i will poison all your happy thoughts

The late afternoon sun, a buttery orange, bled through the gap in Mike’s curtains, painting a warm stripe across his bedroom floor. Dust motes, tiny galaxies, danced in the golden light, oblivious to the nervous energy thrumming through Mike Wheeler. He sat hunched over his desk, a worn D&D module open before him, though his eyes weren’t truly registering the intricate lore of the Underdark.

His reflection in the darkened window pane showed a lanky, almost gangly figure, all elbows and knees. At nearly 5’11”, he often felt like he was perpetually tripping over his own feet, a sensation only amplified by the swirling chaos of his thoughts. Dark brown hair, perpetually a little too long, fell across his forehead, and his dark eyes, usually bright with the spark of an idea or the thrill of a game, were currently clouded with a distinct brand of adolescent anxiety.

Today was Friday. Not just any Friday, but *the* Friday. The Friday he was supposed to take you, his girlfriend, on a "proper date." His mom, bless her well-meaning but ultimately unhelpful heart, had suggested a picnic. "Something romantic, Michael," she’d chirped this morning, handing him a freshly baked batch of chocolate chip cookies – a peace offering, perhaps, for the awkwardness of the conversation.

A picnic. In Hawkins. In October. The very thought sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the crisp, autumn air. He imagined the scene: you, shivering delicately in a pretty sweater, while he fumbled with a thermos of lukewarm cider, the wind whipping leaves into your hair and probably into the sandwiches. Not exactly the romantic tableau he envisioned.

His gaze drifted to the framed photo on his desk: you, laughing, your arm linked through his at the arcade, the neon glow of the games reflecting in your eyes. He remembered that day vividly. You’d beaten his high score on Dig Dug, much to his chagrin and grudging admiration. He loved your laugh, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you were genuinely amused, the comfortable silence you shared on bike rides, the way you always knew exactly what to say to pull him out of a particularly deep D&D-induced funk.

He wanted tonight to be perfect. Not just good, not just okay, but *perfect*. A night that would solidify in your memories as something special, something uniquely *you two*. But what *was* uniquely you two?

He chewed on his lower lip, a habit he’d never quite broken. His usual mode of operation with you was spontaneous, easy. A quick phone call, a bike ride to the arcade, a shared ice cream cone at Scoops Ahoy, maybe a movie at his place if Nancy and Jonathan weren't monopolizing the TV. But a "proper date" felt like a different beast entirely, a creature of expectations and unspoken rules he was ill-equipped to navigate.

The front door creaked open downstairs, followed by the familiar thud of Dustin’s backpack hitting the floor. Then, a series of increasingly loud thumps as he bounded up the stairs. Mike braced himself.

"Mikey! You home?" Dustin’s voice, a little higher than it used to be, but still undeniably Dustin, boomed from the hallway.

"Yeah, in here!" Mike called back, trying to sound nonchalant as he hastily closed the D&D module and shoved it under a pile of comics.

Dustin burst into the room, a whirlwind of energy and curly hair. "Dude, you look like you’re about to face a Demogorgon. What’s up?" He plopped onto Mike’s bed, his backpack still slung over one shoulder.

Mike sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It’s… the date."

Dustin’s eyebrows shot up. "Ah, the legendary Friday night rendezvous with the fair maiden (Y/N). What's the plan, Romeo?" He grinned, clearly enjoying Mike’s discomfort.

"That’s the problem, Henderson. There *is* no plan. Not a good one, anyway." Mike gestured vaguely. "Mom suggested a picnic. In October. I mean, come on."

Dustin snorted. "Yeah, that’s a hard pass. Unless you’re planning on cuddling for warmth, which, you know, could be a strategy…" He trailed off, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Mike threw a pillow at him. "Dude! This is serious! I want it to be special. Something she’ll actually remember, not just ‘that time Mike almost froze us both to death while trying to be romantic.’"

Dustin caught the pillow with surprising agility. "Okay, okay, calm down. Let’s brainstorm. What do you guys usually do?"

"Arcade, movies, D&D… but that’s just… us. This is supposed to be *more*." Mike felt a familiar frustration bubbling up. He was good at D&D, good at strategizing against fantastical monsters. But the real world, with its subtle nuances of human interaction and romantic gestures, often felt more perilous than any dungeon.

Dustin tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Right. So, you want to elevate the 'us' without losing the 'us.' Interesting conundrum." He paused, then snapped his fingers. "What about a double feature at the cinema? They’re playing that new sci-fi flick, *Starship Commandos*."

Mike considered it. "It’s a good movie, I guess. But it’s… just a movie. We could watch it at home."

"True," Dustin conceded. "Okay, so no picnic, no standard movie night. What does (Y/N) *like*? Beyond just hanging out with your magnificent self, I mean."

Mike’s mind raced. You liked reading, especially those thick fantasy novels with dragons on the covers. You liked stargazing, something you’d done together a few times, pointing out constellations, your voices hushed in the vast quiet of the night. You liked music, often humming along to whatever was on the radio. And you had a particular fondness for those old, slightly battered vinyl records his dad had in the basement.

An idea, small and tentative at first, began to form. It wasn't grand, or flashy, but it felt… right. It felt *you*.

"The record store," Mike said slowly, testing the words.

Dustin blinked. "The one downtown? The dusty old place that smells like mothballs and forgotten dreams?"

"Yeah. That one. She loves looking through all the old records. And… and then maybe we could go back to my place, and I could put on some of my dad’s old albums. He’s got some cool stuff. And we could just… listen. And talk."

Dustin stared at him for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. "Mikey, that’s… actually pretty good. It’s low-key, it’s personal, and it’s something you guys both genuinely enjoy. Plus," he added, wiggling his eyebrows again, "the mood lighting from the record player, the crackle of the vinyl… very romantic."

Mike felt a blush creep up his neck. "Shut up, Henderson." But a genuine smile, the first of the day, touched his lips. "Okay. Record store. Then here. But what about dinner?"

"Pizza," Dustin declared, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Everyone loves pizza. And it’s easy. You don't want to be fumbling with silverware and trying to make polite conversation while you're also trying to be suave."

Mike nodded, the pieces of the puzzle finally clicking into place. Record store, pizza, records at his place. It was simple, yes, but it felt authentic. It felt like *them*.

"Thanks, Dustin," he said, a genuine warmth in his voice. "You’re a lifesaver."

Dustin puffed out his chest. "I’m a genius, my friend. A certified genius. Now, go get ready. And maybe try to look less like you’ve been fighting a particularly nasty Mind Flayer. You want to impress the lady, after all."

Mike glanced at his reflection again. He still looked a bit disheveled, but the anxiety had receded, replaced by a quiet sense of purpose. He picked out a clean, dark t-shirt and his favorite denim jacket. He even attempted to tame his unruly hair, though it was a losing battle.

As he headed downstairs, the smell of his mom’s cooking wafted up from the kitchen. "Michael, you’re not going out like that, are you?" she called, her voice laced with motherly concern.

"I’m fine, Mom!" he yelled back, grabbing his bike keys. He was almost out the door when he remembered something. He quickly rummaged through his backpack, pulling out a small, carefully wrapped package. It was a new D&D module, one he knew you’d been wanting, a rare find from a comic shop in Indianapolis. He’d been saving it for the right moment. This felt like the right moment.

He swung his leg over his bike, the cool evening air a welcome contrast to the nervous heat that had been building inside him all day. The sun was dipping below the horizon now, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and purple.

He pedaled towards your house, the familiar route feeling imbued with a new sense of anticipation. He imagined your smile, the way your eyes would light up when you saw the module. He imagined the way your hand would feel in his as you walked through the record store, the quiet intimacy of listening to music together, the easy flow of conversation.

It wouldn't be a grand, sweeping romance out of a movie, but it would be *your* romance. And for Mike Wheeler, that was exactly perfect. He was still lanky, still a little awkward, but as he pulled up to your driveway, a confident, genuine smile stretched across his face. The peculiar perfect Friday was about to begin.