Chapter Text
“You sure about this, El?”
El is sitting on the couch in Mike’s basement, and Dustin is looking at her with a frown, a flicker of concern lighting up his face. He’s holding a noticeably sharp pair of scissors. El nods decisively.
Upstairs, Max, leaning against her sticker-covered wheelchair, is reading It aloud to Lucas and Will, who are both trying to get lunch ready. Every couple of minutes, Mike comes over and complains about the smell, or the color, or the excess of salt, and then he storms off, and then Max threatens to throw the book at him, which is bigger than his head and would probably leave a nasty hole. Mike sneaks off with the excuse that he’s finishing homework, but everyone knows that’s not true, because it’s winter break and his parents aren’t around to question his lack of studying.
Hawkins... isn’t normal. The dangers never really went away, especially after what happened last spring, and last summer, and last fall, and... well, the last two years. The group hasn't fully recovered yet. Lucas glances at Max sometimes and misses the energetic girl she used to be, and a pang of sadness washes over him as he sees the traces of pain etched on her freckled face. They've grown up, they're not children anymore, now the threats are more real and intertwined with their personal struggles. The Mind Flayer plays with their minds, living up to its name. They know because of the things Max recounted seeing, when the Shadow Monster possessed her and caused her to lose her limbs, just as it had done to Will, convincing him to stab himself in the eye. Now, although there seems to be a certain calm, and they try not to mention the subject, they all anxiously await news of who will be the next to fall, and whether they will be able to survive once again.
“You’re not getting a haircut?” Mike asks, turning to Max. “It kinda suits you. Like, getting a random haircut.”
“Mike, I’m a ginger. My hair is already punk.” Max lowers her book. “If that’s what you mean.”
When El and Dustin go upstairs to the kitchen, El pulls down her hood. Her hair, once long and somewhat messy, now looks short again. Max is the first to see it, and a huge grin spreads across her face. She rolls over and grabs her hands so El crouches down to her level.
“Oh my god,” she says. “You look so fucking good.” The ends are a little uneven, and the pink dye is barely noticeable, but Dustin did a good job. He leans against the basement door frame, watching the scene, almost like he's proud of himself.
Mike approaches from behind. “You and Will look even more related now.”
“Really, Mike?!” Lucas screams, sitting on the counter.
“It’s—It’s a compliment!”
El laughs and turns to Will, because she knows he’s laughing too.
“I mean,” he says, stirring the pot with his spoon, “Yours looks cooler.” Lucas nods.
This feels nice. She can’t deny it. They like it. It’s okay.
While everyone is talking, El gives Dustin one last look. She doesn’t have to say anything; with a small smile, Dustin understands that she's thanking him. He smiles back.
It's been a few hours and everyone's home.
Eleven is in the shed's bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. She doesn't know how much time has passed, but her reflection is playing tricks on her, showing her things that aren't there. She closes her eyes tightly and leans against the sink. Dustin's scissors become the machine Papa and the other bad guys used. Her long, liberating hair is gone, and the bathroom is her prison. She's back in the lab, bleeding again, crying again, and...
Eleven slams the bathroom door open, and in a kind of trance, she leaves the shed and runs. She runs and runs through the woods of Hawkins. She knows nobody is going to search for her right now, no one's home. Tears stream down her face. And suddenly, she knows exactly where to go.
After walking for a while through the trees, with her hood up, she reaches the Mayfield's house. She doesn't knock; she knows it's always open.
The redhead sits near the windows, still reading It. She's wearing a brownish sweater and baggy, ripped jeans. She never lost the habit of wearing that kind of clothing, even if she can no longer skateboard. Her hair, pulled back in a quick bun, shines in the light of the setting sun. El thinks she looks so beautiful that it would be best not to disturb her. But memories haunt her, and she doesn't want to be alone.
"Max?" Max looks up and sees her. "I don't know if I like it", Eleven blurts out, on the verge of tears, without looking her in the eye.
"What? What happened?"
Eleven hesitates for a moment, but Max's gaze is tender and invites her to open up. El sits down, wrapping her arms around her knees, close to Max. “I don’t want to hurt Dustin, but I’m not sure if I can do this,” Eleven says, looking at the floor. “I know he had good intentions, it just reminds me too much of… of the lab. I’ve never cut my hair before, they always did. It’s… weird.”
Max nods slowly. “Yeah. I get it. I mean, I don’t, but I do.”
Eleven gives a small smile.
“You know what?” Max says suddenly, grabbing El’s hand. “I’ve got a solution. Come with me.”
El follows Max’s rolling-walk through the house to the bathroom. It’s small, but no smaller than the one in the shed, and both fit comfortably. The lighting is warm, not harsh, not like the lab. Not like the lab.
“Why don’t we give your natural hair a chance?” Max announces then, rummaging through the drawers.
“My… natural hair?”
“Yeah.” Finally, she pulls out a green bottle. “Silly, you have curly hair.”
Eleven unconsciously touches her mop of hair.
“You think this bit of hair is going to make curls?”
“You have more than enough. Here. Let me show you.”
El sits down, gently resting her back on Max’s dead legs. She closes her eyes once more. No bad man had ever touched her so gently, so carefully. When they did, El didn’t feel comfortable, quite the opposite. So she had grown up with a strange feeling about physical contact. It wasn’t repulsion, it was confusion. As if she didn’t quite know what each touch, each brush meant. The first to teach her how physical contact could mean real affection had been her friends, and yet, when she closed her eyes, she felt somewhat stiff again, out of fear of showing vulnerability, or of not being able to be vulnerable enough. So that afternoon, in Max’s bathroom, El let herself be carried away by the movements of Max's hands on her head, massaging her curls, like some kind of ritual. She knew it was just Max, and that was okay. It was okay. She repeated it to herself over and over. After all, the bad memories were just that. Memories.