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 2
A few minutes later, Mike emerged from his bedroom as if GQ magazine just performed an immaculate conception to produce this overt pageantry of a male specimen. Thanks to just a dollop of Crew gel product, his dark hair was molded and combed over to the side – well positioned and manicured, looking borderline plastic and manufactured. Additionally, Mike wore a crisp blue Ralph Lauren polo with a popped up collar and beige Calvin & Klein khakis rolled up at the ankles that just screamed douchebag. And it didn't help his aesthetic case any better that he wore a Fossil watch, which was clearly excessive and posh.
Meanwhile, Chris, who had been sitting on a sectional sofa waiting for Mike, looked askance towards his friend. The choice of wardrobe between these two men could not be any more contrast.
"Jesus…Mike 'Mr. Billboard' Munroe, are you going to a commercial shoot or are we just hanging out?" jeered Chris rhetorically with a smirk.
There was Mike, presenting himself as a casually sophisticated, if not a vainglorious mannequin ready to be displayed at a storefront. He was practically walking with at least four different labels and accessories. And then there was Chris, bearing a striking resemblance to a lumberjack (or 'Lumber-sexual' as he aptly put it) that just happened to have hipster attributes – flowing gilded beard, red checkered flannel shirt, jeans with 'designer tears' and matching Converse sneakers. Give this kid an axe and he'd be ready to chop down some lumber, as long as you played a song by Owl City in tandem.
It was clear that they were both vogue victims of the 21st century. And they owned and related to their own cultural styles. Because even if their aesthetics were contrived, it was the only palpable construction of their present selves that they could build upon. Their identities from the past were so mired with pain, confusion and darkness that they themselves didn't know who they really were any more.
But at least Mike still had the gusto to return a favor in kind, because it was easy to emulate what he imagined the 'old Mike' - the idealized Mike he wanted to return to – would do in this situation. He jabbed a finger to his glasses-wearing hipster friend and retorted, "Hey, fuck you man!"
"Wow bro. SO come back. Much hurt," Chris razzed, as he faux grimaced in pain and clutched his chest.
Mike held a fettered countenance before rolling his eyes. Chris, on the other hand, did his best to imitate a Doge face. If Doge happened to acquiesce hipster characteristics.
"Psh, whatever…" spat Mike, continuing the playful act, "you asshat!"
Ah, the alpha male swagger bullshit. Just two gorillas thumping their chests at one another to proclaim rank dominance when no females were around. In a time before the incident at Blackwood Pines, when Mike, Chris, Josh and Matt hung out exclusively without nary a girl in sight, there was so much posturing amongst the guys, so much shit talking between them, you could practically smell the post-adolescent testosterone. All snips, snails and puppy dogs' tails, right? And how easy it was for Mike and Chris to slip back to old habits from days gone past because of the familiarity that begets intimacy.
But really, at this present moment, the outward expressions and actions were but non-tangential refractions of their inner, polarized selves. Just two men dancing with one another between Thalia and Melpomene, and around the pink elephant in the room that was Blackwood Pines.
And so the dance continued.
"Care for some libations, lumberjack?" offered Mike as he strode over to the kitchen.
Chris gave it some thought, standing up from his seat to follow his friend, then answered with a shrug. He then replied, "Dunno, do you have something that doesn't come from an advertisement, Mr. Billboard?"
Mike opened a large kitchen cabinet, gave a dramatic hand gesture to his friend, and said, "You tell me, buddy."
There was a moment of monastic silence as Chris took the time to examine the shelves which housed a variety of colored fluids and the multiplicity of vessels in all manner of geometric shapes and sizes. Without any context, one would think that this was more of an alchemic laboratory to produce the Philosopher's Stone than top shelf alcohol. But there were brands that he knew were premium quality and didn't come cheap, at least according to the finely decorated labels anyway: Belvedere, Bombay Sapphire, Knob Creek, Crown Royal, Godiva Liqueur Chocolate, Patron…on and on. Liquor for days that would make Bacchus look like he was drinking Kool-Aid for breakfast.
"And this baby right here," Mike started to explain, straining to reach for a decanter containing rose-gold colored fluid, "is the Highland Park Single Malt Scotch – 30 year. Can you imagine this thing is older than us? And that it came with a hefty price tag?"
Chris raised an eyebrow and inquired, "How much?"
When Michael nonchalantly revealed the value, Christopher had practically face vaulted – eyes growing wide until the tables were turned, and he was the one that looked like a slow loris.
Mike tapped the glass and asked, "You want to try some?"
Christopher was definitely nonplussed, not only for the ample options of adult beverages, but for the chance to partake in a refreshment valued at nearly a grand. His mind was subdued to a stupor.
"Got a Miller Light instead…?" Chris replied anxiously.
The expression on Mike's face could not be any more aghast. It was as if he was at an EDM party and the DJ didn't properly play a beat drop at the right time, and instead transitioned into Yo-Yo Ma's cello interpretation of a Carley Rae Jepsen song.
Mike placed the liquor on the counter then crossed his arms, scolding, "I offer you the world of alcohol at your fingertips, and you want the equivalent of piss water?"
"Heh, yeah?" Chris shrugged, grinning nervously.
Michael sighed as he opened another cabinet and pulled two glass tumblers. After that, he walked over to the refrigerator to draw some ice cubes from the dispenser, which ceremoniously clinked into the glasses. He walked back to the counter and picked up the scotch to fill each of the tumblers right to the brim. Then Mike presented the scotch to his friend, insistent that he partake of the 30-year-old liquid ambrosia. Chris, not wanting to upset his gracious host, accepted the offer, albeit apprehensive.
Why? It wasn't because of this drink that was from another dimension of novelty and luxury, a venerable substance that he'd never dreamed of ever imbibing in his lifetime. It was because of Mike – the swagger, the confidence, the earnest and forward nature of his being – he was different. More alluring, more intoxicating, but contrived, elaborate and ostentatious. Just like the shelves of affluent alcohol that sat on the shelves; just like the scotch he gripped in his hand.
Chris needed to squelch his consternation. So he took a deep breath and downed the beverage quickly and in its entirety before Mike could stop him. The liquid tasted of deep heather and spice, tasted of Scotland's northern highlands, flowing down his gullet in a rushing torrent until the alcohol burn kicked in and punched his senses into reality. It was the difference between a soothing, orchestral set of Scottish bag pipes and savage, blaring Braveheart barbarians rushing down a hill for an assault. Because this wasn't a typical drink you just chug down in one go like cheap booze from a convenience store. It was something to be savored and appreciated slowly. And the scotch reminded Chris of this fact by enacting divine retribution like any potent alcoholic beverage would in these circumstances.
The burning and tightness exacerbated his throat, which forced Chris to shudder a hoarse cough, dribbling scotch out of his mouth and onto his beard. Chris placed his drink down as another cough rattled his insides, having to grip the edge of the counter to steady himself.
"Damn Chris..." Mike consoled his friend by gently patting his back. "You're not supposed to down it like that…"
It took a few moments for Chris' coughing fit to subside, then reorient himself back to reality. Mike took a hand towel that hung from the handle of a nearby stove and offered it to his ailing friend. Michael looked rather concerned and fairly worried as Chris took the cloth and wiped his maw
"You okay?" Mike asked.
Chris gave a weary nod as he rubbed the towel on his hands.
"How does it feel to cough up a drink worth hundreds of dollars?" berated Mike, wearing a Cheshire grin.
"L-like…" Chris paused for a moment to steady his breath, and continued, "like a m-million bucks…"
Mike, imitating his friend from earlier, jeered, "Wow bro...VERY wisdom. Such clever."
Chris held up a finger as a universal gesture to wait since he was still recovering from the aftershocks. He cleared his throat twice, then let out a heavy sigh to ease his airway before replying: "Sorry, I couldn't hear you…let me adjust my glasses."
Chris used his middle finger to push his spectacles up the ridge of his nose. In response, Mike delivered a light jab to his friend's shoulder.
"All right, how about something lighter," suggested Mike as he pulled a tall cocktail mixer from the cabinet, "and something a lot cheaper."
"What'd you have in mind?" queried Chris as he raised an eyebrow.
Christopher watched his friend pull a bottle of Old Tom Gin and sugar syrup from the liquor shelf, as well as lemon juice from the fridge.
"Tom Collins," replied Mike as he poured the fluids together into the mixer. Then he continued to speak in a hoity-toity, New York cosmopolitan accent: "It's the drink of millionaires!"
Michael covered the mixer with a cap and shook the ingredients together. Afterwards, he drew a couple of tall glasses from the cabinet and proceeded to pour the mixed drink into the receptacles two-thirds of the way. Mike topped off the concoctions with soda water, some ice and a garnish of finely sliced lemons curled around the rim of the drinking glasses.
He handed a serving of Tom Collins to Chris and explained, "This should definitely come down smoother than the last drink."
Chris accepted the offer and stared at his beverage with trepidation. But Mike tried to alleviate his friend's tension by clinking their glasses together, than raising his own in the air.
"Cheers bud," Mike said, flashing a smile.
Christopher knew Mike to be the amicable one, the one who could ameliorate the intensity of any situation, the mediator and the leader.
No, that was a lie.
Chris only saw what he wanted to see. He only wanted to see the good in his friend, and himself, because the lie was more acceptable than the truth. How easily cowed he was to accept the façade so readily. The past he wanted to bury deep in his mind encroached to the surface of his memories, becoming the assailant of his consciousness.
Chris recalled that grim moment at Blackwood Pines when they all gathered in the safe room.
This. Is. The safe room, Em!
Please, no! Don't do this!
Oh, but how Chris could be the victim of his unconsciousness. He was just as guilty as Mike was, being complicit to the undoing of Emily. He remembered that night all too well - how Mike was divided, pulled in different directions. Between Sam's belligerence Ashley's hysteria, and Emily's contention, it was Chris that Mike looked to as the arbitrator. Brown eyes meeting to blue - staring, watching, seeking guidance, longing.
I've seen what those fuckers can do. I don't want to see it again.
That night, Chris knew that his words manifested their destinies to the worst possible outcome – what he thought had less gravitas was actually more analog to the weight of the world on his back. He might as well had been the one pulling the trigger at that moment instead of Mike.
Was Chris aware of just how dishonest to himself he was being right now? How the interplay between mind and body could be so mistranslated that they could function as two separate entities? Because Chris was so entrenched in his thoughts and self-effacing guilt that Mike was still waiting for his friend to return the toast in full. No 'cheers' or 'bottoms up' or a 'fuck yeah bro' was reciprocated.
Instead, the expression on Chris' face was that of disapprobation. Of blue eyes meeting brown – staring, watching, seeking persecution, condemning. Wasn't this the answer that Mike was looking for? Why he reached out to Chris and invited him over? So Mike could understand what his friend really thought of him?
Mike could do nothing but plead in his own thoughts: 'Please, no…don't do this Chris…'
But this was only the start of their unraveling.
Dr. Allan Hill beamed with pride as he examined the oil painting atop the mantelpiece. This time the painting was of three women in a state of half-undress as they weaved together a huge swath of illuminated, permeable fabric that danced around their bodies and their celestial landscape. The painting was called 'The Fates Gathering in the Stars'.
"Ah, Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos – also known as the Sisters of Fate in Greek mythology who work on the thread of life. One spins, one fixes and the other cuts," explained the doctor as he walked over to his desk and sat on the chair across from the figure with black boots.
"The Greeks believed that their destinies were deterministic. That no matter how hard they struggled, how much they yearned, how many decisions they made, their lives were immutable since they day they were born. That their choices never mattered.
"Could not the same be said for Mike and Chris?"
The figure in black boots from across Dr. Allan Hill replied with a rebellious nature – arms crossed and feet planted firm on the floor.
"Ah, of course, your body language tells me otherwise," observed the doctor with a solemn nod.
He proceeded to open a desk drawer and pull out a length of yarn. He began to weave the string around his fingers in intricate movements until he created a crisscrossing pattern.
"Ever heard of the game Cat's Cradle?" asked the doctor as he presented the crosshatched shape to the figure across the table.
Cat's Cradle is all about pinching, manipulating and tightening the threads between two people to create a new shape or variation of the string. The Cat's Cradle figure in my hand can turn to a shape called Diamonds, which leads to Candles, and then to Manger, and so on and so forth. Sometimes a string figure can have multiple choices leading into other figures.
Now imagine that each change of the string is the outcome of a choice – a new path, a new destiny. You would expect the game to continue indefinitely, right? Figures upon figures, on and on into oblivion! Because unfortunately for Cat's Cradle, there are choices that lead to what are called dead-end figures: shapes that can't be turned into any other shape.
And yet, haven't you noticed anything peculiar during the explanation, my friend?
"I still hold the shape of the Cat's Cradle," answered Dr. Alan Hill as he presented the interwoven string between his fingers. "And, until the next figure is created, all variations of the string from beyond this point are all possible and impossible. This game begins in a quantum state of becoming and unbecoming. In that regard, destiny becomes mutable – your choices matter.
"Could not the same be said for Mike and Chris?"
Dr. Alan Hill collapsed his fingers as the string unwound from his grip and fell on the table as a single line snaking its path across the oaken surface. With a maniacal grin, he walked over to the window with his hands clasped behind his back and looked out at the waning light.
The doctor uttered, "Choices, quantum theory, and unraveling strings. Now I hope you've thought carefully about my previous question to you my friend, because I have another one I want you to consider."
Do you think your choices matter?
Author's Note: Thanks for reading! All comments, reviews and critiques are always welcome. It motivates me to write when I hear from you folks. :)