rosetilley
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It’s funny, he never gets too scared to approach despite the consistent initial caution. If anything, his fear wanes. It’s like he’s waiting for it, holding out his wrists to be bound and strung up. Nothing so poetic or obvious as baring his throat, but something more private, more knowing: sleeping with the window open, heedless of what he may be inviting in.
†††
For neither did the mischievous invention of men deceive us, nor an image spotted with divers colors, the painter's fruitless labor;
The sight whereof enticeth fools to lust after it, and so they desire the form of a dead image, that hath no breath.
Wisdom 15:4-5
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“Just saying, if you’re taking another hit, you should share it with me,” Mike says, and Will slowly tilts his head, drinking in every word. “It just makes sense. Like, mathematically.”
Will’s reddened eyes narrow, bewildered. “Mathematically?”
“If there’s two hits left, we’d each only get one,” Mike explains. “But if we shotgunned, we’d both get two.” God, this is the best idea he’s had in ages. He should’ve stolen Will’s weed, like, months ago. “That’s like, bang for your buck. This is simple math, Will Byers. Keep up.”
In which it’s well past midnight in New York, Will can’t sleep, and Mike feels like they barely know each other anymore.
So, they get a little high. Mike is very normal about all of it.
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Bookmarked by rosetilley
29 Jan 2026
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Sometimes, what a small town needs is a good love story.
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“If you could see one person one more time before the big bad Ruskies obliterate us,” Robin giggles, “who would it be?”
Steve has been feeling so wonderfully unabashedly honest for these last few minutes or months or however long they’ve been here, tied together in their Scoops uniforms and possibly dying from beating-induced brain hemorrhages or Russian poison that he says, without hesitating, “Jonathan Byers. And I’d give him a big ole kiss.”
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- Part 1 of A Catalog of Non-Definitive Acts
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For a while it got easier, through brute-force avoidance and then moving across the country, thousands of miles away from anyone who felt like a real person.
But then you come back―of course you do―and it’s worse than you could’ve ever imagined, because you’re faced with the reality of it.
The reality of Nancy, who says they’ll just have to put off Emerson by a year or two and leaves no room for argument. Jonathan lives in her house, for fuck’s sake, and he’d be hard-pressed to remember the last time they touched that didn’t involve them both going for the salt shaker at the same time.
But there are worse things than Nancy. Something he can no longer avoid.
Because he isn’t actually an eternal eleventh grader, coiled and ready to strike in the back alley of every dream Jonathan has had for four years.
Bookmarked by rosetilley
03 Jan 2026
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“You know…” Jonathan says, eyes not quite reaching Steve’s face, staring at his throat or maybe his mouth.
It’s raining again, harder this time. Water drums against the roof in a heavy, relentless rhythm. The wind carries it in sideways, and Steve shifts to keep the front of his clothes dry. Jonathan holds the joint out between them, and Steve takes it, setting it to his lips. He sucks in hard.
Jonathan’s fingers continue the abandoned thought, reaching out to brush against Steve’s neck. Steve’s breath catches in his throat, half on purpose, trying to hold the weed in, and half in surprise at the casual way Jonathan’s finger traces the still-red skin across his neck.
“It looks like you tried to off yourself,” he says finally, hand falling away.
Steve blinks, exhaling harshly. The smoke mixes with the mist in the air, curling around both of them before vanishing into the trees.
Jonathan’s mouth tilts into an amused grin, and Steve mirrors the expression before they both burst into laughter.