Had Chris Survived The Great Vecna-ing Of Spring ‘86, No Doubt She’d Be Dressing Up As Sarah From

"suburban intervention" by ian strange

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙍 𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙑𝙀 𝙃𝘼𝙍𝙍𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙏𝙊𝙉                      (starsinshadows​)

@greenscrunchy​ gets a starter cause I said so…

     The early December weather in Indiana should have made the idea of an outdoor party unacceptable, but with a bonfire going and enough alcohol, most of the teenagers present had only bothered with sweatshirts and body heat to supplement despite the snow on the ground outside of the fire’s heat. Steve had given up his coat to the “flavor of the week” – a pretty girl named Becky that he would actually probably date for a month or so, possibly through Christmas if she continued to not ask questions and stayed content to just be casual and have fun. She was currently laughing with some of her friends on the other side of the fire, beers in hand, and probably gossiping about their boyfriends or some poor kid that wasn’t popular and didn’t deserve the bullshit.      He leaned back on the lawn chair someone had brought out, looking sprawled and comfortable as he sipped at his beer like the King he was supposed to be, and he put on the smiles, shot back insults and sharp jokes as was required of him whenever the attention landed on him. Becky had come over fifteen minutes before to sit across his lap and make out, probably to show off to someone, but she’d gone back to her friends for the time being. He was her ride, so she’d make her way back to him before the end of the night, and she’d make sure she had a story to tell them all in the morning, he was sure.      He didn’t care. At least, that was what he told himself, and it was mostly true even if not in the way that he wanted it to be. He didn’t care about any of this, and it showed in brief, quiet moments when he stared at the fire and the exhaustion that he tried to keep hidden eased out at the edges of his being and the strange little streaks of gray that were appearing in his hair caught the firelight. Few people dared mention it, not willing to have Tommy H, Carol or half a dozen other people turn on them, but the kids had also noticed and Nancy had asked if he was sleeping at all. Only Robin knew and she’d passed on this particular gathering – not that he could blame her. He was ‘holding court’, so to speak, but he wasn’t interested in any of it and hadn’t been for awhile. Part of him wished he could just wander off into the woods and leave the circus behind, but that was the whole point of the charade to begin with; he had to hide the fact that he didn’t belong here anymore.

was chrissy cunningham a party person or not? 

staring hard into the dancing flames of the titular bonfire, chrissy clutched the neck of a wine cooler in both hands and asked the question for quite possibly the twentieth time since her upper school career had begun. and for the twentieth-or-other time, she still wasn’t sure. 

maybe it was a hawkins problem. were their parties lackluster thanks to the somewhat backwoods, down-home, small town (et cetera, et cetera) feel to hawkins? it wasn’t actually that small, all things considered, it just wasn’t a city. maybe that was the source of the issue and only cities had good parties. or was it just that she was inexperienced? chrissy scoffed at nothing and watched as the feathery plume of her frozen breath flew off to join the embers in the air. no, she’d been to enough “my parents are gone this weekend!” get-togethers and basketball game afterparties to use that excuse.

even more depressing was the thought that maybe parties were just like this everywhere and hawkins wasn’t an exception but the rule.

                       ❝ like what? ❞  a female voice seemed to slice through chrissy’s inner monologue. she glanced up sharply, but sighed once she put it all together: the interruption was just becky, having absconded from her dramatic perch on her throne - aka steve - exclaiming something to tammy and sue at chrissy’s elbow. a little spooky, but overall harmless. 

out of curiousity chrissy tipped her body backward so as to look past the girls. sure enough, there lounged king steve with his beer and his hair reigning over all of his subjects with a fuzzy smirk and the occasional cheers and nod for good measure. it could have been the inconstant light of the fire casting shadows where none usually sunk, but she could have sworn steve looked aloof in a way that didn’t quite match with his usually too cool for this school attitude. 

an absentminded tap of a nail against glass reminded the strawberry blonde of the drink she was still gripping. chrissy snorted lightly at nothing again, hoping neither becky or sue heard her. always the possibility of the wine cooler making everything just a little more maudlin to factor in, too. chrissy definitely considered herself a part-time lightweight, but a cooler and half should hardly be enough to make her buzzed unless her tolerance changed in the past month. 

except that she leaned back one more time, a little less steadily, and now steve looked hollow. haggard firelight washed across him courtesy of the still healthy blaze, but not even that seemed to break apart his dull mien. okay, something was up. without question.

one foot at a time chrissy did her best to scoot past the nearby knot of girls and amble in steve’s direction without being pulled back toward the fire. which is where she would like to be but for the fact that heaviness spread over steve’s brow was more interesting than discussing the macy’s christmas sale. becky did whine her name but only once, and chrissy assured her of a return at some point. by then she was halfway to steve’s lawn chair. only a few more steps and she’d come up beside the saggy excuse for a seat. mercifully some heat still reached into the fringes where steve was hiding.

without so much as a pause, chrissy plopped to her haunches and curled herself over her knees facing the fire but with squinted eyes pointed toward steve. this way she wouldn’t be planting her rump in a pile of snow and making the evening even less pleasant for herself.

                      ❝ what’s up? ❞  asked through her jacket sleeve, the popped p emerged a little less sharp but nothing could hide the sound of a grin that verged on loopy.  ❝ not enough beer or too much? you look kinda like the kingdom’s seen better days. ❞  

Uh so in other good news, flattery works with me, so Twenty-five percent discount for the half. Fifteen bucks

Some steps need to be taken alone. It’s the only way to really figure out where you need to go and who you need to be.

Mandy Hale (via mentalquotes)

𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐀𝐘. bold for what always applies. italicize what sometimes applies. repost, don’t reblog.

0 7 : 3 0 a.m.   —   paperwork. school bells. documentaries. rainstorms. tapping of a pen. dogs barking next-door. hopping to bed after a long day. crumpled notes. detailed encyclopedias. drowsy eyes. world maps. fogged eyeglasses. messy desks. bedheads. smudged-on whiteboards. old atlases. the smell of breakfast first thing in the morning. bare feet on cold marble. museums. worn-out wall paint.

0 9 : 0 5 a.m.   —   hydrangeas. sunrise. soothing walks in the park. the sound of birds chirping. crop tops. light seeping in through the window. denim overalls. flower vases. hair ties. freckles appearing under the sun. pins & patches. leaves falling during autumn. fairy lights. running shoes. botany textbooks. cloudy weather. laughing with eyes squeezed shut. jerseys. school bleachers. grass fields.

0 1 : 2 2 p.m.   —   expensive perfume. hair-twirling. the smell of vanilla. lollipops. blowing a bubble gum. arms crossed. snapping fingers. leather purses. sunglasses. laughing with a scrunched nose. skater skirts. cotton candy. lipsticks. vintage boutiques. heels clicking along the school hallways. old convertibles. hair in the wind. class councils. shopping bags. playing with the telephone cord.

0 2 : 0 0 p.m.   —   old dictionaries. warm mugs. striped blouses. soft bell chimes. cold-weather breath. a ticking clock. cardigans. light tapping of a finger. dusty typewriters. unread letters. dangling keys. wristwatches. doorbells. disconnected telephone beeps. endless film marathons. nail-biting. staying in uncrowded cafés. falling asleep in working clothes. unused bottles of ink. quiet nights.

0 8 : 3 4 p.m.   —   bows & ribbons. dressing rooms. black stockings. hair brushes. velveteen. drinking from ceramic tea cups. tall mirrors. tucking loose hair behind an ear. fuzzy slippers. comforters. stuffed animals. soft knocking of a door. rehearsing play scripts. bubble baths. lace. sauntering around the house in silk robes. solid-pastel clothes. crossed legs. carpeted floors. dimly-lit bedside lamps.

1 2 : 0 2 a.m.   —   snow-covered coats. heavy footsteps. faint classical music. red wine. creaky floorboards. missing pages. year-old newspapers. dusty bookshelves. door creaks. fireplaces. chiming grandfather clocks. passing by library aisles. the woods. black umbrellas. porch lights. turntables. the piano playing from another room. mute corridors. embers. isolated train stations.

reblog this to give the person you reblogged this from a gold star because they’ve been stellar today and they deserve it ⭐️

hours into the unclear future, chrissy might catch herself realizing that infinite reasons could exist for pink cheeks and dreamy silences in a packed kitchen hot from crowded bodies guzzling light beer and gossip like air, but in the moment she was only capable of joyously giggling,  ❝ steve, you’re so pink! ❞  a small poke to his cheek came after, followed in quick succession by an exultant gasp and a poke to a nearby eddie’s cheek.  ❝ you both are! ❞

such a sight was inexplicably tickling with a plastic cup of punch or two in her system (never more than that, however  —  playing it safe has become more comforting than boring) that lent a glowing edge to even the harshest of lighting and noises. like all of them were sucked into the kind of classic 80’s film chrissy used to romanticize within an inch of its life. with her shoulder sunk into eddie’s side and halfway beaming at steve, an argument could be made. brat pack, eat your heart out. they didn’t have safe places like she did, to be drawn back to every night like twin homing beacons. they weren’t laughing like she could these days. 

a slow, loose dawning still managed to roll over the former cheerleader, cooling a little of her own halfway inebriation.  ❝ it’s been a while, right? since we had fun like this? ‘cuz it feels good. ❞  

a freak, a jock, & an ex-jock walk into a party....     ///      @firelightfables​ + @starsinshadows​

𝔻𝔼𝔸ℝ 𝔹𝔸𝕐𝕆ℝ 𝕆ℂ𝔸𝕄ℙ𝕆,                        (athousandmilesandcounting​)

send   a   🎤    &   i’ll   shuffle   my   music   &   use   the   lyrics   to   write   a   starter.

@greenscrunchy​

“Finding I’m more lost and found when she’s not around When she’s not around I feel it coming down.”

there’s a story in everything. doodles in class note margins, pins on jackets. converse so customized barely any of the original color remained. the exact order of songs on a cassette. chrissy had never been to a concert, but she’d always wondered if meanings of tracks, or entire albums, shifted when pulled apart then shuffled to stack up a satisfying performance. would listening along be confusing or electric? maybe at college she could finally find out.

songs sung by themselves, though, made her listen twice as hard. even over the whistling of wind past her ears as she slowed down her swing’s rhythm to catch the notes more clearly. 

                    ❝  pretty. it sounds like you miss somebody? someone....good for you?  ❞  

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙍 𝙅𝘼𝙉𝙀                   ( familybyerstm​ )

❪ 🌺 ❫  ───  ❛  you don’t have to deal with this on your own.  ❜   @greenscrunchy​

             Jane looked up at the other person in front of her as a small smile appeared on her lips “Thank you.” left her lips in a soft voice “We will form a team together.” she added.

such an open willingness to stay strong for others on jane’s youthful face hit like breath knocked from unprepared lungs. while the crack lasted only a moment, chrissy’s smile faltered under the blow. it almost made her sick, between the gasp of reality and the hope and dread mixing uncomfortably in her gut. all jane still had to fight while another universe boiled below the feet of heedless hawkins loomed large behind the glitter still optimistically clinging to chrissy’s lids. 

and chrissy’s only offering was empty hands to hold and a renewed sense of resolve. 

                     ❝ that sounds great. ❞  she cast about in silence for the span of a tenuous inhale, piping up again more gently than before.  ❝ i don’t have powers or....anything much, although i definitely know how to be part of a team. it’s not just you and me either. ❞  warmth poured through the cheerleader’s limbs again in the form of sweet reminders.  ❝ you have your friends, too. you have all of us. not even the worst monsters can do much while we’re all here, right? ❞

Émotion (Nobuhiko Obayashi, 1966)