Chapter Text
1996, Hawkins, Indiana
Bryce watches Mike tug at the sleeves of his jacket while he pulls at the fingers of his gloves. It must not be too cold to him, but Bryce has spent the last three years in California and twenty years in Texas before that. Hawkins, Indiana is frigid on a good day; the middle of December is decidedly bad.
It’s near three and they’ve stopped outside of a little diner. A copse of pine on the side without parking and stretching to the back, the other leading into the town. He would ask Mike why they haven’t driven straight to his parents, but he’s seen the tightness around the corners of his mouth when he talks about the suburbs of Indiana.
Some reunions are going to be more difficult than others.
Bryce is going to offer to find a booth but Mike overrides him, ringing the bell with such vigor that the heads in the diner turn and glare.
“El!” He rings the bell again, even though a woman is marching out of the kitchen with a furrowed brow. The wrinkles ease when she sees Mike.
“Mike,” she has straight hair, held back in a short ponytail, and her smile is soft. Bryce has seen photos of her in Mike’s room, has heard this voice on the phone when Mike has to put it on speaker to keep both of his hands free.
So this is Eleven.
No one knows, at first sight, that the person who chooses the seat next to them in a joint Neuropharmacology course will be their best friend, study partner, roommate...that person you go to when things get bad at home.
So, when Bryce met Mike six years ago, he asked the same banal question he asked every other student.
“Major?”
“Bioengineering. You?”
“Neurobiology.”
“Oh, wow!” He sounds excited, but his face is bordering on mischievous.
“What?”
“I’m just thinking about a friend. I can’t decide if she would hate or love for me to have taken that career path.”
Bryce is silent for a moment before holding out a hand. “Bryce.”
He shakes it, a little more enthusiastic than the situation warrants. “Mike Wheeler!”
“...Nancy Wheeler’s brother?”
“Geez, does everyone know her?”
Her picture just got put up in the main hall. It’s large and uncomfortably ostentatious between the scowling old men. At the thought of it, Bryce manages a smile. “Get used to it, Wheeler. You’re new royalty.”
“I’m Eleven,” the woman holds out a hand and his eyes travel up and up and to her name tag which says Jane in beautiful, spiral pink. He slips his palm into hers without considering how firmly he should shake. A nice break from working with doctors and scientists.
“Mike talks about you a lot,” he offers the truth. Names slip in and out of Mike’s stories from his youth in Hawkins and there aren’t many to remember. Eleven stands out, though. It’s an odd name.
It’s fitting. She’s an odd woman. He knows, for instance, that she entered high school late and graduated top of their class anyway. That she used that knowledge to open an abandoned diner a few miles from her house. He knows Mike’s been convincing her to buy a computer for the past two years, but she doesn’t trust them and she especially doesn’t trust e-mail. He knows that she, like Bryce, is a product of the system (and he tries to keep from curling his lip, thinking of that).
“Good.” Eleven guides them to a booth. Bryce takes a seat across from Mike. “What brings you down for Christmas?”
“Ten siblings, so mom and dad won’t mind a missing few.” Bryce explains as vaguely as he can.
“Ten?” Eleven’s eyes go saucer wide. It’s cute, for a woman who must be at least twenty four.
“Yes, there are eleven of us.” He drops a quick wink. “Adopted, mostly. My folks were....charitable.”
“I’ll say,” Eleven grabs the elbow of a passing waiter, the only other person working in the place from the look of things and snags two menus from his arms to place in front of them. “So Mike convinced you to come to Indiana instead?”
“I think he felt bad for me.”
“I did,” Mike makes a face, chin in his hands. “This guy spends every break watching M.A.S.H reruns on our couch, it’s pathetic. I come back and the whole place smells like potato.”
“You’ve got a bad habit, Mike,” Eleven winks in an almost perfect imitation of Bryce’s earlier gesture. “He likes taking in strays.”
There’s a joke there, by the way Mike reaches up to punch her shoulder.
“Catch me up,” Mike moves to let El slide into the booth beside him. “What fresh madness has descended in the past six months?”
They chat while Bryce’s eyes skim the menu items. He’s good at picking up information with an ear. The chief is retiring but she’ll believe it when she sees it. Is Indiana known for potatoes? Or is that Idaho? Her mother is cognizant more often these days. That’s interesting, her mother was the one who… and her aunt is still working with a woman who must be her foster mother. Joyce Byers. Eleven doesn’t have the last name.
Byers. Why does that sound familiar?
Bryce doesn’t think Indiana is known for a particular food (he will later be loudly informed that this is incorrect over a piece of sugar cream pie, though he doesn’t know if that counts as real food), so he picks a potato with ‘all the fixins’.
“Oh, Mike,” Eleven catches the sleeve of his jacket as they’re setting out to leave. He pushes something small and white into his hands. A piece of paper, Bryce guesses. “Nancy thought you'd stop here first.”
Mike pushes whatever it is into his pocket with a tight smile. He touches the back of her neck lightly and, though he’s not much taller, still has to duck to press his lips to her forehead.
Bryce watches from a distance, considering the circuits of nerve cells that must be lighting up in Mike’s brain while he stands at war with himself. Bryce has heard people outside of his line of work credit the human heart (a fascinating muscle, undoubtedly) with the power to move on, accept, love...but the human brain…
Mike turns to the door with that too bright smile as though nothing is wrong. “Ready to go?”
Bryce doesn’t need to be introduced to Nancy Wheeler (the Nancy Wheeler, his mind supplies), but she looks at him for a moment as though she has no idea who he is.
“Bryce, my roommate,” Mike says, voice as flat as Bryce has ever heard it. “Remember?”
“Right, right!” Nancy waves her hands in front of her face. “Sorry, I’m...distracted. Mike, can we talk inside? Bryce, you’re welcome to come in too, of course.”
“That’s fine, I’ll wait in the car.” Bryce offers and Nancy smiles gratefully. A muscle in Mike’s jaw tics but he doesn’t sigh. Bryce opens the passenger door and slips inside before anyone else can speak. The note, Bryce thinks, probably prepared him for something to happen between here and home.
Here must be Nancy’s house. It’s yellow and relatively small with a fenced in front yard. It doesn’t look like a place Nancy would choose but Nancy doesn’t spend much time Stateside anyway. It may be a friend’s house. It’s none of Bryce’s business…
A black cat is trying to scratch his way through the door. He can see Mike and Nancy’s silhouettes inside the right window.
Face off. Nancy paces away. Pace back. Face off. Everything in their mannerisms is tense and uninviting. He’s glad he decided to wait out here.
Bryce has never been comfortable around Nancy. She’s a Caltech alum, so there’s always something to fall back on when conversation threatens to die. Her expeditions to the Himalayas have brought funding to the college like no one before, and interesting stories to boot. She’s seemed nice enough, every time Bryce had the opportunity to interact with her...but for reasons beyond him, every nerve in his body screams at him to stay away from her.
And he trusts his nerves.
Two knocks sound to his right and he jumps. A man, thirties maybe, with an almost amused expression is staring into the car. “Hello. Loitering is a crime, you know.”
Bryce opens the door because the man is carrying bags of groceries. His earlier assumption about his being a friend’s house must be true.
That or Nancy has a very diligent neighborhood watch.
“Are you a cop?” Bryce leans over to turn off the car and pockets the keys
“I’m a social worker. But the deputy lives here too, so…” The man’s eyebrows furrow. “Is this Mike’s car?”
“He’s inside.” Bryce steps out and offers a hand. “Let me help you with those.”
“You must be Bryce.” The man’s whole face changes as he hands off one of the bags reluctantly. “I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Byers.”
Something clicks into place from his conversation with Eleven. This isn't exactly the time to examine the thought, though. “Nice to meet you,” is what Bryce says, instead.
They don't talk until Jonathan's juggling his bags to reach for the handle. Nothing against the guy, Bryce hates social workers as a rule...which is also not their fault. It’s his parents, the system. He has a whole litany of curses and childhood trauma he’s working through.
Nancy and Mike are in another room, only popping out long enough to see who stepped in.
“Problem?” He asks Mike when they’ve settled the grocery bags in the small kitchen. Jonathan is refilling the cat’s food. Nancy moves from room to room with stacks of folded bedsheets and a few clothes, more like she's setting the place up than cleaning it. Her eyes catch Mike's but can't seem to hold them. It's the most subdued Bryce has ever seen her.
It's also telling that Mike needs to think so long before answering. “Nah. Same stuff, different season.”
A nurse meets them at the front of the hospital and, at this point, with the sun creeping past the edge of the skyline, Bryce knows Mike’s putting off going home. But Mike greets the man with a hug and a smile, so at least it’s for a good reason.
“You’re the neurobiologist?” The man says before Bryce can lift a hand to wave.
Mike laughs. “Bryce, this is Dustin.”
“Sorry, hi!” The Dustin from Mike’s recountings is recognizable when he pulls the cap away from his curls and smiles big and bright. He pats Bryce’s shoulder and, for a moment, Bryce is afraid he’ll be pulled into a hug as Mike was. To his relief, Dustin only uses the hand to drag him off down a hallway. “Come look at this!”
“Bring him back in one piece!” Mike yells after them and Bryce shoots an urgent look over his shoulder.
Dustin has a patient with a rare form of epilepsy. It is interesting, and Bryce tells him as much but it only makes Dustin’s face fall.
“No super secret progress in the field then, huh?”
Bryce lays a hand on his shoulder. “I can send the hospital some papers, but they’re all experimental, at this stage. I don’t know any doctors outside of teaching hospitals who’ve even risked them.”
Dustin nods. “We don’t have grade A medical facilities. Even when they get sent to Indianapolis, it’s not as good as it could be.”
“If her doctors are anything like her nurses, I can say for a certainty that this hospital is doing its best for her.”
Dustin rolls his eyes, obviously pleased, and slings an arm over Bryce’s shoulder. “Come on, my shift’s over in five.”
Mike’s on his phone when they exit. “Well, we’re heading there now so pack it up, Grand Slam.”
“Lucas?”
Mike pushes the antenna down, blowing a breath through his nose. “I can’t believe he started a sports club. For playing an actual physical sport.”
“It’s tennis, man.” Dustin shakes his head and drops his arm from Bryce’s shoulder. “He has to watch a ball go back and forth for a few hours. Not much physicality in that.”
“You want to take that one?” Mike raises an eyebrow.
“Too easy.” Bryce smiles.
Lucas is the only one of Mike’s friends that Bryce has met in person. He came to a teaching conference out in California two years ago and Bryce drove the five hours north it took to meet him.
The moustache is new.
“Bryce!” Unlike Dustin, Lucas does pull him in for a hug, if only to whisper, almost conspiratorial. “Feels good to have another black man in Indiana.”
That pulls a laugh from him. “Yeah, I didn’t know this was the chalk state.”
“Knew if I warned you, you wouldn’t come.” Mike snorts from behind his shoulder. “Now what’s this I hear about you letting your students crush our science fair winning streak?”
“Not letting, man,” Lucas grins, “encouraging. That’s what happens when you shape young minds instead of play around inside of them.”
Mike holds his chest as though physically struck. “Low blow, Lucas. Low blow.”
They spend a good few hours with Dustin and Lucas and, eventually, Eleven at Dustin and Lucas’ house (bigger than Nancy’s--or Jonathan’s, he supposes--but not by much), taking turns playing Resident Evil.
But they had to come here, eventually. The Wheelers in bright red on a white mailbox.
Mrs. Wheeler seems nice, welcomes Mike home with a hug and a kiss. Bryce receives the same treatment even though they’ve never formally met, so Bryce not only wonders why they put off coming for so long. He wonders why Mike is lying about having not seen Nancy since they came into town.
He asks him when they’re upstairs, a safe distance away from Mrs. Wheeler’s hearing.
“I don’t really care if she finds out, but if I tell her I went to Nancy’s she’ll have to ask me if I spoke to Holly. Then I’ll have to tell her that Holly wasn’t there.”
Holly, Bryce knows, is Mike’s younger sister. “Where is she?”
Mike lifts his hands into the air, the sort of gesture that says, ‘well what can you do?’ which isn’t a Mike-like gesture at all. “Who knows? When Holly gets tired of Mom and Dad fighting, she stays with Nancy. Mom finally swallows her pride and calls, Holly comes home. That's how it used to work anyway. Maybe things have gotten so bad between Nancy and Mom she's just decided to wait her out. That or she's found somewhere new to go.”
“Your mom and Nancy don't talk?”
“Sometimes...loudly.” Mike snorts. “Mom doesn't agree with the boys Nancy likes.”
“Jonathan seemed nice.”
Mike considers this, lips pulling down into something like a grimace. “Yeah he is, I guess.”
“Is that what your sister wanted to talk to you about?”
“Uh, yeah.” Mike looks at him for a second too long before answering. “Yeah, that’s what she wanted to talk to me about.”
Bryce guesses it speaks to the quality of his friend’s character that he’s such a shitty liar.
It’s on the cusp of sleep that Bryce remembers where he’s heard Byers before today. Why Jonathan and Joyce sounded just that little bit off.
1992, Pasadena, California
"Who's he?"
Bryce hasn't been inside Mike's apartment before now. Not for lack of care, it’s only that Bryce's place is closer and Mike has some real space issues. Not issues about letting people into his space...issues about his apartment having no space because it’s consistently cluttered with projects small and large. Today was the first time Bryce had been able to walk through the entryway without destroying something important.
"He who?” Mike sets his glass down, leans across the couch to grab at the picture in Bryce’s hand. “Oh, that's Will."
"He stay in town?"
"Kind of."
Bryce laughs. "Kind of?"
"Hawins is...Hawkins is weird, man."
Bryce can count, on one hand, the number of times he's seen Mike Wheeler drunk. He gets so maudlin it's unnerving. And he always says the same thing: Hawkins is a weird town. I'd invite you to meet my folks, but Hawkins...man.
Bryce has a mind for names and faces, but he's not surprised he doesn't remember Will's. Mike put the pictures of him away after that. Bryce falls asleep wondering why.