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“Shit,” says Steve.
He and Will are in the Squawk studio. It’s the tail end of the Smooth Hour, a low-key show with no DJ interruptions. All Steve and Will have had to do is play a steady string of downtempo jazz.
Now Steve stands, wrenching his hands through his famous hair.
“Shit. Shit shit shit.”
“What?” says Will. He eyes the mic—it’s off, thank god.
“Shit,” says Steve again. “I totally forgot. I made a date with Candace Wilkinson tonight.”
He checks his watch.
“In—shit—twenty minutes.”
“But your show’s about to start,” says Will.
Steve hosts a call-in dating advice show once a week. He calls himself the Love Doctor. It’s ridiculously cheesy, but people seem to be into it. They always get enough calls to fill the two-hour slot.
Steve looks at him. Will clocks the moment the idea forms.
“No,” says Will. “Absolutely not.”
“You know everything there is to know,” says Steve. “It’ll be easy peasy.”
“No,” says Will. “I’m not doing it.”
As the station intern, Will is technically here to help, but he never has to do anything during Steve’s show. Certainly not host it.
“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!” Steve hops over to the control panel. “I know you know this already, but that’s the button you press to pick up a call. The phone number shows up there, and the calls waiting are here, here, and here.”
“Steve—”
“Oh, and very important. If this number calls—” —Steve points to a phone number written on a sticky note— “—do not answer. At all costs. Got it?”
“Uh,” says Will.
“Thanks, Byers,” says Steve as he runs out of the studio. “I owe you!”
Will has mere seconds after Steve leaves before the show is scheduled to start. He considers running away, but he doesn’t want to get fired. Plus, Robin got him this gig, and he really doesn’t want her to get fired.
With no other choice, he situates himself in the swivel chair, slides on the headphones, and plays the hokey pre-recorded intro. There are three calls waiting by the time it’s done. He answers the first.
“Hello, caller, you’re on the air with the Love Doctor,” says Will, praying that he pressed the right button and that his voice isn’t audibly shaky. “What’s ailing your heart tonight?”
There’s a pause. Then the caller says, “You don’t sound like the usual Love Doctor.”
“Oh,” says Will. “I’m…the substitute doctor. The Love Doctor…got called out. For emergency surgery.”
He cringes at the ad-lib. Steve is probably listening in his car on the way to his date, wishing he’d cancelled rather than ask Will to cover for him.
To be fair to himself, Will never wanted to be on the radio. He’s only interning at the Squawk for his college applications. Hanging out with Robin is an added bonus.
The caller asks about how many days a girl should wait on a guy to call before giving up hope. Will feeds her a line he’s heard Steve recite (“if you don’t hear from him in a week, he’s just not that into you”) and gets off the call relatively smoothly.
As Luther Vandross plays, Will steadies his breathing. He can do this. He must’ve been in the studio for Steve’s show about twenty times by now. Whenever he’s stuck, he just needs to ask himself, what would Steve Harrington do? It’s not that serious. It’s a fun, goofy show. He can be another person for a couple hours.
Will gets a hold of himself and answers a few calls. He’s asked about date locations, date outfits, etiquette for approaching girls. Having been on precisely zero dates and kissed precisely zero people, Will Byers is about as far from a dating expert as they come. But he has a good memory. He regurgitates Steve’s talking points, always asking himself WWSHD. In between calls, he spins songs from a Steve-approved list—Prince, Sade, Chaka Khan.
The trouble starts with the fifth caller. From the moment he picks up the call, he can tell something is different.
“Hello, caller, you’re on the air with the Love Doctor. What’s ailing your heart tonight?”
There’s no answer. Will waits.
“Uh,” he says, “hello?”
There’s a sniffle. Then the caller says, “Sorry. I’m—this was stupid.”
It’s a woman, as are many of the callers on Steve’s show. She sounds young. Maybe no older than Will.
“I doubt that,” says Will gently, shedding the persona. “How about you tell me what’s going on, and we’ll see if I can help.”
There’s another pause. Will sits in it, allowing the caller the space to answer.
“I’m in love with my best friend,” she blurts. Then she lets out a plaintive whimper.
Oh, thinks Will. Oh dear.
“And I know sh—they don’t feel the same. So it’s useless. I just…I can’t stop feeling this way.”
Will takes a breath. “You know, I probably shouldn’t be admitting this, given I’m supposed to be the expert, but I’m in your exact same position.”
Another sniffle. “Really?”
“Yes,” says Will. “I have been for years. And it is miserable.”
“Yeah,” says the caller. “It is, isn’t it?”
“It’s totally inescapable,” says Will. “It’s like, for any other crush, you could distance yourself and maybe get over it. But that’s obviously impossible, unless you want to lose the most important relationship in your life. Oh, and when other people are heartbroken, they can talk to their friends about it. But not us!”
“Right?” says the caller. “God, it’s torture.”
“It really is,” says Will. “And I spent so long completely sick about it. And ashamed. Man, I was so ashamed. I still am, a bit. But the thing I’ve been reminding myself recently is that it’s not my fault. It’s not stupid. Love is incredible, and horrible, and huge, and we have absolutely no control over who we feel it for.”
The caller exhales something between a sob and a sigh. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
“Good luck,” says Will. “And, hey—if you find a cure, let me know.”
The caller laughs wetly. “I’ll be sure to do that. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Will tries to collect himself as an Earth, Wind & Fire track plays. That was painfully sincere. It hurt to talk about, just as it hurts to think about. But maybe he helped. Maybe now, she feels a little less alone.
He picks up the next call.
“Hi,” says the caller before he has the chance to do the usual greeting. “You said you’re a substitute doctor? I don’t think that’s a thing.”
Is that… Erica Sinclair?
“Are you an MD? Because I know the normal Love Doctor isn’t, and you sound like even more of a phony.”
On a hunch, Will’s eyes drift over to the sticky note. Sure enough, this is the number Steve told him to watch out for. He was so distracted after the last call that he neglected to check.
“Actually,” says Will, “I have an MD/PhD.”
“You do not.”
“Do too. It’s hanging up on the wall in the studio. I’m looking at it right now.”
“You’re such a liar,” says Erica. “I bet you’re not even a Love Nurse Practitioner.”
“I’m sorry to hear you feel that way, caller,” says Will. “But I don’t want to spend our listeners’ precious time debating my credentials.”
He’s about to hang up and play a new song when another voice cuts in.
“Hey, Love Doctor,” and Will’s stomach bottoms out, because that’s Lucas. Has he been listening this whole time? “I apologize for my, uh, colleague’s behavior.”
Will clears his throat. “Not a problem. Is there anything that’s ailing your heart tonight?”
“It’s not me,” says Lucas. “It’s our friends.”
“Yes,” says another voice that Will recognizes as Max. “Our friends. They’re so, so sick. It’s tragic.”
“How about you describe the nature of their affliction,” says Will, borrowing another Steve-Harrington-Love-Doctor-ism, “and we'll work on a diagnosis.”
“Sure,” says Lucas. “So our friends. Let’s call them Bill and Michaela. These two are best friends, right? Like, soulmate-level best friends. Known each other for a long time, attached at the hip, fiercely loyal.”
“And they’re in love,” says Max.
“Or, at least, we think they are,” says Lucas.
“No, we know,” says Max. “Everyone knows. Everyone but Bill and Michaela knows that they’re in love with each other. And it’s driving us crazy.”
Will processes what they’re saying. Are they talking about Robin and Steve?
“I see,” he says. “And have you tried talking to Bill and Michaela about this?”
“Hi Doc,” says a new voice. Dustin. Jesus, is everyone at Lucas’s house? “Here’s the thing. We have tried talking to them. But Bill—he’s flighty. Whenever you broach the subject, he dodges. And we don’t want to put him on the spot, because we know if we do, he’ll completely shut down.”
Yes, Will decides, they must be talking about Robin and Steve. Bill is Robin. She constantly has to evade questions about her relationship with Steve. No, we’re just friends. No, we’d never consider dating. Yes, I’m sure. Will’s witnessed it enough times to know.
“And Michaela,” cuts in Max. “She’s a bit of a headcase. In that, for a long time, she had her head up her own ass.”
“Way up there,” says yet another voice. “So far.”
Will chokes on his own spit. That’s El. Apparently, all of his friends have been listening to him channel Steve Harrington on this corny radio show. Great. He’s never going to hear the end of this.
“Well, okay,” says Lucas. “That’s kind of harsh. Michaela was in denial about her feelings for a long time.”
“Sure,” says Max, “but now, it’s pretty clear to everyone that Michaela knows what she wants, but she’s too scared of ruining the friendship to make a move.”
Obviously, they’re wrong. Steve knows full well that Robin is gay. If he was ever interested in her romantically, he isn’t anymore. But as far as Will knows, Lucas, Max, Dustin, and El aren’t aware of Robin’s sexuality. They don’t have a solid explanation for why she and Steve won’t date.
“I think,” says Will, “that you might just have to let this play out.”
Max groans. “You would say that.”
Will forges ahead. “These are your friends’ lives, not your own. You can’t make their decisions for them. And are you even sure they want to be together romantically? Maybe you should listen to them when they say they’re not interested.”
“But they haven’t denied it,” says Dustin. “Not recently. Not outright.”
“They should only need to deny it once,” says Will. “Perhaps they aren’t attracted to each other physically.”
“That’s definitely not the problem,” grumbles Max. “Ow! Dustin—”
“Thank you, Love Doctor Substitute Man,” says Dustin. “But we must respectfully agree to disagree on this one.”
“Yep,” says Lucas. “And we will continue to meddle.”
“All right, then,” says Will. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more use.”
They hang up, with a “thanks, man” and a “byyyye” and a “later” and, from El, a “bye, Will!”
Will barely suppresses his laughter. He transitions into a Marvin Gaye song and spends the runtime thinking over the conversation. He needs to talk his friends into dropping this, but he can’t out Robin. Maybe he should discuss it with her, see if she has any ideas.
As the track comes to a close, there’s a call waiting. Lo and behold, it’s the same phone number. Will snorts. Of course he’ll pick up. How could he not?
“Hello, caller, you’re on the air with the Love Doctor,” he says, bracing himself for another barrage of voices. “What’s ailing your heart tonight?”
“Hi,” says a voice.
It’s not Erica. It’s not Max, or Lucas, or Dustin, or El.
It’s Mike.
Will feels like he just got the wind knocked out of him. “Hi,” he says.
“I hear you’re giving out love advice.”
“That’s the show,” Will croaks.
His brain is chugging valiantly forward, struggling to piece together the implications.
Mike is calling from Lucas’s house.
All of Will’s friends are at Lucas’s house.
All of his friends have been listening to the show.
So.
Did Mike hear the conversation with the crying caller?
Oh god oh god oh god—
“Hm,” says Mike. “Well, maybe you can help me.”
“I can try,” says Will.
“There’s this person I—I’m interested in,” says Mike. “A friend. A really good friend.”
“Seems to be the theme of the night,” says Will.
He’s reeling. Who in the fuck is Mike talking about? Does he want to get back together with El? But that would be weird. Unless she left Lucas’s in the last three minutes, El is there with Mike. Why would he be talking about her if she’s with him?
“I guess so,” says Mike. “So this friend. I think I’ve lo—had feelings for them for a while. I’ve been accused of having my head up my own ass, and maybe that was true, but I, uh, solved that part of the problem, I think.”
Wait, Will thinks. What?
“You talked to that caller a while ago,” Mike continues, “about when your feelings for a friend are unrequited.”
So Mike did hear that conversation. Fantastic. Will would like to die now, please.
“But how do you figure out if they reciprocate your feelings?” asks Mike.
Will wets his lips and sits up in the chair, heart pounding. Signals, he thinks.
“Do they pay special attention to you?” he says. “Go out of their way to spend time with you?”
“Um,” says Mike. “Yes? Yeah. I think so.”
“Do they compliment you? Point out your positive qualities?”
“Hm. I—yeah. Yes.”
“What about gift giving? Do they buy things, or maybe make things for you?”
“YES!” yells a chorus of voices in the background of the call.
“Yeah,” says Mike. He sounds excited. It’s so goddamn cute that Will has to grind his teeth about it. “Yeah, definitely.”
Will leans into the microphone. “Physical touch can be an indicator, too.”
“That one’s confusing,” says Mike. “Because I do that. Just little things, to try to, I don’t know, break the barrier, I guess.”
A brush of the knee, a bump of the elbow.
“But this friend,” Mike goes on, “they get a little…jumpy about it. It’s like I’m electrifying them or something.”
“Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean they don’t like you,” says Will. “Maybe they’re nervous.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” someone yells in the background. Will can’t tell if it’s Max or Dustin.
“So if they touch me, they might like me,” says Mike, “but if they’re weird about touching me, they also might like me?”
Will feels a strange urge to apologize, but holds it in. “Right. Like you said, confusing.”
“Okay,” says Mike. “Say I suspect they like me back. What do I do then?”
Will sets his jaw. “I think you know what you should do, caller.”
“I know that's right!” yells Lucas in the background. “Tell him, Will!”
“You think I should come out with it,” says Mike. “Say how I feel.”
“It sounds pretty clear that this person is interested,” says Will.
“But if this is all true,” says Mike, “if it’s so obvious that we like each other, why hasn’t my friend done anything about it? They’re smart about this kind of stuff. Perceptive. Intuitive.”
“You had your head up your ass for a while, right?” says Will.
There’s a pause, then Mike says, “Yeah. A bit.”
Laughter in the background.
“Well, maybe you scared them off,” says Will. “Maybe they stopped hoping. You said you’re good friends.”
“Best friends,” says Mike quietly, and it hits Will like a punch.
“So, a lot to lose.”
“High risk, high reward,” says Mike.
“Someone has to be the first to show their hand,” says Will.
“Okay,” says Mike. Will can hear the smile in his voice. “You’ve convinced me, Dr. Love Doctor.”
“I’m just a substitute,” says Will.
“Well, I hear you have an MD/PhD,” says Mike.
“Someone’s been paying attention,” says Will.
“Always,” says Mike.
Will’s throat has gone bone-dry.
“Thanks again,” says Mike.
“Glad to be of service,” says Will.
He ends the call and puts on an Anita Baker song, listening in a daze. He has no idea what just happened. He can’t begin to process it. There are too many variables, too many unanswered questions, and he fears that if he tries to follow one thread to its logical conclusion, he’ll wind up unravelling his entire brain. So he just sits there, limp, trying to think as few thoughts as possible.
As the track comes to a close, he sees that the same number has called in yet again. God help him, Will picks up.
“Hello, caller, you’re on the air with the Love Doctor.”
“Hey, us again,” says Dustin. “Quick question. What’s your favorite type of flower?”
“Are you asking what flowers you should get for the special lady in your life?” says Will in a weak attempt to get back into Steve’s suave persona. “Because you can’t go wrong with roses.”
“No, no,” says Dustin. “I’m asking what your favorite flower is. As in, you, specifically. Mr. Love-Doctor-slash-Nurse-Practitioner-Substitute-or-Whatever.”
“Oh,” says Will. “Um. I guess I like snapdragons?”
“Got it,” says Dustin. “Thanks, Doc. Huge fan. Love your work. Keep it up.”
He doesn’t hang up right away. Instead, Will hears his muffled voice yelling, “MAX, WHAT THE HELL IS A SNAPDRAGON?” before the line goes dead.
And if Will can hear it, so can his audience.
“Sorry about that, folks,” says Will. “Some, uh, interesting calls today. I’ll be back for our last couple rounds of callers in just a few minutes. For now, here’s some Al Green.”
He puts on “Let’s Stay Together” and collapses back into the swivel chair.
He should get some type of award for enduring the entirety of this show. He’s wanted to sprint out the doors of the Squawk about twelve times in the past two hours, and yet, here he is, exactly where Steve asked him to be. He better get a glowing reference letter out of this.
The final fifteen minutes of the show pass without incident. Robin’s walking in as the prerecorded outro finishes. Will puts on some Michael Jackson, rips off the headphones, and faceplants onto the desk.
“What the hell happened to you?” says Robin.
“Mmph,” says Will.
“Where’s Steve?” she says.
A beat. Then—
“Oh no. He didn’t.”
Will looks up at her. He imagines this is how people must feel after running a marathon. “Oh, he did.”
“That idiot,” fumes Robin. “Mark my words, there will be consequences. He will pay for his crimes.”
“I appreciate that,” says Will, getting to his feet shakily.
She takes the swivel chair. “For now, though, how about you take the rest of the night off? Your ride’s here early, anyway.”
“My ride?”
Will rode his bike here, as he does every time he has a shift.
“Yeah,” says Robin. “He’s downstairs.”
Will descends the stairs cautiously. He’s not confused for long. There, hovering by the front entrance to the station, is Mike. His pale skin glows in the moonlight. He’s holding a slightly squished bouquet of lilies.
Their eyes meet, and Mike stands straighter, tension twitching the corners of his mouth. Will forgets how to breathe for a solid three seconds.
Mike thrusts the flowers at him. “We couldn’t find snapdragons.”
Will takes them with shaking hands.
“Thank you,” he says.
He feels like he’s in a dream.
“So, uh,” says Will, “you listened to the broadcast?”
“We were at Lucas’s and we heard your voice. Apparently Erica listens to Steve’s show religiously. She and her friends like to call in and harass him.”
“So I gathered,” says Will.
Without the flowers, it seems Mike doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He wrings them together, and when that doesn’t work for him, he buries them in the front pockets of his jeans.
“Mike,” says Will.
Mike’s eyes widen as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. “Yeah?”
“What’s happening right now?”
Mike looks to the ceiling with a sigh. “I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t know. On that call, I thought we were on the same page, but now that I'm here, I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
Will takes a breath. Someone has to be the first to show their hand. But Mike’s already shown his, hasn’t he? They both have, over and over again. They’ve just been too scared and pessimistic to notice.
Will places the flowers on a table and steps into Mike’s space. He pulls Mike’s hands from his pockets—one, then the other—and entwines their fingers.
Mike is staring at him. He looks like he’s holding his breath.
Will cranes upward, brushing their noses together.
Mike tastes like coffee, and the salt and vinegar chips that the Sinclairs always have on hand, and a uniquely Mike-ish tang that Will feels privileged to now know. Mike squeezes his hands as Will pulls back.
“Does that clear things up for you?” Will says.
Mike purses his lips—lips that Will has just kissed, holy shit—and hums. “Not sure,” he says. “I could use some further clarification.”
Will laughs and pulls Mike’s head down to kiss him again.