I want feel pretty just like you.

by Cmbyn17

Summary:

“I kind of lost myself trying to be who I thought I was supposed to be in that relationship,” he admitted, the gravity of his honesty hanging heavily in the air. “So when she broke up with me,” Mike said, exhaling deeply as if releasing a breath he had been holding for too long, “I think I’m just… starting to let myself feel again. To do what I want. To figure out who I really am.”

Chapter 1

Mike Wheeler slammed his bedroom door with such force that the frame shuddered, a resonant thud echoing through the house. He didn’t register the sound, didn’t hesitate to listen for his mom, Karen, calling from downstairs, or his little sister, Holly, asking what was wrong. Instead, he stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched tightly at his sides, his heartbeat drumming in his ears like a persistent pulse that refused to silence.

“I don’t think we’re good for each other.”

Those words reverberated in the silence, looping through his mind like a broken record, each repetition slicing deeper into his consciousness.

He pressed his eyes shut, but all he could conjure was her face—El’s gentle, melancholy smile; the way her warm hands cradled his cheeks tenderly, as if she feared the slightest touch might shatter him. He could still feel the ghost of her breath on his lips as she whispered his name, leaning in for one last kiss that lingered like a fading dream.

But that kiss hadn’t felt like a simple goodbye. It had felt like a chapter closing, the final page of a story that had begun to unspool just when it had started to feel right.

His stomach twisted into knots, a painful churn as he strode across his room, kicking his backpack out of the way in an erratic gesture of frustration. It ricocheted across the floor, scattering papers like fallen leaves, yet he hardly spared them a glance.

“El,” he murmured, his voice breaking in the stillness, a threadbare whisper of disbelief. “What the hell? What does that even mean?”

He replayed their last moments—a chill wind swirling around them outside the cabin, her eyes gleaming with a mix of determination and resignation, a haunting duality that made his heart race.

“We’ve been trying so hard,” she had said, her voice thick with unspoken sadness. “But I don’t think… I don’t think this is right for us anymore.”

Panic surged within him like a tidal wave. It was a familiar feeling, one he had grappled with far too many times.

“I can fix it,” he’d blurted out, desperation lacing his every word. “Whatever’s wrong, just tell me—I can fix it, El, I promise, I’ll—”

But she’d only shaken her head, every motion imbued with unrelenting sorrow.

“You can’t fix this, Mike.”

With a frustrated growl, he raked both hands through his hair, tugging until it hurt. “Bullshit,” he spat at the empty room, his voice trembling with anger. “That’s bullshit. I could’ve tried. I could’ve—”

But the truth pierced through him before he could finish.

He had no idea what he could have done. He didn’t even know what needed fixing.

The ride home on his bike had been a blurry haze—his legs pedaling mechanically, eyes stinging with unshed tears, hands trembling on the handlebars. He hadn't cried; the shock had been too raw, too overwhelming, a swirling tempest of emotions that left him both hollow and full.

Now that initial shock began to crack open, flooding him with anger, confusion, and a deep-seated ache in his chest that he couldn't suppress.

He paced restlessly, the rhythm of his footsteps matching the frantic beat of his heart.

El had broken up with him. El, the girl who had captured his heart; the one he had fought for and chased after, who had become the very foundation of his existence. The girl everyone had believed he was destined to be with.

The girl he had tried relentlessly to love in ways she truly deserved.

He sank down onto the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, head cradled in his hands, despair flooding his senses.

“What did I do wrong?” he whispered into the silence.

Yet, even as the words escaped his lips, a different feeling swirled inside him—not guilt, but fear—a whispering doubt that he fervently sought to drown out:

Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s you.

Mike sucked in a sharp breath, shoving that thought away with a sudden intensity.

Not tonight.

He couldn’t confront that tonight.

Leaning back, he stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows dance as his pulse gradually slowed. But the hollow ache in his chest persisted, heavy and unsettling.

El was gone. The relationship had ended.

And for the first time, he grappled with the uncertainty of what that meant for him.

Lying flat on his back, he stared at the water stain on the ceiling, willing it to morph into some sort of clarity or insight. The room felt eerily quiet, too still—almost as if the chaos within him had chosen to echo off the walls instead.

His chest tightened painfully, heavy and hot, yet beneath that tumult, nestled deep within the jumbled mess of feelings swirling through him, was something unexpected. A strange flicker of relief.

The realization made his stomach churn with guilt. “What kind of messed-up person feels relieved after getting dumped?” he muttered, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes in frustration.

He had thought he wanted El back, that losing her would shatter his world. And yes—his heart ached, his pride stung, and the shock left everything spinning in an uncertain blur. But now, in the stillness of his sanctuary, his thoughts ventured into uncomfortable territory.

Was he upset because El had ended their relationship?

…or was he merely mourning the absence of a girlfriend?

He swallowed hard, the weight of that question settling in his chest like an immovable stone.

Pressing his palms against his eyes, he pushed until sparks of color bloomed behind his eyelids. “God, this is stupid,” he whispered into the silence. “I’m stupid.”

He missed El. Undeniably. She was brave and kind, a survivor forged by heartache more profound than most adults could fathom. She had cared for him; he cared for her. Losing her should have felt like a gaping void in his life.

Yet, when she had uttered those final words, a part of him had loosened. It was as though a constricting vine that had wound tightly around his heart was finally released, allowing a weight he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying to roll away.

And as he lay there, truly contemplating it—free of panic or desperation—a more frightening thought settled over him like a fog:

He had no idea what he was truly meant to feel.

Sadness? Anger? Abandonment? A peculiar sense of freedom?
Perhaps all of it. Perhaps none at all.
He curled onto his side, clutching his pillow as if it were a lifeline, a soft anchor in the storm of his thoughts. His head throbbed with fog, swarming with questions that slipped through his fingers like water.

Was he heartbroken?
Was he merely lonely?
Or… was he grappling with something else entirely, something that had nothing to do with El and everything to do with himself?

Mike squeezed his eyes shut once more, as if to block out the entire world.
He didn’t want to think about it.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
Yet a tiny flicker of relief—a soft, guilty feeling—persisted in the dark, glowing like a stubborn ember begging for air.

Mike flopped back onto his pillow, staring at the ceiling as his thoughts scattered like leaves in a brisk wind. They drifted—uninvited—to something Lucas had said months ago, perched on the edge of the basketball court as the sun dipped behind the bleachers, painting the sky in vibrant hues.
“Breakups make you hotter, man. It’s like… science or something.”

At the time, Mike had rolled his eyes with such disbelief that it almost hurt his head. But now, lying here freshly dumped, the memory surfaced unexpectedly, tugging a small, reluctant laugh from deep within him. Yeah. Sure. Breakups make you hotter. He snorted in response, feeling more like a gremlin who hadn’t slept in three days than a newly liberated man.

Then another of Lucas’s ridiculous comments wafted into his mind, even more absurd: “And dude, when you’re single? You can hook up with whoever you want. No rules. Total freedom.”

Mike groaned into his pillow, the weight of those words sinking heavily into his chest. Freedom? Him? He was the least “cool single guy” on the planet. The thought of navigating the wild waters of dating made his palms sweat. He didn’t even know what to do with his hands most days. The very idea of… whatever Lucas was talking about felt so far beyond him that it might as well have been a cosmic joke.

“Yeah, right,” he muttered, near the fabric of the pillow. “Like I’m gonna be whoring myself out. I can barely order a pizza without panicking.”

Rolling onto his side, he buried half his face in the plush cushion, his ears burning with secondhand embarrassment just at the thought. He felt too awkward, too skinny, too self-conscious. Compliments about his shirt still left him flustered, like a deer caught in the headlights.

Besides… it wasn’t like he and El had ever ventured into the territory Lucas bragged about. The most intimate moment they’d ever shared was—

He winced.
Oh God.
That neck-kiss incident.

It had been an accident, ignited by instinct or sheer panic—some strange mix of both. He’d leaned in, his lips grazing her skin for a heartbeat before—

—she’d slapped him.
Reflexively. Hard.

He’d tumbled off the bed, an awkward heap. She’d recoiled, apologizing in horror as he faked indifference to the jolt of pain that shot through him. It was… a moment.
That memory crashed over him now, and despite everything—the breakup, the swirling confusion, the ache in his chest—Mike let out a startled, helpless chuckle.

“God, we were so bad at that,” he whispered, covering his face with his hands, his lips curling into a smile.

For a flicker of a second, the heavy weight in his chest lightened. It wasn’t gone or healed, but it felt… softer.
El wasn’t wrong. The dynamic between them had always been a bit awkward, mismatched like clothes that didn’t quite fit.

Perhaps it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Perhaps it just… was.He exhaled slowly, allowing that thought to settle within him. A little painful. A little comforting. And very, very confusing.

His mind spiraled back to a singular thought, small at first, then swelling into a cacophony: maybe now, with the weight of a relationship lifted, he could finally begin to unravel the complexities of himself. Not who he was expected to be, nor who society dictated he should portray—just… who he truly was.

The notion sent a thrilling jolt through his chest, a heady mix of excitement and fear dancing together. Slowly, he pushed himself off the bed, each movement igniting a flurry of butterflies within him. The plush carpet beneath his socks felt foreign and uncertain, making his hands tremble in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Yet, he stood before the mirror on his closet door, confronting the reflection staring back at him.

He squinted at his image. A face both familiar and awkward, sculpted with sharp angles and shadows. His big, expressive eyes seemed to hold a universe of emotion, while his nose—pointed and proud—contrasted with the chaotic waves of hair that consistently defied his attempts at taming. “Perfect,” he muttered sarcastically, the word hanging heavy in the air.

With a deep breath, he shrugged off his jumper, allowing it to cascade to the floor, and took in the sight of his chest. Underneath the layers he often hid behind lay a skinny, pale canvas, untouched by the usual markers of masculinity. Puberty had sculpted his voice, stretched his height, transformed his body, but this aspect remained untouched, unrefined. The thought of those locker room moments surfaced—Lucas laughing boisterously, Dustin prattling on, both basking in the thrill of budding chest hair. “You’re a man now,” Lucas had proclaimed, thumping his chest like an untamed beast, and while he laughed along, a shadow lingered within him—quiet, unacknowledged, and dejected.

As he surveyed himself now, discomfort twisted in his gut once more. His arms, slender and unassuming, reminded him of fragile twigs, devoid of muscle definition or broad shoulders. They were merely… him. And then, he turned his gaze downward to his hands.

He studied them closely—long fingers that tapered delicately at the tips, slim wrists, and soft, uncalloused knuckles. They whispered of grace, yet felt out of place, almost feminine. He recalled Nancy’s playful envy: “I wish I had hands like yours, Mike—seriously. They’re so pretty.” At the time, he’d brushed off her compliment, but it had set off a warm flurry of confusion within him, a tightness in his chest that felt like a secret he wasn’t meant to relish.

Boys were meant to have assertive hands—big, strong, and rugged. Not whatever his were. He clenched his fingers, forming a fist, then turned his wrist to examine the delicate arch, feeling a battle of thoughts. One part of him reeled back, guilty and ashamed, yet another—the small, trembling voice of courage—wondered if perhaps there was nothing wrong with embracing that softness. Maybe there was even something profound about wanting to experience it more.

With determination, Mike swallowed hard, his eyes resolutely locked on his reflection. He hesitated before the mirror, heart racing as he slipped his thumbs beneath the waistband of his trousers, pushing them down to pool at his feet. He reached for a pair of loose-fitting, soft shorts he typically wore to bed and pulled them on, feeling the gentle fabric brush against his skin. They hung comfortably on his hips, granting him a slight sense of ease.

Stepping back, he gazed at himself anew. His legs, long and slender, appeared graceful yet awkward. A subtle dusting of hair adorned his shins, and he studied it with an unfamiliar discomfort. It wasn’t hatred, exactly, but a faint distaste, as if someone had carelessly sketched the wrong detail onto a canvas. Yet, amidst it all, the shape of his legs felt reassuring. They were unmuscular, unlike Lucas’s sturdy limbs, absent the scrappy toughness of Dustin’s—but they belonged to him, with thin ankles and knobby knees forming lines that, against all odds, he found he could accept, if only a little.

His gaze drifted upward, slow and apprehensive, to his waist. Slimness was a constant in his life—something everyone remarked on—but now, unadorned, it felt disquieting. His waist tapered gently, small and somewhat disproportionate, as if caught in a paradox that made him feel misplaced. The curve of his hips was soft, a gentle rise he had long concealed beneath layers of fabric, but here, in the unforgiving light, it stood out, undeniable.

Atop this, he felt the subtle bump of his stomach—not a protrusion or a gut, just a gentle swell where flatness eluded him. He poked at it softly, warmth radiating from beneath his fingertips.

He hated his hips. Hated that they sat awkwardly between 'manly' and something he couldn’t understand. Hated the confusion they sparked within him. But in the quiet moments of confrontation, he found himself staring, really looking, at his reflection.

The silhouette before him—with its thin waist, elongated legs, and gentle curves—was not harsh or blocky, nor did it conform to traditional masculinity. It was… something different.

His breath caught in his throat. Pretty. The word surged into his mind, unbidden yet impactful, settling in the pit of his stomach, radiating warmth and terror, a strange thrill all at once. A flutter of something alive sparked within him, prompting instinctively, he pressed a hand to his chest.

Pretty. Why did that word resonate so profoundly? Why did it awaken parts of him he had long buried? He whispered it softly to himself, barely above a breath. “Pretty…”

 

Mike let his hands drift down his sides, fingers grazing the gentle curve of his waist. The movement wasn't meant to be flirtatious—more like a curious exploration, as if he were attempting to imprint the shape of himself into memory. He drew his palms upward along his ribs, feeling the subtle rise and fall, across the delicate arch of his collarbone, and finally up his neck. There was something grounding about the sensation, as if each touch tethered him more firmly to himself.

He lifted one hand, threading his fingers through his tousled hair, pushing the chaotic strands back from his forehead. In the mirror, his reflection appeared softer, almost altered. A ripple of butterflies stirred in his stomach, fluttering with an unfamiliar excitement.

Maybe—just for a fleeting moment—he allowed himself to pose. Just out of curiosity. Just to dream.

Tilting his head slightly, he traced his fingers gently along his lips, watching the reflection as if it belonged to a stranger he was still in the process of getting to know. His eyes widened in the glass, full of questions, almost as if they belonged to someone entirely different.

Then, like an abrupt thunderclap, there came a knock knock.

Mike's heart nearly leaped from his chest. Panic gripped him like a vice, twisting his stomach into knots.

Nancy stepped inside, her brows furrowed, wearing a look of confusion that cut through his moment like glass. “What are you doing?”

Heat rushed to Mike's face, mortification flooding his veins. “Get out, Nancy!!!” he shouted, a frantic scramble for his jumper ensued despite the fact it was far too late—much too late.

She rolled her eyes with exaggerated patience. “I just need to know—”

“I DON’T CARE!” he retorted, shoving her backward toward the hallway with more force than he intended. “Get OUT!”

“I only needed to know where the batteries were, asshole!” she shot back, unfazed.

“Bitch!” Mike barked instinctively, slamming the door with such intensity that the wall trembled.

Instantly, he crumpled to the floor, back pressed against the door as if he could fortify it with his entire body. His breath came in quick, uneven gasps, heart pounding furiously against his ribs, ears throbbing with a mixture of embarrassment and adrenaline.

Hugging his knees to his chest, he buried his forehead against them, the weight of shame pressing down. Why did it feel like he’d been caught in the act of some scandalous crime? He hadn’t broken anything or harmed anyone. He hadn’t done anything deserving of shame.

He had merely been… looking at himself. Attempting to see himself. Striving—if only for a moment—to comprehend who he truly was.

But the instant Nancy had entered, panic struck him like a physical blow. A sharp spike of shame twisted in his gut, threatening to make him nauseous.

He squeezed his eyes shut, battling with the emotion swirling within him. Why did being seen ignite such terror? Why did discovering himself feel akin to a secret sin?

Pressing his palms against his forehead, one word echoed relentlessly in his mind: Pretty.

And for the very first time, he dared to wonder what might occur if someone else saw him through that lens.

Chapter 2

Summary:

mike takes a shower.

It had been an eternity of two full days since El had broken up with him, and Mike had become a permanent fixture in his dimly lit room. The trash can overflowed with crumpled snack wrappers, a testament to his mindless indulgence. His desk was a chaotic graveyard of empty cups, each carrying the remnants of hastily forgotten beverages that he had promised himself to toss out but couldn’t summon the will to face. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale sweat and last night’s pizza, mingling with the fabric of the same hoodie he’d worn three days in a row—a smothering cocoon of despair.

Barely able to confront reality, he only ventured out of his room after midnight, moving down the stairs in silent stealth, like a guilty raccoon on a midnight raid. He scavenged the kitchen, grabbing whatever snacks he could lay his hands on—salty chips, crunchy crackers, forgotten slices of pizza, and an entire sleeve of cookies—enough to stave off the gnawing hunger until the following night.

He knew it wasn’t healthy. He was acutely aware. Yet, there was an insurmountable wall between him and the outside world, a weight that kept him confined.

Facing Will had been unthinkable, especially when Will had knocked on his door earlier that day, his voice a gentle whisper filled with concern. “Mike? Hey, are you awake? Do you want to come downstairs? We saved breakfast for you.”

Mike had remained frozen on his bed, knees tucked up against him, staring at the door as if Will’s gaze could penetrate through the wood and reach him. When Will lingered, uneasy silence wrapped around them like dense fog, Mike finally managed to rasp out, “I’m not hungry,” though a gnawing emptiness churned violently in his gut.

And yet, that wasn’t even the crux of it.

Later, Will had tried again. “Do you… want to talk about anything? Or maybe we could hang out? Just in your room, if you want.”

“Will, just—” Mike pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in an attempt to stave off the onslaught of emotions. “Can you please go away? I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t fine. Not even close. Will knew it too, evident in the way the soft patter of his footsteps hesitated for just a moment before retreating down the hallway.

Nancy, on the other hand, wielded her urgency like a battering ram. She pounded on his door around lunchtime, her voice firm. “Okay, Mike, this is ridiculous. You need to come downstairs. You haven’t eaten anything real in two days. You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic!” he yelled back, his voice fracturing under the weight of his emotions. “I just want to be left alone!”

“Mom says you’re going to make yourself sick!”

“Well, I must already be sick if I have to listen to you yelling at me from outside my door!”

He hugged his pillow tighter, wishing he could simply vanish—hoping the floor would swallow him whole and spare him from this torment.

But the worst part wasn’t Nancy. It wasn’t even Will. It was the soft knock that followed—a gentle rapping that didn’t echo with frustration but rather with nurturing concern. Joyce Byers stood outside his door, her voice warm and soothing, wrapping around him like a cherished blanket. “Mike, sweetie? Can I talk to you?”

His heart sank, dread pooling in his stomach. If Joyce was here… then they had definitely spoken to El.

He didn’t respond, hoping desperately she would take the hint and leave him in his solitude.

But she didn’t.

“I know breakups hurt,” Joyce continued gently, her voice a balm for his aching soul. “My first breakup? I cried for a week. I understand that ache, honey. It feels like something’s wrong with you, but there isn’t. You’re just hurting.”

His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Of course, she thought he was heartbroken. Of course, she assumed he was devastated over the loss of his girlfriend. Maybe that’s what everyone believed. Maybe that’s what El had confided.

A twisted image of her casually stating, “Yeah, I dumped Mike,” flashed through his mind, and his stomach knotted uncomfortably.

He muttered something incoherent, a half-hearted attempt to silence her—mumbles strung together that sounded like, “I’m fine—please just leave it.”

Joyce paused, her heartbreak palpable even through the solid barrier of the door. “Okay, sweetie. But you’re not alone. We’re here when you’re ready.”

Then came his mother, Karen Wheeler. She always meant well—her intentions wrapped in warmth—but her overly cheery tone felt jarring against the weight of his melancholy. “Pumpkin,” she said softly, her voice rising from the opposite side of the door, “I know this feels impossible right now. But you’ll get through it. First breakups are hard for everyone. Talk to me when you’re ready.”

He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, the oppressive silence closing in around him.

Great. Just fantastic. Everyone knew. Everyone had talked it out. Everyone made the same assumptions, believing without question that he was heartbroken because El had ended things.

Except that wasn’t the truth of why he was hiding.

The truth thrashed within him—he wasn’t even sure what it was. But it was a cocktail of shame, swirling confusion, and an unsettling flicker of relief that left him grappling in the dark. The word pretty echoed relentlessly in his head, taunting him.

Mike tugged his worn-out blanket tight against his chin and curled onto his side, the fabric soft and familiar. It was Sunday night—the kind of night that always brought a heavy dread. Sunday night meant Monday was just around the corner. Monday meant school. School meant the inevitable drudgery of getting out of bed, enduring a chilly shower, squeezing into those stiff real clothes that felt foreign against his skin, and trudging downstairs to face everyone—those expectant gazes boring into him, waiting for him to muster some semblance of normalcy and engage with the world.

But right now, he just couldn’t bear it.

God, how he wished he could escape it all.

He turned to stare blankly at the ceiling, then flicked his gaze toward the peeling wallpaper, before landing on the disorganized pile of clothes in the corner of his cramped room. He definitely needed a shower—needed it desperately. His hair felt like greasy straw, his skin felt clammy and sticky, and an overwhelming sense of filth clung to him, as if something invisible were beneath his skin.

His eyes darted toward the mirror on the opposite wall—a quick, fleeting glance—before he recoiled, looking away as if he’d just touched something scalding hot. Then came a knock—soft but insistent.

“Mike? It’s me… Will again.” Panic jolted through him. “Shit.” He shot up, the blanket slipping off his shoulders in haste. Will’s voice wafted through the door, calm and gentle, its careful cadence always creeping in when he sensed Mike’s worries bubbling to the surface.

“I was thinking maybe… we could read some comics together? I brought some of those old ones you love. And maybe we could start planning out another D&D campaign? I thought that could be fun.”

It really did sound appealing. A warm bubble of fondness stirred in his chest at the thought. For just a moment, he imagined throwing the door open, welcoming Will in, and plopping down on the worn carpet to chat about their favorite characters and brainstorm ridiculous scenarios, escaping the burdens that weighed him down.

But he couldn’t do it.

He felt ugly and unkempt, a walking disaster. His hair was a tangled mess, and the stale scent of sweat and unvoiced sorrow lingered around him like an unwanted shadow. In that moment, he was painfully aware of how out of sorts he appeared, and even though he knew Will had seen him in far worse conditions in their long friendship, this felt different.

This felt like more than just physical appearance.

The guilt washed over him like a cold wave, knocking the breath out of him. He reflected on how he’d been a jerk to Will for what felt like an eternity—over a year and a half. Despite never truly meaning to hurt him, he had, sometimes deliberately, sometimes from misunderstandings and fear. Now, he found himself lost in the labyrinth of his emotions, unsure of how he’d reached this point.

His gaze lingered on his dresser, particularly the top drawer—The sock drawer. Within it lay a treasure trove of letters. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of neatly folded notes addressed to Will, written during the long, quiet days while Will was in California. Letters Mike had penned in his solitude, words he had never found the courage to send. Thoughts trapped on paper, each one a window into his heart, revealing simple truths: he just missed him. That yearning alone felt suffocatingly significant.

His chest tightened painfully.

Maybe, just maybe, it would be alright if Will stepped inside.

But no. He couldn’t do that—not like this. Not with the chaos roiling inside him, with his heart feeling like a weight dragging him down.

He swallowed hard, forcing hope to recede into the darkest corners of his mind.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he called through the door, his voice soft but resolute. “Okay? Tomorrow. I promise.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with uncertainty.

Will’s voice, when it finally broke the stillness, was laced with concern, “Well, we could also watch a movie together. Like Star Wars? Or—maybe if you want, I could invite the whole party over and—”

Something in Mike snapped; it was abrupt and harsh, like glass shattering on the floor.

“WILL, I TOLD YOU—TOMORROW!” he snapped, panic and exhaustion cracking his voice, an explosion of emotion he hadn’t controlled. “Just… fuck off, okay?!”

Silence reigned again, thick and suffocating.

Mike felt his heart freeze, pounding loudly in his chest as his breath hitched painfully in his throat. The words slipped from him like brittle leaves in autumn, and just like that, they hung in the air, unresolved and toxic.

On the other side of the door, he heard Will's breath catch, the noise barely audible but full of hurt. Then came the soft, retreating footsteps, fading away into the distance.

Buried in shame, Mike folded forward, hiding his face in his trembling hands, the weight of regret constricting around him. Why did he always instinctively push Will away the hardest? Why did inflicting pain on him always feel like a direct line to hurting himself?

An hour later, when the faint clinking of forks against plates drifted up through the old floorboards like a soft symphony, Mike felt a wave of relief wash over him. The household was bustling downstairs, consumed by dinner—his perfect opportunity.

He slipped quietly out of his room, moving through the dimly lit hallway with the stealth of a shadow, careful not to make a sound. His fingers brushed against the doorframe of the airing cupboard, where he snatched a towel and hugged it to his chest like a lifeline. Without hesitation, he entered the bathroom and secured the door with a firm click of the lock, cutting himself off from the rest of the world.

Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, releasing the tension that had coiled tightly within him. He reached for the shower handle, the sound of water rushing through the pipes filling the silence around him. As he undressed quickly, the cool air caressed his skin, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. But it was nothing compared to the soothing embrace of the water that soon cascaded over him. At first, it felt icy, a shock that jolted him awake, but within moments it warmed up, transforming into a comforting steam that enveloped his body.

Mike had always found solace in showers, a personal sanctuary where the outside world faded into muted whispers. Steam curled through the air, softening the edges of his thoughts, and for the first time in days, he experienced a semblance of calm.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back beneath the water, allowing it to cascade down his face and through his hair, which quickly flattened against his scalp. As he lathered his hair with shampoo, it transformed into a frothy mountain of bubbles, a cloud of sweet-smelling delight. After rinsing, he applied conditioner, skillfully combing it through with his fingers. He always let the conditioner sit longer, indulging in the way it made his hair feel luxuriously smooth and soft. He didn’t quite understand why he savored that feeling so much—he just did.

Next came the body wash. His hand instinctively reached for the familiar blue bottle resting innocently on the shelf—simple, unremarkable, and carrying the faint scent of generic soap. Yet his gaze wandered to the other side of the shelf, where a colorful array of his mom’s and Nancy’s products sat, catching the light like jewels. They were striking in their vibrancy, adorned with pretty fonts and radiant hues.

One particular bottle captured his attention—its strawberry-scented glaze was a bold, deep red, swirling softly with hints of pink. It looked enticing, a stark contrast to the blandness of his own wash.

He hesitated for a moment, uncertainty gnawing at him. After all, this was girl stuff. Nancy’s stuff. Not his. Yet, with a mix of curiosity and daring, he lifted the bottle, tilting it towards him as if unveiling a secret.

Cautiously, he flipped the lid and leaned in, taking a deep breath. The scent enveloped him, sweet and fresh, mingling warmth with a hint of nostalgia. It was intoxicating, and he felt the tension in his shoulders begin to dissolve.

Before he could second-guess himself, he squeezed a generous amount into his palm. The gel glistened like rubies, transforming into a rich, foamy lather as he rubbed his hands together. His cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and exhilaration as he spread the strawberry wash across his skin—his arms, neck, chest, stomach, and legs—letting the soft, inviting scent fill the shower with a warmth that felt oddly comforting.

It was an experience that was both different and delightfully familiar, yet he couldn’t quite place why it felt so right.

Mike stood under the cascade of warm water, rinsing the thick, creamy conditioner from his hair. As the droplets swirled around him, they transformed from clear to a milky white, spiraling down the drain like evaporated dreams. He should have been finished with his shower; any ordinary person would have long since exited the steamy sanctuary.

Yet, something tugged insistently at his mind, compelling him to linger.

His gaze drifted back to the shelf lining the bathtub, enticed by the sight of his mom’s shampoo—a warm yellow bottle adorned with an elegant, swirly font. It read “Honeycomb & Brown Sugar.” Without a moment’s hesitation, he reached for it, feeling a weight in his hand that signaled a crossing of an invisible boundary.

As he squeezed a generous dollop into his palm and lifted it toward his face, the scent enveloped him like a comforting hug. It was intoxicating—sweet and rich, reminiscent of cozy family gatherings around the holiday table, the heartwarming smell of baked goods wafting through the air.

With closed eyes, Mike massaged the shampoo into his hair, his fingers weaving through the strands with a gentle deliberateness. He allowed the fragrance to wash over him, letting it fill his senses until he felt gentle waves of dizziness at the edges of his consciousness. Rinsing it away, he took his time, relishing the transformation of his hair as it became silkier beneath the soothing flow of water.

Without hesitation, he reached for the matching conditioner, the familiar twist of anticipation tightening in his gut. It was a ritual now.

And then, in an exploratory flourish, he picked up the bottle of strawberry body wash again, the bright pink liquid glistening under the bathroom’s soft light.

This time, he was present in every moment, applying it in slow, deliberate circles over his skin. His hands glided over his arms, tracing the contours of his shoulders, swirling over his stomach, and making their way down his legs. It was not overly intimate, but rather a gentle practice of care that felt foreign yet liberating, like he was finally appreciating his own body in a way he had never bothered to before.

The scent enveloped him, filling the air thickly with notes of ripe strawberries and a sugary undertone that felt indulgent. It was a fragrance that didn’t belong to him, nor did it belong to any version of Mike Wheeler he had ever permitted to emerge.

It was something exquisite, elevating him a level above the awkward teenage boy he was accustomed to being.

When he eventually turned off the water, silence descended heavily around him, echoing the warmth that lingered. Stepping into the steam-filled room, he wiped his palm across the fogged-up mirror and blinked, his reflection coming into focus.

His skin blushed a vivid red from the scrubbing, and his dark hair clung to him, curling at the ends as droplets cascaded down his neck and shoulders. But it was the scent that truly caught him off guard—he actually smelled good. A pleasant aroma wrapped around him like a shield, a scent so unlike the everyday essence of Mike that it sent him spiraling into unfamiliar territory.

He didn’t recognize the person staring back, but surprisingly, he didn’t despise the stranger that looked at him with newfound clarity.

Wrapping a towel securely around his waist, he pushed open the bathroom door—only to be caught off guard.

Nancy stood directly outside, her arms crossed and brows furrowed, exuding that signature Nancy Wheeler intensity. Her sharp gaze pierced through the haze of steam and silence, as if she could see the very thoughts rifling through his mind.

Mike’s breath hitched, lodged in his throat like a trapped bird.

Neither he nor Nancy made a move, their eyes locked in a standoff. Her gaze darted subtly toward the array of bottles lining the bathroom counter behind him before landing back on him, then back to the scented steam curling around him—irrefutable evidence of his prolonged stay.

Heat crept up his face, far more intense than the warmth of the shower.

“Nancy—” he stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of unexpected vulnerability.

But she cut him off before he could explain.

“What,” she asked flatly, her tone denoting suspicion and incredulity, “were you doing in there for forty minutes?”
“Showering,” Mike blurted out, hasty and flustered, as he brushed past Nancy, his heart racing as he hurried toward the solitude of his room. The pitch of his voice was higher than usual, almost defensively squeaky—pathetic, he thought bitterly. Instantly, he loathed his own reaction.

Suddenly, Nancy’s hand shot out, gripping his arm with surprising firmness.

“Wait,” she commanded.

Mike froze, dread curling in his stomach like a coiled serpent.

Oh God, he thought, panic clawing its way up his throat.

Nancy narrowed her eyes, leaning in closer, studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. “...Why does it smell like my body wash in there?” she asked, suspicion thick in her voice.

Mike’s entire body turned rigid, as if someone had clicked a switch.

“It doesn’t,” he stammered, the words tumbling out far too quickly, his voice quaking with unconvincing urgency. “It—it’s just soap. That’s what soap smells like, Nancy.”

With a single blink of her eyes, Nancy leaned in even closer, tilting her head slightly as she sniffed the air, as if trying to track down a fugitive scent.

“Nope. That’s definitely my strawberry wash. And Mom's honey shampoo. I know those scents anywhere,” she declared, a hint of triumph in her tone.

“I didn’t—” he started, but his voice cracked mid-sentence, leaving a trail of frustration in its wake.

He swallowed his anxiety, a wave of fury surging through him. “I didn’t use anything of yours! Can you just get out of my face?!”

“Oh my God,” Nancy breathed, her eyes widening with dawning realization. “You DID.”

Heat surged across Mike’s face like wildfire.

“No, I— Nancy, just drop it!” he insisted, trying to regain control over the situation.

“Mike, that’s literally my stuff!” Nancy protested, her voice low and urgent. “I told you not to touch my things. Seriously, that’s not cool.”

“It’s SOAP!” Mike snapped, the volume of his voice rising far beyond what he intended. “It’s not like I broke it! Can you not make this a federal case?!”

Their voices escalated, tension hanging in the air like a storm about to break.

Too loud.

Too fast.

Too much.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps stomped heavily up the stairs.

“Oh no,” Mike whispered, dread washing over him as he turned his gaze toward the approaching sound.

Joyce appeared first, her worried eyes followed closely by Karen's, both wearing those all-too-familiar exhausted expressions that seemed to scream, “What now?”

“Guys?” Joyce asked gently, a mother’s concern woven into her soft voice. “What’s going on up here?”

Karen folded her arms tightly across her chest, her tone a mixture of curiosity and caution. “Pumpkin? Nancy? Why are you both yelling?”

Mike felt the walls of the hallway closing in around him, suffocating.

Concerned and defensive, Nancy pointed accusingly toward the bathroom as if presenting an incriminating piece of evidence. “He’s using my shower stuff. And Mom’s. Without asking!”

Mike’s throat constricted, cutting off his ability to defend himself.

“It’s just SHOWER STUFF!” he burst out, his frustration boiling over. “Why is everybody acting like I stole national secrets?!”

Karen’s frown deepened, her voice steady yet laced with a mother’s protective instinct. “Mike, honey, why are you using Nancy’s products? And my shampoo?”

Joyce stepped closer, her approach soft and worried, as if trying to bridge the growing distance between them. “Sweetie… this isn’t like you. Is something wrong?”

“I WAS JUST SHOWERING!” Mike shouted, his voice cracking violently under the weight of his emotions. “And it smelled nice, okay?! It smelled good! Is that some kind of crime now?!”

The hallway fell eerily silent, the air thick with tension.

In that moment, Nancy’s expression faltered—just a flicker, but Mike caught it, the momentary shift his anthem of fear.

“Mike—”

“Don’t tell me to relax!” he snapped, hands trembling at his sides. “I can’t even shower without everyone hovering and judging me!”

Karen softened her approach, her tone soothing. “Pumpkin, no one is judging—”

“Yes, you ARE!” Mike retorted, stepping back, chest heaving like he had just run a marathon. “You’re all— you’re all assuming things! Like I’m— I’m…”

His face flushed a deeper shade of red, a rush of shame flooding his senses.

“Like I’m trying to be some sort of— of girl or something!”

A heavy silence descended, freezing the atmosphere.

“Mike,” Joyce spoke softly, unfurling her concern. “No one said that.”

“Well, I said it!” Mike yelled, his voice quaking. “Because using— using nice-smelling stuff feels like it makes me weird, okay?! Like it makes me— I don’t know— different!”

That’s when more footsteps thundered up the stairs, urgency in their rhythm.

Will burst into view, his eyes wide with alarm as he took in the chaotic scene.

Jonathan followed closely behind, his instinct kicking in as he darted protectively to Nancy’s side, one hand hovering near her back, ready to shield her from whatever storm was brewing.

“What’s going on?” Jonathan demanded, scanning the room like it was a battlefield. “Did something happen?”

Will’s gaze fixed onto Mike, panic and worry flickering across his face like the glow of a warning signal. “Mike? What’s— what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Mike felt his lungs begin to collapse under pressure, each breath becoming a struggle.

Jonathan turned his attention back to Nancy, lowering his voice. “Are you alright?”

Nancy blinked at him, startled and still shaken. “I’m fine— Jon, he didn’t— he’s just—”

“I’M NOT FREAKING OUT!” Mike shouted, the tumult of his emotions spilling over into a chaotic roar. “I just— I used the wrong shampoo! That doesn’t make me weird! It doesn’t make me— it doesn’t make me some sort of GIRL!”

The agonizing crack in his voice echoed like a raw wound, leaving the room suffused with denial and shame.

Will’s face twisted, a mix of hurt and worry stark across his features as he looked between them.

Joyce appeared heartbroken, her eyes shimmering with concern.

Karen remained speechless, caught between confusion and empathy.

Nancy’s demeanor shifted, emotions swirling as guilt washed over her.

Jonathan’s expression turned defensive yet bewildered, grappling with the unexpected chaos.

The hallway felt as though it were tightening around Mike, a looming trap closing in.

His breathing grew ragged, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest.

“Just— stop looking at me like that!” he choked out, desperation lacing his words. “All of you! I’m not… I’m not doing anything wrong!”

“Mike—” Will tried once more, cautiously inching forward, ready to break through the turmoil.

But Mike stumbled backward, retreating into the sanctuary of his room, the door slamming behind him with a force that reverberated through the walls.

“Leave me alone,” he whispered, falling to the floor as he slid down until his back rested against the solid surface. Hugging his knees against his chest, his heartbeat thundered in his ears, a relentless drum echoing his anxiety. His skin felt feverish, like it was on fire with unspoken shame.

Why was he like this?

Why did everything feel so wrong?

Why did simply liking a fragrance carry the weight of shame?

And why did being caught evoke the feeling of being exposed, as if the entire world had seen something he wasn’t ready to confront?

He buried his face in his hands, swallowing the churning emotions within him.

Everything felt chaotic.

Way, way too chaotic.

His entire body quaked, trembling as if an unseen force were trying to shake him apart. His heartbeat had morphed into a relentless thud, hammering against his ribcage with an intensity that felt like it had transformed into a war drum, echoing too quickly, too loudly, too painfully. Each inhale came in jagged, desperate gasps that seemed to shred the air as he struggled to find any semblance of calm.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

“Shit—shit—shit,” he murmured into the protective shelter of his knees, his voice trembling with the weight of his anxiety. “Stop. Just stop. Calm down, just—just breathe—” But the words felt hollow, evaporating into the air before they could anchor him.

His chest felt like it had been crushed under an immense weight, as if a steel fist had encircled his lungs, squeezing out any remnants of air. The rich, sweet scent of strawberry soap that lingered on his skin—once a comfort, a soft embrace—now felt like a toxic shroud. It wrapped around him, suffocatingly warm and vibrant, a pink haze he suddenly yearned to scrub away, to erase every trace of it from his body.

“Oh God,” he gasped, pressing his palms hard against his eyelids until he was left seeing stars in the darkness. “They think—they think I’m—” His voice faltered, the words crumbling under the weight of his fear. “They think I’m some sort of girl,” he whispered, trembling violently, each word a dagger in his heart. “Some sort of faggot.” The term felt like venom, burning his throat as it emerged.

He let out a small, pathetic sound, an involuntary whimper that came from a part of him he barely recognized. What would his mom think? What on earth would she say if she knew he was up here, hiding like a terrified child, enveloped in the scent of strawberry soap simply because he liked it—because it brought him some kind of peace or joy he felt he wasn’t supposed to chase after?

She would look at him with that all-too-familiar soft, concerned expression—the one that could simultaneously soothe him and expose his deepest insecurities. “That Pumpkin, what’s wrong?” she would ask, her voice laced with worry. He could almost hear it in his mind, but to him, it would sound like a judgment, like he was a child lost in the woods of his own identity.

“She’d think I’m broken,” he muttered, his voice cracking under the strain, revealing the cracks in his facade. Desperately, he raked his fingers through his still-damp hair, gripping it as if the pain could ground him, pulling at the roots just to feel something real and tangible.

And Will—oh God, Will. His heart twisted painfully at the thought. What would Will think?

Mike squeezed his eyes shut with such intensity, tears began to spill out, hot and humiliating against his cheeks. Will had heard him screaming. Will had witnessed him unravel, seen him lash out in sheer panic, like a wild animal defending itself against a relentless predator. Now, how could Will possibly view him?

Weird—confused—messed up, maybe. Or perhaps—just perhaps—Will would think it all added up, that Mike had been living a lie. That he’d been pretending all along, and that everything the bullies had claimed back in middle school held a kernel of truth.

“Fuck,” Mike gasped, a shudder running through him, the breath hitching painfully in his throat. “Fuck, this isn’t— I’m not—” He curled in tighter, pressing his forehead against his knees with so much force it sent shocks of pain through him.

He didn’t know what identity fit him. He didn’t understand why the fragrant reminder of strawberry made him feel both elated and utterly wrong. Why the word “pretty” felt like a compliment that twisted his stomach into knots. Why, at times, he felt more at ease when he broke free from the rigid boundaries of what a “guy” was expected to be.

The thought was as terrifying as it was liberating.

His breathing spiraled anew—rapidly, sharply, too shallow—as if the walls of the small space were constricting around him. “Stop,” he pleaded with himself, his voice barely emerging as a whisper against the heavy atmosphere. “Please, just stop. Just breathe. Just—”

But then the scent assaulted him again. The thick, sweet aroma of strawberry. The lingering warmth of honey in his hair. Each inhalation became a reminder, a spotlight illuminating a confession he had never meant to reveal. He could feel his desperation mount as his fingers dug into the flesh of his arm, trying to anchor himself in a world that felt increasingly chaotic, but still, his body betrayed him.

Mike Wheeler—the dungeon master, the aspiring hero, the pretend boyfriend, and the notorious screw-up—felt completely, utterly exposed. And nothing seemed to quell the overwhelming sensation of vulnerability that enveloped him like a suffocating fog. He was adrift, and he had no idea how to make it all go away.

Chapter 3

Mike didn’t truly sleep. Not really. He must have drifted off at some point, but it was that unsettling kind of sleep where his mind remained wide awake—twitchy, buzzing, relentlessly replaying every mortifying second from the night before like some cringe-worthy mixtape that he couldn’t stop or eject.

He woke up curled awkwardly at the foot of his bed, still encased in a towel that clung to his damp skin. The remnants of the steam from his shower left his skin feeling cold and clammy. His neck throbbed with a dull ache, and a deeper discomfort settled heavy in his back, while his eyes stung, raw from lack of rest and the memory of the previous night.

A knock disrupted the stillness, rattling the door with a gentle urgency. “Pumpkin?” Karen’s voice floated through the wood, soft and steady. “It’s Monday. It’s seven o’clock. You need to be downstairs in five minutes for breakfast.”

Her tone was unsettlingly normal—too calm, too much like the Karen Wheeler he knew, as if nothing had disrupted their lives just hours before.

Mike swallowed hard, his throat dry, feeling a tight knot form within. “...Okay,” he croaked, the sound rough from disuse.

He forced his weary body to rise, aware of how his towel slipped precariously low, forcing him to tighten it reflexively. Everything felt exposed and vulnerable, despite the solitude of his room.

Dragging himself toward the mirror, he hesitated as he caught sight of his reflection. For a split second, he barely recognized the person staring back at him. His skin appeared unnaturally smooth—not just from the steam, but almost luminescent in its softness. And his hair—Jesus—it fell in lavish, silky waves around his face, framing his cheekbones in a way that made his stomach twist with an uneasy mixture of admiration and dread.

His breath caught in his throat. No. No, no, he needed to push those thoughts aside, to ignore what he saw. He yanked his gaze away from the mirror as if it had seared him.

He quickly snatched his black jeans from the floor and shoved his legs into them, nearly stumbling as he opened his closet. His gaze darted over his shirts before he randomly selected a red polo that felt safe—normal. It was the kind of shirt a boy would wear, something that wouldn’t draw attention.

With the polo tugged into place, he trudged downstairs, the inviting aroma of breakfast wafting up the staircase—scrambled eggs, crisp toast, and rich coffee—landing heavily in his stomach like a reminder of reality before he even reached the bottom step.

In the kitchen, Karen and Joyce moved fluidly around one another, as if rehearsed partners in an age-old dance. Joyce expertly filled mugs with steaming coffee while Karen deftly flipped pancakes, both speaking in quiet, controlled tones that left no doubt in Mike’s mind—they were discussing him.

Seated at the table was Jonathan, his posture tense and protective, eyes snapping instinctively towards the stairs the moment Mike’s foot landed on the final step. Ted occupied the head of the table, obliviously savoring his coffee, blissfully ignorant of the emotional minefield that had exploded in their hallway just hours earlier.

Nancy sat beside little Holly, who was engrossed in “A Wrinkle in Time,” her small lips moving silently over each word as if tasting the story. Nancy shot Mike a quick glance—a mix of guilt and concern that was poorly masked by her efforts to appear composed.

And then, one by one, every gaze settled on him, heavy and scrutinizing—everyone except Ted, who remained utterly unfazed.

Mike's stomach plummeted at the realization. Of course they were all watching him. Why wouldn’t they? He had been the one who lost control, who had screamed about strawberry soap.

With an effort, he willed his feet to move toward the table, attempting to maintain a placid, neutral expression, though he could feel their relentless eyes tracking him, as if he were a ticking bomb.

Nancy looked like she wanted to say something, but the words hung unspoken between them. Jonathan seemed ready to leap to his girlfriend’s defense at the slightest hint of discomfort. Joyce kept stealing glances at him, a mother’s instinct searching for signs of distress in her child.

Karen attempted a smile that felt tight, too carefully rehearsed. “Good morning, Pumpkin,” she said gently, placing a plate of steaming pancakes in front of him.

Mike swallowed again, the tension in his throat unrelenting. “Morning,” he managed to mutter, sinking into his seat with the weight of their collective stares pressing down on him.

Even he could catch the subtle scent of strawberry and honey lingering in his own hair, a reminder of the chaos that still surged inside him. His skin prickled under the scrutiny of their gazes. God, how he wished he could vanish into thin air, escape from the moment that felt like a spotlight illuminated just for him.

The sound of footsteps echoed softly up the creaky wooden basement stairs, a faint reminder of the morning’s promise. Will finally appeared at the top, his fingers rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was clad in a pair of jeans that hung a bit loosely on his frame, and a brand-new gray T-shirt adorned with thin, horizontal blue stripes—simple yet stylish. The casual ensemble suited him well, adding a touch of comfort to his appearance.

As Will stepped into the bright kitchen, his gaze immediately found Mike, and his expression brightened for an instant—perhaps relief flickered in his eyes—before it transformed into a more cautious softness.

“Hey,” Will greeted gently, gliding into the empty chair right beside Mike, the warmth of his presence radiating like sunlight.

Mike felt a small catch in his throat—a reaction that came and went in a quick heartbeat. “Hey,” he managed in a soft, almost hesitant voice.

He forced out a tiny smile, one that felt fragile yet sincere.

Will returned the gesture with a smile that felt warm and genuine, and for the very first time that morning, Mike didn’t sense the weight of scrutiny in the air. Instead, he felt as if he was truly seen, and the feeling was reassuring.

Karen, bustling in the kitchen with a spatula in hand, turned toward them, her brow slightly furrowed in thought. “Boys, could you take Holly to school today? Joyce and I need to make a quick trip to the store.”

“Absolutely!” Mike answered with surprising eagerness, the words tumbling from his lips in a rush. “Yep, sure! We can do that. Definitely.”

Will blinked in slight surprise at Mike’s prompt response but nodded, a sense of solidarity settling between them. “Yeah, of course,” he added, feeling the urgency to escape the table's confines.

Anything to get away from the penetrating stares. Anything to carve out some distance from the tension wrapping around him like a second skin.

Holly, with her trademark dramatic flair, exclaimed, “But I didn’t finish my breakfast!”

Karen let out an exasperated sigh. “Sweetheart, you can take your apple slices with you, okay?”

Before Holly could voice another protest, Mike was already on his feet, shoving his feet into his worn black Converse, barely taking the time to tie them properly.

He needed out. Out of the kitchen. Out from under everyone's watchful gazes. Out of his own skin, perhaps.

Will stood as well, slipping on his jacket by the door, while Holly dashed after him, her small backpack bouncing energetically against her back.

Karen stepped closer and rested her hand gently on Mike’s shoulder before pulling him into a sudden, tight embrace.

Mike stiffened, caught off guard by the unexpected affection.

“Have a good day, baby,” she whispered softly into his hair, her voice filled with warmth and care. “Okay?”

“...Yeah,” he whispered back, feeling a tumult of emotions swirling within.

Joyce looked on with a warm smile, Jonathan nodded politely, and Nancy offered a small wave. Holly tugged at Mike’s hand impatiently, eager to move along. Meanwhile, Ted remained oblivious, his focus fixed on the newspaper.

And just like that, they stepped out into the cool morning air, which hit Mike like a refreshing wave. The chill was sharp, and he inhaled too quickly, a small cough escaping him, but that briskness felt like a resetting of sorts.

They approached their bicycles, lined up neatly along the driveway, each one waiting for adventure. Holly darted ahead towards the garage, her small frame barely containing her enthusiasm, as she grabbed her bike—a vibrant purple one adorned with colorful rainbow stickers that she had arranged herself, complemented by a basket overflowing with folded paper stars she insisted were “just for emergencies.”

Mike grabbed his bike next, while Will wheeled his out, the familiar sound of tires against pavement sparking a sense of camaraderie.

Karen gave them one final wave from the doorway, her voice carrying on the breeze as she reminded, “Straight to school, alright? And Mike—tie your shoes!”

Mike feigned deafness to that last part.

And with that, they were off, the thrill of the ride urging them forward.

Holly kicked off the ground and zoomed away, her little bike wobbling slightly before she found her balance. “Try and catch me!” she called back, her laughter ringing out like music.

Mike rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “She thinks she’s in the Tour de France,” he remarked, amused.

Will chuckled softly, riding closer to Mike. “Honestly, she’d probably win,” he replied, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to draw attention.

Mike didn’t respond verbally, but the warmth of Will’s smile eased some of the pressure that had built up behind his ribs.

They pedaled down Cherry Lane, the morning sun bright above them yet gentle on their skin, glinting off the neighborhood mailboxes adorned with colorful markings. The breeze carried with it the unexpected scent of strawberries, a nostalgic hint of summer afternoons past.

He suddenly tensed on the handlebars, an inexplicable reaction shooting through him.

Will glanced over, concern etching his features. “You okay?”

Mike swallowed hard, forcing a nod, though the tightness in his chest had returned. “Yeah. Just—just cold,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper.

Will peered at him, not entirely convinced, but he chose not to press further—not with Holly surrounding them, oblivious to the deeper currents beneath the surface.

So they continued riding.

For a fleeting moment, it almost felt like a normal day. Holly chattered happily about her book, A Wrinkle in Time, detailing every character and plot twist with unabashed enthusiasm, while Mike occasionally offered the empty affirmations of “mmhmm,” “oh wow,” and “seriously?” Will, on the other hand, listened intently, genuinely engaged in her spirited recounting.

When they arrived at the school parking lot, it was earlier than usual. The building stood quiet, a few teachers unlocking doors and preparing for the day.

Holly hopped off her bike, her face radiating happiness. “Thanks for taking me! See you after school!” she chirped as she zipped away toward the elementary entrance.

“Don’t get suspended,” Mike called out automatically, half-joking, as he watched her full of life.

“I’ve never even been to the principal’s office!” she huffed, pedaling away with confidence, her laughter trailing behind her.

Will shook his head, a fond smile remaining on his face, and then it was just the two of them left in the stillness of the parking lot.

Mike's hands tightened almost instinctively around the handlebars, his heart racing. His chest squeezed again, as if an invisible grip had tightened around his lungs.

Will steadied his bike beside Mike, the moment burgeoning with unsaid words. “Mike… about yesterday—”

“Not here,” Mike interrupted, his voice coming out much quicker than intended. It cracked toward the end, adding a layer of urgency to his words.

Will’s expression shifted to one of understanding, softening at Mike's evident struggle.

“…Okay,” he replied quietly. “We can wait.”

Mike nodded slowly, the words lodged deep in his throat, leaving him unable to speak.

Will kept sneaking glances at Mike as they pedaled their bicycles toward the school rack, the morning air crisp and biting against their skin. As they parked their bikes, Will’s concern bubbled to the surface. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked in a hushed tone, his voice laced with anxiety. “You seem… different, I don’t know. Just off.”

Mike forced a thin, strained smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I told you, I’m just cold. That’s it,” he replied, dismissing Will’s unease.

Will wasn’t convinced, his brow furrowing slightly as he pulled off his backpack. He quickly unzipped it, rummaging through the contents until he found his own jacket. Before Mike could protest, Will shrugged out of it, determined to offer some warmth.

“Here,” he said simply, holding out the jacket with an air of finality.

“Will, seriously, I’m fine—” Mike began, but the firmness in Will's expression told him that any argument would be futile.

“Mike,” Will said, his tone gentle yet resolute. “Take it. I don’t want you freezing out here.”

Caught off guard, Mike swallowed hard, his resolve wavering. He hesitated for a moment, battling the instinct to refuse. But ultimately, he relented.

As he slipped on the jacket, he noticed how it hung a bit loosely on him—the sleeves extending past his wrists, signifying that Will had grown into it. The fabric brushed against his skin, a blend of warmth that seemed to envelop him. It was an odd yet comforting feeling; it served as a stark reminder that Will had transformed from that small, slightly awkward kid into a young man who filled out a jacket with broader shoulders and a more defined frame. His clothes now hugged his body in a way that exuded maturity, a testament to a summer spent growing taller and stronger.

Mike adjusted the sleeves, feeling a touch awkward as he did so, acutely aware of the difference between them now. Will noticed his fidgeting and tried to suppress a smile, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, uh, sorry if it’s too big,” he said, his cheeks flushing slightly. “You’re usually the one letting me borrow clothes; I guess that’s not the case anymore, right?”

Despite himself, Mike let out a quiet laugh, amused by the situation. Then, suddenly, the familiar scent washed over him—a blend of fresh laundry detergent mixed with a hint of earthy cologne that was unmistakably Will. It was warm, comforting, and it tugged at something deep within Mike’s chest. He quickly turned his gaze away, feeling an unexpected flutter.

Will, attempting to lighten the mood, nudged Mike’s shoulder gently, their camaraderie evident in the action. “You warm now?” he asked, a hint of hope in his voice.

Mike cleared his throat, nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice more steady now. “I’m warm.”

Will’s expression transformed into a small, victorious smile—his eyes shining with relief and an endearing softness. In that fleeting moment, as the morning chill slowly dissipated under the rising sun, Mike savored a breath of relief, wrapping himself in the warmth of their friendship and the rather simple yet profound gesture that carried a weight of understanding.

Seated on the cold, rusted metal bench just outside the sprawling brick facade of the school, Mike and Will had their bikes securely locked to a nearby rack. The school building loomed ahead, colorful banners flapping gently in the brisk wind, while Holly had already dashed inside for her early reading group. The crisp air was thick enough to make their breaths appear like clouds of steam, but neither boy felt the urgency to step through the doors just yet. They were waiting for Lucas and Dustin, that comfortable companionship perhaps their only anchor against the impending school day.

Mike instinctively pulled Will’s oversized jacket tighter around his own shoulders, feeling the familiar fabric against his skin, while his gaze fixated on the cracked pavement beneath his sneakers. “Hey, uh… Will?” he murmured, his voice barely rising above the whispers of the wind.

“Hm?” Will nudged him lightly, the warmth of his shoulder brushing against Mike’s.

Mike hesitated, his fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of the jacket. “Have you ever… felt different?”

Will blinked, caught off guard by the weight of the question. “Different how?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as he regarded Mike with curiosity.

Mike shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the ground. “I don’t know,” he muttered, frustration creeping into his tone. “Just… different. Like everyone else just instinctively knows how to be normal, and you’re stuck trying to figure out why you don’t fit in with them.”

Will let out a soft exhale, the thought hitting him deeper than he anticipated. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, a hint of nostalgia lacing his voice. “I have felt that. A lot, actually.”

Surprised by Will’s candidness, Mike looked up, his heart swelling with an unspoken connection. “Was it… okay? Feeling that way?”

Will managed a small, understanding smile. “I mean… if everyone was the same, the world would be so boring. Being different is kinda the whole point of it all, you know?”

Mike bit his lip, a flutter of uncertainty rising within him as his gaze dropped once more to the pavement. “Do you… know who you are?” he ventured hesitantly.

Tilting his head, Will regarded Mike with gentle confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Mike sighed, running his fingers through his tousled hair, feeling the frustration bubble beneath his skin. “If you— if someone thought maybe they wanted to try something new. Or be something different. But they knew the mouth-breathers here would judge them for it. And they weren’t sure they had the confidence to— I don’t know. Be that person.”

Will’s gaze softened, the depth of his understanding radiating warmth.

“Mike,” he said softly, anchoring their conversation with sincerity. “Whatever it is you’re thinking about… whatever changes you feel drawn to… you should do it.”

Mike’s heart raced, caught off guard by the sheer weight of Will’s support. “But people—”

“People here will always judge,” Will reassured him, his voice steady like a beacon of light. “That’s just Hawkins for you. But you’re only stuck in this town for, what— another year? Then we’re off to college, off to places that are bigger, richer with experiences. Somewhere better.”

Mike swallowed hard, digesting Will’s words, each one a gentle push toward liberation.

“You really think it’s okay?” he whispered, vulnerability creeping into his tone. “To… feel different?”

“I think it’s not just okay,” Will emphasized, nudging him again as if to strengthen the bond between them. “I think it’s… brave.”

In that moment, Mike felt his throat tighten and warmth rise behind his eyes as emotions surged within him. He nodded slowly, still shaky but with a glimmer of understanding, staring ahead at the empty school steps that felt both daunting and hopeful.

“…Yeah,” he breathed, barely able to voice it. “Brave.”

Will smiled at him—warm, steady, and utterly genuine, as if he truly believed every word he said.

Chapter 4

Notes:

The term "pillow biter" is a derogatory and offensive slang term for a homosexual man, particularly the passive partner in anal sex. ( just for people that didn't know.)

Lucas and Dustin burst into view at the same time, their animated argument echoing off the weathered brick walls of Hawkins High. By the time they reached the bench, their voices had crescendoed into a clash of frustrated tones.

“I’m not taking this off!” Dustin snapped, his face flushed with indignation. “Stop insisting that! I’m not some coward—”

“Dustin, dude,” Lucas implored, desperation lacing his voice. “I’m not calling you a coward. I’m just saying that people are going to take one look at that shirt and freak out.”

Nearby, Mike and Will exchanged weary glances, fully aware of the stir this situation was about to cause.

Oh boy.

They knew exactly what this was about. Dustin was proudly displaying his Hellfire Club shirt, a vibrant red emblazoned with the group's logo and a deep black dragon winding through flames. While it was a bold choice on any day, in the wake of the recent satanic panic gripping Hawkins, it felt like waving a red flag at a raging bull. Now? Wearing it to school was akin to inviting trouble right to his doorstep.

Mike understood the pain that drove Dustin’s decision. The loss of Eddie weighed heavily on them all. Yet, the reality was that grief didn’t shield anyone from the wrath of the town’s more hostile residents—the mouth-breathers who were all too eager to pounce.

Dustin marched up to them, his chin lifted defiantly, an aura of determination radiating from him. “Say what you want, but I’m not hiding who Eddie was. I refuse to pretend he was some sort of monster just because the rest of the town wants me to. Eddie died protecting this town, and I won’t let people forget that!”

“Dustin,” Will interjected softly, concern etched across his face, “we’re not asking you to forget him.”

“Yeah,” Lucas chimed in, earnestness in his tone. “We miss him just as much.”

Mike nodded in agreement, his expression serious. “We’re all on your side, man.”

Dustin crossed his arms aggressively, a defensive posture that shifted the air around them. “Then stop telling me what I should wear!”

“We’re not—” Lucas began, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. “We’re trying to help you avoid a possible punch in the face!”

Dustin scowled fiercely, undeterred. “I can handle myself!”

“No, you can’t!” Lucas threw his arms into the air dramatically. “You’re, like, five foot one!”

“I am five foot five, thank you very much!” Dustin retorted, his pride stung.

“Not in that shirt,” Mike muttered under his breath, a smirk threatening at the corner of his lips.

Will couldn’t help but stifle a chuckle.

Dustin wheeled around to face Mike, wide-eyed. “Excuse me?!”

Mike raised his palms in a placating gesture. “I’m just saying, people in this town are absolute jerks. They’ll look at you in that shirt, and you know what? They will hurt you, Dustin. They will take one look at you and tear you apart. Again.”

“Yeah!” Lucas piped up, urgency coloring his voice. “And we get it, you’re grieving Eddie, but maybe don’t go around broadcasting that you’re a walking target—”

“I’m not broadcasting anything!” Dustin snapped, anger bubbling. “I’m honoring him. I’m doing the right thing. Somebody has to stand up for him. You guys are all acting like— like scared little—”

“Don’t,” Lucas warned sharply, cutting through the tension.

Dustin hesitated, his mouth snapping shut for a brief moment before it opened again, defiance lingering in his gaze. “I’m just saying that maybe you all are too afraid to stand up for what truly matters anymore—”

“Dustin,” Mike said, weary from the escalating confrontation, “just stop.”

Will looked at Dustin with pleading eyes, his voice softening. “You’re not as invincible as you think.”

With a slight tilt of his head, Dustin met their worried expressions. “Well,” he whispered, his voice trembling with resolve, “that isn’t your decision to make. I’m going inside. With this shirt. Because Eddie would want me to.”

Determined, he stomped toward the school doors, leaving his friends behind.

Lucas groaned, recognizing the impending chaos. “We’re going to have to rescue him from the mouth-breathers before first period even starts.”

Mike sighed, resignation settling in. “Probably.”

Will shrugged, swinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Yep.”

The three of them steeled themselves and followed Dustin, already bracing for the whirlwind of attention he was sure to attract the moment he stepped into homeroom.

As the boys strolled into the bustling hallway, the air thrummed with the distinct energy of students gearing up for another day. The bright fluorescents overhead illuminated rows of lockers, creating a kaleidoscope of colors as students hurried to their destinations. Dustin's locker was positioned three lockers down from Lucas's, while Mike's and Will's lockers stood directly across from Dustin’s— a tight-knit cluster they had unconsciously formed since their freshman year.

With a synchrony born from routine, they swung their lockers open. Dustin was aggressive, cramming books into his backpack with a practiced haste. Lucas was engaged in a futile attempt to organize his scattered assortment of textbooks and notebooks. Will, ever the prepared one, had his books ready, while Mike shuffled through his own collection, taking a moment to process the sounds of the hallway.

It didn't go unnoticed; a few fellow students were casting sideways glances in their direction, particularly focused on Dustin, with hushed whispers drifting through the air like leaves caught in the wind. Mike did his best to brush it off, trying to concentrate on his friends instead of the prying eyes.

As they began their march toward homeroom, Lucas abruptly halted in his tracks. The sudden stop caught the others off guard, and they turned to him with a mixture of confusion and impatience.

“What’s up?” Dustin asked, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice.

With narrowed eyes filled with suspicion, Lucas leaned forward, taking a decisive step closer to Dustin. Without warning, he inhaled deeply, an oddly intimate gesture that startled Dustin into a quick recoil. “DUDE—what the hell?!”

A frown creased Lucas’s brow as he let out a breath. “It’s not you,” he declared, pivoting on his heel to approach Will next.

“Lucas…?” Will blinked in surprise at the unexpected scrutiny.

Lucas sniffed the air again, giving an affirmative shake of his head. “Nope, not you either,” he said before shifting his attention to Mike.

An unsettling feeling lurched in Mike’s stomach. The air felt charged as Lucas leaned in, sniffing again and contorting his face as if he had encountered something utterly bewildering. “Why do you smell like strawberries… and sugar?” he questioned, incredulity dancing in his voice.

Heat flooded Mike’s face as he felt his cheeks flush an unmistakable shade of crimson. The scent, which had clung to him since the morning, now felt like a spotlight highlighting his every insecurity. A flurry of thoughts raced through his mind as he scrambled to find an explanation—any explanation.

“My—my body wash ran out,” he stuttered, managing to blurt out, “so I used Nancy’s. Once. That’s all.” The confession tumbled out, blending urgency with embarrassment.

Will gave him a sideways glance, the kind that was both soft and knowing, conveying an unspoken message: Mike, that is absolutely a lie.

Instantly, Mike redirected his gaze, unable to maintain the eye contact. Meanwhile, Lucas couldn’t contain a snicker, reveling in the tease. “So that’s why you smell all…” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Girly.”

Time seemed to slow as Mike froze, his heart racing in response to the unexpected jab. The word sent a shockwave through him, draining the color from his face before igniting it once more in a fiery blush. “I don’t—” he stammered, trying in vain to laugh it off but failing spectacularly. “I don’t smell girly, it’s just— it’s just SOAP, Lucas.”

Still intent on joking, Lucas shrugged with a mischievous grin. “Strawberry sugar soap.”

Dustin chimed in, stifling a laugh. “He smells like a dessert!”

A sharp glance from Will pierced through the playful banter, a silent yet unyielding warning directed at both boys. Feeling exposed, Mike pulled his jacket tighter around himself, staring down at the tiled floor. An uncomfortable warmth washed over him, accompanied by a creeping sense of shame—a feeling of having done something wrong when he hadn’t done anything at all.

“I don’t care,” he muttered, his voice taut like a drawn bowstring. “Can we just go to class?”

Taken aback by Mike’s sudden shift in mood, Lucas nodded slowly, concern flickering across his features. “Yeah, man. Sorry. Just messing around.”

Dustin echoed a similar sentiment, mumbling something that barely reached Mike's ears. Will moved in closer, matching his pace as they walked down the corridor. In a hushed tone, meant only for Mike, he offered, “i like Strawberries.”

Mike remained silent, processing the comment as they continued toward their destination.

The first few classes trundled along in that familiar, drudging manner that so often defines a dull Monday morning. The first subject on their schedule was math.

Mike and Dustin found themselves seated in the top-tier math class, the one designated for the “gifted” students — which essentially meant those who managed to endure extra homework without a peep of protest. They slid into their desks, the worn wooden surfaces bearing the marks of years of student activity around them. Meanwhile, Lucas and Will headed off to a different math classroom down the hallway, their assignment slightly less advanced. Mike had never placed much weight on the significance of this separation, though Dustin never missed an opportunity to tease them about being in the “lower” set. To keep the balance in their friendship intact, Mike often felt the need to engage in some friendly banter to counter Dustin's relentless ribbing.

Last year, both Mike and Dustin had been presented with the remarkable chance to skip a grade — an “opportunity for accelerated learners,” as the school counselor had enthusiastically termed it. However, opting to accelerate meant leaving Lucas behind in the process. Mike could easily picture Lucas downplaying his feelings, but deep down, Mike knew that it would affect him more than he let on. So, they chose to stay together.

The real irony was that while Dustin’s mind thrived on numbers and scientific conundrums, he utterly floundered in English. Despite his voracious appetite for reading and a shelf full of books, Dustin’s spelling was atrocious, and his essays had an odd, cryptic quality, as if a mythical creature had typed them out in haste.

In contrast, Mike excelled in every academic realm without breaking a sweat — so much so that Dustin affectionately claimed he was “annoyingly good.” He easily occupied the top sets in every subject: math, science, English, history — you name it. Everything flowed effortlessly for him, almost too effortlessly at times. There were moments when he wished it didn’t, as his thoughts raced at a thousand miles an hour, never seeming to quiet down.

Despite these differences, science was the one subject where the whole group came together.

As they filed into the science lab, the camaraderie was palpable. The four of them gravitated toward their usual lab table like magnets, drawn into their shared experience. Mr. Clarke, their enthusiastic science teacher, had thoughtfully arranged trays of materials on the counters — beakers lined up in orderly rows, vibrant powders, vibrant food colorings, and droppers ready for action. Today, they were set to conduct a simple reaction experiment, one that teetered on the edge of being mundane.

But it hardly mattered; the essence of the exercise was in their teamwork. This was a group-of-four assignment, an arrangement that had become a staple of their school experience. Mr. Clarke no longer attempted to separate them; he had learned from past encounters that their bond was unbreakable.

Within moments, they fell seamlessly into their designated roles, their movements a natural choreography born from years of collaboration:

Mike and Dustin took charge of the measurements, each competing to be the most precise, their eyes sharp and focused. It was an unspoken contest, a friendly rivalry where they strived to outdo one another and emerge victorious in their nerdy pursuits.

Will sat nearby, his handwriting neat and looping as he diligently took notes. Mike always appreciated this aspect of their friend; Will had a talent for making even the most chaotic experiments appear organized and understandable on paper.

Lucas, the charismatic basketball star, managed the hands-on tasks — mixing ingredients, stirring solutions, and carefully cutting small pieces of materials. It was impressive to witness his focused demeanor in a completely different context, revealing the depth of his abilities beyond the basketball court.

Together, they functioned like a well-oiled machine — a wonderfully nerdy, slightly unconventional assembly line.

Science class had evolved into a kind of sanctuary for them. Not in the sense that they approached it lightly — they took the subject seriously — but the content had grown so familiar that it no longer posed a challenge. Instead, it became a comforting reprieve, a time to bond as a group and revel in their shared enthusiasm.

While other pairs clashed over spilled water or argued about who had miscalculated a measurement, the four of them glided through their experiment with ease, trading playful jabs, nudging one another with elbows, and sharing whispered jokes that created an atmosphere of camaraderie.

For a blissful forty-five minutes, it didn’t matter that Dustin might have been in a mood, or that Lucas felt the weight of stress on his shoulders, or that Will occasionally glanced at Mike with a contemplative look—it was all background noise to the deeper connection they held. Mike himself sometimes felt as if he might explode with static if anyone surveyed him too closely, especially when Will was near.

In that science lab, at that table, surrounded by beakers and bubbling concoctions, the four of them existed in their perfect little world. Science belonged to them, and for that brief period, they were invincible.

...................................

Lunch was as chaotic as ever, a vibrant cacophony of laughter, shouts, and the sharp, clanging sounds of metal trays colliding on the tables. The air was thick with the pungent aroma of greasy fries mixed with an unsettling hint of something burnt. At one table, known simply as “The Party,” a group of friends engaged in light-hearted banter, the sound of their laughter mingling with the surrounding noise.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted with an explosive crash as a full tray of food splattered across Dustin’s chest. The gloppy mess of mac and cheese, lukewarm milk, and an unidentifiable casserole cascaded down the front of his Hellfire Club shirt, the colorful design now marred by a streak of yellow sauce.

The perpetrator, a smug basketball player, merely shrugged his shoulders, the corners of his mouth curling into a satisfied smirk. “Oops,” he said nonchalantly, relishing the moment. “Looks like you’ll need to change now, Henderson.”

Dustin’s body went rigid, tension radiating from him as his jaw clenched in disbelief. “What the hell, man?!” shouted Mike, shooting up from his seat so quickly that his chair screeched across the floor.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lucas snapped, instinctively taking a step closer to his friend while his expression hardened. Will, usually the quiet one, stood at the edge of the scene, his body taut with silent fury.

The basketball player merely lifted his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. “What? It was an accident,” he said, feigning surprise.

Two more jocks joined him, their laughter filling the air like a pack of hyenas celebrating a hunt. Dustin took a minuscule step toward them, his posture shifting ever so slightly, but it was enough to send a ripple of tension through the group.

“Ohhhh,” the ringleader taunted, his voice dripping with condescension. “Henderson thinks he’s gonna fight.” He turned his attention to Lucas next, a sly grin stretching across his face. “Too bad your only decent fighter is the traitor over here.”

Lucas’s shoulders tensed at the insinuation, but he remained silent, a storm brewing behind his eyes. The jock then fixed his gaze on Will, a cruel sneer forming. “And you? Zombie Boy’s really not going to do anything.” He jabbed a finger toward Mike, his expression ugly. “And that freak certainly won’t.”

Mike’s anger surged, his hands curling into tight fists. “Don’t call him that,” he retorted sharply, his voice steady despite the tremor of fear underneath. “His name is Will.”

The jock froze for a beat before stepping closer to Mike, eyeing him up and down as if he were subhuman. “Oh, right. Wheeler,” he said, smirking. “Or should I say… Mike Queerler.”

Mike felt the breath hitch in his throat as he recoiled, humiliation flooding his face with heat. The jock leaned in, his voice low and venomous. “What? You look the part. You practically scream ‘pillow biter.’”

Before anyone could intervene, Will stepped forward, his face contorted in determination, and threw a punch that connected squarely with the jock's jaw. The impact resonated throughout the cafeteria with a crack, sending shockwaves of surprise across all watching eyes.

The jock staggered back, clutching his face, shock etched across his features. The entire cafeteria seemed to go still for a moment — Dustin gaped with his mouth agape, Lucas blinked in disbelief, and Mike remained frozen, his breath hitching in his chest. Will Byers, who was often seen as gentle and reserved, stood with clenched fists, his chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes blazing with a fierce, protective anger that had rarely been seen before. He hadn’t just punched the jock for Dustin — he had fought for Mike.

Before the tension could dissipate, the jock barely had time to collect himself when Will lunged forward, tackling him to the ground. In seconds, the cafeteria had erupted into chaos once more, trays tumbling and students shouting in disbelief as the two crashed to the floor, grappling fiercely. The jock, although bigger and stronger, was met with a surge of fury from Will that none had ever witnessed, a whirlwind of punches thrown with relentless determination.

“FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” the chant roared through the crowd, a chorus of excitement and adrenaline as kids climbed on benches for a better view.

Dustin’s eyes darted around. “Where are the other guys?!” he exclaimed, noticing that two of the basketball players had mysteriously vanished, likely fleeing the scene the moment Will took action.

Lucas muscled his way through the throng, grabbing the jock by the back of his shirt and yanking him off Will as if he were weightless. The jock staggered back, but not for long; in a split second, he was lunging at Will again, knocking him down and pinning him harshly to the floor.

Will gasped for air, his arms trapped beneath the weight. Without thinking or hesitating, Mike surged forward, instinct taking over. He shoved the jock away from Will with a force that surprised even himself, a raw energy crackling within him as he did.

Seizing the moment, Dustin grabbed his milk carton, ripped it open, and doused the jock’s head with the contents, declaring loudly, “WHOOPS! ACCIDENT!”

The cafeteria erupted in laughter and chaos, the cheers mixed with howls as the jock turned with fury burning in his eyes. But Will, fueled by the spirit of the moment, was already scrambling back to his feet, fists poised for another strike.

Then, a piercing whistle sliced through the noise, demanding attention. Two teachers stormed into the fray, each grappling a hold of both Will and the jock, forcing them apart with authority.

“That is ENOUGH!” Mr. Dickinson boomed, his face flushed red with anger. “BOTH OF YOU, OFFICE. NOW!”

Will, breathing heavily, fists still clenched at his sides, stared defiantly at the jock, who returned the glare but was held back. Mr. Dickinson turned sharply toward Lucas, Dustin, and Mike, jabbing a finger in their direction. “You three. With me. NOW.”

The cafeteria buzzed with excitement, students still loudly discussing the fight, whispering in awe about how Will had unleashed something fierce and primal. As Will was led away, his eyes caught Mike’s for a fleeting moment, a powerful connection igniting in the brief exchange.

As Mike pedaled home, he felt an uncomfortable ache unfurl in his chest — a profound realization that Will hadn't just acted out of a desire for revenge against the bullying jock, Tyler. No, Will had fought for Mike himself and the heavy, hurtful implications of what had been said earlier.

The aftermath of the confrontation had resulted in a collective punishment: Mike, Lucas, and Dustin were suspended for “participating in physical escalation,” a term that felt clinical and cold. In contrast, Will — the one who had actually thrown the first punch — bore the brunt of the consequences with an entire week of suspension looming over him. The others were allowed back to school on Thursday, but for now, they trudged home together.

The four of them rode in a loose line, their bike tires crunching against the frost-tinged asphalt, the crisp wind biting at their cheeks as if echoing the chill in the air. Initially, silence wrapped around them, an unspoken bond forged from the shared ordeal. But Mike was quieter than usual; too quiet for Lucas’s liking.

Finally, Lucas broke the silence, his voice cutting through the cold. “They had no right to treat Dustin like that,” he said, his anger boiling just beneath the surface. “None at all. And they had no right to spout that garbage about you, Mike.”

Dustin nodded vehemently, his eyes blazing with indignation. “Yeah! Total jerks! They don’t even know what they’re talking about.”

Will remained close to Mike, glancing at him often, as if searching for any signs of cracks in his facade. All Mike could manage was to focus intently on the road ahead, avoiding their gazes.

“They were just… being jerks,” he muttered, trying to brush it off. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Lucas interjected, his tone insistent. “What they said to you? That was not cool. Not true. They shouldn’t have gotten away with it.”

“Lucas is right,” Dustin chimed in, his voice steady. “We’re not about to let that slide.”

Mike swallowed hard, a rush of gratitude washing over him, but it was tinged with embarrassment, a heat prickling behind his eyes as his friends stood staunchly by him.

With a shift in mood, Lucas's expression lightened, and he let out a playful whistle. “But, uh— Will? Dude, I didn’t know you had it in you. That was one mean punch.”

Will quickly glanced away, a deep crimson creeping to his cheeks. “I was… mad,” he replied, his voice almost a murmur.

“Mad?” Dustin laughed, a teasing lilt in his tone. “You practically knocked Tyler’s soul out of his body!”

Lucas chuckled heartily. “He’s going to be nursing that bruise for weeks. Man, you clocked him hard!”

“Yeah,” Will said, his voice softening like the fading light of day. “He deserved it.”

In unison, they all nodded, the weight of their solidarity settling around them. As Mike pedaled on, he felt his throat tighten, his fingers gripping the handlebars more fiercely than necessary. Unable to find the right words, he felt a swell of emotions for Will, a desire to express his gratitude but no idea how to articulate it.

So he kept cycling, the four of them heading toward home, a mix of bruised limbs and simmering anger intertwined with a fierce loyalty, a bond that only they understood.

As they continued their ride, Mike couldn’t help but keep stealing glances at Will. The fading light revealed the bruises forming on Will’s cheek — a deepening purple beneath his eye that suggested the impact of the punch he had thrown. A split in his lip had already begun to bleed, and he was gently swiping at it with the back of his hand, wincing each time the wind whipped around him. It didn’t look terrible, but it surely seemed to hurt.

In a moment of introspection, Mike felt a wave of guilt wash over him. It was as if he was somehow responsible for Will's injuries, and that heavy feeling nestled deep inside his chest, palpable and unforgiving.

Eventually, Dustin peeled off toward his house, hollering that he would call later. Lucas coasted his bike between Mike and Will, his enthusiasm bubbling over as he critiqued Will’s technique. “Seriously, though, Will,” he said, jovially animated. “If you’re going to punch someone, you’ve got to know how to block too. I can teach you! You can’t just let a dude grab your shirt like that—"

Mike’s mind drifted, the buzzing in his head too loud to focus on Lucas’s words. Their familiar neighborhood came into view, and Lucas slowed, smoothly transitioning into his driveway.

“I’ll call you guys tonight if I’m allowed,” Lucas said, giving a mock salute as he headed up his porch.
And then it was just Mike and Will, two friends navigating the aftermath of chaos. They rode up the Wheeler driveway side by side, parking their bikes beside the garage. Will slung his backpack over one shoulder, ready to head inside, but before he could cross the threshold, Mike blurted out, “Wait.”

Will turned, confusion etching his face. Without thinking twice, Mike stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Suddenly, Will found himself enveloped in Mike’s warm embrace, Mike wrapping his arms securely around Will’s shoulders, holding him close as if trying to shield him from the world.

“Thank you,” Mike whispered, his voice strained and cracking slightly, filled with raw emotion.

Will froze for the briefest moment before instinctively responding, his hands rising to rest gently on the small of Mike's back. “No problem, Mike,” he murmured into Mike’s shoulder, his voice low and soothing.

The hug lingered, stretching longer than any friends would typically embrace, longer than Mike had intended to hold on. It was a moment filled with unspoken understanding, as warmth radiated around them, a silent acknowledgment of their ties.

Suddenly aware of the intimate nature of the embrace, Mike felt a rush of heat flood his face. Oh no, he thought, pulling away abruptly, the space between them suddenly charged with unspoken tension.

Will looked at him, his eyes soft and sincere, the split on his lip a stark reminder of the risks he’d taken. “I’d do it again. Just so you know,” he said quietly, and Mike could feel the blush creeping up his neck, a mix of embarrassment and something else blooming inside him.

As he fumbled to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Mike pushed open the door to his house, stepping inside to the warmth and light that enveloped them. Will followed closely, the familiar comforting sounds of home washing over them both.

“We’re home!” Mike called out, his voice echoing through the entryway as he pushed the door open, excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

Before he could even take his first full step inside, Karen descended the stairs like a storm, her expression thunderous. In the kitchen, Joyce shot up like a startled bird, her eyes wide with concern.

“William Byers.” Joyce’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding, like a whip cracking.

“Michael Wheeler.” His mum’s tone was equally fierce, an unmistakable warning laced in her words.

Mike didn’t have a moment to respond before Karen was upon him, seizing his ear with an iron grip and dragging him toward the kitchen, her determination palpable.

“Ow— Mom—!” he protested, squirming in her grasp as they moved.

Will trailed after them, a mix of sympathy and worry welling up inside him as he winced at Mike’s predicament.

“You got into a fight at school?!” Joyce’s voice sharpened, tinged with an anxious fury that left no room for excuses.

Will struggled to explain, “Technically it was just me fighting because Mike only pushed Tyler off me—”

Joyce pivoted to face him, the intensity of her gaze piercing. “Will, this is not like you. Why on earth would you start a fight?”

Mike's eyes locked onto Will’s, silently pleading for understanding in their shared confusion.

Then, gathering all his courage, Will stammered, “Tyler was making fun of Dustin…”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Mike stepped forward to bolster his friend.

“And Tyler called me some names,” Mike murmured, his voice low, barely above a whisper. “Names I’d rather… not repeat. So Will stepped in.”

Instantly, both mothers softened, the fierce worry dissolving into a blend of concern and empathy. Their hardened expressions transformed into the familiar, comforting look that only a mother could give, the kind that mends broken hearts even while it cradles disappointment.

“Violence is never the answer,” Karen said, her voice unwavering but tempered with care.

“Never,” echoed Joyce, the words rolling off her tongue with gentle conviction. “Even if he was being cruel.”

With a heavy sigh, Karen planted her hands on her hips, the weight of the situation evident in her furrowed brow. “Go to your room, Michael. I’ll call you down when dinner is ready.”

Mike nodded, the sense of relief washing over him as he complied.

Joyce pointed firmly toward the basement. “And you. Downstairs, young man. We will talk later.”

Will offered a small, resigned nod and slipped past her, his feet guiding him toward the familiar shadow of the basement stairs.

Mike hurried up the stairs, longing to retreat into the safety of his room before anyone else could confront him. But as he reached the top step, he found Nancy waiting there, her presence immediately drawing his attention.

She turned at the sound of his approach, her lips curving into a small, careful smile that felt like a beacon of warmth amidst the chaos. “Hey, Mike.”

“Hey,” he replied, forcing his voice to sound steady despite the heat rising in his cheeks and the quickening rhythm of his heart.

“You okay?” she asked, her tone gentle, eyes searching his face as if she could see beyond his bravado.

Mike nodded, his movement a little too quick, betraying his true feelings. “Yeah. Fine.”

For a heartbeat, Nancy studied him closely, her intuition telling her he was anything but fine, yet she chose not to press further. “Okay… well, I left something in your room.”

Mike blinked in confusion. “Huh?”

“You’ll see.” With a light pat on his arm, she brushed past him and descended the stairs, leaving him momentarily puzzled.

Shaking his head slightly, Mike pushed open the door to his room and froze in disbelief.

There, nestled right in the center of his bed, was a small collection of bottles — strawberry body wash, strawberry shampoo, and strawberry conditioner, accompanied by a rough sponge a exfoliator he thinks its called. All brand-new and clearly meant for him.

On top of the bottles rested a folded note, its simplicity contrasting with the vibrant colors of the gifts below.

Curiosity piqued, Mike picked it up, unfolding it carefully.

“Next time don’t steal my stuff. Here’s your own. Love, Nancy ♡”

His throat tightened, and warmth flooded his chest in a way he couldn’t quite comprehend.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, surrounded by the fragrant promise of the gifts, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding all day.

Chapter 5

The scene at the dinner table unraveled into a delightful uproar almost right away.

“—and then Mrs. Cole said I could use the good markers,” Holly exclaimed, her voice ringing out as she animatedly waved her fork through the air, as if it were an essential prop in her unfolding narrative.

“Michael, please eat your potatoes,” Karen interjected on autopilot, her gaze half-turned toward Joyce, who was visibly distracted. “So what time did you say you wanted to go shopping tomorrow? We need to finalize the plan.”

Joyce, nodding with her mind elsewhere, glanced toward Will. “He didn’t— Jonathan, sweetheart, have you seen Will’s lip? It looks even worse than it did earlier.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Will replied defensively at the same moment he leaned in closer to Mike, his enthusiasm breaking through his previous annoyance. “Oh—Mike—Dustin gave me these new D&D pieces before we left school. They’re metal. Like, actual metal.” His eyes sparkled with excitement.

“That’s really cool,” Mike said, his interest piqued despite himself. “Do they have the—”

“Will,” Jonathan interjected, his brow furrowed in concern. “You’re bleeding again. You really need to get some ice or something for that.”

“I said I’m fine!” Will snapped, then quickly softened as he turned back to Mike. “Anyway, I’ll show you later.”

Leaning closer to Mike, Nancy lowered her voice, trying to keep the moment discreet amidst the cacophony. “Hey—did you… uh… see what I left on your bed?”

Mike nearly choked on his food, his face flushing with embarrassment as he muttered, “Yeah, I did. Thanks.”

“Good,” Nancy replied quickly, then raised her voice again toward Karen, “Mom, did you move my binder? I can’t find it.”

“I didn’t touch your binder,” Karen assured her while still maintaining conversation with Joyce, “Joyce, I think we’re running low on bread and milk. We might need to get some more.”

Holly, eager for her father’s attention, slid halfway out of her chair and tugged at Ted’s sleeve. “Dad. Dad. Dad.”

Ted remained focused on his meal, chewing steadily, staring into the distance as if lost in thought.

“DAD!” Holly called louder, giving his sleeve a more assertive tug.

He blinked and turned toward her, “Hm?”

With urgency, Holly pointed at her knee. “Look! Derek pushed me off the seesaw and I scraped it!”

Mike leaned in closer, concern etched on his face. “Does it hurt?”

“It stings,” Holly announced dramatically, her little face contorting with feigned pain.

“And look!” She twisted around in her chair, almost toppling her cup in the process, and presented a crumpled piece of paper to Will. “I drew a dragon! See?”

Will couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “That’s awesome, Holly.”

Jonathan sighed, his attention still fixated on Will. “Will, sit still. You’re going to reopen that cut—”

“I’m not a baby, Jonathan,” Will shot back with a hint of irritation, then immediately returned to his conversation with Mike. “Oh, and the dice are weighted, but in a cool way—”

“Jonathan, are you listening to me?” Joyce asked, her voice laced with exasperation.

“I am— I’m just trying to talk to Will—” Jonathan replied, frustrated.

“Well, I’m trying to talk to you,” Joyce asserted, clearly at her wit's end.

Nancy turned back to Mike, her voice low and conspiratorial again. “Also, you didn’t, like… hate the smell or anything, right?”

Mike shook his head hastily. “No! No, it’s— it’s fine. Really.”

Holly, still seeking her father's attention, tried again. “Dad, my knee—”

Ted nodded absentmindedly. “Uh-huh.”

At the table, conversations intertwined like a messy tapestry. Mike addressed Holly, Will excitedly rambled about D&D, Jonathan remained vigilant about Will's cut, Nancy bounced between Mike and Karen while Joyce tried her best to steer the whirlwind of chatter—and Karen continually urged everyone to stay within the parameters of a typical family dinner.

The soft sounds of forks clinking against plates, chairs scraping on the floor, and overlapping voices filled the air, creating a symphony of domesticity.

Finally, Ted set his fork down with a gentle yet definitive clink, cutting through the din as he focused his attention on Mike. “So,” he began, his tone serious now, “why’d you get into a fight at school?”

Instantly, Mike’s posture tensed. “I didn’t,” he retorted defensively. “It was Will who—”

“I did not—” Will began, his voice already laced with tension.

With wide eyes, Holly leaned forward, clearly intrigued. “You got into a fight?” she asked Will, her excitement bubbling over. “Like a real one?”

“They were bullies,” Will responded quickly, his voice tight with emotion. “They were making awful comments about Dustin.”

“And about Mike,” Karen interjected sharply, anger bubbling beneath her calm façade. “They were saying the most disgusting things.”

Ted frowned disapprovingly. “Well, maybe Mike should’ve stood up for himself instead of letting someone else do it.”

Mike’s chair scraped back a fraction, his discomfort palpable. “I didn’t ask him to,” Mike snapped, unmistakably angry. “And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Michael,” Karen warned, her tone edged with authority.

Will cast a furious look at Ted. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” he said defiantly.

Jonathan, attempting to lighten the mood but also clearly feeling the tension, pointed at the mashed potatoes on his plate. “Do you want this?”

“I’m not hungry,” Will retorted, still glaring at Ted.

Joyce quickly interjected, sensing the growing conflict. “Okay, everyone, let’s just take a breath—Will, lower your voice—”

“No,” Will shot back, now fully focused on Joyce. “They were saying terrible things about Mike... and Dustin too.”

Ted sighed, a heaviness settling in the air. “Words are words. You don’t start throwing punches over that.”

In a sudden burst of frustration, Mike slammed his fork down onto his plate. “They weren’t just words!”

The atmosphere around the table grew tense and electric, every eye trained on Mike, holding their collective breath.

Holly, sensing the tension, scooted closer to Will, her wide eyes sparkling with admiration. “You’re really cool,” she whispered earnestly. “Can I see your bruises?”

“I don’t have bruises,” Will mumbled, dismissing her with feigned nonchalance.

“Yes you do,” Holly insisted triumphantly, as if claiming a small victory.

Nancy, trying to regain control of the conversation, looked back at Joyce, who was momentarily distracted. “Oh—yeah,” Nancy said quickly, leaning toward Joyce with a sense of urgency. “I was thinking of stopping by the station to check on Robin and Steve. Maybe around twelve or one?”

Jonathan’s frown deepened. “Why do you need to visit Steve?”

“Because he and Robin are creating the schedule for next week, Jonathan.” Nancy replied flatly, her tone indicating that this was an obvious connection.

Karen nodded in approval, a smile flickering across her face. “That’s nice. I’m glad you kids are staying in touch.”

Turning back to her son, Karen added, “Michael,” she repeated, her patience wearing thin, “please eat your potatoes and your green beans. You’re way too skinny.”

Mike’s gaze was locked on his plate, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. “I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice hardly rising above a whisper, as he pushed around the succulent green beans and half-eaten chicken, the colors a stark contrast to his mood.

“You are not,” Karen replied, her tone steady and firm, her hands resting on her hips. “You barely eat at all. I need to fatten you up.” Her words, though meant to be caring, felt accusatory to Mike.

Ted scoffed from across the table, leaning back in his chair with a casual arrogance. “He’s always been small,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, his tone bordering on condescension.

Will bristled at the remark, a protective instinct kicking in. “That doesn’t mean anything,” he shot back, a spark of defiance igniting in his chest.

Joyce rubbed her temples, her patience thinning. “Will, honey, please don’t argue with everyone—”

Jonathan interrupted, his voice rising slightly in irritation. “I’m not arguing! I just wanted to know if he wants some of the mashed potatoes on my plate.”

“I said I don’t want it!” Will retorted, his voice cracking slightly, emotions flaring.

Holly, perched on the edge of her seat, leaned towards Will, a mischievous smile on her face. “Did it hurt when you punched him?”

“Yes,” Joyce and Jonathan replied in unison, both giving Will a knowing look.

“No,” Will said immediately afterward, shaking his head defiantly.

Meanwhile, Mike was silently pushing his food around his plate, his heart racing, and anger buzzing just beneath the surface like a wasp in a jar. The room felt oppressively loud, filled with too many voices and too little space.

Suddenly, Mike pushed his chair back with a screech that echoed throughout the dining room and stood abruptly, his decision made. “I’m— I’m done,” he muttered, striding towards the stairs, his feet heavy on the steps. "See what you’ve done now, Ted," Karen chided, concern lacing her words.

Ignoring his mother’s gentle reprimand, Will shot up from his seat and followed Mike upstairs, a determined look clouding his features, heading straight to Mike’s room. Mike slammed the door shut a fraction too hard, blocking Will’s view into his sanctum. He hurried across the room, grabbing the half-empty bottles from his bed and hastily shoving them into his desk drawer, hoping Will hadn’t noticed.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, his shoulders hunched in defeat, Mike stared blankly at the floor, where the carpet was beginning to fray at the edges.

Will quietly opened the door and slipped inside, shutting it softly behind himself before plopping down beside Mike, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him but not daring to touch. For a moment, the silence was thick between them, filled with unspoken words and emotions.

Then Will broke the silence, his voice low and soothing. “Hey… don’t listen to your dad. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Mike let out a humorless laugh, the sound devoid of real amusement. “He usually doesn’t,” he replied, picking at a loose thread on his denim jeans, eyes still downcast.

“Do you really think I’m too skinny?” Mike’s voice wavered, barely audible, and Will felt a shiver run down his spine at the vulnerability in his friend’s tone.

Will froze, his heart racing in response. “What? No— no, Mike, not at all,” he rushed to reassure him, words tumbling over themselves in his eagerness. “You’re fine. You’re— you’re perfect. Just… perfect the way you are.”

Mike’s heart soared painfully in his chest, a mix of relief and disbelief flooding through him. El had complimented him before, more times than he could count. But this felt different. Will's words struck deeper, hitting a chord he hadn’t expected.

He raised his gaze to meet Will’s earnest eyes, searching for truth. “You’re sure?” he asked, the uncertainty still lingering in his voice.

Will nodded emphatically, his eyes widening with sincerity. “Yeah. One hundred percent,” he affirmed, then hesitated, his cheeks flushing a deep scarlet. “You’re— you’re the most prett—” He winced as he corrected himself, “I mean— handsome. You’re the most handsome person I’ve ever seen. Like, ever.”

A genuine smile broke across Mike’s face, warmth sweeping through him like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Will, sensing the shift, quickly added, “And also— strategically—we need someone skinny enough to crawl through vents if we ever have to. I mean, we can’t use me or Dustin, and Erica’s definitely not doing it again.”

At that, Mike erupted into laughter, a real laugh that bubbled up from deep within him, the tightness in his chest finally releasing. The atmosphere lightened, and for a moment, all the noise outside faded away.

He gently nudged his knee against Will’s as if to solidify that fleeting connection. Will hesitated, gauging the moment, then slowly placed his hand on top of Mike’s, a simple gesture, yet full of unspoken understanding.

“Thank you,” Mike said quietly, the expression on his face genuine. “You always know what to say."

Will's thumb moved slightly, warm and grounding against Mike’s skin. “I’m just telling the truth,” he replied softly, confidence bolstering his resolve as he sat beside Mike in comfortable silence, two friends navigating uncharted emotions together.

Mike shifted uncomfortably on the edge of his bed, the soft mattress creaking beneath him. He turned to look at Will again, really meeting his eyes this time, searching for any traces of the darkness that had haunted his friend.

“Hey,” Mike murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “You okay? No… no Upside Down stuff? No nightmares or anything like that?”

Will shook his head slowly, his eyes reflecting a quiet honesty. “No. I’m okay,” he reassured, a small, tentative smile breaking through.

Relief washed over Mike, but the seriousness of the moment lingered. “If you ever do get nightmares,” he added, his tone earnest and sincere, “you come find me, no matter what time it is. Okay?”

Will's expression softened in response, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “Okay,” he replied quietly. “Thanks, Mike.”

A brief silence settled between them, comfortable yet heavy with unspoken words.

Mike cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. “Um… also. My offer still stands,” he said, gesturing vaguely around his cozy room, filled with colorful posters and scattered comic books.

Will tilted his head, brow furrowing in confusion. “What offer?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“You know,” Mike said, waving his hand as if it would conjure the memory. “If you ever want to move out of the basement. You can sleep in here. Whenever you want.”

Will blinked at the unexpected offer, clearly taken aback. “I’m— I’m okay downstairs,” he replied gently, trying to convey a sense of contentment.

Mike nodded, though deep down, a small ache settled in his chest. He couldn’t shake the memory of when the Byers first moved into Hawkins, how he’d eagerly offered Will his room, his own bed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Will had refused then as well, insisting he didn’t want to intrude on Mike’s space.

That refusal had stung more than he’d let on.

He pictured them together in those sweeter times, sleepovers that felt infinite; sharing a bed, comic books strewn across the blankets, their laughter echoing into the night. The dim glow of the bedside lamp illuminating their sleepy faces, blankets pulled high like fortresses against the world. The warmth of Will's arms wrapped around him, a fortress of safety and innocence. Quiet goodnights whispered between them, and soft good mornings filled with the promise of adventure.

Suddenly, Mike felt his chest tighten, the memories too precious and painful to cling to. Stop, he told himself quickly. Don’t think about that.

He forced a small, playful smile instead, trying to maintain some semblance of lightness. “Well,” he said breezily, “if you change your mind… you know where to find me.”

Will returned the smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know.”

Another heartbeat passed; then Will gently squeezed Mike’s hand. “I… I should go,” he said softly, his voice tinged with reluctance, as if he were aware he had to break their fragile connection.

Mike looked up, a slight frown pulling at his lips as he searched Will’s face for any sign of hesitation. “Are you sure? We could stay here… maybe read some comics for a little while,” he suggested, his heart hoping for just a bit more time.

Will’s expression melted with kindness, but he shook his head. “No… no, Mike. It’s getting late.”

Mike’s gaze drifted toward the clock perched on his desk, squinting to see the time. “It’s… seven-thirty,” he said softly, almost as if saying it out loud would somehow alter the reality of the moment.

Will blinked in acknowledgment, offering a faint smile. “Yeah… you’re right.”

A small nod escaped Mike, but his stomach twisted with a familiar feeling of disappointment. “Oh… okay,” he murmured, striving to keep his voice steady, though the sting of unfulfilled longing seeped through.

Will gave Mike's hand a quick squeeze before stepping toward the door, pausing for a moment. “Goodnight, Mike,” he said, his voice gentle yet tinged with the weight of goodbye.

Mike watched him leave, the door closing softly behind him, and felt the familiar weight of emptiness enveloping the room. He sank onto the edge of his bed, his gaze fixating on his hands resting quietly in his lap. As each moment passed, the sadness expanded within him, growing heavier. Will had been gradually pulling away — though he still cared, the signs were subtle yet impossible to ignore. He laughed a little less at Mike’s jokes; he included the whole group more, drifting away from those intimate one-on-one moments.

Thoughts of the school's confrontation haunted Mike. He remembered how Will had bravely thrown himself between him and the bullies, his instincts kicking in to defend him without a moment's hesitation. Will had comforted him then, held him close when Mike had needed it most, even managing to keep his own composure.

Yet even after all that, Will seemed hesitant to seek the quiet companionship they once cherished. Their comforting solitude, reading comics together or simply lying under a shared blanket, was traded for group hangouts where laughter echoed but never lingered as it once had.

Mike’s chest tightened at the thought, and he pulled his knees to his chest, seeking some semblance of solace. He knew Will still cared — perhaps still loved him in that quiet, protective way — but the easy closeness they had enjoyed was slipping further away, like grains of sand through his fingers.

With a shaky breath, Mike whispered to himself, “Seven-thirty,” as if admitting the time aloud might soften the reality of the distance that now lay between them. But it didn’t.

Mike stood motionless in his dimly lit room, his gaze fixed on the unassuming desk drawer that had been a fixture of his childhood. After a few deep breaths, he crossed the room and tugged the drawer open with a slight creak, revealing its cluttered contents. At the forefront, he pulled out a sleek, black exfoliating sponge that Nancy had left alongside an array of colorful bottles. He examined it closely, turning it over in his hands with a frown furrowing his brow. The sponge had a texture that looked rough and abrasive, as if it could be more suited for scrubbing pots than for the delicate skin.

“What on earth is this even for…?” he muttered under his breath, feeling a wave of curiosity wash over him.

Nancy would definitely know how to use it, he thought. He padded down the hallway, the soft texture of the carpet beneath his feet contrasting with his growing intrigue. Coming to a halt outside her door, he hesitated for a moment, his heart racing with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty, before giving the door a gentle knock.

“Come in,” Nancy’s voice rang out, warm and inviting.

“Hey,” Mike said, peeking his head into her room.

“Hey, Mike,” she replied, looking up from where she was perched on her bed, her legs crossed beneath her. The air was permeated with the faint scent of nail polish remover mingling with moisturizing lotion, creating an almost comforting atmosphere.

Holding up the sponge with a mix of apprehension and curiosity, Mike asked, “Uh… what is this thing? And… how do you actually use it?”

A soft smile spread across Nancy’s face as she placed her nail polish brush down. “It’s an exfoliating sponge. You use it in the shower—just be gentle with it. It helps remove dead skin and leaves your skin feeling so much smoother.”

“Oh,” Mike replied, nodding slowly as if that explanation made complete sense, even though a part of him remained puzzled.

He lingered in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, feeling a mix of shyness and hesitation. “Hey, Nancy?” he ventured quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” Her eyes sparkled with interest as she looked up from her task.

“Why did you decide to… get the stuff for me?” he asked, a hint of vulnerability peeking through.

With a casual shrug, Nancy continued to focus on her nails, her voice light as she spoke. “Because you smelled really good after your shower. Like—really good.”

Mike blinked in surprise. “That’s it?”

“And,” she added, glancing up at him with an inviting smile, “you looked good this morning. Happier. So… yeah.”

A nervous lump formed in Mike's throat as he swallowed hard. “So you didn’t do it as, like… a joke?” he questioned, his voice trembling slightly.

Instantly, Nancy's hand paused mid-motion, her eyes meeting his with a sudden intensity. Something shifted in her expression, revealing a flicker of softness—as if a barrier had cracked open behind those bright eyes.

“No,” she replied with gentle sincerity. “Mike, I didn’t do it as a joke.”

Her voice dropped slightly, a whisper filled with concern. “Did someone say something to you?”

Mike shook his head vigorously, his mind racing. “No. No, no one said anything.”

Nancy studied him for a few long moments, her gaze searching, before she nodded slowly, letting the topic dissolve but clearly still holding onto it.

Throughout their conversation, Mike couldn't help but sneak glances at her hands, mesmerized by the way her nails glinted with the clear polish—barely noticeable yet perfectly polished.

He frowned, curiosity bubbling to the surface. “I didn’t even know you could get clear polish,” he remarked, the surprise evident in his tone.

Her smile widened. “You can.”

There was a brief pause before she added casually, “Do you want me to do yours after your shower?”

Mike froze, surprise coursing through him. The idea came with a flutter of anxiety mixed with something new—a thrilling possibility.

Nancy, sensing his hesitation, rushed to reassure him. “It’s clear. No one would even notice. Like—at all.”

His heart began to race, imagining how smooth his hands would feel after a coat of polish. He considered how it might enhance the natural beauty of his skin and how good it could feel to take that small step in self-care.

After a moment of silent contemplation, he finally nodded slowly, their eyes locking in understanding. “Okay,” he said softly.

Nancy’s face lit up, a small, warm smile spreading across her features, her eyes shining with a hint of pride and warmth.

“Okay,” she echoed, the air thick with an unspoken connection.
Mike slipped into the bathroom, a sense of quiet anticipation washing over him. He gently closed the door, sealing himself off from the rest of the world, and turned the faucet. Water cascaded down, filling the small enclosure with warmth as steam began to rise around him, enveloping the space in a comforting mist. He stood for a brief moment, relishing the soothing sensation before stepping fully under the steady spray, allowing the warm droplets to glide over his shoulders and back.

He reached for the vibrant bottle of strawberry shampoo first, its bright label catching his eye. The sweet, fruity aroma wafted up, bringing with it a wave of nostalgia that made him smile. As he massaged the thick, creamy lather into his dark hair, his fingers dug into his scalp, sending little jolts of pleasure throughout his body. After a thorough rinse, he followed it with the conditioner, working the silky cream through his hair and letting it soak in while he savored the essence of strawberries filling the air.

Next, he turned his attention to the bottle of strawberry body wash, pouring a generous amount into his palms. The thick gel glistened with a promise of freshness as he rubbed it between his hands, then spread it over his arms, chest, stomach, and legs. The rich scent enveloped him, creating an oasis of warmth and comfort within the steamy shower. He took his time, breathing it in deeply, letting it sink into his very being.

Mike then picked up the exfoliating sponge, its rough texture contrasting with the softness of the wash. He hesitated for a fleeting moment, contemplating the slight stinging sensation it might bring. But he pressed it against his arm and began to scrub gently, just as Nancy had instructed. The initial sting was sharp yet invigorating, a tangible reminder that he was cleansing more than just surface dirt.

He methodically worked the sponge over his arms, legs, chest, and shoulders, contorting his body in awkward positions to reach those stubborn spots on his back. Each stroke made his skin tingle, and by the time he was finished, a flushed glow covered his body, the heat mixing with the vitality of his fresh wash.

Once he rinsed everything away, feeling the remnants of the products wash down the drain, he stood under the warm water for a moment longer, allowing himself to breathe deeply and relax. The tension in his body eased, and he let out a long, slow breath — one he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

Stepping out of the shower, he wiped the foggy mirror with his hand, revealing his reflection. Water droplets clung to his forehead as his dark hair fell in damp strands. He examined his face closely, noticing how clear and smooth his skin looked, lightly flushed from the heat. Leaning in for a better look, he spotted a slight unibrow forming — something that was almost imperceptible to others but glaring to him. His eyebrows were geometrically thick as well, bushy and unruly.

“Maybe Nancy has some eyebrow gel or something I could borrow,” he thought, an unsettling idea popping into his mind. His brain momentarily froze at the thought. “Wait—what the hell? No way!” he chastised himself, feeling a wave of unease. He was already using women’s shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. Grooming beyond that? Absolutely not.

Yet, a part of him entertained the thought of plucking a few stray hairs, just to clean things up a bit. Wouldn’t he look better? The idea made his chest tighten with unease. “Nope,” he muttered to himself emphatically. “Not doing that.” Turning away from the mirror, he hurriedly pulled on his favorite pajamas: a soft Hellfire Club T-shirt paired with a pair of loose-grey shorts that had once belonged to Will. The thought of Will, now in California, made his heart ache a little, but he quickly pushed that feeling aside, grabbing his towel and heading down the hall toward Nancy’s room.

The moment Mike stepped into her room, Nancy squealed in delight, her excitement infectious. “Oh my God, sit! Sit, sit, sit!” she exclaimed, her hand gripping his wrist with an enthusiastic urgency as she practically dragged him over to her bed.

Mike’s eyes widened as he watched her spill an entire pouch of nail care products across the comforter. “Whoa—what the heck, Nancy?” he asked, bewildered. “All we need is some nail polish!”

“No way,” she said, shaking her head with feigned seriousness. “I need to file your nails, trim your cuticles, and buff them first.”

Mike blinked in bewilderment. “What does any of that mean?” he asked weakly, but before he could protest further, she seized his hand, already pulling out a slender metal tool that resembled a tiny stick with a rounded end.

Squinting at the instrument, Mike joked, “Why does that look like a medieval torture device?”

“Just hold still,” she said, already in motion as she started to gently push back his cuticles.

“Ow—Nancy!” he protested, a grimace crossing his face.

“Stop being such a baby,” she said, utterly unfazed by his discomfort.

Mike groaned but remained still, resolved not to cause a scene. A few moments passed in a tense silence before Nancy glanced up at him, her eyes curious. “So,” she started casually, still working on his nails, “why are you suddenly so into taking care of yourself?”

He swallowed hard, searching for words. “I don’t know,” he said hesitantly.

“Is this because of El?” she asked softly, her eyes trying to gauge his sincerity.

Quickly, Mike shook his head. “No—no. I mean, not really. It’s just... I liked the way it smelled. And the body wash I had before was just...meh. And I—”

He trailed off, his voice fading into silence, leaving an air of vulnerability hanging between them. Nancy paused for a brief moment, her gaze attentive and empathetic as she gently switched to holding his other hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” she said softly, her eyes searching his.

Mike nodded, his gaze fixated on his fingers, lost in a labyrinth of thoughts. “After El broke up with me,” he began, his words carefully chosen and deliberate, “I felt sad initially. Then came the anger. But eventually, it kind of… melted into relief.” He looked up, noticing the surprise in Nancy's expression, but found comfort in her silent encouragement to continue.

“Like this enormous weight had been lifted off my shoulders,” he explained, his voice gaining strength. “And I felt terrible for feeling that way, because I should’ve been devastated.” Nancy listened without interruption, her face a mask of understanding.

“I think I was pretending,” Mike confessed quietly, vulnerability creeping into his tone. “I didn’t mean to act that way. I just think I loved El more like… the way I love Lucas or Dustin. You know?” He searched her eyes for understanding, and Nancy’s expression softened, a mix of empathy and recognition.

“And I got love and LOVE confused,” he said slowly, the weight of his revelation settling over them. “She fell in love with me. I wanted so desperately to love her back with the same depth. I really did. But I don’t think I ever truly did.” His voice trembled slightly, revealing the emotional turmoil within.

“I kind of lost myself trying to be who I thought I was supposed to be in that relationship,” he admitted, the gravity of his honesty hanging heavily in the air. “So when she broke up with me,” Mike said, exhaling deeply as if releasing a breath he had been holding for too long, “I think I’m just… starting to let myself feel again. To do what I want. To figure out who I really am.”

He glanced at Nancy, apprehension flickering in his eyes. “And I guess… this is part of that process.”

A warm smile spread across Nancy’s face, filled with pride yet tinged with a hint of sadness. “Okay,” she said softly, her voice trustworthy and soothing. “That makes a lot of sense.”

They shared a quiet moment, hands intertwined as Nancy processed his words. “…I get it,” she finally said, her tone thoughtful and sincere.

Mike looked up at her, curiosity shining through his surprise. “You do?”

She nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting in a knowing smile. “Yeah. I had a really similar experience. With Steve.”

Mike blinked in disbelief as Nancy continued. “When I was dating him,” she said, reaching into her small kit with deft fingers, “I was so focused on being popular. I was trying to be perfect—like the ideal girl everyone expected me to be.”

She pulled out a small pair of scissors that gleamed under the soft light. Mike immediately tensed up, his eyes widening. “Whoa— what the hell do you need those for?” he exclaimed.

Nancy rolled her eyes playfully. “Relax. They’re for cutting your cuticles. Nothing more.”

“Absolutely not,” he shot back, the thought of sharp objects near his fingers making him uneasy.

“They won’t hurt,” she assured him calmly. “Unless you move. So don’t.”

With a reluctant huff, Mike went very, very still.

She smiled to herself, her focus returning to the task at hand as she began to trim his cuticles with meticulous care. “Steve was dating a version of me that I actually despised,” she confessed, her brow furrowing slightly in recollection. “I didn’t even realize it at first. I thought that version was who I was supposed to be.”

As she worked, Nancy’s precision matched her soft, thoughtful words. “But Jonathan was the first person who really saw me,” she confided, her voice rich with sincerity. “Not the perfect hair, not the popular girl act. Just… me.”

Mike leaned in, spellbound by her honesty.

“And when we started dating,” Nancy continued, her eyes alight with the memory, “I fell in love with him because I could finally be myself. I didn’t have to put on a show or pretend to be someone I wasn’t.”

She paused, taking a moment to choose her words carefully, as if extracting them from a deep well of experience. “It felt like this huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Like I could finally breathe again.”

Listening closely, Mike felt a warmth spreading through his chest—an affliction that felt comforting yet overwhelming.

“I realized that all those unanswered questions I kept asking myself?” Nancy went on, her voice a soothing melody. “I already knew the answers. I just wasn’t listening. They were inside me the entire time.”

She finished trimming, setting the small scissors down with a sense of finality. “And once I figured that out,” she said softly, her eyes meeting his with a profound understanding, “it was like I could… fly.”

Mike swallowed hard, the weight of her words echoing within him. “That’s kind of how it feels,” he admitted, half-flushed with vulnerability, “or at least how I think it’s starting to feel.”

Her smile was warm, imbued with pride and a protective instinct. “Then you’re doing it right,” she affirmed firmly.

Picking up the clear polish, she gave his hand a gentle squeeze, her touch steady. “Now,” she added, her tone lightening, “don’t move. We’re sealing the deal.”

“Wait,” Mike suddenly exclaimed, Nancy halted in her movements, her paintbrush poised mid-air, suspended in disbelief. Mike's heart quickened, each beat echoing in his ears. Was he really going to follow through with this daring impulse?

“What colors do you have?” he ventured, the words tumbling out with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

A flicker of surprise crossed Nancy’s face, her eyebrow arching for a brief moment before she broke into a teasing smile that transformed her features. Without further hesitation, she leaped off her bed, her vibrant energy filling the space, and bounded over to her cluttered desk. She rummaged through a small makeup bag, the sound of zippers and rustling fabric creating a melody of anticipation. Returning to him, she settled beside him, her expression inviting, and tipped the bag upside down, a cascade of tiny bottles spilling across the soft bedding with a gentle clatter.

Reds reminiscent of ripe cherries, deep oceanic blues, a chipped silver that sparkled against the light, a rich, dark green like a forest after rainfall, and a faded purple that whispered of past trends fluttered before him. Each bottle was a world of color waiting to be explored.

“Take your pick,” Nancy encouraged, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Mike’s gaze danced across the vivid array for just a heartbeat, a rush of uncertainty flooding him. His eyes finally rested on a sleek black bottle, the kind that seemed to promise boldness and defiance. He reached for it, feeling its cool glass in his hands, and slowly rotated it, contemplating the journey it might represent.

Nancy caught a glimpse of his choice and giggled softly. “From my emo phase,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice that made him chuckle quietly in return.

With deft hands, she took the black polish from him, twisting the cap off with a satisfying pop. “Hand,” she instructed, her tone playful yet authoritative.

He extended his hand, heart pounding as she delicately began to paint his nails, her movements careful and methodical. The brush glided across his fingers, the dark color pooling nicely against his skin. As she focused intently on her task, Mike found himself lost in the rhythm of her actions.

After a moment of comfortable silence, she inquired, “So… what made you want to choose a color?”

Mike paused, allowing his thoughts to settle. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice soft and contemplative. “I guess… maybe it’d let me get closer to flying.”

At his confession, Nancy's smile deepened, radiating warmth and understanding. It was as if she recognized the depth of his longing, the way he sought liberation in small gestures that felt monumental.

Once she had painted each nail with careful precision, she leaned down, blowing lightly over his hands to aid in drying them. The cool air tingled against his freshly polished nails, a small indulgence that sent a shiver of delight through him.

“All done,” she announced, satisfaction evident in her voice.

Mike glanced down at his hands, and a flutter of elation surged within him. The black polish stood out dramatically—stark against his skin, intentional and striking. An unexpected tightness formed in his chest, and without warning, a single tear slipped down his cheek. He brushed it away quickly, hoping to hide the emotional wave coursing through him.

Nancy, however, didn’t tease him; there was no light-hearted jab or playful comment. She simply wrapped her fingers around his, squeezing gently—a silent affirmation of support and understanding.

“It’s getting late,” she said softly, her voice a comforting balm.

Mike nodded, the moment stretching between them like a fragile thread. She pulled him into a warm embrace, her presence enveloping him like a familiar blanket on a chilly night. He returned the hug with equal fervor, reveling in the warmth and comfort she provided.

“Thank you,” she murmured into his shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Goodnight,” Mike replied, his voice steadier than before, laced with genuine gratitude.

He managed a smile as he pulled away, their eyes locking for a brief moment, sharing a silent understanding before he turned and walked out of her room.