Chapter Text
When Mike opens his eyes, he's back on the swings.
Biting, chilled frost from his hair grazes the softness of his cheek. He can see his own warm breaths puffing into the air, blowing back into his face as his feet kick off the ground, swinging him back and forth.
Cold, bitter wind blows the empty swing beside him. Mike can't remember the last time it was this frozen. He tries his best to ignore the dripping icicles above him, hanging low and dampening his curls.
"Mike."
A smile blooms on his face, more a reflex than a reaction by now. His voice is familiar, one Mike hears every time he finds himself back on the frozen swing set.
"Hi."
His friend sits down beside him on the empty swing. "Hey."
"I wasn't sure you'd come back," Mike says. "I haven't seen you in forever."
"I've been busy," his friend sighs, kicking mindlessly. "How are you?"
Mike grinds his foot into the powdery snow. "Fine."
"You don't sound fine. You sound sad."
His legs slow, the swing coming to a steady stop. It's odd, how his friend can always see through him. But that's what friends are for, Mike supposes. To be the ones that know you best.
"I'm not sad," Mike tries, but it comes out strained. "I'm not."
"Are you happy?"
Mike picks at the skin of his nails. Rough terrain scrapes under the soles of his shoes, the snow cleared by his incessant shuffling.
"I dunno," he mumbles. "Probably."
His friend stares at him. Not that Mike is looking. But the weight of his eyes rest heavy, like the mysterious tether between them is pulled tighter.
"You always say that," his friend says, dejected. "Why don't you know?"
Gloomy sadness casts over Mike's psyche, familiar and safe. "I don't know."
His friend curls into himself, pulling on the sleeves of his sweater. The pitiful sight sends waves of sorrow through Mike's already fragile heart. He upset his friend.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize, Mike," his friend whispers. "Please."
Mike sits in the silence, content to let the snow brush across his rosy cheeks. There's a faint rustling sound far in the distance, but Mike pays it no mind. Not when he's so serene, basking in the mutual solitude with his friend.
He doesn't know how long they sit, drifting back and forth on the breeze, when Mike feels a tender, warm brush on his hand. Pale, almost translucent fingers rest delicately on his own.
"What about you?" The words leave Mike's mouth before his brain can register that he's speaking. "Are you happy?"
Although he can't see his friend very clearly, Mike can easily visualize the stiffening of his shoulders, the falling of his face. He waits patiently for a response to his question.
Mike can't say he's surprised when he doesn't get one.
"Can you promise me something?"
Mike nods without thinking. His friend curls his hand more firmly.
"Try to be happy. Please."
"Oh." Mike doesn't know what to say. "Okay."
His friend pulls away. "And look after yourself. You're a good person, Mike. Don't forget that. Okay?"
"Okay."
Mike's toes skim the snow, making small indents in the pure white. "You too."
"Hm?" His friend slows to a stop, and Mike does the same.
"Be happy," Mike says with a soft smile.
A stronger breeze blows across the field, ruffling Mike's hair. His friend nods once, uncertain, like Mike's demand is too high an ask. Mike wants to reassure him that it's not so hard, even if he isn't the best example. But as he opens his mouth to speak again, his friend beats him to it.
“Hey, Mike? Yo, dude, get up."
Mike pauses at the sudden shift in tone, his hand stilling. “Huh?”
His friend looks worried, confused at his faltering. But his lips move around new words. “Wake up, man, come on.”
"I don't— what?"
"Mike."
His friend vanishes as the world disappears, the swings and snow dissolving into nothing.
- - -
Everything snaps back into focus very suddenly. It takes Mike a moment to readjust to his surroundings; his lumpy dormitory mattress, his squished up pillow and crumpled blanket.
“Wha-?”
Pressing his fingers into his eyes, Mike blinks out the remains of his sleep, only to find the shadowed figure of his roommate looming ominously over his head.
“Did you not set an alarm?” he asks dully. “We’ve got Kushner’s exam today, remember?”
Mike groans, throwing the covers off of himself, shivering at the cold air, somehow just as chilling as that in his bones.
“Hurry up, it’s already 8:45.” Satisfied, his roommate grabs his backpack and walks out the door, slamming it behind him.
“Dick,” Mike mumbles, throwing a sweater over his pajama shirt.
As Mike digs through his creaky wooden dresser in search of a pair of clean pants, he glances over at the neon numbers of the alarm clock, and his heart skips a beat when he sees that it is already almost time for his exam. He no longer worries if the sweatpants in his hands are clean, tearing off his pajama bottoms and sliding them over his pale, dry legs.
Everything goes by in one exhaustive blur as he changes and packs his bag, throwing in whatever notes and pencils are scattered across his desk, not bothering to check if they're the right ones. Mike spent a total of thirteen minutes studying for Kushner's exam anyways. His hopes for a stellar grade are not high.
Mike spares one more glance in the mirror. He looks a mess. His hands move on their own accord as they tuck his metal necklace under his shirt.
He doesn't register slipping on his shoes or walking out the door; Mike only realizes he's outside when the blast of freezing air slams into his face, almost sending him careening backwards from the intense chill. The brain fog feels extra bad today. Worse than the usual static in the back of his mind. It only gets worse when he reaches for the remnants of last night's dream, only to come up with nothing but a headache and a shadow of a memory.
It's easier to let it go, so that's what Mike does.
His fingers are numb, just like the rest of him, even with the woolen fabric of gloves blocking the winter wind. The worst part of the year, Mike has decided, is the interim between winter and spring break. Too much work, too little sun. Plus, his lack of any hefty extracurriculars means he's stuck in the same monotonous routine day to day, with little to nothing to entertain him.
Mike doesn't like to think about it too much. He knows he should go out, maybe make some more friends, but he just doesn't want to. Nothing about Indiana State University sparks his interest, not even the wide variety of exceedingly boring students.
Sometimes, Mike thinks he's too judgmental, especially since he seems to be the only one of his hometown friends to have any sort of trouble adjusting to new people. Whenever him and Lucas talk—usually brief phone calls in between his basketball practices and dates with Max—he always has something new to share, whether that be a new friend, a new club, a new class.
And then there's Dustin, star Valedictorian and nerd-extraordinaire, who somehow seems to find more time for friends and social gatherings than Mike does. They don't talk as much, much to Mike's muted disappointment, but when they do, he has the pleasure of hearing about Dustin's many escapades, whether that be with girls or parties or Steve Harrington. Mike still wonders how that friendship stuck so well. Or maybe he's just jealous.
Even El, who's severely limited by the government breathing down their necks, has made more strides in her early adulthood living on Long Island in the last year than Mike has in four semesters of college. He's glad they stay in touch as much as they do. Mike loves hearing about her adventures with Joyce and Hopper; trips to the beach, shopping days, whatever new hobby she's taken interest in. It always brings a smile to his face whenever he receives a new crochet project in the mail.
Completely lost in thought, Mike startles back to reality when he pushes open the heavy metal door to his class building, briefly glancing at the mounted clock to make sure he's not too late.
9:05. Not bad.
He rushes down the corridor and into the exam hall, barging through the entryway and earning a stern glare from his professor.
"Late, Wheeler," he scolds, gesturing harshly towards the empty desk at the front of the room.
"Sorry," Mike mumbles, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. His professor gives him a nasty glare before turning back to his novel.
Mike plops himself down on the creaky chair, ignoring the annoyed huffs from the surrounding students, upset to have any noise interfering with their precious exam time. Mike scoots his chair in extra loudly.
Somehow, the exam block speeds by while simultaneously feeling a hundred years long. Each tick from the clock felt like a cracking whip in Mike's ear. He presses his hand into his cheek, trying desperately to keep his head from slamming into the table each time his eyes drift closed. His pencil moves on its own accord, and he can only hope the answers he's scrawling are the correct ones.
It's only when Mike flips the page that he realizes he forgot to put his name or date on the paper. He shakes his head, hoping to rattle his brain back into working order, as he turns the page back to the front to write the information.
Mike Wheeler. March 21, 1991.
- - -
He definitely failed that exam. Oh well.
Mike wastes zero seconds when he gets back to his dormitory common room, immediately throwing his backpack on the ground and dialing the familiar phone number.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Jon," Mike says with a grin. "How're you doing?"
"Oh, hey, Mike!" Jonathan chirps, the sound a soft crackle through the speaker. "Not bad. Weather's finally warming up, thank God. I don't know how much more snow I can handle."
"God, same," Mike chuckles. "It must be worse in New York."
"Only when they shovel the snow onto the sidewalks," says Jonathan. "Not very fun when you don't have a car."
"I bet."
It goes quiet. Mike wracks his brain for something to say. Thankfully, Jonathan beats him to it.
"You're heading back soon, right?" he asks. "To Hawkins?"
Mike leans heavier against the wall. "Uh. I don't know."
"Oh." Jonathan shuffles, and static crackles through the speaker. "Are you still planning on coming here for break?"
"If that's cool with you?"
Jonathan huffs out a laugh. "Of course it is."
"Okay, good," Mike sighs. "Because I booked my flight straight from here."
"I gathered," Jonathan laughs. "You're always welcome here, Mike. I've told you that for years."
"Thanks, man," Mike says, and he genuinely means it. "I'm glad I'm finally taking you up on the offer."
Jonathan hums. "Me too. You're still trying to transfer, right?"
Mike shrugs, not caring that Jonathan can't see him. "Who knows. Maybe. Hopefully. I don't know if I could even get into any schools in New York."
"Not with that attitude!" Mike rolls his eyes, but Jonathan's words do lift his spirits.
"I am really excited about it," Mike admits. "Indiana sucks. I don't know if you even remember it anymore, but it does."
"How could I forget?" Jonathan teases.
Mike laughs halfheartedly.
"I land at 6:30 tonight," he says. "I'm heading to the airport at 11. I have your address written down somewhere, but could you maybe give me some directions?"
"Don't worry about it, I'll meet you there," Jonathan replies. "Thanks for the notice, by the way."
His words come out teasing and lighthearted, but Mike still feels bad. He knows he should've told Jonathan he changed his flight earlier—preferably before the day he's set to arrive—but it completely slipped his mind.
"Sorry, man. With exams and everything, I must've forgot—"
"Mike, it's fine, I promise," Jonathan assures. "It's been a boring day. It'll be nice to have some company."
Mike nods unnecessarily.
"But," Jonathan continues. "I'll probably be heading to bed pretty early tonight. I've had a bit of a headache all day."
"Oh, that sucks," Mike says. "But same here. Well, not so much a headache. More like my brain feels all… I don't know."
A sharp intake of breath sounds over the phone.
"Is it… how bad is it?" Jonathan asks, forced calm thick in his voice.
Mike sighs, dropping his head to rest on the wall.
He knows Jonathan worries about him. He knows everyone from their circle in Hawkins does. Especially after they had killed Vecna, and ended the nightmare that plagued their childhood for years, all Mike's friends and family seemed to up their watch on him immensely. He understood why; out of all the people who fought in the battle, Mike easily had the hardest time readjusting to normalcy.
It wasn't just the physical injuries he sustained, although those certainly didn't help. Mike still hates that he needs to wear glasses to read, but apparently enough blows to the head will do that. At first, he thought that's where the other problems arose from, too. The headaches, the dizzy spells, the constant confusing of events and memories. The aching, dull void that followed him wherever he went.
But as time went on, Mike started to realize it wasn't just physical. It was mental, and that was somehow more terrifying. The vertigo was triggered by specific things, not bright colors or flashing lights. Mike never knew when he would see something that would cause his world to tilt on its axis, or when he would wake up facing the sky, his friends looming over nervously, with no idea what happened.
It quickly became too much for Mike to deal with alone. His mom made him go to a special therapist after his high school graduation, despite his constant protests. Mike dutifully recited all his symptoms in a bored monotone, hoping that if he detached himself enough, it wouldn't be as bad.
Weeks of appointments went by, and one day, Mike walked out with a PTSD diagnosis. Another week, and it was Paranoia. One more, and it was depression. Each word felt like another weight placed on his shoulders. Just one more problem to add to his laundry list of maladies.
He got medication, of course, and sometimes it helped. Or maybe Mike just convinced himself it did. No pill or treatment has ever been able to fully fix him, and even though the doctors have all said the goal 'isn't to fix you, it's to help you learn to manage yourself better,' Mike doesn't believe it. He can't.
Because he isn't managing better. He's just gotten better at pretending he is.
"Mike? You there?"
Or, he thought he was. If Jonathan's worried tone was any indication, Mike is failing supremely badly right now.
"Yeah. Yeah, sorry," Mike replies, desperately trying to steady the waver in his voice. "I'm good. Just spaced out for a second."
Evidently, the wrong thing to say. "Have you been having your… episodes again?"
"No."
"Mike."
"Kind of. A little bit."
"Mike."
"What do you want me to say, Jonathan?" Mike snaps. "Yeah, sometimes! You know this. They've never gone away fully. You know that."
Jonathan sighs, long and heavy. "And you know you're supposed to reach out when it gets bad."
"Who said it's been bad?" Mike tries.
"I know you, Mike," Jonathan says. "I can tell when something's up. Plus, Nancy told me you haven't reached out to her in a week. You've missed her calls. That's not normal for you."
"Hmmph."
"If I wasn't seeing you tonight, I'd make you talk about this now, I hope you know that."
Mike can't help his snort. "I know."
"But it's already 10:45," Jonathan says. "So you should probably get going."
"It's— what?!"
Sure enough, when Mike steals a glance at the clock mounted above the phone, it is indeed almost 11. So much for having time to pack.
"Shit, I have to go."
"No shit."
Mike murmurs out a quick goodbye, already making a mental list of what he needs to pack and where it is in his haphazardly organized room.
"See you soon, Jonathan, bye!" Mike rushes out, the phone already halfway to the wall mount.
"Goodbye, Mike. Don't think we aren't finishing this la—"
Jonathan's voice cuts off as Mike docks the phone, not even bothering to feel bad. He can apologize later.
- - -
When a gentle hand shakes him awake, Mike has no clue where he is or how long he was asleep. He tenses involuntarily, snapping his chin up from where it had been resting on his chest.
"Oops, sorry to startle, hun."
Mike wipes a sweaty palm across his face, blinking the sleep from his eyes. When his vision clears, the silhouetted figure of woman stands over him, her red lipstick bright on her face. It's only then that Mike remembers where he is: on a plane, in a tiny seat, flying to New York.
"We've landed," the flight attendant chirps. "Carousel 2 for baggage claim."
She flashes him another sweet smile before walking away, satisfied with Mike's sluggish nod. He clumsily packs away his book and reading glasses into his backpack, not bothering to bookmark his page. He fell asleep about ten words in, anyways.
He walks like a zombie off the plane and into the airport, muttering out half-assed apologies to anyone he bumps into along the way. Mike follows the signs to the nearest exit, each step waking his brain up more and more. His eyes scan the scattered crowd for Jonathan, nerves growing when he doesn't find him. Maybe Mike's at the wrong exit?
"Mike! Hey, Mike!"
Startled, Mike whips himself around, a smile splitting his face when he's greeted by Jonathan standing across the way, a wide grin plastered on his face.
"Hey, man!" Jonathan opens his arms for a hug, and Mike gladly falls into it, groaning when his friend ruffles his hair.
"Really?" he whines.
Jonathan grins. "It was already a mess, don't worry. How was the flight?"
Mike pulls at the straps of his backpack, following Jonathan as they head towards the exit. "Not bad. I slept through most of it."
"That's good," Jonathan says. "Now you won't be tired for your first real day of vacation."
"Trust me, I'm still tired," Mike sighs. "I've never been more excited for a shitty floor mattress before."
"It's actually a shitty couch," Jonathan corrects.
"Even better."
Chuckling, Jonathan pushes open the door, and a wave of cold blasts them in the face. Mike inhales deeply, soaking up the fresh air and shining light from the setting sun.
"Damn, it's cold out." Mike wraps his jacket tighter around his shoulders. "You don't live that far, right?"
"Well, we're in Queens, and I live in Manhattan." Jonathan raises an eyebrow at Mike's dead stare. "Could be farther."
"Ugh."
Jonathan musses up Mike's hair again, and Mike doesn't bother pushing him away this time. He would never admit it out loud, but it does feel nice to have someone visibly care for him.
"Don't worry, it's a quick trip," Jonathan says. "C'mon, I'll teach you how to use public transit."
Mike whines in annoyance, but dutifully follows Jonathan out the door towards the station.
- - -
If Jonathan wasn't there to help him, Mike is certain he would've accidentally ended up in Florida. The sheer amount of people is difficult enough to navigate, not even mentioning the amount of stations and streets there are. Mike feels like he's run a marathon, and all he's done is follow Jonathan through the East Village.
"Welcome home." Jonathan kicks off his shoes at the door, hanging his keys on a small hook. "Take your shoes off, I don't want any snow inside."
Mike does, bracing his hands on the wall. A rusty vent above them blasts out hot air, and Mike feels himself sweating before he can even get his coat off his shoulders.
"Do you pay extra to get cooked alive all winter?" he jokes, dropping his backpack on the floor by his boots.
Jonathan throws Mike a sarcastic smile over his shoulder. "Funny."
"Seriously, how do you live like this?" Mike asks. "This is, like, unbearable."
"It can get quite cold, believe it or not," he replies. "It's either ten degrees or one hundred. There's no in between. At least when it's hot, I can open a window."
Jonathan moves down the narrow entryway, and Mike finally gets a good view of the space. Soft yellow light shines from a flickering lamp, reflecting off the frosted glass pane of the single window. Small flurries of fallen snow swirl on the outside ledge, spinning into delicate storms. Mike can't remember the last time he found snow so pretty; it doesn't look as good on the streets of Indiana.
"Here." Jonathan braces his arms, grimacing as he yanks hard on the window. "Damn, this thing is frozen."
Mike shuffles across the carpeted floor to help, grabbing one of the hatches. It takes them a minute, but with their combined strength (Jonathan's strength, and Mike's weak assist), they're able to crack the window open enough for a cold blast to waft through the small apartment, cooling down the tiny living room instantly.
"Better," Mike pants, somehow out of breath. Jonathan laughs at him, gesturing towards the couch.
"Sit down before you pass out, Mike," he quips. "I know that's probably more exercise than you're used to…"
"Oh, shut up."
Jonathan snickers, going over to the kitchen to pour them some water. Mike takes a seat, pleasantly surprised by the softness of the cushions.
"By the way, some of my NYU friends are working on a short tomorrow," Jonathan says. "So I'll be gone for most of the day. But I don't want to ditch you…"
"No, it's fine," Mike waves him off. "I wanted to check out some schools around here, anyways."
Jonathan nods, pouring water into two cups. "Any specific ones in mind? I could probably get you into a tour at NYU if you want."
Mike hums in consideration. "Maybe. I don't know. Is it bad that if I just wander around?"
"Maybe," Jonathan smirks. "But who cares? You're on vacation."
He hands the plastic cup to Mike, plopping himself down on the couch beside him. It creaks at the added weight, and Mike already knows his back will be sore from sleeping here in the morning.
Jonathan nudges his shoulder. "Try to do something for yourself too, alright? I know you're here for school, but there's plenty of cool stuff to see around here."
Mike hums absentmindedly, sipping his water. He pointedly ignores Jonathan's sigh.
"Mike, c'mon," he says. "You look like you could use some fun. No offense."
"None taken," Mike says, visibly offended. "Thanks, Jonathan."
"I know school can be rough," Jonathan starts, trepidation palpable. "But if you put yourself out there, it's really not so bad."
"What if I don't want to put myself out there?" Mike snaps, cruelly satisfied when Jonathan flinches in surprise.
"I know it's been hard for you, Mike." Jonathan's words are practiced and natural, like he's speaking to his mom or sister. "I know you've had a harder time… adjusting than your friends have. But shutting yourself out, moping all the time, being all self-deprecating? You're digging yourself into a hole, and soon you won't be able to get out. Trust me, I know. I was the same way at first."
Mike sniffles, looking down at the floor to hide the tears welling up in his eyes. He doesn't even know why he's crying. His face heats in embarrassment, which only makes him choke up more.
Jonathan seems to sense Mike's growing distress.
"We'll talk in the morning," Jonathan says, firmly patting Mike's shoulder. "Now get some rest. You look beat."
Mike nods, worried that if he speaks, he won't be able to control the words that pour from his mouth. Jonathan flashes him one last smile as he flips the lights off, heading into his bedroom to turn in for the night.
With a shaky breath, Mike scrubs at his eyes, willing the tears to retreat back into his head. A few stray drops slide down his face, but he pays them no mind. He tries to make himself comfortable on the worn couch; it's not as bad as Mike was worried it would be, even if his lanky limbs hang off the sides.
Thankfully, the pure emotional and physical exhaustion of the day made it not at all hard to drift off into slumber.
- - -
When Mike opens his eyes again, he's not tired anymore.
He's also not on Jonathan's couch.
"Mike."
His friend is standing behind him, his hands wrung together.
"Oh. Hello," Mike greets warily, surveying his surroundings. "Woah. Where are we?"
It's not the comforting, familiar chill of the playground. The soles of Mike's shoes are damp with warm, shallow water, rippling in a sea of endless black.
"Nowhere," his friend says. "Don't think about it."
Mike nods. "Okay."
Only in the soft gleam of untraceable light does Mike notice the clarity of his friend's eyes, the definition on his face. It's unmistakably clear in a way that Mike has never seen before.
"You have a nice face," Mike blurts, oddly serene.
His friend hesitates, stepping back. "Can you… you can see my face?"
"Huh?"
Mike squints, frowning as he realizes that, no, he can't. It's as though a sheet of cloudy film is draped over his friend's face, cloaking him in a veil of shadows and mist.
"Why can't I see you? I swear I just—" Mike takes a step forward, flinching when his friend anxiously shifts back. "Sorry. I'm sorry."
No reply passes his concealed lips. Mike stands, hesitating, his eyes scanning the empty blackness. He's dreaming, obviously, but there's a distinct feeling of lucidity that Mike can't make himself ignore.
"Is this…" Mike toes the water. "Is this real? Are you real? Or am I dreaming?"
His friend stays quiet for a waiting moment.
"Dreaming," he eventually whispers, his back turned to Mike. "Like I said, don't think about it."
Mike doesn't even pretend to understand what that means. He simply nods, waiting for his friend to speak again. But as the minutes pass, it grows clear that his friend is in no mood to say another word to Mike.
"So…"
A quiet sniffle echos through the empty void, and Mike's eyes go wide when he realizes his friend is near tears.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Mike asks softly, approaching with delicate steps. "Did I do something?"
"No."
His friend kneels down, taking a seat in the shallow water they've found themselves in. Mike follows, crossing his legs, stunned when his pants stay completely dry. As hard as he tries, Mike can't seem to not stare at his friend, sitting back on his heels mere feet away from him, his face a distorted blur. No matter how hard Mike squints and blinks, he can't make out any features. It's frustrating.
"Sorry." Mike jumps at the quiet voice breaking through the silence. "I just had a rough day. I wanted to see you."
"Don't apologize," Mike says. "It's nice to see you, too. We do see each other a lot, don't we? I can never really remember when I wake up, but it's easier to here."
His friend says nothing, but nods his head slightly.
"Maybe you're, like, a manifestation my subconscious made," Mike says. "Because I don't really have many friends. Not ones I talk to a lot, at least."
"Oh…"
"To be honest, you're probably my closest friend," Mike admits. "I see you more than I see anyone else I know."
"…Oh."
Only after the words pass his lips does Mike realize how pathetic that sounds. Embarrassment pools in his stomach, much to heightened in feeling for a dream. He tries to shake it off, remind himself that this isn't real, that his friend is just a figment of his own depressing loneliness, but the feeling won't budge, staying firmly rooted in his chest.
"Well, I mean, I know other people—"
"I get it," his friend says meekly.
Mike's lips curl into a sympathetic smile. "You do?"
His friend nods again. "You know I do."
"Right, of course," Mike mutters. "You are me. Like, a subset of my psyche, or something. Wow. That's a bit weird, that my closest friend isn't even real."
The two sit in heavy, weighted silence. Mike can feel the hurt radiating from his friend, mingling with his own anxiety.
"I'm sorry, Mike."
A sinking feeling creeps into Mike's gut. "For what?"
His friend looks up. If Mike didn't know better, he would swear he could see tears in the veil of his eyes, under the white sheen of cloaking mist.
"Everything."
Mike desperately reaches out, gripping at the fragmented boy, but the wisps of shadow slip through his fingers like vapor, evaporating until there's nothing left but him and the darkness. It creeps around him, dissolving whatever sanctuary his friend had made.
As the figure of his friend vanishes completely, Mike lets the shadows surround him. He's too tired to fight.
- - -
With a jolt, Mike's eyes fly open. He's still on Jonathan's couch, with tear streaks lining the pale skin of his cheeks and a hollowness in his mind that he can't place. His head is killing him, a dull ache in the back of his skull, like someone had slammed him hard in the neck. His eyes drift to the clock. It's past midnight.
Almost robotically, Mike pulls a tissue from the box on the table to wipe his eyes. It falls somewhere on the floor once he's done with it. He doesn't bother to pick it up or throw it away.
He can't remember why he's crying.
Mike wonders if he'd want to, even if he could.