The freezing cold pricks her skin like sharp needles. El doesn't feel a thing.

Her body is numb, kicked into survival mode as she forces huge gulps of air into her tightening lungs. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. In. Out.

But it's all futile because she can't freaking breathe. Walls are closing in on her. Her mind is hammering like a drum. The tips of her ears are burning from the unrelenting wind. She's choking on nothing and everything at the same time. Why can't she breathe?

Distinctly, she hears a far-off voice in the back of her head – one that sounds strangely like Joyce's – telling her that she's having a panic attack.

Mike Wheeler must be a boy from Hell, El decides, if this is the effect he has on her. A different kind of cruelty from Papa, but one that burns just the same.

This is how Max finds her.

A piece of fabric engulfs El when Max's pretty, freckled face appears in her sight. It's Max's blue flannel – worn and thin and no use against the February cold. But El feels heat start to seep back in, anyways.

"Fuck him." Max spits vehemently, so rough in her delivery that a small trickle of saliva actually lands on El's chin. El doesn't even flinch. "Do you hear me, El? Fuck. Him. To the moon and back. And fuck that bitch Tasha too."

El's heart clenches in pain at the name. Tasha. Tasha and Angela. Mike with Tasha and Angela. What did these girls have that she didn't?

For once, El has nothing to say. She can't bring herself to defend Mike against her friend's slander this time around. She can't even begin to think about herself with Mike anymore. It'd always been a pipe dream, one that she eagerly fantasized about to chase away the demons that haunt her everyday life, an escape from reality, really, but now…she was forced to confront the truth of their reality:

Mike didn't know her.

She didn't know Mike.

He wanted nothing to do with her.

He wasn't the boy she remembered he was.

He wasn't the same boy who saved her life, so many years ago.

To him, she was just a creepy girl who didn't know boundaries and inconvenienced his life.

She and Mike were strangers and that's what they'll always be to each other. Nothing.

These were hardest – most bitter – pills she'd ever had to swallow.

"Come on," Max's gruff voice broke her dismal train of thoughts. Without asking, Max circled her arms around El's and heaved the smaller girl up into standing position. Huh. When had she crouched down into a ball on the floor? El couldn't even remember doing that. "Let's just forget about these asshole boys and enjoy ourselves. It's Valentine's Day – we should be making love to some vodka bottles, not— not doing whatever this is." Max flailed her hands, gesturing them both up and down wildly. El huffed out a wry laugh at the antic.

"…You're right," El admitted, shifting the makeshift shawl tighter around her. She could feel her fingers slowly get their feeling back.

"You're damn right, I'm right." Max grins, throwing her long, red hair back over her shoulder with a flick that can rival the hair commercials on TV. "I can't even remember a time I was goddamn wrong."

"I just need to breathe." El decides. "Process."

"Uh huh." Max agrees heartily, hastily. "You also need to drink."

"Right…I need a drink."

"Alright, I have an idea. The best thing we can do right now…" Max levels her face, fixing a serious look of contemplation on her pale features. El's own brows rise up in alarm and interest. "…is cash in those five shots Will owes Dustin."

And with that, the two girls hustle back into the house. The heat that greets their return is a welcome shock to their cold cores. Warmth creeps back up their spines and reaffirms their original mission of the night: get super fucked up and have fun like there's no freaking tomorrow.

And given the likelihood of Hopper somehow catching onto their rebellious partying, it's safe to say that tomorrow isn't guaranteed for either of them.

Or for any of the boys in their little party.

Will Byers finds himself on watch out duty for the next couple of hours.

Clearly, something big had happened in the short time he spent talking to a few of his art classmates, because Max and El have gone full Girls Gone Wild on them. He watches his sister intently, caught in a great state between bewilderment and delight at how she's easily working the room to her favor.

First, El spends a good chunk…'dancing' with Max in the middle of the living room, if you can even call what they're doing as 'dancing.' Max, ever the little instigator, is teaching her moves that either have tiny El trapped between some random boys' bodies or encircled around a flurry of red solo cups. It's honestly awkward as fuck watching this go down but somebody's gotta play look out. And he lost at 'Rock-Paper-Scissors,' so go figure.

Next, El decides to try out Beer Pong. Will doesn't know what's funnier – the fact that Dustin and El are clearly cheating, using her powers to skillfully dunk the ping pong balls in their favor, or the way in which Max and Lucas are fighting for their life to work together coherently as a team. If they were a more popular sort, maybe their game would've attracted a large audience. But thankfully, their statuses as loser AV nerds give them a chance to cloak in anonymity. Nobody really turns towards their corner or gives them trouble except for a few curious few who are still attracted to El's allure as a new student. And, of course, the one pair of familiar eyes that haven't strayed from his friend since Will started watch. He briefly wonders if El herself can feel Mike's suffocating gaze, too.

To Dustin's overly competitive delight, him and El win at Beer Pong. The little shit couldn't keep his yap closed for longer than two seconds before he started up again on bragging about how him and "baby Jane killed it cause we're natural born winners" and how "this is why I should give you some pointers, Lucas, if ya really wanna join the Basketball team." It was obnoxious as hell and even Will, despite not even playing, wanted Dustin to sew his own mouth shut. Such a sore winner. And they cheated, so that didn't even count.

But El ate it up like it was a plate of Eggos topped with her favorite whipped cream and sprinkles combo.

Will swears that Mike could probably hear the mirth in her laughter as the sound bounced off the walls of their corner and interrupted all the other parts in the living room.

To commemorate their victory, El pulls a sweet looking girl out from her own conversation with her cheerleader friends and introduces her to Dustin. Will almost chokes in laughter at the way Dustin sputters and clambers up embarrassingly. It's like watching a sitcom. Dustin keeps flapping his arms wildly like he's some damn bird and runs his mouth like an unstoppable train with no destination. It's crazy that the girl – Suzie something – doesn't bow out of the conversation, even after Dustin slips on absolutely fucking nothing and almost spills his Jungle Juice on her. Max says Suzie must be really desperate or dangerously dumb to keep entertaining this. Will like to think that she's charmed.

Speaking of spills, it's not Suzie that takes damage but Will, himself. Again, he finds himself posing as the easy target for all the stupid Jock boys who are clearly itching for a spectacle. Greg McCorkle rounds the corner too sharply (and out of nowhere) and all but tosses his liquor into Will's shoulder, just barely missing his lap. Small miracles made it so that it was just beer, thankfully, but Will's still rightfully frustrated. And sticky.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Greg, that dick, had done it on purpose just to procure cheap laughs for all the other shitheads watching the scene. And El, quicker than all of them, latches onto this harassment real quick. She pounces on Greg the second Lucas turns his back and ushers Will into the nearest bathroom. Strange, inexplicable things happen to Greg McCorkle as Will is privately scrubbing his knit vest clean of the despicable substance. Of course, everyone's too drunk, at this point, to really catch onto these strange occurrences.

When Will returns, shirt still slightly wet (but clean) and overall slightly more sober, El has befriended someone new. It's a guy that Lucas knows, someone who's real good at tech stuff but has been religiously turning down Lucas' invites to join their AV club. Lucas stands between the two, face grinning shamelessly as Jane Hopper wears him down with her charm and beauty. Will prays to God that Mike's watching this play out as well.

"Wiiiiiiiiiiiill — you're- you're back!" Dustin flings himself onto Will's back, his extra weight almost pulling both of them to the floor. He's like a monkey climbing Will, a monkey whose liquor-reeking hiccups are assaulting the younger Byers' nostrils.

"I'm back buddy," Will taps Dustin's arm that's practically suffocating him in a headlock, right now. "What did I miss?"

"M-Matt's t-thinking of joining us!" Dustin announces (screams in his ear) joyfully.

"Jesus Henderson. Pipe the fuck down, will you?" Max protests from her seat on the couch right next to them. "We're all right here. No need to yell."

"S-S-Sorry," Dustin slurs, finally releasing Will from his grip. The force of his release has Will stumbling forward to right himself. "I need another drink. I'll get yuh one too, Willy-Billy." Dustin says unceremoniously.

Before Will and Max could protest his decision – that boy definitely did not need another drink in him – he takes off into the crowd. "God, he's like a freaking child." Max bemoans, running her hands frustratingly through her long locks. "I needa pee. Hey, E—err, Jane. Jane, come with me to the bathroom, will you?"

Max doesn't wait for Jane to respond, just stands up and rudely snatches El out from her conversation with nerd #1 and nerd #2 to drag her over to the bathroom line. Will takes this as his cue to head over to Dustin.

In his heavily inebriated state, Dustin made the unsmart decision to bypass the drink table that is two feet to the right of them to instead pawn drinks off the main table. Where the keggers and bottles are positioned directly in front of the popular kids. In front of Mike and his swarm of assholes. In front of Troy.

Troy, who is already starting his verbal onslaught when Will saddles up by Dustin's side.

"—gross waste of space, aren't you Henderson?" Troy snarks out, his dimwitted joke causing a crowd of laughter from his groupie. James, the biggest ass-kisser in their group, is, of course, laughing the loudest.

High on the attention, Troy reaches out to shove Dustin – poor Dustin, who's frozen in shock or fear or surprise at this social berating. So drunk off of everything, Dustin goes down easily, slipping on the surprise of Troy's unexpected push and his own drunkenness. And Will, too slow to react, only scrambles after Dustin lands on his backside. Immediately, Will tries to prop Dustin up but his friend's always been the heavier of the two and it's a hard feat to even lift his unruly curls off the dirty floor.

"Jesus, Troy-!" Will says to himself, without meaning to. His quiet words are lost among the sea of derisive laughter and jeering, but still, Troy somehow hears him.

"What was that, fairy?" Troy grits out, turning his sharp attention onto a crouching Will. The sight of Will on his hands and knees in front of him does something wicked in the pit of Troy's stomach and it's like he's a shark, sniffing out the smell of leaking blood. Troy Wich has always hated Will Byers the most out of their fugly crew of fuck wits.

"I- I-" Will starts to panic because Dustin's groaning in pain, his eyes swimming with alcohol and confusion, and Troy's blue eyes are staring him down and where the fuck is Lucas? He needs Lucas. He needs a diffuser. He needs to disappear from Troy. He needs – He needs to be strong for Dustin. "L-Leave him alone, Troy. He's drunk." Will says weakly, swallowing thickly afterwards. It's like there's something caught in his throat. And it doesn't help that Troy's piercing gaze is setting him on fire from the inside out. It's fear that worsens these flames.

"I know he's fucking drunk. Jeez Byers, anyone with half a ball sack like you can figure that out." Troy sneers, approaching Will like he's a predator crowding his prey. Dustin's body feels like lead in Will's lap. "Tell me, do all of you fags walk around with shits for brain or is it jus—"

"Troy." Lucas' voice interjects. Will's heart practically sings in relief at the interruption. Troy had been inching closer and closer with every word he spits out and it was getting to the point where Will could feel Troy's breath on his fucking cheek. That was how close he was to Will. "Just back off man, we don't want any trouble."

"Fuck you Sinclair," Troy lashes immediately, spitting out Lucas' name like it was a slur. His eyes, however, never leave Will's frightened ones and Will could only assume that Troy had meant it like a slur.

Troy takes another second too long to stare down at Will before whirling over to look at the new intrusion. Finally, Will can breathe again. Pathetically, Will takes a deep breath in and blinks furiously to urge his body to resume normal functions. Oppositely, Troy rolls his shoulder back casually and straightens himself back to his full height to level up with Lucas. It was at this point that Will noticed how big of an audience they've attracted.

They're no longer huddled in a corner, lost in their own world with their friends. Instead, they're in the center of a circle, with hundreds of eyes on them, going head-to-head with Troy fucking Wich of all people, in his very own house.

As if reading Will's mind, Troy says exactly that: "You douchebags come to my party, you come to my house. And you have the fucking nerve to speak to me like this."

Lucas puts his hand up, like he's speaking to a cop and insisting his innocence. "Woah, dude, come on. It's not like that. We don't want any trouble. It's cool."

Troy snorts obnoxiously and it's that sound that kicks Will's instincts into overdrive. He starts to work furiously at pulling Dustin's dead weight out of the crossfire. So many people are around them, but nobody makes a move to help. Not even Suzie, who he spies watching helplessly but attentively at the scene on Lucas' left. For the not first time in his life, Will resents the fact that his body never seems to retain any form of muscles. He's so fucking weak and scrawny that he can barely move his best friend even an inch away.

"Just get the fuck out of my face, Sinclair." Troy dismisses him, waving a crude arm in his face like they're nothing but trash inconveniencing his person. It's a scarily similar echo to what Mike had said to Jane, all those hours ago. Mike, who sits casually in the center of the group right behind Troy, quirks an eyebrow to himself at this private, insignificant revelation. His eyes can't help but scan the faceless crowd – who are all itching and pushing their way to get a load of what's happening between his best friend and former best friend – for her heart-shaped face and doe eyes. But, of course, she's not there to witness this stupid ass conversation. Fucking Jane. "I don't even know how the fuck you dipshits even got inside this party. And now you fuckers are here, queering it up, especially King Faggot Byers here, and—"

There's a crunch! that interrupts Troy's homophobic spiel and it takes everyone a second to register that Lucas threw the first punch. He decked Troy right in his mouthbreathing face.

And then, all Hell breaks loose.

Troy, with his years of kickboxing reflexes, retaliates in a flash. His nose is probably broken, given how much it burns to inhale through his nostrils right now, but he gives as good as he gets. They're a flurry of fists and limbs. But they're on his turf, on his fucking property, in his goddamn house, so Troy quickly overpowers Sinclair. In the corner of Troy's eyes, he sees the backside of Byers scrambling his pert little ass away from the fight, not even bothering to haul Dustin's drunk body with him, and Troy has to hold back his snort. Little pansy, fairy princess couldn't handle a little blood. How predictable.

Eventually, he stops toying with Sinclair and pushes his body to the floor. For a second, he deliberates on kneeing Sinclair's stomach so that he can hear the freak squeal like a pig he is, but Troy decides on hammering down a series of punches on his pretty boy face. That's what he fucking gets for breaking his nose.

Out of nowhere, stupid fucking Brandon gets in on the fight and actually tries to rip his punching arm away from Sinclair – what fucking gives?! And in his adrenaline pumped brain, he reacted quite poorly (sorry Brandon, Troy made a mental note to his friend) and actually threw Brandon off of him. The kid goes flying in the worst fucking way possible.

Brandon falls on the makeshift bar table that started this all, effectively slamming into his mother's favorite fancy glass table and breaking all of the alcohol bottles in his near vicinity. Fuck.

Glass flies everywhere. Double fuck.

In the corner of his eyes, he sees the girls frequenting the couches shriek in horror and he sees his boys start to stand to control the situation.

For a second, Troy stops his barricade of punches to inspect the damages and it is during this one slight pause that dickbag Sinclair finds the balls to reach a spare arm out and choke Troy's throat. Motherfucker still has some fight in him.

Sinclair takes advantage of this upperhand and then, again, they're a flurry of limbs as they wrestle for dominance in a pool of broken glass shards and destroyed alcohol. He feels his back burn with scratches and cuts, but he pushes onwards. He'll be damned if he stopped now. And just like last time, weak Sinclair is no match for him. Troy lands back on top once more and resumes greeting his right fist to Sinclair's beaten-up face. And this time, he makes sure to straddle Sinclair so that his arms are trapped underneath Troy's thick thighs. There's a sick glean of satisfaction when he hears the constant crunch! crunch! crunch! that happens every time he lands his blow.

He's just about to land his final blow that'll end it all – cause Lucas already seems to have trouble breathing through his nose and mouth, so mission accomplished – when he spots Will pushing his way through the big crowd. This time, he's returned with two girls – Billy's bitch of a little sister and the hot new girl, Hopper's kid. What type of reinforcements are—

A bottle goes flying on his head the same time Troy feels his dominant arm twist and break.

Troy sees red.

And his screams – that was him screaming, he realized in the midst of pain and blood – deafen the entire house.

Like a bird shot square in the chest, Troy goes down, right next to Sinclair. It's almost poetic.

Horror grips his chest at the amount of blood that mats his hair and trickles down his fucking face – he must have cracked his head open or something. If he wasn't panicking like crazy, the sight that greets his slumped form would've sent him on a murder crusade.

Fucking Dustin Henderson stands tall above both him and Sinclair, stock-still and eyes wide in fear as he shakily holds a broken bottle neck in his left hand. Henderson fucking slammed a fucking alcohol bottle on his fucking head. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Those were his last thoughts before he decided to close his eyes and succumb to the pain.

He'll get Henderson back for this. It was only a matter of time.

For now, he just needed to focus on not bleeding out on his mother's imported, wool carpet.

Connor and James are on Dustin Henderson the second Troy's body hits the floor.

Mike doesn't intervene on their hunt, but he privately feels something akin to relief when he spies his former friend narrowly escaping their onslaught (for as big as they both were, they were stupid as fuck; it doesn't take a mathematician to escape their grubby hands) and running like hell into the depths of Troy's house. Troy, his best friend, who was bleeding out right in front of him. Fuck.

Mike takes control of the situation.

"Carson. Go bring the car out, will you? The ambulance will take too long so let's just drive him to the hospital ourselves. Landon, for God's sake, go get us some fucking towels. Not his mom's towels or Troy'll skin us alive. Get the ones from the Maid's closet." His friends dash off the second he gives them their instructions, thank fuck. "And everyone else—" Mike turns to the crowd who are still robbing them all of any semblance of personal space. Christ, even the cheerleaders, in their shrieks and screams, are still hanging around in suspense. "—either get the fuck out our way or get the fuck out of this house."

And just like that, everyone scrambles to disappear from Mike's line of vision.

Good.

He needs space to access the situation.

Mike turns back to his friends. By now, Landon's back with the towels. Angela and her groupies are subsequently hovering over Troy's wounded head, trying to stop the bleeding with the fresh towels. Good. Connor and James are still off chasing Dustin in god-knows-where. This house is a fucking maze, it could be a long time before they hunt him down. Greg is standing around looking like he's about to upchuck his dinner and Brandon's still a pathetic heap of glass and limbs on the floor. "Landon, let's start moving Troy outside the house. You grab his arms, I got his ankles. Greg, go make yourself useful and help Bran—"

"I can help Brandon." A meek voice piques up. Will's.

In all the chaos, he forgot about the little group of freaks that have effectively ruined the party for him and his friends.

Mike blinks at the suggestion and takes a second to muse over the offer. By now, Max had already jumped in to save her deadbeat boyfriend – he spies the pair shakily making their way to the kitchen, where he presumes the lovers will take turn dabbing dry blood off Sinclair's ugly face. Dustin's still running for the hills and Will stands ready to help. It's a laughable offer, considering the little twit couldn't even drag Dustin's drunk weight away from Troy. But right now, Troy's injuries are more dire than Brandon's and he's down a few helping hands.

Finally, Mike nods grimly and redirects Greg to grab Troy's feet, instead. Together, Landon, Greg, and the cheerleaders carefully lift Troy's broken form, mindful of his broken arm (Jesus, how the hell did Dustin manage that too?), and head quickly to the front door. Will scurries over to Brandon's side, gently lifting him up from the glass pile and starts leading him to a bathroom. From where Mike's standing, it looks like it's just a few cuts and bruises, along with some glass embeddings. Nothing too life threatening, thank god.

With everyone gone, it's now only him and Jane that stands at the scene of the crime. She eyes him hatefully, face downturn and eyes glaring in anger.

She doesn't even deign him a word, choosing instead to whirl around and strut away, but Mike's quicker than her. He grabs her arm before she could make the first step. "And where do you think you're going, Princess?" Mike spits out at her, glad that they're finally alone without her helicopter friends.

Jane rips her arm away from him and Mike doesn't even have the chance to revel in her strength, before she starts yelling at him. "I-I'm going s-to find Dustin! S-So go away."

If the smell of alcohol emanating off of her didn't already inform him of how drunk she was, then the slurring of her words definitely confirmed it. Jane Hopper was hammered as fuck. "You're not going anywhere drunk like this." He tells her, latching his grip back onto her. Something wildly dangerous just happened to all of their friends, right in front of them, he'll be damned if he'll let her drunk ass walk around, unsupervised. Especially when his two steroid-beefed friends were out sniffing for Dustin.

"W-Why dooo you even c-care?" Jane screams, now trying to pry his hand off of her arm. Mike can see her getting drunker by the second. "Y-You're aw-awful."

All of a sudden, this crazy bitch has tears in his eyes. God, an emotional drunk. Just what he needed.

"P-Poor D-Dustin." Jane laments, this time letting her tears fall freely. Mike feels a strange desire to lick the tears right off of her. "H-He must be so…so…so scared." Her drunk tongue enunciates the 'd' heavily, dragging it out for too long.

"Yeah, I know." He says.

It must've been the wrong thing to say because her wicked eyes snap accusingly back up to him, the heat of her anger drying out her waterworks. "F-Fuck you!" Jane spits out the profanity like this is the first time she's ever used it. So fucking cute. "D-Don't pretend to c-care about him! Just don't!"

Then, again, with a strength he doesn't know she's able to possess, Jane rips her arm furiously away from him and saunters off like a girl on fire. The sight of her walking away from him is both delicious and disarming. Fuck.

Mike's just about to go after her retreating form when he hears his own name being called out from behind him. He turns to the source.

It's Landon, his white polo shirt covered in blood. Fuck, Troy. He fucking forgot about Troy.

"Mike!" Landon calls out, looking extremely sober for a guy who was just tripping balls into the next universe, some twenty minutes ago. "Everyone's ready in the car. You coming?"

Fuck.

To follow Jane Hopper or go with Troy.

What an impossible choice.

He takes a long look at Landon, drags his eyes up and down on his friend's frazzled and worried form. Landon must've seen something on Mike's own face that shifts his expression to one of deep understanding. A nod passes through the two, despite standing on opposite sides of the room.

It was an impossible choice, but an easy one to make.

"I'll catch up with you fuckers, later. Give Troy a lil kiss for me."

He didn't wait for Landon's response, choosing instead to head in the direction that Jane just stormed off in.

Troy will just have to wait.