Mike stops typing, the echoes of the typewriter fading away into the stillness of his room. He glances down at his papers, before sighing and taking them out.
Nothing feels right. Nothing he imagined for his friends feels right. Or, well... Maybe nothing felt right when it came to the ending he gave Will. A boy in a bar coming up to him, offering to buy him drinks? What a total cliché. Only a hack writer could think that up. Will deserves something more special — he always had, ever since Mike had known him. Something that truly speaks to Will's soul. Kind, gentle, beautiful. A true artist.
Mike sits back, chewing on his thumbnail. His eyes drift aimlessly across the room, before they naturally gravitate to the painting that hangs on the wall. A painting Will had given him years ago, with tears in his eyes. He'd claimed it was from El, but...
He stares at it for what seems like minutes, hours, days. Taking in every detail. Every brush stroke. Every shade and hue. So perfectly chosen, all for him.
The overhead light flickers above him.
Mike stands up, not caring for the disarray of papers on his desk. He heads to his telephone, and dials a number — a number he hasn't dialed in a long time, but still so familiar to his heart. He waits, and waits, as the dial rings... until he hears the shift of someone picking up, and he realizes his heartrate is picking up, too.
"Mike?"
"Hey, Will. I... are you busy?"
soulkiusscribbles