Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

NEW YORK, NEW YORK
APRIL 6TH, 1991

“Fu—uhh, sugar. Oh god. Your v-voice; yeah, keep talkin’, sweetheart. J-just like that. ‘M so close —“

The landline is perched between his ear and shoulder, the coiled wire curling tight around his thumb and index finger. A half-spent cigarette droops from his lips as he leans hard against the cold, rust-scarred metal of the fire escape.

Will takes a slow drag.

“Yeah?” The nicotine thrums just beneath his skin, the smoke billowing from his lips on the exhale. “Already? C’mon, we just started.” He eases his voice into a pout. “You’re so easy, baby. Mhmm—You’re not ready to leave me, are you?” He tosses the cigarette over the balcony edge and settles his weight against the guardrail.

A guttural groan crackles from the receiver; a spit-soaked, strangled moan. “P-please —“

Will runs his tongue along the underside of his teeth, then again against the chapped skin of his lower lip; the taste of ash and smoke coats his mouth and the back of his throat as he swallows. He drums his fingers against the railing, matched to the rhythm of the voice on the line.

“You sound so good, baby,” Will murmurs. He presses his lips against the mouthpiece, mimicking the wet smack of a kiss. “Let me hear just how badly you wish I was there.”

Another strangled sound, followed by the incessant slap of skin against skin. He is closer, now, teetering; Will can hear the sheer desperation climbing higher, higher. His breathing is fractured, incoherent little pleas and broken versions of a name gasping from his mouth.

Will can picture it so clearly: some faceless guy in a too-small apartment, fist flying, chasing after the voice of a stranger.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lolling his head back against the ladder rungs, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “Let go for me, baby.”

”Thankyouthankyouthankyou—“

The noises from the other end of the receiver crescendo, then break. Silence follows, punctuated by breathy gasps and shaky exhales.

His lip curls. Tsk.

Will closes his eyes and inhales. The city smells like exhaust and street food grease. Tires screech across the wet pavement and, somewhere, a cassette croons through its ‘Greatest Hits of the Last Decades.’ The streetlamp hums low, the lightbulb flickering.

Beneath it all, rough, stuttered breathing pressed against his ear.

Then: a click. Dial tone.

NEW YORK, NEW YORK
DECEMBER 18TH, 1990

“Good morning, New York University!” A delighted giggle bubbles through the speakers. “Gosh, I love saying that. Don’t you all love saying that?” She pauses, letting it land. “Rockin’ Robin live and wired; we're talking cup number three, people, so hang on tight. I’ve got some absolutely killer tracks lined up for you today. Some, uh, significantly less killer takes on the news. Honestly? Total bummer lately. But hey, we’ll get through it together.”

A quiet huff of amusement.

“So, whether you're currently regretting every single decision you made last night, or you're one of those weirdos who actually digs mornings, this one's for you. Stick around, New York. Let’s make some noise.”

The opening synth of "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" fills the shoebox apartment catty-cornered on the edge of Bleecker and Broadway. A melancholic riff accompanied by the voice of Curt Smith. Welcome to your life, indeed.

“For all my closeted romantics out there. You know who you are.”

The milk expired three days ago. Will rocks back on his socked heels, grimaces, and pours it over the Cheerios anyway, then eats standing at his kitchenette, the bowl balanced against his ribs.

Behind him, the bedroom door creaks open. Vickie emerges in an oversized Blondie t-shirt and mismatched socks, hair still pillow-mussed, squinting against the early morning light filtering through the window. She pads across the room and stops at the kitchenette's edge, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

She yawns, stretching her arms above her head, then drags out the barstool and drops onto its sagging cushion. “Didn’t the milk expire already?”

Will shrugs, mouth full, then swallows. "It's not that expired."

”It’s three days old."

“Milk doesn't just go bad the second the date hits." He huffs a small laugh. The cereal’s already getting soggy.

Vickie levels him with a look. She tilts her head, resting her cheek atop her palm. He shifts under her gaze, rubbing his foot against the inside of his ankle, then trails it up the back of his heel. The fabric of his sock scratches at his skin.

“How long have you been up?”

”Since five, maybe?”

Vickie glances toward the microwave clock. “It’s six-thirty.”

Will sets the bowl down atop the counter, the ceramic clinking against the granite. "I … couldn’t sleep.”

He bends slightly, wrapping his mouth around the spoon. The cereal is flavorless as he chews, the Cheerios mushy against his tongue. Milk trails down his chin from the edge of his mouth. He wipes at it with the back of his hand.

”You’ve been getting up early lately.”

Will hums around his spoon.

”Almost everyday.”

”I guess.”

Vickie nods slowly, twisting the ring on her thumb. She doesn’t push further, but keeps a steady gaze locked on him, like she’s waiting to see if he’ll add anything else.

”You look tired,” she says finally.

”I’m fine, Vic.”

She reaches past him for the coffee pot, her arm brushing his, and pours herself a cup from the half-empty carafe he'd made an hour ago. The radio plays on in the background, Curt Smith's voice fading into the next track, and for a moment, they exist there in the cramped kitchenette, just two people having breakfast.

“You know," Vickie says eventually, blowing across the surface of her coffee, "you’re a terrible liar, Byers.”

Will’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, I know.”

The truth is, Will hasn’t been sleeping. Not for months, really. Not since he moved into the guest bedroom—his bedroom—of Robin and Vickie’s apartment. But how could he explain that?

That every time he closes his eyes, it’s like he’s back in Hawkins. Not like a memory; like he never left.

He wakes up choking on it more often than not, throat raw, lungs burning; he ran three roommates out of his dorm before Robin finally dragged him to her place.

And the only person who ever knew how to bring him back
the only one who could ever make it stop
the only one who could

isn’t really around anymore.

If we’re both going crazy, then we’ll go crazy together, right?

Sure.

The sunlight shifts slowly across the apartment, washing the living room in soft pink and gold. Dust drifts through the light, settling over the furniture.

Posters of various music artists are thumbtacked across the walls, and a bright orange thrifted loveseat dominates most of the living room, the cushions already giving in at the center. String lights loop in uneven spurts overhead, casting a warm, hazy glow across the space.

Cassette and VHS tapes pile beside a milk crate turned center console. Books crowd the windowsill. Colorful shag rugs overlap across the yellow wood floorboards. Shoes cram the front entry. Photographs are clipped to the fridge with alphabet magnets. Vanilla-scented incense burns by the fire escape.

Will’s artwork is up there too, worked in between everything else; sketches, paint-thick canvas, cityscape scenery translated into pencil.

“So,” Vickie says, setting her coffee down. “Are you excited for tonight?”

Will blinks. “Tonight?”

“Dinner. Y’know, you and Robin.” She tilts her head, the light catching the red of her curls, and quirks an eyebrow. “That new Italian place in the Village she won’t shut up about?”

“— and they have these little star-shaped breadsticks. Will, the bread is star shaped —“

Oh.

Oh shit.

“Right,” Will says, a nervous giggle bubbling from his lips. “Yeah. No, totally. I’m — yeah, I’m excited.”

Will’s mind is already racing, doing the math he's been avoiding all week.

Rent is due in four days. His portion of utilities cleared yesterday—thirty-eight dollars he couldn't really afford to spend but couldn't afford not to. He has maybe twenty dollars left in his wallet.

The allowance check his mom and Hopper send each month won't arrive until next week and, even then, the money will be stretched too thin to make any sort of difference. Paying next semester’s tuition. Textbooks. Art supplies. Somewhere in there, he was supposed to budget for food.

The campus coffee house, Brew Damn Good, had let him go back in early October. Something about budget cuts. Sorry, kid. Nothing personal. Three months of steady paychecks, just … gone.

He’d tried applying to a few other places. The bookstore near the metro that lacked plumbing and smelled like corn chips. The boutique on campus that exclusively stocked clothes in the same shade of piss yellow. That one restaurant on Broadway that required all staff to sing and Will had even promised to get lessons—

Curt nods and promises to call him back. The other places advertised desperate openings, but they weren’t desperate enough to hire him.

And his art. God, his art. The commissions had dried up around Halloween. A few album covers here and there, some flyers for local bands, but nothing that paid more than pocket change and promises of “valuable networking.”

Whatever that meant.

Dinner tonight at that fancy new Italian place. The kind of restaurant where appetizers start at twelve dollars and Robin will insist on splitting a bottle of wine because it's a celebration, Will, live a little. He’ll smile and nod and say yes, and it’ll make her so happy—except, he can’t afford to live a little, not really.

You’re being unfair. It’s one dinner. You’ll survive one dinner.

“Earth to Will?”

“Yeah," he says as he presses his teeth into his lower lip. “Sorry. Still waking up, I guess.”

She didn't call him on it. She just nods, drains the rest of her coffee, hums along with the radio, and pushes off the counter. "I should get ready for work."

Vickie disappears back into the bedroom, and Will exhales shakily, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles turn white.

”Thank you for tuning into 89.1 WNYU campus radio! I’m your favorite morning show host, Rockin’ Robin. Hello-o, caller number seven! You just so happen to be our final request of the morning, so make it count. Aren’t you lucky? Color me green, am I right?”

A canned laugh track crackles through the speakers. “Anyways, enough about me. Caller, what’s your poison?”

”Hi, Rockin’ Robin, big fan! Can you play—“

Will dumps the half-eaten cereal down the drain.

The bedroom door opens again a few minutes later. Vickie steps out in pale blue scrubs, stepping into a pair of lace-up white Oxfords. Her curls are pushed back from her face with a ruby red hair clip, the same color lipstick that she wears on her mouth.

“— Rockin’ Robin signing off! Before I have to leave you, and you know it pains me to leave you, I think I’ll play a favorite of mine. Sing along if you know it. This one is for you, babe; I know you’re listening.”

Static. Shuffle. Fade, and then —

"Color me your color, baby, color me your car ..."

“Try to get some sleep today, okay?" Vickie says, crossing the small space between them and leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“I will.”

“Liar.”

She grabs her purse from the hook by the door, slings it over her shoulder, and hesitates. For a second, Will thinks that she is going to say something else about dinner, about the money, about the milk, about—

Instead, she reaches out, tugs his hand open, and presses something into his palm. She meets his eyes for a second, face earnest, and smiles as her shoulders drop. Her fingers linger for just a moment and then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

Will looks down.

Three twenty-dollar bills, folded neatly in half.

His teeth clench. Hot tears blur his vision. Humiliation crawls up his stomach and cinches his throat.

"Roll me in designer sheets, I’ll never get enough ..."

A minute passes. And then another.

Will tries to breathe, but the air bottlenecks halfway up his chest. His legs shake, then give, and he slides down hard on the kitchen tile. His back presses up against the cabinet, the money clutched tight in his fist.

The radio plays behind him. Debbie Harry’s voice fading into static, then into the next song—

Will pulls his knees towards his chest and sobs.

The restaurant is called Stella di Notte, tucked between a record shop and a laundromat on Carmine Street. Through the window, warm light spills onto the sidewalk, and inside, red-checkered tablecloths and wine bottles line the walls. Robin has been talking about it for weeks—“The spaghetti alle vongole is inspired, Byers!"—ever since it opened in early November, replacing what used to be a mom-and-pop Vietnamese bodega.

Robin pulls the door open with a flourish, bending at her waist, grin wide and theatrical. "After you, Byers."

The smell is immediate. Fresh bread, sun-dried tomatoes, chopped garlic sautéing in olive oil somewhere in the back. Will's stomach cramps so sharply he nearly doubles over. The hunger is almost dizzying. He hasn't eaten since the spoiled cereal that morning.

There are small groups of people crowding the entryway, huddled together and far enough away from the open door to avoid the biting chill of the wind. Some men are dressed in slacks and overcoats, others in business casual.

Will wears his Sunday best, borrowed from Jonathan: navy slacks that are slightly too long, and a button-down that pulls a little tight across the shoulders. The tie sits crooked at his neck; he still hasn’t quite figured out how to knot it properly.

He feels like a kid playing dress-up.

Robin strides to the host stand, gives her name, and Will hovers a step behind her, unsure of where to put his hands. He settles on his pockets, fingers curling into the seams.

"This place is nice," Will says when she rejoins him.

"Right?" Robin's already weaving between tables, following the hostess toward a corner booth near the back. "Vickie discovered it. Well, technically one of her coworkers found it, but Vickie told me about it, so I'm taking the credit." She flashes a grin over her shoulder.

The hostess hands over two menus bound in cracked leather, a gold cursive script scrawled across the cover, and heads back toward the front. Robin shrugs out of her jacket—oversized denim, covered in pins and patches, a faded AIDS ribbon near the collar—and drapes it over the back of the booth. Underneath, she's wearing a pale pink Blondie shirt, the same one Vickie was wearing this morning.

"So," Robin says, thumbing open the menu. "How bad did finals kick your ass?"

"Not terrible." Will scans the prices, keeping his face still. His pulse ticks up, dull and insistent at the base of his skull. "I think I did ... fine on the art history exam. The studio critique was—"

He hesitates.

Professor Smithfield's tight smile when she'd examined his final mixed media piece on identity and self. He had meant for it to come across as deep with meaning, but it ended up looking like a mess instead. “Interesting choice,” she'd said, lips pursed.

"—fine," Will finishes. "It went okay."

"You're a bad liar, Byers."

Will laughs despite himself. "Yeah, so I've heard."

Robin's grinning again, back to scanning the menu. "Well, I bombed my sociology presentation. Completely blanked on my opening statement. Just stood there like an idiot for, I don't know, ten seconds? Felt like an hour, really.” She shakes her head. “Jenny had to jump in and save me."

"Jenny from your study group?"

"Yep. Saint Jennifer Goodrich. I owe her my life.” Robin puts a hand to her heart. “Or at least, like, several drinks." She glances up. "You want to split an appetizer? The bruschetta sounds so good."

Twelve dollars.

"Sure,” he says, hoping it sounds casual.

The waiter is middle-aged, with slicked-back hair and an apron tied tight around his waist. He rattles off the specials in rapid-fire accented English, and Will manages to catch maybe half of it. Something about veal and seasonal vegetables.

Robin orders the bruschetta, and something with seafood. Will stutters through an order of sparkling water and the cheapest pasta on the menu—spaghetti aglio e olio, fourteen dollars—and avoids thinking about how much he has left from Vickie.

”Oh! And two glasses of Pinot Noir, please,” Robin says, handing the waiter her menu. He nods and pockets his pen-pad, scoops Will’s menu, and leaves.

Will’s leg bounces under the table, and he clenches his thigh to still the movement.

Robin leans back against the booth, studying him.

"What?" Will asks.

"Nothing." She shrugs, but she doesn't look away. "You just seem ... I don't know. Really tired lately?"

"Finals," Will says automatically.

"Right. Yeah, Finals."

She lets the subject drop, but Will can feel her watching him.

The bruschetta arrives first, six pieces arranged on a white plate. The bread is burnt at the edges, drenched in olive oil. Robin takes one and nudges the plate toward him.

"So," she says, chewing. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

Will's fingers twitch against the edge of the table. "Okay."

"It's not bad," she adds quickly. "I mean, at least I don't think it's bad. It might be good, actually. It depends on how you feel about it."

Will takes a piece of bread, just to have something to do with his hands.

"So, there’s this guy in my study group," Robin continues, forking into her tomato. "Mori. He's super cool. He actually owns this bar in the Village, near Greenwich. Anyway, he told me he’s looking for someone to fill in for a job for a few months. It pays pretty well, he says."

Will swallows. The bread sticks in his throat.

"What … kind of job?"

"Answering phones, mostly." Robin's voice is careful now. "Really odd hours, though. Late nights, a few early mornings, that kind of thing. It’s pretty flexible. He says that could do it around your class schedule."

"Answering phones," Will repeats.

"Yeah." She meets his eyes, and there's something deliberate in her expression. "I just know money's been tight lately. I just thought … Hm. I don't know. It might be worth looking into."

The words settle uncomfortably between them.

I just know money's been tight.

Will sets the bruschetta down, half-eaten, and reaches for his water. The glass is cold, condensation slick against his palm.

"I'm fine," Will says, voice tight.

"Will—"

"I'm fine, Robin. Really. You don’t need to worry about me."

She watches him for a long moment, then sighs, shoulders dropping. "Okay. But if you change your mind, I can give you his number. No pressure, yeah? Just ... think about it. Please."

The entrees arrive before he can respond. His pasta is simple; spaghetti tossed with garlic, olive oil, and red pepper flakes. It smells incredible. Robin's dish is more elaborate, mussels and shrimp piled high in a bed of thick, fragrant sauce.

They eat in silence for a while. Around them: low voices, silverware scraping, and laughter from the bar. Will twirls the spaghetti around his fork, staring hard at the checkered tablecloth, counting the squares. One, two, three—

"It's not weird, you know," Robin says eventually. "Asking for help."

Will's fork stills.

"I know that."

"Do you?"

Robin sets down her fork, leaning forward slightly. Her voice is softer now. "Look, I'm not trying to, like, mom you or whatever. But you're my friend, Will. And Vickie's worried. I'm worried. You don't always have to do everything alone, y’know."

The meal sits heavy in his stomach.

"I'll … think about it," Will says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Robin smiles and pulls a napkin toward her. She fishes a pen out of her jacket pocket and scribbles something down: a name, a phone number, and a brief description: Mori. The Blue Note bar.

"Just tell him I sent you," she says, sliding the napkin across the table. "He's expecting someone to reach out."

Will stares at the napkin. The ink is slightly smudged, Robin's handwriting looping and uneven. His hand moves slowly, fingers closing around the paper, folding it once, then a second time, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks.

The weight of it presses against his thigh.

A few seconds later, Robin drums her fingers quickly atop the tablecloth, then brushes her hair back behind her ears.

”I might’ve, uh, kinda, sorta already promised Mori that you’d call.”

”Robin! Why—“

”Now listen, Baby Byers, this is an investment.” She leans forward and swipes a bite of pasta off of his plate, swallowing it with a wink. Will looks on incredulously, lips parted. “You’ll thank me later!”

She grins, and Will finds himself grinning back.

They finish dinner. Robin insists on paying for both of them, and Will feels an argument bubbling in his throat—I can pay!—but Robin only raises an eyebrow and hands a few bills to the waiter when he brings their check.

Outside, the air is cold. It bites at his face. The city breathes around them; cars honking, someone shouting, music spilling out from a nearby dive bar. His breath fogs in front of him, dissipating into the night.

Robin pulls her jacket tighter and grins over at him. "Same time next semester?"

"Yeah," Will laughs. "Same time."

Robin bumps her shoulder into his, laughing at something he doesn't catch. She's turning towards the subway entrance and her gloved hands tug at the crook of his elbow. She begins a lengthy spiel about, "Well, of course Bowie is a queer icon, but what about—" her fingers moving rapidly as she speaks.

Will lingers on the sidewalk, fingers curling around the napkin in his pocket, squeezing it tighter.

By the time he lets go, the edges have gone soft.

He exhales, then follows after her.

The Blue Note is wedged between a shuttered bodega and a dry cleaner. Its chipped brick facade is painted a matte black. A single bulb burns above the door, casting sickly yellow light onto the sidewalk. Half the neon sign is burnt out—Bl e No—and Will stands outside for a full minute watching his breath fog in the air.

The door is slightly ajar, the muffled thump of music mingling with the street noise, and he pushes inside.

The warm air is thick and saturated with the smell of cigarette smoke, expensive cologne, and the heady scent of man. The bar is small, all exposed brick and low ceilings, string lights draped across the walls. A handful of men linger inside: two at the bar, another three clustered near a pool table in the back. They don't look up when Will enters.

The bartender is a burly woman, silver hair cropped close to her skull, and biceps straining against the short sleeves of a leather vest. Her eyes flick up to him as she polishes the rim of a cocktail glass with a lime-green rag.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I’m here to see Mori?”

One eyebrow lifts.

“Is that supposed to be a question?”

Heat rushes to his face, burning his ears. “Um. No, sorry. I have an appointment with Mori. For a job.”

She looks him over, slow, from behind the bar, no doubt cataloging the nervous fidgeting of his fingers, the grass stains permanently marked on the knees of his jeans, or—

Sweat prickles his underarms and he bites back the urge to apologize and sprint back home.

She jerks her chin toward a door at the far end of the bar.

Will nods back and weaves his way between the tables. His foot catches the leg of a chair and he stumbles forward slightly. He grabs the edge of the high-top to steady himself. His face flushes and he ducks his head, quickening his pace.

He stands in front of the door, hands clenched at his side, trying out different greetings under his breath.

”Hi, I’m Will and I really, really need a job.”
“I'm Will. I can start immediately. I can start right now, actually!”
“Have you ever seen someone so desperate for a job? Well, here I am.”

Will grimaces. His fist lifts to the door.

It opens before he can knock.

“Hey! I thought I heard someone out here.” The man extends a hand out, fingers stacked with gold rings and nails polished black. “Will, right?”

Will shakes his hand.

Mori is younger than Will expected—mid-thirties, maybe, with sharp cheekbones, dark brown skin and darker eyes. He's wearing a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and there's a cigarette tucked behind one ear. He’s handsome. When he smiles, a deep dimple carves into one cheek.

“Yes, sir,” Will says. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

Mori snorts softly. “Drop the sir. Makes me feel ancient.” He steps aside, gesturing him into the office. “Come on in.”

The office is barely a room. A leather couch shoved against one wall, a desk taking up most of the rest, papers stacked in loose, leaning towers. The walls are layered in flyers, photographs, and multi-colored postcards. A window overlooks the alley, its glass fogged with condensation.

Mori shuts the door behind them.

"Have a seat," he says, moving behind the desk. He pulls the cigarette from behind his ear, lights it with a silver Zippo, and takes a long drag. The smoke curls upward towards the ceiling.

He watches Will through it.

Will sits. The cushions are soft and sag slightly under his weight. It smells like whiskey and oranges.

Electric blue velvet stretches over the couch, worn and a bit grimy, with gold accents and matching throw pillows. The color has dulled with age with various stains marking the fabric.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Mori asks. “Water?” A wink. “A shot?”

“Ah, no, thank you. I’m okay.”

Mori watches him for a moment. He smiles again, leaning back in his chair.

"So," He says, and exhales towards the ceiling. "Robin told me that you're in the market for a job.”

"Yeah." Will sits, hands folded across his lap. "She mentioned you had a position available. Ah, answering phones?"

"That's right." Mori leans back, the leather back groaning as he settles. "Hours are flexible. Money’s good. Pretty solid gig, honestly.” He brings the cigarette back to his mouth, inhaling deep. “You’re a student, right?"

"Sophomore. At NYU."

"Art?"

Will blinks. "How did you—"

"Robin’s mentioned you a couple of times." Mori grins. "Plus, you've got that … look."

"Uh, what look?"

"You know, the whole tortured artist thing." He says, stubbing out his cigarette in a gold-plated ashtray. "It's very endearing."

Will huffs a nervous laugh. "I'm not—I mean, I don't think I look … tortured?”

"Sure you don’t." Mori waves him off. "Anyway, the job. It's pretty straightforward. You answer calls, you chat up the clients, you keep them entertained.” He taps a finger against his desk. “My friend Charlize runs the operation. She's good people. Keeps everything organized, and makes sure everyone gets paid on time."

"Entertained," Will repeats slowly.

"Yeah. Mostly regulars, but you get the occasional new guy. They all come for Charlize’s Angels. Cute, right? Very seventies." He laughs, shaking his head. "She's got this whole system. Cover names and schedules. Y’know, the whole shebang."

Will’s pulse stutters, uneven and too loud in his ears. "Cover names?"

"For anonymity." Mori waves a hand, gold rings catching the light. "You pick something that sounds good. Charlize has a list if you need ideas, but most people come up with their own." He glances at his cuticles, holding his hand toward the string lights overhead, examining them with idle vanity.

"Clients do it, too. Keeps everything private."

Private.

"Right." Will's throat is dry. "And the clients. Um, what exactly are they calling for?"

Mori tilts his head, studying him with an expression that's equal parts amusement and curiosity. "Robin didn't tell you?"

"Ah, not really.” Will pops his thumb knuckle against his index finger. “All she said was that it’s just … answering phones.”

"It is." Mori nods, raising an eyebrow. “Phone sex, specifically."

Will stares at him. "Phone—what?"

"Phone sex." Mori says it casually, like he's talking about the weather. "You know, people call in, you talk them through it, they get off, you get paid.” He chuckles. “Everyone goes home happy.”

He smirks, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“And they thank you for it.”

Will's brain stutters, trying to catch up. "I—I thought this was—“ He wheezes slightly, the air suddenly too thin. “Telemarketing."

Mori barks a laugh. "Telemarketing? Jesus, kid, do I look like I would run a telemarketing gig?" He shakes his head, still grinning. "No, this is way better than that. People usually want to stay on the line.”

Holy shit.

Will’s hands sweat; he presses them into his thighs. "I don't—I'm not sure that I'm the right … person for this."

"Why not?" Mori leans forward, elbows resting on the desk. "You've got a nice voice. You're polite. You're desperate enough to show up. That's pretty much the job description."

"I'm not—" Will's voice cracks. He clears his throat, tries again. "I don't know how to do …” His voice drops to a whisper. “ … that."

"Nobody does at first. That's why Charlize trains everyone. She's got scripts, tips, all that. Plus, the clients aren't looking for the next Shakespeare. They just want someone who sounds interested." Mori winks. "It's acting, basically. You're an artist, right? Same principle."

It's not the same.

Phone sex … chatting up strangers … getting them off.

His fingers curl into his sleeves. Will wants to stand up and walk out and never think about this ever again.

But he stays seated anyway.

"The pay's good," Mori continues, either oblivious to Will's internal spiral, or choosing to ignore it. "Charlize takes a cut, obviously, but you're still looking at a couple hundred a week if you put in the hours. More if you get good at it."

A couple hundred a week.

The yes! sits heavy on his tongue.

Will swallows it down hard.

"And the clients," Mori says, leaning back again. "Most of them are harmless. Lonely, maybe. Charlize has some great stories." He grins, thumb pressing against his lower lip. "There's this one guy who calls every Tuesday just to talk about his day. Doesn't even want to get off, just wants someone to listen. She charges him anyway."

He laughs, a short bark of amusement. "Then there's the guy who's really into feet. Like, really into feet. Won't shut up about arches and toes and ..."

Oh my god.

”Anyway," Mori says, shrugging with mock innocence. “You get the idea."

Will presses his lips together, carefully avoiding his gaze, but his hand twitches anyway, brushing a loose thread on his sleeve.

"You'll need to come up with a name," Mori says, pulling a notepad toward him. "Something that sounds good over the phone. Sexy." He taps the pen against his chin. "Candy's really popular. Chase, Jett, Casanova. Blaze is good if you want something edgier."

"Candy," Will echoes faintly.

"Yeah, but I don't think it fits you." Mori studies him, eyes narrowed in careful assessment. "You're more ... I don't know. Delicate? Not in a bad way. Candy's way too aggressive."

Will wants to laugh. Or cry. He's not sure which.

Mori's gaze drifts past him, landing on something pinned to the wall. A flyer, bright blue with white text. Hudson River Boat Rentals. See the City from the Water!

"River," Mori says suddenly, snapping his fingers.

"What?"

"River. Yeah, that’s—“ Mori writes it down, the pen scratching across paper. "River,” he says again, testing it out loud, then nods. “Yeah. See, that’s good. It works.” His grin is wide as he glances back over at Will. “Sounds like someone you'd actually wanna talk to, y’know?”

River.

Will stares hard at the notepad, at the name written in Mori's neat scrawl.

"I—" Will stands abruptly, the couch creaking under him. "I don't think I can do this."

Mori raises an eyebrow. "No?"

"I'm not—I'm not meant for this. I don't know how to—" His voice is shaking now, words tumbling out too fast. "I'm sorry. I thought this was something else. I shouldn't have come."

"Hey, it's okay." Mori's voice is gentler now, less teasing. "No pressure, kid. If it's not for you, it's not for you."

Will nods, already moving toward the door. "Thanks for—I mean, I appreciate you meeting with me, but I—"

"Door's open," Mori says. "If you change your mind."

Will doesn't respond. He just leaves, pushing through the office door. He maneuvers through the club, avoiding the watchful gaze of the barkeep, and stumbles outside.

His breath comes in short gasps, hands shaking so hard he can barely get his keys out of his pocket.

Phone sex.

Jesus Christ.

NEW YORK, NEW YORK
APRIL 21ST, 1991

”Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Editorial Department, this is Michael Wheeler. How may I help you?”

The words are like muscle memory, as if he’s said it a thousand times before.

Because he has.

You sound like a dick.

Mike catches his reflection in the black mirror of his computer monitor. Gel-slicked side part. Wide-rimmed glasses perched on the crook of his nose. Way too fucking serious.

The whole ensemble screams small-town kid playing dress-up in a big-city office.

He looks like someone who drinks black coffee and actually enjoys it.

Sometimes, Mike forgets where he begins and Ted Wheeler ends; he wonders if there is any difference left at all.

You look like a dick.

”Hello, yes, my name is Barry Mauman and I am writing a five part sci-fi meets the supernatural series, based on a popular conspiracy theory—”

The office smells like old paper and burnt coffee. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, bleaching everything the same flat shade of yellow. A low fan whirs somewhere near the radiator, pushing stale air in slow circles, carrying the faintest trace of ink.

Cloth-bound cubicles, each cluttered with stacks of paper and thick envelopes, stretch in even rows down the room. A vomit-green shag rug sprawls across the wood floor, worn thin along the paths to the copier, the water cooler, and the bathroom.

”You may not believe it, but there’s this pull-out couch—”

Mike sits at his own touch-down station, lower than the other desks and half the size. The surface is scratched to hell, one corner chipped clean through. Nothing is on it except for a small planner, a notebook, and an empty coffee mug with a faded brown ring around the rim.

He drums the pen against the edge of the desk.

Adjusts the mug.

Stares up at the lights, squinting.

Counts the ceiling tiles. Once he reaches the back wall, he starts again.

The clock across the room ticks as a new hour approaches.

”—and it follows a group of middle schoolers in a small town.” An impatient huff. “Are you even listening to me?”

Mike's pen stills mid-tap.

”Yes, of course. Please continue.”

”These damn kids. As I was saying—”

The line clicks. Another call routed, another message taken, another yes, of course your manuscript is being considered, another name written down in his careful, neat handwriting.

The phone rings again before he has the chance to replace the receiver.

“Editorial, Wheeler—”

A gruff voice cuts in, flat and expectant.

“Mark—”

Mike presses his tongue to the back of his teeth.

“Yes, sir?”

“Come to my office.”

Paper shifts faintly on the other end.

“I have something for you.”

Click. Dial tone.

Mike keeps the receiver pressed against his ear a second longer than necessary, jaw ticking, listening to the hollow dial tone hum. He schools his expression as he sets the phone back down on the cradle. Under his breath—

“Yeah. Well, I’ve got a few things for you, too.”

Mike stands outside of the half-open door, the light spilling into the corridor.

He knocks anyway. Two quick raps.

“Come in.”

The office is far smaller than Mike expected. Windows facing the street, the blinds half-drawn, dust caught between the slats. Afternoon light cuts across the desk in thin, pale lines. Books crowd every available surface—stacked unevenly on shelves, heaped on the floor, some leaning against the radiator.

The air smells of wood polish and old leather, faintly acrid with cigarette smoke.

Jonathan Galassi sits behind the mahogany desk. The sleeves of his pin-striped button down rolled up to his elbows, cherry-red tie loosened. A set of bifocal reading glasses are perched on the crooked bridge of his nose.

The nameplate reads: Jonathan Galassi, Editor-in-Chief.

He doesn't look up right away.

Mike shifts his weight, the floorboards creaking under his shoes. The rust-coated radiator hums from under one of the corner windows, accentuated by the distant buzz of the city below.

“Miles,” Jonathan says, gesturing towards an empty chair. “Take a seat.”

Mike sits.

The chair is lower than Jonathan’s. Of course it is. The back digs just under his shoulder blades, and he adjusts, straightening his spine.

Jonathan licks the tip of his index finger, dog-earring his page. He closes the manuscript and sets it atop a neat stack at the center of his desk. He leans back, folding his hands over his stomach. Glasses slip slightly down his nose as he finally meets Mike’s eyes.

Mike keeps his jaw set, expression neutral.

“You’ve been with us … how long, exactly?”

“Coming up three weeks now, sir.”

“Three weeks.” Jonathan nods slowly, thumb tracing his chin. “How are you finding it? Good?”

Mike hesitates. On the one hand, he could recount the hard-earned knowledge he’s gained: memorizing the coffee orders of the entire editing team, noting who nods off during meetings, cataloguing the ceiling tiles with water damage—three, to be exact. Absolutely riveting stuff.

On the other hand, he could tell him the truth: how frustrating it is being a bit more than a glorified errand boy when all he wants to do is write.

It’s—yeah, it’s bullshit. That’s what it is.

He settles on: “It’s been a good learning experience, sir.”

Jonathan's mouth twitches at the corner.

“Learning experience.” He repeats it like he’s tasting the words. “Right. That’s very good.”

Yeah, maybe learn my name first, then we can talk about how good it is. He resists rolling his eyes.

Mike remembers the exhaustive interview process for this very position: the letters of recommendation, the resume workshops, the expensive suits he had custom made. He remembers getting the letter in the mail congratulating him on acceptance into the Summer program—a gateway to a full-time position after graduation.

“You’re so damn lucky,” students and professors alike had said, shoulder slaps and half-hearted hugs accompanying their words. Despite himself, Mike had felt a flicker of smugness at the envy reflected in their eyes.

What would they say if they could see me now?

Jonathan shifts forward, elbows finding the desk. His fingers drum once, a single, deliberate tap, against the surface.

“I have something for you.”

Mike's pulse quickens, enough that he feels it in his throat.

This is it!

Three weeks of coffee runs and photocopying. Three weeks of nodding through conversations he wasn’t allowed to join. Three weeks of watching his carefully-typed reader's reports disappear into some administrative void.

His moment—

“This is something incredibly important,” Jonathan continues, reaching toward the desk drawer.

Mike straightens in the too-low chair. His hands rest on his thighs, his fingers pressing into the fabric of his slacks. He keeps his expression schooled. Interested, but not desperate. Eager, but not pathetic.

Maybe just a little pathetic. God, do I always look like this?

The clock ticks.

This is really it. It’s probably just a slush pile read, but still. His jaw aches from pressing down so hard, his teeth clenching to keep from smiling. They’re finally trusting me with actual editorial work.

Jonathan's hand emerges from the drawer. A single sheet of paper, folded over once, is held between his index and middle fingers.

“I need you to handle this by the end of the day.” He slides it across the desk.

Mike reaches for it, fingers steady despite the adrenaline now coursing through his veins. He unfolds it carefully, almost reverently.

Prestige Cleaners
2847 Lexington Avenue

Ticket #: 4729-B

Ready for pickup after 2 PM

Below that, Jonathan’s cramped handwriting:

Two suits (gray pinstripe, navy). One shirt (white, French cuff). Tell them Galassi. They know me.

Mike stares hard at the paper.

The radiator hums.

Somewhere down the hall, a phone rings twice and then stops.

Mike reads it again, just to be sure. Just in case he's somehow misunderstood, in case there's some deeper meaning encoded in the words French cuff or They know me. Some secret test disguised as menial labor.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Dry cleaning,” Mike says. His voice is flat.

"That's right." Jonathan nods, already reaching for the manuscript he'd set aside earlier. “They close at six, so don’t leave it too late. And make sure they didn’t starch the collars.” He purses his lips. “I’ve told them probably a dozen times, now, but they never listen.” He shakes his head.

Mike folds the paper and then tucks it into his breast pocket.

You have to be shitting me.

"Any questions?" Jonathan asks, neck bent. His fountain pen is moving across the document page, making small, decisive marks in the margins.

Mike's jaw works. He tastes something bitter at the back of his throat; pride, maybe.

C’mon, say something! Tell him that you didn't beat out two hundred other applicants for this position just to fetch his laundry. Tell him you're a fucking writer, not a goddamn personal assistant. Tell him—

Something.

Anything.

"No, sir," Mike says. "No questions."

"Good." Jonathan waves a hand, dismissive. "Close the door on your way out."

“You’re so damn lucky,” they’d said.

Sure. Lucky.

The chair scrapes against the floorboards as Mike stands, the throw rug bunching under the legs. He turns and walks towards the office door—

“Oh, and Max?”

Mike looks over his shoulder, eyebrows scrunching low. The dull pressure that has been steady pounding at the base of his skull now pulses behind his eyes.

“Yes, sir?”

Jonathan looks up just long enough to meet his eyes.

“I think you are going to have a very bright future here.”

By the time Mike gets back with the dry cleaning, the office has that end-of-day feel to it. Jackets have disappeared from chair backs. Coffee sits untouched, gone cold. Someone’s left a stack of documents splayed open by the copier, pages fanned and lifting faintly in the overhead draft.

The clatter of typewriters is replaced by the rustle of papers being shuffled into briefcases, the quiet slide of drawers, voices thinning as they drift toward the door. Evening light filters through the frosted windows, casting the office in warm gold and pink.

From the far wall, an old Billy Joel record scratches softly from the player:

“Slow down, you crazy child, you’re so ambitious for a juvenile ...
But then, if you’re so smart, tell me—why are you still so afraid, mh?”

Jonathan's office is open. Mike knocks anyway.

"Hang them on the rack," Jonathan says without looking up, gesturing toward the coat stand in the corner.

Mike does. The hangers clink softly together as they slide across the rack.

He lingers. He’s waiting for … he doesn't really know. A nod, maybe. A thanks, kid. Some small acknowledgement that this wasn’t a completely pointless use of his afternoon.

Jonathan turns a page.

Right.

Mike leaves, the door shutting behind him. He's halfway to the elevator when he hears his name.

“Wheeler! Hey, hold up, man!”

Three of them are coming down the hall: Thomas Lam, one of the associate editors, leading the pack. Mid-twenties, wire-rimmed glasses, sleeves rolled to his elbow. His hands swing loosely at his sides. Behind him, Richard Fairchild—tall and lean, the top three buttons of his collared shirt popped open. And bringing up the rear, Harry Bailey. Harry is older than the other two, maybe thirty, with his beard trimmed, and his shoulders squared.

"You heading out?" Thomas asks, slightly breathless. His cheeks and neck are flushed pink.

"Uh, yeah. Just about to."

"That’s perfect. Come get drinks with us."

Mike blinks. "Drinks?"

"Yeah, you know." Richard grins, miming tipping back a glass to his lips. "Couple drinks after work."

"It's Tuesday."

"I'm not hearing a no."

“We have a meeting in the morning.”

“At nine,” Richard says. “It’s barely six.”

"We're celebrating," Harry adds, adjusting the leather satchel on his shoulder. "Thomas just closed a deal on a debut novel. Kid from Iowa, writes like early Carver, but angrier."

"Not angry," Thomas corrects. "More … outraged?”

"Semantics," Harry says, leaning slightly closer. "He's very specific about this."

Thomas scrunches his nose, his brows narrowing over his brown eyes.

"The distinction matters—"

Mike hesitates. He should probably say no. He has work—well, not real work exactly, but things he’s been meaning to get back to. His own writing, for one, sitting untouched in his apartment for the last three weeks. He barely knows these guys. They're friendly enough in passing, but this feels like crossing some invisible line from intern to … What? Friend?

"C’mon, Wheeler," Richard says, grinning wickedly. "It’s one drink. Plus, you look like you could use it."

Do I?

He catches his reflection in the window behind them. Tie loosened, collar wrinkled, the faint shadow of exhaustion bruising purple under his eyes. The side part. The glasses.

“—and you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want or you can just get old—”

Mike huffs a quiet breath.

“When will you realize Vienna waits for you?”

“Sure," he says. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go."

The bar is located in the West Village, tucked between a bookshop and a shuttered theater. Above the red door, a half-lit neon sign buzzes faintly, while a small window at eye level is blocked by a dark curtain from the inside.

“This … is it?" Mike questions, nose scrunching.

“This is it," Thomas confirms, pulling the door open.

Diana Ross is thick and pulsing through the floorboards. The air is damp with cigarette smoke and something sweeter. Cologne, or maybe incense. Red and purple bulbs bleeds across the space, casting everything in a hazy glow. There's a bar along the left wall, bottles gleaming on acrylic shelves behind it. Small tables are scattered throughout, most of them occupied. A jukebox sits in the corner, its colors pulsing in time with the music.

And then—

The men.

Not just men—men together. Two at the bar, sitting close, hands resting lightly on each other’s thighs. A group in the corner booth, laughing, one of them with his arm slung casually over another's shoulders. Near the jukebox, two men are dancing filthy, sweat-drenched bodies pressed flush together, grinding slow despite the upbeat tempo.

"I’m coming out, I want the world to know
I got to let it show—"

Mike bites the inside of his cheek.

“Hey, I see a table over there," Harry announces, grabbing at Mike’s elbow, weaving through the tables toward an empty booth near the back.

Mike trips over his own feet, face blazing as he straightens. He stumbles after Harry, staring straight ahead.

dontstaredontstaredontstaredontstare.

They slide easily into the corner booth, Thomas and Richard on one side, Harry and Mike squeezing onto the other. The vinyl is cracked, patched in places with duct tape. The table is sticky with remnants of liquor. God, please just liquor—

“First round's on me," Thomas announces, flagging down a waiter.

The waiter is young, maybe Mike's age, with bleached blond hair and a tank top that shows off his tatted arms. Multiple piercings line his left ear, and the strobe lights reflect off the metal stud protruding from his eyebrow. As he dips forward, smiling down at Thomas, the tank shifts and Mike sees a flash of metal through a perked, brown nipple.

The silver cross under his dress shirt burns where it rests against his sternum.

“The usual, sweetheart?"

“Please," Thomas answers with a nod, an easy smile pulling at his full mouth. “You’re the best, Rico.”

Rico's brown eyes flicker over to Mike, lingering on his face, dipping down the length of his torso, then slowly back up again. Rico’s lids drop low when their eyes meet again. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“Summer intern,” Richard supplies. “Mike. It’s his first time.”

“Is that so?” Rico bites his lower lip, tugging it back between his teeth. “Well, Mike,” his voice lowers as he says his name, “you be sure to let me know how I can make your first time as … memorable as possible.” He winks, glitter catching the light on his lids, and disappears towards the bar.

Mike shifts in his seat. The booth shrinks around him as the music swells. His pulse pounds in his throat, and his palms press damp against his slacks.

It's fine. It's just a bar. Just … drinks after work.

But he can't stop noticing. The two men at the high-top, their fingers tangled across the table. The bartender leans in close to a customer, winking as he laughs, his hand brushing the man’s forearm. Mike looks away, heat creeping up his neck.

Fuck.

Bile rises in the back of his throat. He swallows hard, but the taste lingers.

“Is this a gay bar?” Mike blurts, eyes wide, and the other three turn to look at him.

Thomas smirks. "Yeah, man. This is Mori's place."

"Mori's—"

“He’s the owner," Harry clarifies, leaning back against the cracked vinyl. "He lets us drink here even though we're not, you know." He gestures vaguely at the room. "Part of the usual clientele."

“We come here for the atmosphere," Richard adds, straight-faced. Then he cracks a grin. "And the free drinks."

“F-Free?"

"Pretty boy discount," Thomas says, tapping his temple like he's sharing insider knowledge. "Mori's got a soft spot for us. Well, for Harry mostly. But we all benefit."

Harry shrugs, unbothered. "What can I say? I'm charming."

“You'll get it, too," Richard tells Mike, nodding toward Rico, who’s mixing something behind the bar. “Plus, I think he likes you,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows.

“It's a really good spot," Thomas continues. "Better music than anywhere else in the Village. No bridge-and-tunnel crowd.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Nobody bothers you if you just want to sit and drink. Common courtesy alive and well."

“Plus," Harry adds, "the bathrooms are actually clean. That’s more than you can say for most bars in this city."

Rico returns with a tray. Four glasses, something amber and strong-smelling. He sets them down one by one, his hand brushing Mike's wrist as he places the last glass in front of him.

"On the house," Rico says with a wink, coy and unabashed. "For the new guy."

Mike stares at the drink. Condensation beads on the glass, pooling on the sticky table. The ice clinks together as the liquid settles.

"I’m, I’m coming out
I have to shout that I’m coming out—"

"I, uh—" His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat. “Bathroom,” he wheezes. “Where's the bathroom?"

“Back corner," Harry says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "Past the jukebox."

Mike slides out of the booth too fast, head spinning, nearly knocking his knee against the table edge. He doesn't look back, just moves. He passes by the tables, past the men dancing, past the couple at the bar whose hands are now doing way more than touching thighs.

Holy—Fuck me.

The music is louder near the jukebox. Prince now, something sultry and slow. The bass vibrates through his chest, his teeth chattering with nerves. Dizzy all of a sudden, Mike reaches out to place a hand against the wall, steadying himself as the room spins.

It’s when he looks up does he see him.

Will?

Standing near the back wall, chatting with a group of guys, profile illuminated by the purple lights. Same sandy hair, same build, same thrift store bought flannel in various shades of blue and yellow.

Mike's feet move before his brain can catch up.

"Will—"

He grips his shoulder hard, a million apologies already resting on the edge of his tongue, relief flooding through every nerve within his body, and the guy turns to face him—

Fuck. Not Will.

Different nose. Different eyes. Different lips. Different everything, actually—now that Mike's looking at him head-on. Just the hair, maybe. And the height.

"Sorry," Mike stammers, ducking his head. "I thought—you—sorry."

The stranger smiles, confused but not unkind. "No worries, man."

Mike backs away, nearly colliding with someone behind him. He mutters another string of apologies and pushes through the crowd to the bathroom.

Mike locks the door behind him, pressing his back against it. His head thuds back hard, glasses sliding up his face. His eyes dart around the bathroom.

His reflection in the mirror stares back at him. Face flushed, tie askew, chest heaving as he swallows in short, sharp gulps. There’s a wild gleam in his eyes. He looks—

He doesn't know what he looks like.

What are you doing here?

He came for drinks. That's all. Just drinks with his coworkers. Totally normal. Except nothing about this feels very normal. The way Rico looked at him. The way those men were dancing on each other. The way his own body reacted; not with disgust, exactly, but something worse. Something that felt like … fuck.

Recognition?

Will.

His hand goes to his chest, pressing against the cross through his shirt. The metal is warmer, heated by his skin. He thinks about his mother. About Sunday mornings in the third pew from the front, the way Reverend Andrews would lean into the pulpit and talk about sin and salvation and the narrow path. About his father's hand heavy on his shoulder during the closing hymn.

This is wrong. This is wrong and you shouldn't be here—

His hands are shaking.

He turns on the faucet, splashes cold water on his face. He can still feel the weight of the bar outside, the music thrumming through the walls, the knowledge that he's standing in a place his father would certainly call an abomination.

He dries his face with a paper towel, crumples it, and tosses it in the trash.

And then he sees it.

Scrawled on the wall next to the towel dispenser, in blue Sharpie: 900-XXX-XXXX call 4 a good time <3

Mike stares.

He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't.

But his hand moves anyway. Pulls a pen from his pocket and presses the tip against his palm. Each swipe of the pen against his skin feels like Sunday morning in the third pew, Bible opened across his lap, his hand gripped tightly in his mother’s grasp, her lips moving silently as she mouthed the prayer—

When he's done, he stares at his hand. The ink is smudged.

Mike shoves the pen back in his pocket and leaves the restroom. He doesn't go back to the booth.

Doesn't say goodbye to Thomas or Richard or Harry. Just pushes through the crowd, past the bar, past Rico who calls out something Mike doesn't catch, and out the red door and into the city.

The rain starts somewhere between Bleecker and West 4th.

Mike keeps his left hand curled into a fist, tucked against his chest beneath his jacket. The ink smudges where his palm sweats, but he doesn’t bother to look. He just picks up the pace, hunched against the chill, rain soaking through his shirt collar and trickling down his spine.

By the time he reaches the brownstone in Chelsea, his curls cling to his forehead, and every step makes his shoes squelch. Water's gotten into his socks.

There's a note taped to the door, written in Dustin's manic scrawl on the back of a CVS receipt:

Princeton robotics con, back Sunday night. Feed Honey (she's YOUR demon now). There's leftover Chinese in the fridge if you want it. Don't burn the place down.
P.S. call your mom back before I do
— Dustin

Mike peels the note off, the tape leaving a sticky residue on the painted wood. He unlocks the door, and steps inside.

The apartment is dark except for the streetlight glow filtering through the blinds, striping the apartment in slanted lines of gold. He flips the switch. The overhead light flickers twice before catching. Honey, the light orange tabby, perches on the kitchen counter, yellow eyes following him.

"Honey," Mike says, dropping his keys on the counter. "I'm home."

The cat blinks slowly.

Mike shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the mudbunch. His shirt is soaked completely through, clinging cold and heavy to his back and shoulder blades. He peels it off, the wet cotton making an obscene sound as it separates from his skin. He stands there shirtless in the kitchen, water droplets rolling down his body. Goosebumps form across his chest and down his arms, raised by the chill.

He heads to his room, finds a dry T-shirt crumpled on the floor, and lifts it to his nose.

He makes a face and tosses it toward the overflowing hamper, where it hits the rim and slides to the floor.

He reaches for his Columbia University Debate Team sweatshirt slumped over his swivel chair. The letters are cracked and peeling, the sleeves worn thin with holes at the cuffs. The faint scent of detergent clings to the fabric as Mike slips it over his head.

His pants are off next, shuffled down his long legs until he’s standing in just his blue checkered boxers.

Back in the kitchen, he feeds Honey. She jumps down from the counter with surprising grace for something so round, winding between his legs with a low, rumbling purr. He watches her eat, crouched down to scratch behind her ears.

Mike straightens. Opens the fridge. The leftover Chinese sits in its white containers, grease already congealing. His stomach turns. He grabs a Coke instead.

He pops the tab on the cola, the sharp hiss filling the kitchen.

As he lifts the can, his gaze drops to the numbers smeared across his palm.

His heart kicks against his ribs. Just looking at it makes his hands shake. This is insane. This—what the hell. Mike sits the Coke on the bar top.

He pivots, heading for the phone on the wall before doubt can take hold, before the rational part of his brain can catch up with whatever the hell his body is doing. The receiver is heavy in his hand, the coiled cord stretching as he brings it to his ear.

A breath. Then another.

He dials.

"Hi there, you’ve reached Charlize’s Angels." The pause stretches just long enough for him to swallow. "This is Ginger. Who do I have the pleasure of working with tonight?"

The voice is warm and honeyed, with just a hint of a Southern drawl.

Mike’s mouth is dry. "I—uh. Hi. I—"

"Is this your first time calling?" Ginger giggles, light and teasing.

“Yeah… how’d you—”

“Call it sweet intuition, darlin'.”

He leans hard against the wall, the phone cord wrapped around his finger, and takes a slow breath. Tries his best to settle himself.

“Are you still here with me, stranger?”

“Yeah, I—” Mike swallows hard. “Yeah, I’m still here.” He trails off, his brown eyes narrowing. “Um, what exactly is … here?”

Ginger bursts into a fit of laughter on the other end of the line. Mike makes a face, jerking the receiver from his ear to stare down at it. When he presses it back to his cheek, she’s winded, her giggles fading.

“Sorry, darlin’, I don’t mean to laugh at you,” she says, and she does sound genuinely apologetic. “Humor me, how did you manage to wind up calling our little corner of heaven?”

I found your number on a bathroom wall in a gay bar.
My straight coworkers took me there for drinks.
I’m also straight, by the way. Totally straight. Definitely straight.

“Someone wrote this number in a bathroom,” he says aloud, voice tight. “I guess I got curious.”

“We get a lot of curious callers,” Ginger says, teasing. “Some just stumble across the line, some …” A pause. “Some get hooked pretty quick.”

Mike doesn't say anything, just raises his eyebrows.

“It’s really simple,” Ginger continues. “You're calling a premium line, so it gets billed to your phone service.” Ginger clicks her tongue. “So first five minutes, that's nine-ninety-nine. After that, four-ninety-nine. Nothing sneaky, darlin’, you can hang up anytime.”

Premium line?

Mike's fingers slip on the receiver cord, fumbling to adjust his grip.

"Are you still there, sweetheart?”

”Yes," Mike manages. "Yeah, I—I'm still following.”

“That’s great, babe.” In the background, Mike can hear the muffled sound of voices and laughter. “The line is protected by a voice modifier that scrambles the audio on both ends of the call. It's all for safety and privacy. You won’t know your Angel, and they won’t know you. Do you understand?”

"Uh, yes," Mike nods, though she can’t see it, his fingers curling into a fist at his side.

“Yeah … yeah, I think I understand?”

“Now, sweetheart, work with me here,” Ginger says, a light tilt to her tone. “Just a quick little questionnaire. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it friendly. Helps me, and the Angel you play with tonight, make the experience …”

A soft hum.

“More enjoyable for you.”

Oh god.

Oh god, is this—

”Do you like things gentle …" Ginger's voice dips playfully. "Or a bit more … hands-on?"

”Uh … gentle?” Mike blurts, face pinching.

”Mm-hmm, got it.” She jots something down. “And are you more of a talker, or do you prefer … action?”

“Talk," he says quickly, the tips of his ears burning. "Talking. I like talking."

”Perfect,” she hums. “Do you have any fantasies or … specific preferences I should know? Feet, hands. Roleplay as a teacher, boss, that sort of thing? Maybe you like drinking p—”

Mike makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be him choking on his own spit.

“Or … do you like a little surprise?”

”Surprise," he wheezes. "Surprise is—yeah. Fine."

“Perfect,,” Ginger says, her tone light in approval. “You’re all set, darlin’. Just one last question and I can get you patched through.”

Mike hears the faint clicking of a keyboard in the background.

"Would you like to speak with George or Georgina tonight?"

His brain short-circuits. "What?"

”George, or Georgina," Ginger repeats, still perfectly pleasant. "Which would you prefer?”

The cord is wrapped so tight around his finger now that the tip is turning white. Mike can feel his pulse climbing. He can hear Honey crunching her food in the background, can hear the rain still pattering against the window. He can hear his own breathing too loud in his ears.

”George," he whispers, and his voice cracks.

"Fantastic choice, darlin’. You'll be playing with River tonight.” Ginger pauses. “I hope you enjoy your first time.”

There’s a click, followed by the static-laden whine of a Madonna tape:

“—like a virgin, hey
Touched for the very first time—”

The music cuts off abruptly.

Mike hears a shuffle from the other end of the line.

And then a voice. Low and rough, and so distinctly man that it makes Mike's stomach lurch:

“Hi, baby.”

Mike's fingers slip on the receiver.

“Did I keep you waiting long?”