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Flowers and trees don’t grow in the soil outside his house. It’s a little disappointing. When Mike had bought it, he’d hoped he’d get some privacy, some quiet. Things that have been hard to find since his book made the best seller list last year. It’d been perfect in that sense. Far removed from everything around it. His closest neighbor is an old woman that lives in a shed-like house, over two miles down the road. His editor can only reach him by mail.
It’s what he’d wanted.
Perfect, on paper.
(Except it’s like the world around it is dead. Not even insects come near it in the spring. Barren, damn near impossible to focus on anything but the silence, and all he gets is quiet, now.)
But there used to be a time. He used to dream of waterfalls.
***
‘There’s this beautiful edge at the end of the word-‘
No.
‘If I squint I see us-‘
No, no.
‘Dancing at the tip of it, two dull shadows-‘
“Fuck me,” Mike groans. He’s about to throw his typewriter against the wall. This particular part of his novel is giving him more trouble than its worth. Thinks he should write Greg and tell him this chapter won’t be done by the deadline after all.
He should just stop here for the night. There’s a bottle of whiskey in the cabinet calling to him. Half-empty. He’d only just gotten it two days ago. Just as he’s about to get up and grab his glass, his phone rings. He only has one. It’s one of those old models. A clunky eyesore of red plastic sitting by the entrance to the foyer. Heavy and borderline unusable.
Lots of things in this house are like that.
“Hello?”
There’s a pause on the other end, Mike’s about to hang up when he hears a small intake of breath, would know the sound in every lifetime.
“Will?”
“Hey, Mike.”
“Long time no talk,” Mike says with a humorless huff. It has been a long time. Months. There were times they didn’t spend a day without speaking. Says, more seriously, voice lowering, “It’s nice to hear from you.”
Will exhales, sounds a little relieved. “Yeah,” he says. “You too.”
Another pause. Mike presses the receiver closer to his ear. Imagines it’s Will’s hand, and he’s cupping his cheek like he did when they were twelve, boys still, wiping each other’s tears away.
“So. Uh, how’ve you been?”
“I’ve been good.” Will clears his throat. “We’ve been good,” he corrects. “Busy.”
“Right,” Mike says. He pictures Will’s apartment around him. Plants on the windowsill, light spilling over the leaves. He always knew how to keep things alive. “The gallery opening?”
He can hear Will swallow. “That, and other things. Real world stuff.”
“Stuff,” Mike echoes dumbly.
Silence again. Mike rubs his thumb into the cord of the phone, tracing little spirals. Wonders what face Will is making right now, if his fiance is in the room with him, watching the furrow of his brow, appreciating the way his mouth quirks at the corners when he’s trying to think of the right thing to say.
He counts the breaths between them. Five before Will says, “I didn’t mean for it to be so long.”
“Me either.”
Which is true, but only in the most useless way, because Mike didn’t do anything about it. Had thought about calling a hundred times, a dozen letters in his drawer, unsent. Feels familiar. It's been twenty years since then. Guess nothing ever really changes, with him.
“I heard about your new place,” Will says. “Dustin told me you moved.”
There’s an accusation there. Mike ignores it. He looks around. The bare walls with cracks in them. The window over the sink, dark now, reflecting his face back to him, older than he’s ever been.
“Did Dustin tell you it’s a dump?”
“No,” Will says, chuckling, a little forced. “But. Um. Do you like it?”
“It’s quiet.”
“So, perfect for you.”
Mike opens his mouth. Closes it. He wants to lie, but knows Will’ll hear it in his voice. Has always had that way about him.
“I thought it was,” he admits. “Turns out, even I get lonely sometimes.”
Will hums softly.
“I could have told you that,” he says, after a moment. There’s the faint sound of movement on the other end. Fabric shifting against something soft. Blankets on skin. Will might be in bed already. It’s midnight in New York. “I wanted to ask you,” Will continues carefully, “I sent an invitation. I dont know if-”
“I got it,” Mike says quickly, chest burning. Then gentler, “I did. It’s on my fridge.”
That’s not totally a lie. The wedding invite is on there, just with a magnet over his fiance’s head. Likes looking at Will’s smiling face in the mornings over coffee. Doesn’t necessarily want to see the man he’s only met a handful of times beside him, arm wrapped around the curve of his waist.
“Oh.” Will sounds relieved. “I wasn’t sure, you were the only one who hadn’t RSVP’d so...”
Mike winces. “Well. Next year might be rough, is the thing.” Will is silent on the other end. Mike digs his grave deeper. “Greg wants me to do a book tour. It’s a scheduling nightmare, very up in the air. So-” He swallows. Breathes in. “I’ve been meaning to send it back.”
“I see.”
“Shit has just been driving me up the wall.”
‘The world is wrong,’ he wants to add. ‘Things were so much better when we were in my basement and you still loved me.’
He hears that soft sound again. Catches the hitch of a breath.
“You don’t have to explain,” Will says, too quick, a little nasal.
Mike knows when he’s crying.
“Sorry-”
“Please, don’t apologize, I get it.” Will laughs wetly. Like this isn’t wrong. Like, it’s totally fine that his best friend doesn’t want to go to his wedding. If Mike were a better man, he’d explain the real reasons why.
But he’s not.
So, instead, he says, “Maybe you can come out here.”
He hears him sniffle.
“Your cabin?” Will asks.
“Only if you want. It’s a bit out of the way, and dingy. But-” He bites his bottom lip. “I think it's about time I had some company.”
Will doesn’t speak for such a long time, Mike thinks he’s hung up.
“I’d like that,” he finally says. Followed by an admission, whispered. “I don’t want us to become strangers, Mike.”
No. Never that.
Mike would die first.
***
He visits the following month. Sooner than Mike had expected.
Will doesn’t comment on the dead garden, or the lack of plants. He is polite to a fault about it, and it makes things worse somehow. Asks Mike questions like, “What color do you think you’ll paint the kitchen?” Or, “Are you going to renovate the bathroom?”
Mike doesn’t know how to answer, either. He doesn’t think about things like that.
Still, he feels a pull in his chest when he brings Will’s bag in from the car, catches him lingering in front of the bedroom, eyes wide and glassy as he stares at the one piece of art he has on the wall.
Is a bit sad that he doesn’t bring it up. Would love to tell him it’s his favorite thing in the world just to see how he’d react.
***
Mike remembers why it’s hard seeing Will. He’s happy. Excited about life, still, in a way Mike hasn’t been for a long time. Has only grown more beautiful with age, too, which is also devastating. Keeps mentioning his favorite places to eat in the city, how he’d like to take Mike someday even though he doesn’t like crowds or bright lights. Mercifully, he doesn’t mention his fiance, or their wedding, or anything else that will spiritually split Mike in two.
By nighttime, Will has made himself at home, legs curled under him on the couch as he sips the tea Mike made him. Chamomile and lemon. Mike’s staring too much, his mind screams at him. He’s going to notice.
“You should show me what you’ve been working on,” Will says gently.
Mike startles. Looks away fast, fingers tightening on his knees. Clears his throat.
“It’s not even close to done,” he says. “I think it’s shaping up to be my worst work yet.”
Will’s lips quirk up. “I’ve read everything you’ve ever written. I don’t think you’re capable of writing a bad story.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” He’s serious.
“Can I see it anyway?”
Mike exhales through his nose. Is still weak to anything Will asks of him.
“You won’t like it,” he says, but he’s already getting up and walking to his bedroom. Dutifully collects the few pages he’s finished, hopes Will doesn’t mind how everything is smudged in ink. “This isn’t what people think it is,” he calls out. “It’s not about monsters, or dragons like my other books. It’s about-”
He stops. Takes a moment before turning back into the living room.
“It’s about waiting,” he finishes, placing the paper in a messy pile on the coffee table in front of Will.
Watches nervously as he takes them into his lap, delicate with it.
“Waiting,” Will repeats. “For what?”
Mike blushes. “I don’t want to say.” Waves his hand around. “Show, don’t tell, all that jazz.”
“Hm.” Will skims the first page. Mike follows the movement, and immediately panics.
“Please,” he begs. “Don’t read it in front of me.”
Will laughs, melodic and sweet.
“Alright,” he concedes. “I’ll read it before I go to bed.”
***
He only has one bed, actually.
Mike lets Will have it.
(“Are you sure?”
“Of course, what kind of host would I be if I made you sleep on the floor?”
Mike takes his glasses off. Lays them on the nightstand. Can feel Will’s eyes on him when he does.
And it’s all so delightfully nostalgic. Wrapped up in blankets, watching Will use his phone as a flashlight to read. And Mike drifts off like that, below him, making sure he’s still breathing, still real, still here.)
***
At some point, he can feel Will getting on the floor with him, under his comforter. He’s sniffling.
Mike made him cry, again.
“You’re an idiot,” Will whispers into his neck. His voice is water-logged and thick. He wraps his arms around Mike, pulls him close.
“You finished it, then?”
”Yeah, I did.”
Mike puts his hands over Will’s and squeezes. “What’d you think?”
Will doesn’t answer. Instead he moves them around until they’re facing one another. He’s shaking his head like this is a nightmare. A single question on his lips.
“Why’d you do this to me?”
Because he loves him. Because life is unfair and difficult and very much not a game, and Mike is nothing if not a coward.
So.
“I take it you did hate it, then.”
“Mike, I’m getting married.” Will shuts his eyes tight, like this wounds him to say.
“Alright.” Mike swallows around the lump in his throat. “When are you going back?”
Will’s chest heaves. Up, down. Mike is no longer counting seconds, but blinks, breaths.
“Next week.”
Alright. Mike can work with that. He closes the gap between them, and Will lets him.
***
He hadn’t lied. The story is about waiting. It’s about the reward at the end of it, too. A knight is always faithful. A knight is ever loyal. They can wait forever if they have to, all they need is hope. A little to cling on to, the belief that the one they love will eventually return to them.
The last line is underscored with a red pen-
i love you, the paladin had whispered to the cleric.
***
And it does feel like a reward, having Will underneath him, spread on his cock all over this dead house. Mike fucks him on every surface. Sucks Will’s dick while he’s on the phone with the man he’s supposed to marry. A victory to have him coming down his throat as he squeaked out a ‘goodbye’ and threw his arms over his beet-red face.
Cute, Mike had teased.
But it’s not just that, either. It’s also drinking coffee together. Cooking dinner in the evenings. Falling asleep next to each other and waking up the same way. It’s remembering the good times, the bad, things only the two of them out of the billions on earth would ever know.
(“I dream of her, sometimes,” Will whispered to Mike one night, naked in his bed. “Do you ever?”
No.
But Mike understands why Will still does. He holds him, kisses him until he’s not thinking of anything but him again.)
It all gets so domestic so quickly, so naturally, that Mike starts to forget Will has to leave. He’s got a real life to go back to. He’s got more than stories.
“If you told me to stay, I would,” Will had admitted. “That’s how much I-”
But Mike can’t do that to him. He’s been selfish enough to last him a lifetime.
***
The following summer, he finds a flower growing from a mound of dirt. It’s small and yellow, its face peaking up at the sun. Mike doesn’t know why, but it makes his throat close up to see it, and if he tears up, no one needs to know.
He’s alone, anyway.