#i guess at least he wasn't the little kazoo boy

[inber]

little drummer boy: OI MISTAH I AIN'T GOT NO GIFT FOR THE BABY KING

mary, recovering from birth in a fucken stable: don't sweat it kid you're like ten or something

little drummer boy: I CAN PLAY ME DRUM FOR HIM, I CAN

mary: no, no, that's really not necessar--

little drummer boy: BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

[tightropeflea]

For @chiefharbour

6 and 20. Person A and B get a little too drunk at a New Year’s Eve Party… Person A serenades Person B with a New Year’s kazoo/squawker/party horn.

After her second glass of rum and coke, Joyce was willing to admit her mistake. Drinking was never a vice of hers - she let her deadbeat ex-husband have that one instead. She never had a reason to drink at all. Especially now that her boys were growing so fast; she was barely willing to take her eyes off of them, let alone drink herself stupid and miss something important.

Her unintentional virtue, though, made her...

".... Such a lightweight." Hopper leaned back in his chair. He had a few beers in him too, and was brandishing that disarming grin that got her heart racing. It brought out giggles that she didn't know she had in her anymore. Coupled with his dark blue flannel and jeans, it felt dangerous - like she shouldn't meet his eyes, or she'd be a goner.

Not that she had any real fear in her. The Sinclairs' New Years party had made her anxious until Hopper waved her down and started pouring. Everything felt calmer with him there.

"We aren't all six foot tall giants, Hop!" she retorted, very aware of the slur and stumble in her voice. "I'm... I'm tiny, I'm small. I can handle... not 'smuch."

He let out a good chuckle at that one.

Her fingers were tapping on the table unbidden, and Joyce stared at them. You're fidgeting. Don't do that, she mentally chided herself. Joyce eyed the scattered 1985 glitter that had been sprinkled on the table, along with some hand cranks and kazoos. Eagerly, she snatched one and held it up to her face to squint at.

A giant hand came into her line of sight, gently wrapping around the instrument and lowering it.

Joyce heard herself snort, pulling the kazoo to her chest and wrinkling her nose in irritation at him. It's mine. I found it. Get your own.

Hopper's grin had warmed into a genuine smile, crows feet deepening. "Know how to play a song on that damn thing?"

Her indignation only grew, along with a spark of... something. That smile made her feel something, and that question made her want to impress.

So she took a deep breath and blew a wavering note. Then broke it off as she dissolved in another fit of giggles.

Hopper leaned all the more forward, resting all of his weight over his crossed arms on the table. Joyce was only barely aware of the lull in conversation around them - though if it was because of the sound of the kazoo or the way he was staring at her was anyone's guess. In her fuzzy haze, she knew the look on his face was love, but she was too far gone to be anything but charmed.

She held up an impatient finger.

"Wait. Wait wait wait. No!" Joyce's volume grew as he started to laugh - a real belly laugh, like she hadn't heard in years. "No! Hop, wait! Shhhhshhhshh, wait, lemme just..."

Another deep breath was followed by another note, a little clearer this time. Confident in herself, she hummed out a warbling rendition of the old classic.

"Ey! There y'go, Joyce!" Hopper crowed, before adding his own off-key voice to the horrible mix. "Should old acquaintance be forgot, da da daa, da Old Landslide!"

And then they were both laughing, louder than she could remember ever laughing. Joyce Byers, mother of two and town pariah was practically cackling with her oldest friend - the womanizer, the drunk, the lazy son-ofa-bitch Jim Hopper as the countdown started.

"Those aren't the lyrics, Hopper!"

"You sure about that, Horowitz?"

She wasn't, but neither was he. At least they were in it together.

1985 was going to be a good year.