- Nothing done in public that could rouse suspicion.
- No one else could know.
- Casual. It had to be casual.
1991
"Will?"
Tedious rapid knocks rapped against the door to Will’s dorm again, Mike’s knuckles turning an agitated red from his insistence against the wood. Hushed chatter came from the other side of the door, undoubtedly Will calling Max, seeking advice as Mike disastrously wormed his way back into his life time and time again.
"Come on, Will, please?" Mike tried futilely, palm pressed flat to the door, hoping he could somehow pass through. "I’m sorry, okay?"
Lines had long since been blurred, contained in an unnamed limbo where ‘friendship’ was a lie and ‘dating’ was too heavy. Unfortunately to be expected—the vast majority remained averse to accepting anything astray from your standard husband-wife-picket-fence-three-kids agenda—when you shake the foundation of friendship with ideas society is unforgiving of. The details of their relationship(?) remained implicit, devoid of proper labels and twisted with uncertain—and often broken—rules.
Mike had broken that a hazardously high number of times; hands clasped in dim theaters, kisses stolen behind arcade machines, and most unfortunately being tugged into a filthy McDonald’s bathroom on a regrettable midnight snack endeavor.
Also, unsurprisingly broken by Mike, blurted out in a fight with his sister in sheer pettiness claiming he got the “better Byers brother”. The rest of the Party knew the following morning.
Mike is incapable of casual. By a month’s time, Mike’s clothes contaminated Will’s dorm, crashing on his couch after justifying his barge in with some outrageous claim about his roommate being "too rowdy"; Mike’s notes slipped between pages in Will’s notebooks, inspiring another impromptu visit to retrieve the papers, always resulting in another night corrupting Will’s space.
Before the rules, it began with casual unwarranted visits turned volatile—hands lingered a moment too long, gazes caught far too frequently, and his stomach refused to cease in its torturous flips when Mike traced so delicately over his artwork as though it were so priceless. Deep into a late night, the shift finally rattled the surface, paint and ink covered hands tugging at the other as lips met. The follow-up remained ambiguous. Complicated.
And complicated meant Mike’s endless screw-ups; including, but not limited to, terrible choices of words, shortly followed by banging on the door to Will’s dorm, apologizing incessantly.
"Will, come on," Mike groaned, fist limply hitting the door again. His forehead dropped against the wood—glasses knocked askew, hair ruffled from previously anxious tugging, clothes rumpled from being thrown on in a haste—basking in his own pitiful misery. "One more chance. I was being a jerk. Im sorry, okay? I’m really sorry."