Work Text:
Mike has never been good at apologies.
It's never been his strong suit. And he's has plenty to apologize for. He knows he can be crass, knows he's blunt and confusing and always dances around what he needs to say. There's a reason he and El broke up, about a year ago now, of course.
It's not that he can't express himself, or something, not that he's insensitive or out of touch with his emotions. That's a little funny, actually. It really couldn't be further from the truth. Mike feels everything. Too deeply, too much, and too wrong. No, it's not that he can't say what he feels— he can't lie about it, can't twist his words into something they're not. Whenever he tries, it leaves a sour taste on his tongue for days. Some kind of disapproval from the heavy little marble in his chest, coming up and haunting him.
Yes. He has plenty to apologize for. But it's not in his nature. Of course it isn't— he's a Wheeler, and what do Wheelers do if not repress, repress, repress? Stuff it down, turn instead to cold chicken and steely glances across a dinner table, passive-aggressive comments, forever tipping on the edge of a fight, of some sick kind of catharsis; but never ever reaching it, never taking the plunge, never knowing what it feels like to hit the water.
He hates it. He hates it a lot, because it fucks everything up, historically. Not being able to apologize.
Two words, Mike, come on.
It reminds him of another phrase he couldn't say, to El, a long time ago now. So, so long ago. He supposes it's the flipside, really— he could say I love you all he wanted, but couldn't bring himself to mean it for the life of him; and yet, he'll mean I'm sorry in a thousand different ways, all equally honest and true, and the words won't leave his mouth.
Oh, how he wishes they would.
Especially now.
He stands—stood—on a porch with Will Byers.
Will Byers, in all his gilded, hazel-eyed glory, looking tiredly up at him through his hair in a way that makes the little marble in Mike's chest roll around in his ribcage, threatening to crack.
Will Byers, looking at a painting he made, not seeing the gentleness of the hands that hold it, or the softness in the eyes that look at him; only the sadness and frustration in spoken words, incorrectly put upon himself in the way Will has been accidentally taught to do to everything at blame.
Will Byers, seething through his teeth, angry and beautiful and wounded like a dog, like something Mike wants to take in his arms and stitch back up, but can't get seem to get close without kicking.
Will Byers, going and gone into the rain, in the perfect mirror of a moment two years ago— full circle, rotten cycle, round and round and round again.
Mike just stands there.
He still tastes the sour on his tongue.
Mike thinks he is tired, too.
The painting is back in his closet. Will is still away.
He'll be back, Mike nows. Wouldn't leave Jonathan or his mother. There was a time when Mike would have included himself in this list, but he no longer is sure that Will knows he needs him, too.
He should know. That Mike needs him.
She needs you. I need you.
Maybe then. Maybe now. Mike doesn't know. He doesn't, he doesn't, he doesn't, and it's driving him crazy, and it's what he tried to find out, what ultimately just drove Will away again.
Again.
It's been so long. He feels heavy, leaden.
And then, from where Mike sits on his bed, a little flicker of movement from out his window catches his eye. He turns his head lazily. Outside the glass, perching on the hood of a car a little ways out of the Wheelers' garage, just under the awning, a hand beckons to him, a familiar head of red hair.
Huh.
Alright.
When Mike gets out there, after pulling his shoes on again and dragging himself out the door, Max just raises an eyebrow at him. He—cautiously, jerkily, like he's not sure he's allowed—pushes himself atop the hood next to her.
She is holding a cigarette, which surprises Mike. He's never seen her smoke, and, despite what he knew of her brother, didn't take her for the type. But give a person enough stress and a little nicotine goes a long way, he supposes, watching gray wisps curl out into the air as she exhales with a barely audible whistle.
"Wheeler."
Mike just nods, shifting his eyes to the sidewalk in front of them. It's cracked, only half-covered by the awning. The rain stains the pavement. It's striking, really. How similar water truly is to blood.
"Want one?" Max asks. She's holding out an unlit cigarette and a lighter. Mike's not sure when she got those out.
"Yeah."
He lights it and puts it to his mouth, feeling the scratchy, choking warmth fill his lungs. It's an odd sensation, probably always will be, but a surprisingly familiar one, too, despite Mike himself only having smoked a few times, lonely at Lucas's basketball parties. That really does feel like forever ago now.
Max gives him a begrudging look, as though she didn't expect him to be able to take it. Her hair is disheveled, almost matted around her face. There are bruises under her eyes and her lips are peeling. She looks awful; Mike's not any better. None of them are.
After a few more beats of silence, Max asks, "Will?"
Mike would be offended that she sees through him so well, if he couldn't feel his heart beating on his sleeve. He doesn't really answer, just gives a vague hand-wave off in the direction the other boy had gone. Mike thinks he can still see his footprints on the pavement.
Max just hums and takes another puff of her cigarette. "Wow." She turns to Mike with an unreadable face. "You sure are good at fucking this up."
This is one thing he likes about Max. She doesn't sugarcoat anything, doesn't bother with the useless bits. Straight to the bone, even if it hurts. Mike can respect that, wishes he had her confidence— or her sensibility— in doing it.
He sighs, pained and longing. "Believe me, I know."
The two of them sit in silence for a long time.
Then: "What was it like?"
Mike blinks. "What was what like?"
She holds his gaze, eyes half-lidded in a way that would make her seem bored, uncaring, if Mike didn't know the opposite by now.
"When he was gone."
She doesn't need to elaborate.
Mike doesn't know why she's asking. He doesn't know why he wants to answer. He doesn't know much these days.
"It...it was..." He sighs, breathing out more smoke. It's indescribable. How do you put in words a week like that? How does he tell her what it felt like to have a part of himself away, missing, dead?
He finally settles on, "It hurt. Everyone thought he was...gone." He swallows. "I didn't. It was..." fear, everything he feared. "It was the first funeral."
Max nods, like she's satisfied, like he's said all he needs to.
Maybe he has. They seem to be on the same page, thinking the same thing, united in the pain of knowing more death than not.
We are too young to be so tired of funerals, they both know, in that moment. We are too young to be so good at grieving.
It's been so long.
Will is still away, and Mike is still sorry, and Max is here, smoking, asking him about the worst and first time he lost him.
He wants to say so many things, to her, to Will.
It felt like I was gone, like someone had put me in that box in the ground, right next to that stuffed body. It felt like I would do anything to feel his skin on mine again.
It feels like when you're gone, I am back in that box again. Like every time I open my mouth, it's another nail on the coffin.
Thank you. I miss you. I'm sorry. I love you.
But he doesn't sugarcoat it.
Instead, he just watches the endless gray float up, and dissipate into the coming sunset.