Chapter Text
From your room in Lenora Hills, your window has a clear view of the stars. The moon is nowhere in sight, but the stars are enough to compensate, alongside a satellite that glows red every now and then. You sometimes count each flash of red, when sleep deems itself impossible and unconquerable.
There's a painting on your easel that stares back at you every night, but you ignore its unabading glare. The red of the paint is anxious, clingy, unlike the satellite. It lacks its freedom, confidence in its brightness, and the ability to leave the ground. It stays put in your room, and its constance nearly irritates you.
The year is closing to an end, and his calls can be counted on your hands. Meanwhile, you often find El smiling at one of her letters through the crack of her door. You smile as well, but the night always results in sleep defying your wishes, as it always does, but mercy does not exist at those times. This night is no different.
Your eyes meet the deep red of your canvas once more. You wish to kick it away, to store it in your closet and let it brew, but you know it will overboil, and you’d rather face the possible consequences than live in regret for eternity. So your eyes meet the flashing satellite in the sky, and your reaching hand feels so close, yet so far, the courage facing you with intention but its willpower stationary at your grasp.
Your hand falls back under the covers, unfulfilled and yearning. You look back up at the sky and wonder, does he see the same stars? Or is his sun now rising while you’re left in the dark? While you stargaze, is he calm in his sleep? And as you lay cold in bed, the cease of twilight staring back at you, is he there in Hawkins, keeping his heart warm in the wake of dawn?
Once you close your eyes, you are shrouded in the darkness, and the drift is sharp, scary, unforgiving.
Sleep does not come easy that night. It hasn't since your first spent in Castle Byers, in that realm so familiar, yet so alien. But in substitution for your chattering song through your broken voice, there is the low hum of your heater. When your breathing slows, it sounds faintly like radio static, and you hear a garbled voice calling your name in the warmest way.
When you follow that voice, the static fades to silence. Sleep lets you in, but you can sense its tolerance wane.
Love is a fickle thing. You’ve known that your whole life. But more recently, so is your patience when boarding with the Wheelers.
Occasionally waking up to Holly shout for breakfast instead of the rustic ring of your alarm clock is, not at all, a good start to the day. You’re stumbling around the basement, sometimes bumping into your brother, and the rush up the stairs takes half the energy out of you. But it feels like home. Like Hawkins.
The breakfast table is clamorous, unfiltered, and very hard to tolerate when you’ve got only three minutes to eat, much less to chat, and an entire bike ride left to run on stolen sips of coffee and little snags of bacon. The weekends are no exception either, as a Wheeler always finds a job, a reason, for you. But it feels like home. Like Hawkins.
Vecna is not gone, you know it. Everyone does. But all you can do now is pretend. The military officers, the quarantine gates, the sheets on the ground– the constant reminders of the unsuccessful triumph stop you from doing so. Rockin’ Robin greets you every morning, and you have to block out her daily affirmations of quarantine, of rule-following, and of normalcy.
Since your family decided to live with the Wheelers, you’ve put up with the routine. The times that school does not summon you, Mrs. Wheeler humbly asks for your assistance for household chores, or Holly asks that you draw with her, braid her hair, make friendship bracelets, anything to distract her from the forced conformity of which cannot convince even the mind of an eight year old.
You accept their requests, of course, because what else is there to do? Lucas leaves school right at the bell to visit Max, and Dustin, while physically there, will always look off into the distance, his eyes full of fury and regret, guilt and sorrow, his club shirt a memoir of the truth about Hawkins. You do not know the others formerly involved with their ‘herowork’ well enough, you made no real friends in California to write to, and those that you do know simply can't make space for you.
You become a shell of yourself, the memories, the coldness, the life stripped from you shrinking into itself till it threatens to disappear completely. You stand from the dinner table to wash the dishes with no instructions needed. Lights out at 9, well good, you’re already in bed, waiting for sleep to come. Mr. Wheeler takes the beer bottle from your hand, Holly gives you a blue crayon, Mrs. Wheeler drags you around the house to clean, Jonathan keeps you in the basement to talk, Nancy drives you to the hospital because where else can you go?, Mom kisses you good night because what else can she do?–
And Mike remains. When you’re in his room, there's that rare calmness. You look up from your sketchbook, softening your furrowed brows from staring at your fifth attempt at drawing the posters on his walls, and Mike sits on his bed. He’s invested in his comic, that same damn David Bowie album on repeat for, what, four days now?
Radio static no longer lies in the hollows of your head. You can feel yourself filling the crevices of your shell the longer you’re in his presence. You’ve memorised every poster on his wall, every comic on his bed, but not much had changed since you were kids, anyway.
Mike’s features grew sharper, more defined, his kid self faint in his older form. But when you catch his eye as he looks up from his comic, he smiles, and you feel only four feet all over again.
The Wheeler house is chaos, yet Mike’s room– Mike himself– is comfort. A sanctuary. A moment of peace that you depend on far too much and you know it. Because sometimes, if you look above on the wall you sit against, you’ll find a painting, one of courage, of a confession, and of a deep red indicating a horrible lie you swear you’ll mend but you never touch.
You’ve grown to understand that life with the Wheelers is sporadic, unstable, but the only thing more unpredictable is Mike himself. Your entire life has been full of fear, something you could never understand, but Mike was your holy ground. After you moved to California, however, he became erratic, unsteady, unpredictable. You found his irritance hard to read, and even less the sudden steadiness you find in him. Because something has changed, you feel it. The lack of an explanation shakes you with fear all over again, and you seem to know him less than you did before.
But with the calmness of his presence, the familiarity of his room, with decade-old trinkets and even older drawings you sketched out with a fist, you ignore that ache in your heart. You’re steadfast in this pause, this limbo, where you can peacefully enjoy your hobbies but harbour the need to avert your gaze to anything but him. And yet he does the opposite at times, much more than you find comforting.
There's something that rests underneath his vacant gaze. There's thought in that glisten, a million words behind his sighs, but it disappears once he looks back down at his comics. You dared not to question it the first week you began living with the Wheelers, but the more weeks that passed which contained more stolen glances of his than your own, you gained only more curiosity. Even during his birthday, when the house was crowded with friends and mutuals, he seemed entirely focused on you, and he spent the longest gazing at your homemade card, a painting of a blue hyacinth with a short yet profound letter of your gratitude for your friendship.
A month after the fact, his eyes began to linger among the rest of the house. In lieu of the overwhelming dinners, he glances at you with no other context, and you try to guess which dish he’d like. But he just looks away, and his gaze remains on his plate till you're back in his room. While you draw with Holly on the living room floor on the weekends, he joins you with a Walkman softly playing The Catch, and he stares back and forth between the waxy doodles on your paper and your light expression trying its hardest not to implode with infatuation.
You don't know when they begin, but you start to notice his touch burning deeper into your skin. You feel his gaze at the dinner table less and less and his knee against yours much more. When you're in his room and he motions you to sit on his bed, his shoulder leans against yours more than it does the wall. The times he’s forced to help you do the dishes after dinner, his fingertips burn their prints against your hands as he takes the cutlery to dry.
Soon enough, his actions began to carry to school. You notice he brushes his shoulder against yours in the lunch line just slightly more than it did two years ago. His knee presses against yours slightly firmer once Lucas or Dustin join you at the lunch table. And that same gaze reserved for his room transcripted itself into the walks in the hallway, where, after dropping you off to your class, you find it lingering in your fingertips.
While you try and convince yourself you're the only one stuck in a limbo, hope bubbles inside of you, threatening to boil over and kill you instantly. Or maybe, he's patiently burning you to ashes with every little thing he does, and you feel yourself slowly dying.
Mom makes plans to visit El in the cabin for the weekend. You ask to tag along– it is your fifth time asking, you’ve kept count all this time– and she tells you no, it’s too risky and you both need to be kept safe.
You miss her. Dearly and wholeheartedly. You miss waking her up during school days in Lenora Hills and comforting her when her classmates push her too far over the edge. You miss dinnertime with her, when you could share a laugh, and showing her new music. You know she misses you as well– your cassette tapes, your art, and your presence. You figure she’s awfully lonely, but you’d rather protect her than risk her life, even if it means no contact.
When Saturday arrives, nearly everyone inhabiting the Wheeler house is outdoors. Mr and Mrs Wheeler leave together in the car for separate reasons– the former for work, and the latter, errands–, Holly is off to her friend’s house, and Jonathan and Nancy are busy at the Squawk. The only one left in the house besides you is Mike.
You awake early, as your body had taken to an early-bird schedule that week, so most of your morning was spent saying farewells and polishing the house with excessive chores. While you consider a walk, or biking around town, you aren't sure what to do afterwards, what with nearly every attraction being shut down and the landscape being covered in tacky metal sheets and quarantine gates.
Around noontime, you round the corner from the basement stairs. There, a figure met your stance like a reflection, and your collision causes both pain and a shift in tranquillity. Your exclaim fights between a sharp groan of pain and a squeal from the sudden shock, but you soften under the recognised presence of Mike Wheeler, who held the wall from the sudden impact.
Mike looks at you lost, like a fawn, and you have to hold back a chuckle.
“Morning.” Mike responds with a yawn, his knuckle digging into his eyelid.
“Morning.” His is more gravelly, as expected from somebody who’d just woken up, and you allow yourself a curt snort. You watch him walk past into the kitchen, your shoulder leaning on the wall he held. As you push yourself off to follow behind him, the phantom of his palm remains on your sweater.
You enter the kitchen to find him looking inside the fridge, his finger tapping on the top of the door.
“Everyone ate everything, so. I’m afraid you’re too late for anything cooked.” You watch his shoulders raise for a passive shrug, and the items on the shelves clink against each other as he shuts the door.
“That’s fine.” You gnaw on your lip in thought.
“Want me to make you something?” Mike’s mussed-up curls sway with the turn of his head. He turns fully to lean on the counter, and you mimic him by leaning on the doorway.
“What’s on the menu, Chef Byers?” You shrug, a traitorous smile crossing your lips.
“Whatever you’d like, Mr Wheeler.” Mike shook his head as he laughed, and his gaze remained on your figure for a second too long for comfort. When he looks away, you press your palm to your chest and take a silent breath through your nose.
You both settle on egg on toast, as any other ingredients were used up and taken to be refilled by Mrs Wheeler later that day. You joke about starving Mike for a better menu and he shoves you on your shoulder, his soon grazing yours as he nudges just centimetres closer. But you notice, of course. That’s all you do when you’re alone with him.
You take his plate from him once he finishes. As you rotate to the sink, you hear the legs of his chair squeak against the kitchen tiles, and pyjama fabric drags itself behind you.
“What do we do today?” You shrug, your hand waving under the running water to check the temperature.
“You got any homework? Or things to study?”
“No.” You sigh through your nose and reach for the sponge, as the water temperature finally rose to your liking.
“We can relax in your room, then.” He aims his groan heavenward and his warmth shifts closer. He stands behind your right side, the fabric of his shirt rubbing against the sleeve of your elbow.
“We do that every time. Can we, like, bug our siblings at the Squawk?” You roll your eyes despite him being unable to see. The soap suds on the sponge grow to your liking, so you begin scrubbing the plate.
“No, Mike. They have things to do.”
“What, fumble with radio frequencies all day?”
“Yes, actually.” You hear him grumble behind your right ear, and it tickles like a whisper. You can feel him shift just slightly closer, but you convince yourself it's only your imagination.
“Then what else can we do?” You hum as you rack your brain on possible activities.
“We could visit Max.”
“But we already did yesterday with Lucas."
“We could… talk to Dustin.”
You turn to face him this time. Your unsure face matches his and you meet a mutual agreement solely through the furrow in your brows.
“Let’s just visit Max again.” His groan tickles your ear once more, but it feels closer, louder, like every vibration in this throat reaches the marrow of your bones.
You don't realise it till you stiffen. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and his hands pin themselves around you on the counter.
“Do we have to?” You try your hardest to collect yourself, but you fear your chuckle comes out shakier than originally intended.
“What do you wanna do, then? You said you’re bored of us hanging around the house all day.” The inside of his elbow presses against your side till his entire left arm swallows your waist whole. You hold your breath as the other embraces the other side, your trembling hands threatening to drop the plate.
“I never said I was bored of it.” You feel his heart beat faster against your spine, and he presses closer. You’re sure he can hear you gulp, so all you can do is resume your chore. You rinse the soap suds off the ceramic and wring out the sponge with your fist.
“We could sneak off to the cabin.” He begins to sway, only slightly, but you're forced to follow along.
“Why?”
“To see El.” He pauses in his sway, and his heart races against your back with such velocity you confuse it for your own heart. His arms begin to loosen around you, and he pulls away with an indifferent sniffle.
“I’ll be upstairs getting ready.” You assume he means to visit Max at the hospital, but by the time you gather yourself to respond, he’s already left the room. His footsteps up the stairs seem heavier, faster, and he shuts the door with force nothing like the tenderness of his grasp around you.
You turn the faucet off and place your hands on the edge of the counter, his prints holding your palms in place. You nearly drive yourself mad with the possible reasons why Mike acted so unlike him at that moment, but you already know you’re too far gone after him doing so anyway.
You were fine with the simple glances and grazes, as they could all be dumbed down to friendly camaraderie for the sake of your sanity. But this was no gentle graze, and you fear you’re jumping far too fast to conclusions.
You rush down the halls to the basement to get ready for the day, the feel of his arms forever engraved in your skin.
Lucas greets you with a hollow smile as you open the door. You smile back bittersweetly, as the sight of Max’s frail body leaves your heart aching. You figure he’s been here since even before noon, as his eyes seem tyred and his hand around hers awfully limp.
As Mike asks Lucas how she’s doing, you can't help but notice the cassette player sitting on the end table behind Lucas. You frown with hope and something like envy. He loves her all too much, and cares for her more than life itself.
Their conversation carries into school, so you excuse yourself to grab a Coke. The halls seem to stretch as you walk down to the vending machine, and you have to blink twice after the lights flicker to make sure you’re not going mental. More than you already became just mere minutes prior.
You only snap from your thoughts once the can rolls into the serving tray. The coldness brings you back from the everlasting warmth around your waist, and you rub your damp fingertips against your neck, close to where his cheek lay.
At the other end of the hall, a familiar rasp resonates to where you stand, and you turn your head to face a familiar-looking girl walking with one of the nurse volunteers in the hospital.
You aren't sure why, but you follow after them, a slow walk becoming a light jog as you near the corner. You figure Max and Lucas can wait, and you’ve already been with Mike for far too long for your sanity.
The hall you turn into is empty with the exceptions of yourself and the two girls you planned to acquaint yourself with. The taller looks down the barren corridor before taking the volunteer by her shoulders and pressing her against the wall, causing her to grapple onto a metal cart and letting its contents rattle in the silence. She laughs as the taller begins pressing kisses around her face and calms her tense shoulders as she cups her cheeks.
You’re sure you look shaken, dazed, like a deer in headlights. Though the headlights appear more like heaven, an awakening, a call-out that you aren't as alone as you’ve convinced yourself your entire life. Your hands become limp, and gravity seems to disappear around you, a lightness replacing the heavy weight on your shoulders.
Your soda can explodes as it falls from your hands, wetting your jeans with its hissing spray, and the two girls immediately snap from their intimacy. Their eyes are shaken with fear, and you know you’ve not only overstepped, but signed yourself to the contract of your demise.
“Hey!” You take that as your cue to run. The taller’s sneakers squeak behind your disconcerted steps, the kind that rushes down the hall with no remorse for others’ safety, let alone your own.
“Will! Come on, can we talk?!” You’re not sure why, but you come to an abrupt hall, and the girl chasing you down huffs as she catches up to you. You turn to find her bent over onto her knees, and her laboured breaths subside to deep nasal exhales as she straightens herself.
“Sorry,” you mutter. She waves your apology away with a limp hand, the other holding her hip. As she leans on one leg and scans the area for anyone else, you find her stature oddly familiar.
“Follow me.” She turns to walk back down the corridor, and you feel obligated to follow. She leads you around the corner, and the volunteer squeaks as she recognises your face. She frantically glances between you and the taller.
“Robin–”
“I know. Give me a second.” Robin pats the ginger on her shoulder, who eventually smiles warmly at her reassurance. Her shoulders fall, and she takes deep breaths as you enter an empty room.
Robin shuts the door behind you and sighs heavily, both in thought and in embarrassment. “Okay.” She fiddles with her thumbs as she leans against the door, and you stand near the counter waiting for your demise. Except she looks awfully nervous, like she’ll break into pieces if she says the wrong thing.
You decide to talk first, to try and ease her into the conversation, and thank for her service. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.” She studies your face while trying to come up with a response, so you continue, your mouth opening and closing as it runs through draughts of your story summed into one sentence.
“I was just… surprised to find people like you. Like me.” Her eyes flicker with recognition and realisation that you were just as much a safe haven as she was to you. A strong bond between you sparked despite your lack of conversations– you fear you don’t even know her last name–, perhaps because the rarity of cases such as yours forced you to stick together.
“You’re… You don’t…” She took a deep breath as she gathered her words while you tugged at your shirt hem. “My… girlfriend.”
You catch her eye. She seems sick just from saying the word out loud.
“She’s super pretty, right?” You nod, unable to decipher on wherever she may be going with her query. “If– if you had the chance, you wouldn’t…?” She stares at you, waiting for you to grapple onto her question. Your eyes brighten once you latch on, and you let out a humoured exhale.
“Oh. No, I–” You find it hard to hold back your chuckle– “I wouldn’t. She’s really pretty, but… no.” She nodded with a growing smile, and you grin back.
“Well. Good to meet another one of us. I don’t know how I’d tell you if you weren’t queer.”
Hearing her say it feels like a wave of ammunition straight to your heart. But it feels like reassurance not long after, to finally hear it after months– years– of never admitting it.
“How did…” She hums, waiting for you to finish your sentence. You gnaw on your lip, unsure of whether you should confide in her or not. But you don’t know the next time you’ll get an opportunity like it, so you conform to your temptation.
“How did you know that… your girlfriend wanted to–”
“–to kiss?”
“–to date?”
She stares at you with an airy smile, overwhelmed with your blooming pride.
“Well, uhm, it was kind of just an accumulation of… things. Like a snowball.” You notice her coldness become warmth, inviting you in to express and accept yourself.
“Things?” She nodded with enthusiasm, the smile on her lips not fading for even a second.
“Yeah, like: a brush of the knee, a bump in the elbow, a shared look– things like that.” You feel the hope that had once drowned in your rejection bubble back up to the surface. You’ve already crossed that threshold with him– you needed to assure yourself about the fact.
“And the snowball?” She shrugs with a sort of smugness to her, of pride and fulfilment.
“The accumulation of those things pile up, like a snowball rolling down a hill. Only when you both equally become sick and tyred of staying platonic is when the snowball becomes an avalanche and swallows you both whole.” You feel all too excited about this, and the guilt bounces back like it always has. But in the warmth of her guidance, you can feel it shrinking back into the darkest chambers of your heart, shrouded in hope and reassurance.
“But what if you’re past all of those things, but not quite… there yet?” She runs her hand through her fringe, fried locks of dirty blonde falling back onto her forehead.
“Then you’re stuck at the edge of the cliff.”
“How do you get… unstuck?” She blinks at you before her grin becomes a plotting smirk. She crosses her arms and gives you a curt onceover.
“Do you want my honest input?” You nod hesitantly. Your gut tells you her advice– while not completely impossible– would be a worse fate than death.
“Kiss him.” You wish you weren’t right.
Robin chuckles as you groan in your hands. Your face feels hot just imagining the scene playing out. But, shamefully, you enjoy it, and her casual amusement erupts into laughter as you cup your cheeks with your palms.
“Why do you think you’re past that, though?” Your hands cross against your chest as you meet her gaze.
“Earlier today, he…” Your throat dries with contemplation. Maybe you’re reading in it far too much, maybe it means nothing. Nothing to him.
But it means everything to you. You look down to your shoes, and you feel curiosity grow in her gaze.
“He held me. From– from behind. He put his chin on my shoulder,” you explain, a trembling hand patting your right shoulder, the phantoms of his cheek on your neck returning like a night terror. “And wrapped his arms around my waist. He was so close I could feel his heart beat.”
You look back up to find Robin’s jaw hung open, eyes ready to pop out, and stature so frozen you think you stopped time simply by confiding in her with your queer experience.
“You’re joking, right? He literally likes you so much.” You whine in your hands, torn between which side to take.
“He can't! He– he likes someone else!” She scoffs, and you find her rolling her eyes as you look up at her.
“Is he dating said someone else?”
“No! Yes! Well, it’s complicated–”
“Well, there you have it! Like, even Vickie and I didn't do anything as brash as that. This kid is head-over-heels for you.”
Your hands ball into fists at your side. You begin to regret ever letting your hopes up.
“Hey, look–” You take a deep breath as you face her– “I don't even know you that well, let alone your brother. But I’m, like, 99% sure this boy likes you, and for good reason.”
You can't help but think the same, now that she’s fed your brain with the very thoughts you considered and cast out for being so dangerous to your sanity. The regret you felt wanes from your body, the pinpricks on your skin fading like waves lapping against the shore.
“You think so?”
“I’m no prophet but, uh, I think I can give myself some credit, right?” You share the laugh with her, as she was, in fact, credible for her advice. You feel envious about the fact– that the one she could share her alienated love with waited just outside the door.
You feel something in the air shift. You know she can sense your doubt.
“Hey, you’re welcome to join us at the Squawk, like, anytime. It’s tyring seeing your brother and Steve fight over Nance all the time.” Your eyes widen, and you can't help but laugh at the level of immaturity.
“You're kidding, right? Isn't Jonathan literally dating her, though?” Robin shrugs with a chuckle.
“Exactly. So, yeah. Swing by, like, anytime ‘cause that’s the only place I really hang around all day. And bring your special boy– I wanna meet him.” You feel your face grow hot as a grin infects your lips. She has already met him, of course, but you keep that to yourself.
“I’ll do that!” You both chuckle as she opens the door. You file out behind her to see Vickie pacing. She looks up from gnawing on her fingernail to grasp Robin’s shoulders, almost to hide in her ribcage. She faces you with terror, and a hint of distrust. Meanwhile, Robin laughs at her frailness and begins caressing the back of her ginger hair.
“Don't worry, Vic, he promises to not tell anyone. And he’s… one of us.” Her heavy sigh cancels her self-destruction, and she removes herself from Robin.
You flinch as she raises a pointed finger. “You better not tell anyone, or I’ll find you.” Robin laughs at your suffering while pushing her girlfriend’s hand down, squeezing it for a moment before letting go completely.
“She’s just kidding.” You let out a nervous chuckle but immediately tense up once her face grows cold and she raises her finger as well. “But I will, with no hesitation.”
You nod your head with an audible gulp and she lowers her hand. You part ways with them with a curt wave, and you immediately rush back to Max’s room. You can hear her favourite song through the crack in the door.
Mike immediately breaks his conversation with Lucas upon your return, the upper half of his body turning to face you. “Where did you go?”
You blink, as Mike seemed steadfast on knowing rather than asking just to ask. “Vending machine.”
He looks down to your hands, then back up to lock eyes with you. “But you didn’t get anything?” You take a short glance at Lucas, who also appears to be mildly confused and subtly amused with Mike’s adamance.
“Oh,” you run your spare hand through your hair as you think of an excuse, “kind of a long story, I guess. I, uhm,”
You look down to your wet jeans then back up to Mike, his hand firm on the back of his chair. “I dropped it.” His brow raises, gaze fixated on your face rather than scanning the lower half of your body, your stability subtly waning like his patience.
“You dropped it?” You nod. You face Lucas again, whose face contorted with incertitude. Mike pushes his chair back and stands to walk over. He holds you by his shoulder to turn you around, and it remains there as he opens the door behind you. He guides you out, and you shoot Lucas a small apologetic and just-as-confused glance before he shuts the door behind you both.
You face him with perplexity and the smallest hint of fluster. “What are you doing?”
“Getting you another drink. Come on.” Your sigh feels thick through your nostrils, your eyes travelling to watch him walk past.
“You don’t have to do that. I can get one myself.” His neck cranes to face you, and upon noticing your body stationary at the door, he steps back, his hand hovering, finding its next victim on your flustered, melting body.
His hand grasps your wrist this time, and you’re sure he can feel your pulse skyrocket. “But I want to. Come on.” You groan but ultimately allow him to drag you down the hall to the vending machine.
As you reach the machine, he drops your wrist to reach for his wallet. Your hand falls back to your side, and the chin on your shoulder returns like an echo.
Before you drop to pick up the can, he beats you to it. While Mike’s tendency to treat you to such behaviour wasn't exactly alien, it was indeed startling. And only deepened your infatuation for him by each passing second. Your fingers graze him as you take the can, and something sparks in his eyes when you look up. He catches your gaze, and something in your dynamic shifts, something that feels like no return.
You’ve started to notice his tendency to look down at your lips since your return from California. It’d be a flicker, only for the slightest moment, and he’d usually turn away like nothing had ever happened. Except this time he refused to break away, and you did nothing to stop it.
You allow these mind games, for him to toy with you like some experiment in lieu of El’s absence. And you feel guilty, like the sin itself, but you believe it best to let Mike reflect. To tear you apart and put you back together for the gamble between your love and hers.
You know you’d feel like shit no matter what he does. Letting him kill you slowly at least makes you feel like you’re trying.
You only look away once you notice Mike snap up from his gaze. You turn to face whoever is calling your name, as your senses finally return once free from his imprisonment.
“You okay?” you ask as Lucas meets your stance, his fingers entwined with unease.
“Yeah. I just, thought you guys left already so I came to check.” He looks the slightest bit heartbroken, so you frown with pity, a consoling hand patting his shoulder before returning back to your side.
“We wouldn't do that. Why would we leave without saying goodbye?” You face Mike to see him wear concern on his face. He shares your glance before walking up to Lucas and patting him on his opposite shoulder.
“Come on, let's head back.” Mike turns Lucas with his hand on his back, and the print on yours begins to wane. With each step further away, you can feel yourself in the car driving away from your childhood home, the tears in your eyes blurring the view of the young Wheeler in the rear window.
Before they turn the corner back to the room, Mike glances at you, but unlike every other unreadable look, this one feels different, like he intended it to be something other than crossing the platonic thread of your relationship. It feels like a barrier, like glue to fix the separation between you two that you clawed at with pitiful hope.
The soda can feels limp in your hand, and you begin to step backward. Your back hits the vending machine, making its contents rattle inside, and the shake reaches the hollows of your heart. You feel drained of any hope, as those same hands preying on parts of your body hold another.
It is only friendly camaraderie. You’ve known it your entire life. Hope can't exist for you– not in the timeline you live in, and certainly not with him.
You push yourself off the machine and reluctantly follow after them. The air around you reeks of your sin, every step you take seems to sink further into the ground, and the sight of his back in the distance feels a greater pain than verbal rejection.
You drink from your can once you enter back into Max’s room. The bubbles leave scars in your tender throat, and the coldness feels familiar, the sick sense of home you subconsciously missed like a madman.
His gaze feels like warmth. You ignore it, and coldness embraces you like you’re twelve all over again.