Chapter Text
"That's not Will," he blurts out, certainty and disappointment both curling in his stomach even before the flashlight is directed onto the tiny, shivering figure.
Even with the rain dulling his senses, he can smell blood on the kid in front of them. A lot of it. So much, in fact, that even he feels nauseous. It's not theirs, he thinks, at least not entirely—this much couldn't possibly come from one person or even... Mike doesn't want to guess the number. He already established the only thing that matters.
None of it is Will's.
Even under unbroken skin, let alone spilled and lingering, he'd be able to tell in an instant.
Of course, he'd know if it was Dustin or Lucas as well, but as embarrassing as it is, scent wise he still occasionally gets the two of them mixed up. Dustin might be B positive. Mike doesn't really remember what Lucas's blood type is, if he's completely honest. They're distinctive to him, of course, but in a collective way, as their party.
Not Will, though. As weird as it sounds, he'd be able to pick him out in a crowd, in a bloodbath with no hesitation.
It's not that weird, though, considering Will's blood is the only one he'd tasted before out of everyone he knows.
MEMORIES OF:
MIKE WHEELER, AGES 0–5
HAWKINS, INDIANA
1971–1976
PLAY ▶
There’s not much to be said about Mike’s life before kindergarten. Later, he will claim that he doesn’t remember his first five years at all, but it isn’t true.
Not entirely, at least.
If he thinks about it hard enough, he can recall his early childhood in bits and pieces, placed neatly in a repetitive, symmetrical pattern. Whenever he tries to pull on the strings of individual memories to find any distinct event, though, he always comes up empty.
So, while saying he has no memory of that period is simplifying the truth to the point of it almost being a lie, it is much easier—and much less pathetic—than explaining that he sees his life in very distinct series of ‘befores’ and ‘afters’, with the first before highlighting time so dull and lonely that it blurred together and faded into monochrome.
He isn’t allowed out of the house much, during those years.
Years later, when he looks back on it, he vaguely understands that—although his mother would never admit it—it is because he was a difficult child, at least when compared to Nancy.
Not a terrible one, by any means, but at the end of the day his acting out always carries heavier consequences than most other children his age. Not in terms of punishment, but damage control.
For a few weeks in the Wheeler household there’s a heavily enforced ban on the word ‘no’. For a day or two, it can’t be whispered in Mike’s hearing distance without causing a temper tantrum, even if the word is said in no relation to him. And, unfortunately enough for his parents, before he learns to tune the white noise out, Mike’s little ears pick up on the sounds from as far as the neighbours kitchen.
The reign of terror ends by getting worse before it gets better, as six year old Nancy, who only appears to be an easy child as opposed to actually being one, spends exactly seventy three hours, fifteen minutes and forty two seconds responding to everything that is said to her with the word that must not be spoken.
Unstoppable force meets an immovable object and two year old Mike loses his voice for a day from screaming. Somehow, after nearly three weeks of his ongoing vendetta, that day is enough for him to forget whatever issue he has with the word.
And, because if there’s something to be said about Mike Wheeler, it’s that, even as a child, he exists in extremities. Which is why the word becomes one of his favorites, although it’s unclear whether the development is an attempt at copying Nancy or a discovery of a way to express his complaints without damaging his vocal cords.
And, oh boy, does Mike have complaints…
The worst of it happens during dinnertime. When most kids refuse vegetables, parents can experiment with different meals. Approaching the age of three, Mike refuses not only regular food but also his supplements in every possible form. It takes an entire year—and a small fortune spent on a steady supply of blood served in a sippy cup at dinner—before his tiny brain begins to grasp the concept of bribery. Eventually, he learns that swallowing the thick, iron-tasting syrup earns him candy afterwards.
The syrup tastes awful. Too metallic. Too concentrated. Nothing like the blood his mother pours from the small plastic bags.
He does drink it, though, even if the degree of his agreeability about the fact varies day by day. Perhaps that small stretch of relative peace is why, not long after his fourth birthday, his mother decides to try the playground.
She only tries it once.
At first, it goes…not well, but not bad either. For a while, he stands there, a brand-new, shiny set of a bucket and a shovel clutched loosely in his fist, looking up at his mother with a lost expression, as if he’s not sure what’s supposed to happen next. He’s not aware of it, but this is where his mother realizes a major oversight in his upbringing.
Mike has absolutely no idea how to approach other children.
Which, technically, could be an issue, if not for the fact that the playground is nearly vacant–a strategic choice, on his mother’s part, regarding time, place, and just a sprinkle of obsessively checking the weather forecast.
It’s a small mercy that he has little to no choice but to join the only other kid at the playground in the sandbox in building a sandcastle. Because he already has the tools for it, it doesn’t quite occur to him that he could try doing anything else. It's boring, but the other kid is a bit skittish, looking like he'd burst into tears at the first complaint and Mike doesn't want to play alone. So he endures it, trying not to sulk the way he does when Nancy tries to put lipstick on him.
The playtime ends abruptly.
They are digging through the sand—Mike with his brand-new blue shovel, the other kid with their bare hands, because Mike hasn't quite figured out how sharing works yet—when they both freeze for two very different reasons. Mike freezes because suddenly the air is filled with the smell of blood. It's strange. It's not dinner time. He has never smelled it anywhere except at the table. This blood smells different. Fresh. Warm. So much better than the blood from plastic bags—and definitely better than the stupid iron syrup.
The other child freezes because of the pain. They bring their hand to their face, tears already welling in wide, startled eyes as they stare at a cut across their palm. A shard of a broken beer bottle glints faintly in the sand.
Mike doesn't notice the tears. He tilts his head and grabs the child's wrist, ignoring the small whine of pain when his fingers close too tightly. Slowly, curiously, he brings the injured hand closer to his face. He sniffs. Blood trickles down the child's palm and over Mike's fingers before dripping into the sand below. The bright red drops capture all of his attention.
Although he won't remember this moment years later, this is the first time Mike realizes something important: the blood he drinks with a squiggly straw comes from real people. It's also the first time any predator instinct inside him focuses on a real, living human being.
The moment ends abruptly when his mother grabs him. Her arms are strong as she lifts him straight into the air. Mike is forced to release the other child, and he watches in confusion as red marks bloom across the place where his fingers had been wrapped around their wrist.
The skin is already turning angry and bruised, which doesn't make sense in his head. He hadn't used that much force. When he play-fights with Nancy they use way more strength than that, and neither of them ever ends up bruised.
The only thing Mike's first playground visit earns him is confusion about dinner—and a long lecture about how he is much stronger than other kids and must never use that strength on them.
He hears the same lecture again almost two years later, right before kindergarten. This time it comes with a list of things he can and cannot say to other people. Mike doesn't remember most of it. Only that he has to be gentle with the friends he makes. And under absolutely no circumstances can he tell strangers that his family drinks blood. He knows now that blood comes from people.
Nancy explains that part after he asks her about it. She also explains what vampires are—and how most people are definitely not that. Nancy knows a lot of things. She's nine, after all. Practically a grown-up.
He asks her how to make friends next. It’s something that neither she nor Mike would remember in the future, but her advice in that moment is the best advice she will ever give to anyone.
Where his house feels like it’s a bit… Too little, too dull, like the mosaic of his memories prior to that day, the kindergarten is decidedly too much. It’s too loud, too bright and he’s never seen as many kids in one place before. It’s paralyzing and every time his teacher pauses class activities in favour of playtime, Mike is faced with so many options that he chickens out each time and does not apply Nancy’s advice.
(Direct approach, she said. If you want someone to be your friend, just ask them.)
How is he supposed to ask someone to be his friend when he can’t even think about who to ask? All the kids look the same, they have similar names and there’s so many of them that Mike is sure he’ll forget who he even asked by the time he goes home.
The last playtime of the day is supposed to be at the playground and that seems more daunting than anything. He’s not sure whether he’s ever even been to one and if he messes it up somehow, all the kids will think he’s stupid. It’s not like there’s all that much opportunity to insert himself into any of the groups, similar as they all look–at that point in the day, everyone already paired themselves up or even formed bigger groups.
His skin is itching from the early september sun and he sort of wants to go home already.
He scans over the playground, resignation coursing through his veins along with the blood and his morning serving of syrup. The least he can do is find an empty structure, if only so that he doesn’t stand there like a lonely idiot for the rest of the day, even if he feels like one.
There’s a brief moment during which his stomach drops. Everything is full—sandbox, spinners, slides, there’s even a kid on the swings… A kid. Singular.
Mike perks up, eyes narrowing on the swingset. He can make out the kid in detail—there’s no name to put along with that face, since all his classmates are equally unfamiliar to him and he’s already gotten the names mixed up several times. This kid, though? Mike makes an actual effort to pick apart his appearance and memorize it, because this kid is going to be his friend.
He starts making his way towards the swingset, steps much more confident than he feels at the moment.
Two steps. The kid has a blue jacket two sizes too big. And a bowlcut. His hair looks soft, some of the strands flopping up and down as he swings away.
Seven steps. Mike thinks he has the other boy’s face memorized well enough that if they become friends he will recognize him again. He looks soft. Like he'd feel squishy if grabbed him and squeezed. A little bit like a small animal—a bunny or a deer. What was the cartoon he watched with Nancy last week? Like... Bambi.
Twenty steps. He stops awkwardly next to the swing. Shuffles his feet while the boy stares at him with wide eyes in a color that Mike can’t quite name. Something between brown and green but brighter. He blinks and Mike is briefly distracted from his mission by how long his lashes are, fluttering slightly over round cheeks. The longer Mike stands there, just staring dumbly, the more blood pools under his skin there. It's pretty. Mike wants to poke his cheek to see if the blood under the skin will move around.
His expression is open and non judgemental. He does not open his mouth and ask what does Mike want with him, instead slowing his swinging to a halt, meeting the stare calmly, but with an air of expectation. Perhaps this is why Mike remembers Nancy’s advice.
“I’m Mike. That’s short for Michael. Do you want to be my friend?”
The other boy blinks, as if surprised. Mike briefly worries he was a bit too direct and begins to internally curse his sister, when a soft voice breaks through the background noise of other kids’ yells around the playground. Mike, for all his exceptional hearing, has to strain his ears to make out the words. The focus he has to put into it makes the rest of the background noise finally seem a bit quieter.
“Yes." There's a small pause while the boy takes a big breath and continues a bit louder. "My name’s Will.”
Mike was sort of scared, when practicing introductions with increasingly annoyed Nancy, that even if he'd make a friend, he wouldn't know what to do with them. Will seems to be content just existing in each other's vicinity, though and Mike finds that he doesn't mind. He quickly finds that if he focuses enough on the calm bubble they've created, it's easier to tune out all the too much-ness the rest of the kindergarten generates.
It feels silly, after that, to think that he would need to put an effort into memorizing Will, because now that they’ve met and became friends, Mike can pick him apart from all the other kids in an instant. If he's ever heard the phrase 'eye of the hurricane' this is where he'd use it.
The rules stick, to some extent.
- Be gentle with the friends you make.
- Don’t tell other people your family drinks blood.
It’s a halfway success—rather than being average at both, Mike excels at sticking by the first rule and fails spectacularly at the second a week into knowing Will. Either way, just like that, his childhood passes in a swirl of lapping at scrapped knees and humming around the papercuts offered to him with a practiced ease. It’s filled with comfort and familiarity in a way that feels like it could last forever.
Which is precisely why it can’t.
▶▶▶
WARNING: CORRUPTION DETECTED; FILE INCOMPLETE
ATTEMPTING RECOVERY...
STATUS: PARTIALLY RECOVERED
MEMORIES OF:
MIKE WHEELER, AGE 10
HAWKINS, INDIANA
1981
PLAY ▶
…Mike hasn't had Will's blood ever since.
It felt a bit weird, at first, like not being allowed to eat the birthday cake before guests arrive. Something that felt temporary, until Troy pushed Will to the ground once and he'd spent the entire third period in infirmary biting the inside of his cheek, tasting his own blood to avoid thinking of Will's O negative, while the school nurse patiently plucked out gravel from Will's palms with tweezers.
It feels a bit bigger than a cake, after that, but he doesn't think about it. Maybe because the candles have been blown and he still can't have it.