#Dan's Silver Leaf

[sweetsweetjellybean]

Your crush on Eddie was better off a secret and a kiss that should never have happened leads you into a storm.

I wasn't happy with my first version of chapter 4. So I polished it up and added a little more dialog. Feel free to wait for the next chapter but if you'd like to read it, either as a refresher or for the very first time, please let me know what you think. XOXO-Jelly

Masterlist Listen to Fake Plastic Trees Here

What to expect: Second Chance Romance set in 2012 Chicago.  Eddie and Steve are in their 30s. Fem!Reader is given a pet name from each of the guys. No other name mentioned. No use of Y/N. No physical description. Reader does have a bit of personality, as I find it nearly impossible to keep her blank for such a long fic. You may find yourself at times making choices that you wouldn't normally make, but I hope you can put that aside and enjoy the ride. Sensitive Content. 18+ Mentions of DV. Smut Guaranteed happy ending. This is my love letter to Eddie Munson.

WC: 11646 beta'd by @superblysubpar

A sharp chill nips at your cheeks as gusts of autumn wind blow through the amber-leafed trees surrounding Hawkins High's parking lot. You pick at the splintered wood of the picnic table beneath you, etched with initials and scribbles. The anguished croon of Placebo plays through your headphones, drowning out the sounds of the start of another school day. Shifting the pile of books on your lap, you steal a glance at where Eddie stands with his back to you a few yards away.

Lately, it’s like your best friend has purchased real estate in your brain. Daydreams resulting in hearts doodled in the margins of your notebooks a little too close to where you printed his name. His dark curls spill over the collar of his worn denim vest, shadowing the frayed edges of the Dio patch he had sown on last week. He's deep in conversation with Dan Shelter, a senior in the same class that Eddie would have been in if he hadn’t missed so much time after his mother passed. They both turn and look at you at the same time.

Eddie’s eyes narrow as his brows pull tighter into a frown. You push one of your headphones back, and the noise of everyday chatter and car engines bursts into your reality. 

"You know your girlfriend is deeply weird, Munson," the spiky-haired jock says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket, not even trying to hide his distaste.

Girlfriend. You’ve both tried to stamp out that rumor—yet no matter who else you go out with, those sparks never last and pale in comparison to the steady flame you feel around Eddie. Would it really be so bad if it were true? The answer scares you more than you expect. 

"She’s not my girl," Eddie retorts with a swift shake of his head, his voice edged with that familiar bite of annoyance. His foot scuffs against the asphalt, the white Reebok stark against the black jeans clinging to his narrow hips. An impatient sigh pulls the fabric of his Hellfire Club t-shirt tighter across his chest, outlining his lean frame. "You in or out?" His fingers snap near Dan's face, the sunlight catching on his silver rings, "I've got other places to be, and you're not my only customer."

"Sure, whatever," Dan grumbles, extending a hand with a few crumpled bills.

Eddie accepts the cash with an easy smirk, teasing the dime bag between thumb and forefinger, letting it sway like a pendulum. Dan’s hand hovers while he glances around for prying eyes, but Eddie lets the bag drop to the ground before he can take it. 

"Oops," Eddie’s voice drips with feigned innocence before he pivots on his heel and walks away without a backward glance.

Dan’s face ignites with anger as he stoops for the bag, muttering a curse.

"Always a pleasure," Eddie calls over his shoulder, flashing a dismissive two-fingered salute. A gaggle of pink-cheeked girls from the sophomore class crosses his path, eyes trailing over him like he's their favorite song come to life.  

"Ladies." He extends an arm, waving them on, his voice as smooth as a melody. They flutter past with giggles and heated glances. Despite their whispers of 'freak' in the corridors, they all vie for a chance to climb into the back of his van when no one is looking – to be the subject of the rumors they'd later deny.

He never hides his interest when he likes a girl — everybody knows when Eddie Munson is into someone. But he’s never looked at you that way, never given you that smile meant for those he desires. And that’s something that has never bothered you. Now, it stirs something else — a green thorny vine wrapping around your insides. He’s just Eddie – your friend. The same old Eddie, you reaffirm, even as your heart whispers lies of a different tune.

Without missing a beat, he saunters over, the rhythmic clink of his chain wallet punctuating each step. He leaps onto the picnic table, landing beside you with a thud, sending vibrations through the timeworn wood. His eyes linger on the girl's retreating forms.

"You need to be careful, Eddie," you warn, tipping your chin toward where Dan is stalking off in a dark cloud of annoyance.

"Careful is my middle name, doll." He smiles a big, sly grin, dimples deepening, causing a flutter in your chest, an unexplained sensation that's become strangely frequent these days.

He nods at your leg, eyes dropping to your thigh. "What’s this?" His dark lashes make half-moon shadows on his cheek as his thumb brushes over the square field of bright white crosses covering the denim patch on your jeans.  A trail of tingles follows, unbidden and unwelcome. You disguise the shiver as a chill from the wind, even as you crave more of his touch.

"It’s called sashiko," you explain, hyper-aware of the warmth of his skin as the ghost of his touch lingers. "The art of visible mending." 

"Looks cool." His gaze meets yours, a little too intense and a little too long. Your fingers clutch your notebooks tighter, a shield against whatever this feeling is.

"Are you coming over after school?" Your voice is steadier than you feel.

"I’ll drop you off, but I’ve got to go back to the trailer after," Eddie replies, his eyes still holding yours in a silent conversation you can't quite interpret. "I’ve got stuff to do." Something in his tone suggests layers you're not ready to peel back. "Not your kind of stuff."

The house where Eddie grew up doesn't look the same anymore. Someone else has moved in – keeping the lawn perfect and fixing up all the broken things, erasing any traces of tragedy. The neighborhood has moved on, absolving themselves like they hadn’t just turned their back and let it happen. As if it wasn't their problem. Eddie's staying on the other side of town now with his Uncle Wayne in a tiny one-bedroom trailer. Wayne's heart is in the right place, even if he drinks too much, just like Eddie's dad did. But he's not bad, just... lost when it comes to dealing with an angry teen, and with him working nights, Eddie's on his own to figure out how to deal with it all. 

"I can keep you company?” You try to keep the offer casual despite the hump in your pulse.

He shakes his head, a shadow crossing his features. "Nah, I’ve got to stop at Rick's, then a run." There's a hardness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

You frown and look away, hiding your disappointment. "I don’t see what the big deal is," you argue, keeping your voice low, "We smoke together all the time."

"The big deal," he says, reaching out to lift your chin and forcing you to look at him. "Is that this is business, and I don’t want you involved. Alright?" His voice is firm, letting you know he won’t budge. "I’ll pick you up later," he promises. "Movie night. Just us."

The shrill ring of the bell is your cue to retreat, to put distance between you and these feelings threatening to upend everything. You nod at him, shoving your books into your bag. His gaze holds you for a heavy beat before breaking away. There's a shift in the air, a prelude to something you can't name, like the static before a storm. Eddie's last glance sears itself into your thoughts when you part ways at the door. 

As you make your way to class, those feelings nag at you like a forgotten lyric. You hug your arms, trying to squeeze out the persistent ache that spreads through your limbs. It's a tangible pain, this longing, like a hand squeezing around your heart, making it hard to breathe.

But you push it all down, guarding it like a secret. To lock it away in the confines of your ribcage, where it can't taint the one thing you value most. The friendship you've built is too important, too rare to risk on a silly crush that might only live in your head and fade with time. It’s a gamble you won’t take. You can't lose him. You won’t watch that light in his eyes dim for you, awkward silences replacing the laughter. Without him, you’d be alone.

Cold gray days give way to dark, inky nights. The stars and moon are veiled behind thick cotton clouds, stealing the light earlier as fall edges closer to winter. Winds gust, sending wet leaves sticking to the glass of your office windows as the bare fingers of the boxwoods planted around the brownstone scratch against the house in protest.

Lowering the lid of your laptop, the light in the room dims as the brightness is trapped between the two halves. Your arms stretch over your head, loosening the tension in your neck as you push away from your desk, drifting towards the sounds of life from the living room. Steve’s long legs are stretched out on the chaise end of the couch, a Bulls game on the TV, but his attention is stuck on the laptop resting on his thighs. 

“My eyes are going to fall out my head if I stare at that screen for any longer,” you declare, rounding the corner of the couch.

“Well, then, come stare at this screen instead.” He nods at the TV, extending his arm to make space for you to crawl onto the couch next to him and fit yourself into his side. 

“You’re so warm.” You nuzzle into his chest, and his lips touch the top of your head. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

“I’ll wake you up when it’s time for bed. I still have a few hours of work left,” he sighs, his finger sliding down the trackpad as he scrolls through a document that never seems to end. 

“Is that for the launch?” Your eyes squint at the brightness of the screen. 

He groans at the ping of another incoming email while toggling between the many windows he has open. “Yeah, we're in the final stretch. The event team is trying to finalize the details. Maroon 5 and Fallout Boy are locked in to perform, but we’re still waiting to hear back from a few other acts and about a million other details that need ironing out.”

“It’s going to be a great night, baby. Everyone will be so impressed,” you assure, the arm you have draped across his stomach tightening, trying to impress your words into him. “Everything is going to go smoothly, you’ll see.”

He scoffs, doubt clouding his voice. “I wish I had your confidence. The server's capacity is still a question mark, and we're racing to fix streaming delays. Fuck!” The heels of his hands press into his eyes. “All I need is this thing to fail at the last minute, especially with Richard and my dad watching.” He imitates his father's stern tone, “Typical. He’s always been a fuck up. Chokes right before the buzzer.” Letting his hands drop, his eyes turn to you. “I should have listened to you and not invited my parents. I actually never thought they would agree to come. Now I’m running around trying to get things ready for them too.”

“Hey,” you take one of his hands between yours, “That’s not going to happen, Steve. If the servers have issues or if there's a lag, it's just a hiccup. You've got a team to handle that. You've put in the work, and you're brilliant at what you do. Your parents will see that. Everyone will.” 

He manages a smile, but it’s just a placation.

“What can I do to help?” You ask, “I’ll make sure we have some Pellegrino stocked and that cheese your parents like.”

There's a pause as he weighs his next words. “I’ve already called the housekeeper and told them to put fresh sheets in the guest room in case they decide to stay here, but I still need to make a reservation at the Four Seasons as a backup.”

Your jaw tightens, but you curb your annoyance at how John Harrington has everyone trained to cater to his high-maintenance whims, but this is for Steve’s peace of mind. “I’ll call first thing tomorrow. Consider it done. Anything else?”

He hesitates, a little apologetic. "My suit... the dry cleaner closes early tomorrow. I hate to ask, but I might not make it in time–"

“No problem. I’ll make time.”

His lips lift at the corners, and this time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I love you.” He leans forward, slotting his lip softly between yours. “I’ll put the ticket in your bag. Thanks for helping out, Ace.”

“I just have Eddie's interview tomorrow afternoon. I should have plenty of time." Standing, you tug at his hand. "Now, can we go to bed? Everything will look better after a good night's sleep.”

His mouth sets in a determined line as he shuts down his laptop, yielding to your pull as he rises. His hand finds a place on the small of your back, grounding you both as you climb the stairs together. 

Hitching the strap of your messenger bag higher on your shoulder, you kick at a loose stone on the sidewalk in front of the brick building. Car horns blare in the distance as traffic rolls by in the busy neighborhood.  The sun casts a glint off the steel CursedSound sign, its metal already weathering with a faint tinge of color. The heavy door is yanked open, its clank and whine making you jump. 

"Hi," Eddie greets you with a soft tone from the other side of the threshold.

"Hi," you return, shyness adding a tremble to your voice that shouldn’t be there. His fingers grip the edge of the door, and light flashes off the Rolex peeking out from under the cuff of the plaid flannel he wears over a fitted v-neck and jeans, the fabric snug against his defined shoulders. It’s still a novelty to see how his slim build has filled in over the years. Part of you still expects the boy you knew instead of this man in front of you. He looks you over in the same way, like he’s trying to decide if you’re really there. Maybe it’s the differences he sees in you, too, or does he still see the lonely girl he once knew? You shift your gaze down the street, your toes curling inside your Converse as warmth climbs up your neck. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I don't know." He pretends to ponder, a smile forming, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Where's your hard hat?"

Tilting your head to the side, you purse your lips until he breaks into a chuckle. He swings the door open wider, welcoming you in. You pass him with a shake of your head and continue down the hall. 

The lobby is in chaos.

"Sorry for the mess. The maid took the week off," he quips, watching you take in the space. 

The brown paper has been removed from the windows, allowing bright light to stream through the streaked and dirty glass. All the furniture has been pushed toward the center of the room, and ladders and paint cans litter the floor space. A large mural wrapping around the windows and front entrance has been outlined but not completed. In the same graffiti style as the one upstairs, this one displays more cityscapes with waves of the lake breaking at the forefront. Winged skulls and guitars blend with colorful swirls of clouds rising toward the ceiling. 

"It’s perfect," you tell him as your eyes follow the sweeping, colorful lines around the room. “Really beautiful.”

"Was that a compliment?" He asks, coming up behind you, his breath a warm whisper against your ear. "I thought it was a dump."

"Well, what can I say?” You spin around. “It’s growing on me." Your fingers move to your lips, concealing your smile as his deepens with your praise. 

"You look really good." His low voice bounces off the empty walls, "I mean…your, uh, outfit is nice." He waves his hand toward you before wiping it on the front of his jeans. 

Your brows raise as you glance down at the jeans and plain Lolla tee you put on this morning. None of the trendy outfits you usually wear for interviews seemed to fit right today. 

"Wow, that was smooth," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don’t know why I’m so nervous."

The fluttering in your stomach matches his energy.  “Maybe it’s because I’m going to get you to spill all your secrets and print them so the whole world can sit in judgment."

 A choked sound comes from his throat as his eyes widen into saucers.

Unable to keep a straight face, you giggle. "Relax, Eddie. I already told you I’m not writing some hit piece. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides," you shrug, "It’s only me." 

A sharp breath escapes as his shoulders lower. "Yeah, you’re right." He says, taking a step forward, his gaze locking with yours. "After all these years, it's still you.

"Eddie." His name comes out on a breathless sigh as you look away.  The shield of anger between you is heavy and battered, and you aren’t sure how much longer you can hold it up. He takes another step forward, and you clear your throat. "Why don’t you show me what else you’ve done?"

He rakes a hand through his curls, "Of course." His lips tighten into a flat line as he gestures toward the stairs. "After you." 

You lead the way to the second floor, where the smell of fresh paint permeates the air. A ladder leans against a half-painted wall, and orange extension cords crisscross the carpet in the hall, winding into the studios like work has been suddenly halted.

"Where is everyone?" You look around the abandoned space before stepping inside Studio A. It's come a long way since your last visit. The deck that holds the mixing board is ready, and the wiring is underway.

"I didn’t know how long you’d be here, so I told them to take the rest of the day off." His eyes follow the movements of your hand, brushing over knobs and sliders of the soundboard that's still sheathed in a protective layer of plastic. 

"You didn’t have to do that," you say, walking back out into the hall. 

"I didn’t think we needed the audience," he shrugs, walking along with you to the next room.

"I hope you don’t fall behind schedule." The walls of the small Studio B are covered with walnut slats to create an acoustic barrier while still keeping the room open, while the mixing room kept the original exposed brick.

"I’ve got time."

"Even so," you move to the window. The sun glints off the mirrored surface of the tall building across the street. "I’m sure you're eager to open. Put out that first album with the CursedSound logo in the liner notes."

"Of course I am." He comes to stand beside you, taking in the bustle of the city at midday. "It’s gonna be good to have nothin’ between me and the music. Let the artists be as creative as they want. Their management can deal with the corporate A&R people and leave me out of it."

"You never did like playing by the rules," you smile, catching his eyes in the reflection of the glass.

He turns his head, studying your profile. "Why should I?" he continues, his tone more determined, "The rules sure as hell never helped me. I'm gonna take my chances as I find them, even if I have to play a little dirty. I deserve happiness the same as the next guy."

"Of course you do." The world has done nothing but take from him. 

"What about you?" He asks as you return to the hall. "The rules seemed to be treating you well."

You raise your shoulders with a warm smile gracing your lips, one you have no intention of concealing. "I love my job. I like the city, and…I have Steve."

"You ending up with Steve Harrington," his voice curls around the name, a sneer you can almost see, "I gotta admit, I didn't see that one coming."

Stopping, you pivot to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. "He's a good guy, Eddie."

He sighs in a short, almost defeated breath. "I know he is, doll."

The unmarked door at the end of the hall provides a convenient distraction. "Where does this go?" You wonder with your hand closing over the knob.

"My apartment."

"You're living here?" You let it go like it burned you, swallowing the lump that has made a sudden appearance in your throat. 

"Sure. Can't beat the commute." He reaches around you, turning the doorknob to reveal another flight of stairs. "Do you want to go up?"

Flashes of that day are more vivid than they should be for memories two years old. The closet carpet is soft under your fingers as wet tears rain down on the glossy pages. Steve's voice gets closer as he calls out your name. A tightness grips your chest as you attempt to step back, momentarily forgetting that Eddie's right behind you. He supports you with a steadying hand on your hip as he faces you, seeking your reaction.

"No, that's okay. I think we're fine down here. I  wouldn't want to disturb anyone," you say, attempting to sound confident as you wipe your palms along the sides of your jeans.

Eddie scratches the side of his head as his brow wrinkles. "Who do you think it up there?" 

A hot breath passes your lips as you turn away, walking back down the hall toward Studio C. "I don’t know," you call over your shoulder, too chicken to face him. "Skyler Simmons. Rock royalty. Media darling. According to the magazines, your long-time girlfriend. The one you own a house with. Ring any bells? Isn’t she here with you?"

"My what? Skyler Simmons?" The deep belly laugh that follows has you spinning on your heels to face him.

"Wait. You’re serious?" His dimples make an appearance as his smile deepens. "Me and Skyler?" He can barely get her name out without chuckling. 

"The one you’re photographed with constantly."

His brows shoot up. "Keeping tabs on me?"

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself," you huff. "It came up in my research. Do you have a relationship with her or not?"

"I know her," he offers, shaking his head, "She’s a friend. We go to the same group." 

"What group? The one for annoying assholes." 

He pauses, his arms crossing over his chest. "The one for people with addiction in their families. That okay with you?" His voice escalates. The simmering anger in his eyes mirrors the intensity of his tone. "Skyler is gay. Her girlfriend's usually hanging around, too. Does that mean I’m fucking her too? Jesus."

Frigid water clashes with your hot blood as the fight drains away. Glancing at your feet, your voice diminishes to barely more than a whisper. "Why hasn't she come out in the media?"

"Maybe because it’s none of anybody's fucking business." His piercing gaze bores into you as the sharp words land like heavy stones in the sour pit in your stomach. "Hold on," he waves a hand in front of you, "Why do you even care?"

"I don’t," your voice falters as the dishonest answer leaves you without hesitation. Your eyes trace the patterns on the floor. "It just makes for a better story, is all." 

His hands run through his hair, fingers tugging on the ends as his tone softens. "Doll," he pauses, taking a deliberate step closer. His warm fingers cup your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his. Those amber swirls, always seeing beyond your surface. "No one else is in my apartment, and no one else is gonna be."

His touch sends a searing heat spreading through your skin as the weight of your engagement ring pulls on your finger. "You’re a grown man, Eddie. Do whatever you want." Stepping back, his hand falls from your face as you turn and enter the studio.

"Fucking stubborn," the low murmur carries under his breath as he follows you inside.

"It looks like this one’s almost finished." You spin around the room, taking in the progress, before letting your bag slide down your shoulder and sinking onto the couch. 

Gray triangles of acoustic foam now adorn the live room walls in contrasting patterns, and layers of soft carpeting line the floor. The mixing room's mural stands completed, and the furniture has all been placed. 

His eyes move around the room, the pride evident on his face. "Just some wiring and the vocal booth, and I’ll be ready to start setting the levels."

"This one’s your favorite, I can tell," you shift, tucking a leg under you as he joins you on the couch. 

"Shhh," he hushes you, raising a finger to his lips. "The others will get jealous."

Rolling your eyes, you pull your phone from your bag, open the recording app, and set it between you both.

"How does this work?" Eddie's eyes are fixed on your phone while he rubs the back of his neck.

"Well, typically," your hand slips back into your bag to retrieve the neatly stapled pages of your notes, "I ask a question, and you provide the answer." You set the pages in your lap, drawing in a steadying breath. He’s sitting in front of you with a key to a locked door  – one that might be best left closed and forgotten, but it’s time to hear him out. 

"Eddie Munson interview, part one."

"Mr. Munson." You slip into your most professional tone. "Thank you for granting us an interview during this busy time. All of us at Stax are very excited to welcome CursedSound to Chicago."

He leans forward, his voice dropping slightly in timber as a much smoother, older Eddie begins to answer, "Thank you. I always have time for my favorite magazine." He winks.

Your lips press into a line as you tilt your head to the side, taking a quick glance at your packet. "In April 2003, Fever to Tell was released by a relatively new band and a completely unknown sound engineer. It went on to sell over a million copies, putting The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the name Eddie Munson on industry minds. Fever to Tell is still, to date, one of my favorite albums. Were you aware of the significant impact this record would have when you were working on it?"

"At the time, we were really just hopeful, you know? We believed in the music we were creating. Karen and Nick, and Brian flew out from New York with their last dime, and we just got to work. Karen had this kind of raw, untamed energy, and I wanted to capture that, to add an edge to the album. It was this post-punk dance-floor-friendly racket that injected a much-needed dose of authenticity into a musical era that was getting stagnant."

"It's not an exaggeration to say that record helped shape the direction of indie and alternative rock for years to come. But what I want to ask is you before all that. What was the road like moving from Hawkins to having your dreams come true in LA? Was this the path you first set out on, or were there curves in the road?"

"I think 'curves' is a generous term for the absolute shit choices I was making for myself back then," he chuckles. "As you know, I left Hawkins about a year after I graduated. That town had already decided I would never be anything more than a freak– a loser with no future. If I had stayed, that's exactly what would have happened. I was trying to outrun my past without a clue what I wanted for my future. I had my own band back then, and sometimes, we’d open for slightly bigger bands that rolled through town. One of them was about to tour and invited me to go as their one and only roadie, and it felt like a free ticket out."

"Bananafish," you interject, swallowing and glancing down at your notes.

"Yeah, Bananafish. God, they sucked. Did you know they started as a Spin Doctors tribute band?"

"No," you laugh, "And that wasn’t a red flag for you?"

"It should have been. I wasn’t with them for long anyway. I think I lasted for three weeks before they cut me loose for getting in a fight with the drummer." He pauses, shaking his head. "I never knew when to shut my mouth. At that point, they had hooked up with another band called Everly. Slightly better, but not by much. I managed to hold it together for a few months. I was high or drunk most of the time, the only reason they kept me around was because they liked the way I babied their instruments."

"I remember,” you nod. “You’d spend half an hour polishing that Warlock every day after school." 

"Got to treat a lady right if you want her to sing for you," he says with a sly rise and fall of his brows, draping an arm over the back of the couch, shrinking the space between you.

"I was surprised that you left it behind." 

Eddie's expression turns more solemn. "There were a lot of things I wished I could’ve taken with me. But back then, I couldn’t even take care of myself."

"I don’t believe that," you swallow, the words sticking in your throat, "You could have tried."

"If I had tried, they would’ve ended up broken, and I’d‘ve lost them anyway." His fingers brush your shoulder, and you flinch. The leather creaks as you sit back against the arm of the couch, just out of reach. 

"Back to Everly. Why did you part ways?" 

"Oh, well, I fucked it up, of course. They had landed a spot at Bonnaroo, and I got so fucked up the night before I missed sound check. When I managed to pick myself up off the floor of the van, they handed me my duffel and a twenty and told me to pound sand." His eyes drift away, fixating on a point across the room. "I had barely been outside of Indiana, and there I was, stuck on some farm in Manchester, Tennessee, with no ride, no money, and no one to call. I was angry at the world and never felt more alone. People always talk about hitting rock bottom, I thought that was it, but now that I look back, it was more of a crossroads. If I had followed that darker path, there would have been no coming back. I was wandering around backstage where they park buses, hungover, maybe still half in the bag, and that’s when I met Max."

"Max Navarro?" You shuffle through the pages of your notes.

"Yeah. You know him?" Eddie’s eyes brighten as his gaze drops to the pages in your lap.

Your head turns from side to side. "You referred to him as a mentor in the Stones interview, but I couldn’t find much on him besides his name being listed as an audio engineer for several tours."

"That’s Max." Eddie breaks into a smile. "He’d tell you he likes flying under the radar. He was hanging out in front of the bus playing guitar with a couple of guys when I walked over like a cocky shit, picked one up, and started playing. He gave me something to smoke, and it wasn’t weed. All I know is that I woke up face-down in the dirt the next morning. I don’t know if he liked me or just felt bad for me, but he dragged me on the bus and had me start assisting him with the sound for Faith No More."

"Faith No More? Are you kidding me?" Your hands fall to your lap, slapping against your thighs, jostling the cushion enough for your phone to slide toward the back of the couch. "You had their poster in your room. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you had a charmed life."

"Well, even the sun shines on a dog's ass some days," he laughs.

"So Max is who taught you about engineering?" 

"Max is who taught me about everything." His voice holds a reverence when he says his name.  "He kept an eye on me. Showed me how to work the boards.  He said he could see shadows following me around, so when we got to LA, he took me out to the desert, fed me some tea, and exercised my demons."

"Did it work?" Max wasn't the only one to see shadows looming. Consequences of decisions made by others. Expectations of a community that turned its back. They clung to him like an impenetrable fog. 

"I’m not sure. I felt lighter after, but it could have been the gallon of water I sweat out," he chuckles.  "After that, he cashed in a favor and got me an internship with a small studio in Laurel Canyon. I parked cars at night and lived in a room the size of a closet at Max’s house. I worked my ass off. I went to therapy–" 

"How very L.A. of you," you chime in.

"Don’t knock it until you try it." He looks at you from under raised brows. "It’s, uh, good to talk about things. Be open, you know?" 

"No thanks. I tried that once," you tell him pointedly, the tightness in your chest returning, "It didn’t work out for me."

Your arrow hit the target. Regret flashes in his eyes. "Doll–" 

"You decided to stay in L.A. and work at a studio instead of going back out on the road?"

"I like studio sessions. Makes me feel like I’m working towards something. I like completing an album and putting it out in the world. Some people thrive being out on tour, like Max. Not me," he scratches at his chin. "Too many ghosts on those old roads." 

Like the ones back in Hawkins that jolt you awake in the dead of night, murmuring past shames of a lovesick and foolish girl. Robin had seen it, and so had the entire town, but you aren’t her any longer. She lies resting beneath the frigid earth, her memory an unmarked grave. You've moved forward, and you’ll never go back, the city drowns out the remains of her cries.

"So you stayed and built your life there," you conclude, flipping through the pages of your notes, ticking off the points from your outline.

Eddie leans back, a contemplative look on his face. "I guess you could say that. I got my own place, made some great friends. Sundays are for Max's family and Chile relleno. The weather is always beautiful. But I really stayed for the music,” he shrugs. “Have you been? I could take you some time. Show you around. Max would love to meet you, the girl I won’t shut up about. I think you’d like it there."

The girl he hasn’t bothered to call in a decade. "To Los Angeles?" Your gaze rises from your notes to meet his nodding response. "I've been a few times. With Steve. Mostly for work."

"Oh yeah. Makes sense." His jaw tightens, and he averts his gaze. "Well, I guess the rest is history. Is that enough for your story?"

"Yeah." You reach for your phone, tapping the red square to stop the recording. "It will be a great opening piece for the series." You pick up your messenger, hauling its weight into your lap, tucking your notes inside. The afternoon is ending on a flat note. A stone sits on your tongue, holding back questions that you lack the courage to ask, but maybe it’s better this way.

Eddie sits up suddenly, snapping his fingers. "Speaking of history, I want to show you something." He stands up, looking towards the door and back at you, "Um.. wait here, okay? I’ll just be a minute." 

"Okay-"

He holds up flat palms. "Don’t go anywhere." His eyes close as he winces, " I mean, you can wander around if you want. Just don’t leave."

"Eddie-" 

"I’ll be back." He holds up one finger as he exits the room. 

With a sigh, you push up from your thighs, rising to your feet, walking through to the live room where a drum kit stands at the ready. The snare looks a little worn, and the symbols have lost their shine. Your nails tap the high hat, and you smile at the shimmering sound.

"What am I doing?" You whisper, spinning the gold band on your finger.

The sound of the floor creaking echoes through the hall.  Eddie enters the room with the large box he's carrying obscuring his upper half.  His name written in Wayne's shaky handwriting, peeking out from underneath his fingers.

"What's all this?" You ask as he sets down the box with a heave in the center of the room and sinks to his knees, hovering over the taped flaps.

"I have no idea," he grins mischievously. "Wayne gave it to me when I stopped by last week and told him I would see you. But you know him, he never throws stuff out. It could be anything." His hand smoothes over the top as he raises a brow. "Wanna find out?"

Your hands slide over your jean-covered thighs before your feet carry you forward. "Mrs. Click better not be in there." 

His head tips back with laughter. "I make no promises," he jokes while you take a seat on the floor on the side of the box.  

His mouth quirks up, watching you get comfortable. With a fluid motion, he leans and grabs a box cutter beside the soundboard. His shirt lifts slightly, offering a glimpse of hair trailing down his belly and the sculpted muscle beside his hips. His tongue lightly grazes his upper lip as he expertly flicks the knife open, his jeans snug on the contours of his strong thighs. Exhaling slowly, you avert your eyes, scanning the room instead as you wait for him to slice the tape. 

"Score!" He pulls out the ragged-edged sheet that was folded and tucked into the top of the box. "Corroded Coffin," he reads aloud the words scrawled across it with something resembling shoe polish.

"Oh no," you laugh, your head turning side to side as you rock in your seat. 

"Hey. This is rare band memorabilia. It’s probably worth money," he defends, holding it up proudly. 

"Yeah, to the guy you have to pay to haul it away," you giggle.

"Alright, Alright," he folds it up, the smile never leaving his face as he reaches into the box. "These are yours." He pulls out a stack of comic books and hands them to you.

"Still in good shape." You thumb through the copies of Tank Girl and Witchblade.

"My campaigns." He pulls out a pile of notebooks and sets them aside before reaching back in. "Some CDs." He comes out with a hand wrapped around a stack of jewel cases, the one on top catching your eye. 

"Hey, that’s my Cranberries Cd!" Your fingers dig into the carpet as you tip forward, yanking it from his hand. "I looked for this everywhere. I knew you took it, you thief."

"I don’t know how that got there," he scratches his head, "You must have left in the van."

"Nice try, Munson." your eyes narrow, "I checked there." You lean over the box, poking a finger into his chest, "I knew you had a crush on Dolores."

"You got me. It was the accent," he admits with a grin full of dimples, his hand closing around your finger. 

"I’m keeping it." You drop back into your seat and pick up the case to examine the disc.

"Holy shit."

You raise your head to meet his wide chocolate eyes, a look of sheer delight written across his face. "Close your eyes," he instructs, pulling back the flaps of the box, hiding whatever he's found.

"Mrs. Click?" You set the CD on top of the comics.

"Better," he says excitedly, waving a hand toward your face. “Come on. Close your eyes."

"Fine." You leave one eye open, folding your hands in your lap.

"No peeking." He wags a finger.

Your lips purse as you close your other lid, waiting for the big reveal. Plastic clanks against something heavy, followed by the rustle of cardboard.

"Okay. Open."

"Daisy!" Your hands fly to your mouth before you reach out with wiggling fingers.

He winces as he hands over the two-foot garden gnome. "How can you call something so ugly a pretty name like that?"

Taking the heavy lawn ornament in both hands, you gaze down at her droopy hat and too-large ears, which stick straight out beside her bulging eyes and porcine nose. Her rubbery lips are pulled back in a smile, showing off her buck teeth and flowery dress that barely conceals her body. 

"She's beautiful." You cradle her in your arms. "Besides, you're the one who stole her."

"You’re the one who dared me to," he scoffs. 

Your cheeks already ache with an unrestrained smile as the memories from that night surface. "I didn’t think you were going to wake up the whole neighborhood crashing into the bushes in Mr. Lawson’s yard." 

"I was drunk," he defends, his face turning red.

"You tripped over your feet and ripped your pants," you gasp for air, trying to get the words out with your laughter, "You had on those Garfield boxers with the hearts."

"Of course, you remember that." His laughter joins yours, easy and familiar. "You're the one that woke up the neighbors, making the van backfire."

"It was the first time I drove, and I didn’t have a license." You clutch Daisy tightly to your chest as you try to catch your breath. "Mr. Larson came out in his bathrobe, screaming about shooting you in the ass."

Eddie shakes his head as you laugh at his expense. "He almost caught us when you stalled out. All for that hideous thing."

"Shh," you cover her ears with your hands. "You can’t get rid of her."

"Never," he agrees, reaching out for her. "I’ll find her place of honor around here somewhere."

"Put her on your nightstand," you suggest, handing her over. 

"Ugh," he says, setting her aside, "I’ll have nightmares."

You burst into laughter once more, and his eyes ignite. He smiles like he’s savoring every sound, like your happiness is a hard-earned treasure he's been longing for. 

The shards of the past press against the scar tissue encasing your heart as if struggling to free themselves and reassemble in the present. Your hand finds its way to your chest, pressing gently on the tender center, trying to quell the ache and remain in this moment—with him.

"What else? What else?" You clap your hands, bouncing in your spot. 

"Okay, okay," he gives in, happy to indulge you. "Um, a pack of crayons, a monopoly piece." He places them aside. "Thanks, Wayne. Could have done without that. Looks like some clothes. Oh, this is yours." He tosses a ball of red fabric at you, and you catch it with both hands before he continues to search through the box.

"Is this what I think it is?" His voice brims with excitement as he pulls a rectangular tin from the box. He shakes it, and a sharp sound follows. "Yes." His tongue sticks out from the corner of his mouth as he pries off the lid. 

His voice fades into the background as your focus turns to what you're holding. The fabric of your Musicland vest unfurls as you hold it out in front of you, the gold name tag still pinned to the front catching the light. A heavy sensation settles in your stomach, tightening and cramping as a sick, painful feeling creeps in and spreads — nausea churns as each inhale becomes battle. 

There’s a scrape of metal as the lid pops off. "Polaroids," Eddie declares, his attention lost to the thrill of his find as he flips through the stack of photographs.

Your heart races as the room seems to shrink. "Stop it," you whisper, your voice quivering, your trembling hands twisting the vest as if folding it small enough can make the pain disappear.

"They’re pretty faded, though," he goes on, unaware. 

"I said, that's enough!" The balled-up vest flies from your hands, landing back in the box. Adrenaline surges through your veins as you push yourself up on unsteady legs. "I need to leave."

Eddie's laughter dies in his throat as he looks up, the joy in his eyes replaced by confusion. "Wait a minute." He gets to his feet and follows you. The small pile you made topples over, forgotten as you pick up your bag from the couch. "What just happened?" He moves in front of you, blocking your path. "I thought we were having fun."

"Fun?" The word is a shard of ice. Without hesitation, you sling your bag over your shoulder and maneuver past him towards the door.

“Just hold on a minute.” He blocks your path again, hands up, eyes searching yours for answers. “Tell me what's going on.”

"What do you want?" The words slice the air, eyes locked, a bare blade of anger.

"I wanted to-" His eyes flick toward the abandoned box in the center of the room.

"No." Your head shakes, "Why are you here? Now?  After all this time? What do you want from me?"

"I just wanted to see you." His arms cross over his chest as his voice turns softer. "I missed my friend."

"Your friend," sarcasm drips from your words as you quirk a brow, "So you show up here with a box of crap and a ‘hey doll’,” your voice lowers to mock him, "And I’m supposed to what? Forget about everything that happened and hand you a clean slate. Drop everything in my life to follow you around like a puppy because you feel like paying me some attention?"

"That’s not…I’m not asking for that." His hand runs through his curls, frustration building in his tone. 

"I'm not going to sit here with you wandering down memory lane and watch you pretend like you cared." Your eyes sting, but tears won't fall. You've shed your last one for him long ago. "Like any of it mattered."

"No one's pretending here, doll." He steps closer, his hands falling to his side, fingers rubbing at the seam of his jeans. "Of course, it mattered—all of it."

Your bag falls from your shoulder with a resounding thud, its weight matching your resolve as you push your hand against his chest. "I don't believe that for a second. If it mattered, you never could have done what you did."

"Done what?"

"Left me!" Your hand lands flat across your heart. "Without a goodbye, just some shitty mixtape full of songs that I can't listen to without my heart breaking over and over."

"You're right, okay." His voice rises to match your volume, his fingers closing around your biceps. "I was a fucking coward, and I ran. I couldn't see that look on your face again, the one you had when I told you I was leaving. I should’ve said goodbye, but I knew you'd try to convince me to stay, and that was never going to happen. I'm sorry I hurt you, but I can't be sorry I left."

"Hurt me?" You push his hands away, taking a step back to control the cracking in your voice. "You didn't just hurt me, Eddie. You destroyed me."

He swallows, looking away. "You were better off."

Fresh anger surges, along with the strong desire to escape – to leave this dead and buried, maybe for another decade until the hurt isn’t so strong. 

"See, that right there is why I'll never believe you," you snap, pointing an accusatory finger his way as you step around him, your hand closing around the doorknob. But at the last moment,  you turn, wanting him to hear it. At least once.

"I didn't quit Musicland. I got fired. I was a mess after you left. I cried for days, but I clung to this pathetic hope that you’d call to explain everything. To say it wasn't the end for us. You wouldn’t just throw me away, right? Not after everything we had been through together. I wouldn't leave my room, not even to eat. I was so afraid that the second I left, the phone would ring."

There's regret in his eyes as he steps forward, getting closer until he can touch you again, one hand gently gliding up your arm.

"But that call never came, did it, Eddie? Not one. And every day that passed, I died a little. But then I wasn't sad anymore. All those tears, they turned to hate," you say coldly, locking your gaze with his. "I hated you. I hated every song that came on the radio, reminding me of you. I hated Hawkins and everyone in it. But most of all, I hated myself for trusting you. For believing that you ever cared about me. That I wasn’t alone. That's what you did to me, Eddie.”

“You made me hate myself."

"I’m so sorry, doll," his words barely crest the silence as his gentle hand cradles your jaw. “There’s so much I want to explain to you.”

His touch is hot, but inside you, a coldness lingers–inside your stone. "You kissed me. And then you left me the next day. You knew how I felt." 

"I know. I know. I’m sorry." He steps closer, trying to pull your rigid form into his arms, lips brushing your temple. "You don’t even know how much. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing. Trying to make it up to you. But you’re wrong. It all mattered. I did care. That kiss..it’s the reason…" He pulls back and looks into your eyes, "You knew me, you always did, but there were things I couldn’t tell you. Things I couldn’t admit even to myself. I was scared and angry all the time."

Your head shakes as you swallow hard. "You're not even real!" You shout in his face, your fingers clutching the doorknob behind you. Spinning, you tug hard, but his hand slams against the door above your head, keeping it shut. 

"Stop, doll," he pleads. “Let me explain,” but the push-pull intensifies. You're no match for his strength. "Stop it!" he yells. His hand pushes on your shoulder, turning you to face him. Anger flashes in his eyes, and his cheeks flush.

"I made you up.”

“No.”

“The boy I knew could never have done that. He could never have hurt me like that." Your shoulder jerks, breaking his hold as you attempt to turn away again.

His fingers wrap around the side of your neck, keeping you in place. "That boy could never have given you what you wanted. He wouldn’t have had the first clue how to handle you."

"Is that why you’re back?" You ask, still defiant even as his thumb presses into your throat, tipping your head to meet his gaze. "Dragging this all up again, ruining my life? Because you do?" 

"Damn right, I do." 

His words are a gravelly assertion, barely escaping before his mouth descends toward yours. For a heartbeat, the world pauses until your mouths finally meet — urgent and fierce. You part your lips eagerly, tongues finding their way together in a hungry and unapologetic dance. The firm pressure of his mouth moving in sync with yours is a spark, igniting a fire that seems to spread with each touch. The scent of clove and cedar leaves you lightheaded as the flames lick through your body. The scruff on his cheek is a rasp against your skin, a roughness contrasting with the smoothness of his kiss. He tastes like cinnamon and a hint of coffee. This kiss is filled with years of longing, swelling and crashing like an orchestra's finale.

Minutes slip away, yet your greedy mouths remain desperate. The room falls into a hushed stillness, save for the sharp intakes of breath and the sensuous wet slide of lips. The kisses seem endless, broken only by fleeting gasps for air, compelling you to pull each other closer, savoring every taste. Your fingers tangle in the soft waves at the nape of his neck, evoking a low, guttural groan that mingles with your shared breaths when you tug. His hands trace the curves of your body, touching every inch as they follow a path beyond your hips and ass, seizing the back of your thighs. With a firm grasp, he lifts you, pressing you against the unyielding door. You gasp as he positions you just how he wants — aligning himself hot and hard against your center. 

"Fuck," he growls against your lips as his hips roll, igniting fireworks through your body. Your eyes flutter shut, and a kaleidoscope of colors burst in the darkness.

He nips at the plush of your bottom lip, teeth grazing in a tender claim, a muted buzz begins in your bag—a sharp, insistent sting—that yanks you from the haze back into the real world. His eyes remain closed when you pull away. He leans closer, chasing your mouth, but the moment is already shattered. 

Your stomach plummets as the harsh reality sets in. His kiss now tastes like the ash of betrayal. The distressed whimper escaping your throat finally has him looking at you, shock written clearly across his features. Slowly, he releases you, your body sliding against his until your feet meet the floor. He takes a step back, hesitating, swallowing, "Doll —"

"No." You shake your head, your hands covering your mouth. The gold band on your fourth finger is a cool scorch against your swollen lips. "I have to go." You spring into motion, rushing to gather your bag.

"Stay, and we can talk about this," he implores, moving one hand to his hip while the other rakes through his hair. 

"Please don’t," you plead. "Don’t ask me for anything else." You swing the strap over your shoulder. "I just ch—" But the word stays stuck in your throat, as your eyes swim with tears.

His face falls, "It's not your fault, okay? I kissed you."

"Eddie—"

"You didn't do anything wrong. It was me," he insists, frustration in his voice as you scrub your face with your hands. "I don't want you driving when you're upset."

"I'm sorry," you say with an aching heart, pushing past him and closing the door behind you.

The sidewalk blurs under your feet as you race to your car. Fat raindrops splatter against the concrete like a spray of gunfire, each one a cold, wet slap against your skin. The sky chooses this moment to crack open, unleashing a torrent that feels personal. Your car comes into view, a bright orange ticket flapping under the wiper. Perfect. Just perfect.

With hands slick from the rain, you fumble with your keys before throwing yourself into the driver’s seat. Snatching the ticket from under the wiper as you go and crumpling it into your fist, stuffing it into the glovebox to be dealt with later. The downpour drums on the roof, enclosing you in a watery cocoon as you search through your bag for your phone. A missed call from Steve and a text reminding you about the dry cleaning. You spill the contents of your messenger onto the passenger seat, pens and lip gloss tumbling into the footwell. "Shit!" The word is a half-sob as you clutch the receipt marked with today's hours in unforgiving black ink.

Glancing at the clock on your dash, it hits you with the subtlety of a wrecking ball– six minutes until closing. It might as well be in another time zone, given the snarled rush hour traffic and the river that the streets have become.  Your car roars to life, and you pull out onto the roadway, tires hissing on wet asphalt, windshield wipers barely keeping up with the deluge. Your skin still sings with Eddie’s touch, but it's the burgeoning storm of words—cheater, adulterer, betrayer—mixed with the soft hazel of Steve’s disappointed eyes that tattoo themselves across your conscience. This is the unforgivable sin, and you can't undo it, but you'll be damned if you don't at least try.

You're double-parked now, hazards blinking a frantic rhythm. The 'CLOSED' sign on the dry cleaner's door mocks you as you rattle the unrelenting metal handle. "Please, please, please," you whisper, pounding on the uncaring glass, your unheard pleas bouncing off the empty shadows within. A car horn cuts through the rain —"What the fuck, lady?" The other driver yells, uncaring of your predicament.

"I'm moving, I'm moving!" The words are a rain-soaked shout as you slosh back to your car, drenched and defeated.

Another angry horn sounds off as you pull into traffic, carelessly cutting off a Yellow Cab in your haste. Rainwater drips from your hair, soaking your shirt. Even with the heater set to blast, it does little against the chill that has settled deep in your bones. Down the road, a bright blue sign glows like a beacon, and you jerk the steering wheel, the car fishtailing as you skid into the lot. 

The pharmacy's fluorescent lights are too bright and too sterile as you grab a small bottle of mouthwash off the shelf in the travel section and wait in line to pay, the store's generic electronic music grating against your already frayed nerves. Outside, you stand on the corner, swishing and spitting the minty liquid onto the sidewalk, repeating the process, trying to cleanse more than just your mouth. A passerby wrinkles their nose at you from under their umbrella. "This is Chicago! You've seen worse!" You snap, arms thrown up in exasperation while the rain and your regrets mingle on the cold pavement.

With pruney fingers, you pull the cardigan you had left at Stax off the back of your office chair. Shrugging it on, the material dampens from your wet t-shirt but offers a little warmth. Your phone buzzes as you settle at your desk — five missed calls from Eddie and four texts. The roar of the heavy rain and being buried deep in your bag had muffled its sound, not that you would have picked up. 

Eddie: Answer the phone, doll!

Eddie: Look, I need to know that you’re okay.

Eddie: I swear to Christ if you don’t pick up.

Eddie: Okay, have it your way. I’m driving to your place.

What? No! Your thumb presses the call button, and it rings twice before it connects. There’s no hello, just the slight hum of an engine and the rain pelting glass. 

“I’m okay,” you breathe into your phone, “I didn’t go home. I’m at my office.”

Your heart drums in your ears with each second of silence. Your eyes flutter shut, relief flooding you when he finally responds. An exhale loosens the tension in your chest.  His voice resonates in a dark rumble through the phone, "We need to talk."

“I….I know,” your voice wavers as you wipe your nose on the back of your hand. “I just need a minute here, Ed. Can you give me some time?” 

The rhythmic blink of the turn signal punctuates his heavy sigh. “Yeah. Alright. But doll,” he pauses as the sound of water splashing against his vehicle mingles with the whoosh of passing traffic, “You’re not running away from this. And trust me, the irony of that statement isn’t lost on me. Think about what I said, okay? I meant it all.”

With a tight throat, you whisper, "I have to go," and disconnect the call. 

Placing your phone on the desk, you dab the raindrops off your face with a tissue. The quiet of the office wraps around you, its half-dark corners and the soft glow from the monitors creates a place for you to breathe and be still. The raging storm and the ticking wall clock echoing in the solitude do little to distract you from thoughts you’re not ready to face. With a deep breath, you lift the lid of your laptop, seeking refuge in the normalcy of work as you coax the screen back to life.

The song erupts from the speaker on the edge of your desk, a jolt of sound shattering the silence like an accusation. You grab it with fumbling fingers, scrambling to press the off button. Covering your face with your hands, you let out a sound that is equal parts sob and hysterical laughter, wondering how you ended up in this situation. With your elbows pressed against the wooden top, you bury your face in your hands.

“What are you doing here, kid?” The gruff voice cuts through your misery.

"Jesus Christ, Hopper," you gasp, clutching at your chest, "You scared the hell out of me."

"Guess we're even since Mr. Brightside nearly sent me into cardiac arrest." Hopper towers over you, standing beside your desk with his hands buried in his pockets. 

“You listen to The Killers?” You ask, surprised while he drags a chair from the next desk, its wheels screeching faintly against the concrete floor.

“You kids really think Jim Croce is the only thing on my playlist?” A chuckle escapes him as he eases into the chair beside you, “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

You muster a puzzled look, shaking your head in feigned denial.

“Don’t bullshit me, kid. I don’t have much time. I’m meeting Joyce for dinner at that Italian place on Taylor Street. Have I told you about it? I’ve been dreaming about the breadsticks. Enzo puts some spice on ‘em, I don’t know what it is, but it’s good. You dip it in olive oil,” he groans, “Forget about it. Those things knock your socks off, and I’m wavering on the main course between—”

“I need you to take me off the studio opening,” you interrupt, folding your arms across your chest.

“We’ve been over this. Unless you have some good reason–”

“Eddie kissed me,” the confession slips out, eyes widening in shock at your admission, hands flying to cover your mouth.

His brows rocket upwards, then draw together, his gaze sharpening, voice dipping into a low, protective timbre, “What do you mean he kissed you?” 

“No,” you clarify, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing an elbow against the desk, massaging your temple to soothe the forming headache. “I kissed him. We kissed. It was mutual.”

Hopper reclines, the chair creaking under his weight, his gaze level and unreadable. “I’m disappointed in you, kid. I never thought I’d be having a conversation like this with you.”

“I know. I know. Steve…” you trail off, eyes drifting to the photo of Steve on your desk. 

Hopper leans in, his hand cutting through the air. “I don’t give a fuck about Harrington,” each word gains in volume, “This is about you and everything you’ve worked for. It’s 2012. That kind of nonsense ends careers. Do you know what can happen if he complains?”

Your eyes roll. “He’s not going to complain, Hop.”

“You don’t know that,” he counters, his head shaking off your naivety. “These things like this have a way of coming out. That was an amateur move. Where is your professionalism? What were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, lowering your eyes. “We have more of a history than I let on.”

“Well, stop the presses. I couldn’t have figured that one out.” His voice lowers in resignment, “Maybe this is my fault–”

“No–” 

Your protest is swift, but he plows right over you, “I’ve babied you. Maybe it’s because you’re my favorite or because you were just a kid when you started. I let you get away with too much over the years because you’re a damn good writer. But that stops now, I’m going to treat you like all the rest of the idiots in this place.” His hand waves around the room before pointing right at you. “You’re going back to that studio, and you’re going to keep your dick in your pants and get those interviews done. If you want to play kissy face, you do it on your own time. You got me?”

Your mouth drops open, disbelief palpable. “You're still going to make me finish?”

“Damm, right I am,” Hopper affirms, not missing a beat. "If I hand your work off, it raises questions. Big, messy questions. What do I tell downtown when they ask why the piece was reassigned? Unless you’re ready to come clean to Harrington?” 

Your lip goes between your teeth as your head shakes.

“I thought so.” Hopper leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "This could be both our necks," he mutters, concern filling his voice.

Your head shakes, but your determination is clear. "It won't."

“It better not. I don’t want to hear another word about it until that last story is on my desk. Are we clear?”

Your jaw clenches, the reality of the situation hitting hard. "Crystal."

Hopper's gaze remains fixed on you, ensuring his point has been made. "Good," he says, his voice softening, "Now go on, get out of here. Deal with whatever mess you've got going on. Just make sure it's sorted by Monday."

Your key slides into the lock and you turn it slowly, the tumblers falling into place with a series of soft clicks. You pause, leaning your forehead against the chill of the metal door, grappling with a rising queasiness that sours your stomach. 

A wave of home's warmth engulfs you, mingled with the earthy aroma of herbs and roasting potatoes. The vibrant strains of Queen accompany Steve's honeyed tones floating down the hall from the kitchen.

"Welcome home, ace. I was beginning to wonder where you were," his voice, laced with a touch of concern, greets you, “Busy day? Did you write me a Pulitzer?”

Your messenger bag slides from your shoulder, giving into gravity with a loud smack against the hardwood.

His voice grows nearer, warmer as he moves down the hall, the floor lightly creaking with each footfall. “I swung by the Athenian Room, grabbed us Chicken Kalamata, and I have a bottle of Chardonnay breathing.”

Your favorite. Your heart sinks further, receding behind your ribcage, unworthy of his care or devotion.

He stops short when he rounds the corner into the foyer, taking you in, his eyes reflecting your disheveled state. 

"I didn’t get the dry cleaning," you admit, struggling to keep your voice steady. "I was... too late."

For a heartbeat, he's silent, but his eyes remain tender. “Hey, that's alright, ace. I'll just skip the gym in the morning and swing by the cleaners before work. Are you okay?”

Traces of the day find a path down your cheeks as you sniffle and draw the cardigan tighter around yourself. "I got caught in the storm." 

“Did you forget your coat?” He draws closer as you give a small nod. His hands slide up your biceps, continuing on to wrap around you. “You're frozen.” He uses his thumb to lift your chin. “How about a hot shower, yeah? I'll keep dinner warm. You'll feel better after you eat.” His mouth begins to near yours, but you turn your face away. 

"I think I'm coming down with something," you manage, your lies teetering atop your mounting guilt. "My throat is sore."

Concern etches his features, his brows knitting together as he adjusts, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You don't feel hot.”

Pulling away, you bury your face into his shoulder. "I think I'll just shower and go to bed." 

“If that's what you want,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, though his tone is threaded with disappointment. “Go on up. I'll bring you some water and a couple of Tylenol.”

“Thanks, Steve,” you step away with a weight in your chest. “I'm really sorry.” 

“Don't worry about it.” He waves off your apology, his smile faint but sincere. His arms fold over his chest as he turns back toward the kitchen. 

As you climb the stairs, the music snaps off, replaced with the distant roar of a sports game, the announcers' voices carrying up the stairwell. 

The embrace of the hot shower strips away the cold clinging to your skin, but it cannot wash away the regret. Sliding down the tiles, you draw your knees close while your tears fall, mixing with the stream of water spiraling towards the drain. 

Your life is a song made up of the choices you've made, each one a different note that sounded so sure at the time, but now the harmony seems slightly off-key. The steam rises around you like a specter. It's the quiet between the chords. And you're there, just listening, trying to figure out if there's a note you'd change or if every single one was necessary. As you nestle into bed, sleep tugging like an insistent tide amidst the drift into dreams, one truth resonates clear– the music plays on.

Song 5 coming this week! Follow @tornupdates for notifications

Thanks for indulging me with this new version. I wanted to get it right. This next chapter is going to be Steve's launch party and will explore the fallout from that kiss. I love each and every one of you and I hope Torn!Eddie makes an appearance in your sweetest of dreams. -Jelly

[ririka-ilios]

Eidolon art "blueprint"

I've been looking over Eidolons in Star Rail today and thought it'd be fun to try and figure out how exactly the art on them works (i.e. what is the principle behind it, what they have in common between different characters, that sort of stuff).

There will be 1 (ONE) 2.1 story spoiler in here, so beware!

I haven't seen anyone else discuss this, so I've taken it upon myself to write an essay on it! This is relatively small and based entirely on my observations of the art. Feel free to use this as a basis for designing eidolons for your OCs if you want.

There will be example(s) for each part to help visualise the point I'm making as well as descriptions for the ones I'll use (some of the descriptions are much more detailed than others).

Eidolon 1

Shows view of the character from the back 3/4th to the left, up to their shoulders.

Eidolon 2

A close up of either of the character's eyes, showing off the details.

Eidolon 3

The view is entirely unique: the perspective, pose, and focus of the composition is meant to showcase an aspect of the character's personality.

Examples:

● Dan Heng. Back view, focus on his earphones as well as the maple leaf in his hand;

● Silver Wolf. Front view, focus on the game console in her hands;

● Himeko. Front view, focus on her facial expression and the pen in her hand.

Eidolon 4

Gives view of the character mostly from the front (either full-on or at an angle) or with them facing the camera in some way, up to their shoulders. Often has characters establish eye contact with the camera, but not necessary. Another showcase of their personality possibly might even represent how they interact with others.

Examples:

● March 7th. Back view with her head turned to look at the camera, making a peace sign. She's the only real outlier I've found so far, but it fits her personality fully;

● Aventurine. Front facing the camera, tipping (pulling down?) his hat and hiding one eye behind his hand as a result, obscuring his face;

● Bronya. Front, turned to the right, has a serious listening expression, one hand one her chest, closer to the heart. Perhaps a show of sincerity and dedication.

Eidolon 5

A close-up of the character's neck/collarbone area (despite the popular belief, it doesn't actually focus on their chest). The angle varies, as does the amount of character's expression shown, but generally, most of it is obscured (even in fuller pictures).

Examples:

● Herta. 3/4th angle, focus on the key hanging from her choker. The only part of her expression we see is her typical smug little smile;

(This Herta is one of many puppet avatars so the key might be a play on that. She also has a keyhole on the front of her outfit, though they're different sizes. There's also a key on a book cover in her splash art. Another fun fact, her upgrade materials are "Keys" as she is one of the first Erudition characters)

● Dr. Ratio. Focus on the pendant/decoration on his collarbones (maybe the Intelligentsia Guild insignia?), he has that "lips in a thin line" sort of expression;

● Black Swan. Focus on the heart decoration on her collarbones (reference to the stained glass in her ultimate, which in itself, loosely, calls back to Fuli, the Remembrance). She has her slight enigmatic smile.

Eidolon 6

Like E3, the view is entirely unique. The only consistent thing is that it ends at about the middle of a character's chest. The character is naked, showing them at their most vulnerable.

Examples:

● Misha. View from the side, his body turned in on itself as he hugs some sort of glowing orb. As a result, he's only illuminated at the points of contact. His expression is relaxed, but there's an interesting amount of seriousness in it, as if he's soothing/protecting the object;

● Sparkle. 3/4th to the left, has her hands up to her chest, one holding onto the other. A red string is tied into a four-petal flower shape around her pinkie finger, which sticks out from the rest of her fingers. Her expression is fully relaxed, her mouth is even slightly open, but the face paint is still on, and her hair is tied up;

● Acheron. View from the front, though her body is slightly turned to the left. She's in her self-annihilator state: hair white, the red thorn-like tattoos surround her lower neck and collarbones. There are red flowers outlined in white, either blooming on or flowing near her, some on her shoulders, some covering her left eye, others flying off. Interestingly, the flowers are placed loosely on a diagonal, bottom left to top right. Her expression is fully relaxed, mouth open slightly, and her hair is flowing to the side. That, paired with the flowers, makes it seem like there's a breeze passing by.

The conclusion I came to, upon finishing this analysis, is that Eidolons can be interpreted as the layers to characters' personality. With E1 being what anyone in the crowd could see – their back, no face, nothing to truly identify them by, and E6 is them at their most relaxed, most open point.

[pokemanix]

Welcome to POKEMANIX

Enjoy your stay. I like reblogging pkmn stuff of all kinds! That includes fanart and official stuff

I also post pkmn card posts for every pkmn character. If your favourite isn't up yet, they either don't have a card or theyre in the queue.

Official Pokemon Trainer Cards Easy List;

Gen 1

Red, Blue, Green, Leaf, Ash Ketchum, Mom, Professor Oak, Imposter Professor Oak, Daisy Oak, Bill, Celio, Mr. Fuji, Copycat, Giovanni, Jessie and James, Butch and Cassidy, Sird, Team Rocket Grunts, Brock, Misty, Lt. Surge, Erika, Koga, Sabrina, Blaine, Lorelei, Bruno, Agatha, Lance

Gen 2

Ethan, Kris, Lyra, Mom, Professor Elm, Silver, Eusine, Mary, Mr. Pokemon, Kurt, Buena, Archer, Ariana, Proton, Petrel, Falkner, Bugsy, Whitney, Morty, Chuck, Jasmine, Pryce, Clair, Janine, Will, Karen

Gen 3

Brendan, May, Mom, Professor Birch, Wally, Zinnia, Scott, Mr. Briney, Mr. Stone, Gabby and Ty, Lanette, Brigette, Professor Cozmo, Captain Stern, Aarune, Lisia, Archie, Matt, Shelly, Maxie, Tabitha, Courtney, Team Aqua Grunts, Team Magma Grunts, Roxanne, Brawly, Wattson, Flannery, Norman, Winona, Tate, Liza, Wallace, Juan, Sidney, Phoebe, Glacia, Drake, Steven Stone, Noland, Greta, Tucker, Lucy, Spenser, Brandon, Anabel

Gen 4

Lucas, Dawn, Johanna (Mom), Professor Rowan, Barry, Felicity, Looker, Roxy and Oli, Cheryl, Riley, Mira, Buck, Marley, Bebe, Roseanne, Cyrus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Team Galactic Grunts, Charon, Roark, Gardenia, Maylene, Crasher Wake, Fantina, Byron, Candice, Volkner, Aaron, Bertha, Flint, Lucian, Cynthia, Palmer, Thorton, Dahlia, Darach, Argenta

Gen 5

Hilbert, Hilda, Nate, Rosa, Mom (BW), Mom (B2W2), Professor Juniper, Cedric Juniper, Fennel, Cheren, Bianca, Hugh, N, Colress, Ghetsis, Zinzolin, Gorm, Bronius, Giallo, Ryoku, Rood, Anthea, Concordia, Shadow Triad, Team Plasma Grunts, Cilan, Chili, Cress, Lenora, Burgh, Elesa, Clay, Skyla, Brycen, Drayden, Iris, Roxie, Marlon, Shauntal, Marshal, Grimsley, Caitlin, Alder, Benga, Ingo, Emmet

Gen 6

Calem, Serena, Grace (Mom), Professor Augustine Sycamore, Shauna, Tierno, Trevor, Alexa, Cassius, Inver, Sina, Dexio, Gurkinn, Bonnie, Emma, AZ, Lysandre, Chalmers, Aliana, Bryony, Celosia, Marie, Xerosic, Team Flare Grunts, Viola, Grant, Korrina, Ramos, Clemont, Valerie, Olympia, Wulfric, Malva, Siebold, Wikstrom, Drasna, Diantha, Dana, Evelyn, Morgan, Nita, Kali, Katherine

Gen 7

Elio, Selene, Mom, Professor Kukui, Professor Burnet, Lillie, Hau, Samson Oak, Guzma, Plumeria, Gladion, Team Skull Grunts, Lusamine, Wicke, Faba, Aether Paradise Employees, Phyco, Dulse, Soliera, Zossie, Ilima, Lana, Kiawe, Mallow, Sophocles, Acerola, Mina, Hala, Olivia, Nanu, Hapu, Kahili, Molayne, Mohn, Ryuki

Gen 8

Victor, Gloria, Mum, Professor Magnolia, Sonia, Hop, Bede, Marnie, Sordward, Shielbert, Ball Guy, Team Yell Grunts, Rose, Oleana, Milo, Nessa, Kabu, Bea, Allister, Opal, Gordie, Melony, Piers, Raihan, Leon, Cara Liss, Jack, Dan, Mustard, Klara, Avery, Honey, Hyde, Peony, Peonia, Digging Duo, Koko

Hisui

Rei, Akari, Professor Laventon, Kamado, Cyllene, Zisu, Pesselle, Tao Hua, Sanqua, Colza, Beni, Ress, Rye, Cogita, Choy, Anthe, Charm, Clover, Coin, Vessa, Adaman, Mai, Arezu, Iscan, Melli, Sabi, Irida, Lian, Calaba, Palina, Gaeric, Pearl Clan Members, Diamond Clan Members, Ginter, Volo, Tuli, Mani

Gen 9

Florian, Juliana, Professor Sada, Professor Turo, Nemona, Arven, Penny, Clavell, Jacq, Dendra, Miriam, Raifort, Saguaro, Salvatore, Tyme, Katy, Brassius, Iono, Kofu, Larry, Ryme, Tulip, Grusha, Rika, Poppy, Hassel, Geeta, Giacomo, Mela, Atticus, Ortega, Eri, Carmen, Youssef, Team Star Grunts, Carmine, Kieran, Perrin, Kitakami Caretaker, Billy and O'Nare, Briar, Cyrano, Drayton, Lacey, Crispin, Amarys, Liko, Roy, Friede, Dot

Go

Professor Willow, Candela, Blanche, Spark

Other

Imakuni?, Holon, Trainer Classes (1, 2, 3, 4, 5), Pokemon Center Ladies, NPCs (1, 2, 3, 4)

[ravenwolfie97]

okay so initial thoughts on honkai star rail after i played like half of the tutorial bit this morning before work

first off, for the record, i have not played or heard much of anything about honkai impact 3rd and i have only played genshin impact pretty much since launch so my expectations were "genshin but sci-fi fantasy" but i can say that's not quite what i got (here’s a read more if you don’t care lol)

- immediately i notice that the graphics fidelity is gorgeous, very sleek and clean - it startled me a bit but also made me happy that the lip flaps are synced to the english dub! it seemed to flow really well even with the expression changes. the dialogue system doesn't seem all too different from genshin or. any other system like that. but it's got a pretty nice polish on the transitions between different states - the animation in the cutscenes and battles are really good, clearly they had a real talented team working on them. the characters feel so bouncy and expressive and it is pretty darn satisfying - the UI and interactive language is pretty much exactly the same as genshin with a sci-fi coat of paint. that's not a bad thing necessarily but like. it's pretty obvious - so the way combat and elemental powers work is very different from genshin, which frankly i should have expected, given this is a turn-based rpg. and i shouldn't have too much trouble with it, since turn-based rpgs are kind of a staple in my game roster, but for some reason i had trouble connecting with it. obviously finishing the tutorial would help, but it didn't feel as intuitive as i expected elements are presented in more of a traditional jrpg type of way where there are clear weaknesses you can exploit on enemies if you attack with a certain element. idk if i fully mean this but i think it kind of ruins part of the fun of discovering an enemy's weakness when the game itself just. tells you what it is off the bat also the types are weird in that they have pretty static effects in terms of what they do, the variability in moves is probably also explained further in character profiles but i haven't found how to look at that yet bkjljl - i'm fascinated by the ideas of Quantum and Imaginary types. what does that even mean. how do those manifest - i think it was a bit of a bold move to start the game off with two random characters talking about the world as if things are normal and known, and then having them influence your player character into. being in the plot not that i didn't like kafka and silver wolf. in fact i love both of them a lot. but i also had no context and had no goddamn idea what was going on so i was thrown pretty off-guard first thing which isn't exactly the greatest first impression lol - why is she named March 7th. does anyone know. is there a joke lost in translation or is it because she's like a pseudo-mascot character or. what - speaking of march actually i really want to like her but so far her character reeks of "hi i'm a girl". her skill is called "The Power of Cuteness" and one of her abilities is called "Girl Power" and so far her personality is cute, kind, and kinda stupid. it's a bit much. but she's neat - i have no big opinions on dan heng except he's neat and people keep saying he's the kazuha of star rail bc windy maple leaf boys but they're wrong bc dan heng has a stabby not a slicey and he can only hit one person at a time while kazoo thrives on the multi-hit AoE damage - i do love that the MC's weapon is just. a future baseball bat. that they get to smack people really hard with. no element, just big smack - oh yeah hyv loves to queerbait i guess cuz that wasn't CPR honey the twitter crowd wasn't kidding - i can’t think of anything else rn cuz it’s past midnight but star rail is neat and i like the little train rabbit dog mascot it’s cute and i wanna get past the tutorial hkjbjk

[lacrimosathedark]

I know I'm probably a weirdo for this, but one day I got to thinking, what if Pokemon was lingually accurate? Like, if characters were named appropriately based on their region? So I actually went through Bulbapedia and compiled a list of every major character's names in other languages. And just in case anyone else was curious, I thought I'd share it.

I'm going from the English base, so I'm majorly not including Unova, Galar, and most of Alola. Ones that are weird or are migrants I give explanations for.

Kanto: Japanese

Red: Same in English and Japanese

Leaf: Same in English and Japanese

Blue: Technically referred to as Green in Japanese since the original games were Red and Green (hence remakes being FireRed and LeafGreen), but is considered Blue internationally and it makes more sense to me (Red picks Charmander, rival picks Squirtle to be better, thus Blue).

Kakeru (Chase)

Ayumi (Elaine)

Shin (Trace)

Takeshi (Brock)

Kasumi (Misty)

Lt. Surge: His original title is "The Lightning American" and there's a whole tribute gym to his in Alola, so it's very likely he's from an America-inspired region, thus English name.

Erika: Same in English and Japanese

Kyou (Koga)

Anzu (Janine)

Natsume (Sabrina)

Katsura (Blaine)

Kanna (Lorelei)

Siba (Bruno)

Kikuko (Agatha)

Wataru (Lance)

Rocket-dan (Team Rocket): Literally written in katakana "ro-ke-t(su)-to"

Sakaki (Giovanni)

Ohkido Yukinari-hakase (Professor Samuel Oak)

Johto: Japanese

Hibiki (Ethan)

Kris: Same in English and Japanese

Kotone (Lyra)

Silver: Same in English and Japanese

Hayato (Falkner)

Tsukushi (Bugsy)

Akane (Whitney)

Matsuba (Morty)

Shijima (Chuck)

Mikan (Jasmine)

Yanagi (Pryce)

Ibuki (Clair)

Itsuki (Will)

Karin (Karen)

Minaki (Eusine)

Apollo (Archer)

Athena (Arianna)

Lambda (Petrel)

Lance (Proton): Yes, this is confusing with the Indigo Champion's English name being Lance.

Utsugi-hakase (Professor Elm)

Hoenn: Japanese

Yuuki (Brendan)

Haruka (May)

Mitsuru (Wally)

Tsutsuji (Roxanne)

Touki (Brawly)

Tessen (Wattson)

Asuna (Flannery)

Senri (Norman)

Nagi (Winona)

Fū (Tate)

Lan (Liza)

Juan: His Japanese name is Adan, but he uses different foreign words by localization (English in Japanese, Spanish in Viz's anime dub, and French in the Adventures manga's translation) so is likely foreign. Juan is his name in English, German, and French.

Mikuri (Wallace) Rune no Tami (Sootopolitan)

Kagetsu (Sidney)

Fuyou (Phoebe)

Glacia: Her name in Japanese is Prim, but she's implied to be from a more Western-based region. Glacia is her name in both English and French.

Genji (Drake)

Tsuwabuki Daigo (Steven Stone)

Datsura (Noland) Factory Head: Same in English and Japanese

Kogomi (Greta) Arena Captain (Arena Tycoon)

Tucker: Implied to be foreign, especially as his Japanese name is Heath. Tucker is his English name, and most other Romantic translations are loosely similar and come from the respective languages' word for "tactics". Dome Superstar (Dome Ace)

Azami (Lucy) Tube Queen (Pike Queen)

Ukon (Spenser) Palace Guardian (Palace Maven)

Jindai (Brandon) Pyramid King: Same in English and Japanese

Lila (Anabel) Tower Tycoon (Salon Maiden)

Higana (Zinnia) Denshousha (Lorekeeper)

Lutia (Lisia) Lutti (Lissi)

Tylulu (Ali): Lisia's Altaria

Magma-dan (Team Magma): Literally written in katakana "ma-gu-ma"

Matsubusa (Maxie)

Kagari (Courtney)

Homura (Tabitha)

Aqua-dan (Team Aqua): Literally written in katakana "a-ku-a"

Aogiri (Archie)

Ushio (Matt)

Izumi (Shelly)

Odomaki-hakase (Professor Birch)

Sinnoh: Japanese

Kouki (Lucas)

Hikari (Dawn)

Jun (Barry)

Hyouta (Roark)

Natane (Gardenia)

Sumomo (Maylene)

Maximum Mask (Crasher Wake): Maybe a little more clearly than the English name, it's a stage name and his real name is unknown. He's called "Maxi" for short, so it could just be that.

Fantina or Kiméra: Her name in Japanese is Melissa, which is a clearly Western name along with using foreign phrases. The difficulty here is in original Japanese (as well as French, logically) she speaks English, while most other localizations she speaks French. Fantina is her name in English, Spanish, and Portuguese. Kiméra is her name in French.

Suzuna (Candice)

Denzi (Volkner)

Ryou (Aaron)

Kikuno (Bertha)

Ōba (Flint)

Goyou (Lucian)

Shirona (Cynthia)

Kurotsugu (Palmer) Tower Tycoon: Same in English and Japanese

Neziki (Thorton) Factory Head: Same in English and Japanese

Dahlia: Same in English and Japanese Roulette Goddess (Arcade Star)

Kokuran (Darach): His Lady may be likely Unovan, but his lineage is never specified and he seems to have a Hisuian ancestor, so him being from Sinnoh is likely, hence Japanese name. Castle Butler (Castle Valet)

Argenta or Kate: Kate is her name in Japanese and is clearly Western. Argenta is her name in English, German, and Spanish. Stage Madonna (Hall Matron)

Momi (Cheryl)

Gen (Riley)

Baku (Buck)

Miru (Mira)

Mai (Marley)

Looker: Honestly, I just prefer Looker because it seems smoother to say as a codename than his Japanese codename which is Handsome. Looker also has the double meaning that Handsome doesn't, like he's looking/watching, because he's a detective. Looker is also his name in Portuguese, and sometimes in German, Spanish, and Italian. Every one of his codenames is a reference to his appearance ex. LeBelle in German and Beladonis in French.

Ginga-dan (Team Galaxy)

Akagi (Cyrus)

Mars: Same in English and Japanese

Jupiter: Same in English and Japanese

Saturn: Same in English and Japanese

Pluto (Charon)

Nanakamado-hakase (Professor Rowan)

Hisui: Japanese

Teru (Rei) Chō satai (Survey Corps' (Trainer class))

Shō (Akari) Chō satai (Survey Corps' (Trainer class))

Ginga-dan (Galaxy Expedition Team): Shares it's name with the modern Team Galaxy in Japanese, Chinese, Spanish, and Italian.

Kamado or Denboku: His original home region is unknown and he bears Galarian armor that looks strikingly similar to Kalosian Wikstrom. Denboku is from raidenboku, an alternate reading of the Japanese rowan, nanakamado, which is Rowan's Japanese name. Kamado also comes from nanakamado.

Shimaboshi (Cyllene): She is originally from Hoenn, but Hoenn is also Japanese so that means nothing for her name.

Perilla (Zisu) Keibi-tai (Security Corps)

Kine (Pesselle) Iryō-tai (Medical Corps)

Tao Hua: Same in English and Japanese Seizō-tai (Supply Corps)

Sazanka (Sanqua) Kenchiku-tai (Construction Corps)

Nabana (Colza): His original region is apparently unknown, but Japanese is still a safe bet. Also most other localizations stem from Nabana rather than Colza. Hatasaku-tai (Agriculture Corps)

Haku (Rye) Hatasaku-tai (Agriculture Corps)

Mube (Beni): His home region is apparently unknown, but Japanese is a safe bet. Imozuru-tei (The Wallflower): [directly from Bulbapedia] From imozuru (vines of Japanese mountain yam or sweet potato), Mitsuru (Wally), and tei (common suffix in restaurant names)

Taisai (Choy)

Sharon (Anthe): Oddly, Sharon is her Japanese name.

Kongō-dan (Diamond Clan)

Seki (Adaman) Osa (Clan Leader)

Yone (Mai) Captain (Warden)

Hinatsu (Arezu) Captain (Warden)

Susuki (Iscan) Captain (Warden)

Tsubaki (Melli) Captain (Warden)

Wasabi (Sabi) Captain (Warden)

Shinju-dan (Pearl Clan)

Kai (Irida) Osa (Clan Leader)

Kikui (Lian) Captain (Warden)

Yūgao (Calaba) Captain (Warden)

Garana (Palina) Captain (Warden)

Hamarenge (Gaeric) Captain (Warden)

Shō-Chiku-Ba (Miss Fortunes)

Omatsu (Charm) Yatō (Bandit)

Otake (Clover) Yatō (Bandit)

Oume (Coin) Yatō (Bandit)

Ichō Shōkai (Ginkgo Guild)

Ginnan (Ginter)

Tsuiri (Tuli)

Volo: Same in English and Japanese Pokemon Tsukai (Pokemon Wielder)

Cogito (Cogita): She is a whole ass mystery, but Cogita (her name in English and German) is just a (non-existent) feminine form of Cogito, her Japanese name, which comes from Latin and basically means "I think", as in Decaretes' "cogito, ergo sum" or "I think, therefore I am". French and Chinese use the respective language's variation of the phrase as a base for her name, while Spanish and Italian use Greek words, for "wisdom" and "intelligence" respectively.

Professor Laventon: He's Galarian, so his name is English.

Unova: English The only ones I'm doing here are ones that AREN'T necessarily the English version.

Clay or Yakon: I've heard Clay may play on Japanese businessman tropes, and he has an ancestor in Hisui, so his name could be either of these.

Lacey or Taro: As Clay's daughter, her situation is the same as his.

Cyrano or Mirtilo: English and Spanish names respectively. Lives in Unova, but as Clavel's classmate could be from Paldea maybe? Saffron or Milo: As above

Kalos: French

Kalem (Calem)

Serena: Same in English and French

Sannah (Shauna)

Trevor: Same in English and French

Tierno: Same in English and French

Violette (Viola)

Lino (Grant)

Cornélia (Korrina) Héritière (Successor)

Amaro (Ramos)

Lem (Clemont)

Mache (Valerie): Mache is actually originally from Johto, hence her Japanese name.

Astera (Olympia)

Urup (Wulfric): Given he likely has a Hisuian ancestor, it wouldn't be unlikely for his name to be Japanese. Luckily, his Japanese and French names are the same!

Malva: Same in English and French

Narcisse (Siebold)

Wikstrom or Thyméo: Since we know his armor is likely Galarian his English name isn't out of place, but his French name is Thyméo.

Dracéna (Drasna)

Dianthéa (Diantha) Grande-Duchesse (Grand Duchess)

Aurore (Morgan)

Méridia (Dana)

Vesper (Evelyn)

Nix (Nita)

Millie (Emma) Elili (Essentia) Femme Louche (Suspicious Woman) Enfant Louche (Suspicious Child) Jeune Femme Louche (Suspicious Lady)

Gribouille (Mimi): Millie's Espurr friend

Team Flare: Apparently the same in English, French, German, Italian, and Spanish.

Lysandre: Same in English and French

Ancolie (Aliana)

Brasénie (Bryony)

Cyane (Celosia)

Myosotis (Mable)

Xanthin (Xerosic)

Professeur Platane (Professor Sycamore): Somewhat surprisingly, his Japanese and French names are the same, though they do both originate from the French word platane.

Alola: English Hawaii is an American state, and there isn't a Native Hawaiian translation of the games, so English is the default language here. But Hawaii does have ties to the East, so I will use some of the Japanese names if they make more sense to me. Most are just slight spelling changes anyhow.

Yo (Elio): Moved from Kanto to Alola, so Japanese name.

Mizuki (Selene): Moved from Kanto to Alola, so Japanese name.

Ma'o (Mallow): Technically her Japanese name is just Mao, but ma'o is the Hawaiian word for Hawaiian cotton and I feel spelling it that way feels better.

Sophocles or Māmane: Both names after the same plant, the Sophora chrysophylla, it's common and local Hawaiian name being māmane.

Hapu'u (Hapu): Hapu'u is her name in Japanese and comes from hāpuʻu, the Hawaaian tree fern.

Molayne or Mullein: Molayne is just a different spelling tbh and I kinda think it looks better.

Skipping Galar; there aren't really a lot of clear foreigners besides Kabu whose name is the same.

Paldea: Spanish and Portuguese I look at both languages because Paldea is based on the Iberian Peninsula and not just Spain. However, with Portuguese, I'm having to look at Brazilian Portuguese, which is not quite the same as European Portuguese, because that's almost all that's on Bulbapedia. I generally choose whether to use Spanish or Portuguese based on if said name is also the same as the English and/or Japanese name. Or default if only one is available. Also uhh my order might be a bit weird here because I didn't get to actually play these games. I kinda assumed you go through the teachers before Gym Leaders, so...yeah. I can re-order it later if that's wrong or confusing.

Florian: From an unknown region, but the same in English, German, Spanish, French, and Italian.

Juliana: From an unknown region, but the same in English, German, Spanish, French, and Italian.

Nemo(?): She is noted to not be from Paldea but her home isn't specified so it could be anything. Nemona is her name in English and E. Portuguese, Nemo in Japanese, Korean, Mandarin, and Thai, Noêmia in B. Portuguese, Nemila in German, Nemola in Indonesian, and Nemi in Italian. The odd ones out are Mencía in Spanish and Menzi in French.

Arven: Same in English and B. Portuguese

Academia Naranja (Naranja Academy)

Academia Uva (Uva Academy)

Miriam: Same in English and B. Portuguese

Saguaro: Same in English, Japanese, and B. Portuguese (as well as German and French)

Dendra: Same in English and B. Portuguese

Cloe or Mora (Raifort): Cloe is her name in Spanish, and Mora is her name in French, which I only include because her English/Japanese name Raifort is from the French word for horseradish apparently, so maybe she's Kalosian.

Silvio (Salvatore)

Mila (Tyme)

Jacques (Jacq): The B. Portuguese name as it's closer to his English name. His Spanish name is Cinio, which is Spanish for his Japanese name, Zinnia, which could be confusing considering Higana.

Clavel: Same in Japanese, Spanish, German, French, and Italian. English and B. Portuguese just adds another L. Clive: Same in English and B. Portuguese Director Escolar (Director)

Catarina (Katy): Her B. Portuguese name, which is closer to her name in English (Katy) and Japanese (Kaede).

Brais or Brás (Brassius): His Spanish and B. Portuguese names respectively, as both are very close to his English name.

Kissera (Iono): Her B. Portuguese name, comes from "O que será?" apparently meaning "what will it be?", which is closer to the intent behind her name in Japanese (Nanjyamo, name given to an unusually large tree that grows in a particular place; literally meaning "What is it?") and English (Iono, as in "I don't know") than her Spanish name, e-Nigma. Which makes me think of the Riddler.

Fuco (Kufo)

Laureano or Lauro (Larry): His Spanish and B. Portuguese names respectively. Larry could be a nickname for either though.

Lima or Citrina (Ryme): Her Spanish and B. Portuguese names respectively. Lima has the same puns on lime and rhyme that English and Japanese does, but tbh makes me think more of lima beans. Citrina is from citrino (citrus).

Tuli or Tulipa (Tulip): Her Spanish and B. Portuguese names respectively.

Grusha: Actually may be from an unrevealed Russian region as his name is Russian. It's also the same in most languages.

Cayena or Kaya (Rika): Her Spanish and B. Portuguese names respectively. Both come from cayenne, which isn't in her Japanese or English names. Her Japanese name is Chili, and Rika comes from paprika.

Poppy: Her name in English, Japanese, and B. Portuguese as well as German and Indonesian.

Hassel?: From and unknown region so could literally be anything, and all his names are very different.

Ságita or Guita (Geeta): Her Spanish and B. Portuguese names respectively. Supercampeona (Top Champion)

Team Star: Same in English and Spanish as well as German, French, and Italian

Penny: Actually from Galar, so her English name. Cassiopeia or Casiopea: English and Spanish forms respectively, referencing the constellation.

Giacomo: Same in English and B. Portuguese DJ Vil (DJ Vice)

Melo or Mélia (Mela): Spanish and B. Portuguese respectively.

Henzo (Atticus): Spanish name. Not like English or Japanese name, but his whole ninja theming makes Henzo fit better than the B. Portuguese Érico.

Ortega: Same in English and B. Portuguese, similar to Japanese, French, and Korean Ortiga.

Erin or Êri (Eri): Spanish and B. Portuguese respectively.

Profesor Sada: Same in English and EUROPEAN Portuguese, listed for once.

Profesor Turo: Same in English, Spanish, and Portuguese.

Kitakami: Japanese Not a region itself I don't think, but it's not connected to a specific region I don't think, so.

Zeiyu (Carmine)

Suguri (Kieran) Sugu (Kiki)

Sazare (Perrin): Actually from Sinnoh, but this is where you meet her so here she is. Shashinka (Photographer)

What do you think? Did I forget anyone important?

Okay this took way too long for something probably no one will see okaybaiiiiii

[azure-wolf-227]

Hamefura x Pokémon AU: Other Teams

Since I already explained the Teams for the main characters, I’ll be sharing what Pokémon other characters have. 

I’m open to suggestions of what other Pokémon fit these characters as well as Pokémon suggestions for characters not mentioned here.

Note: Only canon characters will be mentioned here. My OCs will get their own post.

Parents

Luigi Claes

Mudsdale - First Pokémon/Partner; reference to @dulcito-on-ao3, @cyclaes and my headcanon that Luigi like horses.

Flygon - a gift from Millidiana

Several other Ground and Rock-Types

Millidiana Claes

Garchomp - First Pokémon/Partner - Scary mother, scary land shark.

Lunatone - a gift from Luigi; references how the second part of her name is associated with the moon.

Several other Dragon-Types: Salamence, Haxorus, and Kommo-o

King Owen Stuart

Shiny Arcanine - Partner - I just feel that this sounds like a majestic Pokémon fit for a king.

Volcarona - another Pokémon that seems fit for a king.

Charizard that can Mega-Evolve into Charizard X - just felt right to give him this Pokémon; I chose X because blue fts silver hair and dragons are associated with royalty

Ceruledge - a knight Pokémon to protect the king; I chose this one because blue fits silver hair and as a reference to one of @dulcito-on-ao3 stories where the silver-haired royals can see ghosts.

Baxcalibur - a gift from his wife; the reference to Excalibur gives it royal association.

Queen Giulia Stuart

Alolan Ninetales - Partner - rare and beautiful Pokémon fir for a queen.

Empoleon - the “emperor” reference fits with Royalty

Armarouge - gift from her husband; a knight to protect the queen; red goes with blonde hair

Dan Ascart

Unfezant ♂ - Partner - no specific reason besides giving him a Flying-Type

Corviknight - like father, like son. Reference to @cyclaes‘s headcanon that the Ascarts have a crow of their coat of arms.

Beautifly - he is a handsome man so he gets a beautiful Pokémon

Gallade - a gift from his wife

Radea Ascart

Ribombee - Partner - no specific reason besides giving her a pretty Pokémon as a partner. Since her father is the Bug-Type specialist of the Elite Four, it also fits.

Milotic - a beautiful Pokémon for a beautiful woman; yellow skin with reddish eyes fit Radea’s blonde hair and reddish eyes.

Gardevoir - like mother, like daughter

Unfezant ♀ - a gift from her husband

Siblings, their fiancées, and others close friends

Geoffrey Stuart

Vaporeon ♀ - First Pokémon - bigger than average; a reference to @dulcito-on-ao3 story ‘Cute and Fluffy!’

Girafarig - it has two-faces and Geoffrey is two-faced

Mime Jr - just imagine how cute and funny it would be if this guy copies Geoffrey's bombastic gestures

Ian Stuart

Espeon ♂ - First Pokémon - a reference to @dulcito-on-ao3​ story ‘Cute and Fluffy!’

Froslass - because he is stoic and seemingly cold to his fiancé

Suzanna Randall/Larna Smith

Alakazam - Partner as Suzanna - has an IQ of 5,000 and Suzanna is considered the smartest woman in the kingdom

Zorua - Partner as Larna - its ability to change it’s form fits with Larna’s talent for disguises

Ditto - another reference to Larna’s talent for disguises

Sigilyph - it's the best I found to reference Larna’s interest in ancient magic tools Gengar - it's a mischievous Pokémon and Suzanna/Larna has a mischievous side

Pidgeot - a Flying-Type to match her wind magic

Several other psychic-Types most often used when she is in her Suzanna persona as the Randall family are supposed to be Psychic-Types specialists.

Selena Burke

Eevee/Leafeon♀ - Partner - initially held an Everstone since it was nervous about evolving - reflecting Selena's lack of confidence. Once they both gained confidence during battle, Eevee signaled to Selena to throw at Leaf Stone, letting her evolve into Leafeon. As Leafeon, she gains resistance to Electric-Types, making it a contrast to Selena’s family of Electric-Types specialists. (It used the be Sylveon because it is a cute Pokémon and Selena is very cute (according to Ian)).

Dedenne - a cute Electric-Type cause her father is the Electric-Type Arena Champion

Several cute but surprisingly skilled Pokémon.

Anne Shelly

Indeedee ♀ - Partner - a maid Pokémon, and a good babysitter because Anne was pretty much the kids’ babysitter Blissey - a caring Pokémon

Antagonists (Reformed and Current)

Sora Smith (Reformed)

Alolan Raticate - a reference to his past as a street-rat

Thievul - another reference to his past as he had to steal to survive; I imagine that this guy and Raticate have been with him since he was a kid.

Umbreon ♀ - he meets this one as an Eevee after he joins the MInistry and it soon evolves; Katarian is thrilled that they both have the same Eeveelution, much to her friends’ jealousy.

Sarah

Hydreigon -  a reference to the Dark Dragon Familiar from LN6.

Noelia Flores

Flareon♂ - I imagine her using the fact that they both have Flareons to get close to Prince Geordo, with little success; this Flareon is just as arrogant and spoiled as his Trainer; it’s also one of the few Pokémon Noelia evolves

Fennekin - another cute Fire-Type; it holds an Everstone because Noelia wants to keep it small and cute

Glameow - another fancy Pokémon that is just as spoiled as its Trainer; it holds an Everstone because Noelia doesn’t want it to evolve since its evolution is “ugly.”

I also imagine that Noelia doesn’t bother training her Pokémon

[danhjngs]

renheng in which dan heng is a gamer that streams and blade is about to have his make up guru awakening.

silver wolf was sitting on the couch, her legs kicked up on the arm as she blew her bubble gum. she heard footsteps and moved her phone from her view to peek at the door, waiting for the person to walk through it.

"hey, blade." she said before he closed the door. "i found something you may want to check out."

"if it's another one of those gaming tutorials, silver wolf, then i'm not interested." he said with a tired voice, yawning before he walked over to where silver was. "...what is it?"

silver wolf grinned and held out her phone. on the screen it displayed a screenshot of a youtube video. it was at the part where the make up guru showed off the look she created. blade stared at it for a while before silver wolf pulled her phone back.

"for some reason, i feel like you can pull this look off or even, do better."

"i've never–"

"you said you wanted to surprised dan heng with something, right? the colors are fit for his maple leaf theme, why not go with something like that?"

blade was quiet, letting silver wolf's suggestions sink into his mind, and perhaps it wasn't that bad of an idea. before he straightened himself up and turned away, he stopped in this tracks, peering briefly over his shoulder once he reached the kitchen.

"send me the video.." he mumbled, but he knew that silver wolf would hear him.

silver wolf beamed, and she didn't have to be told twice as she instantly sent the link to the full video.

little did blade knew that this would be his awakening as an aspiring make up guru. which, can be hilarious to think of, considering his boyfriend is a well-known youtube gamer.

[cultivatetastesblog]

Discover Premium Teas from Specialty Loose Leaf Stores

Tea enthusiasts know that the quality of tea can make a huge difference in taste, aroma, and health benefits. For those who seek the finest tea experiences, shopping at a specialty loose leaf tea store is the way to go. These stores offer a wide selection of teas, from delicate white teas to robust dark teas, each sourced from the best tea-growing regions in the world.

The Appeal of Organic Tea Varieties

Health-conscious consumers often turn to organic tea varieties for their purity and sustainability. Grown without harmful chemicals or pesticides, these teas offer a cleaner, more natural flavor profile. Whether you prefer a calming green tea or an invigorating black tea, organic options provide a healthier alternative to mass-produced blends. Shopping at a specialty loose leaf tea store ensures access to a curated selection of organic teas, offering a diverse range of flavors and aromas.

Exploring the Dark Tea Selection

For those who enjoy deep, rich flavors, the dark tea selection available online is a must-try. Dark teas, such as Pu-erh, are known for their earthy tones and complex taste profiles that develop over time. These fermented teas are often aged, resulting in a smoother, more robust flavor. Whether you’re looking for something bold to start your day or a tea that pairs well with meals, dark teas provide a unique experience for seasoned tea drinkers.

White Tea Assortment: Delicate and Refreshing

On the other end of the spectrum, the white tea assortment offers a lighter, more delicate flavor that’s perfect for those who prefer a milder tea experience. White teas are minimally processed, preserving their natural sweetness and subtlety. Their gentle flavors make them an excellent choice for unwinding after a long day or enjoying during a quiet afternoon. A specialty loose leaf tea store is the ideal place to explore different white tea options, from Silver Needle to Bai Mu Dan.

Green Tea Store: A Healthier Choice

Green tea has long been celebrated for its numerous health benefits, including antioxidants and metabolism-boosting properties. For tea lovers seeking high-quality green tea, a green tea store provides a wide selection of varieties, from Japanese matcha to Chinese Dragon Well. Whether you enjoy it hot or iced, green tea is a versatile option that can be enjoyed any time of day.

Shop High-Quality Loose Leaf Tea Online

For convenience and variety, many tea enthusiasts prefer to shop for high-quality loose leaf tea online. Specialty tea stores often offer an extensive selection of teas that can be delivered directly to your doorstep, allowing you to explore new flavors and blends without leaving your home. From organic tea varieties to rare dark and white teas, purchasing online ensures you have access to the best loose leaf teas available.

In conclusion, whether you're new to tea or a seasoned connoisseur, exploring a specialty loose leaf tea store will open your eyes to a world of rich flavors and health benefits. From green tea stores to dark tea selections, there is something for every tea lover to enjoy.

[chaxicollective]

Bai Mu Dan (White Peony)

Today I went back to one of the first loose leaf teas that I ever fell in love with: Bai Mu Dan or White Peony, a fairly high quality white tea from Fujian, China. As with every style of tea, white tea exists in a wide range. There are cake-pressed and aged white teas like Moonlight White, bud-only white teas like Silver Needle, and bold broken white teas like Shou Mei. Bai Mu Dan places itself…

[sweetsweetjellybean]

A crush that was better off a secret and a kiss that should never have happened.

Masterlist WC: 12399

TW: 2012 AU, Older!Eddie, Older!Steve, Femreader, Second Chance Romance (not a slow burn), Love Triangle, Smut, 18+ No minors beta'd by @superblysubpar

A sharp chill nips at your cheeks as gusts of autumn wind blow through the amber-leafed trees that surround  Hawkins High's parking lot. You pick at the splintered wood of the picnic table beneath you, etched with initials and scribbles. The anguished croon of Placebo plays through your headphones, drowning out the sounds of the start of another school day. Shifting the pile of books on your lap, you steal a glance at where Eddie stands with his back to you a few yards away. Lately, it’s like your best friend has purchased real estate in your brain. Daydreams resulting in hearts doodled in the margins of your notebooks a little too close to where you printed his name. His dark curls spill over the collar of his worn denim vest, shadowing the frayed edges of the Dio patch he had sown on last week. He's deep in conversation with Dan Shelter, a senior in the same class that Eddie would have been in if he hadn’t missed so much time after his mother passed. They both turn and look at you at the same time.

Eddie’s eyes narrow as his brows pull tighter into a frown. You push one of your headphones back, and the noise of everyday chatter and car engines bursts into your reality like a bubble popping. 

"You know your girlfriend is deeply weird, Munson," the spiky-haired jock says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket, not even trying to hide his distaste.

Girlfriend? You’ve both tried to stamp out that rumor—yet no matter who else you go out with, those sparks never last and pale in comparison to the steady flame you feel around Eddie. Would it really be so bad if it were true? But your answer scares you more than you expect. 

"She’s not my girl," Eddie retorts with a swift shake of his head, his voice edged with that familiar bite of annoyance. His foot scuffs against the asphalt, the white Reebok stark against the black of his jeans that cling to his narrow hips. With a sigh of impatience escaping him, the fabric of his Hellfire Club t-shirt pulls tighter across his chest, outlining his lean frame underneath. 

"You in or out?" He snaps his fingers near Dan's face, the sunlight catching on the silver rings that adorn his fingers, "I've got other places to be, and you're not my only customer."

"Sure, whatever," Dan grumbles, extending his hand with a few crumpled bills.

Eddie accepts the cash with an easy smirk and a casual flick of his fingers. He teases the dime bag between thumb and forefinger, letting it sway like a pendulum for a heartbeat. Dan’s hand hovers, eyes darting for prying eyes, but before he can grasp it, Eddie lets the bag drop to the ground. 

"Oops," Eddie says, his voice dripping with feigned innocence. He pivots on his heel, walking away without a backward glance.

Dan’s face ignites with anger as he stoops for the bag, muttering curses under his breath.

"Always a pleasure," Eddie calls over his shoulder as he turns to join you, flashing a dismissive two-fingered salute. A gaggle of giggling girls from the sophomore class crosses his path, eyes trailing over him like he's their favorite song come to life.  

"Ladies." He casually extends an arm, waving them past, his voice a smooth melody that never fails to draw attention. They flutter past with whispers and longing glances. Despite their whispers of 'freak' in the corridors, they all seem to vie for a chance to climb into the back of his van, to be the subject of rumors they'd later deny.

He never hides his interest when he likes a girl — everybody knows when Eddie Munson is into someone. But he’s never looked at you that way, never given you that smile meant for those he desires. And that’s something that has never bothered you. Now, it stirs something else — a green thorny vine wrapping around your insides. He’s just Eddie–your friend, the same old Eddie, even as your heart whispers lies of a different tune.

Without missing a beat, he saunters over, the rhythmic clink of his chain wallet punctuating each step. He leaps onto the picnic table, landing beside you with a thud that sends vibrations through the timeworn wood, eyes lingering on the girls retreating forms.

"You need to be careful, Eddie," you warn, your eyes following as Dan stalks off, his annoyance like a dark cloud.

"Careful is my middle name, doll." He smiles a big, sly grin, dimples deepening, that causes a flutter in your chest, an unexplained sensation that's become strangely frequent these days.

He nods at your leg."What’s this?" His eyes drop to your thigh, dark lashes making a half-moon shadow on his cheek. His thumb brushes over the square field of bright white crosses over the darker denim patch on your jeans, and a trail of tingles follows, unbidden and unwelcome. You disguise the shiver as a chill from the wind, even as you yearn to lean into his touch.

"It’s called sashiko," you explain, strangely aware of the warmth of his skin, the ghost of his touch lingering with an unfamiliar tingle. "The art of visible mending." 

"Looks cool," he says, his gaze meeting yours, a little too intense, a little too long. Your fingers clutch your notebooks tighter, a shield against whatever this feeling is.

"Are you coming over after school?" Your voice is steadier than you feel.

"I’ll drop you off, but I’ve got to go back to the trailer after," Eddie replies, his eyes still holding yours, a silent conversation you can't quite interpret. "I’ve got stuff to do," he adds, and something in his tone suggests layers you're not ready to peel back, "Not your kind of stuff."

The house where Eddie grew up doesn't even look the same anymore. Someone else has moved in, always keeping the lawn perfect, and all the broken things have been fixed up. Erasing any traces of tragedy. The neighborhood has moved on as well, absolving themselves. Like they hadn’t just turned their back and let it happen as if it wasn't their problem. Eddie's staying on the other side of town now with his Uncle Wayne in a tiny one-bedroom trailer. Wayne's heart is in the right place, even if he drinks too much, just like Eddie's dad did. But he's not bad, just... lost when it comes to dealing with an angry teen, and with him working nights, Eddie's on his own to figure out how to deal with it all. 

"I can keep you company," you offer, the words casual but your heart isn't in it. You can't help the way your gaze lingers on him, hopeful despite yourself.

He shakes his head, a shadow crossing his features. "Nah, I’ve got to stop at Rick's, then a run," he says, and there's a hardness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

You frown, frustration knitting your brows. "I don’t see what the big deal is," you argue, your voice lower, "We smoke together all the time."

"The big deal," he says, reaching out to lift your chin, forcing you to look at him, "Is that this is business, and I don’t want you involved. Alright?" His voice is firm, letting you know he won’t budge. "I’ll pick you up later," he promises, "Movie night, just us."

The shrill ring of the bell is your cue to retreat, to put distance between you and these feelings that are threatening to upend everything. You nod at him, shoving your books into your bag. His gaze holds onto you for a heavy beat before breaking away, stirring a current of unease within you. There's a shift in the air, a prelude to something you can't name, like the static before a storm leaving a trail of goosebumps on your arms and a warmth low in your belly as you part ways at the door. Eddie's last glance sears itself into your thoughts. 

As you make your way to class, the feeling clings, like an overplayed song on the radio — a sense that the simplicity of life is about to fracture. The ache is new and confusing. You hug your arms, trying to squeeze out the gnawing, persistent sting that seems to spread through your limbs. It's a tangible pain, this longing, like a hand squeezing around your heart, making it hard to breathe.

But you push it all down, resolving to guard your secret, to lock it away in the confines of your ribcage, where it can't taint the one thing you value most. The friendship you've built is too important, too rare to risk on a silly crush that might only live in your head–one that might fade with time. It’s a gamble you won’t take. You can't lose him. You won’t watch that light in his eyes dim for you, awkward silences replacing the laughter. Without him, you’d be alone.

It's safer this way–safer for your heart, for his, and for the delicate balance you've maintained for so long. The stakes are too high. You’ll keep your cards close to your chest. It’s a dangerous game you're playing, one you’re determined to win.

Cold grey days have been giving way to dark, inky nights. The stars and moon veiled behind thick cotton clouds, stealing the light earlier each day. Winds gust, sending wet leaves sticking to the glass of your office windows as the bare fingers of the boxwoods planted around the brownstone scratch against the house in protest.

Lowering the lid of your laptop, the light in the room dims as the brightness is trapped between the two halves. Your arms stretch over your head, loosening the tension trapped in your neck as you push away from your desk, drifting towards the sounds of life coming from the living room. Steve’s long legs are stretched out on the chaise end of the couch, a Bulls game on the TV, but his attention is stuck on the laptop resting on his thighs. 

“My eyes are going to fall out my head if I stare at that screen for any longer,” you declare, rounding the corner of the couch.

“Well, then, come stare at this screen instead.” His arm extends, making space for you to crawl onto the couch next to him and fit yourself into his side. 

“You’re so warm,” you comment, your cheeks nuzzling into his chest as his lips find the top of your head. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

“I’ll wake you up when it’s time for bed. I still have a few hours of work left,” he sighs as his finger slides down the trackpad, scrolling through a document that seems to never end. 

“Is that for the launch?” Your eyes squint in protest at the brightness of his screen. 

He groans at the ping of another incoming email while he toggles between the many windows he has open. “Yeah, we're in the final stretch. The event team is trying to finalize the details. Maroon 5 and Fallout Boy are locked in to perform, but we’re still waiting to hear back from a few other acts and about a million other details that need ironing out.”

“It’s going to be a great night, baby. Everyone is going to be so impressed,” you assure, the arm you have draped across his stomach tightening, trying to impress your words into him. “Everything is going to go smoothly, you’ll see.”

He scoffs, doubt clouding his voice. “I wish I had your confidence. The server's capacity is still a question mark, and we're racing to fix streaming delays. Fuck!” The heels of his hands press into his eyes. “All I need is this thing to fail at the last minute, especially with Richard and my dad watching.” He imitates his father's stern tone, “Typical. He’s always been a fuck up. Chokes right before the buzzer.” Letting his hands drop, his vulnerable eyes turn to you. “I should have listened to you and not invited my parents. I actually never thought they would agree to come. Now I’m running around trying to get things ready for them too.”

“Hey,” you coax, tilting your head to lock eyes with him and taking one of his hands between yours, your heart aching with the tension you know he’s carrying. “That’s not going to happen, Steve. If the servers have issues or if there's a lag, it's just a hiccup. You've got a team to handle that. You've put in the work, and you're brilliant at what you do. Your parents will see that. Everyone will.” 

He manages a smile, but it’s just a placation.

“What can I do to help?” You ask, “I’ll make sure we have some Pellegrino stocked and that cheese your parents like.”

There's a pause as he weighs his next words.  “I’ve already called the housekeeper and let them know to put fresh sheets in the guest room in case they decide to stay here, but I still need to make a reservation at the Four Seasons as a backup.”

Your jaw tightens, but you curb your annoyance at how John Harrington has everyone trained to cater to his high-maintenance whims, but this is for Steve’s peace of mind. “I’ll call first thing tomorrow. Consider it done. Anything else?”

He hesitates, a little apologetic. "My suit... the dry cleaner closes early tomorrow. I hate to ask, but I might not make it in time–"

“No problem. I’ll make time.”

His lips lift at the corners, and this time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I love you.” He lends forward, slotting his lip softly in between yours. “I’ll put the ticket in your bag. Thank you for helping, Ace.”

“It's just Eddie's interview for me tomorrow afternoon. I should have plenty of time." Standing, you give his hand an encouraging tug. "Now, can we go to bed? Everything will look better after a good night's sleep.”

His mouth sets in a determined line as he shuts down his laptop, yielding to your pull as he rises. His hand finds a comforting place on the small of your back, grounding you both as you climb the stairs together. 

Hitching the strap of your messenger bag higher on your shoulder, you kick at a loose stone on the sidewalk in front of the brick building. Car horns blare in the distance as traffic rolls by in the busy neighborhood.  The sun casts a glint off the steel CursedSound sign, its metal already weathering with a faint tinge of color. The heavy door is yanked open, its clank and whine making you jump even though the sound is expected. 

"Hi," Eddie greets you from the other side of the threshold, the softness of his tone mirroring the gentleness in his eyes.

"Hi," you return, shyness adding a tremble to your voice that shouldn’t be there. His fingers grip the edge of the door, and light flashes off the Rolex peeking out from under the cuff of the plaid flannel he wears over a fitted v-neck and jeans, the fabric snug against his defined shoulders. It’s still a novelty to see how his slim build has filled in over the years, still expecting the boy you knew instead of this man in front of you. He looks you over the same way he did last time like he’s trying to decide if you’re really there. Maybe it’s the differences he sees in you, too, or does he look beyond the scars to the lonely girl he once knew? You shift your gaze away, down the street, your toes curling inside your Converse as a flush of warmth climbs up your neck. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I don't know." He pretends to ponder, a smile forming, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Where's your hard hat?"

Tilting your head to the side, you purse your lips until he breaks into a chuckle. He swings the door open wider to welcome you inside. You pass him with a shake of your head and continue down the dimly lit hall, now familiar with the layout. 

The lobby is in utter chaos.

"Sorry for the mess. The maid took the week off," he quips as he watches you take in the sight before you. 

The brown paper has been removed from the windows, allowing bright light to stream through the streaked and dirty glass. All the furniture has been pushed toward the center of the room, and ladders and paint cans litter the floor space. A large mural wrapping around the windows and front entrance has been outlined but not completed. In the same graffiti style as the one upstairs, this one displays more cityscapes with waves of the lake breaking at the forefront. Winged skulls and guitars blend with colorful swirls of clouds rising toward the ceiling. The colors brighten the deep tones of the space, capturing the essence of the city and the spirit of CursedSound.

"It’s perfect," you tell him as your eyes follow the sweeping, colorful lines around the room.

"Was that a compliment?" He asks, coming up behind you. "I thought it was a dump."

His breath, a warm whisper against your ear, spins you around. "Well, what can I say? It’s growing on me." Your fingers move to your lips, concealing your smile as his deepens. 

"You look really good." His low voice bounces off the empty walls, "I mean…your, uh, outfit is nice." He waves his hand toward you before wiping it on the front of his jeans. 

Your brows raise as you glance down at the jeans and plain tee with Lollapalooza written across the front. None of the trendy fashions you usually wore to interviews seemed to fit right today. Causing you to tug at necklines and fidget with the hems of three different outfits before settling on something casual. There’s nothing to hide behind – the armor is off. It’s time to hear him out. 

"Wow, that was smooth," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don’t know why I’m feeling nervous."

The fluttering in your stomach matches his energy. The shield of anger you’ve held between you is battered and worn thin, leaving uncertainty behind. 

"It’s because I’m going to get you to spill all your secrets and print them so the whole world can sit in judgment."

 A choked sound comes from his throat as his eyes widen into saucers.

Unable to keep a straight face, you giggle. "Relax, Eddie. I already told you I’m not writing some hit piece. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides," you shrug, "It’s only me." 

A sharp breath escapes as his shoulders lower. "Yeah, you’re right," he takes a step forward, his gaze locking with yours, "After all these years, it's you.

"Eddie." His name comes out with an almost breathless sigh as you look away. He takes another step forward, and you clear your throat before prompting. "Why don’t you show me what else you’ve done?"

He takes a step back, raking a hand through his curls, "Of course." His lips tighten into a flat line as he gestures toward the stairs. "After you." 

You lead the way to the second floor, where the smell of fresh paint permeates the air. A ladder leans against a half-painted wall, and orange extension cords crisscross the carpet in the hall, winding into the studios as if the work had been suddenly halted.

"Where is everyone?" You ask as you step inside Studio A. It's come a long way since your last visit. The deck to hold the mixing board has been completed, the glass installed, and the wiring is underway.

"I didn’t know how long you’d be here, so I told them to take the rest of the day off." His eyes follow the movements of your hand as it brushes over knobs and sliders of the soundboard, still sheathed in a protective layer of plastic. 

"You didn’t have to do that," you say, walking back out into the hall. 

"I didn’t think we needed the audience," he shrugs, walking along with you to the next room.

"I hope it doesn’t make you fall behind schedule." The walls of the small Studio B are covered with walnut slats to create an acoustic barrier while still keeping the room open, while the mixing room kept the original exposed brick.

"I’ve got time."

"Even so," you say, moving toward the window. The sun glints off the mirrored windows of the tall, sleek building across the street. "I’m sure you're eager to open. Put out that first album with the CursedSound logo in the liner notes."

"I am." He comes to stand beside you, his gaze taking in the bustle of the city at midday. "It’s gonna be good to have nothin’ between me and the music. Let the artists be as creative as they want. Their management can deal with the corporate A&R people and leave me out of it."

"You never did like playing by the rules," you smile, catching his eyes in the reflection of the glass.

He turns his head, studying your profile. "Why should I?" he continues, his tone more determined,"The rules sure as hell never helped me. I'm gonna take my chances as I find them. Even if I play a little dirty. I deserve happiness the same as the next guy."

"Of course you do." The world has done nothing but take from him. His mother. His childhood. The opportunities that came so easily to everyone else. 

"What about you?" He asks as you return to the hall, "The rules seemed to have treated you well."

You raise your shoulders while a warm smile graces your lips, one you have no intention of concealing. "I love my job. I like the city, and…I have Steve."

"You ending up with Steve Harrington," his voice curls around the name, a sneer you can almost see, "I gotta admit, I didn't see that one coming."

Stopping, you pivot to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. "He's a good guy, Eddie."

He expels a sigh in a short, almost defeated breath, shaking his head. "I know he is, doll."

The unmarked door at the end of the hall provides a convenient diversion. "Where does this go?" You wonder out loud as your hand closes over the knob. 

"My apartment."

"You're living here?" You release the doorknob as if it was hot.

"Sure. Can't beat the commute." He reaches around you, turning the doorknob to reveal another flight of stairs. "Do you want to go up?"

A tightness grips your chest as you attempt to step back, momentarily forgetting that he's right behind you. He supports you with a steadying hand on your hip as he moves to face you, seeking your reaction.

"No, that's okay. I think we're fine down here. We wouldn't want to disturb Skyler," you say, attempting to sound confident as you wipe your palms along the sides of your jeans.

Eddie reaches up and scratches the side of his head as his forehead wrinkles. "Who?" 

A hot breath passes your lips as you turn away, walking back down the hall toward Studio C. "You know," you call over your shoulder, too chicken to face him. "Skyler Simmons. Rock royalty. Media darling. Your long-time girlfriend. The one you own a house with. Ring any bells? Isn’t she here with you?"

"My what? Skyler Simmons?" The deep belly laugh that follows has you spinning on your heels to face him.

"Wait. You’re serious?" His dimples make an appearance as his smile deepens. "Me and Skyler?" He can barely get her name out without chuckling. 

"The one you’re photographed with constantly."

His brows shoot up. "Keeping tabs on me?"

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself," you huff, "It came up in my research. Do you have a relationship with her or not?"

"I know her," he offers, shaking his head, "She’s a friend. We go to the same group." 

"What group? The one for annoying assholes." 

He pauses, his arms crossing over his chest. "The one for people with family members who are addicts. That okay with you?" His voice escalates. The simmering anger in his eyes mirrors the intensity of his tone. "Skyler is gay. Her girlfriend's usually hanging around, too. Does that mean I’m fucking her too? Jesus."

A splash of frigid water clashes with your hot blood as the fight drains away. Flashes of that day are more vivid than they should be for memories two years old. The carpet of your closet is soft under your fingers as wet splashes of tears rain down on the glossy pages, Steve's voice getting closer as he calls out your name. Glancing down at your feet, your voice diminishes, barely more than a whisper. "Why hasn't she come out in the media?"

"Maybe because it’s none of anybody's fucking business." His piercing gaze bores into you as the sharp words land like heavy stones in the sour pit in your stomach. "Hold on," he waves a hand in front of you, "Why do you even care?"

"I don’t," your voice falters as the dishonest answer leaves you without hesitation, and your eyes trace the patterns on the floor, "It just makes for a better story, is all." 

His hands run through his hair, fingers tugging on the ends as his tone softens. "Doll," he pauses, taking a deliberate step closer. His warm fingers cup your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his. Those amber swirls, always seeing beyond your surface. "No one else is in my apartment, and no one else is gonna be."

His touch sends a searing heat spreading through your skin as the weight of your engagement ring pulls on your finger. "You’re a grown man, Eddie. Do whatever you want." Stepping back, his hand falls from your face as you turn and enter the studio.

"Fucking stubborn," the low murmur carries under his breath as he follows you inside.

Signs of careful refinement have touched every corner of this studio. Gray triangles of acoustic foam now completely adorn the walls of the live room in contrasting patterns, adding both practical functionality and visual interest. The mixing room's mural stands as a completed masterpiece, and a deep-seated leather sofa, designed to look comfortably aged, takes its place in front.

"It looks like this one’s almost finished." The strap of your bag slides down your shoulder as you sink down onto the couch, taking in the details that have been added since your last visit. 

His eyes move around the room, the pride evident on his face that his vision has become a reality. "Just some wiring and the vocal booth, and I’ll be ready to start setting the levels."

"This one’s your favorite, I can tell," you say, shifting to tuck a leg under you as he joins you on the couch. 

"Shhh," he hushes you, raising a finger to his lips, a playful glint in his eyes. "The others will get jealous."

With an eye roll, you reach into your bag, your smile never fading as you retrieve your phone and open the recording app with a deft touch, placing it between the two of you.

"How does this work?" Eddie inquires, his eyes fixed on your phone, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, typically," your hand slips back into your bag to retrieve the neatly stapled pages of your notes, "I ask a question, and you provide the answer." As you set the pages on your lap, your gaze lifts to meet his, a small, reassuring smile on your lips. The faint strains of songs from the past echo behind the locked door in front of you – one that might be best left closed and forgotten. But he’s in front of you, handing you the key. You draw in a steadying breath, your chest rising and falling with it. "Eddie Munson interview, part one."

"Mr. Munson." You exchange warm smiles, like kids pretending to be grownups. "Thank you for granting us an interview during this busy time. All of us at Stax are very excited to welcome CursedSound to Chicago."

He leans forward, his voice dropping slightly in timber as a much smoother, older Eddie begins to answer, "Thank you. I always have time for my favorite magazine." He winks.

Your lips press into a line as you tilt your head to the side and take a quick glance at your packet. "In April 2003, Fever to Tell was released by a relatively new band and a completely unknown sound engineer. It went on to sell over a million copies, putting The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the name Eddie Munson on industry minds. Fever to Tell is still, to date, one of my favorite albums. Were you aware of the significant impact this record would have when you were working on it?"

"At the time, we were really just hopeful, you know? We believed in the music we were creating. Karen and Nick, and Brian flew out from New York with their last dime, and we just got to work. Karen had this raw, untamed energy, and I wanted that to add the edge to the album. It was this post-punk dance-floor-friendly racket that injected a much-needed dose of authenticity into a musical landscape that was getting stagnant."

"It's not an exaggeration to say that record helped shape the direction of indie and alternative rock for years to come. But what I want to ask is you before all that. What was the road like moving from Hawkins to having your dreams come true in LA? Was this the path you first set out on, or were there curves in the road?"

"I think 'curves' is a generous term for the absolute shit choices I was making for myself back then," he chuckles. "As you know, I left Hawkins about a year after I graduated. That town had already decided I would never be anything more than a freak– a loser with no future. If I had stayed, that's exactly what would have happened. I was trying to outrun my past without a clue what I wanted for my future. I had my own band back then, and sometimes, we’d open for slightly bigger bands that rolled through town. One of them was about to tour and invited me to go as their one and only roadie, and it felt like a free ticket out."

"Bananafish," you interject, swallowing and glancing down at your notes.

"Yeah, Bananafish. God, they sucked. Did you know they started as a Spin Doctors tribute band?"

"No," you laugh, "And that wasn’t a red flag for you?"

"It should have been. I wasn’t with them for long anyway. I think I lasted for three weeks before they cut me loose for getting in a fight with the drummer." He pauses, shaking his head. "I never knew when to shut my mouth. At that point, they had hooked up with another band called Everly. Slightly better, but not by much. I managed to hold it together for a few months. I was high or drunk most of the time, the only reason they kept me around is because they liked the way I babied their instruments instead of hauling them like luggage."

"I remember you’d spend half an hour polishing that Warlock every day after school," you muse.

"Got to treat a lady right if you want her to sing for you," he says with a sly rise and fall of his brows. He casually drapes an arm over the back of the couch, shrinking the space between you.

"I was surprised that you left it behind." 

Eddie's expression turns more solemn, his eyes locking onto yours. "There were a lot of things I wished I could’ve taken with me. But back then, I couldn’t even take care of myself."

"I don’t believe that," you swallow, the words sticking in your throat, "You could have tried."

"If I had tried, they would’ve ended up broken, and I’d‘ve lost them anyway." His long fingers brush your shoulder, and you flinch. The leather creaks as you sit back against the arm of the couch, just out of reach. 

"Back to Everly. Why did you part ways?" 

"Oh, well, I fucked it up, of course. They had landed a spot at Bonnaroo, and I got so fucked up the night before I missed sound check. When I managed to pick myself up off the floor of the van, they handed me my duffel and a twenty and told me to pound sand." His eyes drift away, fixating on a point across the room as he gets lost, reliving the memory. "I had barely been outside of Indiana, and there I was stuck on some farm in Manchester, Tennessee with no transportation, no money, and no one to call. I was angry at the world and never felt more alone. People always talk about hitting rock bottom. I thought that was mine, but now that I look back, it was more of a crossroads. If I had followed that darker path, there would have been no coming back. I was wandering around backstage where they park buses, hungover, maybe still half in the bag, and that’s when I met Max."

"Max Navarro?" You question, shuffling through the pages of your notes.

"Yeah. You know him?" Eddie’s eyes brighten as his gaze drops to the pages in your lap.

Your head turns from side to side. "You referred to him as a mentor in the Stones interview, but I couldn’t find much on him besides his name being listed as an audio engineer for several tours."

"That’s Max." Eddie breaks into a smile. "He’d tell you he likes flying under the radar. He was hanging out in front of the bus playing guitar with a couple of guys when I walked over like a cocky shit, picked one up, and started playing. He gave me something to smoke and it wasn’t weed. All I know is that I woke up face-down in the dirt the next morning. I don’t know if he liked me or just felt bad for me, but he dragged me on the bus and had me start assisting him with the sound for Faith No More."

"Faith No More? Are you kidding me?" Your hands fall to your lap, slapping against your thighs, jostling the cushion enough for your phone to slide toward the back of the couch. "You had their poster in your room. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you had a charmed life."

"Well, even the sun shines on a dog's ass some days," he laughs.

"So Max is who taught you about engineering?" 

"Max is who taught me about everything." His voice holds a reverence when he says his name.  "He kept a close eye on me. Showed me how to work the boards.  He said he could see the shadows following me around, so when we got to LA, he took me out to the desert, fed me some tea, and exercised my demons."

"Did it work?" Max wasn't the only one to see the looming shadows. Remnants of decisions made by others. Expectations of a community that turned its back. They clung to him like an impenetrable fog, obscuring the light in the world. 

"I’m not sure. I felt lighter after, but it could have been the gallon of sweat," he says, a chuckle escaping his lips.  "After that, he cashed in a favor and got me an internship with a small studio in Laurel Canyon. I parked cars at night and lived in a room the size of a closet at Max’s house. I worked my ass off. I went to therapy–" 

"How very L.A. of you," you chime in, a wry grin tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"Don’t knock it until you try it." He looks at you from under raised brows. "It’s, uh, good to be open, you know?" 

"No thanks. I tried that once." You look at him pointedly, the tightness in your chest returning, "It didn’t work out for me."

The thinly veiled jabs you’ve been sending his way were hitting the target. Something like pain or regret flashes in his eyes. "Doll–" 

"You decided to stay in L.A. and work at a studio instead of going back out on the road?"

"I like studio sessions. Makes me feel like I’m working towards something. I like completing an album and putting it out in the world. Some people thrive being out on tour, like Max. Not me," he scratches at the short hair covering his chin. "Too many ghosts on those old roads." 

Like the haunting echoes back in Hawkins, the ones that jolt you awake in the dead of night, murmuring of the past, the shame emphasizing the pitiable acts of a girl lovesick and foolish. Robin had seen it, and so did the entire town. Yet, you're no longer that vulnerable soul. She lies in solitude now, resting beneath the frigid earth, her memory an unmarked grave. You've moved forward, and you’ll never go back, the city's symphony drowning out the remains of her cries.

"So you stayed and built your life there," you conclude, your fingers flipping through the pages of your notes, making sure every point from your outline has been covered.

Eddie leans back, a contemplative look on his face. "I guess you could say that. I got my own place, made some great friends. Sundays are for Max's family and chile relleno. The weather is always beautiful," he shrugs, his voice carrying a hint of noncommitment, "But I really stayed for the music. Have you been? I could take you some time. Show you around. Max would love to meet you, the girl I’m always talking about. I think you’d like it there."

The girl he’s always talking about but hasn’t bothered to call in a decade. "To Los Angeles?" You ask, your gaze rising from your notes to meet his nodding response. "I've been a few times. With Steve, mostly for work."

"Oh yeah. Makes sense." Eddie's jaw tightens, and he averts his gaze, his reaction a puzzle. "Well, I guess the rest is history. Is that enough for your story?"

"Yeah." You reach for your phone, tapping the red square to stop the recording. "It will be a great opening piece for the series." You pick up your messenger, hauling its weight into your lap, tucking your notes inside. The afternoon is ending like a song without a crescendo. A stone of disappointment sits on your tongue, holding back questions that you lacked the courage to ask, but maybe it’s better this way.

Eddie sits up suddenly, snapping his fingers. "Speaking of history, I want to show you something." He stands up, looking towards the door and back at you, "Um.. wait here, okay? I’ll just be a minute." 

"Okay-"

He holds up flat palms. "Don’t go anywhere." His eyes close as he winces, " I mean, you can wander around if you want. Just don’t leave."

"Eddie-" 

"I’ll be back." He holds up one finger as he exits the room. 

Sighing, you push up from your thighs, rising to your feet. Your steps carry you through to the live room, where the area rug underfoot is a clever imitation of age — its colors muted, its pattern artfully faded, though there's no doubt it's brand new. Your nails lightly tap the high hat as you pass the drum kit, and you smile at the shimmering sound that reverberates through the room, giving you the same pleasure as the sound of glass breaking. 

With a heavy drape in hand, you pull it aside and peer down onto the busy street below. The dim clamor of the city filters into the room, a steady rhythm of life. A question escapes your lips, almost a whisper, as you survey the world beyond the studio's walls, "What am I doing?"

The thought lingers as you spin the band of gold on your finger as your eyes trace the movements of the people and vehicles outside. You're caught in a moment, anxiety a lump in your throat you can’t seem to swallow. The street's hustle and bustle continues, indifferent. 

The sound of the floor creaking with footsteps echoes through the hall. He enters the room with the large box he's carrying obscuring his upper half. You recognize Wayne's shaky handwriting peeking out from behind Eddie's fingers, his name written boldly with a black marker.

"What's all this?" You ask as he sets down the box with a heave in the center of the room and sinks to his knees, hovering over the taped flaps.

"I have no idea," he says with a mischievous smile. "Wayne gave it to me when I stopped by last week and told him I was going to see you. But you know him. He never throws stuff out. It could be anything." His hand smoothes over the top as he raises a brow. "Wanna find out?"

Your hands slide over the denim covering your thighs before your feet carry you forward. "Mrs. Click better not be in there." 

His head tips back with laughter. "I make no promises," he jokes while you shift from behind the glass wall, taking a seat on the floor. Your legs cross casually as you face him from the opposite side of the box. One side of his mouth lifts as he waits for you to settle in. In a graceful stretch, he leans to the side, retrieving a box cutter from atop the soundboard, where it sits next to a pile of plastic straps. His shirt rises, revealing a teasing glimpse of hair trailing down his belly and the sculpted muscle beside his hips. His tongue lightly grazes his upper lip as he expertly flicks the knife open, his jeans snug on the contours of his strong thighs. Exhaling slowly, you avert your eyes, scanning the room instead as you wait for him to slice the tape. 

"Score!" He yells, pulling out the ragged-edged sheet that was folded and tucked into the top of the box. "Corroded Coffin," he reads aloud from the crude writing, scrawled across it with something resembling shoe polish.

"Oh no," you laugh, your head turning side to side as you rock in your seat. 

"Hey. This is rare band memorabilia. It’s probably worth money," he defends, holding it up proudly. 

"Yeah, to the guy you have to pay to haul it away," you giggle.

"Alright, Alright," he concedes, folding it up, the smile never leaving his face as he reaches in the box. "These are yours." He pulls out a stack of comics, handing them to you.

"Still in good shape," you comment, thumbing through Tank Girl and Witchblade comics. Opening one of your favorites, the art greets you like an old friend.

"My campaigns!" Eddie exclaims, pulling out a pile of notebooks and setting them aside before reaching back in. "Some Cds." He comes out with a hand wrapped around a stack of jewel cases, the one on top catching your eye. 

"My Cranberries Cd!" You cry, your fingers digging into the plush carpet as you tip forward onto your knees, taking it from his hand. "I looked for this everywhere. I knew you took it, you thief."

"I don’t know how that got there," he chuckles, scratching his head, "You must have left in the van."

"Nice try, Munson." your eyes narrow, "I checked there." You lean over the box, poking a finger into his chest, "I knew you had a crush on Dolores."

"It was the accent," he admits with a grin, his dimples on full display as his hand closes around your finger, warding off your attack. 

"I’m keeping it," you declare, dropping back into your seat and picking up the case to examine the inside.

"Holy shit."

You raise your head to meet his wide chocolate eyes, a look of sheer delight written across his face. "Close your eyes," he instructs, as he pulls back the flaps of the box, hiding whatever he's found.

"Mrs. Click?" You set the CD on top of the comics.

"Better," he says excitedly, waving a hand toward your face. "Close your eyes."

"Fine." You close one eye, folding your hands in your lap.

"No peeking," he scolds. Your lips purse as you close your other lid, waiting for the big reveal — plastic clanks against something heavy, followed by the rustle of cardboard.

"Okay. Open."

"Daisy!" Yyou squeal, your hands flying to your mouth before you reach out with wiggling fingers.

He winces as he hands over the two-foot concrete garden gnome. "How can you call something so ugly a pretty name like that?"

Taking the heavy lawn ornament in both hands, you gaze down at the way her hat droops over ears too large for her head, which stick straight out beside her bulging eyes and porcine, turned-up nose. Her rubbery lips are pulled back in a smile, showing off her crooked buck teeth and the yellow and white flowered dress that barely conceals her lumpy body. 

"She's beautiful," you tut, cradling the statue in your arms. "Besides, you're the one who stole her."

"You’re the one who dared me to," he scoffs. 

"I didn’t think you were going to wake up the whole neighborhood crashing into the bushes in Mr. Lawson’s yard." Heat takes over your cheeks as you smile unrestrained.

"I was drunk," he defends, his face turning red.

"You tripped over your feet, and your pants pocket ripped off on that branch," you gasp for air, trying to get the words out with your laughter, "You had on those Garfield boxers with the hearts."

"Of course, you remember that." His laughter joins yours, easy and familiar, while his fingers find their way into his curls. "You're the one that woke up the neighbors, making the van backfire."

"It was the first time I drove, and I didn’t have a license." You clutch Daisy tightly to your chest as you try to catch your breath. "Mr. Larson said he was going to shoot you in the ass."

Eddie wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. "He almost caught us when you stalled out. All for that hideous thing."

"Shh," you say, covering her ears with your hands. "You can’t get rid of her."

"Never," he agrees, reaching out for her. "I’ll find her place of honor around here somewhere."

"Put her on your nightstand," you suggest, handing her over. 

"Ugh," he says, setting her aside, "Only if you want me to have nightmares."

You burst into laughter once more, a rhapsodic melody that dances and twirls through the room. His eyes ignite with a warm, genuine light, and he smiles like he’s savoring every note, as if your happiness is a hard-earned treasure he's been longing for. 

The shattered remnants of life you once shared press against the scar tissue encasing your heart. They're persistent specters, trying to dislodge themselves and reform into your present. You can feel their sharpness pulling trying to come together like a puzzle. 

Your hand instinctively finds its way to your chest, where your heart resides beneath the layers of history. Pressing gently on that tender spot at the center, you push away the complications of the past and the future and just are, in this moment with him. 

"What else? What else?" You clap your hands, bouncing in your spot. 

"Okay, okay," he gives in, happy to indulge you, "Um, a pack of crayons, a monopoly piece." He tosses them aside. "Could have done without that. Looks like some clothes." He pulls out some folded band tees. "Want any of these?"

"Maybe," you shrug, "I could have them recut."

"Oh, this is yours," he tosses a ball of red fabric at you, and you catch it with both hands before he continues to search through the box.

"Is this what I think it is?" He asks, his voice brimming with excitement as he pulls a rectangular tin from the box. He shakes it, creating a sharp sound as something shifts inside the metal container.

"Yes," he says, his tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth as he attempts to pry off the lid. Your focus turns to what you're holding, and you clutch the vest's hems, watching as your Musicland uniform unfurls before you.

His voice fades into the background as the gold name tag pinned to the front catches the light. A heavy sensation settles in your stomach, tightening and cramping as a sick, painful feeling creeps in and spreads — nausea churns, threatening to bring bile to the surface as breath comes hard, each inhale a battle.

"Polaroids," Eddie declares in triumph as he pries off the lid.

"Stop it," you manage to utter, your voice quivering, your trembling hands twisting the vest as if folding it small enough could somehow make the pain disappear.

"They’re pretty faded, though," he remarks, unaware. 

"I said, that's enough!" The balled-up vest flies from your hands, landing back in the box. Adrenaline surges through your veins, and you push yourself up on unsteady legs, resolute despite the confusion on his face. "I need to leave."

"Wait a minute." He gets to his feet, following you. The small pile you made topples over, forgotten as you pick up your bag from the couch. "What just happened?" He moves in front of you, blocking your path. "I thought we were having fun."

"Fun?" The word is a shard of ice. You sling your bag onto your shoulder, stepping around him towards the door.

"Just hold on a minute." He steps in front of you again, raising his hands with open palms, lines forming on his forehead. His eyes search yours, trying to find answers. "Tell me what's going on." 

"What do you want?" The words slice the air, eyes locked, a bare blade of anger.

"I wanted to-" His eyes flick towards the abandoned box in the center of the room.

"No." Your head shakes, "Why are you here? Now?  After all this time? What do you want from me?"

"I just wanted to see you." His arms cross over his chest and he hesitates, speaking softly, "I missed my friend."

"Your friend," sarcasm drips from your words as you quirk a brow, "So you show up here with a box of crap and a ‘hey doll’," your voice lowers to mock him before you continue, "And I’m supposed to what? Forget about everything that happened, hand you a clean slate and drop everything to follow you around like a puppy again because you feel like paying me some attention?"

"That’s not…I’m not asking for that." His hand runs through his curls, frustration building in his tone. 

"I'm not going to sit here with you wandering down memory lane and watch you pretend like you cared." Your eyes sting, but tears won't fall. You've shed your last one for him long ago. "Like any of it mattered."

"No one's pretending here, doll." He takes a step closer, his hands falling to his side, fingers rubbing at the seam of his jeans. "Of course, it mattered. All of it."

Your bag falls from your shoulder with a resounding thud, its weight matching your resolve as you push your hand against his chest. "I don't believe that for a second. If it mattered, you never could have done what you did."

"Done what?"

"Left me!" Your hand lands flat across your heart. "Without a goodbye, just some shitty mixtape full of songs I can't even listen to without reliving it over and over."

"You're right." His voice rises to match your volume, his fingers closing around your biceps. "I was a coward, and I ran. I couldn't see that look on your face again, the one you had when I told you I was leaving. I should’ve said goodbye, but I knew you'd try to convince me to stay, and I was never going to. I'm sorry I hurt you, but I can't be sorry I left."

"Hurt me?" You push his hands away, taking a step back to control the cracking in your voice. "You didn't just hurt me, Eddie. You destroyed me."

He swallows, looking away. "You were better off."

Fresh anger surges, along with the strong desire to escape – to leave this dead and buried, maybe for another decade until the hurt isn’t so strong. 

"See, that right there is why I'll never believe you," you snap, pointing an accusatory finger his way as you step around him, your hand closing around the doorknob. But at the last moment, turning, wanting him to hear it. At least once.

"I didn't quit Musicland. I got fired. I cried for days after you left. Then I wouldn't leave my room, not even to eat. I was so afraid to miss your call."

There's regret in his eyes as he steps forward, getting closer until he can touch you again, one hand gently gliding up your arm.

"But that call never came, did it, Eddie? Not one. And every day that passed, I died a little. But then I wasn't sad anymore. All those tears, they turned to hate," you say coldly, locking your gaze with his. "I hated you. I hated you for every song that came on the radio reminding me. I hated Hawkins and everyone in it. But most of all, I hated myself for believing. That's what you did to me, Eddie. You made me hate myself."

"I’m so sorry, doll," his words barely crest the silence, as his gentle hand cradles your jaw.

His touch is hot, but inside you, a coldness lingers–inside you’re stone. "You kissed me, and then you left me. You knew how I felt." 

"I know. I know. I’m sorry." He steps closer, trying to pull your rigid form into his arms, lips brushing your temple. "You don’t even know how much. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing. But you’re wrong. It all mattered. I did care. That kiss..it’s the reason…" He pulls back and looks into your eyes, "You knew me, you always did, but there were things I couldn’t tell you. Things I couldn’t admit to myself, how scared and angry I was."

Your head shakes as you swallow hard. "You're not even real!" You shout in his face, your fingers clutching the doorknob behind you. Spinning, you tug hard, but his hand slams against the door above your head keeping it shut. 

"Stop, doll," he pleads, but the push-pull intensifies. You're no match for his strength. "Stop it!" He yells, his hand pushes on your shoulder, turning you to face him. Anger flashes in his eyes, and his cheeks flush.

"The boy I knew could never have done that." Your shoulder jerks, breaking his hold as you attempt to turn away again.

His fingers wrap around the side of your neck, keeping you in place. "That boy could never have given you what you wanted. He wouldn’t have had the first clue how to handle you."

"Is that why you’re back?" You ask, still defiant even as his thumb presses into your throat, tipping your head to meet his gaze. "Dragging this all up again, ruining my life? Because you do?" 

"Damn right, I do." His words are a gravelly assertion, barely escaping before his mouth descends toward yours. For a heartbeat, the world pauses, the space between charged with past promises, until your mouths finally meet — urgent and fierce. You part your lips eagerly, tongues finding their way together in a hungry and unapologetic dance. The firm pressure of his commanding lips moving in sync with yours is a spark, igniting a flame that seems to spread with each touch. His scruff is a rasp against your skin, a pleasant roughness that contrasts with the smoothness of his kiss. He tastes like cinnamon and a hint of coffee. The scent of clove and cedar envelopes your senses, leaving you lightheaded as fire licks through your body. This kiss is the culmination of years of longing, swelling and crashing like an orchestral finale. Instruments unite in a tumultuous crescendo, echoing the mighty crash of a wave against the shore.

Minutes slip away, yet your greedy mouths remain desperate. The room falls into a hushed stillness, save for the sharp intakes of breath and the sensuous wet slide of lips gliding against each other. Your fingers gently tangle in the soft waves at the nape of his neck, evoking a low, guttural groan that mingles with your shared breath when you tug. The kisses seem endless, broken only by fleeting gasps of air, compelling you to pull each other closer, savoring every taste. His hands trace the graceful curves of your body, touching every inch as they follow a path beyond your hips and ass, seizing the back of your thighs. With a firm grasp, he lifts you. Pressing you against the unyielding door, gasping as he positions you just how he wants — aligning himself hot and hard against your center. 

"Fuck," he growls against your lips as his hips roll, igniting fireworks through your body. Your eyes flutter shut, and colors burst against the darkness – a kaleidoscope exploding behind your lids.

As he nips at the plush of your bottom lip, teeth grazing in a tender claim, a muted buzz begins in your bag—a sharp, insistent sting—that yanks you from the haze back into the real world. His eyes remain closed when you pull away. He leans closer, chasing your mouth, but the moment is already shattered. 

Your stomach plummets in a tight coil of regret as the harsh reality of your actions sets in. His kiss, once sweet, now tastes like the ash of betrayal. A distressed whimper escaping your throat has him finally looking at you, shock written clearly across his features. Slowly, he releases you, your body sliding against his until the flat of your feet meets the floor. He takes a step back, hesitating, swallowing before he starts, "Doll —"

"No." You shake your head, your hands covering your mouth. The gold band on your fourth finger is a cool scorch against your swollen lips. "I have to go." You spring into motion, rushing to the couch to gather your bag.

"Stay, and we can talk about this," he implores, one hand moving to his hip as the other rakes through his hair. 

"Please don’t," you plead, "Don’t ask me for anything else." You swing the strap over your shoulder. "I just ch–" But the word stays stuck in your throat as your eyes swim with tears of regret.

His face falls, and he tries to argue, "It's not your fault, okay? I kissed you."

"Eddie—"

"You didn't do anything wrong. It was me," he insists, frustration in his voice as you scrub your face with your hands. "I don't want you driving when you're upset."

"I'm sorry," you say with an aching heart, pushing past him and closing the door behind you.

The sidewalk blurs under your feet as you race to your car. Fat raindrops splatter against the concrete like a spray of gunfire. Each one a cold, wet slap against your skin, snapping you back to reality. The sky chooses this moment to crack open, unleashing a torrent that feels personal. Your car comes into view, a bright orange ticket flapping under the wiper like a flag of defeat. Perfect. Just perfect.

With hands slick from the rain, you fumble with your keys before throwing yourself into the driver’s seat. Snatching the ticket from under the wiper as you go and crumpling it into your fist, stuffing it into the glovebox to be dealt with later. The downpour drums on the roof, enclosing you in a watery cocoon as you search through your bag for your phone. A missed call from Steve and a text reminding you about the dry cleaning. You spill the contents of your messenger onto the passenger seat, pens and lip gloss tumbling into the footwell. "Shit!" The word is a half-sob as you clutch the receipt marked with today's hours in unforgiving black ink.

Glancing at the clock on your dash, it hits you with the subtlety of a wrecking ball– six minutes until closing. It might as well be in another time zone, given the snarled rush hour traffic and the river that the streets have become.  The car roars to life as you pull out, tires hissing on wet asphalt, windshield wipers barely keeping up with the deluge. Your skin still sings with Eddie’s touch, but it's the burgeoning storm of words—cheater, adulterer, betrayer—mixed with the soft hazel of Steve’s disappointed eyes that tattoo themselves across your conscience. This is the unforgivable sin and you can't undo it, but you'll be damned if you don't at least try.

You're double-parked now, hazards blinking a frantic rhythm. The 'CLOSED' sign on the dry cleaner's door mocks you as you rattle the unrelenting metal handle. "Please, please, please," you whisper, pounding on the uncaring glass, your pleas unheard, bouncing off the empty shadows within. A car horn cuts through the rain — a harsh, impatient blare. "What the fuck, lady?" The other driver yells, uncaring of your predicament.

"I'm moving, I'm moving!" The words are a rain-soaked shout as you slosh back to your car, drenched and utterly defeated.

With a turn of the key, your car growls to life, another angry horn sounding off as you pull into traffic, carelessly cutting off a Yellow Cab in your haste. Rainwater drips from your hair, soaking your shirt. Even with the heater set to blast, it does little against the chill that has settled deep in your bones. Down the road, a bright blue sign glows like a beacon, and you jerk the steering wheel, the car fishtailing as you skid into the lot. 

The pharmacy's fluorescent lights are too bright and too sterile as you grab a small bottle of mouthwash off the shelf in the travel section and wait in line to pay, the store's generic electronic music grating against your already frayed nerves. Outside, you stand on the corner, swishing and spitting the minty liquid onto the sidewalk, repeating the process, trying to cleanse more than just your mouth. A passerby wrinkles their nose at you from under their umbrella. "This is Chicago! You've seen worse!" You snap, arms thrown up in exasperation while the rain and your regrets mingle on the cold pavement.

With trembling fingers, you pull the cardigan you had left at Stax off the back of your office chair. Shrugging it on, the material dampens from your wet t-shirt but offers a little warmth. Your phone buzzes as you settle at your desk — five missed calls from Eddie and four texts. The roar of the heavy rain and being buried deep in your bag had muffled its sound, not that you would have picked up. 

Eddie: Answer the phone, doll!

Eddie: Look, I need to know that you’re okay.

Eddie: I swear to Christ if you don’t pick up.

Eddie: Okay, have it your way. I’m driving to your place.

What? No! Your thumb presses the call button, and it rings twice before it connects. There’s no hello, just the slight hum of an engine and the rain pelting glass. 

“I’m okay,” you breathe into your phone, “I didn’t go home. I’m at my office.”

Your heart drums in your ears with each second of silence. Your eyes flutter shut, relief flooding you when he finally responds, an exhale loosening the tension in your chest.  His voice resonates in a dark rumble through the phone, "We need to talk."

“I….I know,” your voice wavers as you wipe your nose on the back of your hand. “I just need a minute here, Ed. Can you give me some time?” 

The rhythmic blink of the turn signal punctuates his heavy sigh. “Yeah. Alright. But doll,” he pauses as the sound of water splashing against his vehicle mingles with the whoosh of passing traffic, “You’re not running away from this. And trust me, the irony of that statement isn’t lost on me. Think about what I said, okay? I meant it all.”

With a tight throat, you whisper, "I have to go," and disconnect the call. 

Placing your phone on the desk, you dab the raindrops off your face with a tissue. The quiet of the office wraps around you, its half-dark corners and the soft glow from the kitchen creates a place for you to breathe and be still. The raging storm and the ticking wall clock echoing in the solitude do little to distract you from thoughts you’re not ready to face. With a deep breath, you lift the lid of your laptop, seeking refuge in the normalcy of work as you coax the screen back to life.

The song erupts from the speaker on the edge of your desk, a jolt of sound shattering the silence like an accusation. You grab it with fumbling fingers, scrambling to press the off button. The sudden calm is unsettling. Covering your face with your hands, you let out a sound that is equal parts sob and hysterical laughter, wondering how you ended up in this situation. With your elbows pressed against the wooden top, you bury your face in your hands, muffling the sobs that mix with laughter — the tragedy of your life bordering on absurd. 

“What are you doing here, kid?”

The gruff voice cuts through your introspection, startling you for a second time. "Jesus Christ, Hopper," you gasp, clutching at your chest, "You scared the hell out of me."

Hopper's dry remark floats from behind you, hands buried in his pockets. "Guess we're even since Mr. Brightside nearly sent me into cardiac arrest."

“You listen to The Killers?” You ask, a note of surprise in your voice as he drags a chair from the next desk, its wheels screeching faintly against the concrete floor.

“You kids really think Jim Croce is the only thing on my playlist?” A chuckle escapes him as he eases into the chair beside you, “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

You muster a puzzled look, shaking your head in feigned denial.

“Don’t bullshit me, kid. I don’t have much time. I’m meeting Joyce for dinner at that Italian place on Taylor Street. I’ve been dreaming about the breadsticks. Enzo puts some spice on ‘em, I don’t know what it is, but it’s good. You dip it in olive oil,” he groans, “Forget about it. Those things knock your socks off, and I’m wavering on the main course between—”

“I need you to take me off the studio opening,” you interrupt, folding your arms across your chest like a barrier.

“We’ve been over this. Unless you have some good reason–”

“Eddie kissed me,” the confession slips out, eyes widening in shock at your admission, hands flying to cover your mouth.

His brows rocket upwards, then draw together, his gaze sharpening, voice dipping into a low, protective timbre, “What do you mean he kissed you?” 

“No,” you clarify, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing an elbow against the desk, massaging your temple to soothe the forming headache. “I kissed him. We kissed. It was mutual.”

Hopper reclines, the chair creaking under his weight, his gaze level and unreadable. “I’m disappointed in you, kid. I never thought I’d be having a conversation like this with you.”

“I know. I know. Steve…” you trail off, eyes drifting to the photo of Steve on your desk, the words catching in your throat.

Hopper leans in, his hand cutting through the air. “I don’t give a fuck about Harrington,” each word gains in volume, “This is about you and everything you’ve worked for. It’s 2012. That kind of nonsense ends careers. Do you know what can happen if he complains?”

Your eyes roll. “He’s not going to complain, Hop.”

“You don’t know that,” he counters, his head shaking off your naivety. “These things like this have a way of coming out. That was an amateur move. Where is your professionalism? What were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, lowering your eyes. “We have more of a history than I let on.”

“Well, stop the presses. I couldn’t have figured that one out.” His voice lowers in resignment, “Maybe this is my fault–”

“No–” 

Your protest is swift, but he plows right over you, “Everyone knows you’re my favorite, but right now, I’m going to treat you like all the rest of the idiots in this place.” His hand waves around the room before pointing right at you. “You’re going to keep your dick in your pants and get those interviews done. If you want to play kissy face, you do it on your own time. You got me?”

Your mouth drops open, disbelief palpable. “You're still going to make me finish?”

“Damm, right I am,” Hopper affirms, not missing a beat. "If I hand your work off, it raises questions. Big, messy questions. What do I tell downtown when they ask why the piece was reassigned? Unless you’re ready to come clean to Harrington?” 

Your lip goes between your teeth as your head shakes.

“I thought so.” Hopper leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "This could be both our necks," he mutters, concern filling his voice.

Your head shakes, but your determination is clear. "It won't."

“It better not. I don’t want to hear another word about it until that last story is on my desk. Are we clear?”

Your jaw clenches, the reality of the situation hitting hard. "Crystal."

Hopper's gaze remains fixed on you, ensuring his point has been made. "Good," he says, his voice softening, "Now go on, get out of here. Deal with whatever mess you've got going on. Just make sure it's sorted by Monday."

Your key slides into the lock and you turn it slowly, the tumblers falling into place with a series of soft clicks. You pause, leaning your forehead against the chill of the metal door, grappling with a rising queasiness that sours your stomach. 

A wave of home's warmth engulfs you, mingled with the earthy aroma of herbs and roasting potatoes. The vibrant strains of Queen accompany Steve's honeyed tones floating down the hall from the kitchen.

"Welcome home, Ace. I was beginning to wonder where you were," his voice, laced with a touch of concern, greets you, “Busy day? Did you write me a Pulitzer?”

Your messenger bag slides from your shoulder, giving into gravity with a loud smack against the hardwood.

His voice grows nearer, warmer as he moves down the hall, the floor lightly creaking with each footfall. “I swung by the Athenian Room, grabbed us Chicken Kalamata, and I have a bottle of chardonnay breathing.”

That dish — your absolute favorite. Your heart sinks further, receding behind your ribcage, unworthy of his care or devotion.

He stops short when he rounds the corner into the foyer, taking you in, your disheveled state reflected in his eyes. 

"I didn’t get the dry cleaning," you admit in a low murmur, struggling to keep your voice steady. "I was... too late."

For a heartbeat, he's silent, but his eyes remain tender, brimming with concern. “Hey, that's alright, Ace. I'll just skip the gym in the morning and swing by the cleaners before work. Are you okay?”

Traces of the day find a path down your cheeks as you sniffle, drawing the cardigan tighter around you like a shield. "I got caught in the storm." 

“Did you forget your coat?” He asks drawing closer as you give a small nod. His hands slide up your biceps, continuing on to wrap around you. “You're frozen.” He uses his thumb to lift your chin. “How about a hot shower, yeah? I'll keep dinner warm. You'll feel better after you eat.” His mouth begins to near yours, but you turn your face away. 

"I think I'm coming down with something," you manage to say, your lies teetering atop your mounting guilt. "My throat is sore."

Concern etches his features, his brows knitting together as he adjusts, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You don't feel hot.”

Pulling away, you press your face into his shoulder. "I think I'll just shower and go to bed," you whisper, your voice muffled.

“If that's what you want,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, though his tone is threaded with disappointment. “Go on up and I'll bring you some water and a couple of Tylenol.”

“Thanks, Steve,” you say, stepping away with a weight in your chest. “I'm really sorry.” 

“Don't worry about it.” He waves off your apology, his smile faint but sincere. His arms fold over his chest as he turns back toward the kitchen. 

As you climb the stairs, the music snaps off, replaced with the distant roar of a sports game, the announcers' voices carrying up the stairwell. 

The embrace of the hot shower strips away the cold clinging to your skin, but it cannot wash away the sting of regret. Sliding down the slick tiles, you draw your knees to your chest, allowing your tears to meld with the streams of water spiraling towards the drain. 

Your life is a song made up of the choices you've made, each one a different note that sounded so sure at the time, but now the harmony seems slightly off-key. The steam rises around you like a specter. It's the quiet between the chords. And you're there, just listening, trying to figure out if there's a note you'd change or if every single one was necessary. As you nestle into bed, sleep tugging like an insistent tide amidst the drift into dreams, one truth resonates clear– the music plays on.

AN: Thanks for sticking with this series. I know it's a long one and I took a while to update. To be honest, I lost a little confidence in my writing but I still feel like this a story worth telling. This is my love letter to Eddie. My way of giving him an ending he never had a shot at. I'm going to see it through. Do me a solid and leave a comment & reblog. My asks are always open. Your song suggestions continue to bring this story to life. XOXO - Jelly

Song 5 - Coming soon! For notifications follow @tornupdates

Listen to Fake Plastic Trees here.

[jpbjazz]

LÉGENDES DU JAZZ

JOHNNY ST. CYR, LE ROI DU BANJO

Né le 17 avril 1890 à La Nouvelle-Orléans, Johnny St. Cyr a été élevé dans la religion catholique. Son père, qui était également musicien, jouait de la guitare et de la flûte. Un jour, le père de St. Cyr avait fait cadeau d’une de ses guitares à sa mère, et c’est à cette époque qu’il avait commencé à s’intéresser à cet instrument. Il précisait: ‘’When I was growing up we had a guitar in the house, my father’s gift to my mother. The guitar was a very popular instrument in the homes at that time in New Orleans. My mother would not let me play this guitar of hers, so I made my own out of a cigar box with thread and fishing lines for strings. Soon I could make as many chords on my homemade guitar as mother could on her good one. After a while, she let me use her guitar.’’ 

St. Cyr explique comment il avait commencé à jouer de la guitare:

‘’My brother had gone to work in the Cooperage shop, making barrels. It was there he met Jules Baptiste and Jackie Dowden. Jack and Jules would put on little parties on Sunday and always there was a barrel of beer. They would play and sing, the neighbours would come in and dance. Jack played the mendolin and Jules played guitar. They just played the popular songs of the day and a few blues.They had a party at our house one Sunday and they asked me to play with them. I came in when I could on certain numbers in the key of ‘C’ and ‘G’.’ Jules took an interest in me and started giving me lessons. In a few weeks they took me out on jobs with them on Saturday night — fish fries mostly. People put on these parties in their homes to make a little money. The best music got the biggest crowd and we had it. Jack and Jules were great for serenading their friends late at night, on the way home from a little job. They would play a number, the people would get up and set out the whisky bottle. Then they would go on to the next friend’s house and repeat the serenade.’’

C’est à la même époque que St. Cyr avait commencé à travailler comme plâtrier. Il poursuivait:

‘’I was apprenticed to the plastering trade about 1905, working with George Guesnon’s father, who was a journeyman plasterer. We worked for August Bon Hagen, a contractor. When I had served out my apprenticeship, I had saved a little money and was able to get out and go to halls and different functions where the bands were playing. I could study the different guitar players and see if I could pick up some more ideas. I didn’t get too much from most of these guitar players though. These bands would be the Silver Leaf, Imperial and the Eagle Bands, playing at Masonic Halls and at the parks. The balls were on Saturday, Sunday or Monday nights.’’

DÉBUTS DE CARRIÈRE

C’est après avoir rencontré Manuel Gabriel que St. Cyr avait amorcé sa carrière professionnelle. Gabriel, qui habitait dans le même quartier que St. Cyr, l’avait invité à venir pratiquer avec son groupe. Il poursuivait: ‘’Manny played cornet. This was just a little neighbourhood group, but I got a start. Manny had one of his sons playing drums and another fellow, named Wade Waley (Whaley), playing clarinet. I was with them about four months. We just rehearsed and played a few small jobs, including a few weeks in the district.’’

Au début de sa carrière, St. Cyr avait surtout joué dans des événements mondains comme les mariages, les fêtes, les danses, les défilés et les pique-niques. À l’époque, St-Cyr avait joué avec des pionniers du jazz de La Nouvelle-Orléans comme  Bab Frank, Peter Bocage, Jimmy Brown, Manuel Perez, George Baquet, B. Johnson, les frères Lorenzo et Louis ‘’Papa’’ Tio, Billy Marrero, Big Eye Louis Nelson, George Fields et Bouboul Augustin. Il avait aussi joué à Storyville, le quartier des prostituées de La Nouvelle-Orléans, pour environ 1,50$ par soir. À partir de 1905, St. Cyr avait également dirigé ses propres formations et collaboré avec A.J. Piron, les groupes Superior, Olympia et Tuxedo.

Avec le temps, le groupe de Gabriel avait commencé à jouer dans la basse-ville de La Nouvelle-Orléans, ce qui avait permis à St. Cyr de reprendre contact avec A.J. Piron et Paul Dominguez. C’est d’ailleurs grâce à ces derniers, qui étaient tous deux barbiers et violonistes, que St. Cyr avait pu commencer à se produire avec le groupe de Freddie Keppard. St. Cyr expliquait:

‘’Freddie had been playing for ‘Fewclothes’ in the District the Olympia was the hottest band around at this time. Keppard was getting away from playing straight lead. He was the first of the ‘get off’ cornet then — getting away from the melody, more like the clarinet. Bands as a whole still played ensemble style. On certain numbers they would feature the cornet player, and sometimes the trombone, but the clarinet was always featured.’’

St. Cyr avait rencontré Sidney Bechet par l’entremise de son frère Joe, qui était également plâtrier. St. Cyr expliquait: ‘

‘’He told me about his young brother and the clarinet, and that he just couldn’t keep time. I told him to bring Sidney over to my house and I’d see if I could help him. I lived just a few blocks away, so he came over and we worked together for a while. We just played together once in a band, the Eagle Band. The Eagle Band was going to make an excursion trip. A lot of people would go to the station when an excursion left. The band would play a few numbers on the platform just before the train pulled out. Brock Mumford’s girl friend didn’t want him to go on this excursion. She caught him at the station, got hold of his guitar and hit him across his fat belly with it, which busted the guitar all up. I was asked to make the trip in his place, so I hurried and got my guitar, and arrived back at the station just before the train left. After the excursion I played a ball at Masonic Hall with the Eagle Band, then Brock got another guitar and took his job back.’’

Décrivant les débuts de la carrière de Bechet, St. Cyr avait ajouté: ’’Sidney was playing up a storm at a very early age. He was playing with the best of them by the time he was fifteen years old. Of course, he was up against the toughest kind of competition — Big Eye Louis, Lorenzo Tio, Jr., Jimmie Noone, Johnny Dodds, Alphonse Picou. And Emile Barnes and George Lewis were also coming up about this same time. George Baguet was about the top man until he left with Keppard. Then there was Willie Warner, the only man who triple-tongued the clarinet. He was always good for a free drink if you told him, ‘Willie, you’re the greatest clarinet player in New Orleans’. He’d say, ‘Now, there’s a man that knows — what will you have to drink, my boy?’ Then he would say, ‘They all ask me, how do you do it? How do you triple-tongue a clarinet?’ Willie would stick out his tongue, tap it with his fingers and say, ‘That is my secret.’ Then how he would go on!’’

L’ÉPOQUE DES NAVIRES À VAPEUR

De 1918 à 1920, St. Cyr avait joué sur les navires à vapeur avec Fate Marable. St. Cyr explique comment il avait commencé à jouer avec Marable:

‘’About two weeks after, Fate Marable asked me to come on the river boat. I had a friend named Buford, who had a bar room at Gasket (Gasquet) and Villery (Villere), and I used to hang around there. I was living out back of town and Buford played a little, I left the banjo there, as I was in town every night, so I’d not have to go clear back home for the banjo if a job turned up. Buford asked if I minded if he played a little, and I said no. Marable went into Buford’s one Saturday night about midnight, after he left the boat, and Buford was playing the banjo. Marable said, ‘When did you buy the banjo,’ and Buford replied ‘It belongs to Johnny St. Cyr. He’s back there in the other room.’ Marable said to me, ‘Come out here and I’ll buy you a drink.’ He asked me what I was doing, and I told him I was playing out at the lake tomorrow. He asked me, ‘Why don’t you come out on the boat, take a ride with us, bring your banjo.’ He said, ‘The only way you’ll come out there is if I take your banjo.’ I said, ‘Okay.’ Buford and I almost had a fight over the banjo — but I promised to have it back there that Sunday night. I played with the band on the boat and one of the Strekfus Brothers called me into the office and asked me if I wanted to play with the band regularly ‘What are you paying?’ I asked. He said, ‘In New Orleans we are paying $30.00 a week, and when we get to St. Louis we pay $52.50 a week.’ I said ‘I’ll try it.’ He said, ‘You’ll get paid for all you did today’ — and I did get paid. I worked 1918, 1919 and 1920 on that boat.’’

Le groupe de Marable se produisait sur la célèbre Streckfus Line, qui était opérée par les frères Joe et John Streckfus. St. Cyr décrit l’ambiance qui prévalait à bord des vapeurs:

‘’I will try to give a little of the history of the Strekfus line, to the best of my recollection. Originally this was a packet line, hauling freight, on the river. After about 1900 the railroads started giving so much competition to the packets that they were gradually being driven out of business. Mr. John Strekfus got the idea of making one of his packets into a floating dancehall, working out of his headquarters in St. Louis. At first his sons Joe, Roy and Johnnie, were the only musicians. They all had musical training and were good, legitimate musicians. This idea caught on with the public and soon they had more boats and the boys took over the management and hired musicians to play for them. The boys were all very good steamboat men, pilots, engineers, electricians and captains. At first they hired white bands to play for them. Fate Marable was playing piano with one of these bands. He was very light complexioned and a very good musician. Well, they started sending a boat down to New Orleans for the winter season. Fate got around town and liked our music, so he convinced Strekfus to try a band of New Orleans musicians, also he would be a leader in his own right, and he would collect leader’s pay. In 1918 I was asked by Fate to join his band. Of course, they had other boats and other bands all this time, in fact, at one time they had a total of four boats working. There were other people who tried this same idea on the river, but the Strekfus people were very smart politicians and they got all the best landings tied up in every city. These other guys would find themselves out of town when they went to dock, but the Strekfus boat would be right at the foot of the main street of town.’’

Décrivant l’arrivée de Louis Armstrong avec le groupe, St. Cyr avait ajouté: ’’Most of us were not real good readers and Fate agreed to help us with out parts until we caught on. We had William ‘Bebe’ Ridgley on trombone; Joe Howard, cornet; Johnny Dodds, clarinet; Dave Jones, mellophone; Geo. ‘Pops’ Foster, bass; Warren ‘Baby’ Dodds, drums; myself on guitar and banjo; and Fate on piano. Well, we needed another cornet to fill out the band. We all had our eye on Louis Armstrong as the coming man on this instrument in New Orleans. So we were all bucking to get him in the band. At this time Louis was working for Kid Ory. Louis had gone in ‘hock’ to Ory for a new cornet and was paying back so much a week. When the time came for Louis to join us, Ory said he couldn’t take his horn because it wasn’t paid for. Louis came around very sad, said he couldn’t make it as he would have no instrument. We went to Roy Strekfus and explained the situation to him. He said, ‘Is this the man you want? Can he play the music?’ We said, ‘Yes.’ Strekfus replied, ‘Then I’ll give him an order for a new horn and he can pay for it so much a week.’ That was how Louis was able to join the band. Most of this band had been with Fate before I joined it in the early summer of 1918.’’

Le groupe de n’avait aucun joueur de banjo dans ses rangs lorsque St. Cyr s’était joint à la formation. Il expliquait:

‘’They had no banjo before I came into the band. Johnny Dodds had replaced Sam Dutrey, Sr., then Louis came in a little later to fill out the cornet section. This was on the Steamer Sidney. This was their first and smallest boat. We were playing at night, plus Sunday afternoon and evening. We were getting $35.00 a week. Johnny Dodds left the band shortly after I joined and Sam Dutrey came back. As I recollect, Johnny just took Dutrey’s place for a few weeks. I don’t think Johnny ever played on the boats regularly.’’

Commentant le fonctionnement du groupe, St. Cyr avait précisé:

‘’Now, the music we played — how the band sounded — this would be more like a swing band than the New Orleans type jazz band. Strekfus had a standing order with the music publishers and they shipped him all the new arrangements right off the press. He just paid them by the month. We just played the arrangements as they were, we never changed them. We had no staff arranger, no special jazz arrangements.The other bands used the same music we did. We just had that feeling, that rhythm, that swing. We were very popular in New Orleans that summer and fall, so they made arrangements to take us to St. Louis for the next summer season. We rehearsed one morning a week (Tuesdays) for two hours, we played the same programme all week and changed on Sunday night. One of the Strekfus brothers was always at rehearsal to make sure everything was just the way they wanted it. This was strictly a reading band, no hot solos. We played all through the winter in New Orleans, then we went to St. Louis in April, by train, where we joined the St. Louis Musician’s Local, then up to Davenport, Iowa, where the boats were stored. Steamer St. Paul was our boat. Now, if Bix Biederbeke came out to hear us, I couldn’t say, but many musicians did come out to hear us and he may very well have been there. From Davenport we worked our way up to St. Paul, then back to St. Louis by Decoration Day (May 30). We had a very good front line that was used to playing jazz in New Orleans, and they could put that feeling into the arrangements we were using, although they were mostly just ‘stocks’. With men like Louis Armstrong, Dave Jones, Joe Howard, Sam Dutry (Dutrey) and ‘Bebe’ Ridgley — we just couldn’t miss. Also we had a very powerful rhythm section. Fate Marable was a very strong man on the piano, very good rhythm and he played very good chords. I will say now, that he was the equal of any band piano man that I ever played with anywhere. Fate also played the steam calliope on the upper deck and this was something to hear. This calliope could be heard for blocks and was a very good advertisement {...}. Sometimes one of the Strekfus family would hear a band play an arrangement that appealed to them. They would buy it from the leader and we would play it. The Strekfus family always travelled around to other cities and visited the ballrooms so they could keep up with what was going on with the bands.’’

C’est à l’été 1919 que St. Cyr avait acheté la guitare-banjo avec laquelle il avait joué durant la majeure partie de sa carrière. Il expliquait:

‘’It was in the summer of 1919 that I bought the guitar-banjo that I still have today. Some fellow had hocked it with a pool room proprietor. He asked me to look at it for him. I did and asked him what he wanted for it. ‘$20.00’, he said, so I bought it. This is the instrument that I used on all my recording dates with the Hot 5 in Chicago several years later. I still have it and play it now and then, when a banjo is required on the job. Of course, it has been worked over several times, but it is still with me.’’

Avec le temps, Marable en avait eu assez d’aider ses musiciens à déchiffrer ses partitions et avait décidé de ne pas renouveler leur contrat. St. Cyr précisait: ‘’We were all getting dissatisfied with his attitude. So, because of this, we would not sign up for the winter in New Orleans of 1920-21. Well, Joe Strekfus looked into the matter and as a result he gave Fate the winter off, and made Ed Allen who had come into the band as a trumpet player, the leader playing piano in Fate’s place. My last summer on the boats (1921) Pops and I played with the Creath Band. When we returned to New Orleans that fall, I left the band and the boats for good.’’ Il faut dire qu’à l’époque, St. Cyr gagnait bien sa vie comme plâtrier. Il s’était même construit une maison avec l’argent qu’il avait gagné sur les vapeurs tout en continuant de se produire dans les environs de La Nouvelle-Orléans.

L’ÉPOQUE DE CHICAGO

St. Cyr jouait au Pythian Roof Gardens avec Manuel Perez lorsqu’il avait été contacté par King Oliver en septembre 1923. Comme St. Cyr l’avait expliqué lui-même: ‘’He needed a good banjo player for his recording work and he assured me I could find plenty of steady work in Chicago. I was not hired to play with the band, just to record. I was a little doubtful about making this big step, but Manuel Perez encouraged me to go. He said, ‘They’ll be crazy about your work in Chicago’’’. À l’origine, St. Cyr ne devait jouer que deux semaines avec le groupe, mais il était finalement resté six ans. Il précisait: ‘’I was to play with the King Oliver Band for two weeks at Lincoln Gardens to catch their style. I received $75.00 a week which was also to cover my fees for recording.’’ St. Cyr connaissait presque tous les membres du groupe sauf la pianiste Lil Hardin.

Louis Armstrong s’était joint au groupe d’Oliver à peu près au même moment. Il poursuivait:

‘’So Joe Oliver was looking for a substitute cornet player he could use when he wanted to take a night off. I mentioned Louis to him and Joe got hold of him. Louis had a wonderful ear, and he learned Oliver’s repertoire from him in about three days. And that’s how Louis came to play in Oliver’s place at Lala’s when Joe was working with the Magnolia Band. They had to keep the noise down after midnight and used mutes in the cornets. Well, the waiters and everybody around there liked to hear Louis get off, so they would talk him into taking the mute out of the cornet.’’

À son arrivée à Chicago, St. Cyr avait habité avec la famille de King Oliver. Lorsque le contrat de St. Cyr au Lincoln Gardens avait pris fin, Datnell Howard l’avait engagé pour jouer à l’Arcadia Ballroom pour 50$ par semaine. Il expliquait: ‘’We played stock arrangements, nothing special in the way of music, the same type of stock arrangements we used on the riverboats. After two months Darnell lost the job and the band broke up.’’ À l’époque, Oliver avait demandé à St. Cyr de se trouver un nouvel endroit où habiter, car il vivait dans un petit appartement et commençait à manquer de place. À ce moment-là, Armstrong et Hardin étaient sur le point de se marier. Même si le couple s’était loué une petite maison, il n’avait pas encore commencé à l’occuper, et avait offert à St. Cyr de s’y installer pendant quelque temps. St. Cyr avait même continué de vivre avec le couple durant une brève période après que celui-ci ait emménagé.

Pendant qu’il jouait avec le groupe d’Howard, St. Cyr avait également enregistré avec Charlie Cook. Lorsque le groupe d’Howard avait été démantelé, St. Cyr avait fait savoir à Cook qu’il était sans travail. C’est ainsi qu’il avait commencé à jouer avec le Dreamland Orchestra de Cook qui se produisait au Dreamland Ballroom situé à l’intersection des rues Paulina et Van Buren. Durant l’été, le groupe se produisait également dans des parcs d’amusements comme ceux de Riverside.

C’était la première fois de sa carrière que St. Cyr jouait avec un groupe qui utilisait ses propres arrangements sur pratiquement chacune des pièces. St. Cyr poursuivait: ‘’ We had many specials, strictly in the jazz style, but all arranged, written out. Doc Cook did all his own arrangements. He played piano and organ. He was just an average piano player, but he was at his best at the organ. The use of ad lib, hot solos, etc., had not come into too much use at this time in the larger bands. Two of my old friends from New Orleans were in this band, Freddie Keppard and Jimmie Noone.’’

À l’époque, Noone travaillait au Edelwiess, un club de danse multiracial, avec un groupe composé de Joe Poston au saxophone alto, Earl Hines au piano et Johnny Wells à la batterie. Comme sa famille était demeurée à La Nouvelle-Orléans, St. Cyr avait énormément de temps de loisirs, ce qui lui avait permis d’aller retrouver Noone au Edelwiess et de jouer avec le groupe. Il expliquait:

‘’This was a black and tan club with singers and dancers. As my family was still New Orleans, I had plenty of time on my hands, and so when we were finished at the Dreamland at 12.30 a.m., I started going over to the Edelweiss and sitting in with the group. I was not on salary, but I got my share of the tips, and they were good enough to pay me for my work. This started me off with the Jimmie Noone Orchestra, and so then when Jimmie, Joe and Earl went into the Apex Club in December, 1926, I went with them. This was one of the best jobs I ever had — the management was the nicest I ever worked for. They gave us each $5.00 for a Christmas present, although we had only been there a few days. The Manager also gave us tips on the quiet. This was also an after hours spot.’’

De tous les membres du groupe, St. Cyr était particulièrement proche du saxophoniste Joe Poston. Il poursuivait:

‘’Joe Poston was one of my special friends in the Doc Cook Band. He was from Alexandria, Louisiana. He played saxophone and oboe. His music was more on the sweet side. He and Doc Cook and myself were called the Three Musketeers as we always rode to work together. Then, sometimes after work, we would get a pint of prescription whiskey from a druggist we knew and go over to Doc Cook’s. Joe and I would sit around and have a few while Doc worked on his arrangements. Doc always worked at a high desk and stood up to write. He could write out music as fast as I could write a letter.’’ 

St. Cyr appréciait également le saxophoniste Stump Evans au sujet duquel il avait déclaré:

‘’Stump Evans was one of the few musicians not from New Orleans who seemed to fit in with our bunch; that is, his style of playing. He was from St. Louis and had picked up our style off the riverboat bands before he came to Chicago. He was the first sax player I ever heard to play slap tongue. We all liked his work and he got in on a lot of record dates with us for this reason. He played regularly with Erskine Tate at the Vendome Theatre and hung around a pool room at 35th and State. He was very short in height, which gave him his nickname Stump and not Stomp as it is sometimes misspelled.’’

Après avoir eu un désaccord avec Cook, Noone avait été congédié du groupe. St. Cyr poursuivait:

‘’Shortly after this Jimmie had a big fuss with Doc Cook one night and Cook gave him his notice. As the Apex Club was doing so good and Jimmie was then available they started opening up earlier in the night. Bud Scott took my place till I could get over, then he went to a job he had at the Regal Theatre. One night Jimmie got to talking about why Doc Cook had let him go. Jimmie acted as if he didn’t know why Cook had let him go, so to be helpful, I told him. That made Jimmie mad at me and he fired me. Bud Scott didn’t want to take the job under the circumstances, but I told him, ‘Go ahead, take it, I won’t be there so you might as well take it, if you want it, it’s a good job!’ Shortly after all this took place this group made several recordings for the Brunswick Vocalion Company. These recordings are a very good example of the music that was being played in the clubs, at that time in Chicago. These recordings are just the way we played on the job.’’

À l’été 1929, les affaires ayant commencé à décliner, Cook avait dû réduire taille de son groupe de quatorze à dix musiciens. St. Cyr, qui ne jouait que du banjo et de la guitare, avait été un des premiers à être sacrifiés et avait été remplacé par un banjoïste qui jouait également du violon.

De tous les musiciens qu’il avait cotoyés, St. Cyr avait d’excellents souvenirs de sa collaboration avec Freddie Keppard. Il précisait:

‘’Freddie was drinking a lot by this time, although, he never seemed to let it interfere with his work. We spent a lot of time together at the Union Hall and were the best of friends. Freddie was playing very well, with Doc Cook, as well as all the gigs we all used to get around town. In spite of some of the stories about him, he was a pretty good reader, he played all those arrangements Doc Cook wrote, as well as playing with other bands on gigs. These bands would have their own library of music. He had been reading violin music many years before in New Orleans, before he took up the cornet. Freddie had been, in New Orleans, the first of the get off men on cornet, a real pace setter and pioneer. In Chicago, he was more satisfied to let music just be his work. His inspiration to be coming up with something new seemed to be gone. To compare him to Louis Armstrong I would say: they both started out about even as to ability and inspiration, but music was Louis’ whole life and with Freddie Keppard, it got to be just the way he earned his living, just a job. He also had that independent Creole temperament and was not always the easiest guy in the world to get to cooperate. He had his own ideas about a lot of things, but he was a great jazz musician and a good friend of mine {...}. There were so many great musicians around Chicago at that time I would never be able to name them all. Also singers, they all worked in Chicago at one time or another when I was there.’’

À Chicago, St. Cyr avait également joué avec le groupe de Kid Ory. De tous les musiciens avec lesquels il avait collaboré, St. Cyr se rappelait particulièrement de Johnny Dodds et King Oliver. Comme il l’avait expliqué lui-même:

‘’Johnny was a quiet, serious man, all business. Although we recorded together a lot, this was about the only time we would meet. We never played together on a job except the first few weeks when I came to Chicago. Johnny had come to Chicago several years before I did. Fie had bought a small apartment house where he lived with his family. I would only see him once in a while at the Union Hall when he came in to pay his dues or on a record date. We were always friendly, but not what could be called close friends. I had been good friends with Joe Oliver in New Orleans and of course kept this friendship up in Chicago. Joe didn’t come around the Union Hall much either, although I used to visit him at his home. Joe didn’t like to go out much. He was such a big eater, he always said it embarrassed him to go out to eat, so I would stop by his home now and then for a visit or a meal. He never asked me to join him as he knew I was set with Doc Cook. He was a good-humoured man, liked to joke with his friends, talk with them. He was very business-like, a good band leader and organizer. Jimmie Noone didn’t come around the Union Hall much either. He was quite a ladies man, and usually spent his spare time visiting one or the other of his girl friends. Of the other musicians around in those days George Fields, Ray (Roy) Palmer, Honore Dutrey, Kid Ory, Jelly Roll Morton, Richard M. Jones never spent much time around the Union Hall. Jelly Roll and Richard M. Jones spent most of their time around Melrose Bros Music Store. That is where I first met Jelly Roll. I had known him in New Orleans very slightly. Richard M. Jones kept himself busy with the Okeh Record Company. He was their contact man for their race records. He was a fine fellow, very jolly and a good organizer with a good head. He knew music very well, but he was just an ordinary piano soloist, nothing special.’’

Après avoir été congédié par Cook, St. Cyr avait rencontré un banjoïste appelé Dago qui était également chanteur. Après avoir fait quelques répétitions, le duo avait joué dans des courses de chiens à Gary, en Indiana avant de se produire dans des clubs de Kenosha et de Milwaukee au Wisconsin où il avait remporté un certain succès. Mais St. Cyr avait dû retourner seul à Chicago, car Dago s’était fait une petite amie à Milwaukee.

Le lendemain, St. Cyr était retourné à La Nouvelle-Orléans où il avait travaillé comme plâtrier tout en se produisant avec des groupes locaux avec de grands noms du Dixieland comme Paul Barbarin et Alphonse Picou.

ÉPILOGUE

Dans les années 1950, St. Cyr avait joué et dirigé un groupe appelé  Johnny St. Cyr and His Hot Five. Il avait aussi enregistré avec Paul Barbarin et George Lewis. Après être déménagé à Los Angeles en 1955 et être retourné à la musique à plein temps, St. Cyr avait dirigé le groupe Young Men from New Orleans de 1961 à sa mort en 1966. Parmi les membres du groupe, on remarquait le clarinettiste Barney Bigard.

Johnny St. Cyr est mort le 17 juin 1966 au General Hospital de Los Angeles. Il était âgé de soixante-seize ans. St-Cyr a été inhumé au Evergreen Cemetery de Los Angeles. 

Reconnu comme un pionnier du jazz, St. Cyr, qui s’était surtout fait conna��tre en enregistrant avec le Hot Five et le Hot Seven de Louis Armstrong de 1925 à 1927 (notamment sur les classiques Gut Bucket Blues et Heebie Jeebies), avait aussi joué et enregistré avec les  Red Hot Peppers de Jelly Roll Morton. Également compositeur, St. Cyr était l’auteur du standard "Oriental Strut", qui était connu pour ses accords particulièrement innovateurs. St. Cyr, qui jouait du banjo d’une façon complètement différente que les autres banjoïstes de son époque, se produisait sur un banjo à six cordes. Il excellait également à la guitare. St. Cyr avait d’ailleurs fabriqué sa propre guitare lui-même en modifiant un de ses propres banjos.

Johnny St. Cyr a été intronisé au sein du Banjo Hall of Fame en 2002.

©- 2024, tous droits réservés, Les Productions de l’Imaginaire historique

SOURCES:

‘’Johnny St. Cyr.’’ Wikipedia, 2023.

‘’Johnny St. Cyr.’’ Jazz Journal, 2023.

‘’Johnny St. Cyr.’’ All About Jazz, 2023.  

‘’Johnny St. Cyr (1890-1966).’’ The Syncopated Times, 2023.

[makaibari]

From Leaf to Cup: The Fascinating Journey of Tea Production

Welcome to Makaibari Tea Estate, where every cup of tea tells a story of tradition, craftsmanship, and excellence. Join us on a journey through the intricate process of transforming Makaibari tea leaves into the finest Darjeeling brews, from the lush fields of our estate to your cup of steaming goodness.

Harvesting the Freshest Leaves

Harvesting tea leaves is similar to picking leaves from any other plant. It requires skill, especially for prized teas like Bai Mu Dan or Silver Tips Imperial. To gather these high-quality tea leaves, the top three leaves of the tea plant are carefully plucked because they are the sweetest and most nutritious. First, the top three leaves are identified, and then the stem of the tea plant is held a few millimeters below the third leaf. They are gently pulled upward until a small pop sound is heard, and the leaf is separated. Although this method of harvesting takes a lot of time, it results in excellent-quality tea.

Embracing Biodynamic Practices

Our commitment to sustainability and quality extends to our cultivation methods. Through biodynamic farming techniques, we nurture the soil and protect the ecosystem, allowing our Makaibari tea bushes to thrive and produce leaves of exceptional quality. By harnessing the natural rhythms of the earth and aligning our farming practices with cosmic influences, we cultivate teas that are not only delicious but also environmentally responsible.

Withering: Enhancing Aroma and Flavour

After harvesting, the Makaibari tea leaves undergo the withering process, where they are spread out to wilt naturally. This step allows moisture to evaporate from the leaves, intensifying their flavour and aroma while preparing them for the next processing stage. At Makaibari, we believe in the power of nature to enhance the quality of our teas and withering is where this journey begins.

Harnessing the Power of Sun and Air

Darjeeling's unique climate plays a crucial role in the withering process. Our Makaibari tea leaves bask in the gentle rays of the sun and are caressed by the cool mountain breeze, imparting a distinct character to our teas. The combination of sunlight and fresh air allows the leaves to undergo natural chemical changes, resulting in vibrant, aromatic teas and full of flavour.

Oxidation: Unveiling Depth and Complexity

Once withered, the Makaibari tea leaves undergo controlled oxidation, a crucial step in developing the complex flavours that define Darjeeling teas. During this process, enzymes within the leaves interact with oxygen, gradually transforming their chemical composition and creating layers of depth and richness. At Makaibari, our skilled artisans carefully monitor the oxidation process, ensuring that each batch of tea achieves the perfect balance of flavours.

Mastering the Art of Fermentation

Fermentation is where the magic truly happens. Our artisans carefully control temperature and humidity levels to facilitate the oxidation process, allowing the Makaibari tea leaves to develop their unique flavour profiles. This delicate art requires precision and expertise, as even slight variations in conditions can impact the final taste of the tea. At Makaibari, we take pride in our mastery of fermentation, producing teas that are nuanced, vibrant, and full of character.

Drying and Sorting

After oxidation, the Makaibari tea leaves are gently dried to halt the fermentation process and preserve their freshness. This final step ensures that our teas retain their vibrant flavours and aromas, ready to be enjoyed by tea lovers around the world. At Makaibari, we use traditional drying methods such as sun drying or indoor drying, depending on the specific characteristics of each tea.

Handcrafted with Care

Once dried, the Makaibari tea leaves undergo meticulous sorting by our skilled artisans. Each leaf is carefully inspected and graded based on size, shape, and quality, ensuring that only the finest leaves make it into our final blends. This hands-on approach to tea production ensures consistency and excellence in every cup, reflecting our dedication to crafting teas of the highest caliber.

Moonlight Plucking Under Darjeeling's Sky

At Makaibari, we begin our tea production process with moonlight plucking, a time-honoured tradition unique to Darjeeling. As the moon casts its ethereal glow over our tea gardens, skilled pluckers carefully select the freshest leaves, ensuring optimal flavour and aroma. This method, practiced during specific phases of the lunar cycle, allows us to capture the essence of the Makaibari tea leaves at their peak, resulting in teas of unparalleled quality.

From leaf to cup, the journey of tea production at Makaibari Tea Estate is a testament to our unwavering commitment to excellence and tradition. With each sip of our Darjeeling brews, you embark on a sensory adventure that celebrates the rich heritage and natural beauty of our beloved estate. Join us in experiencing the magic of Makaibari, where every cup tells a story of passion, craftsmanship, and unparalleled quality.

Published On = https://makaibari.in/blogs/news/from-leaf-to-cup-the-fascinating-journey-of-tea-production

[christophe76460]

Les richesses terrestres ou la vie éternelle ?

Proverbs, 11:4

Riches do not profit in the day of wrath, but righteousness delivers from death.

Proverbes, 11:4

Les richesses ne servent à rien au jour de la colère, mais la droiture délivre de la mort.

1 Timothy, 5:8

But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.

1 Timothée, 5:8

Mais si quelqu’un ne prend pas soin des siens, et surtout ceux de sa maison, il a renié la foi, et il est pire qu’un infidèle.

Proverbs, 10:22

The blessing of the Lord makes rich, and he adds no sorrow with it.

Proverbes, 10:22

La bénédiction du SEIGNEUR est ce qui enrichit, et il n'y ajoute pas de chagrin.

Proverbs, 11:28

Whoever trusts in his riches will fall, but the righteous will flourish like a green leaf.

Proverbes, 11:28

Celui qui se confie en ses richesses tombera ; mais les [hommes] droits prospéreront comme une branche.

James, 5:1-5

Come now, you rich, weep and howl for the miseries that are coming upon you. Your riches have rotted and your garments are moth-eaten. Your gold and silver have corroded, and their corrosion will be evidence against you and will eat your flesh like fire. You have laid up treasure in the last days. Behold, the wages of the laborers who mowed your fields, which you kept back by fraud, are crying out against you, and the cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord of hosts. You have lived on the earth in luxury and in self-indulgence. You have fattened your hearts in a day of slaughter.

Jacques, 5:1-5

Allez maintenant, vous hommes riches, pleurez et hurlez, à cause des misères qui vont venir sur vous.

Vos richesses sont pourries, et vos vêtements sont rongés par les mites.

Votre or et votre argent se sont rouillés, et leur rouille sera en témoignage contre vous et dévorera votre chair comme le feu. Vous avez amassé un trésor pour les derniers jours.

Voici, le salaire des ouvriers qui ont moissonné vos champs, et dont vous les avez frustrés, crie; et les cris de ceux qui ont moissonné sont parvenus aux oreilles du Seigneur des armées.

Vous avez vécu dans les plaisirs sur la terre et dans le luxe, et vous avez rassasiés vos cœurs comme en un jour de l’abattage.

Proverbs, 16:8

Better is a little with righteousness than great revenues with injustice.

Proverbes, 16:8

Mieux vaut peu avec droiture, que de grands revenus sans droiture.

Luke, 18:22-30

When Jesus heard this, he said to him, “One thing you still lack. Sell all that you have and distribute to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.” But when he heard these things, he became very sad, for he was extremely rich. Jesus, seeing that he had become sad, said, “How difficult it is for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God! For it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God.” Those who heard it said, “Then who can be saved?”

And he said, The things which are impossible with men are possible with God. Then Peter said, Lo, we have left all, and followed thee. And he said unto them, Verily I say unto you, There is no man that hath left house, or parents, or brethren, or wife, or children, for the kingdom of God's sake, who shall not receive manifold more in this present time, and in the world to come life everlasting.

Luc, 18:22-30

Et quand Jésus entendit ces choses, il lui dit: Il te manque encore une chose; vends tout ce que tu as, et distribue-le aux pauvres, et tu auras un trésor dans le ciel; et viens, suis-moi.

Mais quand il entendit cela, il devint très triste; car il était fort riche.

Et quand Jésus vit qu’il était devenu tout triste, il dit: Combien il est difficile pour ceux qui ont des richesses d’entrer dans le royaume de Dieu!

Car il est plus facile à un chameau d’entrer par le trou d’une aiguille, qu’à un homme riche d’entrer dans le royaume de Dieu.

Et ceux qui l’entendaient dirent: Qui peut alors être sauvé?

Et il dit: Les choses qui sont impossibles aux hommes sont possibles avec Dieu.

Puis Pierre dit: Voici, nous avons tout quitté, et nous t’avons suivi.

Et il leur dit: En vérité je vous dis, il n’y a aucun homme qui ait laissé maison, ou parents ou frères, ou femme ou enfants, pour la cause du royaume de Dieu,

Qui ne reçoive beaucoup plus en ce temps présent, et, dans le monde à venir, la vie éternelle.

Proverbs, 27:24

For riches do not last forever; and does a crown endure to all generations?

Proverbes, 27:24

Car les richesses ne sont pas éternelles, et la couronne dure-t-elle de génération en génération?

[godotetfils]

Pièce d'Argent d'investissement - Godot et Fils

Godot et Fils permet d'acheter des pièces d'Argent anciennes et modernes. Nous pouvons vous proposer un large choix de pièce d'Argent modernes d'une once de différente nationalité : US Mint avec la Silver Eagle, Austrian Mint avec la Philharmonique, Monnaie Royal Canadienne avec la Maple Leaf ou Perth Mint avec la Kangourou. Les pièces peuvent être vendues par boîte de 500, ou à l'unité. Les pièces d'Argent d'investissement sont vendues sous scellé Godot et Fils. Nous proposons différents service de stockage. L'investissement dans les pièces d'Argent permet d'être exonéré de TVA.

Nous rejoindre - plan google map : https://www.google.com/maps/place/Godot+et+Fils+Paris+Panth%C3%A9on+(Achat+%2F+Vente+Or+et+Argent+%2F+Bureau+de+change),+Rue+Soufflot,+Paris/@46.179307,6.127334,15z/data=!4m2!3m1!1s0x47e6716024462a0f:0x4b5ee35fcffe82b2?hl=fr

Itinéraire mappy : https://fr.mappy.com/poi/4d6c311bfc69250755c60dd7

Notre page google : https://g.page/godotetfils?share

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[laresearchette]

Sunday, January 22, 2023 Canadian TV Listings (Times Eastern)

WHERE CAN I FIND THOSE PREMIERES?: ACCUSED (Global) 10:00pm YOLO: SILVER DESTINY (adult swim) 12:00am

WHAT IS NOT PREMIERING IN CANADA TONIGHT?: THE PLOT TO KILL MY MOTHER (TBD - Lifetime Canada)

NHL HOCKEY (SN) 2:00pm: Penguins vs. Devils (SN) 7:00pm: Sharks vs. Bruins (TSN2) 7:00pm: Jets vs. Flyers

NFL FOOTBALL (CTV) 3:00pm: Bengals vs. Bills (CTV) 6:30pm: Cowboys vs. 49ers

NBA BASKETBALL (SN1) 3:30pm: Pelicans vs. Heat (TSN4) 6:00pm: Knicks vs. Raptors (SN Now) 8:00pm: Thunder vs. Nuggets (SN1) 8:30pm: Nets vs. Warriors (TSN4) 9:00pm: Lakers vs. Trail Blazers

AUSTRALIAN OPEN TENNIS  (TSN/TSN5) 7:00pm: Round of 16

HEARTLAND (CBC) 7:00pm: Amy helps Lisa with Platinum Bow. Tim has a difficult visit with Shane. Katie leads a strike at Maggie’s. Jack reconnects with his country music roots...YEE-HORSE!

OFFSIDE: THE HAROLD BALLARD STORY (CBC) 8:00pm: Maple Leafs owner Harold Ballard didn’t invent greed — he perfected it.

MEET YOU IN SCOTLAND (City TV) 8:00pm: A writer is sent to Scotland to collect a literary award for her boss and is quickly mistaken for someone else by a dashing Scottish poet.

THE WAY HOME (W Network) 8:00pm (SERIES PREMIERE): Kat and teen daughter Alice move in with estranged grandma Del; escaping the tension, Alice explores the farm and finds herself on a surprising journey.

IRREVERENT (Showcase) 9:00pm: Mack gets involved in an illegal tobacco trade to get the money he needs for a new identity while preparing to conduct a funeral for one of Clump's most beloved figures.

DEAR AUDREY (Super Channel Fuse) 9:30pm:  A filmmaker cares for his wife as she goes through the final stages of Alzheimer's disease.

NIGHT COURT (2023) (CTV) 10:00pm/10:30pm (SERIES PREMIERE): Judge Abby Stone follows in the footsteps of her late father Harry Stone as she takes over the night shift of a Manhattan arraignment court; when a public defender is needed, Abby sees potential in former prosecutor Dan Fielding.  In Episode Two, Abby pushes Dan Fielding to embrace his new role as public defender; Neil gets on board with Abby's quest to improve the courtroom and quickly realizes why trying is for the birds.

THE CURSE OF OAK ISLAND (History Canada) 10:00pm: The fellowship is stunned when evidence suggests that a dam lies buried at the end of the swamp, corroborating both Fred Nolan's theory, and Zena Halpern's Templar map.

THE FLAGMAKERS (Nat Geo Canada) 10:00pm: A filmmaker cares for his wife as she goes through the final stages of Alzheimer's disease.

[adelha-mathilde]

Wesson was the happiest puppy alive, zooming back and forth to either chase the ball or bring it back. Always wagging that tail to yip or ruff at his best friend with encouragement. Only stopping to give the blonde's fingers puppy kisses. The jump into the blonde's arms followed by face licks and happy growls of endearment. Wesson is so glad to have this new best friend. Only giving a yawn for a second before zooming off to get the ball and bring it back. A bit slower than before, but still so eager to play with the blonde. It wouldn't be long now until the tired hit the joyful pup.

Adelha nodded to fetch a few things from both the duffel bag she set down as well as the mini fridge in the hotel room. Lots of graceful ease of movement as she began making the tea with loose leaf tea she pours from a tin. "White Peony Tea it is then. better known as Bai Mu Dan to many tea experts. But you are no bother at all, crimson bird. One of life's great joys is the treasure of company and communication. So you are welcome here and I am sure the both of us will enjoy spending our time together."

The lady soon is set up to start boiling the pasta noodles and chopping up the other vegetables with movements that prove the lady is well versed in the ways of cooking. The few spices on the counter measured and added to a pan of sauce as the lady hums a warm tune. Yet she does pause when the gentle sound of a meow escapes from under the hotel room bed. A very fluffy kitten soon crawling out from her hiding place to stretch and yawn. Soft grey white fur and the most vibrant blue eyes meeting the gaze of the blonde before the kitten scampers right to Adelha to wind around her leg and purr. Making Adelha openly chuckle and speak with great affection. "Good afternoon, Aqua. I see you've roused from your royal siesta. While probably using one of my socks for a pillow. You will do your best to behave when we have a guest. So be nice."

Aqua gives a mew of agreement to then clamber right up Adelha's long green dress and all but perch herself like a bird on Adelha's shoulder. The kitten chewing on locks of silver white hair as Adelha continues cooking. Like this is a normal thing that happens all the time. While Wesson brings the ball back to then give another huge yawn and flop over the blonde's leg. Finally stopping in play time to grump at having no more energy to play. The perfect chance to set a puppy in the wooden wash tub Adelha left out and give Wesson a bath.

Adelha watches the two play with the ball to give the shy blonde all of her attention. Looking both amused and content with the answer he gives. As if it's okay for the blonde to dodge a real answer to her given questions. Like he is allowed to be whoever he feels comfortable being without any hard feelings. While Wesson zooms about the floor to chase after the ball without any care or concern to the conversation. The puppy only interested in playing with his new best friend. But Wesson does that a pause when he ends up in a lap to ruff and stand on his hinds legs to give the blonde a few chin licks. Then the puppy is zooming off to catch the ball once more.

The lady chuckles to soon move to the small kitchen in the single room. Her first order of business being to remove the evening gloves she's had on this entire time. The grey cloak soon to follow. Which reveals a long green dress of the most deep green hue. So long it hides her feet from view. Adelha moves to the kitchen sink to start scrubbing her hands with a bar of herbal soap. The blonde might catch sight of her left hand and arm as she hums a tune to her scrubbing regiment. Which would show an old burn that goes from her knuckles and all the way up her left arm. The lady soon fetching a towel to wipe off both hands and turn to look to the blonde with a smile. "One of the many joys of life is forging friendships and spoiling puppies. Even if the dog hair can be a bit of a chore to clean up from floors and clothes. So I am more than glad to treat you to good food and fun playtime with Wesson."

Adelha then has a thought to ask the blonde, "Is there anything you are unable to eat? Or anything that you dislike? The choices for a home made meal are meat stew, pasta with seafood in it, or a rice dish. Each choice will have a good amount of vegetables. Since I am one that insists on getting your daily serving of veggies as much as meat and grains. For drinks we may enjoy iced tea with a surprise fruit added in. Or I have some bourbon stashed away."