Chapter Text
The basement smelled like popcorn and the slightly damp carpet that had survived too many D&D campaigns. The old TV hummed. A pile of mismatched pillows and blankets were everywhere—Max and El sharing one beanbag, Will and Lucas splitting a blanket, Dustin sitting two inches from the TV “for optimal cinematic immersion.” Robin had sprawled out on the floor like a starfish, with Steve sitting just to her side.
Jonathan had rented Fast Times at Ridgemont High because he said it was “iconic.” Nancy seconded it. Max shrugged like she didn’t care but still looked interested. Dustin was excited by default.
Mike was already annoyed.
The movie had barely reached the infamous pool scene when he loudly groaned, dropped his head back against the couch, and muttered,
“God, this movie is so boring.”
The rest of the group barely reacted. Lucas threw a popcorn kernel at him without looking.
“Bro, you complain every movie night. Relax.”
Dustin nodded, not taking his eyes off the screen. “This is a cinematic masterpiece, Wheeler. Educate yourself.”
Max flicked Mike’s ankle. “Yeah, stop harshing the vibe.”
Will smiled a little, Mikes complaining was normal and frankly rather predictable.
But across the room, on laying on the floor, Robin slowly turned her head.
Her eyebrows rose, like she caught a frequency no one else heard. She wasn’t looking at the screen anymore. She was looking at Mike.
Then she angled the look toward Steve. A silent, very Robin way of asking “Did you hear that?”
Steve blinked, confused at first, then watched Mike with the analytical suspicion only a former Family Video employee could have. He raised one eyebrow back at Robin in that Huh…wait a minute expression.
Mike, meanwhile, was oblivious.
Robin pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.
After another minute she leaned slightly toward Steve and whispered, “He didn’t even look at her.”
Steve whispered back, “Yeah…he stared at the floor like it insulted his mother.”
Robin squinted.“That’s… interesting.”
Steve tilted his head.“Yeah. Interesting.”
Mike noticed them whispering. “What? Why are you both staring at me like that?”
Robin froze for a split second—caught—but recovered quickly.
“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Just observing the… uh… Wheeler Experience.”
“The what?” Mike frowned.
Robin waved a hand. “You know. The—” she mimicked his earlier groan, “this is boring, I’m dying, my fragile sensibilities can’t handle this.”
Lucas snorted, “Accurate.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”
He went back to staring furiously at a safe corner of the carpet. But Robin wasn’t done watching Mike.
She kept her eyes on him for a long moment—long enough that the movie noise faded into a kind of static. Mike’s shoulders were tight, his jaw set in that too-hard way he got when he wasn’t actually irritated, just… overwhelmed. She recognized that look. She’d worn it for most of her own life, especially before she had the language to explain it.
Steve noticed her staring again and mouthed, Seriously? Robin shook her head just slightly, trust me.
Mike, oblivious to the silent exchange, picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion with nervous intensity, like if he unravelled it far enough he could disappear into it.
Robin shifted her weight, sitting up a little. Not enough to draw attention from the others, who were absorbed in a new joke on screen, but enough that she was closer to him. She breathed out slowly, choosing her words.
Then—
Robin, soft but pointed, said, “Boring, huh?”
Mike’s throat bobbed. “Yeah. I mean—there’s nothing happening. It’s just—people. Doing stuff. Normal stuff. Who cares?”
“Most people,” Robin said casually, as if she wasn’t poking around the edges of something fragile. Steve nudged her foot with his to ease up, but she ignored him.
Will finally glanced over at Mike, concerned. “If you want, we can change it.”
“No.” Mike waved him off, too quickly. “It’s fine. I just—don’t get the hype.”
She rolled onto her side, propped her chin on her palm, and whispered just loud enough for him—and Steve—to hear:
“You know… most guys don’t call this movie boring.”
Mike’s face tightened. He didn’t look over. “Well, maybe I’m not ‘most guys.’”
There was a beat.
Robin’s expression softened. Something like understanding. Recognition. Something she knew from the inside.
Steve shot her a warning look. She wasn’t going to push. She didn’t want to expose him; she just wanted him to know she saw him.
Mike’s fingers twisted in the couch fabric. Just a little.
An almost-invisible crack in the mask.
Robin whispered, gentler this time, “Hey. That’s not a bad thing.”
Mike finally glanced at her— mostly confused on why she was talking so gently, when they’re just talking about a movie.
Steve leaned back, arms behind his head, speaking low and easy.
“Movie nights are supposed to be fun. You don’t have to pretend for us, man.”
Lucas yelled at the screen. “OH COME ON, THAT WAS A FOUL—wait, do they have fouls in surfing?”
The moment snapped. The others fell back into their usual chaos.
He went back to staring furiously at a safe corner of the carpet.
He dug his heel into the floor like he could grind the embarrassment out of himself. He wasn’t even sure why he felt embarrassed—nothing had happened—but something pricked under his skin anyway. A weird heat crawled up the back of his neck. The kind that made him feel twelve again, awkward and cornered by feelings he didn’t have names for.
He tried to focus on the muffled dialogue from the TV, but all it did was make him more aware of the blood rushing in his ears. He shifted on the couch, arms crossed too tightly, hoping no one noticed how tense he’d gotten.
But Robin noticed.
She pretended not to—turning her attention back to the movie, tapping her fingers lightly against her knee in time with the soundtrack—but every few seconds her eyes flicked sideways toward him. Mike didn’t see it. He wouldn’t have recognized the look even if he had; it wasn’t pity, or suspicion, or even curiosity. It was familiarity. Like watching someone solve a puzzle she’d already spent years trying to put together.
Steve saw her looking and raised an eyebrow: Leave it.
Robin shook her head almost invisibly. I’m not doing anything.
And she wasn’t. Not really. She was just… staying aware.
Mike dug his fingers into the couch cushion harder. He kept telling himself he was fine—fine fine fine—and he repeated it in his head until the thought felt like static. He hated when he got like this. He hated not understanding the reason behind the feeling, hated the way it made his chest tight and his throat small.
He’d never been good at sorting out the mess of his own emotions. He’d always blamed it on being dramatic, or anxious, or tired, or whatever excuse he could grab first. But this—whatever this was—felt like something creeping up on him from a direction he’d never looked.
He pulled his legs up, tucking his knees in like he could hide behind them. Will glanced back briefly—just a quick check-in, automatic and gentle—but Mike forced a smile so fast it practically cracked. Will nodded, reassured, and turned back to the movie.
But that tiny flicker of concern was enough to twist something deeper in Mike’s stomach.
He didn’t know why he felt so weird. It was just a movie. He kept telling himself that, over and over, like a mantra.
Just a movie.
Just Robin being weird.
Just him overthinking.
Just—
“She does nothing for you, huh?”
Mike nearly jumped. Robin’s voice was low, pitched only to him and Steve—who, mercifully, was pretending to be invested in the surf competition again.
He looked at her, eyes wide. “Wh—what?”
Robin didn’t meet his gaze. She picked at a thread on her jeans, casual, almost bored.
“I mean the pool scene. Most guys get all…” She wrinkled her nose. “Teenage boy about it.”
Mike swallowed. Hard.
“I just—didn’t think it was that big a deal,” he muttered. “It’s just a girl in a swimsuit. People are freaking out for no reason.”
Robin hummed thoughtfully. Not agreeing, not disagreeing. Just… observing.
Mike tensed again. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not,” Robin said lightly. “You’re just… interesting tonight.”
Mike hated that word. Interesting. Like he was some clue she was deciphering.
He stared at the TV without seeing a single frame.
Mike clenched his jaw, throat tight. Interesting. He wasn’t trying to be interesting. He wasn’t trying to be anything. He just wanted the night to go back to normal—Dustin quoting lines too early, Lucas pretending not to be invested while absolutely being invested, Max making sarcastic commentary that somehow made everything better. He wanted noise. Familiar noise. Not… whatever this quiet between him and Robin was.
He forced out a laugh—too sharp. “I’m fine. Seriously. It’s just a dumb movie.”
Robin hummed, not believing him for a second. She tapped her fingers against the carpet—slow, thoughtful, like she was matching her heartbeat to something she recognized in him.
“You ever notice,” she said casually, still watching the screen, “how sometimes a movie hits weird? Like… it’s supposed to be about one thing, but it feels like it’s secretly about something else?”
Mike’s pulse stumbled.
He swallowed. “Not really.”
“Mm.” Robin tilted her head, eyes half-lidded. “Maybe that’s just me.”
She wasn’t looking at him anymore, but somehow that made it worse. Like she’d stopped aiming the question at his face and instead pointed it straight at the part of him he kept buried under every defensive joke and eye roll.
Mike shifted again, suddenly aware of how stiff he was sitting. He pulled his knees closer, arms wrapped around them. Small. Contained. Hidden.
Will glanced over—the kind of glance only someone who’d spent years studying Mike Wheeler’s emotional static could recognize. That split-second flicker of worry before he looked away again, pretending he hadn’t noticed anything at all.
Steve stretched, cracking his knuckles. “You know,” he said lightly, voice just a shade too gentle, “nobody here cares what you think of the movie. Or, like… anything else.” He shrugged. “Just putting that out there.”
Mike flinched at anything else.
God. Why did that sound like a loaded statement?
He kicked at the blanket bunched near his ankle, heat rising in his chest that he couldn’t place. Irritation? Panic? Something in-between?
“I said I’m fine,” he muttered, louder than intended.
Robin’s eyes flicked to him—quick, sharp, worried. But she didn’t push. She didn’t pry. She just nodded like she was filing something away for later.
The room swelled with movie sound again—music, laughter, dialogue—everyone else sinking comfortably back into the story.
Everyone except Mike.
His heart thudded too fast. His fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. His skin felt hot and cold at the same time.
He hated how Robin’s gentle voice kept replaying in his head:
You’re just… interesting tonight.
Interesting.
Different.
Not like most guys.
He didn’t know what that meant.
He didn’t know why it felt like a spotlight had turned on inside him.
He didn’t know why he felt exposed when he hadn’t said anything real.
But he knew one thing for sure:
He suddenly wished the carpet—safe corner or not—would open up and swallow him whole.
The room around him buzzed with normalcy—Dustin laughing too loud, Max teasing Lucas, Steve whisper-mocking the acting—but Mike felt like someone had cracked open a door in his mind he didn’t want anyone even near.
He shifted again, curling inward without meaning to.
From the other side of the beanbag pile, Will’s eyes flicked over.
He hadn’t been paying attention to the movie for a few minutes; it wasn’t really his kind of thing. And he definitely wasn’t paying attention to the others’ commentary. But Mike—
Mike was sitting wrong.
Not wrong like uncomfortable. Wrong like uncomfortable in that way Will recognized in his bones.
Will watched him for another quiet second—Mike pretending to stare at the movie, jaw tight, cheeks flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the basement’s warmth.
Will hesitated. He didn’t want to make it a thing. Didn’t want to get it wrong. But something tugged at him, soft and familiar.
He scooted a little closer under the blanket he and Lucas were sharing, slow and subtle so no one else would notice. The sound of the TV covered the movement.
“Hey,” Will murmured, low enough that it wouldn’t travel past the couch cushion.
“You okay?”
Mike blinked, startled. He didn’t turn his head, just darted his eyes sideways toward Will—just for a heartbeat—then back to the TV, too fast.
“Yeah,” Mike said. Too quickly. Too bright. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Will’s brows pulled together. The lie sat between them like static.
“…Are you sure?” he whispered, even softer. “You look kinda… I don’t know. Not like you’re actually annoyed.”
Mike swallowed, throat tight. The flush in his face deepened.
“I’m just…” He searched for a word and came up empty. “Tired, I guess.”
He wasn’t sure if that sounded normal or suspicious. He hoped it was normal.
Will nodded slowly, not calling him out. Not pushing.
But he didn’t look away, either.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Just… if you’re not fine, you can tell me.”
The way he said it—gentle, steady, open—made Mike’s chest tighten in a way that felt unfair. He didn’t deserve that softness, not when he didn’t even know what was happening in his own head.
He shrugged one shoulder, trying to seem casual.
“Yeah. I know.”
Will gave him a tiny smile. Not a happy one—an understanding one.
Then he eased back into the blanket, watching the screen again, though Mike could feel his attention drifting back every so often. Not prying. Just… there.
That familiar heat at the back of Mike’s neck flared again.
He wished he knew why.
He wished he didn’t.
And somewhere across the floor, Robin glanced over once more—just long enough to see Will’s concern, Mike’s posture, and the quiet strain between them.
Her expression softened.
Steve noticed her noticing and whispered, “What?”
Robin only sighed, eyes flicking back to the movie.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just… patterns.”
But she let it drop.
For now.