Chapter Text
It’s soggy outside. Rain drips down awnings, slides through gutters, and twists mushy leaves into storm drains. There’s a sting in the air, wind making raindrops pelt against the windows of storefronts. Mike watches a figure enter the diner on the corner, a gust of wind making the door slam against the interior wall. Water seeps onto the checkered tile, and the door gets pushed shut, a waitress bumping it closed with her hip.
Mike bikes past Melvald’s without thinking, skirting around the edge of downtown only to circle back again when he remembers he can’t go to Starcourt. It’s been months since the fire, and yet, his instinct is always to head there. He wonders if Max and Lucas still think about how they used to sneak through Scoops Ahoy, into the backrooms, to get to the movies. The movie theatre at Starcourt had better technology— new projectors and lush seats unmarred by soda spills or other mysterious, gooey liquids— so Mike feels a pang as he forces himself to head toward Hawkins Cinema instead.
The hood of his rain jacket is slipping off his head, so he lifts one hand from the handlebars of his bike to pull it back over his hair. It always gets curly in weather like this. At this length, he already gets mistaken for a girl from the back too much for comfort. His dad wants him to cut it, so even though Mike hates the way it feels all bunched against his neck, under his hood, he’ll keep it long.
The streets are nearly empty, but the insides are full and lively, people taking cover from the storm in any way they can. When he slows his pedaling, the wheels of his bike churning through gutter water, Mike wishes he had the foresight to come here straight from school to beat the rush. Hawkins Cinema has sold out signs over every single one of this evening’s showtimes.
“Shit,” Mike curses, voice buried under the rumbling thunder, the wash of rain that beats down on him where he stands on the curb. He squints, catching a glimpse of bright red hair past the glass of the ticket window. After leaning his bike up against a dim lamppost, Mike approaches, knuckles tapping on the fogged up glass.
Max flinches, glancing up from her fingers, face red and guilty for only a moment before she sees who’s caught her painting her nails at work. “Jesus, Wheeler,” she sighs, voice crinkly through the opening in the window. “Thought you were a real customer.”
“Who says I’m not?” Mike says, lifting a finger to draw a cheeky smiley face onto the fogged up glass.
“Cut that shit out,” Max snaps, blowing on her wet fingernails. “And no more free movies, Wheeler. I told you.”
“About that,” Mike starts, letting a grin slide across his lips. “I was thinking, that maybe—”
“No.”
“What?”
“I said no,” Max insists, clearly done with his shit. But, well, Max is sorta always done with his shit, so Mike doesn’t take this as a real clue to stop his pestering.
“Bu—” Mike stutters, pushing forward even as Max glares at him, big blue eyes piercing. “You don’t even know what I was gonna ask. Maybe I was gonna buy a ticket,” he says, knowing full well that the smirk crawling across his lips betrays the obvious lie.
He hasn’t paid for a movie ticket in ages. Back at the mall, Dustin used to let them sneak through the backrooms of his job, Scoops Ahoy, into the theatres, and now, Max usually gets by with letting them through at Hawkins Cinema, if her manager isn’t leering.
“Doesn’t matter.” Max shrugs. “We’re sold out, so you couldn’t be a customer even if you wanted.”
“Come on,” Mike whines. “It’s pouring out, and Nancy has the car, and there’s no way I’m getting a booth across the street.” He motions at the diner, usually so empty, but packed full of teenagers and families on a rainy day like today. They all miss the mall, but there’s something sorta nostalgic about seeing downtown busy like this again. It reminds Mike of his childhood, nicking change from sofa cushions to spend at the arcade.
“So go home,” Max says, twisting the cap on her dark blue nail polish. “I’d be home in a heartbeat if I wasn’t getting paid.”
Another gust of wind whistles down the street, pushing Mike’s hood off his hair again, but he doesn’t bother pulling it back on. He lets the raindrops cling to his skin and dampen his hair, knowing full well he’s not edging his way into a movie. “Are you sure there’s no seats?” he tries, a last ditch effort.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Max points up at the sold out signs, punctuating her point.
“I just—” Mike can feel his hair curling. “I just wanted to watch a movie.” He’s bored, is the truth. He can’t stomach the idea of going home to stare up at his bedroom ceiling, or worse, getting roped into doing puzzles with Holly. “I mean, seriously,” he continues, “what else am I meant to do when it’s pouring out?”
“God, Wheeler,” Max sighs, spinning herself around in the little desk chair she’s perched on, head tipped back to look up at the ceiling. “Read a book or something. Or, I dunno, go to the video store?”
“Video store?” Mike blinks. He hasn’t been to the video store since middle school. These days, he prefers movie tickets over movies on tape, and if they do end up watching at home, it’s usually from Dustin’s intense collection— he always buys movies, insisting that renting is an economical scam if they want to rewatch things, which Dustin always does.
“Family Video,” Max explains, eager to get Mike out of her hair. “A friend of mine works there.”
“Friend? What friend?” Mike wrinkles his nose. He knows all of Max’s friends— even if he knows she’d never voluntarily include his name on that list.
“From California,” she says, like it’s obvious. “His family just moved here, so he looked me up.”
Mike’s ears perk up at that: he. “He looked you up?” he parrots, guts twisting as he thinks about Lucas hearing about this— he probably won’t be too excited to learn he’s got competition when it comes to Max. Yeah, sure, Max is friends with Dustin, but Dustin knows that she’s off limits, that Lucas is ripe to win her back at any moment so—
“I can hang out with other guys,” Max bites out, crossing her arms. She grimaces when she realizes she’s smeared her nail polish, the woolen fabric of her sweater stuck to it in tufts of green fuzz. “Besides, he’s cool. You would like him,” she adds, “He’s like, pretty, ya know?” an afterthought.
Mike’s stomach drops, a pebble in his esophagus seeping down to his toes.
He does a good job of not flinching at that one.
He knows she’s joking, calling back to him slipping up and saying Steve Harrington was pretty that one time back at Starcourt, coughing to correct it to the masculine insult, pretty boy, which made Dustin snort ice cream out his nose. Mike remembers pressing his tongue into his own cone, freezing his tastebuds to stop the burning flush rising in his cheeks at the potential of someone catching him out, making him repeat himself. No one did. Max only narrowed her eyes then, not saying anything, but Mike was used to that— people narrowing their eyes at him, not saying what they were clearly seeing.
Nancy used to do that whenever Steve drove them both to school during Mike’s freshman year, staring back at him from the rearview, eyes narrow, lips pursed, never saying it— but Mike knew she noticed him staring at Steve’s hands drumming on the steering wheel, muscles and tendons flexing. Mom always does the same when he talks about Eddie and Hellfire, stilling her stove stirring to tuck a knowing smile between her hot pink painted lips— Mike’s almost embarrassed when he thinks about her noticing his rings, clearly inspired by someone special, she’d said. Hell, his dad looks at him like that almost every time Mike speaks these days, glazed eyes behind his glasses, reflecting the glow of the television, as he scrutinizes him for not joining basketball like Lucas, or for gardening with Mom instead of mowing the lawn with him.
He gets that look from teachers sometimes too, often paired with a sympathy-ridden smile when Mike gets shoved against lockers or shoulder checked in doorways. Sometimes Mike wonders if he’s wearing a big neon sign on his forehead, with the way people stare at him, eyes cutting into him like they know. Like he’s said it aloud, all blacked out and mushy, and they’re pressing him to say it again. If they do know, no one ever says anything.
Mike knows Max is only joking, even if it feels like she’s pressing on a purpled bruise, so he just brushes it off. “No popcorn,” he says, dumbly. “At the video store,” he clarifies.
“They sell packets now,” Max pushes, eyes drifting behind Mike at the rain now coming down in sheets. “Will told me.”
Will. “That Mister California?” Mike jokes, pushing his wet hair off his forehead.
Max nods. “Will,” she repeats. Will who’s meant to be pretty. “Now go bother him, and get outta my face, Wheeler.”
“Bite me!” Mike cackles, throwing the insult over his shoulder as he wades through puddles, throwing a leg over his bike. It’s still early, the sun setting in a water color of purple and orange, barely peaking through the greyness of stormclouds. Maybe he should go to the video store.
If only to check out Mister California. Gather intel. For Lucas.
By the time he makes it to Family Video, Mike feels akin to a drowned rat, clothes soaked through, hair curling at his temples. Little rivulets of water cling to his cheekbones, dripping down and disappearing under the collar of his shirt, and he wrings out his sleeves on the pavement under the awning before nudging the door open, the little bell not even audible through the sound of pelting raindrops.
It’s quiet, the dulcet tones of murmured movie dialog pouring out from a screen behind the checkout counter, someone standing with his back to the entrance, hipbones pressed into the counter as he leans back to watch. He doesn’t turn around, oblivious to Mike’s sopping wet presence dripping all over the tiled floor. There’s no one else in the store, though someone may be working in the back, and Mike feels a bit awkward, sneaking into an aisle, peering at the guy behind the counter through a gap in the shelving.
The boy has a smooth side profile, the curve of his nose a gentle slope, his arms crossed over his chest, woven bracelets peeking out from the wrist of his cherry red hoodie— a sour color combination when paired with the deep green of his uniform vest, but something in Mike thinks, stupidly, he looks like Christmas. His skin is pale and soft, like uncooked bread dough, those canisters of bake-at-home croissants that pop when you press a spoon against the seal, or, if you’re Mike, bang them against the counter top. His lips are moving, like he’s speaking to someone, hushed and quiet, but when Mike squints, straining his ears to hear, he realizes he’s parroting the movie dialog, lips synced to the actors.
Mike blinks, trying to recognize what film it is, but he doesn’t know it. If Dustin were here, he would know, or Max even, if it’s something that’s been shown in theatres in the last two years. He tries his best to be stealth, to avoid startling the boy, as he approaches the counter, but his wet sneakers squeak against the tile, making both of them flinch.
The boy behind the counter whips around, fast, hand pressed against the center of his chest like he’s trying to keep his heart from jumping out, splattering onto the squeaky, rainsoaked tile flooring. He relaxes a bit when he glimpses Mike, but it’s only a short beat before he’s scrambling again, fumbling for the remote to mute the television, leaving them in what would be silence, if not for the rain hammering the rooftop in percussive beads.
“Didn’t hear you come in.” The boy clears his throat. “Can I help you find anything?”
Mike stares. He feels ever so much more like a drowned rat when he catches sight of soft brown hair, the sweet curl of eyelashes, long enough to make girls jealous— long enough to make Mike want to pluck out each and every one, blow them away in the wind like selfish little wishes. He knows, all at once, without a doubt, that this is Will. He knows because Max was right. He’s pretty.
“I—” Mike starts, unable to pull his gaze away from the soft pink lift of Will’s cheeks. “Just looking,” he decides. At you, he doesn’t say.
Will nods, a short, customer service type of nod, and he glances at his remote, like he’s trying to decide the merits of flicking the volume back on. He doesn’t. “Let me know if you need help finding anything,” he says, resting his elbows on the counter, his unfinished movie continuing to play out on the screen behind him.
Mike shivers a bit, his jeans drying like cardboard, and he can hear an unpleasant squelching sound in his shoes as he steps away from the counter, conscious of Will watching him as he meanders through aisles. He’s dripping water as he peruses the shelves, coming up short for any of his go to favorites. The spots are empty for Star Wars, Ghost Busters, E.T, Poltergeist, and The Karate Kid, so Mike squeaks his way to the display case along the checkout counter, hoping some of the Manager’s Favorites list will intrigue him. Half that shelf is empty as well.
“Bullshit,” Mike mutters, opening the case for Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom to find the tape missing.
Will turns over his shoulder, which is when Mike realizes he’d turned back to his movie, watching it on mute. “Oh, yeah.” He sucks air between his teeth, wincing. “Tape got jammed on the rewind, so we’re getting new copies next week. Sorry about that,” he adds, holding a hand out to take the empty box. “Wasn’t meant to put the box back out. Sorry.”
“You guys get robbed?” Mike asks, handing over the tape.
Will’s eyebrows climb. “Uh, no?” he says, voice tipping up like it’s a question.
“You’ve got, like, no good movies left.”
“Oh,” Will breathes, shoulders relaxing. “Yeah, rainy days clear us out, I guess. Gotta beat the rush if you want blockbusters.”
“Guess so,” Mike agrees, feeling a drop of water slide down his temple, his hair curling up as it starts to dry. “What’s that one?” He nods towards the muted movie, watching as one girl pokes at another girl’s eyes with an eyeliner pencil, prodding at her with a coat of mascara.
“Huh?” Will glances at the television, then back at Mike. “Oh, The Breakfast Club?” It’s a question again, but maybe that’s just how people from California speak.
“Is that, like,” Mike gestures helplessly at the screen, at the pair of girls, “a movie about breakfast?”
Will blinks at him.
Then he laughs. An actual real-life laugh. A bit of a snort really, one that makes his palm shoot up to cover his mouth, eyes darting away in embarrassment. It reminds Mike of the way Dustin laughs, and he can picture ice cream dripping from Will’s nose just by hearing the sound of it.
Mike can’t bite back a grin. “What?” he asks, watching Will compose himself, clearing his throat to cover up his giggles, disguising them as a clogged airway or something. It takes him a few seconds to stand upright, elbows back on the counter, but he manages it.
“Good one,” Will says.
Another rumble of thunder sounds from outside, the rain not getting any lighter.
“What?” Mike feels stared at, Will’s deep brown eyes fixed on his own, scrutinizing, trying to sense if he’s joking or not. Something in his face must betray his earnestness, because Will’s mouth parts, his eyebrows rising with the realization that Mike really hasn’t seen it.
“Nothing, just—” Will pauses the movie. “You’ve really never seen The Breakfast Club?”
Mike shrugs. “What’s it about? Eggs?” he adds, because his faux pas seems to make one hell of a punchline.
Will rolls his eyes. “It’s not about eggs.” He clicks at the remote again, but instead of pressing play, the film begins rewinding, the characters backtracking in fast motion. “It’s about detention.”
“Detention?” Mike echos, and Will nods. “The whole movie?”
“Well,” Will shrugs, eyes fixed on the rewinding screen. “There’s more to it than that.”
Mike watches the way his lips curve into a smile as he says so, like he’s defending his favorite movie, and maybe he is— if he can mouth the words, that means Will must’ve seen it more than once. Maybe Mike should give it a shot.
They stay quiet as the tape rewinds, and Mike lets himself watch Will, telling himself it’s so he doesn’t spoil the movie for himself even though he wouldn’t be likely to tell what’s happening in reverse anyways. Will doesn’t look at him. His fingers are clutched tight around the remote, and once the film gets to the start, he steps over to the VCR, pulls it out, and slides it into its box. Surely he’s planning to reshelve it, but Mike can save him the trouble. He’s just gotta ask.
Will beats him to it. “It’s three dollars for five nights.”
“Oh, so I’m stuck with the egg movie?” Mike says, ignoring the glowing warmth in his chest at Will pausing and rewinding it for him to take before he finished his on-the-clock rewatch. He didn’t even have to ask.
“That depends,” Will says, glancing down at the Manager’s Favorites display. “You could always take Dirty Dancing.”
Mike freezes. “Uh—” He’s joking. He must be. There’s no way Will knows how many times Mike stole Nancy’s tape of that one last year. It’s just a joke. “Fine,” Mike chokes out, skipping over the part where he pretends to laugh at the joke. “I’ll take the egg movie.”
“No Swayze for you,” Will decides, shrugging like he’s indifferent. Mike supposes he must really be indifferent with the amount of films he rents out each day. He probably won’t even remember Mike’s taken— what’s assumed to be— his favorite movie until he returns it.
Maybe he’ll ask for Mike’s review. Should he take notes? No. That’s stupid. He probably won’t even ask. He probably only pulled the tape out to get Mike out of here quicker.
Will shuffles behind the counter, reaching for a rolodex of membership cards. “You got an account?” His sleeve slides up his arm as he flicks through the cards, woven leather bracelets in full view now, the jut of his wrist bone sticking out of his soft skin.
“Uh—” Mike clears his throat. “Yeah. Wheeler. Michael Wheeler.”
“Okay, Michael,” Will says, skipping to the Ws. He marks what he needs to on the account, leaving Mike to wonder if he’s looking at a log list of all the tapes he rented back in middle school. What was the last thing he rented? “Three dollars.” Jaws, maybe.
“Right.” Mike pays for the film with pocket change, counting out eight quarters and a crumpled, soggy dollar from his jacket. “Thanks.” He accepts his tape, stuffing it into his damp backpack, burying it deep enough to keep it shielded from the weather.
“Anytime,” Will says. “Don’t forget to rewind,” he adds, and then, just because, “Get home safe.”
Mike’s shoes squeak in the puddle he left near the door, and, as he waves goodbye to Will, he thinks about his poor friend Lucas, and how he’s finally got some real competition when it comes to winning back Max. Lucas is great and all, but Will? Will’s pretty. And pretty is dangerous.