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October 8th,
1980
Tommy's laugh is loud. Steve's still getting used to it, now a year after meeting him and Carol. It's boisterous, the kind of laugh that tells him that Tommy Hagan has rarely, if ever, been told to shut his mouth. He's unapologetically him, and it makes him confident enough to laugh so loud even in a crowded school hallway.
He slings his arm around Carol, walking between her and Steve, regaling the tale of the night before to her. She hadn't been able to come, being grounded by her parents when they caught her trying to sneak out. "It was a total rager!" He boasts, like he's the one who threw the party.
A rager might be a bit of an exaggeration. Hardly anybody showed up. They're middle schoolers, after all, but he's a Harrington. And Harringtons have power. The kind of power that makes people turn their heads at the idea of one of Hawkins, Indiana's biggest houses empty save for a couple kids.
"Did you really break into your dads liquor cabinet?" Carol raises one perfectly plucked ginger brow, smirking that subtle smirk that she only does when they're in public and she needs to maintain her image.
It helps that he promised booze.
"Hell yeah. Not like he's gonna notice anyways, right?" He grins, this smooth, suave thing that Tommy taught him to do. His hands are stuffed in his khaki pockets, shoulders loose and posture straight but not strict. He looks casual, unbothered. Like nobody can touch him on his throne.
"God am I glad I took you under my wing, Stevie! You're gonna be the fucking king of Hawkins High come next year, you hear me?" Tommy punched him in the shoulder, grin sharp and predatory. He loves attention, he loves power, and he loves that Steve can give him that.
Steve doesn't mind. Tommy's his boat in the wash of normal society, after he was dragged away from the sheltered home he grew up in.
And it's not like he's wrong. Steve fully intends to become king, just like Tommy says. He's going to have all the girls fawning over him, and all the boys following his every command. He's going to throw parties every other weekend, and take advantage of the fact the Harringtons are never home save for Visits.
"I hear you, Tommy." He wraps his arm around Tommy's shoulders. They take up most of the middle school hallway, but none of them bother to squeeze together when students attempt to get past them, or shoot them dirty looks, "Come on dude, we're gonna be late for class."
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October 8th,
1980
Robin Buckley has been a sickly child for a lot of her life. She's twelve now, and she's officially getting sick of it. Literally.
She has to keep track of everything she eats, always has. Her mom doesn't even seem to care. She doesn't bat an eye when her daughter has to skip out on dinner, telling her to go where the wind calls her. To follow her heart, or whatever that means.
Even if her heart is apparently taking her away from most of the dinners her mom cooks. Even if her heart takes her in the direction of constantly being hungry. She can't eat the cafeteria food, she can't eat dinners at home.
So, she's going to the store. On her own. She got her first bike, and her mom forked over money after Robin promised to let her do her hair in those lovely braids when she got back.
Hawkins, Indiana isn't a big place. It takes her fifteen minutes to bike to the store, but an hour to buy food. She doesn't know what goes together, and she forgot her haphazard list of foods she can't have at home. It's getting so long these days, with things scratched out, written over, circled, underlined, and every other combination of marks that she can hardly read it.
She's just grabbing things and hoping they don't make her sick. The man at the register gives her a small smile, tells her that there's a boy who comes here about her age to get groceries for his mom, too. She hums and doesn't tell him how little she cares, or that these aren't for her mother.
She pockets the change. Who knows if in three weeks when Robin has used all these ingredients whether or not her mother will be in a charitable mood? Then she bikes the fifteen minutes back, feels the strain in her legs, and hopes that biking too and from school helps her bulk up a bit.
Her mom isn't home when she gets back. Who knows where the woman has gone, floating out onto the streets of Hawkins to entertain herself. Robin doesn't know if she forgot she wanted to braid Robin's hair, or if she got bored waiting and decided to skip town.
She'll make it up to her in a few days. For now, she starts pulling out item after item and spice after spice to determine what she wants to try to eat. What's going to go together, and what needs to go in the fridge and the cupboards.
She ends up cleaning out the fridge before she even starts cutting up the vegetables and chicken. Her cabinets are re-arranged, old food that's been expired for a decade thrown out, knowing that if her mother were home she'd come in and tell her that she'll still use it. That it can't just get tossed.
It'll never get used. She takes the trash out before her mother gets home, and hopes she never notices.
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October 8th,
1980
James Munson married Krystal Walters 16 years ago. She disappeared off the face of the planet four years ago, and now he's following suit.
At least Eddie knows where his dad has gone. His mom may as well have spontaneously evaporated, disappearing in the night without a word. There were signs, the constant fighting, the screaming, the increase in her using. Eddie's not an idiot, but he didn't think she'd just give up like that.
"Hey, Eddie."
His dad's in prison now. Eddie should've known it was coming. It's been a long time coming. He knows his dad has been dealing, knows that's how his parents met. He knows the man never stopped, he's been taken to dealings when babysitters weren't around.
Until he was old enough to work the stove himself, at least. But he wasn't disillusioned to believe his dad had decided to get a typical job when he was eleven just because he wasn't being brought along anymore.
He knew the consequences. Everybody knew the consequences. He learned how to wipe down a house and where to hide things when cops came knocking. He worked behind the scenes to keep his dad around, and it was all a waste.
He didn't even leave anything behind for his son.
"I know this sucks, but you can't stay here. You hear me?"
Wayne Munson is his dads brother. They've only met a couple times, and the last time was three years when they got in a fight that resulted in broken dishes, screaming, and loss of contact. He's never liked Eddie's parents much, and he made the kid uncomfortable.
His parents didn't talk to him like he was a kid, and he liked it that way. Wayne talked to him like he was five years old and stupid.
He scowled, pointedly glaring away from Wayne. Anywhere but at that stupid, pity filled face that just wants to help. Help the kid he thinks is too weak to take care of himself. He should just screw off, pay for the Munson trailer and never call.
Eddie Munson can take care of himself.
"Eddie…"
"No."
"Kid."
He's not going to be carted off to bumfuck nowhere Indiana with his uncle who he hasn't seen in three years. He likes it here. He doesn't have friends, but he has the neighbor's dog that they always leave outside. He's got his bedroom, his stuff.
His father.
"I'm not leaving without my dad."
He's not an idiot. He knows his dad isn't coming out of the cell. Not for a long time. That doesn't change his resolve, his determination to break his dad out of prison. He can't do that from Indiana.
"Eddie, you don't got a choice, kid."
"Mom said there's always a choice." He stared at the thick, metal door that separates him and his freedom. There's a guard on either side of it, who's staring straight ahead like he doesn't even care that he's practically orphaned some poor kid. "And I choose to stay here."
"Eddie, your dad is going to be in there a damn long time. You can call him all you like from my trailer, you hear? We'll even come visit every few months, but you can't stay."
Wayne has this air about him. This tone of voice, this body language. It feels like he's too strict, like he's going to want to know exactly where Eddie is at all times. That he's going to check Eddie's bag after school, and pretend to be interested in his life.
"No." He's been told plenty of times he's stubborn. Stubborn like his mother.
"Kid, I drove sixteen hours out here to come get you, and I've got things to do back home."
"Then leave me here." He hisses, digging his hands into his arms, expression souring. He imagines that if he had cool comic book super powers like his favorite characters, there would be objects rattling and thunder rumbling.
"Then I get charged with a whole lot of things, and I might even end up right back there with your old man. You want that?"
"…No."
"Then let's go. Come on, we've still gotta pack up your things before we get on the road.
Eddie Munson is not an idiot. He knew he was leaving this prison one way or another. He knew that the better option was always going to be uncle Wayne, because a foster family would drop him at the first sign of trouble. He'd probably flip flop from family to family until he found someone who could stand him or he aged out of the system.
He lets his eyes linger on the building, until it's completely out of view.
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October 8th,
1980
Highschool is remarkably boring. And considering Steve's pretty sure he remembers sitting in a small, cramped room, alone, for hours on end, that's saying something. But now he's not there anymore, and he finds that he likes to have almost every moment of his life filled with activity.
And this?
This isn't activity. This is health class, and it is the only class he can confidently fall asleep in and know he'll still pass. It's all common sense, and that makes it boring. He can't test out of it, as far as he knows, not that he'd put in that effort.
He's starting to despise school. It was fun at first, being around so many people, who all looked so different. Who had their own lives, their own likes, their own worlds. It was fascinating, learning everything he could. He sucked up information like a vacuum.
And then he met Tommy and Carol, and realized that his standards for fun were so fucking low it wasn't even funny. Maybe if he hadn't met them, hadn't made friends, he'd still be passing all his classes, enjoying learning.
Maybe he'd be in the same boat, just lonelier. The rose tinted glasses have been removed, and he's realized how worthless all this information is.
He watched the chalkboard waver, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. He'd been up late at the party last night, and maybe whatever he drank was still in his system. He can't exactly claim to know how that works, but he swears he's seeing something else through the chalkboard.
It feels like he's moving, like he's in a car on the freeway. He squints, reaching up to rub at his eyes, like it'll get rid of the phantom image of roads, cars, and trees. It doesn't.
He jerks at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, but when he turns there's nobody there. He frowns toward the back of the classroom, then turns to see Carol looking at him with her lips downturned and brows pieced together.
"Steve?" She whispers, not so subtly leaning out of her chair. This teacher hasn't cared much for interrupting conversations at the back of the class so far, but she's not going to take any chances at getting her mom called, "You alright?"
"Uh… yeah." He murmurs, frowning. He looks back to the board, blinks, and all the sensations of being anywhere but here, in Hawkins High 8th grade health class, disappear. "Just… still tired."
"If you're sure."
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October 9th,
1980
Hawkins, Indiana is a sixteen hour straight shot drive from what Eddie can no longer call home. That's how uncle Wayne drove it, all in one go. Probably because he didn't want to leave James Munson's kid alone in a police station for any longer than that.
That's how they're driving back, too. They stayed one last night in the Munson household, before loading everything they could into the truck, and then they got on the road. He's never hated car rides, but that's driving to and from school. That's driving to concerts, and to the mall, and to work.
That's not sixteen hours. He's been in the car for going on nine hours by the time he's starting to consider jumping out into oncoming traffic. He is so unbelievably bored, and he's hungry. Uncle Wayne insists there're snacks in the car, but they're expired protein bars that probably would've tasted like shit even if they were still within their sell date.
He moved to the back seat after their last rest stop, officially sick of his uncle trying to make small talk with him and craving more room to stretch his legs. He's sitting with his legs stretched across the seats, seatbelt half off so he can manage it.
Something yanks on his head as he moves to look out the window, to watch corn fields go by like he has for the last nine hours, "Shit!" He hisses, reaching up to bury his hand in his hair. What the fuck was that?
"Eddie?" Wayne glances back toward him, but not long enough to decipher any problem that might've happened. He's gotta keep his eyes on the road. "You okay, kid?"
"Yeah, think I…" He keeps his hand in his hair, frowning. There's no way it caught in the headrest, because he's been sitting here for so long that surely it would've done that before now, right? And that's not even mentioning that he can still feel tugging on his hair, like when his mom used to braid it.
Nails card through his thick black mane, raking along his scalp. He hears a woman's voice murmuring something he can't quite make out. Another spark of pain dances across the back of his head, but he bites his lip and hisses through his teeth instead.
"Hair's caught in the seat, or somethin'." He grumbles, for the sake of appearances. He's sure as shit not confiding in uncle Wayne, 'specially about something that isn't that big of a deal. Maybe being in this car so fuckin' long is driving him crazy.
"If you're sure. Pull your hood up if it happens again, yeah?"
Pulling his hood up does nothing, when he tries it ten minutes later. It just makes the feeling so much more disconcerting, knowing there's even less of a chance of someone being able to braid his hair or run their hands through it with a thick fabric barrier.
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October 9th,
1980
"Robin, honey!" Elyssa Buckley greeted, her voice cool and loose. She sounds so much like she looks, all hippie and unbothered. Her clothes flow like her words, her eyes half shuttered and her hair blowing in the wind from open windows.
It's getting too cold to have the windows open. She doesn't seem to care. "Hey, mom." She smiles, taking her bag to the kitchen. She didn't eat much of her lunch, because she realized she'd gotten the wrong type of bread halfway through it. She can hardly reach the sink without the stepping stool. She hasn't hit her growth spurt like all the other kids yet.
Two days ago someone asked if she was lost, told her she looked like she still belonged at the elementary school. She can't wait to start growing properly, even if it means she'll look like her mother with all her gangly limbs that are too long and too skinny.
"I'd love to do your hair before you cook, darling. That way it'll stay out of your face, hm?" Her mother floats into the kitchen, hands fluttering as she talks. They dance over the countertop, and fly through the air like her words.
Robin used to think her mother was so beautiful.
"Sounds good!" She says, abandoning her bags. She's hungry, but she's always hungry. It's not the kind of hunger that claws at her stomach, that makes her hands shake and her limbs refuse to follow all her commands. "Couch okay, mom?"
"Wonderful, sweetheart." Her mother carts her hands through Robin's messy hair as she passes by. They settle down on the couch, the soft sounds of an eerie record playing from the vintage record player her mother has owned since before Robin was even a thought. "Two braids or one, birdy?"
Robin shifts, trying to remove the feeling of her mothers bony knees digging into her shoulders, "Whatever you want, mom," she says, because regardless of what she says her mom's going to decide whichever she thinks will look better.
Robin's a free spirit until her mother wants something.
While her mom is hypnotized by the feeling of long orange hair between her fingers, dancing underneath her long fingernails, Robin stares ahead at the wall. The record turns to buzzing background noise.
She lets her mind wander toward a class chalkboard. One she'd probably be seeing had she gone to school, but her mom's mood swung in her favor today and she got away with staying home. Though this board is full of mumbo jumbo she's not seen in any of her classes yet, drawings of anatomy and diagrams.
At the same time, she feels like when she used to ride in the passenger seat of her dads car without a seatbelt, way back when she was just a tot. The way he would drive too fast on country roads, going up and down hills in ways that would make her little stomach leap and drop.
Sometimes she wonders if the stuff her mom smokes affects her, but her counsellor just tells her she's imagining things. That she'll grow out of it soon enough. So she lets the daydreams play out, bordered by the tugging on her scalp.
She tugs on Robin's scalp like she doesn't know her daughter can feel the pain that comes with being yanked around. Her hands flow like water between the strands, braiding section after section until Robin is left with throbbing soreness raking beneath her hair and a tight, perfect braid cascading down her back.
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October 18th,
1980
Hawkins is, unsurprisingly, fucking boring.
It's a small town full of small town people and small town things to do. The most interesting thing is the quarry, and all he can do there is sit and smoke. He's spent the last week and a half trying to find anything to entertain himself, but is starting to think he's just gonna need to create his own fun.
And loathe as he is to admit it, he's been bored enough that even going back to school sounds fun. More fun than sitting alone in his room pondering how difficult it would be to break his father out of prison or hunt down his mom.
Uncle Wayne has been breathing down his neck, while simultaneously being so frustratingly distant. Every attempt he makes to connect feels hollow and more out of duty than care. Not that Eddie needs Wayne. He'll do just fine on his own, without any adult guidance. He's old enough to take care of himself.
"Hawkins High. You ready?" Wayne rests his hand on his nephew's shoulders, free hand tucked into his pocket to bite off the October chill. Eddie's wearing his dads old jean jacket, already thinking about where he can fill in the empty space with patches and pins.
Hawkins Highschool isn't anything like the school he's been in for the last few years, but he's only gotta ride out the next four years in it, so he tells himself to suck it up.
"It's just another couple years and you're out, free to do whatever the hell you want. You hear?"
"I hear, uncle Wayne." Eddie says, adjusting his backpack strap so it isn't digging into his shoulder quite so much. He hates this stupid bag, but uncle Wayne can't afford to buy him a nice shoulder strap bag. He's probably not gonna get something like it until Christmas, at best.
His dad might not've had a conventional job, and yeah, maybe it landed him behind bars, but after mom stopped leaching off their funds they were well off enough that he would've bought Eddie a new bag without question. Uncle Wayne, on the other hand, lives in a tiny trailer in the shit neighborhood of town and barely makes rent money each month.
"Well, go on then." Wayne pressed against his back, sending him stepping forward toward the front doors. It's already a month into the semester, but lazing around doing nothing for the entire school year sounded like a worse torture than school itself.
Not that uncle Wayne would've let him do that, either.
He doesn't turn back to say bye to his new guardian, he just keeps walking with his head held high and shoulders straight.
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December 3rd,
1980
"Steven, tighten that tie. You look like a slob," Jack Harrington grunted. Dad, as he would be called for the next hour of Steve's life, was determined to dress his son up like a doll and make him play the part of a Harrington. Like the Visitors don't know every little thing about him, and the fact that he doesn't dress anything like this outside of these Visits.
Maybe they don't know. It just feels ridiculous that they wouldn't if their Hawkins base of operations is hardly outside the town. They're probably keeping a close eye on him and all their other little subjects they probably have around.
"Why do they have to come on a schoolday?" Steve grumbles, following his fathers demand. "Like, if they came on the weekend I'd still get to see Tommy and Carol at school."
"Steve." His mothers voice held a clear cut warning, raising a brow. "I'll be over and done with before you know it, just like it always is. You can go see your friends after they get out of class."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And knock it off with that like nonsense, you sound so improper. What're they teaching you at that school?" She fretted, dusting off his shoulder like it disgusted her to see even a speck of dust on him. He nodded, straightening his shoulders.
He's a prim and proper upper class teenaged boy, with prim and proper parents, all living their perfectly normal prim and proper life. Nobody would be able to tell the difference between them and the neighbors, who have lived in houses and parents who come and go every day.
The Visitors, because they still need that capital V even years after he first dubbed them with that, need to think nothing is wrong. In between their visits, you could hardly call the Harrington house a home. Steve gets the house to himself more often than he shares it with his guardians, and that's how they all like it.
Jack goes on business trips, swinging around the world, and Diane either follows close behind to make sure he doesn't ruin their image by getting caught sleeping around, or flies out to a beach somewhere and stays there for a while.
He likes being alone. He likes the freedom, he likes the money, he likes having a big house to himself to do whatever he wants with. So, he plays the part. He lets them dress him out, and tell him how to walk, how to talk. He lets them straighten his shoulders, helps them set the scene of a family home.
He lets them be the perfect parents, and he becomes the perfect son. For an hour, his mother makes breakfast. His father gives him that winning grin of his when he talks of how he's doing in school and sports. His mother kisses him on the head, calls him sweet names.
He never even thinks of telling the Visitors that it's all a show, a sham. He doesn't want a cookie cutter family, one that breathes down his neck and demands to know about every move he makes. Even if it'd mean more affection, or a home cooked meal he didn't make himself.
A knock sounds at the door he's been standing by while his mother frets around setting the scene of the kitchen. His father is sitting on the couch, newspaper in hand.
"Mr. and Mrs. Harrington?"
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December 3rd,
1980
Band class is one of Robin Buckley's favorite places.
Why the hell she decided to taint it by taking the first band slot, she'll never know. She could've gone to band at sixth period instead, with the sixth graders instead of the seventh and eighth graders, but no. Here she is.
Playing french fucking horn at seven in the morning, surrounded by other middle schoolers who can't play for the life of them. She's sitting in her section, staring tiredly at the sheet music in front of her. They're practicing for their Halloween performance, again, and she has the sheet music so beyond memorized by this point that she could probably play the whole song completely by herself.
"Alright, brass section, let's hear you!" Mr. Tuppens waves his hands, voice far too cheery for this hellish hour. She complies alongside all of her section mates. She's one of the few in the group that doesn't sound like they don't know how to tune their instrument, and she's pretty sure that the kid beside her is just miming playing.
It's not like the class has changed with the horrid hour, she still plays for a few minutes, the same she has every class this year and the last. She listens to the sound of an imaginary classroom teaching English instead of putting all her focus on a task that doesn't even require it. What she wouldn't give to have English as her first subject. Mrs. Verity doesn't care if she sleeps in class, so long as her classwork gets done.
There is no sleeping in band. Only instruments. "Wonderful!" Mr. Tuppens claps his hands, moving into their section, "Alright, Jackson, you're a little out of key. Let's hear that again, yeah?"
Jackson is always out of key. She doesn't even know why he's in this class, he's always whining and goofing off. Maybe he thought it would be an easy A, but she's getting fed up with having him in the row directly behind her, playing badly into her ear.
(“Now, I’ll warn you kids in advance that this book has some swearing in it, but in the interest of preserving the history of it I won’t be censoring anything. That doesn’t mean you lot can say it in read aloud though, okay? I’m an adult.” The man with a shaved head and tattoos peaking out from under his shirt says to the classroom that surrounds imaginary Robin.
He seems like a cool English teacher to have, even if imaginary Robin doesn't seem to agree. She's sitting with her eyes half lidded, cheek digging into her first. Sometimes, in these daydreams, she's got long, curly black hair, and this is one of those times. It's falling into her face, obscuring the front of the classroom.)
"Yeah, I hear the problem. Alright, Jackson, you're mixing up a couple of the keys." Mr. Tuppens guides Jackson's hands, making him test them to hear the difference. She glares holes into the chalkboard. "You got it? Awesome. Alright, let's hear you guys next."
The section beside them shuffles, instruments clattering and whistling. She lets her eyes unfocus, switching daydreams like they're radio channels.
(“Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, it’s so wonderful to see you.” The man at the door greets. Robin’s standing behind and between two tall adults, both dressed in properly pressed, high end clothes. Her outfit feels stiff and choking.
She wishes she had any control over these daydreams. She'd loosen the thing around her neck, then, “Mr. Charleton, the pleasure is ours. Come on in, we’re just finishing up breakfast.”
“Aren't you always, Mrs. Harrington?” the man smiles politely, shutting the front door behind himself. Despite the pleasant look on his face, there's a deep, foreboding feeling surrounding the daydream.)
"Ms. Buckley?" She blinks, her teacher coming into focus in front of her sheet music stand. Then, the rest of the classroom. The empty classroom. "Ms. Buckley, are you alright?"
"Yes, sir!" She squeaks, fumbling to gather her things. How had she gotten so lost in her head? "I was, uh…"
"Daydreaming?" He teases. She gives him an awkward smile, then dashes out the classroom door to get to her next class before the tardy bell. If nothing else, she's definitely more awake now.
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December 3rd,
1980
There's always breakfast on Visiting days. Something that really portrays itself as a spread of food, covering the table with dishes. He doesn't finish his plate of three thick, fluffy waffles, fruit, whipped cream, and sausages. He never eats this much when they aren't here, but he tries. If only to get his mother to stop giving him the stink eye.
And if he doesn't, then the food she spent hours making will all just get thrown away after the Visitor leaves. She hates leftovers.
He wouldn't mind it all getting packed away for him to munch on for the next few days, it'd save him some money he could be spending on other things than food and takeout. But the extent of, quote-unquote, mess his mother is willing to put up with is the dirty dishes dancing around the sink.
The hints of a living, loving family are dotted around the house. An unfolded blanket here, a bag by the door there. All of these are things that make her twitchy and uncomfortable, desperate for a pristine, sterilized surface.
She'd probably lose her mind if she found out what Steve does to the house when she's gone. If they came home without notice, he'd be screwed.
The Visitor knows that they always have breakfast. He thinks, as far as Steve can tell, that it's a daily ritual he's always interrupting. So he smiles, charming and polite, and says, "Don't let me interrupt, my questions can wait for you to finish eating."
"I keep telling you, Mrs. Harrington, it's Henry." He teases. Steve knows none of them will ever call him Henry.
"And I keep telling you it's Diane." And worse than that, the Visitor will never call her Diane. It's not professional enough, and the last time a Visitor got too friendly with them, someone new replaced her shortly after.
Not to mention, she hates when people call her Diane. What few, few, close friends she has call her Dee or the occasional Dee-Dee, but they're all women. He's pretty sure it just makes her feel important to be called Mrs, and being overly friendly with people she deems lower than her status on the social food chain, like the Visitors, makes her itchy.
"Seems we're still at a standstill," Henry quips, "I'll be waiting in the seating room as always, yes?"
"Sounds great, Mr. Charleton. I'll come with, I finished eating some time ago." Dad leads the Visitor by the shoulder. Steve glares after them.
It's the same song and dance every three months.
He's so sick of it.
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March 3rd,
1981
Robin hates one on one band practice.
She loves band, don't get her wrong, but the one on one sessions her band teacher insists upon for each student are exhausting and uncomfortable. Every single inadequacy in her playing is pointed out to her, laid bare in a quiet room. There're no other students to cover up any mistakes she makes, only a disappointed teacher.
But it's over. School's out for the weekend, band practice is over, and she gets to go home to the new cat her mom got that has fallen in love with her. That stupid asshole of a cat that likes to lay in her bed all the time and wake her up by laying on her chest every morning at six-am, regardless of what day it is.
And she loves it. Because he's adorable, and he's so very soft, and he loves her.
And then her absent daydreaming about her cat, and a warm dinner after a long day of being hungry because school lunches suck and she ran out of the house without her lunch box, is rudely interrupted by a painful sting slapping her across the face.
She yelps, the shock of the sensation sending her tripping her own feet. She ends up on her knees in the band hallway, hand clutching the not so subtly stinging sensation crawling over her cheek. There's nobody around to witness her react to what looks to be thin air slapping her, or to see her continue to stare at the tiled floor in confusion.
"Yes, sir." Is all she hears to follow the… daydream? She's had daydreams that come with small sensations. Or, as she's starting to suspect in wake of being in eighth grade and a full year older, she's had hallucinations. She's even felt sensations unaccompanied by sound or image, but this was…
Just so real.
She leaned back on her heels, gently massaging her cheek. She should get home, if the episode is over. Her mom will worry if she's too much later, assuming she's in that sort of mood today, and eventually the band teacher is going to come out of his classroom and see her out here.
So she grabs her instrument case, and climbs to her feet. She should see somebody about this, but her life is complicated enough without being locked away in a mental institution for something that only happens once every couple weeks.
And who knows, maybe if she ignores it for long enough, it'll go away.
She rubs her cheek absently on her way home, until the pain is merely a sore ghost of what it was twenty minutes before. Her cat greets her by leaping into her lap the moment it’s free, and refusing to get up, even when she tries to make for the kitchen.
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September 3rd,
1981
It isn't hard to get into the game when he knows where to look. He grew up watching his parents, and he knows where to get his hands on a pretty little baggy or two to pawn off. Something with fine powder, or thick dried clippings of plants.
He has two goals for the rest of his high school career.
Become Hawkins' latest dealer so he can afford whatever the hell he wants without going through Wayne without getting caught like his dad, and to form a thriving Dungeons and Dragons club.
Two very different goals, he's very aware. But he's always liked the game, and what few friends he's made at Hawkins Highschool this last year are both into it. You only need three students and a teacher's support to make a club, after all.
And that's where Gareth comes in. He's Mr. Labowski's damn pet. That boy has got the freshman grade math teacher wrapped around his little finger, and he barely had to blink to get him to sign off on the idea and never show up to a meeting. They get to use his classroom after hours and everything.
And he loves being a dungeon master. His friends say he's the best DM they've ever seen, and he practically feeds off it. He's always had an overactive imagination, one that made him intimately aware of sensations he's never felt before. It makes it all that much easier to describe crazy, outlandish scenarios like he's been in them first hand.
Their first official session has just come to a close, leaving the party on their way toward their first question. Side quest, really, because they looked around every part of the town except the one building that had question information. He's already planning ahead for next week how he's going to fit in a new direction for them to go since they'd missed the Mayor's house.
He's the last in the room, like always. He's got too many things to pack up, seeing as almost all the game parts are his. So are the music tapes, and the boombox, and… yeah. He's got like two bags of just DMing equipment that he refuses to leave at the school unattended.
So he's alone when that overactive imagination pours through his fingers. It's an odd sensation, like plucking taught strings. He hears distant, out of tune notes strumming around his head. He glances around, already knowing he's not going to find anything to explain it.
"You have to— here, you have to tune it, Ms. Buckley," a man guides. Eddie feels cool metal twisting under his fingertips, a familiar feeling not unlike the tuning pegs of his guitar, and a warm hand on top of his. He pays it as little mind as it'll let him pay, continuing to carefully pack up his figurines to ensure they aren't damaged in transport.
A sharp, bright pain smacks him across the face. He gasps, dropping his game board onto the table with a clatter so he can brace himself, "Shit!" He hisses, reaching up to touch the still red hot sensation on his cheek. What the fuck was that?
"I've had about enough of your disrespect, boy!" He hears. It's roared from the mouth of someone who sounds like they're spewing spit in Eddie's face, bright red with anger, "You've done this every visit since we took you in, and I'm this close to sending you off to the orphanage, do you hear me?!"
"What the fuck?" Eddie murmurs, hand still pressed against his cheek. This is new. He's used to little feelings, snippets of conversations, the sound of music twinkling in his ears. He's used to the phantom rumble of a car, or the sound of a bike squeaking.
But he's just been slapped across the face and screamed at by someone who doesn't exist.
"I hear you," A young, stiff voice responds. Eddie feels his jaw ache like he's the one talking after being hit.
"Eddie?" He turns, and he sees Gareth standing in the doorway shuffling awkwardly. Who knows how long he's been standing there, gawking at the freakshow. If he saw Eddie talking to himself, he says nothing, "Do you need help packing up?"
"Nah, kid." He waves his hand, putting whatever episode he just had to the back burner. He's not had anything that strong in years, never felt a sensation quite so clear, or heard a voice quite so loud. "I got it, just daydreamin', yknow?" He grins, tipping his head to the side.
Gareth nods, and he leaves without a word. Eddie hopes that in four years, once the kid is graduated and out in the world, that he stops dancing around on such meek feet. He's going to get trampled one of these days.
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April 28th,
1983
“Tommy, I swear to god, if you don’t shut the hell up you can walk to Indianapolis,” Steve warns, raising his hand as if he’s gonna whip around and smack the guy in his backseat, “Carol called shotgun. Quit whining like you're five, you'll get it on the way back."
Tommy groans, like a pathetic toddler not getting his way, and when Steve glances in the rearview mirror he can see the ass pouting and glaring out the window. Carol pops her gum loudly in the seat beside him, casually doing her makeup as if they aren’t in a moving car going eighty-seven on the freeway.
She pops her lips loudly, then leans back and puts the mirror up. He knows that in twenty minutes she’s going to pull it back down and touch up some other part of her face. Probably her eyes, because what few glances he gets of her while trying to maintain focus on the road she’s got clumps in her mascara, and not quite enough shimmer in her highlights or eyeshadow.
Tommy would beat him upside the head if he heard this inner monologue of makeup, and all the flaws in Carol’s. Boys aren’t supposed to know about any of that. But when one of the two people you learn how to form your opinions in the world based on is a chick, you tend to pick up that sorta thing.
“Thanks for driving us, Stevie,” She says, checking her nails, “I’ve been dying to get back to that nail salon that’s nearby, you know the one? The one with the gem chandelier and the rainbow tile floors?”
“Yeah, I remember.” Vividly, in fact. She made him get his nails done while Tommy wasn’t around to make fun of him for it. He doesn’t know if he cared because he knew other people would care, or if he actually didn’t like them. They'd been objectively cute, and on Carol he would probably fidget with them while holding her hand, but on him? Not his style.
He thinks, maybe, he’d like having his nails just painted. Not the full blown, weird, thick fake nail that went over it or whatever that was. He'd peeled off the expensive salon work after twenty minutes of being at home alone. Carol had reamed him out for it and made him let her fix any damage he'd caused to his natural nails.
“It’s hard to forget what you did to poor Stevie,” Tommy snorts in the back seat. Steve rolls his eyes.
“I looked damn good with those nails though, and you know it.” He glances out the window, switching to the fast lane. They've got another fourteen miles on this freeway, and he's not going to spend that entire time going sixty behind some ninety year old grandma.
“Sure you did.”
He did. And he knows Tommy knows it, because he’d called them hot later that night in the back of Steve’s car with Carol getting them takeout down the road. Not that she knows that, beyond the way she teased him for his screwed up hair and Tommy's red face when she got back with tacos.
“He did, Tommy, don’t be an ass,” She drawls, and sure enough, a lot sooner than he expected, she pulls down the beauty mirror and makes a face at her reflection. Clearly, she's noticed the clumps in her mascara.
He cuts off Tommy before he can begin ranting about how boys shouldn't get their nails done. Some days when it's just the three of them, he leans on Steve and tells him he'd look hot wearing one of Carol's dresses. Other days, he postures like an asshole. Today isn't one of the former types of days.
He knows he planned this whole trip out two days ago, but planning something like this and then actually doing it is always hit or miss with him. He just wants to listen to some music, and drive in peace, “Carol, pick out a tape, would you?”
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April 28th,
1983
Lint, her cat, renamed because the name her mother gave the brat didn't stick. The fuzzy, dust colored cat refused to answer to the name Francesco, and she has a running theory that he actually made an effort to stick his tail up and walk in the other direction when he was called for, is thriving.
He loves the clutter in the house, almost as much as it used to annoy Robin. He loves laying on crates of knickknacks, his fat pooling over antique silver plates her mother collects for no reason, not even display purposes. Or maybe display was the original intention, but they never made it there.
That crate of metal dishware has been there for the last four years of her life, and it has been slowly driving her fucking nuts ever since. She always hits her shin on the corner when she's rushing out of the house, and today is no different.
Lint stares up at her from the crate, unamused, as she hops around on one leg swearing colorfully. Thank god her mom isn't home, hopefully at work. Blood smears across her hand, and she groans. Now she's going to be even more late.
"Don't give me that look." She points an accusing finger at the cat, who turns and starts licking his junk. She makes a face, then books it to the bathroom. She wipes it off, only bandages it when she's stared at it for a good fifteen seconds and it's only continued to well up with blood, then rushes out of the bathroom.
Whenever she has to take this bandage off, it's going to fucking suck, because she didn't quite have enough not scratched up skin to put the sticky bits on. She's this close to either throwing out the crate or moving it to the hall outside her moms bedroom door.
Lint watches her run past, and leaps down just in time for her to almost trip over him. "Lint!" She yelps, "Watch it, dude! Are you trying to kill me?" Lint, like the asshole cat he is, gives her a long look, then continues to walk toward the kitchen. "Unbelievable."
It is believable. He does this all the time, and if she didn't love him so much she'd put him back up for adoption. It's not like he's not her cat by this point, since she's the only one who feeds him and cleans out his litter box with the exception of, like, one day a month.
The sound of rumbling cars and the unstable rattle of going fast across a road swallows the quiet sounds of the neighborhood street around her when she steps out of the house. She ignores it, like she's been ignoring things like that for years and years. More so after she realized she was absolutely hallucinating.
It's not like they've caused her any harm. A car sound here, music there, the occasional slap across the face? No biggie.
Biking across town to meet up with Barb and Nancy pulls on her fresh scrape and burns, and when she docks the thing outside the library she finds that blood has run down her leg. She pulls her white sock up, and hopes it washes out later.
"Robin, you're late!" Nancy scolds, but a smile is on her lips, so Robin just gives her a sheepish grin, "What took you so long?"
"I got caught up reading, and then— and then I ran into my moms crate of these, like, antique dinner platters or whatever they're called, and got a massive scrape on my shin. Like, it was bleeding so bad, and I had to clean it and bandage it, and then Lint tried to trip me on my way out," She rants, dropping heavily into the last remaining chair at their small, round table, already covered in books and homework.
"Thank God you're here," Barb breathes the moment Robin closes her mouth, pushing over a piece of lined paper, "I need help with my essay."
"Only if you proof my stupid fucking Algebra homework, I was losing my mind last night. Losing my mind, why are there letters, and— and it's just—"
"Homework before bitching," Barb jokes, "Nance, you're studying for that science test, right?"
"Yep, I've already finished all of my homework. You're free to look over it after you're done with each others, but…"
"But genius Nancy Wheeler doesn't need anybody to look over her work," Barb teases, a fond smile on her face. Robin's heart crumples a bit at just how in love she looks with her best friend, "Where's that Algebra homework, Robin?"
"Shoot, right!"
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April 28th,
1983
Eddie Munson woke up on the first morning of his long weekend to a sharp pain dragging across his shin. He squawked, kicking his legs, his first instinct that something is in his fucking bed.
When he gets sat up, blanket kicked violently to the floor and worn fitted sheet half pulled off the mattress, he finds no evidence of the pain he just felt. He stares with a gaping mouth at where something that he can feel bleeding should be, before he groans and flops back into bed.
These episodes or whatever the hell you wanna call them have been getting more and more frequent, and more and more realistic. He's been ignoring them, it's not like it usually interferes with his life, just distracts him. Sometimes it's helpful, when he's so unbelievably bored in his latest go around of Highschool that he needs to check out and peer into the life of somebody else.
An imaginary someone else, who has apparently just jammed their shin into the corner of some furniture or some shit, waking him up from a very nice dream about his latest D&D campaign direction. Pulled him away from the chaotic monologuing of a big bad, and effectively wiping that monologue from his mind.
He glares up at the stained ceiling. Then his alarm goes off.
"Of course," he mutters to himself, hitting it until it shuts up, then sitting up to double check he didn't snooze it, and actually shut it off. He's got places to be today, but after that rather rude awakening, he does not want to get up and leave the trailer.
But he can't be late to this, not if he wants to afford to fix whatever grinding noise is going on in his van lately. So he crawls out of bed, doesn't bother to fix the sheet, and starts pulling on layer after layer.
His pants jingle with the sound of chains, his vest catches on his shoulder when one of the safety pins decides to come undone and prick him, but it isn't long before he's leaving with a baggy of something not-so-legal tucked into the bottom of his bag.
The alley he's meeting Austin McCurtney in is halfway across town, but he's good for the money, so Eddie revs up his angry at the world van and gently pats the dash in apology, "Sorry, baby, I promise we'll go see a mechanic. Soon, promise," He says, then he puts in a tape and gets on the road.
His customer isn't there when he arrives, so he waits around deep in the shadows and waits. His van is parked down the other street, neatly tucked into the farthest parking spot he could get without being late. As far as any cops should know, Eddie Munson is picking up groceries.
The coin he's flipping between his hands clatters to the ground, and he hears feet shuffle around on the concrete. "Munson, that you?" A familiar, deep voice stage whispers, his silhouette appearing around the corner of the building. Eddie cracks a smirk, loosening his stature and stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"Yeah, it's me, McCurtney. You wanna get in here, or are you just gonna loiter 'round the entrance and give me away?" He quips. McCurtney shuffles into the shadows, shoulders tense and muscles coiled tight, like he's ready to book it at any moment. "Relax, baby, I don't bite."
"…You sure?"
Eddie snorts. "You got the money?"
McCurtney rifles through his pockets like he's being mugged, and pulls out a wad of cash thicker than most of his customers have to cough up. Eddie grins with sharp teeth and plucks it from him, tugging the rubber band off to count them.
He swipes through bill after bill, quick and efficient like he's been working a cashier job for a decade, and when he comes to a clean number tucks it into his back pocket and produces the small baggy he's promised.
He tosses it to McCurtney, just to watch him scramble to catch it. "Then, no." He smirks, tipping his head to the side, "I don't bite. Get outta here, you know where to find me when you want more."
"Yeah," Austin's voice cracks, and Eddie wishes he was on the gossip train just so he could tell everybody how pathetic this guy really is, when faced with the scrawny figure of his drug dealer. "Yeah, uh… thanks, Munson." He coughs, and then he's going, happily taking the out.
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November 4th,
1983
Nancy got the guy, and Robin is mourning on Barbara's behalf.
She's never been into Nancy, never been her type. She's never had a passing crush on the girl, beyond occasionally checking her out in the last year and a half. But she sees the way Barb looks at her, her pretty blushing, and the way she flusters when Nancy compliments her.
But Nancy's a good girl. She's smart, and she could eat the school whole if she wanted to. She's out of both of their leagues, even if Robin wanted her. Not to mention, very much not into girls.
So, Robin is mourning for Barb. Because she knows Barb is trying really hard to be happy for her best friend. And Robin is too busy getting slowly sidelined by them to put in the effort. Not to mention, Steve fucking Harrington?
Sure, he's conventionally attractive. She sees the way every damn girl in the school swoons for him. She's not stupid, but really? He's a douchebag, and Nancy isn't someone who wants a one-off fling with Mr. Popular, is she?
Maybe she doesn't know her friends as well as she thought she did.
She's considering getting new ones.
Barb and Nancy haven't called her in weeks. They've been put into different classes this year, and Robin hasn't seen them during lunch period, either. She doesn't know where they're going, just that after the first two weeks of semester she started eating outside, instead of braving the cafeteria for friends who aren't there.
Even despite that, and the fact they haven't hung out, and that her locker is on the other side of the school from theirs and the best they give her is a passing good morning in the hallways now, she's still heard the news. Everybody knows everything that goes on in The King's life, including who he's shagging.
New friends. Especially if her current ones are going to be getting into the popular crowd. Someplace Robin doesn't belong.
That's why she's here. Standing outside the freshman year math teacher's classroom after school hours. She decided that if she was going to expand her social circle, clubs aren't a bad place to start. And stapled on top of the baseball tryouts paper was a club for this game that looked interesting.
If it doesn't work out, she can try to get back in with Nancy and Barb. It's not like she's dropping them. She's just… picking up their slack. She can have more than two friends, yknow? She doesn't need all of their attention.
"Oh, a fair maiden!" Crows a voice from the room the moment she peaks through the door. She startles, grip tightening on her bag, "Have you stumbled upon the wrong room, darling?"
She turns to find a man standing at the far end of a fold out table. His hair is long, and black, and curly. He has this aura about him that's charming but offputting that makes her smile awkward and nervous, "Uh, is this…" she eyes his shirt, that very clearly proclaims the title of the club, "The Hellfire club?"
"It sure is. You looking for someone?" The man closest to her says, with loose brown curls hanging around his face and a brow raised.
"Don't be a dick, Gar, maybe she wants to join!"
The guy across from 'Gar', who has dark skin and close cropped black hair, snorts, "Yeah, right."
"I do!" She squeaks, shuffling in place, "I, uh… I saw the poster for it on the bulletin board by the office? And it looked cool, but I know it's a game, and it's one that I certainly know nothing about, so it's totally okay if you, uh, don't want me here. I'll just— leave!"
Long curly hair lurches, like he's gonna grab her from across the room, and his metal fold out chair clatters behind him when he moves to leave his space behind the table, "Don't go! You can totally join. We're, uh, in the middle of a campaign right now but I'm sure we can fit you in."
"I don't want to impose, I was just looking for something to do after school. There're other clubs, I don't need to—"
"No, no, I insist." The guy comes up in front of her, grinning, "You can stick around and watch for today, ask questions if you want. Do you have time after the disclosed club time ending? I'll run you through the basics, maybe help you make a character?"
Is he coming onto her? She's never had anybody do that before, but something about his demeanor feels, like, flirty? But maybe she's completely imagining that. "Sure!" She stammers, "Yeah, I, uh… don't have anywhere to be! Where can I sit?"
"Wherever there's space, sweetheart," He winks, then he returns to his seat. Her face is red hot, and she does her best to hide in her jean jacket when she settles into an empty chair at the table.
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April 28th,
1983
The mall in Indianapolis was big, and fancy, and full of designer brands that Carol wanted to buy twenty things from in each and every store. Tommy, naturally, wound up carrying the majority of the bags. Carol's reasoning— and as a result, Steve's reasoning— being that he would buy all of three things today, and wouldn't need his arms.
Steve carried six of her bags until the hair care store he visited every time they came to the mall, seeing as they only swung through three times a year. He needed to be plenty stocked up on the products that make the Steve Harrington hair as iconic as it is.
At which point they'd ditched Tommy in the food court, disappeared into the store for an hour, and returned to find him flirting with a woman clearly too old for him, with a clearly stuffed bra and unrealistically tiny waist. Steve gave him an unimpressed brow raise, to which Tommy did little more than shrug at.
"You know those were fake, right?" Steve commented, setting his bags with the pile of what was primarily Carol's stuff. Tommy scoffed.
"No, they weren't."
Carol snorted, dropping into the chair across from Steve and beside Tommy, "They totally were. You could see the padding."
"It's not like I was actually gonna get with her." Tommy shrugged, leaning back in his chair. Steve hid a smirk behind his well placed hand, watching his best friend attempt to play off his embarrassment, "I've got plenty to work with right here."
"You sure do, baby," Carol cooed, ruffling his hair and getting a slap across the hand in response, "Go get us lunch."
"What?" Tommy flailed, sitting up straight, "Why me? Why not Steve?"
"Because Steve didn't start hitting on someone the moment I took my eyes off him."
There was a stare off between the two of them that Steve watched with amusement, and when it broke Tommy threw his arms up, "Fine. I'll get lunch."
"We love you, Tommy!" Steve called after him, getting the middle finger thrown his way in response. Carol giggled, moving to Tommy's seat. Steve watched her dig into her bags for something, before letting his eyes unfocus.
The mall faded out around him, something he was aware of in the corners of his mind but not a focal point. If nothing else, at least having an overactive imagination like his made it easier to entertain yourself.
The view of a wooden table with papers and books spread across it came into view, long orange hair hanging around his face. It took him a moment to realize that the papers were homework. The familiar girl that starred in half his daydreams was reading over an essay, and as he sat there watching through her eyes she would occasionally mark things off and make notes.
"You're making lots of marks on that, Rob," An unfamiliar voice commented, a lightness to her tone. Red lifted her head, and he was shown the sight of another redhead, this one with distinctly shorter hair, and out of the corner of his eye a brunette, who was focused on a book and hardly paying them any mind.
"Well, yeah," Red shrugged, hair bouncing with the movement, "Sorry, the English teacher is, like, super strict, and if there's one thing I'm good at it's grammar, y'know? Plus, some things are repeated too many times, or, like, phrased wrong, so I'm just giving you notes on all of them."
"…Right."
"Plus, here? I think you meant use…"
Steve came back to reality to the sound of sharp snaps in his face. He blinked, the conversation becoming background static before fading altogether, just like the view of the library and the two girls, "You back with me?"
"Yeah, what's up?" He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head, "How long was I out?"
"Like fifteen minutes, assuming you left after Tommy did." She waved her hand, "This magazine isn't nearly as interesting as I thought it'd be, so tell me about what Red and Black are doing."
Red and Black, the two that plagued his mind, running through typical lives. It's too bad his daydreams don't feature more interesting times, but sometimes he would check in one of them and they'd be dangling their legs over the side of the quarry, or making a dish he'd never had before. Which was enough for him.
He shrugged, "Red's in a library," He offered, "Editing someone's essay, I think? Halfway through she started talking about everything that was wrong with it with the owner of the essay, I guess, so you saved me from having to hear about that."
She snorted, "You're welcome. Since when does Red have friends?"
"Beats me, I haven't seen either of them before. I guess the brunette was familiar, but in that way where I swear I've seen her before but don't know where," He said, "But I also couldn't see her in full focus, and she was hunched over a book."
"Ooh, two friends," Carol's grin was made of sharp lines, and were Red anywhere nearby he's sure she'd be taunting the girl, "What about Black?"
He hummed, eyes fluttering, trying to pull the daydream to the forefront of his mind. The mall cafeteria and what looked to be an alleyway fought to maintain focus.
"You got the money?" Black asked, hair hanging around his face. It doesn't get in his eyes, despite the way he was leaning to the side, but the loose curls are a brief reminder that he's not even the main character of his own daydreams.
The man in front of Black rifled through his pockets, looking tense and ready to bolt. He pulled out a thick wad of cash and handed it over. Black reached into his inner jacket vest pocket, one that Steve knew the contents of before the smooth plastic baggy even touched his fingertips.
Carol's looking back at him, nails tapping on the metal table loudly, when he lets go of the daydream, "I…" Steve snorted, shaking his head, "He's doing a drug trade in an alley. Made a pretty penny off of it, looks like."
"I come bearing gifts!" Tommy interrupted Carol's response, dropping three bags of mall takeout, "What're we talking about?"
"Red and Black."
"Oh, of course." Tommy rolled his eyes, "What're they up to?"
"Library and drug deal," Steve filled in, grabbing his food. Bourbon chicken with extra sauce, the same thing he got on every visit to the mall, "Where're we heading after food?"
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November 6th,
1983
"Okay, so…" The redhead beside him bit down on the pack of her pencil, hunched over the paper covered in eraser marks and smudged pencil. At this point, they're gonna have to transfer this whole sheet to a new paper just to make it readable, "Does this look good?"
Eddie sets his book down, he's been refreshing himself on bards for Robin, and flips around so he can lean over the side of the bed and take a look, "Your initiative should be +2, it's the same as your dex mod. See?" He points toward the modifier for her dexterity in the corner, "The other ones look good. You've got all your spells picked out, right?"
"Yeah, I think so…" She pulls the pencil from her mouth, flipping it to erase and then making a face, "…Got another eraser?"
He cracks a grin, "Yeah, hold on. I'll get you one you won't chew on," he teases. He hops off the bed, opening drawers he knows are full of random crap until he finds a plain eraser stick, "Here."
"Thanks! I keep forgetting I actually need to use my eraser. I usually write in pen for classwork, and just scribble it out. Oh, wow," She sets the eraser aside, wiping away the shavings, "That works way better than the pencil eraser."
He drops back onto the bed, laying in a way that he can check over her shoulder if he needs to, but not uncomfortable. "Let me know if you need anything else."
She hums, pulling her knees up and grabbing the book she's been referencing for spells. He, in turn, grabs his own, and they fall back into silence. It's been four hours since she came over. She hasn't been making her character that whole time. That was the original goal of the meeting, after finding out on Friday that she hadn't read any of the books.
It might've been easier for him to build her a character, but she just seemed so interested and it's not like he doesn't own all the books she'd need to figure it out herself. So, he invited her over to go over it together. And then they'd gotten distracted when she saw his tapes, and talked for two hours, and… yeah. Now they're back on track.
And then, of course, the lights go out.
He groans, "This fuckin' trailer, man, I swear," He gripes, stretching to hit the light switch a few times.
"I don't think that's helping," Robin quips at the sound of him flipping the switch over and over again.
"It's not not helping."
"It's definitely not helping."
He sighs, and relents. "Let me go check the rest of the trailer, see if I can't figure it out. There's a flashlight, uh…" He rifles around under his bed, stretching to feel for his prize, "Here we are! M'lady, feel free to continue reading, I will return soon."
Eddie leaves her on his bedroom floor, and goes to hunt down the breaker. It's only when he's trying to pull the couch out from where he's pretty sure it's in front of the thing when he realizes that it's so dark.
None of the lights in the trailer park are on, shining in through his windows. He pears out the glass, face screwed up in confusion. Did the whole park go out? Seriously?
The light flares on. As he's staring at it.
"Motherfucker!"
"You good?"
He rubs at his eyes, stumbling back toward the room. Shit, may as well have fucking flashbanged him. "Yeah, yeah, the lights turned back on right in my face," He gripes, "Although, that reminded me, my fair maiden."
She looks at him with a lopsided smile, batting her lashes, "Yes, my liege?"
He snorts, "You should be heading home, it's pretty dark out. Can't imagine your folks are gonna be too happy you're out so late, hm?"
"Eh, my mom doesn't mind. But you're probably right. I'll copy this over to a fresh sheet and see you on Monday?"
"You mean tomorrow?"
"Yeah, yeah. I usually eat outside for lunch, meet me by the big oak?"
"I got an… errand to run during lunch first, but yeah."
"Errand?"
"Should take ten minutes, tops."
"Alright. Well… see ya', thanks for letting me over. This is really interesting, just… really complicated," She laughs, "Bye, Eddie!"
"Bye, Robin."
He watches her go, and waits to make sure her bike makes it out of the trailer park before he settles back into his room to clean up the books and papers. And, of course, by clean up he means he picks them all up, haphazardly stacks them, and shoves them by his D&D bags. It's not like the rest of his room is clean, what difference would it make if he piled them all back onto the lopsided bookshelf?
Eddie slots a tape into his boombox, cranking the volume down so he doesn't get another noise complaint, and settles in to relax.
Five minutes of writing notes for Friday later, he's startled so badly he breaks the lead of his pencil against the paper. A vicious roar tears through his ears, flashes of dark woods curling into the corner of his eyes.
He leans forward, setting his book and pencil down, breathing. It's not real. Adrenaline runs through his veins like he's running for his life, and he can feel his feet slamming against the forest floor. His imaginary self looks over their shoulder, red hair flinging around his face.
A monster is racing through the trees toward him. He yelps, startling back against the bedroom wall like it's really there. Like it's real at all. A horrifying creature with its face opening like petals of a flower. Hundreds of teeth stick out of the angry red flesh of its mouth, and it roars.
His imaginary foot catches on something, and he goes down. The last thing he sees of the scene is the monster standing over him, spittle flying.
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November 7th,
1983
"Did your guys' power go out last night?" Steve asks, to the two teens standing at his either side. He's a bit busy trying to figure out what he wants to write on his note to Nancy, and trying to do it before she gets to school.
Carol groans, "Yeah, midway through my fucking movie. Totally screwed up the tape." She gripes, "Like, why is this a problem we're dealing with? Did you see the news? They don't even know why."
Tommy snorts, "Course you were still up. I was sleeping, but my mom says it went out." He shrugs, "Bitched about it all morning."
"Don't say that like you wouldn't be up! Only reason you were sleeping early is because—"
"Girls, girls, you're both pretty," Steve drawls, scribbling the simple Meet me in the bathroom, -Steve message in blue marker and starting to fold the paper, "Let's not do this this morning. I'll see you in history, yeah?" He raises a brow toward Tommy.
Tommy groans, "Yeah, yeah. C'mon, Carol, let's leave Steve to his new favourite toy."
"She's not a toy, dude."
"Sure. Have fun, Stevie!"
"Don't call me that!"
Carol lets Tommy corral her away, arm slung over her shoulder. He can hear the obnoxious laugh from across the hall. He loves them to death, they've been great friends since he got back into Hawkins, but sometimes he'd just like a morning away from them.
More lately than before. They've been more obnoxious this summer, making a point to be delinquents. Not that it isn't fun, because it is, but sometimes going bigger doesn't go better.
He drops the note through the grates in Nancy's locker, then skips off to the nearby bathroom to wait for her. She should be here in… a glance at his watch. Any minute now, she's always early. Whether that's because she intended to get to classes early, or just because she wants to chat with her friends? Isn't relevant. He just knows it means he gets her all to himself for ten minutes this morning.
He tucks himself into the crook of the wall, where he's just out of sight from when you come in through the door.
He doesn't have to wait long. Nancy comes pouring into the room after just a couple minutes, and he doesn't waste any time pushing her up against a wall. He lets his hands explore her body, mouth working its way across her lips.
"Steve, I have to go," Nancy murmurs against him after a nice, long uninterrupted session of reminding himself how she tastes. He hums, working his way down to her neck.
"In a minute."
The bell rings behind them, and he switches to her other side, covering up where she's trying to look at her watch. "Steve, I really, like…" She pauses to kiss him back, but it doesn't keep her quiet, "Seriously, I have to go." She pulls away, and he lets her this time.
Not enough to let her get her bag, though. He swoops around her to pick it up. Gosh, he's enjoying Nancy Wheeler like crazy, but it'd be so much easier if she wasn't such a goody two-shoes. All the other girls he's messed around with wouldn't have cared if he occupied them all through first period.
"Okay, hold on, let's—" He steps away so she can't grab her bag back, grinning, "Let's do something tonight, yeah?"
"I…" She ducks down to grab her books and folders, "I can't, I have to study for Kaminsky's test."
"Oh, come on," He rolls his eyes, "What's your GPA? Three point nine nine nine…"
"Kaminsky's tests are impossible."
"Well, then, just let me help." He pulls her bag out of her reach, not letting her grab it until he gets a yes. She can study later, what's one night of actually having fun? She totally knows everything there is to know about what's on that test, he's sure of it.
"You failed chem."
"C-minus, not failed."
She smirks, leaning forward, "Well, in that case…" She teases, finally letting him keep her bag. Of course, that's when he presents it to her.
"So, I'll be over around, like… eight?"
"Are you crazy?" Nancy laughs, "My mom would not—"
"I'll crawl in through your window, she won't even know I'm there. I'm stealthy. Like a ninja."
Oh my god. Why would he say that?
It makes her smile, "You are crazy."
He pulls her aside before she can leave him alone in the restroom, with no plans for the night, "Okay, okay, just forget about that. We can just… chill in my car. We can find a nice, quiet place to park."
"Steve. I have to study. I'm not kidding." Her voice becomes firm, and he realizes he should probably stop pushing. Not if he doesn't want to deal with an angry Nancy Wheeler.
"…Well, why do you think I want it to be nice and quiet?"
A smile grows back onto her face. She tugs on his shirt, straightening it out, "You're an idiot, Steve Harrington."
It's a statement that, quite frankly, renders him a bit speechless. She said it so fondly, and he can't decide if he thinks it's cute, or upsetting.
"Meet me at Dearborn and Maple. At eight." She heads for the door, then pauses, turning back, "To study."
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November 7th,
1983
Nobody at school knows what happened to her.
Nobody at school is bothered. Nobody at school is harmed, or scared, and nobody at school spent the entire night dozing for five minutes at a time and then startling awake in a panic, swearing they saw something move in the room seconds after opening their eyes.
Her ponytail is coming undone and she hasn't bothered to try to fix it. Her heart won't stop racing. The bags under her eyes have bags of their own and she can feel them sinking against her cheeks. She's exhausted, but she can't stop looking over her shoulder, trying to watch for—
It.
She's been trying, and failing, to convince herself it isn't real. That she hallucinated the whole thing, and it was just the most real hallucination she's ever had. She felt it's hot breath on her face, saliva dripping onto her shirt. That sticky, thick, off-clear liquid stayed on the fabric for an hour, no matter how much she wiped and scrubbed at it.
It was loud, and it was in her face. Her hallucinations have always been easy to differentiate between reality and fiction, especially the visual ones. They were full scenes, the occasional movement out of the corner of her eye. Never individual entities or structures.
But it had to be a hallucination. She's getting worse, but she's in too deep to tell anybody now. That's not even considering that when she finally got home her mom was nowhere to be found, and she didn't return in the night, either. Robin made breakfast for one, and left with only words exchanged between her and Lint, her moral support for the waking nightmare she got stuck in.
How she got through classes, entirely undetected in her constant racing heart and shaking hands, is beyond her. She's debating going home, but sitting alone in her empty house would not help her paranoia, at least here she's surrounded by people. It can't get her here.
Or, at least, it'll take longer for it to get to her. Would probably kill a couple hundred kids in the process. Which, arguably, would mean she wouldn't die, but she would have to live with the death of hundreds of kids on her conscience.
Bad train of thought. Focus on getting to the meetup point, Robin. The monster left her alone, abandoned her in the woods, she's fine. It isn't going to come back for her. Lunch period is upon them, and she just wants to get to the big oak in peace. She wants to sit there, happily eat her home made lunch, and chat with Eddie about her new character before the meet on Friday.
The sea of students is the same as it always is. It doesn't part for her as she slides between people and bumps into shoulders time and time again. The yard is sprinkled with students, all enjoying what they can of the sun before it starts getting cold again. Her thin jacket protects her from the worst of the wind when she settles down at the base of the big oak.
She finishes half her lunch, shoulders pulled in tight and legs curled against her chest, twitching at every movement and sound, by the time that Eddie gets to her. She watches him approach, no lunch in sight, and manages a wobbly smile once he's close enough, "You look like shit, Buckley."
"Wow, thanks, Munson, you sure know how to make a girl feel special," she drawls, scooting so he could sit beside her, "I moved everything over to a new sheet of paper, but, uh… didn't have the template?" She chuckles nervously, pulling out her hand made character sheet, "So, I did all the lines and prompt words in pen so you could tell the difference, I guess? But I figure we could just move it over again if you had the papers. Totally fine if you don't, though!"
Eddie waved her off, snorting, "I've got plenty of blank character sheets, Buckley."