#st 1

Hopper doesn’t take him seriously, however even his joke about Murray is also later addressed:

all the alien hints sound and look quite unserious — but too often to be completely dismissed:

there’s also the scene reminding by it’s vibe an alien invasion (a helicopter coming for Owens):

we also know that the bros are big fans of the Alien franchise, and there have always been many Easter eggs about it, but maybe not just for being there but also informing us on the hidden plot? (and now I feel like an alien conspiracy theorist, which… I am as I’m sharing these evidence :D)

also we have Winona there, metagate of it all!

like freddykruegergate it happens too often to mean nothing

besides, if the demos are aliens, and El is a demo based on one of the theories, does it confirm that El is an alien as in Ellien and Eleanor?

this damn ‘tower’ in s2 AGH

Murray was incorrect about relationships but not about his expertise; Jim’s line sounds like nothing but foreshadowing of what will really happen:

Billy Hargrove

• Billy is still vibrating with rage when it ends. Not cooling off, as if instead of letting the leftover adrenaline and anger dissipate, he were setting them aside for a moment when they’d be needed again, and as if he expected that moment to come within the next five minutes

• Like his body missed the part where it’s supposed to stand down. His knuckles are split, one cheek already swelling because of one of the few hits the other guy managed to land, blood smeared across the upper part of his shirt where he wiped his hand after clearing the trickle running from his busted lip.

• He’s breathing hard, not from pain but from all the adrenaline that never got a proper outlet, mixed with the physical effort of hitting harder than necessary just to bleed off some pent up anger. That’s what he hates most, being interrupted before he can finish what he started.

• When you step in and call his name from across the street a second before rushing over, something in him snaps sideways

• “What?” The word comes out like a bark, sharp enough to cut. He doesn’t look at you at first. He spits to the side, wipes his mouth again, smearing more blood onto the concrete like grease.

• If you try to touch him, just a hand on his arm, instinctive and stupid, that’s the moment everything goes red. He grabs your wrist hard. Not calculated. Not careful. Fingers closing fast and tight, yanking you closer like his body reacts before his brain can stop it. The grip is bruising, angry, more than controlling.

• “Don’t fucking touch me.”

• It’s low, teeth bared, right in your face. His eyes are wild, unfocused, pupils blown wide, long lashes damp with sweat, daring you to make this worse. For a split second it’s unclear whether he’s angrier at you for stepping in or at the fact that you saw him like this at all.

• He lets go just as abruptly, like he suddenly realizes the contact burns, and shoves your hand away without stepping back an inch, like you crossed a line.

• “What do you think you’re doing?” Not concern. Not gratitude. Accusation. And if you say you were worried he could be hurt, he laughs, short and ugly.

• “The fuck do you want from me, huh?” He hisses this time, his eyes don’t blink, like he found the idea of you thinking he might be in pain offensive. Like it’s an insult to even point it out.

• He doesn’t want help. He doesn’t want sympathy. He doesn’t want witnesses, not while the heat of the fight is still warming his blood. The idea that someone might think he needs something makes his stomach twist with rage. Help implies weakness. Weakness implies leverage. And worse than that, the idea that someone could look at him, see him win, see him still standing, not faltering for a second, and still worry about him makes him feel like he lost anyway, like his teeth were on the asphalt.

• He paces like a caged animal, runs a hand through his hair, smearing blood into it without noticing. If you suggest leaving, sitting down, cleaning up, anything remotely practical, he cuts you off immediately.

• “I’m fine.” Louder than necessary. Final. He doesn’t explain the fight. Doesn’t justify it. Doesn’t soften it.

• “He deserved it.” End of story. If you question that, even slightly, his eyes harden. “Mind your fucking business,” is the last response you will receive.

• He gets in the car once he’s burned off enough adrenaline pacing back and forth, but he still slams the door harder than necessary. He drives fast, reckless, knuckles almost bleeding against the steering wheel.

• Even later, when he’s alone in his bathroom, he doesn’t check his injuries. Doesn’t wash up properly. Doesn’t wrap his hand. He doesn’t care enough to bother. He’s used to it. It’s not bad enough to be worth the attention, and covering up the torn skin on his knuckles would only risk his father noticing something that could quickly turn into an excuse to start a way worse fight than the one he had.

• Something Billy avoids as much as possible. 

• In the days that follow, he won’t bring it up. Ever. If you do, he shuts it down with a glare and a sharp “it’s done.”

• He knows that snap of anger aimed at you weighs between you, but Billy doesn’t want to be helped. And part of him, a small uncooperative voice in a dark corner of his head, expects that reaction to scare you enough to pull away.

• Maybe he even hopes it will.

• Not because he doesn’t like you. Not because he hates your reaction. But because the most reasonable thing to do with someone hard to love and hard to help is to give up. And in his case, that would prove that getting attached is bullshit.

• Still, in the days that follow, even if it’s barely visible, he stays on alert. Fewer comments. Always available for rides. Always an extra bottle of water in his bag. Just in case you need it, but not evident enough to let you know that he’s thinking about it.

Eddie Munson

• Eddie comes back from the fight buzzing like a live wire, adrenaline still chewing through him. Blood runs freely from his nose and split lip, knuckles torn, jacket half off his shoulder like he forgot how sleeves work. He’s laughing when he sees you, actually laughing, which is never a good sign.

• “Hey,” he says, breathless. “You should see the other…” He winces, presses a hand to his ribs. “…okay, no, actually don’t. He might be dead. Kidding. Mostly.”

• He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, rolls his shoulders, lets his arms dangle and swing, trying to shake off the pressure still bouncing through him from his heels to his ears with urgent intensity.

• He doesn’t register your concern right away. He paces. Lights a cigarette with shaking fingers and snaps a “don’t” when you step closer. Not loud. Sharp. Reflexive. Like he’s used to people getting involved the wrong way.

• “I’m fine,” he says, a lie so obvious it’s almost insulting. “This is just how I unwind.”

• If you insist, if you reach for his hand or his face, he flinches before forcing himself still. The flinch pisses him off more than the pain. “Jesus, sorry.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, smearing dirt and sweat everywhere. “I just… give me a second.”

• He hates being seen like this. Fights make sense to him. The aftermath doesn’t.

• He isn’t a violent guy, but in the trailer park it’s not uncommon for someone, a junkie or a hothead, to pick a fight. It’s not exciting, but it’s not unheard of either, and your reaction, so far removed from that reality, makes him realize just how different you are.

• He keeps deflecting. Jokes about it. Calls it a misunderstanding. Says the guy had a punchable aura. But when you kneel anyway, ignoring his nonsense and digging through whatever half assed first aid you have, he finally stops talking just to convince you to drop it and lets out a resigned sigh.

• Not calm. Not exactly cooperative. But he lets it happen.

• He complains the whole time. Hisses when antiseptic hits skin. “I’m starting to suspect you’re just a sadist, you know. Ouch. Hey. I wasn’t challenging you.” Then, quieter, almost embarrassed. “You don’t have to do that. It’s okay.”

• If you say you know, he scoffs and looks away, jaw tight. His face and body are a collection of small tics. A heavier breath, the compulsive biting at his split lip, the corner of his mouth twitching and creasing his cheek, then the shake of his head and the messy mass of curls as soon as you turn away.

• The thing is, he doesn’t pull back.

• He watches your hands instead, big dark eyes magnetically drawn to your movements. To the care in them. The familiarity. That unsettles him more than the fight ever did.

• When you’re done, he mutters something small and a little awkward. “Guess you’re not just here for my winning personality, huh.” It’s a joke. Kind of.

• He doesn’t thank you. Doesn’t suddenly get soft. But when you stand to leave, he reaches out, fingers catching your wrist for just a second too long.

• “Hey,” he says, quieter now, stripped of the noise. “Next time… I’ll try not to bleed on you. Can’t promise, though.”

• That's his personal way of apologizing for the trouble, and of letting you know your attention didn’t bother him.

Steve Harrington

• Steve’s knuckles are already swelling by the time it’s over.

• He’s breathing hard, chest heaving, blood running warm from his nose down his chin. The other guy stumbles off with a curse and Steve doesn’t chase, not because he’s calm, but because his legs finally remember they’re human. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and winces.

• For Steve, the point of a fight isn’t to kill the other person. It’s to end up still standing on his own feet, or come out looking better. That’s why even if the guy were still on the ground at his feet, he wouldn’t keep going.

• “Shit,” he mutters when he finally looks down. It’s a lot more blood than he expected. Then, again, “…shit,” when he realizes you’re watching from beyond the fence by the parking lot.

• You arrived when the fight was just over, so you hadn’t to stop them. You just yelled his name once, sharp enough to make his ears ring. That alone pisses him off more than the punch did.

• “Don’t,” he snaps immediately, his ears ringing, before you can say anything. He straightens, squares his shoulders, tries to look fine while his hands shake. “I’m good.”

• He isn’t. One eye is already swelling shut from the hit to his brow. The blood is drying, cracking where his skin moves when he talks. His fingers are pale, his palms sweaty. He can read on your face that mixture of concern, maybe disappointment, and a pinch of sadness. Steve hates it. Not because it’s wrong, but because it feels deserved.

• “I said I’m good,” he repeats, louder, defensive. “You didn’t have to come over. See?” He opens his arms slightly, hands out, like he’s showing you his chest is intact and the blood is just splashback. What he really means is you didn’t have to see him like this.

• When you reach for his hand he pulls back on instinct, too fast, too sharp. Regret flashes over his face just as quickly, but he doesn’t apologize. Anxiety, adrenaline, anger, and now embarrassment and something close to humiliation are all too strong for that.

• “It was…” he says, voice rough. “The guy was running his mouth.” That’s a lie. It was more than that. It always is. But you don’t argue, he seems too stressed to handle whatever comment you’ll make. So you sigh, torn on how to react, dig through your bag for a tissue, and when you find one you offer it. Steve stares at it like it might bite.

• “Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna make this a whole thing now? Can’t we go, I dunno, somewhere and go on with the day?”

• Still, after a beat, he takes it.

• He dabs at his lip too hard, hisses, swears under his breath. His jaw tightens, frustration leaking out sideways. Then he mutters that he’ll probably have to buy you a new one since it won’t come clean easily, maybe to make that moment a bit less awkward.

• The parking lot feels smaller. Colder. A little more miserable.

• You wait for him to hand the tissue back, like it’s a signal that he’s calming down, that the air has finally lost the electric tension of the fight. When he finally does that, you take it and after a beat, carefully reach for his swollen wrist.

• He doesn’t pull away. That’s as cooperative as he gets. He watches you check it, jaw clenched, eyes flicking down and away like letting you help is a personal failure.

• “See? It’s nothing. I told you. You can stop fussing,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. There’s shame there, almost resentment. He didn’t want you to see the aftermath. The mess. And the messed up wrist, apparently.

• When he was younger, fights outside the school gates were met with cheering. The closest thing to concern was someone handing the winner a cold drink so they could cool their palms and feel triumphant.

• Sometimes it’s hard to remember that as an adult, throwing punches in a parking lot isn’t proof of strength, but of lost control.

• Somewhere in his head, he’s afraid you might see him as violent, reckless, someone looking for excuses to fight. The fear that you might be scared of him is where the spiral starts, but he’s good at ignoring his thoughts, so even while breaking out in a cold sweat, he keeps playing it off.

• “Hey, uh… I mean the wrist and the eye aren't that bad, let me give you a ride”

• He probably shouldn’t drive, but he does anyway. He offers, a little guilty, to take you home, or to your car, or wherever you were headed. His tone keeps dropping, calmer, quieter, less ironic, like he’s afraid you’ll realize he’s not the kind of person you want around.

Jonathan Byers

• Jonathan doesn’t look relieved when it’s over. If anything, he looks worse. Jaw tight, knuckles flexing like his body hasn’t caught up to the fact there’s no one left to hit.

• The alley smells like trash, cold metal, adrenaline. His lip is split. He doesn’t notice until you say his name, sharp, because you recognize him, because you know that stance. That’s when he finally looks at you. Not embarrassed. Not grateful. Guarded, like he’s afraid you might attack him too.

• “What are you doing here?” It comes out rougher than he means, but he doesn’t correct it.

• He turns away first. Always does. Presses the heel of his hand into his ribs, checking damage, keeping it contained. He hates being seen like this, angry, violent, out of control. But he especially hates that you saw it.

• Emotionally, you never get used to this. Physically, he’s been dealing with it since he was a kid, people in town taking shots at him or his brother, forcing him to become violent to defend himself when things got phisical, or lose control because all the bullshit adults were saying about a kid.

• You didn’t stop the fight. Jonathan isn’t even sure when you arrived, if you were actually there during all the punching and sharp insults, but part of him is grateful that, if you actually saw it, you decided to not intervene. Another part of him is unsettled. He isn’t used to people letting him burn it out instead of telling him to calm down, telling him he’s too much.

• When you reach for him after a while, gentle and instinctive, he flinches. Just enough to notice. Maybe the spot hurts. Maybe the fight reflexes were still firing. You can’t tell.

• “I’m fine,” he says immediately, you both know it’s a lie.

• Blood colors his knuckles. It’s hard to tell if it’s his or the other guy’s. When he finally looks at his hands, he does it like they belong to someone else. There’s a long pause while he decides whether to stay silent and let you walk away, or open up just enough to explain, letting you know about all the humiliation his family have been suffering for years. But making himself vulnerable when he’s not even sure his body could hold up another twenty minutes doesn’t sound right, honestly.

• If you offer help, he doesn’t accept right away. He scoffs, shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that,” like care is an inconvenience, like it comes with a cost. And he can’t afford it.

• But he doesn’t walk away either.

• If you insist without pity or drama, he exhales and lets you clean the cut on his lip, the dried blood on his hands. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t say thank you. His shoulders stay tense, his eyes focused on something at the end of the alley, waiting for judgment that never comes.

• “This isn’t…,” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “I’m not like that. Usually.”

• It’s the closest he gets to explaining himself. His cheeks color slightly when you dab his temple. His breathing steadies. Maybe grateful. Maybe embarrassed. Maybe it just hurts more than he wants to admit.

• Afterwards, he puts distance between you, not physically speaking, but emotionally. Hands in his jacket pockets. Back against the brick wall. He won’t ask if you’re scared of him now, what do you think about him. He won’t ask if this changes things. Probably doesn’t think he’s entitled to reassurance, but at the same time part of him simply doesn’t want to hear something he is not ready for while being in that state.

• But when you say his name again, softer this time, he looks at you, lips pressed tight. There’s something raw there. Not remorse. Not pride. Just the quiet fear that this is the moment you decide he’s too much and walk away.