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Officially, Eddie thinks Starcourt Mall is the worst thing to happen to Hawkins. The bright, artificial lights and never ending advertisements; the palatable to the masses pop music pumped through speakers to appease the hungry crowds; the stores that crushed the local competition, meaning there was nobody to look the other way on IDs as long as there were a few extra bills tucked into their palm at the end of the transaction. Cigarettes and booze were harder to come by this summer, and after flunking out of senior year for the second time and staring down the barrel of a third, Eddie needed them more than ever.
Unofficially, however, it’s the hottest fucking day of the year so far and Starcourt Mall’s ice cold air-conditioning sounds better than a wet kiss on the mouth. He’s hacked the bottoms off his oldest pair of jeans, leaving him with uneven and fraying jean shorts that look like shit but at least he isn’t dripping rivulets of sweat down his calves. His oldest, most threadbare band tee has received the same treatment, sleeves haphazardly sliced down the seam, trying to coax the nonexistent breeze to cool his hot skin. He’s banned from the Hawkins Public Pool as of last week, because apparently smoking weed in the change rooms is frowned up, even though Billy fucking Hargrove bought it from him not five minutes before tossing the ban over his shoulder with a smug smile and a wink, joint settled between those perfectly pink lips.
Asshole.
Pretty, though.
And wasn’t that just the way things were?
He’s pulled his hair back, secured it with a twist and a pen and a hopeful prayer. Having the thick weight of it off the back of his neck is a blessing, the sweat dripping slowly down the skin to bleed into the fabric of his shirt. Maybe people are right, maybe Hawkins is cursed. Close enough to Hell at this point to warrant some consideration, if he’s honest.
There’s an uncomfortable pool of now-cooled sweat at the small of his back as he climbs into the van, seat belt buckle burning a brand into his palm as he fits it into the socket and the oppressive suffocation of warm air hangs in the interior before he cranks the window down. Fuck Starcourt Mall, but fuck this heat just as hard. Sometimes you need to sacrifice your values for a little bit of relief. He spends ten minutes trying to find a parking spot, and then another ten contemplating smoking a joint before facing the masses. He caves, because it might be hotter than Satan’s ball sack outside, but like hell he’s interested in being sober for this experience. His hot box in the back of the van (emphasis on hot, he’s slick with sweat and flushed pink when he clambers out), doesn’t seem to draw any attention, not from the dull eyed security guards or the flocks of mothers and children he sees milling through the lot. He’s loose limbed and relaxed when he walks up the front doors, ready to accept his fate as a sheep if only for the sweet relief of cold air.
The first rush of air conditioning is like an orgasm after a long tease; toe curling and breath snatching and he’s thinking about moaning but decides against it. He stands under the rush of air until someone shoves past, muttering ‘freak’ under their breath. It’s one of the jocks, to his absolute lack of surprise.
“Never heard that one before,” he calls after them, “How stunningly original of you.”
He does move though, because he’s standing in the doorway and that’s just rude. He can smell hot pretzels and popcorn, no doubt from the theater on the level above. There’s some Madonna song playing over the sound system, which could be worse. The mall is so cold there’s gooseflesh prickling on every sweat soaked divot of his body, the cool air creeps into the gaping holes of his sleeves and tickles his ribcage. It’s glorious.
He takes a pamphlet from a far too chipper greeter and fans it open, eyes narrowing as he scans through the variety of stores Starcourt has to offer. There’s a few things he wouldn’t mind checking out, since he’s here. Starting with Modern Music, a shiny new record store that he has been informed is a welcome change from the dingy store on Main that never had anything new or modern, let alone anything Eddie would listen to. He’d found a few gems, some older tapes from bands he liked in passing while digging through buckets of loose cassette tapes and wiping cobwebs on his jeans, but never anything that blew him away.
The record store is three times as large as the one on Main, has large signs and organized bins and no weirdly stale smell of dust and sweat that was honestly part of the experience shopping at the local store. He browses through their metal selection with quiet approval, finding a handful of cassettes he makes a note to come back for once his pockets are a little heavier, because yeah- fuck Starcourt- but he won’t deny that their selection is far better than anywhere else he has ever been. He kills almost an hour there before the store worker starts giving him the death stare, though he can’t tell if it’s his annoying loitering or the eclectic choice of clothing he’s gone with today that is warranting the attention. He leaves, lets himself wander among the crowds and considers heading back to his van for another toke or four, thinking at the very least he got to cool down and found a good record store for the picking.
But it turns out that the record store isn't the jackpot for the day. No, he thinks as he rounds a corner and finds himself stopping dead- the jackpot of the day is Scoops Ahoy. Or, more specifically, the long legs of Steve Harrington in the short shorts of the Scoops Ahoy uniform as he adjusts the sign on the front window, arms above his head and exposing a stripe of stomach- blue and white and tan.
God Bless America.
Harrington disappears inside and Eddie smiles. King Steve in all his Scoops Ahoy sailor boy glory; forced to get a real job because he didn’t have the grades for college. It was delicious. Perhaps a little hypocritical of him, considering he had failed yet another senior year and at least Harrington had graduated, but Eddie wouldn’t apologize for a little schadenfreude when it came to King Steve, asshole extraordinaire. Harrington might never have been the instigator as far as Eddie's run ins with him had gone, but he seemed content to smirk and linger when Tommy H or one of the other jocks decided to pick a fight. And as far as Eddie was concerned, that was enough for him to indulge in a little joy at his misfortune. King Steve, demoted to ice cream slinger.
Though, if Eddie had heard right, King Steve was no more long before the unfortunate outfit. He didn’t follow the right social circles to know exactly what had happened, but it wasn’t hard to notice that not long into first semester, Harrington hadn’t been followed around by Tommy H and Carol like he had since freshman year. No, that honor had been taken over by Billy Hargrove, who had ruled the senior class with his smirk and his bare chest and his jean clad ass like he was born for it. And Steve Harrington had just… finished out the school year in silence. Got his face rearranged by Hargrove, which Eddie was dying to know more about, but never had anyone to ask. Seemed as though Harrington had held his own though, given the nasty bruise that circled Billy’s eye for weeks, and the fact that he actually kept his shirt buttoned for the better part of a month. A true devastation.
Whatever the fuck had happened, it must have been life changing.
He ducks into Scoops Ahoy just as a group of three ladies leave, giggling and whispering to themselves behind their perfectly scooped cones. Robin Buckley is leaning in a window behind the counter, a whiteboard in one hand and a marker twirling in the other. Neither of them notice Eddie as he slips in, hands in his pockets and a smile on his face. From this angle, it's clear that the short shorts of the Scoops uniform fit just as nicely in the back as they do the front.
“And he strikes out, again, ladies and gentlemen,” Buckley crows, adding a squeaky line of marker underneath a column labeled “You Suck.” There are five other lines in the column, and none in the one beside it, helpfully labelled "You Rule." Apparently Eddie is the only one who appreciates the aesthetic- not that he's in the mood for the punch in the mouth he would get if he told Harrington as much.
Really, he fucking hates the guy. In a sick, jealous, you're a piece of shit why do you get to live well kind of way that makes him feel small sometimes. But he's also a hot blooded American teen, who has attended enough gym classes to acknowledge that Steve Harrington has a body worth licking, despite his general douchebag behavior. Somewhere along the pipeline, anger and horniness crossed wires and never quite managed to untangle. Eddie is fine with it, Hawkins is full of douchebags with pretty faces; Harrington isn't special for making it into the more confusing end of his night time entertainment catalogue.
Buckley is saying something, and Harrington rolls his eyes as he turns, gaze finally landing on Eddie as he approaches. He does a double take, but straightens up and gives him a nod. Like they're friendly acquaintances and not two guys who shared several classes and never spoke about anything of substance. Eddie sold Steve weed one, charged him triple and was struck dumb when Harrington didn't even blink at the number. Must be nice to be a rich boy.
“Munson.”
“Is that how you welcome a customer, Harrington?” he asks, propping one hand on the counter and giving the little silver bell (ring for Scoops Ahoy service!) a smack with his open palm. The ding makes Steve's eye twitch. Eddie does it again.
“He’s right, Steve,” Buckley pipes up from behind the window, “That’s not the company approved greeting for our customers. It's in the manual."
Eddie only knows Buckley because she’s in band, which is tangentially related to his interests, but he’s decided he loves her. She’s got a smirk on her face and a sparkle in her eye and anyone that keeps a scoreboard of every time Steve Harrington strikes out with a lady is someone he approves of. Not that the approval of a freak means much, but she has it. Steve yanks the bell out from under Eddie’s hand before he can smack it again, shoving it out of reach behind the cash register.
“That’s nice, what can I get you?”
Eddie raises an eyebrow, drags his eyes over the ridiculous sailor hat atop Harrington’s ridiculous hairstyle, and grins.
“Oh no, I think I need the Scoops Ahoy welcome. It’s company policy, isn’t it? Do I need to speak to a supervisor?”
“Munson-”
Eddie spreads his arms out, slouches on the counter and smiles.
“Come on, Harrington. Just this once. Humor me."
“I’m actually on break-”
“No you’re not,” Buckley pipes up from behind the window divider, “I am. See you in thirty, Steve.”
She slams the window closed, taking the whiteboard with her. Harrington looks like he’s considering reaching over the counter and shaking him by the front of his shirt. But he takes a deep breath and kisses his teeth, seems to resign himself to his fate.
“Ahoy there. Are you ready to set sail on this journey of flavor with us today here at Scoops Ahoy? My name is Steve and I’ll be your ice cream captain.”
This is as close as Eddie is ever getting to heaven and it tastes sweet. He grins, shows all his teeth and tilts his head.
“Well thank you, Steve,” the name feels weird in his mouth without the word King attached to it, but he powers on, “I am so very excited to set sail on this flavor journey with you. But I’m not sure what I feel like today,” he says, peering in at the rows of ice cream tubs with a mock thoughtful smile, “I think I need a sample.”
Harrington reaches for a little cup of tiny plastic spoons and sighs, “And what would you like a sample of today?”
“Let’s start with chocolate.”
Harrington hands it over and Eddie smiles, sucks the little pink spoon clean and licks his lips with a quiet hum.
“Nope. Not today. Strawberry?”
Steve’s jaw twitches as he drags another spoon through the ice cream, but he doesn’t say anything. The wall says free samples, and free samples Eddie is going to get. He pushes the spoon between his lips, savors the icy cold flavor on his tongue and shakes his head. He tries cookies and cream, then butterscotch ripple, then five or six others that are good, but watching Harrington creep closer and closer to sheer unbridled annoyance is better. He leans against the cold glass and relishes the feeling on his stomach, flattens his palms with a clink of his rings and Harrington snaps at him to ‘not fucking lean on the glass, can you not read the sign’, but doesn’t remind him again when Eddie doesn’t move.
He tries four more flavors before Harrington grits his teeth and gives him a tight lipped smile. He's done better than Eddie thought he would; he was convinced he would be either on his ass or being dragged out by his hair by now.
“Are you sure none of those were to your liking?”
The last one had actually been alright, a smooth honey flavor with a slight vanilla cookie aftertaste that tasted like his favorite cereal and was definitely something he’d normally get a cone of. But Harrington doesn’t need to know that.
“Nope,” he says, popping the p and propping his chin into the flat of his hand, “I think I need some more recommendations. What’s the special flavor for today?”
“There isn’t one.”
Eddie points a finger behind Steve’s head where an anthropomorphic anchor with a speech bubble is painted on the wall, brightly proclaiming that the Scoops Ahoy team would be happy to share the flavor of the day with them. Steve takes a deep breath, and Eddie grins.
“The special flavor of the day is Cherries Jubilee, a fun filled cherry delight sure to tickle your tastebuds with its special blend of Scoops Ahoy flavor.”
This is fucking fantastic. God bless Starcourt Mall.
“I think I’d like to try it. I'm still trying to decide."
“No, you're abusing company policy,” Steve corrects and Eddie nods, unashamed, and leans forward.
“Fuck The Man, Harrington. Gimme a taste.”
Steve rolls his eyes and digs into the tub of cherries jubilee with the tiny plastic spoon, holding it out with a pointed finger.
“This is the last one.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. But maybe this is the one, Harrington. It looks amazing."
It’s disgusting. Too sweet and sour at the same time, chewy in a way that ice cream should never be. But he smiles, sucking every last ice cold bite from the spoon just to watch Steve’s eye twitch as he shakes his head.
“You know, I don’t think this is what I want. How about sherbet?”
Steve rubs his face and sighs, wielding the ice cream scoop in his hand like a weapon for a moment before tucking it back into his shorts and leaning close. He drops his voice, as though he's worried someone will hear him in the completely empty store.
“Munson, don’t make me hurt you.”
Eddie grins, plants his hands on the counter and leans in closer with a scrunch of his nose, “You, hurt me? That seems very not company policy of you.”
“Fuck The Man, right, Munson? Ask me for a sample one more time.”
Steve’s voice is quiet and taunting and Eddie raises an eyebrow, leans in even further, tempts fate and throws caution to the wind and gets as close to Steve Harrington as he ever dared. He bats his eyes a little and wets his lip.
“Can I have a sample…please?”
He’s imagining the tension, he knows he is. But it’s fun and hilarious and Harrington’s eyes are so wide and brown and that fucking little sailor outfit is hotter than it has any right to be, and sure '85 is only half over and it's already a bust but ‘86 is going to be his fucking year. He can feel it in his bones- he’s going to graduate and get out of this town and he’s never going to see Harrington again so what’s the harm? Eddie is already a freak, he knows what people say about him and a lot of it is probably true. So why not get up in the pretty boy's face, just to watch him squirm?
Harrington’s eyes dart down to the little plastic spoon that Eddie still has in his fingers, dangling over the little white box that says ‘used spoons’ in Scoops Ahoy cursive and is brimming with Eddie's trash. His gaze glances over Eddie's lips, though. Unless Eddie imagined it.
"Fine."
Steve digs into the lurid orange-pink-white monstrosity on the far left and Eddie drags it along the flat of his tongue, feels the tingle of the sherbet and the edge of sour. It's not awful.
"Nope. Still not it."
"You've tried everything but vanilla and mint chip, you have to like something,"
Mint chip is the single worst flavor to ever exist, and he can't help but make a face when Steve suggests it. Eddie watched as Steve's eyebrow ticks a little, a sly smile beginning to twitch at the edge of his mouth.
"Oh, are you not a fan of mint chip? Because, here at Scoops Ahoy we have a special blend of mint flavors to create a one or a kind experience. It's an ocean of flavor. You absolutely have to try it."
Eddie would rather die, actually. But he's not pulling out now, this is his game and Harrington doesn't get a win. He watches the way Harrington very deliberately drags the spoon through the offensively green ice cream and there's definitely more on this sample than he'd given any other. Douchebag. Harrington holds it out with a patient smile, hip cocked just so and one hand flat against the counter.
"Enjoy."
Oh God it's fucking awful. Minty like toothpaste and sweet like buckets of sugar poured onto his tongue. Steve is smiling, looks content and smug all at once and Eddie swallows down the disgusting offering with only a slight grimace.
"Nope, not what I'm looking for. Let me try the vanilla honey again."
Steve is looking at the spoon in his hand, a thick layer of smeared green still nestled in the dip of pink.
"You didn't finish the sample, Munson. How can you know you liked it if you didn't finish it?"
"I tried enough."
"I really don't think you did. Finish it."
Jesus Christ who does this guy think he is?
"If it's so good, why don't you finish it?" Eddie offers, shoving the little pink scoop into Steve's open mouth. There's a brief moment where Eddie is genuinely worried he's about to get punched in the throat, because even he can't believe he did that. He's still waiting for the blow when Steve brings his hand up to grip the spoon, slowly letting it slip from between his lips, licked clean and shiny with spit. It has no right being as pornographic as it is, but that seems to be Harrington's running theme.
"I like it," he says with a shrug, like he didn't just lick the same ice cream spoon Eddie had just held between his lips. Eddie raises an eyebrow, because who would have thought that Steve Harrington's biggest red flag was that he liked mint chip ice cream? That was just all kinds of fucked up.
"And yet they say I'm the Freak."
It's softer than he should have let it be. He's leaning across the counter, practically laying on top of it and he knows that the overstretched neckline of his haphazard tank top exposes his chest tattoos, because Harrington's looking right at them. He smiles, ducks his head so Steve is forced to meet his eyes.
"My eyes are here, Harrington. No wonder you're striking out if all you're doing is staring down shirts all day. Have some respect."
Harrington blushes like a preteen, pink flush right down his neck and curling into the tips of his ears. And isn't that one of the most interesting things Eddie has ever seen? Maybe the summer of '85 wouldn't be a bust after all.
"I wasn't staring down your shirt, your tattoos are like right there and you're on the counter, dude. It's against company policy."
Harrington flattens his palm right across Eddie's chest and gives a half hearted shove, and Eddie allows it because this is the most fun he's had in a long time and Harrington's hand burns like the seat belt buckle, right there on his collarbones. He stays pressed against the counter, but doesn't lean in again. Harrington is still pink around his collar, hands braced on the countertop and he's watching Eddie like he's waiting for him to say something. There's a tension now, and Eddie knows he isn't making this one up. Maybe King Steve had more layers than Eddie originally thought. He's thinking of asking for another sample, desperate to clear the taste of mint from his tongue when the back door swings open.
“Your turn for break, Steve.”
Harrington jumps back from the counter like it’s been set on fire, tearing the hat off his head and making for the back room in three strides. Robin steps up to the counter, fresh sample spoon in hand and Eddie sees Steve pause in the doorway, head turned ever so slightly back to them.
“What can I get you, Eddie?” Robin asks, and Eddie makes sure to stare Steve down as he smiles and replies.
“Single scoop of vanilla, if you please. In a cone."
Steve throws his hands in the air.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now-”
“Coming right up.” Robin says, a wicked grin on her face as Eddie watches Steve have some kind of breakdown before he slams the door to the back room closed.
Buckley laughs, drags her scoop through the ice cream and hands over the cone, wrapped in a little white napkin. She's added sprinkles, which is actually cute as hell and he savors the crunch between his teeth.
"How much?"
"On the house. As long as you promise not to ever make me give you that many samples."
Eddie grins, "Oh don't worry, Buckley. That honor is going to be reserved entirely for Harrington. Until tomorrow, my lovely lady. This might be my new favorite store."
He tucks a few dollar bills into the tip jar, winks, and heads back into the mall. The morning crowd was nothing compared to this, more people than Eddie has ever seen are now packed tight into the building. The oppressive heat from earlier seems to have only doubled, if the red faces and excessive amounts of skin are anything to go by. He's pretty sure he could scrape enough change together from his van to catch a movie- spend a few hours in the cold, dark cinema, high as fuck and ignored by the general public.
He heads back to his van, grunts when the hot air explodes in his face as soon as the doors open. He'd parked around the back of the mall, the only place he could find a spot and he's forced to trek back through the heat. By the time he gets there, he has ice cream leaking down his fingers and wrists and getting under the metal of his rings but it's still the best thing he's ever tasted.
"You're making a mess."
Eddie looks up, finds Steve Harrington in his sailor outfit with a cigarette in hand, leaning against the building in the shade. There's a door behind him, EMPLOYEES ONLY painted on in big red letters, and there's multiple discarded cigarette butts at his feet. The hat is still missing, letting the dark brown hair fall in his face and honestly, Eddie sees the appeal of the hair now. He thinks about Harrington's words and looks down. There's a sticky slick of ice cream wrapping around his wrist, threatening to make its way along his forearm. The hot parking lot under his feet is littered with small circles of white, fallen soldiers of frozen dairy delight.
"Yeah, and?"
He catches a river of vanilla with his tongue, follows it back up his wrist, over his thumb and into the almost empty cone. Harrington brings the cigarette to his mouth, shrugs one shoulder and turns his head so the smoke doesn't blow in Eddie's direction. He kind of wishes he would though, because it's been four days since Eddie killed his last packet of cigs and he doesn't know when he's going to be able to get more. But then again, Harrington clearly has some..
"Feeling charitable?"
Steve raises an eyebrow, "After thirty minutes of giving you samples? Not really. Why?"
Eddie smiles, takes another lick of his almost turned to soup ice cream and steps forward into the shade to lean against the cool concrete in a mirror of Harrington's stance. It isn't any less hot, but the lack of burn on his skin is a welcome reprieve.
"Because this lovely establishment you work for has killed the underaged cigarette hustle, and I'm high and dry over here. Just one?"
Steve takes another drag, pointed and long and this time he blows the smoke directly into Eddie's face and god, he wants to roll in it.
"What's in it for me?"
Eddie catches another drop of escaping ice cream and shrugs, "I said charitable, remember? There's nothing in it for you."
Steve is wasting a perfectly good cigarette, holding it out to the side and letting it burn. Eddie wonders if he snatched it, would he have time to make it back to his van before Harrington caught him? Doubtful. Eddie probably wouldn't even make it three feet before ending up on the ground. Steve ashes the cig and brings it to his mouth again, lucky fucking bastard.
Lucky fucking cigarette as well, he notes.
"You still sell?"
Eddie frowns, because it's common knowledge that Steve and the chief of police are on somewhat friendly terms these days and if Eddie has to see one more middle aged Hawkins mother put up a Just Say No poster he's going to lose his shit. It doesn't feel like a trap though, and Jim Hopper has never done anything other than smack Eddie around the back of the head and tell him to go home when he caught him dealing out by the quarry.
"Yeah. I don't have anything with me right now though, but I could trade."
It's a lie, he's got one joint left but he isn't interested in parting with it, because it's his last one until he meets up with Rick tomorrow night. He could probably also convince Rick to buy him cigarettes, he realizes belatedly, but Harrington is fishing in those tiny pockets, pulling out a carton of cigarettes and tipping three into the flat of his palm.
"That enough?"
Eddie can smell the nicotine and it's making his mouth water. Harrington could have offered him one and he would have taken it at this point. He nods, grabs the cigarettes like they're precious cargo and tucks one behind his ear before pocketing the other two.
"Call the trailer when you want your end of the deal," he says, biting into the soggy cone and dragging his tongue through the melted sweetness before devouring it in three bites, sucking the last drips of cream from his thumb. Harrington crushes the remnants of his cigarette under his foot, then bends down to pick it up and toss it in the garbage can.
"Sure, give me your number."
There's a notepad in the van. But… Eddie leans in and takes Harrington's wrist. He pulls the pen from his hair, feels it untwist and drop, heavy and hot down onto the nape of his neck again. The skin on the underside of Harrington's wrist is soft, warmer than Eddie had expected considering he's been slinging ice cream all day. He jots down the number, blue on tan and ink bleeding into the creases of Steve's skin. He's leaving sticky fingerprints all over him, but Harrington just watches in silence.
"Don't call until after seven pm, and don't call Tuesdays or Wednesdays. If you want the good shit, I usually restock Friday nights."
He lets go of Steve's wrist, twists his hair back up with the pen but doesn't lean away from the cool concrete wall.
"As fun as this has been-"
Harrington snorts, and Eddie can't help but grin- all teeth and tease.
"I have plans to see Day of the Dead, and not become a melted layer of goo on the pavement. So…"
Harrington crosses one leg over the other, the stupid high socks of his uniform stretching over defined calves dusted with hair. He's looking at him, considering and interested and Eddie feels like a bug under a microscope for a moment until Harrington's gaze slides away.
"Come with me."
"What?"
"You want to see a movie or not, dude?"
He's holding open the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, the welcoming rush of air conditioning bleeding into the thick heat of the afternoon. Eddie isn't going to question it, especially if it means he doesn't need to spend time digging through the undoubtedly stifling heat of his van for scraps of change. The door clicks behind them and Harrington leads Eddie down a maze of hallways, fluorescent lights above them and the low thrum of mall activity muted in the distance. Eddie is absolutely not focused on his ass the entire time. Harrington stops by a door, and Eddie can see what must be the back room of Scoops through the sliver of glass.
"Keep going down, make a left and then it's the third door on the right. Opens right into the theater, so make sure nobody sees you. And if you get caught, we don't know each other and I sure as shit didn't let you in here."
Was Steve Harrington doing something nice? Is that what was happening here? Eddie blinks in confusion, but smiles.
"When did you stop being a douchebag, Harrington?"
Steve doesn't even look offended, just a little sad. He laughs though, folds his arms and leans against the door with a shake of his head.
"Let's not get carried away. If you come back one more time with that free sample crap I will shove your entire face into a bucket of mint chip and make you eat it until you puke. But it's hot as shit outside and the theatre overcharges like crazy, so go before I change my mind."
Eddie opens his mouth, but there's a bang and a thud and Buckley's muffled voice from the next room.
"Dingus, your break ended ten minutes ago, get in here!"
Steve turns his head, gesturing to the door with a half smile before pointing a finger in Eddie's face.
"I'm holding you to that trade, Munson. You owe me."
He's yanking open the door and disappearing before Eddie even gets the chance to respond, leaving him alone in the empty hallways of Starcourt Mall's employee maze. He follows Harrington's directions, sneaks into the theater and watches Day of the Dead right under the vent of the air conditioner, feeling it ruffle his hair and tickle his skin. He lingers in the cinema afterwards, sneaks easily through the crowd and watches Back to the Future as well, because he's got nothing better to do. The late afternoon heat has hopefully mellowed out a little by the time he leaves, looping around to pass by Scoops Ahoy on his way out. Buckley is behind the window again, the whiteboard in her hands now boasting ten perfect little lines on the "You Suck" side. Harrington is hefting an empty tub of ice cream out of the freezer with one hand, and he looks up just in time to catch Eddie's eyes. Eddie smiles, raises a hand and wiggles his fingers.
Harrington flips him the bird, shakes his head and ducks into the back room. But he's smiling when he does it. Eddie is smiling as well when he clambers into his van, still far too warm but it's nowhere near as suffocating. He passes a familiar burgundy BMW on his way out, and drums his fingers on the steering wheel.
Officially, Starcourt Mall is still the worst thing to happen to Hawkins.
Unofficially though… maybe it was going to be the only thing to make this summer worthwhile.