Chapter Text
Logically, he couldn’t have always thought about death. But if you were to ask him when it started, he wouldn’t be able to tell you. It could have been when he first heard his father saying things about him over the phone. It could have been when Troy and his friends cornered him in hallways, throwing insults at him. Or it could have been when Mike first stood on the cliff, feeling the rush of blood and adrenaline and undeniable fear.
All he knows is, he can’t remember a day without it. Just like he couldn’t remember a time when Hawkins was sunlit. The thoughts worked like the weather. They rained, rained, and rained upon him every hour, only leaving him alone for the gasps of sunlight that illuminated the city after a particularly long downpour.
But in towns like Hawkins, the rain never truly dried even during the summer. There were still puddles of rainwater on the pavement, and water droplets on the slides. They were almost always there.
Sometimes he would tell himself that it was just a morbid curiosity for the way death worked. It was fascinating. Would light slowly begin to feel ephemeral, like waving goodbye to an old friend that you won’t ever see again? Would his last moments be bittersweet, a tangy taste of unsaid words dying within him? Would he get his seven minutes of memories flashing before him? What would he see?
He would see the party, of course. Playing DND in his basement and cycling around the neighborhoods. He would see Christmas with his sisters, sharing presents and laughing over nothing. He would see Max making snarky comments about his hair while they secretly hung out together. He would see El choosing his clothes and asking questions about everything. He would see Will, mainly, and maybe he would get to relive 7 years of friendship one last time.
Dying wasn’t as bad as everyone thought it was. People only see life for what it is on this Earth. But Mike had always believed there was so much more. It was surely serene there, with love in the air and warm winter clothes. Maybe it was rest after so many years of struggling to be human.
Or maybe the world after was reincarnation. Maybe he would end up living in a different universe, living in such a different place from humanity. Maybe that world chose to protect nature rather than development. Maybe their blood ran green, or their bodies were sculpted like statues. Maybe there he would know what it's like to be pretty. Maybe they know how to live with one another without judgement.
Maybe Mike would be a character in someone’s favourite show in another life. Maybe someone would see all his flaws and issues and still see themselves in him. Maybe they would finally feel seen as someone, the way he always wanted. Maybe they would understand every twisted thought he has ever had and love him all the same. Maybe they wouldn’t hate him.
Maybe Mike would be able to view the Earth from the skies. He would watch over Will, and fight for his well-being every day. Maybe he would get to see his art being appreciated around the world. Maybe he would see Will get everything he wanted. (God, he wished it could work that way for him too.)
Or maybe it was heaven and hell waiting for him, just like they preached. Maybe the lord will weigh his sins and determine his afterlife. If so, he hopes he will get into heaven. Maybe he could finally rest.
Death was an open canvas, in Mike’s eyes. It could be anything and everything at once. It would finally let him go. He would no longer be the boy who yells the wrong things at the wrong people, the boy who ruins the ones he loves’ lives, the boy who pulls people down, the boy who’s good for nothing but stubbornly stays anyway. He would no longer be a liability, Michael ‘frogface’ Wheeler, the asshole, the idiot, the fag.
He would just be free.
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Mike never has energy at all these days. Time drags on and he stays in bed, sleeping for over 16 hours a day. He only wakes up to shove a few bites in his mouth, and even then, he struggles to get down the stairs. As soon as he’s done, he runs back upstairs and goes back to sleep. Sleeping is the closest thing to death he can get. It’s so calm when he’s asleep. His thoughts stop echoing in his mind. It’s the only anchoring feeling he has.
Obviously, Nancy notices this. She comes into his room more often, quietly waking Mike up and begging him to drink water. He feels like vomiting every time, but he does it anyway for her.
Sometimes, she hands him clothes and leaves, reminding him to shower and change. He doesn’t want to skip, but he just cannot stand up for long enough to bathe every day. He stays in the same shirt for a week before changing out. He really is disgusting.
His friends call and visit, but they never stay for long. They must’ve given up on him with the way he’s been acting recently. He sleeps through their calls on the walkie talkie, and eventually they stop calling at all. Max, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to mind Mike’s state. She comes over and sits on his bed, earphones in while they sit in a quiet solidarity. She’s the best part of Mike’s dreadful day, although he would never admit it to her. They worked well together, despite being so much alike.
But Max was so much better than him. Her loudness was her presence, and she was so unapologetically alive. She had empathy and could read signs. Mike was blind when it came to the obvious. He screamed and yelled and projected his insecurities onto people who never did anything wrong at all. He never knew how to suffer silently. (His feelings were everyone’s problem. He wonders how he still has friends at all.)
But his biggest wound was Will. Poor sweet Will. He was ecstatic and joyful, loving despite all the horrible things he went through. He deserves someone who could appreciate him the way he deserves. Will was all the stars in the sky, gleaming and bright and beautiful eternally. Mike could admire him forever. He wanted to trace Will’s skin with kisses. He wanted Will to hold him and run fingers through Mike’s hair. He wanted to kiss Will good morning and night and everywhere in between.
He could almost forgive himself for being so obsessed with Will. Who wouldn’t be? Who could look at him and not be tempted to press their lips against his? Who could talk to him and not love his soft honey voice? How could Mike not love his best friend? And if it were wrong, why does it feel so right?
No, it was illegal. It was gross. It was perverted to think of your best friend like that. What would Will think? Will would hate him. Everyone would hate him. People on the news die for it. Mike should die for it. He was a coward for still being alive. He was made wrong. Waste of space. Waste of time. Ugly, useless Michael. His dad was right. Mike was a pervert. So, so wrong.
God, what was he doing. No wonder Will doesn’t pick up his calls. He probably noticed when Mike hugged him before he left. He probably thought Mike’s attachment to him was weird. It made sense. Terrible sense. Will probably hates him. His friends all hate him. They should hate him. Mike was so unholy. He can’t do anything right.
So fucking stupid.
----
The thoughts never stop. He knows this; he’s grown used to it. There will always be a voice, his father’s, whispering things in the back of his mind that still stings no matter how true it is. The voice says something new every day. Sometimes in his head and sometimes in person. It finds a new way in which Mike is fucked up and berates him for it. The voice is both condescending and authoritative, as if these were just small quirks that he could fix.
But he can’t. Not because Mike doesn’t want to—he would change everything about himself if he really could—but because his father always aims for the parts of him that make him stupid, insecure Mike. He points out the parts that he hates with a suggesting tone and asks him why he couldn’t just be a normal athletic boy.
Mike asks himself the same thing all the time.
And he’s thinking too much again, and his mind keeps jumping to the quarry. The way he felt lighter than ever before in those three seconds where he was suspended in air. The way he felt like falling was the way it was meant to be. That if Will wasn’t coming back, Mike could go to him instead. They came as a pair, beyond titles like best friends. They were MikeandWill, WillandMike, even to the grave. But Will was alive. So why did Mike keep thinking about the quarry. Maybe because Mike and Will didn’t seem like a pair anymore. Or maybe because all those off-handed comments about Mike exploiting Will started to seem real. He didn’t mean to, but if that was reality then Will deserved better. And for better to arrive, he had to be gone.
But he was a coward and he wouldn’t jump.
Mike ran to the bathroom, turning on the shower. The sound of water rushing quietened his thoughts, but only one way silenced them for good.
Pain.
He quickly stripped and stood under the rushing water. Slowly, he increased the heat, until he felt a burning sensation all over. He relished it a while, his brain blocking out the thoughts for a bit. He must be insane, but if that was what it took to feel peace for even a split second, then Mike would chase this high until his knees buckled beneath him.
He stayed under the water until the heat began to even out, before increasing it further. His scalp burned and his hands felt too hot, but it was nice. He kept doing it until his sickly skin turned a soft pink and hurt to touch, before he deemed it enough. He got out and changed into a shirt large enough that wouldn’t show his skin and stood in his room.
He was in a better mood now than he had been in days. He decided to head downstairs and hang out with Holly for a while. He couldn’t be a shitty brother too.
He descended the stairs and entered the living room. His father was in the loveseat, as usual, watching the news. He turned to him, barely sparing a glance before looking back at the TV. “You finally showered. I was starting to worry that you lacked hygiene too.”
That was his first sign to leave. His father never worried about him. He never really worried about anything but dinner. But Mike just stared at the sofa, bracing himself for whatever his dad would say now.
“You took too long. Men don’t shower for an hour. Are you a girl, son? Is that why your hair is so long? And you’re skinny like one. Should I get you a skirt and the shit Nancy puts on her face? Are you a fag? You’re wasting water and my money. Next time you take so long, I’ll kick you out. No son of mine will be one of ‘em queers.”
Mike just nodded and turned on his heels. He walked back upstairs, unwilling to talk to Holly anymore. His throat closed up. He didn’t know why he felt like crying. His dad’s words didn’t matter. If anything, he should be proud that he found it in him to take a shower. Or was that wrong of him too?
It was gross. He let Nancy convince him that it wasn’t disgusting to not have the energy to shower. She’s probably disgusted at him too. God, Max must feel that way too.
And he wasn’t a girl. It didn’t matter if his hair was long or if he took longer showers. Showers were calming. Liking to feel calm didn’t mean he was a girl. And he was just made lean. He tried so hard not to be, but he can’t. That was just how he was made. And all the men in movies with long hair were so cool, and it made him feel pretty—
Handsome. Made him feel handsome. Was he really like a girl? No he wasn’t. But it made sense. Maybe that’s why some people called him those things.
No, he wasn’t a girl.
He isn’t a girl.
He isn’t a girl.
He isn’t a girl.
He isn’t—
But the thought stayed with him all night long.