Work Text:
Everything changed after Mike's time at the manor. He still doesn't understand quite what the point of it all was; although he escaped with his life, he didn't feel like a winner.
He still doesn't — not when two of his fellow players never made it out. In the end, it was just him and Aesop clamoring to open the exit gate. The world always seems so loud when he's afraid, every sound amplified by the thudding of his heart. But once the doors were open, all was quiet. Even the screeches of the three-eyed crow didn't make him jump like they had only moments before.
A final scream pierced the air and at that moment, Mike knew they were alone.
Ever since they escaped the game he's tried to stay in contact with Aesop, but it's been difficult for both of them. Trying to set his life back in order has been no easy task. He's different now, jumping at shadows and peering around corners to see if it's there — the hunter.
It never is.
He looks for Aesop too, despite knowing he's half a world away. It'd be easier for him if they were closer; every time Aesop sends him a letter, he tears open the envelope in excitement. Aesop never writes more than a few lines:
I'm doing well.
How are you?
Mike always writes him pages upon pages of incoherent drivel, trying to draw out any form of response from his former teammate. Aesop never was very chatty back at the manor, but he still feels drawn to him. Playing the game was terrifying, but there were always those times when they'd sit in front of the fireplace together, watching the flames chomp hungrily at the wood. Those moments of silence meant everything to him then and they mean even more to him now.
He's never told Aesop, but his letters are the only thing in life that he looks forward to anymore. He stands on the precipice — with life behind him and a hellish, gaping chasm below. If he stopped writing to Aesop, he would succumb. Maybe he would become a hunter — the very thing he loathes. His greatest fear is that infinite nothingness — the neverending loneliness.
You are the one thing, Mike writes. The one thing that keeps me human.
He crumples up the paper and tosses it onto his ever-growing pile of abandoned letters.