Chapter Text
Mike lay on his back on his bed, sheets crumpled around his legs. His room was dark, and the only sound was his quiet breathing. He shifted to lie on his side, bringing the mess on his floor into view. Groaning, he immediately turned back around. He was too tired to care much, but a part of him still felt disappointed at the state of his room. He had never kept it all that clean before, but now it just felt like giving up.
Get up, the little part of his mind in charge of what he supposed was logical thinking, or maybe self-deprecation, whispered in a voice that sounded suspiciously like his father’s. You can’t just lie in bed all day. You have things to do.
What things? The other part, the part that actually understood how fucking exhausted he was, asked. Whatever it is, it can wait.
Stop being so lazy. This is exactly why dad is so disappointed.
Fuck off. Five more minutes.
As usual, his exhaustion won. He turned again to face the wall, curling in on himself. He could feel the sweat dripping off of his back, courtesy of the heat wave that had cursed this shithole of a town for the past few weeks.
Mike closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He felt so, so tired, an exhaustion that went down to his core and scrambled his brain until he could do nothing but sleep.
He heard knocking on his door. Three sharp, curt taps that sounded like they expected something from him. Everyone was always fucking expecting something from him. Why couldn’t they understand how drained he was? Why couldn’t they just let him sleep?
“Mike?” His mother’s voice called from outside of the door. “I need you to make Holly lunch. And your father wants to talk to you.”
Mike took a deep breath, summoning whatever strength he could find in himself to respond. “In a minute,” he managed to croak, his voice raspy from lack of use.
“It’s been a week, Michael,” Karen said, impatience growing in her voice. “You’ve only been downstairs to eat. I need you to help out. I can’t do all of the work on my own.”
“I’ll be down in a minute,” he repeated.
She went silent, and Mike could hear a muffled shout from downstairs. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly.
“Hurry up, Mike,” his mom muttered, followed by a, “Coming dear!” directed towards his father. He heard her footsteps disappear down the stairs and released a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.
He supposed that now, he really should get up. He reached his feet towards the edge of the bed, slowly inching towards the cold unknown that was his father wanting to talk to him. He pushed himself up into a seated position and slid onto the floor.
He picked up a shirt from the cluttered floor (a faded band tee- The Smiths) and pulled it over his head. He padded towards the door, slowly turning the handle and stepping out into the hallway. He squinted at the bright light and sighed, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He walked slowly and deliberately, each step feeling calculated as if the way he walked could somehow manage to make his dad think he was less of a screwup.
He regarded the upcoming conversation with a sense of impending doom; each time his father wanted to talk to Mike, his obvious disappointment was like a slap across the face.
He walked into the kitchen where Holly sat at the counter, coloring with a bright yellow crayon. She put it down and opted for blue instead, having apparently moved on to either the water or the sky. The pigtailed eight year old had taken a liking to drawing landscapes, which were good in the way that all drawings made by eight year olds are good.
“Hi Mike!” She grinned at him with a mouth full of gaps where her baby teeth had fallen out.
“Hey, Holls,” He regarded her with a soft smile. Her feet dangled in the air almost two feet off the ground, and she swung them back and forth as she colored, tongue sticking out of her mouth a bit in concentration. He was filled with such a sense of love for his carefree little sister, and a part of him just hoped she never had to grow up.
He wondered if that was how Nancy had felt about him, before she left him.
That’s not fair. The sensible part of his brain chided. She had to go to college. Just like you will soon. Cut the self-pitying, selfish crap.
He moved towards the fridge and grabbed the handle, pulling it open and examining the contents. “Okay, Holls, what do you want? We’ve got leftover meatloaf, stuff for sandwiches-”
“Sandwich, please!” Holly smiled at him, excited. “PB and J?”
“PB and J it is,” Mike responded, huffing a laugh at her enthusiasm. He grabbed the peanut butter and jelly and moved towards the bread box to get two slices of bread. He put the bread on a plate and began to assemble the sandwich.
After a minute or two, he looked towards where Holly still sat, fixated on her art. “What are you drawing, Holly?” He asked, peeking over at where she was furiously coloring, now back to yellow.
“A beach!” She held it up proudly. The yellow sand was dotted with flecks of brown, and Mike could see that Holly had used two different shades for the ocean. It honestly reminded him a bit of Will’s drawings when he was younger, which brought a small smile to his face.
“You know, I have a friend who likes art,” he found himself saying. “Will. You know him, obviously. He’s actually going to school for art.” A pang of anxiety ripped through him. Will knew what he wanted to do. He was good at it, and he had a future. Mike had an idea of what he wanted to do, but his dad had made it clear that writing was not an acceptable career choice for his only son. He tried his best to push down the bubbling dread.
Holly visibly brightened. “I like Will!” She exclaimed.
Mike smiled. “I bet he’d talk to you about art. Maybe teach you how to do more cool stuff with those crayons of yours.”
“Would he?”
“Yeah, I’ll make sure to ask him, next time I see him.”
If you ever manage to get out of the house again. So lazy.
Mike managed to keep the easy smile plastered onto his face, although it was feeling faker and faker by the second.
Holly went back to coloring, brow furrowing in immersion as she was sucked away into a world of her own creation. Mike remembered when he’d given her the crayons for her birthday, after he had seen her eyeing them in the mall when Karen took them out to go shoe shopping. When she opened the gift, she had flung herself at him and hugged him tightly, and her wide smile and continuous use of the crayons had kept him going for months.
The memory that used to bring him such comfort now just made him feel like crying. He was so fucking useless now. And selfish. And he was leaving her soon for a degree in accounting or business or whatever his father was going to force him into.
“Michael,” Ted called from the other room. “Come in here.”
Mike sighed and stood up from the counter which he had been leaning on. He walked towards the living room, bracing himself for the one sided conversation that was going to end with him even more drained than before.
“Michael, I’ve been looking at good, reputable colleges for business and accounting that I think would be a good match for you. They will let you be successful and support a family.” Ted took a big bite of the turkey sandwich he had gripped in one hand, presumably made by his mom. Mike stared at him blankly. “Well?” Ted asked. “Do you wanna hear them or not?”
“I guess,” Mike mumbled, already knowing where the conversation was headed.
“Well right now, I’m thinking the University of Notre Dame, Taylor University, things like those. They’re very good schools for business. And the campuses are all traditional, christian values and all, which I think you could use.”
He thinks you’re not good enough, the voice in his head said. You’re too messy. You don’t fit in the box. You should be a good little boy and listen to your dad. He knows best.
“You’ve disappointed me a lot recently, Michael. Honestly, you’ve been acting like a fucking fairy, moping all over the house and not doing your part, and I did not raise a faggot for a son!” He was shouting now, and Mike could feel himself shrinking under his words.
He wasn’t…that. He couldn’t be. Being like that was practically unimaginable. It scared him a bit, honestly. He didn’t want AIDS, he didn’t want to be thrown out into the street like he heard was happening in the bigger cities. He didn’t understand why anybody would want that. All his life he’d grown up learning that it was wrong and bad. It was Different. It was Other.
Mike didn’t care if other people were like that. It was their choice how they lived their lives. But him? He couldn’t be that way. He just couldn’t.
“Not to mention those friends of yours. That long haired freak? The one that moved away, he was a fucking queer! And the other one, Lonnie’s boy…”
He was still talking, but Mike wasn’t listening anymore. Why would his dad think he was a queer? He had a girlfriend before. He didn’t like boys like that. Was it because he wanted to be a writer? Was that a job for queers?
The doorbell rang out above the shouting, and Mike jumped up to get it, grateful for the interruption.
He turned the doorknob and wrenched the door open, to reveal a sopping wet Will Byers standing on his front porch. He was followed by an equally drenched Max, Jane, Dustin, and Lucas. Rain was coming down hard all around them (when had it started raining?) and Mike stood at the door staring blankly (at Will) for a few moments. Will’s hair had started to take on a scruffier look, and he’d decided to ditch the bowl cut completely after freshman year. He, like Mike, had attempted to grow it out in an imitation of Eddie, but hadn’t liked the feeling of it on the back of his neck. He had cut it himself, adding more texture and layers. Mike thought his new hair was awesome.
Mike himself had cut his hair a few months ago. The long hair made him look like a fucking fairy. His dad had been proud of him for the first time in years when he came downstairs sporting his new short hair. Mike secretly missed the long hair, though he’d never admit that to anybody.
“Are you gonna let us in, Wheeler? Or are you just gonna stand there gawking,” Max had an expression reminiscent of a slightly annoyed wet cat on her face.
His stomach dropped, and he immediately felt guilty. Why was the idea of hanging out suddenly so daunting? These were his friends, he should want to spend time with them. He didn’t want to disappoint them… but he didn’t think he could actually bring himself to spend time with anybody after that shitshow with his dad. Even the thought of hanging out made him feel drained, whereas the thought of his bed seemed so tempting, so inviting…
“Sorry uh… now isn’t really the best time,” he said in what he hoped was an apologetic enough tone that they wouldn’t think he was avoiding them. “My dad and I are talking about colleges and…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely as if to say you know how it is.
You’re such a bad friend.
Will looked at him, slightly concerned, but when Mike’s plastered-on smile didn’t fade he sighed and looked away. “Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Sure,” Mike answered, and internally winced at his own response. Would he be able to pull himself together for tomorrow?
You’ll have to. You can’t disappoint them again. You already disappoint your father, you want your friends to hate you too?
He closed the door and watched his friends mount their bikes and disappear down the street, Jane and Max riding double. Though Will and Max both had drivers licenses, and Lucas had his permit, none of them had cars and all of them were perfectly content with biking around town, even on rainy days. Mike’s dad had been trying to get him to learn, but he’d failed the test for his permit three times now.
Mike sighed and started moving towards the stairs, when his mom blocked his path. She balanced a laundry basket on her hip, full of her husband’s clothes.
“Who was that at the door, Mike?” she asked him.
“Mormons,” Mike answered shortly.
“They’re going around in this weather?” his mother asked with a level of concern that he supposed was obligatory for The Perfect Housewife.
“Dedicated Mormons,” he amended in a dry tone.
Sensing his apparent apathy, Karen huffed and turned away, continuing towards the laundry room while Mike continued to the stairs.
He guessed this was what his life was now. Dry, meaningless conversations that he still avoided at all costs, locked away in his room, going on these little adventures where his main objective was to dodge any and all questioning and hopefully expectations as well.
Terrible friend, terrible son, terrible person. You’re such a fucking disappointment.
And it was with these thoughts heavy on his mind that Mike Wheeler returned to his room where his bed sat, inviting and suddenly so wholly necessary that Mike could scream.
He was so incredibly exhausted.