Chapter Text
They don’t speak at all on the helicopter. Mike’s expression tells Chris more than enough. Sam is gone. Josh is gone. All of their friends are gone. The rangers are asking them things, trying to get answers but Chris refuses to talk to them, won’t consider it right now. He holds his forehead in his hands, trying to block out the light and the voices and the aching in his chest. It doesn’t work though, only leaves him feeling sad and numb. When he sits back up, leaning heavily into the side of the helicopter, Mike holds his gaze. The other man’s deep brown eyes convey sorrow and pain, remorse and guilt. Chris doesn’t like that look on him; Mike is the brave one, if this past night has taught him anything. Mike is brave and fierce and capable, he knows how to handle himself. He shouldn’t have to shoulder the burden of this horrid mess.
They get hustled into the Police Station a couple of hours later, thankfully very far from the mountain (though Chris would prefer to be farther, but he doesn’t think there’s any Police Station on the planet far enough away for his liking). Mike is shoved into an interview while medics tend to Chris – they cover the haematoma on his forehead with a gauze pad, check his ribs for cracks and give him painkillers for his ankle. He remembers falling and hurting it while he was running from the Wendigo near the shed (at the same time he had thought he’d cracked a rib) but he didn’t realise how much it had swollen up until they got off the helicopter. Chris waits for a while until they call him for his own interview, and in the hallway when he passes Mike he notices the other man looks utterly destroyed, in every sense of the word.
His interview with the detective in charge is less than comfortable. Chris isn’t surprised that she doesn’t believe his accounts of the Wendigo – first she tell him he was sleep-deprived and stressed out, and then even have the audacity to claim it was Josh who killed all of their friends. “Yeah, he was trying to fuck with our heads,” he presses, “but he was not a murderer, absolutely not.” Chris hopes she can tell that she’s upset him, because he’s seething inside by the time she decides to suggest it was the man with the flamethrower that did it. “He saved my life, and I watched him die trying to protect us from one of those things.” At the end of it all Chris says simply that he doesn’t care if she believes him or not, he’s just telling her what he knows. She reluctantly ends the interview after that.
When they’re done with him they take him into a holding room, where Mike is slumped against the far wall. There’s a medic crouched in front of him, fixing a bandage to his temple. A long, red gash runs along his right cheek, and his left eye is rimmed with small scrapes and bruises. Running down the side of his neck are lines of claw marks. The medic stands and excuses herself, and as Mike’s eyes follow her they land on Chris; his expression doesn’t change but he visibly relaxes, the tension leaving him quickly. He looks like he’s going to pass out at any moment, understandably, which probably explains why he doesn’t adjust himself when Chris takes a seat beside him.
“… Is it weird that I don’t like how calm it is in here?” Chris doesn’t know what else to say, but the silence bothers him. It reminds him of those final moments in the cabin. He gives Mike a sidelong glance, eyeing off the dozens of gauzes and bandages covering his skin. His lonely little forehead-wound feels pretty insignificant in comparison.
Mike huffs and sits up properly. “A little,” he starts, “but I feel the same, so who am I to judge?” The brunet offers a half-hearted smile that falls apart quickly. He goes to touch the bandage that now adorns his forehead with his left hand, but then thinks better of it at the last second and braces it on his knee instead. Chris finally spies the pristine white dressings that cover the stumps of his fingers. He hadn’t noticed that before.
“Mike, your fingers… what…?”
Chris’ voice rises as he speaks, and Mike flinches noticeably. He stares for a moment, eyes wide in shock, but he composes himself as best as he can. “S—uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to… to jump like that.” Chris feels awful. He hates that he just scared Mike Munroe for a second there. Mike grimaces and then looks to his hand, flipping it over slowly. “It was—there was a trap down in the Sanatorium, I guess it was for the—the Wendigo, but…” He seems to struggle for the right words, brow furrowing while he continues to stare at the remains of his two digits. He lets out a frustrated noise, shoving his hand into the pocket of the tattered jacket he’s been wearing all night.
Chris has no idea what to do—they’ve been friends for years, sure, but he and Mike have never really been that close. If this were Josh or Sam or Ash beside him he’d know exactly how to cheer them up, make them feel better… but Mike? He watches in dismay as Mike hangs his head, refusing to look at Chris now. Carefully, like he might be making a mistake, Chris puts a hesitant hand on Mike’s knee, hoping to offer some sort of sympathy. Mike doesn’t move, but he doesn’t flinch or tense at the touch, so Chris supposes that’s good.
The silence continues, that unsettling calmness surrounding them. They both slowly begin to get accustomed to it, but Chris thinks it will be a long time before it feels normal again. At some point Mike places his own hand on top of Chris’, squeezing lightly. Chris pretends he doesn’t squeeze back, pretends he doesn’t cling to how warm and solid and alive its owner is.
The police discharge them after a few hours; it’s now mid-afternoon. Mike’s car has been brought back from where it was parked at the base of Mount Madahee, and neither of them asks how they got it because they simply don’t care. It’s their ticket out, which is all that concerns them. Mike offers to drive Chris home, and Chris only nods slowly, not trusting himself to speak. He’s tired and sad and if he starts talking he thinks he might not be able to stop. Mike appears to understand, and Chris is grateful for that.
They don’t really talk in the car. Chris isn’t sure what he’d say, anyway. He can feel Mike’s eyes on the side of his head every few minutes but he doesn’t look back. Instead he stares out of the window at the city, the same city they’d left a day ago. The city hasn’t changed at all, and yet in such a short space of time they are completely different people. He hears Mike sniff softly. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, he already knows.
Mike pulls into the parking lot at the side of Chris’ apartment building. Chris doesn’t move, and Mike doesn’t make him. He turns off the engine and they sit, waiting, until Chris finally works up the nerve to ask, “Did you find Josh down there?”
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he notices that Mike seems to have been bracing himself for this question. He sighs softly. “Yeah, we found him.”
Swallowing thickly, Chris starts, “Was he…?” before stopping himself. He really doesn’t want to know, not now anyway. He shakes his head as if that will get rid of the morbid thoughts. “No, never mind. I don’t think I’ll like the answer either way.” The look on Mike’s face is twisted in pain and guilt, but he doesn’t say anything in response, only presses his lips into a thin line and looks away with a tiny nod.
He thanks Mike for the ride and gets out of the car, ignoring how concerned Mike looks while he searches for his keys in his coat. “Just text me or something if you need anything,” Mike offers, clearly being as sincere as he can manage, but it just makes Chris uneasy, asking Mike for help. Feels wrong because he usually calls Josh or Sam or even Ashley if he needs help. Hell, he’d probably turn to Jess before he turns to Mike. But none of them are here anymore and if he thinks about that right now he might start crying, so he just bites his lip and nods, murmuring a thank you under his breath. Says that Mike can do the same. Mike doesn’t drive off immediately when Chris disappears inside the building, and he wonders how long the other man lingers.
By the time he gets his front door open he’s shaking with the effort it takes to keep standing. Dropping his keys on the table beside the door Chris stumbles through his tiny apartment and into his bedroom, immediately collapsing onto his bed. He doesn’t remember it ever being so comfy. Before he succumbs to his complete lack of energy he uses his remaining strength to plug his phone in, hearing the beep that means it’s charging and dumping it on the bedside table. His parents will probably try to call him once they get wind of his return, and he’ll feel bad if they can’t reach him.
As if on cue the phone dings. Chris lifts a hand weakly and tilts the screen to peer at it – Mike’s name stares back at him. He spots his name amongst the contents of the text message but his eyes droop and he lets go of the phone. He’s quite sure it can wait until he’s slept.
It’s only seconds later that he’s out like a light. And, for the first time in years, he dreams.
---
Chris startles awake at about five in the morning, visions of saw blades and fire and Wendigo clouding his mind. He sits up, breathing heavily as he struggles to orient himself with his surroundings; he’s not on the mountain, he’s in his bedroom. Nothing is being carved up, nothing is burning down, and there is definitely no monster hiding in his closet. His heart rate slowly drops down, and Chris rubs his eyes with a yawn. When he checks his phone he realises he’s been out for nearly fourteen hours. There are a few missed calls from his parents, a couple of texts from his sister, and another message from Mike. He checks the messages from his sister first.
From: Reese
Yesterday, 8:12pm
just heard about what happened on the news. i know you probs dont wanna talk rn so just text me if u can, ill tell mom and dad to back off until youre ready
From: Reese
Yesterday, 8:14pm
love you chris <3
It’s times like this that Chris really loves how well his big sister knows him. She’s always so calm and level-headed, a trait that doesn’t really run through his family. With a sigh he pulls the phone from its cable and brings it closer to his naked eyes, bleary and half-awake mind only barely registering that he needs to put on his glasses. When had he taken them off, anyway? He reaches out blindly for them on his bedside and shoves them over his eyes with less care than he ordinarily would. He quickly types out a reply.
From: Chris
5:14am
I’m okay. I’ll talk to you soon.
What he means is I’m really not okay and I probably won’t talk to you soon but his sister will get that. He hits the send button. While he’s thinking about it he checks Mike’s message too.
From: Mike
Yesterday, 3:58pm
hope you can get some rest chris, i think the police will want us to come back in and give more statements in the next couple of days
Chris recalls this as the message he half-saw before falling asleep yesterday. There’s a new one underneath it.
From: Mike
1:41am
hey are you awake??
The timestamp informs him that this one was about three hours ago. He purses his lips, part of him guilty that he hadn’t been awake to see it at the time—they had agreed to let each other know if they needed anything (albeit a little reluctantly on Chris’ part) and maybe Mike had been trying to ask.
From: Chris
5:17am
I am now
Looking at Mike’s words just makes him feel worse about doing nothing wrong, so he locks his phone, the clicking sound fading swiftly into silence. It’s only then that Chris notices how quiet his room really is, how alone he is in that moment. His heart rate goes right back up the way it came.
Shadows dance along his floorboards, like tendrils reaching out to seize his limbs; wind rustles from beyond the walls, soft and distant enough that it casts seeds of doubt into his mind because maybe it’s not the wind, maybe there’s something out there. The invisible hands of fear begin to tighten around his throat and squeeze mercilessly.
Deep down he knows that his panicking is completely ridiculous, but he just can’t seem to convince his poor, anxious mind of the fact. Clutching tightly at the phone in his hand Chris scoots into the top corner of his bed and presses himself into the wall. He sits there for ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes, body rigid and knuckles white with pressure. Somewhere amidst the silence and terror his phone makes a pinging noise, and while he registers that it’s a message he cannot bring himself to relax enough to check it.
He’s terrified of his own house, terrified of the silence and loneliness, and he hates it more than he thinks possible.
When the phone in his palm rings unexpectedly Chris nearly screams and throws it across the room. With one hand clawing at his chest in a desperate attempt to stave off the impending heart attack, he checks the caller ID with the other.
It’s Mike.
Though he’s not completely calm yet he accepts the call without thinking, holding it to his ear carefully. “… Mike?”
On the other end of the line he can hear Mike breathe out shakily. It catches him off-guard for a moment. “Hey,” Mike says, in a softer tone than Chris thinks he’s ever heard the man use. “I, uh, I didn’t think you’d pick up.”
Chris tries to laugh, but it’s a wheezy and strained noise that ends up sounding pained instead of light. “Wh… Why?”
“Well, you didn’t answer when I texted back before so I figured you were…” Mike trails off. Chris senses that Mike can tell he’s upset, but thankfully he doesn’t push him to talk; he abandons the explanation in favour of changing the subject. “I can’t sleep,” he admits, and Chris decides not to mention that he’s quite literally been sleeping the entire time they’ve been apart. Though, after that rather worrying episode right before he picked up the phone, he’s almost certain he will never sleep again. “Are you busy right now?”
“Dude, why would I be busy?” This time Chris actually manages to chuckle, albeit unevenly. He sounds a bit insane when he thinks about it but that’s fine, maybe he’s heading down that road. He makes a mental note to panic when he starts hearing voices.
“I-I dunno, I was just—” Mike sighs. “Don’t worry. Look, do you mind if I come over? It’s… sort of weird being alone.”
“Yeah, man, of course.” Chris pauses for a beat, heart in his throat. He wants to say he feels the same way, it’s so terrifying being alone, but the thought of admitting that aloud makes his gut churn uncomfortably. Eventually, he forces out, “It’s—I feel like that too.”
They exchange a quick see you soon before hanging up, and a handful of seconds later Mike texts him be there in 20. Chris sighs loudly, sliding out of his safe little corner and off the bed. The first thing he does is turn on the lights in his bedroom, and as he makes his way to the bathroom he turns on the lights in the hallway and the living room. Light is good, safe. He likes that. He really needs it right now.
When he’s done in the bathroom he washes his hands—the water comes away a red-brown colour that makes unpleasant memories flutter to life underneath his skin. He quickly turns off the tap in an effort to quash it before it gets out of control, but the pipes groan and whine in the process which brings back flashes of monsters wailing and slashing and biting. It occurs to him then that nothing will really ever be the same again, not even the most mundane of tasks. Most likely, they’ll all end the same as they do now, with his back pressed against the wall and his heart hammering against his ribcage.
Fantastic. He’s not gonna get used to this any time soon.
He’s sitting cross-legged on the sofa ten minutes later when there’s a sharp knock at the door. Chris jumps no less than a foot into the air, still very much on edge in the silence—is that Mike? No, it can’t be. Mike had said twenty minutes; there’s no way he could be here already. For a moment Chris loses himself in thoughts of dead friends with long limbs and pointed teeth, clawing at the front door, trying to eat him alive. He’s so deep into his own fears now that he nearly misses the second knock, a little sharper and somehow more urgent. All of a sudden he’s unable to distinguish his nightmarish thoughts from reality, so he calls out, “Mike? Is that you?”
“Yeah,” Mike’s voice calls back from the other side.
It’s enough of a response to snap him out of his stupor. What were you expecting, you moron? It’s certainly not a fucking Wendigo asking to come in.
Mike looks back at him with weary eyes when he opens the door to let him in. “That was quick,” Chris mutters, standing aside for him, and the taller man only shrugs, offering no explanation. Mike is about ten times cleaner and wearing a faded blue hoodie that looks to be a couple of sizes too big for him. Chris immediately feels odd seeing him in it—part of it is because it’s unheard of for Mike to not be wearing one of his signature plaid shirts, but it’s mostly because it makes Mike look small and fragile. With his tired, sunken eyes rimmed with grey rings and bandage-covered skin, he just doesn’t look like Mike anymore.
It’s not until Mike looks him up and down that Chris remembers he hasn’t showered yet; he’s still covered in grime and blood and dirt, covered in memories of monsters that haunt them and friends that will never return home. The realisation weakens his knees, and he stumbles as he tries to step back. Mike’s arm shoots out to catch him and Chris latches onto it despite his better judgement, clinging desperately in a way he certainly would not be if he were calmer. “Whoa, are you—?” He stops short of saying are you alright because the obvious answer is of course not.
The floodgates burst open. He’s legitimately surprised that they managed to keep the waters at bay for this long. He hasn’t cried since he tried to shoot himself to save Ashley, and he had been sure he was all cried out at this point—apparently not. He sobs pathetically into Mike’s sleeve, tears digging tracks along his grubby cheeks. “It—” He chokes on the words. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
He feels Mike’s hand curl at his shoulder, gripping his sleeve tightly, and then he’s being pulled in. Mike puts his other arm around Chris’ back and hugs him. “Sorry,” Chris mumbles, but that doesn’t stop him from hiding his face on Mike’s shoulder. It makes him cry even more, makes him think that maybe if he cries enough he’ll forget why he started. “I miss them already, I miss them so much,” he says with a poorly-concealed whimper, and he can feel Mike nodding slowly when he leans in to rest his forehead against Chris’ neck. He can feel the taller man tremble ever so slightly, hold him just that little bit closer.
They stand there like idiots, crying into each other in the open doorway for a solid ten minutes until Chris finds it somewhere within himself to pull away, swiping furiously at his eyes with the backs of his fingers. He hates being this emotional around other people, no matter how justified it is; he gets uneasy in a way he can’t explain. He’d rather just pretend things are okay, and avoid being so open and vulnerable. Still lost in his thoughts he shuts the door perhaps a bit too violently, and scares himself when the slam echoes around the room. Mike gives him a look that is saturated with concern, but there’s a hint of something like amusement crinkling in the corners of his eyes. Chris supposes it would be more apparent if they were in any situation that wasn’t this one. He sighs and shakes his head, loosely grabbing Mike by the forearm and dragging him over to the sofa. They sit, and Chris sinks into the cushions in the hopes that maybe they’ll swallow him whole.
Silence begins to envelop them again until Mike swallows audibly, tentatively beginning to speak. “We—When Sam and I went down to the mines looking for Josh—”
Chris cuts him off immediately, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Oh, come on, Mike, don’t...” He doesn’t want to start this again; there are too many sensitive emotions and memories there.
“Chris,” the other man says, and there’s something strained in his tone that makes Chris eye him carefully, “please, I need to… I need to say this, okay?” After a moment Chris gives a reluctant nod, and Mike closes his eyes. When he opens them again they’re glassy and distant, like he’s reliving the memory he’s about to describe. That alone would make Chris certain he won’t be enjoying this memory, if he wasn’t already sure of the fact. “When we went looking for Josh, there was this room. It was flooded with water—we didn’t know that, obviously, until Sam managed to get it open and it all came rushing out. I dunno what I thought was gonna be in there, but…” He pauses, and flicks his eyes over to Chris. They hold each other’s gaze for a couple of seconds until Mike looks away again. “Chris, that old guy… his… his head came rolling out with all that water.”
Chris can picture it. He really wishes he couldn’t, but it’s there in his head now and probably never going away. He can feel the blood draining from his skin but he does his best not to show a reaction, pressing his lips together and keeping his eyes trained on Mike.
He spies Mike’s hands curling into fists in the corner of his vision. “His body was strung up with chains and hooks in the middle of the room. And then… and there was E—” Mike stops as if the words have been stolen from his breath. Chris watches on in dismay as this once charming and steadfast friend of his begins to crumble right in front of him; tears trickle down his cheeks slowly, and he takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down. Chris shuffles slightly closer, places a hand on Mike’s knee and squeezes reassuringly. After everything that’s happened he thinks Mike deserves a chance to vent, even if it makes Chris feel awkward beyond belief. It’s the least he can do for him, so he tries to ignore the way his pulse has skyrocketed.
Mike tries again. “I saw Em first, she was… her eyes were gone. That thing must’ve…” He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t need to. “Matt was strung up by a foot, hanging by the door… dunno where his head was… Ashley was—” He seems to sense Chris’ anxiety before it actually hits, questioning expression taking over his features. As much as he wants to Chris doesn’t look away. He feels he has a responsibility to hear this. “… I couldn’t see her body, but… there were all of these cages hanging up there, and I… I-I think her head was in one of them.”
Chris thinks he might throw up. Ashley didn’t deserve an end like that. He should have stayed behind when she closed the grate. Should have made sure she didn’t get lost or ambushed or—
He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he feels a comforting hand on his shoulder, a thumb rubbing circles gently into the skin. Worried brown eyes watch his face, and it’s unsettling to Chris how exposed this simple expression of concern makes him feel. Chris looks away quickly, leaning back to compose himself. Mike’s hand retracts immediately, instead gently resting it over the hand Chris still has on his knee. Neither of them moves for a beat, letting the strange moment of semi-intimacy pass. Neither of them acknowledges it once it’s gone, though their hands stay twined on Mike’s knee.
They sit quietly for a moment more, until the blond finally decides he wants to know. He asks, “What about Josh?”
Mike is tense now. He seems to deliberate within himself but then his eyes become unfocused, searching for something just over Chris’ shoulder—he’s remembering again, Chris realises. “Sam and I found him just after that. He was… he was pacing around and yelling at stuff neither of us could see. He kept saying things like… uh, like I don’t take orders from you. Shit like that. None of it made any sense but he sounded really upset.”
Chris grimaces. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. Too late to change his mind about it again, though.
“He was losing his fucking mind, we… Sam thought he might be gone for good but I… well, I slapped him? And he I sort of snapped out of it, like it was some kind of trance? I dunno.” Mike frowns a little, shakes his head. “When I hit him he looked at me like I was scaring him. Said please don’t hit me. God, I felt like an ass… I was only trying to help him.”
A weak and sympathetic smile tugs at Chris’ lips.
“Sam went out up the cliff. There was no way Josh was gonna make it up there like he was, so… so I tried to take him back the way I’d come in with Sam. He freaked out when we went back through the room with—with the bodies.” Mike’s throat constricts enough that Chris can notice it. “We had to wade through this lake thing in the middle of the cavern to get back out. We were, half way there when I—” Mike begins to tremble, ever so slightly. If they hadn’t been sitting so close to each other Chris probably wouldn’t have noticed. “Something… th-the Wendigo pulled me under the water. I thought I was dead as soon as it tugged me down. But it let me go straight away, God knows why—so I swam. I fucking swam until I couldn’t hold my breath anymore, and when I came up all I could hear was Josh screaming. I didn’t know what to do, Chris, I hid behind the rocks and I—I was so scared I was gonna die, so fucking scared—”
Chris’ grip on his knee tightens ever so slightly and Mike flinches away from the contact, pulling his leg out from under Chris’ hand. Mike hangs his head, cradling it in his hands. “I couldn’t save him, Chris. I’m so sorry. I let him down. I let everyone down and now they’re all dead.” He sounds absolutely distraught. “It should have been me… I should be down there instead of them.”
“Mike…” Chris places his hand on Mike’s shoulder gently, and Mike tenses immediately. “Don’t say that, okay? That’s not true.”
Mike doesn’t move, doesn’t respond.
Slowly, cautiously, Chris pulls the other man towards him, wraps an arm around his stiff shoulders. Though he’s still tense Mike leans into him. “You didn’t let anyone down. You did what you could in an impossible situation. You were brave, Mike, braver than any of us.” He can hear Mike breathe out heavily, clearly uncomfortable being praised considering the circumstances surrounding it, but he lifts his head and eyes Chris warily. Some of that bizarrely intimate tension creeps back around the two, and Chris is suddenly very aware that the things he’s saying are being heard; it throws him off. What did he say before? He can’t remember, and so he ends up repeating himself. “You… You did everything that you could, and that’s what matters.”
For one incredibly long second Mike simply stares at him, an expression of mild surprise on his face. But eventually he gives Chris a small smile, gaze darting away. “You’re not very good at the whole pep-talk thing, you know,” Mike tells him in a teasing tone. The corners of his lips twist into a smirk, a small one that Chris probably wouldn’t have noticed if not for the fact that he had been looking for it.
The tension begins to drain away almost immediately. The blond feigns offence, making a quiet scoffing noise and nudging Mike’s shoulder with his own as he takes his arm away. “How dare you,” he says in a low voice, “I’m trying to be nice here.” For a brief few moments things actually feel sort of normal. Chris almost forgets that half the people he knows have died in the last forty hours. “You could at least pretend to be grateful, you ass.”
And then Mike’s eyes are soft, gleaming with sincerity. “Sorry,” he utters, meeting Chris’ eyes and holding his gaze. “I really am grateful, Chris. I hope you know that.”
It’s unbelievably tender, and suddenly Chris can’t get rid of the lump in his throat. The tension is back, but now it’s all in the muscles of his shoulders. He tears his eyes away from Mike but struggles to find something else to focus on. “I—I know,” he splutters in return, now very desperate to get away from these emotions, “and you’re welcome.” Mike laughs a little at his rather apparent discomfort, but thankfully doesn’t push it any further.
“So, did you sleep much when you got home?”
---
Mike eventually dozes off with his head against Chris’ shoulder. Chris is honestly relieved—the heavy grey rings under Mike’s eyes are concerning to say the least, and he suspects that Mike has been awake for what must be nearly two full days at this point. In any case, after the ordeal they’ve just been through Mike really deserves to rest; it was emotionally exhausting for them both, sure, but Mike was running back and forth all over the mountain for almost the entire night on top of that, so he must be pretty physically exhausted too. Chris is honestly amazed Mike has managed to stay conscious until now.
Now with a moment to himself that isn’t clouded by fatigue or anxiety or disbelieving detectives, Chris finds his mind wandering. First it wanders to the Washingtons. He was so upset when they lost Hannah and Beth, but it was nothing compared to how inconsolable Josh had been. Josh loved his sisters more than anything, and without them he really became a different person. Chris had had no idea how to help his best friend overcome the loss—perhaps that was why they drifted apart in the last year.
He blames himself, for what Josh did to them on the mountain. He thinks that maybe if he’d been a better friend Josh wouldn’t have gone so far off the deep end. Maybe none of this would have ever happened, maybe they would have just had a good weekend with friends and left unscathed at the end of it all. He knows there’s nothing he can do to fix it now but it doesn’t stop him from wondering, thinking what if.
He thinks about how he’d made fun of Jess at the cable car station for writing that letter for Mike. He thinks about how Matt had watched him with such raw concern outside of the shed, when he thought he’d killed Josh. He thinks about how he accused Emily of only wanting to save herself when she tried to go get help. He thinks about how, even after being so scared of the Wendigo, Ashley had stayed behind to block off the sewer. He thinks about the look Sam had given him when she’d told him to head back to the basement alone, fierce and full of determination.
He understands why Mike is beating himself up over everything. It’s hard not to when you think about the could-have’s and should-have’s of it all.
And then he looks over at the man in question, asleep on his shoulder. Even in unconsciousness he appears unable to outrun the storm of negative thoughts—his brows are pushed together, lips turned down into a small frown, and eyes twitching occasionally behind closed lids. Chris absently wonders if he’s dreaming of the mountain. He hopes not. Heart now twisting and clenching painfully in his chest Chris rips his eyes away from him, biting back the sting of tears. He really isn’t sure if it’s Mike himself that’s making it hard not to get emotional, or just simply that it’s been a horrible weekend for them. He’s inclined to believe it’s the latter, but he can’t shake the feeling that it has something to do with Mike too. He has no idea how he’s supposed to feel about that, so he doesn’t dwell on it.
Chris stares at the wall of his living room until the sun begins to illuminate his closed blinds, chasing away the nightmares. He feels some of the nervousness leave him when he remembers the old guy saying that Wendigo only hunt at night. Without really thinking he shifts away from Mike to stand and go let some light into the room. Mike jolts awake immediately, hand flailing for a moment before it clasps around Chris’ wrist. His eyes are wide, alarmed. Chris looks at the hand gripping his wrist and then at Mike’s face, worried. “Just opening the blinds,” he reassures the other softly, and Mike slowly relaxes until he’s letting go and sitting back heavily. “That old guy,” he elaborates while he floods the room with light, “told me that they only come out at night. Guess I’d feel better if there was sunlight in here, y’know?”
Mike agrees wordlessly, nodding slightly while he rubs at his eyes. “How long was I out?” he asks as Chris returns to the sofa and sits back down beside him. Chris doesn’t think about the fact that they immediately lean into each other.
“An hour or so, I think,” Chris replies, not bothering to check his phone for an accurate time. “Not very long but I guess it’s better than nothing.” When Mike doesn’t give him a response he continues, “How’s your hand?”
“Hm?” Mike seems to have to think about that for a moment or so. He holds out his left hand like he’s inspecting his nails. “Hurts a bit, I suppose.” He sighs, shifts in his seat. He then explains to Chris exactly what happened – how there was a severed arm waving around with a tag on it, and when he tried to grab the tag it triggered a bear trap underneath. How he first tried to pry the trap open with the machete he’d found but the tool was far too old and brittle to withstand the force, so he had eventually decided to just cut himself free instead of risking breaking the blade entirely and being stuck down there. It makes Chris squirm to even think about someone else doing that, let alone himself. “I mean, I did have to hack them off with a goddamn rusty blade. Not surprised if it’s got infection in it.”
Without thinking Chris leans over to take Mike’s bandaged hand in his own, inspecting it for himself. If Mike minds the contact he doesn’t let on. “… Yeah, you should probably go see a doctor or something,” he concludes, not really sure what he was looking for to begin with. There’s a bandage over it anyway, what did you think you were going to see?
Mike hums softly as his hand is released, flexing his fingers experimentally. The two digits now end where the first joint after the knuckle should be, so the stumps that are left still move when he tries to make a fist. He’s quiet when he lets his hand fall back to his knee. “Sorry I’m still here,” he mumbles, staring off to the side with a foggy expression.
Chris makes a face. “Dude, I thought I told you—” he starts but Mike cuts him off, sitting up straight and levelling him with eyes now clear and sharp.
“No, no, I mean…” He starts over. “Sorry I’m still in your apartment. You’ve probably got things you need to do. And, well, being around me probably isn’t great right now.”
Chris is silent. Oh. Mike thinks he’s in the way, is that it? Chris doesn’t really know how to respond to that so he just starts talking and hopes he says something useful. “Well, I would like to have a shower. I stink pretty bad, if you haven’t noticed.” He’s quietly proud when Mike chuckles and rolls his eyes. “But it’s okay. Really. It’s… It’s like I said before, being alone right now doesn’t feel right. Having you here makes me feel… safer.”
As soon as it leaves his mouth he wishes he could take it back. The look of genuine understanding that covers Mike’s features makes him want to bolt, so he does the next best thing; he looks away and clears his throat, pushing his weight up and off the sofa. “A-Anyway, I should… I really should shower. The more I think about it the more I remember how gross I feel.” Chris shuffles on the spot, still fighting off the urge to run away.
Mike seems to think that’s his cue to leave, because he stands as well. “Yeah, I, uh, I should get home. Thanks for…” He doesn’t appear to know how to finish the thought. “Well, you know.” Chris nods because yeah, he knows. Mike averts his gaze and heads to the door; he stops with his hand on the doorknob, hesitating, and he looks back over his shoulder. Chris can tell he wants to ask something but is trying to decide whether or not he should. Hesitantly he asks, “Could I stop by again later?”
The look on Mike’s face tells Chris everything he needs to know. In any other situation Chris would probably prefer to be alone for a while, but the thought of being by himself again for an extended period of time is frightening to say the least. On top of that, there’s something about the lilt in Mike’s words that gets under his skin and makes him want to say yes of course. In lieu of answering with words he walks over to the set of drawers by the door and fishes around for his spare key. “Just text me before you get here so I don’t freak out when the door opens,” he says gently, pressing the key into Mike’s palm.
Mike’s lips squeeze together firmly as he nods. He takes the key in his fist for a moment, gripping it tightly, and then pocketing it a little clumsily. “Thanks, Chris.” His eyes are full of sadness and he seems to know it because he looks down again, mumbles see you later and ducks out before Chris can respond.
For a few minutes after Mike is gone Chris stands there and watches the door, replaying those last moments in his head. He’s so terrible at dealing with his own emotions, and he’s worse when confronted with the emotions of others. Now he’s got himself into this mess, where both he and Mike are out of their minds with emotional trauma and instability, and Chris has no idea how he’s going to deal with any of this.
But, he supposes, it can only get worse before it gets better. It’s just that he thought the worst part had already happened. Maybe he was wrong.