Chapter Text
Six months.
Six long, uneventful months since the Byers — plus Eleven — left Hawkins behind for the sunny state of Lenora, California. Six months without Mike’s best friend and girlfriend, without hearing Joyce’s frantic, spiraling conversations that somehow still made sense by the end. Without El’s blunt honesty or Will’s quiet presence by his side. Even Jonathan’s presence, all flashing cameras and hushed confidence, being missing seemed to shift things.
At first, those six months hadn’t sounded like much. Summer bled into fall, fall crept toward winter, and somewhere along the way, the days had stopped standing out from one another. They stacked neatly, monotonously, like homework assignments that were never turned in.
Hawkins was still Hawkins. The same streets and cracked sidewalks, the same school halls that smelled of bleach and teenagers, the same basement that still reeked of dust and old dungeon master guides. Everything was still in its place.
And yet, nothing felt right.
Will’s drawings were gone from Mike’s bedroom walls, leaving behind faint tape marks like ghosts of color that refused to fade. Sometimes his eyes still flicked to the empty spaces, expecting to see the bold lines and colors of creatures and party members alike, but he was always met with disappointment. The pages were stored in a box shoved to the back of Mike’s closet, and he couldn’t bear to pull it out again.
His D&D screen sat folded in the corner, collecting dust. He told himself he could run a campaign with just Lucas and Dustin. He never did, though. What was the point when Will the Wise wouldn’t be there to save the party with a quick fireball, or solve a puzzle instantly? What would they be doing if there weren’t Will’s constant arguments over the rules or dramatic monologues?
It felt quiet.
Too quiet.
Most mornings followed the same routine. Mike would wake to the sound of his door creaking and his mother setting something down on his desk without saying much. When he’d eventually gather the strength to roll over, he was met with the sight of a pristine envelope addressed to a certain Michael Wheeler who lived at 2530 Maple Street, Hawkins, Indiana.
El’s handwriting was always unmistakable — rough, careful, usually a little smudged from where her hand must have dragged across the paper. Every letter began with “To Mike” and ended with a neat little “Love, El ♡,” written so thoughtfully that it made his chest ache.
Mike wasn’t all too sure how she found the time to write so often. Between school, adjusting, new friends, and everything else she never quite explained, it seemed impossible. Honestly, it worried him more than it comforted him.
Still, he read every word.
When he finished the last line of the newest letter — something about her being excited for spring break — he didn’t fold it up right away. His eyes lingered on the name signed prettily at the bottom of the page, thumb tracing the indent where El had pushed the pencil too hard. Something in the back of his mind whispered that this facade couldn’t last.
Mike frowned at the thought, unsure where it had come from, and pushed it away before it could take shape.
A loud bang against his bedroom door made him jump.
The letter slipped from his fingers as Nancy burst into the room, face tight with exasperation as she pointed at the alarm clock sitting on the top of Mike’s nightstand.
“The hell are you doing?” she demanded. “It’s ten after!”
“Oh, shit. Shit!”
Mike yelped as he rolled off his bed, misjudging the distance greatly and not landing on his feet, instead landing with a thwunk onto the hardwood floor. The impact rattled straight through him, knocking the air from his lungs in an undignified wheeze. For a second, the room felt distant, like he was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. He blinked hard, and it snapped back into place. He lay there for just a moment longer, regretting every single decision that had led to this point.
A low groan escaped his lips as he pushed himself upright, fingers curling around the edge of the mattress as he steadied himself. His legs wobbled, his shoulder throbbed, and the clock on the nightstand mocked him relentlessly.
“Thirty seconds, or I’m leaving without you,” Nance called from the hallway, her voice sharp with the kind of practiced irritation that only siblings could perfect.
Mike shot a glare towards the open doorway, even though she couldn't see it. He waited just long enough to hear footsteps retreat toward the stairs before rolling his eyes dramatically.
“Thirty seconds!” She repeated, louder this time, already halfway down.
“Okay, okay!” Mike shouted back, stumbling one last time as he nearly tripped over a pile of discarded clothes in the process. “I have to find my pants!”
He dropped to his knees, digging through the chaos that seemed to cover every surface in his room — shirts he’d worn once and abandoned, mismatched socks, a hoodie he definitely didn't remember throwing there. Panic buzzed in his ears as the seconds ticked by. Finally, his fingers snagged against familiar fabric — a dark pair of pants that were pretty baggy and clearly well-loved. Acceptable.
He yanked the pants on, hoping awkwardly as he did, then reached for his Hellfire Club shirt hanging slightly crooked on the back of his chair. It took him two tries to get his head through the collar, and he didn’t stop to fix the way it sat awkwardly around his collarbones. There was no time.
He grabbed his cheap drugstore cologne from the desk and sprayed it once — then twice — before coughing and waving the air away from his face. He didn’t have time to shower, so this would have to do.
Mike bolted from his room, narrowly avoiding shoulder-checking the doorframe as he slid down the hallway.
He took the stairs two at a time, sliding into the kitchen at the bottom and making a sharp turn straight toward the pantry. His hand closed around the bag of Wonder Bread just as his mother appeared in front of him like she’d been summoned from his sheer panic alone.
“Michael,” Karen Wheeler tutted, already smoothing down the front of his shirt with practiced efficiency. She adjusted the collar, brushed imaginary lint from his shoulder, and gave him a once-over that lasted far too long.
“Mom—” he protested, shifting impatiently.
“You look half-asleep,” she muttered, fixing him anyway before stepping aside at last.
Mike lunged for the toaster, shoving two slices of bread inside and pulling the lever down with more force than necessary, as if that would make it toast faster.
“Mike, I know you have your D&D club tonight—”
“Hellfire,” Mike corrected automatically, eyeing the clock on the microwave anxiously. The green digits glared back at him, unforgiving as ever, as if they were personally invested in making him late.
“Why don’t you just call it the High School Dropout Club?” Ted muttered from behind his newspaper and cup of coffee.
Mike froze mid-reach, a butter knife hovering uselessly mid-air as he finally noticed his father leaning against the kitchen island. He had no idea how long Ted had been there. That wasn’t unusual, though. Ted had a habit of materializing at the least expected moment and contributing nothing of value.
“Dad,” Mike said flatly, tapping the counter impatiently.
Ted took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes never leaving the newspaper. “I’m just saying.”
Karen didn’t even glance in his direction. Her focus stayed squarely on Mike, sharp and unwavering. “I want you home no later than nine.”
Mike swallowed, finally pulling his gaze away from the clock. A dull ache had started to bloom behind his eyes — not sharp, just heavy — and for a second, the hum of the refrigerator sounded warped, like it was coming from underwater. He was sure it was just from staring at the numbers for a solid minute without blinking.
“I’ll try,” he mumbled, already reaching towards the far side of the counter where the butter dish sat, just barely out of arm's reach.
He stretched for it, elbow knocking against a cereal box in the process, which tipped dangerously before he caught it. The toast popped up behind him with a sharp clang, loud enough that his heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He sucked in a quiet breath, embarrassed by how hard it startled him.
“No trying. You need to go to bed early,” Karen said, voice flat and unimpressed.
“Why?” he gritted out, finally snagging the butter dish and slapping a thick, uneven layer onto the toast. Crumbs littered the counter, but he didn’t bother brushing them away. He shoved the toast toward his mouth, barely tasting it, as if his eating hastily would buy him more time.
“It’s a 6:30 fight, Michael,” Karen sighed, already moving to cut him off. She planted herself squarely in the middle of the kitchen doorway, arms crossing over her chest in a way that told him this conversation wasn’t up for debate.
Mike skidded to a stop, shoulders hunching. “Yes, I know, but—” he started, trying to sidestep her anyway, slipping around the counter with the grace of someone who has done this dance a hundred times.
Karen anticipated the move easily. She reached out and caught the back of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric and yanking him to a halt just before he could make a break for it.
“No buts,” she said firmly. “Nine. Or no California.”
Something hot and irrational flared in his chest at the contact, sharp enough to surprise him. Mike let out a shaky breath, jaw tightening. The second slice of toast drooped slightly in his hand, butter threatening to slide off the edge.
“And no sweetie pie,” Ted added unhelpfully from the island, eyes still glued to his paper.
Mike visibly cringed, his shoulders rising as if he could physically shrug the words off. He opened his mouth to fire something back — anything — but the jingle of keys near the front door cut him off.
“Mike!” Nancy shouted, her face set in the same annoyance as before. Her hand was already on the door handle, keys jingling between her fingers as she leaned against the frame. When he didn’t move fast enough, her voice slipped into that slightly whiny tone she used when she wanted to get her way. “Let’s go!”
“Jesus,” Mike muttered under his breath as his mother finally unhanded his shirt, “how am I going to survive a whole week without you guys?” The sarcasm in his tone slipped out naturally, practiced, like a reflex he didn’t have to think about.
Karen responded by grabbing the boy’s wrist and forcing him to eat the piece of toast still curled in his fingers. She patted his shoulder once as if that settled everything. “Go on,” she said, already turning away.
Mike barely had time to protest before he was chewing, crumbs spilling down the front of his shirt. He shot Nancy an exaggerated glare around the mouthful, then stuck his tongue out at her as he passed, nearly bumping her shoulder on the way out the front door.
Cold air hit him the moment he stepped outside, sharp enough to make him suck in a heavy breath through his nose. He didn’t slow down, didn’t look back, just kept moving toward the driveway like momentum alone might carry him through the rest of the day.
Behind him, Karen’s voice followed, clear and unmistakable.
“Nine!”
Mike lifted a hand in vague acknowledgment without turning around, the word echoing around in his head for longer than it should have as he headed for Nancy’s car. That ache behind his eyes still lingered, faint and persistent, like a thought he couldn’t quite finish.
The class smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and old paper; the kind of stale, familiar scent that faded into the background after a few minutes. Mike slouched into his seat as the bell overhead rang obnoxiously, the sound sharp enough to make him flinch before he could stop himself.
He reached down into his backpack, tugging a beat-up notebook free and setting it on his desk without opening it. Outside the windows, the sky hung dull and gray, the clouds stretched thin and colorless. For a moment, his gaze caught on the reflection staring back at him in the glass instead of the board at the front of the room — a version of himself that looked vaguely familiar, like he’d been woken up prematurely and wasn’t sure what expression he was meant to be wearing.
“Alright, everyone!”
The voice at the front of the room snapped him back into focus. Mike straightened abruptly, heat prickling the back of his neck as he realized how far he’d drifted. While he was dazed, the room had already filled, and class had begun. Mr. Adler stood at the front of the class, adjusting the glasses perched on his nose with practiced precision.
“We’re starting a new unit today, which you may already know,” he said evenly. “We’ll be focusing on reading between the lines — not what the text says outright, but what it avoids. The gaps. The silences. And why those omissions matter.”
Mike flipped open his notebook, his pencil pausing halfway between the lines as his grip tightened around it.
“Today,” Mr. Adler went on, leaning back against the edge of his desk and folding his arms loosely over his chest, “we’ll be discussing identity.” He paused briefly, his gaze sweeping over the class without landing on anyone in particular. “More specifically, what happens when a character hides a part of themself, and what that choice ends up costing them in the end.”
Something in Mike’s chest pulled tight. He shifted in his seat, forcing himself to look engaged without actually meeting anyone’s eyes. His gaze drifted back to the window, tracing the hard, too-sharp edges of the clouds. The dull ache from earlier had returned beneath his eyelids — not painful exactly, just heavy enough that he tilted his head and rubbed absently at his temple to try and relieve some of the pressure.
Somewhere behind him, a pencil scraped across a page too harshly. The sound made him jump, a spark of nerves dancing under his skin before he could catch it. He frowned, unsettled by his own reaction, and bent over his notebook, pretending to take notes as Mr. Adler continued to speak.
A hand went up somewhere in the middle of the room, and Mr. Adler called on the student without so much as looking at Mike. The answer was quick and polished, and the discussion rolled on without pause. Still, Mike couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes boring into him. He hunched slightly over his desk, his free hand returning to the side of his head as the pressure behind his eyes slowly grew more unbearable.
He glanced sideways. Max was sitting just a few rows away, her notebook still closed, pen tapping lightly against the cover as her gaze jumped from the front of the room and back to the rest of the class. For just a second, Mike wondered if she’d noticed the tension wound tight in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched without him meaning to.
He looked back down at his desk before their eyes could meet, suddenly sure that even a moment of eye contact might give something away. He wasn’t even sure what it could reveal, but that anxious spark was still kindling in his belly.
As class dragged on, slow as ever, Mike’s awareness began to slip again. It wasn’t sudden, more like a gradual loosening, his focus unspooling thread by thread until he wasn’t entirely sure when he’d stopped paying attention. His gaze was fixed on a point just behind Mr. Adler, unfocused just enough to create the illusion that he was following along, nodding at the right moments and occasionally drawing scribbles into his notebook to keep the facade up.
The sounds of the room around him blurred together into a dull hum. Voices overlapped, chairs creaked, pages turned, but it all felt distant, like he was hearing it through a wall. His pencil was suspended over his notebook, and it had sat there unmoving for a good ten minutes now. Occasionally, the tip would graze the page, leaving faint, wandering marks where it touched without intention.
The pressure behind his eyes had returned, heavier now — not exactly sharp, but thick enough that it was far more noticeable. Mike shifted in his seat, shoulders rolling like that might shake it loose. He told himself that he was just tired or stressed about the impending flight the next morning. That if he could push through this period, it would pass like it always did.
Then Mr. Adler’s voice cut through the fog, louder than before.
“From the excerpt we’ve just read,” the teacher said, gaze sweeping around the room in an easy, practiced motion, “what can you infer about the reason the narrator avoids naming this specific part of himself?”
Hands shot up instantly.
Mike reacted on instinct, the motion half-formed before he could think better of it. He straightened slightly, fingers twitching as if they might follow suit — anything to look like he was still paying attention. But as Mr. Adler’s eyes passed over him, eyes lingering for a fraction of a second, Mike’s mouth clicked shut just as fast as it’d opened.
The room seemed to tilt.
Desks warped at the edge of his vision, the backs of other students’ heads blurring together until they all bled into one entity. A wave of nausea rolled in the pit of his stomach, sudden and disorienting, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a heartbeat too long. By the time his vision snapped back into place, someone else was already answering, their voice steady and confident as if nothing were wrong.
Mike rubbed at his eyes once, then again, his brows knitting in faint confusion as the discussion carried on without him. He bent back over his notebook, forcing his pencil to move even if the words being uttered by his peers weren’t exactly sticking, all melding together like a different language.
Then the pain flared.
It swelled fast — blooming from the dull pressure into something sharper, louder, until it filled his entire skull. Mr. Adler’s voice warped, stretching and distorting until it was nothing but a muffled echo, the other kids’ voices doing the same. Suddenly, it felt as if the classroom had been submerged, like a broken pipe had instantly filled the room to the ceiling. Mike sucked in a breath, his hand flying up to press against the bridge of his nose, then his temples, then anywhere else he thought might help.
For a few long seconds, all he could do was sit there and endure it.
Eventually, the intensity faded, collapsing back into the familiar, simmering ache behind his eyes. He let out a shaky breath and opened them again.
That was when he saw red.
A dark splatter stained the page of his open notebook, stark against the half-finished scribbles and white lines. Mike’s heart stuttered painfully in his chest. A hand shot up to his nose instinctively, wiping hard. When he pulled it away, a smear of blood marked his skin, warm and unmistakable.
Mike froze for a second too long, staring at the red smeared across his fingers as if his brain refused to process it. The sight sent a sharp pang through his chest, his pulse kicking hard against his ribs. He wiped at his nose again, more urgently this time, pressing the palm of his hand beneath his nostrils and ducking his head, shoulders curling in on himself like he could fold himself small enough to disappear.
He scrubbed his hand against the sleeve of his shirt until the skin felt hot and irritated, then grabbed his nearest loose worksheet from his desk and folded it up clumsily, pressing it harshly against his nose. The page in his notebook was ruined, the dark splatter standing stark against the pale paper, and he slid it half shut, trying to hide it like that could undo the events that had unfolded.
The pressure behind his eyes still lingered, dull and throbbing now, a low hum that thummed with a frequency that he couldn’t quite shake. He focused on breathing slowly through his mouth, counting under his breath, willing the shaking in his hands — when did they start shaking? — to stop.
Unfortunately for him, things just seemed to be getting worse. The familiar feeling of eyes boring into the side of his head made him glance sideways, only to meet Max’s expectant gaze.
She was, obviously, still a few dreadful rows away. The tapping of her pen had stilled, and her focus had clearly shifted. She wasn’t staring outright, not quite, but her attention kept snapping from Mr. Adler to Mike over and over. Her eyes dropped to the folded paper clutched in his fist, then lifted back to his face, one questioning brow ticking higher than the other.
It’s not that the two of them were close, per se, but something about the look in her eyes made him feel like she knew him better than she let on. That thought struck him strangely, landing in his gut like some sort of harsh realization. Honestly, he figured that she hated him, considering everything that happened with him and El back during the whole Starcourt Mall fiasco. Some words the two had exchanged were… less than friendly. But that small crease of concern between her brows made him rethink. Maybe it was silly, but that seemed to settle some of the anxiety pounding between his ribs.
Suddenly, Mike realized he’d just been staring at the girl for a good thirty seconds, not quite giving her any sort of answer. That twinkle of concern in Max’s eyes only seemed to grow, and Mike couldn’t stand to face her any longer. A flush of embarrassment immediately colored his cheeks. He quickly averted his eyes towards the whiteboard at the front of the room, shaking his head once, stiffly, body language screaming don’t say anything.
Max clearly hesitated, as he still felt her gaze on him. After a beat, Mike could see her nod once out of the corner of his eye, subtle enough that no one else seemed to notice. She returned her attention to the topic at hand, and relief flooded Mike instantly. He could hear her pen resume its absent-minded tapping, though it was slower than before.
Eventually, the bleeding in his nose stopped, though not without ruining multiple sheets of paper Mike had ripped out of his notebook. Surprisingly, the class around him had just ignored his… issue, and the discussion had moved to a topic he’d completely missed the memo on. He had absolutely no idea what anyone was talking about anymore, and he was urgently trying to catch up.
Unfortunately for him, as Mike fumbled with the pages of his English textbook, trying to flip to the section Mr. Adler was droning on about, a sharp clearing of a throat cut through the room.
Mike jerked violently in his seat. His gaze immediately snapped to the front of the room, and he quickly shrank in on himself when he realized the sound was aimed at him. Mr. Adler’s gaze was fixed squarely on him, but it eventually drifted down to his desk — his desk, which was covered in notebook pages stained red. The blood stood stark against the grain of the wood and white pages.
Mike pressed his lips into a thin line, instinctively pulling his arms closer to his body as if that would hide the evidence of his nosebleed. For a split second, Mr. Adler’s expression shifted — not in anger or irritation, much to Mike’s surprise — but something edged sharply with concern.
“Mr. Wheeler,” the teacher said evenly, nudging his glasses up where they had slipped on the bridge of his nose. His tone was calm, maybe a bit careful. “Can you answer the question for the class?”
He lifted his hand towards the board. Scribbled with an Expo marker in the most stereotypical teacher-looking handwriting Mike could imagine, the question was: What do you think the narrator is afraid will happen if he reveals this part of himself to others?
Mike stared at it. He opened his mouth instinctively, like his body was trying to save face for him, but his mind came up empty. The context he needed refused to surface; everything he missed gaping wide and unbridgable. He clicked his jaw shut again, the sound sharp and final, and his gaze flicked uncertainly between Mr. Adler’s eyes, unable to settle on either for more than a second.
The silence stretched, feeling almost loud and uncomfortable. It pressed around the room, thick and unavoidable. Chairs shifted. A pen clicked once, then twice. Mike swallowed hard, throat tight, and after what felt like far too long, he gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head no.
From the corner of his vision, he caught sight of Max watching him again. Her attention was no longer subtle, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He could feel her gaze like heat on his skin. He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. He kept his eyes down, fixed on the front edge of his desk, jaw clenched as if holding it together took physical effort.
Mr. Adler sighed quietly, though it echoed through the room as if broadcast over a speaker system.
He pushed off from the front of his desk and walked around behind it, the movement unhurried but deliberate. When he sat, the legs of his desk chair screeched loudly against the tile, the noise slicing through the thick silence of the classroom and making Mike flinch despite himself. The teacher reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper, one already covered with boxes to fill in.
For a long moment, nothing else happened.
The room stayed eerily silent as Mr. Adler wrote, the sound of the pen scratching over printer paper unnervingly loud in the quiet. Mike stared straight ahead, his head still throbbing dully, hands curled tightly under his desk.
When the teacher finally looked up, his gaze found Mike once more. He shook his head once — not disappointed, not frustrated. Just acknowledging the moment for what it was. He clicked his pen closed, the sound definitive in a way that made the spark of anxiety curling in the boy’s stomach flare more.
“Please see me after class,” he said, voice low but carrying easily. “You’re not in trouble. I just want to talk to you for a moment.”
Mike nodded, dumb and automatic, his movements slow as if his joints had turned to molasses. He leaned his aching head into his hand as Mr. Adler turned back to the board and continued the lesson as though nothing had happened. Another student answered the question, and the discussion moved forward.
Mike barely registered any of it.
The words blurred together into meaningless noise, a knot of heavy dread settling in his stomach as the minutes ticked by. For the first time all morning, he found himself hoping the bell wouldn’t ring, suddenly desperate for this stupid class to last just a little longer.
When the bell finally rang, chairs scraped against tile as the classroom erupted into practiced chaos. Friends reconvening, the sounds of notebooks slamming shut, and the classroom door flying open. Mike stayed seated, watching the horde of students file out of the room until only a few stragglers remained.
Max was one of those few students lagging. She’d already thrown her Walkman on, and Mike could hear the lyrics of Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush blasting out of the speakers all the way at his desk. As she zipped her backpack closed, she shot him a pitying look that did nothing but make him feel worse. He just nodded silently to her, and she was gone seconds later.
Once the few others had finally walked through the exit, Mr. Adler cleared his throat. “Mike,” he said gently, beckoning the boy forward. “Just a second.”
Mike gathered his things with clumsy hands, making sure to grab the blood-stained pages, and made his way up to the desk. He disposed of the papers in the trash can pushed up against the whiteboard, clearly trying to avoid eye contact for as long as possible.
Mr. Adler didn’t look at him right away. He shuffled through a stack of papers, eventually pulling out the sheet he’d written on earlier. It was clear he’d tried to hide it from curious eyes. He slipped it across the desk in Mike’s direction, that same concern flashing over his features.
“This is a slip for the guidance counselor.” Mr. Adler said quietly, tapping the edge of the paper once before sliding it closer. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Ms. Kelley, yeah?”
He waited for Mike’s nod before continuing. “You don’t need to tell me what’s up. But I can tell something is going on. And when I have reason to believe a student is struggling, at home or otherwise, I’m required to refer them.” His tone softened slightly. “It’s the law here in Indiana.”
Mike reached for the slip carefully, as if grabbing it too roughly might make it break, as if it were fragile. He pressed his lips into a thin line as he looked down at it, the words swimming uselessly on the page. None of it made sense to his tired, throbbing mind. He nodded again, stiff, his fingers flexing around the paper as if to test if it were real.
“You can head there now,” Mr. Adler added. “You don’t need a hall pass or anything, they’ll expect you,” he paused, then said, “If you’re feeling unwell, you can let them know that too.”
Mike swallowed, throat constricting. He managed to grit out a weak “Okay,” voice barely audible.
Mr. Adler gave him a slight, reassuring nod. “This isn’t a punishment,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “Just… support. I know it’s the day before Spring Break starts, but it’s probably best you get started now in case she wants to see you again once we return to school. I’ve noticed you slipping a bit. I probably should’ve referred you sooner.”
Mike didn’t trust himself to respond, feeling a sting of tears welling under his eyes. He tucked the slip into the front pocket of his jeans instead, the paper creasing as he did, and adjusted the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. He gave one more nod before he turned towards the door, the weight of it seemingly settled fully in his chest — thin, harmless-looking, and somehow heavier than everything else he’d carried that morning.
The walk to the guidance office had practically been a humiliation ritual. Mike walked right past his next class, some of his peers glancing out the open door in confusion as he passed, and he had to explain to not one teacher but two where he was going. By the time he reached the front office to ask for directions, he was met with another pitying look from the receptionist as she led him towards Ms. Kelley’s office.
The chair outside the guidance office was molded plastic, the kind that curved just enough to be uncomfortable if you sat in it for too long. Mike shifted his weight for what felt like the hundredth time, the legs scraping softly against the linoleum before he stilled again. The hallway was mostly empty, save for the echo of lockers slamming shut and students running late drifting from further down the corridor.
He stared at the doors in front of him — GUIDENCE printing in block letters stark against frosted glass, Ms. Kelley’s name etched neatly beneath it. The slip from Mr. Adler sat folded in his hands, edges already worn soft from his anxious fidgeting, his thumb worrying over the crease over and over.
The headache, which was apparently the only consistent thing in his life today, was still lingering behind his eyes, dull but persistent. Every so often, he’d become acutely aware of his nose again, phantom warmth making him swipe at it just to be sure it was no longer bleeding. It wasn’t, of course. Still, the faint metallic tang seemed to cling to the back of his throat.
From inside the office came the muted sound of a voice — calm, measured — followed by another, softer one that trailed into something Mike couldn’t exactly make out. Something in the back of his mind made him wonder who was on the other side of that door speaking with Ms. Kelley. It was strange, the curiosity foreign to him. He wasn’t usually one to be in other people’s business, so it was odd that he wanted to know.
He exhaled slowly, leaning back in the chair and tipping his head back into the cinderblock wall. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too constant, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, bracing himself for what was impending on the other side of that door.
Apparently, he must have drifted off for a moment, because the soft click of the door opening startled him back to attention. Mike straightened instinctively, blinking away the lingering fog from his head. The hallway swam for a second before settling, the lights overhead seemingly trying to blind him before his vision snapped back into focus.
Another student swiftly stepped out of the office.
By the time Mike had fully registered what was happening, she was already halfway down the hall, moving quickly like she was eager to put the room behind her. He only caught her back, but it was enough to put together the rest. A girl — older, probably a senior, judging by her height and the way she held herself. Blonde hair pulled up in a slightly lopsided ponytail, a jacket that was thrown over what looked unmistakably like Hawkins High’s cheer uniform.
Huh.
The thought lingered longer than it needed to. A cheerleader coming out of guidance. That didn’t seem… right, somehow. Mike frowned faintly, then shook his head, immediately regretting it as the pain in his skull flared a bit brighter. It wasn’t his business anyway.
The realization hit him a moment later — the pep rally. It must have been starting soon, the timing lining up a little too perfectly. He sighed quietly, slouching back in his chair. Lucas was definitely going to give him shit for missing another one. Not that he really cared. The idea of sitting in the bleachers, with the noise and the light and the echoing cheers, made his head throb just thinking about it.
Besides, whatever was going on with him felt like a better excuse than most.
He rolled the folded guidance slip between his fingers, eyes drifting back to the frosted glass as his thoughts began to wander again, tugging him somewhere hazy and unfocused.
Then a voice spoke, polite.
“Michael?”
A woman stood in the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the frame. She wore a soft cardigan over a plain blouse, her expression calm in a way that seemed more practiced than anything. There was a clipboard tucked under her arm, papers neatly attached to it.
She smiled at him, a small thing, and it made the knot of anxiety tighten further. “You are Michael, right?” She asked after a few moments, blinking at the silence from the boy’s end.
Mike’s shoulders tensed, just slightly. Something about teachers using his full name made him feel uneasy. He swallowed, pushing himself up from the plastic chair as it scraped against the floor. “I—” he started, the correction of his nickname dying on his tongue. “Yeah.”
Ms. Kelley smiled again, stepping aside and gesturing him in. “You can come on in, then.”
Mike followed her into the office, the door clicking shut behind them with a quiet finality that made his chest tighten. The room was small but meticulously arranged — a desk pressed against one wall, two chairs positioned neatly across from it, a box of tissues dead-center, as if they were meant to be noticed. The air smelled faintly of lavender and something sterile beneath, a kind of forced calm that made his head throb painfully.
“Go ahead and sit down wherever you’re comfortable,” Ms. Kelley said, moving around her desk and setting the clipboard down.
Mike chose the chair the furthest away without really meaning to. He sank into it, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers knotting together as he stared down at the carpet. The silence between the two stretched for an uncomfortably long moment.
“So,” Ms. Kelley said at last, folding her hands together on her desk. The motion was deliberate, like she was easing herself into the conversation instead of jumping in headfirst. “Mr. Adler called me ahead of time. He mentioned you seemed to be struggling a bit lately.” She tilted her head slightly. “Did you bring the slip he gave you?”
Mike nodded once, handing the paper over without a word, eyes fixed on the edge of her desk. The thought of facing Ms. Kelley eye-to-eye just made the anxiety worse, like looking at her would cause her to ask questions he wasn’t ready to answer.
Ms. Kelley unfolded the slip carefully, smoothing it straight with the pad of her thumb. Her eyes moved steadily across the page, pausing here and there as if parsing between the lines rather than just reading the words. Whatever Mr. Adler had written clearly made sense to her, because she hummed softly in acknowledgment and opened her desk drawer to retrieve a thin minilla folder.
She wrote Michael Wheeler neatly along the top tab before sliding the paper in and tucking the folder away again.
“I see that you’ve been zoning out in class,” she said once she’d settled back in her chair. She clicked her pen open, resting it lightly against the piece of paper clipped to the previously mentioned clipboard. “Not paying attention, missing instructions. He said it’s been happening for a little while now.” Her tone stayed neutral, observational. “Do you want to tell me what’s been going on?”
Mike sat there for a moment, the questioning echoing around in his head louder than it should have. His mind scrambled for something safe to say, something simple. Everything that came up instead felt too tangled, too heavy — missing Will Eleven, his house feeling empty, Starcourt, the way his parents’ voices had grown sharper every night for the last few months. None of it felt like something he could really say to a stranger.
After a long stretch of silence, he shrugged weakly. “I’m… not really sure,” he said. “I guess I’m just tired.”
Ms. Kelley didn’t react right away. She waited, pen still hovering over the page.
Mike exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair, letting his head rest against it for a second. “I’ve been having nightmares,” he added, quieter. “For a while.” He hesitated, then went on. “That’s probably why I’m tired. And I’ve been having terrible headaches the last few days. Today was… worse than usual.” He swallowed. “I think that’s why my nose started bleeding. I’m not totally sure.”
The counciler began writing as he spoke, nodding along in that gentle, affirming way that made it feel as if he were saying the right thing for once.
“Okay,” Ms. Kelley said once he finished, glancing back up at him with a small, reassuring smile. “Thank you for telling me that. I know it’s not always easy.” She gestured to the cabinet behind her. “Would you like something for the headache? I have Tylenol.”
Mike nodded immediately, sitting up a little too fast. Pain flared sharply behind his eyes, and he winced before he could stop himself. Ms. Kelley noticed, because of course she did. She seemed to have an eye for even the smallest signs of distress.
She stood and rummaged through the cabinet, pulling out a brand-new bottle of pain relievers and a cold plastic water bottle from a shrink-wrapped package. She set both in front of him.
“You can keep that bottle,” she said lightly. “I have plenty. Just take what you need and toss it in your backpack.”
“Thanks,” Mike muttered.
He twisted the cap off, shook out two pills, and swallowed them down with a long drink of water. He screwed the cap back on and stuffed the bottle in his bag, hands finally stilling once they were out of sight.
After a beat, Ms. Kelley spoke again. “Would you be willing to tell me a bit more about the nightmares?”
When Mike hesitated, her voice softened. “Everything we talk about is confidential,” she added quickly. “Unless you tell me something illegal, or that you’re planning on hurting yourself or others, this stays between us.” She tapped the desk lightly. “Just me and that file.”
The word confidential lingered. Something in Mike’s chest loosened, just a fraction. He wasn’t used to talking about how he felt — he wasn’t used to saying anything he thought out loud at all, really — but the idea of no one else knowing was… comforting.
He swallowed, throat dry.
“They don't feel like dreams,” he said finally. His voice came out quieter than he intended. “I wake up, and it’s like my body still thinks it’s happening.” he let out a weak, humorless laugh. “Like I can’t convince myself it’s over.”
Ms. Kelley didn't interrupt. She didn’t rush him or scribble down anything dramatic onto that page. She just nodded, giving him the space to continue when he felt ready.
“It’s the same stuff most of the time,” Mike continued, gaze flicking up to her once before falling away to the desk again. “Dark places, being trapped.” His jaw tightened. “Feeling like if I mess something up, someone else is gonna get hurt.”
The pressure behind his eyes throbbed harder, and he shifted in his chair. “Sometimes I wake up and don’t even know where I am for a second,” he admitted. “It takes me a while to remember that I’m just… home.”
He stopped there, breathing a little uneven, like he’d crossed some invisible line without meaning to.
Ms. Kelley’s pen paused mid-word, just long enough that Mike noticed. The faint scratch of it against the paper had become a steady background noise, something he could focus on instead of the pressure slowly ebbing away behind his eyes. When the sound stopped, the quiet almost felt louder than before.
“When you say mess things up,” she asked gently, lifting her gaze back up to him, “what does that look like for you?”
Mike didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted past her shoulder to the bookshelf that lined the furthest wall, scanning the spines without actually reading them. Titles about stress management or teen development blurred together. None of them felt like they applied to him. His throat tightened anyway.
“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “It’s just… this feeling.” He shifted in his chair, the vinyl creaking softly beneath him. “Like, no matter what I do, I’m already starting from behind.”
Ms. Kelley nodded slowly, expression open. “Behind how?”
He huffed a short breath, something that could’ve been a laugh if it had any humor in it. “Like everyone got some kind of rulebook,” he said. “And I didn’t.” His fingers curled into the sleeves of his Hellfire shirt, twisting the fabric unconsciously. “I’m just guessing. All the time.”
The words settled heavier than he’d expected. He hadn’t really meant to say all of that out loud, but the fact that no one else would hear about any of this gave him the confidence to say everything he’d been wishing he could’ve told someone else for months.
“And that uncertainty,” Ms. Kelley eventually said after a moment of writing, “does it feel constant?”
“Yeah,” Mike answered immediately. Then, after a beat, softer, “Pretty much.”
The ache in his head flared again, but it was less unbearable than before. Maybe the painkillers were actually working. Still, he brought a hand up to rub at his temples in small circles absentmindedly.
“I’m always worried about doing something wrong,” he went on, the words starting to tumble over one another now. “About saying the wrong thing, or acting the wrong way. Or—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “Or looking wrong.”
Ms. Kelley tilted her head slightly. “Looking wrong?”
Mike nodded, staring down at the little carpet tucked beneath the desk. The pattern swirled and blurred faintly, as if he were looking at it through water. “Sometimes it feels like if someone really looked at me,” he said, “like really paid attention, they’d figure it out.”
“Figure what out?” she asked, not pressing, just leaving the question open and hanging between them.
His fingers tightened around his sleeve until the fabric bunched uncomfortably in his fists. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, even though the answer pressed against his ribs. “Just… that I’m not what I’m supposed to be.”
The pen began moving again, steady and unhurried.
“That kind of fear,” Ms. Kelley said gently, “can be incredibly draining. Especially if it’s something you’ve been carrying by yourself for a long time.”
Mike nodded automatically, even as something sour twisted in his stomach. Fear wasn’t quite the right word. Fear implied something sudden, something that might go away if you’re brave enough. This felt older than that. Built-in. Like it had always been there, humming quietly underneath everything else.
“Does that feeling ever show up in the nightmares?” she asked next. “The sense of being judged, or found out?”
He hesitated.
For a moment, his thoughts scattered, slipping out of order. He couldn’t tell if seconds or minutes passed as his gaze unfocused again, drifting towards the corner of the room. The hum of fluorescent lights grew louder, pressing into the edges of his hearing. His chest felt tight, like he’d forgotten how to breathe correctly.
“Michael?”
He blinked, startled, and looked back at her. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“That’s okay,” she assured calmly. “You were thinking.”
He rubbed his hands together, grounding himself in the friction. “Yeah,” he said quietly, clearing his throat subtly. “Sometimes. In the nightmares.”
She nodded. “What happens in them when that feeling shows up?”
“They’re not… specific,” Mike said. “It’s not like I see people I know.” He paused. He knew that was a lie, but she didn’t need to know that. “It’s more like I just know I’ve done something wrong. And no matter what I do, I can’t fix it.”
The pressure behind his eyes surged again, sharper this time, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a second. When he reopened them, the room felt slightly off, like it had shifted a few inches to the left without him noticing.
“Sometimes, recently,” he continues, voice lower now, “it feels like I’m being watched. Like someone’s waiting for me to mess up again.”
Ms. Kelley wrote that down, her expression thoughtful. “And when you wake up from these dreams,” she asked, “what’s the strongest emotion you feel?”
He, surprisingly, didn’t hesitate this time.
“Shame,” he answered honestly.
The word landed heavily between them, heavier than anything else he’d admitted so far. It made his chest ache in a way deeper than his headache, deeper than the exhaustion. But even with that, it felt like a bit of weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
Ms. Kelley looked up at him again, something soft and sympathetic in her eyes. “That’s difficult to live with,” she said. “A lot of people feel that way when they're struggling with identity, even if they don’t have the words for it yet.”
Identity.
The word made his stomach twist. He shifted again, the chair creaking below him, and folded his arms tightly over his chest as if that could protect the vulnerable side of him that had just been cracked open. He couldn’t meet the counselor’s eyes, and that was telling enough.
“It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you,” she continued, “it just means you’re still figuring out who you are. And that’s okay.”
Mike nodded, even though the reassurance didn’t quite land. Figuring it out implied there was an answer waiting somewhere, an answer he wasn’t so sure he wanted to reach.
Ms. Kelley glanced back down at her notes. “Between the nightmares, the headaches, and the amount of stress you’re describing,” she said, “it makes sense that your body might start reacting physically. That doesn’t mean anything bad is happening. It just means you’re overwhelmed.”
Overwhelmed. Another neat word for something that felt anything but.
“We’ll take this one step at a time,” she added. “I’d like to check in regularly with you, if that’s okay. Just to make sure things don’t keep escalating.” She looked back up, eyes softening. “We can work through this together, okay? You don’t have to do it alone.”
Mike nodded automatically, his fingers loosening slightly in his sleeves.
Something about the way she said work through this made the dull ache throb harder, like his body was disagreeing before anything even happened.
The door clicked shut behind him, the sound sharp in the sterile quiet of the hallway. Mike lingered there a second longer than necessary, eyes closing as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He felt more exhausted than he had when he first went in, like whatever energy he’d had left in him was drained with a syringe.
The two of them had talked through coping mechanisms; grounding exercises for when the nightmares got bad, breathing patterns he was supposed to use when he woke up disoriented. She’d gone over the painkillers, too. Two every four hours. The words echoed dully in his head.
After a rough exhale, he tried to collect himself before heading towards lunch. Somehow, he’d managed to miss an entire class period and the pep rally. That would be fun to explain to his friends.
Just as he was about to turn and walk away, the scrape of a chair over the vinyl flooring made him jerk in surprise.
He hadn’t realized anyone was sitting there.
When he looked up, Mike was met with ginger hair, freckles, and a Walkman perched over the familiar red curls, tinny music leaking faintly from the headphones — the same song he’d recognized earlier.
Max.
She was sitting in the same chair he’d occupied before his session, except she looked fully awake, posture alert, gaze already locked on him. There was no slipping past her unnoticed, no pretending he hadn’t seen her. She wasn’t even pretending to hide the way she stared straight into him.
Mike stopped short, feet rooted to the floor. For a moment, all he could do was stare back uselessly.
Neither of them said a word.
It was suddenly obvious why she was there. He’d had his suspicions for a while — ever since that night at Starcourt, ever since Billy — but seeing her outside Ms. Kelley’s office made it real in a way he didn’t expect. Max, meanwhile, looked… comfortable. Like this wasn’t her first time sitting in that plastic chair. Like it might not even be her tenth.
The thought made Mike’s shoulders curl inward slightly.
The silence stretched between them, thin and brittle, like a held breath neither of them wanted to release. Mike couldn’t tell how long it lasted — only that his chest felt tight, and the pressure behind his eyes pulsed again, sharper under the attention.
Max’s expression didn’t change. No pity. No teasing. No questions.
Mike was the first to look away, suddenly feeling overwhelmed under the attention. He quickly turned away, fully intending to start heading down the hallway to the cafeteria as soon as possible, when Max finally spoke up.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
Her voice was low, casual, almost, like she was commenting on the weather. She didn’t speak loudly enough to draw attention, which, deep down, Mike was grateful for.
He stopped in his tracks, shoes skidding on the linoleum tiles.
He didn’t turn back around right away. The words sank in slowly, heavier than they should’ve been. When he looked over his shoulder, Max had one side of her headphones pulled off, eyes fixed on him with the same intensity.
“What?” was all he could muster, blinking.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Max repeated. “About you seeing Ms. Kelley.” She shifted in her seat slightly so she could face him directly. “It’s not my business. Or anyone else's. I get it.”
Mike swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. “I—” He trailed off, unsure what he was trying to say. His gaze flickered uncertainly between the girl’s eyes, but the knot in his chest loosened a little. It was strange to see her like this — serious, considerate. Maybe they weren’t as different as he once thought.
She didn’t push. Just watched Mike for a second longer, expression unreadable.
“People suck,” Max said plainly. “And Hawkins loves to talk.” She turned slightly back towards the office door. “But I’m not one of them.”
Mike exhaled slowly through his nose and nodded. “Okay,” he said, voice quiet.
Max nodded back, as if that settled everything. “Cool.”
“Yeah,” Mike echoed, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Cool.”
After another lingering second, he turned and headed down the hallway, leaving the guidance office behind him. Just before he rounded the corner, he heard Max and Ms. Kelley exchange a brief greeting, followed by the office door clicking shut once again.
The anxiety in his chest loosened just a fraction. Not gone, not yet. But it was quieter.
By the time Hellfire had finished later that day, the school parking lot had been cast in shadow by nightfall. The overhead lights cast weak yellow pools across the asphalt, and a thin chill rode on the wind — a reminder that spring had only just begun. The days were warmer now, hinting at the impending summer months, but the nights still clung to the cold.
Mike’s head was pounding.
Of course, it had been fun. It always was. The room had been cramped and alive. Eddie shouting dramatically over dice, Dustin arguing rules that no one actually followed, and even Erica defeating the Big Bad with a Nat20. For a while, it had worked. The noise, the laughter, the familiar chaos had nearly drowned everything else out.
Nearly.
For the length of the session, he’d almost forgotten about the guidance office. The dull pressure behind his eyes. The way Max had looked at him earlier, sharp and knowing.
But the second he stepped out into the cold, everything came rushing back.
The club spilled out behind him in a mess of cheers and overlapping voices, the adrenaline from their victory still buzzing through everyone’s veins. Eddie threw an arm around Dustin’s shoulders, Erica bragged loudly to anyone who would listen, and someone whooped for no particular reason at all. At the same time, students from the basketball game poured out of the gym across the lot, laughter and shouting echoing in the open space.
It was suddenly too much.
The noise pressed in from all sides, sharper without walls to contain it. Mike lingered near the edge of the group, hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets, the ache in his skull throbbing harder with each burst of laughter. His ears rang faintly as well.
Gradually, people began to peel off. Goodnights were exchanged, rides were claimed, and engines sputtered to life. One by one, familiar faces disappeared into the dark, taillights blinking as they pulled out of the lot.
Mike didn’t move, though.
He waited until the lot had thinned, until the noise dulled into something more manageable. Unfortunately, that didn't rid him of his current problem.
The only person still lingering nearby — the one person with a car heading in his direction — was Eddie Munson.
Mike sighed quietly to himself, running a hand down the left side of his face dramatically.
His parents had made it clear the night before that he was on his own for transportation. Apparently, it was “date night,” which for Ted and Karen meant running errands and maybe grabbing something to eat. How romantic. Whatever they were doing didn’t include picking him up from school, though; that was for sure.
That left Eddie.
Eddie, who was currently leaning against his van like he had all the time in the world, cigarette tucked behind his ear, clearly in no hurry to leave.
Mike rubbed at his temple again, already dreading the drive home.
Eddie noticed Mike lingering in the shadows before he was even ready to confront him fully. Mike cursed silently as the older man pushed off the side of his van, grinning like he’d been waiting for this exact moment all night. Which, to Mike’s knowledge, he could have been.
“Well, if it isn’t our fearless paladin,” he called, clapping his hands once. “You survive the carnage, Wheeler?”
Mike forced a half-smile and nodded, shifting his backpack higher on his shoulder. “Yeah. Uh—” He hesitated, then sighed. “My parents are out. Again.”
Eddie just snorted. “Say no more.” He jingled his keys and swung open the passenger door before throwing an arm around Mike’s shoulders. “Hop in. Munson Taxi Services is available twenty-four hours a day. Tips appreciated, preferably in the form of unwavering loyalty.”
Mike huffed a laugh despite himself and climbed into the van without much preamble. The door shut with a hollow thud, sealing him inside with the smell of gasoline, old vinyl, and something vaguely sweet. After Eddie swung himself into the driver’s seat, he started the engine, music cracking to life from the speakers a second later, low but insistent.
They pulled out of the lot slowly, tires crunching over stray gravel littered over the asphalt. For a few minutes, Eddie filled the silence easily — recounting Erica’s roll with dramatic flair, complaining about the basketball team stealing half the parking spaces, ranting about how Hawkins High clearly didn’t appreciate genius when it saw it. Mike merely listened, nodding at the right moments, and even laughed once or twice.
But the headache didn’t ease.
It had been far more than four hours since he’d taken the dose Ms. Kelley had basically forced him to agree to, and he was starting to understand why she was so adamant about it. If anything, it sharpened when the adrenaline from the game ebbed away. Mike shifted in his seat, pressing his fingers to his thigh, then bringing a hand up to his temples when the pressure flared after a dip in the road.
Eddie glanced over, just briefly. “You good, kid?”
“Yeah,” Mike said a bit too quickly. “Just tired.”
Eddie hummed, clearly unconvinced but not pushing it. Not yet, at least. “Long day,” he said instead, turning the volume down just a notch. “Hellfire takes it outta ya.”
Mike stared out the window as buildings slipped by, all darkened and familiar, and tried to believe that was really all it was. A long day, a loud room or two. Nothing more.
Eddie was quiet for a beat too long, though.
It was subtle, but Mike noticed it. The way Eddie didn’t immediately launch into another tangent, the way his fingers drummed against the steering wheel wildly off-beat with the song playing on the radio. He flicked his gaze over again, longer this time, before returning his eyes to the road.
“You sure that’s all?” Eddie asked, casual on the surface, but there was something measured beneath it.
Mike swallowed. “Yeah,” he said again, softer. “Just… school stuff.”
“Mmh,” Eddie hummed, not buying it one bit. “See, that’s funny, because I’ve known you for, what, five or six months now?” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “And you don’t get that thousand-yard stare over a surprise test or a little academic stress, Wheeler.”
Mike’s jaw tightened. He shifted in his seat, pressing more firmly against the window. “I’m fine.”
Eddie let the silence stretch after that, the road humming beneath them. The radio still whirled with whatever rock station Eddie was fascinated with at the moment, but it didn’t make the silence feel any less loud. Then, gently, “You’ve been rubbing your head since you got in.”
Mike froze at that, the fingers massaging his temple stilling against his skin.
Eddie didn’t look at him this time. He kept his eyes forward, his voice lighter than the actual words themselves. “I’m not your mom, Wheeler. I’m not gonna ground you or send you to bed at eight, I just—” He shrugged one shoulder. “I notice things.”
As the van jerked over a speedbump, the headache pulsed again, sharp enough to make Mike wince before he could stop himself. He dropped his hand to his lap, curling his fingers together anxiously.
“Had a nosebleed earlier, probably caused by whatever is going on with my head,” he muttered, voice barely audible over the engine.
Eddie’s grip tightened on the wheel. Not dramatically, just enough that his knuckles went a little pale. “That doesn’t usually happen to you, does it?”
“No,” Mike replied easily. “Not really.”
Another beat of silence. The song on the radio ended, replaced by the low hiss of static, before Eddie reached over and turned the console off completely.
“Okay,” Eddie said finally, voice more careful now. “I’m gonna ask you one more thing, and you can tell me to shut up if you want.”
Mike didn’t answer, but he didn’t say no either.
“Did this start today,” Eddie asked, “or has it been going on longer than you’re letting on?”
The van rolled through a red light that had just turned green, a glow washing over the dashboard and briefly lighting Eddie’s face. He still wasn’t looking at Mike.
Mike stared at his hands, where they curled together in his lap, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat.
“...A while,” he admitted.
Eddie exhaled slowly, like he’d expected that answer and hoped he was wrong anyway. He nodded once to himself as he combed his hair out of his face.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “Then we’re not doing this whole ‘pretend it’s nothing’ bullshit.”
Mike’s heart thudded painfully in his chest, a curl of shame coiling low in his belly at Eddie’s tone. “Eddie—”
“I’m not freaking out,” Eddie interrupted gently. “Promise.” He finally glanced over, expression serious in a way Mike had never seen him before. It was a little frightening, actually. “I just want to make sure you’re not dealing with something alone, that’s all.”
Mike couldn’t bear to look Eddie in the face any longer, turning back towards the window. The streetlights kept passing, the van kept moving. All Mike could think about was the fact that he now had two, potentially even three people looking out for him, trying to spot all of his little tells, when all he wanted initially was to hide it away from prying eyes. So much for that.
The rest of the drive mainly passed in silence, the kind that wasn’t quite comfortable, but also wasn’t tense enough to break. The radio hummed between them, some indistinct rock song bleeding softly into the space as streetlights slid by. Mike watched each one pass, one by one, until the familiar outline of his neighborhood came into view. The Wheelers’ house rose ahead of them, porch light glowing dimly against the dark, the driveway half-swallowed by shadow.
Eddie slowed the van and eased into the driveway, tires crunching quietly over the concrete before he shifted the car into park. The engine idled for a moment, vibrating faintly beneath the floorboards.
Mike reached for the door handle on instinct, fingers curling around the cold metal, ready to bolt into the safety of his own home and escape the awkward atmosphere — but the sharp click of the doors locking stopped him short.
He froze, then slowly turned to face Eddie, brows knitting together. He blinked at him a couple of times, clearly unimpressed. “What?” he asked, voice finally regaining some of the bite and sass it had been missing all day.
Eddie didn’t look at him right away. He stared straight ahead through the windshield, jaw working slightly like he was chewing on his words before letting them out. After a second, he exhaled through his nose and turned toward Mike, his expression still more serious than usual — no grin, no exaggerated swagger to soften the moment.
“Listen to me, okay?” Eddie said. He waited until Mike gave a reluctant nod before continuing. “I know how you are. You shut down, you act like everything’s fine, and you try to handle it on your own until you can't anymore.” His tone wasn't accusatory, just matter-of-fact, like he was stating something obvious. “So I know you might not do this. But I still wanna say it.”
He paused, fingers tightening briefly around the steering wheel.
“If things get worse,” Eddie went on, quieter now, “with whatever it is you got going on — head stuff, nosebleed stuff, all of it — call me. I don’t care what time it is. I’ll pick up if I can, and if I don’t, I’ll call you back.” He glanced at Mike then, finally meeting his eyes. “I just… don’t want you dealing with all of this on your own, kid. I know how your family is.”
Mike’s eyebrows shot up before he could stop them. That— that is not what he was expecting.
For a moment, he wasn’t really sure what to say. He’d never really thought of himself as being close with Eddie. Not in the way Dustin was, or some of the older kids in Hellfire. Eddie was… Eddie. Loud, chaotic. The guy who sometimes drove him home and yelled a little too loudly while playing D&D, who let him borrow tapes when he couldn’t find one of his favorite artists.
This felt different. Almost unsettling, in a way. Comforting in another.
Mike swallowed, throat suddenly tight. He looked down at his hands in his lap, thumb picking at one of his cuticles while he tried to think of a response — something that he wouldn’t cry trying to spit out, preferably.
“...Okay,” he said finally, the word coming out small and cracked. He nodded once, a small, jerky motion. “Yeah. Okay.”
Eddie studied him for another second, as if deciding whether to push for a better answer or leave it there. He eventually clicked the unlock button, the doors unlatching with a click that sounded slightly too loud for the moment.
“Good,” he said simply, the corners of his mouth tilting upward just a bit. “That’s all I needed.”
Mike hesitated for half a second before opening the door, the cool night air rushing to replace the warmth of the van. He grabbed his backpack from where it sat against the floorboards before stepping further up the driveway. He pushed the door closed gently before trekking up towards the porch, the weight in his chest feeling a little less suffocating than before.
Mike lingered in the driveway for a moment as Eddie pulled away, the van’s headlights disappearing down the street before the quiet fully settled back in. The house loomed in front of him, familiar in shape but strangely distant, like he was looking at it through a pane of glass. He adjusted his backpack higher on his shoulder and finally headed up the porch steps, slipping his key into the lock with practiced care.
Inside, the house was dark save for the dim glow of a lamp left on in the living room. The air smelled faintly of detergent and of something reheated in the kitchen hours ago. It was all normal. Mike shut the door behind him as quietly as he could, listening to the soft click of it latching.
He dropped his shoes by the door and stood there a second longer than necessary, suddenly unsure where to go. His head throbbed again, a constant reminder, and he pressed his thumb briefly to his temple to try to quiet it. It didn’t help.
Upstairs, his room waited. Down the hall, his parents’ door was closed, light seeping faintly from beneath it. Nancy and Holly’s rooms were quiet, too, lights switched off and doors shut. Everyone was here. Everything was fine. He told himself that twice before he believed it enough to move.
When he finally reached his bedroom, Mike shut the door and leaned back against it, exhaling slowly. The familiar posters on his wall stared back at him. The bed was left just as unmade as it was that morning. His window was cracked open just enough to let the night air in, curtains stirring faintly with each passing breeze.
He set his backpack down and fumbled around inside it, fingers brushing against the plastic bottle Ms. Kellet had given him. Two every four hours. He twisted the cap once, then hesitated, staring at the pills as if they’d personally offended him.
He whispered a quiet for fucks sake under his breath before throwing two of them into his hand and tossing them in his mouth. He swallowed them down with a glass of water left unattended on his nightstand, exhaling shakily. He twisted the top back onto the bottle and tossed it haphazardly onto his desk, not really caring where it landed.
Mike crossed his room and sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, head hanging forward. The day replayed itself in fragments — Mr. Adler’s voice, the blood on his notebook, Max’s unwavering gaze, Eddie’s concerned crease between his brows while the two of them talked. It all blurred together into something heavy and indistinct, like trying to remember a dream thirty minutes after waking up.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the drywall he’d memorized years ago. For a moment, things were quiet. Still.
Then that familiar thought, the one that ran its course every night for the past little while, crept into his head uninvited.
What if it happens again tonight?
Mike swallowed, turning over onto his side and pulling the blanket up over himself, even though the room wasn’t cold. His eyes burned with exhaustion, his body begging for rest, but his mind refused to slow. Somewhere beneath the ebbing ache in his skull, something felt wrong — off balance, maybe.
Outside, a car passed. A dog barked once, then went quiet. Hawkins was still moving, unaware.
Sleep came slowly, uneasily, and when it did, it brought with it the sense that this was only the beginning.