Chapter Text
The Wheeler house was loud in the way that didn’t require anyone to actually be talking. It hummed and clattered and breathed all on its own, every room full even when no one was saying anything. It had been three months since the Byers moved into the Wheeler residence, three months since the Earth quite literally split open under Hawkins, and three months of Mike Wheeler wanting to be anywhere other than where he was now.
Mike woke up tangled in his sheets, hair sticking up at impossible angles. His mom had been practically begging him to get a haircut. And if Mike was being honest, sometimes his hair did get in his eyes. But the longer hair felt better. It felt more like him, stubborn and defiant in a quiet way, much to the dismay of his parents. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, then reluctantly rolled out of bed and followed the noise downstairs into the chaos.
The coffee maker gurgled like it was on its last breath. A cabinet door slammed shut. Holly’s crayons skittered across the kitchen table, one rolling dangerously close to the edge before Karen swooped in and nudged it back. Ted hummed—some tuneless, content little sound—behind the spread of his newspaper, the pages rustling every time he adjusted it.
There was a mug waiting for Mike on the counter.
It was the blue one. Not the chipped one with the faded baseball logo, not the plain white one Ted used, not one of Nancy’s carefully curated matching mugs. The blue one. Two sugars. Just enough milk to take the edge off without ruining it. Still steaming.
Mike thought Nancy had felt a little bad for him these past couple of months. This silent coffee gesture felt like her way of showing she cared without having to say anything out loud. Mike couldn’t be more appreciative on mornings like these.
He paused with his backpack slung over one shoulder, fingers tightening around the strap.
“Thanks, Nance,” he muttered automatically, grabbing the mug and taking a sip.
Perfect.
Nancy didn’t answer.
She was standing near the doorway to the living room with Jonathan, their heads bent close together. Their voices were low—too low to make out actual words—but Mike caught the tension anyway. Jonathan’s hand was shoved deep into his jacket pocket, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact. Nancy kept glancing toward the kitchen like she was afraid of being overheard.
Mike looked away. He didn’t want to know.
Karen was already mid-nag. “Holly, sweetie, we don’t color on important papers, okay? That’s Daddy’s—Ted, that’s your—Ted?”
Ted hummed in approval, eyes never leaving the paper.
“—fine,” Karen finished, exasperated.
Joyce rushed through the kitchen like a force of nature, purse already on her shoulder, keys in hand. “I’m heading out early,” she said, breathless. “Job interview. Might be late.”
Mike barely looked up. He knew what that meant. Hopper’s cabin.
“Good luck,” Karen called after her, already corralling Holly away from the crayons.
The front door slammed.
And then there was Will.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, elbows tucked in, sketchbook closed in front of him like it was something private even when it wasn’t being used. He hadn’t spoken. He rarely did anymore. He just watched.
Will Byers had always been a shy kid—quiet, soft-spoken, the kind of person who lingered at the edges of rooms instead of claiming space in them. Mike had known that since they were eight. But this was different. This wasn’t just shyness. This was something careful. Deliberate. Like Will had learned that being seen too much came with consequences, and he was adjusting accordingly.
Mike felt it more than he saw it—the way Will tracked everything. The way his eyes moved, cataloging the room. Karen’s tone. Ted’s humming. Nancy and Jonathan’s whispers. Mike’s hand tightening around his mug.
Three months living in the Wheeler house, and Will had learned all its rhythms. Slipped into them quietly. He helped Karen without being asked. Did the dishes before anyone noticed they were dirty. Sat with Holly while she drew, nodding seriously at every scribbled masterpiece. Walked all the way down the driveway every morning to get the paper for Ted, like it was some unspoken duty he’d assigned himself.
Like he was trying to earn his place.
Mike hated that.
He hated that he didn’t know how to talk about it.
“Mike,” Karen said, snapping him out of it. “You’re going to be late.”
Mike glanced at the clock. “Shit—” He cut himself off, glancing at Holly. “—shoot.”
He grabbed his jacket, draining the rest of his coffee in one go. “I gotta go. Work.”
Swingin’ Rhythm. The record store that smelled like dust and old carpet and the ghost of cigarette smoke that hadn’t actually been smoked inside in at least a decade. Ted’s idea. A summer job builds character, he’d said. Teaches you the value of a hard-earned dollar.
Mike hadn’t argued. It was easier not to.
The job itself had come from Steve and Robin’s weirdly extensive employment network—because of course it had. Calvin, the owner, was Robin’s uncle. A fifty-something self-proclaimed rockabilly king with slicked-back hair and very strong opinions about what counted as real music. Mike had learned to nod, smile, and tune him out.
He liked the job anyway.
He liked organizing things. Liked flipping through records, alphabetizing bands. He liked that it gave him some semblance of control in a world where he constantly felt helpless. He liked bringing cassettes home—Gang of Four’s Entertainment!, Television’s Marquee Moon, Minutemen’s Double Nickels on the Dime—stacking them by his bed, listening and rewinding tapes until he fell asleep.
It was a little ironic that he kept falling asleep to the frantic noise of Bad Brains’ “Banned in D.C.”, but in a way, it was comforting. This kind of music gave him an outlet, an external vessel for all the pent-up feelings he couldn’t quite express. It filled his head and calmed it at the same time. Mike felt the discontent in the lyrics on a cellular level, and he admired the sheer nerve of anyone willing to sing them out loud.
Mike’s room had become his sanctuary—his place of reprieve. Since moving in, the Byers boys had taken over the Wheeler basement. Mike didn’t particularly mind, but it made the space feel wrong. Off-limits. Like Will had put up invisible walls that barred even the thought of what he did down there. If Will was going to lock himself in the basement, then Mike could lock himself in his room.
Fair was fair.
Except it didn’t feel fair. It felt confusing and unfinished and wrong in a way Mike couldn’t pin down. He hated how much he noticed it—how quiet Will was, how carefully he moved through the house like he was afraid of taking up space. Mike had really thought California would fix things. That their talk had been enough. That they could go back to being best friends. To being Mike and Will.
He didn’t want to overstep. He didn’t want to push. Will deserved space—Mike got that. He really did.
That didn’t mean he liked it.
Mike adjusted his backpack strap and headed for the door.
“Mike.”
Will’s voice was soft. Not hesitant. Just… careful.
Mike stopped with his hand on the doorknob.
He turned.
Will was standing now, sketchbook tucked under his arm. He hadn’t been standing a second ago. He must’ve moved while Mike wasn’t looking.
“Yeah?” Mike said, too quickly.
Will swallowed. His eyes flicked briefly toward the living room, where Nancy and Jonathan had gone quiet. Toward the kitchen, where Karen was distracted with Holly. Toward Ted’s newspaper shield.
Then back to Mike.
“Do you… um.” He shifted his weight. “Do you want to watch a movie later?”
Mike’s heart did something stupid.
It didn’t race. It didn’t skip. It just… opened. Like something that had been held tight for too long and suddenly wasn’t.
“A movie?” Mike repeated, dumbly.
Will nodded once. “If you want. I just thought—” He stopped himself, fingers tightening around the sketchbook. “—you don’t have to.”
This was it, Mike thought. The olive branch. Quiet. Tentative. Fragile. Will didn’t do big gestures. He never had. He did this instead—small offerings. Moments you had to choose to step into.
Late nights on the couch. Static-filled movies they’d seen a hundred times. Mike rambling about campaigns while Will drew monsters that weren’t really monsters at all. Silence that felt like breathing.
“I—yeah,” Mike said, a little too fast. He steadied himself. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Will’s shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. Like he’d been bracing for the no.
“Okay,” Will said. A pause. “I was thinking… maybe tonight?”
“Yeah,” Mike said again. “Tonight’s good.”
They stood there for a second longer than necessary.
Then Karen clapped her hands. “Okay! Everyone out of the kitchen. Holly, shoes. Mike, have a good day at work.”
Mike opened the door.
As he stepped outside, he glanced back.
Will was watching him go.
Not in the distant, ghost-quiet way Mike had grown used to over the past few months—but openly. Like he was waiting for something.
Mike nodded, small and instinctive.
The door shut behind him.
And for the first time in months, the weird tension Mike couldn’t place didn’t feel quite so solid.
Just… fragile.
Like it could break.
Or maybe—finally—bend.