Chapter Text
1982
The first time it happened, Mike Wheeler shut it down so fast he barely noticed it had existed at all.
He was in 6th grade, standing in the hallway at Hawkins Middle School, lockers slamming shut around him like gunfire. Dustin was talking too loud, as usual, about some campaign idea that made absolutely no sense. Lucas rolled his eyes. Everything was normal.
Will trotted close behind with a concentrated listening face.
Mike knew that without looking. He always did. It wasn’t something he thought about. It was just information his body carried, like muscle memory. When Will slowed, Mike slowed. When Will stopped to tie his shoe, Mike hovered close enough that no one else cut in front of him.
Someone shoved past them, laughing, 8th graders. “Fairy” one of them muttered tugging the back off wills bag so hard he stumbles, but finds his balance quickly. Mike reacted without thinking, turning sharply. Ready to confront the already distant, much bigger bullies Will grabs his wrist, stopping him from walking off.
Mike looks back at him, alarmed, which is weird, Will had touched him a thousand times. But this time felt different. Will’s fingers closed around Mike’s wrist, warm, urgent. The hallway fell out of focus like someone had knocked the lens crooked, the lockers, the voices, even Dustin and Lucas moving ahead became distant shapes. The only thing he could see was Will’s eyes, wide pleading in that quiet way that always made Mike feel like he’d been chosen for something without knowing what, and his tongue went numb as if the words he was going to say had evaporated. It was stupid, he’d been grabbed before, tugged, leaned on, pulled a thousand times but this felt heavier. This was the first time it had left him stunned and wordless, unaware that what he was feeling had a name.
“It’s fine,” he said quickly, snapping Mike back to reality, like he was embarrassed he had even noticed.
Mike nodded too fast, not pulling his hand back but letting Will's grip slowly fade.
He didn’t ask if Will was okay. He didn’t look at him for too long. He turned back toward the others and told himself it was nothing. Just instinct. Just being a decent person. Just his friend. That attitude stuck
Later, alone in his room, Mike laid on his bed with his hands laced behind his head, staring at the dark roof of his room. The radio murmured quietly beside him. His chest felt… tight. Not bad. Just uncomfortable, like he’d forgotten something important and couldn’t remember what.
His brain, unhelpful and annoying, supplied Will’s face. The way his mouth twisted when he tried not to smile. The way he ducked his head when people were too loud.
Mike frowned.
“Stop,” he muttered, like Will could hear him.
He rolled onto his side and forced his thoughts somewhere else, anywhere else. Whatever that was, it didn’t belong anywhere useful. It didn’t make sense. And Mike had always been good at sorting things into boxes that did.
So he ignored it.
Then it became a habit.
As he got older, the rules got clearer. He learned them the way you learn a language. By watching what happened when other people slipped. He learned what jokes were funny and which ones made the room go quiet. He learned what labels stuck to you if you let them. He learned that some things were better not examined too closely.
Especially feelings.
When Will disappeared, Mike didn’t let himself feel what that terror really was. He turned it into action. When Will came back wrong, quiet and fragile, Mike didn’t let himself ask why he cared so much. He told himself it was guilt. Responsibility. Friendship.
That was the word he used every time.
Friendship explained everything. Friendship was safe.
Any thought that didn’t fit inside that explanation got shoved down, pressed flat, buried under logic and noise and the certainty that whatever it was. Mike didn’t panic about it. Panic implied doubt, he simply pretended it wasn’t there and hoped it would go away
He was sure.
Sure that he wasn’t like that. Sure that he didn’t want the wrong things. Sure that if he just didn’t look too closely, everything would stay where it belonged.
And for a long time, it did.
But some truths don’t disappear when you bury them.
They harden.
They wait.
1987
Mike Wheeler had learned to live with the noise.
It wasn’t always loud. Most days it was just a low hum, like the buzz of electricity inside the walls which was easy to ignore if he didn’t stop moving long enough to notice it. He told himself it was leftover trauma, or stress, or the fact that Hawkins still felt wrong no matter how many cracks they sealed or monsters they burned.
Everyone has scars now. His just happened to live behind his eyes.
The headaches came first. Dull pressure at the base of his skull, spreading forward until his vision blurred at the edges. Then the dreams, fragmented and familiar, looping images that never stayed still long enough for him to understand them. The basement. Christmas lights flickering too fast. A voice calling his name from somewhere he couldn’t reach.
Sometimes he woke up already angry, jaw clenched so hard it ached.
“Mike?”
He flinched at the sound of his name, snapping back into the present. The wheelers house was quiet in that tense, watchful way it had been lately, like it was holding its breath. Dust hung in the sunlight cutting through the living room window. Everyone else was out back, arguing about something Mike hadn’t been listening to.
Will stood a few feet away from him, hesitant. He always looked like that lately. Like he was bracing for something that might hurt.
“You okay?” Will asked. His voice was soft, careful. It always was.
Mike shrugged, too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
It came out sharper than he meant it to. Will’s shoulders dipped almost imperceptibly, like the answer had been expected.
There was a time when Mike would’ve noticed that immediately. A time when he would’ve rushed to fix it, to over-explain, to make sure Will knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. Now, the instinct still flared in his chest. But it tangled with something else before he could act. Something tight and panicked and wordless.
He looked away instead.
The space between them felt wrong. It had for weeks. Maybe longer. Mike couldn’t remember exactly when it started, only that somewhere along the way, being near Will had begun to feel… dangerous. Not because Will had changed. If anything, Will was the same as he’d always been. Thoughtful. Quiet. Watching everyone like he was trying to read the room and himself at the same time.
It was Mike who had changed.
“You sure?” Will asked again, frowning slightly. “You’ve been kinda-”
“Can we not do this right now?” Mike cut in, rubbing at his temple. The pressure there was building again, that familiar warning throb. “I just need a second, okay?”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Will nodded after a moment.
His mouth was itching to call him out for all his bullshit but all he can do is nod. “Okay,” he said, even though it clearly wasn’t.
Mike waited until Will turned away before he let his shoulders sag.
He hated this version of himself, the one who snapped and shut people out, who swallowed everything until it burned. He hated that he kept hurting Will without meaning to, and that some sick, cowardly part of him was relieved when Will put distance between them first.
Safer that way.
Later that night, when the house was dark and everyone else was asleep, Mike lay staring at the ceiling, the hum in his head louder than ever. Shadows long in the corners of the room. His chest felt tight, like someone was squeezing him.
When he finally drifted off, the dream came fast.
Too fast.
He was standing somewhere cold and yellow-lit with candles, the air thick and buzzing. The carpet beneath him rubbed against his socked feet, a smell so old that made his skin crawl. The roof light flickers then stays on, Mikes eyes take a second to adjust to the new lighting.
The wheeler's basement. But it’s different, half of the posters aren't up, the whole party’s books are opened on the table to an old page and a game of D&D is set up.
He steps closer, fingers brushing the edge of the table. It feels solid. Real, like nothing bad has ever happened here. For a second, he thinks he’s just… here, Awake. Safe.
The light flickers. Just once, barley, more like a failure.
But in that fraction of a second the room is full. Not solid, not real, like an image burned into his eyes, a hologram. Kids crowd the table, smaller and younger. Dustin’s voice is too high as he laughs, Lucas cheering at something unfair. Someone groans. Dice clatter against wood, chairs scrape, a victory is shouted too early.
Mike’s breath catches. For a millisecond, he swears he can hear it. Real laughter, sharp and bright, overlapping. The kind that fills a room without trying. The kind that doesn’t know how rare it is yet. Then the light steadies. The basement is empty again, the sound cutting off like it was never there at all.
He stands there breathing heavily in the now silent room, looking at his feet and wiping the tears he didn’t notice he let out.
“Four years ago!” Mike’s head perks up at the sudden voice to see he’s no longer in the basement but outside under the garage roof. The four of them talking about Nancy and her new boyfriend. The exact scene that happened before Will got taken. Before everything changed for good.
“Just sayin,” young Dustin shrugs before him and Lucas climb onto their bikes and take off, voices fading as they disappear down the street.
The tears in Mike's eyes grow heavier, a pit of nostalgia boils in his lower belly, he feels nauseous with homesickness for a place he never left.
Will lingers behind, guilt on his face and shoulders sagged “It was a seven” he admits.
“What?” young Mike asks as old Mike watches it unfold, feeling immense guilt for what both of them are about to go through.
“I said why do you hide?” Will talks again, this time his voice deep and firm, not looking at young Mike, but present Mike.
Alarmed by the sudden confrontation his body feels useless now, breathing heavy, tears breaking out again. Limbs weak as he staggers back when Will walks closer.
“I-” Mike's throat was stuck in place, unable to talk.
“You think people don’t know?” Will's voice harsher now, with a smile, like he’s making fun of him.
“You are the reason I suffer,” Will says. His deep voice still doesn’t match his face. It’s too steady. Too sure. “You’re weak. In hiding. Different.”
The last word hits Mike right in the gut for a reason he can’t identify.
Mike shakes his head, stumbling back another step. The gravel under his feet shifts, but he barely feels it. “Will… I-” he tries again, but the words collapse in on themselves. His chest feels tight, compressed, like something is sitting on it. He swipes at his eyes angrily, humiliated by the tears he can’t stop, “Stop.”
Will doesn’t.
He moves closer.
The space disappears fast. Mike backs up without thinking until his shoulder hits the corner of the garage, cold brick slicing through his jacket straight to his warm skin. Will keeps coming, each step slow, with an emotionless face like he’s numb.
“Pushing me away won’t fix you,” Will says calmly. “You’re sick. And there’s no cure.”
Mike’s heart is pounding so hard it’s all he can hear. His knees give without warning, and his back slides down the bitter wall, folding in on himself. He curls into the corner, head dropping to his knees, his heart is pounding so hard it’s all he can hear. In instinct his hands find their way to his ears and press hard against them, like that might shut it out, like that’s ever worked before. He repeats himself in whispers, pleading and voice breaking “Stop.. please stop”.
“Mike.”
The voice cuts through the darkness, sharp enough to pull him back.
His eyes fly open as he sucks a deep breath through his nose, his body jerks up like he’d been drowning. His hands still clenched, Mike looks around alarmed, for a second he can’t see anything but vague shadows. Then his eyes start to focus and he can make out his surroundings more by the second. It’s still dark outside and cold air shifts through the room, everything is normal, why does he feel like this?
Nancy is kneeling beside his bed, one hand hovering near his shoulder like she’s not sure if she should touch him. Her face is tight with worry, brows tilted together like they do when she’s concerned, eyes searching his like she’s trying to read his mind.
“Mike,” she says again, softer now. “You… you were talking.” Her face makes a pleading look, the one she does when she wants Mike to let her in. He never does.
His heart is still racing, banging against his ribs. His throat burns. He drags a hand down his face, fingers shaking, and only then does he realise his cheeks are wet. He turns his head away quickly, embarrassed, wiping his teary face.
“I’m fine,” he says out of instinct even though he clearly wasn’t. The words come out hoarse, even Mike knows that's not fooling anyone.
Nancy doesn’t buy it. She never has.
“You were saying ‘stop,’” she says quietly, trying to find Mike's eyes, but he doesn’t let her. “Over and over.”
Mike swallows hard. The image of Will- not Will he reminds himself, flickers at the edge of his mind, and he shoves it down as fast as he can.
“It was just a nightmare.” He mutters looking at some poster on the wall, anything’s better than Nancy's sister detective eyes, She's always been able to see straight through Mike.
“You’ve been having a lot of those,” she says.
Mike shrugs, eyes now fixed on the floor. “Everyone has.”
Nancy tilts her head and gives Mike a pouty look, asking to let her in “Mike.” She sighs, getting up from her knees and resting her hand on Mike's shoulder. “If something’s wrong-”
“It’s not,” Mike cuts in, too fast. He softens it immediately, guilt taking over. “I mean, I’m okay. Really.”
Nancy studies him, obviously still concerned, but she doesn’t push. “Try to get some sleep,” she says. “Okay?”
Mike nods.
When she leaves, the room feels colder. He falls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, every muscle still tense like he’s readying for something to come back.
He lays not being able to fall back asleep, too scared to anyways, thinking about what Wil- not Will, said.
“Sick? I’m not sick? And I don’t hide.” Mike mutters to himself, convincing himself Vecna was just trying to scare him, there's nothing wrong with him.
“I’m not different. Am I?” Mike whispers before he shakes his head and rolls over, shoving his face in his pillow swatting all these thoughts away with one mindset. Nothing's wrong and Vecna’s a liar.