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YUM. Yum yum yum yum yum.

Loooooove the Halloween party at the Creel House. That's just so on-brand for shitty teens and collge students.

Eddie's so much hotter this way. I can't even explain it.

AND STEVE. Don't get me started. Porque no los dos??? GIMME THEM BOTH.

Yep. This was fantastic.

vampire!eddie munson x somekindofslayer!you / partner!steve

2,653 words

warnings: other than kind of like, illusions to some spicy things/slight implications of dubcon, not much in this little snippet | vampire things? Idk how to tag that ya'll? like weapons, blood imagery, etc? | oh also I think modern AU but also like ST things happened but also like the party is all in the modern AU except Eddie? Idk I haven't decided, don't think too hard about it

A/N: okay, so this is a little snippet of something I started *last* October and I lost the will and love to write and I've been returning to it frequently and I think I'll be posting the full thing soonish. I hope you enjoy it (and yes, I'm cheating and counting this as 3 days)

a blurb for the "Trick or Treat, Freak?" event

It feels wrong.

There’s no better way to describe the feeling that weighs heavy on your shoulders and pricks at the back of your neck as you weave in and out of the too loud crowd.

Spilled beer and red plastic cups at your feet further marking up and ruining what you’re sure was once beautiful wood floors. Spray painted images and words foul and rude against walls with chipped paint and frayed wallpaper that hold a history people have forgotten too quickly.

Your fingers glide over the banister, the tipped cup to your lips flashing red in the dingy mirror on the grand father clock as you ascend the stairs.

The celebration below softens to a dull murmur of a crowd, the low rumble of bass as you take the last step and your lungs deflate with an exhaled breath of relief. Each door you pass is open, revealing dust and cobwebbed covered furniture and art, rooms frozen in time as the world around it kept going. You were surprised to find that none of the pop culture clad couple’s costumes had made their way upstairs this evening to make use of the more private rooms.

Perhaps there were still some things here that people didn’t want to disturb.

The claims that this home held ghosts, made you see things, the history of what once happened in this town, hadn’t dissuaded the night from happening as you had hoped. The possibility of all the sinister and spooky things the home brought only served to be fuel for a Halloween night party and practically dared the teens to host it there.

Which is probably exactly what he wanted.

Your hand discards the now empty solo cup on a dark wood buffet, finger leaving a clean swipe to it’s surface as you tilt your head to listen for anything out of the ordinary while the heels of your boots slow, then stop in front of the only closed door on this level.

The knob of the door twists easily underneath your palm, and as the door creaks open, soft light flickers above from a room you can’t quite yet see. With a deep breath, you close the door behind yourself as quietly as you can, the noise of the party now almost nonexistent. The only clue to it the vibrations from below your soles as you carefully start the climb of this second staircase.

While equally stuck in the past, this attic is littered with frequent use.

Recent too.

Candle’s wicks flicker around the room, all of various heights with melted wax now solidified in drips down their sides, which tells you they’ve just been lit, but not for the first time ever.

There’s a dark line in the slat flooring, like it’s been ripped in half and then clumsily pushed and glued back together. Something inside jars glint in the moonlight shining in from the small window on the opposite side of the room.

“Nice costume,” a deep voice from the shadows calls. A flick of a zippo sounds before the flame sparks, illuminating a figure leaning against the wall. Broad shoulders long hair falls against and a cigarette dangling between plush lips just made out in its glow as he lights it. The metal clicks together, returning him to the darkness. The end of the cigarette burns red at his side as a puff of smoke floats into the air with his words, “Buffy, right?”

Your throat feels dry as you risk a glance down at the costume, as if you need to remind yourself what you’re wearing. Little black dress, emphasis on the little. Your tits shoved up and out with a cross hanging heavy between them and little left to the imagination between the short hem just covering your ass and the tall knee high boots.

“You’re just missing one thing, vampire slayer,” his voice makes you jump, an instinctual step back only to find you’re up against the banister and he’s right in front of you now.

He hadn’t made a single sound.

“Yeah?” Your voice betrays you, cracking as the weight of something inside of your boot scolds you for not having it out and ready as he leans in, eyes on the cross on your neck as you try to sound more confident than you are, “What’s that…sorry I didn’t catch your name? And who are you supposed to be?”

In a flash, he’s across the room, twirling something between his fingers you can’t quite see as he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and paces.

“Wow, you don’t recognize me?” The chains against his jeans click as he spins with a dramatic sigh, “It’s okay, I wouldn’t remember me either.”

His leather and denim clad shoulders rise then fall in a shrug, the devil on his chest pulled tight as he stretches his arms out as if to say “ta-da”, and his tone sounds like he’s doing just that when he says:

“I’m Eddie Munson. The guy who made this place famous.”

Your heart thuds in your ears, tongue suddenly taking up too much space in your mouth as your stomach clenches.

“Yeah? That your name or your costume’s?”

“Oh,” he laughs, “Think you already know the answer to that.”

He whistles to get your attention when you look down, now acutely aware of the empty space between your calf and boot.

He waves the wood stake in the air, teeth gleaming white in his smile that brings a dimple out you can see all the way across the room.

“Looking for this, princess?”

“I’m not a vampire slayer, Mr. Munson,” you start, fingers behind your back working at the discrete silver bracelet on your wrist.

Eddie’s lips purse, amused as he leans against the windowsill, completely at ease as he watches you take a cautious step forward then another.

He grins at you when you take a third step and nods his head, encouraging you, “That’s it. Get closer. Promise I won’t bite…” he winks, “ ‘Less you want me to, of course.”

“Lotta girls take you up on that offer Mr. Munson? That what you were hoping for tonight?”

His smile grows wider, his tongue pokes at a canine that’s suddenly grown longer.

“First of all, Mr. Munson is my uncle, please,” he sticks his hand out now that you’re close enough, like he intends to shake yours, “It’s Eddie. And second, you vampire slayers…” he sighs, “Always all business, never any fun, huh?”

“Right, Eddie,” you concede, whispering, now close enough that you know he could easily do what’s in his nature. “And I thought I told you, I’m not a vampire slayer.”

His eyes flash when your hand wraps around his in a firm shake. His adam’s apple bobs with a large swallow as you take a step even closer, body between his spread legs, your neck and chest right where he’d want it. Eddie’s eyes are tinged with red, but he starts to pull away, breathing heavily.

Your eyes are on your hands still locked, and your entire body warms, heartbeat racing as his thumb swipes over the back of yours and his eyelashes flutter when you moan at the tingle the contact of his skin leaves against yours. Like the good kind of heat from a bonfire, any closer and it’ll start to burn, and any further away you’d be too cold.

Static crackles in your ear, “Um…whatcha doing, killer?”

Eddie looks directly at your left earlobe at the sound, and it all snaps you back to attention. Your silver bracelet in your other hand quickly locks around his wrist in your grasp.

Eddie blinks at you, each drop and lift of his eyelids growing heavier by the milliseconds as his hand slips from yours.

“Fuck,” he laughs, like he’s a little tipsy, head knocking against the window behind him as he looks at you from under his lashes, smiling. “You got me, slayer.”

“Not,” you swallow, taking a larger step away from him while trying to fight the urge to take off the bracelet subduing him, “Not a vampire slayer.”

He hums, rolls his eyes like he doesn’t believe you as footsteps creak loudly on the stairs behind you and your partner’s winded breath calls out your name.

“You smell good,” Eddie mumbles as you pull him to his feet and sling his arm over your shoulder, his head falling into the crook of your neck makes your entire body freeze.

His nose drags along your pulse, his lips follow, and a chill races down your spine, skin on fire where he’s pressed against it and you have to stop your teeth from biting on your bottom lip too hard or you’ll draw blood and who knows what’ll happen then. Maybe he’d lick it off your chin, maybe he’d-

“Did I just witness what I think I just witnessed? Were you gonna let him-”

“Don’t,” you gasp as Eddie sighs against your throat. “Not another word, Harrington.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you wide eyed and with his mouth hanging open as you shove Eddie’s weight to him and right yourself, fixing the hem of your dress and yanking your stake off of the ground. Doesn’t say anything while you check around corners and you pretend to be three drunk idiots stumbling to a car in case any one sees. Doesn’t say anything until Eddie’s passed out in the backseat and you’re looking in the rearview for the third time in less minutes, wheels spinning against wet black top and taking you past the: “Now Leaving Hawkins!” sign.

“What the fuck-“ he starts to hiss.

“I don’t know. Just…don’t. Okay? He touched me and…and…” your heart starts thudding harder. “I choked or something. It happens to the best of us.”

Steve licks his lip before it prods at his cheek as you grip the steering wheel tighter and he looks over his shoulder.

“Compulsion?”

“Maybe?” You shrug, though not believing it one bit.

“Imprin-“

“Don’t. That’s a myth.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds and then Steve’s lips twitch.

“Horny?”

He laughs when you groan and swat at his chest. “Shut up. You’re such an asshole.”

Steve snorts, looking out the window, mumbling, “That wasn’t a no.”

You flick his eyebrow that time.

“If that is the case, I mean, there are plenty of us who’d love to help you out. You don’t gotta stoop to being sucked on by vamps if you’re feeling-“

“You want me to use the stake on him?”

The car swerves at the sound of his voice, your heartbeat in your ears as you return to the correct lane safely and see Eddie sitting up in the backseat in your mirror.

“Fucking Christ,” Steve gasps, holding his chest and facing the back now.

Eddie visibly winces at the use of the name and Steve perks up.

“Woah. That’s real?” He leans forward, eyebrows raised, “Christ, Christ, Christ, Chri-“

Eddie’s fangs sharpen and descend and he starts to growl low from his chest, eyes flashing red. Steve’s lips twitch but he raises his hands in surrender when you hiss for him to knock it off.

“Of course,” he looks at you then the backseat, “I’ll stop bothering your little toy, honey.”

Your gaze slices over to him as Steve holds his silver stake over his chest, keeping his back to the dash and eyes on the now alert vampire in your backseat.

Eddie lifts his wrist up, “What the hell is this?”

Steve smiles. “That, is a Henderson original. Powerful enough to subdue even the strongest of ghouls, goblins, vamps and any other weird ass creatures we come across - quickly and temporarily in case of emergency. A smaller version of his version of that trap thingy and that gun thingy,” he snaps his fingers and looks at you, “What are they again? In Ghostbusters?”

“The Proton Pack”, you say as Eddie asks at the same time,

“The Super Slammer Muon Trap?”

Eddie clears his throat, adjusts himself in the back seat while rubbing his neck and your eyes return to the road after making eye contact in the mirror again.

“You, uh, you like Ghostbusters?” He fiddles with the rings on his fingers.

Steve’s lips twitch when you grumble to yourself though you know they both can hear it, “Of course I like Ghostbusters, what am I, a moron?” You frown as you sarcastically add on, “And nobody’s impressed by your use of the name of the trap from the video game. It’s just a ghost trap.”

It’s like you feel his laugh inside your own chest. Warm and flowing over you like sunshine on your face after a really long, gloomy day. You tilt your head into it, eyelashes fluttering.

“Yeaah,” Steve draws out the word, clears his throat. “Those. Cause she couldn’t really go in with the big, real deal. Good thing it worked on you though, fast, too. Hepburn here was about to willingly be your human juicebox.”

“I was not-“

“Hepburn?” Eddie asks as you start to protest something you’re not even sure you can. “Is that your name, slayer?”

“Not a slayer,” you clarify again.

“And that didn’t answer my question,” Eddie raises his eyebrows in the mirror, gaze on the back of your ear, your throat. If you couldn’t glance up and see where he was looking you were sure you’d be able to feel the heat of his stare anyways.

Warmth prickles at your skin, and goosebumps rise to the surface in a trail from your ear, down your throat, across your collarbone as you imagine his mouth following that same-

“Can we,” Eddie clears his throat, he pulls at his collar, “Can we open a window or something?”

“Did you…” your breath comes sharper, words caught in your throat before you can ask him anything about the sensation on your skin. You grip the steering wheel tighter when images of his mouth moving lower break up the two lane highway in flashes.

Steve’s lips twitch when your body shivers, and you beg through gritted teeth, “Steve. Put a second bracelet on him.”

“I’m not…I’m not doing, it’s you…I won’t hurt…” Eddie puts his head between his legs and groans, like he’s in the worst pain of his life, or like he’s in the best-

“Fucking hell. Sweetheart, relax. Your pulse is…”

Steve’s lips part as your head hits the back of the seat, your neck extended as your mouth falls open and your leg flexes when you swear you feel a prick on your neck and you whine.

The bright yellow lights of a familiar restaurant break up the dark sky and road and your speedometer drops quickly from the 90 it had climbed to as you signal your exit despite no cars being around, whipping the car onto the exit ramp.

“What are you…” Steve starts, stopping when Eddie sits up again and pokes at his teeth with his tongue, wincing as he grips the edge of the seat.

“Steve? That’s your name?” He gasps, blinking rapidly, “Put the second bracelet on me, man.”

The car slams to a stop in front of the Waffle House and you toss the burner that had been in the cupholder to Steve.

“Call Hop. Tell him he needs to send someone else to drive him or pick me up. Now.”

When you step out of the car and the cool Autumn air does nothing to soothe your skin that’s slick with sweat, you slam the driver’s door. The minute it closes, it’s like a switch is flipped and when you look in the backseat, Eddie’s shoulders visibly relax at the same time yours do.

Steve’s mouth moves, and you can’t hear it, but you know he said exactly what you’re thinking.

What in the actual fuck just happened?

thank you for the original request for "ghosts" with eddie - I know it's not *technically* about ghosts and the creel house is just barely a part of this, but I promise Jason and Eddie/reader/Jason things will be a theme in the full story

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woah! thank you good luck butterfly puppy

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Wishing all of you a very merry "I suddenly have the motivation and time to write a minimum 10k fic"... please

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Reblog if you're hoping 2011 will be a fresh start.

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I love that moment in how the ghosts stole christmas where scully goes to mulder’s apartment because she’s bothered by what happened in that haunted house, but she’s sooo embarrassed with herself. she’s so incredibly uncomfortable with the fact that she needs to talk about her feelings

like…

meanwhile, mulder’s giving her the biggest heart eyes

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at work: i could be cooking and cleaning and coding and reading and working out and weaving tapestries and playing video games and climbing a mountain and having sex and filming a movie right now yet they keep me trapped in this prison. idle hands are the devils plaything and i am being forcibly molded into his perfect conduit. i must break free, seize the day and waste not the beauty inherent to finite mortal life

at home: my one true passion upon this pointless earth is bog mummy imitation

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so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

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A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

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Wizard worm just emerged from a wizarding hole! Lucky you!!!✨🪱🪄🍀

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Reblog so everyone can hear what they need.

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Self care is writing fan fiction that you are the sole target audience for.

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I am trying to choose to hope. 

I am choosing to imagine public transportation. 

Grocery stores with attached soup kitchens to decrease food waste. 

Neighborhood meal- and garden-sharing programs.

Green spaces connecting to other green spaces.

The rainforest ADVANCING, churning up dry soil and turning it dark and healthy. 

The sky filled with birds and the sea with fish, their populations increasing. 

The air and water clean. 

Emissions-free vehicles on roadways, with speeds governed, and safe streets for tricycles, bicycles, dogs, deer, and stray soccer balls.

Solar panels on every public building, over every parking lot. 

Beehives and wildflowers on the open berms between roadways. 

The total lack of gunshots around the world, and instead the sound of shovels, digging holes to plant fruit trees by public sidewalks. 

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EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND READ THIS NOW

Okay okay okay

I’m gonna need a spin-off with the military guy who gave her a ride. What’s he doing now? Is he gonna come back after the earthquake? It’s not my fault your characters are so rich I want to get to know every single one.

I pictured Steve’s mom as Joe in Marmalade but brunette.

I love that when he saw her his first instinct was that he was still on drugs.

Robin not wanting to shower alone is the most me-in-high-school shit and I wasn’t even tortured by Russians.

HER PARENTS?!?! EXCUSE ME?!?!

Love this. Want more. Forever. Gimme gimme.

series masterlist | <- Prologue | Chapter 2 ->

chapter summary: As terror reigns in the food court when the Mind Flayer comes to collect, an old friend returns to Hawkins.

🎧 : tracks 02-12

7,615 words // my blog is 18+ // please see the masterlist for warnings - this chapter contains canon-typical gore, mentions of alcohol, blood, vomit, nausea, and parental death // spiderman divider made by @saradika-graphics

“Hey,” his voice cracks, the back of his hand wipes at his nose.

“Hey,” you echo, looking down at the duffel bag at your feet.

A trunk slams closed, knocked twice by your dad’s palm in case you didn’t hear it the first time.

When you look up, he’s smiling at Steve and that same palm is clapping him on the shoulder. “Hey, son, you coming with to the train station?”

Steve still hasn’t looked at you, and a mumbled, “No Sir,” and your mom’s unsubtle glare at your father and frantically waved hand from the porch makes him finally catch on.

“Oh, right…um…” he looks at his watch then you and Steve apologetically, “We gotta get going soon, kid, okay?”

“I know,” you nod along with the words and blink about a billion times to keep them at bay, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

Your dad squeezes Steve’s shoulder before he jogs up to the front steps and raises his hands in surrender to your mother, the pair ducking their heads and hissing whispered scolds and apologizes at each other that you try to ignore.

“Did you, um,” you clear your throat and kick the toe of your converse against the crack in your driveway, desperate to say anything impressive, lasting, monumental in terms of your feelings and the moment, but nothing seems right. “You…um…”

Steve doesn’t give you the chance anyways, stealing the air from your lungs when his arms wrap around you quickly, tightly, and like they have no intention of ever dropping. Yours move just as fast, wrapping around his waist and pressing you as close together as possible, your nose squished against his shoulder that dampens beneath your cheek.

He squeezes you harder, a shaky breath slips out of him as your fingers curl into his shirt, knowing what he’s about to do and you can’t stop it.

“Don’t,” he gasps, like speaking is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, he sniffles, and he lets you go, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“Steve-“ your tears slip further down your cheeks, turning the cement at his sneakers a darker gray.

His fingers press to his eyes as he quickly jogs down your driveway, a small shake of his shoulders, and then he’s around the corner and gone from your sight.

Your hand presses to your mouth, but the sob still escapes.

It’s all a blur after that.

The getting in the car, arriving at the station, the getting on the train and resting your temple against the cold glass of a window as your mother’s thumb soothes over your knuckles.

The town of Hawkins, Indiana turning more blurry each second, like it’s a distant and underwater memory, until it disappeared altogether.

Your eyes snap open as your forehead smacks the glass window, hard, as the brakes beneath the bus scream in protest at the sudden stop.

Simple Minds blares then fades from your ears and as you push down your headphones to just catch the driver’s apology.

“…‘Bout that. Looks like we got some kind of road closure, let me go see what’s going on folks.”

By folks, he means you and two other passengers who are rolling their own necks and rubbing at bleary eyes.

Around your neck, Simple Mind fades, whispers of We Belong tickle your ears as you look out the window.

At first, you just blink at what you see. A weary and anxious version of you stares back, one with frizzled hair and sunken skin under her eyes and stained and wrinkled clothing. The night beyond her too dark to make out more than the top of a tree line and the edge of a road sign. But then you catch the faint trail of dark clouds against the darker sky.

Not clouds, but a plume of smoke.

“Hawkins!” The driver’s voice whips you and your reflection’s attention to the front of the vehicle, not realizing you’ve stood while staring, hand now gripping the seat back in front of you so tightly, your knuckles hurt.

A uniformed soldier stands next to the driver, solemn faced and waiting.

The bus driver waves his hand at him and says, “Maybe you should have missed the bus, kid.”

“I’m sorry…” your finger slams the stop button on your walkman as you step into the aisle of the bus, “What’s going on?”

The bus driver rolls his fingers at you and your things, motioning you to pick up the pace so it seems as he sighs. “You’re getting off here, since your destination is Hawkins.”

The military man starts towards you, his boots heavy and thunking the whole way down to your seat ominously as the other two passengers just stare and don’t offer any of their help or even a reassuring smile.

“What do you mean I’m getting off here? What am I - hey don’t, what do you think you’re…” your tone sharpens as the uniformed soldier picks up your bags. Feeling as if you have no choice but to start following behind him as he walks back the way he came with each of your bags slung over his shoulders. “Excuse me? Where are you going with my things? Hello? What’s going on?”

“Some sort of fire or something blocking the road,” the driver’s tone attempting to assure you but doing the opposite as he adds on, “The military will escort you the rest of the way into Hawkins.”

“The military will…” you start, confused, as you’re basically shoved down the steps of the bus and you turn back to face your driver with wide eyes as your feet hit the road, “Why is the military in Hawkins?”

The driver snorts and just yells, “Good luck!” then the door slams closed in your face.

Your hands run through your hair as you watch the bus continue without you, watch as it turns down the road it’s directed towards instead of going straight - a blockade made out of olive and tan vehicles and accompanied by flashing blue and red lights in it’s original path.

“Miss,” a deep voice to your left makes you jump, a hand flies over your heart to settle it.

“Sorry,” the uniformed man apologizes, but his hand gestures to an open military Jeep, your bags in the back already as his brisk voice urges you, “I’ll be driving you to where you need to go.”

Your feet carry you a step towards him, seeing now that he can’t be much older than you.

“What’s going on? Why is the military here? Why…”

“The National Guard is usually called in for these sorts of things miss,” he encourages you forward with a gentle tug of your elbow, voice less severe and more soothing.

“These sorts…what? What happened?” You blink at him as he helps you take a step up into the jeep while holding your door open.

“Relief aid after a disaster, miss.”

“Relief aid after a disaster?” You clarify, certain you’d misheard him.

“Yes.”

Your hand stops him from closing the door as you frown, narrowing your eyes.

“What sort of disaster?”

“A fire,” he sighs, eyeing your hand, and you think he might honest to god be considering slamming the door anyways.

“The National Guard was called in to help after a fire?”

“A big one. Can you please-“

“Where?” You accuse, pointing to the smoke, “That’s not Hawkins. Why can’t we drive into Hawkins on the bus?”

“The mall just outside of town. The new bus route to Hawkins goes by the mall. There’s a stop there. Can we go now?”

He glares at your hand until you move it to your lap, then slams your door closed, like that’s all he’ll be saying on the matter.

Turns out, it was all he’d be saying period.

The entire twenty minute drive into town is silent after your several follow up questions go unanswered. And when he lets you out at your unlit and locked house, he quickly climbs back into the driver’s seat and goes back the way he came.

Your fingers brush your temple before they drop in a half-hearted salute as you scowl and mutter under your breath, “Protect and serve, alright.”

You’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours now, save for your nap on the bus that left you more unrested than rested. And now, standing on your front porch, no keys and no lights on and no car in the driveway, you’re beyond stressed, tired, and in need of a gallon of coffee and a hug from your mom.

As you stare up at the stars and think of some sort of plan - it dawns on you what day it is and why your parents might not be home. Your legs and back ache and beg you to sit as you make your way down the driveway once more, leaving your bags right there on the porch - nobody is going to steal your shit.

This is Hawkins.

The worse thing that’s ever happened here is when Sarah Gillespie’s mom had that owl fly into her hair in 5th grade.

As your feet bring you around the corner of Cornwallis, you see the big house at the end of the street is just as dark as your own.

There isn’t a line of cars down the block or kids playing with sparklers or running around with flashlights for night games. There’s no adults all boozed up and laughing around a bonfire, waiting for fireworks. No grill smoke in the air or splashes from the pool in the backyard.

Just one woman, mumbling to herself in a matching skirt and blouse as she yanks a large trunk down from the brick step to the curved walkway.

“See how you like it when I’m not here to buy the groceries, or take your car in for its wash, or pour your whiskey and tell you dinner’s ready you lying, cheating, son of-oh!”

Vivian Harrington’s hand jumps to her chest as she turns to see you next to her car. A mess of your old best friend’s hair and eyes and a few of the same freckles as she blinks at you for a few seconds and then gasps your name and envelopes you in a surprising hug.

Not so surprising though, when you smell brandy on her red lips as she takes the smallest of steps back and asks, “What on earth are you doing here sweetie?”

“I…” It’s a shock to hear her voice after so long, shocked that she’s still Mrs. Harrington, though a slightly more tipsy one, but maybe that was just naivety shielding you from that before, “I was looking for my parents. You didn’t have your party for the fourth?”

“Gosh,” she says, grunting again as she bends to pick up her luggage, offering you a charming smile when you pick it up easily for her. She wipes her brow before resting her hands on her hips to watch you with the next two matching bags. “Honey, I think they might still be at the carnival? Larry threw a whole big thing this year. And we haven’t had one of those parties in…four years? Five? Whenever…John,” she grits out his name before continuing, with a smile you can hear her teeth grinding in, “Started going to the office in Chicago more.”

She slams the trunk down as if it’s an axe and the closure a head.

A shiver drips down your back as she glares at the house.

“Chicago?”

“So he tells me,” she waves a hand and sniffles, dramatically, scrunching her nose as her forehead furrows in a way that you’re sure she’ll be pulling and tugging at in a mirror and fretting over later. “Anyways, that’s where John is and I,” she huffs as her heels sink in to the gravel over their driveway before she tugs open the driver’s door, “I will be in Michigan. At my sister’s house on the lake for the rest of the Summer.”

She makes a little oof noise as she misjudges the seat distance from her butt, righting herself and patting at her hair.

“Mrs. Harrington, are you…” you trail off, unsure if it’s really your place to ask her if she should be driving. Especially when she eyes you cooly and her tone is icy.

“Am I, what, dear?”

Your mouth clamps closed as your clammy fingers flex at your sides before they close the door for her.

“Um, before you go,” you force your best smile and polite tone, “Would you happen to know where Steve is?”

Her fingers turn the key and the car rumbles to life loudly as she squints her emerald eyes at the windshield.

“Work? Could be still at work I suppose probably not at this hour…maybe a date? The carnival perhaps? I never know anymore with him, he’s very…moody, lately.”

“Moody?” You ask, your smile turning into a frown.

“God, yes,” she moans and leans out the open car window, forehead in her palm as she stage whispers to you, like she’s told this secret to everyone, “Just sits out by that pool but never swims in it anymore. Ever since that Wheeler girl broke up with him. It’s honestly been a terrible time trying to fix it all. I mean, I’m well respected, as you know, but there’s only so much I can say and do, you understand?”

“Su…sure,” you nod along like you know what she’s talking about and she reaches out and grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze.

“You’re welcome to wait here for him if you like, I’m sure he’ll not be too long and he can give you a ride to look for your parents? I would, but…”

When she trails off and smiles at you, you take a step away from her car, message clear.

“Thank you, Mrs. Harrington, drive-“ She’s already halfway down the driveway, fingers waggling out the open window as you finish, “Safely,” with a wince of your shoulders as she nearly takes out the mailbox.

Your shoulders fall as the taillights burn red, then disappear and the quiet night returns. A pricey perfume lingers in the air and floats on the warm Summer breeze. An owl hoots as you sit on the brick doorstep and lean your head against the post, wondering what in the world you’re going to say to him.

Originally, you thought you’d have so much more time to prepare. Thought on the bus ride from New York to Chicago you’d think of something. When you didn’t, you were sure from Chicago to home you would. And even then, you were supposed to be home - supposed to see your parents, sleep in your childhood room and wake up to pancakes with a smiley face made out of bacon and whipped cream before attempting to go find Steve.

And why hadn’t your parents told you about the carnival? They were expecting you, shouldn’t they have been home? Though your dad can’t pass up a corndog, so maybe they just lost track of time. It’ll be fine. Once Steve is home, you’ll…

“You’ll what?” Question muttered under your breath as your head falls into your palms, elbows resting on your bent knees. “Hey Steve, remember me? No? Cool, can I have a ride home?”

A frustrated laugh and groan slip past your lips as you knock your head against your knees and fight off the urge to scream. You know it’s not reasonable to think he wouldn’t remember you at all, his mother did and who knows how much she’d had to drink.

But you know it’ll be weird. Know you’re both very different people than the ones who saw each other last. Know you’ve had lives outside of one another for a very long time.

You’ve gone to school and graduated. Had jobs. Dated, and thensome, multiple people in the years it’s been. He probably made new friends. Has a social life you don’t fit in to anymore - that was already becoming clear the last time you were here.

The words ‘that Wheeler girl’ and ‘moody’ make your teeth scrape against your bottom lip, cheek to your knee as your back rests against the post and you keep your eyes on the end of the driveway, waiting.

The sound of loud, dragging footsteps makes your eyes pinch closed harder before they start to flutter open. Your mouth is dry and your back and neck may be permanently curved from the crouched position you had been sitting in for -

Every bone in your body protests in the snap of you standing upright, blinking at the dark blue sky just starting to turn lighter, pale pink brushed across the top of the trees. The sound of birds chirping barely breaking through the cotton in your ears until you hear a low, deep laugh that pulls your attention to the end of the driveway.

A boy who looks familiar and yet not at all is walking up his driveway. Longer than you’ve ever seen it brown locks all pushed back in a futile attempt as strands fall over his forehead when he smiles at -

“Oh fuck,” you whisper to yourself and blink your eyes closed then open as your tongue wets your lip and you wonder how the hell you’re going to explain just hanging out at his doorstep as he’s showing up with a girl after being gone all night long and -

Your stomach clenches at the sound of his voice, clearer as he gets halfway up the drive.

“That asshole better have my car in the driveway by tomorrow, is all I’m saying, okay?”

Steve’s got his arm slung around the girl’s shoulders, her’s around his waist as they walk slowly, like they need help themselves, but they’re supporting the others weight too. She stifles a yawn with a free hand before speaking.

“I just think you need to sort out your priorities and also…”

The girl’s voice is a little raspy, tinged with sarcasm and sleep as she trails off when she looks up and spots you.

Steve looks at her, the same furrowed lines his mom had hours ago forming on his forehead and the corners of his mouth curved down in a frown when his gaze leaves her eyes to follow their line to you.

He stands up straighter, his arm lingers against her but then falls limply at his side as he takes a step towards you. He scuffs his heels over the loose gravel of the walk and blinks at you.

Steve’s entire body is one big bruise from what you can see, the worst of it all being one of his eyes swollen and dark purple, his lip split fairly fresh from the way the red on his chin and cheek are so stark against his tan skin. His hands go to the top of his head, all of his knuckles broken, blue and purple or dried maroon and the gesture makes his shirt that’s covered in something that looks like a foul mixture of puke, blood, and something slimy lift, exposing the faintest line of skin and dark hair that disappears into his very short shorts.

It all makes your stomach burn and your chest feel so tight when he swallows and he just keeps staring at you. Part of you wants to find whoever did this and strangle them with your bare hands and the other part of you is…well you don’t know what it is except confusing, and all you can think to say is:

“What are you wearing?”

The girl’s laugh barks out of her in one short burst before her hands slap over her mouth. Until she’s letting them drop and saying, “Steve? Steve!” As he takes off in a run.

His shoulder slams into the gate of his backyard as you and the girl run after him, only skidding to a stop on his back patio as he falls directly into his pool, fully clothed.

Turquoise water illuminated by the underwater lights splashes up and out over the lips of the pool as his body sinks to the bottom. A dark blue Adidas hits the bottom and pushes him back up forcefully, his body shaking as he gasps loudly when his head breaks the surface of the water.

“Fuck! Shit! Oh my god this hurts!”

“Yeah no shit, Harrington! You’re covered in cuts and you just dived into chlorine!” The girl throws her hands up into the air.

Steve’s hands push him up and out of the pool so he can roll out of it ungracefully. He lays with his back against the cement, chest heaving while he keeps his eyes closed.

When he opens them again, he looks at you, then stands with difficulty it seems. Water drips off of his outfit, it curls his hair behind his ears, and pools in his cupid’s bow.

He swipes at his eyes, wincing, and blinks at you but talks to the other girl, “Rob-Robin,” he shivers through the words, teeth clicking together, “You see her too, right? I’m not…this isn’t like a weird dream, right?”

The girl, Robin, looks at you, then Steve, “Yeah, I see her. Who’s…her?”

“I’m-“ Your voice breaks when he gasps out your name in a barely choked back sob.

He falls forward, head landing heavily on your shoulder as his body curls into yours, while shaking fingers grip your shirt at your hips and he just sobs. Cool pool water and his warm breath compete to make you shiver as you run a hand over his spine.

Your eyes widen as they stare over his shoulder at the girl who’s watching him with as much worry as you feel. It’s a whisper against his temple, and it’s all you can think to say, “Hey, stranger.”

His sob rattles your chest as he holds you tighter, like he has no intention of letting you go.

Steve’s staring at you.

And, to be fair, you guess he doesn’t really have anywhere else to look and you’re staring at him too.

“Take a picture,” you soak another piece of cotton with alcohol as you whisper, “It’ll last longer.”

“Sorry,” he clears his throat as he looks down at the floor then immediately back up into your eyes. His one good eye bounces between yours before his tongue pokes at the cut that just won’t quit on his lip as his adam’s apple bobs and he says, “You shouldn’t have come back.”

The words make you flinch, just barely, but enough for the cotton next to his eyebrow to nudge against his skin just a little too hard.

“Shit,” he hisses, grabbing the hem of your shirt and tugging while his lips pout, and he whines, “That’s not what I meant. Don’t attack me.”

Your eyes roll as your fingers go back to tenderly swiping over him, being more gentle with him than you would an egg you don’t want to crack just yet. Each second you slowly patch him up a new discovery about the boy you don’t really know anymore reveals itself in forms of facial hair, freckles you’ve never seen, something that smells an awful lot like your mom’s hairspray, and eyes that haven’t changed one bit aside from almost swallowing his pupils whole because they’re so dilated.

“Glad to see you’re still a dramatic baby,” your voice is as soft as the touch of your fingers against his jaw. Your pulse quickens when he leans his weight into the hold more, his eyelashes fluttering while you turn his eyebrow into the light. “Maybe if you sat still and kept your mouth shut for more than two seconds I could finish this.”

“I like her,” Robin’s voice rises with the steam from behind the closed white shower curtain directly across from the counter Steve is leaning against. Her words breaking up the quiet ‘Never-Ending Story’ theme she had previously been humming.

Not for the first time tonight you wonder, a) if Steve didn’t have something to lean against, would he collapse, and b) how long Robin and Steve have been dating.

You still aren’t sure what is going on. Why they are so beat up. Why Robin didn’t want to shower alone or why the silence seemed to make Steve crazy until his shoulders relaxed when you suggested turning the stereo in his room on. The voices and music of Journey faintly coming from the other room as Robin threw clothes over the shower curtain and Steve spread his legs for you to stand between while he dripped pool water all over the white tiles. All mumbled apologies as knees and thighs bumped, as his hand squeezed at you whenever you started on a new injury.

Like now, as some sort of healing ointment rolls over his brow and his fingers dig into your hip. Your murmured sorry lost as he frowns at the air and sarcastically asks, “Oh do you? Nobody asked for a comment from the peanut gala Buckley.”

“Gallery,” Robin and you say together.

Steve’s frown turns more pout and you sigh when his lip starts bleeding again. He holds an arm over his stomach, fingers twitching at his ribs when you carefully place a bandage over his brow.

“I’m pretty sure it’s gala.”

Your thumb gently swipes over his lip with a towel, his gasp warm against your nose as you lean in to inspect it.

“Dingus,” Robin’s sigh more dramatic than his, “Please, I have to hear, why you’re so certain it’s gala. Peanut gala? Why would peanuts be going to a gala?”

“Oh,” he speaks around you trying to get his lip to stop bleeding, a useless attempt since he won’t stop moving, “And gallery makes so much more sense? At least mine gives Mr. Peanut a reason to wear his top hat and coat and eyeglass thingy.”

“Monocle,” you offer quietly, taking his hand from your elbow and assessing the damage to his knuckles. “And I don’t think peanut gallery is about Mr. Peanut at all.”

Steve’s hand pulls out of your hold, his fingers curl under your jaw and nudge it up, so you’ll look at him. He shakes his head no. “You shouldn’t have come back. Why’d you come back? Why are you here?”

Your pulse races, far too close to his fingers, and you wonder if he can feel it. Wonder if he can see it in your eyes how scared you are and how brave you’re trying to be.

“Why shouldn’t I be here?”

He seems to think you thought he meant here, at his home, and not Hawkins, because his jaw clenches as his thumb taps at your chin and you wonder if he even realizes he’s still holding your face.

“I didn’t say you shouldn’t be here. I asked why you’re here. Because,” he laughs, he shakes his head like he can’t really believe it, “I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around it. And sure, I’m not the smartest guy around and I took some pretty hard hits tonight, but even I know that it’s weird for a girl, one who I haven’t spoken to in over three years, to have been here, sitting at my doorstep, waiting for me, and is now patching me up like…like…”

“Yeah?” Your voice cracks as tears threaten to spill over your lash line. Body too hot as steam from the shower clings to your skin and anger starts to boil over inside of you. “Well I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around why that boy who doesn’t understand why the girl, one who he used to call his best friend until he stopped calling her and never once came to visit her, started sobbing when he saw her and is covered in injuries he won’t explain!”

“I’m sorry,” Steve laughs, and stands up, toe to toe with you as he looks down his nose and huffs a breath out of it, hand letting go of your face to grab your shoulders and shake, “But when he stopped calling her? And yeah, I didn’t visit! Because you stopped visiting, because-“

“I only stopped calling because it was embarrassing!” You shout at him, shoving his chest and watching his face twist in pain when you do.

Steve gasps and you swipe the tears falling down your cheeks away as you both glare at each other. He rubs his hand over his chest and side with a grimace.

“Take off your shirt.”

He shakes his head no.

“Take off your shirt right now Harrington or I swear to god I’ll-“

“You’ll what!?” He pouts at you.

Your fingers tug at the hemline of his shirt, yanking at it as you grumble, “Still so fucking stubborn, I can’t stand you-“

He swats at your hands and grumbles right back, “I can’t stand you…”

His name is gasped out of you as you get his shirt up and over his ribs. He gives up, arms falling limply at his sides as you continue to pull at the shirt until it’s around his neck. He stares at you, both of you not saying a word but understanding as he slowly raises his arms with a wince and you pull the fabric carefully over his head.

It falls at your feet as tears fill your eyes, your fingers brush over purple and red splotched and angry skin. Steve flinches as your fingers glide over his collarbone, hands instinctively going to your hips again and squeezing. Goosebumps rise to the surface of his skin as your tears fall down your cheeks once more.

“Hey,” he whispers, he pulls you into his chest, one that you can’t believe is covered in dark hair. Arms that ripple with muscles you’ve never seen circle around your waist as he mumbles into your hairline, “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

Your nose presses to his neck, dragging against his skin as you shake your head no and pull away from him.

“You tell me who did this right now.”

Steve stares at you and then he runs his hands through his hair and closes his eyes.

A throat is cleared and you jump, hand over your eyes as Robin’s voice cracks behind the curtain, “Sorry, didn’t really know when to break that up, but I’m getting pretty cold in here…”

Neither of you had heard the water turn off, or noticed the mirror was growing far less foggy during your screaming match. Steve’s cheek blossom pink as he throws a towel over the curtain.

Your arms cross over your chest as Steve’s do the same while she pulls the shower curtain back.

Robin smiles shyly at you and then looks at Steve.

“You got cocoa?”

His brows furrow together and he looks at her like she’s crazy when he asks, “What?”

“Hot cocoa,” she clarifies, holding the towel to her chest and then walking into his bedroom.

She starts pulling open drawers until she finds what she’s looking for. When you both just stare at her, she whistles and turns her fingers for you to spin.

Steve rolls his eyes but does as she asks and you do the same. A towel drops and clothes slip over skin while the radio plays quietly.

“Conversations like this are always easier with cocoa, I think,” she says, much closer now and you turn to find her digging around in his drawers for a comb, a sweatshirt and shorts on.

Steve hands her one as he asks, “Conversations like this?”

Robin shrugs her shoulders, looking at you in the mirror as she detangles wet hair easily and mumbles, “Understand why you got your nickname now. Top tier products, dingus. I approve.”

He rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Robin. Focus.”

“Right, well she,” Robin nods her head back towards you, “Wants to know about all of this,” she gestures to all of Steve’s face and bruised body with a hand. “Christ, you’re hairy. And after tonight, I think I deserve to be filled in on quite a bit, don’t you? So. Cocoa? Marshmallows?”

The way Robin raises her eyebrows at Steve and doesn’t leave much room for arguing has you rolling your shoulders back and asking him, “Your mom still keep that fancy cinnamon kind on the top shelf in the back of the pantry?”

Steve’s a terrible story-teller.

He paces while he talks, he gestures with his hands and leaves sentences hanging in the air as he waits for you to fill in gaps he doesn’t quite remember or know all the details of himself. He asks you to give him a second when he sips his own cocoa and closes his eyes trying to remember things, rubbing at his Hawkins Phy Ed sweatshirt while he thinks. Steve bounces around in a non-linear, confusing timeline order that has you and Robin asking question after question and him clenching his jaw and telling you that, “He’s getting there, alright?”

And none of it makes any sense. None of it.

Not Will Byers going missing but not missing. Not the spray paint on the theater and Nancy Wheeler sleeping but not sleeping with Jonathan Byers. Not the dinner with Barb’s parents and oh yeah his party with the pool and Nancy and Barb going missing afterwards. Not the supernatural dogs that are actually lizards. Not the gray fleshy human not human that he hit with a baseball bat full of nails while Jonathan and Nancy set it on fire in a bear trap and the Christmas lights talked to Joyce Byers. Not the world that’s somehow underneath you but not anymore because the gate, whatever the fuck that is, is closed. Not the girl with superpowers who doesn’t have superpowers anymore though, you guess.

Because that’s what Steve thinks, now, caught up to tonight and the few days leading up to it. He’s just finished telling you about the creature, the giant thing made out of people that destroyed the mall and caused the so called “fire” the National Guard was called in for.

Your name is barely heard through the ringing in your ears as you frantically search his entryway for keys.

His hand shakes your shoulder, hard, and you stop, blinking tears away as he asks you, “What are you doing?”

“Keys,” you gasp, fingers rubbing at your eyes, “I need your car keys. I need to go home, I-“

Steve shakes his head, “I don’t have my car. They had to keep it to sweep it for bugs and explosives and-“

Your head shakes as you rip your shoulder from his hold and yank his front door open. Heartbeat thudding in your ears in time with the soles of your sneakers against the pavement as you run down his driveway.

Sprinklers tick on lawns and mowers wave to you as you run down the street. The town of Hawkins oblivious to what’s been happening underneath them, around them, oblivious that their loved ones could be gone, could be in danger.

Your stomach heaves at the thought, anger with yourself fueling your sprinting legs to go even faster. How could you stay at Steve’s so long? Why’d you go there in the first place? What if-

Your feet only slow when you reach your house.

The driveway still sits empty.

Your bags still rest on the porch.

A sob rips out of you as you run around to the back of the house and search the ground. A large rock hits your fingers, and you don’t think twice about grabbing it and throwing it at your back door.

Your hand pushes through the shards of glass as you unlock the door and push it open.

Steve finds you on the ground, clutching your stomach and screaming, chemical bottles open and drained on the tiles around you, bags of your mother’s gardening soil ripped open on the table and his stomach heaves.

He pulls you into his chest and tries to get you stop, pressing his nose to your cheek and rocking you as he pleads, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you have to stop. You have to stop screaming. Please be quiet, don’t-“

Your hands shove at his chest as you scramble over your bags and boxes that had been shipped a week prior, left in the entryway unopened.

“Get away from me,” you sob, rushing to the stairs as you yell, frantic, “Mom! Dad!”

Photos of you and them stare back at you each skipped step up the staircase as you turn on the lights with shaking fingers and beg the universe for this to be some sick and twisted nightmare. When you push open their bedroom door and find the bed unslept in Steve says your name softly, behind your shoulder.

Your hands shove at him when you turn to face him, smacking at his chest and hoping it hurts as you sob, “Why didn’t you check on them! Why didn’t you call me!”

Steve’s eyes fill with tears, “I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone! I shouldn’t have even told you! I could get in a lot of trouble, I could-“

“We have to call the police, we have to call-“

Steve shakes your shoulders, begging you to listen to him. “We can’t. Hopper knew. He’s dead. There’s nobody else to tell. The government already knows. It is the government.”

“Why’d you stop writing to me! Why didn’t you come with them to visit! Why didn’t you…you…” Your hands shove at him harder, tears and snot all over your face as your fight drains out of you. Anger turns to grief turns to hatred turns to hopelessness in seconds within you, not even knowing what to be the most upset about anymore.

“You stopped coming back,” Steve chokes out, grabbing your hands and pulling you towards him slowly. “Because every time I ran into your dad at the store and he asked me if I wanted to come over for dinner I knew I had to say no because I’d feel like a loser. Coming over here and pretending I was a part of your family still, knowing you didn’t want that anymore. Would have to pretend like the pictures of you and hearing about how much better your life was in New York wasn’t killing me because you didn’t need me or Hawkins anymore, okay?”

He falls to the ground with you in his arms as you sob, clutching his shirt in your fingers and pressing your screams to his chest so they’re muffled.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffles into your hairline as his arms squeeze around you tighter and he presses his cheek to the top of your head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

The key to your dad’s Bronco swings loosely from your fingers as you hop up the step to the door and tap your knuckles against it.

When he doesn’t answer, you let yourself in and close the door softly behind you as you glance up the stairs.

Music plays loudly from the cracked door of his bedroom and when you hear his voice singing along, you lift the camera from around your neck and start fiddling with the settings, pulling the shutter back as you climb the staircase quietly.

As you peek through the ajar door, you find Steve in front of his mirror, twirling a can of Farrah Fawcett spray in the air while his other hand runs through damp, not wet, hair, before he catches the can in the air and sprays twice.

Then, he sings directly into the can and you snap a picture of it.

He spins at the sound of your laugh and frowns at the held aloft camera in his face.

“Please,” you smile timidly at him as your shoulder rests against the doorframe and the toe of your sneaker nudges the door open wider. “Don’t stop the performance on my account.”

Steve quickly presses the power button on his stereo and picks up a vest from his desk chair. His cream colored shoulders slip into the maroon vest and your lips twitch at the coincidence of the song and outfit he’s chosen today.

“They don’t knock in New York?” He asks, pulling on a pair of Nikes. Lacing them up and avoiding your gaze as he looks around the room, eyes landing on a sheet of paper and nodding his head, like he’s reminding himself of its location.

“Oh they do,” you shrug your shoulders, “ S’why I left.”

“Ha-ha,” he bites his cheek when he stands, hands finding a home on his hips, “So what’s up? Why are you here?”

Something in your chest tightens at the question, especially when he grabs the sheet of paper and looks at you with a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes and adds, “Don’t you have work?”

Your head shakes no, as you beg yourself to say something, anything, to let him know how sorry you are. To let him know even an ounce of how you’ve been feeling lately. But nothing seems right and it’s selfish to want to have this conversation right now, so you just say, “I start on Monday. Wanted to come say good luck on the interview today.”

He sighs, cheeks and tips of his ears pink as he walks past you out of his room and down the stairs. “Thanks.”

“Family Video, right?” Your tone forced into something light and pleasant as you follow him. “Sounds like a good gig.”

Steve snorts as he grabs his car keys from the table. “Yeah, okay.”

He holds his front door open for you as he walks out it and you follow with a confused, “You don’t think so?”

“No, I do,” he locks the door behind him, shoulders staying up at his ears even after the shrug of them is over, “I just don’t think you, the newest photo journalist and first female one at The Hawkins Post, actually thinks being a clerk at Family fucking Video is a good gig.”

“Well, I do, and that’s all I wanted to say so…” your sweating fingers fiddle with the key as you try to catch his gaze and smile at him, deciding that everything you actually wanted to say isn’t worth it, not when you’re not even sure he’ll want to listen to you. “Good luck, Harrington.”

Your back turns to him as your hand waves pathetically when you start down to his mailbox and Robin Buckley bikes up his driveway.

She smiles at you and hops off her bike, “Hey! How are you?”

“I’m good, good…” your tongue licks over your bottom lip as you squint from the sun at her friendly smile, shielding your eyes with your hand, “Good luck on the interview, today.”

“Thanks!” She turns to Steve behind you, “Ready, Dingus?”

He must nod or something because she waves at you and starts guiding her bike up the rest of the driveway.

When you hop into your dad’s car and turn the key in the ignition, the cassette you’d been playing starts blaring loudly. Your fingers curl around the steering wheel as you inhale then exhale, trying to find the courage to face another day without them and without the Steve you desperately needed, but weren’t even sure existed anymore.

Things weren’t the way they had been with you two, maybe they wouldn’t ever be that way again.

Your head smacks the roof of the car when Steve says your name at your open window, breathlessly.

He winces as your hand rubs at your temple and the other turns the stereo down.

“Sorry, but do you…” he swallows and crosses his arms, uncrosses them and shoves his hands in his front pockets and rocks back on his heels.

“Do I…?” You offer, heart thudding in your chest when Steve looks up from where his sneaker kicks at the gravel and smiles at you.

“Would you um, if I get this job, I’ll get free rentals, and I was just thinking that maybe we could, if you wanted to, have a movie night this Friday? Grab a pizza or something and…talk?”

“Yeah,” you clear your throat and sniffle, blinking your eyes about a billion times and telling yourself to just wait until he’s gone to start crying. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

“Cool,” he smiles around the word. A real one. One that meets his eyes.

“Cool,” you echo with your own smile.

Steve taps the roof of the Bronco twice and it makes something in your chest tighten and melt at the same time. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder and starts walking backwards, “Well I should…”

“Right, yeah, good luck,” you tell him again, yelling it out the open window.

Steve smiles at you once more and then jogs up to his car, whistling along to the song playing out of your car. Robin stands at the door on the passenger side of his BMW, pretending not to watch but blatantly watching while Steve says something you can’t hear. His arms held out in a gesture that seems to say, ‘what?’ ,before he’s clapping and motioning for her to get in the car. Even from this distance you can see her eyes roll.

Your smile is barely hidden, bottom lip squished between your teeth.

Maybe things not being like they were between you two will be a good thing.

Change is inevitable, and time will keep ticking by whether you’re ready for it to or not.

[curiositydooropened]

Okay I LOVE THIS

But how am I supposed to be the Reader and the Bus Stop Mystic? Because you know that was me, girl. My brother just had a baby, and can confirm, he’s not as cute as the other one. And now I feel like it’s mandatory to knit him a yellow hat for Christmas.

I looooooved this. It was so clandestine. Like how did the guy at the end know exactly what she was thinking at the beginning? And like omfg it’s just so good and I’m so happy and I’m so excited and ahhhhhhhh. Gimme more!!!

You’ve always liked taking pictures.

Liked the concept of quite literally capturing a moment in time.

You’ve always liked the way people look when they think no one sees them.

Liked the concept of an image telling you a story that maybe the person or people in it can’t say with words.

You’ve always liked that despite time always ticking past, the image stays frozen, seemingly forever.

Liked how the snapshot can’t be altered like the memory in your brain can be.

How your youth could be preserved. Every inch of child-like wonder could be saved in pursed lips about to blow on a dandelion and make a wish. Innocence never lost because it��s there, in your cherry smile and his grape tongue. Teenage defiance literally still digging her heels in - to the earth beneath them as he tried to pull you towards a pool fully clothed just to get you to laugh instead of cry.

In the pictures, these things remain intact, somehow. These moments, these feelings, this time of our lives that we don’t know we’re going to miss until it’s too late.

And it’s always too late - we never learn, we never listen.

They try, these older and wiser people around us, to get us to.

Slow down. Enjoy it. When you’re older…

You are going to miss this.

But we seem destined to learn it the hard way, no matter what’s done to prepare us for it. A lesson brutally and swiftly delivered as we take an unaware turn down a street that’s a one way with a dead end.

We aren’t a kid anymore, and it’s time to grow up.

But in those pictures?

We don’t have to.

There, fear and doubt and grief and so much more that seems to fall heavier on your shoulders with each step further from adolescence, don’t exist yet.

In the pictures, you don’t have to wonder if he smiled at you like that because the proof is right there. The chlorine and lemonade wafts up from the splash of turquoise water stark against bright red trunks. And sometimes, if you focus hard enough, it’s like his hand is in yours as you look at the indigo and tangerine and blush swirling together in a beautiful sunrise, can still feel the roof shingles digging into your back and staining your favorite shirt, but you don’t care, ‘cause you’re with him.

Your fingers glide over the polaroid square, next to an opened envelope with it’s document still sitting inside - taped to the page. A dried lilac between both.

But not everything can be so well preserved, not everything can last. It’s easy for fear and doubt to wrap around you, to take deep roots. Soon they’ll take over until there’s nothing left, and then they’ll constrict the life out of what they’ve taken, forcing you to doubt - to wonder over and over again if you remember it differently than him. If he’ll forget you.

If he already has.

You will it to never be so as you close your sketchbook once more and carefully return it to the inside of your backpack.

You’re told you lose yourself when you look at pictures, or when you’re in the process of taking them yourself. Like you’ve stepped into another world, a quieter, softer one, that acts like time isn’t real. No matter how many times it happens it’s always a rude wake up call when that isn’t the truth when you return.

The conversation of the woman behind the metal counter is still going on. Her nails click against the sleek silver as the fingers of her other hand twirl the phone cord around three times, release, then start over. Her strawberry bubblegum snaps between her lips as smoke from the more ash than glow end of her cigarette dissipates in front of her. She doesn’t seem to care, more focused on telling Beth that Ava told Margaret swear on her mother’s life that Grant was having an affair.

Your camera clicks loudly as you wonder if Beth already knew.

A woman’s needles click together across from your seat, a harmony formed with the loud clock above the pair of you, as a pale yellow hat forms slowly against her thighs.

“To or from?” She squints her eyes at you, like she’s just caught you grabbing a cookie before dinner.

“I’m sorry?”

Click, tick, click, tock.

“Are you…” she frowns at the hat and sighs, then looks up at you with the shake of her head, “Swear to god, my brother’s baby better be cute, and they told me hats were easy…”

Your pointer finger twitches against the shutter, the familiar soothe and ache in the same breath settles over your muscles and stomach as you fight the urge to capture a moment you’re sure you’re going to want to look back on before it’s even happened.

The woman shakes the needles like they’re just not getting it as her frown turns to a deeper scowl. But when she looks up at you, she’s nothing but kind. Pink smile stained with red lipstick, laugh crinkling skin next to blue eyes. The needles drop to her lap as she waves green polished fingers in the air in your direction.

“You’ve got that look about you. You’re a runner. I was just curious if you were running to or from.”

The observation catches you off guard, goosebumps shooting to the surface of the skin on your neck much like when you feel you’re being followed or watched.

“Oh…um-”

A loud bell rings, then the woman behind the counter’s voice calls out over a speaker, far less crisp than her phone conversation and much more static filled.

“Chicago to Indianapolis with connections to Bloomington, Carmel, Hawkins, Lafayette, and Terre Haute departs in five minutes. Chicago to Indianapolis with connections to Bloomington, Carmel, Hawkins, Lafayette, and Terre Haute departs in five minutes.”

Your knees crack when your spine stretches, uncurling from the seat you’ve been in since this morning. Your hands fiddle with the camera around your neck and the backpack straps digging into your shoulders. When you turn towards the woman again, her needles are back to clicking as the buzz of the intercom fades.

“I’m honestly not sure anymore,” you admit to her in a whisper, looking over your shoulder at the double glass doors you’re about to walk through swinging open, bringing in new travelers and fumes of exhaust with each swoosh.

“He good? This guy you’re running to?”

You’re stunned into a silence you’ve never found yourself in. Is it similar to how it feels to have an explosion go off too close and unexpectedly? The kind of silence that presents itself because the reality and severity of the situation are too loud to bear, so your body has to protect itself, only hearing what it can handle. It’s impact can’t be denied though - it’s loud, it demands to be heard and fast, only giving you seconds to wrap your head around what just happened. It buzzes in your ears before it rings, it hangs in the air, tangible and thick like smoke left over after everything was just wiped away in a second.

“The best,” truest words you’ve ever said stick in your throat, like they’re dragging your guts and heart right out with them and you’re not sure why you just offered them up like that.

She hums, her gaze flits up to meet yours before it returns to her gift. “The girl? Doing the running?”

You don’t know what makes you say it, what makes you tell this absolute stranger the truth you’ve never wanted to admit.

“A failure. Lonely. Scared. Her life a big red stamp that just reads: Error.”

Her shoulders shrug as if to say she’s heard worse. Her lips twitch in a smile. “You don’t need to listen to it, but some advice from someone who’s a little older, emphasis on a little,” she smiles when she looks up to wink at you, before she says:

“Whatever you’re running from, when you get to your to - make sure not to let go of his hand this time, okay?”

A man coughs as he passes, a heel clicks opposite a knitting needle, both patiently pausing for a tick of the clock before resuming. A newspaper page turns, strawberry gum snaps against teeth as a cigarette’s light completely dims and you look down to see your camera has no more film left.

The woman doesn’t look at you as she smiles wider, freckles scrunching over a nose.

“Guess you’ll just have to remember it all, huh?” She nods her head towards the door, “Think your ride’s leaving, hon.”

Brakes hiss, a door creaks closed just beyond the double doors still swooshing and your heart thuds in your ears as you run towards it. Clammy hands smack the cool glass as a driver rolls his eyes at you, but opens it once more.

“Ya know, last bus of the night and that station isn’t no fun over night. One more second and you’d have been shit outta luck getting to…” He holds his hand out for your ticket. You’re breathless as you pass it over. He clips off the end and whistles, low, then chuckles like it really isn’t that funny. “Well guess you’re still shit outta luck if you’re going to Hawkins, Indiana.”

He closes the door behind you, message clear:

No more running.

series masterlist | part one ->

[curiositydooropened]