They take her to the backyard.
Or rather, Lucas does. El's hand is tightly in his grip as he weaves expertly around all the partygoers.
Max is trailing behind them. She's too busy tossing daggers over her shoulder at Mike and pushing drunk assholes out of her way, all the while muttering profanities like a sailor.
"Forget about that dipshit." Lucas tells his two girls, once they step through the sliding doors. "He's not worth shit."
El nods listlessly just to ease tensions. It hadn't been a good look when Max and Lucas had descended the staircase five minutes ago and found her on the brink of tears. Had it not been for El's pleading, Lucas almost called it a night and rounded the other party members.
She stares sullenly at the excessive backyard in front of her. The Wichs have not one, not two, but three separate pools (or was that last one a hot tub?) and a freaking mini water slide. And despite it being the middle of winter, their grass is perfectly green and lined with a million patio chairs and lounges that are all currently taken by cheerleaders or red cups. This place reeks of wealth but El barely blinks at the decadence, her mind too wrapped in an endless loop of Mike's insults and dismissals.
"Say the word and I'll deck him straight in his pretty boy face," Max offers, body already halfway turned towards the door to bolt back into the living room. As if anticipating her move, Lucas steps into her space to block her.
"No way." Lucas interjects before El even processes Max's suggestion. "None of that shit. You're not going to do anything."
"And why shouldn't I? God knows he deserves it."
"We're not making a scene here." Lucas' frown is deep and looks more like a grimace than anything. The thought of Max throwing a punch to one of the most popular kids in Hawkins has him agitated. Nevermind the fact that they'll become social pariahs, but Hopper would probably catch wind of it before daybreak tomorrow. "I forbid it." He's putting his foot down.
"Forbid it?" Max parrots, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. All annoyance for Mike is shelved at the emergence of her boyfriend-not-fucking-boyfriend's audacity. "Who the hell do you think you are? Who the hell do you think I am–"
"Do I need to remind you of where we are?" Lucas snaps, interrupting her spiel. His own features have soured up to match Max's and again, El can only watch helplessly as the two jump on each other like wolves smelling blood. "How many eyes are here? Let's just think for a moment. Hopper can easi—"
"I'm not scared of Hopper—"
"I don't care if you're scared or not—"
"So shut up then. Why are we having this convo—"
"'Shut up?' Real freaking mature. Why are you being so selfis—"
"Oh save it, Sinclair. I'm so tired of your little moral trips. Leave me out of—"
"Look, all I'm saying is, if you're looking for a fight, don't fucking drag us into—"
"Oh my god, I didn't even mean it lik—"
"Yeah, well maybe think a little and just listen to me—"
"Maybe, say something interesting for once then I'll—"
"Guys, wait." El interrupts their lover's quarrel, head perking up at the sight in front of her. "I think I see Dustin. Is he…sweating?"
A smug Dustin saunters over to them from God knows where. His shoes are missing. His clothes are dripping. His hair is soaked and matted to his forehead. He's shaking like hell. And yet he walks over like he freaking owns the place, all the while double fisting two solid cups of alcohol.
"What the fuck, Dustin?" Lucas asks, bewilderedly taking in the sight of a drenched Dustin from head to toe. His stupid best friend is about to catch hypothermia any second now. "Did you jump in the pool?"
"H-H-H-Hell y-y-yeah I did," Dustin stutters out, body flapping like a leaf.
"Dude…what the fuck. It's 30 degrees out. Are you trying to die?"
"D-D-Don't worry, it's a h-h-heated p-p-pool. W-W-Will bet me f-f-five shots I wouldn't. F-Fucking loser."
"I don't think he's the loser here, you freak." Max deadpans, her nose scrunching up in disgust at the overwhelming smell of chlorine. It's killing her buzz. Or rather, whatever's left of her buzz after that petty argument with Lucas. Jeez, it's only been an hour into the party and she'd been neck to neck with him in two fights already. Max was dreading to see how the rest of the night'll turn out.
"Where is Will?" El asks, her eyes darting around to spot out Will's distinctive bowl-cut hairstyle in a sea of groping hands and locked lips. She felt a nudge of adolescent curiosity and slight bitterness at the sight of all these couples. Why were they so happy when the boy of her dreams just crushed her heart only ten minutes ago?
"H-H-He went to the c-c-car to grab me c-c-clothes from the tr-trunk." Dustin said, sliding in closer to his friends to steal their body heat.
"What? I still have the keys though." Lucas fishes out his car keys from his right pocket and jiggles them in Dustin's face, making the curly-haired boy's face drop into a frown.
"O-O-Oh shit," Dustin croaks out, "N-N-No cl-clue t-then."
"Oh my god," Lucas groans, dragging his hands over his face in disbelief. First El and her boy problems, then Max and her snappy mouth, and now this — he just can't catch a break tonight. "You're an idiot, Henderson. Come on, let's go get you warmed up. You guys just wait here." He tells Max and El, promptly ignoring the mocking salute Max gives him in return.
"T-T-Thank fuck. D-Don't drink t-t-too much without m-m-e, ladies." Dustin pawns off his left drink to Max so that he can spare a hand to cheekily blow El a kiss goodbye, effectively eliciting a small smile from the somber girl.
"Alright Ketchup," Max starts the second Lucas drags Dustin off. She wraps a tight arm around El's shoulder excitedly, finally feeling the thrum of excitement hit her bloodstream. She was at Wich's stupid Valentine's Day blob fest, for Pete's sake! It was time to get massively fucked up. "We've got approximately ten minutes before Officer Sinclair comes back to police us so let's see how many shots we can do in the meantime."
"Lead the way, Mustard." Famous last words from El Hopper.
In his generous, professional, and humble opinion, this is probably the worst fucking party he's been to this year. And it was barely February.
Leave it to stupid Troy to fuck up something as easy as throwing a party.
First of all, the kegs are almost drained. And it's barely half past 11. What type of party – that's supposed to run well into the night and greet daybreak – runs out of beer?
Then, secondly, and this might be a bigger concern than the liquor thing, Troy had the halfwits to invite everyone and their fucking ugly mother to this goddamn party. The amount of uggos and cows who have saddled up right next to him in the past two hours, trying in vain to get his attention, is just ridiculous. And don't even get him started on all the freaks and losers bopping around, obnoxiously soaking up the glory of being at a party that is well out of their social league. Like Mike just saw goddamn Tim Wong chase after some skirts with vomit in his hair, just two minutes ago. And that kid's a walking chicks repellant for months now, ever since that whole dandruff incident.
So clearly, Troy had been too lax with the invitations.
Thirdly, he couldn't keep a buzz going for the life of him tonight. Carson mixed a garbage batch of Jungle Juice – more juice than liquor, so what was the fucking point. Last minute, Troy or one Troy's lackeys running his errands cheaped out on the Tequila so the shots weren't hitting. Plus, the five beers he's downed hasn't done much, expect run his bladder like a faucet drain. Even alternating between weed and cigs hasn't taken the edge off at all. At this rate, he's seriously contemplating Landon's offer of a quick bump on the table.
And finally, fourthly, most importantly, Jane Hopper's been pissing him off. Like seriously pissing him off.
She's a menace every single day but tonight, especially, she's been incorrigible.
It was the eyes.
It's always the eyes with that chick.
It started with her usual moony eyes – brown, googly things that can't seem to possess any shame. She stared him down from across the room like it was her job, her fucking mission in life. It was exhausting pretending he didn't notice.
And then he had to run his stupid mouth and tell her to fuck off and now it's even worse. Because it's the lack of eyes that's ruining everything.
She's been avoiding eye contact ever since their little one off and he's man enough to admit to himself (only) that it's driving him a bit insane. Or a lot insane. Or whatever.
In the past hour – not that he's counting down the minutes or whatever – he's developed something of a conspiracy theory, one born from sobriety and frustration. It's like this – Mike's convinced Jane's taunting him because she knows he knows she's ignoring him; so she ups up her antics to get him to crack and do something crazy like approach her and talk to her. But like hell, he's not going to do that. Definitely not at this shitty ass party and more importantly, definitely not because it'll feed into her crazy ass delusions about him and about her and about him and her and—
Okay, he sounds fucking insane. This is what he means. She's fucking with him. She has to be. That, or he's actually buzzed and he doesn't realize it.
Basically, this is all a ploy to grab his attention. But Mike's too smart for her stupid, little games.
And so, he watches (gawks, really) instead.
He watches her slip back into the living room from the backyard, all smiles to her redhead bitch of a friend. He watches them take shots after shots without any water in between. Or without any chase, for that matter. He watches her hover as Lucas and a fresh-looking Dustin (did that Dweeb really change clothes in the middle of a party?) start up a game of beer pong, now nursing her own red solo cup. He watches her sit close by as Mayfield talks with another ugly girl. Those two bitches chatter on and on without a care for how long Jane's been sitting there, silently twiddling her thumbs in what can only be boredom. She's refilled her cup twice by the time they wrap up their asinine conversation. Mike stares at the way Jane entertains the lanky loser that he cheats off of in History (not Tim Wong, at least, thank god), who had the balls to ambush her tiny form that sits daintily on the loveseat that's too big for only one. Fuck Troy's wine-obsessed mother who was clearly too inebriated to choose formidable furniture pieces. The stupid, long couch was practically begging for that idiot to sit down with Jane.
Mike's mouth sours every time her lips release a giggle that's too far away for his ears to pick up and he's convinced that this stupid distance between them is all part of her torture mastermind plan. It's agony.
So yeah, he spends over an hour losing his sanity over and over for some little girl who he hates. It's dumb as fuck and Mike's seriously considering going home or getting a fucking lobotomy.
Eventually, it's Landon who gets fed up with him "ruining the fucking vibes by being a bad mood." His best friend practically drags Angela, the head cheerleader, by her overgrown roots over to Mike. And Angela, who's been down this road with Mike many times already, happily plops herself onto his lap. Mike is too strung out to do anything except open his arms widely.
Halfway between Angela shoving her push-up bra into his face and clogging his nostrils with her nauseating perfume, Mike makes the decision to fuck her. He's frustrated beyond reason and if she's offering herself up like a pig for slaughter, then he might as well feast.
And if he chooses to fuck her to prove a point about Jane, then that's nobody's business except his.
"Come on," is all he says before they wind up in the nearest guest bedroom. Thank god the Wich family has these spare rooms in spade.
Mike has both hands griping her waist while she's straddling him. Their kisses are more of a meshing of lips, teeth, and alcohol than anything. She does that annoying thing where she tries to mark him up and down with hickeys to assert some weird feminine claim. He just pushes her head down to his dick, instead.
Angela's working on his zipper when the door handle jiggles for a split second before a face appears. And of fucking course, it's his worst nightmare of girl since he obviously can't catch a break tonight.
She steps into the room, her eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights and he feels the sour taste come back in tenfold. Mike can see the emotion play out on her face – always so open and vulnerable – as she takes in the compromising way Angela's moved on her knees to the floor. In a flash, Jane crosses the threshold and is on them.
"What the hell, Hopper?!" Angela screams, all pitchy and shit and he feels his erection die immediately as his girl all but flings the cheerleader out of his lap. Angela lands in a heap some feet away from him, awkward and angry. "What is wrong with you!? Why the fuck would you do that?"
"I-I'm sorry!" Jane squeaks out, looking absolutely petrified even though she was the one who threw Angela aside like spare trash. The brunette's all wide eyes and shaky hands as if she can't believe herself, but Mike's not noticing that. Instead, he's focusing on how Jane still won't look at him. Even now. In this damn room.
For some reason, that makes his blood boil. This is his first breaking point of the night. He's starting to wonder if he has early signs of high blood pressure. Can an eighteen year old get that?
"You crazy bitch!" Angela screeches again, making Mike and Jane wince from the shrillness. The blonde hasn't moved once from her spot on the floor, clearly trying to milk the victim role. "I could fucking kill you right now. Get the fuck out of here!"
Part of him wonders if stupid Angela's doing this on purpose – that she's screaming like a banshee to get more people to come and see them like this. This girl's obsessed with attention and her favorite past time is making a spectacle out of everything. The other part of him, the more dominating and irrational part, hones in on the way Jane's lips start to quiver like she's holding back tears. And that's enough for him to jump off the bed and stalk right up to Jane.
She doesn't get to cry like a little baby. Not after ignoring him for the entire night, like a manipulative bitch. And not after ruining his thing with Angela.
He doesn't think, just acts. His brain is working on autopilot as he grabs Jane's hand and drags her to the garage entrance, two doors down. He's so focused that he doesn't even register Angela's wails of confusion, as the blonde finally maneuvers off the floor she's been hugging and stumbles after him in vain.
The garage is the perfect place. It's muted and private. If they strain their ears, they can still hear the hum of Troy's music. He locks the door, just in case.
"What the fuck is your problem?" He spits out, the second they're alone. Mike feels mean and vindictive and he relishes in this ugliness. He's been itching for release and this might be his perfect solution.
"What do you mean?" She grits out, quietly. Her eyes are visibly upset, but he doesn't care. She's finally looking at him. He's almost thrumming with energy.
"Don't play dumb." He says, almost threateningly. Mike's tired of her fucking games. He's felt like he's lived for three lives this entire night.
"You're stalking me again. Admit it." His voice drips with patronization, as if baiting her into admitting she's the crazy one. Even though he's been acting crazed since the minute she walked away from him earlier in the night.
"Why was Angela there?" Jane pivots, because of course she fucking does. Mike can never get a straight answer from her.
"Why do you care?"
"Is she your girlfriend?"
"Are you jealous?" He grins viciously, intoxicated with the way her face scrunches in anger. Bingo. He hit a nerve. "You don't get to be jealous."
"I don't like that you were with her." Jane says simply after taking a deep breath, as if that wasn't obvious from the way she all but violently threw Angela off him. Still, something wicked in him gleams in pleasure at her admission. Mike contemplates pulling another trick like this again, if only so that they can have a second go at each other like this.
"I don't care. I can do whatever the fuck I want." He says, as if to remind her and himself. He's seizing back autonomy, reeling back control in this confusing situation between them. "You're nothing, nobody to me. Just a freak who can't face rejection so she takes to stalking."
"I walked in as an accident." Jane protests, provoking Mike's snort of derision. "I didn't mean to," she takes a labored breath, as if weighing her words carefully "…interrupt."
"I don't want you near me." Mike tells her, doubling down. Just those six words are enough to worsen the tension. This is like salt to the wound – his cruel reminder of disinterest and dislike of her. He's fascinated by the tick of her brows and the tightening of her jaw, can almost imagine the delicious way she's probably grinding her teeth in anguish. The frustration rolls off of her in waves and he's obsessed. "I told you – you're nothing to me. I don't want you as my friend or even at this party. I don't even want to see you."
The lies keep building and building and at this point, he's become something of a masochist – he's getting used to the sour, acidic taste that poisons his mouth. He craves it almost as much as he craves watching all the emotions erupt on Jane's face. Frustration paves way to hurt, which slips in before anger takes over.
"You are mean," she spits out rebelliously and even that excites him. God, he's a little sick in the head, clearly.
"And you're pathetic." Mike replies coolly, in the same way he would read off the temperatures off the weather channel to his mother in the kitchen.
"Why do you hate me?! I haven't done anything to you!" Jane practically screams at him and he feels his chest tighten with pleasure at her full-blown attention.
Finally, she's fucking looking at him, at only him again.
"You don't have to do shit. Just being you is enough to piss me off." Mike smirks delightfully. This is what he's been wanting. Just this. Just her. He's insane.
"You are acting so crazy!" Jane yells, throwing her hands up in exasperation, saying the one thing he's known for certain tonight. "I don't know how Will was even friends with you before this! You are an asshole!" Her voice reverberates off the insulated walls and it feels like the words are bouncing back at him and rushing through his body. Actually, this whole experience feels out-of-body. Mike, however, is so swept away by Jane that he doesn't care about how loud she's screaming. If he did care, maybe he would've noticed the abnormal cracks that are now lining the Wich's family cars' windows, damaged by the sheer strength and volume of her volatile emotions. Instead, Mike revels in the fact that this is the most emotional Jane's ever been in front of him and gleefully pushes her for more.
"Oh so now you're keeping tabs on me, Hopper? You really are a fucking stalker." He hammers in the point one last time.
"Mike—" The anger's boiled back to frustration, like a never-ending loop, and her eyes are brimming with tears.
"You know what?" He's being dramatic, he knows it. But he's having way too much fun to stop it now. "Get out of my face. Just don't ever talk to me, again."
They were the perfect end to this perfect conversation because she storms out the second he finishes his dismissal. Mike feels a pinch unsatisfied with how her tears remained brimmed, instead of rolling down the apples of her beautiful cheeks. Damn, almost perfect.
The garage feels empty the moment Jane's gone. He doesn't linger, not seeing a point since his favorite piece of entertainment has all but ran away from him.
Mike does, however, finally notice the little cracks in the cars' windows. He whistles low in amusement – whoever did that is going to get their ass handed to them, come Monday morning.
And like a balm to his wounds, as he exits the garage, Mike catches the sight of Jane weaving back to the crowd, her distressed person clearly looking for her bitch-ass friends. As if summoned by air, Billy's fuggo sister (he still can't believe those two are related, albeit step but same shit) appears and immediately latches on Jane. Their mouths move a mile a minute and his face splits into another devilish smirk – he's obviously the topic of conversation. As he fucking should be.
Jane's not even hiding it, what with how her head keeps turning back towards him and her eyes dart over consistently like clockwork. Cute.
It must've been the fumes in the house or something. But he's envisioning a devil in his ear – one that's shaped suspiciously like Troy – that's urging him, practically begging him, to inflict more harm on the little girl. Mike wants to do more damage; he wants her to keep hurting. If only so that she'll learn her lesson and always keep him at the forefront of her damn mind.
And it's like God can hear this wish. The heavens part for him like they parted the Red Sea for Moses. It's glorious when, out of nowhere, Troy calls out to him: "Yo, Mike. Come over here for a game of 'Block and Suck.' We need more dicks!"
It's destiny. It's fate. It's perfect.
Mike walks over with the swagger of someone who just won the fucking the lottery. He feels her eyes trained on him the entire time he crosses back into the main living room. Briefly, he wonders if she even knows what 'Blow and Suck' is; he remembers that she's homeschooled. There's no way she got any exposure of a stupid kissing game invented by middle schoolers when they finally tired of 'Spin the Bottle.'
Oh well, he'll show her how it's done, right now.
The game is already in motion by the time he plops down to the couch, his boys and classmates automatically scooching over to make space for him in the middle. They're passing around a spare deck card between their lips and Mike distinctly hopes it's not the same card Landon's been cutting his blow with the entire night. The last thing he needs is to be buzzed off of the remaining coke still stuck on a stupid Joker card.
Before the card gets to him, he chances a quick glance back at Jane. This time, sparks shoot up his spine when he realizes she's already watching, body completely turned in his direction. It's like a car crash she can't turn away from, he imagines. That bitch Mayfield is also looking. Great.
And like the little actor he is, Mike puts on the show of his fucking life when Trina? Trish? Tracey? turns her head to pass him the card. He makes no effort to catch it, doesn't even pretend to suck the card to his lips, and lets the card fall dramatically between them and pauses, soaking in the roar of everyone's 'oohs' and 'ahhs' around them, before diving into her glossy lips. The cheerleader tastes like victory.
They kiss like hell and he even slips his tongue in for good measure, moving his hands to grope her perky little ass (way better than Angela's) just because he could. It's all a show, of course, but hell if he isn't milking this for all it's worth.
And when Mike finally lets the dazed girl go and comes up for air, he feels a pleasurable ache of triumph. He turns to look again to look at where Jane was standing. She's gone.
Another wicked smirk breaks out.
Finally, this party's getting good.