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Sometimes Carlton is a footnote. He kisses his boyfriend on the forehead, and Will mumbles around his toast. He’s sipping coffee, sketchbook half-on a newspaper. He’s so good at multi-tasking: the lines of the latest monster crisp and dark on the paper; while his eyes flick over the headlines. [1]
[1]
After graduation, Will Byers works with Wizards of the Coast: designing monsters for D&D. Carlton’s learned what a mind-flayer is. But he likes gelatinous cubes best, squishy. Hey, you don’t need to read the footnotes. It’s an insight into Carlton’s life, how he sees Will, but he gets it if it’s not that interesting.
He actually (funny story) met Will while drawing, and Carlton (can you believe it?) accidentally spilled coffee on his paper. Ruined it, apologized like his life was on fire. Bought him dinner. Found Will unexpectedly sweet. Carlton’s dated a lot, grown tired and careful.
Hazel eyes, apologetic eyebrows, hand cupped on the table as if he could take Carleton’s fingers at any moment. Hold them, and say, “hey, it’s going to be ok.” Boy, how he needed that.
“Anything interesting?” Carlton ends the smooch with a smack. Adjusts his tie. He likes being the kind of man who wears a tie, watch, briefcase, ironed shirt, kisses his lover before leaving for work. Smart. He feels smart when all the little pieces are in the right places.
“Uh,” Will glances from his sketch, to the newspaper. Back and forth. “Sorry, what?”
“Any good news?”
“Ah,” Will laughs, hand through his hair. “No.”
“Nothing about your hometown, Hawkins, right? It’s been popping up again.”
Will’s laugh sounds tinny, “Nope.”
“Ok, well I’m excited to meet your friend.”
Shoulders bunching, “Mmm-hmm,” back to drawing. “Me too.” Hesitates, blue-brown-green eyes finally looking at Carlton, seeing him. “You’ll like him. Everyone loves Mike.”
———————————————————————
Carlton flings open the door wearing a kiss-the-chef apron. Oven mitt on one hand. The man on his doorstep, he pauses, blinks, flushes a little. The man on his step looks like him. “Michael Wheeler?” he asks. A skinnier, hawkish version of him.
Hand out, “Just Mike.”
“Welcome, Just-Mike.” The joke doesn’t land. [2]
[2]
He’s tried this out on dozens of houseguests. He likes to think it’s not the quality of the joke, but the silly je ne c’est quoi in making one. Puts people at ease.
If you were at Carlton’s doorstep, and he was wearing a dumb Christmas sweater, or an inappropriate hat (not really sure what that means), and gave you two finger guns before he took your bag: that’s cute, right?
He takes Wheeler’s suitcase. When he gets back to the kitchen, Will is cutting the tips off roses, placing them one by one into a vase.
“Mike got us flowers.” He’s lit up.
Carlton looks from his red-faced boyfriend to the friend who looks like him. Takes a deep breath. Smiles big, huge, all his teeth. “What are you drinking, Mike?” He hits the ‘k’ hard. Yanks open the fridge, beer against the counter, cap flipping off.
“Uh, water’s good.”
Carlton Smith holds his sweaty beer to his temples. “Right.”
That night, he kisses Will hard, hopes to wake him up. But his lover is sleepy, and tired from dinner. He tells him he’s going back to the office: forgot to file some stupid paperwork. Byers protests, but of course he lets him go.
It’s an hour drive to Hawkins.
———————————————————————
Mike is across him on the patio. He has a neon mocktail, Will’s forgotten what it’s supposed to be; Mike a Cosmo. They’re at his and Carlton’s favourite lunch place. But, his partner’s cancelled last minute. Hasn’t seen him since last night. Will twirls his straw. “Your interview’s tomorrow?”
“Yeah. And I’m sorry, I’m all up in your business, and thanks for hosting. I never come to the city,” Mike trails off.
“You never, uh, wrote.” The straw bends, folding over.
“You moved.”
“You moved,” he echoes.
Mike shrugs. “We both moved,” he concedes. Then, pale, ghostly in the noon-sun, his black hair a void in the brightness, he swallows. He looks sick. “I messed up.”
Will slides his fingers to cover Mike’s knuckles. “Whatever it is, it’s ok. It’s ok.”
“No,” tongue over his teeth, he can see it from the way his lips move. “No, no, I should have said this earlier. So much earlier.”
Byers doesn’t see it coming. He’s used to being rejected. Despite four years in a happy, he thinks it’s happy, relationship, he always feels like the boy who isn’t chosen.
“I love you,” Mike says. “I’m a bisexual?” he clarifies when Will says nothing.
Will’s fingers twitch back. He doesn’t mean to leave, it’s just that his feet take him to the sidewalk, and then the park, and then back to the apartment. He sits on the couch and stares at the wall. Slowly, his head into his hands. Then he screams.
———————————————————————
Carlton pulls the straps on his vest. Bends, squats, sits, then stands again to check the fit. Knives, practices unsheathing; axe on his back, reaches to feel the grip. Clicks the safety on his M4 Carbine, removes magazine, looks for debris, reloads, safety again. A man is only as good as his gear. Everything in its right place.
Strides into the glowing rift, red light reflecting off the barrel of his rifle. Though, the last few times he thought of the light, not as red, but “cadmium” after Will’s watercolours.
The demo is on him suddenly, no chittering growl, no warning. Carlton Smith shoulders it off, though it lacerates his thigh, little flower-petal teeth makes dozens of tiny holes in his pants. [3]
[3]
This sucks. He’s come up with so many weird excuses over the years, Will must think he’s always walking into paper-shredders.
It’s become sort of a running joke between the two of them. Carleton hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t anticipated inside jokes. He anticipated sex, forehead kisses, maybe snuggling. Not really intimacy.
He sprays bullets, walking forward as he does. Ducks as a second demogorgon pounces. That one not as quiet. The axe this time. He momentarily drops the gun, fissures the blade hard into flesh, chipping at the edges of bone. Kind of like the steak he made for Mike yesterday.
Releases the axe as the demo screeches and thrashes. Gun again, pounding ammunition, rolling to miss a swipe.
The problem is he’s grown to love Will Byers.
The demo’s mouth-bits flop around the M4 Carbine. He’s still squeezing the trigger, but the thing is eating his gun in its death-throws, munching up the shaft. Two knives. Fisting, aims for either side of the monster’s neck. He stabs one after the other, then wiggles them deeper.
Blood pools, spurts as he hits an artery, or, actually one of the demo’s sacs. They dissected one last week, and it helped to see the organs laid out.
Yeah, the problem is he loves Will. It’s more than just an assignment to him. Four years. He’s got to find a way to tell him.
He’s panting, crouches, fishes for the knives. Retreats to get the handaxe. Pauses his stopwatch. The demos are closer to the gate, but he’s getting faster too. Maybe the injections are working.
———————————————————————
When he creaks open the door, he finds his boyfriend staring murder at the wall. This is not normal. “Hey,” he stretches the word. “Sorry I missed lunch.”
Will looks up, eyes puffy, red.
Carlton scoots beside him on the couch, “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”
“Mike, uh,” hand over his mouth. Speaks into his fingers, “Said he loves me.”
Carlton nods. “Will, everyone loves you.”
Arm around his shoulder. Maybe he doesn’t have to tell him yet: not about the bugs in the apartment, the notes he takes while Will sleeps, the way his organization is keeping tabs on his boyfriend’s powers. Maybe he can just be a footnote in Will’s life for a little longer. [4]
[4]
He’d really like that.