Chapter Text
“Let’s go for a drive,” Henry says when they’re out of the building, and he swings the keys around his finger. “Come on.”
William sighs, just like he always does at his antics. It makes Henry frown; unconsciously, he expected him to snort, like Michael always does.
When Henry finally starts the car, he finds himself peeking at Will every few seconds — but Will’s too absorbed with staring at his empty hands to notice. Which, while worrying, not really surprising.
Henry just watched him wince throughout the whole meal. Every time he took a sip of coffee, he’d make a face, and even though he tried to hide it, Henry knows him better than that. And now, sitting in the car, just the both of them so close, just inches apart, Henry realizes what Will’s been doing.
It’s Mike who loves coffee with creamer. Not that he’s allowed much, being thirteen and all (being twelve and eight months). It’s Mike who always saves the best part of his pizza (crust), pancakes (chips and berries), and everything else for the last.
William, even though he won’t admit it, misses his son. And even though Michael’s nowhere to be seen, Will finds him in everything.
Maybe because he seeks him in everything.
Will was never much thrilled to be a father. It’s nothing bad, and Henry doesn’t blame him for that — a child is a forever kind of commitment. It’s a heavy responsibility, and not everybody’s cut out for that. Still, even if not really happy about it, Henry knows William grew to love Michael more than anything. It wasn’t that long ago that Mike was William’s sweet little boy, his little sunray that made even the worst of days bright.
Well, it wasn’t that long for Henry — but for Mike, who’s almost thirteen, it must feel like ages. The younger you are, the longer the days seem to be.
Henry wonders where Michael could have gone. He wishes he had been with Will sooner, he wishes none of this happened, and he wishes he could stop seeing Mike whenever he looks at Will.
“What really happened, Will?” Henry asks, and William freezes, and it’s like he can’t stop staring at his hands.
The question lands heavier than Henry intended. He winces internally. He doesn’t want to interrogate Will, but he needs to know.
“I— I don’t know,” Will says, voice strained. “We all went to bed like normal, and when I woke up, he was just… gone. I thought he went to see his friends, maybe that— that tall kid? What’s his name? Trevor?”
“Troy,” Henry says automatically, and Will rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, whatever. I figured Mike crashed there or something. He’s done that before.”
Henry’s jaw tightens. “So you didn’t check.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” Will snaps. “When he didn’t show up for dinner, I figured he was cooling off.”
“Cooling off from what?”
That seems to hit the jackpot. Will goes quiet, and the car hums around them.
“...We had a fight,” William admits at last. “I don’t even remember what it was about. It doesn’t matter; it’s not like it was the first time. Usually, he just locks himself in his room. Or goes out with Trevor and the rest. But this time it’s like he—” His voice dips, irritated. “—just can’t find his way home.”
Henry’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
“And yesterday? When he still didn’t show up?”
Will shrugs. Shrugs.
“I was busy.”
Henry laughs once, short and full of disbelief, a breathy and pathetic sound, “You were… busy,” he repeats, just to make sure he heard that right.
Will crosses his arms, defensive. “Yeah. I had things to take care of.”
Henry stares at him—really looks at him, the way he hasn’t in years—and something in his chest starts to crack. Three days. Michael has been missing for three days; he doesn’t even need to remind himself, because it’s all he can think about.
Almost half a week; three days; 72 hours; 4320 minutes; and God fucking knows how many seconds.
“Busy,” he says once again, as if this time the word will change its meaning. “Your son is missing, Will. Missing. And you’re telling me you were busy?”
If Will had reported Mike missing the moment he noticed—would that change things? Would Mike already be found? Would he already be home?
“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” Will snaps. “He’s not a baby, Henry! He’s thirteen! He just needed space!”
“Twelve,” Henry says, quietly.
“What?” Will asks, clearly caught off guard.
“Michael’s twelve. His birthday is in June.”
William blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“Right,” he says slowly. “June. Oh, what a difference it makes! Almost–thirteen! Is that better? Besides, it— it doesn’t matter!”
“Of course it does! And space? Space? He’s been gone for three days, Will! That’s not space, that’s a goddamn galaxy! He didn’t come home, he didn’t call, he didn’t show up to school—”
“So what?” Will fires back. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t care?!”
“Then fucking act like it!”
“This is why I didn’t want you to come!” Will shouts. “You’re making it into some big bad thing when it’s literally nothing! He’ll turn up!”
“Nothing?” he echoes. “A child doesn’t just disappear into thin air, Will!”
“You of all people don’t get to judge me,” Will snarls. “This isn’t your business!”
Henry turns to him then, and he’s just so mad. “Of course it’s my business! He’s my godson!”
“And?” Will laughs, sharp and ugly. “You’ve never fucking cared about that brat before. Now you’re just trying to feel better about yourself.”
Henry’s breaths turn fast and shallow. He thinks of Charlotte, whom he’s scared of leaving his sight even for three minutes.
Let alone three days.
“He’s missing,” Henry says, voice shaking. “He’s not out with his friends, he’s not cooling off. This isn’t Mike needing space. He’s missing, Will. That’s what he is.”
And for a moment, Henry thinks he finally got through to Will. That they can start figuring all of this together, that maybe Will came to his senses.
And then, Will scoffs. “Yeah, okay.”
That’s it.
Henry slams the brakes.
The car screeches to a halt, jerking back and forth. Will lurches forward, catching himself on the dashboard.
“What the hell—”
“Get out.”
Will blinks. “What?”
“Get out of the car. Now,” Henry says, voice deadly calm, all the rage compressed into something hard and cold. “I’m not kidding. I’m not gonna sit here and listen to you spew anymore bullshit. Get the fuck out, or I swear to God, I’ll drag you out myself.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“You wanna test that theory?”
For a moment, Will looks like he might argue. Then something flickers across his face—fear, anger, or something entirely different—and he pushes the door open, stumbling out onto the pavement.
Henry doesn’t look at him as he pulls back onto the road.
The door slams shut.
His heart pounds as the car picks up speed, and now that he’s alone, he’s sick with the realization of what just happened.
He didn’t mean to escalate like this.
But hearing Will talk so— so… so cruelly about Michael just pissed him off beyond the limit. And Henry knows Will’s blunt. Practical. Doesn’t show much affection. He knows that Will is taking this hard, and this denial, this act he’s putting on is just that — an act. Some sort of defense mechanism. He knows Will just doesn’t want to face the reality, the heaviness of what happened to Mike. That he’s just trying to ease the guilt, the worry.
He knows all that — he’s known Will for years, obviously, he knows —, and he loves him despite all that. But he loves Michael too.
He does. He always did. He cares for the kid, despite what Will’s crazy words have got him thinking right now.
Henry pulls over, turns the car off, and hides his face in his hands.
He just doesn’t know what to do.
He wants to wake up from this nightmare. He wants everything to go back to normal.
He’s so tired.
And worst of all, he wants Will. He wants William close, and he wishes he hadn’t left him somewhere behind; he wants Will where he can see him.
Henry was supposed to take care of Will — no matter how hard Will would make it. And yet, he kicked him out of the car, not even looking back.
“Fuck,” he says. “What the hell did I just do?”
Good question.
Pull yourself together, he thinks, and rubs his face. You owe it to Mike and Will.
He starts the car again, and drives.
He’s not sure if Will started walking back home or if he decided to go somewhere else, but it doesn’t matter. William’s an adult, he won’t do anything stupid. And if he won’t do anything about Mike, then Henry will.
Besides, he doesn’t really need Will for this — he’s got his own set of keys to his house.
The drive doesn’t take long, especially not with this newfound determination that fuels Henry to keep his foot on the gas. He’s probably breaking several speed limits right now, but he can’t bring himself to care. He has a goal now. Something achievable.
And that gives him hope.
Will’s car is still in the driveway, so Henry parks next to the sidewalk. He steps out of it and slams the door harder than he means to.
He fishes the keys out of his pocket on the way to the door and searches for the right one. It feels heavy in his hand.
He turns the key in the lock, and the soft click echoes in his ears.
He opens the door slowly, and the inside of the house is just as silent as ever when he steps in.
Now that he’s here, Henry’s not sure what he’s hoping to find. What kind of clue is he even looking for? The police said there was no sign of forced entry. And even if Henry has always had his doubts about the Hurricane police department, he doesn’t think they’re that incompetent to get this wrong. The house, always such a familiar and safe space, now unsettles him for some reason.
He decides to start with the obvious. Which is also the place he wants to search the least.
It just doesn’t feel right, barging into Michael’s room and looking through his things when he’s not there. It’s a serious violation of privacy, and it makes Henry sick with guilt, but there’s no other choice.
If William isn’t going to do anything—and let’s be honest, probably neither will the police—then Henry is just going to have to do it on his own. No matter how uncomfortable or how painful it will be.
Mike’s room looks just like it always did — walls covered with posters, a few drawings made with a permanent marker (Henry spots a “Jeremy was here” written next to Mike’s bed), and clothes thrown all over the floor (mostly socks and undergarments, but that’s expected from a teenage boy). There isn’t anything that really catches Henry’s attention.
The window is closed, no sign of forced entry (not that Henry’s an expert in spotting that, but still), just like the police said.
Henry doesn’t know what he expected to find here. It’s not like he’s that much smarter than the Hurricane’s officers or more dedicated than William — but he’s still disappointed.
There’s a calendar next to Michael’s desk, he notices — the days, all up to March 12th, are crossed out. March 13th — the day Mike was seen last — isn’t.
But that tells Henry nothing. Some people cross out days on their calendars in the evening of the same day, and some do it in the morning of the next day. Some people (like Henry) forget to cross them out for weeks. This, Henry thinks as he stares at the March 13th — Sunday — means nothing. It means nothing, and yet it hurts like hell.
March 13th should be crossed out. So should be the 14th and the 15th. And yet they’re not, and the calendar’s forever frozen in time on Sunday, the day the Lord began to rest, and Henry’s life — even though he didn’t even know yet — got uprooted forever.
Because this — no matter if Michael would return now, or a few days later — will haunt Henry forever. It will haunt him for as long as he lives. Even if it turns out Mike was holed up somewhere safe with his friends, it will still haunt him — the fear that he wasn’t. That he wasn’t with friends but somewhere cold, unsafe, in danger. Hurt.
The fact that he’s been gone for days before Henry even knew.
Mike’s bedroom looks like it always did. Just as if he’s about to walk in and yell at Henry for snooping around. There’s no indication that he hasn’t been here, no sign that he ran away. It’s as messy as always — but messy in a Mike-way, the one Henry would recognize anywhere — and Henry just stands in the centre of it, almost hoping that Michael will appear just any moment now.
He waits. And waits. But Michael doesn’t come, because Michael’s missing, and this isn’t a scenario from one of Henry’s nightmares.
Waiting won’t magically bring him back.
He starts searching the room thoroughly — he opens the desk drawer, just to find some old unfinished homework, an old math test (the 72% written in red ink makes Henry smile — he knows Mike’s smart enough to score higher, if he actually wanted to), a flashlight, and some surprisingly impressive drawings. He never knew Mike could draw that well.
But nothing that would tell him anything about Mike’s whereabouts.
He checks the closet — nothing. Just clothes, clothes, and more clothes. There’s nothing under the bed either, unless you count comic books, magazines, and some old toys. Either Henry is as shit at this as the Hurricane police department, or there’s really nothing to find here.
He even inspects the carpet, like some kind of madman — but there’s nothing there. Some old stains from who knows what, but overall, nothing interesting. So is this it, then? Did he race to William’s house for nothing, right after kicking him out of the car in the middle of the road when he was clearly out of his mind? What kind of friend does that?
His day was going so well. Charlie woke up well rested and didn’t make a fuss. The weather has been so very nice. Henry even ditched his coat. The day could’ve been such an amazing, calm, peaceful day.
You’re just trying to feel better about yourself.
“Am I?” he asks himself, and sits down on Michael’s unmade bed.
Is he?
He cares about Michael. Of course, he does. But is he looking for him because of that care — or because of some kind of obligation?
I love him, he argues with himself, though it sounds weak, even if it’s just in his head. Because there’s no doubt he loves him. But love isn’t everything.
This is just his mind playing tricks on him, Henry tells himself. Will didn’t really mean what he said. He shouldn’t take it to heart. It’s hard not to, though.
Even if it’s true that Henry could’ve been more attentive. More present. Just more, in general.
He looks around the room, not even searching for anything anymore, and he stares at the desk, and something gnaws at his brain, so he stands up and looks through it again.
He finds nothing new in the drawer, and there’s nothing new on the desk either — it’s just pens, paper, pencils, some figurines, and a set of his keys. But it’s the keys that make him think.
If Mike left, Henry thinks, wouldn’t he take the keys with him?
It’s stupid, but he can’t shake the unease that washes over him. If Mike left late at night — sneaked out through the door instead of the window — wouldn’t he take the keys with him? Maybe not. But if Henry were the one sneaking out (and he did so, once or twice when he was a teen), he would definitely lock the door behind him.
Mike isn’t Henry, though. Maybe he just left them here.
He’d need to ask Will — he would have to ask him whether the door was closed in the morning or not.
Maybe this is just Henry going crazy. It probably is, Henry thinks. It most definitely is. He’s looking for answers he won’t find. But even if crazy, Henry’s not stupid. He doesn’t fool himself into thinking this is some kind of breakthrough. He doesn’t even hope for it to be some kind of big clue.
There’s a faint sound coming from the hallway.
The front door, Henry thinks numbly. Someone just came in.
He listens to the footsteps — slow, quiet. They’re not Michael’s. They’re too heavy to be a child’s footsteps. It’s probably William. Henry wonders whether he’s pissed at him. There’s only one way to find out, though.
“Will?” he yells, and the footsteps stop, but no reply comes back. “Will?” he tries again, and the fear momentarily spikes in Henry’s chest—
“Coming!” comes Will’s voice, and Henry breathes out a sigh of relief.
Will’s okay. They’re both okay. They can start over.
They can find Michael.