݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓘 𝓒OULD’VE 𝓑EEN 𝓗ER 𝓛IGHTHOUSE !!
⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 mike wheeler x reader ,, former mike x reader x eleven
꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 since el’s 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.
۶𝜚 cw’s ࣪ 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?
he’s pretty sure. it’s 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? he’s not testing it. he’s not doing anything on purpose. he just… hasn’t gotten up. his legs feel glued to the mattress, like they’re not his anymore. they belong to the bed now.
trying to remember the last time he ate is a challenge. that shouldn’t 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. that’s probably normal. people forget stuff all the time.
later, he tells himself.
later i’ll get up.
later i’ll 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. that’s probably the problem. or maybe it’s the point. the light shifts across the carpet sometimes, but nothing else really moves unless he makes it. and he doesn’t. 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 he’s 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 doesn’t 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 doesn’t. 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. he’s 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. that’s definitely what this is.
everyone’s busy now. that’s normal. they graduated. they’re supposed to be busy. jobs, plans, places to go that aren’t this house, this room, this exact stretch of carpet. he should be doing something too. he just… isn’t. it’s not like he’s choosing this. he’s 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 doesn’t. the words come out wrong, like he’s describing something he’s never actually felt. which is ridiculous. he’s felt plenty.
hasn’t 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 can’t tell anymore. the numbers don’t mean what they used to, they just mark how much time he’s 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 — will calls. sometimes. not every day. mike lets it ring more often than he answers, then stares at the missed call like it’s proof of something terrible about him. what, exactly, he’s not sure. just… something. what kind of person does that? what kind of best friend?
he doesn’t answer himself, because if he did, the answer would probably be something like you, and he’s 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 won’t shut up—associations piling on top of each other, ideas branching out into other ideas, little what-ifs and rules and worlds clicking into place. that’s always been the thing. that’s been his thing. now it’s just quiet. nothing to grab onto. nothing to follow. write what you know, he thinks, like that’s helpful. like that hasn’t 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 “e,” 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 he’s 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. “idiot.” he mutters, not loudly, just enough for himself to hear. he’s very good at keeping his criticism at an indoor volume.
everyone else can move on because they’re supposed to, because that’s what people do when something terrible happens and there’s nothing left to fight. they grieve. they cry. they hold each other. and then, eventually, they keep living. that’s the order of operations. mike understands that. he’s not stupid.
it just feels… wrong.
like skipping a step. like calling a campaign over when the boss fight hasn’t actually happened yet. like everyone packing up their dice and character sheets while he’s still sitting there, staring at the map, thinking, no, wait, there’s more.
eleven isn’t dead.
he knows that. she’s alive. she has to be. if she isn’t—
well.
he doesn’t finish that thought. he’s learned not to. some doors don’t need to be opened to know there’s nothing good behind them. his stomach twists again, slow and aching now, like it’s 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 doesn’t 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 he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. the mattress dips around him. his stomach hurts more like this, compressed, but he doesn’t move.
good, he thinks. at least something’s working.
voices float up again from downstairs. nancy’s, this time for sure. softer, careful. he knows that tone. she’s 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.
that’s probably true. when people press, he locks up. always has. pressure turns him into something brittle, something mean.
downstairs, ted’s voice cuts through it all, unconcerned, something about the tv, about dinner, about how he worked all day and would like to relax.
you don’t get to be this upset, mike reminds himself. other people have it worse. max. lucas. will. even dustin, who pretends everything’s fine. you’re not special. you’re not the only one who lost something.
the problem is, he didn’t just lose her. he lost the future he’d 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 doesn’t really do that. it just sits there. you should get up, he thinks. do something. write something. be useful.
he doesn’t.
he curls tighter, forehead pressing into the pillow, stomach aching, thoughts dull and circular. he’s fine. this is temporary.
tomorrow he’ll answer the phone.
tomorrow he’ll eat.
tomorrow he’ll 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 he’s allowed to tell himself because it sounds responsible. his brain drifts anyway. it always does, even when he doesn’t ask it to. he wonders where she is.
not if. where.
that’s the thing everyone else gets wrong. they talk about eleven like she’s gone somewhere abstract, like she’s a memory. mike pictures geography. movement. hiding. some place dark and quiet where she’s keeping her head down, waiting until it’s safe. she’s good at that. she always has been. maybe she’s somewhere cold. or somewhere loud, where no one would notice one more strange thing. maybe she cut her hair again. maybe she didn’t. maybe she’s using a fake name and hating it.
maybe she’s 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 doesn’t move. none of it feels like it belongs to him. after about a minute there’s a knock on his bedroom door. careful, like whoever it is already knows yelling won’t help. “go away,” mike says into the pillow. his voice comes out rougher than he expects. he clears his throat and tries again. “i’m busy.”
a pause. then, from the other side of the door, “it’s me.”
oh. shit.
he sits up too fast, the room pitching again, and for a second he thinks he might actually throw up. he doesn’t, but the possibility lingers, unpleasant and humiliating. me only ever means one person.
you.
mike looks down at himself like he’s just noticed his body for the first time. same sweatshirt. again. he can’t remember putting it on, which probably means he didn’t take it off. his hair is messy, sticking up in places it shouldn’t. his mouth tastes bad. stale. great. fantastic timing. another knock, a little firmer this time, but still gentle. you’ve always been like that. careful with doors. careful with everything, really. “mike?” you call, closer now, like you leaned in. “can i come in?”
mike swallows. his instinct is to say no. to pretend he’s 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 you’re here. actually here, not a phone call he can ignore or a memory he can rearrange until it hurts less. “yeah,” mike answers finally. “yeah. um. sure.” he considers brushing his teeth, then realizes he doesn’t 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 mike’s dim room, like you haven’t decided which world you belong to yet. you look thinner, tired in a way that doesn’t go away with sleep. your eyes meet. something tightens in mike’s chest—not panic, exactly. something like guilt that hasn’t figured out what it wants to be yet. “hey.” you greet.
“hey.”
“hey,” you say again, softer this time.
mike doesn’t get up, he doesn’t even pretend like he’s 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 don’t 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 awkwardly—comfortable. familiar. you toe your shoes off by the door out of habit, set your bag down on the chair that’s been acting as a second closet for weeks.
that’s 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 hadn’t been hungry—not really—but now the smell hits him and it’s like his insides wake up just to remind him what he’s been ignoring. you follow his gaze, clock it immediately. “i brought something,” you offer, like it’s no big deal, like you didn’t plan this. “figured… you know. just in case.”
mike does know. he knows exactly what case this is.
the bag crinkles softly when you lift it. it’s from that place—the 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 mike’s plate and pretending she wasn’t.
“you didn’t have to.”
“i know,” you reply easily. “i wanted to.”
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 you’re resisting the urge to touch them. you’re thinking about asking. you don’t. another kindness. you glance at the papers scattered everywhere—the 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 you’ve just walked in on him failing at something private. “working on something?” you ask, gentle, not pushing.
mike snorts quietly, face still half-buried in the pillow. “define working.”
you smile a little at that. not a big smile, just the corner of your mouth. there’s a pause. the kind that used to feel comfortable and now just feels heavy. mike’s 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. you’ve been closer than this. you’ve slept on this bed before, tangled up in blankets and limbs and bad dreams and whispered jokes at three in the morning. still, he doesn’t 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 don’t laugh. you don’t 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. “you don’t have to eat it now,” you say, like you can hear his thoughts. “or at all. it’ll keep.”
mike doesn’t correct you. he knows that’s not true. nothing keeps forever.
everything gets cold.
everything goes bad eventually.
you glance at him again, and this time there’s worry there. real worry. not the kind adults give him when they think space is the answer to everything. “you okay?”
mike almost laughs. what a stupid question, his brain supplies automatically. what a nice question.
“yeah. totally. thriving.” you look at him. mike looks away. “right,” he says. “sorry. i mean—yeah. i’m okay.”
it’s not the truth, but it’s closer than an outright lie. you don’t argue. you don’t push. he wonders, stupidly, what you’re thinking. if you can see how bad it’s gotten. if you’re aware of the same things he is, the sweatshirt, the messy room, the collection of empty water bottles, the way he hasn’t brushed his teeth, the way he can’t seem to sit up straight anymore. he hates that you’re seeing him like this.
he hates it in the specific, irrational way where his brain immediately follows up with you should’ve cleaned, you should’ve showered, you should’ve at least pretended to be normal for ten minutes, like any of that would’ve actually changed the situation. like this isn’t 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 hasn’t 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. it’s his order.
the greasy noodles. extra sauce. the kind that always leaves his fingers slick and his stomach warm and heavy afterward. there’s 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 mike’s 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 it’s the most normal thing in the world. mike doesn’t take it. “i’m not hungry.”
you pause, fork still outstretched. you don’t sigh. you don’t argue. you just raise an eyebrow at him, slightly, in that way that says i know you, which is unfair, because you do. “just… eat a little.”
“i’m fine.”
liar. coward.
you don’t deserve it anyway. food is for people who are doing something. people who are moving forward. people who didn’t get someone killed. people who aren’t just… taking up space.
you don’t pull the fork back. “mike,” you encourage, gently, and something in your tone makes his chest ache. not disappointed, not angry, just tired. grieving. “please.”
he hates that word. he cracks an eye open and looks at you. your shoulders are tense, there are shadows under your eyes that weren’t there before everything went to hell. you’re holding it together the same way he is—badly—but you’re at least upright. present. here. you’re hurting too, a part of him realizes belatedly. you lost her too.
he takes the fork.
you don’t hover. you sit back down on the bed, closer now, and pick up your own container, start eating like this is just… what you’re 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 long—then 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 isn’t a victory. you both eat in silence for a minute. he takes several bites, but not because he wants to.
because he doesn’t 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 doesn’t 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. he’s hyperaware now of everything he let slide while he wasn’t paying attention. the room feels smaller with you in it, cluttered with evidence of him. he clears his throat. “you don’t… uh. you don’t have to stay.”
“i know.”
that’s not what he meant.
he shifts, pushes himself up a little, then winces when his head swims. “i’m serious. thanks. really. but i’m fine now, so—”
“you’re not.” you say, quietly.
there it is.
irritation flares hot and sudden, like a match struck too close to something flammable. he’s always been like this—corner him, press him, and he snaps. it’s reflex. “i said i’m fine,” he repeats, sharper now. “you don’t need to—like—monitor me or whatever.”
you don’t rise to it. “i’m not monitoring you, i’m sitting with you.”
“same thing.”
you sigh softly, not annoyed, just tired. “mike.”
he swings his legs off the bed, stands too fast, sways, grabs the desk to steady himself. his heart’s pounding now, loud in his ears, his thoughts scattering like startled birds. “i just want to be alone, okay?” he snaps. “why is that so hard for everyone to understand?”
then you say, very calmly, “because this isn’t being alone. this is you disappearing.”
“dramatic much?”
you don’t smile. “i’m not leaving. you need to talk to someone.”
“i don’t,” mike fires back. “i just need—time. space. i’m allowed to grieve how i want.” his voice cracks on the next sentence and he hates that you hear it. hates that he can’t stop it. “this is because of her,” he continues, like it’s an accusation. like it explains everything. “if she hadn’t—if this didn’t happen, i wouldn’t—” he cuts himself off, breathing hard, staring at the floor like it’s done something wrong.
you stand up like you’re approaching a skittish animal. “i know.”
“no, you don’t. you don’t know. you don’t get it. none of you do. she was—she was—” he gestures uselessly, words tangling. “everything. and everyone just expects me to—what? move on? act normal?”
you’re closer now. “no one expects that. we just don’t want you to disappear with her.”
people who are depressed know they’re depressed, he thinks. they say stuff about it. they cry all the time. they can’t get out of bed because they’re sad. he’s not been sad. he just… doesn’t want to move.
something in your expression shifts. resolve, maybe. “mike, please don’t push me away. this isn’t what she would want.”
his chest tightens immediately, painfully. he sees it so clearly it almost knocks the air out of him—eleven 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, she’d said. you take care of each other.
mike’s face crumples before he can stop it. it’s 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 it’s too late. his eyes burn. his throat closes. “don’t.” you freeze, like you hadn’t 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 doesn’t work. it never does. “i’m screwing it up,” he blurts. “i’m screwing everything up.”
you reach for him then. tentative, careful. your fingers hover at his arm like you’re asking permission without words. he doesn’t pull away. that alone feels like failure. “mike.”
“i just miss her,” he chokes. it sounds pathetic even to his own ears, thin and childish and inadequate for the size of the loss. “i miss her so much. everyone keeps acting like time is doing something about it and it’s not. it’s not fixing anything.”
he drags a hand through his hair, pacing now because standing still feels unbearable and he doesn’t need you touching him right now. no one tells you how to grieve your badass girlfriend when she’s been saving your ass since you were twelve. for a second he just breathes. in. out. in. out. it doesn’t help. suddenly, he straightens. his eyes are unfocused, like he’s looking at something that isn’t in the room. “i could’ve been a lighthouse.”
you blink. “huh?”
“it’s—i know it sounds stupid. it’s not stupid.” he says quickly, almost frantic, like the idea will evaporate if he doesn’t say it all at once. “there’s this lighthouse,” he says. “on the coast. i think. i read about it somewhere. or maybe i made it up. whatever. it doesn’t matter. it’s just—there. tall. solid. built to last. it doesn’t go anywhere. it doesn’t fight storms. it just stands there and shines so ships don’t crash.” his hands are shaking now. he clasps them together, then lets them go, then clenches them again. “people act like that’s enough. like standing there is enough. but it’s only useful if someone sees it. if someone’s out there, lost and scared and looking for something to guide them. otherwise it’s just—” he gestures helplessly. “a building. empty. pointless.” he swallows hard, throat bobbing. “eleven was a storm. she was—she was everything. she had all this — this power and fire and all this… momentum. and i wasn’t. i wasn’t like that. i wasn’t strong the way she was. i wasn’t brave like her. i wasn’t— i wasn’t even close. i kept thinking if i stayed still—if i didn’t mess things up—if i just… stayed where i was, maybe that was enough. like if i didn’t move, nothing bad could happen.”
his voice cracks so hard he has to stop. “but storms don’t care. they don’t wait. and ships don’t either. they crash if there’s no light.” he looks up at you, eyes red and shining, face twisted with something close to panic. “i could’ve been her lighthouse. i could’ve given her light. i could’ve been the thing she looked at and knew she’d be okay. i could’ve been the one who burned for her, who —- who stayed lit when it mattered.” is he making sense? probably not. does he care? not at all. “instead i just—stood there. in the dark. thinking being there was enough.” his voice drops to nothing. “i let the waves take her.”
his face morphs in a way you have never and never in your life thought you’d see. michael wheeler starts to cry. in front of you. real crying. messy and uneven and embarrassing, face twisted, breath coming in gasps like he’s drowning on dry land. he hates it. hates how weak it feels, how exposed. hates that this is happening in front of you. “i could’ve been her lighthouse.”
you step closer, arms coming around him fully now, and he doesn’t resist. he leans into you without meaning to. “oh, mike..”
he hates the sound he’s making. the hitching, the wet inhale that won’t make it all the way in, the way his breath keeps stuttering like it forgot how to work. it’s humiliating. it’s loud. his dad’s voice floats up somewhere from his memory, something about pulling it together, something about how men don’t fall apart like this, especially not in front of other people. especially not over feelings.
your arms are solid around him. that’s 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 you’ll let go, maybe he can laugh it off later and pretend this didn’t happen. but he doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t have the energy. his forehead ends up against your shoulder, not on purpose, just gravity doing what gravity does when you’re tired and empty and everything hurts too much to hold up on your own. “i’m sorry.” he manages, which is stupid, because sorry for what? existing? taking up space? crying? proving everyone right? that he’s 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 he’s always needed things, even when people pretended he didn’t. mike’s fine, they say. mike doesn’t care. mike doesn’t get upset. mike’s 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 he’s 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 can’t see it. “i shouldn’t—” his voice gives out again, betraying him mid-sentence. “this is so dumb.” 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 there’s nothing left to hold together, and the worst part is that you’re not letting him go. you’re still there. he doesn’t 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 don’t just let him spiral standing there. you guide him back toward the bed like you’ve 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 you’re eye level, hands warm on his knees. you’re saying things—he can tell by the way your mouth moves—but they slide right past him. it’s not your fault, mike. it’s not your fault. his chest tightens anyway, like his body is arguing even if his brain won’t engage. fault is such a loaded word. fault implies choice. something he could’ve done differently. his thoughts start drifting again, tugged sideways by images he doesn’t want: soldiers, the upside down, her face slack with exhaustion and stubborn determination. he blinks too slowly. he’s 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. “mike,” 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 don’t know what their job is anymore. kissing has always been complicated for him—too many feelings, too many meanings—but this isn’t about that. this is you pulling him back into his body when he’s about to disappear again.
when you pull away his forehead tips forward until it rests against yours. he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days. his eyes are unfocused, lashes clumped, face blotchy and red and embarrassing. “three waterfalls. im such an idiot.”
you frown, a little ache in your chest, because you know exactly what he’s 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 now—im such an idiot—makes 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. “wait—oh, shit, i—i didn’t mean—i’m not—i wasn’t—” he stumbles over the words, realizing, oh no, that in talking about what could’ve been, he’s ignored what you felt too. your grief. your love for el. the same grief he’s drowning in himself. suddenly, without thinking, his brain switches modes. protector. must protect. can’t lose anyone else.
“come here.” he says, pulling you in before you can respond, arms wrapping around you. he’s suddenly aware he’s 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 should’ve eaten those last six bites but he didn’t because he’s pathetic and also embarrassed and oh shit did he just touch your arm okay maybe not maybe he didn’t and wait your arm is still there your arm is there and it feels like oxygen like it feels like he’s been underwater forever and this is the first surface he’s hit and also he’s 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 that’s a thing and he doesn’t know what to do because kissing isn’t supposed to fix grief it’s supposed to be fun and light and terrible and maybe it’s terrible anyway because he can’t 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 can’t be solved because numbers don’t exist and he’s a disaster and also his chest is too tight and why is breathing so hard when it’s 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 don’t leave. and oh god, did he just say that out loud? probably did. fuck, you’re probably judging him for saying that. oh no, oh no no no and your arms are around him and okay maybe that’s fine —- maybe that’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling entirely, maybe he’s supposed to be the lighthouse, maybe he isn’t but oh god the storm the storm the storm eleven the storm and he just can’t think straight and you’re here and thank god and maybe he doesn’t even care that it’s wrong to feel this desperate to cling to someone like this maybe it’s okay maybe it’s safe maybe it’s the only thing standing between him and disappearing completely and maybe it’s 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 he’s with certain people? with you. with eleven. with will sometimes, but not like this. not like this gnawing, twisting, can’t-breathe kind of alive that makes his chest ache and stomach clench at the same time. he hates it. hates it because it’s uncontrollable and stupid and pathetic and also, somehow, the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the floor. why can’t he just be a normal person who sits still and waits for the world to stop being terrible? oh right, because that’s not a thing, and it never was.
he noses against your hair without thinking, and you sigh softly, the kind of sigh that’s not about being frustrated, it’s soft, and mike’s chest loosens just a hair. it’s not much. it’s not enough to be okay, but maybe it’s a start. maybe it’s 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 he’s hopeless. hopeless and desperate and obsessed, and it’s 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 it’s enough to make the tears stop dripping down his cheeks for now, at least the ones he notices. he’s breathing you in, and he realizes that you’re it. the last thing he has. he doesn’t just want to hold you, he needs to. maybe that’s bad. maybe that’s codependent. maybe that’s 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 can’t lose you too. he won’t.
it’s 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 plans—jobs, cities, lives that keep moving forward like that’s a reasonable thing to do after the world ends for the third time. focusing on you is easier. you’re right here. you forget to eat. you don’t 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, it’s 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 he’s worried about you, he doesn’t have to ask what happens when everyone else keeps leaving and he doesn’t know how to follow. if he’s holding you together, that means he’s 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 you’re okay. letting that be enough. it has to be enough, because if you go too —- well. he’ll 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. “we can get through this. together.” 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 can’t he be normal and cool and collected like everyone else, like he’s supposed to be. “okay? it’s what she would want for us.”
mike swallows, and he nods, barely.
yes, okay, that’s 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, “i’m never gonna be normal. ever. can you deal with that?”
you roll your eyes, a small smile tugging your lips, “probably. probably can. but first…” you tug on the hem of his hoodie, playful but gentle, “shower. you smell like shit.”
mike smiles weakly, and for half a second he almost feels like himself again. almost. the kind of almost that doesn’t 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 you’re afraid he might evaporate if you let go. he probably would. good instinct. “wow,” he says hoarsely, swiping at his face with the heel of his hand and missing at least one tear, because of course. “romance is dead.”
you huff, unimpressed. “mike.”
“okay, okay.” he concedes, because he always does with you. arguing with you feels like too much effort and also because you’re right, which is worse. he lets himself be maneuvered toward the bathroom like an uncooperative cat. it’s embarrassing how long it’s been since he’s 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 guard—hollow-eyed, hair limp, face still red like he cried at a funeral. he looks like someone who hasn’t 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 doesn’t say thank you. he doesn’t know how. instead, he says, “you don’t have to babysit me, you know.”
“i know,” you say again. “i want to.”
something in his chest gives, not enough to cry again—he’s tapped out for now—but enough that his throat tightens and he nods, dumbly, because if he opens his mouth he’s going to say something inconveniently honest, like please don’t leave me alone or i don’t trust myself when you’re not here or sometimes i think about how easy it would be to stop trying. none of those are things he’s 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 he’s 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 weren’t here, he probably wouldn’t be either. the thought is disturbingly calm. he doesn’t say it, he never will. instead, he leans into your side, testing it, and you lean back without hesitation. maybe that’s the problem. or maybe that’s the reason he’s still here.
his room looks different when it’s clean. wrong, almost. too much empty space where mess used to be. you sitting on his bed helps. proves he didn’t 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. will’s leaving for college soon. lucas and max are serious now—capital S serious. dinner plans. constant dates. conversations about the future and moving in together that mike isn’t invited into because he wouldn’t know what to do with them anyway. dustin is always busy, always running somewhere with steve or robin or talking about college like it’s a sure thing and not a terrifying cliff.
and el, presumed dead? what a fucked phrase. like there’s no room for debate. no one checks on mike much anymore. sometimes he wonders what would happen if he just… didn’t 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 won’t 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, i’m not actively dying but i kind of don’t 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 isn’t healthy. needing someone this much isn’t sustainable. tomorrow you’ll leave the room, and the door will close, and the silence will rush back in, and mike won’t want to do any of this for himself. but that’s not today. today, you’re here. today, he has something to lean against that leans back. if that’s all he has right now—if that’s the only reason he gets out of bed, the only reason the world hasn’t swallowed him whole—fuck it. he’ll take it.
either way, tomorrow feels impossible. tonight though, tonight he’s clean, and breathing, and not alone.
based off this request !
A/N: FIRST FIC OF THE YEAR!!!! happy new years everyone…. totally didn’t write this as an excuse to write depressed mike…… i hate him and i must make him suffer (he’s my favorite character)
STARTED 1.4.2026. POSTED 1.4.2026.
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