Chapter Text
Mike doesn't know where he got that phrase from, that stuck in his head for several days now. Was it something that Robin said on one of her recent broadcasts, or is it something that his tired mind came up with while trying to get more than two hours of sleep per night? Maybe it was an imaginary Robin in his sleep deprived mind seconds before he woke up panting, trying to hold back tears? It could be any of those variables so he long gave up on guessing.
“Pretense works best while you believe in it.”
Mike doesn't let himself think about the meaning behind those words for too long. Because once he does the constant headache only gets worse and anxiety crosses out everything else. So he lets himself lay awake early in the morning, long before the sun paints its iridescent way through the deep blue sky, just enough to calm his fitful breathing. Then he grabs the nearest comic book from the nightstand – something so familiar, memorised to the core – and flips through pages until everyone is awake and he has no other choice but to go downstairs.
This morning in particular is messier than all others throughout the entirety of eighteen months. Sharing the house with the Byers is often loud, chaotic and to some extent perplexing. He is banging on the bathroom door when Holly goes onto her daily wake up shout out. And at this exact moment Mike is anything but gracious. All he wants at the moment is this damn door to finally open and then drown himself in the biggest cup of coffee he can find.
Seeing Joyce walking out of the bathroom makes him rethink all his decisions for the past half hour or maybe even longer.
“Shit.” he breathes out.
Out of all people it's Joyce he has to run into first thing in the morning. He wouldn't say that it's dread that he's feeling, more something close to anxiety. And it's not something that he's used to feeling around the mother of his best friend of twelve years. But he simply can't help it especially when he is near said best friend. Every time Joyce is in the same room as them Mike is suddenly hyperaware of every little thing he does: simple shoulder touch, brush of the elbow, quick shared look.
He emerges from the bathroom still deep in thought. Stalks towards the kitchen and bumps headfirst into Will. He's standing near the basement door, trying to put on the sweater while shouting something at Jonathan who is apparently still downstairs.
“Sorry!” Will stumbles from the sudden impact.
“No, no, it's ok,” Mike rushes to reassure him while holding him by the shoulder.
“Oh, Mike! Morning. And sorry,” his head finally showing from the neck of a sweater.
“There is nothing to be…”
“We overslept, can you believe it? I swear it was Jon that was supposed to set the alarm this time…” Will is already going on about their unlucky morning.
And Mike just stands there feeling the corners of his mouth twitching in a small smile against his own will or even better judgment or whatever it is. If he'd be a normal person he'd just listen to his friend’s complaints and call it a day, then go to the kitchen together. But Mike isn't. His gaze apparently had to, without him even thinking about it, slip down Will's chest to notice some slight inconvenience. And by calling it slight it was a great understatement. To Mike at least.
“Will. Your shirt,” he starts to say gesturing at where Will's shirt and sweater rolled up a little, just above the hem of his jeans. Dry throat isn’t making it easier for Mike to express what he is trying to say. But luckily enough Will understands him even with that little information provided. He always did.
“Right. Thanks, Mike.” He smoothes out his clothes and then smiles, tilting his head to the left shoulder a little.
“Sure. We should go, while there's still some bacon left.”
Yes, living with the Byers under the same roof is in fact perplexing. That aspect in which he was the one who suggested that they'd stay at the Wheelers is another thing Mike is not letting himself contemplate too much.
~~~~
They are standing at the table at the edge of the forest, the usual spot to plan out the next crawl. And Mike, like the complete fool he is, waits for Will to put his hand above his own. But Will hesitates, it is visible on his face. The way eyebrows twitch and lips form a thin line. The second Lucas puts down his hand, though, he immediately follows. The uneasiness it leaves on Mike's chest is almost physical.
It's been like this for quite some time now. One moment Will is there, smiling at him, letting Mike touch his shoulder, practically leaning in to the touch. The other is almost like there's a wall between them, invisible but he can feel the stone cold surface of it every time he tries to get closer.
Mike tries to distract himself, turning attention to Lucas and Dustin, who're repeating victorious chants. But his gaze keeps flickering to Will. So he is the first to notice that something is wrong. Mike rushes to panting Will the second he spots him leaning against the tree. Those moments, when he needs to get to Will first, are the ones he runs fastest. It happens on it's own, it's not even something conscious that he can control. His own hand on Will's shoulder – a necessity, the same as breathing. Rubbing his hand on Will's back – a traitorous act of a clouded mind.
Mike barely stops himself from hissing at Lucas when he tries to touch Will too. But Lucas has a knack at understanding the situation on a level that sometimes scares Mike a little. So he backs down – concern still in his eyes.
It is essentially important to Mike to make sure that Will is fine. Asking him if he's feeling alright a couple more times then necessary while not leaving his side until it starts looking weird – a package deal.
~~~~
Everytime throughout this day that Mike allows himself to think that it can't get any worse it proves him wrong. Whether it's the universe, lack of presentiment or his dumb, clearly not working, luck – he has no idea. The day is clearly going downhill with every passing second. And conversation with El is not helping even in the slightest. Every time they meet Mike honestly tries to be the support she needs, the one he couldn't be back when they were together. But after each talk he sees more and more clearly that it's not enough. She wants to believe in his never ending stories about finding happiness and far away lands, it's visible in her eyes. But that belief, he gets it with terrifying certainty, is beyond their reach. Has been for a long time now. Determination to do whatever it takes to find and stop Vecna, punish him for everything he did – the only driving force behind her every move.
Getting ready for the crawl in the WSQK basement is almost a relaxing, meticulous set of things to be done. Change clothes, pack bags, check the walkie. Not react too noticeably to yet another act of sidelining Will, who's trying again and again to do something other than just wait for their return.
He and Lucas bike after everyone, waving to El at last.
They're not even halfway there when Lucas turns to him.
“So you wanna tell me what was that at lunch, while we're off comms?”
“What was what?” Playing dumb never works with Lucas but it doesn't mean he won't try to stall this conversation.
“I'm serious, Mike. We’re all his friends and it's normal for us to check on Will when something is wrong.” Lucas may have an understanding of a situation in a moment but it doesn't mean he won't bring up the topic later on. And Mike has no idea how to explain himself and in fact he'd rather not at all.
“Yeah, I just got nervous, that’s all.” Mike dismisses, and to not give him the opportunity to continue starts pedaling faster. “C’mon, the others must be in positions already, we’re barely moving.”
He is feeling Lucas's stare at the back of his head for the rest of the drive.
~~~~
Everything goes to shit the moment they head out back to WSQK. A voice that sounds like Nancy slips through the walkie static but Mike can't decipher what she's saying.
"Nance? I don't understand..."
"Our house. Demogorgon. Will saw it. I'm on my way here."
It's so unexpected that Mike's foot nearly misses the pedal. There is no way for him to take a breath, to say something, he just goes faster.
The bike slams to the ground with a loud thud. Nancy's car is parked in the middle of the driveway and the house lights are steady, no unusual flickering in sight. Mike rushes to the wide open front door. By the time he gets there there is a now closed gate in the kitchen wall. But what his mind can't seem to grasp is his sisters on the floor hovering over their mother. Red splashes are covering the furniture, the actual pile of blood on the floor is near them. The smell of iron is everywhere smearing through his nostrils and throat. The nerve-wrecking phone line sounds almost like drilling a hole in his head. All of it just stops him dead in his tracks.
“Mike!” The sound of his name is muffled by the noise of his own pulse buzzing in the ears. “Mike!” There it is again. “I called the ambulance. They're on their way.”
Mike's gaze focuses on Lucas standing with the phone in his hands, streaks of blood on the handle. Only now he registers that the skull wrecking sound is long gone.
The trembling lower lip, burning in the corners of his eyes – a reminder to keep his composure. He catches Lucas's gaze – helplessness in the shake of his hands. He'll thank him later, once this nightmare is over and the words are back in his throat, for calling, for doing something instead of standing helplessly in the doorway.
Composure, Mike reminds himself, keep it in check. No one needs your bullshit right now.
“Mike…” Nancy’s pleading eyes are what makes him move. Nancy never pleads, she hardly ever cries. Holly beside her is a complete mess. She’s practically wailing at this point. And Mike collapses to the floor, knees flaring up with pain from how hard he does it, words finally forming and finding their way out.
“It is going to be fine,” voice quivers. He presses hands to the jacket on his mother’s chest to help keep the pressure on and then it hits him.
“Nance, did you see father?”
At this time of night Ted Wheeler is always home. And right now he is nowhere to be seen.
Mike scrambles back up on his feet almost tripping over the water and blood mixed in puddles on the floor. The living room is empty, intact even. So he rushes to the stairs. Scratches on the walls are practically screaming of something horrible that has happened here.
Mike is on the last step when he turns to the right and sees it. A giant hole in the wall near his bedroom door, right where his closet used to be. He rushes to the door and swings it open. The room is in shambles. The remnants of a closet are scattered across the floor and bed. But through his own heartbeat loud in his ears Mike hears the shallow breathing of his father laying between bed and a window.
The ambulances' piercing sound cuts through the air.
“They’re here!” Lucas's voice echoing from the hall.
“Send someone up here!” It's like he hears himself from a distance.
Mike gets closer over the wreckage of his own room and takes his father's hand in his own. Mike still doesn't cry.
~~~~
Mike pushes the button on a coffee machine and waits, waits, waits, waits.
Nancy with Holly near the reception, sitting in the tangled cocoon hugging each other. Holly still sobs from time to time.
Mike pushes the button again.
Their father is in a medically induced coma – the ghost of a touch to his hand while waiting for paramedics to find them upstairs.
Mike pushes the button once more.
A memory of his shoes sticking to the floor – his shoe's sole sodden with parental blood.
The sudden noise from one of the rooms startles him.
He keeps waiting.
Now standing at the coffee machine Mike thinks that he might bring Lucas a cup as well and finally visit Max. It's been a couple crawls since he last saw her. It's never a one on one visit, though. Always with the others, so he can distance himself enough.
Aside from Lucas it's Will who visits her the most, and well probably El but it's obviously never physically. But as for Mike he just can't bring himself to do it. Everytime he sees her it's just a constant reminder of their failure, first of many more. Not only that but seeing Lucas the way he is at her bedside, without his usual guard and walls of past self, the ones he's building up again and again the moment he leaves the hospital is too somber to watch. So Mike keeps his distance from room 412.
He should come back to Nancy and Holly, though. Check on them and give Nance her cup and maybe then he’ll allow himself to go on the fourth floor.
Fingers tapping involuntarily on the side of the machine. Thoughts keep swirling like a tornado risking to blend everything into mush. Everything else around him is surprisingly quiet.
“You should try to slam this thing. It usually helps to make it work.”
A raspy voice from behind his back startles Mike immediately. Turning round makes his head dizzy, but he just blinks it away. A young man – blond hair, brown tweed suit, round glasses – standing there, smiling politely at him.
“What?” He croaks out audible enough to be heard in a strangely silent hallway.
“Apologies, I didn't mean to startle you.” He fixes glasses on his face with one swift move. “Its just your cup hasn't been filled in an ounce for the past few minutes. So it might help. Everyone does it. Maybe you should too.”
Mike takes a long look at the man and nods. Slamming his hand at the side of the coffee machine does indeed help.
“Not exactly what I was going for, but anyway.” He says as the white coffee instead of a black one starts filling the cup. And as it still takes some time to fill another cup and feeling somewhat grateful for the help Mike decides to keep the conversation going.
“Do you come here often? Since you know these coffee rules so well.”
“Yes, I sometimes visit my friend here.”
“Well, thanks for your help. Hope your friend gets better soon.” Mike says as he grabs the cups.
“It was a pleasure finally meeting you, Michael.”
He freezes right on the spot then abruptly turns back to the man. The dizziness only gets worse. It comes crashing down on him like a tidal wave. Then the light flickers right above man's head, making the smile plastered to his face – too sculptured, too intent – look more terrifying than all the Halloween movies combined. He wants to say or do something, anything really, to not cry out from the sudden ferocious pain. Lights flicker more rapidly around them. Then everything settles. Spilled cups on the floor of the hospital hallway roll to the side.