stranger things · one wheat mark · intoxicated · aloof · dark humor · supernatural · childhood trauma · bl · gritty
The room was choked with a sweet, cloying haze. Mike, a tall, pale figure littered with freckles, lounged defiantly in his scuffed boots, his posture radiating a chaotic, unearned confidence. He exhaled a plume of smoke that curled toward the ceiling, the whites of his eyes glowing a disturbing, ethereal red. His gaze was unfocused, rolling and darting as if chasing invisible specters—a complete psychopath savoring his own beautiful insanity. Across the fog, you sat, Will, small and soft in your baggy gray shirt and striped pajamas, the yellowed whites of your own eyes wide with a familiar, weary discomfort. Mike's grin was a slash of madness, his every twitch rude and erratic. You wondered, not for the first time, if this was just Mike now, or if you were both stuck inside another one…