Chapter Text
Mike climbs the stairs towards his room in a hurry, taking two of them at a time and reaches the door of his bedroom. His hands shake as he opens the door and locks himself in, leaning his whole body against the door, he slowly sinks to the ground and finally lets his guard down.
He pulls his legs towards himself and curls his arms around his calves as he rests his head on his knees, only then realising the ragged pattern of his breathing. He tries to count upto ten and parallels his inhale and exhale at each count, trying to remember what else he had read in the book.
But his mind isn’t his anymore, it doesn’t listen to him, still repeating those same words he heard at the dinner table, the same words he has heard a million times over the years, the same words he tried to escape by running to the safety of his room. But his room doesn’t feel safe anymore, maybe because now the tormenter is not just his family but also his mind, and there’s nowhere to escape from a part of his own.
He needs to leave, he needs to forget that this ever happened, he needs to go back, to his dorm, he needs those four walls which has homed him for the last two years, he needs to talk to someone who doesn’t hate him, he needs to talk to him. He needs him.
He stands up and tries to gather his hazy vision by blinking back tears and leans against the wall to gain his footing. After calming himself slightly, he goes to the bathroom to pick up his toiletries and his clothes from yesterday night, and stuffs them in his bagpack that he didn’t even unpack.
He leaves his room and passes the kitchen, walking towards the front door, avoiding his Mom’s desperate calls for him to stay. He ties his shoe laces in a hurry, hearing his mom defend his father, and Nana, how they only mean good for him, and is only looking out for the only son of the house. His father is right, he knows best and Mike should understand, she says.
He clenches his jaw in an attempt to not say something stupid to his mom, that he would regret later, and gives her one last look with his eyes filled with tears and resentment. Because he knows that his father doesn’t know best. And she knows it too, but she would never admit, never go against him, even if it meant not accepting her son as he is: vulnerable and queer.
He pulls his walkman out of his bag and plugs in the mixtape Will made for him. He turns it on and I Know It’s Over by The Smiths starts playing, and a frustrated breath leaves him. He snatches it off his head and lets it hang around his neck, and turns the tape off.
He feels like the whole world is against him. He sighs and rubs his hands across his face, pressing the heels of his palms in his eyes to stop the sting.
He walks faster as he sees the lights indicating he has been nearing the bus stop.
He waits impatiently, picking at his nails unconsciously, as he waits for a bus to arrive.
~
He sits in the bus and releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He bites at his lips as he contemplates if he should go back to his dorm; or Montauk, to Will.
He should probably go to his dorm, because what was he even supposed to say to Will, and more importantly to Joyce and Hopper, he shudders at the thought.
He licks his lips, trying to soothe the bruise from biting it unconsciously.
He fidgets with his hands, not knowing what to do with himself now that he’s alone.
He pulls out his notebook and a pencil he keeps with himself, for whenever he has ideas about the potential book he might be outlining, he doesn’t know much about what it would be though.
He opens the last page and tries to articulate whatever he’s been feeling into words. His mind feels full and he needs to empty it out, before he does something which he might regret later.
He goes to bite his lips again, before remembering the forming bruise and instead goes for his nails.
Still picking at the nails of his left hand, he lifts his pencil and writes down, in his messy cursive— i envy my younger self.
His writing turns out even messier because of the movement of the turn the bus just took.
He breathes out as he reads it again, and feels the weight in his chest lessen slightly.
he felt things and didn’t overwhelm himself, he writes after a while.
He was writing faster now, trying to catch up to his racing thoughts. It felt as if he could breathe for the first time in a while.
He was in his element, almost in a flow state, writing about how wrong he had been, foolish even.
How he thought that he would have it all figured out by eighteen, but it’s just gotten worse, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.
…a shell of what i used to be— He ends it there and feels lighter than he’s ever felt.
He reads the whole of what he’s written and feels his gut sink.
He shuts his notebook and huffs a harsh breath. So much for wanting to forget everything.