Chapter Text
Mike doesn’t like warm weather.
He doesn’t know what it is, but he’s just… bad with extreme weather. Cold weather, he’s shivering and under a dozen puffy coats and practically shuffle-running wherever he’s going to get back to that sweet, sweet heater. Warm weather, he’s boiling alive and considering stripping his skin along with the rest of his clothes just so he stops boiling.
Which, largely, is why Mike is regretting all of his life choices.
Mike’s temperature range where he’s comfortable is fifty to seventy-five. You would think he would move to coastal California or something where it’s like that year-round, but no. No, he just moved to Houston, Texas, and he regrets everything, because it’s August and it’s ninety-five degrees and it’s so humid that it feels like he’s breathing water.
Even worse?
Well, Mike actually likes his new apartment, even though it’s a shitty little studio. He likes that it’s a hundred-square-foot box with a bathroom, finds it soothing that he can see the entire place from all angles of the room, likes that there aren’t corners to turn around. He likes the floor, he likes the kitchen, he likes that the entire place is a blank slate.
He doesn’t like that there’s no air conditioning.
Which is why he’s currently flat on his back and shirtless in the middle of the room as he scrolls on Amazon for a portable air conditioner and sits there mentally repeating ‘why did I do this, why did I agree to this, why am I even alive, is it sweat running into my hair or is it my brain melting.’
The funny thing is, Mike now works for NASA. He can probably afford one, as a CAPCOM communicator, AKA the person who, during the astronauts’ rest period, is in charge of talking to the ISS. However, every time he sees one with a price that’s three digits, he’s immediately continuing to scroll.
(Which is partially so funny because of the fact that he’s now making six figures.)
Mike huffs as he scrolls past one that’s two thousand dollars. Hell no.
He doesn’t actually know how he landed this job. He’s…
Look, Mike’s not that special. He’s a nerd who can’t shut up about D&D and has to physically restrain himself from talking about it every minute of every day. He’s the kind of loser where he was an English major, already hit major requirements, went ‘oh, shit, what am I gonna do with an English degree,’ panicked, and got another major in aerospace engineering.
…and then got way too into aerospace engineering, got a PhD in it, wrote a thesis on 80s space technology, worked in mission control at NASA’s Washington, D.C. base because of it while he finished his PhD, and is now somehow the night-shift CAPCOM from Houston, which is insane. For many reasons, including that it’s a job normally limited to previous astronauts (Mike’s not), that he’s twenty-four (because he freaked out and graduated early from high school, then graduated college at 20, then just got his PhD), and that he would probably still be some smalltown boy in Hawkins, Indiana if not for-
Anyway. Mike’s twenty-four, technically Dr. Wheeler, miraculously got one of the top NASA jobs, and is still laying on the floor of a shitty apartment shirtless desperately trying to buy an A/C.
(And getting distracted by all the other cool household gadgets you can buy. Did you know there are tabletop dishwashers? And towel warmers? And- oh, he should probably buy some kind of vegetable cooker, because Mike can cook three things and those things are a grilled cheese, a waffle, and an egg-)
Mike ends up with a cart of eleven electronics, the only one of which he needs being the A/C (which, unfortunately, he picks the one that’s $249.99 because it has the best reviews), and he debates for a long time before removing some of the more random shit and going down to seven items in his cart.
(It’s still a solid $1,500 dollars. Mike cringes so hard that he makes what’s probably a really ugly face as he hits ‘check out.’)
-
Mike, as you can see, is definitely not a complete and total disaster, proved by the fact that he’s sitting on one of his eight boxes, at 2am, eating food.
(What can be generously described as food. It’s Lucky Charms with water because Mike hasn’t bought any milk.)
It’s not even good Lucky Charms. The marshmallows are stale, and the water makes Mike consider dumping it out and just going back to sleep hungry.
Mike stares into the bowl with dead eyes, wondering if there are any open supermarkets and/or if the Doordash prices are worth it as he takes another spoonful of marshmallow misery.
“This is fine.” Mike mumbles through the barely-food. “This is fine. I’m an adult. This is an adult thing to do.”
Sweat is trickling down his spine, slow and relentless, and his bare thighs (he was trying to sleep in his underwear to just not boil) stick to the box he’s sitting on. It collapses a little under his weight, even though it’s full of books, mostly because most of Mike’s books are different sizes and it means there are random air pockets in the insanely-heavy box.
Mike’s glad that he has exactly eight boxes to move into this place. He doesn’t think he could carry another box even half as heavy as this one. Turns out a box that’s probably around two hundred pounds sucks to carry around when you’re 150 pounds and in the sixteenth weight percentile for your height.
(Which is 6’2. Mike hits his head on everything. However, he also gets the benefit of messing with random jerks by saying he’s 5’9 and seeing the panic in their eyes.)
Sure, the place is empty, but… to be honest, Mike’s the kind of person who just needs an air mattress and a TV. He doesn’t need much. He never really has.
Mike takes another spoonful of cereal.
His mom texted him about coming home for a while again. Said she misses him. Said that Holly’s starting high school and is scared and misses Mike too. That she’ll schedule the plane ticket when Mike’s dad isn’t there so that Mike doesn’t have to see him or deal with him, that it’ll be just her and Holly, to just come home if he can get time off school.
Mike… didn’t tell her he graduated. Or that he’s working for NASA now. Or that he’s in Houston instead of at George Washington University in D.C.
Mike loves his mom. He loves her and he loves Holly so, so much. But he, uh… he’s gone to visit maybe three times in the past six years since he moved out and transferred schools to NYU for undergrad? He calls weekly, of course, but he doesn’t actually…
Mike has people. He has thirty-five contacts in his phone, actually. He’s just in the situation that he… doesn’t really feel interested in texting them and doesn’t call or text anyone with good news or random daily stuff. He’s good at deflecting and asking his mom about stuff in her life and changing the subject every time his life comes up.
He’s very good at changing the subject. Using a distraction.
So instead of responding to the text, Mike is eating cereal at two in the morning alone in his empty apartment, decidedly not thinking about it.
(He’s thinking about it.)
The text is still on the lockscreen.
Mom:
Hey, Mike! I know you’ve probably been busy and you probably still are, but we really miss you. Holly especially. She’s already starting high school, can you believe that? She’s gotten really into D&D recently, and the little figurine you made her is on her necklace. She would absolutely love to play with you. I know that you and your father aren’t on speaking terms, but he’s been busy with a lot of work trips. If you can just find the time to come home, I’ll make it work. I’ll buy the plane ticket. If you have the space, I can buy plane tickets for us to come up and see you. It doesn’t have to be you coming home, we can come to you. I just miss you so much, honey. I’ll make it work if you have even a day off.
Anyway, how are things going? How are classes? When are you going to graduate? Any friends or special friends?
I’m proud of you. I love you. I miss you. Please come home.
Mike shovels more cereal into his mouth anxiously.
If he unlocks his phone or hesitates to respond, then he has to respond so it doesn’t just mark as read. But if he responds, then he has to either tell the truth and say ‘hey, I work at NASA now and graduated three months ago and just didn’t ask you to come to my graduation or tell you, but hey, if you want to visit you can fly down to Houston’ and get through an agonizing visit where his mom worries and he disappoints everyone-
-or lie and say he’s too busy and deflect. Again.
He feels like he’s on one of those ‘Episodes’ menus where the good option is fifty gems and he’s out and has to pick one of the shitty ones.
Honestly, his whole life has been one of those shitty menus. He screws up over and over, and he somehow falls upward and winds up working for NASA.
He, Michael Wheeler - Doctor Michael Wheeler, Jesus goddamn Christ - is working for NASA, and a ton of astronauts (read: seven) are all depending on him to be comms and keep them alive and safe from the ground.
And meanwhile, Mike’s sitting here eating stale lucky charms in water, alone in his empty, boiling cheap apartment, and trying not to panic over a text from his mom.
Mike makes bad decisions every time he makes a decision, and after a minute, he makes a very wise, adult choice.
He sets his bowl down, picks up his phone, walks over to where he was trying to sleep on the floor, and plugs in his phone.
He will… just respond tomorrow. Mike’s supposed to show up to NASA at three in the afternoon for a tour and have his first shift starting 7pm and going to 7am, so he has time. He’ll just respond in the morning. That makes sense. Maybe he’ll have better choices available in the morning.
When Mike goes back over to the box, he sees that his bowl of Unlucky Charms spilled a small puddle of water and wheat-thingies onto the floor when he set it down.
Mike considers trying to find paper towels, but after a minute, he decides that future Mike can take one more responsibility. Future Mike has a PhD and daylight and rationality on his side.
He scoots the box over (with much effort) to keep it from damaging his book collection before setting the bowl in the sink, not bothering to rinse it, and then swishing mouthwash (he doesn’t have the energy to brush his teeth), downing a Benadryl with a drink taken directly from the faucet (it helps him sleep), and then walking over and laying back down on the floor.
It’s marginally cooler. Mike thinks about that coolness and his en-route air conditioner instead of his mom as he passes out.