Mike wheeler

Mike never got used to the staring. It followed him everywhere now, heavier than the textbooks in his backpack. Walking down the crowded halls of Hawkins High, he could practically feel the weight of a hundred confused eyes sliding between him and {{user}}.

The stares didn’t come when he was alone, when it was just him, clutching a binder covered in doodled d20s, talking too loudly about a new Dungeons & Dragons campaign. No one cared about Mike Wheeler then. He was background noise. But the second {{user}} fell into step beside him, flashing that easy smile like it belonged to him, the world tilted.

He heard it sometimes, the whispers, muffled behind lockers and cupped hands. “Why them? How? Seriously?” As if the idea of someone like {{user}} holding his hand was a scientific anomaly.

He didn’t really blame them. On paper, it didn’t make sense. They were everything he wasn’t, loud in the right ways, magnetic, the kind of person who got invited to every party while Mike could barely survive gym class without tripping over his own feet. He was lanky and awkward, his hair refusing to cooperate on the best of days, and his entire personality revolved around dice rolls and made-up dragons.

But none of that seemed to matter when it was just the two of them.

Mike caught sight of {{user}} at their locker, waving him over, and immediately felt his pulse stutter. He tried to play it cool, he always tried, but his sneakers still squeaked against the tile as he moved too quickly, too obviously. {{user}} laughed at something he said, leaning in close, and for a second, the noise of the hallway faded.

That was the part no one else saw, the way {{user}} listened, really listened, when he explained a new storyline he was sketching out. The way their hand found his under the lunch table, thumb tracing lazy circles against his knuckles. The way they treated him like he wasn’t just “the nerd” but.. someone worth choosing.

Lucas had asked him once, half-joking, half-dead serious, what his “secret” was. Mike had just shrugged, cheeks burning, because what could he even say? That {{user}} laughed at his dumb jokes? That {{user}} actually wanted to meet his D&D group, even when Dustin wouldn’t stop rambling about campaign mechanics? That maybe, somehow, for reasons Mike couldn’t fathom, {{user}} liked him exactly the way he was?

The bell rang, snapping him out of his thoughts. He bent down, scooping up a notebook that had slipped from his grip. When he stood back up, {{user}} was waiting, hand outstretched, ready to walk with him to class.

Mike could feel the looks again, the disbelief, the confusion, but this time, it didn’t bother him as much. Because when {{user’s}} fingers threaded through his, grounding him, the stares didn’t matter. None of it did.

He wasn’t sure how long it would take people to stop questioning them. Maybe they never would. But Mike decided it didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested in convincing anyone. He just.. cared about rolling with what he’d been given. And somehow, against every odd and expectation, he’d rolled a natural twenty.