By the second week of November, Mike found himself fully integrated into Max's friend group.

He became a regular fixture at the pizza place—hanging out with them in the kitchen, or, on the rare occasion that it was actually busy, at a table doing homework until things calmed down again.

Mike had already been ninety-nine percent sure that Max was dating neither Argyle nor Jonesy, but it was quickly confirmed once he started spending time with them regularly. They were all pretty touchy with each other, but in a platonic way, like she was one of the guys.

They occupied a strange space in the social fabric of the school—still outcasts, but in a different way than The Party had been back in Hawkins. They were by no means popular, but they also weren't bullied, probably due to the fact that Argyle sold weed to the entire student body.

Mike had found that one out when he'd asked him about the suspicious amount of pineapple-jalapeno pizzas being ordered with "extra oregano."

As a result, they were sort of respected by everyone. It was nice. Mike felt guilty for thinking it was nice; a welcome change from years of being called a nerd or a freak and tripped in the hallways and targeted in dodgeball.

Most people would consider them to be mid-tier losers or burnouts, but Mike kind of thought they were the coolest people he'd ever met.

Argyle made him want to bash his head into a wall with the things that came out of his mouth sometimes, but he was also hilarious, and insane, and carefree—often to a fault.

Jonesy barely spoke, but when he did it was always really smart. He usually had his nose buried in some historical biography or dystopian novel. Mike was pretty sure he'd even seen him reading an actual newspaper once.

And Max… Max was like no girl he'd ever known before. She was bold and funny, sarcastic and quick-witted. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of music and she didn't give a single fuck what people thought of her.

But he'd also witnessed moments of caring beneath her apathetic exterior, like when she forced Argyle and Jonesy to eat the oranges she'd stolen off of trees on her way to school instead of their usual bags of chips, or how she checked on the stray kitten that lived under the dumpster behind the restaurant, making sure it had fresh water and enough food scraps to survive.

He didn't know what they saw in him to invite him into their circle so easily, but he was grateful for it. It felt like the storm clouds were lifting, little by little.

He smoked pot for the first time on a slow Wednesday afternoon in the litter-strewn alley behind Surfer Boy Pizza.

Argyle produced a joint and a plastic neon green lighter from the breast pocket of his obnoxiously patterned shirt of the day. He placed the tip in his mouth and Jonesy immediately cupped his hands around the end, helping him shield the lighter's flame from the wind.

Mike leaned back against the wall next to Max, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. "So I have a question."

Max's head rolled to the side. "Shoot."

"The pizza."

She grinned. "Why is it so good?"

"It's so fucking good!" he exclaimed.

"It's the sauce." She took the joint from Jonesy and inhaled deeply. "There's anchovy paste in it."

Tilting her head back, she blew a cloud of smoke up towards the clear, blue sky before holding the joint out to Mike. He pinched it cautiously between his thumb and index finger the way they all had, bringing the cardboard filter to his lips and taking a tentative puff.

"Pull it into your lungs." Max tapped him on the sternum. "Don't just hold it in your mouth."

He followed her instructions, but the harsh smoke scorched his trachea and immediately forced its way back up. Eyes watering, Mike hunched over, hacking and coughing his lungs out while they all applauded.

Oh fuck, this was so embarrassing.

"Let it out, man." Argyle patted him between the shoulder blades. "You gotta cough to get off, that's what I always say."

"Are you feeling it?" Max asked once he'd recovered.

"I dunno…" Mike took a moment to assess. There might have been a faint feeling of fuzziness settling around the edges of his brain. Was that what it was supposed to feel like? He reached for the joint in Jonesy's hand. "Let me take another one."

Mike wasn't exactly sure how long ago he'd lied down on the disturbingly sticky kitchen floor, all he knew was that at some point he'd realized he needed to get horizontal immediately. He was melting, his body becoming one with the greasy, brick-coloured tiles.

The other three peered down at him from above, standing in a semicircle around his head. It gave the effect of being in his grave, a fact that didn't help his heart palpitations.

"You look fried, New Kid," Max laughed, her own bloodshot eyes crinkling as she grinned down at him.

"That's that Purple Palm Tree Delight at work," Argyle said with a lazy smile. "Sends you straight into the solar system, man."

Jonesy waved a hand over Mike's face. He blinked. His eyeballs felt too heavy to follow the movement. And since when did his teeth have their own pulse?

If this was what getting stoned was like, Mike wasn't sure he got it.

A while later, when he'd regained control of his gross motor functions and didn't have to manually breathe anymore, Mike got it.

He found himself sitting on a milk crate in the kitchen, feeling more relaxed than he ever had. It was a floaty, out-of-body feeling—like his head wasn't fully attached to his shoulders.

Also, everything seemed really funny.

Jonesy was doing what he knew was an objectively bad Michael Jackson impression to the music that was playing, but at that moment it felt like the most hilarious thing Mike had ever seen. He was doubled over, wheezing and clutching at his aching abs as he begged him to stop.

It felt good to laugh that hard; he'd been feeling off all day. Yesterday he'd come home to a letter from Lucas, and the tone of it was much more somber than his previous one.

The guys hadn't spent Halloween together, which would have been the first time since the fourth grade.

Lucas had invited everyone to a party one of his basketball teammates was throwing, but Dustin and Will decided to watch movies at Gareth's house instead. Only Will told him Dustin hadn't shown up, and he'd been acting more and more withdrawn every day.

Concerned, Mike had tried calling Dustin that evening but his mom said he was out. He felt so useless, stuck on the other side of the country and unable to stop his friend group from fracturing.

Now those problems seemed far away.

He swallowed forcefully, suddenly aware of the dryness of his tongue.

"Hey, can I have a pop or something?" he asked, realizing his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth.

He cringed as Max and Argyle slowly looked at each other and then burst out laughing.

"A pop?" Max guffawed.

"Oh, he wants a pop, eh?" Argyle teased in what Mike assumed was supposed to be an impression of a midwestern accent.

"Okie dokie, bud–" Max cracked up again, clapping her hands together as she pushed through the swinging doors to attend to the customer who had just walked in.

Mike threw his head back and groaned. Rookie mistake.

"First of all, fuck you both." He waved around his middle finger. "A fucking soda, then. And second, that's a Minnesota accent and you know it. Which is not even that close to Indiana!"

He caught the drink cup that Jonesy tossed him from an open sleeve as Argyle continued chuckling to himself.

"Ah, Wheels, you should just get a job here, man," he said, resuming his work on a bizarre pizza creation that involved rolling string cheese into the crust. "Then you'd get paid to hang out like we do."

"He doesn't need a job, Argyle." Max peeked through the window, her face glowing red from the heat lamps. "He's a little rich boy."

"We're not rich," Mike protested, walking to the front where the soda fountain was. "We're… comfortable."

Max crossed her arms as she leaned back against the counter. "That's exactly what rich people say."

He rolled his eyes and then frowned, looking around. "Do you guys even have a manager? What's the deal here?"

"Yeah, Leo!" she answered. "He's amazing. He's this total hippie who lived in San Francisco in the sixties doing way too much acid. Then his rich parents died and left him all their money, and he didn't know what to do with it so he started this pizza chain. Now he lives up in the mountains and comes in like once a month to make sure we haven't burned the place down."

"He's also my supplier!" Argyle chimed in from the kitchen.

"Michael, we need to talk about your grades."

"Your father and I know the move has been hard on you, and that you miss your friends–"

"Your sister's academic performance is better than ever."

"–but at some point, you're going to have to accept it, sweetie."

"It's unacceptable. These grades, your attitude, going out at all hours with these new friends of yours, coming back smelling like reefer. Why if I'd acted like that my father would have…"

Mike's eyes glazed over as he stared at the wall past his parents' heads. Midterm report cards had been sent out that week and, unfortunately for him, his mother had checked the mail before he could intercept it.

He didn't get what the big deal was. His marks weren't even that bad, it was just mostly B's instead of A's… and a couple C's.

It wasn't his fault he'd started the semester two weeks behind everyone else. And okay, maybe he wasn't spending as much time on his schoolwork since he'd been hanging out with Max and the guys, but it wasn't the end of the fucking world.

"...and if we don't see an improvement, then you can forget about visiting Hawkins over Christmas break," his father finished before taking a sip of his coffee and returning his focus to his newspaper.

That got Mike's attention.

"What?! That's bullshit!" he exclaimed, standing up from the kitchen table. "Mom, is he serious?"

She glanced at her husband with a pained expression before shaking her head. "I'm sorry Michael, but we're putting our foot down."

Grabbing his backpack, Mike stormed out the front door, opting to wait in the car for Nancy instead of listening to more of his parents' lecture.

Truthfully, he'd forgotten about the vague plan to visit Hawkins over Christmas. He wasn't even sure he still wanted to go. It would be weird, especially with how distant it seemed everyone was getting. He wasn't sure his presence would be enough to bridge the gap. Even though he'd only been gone a few months, it felt like so much longer.

But he also wasn't used to his parents telling him what to do. Was this part of their "fresh start" thing? Suddenly giving a shit about their children's lives?

His anger must have been visible on his face because Max took one look at him in homeroom and immediately asked who pissed in his Cheerios.

"Just some bullshit with my parents," he sighed, sliding the chemistry worksheet he'd just hurriedly finished into his binder.

Max grinned. "I know just what you need. Meet me at Argyle's van after school."

It turned out that what she thought he needed was driving to an old junkyard on the outskirts of town to hit golf balls into a pit of scrap metal and abandoned, rusted vehicles.

Mike had never so much as touched a golf club before, and it felt awkward in his hands as he mimicked the stance he'd seen on TV.

"Here man, you gotta hold it lower," Argyle said as he wrapped his arms around Mike from behind like he was some creep in a bar teaching him how to shoot pool.

"Argyle!" Mike exclaimed, shaking him off as Max cracked up next to them. "What did I say about personal space?"

"Uh… give it to you?"

"Correct."

Grumbling, Argyle went back to the van, dramatically taking a seat on the edge before pulling out his weed and grinder.

The wind ruffled Mike's hair as he looked out at the pit and then back down at the ball. He really didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of his new friends.

He pulled back the club, swinging it as hard as he could. It missed the ball entirely, slicing through the air as he staggered forward and nearly lost his balance.

Embarrassment warmed his cheeks as Max chuckled. "Bend your knees a little and loosen your grip."

Mike followed her advice. The second and third time he managed to awkwardly connect the club with the ball, sending it skipping pathetically across the ground.

It took him a few more tries, but he eventually got the hang of it. He had to admit it did feel good to just focus on the thwack of the club and the whoosh of the ball soaring through the air.

"So, what was the fight about?" Max prompted after a minute.

"My dad's just such a dick sometimes. Like now he decides to act like some involved father after barely acknowledging my existence for most of my life?" Mike said as he watched his ball sail into the pit and ricochet off a sheet of corrugated metal. "I just feel like he doesn't get me at all."

"Do anyone's parents really 'get them' when they're our age, though?" she asked, reaching into the bucket for a golf ball. "It's kind of a prerequisite for being a teenager."

"I guess. He just acts like he's never been one himself. Like he was born this perfect adult who's never struggled with anything or made any mistakes."

"At least he's around," Max said as she dropped a ball on the ground in front of her.

She told him about her parent's messy divorce, the string of loser boyfriends her mom had before meeting Neil, how her dad had recently moved to Fresno and now she only saw him one weekend a month.

Mike listened in silence. He was surprised she was opening up to him like this. Maybe it was easier to share when they were hitting golf balls instead of looking at each other.

"Neil seemed normal at first, other than making us join hands and pray before every meal," Max said as she watched Mike's ball land in the dirt. "But it turns out he's like, this total controlling psycho. Like he has anger issues or something. I think Billy inherited them, too."

Mike frowned. He hated the idea of her being trapped in a powder keg; it reminded him of what Will had said his house was like before his dad finally left for good.

No wonder Max took so many shifts at the pizza place. Maybe his parents weren't so bad after all.

"The only good thing that's happened since she married him is that we moved out of the trailer park."

"That bites, dude," he said after a second.

Max rested her club across the tops of her shoulders, hands curled around either side. "Hey Argyle, you got any daddy issues?"

"Negatory, dudette," he answered, not looking up as he sealed off the joint he'd just rolled. "I love my old man. He's like my number one homie."

She turned back towards Mike and they shared a small, private smile of understanding. He kind of liked that it was something only they shared, as morbid as it was.

It often felt like there was something in her that matched something in him. He could just tell. Something a little unsettled. Untethered. Something that was searching for… more.

"Well, I gotta go drain the snake," Argyle announced as he stood and tucked the joint into his visor.

Max grimaced. "Gross. Can you go further away from the van this time please?"

It was quiet for a few moments after Argyle walked away, nothing but the ping of their clubs hitting the balls and the buzz of the powerlines overhead filling the air.

"What was your ex like?" Max asked as Mike lined up a shot.

He faltered mid-backswing. It had come up in passing last week that he'd gotten out of a long-term relationship before he'd moved, but he hadn't expected her to follow up on it.

"Uh… sweet, I guess." Ping. "Quiet, when you first meet her, but she just has the biggest heart."

"Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing I just– I didn't think that was your type." Ping. Max watched her ball bounce off a rusted bumper and turned to look at him. "A blushing rose."

Mike chuckled, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest as he thought about El. "Oh, she has thorns like you wouldn't believe. She's… actually pretty fearless. Doesn't really give a shit about authority."

Max raised a brow. "A woman of contradictions."

He stepped over to the next ball. "I guess you could say that." Ping. "You'd like each other, I think. You're both… different."

It was something El had always been so insecure about, no matter how much he told her that it didn't matter; that she was the most incredible person in the world.

He wondered what it would be like if she had Max as a friend—someone who didn't care what people thought. She'd probably be a good influence on her.

Dustin and Lucas would like Max for sure. They'd probably be falling all over themselves to try and impress her.

He shook his head as he dragged the head of his club through the dirt. It was too weird, thinking of his old life colliding with his new one.

"She didn't really have parents or any family, so our relationship was very… intense," he continued, squinting at the flat, featureless horizon. "We were pretty much together since we were twelve."

Max whistled lowly. Mike knew it often bordered on codependent—Hopper and their friends had insinuated as much—but they couldn't help it. They'd meant everything to each other.

To his surprise, it actually felt good to talk about El. He'd avoided thinking about her for so long because it was just too painful, but now it hurt a little less.

Ping. "Do you miss her?"

Mike considered the question. Did he? He missed her as part of the Party, as a huge part of his life; just like he missed Lucas and Dustin and Will. She was his first everything and that would always mean something.

But did he still feel like he would die if he didn't get her back…? He wasn't sure about that anymore.

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, but… not in the way that I used to."

He was surprised by how much he meant it. It seemed time really did heal all wounds.

If he was still in Hawkins, Mike doubted he could have ever moved on, but with the distance and the complete lack of communication, the hole in his heart had started to mend without him even realizing it.

It wasn't like when she'd disappeared. Back then he'd still had hope, enough of it to keep him desperately trying to contact her for almost a year.

This time it was different. This time he knew exactly where she was. She just didn't want him anymore.

He glanced over at Max to find her already looking at him, something curious in her expression he couldn't quite place. Her lips parted as she started to speak, but the sound of Argyle's approaching footsteps made her pause.

"There's a dead lizard back there," the older boy chuckled, grabbing the joint from his visor and putting it between his lips. "I peed on it."

Max blinked, breaking the eye contact they'd been holding.

"You're disgusting," she declared, snatching the lit joint from Argyle's mouth and taking a long drag.

"Wait, so you skateboard in a swimming pool?" Mike asked, grasping onto the handle of the van's sliding door as they swerved down a county road.

"An empty pool," Max said from her spot beside him, lounging back against one of the pillows.

"Check it." Argyle glanced back at them before returning to his eyes to the road. "Summer of '77, Santa Monica, Venice Beach. The freaking epicentre of surfing and skateboarding."

Max snorted. "Who taught you the word epicentre?"

"Skateboards had just started being made with plastic wheels," Argyle continued, holding up his middle finger.

"Polyurethane," Jonesy interjected from the passenger seat.

"Yeah yeah, poly-whatever. This means faster turns, higher speeds. So the government declares a drought, right? And everyone has to drain their pools, man. So all these skater guys–"

"And girls!" Max chimed in.

"Dudes, chicks, whoever, they start sneaking into these rich people's backyards and using their empty pools to do tricks that have never been done before, and they formed all these new skate teams. It basically led to the rise of professional skateboarding as we know it, man! We're talking Tony Alva, Jay Adams–"

"Steve Olson," Jonesy added.

"Freakin' Steve Olson, man!" Argyle exclaimed, smacking Jonesy's shoulder enthusiastically.

Mike nodded as if he had any idea who those people were. "And you need me to film you because…?"

"Because if I send a sick enough tape to a bunch of those teams, maybe one of them invites me to join and then I don't have to go to community college next year. Making money off of skating, that's the dream, man."

He looked down at the bulky video camera in his lap that Jonesy had provided. "You know I have, like, zero filming experience, right?"

"Yeah, but you're smart about that stuff, man," Argyle said. "Weren't you in the AC/DC club or whatever?"

"AV club… yeah, I was the president."

"Nerd," Max coughed, pretending to clear her throat.

Mike narrowed his eyes at her shit-eating grin. "Shut up."

They drove about forty minutes outside of town, parking the van at a rest stop before hiking another half-mile along the side of the highway.

Mike adjusted the straps of his backpack, shoulders straining from the weight of the video camera. The sun beat down overhead but provided little warmth.

Thankfully, the cracked, sun-bleached sign for the long-abandoned Sunrise Motor Hotel came into view. "_O VACAN_Y" the patchy letterboard beneath it read. "FREE BRE_KF_ST HE_TED P_OL!"

"This way, dudes," Argyle said, leading them around the tall, chain-link fence that ran around the entire lot.

"How'd you hear about this place, Argyle?" Max asked.

"Weird-Eye Dan told me when I ran into him at the gas station. Said it's the sickest pool he's ever skated."

Mike wrinkled his nose. "You're taking advice from someone called Weird-Eye Dan?"

"Yeah, he's got a weird, jacked-up eye, but he's a super nice dude. No need to be so judgmental Wheels, shit."

"Oh, I wasn't– I'm not–" Mike stammered, mortified that he'd said something offensive.

But then Max turned around and shot him a reassuring wink, and he realized it was just Argyle's weird sense of humour.

"Um, that sign says no trespassing," he pointed out as they started tossing their backpacks and skateboards over the fence.

"Gold star reading skills, New Kid," Max grinned.

Mike rolled his eyes and began climbing the chain link with the rest of them.

"Ho-ly shit, dudes," Argyle breathed as he jogged to the edge of the massive, kidney-shaped pool.

Mike came to stand next to him. The inside of the pool had once been painted turquoise, but now it had faded to a near white. The cracked pink tiles beneath his feet that lined the edge of it matched the peeling siding of the dilapidated motel.

Other than the "Fuck Reagan" graffitied across one of the walls in black spray paint, the whole place looked like it hadn't been touched since the 60s.

"It's perfect!" Max gasped as she peered into the pool. "And there's not even any dead animals in the bottom!"

Argyle dropped his backpack and held up his skateboard. "So I guess the only question is, who's brave enough to take the first drop in, man?"

Without missing a beat, Max beelined for the deep end of the pool, balancing her board over the edge with her back foot on the tail.

Mike fumbled with the camera, quickly pressing the red record button as he rushed to center her in the shot. He attempted to keep it steady as he zoomed in, making sure to capture the contrast of the blue sky against the gleam of the sunlight in her red hair.

Maybe he knew more about cinematography than he'd thought.

When Max noticed him, her hand flew up to cover her face. "Don't film me!"

"I might miss something Argyle does," Mike protested, smiling as she stuck her tongue out at him and flipped him off.

Focusing, Max looked down into the pool. "Fuck me, this is high." She shook out her hands, psyching herself up, taking a deep breath in and out. "Okay. Here goes nothing."

Mike leaned back on the cracked, plastic lounge chair he'd been sitting on, watching as Argyle bailed on another trick and tumbled backwards down the sloped wall of the pool.

He and Jonesy were really good, but Mike thought Max was better than both of them. He might have accidentally gotten more footage of her than of Argyle before the camera battery died.

They'd smoked two joints so far, and he was perfectly content relaxing in the sun while the others accumulated fresh scrapes and bruises.

"Hey," Max said as she sat down next to him on the lounger, grabbing a bottled Pepsi from her backpack. She'd taken her hoodie off a while ago, and now there was a light sheen of sweat on her freckled arms.

"Hey," Mike nodded.

She took a large gulp of her drink. "Dying of boredom yet?"

"Nah, it's cool watching you guys."

"You should learn."

"I don't think so," he chuckled. "I'm not really a thrill seeker."

"No? I am." She leaned in towards him, lowering her voice as if she was sharing some big secret. "Sometimes, it's the only time when I really feel alive. When you're bombing down a hill, and you go so fast that your heart races and your eyes water…

Swallowing hard, Mike found himself stuck staring at the way her mouth formed around each word. He knew he should look away but he couldn't. What was wrong with him?

"…and the board wobbles beneath your feet," Max continued, leaning closer still, "and you're not sure if you're gonna fall. In that moment, I swear it feels like flying."

He forced his eyes back up to hers. Her eyebrows raised the tiniest amount, like she was waiting for his reaction.

Mike blinked. Why were they so close? What was happening? Was she–

"Hey!" A gruff male voice called out. They whirled around to see a uniformed state trooper vaulting over the fence. "This is private property!"

"Shit shit shit!" Max hissed, snatching up their backpacks. She grabbed Mike's hand and tugged him to his feet. "Come on!"

Argyle and Jonesy were already leaping over the fence on the far side of the pool, but the cop was in Max and Mike's way.

Instead, they ran towards the motel, skidding around the corner and looking around frantically as the sound of heavy footfalls approached.

"In here!" Max exclaimed, pulling him towards the one door that wasn't boarded up.

Here turned out to be a tiny cleaning closet. She shoved him inside and closed the door behind herself.

Mike moved as far into the cramped space as he could. A broom handle dug painfully into his back and his feet were on either side of a bucket filled with mysterious liquid.

He stiffened as Max pressed herself flush against him, his already racing heart beating even faster. It'd been a long time since he'd been this close to a girl, and his body was clearly getting the memo.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to focus on anything other than the way he could feel every contour of her body with each shallow breath they took.

A strong chemical smell filled his nose, probably from the long-forgotten cleaning products next to him, but there was also an underlying fragrance of something fresh and a little floral…

Oh god, it was her. She'd tucked her head under his chin and now the scent of her shampoo was making his head spin.

Gritting his teeth, Mike kept as still as humanly possible. If his dick chose this moment to come back to life after nearly four months, he was killing himself.

He opened his eyes as the footsteps outside got louder, slowing down right in front of the door. His stomach flipped over itself. If he had to call his parents from jail, they were never letting him out of the house again.

"Goddamn kids," the trooper muttered, moving past the door. There was the staticky click of a radio. "Rodriguez here. Checked out the disturbance at the Sunrise. Caught a group of delinquents skateboarding in the old pool but they scattered. Returning to the station. Over."

They waited for the sound of receding footsteps to completely disappear before letting out a long breath, and it was only when Max's fingers disentangled from his that Mike realized they'd been holding hands the whole time.

"That was too fucking close," she breathed as they stepped out of the closet, raking her fingers through her hair. "We better start walking. Maybe the guys will meet us on the way with the van."

"Yeah," he nodded, trying to ignore the tingling that lingered in his palm. "Yeah, let's go."

On the day before Thanksgiving, Mike walked into Surfer Boy to find Jonesy seated at one of the checkered tables with one leg of his baggy pants rolled up, stabbing himself in the thigh with a needle that was taped to a pencil.

"Jonesy, what the fuck?!"

"Relax, Wheels," Argyle said from where he was sitting on the countertop, flicking a yo-yo at the floor. "Jonesy does stick and pokes. He needs the practice if he wants to be a real tattoo artist someday."

Mike cringed as he peered closely at the peace sign taking shape just above Jonesy's knee, next to an existing tattoo of a cartoonish alien head. "So you just do them on yourself?"

"And us." Argyle held up his hand, tugging down his colourful bracelets to showcase an identical alien inked on the inside of his wrist.

Mike took a seat across from Jonesy just as Max walked in from the kitchen. "Do you have one?"

"Sure," she smirked.

Surprised, Mike scanned his eyes over her, certain he would have noticed before. "Where?"

Max came to stand in front of him, hooking a thumb into the waistband of her terry cloth shorts. She peeled it down dangerously low, revealing the even paler skin of her hipbone and the alien about an inch to the inside of it.

All the saliva in Mike's mouth dried up. He gulped. He wanted to lean in and trace over her tan line with his tongue–

Wait, no. She was his friend. Just his friend. Fucking hormones.

He eyed the tattoo from a safe distance. The outline was a little fuzzy, and one eye was bigger than the other, but it wasn't terrible.

"Want one?" Jonesy asked.

"Um… does it have to be an alien?"

"I wouldn't risk anything else," Max said, mercifully pulling her waistband back up. "That's how Argyle ended up with 'Pink Foyd' on his left ass cheek."

He wrinkled his nose. "Was there a dark side of the moon joke in there somewhere?"

Argyle pointed at him. "Exactly, dude!"

Mike chewed on his bottom lip. An at-home tattoo was probably a really stupid idea. It was permanent. His parents would hate it…

But there was something appealing about matching with the group. Proof that he belonged, or whatever.

"Fuck it, let's do it."

Half an hour later, Mike sat with the shoulder of his t-shirt folded up, eyes watering as he bit into the inside of his cheek and tried not to react to the agony of Jonesy's sterilized needle stabbing into his deltoid.

He could feel Max watching him from where she sat on the counter, legs swinging back and forth. They'd smoked a joint beforehand in an attempt to relax him, but Mike had a famously low pain threshold and this was excruciating.

Finally, Jonesy set his needle and ink pot aside and tore off a piece of Saran Wrap, placing it over the tattoo and carefully taping the edges down.

Mike let out a deep breath. He did it. He'd made it through without–

"Ow, fuck!" he cried out as Jonesy gave him a hard slap right over the plastic.

"Done," he chuckled as he rolled off his plastic gloves.

Max jumped down and bounded over. "Holy shit." She crouched so she was eye level with his shoulder. "I can't believe you actually did that!"

Mike craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of it. "How does it look? Badass?"

She beamed up at him. " So badass."

A funny feeling crackled through him as they smiled at each other, and Mike's stomach sank as he very quickly became aware of a few things:

He had sweaty palms, heat was swirling somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and his tongue suddenly felt too big for his mouth.

Which meant he was either having an allergic reaction to the ink, or…

Shit.

Teehee. 👽

Thank you so much to everyone who has left comments so far! You all make my day :)