Disclaimer: Body of work will contain strong language and (eventually) sexually graphic adult themes between characters (hint: MikexChris ship, choo-choo!) so reader discretion is advised. In addition, all characters and events from the video game Until Dawn, which are mentioned and/or represented in this work are property of Supermassive Games and Sony Entertainment, and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Further more, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, please don't sue me.


Chapter 1

How long had Chris been standing at the front door of Mike's condo? His fist was suspended in place, becoming a disembodied statuesque limb just ready to knock. He was nervous, he was uncertain, he gulped. It had been, what, a year since they last saw one another? They literally hadn't talked since the horrible incident at Blackwood Pines. Like a real sit down, heart-to-heart, Dr. Phil style talk. Yeah, sure, the occasional text here or there was a modicum of communication and shit-talking. But their messages to one another were so detached, so impersonal, that they might as well had been talking towards brick walls with their names tagged in spray paint.

Mike: hey bud what up?
Chris: Just chillin…
Mike: cool cool
(Or…)
Mike: yo dawg, what's crackin'?
Chris: Just chillin…
Mike: cool cool
(And then…)
Mike: what up dude?
Chris: Just chillin…
Mike: cool cool

Etcetera, etcetera.

Chris understood Mike needed somebody with him, somebody he could relate to, somebody he could connect to because he was hurting. But Chris just needed his space, needed the time to heal. He rubbed his forearm anxiously, thinking about that horrible night at the mountain. Those moments were still too fresh - full of raw emotions and pellucid memories. Sometimes they'd start as a whisper in his mind, then rise to a crescendo, screaming until it practically etherized him. He was afraid that seeing Mike again would only amplify the inferno that dared to immolate his existence.

"Breathe…" Chris instructed himself, letting out a heavy sigh to pacify the rising uproar of his thoughts. He gulped more air in then released a slow exhale. His mind retained a measure of tranquility, but he took a third breath anyway for good measure.

And yet, despite Chris' small episode, he was still there, standing in front of Mike's condominium. The door was just beckoning him to knock on it. Then he thought that maybe this reunion was a bad idea, that it was too soon, that the deluge of bad experiences would suffocate him. But his mind wandered back to the last text conversation he received from Mike.

Mike: I miss ya bro we should hang and catch up
Chris: Ya, totally man!
Mike: next week my pad, I'll supply the boobs ;)
Mike: fuk autocorrect meant booze lol
Chris: lol…Sure man, it's been awhile…
(Chris had paused back then, debating whether to send the next text; but his fingers danced eagerly across the keypad and sent the message before he realized what he was doing.)
Chris: I miss ya too bro…

And just like the time with the last text message, his body moved unfettered from his conscious whims as he rapped on the door. Too late to turn back now, no matter how much his anxiety wanted him to.

Chris heard a bolt unlock from the door, then another. He must have heard about three more clicks after that before he heard a chain sliding.

'Seriously?' Chris thought, wondering if perhaps he was standing in front of an impregnable vault than a simple doorway.

Then the door finally swung open.

Mike stood at the entryway, his brown eyes locking onto Chris' blue ones. He wore only a towel wrapped around his waist, while the rest of his body was all exposed flesh. He had a firm grip on the fabric's hem, revealing tight arm muscles accompanied with an even tighter, toned upper body that came from frequent running. Trickles of water cascaded down his dark hair, through the contour of his neckline, between his pecs and hard abs, then merged with a small treasure trail that edged its way to hidden depths. He was slightly out of breath, obviously having jumped out of the shower in a mad rush to answer the door.

And Chris was staring way too long than what was socially acceptable. He was feeling a flush with embarrassment, while Mike stood half-naked and stolid.

All though if Mike appeared any more impassive, he would have looked rather offended to be bothered from his shower.

And so Chris broke the silence by waving a hand jovially and said, "'Eeeeeeyyy…"

A pregnant pause. Awkward.

Mike asked, "Can I…help you?"

Deadpan could not begin to describe Mike's expression. It was obvious that there was no recognition. After all, Chris hadn't exactly kept the same clean cut pretty boy face he had one year ago. Instead he grew out his facial hair, fostering what was an amalgamation of a golden lion's mane and a disheveled blond Brillo Pad. He still maintained a great sense of hairstyle nonetheless, with his slicked faux Mohawk updo – the only trademark feature of his that persisted.

Maybe Chris should have refined his appearance beforehand to mitigate the gauche nature of their meetup…

"Dude," Chris began, jabbing a finger to himself for emphasis, "it's me, Chris!"

He could see the information registering in Mike's face. Slowly at first, with eyes growing wider by the second, until you could practically distinguish his ocular features to that of a slow loris.

"Holy shit…Chris?" Mike replied, bewildered. "Christopher-fuckin-Benjamin!"

Mike immediately drew his friend into a tight embrace – the feeling familiar, inviting, but also fairly wet. Chris withdrew from Mike quickly after that realization.

"Sorry buddy, sorry!" Mike apologized as he patted Chris' long sleeve checkered flannel, as if his repentance could dry out the water that had soaked into the textile.

Chris chuckled, then joked, "Bro, I'm totes down to get wet and wild, but you gotta wine and dine me first."

Chris had always been the comedian and wise cracker of the group. The one who brightened the mood, the one who could make you smile. But really, it was Mike he looked up to – the class president, the prom king, the savvy Casanova – who had the propensity for humor, if not having more comedic bravado than he had.

Chris could just imagine the upcoming retort from Mike now in a histrionic voice: "Oh mah gawd we're SO totally going to make out!"
But there was an idiosyncrasy in Mike's body language at that moment: reservation, hesitation, and uncertainty. Chris could see the gleam in his friend's eyes, reaching out from the depths, only to recede back into the plumes of darkness.

So Mike threw a playful jab to Chris' shoulder and returned a forced smile. "Heh, whatever hipster lumberjack…"

"Hashtag ouch!" Chris said sardonically, feigning pain by clutching his arm. "Seriously, didn't you read that Gawker article? It's Lumber-sexual thank-you-very-much!" He followed by pointing a slick air pistol and then firing away with a click of his cheeks.

Mike's countenance cracked a bit as he let out a genuine laugh. And for a moment, Chris felt at ease as he laughed along with his friend. Both had hoped at that moment it would be as easy as this moment to fall into an old way of life again when things were a lot simpler. A time when they smiled more, laughed more, lived more, and loved more. When things hadn't become a fucked up tragic play that would make Hamlet look like A Charlie Brown Christmas.

Because he and Mike, along with the others, were quite a brilliant constellation of friends once. Then ten friends became eight, then eight became two. And now these two lone stars struggled to keep their shine in the void that dared to swallow them into oblivion – the darkness of memories past which haunted them to this day.

When their laughter waned, Mike stepped to the side and bowed, following with a grand gesture.

"Welcome to Chateau de Michelangelo my friend."

Chris couldn't miss an opportunity to take a quick quip as he stepped through the doorway. "With you in a towel, feels like I'm about to walk into a sex den."

"I can give that to you, if you want," Mike offered in a sultry tone as he wiggled his eyebrows.

But Chris paused in midstride and gulped. He gave a sideways, incredulous glance to his friend.

"W,what?" he stammered, adjusting his glasses and then gulped again. Did he think what he thought his friend was offering? "Mike, I'm—"

Michael chortled and brought a light jab to Chris' shoulder. There was that gleam in his eyes, finally reaching out.

"Gotcha! Jay-slash-kay dude!"

This was the old Mike that Chris wanted to see, even if it was for a moment; the light in his friend's eyes were starting to dim once more.

"Psh! You call that a jay-slash-kay moment?" scoffed Chris, and then began mimicking a croaking voice like that of Master Yoda from Star Wars, "In the ways of comedy, I have much to teach you!"

Mike smirked as he started to close the door. Then he said, "I've missed ya buddy."

"I missed you too," replied Chris as he patted his friend's shoulder.


Dr. Alan Hill stood at the window sill, with the rays of the rising dawn lancing through the opaque glass. He let out an ambivalent sigh, turning in place and shuffling over to the mantelpiece. On the marbled surface housed a bottle of Cognac with two wine glasses. He took one vessel and poured himself a serving that waft the air with a rich aroma of a finely aged and cultured libation. The doctor swirled the fluid around the basin of the glass while examining the painting of Sandro Botticelli's 'Mars and Venus'. It was of two Roman deities laying on their sides while satyrs gaily danced around them.

He turned his head to the side and called behind him, "Would you care for a drink my friend?"

Silence. The figure that sat on the chair a few paces across from the doctor did not respond, but instead reclined on the seat and propped both legs on the desk. A loud thud resonated when each black boot hit the oaken surface.

"As you wish," the doctor replied, turning back to appreciate the painting above him.

Dr. Alan took a deep whiff of the cognac, allowing the scent to fill his lungs. Then he took a quaff and let the drink sit on his tongue to appreciate the blended flavors of spice and rancio. And after he swallowed the Cognac, he let out a satisfactory exhale.

"Sandro Botticelli's 'Mars and Venus'. The depiction of these two deities together typically represent peace. But the painting tells a much deeper tale beyond the obvious symbolism…" the doctor began to explain.

Venus, being the goddess of love, had attracted the attention of many suitors, from mere mortals to the almighty pantheon themselves. However, she was wed to the blacksmith god, Vulcan, whom she drew no amorous feeling for. In actuality, Venus' heart yearned for Mars, who was her one true lover. The painting frames a scene of 'the morning after' if you will, with Venus expressing desire and longing while Mars slumbers away. Satyrs gleefully blow trumpets into his ear to awaken him, but he catnaps right on through. Well, Vulcan was no fool, he knew that Venus had been lecherous and dishonest, so he wanted revenge. One day, while Venus and Mars were together, Vulcan cast an invisible net around the lovers, and exposed them to the other gods.

"I mention this," continued Dr. Alan Hill, "because I have a theory. A theory where Mike and Chris are Venus and Mars. And their story is the net that was cast, which exposes them to the gods - exposes them to us."

The doctor turned on a heel and tilted his head to the side, grinning wide.

"So here we are, at this moment, to witness and judge their actions as it unravels!"

Dr. Alan let out a small, raspy laugh. Then he folded his hands behind him as he strode across the room, towards the window.
He shrugged nonchalantly. "But that's just a crazy theory of mine. All though…I'm interested to know what you think my friend."

Are you the witness or are you the judge?


Author's Note: Thanks for reading! All comments, reviews and critiques are always welcome. :)

Hotfix ver. 0.1: Corrected a MAJOR typo pointed out by novelpetals, where I inadvertently made Josh appear with a dialogue tag when it was supposed to be Eric's line. Whoops! #LiveAndLearn