#they can share Joyce's bread :)

[waitingongravity]

Realized mid-conversation with a friend that these two would get along really well actually.

[ihni]

Things I love to read in Billy and/or Harringrove fanfiction:

(Inspired by @grey-sides and in the hopes of spreading some love)

Billy and Max overcoming their problems to form a united front and start working together, and become better siblings to each other.

Realizations. The "oh" moments. The "oh shit" moments, the "oh fuck" moments, the "oh no no no..." moments. ALL the realizations! (So, like ... the boys finding out they're into each other, anyone finding out about Billy's home life, Billy finding out about monsters, both of them finally seeing another - more vulnerable - side of each other, etc etc etc)

This whole post

Billy getting to fight monsters too, especially if he can use it as an outlet for all that aggression and be badass and save people's asses and then be all blasé about it like "what? it's not like it's hard" *hair flip* (also Billy and an axe will NEVER be over-played!)

Physical whump (bruises, blood, hiding injuries, fighting, being pushed up against surfaces, threats, hands grabbing faces and throats and hair, being made to kneel, incapacitation, fighting through exhaustion/illness, manhandling, etc etc. I'm a whumper at heart, I want to inject all these things into my veins).

Emotional whump (being left out of things/ostracization, feeling lonely, overhearing something hurtful, keeping a straight face even though you're hurting inside, not expecting someone to come and save you when you're hurt/captive etc etc - ie my bread and butter).

Billy patching himself up (BOTH phisical and emotional whump, so, like a double-whammy!)

Billy in the upside down, as a very capable survivor. Give me Cast Away, only with Billy, and the Upside Down instead of an island ... ALL THE VERSIONS of that. I like my boy capable, and fighting for survival (I'm normal, I swear)

This post

Billy being touch-starved. I eat that up with a SPOON, all versions of it but especially the ones where he gets touch (angsty version; it's not a good kind of touch but he seeks it out anyway, fluffy version; he gets all the pets and hugs!)

The boys coming back from the upside down and having gotten used to being close, so they get anxious when they don't have eyes on each other (yes I've written it. yes I've read it. yes I love it)

Having to share a room/doing a project togehter because their last names both start with H. Like forced proximity, school version. Mmmm, delicious.

When Billy is ridiculously weak for Steve and would do anything for him (especially if Steve has no idea about he power he wields). Basically Steve as the Billy-whisperer.

Billy getting good parents. I don't even care who at this point, I'll read all of them: Joyce, Hopper, Claudia, Mr Clarke (Mr CLARKE <3), Bob, Flo, that grumpy librarian ... Just give him good parental figures (and let him STRUGGLE with accepting that he's finally safe!)

Scars. All the fics about scars. Angsty scars, proud scars, mental scars, scars on the skin, first time someone is allowed to touch someone else's scars. Just, <3

Badass, BADASS moments, by both Billy and Steve. Smashing demodogs to pieces, rescuing themSELVES from bad situations, etc.

Guilt. <3 That usually comes after the realization moments, but mmmmm, a side of guilt to that? Fucking delicious, I will live off that for weeks. Like, having someone realize what Neil is doing and then feeling GUILTY about it (maybe they caused Billy to be hurt, or maybe they made it worse, or maybe a beating could have been avoided if they'd acted differently), that's my JAM.

That moment when Billy/Steve start calling the other by their first name instead of their last name ...

Self-sacrifice (filed under whump, but can be both physical, mental or simply implied). There doesn't even have to be a real threat of getting hurt, the self-sacrificing idiot (I prefer Billy) just have to THINK there is.

Basic needs not being met ... until they are. (So, say ... Billy being hungry, thirsty, tired, thrown out of the house ... and then finally getting to eat, drink, sleep, get inside)

[neonscandal]

Can I ask from this ask game : https://www.tumblr.com/toomanyfandomsthings/749729499738996736/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-ill-tell-you?source=share

No. 2, 10, 11, 12, 15 for SatoSugu, BakuDeku, AshEiji and MatchaBlossom.....Thanks 🌻

Hello, friend 🧡 I love asks like these because I have to put so much more creative thought into them haha so thank you for asking. 🌻 I also love the idea that we don't need to know who the best cook is because it's very apparent in all of these ships 😂

What their love letters look like: Selfies. Constant selfies. Mission selfies. Bored between mission selfies. Words aren't always needed but every pic has an implied "I'm still here, we're still The Strongest."

What TV shows they watch together, and which ones they hide from the other: Gojo is so incredibly lacking in self awareness that he is impervious to the idea that anything he watches is at all embarrassing. They watch The Great British Bake-Off together and Gojo always loudly laments when the objective involves something savory instead of sweet.

What their first impression was of each other: Gojo thought "Bangs." Geto thought "The audacity of this guy."

What they would change about each other: Gojo wouldn't change a thing, even the things that might feel a bit irksome, things work the way they are and he's happy, so happy. Geto has a laundry list of things he wish he could change: Gojo's feral gremlin energy, his constant sweet tooth, the brash way he speaks which always embarrasses Geto but he accepts these things, too. He likes to pull them out in a fight though (in jest).

What their love letters look like: Twin. Merch. Midoriya would give Bakugo the last of some exclusive All Might merch even though it would pain him. Bakugo would go to the ends of the earth to make sure Midoriya wouldn't go without.

What TV shows they watch together, and which ones they hide from the other: Hero documentaries, biopics and, of course, the midnight release of any new All Might movies. Bakugo hides that he is also a Real Heroes of Musutafu trash reality tv watcher. 👀 As nosy as he is, its a guilty pleasure.. but not a secret he keeps well.

What their first impression was of each other: Midoriya was timid and reserved and Bakugo was loud and a bit abrasive so, despite being rough around the edges, Midoriya knew immediately "Kacchan sugoi!". Bakugo wanted Midoriya to be an extra so. bad. He was the only person bold enough to also want to be All Might when they played Heroes vs Villains on the playground and, while that initially grated him, over time it won him over. Man, was that short lived.

What they would change about each other: They both find one another to be self-sacrificial idiots but are completely incapable of seeing how that's just another one of their similarities. Bakugo also wishes Midoriya could be less of an insufferable fanboy but only because he, himself, could never be so brave to be so aggressively different or outside of the norm.

What their love letters look like: Postcards, handwritten letters, tokens of their travels both far and wide. Just the bread crumbs they leave and scatter for one another until they can unite once more. Eiji scrapbooks them but he'd never tell Ash.

What TV shows they watch together, and which ones they hide from the other: They're always behind when it comes to cult classic shows. But they really enjoy Stranger Things. I think Ash, in particular, has a soft spot for Joyce Byers but he'd never say that out loud. Eiji also suspiciously watches the evolution of Steve Harrington's hair as Ash's mysteriously changes in tandem. Eiji would never tell Ash about any of the anime he watches whenever he has some alone time. Ash already accuses him of being more interested in the comics than the news, he would never hear the end of it. But he's super pumped about the Blue Lock movie and rationalizes that it's basically like watching football on Sunday when he's inevitably caught binging the anime ahead of the cinematic release.

What their first impression was of each other: They were both intrigued by one anothers' fearlessness. Eiji never shied away from the big, bad gang leader. Ash was a beacon of nonchalant confidence when Eiji was at a point of listlessness and self doubt. They were both intrigued.

What they would change about each other: Eiji would change Ash's.. morning disposition in a heartbeat. Something about having to fight someone just to get them out of bed is so unnerving, especially as their breakfast gets cold in the interim. Ash, on the other hand, wouldn't change a thing. There's a very delicate balance between them that enables him to tease Eiji about absolutely everything. Why risk jeopardizing that??

What their love letters look like: Lighthearted challenges to determine innocuous things between them. "First person to the couch gets to pick the movie!" "Bet you I can piss Shadow off first!" Just little competitions to keep things interesting because they are nothing if not extraordinary and have a constant need to prove that to one another.

What TV shows they watch together, and which ones they hide from the other: Joe is really passionate about cooking and competitive so he loves watching Hell's Kitchen and Iron Chef and telling Kaoru how he'd dominate on either show. Kaoru huffs and rolls his eyes half-heartedly but also has a massive crush on Mark Dacascos having been a captive audience for several seasons of Iron Chef (who wouldn't?) so he allows these selfish preferences. Also, when they're fighting, he wonders if Gordon Ramsay could, in fact, make Joe cry. Joe insists he could not.

What their first impression was of each other: Joe was a goodie two shoes who happened to be able to hold his own on a skateboard but Kaoru thought he was a bit too bashful, a bit too reserved. Kaoru was a rebel and an artist on a board before Carla took the guesswork out of everything. Even so, Joe was awe-inspired by the Cherry, the spitfire.

What they would change about each other: Kaoru wishes Joe wasn't such a needy gorilla aka that he wasn't so showy and drawing the attention of fan girls and boys alike because he gets a bit jealous. Like, "yes, you're hot. That's why we're dating now put your shirt back on, people are staring, you dolt." Somehow it never comes out that straightforward though. Re: Joe, it's infrequent but sometimes Joe wishes Kaoru would return his affection in similar measure, just as loud and proud. Even though he thinks that'd be nice, he can't help but relish in those isolated moments where Kaoru, in his own way, demonstrates his affection. Those moments where the stars align just so, the wind blows in just the right direction and all of Kaoru's walls crumble. He wears a smile so warm, so genuine that Joe thinks it is worth all the banter in between such moments.

[red-bat-arse]

I Got a Problem 🎸🎶🎻

AO3

Chapter One

Eddie 'The Freak' Munson, famous for bringing rock to new heights with his band Hellfire, listens to everything but Country. 'King' Steve Harrington, leading light of the new generation of traditional Country artists, has a few thoughts about that.

=<+>=

Eddie Munson did not normally find himself accused of being musically pigeonholed.

He'd played alongside punk bands in his early touring days, and grew up on jazz and the blues from his mum and uncle. His hits on the pop charts prompted a few collaborations with electronic and indie artists, and his sophomore album featured a few rappers who wanted to get experience with rock. Metal was his bread and butter, he had a soft spot for soulful folk ballads, and given his close friendship with Argyle he was more than familiar with reggae and funk and all varieties of stoner music.

Of course, you could probably guess that the exception to all that was the ever contentious genre of country. However that wouldn't be a problem, wouldn't even be on Eddie's radar, if not for the batshit insane decision Hopper made in a diner three blocks away from the studio the week prior.

Eddie scowled and shot Jeff another look when his vocalist snickered at his expense. On the other side of the room this party was happening in, he could see Steve Harrington talking with Dustin and laughing at whatever the kid was frantically gesturing about.

He was dressed in a embroidered beige western shirt with pearls on the long cuffs, blue jeans with a brown belt and a big copper buckle, and honest to god cowboy boots that matched the ensemble. His hair was styled high and his biceps strained the shirt sleeves a little, and when he turned on his heel to follow Dustin's pointer figure Eddie was briefly overcome with lust at the amazing ass in his direct line of sight.

"I don't care," he pronounced finally, twitching as Harrington spun back and ruffled Dustin's hair, grinning wide when the kid squawked in outrage. Jeff outright snorted and Eddie glared harder. "I think doing this before we move to a bigger space is stupid, but all power to the Chief if he thinks we can make it work."

"Don't care at all, got it," Gareth said, coming up beside him. "It's just business concerns. Like, our assets."

"See, why can't you be more like Gareth, Jeffery? He knows exactly what i'm talking about," Eddie slung an arm over Gareth's shoulders -and he must be in a good mood because he didn't duck away. "Business assets."

"More like his ass-et," Jeff muttered, and Eddie valiantly ignored him.

Five days ago Hopper walked into the studio's monthly brunch and introduced them all to one Joyce 'Mama' Byers -which, okay, even Eddie knew who she was -and dropped the bombshell that she signed on with them two days prior. Once the commotion died down she was the one who dropped the next one, informing them all that they'd soon be sharing close quarters with nine other artists from her former label, preeminent among them the one who convinced them all to walk out, that being Steve Harrington.

All ten of them were country artists. Prison Break Records hadn't put out any music that wasn't solely rock or metal in it's entire eight years of existence. To say there was a bit of culture shock going around was an understatement.

"Give them a chance, Ed," Grant passed by with a few cans of coke tucked into the crook of his arm and slapped him on the shoulder, making Eddie stumble. "Half of them are in the middle of doing the bar circuit right now, and it's not like we need the studio space anyway. It's all good."

Eddie huffed, trying not to let Grant's comment sting -he knew he didn't mean anything by it. But at nearly six months to the day, even though the guys would never rush him, maybe Eddie was getting a little bit worried about the future.

"I was talking with the Byers, apparently it's mainly gonna be Joyce and Harrington recording for the next month at least," Gareth piped up again, jabbing a thumb in the direction of country music's leading family -Argyle had somehow struck up a conversation with them and while the younger brother seemed confused, the elder was paying rapt attention to whatever their resident stoner was explaining. "Everyone else is taking a break or doing small shows or one off songs, like Grant said."

"Fine, fine, I get it," Eddie held up his hands in surrender. "But if they start blasting fucking honky-tonk bullshit-"

"Oh come on, Munson, don't tell me you're one of those."

Eddie paused, then slowly turned around, feeling his face heat up only partly in embarrassment to see Harrington standing just behind him, having apparently been abandoned by Dustin in the last few minutes. He had his hip cocked and a hand casually resting with the thumb hooked in his belt, and up close Eddie could see little moles scattered all over his face and neck like flecks of paint. Next to them, Jeff turned and coughed a laugh into his elbow, muffled.

"What, pray tell, are you talking about?" Eddie quashed the instinct to puff up for a fight. Just because Harrington was a good old jock with arms that could bench him didn't mean he had to have his back up, and he reasoned that this was his home turf here. He and Hopper may not always see eye to eye, but if Eddie asked he'd take his side in a heartbeat.

Harrington gave a funny little smirk, the kind you'd give to the family dog who was doing something cute but ultimately futile.

"You're the type who hates Trace Adkins but's never heard of David Allan Coe," he raised an eyebrow, then nodded to Jeff and Gareth, holding out a hand to shake with each of them. "Name's Steve. Good to meet you guys."

"Jeff," "Gareth," his bandmates parroted back, easy as breathing, while Eddie was still stuck on Harrington's little dig about the artists he was or wasn't aware of.

"You do most of the song work, don't you Munson?" he was asked, and Eddie belatedly realized he hadn't actually accepted Harrington's handshake. It was too late now, so he kind of awkwardly answered in the affirmative and watched that hand get pulled back and settled onto Harrington's other hip, so the man was standing almost like a judgy mother hen as he kept talking. "I've been kind of obsessed with Dark Sheep lately -especially the way you captured sexuality in 'Something On Your Tongue'; like how it's all about being confident, and whether it's a stranger at a club or working a job, the narrator's attracted to them in a way that's not gross to listen to. I mean, 'I love the way you dance with anybody' as a line is pretty refreshing when you think about it and... oh. Sorry," Harrington trailed off and turned a little pink, ducked his head. "Didn't mean to ramble on there."

Steve Harrington listened to Hellfire's music? Eddie blinked and the guy was still in front of him, looking earnest as a slice of apple pie or whatever the fuck, and he mentally shook himself. 'King' Steve Harrington listened to his music enough to have an opinion on it, on specific songs from their last record, and he came out the end of it liking his lyrics?

"Dude, get it together," Gareth whispered and elbowed him in the ribs, jolting him out of his fugue.

"Didn't think that was your thing, Harrington," Eddie ran his mouth with the first thought that came to mind, even if it was kind of dickish. "Sexual liberation ain't exactly very prayerful of you," he made the sign of the cross on that last part.

Far from what he expected, that got Harrington to bark out a big, surprised laugh. "Oh, c'mon," he rolled his eyes. "You can't seriously think I'm in with the god squad? They were most of why we left Tiger Studios in the end. Besides," Harrington flashed a charming smile, pearly whites matching the pearl buttons below on his shirt. "It'd be pretty hypocritical of me to preach against sexual lib, considering."

What the hell did that mean? Was it just his brain pulling tricks on him, or did Harrington's eyes flick up and down Eddie's body right then -and where the hell had Gareth and Jeff gone? They were supposed to be his buffer against his least favourite genre, not -ah, there they were -not chatting up the other members of Harrington's little ensemble across the room.

"Consider me told, then. You ain't godly whatsoever, I'll be sure not to disparage your sterling reputation again with that mistake, my liege, cross my heart," Maybe he was laying it on thick here, but there was something about Steve Harrington that got his pulse up; when the other man tilted his head with a baffled smile at Eddie's statement, he had to clench his fist hard so he didn't just -well, he wasn't actually sure. "But I think without the god talk that just makes you a hick, big boy, sexually liberated or otherwise. Is that better or worse?"

Maybe Harrington was just pissing him off with his... everything. His shit genre and his cocky attitude and the way he dressed to impress, it was cringey at best and edging on pretentious at worst. Eddie crossed his arms and scowled, annoyed with this damn situation of having to navigate a whole new set of people in the studio when he was already behind in his work and had no fucking clue how to fix-

"Hicks make some good music, Munson," Harrington said, sounding all kinds of condescending about it. "Especially these days, if you know where to look. Sounds to me like you're a little musically pigeonholed," Eddie went ramrod straight as Harrington threw that accusation in his face, and he felt his cheeks go hot in offense. Harrington smirked, noticing. "But hey, I'm always down to help out if you wanted to explore your options."

Musically. Pigeonholed. Musically pigeonholed!

"Fat chance of that, boots," Eddie swung his foot forward and knocked toes with Harrington, fancy brown tops against Eddie's scuffed workman's. "Sounds to me like the crown's too tight on your head after dropping contract. When you can write a song that's not about beer and trucks and girls, give me a shout, okay? Maybe I'll even give it a listen."

Steve's smirk turned a shade meaner, and he was probably going to say something really nasty -figures -when he got clapped on the back by a big man in a hawaiian shirt and with a thick beard, holding a martini of all things.

"Woah, kids, tone it down a notch. We're here to have a good time," the guy said, part patronizing and part stern -it was a weird combination. "Especially you, Discount Dio. Take it easy on the new guys or I'll ask Wayne to break out the baby photos, tout de suite."

Oh, so this was Murray. Wayne's mysterious drinking buddy who just so happened to be one of the artists who bailed along with Harrington. Eddie had no doubt he'd make good on the threat -not that he needed it, exactly. The interruption seemed to have taken the wind out of both his and Harrington's sails, if the way the guy looked embarrassed was any indication.

"Sorry, Murray," Harrington said, and Murray rolled his eyes.

"Just relax, kid. None of these guys are Hargrove, or even Carver Jr for that matter," he shook Harrington's shoulder a little, and shot Eddie an odd look. "Even the ones that growl and snap at you are just Chihuahuas. And you, puppy," he snapped his fingers in Eddie's face, making him flinch back in surprise. Also, offended -puppy? "I think you've got a hot head right now, so you should remember you know better than to shit on music you've never listened to. Don't you?"

Fuck, damn his big mouth. He felt his cheeks go tight with embarrassment, and he cut a look at Harrington. They were both close to thirty and yet here they were feeling like scolded children.

"Shouldn't have said that, Harrington. Sorry," he offered, ash in his throat. The guy looked surprised, but nodded, accepting, and Murray threw his hands up, sarcastically relieved.

"Thank god! Now come on, join the party," he hooked a hand around Eddie's neck and used his martini arm to bump Harrington forward.

The country boy looked at him one last time before seeming to shrug off their entire interaction, a fake expression of cheer getting plastered on after a flash of disappointment. Why he was disappointed was anybody's guess; maybe he'd thought Eddie would be more repentant in his apology.

Fat chance of that. Musically pigeonholed his ass.

Eddie sighed, flexing his hand, and readied himself to push through a few more hours of socializing. Internally he apologized to Hopper, too -a productive working relationship with the country club didn't seem like it was in the cards for him.

=<+>=

I keep a running list of songs referenced in the notes on AO3 -I don't do tag lists!

[smokefalls]

Hi can u recommend me some of the best writing you have come across in a book. I love your quotes thank uu!

Hi there,

Absolutely no need to thank me for anything, especially considering that all of these lines and passages belong to their respective authors. I'm just sharing ones that stood out to me, that's all!

Regarding the best writing I've come across, this is incredibly subjective. Here are some books that came to mind though:

Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin

Dubliners by James Joyce

A Minor Chorus by Billy-Ray Belcourt

Sula by Toni Morrison

North by Seamus Heaney

A Little Devil in America by Hanif Abdurraqib

Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments by Saidiya Hartman

In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado

Freshwater by Akwaeke Emezi

A Passage North by Anuk Arudpragasam

Butter Honey Pig Bread by Francesca Ekwuyasi

Whale by Cheon Myeong-kwan (tr. Chi-Young Kim)

Die Sonette an Orpheus by Rainer Maria Rilke (I'm not sure about the best translation for these poems, since I didn't love the one I read, but reading anything in their original language is always the best experience.)

I'm very likely missing other titles, but this should be enough for now—

[spideyanakin]

Stranger things: first shadow SPOILERS

No but stranger things first shadow will become my Roman Empire. Like this is a new masterclass from the duffer brothers.

Joyce and Hopper being in love with each other since they were 18!?? Them wanting to leave together to MEXICO!? Their shared dream of wanting to leave this stupid town but then Joyce stays with her idiot boyfriend and Hopper LEAVES to train as a cop.

Joyce, Hopper and Bob basically being Dustin, Mike, Lucas and Will when they start hunting who is killing the animals—knowing that they will reunite YEARS later to solve the CONTINUATION of what they had started YEARS ago.

THEM being the reason they caught Victor Creel.

Ted and Karen Wheeler basically being the Chrissy and Jason of Hawkins?? 😭 knowing that Ted becomes the laziest most bland white bread of a man in 20 years.

CHARLES AND SUE SINCLAIR BEING THE BEST POWERCOUPLE KNOWN TO MAN??!! And in the show STILL BEING AS ICONIC.

Dustin’s mom being so obssed with her cat and so protective over it because years ago her cat was Henry’s first victim!!!!! Like!!! Can we talk about this!!! She’s not crazy, she’s just absolutely traumatised and doesn’t want it to happen again WHICH FUCKING DOES!

EDDIE’S DAD BEING THE MOST SASSY ICON??? SORRY? Was not expecting that. Method actor™️ what has the world done to you Alan Munson 😔 also him going 🤘🏻👹🤘🏻 to Ted Wheeler. AND HIM BEING BLAMED FOR THE MURDER OF THE ANIMALS??? Bc he’s just always him ™️ 😭 but then Jim realising it’s not him xoxo.

THE RAINBOW ROOM BECAUSE WHAT STARTED EVERYTHING WAS THE RAINBOW EXPIRMENT. Now that blew my mind. And Dr.Brenner’s dad being the first real victim of the upside down I’m crying.

This is my Roman Empire,

Thank you.

[catt-nuevenor]

Story Setting - Peyton and Peidyn

"Best behaviour, alright?"

"Yes, Peyton/Peidyn," Lars and Louis/Leila drone.

"I mean it, no shenanigans, no fights. The pair of you should be setting a good example, not a cautionary tale."

My little one giggles from their spot on my lap as we watch on.

"I don't want to hear from Eylmer and Joyce that you've been less than perfect guests."

"Yes, Fæder/Módor."

Peyton/Peidyn sighs, a wry smile hidden behind their palm. "Off with the lot of you, before I change my mind."

My little one gives me a parting hug before accepting a piggyback from Louis/Leila.

"Be good!" I call after the three of them.

"We will!"

As the front door closes, and the yipping giggles and laughter filters in from outside, Peyton/Peidyn takes the seat beside mine, propping their chin up on the heel of their hand.

"Remind me, when was it that I adopted those two?"

I rest my hand on their shoulder, my fingers immediately finding stiffening muscle and tension. "About a week after they first walked through your door. They'll be fine."

Peyton/Peidyn huffs, then they smile. "Kicking the children out of the house for the night? For all the stress, it's worth it." They gather up the hand that rests on my shoulder, and brush their lips over my knuckles. "Shall we get started?"

Our meal is simple; vegetable stew with barley, freshly baked bread, and a quart of cider to share. Simple, and yet it is so much more than it has rights to be. We work together in a constant flow, our currents entwining then parting as we tease and encourage one another with small touches and glances. When Peyton/Peidyn asks me to taste the stew, they find an excuse to brush their thumb over my hip bone, their warm arm across my lower back, barely touching but still a pressure against my skin.

We eat at the table by candlelight, our faces smudged in shadow, our eyes aglow. Peyton/Peidyn sits beside me, as always, their arm skimming mine as they lift the spoon to their lips.

---

Extrovert

We leave the chores for the morning, stacking our things in the sink and brushing away any flour that clings to our clothes or hair.

"Should we change?" I ask.

"No, we'll pass Myrna's scrutiny." Peyton/Peidyn cups my jaw and kisses my cheek to prove it. "You could draped in a whole sack of flour and still be stunning."

I bat them playfully away. "Flatterer."

We leave the lodging house, hiding the key behind a loose brick in the wall for the others. The night is cool, but pleasant, the stars above twinkling down as we make our way across the Ash bridge and towards the thrum of music.

The dance has already spilled out into the market square, the musicians arranged upon the back of a hay-cart, the folk of the town a twirl below.

Peyton/Peidyn waves and nods to their cousins, and we both send our greetings to Ana/Abe and Erda when we spy them stood outside the shop.

"There's always a greater chance for injury when you mix drink with dancing," the old cunning woman had pronounced a few days ago. From first glance, it seems injury and accident have been avoided thus far. Long may that continue.

Peyton/Peidyn and I step up to the edge of the fray.

Panic flares within me when I feel their hand leave mine, but it is banished when I catch the gleam of their smile. Their locks of red and rust sweep low as they bow to me, their grey eyes gold in lantern light when they look up, and when they speak it is with the purr of storm and promise that makes my Feorh sore.

"Dance with me?"

And truly, what can I do, but let their tide carry me on?

---

Introvert

The night is ours, so we bask in it, in each other. Chores are sweetened by kisses, the washing by their arms around my waist, their breath upon my neck. When all is tidy, we sit before the fire, wrapped around one another, and share the warmth.

"This is enough," Peyton/Peidyn whispers.

"Hmm?"

"This. You, me, this." They tighten their embrace for a moment and kiss my neck. "It's enough, isn't it?"

"It is," I reply, pressing my lips to the hollow of their throat, their pulse rising to greet me as I linger. "It is."

---

Image courtesy of Annie Spratt on Unsplash

[munsonsduchess]

The Healed Man

summary: it’s been two weeks since steve and dustin brought eddie to your door and two weeks since eddie has been awake

w/c: 1,486

warnings: mentions of injury, mentions of blood, unwanted physical attention (billy hargrove and tommy hagan keep insinuating that you should all be friends), swearing

a/n: welcome to part three of shadow of the moon, you can find part two here, i’m honestly really excited about this series and i can’t wait to share more of it with you all, if you see a typo then say nothing and have a drink of water to forget

dividers are by @firefly-graphics and the moodboard was made by me 💛

It had been a tense couple of weeks since Prince Steven and Dustin had arrived on your doorstep with a bloodied and mauled Edward Munson in need of your aid. You’d managed to bring the young man back to some semblance of stability and had moved him to your own bed to recover instead of laying on your kitchen table.

In the meantime you’d gone back to business as usual, creating your little spells and charms for the townsfolk, love spells for girls who were enamored with the Prince, a boy in the next town over, farmers wishing for a good harvest. It would disturb people to have a bandaged, sometimes still bleeding, boy on your work table.

You changed Edward’s bandages when you had the time. Reapplied the salves. Did whatever you could to keep his body healing.

During this time you’d also met Dustin’s mother, Will’s Mother, Jane’s father, Mike’s older sister Nancy and Lucas’ younger sister Erica. The latter two being a force of nature all on their own.

You’d also met the Prince’s friend Robin who seemed to be keeping a secret of her own if you had to guess.

All of these new people expressed their concern at you living so far away from town and alone. The parents in particular expressed this concern but you’d waved it off,

“I’m not welcome in town” you’d said, “I’m not usually welcome in any towns. People find out who I am and what I am and they tend to not want me around”

“Load of horseshit if you ask me” Jane’s father Jim commented, “lots of stuff going on in that town is horseshit”

You’d learnt later from Will’s mother Joyce that Jim had lost a lot. He’d fought for the King in one of his wars, while he’d been away his daughter had fallen sick and nothing could be done. Jim’s wife was overcome with sadness and had walked to the river, never to come back. He’d found Jane wandering around the woods by herself, she couldn’t speak and wouldn’t eat much except bread but he’d taken her in immediately and cared for the child which everyone thought was ridiculous but Jim had brought Jane up regardless of what other people thought.

Joyce and Dustin’s mother Claudia had promised to come up regularly and check on you and Eddie for whatever you might need.

Among your list of visitors was the Prince himself who came by regularly every night to check on Eddie. He would ask you questions, how was he healing? How long until he woke? Had he said anything even in his sleep?

You didn’t have the answers for his questions and it pained you to see his crestfallen expression each evening. Still the Prince returned, night after night with the same questions.

When you’d see Nancy and Robin during the day they’d tell you that Steve was looking worse and worse every day. He wasn’t sleeping, hardly eating, he was on a mission apparently to find out what exactly had happened to Eddie. How it had happened.

Apparently Eddie did a lot of odd jobs to earn money since he too seemed to be unwelcome by the general townsfolk of Hawkins in the same way you were. People called him a freak and he had been accused of consorting with the devil more than once by certain members of the nobility.

Eddie’s uncle Wayne was a good man and Eddie did all he could to help the older man and he had been returning from a job that evening when he’d been attacked though by what or by whom seemed to be the root cause of the mystery. One that Steve was determined to figure out himself no matter how much his friends offered to help.

Just past the two week mark since Eddie had come into your care you’d needed to leave him in the care of Claudia Henderson and Joyce Byers while you’d gone to the local spring nearby to fill some bottles. You’d hadn’t expected to be gone all that long but the universe seemed to have other ideas.

No sooner had you arrived at the spring than you heard the sound of hoofbeats and men laughing. You’d looked up to see Billy Hargrove, Tommy Hagan and Jason Carver riding your way. Having absolutely no desire to interact with any of those men you’d tried to gather your bottles and leave as quickly as you could but Hargrove stopped you,

“Leaving so soon? Here I thought you were a friendly witch” he laughed, jumping down from his horse, “we just want to be friends right fellas?”

“Yeah. Best friends” Tommy agreed as he dismounted his own horse, “just like you’re such good friends with Stevie”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean” you tried to play dumb hoping they’d find less amusement in your torment.

“I think you know exactly what we’re talking about” Carver’s lips were twisted in a cruel sneer. Of the three men he seemed to be taking the least pleasure in accosting you,

“So. How about it honey?” Hargrove had come up behind you and placed his hands on your hip, “let’s be friends”

“The best of friends” Hagan agreed again

You were looking around for a clear line of escape, of a way out of this situation before it went even more terribly, then you heard someone yell in the distance

“Get your hands off her!”

As you caught a glimpse of the Prince in the distance suddenly Hargrove and Hagan immediately backed off but not far enough for your liking,

“Awe come on Stevie. We’re just being friendly” Hagan grinned at him, “you guys are such good friends we figured we’d say hi”

“Maybe your little witch could help us with some problems” Hargrove laughed stepping closer to you again,

“I said get your hands off her” Steve commanded again, “leave her alone”

“You keep strange company Harrington” Carver snapped, “what would your father think if he knew you were visiting a witch each day”

“What would yours think Carver, if he knew you were so disrespectful to your prince?”

No one said anything for a while until eventually Hargrove just sighed and remounted his horse,

“Well that’s ruined my fun. Come on, I’m sure there’s girls who’ll actually be worth fucking in town”

Hagan snorted and remounted his horse, following after Hargrove without sparing a glance backwards at where you were standing. Carver however remained a free extra moments before following his friends.

You let out a sigh of relief and sagged onto the ground. This is why you avoided people, men in particular. Especially men like Hagan and Hargrove. Though it would seem as if Carver had no intention of following through with his friends plans but instead was working off his own agenda.

“I’m sorry about them. They’re assholes” Steve said, he had dismounted now and was walking over to you,

“How did you know I’d be here?” you asked him, no one but Claudia and Joyce knew where you were going,

“I had stopped by the cottage but you weren’t there and Joyce told me you were down here”

“You came to check on your friend” you nodded, “he still hasn’t woken up”

“I came to check on you. I know it can’t be easy looking after Eddie on your own and Claudia said you were sleeping on the floor?”

“I only have one bed your highness. I thought it best for your friend to rest in it rather than on the floor. I do not mind”

“I’ll have another mattress sent. You shouldn’t sleep on the floor”

You had opened your mouth to protest but the Prince had already moved and was gathering up your bottles,

“I’ll help you carry these back” the way he spoke brokered no argument so you simply let him and followed back to your cottage.

As you walked the Prince asked about your life, about your craft, what brought you to Hawkins. He seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you, which was a marketable change from what you were used to, especially from royalty.

As the cottage came into view you expected the Prince to walk off and leave you to your work but he followed you inside and placed your bottles on the work table,

He bid goodbye to Joyce and Claudia as they headed back into town but still he remained.

“Your highness really you - ” you were about to say that Steve could go on his way, that you would be fine but then you heard something else,

“Steve?” Your head snapped around to where a bandaged but awake Eddie Munson was standing in the doorway to your bedroom looking directly at you, “who the hell are you?”

Taglist: @babyrunsforfanfic @novelnovella @pillow-titties @yappydoo @filthy-gorgeous-library @likedovesinthewnd @insertcoolnameherethanks

Let me know if you want to be added!

[steddie-fanfic-recs]

Wish You Were Here

by Al0homora

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Character: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley, Nancy Wheeler, Dustin Henderson, Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Eleven | Jane Hopper, Lucas Sinclair, Mike Wheeler, Will Byers, Jim "Chief" Hopper, Joyce Byers, Wayne Munson, Original Characters

Additional Tags: Summer Fic, Beaches, Small Towns, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Witness Protection, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Depressed Steve Harrington, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Esteem Issues, Eddie Munson Lives, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Gay Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Self-Indulgent, Coastal Towns, Mutual Pining, Coming Out, Self-Acceptance, Period-Typical Homophobia, Getting Together, a lot of pining, Music as metaphor, Musician Eddie Munson, Musician Steve Harrington, finding yourself in your twenties, Vulnerable Steve Harrington, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Stubborn Eddie Munson, poor comunication, Tooth Rotting Fluff, these boys have a lot of feelings, Reunions, Sharing a Bed, Alternating Perspectives, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Romantic Fluff

Words: 59,578 Chapters: 18/18

Summary

When Steve Harrington starts getting cryptic postcards in the mail in the fall of 1988, he finds that he can't ignore them, and what they might mean. The others have moved on. Robin, Nancy and Jonathan are finishing college and getting jobs, and the kids are close to graduating. With little else to do in the late spring of '89, and just wanting to know the truth, he decides to follow the bread crumb trail these post cards have created, and go in search of their sender. Maybe it'll be one last nice thing he can do for the Party before they all go their separate ways for good, well and truly leaving him in the dust. What starts out as a trip to find one missing person, whom they all assumed to be dead, turns into a journey that allows him to find himself along the way. Or: The summertime beach fic that absolutely no one asked for, because Steve Harrington deserves a vacation.

[jbarneswilson]

For Bucky please, headcanons: ■ ☯ ♒

hello, nonnie! thank you so very much for the ask and thank you for your patience! i’m sorry it took me so long and i hope my silly little thoughts were worth the wait 💜💜💜

bedroom/house/living quarters: so, before he moves in with sarah and the boys, i think his own living quarters are kind of sparse; that’s based on what we saw in ca:tws and episode one of tfatws. there isn’t much softness or excess, anything in his home is functional. there’s just enough for one person: one chair, one bowl, one plate, one cup… the man grew up during the great depression, anything even approaching excess would make him feel—at the very least—uncomfortable. i think he has a bed, probably a twin or full-size bed because how much space does one person need? but he doesn’t sleep in it. he tries, he really does, but he just… can’t. he keeps his place tidy, there’s something soothing for him in the repetitive motions of cleaning. one of the things he really prizes is having somewhere quiet and safe to go back to, some place that’s just his.

likes/dislikes: idk why but i just know this man likes baseball; but he also likes SOCCER which is the best because i like soccer A LOT! based on episode two of tfatws i feel confident in saying he likes fantasy novels, i also think he likes the classics (but not that fucker ayn rand, she can sit and spin), he’s got some james joyce and oscar wilde in there cuz, ya know, irish; he’s used to the hustle and bustle of nyc but i think he really likes the slower pace and quiet of delacroix. well, relative quiet. those boys can raise quite the ruckus. he likes kids, they’re funny and have an interesting way of seeing the world and they don’t seem bothered by the metal arm. he likes being around sarah, likes sharing the same space as her, likes walking into the kitchen and smelling a hint of her perfume and knowing she was just in there, likes being her friend, likes her as a person. obviously he also likes aj and cass, they’re good kids and when they squabble it reminds him of the way he and becca used to get into it. he likes sam, too. and he REALLY likes riling him up by calling him his brother. he likes joaquin, too, maybe, a little bit. bucky dislikes assholes and bullies and impolite people and guys who don’t open doors for women and being cold and snakes.

cooking/food: so. the food from bucky’s youth? left A LOT to be desired. if he never has to eat another plate of boiled chicken it’ll be too soon. but, he’s never going to say no to a slice of soda bread with currants and a heap of butter, especially if it taste anything like sarah rogers’s soda bread used to taste. his mom made the best boxty he’s ever had and he’s bummed you can’t find good boxty any more. corned beef and corned beef hash are also pretty damn amazing. he likes a good pot roast, his mom used to make a nice on for sunday dinner if they had some extra money for a nice cut of beef from the butcher. one thing he does really like about the future is how easy it is to find cooking videos and recipes so he can teach himself how to feed himself; aside from going to eat with yori, bucky finds it hard to justify paying for food when he’s perfectly capable of cooking. no amount of pleading from sarah will ever get him to try anything with beans, he does not care how good of a cook she is, beans are disgusting and he ate enough in the war to last him a lifetime… he doesn’t mind greens, though, especially with some white rice and cornbread. and he loves her gumbo so much that the first time she made it for him he asked her to marry him. (she laughed but he meant it)

[frontlitmedia123]

6 Baking Books to Sweeten Your Christmas Season

Bake, Read, Repeat: Delightful Baking Books for the Holiday Season

The festive season calls for warmth, cheer, and the irresistible aroma of freshly baked treats wafting through the home. This Christmas, why not combine your love for baking with the charm of a great book? From traditional recipes to modern twists, these baking books not only inspire culinary creativity but also serve as perfect companions for cozy winter afternoons. Here’s a curated list of six delightful baking books that will sweeten your holiday celebrations.

1. Advent: Festive German Bakes to Celebrate the Coming of Christmas

Author: Anja Dunk

Publisher: Quadrille

Anja Dunk brings the rich culinary traditions of Germany to your kitchen. Drawing from her multicultural upbringing, this book explores recipes steeped in German heritage. With classics like spiced cookies and innovative festive treats, it’s a treasure trove for bakers who cherish authenticity and a dash of storytelling.

2. Holiday Cookies: Showstopping Recipes to Sweeten the Season

Author: Elisabet der Nederlanden

Publisher: Ten Speed Press

Elisabet der Nederlanden, a professional baker with a flair for creativity, presents a collection of recipes that make cookies the star of your holiday table. From decorative delights to melt-in-your-mouth favorites, this book is perfect for both experienced bakers and beginners looking to impress.

3. Christmas Baking: Festive Cookies, Candies, Cakes, Breads, and Snacks

Authors: Joyce Klynstra & Laura Klynstra

Publisher: Good Books

This delightful book offers recipes that bring joy to both bakers and their loved ones. Whether you’re crafting delicate candies or hearty loaves of bread, the Klynstras’ expertise ensures every recipe delivers festive magic.

4. The Christmas Baking Cookbook: 'Tis the Season for 100+ Festive Treats

Author: Cider Mill Press

Publisher: Cider Mill Press

This comprehensive cookbook is a treasure chest of over 100 recipes ranging from traditional holiday staples to inventive new treats. Eggnog cupcakes, anyone? Its variety ensures there’s something for every palate.

5. The Great British Bake Off: Christmas

Author: Lizzie Kamenetzky

Publisher: BBC Books

This book brings the charm of the iconic show straight to your home. With an emphasis on festive indulgence, it offers recipes and tips to elevate your holiday baking. From show-stopping desserts to comforting classics, it’s a delightful guide for fans of the show.

6. Chocolate: 100 Irresistible Desserts

Author: Shivesh Bhatia

Publisher: HarperCollins India

A celebrated Indian baker, Shivesh Bhatia shares his expertise through this mouthwatering collection of chocolate-based recipes. Perfect for those who can’t resist chocolate, this book includes everything from gooey brownies to sophisticated cakes.

The Joy of Baking During the Holidays

Baking is more than just a culinary activity; it’s an experience that connects people and brings joy. The act of mixing ingredients, kneading dough, and decorating finished creations can be meditative and deeply satisfying. Here are some ways baking enhances your holiday experience:

1. Stress Relief

The repetitive and mindful nature of baking helps focus the mind, reducing stress and fostering a sense of calm. Measuring ingredients and following recipes offer a comforting routine amidst holiday chaos.

2. Creativity Boost

Baking is an outlet for artistic expression. Whether experimenting with flavors or crafting elaborate designs, it sparks creativity and adds a personal touch to your treats.

3. Sense of Accomplishment

Seeing your efforts transform into delicious creations instills a sense of pride. Sharing them with loved ones amplifies the joy and creates cherished memories.

4. Social Bonding

Baking brings people together. From family baking sessions to gifting homemade treats, it fosters connections and spreads holiday cheer.

Indian Baking Books: A Cultural Treasure

Among these gems, Indian-authored books deserve special mention. They marry traditional flavors with contemporary techniques, offering a unique culinary perspective. For those seeking to explore Indian influences, these books provide recipes that not only satisfy taste buds but also tell a cultural story.

Conclusion

Whether you’re a seasoned baker or just beginning your journey, these books provide the inspiration you need to create festive delights. This holiday season, let the art of baking fill your kitchen with warmth and your heart with joy. From cookies to cakes, these recipes are sure to make your Christmas celebrations sweeter and more memorable.

[infinitelytheheartexpands]

Do you have any stories or figures, etc. (of your creation OR already existent) that you'd like to see adapted into an opera? Who'd the dream cast be and what would it look like, sound like?

I have two stories I wrote in high school that I'd love to see as operas:

For Every Spring--short story about a mother and daughter during the Reign of Terror

Madeleine: Ying Fang

The Mother: Joyce DiDonato

sparse unit set, cross between music of the time period and a quintessential French Romantic style

The Last Testament of a "Monstrous" Condemned Woman-- prison flashback story about rediscovering art, burglary, and murderous arson

The Woman: Marina Rebeka

The Investigator: Gerald Finley

not sure about who to play the smaller characters, it's set at an unspecified point in the mid-to-late 1800s, so look reflects that, sound kinda reflects that but I also envision it as Korngold/Expressionist-esque

(the full text of both stories is below. please keep in mind that these are both at least three and a half years old):

For Every Spring:

March 19, 1794, evening.

“Go on now. Do it.”

The woman’s voice filled her daughter’s ears with that simple command. The daughter was standing with a pair of scissors in one hand, staring into a mirror hung on the otherwise bare wooden wall. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Mama, how much more can this revolution take from me?”

Her mother could hear her daughter’s weariness and despair, and for a moment, felt pity for her, but steeled herself. “You must do it. There is nothing left for me. But perhaps you could still escape.”

“I don’t want to go without you.”

“You must. There is no way I could escape… the revolutionary leaders know me too well. But they wouldn’t recognize you if you dressed in an urchin boy’s rags and had a dirty face.” Mother glanced at her daughter’s shining blonde hair that went almost halfway down her back again and sighed. “The hair, though. In order to look like a boy, you have to cut off your hair. If they see long hair, they’d suspect you’re hiding something…” She shivered. “And they would investigate, and it wouldn’t end well for you.”

“But what if I pulled it back? Tucked it in under my hat?”

“It could fall down. And if they took your hat off and saw a bunch of pulled-back hair…”

“I know, but other than you, my hair is my one joy left.”

“It’ll grow back.”

The young woman paused. She fell into a swirl of memories: how her father had loved her long golden hair, how when she was little, he would toy with it and tell her it was more beautiful than any princess’s, and finally, how the Reign of Terror had brutally claimed him, just like it was about to claim her mother.

Her mother went on, “Your life is more important…” Knowing her daughter was still hesitant, she took the scissors out of her daughter’s hand. “Now hold up your hair so I can cut it.”

The daughter obliged, but at the same time, a single tear trickled down her pale cheek.

Snip.

The first cut, like a dagger to the heart.

Snip-snip-snip-snip-snip…

In just a few minutes, the deed was done. The girl’s long golden locks were scattered all over the bare floor.

Mother turned her around and gazed into the girl’s eyes. She slowly whispered, “You look just like Papa…”

The tears her daughter had tried to hold back burst forth in her grief, and she collapsed in the middle of the cut-off locks of hair, weeping.

“I lost Papa, and now I must lose you! Why must I lose everyone and everything that brings me any happiness?”

The woman took her daughter in her arms as outside in the streets, people cried, “Vive la révolution! Vive Robespierre!” She said, almost under her breath, “You haven’t lost your life like I will tomorrow. You can make it out of the country, and you will, I know. Don’t stay to see me die, or you will too. Remember the plan?”

“Wear the peasant rags. I’ve done that,” she broke off, gesturing at the clothes she was now wearing. She quickly continued, “Dirty your face in the soot. Take the sack of bread, cheese, and money and leave under cover of night. Tell the guards at the city gates that your name is Raoul, and you’re going to see your sick aunt in Calais. Go to Calais; tell the guards there that you’re going to London to see your uncle. Get to London somehow- stow away on a ship if you must, and start over again. Without your mother who cares for you and wants nothing more than-“ She stopped, momentarily unwilling to recite the last part of the instructions her mother had drilled into her head.

But she took a slow, deep breath and finished,“To go with you, but she must be with you from afar, not by your side.” Her body shook with her sobs.

“Yes,” her mother replied. Now she was crying too. “But take heart, my child, and remember I love you more than the sun and the moon and the stars and the whole world.” She sighed. “Madeleine…”

“Yes, Mama?”

“I wish it didn’t have to end this way.”

“Me too.”

Now it was raining outside, and it was dark. The only light came from the half-moon shimmering in the black sky. It was silent now except for their weeping.

At last, Madeleine said, “It’s raining. See? The sky is crying because of your death.”

“No,” her mother firmly replied, not wanting to hear of any pity. “The sky is not crying- not for me, not for you, not for anyone. It is merely raining, my child. Spring is coming, don’t you remember?”

“Yes, but for every spring…” Madeleine did not dare say the second part of the saying she had heard about spring.

Mama sighed and finished it for her, “A winter melts away.” She shivered and continued, “I am the winter. I have lived a long life, I am old, I am about to die.”

Madeleine wept.

“But you- you are the spring, so young, so beautiful, with such a bright future ahead. Go and live. Do not stay to see me die.”

Madeleine, still crying, sat by her mother, and her mother took her into her arms. They held on to each other, not wanting to ever let go, though they both knew inside that sometime, they would have to let go of each other- forever.

At last, Mother whispered, “Go, my child.” She let go.

Madeleine grabbed the sack and was almost out the window before she looked back at her mother for the last time. She whispered, “I love you, Mama.”

The response, softly spoken through quiet tears, was simple. “I love you too. Goodbye.”

Madeleine slipped out the window.

Some time later, a church bell chimed midnight. “The beginning of a new day, a new spring. Today is the first day of spring,” she thought.

At last, she whispered into the air, to her daughter, wherever she was now,

“For every spring, a winter melts away. But please, Madeleine, do not think about the winter melting… ”

The Last Testament of A "Monstrous" Condemned Woman:

“The Venetian government sent me here.”

The man faced me, with a look that could best be described as a mix of utter contempt and bewildered curiosity, but still managing to be very official, on his face.

“Why? Do they usually do this to prisoners awaiting their imminent execution?”

“No,” he replied very sharply. “They sent me here because even after the questioning and your trial, they still do not understand why you did everything that you did. And your crimes- they are sensational, to say the least. Your trial had the whole city in an uproar. And, mia piccina,” he added with disdain, “that is a very hard thing to do in such a city as Venice. So before you are executed at dawn, they want to know why-why you caused such destruction so heartlessly, why you took so many lives like a hardened assassin.”

“Heartless? A hardened assassin?” I just managed to get out the words. “No, no. You do not understand. The reason I did not talk is because they would not listen. They saw a monster. That is all they saw, just like I know you see me now.”

“Do you not want to preserve your own story before you die?”

His words startled me. And then I realized it: This is my only chance to show them that I am no monster.

“Very well, then,” I replied. “I will tell you everything.”

Without looking at me, he reached into his bag, pulling out a notepad and a pen and setting the pad on his lap. After that, with eyes still averted, he told me, “You talk, I take notes. Begin now, for dawn will come before long.”

“I was born in the English countryside, the only child of a scholar who had come into some wealth thanks to his marriage to the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in all England. Throughout my childhood, I was constantly exposed to all sorts of wonderful thoughts and books and ideas because many scholars would come and share their thoughts on every subject imaginable. My father was always one of the ones who talked the most- he knew so much, and he always wanted to learn more, to discover more-”

“Will you please stop wasting time and get to the point?”

“That was just what I was doing,” I snapped back. “Anyway, he was very ambitious. As time went on, I became more interested in art than anything else. I could not draw, paint, or sculpt to save my life, but I marveled at its beauty, the way some people were just able to recreate something out there in the world, and I wanted to understand how they did it. And there was another aspect of it, too, that fascinated me: there would be scholars that came from Paris, from Rome, from the Netherlands to share these great lost artworks that they had rediscovered, and to tell how they had become renowned for finding these artworks, how the art would be preserved for eternity and so would they, for the simple reason that after all these years, they had found these masterpieces and given them new life. And I? I wanted to do just that too.”

At that moment, I noticed him hurriedly writing, trying to keep up with everything I was saying.

“I can wait for you to finish writing,” I offered.

He nodded, and for several seconds, I said nothing as he finished his notes.

“So what does this have to do with you coming to Venice?” he eventually asked.

“Well, the time came when my father passed away. When he died, he left his entire estate to me, including all of the books in his library. I had never seen many of them- he never let me read them, because they were too precious. But he promised me that when I inherited the estate, I could read as many of the books as I wished.”

“Those books,” I continued, “became my way of healing from the grief. To read the same books that my father had studied from somehow felt like a way of being near him, and that eased the pain. I spent almost every waking hour exploring the library, reading and then reading some more.”

I paused, and a thought shot through me: This is the moment you set down this road of sorrow. I shook it off though, and went on:

“One night, I was browsing through the shelves when I came across a set of eight dusty old books. They were all about Italian artists from the Late Middle Ages and the Renaissance. I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They had a massive effect on me, but not for the reason you think.”

“Well then, what was the reason?”

“The front cover of each book had a most interesting thing written in it. Together, they seemed to make up a series of instructions for finding a lost artwork. And those instructions were thus:

‘The city of the winged lion has many secrets yet to give up,

Including one by one not older, but younger.

A fire blazing in the Palazzo Ducale

Took the lives of many masterpieces,

And this was thought to be one of them.

But a saint still lives, preserved in that palace,

Old but still preserved, and still preserving,

Francesco’s St. Jerome writes, though he is asleep, and does not die!’

Now I knew enough to know this: the city of the winged lion is Venice, and the fire was the great Doge’s Palace fire in the late 1500s. The “younger” was almost certainly Palma il Giovane, who was the great-nephew of Palma Vecchio, a good enough painter, and who painted extensively for a Francesco, Duke Francesco Maria II of Urbino. It was known that Palma had painted St. Jerome for Francesco, but everyone assumed that the painting had been lost. And as soon as I figured all of this out, I thought, ‘What if this could be the great discovery I have hoped to make?’ You understand, I was very ambitious, and at that moment I resolved to find it, no matter what.”

“Let me get this straight. You pieced together some handwritten sentences, thought overly hard about their implications, and decided to go and do whatever it took to get this precious painting?”

“Exactly.”

“You are British, yes? You are just like Lady Macbeth! You get a hint of an idea, and you murder anyone who stands in the way of you!”

“No. I never planned on murdering anyone, I swear! Now if you would just be quiet, I would get to that!”

Silence. I shook my head, and went on:

“The next day, with nothing but two hundred pounds, a sack of food and water, and the instructions copied onto a sheet- you see, I wasn’t planning on staying in Venice- I left home, and went to London. And from there I traveled on, first to Le Havre, then to Paris-”

“No one needs to know your travel itinerary.”

At that moment, a church bell chimed twice.

“It’s summer, and dawn will be here before too long,” the man advised. “Now I suggest you stop wasting your last hours and skip to you getting to Venice and exactly why you did what you did here. You don’t have much time left to tell your story, you know.” He seemed not so much impatient now as considerate, as if he were genuinely interested in what I was telling him.

“Fine. Anyway, I arrived in Venice, and I immediately set out for the Doge’s Palace. When I got there, it took me forever to find the painting, especially because I had no idea what it actually would look like. No one knew anything about the dimensions or the medium or what it looked like because it had been lost for so long. But everyone was saying that it had been called a masterpiece in its day, that it would be a major find. And that was what kept me going during those hard days and nights of searching. And at last, I found it inside one of the private rooms once used by the Doges of Venice.”

“So you found it. Congratulations. And how did you get here?”

“I wanted to return home, to my books, and bring the painting with me. I was planning to study the painting and only then reveal to the world what I found. But there was a problem, one I had not anticipated.”

“And what was that, mia piccina?” He no longer said it condescendingly, but as if he genuinely cared about everything I had gone through.

“I had no money left, no money to return home, and no way of getting any money, or at least, I did not think I had a way of getting any money.”

I shuddered with remorse now, thinking of where I had gotten the idea.

“Later on, I was roaming the streets, thinking about what I could do in order to get back home. At first, I was thinking of begging, but I thought that was weak. I am not a victim, and I would not allow myself to be weak like that. And then, I saw a jewelry house, with many fine jewels in the windows, the most and the finest diamonds by far I had ever seen! And the store- it was called the Salvadori Diamond Atelier, I believe- was not even guarded! Even though it had all these wonderful jewels worth thousands, thousands of pounds, I tell you!” I cried.

His brows had furrowed, and I knew what he was thinking now.

“Sir, sir, I feel so much remorse for this, it’s true, but when I saw all those lovely diamonds, I could not help but think, ‘This is my way to get money, to go home at last and someday show the world what I have accomplished, and fulfill my ambition.’ And I resolved to steal as many diamonds as I could that very night, so I could sell them for money.”

No, no, no. I cannot bear to tell this… but all of Venice already knows this…and I must tell this…oh God, but it haunts me so much…

My face must have gone pale, because the man asked, “Are you ill? Do you need to rest?”

“No, I just feel so, so guilty and horrified by what I am about to tell you…” I took a deep breath. “But I must tell you anyway.”

“That night, it happened to be a new moon, and the full darkness of the sky covered me. I felt so confident that everything would go according to plan. I would get in, take some diamonds, and leave Venice at once.”

“And indeed,” I continued, “at first, everything went according to plan. There was a door in the back, a very small door, that had been left unlocked. I slipped inside and slowly felt my way into the shop until I found the glass cases. And that was the point when things started going awry: I had found a pin, and since I had been taught how to trick a lock using a pin, I thought that I could simply use the pin, unlock the case, and stuff the jewels inside my bag. But the pin did not work- I don’t know whether the lock was very special or whether I just performed the trick wrong. It wouldn’t open though, so I had to resort to smashing the glass.”

“Let me guess,” he said, looking up from his notes. “Someone heard, and started shouting for the police?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know, because of how concentrated I was on my work, although that is probably it. But in any case, the police arrived, and in that moment, I realized that if I was caught, then I would be arrested and likely never return to England again. And I also realized that there was no way for me to make it to that small door unseen. But there was still another option.”

“What was it?” Now he was leaning forward.

I panicked inside. Please, I want to go back in time somehow, make it so I never did this, so that I never caused so much pain, which I never wanted to do…

“There was a small oil lamp with a flame inside the case, some wood that had broken off the case frame, and a jar of oil. And I realized that a fire would cause confusion, during which I could possibly escape. So,” I shut my eyes and said as fast as possible, “I poured the oil onto the wood, dropped the lamp on top, yelled ‘You will die before you discover me!’, and ran out of the shop, to the streets, and as I ran, I saw the whole building burst into flames and I heard screams, screams of officers burning, burning to death. Those screams, they haunt me still, even after all these weeks in prison and in court. And I smelled their flesh burning, and I relished it at first, knowing I had made it out.” And I realized I was shaking, and yes, starting to feel sick.

“But you seem so full of pain and remorse now,” the man said, confused.

“Just a few minutes later, I ran into another officer. The sight of him made me realize what I had done- I had killed innocent men just for money…” I was crying now, but I knew I still had to finish. So I continued, “At that moment, my conscience overwhelmed me for the first time ever, and I started weeping, just as I am now, and started screaming about how I had burned a group of officers in the Salvadori Diamond Atelier to death. The officer was confused, but I led him there, and showed him- the burning building, the people screaming, the firemen bringing out the bodies of dead officers. And then he arrested me right then and there.”

I fell silent. I have nothing left to say.

The man looked at me. “Do you have anything else you want to tell me?”

Through my tears, I choked out, “No, the rest of the story, you already know it…the trial, my sentencing to death…I just want it all to end. I never wanted any of this, and now I just want it to end, to spare the world any more horror I could cause…You see, the world is right- I am a monster…” Again, I fell silent.

“It is a strange thing, life,” he observed. “So many times, good people are driven to do unspeakable things which they never would have dreamed of doing except in the moment they did them. And for that, they are unjustly called monsters, for that one black blemish in an otherwise good life, and they are condemned to eternal damnation in the minds of the world, to be forever called a monster. Most of the time, the condemned do not speak.”

The cell door opened.

“Dawn breaks,” the jailer said. “And with it, your monstrous life ends.”

“-But you have broken the silence. You are very brave and strong to do that. That man will soon realize, like the rest of the world will, like I already know, that you are not a monster.”

“Now I must leave, for the hour of your death has come. Remember, you might die to expiate what the world has labeled you a monster for, but soon, your legacy will be realized for what it actually is. Go. Hold your head high. You have suffered much, but you do not deserve to suffer forever, and you will not suffer forever. Goodbye, mia piccina.”

And with that, he left. I rose, and surrendered to the jailer.

That black blemish he spoke of, I thought to myself as I walked with the jailer, will never be excusable. But it is not everything I am. And the world will know it is not everything I am.

Suddenly emboldened by this thought, I raised my head and held it high.

I know that I will find redemption somehow, for the world cannot truthfully say now that this is all I am. For I have said otherwise.

Now I am ready to die.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 7: See I’m In Love With How Your Soul’s A Mix Of Chaos And Art]

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: Outnumbered by Dermot Kennedy.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sex and violence, historical warfare, a wild title reference appears!

Word Count: 9.6k. She chonky. 

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @writerxinthedark​​ @maggieroseevans​​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​​ @escabell​​ @im-an-adult-ish​​​ @queenlover05​​ @someforeigntragedy​​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​​ @deacyblues​​ ​ @tensecondvacation​ @brianssixpence​​ @some-major-ishues​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @youngpastafanmug​ @simonedk​

Benjamin

I still dream about it.

When I do, it’s quiet in the trenches. It’s dry, the autumn air brisk and almost still, my calloused fingerprints rasping against the pages of my copy of James Joyce’s Dubliners; it’s not great, to be completely honest, but we share all the books our parents send to us and it’s my turn to have Dubliners. Archibald is flipping through a volume of ghost stories that was mine last week, his knots of red hair fluttering in the barely-there breeze, his back against the dirt wall, his milk-white freckled forehead crinkled thoughtfully. Harry is reading The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz. Tommy and Frank are watching the line. Walter and Preston are heating tea in a dented metal pan over a small open flame, laughing and smoking cigarettes and making plans for when the war is over and they go home to take advantage of all those sad, lonely girls who lost their unlucky beaus in the fighting.

I don’t say anything, but I don’t think we’re going home anytime soon. I’ve been here longer than the rest of them. I was never especially good at anything in school: I couldn’t play piano, I hated making speeches, my handwriting drove my teachers mad, my hair never stayed neat, math was a goddamn nightmare. But as it turns out, I’m pretty good at this whole soldiering thing. I have steady hands, quick feet, sharp eyes; I can make a shot from 500 meters on a clear day like this one. And I can read people. When the warrant officer is jumpy because he got word that the Germans might be coming over the top, I can tell. When the kid next to me is about to implode under the stress of it all, I know to move down the line and find someone who will have my back. You can’t save everyone, that’s the first lesson I learned here; but you can sometimes save yourself.

They’ve never seen a bad day yet, these new boys: Archie from Belfast, Harry from Norwich, Tommy from Reading, Frank from Bristol, Walter from the rocky seashore at Plymouth, Preston from Ipswich. I can feel the naïve, shining confidence spilling out of their pores like steam from a mug of tea, like the scent of fresh bread wafting from an open oven. They don’t understand anything yet, but I don’t want to be the one to tell them. I never want them to have to grow up.

“Hey, what’s that?” Tommy pipes, peeking up over the top of the trench, standing on his tip-toes in boots that are a size too big. He’s alert, but he’s not afraid. Not yet, anyway. “Hardy? You see this?”

I stand, shove James Joyce’s Dubliners into the large pocket on the left side of my pants, peer over the lumpy turmoil of rocks and clods of soil. There’s a yellowish fog rolling over the line, and a faint pungency in the October air like garlic.

And suddenly everyone is screaming for us to get our gas masks on, everyone is climbing over each other and grabbing for their kits, their rifles, their Bibles. There are artillery shells shrieking overhead and exploding close enough to quake the ground, to strike us deaf. I can’t find my mask. And I shout it, even though no one is listening, even though no one could hear me even if they wanted to: I can’t find my mask!

A shell hits, detonates, sends shrapnel flying in every direction. It’s puncturing my chest, my forearms, my face, my palms when I try to shield myself. There’s mustard gas blistering my skin, singeing down my nostrils and throat. Oh, I think, in capitulation. I guess I’m not so good at this after all.

But there’s someone behind me now, hooking their arms beneath mine, dragging me backwards at a speed that’s impossible, up over the top of the trench and away from the line. I watch the war fade into the distance as my vision fails, as the gas sears and ruins my eyes, as the voices of those boys turned men are lost in the chaos. There’s an agonizing, piercing sharpness at my neck. And now the fire is inside as well as out.

I woke up three days later in a forest of sessile oaks three miles from the front. We were deep within the trees, the jade-colored leaves layered several times over above our heads; still, the sunlight felt too bright, stinging and overwhelming. My eyes burned. But not nearly as much as my throat.

I sat up, blinking, staring through slitted eyes. He was sitting a few meters away under a darker patch of shade; the shadows crawled across his pale face as the leaves rustled overhead. I could smell berries, tree sap, rabbits, gunpowder, the minerals and decomposition of the soil. I could hear birds cawing miles away and artillery shells being loaded. And I could see a dim, shifting, whistling aura around this disorientingly beautiful man: a rusty, amber-hued vermilion. Ambition, I knew instinctively. Hunger.

“Hello, Benjamin Hardy,” he said in a thick Irish accent. It was deeper than Archie’s had been, more total, more formal, older. He grinned like a dog baring its teeth. His skin was the color of bones, his eyes like the sun; except they didn’t hurt to look at. “Welcome to the rest of your life.”

Battlefields are goldmines for finding people to turn. You get to study them under the most stressful of circumstances, see their weaknesses, take note of their talents. And it’s best if you can make them believe that you saved them, that they owe you; it keeps them loyal, it forges a bond even stronger than the familial ether of venom. It makes it so they can’t ever walk away.

Larkin knows that. He knows a lot of things. He knows things that no one will ever tell him; he knows things about you that you don’t even know yourself. And part of you loves him for it, part of you needs him like a human needs a sinus rhythm or oxygen in their lungs. But the other part of you is fucking terrified.

Cato isn’t like Larkin. During the precisely one hundred years I spent with the Draghi, Cato was the closest thing I had to a brother, to a friend. He had an intrinsic sense of honor and decency that was anchoring in the often volatile existence of the immortal. He didn’t feed on innocent humans, only the violent, the cruel, the untrustworthy, the tyrannical, and even them only rarely. He was seldom the one who disciplined wayward covens, insubordinate vampires. And Cato had the luxury of being decent, because it wasn’t his job to hurt people. His talents were elsewhere. But my role was to be a soldier, a fighter, a killer. And human blood keeps you stronger than anything else.

Cato would do things differently. Cato would take the Draghi back to what they were before Larkin: counselors, mediators, scholars, oath-keepers rather than antiheros. He would give new recruits a choice. He would teach them to live in harmony with humans. But Cato isn’t in charge; not yet anyway, and probably not ever. Cato believes that he owes Larkin his loyalty. He can’t imagine turning against him. And if he ever started to, Larkin would know it.

When I dream about the day I became a vampire, when I bolt awake in my night-draped bedroom in the Lee house as moonlight pours in from between the Pacific Northwestern clouds, my first disjointed thoughts are these:

He’s going to make me come back somehow.

He’s never going to let me go.

Invitations

“Your sweater is very hippie murder cult,” Jessica noted, obnoxiously slurping her patron-drink-of-Mormons Sprite, her scrutinizing eyes raking over me.

“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe hippie murder cult is my preferred aesthetic.”

“I think it’s cute!” Angela offered from behind her Computer Science textbook, benign as ever. She reached over to tug on the sleeve, a burnt orange color and thick and fleecy.

I gave her a grateful smile as I stirred my salad. Salad bar Friday was swiftly becoming my favorite day of the week. “Thanks. It was five dollars at Goodwill. And it’s so fall! I’m a fuzzy walking pumpkin. I love it. You don’t get fall in Arizona. You get two seasons: toasty warm and literal fiery underworld.”

Jessica sniffed in reply, turned to gaze over at the Lee lunch table, sighed deeply and passionately. “Speaking of hot things...”

Ben cast her a quick dismissive glance, then groaned as Rami grinned at him. What could Rami hear tumbling around in Jessica’s sparse echo chamber of a mind? An Etsy-inspired pastel wedding montage? A graphic sex scene? Blond-haired, doe-eyed babies named something like Emersyn or Bayleigh or Bentley or, great deity have mercy, Mackynzee? I would have to ask him about it later.

Jess continued: “I’m sure Joe approves of the awful sweater. U Chicago sweatshirt boy is not exactly a fashionista. And he likes everything you do.”

“Well...I don’t know about that,” I parried. Oh god. My cheeks were totally burning. I couldn’t stop smiling. Oh god.  

I peeked over at the Lee table again. Joe beamed and waved at me. My cheeks were scorching now. Oh god.

“Look at her!” Angela giggled, covering her mouthful of fries with one hand. “Awwwww, Jess, look, she’s in love!”

“Shut up,” I pleaded. “It’s only been like a week, it’s totally casual. It’s a casual thing. We’re barely even a thing at all.”

“Sure,” Jessica said sarcastically. “You two are going to Homecoming, right?”

“What, tomorrow?!” I shook my head, horrified. “Oh no. I do not do the dancing and hair salons and milling around a crowded ballroom with hundreds of strangers thing. I’ll be home streaming Shark Week reruns and eating popcorn on the couch with Charlie, thanks.”

“You can’t miss it!” Jessica cried. “It’s like prom, only better!”

I didn’t have the heart to scandalize her further by admitting that I never went to prom at all; nobody asked me, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the third wheel all night while my friend Hannah made out with her awful boyfriend with the eyebrow piercings and random Chinese character tattoos and who always reeked of Axe body spray. Renee and I had baked banana bread and watched Thirteen Going On Thirty instead.

“I think I can live without it,” I said ungenerously. Joe hadn’t mentioned Homecoming. Surely he wasn’t going to mention Homecoming. Why would an almost one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old vampire be interested in Homecoming? And he knew I didn’t like people, didn’t like attention. He wouldn’t ask me. No way, no how, case closed.

“Well,” Jessica said with a sly smirk and a flip of her hair. Oh no. That was her scheming face. “I’m going to be there. And guess who’s going with me.”

“Who?” I asked, disturbed. It occurred to me that she was wearing a denim miniskirt and lacy pink tank top. Also lip gloss. This was definitely planning-a-seduction apparel.

“Who?” Angela added.

“Benjamin freaking Lee,” Jessica announced triumphantly.

“No!” Angela moaned.

“No,” I agreed in shocked dismay.

“Yes!” Jessica insisted, somewhat irritably. “I’m going to ask him. And he’ll say yes. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Jess.” I took a deep breath. How would a good friend handle this? How would a benevolent and wise motherly figure? I channeled my best impression of Mercy. “Honey, I know you like him, and you’re totally great, and there’s nothing wrong with you at all, and anyone would be lucky to have you as a date to Homecoming, but I really don’t think that Ben is interested in dating anyone right now and I don’t want you to get hurt—”

“Just watch me,” Jessica snapped, storming off.

“I can’t look.” Angela pulled her eyelids shut with her fingertips. “Oh sweet baby Jesus. Tell me when it’s over.”

“You got it,” I replied.

Jessica stopped at the Lee table and smiled down at Ben. He stared up at her with enormous, confounded, petrified green eyes. Rami and Joe were desperately trying not to laugh. Scarlett was chewing on the end of a ruby red Twizzlers and observing the scene, thoroughly entertained. Lucy was recoiling with secondhand embarrassment. Me too, girl. Me too.

Jessica said something to Ben. He nodded numbly. Empowered, she said something else, gesturing enthusiastically with her hands. Now Ben shrugged, demurred, turned to Joe for support. Jessica made another statement, more pointedly, more determinedly. Joe replied. Jessica tried again. The girl doesn’t quit, I’ll give her that. Ben said something else. Jessica made one last attempt. Joe shut her down.

“Oh wow,” I told Angela. “I think she’s coming back.”

She finally stole a tentative glimpse. “It didn’t go well?”

Jessica was approaching our table. Her eyes were pink and glistening. “It definitely did not,” I said.

“I don’t get it!” Jess wailed, slamming her fists onto the lunch table. “What the fuck kind of college guy is he? Does he want to be single forever?! Does he not want to hookup? He’s missing out! I give exceptional hand jobs!”

Diet Coke spurted from my nose. “Jess, there is a list of things that I need to know about you in order to maintain a friendship. That’s not on it.”

“Fuck him,” Jessica huffed.

“Well, not literally,” Angela amended; and finally Jess laughed off some of her disappointment.

Angela tried to convince Jess to ask Mike to Homecoming instead. I tried to convince Jess to not take Ben’s rejection personally. They both tried to convince me to go to Homecoming at all. I remained staunchly noncommittal.

“Hey, you,” Joe said when he appeared to collect me from my human friends’ custody. He glided his palm down the length of my back, feeling my sweater. Goosebumps sprang up along my spine, tingling and desirous. Ahhhhhhhh, I screamed mentally. “Oh, I like this. Reminds me of the alpacas. Never thought I’d say that about someone I was dating. Hey wait, come back, come over here, let me pet you some more!”  

“We’re not dating,” I informed him, throwing on my backpack. Jess and Angela waved as they left me behind, their faces sporting ‘you guys are sickeningly cute please stop but also have ten babies and never break up’ expressions.

“No?” Joe tilted his head, curious and amused.

“No. We’re just a thing. As agreed upon. An exclusive yet also totally not serious thing.”

“Whatever you say, Baby Swan.”

“You know I hate that.” Well, I used to, anyway. Now I kind of didn’t hate it. Now I might even be starting to like it a little bit. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I screamed again.

“Whatever you say, Infantile Goose.”

“Oh, that is way less attractive. Baby Swan it is.”

“Hello!” Rami chimed as he swooped in and hugged me. Rami was a hugger, who knew? His patented Bath And Body Works scent was something similar to cinnamon, nutmeg, honey, brown sugar, chai. “So what did you say when Joe asked you to Homecoming?”

“Rami!” Joe groaned.

Rami sighed. “The disembodied voices in my head do not come with timestamps, Joseph! I wish they did, believe me, my life would be a lot easier!”

“God you are the worst.” Joe spun back to me, recovering with an animated grin. “So what do you say?”

“I don’t do dancing,” I told him.

“Sure you do. You dance with me all the time to retro musical selections curated by my superior cultural palate.”

“Yeah, I dance poorly. In your bedroom. Alone. Without any observers.”

“They’re gonna have a mashed potatoes bar. All the vegetarian-friendly toppings you could possibly imagine. Also bacon for us civilized folk. I know because Lucy is on the event planning committee. And I’m not saying that the original idea was a meatball bar and that I got her to change it so you could partake...but that’s totally what happened. You’re welcome. Meet at the Chateau de Lee at 8 p.m. Dad rented a limo.”

“Joe...” Was it romantic? Yes. Was it also an opportunity for me to break the spell and make him realize how ridiculous it was for Joseph Francis Mazzello, sexy undead Italian man, to have chosen me of all mortals to cultivate an affection for? Also yes.

“Hold that thought.” He shrugged off his backpack, pulled out a stack of post-its and a pen, and scribbled out a note. Then he tore it loose and handed it to me. The post-it read: Official Whatever You Want Pass.

“What’s this?” I asked him.

“Are swans not literate? It’s a pass to do whatever you want. We each get one. I’m redeeming mine right now. What I want is for you to go to Homecoming with me, so now you have to. But in return you get your own pass to redeem at your leisure.”

“I’m gonna use it to cancel your pass.”

“You’re killing me. I’ve been dead for ninety-two years and you’re still killing me, that takes talent.”

“Fine,” I agreed, tucking my Official Whatever You Want Pass away for safekeeping. “I’ll go to Homecoming with you.”

“Yes!” Rami cheered, then departed to inform the other Lees.

“Oh wait, now I have to go shopping,” I realized with dread. Endless dresses. Strapless bras. Hems that never hit just right. A hellscape of satin and tulle. Ugh.

“Don’t worry about it. Lucy and ScarJo will take care of you.”

“Hallelujah.” That made sense; Lucy was an Art and Art History double-major with a particular gift for fashion and a walk-in closet teeming with dresses that she’d designed herself in practically every silhouette and size imaginable. She would periodically clear out her collection and anonymously donate it to a local charity that distributed prom dresses to needy teens. “Okay. But you have to promise not to judge me if my hair turns out weird or the only dress that fits is poofy and Barbie Princess pink.”

“Will you still be you under all that Barbie Princessness?”

“Well, yeah,” I replied, puzzled.

He winked and kissed the back of my hand as a goodbye. “Then you’re gonna be beautiful.”

The changing leaves were fluttering in the September breeze as I followed narrow sidewalk paths to Chemistry, my boots clicking against the concrete, my mind filtering through the steps for today’s lab: an experiment on how electromagnetic radiation affects phosphate solution absorption. Not my preferred way to spend an afternoon, I’ll admit it, but at least it didn’t involve blood and I could therefore count on having Ben as a lab partner. No need to make new friends. Score.

I caught a flash of something stark white and lightning-quick, and turned to see an ivory-colored squirrel on the grass under the shade of a shedding bigleaf maple tree. It paused with one front paw hovering in the air and peered up at me with disquieting red eyes, just like the owl that sometimes appeared outside my bedroom window.

“What am I, the freaking albino animal whisperer?” I said. “Do I look like Dr. Doolittle to you?”

The squirrel wriggled its nose and whiskers in reply. Those eyes, those eerie and slick and gory eyes...

“Fuck off, blondie.” You’re freaking me out. You and all of your genetically ill-fated friends.

The squirrel wheeled and darted up the trunk of the bigleaf maple tree, its claws scraping against the bark. After a moment, I started walking again.

“I’m being stalked by pasty forest creatures,” I told Ben as I threw my backpack onto our table when I arrived to Professor Belvin’s class. “They won’t leave me alone. You and the rest of the anti-sun enthusiasts must be rubbing off on me or something.”

“Huh?” Ben replied. Our window was open, as it was on any day not afflicted with Washington rain; Ben said it made my scent less distracting. Less tempting was what he really meant.

“Forget it.” I sat down beside him. “Are you going to the Homecoming dance? I know you’re not going with Jessica. Good choice, by the way. But that doesn’t mean you can’t go at all.”

“No, I’m not going.” He was steeped in one of his brooding moods today.

“Why not?”

“I don’t dance,” he said flatly.

“Okay, I feel you, neither do I. But I’m still going.”

“Good for you.”

“I think you should go too,” I pressed. “When was the last time you went to a dance? Any dance?”

“Never.”

“Oh come on. I don’t believe that.”

He reconsidered. “Secondary school. I was sixteen. I for some reason got it in my head that a lime green suit would impress my date, Betty Acton. She was not a fan. She ditched me for my mate James after twenty minutes. Then she got pregnant and they got married, and James never went to war because he was the sole provider for the household. So, in a circuitous way, that lime green suit might have saved his life. And doomed mine.”

“Jesus christ, does everything have to be some profound Shakespearean tragedy with you? Just say you’ll come to Homecoming. Goddamn.”  

He glowered at me, his green eyes flinty, his blond hair disarrayed.

“They’ll have a mashed potatoes bar, you know. All the bacon bits and shredded cheddar you can eat.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

“Awesome. Joe and I are gonna teach you how to do the Cha-Cha Slide.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. “The what?”

“You’ll find out.” I flipped open my notebook, clicked my favorite blue pen, started inventorying the materials that Professor Belvin had left on our table for today’s lab. And then I had a thought. “Hey, how are you going to go to med school if you can’t stand being around human blood?”

“I guess I have slightly less than two years to figure that out,” Ben said testily.

“Why would you want to be a doctor, anyway? You’re going to have to talk to people, touch people, maybe even slice and dice them. Do you enjoy suffering? Are you a secret masochist? Are you just trying to torturously punish yourself for the rest of eternity?” That might explain it, actually.

Ben replied without glancing up from his notebook, where he was writing today’s date in the upper right-hand corner in black ink and irregular, untidy penmanship. “I want to study psychiatry. I want to help soldiers who’ve seen combat.”

I hadn’t expected that, I’d never considered that. “Oh,” I managed softly.  

“Yeah.”

He wants to help people. Of course he does.

Maybe he’s not so different than the rest of the Lees after all.

“You’re a good guy, Ben,” I told him. “You’re a good guy and you deserve to be happy.”

And he just stared at me, irritated or mystified or maybe in disbelief.

Prom, But Everyone Is Old (Like, Really Really Old)

“Hold still,” Lucy murmured as she pinched the fabric with small dexterous fingers and threaded the needle through. The dress, an off-the-shoulder turquoise blue gown, was astonishingly perfect aside from needing to be taken in just the slightest bit. The shimmering, ever-moving fabric of the skirt reminded me of the ocean; the tiny silver buttons that ran up the line of my spine were the shape of angelfish. Scarlett carefully placed a matching pin in my hair.

“It’s stunning,” I said, gazing at my reflection in the full-length mirror in Lucy’s bedroom. I looked like me, and yet simultaneously not at all like me; I wondered if this was what being a vampire would be like, a free and instantaneous ticket to becoming the best version of oneself. The bedroom walls were a pale lavender, the space cluttered with hanging plants and tapestries and dreamcatchers and circular mirrors. It was very apparent that Lucy had come of age in the 1960s. Her dress was short, violet, feather-light. “But I don’t want to ruin it. I know that you guys don’t sweat. Or accidentally spill food and punch everywhere.”

“I can always make another,” Lucy assured me with a patient chuckle. I was only mildly offended that she didn’t correct me about the ruining the dress thing. The fragrance that surrounded her reminded me of the type of Yankee Candles that Renee liked to burn on house cleaning days: Sicilian Lemon. Lucy stepped back to admire her work, her delicate hands on her waist. “Oh, I am so good.”

“You’re alright,” Scarlett said.

“Shouldn’t you be walking a street corner somewhere?”

Scarlett was wearing a tight, low-cut, floor-length crimson gown with a slit that stopped at the apex of her thigh. Her blonde hair fell in long, silky waves, imprecise and yet flawless. She leaned in closely to study my makeup. Her scent was pure floral, jasmine and lilies. “One more coat of mascara, and then you’re done. I just want to separate some of these lashes.”

“You’re the boss,” I agreed, and tried to keep my eyes from watering as she prodded them with a mascara wand. Lucy glided to her jewelry box and leafed through it, occasionally holding an earring up to her ear and glancing into a mirror to see if it matched her dress to her satisfaction. Scarlett hummed as she worked on me. Her hands were larger than Lucy’s, sturdier. Her fingernails were painted with French tips. “You’re gorgeous,” I told her. “Like freakishly, ridiculously gorgeous. I’m sure you must get that all the time. But it’s true.”

“Thank you,” Scarlett replied with a calm, nostalgic smile. “I look a lot like my mother did when she was young.”

Her human mother. Not Mercy. It was strange to imagine anyone else as Scarlett’s mother, traitorous even. “She must have been beautiful,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

“Yes. But she was empty. She didn’t have her own desires, her own dreams. She didn’t even know how to have them. Or maybe she did once, when she was a child, before I ever knew her. But then she met my father and got married at seventeen and had six children in ten years, and I can barely remember her doing anything that wasn’t cooking or laundry or chasing kids around or serving my father the best cuts of meat at the head of the dinner table. She lived to serve the rest of us. And that’s exactly what she wanted for me too. I was the favorite because I was the most beautiful, because I was the one who looked just like her. And she was always telling me what I needed to do to be the perfect woman. Keep quiet, keep sweet, keep smiling. Dress modestly. Don’t talk back to men. Don’t let them see how smart you are. Stay away from math and science. Give your husband children to carry on his name, because his name is the one that matters. Don’t worry about school. Don’t worry about your man being faithful. Learn how to sew and cook and clean and iron, and shut up and endure.”

Lucy giggled from across the bedroom. “That sure didn’t work out.”

Scarlett surveyed my face and nodded in approval. “Everything I was supposed to be was for somebody else. And I just wanted a life that was mine. So I lashed out and I was reckless, as you are when you’re young and feeling caged. I stayed out late and drank the whiskey in my father’s minibar in the living room and took his salmon pink Thunderbird for joyrides once my parents went to sleep. And one night it was moonless and raining, and I’d had a lot of whiskey, and I ended up wrapping that Thunderbird around a tree at sixty miles per hour. That would have been the end of my story if Gwil hadn’t saved me.”

I could see it vividly, all at once: Scarlett in all of her rebellious adolescent glory, jeans and red lipstick and hair whipping in the cold dark wind, a lit cigarette between her fingers that rested on the steering wheel. “You’re so fortunate to have them, Dr. Lee and Mercy. They’re wonderful people. They’re like Mr. Rogers in vampire form.”

Scarlett laughed, fluffing her hair. “Mercy doesn’t understand me. She loves me, don’t get me wrong, that woman would kill for any of us. But she’s cut from a different cloth. From my human mother’s type of cloth, really. For Mercy, happiness comes from taking care of other people. From a husband, from children. I’m just not wired that way. I never have been. And I’m grateful that I have the opportunity to live in a time that gives me choices. And in a body that gives me power.”

“You make this whole life as a vampire thing sound pretty appealing,” I said.

Lucy pressed a pair of diamond earrings into my palm. Lustrous amethysts dangled from her neck and earlobes. “It’s not without its trials.”

“Like what?” I asked, putting on the earrings which were heavy and very old, hoping she couldn’t hear the weight of the attentiveness in my voice, that I wasn’t overstepping my welcome. Being a vampire really didn’t seem to have many drawbacks...assuming you got to live like the Lees did. Sure, Arizona might be a thing of the past, might be a homecoming of drenching sunlight and sifting sand and dry, ancient, windswept heat that I’d never know again. But maybe there were other places I could learn to call home. And other people.

Joe said from the doorway: “Nothing that you need to be concerned about, Baby Swan.” He sauntered over, smiling almost sheepishly, his hands in his pockets, wearing a black suit with a tie that matched my dress. It was dotted with silver angelfish. I straightened it for him.

“No Windy City memorabilia? I’m shook.”

“Don’t get too excited.” He held out his wrists to show me his cufflinks: the Chicago Cubs logo.

“I’m gonna drown you in a river the first chance I get.”

Joe grinned. “That’s illegal, ma’am.”

Rami swept into the bedroom. He was wearing a grey suit with a violet vest and bowtie. “You guys ready? Mom and Dad are waiting outside. They want to take photos in front of the limo. They’re kind of freaking out, this is like Christmas for them.” His large blue eyes skimmed to Lucy. “Damn, girl.”

She flitted to his side, laced her fingers through his, smirked roguishly up at him. She didn’t have to say a word; he could hear everything she was thinking. And I wondered what that would be like, to have fierce and pure and unconditional love not for the span of a few years or even a lifetime but an eternity.

“Yeah okay,” Joe said, rolling his eyes. “Try not to be busy all night. Dad’s hosting the bowling league for a barbeque tomorrow and I need you both rested and not bitchy to help me set up the new grill and the tiki torches and everything. I’m not doing it alone again. I’m sick of being discriminated against for being the not-married one.”

“Scarlett can help,” Lucy suggested.

“Tonight is the last hurrah of this weekend for me, tragically,” Scarlett said. “I have to finish a paper on eccentricity at some point before Monday. Fifteen pages. I haven’t started.”

Joe groaned dramatically.

“Eccentricity?” I prompted, perplexed. Scarlett was an Engineering major who occasionally dabbled in astrophysics. “Like...when people are weird?”

“Aww, like Joe!” Rami teased, patting his shoulder. Joe swatted Rami’s hand away.

“It’s also a physics term,” Scarlett said. “It’s a measure of how far the orbit of a celestial object deviates from a perfect circle. Essentially, it’s when something wanders away from the ordinary, from where it should be.”

“Huh,” I replied.

“Kids?!” Mercy yelled up the stairs. “Y’all better come down here before the sun sets and we lose all the light!”

“Coming!” Lucy trilled, and she and Rami disappeared into the hall. Scarlett followed after them, but paused in the doorway and looked to Joe.

“If they won’t help you tomorrow, come find me. I’ll do it. No big deal. If I can’t finish my paper in time I’ll just wear something skimpy on Monday and ask the professor for an extension. He’s very nerdy and lonely and recently divorced, and I’m fairly certain he’d let me have his left kidney if I asked nicely.”

“You’re my hero, ScarJo,” Joe said. “I want to be you when I grow up.”

She smiled. “You’ll never grow up.” And then she was gone.

Joe studied me, his eyes dark and warm and like the armored limbs of a Joshua tree or the shadowed depths of the Grand Canyon; they traced my turquois gown, my bare shoulders, my defenseless human neck, my seeking gaze that met his. When he finally spoke, his voice was hushed, almost awed. “I’m really glad we’re a thing.”

“You do have a superpower, you know,” I told him.

“Really?”                

“Yeah. Making me like Forks. And Calawah University. And stupid dances. And myself.”

“You should like yourself. You’re extremely likeable. I’m somewhat of an expert in being beguilingly charming, and you’re off the charts, baby.” He hooked a finger beneath my jaw and kissed me, delicately, deftly, mindful not to disturb my makeup; and I felt the floor open up beneath my feet, felt the ceiling lift away as I was whisked away into a world of nothing but contentment and serenity and his scent like peppermint, pine, snow itinerant in night air.

Out in the driveway, Gwil was in a tuxedo and directing everyone to stand in a line in front of a black limousine. The sky was thick with clouds and striped with ribbons of orange and purple and indigo; it had rained that morning, and the cobblestones were still sparkling with droplets reflecting the dwindling daylight.

“Right, Scarlett dear you’re at one end...then Ben...then Joe, hey, Joe, come on over here, you and the lovely Miss Swan, yes, exactly, right here, don’t move a muscle...then Rami and Lucy...perfect! Honey, how does it look from back there?”

“Amazing! Everybody smile!” Mercy shouted from the front porch as Gwil ducked out of the shot, snapping a photo with a vintage Polaroid camera. “Oh, Gwilym, sweetheart, look at our babies...”

Scarlett smirked, but not unkindly. “Mom, I’m eighty-five years old.”

“Shhhh, nobody else knows that!” Mercy took another picture, or five, or fifty.

I glanced over at Ben. He was wearing a black suit, a shamrock green tie that nearly matched his eyes, and a grave frown. “Hey. America’s Next Top Cantankerous Model. Yeah, you. Lighten up.”

A small, reluctant, inadvertent smile split through Ben’s face.

“There you go, Benny Boy,” Joe said proudly, and ruffled his already messy blond hair.

“You should have worn a red tie,” I told Ben. “You could have been Scarlett’s date.”

“Who says I don’t already have a date?” Scarlett asked defiantly.

“Don’t you tease me!” Mercy called over, snapping another photo. She passed the stack she’d already slipped into her apron to Dr. Lee. “Oh, Gwilym, honey, just look at how wonderfully these turned out...”

“No way,” Joe said. “ScarJo doesn’t have a date. I’m pretty positive that she gnaws the heads off of her conquests once she’s finished with them, like a fucking praying mantis.” He gnashed his teeth for emphasis.

“Joseph, please, language!” Mercy sighed, as the rest of the Lees laughed. Even Ben contributed an amused snort.

Scarlett wiggled her immaculately sculpted eyebrows. “We’ll see...”

“Oh, interesting,” Rami murmured.

And then a car appeared, kicking up rainwater on the cobblestones of the Lees’ driveway. A familiar car. Archer’s car. He parked the Ford Fiesta and stepped out in a white suit with a crimson red bowtie that matched Scarlett’s dress precisely, his hair slicked neatly to one side.

“You whore!” I exclaimed, delighted, rushing over to hug him, the hem of my gown rustling against the damp cobblestones.

“Hey, she invited me,” Archer said. “Plus she said we could take the Vantage.”

“Oh, did she?” Ben asked, peering over at Scarlett. She shrugged coyly in reply.

Mercy let loose an exuberant squeal. “My Scarlett?! My Scarlett has a date?! Lord have mercy, my poor little heart cannot take all this excitement!” She raised her camera for another barrage of photographs.

“Mom,” Scarlett complained. “We’re gonna be late.”

“Yeah,” Lucy said. “We have to get there before all the mashed potatoes are eaten. I spent way too much time calling caterers for Baby Swan to not enjoy it.”

Gwil gave Mercy a parting peck on the cheek, coaxing the camera out of her grasp. “We’ll have plenty of opportunities for more pictures later, love. We have forever.”

“Alright,” Mercy conceded. “You kids hop on in the limo. Scarlett, dear, do you have keys for the Vantage?”

Ben dug around in his suit pocket, fished out the car keys, and tossed them to Scarlett. She snatched them effortlessly out of the air. “I owe you,” she said.

“I’d say we’re nearly even.”

Gwil opened the door on the side of the limo like the world’s most overqualified chauffeur and waved us inside: Rami, Lucy, Ben, and finally me and Joe. Scarlett and Archer, not speaking much but walking very close together, vanished into the garage where the Vantage waited under its car cover. Gwil shut the limo door and dashed around to the driver’s seat.

“Okay gang!” he announced cheerfully. He turned up Queen’s Somebody To Love on the radio as we rolled down the driveway. “Human, buckle your seatbelt. Everyone please feel free to enjoy the complimentary refreshments, there’s a minifridge with sodas and water back there. And take some selfies for your mom.”

“My time to shine.” Joe whipped out his phone, draped his arm around me, and snapped a series of selfies. I could see our faces, radiant and beaming and eyes alight, hovering together on the screen. And I was struck by how I didn’t notice how innately flawed I was, how unremarkable, how average, how human; I only found myself thinking that we seemed so happy. “Okay, Ben, your turn. Yes, you. Don’t give me that. Get your fine Chippendales-looking self over here. There you go. Big smiles!” And with some poking and prodding and poorly executed karaoke, Joe did manage to get a few grudging smirks out of Ben.

As the limo entered the Calawah University campus, Rami’s face went vacuous.

“What?” Joe asked him. Ben stared intensely, presumably reading the fluctuating hues of Rami’s aura.

Rami shook it off, almost shuddered. “I keep getting these weird snippets of thoughts. Dark stuff, bizarre stuff. But it’s just bits and pieces, and then it’s gone.”

“Do you recognize the voice?” Ben asked.

“I don’t think so. It’s vaguely familiar somehow, but I can’t place it.” He turned to Lucy, but she apparently had no clairvoyant insights to offer today. “It’s probably nothing. Forget it.”

“We’re here!” Gwil said, parking the limo against the curb and clicking on his hazard lights. “Everybody out, I’m in a fire lane. I don’t want Chief Swan writing me any tickets tonight.”

The Calawah University ballroom was decked with trappings of a theme that I wholeheartedly approved of: Under The Sea. Blue and white balloons were tied to every chair and table. Student volunteers weaved through the crowds handing attendees folded paper sailor hats. Cardboard fish and octopuses—“not octopi,” I reminded Joe—twirled lethargically one way and then the other as they hung from the ceiling on transparent strings. Joe went directly to the mashed potatoes bar, dragging me and Ben along with him, then brought us virgin pina coladas as we sat at a table sprinkled with sand and seashells and ate our potatoes out of plastic coconut shells. I had topped mine with approximately eighty different varieties of cheese; Ben’s were smothered in bacon, green onions, and chunks of lobster.

“The DJ said he can’t play any Meat Loaf,” Joe informed me glumly.

“How sad. He has taste.”

“I don’t even get alcohol to help me through this enchanting evening?” Ben complained, glowering down at his pina colada.

“Ben, I’m disappointed in you!” Joe replied playfully. “You know you’re only twenty and therefore underage. According to your government ID, anyway.”

“Ugh,” Ben said.

Joe scrutinized my mashed potatoes. “No pineapple?! I got Lucy to add that to the bar especially for you!”

“Joe, no one puts cubed pineapple on mashed potatoes.”

“How the fuck should I know what people eat? How is pineapple pizza somehow less offensive than pineapple on mashed potatoes? You know what, forget it, you’re hopeless.” Bobby Darin’s Beyond The Sea came on the speakers. Blue spotlights crisscrossed through the ballroom. “Oh my god, I love this song!”

Ben nodded to where couples were congregating on the dance floor. I spied Jessica and Mike, Angela and Eric, Rami and Lucy. “Go ahead. Don’t let me stop you guys. I’m gonna finish my nonintoxicating pina colada and go see what Scarlett’s up to.”

“She’s humiliating frat boys over at the skee-ball machines,” Joe said. “I think she’s won like six goldfish so far.”

“You should definitely freak Archer out,” I told Ben. “Lean in real close. Pretend to sniff him. Make yummy noises. Maybe drool a little.”

That was a risk, but it payed off. Ben chuckled. “It won’t take much acting. I’ll see what I can do.”

“We’ll be back for you, Benny Boy.” Joe pointed sternly at him. “Don’t run off anywhere. As soon as the Cha-Cha Slide comes on, it’s go time.”

“Sure,” Ben said, sipping his pina colada through a hot pink straw.

Then Joe led me to the dance floor. We found an unoccupied spot towards the middle, took our places facing each other, were bathed in the ever-shifting shadows cast by the spotlights and disco balls and the illumination from people’s cellphones.

“Joe, I’m going to be terrible at—”

“Shhhh.” He placed my left hand on his shoulder, put his right hand on my waist, then clasped my right hand in his left. “Does that work for you? Great. See? Not so bad. Now you just follow the music. Feel it. Move with it. There you go, you got it! Doesn’t have to be perfect...nice and slow...easy breezy. Hey, you’re a natural!”

I definitely wasn’t; but he could almost make me forget about that.

He sang along as we danced: “I know beyond a doubt, my heart will lead me there soon, we'll meet beyond the shore...I remember when this song first came out. 1959. Hell of a year. The L.A. Dodgers beat Chicago in the World Series. I may or may not have cried, I’ll leave that to your imagination. Wait, are you...? Babe, are you okay? Your hand is shaking.”

I was simultaneously not okay and yet the most okay I’d ever been in my life. I have to be honest with him. I have to prepare him. “Joe...I have to tell you something.”

“You’re leaving me to be in a polyamorous triad with Scarlett and Archer. It’s cool, I don’t blame you. I’d leave me for Scarlett too.”

“Not quite,” I replied. “I haven’t...I didn’t...well...okay. Listen up. I’m a Scorpio.”

“Yeah, alright. I’m a Virgo. Nice to meet you.”

“You’re an abysmal Virgo, by the way. You are neither neat nor particularly studious.”

“I am rather twitchy and neurotic though.”

“This is true.” With every crooked smile he threw my way, my train of thought was rocked off its center of gravity, perpetually threatening derailment. The words drifted into my throat, vanished, materialized again. Okay girl. Get it together. Tell the sexy undead Italian man what’s up. “Look, I don’t like a lot of people. And most of them don’t really get me either. So...I didn’t date much in Phoenix.”

“That’s fine,” he noted casually, not understanding at all.

“No, I mean...” I raised my eyebrows at him, speaking slowly, enunciating clearly. “I didn’t seriously date anyone. Ever. At all.”

“Okay.” He wasn’t concerned, but he still didn’t know why I was telling him this.

“Oh my god. Joe. Mob guy. Listen to me.” I froze in the middle of the dance floor and cupped his cool, stubbled, perfect face with my palms. “I have never been serious with anyone before.”

“...Serious...?” he echoed.

“Serious. Long-term. Involved. Intimate. I really don’t know how many more synonyms I can give you.”

“Ohhhhh.” Joe blinked a few times, then laughed. We resumed our unhurried, revolving dance, like planets whirling symbiotically through the blackness of space. “That’s what you were so worried about?! No biggie, Baby Swan. That’s not a problem. I don’t care.”

“Okay, but I do.”

“You really are anxious, huh?” he asked gently. “Alright, let’s see what I can do about that. What exactly are you concerned about? Not, uh, enjoying...things...?”

“No, it’s not that. Not really. I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

He shook his head, as if that was ludicrous. “Look, I’m not going to pretend that I have all the answers and tell you how that aspect of things is going to go. Because honestly, I have no idea, aside from the fact that you’re going to be the one calling the shots. And I’m not going to promise that everything will instantly be perfect and magical and whatever. Because, you know...it’s going to be a whole new thing for us, and it might take some...adjustments. But what I can promise you is that we’ll figure it out together. I’m not going to freak out and run away. I’m not going to leave you. I’m not going to pressure you. And I don’t think there’s anything you could do, ever, that would disappoint me. Now, are your fears assuaged?”

“Yeah,” I replied, smiling.

“Well there you go.”

“This doesn’t really feel like a casual thing anymore.”

“Probably because it’s not.”

From the reverberating speakers came the famed and beloved opening lines of the Cha-Cha Slide: “This is something new, the Casper Slide part two, featuring the Platinum Band, and this time...we're going to get funky!”

“Benny!” Joe roared into the air as the other students took their places.

Almost instantly, Ben appeared, confused and—per usual—at least mildly annoyed. “What?”

Joe waved him closer. “Here, stand next to me...now just follow what the song tells you to do. So right now he’s saying to clap. So start clapping.”

Ben, still bewildered, began clapping at random, arhythmic intervals.

Joe howled with laughter. “Okay, close enough. Now...to the left! Take it back now, y’all.”

“How does one ‘take it back now’?!” Ben exclaimed.

“Here...” I showed him as the song played on. “Now you stomp your right foot...now your left...now cha-cha real smooth.”

“Do what real smooth?!” But now Ben was laughing too, posed uncertainly in the sea of people. His smile wasn’t just beautiful, I realized; it was captivating, brilliant, pure, almost boyish. He still has happiness in him, he really does. Happiness and humor and maybe even love. He just needs to be reminded of it.

And even after his clumsy attempt at the Cha-Cha Slide was over, Ben was smiling off and on for the rest of the evening.

Sleepover

At quarter past midnight, I was back home and briefing Charlie on the Homecoming dance as he watched Saturday Night Live from the living room couch and stuffed popcorn into his mouth. Renee would have asked me all about Joe—“Was it magical?” “Did you kiss?!” “Are you gonna marry him?!!”—but Charlie, ever the stereotypical middle-aged suburban dad, had other priorities.

“How was the mashed potatoes bar?”

“Very strange, yet enjoyable.”

“Nifty. Did you bring me any?”

“No, Dad. They did not have takeout boxes. It was not a Chinese buffet.”

“Boo.” He hurled a piece of popcorn at me. “I like the dress, by the way.”

“Thanks. Lucy made it, actually.” I turned around to show him the angelfish buttons on the back.

“Would you look at that. It’s perfect for you, kiddo!”

“It definitely is.” Almost too perfect. Almost like Lucy had been working on it for weeks, since long before Joe and I were ever an official and yet persistently ill-defined thing.

But she couldn’t have known I was coming. Lucy couldn’t see my future; I was a blind spot to her, just like I was to Rami and Ben and probably every other gifted vampire on the planet. Right?

“I’m really tired,” I told Charlie apologetically.

“I bet! Sleep well. Sweet dreams. Don’t trip on the stairs. Hope you used a condom.”

“Oh my god, Dad.”

He cackled, completely unbothered, and resumed his popcorn munching.

Upstairs in my bedroom, I shed the turquois dress and hung it in my closet for safekeeping until I could return it to Lucy. I put her diamond earrings on my nightstand. Then I showered, changed into my least attractive and most comfortable pajamas, and tucked myself into bed. I heard a few faint, distant hoots outside in the trees. Probably one of my freaky albino forest friends.

And then I heard something else: tapping against the window.

“What the fuck,” I hissed in terror to no one in particular.

The window was unlocked. It slowly lifted open. And Joseph Francis Mazzello tumbled inside, wearing a U Chicago hoodie and sweatpants and making astonishingly little noise. Thank the great deity for supernatural vampire agility.

“Hi,” I said, astonished.

“Hi. I missed you.”

“You realize I had plans to see you again in...” I checked my phone. “Like twelve hours.”

“Yeah, that just seemed like eleven and a half hours too long from now.” His eyes went to my mirror, where I had taped both of his post-its: Official Citation!! No More Sad Spaghetti!! hung just to the left of the Official Whatever You Want Pass. His face lit up with a massive, ecstatic grin. “You kept the post-its!”

“Of course I did.”

“Damn, girl,” he said, still pondering the mirror. “I might have to make this thing permanent.”

“I’d consider it. I would make an excellent vampire. I’m already a vegetarian, so I have dietary willpower. I naturally require very little socializing. I could swim around and study sea animals without needing scuba gear. And I would probably have outrageously cool superpowers, considering my immunity to mindreading and all.”

“Hm,” Joe offered unforthcomingly. Now he looked down at my bed: the crumpled sheets, the pillows in disarray, the desert-themed blanket, me in my flannel pajama pants and t-shirt from the Scottsdale aquarium. He was suddenly palpably nervous. I had made this incredible man nervous.

“Do you...want to join me...?”

“I mean, uh, yeah, if, uh, you know, that’s cool with you. Or whatever.”

“Okay. But don’t think you’re stealing my virtue tonight, you undead slut.”

“Uh, did I ask?” He climbed into the bed beside me, pulled up the covers, lifted his right arm so I could slip under it and lay my head against his chest. I breathed him in: wintery and minty and like an ageless forest of evergreens. “Who says I’m even interested in your virtue?”

“Non mentire, pagliaccio.” In English: Don’t lie, clown.

“Now you’re just showing off. Rude. Where’d you learn Italian anyway?”

“I took it in high school. I had a major crush on this one kid, Diego Perez. He already spoke Spanish so he had to take Italian instead and I signed up for it too and had this whole elaborate plan about how we were going to become study partners and end up madly in love. But then I was too anxious to talk to him and I think we maybe said a total of eight words to each other by the time we graduated. But I did get pretty good at Italian. Also doodling ‘Mrs. Diego Perez’ all over my notebook.”

“Nice. I am now actively planning to eat that guy.”

“Oh shut up,” I giggled, lunging up to straddle Joe. I ghosted my fingertips across his lips before leaning in to kiss him. His lips parted to follow mine, moving quickly, ravenous; his hands netted through my hair and drew me in closer. And all at once—in one fluid motion so smooth I barely registered that it was happening—I was flat on the bed and he was above me, my legs linked around him, his hand on my bare waist and his lips migrating down my neck as a whispered moan escaped my throat.

Oh, I like this. I REALLY like this.

“Whew. Sorry.” Joe chuckled anxiously, pulling away. His absence was abrupt and jarringly unwelcome. “I’m gonna try to think about something other than stealing your virtue now.”

And a concept occurred to me, sudden and startling and irrefutable. I wouldn’t mind spending forever with this man.

Cato

I’m good at finding things; I’ve always been good at finding things. Lost keys. Stolen rings. That favorite shirt you haven’t seen in weeks. Reasons for people to live. And that’s why I’m useful, that’s why they wanted me. Give me a name or a photo, and I can find someone anywhere. Give me a soul, and I can make them feel cared for, valued, wanted. I can make them feel at peace.

“He wants to see you,” Araminta said from the doorway as I was pulling back the bow’s drawstring. And I felt that same hectic cocktail of emotions that all of us knew when Larkin extended an invitation: fear, apprehension, exhilaration, pride.

I relaxed my grip and slid the arrow back into the quiver hanging from my shoulder. It had been Liesl’s idea to install an indoor archery range in the palace basement. A ridiculous, extravagant expenditure, of course, and not one that I ever supported; but in her absence I’d grown to appreciate the focus, the quiet, the place to think. I had no desire to be a fighter by trade, and Larkin had never suggested it; but recently I found that I didn’t mind the idea of practicing in case the pertinent circumstances ever arose.

“Do you know what it’s about?” I asked.

Araminta shook her head. She wasn’t a fighter either; she was a tiny, waifish girl with huge dark eyes, born in 1915. Her parents had been willing to pawn her off onto just about anybody when the Great Depression left the family homeless; and that anybody turned out to be Larkin. Araminta was always hiding in shadows, cowering in stairwells and doorways and the rest of the world’s liminal spaces, shrinking in on herself as if she was trying to disappear. That was her talent, after all. Disappearing.

I hung my bow and quiver of arrows on the rack. And when I rested my hand on Araminta’s diminutive shoulder as I passed her, she smiled timidly up at me. “Alright. Thank you. I’m on my way now.”

Larkin was in his study, a vast room and one of the highest in the palace. Through the window that ran almost the full length of one wall, I could see the stark white expanse of the Russian tundra and the distant, dark opaqueness of the East Sea. He clutched a glinting glass goblet in his right hand. The blood was chilled and AB negative, I could smell it; it was from a young woman, perhaps even a child. Larkin spoke without glancing up from his desk.

“Cato, would you pay a visit to the Lees for me?”

“Sure. To check on Ben?” The Lee coven was a relatively constant source of unease for Larkin, and it was mostly because of Ben. Larkin might admire Rami’s talent from afar, but he had no interest in actually recruiting him; Larkin didn’t want someone around who could read his mind. The doctor, his wife Mercy, Joseph, and Scarlett had no exceptional gifts whatsoever, and Lucy’s visions were scarce and often inconsequential. But Ben...oh yes, Larkin would very much like to have Ben back in his arsenal.

“There’s something else, too,” he said, looking up to gaze vacantly out over the tundra. There were black dots moving around on the foggy horizon out there, caribou or wolves. “I haven’t quite figured it out yet.”

I seriously doubted that. If Larkin said he didn’t know something, what that usually meant was that he had it ninety-five percent nailed down; and the other five percent he was just waiting for confirmation on. Still, I obliged him. “Alright.”

Larkin smiled at me; or, rather, it was his version of smiling, equal parts paternal and leering and menacing and hypnotic. “If there’s nothing else, you’re free to depart whenever you’re ready.”

But there was something else. I deliberated whether to say it. “I haven’t seen Liesl much recently.”

Larkin’s smile didn’t falter. He gestured vaguely with his goblet. “She’s around.”

She wasn’t, I knew she wasn’t. I didn’t miss her one fucking iota, but I knew she wasn’t here.

“Cato,” Larkin warned, serene and yet firm. “Don’t go looking for her.”

“No, of course not.”

“Let me know if you stumble upon anything...out of the ordinary in Forks.”

“I will.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely; and I felt it in my bones. I didn’t necessarily want to, but I did. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Cato.”

I left Larkin’s study, stepped into the elevator, watched the doors as they closed like jaws. I missed Ben too; not for the same reasons as Larkin, but I missed him nonetheless. He was better off where he was now, I knew that. But somehow that didn’t make it any easier.

“It’s probably nothing,” I said to the empty elevator. “Christ, please let it be nothing.”

[dustedmagazine]

For Those I Love — For Those I Love (September Recordings)

There’s the Ireland you know. Leprechauns and pan flutes and weathered Celtic crosses and Joyce and Beckett and U2 and Aer Lingus and wistful stories of Charles Parnell and corned beef and cabbage and Kerrygold butter and potatoes, endless potatoes except in the famine, and Guinness and Jameson and names like Sean and Brian and Roisin and Siobhan and hurling and faded IRA murals and St. Patrick driving all the snakes out and Grian Chatten’s fuckin’ diddly-diddly-aye and a great green sweeping countryside washing out to the ocean.

Then there’s the other Ireland, the real one the tourism board doesn’t touch.

The one in the study that showed 49% of women reported being sexually assaulted or harassed, that 31% of adults experienced sexual harassment, that 15% have admitted to being raped at some point. Sex offenses on the rise, residential burglaries on the rise, public drunkenness on the rise, and all of that was before the pandemic. And somebody has to make up that 5.16% unemployment. For a nation it takes five hours to drive one end of the other in, there’s more than enough of the roughest stuff to make hard hearts of the softest souls — and it’s that Ireland, lacerated and flush with those scraping by to the tune of everyday strains, which serves as the backdrop to David Balfe’s nine-track therapy session and debut full-length under the For Those I Love name.

The entire project is fueled by the suicide of Balfe’s best friend. It helps to know that Balfe’s friend in question also happened to be one of Ireland’s most celebrated young poets and performers, Paul Curran. Before his passing in 2018, the songwriter and vocalist from post-punk band Burnt Out was an outspoken advocate of working class youth identity and the forces conspiring against it. “Dear James,” to take the band’s best example (and one that gets namechecked on For Those I Love), was itself a true story about a teen’s public suicide in the early 2000s. “The pressure of merit, valid work, social status and identity” were at the root of Curran’s art. It’s no different with Balfe: Every one of these songs is shot through with local flavor shedding light on similar experiences, most of them painful.

Some of what you hear on For Those I Love cropped up in cruder, briefer forms across the 47-minute mixtape/hodgepodge Into a World That Doesn’t Understand It, Unless You’re From It posted to Bandcamp in August ahead of “For Those I Love” the single — if nothing else, David’s certainly made his intentions clear — which arrived fully formed both musically and visually the following month. So proves the rest: Written and recorded out back at night in his mom’s shed in Donaghmede north of Dublin’s city center, For Those I Love is a wonderfully open-hearted portrayal of young Ireland akin to contemporaries Fontaines D.C. or the Murder Capital.

The method by which he conveys that perspective, however, shares almost nothing in common with those bands. Indeed, the most jarring aspect of For Those I Love might be the music itself: Balfe talks his way through stories and rarely rises above a quiet flooded monotone of weighty thoughts that runs itself dry irrespective of the track beneath it, which often strikes an optimistic note, a positive tone, an upbeat figure. He’s already been slapped with the “Irish Streets” billing, but his homespun productions are a little richer than Mike Skinner’s and wouldn’t sound out of place at an EDM festival or a Night Slugs party a decade ago, full of post-Burial long synth decays, atmospheric vocal samples and house rhythms as the bedrock for his eulogies.

Take “You Stayed / To Live,” which resembles a Caribou castaway as Balfe describes stealing and setting fire to a couch (possibly the one from the “Dear James” video), then veers into a digression about their younger years hanging at each other’s houses, playing in a band and how fire reminds him of Curran now. “To Have You” is similar, assuming the dynamics of a big room build-up with huge piano strikes, thumping kick drum and, improbably, a sample of Bread’s “Everything I Own”; Balfe’s vocals, meanwhile, wrestle with the instrumentation. It’s not always clear exactly what he’s saying (and not just because of the brogue), but you get the point, understand the message.

“Top Scheme” is comfortably the shortest song on the record at less than three minutes, but it’s also the most aggressive. Balfe notches up the intensity by giving the state a proper goodnight/fuck off flip of the fingers. “How can we not feel this rage / When the therapy costs more than half your wage / And you’re turfed back out the same that very day?” Though he doesn’t always go for the throat of the system outright, it permeates all his and his ilk’s tortured actions.

Balfe is at his best when the beats match the gravitas of the subject matter. “The Shape of You” is a raw heartbeat where the music perfectly matches a lighter tale of wasted youth waking up to a Belgian hospital and the joking romp it took to get him back home; its extended outro, better even than the occasional recorded interstitials between tracks, serves as a space to collect yourself. Along with “Birthday / The Pain” (whose Finn remix, it’s worth noting, eclipses the original in its ebullience), it might be the most uplifting song here. The latter is an ode to surviving a world fraught with violence, but it’s the unexpected brass sample that slides in like a herald announcing love’s arrival that really catches you out.

Yet for all of that, there is still no better song to explain what For Those I Love is about than the title-track. It was a smart move to close the album with “Leave Me Not Love,” which interpolates the opener and brings things full circle, but the wordplay at work as Balfe elevates Curran’s memory to nigh holy status remains the album’s best. You can feel the anguish in his own muted way as he runs back through face guards, grief and knaves talking tunes and poems with too much weight for his age. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more open wound in music over the past year.

There have been times when I’ve, say, longed for a good crumb cake and my mom has commented on how it was one of my grandfather’s favorites, or I catch myself watching thermite welding videos on YouTube a little too long and remember I’m my father’s son. A person isn’t just who they are, it’s what they pass on to the rest of us, the little quirks and the stories we tell ourselves to remember who we’ve lost and who we’re losing. Both are inevitable. “I have a love and it’s full of pain” go the last lines of For Those I Love, but I say they’re indistinguishable, that you couldn’t know the grace of one without the other’s suffering. That’s how you know it’ll never fade. Tell all your friends, I’d say.

Patrick Masterson

[femmeharringrove]

merry christmas yall have the first chapter of a fic i completely forgot about

It’s Christmas eve, and Steve hasn’t slept in at least three days but that’s fine.

It’s not, not really, but those are the two words the boy has learned to live off of: that’s fine. It’s the motto of complacency, his father said once, after hearing it on the radio. Steve was just twelve at the time and already knew then that his father’s opinion wasn’t worth shit. Steve isn’t complacent, thank you very much. If he has to label himself, he thinks chill is a better word. He’s a chill guy, he’s the most chill person he knows, and everyone loves a chill person so it’s fine.

It’s stupidly early and he’s on the stupid green sofa in his stupid big house and he feels like shit, which is a surprise to exactly no one. The living room is a mess – he should clean it, he thinks vaguely, but he doesn’t plan on making a move anytime soon. If his parents were coming home he’d do it; can’t have them knowing their son’s become a wallowing slouch as of late. But they’re not coming.

His mother called yesterday, trilling over the line in her unnaturally pitched voice about how Prague was just beautiful this time of year and she wished he could be there to see but someone had to hold the fort down and speaking of they just won’t be able to make it back for the holidays but how would he feel about driving to Cincinnati on New Year’s Eve to join them at one of his father’s business socials that would be fun right? And Steve just listened because what else could he do?

He hadn’t been expecting them, anyway. The family hadn’t celebrated Christmas together in four years.

And in those four years he’d had options. Tommy’s family was happy to have him over, he spent many a holiday with the Hagans and then he’d spent that one truly merry Christmas with the Wheelers, and it was fine, but now he’s got none of that. This year, it’s him and the big empty house and he sort of hates it but it’s fine, thanks.

Steve watches the shadows on the wall shift with the rising sun and feels some vague sense of relief; it’s easier to breathe when the sun is out. That’s what’s been bothering him, really. When he does sleep, his dreams are plagued with darkness and cold and danger, and when he wakes up it’s still darkness and he feels like he can’t breathe. Those nightmares have gotten worse, infinitely worse over time. It’s easier to avoid sleep altogether sometimes. And he has no obligations this holiday season, no parties to appear at or houses to crash, so he can afford the heavy circles under his eyes this year.

It’s fine. It has to be fine, so it is. Even if it isn’t really.

Hawkins got snow last night. Steve drags himself up from his seat and meanders to the back door, eyes gazing out over the endless white carpeting the ground outside. He used to love snow. Now anything cold makes him uncomfortable. He hates the winter, makes him think of the dark Upside Down.

Or that damned Soviet Union and their officers and their cold, cruel faces watching on as he tells them he’s not a spy.

Had that really been this year? It feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like just yesterday. He tears his eyes away from the snow and pads into the kitchen in search of something warm. Coffee? Definitely coffee. He waits in the kitchen while the dark beverage brews and since he’s here he figures he may as well get some food into his body. Steve can cook – it becomes a necessity when you spend most of your childhood devoid of parents – but he doesn’t really want to cook. Takes too much energy, and he’s not willing to put said energy into that. So he goes with toast, because you can never go wrong with toast, right? He even slathers the bread with copious amounts of butter. It’s not the most fulfilling breakfast, but he likes it well enough.

The coffee finishes brewing and Steve spills a good bit of his father’s whiskey into it before dunking three spoonfuls of sugar in and retreating back to the couch. He grabs the remote on his way over and drops himself gracelessly on the cushions before pressing a button. The screen flickers to life and he chugs half of the hot beverage, flips through channel after channel before settling on some feel-good holiday movie. He hates these movies, he really does, but if he’s lucky it might be enough to lull him to sleep for an hour or so.

Steve used to love Christmas movies. He watched families on television gather together and enjoy one another’s company, children waiting for the magic of Santa Claus while parents shared tender moments under mistletoe. It was everything a younger Steve had desired in a holiday. Even when he had his parents home for Christmas, things had been different. Their home was filled with strange adults, co-workers of his father’s and social acquaintances of his mother’s. Santa Claus never came to visit him – his parents would simply give him a gift or two gathered from their trips abroad. He used to enjoy it, but as he got older the presents got less and less interesting, less personal. He went from wishing for those perfect movie-esque holidays to resenting them. That being said, they have their appeal.

Even now Steve can’t help but get a sense of warm comfort and joy radiating from the film, a warm sensation wrapping around his chest. It’s a strange comfort to him, in spite of his bitterness. There’s something inherently warm about holidays, and yet Steve finds himself feeling cold. He wonders idly what his parents are doing now, if they’ll remember to call tomorrow. The boy sits and sips on coffee and wonders and he’s right about the movie because he ends up dozing for a little bit. He dreams of families and caroling and trees and the whole scene takes on a peaceful, golden haze. Something almost physical wounds around his body like a cat rubbing along his frame in a form of greeting. It’s the nicest dream he’s had in a long time.

Which is why, when the doorbell startles him out of his dreams, Steve feels like he’s capable of murder.

The boy is so confused at first he doesn’t realize it’s his doorbell. When the incessant ringing gets accompanied by an even more incessant knocking on the door, Steve groans. The warmth seeps away and he heaves himself up from the couch. The mug is drained of its remaining lukewarm contents before he sets it on the coffee table. Footsteps land heavy as he stomps his way to the door, yanking it open and preparing to bite off the head of whoever dared to disturb him so early on Christmas Eve of all days.

His face morphs from a snarl to a look of surprise. Dustin grins up at him, oblivious to Steve’s previous anger.

And he’s not alone, either. El is there, too, brown eyes sparkling at him, arm tucked in Max’s as they flash him identical grins. On Dustin’s other side, Will’s smile is something more timid than the rest of his co-conspirators. Steve’s shoulders drop.

“What are you dipshits doing out here?” he snaps playfully. “Not you, of course, Will.” Will’s smile widens while Dustin and the girls make faces of protests.

“Hey!” Dustin squawks indignantly. “I’m your favorite, that’s not allowed to change!”

“Oh yeah?” Steve’s hands settled on his hips. “Who rang the doorbell?” El’s hand shoots up. “Uh-huh. And who started knocking?” The younger boy shares a guilty look with Max, who kicks guiltily at the ground. Will blinks at him in innocent confusion. Steve smirks. “So, every single one of you played a role in waking me up from my nap with the exception of Will. Little Byers is now my favorite.” Max groans and Dustin makes another scandalized sound, while Will and El both try to hide their giggles. Steve feels a mix of fondness and frustration as he watches them; that seems to be his default emotion around these damned kids. Shaking his head, Steve opens the door wider. “Okay, okay, now why don’t you all come in so I can figure out what I owe this visit to?”

“No need,” El responds, her laughter dying down. That amused happiness never leaves her face, however. “Will you have dinner with us?”

“Mom and Hopper want you to join us,” Will adds. “You can help out with the tree and everything.”

“And baking and cooking and shit, because Hop and Mrs. Byers aren’t the best in the kitchen,” Max finishes, and even though Will makes a small attempt to protest he and El share a knowing shudder. Dustin bounces on his feet slightly as he looks up at the older boy.

“Plus, if you say yes I can ride back to the house with you!” He grins broadly. “Whaddya say?” Steve blinks.

What does he say?

It’s a nice idea, sure. He loves these kids, feels safe with the two adults in question, and spending the day with them promises to be interesting at the very least. But if they’re all there, he has little doubt about Nancy and Jonathan being there too, and he’s really not mad about it anymore but there’s a little bit of awkwardness lingering between the trio. And even if he did go, those lovebirds will have each other. The party has each other, Hopper has Joyce.  Steve is bound to be left out eventually. He knows it’s not on purpose, of course, but he knows how this goes. How many times has it happened before? And he’s already a little bit pissy this holiday season, that truth isn’t likely to make this any more enjoyable.

But eight pairs of eyes watch him expectantly, hopeful looks etched onto their faces. Steve’s gaze shifts past them, down the driveway and he finds Hopper’s truck waiting at the end and he doesn’t have to see the man to know he’s also waiting for an answer.

He doesn’t like disappointing people. He’s chill, Steve goes with the flow as a matter of principle, and this is where the flow seems to be leading. He makes a show of sighing, theatrics making the kids smile even wider.

“I shouldn’t –“ A series of pleas and protests interrupt him and he has to work hard to keep from smiling. Damn, Steve should have run off to New York or Hollywood and becoming an actor, he’s good at this. “- Oh, alright. I guess I can come for a little while. Dustin pumps his fist into the air as the others grin widely. Dustin rushes to the Beamer and Max isn’t far behind.

“Get your keys, Harrington, let’s get moving!” he shouts. Steve can’t help but laugh.

“Hang on, you little gremlin, I gotta get real clothes on! And do my hair!” The two set on riding with him dart back over and duck under his arm into the house, and Steve waves Will and El off. “Go on, you two, don’t wait for me. Tell Hop I’ll bring the little devils with me,” he orders. Both nod eagerly before setting off back to the car. Steve sees them off before turning back into the house. Max is in the living room, face wrinkled into something resembling disgust.

“Jesus, Steve,” she says, “Do you ever clean this place?” It has gotten pretty bad over the past month or so. Steve tries not to wince at the judgement he feels radiating off of the redhead.

“Never, it’s a point of pride at this point,” he teases instead, and she makes another face, nose crinkling before she rolls her eyes and makes a snide comment about messy boys. Steve reaches over and ruffles her hair, reveling in her giggled squawk of protest. “Oh, be nice, Mayfield. It’s a holiday!” Dustin’s footsteps thud down the stairs.

“It is the holidays, so I know you got me a gift, Harrington,” he states, eyes narrowing. “Where is it?” Max perks up in interest now, spinning from the curly-haired kid to the taller boy, eyebrows arching up.

“Oh, uh, presents? Yeah, um -” Steve smiles sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. Dustin’s eyes go wide.

“You forgot?” He marches down the rest of the stairs. “I can’t believe you, Harrington! Party members are supposed to get gifts for other party members! How could you forget?”

“Steeeve,” Max whines, head falling back dramatically. “I can’t believe you!” And she shouldn’t. Neither of them should. Again, he’s sure he’s missed his calling in life with the whole acting thing. Of course he got gifts for them – tucked safely away in the trunk of his car. He doesn’t plan on outright putting his name on them, but he’s sure the kids will figure it out tomorrow morning, which ones he leaves for them.

Chuckling at their antics, Steve hops up the stairs two at a time and dives into his room. How did this become his life, dealing with more barely-pubescent teens than any nineteen-year-old should? Steve’s shower is quick, and he styles up his hair before digging out an ugly sweater his grandmother had gotten him four years ago. Back then people were convinced the boy would go through a growth spurt; he did, but he hadn’t beefed up in the way everyone anticipated. The sweater still remains baggy on his slender frame, but he wears it nonetheless. Jeans are hastily yanked on and socked feet are shoved into sneakers before he trips his way down the steps.

Max and Dustin are anxious by the door, and he grins at them as he approaches the hall closet and grabs a coat. He hears his keys jangle softly in the pocket as he pulls it over his shoulders.

“The two of you have no patience,” he teases, watching them dash out to the car. He follows at a slower pace, amusement tugging at his lips. The kids are practically buzzing with excited energy, urging him to speed up, and they clamor into the car the moment he gets it unlocked, Max beating Dustin out for the coveted shotgun position. The younger boy pouts at Steve in the rearview mirror. Steve smiles right back at him. “Don’t look at me, she won this round, buddy.” Max’s smile is smug next to him, and Dustin scowls before slumping in the backseat. Steve shakes his head. “Alright, everybody buckle – even you, slouch potato,” The kid’s sulking is immediately replaced with a displeased squawk, and Steve doesn’t bother to hide his pleased smile as he eases out of the driveway and out onto the road.

It’s an easy trip; Steve exits Loch Nora and cruises down Dearborn. From there it’s a turn onto Maple and he has Max dig out cassettes from the glove box now. Wham! sings about holidays and heartbreak as Steve drives carefully past the Sinclair home, then the Wheelers not long after. He’s sure the occupants of both homes are either not there or too busy to be peering out of curtains in search of their kids’ babysitter, but he doesn’t want to risk having them see him do anything remotely reckless, and so he adheres to the laws of the road. Once he turns onto Cornwallis Street, he relaxes, speed inching up as he goes. Dustin’s previous sour mood has all but evaporated and he talks in that loud way of his, leaning up so he can get a look at the two people upfront. Max is just as chatty, and Steve is happy to let them converse, offering small hums here and there to show he’s listening.

He’s not really listening, but he doesn’t need them knowing.

Whiskey eyes try to focus on the road as he makes another turn, this time onto Kerley. It’s been five months since Hawkins last had to fight off monsters. Five months since the mall went down in flames. Five months since the Soviets and their needles and their gate.

He has nightmares still, about the room and the faces and the pain. Sometimes Robin’s there, panicked eyes screaming at him to help. Other times he sees Dustin, the kid looking betrayed as the general smugly tells him about Steve’s slip-up in his interrogation. Some nights he has dreams that leave him feeling physically cold. Those are the dreams he can never remember – whenever he tries, his head aches in a sharp sort of way that quickly has him leaving the whole thing alone. Even now as he thinks about it a dull throb warns him against it just behind his eyes. His thoughts wander further as the Beamer rolls onto Mirkwood.

Robin thinks he needs help. She may be right. Two weeks ago he almost had a full-blown panic attack in the back room of Family Video after seeing someone who looked eerily like the so-called doctor that ended up tugging his fingernails out with horrific ease. Even Keith had been surprised, awkwardly giving him the rest of the day off. Robin, bless her soul, tried talking him down, but ultimately she just held him while he sobbed frantically. Every day after that she gave him this look and he felt like he was suffocating under the weight of her pity, the cold force of her concern, the bitterness of her remorseful anger.

He still isn’t sure how he knew she was feeling all of that so clearly. Steve’s not great at a lot of things, but he’s always had a knack for reading a room. You learned how to do that after witnessing your parents have screaming matches almost every night they actually spent the night in Hawkins; he had to decide whether the tension in the air was manageable or too electric for him to safely involve himself in. When you struggle up the social ladder of high school, you learn how to read people and earn their favor. It’s his thing, always interpreting. It’s been five months since that little quirk seemed to get more sensitive. He doesn’t exactly know how he feels about that, or if it’s a good thing at all.

Steve slowly tunes back into conversation as he turns off of Mirkwood and makes his way down a simple dirt path. From what he can tell, Dustin and Max didn’t quite miss his additions to their conversation during the drive. Easily the two chattiest people in the Party, the older teen’s convinced they could talk for a week straight, without pause, and never notice the lack of anyone else’s input. It’s impressive, if you ask Steve. Max’s electric blue eyes catch his for a moment and she grins widely. She looks for all the world like a normal girl, not like someone who’d almost lost her brother on the Fourth of July.

The Beamer finally comes to a halt. Steve laughs as the two kids scramble out of the car and rush up the driveway. He takes a moment to turn the ignition off and now he’s suddenly feeling rather hesitant.

Why did he let them talk him into this?

The boy slumps in his seat. He should go home. He should crawl onto the couch in the living room and hide under blankets the rest of the night. The kids would not be particularly pleased with him, he’s sure, but he’ll make up for it with the gifts in the trunk. But if he leaves, when is he going to have a chance to leave those gifts for them? He certainly can’t come back tomorrow, and after that he’s just going to feel bad. Up ahead, Dustin’s head tilts as he looks back at the car.

“Harrington! You coming?” Steve hesitates, waves the kid off, and as soon as Dustin turns again he drops his head against the wheel.

He really, really should leave.

The door is slammed shut with a nudge of his hip, and Steve trudges his way up the driveway. Joyce is at the door, all smiles as usual. In spite of his doubts, the boy can’t help but smile back.

“Steve! I’m so glad you came,” she greets, pulling him into a hug as soon as he gets near. Steve settles in her hold for a few brief moments before tugging away reluctantly.

“Hey, Mrs. Byers. I would have brought something with me, but -“ Joyce cuts him off, gentle hands waving about dismissively.

“Oh, none of that,” she chides, “And it’s Joyce, honey. Besides, you can still help in the kitchen.” Her smile turns almost sheepish. “Hopper and I could use an extra hand.” Both of them are stellar single parents, but Steve knows for a fact that neither can cook to save their lives. Steve’s been mastering the art since he was thirteen, he’s gotten quite good at it. He nods at the woman as he slips past her into the house and for a moment he’s overwhelmed by how homey the place looks.

Wrapping paper, string lights, and other festive odds and ends litter the floor. Hopper and Jonathan seem to be in the process of setting up the tree in a corner. A holiday record plays loudly, barely heard over the roaring chatter of the kids yelling and running around. It’s chaos, the very best kind. He’s surrounded by the inherent warmth of it all and the lingering trepidation melts away quickly as Steve lets his shoulders relax.

Eleven notices him first among the kids, and is quick to slip out of a confused Mike’s grip to greet him. Her hug is warm, and Steve holds her tight, one hand rubbing her back as he returns her embrace.

“Hey, kid,” he chuckles, ruffling her hair. Eleven beams up at him.

“You came,” she proclaims. Now Steve lets out a full laugh.

“Well, of course I did! I couldn’t just not show up. Besides, you and Will left me with the little hellions, remember?” Will comes next, shy smile creeping across his face as he tucks himself easily against Steve’s side. Steve pretends to give him a scolding look. “Had my ear talked off the whole way here thanks to you.” Will knows for a fact the older teen isn’t even remotely upset with him. The attempted glare melts into a grin and the boy relaxes, his smile growing easier as his slender arm squeezes around Steve’s waist, then retracts as he backs off. Lucas, already trapped on the ground with Max and Erica, waves in greeting. His teeth flash brilliantly in his bright grin and Steve tips an imaginary hat in his direction. Not too far off, Mike nods in his own greeting, gruff in his usual manner but maybe the holiday magic is working because there’s something unusually friendly about the gesture. Steve returns it in kind.

When Nancy makes her appearance, she falters at the sight of him and Steve’s body almost flinches with the strangeness of it all. Her eyes blink once, twice before she gives him that sad smile.

“I didn’t know you were coming.” Steve’s answering smile is painfully awkward.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t planning on coming. The kids roped me into this last-minute, you know how it is with them.” He becomes distinctly aware of Jonathan eyeing them from across the room and clears his throat.

Yeah, maybe this is a little bit of a mistake.

His escape comes in the form of Hopper, the man’s burly arm falling across his shoulders in a gruff greeting.

“Glad you decided to show up, kid. You’re the only competent chef in this house,” he jokes, but it isn’t really a joke. You’d think a couple of adults would know how to cook a decent meal – well, Joyce can cook a decent meal, but it’s just that. His smile is only slightly less awkward as he’s guided into the kitchen, tossing an odd sort of goodbye to the girl as he goes. Joyce gives him a relieved look as he enters the kitchen.

“Steve, do you think you could help me with this soup?”

He’s kept pleasantly busy after that. Between helping with Joyce’s mushroom soup, letting Dustin peel carrots for the pot roast, taking that job away after the kid hacked apart the vegetables beyond recognition, and attempting to restore some general sense of order to the lawless land of the kitchen, Steve barely has time to think about Nancy or Jonathan or the yelling all around him. He hardly pays attention to the pleasant buzz filling his body as a result of the warm atmosphere. It’s dark by the time all the food gets finished. He’s oddly proud of himself as he looks at the spread of food on the table. It’s nothing fancy, but beef and soup and biscuits on Christmas Eve isn’t a bad idea if you ask him.

He can sit at the table with the rest of the adults. There’s space, and Joyce asks him sweetly if he’d like to sit with them. Steve feels decidedly more comfortable on the living room floor with the kids, however.

And that just seems to be the bulk of his problems sometimes, doesn’t it?

Steve Harrington is almost twenty years old, and he has nearly no friends his own age. To top things off, he also has no idea what he’s doing with himself currently, his past haunts his sleep and his waking hours, and his future is all but nonexistent. He peaked in high school and his life has been in a steady decline ever since. But it’s not all bad – at least he’s got the tragic honor of babysitting the six toughest kids in all the world.

And they aren’t even kids anymore, are they? They’re creeping up on their fifteenth birthdays, all of them. Dustin’s is less than a month away already. Steve can’t believe it. They were kids just yesterday, it feels. He was a kid just yesterday, wasn’t he? Monsters have a funny way of forcing you to grow up, he supposes. And they’ve truly grown, his kids.

Eleven’s curls bounce as her head swivels back and forth to follow their conversation, smile warm and genuine as she leans against Steve’s right. Dustin’s always by his side, the little snot. He looks so happy all the time, his eyes crinkling around the edges as he talks animatedly on his left. Mike’s grown so tall, it’s crazy. Coltish legs are folded awkwardly under him as he sits by Eleven’s side. Lucas rivals Mike in height, though he looks significantly less awkward as he leans up against an engaged Max. She’s cut her hair recently; it’s not a bad look, though he knows she wants to grow it back out again. Something about her is tinged with a bitter sadness, something that makes Steve’s throat choke up in a most peculiar way. He gets it, though; Billy’s brush with death wasn’t that long ago, and she’s still struggling with her grief. But she’ll be alright, he knows. Billy’s getting better, her friends are too stubborn to allow her to struggle alone, even if Billy isn’t their favorite. And on Mike’s other side, simply enjoying the moment, sits Will. He’s grown too, but he’s kept much of his quiet mannerisms. He catches Steve’s eye and smiles a little wider, an action Steve mimics.

Sometimes, the calmer Will Byers is the one Steve claims as his favorite. In all truth, he doesn’t have a favorite.

He has different relationships with each kid, that’s all. His relationships with some are weaker than others, weaker than he liked them to be. Some of them share a bond even Steve can’t explain. But the one thing each relationship has in common is the boy’s love for each and every one of them. There’s no favoritism, even if he tells them otherwise. There’s no choosing, none of that. Each of these six kids have Steve’s whole heart.

It’s Eleven who catches him staring next, and she must see the fondness on his face because the smile she gives him is soft and tender and knowing in its own way. Eleven took to him surprisingly quick; he didn’t quite understand it yet, but he was glad the kid felt so at ease with him.

He’s dragged into the present by Dustin very suddenly collapsing against his side, snorting in laughter as Mike stares at Lucas, offense clear on his face.

“How do you not like the Beastie Boys?” he questions, and now it’s Steve’s turn to snort.

“No one likes the Beastie Boys, Mike,” he chuckles, trying to ignore the appalled look the younger teen gives him. “It’s just what you listen to when you reach the teen rebellion phase.”

“I’m not rebellious!” Mike huffs. Steve’s sure Karen Wheeler would beg to differ.

He doesn’t want to spend the night. Joyce already has her hands full with all these kids, and he doesn’t want to add on to that, so he goes out to the car once the kids have all gone to sleep in the basement and gets his sack of presents and he’s going to leave after giving them to Hopper, but Joyce stops him, a curious look on her face.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” she questions. Steve feels awkward now, shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“You’ve already got plenty of people spending the night, Mrs. By-“

“None of that,” she cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow anyway if you leave, you’re having dinner with us.” Steve doesn’t remember agreeing to that, but now he doesn’t have a choice. Hopper, setting a gift under the tree, grunts in agreement.

“She’s right, kid,” he confirms as he stands straight again. “Can’t get out of this one, the kids won’t leave your door until you come back with them. It’ll be much easier on everyone if you just stay.”

And he doesn’t want to because this is their tradition, this is something they’ve been doing together for years as one large family and Steve isn’t really a part of that, so he wants to give them space, but Joyce is already dragging him back inside with the gifts, then she’s off grabbing blankets and Hopper busies him with the task of wrapping last-minute gifts until he forgets wanting to leave.

The couch is his for the night. Joyce gets him some of Jonathan’s clothes and even kisses his forehead and wishes him a merry Christmas before retreating to her room for the night. Hopper wishes him a good rest, and he understands because it’s already ass o’clock in the morning and it’s only a matter of time before those kids come barreling up the stairs to yell about their gifts. The living room is dark, aside from the gentle blinking of the string lights on the tree. It’s a silent night, indeed. He feels warm, and not just from the blankets tucked in close around him.

For the first time in three nights, Steve sleeps. He’s blissfully without dreams.

It lasts barely five hours.

The basement door is opened quite aggressively, and a cacophony of feet thud in before he hears a loud hushing sound, followed by the loudest whisper he’s ever heard.

“Dudes, Steve’s asleep!” one of the little shits hisses. Steve’s fairly sure it’s Dustin. He prays they turn around and go back downstairs for another hour or two.

“Shut up, he’s gonna hear you!” a girl’s voice hisses back, and she’s impossibly louder than the first kid – undeniably Max, Eleven would never whisper that loud. Jesus, who taught them how to whisper?

“Both of you shut up, let’s just get to the target,” a third, quieter voice butts in, and they’re just quiet enough that Steve can’t tell who it is, which tells him it’s either Mike or Will. He’s betting on Mike.

He knows what their target is. Steve takes a moment to contemplate. Either he lets them poke around the presents until Jim or Joyce come in and stop them, which will definitely result in loud protesting and a permanent end to his rest, or he can get up now and get a little bit of sympathy from at least Will for them waking him up. Either way, he’s awake now.

He hears someone poking at a box and goes with the latter.

“Aren’t you little shitheads supposed to wait for your parents?” he groans, eyes peering at the group blearily. All six of them freeze.

“Abort mission?” Lucas whispers to Mike.

“Abort mission,” Steve confirms before the other kid gets a chance, sitting up and stretching. Eleven treads silently over to the sofa and finds her way under his blanket to press into his side.

“Merry Christmas,” she hums, as if she has nothing to do with the early morning shenanigans that roused him. Will joins them on the sofa, and it’s clear the other four are trying to decide how to best fit themselves on the piece of furniture with their babysitter. It’s about to get very cramped, he realizes.

“Yeah, yeah, bah humbug,” he grumbles in reply, but no one misses his fond smile.

Joyce makes her appearance thirty minutes after that, and of all the things she expects to see on a Christmas morning, this was decidedly not it. None of the kids on the couch notice her upfront, too caught up in their giggles and hushed conversation. Steve looks tired, she notes, but he’s not as pale or tired-looking as he was yesterday. He may not be her kid, but she worries about him nevertheless as if he was. Shaking her head slightly, she pads further into the room.

“I hope you all didn’t wake Steve up,” she tells the younger teens as she reaches the sofa. Guilty looks are shared and a few mouths open in hopes of explaining themselves, but Steve beats them all to the punch.

“They didn’t,” he covers, smiling softly up at the woman. “I was up before these hellions tried getting into the presents.” Joyce doesn’t believe him, not for a second, but she leaves it alone as she leans down and gives Will and Eleven kisses on their forehead. Max gets one next, followed by a gentle ruffling of Mike’s hair because he gets fussy about kisses. Lucas smiles as he gets a kiss, and Dustin responds in kind. Even Steve gets a kiss, and he smiles in spite of his surprise.

“Thank you, for keeping them out of the presents,” she tells him as she straightens up and sways off towards the kitchen. He thinks about going to help her, but he looks at the kids sprawled out on the sofa with him and he just can’t bring himself to make them get up, so he stays put. They whisper back and forth about present predictions (Dustin makes a passive comment about some people forgetting to buy presents, Max makes a face at Steve and it takes serious effort to not laugh), and by the time Joyce returns with coffee the six are practically bouncing with restlessness. Their excitement is downright infectious, Steve feels their giddy joy in his bones, his stomach twisting in a good sort of anxiousness. Hopper shuffles in soon after, makes his way directly to the kitchen and gets himself a mug of coffee. He brings an extra one out for a very grateful Steve. Mike makes a face when the smell of caffeine reaches his nose. Lucas doesn’t have to smell it before he gets that disgusted look on his face.

“I can’t understand why you drink that stuff,” he states. Steve inhales the warm smell, sips on the drink (and he’s got to give the chief a thanks because it’s got just the right amount of cream and sugar – not too much, but just enough to take the edge off of the bitter taste), and pauses for added drama before forming his response.

“Lucas, my friend, let’s revisit this conversation when you hit nineteen.” He rests the mug on top of Eleven’s wild curls and revels in her giggled protest.

Outside, the sun is just beginning to poke through the darkness. Steve glances towards the window, watches the black sky turning into blue, and couldn’t help but feel that maybe, maybe, this Christmas isn’t going to be so bad after all.

In an attempt to distract the gaggle of children from the glistening presents under the tree, Steve finally nudges the kids off of him and makes his way to his feet, and he stretches out his body with a few, satisfying cracks in his spine. He’s getting old.

“Hey. You little gremlins want hot cocoa?”

They do, of course they do. And they follow him like a line of duckling behind their mother as Steve trudges into the kitchen. They sit in a row and happily sip on the warm drinks as the brunette then sets about making breakfast. Joyce rubs his shoulder and says he didn’t have to, but Steve is happy to do it, he likes making himself useful. Besides, he’s good at this, the kids love his pancakes. He even whips up scrambled eggs and slices of wonderfully crisp bacon. The smell draws a bleary-eyed Jonathan from his room. He looks surprised by Steve’s presence, but offers a small smile.

“Merry Christmas,” he offers, ruffling Will’s hair on his way by. He pours himself a cup of coffee, and Steve smiles back at him.

“Yeah, Merry Christmas to you too.”

[ohjaimelannister]

Do you think Hoppers actually dead though?

O K A Y.

I’ve been looking for an excuse to pull all of this together so here we go! NO Anon, I do not think that Chief James Hopper has gone and died on us. There’s no REAL evidence (there are easter eggs though) however and the Duffer Brothers could still pull the rug out from under us but hey.

No I do not believe that Hopper is dead. Although some things can be interpreted as pretty final and if the Duffers really kill him off I will never watch this show again, because it’s horrifically SHITTY writing and im already super tired of that this year lmao.

One - There is no body? We were never showed a body or what’s left of one? We have seen bodies for Benny, Barb, Bob and Billy (and even people who were in it for like 5 minutes). THEY EVEN PRODUCED A FAKE WILL WHEN THEY WANTED US TO THINK HE WAS DEAD. THEY AREN’T AGAINST SHOWING US BODIES!!! Which brings me to my next point!

Two - They also aren’t against to showing us death. Lots of gory detailing death, WHOEVER it is. Billy died horrifically but you saw it even though hes a kid. Bob got ripped to shreds.  And even those dudes at the beginning of S3 died horribly? They still showed it. Hopper’s death??? It cuts away. You see NOTHING. AT. ALL. There aren’t even any remnants OF a body where he was standing, and Joyce goes down there and LOOKS. Surely shed find something? Gooey grossness like the bodies at the beginning? Nope. You could argue that they’d be against showing us the death of a beloved hero and a main character but. Again. Bob was beloved and arguably one of the sweetest characters in the show and he was ripped to bits in front of us and Joyce. Billy was a kid for all intents and purposes, still he died a horrible death. Not one bit of that was cut away.

Three - If you look in the shots hes not on the platform when the thing explodes????? like at all? Either that’s badly shot or its done deliberately because he’s just not there anymore? There’s the portal to the Upside Down and you can see a ladder in the shot too, so maybe he either went into the Upside Down or down the ladder and got caught by the russians?? We just don’t know.

Four - We see the devastated Eleven and the aftermath of what happened at Star Court. Then it jumps to three months later? Okay, odd that were not shown anymore of the grieving or the funeral. Then of course Eleven read the SPEECH. Think about the end of it specifically and about LEAVING THE DOOR OPEN 3 INCHES!! You can see from one of the final shots of Star Court that the gates not CLOSED. It was healing but it never fully closes. So Hopper could be in the Upside Down, or travelled through it to Russia on the other end?? Who knows. Point is, they included this line at the end for a reason. Whether the reason is that hes actually dead and they’re just being profound or that its a hint about his fate, its meaningful.

Five - During the ending the song HEROES by Peter Gabriel plays, this is the same song that was placed over them finding Wills fake body, and after all the goodbyes and the ‘speech’ where it ends with “keep the door open three inches” well. Come on.

Six - Then it cuts to Russia and you hear the “not the american” line, and Hopper was called “the American” throughout the series by that Russian baddie. Should I start waving Red Flags here or???? Then again, a lot of people are saying this could be Brenner. Okay I 100% get your logic Im with ya, and for a few days I’ve also thought it could be Brenner. But here’s the thing. Elevens powers. Brenner makes her use them to spy on a russian man in Season 1. Hinting that there’s more going on here than just super powers, kids and other dimensions. Don’t forget that in the 80s the world was in the grip of the Cold War, and things would have started reaching a boiling point for this long before 1985 when it ‘officially’ began. We were never given any answers about why Brenner was spying on this man, or even Russia. Or even if he WAS spying for the US. Nothing, it’s a throwaway scene. Or IS IT? Russians show up in Season Three somehow knowing about the Upside Down, having failed at their own attempts to open a gate in Russia. They somehow know that its Hawkins they need to be in to successfully open their gate and potentially get monsters to use, oh I don’t know, in a WAR???? How would they have known any of this information to begin with?? Oh I wonder. We were told all about Brenner being alive and out there in season two (and we were never told WHERE and this is not referenced again), but as far as I can remember Eleven has never shared this with anyone else, even though it’s completely RELEVANT information. And as far as I can remember (its been a hell of an emotional few days) I dont think were given any explanation about how the Russians knew about the Upside Down, Hawkins or anything. So maybe the reason they knew is BECAUSE BRENNER is the one giving them their directives? Because hes worked for THEM this whole time???

Seven -  Interestingly also Eleven lost her powers? JEEZ ISN’T THAT CONVENIENT!!! Because the first thing shed use them for is to look for Hopper even if she was told he was dead. Shed look, 100% for the man who saved her, gave her a home, loved her, worried for her, cared for her like she was his goddamn OWN. Conveniently though now SHE CANT??? Interesting.

Eight -  And now. There’s the voicemail message. In one of the episodes (my brains so fried I cant remember which one sorry) Murrays gives out his landline number, and when you call it you can hear him give a message to Joyce. You can listen to it here.  You can tell this is after season three, because why would he talk to Joyce Byers? Surely if he was trying to reach someone for information it would be Hopper?  “I have an update, its best if we speak in person" an update??? About what??? Why is he coercing with joyce???  Notice how he says “it’s not good or bad but its SOMETHING” and then says “we’ll talk about it in person” (or something like that) why would he be calling joyce with an ‘update’?????????? AND ON WHAT EXACTLY?? INTERESTING!!

Nine - Theres this interview with the cast specifically ABOUT Hopper, the death and the post credits scene. And I love David Harbour but, you cannot lie for shit my angel.

Ten - Millie has said in an interview “ Her dads gone, or so she thinks” COME ON.

Eleven - Again WE KNOW DAVID HARBOUR IS LIKE THE MARK RUFFALO OF STRANGER THINGS. And hes bad at keeping shit to himself. Hes already told us at the end of last YEAR, literally a month after they finished filming season three that the Duffers have told him the ending to the series as a whole. Why would any creator do this for a man they have effectively just fired, because his character died? Why would they tell him? They wouldn’t.

Tweleve - Again. David Harbour, bless his heart, I think its trying to give us HINTS and bread crumbs to follow. Last week he changed his instagram photo from Hopper in S1 to the number 6. Odd. Today he changed it to the number one :

Twelve continued - Basically if he changed it to an 8 next, we know hes trying to hint at Murrays voicemail message and this is a clue for Hopper. Because why else would he bother?

Thirteen - Theres also this screenshot from Cara Buonos instagram where she literally SAYS about him being in Kamchatka, and uses the Russian word for PRISON. (Of course this could just be a joke between the actors

Fourteen - Theres also the fact, which is not evidence mind you, that its incredibly shitty writing to have both the men that Joyce Byers loved/loves to die in front of her? And actually having her put the action in motion that kills the man she loves? No. I wont accept that. And weve been shown her non willingness to believe in peoples death, everyone and their mothers told her Will was dead and she was being crazy. Did she listen? No. And she got her boy back. Will she think once she has a clear head that Hoppers dead? Maybe. Which is why she asks Murray to investigate. Hence the Voicemail Message.

Fifteen - Its also incredibly shitty and hard to swallow, for Elevens sake too. I mentioned already how much she loves Hopper and finally got a true parent in him. Do you honestly think they’d put her through all of that just to lose him NOW? Like i said, its convienent how shes lost her powers at this very crucial moment.

Sixteen - DAVID. HARBOURS. BEARD. RIGHT. NOW.

And SEVENTEEN -Just in case y’all are having trouble with any of that it looks like David Harbour has let sorta slip (my god I fucking ADORE THIS MAN LET ME TELL YOU). I dont know how reliable this is mind you because its not coming from a BIG source, but HERE he hints at knowing who the American is, after telling everyone else (see the interview above ^^) that he doesnt know and he cant say anything. 

‘During an interview with David Harbour, I attempted to delicately get around the fate of Jim Hopper. Harbour, however, came right out and gave it to me straight. “This is the question I’m going to have to dance around–” I began, only for Harbour to interrupt me and ask, “The ending?” “Right,” I said. “Is there a way you can talk about the future of Hopper without…” I trailed off here, only for Harbour to ask: “Well, did you see the post-credits scene?”I had, of course. And so I straight-up asked: is that Hopper behind the door? According to Harbour, that’s the most likely scenario. Throughout the season, the main Russian baddie refers to Hopper as “the American”, and having another Russian refer to the mysterious prisoner in the same way was the big giveaway.Of course, knowing that Hopper is alive, and knowing how he survived and ended up in Russia, are two different things. We’ll have to wait for season 4 to get that answer. And we’ll have to wait to see how things unfold from there. Will a big chunk of season 4 involve Hopper escaping that Russian base, and trying to get back to America? Time will tell. One thing is clear: Hopper still has a long journey ahead of him; not just physically, but emotionally.’

SO, basically Jim Hopper has not left us, Joyce or Eleven.  And if the Duffer Brothers have done all this to screw with us, well. Im not gonna be responsible for what I do.

I FEEL JIM HOPPER IN THIS RUSSIAN PRISON TONIGHT!!!

THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK!!!!!!!!