Mileven One-Shots

Someone

After her death, Mike had shut everyone out, locking himself behind the safe walls of his bedroom and he'd been having trouble getting food into his body without it coming right back up when images of his grandmother flashed through his brain. Her bright brown eyes, loving smile, warm embraces, her bad but hilarious jokes, her soothing old voice telling him everything was going to be okay. Her beautiful white hair before it started to fall out do to the chemotherapy she was getting, her healthy olive skin before it started to pale the older she got, the firm grip her hand had before it started to weaken as she started to lose muscle. 

She had been the kindest woman he'd ever known, the most understanding and welcoming person. Out of everyone in Mike's family, his Nana had been the most supportive of them all, always believing he could do anything he wanted if he put his mind to it. She never doubted his abilities, never made him feel bad for being who he is, never telling him he wasn't good enough because he didn't play any stupid sports. She had always been there for him, always there to talk and reassure him everything was okay. 

Once he had gotten his license, Mike had driven from Hawkins all the way to Fort Wayne every week to hang out with his Nana at the nursing home. He'd brought her coffee, gotten her the new book of the series she'd been reading (she practically cried from happiness), played checkers and uno with her, filled her in on what was going on at home and school and accepted the advice she'd given him. One time he had taken El to meet his Nana and they spent the whole afternoon at the small cafe down the street, exchanging stories. He'd even held her hand at the doctor's office when they started giving her chemo, and he sat right next to her as she got her head shaved. He'd even started volunteering at the nursing home twice a week just to help his Nana out when her strength began to slowly go away. They'd gotten really close during those five months. 

And just to have her taken away, just like that? Without a warning? Without a goodbye? It just wasn't fair. None of it was fair. It wasn't fair that cancer had taken everything away from her; her hair, her strength, her dark skin, her life. And it wasn't fair that he got to stay there, living his life while she was just... gone. But, Mike understood it was just the circle of life, and that people had to go, but that didn't mean he couldn't grieve. 

Mike snaps back to reality and reaches a hand up to wipe the tears away. 

He tries to keep his cries buried deep within, telling himself now isn't the time to be vulnerable or cry like a baby, and gets ready for bed even though it's not even seven yet. That's another thing he's been doing: sleeping way too much, going to bed early but still sleeping in later, being held captive in the dreams that come to him. Dreams of his Nana. Well, more like flashbacks since the dreams that come have actually happened, and he wakes up crying each time and it only makes him feel worse. 

After exchanging his jeans and T-shirt for sweatpants and a crew neck, Mike quietly opens his bedroom door and tip toes into the bathroom across the hall, slipping inside and shutting the door. The light switches on with a flip of his finger, and he blinks rapidly at the sudden brightness and he has to fight down the urge just to brush his teeth in the dark. While he brushes his teeth, Mike takes a second to glance at himself in the mirror and noticeably winces at how terrible he looks; dark circles around his eyes despite the amount of sleep he's been settings, sunken cheeks making his cheekbones even more prominent, bloodshot eyes from crying, blotchy cheeks from the tears, and chapped/cracked lips. 

Swallowing down upcoming bile, Mike tears his eyes away from the mirror, set his toothbrush back down into the holder, and rinses out his mouth before heading back into his room, almost running into Holly on his way. He mutters a, "Sorry," before he shuts the door, sighing as the pain in his head decreases due to the darkness his room holds.