Work Text:
Pathetic and tired, lying on his old burgundy sofa in his old, despicable house. The bluish glow of the television illuminated his face, which in turn struggled to stay awake. A desperate attempt to recover the hours spent working, writing books that had lost their essence many volumes ago. Books that had ceased to be retellings of the past that Michael and his friends had lived and had become fiction like any other: with stereotypical characters and uncreative stories.
Michael didn't know exactly what program was on, nor did he wanted to know; he only longed for the false feeling of entertainment and joy that he had lost many years ago. After all, if he didn't have them, or at least didn't pretend he did, what was the point of continuing to live?
The man stared at the television like a human statue. The voice of the woman on the program was stimulating, and the image behind her was equally so, bright and colorful. At certain moments in the program there was laughter in the background, funny moments that the audience should laugh at. And so he did. Michael laughed without even having heard the joke properly, following the fake voices and trying to feel that, now for him, unattainable happiness.
He remained like that for a few more hours, the maximum time he could endure before finally giving in around midnight. The television continued to illuminate his face, which was now in a deep, dry sleep. A sleep without dreams or nightmares.
Michael had been happy and loved, it's true. Many years ago, however, a distant past. It was in that past that he truly lived, because now he only existed. He existed miserable with his wife – who he didn't love, neither was loved by – and with a job that he had lost his passion for.
The man no longer kept in touch with his friends. He questioned whether he could still call them "friends," for it had been years since he had seen them. Michael knew, nonetheless, without a shadow of a doubt, that they were much happier than he was.
The worst part wasn't even his unhappiness; it was that, deep down, the fault was his. Michael threw his future in the trash. All his potential thrown away, abandoned, buried, and destroyed. He couldn't blame his friends for moving on, because he was the one stuck in the past, he was the one who caused so much sadness. He could have been a better person, he could have acted better and changed the entire course of the future for the better. But he wasn't, he didn't act.
Wheeler was a coward who caused so much pain to those he loved. He could, perhaps, have even prevented El's death and confessed the truth to Will, instead of causing them so much suffering.
But now it's too late. Michael can't change the past – and he knows it. All that remains for him is a life of regrets and nothing more.