Chapter Text
Will finds out about the radio thing only because Dustin will not shut up.
“Dude, it’s genius,” Dustin is saying, hands flying everywhere as they walk down the hallway. “Graveyard slot, full creative control, a captive audience of bored insomniacs—this is how legends are born.”
Will adjusts the strap of his backpack and keeps his eyes on the floor tiles. The linoleum is cracked every few feet; he counts the breaks. One, two, three. Don’t think about legends. Don’t think about—
“It’s not ‘full creative control’ if Mr. Clarke is hovering over the board,” Mike mutters from Dustin’s other side. “And we don’t even know if anyone’s gonna listen.”
Will flinches at the sound of his voice before he can help it. It’s stupid—he’s heard Mike talk a hundred times since summer ended. It hits differently today. Maybe because Mike hasn’t said a single word directly to him since… Will doesn’t even know when. Sometime between July and everything falling apart.
Dustin rolls his eyes so hard his whole head goes with it. “They’re gonna listen. You’re a natural.”
Mike snorts. “At what? Pretending I know what I’m doing?’”
“You’re charismatic in a neurotic way,” Dustin says, like it’s a compliment. “It’s endearing.”
Will snorts before he can stop himself. It comes out small, like a cough he didn’t quite swallow. Dustin grins at the sound and elbows him lightly.
“See? Even Will thinks so.”
Will’s cheeks heat. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You laughed,” Dustin singsongs.
Mike glances over. It’s quick, a little sideways flick of dark eyes behind his bangs, but it’s enough. Will’s stomach flips. He looks away, focusing very hard on the same stupid crack in the floor they’ve already passed three times.
“Whatever,” Mike says. It sounds like a surrender more than anything. “I just said I’d… try it. Once.”
“Once…and then forever,” Dustin corrects. “C’mon, man. Mike with a mic? The world isn’t ready.”
Mike mumbles something under his breath about “this world barely being ready for algebra,” but he follows when Dustin veers toward the old AV room, his shoulders hunched deeper into his coat like he’s bracing for a snowstorm.
Will slows.
He shouldn’t.
He has no reason to go near the AV room. His locker’s the other way, math homework is sitting in there like a threat, and he promised Joyce he’d come straight home to help with dinner.
But Dustin twists around, walking backward now, curls bouncing, and calls, “You coming?”
Will blinks. “Me?”
“No, the other Will behind you,” Dustin says. “Yes, you. You have to see the booth. It’s like… The Future of Hawkins High.”
Mike mutters, “The future of Hawkins High is a broken speaker and a sign that says ‘Please Don’t Touch.’”
“Shut up and get in there,” Dustin tells him, then looks back at Will again. His tone softens. “Seriously. Check it out. You like music. You can tell us if it sounds like garbage.”
Will hesitates.
He feels Mike’s presence, like static at the edge of his skin, without even looking. It’s been that way for months—being near him is like standing too close to an old TV: he can’t see anything, but he can feel the buzz.
“I… I guess I have a minute,” Will says.
He follows them.
⸻
The AV room used to be a storage closet, Will’s pretty sure. It still smells like it: dust and old paper and that weird burned plastic scent from overheated electronics. There are wires everywhere, taped to walls, looping over hooks. A battered record player sits on a metal cart in the corner like it’s been sentenced there for life.
In the center of it all is the booth.
It’s not a real booth, not like on TV. It’s a tiny room made of glass panels and wood, just big enough for a chair, a table, and a cheap-looking microphone mounted on a metal arm. A red light above the door is labeled ON AIR in flaking white paint, like someone did it by hand during study hall.
Mr. Clarke is inside the booth with a clipboard, talking too fast at a kid from the chess club who looks like he’s about to faint.
“…and you just have to remember you’re broadcasting to the entire school,” Mr. Clarke is saying cheerfully, “but also possibly the whole town, but also it doesn’t matter at all, so there’s no pressure.”
The kid swallows audibly.
Dustin waves through the glass. Mr. Clarke nearly drops his clipboard, then beams and pushes open the door.
“Ah! My evening crew,” he says. “Come in, come in. Mind the cables. Don’t trip, this setup is held together by hope and electrical tape.”
Will hangs back near the doorway as Dustin and Mike squeeze into the tiny room. Mr. Clarke gestures at the equipment like a proud parent showing off a science fair project.
“This,” he says, patting the control board, “is your kingdom. Volume sliders, track selectors, channel inputs. Very exciting stuff. And our illustrious host…” He looks at Mike with theatrical gravity. “…is going to make the airwaves of Hawkins High a safer, sillier, more informed place, yes?”
Mike immediately looks like he wishes the floor would open and swallow him. “I—I never said ‘illustrious.’ Or ‘host.’ Or ‘airwaves.’”
“You did say you’d do it,” Dustin reminds him. “I was there.”
“That was before I saw… all this.” Mike gestures weakly at the board, like it’s a wild animal that might bite.
Mr. Clarke chuckles. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be right outside if anything catches fire.” Then, as an afterthought: “Metaphorically speaking. Hopefully.”
Dustin leans over the mic, which isn’t on, and says in his best announcer voice, “Tune in at ten p.m. for Weirdo Hour with Mike Wheeler, where nothing is scripted and everything is—”
“—gonna get us canceled,” Mike mutters, tugging him backward by the collar.
Weirdo Hour. Will’s mouth quirks, unbidden.
He stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, watching.
Watching Mike, specifically.
Mike always looks like he got dressed in the dark but somehow made it work—black Converse scuffed at the toes, baggy Abercrombie cargo pants that hang a little too loose on his hips, and a faded graphic tee advertising some band he probably doesn’t even listen to anymore.
His flannel is half-buttoned, sleeves shoved up unevenly, like he kept trying to fix it on the way to school and gave up. His backpack strap cuts across his shoulder, pulling the fabric off-center, and his hair—God, his hair—is this soft, messy disaster that looks accidental but kind of perfect on him, falling into his eyes every few seconds. He always pushes it back with the same quick, distracted motion, like he doesn’t realize Will watches the way he does it, the way the whole outfit shouldn’t work together but absolutely does, in a way that feels painfully, unfairly Mike.
The way he fidgets with the cord of the headphones. The way he keeps pushing his hair out of his eyes only for it to fall back again. The way his fingers hover over the sliders like he’s afraid to touch anything.
It’s weird, seeing him like this. Focused, nervous, almost… shy. Will remembers a different boy announcing campaigns and battle strategies on Mike’s basement floor with absolute confidence, ruler in hand like some kind of general.
That boy feels far away. This one is half the same and half someone Will doesn’t know how to talk to anymore.
“Will?” Mr. Clarke’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “You’re welcome to hang out, if you’d like. We could use a test audience once we go live.”
Will’s heart stutters.
Mike’s shoulders tense, just barely.
“I don’t have to,” Will says quickly, words tripping over themselves. “I mean, I should probably—uh—my mom’s expecting me, so—”
“You can stay if you want,” Mike blurts.
Will freezes.
You can stay if you want.
It’s nothing. It’s… polite. That’s all. Don’t be stupid.
“I—I’ll stay for a little bit,” Will hears himself say.
Mike doesn’t look at him, but Will sees his posture shift—less hunched, somehow. “Cool,” Mike says. Too casual. “Yeah. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”
Mr. Clarke claps his hands once. “Wonderful! All right, gentlemen. Let’s have a trial run before the big debut tomorrow. Wheeler, you sit there. Henderson, no touching anything unless I tell you to. Byers, you tell us if it sounds like a dying robot.”
“I thought we wanted people to keep listening,” Dustin protests.
“Exactly,” Mr. Clarke says. “Hence: no dying robots.”
⸻
They do a test broadcast that doesn’t actually go anywhere, just loops back through the little speaker on the wall so Will can hear.
It’s… surprisingly normal.
Mike clears his throat about seven times before he gets his first sentence out. “Uh. Hey. This is Mike Wheeler,” he says, voice too loud at first. Dustin frantically drops the volume, hissing “shh” at the equipment like it can hear. “And, um. I guess this is… the Hawkins High Late Night Show? Or something. We don’t have a name yet.”
“Weirdo Hour,” Dustin stage-whispers.
“Weirdo Hour is not official,” Mike says, into the mic. Then, after a beat, quieter: “Yet.”
His voice sounds different through the speaker. Flat and tinny and still undeniably him.
He rambles for a minute about upcoming basketball games and cafeteria rumors, reads a note card Mr. Clarke gave him about “responsible radio conduct,” and nearly chokes trying not to laugh when Dustin mimes gagging off-mic.
It’s awkward and messy and kind of boring.
Will can’t look away.
He sits on an overturned milk crate by the wall, fingers laced tight together between his knees, and watches Mike’s mouth move as static hums softly in the background. He watches Mike slowly find his rhythm, settling into a pattern of talking, pausing, breathing.
There’s a moment where Mike forgets they’re just testing, leans into the mic, and says, “If anyone’s actually awake right now… uh. Hi.”
Will’s chest twists.
He wonders if anyone will be awake tonight. Tomorrow. Any night.
He knows he will.
⸻
By the time Mr. Clarke releases them, the early December sky outside the school is already bruised purple. The parking lot lights flicker on in patchy clusters, buzzing loud enough to set Will’s teeth on edge.
“Good work, team,” Mr. Clarke says, locking the AV room. “We go live tomorrow at ten. Remember, nothing obscene, nothing defamatory, and no prank calls.”
Dustin looks deeply offended. “You wound me, sir.”
Mr. Clarke smiles. “You specifically, Henderson.”
He walks off down the hall, humming something that might be the Star Wars theme.
Dustin turns immediately to Mike. “Dude. You were great.”
“I said ‘uh’ about fifty times,” Mike says, stuffing his hands into his pockets like he wants to crawl into them too. “And I forgot the name of our own school once.”
“Details.” Dustin waves a hand. “You have a good radio voice. Kind of… moody. In a cool way. Girls are gonna love it.”
Mike grimaces.
Will’s stomach sinks in a way he refuses to examine.
Dustin doesn’t seem to notice. “Will? What’d you think?”
Three pairs of eyes land on him at once. Well—two. Mike’s gaze doesn’t quite make it all the way, hovering somewhere around the strap of Will’s bag instead of his face.
“It sounded…” Will’s throat feels dry. He swallows. “Good. Really good. Like a… real show.”
Mike blinks.
“Oh,” he says, like that possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. “Um. Thanks.”
Their eyes almost meet.
Almost.
Then Dustin, disaster of timing that he is, claps both of them on the shoulders at once. “This is gonna be awesome,” he declares. “I gotta go tell Lucas he’s required by friendship law to listen every night. See you guys!”
He jogs off, leaving a Dustin-shaped echo of enthusiasm behind.
Suddenly it’s just Will and Mike in the hallway.
The air feels thinner.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Someone’s locker slams in the distance.
Mike shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His sneakers squeak on the floor. “So,” he says.
“So,” Will echoes.
Say something normal, he tells himself. Don’t be weird. You used to talk every day. You can say literally anything.
“How’s, uh…” Mike trails off, scratching the back of his neck. “You still, um, drawing a lot?”
That’s what he picks. Drawing.
Will nods. “Yeah. Kinda.”
“That’s cool,” Mike says.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretches. It feels like the whole hallway is holding its breath. Will stares at a poster for the chess club tournament like it’s fascinating. His heart is pounding hard enough that he can feel it in his ears.
They didn’t fall apart in one moment. It was quieter than that. A few conversations that ended too early, a couple of texts Mike never answered, jokes that didn’t land the way they used to. Will kept telling himself it was nothing—just school, just timing, just life—but the space between them kept growing in these small, uneven ways. By the time he realized it wasn’t going away, they were already moving around each other like the wrong step might make it worse. And neither of them knew how to say, What happened to us?
He wants to say I missed you. He wants to say I’m glad you’ll be talking into a microphone at ten p.m. because it means I can hear you without having to figure out what to say back.
He says, “Good luck. Tomorrow. With… the show.”
Mike’s mouth corners flick upward, just barely. “Thanks.”
That’s it. That’s all.
They walk out of the building together but not together—close enough that their footsteps sync on the concrete, far enough that their sleeves never brush. At the bottom of the steps, they split automatically: Mike toward the bike racks, Will toward the parking lot where Jonathan’s car waits.
Will doesn’t look back.
He thinks about it the whole way home.
⸻
Jonathan drops him off with a distracted “Love you, man,” before heading to a late shift. The house is dim and warm, the kitchen smelling faintly like onions and dish soap. Joyce’s note is stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a pineapple.
Made lasagna. Heat it up. Don’t stay up too late. – Mom
Will eats in front of the TV without really tasting anything. The sitcom laugh track feels too loud, too fake. He turns it off halfway through an episode about a dog learning to skateboard.
His room is colder than the rest of the house. The window doesn’t seal all the way; there’s a thin draft sneaking in around the edges. He pulls his comforter up to his chin and stares at the ceiling.
Ten p.m.
The red digits on his alarm clock read 9:37.
He rolls onto his side and stares at the clock instead.
He doesn’t have to listen. Nobody said he has to. It’s just a school radio show, just Mike talking to whoever bothers to tune in. It’s none of Will’s business. It’ll probably be all sports scores and dumb jokes with Dustin anyway.
His eyes land on the small portable radio on his nightstand.
It’s old, a junk-shop rescue Jonathan fixed up over the summer. There’s a crack along the side where the plastic casing had split, now held together with electrical tape that doesn’t quite match. The antenna is bent at a weird angle. Sometimes the volume knob cuts out and you have to smack it.
Will stares at it like it might start talking on its own.
9:44.
He exhales, long and shaky, and reaches for it.
The radio is cool against his fingers. He flips the switch with his thumb and static floods the quiet room, soft and fuzzy. He adjusts the dial carefully, passing through bursts of country music, a preacher’s voice, some late-night talk show from Indianapolis.
“…and that’s why aliens built the pyramids—”
He twists the knob a little further.
The static clears.
“…so, yeah,” a voice says, thin and a little distorted, but unmistakable. “That’s… that’s the bell. Uh. Welcome to Hawkins High Late Night. I guess. I’m Mike. You probably know that already. If you don’t, then… hi?”
Will’s heart stumbles, like it missed a stair.
He pulls the comforter tighter around himself and lies very still, radio balanced carefully on his chest, antenna aimed vaguely at the window.
Mike keeps talking.
He sounds nervous at first, words bumping into each other, breaths too close to the mic. There’s a shuffling sound, the scrape of paper. “We’re, uh, trying this thing where you can call in and request music or… talk about whatever. Within reason,” he adds quickly. “Clarke said if anyone swears more than, like, twice, he’s shutting the whole thing down.”
Will huffs out a quiet, startled laugh. The sound gets swallowed by the blanket.
There’s a pause. He can picture it perfectly: Mike leaning back, chewing on his thumbnail, eyes darting over whatever scribbled notes Dustin forced him to make.
“So, yeah,” Mike says again. “If you’re awake and you feel like… not being alone in your stupid homework or whatever, the number’s on the flyers at school. You don’t have to say your name. You can just… talk. Or don’t. I’ll probably just ramble either way.”
Static crackles softly around the edges of his sentences. There’s a faint hiss under everything, like the sound of an empty hallway.
Will swallows.
He knows the number. He saw it on the flyer Dustin slapped onto his locker this afternoon. Call in. Be weird. 555–0143 scrawled in blue marker under a doodle of a microphone with googly eyes.
Call in.
Like that’s something he could do.
“First up, uh…” Paper rustles. “Someone requested The Clash for ‘all the weirdos still awake.’” Mike’s smile is audible in the words, small but real. “Seems appropriate.”
Music slams into the room, tinny through the cheap speaker, but still enough to make Will’s foot tap under the covers.
He closes his eyes.
Mike’s voice fades behind the song, but it lingers anyway, echoing in his head.
You don’t have to say your name.
You can just… talk.
It’s ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Talking to Mike anonymously through a radio show is not talking to him. It’s… hiding. It’s the opposite of what a grown-up, normal, not-totally-broken person would do.
The song ends.
There’s a click as Mike turns the mic back on. “All right,” he says, a little more relaxed now. “Phone lines are open. Or line. Singular. We have exactly one line, and it might explode, so… call at your own risk, I guess.”
Will’s hand drifts toward the edge of the blanket.
He can feel his pulse in his fingertips.
The phone is on his desk, a few feet away. All he’d have to do is get up, cross the room, pick it up. Dial seven numbers. No one would see his face. He could say anything. Or nothing. He could hang up the second Mike said hello.
His heart is beating so loudly he’s honestly surprised it doesn’t come through the radio.
He stays where he is.
On the broadcast, nothing happens for a long moment. Will can hear Mike’s breathing, the soft tap-tap of fingers on the table.
“Cool,” Mike says eventually, trying for nonchalant and not quite getting there. “No calls yet. That’s fine. It’s night one. Maybe everyone’s actually sleeping like responsible human beings. If so, good job, Hawkins. Proud of you. I, personally, am going to fail biology because of this, so I hope you appreciate the sacrifice.”
Will’s throat burns.
He kicks off the covers, sudden, like he’s too hot. Cold air rushes in, making his skin prickle.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up before he can talk himself out of it. The floor is chilly under his socks. The house is quiet, except for the low murmur of the radio.
His hand shakes just a little as he reaches for the phone.
He picks it up.
He stares at the keypad.
This is insane.
He sets the phone back down.
“What am I doing?” he whispers to the empty room.
The radio crackles.
“You know what?” Mike says. “I’m gonna, uh, tell an embarrassing story until someone saves me by calling. This one’s about the time my sister caught me fake laughing to see what I sounded like…”
Will huffs out a startled laugh. It catches at the edges with something that isn’t quite a sob.
He sinks back onto the bed, pulling the radio closer, clutching it like it might slip away.
He doesn’t call.
Not tonight.
He lies awake past midnight, listening to Mike’s voice trickle through the static, and thinks, over and over, like a mantra he’s too scared to follow—
You don’t have to say your name.
You can just… talk.