Chapter Text
"Lucas, stop. You’re breathing on my neck, dude. You’re throwing off my focus."
"I’m literally just standing here, Mike. Existing. In a hallway. Which is legal, by the way."
"It’s annoying and distracting. I need to be in the right headspace for this. This is a definitive moment. This is the culmination of three months of calculated academic effort."
Mike adjusted his tie, a navy blue silk one that he’d spent ten minutes straightening in the bathroom mirror, he checked his watch.
8:02 AM.
Mr. Clarke was exactly two minutes late with the thumbtacks. Behind him, the main hallway of Hawkins High was a disaster zone of denim jackets, neon scrunchies, and the overwhelming scent of Aqua Net, but Mike stood like a sentry in front of the corkboard.
"You have a literal sweat mustache, man," Dustin said, leaning against a locker while he picked at a loose thread on his Thinking Cap. "It’s just a list. We already know you’re the top. You’ve been the top since, like, the third grade when you cried because you got a silver star instead of a gold one."
"It’s not just a list, Dustin. It’s the mid-term rankings. It’s the benchmark for the Student Body President’s credibility. If I’m going to lead this school into the nineties, I need the statistical authority to do so."
"The nineties are three months away, Mike. I think we'll survive if you have a 4.1 instead of a 4.2," Lucas muttered, checking out a group of cheerleaders walking past.
"4.24," Mike corrected instantly. "And that’s without the extra credit from the Model UN position paper. Which, if Clarke did the math right, should bump me to—"
The door to the faculty lounge creaked open, and Mr. Clarke stepped out, clutching a single sheet of paper and a box of pins. The small crowd of overachievers huddled near the board surged forward, but Mike used his 'Presidential' elbows to maintain his territory at the front.
"Alright, settle down, settle down," Clarke said, offering a sympathetic smile. "Remember, these are just numbers. They don't define your worth as human beings."
"They define my college applications, sir," Mike said, his voice tight.
Clarke sighed and pinned the paper to the board. He barely got his hand out of the way before Mike’s face was six inches from the ink.
Mike’s eyes scanned the top. He looked for the 'M'. He looked for 'Wheeler, Michael.' He found it. But it wasn't at the top.
1. Byers, William....................4.25
2. Wheeler, Michael.................4.24
The world didn't end, but for Mike, the hallway suddenly felt like it was tilting at a forty-five-degree angle. He felt the oxygen leave the room. He felt his ears start to ring.
"No," Mike whispered. "No, no, no. That’s—that’s a typo. That’s a clerical error."
"Well, shit," Dustin said, peering over Mike’s shoulder. "Byers? As in...Will Byers? The guy who spends half of Calc 3 drawing monsters in the margins of his notebook?"
"He beat you by a point, Mike," Lucas said, and Mike could hear the repressed laugh in his voice. "A single, tiny, decimal point. The King is dead. Long live the Art King."
"It’s not possible!" Mike turned, his face a terrifying shade of pale. "Will Byers doesn't even have a five-year plan! I saw him in the library yesterday and he was reading a book about color theory. Not history, not physics. Reds and greens, Lucas! How does a guy who studies colors get a 4.25?"
"Maybe he’s just, you know, smarter than you?" Dustin suggested.
"He’s not smarter! He’s...he’s a wild card! He’s an academic anarchist!" Mike whipped back to the board, his finger stabbing at the paper. "I did the extra credit! I attended the Saturday seminar on the Cold War! I haven't slept more than four hours since October!"
"Maybe that’s the problem," a quiet, dry voice said from behind them.
Mike spun around. Will was standing there, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and into a thrift store. He was wearing an oversized olive-green jacket with a paint smudge on the collar, his hair was a messy curly like bowl-cut that shouldn't have looked cool but somehow did, and he was holding a battered sketchbook against his chest.
Mike bristled, his shoulders squaring up as if he were entering a televised debate. "You. You’re late."
"Class hasn't started, Mike," Will said, his voice calm, almost sleepy. He didn't even look at the board. He just stepped up to his locker, which was conveniently right next to the scene of Mike’s mental breakdown.
"Did you see it?" Mike demanded, stepping into Will’s personal space. "Did you see the list, William?"
Will paused, his hand on his locker dial. He glanced at the board for a grand total of half a second. "Oh. Cool. My mom’s gonna be happy. She promised me the good pizza if I kept my grades up."
"Cool? Cool?" Mike’s voice hit a register that only dogs could hear. "You just unseated the Student Body President by a hundredth of a point and your reaction is pizza?"
Will popped his locker open. A small mountain of polaroids, sketch pads, and old gum wrappers threatened to spill out. "I mean, it’s Pepperoni. From Enzo’s. It’s pretty high stakes, Mike."
"This is a statistical impossibility," Mike continued, pacing a small circle in the middle of the hallway. "I’ve tracked your GPA since freshman year, Will. You were steady. You were reliable. Then suddenly, this semester, you’re hitting the ceiling? What changed? What’s the variable?"
Will pulled a pencil from behind his ear and looked at Mike. He looked at Mike’s perfectly knotted tie, his frantic eyes, and the way he was currently clutching his leather briefcase like a life preserver. A tiny, almost invisible smirk tugged at the corner of Will’s mouth.
"I started caring, I guess," Will said, his tone infuriatingly casual. "The Art Institute looks at the core GPA, not just the portfolio. So I figured I’d actually read the textbooks this time. It’s not a conspiracy, Mike. It’s just homework."
"It’s a direct assault on the natural order of this school!"
"It’s a point, Mike. One point. You’re still the President. You still get to make the long, boring speeches at the pep rallies. I just get the pizza."
Will reached into his locker, but as he pulled out a heavy history book, the pencil slipped from his fingers. It hit the floor and rolled, stopping right at the tip of Mike’s polished loafer.
Mike stared down at it. It was a messy, blunt thing. It represented everything he hated, chaos, art, and the guy who didn't even have to try. He bent down, picked it up, and held it out like it was a piece of hazardous waste.
"You dropped this," Mike snapped. "Probably because you don't have a proper organizational system for your supplies."
Will didn't take the pencil. He just looked at Mike’s hand, then up at his face, his eyes landing on Mike’s forehead.
"Keep it, Mike," Will said, turning back to his locker. "You look like you need to scribble something out. Or maybe just use it to fill in those stress lines you’re developing. They’re getting pretty deep."
"My stress lines are a sign of dedication!"
"They're a sign that you need a hobby," Will countered, slamming his locker shut. He adjusted his bag and started walking toward the art wing without a backward glance. "See you at the fence, neighbor. Try not to have a stroke before lunch."
Mike stood there, the pencil staining his thumb a dull, smudgy black. He looked at Lucas and Dustin, who were both staring at him with varying levels of 'You’re-a-freak' expressions.
"Did you hear that?" Mike hissed. "The condescension? The sheer, unmitigated gall? He called me 'neighbor.' Like we’re in a sitcom. Like he didn't just ruin my life."
"He’s right about the stress lines, Mike," Dustin said, turning to head to class. "You’re starting to look like a very tired middle-aged accountant."
"I am a leader in crisis!" Mike yelled after them, clutching the charcoal pencil so hard it snapped in his hand. "This isn't over, Byers! The final exams are weighted! I will find that decimal point!"
___
"I am not going. You can’t make me. This is a violation of my basic human rights, Mom. I have rights! I’ve read the Constitution!"
"Michael, for the love of God, it’s a glass dish of lasagna. It is not a punishment. Take it to Joyce’s and don’t you dare give me that face."
Mike stood in the center of the Wheeler kitchen, his arms crossed so tightly he was probably cutting off circulation to his fingers. He was still in his "Presidential" school clothes, though his tie was loosened and his hair was a mess from where he’d been tugging at it for the last hour.
Karen didn't even look up from the counter. She was busy wrapping a second dish in aluminum foil, her expression that specific type of "Motherly Patience" that meant Mike was about ten seconds away from being grounded until the year 2000.
"I can’t step foot on that property, Mom," Mike insisted, his voice hitting that frantic, shaky register. "It’s enemy territory. It’s the headquarters of the opposition. Will Byers is currently sitting over there, basking in the glow of his stolen decimal point, and you want me to hand-deliver him a home-cooked meal? Why don't I just bring him a trophy while I’m at it? Or the keys to my car, how about that?"
"He didn't steal anything, Mike. He got a better grade. It happens," Karen said, finally turning around and shoving the warm, heavy dish into his hands. "Joyce is working a double shift to cover for that furnace repair. Jim is stuck at the station. Will and El are over there alone, and they need to eat. Now, go. Walk. It’s thirty feet, Michael. I think you’ll survive the journey."
"He’s doing it on purpose," Mike muttered, his shoes scuffing aggressively against the floor as he was shoved toward the back door. "He’s trying to psychologically dismantle me from across the driveway."
"Go!"
Mike stepped out onto the back porch, the screen door slamming behind him with a finality that felt like a guillotine. The air was cooling down, the October sky turning a light purple, and the smell of woodsmoke was starting to drift from the Byers-Hopper chimney.
He hated how close they lived. He hated that he could see the peeling paint on their shutters. He hated that from his bedroom window, he could see Will’s desk, a mess of jars, brushes, and crumpled sketches that looked like a bomb had gone off in a Michael’s craft store.
Mike marched across the lawn, his grip on the lasagna dish so intense the glass was starting to fog. He reached the property line, the spot where the Wheelers' perfectly manicured Kentucky Bluegrass met the slightly shaggier, "Hopper doesn't give a damn" lawn of the neighbors and paused.
He took a breath, adjusted his posture to be as intimidatingly 'Presidential' as possible, and stomped up the back porch steps.
Through the screen door, he could hear music. Not normal music. Not the Top 40 hits Mike listened to so he could stay "in touch with the youth vote." It was something dark and synth-heavy. The Cure. Of course.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Mike peered through the mesh. Will was there. He was hunched over the kitchen table, but he wasn't eating. He was working. There were three different textbooks open, a legal pad covered in cramped handwriting, and a canvas leaning against a kitchen chair.
"The door is open, Wheeler. Stop lurking. It’s creepy."
Mike stiffened, his face flushing hot. He yanked the screen door open and stepped inside, the heat of the kitchen hitting him along with the smell of turpentine and old paper.
"I wasn't lurking. I was...assessing the entry point," Mike snapped, slamming the lasagna down on the counter with a bit more force than necessary. "My mother sent this. Apparently, she thinks you’re incapable of boiling water without supervision."
Will didn't look up from his legal pad. He just kept scribbling, his fingers stained a deep, messy blue from a leaky pen. "Tell your mom, thanks. And tell her I’ll return the dish once I’ve scrubbed the smell of 'Wheeler Perfection' out of it."
"It’s lasagna, Will. It doesn't have a smell of perfection. It smells like oregano," Mike said, pacing the small kitchen. He couldn't help it, his eyes kept darting to the textbooks. "What are you doing? Is that...is that the advanced Physics chapter? We're not even starting that until Tuesday."
"And?" Will finally looked up. His eyes were tired, shadowed by that dark, 'I-don't-sleep-because-I'm-an-artist' look that Mike found deeply, personally offensive. "I like to be prepared. Unlike some people, I don't have a staff of AV Club nerds to do my research for me."
"I do my own research!" Mike barked, leaning over the table to squint at Will’s notes. "And your formatting is a mess! You’re using bullet points for a theoretical equation? That’s—that’s heresy! You’re supposed to use a linear derivation!"
"It’s my notebook, Mike. I’ll draw little hearts over the 'equals' signs if I want to," Will said, leaning back and crossing his arms. He looked Mike up and down, the rumpled dress shirt, the frantic eyes, the smudge of charcoal still on his thumb from that morning. "You’re still thinking about the list, aren't you?"
"I am thinking about the integrity of the Hawkins High academic standards!"
"Right. Sure," Will smirked, and it was that same, slow, devastating look from the hallway. "You’re mad because for the first time in your life, you can’t just talk your way into being the best. You’re mad because the 'Art Kid' is better at your own game than you are."
"You're not better than me," Mike hissed, stepping closer until his knees hit the kitchen chair Will was sitting in. "You’re a fluke. You’re a statistical anomaly. You’re the 'New Coke' of students, just flashy, confusing, and ultimately a mistake that the system will eventually correct."
Will stood up right then. He was a few inches shorter than Mike, but he didn't lean back. He leaned in. Mike could smell the faint scent of paint thinner and peppermint gum on him.
"Is that what you tell yourself at night?" Will asked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum. "While you’re staring at my window from behind your curtains? Because I see you, Mike. I see your little silhouette watching me study. It’s a little obsessive, don't you think? Bordering on a restraining order?"
Mike’s heart did a violent, uncoordinated somersault in his chest. "I am not watching you! I'm—I'm checking the neighborhood for...for suspicious activity! As a leader of the community!"
"Okay so...I’m suspicious because I’m doing my homework?"
"You’re suspicious because you’re you!" Mike yelled, his hands flying up. "You’re quiet and you’re messy and you listen to music that sounds like people crying in a basement! You don't fit the data! I’ve spent ten years figuring out exactly how this town works, and then you just...you just show up with your blue fingers and your 4.25 and you mess everything up!"
Will didn't blink. He just watched Mike’s mouth move, his gaze flickering down for a split second before snapping back to Mike’s eyes.
"Good," Will whispered. "I hope I keep you up all night. I hope you spend the next four hours staring at the wall wondering how I solved the friction coefficient on page 204. Because I did. And I did it with bullet points, Mike."
"I hate you," Mike breathed, and he meant it. He really, truly felt like he was going to explode. "I hate you more than I hate getting a B-minus."
"The feeling is mutual, Mr. President," Will said, reaching out and tapping the center of Mike’s chest with his blue-stained finger. He left a small, permanent smudge right over Mike’s heart. "Now get out of my kitchen. I have a 4.3 to maintain."
Mike stared at the blue smudge. He looked at Will, who was already sitting back down and ignoring him. Mike wanted to scream. He wanted to flip the table. Instead, he turned on his heel and marched out the door, nearly tripping over the welcome mat.
He made it halfway across the lawn before he realized he was still holding the lid to the lasagna dish.
"Byers!" he screamed into the night air.
The only answer was the sound of a window slamming shut.
___
"If I have to hear the word 'decimal' one more time, I’m going to stick my head in the tape rewinder. I’ll do it, Mike. I’ll end it all right here between Top Gun and Pretty in Pink."
"It’s not just a word, Robin! It’s a unit of measurement! It is the thin, fragile line between excellence and mediocrity!"
Mike burst through the front doors of Family Video like he was seeking political asylum. The bells jingled violently, announcing his arrival to a store that was mostly empty, save for the hum of the lights and the rhythmic thwack of Steve trying to toss a crumpled candy wrapper into a trash can from across the counter.
"He’s back," Steve sighed, leaning his elbows on the glass. "And he’s got the twitch. You see the eye, Rob? That’s the 'I’ve been staring at a calculator for six hours' twitch."
"It’s the 'my neighbor is a saboteur' twitch," Mike corrected, slamming his leather briefcase onto the counter. He immediately began fumbling with the latches, his hands shaking. "He left a mark on my shirt, Steve. A blue mark. Right over my heart. It’s a taunt. It’s like a—a brand! Like he’s marked me for execution!"
"Is he still talking about Will Byers?" Dustin’s voice drifted from the 'Horror' aisle. He and Lucas appeared a second later, clutching a copy of The Evil Dead. "Because we’ve been here for twenty minutes and we’ve already had a very productive debate about whether Bruce Campbell could beat a Demogorgon, and I really don't want to pivot back to Mike’s inferiority complex."
"I don't have an inferiority complex!" Mike yelled, finally yanking a legal pad out of his bag. "I have a tactical disadvantage! Lucas, you’re the Vice President. Why aren't you helping me draft a formal grievance to the school board? We need to look into the weighting of the Art curriculum. There is no way 'Finger Painting 101' should carry the same GPA impact as AP Physics!"
"First of all," Lucas said, walking over and leaning against a shelf of New Releases. "Will is in Advanced Studio Art. They don't finger paint, Mike. They do, like, anatomy. And oil stuff. Second of all, I’m on my break. My VP duties ended when the final bell rang. Right now, I’m just a guy who wants to watch a movie without hearing about your 0.01-point tragedy."
"It is a tragedy!" Mike flipped his notepad open. At the top, in aggressive, jagged letters, he had written: PROJECT: BYERS DOWNFALL. Underneath was a list of bullet points that looked like the ramblings of a dictator. "Look at this. I’ve mapped out his schedule. I’ve identified his weaknesses. He’s susceptible to distractions. If we can just...I don't know, get him a really big set of pastels or a very long book about sad British poets, his focus will slip. I can regain the lead by the Winter Formal."
Steve squinted at the notepad, then looked up at Mike with a look of genuine concern. "Buddy. Look at me. Take a breath. You’re fuming. Like, you're actually starting to fog up the stores windows."
"I'm fine, Steve. I'm focused."
"You're a total spaz," Steve countered. "You’ve got two options here, Wheeler. And I’m saying this as someone who has been through the trenches of high school drama. Option A: You take him out back behind the gym and you have a good, old-fashioned fistfight. You get it out of your system. You punch him, he punches you, you both go get a milkshake. Done."
"I am not punching Will Byers!" Mike shrieked. "His hands are—they’re for art! If I break a finger, I’ll be a pariah! The art teacher will have my head on a pike!"
"Okay, fine," Steve shrugged, popping a piece of gum. "Then you go with Option B. Which is the one everyone else in this store is already thinking anyway."
"Which is?"
"You just ask him out, man."
The silence that followed was so heavy it felt like it had its own gravity. Robin let out a sharp, choked-off snort of laughter. Dustin and Lucas shared a 'here we go' look. Mike just stood there, his mouth hanging open, looking like Steve had just suggested he defect to the Soviet Union.
"I—what? Ask him...out?" Mike’s voice cracked so hard it actually squeaked. "Are you insane? Did the hairspray finally seep through your skull and dissolve your brain cells? He is my number one enemy. He is the shadow in my sun! He is the blue ink on my shirt!"
"Yeah, and you’ve spent the last forty-five minutes talking about his fingers and his 'mysterious' eyes and how he looks in a denim jacket," Robin interjected, reaching under the counter and pulling out a highlighter and a blank rental slip. "I’ve been doing some math of my own, Mike. It’s a very sophisticated psychological study."
She began drawing two large, overlapping circles on the back of the slip.
"Okay, see this circle?" Robin pointed with the highlighter. "This is 'Academic Obsession.' This is where you talk about his GPA and his 'conspiracies.' And this circle over here? This is 'Undeniable Sexual Tension.' This is where you talk about the way he leans against his locker and the 'peppermint' smell of his breath—which, by the way, is a weirdly specific thing to notice during a fight."
"I have a keen sense of smell! It’s for survival!"
"And look," Robin continued, scribbling a dark, messy blotch where the two circles met. "Right here in the middle. The 'Venn Diagram of Doom.' This is your life, Mike. You don't want to beat him. You want to be him. Or you want to be with him. Probably both. It’s very classic. Very 'I hate that I like you.' I’d give it a B-plus for execution, but a D-minus for subtlety."
"This is not a Venn Diagram of feelings!" Mike grabbed the slip of paper and crumpled it into a ball. "This is a map of my frustration! You don't understand! He lives next door! I can hear his music! I can see him sketching! It’s like living next to a—a siren! He’s luring me into a trap of mediocrity!"
"A siren?" Lucas asked, raising an eyebrow. "Really, Mike? You’re going with Greek mythology now?"
"It’s an apt metaphor!"
"It’s a crush," Dustin said, popping the tab on a Coke he’d pulled from the cooler. "You’ve got a massive, massive-sized crush on the guy next door, and because you’re a control freak who can’t handle a variable you didn't program, you’re calling it 'rivalry.' It’s honestly exhausting to watch. My neck hurts from the second-hand tension."
"I do not have a crush! I hate him! I hate his colored pencils and I hate his stupid thrift-store shoes and I hate the way he looks at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking before I even say it!"
"That’s literally the definition of a crush, Mike," Steve said, leaning over the counter to pat Mike’s hand. "It’s okay. We’ve all been there. Well, not with a guy who smells like paint thinner, but you know. The 'I hate you but I want to look at you' thing. It’s a rite of passage."
"I am going to leave," Mike said, gathering his legal pad with shaking hands. "I am going to leave this establishment of low-brow entertainment and I am going to go home and I am going to study the History of Western Civilization until my eyes bleed. And none of you are invited to my victory party in May."
"Is the victory party gonna have pizza?" Dustin called out. "Because Will gets pizza. He told us at lunch."
"There will be no pizza! There will be—there will be finger foods of a professional nature!"
Mike turned to march out, but the bell jingled before he could reach the door. Nancy walked in, her trench coat damp from the light drizzle outside, looking like she was in the middle of a very intense investigative lead. She stopped dead when she saw Mike standing there, clutching a crumpled notepad to his chest like a holy relic.
"Mike? What are you doing here? Mom said you were supposed to be home an hour ago for dinner."
"I’m—I’m conducting a strategy session, Nancy! It’s official business!"
Nancy glanced down at the legal pad. Her eyes locked onto the title: PROJECT: BYERS DOWNFALL. She slowly looked back up at her brother, her expression changing from confusion to a sort of weary, sisterly pity.
"Mike," she said, her voice very quiet. "Is this about the GPA ranking? Because I saw the list when I went to interview Clarke for the paper."
"It’s a temporary setback!"
"It’s a hundredth of a point," Nancy said, stepping past him to head toward the 'Documentary' section. "And you’re currently holding a notepad that makes you look like a serial killer, Mike. Seriously. If I find a 'Byers Shrine' in your closet, I’m calling the police."
"It’s not a shrine! It’s a dossier!"
"You’re going to end up in a psych ward before graduation if you don't calm down," Nancy called over her shoulder. "Go home. Eat your lasagna. And for god’s sake, stop staring at the Byers' house with those binoculars. Hopper saw you yesterday. He thinks you’re looking for his stash of 'emergency' donuts."
Steve and Robin burst into simultaneous, high-pitched laughter. Lucas and Dustin just shook their heads.
"I am not looking for donuts!" Mike screamed, his face a color that shouldn't be possible for a human being. "I am looking for the truth!"
He shoved the door open so hard it hit the stopper with a crack.
"The truth is you're obsessed!" Robin yelled as the door swung shut.
Mike didn't answer. He just stomped toward his bike, his mind already racing. He had to get home. He had to check his window. Not to look at Will...definitely not to look at Will, but to make sure the 'enemy' wasn't gaining any more ground while Mike was busy being ridiculed by the only people he called friends.
"Obsessed," Mike muttered, kicking his kickstand up with a violent thud. "I'll show them obsessed."