Chapter Text
“Doris is fucking with me again.”
Mike throws himself down on a stool at the counter of Sam’s Diner, slumping over the worn plastic surface with a sigh.
Sam’s has been a landmark of Hawkins long before Mike was even a twinkle in his parent’s eyes (or—if striving for historical accuracy—a dying star, a burnt out lightbulb, a speck of dirt suffering from a classic case of mistaken identity, etc. etc.), stationed on the outskirts of town along the main road that eventually curves around to connect to the highway.
As a child, Mike imagined it was a lot of people’s final hometown stop before making their great escape far away from here. Just a stomach full of greasy, slightly charred food and the open road. A whole world waiting for them somewhere just beyond the horizon.
Now he glances around at the handful of diners still lingering post-lunch rush, and he recognizes every single person in there. By faces more than names, sure, but still.
They’re the same people he’s been seeing around town his entire life, and they're not going anywhere.
And the thing is—the thing is—he kind of gets it. He really does. He hasn’t thought about it too hard or much at all, has no plans to think about it further.
But the people here know exactly how the rest of their lives are going to play out. They’re never going to leave and they’re never going to try and they’re never going to fail and Mike isn’t thinking about the comfort in that.
He isn’t, because that’s dumb. It’s dumb and it’s not important and also it has nothing to do with why he’s here, so there's no reason to be thinking about it!
God. Something about this diner really brings out his buzzkill vibes, according to Max. Not that he’d be caught dead agreeing with her, out loud anyway. But in this specific instance—and this specific instance only—yeah, okay.
It’s just that, like, everything is sticky. The faded tile flooring and peeling red vinyl booths and coffee stained menus that have never been updated. Floor freshly mopped, tables just wiped down thirty seconds ago—doesn’t matter. It’s sticky.
The overhead lights are piss yellow and dimmed from the truly outrageous amount of dead flies stuck in them, an impressive collection Mike imagines they’ve been collecting since their grand opening.
And who the hell is Sam? Nobody knows. The original owner was some guy named Ronny. Why’d he pick that name? Why has no owner since decided to change it? Why is Mike apparently the only person ever that’s bothered by this?
But whatever. Whatever. So it’s historically never been a place Mike chose to spend his free time in. It’s a little smelly and a lot gross and it makes him irritable and existential and kind of sad and too much in his head in a way he typically finds best to avoid at all costs.
That being said, he’s stopped in here an average of five days a week since he and his friends graduated and began their last official summer all together in Hawkins.
And it could be worse. It could be a lot worse, all things considered, because—
“Doris?” An amused voice replies, and Mike looks up just enough to take in Will Byers standing on the far side of the counter, brows slightly raised and a crooked little grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.
Right. Yeah, so. Will got a summer job here, and somehow this place is a good look on him. Not even just, like, not bad, or passable. It's good.
His apron’s already stained to hell and back, but it's tied in a knot just above the jut of his hipbones and he's wearing it over this soft white t-shirt that fits him so well it frankly toes the line of legality, in Mike’s opinion.
Not that anyone’s asked to hear his thoughts on the fit of Will’s work shirt, but—just, if they had, is all.
Realistically, he highly doubts anyone would look at it and have a different opinion. A conversation dead on arrival, basically, which is probably why no one’s ever bothered to bring it up.
Still, there’s something to be said for the cuffed sleeves, the way they sit in this very specific way that highlights the lean muscle of Will’s biceps.
A point too obvious to bother making, but Mike’s come close to making it anyway. On several occasions. Like, the need to bring it up crosses his mind several times a day.
He would just feel a little weird about being the first one to mention it. Because the way Will manages to look this good no matter the clothing or circumstance or horrible piss yellow lighting is, objectively, insane right?
It just seems like something more people should be talking about, is all.
Will even, against all odds, manages to pull off the dumbass paper hat all the employees are forced to wear. He’d whined up a storm to Mike the night before his first ever shift, full of complaints about it looking like a tipped-over canoe stuck to the top of his head.
Mike had teased him about it then, sure. It was always funny when Will was all worked up and rambling, and—full credit given to the arguments he was making—functionally the hat really didn't seem to serve much purpose.
Mostly though, Mike had watched the embarrassed flush spreading high on Will’s cheeks as Mike insisted he model the look—the way it smushed down the natural floof of his hair until it almost brushed the long length of his eyelashes, the attention it drew to the soft curls of hair around ears that stuck out just slightly from the weight of it—and privately thought how it was actually a very necessary and important part of the uniform indeed.
Anyway.
Point is, it turns out there are much worse places than here in this shitty diner to waste what will likely be the last fully carefree summer of his life.
Because Will’s here, and he makes things good. He’s kind of just—magic, like that. Mike can’t really explain it, and he’s years past trying to question it.
It’s just a basic fact of his life at this point. Wherever Will is, Mike prefers to be.
Unfortunately, this holds up even in the times Will gets a truly disrespectful amount of joy from hearing about the trials and tribulations of Mike’s various sufferings.
Many such cases.
“Yes, Doris!” Mike groans, leaning further across the counter, stretching his arms out and giving Will his best puppydog eyes. “I swear, Will, she’s conspiring against me.”
Will scrunches his nose up in amusement, which—unfair. Mike has a story to tell, a tale of injustice, and here Will goes completely derailing his train of thought without mercy.
“Don’t you need at least two people for that?”
Will’s eyes have gone all crinkled in the corner, and Mike, gun to his head, couldn’t recall a single thing about the conversation he started.
“Huh?” He manages, eloquent as ever.
Will snorts as he snags the rag slung casually over one shoulder and begins wiping down the counter with wide, circular motions.
“I mean, think about it. Who’s she conspiring with? If it’s only one person, I think that’s just—plotting, or something. You can plot alone, you can’t conspire alone.”
Right. Right right right right right.
Doris.
Mike takes a beat to appreciate Will’s diligence and work ethic, narrowing in on the subtle flex of his arms as he cleans, before allowing the full scale of his righteous fury to consume him once again.
“Okay, well—fine then. She's plotting against me, happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Will replies with a grin, absentmindedly circling his hand around Mike’s wrist and lifting his arm off the table to wipe the spot beneath.
Mike stares at the way Will’s grip wraps fully around the circumference of his wrist with ease. It’s basically a loose grip still, too, which—huh.
He’s just never noticed that before, is all. He didn’t know Will could do that, and it feels weird to still be finding out new things about Will after all their years of friendship. It’s a good weird though, definitely. All strange and squirmy in his stomach.
“So, just making sure,” Will continues as he repeats the same motions with Mike’s other arm. “But this is Doris as in your nana’s neighbour, right?”
“What other Doris could I possibly be talking about?”
Will hums, that same teasing smile still in place. “Sorry, sorry. Just wanted to clarify we’re both talking about the old woman in the nursing home, please continue.”
Mike huffs as Will lets go of him completely, immediately missing the warmth. “Well it sounds dumb when you say it like that!”
“Yeah, Mike, I’m the one making it sound dumb.”
“Will. Will. You don’t get it, this woman is evil. She’s evil! I don’t think she has a soul.”
“You know,” Will starts, in the very specific tone he only breaks out to rile Mike up because he thinks it’s funny. “A lot of Catholics don’t believe animals have souls either. Do you think that means every animal is evil too?"
Mike's honestly much more inclined to think the Catholics are the soulless ones over animals, but out of the kindness of his own heart—and maybe only just a little tiny bit because he likes the way Will's face lights up in amusement at his own bits—Mike just listens as Will keeps going.
"Hey, remember Chester? Remember how much he loved it when you gave him belly rubs? No soul, though, so I guess it was straight to hell for the little guy.”
"Will," Mike gapes. “You can't do that. You can’t leverage your dead childhood dog to try and make your point! Veto. I’m vetoing that.”
Will sticks his tongue out at Mike. “Lame.”
“Besides, that's a total bullshit argument. It doesn’t make animals evil, it just makes those Catholics idiots.”
“Don’t let your dad hear you say that,” Will replies, quirking an eyebrow. “He’d be devastated.”
Mike pulls a face. “Who, me? Disappointing my dad? That doesn't sound like me at all.”
“Mmm,” Will hums, squishing his lips together to fight off a smile. “Start looking for a job yet?”
The subject of Mike’s employment—or lack thereof—has been a bit of a sore subject in the Wheeler household as of late.
His dad wants him to get a job. He’d been pushing the idea all year, since last summer, really.
He thinks Mike would benefit from some discipline, structure, elbow grease, the general relentless crushing of spirit that typically accompanies the kind of minimum wage service job Mike would qualify for.
And all of that—sure. Whatever. Mike really doesn’t have any strong opinions one way or the other.
What he does have strong feelings about, however, is the idea of getting a job just because his dad keeps ordering him to.
It’s a matter of principle, is the thing, which nobody seems to be fully grasping the concept of.
Sure, all his friends have jobs—El and Max are in summer school to finish the last of their credits for the second year in a row and even they still have jobs.
Sure, he’d probably be able to afford his own car if he got a job, since his dad refuses to contribute any money towards a vehicle for a ‘lazy, unappreciative freeloader’ like Mike.
He could stop needing to ride his bike every time he isn’t able to mooch a ride off a friend, something he once believed he’d outgrow sometime between the ages of twelve and eighteen.
Holly’s firmly on the side of Mike and employment for car-related reasons as well, making a habit of bringing up every single time she would have asked Mike for a ride somewhere but tragically can’t.
Every single time, Mike reminds her that’s another point for him on the side of unemployment forever.
And yes, it’s a little embarrassing sometimes. Yes, Mike kind of feels like he’s falling behind everyone else a bit more every single day.
Yes, he wishes he had some money that was all his own, something he’d earned entirely on his own merit.
Yes, high school’s over and he’s supposed to head off to college in a few months and everything’s going to change and he feels prepared for exactly zero percent of anything at all.
But every time he considers biting the bullet and just dropping off a few applications, he pictures the look on his dad’s face if he found out Mike got a job—a look like
Of course he did, of course Mike listened to him in the end, because he’s right, and he knows best, and Mike was such an idiot for trying to live his life any differently than his dad had laid out for him, and it was inevitable really, it was always going to end this way, this path, this life, like father like son—
And he just can’t.
He won’t. And he knows it’s stupid, and petty, and quite possibly inconveniencing himself far more than his dad, but fucking whatever.
Mike’s stupid and petty and maybe the tiniest smidge self destructive, what else is new? The earth is round, the grass is green.
“Nope,” he answers Will, popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously. “And quit sidetracking me! Don’t you wanna know what the soulless, evil wench did this time?”
In a surprising turn of events, Mike’s mom was the only family member totally on board with him remaining unemployed this summer.
Well, okay. He can’t totally picture Nancy being on his side for this one, but he’s very skillfully talked around the subject any time she’s called him recently, so. Out of sight out of mind, and all that jazz.
There have been a couple big changes for members of the Wheeler family at large in recent months.
The first—and more surprising—of the two is that his mom went out and got herself a job. It came as a shock to everybody, including Mike’s dad, the night she announced it at the dinner table.
Just part time, she’d explained, a quiet glow of something like pride lighting up her face. Monday to Friday, eight am to one pm, sorting files and things at a local business Mike can never remember the name of.
It honestly sounded pretty mind-numbing to Mike, and he couldn’t quite make sense of why his mom would willingly choose to spend her free time like that out of the blue, but he’s managed to bite his tongue on that opinion so far.
The other big change was more of a long-time-coming and everyone-could-have-predicted-this type of situation. One week before the beginning of Mike’s summer holidays, his Nana was moved out of her condo and into a long-term care facility in town.
Her episodes had been getting worse for months, she was confused more days than she wasn’t now, and she’d had one too many rough falls with no one right there to help. It was time.
Still, it sucked.
It was sad and weird and Mike remembered when she used to bake cookies for him and Nancy in her kitchen as children, and the long weekends they'd get to spend with her, no parents allowed.
She would sing them her favourite songs from her childhood and let them stay up way too late arguing over television channels and tell them stories about their mother's rebellious teen years.
Now, Mike's mom spends her time outside of work on the phone to lawyers or realtors or the bank. She’s learning the names of every nurse on duty at the home or she's sorting through the contents of her mother’s entire life, deciding what's worth keeping and what’s a fair price for the rest.
All things considered, his mom was mostly just too stressed out and overwhelmed to have a care in the world for the status of Mike’s employment—unlike his dad, who Mike hasn’t seen step up to help his mom with the whole Nana situation even once.
Mike spent the first few days after graduation bumming around and waiting for his friends to be free to hang out, venturing out once or twice to hound a few of them—mostly Will—at their jobs, trying to squash any thoughts of the future like a nasty hard-to-kill bug, and watching his mom pull herself in a hundred different directions trying to handle everything with this nagging feeling of helplessness stuck somewhere in his throat.
He came down to the kitchen for a late night snack on the third night and ran into her in the kitchen. The lights were still off and she was half a bottle of wine deep, crying silently.
Mike hadn't known what to do, so he'd asked if she wanted a grilled cheese, thinking she'd probably say no.
But two only slightly burnt creations later found them standing side by side eating, using the kitchen sink they hunched over as a stand-in for plates or manners or the general decorum and social niceties his mom had always been so big on as he was growing up.
They chewed their food in silence until she told him, her voice small, that she just hadn’t had the energy to go visit Nana that day. It was the first day she’d missed since Nana had been moved into the home.
Afterwards she pressed a kiss to the side of Mike’s head, thanked him for the food, and went up to bed. Mike stood in the kitchen a while longer, staring into the dark. Then he washed the pan he’d used, dumped the remaining wine down the drain and tried to get some sleep.
The next morning, he wheeled his bike out of the garage and went to visit his Nana.
It’s become his routine now, every weekday morning. He aims to make it in time for breakfast, but he always makes it in time for games in the common area.
Which brings him back to Doris—the wiry, shameless, quickfingered wretch of a woman living in the room next door to his nana—aka Mike’s Arch Nemesis.
“Fine,” Will relents. “Lay it on me. What happened this time?”
“She’s cheating in Monopoly, Will,” Mike bursts out, any remaining pretense at being chill about this gone out the window now that he can finally expose her crimes. “Can you believe that? She’s scamming all these poor old folks out of their hard earned money, their businesses, their livelihoods—”
A booming crash from the kitchen cuts him off just when he’s getting on a roll, followed by a bout of swearing so loud and intense and linguistically confusing it can hardly be considered human, let alone appropriate in a professional setting.
Will drops the rag on the counter and whips around, poking his head through the window pass. “Max? You alive back there?”
“Shit—fucking—tit ass on a stick—Byers! Quit your flirting and get back here!”
Will huffs and rolls his eyes as he heads to the kitchen door.
“Be right back,” he mumbles in Mike’s direction as he pushes it open, not quite meeting Mike’s eyes.
Is it Mike’s imagination, or is the back of his neck a little flushed?
Probably his imagination. Just seeing what he wants to see or whatever.
Not—not that he wants the hypothetical idea of them flirting to make Will blush. Or that he even wanted Will to be flirting with him. Obviously.
That’s not what he meant.
He just meant, like—well. He misspoke, is all. No—misthought. He misthought. Could’ve happened to anyone.
Besides, Will was probably just red from the heat. The diner, in addition to all its other wonderful qualities, doesn't have a functional air conditioning system.
Will emerges a few moments later, uniform suspiciously more wet than when he left and his eyes wide.
“Dish tower gone wrong,” he explains, trying to wring water out of his t-shirt. When he lets go it clings to his skin, nearly see-through, in a way that makes Mike’s mouth go dry. “Carnage everywhere.”
He has a new spot of grease smeared right along the high point of his cheekbone, and would it be weird if Mike wiped it off for him?
He’s realized, sometime in the last few years of his life, that he a bit of an overthinking problem.
Because why would that be weird? They’re friends. They’re best friends, actually. They look out for each other, they help each other out.
Like, Mike would love it if Will wiped something off his face for him, should the opportunity ever arise.
He’d probably be really gentle about it, because he’s Will. He'd be unsure at first so Mike would make sure to encourage him, let Will know how much he appreciated his help.
Will would swipe the pad of his thumb so carefully over the mark at first—and would it feel soft like the palms of his hands? Or would it be a little rough from slight calluses earned through years of sketching, painting, creating?
Maybe the mark wouldn’t come off right away, and Will would have no choice but to press a little harder into Mike’s skin.
Maybe he’d take his other hand and place it against the curve of Mike’s chin where it meets his neck, curling his fingers in and using his grip to tilt Mike’s head until it’s at the perfect angle for Will to see.
Mike would let him, of course. He’d be so good for Will as he worked.
He’d let Will tug him any which way he needed. He’d be patient and quiet as Will dragged his thumb back and forth to wipe the mark away, even if it started to burn just a little from the friction, even if it left Mike’s cheek red and just a bit raw once he was done.
Mike wouldn’t even mind that if it happened, honestly. He wouldn’t complain at all. Even if it bruised a little, where anyone could see. Even if he could press his fingers against the tenderness of the spot afterwards.
The lingering soreness would be a reminder of how Will had wanted to help him, just one more example of Will being the best friend he’d ever have.
And maybe—maybe the mark was a stubborn little thing, and all that work still wouldn't be enough to clean it fully off.
Mike can see it so clearly, the way Will would tilt his head up slightly because, despite the outlandish display of puberty he went through after moving to Lenora, Mike managed to keep a few inches of height on him in the end.
He might even lean up on his tiptoes until his eyes were level with Mike’s, crowd in just a bit closer until Mike could feel his breath on his skin.
He would squint his eyes and purse his lips in that specific way he does when he’s still not satisfied with some part of his work.
Such a perfectionist—always his own harshest critic, despite everything he ever sets his mind to turning out amazing, obviously.
But Will wouldn’t be satisfied, which would be unacceptable to him, so maybe he’d have to—
Well, what choice would he have, really?
He would pull his thumb back from Mike’s cheek, his other hand still holding Mike’s face in the proper position.
And Mike wouldn’t move, of course he wouldn’t. He’d stay so still for Will.
He’d watch as Will brought his thumb in front of his own face, as he opened his mouth and licked a long, wet stripe up the length of it.
That wouldn’t be enough though, not if he really wanted to clean everything off. He’d need it to be wetter.
So he’d press his thumb into his own mouth and close his lips around it, and Mike would watch as he hollowed his cheeks around the intrusion, sucking it all the way in, up to the knuckle.
He’s always loved watching Will work. He wouldn’t miss a second. He wouldn’t even blink.
Will would work his tongue all around it, Mike knows he would. He’d get it so wet.
He’d press his thumb in and out a few times for good measure, a slow slide back and forth until just the tip was catching on his bottom lip, and then he’d press back in.
His lips would suction audibly as he made sure not to miss a spot, tongue still working it over and over.
Will’s always so thorough, never one to do things halfway. He wouldn’t stop until the digit was soaked, until spit was pooling at the corners of his lips.
He might even let some of it slide down his chin, wet and messy—all just to help Mike out.
God. He would, wouldn’t he? He’d make such a mess of himself just to clean Mike up.
Then he’d take his thumb, slick and shining with his own spit, and he’d press it back to that tender spot on Mike’s cheek.
And Mike would want to be good. He’d be trying so hard to be good, he swears, but he wouldn’t be able to help it—he’d press into the feeling, just a little.
It would feel cold as the spit caressed his skin, and a part of him might want to flinch away, but the rest of him would just want more.
He wouldn’t be able to stay still any longer. He’d nuzzle closer, wanting more, wanting whatever Will was willing to give him, and maybe Will would be disappointed in him.
Maybe he’d pull his hands away entirely, shaking his head at how pathetic Mike was, at how he couldn’t even do this one simple thing Will expected of him.
Maybe he’d have to find a way to teach Mike how to listen better. Mike wonders what he’d try first. Will’s always been creative, after all.
Or, maybe—okay, rewind. They’re back in it, back when Mike was still good, his face still cradled in the warmth of Will’s hands, his pulse electric in his veins. Everything’s the same, except—
Except maybe Will doesn’t use his own spit. He pulls his thumb away, running his hand through Mike’s hair slowly as he explains that Mike needs to learn to clean up his own messes.
Mike nods eagerly. Yes, of course, he does need to learn that. He needs Will to teach him that. So Will holds out his thumb, and Mike leans forward without hesitation.
He sticks out his tongue, and he’s almost there. He can almost taste it, feel the weight of it pressing down, forcing itself further in—
“Mi-iiiike,” Will’s sing-songy voice cuts through Mike’s jumbled fog of thoughts like a knife.
He blinks, raising his head and staring at Will with what he just knows is a stupid, blanked-out expression on his face. He's pretty sure his jaw is hanging open.
“What the hell was that?” Will asks, laughing as he clears a few plates off the counter to Mike’s left, turning away for a moment to stack them on the rolling cart behind him. “You totally zoned out on me.”
Mike, with his razor-sharp reflexes, takes quick advantage of his reprieve from being in Will’s direct eyeline to bang his head, hard, against the counter.
The impact is louder than he intended, and Will turns back quickly to see Mike rubbing at a goose egg already forming on his forehead.
“Hey, hey, you idiot,” he says, leaning in to inspect the damage. “What are you doing?”
Will’s asking a lot of good questions. In lieu of an answer, Mike opts to just press his face back into the countertop and groan.
Hopefully the giant bump overtaking the top half of his face distracted from the deep blush he can still feel fighting for dominance on the lower half, because—
What the hell was that?
What is he doing?
And. Okay. Mike’s always had a bit of an overactive imagination, sue him. It comes in handy most of the time. He's a storyteller, after all, and he wouldn't get very far in his writing without it.
Other times it just—gets the best of him, is all. This was just one of those times. Not the first one, not likely to be the last.
But it's fine. It’s fine! It's nothing.
He doesn't know where all that just came from, but really, it doesn't matter. He just gets all tangled up in his own thoughts way too easily, which is why it's so important not to think too hard about them.
He's not a complete moron, okay? He knows better than to trip and fall down all the rabbit holes his mind enjoys laying out like traps.
Like, he knows the guy who dug those holes and he’ll be taking an alternate route, thank you very much.
He’d still prefer to take a year or two off from looking Will in the eye, just to be on the safe side.
Will apparently doesn’t get the memo. He reaches out a hand and lifts Mike’s head up by his chin, which really does the opposite of helping his whole situation.
Mike swallows audibly, eyes bugging out as he tries to ignore the heat of Will’s fingers. He’s not recalling anything about his weird little daydream even a little bit, because why would he?
It’s unrelated and irrelevant and a complete outlier in relation to his good ol’ regular run of the mill thoughts—for the most part—and therefore it shouldn’t be counted.
“Is my face ruined forever?” Mike asks instead of thinking one more single thought.
That’s good. That’s the trick, he knows this already. Talking good, thinking bad.
“No more than usual,” Will jokes, and Mike tries to scowl in response. He’s not entirely sure how effective it is considering the way he’s still melting into Will’s touch.
“Seriously though,” Will continues. “Are you okay? Can I get you some ice?”
Mike’s mouth breathing. It’s disgusting. Will is so sweet and caring and concerned and Mike is just—breathing all over him.
“No. Nonono, I’m all good. I’m just dandy.”
"Dandy?” Will repeats.
Okay, maybe talking’s bad too. It's fine. He’ll workshop it.
A beat of silence passes, in which Will seems to realize he’s still holding Mike’s face and quickly lets go. Something in Mike’s chest squeezes slightly.
“Shut up, I’m concussed.”
Will rolls his eyes. “You’re not concussed.”
“I could be concussed!”
“Steve’s the expert, should we call him to ask for signs?”
“Hey,” Mike says, effectively sidetracked. “Have you talked to Jonathan? How’s that whole thing going?”
Jonathan’s latest stop through town was to attend their graduation.
A pretty short visit, really, he just stayed in his family’s cabin for a couple days and totally monopolized Will’s time and filmed basically every boring moment.
He talked way too much about some artsy pretentious film he wanted to make and got drunk on a roof with Nancy, Steve, and Robin.
Somewhere in all that, probably during the drunk on a roof part, Jonathan and Steve just—became roommates.
They dropped the news so casually, like Steve up and deciding to quit his job and leave his hometown to live in a shoebox of an apartment in New York with a guy he once tried to beat up is just something people do now.
“He’s so vague about it whenever I bring it up!” Will huffs. “Like, 'yeah, Steve got in okay—Everything’s going fine, Will, it’s good so far—Well what am I supposed to say?—Since when did you nag so much, you sound like Mom’. I did not sound like Mom, by the way! God forbid I’m a little curious.”
“Ugh,” Mike replies. “Lame.”
Sure, that whole deal is even less his business than it is Will’s but—yeah. He’s curious! Maybe a little nosy! So what? It’s not illegal to be nosy. Maybe he’ll ask Nancy for updates.
“So lame," Will agrees.
“Hey, how long till you’re off, by the way? You still done at four?”
“Yeah,” Will says, glancing at his watch. “Twenty minutes to go. Actually, I should probably—”
As if on cue, the doors to the kitchen bang open, and Max Mayfield stumbles through them like a soldier returning from battle.
Her hair’s escaping the confines of its braid in frizzy, tangled tendrils. Her dish gloves go up almost to her armpits and her whole front side is covered in suds and soap scum.
The look in her eyes is a little bit manic and she’s brandishing the steel wool clutched in her fist like a weapon.
“Wheeler!” She barks, loud enough Mike jumps in his seat a little. “Quit monopolizing Will while he’s on the clock, you asshole, we have shit to do.”
“Sorry, Max,” Will says immediately, voice dripping with guilt. “Here, I can finish up in the back—”
“Chill out a little, Mayfield,” Mike cuts in. “Friendly service is an important part of a customer's overall experience, you know. Will’s just being a good employee. Serve with a smile and all that shit, you should try it sometime.”
“Hey, Mike?” Max asks, tone turning sickly sweet as she leans over the counter, dripping her gross dish water all over the area Will just wiped down like five minutes ago and getting all up in Mike’s personal space in a way that makes him feel itchy.
“What?” He cuts out, shifting back on his stool a little.
“Just one little question,” Max smiles. “Have you ever had steel wool shoved up your—”
“Max!” Will interrupts, face red.
Max ignores him, stepping back but still lasered in on Mike. “You’re not even a customer, Mike, you didn’t fucking order anything.”
Damn, alright. She might’ve gotten him a little with that one.
“So? I'm in your place of business, I still deserve respect even if I’m just here to pick up Will,” he says, refusing to concede.
“Uh, you’re not here to pick up Will.”
“What? Yes, I am, he's coming back to mine for a bit before tonight.”
“No, you’re not. You’re both leaving here on bikes, Mike, you don’t get to call that picking him up.”
“Since when are you the fucking word police?”
“Since the rest of us have to drive your ass everywhere because you refuse to work a day in your life.”
“You’re like, new levels of cranky today. Employment is not a good look on you.”
“Well, unemployment is a worse look on you. See if I give you a ride later now, dipshit.”
“What!” Mike yelps. “Max, c’mon. You’re joking right? Will’s gonna be at my house, you can’t give him a ride and not me!”
“Sure I can. My car, my rules. Besides, at least Will has an actual excuse.”
Will has his own car, technically. A total clunker he bought second—possibly third—hand in the spring of their junior year.
The bottom’s rusting out and the door handle on the driver’s side is broken in this very specific way where it can’t be opened at all. Will has to climb through the passenger’s side and over the console every single time he drives it.
The interior perpetually carries a faint aroma of spoiled milk no matter how many times he’s tried to scrub it out, it takes an average of five tries to start the engine, and there's a mysterious stain in the trunk that looks suspiciously like blood.
On a more important note, the tape player works perfectly fine, so Will loves it.
Recently though, the last week and a half maybe, the car’s been totally out of commission. Something about the wiring and some part under the hood that was damaged and maybe some other things that Mike simply can’t recall.
He does remember Will telling him he was going to try fixing it at home first with Dustin’s help before bringing it to a mechanic.
Mike had pictured Will bent over the hood of the car, oiled up and sweaty with a wrench in his hand and promptly blanked out from the rest of the conversation.
“Come on, Max,” Will pipes up, eyes going big and wide in that baby-deer-just-learning-to-walk way he’s perfected over the years, and Mike can see the exact moment Max folds under it.
Ha. Nobody’s immune to that look.
“Fine,” she huffs, blowing a few strands of hair out of her face as she does. She pulls off the dish gloves, shoving them into Will’s chest with more force than necessary.
“But you’re finishing up in the back. If I have to wash one more dish I’m taking the rustiest knife in the bunch and killing either myself or someone else, and odds aren't looking good for Mike.”
“Noted,” Will says, pulling the gloves on. They immediately look less stupid than they did on Max. How does he always do that? It’s magic, Mike swears it.
“Y’know,” He pauses halfway to the kitchen doors, turning back. “It has been kind of awful here since the last dishwasher got fired. They’re cycling through people like crazy, the owner just keeps replacing one total burnout with another. I swear they’ll hire anyone.”
He looks pointedly at Mike. “Like, anyone. It’d take zero effort to get hired, and it’s basically impossible not to do a better job than the previous guys. I mean, hypothetically.”
Mike shakes his head immediately.
“No way, Will, sorry.”
Sure, he’d love an excuse to hang out with Will all day and be paid for it, but he can’t. He can’t.
It’s like no one wants a guy to stick to his principles these days.
“Yeah, no,” Max agrees, shutting the idea down.
Mike bristles. “Hey, what the hell?”
He knows why he doesn’t want to work here, but screw her. He’d be a great coworker. He'd be a goddamn delight.
“What, now you suddenly want the job?” Max crosses her arms.
“Well, no, but—”
“Exactly, so shut up.”
Will raises his hands in a placating gesture. Mike notes the way the movement pulls the fabric of his shirt tighter at the shoulders. “Alright, alright, was just a thought. I’ll be back out soon.”
He heads into the back, leaving Mike alone at the counter with Max. There are a few people still dotted around the restaurant, slowly working their way through plates of fries or sipping their third refill of stale coffee, but for the most part it’s quiet.
Max looks at him for a long beat, in the way that always makes him feel like she’s looking right into his brain.
It’s a habit El has as well —Mike sometimes suspects there might be a bit of truth to it when it comes to her. If it's a skill she was able to teach to anyone, Max would definitely be her chosen recipient and star pupil.
Either way, that’s dumb. Why does he feel like Max is about to get him in trouble? He’s not even thinking about anything! He’s being so normal!
“Don’t you have work to do?” He questions.
Max shrugs, breaking the intensity of her stare and leaning her elbows on the counter. Small mercies. “Not really. Kitchen’s being taken care of, and I’m not off till six. I’ve got time to kill.”
“Lucky me.”
“Correct,” she grins. She reaches in her apron pocket to grab the small notepad stashed inside, ripping a page out of it.
"Paper football, best of three.” She starts folding up the paper with practiced hands, not bothering to wait for an answer.
"Can you go easy on me?”
“Absolutely not.”
"Can I tell you what Doris did today while we play?”
Max groans, hanging her head. “You seriously need to get a life, Wheeler. But yes. Obviously.”
Mike grins, positioning his hands into a triangle as Max eyes her angles. “Okay, so…”
Yep. This might be the trick—the secret to life.
Just endless summer days with friends, no thinking about the past or the future or his family or the sad, stuck people of this town.
Definitely no weird confusing rabbit holes his brain keeps inventing new ways to trick him into tumbling down.
Easy peasy.
Mike’s got his shit totally handled.