— 𝐜 𝐨 𝐧 𝐭 𝐚 𝐜 𝐭

[possessum]

action / text / video / etc.
NOTE: I am forever backtag friendly and absolutely open to doing things from past events that won't really have an effect on things at any given time. For example, if you'd like to do something with Peter aged down or when he was his spider dream guide, etc.

Comments

[possessum]

[ Peter also feels like he's going to puke; he and Mike have that in common right now, even if for very different reasons. Well. Actually, it all kind of stems from the same place, doesn't it. But the lengthy lapse of silence is, at first, highly worrisome to Peter — then he ends up falling asleep for some of those thirty-eight minutes, heavy eyes lolling backwards and then shut, his fever perpetually pulling him back into an uncomfortably hot slumber.

But it's in and out, in and out, and he's waking back up during one of those "out" periods — peering glossily down at his Fluid, seeing the words. Some of them are so strange and foreign he almost has to not really think about them. "Worm things"

But his mind grabs ahold of what sounds familiar, won't let go of those words. And Peter's feeling like he's sinking, even though he's sitting up now, eyes wide.

you don't remember
crash
i'm really sorry ]

You were driving the car

[ It's so much that he almost can't process it. It's like some weird out of body experience. Mike drives?? It's almost laughable that he voices that now, but it's mostly just like when you see a horrible accident and you say something stupid because you don't know what the hell else to say or how to feel. Or maybe you just leave your sister's mutilated body in the car and go to bed. ]

I didn't even know you
drove

[micycle]

[He's trying to be polite, Mike thinks. It's an attempt at keeping things civil, after finding out the truth. In a moment, Peter will excuse himself from the conversation entirely, and their friendship will be over. It's kinder than Mike deserves.]

it was my birthday
i'm sixteen

[It sounds pathetic, like some kind of excuse. Like he's asking Peter to go easy on him.]

[possessum]

[ The facts join the other facts collected, a more clear picture being formed with every passing second, one that makes an awful kind of sense.

Mike was in the car. It was his birthday. Mike was in the car. His guts suddenly get that weird hollowed-out sensation, like they're being sucked inwards, and text can't possibly convey the urgency straining in Peter. But maybe the little slip-ups betray how fast he's typing. ]

Are you pka
Okay
?
Did you gef hurt?

[ Did he— die, too? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. ]

[micycle]

no
just a concussion

[Peter's response sparks surprise, then anger, and then shame. How can he be asking that right now? How can he be ignoring the fact that Mike killed him? Why won't Peter just come out with it, and say what Mike deserves to hear?]

you can yell at me okay
i know it's my fault

[possessum]

[ A concussion's being hurt, Michael—

—but fuck, if that next bit doesn't take the breath right out of Peter, like he's been hit in the gut. ]

I'm not
going to yell at you

[ He would never ever ever do that. It's not your fault is what Peter needs to tell him, what he needed to be told once, only he's finding that it's hard to keep typing; his hands feel weird and numb and he feels really achingly sad all of a sudden, like he wants to cry and can't. ]

Can I call you

[ He'll ask first, because maybe Mike doesn't want to talk that way, and it's something he should decide. Some control he should have. ]

[micycle]

[To an ear that still hears disapproval in the voice of everyone older, it sounds like: I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed. Like: I'm not shouting, we're just having a conversation. And he knows Peter, by now. He knows that he's not being fair to one of the kindest, most generous boys he's met in this town. But the instinct is there, burrowed deep, and Mike folds into himself like he's awaiting a slap to the cheek.]

ok

[And he sits, staring at the face of his phone, waiting for the call.]

[possessum]

[ When the permission's granted, Peter's fumbling hands press 'call', even though his heart's pounding, even though he doesn't actually want to talk to Mike out loud. Because he's afraid, he doesn't know how to, this isn't what he's good at — facing the scary, difficult thing. Even this level of confrontation is something Peter would shirk from.

But he's doing it anyway, and as soon as the call goes through— ]

Mike. [ The younger boy's name comes out sounding like a breath drawn inwards, like something Peter's hanging onto. ]

Are you really okay? How much of it did you..... see? [ How much of the... accident, of him being killed. Did he... see it all? See what was left afterwards? (See something lying there in the road afterwards, something that looks like a person, or parts of a person, except it's all wrong). ]

[micycle]

[There's a moment's silence, a muted sniffle, the quiet movement of something that scrapes. He's bundled in a blanket on the rooftop of his house, the closest to privacy that the packed dwelling provides. Only Will even knows the whole truth of that night.]

... A-all of it. [A quick pause, and then a hurried addition: ] But I've seen worse. You really don't have to worry about me.

[And even if it does little to convince anyone that Mike wasn't utterly traumatized by the sight, it's certainly true. A car accident can't compare to what happened to Brianna, inches away from him, or to what he saw in Hawkins Lab.]

[possessum]

[ All of it.

But he's seen worse, which Peter doesn't exactly doubt; he's pretty sure Mike, and Will, and a lot of them, have seen things infinitely worse than car accidents. But it's still— an awful thing, a thing that nobody his age should ever have to see, no matter what.

Peter's own breath is shuddery, rough and rippling inhales that seem to be difficult for him to keep up, like he's cold. ]

Mike, I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to see that. You—

[ The guilt feels corrosive in him and cuts off his own words, and Peter leans over a little where he's sitting on his bed, leans into the ache of his stomach muscles. Suddenly, he's almost afraid to say the four words. He doesn't know why. They just hurt.

But he says them, voice strained at the edges, just barely staving off a whine-sound. ]

It wasn't your fault.

[micycle]

It was.

[It bursts out of him, too loud, almost desperate, almost an accusation. Like he's trying to persuade Peter of something he knows the boy won't accept. This isn't what Mike deserves to hear. Why can't Peter understand that? Why can't he just admit that Mike isn't worthy of this apology?]

It wouldn't have happened if I wasn't there. That's fault.

[possessum]

[ That desperation is so familiar, because there are two ghosts living in Peter: one that constantly whispers it was all your fault and the other that just needed someone, anyone to tell him it wasn't. ...And someone had, here. Someone he loves, trusts, someone who knows him. She'd held him and told him what happened wasn't his fault, and half of him couldn't believe her and the other half clung to those words like it was a lifeline. He's still... both parts of it. His guilt is a part of him now, like some piece of his identity. So maybe it's hypocritical to tell this boy otherwise now, but— ]

It could have been anyone. Any time. It wouldn't have happened if I wasn't there, either. [ Maybe it's easier to be objective when you're trying to help someone else. When you can't stand to see someone else blame themself the way you do. ]

It's okay. It was just an accident. I don't— blame you.