FUCK. SCHOOL IS HELL.

literally. hellfire is supposed to be the one thing that’s fun this week, and here he is, stuck at the table only trying to pay attention. the lunchroom is annoying, trays clattering, people yelling about sports, someone scraping a chair across the floor, the smell of mystery meat hanging in the air. he’s sitting at the hellfire club table, eddie animatedly waving his hands about some totally dumb idea for a campaign, dustin laughing way too loud, lucas trying to explain rules he’s already explained three times, and mike is just… done.

and you’re there. sitting across from him, leaning slightly back like you’re in charge of the cafeteria, hair tied up in that stupid perfect ponytail, laughing. of course laughing. at them. all of them. jason and his friends. the football idiots. you’re friends with them, probably likes them, probably laughs at them all the time. definitely rude. probably judging him too, because of course you would.

it’s annoying. of course it’s annoying. you’re popular, you’re liked, you’re beautiful. you’re probably rude. definitely rude. he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t watching you though, but he’s not watching you. he’s just… noticing. totally innocent noticing, like a scientist observing a specimen. a particularly annoying, perfect, probably-spiteful specimen.

he hates how fast his stomach flips when you glance in his direction, like you actually looked at him for a split second and he’s panicking because obviously he can’t just look back, that would be insane. who does that. you’re way out of his league, socially speaking. plus your friends are all massive assholes, and you’re friends with them, therefore you’re a massive asshole.

he’s supposed to be listening to eddie, who’s describing his rogue’s perfect escape from a trap, but he’s not. can’t. every time you talk or laugh he’s stuck internally rolling his eyes. loud, obnoxious laugh. loud enough to make him want to throw his pencil at your head. okay, not really. but almost.

he keeps rationalizing. you’re probably fake nice. you probably rolls your eyes at people when they’re not looking. probably does. maybe you’re laughing at him. definitely laughing at him. and if you’re not laughing at him, you’re definitely laughing at someone worse than him. and if you’re not laughing at anyone, you’re probably bored and he’s boring, so it balances out. not that he cares. no. he’s focused. very focused. on strategies. and pencils. and why lucas is chewing his pen like that?

he’s noticing everything he shouldn’t notice but refusing to admit it: the way your shoulders tilt when you gesture, how you lean toward the jocks just slightly, like you’re giving them the attention they don’t deserve, how you laugh at their dumb jokes. it’s infuriating. you’re nice, sure. maybe nice. but that doesn’t cancel out rude, and you’re definitely rude. friends with jason. laughing at jason. laughing at all of them. fine. he doesn’t care.

but then you laugh at something jason says and your teeth are ridiculously white and now he’s imagining his face when he accidentally looks at you, and oh no, there it is again, stomach doing flips he didn’t think boys could actually feel, ears warming, heart maybe going a tiny bit faster—definitely normal, it’s probably just because hellfire club is stressful. yes. stressful. focus on eddie’s ridiculous ideas about campaign strategies. focus on the notebook that’s probably crumpled under his fist. you didn’t even notice him staring. no one did.

he refuses to admit that it’s been like this every week since school started. none of that matters. he is oblivious. he is strong. he is rational. except now eddie is talking and he can’t concentrate, pencil tapping slowing, stomach doing something stupid again and —-

“mike, you’re zoning.” eddie says, nudging him.

“uh huh.” mike doesn’t even look. you’re laughing again. maybe at jason, definitely at jason. asshole. and okay, maybe he notices how your uniform is slightly rumpled, like you just walked here and didn’t care, like you can afford to not care, and your sneakers are clean and the socks are just right, and your backpack is sitting perfectly beside your chair like it was placed there by someone who knows exactly how to make an impression, which is obviously annoying, and probably deliberate, and maybe you’re aware he’s noticing, because why else would anyone be that good-looking in the middle of a Tuesday? but he’s not looking. hes paying attention to eddie, duh.

“mike.” lucas hisses from the side, elbow jabbing him like that’s supposed to snap him out of it. “stop staring.”

“i’m not staring.” mike replies immediately, way too fast, like the word itself could be a crime.

eddie looks way too amused, tossing a grape from his tray into his mouth. “you’re staring like a creep, wheeler.”

“i’m not.” mike says, defensive in the way that gives him away immediately.

evil, he thinks. absolutely evil.

because if you weren’t, then he’d have to deal with the fact that this has been happening every week. that he knows where you sit. that he tracks your laugh without meaning to. that his brain goes stupid and loud and defensive whenever you’re near, and that is not happening. he doesn’t like you. he’s rational. he’s in control.

he doesn’t look back for a while. long enough that he convinces himself it didn’t matter, long enough that the noise of the lunchroom starts to blur into something tolerable. long enough that eddie and dustin drift into another conversation. the bell rings. chairs scrape back. trays slide. the room shifts all at once. he looks up again without thinking.

you’re standing now, slinging your backpack over your shoulder, saying something to your friends. still smiling, still unaware. or maybe aware. he doesn’t know. he never knows with people like you. that’s part of why he hates it. you walk past the hellfire table without looking at him, close enough that he catches the scent of your shampoo again. clean. not overpowering. unfair. “come on,” lucas says, standing. “we’re gonna be late.”

he follows them out into the hallway, noise swallowing them immediately, lockers slamming, voices bouncing, sneakers squeaking against tile. the world keeps moving like nothing happened, like lunch wasn’t a whole thing.

cheerleaders have always been like this. always. he learned it early. elementary school early. the girls who got picked first for everything, the girls who were loud without getting in trouble, the girls who smiled at teachers and somehow got away with stuff he would’ve been sent to the principal for. then middle school, when everything split cleanly into groups, and the girls who would eventually become cheerleaders already knew it. already stood together. already laughed together. already looked through people instead of at them.

he doesn’t remember a specific moment where he decided cheerleaders were evil. it was more like a gradual understanding, safe in their little social bubble of doom. mike hates safe. safe people don’t lose their best friend to another dimension. safe people don’t watch monsters crawl out of walls. safe people don’t grow up too fast and then get told to calm down about it. safe people get to laugh in cafeterias and walk through hallways like the world has never once tried to eat them alive.

so yeah. cheerleaders are evil, and you fit. of course you do. popular, liked, friends with jason. laughing at lunch like it’s easy. sitting where you want, saying what you want, carrying yourself like nothing bad ever sticks. annoying. deeply annoying. he tells himself this as they walk: you’re not special. you’re a type. a category. eddie is talking again, voice carrying down the hallway, something sarcastic, something about school being a prison. dustin laughs too loud at it, like always. mike hums in response, noncommittal, present enough to pass.

he’s bored. so bored. bored of school. bored of pretending this is normal, bored of a world that keeps insisting on lockers and lunch bells and cheerleaders after everything that’s happened, like monsters didn’t exist.

he doesn’t like you. he knows exactly what kind of person you are. and if his brain keeps circling back to you anyway—well.

that’s just another thing wrong with the world.

which would be fine. manageable. survivable. if the world would just stay wrong in predictable ways. monsters, sure. portals, whatever. government cover-ups? annoying but at least consistent. but no, instead it does this, lets him get halfway down the hall toward the vending machines after school, brain already shifting gears toward campaign logistics, and then—

you.

of course you’re there. of course you’re alone for once. leaning against the lockers by the science wing, backpack on the floor, kneeling like you dropped something and decided the floor was your enemy now. productive, probably. cheerleaders are always productive. or sad. maybe sad. he can’t tell. your face is tilted down, hair falling forward, hands messing with something—papers, maybe. a clipboard. figures.

mike. don’t.

he slows anyway, not on purpose. momentum just… decreases. great. alone cheerleader. he pretends he’s just heading for the vending machine, which he is. definitely. that’s why he’s here. he puts his hand in his pocket and inserts money into the machine. he doesn’t look at you at first, just presses the button. the soda drops halfway and gets stuck, tilted, mocking him. “of course.” he mutters.

you glance up, just a little. surprise flickers across your face, then something else—recognition, probably. annoyance. or relief. hard to tell. you straighten, brush your hands on your shorts. “um,” you say, hesitant. not rude, which is irritating. “sorry—did i—are you waiting for that?”

“no,” mike says automatically. “i mean. yes. but not—whatever. it’s stuck.”

“oh, yeah. that one always does that.” you know the vending machine patterns. of course you do. “if you hit it on the side,” you add, “sometimes it drops.”

mhm. great. you’re also a vending machine expert.

mike exhales through his nose, like that might dislodge the soda by intimidation alone. it doesn’t work. obviously. nothing ever works the first time. he hits the side of the machine anyway, not where you said, because he’s not taking instructions from you.

nothing.

he hits it again, harder. the machine rattles. the soda wobbles. stays stuck. he feels you watching him. now that’s worse. “you have to hit it lower.” you say, still gentle, still polite, like you’re talking to a skittish animal.

“i know.” he says, too fast, even though he absolutely did not know.

he hits it where you pointed. the soda drops. he freezes for half a second, staring at it like it embarrassed him.

“see?”

“yeah,” he mutters, grabbing it immediately, like if he doesn’t you’ll claim credit. “lucky.”

lucky. sure. that’s what that was.

he twists the cap off, takes a sip he doesn’t want. carbonated regret. he should leave now. he should walk away, turn the corner, let eddie yell at him for being late, sit down at the table and pretend his brain hasn’t been doing this stupid static thing all afternoon.

but you don’t move. instead, you bend back down toward the floor, scooping up the papers you dropped earlier. he registers them without meaning to—flyers. bright colors. handwritten letters. something about a fundraiser. a pep rally? a food drive? some kind of school-sanctioned enthusiasm. “your friends ditch you?” the question slips out before he can stop it. immediately, he wants to shove it back in his mouth.

you pause, just for a second. then you shrug. “guess so.”

“thought cheerleaders did everything in packs.” he says, aiming for neutral, landing somewhere closer to rude.

you huff a laugh, small, tired. “we usually do.” you stack the papers, tap them against your knee to straighten them.

“so why aren’t they helping?” he asks, because apparently today is ask questions mike shouldn’t ask day.

you hesitate and look down at the flyers instead of at him. “we had a fight.”

“about…?”

“me.” you say, simple, like it’s not a big deal. that sets something off in his chest that he absolutely does not want to examine.

“right,” he says. “well. people suck.”

it comes out harsher than he means. or maybe exactly as harsh as he means. hard to tell.

you glance up at him then, really look at him, not judging, not amused, just… curious. “yeah,” you agree quietly. “they kind of do.” you stand, adjusting the strap of your bag. your uniform’s slightly wrinkled, like you’ve been sitting on the floor longer than necessary. he looks away immediately. don’t be weird. don’t be weird. “anyway,” you say, forcing a lighter tone that doesn’t quite stick. “enjoy your soda, mike.”

“mm.” he hums, already halfway turned away. automatic response. the same sound he makes when his mom asks if he’s done his homework and he is technically in the same room as it.

he takes one step.

wait. he stops so abruptly his sneaker squeaks against the floor. stupid. loud. announces him like an idiot. you said his name. just—casually, like it belongs in your mouth. like you didn’t just pull it out of thin air. he turns back, frowning before he can stop himself. “how do you—”

he cuts himself off, because asking questions is dangerous. questions lead to answers. answers lead to thinking. you’re still there, waiting, like you’re used to people freezing up around you and you’ve learned to give them a second. “what?”

“how do you know my name.” he says, sharper than necessary, because his brain has already decided this is suspicious.

“oh. uh.”

uh???

“we’re in the same grade,” you say. “and you sit like… three tables over at lunch. with dustin. and eddie. and lucas.” you gesture vaguely, as if that explains everything. it does not explain anything.

“right,” he says flatly. “so you’ve been… what. keeping tabs?”

your eyebrows knit together. “what? no.”

“because that’d be weird.” he adds, immediately, because apparently he’s committed to being unbearable today.

“i hear people say your name.” you admit. “a lot. eddie kind of shouts it.”

traitor.

“doesn’t mean you should remember it.” mike mumbles.

you blink at him, once, then again, like you’re deciding whether this is worth your energy. “okay,” you reply slowly. “sorry for having ears.”

he bristles immediately. “i’m just saying it’s weird.”

“it’s not,” you say. “it’s… school. people talk.”

“about me?” he asks, skeptical, defensive, already convinced this is some kind of setup.

“trust me mike, no one’s gossiping about you.”

“wow,” he adds dryly. “thanks.”

“you’re welcome.”

he can feel himself locking up, shoulders tight, brain flipping through its usual list of explanations. she’s messing with you. this is a joke. this is what popular people do. they poke and see what reacts. “so,” he continues, sharp, “you just go around memorizing everyone’s name?”

you fold your arms. “no. just the loud ones.” eddie. definitely eddie. “and you,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “sit with them.”

“unfortunately.”

you tilt your head. “you don’t like them?”

“that’s not what i said.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“okay,” he corrects. “i like them. i don’t like… this place.” he gestures vaguely at the hallway. the lockers. the banners taped up crookedly. the stupid school colors everywhere.

“same.”

same? “don’t pretend,” he sounds annoyed. “you’re literally part of it.”

“part of what?”

“the… school,” he says, like it’s a disease. “pep rallies. assemblies. chanting. forced enthusiasm.”

“pep rallies are the worst.”

he wasn’t expecting that.

“they’re loud,” you continue. “and sweaty. and they make us stand there forever smiling like idiots while the principal yells into the mic.”

“…yeah,” mike says, cautious. “and the sound system always squeals.”

“exactly.”

his brain scrambles to patch the hole this just punched in his worldview. “still,” he says, regrouping, “you chose to do it.”

you shrug. “yeah. doesn’t mean i have to like every part.”

actually, yes, yes it does, mike decided for you. you can’t do that. “you don’t get a choice,” he says. “once you’re in that crowd, that’s it. hive mind.”

“wow. dramatic.”

“i’m serious.”

“i know,” you say. “that’s the dramatic part.”

he glares at you. you don’t back down. which is annoying. deeply. “you think we’re all the same,” you add, observational. “don’t you.”

“yes,” he says immediately. “because you are.”

“okay,” you nod. “then you’re all the same too.”

“what does that mean.”

“hellfire club,” you say. “dungeon stuff. dice. arguing about rules. hating everyone else.”

he stiffens. “it’s not dungeon stuff. it’s—”

“dungeons & dragons,” you say, smiling slightly. “i know.”

stop knowing things!

“my cousin plays,” you add quickly, like you see the shutdown coming. “he made me watch once.”

his brain stalls. he clears his throat, deciding not to acknowledge that, because that’s too much for him to unpack right now. “still weird you know my name.”

you roll your eyes. “fine. i’ll call you ‘hey you.’”

“don’t.”

“okay, mike.”

don’t.

his name shouldn’t do that. it’s a name. it’s been his his whole life. teachers say it. his mom says it. eddie yells it, apparently. dustin says it when he wants something. it has never—never—made his chest do that weird skip. this is new. therefore bad. his heart does a stupid little lurch, like when you miss a step on the stairs but don’t fall. that. sickening. nope. don’t do that. you’re not allowed.

“you don’t have to keep saying it.” he says, defensive posture engaged.

you blink, then smile a little, like you’re trying not to laugh. “your name?”

“yeah. it’s excessive.”

it’s not excessive. it’s four letters. you’re just weak. pull it together.

you tilt your head, studying him, like you’re trying to figure out how something works by looking at it too closely. stop that. i’m not a puzzle. i’m a person. a normal person who does not react to cheerleaders saying his name. “you’re really committed to hating me.” you observe.

“i don’t hate you.” he lies immediately.

you raise an eyebrow.

“i just,” he corrects, scrambling, “don’t trust you.”

“why?”

because cheerleaders ruined middle school. because they laughed at kids like him. because popularity is a disease. because if you let one in, they eat you alive.

“because,” he says instead, “people like you don’t usually just… talk to me.”

“but i am talking to you.” you point out.

“yeah, and that’s suspicious.”

“what, you think i have an agenda?”

yes.

“maybe.” he says. you step closer without realizing it. or maybe you do. he doesn’t know. he only knows suddenly you’re right there, close enough that he has to look down at you, and he hates that too. hates the angle. hates that his stupid brain immediately catalogues things: your eyes, your mouth, the crease between your brows like you frown when you concentrate. the way you smell. cheerleader pheromones. definitely a thing. he shifts his grip on the soda. the can is cold. “cheerleaders are basically a cult.” he adds.

“we have jackets, not robes.”

“same difference.”

“and you guys don’t?”

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. “we have dice.”

“dangerous.” you say solemnly.

he almost smiles. almost. he catches himself and scowls instead. “dice are serious.”

“i can tell,” you say, nodding gravely. “very intimidating.”

“you’re doing that on purpose.”

“doing what?”

“being… normal,” he gestures vaguely at you. “about it.”

“why wouldn’t i be?”

because you’re a cheerleader. because cheerleaders are supposed to be loud and cruel and dismissive. because middle school taught him that lesson very clearly and he has never, ever revisited it. because if that rule stops working, then a lot of other stuff starts unraveling too. “most people aren’t.” he says instead.

“most people suck.” you counter.

he laughs. you light up just a little when you notice. not exaggerated, not smug, just—pleased. damn it. “see,” you say. “we agree again.”

“don’t get used to it.” he mumbles, frustrated with himself.

“relax,” you say. “i’m not trying to convert you or anything.”

“good.”

“though,” you add, thoughtful, “if i were evil, this would be a great strategy. gain trust. lower defenses.”

“you just admitted it.”

you grin. “or did i?”

oh my god.

he shifts his weight, suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing. closer than earlier. close enough that he has to look down at you, which he hates because it makes him feel like he’s looming. or staring. or both. “why are you still here.” he asks, not unkindly, but not friendly either.

you glance at the hallway. empty now, lockers stretching on forever. “i guess i don’t really want to go home yet.”

that surprises him. it shouldn’t, but it does. “why.”

“long day.”

fair. he nods once. “yeah.”

“so,” you say, breaking the silence before it could settle. are all cheerleaders this talkative?? “what do you actually do in hellfire?”

“campaign planning,” he answers automatically. “and arguing.”

“about?”

“rules. strategy. morality.”

you smile. “morality?”

“yeah,” he says. “like… choices. consequences. who deserves what.”

“that’s kind of cool.”

his ears warm. god. really? that did it? “it’s not,” he says quickly. “it’s nerd stuff.”

“mike,” you smile gently, “i am wearing a uniform with my name stitched into it. we all have our things.”

fuck, you’re a little funny. just sometimes. only sometimes. he won’t admit any more than that. he looks at you again without the automatic defenses fully slamming shut. notices how relaxed you seem now, how your shoulders have dropped. she’s pretty, his brain supplies, unhelpfully. like, actually pretty. not just uniform pretty.

“aren’t you supposed to be at your club?” you add, like you’re checking a fact, not poking fun.

he braces. “yeah.”

you nod. “my brother thinks it’s satanic.”

“your brother’s an idiot.”

you blink, then laugh. actually laugh. quick and surprised. “yeah,” you say. “he is.” you pause. “i should go,” you say, lifting the flyers. “good luck with… your game.”

“campaign.” he corrects, because of course he does.

you smile, just a little. “right. campaign.”

you turn like that’s it, like this was a normal hallway interaction and not—whatever this was. the flyers bend a little in your hands. he watches you take one step, then another. okay. fine. good. solved. back to normal.

except his brain doesn’t move on. it stays right there, snagged on the way you said campaign like you were trying. on the laugh. on the fact that he’s still standing here instead of walking in the opposite direction like a sane person. why did i let this go on this long.

he thinks of middle school—of lockers slammed too hard, of jason-type smiles that meant we see you and we don’t like what we see. you’re almost out of reach when it happens. the thing he doesn’t pre-approve. the thing his mouth does before his brain files the paperwork. “you can—” he starts.

you stop. turn back.

oh no.

he clears his throat, already irritated with himself. “you can come. if you want.”

his heart does something idiotic, like it thinks this matters. “come where?” you ask.

“hellfire,” he says. then, defensive, “not—play. just watch. if you want. you don’t have to.”

abort abort abort.

“you’re inviting me?” you question carefully, rightfully suspicious of the boy who seemed convinced you were evil incarnate five minutes ago.

“i’m not inviting you,” he says immediately. “i’m just—informing you that it’s an option.”

“wow. generous.”

“you’ll hate it,” he adds, grasping for ground. “it’s boring. and eddie yells. and there’s arguing. like, a lot.”

“you already said that,” you point out. “it sounded kind of interesting.”

he scowls at the floor. “you won’t get it.”

“try me.”

that does something. he doesn’t like that it does something. “fine,” he says. “but if you laugh—”

“i won’t.”

“or ask stupid questions—”

“probably will.”

“—then i’m revoking the offer.”

“okay.” you fall into step beside him like this is settled. he’s aware of everything now. the sound of your sneakers. the way your arm brushes his for half a second and then doesn’t again.

he opens the door and steps inside first, awkwardly, like he’s not sure why he’s doing this. lucas is already rolling dice, dustin’s counting something, everyone’s focused on whatever they’re doing—but then you’re there, and it’s like someone hit pause. the air shifts, not because you’re here, because you shouldn’t be, and they don’t know why mike brought you. everyone’s eyes flick up, a pause, questions in the raised eyebrows, the leaning forward of heads. mike doesn’t look at them. he doesn’t answer. he’s too busy pretending this is normal, that having a cheerleader in the hellfire club is totally normal.

you, oblivious, set your bag down, smooth out your skirt, and settle into a chair near the back. the papers you were working on before now stacked neatly in front of you, clipboard balancing carefully on your knees. you start taking it all in, curious, not really judging, just watching. mike’s hands tap a pencil, notebook open, dice still scattered in front of him. he’s too aware of you; he’s too aware of the way you lean slightly, the hair brushing the side of your face, the way your eyes track what’s happening on the table without interrupting.

he hates that he notices. hates that his stomach churns when you scribble something down and hum, like the sound is small enough to be innocent but enough to catch his attention. he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, then pretends to focus on his dice, on his notebook, on the little notes he’s scribbled about character abilities, strategy, alignment. everything except you.

you lean a little forward as dustin explains a roll, and mike notices you nod, like you understand it, like you’re processing the rules in your head. cheerleaders don’t do this. they don’t sit and think about rules. they don’t watch dice. they don’t care about probability or alignment or morality in a dungeon. except somehow, you do. he hates it and doesn’t know why. he’s hyper-aware of every small gesture. somehow, you’re slipping into the group without breaking anything, without disrupting, just existing, watching, listening, and he’s watching you watch them, and he hates that he’s watching you watch them.

time stretches. mike rolls dice again but can’t completely concentrate. he reminds himself cheerleaders are evil. he reminds himself this was a mistake. he reminds himself you’re probably laughing at him. but somehow, the longer you sit, the longer you stay, the easier it gets to forget that he should hate this. not fully, not consciously, not admitting, but there’s something about the way you follow the dice, nod when someone explains a rule, that makes it almost… tolerable.

finally, eddie announces a break. mike exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. you get up first. “going?” he asks. too curt, defensive. too automatic. why do i even care?

“yeah,” you say, gathering your things. “see you at school?”

he nods. don’t say more. mike stands too, automatically, walks with you out of the club, and somehow it doesn’t feel quite as wrong as it did before. maybe it’s just that you exist, that you were polite and attentive, that you fit into his world in a way that makes sense even though it shouldn’t. “you’re… welcome to come by again.” he blurts suddenly. what are you doing? why did you say that?

he immediately regrets the words the second they leave his mouth. he’s never invited anyone to hellfire before. never. he’s never wanted anyone to see this side of him. he’s not allowed to like anyone enough to bring them here. definitely not a cheerleader. definitely not you.

“yeah, maybe.”

you glance at him, just a fraction, like you’re weighing something, not quite sure if you should ask, not quite sure if you should leave it. he notices the pause. long enough to make him uncomfortable, short enough to make him paranoid. “mike…” you finally say, quiet, careful, like you’re testing the waters. he stiffens automatically.

the “yeah?” he gave came out defensive.

you hesitate. “earlier, when you asked me how i knew your name… i lied.”

he blinks. stops walking for a split second, too stunned to notice. lied? she lied? why? evil. plotting. wrong. “what?” he asks, suspicious. dry. why would she lie? this is a trap. of course it’s a trap. she’s evil. she’s a cheerleader. shut down.

“i didn’t just know because of eddie,” you admit, like it’s dangerous to say it out loud. “i’ve .. always known.”

he stops. his brain sputters. always known? what does that even—why are you saying—wait—what? “what do you mean?” he says, voice sharper than intended, heart starting to hammer.

you glance down, cheeks coloring faintly. bashful. hesitant. “i mean i’ve —- kind of… liked you. for a while. i just… didn’t… say anything.”

he freezes, backpack straps digging into his shoulder, soda crinkling in his hand, mouth open like he’s going to explain something, defend himself, insist that this is a misunderstanding—but there’s nothing. he doesn’t have a defensive line ready for this. i—what—you—hello????

“you… what?” he says finally, incredulous, not believing. not sure if he wants to believe. part of him wants to tell you you’re wrong, that you’re lying, that cheerleaders are evil, that he hates this—but another part? another part is ridiculously, embarrassingly glad.

“yeah,” you admit, looking up just enough to meet his eyes. “i’ve always thought you were… cool, i guess.” your voice is soft, almost like you’re worried he’ll push you away.

he swallows. he wants to say something clever, dry, snarky, but none of it comes out. instead, he just stands there, balancing between panic and something else. why do i like that you like me?

he just stands there. too long. long enough that the silence starts to feel loud, like the hallway itself is waiting for him to say something smart or sharp or at least coherent. nothing comes. his brain is buffering. this was not in any possible outcome tree he’d bothered to map out. his heart is going way too fast, like he just ran laps. “i—” he starts, then stops. clears his throat. tries again. “you don’t—” also bad. abort.

you shift your weight, clearly bracing yourself. not dramatic about it, just steady, like you’re ready for him to say something awful and you’ve already decided you’ll survive it if he does. that’s somehow worse than if you were defensive. or sarcastic. or mean. he knows how to handle mean.

“i just wanted you to know,” you clarify. “that’s all. i know you hate me. i know you think i’m… whatever. i just figured i’d rather say it than keep pretending.”

he frowns automatically. “i don’t hate you.”

the words come out before he can stop them. immediate regret, followed by confusion about why he regrets them. he doesn’t hate you. when did that happen? when did that stop being true?

“you don’t?”

“i mean—” he stalls, because now he has to back it up. “i don’t… hate you. i thought i did. probably. i thought you were—” he gestures uselessly. “you know. like that.”

“evil?” you offer, dry but not offended.

he winces. “yeah.”

you giggle, a small little laugh that’s more relief than humor. “fair.”

that makes something in his chest loosen. he watches you while you talk, not in the way he was trying very hard not to earlier, but openly now, because apparently all his defenses are fried. you’re nervous, but not crumbling. you’re honest without apologizing for it. you don’t hedge every sentence. you just… say what you mean, like it’s allowed.

that’s wild to him.

mike wheeler does not say what he means. he deflects. he turns things into arguments so he doesn’t have to name what they actually are. feelings are messy. feelings get you hurt. feelings make you look stupid. feelings are stupid. he has spent years being very careful about that. you just walked up and handed yours over. “you’re brave.” he notices, and immediately cringes at himself for how stupid it sounds.

you tilt your head. “am i?”

“yeah,” he says, more firmly this time. “i wouldn’t do that.”

he doesn’t know why he’s admitting that. maybe because it’s true. maybe because you already admitted something worse. maybe because the world feels slightly off-kilter and honesty is leaking through the cracks. you shrug, a little shy now. “i’ve had practice.”

you’ve done this before. you know how to say things out loud. you know how to survive the answer either way. he admires that more than he wants to. he rubs the back of his neck and looks at the floor, then back at you. “i don’t really know what to say.”

“you don’t have to say anything,” you say quickly. “i’m not—this isn’t—” you stop yourself, take a breath. “i’m not asking for anything. i just didn’t want you thinking i only talked to you for some other reason. or because i was bored. or because i’m fake.”

“i did think that.” he admits.

you smile. “i know.”

that’s the thing. you always seem to know. and instead of using it against him, you just… accept it, like it’s part of the deal. “okay,” he says. “thanks. for… telling me.”

you relax a little, like that was the part you were holding your breath for. “yeah,” you say. “you’re welcome.” you start walking again, and he doesn’t hesitate before falling into step beside you. it feels different now, like something has shifted and neither of you knows what to call it yet. he’s still awkward, still stiff, still very much mike wheeler, incapable of a smooth emotional landing. but there’s something there now, an understanding. the knowledge that someone saw him, liked him, said it out loud, and the world didn’t end.

and he doesn’t hate you.

and now he’s thinking: wait. i don’t hate her. he actually doesn’t. like. at all. how long has it been since he’s felt this particular kind of not-hating? too long, really. and then, just like that, his brain decides to start justifying everything, retroactively rewriting history. maybe cheerleaders aren’t evil. maybe your friends aren’t all scheming idiots. maybe your laugh isn’t some weaponized sonic trap aimed at him specifically.

he glances at you enough to see you’re not looking at him, just staring forward, maybe thinking about something else. he likes that. your attention, or lack thereof, or… whatever. you watched him play D&D. you didn’t need to, but you did. more than anyone else. more than dustin explaining the same rule for the fourth time. more than eddie whining about dice. you actually watched mike, and now he’s thinking: okay. that’s… kind of nice. your attention. you. you’re kind of nice.

he notices your hands, how they swing a little when you walk, he notices the tilt of your head, like you’re quietly measuring the hallway, or counting tiles, or just… being you. maybe you’re kind of cool. maybe you’re not evil. maybe your friends are funny sometimes. maybe your hair just always looks better than it should for a tuesday.

and why does he feel good walking next to you? why does he like that you watched him play? do you notice him more than the others? and why the hell does that feel good? his chest feels lighter than it has in days. the panic has gone, replaced by a confusing, pleasant sort of… awareness.

why does it matter that you watched him? that you didn’t get bored, didn’t look around for someone better, didn’t laugh. you watched him, like what he was doing mattered. like he mattered.

the doors loom ahead, glass smeared with fingerprints, afternoon light bleeding through in dull yellow slabs, and suddenly the walk has an end. mike hates that. he hates endpoints. they force decisions. you slow first, of course you do. you’re better at this. at transitions. you stop just short of the doors and turn, half-smiling, like you’re already bracing for the moment to break.

he realizes, distantly, that he’s supposed to go back. hellfire. the campaign. the table. the dice. the version of himself that makes sense there. and you’re supposed to leave. walk out into the parking lot, back into your world. this is how it works.

his chest tightens at the idea.

he clears his throat, shifts his weight, looks anywhere but your face. the floor. the exit sign. why is this so hard? he’s faced demogorgons. literal monsters. this—this is just a person. a girl. a cheerleader. a girl who likes him. apparently.

“so,” he says, and immediately hates how thin it sounds. he coughs and tries again. “uh. i have to—” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, toward the club room. hellfire. destiny or whatever.

“yeah.” you say, understanding. not disappointed.

he nods, swallows, then, before his brain can intervene—before logic can tackle him to the ground— “would you maybe want to… hang out sometime?” it comes out rushed, like he’s tripping over his own words. “not—like—i mean, not a big thing. just—” he grimaces.

you blink, surprised, and then your smile spreads, slow and genuine, like you’re trying not to spook him. “yeah,” you agree. “i’d like that.”

“okay,” he says too quickly. then softer, like he’s testing it out. “okay.”

there’s a pause. the kind that feels like it could stretch if neither of you moves. but the doors are still there. reality still exists. you adjust your bag strap. “good luck with your… campaign.” you say, teasing but kind.

he huffs. “thanks.”

you hesitate, then lift a hand in a small wave. “bye, mike.”

his name again. still hits. still makes his chest do that stupid fluttering thing. “bye,” he says. then, because apparently he’s braver now—or dumber—“you.”

you push the door open and step into the light, and mike stands there for a second longer than necessary, watching the door swing shut behind you. his chest still feels light. his head feels full. when he finally turns back toward hellfire, he knows one thing with absolute, terrifying clarity:

he’s going to think about this the entire campaign.

based off this request !

STARTED 12.20.2025. POSTED 12.21.2025.

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