Chapter Text
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Mike Wheeler: Certified New York City poser, a somehow drowning fish in a sea of people, a part-time coffee peddler and full-time loser, as Max Mayfield had once not-so-gently described him to a girl whose number Mike was trying to get on his work break. ‘You have no game, Wheeler,’ she’d said, sipping a purposefully slightly-burnt cup of coffee he’d made for her a few minutes prior. Mike had rolled his eyes and waved her off, claiming she’d have zero luck herself if it weren’t for Lucas’s thirteen year old hormones when they met. Undeterred, she’d simply smirked, shrugged, and with a confidence that could rival a gun in a knife fight, told him she’d bag more girls than he ever could.
New York wasn’t so bad, aside from Max’s near-constant nagging. She’d managed to manipulate Hawkins High into giving her a sympathy diploma, leaving her options wide open for a college she arguably should not be attending. Dustin had locked in a spot at MIT, leaving him departing with a devastating goodbye to Massachusetts, though he visits as often as his workload allows. Lucas had scored an athletic scholarship, but with no real direction, he’d settled for NYU, same as Will and Mike. Although really, it was Will’s decision–Mike had just followed him like a stray dog with nothing left to lose; lured by some obscure hope of a better future.
With a steady monthly flow of well-deserved government hushmoney under their belts, they’d settled decently comfortably in apartments of their own. Max and Lucas practically lived together, but with the extra cash, and Max’s strong desire to stay independent from any man–something she voiced fairly often, typically just before absolutely melting into any kiss from Lucas–they settled in their own apartments in another building down the street from Mike and Will’s. While the two lovebirds had meticulously chosen a far pricier apartment, stating they deserved to live as comfortably as possible after surviving the end of the world and being the ones who saved it, Will had chosen the most normal, maybe just slightly above-average apartment building, claiming he wouldn’t know what to do in any nicer of a space. He rented a cozy two bedroom apartment, which he’d practically jumped for joy over after realizing he could use one as a dedicated art studio. Will had chosen the apartment building, and Mike just signed a lease of his own in the same building without a second thought.
He lived just five doors down from Will, and had opted for a one bedroom instead; which was specifically not cozy, unlike Will’s, because Mike couldn’t figure out how the hell anybody kept up with cleaning. He figured he didn’t need much more space than 800sqft of laminate flooring and its contrasting brand new kitchen appliances–which Mike tended not to use, because when you’re basically living for free, why learn to cook past the basics of eggs and grilled cheese?
Unfortunately, the hushmoney didn’t serve as much more than a housing guarantee, which meant they were all still forced to get jobs and contribute to society, or whatever. They’d always have a roof over their heads, but their starvation was of zero concern to the government. Typical, really. Save the world, get a few bucks, get forgotten. He didn’t expect medals or a parade or a kiss on the cheek from the President’s wife, but not having to do any manual labor for the rest of his life felt like it would’ve been a fair trade off after the countless amount of bullshit they’d endured. But sure, whatever. Trade one hell dimension for another as a cog in the coffee machine, I guess.
Mike didn’t really mind working, as much as he complained before, during, and after each shift like his life depended on it. After everything, it was nice to partake in a normal life experience, even if it did feel like he was roleplaying as just some guy without a thousand years worth of trauma behind him at the ripe age of twenty.
Today, though, he was suffering from a particularly bad case of imposter syndrome. And every single customer, save for the steady flow of demoralized college students who couldn’t care less, had a particularly bad case of you-exist-purely-to-make-me-my-shitty-overcomplicated-beverage-that-I’m-going-to-way-overpay-for-and-then-blame-you-like-you’re-Mr.-Coffee-himself. He’d already snapped multiple coffee stirrers and left the pieces abandoned on the floor with the rest of his patience. He’d had to literally bite his tongue to avoid yelling at a woman, who asked him five. Five times to repeat the customization options, instead of saying all of her answers were right the fuck there above my head, and if you had any amount of brain for your eyes to connect to, maybe you would’ve realized that ten minutes ago!
Today, he was Mike Wheeler, certified asshole. Mike Wheeler, drink-maker for the brain-dead. Mike Wheeler, a man with zero hope left for the human race he’d for a reason that he definitely couldn’t remember right now fought so hard to save.
“Michael, Michael, Michael,” Lucas says, clicking his tongue like a dog with peanut butter stuck to the roof of its mouth. He leans against the side counter, politely out of the way of the customer line, arms crossed with a look that would probably annoy Mike more if he hadn’t already wasted all his irritated energy on the strangers terrorizing his day.
“...Lucas,” Mike sighs, abandoning a damp cloth he was using to wipe down the counter. “Why are you legal-naming me?”
“Your birthday’s tomorrow. What’s the plan?” Lucas asks, eyeing a pastry in a display case beside him
“No plan,” Mike answers, shrugging and folding his arms over his chest. “Figured I’d just invite you guys over, I guess.”
“With zero heads up?” Lucas questions, arching a brow. “That’s rude.”
“Don’t touch that,” Mike says, swatting Lucas’s hand away from the pastry case.
Lucas scoffs, playfully offended. “What’s the point of you working here if I don’t get free shit?”
“I get free shit, you don’t,” Mike answers, readjusting the baked goods. “Are you gonna order, or just wait for me to look away so you can steal and get me in trouble again?”
“I swear that wasn’t me,” Lucas defends quickly, though the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth contradicts his words.
Mike rolls his eyes, dusting off some crumbs before leaning his hip against the counter. “Right. And Max didn’t ‘forget’ to pay me for that one coffee last week, either.”
Lucas snickers, then shrugs. “Hey, what she does is none of my business.”
“You’re literally her boyfriend.”
Lucas throws his hands up in defense. “If you had a girlfriend, you’d understand,” he says slyly.
“Why are you here again?” Mike sighs, eyeing the door with a sudden change of heart for the crowd of customers who have conveniently abandoned him.
“Your birthday,” Lucas says after a second, like he had to jog his memory to figure out his own intention. “We’re going out.”
“Uh… Going out as in, movie night at my apartment?” Mike asks hesitantly, drawing out the question like he’s afraid of the wild replacement plan that Lucas definitely already has in mind, judging from the smug look on his face.
“No, not movie night at your apartment,” Lucas says mockingly, rolling his eyes. He straightens up, then looks at Mike with that evil, evil, I-want-to-drag-my-friends-to-parties-and-clubs look. “We’re going out.”
Predictable.
“What if I don’t want to go out, Lucas?” Mike asks harshly, slumping his weight against the counter, already feeling defeated.
“You’re turning twenty one, Mike. I know you’re like, all lame and sad,” Lucas says, gesturing vaguely to Mike’s face, “but I’m pretty sure it’s a criminal offense to not party on your twenty-first.”
“I am not lame and sad,” Mike corrects, pinching his brows together in offense. “I’m cool, I have tattoos and piercings.”
“You have one tattoo of a dragon, and it’s constantly hidden by your shirt sleeve,” Lucas says, entirely unimpressed, poking Mike’s shoulder where the fabric of his t-shirt is covering the ink. “And you don’t have piercings, you had a piercing, and it rejected, because that’s how uncool you are.”
“Hey, I’m still in mourning,” Mike says, raising a hand to his eyebrow and lightly tapping the scar, feeling the phantom piercing at the mention. “But– it’s my birthday. And you didn’t bother Will about this three weeks ago for his birthday!”
“Yeah, that’s ‘cause Will is like, a million times cooler than you, dude. Max and I literally took him out to a club after we all hung out. Zero resistance.”
“What?” Mike scoffs, throwing his arms up. “What the hell?”
“We told you we were doing that.”
“I thought you were joking! Will doesn’t drink,” Mike says quickly, feeling almost offended at the insinuation that Will would ever actively choose to get wasted, twenty-first birthday or not. He knows Will. Then again, he didn’t think Will would be so willing to go to a club, so… maybe he doesn’t.
If he was honest, Will was definitely much cooler than him. He’d grown into his confidence, his hair was always that perfect balance of messy and tamed, and he’d really blossomed away from Hawkins. It was a stark contrast to the boy he grew up with; Will was unapologetically–safely, because horror stories of hate crimes were obviously something he wasn’t totally unfamiliar with–himself, attractive in a way that was smooth and raw and real. Not to Mike, obviously. Just… objectively. He’d found his style, but even with his old, worn, paint-stained clothes, he’d easily beat out any competition.
Mike, on the other hand, hadn’t quite figured himself out yet. He’d dropped his stupid side part after enough teasing from the Party about looking like his father, and traded it for a slightly grown-out mess of untamed curls. He’d leaned more into his alternative side–hence the eyebrow piercing debacle–and traded polos for band tees and slightly-ripped (not to be edgy, he never knows how they get there) flannels. But self confidence was still an entirely foreign concept to him. He didn’t think he was unattractive necessarily, but, as Max had not-so-lovingly put it, he apparently had ‘the face of a largely unsuccessful model, the body of a twig, and the personality of a singular slice of bread.’ When asked what the hell that meant, she’d answered with ‘you have potential, but you’re only ever what others make you. You’re toast if someone butters you up, you’re a sandwich when someone tells you what ingredients you’re made of. Are you toast? Are you a sandwich? Are you actually a croissant in disguise? We’ll never know. Because you’re Mike Wheeler, unreadable loser.’
Of course, at the time, Mike had argued, pointlessly saying she was the unreadable loser, to which she’d responded with a simple, uncaring ‘that’s because I don’t want you to read me. You don’t have anything to be read. There’s a difference.’
Naturally, that conversation sparked a debate between all of them as to what kind of baked good they’d all be – Lucas claimed to be a donut, to which Max immediately reassigned that role to Dustin and replaced it with an apple pie. Will was unanimously agreed upon to be a cinnamon roll, which was met with no complaints from him. Mike suggested Max was the most undesirable thing he could think of: a fruitcake. Max immediately fired back, saying that Mike was a fruitcake, and he just didn’t want to admit it. Will choked on his water mid-sip, then didn’t stop giggling randomly for about twenty minutes, much to Mike’s annoyance and Max’s delight.
Mike knew Max was right, in reality – Not about the fruitcake part, let’s get that straight (...) – But about the whole you’re-only-what-others-make-you part. He’d never really found an identity outside of the roles he was assigned by others. He was a friend to his friends, a son on occasion when his mother called, a probably miserable looking barista to the small part of New York that frequented his place of work, and a ghost of past selves to himself. But if there’s one thing he knew for sure, and a million times better than himself, it was Will. Will is a soul painted in a soft yellow sunlight. Will is quiet and sweet, Will doesn’t go to clubs, Will doesn’t drink because of his fathers’ alcohol abuse.
“Not drinking doesn’t equal not going to clubs,” Lucas says plainly, glancing over Mike’s shoulder before a subtle smirk crosses his expression. “Hey, she’s cute. Have you asked her out?”
Mike steals a quick glance over his own shoulder, finding his coworker obliviously restocking cups on the opposite side, then turns back to Lucas with a wildly confused expression. “Um, no? She’s my coworker,” he says, lowering his voice. “That’d be so weird.”
Lucas simply shrugs, then leans in a little closer, matching Mike’s voice level with a smirk that already makes Mike want to take the coffee pitcher and dump it on him. “Did you already strike out?”
Mike sighs heavily, distantly wishing a stampede of angry customers would burst through the doors. He drags a tired hand down the side of his face. “No, I didn’t, asshole. She’s not really my type.”
Lucas makes a face like a parent whose kid just made a weightless threat to run away because their GameBoy was taken, then shakes his head. “Whatever you say. Anyways, back to the party–”
“There’s no party!”
“Then we’re hitting a club, or a bar, or whatever. Come on, you’ve been so annoying lately. It’ll be good to blow off some steam.”
“If I say yes will you leave?” Mike deadpans, narrowing his eyes.
“Never to return,” Lucas promises, holding his hand up like a Boy Scout. “Well, until day after tomorrow, probably. Max and I planned a date.”
“And your date has to be here?” Mike asks, doing nothing to mask his irritation.
“Yeah. Max likes to bet on how many times you’ll spill a drink. It’s fun.”
Mike shuts his eyes, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus– fine. We’ll go out.”
“Yes! Finally,” Lucas beams, looking like he’d just beat the hardest level of a videogame. “We’ll swing by around eight. I’ll tell Will. Or you can, I guess. You guys have your little date planned tonight, right?”
“Funny,” Mike says, the word carrying a sharp, sarcastic bite. “But yeah, I’ll let him know.”
“Cool, okay. I’ll get out of your hair,” Lucas says, taking a few steps backwards towards the door. “Which you should definitely cut, by the way,” he adds, not giving Mike time to defend before turning and giving a final wave as he heads out the door, a loud chime announcing his departure.
Mike runs a hair through his hair, scoffs quietly, then begrudgingly returns to his daily dose of coffee and monsters (patrons).
The hell does he know?
By the time Mike had returned home to his apartment–or cave, really, with how messy it was– around seven, Will was already there, cooking up something with an aroma that immediately carried the tension of the day away with it. While the cooking was surprising, Mike had already half-expected Will to be there. He’d taken the long way home from work–which turned out to be the really long way because, as much as he convinced himself otherwise, he definitely still didn’t know the area as well as he thought–and he and Will had exchanged spare apartment keys in case of emergencies long before now. Neither of them had ever actually used said keys for emergencies – unless you count spontaneous, boredom-sparked hang outs and breaking in to steal toiletries instead of running to the store as emergencies. While Mike did feel a little guilty for being late to their weekly scheduled catch-up dinner, the longer route ended up being a much needed decompression before allowing himself to settle into the comfort of the night.
“Hey– why are you cooking?” Mike asks, carelessly kicking his shoes off as he tosses his keys onto the entry table. “We never cook.”
Will greets him with a soft smile, then returns back to the boiling pot in front of him, slowly stirring the bubbling water. “No, you never cook,” he says lightly, transferring the spoon to his other hand so he can face Mike and stir. The stove light warms his skin, illuminating it in a faint orange glow, accompanied by the light, swirling steam from the pot. The overhead kitchen light hums quietly, casting a soft white onto the space. Compared to the stiffness of Mike’s work clothes, Will looks unfairly cozy in his red plaid pajama pants and–
“Is that my sweatshirt?” Mike asks, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the arm of the couch.
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Will says, glancing down at the dark green sweatshirt that hugs his body in a way it definitely didn’t hug Mike’s. “Got cold, but didn’t wanna run back to my place. Is that okay?”
Mike nods, then surveys Will’s outfit with a small smile. “Yeah, whatever. Looks good on you,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the wall of the kitchen entrance.
Will hesitates just for a second, then responds with a soft smile. “Thanks.”
Mike nods, then eyes the pot of water as Will pours pasta in. For a few moments, it’s a comfortable quiet. Mike finds himself mindlessly tracing the way his sweatshirt hangs on Will’s body, the way the sleeves are bunched up at his elbows, the way it looks far better on him than it ever did on Mike. It was unfair, really.
“Hey, so,” Mike starts, clearing his throat and readjusting his position against the wall to be more upright. “Lucas stopped by today.”
“Oh yeah?” Will asks, reaching past the pot of water to stir a red sauce in another pot behind.
Mike nods, watching Will’s movements as he speaks. “Yeah, he sorta bribed me to go out tomorrow night instead of doing a movie night.”
Will chuckles softly, stealing a quick glance over at Mike. “Bribed you with what?”
“Him leaving,” Mike answers, amusement laced in his tone.
“That persistent, huh?”
“That annoying,” Mike corrects, sighing. “I don’t know why he thinks I need to go out to clubs and bars.”
“I don’t know, it’s your twenty-first,” Will says, shrugging. “It’s kinda the thing to do.”
“I know,” Mike says, bordering dangerously on whining. “But it’s just not… my thing.”
“I don’t know, you might like it. I thought it was pretty fun, but that’s mostly because Max and Lucas are absolutely ridiculous when they’re drunk,” Will laughs. “But you also drink, right?”
“I mean– sometimes, not really. I only had that seriously questionable move-in gift from Nancy, and that got me through until, like… last week.”
“Right, but you do like alcohol. So maybe it’ll sound like a better idea once you’ve got some in your system. Maybe you’ll be less of a grump.”
Mike throws his arms up with a defenseless chuckle. “What the hell?”
Will laughs softly. “I’m just saying,” he says, moving to the sink to dump the cooked pasta into a strainer. “I think it’ll be fun. Blow off some steam, you know?”
Mike rolls his eyes, pushing himself off the wall, arms crossed again. “That’s what Lucas said.”
“Must be a sign that we’re right,” Will says teasingly, raising his brows before softening his expression after Mike shakes his head. “Besides, we’re literally watching a movie tonight. You don’t really need to do that two nights in a row.”
“I know, but this is different,” Mike says, gesturing vaguely to the space between them. “Why are you cooking, again? We always just order food.”
“Because you got here late, and I didn’t feel like waiting for you to take seven years to decide what you wanna order,” Will says, splitting the pasta between two bowls on the counter.
“I don’t take seven years,” Mike says, sounding fake-offended, furrowing his brows. “Like, two. Tops.”
Will rolls his eyes with a quiet laugh. “Yeah, okay, well– it’s two years too long.”
Mike shrugs. “Fair enough.”
Will turns back to the stove, then grabs the sauce pot with a swiftness and ease that inexplicably entrances Mike; like he’s cooked in Mike’s kitchen a million times, like he’s memorized the location of each item, like he’s never belonged anywhere else. There’s a warmth in the moment, the simplicity of it, the ease, the subtle sweetness. Mike blames the heat of the steam for the way the warmth spreads through his chest, lulling him into a relaxation and melting the day away until this is all that’s left.
Will splits the sauce between the two bowls, sifts through a drawer to his right, pulls out two forks, then places them neatly in the bowls as he shuts the drawer with his hip.
“What do you wanna watch?” Mike asks, gratefully accepting the bowl of pasta from Will and cupping his hands beneath, letting the comforting heat radiate onto his palms.
“Whatever you do.”
The day part of Mike’s birthday had gone by fairly easily. He’d requested the day off work months ago, freeing up the day for… well, not much. He’d spent most of the day hanging around his apartment after attending his only class of the day that morning, slightly dreading the events of the night. He’d picked up a few calls; one from his mom and Holly with a surprise, half-assed appearance from his dad, then Nancy–and subsequently Jonathan–a little while later, then Dustin, who apologized profusely for not being able to make it to his ‘clubbing extravaganza’, adding that he was ‘sad to miss Mike Wheeler try to survive in an upbeat social setting.’
Will had stopped by in the morning on his way to class, wishing him a happy birthday with a sweet hug and dropping off a gift – the sweatshirt he’d stolen the night before – before laughing and saying he’d give Mike his real gift later.
Otherwise, the day was wildly uneventful. He’d bought himself a nicer breakfast than usual, sat through a lecture he couldn’t care less about, then settled on his couch and let the hours pass as he flipped through TV channels, checking the time every once in a while when he’d realize the sun was getting lower.
Eventually, the dreaded night had come to claim the last of his soul at the hands of Lucas knocking on his door – well, knocking was a polite way to put it. He was essentially using the door as a drum and chanting “Birthdaybirthdaybirthdaybirthday”, almost definitely securing a passive-aggressive note from Mike’s neighbors in the morning.
“Holy shit, you’re loud,” Mike says sharply, swinging the door wide open, forcing Lucas to stop his stupid call to action.
“Just preparing you for the noise of the night,” Lucas says, wispy and sarcastic, stepping past Mike immediately.
“Ready to go?” Max asks, lingering with her weight against the doorway, lips curled in a smug smile that makes Mike want to slam the door in her face. She looks him up and down, then makes a face like she’s mentally preparing to dissect a frog. “Okay– no. You have to change.”
Mike glances down at his outfit, then mimics her disgruntled expression. “I’m not changing, it’s a shirt and jacket and jeans. I literally don’t have any other clothes.”
Max rolls her eyes. “You’re helpless.”
“Hey! You guys just get here?” Will asks, appearing in the hallway from behind Max, looking caught off guard by their presence.
“Hey,” Mike murmurs, shoulders relaxing just a little.
“Yeah, you just get back?” Max asks, turning to face Will.
Will nods. “Yeah, got caught up in a project, sorry. I’m just gonna put my stuff in my apartment and change real quick. I’ll be back in a sec!” he calls out, already shuffling past and down the hallway.
“Okay, back to this,” Max says without missing a beat, swiftly turning her attention back to Mike and vaguely gesturing to his outfit.
“I’m not changing,” Mike groans, awkwardly slipping his shoes on. “I’m not gonna put in a ton of effort for no reason. I’ll just be uncomfortable the whole night.”
Max sighs heavily, like she’s already preparing for a long night herself. “Alright, whatever you say. I’m just trying to get you a girl.”
“Not really my main concern,” Mike mutters, folding his arms over his chest. “All the girls here are either boring or fake. There’s like, zero common ground. So why should I care?”
“Uh… there’s reasons other than dating, Mike,” Lucas chimes in from behind Mike, clapping him on the shoulder.
“What?"
“Ohhhh,” Max says, borderline laughing. “Aw, is that why? Don’t want a stranger to be your first time?”
Mike plants his face in his hands. “Will you–” he sighs, dragging his hands down. “I’m not a virgin, Max. Sorry to crush your dreams.”
Max gasps dramatically, standing up straighter. “You’re joking.”
“What’s going on?” Will asks, reappearing behind Max, adjusting the bottom hem of his shirt.
Mike hesitates – he surveys Will’s outfit, eyes trailing from the loose, white, open-collared shirt covered by a lightweight tan jacket, down to his dark blue jeans and white, scuffed sneakers, like a man in a museum standing in awe of a marble statue.
“You just missed out on a crucial piece of Mike lore,” Max says, stifling a laugh.
Mike meets Will’s eyes, like he’s locked on a target he has no intention of aiming at.
“What was it?” Will asks, a smile slowly appearing.
“String bean here isn’t a virgin,” Max half-whispers, gesturing to Mike as she looks at Will with a smirk.
“String bean?” Mike scoffs.
“Wait, what? Since when?” Will says, eyes flickering between the group with a far too giddy smile.
“A while ago! It doesn’t matter. Are we going or not?” Mike says harshly, snatching his keys from the entrance table next to him.
“Alright, alright, let's go before Max starts the interrogation,” Lucas says, carefully moving past Mike and stepping outside.
“Oh I’m definitely not letting this go,” Max says, laughing as Lucas wraps an arm around her shoulders and guides her a few steps back.
Mike shuts the door a little harder than necessary, fiddles with the lock for a second too long, then shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and draws in a hollow breath. “Lead the way,” he mutters.
The night carried on, slow and uncertain at first, then ending in a blur of neon lights and body heat. Max had tried to draw details of Mike’s hookup out of him like she was meticulously pulling teeth, sneaking it into the conversation at least once an hour, hoping Mike’s increasing intoxication would let something slip through the cracks. But Mike held out, tempering his alcohol consumption, occasionally distracting Max by accusing Lucas of checking another girl out then slipping away. Aside from the noise, the crowd, and Max’s drunken attempts to get Mike and Will to ask out random people she pointed out, Mike didn’t actually have a horrible time. Will had been right, as he usually was. The alcohol was a nice buzz, soothing nerves and objections. After the initial wariness of the place wore off–and the drinks kicked in–the four of them had danced carelessly, with Will and Max clinging to each other like they were the only solid ground for either of them, shouting words to music Mike couldn’t help but laugh at the lyrics of. Will never touched a drop of alcohol, which made his enthusiasm and movements that much more entrancing. He moved freely and safely, rotating between the group like it was his life’s purpose to keep everyone’s energy up. Despite the height difference, Will had taken Mike’s hand and spun him around at one point, before laughing and telling him to ‘stop being so stiff.’ Mike, already tipsy and feeling the warmth settle in his face, had taken Will’s hand and spun him around in revenge, knocking him into Lucas and laughing a little too loud when his drink spilled. And, he was pretty sure, he didn’t let go of Will again the rest of the time. He’d clung to his arm, his hand, his shoulders, it didn’t matter; but Will stuck by him, entirely unphased, and arguably leaning into it.
Eventually, Max and Lucas had gone off on their own, and the energy shifted between Mike and Will in their absence. Mike suggested they go get food, whining about how the stuff there was criminally expensive, then dragging Will out of the building before he could protest.
Naturally, they ended up walking down an unfamiliar street at one in the morning, half-eaten hotdogs in hand, giggling about everything and nothing at all. And in a city where the noise is constant and bodies blur together, neither had to care about the looks they might get whenever they laughed a little too loud or bumped into each other a little too much. The night air was cold and soothing against alcohol-flushed skin, the lights of buildings dizzying as Mike stumbled past.
“Oh my god, look,” Will says, mid-chuckle, placing his hand on Mike’s chest to stop him.
Mike peers down at Will’s hand, brain lagging like he’d hit an area with spotty connection, then follows his eyeline to a way too bright purple neon sign with a weird, animated, blinking eye design in the window of a tiny metaphysical shop buried between an apartment building and a laundromat.
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.”
Mike stands up a little straighter, narrows his eyes, glances at Will, then the sign, then Will, then the sign. “I don’t think you could pay me. You do it,” he says lightly, the words broken by a laugh and a gentle shoulder shove.
“Can’t even pay you?” Will frowns, then hangs on Mike’s shoulder dramatically peering up at him, looking like a kid who’d just been told he couldn’t get a puppy in a shop window. “What if I ask really nicely?”
Mike hums, looking off to the side, like he’s fake mulling the idea over. “Maybe,” he answers slowly, peering down at Will and grinning hard enough to realize how sore the muscles were from overuse in the past hour. “Why don’t you just do it? You’re like– way more interesting. They’d probably, like– I bet my death is the only thing that wouldn’t be boring to predict. And even then, I think– sorry,” he pauses, recollecting himself after nearly tripping over one foot and using Will’s arm as an anchor – standing still, mind you – “I think they’d say I was gonna get hit by a bus or something tragically uncool like that.”
Will chuckles, real and bright, then shakes his head. “Well– I’m scared of them too, I don’t wanna.”
“Then why are you making me do it?” Mike whines, fairly sure a smile is glued permanently to his face now.
“Because it would be funny, and I asked nicely?”
“No you didn’t,” Mike says, scrunching his face up in mock offense.
“Yes I did,” Will says, scoffing playfully.
“No you didn’t.”
“Okay, well– please?” He asks, drawing out the word like it’s something syrupy and sweet, peering up at Mike with a softness that, for a fleeting moment, stops the world from spinning.
Mike sighs, with no real animosity. “Fine.”
Look. If you told Mike Wheeler one year ago–hell, even twenty minutes ago–that he’d be getting a tarot reading, he’d probably laugh in your face and go on a fifteen minute rant about how psychics are scam artists and spirits aren’t real. And all of his points would be backed by science, of course. Would said ‘science’ be at least a little made up on the spot to help prove his point? Maybe. But what he’d leave out, unless you were in his tight-knit group of friends, was his reasoning behind that belief.
Gods weren’t real–if his entire life wasn’t proof enough of that, the tourists, with a level of intelligence that made him sincerely question if he was trapped in some specially-curated tenth circle of hell, that came into his work really put the final nail in the coffin there. Angels, devils, and all that bullshit were also laughably made up. And psychics, or mediums, or other spirit-communicating-crazies fell right alongside all of it, as far as Mike was concerned. Monsters were real, but they weren’t under your bed or in your closet (hah! we’ll see), they were right under your feet, lurking in an unreachable mirror dimension. After seeing the real, honest to god (with a lowercase g, specifically) truth about their fucked up reality, Mike was pretty confident about his knowledge on the whole religious front. He fell somewhere closer to nihilistic, although he wasn’t entirely convinced that life had no meaning; but the hope he had in actually finding one had been wearing pretty thin lately.
So finding himself on an uncomfortable pillow, sitting across from a woman who actually does look intimidatingly like she could read your soul with nothing more than a glance, mentally preparing to be told he had a doomsday clock counting down from next Friday, was wildly confusing to his slightly drunk brain. Will stood just behind Mike, arms crossed, annoyingly giddy and prideful over his success at convincing Mike.
“Do you charge? Money, I mean?” Mike asks, eliciting what he thought was a very undeserved chuckle from Will.
The woman surveys him with an eye that feels like a tiger sizing up their prey and calculating the energy needed to take it down. “It’s free,” she says simply, voice smooth and calm. “It’s a promotion the shop is running.”
“Oh, cool,” Mike says, then swallows, finding his throat oddly dry. “Uh– what do I do?”
“Nothing,” she says, a warm smile appearing that contradicts Mike’s first impression of her entirely. “No need to say or do anything. The cards’ll figure you out.”
Mike glances over his shoulder at Will, shooting him a how-dumb-is-this look before turning back to the woman, who had begun shuffling messily through a deck of beautifully designed cards.
“A skeptic, I take it?” She asks, not hostile or judgemental, just stating like it’s a fun fact he’d just told her.
“Uh… yeah. I mean, it all just seems very– uh, I don’t know, fake?” Mike says, trying his absolute best to not come off as rude.
“I thought so too when I was younger,” she says, gracefully placing the deck of cards off to the side of the table between them and organizing a few that had fallen out in front of her. “It’s not for everyone, but I always hope I can provide some kind of guidance.”
Mike shrugs, then shifts his weight on the pillow beneath, squinting at the cards as she flips them rightside up in front of him.
“The Fool,” she says with a small hum, pointing to the first card, sparking a small giggle from Will, then moving down the row. “Judgement… and Death.”
Mike tilts his head back far enough to look at Will upside down behind him, then whisper-shouts “I told you!”
“Wow, a lot of change headed your way,” The woman says, leaning back like she’d gotten all the information she needed to know every detail of his existence.
“Change?”
She nods. “There’s something in your past you haven’t quite cut loose, or maybe confronted. There’s a lot of turmoil that you’ve made your way through, but there’s still some sense of loss, maybe in your identity or a friendship? Hmm… in your future, though, there’s a love.”
“Oh my god, do you think Max is gonna actually find you a girl?” Will chuckles incredulously.
“Shut up,” Mike says quickly over his shoulder, stifling the giggle bubbling in his chest.
“I will say, the love does not seem like something new or out of the blue,” the woman continues, unphased by their unseriousness. “How this is presented, it’s looking like something from your past that’s carried over to now, something that will soon see the light of day.”
Mike pinches his brows together. “What does that mean? Like, romantic love?” he asks, almost scoffing at the ridiculousness.
The woman responds with a simple nod, like she didn’t even need to look at the cards for the answer. “What’s coming through really strong is that it’s something you haven’t confronted. Maybe it’s something you’re scared of for one reason or another, or maybe you just haven’t realized it yet, but when you do face it, it’ll mark a dramatic change in your life.”
“...Right,” Mike says slowly, narrowing his eyes. “So you’re saying there’s someone that’s in love with me?”
“That, or you’re in love with someone, maybe.”
Will gasps like he’d just been given that puppy from before. “Mike, who are you in love with?” he teases, the feeling of ridiculousness obviously being mutual.
“Nobody,” Mike laughs, shaking his head, but there’s a sharpness to the word he didn’t intend.
“I see a few paths this could lead you,” The woman continues, gesturing to the cards. “One is filled with light, where you will blossom. The others are filled with secrecy and inauthenticity, where you will wilt.”
“...Poetic,” Mike deadpans.
“The fates are only guides, your future is still in your hands.”
Mike sighs, then drags a hand down the side of his face. “...Right. Is that all the cards?”
The woman nods, then gathers the cards swiftly and shuffles them back into the deck. “That’s all for the free reading.”
“Well,” Mike pats his thighs once, half-turns to face Will, then reaches an arm up, grabbing the air like a helpless child. “That was a scam. Help me up.”
“It’s not a scam if it’s free, Mike,” Will says, pulling Mike up with little effort. “Thank you, have a good night!” he calls over his shoulder, leading Mike out of the shop.
“That was totally a scam,” Mike repeats anyways, feet dragging a little heavier as they walk down the street.
Will just laughs, breathless and soft, his hand lingering on Mike’s arm to help balance in a way that felt like little volts of electricity to his slurred brain, even through the fabric of his clothes.
Mike Wheeler, in love? That was the most obvious proof of a scam ever. That was an emotion reserved for cheesy books and romcoms, not his painfully mundane life. Being in love, as far as he was concerned, was some abstract concept, something that people just said. And listen – he isn’t a total self-pitying cynic. He believes in general love, like mothers and their children, people and their pets, customers and the competition to see who can piss him off fastest; for the love of the game, he assumes. But if there was one thing he’d become more sure of than anything else in the past few years, it was that romantic love was absolutely not in the cards for him. He didn’t mind, really; he was decently content with his blissfully boring life and the love of his friends – even Max, despite their aggressive display of it towards each other.
Still, even in his alcohol-fogged brain, some part of the reading had resonated with him. And, for the rest of the night–which wasn’t long at all, seeing as they walked right back to their apartments and he’d passed out before his head even hit the pillow–bits and pieces lingered in his mind, like some sort of invisible, poisonous gas that hadn’t quite taken effect yet.
How could someone possibly be in love and not know it? Ridiculous. So, so, stupid. Blasphemous, even.
He wasn’t really sure if the vomiting that followed the next morning was from a hangover, or the deep-seated, nauseating way his gut twisted any time he remembered the reading.
‘Like something from your past that’s carried over to now, something that will soon see the light of day.’
Yeah, okay. We’ll see about that.