#stranger things poetry

[graysonnightwing]

Please be honest in all of your answers.

1. Will you ever be free from your guilt? Circle your answer. a) Yes b) No c) I have traveled to other dimensions trying to rid myself of this weight upon my chest. Nothing has ever worked.

2. How else could this have ended? a) I only wanted to spend a night with a boy. b) I never expected to be left behind. c) No one does.

3. Barbara is 15 years, 10 months, and 4 days old. You are 15 years, 7 months, and 3 days old. If she dies on a Tuesday, and you stop looking for her on a Saturday, how old will you be when you let her go? Please answer clearly, in full sentences.

(Not a correct answer: There will never come a time when I don't pick up the phone hoping to hear her voice on the other end.)

4. Define two (2): BFFs | The feeling of a revolver heavy in your hand and the ringing in your ears from firing it | Demogorgon | The way the world collapsed when Hopper and Joyce did not bring her back

5. True or False: i. You heard something that night. ___ ii. The monster's claws and teeth were the last thing she ever felt, while you were upstairs being held with gentle hands. ___ iii. You wish it had been you. ___ iv. You lie to her grieving parents every week. ___ v. They believe you. ___ i. You hunt the one that killed her, but you'll never bring her back from the dead. ___ vii. You told her to go home. ___

-nancy this isn't you (format inspired by x)

[gayofthefae]

Will has always sacrificed himself it just escalated to self-sabotage. In the first episode, Mike reasons going after him because of his self sacrifice in DnD. In season 2 when they're in the shed, he tells another DnD story of sacrifice or risk of sacrifice. Joyce tells the story of him giving up his tonka truck. In season 3, after their fight, he steps back, tried not to take up as much space so he doesn't interfere with Mike's happiness, if that's with someone other than him now. In season 4, he gives up his own chance at sharing something that's been killing him so that Mike feels loved by El. It was always coming and it was always there. When he speaks his mind he takes up too much space and people tell him so, even if they don't mean it, even if it's just unrelated bad timing, and he listens and steps back. "I deserved it".

"I have never understood where the line is drawn between self-sacrifice and self-slaughter"

Once, it was acts of selflessness. He risked himself when there was a threat to save the party in DnD. But in life, it was always more like the tonka truck. Which was selfless, yes, but he never really learned to prioritize. "She's sad mommy" and in that case, he decided that that's what he could do to help. But as he got older, he never asked himself if there were other ways he could help, ways without self sacrifice. He never weighed the options. He never asked himself if it would make him sadder to give things up than it would make them if he didn't. He just decided "if they're a little bit sad and I could fix completely by ripping out my own heart and never putting it back in, I'll do it".

[prettyboy-like-you]

There weren't moments. It wasn't like that. There was no shifting of grey clouds. No first blush. Nothing like waiting for the sun to come up in the sky as it does the morning after the night before. None of that creeping, hazy first light growing steadily brighter, bit by infinitesimal bit. No slow breach of my dark horizon. No sneaking up on me in my dimmed down little world.

There was no dawn. 

Because it wasn't a thing that grew, it was a Quickening.

It was daytime unleashed, the flicking on of a switch I couldn't turn off again because the stupid mechanism broke off in my stupid hand. I was bleached. Aglow. All ablaze, all at once, drenched in the brightest of lights and soaked in a fluorescence there was no escaping from. No shade. No shadow. Only forever burning, now, beneath your God-like rays, alight with all of you.

Luminous, radiant fucking you.

.

[cheekios]

Please Bring Kaiser Home.

I have been having complications with managing my diabetes that have led me to be hospitalized twice. I live alone. Kaiser is a precious pup that specializes in detecting when blood sugar is too high or too low before it leads to complications. Something I have been struggling with. Kaiser would not only improve my quality of life but also be my companion and friend

I’m asking for community support get a Medical Alert Dog. It is a huge ask but any support is appreciated 💗

CA: $HushEmu

PP: emuslayter@gmail.com

[bebx]

Henry Creel | One | Vecna

The Last Days of Judas Iscariot by Stephen Adly Guirgis † Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

[asoftepiloguemylove]

IF YOU GO, I'M GOING TOO 'CAUSE IT WAS ALWAYS YOU // LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP

Hanya Yanagihara A Little Life // Stranger Things (2016-) dir. Matt Duffer & Ross Duffer // Anne Carson Euripides // Lorde A World Alone // Ryan O'Connell // The Hunger Games (2012) dir. Gary Ross // Ross Gay Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude // The Neighbourhood You Get Me So High // 劇場版 呪術廻戦 Jujutsu Kaisen 0 dir. Sunghoo Park // Lorde Ribs // ATEEZ Friend (Thank U) // Billie Eilish BIRDS OF A FEATHER // 今際の国のアリス Alice in Borderland (2020-) dir. Shinsuke Sato // Conan Gray Best Friend // spira me You Changed Me For The Better // ZEROBASEONE for DICON // unknown

[claraoswalds]

STOBIN APPRECIATION WEEK ↳ Day 1: Favorite Scene

Steve, did you OD over there? No, I just, uh... just thinking. Okay.

[http-byler]

richard siken, anyway // stranger things 04x08

[trensu]

Heyyy, long time no post, huh? I'm dropping another chunk of stasis in darkness for you guys! And I wanted to remind people that these posts are basically rough drafts. The final product will hopefully be more polished but in the meantime please enjoy!

--

After Steve convinced the old man he meant no harm, he’d been allowed into the home. The Lord of Night hadn’t been super specific about the purpose of his quest, only that Steve had to bring him to Wayne Munson. Steve discreetly looked around the home as he entered it. The old man was obviously unwell and had been for a while, given the state of the house. Steve had the creeping suspicion that the time limit the Lord of Night mentioned was linked to the man’s health.

“What are you doing?” Wayne Munson asked suspiciously once he had returned to the kitchen with Steve in tow. He had sat heavily in one of the old worn chairs at the table but Steve, instead of joining him, began to clear the table on impulse. Steve halted awkwardly.

“This ain’t your house, boy,” Wayne said with a scowl. “I can take care of myself.”

Steve did his very best not to look at the scattered mess in the kitchen or living room. It was not the mess of a dirty, careless person. It was the mess of someone tired and overwhelmed. It was the mess of someone in pain who was too proud to ask for help. Steve took in Wayne Munson’s watery eyes, wan skin, and the clothes that were plain things, tattered from use, but mostly stain-free. Steve quickly added all these details and came up with a plan of attack. He set the plate back down.

“Yes, sir,” Steve agreed easily. “I’m aware, but I serve the Lord of Night and he sent me to you specifically. In our god’s name, I must assist you in any way I can.” 

Wayne’s expression wavered. Steve pushed again. He lowered his gaze in a slightly embarrassed manner, letting a note of uncertainty color his words.

“I don’t know what else to do until nightfall,” Steve said. He rubbed the back of his neck bashfully. “I don’t want him to think I’ve neglected you.”

“What happens at nightfall?” Wayne asked.

“It’s when the Lord of Night wants to see you,” Steve said. Wayne blinked.

“Me? He wants to see me?”

“Yeah! So, if you could please let me,” Steve said, putting on his most endearing smile, “I’d like to take care of you until then. You know, make sure you’re comfortable and get the place ready for a divine visit. If it’s not too much trouble, sir?”

“Uh, no, that should be fine. Is…is there anything I should do?” Wayne asked dazedly.

“Not really. All I know is he really wants to see you tonight. Oh, maybe you’d like to rest until then? A nap, so you’re not drowsy when he arrives.”

Wayne nods, still in shock at the news. He didn’t protest when Steve helped him out of the chair and let him lean his weight on him as they navigated to the bedroom. Wayne sat on the bed as Steve drew curtains closed over the room’s single window. The curtains were thick enough to dim the sun to a pale yellow glow.

“I didn’t know there was anyone else who followed him,” Wayne said as he lay himself down over the covers.

"He told me you’re the only one left, besides me,” Steve told him. “And I only discovered him a month ago by accident.”

“By accident?” Wayne asked with a wry grin.

“My friends found a holy text when we were researching other gods. It was the only one of his in the city's whole library. Then we had a hell of a time trying to find his last shrine. When I finally found it, it was falling apart. He’s been forgotten,” Steve said. At Wayne’s troubled expression, he hurriedly added, “But now that I’ve pledged myself to him, I’m going to make sure people know him again.”

Wayne did not appear convinced, but he finally settled to rest after Steve promised to wake him before sunset. Steve took the opportunity to clean. He hadn’t been lying to Wayne when he said he wasn’t sure what to do until nightfall. It didn’t help that Steve also liked to keep himself busy. Being idle made him itch.

The house was small. Aside from Wayne's bedroom, there was only a cramped kitchen and a modest living room. From the small window of the backdoor, Steve could see a short, worn path to an outhouse. 

Given the size of the house, though there was a mess everywhere, it didn’t take Steve very long to clean it all. When it was done to his satisfaction, there were still a few hours left until sunset so he wandered outside. The porch railing was covered with broad green leaves from intertwining vines but Steve left that alone when he saw the small garden nearby. It was full of ripe vegetables that Steve assumed Wayne had been unable to pick himself given his condition. 

By the time Steve had picked the vegetables, pulled the weeds, and watered the garden, the sun hung low in the horizon. He cleaned himself up the best he could in the kitchen sink and took one of the chairs from the table to the bedroom before waking Wayne.

He told Wayne what he accomplished during Wayne’s repose. While Wayne expressed his gratitude politely enough, it was still apparent to Steve that the old man was irritated at having needed the assistance at all. To keep Wayne from dwelling on that, as well as to satisfy his own curiosity, he coaxed Wayne into conversation.

“Can I ask, uh, how you–I mean, how did you know? How did you know the Lord of Night existed?"

Wayne laughed at Steve’s befuddled tone. The laugh turned into a coughing fit. Steve quickly fetched him a glass of water and put it on the bedside table after Wayne had a drink.

“My family’s a bunch of no-good criminals,” Wayne croaked. “Were. It’s only me now. But before, each generation of Munsons took it up. Like a family tradition.”

“Criminals?” asked Steve cautiously. 

“Thieves and con men. Some ladies of the night, if you catch my meaning. They knew of our Lord of Night and passed the knowledge down,” Wayne sighed sadly. “The life of a criminal ain’t what you call stable. We lost bits and pieces of him with every generation. Like his name. No one’s known his name for a very long time. Is that why he wants to see me? Did I fail him?”

There was genuine distress in Wayne’s question so Steve hid his disappointment. He had hoped the Lord of Night’s last worshiper would at least have a clue about where to start the search for the lost name. He focused, instead, on reassuring the old man.

“I don’t know why he wants to see you, but he wasn’t angry when he sent me. He sounded excited.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” Wayne said uncertainly.

“Definitely,” Steve assured. Before Wayne could sink into his gloom again, Steve said, “I know you said you’ve lost some knowledge, but do you know if the Lord of Night has any prayers? I haven’t…I mean, I’ve tried to worship him but I don’t think I can do it right without a prayer. I’m kind of new at all this.”

“My ma used to say our Lord didn’t have patience for formalities,” Wayne said, brow furrowed. “They bored him so he only had a few official prayers. There was one where we’d thank him for any dreams he gave us. I think there was another one that asked for dreams to bring inspiration or something of that sort. I don’t really remember those–ma would be boxing my ears for that if she was still around. I remember the one for protection, since we used that one a lot. It goes: 

Lord of Night,  Guide us through all phases Of the moon; May the dark be free of All dangers, While your many stars burn.

Wayne’s voice cracked into a coughing fit near the end. Steve hurriedly offered him water again once Wayne had caught it again. Wayne took a few mouthfuls and repeated the prayer again so Steve could learn it. It took a few tries, but Wayne was patient and by the end of it, Steve had it memorized.

“Is that the only one?” Steve asked, hoping to learn more. Wayne grimaced.

“It’s the only one I really remember. The Lord of Night prefers stories. My ma would tell us the best bedtime stories. Said they were for our god as much as for me and my brother. I was never good at coming up with new stories, so I retell my favorites or tell our Lord about my days and give him a little offering.”

Steve wasn't much of a story teller. He supposed he could do as Wayne did until he met up with Robin and Dustin again. They constantly chatted about books they’d read. Steve couldn’t help but notice how, once again, his friends seemed a better fit for his god than he was; all Steve could give his god was his shield and sword. It was discouraging. He had to figure out a way to make up for it somehow.

“What kind of offerings?” Steve asked. 

He wanted to give his god more; he wanted to give the Lord of Night something he’d actually like. It wasn’t lost on him that the Lord of Night took him under duress. Who else would’ve been able to complete this quest? 

“When I was young, it was horse shoes,” Wayne chuckled at Steve’s confusion. “Thieves are supposed to give him a part of their loot but my ma and pa were horse thieves. They got horseshoes and would leave one for each horse they stole, tied with a braid made of the stolen horse’s mane.”

“You stole horses?” Steve said, unable to fight off a grin as he remembered the conversation he had with the Lord of Night about it.

“Me and my brother, before he passed,” Wayne said with a weak nod. 

The sky had darkened by now. Steve pulled the stone out of his satchel. He carefully unwrapped it from the cloth and set it gently on the bedside table next to the glass of water. Wayne eyed it quizzically.

“It’s from his shrine,” Steve explained. Without any further fussing, Steve stood up and went to the door.

“Don’t leave,” the Lord of Night said. 

Steve turned to see the god, hooded in his cloak of constellations, sitting in the chair Steve had vacated. The Lord of Night had not even glanced Steve's way when he spoke to him. The god’s attention rested solely on Wayne.

Steve hadn’t seen or spoken to the Lord of Night since he’d been accepted as his holy warrior. The god had needed to conserve his energy, he explained to Steve, so that Steve could complete his quest. The god’s cloak was as mesmerizing as the first time. However, this far from the shrine, the god did not look as solid as he had during the nights he spent with Steve. 

“I wanted to give you two some privacy,” Steve said softly. 

“I think Wayne would appreciate not being alone,” the Lord of Night said. 

The old man stared at the god unblinkingly. Wayne’s expression was one of awe and fear, so Steve did as he was told and stayed in the room though he chose to lean on the wall furthest from the pair. He was still close to them in the tiny bedroom, but it provided the pretense of privacy.

“My Lord?” Wayne’s voice was barely audible.

“Hello. I’ve wanted to meet you for years,” the god said.

[tellthatbrokebitch]

guys, i lied. i’ve been able to count this entire time. st text posts v

[flowercrowngods]

The Last Day.

Steve doesn’t remember what drove him here — he doesn’t remember a lot of things lately, not that he’s mentioned that to anyone. They don’t really question these things anymore. Fucky vision, nightmares without sleeping, or things that just get lost in the everyday grind of remembering to do normal things like eat or drink or where the fuck he put his glasses.

So, he doesn’t remember what drove him here, if he was supposed to get something or if he just needed to get out of the gym, needed to breathe some air that’s not filled with anxiety and grief and the pressure of survivor’s guilt and why and how and when around every corner, behind every door, underneath every donated item and in every bite of stale peanut butter sandwiches.

The library was never a place of comfort for him, and he honestly never really cared about it one war or another. If pressed for it, he couldn’t name five books in all of these shelves. He never really looked.

But now, in the semi-darkness, the empty shelves are somehow daunting. All useful books were taken, children’s books donated to all the families that stayed, all science books stolen by people who were sure they could fix this, could get behind this, could build generators and water refineries and all that shit.

Somehow, the negative space in these shelves draws him in, and he takes a deep breath. A breath that Dustin would like, probably. It smells like books. It smells old. It smells like, somehow, somewhere, there might still be a constant in this world. Something that will remain. Like maybe there will always be a library that smells of old books. No matter how often the world will end.

It’s a strange thought. But comforting. He trails the shelves, not really looking at the books, walking too fast still to make out the titles in the dim light, but he refuses to stop. He refuses to stand. To linger.

The next two rows are completely empty, and it makes him shiver. Robin probably has a name for the feeling. Maybe melancholy. Or maybe he’s just haunted. Susceptible to absence.

Or maybe they’re the same feeling.

Blindly, he reaches for a book, because his hands begin to tingle and he really needs something to do before his lungs catch up and his brain finds out that he’s somehow almost about to panic, or to relapse, or to drop to the floor if his legs don’t regain feeling soon.

He keeps walking, the book in hand. It’s a slim edition, bound in leather, and it feels really old. Looks like it, too.

Michael Bruce

He carefully flips it open, the old paper crackling with the movement, and he wonders briefly if this is the part of the library that’s usually watched like a hawk, the part where you’re not allowed to touch the books without supervision and certainly not without reason. Maybe. Maybe this Michael Bruce hasn’t seen a real face in a long time.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to find out that they’re mostly poems—and of course they are, old books are almost always filled with poems.

He opens the book at a random page, still needing to settle his hands, his heart, his mind. The title makes his heart drop. “The Last Day.”, it’s called; still his eyes glide over the lines, intrigued.

Twas on an autumn's eve, serene and calm. I walked, attendant on the funeral Of an old swain : around, the village crowd Loquacious chatted, till we reach'd the place Where, shrouded up, the sons of other years Lie silent in the grave. The sexton there Had digg'd the bed of death, the narrow house, For all that live, appointed. To the dust We gave the dead. Then moralizing, home The swains return'd, to drown in copious bowls The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Okay. Sure. So, maybe this Michael Bruce dude is not the best company when the world is sort of ending. But somehow Steve can’t stop reading, and for the first time he kind of doesn’t want to stop reading a poem. This one’s different anyway. This one just… it gets him.

Images of Barb flood his mind. Eddie. Chrissy. Max. Everyone who was lost, everyone who has an empty coffin in their grave and an NDA penned to their name.

To the dust We gave the dead.

The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to go back out there. Head to the gym and fold clothes and check the missing posters and make phone calls to find out, to make sure, to keep in touch. The labours of the day. The thoughts of death.

Shaking hands flip the pages, two at once, because he doesn’t want to live the last day; doesn’t want to hear about it. He needs to know how it ends, needs to make sure, needs to find out, just—

A pause ensued. The fainting sun grew pale, And seem'd to struggle through a sky of blood : While dim eclipse impaird his beam : the earth Shook to her deepest centre : Ocean rag'd, And dash'd his billows on the frighted shore. All was confusion. Heartless, helpless, wild.

Suddenly, what little light was left to stream through the windows disappears, stealing the words from beneath his eyes, and before he can look up and breathe, the door to the library bursts open, revealing a panicked Robin.

“Steve?”

“Robbie?”

“You… You better come see this.”

He hears it in her voice. The resignation. Oceans raging as the fainting sun grows pale. Confusion. Helpless, heartless, wild.

He closes Michael Bruce and runs toward her on numb legs, not ready to find out about the new apocalypse he’s gonna find outside the library. And seeing black skies through the windows and pale faces behind them, reflecting against the growing darkness, he wonders if he shouldn’t have skipped through the last day. The Last Day.

Terror in every look, and pale affright Sat in each eye ; amazed at the past, And for the future trembling.

Steve, too, is trembling. And Robin’s hand in his is shaking just as much.

Poetical works of Michael Bruce : with life and writings. William Stephen ed. 1895.

[gayofthefae]

Thinking about El and Will and the quote

“A child abused doesn’t stop loving its parent. It stops loving itself.”

[srisrisriddd]

True Life Integral

Life = ∫ [(conscious x bliss) ÷ time] Δtime

- Dr Devang H Dattani / Infinite SriSriSri DDD

Good Morning

Equation / Quote / Poem / Poetry / Quotes Of 

Bhagwan Sri Sri Sri

Doctor Devang H Dattani

Infinite SriSriSri DDD

Mathematical equation of True Life

Posted By TheBlissCity DDD Team

See The Media Photo Video For

Quoteoftheday

God Morning

#Integral , #life , #bliss , #conscious , #time  , #birth , #death , #TheBlissCity , #philosophy , #mindfulness , #DrDevangHDattani , #nature , #awareness , #InfiniteSriSriSriDDD , #quotes , #life , #art , #zen , #awakening , #quote , #spiritual , #photography , #Video , #meditation , #psychology , #poem , #poetry , #motivation , #inspiration , #quoteoftheday , #love , #words , #thoughts , #joy , #pun , #enlightenment , #health , #mental health , #consciousness , #good , #god , #landscape , #life , #nirvana , #tantra , #yoga , #experience , #photooftheday , #panorama , #lake , #underwater , #fishes , #mathematics , #equation 

[milk-or-vodka]

I loved my friend.

-Langston Hughes

[bebx]

Heaven in Your Eyes — by Jamie Campbell Bower

[unclewaynemunson]

Tadaaaa here is the sequel to this post, which came from an ask that got me in a chokehold for days now so kudos to the lovely anon who sent that prompt to me! You can also read the whole thing on ao3 :)

As soon as Eddie got into the passenger seat of his Wayne's truck, he saw the whole world go blurry. He tried to blink away his tears, but it was no use – nothing ever escaped his uncle's notice anyway.

'Wanna tell me what's wrong, boy?' he asked while he started the car.

Eddie grimaced. 'You know how they say you should never meet your heroes?'

'Hm?'

'Well, I met mine. On the fucking train. Just yet.'

Wayne shot him an incredulous glance.

'What was the Black Sabbath guy doin' on a train?'

'What? No, it wasn't... No.'

'The Hobbits guy?'

'Jesus Christ, Wayne, Tolkien died like fifteen years ago, keep up.'

'You want me to keep guessin' or you gonna tell me?'

Eddie rolled his eyes.

'Yeah, no, you wouldn't guess it right anyway. It's this poet.'

'Don't think I ever heard you talk 'bout poetry before,' Wayne remarked.

And that was exactly the thing. Ronan Right had been something... private. Something between Eddie and the faceless blob in his mind that embodied Right – and maybe Jeff. Okay, and Jeff's mom. But it wasn't someone he'd talk people's ears off about on any occasion he got, like he did with plenty of other musicians or writers that he'd get all obsessive about.

Until Steve, that was. Steve, who had been casually listening to his music. Steve, who had recognized the book in his hands and effortlessly opened the floodgates of his obsession. Steve, who had said the most beautiful things about Corroded Coffin without even knowing who Eddie was. Steve, who had talked with him about their shared passions for hours. Steve, who he now somehow had to merge with Right in his mind.

Steve, who seemed so perfect that it made all of Eddie's alarm bells go off at the loudest possible volume. Because this couldn't be real. This was something straight from a disgustingly sweet romcom scenario, and if there was anything Eddie could be certain about, it was that his life was no romcom.

So during the short walk from the station to Wayne's car, Eddie's head had already come up with a dozen scenarios that were completely spiraling out of control – even though they'd all make for great songs, no doubt about that. Steve would die some kind of tragic death on his way to their first date. Steve was secretly addicted to crack. Steve was a stalkerish fan who had lied to him about being Ronan Right to get close to him. Steve would cheat on him on their wedding day.

The list of possibilities was endless and terrifying – while the list of possibilities for this having a happy ending, on the other hand, was exceptionally short.

'Was it that bad?' asked Wayne while they headed out of the city.

Usually, Eddie enjoyed amping up his dramatics to a maximum around Wayne, providing the much-needed balance to his uncle's calm and steady demeanor. But right now, Eddie felt himself deflate in his seat. He couldn't bring himself to make a show out of it.

'No,' he said, quietly. 'He was perfect.'

And Wayne must've heard it in his voice, must've picked up right away that this wasn't Eddie being dramatic, that something serious was going on here, because he gave him this look that was cutting way too deep into his heart.

'Nobody can be that perfect, you know,' Eddie continued. 'It's impossible. And he – he gave me his number. And I just know that if I call it, and we get to know each other better, I'll get crushingly disappointed sooner rather than later. Because something has to be, like, disturbingly wrong with this guy.'

Anyone else than Wayne would probably tell Eddie that he was being ridiculous, that he should get over himself and call Steve; that he should allow himself to let good things happen to him or some shit. But Wayne wasn't just anyone. Wayne was the one person who knew exactly what Eddie meant. The one person who had seen from up-close the shitshow that Eddie's life had been, who had retained a front row seat through all of it. And he had had his own fair share of misery himself, Eddie knew that much. He was too old and had gotten punched down too many times to still hold naive illusions of the possibility of good things.

So he didn't give him some bullshit advice. He merely patted Eddie's knee and turned up the radio.

---

Ever since Eddie had left Hawkins, it had become a habit of him to stay with Wayne for a couple of weeks every now and then. For all his desires to get the hell out of that town when he was younger, he still spent way too much time at his uncle's trailer. But it wasn't Hawkins that he came back for, it was uncle Wayne.

It was home. And it helped him breathe whenever the city got too intense. Helped him get detached from everything that distracted him from the shit that actually mattered. Helped him get his head right when Chicago was threatening to make him lose it.

Time seemed to move differently in Hawkins than in the city. Slower. More naturally, too, somehow. Maybe it was because of the lack of nightlife and flashing neon signs when the world was supposed to be wrapped in darkness. The fact that he could still see the stars when he stepped out of the trailer at nighttime. Maybe it was the quiet, which allowed him to actually hear himself think. Or maybe it was the predictability of it all: Wayne waking him up with a cup of coffee in the morning, the two of them sharing cigarettes on the porch, Eddie helping Wayne with some chores and then trying to write new songs until well into the night, when the world was his and his alone.

He kept reading Right almost religiously, but it was different, now. Now that he could hear Steve's voice say those words, now that he could envision the way in which the sun shone on his hair through the dirty train window and the shape of his hands clutching a walkman that had Eddie's music in it. It was all different.

After a week, Eddie had a whole album worth of songs about the deception of things that seemed perfect. He hadn't been able to write even one song about things ending well, about things working out. That wasn't his life. Things never worked out. Why would they, for a boy born in a household where the trifecta of poverty, addiction and violence was all he had ever known? In the five albums he had produced so far, he'd never experienced a lack of demons to write about.

So no, he wouldn't be calling Steve, even though he had read the number that was written down on the sleeve of his own album so often that it'd probably be impossible to ever erase it from his mind again. He'd protect himself, this time. He'd cherish the hours he got to spend with Ronan Right, the memories that were already starting to feel like a fever dream, and not let his heart break any further. Not this time. Not again.

---

'Got mail for ya.'

An envelope landed in Eddie's lap.

'What's this?'

'I dunno, 's your mail,' Wayne answered.

Eddie didn't recognize the handwriting and the Indianapolis post stamp didn't give him much of a clue either. It didn't make sense that someone would send him a letter at his uncle's place.

He frowned, roughly tore open the envelope and pulled a single sheet of paper out of it. It was neither directed at nor signed by anyone, but that wasn't necessary for Eddie to know who sent it.

'What is it, boy?' Wayne asked, a worried edge to his voice upon hearing the choked sob that freed itself from Eddie's throat.

Eddie knew that the words were only meant for him. But he and Wayne were a unit, always had been, ever since Eddie moved into Forest Hills. So he wordlessly handed the paper to his uncle, roughly wiping the tears from his eyes.

Wayne assessed the text with a wrinkled forehead, holding the paper at an arm's-length in order to read it.

'That from the boy you met on the train?'

Eddie nodded.

When his uncle looked up from the letter, Eddie caught an almost unfamiliar look in his eyes. It was soft, hopeful. Optimistic.

'You know I ain't any good with words, like you, or this – this poet,' Wayne said. 'But this...' He pressed the letter back into Eddie's hand. 'This looks like he knows you, Ed. Like he sees you. For all that you are.'

He didn't tell Eddie what to do; that wasn't his style, never had been. But what he did say kept bouncing through Eddie's head unceasingly, making him unable to sleep, unable to write, unable to think about anything else.

---

Eddie desperately wanted to say something meaningful when Steve picked up the phone. He wanted to thank him for reaching out, to apologize for being too much of a coward to call earlier – but what came out of his mouth instead was, 'How did you know where to find me?'

'Eddie, is that you?' It sounded like Steve didn't quite believe it.

'Yeah – yeah, it's me,' was the only thing he managed to get out of his mouth.

'Look, I'm sorry if I overstepped,' Steve told him. 'I just – I couldn't get you out of my head and it all felt so right, you know, like fate or some shit, so I just had to... I needed to try. And I knew your name, and that you were staying with your uncle, so I got help from some friends and they managed to find your uncle's address.'

And as if Eddie hadn't been enough of an emotional wreck over the past week, his vision got blurry with tears yet again.

'Sorry, was it – did I go too far?' Steve sounded nervous.

Eddie could perfectly envision the way he would be frowning and anxiously running a hand through his hair; as if they had already shared a whole lifetime of getting to know all about each other's mannerisms instead of a few stolen hours on a train.

He hated the idea of Steve thinking he had done something wrong when all he ever did was so fucking right, so he determinedly shook his head, then realized Steve wouldn't be able to see that, and started scraping for words.

'No, Steve, you... You're perfect. And that scared the shit out of me, because so far, my life hasn't really done perfect. Most of our songs, they're – well – creative retellings of my own shit.' Now that he started talking, the words actually came a lot easier. 'They're all real, at the core, when you peel away the layers of, like, monster slaying and fantasy imagery. Like, everything underneath all that, it's all... me. Damage, betrayal, fear, violence – all that shit is true. Life hasn't been kind to me, Steve. And I was convinced that you'd only become an addition to that long list of crap, because you seemed way too perfect. I never thought I could have something good. And you're good, Steve, you're so fucking good. So I couldn't believe it.'

A long silence ensued at the other side of the line. Then, a sigh.

Then, 'Eddie,' in the softest voice possible, like his name was something breakable. Eddie didn't remember ever having heard his name said like that.

'I think that was exactly what I heard in your songs. Why I kept listening to them. Why they inspired me so much.'

Eddie tried to swallow away the lump in his throat, suffocated by the emotions bubbling up inside of him.

'I wish I could hold you, right now.'

Eddie's breath caught. He knew exactly what he needed to do: he needed to stop running. He needed to trust that Steve could be right, for him. That Steve could be something good.

'I mean, you could come over to Hawkins and do just that, you know,' he suggested.

'D'you want me to?'

He nodded, again forgetting that Steve couldn't see him.

'Yeah, I'd like that. Probably still got half that cookie somewhere in my pocket, y'know. Maybe we could share it.'

Credit where credit is due: the line “He sees you, for all that you are” isn't mine, it's one of my favorite quotes from Schitt's Creek and I really wanted Wayne to say that to Eddie about Steve, so here we have it <3

@ My beloved 🥐 anon: I hope you like this ending, and that I came close enough to your suggestion to have Steve make Eddie a character in his next poem <3

Taglist: @kathorakiryu @goodolefashionedloverboi @undreaming-rambles @fangirlycupcake @ghouligans-central @henderdads @dolphincliffs @anglhrts @ajamlessbaby @yearningagain @vampireinthesun @xxbottlecapx @kissaphobic-kas @mad-h-w @booksandsience @obsessivlyme @ppunkpuppyy @barnes-bestgirl @capital-p-platonic​ @eddiemunsonmeltdowns @callme-keys​​