Chapter Text
If Will had a nickel for every time he watched Mike Wheeler be introduced to a classroom full of teenagers as the ‘new kid’, he’d have two nickels. Which, retrospectively, is two more than he was expecting.
The first time was just a few weeks ago, when Will’s homeroom teacher had pulled the guy to the front of the class and forced an awkward wave and a few words out of him; Um, hi, I’m Mike Wheeler…I’m from New York.
He’d taken a seat two rows over and one seat up from Will. No one else seemed to care about the way he’d situated his lanky body into the desk and dug through his backpack to pull out a notebook and a pencil. Or about the way he didn’t even start the morning assignment after writing his name at the top of the page, instead twiddling his pencil and chewing on his thumb nail. Will found it fascinating. Mainly because he had done the same thing years ago when he was the shiny new Will from California. A situation like that, introducing yourself to a bunch of people who don’t give a shit about you - it brings out the little anxious kid in everyone. Even in Mike Wheeler, the nail-biter from New York.
The second time was now, at four p.m. on a Wednesday three and a half weeks later. Also, not in a school. This time was in a church - Will’s church.
When Mike looks at him, a stupid proud grin on his face, Will has the uneasy, almost eerie feeling that Carolina Hills Family And Fellowship and Mike were never supposed to mix. Mike was never supposed to be standing in his church next to Jason saying that line again, this time a little more refined.
“Hi, I’m Mike. I just moved here from New York.”
He sits down next to Will, because of course he does. Will has never seen him outside of school, so he’s never seen him not obeying the dress code. He’s got on a striped collared shirt, black jeans ripped at the knees, and those tattered converse he pairs with their uniform every day. Will has a perfect view of the little silver studs in his earlobes.
Will looks right at him. ”Why are you in my church?”
Mike turns in his seat to look over his shoulder, then back to Will. “Huh. That’s weird. I didn’t see your name on the sign.” It almost sounds genuine.
Will stares.
“What, am I not allowed to hang out here too?”
“Youth group isn’t for ‘hanging out’. We actually have to do things, you know.”
Mike shifts in his chair to face Will head on, folding his arm over the back of it and crossing one leg over the other. “Why are you acting like you didn’t literally invite me here?"
Will can’t help the bewildered look that graces his face. “Because I didn’t.”
“You did, too.”
“I did not.”
Mike puts his hands out and looks down like he’s analyzing a chess board. Will briefly wonders if he actually knows how to play. He seems the type. “Okay, I asked you what people our age do around here. You said ‘I dunno’. I asked what you do and you said you’re in a youth group. I asked what church. You said this church. So, I am here.”
Will, sensing a lost cause, looks back towards the front of the room where Jason is scribbling in his planner on his podium and mumbling to himself. “That’s not how invitations work, Mike.”
“Mike from New York.” Mike corrects.
Will laughs, but it's more like a huff. “You’ve gotta stop telling people that, by the way.”
“What?”
“That you’re from New York.”
“Okay, what state do you suggest I lie about being from?”
“No, I mean — “ Will fights the urge to literally growl in irritation. “They think you mean New York City. They think you’re, like, a real New Yorker.”
“I am a real New Yorker.”
“You’re really not.”
Mike turns up a hand. “Since when is Buffalo not in New York?”
Will bites back the urge to remind Mike that he’s from a suburb ten minutes outside Buffalo, not actual Buffalo. “You know what I mean.”
Mike leans back in his chair again, pushing it off its legs for a second. “Well, so what. Everything above Virginia is the same thing to everyone under it."
True, Will thinks. But he won’t give Mike the satisfaction of hearing the validation. He’ll have to settle for silence.
He really is right, though. He could probably throw anything farther west than Kansas in the mix, too. No matter how many times he reminded them he was from California, old people at church still called him a yankee. What they don’t tell you, while still miraculously easy to figure out, is that the term ‘yankee’ is less about the northeast and more about blue states.
“Alright, everyone!” Jason yells. It’s not a mean yell, just one meant to get attention. The room immediately quiets down. “We need to get the tables put up and all the plates and utensils out for dinner. There’s also pamphlets that need to be put on every seat.” He points to the door behind him. “Go.”
As they all stand and push their chairs in, Will looks to Mike. “Told you.”
“Yeah, wow, setting up folding tables. That’s some real brutal child labor.”
He’s being a smartass, but Will laughs anyway. Before he can be a smartass back, Jason is in front of them.
“Hey, you two,”
Seeing them next to each other, Will is struck by just how different Jason and Mike are physically. Jason’s hair is tidy, straight, and blond; Mike’s is dark, grown out, and about five different textures. Jason’s eyes are piercing blue; Mike’s are so brown they’re almost red. Jason’s face lacked a single blemish, which gets kind of creepy when you see him up close; Mike’s nose is dotted with freckles. The only similar thing about their clothes is the collars on their shirts.
“Will,” Jason says with a smile, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “How about you give our new friend here a little tour. Just be done in time for dinner and Bible study. Okay?”
Mike grins. Will forces a matching one. “Sure.”
When they’re out in the hallway, Mike starts up again. “New friend.”
“Yep. That’s what he said.” Will replies as they walk.
“You didn’t correct him.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because we’re already friends!”
“You stalked me, I don’t think that’s the same thing as friendship.”
“Oh, please. I see you looking at me all the time in class, don’t try to deny it. Plus, we eat lunch together. That constitutes friendship.”
Will frowns. He hadn’t considered that his careful observation of Mike over the last few weeks had been noticed. And the lunch thing, he doesn’t really think that counts either. They mainly just ate in silence while Mike, a few seats down, worked on a semester of makeup work and Will doodled in his notebook or zoned out like he did when he was alone anyway. He sighs. “Alright, fine. Feel free to correct Jason next time we see him. But warning, it’ll just go in through one ear and out the other.”
Jason takes youth group very seriously. Sometimes he’s stressed about things WIll swears he made up in his head. And because of that, he can’t imagine something so little would stick in Jason’s mind.
Will shows Mike the rec room — a cozy room with bean bags, a TV, a kitchen-ette, a foosball table, and several board games laying around. They pass some other sunday school classrooms, the nursery, a playroom for kids. Then, the music room, a fairly big room with grey carpeted walls, frosted glass windows, an elevated stage and several instruments; a drum set, an acoustic and electric guitar, piano, bongos (for some reason), and a microphone.
“Okay, this is actually cool.” Mike says, strolling away before Will can stop him.
“We’re not supposed to mess with that stuff.” he calls out.
“What are they gonna do, put me in jail?”
“No, but if you break anything they’re gonna make you pay for it.”
Mike ignores the stage’s steps and climbs up onto it, immediately going to the piano. He doesn’t sit down, just stands behind it. “My nana taught me some when I was really little. I don’t remember a lot.” The first nine notes of Fur Elise echo through the room. “That’s pretty much all I got.”
He moves on to the acoustic guitar, this time actually sitting down on a stool and getting himself and the instrument into the correct position. Outside, the setting sun shifts and the frosted glass lets in a warm glow. It’s a lot more comfortable than the shadows from moments ago. Will leans against the back of a seat in the audience, watching Mike tune the guitar. He shouldn’t be letting this happen. What he should be doing is forcing Mike to follow him and finish this clunky tour as soon as possible. But when presented with sparkly new information about Mike, he can’t find it in himself to turn it away. In his mind, he updates the list. Mike Wheeler is from Buffalo, New York. He wears the same dirty converse every day. His ears are pierced. He bites his nails when he’s nervous, and twirls his curls around his fingers when he’s focused. His nana taught him Fur Elise on the piano. He plays the guitar.
“Okay,” Mike says. “Any requests?”
Will raises an eyebrow. “Any song?”
“Sure,”
Will’s bullshit sensors go off immediately, but he entertains Mike anyway. “Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls.”
“City of Angels!” Mike says. “Nic Cage fan, are we? He’s kinda hot, I guess. He has sad eyes.”
“You’re stalling,” Will says, because that’s the only explanation he’s willing to accept for what was just said. “You don’t know the song, do you?”
Mike looks at him sheepishly. “No.”
“What songs do you know?”
He readjusts the guitar. “This one.”
It takes Will a second to recognize the song, but he does. And he can’t help but laugh. “Of course you listen to Radiohead.”
Mike stops playing Fake Plastic Trees, the strings screeching against his fingers. “What’s wrong with Radiohead?”
“Nothing,” Will says truthfully. “I grew up with them because of my brother. You know any others?”
“Uhm. . .I kind of know the beginning of Karma Police.” What he plays does sound like Karma Police, but then his fingers slip and he quits. “I always screw up that part.”
“So you just gave up trying to learn it?”
“Yep,” Mike replies, totally free of shame.
“Okay, so you know one and a half Radiohead songs?”
“No. . .” he says, but he doesn’t immediately start playing this mystery song like he did the others.
“Well, let's hear it.”
Mike has what looks like a quick debate in his own mind, staring down at the guitar and chewing his lip. “Okay, but you can’t judge me.”
“We’re in a house of God, no one's judging you.”
“You’ve been judging me since I got here.”
“Mike, just play the song.”
“Alright, alright. . .”
The big reveal? The undeniable intro to Sparks by Coldplay. This rendition is clearer than the others, definitely Mike’s best performance thus far. Will has no idea why he was too shy to play it. Will enjoyed it right up until Mike abruptly stopped and yelped, waving his hand like he was trying to air dry it.
“What?” Will asks.
“I haven’t played in a while, my fingers weren’t ready.” he says, examining his fingertips closely and wincing.
Will raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure this isn’t an excuse because you’re embarrassed to play Coldplay?”
Mike looks up, clearly offended, and holds up his hand. “Are my bleeding fingers not enough for you?”
Will squints. “They’re not bleeding.”
“They would be if I didn’t stop when I did.” He stands up and returns the guitar to its stand. Then he hops down from the stage and returns to Will’s side, clearly waiting for Will to resume his role as tour guide. But Will just stands there.
“Why would I judge you for liking Coldplay?”
Mike shrugs. “Some people think they’re lame.”
Will just stares at him, unsure of what to say. Mike smiles down at him. “Don’t worry, Byers, I’ll give you a private concert another time.”
Their last stop is the sanctuary, the massive room with dozens of pews and tall stained glass windows where service is held every Sunday morning and Wednesday night. The big lights are off, so the natural light from the sunset casts pretty shades of basically every color around the room.
“Woah,” Mike says, voice echoing. “Cool windows.”
He walks up to one depicting Jesus on the cross, arms crossed over his chest. Will follows him.
“Are we gonna come in here later?” Mike asks, eyes still on the window. The colors dance on his face like he’s stuck in a kaleidoscope. His eyes look even closer to red in this lighting, close to the color of wine. The little studs in his ears glint every time he breathes. Suddenly he turns.”Will?”
Will snaps out of it. “Sorry, yeah. Yeah, we come in here for a little bit.”
Not as many people show up on Wednesdays, so the sermon is usually shorter and the rest of the time is dedicated to bible study and dinner. Youth group members have to go to both, or at least have to have a good excuse to not show up. They’re also the go-tos for helping set up events and fundraisers and any other stuff going on. Sometimes they do more traditional fun stuff too, like piling into the big white church van and going to the beach for a day. One time they went bowling, and recently there’d been talks of going to a college basketball game. Will has no interest in sports, but he’d probably go anyway. It beats sitting alone in this boring town with nothing to do but think. Thinking is probably Will’s least favorite thing in the world.
“Can I ask you something?” Will says.
Mike smiles. “You’re warming up to this ‘friendship’ thing, huh?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Alright, shoot.”
“Why did you move here?”
Mike’s smile fades. He lets out a long sigh and leans until his shoulder hits the window.
“Sorry,” Will says quickly, heat rising around his neck. “You don’t have to answer that.”
“No,” Mike says. “It’s fine. Um. . .my dad died last year. He had stomach cancer for years, finally it got him.”
Damnit. Here Will goes, making it all personal, ruining the easiness that had grown between them during this incredibly stupid tour. “Jesus, Mike, I’m so sorry.”
To Will’s sweeping relief, Mike smirks and raises his eyebrows. “Careful, he’s right there.” he says, and nods toward the window.
Will looks up at Jesus. “Right, sorry. . .”
Mike laughs. “Look, I lived with my dad my whole life and still barely knew him. He barely knew me. He worked, my mom stayed home with us. But, without him my mom had to start working, and the best job offer was down here. She figured it’d be good for us, you know, getting a fresh start.”
“Yeah,” Will whispers, a chilling sense of familiarity creeping up his spine. “Do you, um. . .do you miss Buffalo?”
Mike lets his head fall against the window. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Will leans against the window too, nodding.
“What about you?” Mike says. “Do you miss California?”
Will is extremely relieved he didn’t ask why he doesn’t live there anymore. “Some of it.”
With the way Mike is watching him, Will gets the terrible feeling that his mind is being read. If he is reading Will’s mind, he chooses to ignore what he saw, instead just nodding. Thanks WIll says in his head, just in case Mike is listening.
—
Will smokes one cigarette a week.
It’s always at the same place, at the same time.
After the sermon and bible study and whatever else is over, Jason locks up the church, and the parking lot empties, Will sits on the short brick wall lining the canopied carport — aka the little drop off area for old people on Sunday mornings. Whatever you want to call it, he plants himself there, pulls out his pack of Newports and his brother’s retired marijuana leaf design lighter, and waits for the headlights of his mom’s car to appear down the street. That’s the signal to take his last puff and crush the cigarette under his foot and pray he doesn’t smell like smoke. She works late every single night, so that doesn’t happen for a while. He’s forced to sit in the cool night air in silence, and smoking at least gives him something to do besides thinking.
Realistically, his mom probably wouldn’t care if she found out. Or at least she wouldn’t be that mad. It’s just one a week. But when he was a kid, she made him promise he’d never smoke like his parents. Will figures that’s a fair loophole. Both his parents essentially chain smoked his whole childhood until they moved and his mom cut back. His dad, though, Will has no idea if he ever did. He doesn’t even know if his dads alive.
One a week is fine. And he especially needs it this week.
He can’t explain why, but he always feels a bit drained afterwards. The smoke and nicotine replaces whatever part of him got left behind. Will spent years getting used to youth group and church just the way they were. The routine became comfortable, predictable. Even if it left him feeling a little empty afterwards, it was safe. Maybe that’s the way you’re supposed to feel after church. Maybe the holes left in him are just the places sin once was.
This week, though, there’s an added layer — Mike Wheeler. Will can’t help but think about him as he twiddles the cigarette between his knuckles. watching the ash fall to the pavement. He can’t for the life of him come up with a reason why someone like Mike would willingly join a youth group. Mike listens to Radiohead. He wears ripped jeans and earrings. The guitar thing fits in a little more, but even then, he doesn’t play it in a Christian way, he plays it in a Mike way. It just doesn’t make sense. Will has replayed the whole afternoon in his head, looking for something he missed. He keeps getting caught up on the details. The way Mike had smiled at him when he stood at the front of the room. Mike tuning the guitar. Mike’s face reflected in the stained glass. And at the top of the list, at dinner when everyone in the room had held hands and lowered their head in prayer. Unsurprisingly, Mike had taken a seat next to Will, which meant he was forced to hold Mike’s hand. Will refused to look at him, because he had no reason to. It was just prayer. But the hand clasping Mike’s felt strikingly different than the one clasping some girl’s (who Will had only properly spoken to on their bus ride to the bowling alley). And then there was Mike’s thumb. Will swears it had twitched back and forth across the back of Will’s hand. He was tempted to open his eyes just to check, but getting caught with your eyes open during prayer isn’t a great position to be in. Now he’s stuck wondering if he imagined it or not.
This is why he really needs his weekly cigarette. Hell, he might even break his rule and make it two if his mom gives him the time. He brings it to his lips and takes a long drag, letting his eyes close. When the smoke fumes pour out of his mouth, he chokes. Not because his throat isn’t used to it, but because someone just tapped him on the shoulder.
As he quite literally jumps out of his skin, his immediate thought is that his eyes had lied to him — he in fact hadn’t watched Jason’s F-150 pull out of the parking lot and has now been caught. But, when he twists around, he can’t even find it in himself to be surprised that it’s Mike standing there.
“What are you doing?” Will coughs.
Mike stares down at him, clearly proud of himself. “You smoke?” he says. “That’s not very ‘good-little-church-boy' of you.”
“I never claimed to be a ‘good-little-church-boy’.” Will retorts, turning back to his original position.
“Can you share?”
Will twists his neck to look up at him again. He’s holding out his hand, one eyebrow quirked up. The list updates automatically; Mike smokes.
Will passes him the cigarette.
Mike throws a leg over the brick wall and straddles it so he’s facing Will head on.
“Are you waiting to be picked up too?” Will asks.
Mike shakes his head, cigarette still between his lips. Smoke blows from his nose as he passes it back to Will. “Nope. My cars over there.”
Will looks ‘over there’, and sure enough there’s a black car he hadn’t noticed before. It must’ve blended in with the darkness. Or maybe Will’s mind was just too fuddled to notice a car in an empty parking lot. That’s kind of embarrassing.
“Have you just been watching me this whole time?” Will says before hitting the cigarette again. He tries not to think about the fact that Mike’s lips have now been here too.
“Pretty much.”
Will side eyes him. His arms are behind him, hands pressed into the brick wall so he can lean back without falling over. He’s smiling like it’s a compliment to admit to watching someone from across a parking lot. The worst part is that coming from Mike, it feels like one.
“And you say you’re not a stalker.” Will says as he passes the cigarette to him again, careful to not look at him. In his peripheral he sees Mike sit up to take it.
“I saw you just standing around when everyone was leaving. I wanted to know what you were doing.”
“Of course you did.”
“I couldn’t tell from all the way over there so I figured I’d come over and ask.”
“Mhm. . .” Will hums as Mike takes another drag from their cigarette.
He passes it back. “You’re waiting to be picked up?”
“Yeah, my mom works late.” Will says before bringing the cig to his mouth again.
“Is she working extra late tonight?”
“No,”
“She doesn’t worry about you sitting in the cold?”
Will taps his index finger against the cigarette. “She thinks I wait inside until she gets here.”
“You lie instead of just asking Jason if you can wait inside?”
“I don’t know, I don’t want to…you know, be a bother.” He holds the cig out for Mike to take. It’s almost a dud. “Here, you can finish it.”
Mike stays still for a second, watching Will intently. Then his eyes flit down to the cigarette. Finally he moves, taking it and standing up. Will looks away, trying not to feel bummed about losing Mike’s presence in a moment.
Mike finishes the cigarette, then drops it on the ground and crushes it underneath his converse. “Call your mom. Tell her you got a ride.”
Will’s head snaps up. “What?”
“I’m taking you home,” Mike says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Call her. I’ll go get the car warm.”
And he strolls off without an ounce of doubt in his step.
Will cannot even begin to understand him.
Still, he pulls out his BlackBerry and calls his mom. It takes her a minute to pick up. Will figures she’s probably holding five things at once and trying to shift them all to one arm so she can fish her phone out of her pocket.
Finally she manages. “Hey, sweetie, I’m sorry, I’m heading out as soon as I can — “
“Mom,” Will cuts her off. “It’s fine. I, um…someone's giving me a ride home.”
“Okay…” she says apprehensively. “This person isn’t a stranger, are they?”
“No, no, it’s someone from group.” He twists his heel over the already crushed cigarette remains. The line is quiet for a second.
“You promise you’re not about to try and walk home so you don’t feel like you’re ‘bothering’ me?”
Will is glad Mike isn’t around to hear this. “I promise.”
His mom laughs a little. “Well, be safe, sweetie. See you at home.”
“I will. Bye mom.”
The second he hangs up, he hears wheels rolling across the pavement. Mike is driving across the lot in an arc, and for a moment Will has no clue why. But he realizes once Mike stops the car right in front of him, the passenger seat is easily accessible. Mike leans over the console and pushes the door open. “Did you call her?”
Will climbs in the car and pulls his seatbelt on. “Something tells me you already know the answer to that.”
“Alright,” Mike says, putting a hand on Will’s seat and twisting in his own to look over his shoulder and back the car up. “You’ve gotta quit it with the ‘stalker’ stuff. Would a stalker be nice enough to give you a ride home?”
“Yes.”
Mike winces, still looking behind him. “Okay, I walked into that one.” Then he puts the car back in drive and looks forward again. “But I’m just a friend, giving a friend a ride home. I have no intention of showing up at your house without warning.”
The car jolts as he stops where the lot meets the street. He looks at Will eagerly, with that same stupid grin from when he was introducing himself at the front of the room. “Where do you live?”
Will can’t help but laugh. He props his arm up against the window and rests his head against his hand. “Turn right.”
As they cruise down the road, Will gets a chance to take in the inside of Mike’s car. It’s mostly clean, only with a soda can and some change in the cup holder and a couple receipts in the floorboard. One of those tree-shaped air fresheners dangling from the rear-view. Music is playing, but it’s too quiet for Will to hear what it is. He eyes the volume button. Going by all traditional social cues, it probably isn’t Will’s place to just go messing with Mike’s media console without asking. But, Mike hasn’t exactly done a single thing Will asked him to do today, so Will decides that it’s his right at this point.
He reaches over and turns the volume up. It’s Big Mouth Strikes Again by The Smiths.
Mike glances at him. “You like The Smiths?”
Will smiles."Yeah, I love eighties music.”
Mike nods. “Cool.”
They reach a green stoplight in the middle of town. “Left here.” Mike turns the car left.
Suddenly curious, Will asks, “Is this on the radio or is it a CD?”
“CD.” Mike says. Then, eyes still on the road, he leans over and opens the glove box. Inside is around twenty CD cases, totally unorganized. Honestly, it looks like Mike just shoved them in any way they’d fit. Will sits forward, intrigued. Six of them are Radiohead. Two Coldplay. Three The Smiths. Bronski Beat. David Bowie. Fall Out Boy. blink-182.
Then it gets interesting. Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, and Madonna.
Will pulls out No Strings Attached by NSYNC and holds it up. “Really?”
Mike glances at it. “What?”
“You’re ashamed of Coldplay, but not this?”
He snorts. “No. Bye Bye Bye’s like the best song of all time.”
Will scoffs and shoves the case back in the glove box before closing it and leaning back in his seat. “That is — so unbelievably far from the truth. Even you don’t believe that. Turn right up here.”
“Alright Mr. ‘President of Music’, what is the best song of all time?”
Will thinks hard about this. “Last Christmas by Wham.”
He wouldn’t dare say that in front of Jason.
“Oh, are you one of those Christmas nuts?”
“No,” Will says, a little offended. “It’s just a good song.”
And that’s mostly the truth.
"So you're just an eighties nut?"
Will leans back into his hand and stares out the window, grinning. "Maybe."
Finally they turn onto Will’s street, and Mike’s car rolls to a stop outside his house. His mom’s car isn’t there, and he’s grateful for that. He’s not sure he could handle Mike trying to charm his mom.
Will unbuckles his seatbelt in what feels like awkward silence to him. He gets the feeling it’s not awkward for Mike. Before he closes the door, he says, “Thanks.”
Mike smiles warmly, without a note of mischief. “See you at school tomorrow?”
Will wants to say something smart, like, It’s not like I have a choice. But Mike seems sincere, and Will would be an asshole to pretend like he doesn’t appreciate it.
“Yeah, see you.”
He closes the door and waits for Mike to pull off and drive away, leaving him alone in the night. But the car doesn’t budge. After a minute, Mike rolls down the window and calls out.
“I’m not leaving until you go inside.”
“Why, so you can watch me until the last second?”
“So I can make sure you don’t get axe-murdered or kidnapped, or something. Your mom would never let me drive you home again if that happened.”
Will’s stomach wooshes a little. “Axe-murdered or kidnapped? On my doorstep?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Will turns away to hide his smile and jogs up to his front door. When he’s inside, he rushes to the window. Sure enough, Mike’s car is headed down the street until the only thing Will can make out is the taillights. For a moment Will stands there, staring at the ghost of Mike’s black Acura, the taste of cheap smoke still faint on his tongue.
Falling asleep is the part of the day Will finds most difficult. It’s the ultimate test of how well behaved his brain really is. But tonight when his head hits the pillow, breath tasting like mint instead of smoke, something is different. Instead of the usual craving of peaceful emptiness, Will wants to think. He wants to think about Mike from New York. He wants to go down his mental list over and over until he knows it by heart.