Chapter Text
Mike’s feet kicked at the loose floorboard under his boot. The dust that seemed to cover every inch of this godforsaken town flew into the air with the force of his kick, glittering in the sunbeams that shone in sharp lines through the bars on the window. He leaned forward on the small cot he was sitting on, placing his elbow on his knee and propping up his chin on the heel of his hand. He whistled a stream of air out of his lips, and the sudden wind disrupted the hot, dead air of the cell, sending the dust motes spiraling into concentric circles and looping through the golden rays of light. It was the most action he’d witnessed in four hours.
✯ ✯ ✯
Mike wouldn’t consider himself a particularly disobedient individual. He helped his mom clean out the stable when she asked, agreed to sit in on his dad’s meetings with the mayor, and trudged on over to the schoolhouse even when every cell in his body was yelling at him to turn. Around.
But he never did. He would walk into that stuffy room full of children coughing and yelling, pull out his chalkboard, and scratch out the answers to whatever boring questions Mr Clarke rattled off without complaint. He may not be a happy kid, but he was a good one. He tried his best. His other friends, Lucas and Dustin, had left the one-room schoolhouse last year. They told him their parents said they didn’t need to learn anything more, that they were sixteen now and all grown up. Time to help the adults. Mike was left behind. And growing lonelier by the day. His parents insisted that he continue his studies, that he would need to understand math and policy better if he were ever to take up his dad’s job as the town’s banker.
The thought of that future was almost as suffocating as the room.
But day in, day out, he would walk the same dirt road—the half mile stretch of dust and shrubs from his home in the center of town to the school, nearly the next county over. Every other day he would bring Holly, who was still too young to be going to school full time, and grip her hand tight in his. He would say it was for her safety if she complained, but his heart clenched the same at the thought of returning to that building.
One blessed Tuesday, Mike awoke to the joyous news that school was, in fact, cancelled. Some old geezer had apparently gotten drunk at the saloon over a lost game of pool, and had stumbled on over to the school, breaking through the small wooden door and wrecking the entire school (given that it was just one room, Mike figured that was fairly easy to do). The mayor had decided school was out until they could find sufficient supplies to replace those that were lost, meaning Mike was free.
As soon as he learned the good news that morning, he had exploded out the front door, the screen door snapping shut behind him and cutting off the piercing shriek of "Michael!" that echoed down the hall from his mother.
He didn’t care. He rushed down the front path and cut across the street in front of him. The wood heels of his boots clacked along the flat, stone-covered trail that led away from the street and through the small, brushy trees that lined the other side of the street. The sharp scent of the juniper bark hit his nostrils as he made his way down the path, his gait slowing as he got farther and farther from the house. The smell reminded him of his childhood, summer days filled with the laughs of him and his friends and the splashing of their bare feet in the nearby creeks. He smiled at the memory.
Today was the day he was going to reclaim some of that joy. Lord knows he needed it.
The path led him down a small hill, and he carefully picked his way down the makeshift stairs made of roots and limestone that had been there for as long as he could remember.
Once he got to the bottom, he hopped over the small wooden that encircled the small field that housed his family’s stable. Two horses grazed calmly under the shade of the old juniper tree that dominated the left side of the pen, its branches stretching long and low over the grass, and its dull bark peeling away to reveal the burnt orange of its trunk.
Mike made his way over to Stella, the horse he had gotten when he’d turned 15, “a man’s age” his father had called it. Whatever. He was just happy he had a way to get around.
He quickly saddled Stella up, looping the bridle around her nose and securing the bit in her mouth. In a practiced motion, he wedged his foot into the stirrup and swung his left leg over Stella’s back. He steered her over to the fence, and leaned over to unlatch the gate.
Ten minutes later, Mike found himself trotting along the dusty road that led into town. He noted the waving yellow grass that stretched into the distance, dotted with clumps of trees and shrubbery, the occasional movement of a rabbit causing the grass to rustle and sway.
Lucas’s house was closer to Mike’s than Dustin’s, so Mike elected, as always, to head there first and pick up Dustin after. That is, he would’ve done that if he hadn’t gotten the shit startled out of him at the sound of a sharp bang! that echoed across the flat, open land. A small group of wrens fluttered quickly out of the nearby trees.
Was that a gunshot?
Mike only knew what they sounded like because of the few times his father went hunting, bringing back a hare or a deer. After a couple times, he grew bored and decided to just ride over to the general store to buy fresh meat from the butcher.
Despite Mike’s limited knowledge on the topic, he still was certain of what that sound was.
Stella skittered nervously beneath him, and he ran his fingers through her black mane, scratching at her neck in an effort to calm her down.
“Easy, girl,” he whispered, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. Should he go investigate? Surely not…right? Unfortunately, Mike Wheeler was anything if not curious, so he hopped off Stella, gently pulling her by the reins over to the closest tree, tying her up with the extra rope he always carried in his saddlebag. He patted her flank and told her to stay put as he set off in the direction he had heard the noise.
He picked his way through the dry bushes and gingerly climbed over the small rocks that poked up from the ground like the teeth of a coyote. Wait. Which direction had the gunshot come from again? Was it towards Hayes Creek in the east, or Williams Canyon to the west–
Bang!
Louder this time. To his right. East it is then.
Mike soon found himself atop a small ridge overlooking a large pool of water, the one that the aforementioned Hayes Creek emptied out into before continuing on its merry way southward. Mike, Lucas, and Dustin had waded through this creek millions of times over the years, but they’d never come across this part. Huh.
More interestingly, there sat a small house on the side of the pool opposite Mike. There was a small horse pen to its right, with a great black mustang nibbling away at some feed and a large live oak hanging over the fence, shading the whole area. To the left of the house, the land was flat, cleared away, with a target set up quite a distance away–nearly obscured by the encroaching brush.
BANG!
Closer now than ever. Now, Mike saw them. Two figures, hunched close together and facing away from Mike, towards the target.
One appeared to be an older man, wearing a pair of dark, starched jeans paired with a maroon flannel and a tan Stetson balanced atop his head. He leaned down close to the person next to him, reaching over to adjust the position of the shotgun in the other’s grip before pointing back out at the target.
BANG!
The person with the gun stumbled back slightly from the recoil of the gun. The older man jumped with excitement, clapping the shorter one on the back, turning just so that Mike could see his face—was that? No. Right? Sheriff Jim Hopper?
But it was. The gruff, grumpy police officer that Mike only knew in passing, due to the fact that he met with his father on occasion to discuss “vault security” or some other nonsense. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the man smile, let alone jump for joy.
But here he was, hopping excitedly around the boy standing next to him, a wide grin on his face. Huh.
Then the boy turned around, and Mike understood. Mike wasn’t very close to them, but not too far that he couldn’t make out the boy’s features. Good lord, how he wished he was closer.
He was wearing a pair of jeans, like Hopper, but they looked softer, more worn in. His shirt was a dark yellow and orange flannel—everyone in this town wore the same outfit, Mike grumbled to himself—but this boy wore it differently. The sleeves were rolled up, and the bottom of the shirt wasn’t tightly tucked into the top of his pants. He looked comfortable.
Finally, Mike’s eyes made their way to his face.
He had soft-looking light brown hair that seemed to catch the sunlight shining down on him. He couldn’t see his eyes too well from here, but they looked kind. At the moment, their corners were crinkled up in happiness at something Hopper had said. And there, on the left side of his face, angled to where Mike had a clear view, was a mole—positioned just over the boy's lip.
Mike knew that mole. The whole town did. Everyone had seen the same missing posters that were plastered all over town five years ago.
Will Byers.
A name no one had so much as uttered in half a decade.
And Mike’s first ever friend.