#mike wheeler defender

[jo-mama1111]

art by @ babywillbyers on instagram

so we’re just throwing bricks willy-nilly now? not even bothering to kiss them beforehand?? oh this is sick and twisted.

[willowstar204]

jonathan’s known this kid since he was five; he doesn’t hate him

he does want to hit him over the head sometimes, though

[flickergatedaughter]

treating will like he's broken. meanwhile:

"stop treating me like that! mom, dustin, lucas, they all treat me like i'm going to break!"

"just please don't tell the others, ok? they won't understand."

"but you make me feel like i'm not a mistake at all, like im better for being different."

"i'm just saying, you're like a wizard, like him."

"think about it will, you're like a spy now. a superspy."

"he's a sorcerer! a real life honest-to-god sorcerer!"

"we really need some magic up here."

you talking about my son mike wheeler? treating will like he's broken? holy fucking retcon

[mikeandwillsweddingofficiant]

if mike isnt gay why is he like that

[naninenuny]

this is who you're being mean to btw

[latedeparture]

݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓑RAIN𝓕REEZE !!

⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 mike wheeler x reader

꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 you’re convinced mike hates you so naturally you make it your mission to figure out why.

“ WHY DOESN’T MIKE LIKE ME ? “

you whispered, because this was serious, urgent business, and also because mike was upstairs in the kitchen, apparently helping himself to the last of the chex mix, and you were not about to ask in front of him. he’d probably short-circuit again, and you didn’t need another trip hazard incident involving spilled snacks. you had waited for him to leave the room, watched him linger just a little too long by the door, one hand awkwardly waving at lucas because he was never sure how to act around you, before finally making his excuse to head upstairs. as soon as the door clicked shut you slid down onto the worn carpet of the wheeler basement.

dustin’s pencil dropped onto the floor. lucas pinched the bridge of his nose. you noticed that their subtle, semi-controlled groan had a pattern — it was the we’re about to tell you something you aren’t ready for groan. “he… definitely likes you.” lucas said slowly, as if saying it too fast would break the space-time continuum. he leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, and tried not to sigh too loudly.

mike is upstairs, technically. physically. mentally he’s still in the basement, because of course he is.

the chex mix tastes like cardboard and salt and regret. he crunches anyway, standing barefoot on the cold kitchen tile, elbow braced against the counter like that makes him look casual instead of like someone who fled the room under the pretense of snacks. smooth. real smooth. he probably hovered too long in the doorway. he always does.

he pictures it anyway. you on the carpet, cross-legged, leaning forward when you talk, the way you tuck your hair back when you’re thinking, like you don’t realize you’re doing it. stop. he bites down harder on the cereal to give himself something else to focus on. crunch. crunch. this is normal. people stand in kitchens. people eat snacks. people do not obsessively replay the way someone looked at them ten minutes ago because they laughed at the wrong time.

he can’t hear the words, but he knows dustin dropped his pencil because dustin always does when something dramatic is happening. he knows lucas pinched the bridge of his nose because lucas does that when he’s bracing himself to be the only sane person in the room. pattern recognition. very useful. very annoying.

downstairs, you blink at them. once. twice. no. that’s not right. lucas says it like it’s a object he’s setting down carefully, like if he puts too much weight on the sentence it’ll collapse on itself. dustin’s already nodding, like this has been obvious for weeks and you’re the last one to catch up. which — no. impossible. you would’ve noticed. you notice things. you notice everything. unfortunately.

“no,” you say, immediately, because if you don’t say it out loud it might accidentally become true. “he doesn’t.”

dustin makes a noise. not words. a noise. the kind that lives somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “okay, but see, that’s what someone says when they don’t want to accept reality,” he says. “which is fine. denial is a stage.”

lucas shoots him a look. then looks back at you. “he’s just… bad at it,” lucas says, shrugging one shoulder. “like, people. feelings. all of that. you’ve seen him.”

you have seen him. that’s the problem.

you think of mike standing half a step too far away every time you talk to him. like there’s an invisible line on the floor he refuses to cross. the way he answers questions like he’s afraid of getting them wrong. the way he goes quiet when the attention drifts too close, like a radio losing signal. that’s not a crush. that’s discomfort. that’s someone who doesn’t want to be here. “he barely looks at me.” you say, because this is evidence.

dustin lights up, which is never a good sign when he’s trying to debate a point. “yes! exactly!” he says, pointing at you. “classic mike wheeler symptom. eye contact avoidance. verbal short-circuiting. sudden interest in literally anything else in the room.”

lucas nods. “he almost knocked over the lamp last week trying not to stand next to you.”

you shake your head, laugh once — too quick. defensive laugh. you recognize it. you use it all the time. “no,” you say again, softer this time, like maybe if you say it gently they’ll understand. “mike doesn’t like me. he’s just… awkward.”

you think of the way he waved at lucas earlier. not you. lucas. like that was safer. like you were something he wasn’t sure how to approach without setting off an alarm. you’d clocked it immediately, filed it away under okay, cool, noted, and you’d shrugged it off. people don’t owe you interest. especially not quiet boys who look like they’re always thinking six steps ahead and still somehow missing the obvious ones.

lucas exhales slowly and sits back against the couch. “he’s awkward,” he agrees. “but not like that.”

“yeah,” dustin adds. “there’s a difference between ‘i don’t care’ awkward and ‘i care way too much and it’s ruining my life’ awkward.”

ruining my life feels dramatic. mike wheeler doesn’t do dramatic. he does contained. repressed. folded in on himself like he’s trying to take up less space than he already does. you glance instinctively at the basement stairs. the door at the top, the place where he disappeared ten minutes ago under the very believable excuse of snacks. you picture him upstairs, probably standing too still, probably overthinking something stupid, probably not thinking about you at all.

if he liked me, you think, i would know.

wouldn’t you?

of course you wouldn’t. why would you? from your perspective, he’s… what. quiet. weird. avoidant. the guy who goes red when you ask him a question and then answers it like he’s reading off a cue card.

you think of the way he offered you the last soda once and then immediately looked like he regretted existing. the way he always ends up sitting across from you, never next to. the way he talks more when you’re not directly involved in the conversation. that’s not interest. that’s avoidance. “i think you guys are reading into it,” you say finally. “he’s just closed off. and i’m new. and he already has his people.”

will, mostly. the entire party. history. shared trauma you’re not part of. inside jokes you don’t get yet. you’re a late addition, an extra piece. you don’t expect anyone to rearrange themselves around you.

dustin and lucas exchange a look. they definitely exchange a look. lucas rubs his face with one hand. “okay,” he says carefully. “hypothetically.”

you already don’t like this.

“hypothetically,” he continues, “if someone liked you but didn’t know how to act normal about it… what would that look like to you?”

you don’t answer right away. your brain, unhelpful as ever, supplies images instead. easy smiles. teasing. confidence. someone leaning in instead of backing away. not mike. “not like that,” you say, eventually. “it wouldn’t look like… whatever this is.”

dustin hums. “interesting.”

that word alone is a problem.

“what.”

“nothing,” he says, which means everything. he rocks back on his hands, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling like mike might hear his name through two floors and a lifetime of anxiety. “i just… like… okay. example.”

lucas exhales through his nose. long-suffering. resigned. “we’re doing this?”

“we’re doing this,” dustin confirms. then he looks at you, all earnest now, like he’s about to present a powerpoint you did not ask for. “remember when you first came over? like, the first first time?”

you do. unfortunately. you remember tripping over the edge of the rug and laughing too loud about it, remember max giving you that don’t worry, they’re idiots look. remember clocking the room fast, faces, vibes. survival instinct. social edition. “yeah,” you say. “i sat on the floor.”

“right,” dustin says. “and mike immediately stood up. and then sat down. and then stood up again.”

lucas adds, “and then asked if anyone wanted water.”

you blink. “…he lives here.”

“exactly,” dustin says. “he lives here. he has never once offered me water in his entire life.”

you frown, thinking. a flicker of the memory surfaces: mike hovering by the stairs, hands shoved into his pockets, asking too quickly if anyone needed anything. you’d assumed it was politeness. nerves. host duty. “he was just being nice.” you justify.

“he knocked over a chair.”

“…so?”

“four times.”

you open your mouth. close it. your brain supplies the image anyway, mike flushing red, muttering sorry to no one in particular, pushing the chair back like it had wronged him. you’d smiled. he’d looked at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole. awkward. just awkward. “okay,” you say. “he’s clumsy. that’s not—”

“hold on,” dustin cuts in. “round two.”

you sigh. this is turning into a thing.

“remember movie night?” he continues. “when we watched the thing and you said you’d seen it already?”

you do. you remember leaning back on your hands, stretching your legs out because your foot had fallen asleep. you remember the couch being full, the floor being full, space limited.

“mike moved,” dustin says. “like, immediately.”

lucas nods. “gave you his spot. sat on the floor instead. didn’t say anything about it.”

“i thought he just wanted more room,” you say, weakly. because that’s what you told yourself then. because it made sense. because it didn’t require reading into anything.

“he sat directly under the vent,” lucas says. “he hates the vent.”

you remember that too, now. the way he kept tugging at the collar of his shirt. the way he’d shifted, restless, uncomfortable. you’d asked if he was cold. he’d said no. you’d chalked it up to shyness. to newness. to the fact that he talked more when will was around, when dustin filled the silence instead, when you weren’t the one next to him.

oh god. yes. you remember. once you start pulling on that thread, everything comes with it. the cafeteria memory. bright and loud and sticky with soda. mike sliding into the seat beside you like he’d rehearsed it, careful, careful, and then you’d smiled, nothing special. normal. friendly. his hand had jerked.

soda everywhere. soaking into his math homework, bleeding blue across the page like an ink blot test gone wrong. he’d frozen for half a second, staring at it like it had betrayed him, then scrambled so fast his tray tipped and fries skidded across the floor. “sorry— i— i mean—” words piling up, tripping over each other. his face so red you’d worried, briefly, that he might pass out.

you’d laughed, because it was funny and human and not a big deal. he’d looked at you like you’d set him on fire.

lucas’s voice pulls you back. “exactly. and then there was that time he—”

you groaned because you remembered this too. gym class. the thud of dodgeballs. the smell of sweat and rubber soles. mike lingering by the lockers afterward, pretending to re-tie his shoes for way too long until you were close enough to talk to. “uh,” he’d said. “you throw… balls… really… hard.”

you’d laughed because you couldn’t not. it was awkward and kind of endearing and clearly not meant like that. he’d laughed too, nervously, then backed away like you’d burned him, nearly tripping over the bench in his hurry to escape.

dustin snorts beside you now. “he hid in the bathroom for the rest of the period.”

“i thought he was embarrassed.” you mumble.

lucas gives you a look. “he was terrified.”

another memory crowds in. the time you’d borrowed a pencil in history and mike had dropped his entire pencil case trying to hand it to you. erasers scattering, graphite rolling, him insisting it was fine, really, he didn’t need them, while kneeling on the floor gathering them up anyway.

or the way he’d always end up sitting one seat farther away than necessary. close enough to listen. far enough not to risk brushing arms. or the time you’d waved at him across the hall and he’d waved back, then walked directly into a locker.

“he does that thing,” dustin adds thoughtfully, “where he over-prepares. like you’ll say hi and he’s already planned the next three sentences and if you deviate from the script at all, it’s game over.”

you think of all the half-conversations. the false starts. the way mike sometimes seemed like he wanted to say something and then swallowed it whole. “i just thought…” you trail off. that he didn’t care. that you were an afterthought. that if someone liked you, you’d know. because mike liking you would be ridiculous.

right?

mike wheeler liking you would be absurd in the way only things-that-are-actually-true feel absurd when you’re standing too close to them. you let out a short breath that’s almost a laugh. “he barely talks to me.”

lucas doesn’t even hesitate. “he talks around you.”

that’s— annoying, because it’s accurate. your brain immediately starts pulling evidence like it’s been waiting for permission. the way he’ll answer dustin instead of you, but angle his body in your direction anyway. the way he’ll agree with something you say, quietly, like he doesn’t want to interrupt you but also doesn’t want the thought to go unclaimed. the way he listens like every word is a thing he might need later.

you think about the time you’d complained offhandedly about the basement being cold, and the next week mike had dragged down an extra blanket “because mom said it might get drafty,” even though mrs. wheeler had definitely not said that. the blanket had been folded. neatly. like it mattered.

you think about movie night. how he’d chosen where to sit, then re-chosen, then pretended he’d always meant to sit on the floor instead of the couch. how your arm had brushed his when you reached for popcorn and he’d gone completely still, like a possum playing dead. you’d asked if he was okay. “yeah,” he’d said, too fast again. “just… uh. comfy.”

dustin clears his throat. “also he practices conversations with will.”

“what.”

“like, rehearsal. ‘does this sound normal?’ ‘would this be weird?’ ‘is this too much?’”

lucas snorts. “it’s always too much.”

your face feels warm. you don’t love that detail. you don’t hate it either. it sits somewhere inconvenient in the middle. “so,” you say slowly, “you’re telling me he’s not ignoring me.”

“no. he’s not ignoring you.” lucas says.

that’s… worse. better. both. before you can untangle that thought, footsteps sound on the stairs. you all pause like animals hearing a branch snap. mike appears at the bottom a second later, expression already halfway to defensive. he’s holding the empty chex mix bowl like evidence. “nancy’s mad.” he announces, immediately, because apparently that’s the safest possible opening line.

no hello. classic.

“why?” dustin asks.

“because i was ‘just standing there,’” mike says, doing air quotes with one hand, bowl tucked under his arm. “which apparently is a crime now. i was thinking.”

lucas raises an eyebrow. “you were blocking the fridge.”

“i was near the fridge,” mike snaps, then deflates. “whatever.” he finally looks at you then, just a flicker. his ears are pink. that seems relevant. you realize, distantly, that you’ve never seen him enter a room casually. there’s always a pause. a recalculation, as if he needs to know the emotional layout before he steps fully inside it. he clears his throat. “uh. what’d i miss.”

dustin grins like he’s about to die happy. lucas sighs like he’s been through this war before. “nothing.” you say quickly. which is ironic, considering everything.

mike nods and accepts it immediately. “cool,” he says. “good.”

which is mike-speak for i am absolutely not cool but i have decided to pretend very hard. there’s a beat, then another, the kind that stretches until it gets uncomfortable and nobody wants to be the first one to move because that would mean deciding something. his eyes flick down to the bowl in his hands. empty. useless. then back up — not to you, exactly, but close enough that it counts. “uh,” he says, shifting his grip. “i forgot to ask. did you guys want anything?”

dustin’s mouth twitches. “like… food?” lucas asks.

“or drinks,” mike adds quickly. “or. i don’t know. whatever.”

his eyes finally land on you then, just for half a second. you realize, distantly, that he’s holding the bowl like an offering. “i’m good,” you say casually, like this isn’t suddenly the most important exchange of your life.

“yeah, same.” lucas says.

dustin doesn’t say anything, he just looks at you. then at mike. then raises his eyebrows in a way that is deeply unhelpful. you give him a look back that says do not. he gives you one that says i told you so. “actually,” he says, casual like he’s not absolutely stirring the pot, “do you still have those fruit snacks, mike? i’ll take some of those.”

mike’s head snaps up. “no.”

“what? you always have fruit snacks.”

“yeah, well,” mike says, already moving, already done with this conversation, “not right now.”

which is a lie. a bad one. a very transparent one. you’ve seen the stash. he bought them in bulk. dustin once joked that mike could survive the apocalypse on fruit snacks alone. but mike doesn’t elaborate. he just sets the empty bowl aside with more force than necessary and drops down onto the floor instead, cross-legged, back against the couch, close. still not next to you. never next to you, but close enough that your knees are almost touching his shoulder.

dustin stares at him for a second longer, then grins to himself like he’s just won something invisible. “so,” dustin says, stretching out on the carpet, “what are we doing? because i vote we stay up late.”

“it is the weekend,” lucas adds. “technically.”

mike shrugs, but it’s lighter now, less defensive. “we could play something. or just hang out.”

someone — dustin — inevitably suggests video games, like it was always going to end there. the tv hums when mike turns it on, that electronic whine that takes a second to settle, and he has to crouch in front of it to adjust the knob because the picture’s doing that weird rolling thing again. “don’t touch it,” he says automatically, then softer, like he realizes who’s in the room, “i mean— it’ll fix itself.”

it does. eventually.

“you can pick first.” he says, handing you a controller before anyone else can even register the offer.

dustin squawks. “hey!”

“you picked last time.” mike says without missing a beat, which is not true. not even a little. you hesitate and mike immediately fills the space. “i mean— if you want. you don’t have to.”

you pick anyway. something simple. familiar. mike watches your hands like they’re doing something impressive, nodding to himself when you make a choice. the game starts. the room settles into button mashing, electronic sound effects, dustin’s commentary getting louder as the night goes on. someone opens a soda. someone else spills it just a little. it doesn’t matter.

you notice things. how mike leans over to explain controls to you but never touches your hands, even when it would make sense to. how he lets you go first every round. how when dustin complains about it, mike snaps back without looking up — and when you mess up he just laughs like it’s no big deal. “it’s fine,” he says, every time. “you’re doing fine.”

it’s weird, because he’s not like this with them. with them, he argues. he snaps. he gets loud and stubborn and digs his heels in like it’s his job. with you, he bends. sometimes too much. at one point he says, “sorry— i mean— that was a dumb move,” about himself, and you realize he apologizes to you more than anyone else in the room, like he’s preemptively worried you’ll think less of him.

hours pass. you know because the movie clock on the vcr blinks 12:00 for a while before someone fixes it. because the soda cans stack up. because dustin gets loopy and starts narrating his own losses like a sports commentator. you think, not for the first time tonight, that liking someone like mike wheeler probably feels like this. incremental. full of tiny choices that mean more than they should.

the game gets louder anyway.

mike and dustin end up head-to-head, controllers clenched like it’s a life-or-death situation and not a pixelated battlefield. dustin trash talks constantly while mike goes sharp and focused, muttering under his breath. “that’s cheap,” mike snaps when dustin pulls off a move that absolutely is cheap.

“it’s strategy,” dustin says. “you’re just bad.”

mike scoffs. “you button-mashed.”

you laugh without thinking. just a small sound. mike glances at you mid-argument and the edge in his voice dulls immediately, like someone flipped a switch. “i mean,” he adds quickly, softer, “it’s— it’s fine. it counts.”

dustin stares at him. “who are you.”

he lets dustin finish his gloating speech before cutting in again, but not too sharp. never all the way when you’re listening. later, when dustin knocks his character off the map again, mike groans. “are you kidding me?”

you grin. “you hesitated.”

he opens his mouth, probably to argue, then stops himself. “…yeah,” he says instead. “i did.”

at some point, you lean in to say something — a joke, you think — and catch yourself halfway through. “sorry, i mean— do you wanna—”

mike freezes. like, fully. controller still in his hands. eyes on you, wide, alert, waiting. “yeah,” he says before you can finish. “whatever you want.”

it’s said so fast it’s almost painful. you blink. dustin snorts. lucas, from the floor, mutters, “wow.”

mike flushes. “i just mean— we can switch games. or keep playing. or—”

“i was gonna say you left yourself open.” you finish.

he deflates. “oh. yeah.”

and it’s like that, over and over. mike snapping at dustin, then catching himself when you speak. mike getting stubborn, then backing off when you raise an eyebrow.

the basement door opens with a creak. “hey,” nancy’s voice cuts in, already irritated. “mom said you guys need to keep it down. dad’s trying to sleep.”

“it’s the weekend.” mike says immediately, defensive reflex engaged.

“it’s still midnight,” nancy counters. “and you’re yelling.”

“we’re talking.” mike argues.

nancy looks at the room. the controllers. the mess. you. her expression shifts just slightly, curious, assessing. “also,” she adds, “you left the chex mix box on the counter. again.”

“i was gonna clean it up.” mike says.

“when,” she asks. “next year?”

“why do you always do this.” mike groans.

nancy crosses her arms. “it’s my house.”

“no, it’s mom and dad’s house.”

“wow, philosophical,” she says. “lower the volume or i’m telling dad.” mike opens his mouth, already gearing up for the argument, you can see it coming, but then nancy’s gaze shifts and lands on you. “hey.” she says. to you.

the difference is between obligation and intention. you sit up instinctively. “hi.”

nancy nods, like she’s clocking you properly now. the controllers. the way you’re tucked into the corner of the couch. mike on the floor, close enough to count. “you guys having fun?” she asks.

“yeah. sorry. we’ll keep it down.”

mike reacts instantly. “yeah,” he says. “we will. totally. we can be quiet.”

you can almost see the moment she notices it, the way his tone shifts when it’s you. how the fight drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. “…okay,” she says. “thanks.” she turns back to you. “i like your jacket, by the way.”

“oh— thanks.”

mike, who has been watching this entire exchange like it’s a high-stakes negotiation, suddenly stands. “i’m gonna run upstairs real quick.”

nancy frowns. “why.”

“to ask mom if they can sleepover,” he says. then adds, too fast, “before she goes to bed.” he gestures at the room. at all of you. at the concept of time continuing. “i’ll be right back,” he calls, like anyone was planning on leaving.

his footsteps disappear. nancy exhales and leans against the back of the couch, arms crossed loosely now, less big sister. more… person. “he’s been weird.” she says, conversational.

dustin perks up. “thank you.”

“more than usual.” she clarifies.

lucas hums. “yeah.”

nancy glances at you, something knowing flickers there. observant. mike comes tearing back down the stairs like he’s afraid the answer might change if he slows down. “okay,” he says, breathless. “so. mom said—” he stops at the bottom step. “she said only one person can spend the night.”

dustin squints. “what?”

nancy frowns again. “wait, i thought mom said she didn’t—”

“—because,” mike cuts in, cutting her off mid-sentence like it’s instinct, “it’s already late and dad’s asleep and there’s only so much room and— yeah. one person.”

nancy blinks at him. you can almost see her connecting dots in real time. “huh.” she says slowly.

dustin opens his mouth. “okay but how do we—”

mike pivots immediately. points, not aggressively, just decisively, at dustin. “didn’t you say you had to get home?” he asks.

dustin stares at him. “i did not.”

“you did,” mike insists. “earlier. you said your mom wanted you back.”

lucas snorts. “no he didn’t.”

mike barrels on. “and lucas, you said you were tired.”

lucas raises his eyebrows. “i am tired, but—”

“see?” mike says. “so it makes sense.”

it’s not subtle. not even a little. wow. master manipulator.

dustin sighs dramatically. “fine. whatever. i guess i’ll go.”

lucas shrugs. “i’ll go with you.”

mike nods far too quickly. “yeah. cool. thanks.”

dustin grabs his jacket, muttering, “unbelievable,” but there’s no real bite to it. he throws you a look on the way out, smug, satisfied, i see you, and lucas follows, already halfway asleep on his feet. the basement door closes. footsteps fade. suddenly, it’s quiet in a different way. nancy lingers a moment longer, looks at mike, then at you, then back at mike. “…only one, huh?” she says.

“mom’s rules.”

nancy smiles. “sure.” she turns to you. “you okay staying?”

your answer comes easier than you expect. “yeah.”

“good,” she says. “bathroom’s down the hall. extra blankets are in the closet. don’t stay up too late.” then she shoots mike one last look — warning, fond, amused all at once — and heads upstairs.

the stairs creak. a door closes. mike stands there, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands now that his plan has… worked. “uh,” he says. “so.”

so.

it’s funny how loud the basement feels with just the two of you in it. just the tv, the ticking of the clock upstairs, mike wheeler visibly buffering in front of you. he shifts his weight, clasps his hands, unclasps them. wipes one palm on his jeans like he’s nervous they might betray him. you watch him for a second longer than necessary. now that you know, it’s impossible not to see it.

the way he’s standing angled toward you. the way he keeps checking your face like he’s waiting for instructions. the way his shoulders are tense but not defensive — hopeful, almost. he’s cute. actually cute. soft features, earnest eyes, hair that never does what he wants it to. you’re a little surprised, honestly, that more people don’t notice. maybe they would if he talked more.

his personality can be… a lot. stubborn. intense. bossy when he gets worked up.

but so what.

he cares. clearly. deeply. maybe too deeply. there’s something disarming about that — about someone who feels things without trying to look cool about it. “we can stay down here for a while longer. i mean— if you want. or— we don’t have to. we could sleep. or— not sleep yet. obviously.” he winces slightly, like he’s aware of how that sounded. “i mean. later. sleep later.”

“a movie?” you suggest, gently.

“yeah. yeah, movie’s good.”

he moves fast now, energized, grabbing tapes from the stack with a kind of nervous enthusiasm. they clack softly as he flips through them. “okay, so, this one’s good but it’s kind of slow, and this one’s also good but the effects are— not great, and this— okay, this one.” he pulls out excalibur like it’s a decision he’s been circling for a while. “it’s fantasy,” he says immediately, because of course he does. “but not like cheesy fantasy. it’s—” he pauses, searching. “it’s about kings. and choices. and, uh… destiny.” that last word comes out quieter than the others. “and magic,” he adds quickly, as if remembering he’s allowed to like that part too. “but magic that costs something. you don’t just get it for free.” he shifts his weight. “i watched it with my dad once. he fell asleep halfway through, but— i didn’t.”

too much information. abort.

he clears his throat. “it’s long. if that’s okay. we can switch if you want. i just—”

you smile. “i’m good with long.”

his eyebrows lift, surprised. pleased. a little flustered. “okay,” he says. “cool. yeah. okay.”

he slides the tape into the vcr with exaggerated care. the machine whirs, then clicks, then the screen blooms into dark greens and silvers. you sit on the couch. he hesitates, the pause is noticeable now that you’re looking for it, then sits beside you, leaving a careful gap. his knee bounces. stops. bounces again. you wonder if this is him trying. if asking you to stay, if picking this movie, if sitting here instead of on the floor is him pushing past something internal and stubborn.

the movie opens, steel, mist, prophecy. very mike. he leans forward without realizing it. “okay, so— that sword matters. like, a lot. and merlin—” he stops himself mid-sentence, winces, and glances at you. “sorry.”

you shrug. “you can talk.”

he nods like he’s been granted permission. “okay. just— if i start rambling, tell me.”

he still rambles a little. under his breath. comments that are half-thoughts: “this scene’s brutal,” “that’s actually really sad,” “i forgot how intense this gets.”

you don’t mind. it feels like being let into something.

this has never happened before. just the two of you. no one watching. no one interrupting. just shared space and a story he cares about more than he’ll ever admit.

the movie keeps going. swords and shadows and people making terrible decisions because they think they’re chosen for something. you don’t fully understand all of it, but you understand him watching it, the way his attention sharpens, the way he leans in at certain parts like proximity might help. he forgets to be quiet sometimes. “i just— i like this part,” he says eventually, gesturing vaguely at the screen. “everyone thinks being king means you get everything, but it’s mostly just responsibility. and messing up. a lot.”

you glance over. he’s not looking at you. he’s looking at the tv, like he’s saying something else but doesn’t know how. “you sound like you’ve thought about that.” you notice.

he shrugs, a little too quick. “i guess. i mean, stories are better when the hero’s kind of bad at it at first.”

that makes you smile. he notices. immediately panics. “not bad, bad,” he rushes. “just —- human. like—”

you don’t mind the rambling. actually, you kind of like it. he lights up when he talks about things he cares about, words tumbling out faster than his self-doubt can catch them. it’s like watching someone unlock. at one point he tries to explain a plot detail and gets halfway through before realizing he’s contradicted himself. “wait. no. ignore that. that’s later. i’m bad at this.”

you grin. “you’re really not.”

this version of him feels different. looser. did someone tell him to do this? max, maybe. lucas. even nancy. someone nudging him, daring him, saying just try. the idea makes you curious. if this is him trying… it’s working.

he makes a dumb joke about a knight’s haircut. it’s bad. really bad. you laugh anyway, surprised at yourself.

time moves strangely after that. the movie blurs into moments instead, his knee bouncing, then stopping when he notices yours isn’t. the way he offers you the blanket. the way he apologizes when his elbow bumps yours and then doesn’t immediately retreat. he talks more as the movie goes on. about d&d campaigns. about how fantasy worlds make sense because the rules are clear. you listen. you ask questions. he answers them like he can’t believe you care. somewhere between a half-whispered rant about prophecy tropes and you gently correcting his pronunciation of a name, it clicks — this isn’t avoidance. this isn’t disinterest. this is nerves.

you glance at him again, at the concentration crease between his eyebrows, at the way he keeps sneaking looks at you when he thinks you won’t notice. maybe you misread him. maybe mike wheeler has been here the whole time.

hours stretch. the basement loses all sense of time. it all blends into the background as you talk. really talk. not the small talk that stretches across passing periods or awkward lunches, not the “hey, remember that?” jokes that end because someone else is watching. actual words, sentences flowing, thoughts spilling. about school, about max, about the dumbest things that happen in your day, about nerdy stuff mike’s obsessed with — d&d campaigns, sci-fi movies, plot holes he notices that nobody else seems to, and how the soundtrack in some fantasy movies is technically a character all on its own. he rambles. a lot. nervous, starts a sentence, stops, rewinds, starts again. he’s self-conscious, stumbling over words, and you’re aware — like painfully aware — that he’s never talked to you like this before.

you lean back against the couch. mike’s on the floor again, knees up, arms draped across them, chin resting in his hands, watching you like you’re a new kind of puzzle. the basement feels impossibly intimate. then he yawns. stretches one arm behind his head. rubs his eyes. he looks… defeated, like he’s thinking the moment has to end, and your first instinct is relief. you think he’s probably going to his room to crash, and you’ll stay here in the semi-dark, tucked in the quiet of the basement.

but he scrunches his face when you don’t follow him once he stands, frowning in that adorable, confused way he does when he can’t decide between logic and impulse. “what are you doing?” he asks, like he’s asking a question and also trying not to sound like he’s asking a question.

“i’ll just stay down here,” you say softly. “you can sleep… if you want.”

he scrunches again, shakes his head like he’s trying to organize an internal spreadsheet of every possible objection. “no—i mean… come to my room with me.”

your brow furrows. “your mom wont care?”

his face contorts, like he’s calculating all possible consequences of every adult decision. then slowly he shrugs, incredulous but also smug in a way only mike wheeler could manage. “why would she care? even if she did it wouldn’t matter.” and it’s true. he’s always been that way. stubborn. fiercely independent. doesn’t bend to peer pressure. doesn’t care about approval — unless it’s someone he actually… notices. adults? forget it. authority? laughable. his parents? love them, mostly, but when it comes to minor stuff like staying up late or who’s sitting where? inconsequential.

you nod slowly. it makes sense. of course it does. mike wheeler isn’t going to let anyone else dictate this, not tonight, not with this.

you follow him upstairs. he moves with that mix of awkward determination and tiny bursts of energy, shoving aside laundry, tugging extra blankets off the shelf, finding a sleeping bag that isn’t too lumpy. he spreads it out on the floor, flattens it with an unnecessary amount of care, then pats it like he’s claiming territory for you. “okay. here,” he says, stepping back. “this should— you know. work.”

you crouch to check it. yeah, fine. more than fine. he’s fussed, rearranged, and basically built a little nest just for you. his bed? he collapses on it with a sigh that’s half relief, half exhaustion. you sit cross-legged on the sleeping bag. he mutters comments about the ceiling texture, about how it looks like clouds frozen mid-movement. you hum, half-listening.

the conversation trickles at first. little threads about the day, things you didn’t know, stories he’s remembered in the moment. then it gets slower.. and it’s suddenly… honest. impossible to talk, really talk, because every time you open your mouth, you think: how lucky am i to be here? just talking to him. mike wheeler. right now.

you laugh quietly to cover it, and he glances down at you. you shrug like it’s nothing, but inside, your chest is tight in a way you can’t explain. it’s fun. it’s exciting. it’s also… new. you can’t tell if this is infatuation, or suddenly seeing him the way everyone else must see him, and realizing you like it, maybe like him.

mike notices the shift in your expression, probably thinks it’s just the light, the shadow from the lamp flickering across your face, but he can’t stop seeing it as you noticing him. the thought makes his stomach twitch, like a loose spring. don’t get weird now. don’t say something dumb. don’t mess this up. “so,” he blurts, faster than he means to, “did dustin actually finish the uh… that… the paper thing?” he means the math homework he didn’t help with. the words stumble out in the wrong order because he’s too busy watching your face.

“he… sort of. not really. he kept narrating it like it was a space battle.”

mike snorts, a coughy snort like he almost choked on air. good one, brain, real smooth. that’s clever. you clever idiot. he remembers dustin in the cafeteria last week, talking like he was commentating on the dodgeball game and spilling chocolate milk everywhere. mike had laughed, of course, and gotten chocolate on his sleeve, and he’s still annoyed at himself for being amused. you were laughing too. wait, why would that matter? doesn’t matter. stupid detail. stupid brain. “space battle…” he mutters. “yeah. sounds… strategic.”

you tilt your head. “strategic?”

“you know… like… uh… tactical. not… important. it’s fine.”

he’s lying. tactical is the wrong word. i just want to sound smart. not sound dumb. not be dumb in front of you. why do my hands sweat? why am i talking like i’m fifteen again? you laugh softly again, and he notices, almost trips over the sound in his head. it’s the kind of laugh that makes him want to lean in closer because he wants more of it. he’s been noticing you for weeks. weeks. maybe months. little things. harmless. harmlessly distracting. stop thinking about that, idiot. just talk. just breathe. just don’t say i like you, god, don’t say that.

“so…” you say, shifting slightly, moving your hand across the blanket on the floor, “what have you been doing?”

“i don’t know. just stuff. video games. watched movies. fantasy ones. not, like, boring ones. not that boring. i mean… not like… you know…” he stops. too many words.

you laugh. “oh? what kind?”

“labyrinth kind. fantasy.. goblins. evil king. lots of… musical numbers.” he grins like he’s proud. “it’s good. i like it. probably you’d like it. probably. maybe.”

stop. too many probablys. you’re making it weird. you are a nerd. congratulations.

you blink at him, heart thumping a little faster than you want to admit. “can i… ask you something?”

“sure.” his voice is calm enough, but his brain has immediately sprinted to oh god oh god oh god what are you gonna ask me. do you know? you can’t know you can’t know you can’t know. he pinches the bridge of his nose. don’t say something dumb, wheeler. don’t mess this up.

if you know…

no. not know. if you even think about it.

if the idea even exists in your head, he’s done. he has no plan past step one, and step one was do not make it obvious.

which he has apparently failed at.

“why were you so weird around me?”

he freezes.

“uh, i… dunno. my brain doesn’t really work with me sometimes. i get a brain freeze or something.”

“brain freeze?”

“yeah. like, i try to say normal stuff. or like things i think are normal. and then… i… can’t. it just stops. then i say something weird. or nothing at all.” his hands fidget again, tugging at the corner of the blanket.

you grin softly. “so, you’re… awkward because your brain freezes?”

mike shifts on the bed, hands fidgeting with the blanket, trying not to overthink. brain freeze. nailed it. sounds normal. you’ll buy it. “yeah,” he says finally, voice steady-ish. “brain freeze.” he glances at you quickly, checking for reaction, then back to the ceiling.

“makes sense.”

“like that time at dodgeball when i tried to compliment you and just… uh… well, yeah. balls.”

you smile softly. “balls. right.”

he grins faintly, cheeks tinged pink, like he’s daring the world to judge. “hey, it was heartfelt.”

“so,” you say after a beat, “do you… always get brain freezes around everyone?”

he shakes his head, a little embarrassed, tugging the blanket again. “no. mostly… just… around certain people.” he pauses. “it’s… selective.”

“so i’m… selected?”

he shifts, the movement rustling the sheets. “yeah. i guess.”

you talk about favorite books, the weirdest moments in class, little childhood stories you’ve never shared with anyone else. he laughs at your anecdotes, sometimes dryly, sometimes genuinely surprised. you notice that even when he’s teasing or making a joke, his attention is mostly on you, not on proving anything to anyone else.

the night continues, hours stretching lazily over the room. the shadows from the blinds creep across the floor, painting stripes over the carpet and blankets, the hum of the heater keeping time with your conversation. every so often he glances your way like he wants to move closer, like he wants to get down next to you and lay on the floor, but is terrified of overstepping some boundary. you don’t mind.

between the laughter, the stories, the accidental brush of hands when passing a blanket, it feels comfortable. the kind of night that lingers in memory, where words stumble and brains freeze, yet everything feels exactly right.

morning comes. light spills through the blinds, brushing over blankets and the smell of popcorn lingering from yesterday. mike squints, stretching, hair sticking up in every direction. the quiet is broken by mrs. wheeler’s voice, light but pointed.

“oh - good morning sweetheart! mike, i thought all your friends were sleeping over honey. where’s everybody else?”

STARTED 11.29.2025. POSTED 12.14.2025.

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©️ latedeparture

[mikewheelerdidnothingwrong]

Daily reminder that Mike is still a heavily queer coded character with implied mental health struggles despite them not being acknowledged in canon.

Daily reminder that Mike Wheeler is more than what his writers wanted him to be.

Daily reminder that all queer interpretations of Mike are valid because screw canon.

[mothwingsmayy]

appreciation post for mike wheeler aka the most snoopy character to ever exist