Mike Wheeler s5

The fire crackles low at the center of the circle, throwing shadows across the battered faces of everyone gathered. The McCorkle farm is quiet except for the wind slipping through the corn stalks and the hushed murmur of the group. They’ve been here for hours now, talking in circles, trying to stay warm more than anything else.

Mike sits stiffly on a log, Eleven’s hand laced through his, her head resting against his shoulder. From the outside, it looks like comfort, like stability in the middle of chaos. On the inside, his stomach is twisting itself into knots, every nerve in his arm screaming to pull away. He doesn’t. He never does.

Across from him, Will stares into the flames, face soft with thought, eyes somewhere far away. Mike can’t look anywhere else. He wishes he could be next to him, close enough to whisper something dumb just to pull him out of whatever storm he’s caught in. But Jonathan’s already claimed that spot, leaning just a little too protectively toward his brother, and Mike feels like he’s on the wrong side of the fire.

The flames pop, a spark shooting up into the night sky. No one says much. It isn’t the kind of bonfire for laughing and telling stories. It’s survival. It’s silence. It’s waiting for the next shoe to drop.

Mike swallows hard, eyes drifting back to Will despite himself. He can’t stop wondering what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. And God, he can’t stop wishing he was the one sitting there beside him.