Chapter Text
Mike Wheeler had finished middle school drunk on good grades, California sun and his best friend, Max Mayfield. He had to admit that middle school was not as horrible as it had been insinuated to him—but that's probably only because he had Max by his side. Not that he'd ever say that to her face—God, no. The ego boost that she'd get. He shuddered just thinking about it.
Mike and Max have been glued by the hip ever since they were five, ever since that very first day of kindergarten, where she had profusely puked her entire breakfast on him, and yet, they had laughed. They had bickered, they had teased and mocked and ridiculed—and not once have they left each other's side since then. It was almost as if they had made a silent pact that day: Leave My Side and You're Dead.
(Courtesy of Max, of course. Go figure!)
Which is why when Mike's mom and Max's mom sat them down during the scorching heat of July in California, and dropped the jaw-slacking bombshell about moving all the way to Indiana, Max and Mike had turned the silent pact completely vocal. They jumped out of their slouched positions on the couch, scurrying to Mike's room and locking the door.
Almost instantly, Max had started pacing the length of the room, a habit that she, without a doubt, had picked up from her best friend. "Holy shit!"
"How eloquent of you, Mayfield," Mike said dryly, sitting at the edge of his bed grumpily. He buried his face in his hands because he had expected anything—anything but this. Moving meant change. Moving meant drifting apart and making new friends and forgetting about each other, even if they'd still be together. Moving meant change—and if Mike Wheeler despised anything, it was change.
Max, however, seemed a bit more enthusiastic about this than him. "Hoooly shit!" Okay, maybe a little too enthusiastic. She stopped in her tracks, turning to face him abruptly before capturing Mike's shoulders in a vice-like grip. "Dude, this is like—life-changing. Do you know what this means?"
"Yeah—losing you?" Mike said, in a tone which he had intended to be light-hearted and possibly joking, but Max knew him well enough to know when he was hurt or conflicted. And right now? Mike was both of those things. Her grin faltered for a second too long, and she sat down beside Mike, forcing him to look at her.
"Mike—we're moving together," she enunciated carefully, as if she were explaining the concept of space to an infant. "How the hell would you lose me?"
Mike's brows gathered in a heap at his forehead, sighing deeply. "I dunno, Max. I just—I don't want us to... drift. Y'know? New town means new people, new people means new friends and—"
Max promptly lifted a hand to shut him up, which worked, rather effectively. "Mike, you're an idiot."
Mike scrunched his nose. "Thanks," he said, nudging her hard enough to make her yelp. He smirked, earning himself a middle finger.
"I meant," she pressed, "that we won't drift, Mike. I don't think we're physically capable of doing that."
Mike smiled. She was right, they've been basically siblings for nearly eleven years now. They know every single thing about each other, and if a stranger had asked him to impersonate Max right this moment, he'd even get the twitching of her brows right. "Yeah?"
"Not with you following me around like a lost puppy, at least," the red-head added, scoffing lightly. That had earned her another shove.
And here they were now, trotting down the forest-clad pavements of Hawkins. The humid Indiana air clung to Hawkins High like a second skin, a stark contrast to the dry heat California always seemed to possess, no matter the season. Mike didn't seem to mind the sweat; he was too busy hyperventilating internally to pay heed to the weather.
"Relax, Wheeler. You look like you're marching to your execution," Max snorted, skipping a step to walk backwards in front of him, her bright yellow converse scuffing against the pavement.
"Maybe that's because I am, Max!" Mike huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his nails digging into his palms. Out of the two of them, he was always the stress ball in a human form, constantly on edge when it came to just about anything new.
"It's just high school," she said, as if she were addressing a speck of dust, rolling her eyes at him. "It's not like it's a gladiator arena. Although, looking at that guy's mullet, it probably is."
Mike huffed a laugh, adjusting his backpack strap. "It's not the school I'm nervous about. It's the people. Have you seen the stares? We might as well be aliens!"
"We are aliens," Max replied (rather prosperously if you ask Mike), turning around and pushing the doors to the school open. Immediately, the scent of freshly mopped ceramic and mystery meat from what Mike assumed to be the cafeteria washed over them, the chatter of a hundred students humming obnoxiously in their ears. The corridors were packed with people from every single corner, and that only tightened the lump of anxiety hogging Mike's chest further. "We're from California. We're cool. We're exotic," Max continued, their elbows bumping, a rhythmic, familiar comfort.
"We're doomed," Mike corrected. He sighed, dodging a group of students who looked like they haven't slept since the Clinton administration. Reassuring, seriously.
"Okay," Max said, whipping a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. "Let's see the damage." Mike pulled his own schedule out, the two of them stopping in the middle of the hallway like they owned it, ignoring the grumbles of students forced to swerve around them. Mike held his paper up to the light as if it were some sort of holy text.
"History..." He muttered, scanning the list. "Gym... Literature... English—"
"English?" Max gasped, snapping her head up. "First period?"
Mike looked at her, eyes wide with mock-horror. His hand flew to his chest, clutching his shirt with an extensive air of melodrama. "No. God, no. Please tell me you're lying."
Max's grin was wicked, her classic shit-eating expression that meant she was about to win a bet or destroy him at Mario Kart. "Room 204. Looks like you're stuck with me, Wheeler."
Mike groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. "And you called me the lost puppy," he muttered. "I was hoping for at least one period where I don't have to deal with you making fun of my breathing patterns."
"Love ya too, loser," Max chirped, already dragging Mike through the throng of pungent students. They made their way down the hallway, a whirlwind of whispered insults and shared snickers. They talked over each other, elbowing one another every time their insults got a little too loud. They were a unit, a force of nature, critiquing every thing from the width of the lockers to the very interesting fashion choices the students at this school possessed.
"—are these skinny jeans? In 2025? Bold—"
"—he's wearing cargo pants. Cargo pants, Max—"
"—orange mohawk alert—"
"—holy shit, why'd he just start fucking breakdancing—"
They found Room 204 and stepped inside, Mike still cackling from the show he had witnessed in the middle of the corridor (yes, a boy with a bleached, shaved head started breakdancing out of no where, and Mike thought he might as well have been cosplaying Eminem, of all people). The scent of old paper and waxed floors washed over them, the low chatter of the class a massive contradiction to the commotion outside. Mike scanned the room, looking for two empty seats beside each other, preferably in the back so they could make fun of the teacher in peace.
But Max stopped dead.
Her hand flew to Mike's elbow, yanking him closer to her so hard he almost stumbled. "Ow, Max, what—" he started, but she shushed him, her blue eyes wide and excited.
"Okay, don't make it too obvious," she hissed, leaning in close. "But look. In the corner. Row before last, near the window."
Mike frowned. "What? Is someone wearing cargo pants?"
Max slapped the back of his head lightly, making Mike wince. "No, you idiot. Look!"
Mike sighed, assuming Max was pointing at another person with a particularly depressing mullet. He turned his head, feigning a glace at the clock on the wall, before letting his gaze slide towards the corner of the room.
And it's like the entire world had froze right at this moment. Mike's jaw went slack.
Sitting at a desk, doodling in a leather-clad sketchbook, was a boy. He had shaggy brown curls that fell softly across his forehead, and he was curled in on himself. He was wrapped in a mauve jumper, which was hanging off his frame, almost as if he had gotten it two sizes too big. He seemed immensely focused on whatever he was doing, fingertips faintly stained with graphite and tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Even from a distance, he looked... huggable. Gentle, soft, the kind of person who looked like they belonged in an idyllic meadow or an art museum, not some lousy, dusty, public high school. The kind of person Mike would like waking up to, laugh and hug and kiss—yes. Mike would really like that.
Chill, Wheeler. You haven't even talked to him! The little Max-like voice in his head reminded him.
Mike's heart skipped a million beats per second. He felt the air leave his lungs in a rush, his heart hammering against his ribs in a not-so-rhythmic thump-thump-thump. Oh, no, he thought. Oh, no, he's beautiful.
"Go," Max whispered, shoving him hard in the back.
Mike staggered forward, his legs suddenly feeling like jelly. "What? No, I can't just—"
"Go sit by him!" Max commanded through gritted teeth, barely containing her smile. Mike has only ever told one person about his deepest, darkest secret, and that person was none other than Max. That secret being that he was gay, of course. He never had the heart to come out so effortlessly, but when Max had barged into his room, sometime during sixth grade, crying because she felt 'butterflies because Carly smiled at her', he didn't feel so alone. He had held her, and comforted her, and told her that it was okay to like girls, that there was nothing wrong with it. She had snapped at him, told him he would never understand—and so he felt like he just couldn't keep this secret whelved in the back of his mind anymore.
("You'll never understand, Mike!" The red-head had cried out, a trail of hot tears slipping down her flushed cheeks. "You'll never understand how different that makes me feel."
Mike's heart clenched painfully at the sight of his best friend so broken and vulnerable. He had never seen her this way—crying like this crisis would determine if she gets to live past eighteen or not. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to his chest and patting her head comfortingly. He had let her cry and drench his pyjama shirt in tears, told her to let it all out, and that when she had calmed down, they would talk through it.
"Better?" Mike asked, a long while after her tears had stopped, her chest only faintly heaving now. She sniffed, nodding minutely as Mike pushed her far enough so they could look at each other. She had looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes, vulnerability and shame swimming blatantly through her blue irises.
"Max," he had started, his voice soft. "I understand."
Max had opened her mouth to retort like the snappy bitch she was, but Mike had beat her to it. "I understand because... because I am like you. I like boys, Max. I don't like girls."
And as soon as he admitted those words out loud, he had felt so damn free—free from expectations, free from conformity, free from societal standards. Max had looked at him as if he were a walking goblin on planet Earth, though he hadn't missed the glint of hope in her eyes. Hope that they weren't as different as she thought, hope that they were both following each other's steps—even when it came to fucking sexual orientation, as crazy as that sounded. She had hugged him so hard that day, Mike had to use an inhaler for the rest of the week.)
"Go, Mike!" Max nudged him harder, making him stumble once more.
"I can't! I'm going to vomit—"
"Go!"
Mike, propelled by Max's force of will and his own desperate curiosity, found himself trudging towards the back row. Each step felt like an oath, a promise to the universe that Max Mayfield was absolutely not letting Mike leave this classroom either: A) completely embarrassed, B) potentially charming, or C) wishing he had never been born. Mike had the feeling it was the latter of the three. Every step felt like walking through fucking quicksand. As he got closer, the boy looked up. He had large, doe eyes. Amber eyes which reminded Mike vaguely of honeycombs. Amber eyes that seemed to hold a galaxy of shyness and beauty so severe Mike nearly fell right onto his face at that moment.
The boy blinked, surprised, and quickly shifted his bag off the empty chair beside him to make room.
Mike sat down. He dropped his backpack on the floor with a loud thud that made him wince. "Hi," he squeaked. He cleared his throat, face instantly heating up. "I—I mean... hi."
The boy offered a small, tentative smile, a soft shade of pink dusting his cheeks. "Hi."
Holy shit, he even sounds cute, Mike thought, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. His hands were sweating. Why were his hands sweating?! "I'm Mike," he said lightly, even though he felt like he was internally malfunctioning and combusting all at the same time.
"Will," the boy replied. His voice was quiet, melodic. "I'm Will Byers."
And it's like the cogs in Mike's brain clicked because of course his name was Will. It fit him perfectly. "Nice to meet you, Will," Mike said, aiming for casual but ended up sounding more like he was reading a hostage statement.
"You too," Will smiled, and, God, Mike felt like melting into a puddle right then and there. "Are you new here? I don't think I've, y'know, seen you around before..."
Mike nodded, albeit a bit too eagerly. "I—I'm new. Obviously," Mike worried at his nailbed. "I mean—not obviously obviously, but... I just moved here. From California. So, yeah."
He shut his mouth. He was rambling, mouth going a mile a minute. He was the world's worst rambler, but he tended to do so whenever he was a bundle of nerves. Either Will hadn't noticed, or he was kind enough not to comment on it. Will nodded politely, ducking his head slightly. He averted his gaze to and fro from Mike's, a lock of hair falling over his eyes before he brushed it away. "Well—welcome to Hawkins. I don't think it's anything like California from what I've heard, but... i—it's quiet. Like—good quiet."
Mike huffed a laugh, though it sounded more like he was hyperventilating (which, to be fair, he kinda was). "Yeah. I noticed," Mike said, risking a glance at Will's hands, which were currently clutching a pencil as if his life depended on it. Will looked just as nervous as Mike felt, his knee bouncing lightly under the desk. The revelation made a wave of satisfaction wash over Mike, though his stomach had flipped uncermoniously in a way that was half-terrifying, half-exhilarating.
From the desk behind him, Mike heard a very much distinctive muffled snort—one that he recognised like the back of his hand. He didn't need to turn around to know that Max was sitting there, watching the entire interaction as if her favourite rom-com was airing out in real time. Mike certainly knew for a fact that this wasn't some Prince Henry and Alex situation.
He felt a sharp kick against the foot of his chair.
Ignore her, Mike told himself. Focus on the cute boy.
"So, er—" Mike started, desperate to keep the conversation going before the teacher barged in. "Do you like it here? Hawkins, I mean."
Will looked up, meeting Mike's eyes. For a moment, the anxiety subsided, warmth settling in instead. "It has its moments," he shrugged meekly. "I think you'll like it. If you like... pumpkin."
Mike let out a surprised laugh, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction. "I hate pumpkin."
Will grinned shyly, a smile so sweet and so genuine it made Mike's heart stop for a full second. "Then we're already in trouble."
Is this flirting? Mike thought, panicked. Holy shit, he's flirting—
Kick.
Another kick to the back of his chair, harder this time. Mike risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Max was sitting with her chin propped on her hand, her ginger hair sticking out of a messy braid and curling around her face. She was grinning at him with such an unbridled, teasing delight that she looked like she might explode. She raised her eyebrows, mouthed 'He's totally flirting' (almost as if she had read Mike's mind—really, no surprise there), and winked.
Mike turned back around, heat creeping up his neck, but when he turned back to Will, he couldn't bring himself to care. Will was looking up at him with sparkling eyes. Yeah—sparkling, amber eyes, Wheeler.
"But I think you being around will spare me the trouble, Byers," Mike grinned, relishing in the flush that made its way to Will's cheeks.
Before Will could form a response, a weary-looking man with a comb-over jostled in. He grunted a greeting, immediately droning on about the syllabus, clearly far from interested in figuring out anyone's name. Mike and Max would've been laughing their asses off right now, whispering about how he looked as if he had just woken up from a sad sex dream—but they weren't. They weren't because Will was sitting right next to Mike, and Mike couldn't have been happier.
The teacher started calling out for attendance, but Mike quickly tuned his voice out, too busy watching the way Will's hands moved as he spoke. It turned out that Will was shy at first, but get him on the right topic, and he lit up like a Christmas tree. It started when Mike noticed the sketchbook again—or, rather noticed the hands wrapped around said sketchbook.
"Is that... graphite?" Mike asked, peering curiously. Will's eyes widened just a fraction, surprised that Mike had noticed the smudge of graphite on his pinky finger.
"Yeah," Will breathed, a smile tugging at his lips. "I prefer pencil over pens—they're more... I dunno, forgiving? I like to sketch. Mostly landscapes, but sometimes... fantasy stuff."
"I write," Mike blurted nervously, feeling the intense urge to impress the endearing boy beside him. Will tilted his head, waiting for him to elaborate. "Stories. I mean, I'm trying to write a campaign. For... er—for... D&D," Mike finished lamely, expecting another curious glance from Will, another question that would require Mike to explain what D&D actually was.
But, instead, Mike watched the way Will's eyes widened comically, glittering with interest. "You play D&D?"
Now it was Mike's turn to widen his eyes. He opened his mouth, ready to full-on rant—
"Mr. Wheeler," the teacher called out from the front of the room, not looking up from his attendance sheet. "One."
Mike winced, sinking lower in his seat. "Sorry."
Will stifled a giggle behind his hand, ducking his head cutely. Once the teacher turned his back to the class, Will leaned in closer, his voice eager. "I play, too. I haven't had a campaign in a while, but I used to be the Cleric. My brother, Jonathan, would sometimes DM, but he's not very good at... voices," Will smiled crookedly, and Mike felt his heart prance around in his chest.
Mike felt a jolt of electricity shoot up his spine. He wasn't just cute. He was a nerd, too. A cute nerd who played D&D. If Mike didn't know what heaven was, he sure does know now.
"No way," Mike whispered. "I usually DM. I love doing the voices. I have this one NPC—an innkeeper—who sounds like he's constantly gargling gravel. It drives my friends crazy."
"That sounds amazing!" Will whispered earnestly. He hesitated, worrying at his lip for a moment before grabbing his sketchbook. He flipped through it till he landed on a page, turning it around for Mike to see. It was an intricate drawing of an incredibly detailed dragon, waves of heat and fire spewing out of his mouth as his massive tail curled around a brave figure wearing an embellished cloak—a Cleric. Mike's mouth fell open.
"This is my character," Will said. "From my last campaign."
Mike stared at the paper, mouth slightly parted, as he took in the details of the drawing. "Will—this is... incredible. You drew this? In, like, what—five minutes?"
Will blushed, tucking a shaggy curl behind his ear. "It helps me focus," he said, talking about his talent as if he were talking about the weather. Mike was about to delve deeper, compliment Will once more, not only because he deserved it, but also because Mike loved seeing that blush creep onto his face, contradicting his pale complexion—
"Mr. Wheeler. Mr. Byers," the teacher sighed, dropping a thick textbook onto the table with a loud thud. "Two," he warned languidly.
Mike and Will both snapped their mouths shut, exchanging wide-eyed looks. The moment the teacher looked away, they dissolved into silent fits of laughter, shoulders shaking as they tried to suppress the noise.
This pattern continued for the next forty minutes. They talked about anything and everything—Mike complained about the humidity; Will told him about the best hiding spots in the library for when you wanted to skip lunch (which Will claimed he never did, though his smirk suggested otherwise). They debated the merits of Star Trek vs. Star Wars, discovered a mutual hatred for peas, and realized they were both currently reading The Hobbit.
"Mr. Wheeler!"
"Mr. Byers!"
"Three!"
"Four!"
By the fourth time, the teacher stopped his lesson to glare daggers at them. Mike was resting his chin on his hand, staring at Will with a dopey expression he didn't even realize he was making. He felt like he had known Will for years, not forty-five minutes. The teacher turned again, facing the whiteboard, completely missing the impish grin Will tossed to Mike.
Meanwhile, Max was watching the whole scene unfold, vibrating with energy. She hadn't missed the way Mike's eyes practically ejected hearts at Will, or the way Will's hands twitched, like he was resisting pulling Mike in right at this moment. She had tried everything—she had thrown crumpled ball of paper at the back of Mike's head, she had coughed loudly, kicked his chair, she had even made a freaking paper airplane! But Mike was in a trance. He was completely, utterly useless to her entertainment.
Finally, being fed up with observing her best friend's atrocious flirting tactics, Max extended her leg and shoved the back of Mike's chair with violent force.
"Ow!" Mike yelped, lurching forward and nearly face-planting onto his desk. "Max! What is your problem?"
Max blinked innocently, folding her hands in her lap with an etiquette Mike knew she did not possess on a regular basis. "My pencil rolled under your chair," she said, her lips twitching. "Sorry, Mikey."
"You are evil," Mike hissed, a blush creeping up his neck in embarrassment. He rubbed his ribs where the chair had dug into him, turning to Will, looking mortified. "Sorry—that's Max," he apologised. "She's a bitch—"
Max kicked his chair again, shutting him up. Will was looking past Mike, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "It's okay. She reminds me of someone I know."
Will smiled tentatively at Max, who was leaning her chin on the back of Mike's chair, fully inserting herself into the conversation. "Hi. I'm Will."
Max’s smirk softened into a genuine smile. "I know. I’ve been listening to you guys gossip for nearly forty-five minutes. I’m Max. Mike’s babysitter."
"I don't need a babysitter!" Mike protested, his voice cracking slightly.
"He really does," Will said, then immediately looked horrified that he had agreed. "I mean—uh—"
Max cackled, loud and bright. "I like him, Mike."
She watched the way Mike immediately turned his attention to Will, running his hands through his hair before sighing dramatically. "You two haven't even talked for a full minute and you're already conspiring against me."
Will relaxed at Mike's mocking tone, his shoulders dropping, an easy laugh escaping past his lips. It was subtle, the way the tension dissipated from his frame the moment Mike's gaze landed on him, but Max saw it immediately. It wasn't the hammy romantic connection you witnessed in movies or TV shows—not yet, anyway—but it was something deeper. Something real in a way that made one believe the electricity was tangible. It was a subconscious rhythm, Mike spoke, Will listened. Will joked, Mike beamed. And vice versa.
Max simpered. Hawkins was already welcoming Mike in a way he hadn't expected—and Max couldn't have been happier. Heck, she felt like a mother watching her son grow up right before her eyes. Ah, yes. Young love!
"So, Will—" Max opened her mouth again, emitting a disgruntled groan from Mike. Before she could find an embarrassing story of Mike to tell—
"Mr. Byers! Ms. Mayfield! Mr. Wheeler!" The teacher bellowed, his face resembling a very ripe plum. Mike chortled at the sight. "Five! Next warning results in detention, you three!"
Mike, Max, and Will looked at each other. And then, unable to help themselves, they all three burst into laughter.
***
The bell rang, and as if they were controlled by a single brain, Mike and Max shot out of their seats in perfect sync. Mike bid Will goodbye (albeit a very frisky one) before grabbing his bag, walking out of the classroom in fluid motion with Max.
"I can't believe he called us out five times," Max laughed, her backpack scratching Mike's arm as they navigated through the crowded hallway.
"Dude, did you see his face during the fifth call? I thought he was going to have an aneurysm," Mike said, puffing out his cheeks in a surprisingly accurate imitation of the teacher. Max chuckled, yanking Mike into the school cafeteria. Here, the scent of mystery meat (which was lingering in the school corridors earlier) was ten times stronger, making Mike scrunch his nose in disgust. He glanced around, his eyes landing on a blond jock, who was biting sloppily into what Mike assumed was a sandwich (yes, he had to assume because whatever he was eating looked far from edible).
Mike really didn't want to know where that meat came from.
Most people were scrambling around, dodging Mike and Max as they tried to find safety in numbers. Not Mike and Max, though. They spotted a small, two-person table near the back wall, slightly wobbly and squeezed between a trash can and a vending machine.
Wordlessly, they made their way towards it, dropping in the seats opposite to each other. They had spent the last eleven years doing this; eating lunch together, ignoring the rest of the world. They’d rather sit at a tiny, rickety table with just each other than sit at a "popular" table with a hundred people they didn't know.
"Okay, you'll never guess what happened," Max started, pulling a bag of chips out of her bag. "Sarah texted me this morning. She had an update on Rein."
Mike perked up at the mention of their middle school arch-nemesis. He raised a brow, urging Max to go on with what he hoped would be a satisfactory gossip session.
"Apparently, Rein wanted to go blonde this summer," Max said, tearing open the bag with aggressive force. "Safe to say, she ended up looking like a walking traffic cone."
Mike snorted, feeling a wave of triumph crash over him. "No way," he gasped, clutching his chest.
"Yes way," Max confirmed, looking viscously delighted. "And she's saying it was 'intentional', that she's trying to be a 'trendsetter'," she air-quoted, popping a chip into her mouth. Mike rolled his eyes.
"I wouldn't be surprised if she reeks of chemicals even more now. You better have photos," he said, stealing a chip. He could practically envision it: Rein with her grump-induced wrinkles, hair so orange it probably illuminated in the dark, acting as her makeshift night light. Oh, yeah. Max better have photos.
"Dude, remember back in seventh grade, when she said that my style 'resembled a muppet'?" Max said brusquely, waving a chip for emphasis. "I bet she doesn't even know the definition of muppet—"
She stopped.
It wasn't a gradual stop. It wasn't built up or anything—no, she full-on froze. It was like someone had clicked the pause button on a movie. Her mouth hung open slightly, the chip suspended mid-air. Her eyes, usually scanning the room for ammunition to mock, had locked onto a point across the cafeteria and stopped moving. Mike's brows furrowed. Surely she didn't see someone with that bad of a haircut—or, no, was it cargo pants, again? Mike shuddered.
He frowned, retracting his hand from Max's bag of chips. "Max?"
Max didn't respond. Her face was doing something Mike had never seen before in all their years of friendship. The tips of her ears were turning pink, and the flush was rapidly spreading down her neck and across her cheeks. She looked like she had just swallowed a bug. What the...?
"Maaax," Mike repeated, flailing his hand. "Earth to Maxine."
He followed her line of sight, squinting his eyes across the room. Sitting at a table with a group of seniors was a girl. A girl with long, voluminous brown curls, which cascaded all the way past her waist. She was laughing at something the boy beside her had said, scrunching her nose and crinkling her eyes. She had an effortless air of confidence radiating off her in overwhelming rays, like she knew who she was and didn't care what anyone else thought. She was stunning, and even Mike (who was as straight as a bendy ruler) could see that.
Mike looked at the girl, then back at Max. Max was still staring, her eyes wide and glassy, her lower lip slightly parted. Oh, Mike thought. Ohhh, this was new.
"Oh," Mike mirrored his thoughts, dragging the word out. "I see what's happening here."
Max finally blinked, snapping her mouth shut, but the red on her face only deepened. "Shut up," she gritted through her teeth, her voice cracking. Mike leaned forward, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. He smirked, his lips stretching in a manner that heavily resembled Cheshire Cat (though he definitely didn't uphold the same sovereignty—or, at least, that's what Max tried to convince herself at this moment).
"Why? Got something you wanna share with the class, Mayfield?" He teased, kicking her shin lightly.
"I don't—I wasn't—" Max stuttered (and, boy, was that new), finally tearing her eyes away to look at Mike, but she couldn't hold his gaze. She looked back at the girl immediately, like some lovesick idiot who was swooning over someone they didn't even know, which was exactly what Max was doing. "Oh my god, Mike. Look at her."
"I see her," he responded, sparing a glance back at the girl. "She seems cool. You on the other hand probably think that she seems delectable—"
Now it was Max's turn to kick Mike's shin, only with more aggression enough to make him yelp. "Fuck you," she retorted, letting her gaze settle on the girl once more. She watched her, face contorting into one of an awe-struck idiot. "She looks like a goddess. Did you see her hair? It has this, like, volume—it's puffy—and her jacket? Is that vintage? I bet you twenty bucks it's vintage—"
"Y'know," Mike said, squinting his eyes at the girl. "She looks vaguely familiar. Like, I dunno her, I don't think I do. But, is it just me, or is her hair kinda like Will's?"
"Same texture, same colour," he went on, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Do you think they're related? Maybe cousins?"
"Who cares about Will right now!" Max snapped. "I feel like throwing up—wow, is this what you felt like in English?"
Mike nodded earnestly. "Except I didn't turn into a human tomato. You look like a tomato, Max."
Another kick, sharper this time, pulling a hiss out of him. Mike wouldn't be surprised if it left a bruise. He decided to lean into the torment anyway. Seeing Max angry was one thing, but seeing her flustered was a whole other kind of fun. He was not letting her off the hook that easily.
"So," he chirped in a sing-song tone. "Do we know her? What's her name? Are you going to go introduce yourself? Or are you just going to keep staring at her from across the room like some creepy little stalker?"
"Mike," Max warned.
"Is it love at first sight, Maxie-poo?" He cooed, kicking her foot under the table once more. "Should I send her a note? 'Check yes or no if you think Max is cute'?"
Wordlessly, Max snatched the bag of chips, throwing it at Mike, who caught it with ease. She huffed, though her eyes were undoubtedly glassy. She was panicked, but she was happy. "I don't even know who she is. She could be a senior, or straight, or, God forbid, a Rein-clone—"
"You don't know that," Mike cut her off, shrugging. "Anyways, she's looking over here."
"What?" Max shrieked, ducking under the table. Mike laughed, looking back at the girl. She wasn't looking over, but Mike wasn't going to tell Max that just yet. It was too much fun watching her panic.
"Get up, you coward," he said, yanking her back up by the arm.
"I think I'm going to be sick," Max said, putting a hand to her stomach. But she didn't look away from the girl again. "She's just... so pretty."
"You're pretty, I bet she'd say the same about you," Mike said, tossing the bag of chips to her. "Now eat your chips before I throw them at you."
Max took a deep breath, settling her gaze back at Mike once more. Her eyes held a newfound sense of intensity, the same look she'd give to him before she would beat his ass at a one-v-one Minecraft battle. "You have to find out who she is."
"Me?" Mike pointed at himself. "Why me?"
"Because you're nosey and you have English class with her lookalike! Ask Will! Ask him if he has a sister, or a cousin, or whatever she is."
Mike huffed, rolling his eyes. "Deal. But only because watching you morph into a Slaad is probably the highlight of my year."
Max just stuck her tongue out at him, her gaze sliding back to the gravitating girl. Looks like Hawkins turned out to be more promising than Mike had thought it would be. He grinned, hope blooming in his chest—and, for the first time in what felt like forever, Mike gladly welcomed it.