Chapter Text
The sunrise bled onto Mike's cheeks through the car windows, and as the shine of the celestial body made it's way to Mike's eyes, a distant jingle of keys approached the vehicle he managed to rest in. The driver's car door opened, which prompts Mike awake, but just barely.
Silence settles in the car. Enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to ensure one of the boys tries to break it. The tension seeps into every pore in Mike's body, eating him alive. He wants to say something, anything, to break the silence, but his body just won't let him. His guilt manifests in his chest, compressing itself to only allow laboured and shallow breaths escape his lips. But the thing is, Mike doesn't feel guilty at all. Or... at least not what he should feel guilty about. Scratch that. Mike doesn't feel guilty about anything that happened last night. It's not his fault that the party doesn't understand. That no one understands. Do they really expect him to be fine after he lost the one thing that found a way to ground him?
Mike is pulled out of his mental spiral by Will, who's started a cycle of hitting his head on the steering wheel, resting his head, mumbling and repeating. After 8 cycles of Will's stimming (or so Mike counted), he starts the car with a shaky sigh. He doesn't prepare to drive, however. He just sits there, skull against the headrest and hands over his face. Which is odd to say the least. Will's life after Hawkins had been nothing but peaceful and kind to him, so why do his actions look practiced?
Will starts the aircon and sets it to the lowest temperature possible. Which, again, is odd. It's 77 degrees, yes, but thats warm, not "adhere you to leather" hot. And definitely not warranting the use of aircon at the setting that shoots icicles at you.
"He likes it cold."
No...
No.
It's just a preference. It has to be. The mind flayer is dead. Vecna is dead. Not to mention, the Upside Down was destroyed, killing everyone and everything in it at the time.
Killing El...
The sound of the parking brake disengaging severs Mike's chain of thought, and without a word, the two boys continue on their road trip back to Montauk. They had stopped in San Bernadino for the night, which they'd never done before in the whole 4 years the game nights had been held (it was more of a game week, though, since it was just more convenient to crash at Max and Lucas' house). It wasn't too big of a deal though. It just meant more unbearable time together in Will's stuffy car. It's fine, really. It's fine.
At least Will isn't too much of a reckless driver.
------------------------------‐-----------------------------------------------------------
Mike couldn't have been more wrong.
With nothing to do, Mike sits in the back of Will's car looking out the window. And, oh boy, does Mike wish that he could do something else. Anything else.
The cars around drag along in a blur, and Mike's eyes refuse to focus on anything that passes by. This is not 25 mph. If anything, it was at least 40. This isn't responsible. And it definitely isn't safe.
"Will, maybe you should-"
"Maybe you should shut it. You seem to be very good at that." Will snaps back, eyes fixed on the road.
Jeez. Message received.
It gets to a point where Will is running red lights, and now Mike is clinging to the door handle in a desperate attempt to anchor himself. That's the last thing he wants to participate in. Will's apparent stress seems to be rubbing off on him.
"Dude, you just-" Mike starts, before being interrupted again.
"You're not the one driving. Shut up." He snaps back.
"But-"
"Zip it."
"Will..."
Will growls, upset. Furious, even.
"Can it or I'll pull over and you'll walk home."
And as much as Mike hates Will's reckless driving, he isn't really in the mood to walk from Tempe to Montauk. Especially after another restless night.
The car sways back and forth with every turn, and Mike's stomach flips in every direction. He doesn't usually get motion sickness, but then again, he's never been thrown around by a madman in a car. Not to say that Will was mad, that's just factually incorrect. But the way he was driving was.
With more sharp brakes and turns, Mike can't help but feel like he's going to throw up. He's tried every trick in the book to suppress it, but as Will continues on with his reckless driving, not even suppression can stop his stomach contents from resurfacing.
Surely Will has vomit bags in his car... right?
It would make sense if he did. At least, it would to Mike. Will had always had bad motion sickness, and recently managed to get over it. But that was very recently, so surely Will hasn't had the time to get rid of all the medications and other tools he had laying around his car.
Surely.
He frantically searched Will's car, scanning every crevice in sight. It was an invasion of privacy, yes, but it was better than talking to Will and risk walking back home. Or worse. Talking it out. Eugh. If Mike wasn't already motion sick, that thought alone would do the job.
After what felt like years, Mike found a bag or two under the driver seat, and he also found a shirt. Thing is, it's not one of Will's. And it definitely isn't Mikes.
...Whatever. It's not like it matters right now. Mike brings the bag to cup his face, and with the next turn he heaves. The sound of the bag crinkling violates the silence, and at this point, Mike is using all the strength he has left to ensure he doesn't tip over and spew all over Will's car, and it seems that Will's picked up on it, too.
Over heaves and crinkles, Mike hears Will mutter "shit..." under his breath and slow down to a somewhat reasonable speed, searching the surroundings for a fast food restaurant, a gas station, anything. That action alone is enough to temporarily delay Mike's next heave, but just barely.
It's not like he's doing it for him. He's probably just doing it so that Mike doesn't stain the seats with vomit. The search ends at a 7 Eleven just off the highway, and Will makes the turn, carefully this time, like he's finally paying attention. Which isn't remotely sweet or caring at all. It's just decency. Right?