Chapter Text
The full moon hangs high in the night sky, illuminating the narrow alleys of the old town. They splash through puddles that still haven’t dried, static electricity lingering in the air after the passing storm. Mike’s tail is wet and filthy; he hadn’t bothered hiding it properly, and now it drags behind him, collecting even more mud.
At least he managed to save the papers: his own article and Will’s caricatures tucked carefully beneath his arm.
“Stop shoving me!” his friend laughs quietly, while simultaneously trying to push Mike aside and outrun him.
Will had wisely worn a jacket with a hood, but the rain and wind had still soaked parts of his ears. They droop heavily against his shoulders, little droplets of water still dripping from the tips.
“I’m not shoving you! You keep getting under my feet,” Mike shoots back just as quietly, trying not to attract attention. His instincts scream at him to outrun Will, to catch him, and the thought of the game ahead makes his tail wag even harder.
They keep laughing, hushing one another, bumping shoulders and constantly trying to overtake each other. The streets grow narrower and narrower, the stone buildings pressing closer around them. Mike’s heart pounds like he’s out on a hunt. It feels like one of the most exciting things that’s ever happened to him – a feeling he remembers from when he was ten.
He remembers helping during the election campaign when he was only ten, hanging posters and spreading propaganda with Nancy. She had even taken him to the victory parade on her bicycle when the United Front won. It had felt incredible, like something in Hawkins itself shifted. For the first time, Hawkins truly believed they had a bright future ahead of them.
Nancy is the only one in the family who shares his views. Their parents merely nod weakly along with whatever order rules the country. Sunday church services under Brenner, long monotonous sermons, prayers before meals, lessons about caring for the weak. Those memories are covered in fog now, and Mike can no longer remember a single prayer completely. His parents forgot them quickly enough once Brenner fled Hawkins and abandoned his title as monarch. The new republic and its leader, Creel, believed more in biology than gratitude toward Mother Nature. At some point, the temple they used to visit became abandoned, and the prayers were forgotten with it.
When they finally reach the building, seeing it at night for the first time, it looks completely different. During the day it’s just another dull printing house for the local newspaper his parents read. The same newspaper that praised Victor Creel’s achievements and called him the new guiding light of the nation, destined to save them all.
The article safely hidden beneath Mike’s arm calls him "The Blind One."
One of hundreds of nicknames given to the new face of the nation, a hopeless coward and blind fool. Mike and Will are convinced it won’t be long before he falls too.
Nancy insists the resistance grows larger every day, and the tension thickening in the air only proves her right.
They stop in front of the door, surrounded by unnatural silence. The daytime noise of the printing house is gone – no thunder of presses, no constant restless movement of people. Mike and Will exchange glances, nod to each other, and knock out the coded password against the thick wooden door.
Will keeps glancing over his shoulder, his ears twitching at every tiny rustle of wind. Mike wants to reassure him, but his own ears are perked sharply, as if expecting danger, and his tail refuses to stop moving.
Instead of speaking, he grabs Will’s hand and squeezes it tightly.
Will looks up at him and for a moment the fear and tension seem to leave his body entirely. He lights up, smiling brightly and absurdly warmly, the way only he can, and the tight knot in Mike’s chest loosens instantly.
The door opens slowly and cautiously, as though whoever stands behind it is still deciding whether to let the guests inside.
Mike only tightens his grip on Will’s hand.
A tired face appears in front of them: dark circles under the eyes, drooping ears, bitten lips.
Jonathan.
“You came,” he says flatly, looking them over from head to toe, his gaze lingering briefly on their intertwined fingers. One of his ears twitches. “Nobody followed you? You didn’t tell anyone?”
Mother Nature.
Mike rolls his eyes.
“Nobody followed us and we didn’t tell anyone,” he says, dragging both himself and Will inside as Jonathan instinctively steps back. “Where’s Nance?”
The building feels even emptier and deader inside than it did outside. They haven’t even turned on the lights; only a few flashlights illuminate Jonathan’s face and the narrow corridor stretching into hundreds of identical hallways.
Mike has always hated administrative buildings.
Jonathan leads them forward toward Nancy. Will quietly talks to his brother about their mother, and if Mike focused hard enough, he could probably make out the words.
The heavy scent of melted lead, printing ink, kerosene, machine oil, and paper dust still lingers here. To him, every scent is distinct. He can’t understand how his sister tolerates it for days on end, and suddenly he feels something close to respect for her.
He’s far more interested in the printing presses, the levers, the stacks of newspapers, and the ink stains covering every surface. His eyes work well even in the darkness.
Will, on the other hand, keeps stumbling over everything.
“Just hold onto me, okay? Stay right behind me.” Mike gently shifts Will behind him and starts guiding him forward instead.
They fall silent for a while, until the only sounds left are the dripping water from their soaked clothes and the creaking floorboards beneath their feet.
In a small room at the far end of the building, crowded with narrow shelves, Nancy sits beneath a lamp, editing another article and deciding what should stay and what would be too dangerous to print. Empty coffee mugs clutter the desk, and Mike catches the stale smell of cigarettes lingering in the air.
She looks up, and from the expression on her face Mike knows she must’ve heard their clumsy footsteps long ago. Maybe she even smelled the rabbit scent. Mike can always tell when Will is nearby.
“Took you long enough,” she says, throwing a glance at Jonathan before extending ink-stained hands toward Mike. “Hopefully you wrote something decent.”
“Of course I did! And why is it always me you doubt…” Mike mutters indignantly as he carefully pulls out the folded papers. The ink hasn’t smeared despite him being soaked to the bone. Water still drips from both him and Will onto the floor.
“Because Will’s reliable,” Nancy replies simply, snatching both sheets from his hands.
When she unfolds them, reading Mike’s article first and only afterward looking over Will’s work, she sighs softly.
“I’ll add them to this issue. They’re pretty good, actually. What do you think?” She passes the papers to Jonathan.
Mike can practically hear Will’s heartbeat, fast and frantic. This is his first contribution to the resistance, and of course he wants approval. Mike already tried convincing him the drawings looked amazing, but his friend insists he’s biased.
“Yeah, they’re good. You two did great.” Jonathan smiles at them warmly, exhaustion still written all over his face.
Will practically blooms at the words.
“You’re welcome,” he answers brightly. “We’re always happy to help.”
Mike pulls him toward Nancy and the papers scattered across her desk, curious to read what everyone else has written, but Will slips away from his grasp and follows Jonathan into the darkroom instead.
For a brief second, translucent red light spills into Mike’s field of vision as the door opens, then disappears again with Will’s silhouette.
“What are we going to do next?” Mike leans over Nancy’s desk, looking at the scattered papers.
“We’re not doing anything. I’ve already gathered the materials, now we just need to decide what goes into the issue and work a bit on the headlines.” She exhales tiredly, looking at the mess of photographs, letters and articles around her. Mike notices with satisfaction that there is only artwork from Will.
Maybe that is one of the reasons they were even allowed to participate. Even though revolutionary sentiment hangs in the air, trusting just anyone is still dangerous. Nancy is very careful about who she chooses, and Mike doubts anyone trust a predator with their recognizable style. Except Will. He had always been braver than most of them.
“And after that? Printing? Who does it?” he asks, grabbing one of the photographs showing a poor district. That is where Will and Jonathan live.
“And then typing. I can’t introduce you to everyone. This isn’t an open access space, Mike.” Nancy says.
“I’m not asking you to introduce me to everyone. I understand why it can be dangerous. I just…” he stops, putting the photograph down. “I want to understand how it works. So that if anything, Will and I can follow in your footsteps.” At the mention of Will, both he and Nancy glance at the closed door, from under which a red light is visible.
She sighs again.
“I will ask them if they are okay with it,” and returns to her work. This is the biggest compromise Mike can get from her.
When she reaches his article again, which Mike is honestly proud of, after a small correction she asks him:
“What pseudonym should I sign you with?” and after a couple of seconds she adds, “and Will’s. I’m sure you know what he chose.”
Mike knows what Will chose. They thought about it together since Jonathan said they cannot publish under their names, obviously, and they would need pseudonyms.
“Cleric. And Paladin,” Mike answers, scratching behind his ear.
“You are Paladin I assume?” Nancy raises her eyebrow. Mike only nods.
He wants to grow up faster, to become a full member of the resistance, to bring his contribute to the cause as soon as possible. Maybe one day he and Will will wake up in a world where biology does not determine destiny. At this thought his tail wags, and if Nancy notices, she decides not to say anything.
Will returns and excitedly talks about the photo laboratory. Nancy is almost finishing the issue.
“We and Jonathan will take this to type and ask if our typesetter is okay with meeting you,” she says getting up with the papers.
“If he agrees I’ll stomp for you, okay?” Jonathan puts his hand on Will’s shoulder, looking him directly in the eyes.
“Okay,” Will mutters, and as if something bad could happen, hugs his brother tightly.
Mike notices how quickly Jonathan melts under his brother’s touch and gently ruffles his hair and ears. This is a family intimate gesture. The fact that the Byers do not hide it from him and Nancy only shows a higher level of trust. His sister understands this too, and her tired look softens, and a smile appears on her lips.
Despite her natural affiliation she wants people like Jonathan to feel comfortable around her. Their parents still react with slight surprise to their friendship with Barbara and Will. Mike suspects that between Nancy and Jonathan something more than friendship is forming, but that is absurd. A predator cannot be with prey.
He looks at Will and feels like his skin is burning, like something inside his chest is too bright to hold.
They clean up, tearing articles that were not included in the issue, collecting trash and erasing all traces of their presence.
Will is the first to hear it, his ears twitch and he quickly lifts his head.
“Jonathan is calling us!” his face lights up as if they are being taken somewhere important, not just to meet a simple underground typesetter.
They go through narrow corridors and now Will is in front, leading Mike by sound with a flashlight in his hands. Their hands are slightly sweaty and Mike tries to calm his tail to look like a serious adult wolf and not a boy who has not yet learned to control his instincts.
They are met by a long narrow room along the walls of which are huge wooden cases with hundreds of compartments. Mike sees something like this for the first time. Will’s ears lower at the constant metallic ringing and clicking. Too loud. Nancy and Jonathan are bent over someone, the typesetter, discussing something. The air carries a familiar smell, but under hundreds of other heavy smells and because of the stuffiness of the printing house Mike cannot identify it. But as they get closer Mike understands everything. Steve Harrington.
He is wearing a black apron, sleeves rolled up to his elbows exposing strong arms. Will looks at him in admiration and Mike feels an instinctive surge of jealousy and territorial feeling. Steve is a predator and from the same group as Mike.
“I thought you had serious work here and you are working with Steve, what in name of nature, Nance,” he blurts out in one breath, putting Will behind his back.
“Calm down,” and surprisingly it is Jonathan. Who was the one attacked by Steve. “We trust him.” At this they look at each other.
“I am also glad to see you mini Wheeler.” Steve is clearly not glad to see him. Maybe he still cannot forgive how Mike tried to push him off a roof while defending territory. And it does not matter that Nancy allowed him to come.
“Wow, so this is how you set type,” Will says with admiration from behind Mike. He comes closer, closer than it seems safe, to Steve and looks at the letters.
Here the true face of the revolution is assembled, perfected by skilled hands. Mike still cannot believe this is Steve.
“Yes, actually it is a bit boring,” Steve replies showing an unusual level of friendliness toward a herbivore. “The interesting part is done by Nancy and Jonathan. I cannot even write an essay for a passing grade, not to mention a proper article.”
“I think your work is also very important. Jonathan used to always complain how hard it is,” Will lightly touches one of the pieces of type, the metal letter M, “can I?”
“Yes, of course,” Steve steps slightly back, giving Will space to look closer. Mike decides to come closer too and while they touch and examine the letters, Nancy behind them says:
“Steve may act modest, but it is thanks to him that printing even happens. Will is right, it is hard and tiring work.” She crosses her arms and taps her foot in rhythm with Jonathan.
“If you ever have to do this without us,” he says, “you will need to find a good typesetter. But hopefully it will not come to that.” At the end Jonathan is already mumbling and Mike understands his worry. He also hopes it will not come to that. Mike thinks they are getting closer to victory, even if no one says it out loud.
“Is today some kind of holiday? Am I dying?” Steve dramatically crosses his arms. “You are both praising me.” And even though he is joking, his ears twitch slightly and his tail drags across the dirty floor hitting the Byers’ legs. He has long passed adulthood phase and can control them better but chooses not to hide it.
“Shut up before we regret it,” Jonathan replies pushing his tail away from his brother.
“I actually came as company, but it turns out our revolution is lacking strong hands,” now he addresses Mike, “I had to learn the placement of all these damn letters.”
They send the finished newspaper, consisting of a single modest page, to print.
And if Mike and Will thought it was loud before, now it is almost unbearable. The noise, the rotating rollers and rhythmic machine pounding make it impossible to even hear each other.
The machine produces wet inked sheets, not more than a hundred copies, which will be carefully distributed over the week. They dry them and Will, as the most careful person, is trusted to cut them. Mike, although wanting to help, fully understands that he and scissors are incompatible.
They return home near dawn, tired but full of energy. This is their first real contribution to the cause. Mike cannot calm his tail all the way home. They walk again through narrow alleys and dirty streets. On main streets even at this early hour there is a risk of encountering not only civilians but also military patrols. The last thing they need is suspicion from the police.
“This was so cool! I cannot believe Jonathan still did not let me see it before,” Will says excitedly waving his right hand while still holding Mike’s hand with his left.
In the morning light he looks especially beautiful. His green eyes shine, burning with revolution, Mike thinks stupidly. His cute ears are raised, his fingers constantly intertwined with Mike’s. He is beautiful not as a friend or prey. He is beautiful as a person.
Mike hopes for a future where he can look at him without fear not only in empty alleys.