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 4
What. The fuck. Was that?
This was the repeating mantra that echoed through Chris' thoughts. It took him about a minute to reorient himself to the present moment – the aftermath of Mike having thrown a shot glass at his general direction.
For real though, what the mother fucking hell was that?
He tried to recall exactly what happened: he gave Mike his phone, he was talking about his travels around the country, and the last thing he discussed was his experiences at Burning Man - before Mike went full mental jacket.
Was it something he said? Something he did? That pained expression in Mike's eyes though, ones that reflected fault. Fault for what? And whose fault? Mike or Chris?
"Mike!" he called out. Or was he answering his own question?
Chris walked over the shards of broken glass with caution, crossed the living room and reached Mike's bedroom. He rapped lightly on the door but did not hear anything of note. He wondered if his friend was all right, all impassioned outbursts aside of course.
"I-I'm fine…" replied Mike, all though not entirely convincing. "Just need a minute…"
Chris' immediate response was to press on, insisting. But wasn't one of his original concerns was how amplified the pain of their shared history would be just by seeing each other? So instead, he opted for the more conservative, diplomatic approach on the matter.
"Sure man…I'll be here if you need anything," assured Chris, laying his palm against the door.
The gesture itself was fairly trivial, the action as inconsequential as their impersonal text messages to one another over the past few months. But this time was different, there was sincere intention behind Chris' actions. And even though he couldn't see Mike, he felt that his friend's back was pressed against the door, preventing him from entering. And perhaps, with Chris pressing his hand right on the door, it would be akin to him placing a consoling, affirming hand on Mike's shoulder. Just like he did earlier in the kitchen before things became turbulent.
Christopher whispered, repeating the same words he said earlier: "I get it buddy…"
He thought he heard a faint sigh from Mike, but maybe it's just what he wanted to hear at that moment. Perhaps as a sign of clemency for not being there for Michael sooner. For, essentially, being a really shitty, absent friend this past year.
Man, this reunion was nowhere close to being like halcyon days. This was more analogous to a complicated, fucked up waltz – if the partners were blindfolded in the darkness, accompanied by a discordant symphony of strings and cowbells. No matter how hard Chris tried to reach out to Mike, with sincere words here, or an amicable touch there, the past would encroach from the abyss with snarls and jagged claws, dragging them deeper into their personal darkness. A shared history, a shared pain.
Now Chris used the door as a means to keep himself steady. He put his other hand over his chest and let out a breath. His head felt light, dizzy and muddled. His stomach was doing somersaults, pole vaults and triple pirouettes. He swallowed a good measure of air to keep himself steady, but he knew his body was protesting for a reason – too much alcohol.
Christopher scrambled, searching for anything in this god forsaken contemporary furniture hell of cubes and squares for a receptacle. And when he identified a hollow bin next to the sectional sofa, he kneeled close, hanging over the opening and vomited, purging both the scotch and the Tom Collins from his stomach. Somehow the regal Scottish influence of 30 years just didn't jive with the pedestrian nature of 'the drink of millionaires'. Exacerbated, of course, by the vacillating range of emotions experienced with Mike just moments ago.
There was an iota of a moment after the initial ejection of fluids, enough for him to evoke the name of the Lord before the next wave of nausea jostled his insides. Chris purged more toxins out of his system, like his body was saying: 'Yeah, you kinda fucked up. You drank too much booze and now I gotta cleanse you. You're welcome.'
"Hurk!" he cried, this time it was a dry heave, the type that punches you right in the gut.
After that, Chris gripped the edges of the square receptacle, bracing against it so he wouldn't keel over from physical exhaustion. His eyes were tearing up, his nose was oozing mucous and his beard was partially soaked with bile. He was definitely ill right now, and his body made sure to communicate that message in whatever facial orifice it could use: that this is the price you pay for overindulging in alcohol. Or rather, that you're a lightweight.
Christopher could sense another episode of nausea rising from within.
But before the feeling could reach a tempestuous crescendo, he felt a pair of hands grip and massage his shoulders in small circles. He turned his head and saw Mike kneeling beside him. The touch, and the close proximity, was really inviting and calming. And there was no longer that manic expression of chaotic sadness Chris witnessed a moment ago when Michael hurled the shot glass. Instead, Christopher saw a friend that was genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and wanted nothing more than to help.
Chris wondered in a self-effacing way: God, why weren't the roles reversed? Why couldn't I have been there for Mike instead, like he's doing for me now?
Oh Chris. Chris, Chris, Chris...if you only knew.
That this...this was the interplay the two experienced with each other - a pair of juxtaposed stars orbiting between one another through the darkness and the light. There was never a moment in their meeting when things were at an equilibrium. It was either Mike comforting Chris, or Chris comforting Mike. Or rather: Mike being a dick to Chris, or Chris being a dick to Mike. Round and round they went, spinning across their punishing gravities and nurturing atmospheres.
But which was it really? The friend or the asshole? Either? Neither? Both? What did it matter? They were opposite polarities sharing the same axis of a troubled past, of a present ever resolving, and of an uncharted future.
With tears and snot dribbling down his face, Chris softly cried, "Help..."
Mike knew what to do as his movements were automatic and instinctual. He approached the kitchen, making sure to step gingerly around the scattered broken glass. And driven by learning experiences from the past, those times he partied so hard that he became the quintessential definition of a party animal, he drew a bottle of bright red Gatorade from the fridge and a kitchen towel from the countertop. He approached Chris, kneeled next to him and handed him the refreshment. Then he wiped Chris' face dry, ensuring he didn't miss the glorious golden beard of course, like a zookeeper would when caretaking for an invalid lion and his mane.
Christopher didn't protest Mike's altruistic advances. In actuality, it felt good to be looked after for a change. If he were truly a lion, this would be the part where he'd be purring with satisfaction.
"Now..." Mike began to instruct, "...you'll need to take sips of the Gatorade. Hydration and restoring lost electrolytes are key. And no chugging, this isn't 30-year-old scotch we're talking about."
"Is it just as expensive though?" Chris quipped in a weak tone.
Even when physically ill and debilitated, Chris always managed to crack a joke.
Mike smirked, patting his friend on the back and said, "You never miss a beat do you?"
Chris shook his head, then took the tiniest of sips. The drink was refreshing no doubt, but his stomach made small protests to his body. Mike noticed the grimace on his friend's face, and so reached over to rub his back with small circles. This aided in abating the rising tremor in Chris' stomach.
"This is good..." Chris breathed out, closing his eyes as a flowing calmness radiated from the spot that Mike caressed.
Michael nodded, then switched to massaging his friend's shoulders. He asked in a low tone, "How does this feel?"
These motions were different from before: more supple, more precise, quite proficient actually, enough to practically soothe Chris' aching body. His stomach felt like it was miles away, as his brain began registering a completely new and utterly etherizing sensation of pressed muscles that hadn't been kneaded for over a year now.
Christopher protested with a lie, "A-ah…could be better…"
His friend chortled, "Is that so?"
Michael had his share of giving massages in years past. After all, he was quite the Casanova with plenty of notches under his belt. He knew his way around a woman's body, sure, but he figured it wasn't any different from a man's. And yeah, the physical geography was different, but the topography was very much the same. If the topography was a chubby-turned-butch sort of body type, with broad shoulders and firm muscles. Even so, all it took was a slight alteration in Mike's movements and pressure to illicit a satisfied groan from his friend.
"Fine…" Chris replied, defeated. He leaned into the massage to further his comfort and said, "You win, you win…"
Mike chuckled, replying, "Considering you messed up my ottoman storage bench, I'll take the victory as a consolation for the property damage."
"What?" his friend queried, looking at the receptacle, and realizing it was far from any sort of trash bin. "Oh goddamn…was that shit expensive?"
"Let's just say it's more than the bottle of scotch I have," replied Mike as he released his grip from Chris and took a leather cushion that was laying on the floor nearby, then slid it over the ottoman to seal its opening.
Christopher felt remorse, saying, "Sad face…sorry bro…"
His friend shrugged, replying, "No big deal, I can easily buy another one. And besides, I should be the one apologizing for the shot glass thing."
Chris turned to face Mike. They both sat Indian-style from one another, and for a moment, there was a stretch of silence. It was Chris who broke the stillness by patting his friend on his knee.
"Hey, don't sweat the petty stuff and don't pet the sweaty stuff. Am I right?" cajoled Chris with a smirk. It was a superficial response, but this was the moment for him to be the friend that Michael needed, even if Christopher had his own reservations on the matter.
Mike chuckled, alleviating the feeling of shame he felt for his actions earlier at the kitchen, and making Chris feel a bit at ease. Then he rubbed the back of his neck anxiously and said, "Yeah, but still…"
Christopher leaned in, inquiring, "Talk to me bro. What's going on in that head of yours?"
He reached over and tapped Mike on the forehead. But his finger was swatted away in playful response. However, Chris persisted by continually poking Michael's head at every opportune moment, until it became a Mortal Kombat of forehead taps and hand swats. It escalated to the point where Chris was imitating Bruce Lee sound effects with every jab and strike, while Mike laughed as he defended himself from his friend's advances.
"All right, all right, all right!" Mike exclaimed, pleading in between bouts of laughter, "I give up, totes for real dude!"
The jovial air between the friends simmered to an amicable calm. Michael looked out the window and realized that evening had set in, with the moon and stars alight. Had time passed so quickly already? It felt like moments ago that the daylight was ever present. And he only invited Chris over to hang out and wasn't expecting him to stay over.
"Listen… I want to tell you what's on my mind, but can we start over?" implored Mike, looking away from his friend. "Like, maybe erase the shit that happened the past few minutes? Wipe the slate clean?"
In response, Chris began mimicking robotic sound effects as his arm stirred with mechanical maneuvers. He brought his forearm up to his own face, and pantomimed movements as if to open a computerized compartment hidden within his sleeves. Chris moved his fingers in rapid succession, eliciting beeping noises that sounded all too absurd.
"Request initializing: deleting log files and random access memories since last login," he began in a binary tone, stiffening his back and creating the sound effects of spinning gyros and popping gizmos.
Mike rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Oh God, Chris, stop."
Chris titled his head sharply, gave several deadpan blinks, and then replied, "Unable to abort process. Additional request initializing: now deleting all references to identity handle Christopher Benjamin."
Oh Chris, ever the comedian.
"C'mon Chris, I'm serious." But Mike's chuckles betrayed the solemn expression he tried to maintain. "Don't be like that."
However, Christopher continued his mechanical theatrics. "Like what Michael? And I do not know this 'Chris' that you speak of. Also, please be advised that the deletion process is at 56%"
Michael scoffed, feeling just the tiniest bit irritated. He replied, "Like that – the way you're being."
Always funny, making things lighthearted, even when it was unwarranted for the situation.
It was almost like a defensive mechanism for Chris, perhaps to avoid getting too close to the hurt and pain. But sometimes, you just had to talk through the wounds, give them form through words, and maybe, just maybe, find a way to heal and move on.
"You always get like this," Mike continued, crossing his arms. "Especially when things are serious."
If this was a hint bomb as any, this would be the explosive impact of ten simultaneous nuclear detonations. Chris relaxed his posture and cleared his throat. He adjusted his glasses nervously.
"Sorry man," Christopher replied, putting his hands to his own knees. "You got my attention."
"Good." Mike nodded, also putting his hands on his own knees, as if the gesture was creating a more official tone to the conversation. "Now, I know it's getting late, so I want you to spend the night."
Before Chris could protest, Mike stopped him with a finger in the air.
"No, you're staying the night, because…"
He needed Chris, his company, the companionship. He was the only one that could relate to him in this fucked up world after Blackwood Pines. He hadn't smiled or laughed, or felt alive in so long. Every day he ran away from the dawn, wishing death would spare him another year. And now, with Chris, it felt like things were possible again. To hope, to wish, to dream, to become. All these thoughts spilled into his head like a deluge. And behind it, was the darkness, the unfathomable, impermeable substance that needed release.
Mike tightened the grip on his knees to force his body into a physically uncomfortable state so he could stop his train of thoughts before it made a head on collision into chaos again. Just like the incident with the shot glass, and times before that before Chris came along: alone, suffering, crying for help. This just had to stop.
"Because…" Michael continued, trying to summarize his thoughts into something meaningful, but the words stopped in his throat.
Chris could see the distress welling up in his friend's brown eyes. And just like that time when Chris stood in front of Mike's bedroom door, at the kitchen before the shot glass incident, in the entryway outside the condo, and even unspoken times before Blackwood Pines - he reached over and put an affirming hand to his friend's shoulder. It was that again, that familiarity that begets intimacy. This was a feeling that they would soon understand that traversed beyond the bond of friendship, of identity, of history, of sexuality, of man and woman.
The fundamental expression of love.
He squeezed Mike's shoulder and said, "I get it bro…I missed you too."
If the two were to look out the window right now, they would see the cosmic stars, Venus and Mars, shining brightly through the dark, din of the evening sky. Being both the witnesses and the judges of the choices between the two men before them.
Author's Note: So it took me a really long time to think of a "ship" name for Chris & Mike, and I think "Chrism" works rather well, with a bonus that it's an actual word too! Doesn't have the pzazz like the ship name "Crashley" (Chris & Ashley) but you have no idea how hard it is to brainstorm ship names when you're working with word combinations containing mostly hard consonants with very few vowels.
ANYWAY, reviews, comments and critiques always welcome! And if you're too shy to send a word out, favorite and/or following will help motivate me to continue writing all the same. :)
Thanks for reading!