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It's weird, having Holly around like this. Not because it's Holly, or that she's weird herself. Holly is growing into a sweet and mature girl, and Mike's heart is full of nothing but love for her. It's just a big change, having her around with the party, joining in on their jokes and knowing some of the stories, now with a mobile phone and snark and knowledge of the end of the world.
It's also weird to be trusted with her. Yeah, he's like, an adult now. They all are (except Dustin and El) and that's cool, to be given responsibilities and independence, but it's still strange to be considered a supervisor for a baby. An eleven year old baby, but like. His little sister. So, a baby.
Even though she's a baby, he didn't think she'd fall asleep this early. It's only- he checks his phone, and Christ on a bike its 11:46.
When did that happen? She'd been talking with Robin before, animatedly even, as Mike had melted into the chair and watched mosquitoes land on his forearms and chew him apart. Too lazy to bother shooing them away and slightly buzzed out on tequila sunrises. He kind of zoned out, but the voices around him hadn't stopped, only gotten more mellow.
Then he'd wandered off from the back porch to take a leak in the trees away from everyone, and on his way back he'd found Max and El smoking together at the side of the house next to the boiler. Doing a bad job of hiding it, in his opinion. He'd had a chat with them (he declined the weed, but agreed to the vape. Trying to get rid of the cloying sweet lingering on his tongue, sputtering and coughing, Max laughed so hard she needed El to hold her upright), stumbled out and left them be, and then took a breather in the trimmed lawn garden next to dad's golf stuff and scrolled his phone until his drink was done. After that, he just walked back to the verandah, thinking about getting some tonic water and more pizza to mellow out his spinning head.
And when he got back, at 11:46, Holly was fast asleep in Will's arms.
She's curled up like a cat, a ball of child on his lap with her head against his chest, fists tucked up under her chin. Surely she can't be comfortable like this, tightly wound up like a pretzel, but her face is serene where it peeks up over the collar of Will's jacket draped over it.
When he sees Mike stumble back into his chair, he flashes a brief smile and leans forward to kiss Holly's forehead. His hands rub at her back softly, and she unwinds a bit, and worry for her spine health unwinds too.
Lifting his chair up into the air, instead of dragging it's steel legs over the deck, Mike practically collapses into it next to Will and Holly, handing his boyfriend a rum and coke glass beading with condensation in the night air.
"Robin and Steve got an Uber, and Jonathan's driving the boys home."
Voice reduced to a low murmur, cradling Holly with such care that Mike's chest starts aching like that Blue Raspberry vapour got stuck somewhere in him, Will sips at the drink and hands it back slowly.
"I think it's getting quiet now."
"Yeah, prolly."
"Where's Jane?"
Mike's heart wrenches sideways, Jane, the name he's trying to get used to using these days. He scratches his arm, red little welt bites all along it, and his tonic sloshes over the side of the glass and over his fingers. It'll dry sticky in the night time heat.
"Smoking with Max, out near the boiler."
"What are they having?"
Mike purses his lips, because he's not really sure how asleep Holly really is, and there are responsibilities you have to carry when you turn this old. Will makes a face like he's trying not to smile too hard lest he wake her, and leans back in his chair. It creaks, and he sighs outward, like an old man. Maybe it's just the weight of a grown up kid sitting on his ribs, but Mike still thinks of a joke about dad groans until that makes his gut twist.
"I don't think Jonathan's going to come back."
"Mmm."
"He always needs a breather, from stuff like this."
Will doesn't have to say liquor, but Mike gets it anyway, as he runs his hand up and down Holly's back, slow and steady, staring out into the garden lit by tiny solar lights, over perfectly trimmed grass that's too green for this time of year. Mike feels sick when he tries to imagine how much water gets used on that garden, when he remembers Will used to shower with a bucket and a cup when the pipes stopped working and the plumber quoted something too high.
"Max and Jane might stay here tonight. Do you want me to go ask?"
"No, it's okay."
At this point, Mike's just a glorified cup holder as Will keeps stretching out his hand for his glass, and he dutifully hands it over. In his drunken haze, Mike thinks that's a pretty good way to exist, waiting on his boyfriend's every whim, ready at his beck and call. Okay, he should definitely eat, have some water, and sleep, cause that's a bit much. That makes him feel unbalanced, the idea of being some kind of house wife, living in orbit of Will. Does he hate it or does he love it?
A simmering unease takes over him, thinking about devotion and duty and relationships of giving and giving and giving, but thinking about Will being that man he gives and gives and gives for makes some new terrifying feeling, a cold flush and fritz like static at the back of his head.
They talk about nothing important, like they love to do this late. About the music playing, about their plans for the week, about how the night went. Sipping at a bitter tonic and staring at the lit garden.
Eventually, Will shuffles awkwardly in his chair and whispers to ask if Mike can help him get up, looking sheepish.
"I'm gonna go check on Jane and Max."
Sometimes, he's still a bit too embarrassed to admit his own smoking habit aloud, but Mike can understand being discreet as Holly stirs at his moving. Plus, he doesn't disbelieve that Will cares about his sister and friend, but he knows those Marlboro Blue are burning in his hip pocket now. He's pretty sure everyone he knows smokes more if they've had a drink.
"Can you help me take her to bed?"
Mike nods, tongue stuck in his mouth, as he stands up and puts his glass down on the deck, listening to it's faint clink on the wood and the scream of frogs in the distance. Reaching down to grab her, he wonders if he has the composure and balance for lifting a grown child in this state of sobriety, and decides he'll goddamn try if Will is watching.
He struggles, a bit embarrassed of his skinny nerd weakness, stumbling to pull Holly into his arms, and she doesn't stay asleep like they wished. Instead, she wraps her arms around his neck and clings on with a startled whimper.
"Hey, Holly, it's okay. Nothing bad's happenin', just taking you to bed, yeah?"
She relaxes, no longer a wound ball, as Will opens the glass sliding door for them and Mike steps over the metal rail lip. He would've thought Will would've wandered off already to go do what he wants, but he follows them, a hand brushing Mike's shoulder in a ghosting comfort.
"I'm tired."
One arm hooked under her knees and the other underneath her arms, Mike winces at the heavy thud of his shoes in the house and slowly walks Holly upstairs, Will practically stepping on his heels, like he's ready to try and catch them.
"I know, sweetie, it's okay."
Mike's heart starts to flip flop around in his chest like an asphyxiating fish, gut broiling, because Christ does Will sound exactly like his mum when he talks like that. Tender and comforting, like a parent, like he cares so fucking much, like he cares enough to let a soft word out through the walls.
"Where did everyone go?"
Holly sounds a little confused and tired, like a kid stuck in that half-asleep in-between daze, like her brain can't keep up with the time of night. Mike can remember that feeling in his memories, being so tired the whole world span, being cold and warm at the same time, lost as he was lifted off the couch or sprawled across chairs at work functions he didn't care about.
"Everyone's gone home. The party's over, now. It's bed time."
"'M sorry for fallin' 'sleep."
Will opens the door to her bedroom for Mike, as he tries as gently as possible to drop Holly down onto the bed, skinny and unfit but careful not to jostle her. The bed thuds anyway, and she makes a little oof of surprise.
"It's okay, you don't have to apologise for that. It's okay to be tired."
Will's still here. He hasn't wandered downstairs for another drink and a smoke, he's right there with his hand on the small of Mike's back and a soft croaky voice. He's not bored and tired with a little domestic duty like this, and Mike's mind spins with fantasies of Will washing the dishes for him so he doesn't have to touch the wet food, and folding laundry side by side on their bed, and tucking kids into bed. Occupying the same space, not out of obligation, not exhausted by love.
Mike hovers in the doorway, hands shaking at his sides, as Will tucks the blanket around Holly's shoulder and flicks the lamp at her bedside on, a spinning kaleidoscope of warm gold light. As he brushes one hand over her hair, stands up from the bed, drapes the quilt over her, and smiles.
Stumbling backward and into the hallway as Will shuts the door softly, Mike follows after him like a kicked puppy and overthinks until he's sure all the liquor in his guts is gonna come up.
Does he want to be a dad now?
Is that what that was? Was that paternal daydreaming? Ew, firstly, and oh God, secondly, and oh fucking Christ not that kind of feeling, he's not that grown up he's barely even eighteen he couldn't even buy the cruisers for this party without flashing his student ID card and using Nancy's money because he doesn't have his learners permit or a job, he cannot be daydreaming about starting a family at this young age, he cannot do what his own family did on any way shape or form.
At the bottom of the staircase, too zoned out to realise the steps are finished, he stumbles into Will's back and almost knocks them both to the floor.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."
Stomach churning, head spinning, Mike lets Will brushes his hand across his cheek and forehead, checking him for something, doting on him like a-
He stumbles back a bit, breathing more heavily than he thinks he should be, and smiles with a tremble that clearly doesn't trick Will, judging by the tugging at his eyebrows.
"I'm- I think I've had a bit too much to drink. I'm gonna stay inside, 'k? Go check on Ele- Jane, and Max. Go hang out with 'em, babe."
"You don't want to come with?"
"Nah. Uhh… mum'll kill me if she smells cigs on me, so… I'm just gonna have a lie down."
"Okay. Come get me if you need? Or text, I've got my phone on me."
"Yeah. I will. I love you."
"I love you too, Mike."
He let Will go, encouraged him to go, but Mike still feels a little abandoned somehow, listening to the squeal and thud of the sliding door close, standing in the muggy living room staring out at the porch as Will steps over beer bottles and walks out of sight beyond the windows.
He doesn't lie down, but he does sit on the couch, putting his shoes on the coffee table how he knows would make dad flip his switch, and feels nothing.
Would he be a dad who screams at his kids? Who cares about shoes on coffee tables? Okay, honestly, shoes on coffee tables is kind of gross. But he doesn't want to be a person who ever loses his shit at kids. He used to be so full of anger, so quick to snap, like an over boiling pot of pasta spitting dangerously all over the counter.
His mum rarely let the pot overboil, but when she did, she'd start apologising and her hands would tremble and she'd keep bringing it up at dinner. Even half an hour later, eating the perfectly fine and delicious and unproblematic food on their plates, mum would flagellate herself at the table and Mike would watch dad grimace and mutter to himself about it, encouraging her on, letting her tear strips off herself for the Wheeler house.
And he'd go up to his room afterwards, lie down on the floor listening to The Wonder Years, and think about how much he hated them both. Hated his mum for being grovelling and weak, hated his dad for using her for so long, and himself most of all for never doing anything about it.
Now, at eighteen, he thinks about learning how to cook and clean like Will already has, in a house with a mum who worked and a dad who left, and he feels warm. He thinks about being someone who Will comes home to, who does things like that for him, and the sentimental warmth that fills his heart and lungs is gonna make him really throw up this time.
Mike thinks about fathers, who aren't any good or useful even if they stay, and he doesn't want to be that. Mike thinks about mothers, who fucked up over and over and never stopped picking themselves up and doing a better job next time, and he's pretty sure he wants to be the second one and he doesn't know what to do with the trembling in his arms and thighs and the fizzing panic at the back of his eyes and the vertigo of a revelation.
"Mike?"
"Nancy."
She's there, in a pair of Jonathan's bumfuck ugly chinos and a button up that's fashionably oversized, her shoes in her hand and a bottle of Smirnoff in the other. A bit confused, obviously tipsy, Nancy rocks side to side in a little embarrassed shuffle. Like she didn't want to be seen like this. Maybe she guessed he'd still be in the backyard, or up in his room, or down in the basement.
"What are you… are you, like, okay?"
It's a pretty normal question, even if her delivery was a little bit clumsy, and Mike should give a really normal answer in return.
"Do you think we had a bad father?"
That's not a normal answer. That's a terrible answer. Jesus fucking Christ.
Nancy sits down beside him, putting the Smirnoff down on the table so heavily he can feel the thunk through the floor, and sighs deeply.
"When did you have this epiphany?"
"What?"
"When did you realise Ted sucks?"
Whatever he expected - be grateful, think about your friends, think about how good you have it, think about how little dad hit you, how most of your punishment was taking away toys that didn't matter or going to bed without dinner, how your dad's job paid for your entire life, how you don't need a job unlike Will and Lucas, how you can get a job if you want without losing your NDIS money unlike Dustin and Max, how fucking great your life is, how all you're complaining about is being lonely and sad and empty - it wasn't Nancy's pragmatic question.
"Not. Like… just then. Years ago. I realised years ago."
"I was eight."
He stops, pulling at the threads in the seam of his jeans, digging his nails into his jeans, thinking about scratching his arms again until they drip blood into the carpet, itching little welts.
"Mum was sick. I don't know what with, but it wasn't good. The way she coughed… I can still hear it. You were, y'know. A baby, like, four. She'd been taking care of you, but I helped a bit."
Eight year old Nancy. Helping take care of her sick mother and toddler brother. An eight year old. The way her and Jonathan always work together, always pressing knees when they sit side by side, the way he's always the designated driver but she always checks he's eaten enough today. That's clicking together, all over again. Mike blinks at the swirling carpet beneath his shoes.
"We watched Sesame Street and Giggle & Hoot all day, pretty much. Ted was at work, but she'd called him, right. Asked if he could pick up dinner and some medicine, I don't know what kind. Maybe Panadol? He said yes, of course, yeah, no worries, 'course. He'd said yes."
Her impersonation is right, gruff disinterest and boredom, the drawl of his voice, and Mike shivers like he's in the room with them, glaring disapprovingly at them. But they're all alone, Will still outside with the girls and Holly asleep upstairs.
"He didn't remember. He forgot. When mum called, scared, asking where he was. He was at work drinks, you know the Railman's Hotel? Yeah. he'd forgot, he just forgot. He forgot about his wife and kids, cause he had work drinks. Forgot."
Nancy rambles, when she's tipsy. Mike knows this, probably the whole group knows this, but it still shocks him. How loose her mouth gets, the angry pinch of her face, the way she starts picking at her nails.
"Mum let me eat fairy bread for dinner, and a Nutella and peanut butter sandwich too, with cordial, and we watched Fern Gully. I was so angry, I thought I was going to explode, and I ate so much that I got sick too, woke up in the middle of the night, and threw up in the bathroom. And Ted was there, rubbing my back while I cried and was sick, and then he carried me to bed and gave me a Hydralyte, and pet my hair, and I… I hugged him anyway."
Why is she telling this story? This horrible, gross, stomach churning story? A deadbeat dad who didn't even care. Is that what she thinks he'll turn out like? Angry cold and distant little Mikey?
"It's okay if you don't know what to think. About Ted. If you want him to be your dad, or not. You can choose what you want, yeah? You- you could be best friend, work with him at the office, share drinks and- I'd support you Mike. Maybe, I'll judge you, but you- you're a grownup now. Yeah?"
He nods, unsure of what else to do, if she'll keep going, just nods while his stomach turn sat the thought of being just like every other bloke in this town. Perfectly happy living the life his dad does, perfectly normal and perfectly regular and perfectly mundane.
"If you never wanna speak to him again. Block his number, not see him at Christmas, not come to his stupid fucking Australia Day barbecues, tell everyone they can go get stuffed, yeah, I'll help you do that too. You're my little brother, Mike, and you always will be."
"I don't want to be like dad. I want… I want to be different."
"You can be anything you want, Mike."
And the waterworks start. His eyes had been burning, and he hadn't been sure why, but his lip wobbles and cold tears slip over the edge of his eyelids, and he's being moved and jostled and it takes him a moment to realise it's Nancy tucking his face against her shoulder as he sobs, ugly heaving sobs that make his ribs and lungs okay.
"You're okay, I've got you, it's okay. Everything's gonna be okay, you're just growing up. It's gonna be okay, in the end."
"I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry, Mike?"
Why is he sorry? What are you apologising for? Brain stuttering, squeezing the soft fabric of her shirt until his knuckles feel like they're going to pop, Mike swallows down another sob and tries to think of what he's supposed to be saying sorry for, trying to come up with an answer before she loses her patience.
"'M sorry for cryin'."
"Oh, Mike, you really don't have to apologise for that. Ever. Don't, actually. You shouldn't say sorry for crying, it's not bad to cry. Everyone does it."
With her filter melted down by the drink, she's so earnest, like she really means it, like there's nothing wrong with Mike ruining the vibe and feeling so hollow and cold inside. It's a party, he should be happy. He should be outside fucking around and smoking with his friends.
But Nancy doesn't care, petting his hair like he's a little kid all over again, like she's not going to shove him off, like he's not gross and sensitive like this.
"I don't want to be like dad."
"That's okay, Mike."
"What if I want to be like mum?"
Her fingers pause, for just a moment, before she goes back to combing through his sweaty black hair. Maybe more carefully, now.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know."
"Do… do you wanna be a girl?"
"What? No, I- I don't think so. I want… I want to stay home. And look after kids, and- and- not be dad. I want someone else to be the dad. I want Will to be like dad."
He doesn't make any sense, incoherent, a little kid having a tantrum, rambling while he chokes and coughs through his tears. Trying not to throw up on Nancy. But she just makes an ohhh noise, like something's clicked.
"That's fine, Mike. You know that's fine, yeah? Like, you can be a stay at home parent. And be a guy. That's- you're allowed to do that."
"I can?"
"Yes. You can do anything you want forever."
It's so blunt, that he kind of snaps out of it. Starts hiccuping, instead of sobbing, blinking at the blurry wall, as the tears dry on his cheeks and his hands stop stretching the fibres of Nancy's shirt.
"I… I can do anything I want forever."
"Yeah, that's what I said."
"I can be anyone I want."
"Yep, you can."
He pulls back, even as Nancy's hands try to draw him back into the hug, her face drawn into a tight and worried look, eyes wobbling across his face.
"I want to be a son that Ted would hate to have."
A startled laugh bursts out of her mouth, chuckles turned to cackles as they lean on each other, her hands on his shoulders and his fingers gripping at her forearms. He's still so dizzy, and nauseous, but Nancy's got him. They've got each other.
"I think you're doing the right thing, if you're that."
"I'm… gonna smoke weed with my friends. And- and grow my hair out, again."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, like… a mullet, this time."
"Christ. That'll look so ugly."
"I'll keep going out with Will in town. And holding hands, where everyone can see."
"He'll definitely hate that."
"I'll keep saying no, to applying to football."
"Fuck them."
"And I'll… I'm gonna be really good. I'm gonna… I'm gonna care. A lot. About things. About people."
"Yeah?"
"I wanna be a really good mum, instead of a dad. Like, not like-"
"I know. It's okay, Mike. I understand. I get it."
She draws him back into a hug, squeezing tight, knocking their ears together and squeezing at his back.
"I know Ted never fuckin' says it, but I'm proud of you. Really proud of you, Mike. You're- you're pretty fucking great. You're good. So good, Mike."
And the sobbing fit starts again, burbling in his throat weakly, arms pressing into Nancy's ribs as he hugs her back, as he holds on for dear fucking life.
When he's done crying, he feels stretched out and weak like melted cheese, or a wicked fizz. This simile sucks, but he's not really sobered up enough for something smarter. Honestly, he's just glad he wasn't sick.
Nancy doesn't pull away until Mike does, rubbing his elbow over his face, her hands still on his shoulders, and she doesn't let go of him until he says he's going outside to tick the first thing off his anti-Ted list. She laughs, but he knows she doesn't want anything to do with what the mongrel kids do in the garden, so she goes to bed instead.
As he watches her go, the stairs creaking softly under her feet, he swallows down the sore lump in his throat and tries to rub the dried tears off his face. He doesn't want to go outside to his friends like this, sniffling about his dad. Everyone there has kind of gotten over their feelings about their dad, good and bad, and he hasn't gotten over the concept of free will.
Standing in the garden, in the darkness as the heat of the night wraps over his taught and stained skin, he changes his mind. Thinks about Max and Jane seeing his still red eyes that hide nothing, and Will's soft concern drawing him in, and his own filter dissolved, and no.
Instead, he pads up the stairs to bed, a palm on the wall to guide himself, and drinks a glass of water until he spills it all across his shirt. Kicking his shoes off his feat and tugging his jeans off, it's such a relief to crawl under his loose summer sheets, stretching out his legs until his calves cramp.
He doesn't want to think about the mortifying ideal of maybe wanting to be a parent, to want to be the mum instead of the dad, of not really knowing to start on that whole thing. He wants to pass out immediately, fall into dreamless slumber, and wake up with clean hair and clean teeth and no headache.
Instead, he thinks about a toddler on Will's hip, cutting peeled carrots into little sticks, learning how to make lugaw, folding washing on the bed while Will reads in bed. What a strange little fantasy, heart burbling in his chest, sentimental and loud about it.
He wants to be a dad who grows his hair out past his shoulders, who recognises a locked door's sanctity and never sends a child to bed hungry and unhappy. Honestly, he kind of wants to be fucking awesome, even if he can't be perfect. Is that a lot to ask for?
Staring at the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling, Mike breathes through the ache in his chest, thinks about it all, and feels another well of tears start to bead at the corners of his eyes.
Before he can fall into another sobbing fit, the door opens softly. It's Will, still in his jacket from outside, socked feet soft on the carpet cause he has decency. They'd be a no shoes house, he wouldn't have it any other way, and Mike wants that. Wants a house where the man's rules are find, and kind of justified and enforced for the sake of everyone, and not his ego.
In the corner by the door, Will changes into shorts and an ugly oversized Spider-Man shirt, before sliding under the covers and pulling Mike against his chest, tucking his nose against the side of his neck and smoothing paint stained fingers through his hair.
"Go to sleep, Mike. We'll talk in the morning. Just get some rest."
Surrounded by the smell of nicotine and cheap detergent, not the name brand fancy botanical stuff the Wheeler's use, but the pleasant lemon he always likes more, Mike actually dozes off. Listens to him, obeys, and stops spinning out. It's nice, a life like that.