Chapter Text
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Matilda, you talk of the pain like it’s all alright
But I know that you feel like a piece of you’s dead inside
You showed me a power that is strong enough to bring sun to the darkest days
It’s none of my business, but it’s just been on my mind
…
You don’t have to be sorry for doin’ it on your own…
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Mike doesn't know what's happening in his life anymore. First Will disappeared, that November.
Then Eleven showed up that night in the woods.
Then the demogorgon. Then Will was back. But not really. The Mindflayer. But this, this has to be the worst of all of it.
Will's moving to California.
Will's moving away.
Mike can't help but blame Bob, even though he knows he shouldn't. But he knows that Bob put the idea in Joyce's head, and he can't stop the bitterness that rises up his throat like bile.
Mike stomps up the stairs after yet another awkward and asphyxiating family dinner, closing his bedroom door gently behind him. He walks across the room, noting the fact that his desk and possessions all have a fine layer of dust. His room looks frozen in time. Mike supposes that it has been a full year since he actually played with most of this stuff. It all feels childish now, like he's too big for his 13 year old body.
He yanks the string for his blinds, letting a sunbeam stab through the room and light up the dust motes dancing in the air. With a sigh, he collapses into his desk chair and pushes crumpled papers and forgotten pens to the side with an arm.
He slips a flask of whiskey, just bigger than his palm, out of his sleeve. He had taken it from the liquor cabinet right before dinner. His mother thought he didn't know that his father drank, but he found the cupboard long ago while searching for clean plates. He sets it gently on his desk, as if with one neglectful movement it could implode and destroy everything.
He blows out a breath, pursing his lips and feeling the air rush through. Almost whistling, but not quite.
Mike supposes that this is a bit drastic. After all, phones exist. And letters. He stares out the window and says watches the clouds drift by as he loses himself in his mind. But Will... Will is so much more to him than Dustin, or Max, or even El, as much as he doesn't want to admit it.
He moves the whiskey to the corner of his desk, pulling a clean sheet of paper towards him. He sets a blue pen against the page, watching the dark ink blot the clean sheet. He picks it back up for a second, contemplating what to write.
Eventually he presses it back down, and like a dam had been broken, words flow as easy as ink from the pen.
*
Dear Will,
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for our fight and not being there when you needed me and I'm sorry for what I'm doing now. To everyone. To you. I'm sorry. Tell El that it's not her fault. It's not your fault. Please don't think that.
I miss us. I miss our dnd and our bike rides and everything about us before you were gone. I was so lost without you. I don't want to feel that again.
Theres so much to say to you, but I don't have the words.
I love you.
That's three of them. I love you and I'm sorry l didn't say it before. Before everything. I think I've always known. But I never said anything. I'm sorry if this ruins the memory you'll have of me.
So much to say.
From,
Love,
Mike.
*
Mike hates the letter. He hates the bleeding ink and the strikethroughs and his scratchy handwriting. He hates the tears that make his eyelashes clump together and the rock in his throat that makes his mouth go dry. He hates it.
He doesn't write one for anyone else.
Just Will.
Will is the only one who will blame himself, he thinks. Or at least for longer than the three weeks that it's big news.
Before he can lose his nerve, he stuffs the aforementioned flask of alcohol in his pocket and shoves open the window. The air is crisp, flooding the room with a new sort of life.
He clambers out onto the roof, holding onto the window sill with one hand. He shuffles along the edge, arms out for balance. After a few minutes he manages to make it around to the side above their backyard. Jumping onto grass. Easier to clean up, he thinks. Easier to forget.
As he stands on the edge, his most cherished memories run through his head. DnD. That one Christmas that Nancy helped him make cookies for The Party. Will's smile when he was back from the Upside Down. Their matching watches. The looks that Mike stole in class, quick glances over his shoulder whenever Will was preoccupied with schoolwork, or drawing.
And all of a sudden it's too much to give up. And he can see a bike cresting over the hill, and the figure is too small to be Dustin and Lucas is right next door.
Mike's heart drops into his toes, but still beats so hard he can feel it in his head, and all he can think is oh shit.
He sits down hard on the edge of the roof, legs dangling, and starts to cry, head in his hands.