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The air isn’t fresh, but it’s a respite from the stench of sweaty, writhing bodies inside. Will gulps it down, like he’s got to get it all in before it turns on its heels and flits away. The taste of cigarettes and factory smoke from downriver scrapes at his throat, and Will wants a bottle of milk more than anything.
Will shakes out his parka from where it’s balled up in his arms. It’s one of his most treasured possessions, the rips in his elbows patched with scrapes of ties left at the Scene over the years. Jonathan always collects them for him after everybody leaves. Maybe they were supposed to be the frontier of the new generation, prideful and iconoclastic, but to Will, Jonathan had always been just Jonathan. He was the acclaimed DJ by night and the homely janitor by morning, but he was always the person looking out for Will more than anyone else in the world.
He shrugs the parka on and begins walking down the road, down to Berwick Street. Will’s in that weird, incongruent state of being sweaty while the night air trails goosebumps down his neck in its wake. The streetlights flicker along with the moths under it, and Will can hear the faint sounds of music pounding from other venues, other nightclubs, all boasting of the best music and stronger Purple Heart. None of it was true-- everyone knew the Scene was the best in London.
Will turns the corner to Berwick Street in time to the roar of a motorcycle. Inwardly, he groans. Motorcycles (or moreso, their riders) never boded well for peaceful strolls and cool milk.
Sure enough, there’s a figure atop a motorcycle, clad with the expected rocker mullet and leather jacket. Privately, Will doesn’t think the rockers and their jackets are as awful as his friends claim them to be--- but it is true that a lot of the time, they can’t see past their own noses.
He isn’t even doing anything, the boy. He’s just sitting atop his mount, head blocking the block text proclaiming ‘MILK’ so it just says ‘MI’. The engine is still revving, leaving the acrid petrol smell to mingle with the night breeze. Will approaches from behind, making sure his boots scrape on the pavement as to make a noise. He’s found that people tend to react poorly when startled in the middle of otherwise empty streets. The boy doesn’t move.
“Are you going to buy anything, or just sit there and take up space?” Will asks, crossing his arms.
Only then does the boy turn his head. He’s scowling. “What’s it to you?”
See, this is the kind of bullheaded arrogance that makes the name “rocker” have a sour taste in everyone’s mouths. “I heard milk’s good for the bones,” Will snipes. “Maybe I just want you to grow big and strong.”
“Do you drink a lot of milk, then?” The boy is either oblivious or ignorant to Will’s sarcasm.
“Maybe. What’s it to you?”
“Well, it hasn’t worked for you,” he smirks, “you aren’t very tall.”
“You’re sitting down.”
“And?”
They pause, looking at each other like it’s a challenge to see who will break first. Will isn’t sure what he expected, but not this.
They boy inhales sharply, suddenly. “I know who you are.”
“And who would that be?” Will crosses his arms tighter, shoulders tightening.
“You’re Byers’ brother. You, er--- do the patches with the suit-ties?”
All at once, Will wants to turn and run. “How do you know that?”
“I… think you know Robin.”
Will suppresses his sigh of relief. Robin spends time around dubious company ---an overeager rocker determined to form bonds with the mods--- but she’s likely never had an ill intention in her life, not truly. If this boy knows her, maybe it’ll be alright.
“Yeah, I know Robin.”
“Now, I don’t know why she's so hellbent on wasting time with the likes of you and your mates, but---”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means.”
“You're really building a compelling case, aren’t you? Doing wonders to alleviate the rumors about rockers and literacy rates.”
“Well, you’re just charming,” the boy says drily. “I was going to say maybe you aren’t all that bad, but maybe I was wrong.” He looks up at Will, hair falling into his eyes. The streetlight casts tall shadow across his cheekbones.
There’s another silence and this time Will is the one to break it. “I mean, I don’t think the leather jackets are all horrible.”
“I know.”
“You know what I think, or you know they’re not horrible.”
“Both, probably.”
Will feels a surge of annoyance. “How--” he cuts himself off with a cough. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to buy my milk now.”
He fishes around his pockets, scooping the loose change into his palm. He counts. Two onepence and a fivepence. Will tries not to groan as he looks at the glaring ‘8 PENCE BOTTLE’ sign plastered onto the machine.
The boy raises his eyebrows. He picks a coin out of his pocket and tosses it to Will, who fumbles to catch it.
“No, take it---”
The boy hides his hands behind his back, smirking even wider, like he knows he’s doing a phenomenal job of annoying Will and is quite proud of it. “Take what?”
Will chooses not to put up a fight, resigned. “Maybe… maybe you’re not all bad either, then.”
“Well, of course.” The boy starts to put his feet up, like he’s preparing to leave and never be seen again.
“What’s your name?” Will asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth.
A pause. “Mike.” The boy ---Mike--- doesn’t break eye contact.
“Mike.” The name is heavy on his tongue. “One would presume someone in front of a milk machine would want to buy a bottle of milk.”
“Maybe another night. If the mods say they come here often, that is. To help them get taller.”
“What? I don’t think that’s what I said----” but before he can finish, Mike has taken off down the street, engine roaring at full blast.
Will stands there in the wake of the exhaust fumes, growing more confused by the moment. He’s got seven pence of his own and one from a former stranger, and he drops it all into the machine.
He looks down the street once more. If he squints, he can almost see Mike’s silhouette in the distance. Turning, Will walks back in the direction of the Scene, with a bottle of milk cool against his skin and a head full of confused thoughts about a strange, mop-haired stranger.