embarrassed about it. In these moments, he’s too caught up in Will to even notice. Whether the moment is blossoming feelings of love, desperation, jealousy, or greed, the conclusion is all the same. A pathetic blob of a man, and he submits to the role.
Feelings-wise, this moment is blossoming dissatisfaction in him. At least at the Christmas Reunion, Will spared him 20 words. This was hardly one syllable.
He swallowed away the pain and tried to focus, leaning forwards and pressing two shaking fingers into his temples.
The word isn’t even in caps. Is there some subtext here he’s not aware of?
God, if he wasn’t willing to make Will wait, he’d have consulted Dustin before responding. Dustin knew all about this stuff—he’s the one that introduced Mike to “:D”.
Mike is yet to find himself in a situation in which he can use it.
He looked down at his chunky keyboard, and after a moment of hesitation, he typed something out.
[ Pic 3 ]
Was that too much? Should he have used lowercase too? Is that the hip way to do it? Perhaps the exclamation mark was the problem—
Will responded.
[ Pic 4 ]
Something hot bloomed in his chest. It unfurled itself and pressed its beating body against his heart, spiking the rate so high, he was almost paralyzed.
Will was animated. Not short nor brief, not cold nor awkward. He used an exclamation mark.
Mike felt a smile grow on his face, a cheeky one often found on excited toddlers. This was the Will he grew ever so fond of.
Maybe it was all an accident. All the times Will ignored him, all the absent phone calls and messages—Will just forgot about them.
Still, why? How?
Mike’s his best friend. Is he that unimportant to have gotten lost in Will’s mind?
The strict voice in his head told him to focus on the task at hand. The more he made Will wait, the bigger of a douche he became.
He cleared his throat before resting his hands on the chunky keyboard again, looking down to make sure he isn’t misspelling any words or missing some punctuation.
[ Pic 5 ]
That was good. Short, brief, and simple. Maybe Will would be impressed by his spectacular grammar skills. Maybe he’d compare their perfection to Charles’ terrible ones.
Charles probably doesn’t even know how to use a semicolon, let alone what it is.
As he revelled in his grammatical genius, Will’s reply suddenly popped up on his screen.
[ Pic 6 ]
What the fuck is that?
He frowned. In his few conversations with Dustin, he has never used a “less than” symbol and a “three”.
He squinted at the screen, adjusting his glasses like it would somehow make the text clearer. However, it remained as it was.
A “<3”.
Is he saying the “ok” is less than 3? What’s 3 meant to represent? Is it good that it’s less than 3, or is it bad?
He rushed to the keyboard.
[ Pic 7 ]
“Tilt my head?” He muttered under his breath, leaning back against the creaky chair.
With a raised brow, he tilted his head to the side while holding his glasses in place, and sure enough, the emoticon took shape and a cute heart appeared.
A breathy chuckle left his mouth.
Suddenly, a relaxing wave settled his body, prompting his shoulders to sag and joints to go limp. It was such a simple thing—two buttons on a keyboard—and yet, it had Mike wanting to defy physics by crawling through the screen and squeezing Will’s rosy cheeks.
This exciting rush guided him back to the keyboard.
[ Pic 8 ]
That was too much. That was definitely too much.
A memory of Lucas telling him to calm down after he responded to a meme with “HAHAHAHA” slapped his head like a disappointed parent. That interaction set a clear precedent: He just embarrassed himself, text-wise.
“Shit, shit—Where’s the delete button?” His eyes frantically scanned the screen. Jumping from icon to icon, he couldn’t find the familiar trash can to save his life.
A low, tired groan escaped from his mouth as the humiliation settled in his gut. The leather chair creaked louder as he leaned back even further, hiding his face from the screen like Will could see him through it.
He was doing so good. His grammar was top-notch, his persistent awkwardness was nowhere to be found, and most importantly, Will was still talking to him.
The two minutes that had passed with no response from him was just torturous, evidence of Mike’s failure.
He cursed himself in his brain. How did he mess up over text of all—
‘ping!’
Jesus Christ, they have to change the sound effect for this site. It was basically a jumpscare.
He slowly turned to the screen, unable to control the cringed expression still on his face.
[ Pic 9 ]
“Oh, thank god.” He immediately sighed. All the tension bubbling under his skin dissolved.
Will didn’t find it weird enough to end the conversation.
He readjusted himself on the chair and dragged the laptop closer to him, dancing his fingers over the keyboard while constructing a reply in his head. He made a note to include “<3” in whatever sentence he settled on.
However, as the words were stringing together in his mind, Will sent another message.
[ Pic 10 ]
A lump formed in his throat.
He blinked at the message dumbly as the rush from the previous one slowly dissipated. Will’s tone had shifted here from familiar playfulness to stark seriousness.
He flexed his fingers, still hovering over the keyboard, as the great, horrifying news of Will’s departure settled in.
He couldn’t leave now, could he? Their conversation was going great, especially given the fact that communication between them has been radio silent for years. What could possibly be more important?
Still, he had to remind himself that this was just a step to reigniting the spark between them. He couldn’t rush into things, he couldn’t push Will into talking to him 24/7 (even if that’s exactly what he wanted to do). He needed to go at Will's pace.
And so, he let him go.
[ Pic 11 ]
He hoped that the heart would make Will smile, perhaps even encourage him to continue conversing with Mike later.
He was absolutely desperate to prove himself to Will.
His eyes wandered through all the messages they exchanged, assessing if the conversation had any faults.
The only thing he could find is his sudden use of caps; he was sure to avoid them in the future, or just rip the key off.
However, as he flickered from message to message, a thought that made him nauseous with envy infiltrated his mind.
Had Charles entered Will’s room?
The fuzzy feeling in his chest vanished.
That’s why Will had to leave, right? Or it at least had something to do with that.
A mere moment ago, he had asked himself, “What could possibly be more important?”
A wedding.
His movements were fast, challenging the speed of light. With his eyes locked onto the green circle indicating that Will was still online, he quickly typed out one word that ought to make him stay.
[ Pic 12 ]
It was only a second later that Will responded with one question mark.
He was listening, waiting.
Mike took a deep breath. It was cold, sending shivers all through his rigid bones. It made his hands difficult to control, his brain difficult to focus. It made him want to both backtrack, and spill his guts.
The click-clacking sound of his keyboard didn’t reach his ears as he speedily typed away.
[ Pic 13 ]
His eyes stared at the empty, white space following his message. It was to be filled in one second.
Alright, maybe two.
Three seconds, seriously?
“This is pretty straightforward, Will.” He muttered under his breath.
Four sec—
[ Pic 14 ]
“Yes! Alright, good…” Mike dragged his chair close enough to the desk that the edge was digging into his ribcage, but he hardly cared.
The pain was an encouraging drug—weed in the form of a sharp blade of wood.
[ Pic 15 ]
He pressed the send button before even reading over his work, too anxious that Will would slam his laptop shut before Mike got a word in.
It was good—No, perfect.
And it didn’t get him a response.
He counted one second, then two, then five, then ten, then twenty, then fifty.
Finally, his eyes were graced with a message from AIM’s system.
[ Pic 16 ]
Well, fuck.