꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 the party flakes on plans, and lucas realizes waiting isn’t so bad when it’s with you.
LUCAS IS ACTUALLY VERY GOOD AT WAITING.
or at least, he’s good at pretending he is.
he wasn’t born that way. growing up, waiting was a minor inconvenience, something adults did while kids bounced on their heels. things happened when they were supposed to. his parents said be ready at six, and six meant six. somewhere between middle school and monsters and hospitals, waiting stopped being optional and started being… life. waiting for plans to work. waiting for answers that never came clean. waiting for people to come back to themselves.
waiting for max.
that kind of waiting doesn’t leave you. it teaches you how to stand still without looking desperate. how to keep your hands steady. how to breathe like nothing’s wrong even when everything is. so he waits now the same way he always does: arms crossed, weight shifting from one foot to the other, eyes scanning without looking like he’s scanning.
he’s been posted up by the arcade machines for… a while. the lobby smells like butter and sugar and that weird cold-air smell movie theaters always have. somewhere behind him an attract mode jingle loops endlessly, tinny and upbeat in a way that’s starting to feel like mockery. lucas does not look at the machine. if he looks at it, he might play it. if he plays it, someone might see him. if someone sees him, they might ask who he’s waiting for. he checks the time on the big digital clock above the concession stand—not his watch. checking your watch looks impatient. the clock is neutral. the clock doesn’t judge.
they’re late.
not catastrophically late, just enough to be annoying. enough to make him replay the conversation in his head, where they agreed on the time, where everyone said yeah, yeah, sounds good, and where lucas, like always, actually showed up when he said he would. he exhales through his nose and starts pacing between the pinball machine and the claw game. he avoids stepping on a dropped popcorn kernel like it might explode. he catches his reflection in the glass of a movie poster, serious expression, looking like someone assigned him responsibility he didn’t ask for.
the doors slide open. cold air rushes in. he looks up automatically. family of four. no bikes outside. not them. his shoulders tense, then settle. reset. wait again. another group comes in, older kids, laughing too loud, the kind who already know which seats they want and don’t care who they step over to get them. lucas shifts closer to the wall to let them pass. someone bumps his elbow and doesn’t apologize. he lets it go. it’s not worth it.
he leans back against the wall now, arms crossed again, head tipped just enough to look relaxed. previews start in eight minutes. if they don’t show in five, he’s going to have to make a decision about seats. he hates making decisions without everyone there. waiting is easier when you’re waiting with someone.
the doors slide open again, and there you are. suddenly his brain does that thing where it forgets how to proceed in a straight line. okay. cool. this is fine. he was just waiting. normal waiting. nothing weird about standing alone in a movie theater lobby and then the one person he did not mentally prepare for showing up is the only one who shows up. his shoulders tighten, then he remembers to loosen them. he uncrosses his arms, then crosses them again because that felt wrong too. great. excellent start, lucas.
you’re walking toward him now, smile easy, a little uncertain, like you’re checking if this is still the right place. it is. unfortunately. his annoyance, real, justified, carefully contained, short-circuits on impact. it doesn’t vanish so much as get shoved into a corner to be dealt with later. because now there is you, standing right in front of him, and suddenly waiting isn’t so bad. “hey.” he greets, which is safe, neutral, professional, like he’s greeting a coworker and not someone who makes his chest feel tight. you greet him back and there’s a pause. a small one, not awkward yet. hovering. he clears his throat. “where is everyone?”
you blink. “everyone?”
yeah. okay. that’s not a great sign. lucas straightens off the wall. “yeah. i figured they’d be—” he gestures vaguely at the lobby, as if they might materialize if he points in the right direction. they do not.
you frown a little, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. “they didn’t tell you?”
his stomach drops half an inch. “tell me what.” he says, already knowing the answer and hating it on principle.
you hesitate. he can see it, you’re deciding how to phrase it so it doesn’t sound bad. it sounds bad anyway. “they all bailed,” you try. “dustin’s mom needed help with something, mike and el are hanging, and will—” you shrug. “family stuff, i think. i thought they told you.”
lucas presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek and exhales slowly through his nose. he has to force himself to count to three. “they never tell me anything.” he mumbles, voice dripping venom irritability, more to the floor than to you.
it’s annoying. it really is. he schedules things. he plans. he shows up on time. the least they could do is give him a heads-up instead of letting him stand here doing mental seat math like an idiot. he shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks back at you. oh. right. that means. it’s just you and him. alone.
the realization hits a half-second late, and suddenly his annoyance has competition. his pulse ticks up. his hands feel weird. too empty. he shoves them into his jacket pockets before they can betray him by doing something stupid. “so,” you say, gently, like you’re bracing for him to be mad. “i guess it’s just us today.”
lucas nods a little too quickly. “yeah. i mean. that’s fine. obviously. i just—” he stops himself before he says something dumb like i wish they’d told me or i would’ve prepared or i don’t know how to act normal around you. he does not say the last one. ever. “they should’ve told me,” he adds instead, because that’s safe. “communication would be nice.”
you smile, a little apologetic, a little amused, and it does something unfair to his focus. “sorry. i can leave if you want.”
what. no. absolutely not. “no,” he says immediately, then reins it in. “i mean—no. it’s fine. we’re already here. movie’s starting soon anyway.” he gestures toward the theater doors, then realizes he hasn’t actually asked which movie you thought you were seeing. right. details. important. standing here with you, just the two of you, feels different. like the air shifted without warning. he wants to be cool about it. wants to be the same lucas he is with everyone else—steady, confident, unbothered.
unfortunately, you are very pretty, and lucas sinclair is still seventeen.
he shifts his weight, glances at the clock again out of habit. previews in six minutes. plenty of time. too much time. “uh,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “you wanna… go get seats?” he starts walking before you answer, because stopping feels worse, and you fall into step beside him easily, like this is already a practiced thing. it isn’t. halfway there it hits him. “wait,” he says, slowing. “what movie did you think we were seeing?”
you look over at him. “ferris bueller?”
okay. good. solid choice. funny. not terrifying. not romantic in a way that would make sitting next to you unbearable. “yeah,” he says, nodding too much. “that’s what i thought too.”
this is technically a lie. the party had talked about aliens for like a week straight. but ferris bueller is fine. better, even. lower stakes. no facehuggers. less screaming.
he pivots toward the ticket counter, then hesitates again, because now there’s another problem: he was supposed to be splitting tickets with four other people. he steps up to the counter anyway and commits. the teenage girl behind the register looks bored in the specific way of someone who has been tearing stubs since noon and still has four hours to go. lucas respects that. “two for ferris bueller.” he says. he reaches for his wallet automatically, then stops himself, glancing sideways at you. “i mean—unless you wanted to see something else,” he adds, quickly. “they’ve got, uh, top gun too. or karate kid two. or—” he gestures vaguely at the marquee like it might help him remember every movie ever made. “whatever. i don’t care.”
this comes out wrong. it sounds dismissive, like he doesn’t care about the movie. or worse—about being here. he sees it immediately, the micro-flinch in your expression. subtle, but he catches it. he always catches things like that. “i mean,” he backtracks, “i care. i just meant i’m good with whatever you want. not like—” he exhales through his nose. “not like i don’t care.”
the girl at the counter raises an eyebrow. lucas presses his lips together, hands over the cash before his mouth can make it worse. “ferris bueller’s good.” you reply, rescuing him without making it obvious. “i wanted to see it anyway.”
relief settles in his chest. he nods once, grateful, then immediately annoyed with himself for needing to be rescued at all. “yeah,” he says. “me too.”
the tickets slide across the counter. he grabs them, thanks the girl, and steps aside so the next person can order. responsibility satisfied. transaction complete. crisis mostly contained. you walk toward the theater doors together again, closer now. not touching, but close enough that he’s aware of the heat from your arm through his jacket. he clears his throat. again. “sorry,” he says, because apparently today is apologies day. “about before. i’m not—bad at decisions, i just like having a plan.”
this is true. waiting is fine. improvising is not.
you smile at him. “it’s okay. i get it.”
somehow that’s worse, because now he wants to explain himself more. “yeah,” he says, nodding. “i mean, with them it’s always last-minute. i just like knowing what’s going on.” he doesn’t say because things go wrong when i don’t. he doesn’t say because i’ve learned not to assume everything will work out. some things stay internal.
when you reach the usher lucas hands over the tickets. they get torn clean down the middle. inside the theater it’s dark and cool and mostly empty. perfect. terrifying. lucas scans the rows and finds aisle seats. middle distance, good sightline. he points before he can overthink it. “those okay?”
you nod. “yeah.”
he leads the way, careful not to rush, careful not to look like he’s trying too hard. he slides into the seat, leaving a polite, respectable gap between you. lucas folds his hands together, then unfolds them. rests his elbows on the armrests. then realizes that means his arm is too close to yours. he adjusts again, subtle but not subtle enough. he stares at the screen pretending very hard that this is exactly how he imagined the afternoon going.
the previews are already rolling when you sit, bright and loud and completely uninterested in the fact that lucas’s heart rate is doing something stupid. explosions bloom across the screen. a voice booms about summer and destiny and one last chance. lucas registers none of it. he registers the way the seat creaks when you shift. the way your knee angles just slightly toward his, not touching, but close enough that the space feels intentional. the way the armrest between you suddenly seems narrower than it did five minutes ago. he keeps his eyes forward and commits to the screen like it’s a job.
someone on-screen says something dramatic. the audience laughs anyway. lucas misses the joke. he nods along half a second late, like he was in on it. smooth. he adjusts again, because his elbow is definitely too close now. except when he pulls back it bumps the plastic cup holder, which makes a dull, traitorous clack that sounds way louder in the dark. he freezes. waits to see if you react. you don’t. thank god. he exhales through his nose like he’s defusing something delicate. he tells himself to just sit still. just exist. this is a movie. people do this all the time. sit next to other people. sometimes even people they like. the world does not end.
the preview changes. something with jets. loud engines. a guitar riff. top gun, probably. ironic. he sneaks a glance at you without turning his head all the way. you’re watching the screen, chin tipped up, light flickering across your face. you look relaxed. comfortable, like this isn’t a high-stakes psychological event. that helps. a little.
he mirrors you without thinking, settling back into his seat, shoulders loosening. he rests his hands on his thighs this time, not knocking anything over. another preview, some comedy. people groan, then laugh anyway. lucas catches this one. actually laughs, short and quiet, surprised by it. the sound feels strange coming out of him here, in this space, next to you. you glance over at him when you hear it. he feels heat crawl up his neck, traitorous and immediate. he pretends to adjust his jacket, tugging at the zipper even though it’s already fine. “this one looks kinda bad.” he mutters under his breath.
you hum in agreement. “yeah. i don’t get the hype.”
good. shared opinion. solid ground.
lucas leans back, still keeping his eyes on the screen like a good seventeen-year-old should, but he can feel your presence next to him. ferris bueller’s voice comes over the speakers and lucas has to resist the urge to glance at you again—he’s already glanced once too many.
the movie rolls along, nothing big happens, ferris skipping school, cameron sulking, sloane being perfec. lucas catches himself making small comments under his breath about how ridiculously lucky ferris is, about how cameron probably needs therapy. every once in a while you laugh quietly.
he tries to focus on the film, really, he does. he’s practiced at paying attention. he’s good at noticing things. he notices the popcorn bag on the floor, the way the kid in front keeps fidgeting with his glasses, the flicker of the screen reflecting in your eyes. he notices all of it and somehow, the movie barely registers. eventually, the credits roll. the lights come up and lucas exhales without realizing he’s been holding it. he stands first, stretching shoulders like he’s suddenly a hundred pounds heavier. “so…” he says, voice casual, like he hasn’t spent the whole movie internally panicking and also staring. “that was… ferris.” then realizes he doesn’t have to stop. he could actually talk to you now. like a normal person.
the two of you exit the theater, stepping into the night air outside, bikes propped beside you. you push yours along, lucas follows, shoulders relaxed now that you’re out of the dark. he makes a dry comment about how the theater floor probably hasn’t been cleaned in months, and you tease him for exaggerating, and he laughs. “you’re terrible at estimating.” you say.
“i know,” he admits. “proud of it, even.”
you laugh, the kind of laugh that makes him forget for a second that he’s nervous, that it’s just you and him right now, that he’s usually careful about how he presents himself. the conversation flows easier here, on the sidewalk, walking your bikes, the night quiet except for cars. he tries to keep the jokes coming, casual and dry, like he always does, but his eyes keep flicking toward you, catching your profile in the streetlight, smiling, and he swears it’s impossible to act normal.
eventually you both bike to the direction of your house and he walks you up to your porch. he leans his bike against the wall like he’s trying to make it look casual. “so… uh,” he starts, clearing his throat, “that was fun.” he stops. “i mean, the movie.” you smile, leaning against your bike, just watching him. he notices, and it makes him flush a little, and he hates it. “like im saying i’m glad you came,” he unnecessarily clarifies, voice uneven. “because, you know… it could’ve been boring or whatever if it was just me waiting around, and it wasn’t, obviously. it was… not boring.”
he pauses, realizes how awkward that sounded, and his mouth twists. “i didn’t mean it like it was boring before or anything. not that waiting is boring—it’s fine. i mean, i’m fine with waiting.” you tilt your head, amused, and he notices the little smile tugging at your lips. it makes him stumble over his next words. “the point is i’m glad it was just you tonight. not that… not that i—i mean, that’s a lot of words. i didn’t mean to— i just mean, i like that it’s just—i mean, i like hanging out with you. just … you. not everyone else. not that i—ugh, whatever.”
you blink at him once, then twice. like you’re replaying the tape, rewinding through the whole ramble and picking out the important parts. “lucas sinclair,” you say, calm but amused, “are you trying to say you like hanging out with me?”
perfect. direct question. love that. he exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a surrender, and drops his gaze to the concrete like it might offer guidance. it does not. concrete has never helped him in his life. “i mean,” he says carefully, “when you put it like that, yeah. kind of. that’s… basically what i was saying.”
you grin. full-on grin now, no hiding it. “you could’ve just said that.”
“yeah, i know. i realize that. in hindsight.”
you laugh again, softer this time, and he risks looking up. bad idea. you’re still smiling. still watching him like this is entertaining instead of deeply mortifying. “so,” you say, rocking back on your heels, “you like hanging out with me.”
he shrugs, trying for casual, landing somewhere near honest. “yeah. i do.” there’s a pause, and he realizes, that he doesn’t want to leave yet. doesn’t want this to end with a wave and a “see you later” like it’s no big deal. “i just—” he stops himself before the spiral starts. “i’m glad it worked out like this. just us. even if it wasn’t planned.”
“me too.”
he shifts his weight, glances at his bike, then back at you. “so, uh… maybe next time, we don’t wait for everyone else to bail first.”
your smile turns knowing. “asking me to hang out again, sinclair?”
he smiles, shaking his head. “yeah. yeah, i guess i am.”
you don’t hesitate. “okay.”
simple. easy, like it always should’ve been. he nods, lips twitching into a small, satisfied smile. “cool. good. i’ll—uh. see you around, then.”
“yeah,” you say, stepping back toward the door. “night, lucas.”
“night.” he replies, watching until you’re inside and the door clicks shut. only then does he grab his bike, heart still thumping, and think, worth the wait.
he swings a leg over his bike, the night air hits his face and it feels… clean. crisp, like it’s clearing out the jittery mess from earlier. he pedals off the porch. lucas breathes it in, exaggerating, pretending to be cool like he’s some character from a movie, except the truth is he’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.
he passes the corner store, sees the neon red “OPEN” flickering, thinks about stopping for candy, then remembers he doesn’t actually need candy. he’s buzzing on some other kind of sugar right now. he takes the next turn a little sharper than he should, catching the curve. “this is fine,” he tells himself. not that anything’s fine—everything’s amazing. ridiculous. good. his chest is full of some weird kind of weightless something that isn’t heavy at all. he’s going to have to figure out what that is later. or not. probably not tonight. tonight, it’s just pedaling.
he hits the hill by the gas station, standing on the pedals just for the thrill, the wind whipping past, throwing his jacket around. he laughs, a short bark of air that surprises even him, because who the hell laughs by themselves on a bike? apparently, him. the streetlamps blur past, making little stripes on his arms, the kind that would look nice in a movie. too bad nobody’s filming. lucky for him. he shakes his head, mutters “idiot” at himself, because he’s too old to be this stupid, but he isn’t. he’s seventeen and he just… whatever. he just is.
STARTED 12.24.2025. POSTED 12.25.2025.
A/N: this is so real here’s a short little something to hopefully feed you …. i’ve never fully written for him so this was experimental for me. ARE WE READY FOR STRANGER THINGS !!
