Chapter Text
Mike Wheeler is sitting cross-legged in his unmade bed; pen poised between two fingers. He twirls the pen around absentmindedly; dark eyes flicking around the blank page of his journal, as if he could make the words he wishes to write appear by sheer force of will alone. He’s been sitting there like that for quite a long period of time now.
Several minutes maybe… or was it several hours? Who knows. What’s his goal? What is he even doing?…
Shit, he can’t even remember. Everything has been so foggy recently, almost as if cotton has been shoved into his brain against his will.
The tune of “Smalltown Boy” hums faintly from his abandoned walkman, filling the otherwise deafening silence with the quiet sound of music. But it all sounds like nothing more than white noise to Mike. What is wrong with him?.. Annoyed, he slams the journal closed with an audible snap, carelessly tossing it onto his bedside table. The ravenette leans over as if in pain, elbows resting on his knees as he rubs his eyes, which are now highlighted by the prominent eye bags beneath them. He presses his fists so tightly to his eyes in his frustration that he begins to see stars behind his eyelids.
Mike used to be so good at writing. He used to pour his heart and soul into writing the party’s D&D campaigns, way back in the days when everything was simpler and the skies were brighter. Literally. Perhaps it’s the only thing he was ever good at. That and leading the party— his friends. Protecting them. Protecting Will.
Now he feels like the only thing he’s good at is sabotaging himself, and sabotaging relationships with the people he loves the most. Like Will-
What good is writing anyway? What good is being the “heart” of the entire party if he can’t even control the constant tempest in his own heart?
Mike feels like he’s merely an empty shell of the boy he once was. And honestly, he can’t even begin to recognize the man he is becoming.
Mike’s gaze falls on the journal again, and he begins to feel a bit of guilt for being so reckless with the inanimate object. Well…not just any inanimate object.
***
6 years earlier.
Mike sits in his room alone, his only company being the few bags of already viewed birthday presents that he had hauled up with him. He’s thankful for the moment to himself, and the opportunity to regain his social battery. He finally feels like he can breathe again.
People had funnelled out of the Wheeler home slowly after celebrating Mike’s 10th birthday party, until eventually the house was quiet again, which Mike enjoyed. Not that a lot of people attended Mike’s party anyway, of course. He isn’t exactly the most popular kid in the 5th grade. But Mike didn’t particularly enjoy the party—he didn’t like all the attention, he didn’t like hearing the same questions his less immediate family would ask him— “Any interesting girls in school caught your eye yet?” That one in particular he REALLY hated, so much so that it made his nose wrinkle in disgust.
He’s 10 years old. Why would he like girls?….. Should he? Is there something wrong with him?
There’s a knock on the door, the gentle manner of it— almost as if the person on the other side of it was either scared to alarm Mike, or hurt the damn door, or something else.. Mike doesn’t know why the other boy knocks so unnecessarily softly— and, gosh? why is he memorizing the way he knocks—
But he knows it’s Will. And suddenly being alone doesn’t sound so appealing anymore.
“Come in,” Mike calls out softly.
Will turns the knob with one hand, poking his head inside and darting his eyes around. The brunette smiles a little as he spots Mike sitting on the bed. He shuffles into the room with childlike excitement, his right hand hidden behind his back mysteriously.
”Hey, Mike,” he says as casually as possible, standing right in front of Mike, hand still hidden, which makes Mike furrow his brows a bit.
”Hi,” Mike says, his tone almost questioning, though his upper lip is turning up a bit. He subtly tries to get a peek at whatever’s so important to Will that he has to keep it hidden so earnestly. “Uhmm… what’s-“
”It’s the present I was telling you about. You know, the one I didn’t want to give you until after the party.”
“Ohh! Yeah yeah, I know,” Mike says with a laugh, trying to play it off but doing an awful job. He knew that’s probably what Will had, he was only feigning cluelessness. Maybe he wanted to drag out the interaction a bit. He enjoys talking with his best friend so much. “Okay- so, show me! I wanna see what it is.”
Will chews on his lip to stifle a grin, clearly ecstatic to give Mike this super special gift. He takes a seat next to Mike on the bed, not even bothering to keep much distance between the both of them. He feels comfortable with his best friend like he does around no one else, so being close to him like this feels as easy as breathing. Will pulls his arm out from behind his back, revealing a dark blue journal. It is made of leather, and it has a strap to pull around it when it was closed. He offers it to Mike tentatively.
Mike’s eyes widen with awe. To his young mind, it looks like it’s the most extravagant thing in the world, and it means that much more since it’s coming from Will. He takes the journal with care, the boys’ hands brushing a little in the movement.
“I.. know you like to write,” Will sounds a little sheepish now. “You always write our campaigns and stuff. I thought maybe.. this would be good for writing down stuff you don’t wanna tell grown-ups. Or anyone you don’t wanna tell stuff to, really. People who wouldn’t understand. I dunno… do you— do you like it, Mike?”
Mike opens the book and holds the pages between his fingers gently, inhaling a little as the smell of new paper wafts into his face. He looks over the pages as if they’re something sacred, something to hold close to him forever. He then turns to look at Will, a smile creeping onto his freckled face.
“Will… this..this is.. wow. It’s so cool! I don’t even know what to—“
Will doesn’t try to fight the grin anymore, and he turns to face Mike better. “Good, I’m so glad you like it! But you can never lose it, okay? And.. don’t stop writing. I like your words.”
Mike smiles warmly, his voice going lower, softer, when he replies. “I won’t. I promise.”
Because just as Will has a soft knock reserved for Mike, Mike has a soft voice reserved for Will’s ears and Will’s ears only.
***
Mike’s fingers brush against the journal as the nostalgia washes over him, bittersweet and almost sickening in its intensity.
”I’m sorry, Will,” Mike whispers. “I can’t write today.”
It’s not about others not understanding. It’s about him not understanding. And if he writes the words down on that page it makes them suddenly become all too real, and he doesn’t think he’s ready to face something like that.
Mike untangles his long limbs from the awkward position and stands up, a bolt of dizziness and a sharp pain hitting him right in his head in the process. It’s a pain that makes his whole skull seem to throb all of a sudden, his ears ringing almost violently.
“Ah-“ he groans softly, fingers tangling in his dark curls to clutch at his suddenly painful head. He then brushed it off as just another symptom of low iron or something, and moved on. Mike should probably take his iron pills more often. His mom always pesters him about that.
Oh, and Mike is so tired.
He has barely been sleeping. He’s constantly haunted by nightmares when he’s in bed at night, all alone in the dark and at his most vulnerable. But these.. they aren’t normal nightmares. These are like something straight out of a horror movie, but it’s so much worse, because it isn’t fiction, or some irrational fear. It’s things that could potentially happen. Mike wants to have control over everything that happens, and the fact that he can’t is killing him. In his horrible dreams, he loses all of that control and it feels so real. He wakes up in a cold sweat gasping for air pretty much every night.
Should he tell someone? Definitely. Is he going to tell anyone? No. Because Mike keeps everything to himself. He’s like a clam that you have to prick and prod at to get to open up even a little bit. And almost every time he tries to speak his mind, none of it makes sense. It all comes out jumbled because he just.. can’t translate the complex feelings swirling in his brain into words than can be understood.
Will always understood. But Mike can’t—no, he WON’T— be a burden on Will. His best friend has went through so much of his own shit, and he is still actively going through so much of his own shit that Mike just can’t ever consider adding more emotional weight for him to carry on his shoulders.
Besides, Mike doesn’t even know where Will is right now. But he has a pretty good idea who he’s with.
Mike quietly makes his way down into the kitchen, thanking every god that might be listening when he finds that there is still some coffee left in the coffee pot. It’s really no shocker, his dad drank the stuff all day everyday as he sat in front of the TV doing.. absolutely nothing. Maybe he would read the paper if he was feeling adventurous.
“Coffee again, Michael?” Ted asks, leaning back in his seat to peek into the kitchen, seeing Mike pouring coffee into a mug for himself. Mike can’t help but to roll his eyes a little. Is his dad really bored enough to pester his son about drinking coffee? The guy doesn’t even remember what grade he’s in, for Christ’s sake.
“Yeah dad, coffee again. I’m tired.”
“Don’t drink it so much. It’ll stunt your growth.”
Mike pulls off the most sarcastic expression ever, face screwing up and eyebrows furrowing as he steps out into the hallway further to see his father. “Dad, I’m.. almost 17. I don’t think I’m gonna be growing much more,” he says dryly.
“Oh really, son? I thought you were 15,” Ted admits casually, as if it’s no big deal. He sticks his nose back in his newspaper like nothing ever happened.
Oh. Okay. And he doesn’t know how old Mike is either, apparently. More proof his dad doesn’t give two shits about him.
Mike doesn’t bother with a response. He doesn’t really know how to even begin to formulate a response to something like that. He just shakes his head exasperatedly and turns on his heel to walk back to his room… and that’s when he catches something out of his peripheal through the window. And that something is a familiar figure seated on a bike in front of his house.
He would notice that mop of brunette anywhere… and— Oh no. That redhead girl is with him too, again, just as he expected. Robin. And wait.. is she redhead? He squints a little, but he can’t tell. But either way, she looks redhead enough, and Mike never expected Will to be attracted to redheads. He isn’t mad, not at all! It’s just.. kinda weird, kinda shocking— kind of—
It appears that Robin and Will are chatting about something, giggling a little to each other. Will is shifting his foot against his kickstand, making the bar move back and forth. And occasionally he would let his head fall as if he’s nervous around her or something. Mike can’t help but observe with his jaw clenched just a bit too tight. He sips his black coffee, the bitter taste filling his mouth syncing in perfect harmony with the bitterness rising in his chest.
In his daze, he doesn’t even realize that Will is now at the front door. That is until he hears the all too-familiar quiet knocking. Mike jolts a bit too much, almost dropping his coffee in the abrupt jostling. “Shit!” he exclaims, catching the mug before it could fall to the floor and shatter.
“Language!” Ted yells from the living room. Mike glowers in his dad’s direction before taking a couple long strides to the front door, unlocking it for Will. He swings the door open, gaze falling onto Will’s hazel eyes that are already staring him down.
“Mike…? Hi,” Will says cautiously.
Mike raises a brow. “Hey.”
Will shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly looking everywhere but Mike’s eyes. This seems.. awkward, almost? It’s weird because talking to Mike and being in Mike’s presence was easy and natural at one time. But recently it’s been feeling like getting Mike to hang out with him is like trying to pull teeth, and he can’t pinpoint exactly why. Mike’s difficult to read and it frustrates Will, but more than anything he’s concerned for his best friend.
”Did… uhm- did you want to come hang out, or do something fun? It doesn’t matter what, I just..”
Mike’s eyes flick to Robin quickly. Loud, obnoxious, rowdy Robin Buckley who is still standing behind Will like a lost puppy. Mike looks beyond unimpressed when his eyes slide back to Will slowly. He would rather die. Literally.
”Can’t. Don’t feel well.” He says flippantly. It is true, though. Mike feels numb and disconnected from reality, the days and nights are beginning to blur together, each one feeling like a repeat of the one before. He’s stuck in a neverending loop—all these weird things happening to his body and mind, plus Robin and Will, none of the party is really checking with him and..did he mention Robin and Will? He feels as if he wants to scream and cry and punch something all at once. He wants to hurt someone— no, he wants to hurt himself. God, he’s such a fool. He wants to curl up in a ball on his bed and let the misery just overtake him.
Will is the one who looks like a lost puppy now. His brows furrow and he frowns a bit, which makes Mike’s heart ache. But Mike is stubborn. That much is true at least.
”Okay,” Will says softly, backing up a little. “Bye, Mike.”
Mike wants to pull him closer. He wants to push him away. He doesn’t know what he wants.
So he settles for nodding slightly, not even saying a word. Pushing him away is easier. Pushing him away meant avoiding more pain and heartbreak for himself.
“Cmon, Robin,” Will mumbles, sealing the fate. The pair turn to walk away, and Mike’s left standing there staring at the door he just slammed a little too hard.
Mike turns to go to his room for a second time. This time he stomps up the stairs with purpose, his feelings bubbling to the surface and quickly beginning to affect how he’s acting. Once he’s upstairs, he storms into his room and all but slams the door shut behind him.
God, his head is pounding. He really does feel so ill.
Mike finally caves to the intense pain, pulling out an already half-empty bottle of tylenol from his bedside drawer. He briefly looks at the bottle, almost as if wondering how the hell he’s took so much already, and then he pours two into his hand with a small rattle of the bottle. He pops the pills into his mouth, taking a swig of his coffee to wash them down. He puts back the medication, and sits down on the edge of the bed with a huff and a blank expression.
His eyes dart around, the movement making his eyelids feel heavy because of how out of it he feels.
Mike hesitates for a few moments, not sure what to do next. He should probably sleep, he is so sleep deprived that he swears he is beginning to see things that aren’t there. Maybe if he manipulates himself enough he could believe that seeing Robin and Will so happy together is also just another hallucination.
Anyway, the thing is, if he goes to sleep, he’ll be haunted by those nightmares that feel all too real. Nightmares of Will being taken from him in the most brutal ways possible, and him not being able to do a damn thing about it. God, he is so useless.
He pulls a small razor blade from his pocket slowly. He’s made a habit of carrying it around.
He always said he would quit, that he would stop putting those irreversible scars on his skin. Hell, they make him look even uglier than he already is.
But it’s getting bad again now. And Mike needs the pain to ground him. In fact, he thinks he deserves the pain.
Before he knows it, the blade is dragging across his left arm in slow movements, and he watches with a forced deadpan expression as blood begins to bead at the thin lines. He repeated this a few times before letting the blade fall, facade finally breaking as tears finally blurred his vision and began rolling down his cheeks. It was the first time Mike Wheeler had really allowed himself to cry in years.
What is wrong with him? Why does he feel like he’s being tormented?
The quiet crying quickly escalates to sobs— the kind of sobs you choke on, the ones so intense that they wrack your entire body, making you shake with the agony. Mike clutches onto his pillow, wishing it was something else. Someone else. He wishes it was Will.
Mike lets himself cry like that until his eyes are red and puffy, his head pounding even worse than before from the excessive sobbing. He stands up shakily, slipping out into the hallway and into the bathroom before anyone could see the disheveled state he’s in. He locks the door behind him, bracing his hands on the sink as he gazes up at his reflection for a moment, taking a long look at himself. He takes a shaky breath as if even looking at himself in this state is too much.
He reaches down to turn on the faucet with shaky hands. He wets his left arm, wincing a little as the fresh wounds come in contact with warm water. He attempts to wash off the dried blood, still sniffling occassionally.
That’s when a drop of fresh blood falls into the sink, not from his arm this time. Mike furrows his eyebrows in confusion, turning off the faucet. He brings his finger up to his nose, wiping at the blood that had suddenly began to trickle from it for no apparent reason. This is his third nosebleed in 5 days.
“Not this again,” he mutters, grabbing a few tissues to stop the bleeding, when in the blink of an eye the bathroom lights begin to go haywire. Mike freezes and looks around in alarm, mouth falling open a bit. His head whips around, eyes widening in unbridled fear when he hears the menacing:
Tik……. Tok…
Tik….. Tok…..
Tik… Tok…..
Tik….. Tok…
Chime.