Charley

He moves beyond the concrete path, guided by old memories, before stepping on a soggy newspaper disposed of upon the dormant land. He doesn’t just catch the headline; it physically calls his attention.

Hawkins Post, Roane County's Independent Newspaper, Oct 3, 1991

DEER MUTILATIONS DISCOVERED BY HUNTERS; BLOOD DRAINED CARCASSES. SHERIFF WARNS OF WOLF IN ROANE COUNTY.

Wolf in the area. That’s what they came up with? Good.

The man settles beneath the shielding shoulder of a large oak tree and faces a weathered headstone. It reminds him of when he was younger, rarely accompanied by his father. More often than not, he’d spend the day biking out alone with an acoustic guitar strapped to his back to serenade his mother.

Elizabeth Munson.

A forlorn smile touched his lips; even now, he couldn’t believe he was back in this bleak, dreary town, but the world felt incredibly depressing without it. Everything in his life was taken from him tragically, and no matter where he goes, it haunts him. All he’s become, and what he’s done to survive.

“Hey, ma.”

Her son’s voice could be incredibly soft, even holding a hint of her southern cadence, when it wasn’t ripping through a microphone.

He slides off his headphones, realizing that they had been practically blasting into his eardrums. Though it doesn't affect him, he still manages to hear the faintest sound, like the soft rustling of the leaves, even a woodpecker in the distance, drilling into a tree, but its tiny heartbeat seems louder.

“I picked out some flowers; they’re blue. I thought it would match your eyes and the skies.” He expresses, laying the flowers down, before raising his head toward the conflicting clouds, which so rudely block out her sunshine, “Well, y’know what I mean.”

“I didn't plan on delaying this visit for so long, but a lot has happened since I left for Los Angeles. I'm still workin’ at a shitty dive bar, living paycheck to paycheck, but the band is growing an audience. Our newest single got some airtime on a local radio station, and now, we’re in talks with a record label that's interested in signing us.”

“... I think you’d like it out there. Maybe it would even grow on you. I… I don’t like going to the hills anymore, but the beach, at night, is pleasant. I definitely don’t have the knack for surfing, though.”

The man chuckles, though it dies down, as all the joy is pulled back to a vile pit in his stomach. His walls of defense are being ripped apart faster than they were constructed. 

“Mama, I-I ruined everything.” He confesses, ashamed as tears brim in his eyes. “... should’ve never trusted those people.”

“I should be with you right now, but ’m s-stuck, like this, and it's fucking cruel. And here I am, selfishly puttin’ lives in d-danger, all cause… I miss my life so badly. Uncle Wayne and my friends. I'm unworthy of it all.”

He hiccups. “I’ve become a monste-” 

A faint scent of patchouli catches in the wind, making the otherworldly individual swing his head around to spot an elderly woman. 

The miniature poodle, leashed at her feet, trained on him from a distance, began barking aggressively. It came as quite a surprise to her; she’d never seen him act so heartlessly, to the point where she was holding back her prized possession with all of her strength and an apologetic expression.  

He rushed to collect himself, arranging that emotionless disguise once again as he sniffled and wiped away the flood of tears from his frigid cheeks. 

Elizabeth would’ve been deeply opposed to him suppressing his emotions.

“Uh, Uncle Wayne had his knee surgery, so I thought… I could help out while he recovers. He doesn't ask for much, but I think he likes the company. Anyways… that’s pretty much it, thanks for listenin’…”

He glances at the delicate petals laid against the earth; they’re closer to her than he’ll ever be.

“I promise I’ll visit before leavin’ and… I-I love you, ma.”

Hawkins, 1986  

With the sun casting a reddish-orange glare through the pine trees, it reflects off the burgundy beamer driving along an empty stretch of road, one you’ve traveled countless times. As a cold reality settles on your shoulders, you realize how fast life is moving, and by sunrise, a significant part of it will be gone.

Sixth grade in the small Indiana town was a major culture shock; everyone else had grown up together since they were in diapers, sharing childhood memories from the teeter-totter to sandboxes, whereas you had to prove yourself to earn a spot in the community circle.

After your parents’ bitter separation, you and the remaining family were left to settle into a double-wide trailer on the outskirts of town while one parent lived several states away, with scarce communication; an occasional birthday card would do.

The adults led laborious lives that left them no time to notice your social struggles, but everything changed when an older, rebellious boy entered your life. Destiny seemed set in stone the moment he joined you at a sun-bleached picnic bench, where you found solitude with medieval tales. It began as an invitation to a fantasy role-playing game, but things grew from recruiting into a genuine friendship.

He was no Prince Charming; he was your knight in shining armor, with grass-stained jeans, holes in his sneakers, and a wicked buzz-cut.

Eddie Munson.

Because life has a flair for the dramatics, casting you as the star of a tragic love story, blind to each other’s devotion well into adulthood, where “inseparable friends with benefits” became their only fitting label.

Kissing practice led to sexual exploration, fueled by a cannabis-induced high, raging hormones, and an unspoken attraction.

Your bodies intertwine in a silent roar of love, whereas your voices choke on the truth.

The man in the driver's seat deliberately moves closer, resting his elbow on the center console, letting his warm skin brush against yours. With his opposite arm reaching the steering wheel, his thumb taps along to the week's top hits on the Casey Kasem segment.

A comfortable intimacy filled the air when your eyes met his. He was beautifully sculpted, with soft, smooth cheeks, pink lips, and a prominent nose. His navy blue polo shirt clung snugly to his broad chest, accentuating freckled skin, while the breeze played with his thick, voluminous hair.

Steve Harrington.

His presence was always on your radar; it was harder to ignore the arrogant "king” of the school. Being the co-captain of the swim team and a shining star in basketball gave him a sense of superiority.

You were completely invisible, except during history, where a certain someone would lean over his desk and attempt to charm you for the pop-quiz answers. Occasionally, you’d glance at your friend with the honey-colored perm, who points the eraser toward her mouth and silently gags. She, too, shared your displeasure with the airhead.

Everything changed in junior year, when you witnessed a raw vulnerability in him after a brutal fistfight in gym class with the new kid from California, a mullet-rocking “badass” that women seemed to drool over. But, despite his stamina and aggression, he ended up with a split lip and a bruised ego.

Steve loomed over him, breathing heavily, nostrils flared, and an intense primal rage reflected in his glare, while the teacher and two students held him back. For the first time, he struggled to muzzle the beast, and before the situation escalated further, both involved in the fight were taken away separately: one to the nurse's office and the other to the principal's office, where he was forced to sit and wait for his father.

“Byers kicked his ass, but Hargrove couldn’t?”

Grant was perplexed, looking around the long table, which was constructed by a bunch of pushed-together desks. At the moment, it felt more like a knitting circle than a D&D club, with gossip echoing off the walls of Mrs. Donven’s empty classroom. She had generously lent them a temporary spot to play “board games,” as she referred to it, and nobody had had the heart to correct her. At least, it’s better than her denying access to the space and accusing them of being “satanic.”

“It's textbook behavior, dude.” Jeff hung his leather jacket over the back of his chair and took a seat, always willing to give his input on the mind of a shitty, popular jock. “Wheeler kicked his ass to the curb, Steve is defeated and heartbroken, turns to the dumbbells, and starts a fight with the baddest for her attention..."

You kept your head down and furrowed your brows in concentration, while the boy with a golden halo of hair leaned closer. His head accidentally brushed against yours when he tried to peek beyond the red sharpie you were using on your canvas, which happened to be the cast on his wrist.

“I bet I could take him,” he said in his signature fiery spirit, swiping the marker cap from you and drumming it against the table.

“In a fight?” Jeff laughed, “Oh, you can’t be serious.”  

“You might want to stay off the jocks’ shitlist until this heals,” you muttered, bringing a faint flush to his cheeks, which you pretend not to notice for his sake.

“Listen to her wisdom, Gareth…” Eddie leans over his storytelling screen and arranges the miniature figurines, “It’ll keep you out of the hospital.”

Gareth reclines back into his seat as your eyes shift around, unable to fight your own curiosity. “So, who started the fight again?”

A smirk curls across the metalhead’s lips, seeing as they’ve roped you into the buzz. If you could reach, you'd kick him.

“Well-” Grant interrupts before Jeff can properly finish his answer. “Billy!”

“Yeah, Billy was provoking him, and then Steve started bashing his face in like a total madman.”

A sharp hiss escaped your teeth as you clenched the marker tight between your fingers. It certainly doesn’t sound like a pleasant sight.

The curly-headed teen shrugged it off. “I say, deflating a douchebag’s ego is a public service, and we should do it more often. He almost ran me over in the parking lot yesterday, for God's sake!”

“We didn’t do shit, Grant. Harrington did.” Gareth reminds him.

He feels your hand release his, allowing him to look at the trippy mushroom design of his charismatic woodland elf straight from the character sheet. “Oh, this is fucking sick!” He smiles, throwing a friendly arm around your shoulder in a side-hug.

Jeff takes a swig of whatever soda the vending machine managed to cough up. “It’s astounding that he and Billy aren’t friends, considering they’re both getting high off the same hairspray.”

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, that’s enough,” Eddie declared, causing everyone to turn their heads in unison. He solemnly laid a hand over his heart as he spoke, “As much as I enjoy shitting on Harrington, there are far more pressing matters.”

As the quest begins, you quietly slip away and swipe the van keys from the counter. You love watching the dungeon master in his element, but the promise of a secret stash in his glove compartment was incredibly tempting right now.

Strolling down the empty halls, you hear the sharp click of hard shoes on scuffed linoleum. Suddenly, you're staring at a well-dressed man in his mid-forties, with slicked-back hair and a clean-shaven face that reveals his frown lines of disapproval. From this distance, he already looks like a prick.

It could only be the one and only,

Dan Harrington.

The principal was eager to satisfy the wealthiest parents of Hawkins High, so talking his son out of a suspension was a cakewalk. After sharing a firm handshake and some sleazy jokes, his father strolled out of the office, barely glancing back at his only child, who trailed behind like a kicked puppy. It was only when his father reached the entrance that he finally stopped.

“If you don’t control your emotions and face reality, you’ll always be a liability to whoever you surround yourself with.” His father’s words were meant to plague his mind, sensing the chill that spikes through his young counterpart. “We will not allow you to destroy our livelihood. Your grandfather gave us stability and control, and you’re over here, acting like a goddamn fool.”

Funny. He absolutely hates his father. Now, he’s using him as some prime example?

“One wrong move, and your mother and I will have no choice but to wash our hands of you.”

Danny doesn’t stay to talk things over; he shuts the door in his son's face.

Steve’s lip quirks in disbelief, dragging his fingers through his untamed mane, unaware of the dried blood smeared on the green trim of his gym shirt.

He retreats to the wall, his knees trembling when his shoulders strike the metal lockers; he’s too frustrated to feel the sting of his skin. He sinks to the ground, smoothing his palm down the side of his shorts to shield the skin of his thighs.

Once he notices you, a small curse slips from under his breath as he becomes bright red from embarrassment.

She’s probably on her way to tell all her friends how absolutely pathetic I am, on the verge of sobbing in the hallway like a pussy.

No one in this forsaken town could understand the reality of his struggles. Not his friends, nor the girls he went out with. Early in the semester, his parents informed him that they were going on a six-week-long “vacation” as a family, which seemed odd since summer had just ended. However, he was open to it, especially since his girlfriend had just dumped him; he felt the need to escape for a while.

Next thing he knew, he was held up in his father’s inherited cabin.

All the doors had multiple deadbolt locks, and the windows were nailed shut, barely recognizable from the faint childhood memory of visiting after his grandfather's death.

It was all for a reason: the traumatizing transformation; his bones feel as if they’re snapping and shifting, unnaturally rearranging themselves one by one. Skin stretches tight, beyond its limits, as he morphs into a monstrous shape, a curse that has haunted the Harrington bloodline for generations.

He becomes a shell of his former self, stripped of reminders across his back, shoulders, hips, and thighs of various skin tears and stretch marks. He hid them as much as possible, ashamed to see himself in the mirror, and withdrew from his circle of popularity; they were assholes anyway, so he wasn’t missing out on much.

Ever since the cabin, he’s been on edge, waiting for the time he’ll accidentally break his thin sense of control.

Dad’s right. Today was stupid, and I let my emotions take hold of me.

It’s like a thread tugs you closer; maybe it’s your subconscious, or from guilt, whatever it is gives you no choice.

"That's uh, my locker."

Steve raises his head and notices your index finger directed toward his back, which takes him a second to realize. "Oh!" he exclaims, scooting out of your way.

As you twist the dial of your combination lock and swing the metal door open, he is staring at your shoes, which were scribbled on with various sentences.

Society sucks!

Want a colored TV? Try LSD?

Don't touch, she has rabies! - Doctor M

"Was that your father?..." You inquire, tucking your makeup bag under your arm. “No offense, but he sounds like an asshole."

“Yeah, he, uh, tends to make an interesting impression.”

The casual way you present yourself encourages him to unfurl from the position he’s in, straightening the knee closest to yours and tipping his head back.

"Wanna talk about it?"

This is the first time you’ve initiated a conversation with him, and it felt like a kind gesture he didn’t deserve, especially since he was a nuisance in class. It takes a second to remember your name, not from a formal introduction, but from roll call. Sure, he always thought you were pretty, but he was never a person who chased girls; they just naturally flocked to him.

Well, every girl except you.

“I wouldn’t want to burden you,” he answers timidly, as he drags his thumb across his bruised knuckles. 

Never would you have thought about voluntarily putting yourself out there for Harrington, and yet here you are, choosing to ignore your own instincts while you check the clock above the school’s bulletin.

“Well, I do have about an hour and a half to waste,” you kneel beside him, maintaining eye contact while you present a small carton of rolling paper. “You smoke?"

“Sometimes… If, like, a friend has some at a party, then yeah.” He rambles, a bit flustered, making it even more unbelievable that he was the same madman your friends were blabbing about.

“We’ll keep your usage to a minimum, party boy, just enough to help you forget about that hand of yours.”

You toss the box to him and stand up, making your way towards the exit, while you listen carefully for the scuffle of sneakers behind you. Instead, he looks down at his lap, lost in thought. If he went home now, he would be crushed by his father's pressure, but there you are, offering him an escape.

You push open the door; he jumps to his feet and jogs to your side. “So, where are we going exactly?”

“I just need to grab a dime bag from my friend’s van,” you reply, watching him bounce down the concrete steps.

The fresh air is incredibly refreshing to him, peeling the edge of his shirt to lift and flap slightly. You, on the other hand, were drawing your coat closed across your chest.

“We’re not about to get chased down by a drug dealer, are we?” He jokes half-heartedly when you're climbing across the center console from the driver’s seat to open a metal lunch box.

He tries to focus his eyes around the neglected interior, the blue fabric seats that screamed of the ‘70s and had foam peaking out through tears, or hell, even dirty floorboards, just anywhere other than your ass in those denim pants. “As I told you before, he’s a friend, and I’ll pay him back later.”

“Hey, will you just… uhm, can you promise this stays between us?... If my dad finds out, he’s gonna wring my neck.”

“Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington smokes weed, big deal,” you said, pocketing the plastic bag and hopping out onto the pavement, before meeting his solemn gaze; he actually was intimidated by his father. "I promise, your secret is safe with me. I usually smoke behind the school. No one will see us."

He nods in gratitude; his soft underbelly was out and entrusted in a stranger's hands, until he inevitably lays out the million-dollar question. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

There's a high chance you'll come to regret this in the morning when he ignores you in the hall and acts as if you don't exist. But, as a kid, you were once the odd one out, and nobody gave you a chance except for your best friend, who stepped into your life and offered a shoulder to lean on.

Steve deserved redemption, too.

-

“Stevie, do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

You lean on the upholstered armrest, flashing an award-winning smile.

He raises your chin excessively with his index finger, prolonging the moment, as you roll your eyes, masking the butterflies in your stomach with a sense of annoyance.

“Hmm… yeah, there’s a bit on top.” You groan, sliding away from his touch and moving closer to the dashboard, without the restraint of a seatbelt, while you flip down the sun visor.

The cool air from the vent blows over your neck and the exposed skin of your cleavage in that cropped, sleeveless, pinstripe vest. A blend of misty floral and pine wood perfume mingles with your natural pheromone and wafts into his nostrils, unintentionally tempting him. He craves to breathe you in and kiss at your sweet, supple skin.

Unfortunately, you were reserved by none other than your tender-loving metalhead.

“Why are you so worried? He’s just gonna lick it off anyway,” his voice drips with sarcasm, making you pause midway through vigorously rubbing off the dark red tint to slap his thick, jean-clad thigh in distaste.

Steve became a permanent third wheel to this unlabeled love affair, but he wasn’t talking out of his ass; those teasing comments were highly probable. He claims not to pay attention to those flirtatious exchanges, lingering touches, or even the constant love bites left on each other’s skin. Robin, on the other hand, doesn’t buy that for a second, considering she’s been in his position many times before. She knows how diminished hopes will make you cover the pain.

The first time he invited you to a house party, he was unaware you’d be bringing Eddie “The Freak” Munson. By the end of the night, he had retreated to the corner of the main room, the plastic rim of his solo cup pinched between his teeth, watching in blatant jealousy as you claim fistfuls of his bushy hair and a saliva string stretches between your mouths.

Disappointed by losing valuable time to a raw, edgy appeal, tattoos, a crooked grin, dimples, and- oh god... Steve finds him thoroughly irritating, but his dick doesn’t notice the difference. Still, he'll insist that he doesn't like men; it’s a false attraction, a fleeting impulse that holds no real significance.

At the video rental store, he finds himself lingering too long in front of the gay porno section, uncomfortably warm beneath his clothes. Sometimes the pornstars have that dirty rockstar type, appearing as though they'd have a massive bush and a giant fucking horsecock.

In his mind, they all resemble a certain town pariah, but he ultimately swipes some stupid title like 'boobie busters' or 'evil head.'

Throughout the remainder of the ride, his hand lies on the back of your neck, his warm touch a steady anchor while his thumb draws slow, soothing patterns across your skin.

You lean your head back into the headrest, feeling him ease on the brake and turn down the gravel road. You observe the trailers in passing, almost dizzy from how fast everything was moving, how quickly your sense of control was diminishing. 

When the concept was first introduced, you were lying across Eddie’s mattress, chin resting on crossed arms, watching him on the floor. His beloved guitar rested across his sturdy thigh while he repeated a few chords by ear, constructing bold life decisions, too late in the night. His grades have been on the upswing; soon he’ll be crossing that stage in his cap and gown, sticking it to the man in charge, and snatching his long-awaited diploma so he can sprint toward the cover of Rolling Stone.

Now that graduation had passed, money had been saved, and plans were in motion, everything led to the Golden State.

You couldn’t blame him for wanting to start pursuing his dreams; opportunities were greater beyond this town.

The car comes to a stop outside the trailer, where the bandmates drift in and out, carrying boxes to the van and bidding farewell to the new leaders of Hellfire.

Steve descends from your neck to your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, in a simple message: he's there for you. Unexpectedly, your response is leaning across and kissing the corner of his lips. When you pull back to see his faint blush, you thank him for the ride. 

“Ride?… Oh, right, of course, anytime! I’ll be seeing you in the morning, but if you need anything tonight, give me a call, okay?”

Secretly, he wishes you would wake him and ask for a ride back. You’d probably be so apologetic that he’d have to hold you. Then, he’d sneak you into his room; the likelihood of creeping past his father’s wickedly strong senses would be a challenge, but he’d do just about anything to snuggle under the covers and fall asleep together. 

Suddenly, a knock upon the passenger's window interrupts the moment. Both of you direct your eyes toward the tall, slender teen. 

Steve squints, recognizing that deadpan stare even from a mile away. “I’ve been here for one second, dude. You can’t just get all antsy and kick my passenger out.”

“It’s fine. I really should go.” You said with a small smile, before sliding out of the beamer.

The slight breeze lifts your elephant bells, prompting him to reach for his pearl-gray windbreaker. "Here, just in case."

You lie the smooth material over your arm, as the downcast sophomores shuffle past and climb into the car, Mike, of course, taking shotgun, while Will, Lucas, and Dustin squeeze into the back.

Mike blatantly points out, “You have lipstick on your face.”

“Zip it, Wheeler…”

Steve peeks at the reflection, noticing Dustin, his best friend, slouched against the door with his hat pulled low to conceal his red, puffy eyes, which absolutely breaks his heart.

As you watch your closest friends depart in their separate vehicles, a pair of arms mold around your waist, making you practically melt.

You turn around slowly and hide your face in his neck, as a stray, wild hair tickles your face. “How was the campaign?”

Eddie inclines his head and kisses your forehead gently, tracing his fingertips down your spine. “My sword is officially sheathed for retirement... Now, it’s time to rest.” He replies with an exaggerated sigh. 

"Becoming a rockstar is 'restful retirement?’" You mumble in his warm, sheltering embrace. 

"Everyone needs a hobby, sweetheart… Don't want to croak too early." He teases, causing a faint smile to stir on your lips, a simple sight that tests his restraint.

Eddie pulls a set of keys from his back pocket. You remember those dusty keys sitting in a Reno, Nevada ashtray by his bed for ages. “C’mon, we’re going to make the most of my final hours,” he announces, guiding you to his father's old but dependable muscle car, which has been left on the property since he was sent to prison.

Dents cover the doors, a testament to a blatant lack of awareness, scratches along the jet-black paint courtesy of an ex-girlfriend, and a baseball cap left on the dashboard. A reminder that he instantly chucks over his shoulder, letting it disappear into the backseat.

​The engine roars to life, almost as if it’s grateful to be running once again with the assistance of his magic hands, replacing a battery, spark plugs, and tires. He’d successfully brought Frankenstein's Bride back to life for their travel. He accelerates the gas and exceeds the speed limit down the familiar stretch of road, surrounded by nothing but the mystery-filled forest.

You glance over and catch him bobbing his head to the blaring stereo, a cigarette perched between his lips, and his hair tied back in a messy bun. You tug your jacket collar over your nose to hide a small, involuntary grin, just as red and blue lights begin to flash in the mirrors, abruptly killing the vibe.

Jim Hopper.

The Chevrolet Blazer kicks up a cloud of dust as it tears out of the hidden path; well, actually, he’d just been parked in overgrowth, completely radio silent, and enjoying the leftovers made by the department's greatest secretary.

He curses under his breath, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray and lowering the volume, feeling your hardened stare of disapproval, while he pulls off to the side. “Listen, I know you’re mad, but I didn’t expect Gramps to be out this late… Hey there, Chief!” Eddie greets the Hopper, who places his wide-brimmed hat on the roof and slouches down to peer inside.

You give him a polite wave, knowing it wasn’t the first time he’d caught you two doing something dangerous and illegal. Eddie had built a reputation; authorities had been to his trailer numerous times.

Still, Hopper always let you babysit his daughter when you needed money for groceries or gasoline. He even slipped you extra, as long as you weren’t sneaking boys… mainly, Edward… over to the cabin.

The police chief scrunches his brows, a bit puzzled as he sweeps the flashlight along the side of the car, the air pungent with exhaust fumes. By now, he should be asking for license and registration; instead, “Who’d you steal this from, kid?”

“Well, this beauty used to be my father’s, but now, she’s officially in my name.” He smiles cheekily, wiping his palm across the dusty dashboard. “It’s been rusting on the property since the dawn of time.”

“Well, congratulations…” Jim shines his bright light into his shrinking pupils, watching him raise his hand and block out the blinding beam. “You two have been drinking? On any substances that I should be aware of?”

“Nope, nothing in our systems. Not yet, of course!” Eddie retorts, feeling your hand lace around his bicep and those nails dig into his flesh, like a mother trying to silence her rambunctious child.

“He’s just kidding, Hopper.” You try to reassure a scowling Hopper. 

“Right… since you’re leaving tomorrow, I’m going to let this slide. Just wait until you’re out of my town to do anything stupidly illegal, please?”

A mutual agreement was then established: “stupidly illegal” had its limits and could be easily circumvented until ten o'clock in the morning. Jim gives a reluctant good-to-go, knocking twice on the roof, snatching his hat, and treading back to his blazer to finish his semi-cold meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

“Should I ask for a police escort on my way out as well?”

“Oh my god, you’re such a brat.” 

Eddie moves closer, a massive smile on his face as he flashes those long, alluring lashes, paired with large espresso eyes that were utterly intoxicating.

“And yet, you’ve stuck around this long.”

Later in the night, you find yourself behind a vacant lakeside house, perched on the hood of a car with your friend's jacket draped over your shoulders for warmth. A gentle euphoria settles over you as you listen to the crickets and the heavy splash of stones across the dark water. The headlights cast golden rays across him, looking remarkably handsome in the crescent moonlight as he skips rocks across the shimmering expanse of Lovers Lake.

You tap the ash from your joint; a herbal-scented smoke curls around your face as you begin to relay Harrington’s warm regards for safe travels; it’s rather endearing.

Eddie rests his hands on the small of his back, the fabric of his band tee stretched taut across his waist. He tilts his head inquisitively, “Oh, yeah? Pretty boy must’ve been jumping for joy.”

“You think he’s out celebrating because of childish rivalry? Trust me, he’s more mature than that… unlike some,” you retort, eyeing him from head to toe, though you lose all seriousness when he sticks his tongue out at you.

“Well, now that yours truly is out of the picture,” he ambles over, bypassing the joint you offer and intentionally settling between your thighs. “He has the opportunity to finally sweep you off your feet and breed with the finest-”

You release a sharp, audible gasp, nose wrinkling with fine lines at his crude words, as he grins devilishly. You swear he gets a thrill from making you squirm, though your attention subsides from his words to the proximity of his lips to your ear. It is impossible to think straight.

“What’s that noise for, baby? I thought he wanted six little nuggets.”

Steve doesn’t need to prove he can have anybody he desires; it just shows. If he were determined to settle down young, he would’ve done so by now. He definitely hasn’t been scheming till this moment… right?

A sarcastic comment from the drive over is brought to your recollection in the form of a faint whisper.

Why are you worried? He’s just going to lick it off anyway.

Right then, you realize their so-called hatred was all just jealousy, as they seem to rent space in each other’s minds constantly.

“You both are ridiculous," is all you can manage as you lift your legs from the bumper and lace them around his hips.

He pulls you flush against him and sneaks his hand beneath your brassiere, kneading the warm, tender mounds, while your nipples pebble against his palm.

“Hm, I’ll admit, he’s the total package, handsome, cool, and charming. Not to mention, he’s got a big dick, and a decent rack.” You roll your eyes, acting like his locker room talk doesn't intrigue you. He knowingly grins and persists, “Oh, and daddy’s money, of course! ’m worried you’re gonna forget all about me.”

“I can promise you, Eddie Munson isn’t an easy man to forget,” you flip the marijuana cigarette and watch him pinch the filter between his lips. He takes a slow, deliberate drag and blows the smoke out his nostrils, which was irresistibly attractive.

“I have something for you…” He murmurs, his voice low and scratchy.

Biting your bottom lip, you teasingly glance toward his belt buckle. “Is it long, hard, and full of fun?”

His fingers slide around his neck and beneath his shirt's collar. “Oh, that’ll come soon, princess,” he promises, presenting a small, red triangle in his palm.

A small object that was engraved in your memory, the guitar pick swinging from his sweaty, hickey-covered neck the night he took your virginity. “It’s uh, nothin’ too fancy, but think of it as a little token from me to you, a reminder to call your friend when you have the chance.”

All the emotion you’ve been holding back hits like a freight train, your lip starting to tremble slightly and eyes becoming glossy as you're finally forced to accept reality. “Will you, uhm-” your voice breaks when he symptomatically brushes your cheek and catches your heartbroken tear. “Will you put it on me, please?”

The delicate chain settles against your skin, holding the last trace of his warmth. As he fastens the necklace, his hands cradle your neck, and his lips graze the spot behind your ear, leaving a lingering kiss before gently drawing your earlobe between them.

“God, I’m gonna miss y’like hell…” He descends into the crevice of your neck, catching another man’s unmistakable musk in your jacket.

​You flick the joint onto the ground and thread your fingers through the roots of his hair, pulling his head back. He recognizes that desperate look in your eyes, and the way your chest is already heaving with anticipation, which ultimately leads to your lips crashing together.

Lipstick smears, teeth collide, as you hungrily lick into his mouth. 

“... mh, why don’t you just- take me away from all this responsibility? I could be your groupie.”

It sounds like one of those silly, late-night conversations you’d miss sharing so dearly.

“Straight from books and pencil-thin skirts, to glitter and leather… Sounds sexy as hell if you ask me.” He murmurs between breathless kisses, “but won't you miss your ol’ man?”

“I’d convince him, mmph, to come with me.”

You boldly reach out and grab the enticing swell of his erection, which makes him groan. "Oh fuck, fine, he can join us, as long as you keep him on a leash...”

Who knew discussing another man made to be insanely hot dirty talk? 

Hawkins, 1991

Steve bounded up the concrete steps two at a time, a freshly wrapped sandwich in hand and a blazer thrown over his forearm. He grabbed the worn copper handle and pulled open the library doors, stepping back as a middle-schooler dashed past him. A flash of blond skidded to a stop, and, to his surprise, offered a brief apology before running inside.

The librarian, tucked away behind the counter, raises her head and peers at the children. “Mr. Turnbow and Ms. Wheeler, you two could just about wake the dead,” she lectures before locking eyes with a dashing gentleman in a blue pinstriped shirt and pressed trousers. With a polite smile, she points down one of the aisles and answers his unspoken question.

You bend down, returning a set of novels in their designated alphabetical order when a figure suddenly blocks the front of your cart. “Can I help you find anything?” You ask, glancing back to see your roommate and a fresh sandwich on top of your stack of books. He worked right down the street at his father’s insurance company; it was a convenient walk, so he always made little visits, though it certainly didn’t sell the fact that you weren’t dating. The number of times you had to correct people was getting exhausting.

“If I say yes, does that mean I can pull you from work for a minute?”

The washed-up athlete slides his sunglasses down and hooks them onto his neckline, exposing his warm hazel eyes to the public. The immense exhaustion from his complex work environment was visible; it isn’t the job he desires, but it’s the one he endures, even when he’s subjected to his father’s criticism.

“Still on the clock, Corey Hart,” you answered, unable to hide your smile as you stood on your feet and leaned into the cart’s handle, “y’know, you really don’t have to go out of your way to bring me lunch.”

“It’s not out of the way. It’s right across the street, and spending my break with you beats sitting around with those miserable assholes back at the office.”

As usual, the library's noise was at a bare minimum, broken only by a faint scuff of shoes on hardwood and the sweep of pages.

Steve, amidst his quiet-spoken vent about his father’s recent business complaints, would occasionally reach over your head and place a book where he knew you couldn’t quite reach.

“You really should find somewhere else that treats you with respect,” you suggested, feeling a wave of protectiveness wash over you.

Danny was severely aggravating, even from a distance, traveling coast to coast and enjoying retirement. You wished his parents would lose all forms of cell service. The condescending remarks and expectations were just ridiculous.

“I’ve dealt with him for twenty-four years. It’s nothing new,” he shrugs and swipes Walt Disney’s Bambi from your cart, matching your pace into the history section. “If I quit today, that means my parents would move back in, and I refuse to put your living situation at risk. I can tolerate him if that means we get private property for ourselves.”

It was a lame excuse; surely there were other ways to solve this problem. Of course, he feared his life would unravel if his parents returned; their annual visits were already overwhelming. But he loved having you there, sharing the illusion of a home.

The book appeared small and flimsy in his large hands as he flipped to a random page, his smile slowly fading at the classic literature and woodland creatures that reminded him of childhood, when talking animals sparked his young curiosity. 

"If you want, I’ll put him in his place,” you tease, receiving a strain of silence that makes you look back, noticing his wide eyes fixated on the illustration with a shallow breath.

Shredded fur lands upon the forest floor, snapping bones pierce his retracting ears, and the final cry of a fragile fawn being ruthlessly thrown around like a rag doll sends a shiver down his spine.

“Harrington?… Hey, Hare? Are you okay?”

You haul him from that disturbing visual, and he swiftly shuts the book, placing it back in its original spot before responding with a feigned casualness, “Just peachy.”

With a slow, unsure nod, a bit of concern still on your mind, you walk over to the mahogany desk, where the librarian is nestled in her chair, nose-deep in a romance novel, evident from the dramatically posed couple on the cover.

Marissa Waldon.

She watches the two of you interact with a knowing smile before returning her attention to the faded pages. You ignore her as you tidy up the messy stack of newspapers left behind by the youngsters who had hurried out of the library with armfuls. Steve glances at the bold headline of the article, his jaw clenching with discomfort, before shifting his focus back to you.

“Benny’s Burger is having its grand reopening. We should go to kick off the weekend,” he suggests, sliding closer with his elbows on the counter.

“I thought you had a date with that bank clerk?”

He sheepishly scratches his jaw, “Yeah, I did, but she uh, canceled on me last night, and we probably won’t be going out anymore, so...” 

“What happened? It seemed like you two were hitting it off.”

“I mean, we were… but I guess it just wasn't meant to be.”

Steve wasn't going to admit in broad daylight, to you and your coworker, that he accidentally moaned your name while they were dry humping on her futon.

And obviously, you have yet to cash in a paycheck to notice the brunette’s furious glare. Whoops.

“Anyways, I thought we could go together; it’ll be fun! I’ll even get you a milkshake.” He flashed those soft, puppy-dog eyes that gave you butterflies, a sensation that was a common occurrence whenever he was present.

“Well, if you’re going solo, then I guess I’ll join. As long as you secure me a twisty straw.”

“I believe that can be arranged,” he grins, glancing at his wristwatch and swiping a copy of the newspaper, which he rolled into a tube and tapped against his thigh. “I’ll see you after your shift.”

“Don’t be late.”

Oh, it’s guaranteed that when you walk through those heavy double doors with your tote over your shoulder, Steve Harrington will be leaning against his prized vehicle like a heartthrob, putting Jake Ryan to shame.

Marissa drops her book, beaming with excitement after he leaves. "Is that a date?"

Her voice holds immense hope, considering she’s been wanting you and him to couple up for ages; you roll your eyes at her evident eavesdropping. “No, it’s not a date.”

“It certainly sounds like a date,” she counters, peeking over her glasses with skepticism, and tapping her manicured nails on the desk, “canceled plans, an unrelenting love, maybe it’s fate?”

“Those cheesy novels are going straight to your head.”

She turns away, dismissing you with a flick of her hand, clearly tired of your same old responses. Of course, you were aware of Steve’s infatuation, but you wouldn’t bring yourself to cross that line with a close friend ever again.

Those things never end well.

-

Benny’s Burger had hit the lottery when a woman entered the establishment, more specifically, the owner’s new wife, who had contributed some money and given the joint an entire facelift.

Those yellowed, nicotine-stained curtains were swapped out, along with a fresh coat of paint, new tile floors, and sleek cherry seats that border the spotless tables, adding a splash of color to the usual gray backdrop, which was complemented by mustard and ketchup bottles.

And for the first time, there are decorative bat streamers and mini pumpkins everywhere, celebrating the Halloween season.

Memories are embedded in this place; your family has a history with the owners. In fact, you went out on a date with Benny’s son in the summer of sophomore year.

Denis was just as tall and brooding as his father, but a total sweetheart. The two of you shared a couple of classes, though apart from that, he wasn’t in many after-school clubs; most of the time, he was working here or doing homework at one of the free tables.

You and the rest of Hellfire would scrounge up some loose bills for some fries and milkshakes. Denis would often glance your way with a shy smile, only to divert them whenever a certain outcast draped an arm over your chair. He spent months building up the courage to ask you out, though your relationship didn’t go beyond his first kiss. He was raised with manners and incredibly polite, but you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering to someone else.

You press your thumbs together, index fingers raised, ready to receive the paper football. Steve lines up his shot directly across from you, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration, before flicking the paper with his middle finger. It jumps to the right, merely missing the goal post by a few inches.

“Why can’t I ever beat you at this game?” He sighs dramatically, copying your position as you swipe the paper and face the flat side toward you.

“Spend some sober time at the hideout with drunk patrons, and you'll start gaining useless skills, too. Flick from the center, not the edge.”

It flies across the surface, striking his chest and landing in his crotch, making a smirk spread on your lips, unable to hide your satisfaction.

The waiter walks over, placing the whipped-cream-topped milkshake on your table, with a thick, ripe cherry and a hot-pink twisty straw. “Thanks, Denis! By the way, the renovations are amazing. The difference is like night and day!”

“Oh, yeah, it was really nice to see Dad accepting some changes. The only downside is we'll be working even harder from now on,” he jokes shyly, glancing sideways at your friend. “Uh, food will be out soon.”

Out of context, anyone might interpret this as a romantic date; in fact, you think Dennis might have taken it that way too, as he quickly steps away to assist another customer.

You take the cherry off and place it on your tongue, licking off the whipped cream before biting it off the stem. Steve glances at your lips for what seems like the second or third time today. His foot bounces on the floor, shaking the table, and he has to steady his knee.

“Stevie, you have to try this!” You exclaimed, boasting as you swirled around the straw. There hasn't been a shake this good since Startcourt went up in flames. Back then, Steve would give you free dessert while you shopped. Robin always thought it was a bribe to get you to visit, because nobody else, including the kids, received special favors.

“I promise I don’t have germs.”

“Well, since you drool on my pillow at night, I’m going to assume I already have your germs.”

You roll your eyes as he swipes the glass, takes a few sips, and thinks it over. After a moment, you nudge his foot under the table for an answer. “Well, what do you think, sailor?”

“Mhmm, it’s a bit chalky, but honestly, it’s the best of the sad options we’ve got,” he gives an exaggerated smack of his tongue, adding, “I bet I could make it better, though.”

“Well, I guess you are the professional.”

He eases back, confidently stretching an arm on the empty chair beside him, grinning proudly. “Impressed, sweetheart?” 

You chuckle softly and shake your head, watching him push his hair behind his ear; the overgrown look adds a small touch of maturity.

“So, I told you about the thing coming up with my family, right?”

“The cabin and fishing- sucks to be you... It's weird your parents don't prefer to gamble in Vegas or something.”

He wishes.

“I know, I know. It’s just… tradition at this point. Taking out the bass boat, experiencing nature, and whatnot.” He explains, leaving you confused as to why he agreed to go despite his reluctance.

How bad would it be if he skipped a year?

You glance toward the window as it begins to drizzle. “What if we went somewhere this spring? Just the two of us. We can escape Hawkins for a couple of days.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve replied, raising his brow.

"Yeah, I have some PTO saved up. We’ve been wanting to visit Robin and Dustin! We can make a stop along the way-” You pause mid-sentence, eyes drifting to an older gentleman in a denim jacket across the diner, walking with crutches.

Steve glances over his shoulder and recognizes the patron, who leans his aluminum support against the wall and slowly takes a seat. You excuse yourself from the table; with your history, you felt compelled to say hello.

The man examines the specials on a paper menu, seeking a decent dinner that can survive being boxed up and reheated. As he does, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a bottle of prescribed painkillers, and tosses two back with a sip of hot coffee.

“Hey there, stranger,” you greet him with a soft smile, catching his attention.

Wayne Munson.

Beyond his rough exterior, nobody knew him well enough to recognize when his expression lit up; it happened the moment your eyes met. He relayed your name with enthusiasm, like you were family.

“Are you feeling better?”

Wayne pushes the orange-tinted bottle behind his mug as bystanders pass, not wanting any negative assumptions put upon the Munson name.

“Still kickin’, considerin’ my age and whatnot, doctors say I’m healin’ faster than expected and should be walkin' on my own very soon.”

You cross your arms over your chest, “Did you drive yourself?”

“You’d be breakin’ some rules too, girly, if you were cooped up in that trailer with a bum knee… But, my nephew bein’ around has made things easier, thought I'd grab him some dinner.”

The sting of bittersweet memories makes the hairs on your neck stand as you repeat for clarity.

"Eddie's back?”

It was evident in his eyes that he was excited to have his nephew back in town, cherishing their quality time after years of disconnection.

“Oh, yeah. He’s been here for a few weeks. He needed some time away from the city to write an album, and said he'd help since I ain't been workin’,” Wayne notices your subtle, pained expression when it hits him. “Hasn't he stopped by t’see you yet?”

You inhale deeply and shake your head. "No, he hasn't." You hold a steady tone, trying to convey a sense of acceptance that's not as easy as it seems.

"Hm, well, that's strange, but I noticed he ain't been talking much lately. I don't know what happened to him out there." Wayne leans in and adds quietly, "I'm not tryna spread his business, but he might've been using, and I think he could still be havin' some withdrawals."

His words tear a hole in your heart. The struggles Eddie has been up against, possibly on his own, make your stomach sick; now you're unable to be a part of his recovery. 

"Maybe, bein' out here is makin' him feel funny, but that don't mean he isn't thinkin' bout you, cause I know that boy loves the hell outta ya...  Now, I aint sayin' you have to, but he's workin' back at the Hideout. It’s temporary, just till ’m paying the bills again, so… you know where to find him, just in case.”

You think to yourself how it has been too many years to show up unexpectedly and play savior, but for his sake, you put on an acknowledging smile. It wasn't his responsibility to try to make you feel better; even with all the stress he's enduring, he still cares.

To avoid dwelling on the past, you pinch yourself back to reality and wrap up the conversation, expressing gratitude for his generous offer and wishing him a smooth recovery.

Then, you wish your old friend well and attempt to avoid the heartache.

Frequently, you wonder,

Does he feel the same way? Or has he forgotten about us completely?

Los Angeles, 1988

The City of Angels: it’s inviting, meant to lure folks into the appeal of sex, drugs, and rock ' n ' roll, then swallow their lives whole.

Eddie's curly hair stuck to the layer of sweat on his forehead as he looked around the dingy apartment. All the doors were barricaded, and the sheets were ripped from the mattress to cover the windows.

Eleven days straight, he’s been wired awake, enough time to sicken or perish, but neither liquor, hard drugs, non-ingestible chemicals, nor the slow killer of smog would take him from this living nightmare. He was two years behind the infamous twenty-seven club, and wondered which rock stars' glory was cut short by this awful disease coursing through his veins.

He lifted the glass pipe with his thumb over the carb and fumbled with the flint wheel of his lighter, brows furrowing when it refused to spark. It only takes two tries before he’s tossing it aside and yanking open a black metal lunch box in a feral search.

If he doesn’t find another lighter, he’ll tear this place apart.

Eventually, beneath condoms, rolling paper, pill bottles, and a nearly empty bag of weed, he finds one. At first, he’s relieved, though something dangerous awakens inside him when he spots a single photograph, dated a couple of months back, at the fairgrounds.

You stood beside the little donation stand on behalf of the local library, with a variety of books neatly arranged for the public's view, free books for the community, and a spot for anyone looking to donate any reading material.

Shielding your eyes from the sun with a hand raised above your brow, you look into the camera and offer a polite smile, revealing the curve of your neck. He brings the photograph to his nose, inhaling the faint trace of you that lingers beyond the developing chemicals. He's horrified by the intensity of his urges, discovering this hidden artifact only intensifies them.

Eddie didn’t walk.

He ran across the apartment, snatching the telephone off its cradle and nearly yanking the cord from the wall, as he began to dial your number.  

Three... One... Seven...

His thumb hovered over the next number with reluctance, but the devil on his shoulder was stronger than his restraint.

Nine… Eight... Three…

He shouldn’t be doing this. It was selfish. He’s been avoiding you for a reason.

One... Five... Four... Seven...

There's a short silence, then a deafening ringback that strikes his eardrum, flinching his head away as though he’s been splashed by holy water... A theory he’ll be testing soon to see how accurate comic books are.

“Mmh'arrington residence."

He salivates like a wild animal; an unexpected pull from your slumber probably made your heart race, whether you realized it or not, your strange, midnight admirer would.

“Hello?... Mhm, helloo?" You roll onto your back and blink a couple of times at the ceiling, left to an eerie silence that only amplifies your irritation.

It’s insufferably hot in this room.

Who the hell calls someone at two o’clock in the morning unless it’s an emergency?

My alarm goes off in three hours!

You perch to your knees and hold the telephone between your ear and shoulder, pulling open the window with a soft grunt. “Alright, who is this? I can hear you breathing." He leans his forehead into the wall and screws his eyes shut.

You tuck a pillow under your arm and notice the distant shadow of an unread book on your vanity. Next to it sits a vase of dried, wilted roses from a year ago, a graduation gift from your roommate. Suddenly, your attention is drawn to an object swaying on your jewelry arch, a red guitar pick.

Now you're wide awake.

Inside your nightstand were stacks of letters and postcards, filled with familiar chicken scratch, doodles, and affectionate words. You used to receive them monthly, but now everything has gone silent.

It's been six weeks since you last spoke, and you’ve never felt so helpless and restricted.

The only means of communication had been through mutual friends, his bandmates, who have also expressed concern for his well-being and have been pissed at him.

Gareth told you he’s become involved with a sketchy group of people who introduced him to the vices of the nightlife.

You reached out as often as possible, in hopes of hearing his voice.

“Eddie, is that you?”

He caught his lower lip between his sharp teeth and punctured into the flesh without a trace of blood. “Yeah, I'm here...”

"Well, it's about time. I mean, I thought... something terrible happened to you." You said with a sense of relief, concern, and irritation wrapped in one. "Where have you been?"

“I’ve been held up with work... and all the shit involving the band. I haven’t had a chance to call until... right now.” He spoke vaguely.

It felt unnatural to lie to you.

"Oh, uhm, really? I talked to Gareth, and he said you've barely been showing up for practice and you quit working security."

Goddamn it, Gareth…

He was frozen in place as a wave of guilt rushed over him, wishing he could pour his heart out and tell the truth. Unfortunately, there was no way to reveal his current crisis or the chaotic state of his apartment; comics and D&D guidebooks were scattered across the floor, seeking answers for humans without a pulse.

“I’m aware."

The sharpness was evident in his tone; sure, there had been a few silly high school arguments, nothing that a few apologetic kisses couldn't resolve, but now, you were far away, scrambling to resolve this tension over a phone call.

"Well, are you okay? Are you... safe?"

"I’m fine. Never better, in fact." He murmurs, white-knuckling the receiver as he lifts his head toward the bathroom, focusing on the cracked mirror above the sink, his dark eyes piercing in the reflection, then back at the wielded photograph.

A vampiric monster was nothing more than a predator, meant to terrorize and consume; it's all he'll ever be, unworthy of your love and generosity. “… Listen, uh, we can't talk anymore, or at least for a while,” he announced hesitantly, hearing your breath hitch.

You shook your head in denial. Was this real, or just a terrible dream? Maybe the ring of the telephone was only the alarm clock telling you to wake the fuck up.

“I don’t understand. W-where is this coming from?… I-I swear, I'm not trying to give you a hard time. I’ve just been worried about you; everyone has!”

“Spare me your goddamn pity party,” he snaps with an intensity that’s never been directed at you before. “We’re not the same people we were in high school. Life doesn’t work that way. I need to move on from the past, and so should you.”

There's a long pause, losing his mind within the strained silence as his tongue stings with regret. "I-I’m sorry, Eddie. I didn’t realize I was overstepping-" your defeated voice finally echoes through his dead ear.

If he had a pulse, he'd be dizzy from its rate.

He interrupts your faltered apologies; he won't accept that. "No, you weren't… I'm sorry, none of this is your fault. I'm just… taking out my frustration like an asshole, and that's unfair to you. I didn't mean to say it like that, but it’s the truth... space is what's best for me right now."

The last thing he heard was a trembling and broken voice packed into a fragile “okay," all because of him.

You couldn’t even wait for him to say goodbye. It would hurt too much. Not that he wanted to, either. So the line went dead.

Eddie bellowed, smashing the handset into the adjoining wall, as pieces fell at his feet, and woke the neighbors when he broke through the conjoined piece of drywall.

Certainly not upset with you; instead, he was enraged by the people who did this to him when he was doped up and didn't even have a fighting chance. He would've rather they drained his blood than kept him as a walking corpse. But it's ten times worse, he has to sit back and watch his life slip through his cold, dead fingers.

Eddie struggles to catch his breath; the lack of sustenance at this early stage weakens him more each day. Suddenly, a thick, metallic scent wafts through the crack in the wall, sending a jolt through his system as his predator instincts kick in.

It was warm, nourishing blood circulating through the veins of frightened, approaching humans.

Like lambs to the slaughter.

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