* WHEELERSNIPE.

no. my horse is too high. we both smoked out of my milk jug gravity bong and now we’re traversing through the desert in search of god. hope that helps.

“       yeah   ...   so   ???       ”   mumbled through a groan                   barely decipherable as real words. void of energy, bored of keeping things together.   bruises that are fading, wounds that are scarring over.   the aftermath of things he can’t explain and will never be able to explain. shoulders exhausted from the weight of everything. disturbingly unlike him to hole up like this, though it is a yearly tradition to withdraw whenever some hawkins bullshit happens. usual high - energy and an unfiltered mouth has suddenly been reduced to an unmade bed and an unwashed def leppard shirt.       the absolute refusal to look lyn in the eye                   the impossible task of lying directly to their face. atticus never wanted to make a habit of faking in front of lyn   ...   even with the ego, even with pretending he hated them in the beginning. he’s never really been afraid of them either.   but he is now.   he’s terrified they’ll see right through him. atticus shifts and turns away, facing the sliver of sunlight that filters through plaid curtains   :   “       i’m tired. i just want to sleep in. i didn't think that would be such a big deal.       ”

everything is so incredibly fucked up.   a pause. a strange pill for atticus to swallow, one that leaves a funny taste in his mouth. he should feel comfort from qiyi, he should, but now there’s more confusion than anything else                   more questions that he doesn’t quite want to ask.   the biggest one   :   when does this all end   ?   years of bullshit that get worse and worse. face pale, hands shaking. the general awkwardness of not knowing where to begin   +   true terror that no one deserves. friends mangled, families frightened, a town wrought with anxiety. and somehow, it feels like it’s falling on his shoulders, like he might be the next one to get swallowed whole by the pit that is hawkins.   “       it’s   ...   it’s a clock.   i hear it behind me. i see it around corners. there’s this voice that i hear                   it spoke to me, it tried to take me, it knew my name. the only thing that keeps me from giving in is   ...   god,   i don’t know why i’m telling you this. you barely know me.       ”

     “       no. we usually keep the drinks cold.       ”                 will atticus be bitter about the warm - piss beer for, like, the next week and a half   ?   most likely. how unfortunate. it’s not the best party to begin with, but he could liven up.   he wants to.   but he can’t find it in himself to give up the scowl and try to relax. for a moment longer, he's all soaked up in this weird act                   behaving worse than his little brother who has the attitude of brick. washing a handful of skittles down with the remaining booze   ...   what a dinner. fuck, he should just go home, but his ride is in there trying to get at one of the cheerleaders.   ‘ what a total smokeshow, ’   he said, before disappearing and leaving atticus to his own devices. maybe it’s actually not that bad and he’s busy trying to prove something to all the tracksuits inside.       HOW IRONIC.   the king of keggers is sitting on the front porch with his face in his hands, lamenting over how bored he is   ...   but deep down, it’s because he feels out of place.   the attitude has toned down. the ego has been knocked down a peg. but he’s not exactly the guy who doesn’t leave a bitter taste in everyone’s mouths. especially when he’s cranky as all hell. alright, maybe his moment is somewhat over   ?   a sudden shift from the moodiness                   easily giving into chrissy’s optimism, playing it off like it’s all in good fun.   “       and we have, like. beer pong. and rage cage. ever played rage cage &nnbsp; ?   now that’s fun.   keyword   :   fun.   ”