Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The humidity in Hawkins was reaching that suffocating, mid-June peak where the air felt less like oxygen and more like warm soup. Mike Wheeler sat on the edge of his bed, staring at a crumpled application form for Starcourt Mall that felt more like a death warrant for his social standing. The basement was quiet, but upstairs, he could hear his mother’s voice drifting down the vents, a rhythmic lecture about "building character" and "earning the right to see Day of the Dead on opening night."

"I’m telling you, it’s a trap," Mike muttered to the empty room. He grabbed his walkie-talkie, clicking the side button with a nervous, repetitive rhythm. "Lucas, do you copy? Tell me you found a job at the garage. Tell me you aren't going to be a mall rat too."

The static hissed back at him, followed by Lucas’s voice, sounding suspiciously relieved. "Negative, Mike. My dad is letting me work at the hardware store. No uniforms. No neon. Just me, a box of nails, and my dignity. Over."

Mike groaned, flopping back onto his pillows. He was the last one to fall. Dustin was away at camp, Lucas was safe, and even Max had succumbed to the call of the mall, though she claimed it was only so she could "scout the best spots to skate indoors."

The real problem wasn't the job; it was the location. Starcourt Mall was the epicenter of everything Mike hated—loud music, bright lights, and the inevitable risk of running into every girl from his middle school class while he was covered in food stains.

Later that evening, the doorbell rang. It was Will.

Will looked different lately. It was a subtle shift Mike couldn't quite put his finger on—the way his hair caught the light, the way his shoulders seemed broader in his striped polo, or maybe just the way Mike’s heart did a weird, frantic stutter every time Will walked into a room.

"Hey," Will said, standing on the porch with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Your mom said you were in a 'career crisis'?"

Mike rolled his eyes, stepping back to let Will in. "She’s being dramatic. She just wants me out of the basement. Apparently, being a Dungeon Master doesn't look good on a resume."

They headed down to the basement, the familiar sanctuary of wood paneling and D&D maps. Mike sat on the arm of the sofa, gesturing to the application on the table. "I did it. I applied at Scoops Ahoy. Max said they were desperate for people who could count change and wouldn't steal the maraschino cherries. I have to go for the interview tomorrow."

Will sat on the sofa, picking up the form and looking it over. "Scoops Ahoy? Isn't that the place with the... uniforms?"

Mike buried his face in his hands. "The sailor suit, Will. The hat says 'AHOY' on it. It has a little necktie. I’m going to look like a five-year-old on his way to a baptism."

Will let out a soft, melodic laugh that made the tension in Mike’s shoulders vanish instantly. "I think it’ll be okay, Mike. It’s just ice cream. Besides, it’s in the food court. It’s the coolest place in town, literally. The AC is amazing."

"I’ll look like a dork," Mike grumbled, looking at Will through the gaps in his fingers. "You’ll come to visit and you’ll see me in my little hat and you’ll never let me live it down."

Will’s expression softened, a shy, tentative smile playing on his lips. He leaned forward, his knee brushing against Mike’s leg. "I wouldn't do that. I’d probably just be happy to see you. Even if you are wearing a sailor hat."

The air in the basement felt suddenly thick. Mike watched the way the dim lamp light reflected in Will’s eyes, and for a second, he forgot about the application, the mall, and the uniform. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the wind to either push him off or hold him up.

"Anyway," Will said, clearing his throat and looking down at his shoes. "I actually came over to tell you something. Hopper... he’s been on a warpath too."

Mike tilted his head. "Hopper? What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Will laughed. "That’s the problem. He says me and El are 'moping around the cabin' too much. He says we’re like 'vampires who only eat Eggos and listen to the Clash.' He wants us out in the world. Responsibility, or whatever."

"Wait," Mike’s eyes widened. "Don't tell me."

Will nodded, a playful glint in his eyes. "He talked to a friend of his. The guy who runs Surfer Boy Pizza. He told them El is a 'hard worker' and that I’m 'good with my hands.' We start training on Monday."

Mike jumped off the sofa arm, his jaw dropping. "Surfer Boy? Will, that’s directly across from Scoops! It’s like, twenty feet away. I can literally see the pizza ovens from the ice cream freezers."

Will stood up too, a bit of color climbing into his cheeks. "I know. Hopper likes it because he can keep an eye on us from the security office, but... I liked it because I’d be close to you."

The honesty of it hit Mike like a physical blow. He felt a rush of heat that had nothing to do with the summer weather. "You... you want to be that close to me all day? Even with the sailor hat?"

Will took a small step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Especially with the sailor hat, Mike. It’ll give me something to laugh at when the lunch rush gets bad."

"You’re a jerk," Mike said, but he was grinning. He reached out and shoved Will’s shoulder playfully, and Will grabbed his arm to steady himself. They stayed like that for a moment, tangled together in the quiet of the basement, the prospect of the summer suddenly looking a lot less like a nightmare and a lot more like an opportunity.

The next day, the "official" word went out to the rest of the Party. They met at the park, sitting on the picnic tables as the sun beat down on them.

"So, it’s official," Lucas announced, leaning back on his elbows. "The Party is divided. The Blue-Collar Workers versus the Retail Royalty."

"I’m hardly royalty," Max snapped, tossing a pebble at Lucas’s shin. "I’m an ice cream grunt. Mike is the one who’s worried about his image."

"I have every right to be!" Mike defended himself. "I have a reputation, Max!"

"What reputation?" Dustin’s voice crackled through the walkie-talkie on the table (he was checking in from the bus on his way to Camp Know Where). "The reputation for having the messiest hair in Hawkins? Mike, the hat might actually help you. It’ll keep the frizz contained. Over."

"Eat dirt, Henderson!" Mike yelled into the receiver.

El sat next to Will, looking curious. "Pizza," she said, testing the word. "I will make the circles of cheese. Hopper says it is 'good for the soul.'"

"It’s good for the stomach, El," Will corrected, smiling at her. "And we get a discount. Which means Mike gets free pizza if he gives us free ice cream."

"That’s a felony, Byers!" Max shouted, though she was already calculating the trade-in value of a pepperoni slice versus a waffle cone. "But I’m in. Wheeler, if you don't secure us a steady supply of pineapple pizza, I’m telling everyone about the time you cried during The NeverEnding Story."

"I was moved by the cinematography!" Mike yelled, his face turning that familiar shade of red.

As the group bickered, Mike caught Will’s eye. Will was watching him with a quiet, knowing expression, a look that seemed to say we’re in this together. It was a secret language they’d been developing all year—a language of stolen glances, lingering touches, and words left unsaid.

That night, Mike lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He thought about the mall, the neon lights, and the heat. He thought about the sailor suit and the itchy necktie. But mostly, he thought about Will in a yellow visor, standing just a few yards away, watching him. He thought about the way Will had said he wanted to be close to him.

He realized then that he didn't care about the humiliation. He didn't care about the screaming kids or the sticky floors or the "U.S.S. Butterscotch." As long as he could look across that checkered food court and see Will Byers looking back, it was going to be the best summer of his life.

He reached for his notebook on the nightstand, scribbling a single line on the back cover before falling asleep: Summer of '89.Salt, Sugar, and Will.

The countdown to Monday had officially begun, and for the first time in weeks, Mike Wheeler wasn't afraid of the future. He was ready to set sail.

The first Monday of the summer arrived with a humidity that made the air feel like it was vibrating. Inside the Starcourt Mall, the air conditioning was blasting, but Mike Wheeler was sweating through his polyester "AHOY" shirt before the shutters were even fully raised.

The locker room at the back of Scoops Ahoy was cramped and smelled of industrial floor cleaner. Mike fumbled with the white necktie, his fingers trembling as he tried to loop it into a respectable knot. Without Steve Harrington there to coach him on "The Hair" or the "The Smirk," Mike felt entirely adrift. Steve had been called away for a family thing last minute, leaving Mike and Max to man the fort under the distant supervision of a manager who seemed to exist only as a voice on the phone.

"You look like a Victorian ghost on a beach vacation," Max said, leaning against the locker door. She had her hat on perfectly, her red hair braided tightly.

"Shut up, Max," Mike snapped, finally getting the tie into something resembling a knot. He turned to the mirror, and his heart sank. His hair, which had grown out into long, dark curls that brushed the tops of his shoulders, was behaving like a wild animal. He tried to tuck it under the white sailor cap, but the curls just spilled out around his ears, framing his face in a way that made him look soft, messy, and—in his own opinion—ridiculous.

"It’s not that bad," Max admitted, her voice softening just a fraction. "The long hair actually makes the hat look... less like a costume. You look cute, Wheeler. In a 'I'm definitely going to get bullied' kind of way."

"Great. Reassuring," Mike muttered. He took a deep breath and pushed open the swinging doors to the counter.

The mall was just opening. The distant sound of the fountain and the muffled pop-synth music of the atrium filled the air. Mike walked to the front glass, gripping the edge of the counter, and his breath hitched.

Across the way, the Surfer Boy Pizza shutters were rolling up.

Will was there. He was standing under the warm glow of the heat lamps, pulling a bright yellow t-shirt down over his head. When his face emerged, he caught sight of Mike and froze. Will was wearing a yellow visor, his hair tucked neatly behind his ears, and the bright, sunny color of the uniform made his tan skin look golden.

Mike felt the world tilt. Will looked incredible. The yellow brought out the honey-brown of his eyes even from twenty feet away. Will’s gaze traveled over Mike—taking in the blue stripes, the tiny tie, and the way Mike’s dark curls were swept back by the white hat.

Will didn't laugh. Instead, his mouth parted slightly, and he stayed remarkably still, his hand frozen on the visor of his hat. He looked like he’d just seen something he wasn't supposed to: something that made his heart beat twice as fast. He gave a slow, shy nod, his face flushing a deep, beautiful pink.

"Oh, look at that," Max whispered, appearing at Mike’s elbow. "He’s short-circuiting. You broke the Byers boy, Mike."

"I did not," Mike whispered back, though he couldn't stop grinning.

The peace, however, didn't last.

Within the first hour of the mall being open, a strange phenomenon began to occur. Usually, Scoops Ahoy was a haven for toddlers and tired parents, but today, a steady stream of teenage girls began to congregate in front of the counter.

"Hi," a girl in a neon-pink headband said, leaning her elbows on the glass and staring directly at Mike. "Can I get a... small vanilla? And, like, your name?"

Mike blinked, his brain still half-stuck on the way Will had looked at him. "Uh, Mike. And we don't have 'small.' We have 'Little Sailor,' 'First Mate,' or 'The Captain.'"

The girl giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Okay, Captain. Can I get the 'Little Sailor'?"

Behind her, three of her friends were whispering and pointing. Mike felt a prickle of intense discomfort. He was used to being the weird kid, the D&D nerd, the boy who went missing. He wasn't used to being looked at—especially not like this.

He glanced over at Surfer Boy. Will was currently wiping down a table, but his movements were stiff. He was watching the girls at the Scoops counter with a furrowed brow, his grip on the spray bottle tightening every time one of them laughed at something Mike said.

"You have a fan club," Max muttered, shoving a scoop into the peppermint stick. "It’s the hair. They think you’re some kind of indie-rock sailor."

"I hate it," Mike hissed, frantically scooping vanilla. "They’re staring at me, Max. Why are they staring at me?"

"Because you're 'cute,' remember?" Max mocked. "Look at poor Will. He looks like he’s about to throw a pepperoni at that girl’s head."

Mike looked again. Will was now standing by the soda fountain, staring openly. When he saw Mike looking, he didn't look away this time. He held Mike’s gaze, his expression a mix of longing and a new, sharp edge of jealousy that Mike had never seen before.

A tall girl with big hair leaned over the counter, practically touching Mike’s hand as he handed her a cone. "Thanks, Mike. Do you have a break soon? Maybe we could walk the mall?"

Mike froze, the vanilla melting onto his fingers. "Uh, I—"

He looked at Will. Will’s jaw was set tight. Suddenly, Will grabbed a stack of napkins and marched across the food court. He didn't stop until he reached the Scoops counter, sliding in between two of the girls.

"Hey, Mike," Will said, his voice lower than usual, more assertive. He leaned his elbows on the counter, effectively blocking the girl in the pink headband. "Argyle says we’re out of napkins. Can I borrow a sleeve?"

Mike felt his heart hammer against his ribs. Will was so close he could smell the flour and the faint scent of tomato sauce. "Yeah. Yeah, sure, Will. In the back."

"I'll help you find them," Will said, not breaking eye contact. He turned slightly, giving the group of girls a polite but very firm look that clearly said move along.

As they walked into the back supply room, away from the prying eyes of the "fan club," the air between them snapped.

"They were all over you," Will muttered, the jealousy finally bleeding into his voice. He reached out, his hand hovering near Mike’s shoulder before he finally committed, his fingers brushing the fabric of the sailor suit. "You look... really good, Mike. I think they noticed."

Mike felt his knees go weak. "I don't care about them, Will. I was looking at you the whole time."

Will’s expression softened instantly, the tension leaving his shoulders as he took in Mike’s messy curls and the earnest look in his eyes. "You were?"

"Always," Mike whispered.

Outside, Max yelled, "Wheeler! Unless you're making the napkins yourself, get back out here! Pink Headband is asking for a refill!"

Will let out a frustrated huff, his fingers lingering on Mike’s arm for one more second. "I have to get back. But... save your break for me?"

"Every second of it," Mike promised.

The back supply room was small, smelling of cardboard and artificial vanilla, and for a few seconds, the world outside—the screaming kids, the neon lights, and the persistent giggling of the girls at the counter—simply ceased to exist.

Will’s heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Mike’s words, “I was looking at you the whole time,” hung in the air like a physical weight. Will’s brain felt scrambled, like a tape deck that had been eaten by the player. He was a shy person by nature, a boy who lived in the quiet spaces between conversations, and Mike’s sudden, raw honesty was like being stared at by the sun.

What does he mean? Will wondered, his throat feeling tight. Does he mean it the way I mean it? Or is he just being Mike?

Before he could find the courage to ask, Max’s voice cut through the door, and the spell was broken. Will retreated from the supply room, his face a vibrant shade of scarlet that matched the "Surfer Boy" logo on his chest. He stumbled back across the food court linoleum, his boots squeaking, feeling like his legs were made of jelly.

When he slipped back behind the pizza counter, El—or Jane, as she was trying to go by for the "professional" vibe of the mall—was standing there with a stack of pizza boxes. She didn't say a word at first. She just watched Will fumbled with a soda cup, nearly knocking over a tray of plastic lids.

"Will," she said, her voice tilting with that curious, observant edge.

"Yeah?" Will chirped, his voice an octave too high.

"You are... red," she noted, pointing a finger at his cheek. "Like the pepperoni."

"It’s the ovens, Jane. It’s just hot back here," Will lied, frantically wiping a non-existent spill on the counter.

Jane tilted her head, her dark eyes drifting over to the Scoops Ahoy counter where Mike was currently handing a napkin to a customer. "Mike is also red. Did he also stand by the oven?"

Will choked on his own breath. "I—I don't know. Maybe. The AC might be broken on that side."

Jane leaned closer, a small, knowing smirk—one she had definitely learned from Max—playing on her lips. "You like the sailor hat. You think Mike is... bitchin'."

"Jane! Shh!" Will hissed, looking around to see if Argyle was listening. But Argyle was busy vibing to a reggae track on his Walkman while he prepped the pineapple. Will sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Is it that obvious?"

Jane nodded solemnly. "Very. You look at him like he is the last Eggo."

Will couldn't even argue with that. He turned back to the register, trying to focus on the numbers, but his eyes kept betraying him.

Four hours into the shift, the "First Day" excitement had curdled into a humid, sticky exhaustion. Mike’s feet ached in his deck shoes, and his hair was now a complete disaster, the dark curls escaping the white hat in every direction. He felt gross, covered in a thin film of sugar and sweat, but to the teenage population of Hawkins, he apparently looked like a heartthrob.

Then came Julie.

Julie was in their honors English class, a girl who wore too much perfume and had a laugh that sounded like a tea kettle. She walked up to the Scoops counter with two of her friends, her eyes locking onto Mike with predatory focus.

"Oh my god, Mike?" she cooed, leaning so far over the glass that she was practically in the mint chocolate chip. "I didn't know you worked here! You look... so cute. Like a little captain."

Mike felt a cold shiver of dread. "Uh, hey Julie. Yeah. Just a summer gig. What can I get you?"

"I don't know," she said, twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger. She wasn't even looking at the menu. She was looking at the way Mike’s long hair curled around his neck. "What do you recommend? Something sweet? Like you?"

Max, who was standing three feet away, made a very audible gagging sound and started aggressively scrubbing a milkshake tin.

Mike’s face burned. He was trying to be professional—his mom had lectured him for an hour about "customer service excellence"—but Julie was making it impossible. "The... the U.S.S. Butterscotch is popular?"

"Does it come with your phone number?" Julie asked, batting her eyelashes shamelessly. Her friends giggled behind her, nudging each other.

Mike stammered, his hands shaking as he grabbed a scoop. "I—uh—we aren't allowed to... give out personal info. Store policy. Captain's orders."

Across the court, Will had stopped mid-motion. He was holding a pizza cutter, his knuckles white as he watched Julie lean closer to Mike. From his vantage point at the Surfer Boy register, he could see Mike’s awkward, pained expression, but he could also see how close Julie was. He saw her reach out and touch the sleeve of Mike’s uniform, "adjusting" his tiny tie with a lingering hand.

Will’s eyes narrowed. The shy, gentle boy from the basement was gone, replaced by something much sharper. He felt a hot, prickling sensation in his chest—jealousy, pure and unadulterated. He didn't even realize he was doing it, but he was staring at Julie with a look of such concentrated loathing that the air around the pizza shop seemed to drop ten degrees.

Jane noticed immediately. She stopped folding boxes and looked at Will, then at Mike, then back at Will.

"Will?" she asked. "Your eyes... they are doing the thing."

"What thing?" Will rasped, his gaze still fixed on Julie’s hand on Mike’s arm.

"The 'Mad' thing," Jane said. "You are giving the girl a... death stare."

"She’s being annoying," Will muttered, his voice dropping into a low, protective growl. "He’s trying to work. He’s uncomfortable. Can't she see he’s uncomfortable?"

Jane watched the scene. "She is flirting. Like in the movies. She wants to kiss Mike."

The image of Julie kissing Mike made Will’s stomach turn over. He gripped the edge of the counter, his eyes flashing with a protective fire. "She shouldn't. He doesn't want her to."

Jane watched the way Will’s jaw was set, the way he was practically vibrating with silent, frantic energy. "Why does it make you... the 'Mad'?"

Will finally tore his eyes away from Julie’s hand on Mike’s arm, turning to Jane with an expression of pure, unfiltered desperation. "Because, Jane! She’s—she's flirting with my Mike! He’s supposed to be—he shouldn't have to deal with that!"

Jane’s eyes widened. She blinked slowly, processing the words. "My Mike?" she repeated, her voice rising in a question.

Will’s heart stopped. His own words echoed in his ears, louder than the mall music. My Mike. He hadn't meant to say it. He hadn't even meant to think it, but in the heat of the moment, with the jealousy clawing at his throat, the truth had slipped out like a secret.

"I—I meant... our Mike," Will stammered, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the tomato sauce on the prep table. "You know. Our friend. From the Party. My... best friend."

Jane didn't look convinced. She looked over at Mike, who was currently stuttering an answer to Julie, and then back at Will. A tiny, knowing smirk—the kind that meant she understood more than she was saying—crossed her face. "Yes. Your Mike."

Will groaned, hiding his face in his hands, his yellow visor slipping down over his eyes. "Please don't tell him I said that."

Across the court at Scoops, Max was leaning against the back counter, having the time of her life. She wasn't helping Mike; she was too busy watching the drama. She saw Julie’s blatant flirting, she saw Mike’s sheer panic, but most importantly, she saw Will’s reaction.

She looked over at Surfer Boy and saw Will leaning over the register, giving Julie a "death stare" so intense it probably should have been illegal. Max let out a sharp, barking laugh, clutching her stomach.

"Hey, Wheeler!" Max yelled over the sound of the milkshake machine, making Julie jump. "You might want to wrap it up with Barbie over here! Your 'best friend' across the way looks like he’s about to start a pizza war!"

Mike’s head snapped toward the pizza shop. He saw Will—saw the flushed face, the protective stance, and the way Will was looking at Julie like she was a monster from the Upside Down.

Mike didn't look annoyed. For a split second, a look of pure, dawning realization crossed his face. Will was jealous. Will Byers, who was usually so quiet and composed, was currently losing his mind because someone else was talking to Mike.

A strange, dizzying rush of confidence flooded through Mike. He turned back to Julie, his voice finally finding its footing. "Sorry, Julie. I really have to get back to work. My... uh... my friend is waiting for me to finish so we can have our break."

Julie huffed, realizing the "Captain" wasn't taking the bait. She snatched her vanilla cone and marched off with her friends.

The second she was gone, Mike looked back at Will. The distance between the two shops felt like miles, yet their eyes locked with a magnetic pull. Will was still standing there, looking flustered and caught, but as Mike offered him a small, shy smile—the special one he only used in the basement—Will’s shoulders finally dropped.

Will didn't smile back yet; he just adjusted his visor and went back to his pizza boxes, his heart hammering a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like my Mike, my Mike, my Mike.

Max just kept laughing, leaning her head on the register. "This is going to be the longest summer in the history of Hawkins. I'm going to need so much free pizza to survive this."

The lunch rush had finally ebbed, leaving the food court in a state of sticky, neon-lit exhaustion. Mike leaned against the counter of Scoops Ahoy, his sailor hat askew and his long dark curls damp against his forehead. Across the way, Will was leaning against his own counter, looking equally drained, his yellow visor pushed back into his hair.

They were staring at each other again—that long, magnetic pull that had become the soundtrack to their shifts. Mike looked at the beige landline phone mounted on the wall behind the register. If he could just get the Scoops number to Will, they wouldn't have to rely on frantic hand signals or Max’s loud-mouthed commentary. They could talk.

"What are you plotting, Wheeler?" Max asked, popping a bubble and looking at him suspiciously. "You have that 'I’m about to do something stupid' look on your face."

"I’m giving Will our number," Mike muttered, reaching for a paper cup. "So he can call when it’s dead. You know, to... coordinate breaks. For efficiency."

"Efficiency. Right," Max snorted, turning back to the sink. "Just don't trip over your own feet on the way there, Captain."

Mike grabbed a Sharpie. His heart was racing, his palms a bit sweaty. He didn't want to just hand Will a scrap of paper; he wanted an excuse to actually stand near him for more than five seconds. He scribbled the seven digits onto the side of a crisp white paper cup: 555-0142.

Then, thinking he was being smooth, he filled the cup with three massive scoops of vanilla. A peace offering, he thought. A bribe. He vaulted over the side gate of the Scoops counter and marched across the checkered linoleum. He felt like he was walking a tightrope. Every step closer to the Surfer Boy counter made his pulse jump. Will saw him coming and stood up straighter, a soft, expectant smile blooming on his face.

"Hey," Mike said, sliding the cup across the stainless steel counter. He tried to sound casual, like he didn't spend every waking moment thinking about the gold flecks in Will’s eyes. "I brought you a... uh... a 'thank you' scoop. For earlier. With Julie."

Will’s cheeks flushed pink. He reached out, his fingers brushing Mike’s as he took the cup. "You didn't have to do that, Mike."

"Look at the side," Mike whispered, leaning in close. The smell of pineapple and warm dough was everywhere. "It’s the number for the back line. If you’re bored, or if Argyle is being too... Argyle... just call. I’ll pick up."

Will’s eyes lit up. He turned the cup around, his thumb tracing the side—and then his expression faltered.

The ice cream was freezing. The humid, heavy air of the mall had reacted instantly with the cold paper, and a thick layer of condensation had formed on the outside of the cup. The black ink of the Sharpie was currently liquefying, turning into a series of dark, blurry streaks that looked more like a Rorschach test than a phone number.

"Mike," Will said, his voice straining with suppressed laughter. "I think your 'efficiency' is leaking."

Mike looked down. His heart sank. The 555 was a smudge. The 0142 had turned into a long, weeping trail of black ink that was currently staining Will’s thumb.

"Oh, come on!" Mike groaned, dropping his head onto the counter with a pathetic thud. "I’m such an idiot. I spent five minutes making sure the '4' looked perfect."

Will let out a genuine, beautiful laugh, the kind that made Mike forget he was wearing a sailor suit in public. He reached across the counter, his stained thumb catching Mike’s chin and gently tilting his face up.

"It’s okay," Will whispered, his eyes soft and teasing. "I got the first three numbers. That’s a start, right?"

"It’s a disaster," Mike mumbled, though he wasn't pulling away from Will’s touch. "I wanted to be smooth. For once in my life, I wanted to be the cool guy in the movie."

"Mike," Will said, his thumb lingering just a second too long on Mike’s skin before he pulled back to grab a napkin. "You’re wearing a hat that says 'AHOY.' The 'cool guy' ship sailed a long time ago. But I like the ice cream."

Behind them, Jane appeared, peering at the blurry cup. "Is this a secret code?"

"It's Mike's phone number," Will explained, trying to wipe the ink off his hand.

Jane looked at the black smudges, then at Mike’s dejected face. "It looks like... a sad cloud."

"Thank you, Jane," Mike sighed.

"Don't worry," Will said, leaning over the counter so only Mike could hear him. "I’ll just come over and ask for it again later. Maybe without the ice cream this time?"

Mike perked up, his long curls bouncing as he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. No ice cream. Just... paper. Dry paper."

As Mike walked back to Scoops, Max was doubled over the register, clutching her sides. "A cup, Mike? You wrote it on a cup of ice cream? In 90% humidity?"

"Shut up, Max!"

"I'm not even mad," she wheezed. "That was the most 'Mike Wheeler' thing I've ever seen. You’re lucky he thinks your stupidity is charming."

Mike looked back one last time. Will was eating the vanilla with a plastic spoon, watching him with a look that was so warm, so clearly fond, that Mike didn't even care about the ink on his shoes.

The lunch rush had left Mike feeling like he’d been through a physical brawl. His ears were ringing from the repetitive "AHOY!" greetings, and his soul felt sticky from the sheer amount of strawberry syrup he’d accidentally wiped onto his thighs.

The second the clock hit noon, Mike didn’t even look at Max. He just untied his apron, tossed it onto a crate, and bolted. He pushed through the heavy service doors, down the gray concrete hallway, and out into the blinding, white-hot heat of the Hawkins afternoon.

Behind the mall, near the loading docks, the air smelled of hot asphalt and rotting cardboard. It was miserable, but it was quiet.

Mike fumbled with a crumpled pack of cigarettes, his fingers shaking slightly. He’d only started "socially" smoking a few weeks ago—mostly because he thought it made him look older, less like a kid in a sailor hat, and more like a tortured protagonist in a French film. He struck a match, cupping his hand around the flame to shield it from the breeze, and took a long, shaky drag.

He leaned his back against the brick wall, squinting into the sun, trying to look cool.

"You know, those things will stunt your growth."

Mike jumped so hard he nearly dropped the cigarette. He choked, a cloud of gray smoke billowing out of his mouth in a messy, ungraceful hack. He turned to see Will leaning against the heavy metal door frame.

Will had ditched his yellow visor, his brown hair messy and windblown. He looked effortless, his hands tucked into his pockets, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"Will! God," Mike wheezed, waving the smoke away as if he could hide the evidence. "You—you scared me."

"I can see that," Will said, his voice light and teasing. He stepped closer, stepping over a puddle of oily water on the concrete. He stopped just a foot away from Mike, his eyes scanning Mike’s face. "Since when do you smoke, Wheeler? Are you trying to join a biker gang?"

Mike felt the familiar, scorching heat climb up his neck. He held the cigarette awkwardly between two fingers, suddenly feeling like he was holding a glowing stick of dynamite. "I don't... it's just... the shift was stressful. With the girls. And the vanilla. I just needed a minute."

He tried to take another "cool" drag, but he caught Will watching his lips, and he immediately fumbled it, the ash falling onto his white deck shoes. "Damn it."

Will let out a soft, melodic giggle—a sound that was far more addictive than the nicotine. "You’re so awkward," Will whispered, but there was zero malice in it. It sounded like a compliment.

"I am not awkward," Mike lied, his voice cracking. He looked down at the cigarette, then back at Will. "I just... I didn't want you to see me like this. Looking all... pathetic."

"You don't look pathetic," Will said, stepping even deeper into Mike’s personal space. The scent of the cigarette was being overtaken by the smell of Will—that clean, warm scent that Mike could identify in a crowded room. Will reached out, his fingers grazing Mike’s wrist as he gently took the cigarette from him.

Will took a look at it, then dropped it to the ground, crushing it under the toe of his boot. "You don't need that. You're already tall enough, Mike. And the 'tortured sailor' look is a bit much, even for you."

Mike stood there, frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs. The way Will had touched his wrist—it felt like a brand. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. It tastes like burnt paper anyway."

Will giggled again, shaking his head. "Come on. Jane and Max are waiting at the benches. If we don't go back in soon, Max is going to eat your sandwich just to spite you."

"She would," Mike muttered, but he was smiling.

As they turned to head back toward the heavy metal doors, Will didn't pull away immediately. He walked close—close enough that their shoulders bumped with every step. Mike felt a rush of adrenaline that was better than any head-rush from a smoke.

"Hey, Mike?" Will said as they stepped back into the air-conditioned chill of the mall.

"Yeah?"

"I liked the long hair better than the hat," Will whispered, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Even if it is full of smoke now."

Mike tripped over the door frame, stumbling into the hallway. "Shut up, Byers!"

Will just laughed, a bright, clear sound that echoed off the concrete walls, leading the way back to the neon lights of the food court.

The back hallway of the Starcourt Mall was a stark contrast to the neon-soaked glitz of the atrium. It was all gray cinderblocks, industrial trash compactors, and the constant, low-frequency hum of the mall’s massive cooling system.

Mike and Will walked back inside from the loading docks, the transition from the humid Indiana heat to the biting air conditioning making Mike shiver. He was still feeling a bit lightheaded—partly from the half-smoked cigarette and partly from the way Will’s fingers had lingered on his wrist just a minute ago.

They found Max and El (Jane) perched on a set of yellow plastic benches near the employee lockers. Max was halfway through a soda, her feet up on an empty milk crate, looking like she owned the place. El was carefully unwrapping a sandwich, her eyes brightening when she saw them approach.

"The outlaws return," Max announced, her voice echoing in the narrow corridor. "You smell like a chimney, Wheeler. Did you try to smoke a whole pack in ten minutes to look tough for Byers?"

"It was one cigarette, Max. Drop it," Mike grumbled, sliding onto the bench next to her. He felt hyper-aware of his long, messy curls and the way his "AHOY" shirt was slightly wrinkled.

Will sat down on the other side of Mike, his movements fluid and relaxed now that the yellow visor was gone. He reached for a bag of chips, his shoulder brushing against Mike’s.

Max’s eyes darted between them, a sharp, predatory glint appearing in her gaze. She leaned back, popping a bubble of gum, and let her eyes travel over Will as he leaned forward to grab a napkin. As Will shifted his weight, his Surfer Boy slacks—which were, admittedly, a bit tighter than Mike’s baggy sailor slacks—tautened over his frame.

Max let out a low, appreciative whistle that made everyone freeze.

"Damn, Byers," Max said, her voice dripping with her trademark bluntness. "I never noticed because of the loose flannels you usually wear, but that pizza job is doing wonders for you. Your ass is huge."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Will choked on a potato chip, his face instantly turning a color so red it looked like he’d been dipped in marinara sauce. He hunched his shoulders, looking like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

"Max!" Mike shouted, his voice cracking painfully. He felt a wave of protective heat rush through him, mixed with a sudden, confusing urge to look for himself—an urge he fought with every fiber of his being. "What is wrong with you? You can't just... say that!"

"What? I’m just stating a fact," Max shrugged, looking entirely unbothered as she took a sip of her drink. "It’s the dough kneading. All that standing and lifting crates. It’s a good look, Will. Very... athletic."

El looked between Max and Will, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. "Ass... big?" she repeated, trying to understand the slang. She looked at Will’s backside as he sat curled into a ball of embarrassment. "Is it a medical problem?"

"No, Jane, it's not a medical problem!" Will squeaked, his voice two octaves higher than normal. He shoved a handful of chips into his mouth just so he wouldn't have to speak anymore, his ears practically glowing with heat.

Mike was vibrating with indignation. "It’s inappropriate! We’re on a professional break! And he’s—he’s Will! You don't talk about Will’s... parts!"

"Oh, please, Mike," Max rolled her eyes, leaning closer to him. "Like you haven't noticed. I saw you tracking him across the food court earlier like a bloodhound. You were staring so hard I thought your eyes were going to pop out of your head and land in the rocky road."

Mike felt his heart stop. "I was not! I was... monitoring the competition! Making sure they weren't stealing our customers with their... their sub-par crust!"

"Sub-par?" Will managed to mumble through the chips, finally finding a shred of his voice. "Our crust is hand-tossed, Mike."

"See? He’s offended now," Mike pointed a finger at Max, desperate to change the subject. "Look what you’ve done. You’ve ruined lunch with your... your vulgarity."

Max just laughed, a bright, wicked sound. She stood up, kicking the milk crate back into place. "Whatever. I’m going back in. Somebody has to actually sell ice cream while the Captain over here tries to figure out how to stop staring at the pizza boy’s hamstrings."

She sauntered off toward the Scoops doors, leaving a trail of smug satisfaction behind her. El stood up next, patting Will on the shoulder.

"Do not worry, Will," she said seriously. "I do not think it is too big. It is... just right."

She followed Max, leaving Mike and Will alone in the quiet, hum-filled hallway.

The silence was heavy. Will was still staring intently at his bag of chips, his face still a deep, lingering pink. Mike sat there, his hands clamped between his knees, his brain a chaotic mess of "Max is a demon" and "Wait, is it big?"

"She's... she's crazy," Mike whispered after a long minute. "You know that, right? She just likes to get a rise out of us."

Will finally looked up, his hazel eyes shy and a little dazed. He caught Mike’s gaze, and for a second, the embarrassment faded into something softer, something a bit more daring.

"Did you?" Will asked softly.

Mike blinked. "Did I what?"

"Notice," Will breathed. "Like she said. Across the food court."

Mike’s throat went dry. He thought about the four hours he’d spent watching Will toss dough, watching the way the yellow shirt clung to his back, watching the way he moved with a new, confident grace. He thought about the way his own heart had hammered every time Will looked back.

"I notice everything about you, Will," Mike said, his voice dropping to a raw, honest level that made the gray hallway feel like the most intimate place on earth. "The hair, the visor... everything. Max is just a loudmouth."

Will’s lips parted, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through the blush. He reached out and nudged Mike’s shoulder with his own. "Your hair looks cute today, too, Mike. Even if the hat ruined the curls."

"Shut up," Mike grinned, bumping him back.

As they stood up to head back to their respective counters, Mike couldn't help it. As Will walked a few paces ahead toward the Surfer Boy door, Mike’s eyes drifted down for a split second.

Damn it, he thought, his face heating up all over again. Max was right.