Chapter Text
The studio feels like a meat locker.
That’s the first thing you learn about being a celebrity: you have to be kept on ice so you don't rot under the 10,000-watt sun of the lighting rig.
I am a brand, a demographic, and a lucrative line item in a HarperCollins publishing ledger. And according to this morning’s Times, I am the "New King of High Fantasy."
This is just the Los Angeles leg of The Book Tour. This is the overblown media junket for The Hellfire Chronicles on my publisher’s dime. I am my own travelling press kit.
Hellfire is a fictional saga about paladins and sorcerers and killer aliens from another dimension. The critics call it "the definitive epic of the decade." The fans call it "heartbreaking." I’d call it schlock. My face is on the back cover– black and white, chin resting on a hand, eyes looking at something three inches past the camera. The photographer told me to look "sultry." I was just looking for the exit.
I’m sitting in a leather chair that reeks of the musky cologne of whoever sat in it last. Across from me is a woman whose face is a triumph of plastic surgery and pancake makeup. She’s smiling. It’s the kind of smile that says she’s already thinking about her lunch break. I don’t blame her.
"We’re back with wunderkind Mike Wheeler," she says to the red eye of Camera Two. "Twenty-six year old author of the Hellfire trilogy. Mike, the fans are dying to know—the ending of the third book. The Cleric just walks away. No final battle. No heartfelt goodbye. Just a door closing. Why did you do that to us?"
There’s a bitter, chemical tickle at the back of my throat. It’s the taste of a thirty-dollar gram and fifteen-dollar room service gin.
"Because doors just close," I say. On a television set across from me, my disheveled image plays back on a three second delay. "I wanted it to feel realistic. In real life, you don’t get eaten by dragons. In real life, you wake up one morning and things have changed. Or even worse, they haven’t. Tolkien knew that."
Jane is standing in the wings, sporting the widest shoulderpads in the room. You don’t get to be the publicist for America’s fastest-selling author without a good power suit or two. She’s a strong silhouette with a clipboard and a headset, watching the clock. She’s the one who makes sure I don't say the word "blow" on air. She’s the one who picks the lint off my three-button blazer and tells me I’m a genius so I’ll keep walking toward the microphones.
"Let's talk about the world-building," the anchor says. She’s pivoting. She’s bored of the "feelings" talk. "The woods. The quarry. The attention to detail is obsessive. Is that how you spent your childhood? Mapping out the world?"
"That’s one way to put it, I guess. Really, I spent my childhood in a basement," I tell her. "I spent my childhood rolling twenty-sided dice to see if I was allowed to be brave. You have to build a universe with rules because the one you’re actually living in doesn't have any."
I scratch the side of my face. Just once or twice. An impulsive tic that feels like a physical itch.
"The Paladin," she says, leaning in. "He’s so lonely in the final chapters. He’s got the kingdom, he’s got the crown, and he’s just... staring at a blank wall. Is that what success feels like, Mike?"
I give the canned answer. I tell her it’s a metaphor for "lost innocence." I say it’s a universal theme of the series.
In my head, I’m thinking about the way the humidity felt in 1986. I’m thinking about how stupid and trite the heavy crown metaphor was in the first place. I’m thinking about a basement that doesn't exist anymore and a boy who stopped answering my letters when his family hit the California border. I think about the girl from back home that still somehow believes in me. I’m thinking about the blow I have waiting in the limo.
"Success feels like a quiet room," I finally say. I’m looking at Jane now. She’s tapping her watch. One minute left.
The anchor's smile doesn't flicker. She’s a pro. She doesn't care that I’m vibrating. She doesn't care that my heart is a frantic bird hitting a glass window.
"Well, the kingdom is certainly yours," she chirps. "The movie rights just sold for seven figures, and the fans have been camping out at Book Soup for the signing since last night. Mike Wheeler, everybody. The man who made us all believe in magic again."
The music swells. It’s an upbeat, synthesized jingle that makes my teeth ache. The red light goes out.
I don't wait for the "thank you." I stand up, and the world tilts about five degrees to the left. Jane is there before I can hit the floor. She grabs my elbow, her grip like a vice, and steers me toward the exit. She doesn't look at the anchor. She doesn't look at the crew.
"You're twitching," she whispers as we hit the hallway. The air here is warmer, heavy with dust and floor wax. "You did the 'nose thing' three times, by the way. If I can see it, the camera can see it."
"I’m fine, Jane. I’m the voice of a generation. Didn't you hear?"
"That suit is a rental and you’re ruining it," she says. She shoves a bottle of water into my hand. "Drink. We have the car waiting. You have to be at the bookstore in twenty minutes. Try to look like someone who isn't about to have a stroke."
"I have to go to the bathroom first."
"No," Jane says, blocking my exit. She knows exactly what that means. She’s known me too long. "You do the signing. You go back to the hotel. Then you can fall apart. Not before."
The car is a black-tinted sensory deprivation tank.
Outside, Los Angeles passes by in a blur of neon and concrete. Jane sits across from me, her legs crossed, the sharp line of her suit cutting through the shadows. She’s busy with her pager, thumbing it as it chirps incessantly.
"You have a smudge on your chin," she says without looking up. "Makeup. Or something else."
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. "The lighting was hot. I told you."
"The lighting is always hot, Mike. I can’t do anything about that." She finally looks at me, her eyes tracking the way my fingers are drumming a frantic, uneven rhythm against the leather armrest.
"Twenty minutes to Book Soup," she says, checking her watch—a heavy, gold thing that she knows makes her look grown-up. "The manager says the line is wrapping around the block. Try to be charming. Or at least try to be conscious."
"I’m the King of Fantasy. People expect me to be a little detached. It’s on brand."
"Detached is fine. Catatonic is a PR nightmare." She reaches into her bag and tosses a tin of mints into my lap. "Fix your breath. You smell like a distillery."
I pop a mint, then lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. Jane is quiet now, pointer finger scrubbing through a list of names on her clipboard. We don't talk about the books. We don't talk about the shared past I put into them. We just sit in the expensive silence of a partnership built on paper and ink.
The crowd at Book Soup is all flannel and unwashed hair. It’s a bona fide bookworm’s cathedral.
I sit at a folding table at the back of the store. There is a stack of The Hellfire Chronicles to my left that is taller than a toddler.
I am a machine.
- Open the book.
- Scribble the name.
- Close the book.
- Smile.
"I love the Cleric," a girl tells me. She has a nose ring and hair the color of a sunset. "I love that he leaves. It felt... honest. Like he knew he didn't belong in a castle."
"Someone should’ve told the Paladin that," I say. Scribble. Close.
The girl just blinks. It was a bad joke, anyway.
By signature three hundred, I can barely feel my wrist.
Jane stands behind me like a gargoyle. She hands me a fresh pen every thirty minutes. She doesn't speak. She just watches. She’s waiting for the moment the machine breaks.
"Last one," Jane finally announces. It’s the most beautiful thing I've heard all day.
I look up. The line is gone. The store is empty except for the employees and the smell of industrial cleaner. My hand is a cramped claw.
"Hotel?" I ask.
"Hotel," Jane says. She helps me up. I’m vibrating so hard I’m surprised I don’t shatter. "Car is outside. Don't talk to the valet. Don't talk to the fans. Just get in the elevator."
Jane drops me off at the door of the suite. She lingers for a second, her hand on the handle. "8:00 AM, Mike. Vanity Fair is doing the profile. Don't die in the bathtub."
"I'm going to sleep, Jane. I promise."
The room is quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that costs a thousand dollars a night. It comes with triple-paned glass and walls thick enough to keep out the sound of neverending sirens and bumper-to-bumper traffic.
I am alone with the mini-bar. I am alone with the floral patterns on the wallpaper that look like they’re watching me.
I don’t like being alone.
I go down to the lobby. The elevator counts down the floors. Four. Three. Two.
The lobby is empty except for a guy in a bellhop uniform leaning against a marble pillar. He’s reading a car magazine. He looks bored. Boredom is probably the most honest emotion I’ve seen all week. He sees me, folds the magazine, and slides it into his back pocket. He doesn’t smile.
I walk over to the concierge desk. There is nobody there. Just a brass bell and a vase of lilies that smell like a funeral parlor.
"Can I help you, sir?" the bellhop asks. He doesn’t move from the pillar.
"I can't sleep," I say.
He doesn’t respond.
I pick at the edge of the wood on the desk. "I need... something. To take the edge off."
"We have a bar, sir. But it’s closed."
"I don't want a drink."
He looks around the room. He looks at me. He’s looking at the dark circles under my eyes. He’s looking at the way my hands are twitching. He’s assessing my net worth and my level of desperation.
"You want company," he says. It’s not a question.
"I don’t know."
He nods. Slow. He walks over to the desk, reaches underneath, and pulls out a matchbook. It’s white. A blank. He takes a fountain pen from his pocket and writes a number on the inside cover.
"Alright, look. Man to man. They’re discreet," he says. "They don't ask names. You don't ask theirs."
I take the matchbook. My thumb brushes against the striking strip.
"What do I tell them?"
"You tell them what you need. They have a menu."
I go back to the elevator. Lobby. Two. Three. Four.
Back in the room, I sit on the edge of the bed. I open the matchbook. The ink is still wet. I smudge the last digit with my thumb.
I pick up the phone and turn the receiver in my hand, then raise it. The plastic is cold against my ear. I dial.
Ring. Ring. Click.
"Hello?," a woman says. The connection is tinny.
"I... I got this number from a friend." The line crackles.
"Okay," she says. "You looking to book?" Her voice sounds like sandpaper. She sounds like she’s smoking a cigarette and doing a crossword puzzle.
"Yes."
"Duration?" I can hear a smack of gum.
"I don't know. An hour? Two?"
"We’ll put you down for an hour for now. Flat rate, no refund. Now. Preferences."
"Preferences?"
"What are you in the mood for, honey? We have blondes, redheads, brunettes. We have tall, we have petite. We have talkers, we have listeners."
"I don't want a talker," I say. "I don't want to talk."
"Listener. Okay. Silent type. Aggressive or passive?"
I close my eyes. I rub the bridge of my nose. "Just... there. I just want someone there."
"Okay. Visuals. What do you like to look at?"
The question hangs in the air. I think about the girl with the nose ring at the bookstore. I think about Jane in her new suit. Nothing happens. My pulse stays flat.
"I don't care about the hair," I say.
"Physique? Curvy? Athletic? Slim? What kind of tits? Give me something."
"I don’t know," I say. "Slim. I guess?”
"You looking for a girl or a boy, sweetheart?"
My throat closes up. It’s a reflex. But this is just a transaction.
"A guy," I say. It falls out of my mouth and hits the floor.
She doesn't pause. She just scratches a pen against paper. "Uh huh. Male. Slim. Listener. Your location, darling?"
"Chateau Marmont, room 412."
"He’ll be there in thirty minutes. Have cash. He’ll tell you the rate. They don't take checks."
The line clicks dead.
I hang up the phone. I sit there. My hands are shaking. I feel sick. I feel electric. I stand up and walk to the bathroom. I wash my face. I look at myself in the mirror. Water drips from my chin.
I go back to the main room and unlatch the door. I turn off the lamp.
Thirty minutes.
I need noise. I need a different kind of silence.
I pick up the TV remote. It feels greasy. It feels like it’s been held by a thousand other hands that were just as sweaty as mine.
I press the power button.
The television explodes into static, then settles into a picture that rolls vertically before snapping into place. The colors are too bright. The contrast is too high. Everyone looks radioactive.
Click.
Channel 4. The news. A building is burning somewhere in the Valley. A reporter in a trench coat is standing in front of the flames, talking about arson. She looks excited. Disaster is good for ratings. Disaster is the only thing that sells better than sex.
Click.
Channel 11. An infomercial. A man with a spray tan is shouting about a knife that can cut through a penny. He saws the penny in half. The audience gasps. They are paid to gasp. They are paid to believe that cutting money in half is useful.
Click.
Channel 32. Softcore static. A naked woman in a hot tub. She’s looking at the camera like she knows my credit score. The signal is bad. Her face distorts into a smear of pink and white pixels every three seconds. I watch for a minute. Nothing stirs.
I leave it on a rerun of an old sitcom I don't recognize. The laugh track is aggressive. Dead people laughing at jokes that weren't even funny forty years ago.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The blue light from the screen flickers over the room. It makes the expensive furniture look cheap. It makes my hands look like they belong to a corpse.
I mute the volume. The mouths keep moving. A father is shouting. A son is crying.
I look at my watch. Any minute now.
My heart is a fist clenching and unclenching. I’m sweating through the rental dress shirt. I should take a shower. I should brush my teeth. I should take off my shoes.
There isn’t any time.
The handle of the door turns. It’s slow. Professional. No fumbling with a key card. Just the smooth rotation of brass.
The door pushes open. A wedge of hallway light cuts across the floor. It hits my shoes. It climbs my legs.
A figure slips inside.
He’s efficient. He closes the door with his hip and throws the deadbolt without looking. Click. It’s muscle memory.
He stands in the entryway, just outside the reach of the blue light flickering from the muted television. The order was for "quiet," and he’s obeying the invoice. He’s a product that works as advertised.
I can’t see his face. I can only see the outline. He’s smaller than I expected, but broader than me. He’s wearing a bomber jacket that’s too big for him, the sleeves swallowing his hands. He’s hugging himself, shoulders hunched up toward his ears.
"You the guy?" he asks.
I don't answer. My tongue is a dead weight in my mouth.
He walks further into the room, his sneakers squeaking on the tile of the entryway before hitting the carpet. He drops a canvas bag on the floor. It clinks.
"Lights off is fine," he says. He pauses, for a moment. Assessing.
"Two hundred, up front. I charge double for weird stuff. No hitting. Nothing that will leave a mark. You got cash?"
He turns his head. The blue light from the TV catches his profile.
My stomach drops. It feels like an elevator cable just snapped inside of me.
"Turn around," I say.
The words scrape my throat.
"Look, man, if you want a show, you gotta pay up fr—"
The light from the TV flares white on an explosion scene. It illuminates his face.
He has dark circles under his eyes that look like bruises. He has a cut on his lower lip. His hair is chopped by his ears, a jagged, DIY job that looks like it was done with kitchen scissors in a public bathroom.
But it’s him.
It’s the boy who stopped writing letters seven years ago. It’s the boy who disappeared into the distant dream of the West Coast.
It’s my Cleric.
He squints into the dark corner where I’m sitting. He can’t see me. He just sees a suit. Or maybe just a wallet.
I lean forward. I enter the light.
"Will?"
The name hangs in the air. It smells like the mini-bar.
He flinches. It’s a full-body spasm, like I just threw a rock at him. His eyes widen with a sheer, animal panic.
He takes a step back. He hits the edge of the dresser.
"Who the f—"
He stops. He sees my face. He sees me.
His mouth opens. Closes.
"Mike?"
It comes out gentler than either of us expected.
I stand up. My legs feel like water.
He looks at the door. He looks at the window. He’s calculating the jump.
"I thought you were still in Hawkins," he says. His voice is shaking now. The hardened veneer is cracking, peeling away like cheap paint. "You're supposed to be writing books."
"I am," I say. "I'm on tour."
He scoffs. "Right. The tour. I saw the billboard on Sunset."
He wraps his arms around himself. He’s trying to cover his mesh shirt. He’s trying to disappear.
"You called the service," he says. It’s an accusation.
"I didn't know."
"You called for a boy."
"I didn't know it was you."
"Jesus," he whispers. He runs a hand through shaggy hair. "Jesus Christ."
He grabs his bag from the floor. "I can't do this. I'm not doing this."
Will moves like a mouse in a maze that just missed the trap. He goes for the door.
I am slower. I am weighed down by the gin and the suit and the three-course dinner I barely ate. I stumble over the ottoman. My knee hits the corner. Pain shoots up my leg, and I keel over.
He’s fumbling with the latch. His hands are shaking so bad he can’t keep a grip.
"Don't," I say.
He gets the deadbolt. Click.
I’ve caught up to him. I push my hand against the wood, right above his shoulder. I lean my weight against it.
He spins around. Back against the door. He looks like he’s about to bite me.
"Get out of the way, Mike."
"Please just wait," I protest, “please.”
"I have to go," he says. His voice cracks. It sounds too similar to the way he said it seven years ago.
"I’ll pay," I say.
The words vomit out of me. It’s the wrong thing to say. It’s the worst thing to say.
He freezes. His eyes narrow. The panic hardens into something ugly.
"You’ll pay," he repeats. He laughs, sharp and biting. "Yeah. You ordered the 'Silent Night' package."
"That’s not…" I sigh. I’m looking at his collarbones protruding from the mesh. I’m looking at the shadow of a bruise on his neck that he tried to cover with cheap concealer.
"How long have you been... doing this?"
"That isn’t any of your business."
He crosses his arms. He’s hugging himself again.
"I have money," I say. I’m talking faster than I can think.
"Good for you. Buy a bigger house."
"I can give you..."
"Stop." He holds up a hand. His fingernails are bitten down to the quick. "Just stop it, Mike. Don't try to save me. You’re not a fucking paladin, okay? You’re a tourist, just like anybody else.”
He reaches backward. He finds the doorknob.
"I'm leaving," he says. "Tell the agency I was sick. Tell them I had a seizure. I don't actually care."
"If you walk out that door," I say, "I'll follow you."
"Shut up."
"I’ll do it. I'll walk right into the lobby like this. I'll scream your name. I'll make a scene that will end up on Page Six by tomorrow morning."
He stops. He knows I’m telling the truth. He knows I’m not sober. I have the leverage of a man with nothing to lose but his reputation, and I am currently trying to set my reputation on fire.
"Why?" he whispers. "What do we even have to talk about? Look at me, Mike. We’re not the same."
I look at him.
"Please. I just want to talk."
He stands there. Hand on the knob. He’s breathing quickly.
Finally, he lets go of the door.
"You still owe me for the hour," he says.
I reach into the inside pocket of my blazer. The wallet is a heavy, leather tumor against my ribs.
I pull out a knot of cash. It’s per diem money. It’s money Jane gave me to pay a stylist that I’m now using to buy time with my childhood best friend.
I don’t count it. I just offer the bills forward, fanning them out. Ben Franklin stares up at me. I try to avoid his judging gaze.
Will doesn't hesitate. He leans forward, snatches the bills. He counts them. One. Two. Three. Four. He licks his thumb.
"That covers the booking," he says. He rolls the cash into a tight cylinder and shoves it into his boot. "You want anything else, you pay upfront."
"I just want to look at you," I say.
"That’s creeping into the 'girlfriend experience' package. That’s premium."
I laugh. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He lights one with a blue plastic lighter that takes three tries to spark. The flame illuminates the hollows of his cheeks.
"Want one?" he asks, blowing smoke at the ceiling.
"I don't smoke."
He looks at me.
"That’s rich."
He leans his head back against the wall. Smoke curls around him in little clouds. He looks like a fallen angel out of a cheesy romance novel. He looks like he should be in a boy band. He looks like the nineties have chewed him up and spat him out.
"You stopped writing," I say.
"Postage went up."
"You stopped calling."
"Phone got disconnected." He taps ash onto the carpet. "I saw you on TV. The Today Show. You looked busy talking about elf politics."
“You watched that?” I ask.
“I didn’t go out of my way to, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I was.
"You're on the side of a bus, too," Will says. He doesn't look at me. He watches the smoke rise.
He walks around the room. He touches things. He runs a finger over the gold leaf of the lamp base. He picks up the room service menu, scans the price of a club sandwich, and drops it back onto the desk.
"So," he says, turning back to me. He crosses his ankles. He’s leaning against the dresser now. "Fifty-five minutes left, give or take. You want me to sit here and look pretty? Or are we gonna stare at each other until the hour is up?"
"I don't know," I say.
"You're the client. You have to know."
"Don’t call me that."
"It's what you are." He takes another drag. The cherry flares. "You paid the fee. That makes you the client. Don't make it weird by trying to make it personal."
"It is personal."
"Not for me," he lies. He exhales smoke through his nose.
"You look..." I start. I stop myself.
"Say it," he challenges. "Go ahead.”
"I was going to say you look taller."
"Yeah, well." He shrugs. "So do you."
He walks over to the mini-bar. He squats down, joints popping, and peers into the little fridge. The mesh shirt rides up. I see the curve of his waist.
"Can I take a water?" he asks. "Or will that show up on the bill and get me in trouble?"
"Take whatever you want."
He grabs a needlessly pretentious glass bottle of Evian. He twists the cap off and downs half of it in one go. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He stands up. Looks at the bed, then the armchair.
He doesn't know where to put himself. If he sits on the bed, it implies sex. If he sits in the chair, it implies therapy.
He chooses the floor.
He slides down against the wall, knees pulled up, the bottle of water dangling between his fingers. He looks small down there.
"So," he says. He looks at the TV screen. The sitcom is over. Now it’s a car commercial. "How's the party? The crusade? Did you finally kill Strahd?"
"I wrote a dumb book," I say. "That's all."
"Three books," he corrects. "And a movie deal. And a tour." He tilts his head, looking at me with one eye shut. "You won, Mike."
"It doesn't feel like winning."
"Jesus," he scoffs. He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "Do not. Do not sit there in a five-hundred-dollar suit and try that shit. I’ll walk out. I will eat the fee and I will walk out."
"I'm not saying it's hard," I say. I sit down on the edge of the bed. "I'm saying it's not what I expected."
Will stares at me. The indignity flickers out, replaced by something more complex. He rests his chin on his knee.
"Yeah," he says softly. "I bet."
He takes another swig of water, then sets the empty glass bottle on the carpet.
"Still at least fifty minutes," he says. "Or something like that. Uh.” He looks over at me again. This time, with more intention. He’s scanning me.
“Do you want to take a shower?”
It’s a layered question. I give the safe answer. I shake my head.
"Suit yourself. Water pressure is pretty amazing here. It could peel the paint off a car."
He wraps his arms around his knees. He’s curling into a ball. It’s a defensive posture. It’s the way you sit when you’re cold, or hungry, or both.
Will knows I’m looking at him.
"It's the AC," he says, tucking his chin into the oversized collar of his jacket.
I look at the room service menu on the desk. I look at Will again.
"Are you hungry?"
He stiffens. "I ate."
"When?"
"This morning. Had a... thing. A bagel."
"I'll order something," I say. I reach for the phone.
"Don't," he snaps. He uncurls, hand shooting out as if to stop me, but he’s too far away. "I don't want your charity, Mike. I took the cash for the time. That’s enough. I don't need a sandwich on top of it."
"It's not charity. It's room service. It comes with the room."
"It comes with a thirty percent surcharge. And it does not come with the room."
"I don't care."
I pick up the receiver. I dial zero.
Will watches me. He looks indignant. He looks like he’s holding something back. But he doesn't leave.
"Good evening, Mr. Wheeler," a voice says.
"I’d like two burgers," I say. I’m looking at Will. He’s staring at the baseboard, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. "Medium rare, please. And fries. Extra fries, actually."
I pause.
"And a milkshake. Chocolate."
Will’s head snaps up. He looks at me. His eyes are wide, unguarded for a fraction of a second.
"And some coffee," I add into the receiver. "Black. A pot of it."
"Anything else, Mr. Wheeler?"
"That's it, thanks."
I hang up.
The silence comes back. It’s heavier now.
"You didn't have to do that," Will mutters. He’s moved on to picking at the carpet. "I'm not a stray dog."
"I know."
"I can buy my own food. I have money."
"I know."
"Then why?"
"Because I'm hungry," I lie. "And I hate eating alone."
He looks at me. He can tell when I’m lying.
"The milkshake?" he asks quietly. He can't help himself. The past is a gravity well.
"Like back at Benny's, right?" I say.
"Benny's." He lets out a breath. "Best fries in the Midwest. Worst coffee."
"We still drank it anyway."
"We drank it to feel like adults." He cracks a smile. It’s small. It’s fragile. It disappears in a second. "Look at us now. Drinking fancy water and waiting for thirty-dollar burgers. We made it, Mike. We're adults."
He leans his head back against the wall. He closes his eyes. Blue light washes over him, turning his skin translucent.
"God," he whispers. "I hate it."
He opens his eyes. The vulnerability snaps shut. It’s replaced by a look of sudden, sharp calculation.
He pushes himself up from the floor, his jacket sliding against the plaster with a dry rasp. He stretches, a long, feline arch of the back that pulls the mesh shirt tight against his ribs. He knows I’m watching. I think he’s counting on it.
"Food takes twenty minutes, at least." he says.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. Will walks toward me. My hands are gripping the edge of the duvet like it’s a life raft.
"You ordered a guy," Will says.
It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact. It’s an accusation.
"The dispatcher asked if I wanted one," I say. My voice is steady, but my pulse is jumping in my throat.
"And you said ‘yes’."
Will tilts his head. The light from the TV catches the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He looks at me like he’s never seen me before. Like I’m a puzzle he put together wrong the first time.
"Since when?" he asks.
"Since when what?"
"Since when were you gay, Mike? Last I heard, you were still with Jane."
"I’m not– we’re not. Uh." I say. I look at his hands. They are twitching at his sides.
Will laughs. It’s a short, sharp sound. "Right. Of course. When did she figure it out?"
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She doesn’t know that you’re a faggot?”
“Fuck you,” I spit. It comes out louder than I’d intended.
Will steps closer. He steps between my knees.
The heat coming off him is physical. It radiates through the denim of his jeans, through the wool of my trousers. He smells like smoke and cheap vanilla and sweat.
"So," he says softly. "You wanted a boy. And you got me."
"I didn't know it would be you."
"But it is me."
He reaches out. His fingers brush against my tie. He’s not fixing it. He’s testing the silk. He’s testing me.
"How long have you been paying for it?" he asks.
"I don't usually pay."
"Tonight you did. Tonight you wanted a guarantee."
He looks at my mouth. Then he looks at my eyes. His expression shifts.
"You're staring," Will whispers.
I am.
He moves closer. His thighs press against the inside of mine.
"You want to know something funny?" Will says. His voice has a lower register than I remember. "I used to dream about this. Back in Hawkins. Before I left."
"Will..."
"I used to dream you'd show up," he continues, relentless. "That you'd figure it out. That you'd stop looking at girls and look at me."
He places a hand on my shoulder. His grip is tight. Digging in.
"And now here we are," he says. "In a hotel room that costs more than my entire family makes in a year. And you finally figured it out."
He leans down. His face is inches from mine. I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. I can see the dilation of his pupils.
"So," he breathes. "Are you going to do something about it? Or are you just going to write about it again in your next book?"
"I don't want to write about it," I say.
"Then show me."
He straddles my lap. He moves with a fluid, desperate grace, settling his weight against me. The mattress dips. The air leaves my lungs.
He grabs the lapels of my jacket. He yanks me forward.
"Show me," he commands.
And I do. I kiss him.