#sorry if this is incomprehensible slash off theme

[skatebrian]

Brian arrived home from a few days of doing Block Tales universe things, only to be greeted with a horribly unpleasant smell wafting through the building. She sighed sufferingly and walked to the door of their house's master bedroom slash gamer cave, easing it open with trepidation for the oncoming conversation.

"Brad...?" Brian said quietly, and then repeated himself to get through her boyfriend's noise-cancelling pink kitty ear headphones. "BRAD!!"

Griefer quickly tabbed out of his session of the definitely-not-an-insanely-niche-reference anthropomorphic-animal-themed rhythm game Mungyodance 3: The Third Rave and ripped off his adorable headphones, throwing them into a dismal corner of the room. He managed this feat in about half a second and then whipped around in his epic gamer chair.

"BAB3! 1-1T'S N0T WH4T 1T L00KS L1K3--"

But Brian was not at all concerned about whatever strange hobbies Griefer may have picked up. He was much more displeased by the visible stink lines radiating off of the foul creature in front of him.

"Brad..." She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Babygirl, do you know what day of the week it is?"

"FR1D4Y..." Griefer said with great agony, already lowering his head.

"And what days of the week are you supposed to shower?"

"M0ND4Y..." Griefer slumped further in his chair shamefully, but felt a little bit of relief that his stench had distracted his partner from his earlier activities. "...4ND THUR5D4Y."

"And did you shower?"

".....N0."

"Kitten..." Brian gave him a look of great disappointment. "You know what that means, don't you?"

A chill ran up Griefer's spine, and he scooted backwards in his chair, a look of pure fear on his face. "B-B4B3, N0! N-N0T TH4T! 4NYTH1NG BU7 TH4T!!"

Brian just sighed and pulled out the garden hose from where he had hidden it behind his back. He pointed it at Griefer, her finger resting on the spray trigger. "I'm sorry, my love. But this is how it has to end."

"W4IT! PL3ASE! 1'LL DO B3TT3R! 1-1'LL SHOW3R THR33 D4YS 4 W33K! B4B3--" Griefer's frantic pleading was cut off by a torrent of water, and he screeched incomprehensibly as he and his setup were sprayed down thoroughly. "4UGHHHH!!"

Brian eventually had to look away, wiping a single tear from her cheek as she continued to spray Griefer with the hose, gradually filling the room with a solid inch of water.

im telling a trusted adult.

[lakeshor]

Steve going back to Reefer Rick’s after vol. 2 to get Eddie’s car because Wayne’s truck got swallowed up by the gate and just being… fascinated by what he finds.

The front seats are the only ones left in the van, the rest of it getting gutted—Steve assumes—to make room for Eddie’s guitar equipment. But the rest of the van is full of signs of life.

There’s a pile of blankets and pillows in the back that look very well-used, like Eddie used to sleep back here a lot. There’s multiple changes of clothes, too, all Eddie’s. So no late night backseat guests, Steve assumes. (Or at least not any who don’t already dress like Eddie)

Empty chip bags and candy wrappers are shoved into every available cup holder and door well, along with receipts from places around Hawkins and a couple from roadside stops on the route to Indianapolis. Multiple are from Thatcher tire, for car parts Steve didn’t even know existed, some are from Melvalds, for cigarettes and junk food, others are from Family Mart for more of the same. Deep in the seatback pocket he finds one from a shop Steve recognizes from Starcourt, the Orange Julius across the food court from Scoops Ahoy.

There’s a half-drunk six pack nestled in the blanket pile, empty bottles clanking together at Steve’s feet as he crouch/crawls over to the front seats.

There’s a full-to-bursting shoebox of cassettes shoved behind the passenger seat, the covers of which are variations on a theme: blood, fire, naked women, jagged symbols around illegible fonts and band names even Steve can tell are grossly misspelled. He finds a purple and green Black Sabbath tape and pockets it for no reason.

The glove box is surprisingly sparse. Vehicle registration, not expired, insurance, still valid, a thick plastic keycard embossed with the Hawkins Packaging plant logo, and an unopened pack of Lucky Strikes. Steve vaguely remembers thinking Eddie smoked Camels.

Steve sees a tape still loaded in the deck and pops it out out of curiosity—it’s Queen. Steve owns this album. It’s sitting on his turntable at home, needle queued to the familiar groove where ‘Need Your Loving Tonight’ becomes ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love.’ Steve feels his eyebrows move up to his hairline and a quiet laugh escapes him in the silent car. Eddie fucking Munson listens to Queen.

Steve replaces the tape and settles into the driver’s seat. Eddie’s windshield is cracked, the thin fissure starting somewhere near the left windshield wiper and arcing across to the passenger side roof. Just annoying enough to notice but not distracting enough to do anything about.

Steve buckles his seatbelt and fishes Wayne’s spare key out of his pocket. The belt buckle is grimy, the steering wheel has obvious dark patches where anxious hands have sat gripping the leather, and the roof near the window is stained a deep yellow from cigarette smoke. The whole van has a stale sort of smell to it, like skunky weed and liquor soaked, sun-warmed upholstery. Objectively, it’s disgusting. Steve should be grossed out.

Instead, he feels something like grief wash over him, in this van so full of Eddie, in this world so devoid of him.