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The open sign flickers, dangling from the ceiling and casting the broken panes of glass in siren-red light. When Will pushes the door open, the bell still jingles in the same hollow tone, discordant. Despite the crunch of glass under their shoes and the ash that drifts through the broken windows like snow, Mike has to marvel at how mundane the shop looks, like an artifact of a different life frozen in time. The upholstered chairs are only slightly ajar, as if patrons had politely vacated the premises once they realized the world was ending rather than rushed out; mugs of half-drunk coffee still occupy many of the tables, and when Mike looks into one, he notes that the contents are partially frozen.
He spots the first vine and freezes, his hand automatically tightening around Will’s, who responds in kind. For a moment, they stand immobile in the middle of the shop. A gust of wind whistles through the shattered windows, disturbing the glass on the floor and making the tables rattle.
The vine remains stationary. Mike’s and Will’s eyes dart over the rest of the shop and find no others.
“I think we’re okay,” Will finally murmurs, tilting his head up to look at Mike. “There’s nothing here, and I think that’s the only vine.”
Mike lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
They had all been split into groups to sweep the main part of Hawkins to make sure that El and Hopper could have a clear path to the Creel house. After closing the first three gates over the course of the last few days, they’re hoping to finish with that one.
And, if things work out how they’re expecting them to, Vecna should be there, and if Vecna’s there, then El has a chance to kill him. To really end this for good.
But first, she has to have a way to get there.
Hence Mike and Will standing motionless in the middle of the old downtown coffee shop, flinching at the sight of a single vine and their ears finely tuned to listen for the chittering of bats or growling of demogorgons.
The hand-holding’s just an added bonus, though–that had been a very sudden development somewhere in between El breaking up with him, Will finally admitting he’d lied about the painting, and Mike realizing he felt about Will the way he should have felt about his girlfriend for the past year-and-a-half. At most, it’s been a week since everyone had finally come to understand their own truths, but Mike’s found this new development in his relationship with Will as natural as the leaves changing colors or the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. There wasn’t a drastic shift in their dynamic like it had been with El, where they kissed, a switch flipped, and they were officially a couple with a capital-C; with Will, it just feels like being best friends always has, except now they hold hands and kiss.
Not that anybody else really knows–they’ve been keeping it under wraps, what with the end of the world and all, even if Jonathan has been giving them funny looks and Nancy has asked him more than once why he’s been smiling so much considering the depressing vibes the apocalypse tends to bring with it. You know, dark skies, ash falling from the sky, the threat of mental torture from another dimension, their entire town almost entirely evacuated and half of it swallowed up by the rifts in the ground–the usual things that would make anybody not smile.
It’s just hard not to when he knows that, no matter what, Will’s going to be with him. And that’s all he needs to feel like even the apocalypse can be overcome.
“Cool,” Mike finally manages to breathe out. He swivels his head left and right, scanning the place once more, reminding himself of all the abandoned coffee mugs and coats thrown over the backs of chairs. Nope, no vines in sight apart from that one curled against the wall. “Should we go, then?”
Will squeezes his hand again, shifting the gun in his free hand up more. “Actually, we should probably check behind the counter and the back closet just to be sure.” He quickly glances at Mike, nervous. “You think we’d be good to split up? They’re not too far away from each other.”
As much as Mike wants to yell hell no to that idea, it would probably do them best to try and get out of here quickly. Besides, the counter and the closet aren’t that far from each other–they’re just a few paces away, at best.
Even if it does feel a little unbearable.
Mike finally nods. His voice sticks to the back of his throat. “Yeah, we can do that.”
“How about I take the closet, since I have the gun?” Will shakes the firearm a little in his hands, and Mike still finds himself wondering when the hell Will had ever even learned to shoot. “And you can take the counter?”
“What, you don’t think Steve’s stupid bat would be a good defense against a demogorgon in a dark closet?” Mike snarks, trying to swallow back the legitimate fear he feels pushing up from his chest.
“Not with your aim,” Will deadpans.
It makes a smile tug against Mike’s mouth, even if the cold air hits sharply against his teeth. Will returns it, and the sight makes heat rush to Mike’s face, stinging against the chilly air.
After several hesitant moments, they finally let go of each other’s hands, and Mike can already feel the cold overtaking the warmth that had seeped into their shared space. He bites down on the anxiety bubbling at the back of his throat and carefully steps around the counter, his bloodied converse still crunching against glass. One of his hands lifts up to where the handle of the bat sticks out of his backpack, the other drifting across the counter where ashes and spilled coffee grounds have mixed into a fine dust on the laminate.
He follows Will out of the corner of his eye, too, just to be sure he’s still there. As if he can sense Mike’s careful gaze, Will casts him one last glance before bracing his hand on the knob, gun at the ready to grab and shoot if need-be.
He swings the door open.
At the same time, Mike rounds the counter, hand already tugging the bat out of his backpack even as his eyes register no threats. It’s just a few innocuous, broken jars, a small fridge sitting open that definitely smells like it has spoiled milk in it, and several bags of coffee grounds spilled open. A few smatterings of glass, a pitcher of water with its top layer frozen over, and a machine with a red light that won’t stop blinking, a cup overflowing with espresso and curdled milk sitting below its nozzle.
Thankfully, there are no sounds of struggle from the closet; after Mike quickly takes in the scene behind the counter, he whips his head up to the closet door, where Will stands in its frame, gun raised. When nothing jumps out at him, he carefully reaches for the flashlight stuck in his belt and clicks it on, its weak beam of light dancing over boxes of paper goods, bags of coffee beans, and a freezer slowly dripping water onto the floor with a few flies buzzing lazily around it.
No monsters.
Will carefully winds out of the closet, and when he shuts the door, he backs up against it and slides a little ways down. Despite the reprieve from monsters, tension still laces through his shoulders, and when he tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, Mike realizes just how much older he looks from even a few weeks ago. The circles under his eyes have only gotten darker since they’d arrived, no thanks to his incessant nightmares and mental tether to Vecna, and his cheeks have grown just a little hollower, like he hadn’t been eating like he should.
Not that any of them really had been, but it still sends a particularly painful twist into Mike’s heart seeing Will like this. Screw them being in the middle of some sweep through downtown Hawkins or whatever–Mike just wants him to feel better, even if it’s just for a few moments.
He’d tried to joke around with El a lot in their relationship, especially if he could tell she was mad. In fact, he remembers taking the CPR dummy from her arms at the pool and making it talk a little too vividly and has to keep himself from driving a fork into his mind’s eye whenever it pops up in his head. But, whatever–the point is, his weird jokes and goofing off had never particularly impressed her, and, looking back, it feels like just one more example of how poorly they fit together. Hell, they couldn’t even be proper friends because they were so caught up in being a couple like they’d seen in countless movies and TV shows, and, in Mike’s case, whatever the hell he saw at home between his parents. They aren’t the model for a perfect marriage by any stretch, but, hey, there has to be a reason they’ve been together as long as they have, right?
But Will likes his jokes. Or, at the very least, he’s willing to laugh at Mike, if not with him. He’s always appreciated Mike’s theatrics over D&D campaigns and late-night arcade crawls, and even if it verges into the realm of annoyance, Mike has only ever seen Will look at him with fondness when he’s tried his best to joke around.
It’s better than nothing.
His eyes land on a (mostly) unstained towel. He snatches it up, mocks wiping off a portion of the glass-ash-coffee-grounds dust on the counter, and leans forward, trying to catch Will’s eyes. “Excuse me? Are you going to order anytime soon?”
Will tilts his head back down, furrowing his brow. “What?”
Mike sighs. “Your order? You’re in a coffee shop, remember?” He taps the bell near his hand several times to punctuate his point, loud dings ringing through the icy air. “You have to order something, or else I’m legally obligated to kick you out.”
“Right,” Will drawls out, slowly nodding, as if he’s finally picking up on the sudden game of pretend at hand. He pushes off of the door and approaches the counter, the gun still resting in his hands. It would look quaintly incongruous if it weren't for the fact that all the windows are broken and the shop had clearly been abandoned in the middle of a lunch rush, no thanks to the impending decimation of Hawkins. “Because you’re clearly open and ready to serve coffee right now.”
“We are, if you have the right attitude about it.”
“I don’t think most baristas carry bats with nails in them to work, though,” Will notes, setting the gun on the floor against the front of the counter then leaning forward on his elbows. “Unless your customers are just the worst.”
“They are when they point guns at you and don’t order when they’re supposed to.”
“Sorry, but I can’t quite read your menu.” Will points up to the board that no longer has any backlighting. The menu items look like fuzzy scribbles in the semi-darkness, just barely lit by the blinking light on the espresso machine. “You got any recommendations?”
Mike tilts his head, trying to look like he’s in deep thought about the relative pros and cons between different coffee drinks. He catches Will’s grin pulling wider, and it only fuels the fire in his stomach, making him want to play it up more and more. “Well, we actually have a house special right now–” He grabs the overflowing mug of espresso from beneath the machine, a disjointed sheen of ice caked over its top but the milk still definitely looking lumpy underneath, and sets it on the counter between them. He and Will both scrunch their noses up at the damp, spoiled smell it gives off, even as Mike holds a hand out and tries to say with some gusto, “See? Espresso with textured milk, only for our best customers.”
“Textured milk?”
“It’s what everybody in, like, Seattle is drinking nowadays.”
Will scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re a terrible barista. Also, I think I’ll have tea instead.”
“Well, we should have some around here…” Mike manages the impossible feat of turning away from the warmth of Will’s smile to glance at the messy clutter of jars piled all around the back counter. His eyes roam over several labels for coffee, some for powdered creamer and various sweeteners, stirrer sticks–
And then, a single jar, stuffed to the brim with dried, shredded leaves. Its label, just barely visible in the glow from the open sign and the blinking light on the espresso machine, reads Green Tea.
He quickly leans over and snatches it from the counter. After prying the lid off and tossing it to the side, he reaches his hand in and digs out a fistful. When he turns back to Will, he holds the jar out in one hand, his other behind his back and crunching against tea leaves. “Actually, we have a fine selection of green tea for people like you.”
“If only we had some boiling water,” Will sighs.
“Oh, this tea’s actually special. You see, you don’t need water to make it.”
“How could you not need water for–”
He’s cut off as Mike whips his other hand around and lets the leaves in his hand fly towards him. Half of them fall on the counter right in front of him, but the other half manages to either bounce off his face or, in a few lucky leaves’ cases, catch in his hair. His eyes scrunch closed until most of the leaves shake away from him, and when he peels them back open, they’re stuck in a glare that’s somewhere between playful and annoyed. “I take back what I said: you’re not a terrible barista. You’re the worst barista.”
“We might actually have some more tea back here, if you want me to check so you can try some–”
Will holds his gaze. “I think I’m good.”
A tentative silence stretches between them, and Mike can’t quite get a good read on it. On the one hand, there’s a bit of a mirthful glow in Will’s eyes that makes it seem like he’s still going along with it, but there’s also this hard edge in his jaw, tension locked in his arms.
It’s only when his hand darts forward and scoops up a handful of ash and coffee grounds that Mike realizes he’s going all in on this stupid little bit, too.
Unfortunately, it’s not enough time for Mike to fully close his eyes or raise his arms up against the barrage of coffee crumbs and supernatural ash that puffs into his face.
“See? This is why I have to keep the bat around,” Mike emphasizes as he swipes grounds out of his eyes and away from his cheeks, their bitter scent clinging to his skin. A few motes fly into his mouth, and he dissolves into a fit of coughs.
Will lets out a few chuckles. “If you’re this bad of a barista, then I can see why customers might bother you.”
“Shut up.” Mike scoops up another handful of tea leaves and throws them at Will’s face.
And just as Mike’s reaching for more tea, Will quickly leans over the counter, eyes scanning its contents before snatching at a bag of marshmallows that sound more like cubes of wood hitting together. He grabs a handful and pelts it at Mike, leaving Mike to try to lamely shield his face with his arms. He learns that a full barrage of stale marshmallows does, in fact, hurt. A lot.
“Holy shit!” Mike instinctively throws his hands in front of his face as another clump of marshmallows sails his way, and his fingers smart from where they knock against them. “Those hurt–”
“They could almost be bullets,” Will notes, finally stopping his attacks. When Mike finally drifts his arms back down, Will holds a single one up on the palm of his hand and flicks it, just in time for it to skim right across Mike’s temple, making him wince. “See? Headshot.”
“Headshot my ass,” Mike huffs, snatching up a handful of coffee grounds and ash and blowing them into Will’s face.
Even through his coughs, Will manages to drop the bag of marshmallows and picks up the mug of spoiled espresso, eyes squinted. “Don’t make me toss this on you!”
“Well, you’re stuck with me for the rest of this sweep, and I know you couldn’t stand for me to smell like that, so, I know you’re not gonna do it.”
“You sure about that?” Will’s voice is calm and light, but there’s an undertone of a challenge: just you fucking try me, Michael; I don’t care if you are my best friend and my boyfriend.
In the span of that quick question, though, Mike’s hand had already been creeping along the counter, fingers grasping around a white packet, its processed contents being one of the few products here unaffected by the imminent end of days and lack of electricity. Just as Will’s voice is lifting into that interrogative tone, Mike hurriedly tears the packet open, trying not to inhale the sickly-sweet cloud of dust it stirs up, and dumps it on Will’s head. Hot chocolate mix cascades down his chestnut brown hair, some of it landing against his nose and making him squint his eyes closed, hands already swiping to get the powder away. He coughs a little, and Mike realizes that some of the mix has landed against his cheeks and on the corners of his mouth.
“I could kill you, Mike–”
“Really?” Now it’s Mike’s turn to lean his elbows on the counter, the material of his jacket rustling against tea leaves, marshmallows, and coffee grounds. “Because what was it you said in the van? Something about how you, like, need me–”
“That’s not fair,” Will counters, leaning in so his elbows bump against Mike’s, even as he still tries to wipe hot chocolate mix out of his eyes, to rustle his hands through his bangs. Some of the mix lands onto Mike’s hands. “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to keep bringing it up.”
“It’s nice to remember, though, especially with the whole end of the world thing.”
“You could just ask me to say literally anything else.” Will ruffles a hand through his bangs, mussing them up into a beautiful mess.
Mike reaches for Will as he continues to brush away chocolate powder and the few remaining tea leaves clinging to his hair. He stills beneath Mike's touch. “How about we just…appreciate how everything turned out instead?”
Will raises his eyebrows up until they disappear under his mix-dusted bangs. “Such as?”
Carefully intertwining their fingers, Mike presses a quick kiss to Will’s lips, only continuing when Will meets him and pulls closer. Fingers still smarting from the old marshmallows, Mike winds his other hand up into the back of Will’s hair, and he smiles at the faint taste of chocolate at the corners of his mouth, how some of the remaining mix falls out of his hair and lands against Mike’s own cheeks. They continue for several moments, and even if they’d only had their first kiss a week ago, Mike feels like it might as well have been something they’d been doing for a lifetime. He doesn’t know what qualifies as a good kiss, but whatever he has with Will always feels right, like he could get lost in it if he let himself.
Like right now. The rest of the world has completely faded around him–spoiled espresso included–and it isn’t until they hear a loud screech from outside that they jump apart, their lips momentarily snagged against each other.
Will immediately ducks down to grab the gun just as the supercomm in the side pocket of Mike’s backpack crackles to life, and he snatches it up. With shaking fingers, he pulls the antenna out.
The screeches momentarily recede, but it doesn’t make the tension loosen out of either of their shoulders. Will looks intense as one of his hands trails up to the back of his neck, his eyes growing wide, and Mike startles when Hopper’s voice filters over the radio.
“Is it clear on your end?”
Mike and Will share a disheartened look.
Yeah, it had been clear until that stupid screeching whatever had interrupted them.
After a moment, Mike finally punches the button down and holds the radio up to his mouth. “Uh, we thought it was, but we just heard something.”
“Check it out and let me know what you find.”
Mike can’t help it–he rolls his eyes, even if Hopper’s orders are totally reasonable. He’s just thankful Hopper can’t actually see him and doesn’t know that he’d once again managed to interrupt a totally normal kiss between Mike and one of his kind-of children. “Will do. Over and out.”
After he shoves the antenna down and sticks the radio back in the backpack’s side pocket, Mike clears his throat, then lowers his voice. “I guess we’d better go check that out?”
Will gives a solemn nod, running one last hand through his bangs to shake away some of the hot chocolate mix. The light dusting of it on his cheeks stands out from the bright red blush that has overtaken his face. “Yeah, we should.”
They both try to avoid each other’s eyes, and Mike can already feel a slight flush against his own face too because, yeah, okay, it’s a little embarrassing that they had apparently missed some ugly creature crawling around Hawkins because they’d been too busy flirting and kissing each other stupid. It’s just another reminder that they don’t get to be kids anymore–not that they had been for a long time.
There’s no time for butterflies in stomachs and shy blushes on cheeks when the world’s ending, after all.
Mike takes a few steps to move around the counter, then stops and swivels back around, grasping for something off of the counter. Will, who had been moving to meet him in the middle, quirks an eyebrow up. “Why are you bringing those?”
Mike holds up the bag of stale marshmallows as he approaches Will. It’s only half-full, the rest of its contents currently on the counter or floor. Mike doesn’t miss the confusion that hardens against Will’s features in the red glow of the open sign, nor how it grows in intensity as Mike dumps a couple of the stale confections into the palm of his hand. “You said they could be like bullets, so…Who knows? Maybe they could help.”
Will’s mouth parts in surprise as he leans closer to Mike’s hand, scrutinizing the marshmallows.
In the blink of an eye, he drops one of his hands from the gun and flicks at one of them; it hits Mike right between the eyes.
“Shit–!”
Will lets out a brief chuckle. “Maybe you cracked the case–the real weakness of demogorgons is stale sugar.”
Mike rolls his eyes, but his hand quickly finds Will’s once more, their fingers automatically winding together. “Well, I guess we can find out together, right?”
Swallowing, Will slowly nods. His fingers wrap more tightly around Mike’s. “Yeah. Together.”
And they step out from the coffee shop, hand in hand, glass crunching under their worn-out shoes, the open sign and the red lightning shooting across the sky their only sources of light.