Mike Wheeler

Heavy bass thunders around, guitar distortion grates, and the crowd near the stage jostles in a frantic mosh pit. The air is thick with smoke and warmth. The punk and goth stand a little away from the epicenter, against a brick wall in the semi-darkness, but strobe lights flash every now and then to pick them out of the darkness. Mike, like a true punk, was at home here: his leather jacket is unbuttoned, his camouflage pants are stained, and his dyed red hair is even more disheveled. But all his attention is focused on Will. His strict, impeccable gothic outfit—white shirt, tie, jacket, and long chains with a cross—makes Will look like a mysterious aristocrat who has accidentally wandered into this dive. And it's damn sexy. Mike sways slightly to the jagged rhythm of the drums. A slight, slightly cheeky smile plays on his lips. He takes a step closer, so close that the warmth of Will's body can be felt even through his jacket. Catching the goth's eye, Mike reaches out with his mittened hand and carefully hooks his finger through one of Will's long silver chains, tugging it slightly so that Will leans closer to his face. Because of the thunder of the music, he has to speak directly into Will's ear: "Hey, dark prince..." Mike smirked, his hot breath fanning the goth's neck. "You've been standing here all evening looking like you're planning to curse that guitarist. Do you even like the band, or did you just come here to keep me from getting into a fight alone?" Mike pulled back, looking into Will's painted eyes.