How Obvious?
I'm waiting on AO3 access, so I'll post this here for now.
How Obvious? A Byler fic told through four POVs—outsiders noticing the moments that add up, and Will finally letting himself stop explaining them away.
No confessions here. Just accumulation.
A shared look…
It’s never more than chaos. Since Karen gave our peace up to the Byers, that’s all it’s ever been.
They are a thankless lot. No manners. How many weeks has it been since I got the first slice of bacon? Hot toast? A quiet coffee with my newspaper?
A deep sigh. I fold the paper and place it to the side—no, not there! A puddle of syrup creeps toward the edge of the table.
The chair scrapes. A grumble. A glance towards the breakfast table as the paper gets dropped onto the La-Z-Boy for later.
“Mike, can you pass the syrup?” “Holly, how many times do I have to tell you? No reading at breakfast.” “Don’t forget to—” “Stop it!” “Leave some—” “Sorry, not today—”
Another sigh. Deeper.
“Thanks, Mrs. Wheeler. It’s delicious.”
William Byers. Well, at least he helps with the washing up. There’s something different about that one.
He glances to the side, meeting Michael’s gaze. Whatever passes between them is silent, quick. He nods and William turns back to his breakfast. Michael’s smile is slow to fade, his eyes pausing for a moment before looking away.
Michael always seems to know.
“Ted, your food is getting cold.” Karen’s eyebrows raise, her neck cranes to look over all the heads. Yes. God forbid her hard work go to waste.
The brush of a knee…
I’ve seen that move before. Just not like this.
Mike’s eyes are on Principal Higgins. In the sort of way that says he might be listening, but mostly is in his head. He’d taken the end again. The bench empty on one side, Will on the other. Of course. Leaning back, casual posture, legs loose. Will looks up as Mike’s knee brushes against his. Mike doesn’t seem to notice. Will shifts slightly, giving him more space.
No movement. No apology. Like it hadn’t registered at all.
An accident, I guess.
Dustin sighs on my other side. Slouching, arms folded, eyes scanning for someone to look at him the wrong way. He’s definitely gearing up to say something. “I can’t believe anyone would believe this bullshit.” His voice raises a little before he continues. “Say it louder. Maybe it’ll be true this time.” “Dude, chill. You know what Hop said.” Dustin slowly turns his head toward me, disbelief written all over his face. He scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah. Right. ‘Follow the god-damned rules’.” Okay. Not the time to poke the bear. Instead, I look past him to Will who gives a hesitant shrug. A couple students join our bench, eyeing Mike cautiously. Close, but not enough to stop them whispering about us.
Mike leans in, shifting away from them. Back into Will’s space. That stuck. He didn’t have to do that.
His knee presses against Will’s again.
Will checks him again. This time Mike catches it, giving that tight smile—like, relax, we’re all good here—before looking back to Principal Higgins.
Nothing unusual for Mike really. Still, I file it away.
The bump of an elbow…
I notice the light before I notice them.
It’s the kind that doesn’t last. It hits the radio tower at the right angle, softening the edges. I slow without meaning to. My fingers catch on the strap of my bag, automatically reaching.
Ahead of me, there’s a comfortable silence as Mike and Will walk their bikes along the road. Their shadows stretch long behind them, almost reaching my feet. The shadows overlap for a moment, then separate. I look up, lens cap in hand.
Mike guides his bike around a parked car, his elbow briefly colliding with Will’s. It’s light. The kind of contact that happens when your attention is elsewhere. They keep walking.
Will doesn’t pull away. He shifts his grip on the handlebars, accommodating the space instead of leaving it. I pause.
I lift the camera a little higher, fingers already finding the dials.
Mike notices the closeness. I can see it in the way he adjusts his stride, rolling his shoulders and twisting his body. He draws his elbow in, measured. A small distance opens between them. A careful adjustment.
The camera hovers, halfway up.
I lower it again, letting the moment pass.
Not this time.
The snowball became an avalanche…
Everything is calm now. There’s no reason for my heart to still be racing. I tell myself I’m here to say something simple. There’s a quiet hum of electricity as I approach the sound booth. The light is low and gentle, like it’s trying to avoid attention.
And there at the sound desk—spinning on the chair, record sleeve in hand—sits Mike. He looks deep in thought as he studies the back, a long finger tracing down the list of songs. It doesn’t feel right to just interrupt…not when I notice the title of the record: The Clash — Combat Rock. Standing in the doorway, I watch as Mike turns the record sleeve over, the hint of a frown pulling at his brows. I stay quietly where I am, leaning against the frame.
The chair spins again and Mike looks up. As he does, the chair bumps a leg of the desk and the record almost slips from his palms. He curses as he fumbles to catch it. “H-hey…Will…I—I didn’t see you coming,” he says. His voice softens and takes on an airy quality. “Is everything okay?”
Looking at him now, I’m aware of him in a way I don’t quite know what to do with. “Yeah…no…I mean, everything’s okay.” I try to remember the conversation I’d been rehearsing. “The others are resting. You probably should too—if you want.” And? I take a deep breath. This isn’t a big deal. “I…I just wanted to say thank you.” Mike looks confused. I look away to clear my head. “I mean…you know…for believing in me.” I glance back at him, just long enough to check his reaction. He shrugs, the hint of a smile. “I didn’t do anything. It was all you really.”
I want to tell him that what he’s saying isn’t true, that without him I couldn’t have found the strength. But the words get stuck. I didn’t rehearse this far. Silence stretches between us. Mike drops his gaze to the record sleeve and then returns it to me, his smile warmer now; he almost looks like he’s going to say something but doesn’t. After a moment, he slowly rolls his chair closer.
When he stops in front of me, my chest tightens. I can still feel the warmth from his hug, can still smell the familiar scent that is indistinguishably Mike. He lifts the record towards me. “Here.” Habitually, I search his eyes as I take it. My breath catches as his fingers brush my knuckles, and I can tell by the way his eyes soften that he’s registered my reaction.
And now I’m supposed to pull back. This is the part where he’s supposed to go back to what he was doing. And we continue like it didn’t happen. This is our routine.
Only this time, it’s different. This time he doesn’t retreat. Neither do I.
It settles on me quietly. It was this all along. I just wasn’t letting it happen.
I can’t help returning a small smile. Mike exhales, his shoulders loosening. His thumb grazes my hand ever so slightly and he releases the record.
AO3 upload coming soon.












