Chapter Text
Mike's bedroom felt… bare.
Too bare.
But, of course, that was to be expected. He was leaving for college today, and he wanted to be able to make himself at home in his dorm. Sure, most things stayed- his old track medals, a Matrix poster, the visor he wore to his first job. Personal or functionally useless items he didn't need in a college dorm.
The emptiness made the air feel different. Perhaps it was the dust that had been kicked up, floating in the air and catching on the morning sun coming through his window. It settled in his nose in a thick, stiff layer of musk. He scrunched up his face at the feeling, rubbing at it with his wrist in a vain attempt to make the feeling go away.
Mike cringed at the sound of clicking heels; Aunt Jane came up behind him, tapping a finger on his shoulder. "Mike," she said, her voice sending a horrid shiver down his spine, "you were supposed to leave five minutes ago. I think you should get going."
Way to hide how happy you are about me leaving, Mike thought. He nodded, just a little, exhaling through his nose and adjusting his grip on his last bag. "Yeah," he murmured, "sorry. I'll get going." He turned and pushed past her, heading down the hall and out into the living room.
"Mike!" Abby ran up behind him with a paper in her hand. She looked up at him, big brown eyes clearly upset with him for leaving her. "You're sure you wanna do this?"
Mike chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, Abs. I'm sure." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving them a firm pat. "It'll open a lot of doors for me."
"There's plenty of open doors down here, though," Abby said, referring to the small town they lived in. "You could keep working at the diner with Ness! You like it there, right?"
"Yeah," Mike laughed, "and it's a diner in a dead end town." He got down on his knees, one hand still on her shoulder. "You'll barely even notice I'm gone. I won't be gone forever, I'll see you Thanksgiving break!"
Abby just huffed, glancing at Aunt Jane in the corner of her vision, who loomed over in the entryway to the living room. She looked back at Mike and whispered to him, "but you're leaving me here with her."
Mike sighed- Aunt Jane had never been particularly great to either one of them. It was obvious she had only taken them in after their parents' accident out of pity, that she had never really cared about their well being. She had dismissed them for years, gave them the bare minimum of a roof over their heads and food to eat, and acted like she was Jesus Christ himself for doing so.
"I know," Mike whispered back, "and I'm sorry. I…" He paused, considering his words. "You'll be alright. I promise. I'll try to call as much as I can, okay?"
Abby nodded a bit, stepping forward and hugging him tightly- well, as tightly as an eleven-year-old could hug. Mike held her close for a couple moments, closing his eyes and taking in what would be the last time he hugged his sister for months, when he hard a snapping noise.
"It's ten past already," Aunt Jane said, snapping her fingers. "Come on, let's go. You're going to be late."
Mike rolled his eyes and stood up, pulling away from Abby. He ruffled her hair one last time before saying, "I'll see you around, Abs."
"Bye, Mike," Abby said, pulling away from him.
Mike stepped through the door, looked back at his sister, then shut it and headed to his beat-up old car. It was a shitty little Toyota, that typical ugly shade somewhere between a dusty gold and a beige, but it worked just well enough to take him where he needed to go. He tossed his last bag into his backseat then climbed into the driver's door, turning the car over then pulling out his phone to call Vanessa.
The phone rang as he pulled out of the driveway, with the phone clicking over as the tires hit the road. "Hey, Vanessa! Finally heading up there now, how far out are you?"
"Hey Mike," Vanessa's voice came. "We left half an hour ago, I'd say we've got an hour or so to go."
Mike furrowed his brows. "I'm sorry, we?"
"Oh, yeah- I'm giving Michael a ride up there since he refuses to get his license," She put emphasis on the last part of the phrase, the playful kind of accusatory that siblings have for one another. There was a muffled defense in the background that was promptly ignored. "He didn't want to take the bus this year, so. Y'know."
Mike nodded slowly; he'd never actually met Vanessa's older brother, but he'd heard plenty about him. Despite the fact that he seemed to want Vanessa to like him, he continuously sided with their father, who Vanessa always described as distant at best and occasionally violent at worst. Michael was apparently obsessed with their father's business, convinced that the failing company had the chance to rise in success again.
"Well, uh," Mike said, "I won't keep you talking then. A phone call on the road is one thing, but the highway makes it a totally different story."
Vanessa chuckled and he could practically feel the eyeroll through the phone. "I'll be fine, but thank you, Mike. I'll talk to you at orientation."
"Talk to you then, See ya." With that, Mike pulled the phone from his ear and hung up, tossing it onto the seat beside him.
The day had started at six in the morning for Michael.
He tended to wake hours before the rest of his family, enjoying the quiet and solitude before the noise of the day began. The sun didn't hit his side of the house until sundown, but the dawn of the day provided enough light to rustle him from sleep. Since he'd taken the bus to the college his first two years, he had grown accustomed to traveling light, and thus had all three of his bags packed already. He had two hours before his father woke, and two and a half before Vanessa, so he had time to kill.
First, he crawled out of bed and got dressed; plain black polo, black jeans, brown belt, plain sneakers. Simple. Classy. Professional. Everything he needed to be to appease Father- hopefully.
He looked in the small mirror he hid in the back of his closet- checking what he looked like seemed 'girly' according to Father, and it was too early to leave the room to use the bathroom mirror as Father was a light sleeper and would definitely wake if he heard the floorboards creaking. He needed his sleep- he was a working man, after all.
Still, Michael checked in the mirror, tucking his hair behind his ears. He considered grabbing the gel buried somewhere in his dresser, but decided against it for two reasons; firstly, he'd first tried it years ago and had never bought more, which likely meant the container he owned had expired; and secondly, he didn't exactly like the feeling of it on his hair. He'd take unwashed hair over gelled hair any day.
Then, he knelt to pull the bags from the bottom of his closet and check them over. Satchel with his notebooks, laptop, chargers, and a small toiletries bag. Mid-sized bag with some towels, socks, and underwear. Then his suitcase with all his day clothes- polos, jeans, button-downs, and…
Well. It was there. That's all he needed to know.
He zipped everything back up and quietly set it all by the door, making sure to avoid the squeaky board just under the doorknob. He stood straight up again and stared at his bedroom in silence.
Like Mike's, it was bare, but for an entirely different reason. At some point he had tried decorating- years ago, when he was an acne-ridden preteen- but it was after another one of his father's drunken tirades about his brain and liking things too much and faggy music that he had decided a plain room would suit him better. White walls, black bedsheets, plain wooden dresser that had a single frame on it.
Oh, the frame!
Michael picked up the frame- a family photo from the day they had adopted Vanessa- and shoved it into his satchel, sandwiching it between two notebooks to keep it safe. It was the only sentimental item he kept; it alone earned plenty of grief from his father, him always muttering on about that woman.
He checked his phone for the time- it was a cheap Galaxy he'd bought the year before as a birthday present to himself- and saw that only about twenty minutes had passed. That was fine; he didn't need to do anything to enjoy himself. He had his mind to keep him company. He checked over his bags again, making sure his little camera was safely tucked away in one of the pockets of his satchel, then again, adjusting the placement of certain items so nothing got damaged.
Time stretched on. Michael ended up just sitting on his bed for a while, staring out the window. He was good at staying still and watching things- years of following Vanessa around for his father had given him that ability. Nothing of much interest happened outside his window; cars drove by, birds flew over, the occasional shift in light from a cloud passing overhead. It was a calming monotony.
Footsteps began thumping down the hall at eight-twelve, making Michael flinch- Father was awake. He swallowed a lump in his throat and decided now was a good time to move his bags to the front entryway.
Michael stood, grabbing his bags and leaving his room. The house was large, expensive, and a symbol of the Aftons' success. Framed photos watched him, every stage of Vanessa's life catalogued and displayed. She was the favorite- Michael was well aware- and the pictures reflected that.
Michael's mind was silent. It was a forced, calculated kind of silent, listening for anything coming from his father. His body moved with years of comfort and practice in the house- down the stairs, to the foyer, then back upstairs to the kitchen to greet Father. The man stood in his pinstripe shirt facing the coffee machine, pouring some into a mug. He turned around and jumped a bit, sighing and glaring at Michael.
"Good morning, Michael," William said, groggy and somehow already upset at something, as his eyes darted back to the coffee machine. "Are your bags packed?"
Michael nodded. "Yes, sir," he answered, smiling in an attempt to calm his father down. Sure, William wasn't being outwardly angry or malicious yet, but Michael had learned not to push it when there was already that hint of anger in his voice. "It's all by the door. I just need to wait for Vanessa."
William just nodded. "You really ought to get a license and your own car," he said, sipping at his coffee. "You don't need to be riding with your little sister."
Vanessa's car was her sixteenth birthday present; William had gifted it to her and taken her to get her license the same day. Michael was, of course, never extended the same courtesy. William expected him to be able to do it all on his own. He was the eldest, after all. He should be perfectly capable.
Michael's smile faltered a bit, but he nodded nonetheless. "I know, I just haven't had the time to-"
"Excuses don't get you anywhere in the real world, Michael," William butted in, checking his watch and pushing past him.
Michael just stood there in the kitchen, staring at the cabinets behind where his father had been standing. He listened- William ascended the stairs, marched down the hall, and began banging on Vanessa's door to wake her up- and stared. It took him a few moments to pull himself from his frozen state, walking back out of the kitchen and to the entryway of the house.
He listened as Vanessa yelled back at William, as William marched back to his room, as Vanessa finally dared to surface and begin getting ready. He waited, and waited, and waited. He only checked his phone a couple times- Michael was one of the few people not to use Facebook or anything like that, so all he had on his phone was a handful of necessities.
At half-past-eight, Vanessa hurried downstairs with the last couple bags she had yet to pack in her car, William trailing behind her. He was asking if she had everything, if she remembered to bring this, that, and the other- at times, he was pretty good at pretending to be a caring parent.
Vanessa finally got to Michael, who had returned to the foyer, smiling a bit and raising her eyebrows in a way that usually signified William was being a dick again. "Ready to go?"
Michael nodded, picking his bags back up. "Mhm. All ready." The two turned to their father one last time.
William looked mainly at Vanessa. "Be safe," he said. "And look into switching your major, okay? You-"
"I'm not switching my major, Dad," Vanessa sighed, rolling her eyes as she opened the door. "Good try though!"
As Vanessa hurried out to the car, Michael looked at his father, William's expression hardening. He didn't have to say anything for Michael to understand what it meant. "I know," Michael said. "I'll try to convince her."
"You won't try, Michael. Effort doesn't mean shit in the grand scheme of things." William took another drink of his coffee. "You should get going."
Michael just nodded. "Yes, sir." He stepped out the door and turned to say goodbye, only to have the door slammed in his face. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat and he slowly turned to follow Vanessa to her car.
"Dad giving you trouble again?" Vanessa asked, shutting the trunk and looking at Michael.
Michael shrugged. "No more than usual," he said. "Why is it that when he's mad at you, he directs most of it at me?" The question, while intended casually, came across in a stilted cadence, an unnatural flow from syllable to syllable. An uninformed individual would take it as rudeness.
Thankfully, Vanessa had had years to understand Michael. His quirks, his faults, his mannerisms. She just shrugged, watching him put his bags in the backseat. "Assholes are just like that, sometimes."
"Yes, but why?" Michael cocked his head, looking at Vanessa. "I just don't understand the logic."
"That's because there is none," Vanessa said, getting into the driver's seat as Michael slid into the passenger. "Don't assign logic to emotion."
Michael just hummed, assuming his position of staring out the window. Before pulling out, Vanessa reached under her seat and pulled out her CD case, flipping through all the custom burned ones before popping one into the player. The first song to start playing as she pulled out of the driveway was some Taylor Swift song, prompting a groan from Michael. "Why her?"
Vanessa just shook her head. "You know the rules in the car, Michael. Driver picks the music…"
"Shotgun shuts his cakehole," Michael finished, rolling his eyes. "I can't point out that all her songs sound manufactured and fake?"
"And what if they are?" Vanessa asked. "It's art, it doesn't all have to be real."
"Still," Michael defended, "I'd rather listen to something real. You know?"
Vanessa snorted. "Yeah, you wanna listen to sad little gay boys crying their eyeliner off," she taunted, no real malice in her voice.
Michael's face flushed and he glared at her. "You're a dick," he said, only a little upset. "A man being in eyeliner doesn't discredit their experiences. Gerard Way watched nine-eleven, that's the whole reason-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Vanessa rolled her eyes. "You've told me that a thousand times. Don't you have any other fun facts about them?"
Michael hummed in thought, going through the other information in his head. "Oh, the rhythm guitarist is on an FBI watchlist."
"Really?" Vanessa looked at him then back at the road, finally pulling onto the highway. "Why?"
"He was in another band a couple years ago, and he made a song calling for the death of the president." Michael kept his eyes out the window, watching the scenery pass them by.
"Jesus," Vanessa laughed. "That's a lot, don't you think?"
Michael shrugged and looked at her, soft smile on his lips. "At least it's real."