Chapter Text
It’s the week leading up to Spring Break, meaning that Mike is frantically refreshing his computer’s tabs to make sure he’s turned in all the assignments he’d procrastinated until mid-March, and dreading the inevitable family outing.
The upcoming occasion in question being his older sister, Nancy’s birthday.
Mike’s mother has insisted that they celebrate back home, which is just spectacularly convenient, saying as it’s three hours away from the city and Mike doesn’t have a fucking car, but that’s a problem for another day.
Well, it’s mostly Lucas’ problem because he said he’ll let Mike borrow his car, but whatever. The problem for today, or more accurately tonight, is the dinner.
With Nancy being so wildly successful and perfect, it’s only fair that the family celebrates her birthday on several occasions. Mike knows that sounds like he’s all bitter and jealous or something, but he knows it’s not like it’s Nancy’s fault, or her idea, but still. Ugh.
Which is why Mike is being forced to dress up for some stupidly fancy dinner in some stupidly fancy restaurant, for a stupidly long amount of time.
So, Mike sits in his uncomfortably rigid slacks, trying to ignore the faintly suspicious scent of weed floating around the thick air of the cab he’s sitting in, that and trying to forget Max’s awfully cruel laughter that had rung out when she’d seen him in his fancy getup earlier at the apartment.
It really isn’t fair that she’s always loitering around at Mike and Lucas’ apartment, no where in there is Max, but still, she manages to be around more than enough to verbally humiliate Mike at every given chance.
But whatever, no one ever cares when Mike complains.
Swiping his phone open to text Nancy that he’s almost there (via her vague directions of “The big bright one on the corner of Todd Street.” That the driver seemed to understand perfectly) he sits watching the lights of the city flick by from inside the cab window, rain drops blotting the lights too look magnified and droopy as they pull into the parking lot.
Woah.
Yeah this place is definitely fancy.
Mike climbs out of the cab, muttering his thanks to the driver and stepping onto the puddle dotted pavement in front of the brightly lit building Nancy had instructed him to find.
Anyways, the building, (the name of which he still doesn’t know because the warm yellow neons that write it out over the building are written in such curling cursive that he can’t decipher what it says.) looms over Mike, promising awkward conversations that steer into lectures from his parents.
Deep breaths Mike reminds himself, swiping his phone open one more time before he condemns himself to his fate, and tapping out a:
To Lucas
Mike: about to enter hell
Mike: wish me luck
Sent
Clicking his phone off, knowing he won’t get a response in any timely fashion from any of his friends, let alone Lucas, he lets his feet lead him to the steps below the door, his hands to the door handle, another deep breath, and he steps inside.
—
The chairs sit high backed and cool enough to bring out goose bumps where they meet the skin at the back of Mike’s neck. The tables are a kind of iridescent looking glass, a material that looks as if it would shatter straight away if Mike dropped his fork (which he has already managed to do much to his parent’s annoyance)
All and all, it’s exactly as bad as Mike imagined it would be.
Even sitting with his sisters, who despite his best efforts of pretending they annoy him, (although they often do) they can usually brighten up this stuffy sort of family gathering.
After all, he hardly ever sees Holly, with her still living hours away with their parents, and Nancy is an awfully busy woman, so he seldom sees her either.
But there’s no such luck.
Nancy sits to Mike’s left, hair swept away from her face neatly as she’s consumed by their parents fawning over her. (their mother, that is, their father has said maybe ten words in the past half hour that weren’t complaining about the service, which Mike would say is perfectly acceptable)
But his mom goes on, about Nancy’s career, her new hair, her dating life, and, of course. Her birthday.
And now, Mike again realizes this sounds bitter, but he’s far past caring that he is the least favourite sibling of the three.
His parents are clearly wowed away by everything Nancy does, with her journaling, and her new apartment. She's always been the straight A older sister.
And they’re always doting on “little Holly”, who really isn’t that little anymore saying as she’s almost fifteen. About her report cards, and her new drawings. They really are good though, but still.
But they never really approved of Mike’s friends, or his English degree, or his apartment. Or anything about him really.
His mom tries. Really she does. But that’s just how she is, she’ll always be just a bit more distant and disappointed with Mike than she is with her other kids, even if she doesn’t mean to be, and Mike does his best not to blame her for it.
His dad, on the other hand, doesn’t try to do much of anything. So Mike can blame him for the lack of effort guilt free.
Which is why Mike usually avoids family outings. Usually it’s work, or school. Now, those excuses don’t slide, because they know for a fact he isn’t working until next week and that his school work is all done. Or that it should be anyway.
So as Mike sits there in the stiff chairs in his uncomfortable old shoes, bored out of his mind, unable to focus on zoning out to think about his novel project with all the chattering of his mother and the tinkering of the silverware around him, he is all the more susceptible to Nancy’s taunting.
Really, his mom starts it. Indirectly, but still.
“Nancy, dear, do you have a date for your Birthday Party?” His mom asks, leaning against the back of her chair, all proper with her hands folded and her hair curled like it always is.
“Because you know back at home Elizabeth has a lovely son around your age-“
“Yes, actually.” Nancy says coolly, an easy smile on her lips as she twirls a finger around the straw in her pinkish drink lazily.
Their mom gasps, (like actually gasps, Mike loves his Mom, but what a cliche) covering her mouth with a manicured hand, his dad huffs and twists his lips in what he’s always seemed to think is categorized as a smile, and Holly nearly jumps out of her seat with joy.
From what Mike understands, Holly is going through a bit of a romance phase at the moment. Reading Twilight and everything. Yuuuuckkk.
Mike decides it’s in his best interest to wait out this conversation, Nancy knows he’s happy for her, and he knows she’ll tell Mike about him after dinner when their parents aren’t breathing down her neck.
What Mike isn’t expecting is after the initial excitement of Nancy’s dating life has calmed down, is for Nancy to lean closer to Mike, an expression on her face that Mike knows well as the ‘I’m scheming’ look.
Oh great.
He raises his eyebrows in her direction, hoping to convey a whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying sort of look, but he doubts it does anything because Mike swears his older sister is the most stubborn person in the universe, second to himself.
As he figured, despite his best efforts, Nancy continues her advance. She's always reminded him of some sort of wolf or something. Always stalking prey, and seriously, that’s terrifying to have as a sibling.
“Why so mopey, Mike?” Nancy whispers across to him, eyebrows rising in mock sincerity, and lips dipping into a frown. “Still no relationship to flaunt around to Mom and Dad?” She asks innocently, nodding her head towards their parents seated across from them.
Oh, so this is how tonight’s gonna go. Fine with Mike, he has to fight for his lips to stay in their flat emotionless resting face and not upturn into a grin in the excitement.
Her voice kept soft enough that their parents won’t hear, eyes on Mike searching for some stabbing comeback, both of them ignoring their parents telling Holly something about “No, you cannot dye streaks into your hair! Do you know just how many people would kill to have your healthy hair? Just to ruin it!”
Ooh there it is.
“Not my fault no one’s struck my fancy Nance, guess I’m too picky. Not just picking up strangers off the road.” He jabs back, leaning in closer as his smirk finally gets the better of him.
Whether or not either of them would admit it to the other’s face, both Nancy and Mike love the game. All of the snarky comments, the smirks, the taunting. It’s far too fun to see Nancy’s face twist when Mike finally strikes a nerve deep enough to hit her ego. Even more fun with the risk of their parents nearby.
“Ah, so it’s just that you’re far better than all the people lining up to date you? That must be it.” Nancy cuts back, sarcasm dripping from her honeyed words, eyes narrowing.
“Actually I-“ Mike begins, not exactly knowing what he’s going to argue, because what Nancy’s implying is true, but Mike has never let not knowing what he’s going to say stop him from saying something anyway.
But there isn’t anyone lining up, and hasn’t been for a good while. Holly saves him from his dying retort, by cutting off whatever he would have ended up saying by hooking her head over Nancy’s shoulder, obviously having been eavesdropping.
“Yeah Mike,” she starts, blonde braids shining in the light, narrowing her eyes in what must be an imitation of Nancy. “why haven’t you had a girlfriend in like, years?” Holly asks, scrunching up her nose like the mere thought of it is embarrassing.
Which, well, it is.
Nancy giggles at this, at least, as close as Nancy would ever come to something like that, even letting out a snort when Mike begins to splutter.
“I- it hasn’t been years,” (it has, him and sisters know this for a fact) “and- besides, me and El- or Jane, we’re better as friends anyways.” Mike insists, face heating.
How his parents are ignoring both of their daughters verbally berating their son over his love life, or more accurately, lack of, from a mere three feet away, Mike has no idea.
Look, Mike knows it’s pathetic, alright? He’s well aware that being newly twenty and only having had one sort of relationship ever, and it being for a few months when he was a teenager, is humiliating. But it’s not his fault that he realized midway through what could generously be called a relationship that he’s gay.
Not like he can tell Nancy that though. Because that’s mortifyingly embarrassing, saying that he’s never had any sort of anything romantic with a guy, even though he’s been out to himself and his friends for a full four years.
He’ll get to telling her eventually, even though it’ll be embarrassing. Mike knows in the back of his mind that she won’t judge him (he’s convinced himself of this that is), but it just hasn't come up, with him never having dated anyone else.
Besides, it’s true. Him and El are much better as friends, for too many reasons.
But despite his humiliation, Mike can feel the familiar crunch of his ego being stepped on. And he is nothing if not semi-egotistical, so he is going to do everything in his power to protect it, as he always does.
“Well, Mike,” Nancy starts, shifting to now face him with her elbow braced on the table to effectively look down at him in his slouch.
“you know how you can prove you’re not so hopelessly doomed to be single forever, don’t you?” Nancy prods, raising her eyebrows expectantly.
What she’s talking about, Mike doesn’t have a clue, but it’s not like he’s going to say that. Then he’d lose.
“Yeah Mike, don’t you?” Holly goads from over Nancy’s shoulder, smiling over at him like she knows either.
Mike raises an eyebrow in an imitation of skepticism, hoping it covers for him seething under Nancy’s gaze. Ugh she’s so good at this. It’s probably because he’s so predictable.
As Mike somewhat straightens his posture so that Nancy doesn’t have that big sister effect of looming over him, Nancy continues on, “A bet.” She says, shrugging simply.
Distantly Mike sees Holly nodding enthusiastically from over Nancy’s shoulder, but he’s too focused on trying to read his older sister’s face to focus on his younger one.
A bet. Well now he’s cornered. She’s won, he has to agree to the bet, or he loses. He wounds his ego, whines about it forever and Nancy wins.
Mike clears his throat, eyes darting to their parents across the table, his Mother with her book in her lap, and their father nearly dozing in his chair.
He’s double fucked now. If he says no, he loses, if he says yes, he has to do it. And show up with some kind of date, not like he can bring someone he actually likes though. If there even was anyone.
“What? Oh yeah, he’s a guy, I’m gay, just forgot to tell you guys! Anyways, happy birthday Nance!” Yeah, no.
“And the stakes of this bet?” Mike asks even though he already knows, voice a little quieter than necessary, hoping she can’t sniff out his wariness, and that if she does, she doesn’t guess the real reason.
Nancy’s face flashes, and it reminds Mike of the wolf thing. She looks like how Mike imagines animals get when they’ve finally cornered their prey.
“You get a date before my Birthday Party, bring them home, prove you can get a date and keep it, and you win.” Nancy says, eyes narrowed as Holly squeals excitedly from behind her.
“But, you show up without a date,” she continues, an evil grin growing on her lips, “I win.”
Nancy always acts like she’s such a grownup, but really she still finds immense joy in torturing her little brother.
A date, in under two weeks. There’s no way he can make that. There’s no one who even takes interest in dating him on a good day, but on a time limit? And, again, he’d either be lying to some girl, or ruining Nancy’s birthday by it being a guy.
Ignoring the fact of what his parents’ and their friends’ reactions would be. Mike knows his mom wouldn’t care too much after she got used to it, but his dad… his dad’s a different story. And if Mike is ever going to face that, he’s not making a scene at Nancy’s birthday to get the point across.
But, Mike Wheeler is nothing if not proud, hotheaded, and stubborn, and he is not about to back down from a bet, just because it’s a little (a lot more than little) bit difficult.
So, hopefully without waiting on it too long, Mike looks down to where Nancy has extended her hand to him, painted polka dot nails shine in the light as her hand waits to meet his. To shake on it.
Mike extends his hand, like he has to his sister on previous bets, shaking it as firmly as he can.
“Deal.”
Well he’s fucked.
“Can I get you folks started on some drinks?”
Mike jumps at the voice, head swinging in a one eighty towards it, with his mouth still open from signing his dignity away to Nancy, Nancy whose smirk still burns into his eyes as he faces their waiter.
Mike nearly drops his fork again.
Because woah.
Okay, Mike knows he’s dramatic. Like, really dramatic. His friends complain about it all the time, but god he has never seen a more attractive man in his life. The man who stands over their table, looking expectantly around the faces of the table.
Jesus his eyes. They’re all glinty in the light, murky but too far away to see all the colours in them. I want to be close enough to see.
Shut up! It’s been two seconds, and you don’t even know his name! Stop being teenagery and romantic.
Mike is vaguely aware of his father (having been shaken awake by Mike’s mother) ordering some sort of fancy wine across the table from him, but Mike is far too busy watching the waiter nod his head up and down as he scribbles down on the little notepad he’s holding, sending his choppy brunette hair bobbing up and down.
Can you pull yourself together? You’re twenty for god’s sake! Not some smitten thirteen year old!
This thought of his is punctuated with a strong twinge of pain from his left elbow.
“Ow!” He winces, turning to meet Nancy’s cruel gaze and constant smirk as she retracts her hand from just having pinched him (He always knew she took pleasure in his pain).
“Order, Michael.” She whisper-yells to him, still managing to make it sound sharp, eyes still bright in amusement. Holly’s giggles drift past Mike once again.
Rolling his eyes, and probably (definitely) blushing, he turns back to the waiter, who stares at Mike over his curved nose with something he can’t quite decipher in his gaze.
—
The chattering of the patrons surrounding Mike’s table has begun to meld together, voices overlapping, laughter ringing out. But Mike can’t hear a thing. His parents could have been discussing shipping him off into the military for all he knew.
Because Mike’s attention is solely trained on awaiting their server’s return, and not because he needs his water refilled.
His eyes dart across the room, taking in the tiled floors, the clicking heel of the anxious looking woman in red at the table to the right of them, and the swiveling grace in which the other waiters serve their customers.
And listen, Mike is not the kind of guy to just drool over every male waiter he lays eyes on. Or anybody. Despite him actively biting his nails in anticipation of the check just to see the nameless waiter slide the bill across to his parents.
Mike isn’t the kind of guy to become randomly infatuated with the first guy he sees. But there’s just something about this guy.
About the way he carries himself, like he’s walked this Earth a million times and still has more to find. His expressions, which Mike has only seen a handful of, they’re so sunny, and light that it has Mike itching to jot it down for his novel. He’s never seen someone so expressive in that quiet sort of air he has.
Mike wishes that this restaurant wasn’t too fancy to have their staff wear name tags, without it Mike’s lost. Caught just waiting for their stupidly magnetic waiter to return so that Mike can ogle some more.
Stuck sitting there, crossing and uncrossing his legs, picking at his nails, and pointedly ignoring Nancy's gaze, he sits there. Trying desperately not to let his thoughts wander, but he’s never been good at stopping that.
So Mike has no semblance of defense when the thoughts of the unnamed waiter leak in.
Wonders of what he does in his free time. Is he a nerd like Mike? What kind of music does he like? Is he in college? What’s he studying? Does he like guys?
Would he like me?
“Will you be paying with one card tonight?”
Mike startles at the voice, abruptly pulled out of his daydreams by the very subject himself, their waiter smiling amicably down at Mike’s parents as he slides the check towards them.
Jesus, Mike hadn’t even heard him walk up.
As an aspiring author, Mike is well aware how disgustingly cliche and cheesy this sounds, but the guy is even prettier this time he comes around than the last.
His hair is ruffled, like he’s been running his hand through it anxiously in the time since Mike’s been eyeing him. He seems like the anxious type. Like he’s not quite sure what he’s allowed to say or do, but like he’s willing to try something out.
He looks a little more wary, with his smile not quite reaching his eyes, but he doesn’t look angry or dejected, like Mike would imagine he himself would look if he was a server here. Coming from a former rich prick, he doesn't think he could handle serving them all day.
The man’s uniform, which Mike hadn’t paid too much attention to initially, lays a little rumpled. The white collar that pokes out of the black apron-like wrap around is creased, obviously not ironed like the other servers. It’s kind of endearing, if Mike’s honest.
The man carries a sort of quiet intelligence about him. Like even though he may not always know what to do or say, if you knew him, he’d tell you all about anything at all.
Mike hopes that’s true.
That if he pried he could get this man to talk for hours and hours about whatever it is he likes, and learn everything about him.
Like the way he takes his coffee if he drinks it, where he went to school, his favourite movies, his-
“Yes, just one.” Mike’s dad drones, snapping Mike back into reality once again, his dad, looking the waiter up and down in that blandly judgemental way he has about him.
Their waiter doesn’t let his smile waver however, he just nods, freckles blurring in the quick motion, with his eyes trained to Mike’s parents as his dad clips his credit card to their check. The man accepts the check, eyes glued to Mike’s parents, before he turns on his heel, and he’s off towards the back of the restaurant.
Wait- wait, wait,
No, no, no!!
Not away!
After he’ll just come back with their card, and then they’ll leave and Mike will never see this guy ever again.
This guy who just happened to be employed by this stupid restaurant that Mike still doesn’t even know the name of, just happened to be working tonight, and just happened to be assigned to Mike’s table, and now he’s just, going??
This guy, who Mike has absolutely no reason at all to be as, for lack of a less pathetic word, obsessed with, is going.
“Mike?” This time it’s Mike’s mother who snaps him back from his daydreams. Though, are they really daydreams if they’re full of mild anxiety and unpleasant, confusing thoughts? A question for another time, Mike decides.
Before he knows it, he’s standing, his chair scuffing the floor as he pushes it back, his feet leading him forward without any input from his head.
“Bathroom.” He mutters distractedly in a half assed attempt of placating his mother to make up for his rude exit.
She’ll get over it.
But his mother is definitely not his top concern at the moment, he’s much more invested in striding across the polished floor tiles in search of that bobbing brunet hair that marks the waiter.
God, Mike’s only known this guy exists for an hour and he’s already beyond exhausted of calling him ‘the waiter’ or “the guy” every time he thinks about him.
Which is far too much, for him being a random waiter and it having been an hour since he met him.
Not even met! Mike doesn’t even know his name.
Jesus this is stupid, so so stupid and, what is he even doing? What will he even say when he finds him? If he even-
“Woah, sorry!”
Mike skids to a stop around the corner, shoe soles squeaking against the floors and just barely stopping himself from barreling into a shorter form.
An apology of his own is at the tip of Mike’s tongue, when he raises his gaze to the person’s face.
The waiter.
Every single competent thought that previously existed in Mike’s brain vanishes in an instant, like a whiteboard’s ink being wiped away.
So Mike just stands there, mouth dropped open, an embarrassed blush spreading, and eyes wide.
The guy’s still holding the Wheeler’s check, clutched in a vice grip in one hand while the other hovers a few inches away from Mike’s chest, like the guy thinks he’s going to spring out at him.
Which Mike would normally think of as an overreaction, but Mike did just nearly run this guy over, so.
“Hey, you okay?” The guy asks, speaking slowly like he’s worried Mike won’t understand, eyebrows drawing in confusion? Or maybe mild worry for a customer’s sanity. That would probably be valid at this point.
Can you pull yourself together???
Mike doesn’t even know this guy, will he just snap out of it! He’s just some guy! Some random waiter who he’ll never see again, so why does that bring an unpleasant twist of anxiety to his stomach?
Why does he feel anxious at the thought of never seeing this man again? This man he doesn’t even know the name of?
Life isn’t some animated Disney movie, with love at first sight, and happy endings. And with Mike cast as the princess damsel in distress who runs head first into the love interest, and this waiter cast as the prince.
God, will you SHUT it.
You haven’t even said anything to him yet.
Blinking away his blurry vision, Mike’s eyes dart away. Maybe focus on the setting. Yes, that’s what Mike does when he’s stuck on a scene in his novel. He backs up and thinks about where the characters are, and then it eventually leads him to how they’d react.
The sleek and fancy black cash register in the corner of his vision, the dull conversations of the other families, the man still waiting for Mike’s response.
Shit!!
Say something, anything. Something simple and normal and not creepy! Anything!!!
A greeting is best isn’t it? He can’t possibly fuck up a ‘Hi.’ Right??
Or maybe more along the lines of what Steve would do if he ever found himself in this situation.
Given that this is exactly the kind of situation Steve has been “training” him for during their breaks at the alley, say something like “Hey, could I get your number?” Leaning against the counter and batting his eyes the dumb way Steve told him too, or maybe “Could I ask when you get on your next break?”
But instead of something a normal human would say, instead of literally anything else, what comes out of Mike’s mouth is:
“Could you help me win a bet?”
He cringes the moment the words hit the air around the two of them.
Eyes squinting shut, and bracing for the inevitable “I’m filing for harassment." Or something along those lines, because that seems like a perfectly valid thing to do, with the way Mike’s been staring at him like a creep all evening, and now just asked him a very suspicious and ominous question.
Yeah, better just run now. Back to the table, and just sit there like nothing happened until he can call a cab back home.
Or just skip the waiting and run straight out of the building to avoid the waiter coming back to his table.
Or literally anything other than just standing here, speechless and imbecilic for eternity.
His hands are sweating.
An apology is, once again, sitting just at the tip of his tongue when-
“What kind of bet?”
The guy says it curiously, eyes narrowed but bright, lips pursed in what is presumably thought.
Maybe this guy is mentally unstable and not Mike. Or, well, in addition to Mike, because who asks further questions when some random guy asks you to help him win a bet. Nobody.
Well, accept a random waiter, apparently.
Mike pointedly ignores the jolt of excitement that brings.
“I-What?” Mike asks intelligently before he can stop himself, more of a desperately confused sigh than words really, wiping his palms against the thighs of his pants.
The guy doesn’t seem to mind too much though. His lips twitch like he wants to smile, and he cocks his head to the side just a bit. Like he’s considering Mike.
It’s cute.
The guys’ cheeks are all rosy.
Can we focus?
“What kind of a bet is it you need my help with?” He asks, head still titled.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Well now Mike’s ultra fucked.
He wants to know what kind of bet? Well don’t be stupid, of course he’d want to know, nobody just blindly says yes when some madman asks you to agree to a mysterious bet.
Because that’s dumb.
How on earth can he phrase this without sounding like a weirdo? There’s no way on earth this guy wouldn’t freak, and for good reason.
Maybe this guy’s just really nice, and will feel bad if he tells Mike no right away. Yeah, that makes sense.
Okay, so, it’s better to just back out, for both of their sakes.
Pulling his hands back up to wring together in hopes to burn the jitters away, now that he can’t pace, Mike says “No- it’s, nothing. Nothing! I shouldn’t have- I’m sorry.” unable to look the waiter in the eye.
“No, really. Tell me.”
Mike’s head snaps back up so fast he hears a crack.
Mike gave this guy a probably much needed and wanted out. He told him that it was nothing, that he was sorry, and obviously that didn’t fix it, but it gave the guy an ability to leave this conversation guilt free, so why the hell is he still entertaining it?
Maybe he’s some weird kind of conversational adrenaline junky, Mike thinks.
“I really shouldn’t-“ Mike starts, already stepping backwards and away from the man opposite him, and towards his family’s table.
“C’mon, just tell me. I’m far too invested now.” He has a tinge in his voice, but Mike is far too caught up in his own head to decipher whatever it means, he’s too busy spiralling over the fact that the guy is ‘far too invested.’
In what? Mike’s absurdities? In his psychotic break? He’s ‘far too invested’ in entertaining the ramblings of a madman apparently.
Mike’s eyes widen, sputtering a “Far too invested?? What do you even-“ ohhh.
He’s grinning. The guy’s grinning, toothily, and he looks like he knows full well that he fooled and scared the hell out of Mike.
He was joking. Oh, well that makes sense.
“But really,” the waiter starts, leaning against the counter like he doesn’t have a care in the world, his apron creasing at the bend of his waist. A place where Mike definitely isn’t staring at.
“what kind of a bet?” He continues, “Maybe I’ll help.” He says, half shrugging.
Okay, so seriously, what the fuck is going on?
Maybe there was some kind of poisonous mushroom in his food that’s making him lose it, and he’s on some reality tv show or something.
Is this flirting? Is this guy flirting with him, in some, weird, roundabout way that is entirely Mike’s own fault?
Mike wouldn’t say he’s the greatest at having these sorts of things, hell, he can count all the times on one hand that he’s been flirted with (a pitiful three times) but he’s 86% sure that that’s what’s happening.
Well, maybe this waiter does like guys then.
Mike is getting really tired of feeling like a confused idiot, and this is not helping.
This is so so stupid. All of this because Mike has a fleeting crush on this waiter, and Nancy just happened to put him up to a bet on the same night. He’s making a fool of himself, and now said waiter is leaning against the counter all confidently, and why is it getting so hot in here? And, wait what?
“My sister bet me that I can’t get a date for her birthday party in under two weeks.” He spits out, voice higher than it should be as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.
Right because that’ll really fix up a nice creepy image for you?
Oh god. Mike has to fight his reflex to throw both of his hands over his face to hide from the waiter’s reaction.
What is he thinking, Jesus Christ. Just walking up and telling this guy head on he needs a date?? That he’s in the market, with no preamble? Mike is about ready to dig himself a grave to crawl into, regardless of the fact that this guy is acting like this is a normal everyday conversation, when said guy, responds.
“Hmm” he hums, it’s a pretty sound, drawing Mike’s eyes to him once again as the man’s eyes land on a spot behind Mike, seemingly in thought.
“I’ll think about it.” Is what he says. Eyes landing back on Mike, and it’s as if his eyes go right through him. Straight into his head, reading every single thought he’s had in these excruciating few minutes.
Think about it? What does that even mean? This guy should be, like, running or something, or getting his manager, or calling the cops, or saying anything other than ‘I’ll think about it.’.
But before Mike has enough time to properly spiral over this new and logicless development, the man is speaking again.
Slipping his hand into the pocket of his apron thing, and pulling something black and shiny out of it, along with the slip of their inked receipt.
Shifting, the guy flips the receipt in a flash, propping the blank side against his thigh, clicking his pen open, and beginning to scribble something out onto it, all while Mike gapes.
“Here’s my number. I’ll need more details, like who you are, and if you’ll like, kill me or something.” The guy is saying, smiling at his own joke nervously.
Mike is fully aware of how he looks, standing there, mouth stuck open, eyes wide, and frozen on the spot, but he can’t exactly manage to do anything about it at the current moment, so he’ll just have to deal with it.
The guy is still talking though, “Anyways,” it looks like his hand is shaking, just a bit. “call me.” He finishes his writing with a flourish, before he clicks the pen closed.
If this were a movie, the guy would be waggling his eyebrows and Mike would be swooning or something, but this isn’t a movie, so Mike is still standing there, no idea what to say or do, and the guy is still standing opposite him, hopefully not missing tables.
Oh Jesus, Mike didn’t even think about that. Could he get this guy fired? For like handing out his number to a customer, and distracting him from his job for- how long has it been?
He glances over the waiter’s entirely too endearingly messy hair to see the clock mounted over the cash register.
Five minutes.
And it only felt like five lifetimes.
“Hello?”
That snaps him back. Again. For the third time tonight.
“Yeah?” Mike manages, eyes still wide as he looks back to the waiter, who now holds his hand out with the check to Mike, wearing an expression of mild concern and amusement, with his lips upturned and his eyebrows dipping.
Mike forces his right arm to move, his wrist to bend, his hand to open, his fingers to grab, and finally Mike is moving again. And he’s got his dad’s credit card, along with the receipt, which upon closer inspection has little green numbers written onto it, a little smiley face in the corner.
This guy must be having a serious lapse in judgement. But instead of saying something like that, or all the variations Mike has thought within this minefield of an altercation, Mike just stammers out a “I- thanks. Yeah, thank you.”
Mike mentally smacks himself for probably the dozenth time in the past ten minutes.
The waiter doesn’t seem to find his response annoying or eye roll worthy though, for some reason, or if he does, he doesn’t show it. He just smiles, eyes twinkling with something sweet and warm and inviting, and nods.
Turning, once again on his heel, in a miniature whirl of his little apron-like thing, this time towards the back kitchen.
Before Mike has the chance to let out the deepest and most laboured deep breath of his entire life, the waiter turns back.
Head turned towards Mike, just for a fraction of a moment, a small smirk on his face as he watches Mike.
“And I’m Will.” Before he’s gone in the flapping of the kitchen’s double doors.
Well, at least Mike knows his name, he thinks, numbly making his return to the family table.
He lets the name rest on his tongue, spin in his head. Will, Will, Will. It fits well. He looks and sounds like a Will.
It’s only after his family have all berated him for taking so long, after he’s hailed another cab, after he’s gotten home, after he’s gotten ready for bed, when he’s lying there in the mess of his sheets, staring up at the swirls of his ceiling’s paint, when he realizes he never told Will his name.