#emfics

•

Here’s the thing: she isn’t trying to be rude.

Sure, she doesn’t care super care if she is, but it’s pretty much never her goal. Besides, shouldn’t it all be based on truth? Truth, justice, the American way. Erica can’t be the only one who pays attention to this stuff.

Sometimes it bugs her friends and they fight. They always make up in the end, but the days they don’t talk still suck.

She’s good in school, so her teachers don’t complain too much but when they have the time they tell her to be careful about running her mouth. Those days suck, too.

Her mom tells her, though – at night when she tucks Erica into bed even though she’s getting way too old for that – that she shouldn’t be anyone but who she is. That she shouldn’t let the world make her into someone else. (Erica doesn’t totally get it. How would that even work? There’s nothing in the world that she’d allow to change her, she’s sure. She doesn’t know where she’d begin.)

So, despite the chidings her mother doles out, Erica knows that she wants her daughter to be herself.

It’s a good thing, too, because Erica really likes being Erica.

•

The swelling of Lucas’ face still hasn’t gone down. Mom and dad fret over it, but the whole of Hawkins has been plunged into chaos and it’s easy to say that he and Erica and Max were in an accident when the quake hit. It’s not even that much of a lie.

Erica does most of the deflecting because her brother can’t be trusted these days. Not that she can blame him – although she still tries to give him grief. Can’t give up on everything normal.

But Max looks awful in that hospital bed, still and horrible. She’s meant to be her brother’s girlfriend who’s much too cool for him, on her skateboard, moving and teasing and fitting in at their house where she likes to watch TV. At least she used to before she stopped coming around. (Lucas never talked about that, at least not to her which makes sense. He still got those pathetic mooning eyes when she came up, though, so Erica knows it wasn’t his choice to break up. And he had hope the whole time. She could tell. He still has hope now and there’s something warm about it that Erica doesn’t know how to name.)

Yeah, Erica really hates that hospital room. It smells terrible, looks worse and there’s always some machine beeping in the background.

But there’s nowhere else to be. Lucas spends every possible moment in that room. The others come to visit when they can. They can only spare so many party members. Sometimes Max’s mother’s there but more often than not it’s just them, Max and Erica and Lucas.

A sick inverse of Saturday mornings spent on the couch where Lucas pretended not to be interested in her cartoons. Where Max would pretend like she didn’t enjoy her mother’s valiant efforts to feed her. Being a teenager involves a lot of pretending, Erica’s learned. It seems beyond exhausting.

Now it’s them playing checkers over Max’s hospital bed, commentating the whole way, before Lucas gets out Tolkien. They finished up The Talisman two days ago.

Today he hesitates. Doesn’t open his stupid Hobbit book and launches into reading.

There’s a heavy silence and when he speaks his voice is all torn up.

“I didn’t save her.” His fingers scratch at the cover, but his eyes are glued to Max’s still, waxy face. “We promised her we wouldn’t miss our shot but we didn’t—” He makes a choking sound like a sob.

There’s a twist in Erica’s chest, sour or like a burn.

“When she wakes up… I don’t know how she could forgive me.”

It’s the rawest Erica thinks she’s ever seen him. It’s unsettling and makes the biting feeling behind her ribs worse. She doesn’t want this to happen. Lucas is the big brother and big brothers aren’t supposed to fall apart.

They can be poked and prodded and provoked and they’ll yell and take their He-Man dolls back and they’ll lie for their sisters about the stain on the good carpet once threatened.

This isn’t right.

The helplessness in his eyes is contagious. It crawls up her arms, immobilizing her inch by inch. If Lucas doesn’t know what to do in this room, how is she supposed to know what to do in this room?

Her brother is broken in this moment, much like Hawkins. They have the same scars. Like he was torn apart with it.

So, she tells him the only thing she ever tells anyone: the truth.

“Well, that’s stupid.”

His head shoots up. He frowns but he doesn’t say anything. He’s listening to her, Erica realizes, like she has an answer he wants to hear.

Everything gets so weird when the world ends.

“That’s what Max would say, and you know it. Stop being stupid.” She’s standing on the opposite side of the bed from where he’s sitting. They bring their own water bottles because the hospital is overflowing still and can’t spare the glasses. Erica puts her bottle (pink to Lucas’ green, mom bought them together) back into their backpack. “You did everything you could. I don’t know how you guys survived ‘til high school. We all knew the risk. Max was never gonna let other people take the fall. It was a dangerous plan, but who else was gonna do anything?”

It's bitter in the back of her throat. She’d looked at the group of them, in that van, before they got to Creel House, and she’d felt cold inside. Everyone they had, everyone willing to fight, had looked so young. Unqualified. Inexperienced.

Child endangerment, she’d told Dustin and Robin an eternity ago. That’s all this town really is now. The evidence lies with them right here in this room.

There’s still something in her that’s constricted. Those words were all she had. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if Lucas pushes back, if it’s not enough.

Slowly, she tears her eyes away from the lonely backpack by the side of Max’s bed.

Lucas has the tiniest smile on his face.

It was the biggest mistake of his life.

“Are you coming or what?”

“He’s there.”

“That’s the point of the party, dumbass. We’re celebrating the release of his song.”

“It’s not his song,” Jaebum sighs as a hand runs down his messy waves of hair. “Hell, he was mostly harmony for the rest of it.”

Jinyoung doesn’t appreciate his best friend’s attitude for a few weeks now. On a different day, he would have been greatly surprised with Jaebum’s reaction towards the man in question’s celebration of being able to collaborate with a few of his favorite artists. They were all part of a tight knit group of friends, so everyone was obviously excited for this opportunity given to Youngjae—Jaebum was not an exception, seeing as he’s the boyfriend.

But Jinyoung had been seeing… differences between his best friend and his own brother’s treatment towards one another. He couldn’t—for the life of him—pin point what it was. All he knows is that it’s not good.

“Let’s not ruin the experience for my brother,” Jinyoung chides instead, tossing Jaebum’s car keys towards him. Landing on his chest, Jaebum grabs it with a reluctant sigh. He feels the tension of meeting Youngjae in a sea of people in his stomach, but the possibility of Jinyoung finding out what he had done to his brother frightened him.

He knew he was an ass for keeping it a secret. But at the same time, confusion strickens his core as to why Youngjae hasn’t revealed his act of betrayal to any of them either.

Maybe he was too focused on the song, too preoccupied with meeting new people, too in love with this new life ahead of him.

Jaebum grits his teeth at his thoughts, but Jinyoung snaps him back to reality.

“The car isn’t going to drive itself, Jaebum-ah,” Jinyoung notes, already making his way out of the bedroom.

Standing up, Jaebum dusts off his jeans and follows suit. He imagines how happy Youngjae is being the center of attention at the party—something he has forgotten to give him the weeks prior to the younger’s work travel to New York, the very reason he got to work on this song in the first place.

They walk to his car, and Jaebum cannot erase the image of Youngjae enjoying the time of his life with Sanjoy, or Elliot what-’s–his–face; he cannot set aside Youngjae’s bright and carefree laughter echoing in the chambers of his mind. Youngjae excited, thrilled, and happy—all the things that made him fall in love with the man, everything given so freely to someone else instead.

He closes the door louder than usual, squirming at his own actions. Jaebum starts up the car as he looks to the passenger seat and wait for Jinyoung to get in. His eyes wander around the area until he finds something pink, lacy, and frilly peeping under the seat.

“Shit,” he mumbles nervously, reaching as fast as he can. Shoving it further down under, Jinyoung finally opens the door as he’s taken aback by the sight of Jaebum’s face dipped under the car seat.

“What are you—”

“Nothing, nothing,” Jaebum pants, retreating to his place before placing both hands on the steering wheel with an iron grip. Jinyoung raises an eyebrow, lowering himself onto the seat as the door closes. Before any of them can comment anything else, Jaebum begins driving.

The dread doesn’t leave his chest, and he uses all the strength in his upper arms and calves to focus on nothing but the road. How dumb can he be to leave that stupid thing lying around his car? For almost three days?

Jinyoung glances at the driver, feelings of suspicion still evident in his eyes. He’d casually chuck his feet under the seat and feel the object having been shoved down there by Jaebum, but he didn’t want to anger him while driving. Jinyoung will have to wait.

He wishes he can turn back time.

Arriving at the venue Youngjae had rented for the party, Jaebum parks at a close enough area and promptly turns the engine off. He releases his seatbelt, yanks the keys out of the ignition and clicks open the car door.

“I have a question,” Jinyoung says out loud—enough for Jaebum to stop midway. The older nods once, signaling for Jinyoung to continue.

The younger hesitates, setting aside the real question in his head and asks something else: “Are you sure the two of you are okay?”

The immense dread only crushes his organs even deeper, and Jaebum physically winces at the pain. He could confess right now, show his remorse and beg for Jinyoung to help him reconcile with Youngjae—but he couldn’t do that to him. He couldn’t ruin this very moment his boyfriend had been dreaming all these months.

“It’s just a little misunderstanding,” Jaebum tastes the venom of his lies.  “I’m sure he’s forgotten about it now,” he adds, mentally punching himself in the gut for assuming such a selfish thing about his boyfriend to his brother.

While Jinyoung wanted to pry even more, he shared the same sentiments of not wanting this night to be stolen away from Youngjae’s spotlight. He accepts the vague answer for now, and decides to just mention it in passing to his own brother at the party. He might tell him the truth this time.

The party is not very extravagant, just the way Youngjae likes it—a few people from the recording company he is in, some friends from others, and of course the other four people in their group are already mingling about the cozy yet spacious room. Strobe lights dance around the walls and the speakers surrounding the venue blast the very song being celebrated as well.

“Damn, my brother has taste,” Jinyoung ponders to himself, chuckling as he takes in the vibe of the party. Jaebum’s head drops low, already regretting the invitation to come with. Hell, Youngjae didn’t even give him one at all.

“I actually helped him set up the place,” Bambam corrects the older as he approaches, Yugyeom and Jackson towing alongside him. They all hug, with Jaebum the most antsy of them all. He hopes they didn’t notice, as the bass of the music thumps hard beneath their feet.

They all chat mindless topics—but frankly, Jaebum wasn’t as interested. He knew they all saw each other just a few days ago at the usual; he was invited there but he politely declined because he had better—or should he say regretful —things to do that day.

Clenching a fist, he asks to be excused. They all didn’t seem to mind, except for Jinyoung.

“Can I come with? Are you looking for Youngjae?” Jinyoung says.

“No,” the nth lie that has ever came out of his mouth. “Mark—where’s Mark hyung?”

“By the concessions table, I think,” Jackson chimes in, pointing to the direction of a long table covered with different delicacies. Jaebum mutters a thanks, gives Jinyoung a look for approval to leave. Once the younger gives in with a sigh, Jaebum escapes the perimeter of his friends.

He sees a lot of familiar faces, some even greet him passing by. Jaebum has never been a social butterfly, but working in the same field as his boyfriend gave him a lot of connections to the same people—all the more reason to hate himself for what he did, Jaebum thinks as he grimaces.

Their circles are just too connected with one another, one slip up and that whole bond would just crumble to dust.

Jaebum finds Mark, back facing him as the older seems to be enjoying whatever dessert he found on that particular section of the table. Mark turns around, eyes widening at the sight of Jaebum before returning to his usual calm expression.

“Funny seeing you here,” Mark starts, popping the whole cake pop inside his mouth. Jaebum tilts his head slightly, eyes peering over his friend as he treads lightly into the conversation, “What do you mean? If anything, I should be on the VIP list of this party.”

Okay, so much for keeping it casual.

Mark smirks, and it makes Jaebum even more wary of what he actually knows. He offers Jaebum a cake pop but as he refuses, Mark puts another one in.

“Let’s pretend I didn’t hear your arrogance,” he reprimands with a playful tone, “But I’m serious. Youngjae doesn’t want you here, Jaebum-ah.”

“What do you know?” Jaebum asks, straightforward.

“Enough to know how risky it is for you to be here,” Mark answers with a shrug. “He didn’t say anything specific, but he was pretty fucking devastated when he crashed at my place the other day, Jaebum. I don’t know what you two fought over since he literally just got back from New York not even for a week yet, but I haven’t seen Youngjae that wasted off his ass since he couldn’t find the courage to ask you out three years ago.”

The information rendered Jaebum speechless, his voice scratching away at his throat. As much as he wanted to deny any and all assumptions from Mark, he couldn’t—he just couldn’t lie anymore. The more he covers this up, the more his chest is going to explode from the guilt gnawing away at his heavy heart.

“J-Jinyoung forced me to go,” says Jaebum, knowing of nothing else to respond.

“Because Jinyoung doesn’t know what shitty thing it is you did to his precious little brother,” Mark counters, the friendly tone in his voice officially replaced with a cold, harsh one. “We’re all friends, so it’s really hard to be mad at you—I shouldn’t even be meddling in your relationship, but—” Mark stops himself as he crosses his arms and stares at the younger with pointed eyes.

“I’m telling you, and it’s for both of your own good—even all of us. As much as you are Youngjae’s boyfriend, what you did to him negates every right you have to be here right now. So you can either wait outside until the party is over and then talk to him or go home and find the time to confront him.”

Mark’s eyes shift to the left as panic fills them in as well. “Y-Youngjae-yah—”

“It’s okay, Mark hyung,” Youngjae says dismissively. Stiffening in his place, Jaebum hitches a breath as he hears that soft and familiar music to his ears. He decides against turning to see him face to face, but he didn’t need to as Youngjae steps right beside him, with his arm excruciatingly close to his.

“He can be here uninvited if he wants to,” Youngjae continues, and Jaebum feels his glare scorching his face. “It seems to be something he is okay with himself, anyway.”

His eye twitches, feeling the burn of that statement. Jaebum closes his eyes, afraid of what he might say or do in front of the two of them. Remembering Mark’s words, he backs away, choosing to ignore the encounter entirely.

“Yeah, go and walk away, hyung. Walk away and pretend we ever meant something,” he hears Youngjae’s striking words reap his back, ripping into his spine and poisoning his veins. Jaebum’s face grows hotter, as he whips around with hands balled into fists and nose steaming with frustration.

“The fuck you on about, Youngjae? Who’s the person stubborn enough not to talk about it  and refuse to even understand the other side of the story? You’re the one who’s walking away,” Jaebum seethes, the scratchiness of his voice laced through angry words. Fortunately so, the music blared louder than his anger as Mark and the others were quick to hold him off.

“What’s going on?” Jinyoung demands, coming in between the two lovers. Mark has Jaebum’s arms trapped in his, but the latter swats him away convincing him he wasn’t a hazard to any of them right now.

“Nothing, hyung. Jaebum hyung was just about to leave,” Youngjae announces, eyes blurry with hot tears threatening to spill. Mark shoots Jaebum an expectant look, almost forcing him out the door already. The other three stand still, unaware of the tension brewing between their friends.

“What? Why are you kicking him out? Youngjae-yah, what the hell is happening?” Jinyoung continues, brows scrunched up in worry for his brother. Shaking his head vigorously, Youngjae zips his lips as he grabs Jinyoung by the arm and signals for everyone to follow him somewhere else. Other guests have noticed the encounter, most of them leaning towards Youngjae asking him if he’s alright.

Jaebum is left with Mark, but before Mark can tell him off, the younger has already stormed off without another glance.

Jaebum stays inside his car, punching the curve of his steering wheel repeatedly—careful not to target the center as the horn would probably irritate him even more. He didn’t know what else he could do; he couldn’t just leave right now, that’d be giving into what Youngjae accused him of. At the same time, his shame and guilt are on its way to devouring his sanity, and all he could think of to repair himself is to call Youngjae and ask to talk with him.

The party had been going on for a few hours at most, and Jaebum sees people coming out of the door already. He fell asleep for a while, but the moment his consciousness awakens he immediately grabs for his phone. Jinyoung had left him a few missed calls, but that wasn’t his main concern.

He knows how selfish he is becoming yet again , but if he didn’t plead for Youngjae’s time now, who knows when they can ever return to normal anymore.

Jaebum sends a message first, a simple hey, can we talk when you’re done? as he waits for a reply. Knowing he’s still probably talking to a few people, Jaebum shoots Yugyeom a text asking for help. The younger replies with a i’ll see what i can do and minutes after he concludes sorry, hyung. he really doesn’t want to talk to you right now .

Grunting, Jaebum hits the middle of the wheel as the startling noise rings in his ears. It is enough for him to get out the car, enough for him to take a deep breath from the cramped space he has been in for hours , and it is enough for him to go right back in the place and confront Youngjae without hiding in ignored texts and denied phone calls.

Just as he is near the front door, Jinyoung exits out and sees him. His eyes form into slits as his figure walks straight into Jaebum’s path, arms grabbing hold of his shoulders just to push him with much force to send him stumbling away.

“You fucking bastard,” Jinyoung shouts, not letting Jaebum go out of his sight. The older keeps his hand guarding his chest, careful not to make Jinyoung any madder than he already appears to be.

“Jinyoung, please—I know, I’m sorry—let me talk to him, please I’m—” Jaebum swerves just before Jinyoung lands a punch to his chest, and Jaebum sees Youngjae rushing out of the door, calling out to his brother.

“You don’t get to talk to him, you fucking asshole. You don’t even get to see him,” says Jinyoung, tone flaming in rage. Youngjae runs to his side, hugging his brother’s chest as he pleads him to stop. Jinyoung’s eyes soften to Youngjae’s whimpers, but he shakes his head as he tries to squeeze out of his grasp.

“He doesn’t deserve you, Youngjae. I can’t believe how much I trusted him to take care of you,” Jinyoung spats, looking Jaebum directly in the eyes.

“Jinyoung, I didn’t—please just fucking listen to me, I swear I’m sorry,” Jaebum chokes out, his tone wavering and his body wanting to disintegrate every second he sees Youngjae’s tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Youngjae. I was an asshole, I was weak, I was devastated you were gone, I was—”

“For two damn weeks, hyung! I was only gone for fourteen days and you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself!” Youngjae snaps, dragging Jinyoung away with him. “I wouldn’t have known if Mark didn’t message me saying there’s an unfamiliar car parked at your place one night. I wouldn’t have known if I didn’t call your phone early in the morning, hoping to hear just your voice but ended up talking to a girl.”

Jaebum takes a step forward, eager to explain his weakness to Youngjae—to do anything anything to turn it all around.

“Don’t even try, hyung,” Youngjae insists harshly, red brimmed eyes constantly wetting his cheeks.

Jaebum feels a shot to his chest as he breaks down with his own salty tears and moves faster to catch up to the love of his life. Jinyoung notices him advancing, so he quickly helps Youngjae get farther away and into another car.

Mark suddenly comes into the scene as he opens up his car and lets the two of them in. Jaebum is forced to stop, and watch the wheels scrape against the pavement as it takes Youngjae away from him.

He blames himself for the mess he made.

The night progresses, and so does Jaebum’s desperation. All of his clothes messily scattered on his bedroom floor, pillows and sheets buried underneath them. He didn’t want to drink nor result to any violence, so all he could do once he got home was take control of the things Youngjae’s presence heavily lingered on: his clothes.

Some of his sweaters were missing, and Jaebum vaguely remembers Youngjae borrowing them to bring with him on his trip to New York—one of which the younger already harbored months before even buying the ticket. Jaebum sits on the edge of his bed, fingers raking down hard across his scalp as his nails dig deep. He remembers Youngjae overly complimenting that black oversized sweater, and one day he just didn’t find it in his closet anymore. When Jaebum had picked Youngjae up from his apartment thirty minutes too early, he catches the younger red handed with his sweater dressing his boyfriend’s body.

Jaebum doesn’t notice the piece of fabric he is holding onto, and as his eyes scan the material, memories of Youngjae flash through his head once again. He holds it onto his lap, the vibrant red color straining his eyes but regardless, he reminisces the time Youngjae video called him at work. Jaebum was on his lunch break, and Youngjae had time to go shopping. The younger showed him a piece of track suit in blue, and Jaebum immediately blushed at the matching aesthetic Youngjae was hinting at. His boyfriend only grinned adorably—the way he always did whenever Jaebum strips himself vulnerable towards him.

He finally sets aside the article of clothing, wipes away the sweat on his forehead and exits out his room. He brings a lighter with him as he goes outside, the freezing air hitting his face with a blast. Jaebum continues to his car, opening the passenger door and grabs something he now finds indespicable underneath.

Taking one last look at the unwanted lingerie tainting his car, his reputation, his relationship , Jaebum spits out the flashbacks from the week before: starting from arguing with Youngjae about one misunderstood flight time which led to them not talking during the whole two-week he was gone which resulted to Jaebum getting himself drunk in a bar he’s never been to, meeting a girl he didn’t even get the name of—and everything became hazy after that.

The bits and pieces that came back to him when he found himself driving back to his apartment with a raging headache were incomprehensible, but as soon as he saw the pink bra left by this unknown girl, things started to make sense—Jaebum wish it didn’t; he begged for his mind to stop piecing things together and making him realize he fell to his weakness, to his loneliness, to his anger.

He lights it on fire as he stands next to the garbage bin. Watching it shrivel up to burnt fabric and yet knowing the consequences it held would stay with him for the long run, Jaebum cries out loud.

He dumps whatever was left, and starts making his way back to his apartment: numb and hollow. He sees a figure walking towards him, and Jaebum had to blink twice to confirm who he was seeing.

“Y-Youngjae,” he breathes out. A box in his hand, and a grimace on his face—Jaebum didn’t want to know what the box contained.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jaebum suggests desperately, holding onto the other end of the box as Youngjae tugs on it tighter. The younger places it just a few inches away from the door, and Jaebum can clearly see his beloved black sweater sitting on top of other things he knows hold memories of them together—memories Youngjae wants to give back.

“It didn’t have to end this way either, hyung,” Youngjae simply states, eyes hooded and avoidant. With shaky, cold hands, Jaebum clings onto his boyfriend’s arm. He whimpers softly, right into Youngjae’s back and the younger attempts prying him off.

“Youngjae, p-please. I’m sorry, please fo-forgive me. I can’t—I can’t do this without you, please—I’ll do anything, I’m sorry please—”

“Hyung, stop embarrassing yourself.”

“I don’t fucking care, Youngjae, please —I’ll do anything for you to forgive me. I was an ass, I didn’t know what I was doing—I was drunk but I caved, I’m sorry—”

“Hyung,” Youngjae deadpans, using everything in his might to push Jaebum off of him. He sees the older’s tired eyes, dry lips, and weakened stance. Jaebum never wanted Youngjae to see him like this , but the chance of the younger leaving him for good made Jaebum lose all sense of individuality.

“Youngjae, I swear to god I’ll do anything, let me—let me prove myself just please,” Jaebum whimpers, hands searching to intertwine with Youngjae’s, just like before. His fingers move around the air, and never find their place of warmth.

“I’m sorry,” he keeps repeating as Youngjae keeps backing away. “Youngjae, I’m sorry, fuck, I’m fucking sorry, please— ”

“Hyung, just go to sleep,” it didn’t sound like Youngjae anymore, but maybe because Jaebum tried blocking out all the noises telling him it’s over, and all he wanted to hear was the opportunity to prove himself worthy to Youngjae again.

“I’m—Youngjae, I’m sorry,” Jaebum croaks out once again, but it takes him a few seconds to realize Youngjae has left him. Out in the cold, with their relationship shoved into a box.

Jaebum kicks it hard, sending its contents scattered around his doorstep—much like the scenery in his room.

He didn’t want to believe he has lost Youngjae; he didn’t want to accept the fact that his ultimate stupidity is the cause of the most important person of his life to disappear.

A buzz interrupts his train of thought, and he chucks his phone out of his pocket and sees the sender, only to grow miserable once more from its message.

It’s what gives him the ability to leave her speechless in the woods. It’s what coils around her heart like barbed wire when she’s scared. It’s what makes her cry into his chest. Or it’s what makes her lash out when she isn’t ready for it. 

The quick burning anger in her resents it with an acidic meanness. “I never would have thought you were a coward,” she tells him as her thoughts clamor to justify the words as they tumble out of her mouth. Because she can’t stand that gaze, needs to disarm him like he disarms her. She just wants him to feel this same helplessness. Loving Jonathan has always meant this excruciating vulnerability. Cost and reward in one. 

It works. The repentance of him turns in a complicated twist of his features. “My mom, my siblings—they need me, Nancy! And I couldn’t risk you giving up your dreams for me, but I can’t just leave them.” 

She scoffs. The answer of a martyr. A better person than her who's never let leaving Mike or Holly behind stop her from pursuing her ambitions. 

But there’s a different kind of fury in her, too. Less sudden, less prone to pass in a few minutes when she'll regret what she's saying. Something different. 

“What about your dreams?” she asks. 

He looks like she slapped him. Actually taken aback. Like this time she's the one who might have exposed him. It’s hard not to find a kind of sickening satisfaction in that. 

“What?” 

“What about,” she repeats slowly, feeling control come back to her, “your dreams? You used to talk about NYU. All the time.” He says nothing. Somehow, it unfurls more of that simmering rage. “You think I don’t know you, Jonathan? You think that I don’t know that no matter what, Emerson or California, you were already giving up?”  

He stares at her, then looks away and she wants to scream for him to face her but the wave of fury she'd felt had broken over her head and everything else was dragging behind in its wake.  

“It was a stupid kid's dream,” he says and Nancy’s heart breaks. He’s never looked young to her before. Most times he reflected her own age, sometimes he'd look older than he should be. Never like this.  

Like a boy who's afraid. Scared out of his mind. Of leaving behind his family for something to befall them. Of not succeeding. Of being left behind. Of falling into a pattern he can’t escape, dragging everybody with him. 

Silence stretches between them and he shrinks in on himself more and more. 

“Jonathan.” She longs to reach out and twist her hands into his shirt to pull him close, but it's not the time. They can do that later and she can wrap her arms around him and card a hand through his hair and mourn for the little boy who felt he needed to leave his hopes behind for other people. “I don’t want you to sacrifice everything for me either. And neither does your mom. Or Will. Or El.” 

Silence, to him, isn’t a comfort. Maybe ever. Max understands it in a way – the Sinclair house is rarely quiet. Erica alone is loud enough to fill any room with life, but Sue isn’t far behind her either, a more comforting but steady stream of chatter she keeps up easy as breathing. Charles is the only reserved one but even he gets animated when the right subject gets brought up. Like planes or Lucas’ biology homework. (Erica once confided in Max that she’s 100% sure Lucas got his “nerd genes” from their father’s side of the family. “You should hear Uncle Jack go off,” she’d said with a long and meaningful look.) 

Spending time at the Sinclairs’ definitely shed some light on Lucas’ constant bickering with Dustin and Mike. There’s no fear in him that a simple argument can shift and shake in a single word. His parents built him and Erica a home where they never have to be truly afraid of their punishments. 

If Max had that, maybe she wouldn’t relish silence either. 

But she did, and so she does, while Lucas gets into his own head. He and Mike can give each other a run for the money in pacing.  

And sometimes, like now, Max can’t take it. She waits for him to pass her and stops him short, tugging at his sleeve. She’s sitting crisscross applesauce on the ground and at this point they’ve done this often enough, so he knows what she’s saying. 

With a sigh he abandons his route and lowers himself to sit in front of her. He spins himself so it’s his back to her and she uncrosses her legs so he can lean back against her while she brackets him, leaving little to no space between them. 

It makes her feel better, knowing that she's someone's resting place. Sometimes it's nice to feel relied on. 

“Do you want the Walkman?” she asks, hands hovering over it at her side. Sometimes that helps, to introduce sound into the dread. They’ve learned to communicate with the lights anyway, he doesn’t always need his ears. 

“No,” he says. “I just wanna get this over with.” 

Max laughs, a little bitter. “You know after this there’s just gonna be another one. And another. And another.” 

He tilts his head back. She’s already looking down at the top of his head, so their noses are almost touching now. The smell of him sits deep inside her chest, an automatic recognition of him. 

“Yeah, but eventually we’ll figure out how to get to the end,” he says and sounds wonderfully confident. Against her better judgment it warms Max from the inside out. His conviction is always so infectious, it’s hard to resist 

Still, she can’t resist challenging him just a little. “What if we don’t?” 

Jonathan tries not to let it show, just watches as Steve closes the distance between them and throws an arm around his shoulder. He smells very Steve-like with an added pinch of sweat and liquor. His cheeks are flushed pink. Definitely on the drunker side of things. “Where are you going?” 

“Home.” 

“Why?”  

Jonathan wonders if alcohol can have the magical effect of Bambi-fying a person’s features. When his father gets drunk, his face only grows more sunken. Not Steve. He’s beaming at Jonathan in that weird way that makes his stomach twist and he could swear his eyes are bigger somehow. And soft. 

“Why do you care?” It comes out crabbier than Jonathan intentioned. He really wants to get out of here and the weight of Steve is distracting and threatening to change his mind.  

Steve leans in closer, bringing their heads together as if they’re sharing a secret. Jonathan hasn’t drunk anything, but in his chest there’s a low fluttering. “Because,” he says, slowly, like he’s contemplating the question very seriously, “I just do.” 

The breath escapes Jonathan. The hum in his chest doesn’t go away, but the tension in his shoulders does, built up in the weighty little pause Steve built into his sentence. 

“Okay,” he says. 

“No seriously,” Steve insists and puts a little more of himself onto Jonathan’s side. He’s not heavy, just warm and close, getting rid of the last spaces between them. “Did something happen? I saw you with Tommy and Carol. They just talk a lot of shit, you know? They’re idiots.” 

Then why are you friends with them? Jonathan thinks and realizes then that he isn’t really. Not anymore. It’s just this kind of party. Everybody comes and it doesn’t mean anything. He hates it. 

“They are,” he agrees. “Just isn’t my crowd, I guess.” 

Steve moves to the side and Jonathan isn’t expecting it. They sway together as one and stumble over their own feet, halfway into the hedge that borders the little stone path leading to the gate. 

“Mh. Okay.” He turns and looks directly at Jonathan who idiotically forgot to avert his gaze in time. Another pause. Jonathan can smell his breath. It’s not great, but he doesn’t mind so much when it’s paired with brown eyes flicking up and down, catching him in place. “Do you wanna go somewhere else, then?” 

It takes a second or two for Jonathan’s brain to process. “With you?” 

Steve grins. “Yeah.” He frowns briefly. Sways again. “But I don’t think I should drive.” 

“Will?” Mike asks, peeking out of the bedroom. His eyebrows lift and his face takes on that expression that makes Will feel like he's at the very center of the universe. “What's wrong?” 

Will wipes under his eyes even though he knows it’s futile. “Nothing,” he says. That’s futile, too. Three years he's been living with Mike and that’s never worked before. 

As expected, he doesn’t let up. “Did you have a flashback?” 

“No.” Will wilts a little. “I can’t find my keys.” 

Mike doesn’t laugh or huff or anything like that. If there’s relief, Will is too busy looking back into the kitchen to catch it. What he does hear is the shuffling footsteps coming after him. “Okay.” When Will turns around Mike is right there, looking focused and intent. As if he <i>were</i> having a flashback. As if it's all the same to him when Will feels bad. 

For a moment, it all pauses in will, pacing stress forgotten because he’s stopped by it. The unquestioning, unrelenting truth of that. That Mike is by his side, at his back. Looking like any problem, no matter how minor, Will is facing, he's taking on, too. 

The ticking clock comes crashing back through, but somehow it’s less daunting than before. 

“Should I look in the bedroom?” he asks, wiping away the rest of Will's tears on his cheeks.  

Will lifts a hand and lets his fingers ghost over Mike's knuckles. Then he nods. 

Eddie is occupying the kitchen when she emerges from her study session. The timer went off and she's done for the day. There's times when she'll force herself to go over but the better days are when she can call it quits when she planned to.  

On her fuzzy socks, she's quiet and Eddie is absorbed in D&D prep. So she pauses in the doorway to sneak a look at him. 

He's sat in the way that'll make his leg fall asleep and biting his nails. There’s ink stains all over his fingers. And she just says it quietly into the air, “I think I might love you.” 

Her heart sinks the first second after it’s out there. Certain and fragile. Wobbling. 

Eddie doesn’t react. 

“Mh?” he says, looking up from his maps and his notes. His eyes are glazed over. He's in a different world, somewhere where dark wizards reign but are always eventually toppled. 

It's perfectly innocent and a complete disaster. If she thought about this happening, imagined it, she would want to disappear off the face of the earth. A nightmare scenario and shameful and so unsuited to all those perfect love stories she was meant to fit into like a cut-out and… And Chrissy finds, she doesn’t mind.  

She hates the thought of being perfect when that’s what she was raised to be. She hates the way guilt caves in on her every time she takes up more space than what people want to assign her. She hates it with an aching, syrupy kind of anger that sits deep in her chest and can’t ever see the light of day in its entirety. 

And it’s Eddie. 

He doesn’t like perfect, either. He likes her clumsy and full of mistakes. Not so bad when you see it in others, too, he told her once.  

She's over being scared that he won’t look at her the same way if she puts a foot wrong. She'd survive it even if he did.  

Chrissy's never been good at making herself heard and she might never be. But maybe that’s okay. 

They have time.  

She smiles. “Nothing. Do you want some coffee?” 

A brief flash of recognition in his eyes, “Coffee!” which means yes.  

People are laughing and screaming outside and it’s pissing Dan off. He hears their trainers slapping on the pavement through his open window (fucking summer) as they get closer to him, sounding so happy and free. He can practically feel the warm air, even from his bedroom, and,

god

, he wishes he had someone who he could wander outside with, completely carefree.

But, because he’s him, he has no one. Sure he has a few friends but they don’t care about him, not really. He’s simply not interesting enough, in his opinion. The incurable and all too familiar feeling of loneliness is returning and Dan isn’t sure how much more he can take. He needs something, anything, to drown this out.

And then he’s throwing his laptop onto his bed and pulling on his shoes and he’s creeping down the stairs, desperately trying not to wake up his parents. He grabs a bottle of vodka from the cupboard, slipping out the front door into the orange-lit street. He almost attempts to take a sip from the bottle there and then, realising just in time that it is July and there’s bound to be a few people mingling around, enjoying the heat.

Dan walks as fast as he can down the street, heart beating fast, chocolate eyes twinkling excitedly. His grip on the bottle of vodka is getting increasingly tight as he furthers the distance between himself and his house. Preferably, he’d like the distance to be at least a million miles but that’s not really practical right now.

He arrives relatively quickly at the park, unscrewing the cap of the vodka bottle and sighing gently as he finally takes a sip. He blanches at the strength of it but that’s okay. The park is one of the few places in this dump of a city that he actually likes. There’s a stream running directly through its centre and on either side of the stream the ground slopes upwards, like a little valley. Despite being referred to by locals as a park, the amount of trees is actually pretty sparse. But the ones that are there are big and full and comfort Dan in a way he can’t really understand.

He sits down on the top of the left slope, crossing his long, jean clad legs in front of him and gazes upwards. It’s quite difficult to see the stars as he lives in the city but being in the suburbs allows him to squint and occasionally catch a small glimpse of the twinkling dots in the deep-blue expanse of sky.

Out of nowhere there comes footsteps from behind him and Dan’s head spins around, half-expecting to see a murderer or something. Fortunately, it’s far from that. It’s a boy, tall and lanky, with what looks like jet-black hair (but then again it’s difficult to tell in this dim light) in a very similar style to Dan’s own.

“Oh I-I’m sorry, I didn’t think there’d be anyone here at this time, there usually isn’t,” the boy manages to stammer out, looking remarkably like a deer caught in headlights. Dan smiles in what he hopes is a friendly manner and shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it, mate, I don’t mind. You can join me, if you like.” Dan pats the space of grass next to him, unsure as to that he is doing. His brains seems to be more or less working on auto-pilot as he’s never usually this outgoing. Normally he’s pretty shy, honestly. Then again maybe it’s the alcohol kicking in. The boy cards a hand through his hair seemingly nervous but then shrugs.

“Ok yeah, if that’s alright.” He seats himself next to Dan, accidentally brushing shoulders as he does so. Dan feels a shock of electricity shoot through his body and he frowns, jerking away slightly.

“Vodka?” Dan offers, holding up the now half-empty bottle. The black haired boy, which may actually be dyed on closer inspection, nods gratefully, taking the bottle from Dan and downing a considerable amount. He barely reacts to it, which is surprising due to how strong it is. Dan raises an eyebrow. He must be pretty good at handling his alcohol. He takes the opportunity to look at the stranger properly noticing his strikingly blue eyes and incredibly pale skin. He’s very pretty, the kind of pretty that intrigues Dan in all the right ways.

“Oh I’m Dan, by the way.” Dan takes the bottle back, setting it on the ground between his legs.

“Phil,” the boy, Phil, says with a small smile. His lips are cute, Dan thinks, gazing at them before tearing his glance away, the sober part of his brain warning him that he’s going to freak the boy out. He can’t help but shift a little closer to Phil, though, resting his shoulder against the other boy’s.

Phil turns his head, presumably to speak to him and then stops suddenly. Dan turns, confused, and comes face to face with those gorgeous blue eyes. He hadn’t noticed that they were at such a close proximity and obviously Phil hadn’t either. He thinks that he can almost see Phil’s eyes flicker down to his lips for a second but he can’t be sure. The vodka is almost gone now so he feels confident enough.