Chapter Text
A pastor’s son.
Perfect in every way: composed, steady, confident, quiet, and most importantly, pure.
Mike Wheeler has been raised to fit this description his entire life. His father is the pastor at the local church in Hawkins, and has been since Mike was young. Ted was an avid churchgoer–he went every Sunday and for every holiday since he was a child himself–and when the previous pastor had passed away, Ted was the obvious replacement. Mike hardly remembers the funeral, but what is ingrained in his memory is the mentions of heaven. The old pastor, Father David, had also been raised into an extremely Catholic family, spending his entire life following the Bible down to every letter. Mike was expected to do the same.
Mike had never even thought of sinning. He would never dare. He did everything asked of him, only consumed Catholic media, and went to church as much as possible. He was even homeschooled in order to prevent “outside influence” from corrupting him–according to his father, at least. Mike was quite proud of himself for this, as his father had told him on multiple occasions that he was living up to every expectation that was held for him. Even when he knew things were wrong, Mike blindly followed his father’s teachings like a lamb being led to slaughter.
He was a quiet boy growing up, never having friends to run around and play outside with. Never spending days out with others, or even wishing he could have a different life. All Mike knew was the church, and that’s all he believed in. He had seen the consequences of deferring from his father’s wishes; having to watch the screaming matches and the beatings his older sister had to endure when she acted out, sneaking out to see boys or listening to “devilish” music. Mike didn’t pity her, she’s the oldest Wheeler child, and even if she had been older when her father became the pastor, she should still know better. Who he did pity, however, was his mother. She always seemed so tired, so defeated. She didn’t talk much anymore, instead choosing to spend her time busying herself with chores or knitting–a new hobby she recently took up in order to fill her free time.
Mike, being the only son, had much higher standards–and he had no issue meeting them. He followed in his father’s footsteps no matter what. Every single Sunday he was up at the pulpit with his father, lighting candles or holding his father’s cross for him while he handled his Bible. He never, ever spoke at church. It wasn’t his place to, after all. Once the ceremony was over, he was able to have small conversations with the members, however they never meant anything to him, and he never held them too close.
His main task at the church was the confession booth–his father had deemed it below his duties, and found it a good task for Mike as a way of initiation. Most days, nobody went into the confession booth. Most people in the church were devoted to their lifestyles, remaining as sin-free as possible, and having most of their sins forgiven during church or during their nightly prayers. Mike knows for certain, because he was no different.
Today was like any other. A normal Sunday, the service running smoothly and the last few people filtering out as the day drew on longer. Mike had silently made his way to the small back room of the church intended for the clergy and other administrative positions. The summer heat swelled into the old wooden building, feeling intensified by the numerous stained glass windows placed throughout the building, making it feel almost like a greenhouse. The long sleeves Mike had to wear didn’t help either, the dark fabric sticking to his forearms as the sweat dampened his skin. He gently removed his clergy shirt, straightening out his plain white t-shirt underneath as he does so. Mike sits quietly at the small table in the back room, taking a few moments to relax after having to stand unmoving in the summer heat for so long. He’s startled back into reality for a moment when he hears the distinct ringing of the bell from the confession booth–the one that rings whenever the door is opened to inform Mike that somebody is ready to make a confession.
He sighs softly before making his way to the priest’s side of the booth, not bothering to put his clerical shirt back on as he wonders who stayed so late just to make a confession. When he situates himself, he hears an unfamiliar voice.
“Uhm, I’ve never done this before, so I apologize in advance if I’m not doing this right,” the voice starts, obviously nervous and uneasy. “Wait–that sounds kinda stupid now that I think about it, there’s no rules to this, right? I just–talk? And you… listen. I guess.”
Mike nods for a moment before he realizes the person on the other side can’t see him through the wicker screen separating the two. He clears his throat softly before speaking. “There is no right or wrong way to confess, just say whatever is on your mind and God will hear you.”
A soft chuckle answers him, before the other boy also clears his throat. “Shit, how do I even start? Wait–I’m probably not supposed to swear–that’s probably like, unholy or something. I’m not super religious or anything, so I don’t really know what I’m not supposed to do. But–there’s just so many things I need to get off my chest and nobody else would understand.
“I guess, I just feel like I’m–wrong. I feel like I never do anything right. I don’t know how to talk to people–not even my friends–and I just always feel so out of place no matter where I am or who I’m with. I’m different to put it lightly, and I just feel like if anyone found out then everyone I’ve ever held close would hate me,” there’s a soft sniffle and a shaky sigh from the other side of the booth. Mike fiddles with his hands in his lap, a habit he’s had ever since he started listening to confessions back when he was thirteen. Even after five years doing this, he still feels somewhat restless and out of place listening to people he doesn’t even know pour their hearts out to him. The weight of other people’s worlds sits on Mike’s shoulders, and he has to go about his day as if nothing happened.
“I just–I know my mom and my brother would accept me for being–for being gay, but I still feel like I’m wrong for it. I know it’s not something I can control, and God made me this way for a reason or whatever, but I still feel like I’m not supposed to be this way, like I have to hide who I really am.”
Mike has never had an issue with people being gay. Despite his father’s beliefs that it’s wrong, they’ve never inherently pushed the idea that it’s demonic or outwardly sinful in their sermons. His father believes it’s unnatural, but he wouldn’t publicly shame someone for what he believes is who they choose to love. Mike, despite never experiencing love himself, knows it’s not something you can just decide on. People can’t choose to love somebody, and they cannot choose which gender they love either.
“You aren’t wrong in the eyes of God unless you choose to be,” Mike says. It’s the first real response he’s given to the confesser, and he feels a bit nervous doing so. Even though Mike knows he’s doing what he’s supposed to, he can’t help but feel a bit nervous when he isn’t able to see people’s reactions to his reassurances.
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. My dad used to say otherwise, though. When he uh–when he was still around, he would make comments about people who’re gay, saying it’s against what God wants and all that. He never found out about me, but I guess it just kinda set that fear in me regarding who I am–even before I knew.” The boy chuckles softly before he pauses, both of them going silent for a moment. “Can I ask a weird question?”
“Go ahead, I’m here to help ease your worries.” The line feels so rehearsed, but it doesn’t make it any less true.
“Could I know your name? I know it’s kinda weird, but opening up to someone who I don’t even know the name of just doesn’t feel right to me. And–since I can’t really see you, either, it would be nice to at least know who I’m talking to, even if we are just strangers.”
Mike pauses for a moment, slightly taken aback. Nobody who has confessed has ever asked him this, most of the questions being related to what God wants or what is deemed as sinful. There’s nothing that his father told him which states he’s not allowed to tell the confesser who he is, which alleviates some of the worry he had. “I’m Michael, but you can refer to me as Mike. I’m the pastor’s son.”
“Mike,” the voice repeats, as if to test how it feels in his mouth. Something about hearing his name in this voice makes Mike smile for some reason. It sounds so smooth, so natural, as if Mike was named that just to be said by this voice and this voice alone. “I like that name,” his voice is soft, almost a whisper.
Mike itches with want, curious as to the name of the boy he’s speaking to. He knows the purpose of the confession booth is to be anonymous, providing a judgement-free space to those who need it. Before he can even stop himself from asking, the voice interrupts his train of thought.
“I’m Will. I know you probably aren’t supposed to know that but–I still felt like I should tell you, I guess.” There’s another brief pause as Mike lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.
“Will,” he whispers, not even realizing as the name slides off his tongue, as sweet as honey. It feels so right, but something twists in Mike’s gut as he says it.
“So,” Will lets out a soft, nervous chuckle. “Sorry, I don’t really know how to get all this off my chest. I’ve just–never really had anyone to truly talk to, y’know? So it’s still kinda weird to me to be able to open up so much at once.”
“I understand, it’s not easy for everyone to do. Being able to be honest with yourself is the hardest part of this, let alone when someone else is listening.” Mike has said this line to others who were nervous so many times before, yet this time it feels like he truly means it. Most other confessions feel rehearsed, all being about similar topics like infidelity or sex before marriage, or even arguments where the person said something they didn’t mean. This, however, feels–different.
“Could I… could I stop here? And maybe come back next week? I kinda did this on a whim, so I’m not really sure what else to talk about. I think I just need some time to collect my thoughts before I confess more. I guess.” He lets out a soft laugh again, something that Mike believes is a nervous habit.
“There’s no need to ask, you can come back whenever. If the church doors are open, I’m here to listen. Always.” Usually, there’s specific hours deemed for confession, so as to ensure Mike isn’t bothered by it when he’s busy. However, he is almost–excited for Will to come back, to tell him more. He’s intrigued by this boy, and he wants to know more.
“Thank you, Mike. Well, I guess I’ll see you next week? Well–wait. Not see–” he cuts himself off with laughter, making Mike laugh along with him.
“Of course. I’ll see you next week, Will,” he teases him a bit, hoping to ease his uncomfortableness as much as he can.
Mike hears Will let out a small giggle again before the door opens and closes, and the booth goes silent. Mike is used to being left alone in the booth as he waits for the other person to exit the church to ensure anonymity, but for some reason this time almost feels lonelier. The absence of Will’s presence sits heavy on the other side of the booth, and Mike mourns it for a moment before he steps out of the booth.
For the first time ever, Mike is excited for the next time he sits in this confessional.