multiplicity.

𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐃   :   all   -   in   -   one   place   with   everything   you   need   to   know.

also me: what if i made a will byers blog

               sanguine - blessed   claws   rest   idly   on   her   knee   as   warm   eyes   look   distantly   beyond   the   woman   before   her   (   a   dreamy   expression   :   one   lost   in   heartbreak   and   one   that   revels   in   it.   the   gods   that   once   stood   were   crumbling   ,   and   she   too   would   fall   with   their   effigies   ).   “   when   you   come   to   be   my   age   …   you   realize   that   there   are   some   things   you   can   never   move   on   from.   ”   a   bittersweet   smile   ,   the   raise   of   her   cigarette.   “   …   no   matter   how   hard   you   try.   ”   magnetic   attraction   pulls   her   closer   towards   liz   as   sympathy   fills   her   undead   visage.   “   i   want   that   for   you   ,   liz.   a   love   so   true   ,   so   right   ,   that   …   you   never   move   on.   you   hold   it   ,   here   ,   ”   her   hand   moves   to   the   other’s   chest.   “   and   you   never   let   it   go.   ”

               JESUS   ,   MAN   ,   WHAT   THE   FUCK   HAPPENED?   there   was   a   plan   —   the   semblance   of   one   —   but   it   all   went   so   sideways   so   quick   (   he   went   sideways   quick   :   a   bullet   to   the   face   doesn’t   leave   most   people   standing.   he   doesn’t   remember   feeling   pain   ,   feeling   anything   ,   really.   he   was   taken   out   so   pathetically   fast   he   couldn’t   even   remember   what   it   felt   like   to   die   ).   even   if   he   couldn’t   remember   how   it   felt   like   to   die   on   the   beach   ,   he   certainly   knew   how   it   felt   now.   who   would’ve   known   that   your   face   becoming   a   smear   on   sand   would   feel   so   fucking   miserable?   the   pain   was   searing   ,   sharp   ,   droning   :   consuming   what   little   thoughts   resonated   in   his   head.   thinking   was   never   his   strong   suit   ,   anyway.                blackguard   lays   there   ,   eyes   closed   ,   weak   whimpers   leaving   his   throat   at   any   little   touch   to   his   face.   blindly   ,   his   hand   reaches   up   though   lack   of   strength   causes   it   to   fall   limp   by   his   side.   something   unintelligible   comes   from   him   before   he   reaches   up   again.   he   opens   one   eye   a   sliver   to   try   and   identify   who   was   over   him   though   all   he   was   greeted   with   was   vague   blotches   of   colors   blending   into   one   another   with   the   tinge   of   red.   “   …   are   you   …   are   you   a   …   dog?   ”   a   weak   cough   follows.   “   don’t   …   eat   my   face   ,   please   …   i   need   that   …   ”

               this   dream   was   not   a   nightmare   ,   for   they   end   when   eyes   open.   but   the   darkness   is   everywhere   ,   overwhelming   ,   all-consuming   :   tendrils   of   blackened   ichor   blending   themselves   into   his   peripheral.   it   burrows   inward   painfully   ,   taking   root   in   his   bones   and   etching   away   at   what   humanity   was   left   in   this   husk   of   a   man.   its   seen   in   a   dazed   and   distant   expression   ,   the   bags   under   his   eyes   that   never   seemed   to   go   away   ,   the   scars   cut   deep   in   his   chest   like   a   brand   (   possessor   and   possessed.   he   is   vexed   by   the   shadow   in   the   shape   of   a   sharp   blade   …   this   obsession   went   both   ways   ).   this   dream   was   not   a   nightmare   ,   it   was   a   burned   book   with   blurry   polaroids   of   memories   left   forgotten.   remnants   of   a   time   gone   and   a   time   never   to   be   gained.   THEY   WERE   ALL   TRAPPED   INSIDE   THIS   ENDLESS   DREAM.                cold   fingers   reach   out   to   warm   themselves   by   the   fire   ,   knees   curled   to   his   chest   and   chin   resting   in   his   knees.   he’s   focused   on   the   tips   of   his   fingers   ,   brows   furrowed   softly   in   an   attempt   to   stay   awake   (   time   was   never   clear   —   a   minute   felt   like   days   ,   a   day   felt   like   weeks   ,   a   week   felt   like   a   moment.   it   was   hard   to   keep   track   of   the   hours   he   had   stayed   up   ,   the   benchmarks   he   passed.   was   he   already   past   70   hours?   ).   lazily   ,   his   eyes   drift   up   from   his   fingertips   ,   making   contact   with   a   blur   of   brown   hair.   quentin   blinks   once   ,   twice   ,   three   times   in   an   attempt   to   focus   his   eyes   ,   though   this   does   not   help.   at   this   ,   he   lets   out   an   exhausted   sigh   ,   pushing   himself   up   on   his   two   feet   and   leaving   the   campfire.                where   will   your   feet   take   you   ,   quentin?   they   drag   on   the   floor   at   first   ,   but   with   conscious   effort   ,   he   picks   them   up   ,   trying   not   to   make   sound   amongst   the   fallen   leaves   that   are   scattered   amongst   the   ground.   he   finds   refuge   on   a   tree’s   root   and   sighs   softly   to   himself.   privacy   was   rarely   available   here   ,   and   he   was   certain   it   was   on   purpose.   any   small   moment   he   could   steal   away   for   himself   was   a   moment   cherished.   hastily   ,   he   begins   to   dig   in   his   pocket   ,   grasping   firmly   onto   a   bottle   of   pills   and   throws   two   into   his   mouth   before   shoving   it   back.   a   mop   of   messy   hair   falls   into   both   his   hands   ,   shoulders   slouching.   “   wake   up   …   wake   up   …   come   on   ,   wake   up   …   ”                he   jumps   from   his   position   on   the   root   ,   ready   to   run   (   survivor   is   in   his   blood   ,   a   prey-like   instinct   to   flee   and   escape.   born   out   of   fear   and   never   ending   nightmares   :   a   boy   far   too   young   forced   to   be   an   animal   by   a   jackal   with   metal   claws   and   rotten   teeth   ).   at   the   sight   of   steve   ,   he   relaxes   slightly   ,   nostrils   flaring   and   brow   furrowing.   “   it   was.   ”      he   snaps   ,   though   his   features   soften.   “   do   you   …   need   ,   something?   or   are   you   following   me   and   being   a   creep   just   ‘cause?   ”

               like   a   prison   guard   ,   paul   watches   (   daniel’s   cell   is   in   the   form   of   a   bedroom   ridden   with   angsty   reflections   of   a   teenage   boy   )   ,   and   he   cannot   help   but   feel   pins   pricking   him   beneath   his   skin.   paul   doesn’t   mean   to   ,   but   ,   that   stupid   helpless   smile   plays   with   every   single   one   of   his   nerves   until   they’re   seconds   away   from   breaking.   GOD   ,   CAN   HE   BE   MORE   ANNOYING?                “   i   don’t   even   know   why   this   matters   —   s’not   like   i   actually   need   to   know   this   crap.   ”   he   shoves   his   book   away   from   him.   “   i   don’t   even   know   why   you’re   here   ,   i   don’t   need   a   babysitter.   ”   the   times   he’s   snuck   out   of   the   house   and   lied   about   doing   schoolwork   told   otherwise.   but   none   of   it   really   mattered   ,   did   it?   or   ,   was   that   an   excuse   he   told   himself   to   justify   his   own   lack   of   interest.   school   is   where   creativity   went   to   die   ,   and   he   wasn’t   about   to   be   buried   in   the   classroom.

               the   humiliation   of   loss   could   never   amount   to   the   humiliation   of   being   like   this   with   none   other   than   scott   tibbs.   crash   detested   scott   tibbs   :   his   band   ,   his   music   ,   his   voice   ,   his   walk   ,   his   lack   of   personal   hygiene   —   everything   that   scott   tibbs   was   ,   crash   was   not.   and   yet   ,   here   he   was   ,   pressing   himself   desperately   against   his   body   ,   hands   flat   against   his   chest   while   tippy   toes   gave   him   the   extra   height   to   lean   into   the   kiss.   perhaps   it   was   a   form   of   self - punishment   for   crash   (   no   one   really   knows   what   goes   on   in   that   strange   head   of   his   ,   but   ,   with   speculation   it   can   be   assumed   one   of   two   options.                one   :   he   was   angry   about   the   results   and   needed   to   let   it   out   somehow   ,   or   ,                two   :   he   was   sad   about   the   results   and   needed   to   let   it   out   somehow   ,             and   ,   the   hidden   third   option   :   he   was   angry   and   sad   about   the   result   and   needed   to   let   it   out   somehow.                regardless   of   the   conclusion   ,   it   can   be   assumed   that   the   results   of   the   ‘   battle   of   the   bands   ’   was   less   than   satisfactory   for   crash.   one   thing   did   leave   him   satisfied   ,   and   that   was   his   time   spent   with   scott   like   this   ).                a   soft   moan   leaves   his   lips   as   he   rolls   his   head   to   the   side   ,   exposing   his   neck   as   his   eyes   close.   “   i’m   not   surprised.   ”   his   voice   is   breathy   but   controlled.   his   hand   reaches   up   and   buries   itself   within   scott’s   messy   hair   as   he   speaks.   “   the   judges   here   are   biased.   they  don’t   care   about   good   music   ,   they   care   about   catchy   music.   ”   a   small   scoff.   “   it’s   pathetic.   ”   sharp   teeth   bite   the   corner   of   his   lip   ,   whimpering   as   scott   continues   to   nip   at   his   neck.   “   shut   up   —   please.   you’re   ruining   it.   ”

               “   whatever   you   want   ,   man.   ”   tristan’s   voice   is   kept   low   ,   gravely   ,   wetting   his   lips   with   a   hungry   tongue.   he   slowly   rises   ,   laughing   vapidly   as   he   makes   his   way   to   the   other   ,   finally   resting   his   knee   between   scott’s   legs   comfortably   as   he   stays   standing.   head   tilted   down   ,   eyes   ravenous   ,   he   leans   towards   him   ,   offering   his   cigarette   to   the   lost.   “   but   don’t   make   me   wait   any   longer.   ”

               “   yeah   —   no   shit.   ”   this   reply   isn’t   said   sarcastically   ,   it’s   in   agreeance.   “   i   mean   ,   when   you   create   a   system   where   there’s   basically   no   repercussions   for   your   actions   ,   people   are   gonna   do   evil   shit.   ”   while   he   speaks   ,   he   idly   leans   against   the   shopping   cart   ,   occasionally   reaching   in   and   placing   something   on   a   shelf.   “   there   is   no   ‘   evil   ’   in   the   wild.   animals   just   do   what   they   have   to   ,   to   survive.   ”   a   beat.   “   for   the   most   part.   ”   he   scowls.   “   my   point   is   ;   humans   are   the   only   animals   fucked   up   enough   to   willingly   ,   purposely   ,   hurt   others   for   their   own   gain.   ”   as   the   words   leave   his   mouth   ,   he   feels   ill   (   you   did   what   you   had   to   do   to   survive?   didn’t   you?   DIDN’T   YOU?   ).   “   anyway   ,   not   like   it   matters.   ”   he   waves   his   hand   dismissively.   “   you   can’t   change   human   nature.   ”