#vihilum

@vihilum asked: you're my friend. you're my best friend. (Funny how I picked THEEE line from that movie. Theeee line of all time.)

" — YOU NEVER WROTE ME. ever."

fuck. fuckfuckfuck.

everywhere on her body, there were tiny cracks. she was used to them — tended to them like they were part of her all along. most of the time, lourdes managed keeping them together. her fingertips alone managed to level out all of the gaps & the empty spaces, keep the leaking of her pent up feelings at a minimum using herself as a shield.

this wasn't one of those times.

the leaks were everywhere. the cracks grew bigger, weathered & chipped with every minute that passed, and lourdes doesn't realize how much of the past she kept hidden from her own self until the levee breaks & it all spills out of her at once, years in the making. it's not his fault. it's not her fault, either. it wasn't anyone's fault — that was the worst part, wasn't it?

"i mean...not even once." they used to steal their mothers' phones on weekends. when beatrice got a laptop, trish had one too, and lourdes remembers the trouble she'd gotten in for making an instant messaging account without asking first. you see tommy almost every day, he's not goin' anywhere, her mother fumed — lucia didn't know it then, but it was a lie & the worst one she'd told. the move happened, and the laptop was quiet. the school year started, and lourdes' phone was silent. the murders happened, and lucia wept on the terrace for hours. she wonders, even still, if lucia wept too when she got the release letter from the institution.

or maybe she didn't. maybe her mother felt nothing when she sent the return letter, her daughter's address in the bronx inside. maybe lucia knew something that she didn't on that day she gave her the address & told her to get tommy.

"you never wrote me nothin'. never called me. called my mama. none of that. nobody ever told me shit." that made her angriest. the distance she could live with, but not knowing left a nail half hammered in her coffin & cracks all over her body. "i thought you fuckin' died, tommy. nobody told me the fuckin' truth 'til i was seventeen, and i thought you fuckin' died — i thought he killed you. but you were...we tell each other everything. i could tell you everything."

(not everything. not when ramone died, or when she killed someone, or when she fucks entire life up in the blink of an eye. nope. not that.)

"i spent my whole life wit'out you. whole time, you were fuckin' hours away...what kinda friend is that?"

@vihilum​ / kate said:   “will you go buy me tampons or not?”

      that sounded more urgent than it did five minutes ago in a text, which was eli’s first warning sign that this was not a question.  the second was that kate, who was normally pretty prepared for any kind of bleeding  ( what with their luck being the kind that gave them mass injuries with very little time to rest between getting new ones ), was asking him and not tommy, who was infinitely faster; shepherd must have been out of range.

𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼 — send 💭 + a topic to receive a headcanon about said topic.

nance and chris used to know each other before high school pulled them apart. not well, per se, but enough to be friendly. there was no great social catacylsm, really, just......being young pulling them every which way. chrissy knew barb from a distance, jonathan from a greater distance, and steve by virtue of....well, steve being steve. nancy had a sweet face and calm demeanor and the bubbly if still somehow quiet chrissy would have liked her quite a bit. and then everything got strange for a few years. life got more full and more complicated in equal measures. reputations got trickier and even though chrissy’s own wasn’t much of a prized trophy, high school drowned out faces more quickly than she would have liked. they could have been better friends if they had the time. at least ‘86 came along to rally everyone around the power of death. or resurrection. or both. they’d progressed nearly to strangers by ‘86 but spun quickly towards dear friendship after so much tragedy. 

chrissy wants to have nancy over to her house so badly. so badly. chrissy pines for a normal family home where friends that she made because other people like her for her and she likes them and feels safe around them can come and feel safe, too. but no, her last sleepover in fifth grade was over before sleep. laura had gotten frustrated about the amount of noise three little girls generated and the snacks they seemed to require. it was abruptly cancelled mid game of twister and mothers were called before they were within two hours of “lights out”.

the cunningham house is a trap and it needs to spring on no one else. all it takes is a few weeks for chrissy to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that nancy would sniff out just what kind of house chrissy’s was. it’s not the shame of a friend knowing, it’s the shame of a friend having to feel how chrissy does, every day. she apologizes to nancy over and over and over for this. it might have been a small thing to anyone else, but with all that nancy does for chrissy, the gap feels huge. their happy medium likely ends up being long conversations in the cunningham’s driveway. or possibly nancy sneaking into chrissy’s room via climbing the trellis if nancy wants to. there’s mostly yellow and ruffles and pillows everywhere, but there are nice bookshelves and they can hide under a very large comforter and giggle if they feel so inclined. 

chrissy promises to tell nancy absolutely everything if nancy will tell her what happened every year before, starting with discovering upside down. there might be a hundred things they can piece together with the shards of honesty. it’s a lot of work, but chrissy is tired of pretending.

chrissy brings mrs. wheeler a little potted plant whenever she comes over and nancy always gets a nice pen or a purse sized notebook. the two girls are also well documented hair accessory fiends and probably trade clips back and forth and experiment with clip formations. 

their after school summer is full of mystery books and movies. i almost can’t see the two of them not forming some kind of mini book club and filling pages with theoretical notes. there are absolutely lists of worthwhile authors and too-predictable ones. 

why am i getting the feeling they scrapbook? 

the end of summer goodbye to nancy is one of the hardest to make, and likely the goodbye with the most tears. even an extended school year wasn’t enough time to make up for all that they’d missed.