＊ ‎⠀ⁱ‎⠀ as ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ؟

#𝗨𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗦 , private and semi - active multi. ⁽ mo + she/her + black + 25 + orlando. ⁾ ʳᵒˢᵗᵉʳ ᵇᵉˡᵒʷ . EST. NOV 2025. ░

░ ᴾᴿᴼᴸᴼᴳᵁᴱ : 𝙟𝙪𝙡𝙮 ₁₉₆₉ .. HAWKINS NATIONAL LABORATORY. hawkins, indiana. ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ drove an 𝗶𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲 black car along a 𝗳𝗹𝗮𝘁 ᴵⁿᵈⁱᵃⁿᵃ ʳᵒᵃᵈ, slowing when he came to a 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘦 with a ᴿᴱˢᵀᴿᴵᶜᵀᴱᴰ ᴬᴿᴱᴬ sign. the guard stationed there ᵖᵉᵉʳᵉᵈ in the window for the BRIEFEST MOMENT , then checked his 𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 and waved him through. ( ... )

secrecy curdles into spectacle under the bare bulb hum of the wheeler basement and the soft and treacherous creak of a window frame pushed too far, too fast. the night had cooperated with his plan at first, thick with suburban quietude and then suddenly there he is: backpack half-zipped, one foot already committed to the escape plan, the other still stalled on suburban furniture. a boy mid-flight who's gotten pretty good running. eddie munson has always been motion. not grace or anything akin to such a trait motion. a constant forward lurch, propelled by noise and bravado and the sacred refusal to ever depend on anyone. never had, so why now? why here, in the wheeler basement of all godforsaken sanctuaries, caught red-handed by the one person whose eyes cut straight through the theatrics and land on the marrow beneath it? “ i don't know, nance. ” it's tossed off with ease, flippant like a cigarette flicked into the dark. eddie climbs down from the table. “ ideally? somethin' real inspiring. go get 'em, tiger. hoo-rah. confetti. the works. ” blooming with sarcasm, a parade of mock-heroics designed to drown out the truth clanging around inside of his skull: HE IS TERRIFIED. the truth that hiding like this has begun to feel almost worse than running, that stir-craze might actually kill him faster than whatever's hunting him.

“ you don't have to stick your neck out for me, alright? but if they're askin'? you don't know. ” hands lift, palms up, presenting the idea like a blinking marquee. “ which, by the way ” a wink, a finger gun cocked with such ridiculous ceremony. “ isn't a lie. loophole. ” and the word is heavy and ironic, almost reverent. how he slips between the cracks, how he has convinced himself that leaving isn't the same as yielding.

"have fun?"   chris can't help but ask, and it almost sounds like a genuine question.  that patented indifference drops the moment they're out of earshot.  she all but glowers at heather, mouth twisted into a scowl that so clearly revealed just how jealous she had gotten.   "what's your deal?  if you wanted a drink, you could have just asked me."  why are you trying to replace me?   it takes a surprising amount of willpower to not reach out and touch her shoulder, her hair, anything.  stomach twisting, chris folds her arms over her chest, constructing a nice metaphorical wall between them.   "he's leaving.  you might as well go with him."  /  for heather <3

and so she lets chris talk, lets her spill and fret and orbit because heather chandler understands, with a fluency so cruel, how comfort masquerades as dominance. the counter hums under her elbows and neon flickers around them. the world narrows to this syrup-stick laminate and even thicker energy. “  oh, please. what's your damage? ” heather says at last, the line arriving lacquered and lilting, affections pretend to be unaccounted for here. her head tilts and the curls avalanche with it, obedient and dramatic. she licks whipped cream from her thumb and leans closer, pushing off the counter with her palms, posture casual in a way only practiced girls could manage. “  if i wanted to go with him, we know i could've. ” a beat long, tectonic. she rocks in a faux-innocence. “  i like you more. like, god, you're so very chivalrous. ” the sentence is unadorned, naked in sincerity and heather feels it immediately.

how dangerous it is to say it so plainly so she rushes to gild it, to bury it under velvet and sarcasm and glittering debris of her charm.

this is something precarious, more unfinished, a quiet where both parties have agreed to not to breathe too loudly. hopper's cabin hovers in a state of provisional sanctity, walls sweating pine-sap memory and settling floorboards. time, usually such a vulgar brute, has been negotiated with and temporality bribed to allow girlhood this moment. jane is on her knees before joyce, small bones arranged with deliberateness that borders on reverence. flannel sleeves hang too long over palms resting in her lap. joyce's hands continue their pilgrimage, passing the hairbrush through curls heavy with damp. bristles catch and release, catch and release. she is at peace. “  hopper is no good. he brushes.. like a bear. ” jane says. bear is a classification her, because hopper belongs to the category of large, well-meaning forces that love without finesse. “  i like this. ” the mirror across the room becomes treacherous. jane's eyes find it anyway, dragged there by such magnetic compulsion. the girl staring back her way is unfamiliar but not hostile. her hair clings to her skull in soft obedience, darker with water and full of promise. her eyes flick to joyce's reflection behind hers, maternal softness rendered here in exhaustion and resolve. the sight hits jane somewhere behind the ribs, an ache blooming where language has not been installed yet.

“  it is longer now. ” jane reaches up, carefully, fingers closing around a lock of hair. she lifts it to her nose, inhales with scientific seriousness. “  and smells like soap. ” not antiseptic or chemical sterilization, but a civilian scent. mahogany, the bottle says. she breathes it in again, greedily, terrified the sensation might evaporate if not documented thoroughly. “  it will keep growing ? ” inside, this scene is something ancient. terry ives exists as a ghost-echo behind her eyes, restrained and fragmented, a life that might have been in this exact moment if the universe had not been so savagely interventionist.

ROOM HOLDS ITS BREATH. stacks itself in layers dust on forgotten shelves, old breath trapped in wallpaper. PICTURE JANE: standing inside the center of it, a small gravity well pretending to hold together. her being remembers cages. her being remembers unopened doors. she does not pace and she does not scream and she does not THROW anything. “  i care ! ” flat, not emotionless but compressed.

“  i say things. ” nods to herself once, as if counting is the only thing that keeps the floorboards solid beneath her feet. “ i say i love you. ” ⁽ THIS IS WHAT FRACTURES THE ROOM. ⁾ the blunt weight of a truth learned the hard way, in pieces, learned while bleeding and hiding and surviving. and still choosing him. “ you do not say. ” eyes do not leave the fixtures of his visage, watches him the way you watch a storm decide where to land. for flinches, for tells. “  you lie. ” lips tighten to a thin line, holding together with stitches. “  .. why do you lie ? ”

INSTINCT DOES NOT ARRIVE POLITELY. it does not clear its throat, does not ask for permission. it breaks through the ribs, tracks mud across the mind, and sits there. HE KNOWS. knowledge, however, is not absolution. her gaze does not wave. she has learned that bad things happen when you blink at the wrong time. her shoulders are taunt, a girl who has survived monsters and therefore should be immune to boys with dumb apologies but fear does not care for expertise. fear is loyal and stupid. “  yes. screwed up. ..i did not like it. ” the phrase sounds almost academic. observational. she is naming a specimen under glass ⁽ ANGER: NOUN. ⁾ TEXTURE: sharp. EFFECT: chest tight. duration? .. unknown. a shift, inward and not outward. a misalignment of past and present, where the now folds briefly into the before. the days without him stack up in her head, the silences, the radio, the nothing. it is all triggered by mike's decisions that are made without calling first.

“  i thought ” stops, words snag. eyes flick away and back again, as if the sentence might be hiding behind his shoulder. “  i thought you would be gone.. and i would not stop it. you scared me. ” quiet now. contained. images attempt to surface: doors closing, backs turning. THIS TERRRIBLE MATH OF BEFORE / AFTER / GONE. “  i am mad. ” stated plainly, no decorations or apologies.

LUNCHTIME. it is a condition, rather than a time. a sanctioned chaos interval where the building exhales its inhabitants in one greasy, fluorescent-loud convulsion. trays skid, forks scream, milk cartons burst their seams. ⁽ HEATHER OCCUPIES THE SPACE THE WAY A HEATHER WOULD ⁾ with entitlement, volume, inevitability. roy wagner's birthday party is the crime of topic: dumb jock, dumb keg, dumb music. will mutters, barely audible. one knee hooked on the bench, sunglasses indoors because she has decided the world is so offensively bright. she peels them up onto her perm with two fingers and rolls her eyes so hard the motion might cause a shift in gravity. a whine, “  oh my gooood. pump the jets, drama dweeb ! ” she is one to talk about drama. heather chandler reaches across the narrow, laminated gulf between their strays and steals a single fry from his tray: pops it into her mouth, CRUNCH! “ don't be such a total drip on purpose. ” heather leans in, chin in palm, bracelets clacking. “ like, god, it honestly makes me violently fucking ill. ” with relish and flair. you'd have to understand this unlikely friendship ⁽ FRIENDSHIP? ... I GUESS SO. ⁾ is born from an entity. vecna hangs between them like an invisible watermark, shared horror and shared secrets. the end of the world has a way of flattening hierarchies just enough to let strange friendships root: queen bee, zombie boy. annexed, adopted, claimed. so, this connection to heather chandler and .. THE LOSER'S CLUB. heather straightens rather abruptly, decision made and spine snapping into place. “ i'm not asking anymore. now i'm abducting you. congratulations. ” final, ceremonial, almost irrefutable.