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Sometimes, Mike sees his father looking back at him. A blanket of moodiness shrouding his features, passive remarks, frequent shying away from important and heavy discussions. Ted Wheeler shows up in more than just his head of dark hair and his strong nose. As much as Mike tried to prevent it, the bastard bled into his character.
He had been someone else, once, when he was younger. Braver, yet softer, an oxymoron of all the traits Mike no longer possesses. On cold nights, when there’s frost on the windows and Mike can see himself in their reflection- wide-eyed and shifting through the dark- he catches glimpses of who he used to be. Who he could be, if he wasn’t so goddamn scared all of the time.
Now he’s sixteen, lying stock-straight in bed while the world ends thinking about how the hell he ought to repair his crumbling relationship. He thinks of El’s words last week- “Sometimes you are a stranger, Mike” and his mother’s this morning- “Jesus Christ, you’re just like your father.” Sweat rolls from his hairline to the jut of his jaw.
Will is beneath him on a spare mattress, awake. Despite being unable to see his open eyes, the pattern of his breathing has been pattering in the background since they laid down. It hasn’t slowed, hasn’t started to exhale in gentle, slightly more noticeable puffs.
He asks anyways: “You still up?”
A moment ticks by before Will responds, “Yeah.”
It’s scratchy, vowels pulled taut like a violin string. Will’s been hesitating more, saying less than what he means. A hollow look has replaced the shine in his eyes, and he always seems afraid of the unseen. Mike always feels that same child-like urge to surge forward and fix it- he just doesn’t know how anymore.
“Do you-” Mike licks his lips, the sound echoes. He has to ask. “Do you think I’m like my dad?”
Without Will’s immediate answer, panic sets in. The question had come much easier than this, but now that he’s asked it Mike realizes how much he truly cares about the answer. Will is his best friend, and he arguably knows Mike better than anyone. The thought of him looking at Mike and seeing his father sends a shudder down Mike’s spine.
“No.” The word blankets the room like a rush of relief, and Will continues. “No, I don’t. Why?”
“Something my mom said,” Mike mutters offhandedly, rustling the sheets to sit up. Will’s eyes meet his in the dark, then quickly flicker away, head tilted back to expose the freckles beneath his jaw. An urge arises to press them like buttons- and Mike blames it on the headache exploding at the base of his neck.
Quietly, Will says, “Jonathan was always scared about ending up like our dad.”
Before Mike could answer, he continues, hollow in the throat-
“When he first started getting stubble, he hated it. He’d shave it as often as he had to so that he wouldn’t look like him. And I know that’s why he’s scared of getting older.”
“Are you?”
The clock ticks. Mike has started following the lines of Will’s calves beneath the blanket, and the way the wind rustles his curtains. Absent-mindedly, he tugs on his hair (shoulder-length and persistently growing) which catches Will’s attention enough to get his eyes on him again.
“Yes,” He says, a wry smile on his lips. “But that’s for other reasons. I’ve always looked more like Mom, anyways.”
Envisioning Joyce, Mike can definitely see the resemblance. They both have the same thick mop of hair, same constellations of moles, same warm eyes. They both smell of smoke, cheap candles, and lemongrass shampoo. Mike’s not sure where Will gets his stature from- the broad shoulders and hard jaw- his masculine exterior contrasting the sheer gentleness of his arms and hands.
“You do,” Mike swallows over the cotton in his mouth. “You're both- um.”
Will doesn’t ask Mike to elaborate, which he appreciates. Instead, he rocks himself onto his elbows, shaking hair out of his eyes until they catch fragments of moonlight. He looks up at Mike with that calculating gaze of his- soft in the pupil and scrutinizing in the iris.
“Do you ever get like he does? With your dad?”
Mike nods, slowly, “I keep seeing him in the mirror.”
It sounds stupid, but it's true. Lonnie Byers is infinitely worse than Ted Wheeler, but Mike would really rather be neither. He doesn’t know the strange, writhing force that urges him to follow the same path as his parents. Perhaps it’s the made-groove of his father’s loafers and his mother’s kitten heels, but it simultaneously feels like a trap and the only way out. Not settling down in a boring cul-de-sac on a boring street feels like choking, sometimes.
Other times it feels like this.
Will, studying him with the ability of someone who has known him front-and-back for so many years. Will, chewing the chapped and bloody area of his bottom lip. Will, twisting his hands together and whispering-
“I still see you, you know.”
Mike blinks back tears.
Of course, there’s what hides under all of indifference, the sparking energy that worms constantly under his skin. Fear, the unrelenting force that wakes him sweating and leaves him shaky, jumpy, throughout the day. Even before the return of the Upside Down, even in the sinks into normalcy, it has followed him like a shadow into his teenage years. Uncategorized and consistent, it whispers with the sprinklers at dawn. It tightens, hot and constricting, when Will looks at him like this.
Mindlessly, he thinks of Mike The Brave, and the painting, a swirl of color detailing him facing the dragon head on. Holding The Party together, The Heart, slicing down each and every monster that has come his way. He wants to be that, he wants to be brave again.
So, Mike lets his hand fall. Outstretched. Light flickers across his fingertips, and he flutters them for good measure, looking pointedly at Will. Startled, Will pauses before tentatively reaching out, sliding his palm against Mike’s. Their fingers click together like puzzle-pieces. Suddenly, Mike is very warm- from his wrist up to his neck, marveling at the gesture. Before he can lose his nerve, he’s tapping a message in Morse code onto Will’s knuckles.
I-M-S-O-R-R-Y
In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing.
In this moment, it’s a start.