Chapter Text
robin likes the sound of nancy’s voice.
the way nancy speaks with such firmness; an eloquence beyond anything robin has ever heard before. robin likes the natural tone of her voice and how unique it feels, how feminine she carries herself with words that strike and the dictionary inside of her brain that makes her way smarter than anyone robin has ever met.
robin really likes the sound of nancy’s voice.
as they walk, the more nancy talks, and the more robin listens. robin can’t help but enjoy the way nancy’s shoes crunch of leaves of earthly tones and the sound of four feet hitting the pavement like mountain debris clinking together. the shuffle of feet feels familiar.
robin doesn’t mind the cool air as she seems to remain most content and focused on how close the two of them are walking. the way nancy’s hand in hers is soft and warm, like letting go would deregulate her entire body temperature. ice on her eyebrows, the tip of her nose, the spaces between her fingers, can anyone imagine it? her shoulders are chilly but she would rather grow icicles for horns than make nancy give that blazer up.
the night sky is gleaming with stars and pollution from the nuclear power plants a few miles up the road. the smoke looks like clouds and if robin makes her brain think of something else for more than five minutes, she can pretend they are. the leaves are scattered across the street, and the trees dance in the cool wind. nature sings a very lonesome song for robin and nancy.
the dirt kicking beneath the tips of her shoes is something robin seems focused on more than she should be. she only realizes this once nancy breaks the barrier between them, and robin is forcibly thrown back into the reality that is the ten minute walk back to her family’s double wide. nancy’s hand is still very much in hers, and she swings it while the two walk.
“what’s your name again?” nancy asks. her hand in robin’s is frail and bony. soft and tender. robin cannot say she hasn’t thought about what her hands have felt like, but certainly not while they are grasped in her sweaty palms.
isn’t this ironic? oh wow, mrs. admiring from a far. robin buckley the fucking cliche.
“it’s robin.” she says flatly and quietly.
she feels smaller now, like she’s been lying in a ditch waiting for someone to pay her some attention. something bigger than her current reality, more plain. she’s embarrassed at the thought of nancy knowing her name without needing a reason for it. does she know robin’s memorized her name on class lists, and when the teacher says nancy wheeler? she can mock her tone of here. without missing a beat. is robin just the observer in this little life? what does that make nancy?
there is such a subtle loneliness carved in the cavity of robin’s universe she knows how the bones and muscles in her peers’ hands move like she studied them for centuries. she likes nancy’s the best.
were the two of them ever supposed to fuse in a way that wouldn’t put either of the girls’ designated paths in jeopardy? robin’s future flashes before her eyes.
this is how it will go, this is how it will always go: nancy sleeps peacefully throughout the night, leaves at 12:26 p.m. tomorrow afternoon, right after steve calls, wishes robin a peaceful farewell and forgets to shut the kitchen light off before she leaves. robin sees nancy at school the following week and nods her head, nancy smiles. this is the only gesture given between the two girls. robin’s heart will sour whenever steve walks by her. nancy will graduate, and then robin, and in 1992 robin buckley will not remember her maiden name.
“oh god,” nancy says, out of nowhere, laughing. robin is scared to know why.
“i remember you, from mr. garcia’s class. junior year math. you were so smart, you were a sophomore then, right?” nancy asks. “how’d you even get in that class?”
robin doesn’t know. really, she doesn’t. when you spend most of your days tucked loosely behind the rest of everyone else’s notebooks there isn’t very much to do. the truth is, robin was a problem child. mom and dad’s little miracle with a growth spurt that hit mentally at the age of five. robin outshined her peers. she was so fucking smart. hawkins middle’s spelling bee champion then onto the town spelling bee, then the roane county spelling bee, to which robin won first place in with absolutely zero competition.
“just smart, i guess,” robin says.
she kicks a rock with her feet and watches it fly. nancy lulls her head to the side and sighs, and robin can assume she’s just getting tired. the laugh is breathy, like the kind eddie does in gym after running the mile and his side hurts so fucking bad but he just won’t say it. it’s late and the crickets are chirping loudly as the frog’s croak and cool breezes blow chills down robin’s spine.
nancy’s feet drag in a pace slower than robin’s. she’s still quite drunk, robin knows, and is genuinely surprised she hasn’t just fallen down yet.
“i love that name,” nancy says out of nowhere.
at this point robin isn’t sure nancy knows she’s even right beside her. nancy appears to be talking to everyone and no one, directly to robin and right beside her to someone else who might look like robin but fuck if she knows. her head is halfway to space.
“robin, robin, robin!” nancy says. it’s a little loud, and robin fears the whole world might hear her. her cheeks heat up embarrassingly fast, and she hides quite a wide grin by tilting her head to the other side. there is no context to it, not any robin would be aware of. robin just looks over at her and watches her smile. did she do that?
“mm?” robin replies, voice raising.
“like the bird,” nancy says. when her tongue lands on the last word her eyes meet robin’s, and she smiles with teeth. robin looks away at lightning speed, like if she didn’t nancy would turn to stone.
“yeah, like the bird.” robin whispers out, she smiles.
robin’s eyes stare bullet holes into the ground. she watches as she picks one foot up after another, one foot and then the other foot, and how nancy does the same. in perfect sync. maybe their heartbeats are matching, too.
“i can’t believe i’ve never spoken to you,” nancy says, and robin replies with a short eh that so visibly shows how embarrassed she is of this whole ordeal. she can’t believe nancy wheeler is talking to her now.
robin swallows every shard of glass in her mouth and tries to change the subject so nancy doesn’t say anything that makes her vomit every butterfly in her stomach up onto the pavement. oh god, where else could she go? robin’s never wanted to run before now. nancy wouldn’t follow her.
“you’re really cool,” nancy says. “and so beautiful,” she adds.
her smile widens and she laughs, she throws her arms off of robin’s shoulder and onto her face.
robin has no clue how to respond to this. she knows that isn’t true because robin knows herself more than nancy probably ever will. nancy’s hands are now on robin’s cheeks, her eyes, the tip of her nose and down her neck. she’s molding robin into a better person, she assumes. drunk talk is drunk talk. robin knows better.
“are you, um,” robin starts, then clears her throat. “are you going to talk to steve?”
nancy picks up her hand and points her index finger in her mouth then makes the wettest vomit sound robin has ever heard. at that, she laughs, and then takes a moment to pray that doesn’t trigger a very real vomit from nancy’s mouth. how much alcohol can that frame of her’s handle? robin would never like to know.
“i’ll take that as a no,” robin says. she shakes her head and nancy laughs.
“i don’t want to but i know i’ll have to,” nancy says. “god, it’d be easier if he just died.”
robin’s eyes widen as she stares at nancy with a mixed expression of both intense shock and pure amusement. this is some weird shit only drunk people say.
“you don’t mean that,” robin laughs, then her smile drops. “right?”
“jesus, robin, don’t be silly,” nancy says. “it would be nicer if he just moved schools or something.”
robin twitches her mouth, lets out a small meh and shoves the feeling of hope in her gut to the back files in the drawers of her brain.
“do you want me to lie and say it won’t be weird?” nancy asks.
robin doesn’t know. it’s not like she should care, after this night and maybe tomorrow morning nancy will be back on her own train car and experiencing what other joys life has to offer besides robin buckley’s very cramped bedroom and nasty thrift store blazer. maybe steve will be on that car, or chasing it, right beside robin. she doesn’t want to compete with steve harrington. nobody’s asking her to. she really shouldn’t even be thinking about it.
“no. i’m not asking you to.” robin puts it as blunt as she can. she feels her words land sharp, and if nancy replied to her the way she just did she knows she’d feel an ooze of blood from her heart.
robin feels strange now; bold, almost. there’s no anger in her as much as there is pity, and maybe she wants nancy to feel it. she’d never intentionally make her feel small but there’s nothing she can say that wouldn’t unless it’s a lie. why does anything have to be weird at all? robin thinks. she just doesn’t get it. if it were matthew she’d put a note in his locker and then never look him in the eyes ever again.
robin doesn’t know if nancy’s problem is that she just can’t not look someone in the eyes.
“have you guys ever fought like that before?” robin asks.
nancy says and picks her head up from robin’s, then looks at her. her mouth curves to the side and then she bites her top lip, thinking.
“not in public, no,” nancy says. her voice is defeated; embarrassed.
“what made this so different?”
nancy rolls her eyes, and robin has definitely crossed a line. she lulls her head to the side and laughs. the ooze in robin’s heart begins. it feels messy.
“are you my fucking shrink?” nancy says.
it isn’t a question, if anything it’s rhetorical. robin isn’t too sure how to respond but her entire body feels limp. there’s something refreshing about getting to see nancy in a different light like this, robin honestly can’t even remember what day it is, let alone the last two hours and a half. just her and nancy and the moon.
“you seemed pretty over it in the bathroom.” robin replies. the sentence comes out sarcastic and witty, and nancy just raises an eyebrow in return. “too soon,” robin says under her breath. nancy doesn’t catch it.
“but if you really don’t want to be with him, what are you going to do?”
nancy sniffles her nose, “i don’t know, robin.” she says.
robin has very quickly figured out she likes when nancy says her name. the way her mouth wraps around the ‘r’, and the sound of her voice finishing off the last syllable. it rolls off the tip of her tongue perfectly, robin , and makes her feel like a real person. robin, robin, robin , maybe she didn’t exist until now. she doesn’t know if any other name exists besides her own. when nancy says it it’s like a light switch being turned on inside of her heart. robin.
“you don’t have to talk about it,” robin says, quietly.
she wants to be quiet forever. lock her mouth and hide the keys, tuck the rest of her words behind her ear and let messes of hair lose them until she dies. robin can’t figure out whether or not she’s crossed a line, a boundary, or if she feels she’s weirding nancy out in a way that she can’t put the tip of her tongue on.
“sorry if that was too personal,” robin says.
she doesn’t really mean it, or at least she doesn’t think she means it right now. robin doesn’t know what she means when it comes to nancy.
“but you’re like, fucking hot,” robin barely chuckles out. “and if it doesn’t work out between you two i promise there will be other fish in the sea.”
nancy looks at her in disgust, which robin didn’t think would happen. she hopes nancy doesn’t vomit, or at least won’t tell her to her face that her advice is horrible and what the fuck would robin buckley know about dating anyway?
robin’s face makes a straight line to the floor and watches as her feet follow one step after another, waiting for nancy to move or breathe or speak.
“god, what if i don’t want other fish?” nancy says, pained.
“how do you mean?”
“am i not allowed to be alone?” nancy asks. the way the words leave her mouth makes it sound as if this was a question for an intended audience robin is not part of. a small part of a larger lecture robin didn’t have an invite to.
“can i not be a person?”
robin is convinced this is drunk-nancy talk and not sober-nancy talk, but then again, isn’t drunk talk just everything a person wants to say but never has the chance to? robin figures so, but she doesn’t really know too much about drunken confessions to think about whether or not nancy’s words are truthful or not. if nancy spills and robin picks it up, would it even be worth mentioning tomorrow?
would robin be carrying a weight she would have no place to put down? forever and ever, rolling a boulder up an endless hill.
“are you not already a person?” robin asks.
nancy sighs and clicks her tongue.
“does steve make you feel like a person, nancy?”
the world is silent, and robin can feel her words echo within a million chambers of the atmosphere she resides in. in the distance, a siren. then, the crunching of leaves between their feet. robin can see the faint flicker of her double-wide from here. nancy is chewing her bottom lip, expensive lipstick rubbing off the sides of her mouth.
“it’s not like i spend my days obsessing over it,” nancy slips out, breathlessly.
her face flushes a shade of girlish pink. nancy is flustered and confused. robin watches as she searches to find an answer that will satisfy both of them.
she doubts whether or not her words are a truth. could be, couldn’t be.
“i feel like a person with you, though.” nancy says.
robin’s eyes perk up, and she sees nancy staring wide-eyed at her.
her face is greasy, which is the most unsexy word robin could use to describe it; but it’s human. she looks human. her eyeliner is smudged, and her lips are red in the earthliest way robin can see, the makeup is fading, the five hour old blush and dropping temperatures freeze her face, bringing out a tense rosyness in her cheeks.
“you don’t mean that.” robin says. she laughs, something dry and harsh.
“i do, i think.” nancy replies. “i like you a whole lot, robin.”
at this, she laughs, and tightens the grip she has around robin’s neck. robin dreams she’ll never let go.
thump, thump, thump. her heart is racing.
“oh look, my house is over there,” robin says, pointing. nancy’s face turns quickly, following her finger.
“oh thank god,” nancy says. “i’m so tired.”
“me too,” robin replies.
her heart still beating mighty fast.
the walk to the house takes forever, and the idea of the warmth radiating from the heater in robin’s bedroom makes her feel colder than she should be. her clothes are beginning to itch and the texture is uncomfortable, like her skin is stretching and molding to fit anything but the trousers on her legs. nancy’s hair feels uncomfortable on the skin of robin’s neck. the two keep walking as if nothing is going on at all.
the sight of robin’s house relieves the tiniest amount of agitation in her stomach and her shoulders aren’t as tense anymore, instead she only aches for the smell of her living room, her own clothes, the buzz of moths around the dying street lamps only a few yards away from her creaky porch.
the walk up the steps is the hardest part of this entire ordeal. they’re steep and rotted, chipped green wood picking away underneath the girls’ feet.
the door creaks as it’s opened, and the warmth jumping into robin calms her down immediately. the scent from the kitchen, a stew, and the quiet chatter of the television only a few feet away settles any further anxiety that was nesting in robin’s stomach. she admires the yellow lighting, feels comfort from the pile of blankets on the couch and takeout bags and styrofoam plates sitting on any table in the room.
nancy is heavy on robin’s shoulder, but the walk to her room is quick and painless. robin’s father is fast asleep in his own room, and she knows it takes a thousand walking giants to wake him up. everything is going precisely as it should.
“my room is this way,” robin says, leading nancy directly straight from the front door to her room in the hallway.
when the door opens nancy lets go of her, and falls flat onto robin’s bed.
the room is robin’s happy place, a space built by her, for her, covered in all of her favorite things. to see nancy breathing in the aroma of her dollar store laundry detergent feels like a fever dream. if she woke up in the hospital it wouldn’t even shock her.
nancy looks like she just might fall asleep right then and there, but robin figures she’s probably insanely uncomfortable in her costume. to be fair, it really isn’t a costume as much as it is just very normal clothes; but still, nancy also has vodka punch poured all over her.
robin flies over to her dresser, pulling one of the drawers out and grabs a miscellaneous pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. she lays them on the desk beside her closet and goes to tap nancy on the shoulder. her eyes are closed, delicately, as if she’s floating. she has one hand turned palm up laying right next to her cheek, the other one is thrown over her stomach.
one tap, “hey nancy, i have some clothes for you.”
nancy moans, something soft and quiet. when she opens her eyes they are small and she makes them look heavy. she smiles at robin.
“can i use your bathroom please?” she asks. robin gives a furious nod, and hands the clothes to her.
“it’s the door right in front of my room,” robin starts.
“there’s um – there are wash cloths in the basket under the sink if you need to rub your make up off. we don’t stock any beauty wipes around here. sorry.” she says, rubbing her head.
nancy drags herself up from the bed, taking the clothes from robin’s hand.
“all good,” nancy says with a smile, closing the door behind her.
when the door clicks, and robin is left all alone, her mind wanders.
she changes slowly out of her clothes, mostly from her own tiredness and not at all from any tipsiness. she finds a random pair of basketball shorts her dad gave her from his teenager years and slips them on. her tank-top stays on, because she tends to be a very sweaty sleeper. she throws her clothes in a basket at the end of her bed and begins to slowly undo the front covers to get ready to sleep in. from the top of her closet she grabs a blanket, and swipes a pillow from her bed. she makes her way to the living room, fluffing the pillow out with one hand and turning the television off with the other.
she watches as the static and sparks from the television fade, and her mind slowly turns off. she sees a faint light shining and recognizes nancy leaving the bathroom. she tiptoes to robin’s room with her clothes in her hand and her footsteps are loud enough that robin can hear her piddle around in search for her.
“robin?” nancy says, in a sort of whisper-yell.
she walks outside and stands right next to the wall in front of the couch. the static on the television has completely disappeared now.
“what are you doing out here?” she asks.
robin knows what she’s doing. it’s weird to share a bed with a girl you just met, let alone one you feel a brief pull of attraction to. she stares at nancy with a blank expression.
“you can have the bed. it’s fine.” robin says.
“are you kidding me? that couch looks so uncomfortable.” nancy replies. her tone of voice is unreasonably snobby but robin takes no offense to it as she assumes nancy is still reeling from almost getting alcohol poisoning.
robin finds the easiest way out of this and dodges the question.
“dude, the couch is fine.” she says.
nancy just blinks at her.
“come on, i feel bad stealing your bed from you.”
robin doesn’t want to have a pissing contest with her this late at night, so she grabs her pillow and walks shamefully back to her room. she lets nancy take a pick on what side of the bed she wants to have and she gracefully climbs in directly after her.
something about this feels almost harmful, wrong. robin feels too in over her head. the blood inside of her body is boiling, her bones moving at a thousand miles an hour. it’s just her and the crickets. they chirp and she listens.
nancy’s back is turned to robin, while robin stares at the ceiling. glow in the dark stars and little crescent moons stare back at her, while nancy is breathes softly beside her. robin knows she isn’t asleep.
“i told steve to give me a call tomorrow morning,” robin whispers. nancy rolls over, face staring at the ceiling.
“why did you do that?” nancy asks. she isn’t pained, or annoyed. her voice is quiet and empty.
“so he knows you’re safe,” robin replies.
she can’t stand steve harrington, with his mousy hair and ridiculously expensive and simultaneously boring clothes. however, she does admire the fact that he cares for nancy. he can look after her in a way that nancy will never see in a million years. he’s a shithead but she can’t say she doesn’t see the appeal.
nancy sighs. robin can hear her mouth open from the small click her tongue makes against her lips.
“thank you,” she says, and rolls over on her side.
“are you going to sleep?” robin asks.
nancy doesn’t roll over again. “i’m staring at the wall.” she says.
“oh, okay,”
“do you need anything?” nancy asks.
“i just wanted to tell you i’m sorry for tonight,” robin says.
“it’s all fine, everything will be fine,” nancy replies.
“steve seems really nice.”
robin tuns her back to nancy’s, and with the shuffle of the sheets nancy finds her way to cross legs with robin. their socks are entangled and their legs lay limp, touching.
“robin, i don’t want to talk about steve,”
she can’t blame her.
“he isn’t really what i want anymore,” nancy says, quietly.
robin lets out a heavy breath, something timid and shaky.
“goodnight, nancy.” she whispers.
“goodnight, robin,” nancy whispers back. “i like you a whole lot.”
they both sit there for a while, letting the silence make the noise for them. just breathing. nancy’s eyes close slowly, and after a while, robin’s do too. the crickets are still chirping. the world has not ended, every creature is soundly in its place. the earth is still turning and robin and nancy are right where they need to be.