Ý đ ŕ˝ŕ˝˛ đ¸ đ đOULDâVE đEEN đER đIGHTHOUSE !!
â︾ pairing đ đ đ mike wheeler x reader ,, former mike x reader x eleven
ę° đ˛ ęą synopsis đ đ đ since elâs presumed death, mike has been avoiding food, people, and the concept of tomorrow, so you show up with a plate and a refusal to leave.
Űśđ cwâs ࣪ angst. post season five. depressed mike wheeler. #mikewheelerneedsahug. comfort. potentially sensitive content ahead! ex love-triangle.
THE HUMAN BODY CAN SURVIVE, WHAT, LIKE⌠A WHILE WITHOUT FOOD?
heâs pretty sure. itâs one of those facts you pick up from movies or school or manuals that try to be educational for no reason. water matters more. water is the real issue. three days? four? heâs not testing it. heâs not doing anything on purpose. he just⌠hasnât gotten up. his legs feel glued to the mattress, like theyâre not his anymore. they belong to the bed now.
trying to remember the last time he ate is a challenge. that shouldnât be hard. that should be something you just know, like your birthday or your phone number or the names of the people you love, but his brain gives him nothing. just a vague image of a plate being set down somewhere far away from him. thatâs probably normal. people forget stuff all the time.
later, he tells himself.
later iâll get up.
later iâll eat.
later never really shows up, though. it just keeps getting rescheduled, like an appointment he forgets to cancel and then feels vaguely guilty about without fixing it. the room looks the same every day. thatâs probably the problem. or maybe itâs the point. the light shifts across the carpet sometimes, but nothing else really moves unless he makes it. and he doesnât. he barely even moves from his spot on the bed himself. sometimes he sits up though. that counts, right? sometimes he swings his legs off the bed and just⌠leaves them there, feet flat on the floor, like heâs proving something to himself. see? he can get up.
most days, the farthest he goes is the desk.
the typewriter waits for him there. the keys are cool when he touches them, dusty, and that small sensation is usually what gets him to sit all the way down. the chair creaks in the same spot every time. he keeps meaning to tighten the screw. he never does. he feeds a blank page in, straightens it, pulls it back out. feeds it again, because the margin was off by a millimeter. he stares at the page. his fingers hover, then tap one key. a single letter appears, slightly off-center. he hates it immediately and tries again. a sentence this time, kind of. it doesnât go anywhere. it just⌠exists, like him. he reads it over twice, then a third time, like it might reveal a hidden meaning if he stares long enough. it doesnât. god, this is bad.
he rips the page out, crumples it, tosses it toward the trash can. it misses. he leaves it on the floor. heâs been doing that a lot. sometimes he wonders if this is what writers do. like, the real ones. the tortured genius thing. sitting alone, not eating, surrounded by discarded drafts and self-loathing.
yeah, okay. sure mike. thatâs definitely what this is.
everyoneâs busy now. thatâs normal. they graduated. theyâre supposed to be busy. jobs, plans, places to go that arenât this house, this room, this exact stretch of carpet. he should be doing something too. he just⌠isnât. itâs not like heâs choosing this. heâs not sitting here thinking, i will isolate myself today. he just keeps realizing, hours later, that the day has already happened without him. that makes him angry. at himself. mostly at himself. get it together, he tells himself. this is stupid.
he presses his fingers harder into the keys, types another sentence, then another, like force might help. it doesnât. the words come out wrong, like heâs describing something heâs never actually felt. which is ridiculous. heâs felt plenty.
hasnât he?
he stops. leans back. the chair creaks again. his stomach twists, sharp enough that he actually hisses under his breath. he looks at the clock. 2:18. that seems⌠late. early? both? he canât tell anymore. the numbers donât mean what they used to, they just mark how much time heâs wasted. everyone else can do this. everyone else can just live. lucas is probably running somewhere with max, dustin off with steve and robin, and will â will calls. sometimes. not every day. mike lets it ring more often than he answers, then stares at the missed call like itâs proof of something terrible about him. what, exactly, heâs not sure. just⌠something. what kind of person does that? what kind of best friend?
he doesnât answer himself, because if he did, the answer would probably be something like you, and heâs not in the mood to be indicted further.
the typewriter just sits there. he stares at the page again, waiting for it to suggest something. anything. usually his brain wonât shut upâassociations piling on top of each other, ideas branching out into other ideas, little what-ifs and rules and worlds clicking into place. thatâs always been the thing. thatâs been his thing. now itâs just quiet. nothing to grab onto. nothing to follow. write what you know, he thinks, like thatâs helpful. like that hasnât been the advice since the dawn of time.
what does he know?
he knows how the keys feel under his fingers. cold at first, then warming. he knows the exact resistance of the âe,â which sticks sometimes, just enough to be annoying. he knows the smell of ink and dust and old paper. he knows how the chair creaks when he leans back too far. he knows that every story he tries to start turns into the same thing if heâs not careful. a girl who disappears. a boy who waits. a promise that feels unfinished. he yanks the page out before it can get there and crumples it harder this time. âidiot.â he mutters, not loudly, just enough for himself to hear. heâs very good at keeping his criticism at an indoor volume.
everyone else can move on because theyâre supposed to, because thatâs what people do when something terrible happens and thereâs nothing left to fight. they grieve. they cry. they hold each other. and then, eventually, they keep living. thatâs the order of operations. mike understands that. heâs not stupid.
it just feels⌠wrong.
like skipping a step. like calling a campaign over when the boss fight hasnât actually happened yet. like everyone packing up their dice and character sheets while heâs still sitting there, staring at the map, thinking, no, wait, thereâs more.
eleven isnât dead.
he knows that. sheâs alive. she has to be. if she isnâtâ
well.
he doesnât finish that thought. heâs learned not to. some doors donât need to be opened to know thereâs nothing good behind them. his stomach twists again, slow and aching now, like itâs given up on urgency. he barely reacts. the pain feels like proof that something is still happening. he presses a hand there, not to soothe it, just to feel it.
you should eat, a reasonable voice says somewhere in his head. it sounds a lot like nancy.
or you could just lie down, another voice counters. that one sounds like him.
he pushes the chair back and stands. the room tilts slightly, but he steadies himself on the desk, fingers brushing the edge where old dents still live from when he was twelve and slammed his hand down too hard after a bad roll. he doesnât bother fixing the papers or straightening the chair. he just crosses the room and collapses back onto the bed, curling in on himself without really thinking about it. knees to chest, arms tucked in, like heâs trying to take up as little space as possible. the mattress dips around him. his stomach hurts more like this, compressed, but he doesnât move.
good, he thinks. at least somethingâs working.
voices float up again from downstairs. nancyâs, this time for sure. softer, careful. he knows that tone. sheâs been using it a lot lately. their mom too. worried, but trying not to show it. trying not to push. mike appreciates that, even if a small, ugly part of him resents being handled at all. they knocked for a while. asked questions. offered things. then, gradually, they stopped.
space, they decided. mike needs space.
thatâs probably true. when people press, he locks up. always has. pressure turns him into something brittle, something mean.
downstairs, tedâs voice cuts through it all, unconcerned, something about the tv, about dinner, about how he worked all day and would like to relax.
you donât get to be this upset, mike reminds himself. other people have it worse. max. lucas. will. even dustin, who pretends everythingâs fine. youâre not special. youâre not the only one who lost something.
the problem is, he didnât just lose her. he lost the future heâd already lived in his head. the one where they grew up. where they argued about stupid things and kissed at beaches and survived everything because that was kind of the point. letting go of that feels like lying. like betraying her.
his chest tightens, not enough to cry. he doesnât really do that. it just sits there. you should get up, he thinks. do something. write something. be useful.
he doesnât.
he curls tighter, forehead pressing into the pillow, stomach aching, thoughts dull and circular. heâs fine. this is temporary.
tomorrow heâll answer the phone.
tomorrow heâll eat.
tomorrow heâll write something.
for now he just lies there.
the words loop until they lose shape, until tomorrow stops meaning a real day and turns into a concept. a placeholder. a lie heâs allowed to tell himself because it sounds responsible. his brain drifts anyway. it always does, even when he doesnât ask it to. he wonders where she is.
not if. where.
thatâs the thing everyone else gets wrong. they talk about eleven like sheâs gone somewhere abstract, like sheâs a memory. mike pictures geography. movement. hiding. some place dark and quiet where sheâs keeping her head down, waiting until itâs safe. sheâs good at that. she always has been. maybe sheâs somewhere cold. or somewhere loud, where no one would notice one more strange thing. maybe she cut her hair again. maybe she didnât. maybe sheâs using a fake name and hating it.
maybe sheâs thinking about him.
that thought hurts worse than the hunger. he presses his face harder into the pillow like that might smother it.
downstairs something opens. a cabinet, maybe. mike doesnât move. none of it feels like it belongs to him. after about a minute thereâs a knock on his bedroom door. careful, like whoever it is already knows yelling wonât help. âgo away,â mike says into the pillow. his voice comes out rougher than he expects. he clears his throat and tries again. âiâm busy.â
a pause. then, from the other side of the door, âitâs me.â
oh. shit.
he sits up too fast, the room pitching again, and for a second he thinks he might actually throw up. he doesnât, but the possibility lingers, unpleasant and humiliating. me only ever means one person.
you.
mike looks down at himself like heâs just noticed his body for the first time. same sweatshirt. again. he canât remember putting it on, which probably means he didnât take it off. his hair is messy, sticking up in places it shouldnât. his mouth tastes bad. stale. great. fantastic timing. another knock, a little firmer this time, but still gentle. youâve always been like that. careful with doors. careful with everything, really. âmike?â you call, closer now, like you leaned in. âcan i come in?â
mike swallows. his instinct is to say no. to pretend heâs asleep. to wait it out until you leave and he can go back to being a lump with thoughts instead of a human being with a face. but youâre here. actually here, not a phone call he can ignore or a memory he can rearrange until it hurts less. âyeah,â mike answers finally. âyeah. um. sure.â he considers brushing his teeth, then realizes he doesnât have time and that would require leaving the room anyway, which defeats the purpose.
the door opens. you stand there, half in the hallway light, half in mikeâs dim room, like you havenât decided which world you belong to yet. you look thinner, tired in a way that doesnât go away with sleep. your eyes meet. something tightens in mikeâs chestânot panic, exactly. something like guilt that hasnât figured out what it wants to be yet. âhey.â you greet.
âhey.â
âhey,â you say again, softer this time.
mike doesnât get up, he doesnât even pretend like heâs going to. he stays half-curled on the bed, shoulder pressed into the mattress, one arm tucked under the pillow like he might disappear into it if he tries hard enough. part of him registers that he should stand, should do something, should at least look like a functional person greeting another human being, but the thought fizzles out before it turns into motion. you donât comment on it. of course. you step inside and close the door behind you without being asked. mike watches you from the corner of his eye. you move carefully, but not awkwardlyâcomfortable. familiar. you toe your shoes off by the door out of habit, set your bag down on the chair thatâs been acting as a second closet for weeks.
thatâs when he smells it. food. real food. warm. greasy. unmistakable.
his stomach clenches hard enough that he actually has to bite down on his lip, a sharp little hiss escaping anyway. traitor. absolute traitor of a body. he hadnât been hungryânot reallyâbut now the smell hits him and itâs like his insides wake up just to remind him what heâs been ignoring. you follow his gaze, clock it immediately. âi brought something,â you offer, like itâs no big deal, like you didnât plan this. âfigured⌠you know. just in case.â
mike does know. he knows exactly what case this is.
the bag crinkles softly when you lift it. itâs from that placeâthe one on the corner near the old arcade, the one that still smells like fryer oil and burnt coffee no matter how many health inspections it passes. you, mike and el used to go there after school sometimes, squeezing into the booth, eleven always stealing fries off mikeâs plate and pretending she wasnât.
âyou didnât have to.â
âi know,â you reply easily. âi wanted to.â
you set the bag down on his desk, next to the typewriter. mike watches your hand hover for half a second over the keys, like youâre resisting the urge to touch them. youâre thinking about asking. you donât. another kindness. you glance at the papers scattered everywhereâthe half-started pages, the ripped-out sheets, the one where he typed the same sentence five times and crossed it out harder each time. mike feels weirdly exposed, like youâve just walked in on him failing at something private. âworking on something?â you ask, gentle, not pushing.
mike snorts quietly, face still half-buried in the pillow. âdefine working.â
you smile a little at that. not a big smile, just the corner of your mouth. thereâs a pause. the kind that used to feel comfortable and now just feels heavy. mikeâs brain scrambles for something to say, anything normal, but all his thoughts slide off each other. you sit on the edge of the bed without asking. the mattress dips, the movement small but noticeable. mike stiffens on instinct, then hates himself for it. youâve been closer than this. youâve slept on this bed before, tangled up in blankets and limbs and bad dreams and whispered jokes at three in the morning. still, he doesnât move away.
the smell of food is stronger now. fries. something fried. something sweet underneath it. his stomach growls, loud and traitorous, and he freezes, mortified. you donât laugh. you donât say anything at all, actually. you just reach down, pull the bag open, and set the container on the desk, popping it open enough that the steam escapes. mike swears the smell alone could knock him unconscious. âyou donât have to eat it now,â you say, like you can hear his thoughts. âor at all. itâll keep.â
mike doesnât correct you. he knows thatâs not true. nothing keeps forever.
everything gets cold.
everything goes bad eventually.
you glance at him again, and this time thereâs worry there. real worry. not the kind adults give him when they think space is the answer to everything. âyou okay?â
mike almost laughs. what a stupid question, his brain supplies automatically. what a nice question.
âyeah. totally. thriving.â you look at him. mike looks away. âright,â he says. âsorry. i meanâyeah. iâm okay.â
itâs not the truth, but itâs closer than an outright lie. you donât argue. you donât push. he wonders, stupidly, what youâre thinking. if you can see how bad itâs gotten. if youâre aware of the same things he is, the sweatshirt, the messy room, the collection of empty water bottles, the way he hasnât brushed his teeth, the way he canât seem to sit up straight anymore. he hates that youâre seeing him like this.
he hates it in the specific, irrational way where his brain immediately follows up with you shouldâve cleaned, you shouldâve showered, you shouldâve at least pretended to be normal for ten minutes, like any of that wouldâve actually changed the situation. like this isnât already past the point of pretending. you never say anything about it though. not the sweatshirt, not the bottles lined up like some kind of hydration graveyard, not the way the room smells like dust and old paper and a person who hasnât opened a window in days. you stand up again and move back toward the desk. mike watches you pull the container all the way open, steam fogging the air between you for a second. itâs his order.
the greasy noodles. extra sauce. the kind that always leaves his fingers slick and his stomach warm and heavy afterward. thereâs a side of fries too, dumped carelessly into a cardboard tray, still smelling like salt and oil and that place. that stupid place. the one where eleven used to wrinkle her nose at the smell and then eat half of mikeâs anyway. he looks away before the memory finishes forming.
you grab a fork from the bag and cross the room again, holding it out to him like itâs the most normal thing in the world. mike doesnât take it. âiâm not hungry.â
you pause, fork still outstretched. you donât sigh. you donât argue. you just raise an eyebrow at him, slightly, in that way that says i know you, which is unfair, because you do. âjust⌠eat a little.â
âiâm fine.â
liar. coward.
you donât deserve it anyway. food is for people who are doing something. people who are moving forward. people who didnât get someone killed. people who arenât just⌠taking up space.
you donât pull the fork back. âmike,â you encourage, gently, and something in your tone makes his chest ache. not disappointed, not angry, just tired. grieving. âplease.â
he hates that word. he cracks an eye open and looks at you. your shoulders are tense, there are shadows under your eyes that werenât there before everything went to hell. youâre holding it together the same way he isâbadlyâbut youâre at least upright. present. here. youâre hurting too, a part of him realizes belatedly. you lost her too.
he takes the fork.
you donât hover. you sit back down on the bed, closer now, and pick up your own container, start eating like this is just⌠what youâre doing. like this is a normal afternoon activity and not a delicate negotiation with his will to exist. mike stares at the food for a second. the noodles glisten under the light. his stomach tightens again, painfully loud this time, and he winces. just one bite. to shut it up. he twists the fork into the noodles, lifts them to his mouth, hesitates for half a second too longâthen eats.
salt. heat. grease. his throat tightens, not from the food, but from the sudden, overwhelming reminder that his body is still capable of wanting something. still wired for survival despite his best efforts. he chews mechanically. swallows. nothing terrible happens. he eats another smaller bite. out of the corner of his eye he can see you pretending not to watch, pretending this isnât a victory. you both eat in silence for a minute. he takes several bites, but not because he wants to.
because he doesnât want to disappoint you.
he chews slowly, eyes fixed on the wall like if he looks at you too directly something might spill out that he doesnât have the energy to clean up. eventually, the container is lighter. emptier. you close it without comment and set it aside, wiping your hands on a napkin you pull from the bag. mike feels suddenly, acutely, embarrassed. not just a little. deeply. heâs hyperaware now of everything he let slide while he wasnât paying attention. the room feels smaller with you in it, cluttered with evidence of him. he clears his throat. âyou donât⌠uh. you donât have to stay.â
âi know.â
thatâs not what he meant.
he shifts, pushes himself up a little, then winces when his head swims. âiâm serious. thanks. really. but iâm fine now, soââ
âyouâre not.â you say, quietly.
there it is.
irritation flares hot and sudden, like a match struck too close to something flammable. heâs always been like thisâcorner him, press him, and he snaps. itâs reflex. âi said iâm fine,â he repeats, sharper now. âyou donât need toâlikeâmonitor me or whatever.â
you donât rise to it. âiâm not monitoring you, iâm sitting with you.â
âsame thing.â
you sigh softly, not annoyed, just tired. âmike.â
he swings his legs off the bed, stands too fast, sways, grabs the desk to steady himself. his heartâs pounding now, loud in his ears, his thoughts scattering like startled birds. âi just want to be alone, okay?â he snaps. âwhy is that so hard for everyone to understand?â
then you say, very calmly, âbecause this isnât being alone. this is you disappearing.â
âdramatic much?â
you donât smile. âiâm not leaving. you need to talk to someone.â
âi donât,â mike fires back. âi just needâtime. space. iâm allowed to grieve how i want.â his voice cracks on the next sentence and he hates that you hear it. hates that he canât stop it. âthis is because of her,â he continues, like itâs an accusation. like it explains everything. âif she hadnâtâif this didnât happen, i wouldnâtââ he cuts himself off, breathing hard, staring at the floor like itâs done something wrong.
you stand up like youâre approaching a skittish animal. âi know.â
âno, you donât. you donât know. you donât get it. none of you do. she wasâshe wasââ he gestures uselessly, words tangling. âeverything. and everyone just expects me toâwhat? move on? act normal?â
youâre closer now. âno one expects that. we just donât want you to disappear with her.â
people who are depressed know theyâre depressed, he thinks. they say stuff about it. they cry all the time. they canât get out of bed because theyâre sad. heâs not been sad. he just⌠doesnât want to move.
something in your expression shifts. resolve, maybe. âmike, please donât push me away. this isnât what she would want.â
his chest tightens immediately, painfully. he sees it so clearly it almost knocks the air out of himâeleven standing in front of the both of you on the last day he ever saw her, serious and unshakable and determined, looking between the two of you like she was stitching you together with her eyes. promise me, sheâd said. you take care of each other.
mikeâs face crumples before he can stop it. itâs instant. humiliatingly fast. his mouth twists, his chin wobbling, breath hitching like his lungs forgot how to work. he turns his head sharply to the side like that might hide it, but itâs too late. his eyes burn. his throat closes. âdonât.â you freeze, like you hadnât expected it to be this immediate. this bad. mike presses his palm hard into his eye like he can physically shove the feeling back in. it doesnât work. it never does. âiâm screwing it up,â he blurts. âiâm screwing everything up.â
you reach for him then. tentative, careful. your fingers hover at his arm like youâre asking permission without words. he doesnât pull away. that alone feels like failure. âmike.â
âi just miss her,â he chokes. it sounds pathetic even to his own ears, thin and childish and inadequate for the size of the loss. âi miss her so much. everyone keeps acting like time is doing something about it and itâs not. itâs not fixing anything.â
he drags a hand through his hair, pacing now because standing still feels unbearable and he doesnât need you touching him right now. no one tells you how to grieve your badass girlfriend when sheâs been saving your ass since you were twelve. for a second he just breathes. in. out. in. out. it doesnât help. suddenly, he straightens. his eyes are unfocused, like heâs looking at something that isnât in the room. âi couldâve been a lighthouse.â
you blink. âhuh?â
âitâsâi know it sounds stupid. itâs not stupid.â he says quickly, almost frantic, like the idea will evaporate if he doesnât say it all at once. âthereâs this lighthouse,â he says. âon the coast. i think. i read about it somewhere. or maybe i made it up. whatever. it doesnât matter. itâs justâthere. tall. solid. built to last. it doesnât go anywhere. it doesnât fight storms. it just stands there and shines so ships donât crash.â his hands are shaking now. he clasps them together, then lets them go, then clenches them again. âpeople act like thatâs enough. like standing there is enough. but itâs only useful if someone sees it. if someoneâs out there, lost and scared and looking for something to guide them. otherwise itâs justââ he gestures helplessly. âa building. empty. pointless.â he swallows hard, throat bobbing. âeleven was a storm. she wasâshe was everything. she had all this â this power and fire and all this⌠momentum. and i wasnât. i wasnât like that. i wasnât strong the way she was. i wasnât brave like her. i wasnâtâ i wasnât even close. i kept thinking if i stayed stillâif i didnât mess things upâif i just⌠stayed where i was, maybe that was enough. like if i didnât move, nothing bad could happen.â
his voice cracks so hard he has to stop. âbut storms donât care. they donât wait. and ships donât either. they crash if thereâs no light.â he looks up at you, eyes red and shining, face twisted with something close to panic. âi couldâve been her lighthouse. i couldâve given her light. i couldâve been the thing she looked at and knew sheâd be okay. i couldâve been the one who burned for her, who â- who stayed lit when it mattered.â is he making sense? probably not. does he care? not at all. âinstead i justâstood there. in the dark. thinking being there was enough.â his voice drops to nothing. âi let the waves take her.â
his face morphs in a way you have never and never in your life thought youâd see. michael wheeler starts to cry. in front of you. real crying. messy and uneven and embarrassing, face twisted, breath coming in gasps like heâs drowning on dry land. he hates it. hates how weak it feels, how exposed. hates that this is happening in front of you. âi couldâve been her lighthouse.â
you step closer, arms coming around him fully now, and he doesnât resist. he leans into you without meaning to. âoh, mike..â
he hates the sound heâs making. the hitching, the wet inhale that wonât make it all the way in, the way his breath keeps stuttering like it forgot how to work. itâs humiliating. itâs loud. his dadâs voice floats up somewhere from his memory, something about pulling it together, something about how men donât fall apart like this, especially not in front of other people. especially not over feelings.
your arms are solid around him. thatâs another problem. solid things are hard to ignore. he freezes for half a second, muscles locking out of pure instinct, like if he stays still enough maybe this can rewind, maybe youâll let go, maybe he can laugh it off later and pretend this didnât happen. but he doesnât pull away, he doesnât have the energy. his forehead ends up against your shoulder, not on purpose, just gravity doing what gravity does when youâre tired and empty and everything hurts too much to hold up on your own. âiâm sorry.â he manages, which is stupid, because sorry for what? existing? taking up space? crying? proving everyone right? that heâs not okay? his hands curl in the fabric of your shirt like he needs something to anchor himself to, and he hates that too. hates that he needs anything. hates that heâs always needed things, even when people pretended he didnât. mikeâs fine, they say. mike doesnât care. mike doesnât get upset. mikeâs tough. mike can handle it. and he always did, until now. until eleven is gone and the world kept moving like that was acceptable and heâs supposed to just⌠adapt.
you say his name again, tell him to stop, to not apologize, and it does something awful to his chest. he shakes his head even though you canât see it. âi shouldnâtââ his voice gives out again, betraying him mid-sentence. âthis is so dumb.â crying was never an option. even though when eleven cried, he held her. when will cried, he held him. when the world fell apart, he stood there and tried to be useful by not making it worse. but now thereâs nothing left to hold together, and the worst part is that youâre not letting him go. youâre still there. he doesnât know how to be the one being held, so he just stands there, shaking and breathing and crying into your shoulder, letting himself be something other than enough for once, even if it scares the hell out of him.
you donât just let him spiral standing there. you guide him back toward the bed like youâve done this before. he stumbles a little, feet catching on nothing, and lets himself be steered because resisting feels like too much work. the springs creak under the familiar weight of his body and for a second his brain latches onto that instead. same sound. same bed. still here. stupid things to notice. stupid things that keep him from floating off completely. you crouch in front of him so youâre eye level, hands warm on his knees. youâre saying thingsâhe can tell by the way your mouth movesâbut they slide right past him. itâs not your fault, mike. itâs not your fault. his chest tightens anyway, like his body is arguing even if his brain wonât engage. fault is such a loaded word. fault implies choice. something he couldâve done differently. his thoughts start drifting again, tugged sideways by images he doesnât want: soldiers, the upside down, her face slack with exhaustion and stubborn determination. he blinks too slowly. heâs slipping. he knows that feeling now.
you notice before he does. you always do. your hand comes up, thumb brushing his cheek where the tears are. âmike,â you say again, then you lean in and kiss him, soft and grounding and real, a press of lips that says stay. his brain short-circuits completely. every thought evaporates on impact. his breath catches and his hands twitch uselessly at his sides like they donât know what their job is anymore. kissing has always been complicated for himâtoo many feelings, too many meaningsâbut this isnât about that. this is you pulling him back into his body when heâs about to disappear again.
when you pull away his forehead tips forward until it rests against yours. he exhales like heâs been holding his breath for days. his eyes are unfocused, lashes clumped, face blotchy and red and embarrassing. âthree waterfalls. im such an idiot.â
you frown, a little ache in your chest, because you know exactly what heâs talking about. that stupid, beautiful, impossible dream he had proposed to you and el both before⌠before everything. before it all went wrong. the way he said it nowâim such an idiotâmakes your stomach twist. it was a nice dream. it was soft in a world that had refused to let any of you breathe for years. your lips press together to keep from saying anything. âwaitâoh, shit, iâi didnât meanâiâm notâi wasnâtââ he stumbles over the words, realizing, oh no, that in talking about what couldâve been, heâs ignored what you felt too. your grief. your love for el. the same grief heâs drowning in himself. suddenly, without thinking, his brain switches modes. protector. must protect. canât lose anyone else.
âcome here.â he says, pulling you in before you can respond, arms wrapping around you. heâs suddenly aware heâs been holding his breath for like three minutes and oh god is that even possible lungs what is happening stop breathing stop moving stop thinking and your hair smells good and maybe he shouldâve eaten those last six bites but he didnât because heâs pathetic and also embarrassed and oh shit did he just touch your arm okay maybe not maybe he didnât and wait your arm is still there your arm is there and it feels like oxygen like it feels like heâs been underwater forever and this is the first surface heâs hit and also heâs not supposed to need oxygen from anyone and this is dumb and why is he thinking about oxygen why is he thinking about air why is he thinking about everything.
he leans in and your lips are there and suddenly thatâs a thing and he doesnât know what to do because kissing isnât supposed to fix grief itâs supposed to be fun and light and terrible and maybe itâs terrible anyway because he canât stop thinking about eleven and also you and also why does he need both of you at the same time like some dumb math problem that canât be solved because numbers donât exist and heâs a disaster and also his chest is too tight and why is breathing so hard when itâs supposed to be easy and what is normal and why did everyone leave and why is it just him holding you and also does he even deserve this at all?
he mutters against you without thinking: please donât leave. and oh god, did he just say that out loud? probably did. fuck, youâre probably judging him for saying that. oh no, oh no no no and your arms are around him and okay maybe thatâs fine â- maybe thatâs the only thing keeping him from unraveling entirely, maybe heâs supposed to be the lighthouse, maybe he isnât but oh god the storm the storm the storm eleven the storm and he just canât think straight and youâre here and thank god and maybe he doesnât even care that itâs wrong to feel this desperate to cling to someone like this maybe itâs okay maybe itâs safe maybe itâs the only thing standing between him and disappearing completely and maybe itâs all too much and not enough and holy shit why is everything always like this.
mike begins to wonder if something is wrong with him. why he can only feel so alive in the presence of certain people.
why does everything feel brighter when heâs with certain people? with you. with eleven. with will sometimes, but not like this. not like this gnawing, twisting, canât-breathe kind of alive that makes his chest ache and stomach clench at the same time. he hates it. hates it because itâs uncontrollable and stupid and pathetic and also, somehow, the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the floor. why canât he just be a normal person who sits still and waits for the world to stop being terrible? oh right, because thatâs not a thing, and it never was.
he noses against your hair without thinking, and you sigh softly, the kind of sigh thatâs not about being frustrated, itâs soft, and mikeâs chest loosens just a hair. itâs not much. itâs not enough to be okay, but maybe itâs a start. maybe itâs enough to stop panicking for five seconds. he closes his eyes, lets himself sink into you, and the world still feels wrong, but slightly more bearable, like maybe he can survive this storm after all. then his lips are on yours again, and heâs hopeless. hopeless and desperate and obsessed, and itâs soft and warm and messy and safe. he kisses you, hands awkwardly catching yours or your arms or your shoulders wherever he can reach without looking stupid, because god forbid he look pathetic and messy and emotional and he already is all those things. somehow itâs enough to make the tears stop dripping down his cheeks for now, at least the ones he notices. heâs breathing you in, and he realizes that youâre it. the last thing he has. he doesnât just want to hold you, he needs to. maybe thatâs bad. maybe thatâs codependent. maybe thatâs stupid. it works for him. its how he likes to cope, if the option is available. by turning all his attention towards someone he likes. he canât lose you too. he wonât.
itâs practical. efficient, even. worrying about you gives his brain something to chew on besides the gaping hole where the future was supposed to go. besides el. besides the way everyone else keeps talking about plansâjobs, cities, lives that keep moving forward like thatâs a reasonable thing to do after the world ends for the third time. focusing on you is easier. youâre right here. you forget to eat. you donât sleep enough. great. solvable problems. mike wheeler, problem-solver extraordinaire. this is familiar territory. this, he can do. someone has to be paying attention to you. clearly, itâs him.
all the fear, all the love, all the frantic what-if energy gets narrowed down to you. a laser beam instead of an explosion. this is better. if heâs worried about you, he doesnât have to ask what happens when everyone else keeps leaving and he doesnât know how to follow. if heâs holding you together, that means heâs not the one unraveling. so as your breath syncs without either of you acknowledging it, he thinks, with a detached sort of acceptance, okay. this is my thing now. not saving the world, not waiting for miracles. just this. keeping you here, making sure youâre okay. letting that be enough. it has to be enough, because if you go too â- well. heâll deal with that later. he always does.
you finally pull back a little, just enough for both of you to breathe, and you brush a hand down his arm. âwe can get through this. together.â you console, and your voice is calm and steady, and mike thinks about how steady you always seem to be and why does he have to be the opposite of that, why canât he be normal and cool and collected like everyone else, like heâs supposed to be. âokay? itâs what she would want for us.â
mike swallows, and he nods, barely.
yes, okay, thatâs what she would want. he agrees. he agrees with you. he agrees with everything you say, ever, actually. and god, el would also maybe roll her eyes at him and tease him and giggle at him for him crying like a baby into your shoulder and then immediately getting clingy. he buries his face in your neck hesitantly, and mutters something half-grumbled, âiâm never gonna be normal. ever. can you deal with that?â
you roll your eyes, a small smile tugging your lips, âprobably. probably can. but firstâŚâ you tug on the hem of his hoodie, playful but gentle, âshower. you smell like shit.â
mike smiles weakly, and for half a second he almost feels like himself again. almost. the kind of almost that doesnât count but still hurts when it slips away. he lets you tug him back just far enough to look at him, hoodie wrinkled where your fingers grip it like youâre afraid he might evaporate if you let go. he probably would. good instinct. âwow,â he says hoarsely, swiping at his face with the heel of his hand and missing at least one tear, because of course. âromance is dead.â
you huff, unimpressed. âmike.â
âokay, okay.â he concedes, because he always does with you. arguing with you feels like too much effort and also because youâre right, which is worse. he lets himself be maneuvered toward the bathroom like an uncooperative cat. itâs embarrassing how long itâs been since heâs showered. he knows that. he knows a lot of things lately and does nothing about most of them.
the bathroom light is too bright. everything is too bright. the mirror catches him off guardâhollow-eyed, hair limp, face still red like he cried at a funeral. he looks like someone who hasnât been sleeping. or eating. or planning on being around long enough for either of those things to matter. he looks away quickly, focusing instead on the sound of you turning on the water, testing the temperature. he doesnât say thank you. he doesnât know how. instead, he says, âyou donât have to babysit me, you know.â
âi know,â you say again. âi want to.â
something in his chest gives, not enough to cry againâheâs tapped out for nowâbut enough that his throat tightens and he nods, dumbly, because if he opens his mouth heâs going to say something inconveniently honest, like please donât leave me alone or i donât trust myself when youâre not here or sometimes i think about how easy it would be to stop trying. none of those are things heâs ready to hand over.
he showers. eventually. you pick up his room for him a bit, then sit on his bed, reading one of his comics and pretending not to keep track of how long heâs in there. he lets the water run hotter than it should. when he comes back out, clean and damp and wrapped in a towel, you hand him clothes and he gets dressed. he sits. you sit next to him. neither of you talk for a bit. if you werenât here, he probably wouldnât be either. the thought is disturbingly calm. he doesnât say it, he never will. instead, he leans into your side, testing it, and you lean back without hesitation. maybe thatâs the problem. or maybe thatâs the reason heâs still here.
his room looks different when itâs clean. wrong, almost. too much empty space where mess used to be. you sitting on his bed helps. proves he didnât imagine the last few hours. he focuses on small things to keep his thoughts from getting loud again, your shoulder against his, the way the comic in your hands crinkles when you turn a page, the smell of soap still clinging to him.
everyone else is moving on, and it makes him sick. everyone but you and him, apparently. willâs leaving for college soon. lucas and max are serious nowâcapital S serious. dinner plans. constant dates. conversations about the future and moving in together that mike isnât invited into because he wouldnât know what to do with them anyway. dustin is always busy, always running somewhere with steve or robin or talking about college like itâs a sure thing and not a terrifying cliff.
and el, presumed dead? what a fucked phrase. like thereâs no room for debate. no one checks on mike much anymore. sometimes he wonders what would happen if he just⌠didnât come out of his room one day. he hates himself for thinking that. then he hates himself for hating himself. exhausting. a real cycle. being stuck in his head feels like being locked in a room with a narrator who wonât shut up and hates him personally. he knows, intellectually, that he should ask for help. that this is the part where people say reach out. but reach out to who? and say what? hi, iâm not actively dying but i kind of donât want to exist most days, can you pencil me in?
you shift beside him like you felt his thoughts getting too close to the edge. this probably isnât healthy. needing someone this much isnât sustainable. tomorrow youâll leave the room, and the door will close, and the silence will rush back in, and mike wonât want to do any of this for himself. but thatâs not today. today, youâre here. today, he has something to lean against that leans back. if thatâs all he has right nowâif thatâs the only reason he gets out of bed, the only reason the world hasnât swallowed him wholeâfuck it. heâll take it.
either way, tomorrow feels impossible. tonight though, tonight heâs clean, and breathing, and not alone.
based off this request !
A/N: FIRST FIC OF THE YEAR!!!! happy new years everyoneâŚ. totally didnât write this as an excuse to write depressed mikeâŚâŚ i hate him and i must make him suffer (heâs my favorite character)
STARTED 1.4.2026. POSTED 1.4.2026.
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ÂŠď¸ latedeparture
