Archive of Our Own

Hawkins Middle Snow Ball ‘84

The clip in Max’s hair is digging into her skull, and she wants to rip it out and throw it away, but it was her grandmother’s. It’s probably as old as America itself. Antique or something. Priceless, especially to Max’s mother, who probably wants to bequeath it to Max’s potential future daughter. As if.

She ignores it, focuses instead on Chaka Khan and the softness of her sweater. She’s glad her mom let her wear it, let her wear fucking jeans instead of the flowery skirt Susan had preferred while they were shopping. They’re nice jeans, which helped her argument.

The shopping trip had been nice, even if Max had had to try on four skirts and two dresses and a blouse that was equally ugly and uncomfortable. Her mom had smiled more sitting there in that seat across from the dressing rooms than Max had seen in months. Maybe even years. They’d laughed at the blouse together, grimacing and giggling the moment their eyes met, and Susan had told her after finally deciding on the pants that she’d considered naming Max Jean before she was born.

Max thinks about that. If her name was Jean. Jean Mayfield. It certainly wouldn’t help the boys’ jokes about her being half of their Jean Grey, paired alongside Eleven, but it’s a nice name, Max thinks. She doesn’t know if she would have preferred it. It’s kind of girly. But, also, there are plenty of boys named Jean. They’re probably French or something, but still.

She’s leaning against an empty table, one of the very few in the room; most are occupied by lingering groups of girls that seem to either be waiting for boys to ask them to dance or laughing about the boys that have asked them to dance. They’re all wearing dresses and heels, their hair curled and permed and pinned into styles that Max’s mother would probably like. They look pretty. Max admires the shining and sparkling fabric some of them are donning, her eyes lingering on the way they glimmer under the shifting overhead lights.

“Hey.”

She startles, looking to her right to find Lucas, shy and sweet, holding two cups of punch. She suppresses a smile, reaching to take one, and he smiles back, moving to join Max at the table. They’re quiet for a moment, watching the others. Mike and El are still dancing, and it’s awkward and silly and precious— Mike isn’t Max’s favorite person in the world, but El is beaming as they dance, and it makes Max’s chest feel warm. Will is also watching them, grinning over the shoulder of the girl in front of him, laughing when she glances back at the way El is trying to mimic Mike’s movements. Max laughs into her cup.

“Are you having fun?” Lucas asks awkwardly, and she turns to look at him. He’s already looking at her, and he’s close enough that she can see the way the lights reflect in his eyes.

“Yeah,” she says truthfully. “I’m having fun.”

She looks away before he can respond, her cheeks flushing with heat, because even that confession is too much. She feels like she might fucking explode, like all her humiliation and admiration is bubbling up inside her like magma. She’d kissed him earlier, and it was amazing and terrifying and wonderful, and she kind of wants to do it again, but they’re standing side-by-side now instead of face-to-face. She’s scared to look at him. It’s stupid.

“Are you having fun?” she asks after a moment.

“Why’d you come tonight?” Lucas says abruptly. He doesn’t answer her question.

“Uh,” Max says intelligently. “I don’t know. Mom thought it would be good for me. I wanted to see you— you guys.”

She corrects herself quickly. As though she didn’t kiss him earlier.

“Good for you,” Lucas repeats quietly, absently.

“Just… You know. Interacting with people. Friends.”

“Friends,” Lucas says with a scoff, and he sounds cold suddenly. Max blinks and glances at him.

“Yeah,” she says. “You guys. Jury’s still out for Mike, though.”

Lucas doesn’t say anything.

Max watches Mike twirl El, watches her stumble and giggle. When she turns to face Lucas, he’s already looking back at her, his expression flat, his eyes dull. They aren’t shining like they were earlier, and it makes Max startle, makes her pause.

She looks at him, tilts her head a little and absently realizes neither of them are holding plastic cups anymore.

“Why are you here?” Lucas says. His voice sounds different. Max blinks.

“What?”

“Why,” Lucas says slowly, leaning his head forward like Max can’t hear him, like she can’t understand him, like she’s stupid, “are you here?”

Max blinks again, and she looks away, glancing around the room.

It’s empty. Dark. The tacky decorations are still up, the streamers and garlands and disco ball, but they’re all dull, falling apart. There’s no one around, and the speakers have gone silent. The room is practically echoing, and Max can hear herself breathing, can hear her exhale tremble. The disco ball is spinning slowly, casting lights across the ground and walls.

It’s too quiet. She misses Chaka Khan. She’s cold.

She turns back to Lucas, but Lucas is gone, and instead, her eyes meet icy blue, and she startled back with a scream, stumbling over her own feet and falling to the ground.

“Why are you here?” Billy says. His voice is unwavering, his gaze steady on her even as her chest tightens like there’s something on top of her, like there’s something wrapped around her. She tries to inhale, but it’s stuck in her chest.

“Go away,” she says shakily, trying to crawl away, her hands slipping over the gymnasium floor.

“Why are you here?”

She’s scrambling, kicking at the floor like she’s trying to swim, like she’s underwater, and the rubber soles of her shoes are squeaking against the floor.

“Get away!” she screams, watching helplessly as he approaches her slowly, stalking forward. He’s bleeding. His chest is covered in it, his shirt stained almost black, and it’s dripping, falling to the floor in light spatters that Max can hear. “Get away from me—”

“What is wrong with you?” Billy says, his nose wrinkling in distaste, like Max is disgusting, like she’s the sick one, and her fear shifts to anger for a brief, brief, moment.

“Fuck you,” she snaps, her voice trembling, still scrambling back until she feels something against her hand— the leg of a chair, one of the stupidly uncomfortable stools brought out only for special events. She grabs at it without taking her eyes off Billy, and she swings it at him clumsily, hard. It only managed to clip his legs, and he grabs it from her. Swings it at her. She screams, flinches back and covers her face—

September, 1985

She wakes up calmly. She always does. A slow exhale as her eyes open. It would be a nice way to wake up if her heart wasn’t pounding in her chest, if she wasn’t covered in an even, sticky layer of sweat.

She’s cold, shivering, and she grimaces as she sits up, pulling at the fabric of her shirt so it peels off her skin.

It’s quiet. Outside, someone’s garbage bin slams shut, but Max doesn’t startle. She doesn’t really do that anymore, like she’s too far away from her own body, from her own senses, to register anything normally. It’s annoying. Sometimes she even takes longer to answer questions, even when she’s looking right into the eyes of whoever is asking her.

The floor is carpeted in the trailer. Her footsteps plod quietly as she makes her way to the bathroom then the living room. Her mom is asleep on the sofa like she usually is now, and Max takes a moment to look at her. She wants to be fond, looking down at her dozing mother, at the hair that’s fallen across her freckled face, at the loose curl of her fist, but she can’t. Not when she could hear her last night, stumbling and tripping around the trailer, and not when the ground around the sofa is littered with glass bottles and tissues and cigarette butts that have fortunately not ignited the dusty carpet.

Max clears some of the bottles away, careless of the clinking and bashing together that they do in her hands, too small to hold them all together by their necks— her mother doesn’t even stir.

It’s cold outside when she goes to toss them in the glass bin, and it takes her a moment to realize that she’s barely even dressed, the t-shirt she’s wearing hanging down to her knees and covering the stripes of her underwear. She decides that she doesn’t care.

Her mom is sitting up when she finishes getting dressed, and Max watches, lingering in the doorway of her bedroom as she rubs her face, pushing her hair out of the way, squinting at the floor like she’s trying to remember whether or not she got rid of the bottles herself.

“Morning,” Max says dryly. She ties her hair up as Susan looks over at her; her expression is always angry-looking in the morning (or whatever time of day she gains consciousness). Eyes narrowed, eyebrows drawn, nose scrunched. Like she’s suspicious. Or disgusted.

“Hi,” Susan says lightly, her voice rough, like it’s a normal morning. Like she wasn’t up at one in the morning throwing up. Like Max couldn’t hear her.

Max grabs her bag and jacket. Swings them on and pauses in the kitchen to rummage through the snacks cabinet, hesitating. She’ll probably be late, but she’s late more often than not these days.

“It’s Friday,” she says without looking away from the cracker boxes she pushes out of the way, reaching for the fruit roll-ups. Susa fills a glass at the sink. “I was, uhm… Thinking. Maybe we could watch a movie tonight. Or something.”

“A movie?” Susan says, and Max wants to be a bitch, wants to define the word and ask if all the liquor’s absorbed into her brain.

“Yeah,” she says instead, forcing her voice to be light. “If you wanna stop at the video store, Robin and Steve are working today. They said they’d give you the Max’s mom discount.”

Susan scoffs, and Max’s expression lightens as she glances at her. Her hair has been smoothed as much as it can be, tucked behind her ears and frizzy.

“Max’s mom discount?”

“Yeah,” Max says. “Perks of being the favorite kid.”

Susan hums, smiling as she sips the water.

“A movie sounds fun,” she says after swallowing. “Any preferences?”

Max hesitates, pushing the fruit roll-ups in her pocket and shutting the cabinet.

“Nothing gorey.”

Susan nods.

She’s late. Nobody seems to care except her homeroom teacher, who sends her an unimpressed look over her wire-rimmed glasses, her expression unchanging even when Max mouths an apology across the room.

It’s a slow day, but Max barely notices it goes by. She keeps her head down in the hallways, keeps her headphones on. She tilts to avoid bumping shoulders, and she ignores Lucas’s eyes when they land on her in the cafeteria, as she’s ripping open the fruit roll-up. It’s a Friday, but it’s also Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.

She goes to Ms Kelley’s office after school, which she’s required to do on Mondays and Fridays, because weekends can be eventful, but she doesn’t talk much. Kelley is nice enough, patient when Max takes too long to answer her questions, when she skirts around the ones she doesn’t like. Her office smells like vanilla, and her smile is warm even when it’s directed at Max.

And she goes home. Which is never a good idea.

The sun is setting by the time she gets to the trailer park, the chill in the air biting at her face and ears, and she kind of wants to keep going, to drop her backpack on the road and skate until she doesn’t recognize the landscape. But she skids to a stop, and she looks at the dim windows of the trailer, and she goes inside.

She doesn’t know what she was expecting, or what she was hoping for— maybe dinner, some cheap takeout from town, already cold. Maybe a movie or a few to choose from, sitting on the coffee table.

Her mom is on the sofa. Snoring. Her arm is reaching toward the ground, her fingers extended toward a wine bottle.

Max stands in the doorway, letting the warm air out and cold air in, and she stares.

She’s not angry. She’s not. She’s never angry anymore.

She thinks maybe she’s disappointed. She shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up, and maybe it’s on her for being vaguely optimistic, but her stomach feels like it’s dropped to her hips, and her chest aches.

She hates how childish Susan looks like this, dozing on the sofa. How vulnerable she looks.

Max shuts the door and tosses a blanket over her before going to her room. She drops her backpack, and she kicks her shoes off, and she falls onto her bed, listening to the silence surrounding her. She can never tell if the pulsing ache is in the trailer, in the park, or if it’s just circling her head like some kind of halo or astronaut helmet. Some kind of void in a bubble.

Her chest tightens, and she rolls onto her back, resting her hands over her belly as it rises and falls. Her eyes squeeze shut and her shoulders tighten and she needs to get over herself. She thinks briefly about the painkillers in the kitchen, the ones that make her sleepy, but she dismisses the image of them, forcing herself up and out of her clothes, blearily finding the t-shirt she slept in last night. It’s at least twice her size, maybe three times, and it used to be Steve’s before Max snatched it from his room during a movie night a while ago. It’s old— a dusty shade of green, the design on the front, some round logo from a bar in Indy, faded nearly beyond recognition. But it’s soft. Her favorite.

It brushes against the skin of her thighs as she walks through the trailer like she’s looking for something, trailing her hand along the wall as she stalks down the hallway. The wallpaper is peeling, and it catches on her fingertips, but she doesn’t care when she hears it rip.

It’s dim, lit up by two lamps in the living room. They’re golden, muffled by the dusty shades around them, and Max lingers in the hallways, looking around. It would be cozy if it wasn’t for… all of it. The wine bottle on the floor, the faint stain on the rug from spilled whiskey.

Maybe it would be cozy if it wasn’t theirs. There are cushions on the sofa, and the rug is soft, and everything is some warm shade of brown, but it looks so cold. Max doesn’t remember a time she’s ever thought her living space looked warm, or welcoming, or safe. Four houses, including this one, and the brief stint in the shelter, and she’s never felt like she could sit down. Like she can exhale.

She leans against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest and watching her mother shift on the sofa. It can’t be very comfortable, Max thinks, laying against the armrest like that with her neck bent and her shoulder hunched, but Susan won’t care until she wakes up, when her muscles are stiff and she can’t turn her head without wincing. Max wants to scold her.

She hates it here. Not because the trailer is shit, or because it’s fucking Hawkins. Her mom is asleep like she usually is, but it doesn’t feel like it. Max can still feel the weird tension radiating off of her, the air around her that’s grown denser in the past year or so. Max keeps finding herself holding her breath when her mom is conscious.

She’s been getting worse.

Max hadn’t expected her to agree to a movie tonight— just asking had been a risk. Susan has sparks of cruelty in her that have been catching alight. She can be mean sometimes. It’s annoying.

Especially when she’s been drinking, when it’s still in her. Her inhibitions are lowered, but she still seems to catch every sigh and eyeroll that Max sends her way, and she takes it all incredibly personally. (Which, Max supposes, is fair. It’s all personal.)

Max remembers what she said the other day, when Max commented that she did the dishes earlier in the day. Susan had gestured vaguely toward the kitchen with the bottle in her hand, and some of it spilled over.

Well, do it again! I’m not your— your fuckin’ maid, Max, Jesus.

She didn’t used to talk like that in front of Max. She used to be religious, or at least religious enough to not use Jesus’s name like that. Not that Max really cares about that. Susan used to be softer, but Max can’t help but wonder if she’s actually always had this under her skin. If the liquor is just making it rise to the surface. If Max is just old enough to really see it.

She’s tired. She thinks again about the painkillers.

It’s dark out, and it’s cold, but she steps outside anyway, away from the kitchen cabinet and the rattling pills. The ground hurts her feet as she walks across the road, the gravel stabbing through her socks, her shoulders hunched to fight back against the breeze that sends her hair across her face, and she thinks about how stupid this is just as she’s raising her fist and knocking on the door.

She knows the Munsons. Everyone in town knows the Munsons. They’re harmless enough, the middle-aged plant worker that smokes like a chimney and his queer, attention-whore nephew. Their place is right across from Max’s, and it’s usually quiet except for the occasional night during which Eddie plays music from, Max assumes, his bedroom. It’s loud enough to be heard from Max’s living room. But other than that, they’re fine. Quiet. Wayne is, at least. Max has only been at the high school for a few months, but she’s seen enough of Eddie Munson to know how he is.

She’s crossing her arms over her chest when the door swings open, and Eddie scans the driveway before his gaze falls to her, like Max is two feet shorter than she is. One of his eyebrows rises, and he leans against the doorframe.

“Neighbor,” he says dryly. “You alright?”

“Is Wayne here?” she says. Her voice is rough.

“He’s at work,” Eddie says. His expression softens a little bit, almost imperceptible. “You wanna come inside?”

Max hesitates. And she nods.

Eddie steps aside, opening the door wider for her, and she goes inside, wiping her bare feet on the rug. It scratches, and tickles, but she doesn’t mind it. The door shuts.

The trailer is quiet. The lights are dim like Max’s, the room glowing gold from the lamp by the sofa, and there’s a book resting on a cushion, spread open to save a page.

Max feels like a stray dog. Like she’s being let in after a rainstorm, shivering and cold.

“You want some cocoa?” Eddie asks lightly, like this is normal, like they’ve talked before. He’s already headed into the kitchen, which is a little smaller than Max’s, but it looks more stocked. There’s a loaf of bread on the counter, the plastic bag twisted around it, along with a few coffee-stained mugs.

“Yeah,” Max says softly. “Sure.”

She sits on the sofa awkwardly, uncomfortably, her knees pressed together with the end of her shirt tucked over them, before she relaxes, staring across the room at the console by the entryway, at the books and the little flower that’s sitting in what looks like a novelty shot glass. It looks kind of silly, something so sweet in a place like this.

She sits cross-legged, pulling the t-shirt so it drapes over her lap, and she rocks back and forth absently, looking around. There are water stains on the ceiling like the ones in her bedroom, and the carpet is worn and ragged, and it looks a lot like her place, just across the street, but it feels different. Maybe because it smells like cigarettes and cologne instead of alcohol and stale air.

Eddie brings her cocoa. It’s in a mug that’s shaped like a wonky nutcracker, and she almost smiles at it as she takes it in her hands carefully. Eddie sits on the ground in front of her.

“Almost the holidays,” Eddie says lightly with a sigh. “Time to break out the holiday mugs. Like they’re not out all year.”

The mug in his hands is striped green and red. Max forces a little smile and lifts the mug to her face. It’s too hot to sip, but the steam is warm on her cheeks and nose.

“How do you know Wayne?” Eddie asks. “I was under the impression all his friends were seventy and up.”

Max snorts, and glances up as a grin lights up Eddie’s face.

“He was driving by while I was taking some groceries home and gave me a ride a while ago,” Max says quietly. “He said I can come by if I need anything.”

Eddie hums.

“So what do you need?”

Max stares at her cocoa, scratching her thumb over the front of the mug. There’s a ledge there, some texture that her nail flicks over, back and forth and back and forth, and for a moment it’s the only sound in the trailer.

“My mom’s drunk,” she says finally. Her voice is quiet, and even to her own ears, she sounds like a child. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“How drunk we talkin’?”

“I don’t know. Passed out on the sofa.”

Eddie hums softly, and Max takes a tentative sip of her cocoa. It burns her tongue, and it’s stupidly sweet, which feels weirdly on brand for Eddie.

“She do that a lot?”

Max nods at the ground.

“She said we would watch a movie tonight,” she says, almost whispering. “I’m just… I don’t know. Disappointed.”

She glances at Eddie, and there’s an odd look in his eyes that she can’t quite read. He looks strained, like he’s conflicted, like there’s something he wants to say but knows he shouldn’t.

“Well,” he says finally. “I’m no mother, but we have some movies.”

She scoffs, and the look disappears from his eyes.

“You wanna take a gander?”

She does. She sits on the floor and looks through the movies that he has by the television, sorted into careful piles like Eddie tries to keep them out of the way. He seems to like horror movies. Max glances at the covers, at the titles, but she sets them aside. She thinks maybe she would like horror films if her life wasn’t whatever the fuck it is.

She picks The Dark Crystal, and it occurs to her that it might be a horrible idea just as Eddie is setting it up— there’s always the chance that some fantastical, magical imagery might send her into a spiral about demonic dogs with tulip faces. She pushes the thought from her mind as she tucks herself into the corner of the sofa, holding the mug of cocoa in front of her face so the steam finds her skin.

Eddie doesn’t say anything. They watch the movie, and Max thinks her life is fucking insane, not just because of interdimensional creatures and a best friend who used to have telekinetic superpowers, but because she’s spending her Friday night watching a movie with Eddie goddamn Munson. She drifts off after she finishes her cocoa, and she wants to keep holding the mug for some reason, wants to hold it to her chest like it’s a teddy bear or a pillow instead of ceramic, but she sets it aside carefully.

She forces her eyes open when she feels a blanket drape over her, but Eddie just murmurs something softly that she doesn’t really register. She closes her eyes again.

Her sleep is dreamless. It’s blissful.

She wakes up to the smell of coffee, which is unfamiliar. She’s tucked under a blanket, laying on her side, and she’s warm. Her eyebrows furrow, and she tucks her chin to her chest, burying her face in the blanket. She doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to get up and face the day.

But she does anyway. The blanket falls as she sits up slowly, squinting across the room and rubbing her face, shoving her hair out of the way. It’s tangled and catches on her fingers and in her eyelashes.

“Morning,” Eddie’s voice says from the kitchen, and she blinks, turning to find him sipping coffee from another weird mug. It’s shaped like a recycling bin. Max just grunts in response, and Eddie grins over his mug. His hair looks even worse than hers feels, his bangs practically sticking up from his face like he’s been electrocuted. “You feelin’ okay?”

She grunts again, rubbing her face harshly.

She moves slowly, pushing the blanket out of the way so she’s sitting properly on the sofa, and she straightens her back until it cracks quietly. It’s quiet. She can hear the shower down the hall, and a car pulling out of a parking spot across the street. And then Eddie slurps the dregs of his coffee loudly, obnoxiously, and Max snorts, dropping her head.

“Do you drink coffee?” Eddie asks, somehow ignoring himself. “Are you old enough to drink coffee? You’re old enough to drink coffee, right?”

“Sure,” Max says dryly.

“Cream? Sugar? Hot sauce?”

Max pauses mid-yawn, shooting a look over the counter at him, and he’s looking back intently, eyebrows raised.

“Just checking how conscious you are.”

Max hums quietly.

“I’m very conscious.”

“Clearly.”

The coffee is sweet. Eddie puts too much sugar in his coffee, and he seems to do the same for Max’s instinctively. She doesn’t complain.

She sits on the sofa with her legs crossed, the blanket draped over her lap as she holds the mug between her hands. It’s more plain than the one she used last night, save for the weird-looking cat that’s painted on the front. Eddie sits on the floor again. It’s like he’s allergic to the sofa.

“Are you doing stuff today?” Max says abruptly, looking at him. “I can go back to my mom’s if you’re—”

“I never do anything,” Eddie interrupts. “I have one and a half hobbies and my uncle is my best friend.”

Max hums, looking at him.

“Kinda sad.”

“But benefits my neighbors,” he says lightly. “Not that many of ‘em come by to hang out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time,” Max says, and Eddie is quiet. She sips her coffee. Pretends he isn’t looking at her like he’s studying her, like he’s analyzing her.

“You guys are having a hard time, aren’t you?” Eddie says. It sounds rhetorical, but Max nods anyway, looking down at her coffee. It’s pale. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Max swirls the coffee in the mug, watching the bubbles spin into a spiral. She shrugs.

“It’s harder for her than it is for me,” she says finally. “My stepbrother died. Stepdad left.” She shrugs again.

“It’s still hard for you, though,” Eddie says quietly.

Another shrug.

“I don’t know,” she mutters. “‘S just… Seeing her. Like this. It’s…”

“Hard,” Eddie says pointedly. Max sends him a look, but she looks away quickly. He’s staring at her like he can see through her skull, like he can read her fucking mind. His gaze is more intense than El’s.

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess.”

Eddie’s quiet again.

“Anything I can do?” he asks. “You need anything?”

And Max doesn’t really know how to tell him that what she needs is to be taken out back and shot like a sick dog, so she stares at the ground for a moment before she says, “You got a spare toothbrush?”

He has a spare toothbrush. It’s blue, almost the same color as the mini tube of toothpaste that he pushes into her hands.

Wayne is coming out of the bathroom as she heads that way. He’s wearing pajamas, some plaid pants and a shirt that’s striped but so faded that she can only see them when they’re up close. He doesn’t say anything— just looks her up and down like he’s scanning her for wounds, and then he pats her head lightly before he passes her by and goes into Eddie’s room. It makes Max smile.

She can hear Eddie down the hall as she uses the bathroom and brushes her teeth— he’s humming, but she doesn’t recognize the song. It’s probably something by Metallica or someone, but it doesn’t sound as obnoxious as she would have assumed he’d be.

He doesn’t ask her any more questions when she comes back, but she can feel him looking at her as she looks around some more. There are too many hats in the living room, hung up and decorating the walls like garlands, like picture frames. Eddie pours himself more coffee, and Max wants to ask if that’s why he is the way he is. Caffeine.

She should probably go back. Her mom is probably still asleep, or just waking up, and Max really should go and at least let her know that she’s okay. That she’s alive. But she really just wants to lay back on the sofa and fall asleep again. Which isn’t something she usually thinks. She always wants to fall asleep, always wants to be absent even just for a little while, but it’s not very often that she wants to sleep. That she wants to lay down and curl up and close her eyes.

“Why do you like that music?” she asks lightly, finally turning to look at Eddie, who’s lifting his mug to his mouth again. He pauses, looking at her over it.

“That music,” he repeats like he’s skeptical. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

She lets out a laugh, and he looks proud of himself.

“Loud,” she says, sitting on the sofa again and drawing her knees to her chest. He looks at her, leaning against the counter. “Obnoxious.”

“Okay, rude. I don’t know, it’s just fun. ‘S not the only music I listen to.”

“What else do you listen to?” she asks, and she sounds sleepy even to her own ears. She sets her chin on her knees.

“Bluegrass. Country.”

Her eyebrows fly, and Eddie lets out a delighted laugh, throwing his head back.

And Max kind of hates him.

She thinks maybe she wants to be like him. To have long hair and to not mind it, to be seen and not mind. He always seems so careless, and Max knows that she shouldn’t assume that he’s always so fine, that he’s had shit to deal with too, but she thinks she’d like to at least seem like that too. She’d like people to look at her and think she’s fine.

She knows how she looks. Tired. Angry. All the time. People ask her sometimes if she’s okay— teachers, classmates, random old women in town that pass by her on a sidewalk. She looks miserable, and she can’t seem to put on a mask the way she wants to.

She likes how Eddie looks. He looks so happy all the time, even when he’s just sitting there, even when he’s just listening to his friends and eating his lunch. Max has caught herself staring a few times, but she can never tell if she’s staring at Mike and Dustin, sitting and laughing and looking so fine, or Eddie, sitting and laughing and looking so fine. Maybe it’s all of them— Eddie and Dustin and Mike and the other guys they sit with that Max doesn’t know the names of. They wear their dorky shirts and grow their hair out and put on silver-studded jewellery and ripped jeans and they wear other people’s stares like they’re accessories too. Like people’s wrinkled noses and lips and stares of disgust are just nail polish. Silver rings.

Eddie talks about music. He flips through some of the records that are by the television and shows Max the covers. Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel. Max wonders which ones are Eddie’s and which ones are Wayne’s.

Eddie’s halfway through describing the cultural impact of Thin Lizzy, and Max is trying to decide if she admires him or if she’s just amused by him, when he stops short, freezing mid-pace with his hands mid-motion, looking out the window. His expression shifts to confusion, his eyebrows furrowing, and he steps closer to the window.

“What?” Max says, lifting an eyebrow.

“‘S… fuckin’ Steve Harrington,” Eddie says, at a loss, and Max scrambles off the sofa, throwing aside the blanket that she’d dragged over to cover her legs. Eddie startles, watching her with wide eyes as she stumbles up to the window, but she ignores him.

It’s Steve’s beemer. Definitely. There aren’t any cars like that around here.

Max can see him in the driver' s seat, and her stomach twists, because he looks so worried already, his expression tense. The car is just pulling to a stop when Max’s mom appears, opening the front door and stepping out, and she’s a wreck. Messy hair, donning a thin robe that can’t be doing anything to guard her from the chill in the morning air. She’s biting her thumbnail, her other arm wrapped around her waist, and her shoulders are tight, and she looks like she’s been crying.

Max swears under her breath, her hand lifting so she’s biting her thumbnail, and she steps back, watching as Steve gets out of the car and bounds up the steps to greet Susan, holding her shoulders as she grips his wrists, saying something desperately, looking up at him.

“She called him,” she says quietly when Eddie nudges her to speak.

“I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Can you get him over here?” she says abruptly, looking at him. “Without— Without telling her I’m here?”

He looks at her, and she expects him to ask, to force an answer from her before he does anything for her, because Steve fucking Harrington is involved now, but he seems to cave immediately.

“I can try,” he says.

He grabs a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and he steps out the front door. Max watches from the window, watches Steve say something that must be at least slightly comforting to her mother, holding her by her shoulders and leaning down to look into her eyes before he gestures toward the door, nudging her gently to go back inside.

She hears Eddie whistle as Susan turns to go inside. It’s a short whistle, high and pointed, and Steve lifts his head, turning to look. He looks confused, furrowing his eyebrows, shaking his head, but Eddie must be gesturing, because Steve’s confused eyes slide over the trailer and find her in the window. His expression falls instantly, and he pauses, hesitating in the doorway before he waves his hand in a short Give me a minute gesture.

Eddie stays outside. Max wants to sit back down, but she doesn’t, lingering by the window before she forces herself away and paces back and forth, biting her nail.

She feels bad. Maybe she should feel worse, making her mother worry like this, but she can’t bring herself to.

A few times she’s wanted to leave completely, to disappear off the face of the earth and not even be bothered to see how people react. To see if her mother cries, to see if her friends miss her.

She hears Steve’s voice before the door opens, and Eddie looks even more confused than he did when he saw Steve driving into the park— He’s following behind Steve, catching the door from slamming shut, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray by the door, and he’s just starting to open his mouth, probably to ask what the fuck is going on, but he stops himself short.

Steve is carrying a pair of leggings and a hoodie from Max’s room, and he tosses them onto the sofa before grabbing Max and pulling her close. She lets him. She always lets him.

She slumps against him, arms still hanging by her sides, and she closes her eyes because he’s running his hand over the top of her head, and he’s exhaling shakily, his face pressing to his head like he’s cradling her, like she’s a baby.

“God,” Steve exhales.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“What happened?” he says when he finally lets her pull away, He’s holding her like he held Susan earlier, hands on her shoulders, looking at her face intently.

“She said we would watch a movie,” Max says, and her voice cracks, and suddenly she’s crying. She doesn’t remember the last time she cried. She squeezes her eyes shut, and Steve pulls her back in, cradling her head and rocking back and forth a little bit, and he’s murmuring something to her that she can’t really understand, but she doesn’t really need to hear it. Because he’s holding her by the back of her neck, and his other hand is running over her back, and it’s kind of fine.

“She didn’t even show up at Family Video yesterday, did she?” Max chokes into his shoulder, clinging to Steve’s shirt, and it occurs to her that he’s not even dressed for the day— He’s wearing a light shirt and some sweatpants, and he doesn’t even have a jacket on. Max’s stomach hurts.

“No,” Steve says quietly. He sounds angry. Max knows he has a soft spot for Susan, and she wonders if he can feel angry at her too.

Eddie is lingering, watching, and he brings a box of tissues when she stops crying. It doesn’t take long— she doesn’t cry as much as she probably should.

Eddie keeps looking at Steve like he’s foreign, but Max can’t help but feel like he fits here, like he belongs in this living room. She knows his parents are both prisses, that their house is stupidly neat, but Steve’s never seemed like that to her. She supposes she did meet him in a literal junkyard.

“Is she okay?” Max asks quietly.

She’s sitting on the sofa now, holding a bunched up tissue and cradling the ugly cat mug in her hands. It’s filled with fresh coffee, also overly sweet, and it’s warm. Steve is next to her, facing her, also holding a mug that Eddie had pushed into his hands.

“She’s worried,” Steve says, resting the mug on his leg. “Hungover. But worried.”

Max nods at the ground. Steve sips his coffee, and he makes a face up at Eddie, grimacing.

“What, you drink black coffee? Weirdo.”

Steve snorts, and Max lightens, shaking her head at them.

“I don’t wanna go back,” Max says quietly, looking at Steve, who nods like he gets it, and Max thinks he probably does.

“‘S okay.”

She sits quietly while Eddie and Steve talk, and she knows it must be supremely weird for both of them, chatting on a Saturday morning like this is normal, like Steve Harrington in the Munsons’ living room is normal. Steve asks about the mugs, how many they have, where they came from, and Eddie tells him that the number is somewhere between fifteen and seven hundred and sixty three, that they seem to appear out of thin air, like Wayne conjures them whenever he pleases. Steve nods sagely, like it makes perfect sense, and he says, “Wayne the wizard,” so seriously that it seems to catch Eddie off guard, and Eddie lets out a cackle that’s too loud. Steve and Max both shush him.

Max puts on the leggings and hoodie while they talk, watching them. They both reach out almost absently when she stumbles a little, without even pausing their conversation, and she would laugh if she had a little more energy. They’re very different people. Obviously. But they both reach to catch her.

She’s pulling on the hoodie when Steve glances at her and stops mid-sentence, staring at her. She raises an eyebrow.

“I’ve been looking for that,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward her shirt, and she just hums with a light shrug, zipping the hoodie over the shirt.

“Mine now.”

Eddie snorts, and Steve stares at her like he’s shocked before he mutters a quiet, “Little shit.”

Steve insists on washing the mugs before they leave even though Eddie tells him he doesn’t have to. And then Max goes to the car and waits.

It’s too quiet. She fidgets with the zipper of her hoodie, listens to it jingle, and she wonders what Steve and Eddie are saying. She knows they’re talking about her, about what she’s been through. Eddie is probably telling Steve how late she showed up last night, how she didn’t really talk. How she fell asleep on the sofa. Steve is probably thanking him for looking after her. And she hates that they have to do that.

She knows she’s just a kid, but she hates being a child. She hates that she has to be cared for. Sometimes she thinks about leaving town, about disappearing and moving across the country, fading into the population of somewhere like New York or something. She doesn’t even think she’d mind being a lost, wandering teenager— people already ignore her anyway. But she knows how bad of an idea that is.

Eddie lingers in the doorway as they leave, waving to Max with the ends of his fingers like she’s little, and she wants to roll her eyes at him, but she just does it back. It makes him light up a bit, and she wants to be like him.

She looks out the window as Steve drives.

“Where do you wanna go?”

She watches the trees go by, watches the world blur into varying shades of blue and beige and brown.

That’s always the question, isn’t it.

She never knows where she wants to go. Never knows where she should be. She supposes she should be at home, but even that feels like a loaded word these days— When she pictures it, the word itself, the letters jumble together and she can’t quite make it out.

home. ohme. mohe. hmeo. oemh. meoh. emoh. eohm.

It used to look normal. Used to look like her bedroom back in California, like the sunlight falling across her ceiling, shining through the thin purple fabric of her curtains. It used to sound like her mother’s voice, like her skateboard wheels rolling across the pavement of a sidewalk.

It’s too blurred now. Like it’s shrouded in fog.

Her arms wrap around her waist like she’s hugging herself, and she squeezes.

“I don’t know,” she says quietly.

She isn’t even wearing any shoes.

“You wanna go back to my place?” Steve asks lightly, like it doesn’t matter if she says yes or no. And she can’t help but notice that he says back to his. Like that’s where she came from. Like that’s always an option.

She loves him. She hasn’t said it out loud, and doesn’t know if she ever will, but she doesn’t think it matters. Because Steve kisses the top of her head when she’s crying, and he had his arm around her all through Billy’s funeral, and he knows that her favorite cookies are peanut butter with too many chocolate chips.

Back to my place, he said. She knows he would take her anywhere she asks. He complains about being a fee-free taxi service, but she doesn’t think she’s ever actually heard him refuse a ride.

So she thinks about it. What she wants. Where she wants.

Steve lets her, sitting in silence and driving aimlessly. It’s still early, and the roads are mostly empty, but they usually are anyway in a place like this.

She wants to go home, but she can’t right now. Not until she finds it.

She kind of just wants to be held. Steve would do that for her. He would pull over right now if she asked, would put on the hazards and pull her across the center console, and she knows he would do it, knows he wouldn’t mind, but she hates herself for wanting it.

“Can you take me to the Sinclairs’?” she asks quietly, almost whispering.

“Yeah,” Steve says, just as quietly. “Of course.”

Only Charles’s car is out front when they get there. When Steve stops, Max just sits there for a few moments, looking at the house like she’s contemplating getting out, like she isn’t sure, and then she moves. Unbuckles her seatbelt and lets it slide back slowly. Steve doesn’t say anything, so she doesn’t either, and they’re silent as she climbs out of the car.

Charles answers the door. He lights up with a bright smile when he sees her, and he doesn’t say anything about what a fucking wreck she is. About her hair, her clothes. Her lack of shoes.

“Max!” he says brightly, excitedly, like she’s a delight. “Oh, I haven’t seen you in ages, how are you?”

“I’m alright,” she lies, stepping inside when he opens the door further for her. “Just… School. Et cetera.”

Charles hums knowingly, shutting the door, and Max sticks her hands in her pockets, looking around as though she hasn’t been in this house a handful of times. It’s a nice house. Clean and tidy, with four matching placemats around the table and a vase of fresh flowers on the counter. She always feels out of place here, like if she touches anything she’ll break it. Or contaminate it.

“How’s your mom doing?” Charles asks lightly.

“Uhm.” She hesitates, and then opts to just ignore the question when a good answer eludes her. “Is Lucas home?”

“He’s just upstairs,” Charles says. Like he didn’t ask a question at all. “He just got back from practice, so he’s in the shower now. Could be a chance to give him a good scare.”

He says it with a mischievous smile that’s contagious, and Max smiles back up at him, already heading toward the stairs. He sends her a wink.

She likes him.

She goes up to Lucas’s room, following the path that she always does— right-hand side of the stairs with a hand outstretched in case she falls. Left-hand side of the hallway, seven steps down until she reaches the door on the left that has a large L that’s colored with bright scribbles, ink seeping into the paper and making it curl a little. Erica colored it when she was four. Lucas hasn’t taken it down since. She can hear the shower running as she passes the bathroom.

She sits on his bed.

His room always smells like him, like some kind of cologne that he wears on occasion and a little like sweat. Like a teenage boy. She wants to lay down, to bury her face in his pillow and fall asleep again. She wonders if he would startle the same way he usually does if he were to find her like that. Or if he wouldn’t react at all.

She doesn’t lay down. She sits instead, her hands tucked under her legs, her feet kicking in the air as she looks around. It’s always more or less the same— save for the clothes on the floor, the clutter on his desk, the comics on his bedside table— but it always feels just as fascinating. The photos pinned on the walls, the flag draping across a wall, the action figures on the shelves, and the lamp by his bed all feel like they’re in a museum, like she isn’t allowed to touch them. Like she couldn’t even use a flashing camera.

The pictures are nice. There are several that are just the guys— Lucas, Mike, Will, Dustin— and then others that show various Party members. Max and El sitting on a sofa and giggling, Mike and Will poring through a D&D magazine, their heads so close their foreheads are almost touching. Steve and Erica staring each other down— the others hadn’t been able to tell if they were each trying to assert their dominance or if it was just a staring contest. Robin with her head lowered, looking down at a book with her legs resting over Steve’s lap. Lucas sitting on the floor against the sofa in the Harrington house, El sitting above him with her legs over his shoulders. Dustin laying on the floor with a pillow over his face to hide his red-flushed cheeks after a phone call with Suzie, lifting his middle finger to a cackling Lucas behind the camera.

The camera is sitting on a shelf next to a He-Man action figure.

Max’s feet thump against the bed, and she leans against the post of the bedframe with a soft sigh. She always feels too sleepy when she’s here.

The door swings open after a few minutes, and Lucas appears, stepping inside with a towel in his hands. He’s shirtless, wearing sweatpants, and Max sits upright, looking at him until he notices her, startling, jumping, dropping the towel and letting out a scream that’s too high-pitched. She beams.

His expression falls just as promptly as it appeared, and he stares at her as they both hear Charles let out a bright Hah! from downstairs.

Lucas shakes his head at Max and shuts the door behind himself.

“Assholes,” he mutters.

She giggles lightly, swaying back and forth as she watches him cross the room to his dresser.

“Hi,” she says quietly. He glances at her as he sorts out a shirt he pulls from a drawer, the fabric wrinkled and partially inside out.

“Hi,” he says quietly, suppressing a smile. “What’s up?”

It’s a loaded question.

She hasn’t come by in a while, and she doesn’t talk to him much anymore. She doesn’t really talk to anyone, actually. But Lucas specifically— She avoids his gaze at school, tries to pretend they don’t actually know each other. She hates herself for it. But Lucas never acts like he minds, even though he probably does. Even though he should.

She shrugs.

Her feet kick again, and she falls into herself, shrinking away from Lucas’s gaze. She looks at the ground.

He sits on the bed next to her, and the air shifts around him. He smells warm, like his shower was boiling hot, and she wants to touch his arm, to see if his skin is warm to the touch, keeping the warmth of the steam.

She likes how he smells. Weirdly sweet and masculine. She wants to hold onto it, like it’s a physical, grabbable thing. She would take it everywhere with her if she could.

“Did something happen?” Lucas asks quietly, shifting so their feet are hanging side by side, and he kicks in time with her.

“My mom,” Max says. Her voice cuts off in her throat, choking her.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Lucas whispers.

Max’s foot bounces in the air like she’s trying to bounce her knee the way she does at school, and she starts to shrug, her shoulders just beginning to tense, when she stops.

“She said we’d watch a movie last night,” she says quietly, whispering like someone is trying to listen in. “Before I left for school. She said she’d go to the Family Video and get something for us to watch together.”

“But she didn’t,” Lucas says. Max shakes her head.

“She got drunk instead. Found her on the sofa.”

Lucas exhales slowly, like he’s suppressing a sigh, and Max’s throat tightens.

“I don’t wanna be mad at her,” she says weakly, her voice thin. “She’s fucking… I…”

“You’re allowed to be mad at her.”

“I’m not just mad at her.”

“What else are you mad at?”

“I don’t know,” Max says, her voice wavering even as its volume rises for a brief moment, snapping weakly. She pushes herself up, shaking her hands out and sighing sharply. “I don’t know, I’m just— I’m just mad.”

“Max.”

She stops. Looks at him. Lets her hands fall to her sides.

And she’s fucking pathetic.

She hasn’t talked to him in at least two weeks, and the first time she comes by, she’s crying and complaining, and he looks…

He looks tired.

His head is tilted to the side, and his eyes are shining at her.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. His expression shifts a little, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion, and she feels nauseous. “I keep doing this to you, I keep— keep fucking showing up and acting like this, and you have a fucking life, and I’m just—”

“Max,” Lucas interrupts. Max cuts off with a small gasp, looking at him, her voice stuck in her throat. “I…”

He stands up, sliding off the bed and leaning against it like he’s shy, still looking at her. He’s always doing that, even at school, even when they pass each other in town. Looking, and looking, and looking, and seeing. He sees her.

“I don’t mind,” he says quietly.

She shakes her head, looking away.

“Max.”

“I just— Fuck, I’m sorry, I—”

She can’t see. Lucas’s bedroom blurs into nothing, tears flooding her eyes as she turns toward the door, and a part of her knows how stupid it is to show up and leave in less than ten minutes, and how stupid it is that even though she’s crying (again) she still somehow feels better than she did when she got here.

She’s reaching for the doorknob, but Lucas stumbles forward, catching the hand that’s closest to him, and he pulls her back, letting out a hushed Stop, stop, wait.

She lets him stop her. She thinks she’ll always let him stop her.

Her head falls back and she blinks her tears away, taking a shuddering breath.

Lucas is holding her hand between both of his, cradling it, and he pulls again, gently, sweetly, tugging her away from the door.

“Max,” he whispers. She shakes her head.

Her eyes are closed. She doesn’t know when that happened, but it doesn’t really matter. Tears are falling down her cheeks steadily, and she can’t really breathe, focusing on the warmth of Lucas’s skin on hers, on the smoothness of his voice.

“I don’t mind.”

“You don’t deserve it,” she chokes.

“But I want it.”

It sounds like such a petulant response, and it’s absurd. Ridiculous. Nobody wants this.

She opens her eyes and looks at him in a way that makes him scoff, and she softens, her eyes flicking back and forth between his.

“I don’t…” He hesitates, shrugging weakly, shyly, still holding her hand between his like it’s instinctive, like he doesn’t even notice himself doing it. He stares at her, seeing her, and she feels stripped bare, raw. Like he can see through her skin right down to her bones. “I— I want you to have somewhere to go when you feel like this.”

He says it choppily, awkwardly, but it’s so disgustingly sweet that her eyebrows furrow and she lets out a heavy breath. One of his hands slides up her arm, holding her.

“I want you to, like… I don’t know. Feel safe here.”

“I do,” she whispers.

“Then don’t go,” he says quietly, tugging her hand like he’s pleading with her, like he’s desperate for her to stay. “ You can cry if you gotta, I can ignore it if you want—”

Max lets out a wet laugh, and Lucas lights up a little, and he’s gazing at her, his eyes shining like he’s in awe.

They fall quiet, and he seems to see the fight drain from her. Her shoulders fall and her head falls back, and she’s tired. Exhausted. His hand slides up and down her arm, squeezing gently.

He’s still looking at her, his eyes flickering across her face, between her eyes, and he’s hesitating again, thinking so hard a crease forms between his eyebrows that Max wants to smooth with her thumb. But she’s too tired to lift her hand any higher than where Lucas’s is still cradling the other. Her fingers run over his knuckles.

“I love you,” Lucas says softly.

Max blinks.

The words fade into the air between them, and she wants them back, wants to see them, to taste them, but she’s stuck just looking at him. He still looks tired.

He shrugs lightly.

“I just… I do. And I don’t… I don’t mind if you just need somewhere to— to let this all out, or if you wanna just rant about whatever, or if you just…” He shrugs again, glancing away. “If you wanna just take a nap.”

She lets out another laugh, closing her eyes, and then Lucas’s hand is releasing her arm and is holding her face, his fingers light like she’s delicate.

“‘S all fine.”

She exhales shakily.

“How are you so good at this?” she says, her tone annoyed, and he lets out a lovely laugh, his nose scrunching, and she wants to squish him. So she does, mustering up the energy to reach for his face, pressing her fingers into one cheek and her thumb into the other, squeezing so his lips pucker and his cheeks squish, and he lets her, looking at her like he’s amused.

She gazes at him for a moment before she lets go, her hand falling until it rests on his chest, loose and tired, and his head is still a little tilted, looking down at her. She sighs and falls forward against him, letting him catch her.

He always catches her.

His arms wrap around her and squeeze, and her eyes burn. She tucks her face into his neck, stifling a sob, and he holds her. He’s quiet, running his hand over the top of her head until he reaches the back of her neck, where it lingers, just holding her. His fingers push into her hair, cradling her, and she’s crying. And she’s crying. And she’s crying.

She hasn’t cried like this in a while. Hiccuping, gasping, almost hyperventilating. She clings to Lucas, her hands gripping his shirt so tightly her nails are biting into the palms of her hands even through the fabric. She’s trembling, and she can’t really hear anything over the sound of her own sobbing.

Lucas pushes her away when she finally stops crying, when she’s just gasping, her chest palpitating, her shoulders jumping, and he holds her face between his hands, pulling so their foreheads touch. He whispers to her, but she barely hears it.

They’re laying in bed, facing each other. Max’s hands are tucked against herself like she’s trying to hold back from touching him even though she knows she’s allowed. Their legs are tangled, their ankles locked, and Max can feel him looking at her.

He does that a lot. She doesn’t mind as much as she thinks she should.

She doesn’t like how most people look at her. Like she’s pitiful, like she’s a kicked dog, or roadkill. The poor little girl that saw her brother die. The poor little girl that has to live in a trailer park. The poor little girl, the poor little girl.

She can’t quite read the way Lucas looks at her, but it never looks pitying, never looks sorry. His gaze looks warm, like he’s fond of her, like he likes her.

“Okay?” Lucas says quietly. Max’s vision clears, and her eyes raise to meet his. She nods.

He reaches out slowly, hesitantly, and she closes her eyes, surrendering to it, letting him. His fingertips brush over her cheek, and then they tuck some of her hair behind her ear gently. She exhales slowly.

“I meant it, you know,” Lucas whispers, his thumb brushing over her cheek. She opens her eyes weakly, looking at him. “I love you.”

She shifts a little closer to him, twisting her leg around his and pulling. He smiles softly, moving closer to her. His arm is bent under his head, and his face is pressing to his bicep. His cheek squishes when he smiles. It’s cute.

“I want you to be okay,” Lucas says quietly. “I know I can’t, like, magically heal you.”

Max’s expression softens in place of a laugh.

“But if being here makes you feel better,” Lucas continues, hesitating before his lips quirk into a smile. “You can move in if you want. My parents wouldn’t complain. Erica would love it. She’d have someone to bully me with.”

Max scoffs, closing her eyes again.

“You can be here,” Lucas whispers. “Whenever you fucking want, Max, it’s okay.”

She looks at him. Her stomach hurts, and she kind of feels like she’s going to cry again, and she really doesn’t want to— she’s exhausted, and the skin of her cheeks feels tight from the drying salt of her tears, and Lucas’s dad definitely heard her from downstairs and is just leaving her alone. Nice of him.

Max’s hand shifts until it’s resting against Lucas’s arm, and her fingers brush against the end of his sleeve, fidgeting with it.

“I know I broke up with you,” she says quietly, her voice broken. “But if you wanna kiss me. I’d be okay with that.”

Lucas suppresses a smile, glancing away shyly, and he’s so fucking cute— Max wants to squish him again.

He shifts closer, his eyes scanning her face as he moves, holding himself up on her forearm and hovering over her. Max follows, rolling onto her back, gazing up at him, waiting patiently until he kisses her.

She exhales slowly, her eyes fluttering shut, and she melts into the bed, savoring it.

It’s gentle. Tentative. Like he’s ready for her to change her mind, to turn away and shake her head. But she isn’t going to change her mind about him, probably ever.

She lifts a hand and finds his face, his skin warm on her palm, and she wants to fucking absorb him or something. She’s demented, and she knows it, but part of her thinks Lucas might not mind. Maybe because he’s kissing her even though he knows what a wreck she is.

She can feel it when he smiles, can feel the curve of his lips against her mouth, and it feels like basking in the sun, like stepping into a heated building in the dead of winter, like drifting to sleep after consecutive restless nights.

Her hands pull at the fabric of his shirt, and he grins, falling to his side again and pulling her with him. Their legs tighten, twisting together like it's natural. Max’s breath catches in her throat when Lucas traps her bottom lip, nibbling it gently. Her hands fall slack like she’s lost all control of her body, and she might have— She feels numb, like she’s floating behind herself, like she’s far away from it all.

She reaches for him again, and her hand lands a little too heavily on his face. A laugh bursts out of Lucas, and Max scoffs weakly.

“Sorry,” she says breathlessly. “Sorry.”

“‘S okay,” Lucas whispers. His arm is outstretched so she’s laying on his bicep, and his other hand is tucking her hair back, his fingertips brushing over her cheek and jaw and ear so lightly she barely feels it. He’s gazing again. “I don’t mind.”

She scoffs again, her eyes falling shut as she surrenders to his touch, melting against him and turning her face toward his arm a little.

“You have such a nice smile,” Lucas murmurs, tracing a line over her cheek.

“You’re a sap.”

“Yeah,” Lucas says shamelessly, and it makes Max laugh again. “You’re sleepy.”

“Never.”

“You’re actively falling asleep right now.”

“Mm-mm.”

She ignores the heaviness of her limbs and the way she can’t even open her eyes. She hears Lucas giggle and can’t help but smile— that doesn’t even require any energy, apparently. Lucas’s hand disappears from her face for a moment, and she mourns its brief absence before he’s tracing the bridge of her nose lightly. She can feel him gazing at her, can feel his eyes scanning her freckles.

He stays while she sleeps, and even as she drifts off, she wants him in a way that feels borderline inhuman. She wants to carve his chest open and climb inside, or vice versa. She wants to be close enough that they share blood and breath.

When she wakes briefly, Lucas is pulling her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist and tugging gently. She sighs, burying her face in his chest before she shifts, tucking into his neck so his chin is resting on the top of her head. She can feel his heartbeat against her forehead. She likes it.

January, 1986

Her locker is number 117. Three months ago, it was 93, and the month before that, it was 249. She’s pretty sure she’s the only student in the whole school that’s changed lockers this many times this quickly, and she’s not particularly proud of having beat this record, especially considering it’s not her fucking fault.

She doesn’t know whose fault it is, but she’s not the one spray painting DYKE on people’s fucking lockers, is she?

She stares at it. The paint is red and dried in dripping rivulets down the metal of her locker, over the grating, and there’s definitely paint inside, misted over her books and the sweater she left in there last week. Someone passing by snorts, looking at her, and her nose wrinkles.

“Bite me.”

He flips his middle finger at her, and she doesn’t even know who the fuck he is.

She still has some time before she has to be at homeroom, so she lingers, pulling the rag and cleaning spray that she now keeps in her locker for this specific reason. The first time it was black paint. Fuck off, it had read, which really just confused her, because she couldn’t think of anything she had done to warrant it. Apparently all she did was exist, which was enough for whoever it is.

She ignores the people passing by her as she scrubs the paint off. It’s a tedious task, the paint fading vaguely in most places and chipping off where it’s gathered in thick layers. Even when it’s mostly gone, she feels like she can still see the shape of the letters, and there’s no way she’s scrubbed hard enough to strip the actual locker of its paint— the letters have burned into her fucking eyes, and her chest feels tight the way it always does when she gets particularly mad. She hates feeling this.

“Hey.”

She doesn’t turn toward the voice, cutting her gaze over to Mike. They don’t usually talk in school, or anywhere else, really. She would still consider him a friend, would still acknowledge what they’ve been through together, but she doesn’t talk to anybody anymore. Except Lucas on occasion. And her mom, when she’s sober enough.

But she turns toward him in shock when she registers the bruise on his eye, the slight swelling of his eyelid that makes his eye narrower than the other. His skin is various shades of purple and brown and green, accentuating the curve of his cheekbone.

“The fuck happened to you?” she says sharply, and he’s already smiling lightly, tilting his head.

“Walked into Travis Henshaw’s fist,” he says like it’s nothing, like it’s a papercut. She stares at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, staring back, like he’s waiting too. “...I’m fine, Max,” he says finally, ducking his head a little in a faux-condescending gesture.

“Are you?”

“Are you?”

“I’m not the one with a black eye,” she says, her voice too firm, and he scoffs, looking away. He looks at her locker for a moment, and only part of the E is still legible, but it’s like he can see the rest of the word too. “Michael.”

“Maxine.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles again. She rolls her eyes, going back to scrubbing.

“Why are you here?”

“Got something for you,” he says, and there’s a rustle of paper before an envelope is stuck in her face, a little too close to her nose for comfort. She shoots him a glare and snatches it from his hand, turning it over to look at the front, where she finds El’s scribbly handwriting.

FOR MAX AND ONLY MAX!!!

Max smiles down at it, and Mike pokes her face. She swats his hand away half-heartedly.

“Are you actually okay?” he asks quietly after a few moments, and she looks back at the locker, moving the rag in her hand to a cleaner part before she starts cleaning it again.

“Why do you ask?” she says dryly, holding the envelope to herself.

“Because you look like shit.”

“I do?”

“We can both look like shit, Max, it’s not mutually exclusive.”

“Yes, it is,” Max says lightly, sarcastically. “Only one of us is allowed to look like shit at a time, and you’re the one with a shiner, Wheeler.”

He’s silent, and she looks at him. He’s staring blankly, one of his eyebrows raised. She takes the chance to look at the bruise again. It looks like it hurts, and part of her wants to get him an ice pack. Another part of her wants to poke it just because it’s on Mike.

“You’re insufferable,” Mike says. She smiles brightly at him, and he rolls his eyes. “I’ll ask again when this is all healed.” He gestures vaguely toward his face. She hums.

“Don’t go walking into any more fists, hm?”

“‘S not usually in my agenda, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

She just hums again, and he lingers for another moment before he leaves, intentionally bumping their shoulders together as he passes. She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t mind it.

There’s still time before homeroom, and part of her is annoyed at how ridiculously early her bus arrives at school, and in turn how ridiculously early she has to get up to catch the bus, but another part of her doesn’t mind having so much time to do nothing. Or having so much time to do homework she put off for too long.

There’s a bathroom on the second floor that she always goes to; it’s quiet and the stalls are just the right size for her to sit on the toilet lid and put her feet up on the wall. She puts her notebook in her lap, and with the muffled noises of other kids in the hallway, she feels like she’s tucked away from the rest of the world, like she’s hidden in the walls.

She hangs her bag on the hook behind the door, and she sighs heavily as she slides into place, her feet propped up on the wall of the stall farthest from the door. There’s graffiti on it, various colors and handwriting scattered all over the place. It’s kind of amusing to Max, especially the swirly writing that reads Cooper Morris is a hottie that’s followed up by three different handwritings reading are you fucking blind and EW! and gag me.

Max rips the letter open carefully, tugging her hoodie around herself a little tighter like she’s tucking herself into bed. She wishes she was still in bed. This bathroom smells like Electric Youth perfume and cigarettes.

El’s handwriting is charmingly terrible. Max smiles as she scans the letter, looking at the way El tried to keep her letters attached to the lines of the paper.

Dear Max,

Hello!!! I am sorry I have not written since before the winter holidays. I went on a trip with Will and Jonathan and Joyce and was not able to write for a while, and then school started as soon as we got back, so I was very distracted.

But school has been okay! Mostly. I am in a class that only has a few other students in it, and it is for people who are running behind in their learning. I am learning about mathmatics and history and reading, and everything that everybody else already seems to know, and it is tiring sometimes, but I also think it is fun to learn things. And there is so much to learn! Joyce says that she likes that I am optamistic.

I prefer math to reading and writing. It feels like solving puzzles. And my teacher Mister Watts says I am good at it, and that he has already seen me get better. I hope next year I can be in a normal math class, but maybe I am just optamistic.

I like going to school with Will. We both have lockers, but we share mine because that way we can be together in the mornings. We have social studies class together, and we have lunch and study hall at the same time, so we get to spend lots of time together. He helps me with my homework and always makes me feel better when I am getting frustrated. Joyce does too, even though she can be busy with work. Jonathan also helps when he is home. He spends lots of time outside with his friend Argyle. Argyle is tall and has very long hair, and he is very funny. He doesn’t help me with my homework, but he also makes me feel better when I am frustrated because he makes me laugh.

I do not have any friends here except Will and Jonathan and maybe Argyle, but I do not mind. There are some people that I think are interesting, like a girl I have seen in the hallways that is older than me and makes me think of my sister Kali that I told you about, but I am too nervous to talk to them. Some people are not very nice even though they look nice, and I am scared that anybody I talk to will be mean.

Joyce encourages me to talk to people and make friends but I have not been brave enough to, which I think is kind of funny. I have fought monsters and I have had superpowers, but saying hello to a stranger is scary.

But I also think I am right to be scared. Some people are mean, and I don’t know why. I have not talked to Joyce about it because Will told me that she went to the principal at Hawkins school when other boys were mean to him, and I don’t want her to do that here. I have been ignoring them and staying nice even when I don’t want to be nice.

There is a girl named Angela that is in my social studies class, and she is not nice to me or anybody else. When she talks her voice is nice but her words are not which is very frustrating for me because sometimes I cannot tell if she is being nice or not because I think she is pretending to be nice. I cannot always tell when somebody is pretending, and when I am confused people laugh at me, and then I cannot tell if they are just amused by me or if they are making fun of me. Sometimes Joyce laughs at me, but she says she is fond of me, and it is much nicer than the way people at school laugh at me.

But my teacher Mister Watts is nice. He is very patient when I am having a hard time and the way he explains things always helps. Sometimes I want to stay in his class all day instead of just a few hours, but sometimes I wish I was not in his class because everybody knows I am in his class, and being in his class means that I am stupid. But I do not think I am stupid, and I do not think that the other people in my class with Mister Watts are stupid. They are all much nicer than the people that are mean to us.

I still like California. It is sunny here even when it is cold. There are lots of interesting plants here, like cactuses cacti and very bright flowers. For Christmas, Will made me a very pretty painting of a cactus I saw after we moved here, and I have it framed in my bedroom now. Jonathan and Argyle went on a trip for a day and brought me a bouquet of very colorful flowers, and it was very sweet of them.

I like it here, but sometimes I miss Hawkins lots and I get sad. Joyce says I am homesick, and I think it is a nice word. I think it is accurate. I miss you and I miss Mike and I miss Lucas and Dustin and Steve and Robin and Erica and Nancy and I miss the Wheelers basement and I miss Hopper’s cabin and I miss Hopper. He is the hardest to miss I think because my heart knows I can’t visit him. Sometimes I write letters to him too even though I can’t send them to him. Joyce says that this is a good way to express myself and to handle my greif.

Joyce says that you are also experiencing greif and this is why you have not written as much as I have. I do not mind though! For me letters take lots of energy like talking to people, and I understand if it also takes lots of energy for you. I know that Billy was not nice to you but everything that happened last summer was still very big, and you should take as much time as you need to recover. I hope that you are being kind to yourself.

I love you lots and lots and lots!!!

Eleven

(P.S. People at school have been calling me Jane because that is my legal name, but Will calls me El because of habit, and a boy in one of my classes called me El-J, which I actually kind of liked! Perhaps I will add it to my list of names!)

Max rubs her cheek as she skims the letter again, turning the pages over in her hand. They fold together, the creases prominent from their journey in their thin envelope, and Max wants to keep them like this, compressed enough that she can hide them anywhere. In her bra. In her bedroom walls.

She can imagine El writing it, leaning over her desk or the dining table, holding her pencil so tightly her fingertips have paled, her eyebrows drawn in concentration. Pausing and thinking, sounding words out to herself under her breath, looking up to ask Joyce how to spell more difficult words. Max’s eyes burn as she thinks about it. She wants to hug her, wants to squeeze her and be squeezed in turn.

She sighs, letting her hands fall to her lap, her head falling back against the wall, and the air wafts around the paper. It smells like El, but it also smells like the Byers’ home, vaguely cinnamon-y and warm.

She misses them. Of course she does. It swells in her sometimes, winding and twisting and stretching until it makes her ache like her skin doesn’t quite fit. She hates this feeling. But she supposes she hates most feelings.

It occurs to her that she could stay here. She doesn’t have to go to class, really. Her teachers would barely notice her absence, and even if it somehow got back to her mother, she probably wouldn’t even remember by the time Max gets home.

There’s still time to decide if she wants to exist in the real world or if she wants to wallow. There’s time enough, apparently, that the door bursts open and some girls’ voices startle her. Her eyes fly open as she gasps, holding El’s letter to her chest like it’ll protect her.

“God, I cannot believe she would say that to you,” one of them says, her voice punctuated by snaps of bubble gum. “What a bitch.”

“I know. It’s not like I asked him to hit on me, right? It’s not my fault she’s fucking ugly.”

The first girl laughs brightly, and Max closes her eyes again, letting her head fall back. She listens to them, to their contorted voices talk about the third, unnamed girl that, despite Max’s lack of context, she’s already siding with. They’re both chewing gum, blowing bubbles and popping them like it’s a competition to see who can be louder, and Max hears the twisting and pumping of lip gloss tubes, the smacking of lips, the spritzing of perfume.

They’re such… girls.

Which isn’t a bad thing. Max loves girls. She loves El, and Nancy, and Erica, and Robin, who’s really less girly than the others, but still. Max likes seeing them be girls, likes watching them painting their nails and do each other’s hair, and she likes hearing them laugh together, giggling about boys and how dumb they are.

But Max feels like she’s too far away from it. A spectator instead of a member.

And she feels like that now, tucked away in this little stall, listening. Imagining.

The girls finally leave when the bell rings, the door swinging shut behind their voices and muffling them, and Max finally opens her eyes, looking up at the ceiling. She doesn’t go to class.

She writes a letter back to El.

In it, she apologizes for not writing since October even though El’s written her a letter every month since, and she tells El that she’s so happy that El likes school even if people suck sometimes. She’s glad El likes her teacher, and she’s glad that she and Will can share their locker, and she’s glad that El likes the weather in Lenora, that the sun is doing her good.

She asks her questions, if her other teachers are as nice as Mr Watts, if she also gets unbearably bored during class, if she hates getting up stupidly early in the morning. She tells her that she’s writing the letter against the wall of a bathroom stall, and she knows that El will find it funny.

She asks El to include a drawing of this Argyle guy in her next letter. So I can properly imagine him, she says. He sounds much cooler than Jonathan.

She rereads El’s letter again, and she lingers, her eyes scanning over the words I hope that you are being kind to yourself. She looks back at her own letter and stares at the paper for a long while before she continues writing.

Things haven’t been so great for me, she says succinctly. She doesn’t go into detail about it. Just tells El that sometimes she spends the night at Eddie’s place, just across the street, and that Eddie puts a frankly inhuman amount of sugar in his morning coffee. She feels the need to assure El that she’s fine, that things aren’t great, but they’re not horrible either. Sometimes that’s just how life goes, especially for someone like Max.

When it’s done, Max folds it and puts it in her copy of Something Wicked This Way Comes. She doesn’t know if she’ll send it.

March, 1986

She ends up next to Dustin, and she doesn’t think she minds as much as she wants to. Really, she wants to mind being here at all, but she supposes that if she had to be next to someone, she’d choose him.

It’s too fucking loud in here. She always hates the gym, the echoes and clamors, the way every noise lingers like it’s fighting to stay inside. Her head already hurts.

Dustin seems to notice. He keeps glancing at her, and she can see him in her periphery, looking over like she’s prone to spontaneous combustion. People look at her like that a lot. She wants to look back at him, to glare or raise an eyebrow and ask what the fuck he’s looking at, but she doesn’t.

Lucas waves at her when the team is introduced, and Max already feels halfway to deaf with all the cheering around her, but she could swear all the noise muffles when she looks at him. It’s stupid, and she knows she’s a cliche, but she has to sit on her hands to stop herself from waving back, and she pretends the way Lucas’s hand falls dejectedly doesn’t send a stabbing pain through her chest.

She hates pep rallies. She hates how far away she feels from herself even as she feels like she’s drowning. It’s better when everyone sits down, when she can see over the heads of the people in front of her. She finds herself staring at the ground, at the ceiling, her own hands. They’re pale, like they always are, especially now that she doesn’t really go outside that much. The sun doesn’t shine on her the way it used to when she spent all her free time in fresh air. She can see her own veins, bluish green under her skin and kind of eerie looking. Mike’s hands look the same.

Every time she glances at Mike and Dustin, they look almost as uncomfortable as she feels. They look more bored, especially Mike, who looks close to rolling his eyes at any second these days.

Lucas doesn’t particularly look like he’s having fun either. He looks like he’s trying to, and maybe Max can only tell because she knows him. He looks tense, his shoulders drawn up just the slightest bit. Even his smile looks tight, even as the other basketball players clap his shoulders and jostle him affectionately. He’s the youngest on the team, and they all treat him like it— grabbing his head and pushing him around like he’s their little brother. He’s the first freshman to make it on the varsity team in two decades, and Max is proud of him. Of course she’s proud of him.

She knows it’s dumb, but she really is just a teenage girl with a crush. Her face feels warm as she watches him, as she watches the way his arms move, the way his nose scrunches up a bit when he laughs at something someone says to him. She feels Dustin glance at her, but she doesn’t look away. She lets him see her looking at him, and she ignores the way he elbows her side gently.

The pep rally goes on. It all shifts to a staticky white noise, buzzing inside Max’s skull. She tolerates it the way she tolerates everything else. Ignores it. After a while, she lets her vision blur and her breathing to shallow— She does this sometimes when she’s trying to sleep, staring up at the ceiling but unable to close her eyes because she feels like something might fucking blow up or something. She used to do it sometimes when Billy was talking, when he was being mean, when she was listening to Neil yelling at Billy, or Billy yelling at Neil. It helps. She knows that there’s no way it’s healthy, but at least she feels just a little better even if only for a little bit.

She doesn’t move the next time everyone stands up, swaying just the slightest bit when whoever is sitting to her left bumps into her shoulder. They’re playing some game now, something with cheering and balloons, and the white noise isn’t really working anymore. Max’s eyes squeeze shut, and her vision focuses, and she hates this. The distance from her own body, like her arms have elongated and her hands are a mile away now. Like she’s in a bubble, or behind a dirty window that fogs everything around her.

She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling slowly, steadily, and she lifts her head from where she’s been staring at the seat in front of her. Everyone’s sat back down, and she scans the gym, looking at the remnants of popped balloons that litter the ground, at the kids that have the task of cleaning them up as quickly as they can.

Max’s eyes find Lucas again. She doesn’t mean to.

He’s standing with the rest of the team, leaning against the back wall of the gym, and he looks even more uncomfortable now. He has his arms crossed, his shoulders tight, and he isn’t smiling anymore, squinting a little like the lights are too bright. He looks pained, like he’s watching a horror movie or something.

His teammate nudges him, laughing, and he gives him a tight smile, nodding, but he shrinks away from the touch. Max’s head tilts.

She watches, eyeing every slight shift of Lucas’s feet, every time his muscles tighten, and he kind of looks like he’s going to cry until he finally glances around himself, at his teammates, at the teachers and coaches standing on the sidelines, and he leaves.

It’s a rapid departure. Nobody seems to notice except Max.

She lingers for a few moments, watching the exit that Lucas disappeared through like he’s going to appear again, like he’s just dipped out for a moment. But he doesn’t, and after a while, the player that had been standing next to him turns to say something before he realizes that Lucas isn’t there. He glances around for a moment and then shakes his head like this is a common occurrence.

Max moves, nudging Dustin in a short goodbye before she mutters a quiet Excuse me to the person next to her, ducking her head and sneaking through the bleachers as more cheers fill the gym.

The sounds muffle when she makes it to the hallway. It’s suddenly too quiet, and Max’s left ear is ringing like it’s blocked.

She listens, tilting her head and wincing until her ear stops ringing, and she heads to the boys’ locker room. The door swings open and then shut, swishing and thudding, and it’s silent. It’s an unpleasant place to be. It smells like sweat and cologne, like rubber from running shoes and basketballs, and there are clothes and towels left cascading across benches and hanging from locker doors hanging ajar.

It’s too quiet, and she listens again, the ringing finally subsiding, until she hears a soft sniffle. It’s muffled, hidden, and she recognizes it. Her chest aches.

She follows it, meandering through the room to the shower stalls, and all of them are closed, but only one of them is locked, the small line of red above the handle. She stops outside of it, looking like it’s going to turn to glass, like she’s going to see Lucas sitting there, hiding his face and squeezing his eyes shut, trying to stay quiet until whoever Max might be leaves.

“Lu,” she whispers.

A few seconds pass, and then there’s the shifting of weight, the clicking of a lock, and the door swings open. Lucas is leaning back to sit back down on the bench under towel hooks, and he’s looking up at her in a way that’s so pitiful it makes her feel sick.

She exhales slowly, looking down at him, and then she steps into the stall, shutting and locking the door behind herself. His chin lifts, and his eyes are glistening, gleaming with unshed tears before one finally slips, leaving a track down his cheek. Max reaches out and wipes it away gently, frowning a little.

He falls forward, and she catches him, closing her eyes as she runs her hands over the back of his head, his neck, his shoulders. He’s shaking, breathing shallowly like there’s something pressing into his chest, and Max wants to cry.

She hushes him gently, leaning her head down so her cheek is pressing to his temple, and his arms find her hips, wrapping around her to pull her closer, hugging her tightly. They sway, and Max drags her fingertips over the nape of his neck the way he likes when she kisses him. He exhales shakily.

After a few moments, Max moves closer, pushing him back gently so she can climb onto his lap, closing her eyes as he wraps his arms around her waist tightly. She likes being this close to him, likes being able to feel him breathing.

“It was too much,” Lucas says weakly, quietly. “I just— I couldn’t—“

“I know,” Max whispers, nodding even though he isn’t looking at her. “I know, I…”

He’s clinging to her, his fingers clutching at the fabric of her shirt, and she holds him as steadily as she can, fingers holding the back of his neck.

“Just breathe.”

“I— I c—“

“You can,” Max whispers. “Just… I’m right here.”

It takes a little while. They sway gently together, and after a few minutes Lucas’s hands loosen on her shirt. They smooth over her waist like he’s apologizing, like he’s trying to be gentle with her. She closes her eyes, resting her head on his.

“God,” he breathes. She smiles softly, nudging her face against his temple, humming. ”’M always scared that’s gonna happen during a game or something.”

“Hasn’t, though,” she murmurs.

“Don’t know how I’d explain it to the guys.”

“You don’t have to explain shit to them.”

Lucas snorts, burying his face in her shoulder, and she grins, wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug.

“You okay?” she asks quietly. He hums.

“Better. You’ve cured me.”

She scoffs.

“You didn’t wave,” Lucas whispers. Max closes her eyes again.

“I didn’t,” she says. “It’s hard sometimes.”

“I know,” Lucas says quietly. “‘S okay.”

Max runs her fingers back and forth over the side of Lucas’s neck, breathing with him. He relaxes against her, exhaling like he’s sighing, and she savors it. She wants to live here, wants to keep this as long as she can.

“Lucas,” she whispers. He hums softly, turning his face so his forehead is pressing to the side of her neck. “…I miss you.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he shifts, nuzzling into her neck.

“I’m right here.”

“Wish you were always right here,” she says softly. She runs her hand over the back of his neck to the crown of his head. She knows that he can feel her pulse against his forehead, and she’s telling the truth— She wishes she could keep him here, close enough to feel her heartbeat.

“Me too,” he whispers. His arms tighten around her again, squeezing, and he exhales, his breath warm on her skin. “Feels safe here.”

They sway when Max squeezes him, dragging her nails over the nape of his neck. There’s a cheer in the gym, muffled and almost inaudible through all the walls between them. Lucas takes a shuddering breath.

Max murmurs his name, pushing him away just enough to lean down and press their foreheads together. Lucas exhales, his hands pressing to her waist and squeezing when there’s another cheer, louder. They’re playing that stupid game again.

Max kisses his nose. She likes his nose.

He smiles, scrunching his nose adorably, and she wants to bite him, so she does, leaning down to nudge her nose into his cheek before biting it gently. Lucas lets out a light laugh, and Max can’t help but kiss him about it.

He hums quietly, his hands sliding over her back, and it’s louder here in the stall than the cheering in the gym. Max sighs, tilting her head, holding the sides of Lucas’s neck. He’s so warm, he always is.

It feels so stupidly normal— ditching a pep rally and making out with Lucas in the locker room. It’s mundane, something normal teenagers do. Lucas seems to realize it at the same time. He lets out another laugh, and Max can feel his smile against her own mouth. It’s a beautiful feeling.

They hold each other. Even when they’re not kissing, they hold each other. Max thinks Lucas might even drift off a little bit, nuzzling into her neck and sighing.

They both startle when the entrance to the locker room bursts open, their arms tightening around each other. Lucas takes in a sharp breath at the sudden influx of overlapping voices, of tennis shoes squeaking on the floor. Someone runs into a locker, probably shoved into it by another jock.

“Sinclair!” a voice yells. Lucas jumps again, squeezing Max’s waist. “You in here?”

The voices quiet briefly as they listen for a response. Lucas buries his face in Max’s neck.

“Man, what is with that guy?” a voice says. “He keeps fuckin’ disappearing.”

“I don’t know, it’s fucking weird.”

“He’s good, though.”

“I mean, yeah, he’s fucking good, he’s a freshie on varsity, man— He’s still weird.”

“Doesn’t he hang out with, like, Munson and his posse?”

There are a few laughs at his word choice. Max runs her fingers over the nape of his neck again, and it’s the only movement between the two of them. They’re sitting so still they’re barely breathing, like the guys are right next to them.

“He’s cool, though.”

“Munson?”

“Hah.”

They stay until the guys finally leave, taking their noise and roughhousing with them, and Lucas and Max stay until they can’t anymore. Getting off of him makes her chest ache, and she ignores the fact that she has butterflies from the way he holds her waist to steady her even though they’d just been making out with each other.

“You’re not coming to the game tonight,” Lucas says as they’re leaving, his arm around her shoulders like the couples that walk down the hallway together in school. They never walk like this during school.

It’s a statement, not a question. Max shakes her head even though she doesn’t even know if he’s looking at her.

“Can I see you this weekend?” he asks, tugging her a little closer.

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

Max giggles, ducking her head as he looks at her like he’s aghast, like he’s deeply offended, and her face flushes with warmth as he tugs her closer again so they stumble into each other. He kisses her temple.

November, 1986

She keeps her head down.

It’s not like people tend to pester her in the halls, but they give her looks, and she doesn’t even really know why. She doesn’t think she’s particularly weird-looking, but the other kids at school seem to disagree. A few of them give her up and down looks, like she’s in costume or something. She feels like an alien, or like a ghost. Like something that doesn’t really belong here, something that catches attention.

She swerves around the ones that seem to think that she can just sift through them like mist, the ones that think she doesn’t deserve the modicum of respect that is shifting two inches out of the way. She bumps into them just because.

There are a few of them sitting on the floor against their lockers, their legs sticking out into the hallway where she’s walking, and she steps over them, ignoring the few that toss words she can’t hear over Van Halen.

It’s cold outside. She should have brought her jacket with her, but it’s only going to be a little while, and it wouldn’t be worth going all the way back to her locker. Having study hall is nice, even if she never uses it to actually study.

She wanders around the building outside, making her way toward the disused baseball field. It’s overgrown with weeds, the dirt caked from rain and cold and neglect. The bleachers are slanted, one side dug into the ground, but Max doesn’t really mind it, even though they feel like they might fall apart with every step she takes up them. It’s always empty out here, the other kids preferring the front of the school to hang out and smoke at the lunch tables and benches circling trees. It looks nicer out there, but it’s quieter out here.

But Max stops when she sees a figure already on the bleachers, someone with their back to Max, and she sighs heavily before she realizes that it’s just Mike. Which, she supposes, she shouldn’t find as much comfort in as she does, but Mike isn’t like most people.

She goes anyway, walking around to the front of the bleachers and climbing up them noisily. Mike jumps at the first step, looking up from the book his nose is buried in, and Max almost laughs as his expression falls flat, staring at her like he’s disappointed.

“I won’t bother you,” she says lightly as she joins him at the top, reaching into the pocket of her jeans and pulling out the crumpled pack of cigarettes that she usually keeps hidden in her locker. She waves them at him, and he rolls his eyes like he can’t be bothered to actually put in effort, one of his hands appearing from under his book and lifting a cigarette to his mouth. He smokes Lucky Strike.

She sits next to him, maybe a little too close, but he doesn’t complain. She lights her cigarette, clicking the lighter a few times— she needs a new one— and she leans back, looking up at the sky as she takes a slow drag. It’s grey, cloudy like it might rain soon, and she kind of hopes it does. She likes it when it rains.

Mike puts his book away after a minute, folding a page over and setting it down beside himself, and he leans back, mirroring Max and shifting a little bit closer. Max can feel the warmth of his skin even through their shirts, and she closes her eyes.

“Can I ask you something?” Mike asks after another minute, his voice quiet.

“Hm.”

“It’s personal.”

“Just don’t be weird.”

“Me?” Mike says sarcastically, and Max snorts, elbowing him.

“What is it?”

“Are you and Lucas, like… together?”

Max turns to look at him from the corners of her eyes, her cigarette hanging from her lips.

“Mind your business,” she mumbles.

“This is my business,” Mike says defensively, shifting to face her. “You guys are my friends, I guess, and you’re so clearly in love with each other—”

“God.”

“And I’m fuckin’ curious, Jesus,” Mike says. “Humor me.”

Max scoffs, shaking her head in exasperation, but she’s quiet. Not because she actually wants to keep anything from Mike— He saw her last year when she had a panic attack at school, he’d even held her hand— but because she doesn’t know what to say.

Together feels like a loaded word, even if it’s a light one. An easy one.

“We haven’t had sex,” she says pointedly, and Mike lets out a sudden laugh.

“That’s not what I asked.”

She laughs softly, taking another long drag from her cigarette. Mike waits for her, and she can feel him watching her exhale. It feels like a quiet waiting, though, like she doesn’t have to rush.

“I don’t know,” she says finally, confessing. “We just…”

“How do you not know?” Mike says, sounding genuinely confused.

Max sighs, shrugging, shifting so she’s slumping, crossing an arm over her torso as she takes another drag.

“We don’t talk about it,” she says, shrugging again. “It’s just… I don’t know. We don’t have to.”

”…Explain.”

She stares at the sky, watching some clouds shift slowly. They’re swarming, gathering together, and it’s going to rain later.

“We’re on the same page,” she says finally, shrugging again, her voice quiet. “He’s… He’s my person. And I’m his, you know? We love each other, and that’s… That’s that.”

“You love each other,” Mike says softly, leaning away to tap his cigarette against the edge of the bleacher seat. “You say that to each other?”

“Mhmm.”

“…Is it hard?” Mike asks. His voice sounds small, like he doesn’t really want to hear her answer.

“Not anymore,” she says softly. ”’S easy now. And it’s… easy to love him, you know? It’s just… It’s intense sometimes. Overwhelming. And it just… I don’t know. Feels so big that stuff like boyfriend and shit just feels… I don’t know. Obsolete. Irrelevant.”

Mike hums softly again.

“‘S a lot,” he says after a moment.

“Yeah,” Max says. “But it’s… I don’t know. It feels fine.”

She wonders if that might just be what it’s like to love somebody like this. Overwhelming, and terrifying, and fine.

“I could never say it to El when we were together,” Mike says quietly.

They broke up last year. According to them both, it was amicable. There was no fighting, no misunderstandings. They both seemed fine afterwards; even El’s letters seemed more lighthearted somehow, like it was easier for her to talk even through written word.

“Like you never got the chance?” Max asks, glancing at him, but he shakes his head.

“No, I got plenty of chances,” he says quietly. “I just… I could never say it.”

“Why?”

Mike is quiet again, the end of his cigarette glowing red as he takes a slow drag, and he leans back, propping his legs up on the seats in front of them, crossing his ankles. Max watches— his legs are so spindly it’s almost unsettling.

“Felt like I was lying,” he says finally, almost whispering. It sounds like he’s talking to himself.

“You didn’t love her?” Max questions. She should probably be upset by this— El is her best friend in the whole world. But she isn’t, because she knows that this isn't the case. It isn’t that Mike doesn’t love her. Max knows he loves her.

“Of course I did,” Mike says softly. “Just… I don’t know. Every time I thought it, it— it didn’t feel the way it was supposed to, you know? I love El, I really do, it’s just… It feels like— like the way I love you guys, you know, you and Lucas and Dustin and…”

He falls quiet, and Max thinks about it, listening to the quiet sizzle of her cigarette burning.

“So you love her as a friend,” Max says. “Platonically.”

“...Yeah,” Mike says quietly. “I just… I never knew how to say that, you know? And it— I was supposed to love her like a girlfriend, you know, romantic, but I just couldn’t.”

“You can’t force something into existence,” Max says.

“Yeah.”

Mike is quiet again.

For a while.

Max just sits with his silence, stretching her legs out and mirroring Mike in a way that she doesn’t really intend to do, crossing her ankles. She smokes, and Mike doesn’t. He seems to zone out, his cigarette dangling between his fingers loosely, facing the sky.

“Can I tell you something?” he says finally, his voice quiet, hushed.

“Sure.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Mm. What happens during smoke breaks stays during smoke breaks.”

He lets out a soft laugh, and then he’s quiet for another long while before,

“I think I’m gay.”

Think, he says. Like he doesn’t quite know. Max knows what he means. He’s hiding behind it, tucking himself into some corner of uncertainty that keeps him away from what is.

Max hears him exhale shakily, slowly, and she finally moves, stubbing her cigarette out on the bleachers next to her before she turns toward him, her arms open. He’s already falling toward her, and this is weird, isn’t it? Mike Wheeler falling into her arms with a quiet sob, his cigarette finding its way to her hand so she can put it out.

He’s crying, and she’s holding him, and it’s weird. She knows it is.

But neither of them really minds.

February, 1987

Max feels like a walking void. She tries to feel things, tries to find whatever she can that will bring her even a spark of joy or something vaguely adjacent to joy. Slight amusement. She watches movies that she used to love. She reads books that she hears other kids talking about. She goes over to the Sinclairs’ just to listen to Lucas and Erica bicker.

Whatever works is temporary.

She’s tired of it, being so empty all the time. She finds herself laying in bed with headphones on, staring at the ceiling like she’s waiting for something. She thinks she should probably talk to someone about it, some doctor or Ms Kelly, who Max hasn’t talked to in months. Ms Kelly seems to think that Max is doing well enough to not need biweekly check-ins, but Max thinks that’s probably because Max instinctively gives her a smile when she sees in her the hallways.

She doesn’t think she’s doing better, but she also doesn’t think she’s been feeling any worse than she used to. She used to feel bad, all the time, but now she doesn’t think she feels bad. She doesn’t think she feels anything, most of the time. Like there’s an empty shelf in her chest that’s gathering dust.

Lucas notices. He tries to kiss her better, and it doesn’t work, but she likes the effort.

Susan doesn’t seem to notice, but she doesn’t seem to notice much of anything these days. She’s practically withering away, and Max hates to watch it happen, but sometimes, late at night, she wishes it would go faster. Her hair’s a little thinner than it used to be, and she’s paler, and she’s lost some weight, and Max is just like her. The realization doesn’t hit her as hard as it probably should, the fact that she and her mother are both… unwell. Sick.

She tries to remind herself of that. That Susan isn’t okay, that she’s sick or whatever it is that she is. But it gets hard sometimes, because apparently when Max isn’t feeling nothing at all, she’s fucking angry.

“Can you stop leaving your shit all over the floor?”

The shit in question is seemingly every blanket in the house save for Max’s. They’re cascading over the side of the sofa like a waterfall, kicked away from Susan’s sleeping body last night. She sleeps on the sofa more often than she sleeps in her own room, and Max doesn’t really know why. She wonders if she just hates sleeping alone— it’s the same bed she’d shared with Neil, and it must feel empty now that he’s gone.

“Maxine, do not talk to me like that—”

“I wouldn’t have to if you would just clean up after yourself,” Max snaps, censoring every variation of fuck that she wants to let out. “‘S ridiculous, I’m gonna trip and break my damn neck or something.”

Susan grumbles something about the blankets as she snatches them up, throwing onto the sofa with a strength that she shouldn’t possess this early in the morning, this soon after waking up. Max hears them land, and she doesn’t even try to stifle her huff.

She hates fighting this early in the morning. But she also just kind of hates anything this early in the morning. She wishes she was still in bed, still dead asleep. She didn’t have any dreams last night, at least none that she remembers, and she longs for that peace.

Susan is being a bitch, and Max wants to hit her. She wants to yell and scream and throw shit around the kitchen, shit that will shatter and break, shit that will hurt, but she doesn’t. Everything sits inside her, and she ignores it. She’s shaking all the way to the bus, and the kid sitting at the front doesn’t wave cheerily at her the way he usually does. She doesn’t notice, but nobody’s really even looking at her, like they’re all avoiding her gaze, like they’re scared.

Her period’s probably going to start soon. Either that, or she’s finally losing her entire mind.

Because she can barely see straight, her vision blurred with how fucking angry she is, and this can’t possibly just be about the blankets on the floor. Her hands are still shaking, and if someone says one fucking thing to her, she’s going to lose her shit. She might get suspended today. Hell, maybe she’ll be expelled.

So she skips the first two classes of the day, opting to sit outside, clearing snow off of part of the bleachers so she can lay down, looking up at the pale, cloudless sky and watching her cigarette smoke drift with the wind. She breathes slowly, taps her foot, and she listens to music, and she kind of wishes Mike was out here with her. She hasn’t talked to him in a while, but the last time they both came out to smoke at the same time, they sat together in silence with their shoulders pressed.

She feels blurry in a weird way. Like she’s out of focus, like her skin is buzzing with some kind of static that she can practically hear.

She lays down, looking up at the sky before she squeezes her eyes shut, her hands folding together over her stomach. She tries to steady them, but it doesn’t work. The metal of the bleacher is cold even through her clothes, and it’s uncomfortable, but she stays, her eyebrows furrowing as she tries to focus on it.

Sometimes she wonders if her mother ever feels like this— if, when she’s sober even for a brief time, she feels so angry all she can do is lay down and stare at nothing.

Sometimes she wonders if she got it from her dad.

That makes more sense when she really thinks about it. Susan wasn’t always like this; in all of Max’s childhood memories of her, she’s kind and sweet and patient, even when Max tracked mud into the house and broke a vase and got blood on the new sofa. Joseph was different. He was nice, for the most part, gentle with little Max, playful and silly. He always swore a lot more than Susan did— Max’s third word, after Mama and uh-oh, was fuck.

He had road rage. Max remembers hearing him shout at other drivers even though there was no way they could possibly hear him. She also remembers the time he came to her school to talk to her teacher about some boys that had been teasing Max for her hair and freckles. She doesn’t remember much about it except that he said a few too many words that she wasn’t supposed to repeat. She remembers a lot of stuff like that, and it was all before he went to prison. Obviously. She didn’t see him anymore after that.

It was a long time that she didn’t know what he actually did. She got older, and she assumed it was something like the road rage, something about a temper out of control. He must have hit somebody, she thought with her youthful ignorance. He must have been mean, too mean. He liked to drink. Maybe that had been involved.

It was at some point that she was allowed by her mother to read bits and pieces of the court transcripts, which were kept in a manila envelope, stapled together neatly and creased from years of being hidden away. Max was too young to read that, but she doesn’t think she knows any better. Not anymore. She was too young when she watched her stepbrother get speared through the chest, when she saw everything else that she saw. It was all worse than reading about her father getting sentenced to life in prison for a double homicide.

She remembered his voice. She still does. It was rough, gravelly, low in his throat, and distinct enough that she can still hear it in the rare occurrence that he stars in her dreams.

It was torture to read the transcripts, to hear Joseph’s voice in her head—

How do you plead?

Guilty, sir.

He was angry at them. Max never found out why, never knew what they did, but she knew that it was her father that killed them, that he beat them to death with a wrench. And he had never done anything to Max— he’d never even spanked her— nor had he ever laid his hands on Susan, but Max was scared anyway.

Because somehow these two men pushed him too far. They said something, or did something, and he got angry enough to fracture their skulls. What would Max have had to do for that? How many more carpet stains and skinned knees would it have taken for the crowbar to turn to her? How many beers would it have taken?

And then she knew about genetics and inherited traits, and she wondered and worried. Her hair and her eyes and her freckles are from her mother, and her earlobes and her anger are from her father. Maybe the earlobes and anger come with homicidal tendencies. She doesn’t know yet, and it scares her.

She knows it’s irrational. But she can’t help it, not when she gets angry like this. She wonders if her father ever worried that he might kill someone someday, if anyone else in her family has done it too. If it’s just something about being a Mayfield. If it’s inescapable.

She’d like to be someone else, but she tries not to think about it too much.

It’s like people can see her anger on her as she walks through the hallways, stepping out of her way even as they make faces at her, staring like she’s got green skin or three eyes or horns or something— like she’s some mythical, fantastical creature and not some stupid teenage girl.

Lucas catches her eye, and she tries to avoid him, looking at the ground and swerving around him, but his hand catches her sleeve, tugging on it. She looks back and shoots him a look, but she supposes he’s the only person that isn’t put off by her glares. He gestures with a tilt of his head, tugging her sleeve again, and she rolls her eyes, but she follows anyway.

They end up tucked away near the bathrooms, where there’s a weird wall that sticks out in front of the entrances for some reason. Max knows that it’s a good spot for couples to have clandestine meetings, and she’s already mentally preparing herself for someone to stumble into them as she leans against the wall, crossing her arms defensively even though Lucas is just looking at her.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t feel like talking,” she says, looking at the ground. “And you’re making me talk.”

“...Max.”

“Lucas,” she snaps, looking at him, glaring, and she’s weirdly self-aware of how she looks, her eyebrows furrowed, her jew clenched, her arms crossed. It’s unnecessary, irrational, and Lucas is still just… looking at her. Expectant.

She exhales shakily, and they’re in the fucking make out corner at school, so she can’t fall into his arms the way she wants to. She doesn’t even want to say anything, doesn’t want to communicate a single fucking thing. She wants him to hold her, to comb through her hair the way he does, to draw away every bad thought she’s got ricocheting around her skull.

“I had a fight with my mom this morning,” she says, her voice hushed and too fast, still angry. “And I’m pissed, and I don’t know why I’m still pissed because I really have no reason to be, but I am, and I don’t want to talk to you because I will hurt your feelings.”

She stares at him, raising her eyebrows like she’s saying Are you fucking happy?

He’s quiet, looking at her like he’s gazing, and then he lets out a quiet, “Okay.”

And then Max wants to burst into tears, and she hates herself. Because he’s so kind, he’s so sweet, and she’s still fucking angry.

She exhales shakily, her expression softening a little, and her eyes flicker over his face for a few moments. She doesn’t even know what exactly she’s looking for, but Lucas lets her, looking back at her patiently before she finally exhales again, uncrossing her arms to reach out and grab the front of his shirt, tugging him into a brief, chaste kiss.

He tilts her head when they part, nudging their noses together gently as they pull away.

“...I love you,” Max says softly. “Still.”

Lucas smiles, his head tilting a little more like Max is adorable.

“I love you too.”

Max nods almost resolutely, and she kisses him once more before she forces herself away from him, stepping past him to leave. It doesn’t occur to her until later that he hadn’t touched her the way he usually does when they’re standing so close— he hadn’t put a hand on her waist, or her face, and he hadn’t tried to tangle their fingers together or tuck her hair out of her face, and as she sits in her final class of the day, leaned back in her seat with her arms crossed and her head down like she’s brooding, her chest aches.

She wouldn’t have liked him to touch her, and he must have known that, must have seen it on her face, but she wants it now. She wants to feel the ghost of his hands on her, to have something nice to think about. Her foot taps on the ground, and her knee bounces up and down, and she’s exhausted just from feeling like this, just from her heart beating too fast for too long, and she wishes she had worn one of Lucas’s hoodies today, or maybe one of Eddie’s or Steve’s shirts that she’s stolen. Just for something nice to follow her around for the day.

Nothing nice follows her around.

She anticipates it, the insufferable spiral that accompanies her relentless thoughts. She finds herself fighting tears by the end of the day, and she keeps her head down so no one sees. She doesn’t even know what the fuck she’s crying about.

She walks home instead of getting on the bus. It’s a long walk, long enough that Eddie drives her sometimes, and she thinks that’s kind of the point— She has time to think, even if she doesn’t want to. She’d be thinking anyway. Might as well have some fresh air and privacy while she’s at it.

It’s cold, and it’s windy, and it’s miserable. The sides of the road are a little icy, and half her mind is focused on not slipping. It would be a pretty shitty way to go, slipping on the side of an empty road, maybe paralyzed with a broken neck or unconscious from a concussion, freezing to death under the gray sky. But, Max thinks briefly, it would also be kind of funny. Ironic, at least. Such a boring death after all the shit she’s been through.

There are tear tracks on her cheeks by the time she gets back to the trailer, and she wonders if they’re icy too, glistening like snow on her face.

It’s dark when she steps inside, kicking her shoes off and looking around. It’s quiet like it always is, but she can hear the faint sound of her mother breathing, snoring softly in a way that should be sweet, if it wasn’t four in the afternoon, if it wasn’t the fifth time this week she’s been passed out when Max comes home.

And Max…

Well, Max is angry, isn’t she? She’s been angry all day, and maybe she’s actually been angry all her life— maybe even before that. It’s in her DNA, boiling her blood since birth.

She swallows it like she usually does, passing by her mother’s sleeping body and the spilled wine on the carpet, going to her room and doing her homework.

She likes to think that she’s a good daughter, that she’s a good kid. She’s got pretty good grades, ranging from As to high-ish Cs, and sure, she has a shitty attendance record, but she also got an 87% on her last algebra test. Her room is tidy, the floor clear of dirty laundry, her desk organized, and a few weeks ago she took a neighbor’s dog out for a few walks after his owner sprained her ankle. She makes dinner sometimes, and she has a good vocabulary, and she tries to be everything that she’s supposed to be, even when it makes her skin feel like it’s inside out.

And as she’s laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling in the gradually dimming evening light, and she thinks maybe it’s all been for no fucking reason.

It didn’t matter that she wore her grandmother’s hair clip to the Snow Ball, or that she even put on some blush and perfume, and it doesn’t matter that she’s kept her hair so long all these years, and it doesn’t matter that she’s survived this long. None of it ever mattered.

It’s dark, and she flicks on a lamp in the hallway as she makes her way to the living quietly, her eyes narrowed to see past the shadows. Susan is still sleeping, rolled onto her side with her face tucked against the back of the sofa, a blanket tangled around her body like a fish in a net. Max stares at her, and she tries to summon just an ounce of what she’s supposed to be feeling. Fondness, maybe. Sweet exasperation.

But she’s angry. Exasperated in a not very fond way. Her stomach falls and her heart beats too fast, and she’s shaking again. And she knows she shouldn’t, but she does something stupid.

She snatches the bottle of liquor from the floor and lifts it to her mouth.

It’s gross. It burns her throat and makes her cough as she heads back to her room, some of it spilling sticky down her chin and neck, soaking into the fabric of her shirt. She doesn’t see the appeal, but she drinks more anyway, gulping it down and choking on it, coughing and sputtering and wiping her face.

She doesn’t like it. She hates it, actually, dislikes it so much she wants to scream, but she finishes the bottle completely, tipping her head back and shutting her eyes as the last few drops spill over her tongue and down her throat before she tosses the bottle aside, already leaving back down the hall when it lands on the pile of clothes by her bed.

There’s more alcohol in the kitchen. A case of beer in the fridge and a bottle of bourbon on the counter. Three bottles of wine by the sink, not including the empty ones waiting to be taken outside. A half-full bottle of vodka that Susan usually uses for cocktails. That’s what Max grabs. Susan is still snoring when Max wrenches the cap off, gritting her teeth.

It smells like rubbing alcohol, and Max’s throat still burns with whatever the last bottle was full of, but she takes a swig anyway. It’s not as bad as she was expecting, especially with everything she’s heard the kids at school say, so she tips the bottle back to her mouth and takes a gulp. She wanders, sipping from the glass bottle, meandering around the kitchen and then the living room, and she stops at the foot of the sofa.

She glares at her mother, swaying a little as she teeths at the rim of the bottle. Susan looks so calm like this, so peaceful and happy, her hair falling over her face, her lips parted to let out soft breaths. She’s steady.

Maybe that’s why she does it. Drinks just to get blackout drunk so she can fall asleep.

Max wonders if she has nightmares. If she does, they’re probably about Neil, or about Billy, or about high school. Something mundane and normal, something she’s supposed to be thinking about as a regular person. She has no fucking idea.

Max exhales shakily, her eyes burning as badly as her throat. And she wants to fight her, wants to scream and cry and swear and throw something breakable. She knows Susan technically didn’t do anything wrong— didn’t do anything at all, actually— but she feels like it’s all her fault. She wants someone to blame it all on, wants something to be responsible for everything, and maybe Susan is just the easiest target, drunk and vulnerable and calm.

But it couldn’t possibly be her fault. She doesn’t even know about the upside down, about any of the freaky sci-fi shit that Max knows too much about. She still thinks Billy died in a freak accident, still thinks it was all some unfortunate coincidence that the kids were all there that night, coming by to hang out with Steve and Robin after hours.

But also, Max thinks, it’s not just that. Not just the past year or two. It started when Max was fucking born, didn’t it? It started when little baby Max, allegedly four weeks early and catching everyone off-guard, took her first gulp of air to let out a screaming cry. It’s some stupid curse on her life, and even as she thinks it, she wants to find a way for it to be Susan’s fault. She wants to know if Susan jinxed her somehow, if she pissed off a witch or some fortune teller, if she should have gotten pregnant on a different night. If she should have had an abortion as soon as she tested positive, if she should have left a blanket over Max’s face when she was a baby.

But it’s probably just Max.

She goes to her room, dragging a hand along the wall as she goes, and she thinks.

The ceiling is spinning, and Max watches it, letting her hand fall over the sides of her bed. She’s vaguely aware that she’s humming softly, her head rolling back and forth, and she might even be smiling, and maybe this is why Susan does it. Drinks just to smile at the ceiling.

She’s still angry at her. She thinks she’ll always be angry at her. And she’s humming (maybe it’s something by Duran Duran) but her anger is growing. Festering. Rotting right inside her chest and spreading like mold over her ribcage.

She hates herself.

She’s thought it before, and she’s never said it out loud because Lucas would be mad, and Steve’s eyes would probably well with tears and turn all puppy-dogged, and Mike would probably say something about being the only person that’s allowed to hate her. The thought of it makes her laugh lightly, and she rolls over.

She’s only fifteen, but she thinks she might be a monster. She probably is, given her direct relatives’ track records. A murderer and a drunk. A match made in fucking heaven, really. Some vile combination that produced Max goddamn Mayfield with her sun-kissed freckles and her boiling blood.

Max pushes herself up, sitting on the edge of her bed and pausing, swaying and spilling, closing her eyes until she’s steady enough to stand, and she stumbles her way to the bathroom. She wonders how much more she would have to drink to pass out, to be as unconscious as Susan is, as she has been this whole time, and as she’s passing by her to find the bathroom, she wonders briefly if she might be dead. But she’s still snoring, and Max finds that there’s no relief in her gut when she hears it.

She goes to the bathroom. Kicks her pants off and away as she pisses, frowning when they get tangled on her ankles. She scrubs her hands with too much soap and blows bubbles between her fingers that pop against the mirror, speckling her reflected face like glitter, and then she stares at herself.

She’s drunk. She knows, she’s self-aware, and she’s curious about how drunk one must get to not even know that they’re drunk.

Her face doesn’t look very familiar. It’s shifting right in front of her, her eyes opening and closing like a doll’s, her proportions changing as she stares, and she looks like her mom for a moment before she looks like a stranger.

She’s drunk. She knows. She’s self-aware.

It’s still scary, though.

This stranger right across from her, her freckles follow a different map than Max’s, and her eyes are darker, and she looks angry, somehow even angrier than Max thinks she feels, and Max doesn’t trust her. She doesn’t like her, with her tangled hair that’s frizzy and falling over her shoulders, with her soft cheeks and unscarred face.

Max is stupid, and she reaches up and pokes the stranger’s face, her fingers pressing into the mirror for a moment like it’s going to bend, like it’s flesh. Her fingerprint stays on the glass when her hand drops, and she looks at it.

Her hair is tickling her, a few locks tucked under her shirt, some strands drifting over her face, and she hates it. It looks like her mom’s hair, the same length, the same orangey red, the same inextinguishable flames.

She’s taking scissors to them before she even realizes that she’s holding them, slicing through her hair and dropping it in the sink and on the floor. The water is still running, washing the strands down the drain, and she’ll regret it later, the way the drain will clog up and the water bill will increase, but she isn’t thinking about that now. She isn’t really thinking about anything. She cuts her hair, chops and slices and drops and starts all over again, and she’s crying now, sobbing weakly. The scissors are cold when they slide against the skin of her neck, and this is a terrible idea. They’re too close to her veins. But she doesn’t think she really cares.

There’s hair everywhere when she finally stops, and she falls to the floor, holding the scissors like they’re precious, like they’ll keep her safe from everything. She’s crying, her face sore and wet with tears, and she’s leaning against the edge of the bathtub, her head falling back as her body curls into itself, tightening and aching and cradling.

The gravel hurts her feet, and the cold hurts her face, but she doesn’t care, crossing the road intently. Her mouth still tastes like vomit, but she doesn’t care— she’s still conscious, still awake. Still thinking.

She knocks too hard, trembling in the cold, but she must be lucky, because Eddie answers quickly, like he was already sitting by the door. She looks up at him, her vision blurred a little, and he finds her in the porchlight, his eyes widening, his lips parting like he’s going to say something but doesn’t know what.

“Can I have drugs?” Max asks, her voice rough and slurred. “I have… I have money.”

He blinks, looking down at the crumpled cash in her hand, taking her in. Her hair, barely reaching past her ears now, uneven, her bare legs and dirty feet. The alcohol and sick in her breath.

He steps aside, opening the door.

“Come inside.”

She does, stepping into the welcome warmth of the living room, but then the door shuts and he starts stepping past her, toward the hall.

“I’m calling Steve.”

“No—”

She lunges, dropping the money and catching Eddie’s arm, stumbling over her own feet. The carpet feels nicer than the gravel outside.

But Eddie turns, catching her instead, and he’s gripping her forearm tightly, leaning down to look into her eyes intently.

“Max,” he says sharply, his voice firmer than Max has ever heard it, like he’s angry. “You are not okay.”

Max blinks, looking into his eyes, her lip quivering.

“I know,” she says weakly, almost whispering. “I just wanna feel okay.”

“This isn’t how you do that,” Eddie says, his voice softening, like he’s feeling everything Max is feeling. “You…”

And she’s crying again. Doubling over and holding onto Eddie as tightly as he can, sobbing into his hand when he lets her pull it closer, and she’s begging but she doesn’t know what for. Eddie is holding her, lowering her to the floor slowly, his arms wrapping around her, and he lets her cry until she runs out of tears.

He gets her onto the sofa when she can breathe. He brings her water and then tea, and he’s pushing her hair out of her face gently like he’s fond, but she can feel him looking. Can feel him seeing.

“You alright?” Eddie whispers after a while. Max is staring at the ground. She shakes her head. Eddie is quiet for a moment before he lets out a soft, “You’re breakin’ my heart, kid.”

His voice sounds choked, almost broken, like he’s about to start crying, and Max’s entire body aches. She squeezes her eyes closed.

“I don’t wanna feel like this anymore,” she says quietly, mumbling, and she hears Eddie sigh before she feels his hand on her face, brushing away tears that she didn’t notice falling. His fingertips are gentle, much more so than what nobody would expect from someone like him, with his scary tattoos and t-shirts.

“I know, honey,” he says, like it’s something he calls her all the time, like it’s normal for someone like her to be called something so sweet. “But I don’t think there’s any way around it. You gotta go through it.”

Her eyebrows furrow a little, and her eyes squeeze, but she doesn’t have the energy to shake her head or whine or refuse. She knows he’s right.

“Did I ever tell you that I shaved my head when I was twelve?” Eddie says after a moment, the question abrupt and catching Max off-guard. She opens her eyes and looks at him, blinking her vision into focus until she can find his face clearly. She shakes her head. “Can’t imagine it, can you?” he says, shaking his head like he’s showing off his hair, like he’s in a shampoo commercial, like his curls and luscious and flowing, and Max can’t help but giggle a little, shaking her head.

“I used my dad’s straight razor,” he says, leaning a little closer, like he’s telling her a secret. “Took it all down to the skin.”

”Why?” she whispers.

“‘Cause I was wasted,” Eddie says lightly. Max blinks. “And ‘cause my dad hated my hair. He was always saying some shit about it being too long or too girly or too…” He gestures toward his head vaguely. “Uncontrollable, I guess.”

Max stares at him, waiting, and he stares back. It takes him another few moments before he speaks again.

“I just… I want you to know that I get it,” he says quietly, gently, looking into her eyes like he’s trying to use telepathy. “My dad was barely there when I was a kid, and my mom was always drinking, and it… it weighs on you.”

She looks at him. And she wants to think that he gets it, really gets it, that she isn’t the only one with this expanding black hole in her chest, but the truth is that he doesn’t know the half of it. He can’t know the half of it. He can’t know what plagues her dreams, what wakes her up almost every night, what haunts the dark corners of her house or what lingers just outside the line of her vision.

He knows about Susan.

Which maybe, for now at least, is enough.

He catches her when she falls forward, taking the mug from her and setting it aside before he moves closer, sitting beside on the sofa and letting her lean against him. She tucks into his side as tightly as possible, like she’s trying to shrink, her eyes closed, but after a few moments, Eddie tenses.

“…Max.”

She just lets out a weak groan, exhaustion catching up to her, but he pushes her away gently, ignoring her whine of protest.

“You’re bleeding,” he says quietly.

She blinks her eyes open and follows his gaze to where the end of her shirt has ridden up, exposing her thighs.

And the cuts in her skin that she’d forgotten about.

“Oh,” she says sleepily.

“Max.”

“I forgot about that.”

Her eyes close again, and she hears Eddie exhale slowly, evenly, before he gently manhandles her into place on the sofa. She’s sitting against the back of it, her legs out straight in front of her, her feet almost touching the floor. She hates sitting like this, even in normal chairs. She tries to draw one of her legs up to her chest, but Eddie’s hand grabs her knee, pushing it back down.

“Stay here a minute.”

She groans softly, letting her head fall back and looking up at the ceiling. Eddie leaves, and then he comes back, and he pushes her shirt up again, tucking it just out of the way.

She blinks her eyes open to watch as he cleans the cuts, wiping the blood away carefully.

“They’re not too deep,” Eddie says softly, like he’s talking to himself. “Which is good. Blood’s mostly dry, we just wanna clean them so they don’t get infected.”

It sounds like gibberish to Max, who doesn’t think she’d really care if they got infected.

Eddie plasters them up with bandages in a practiced manner, taping and sticking and pressing and rubbing, and Max winces at the pressure of his fingers running over them. Eddie mutters an apology under his breath, but then he does it again, smoothing down the bandages.

He sighs when he’s done, looking at her legs for a moment before he stands, gathering all the bloodied wipes and gauze, the paper wrapping of the bandages and tape, and he leaves again. Max lifts her legs onto the sofa, exhaling when the soles of her feet find the softness of the cushion. She wraps her arms around herself. The cuts hurt now that she knows they’re there, aching and stinging in a way she doesn’t really mind that much. She wishes she hadn’t done it.

Especially now, when Eddie comes back and looks at her with tears in his eyes and a rosy nose. He looks pitiful, and Max did that to him. Her lip quivers, and Eddie is sitting next to her again before she can even say anything. He wraps his arms around her, tugs her gently against him, and she lets herself fall, pressing her face into his chest.

“Don’t tell Steve,” she says quietly, almost whining. She doesn’t think she could handle Steve knowing this.

”Go to sleep,” Eddie whispers, running a hand over her head, combing through her tangled hair— it doesn’t take as long for him to reach the ends now that it’s all chopped off, and she wishes she hadn’t done that either. She wishes she hadn’t picked up that first bottle, or the second or third, and she wishes she hadn’t come home after school. She wishes, and she wishes, and she wishes until she falls asleep.

There’s a blanket over her when she wakes up. It’s kind of scratchy, but not in a bad way. She squirms, twisting the blanket between her legs, and it rubs against her skin.

It takes a while for her eyes to open. Maybe it’s because she just doesn’t want to wake up yet.

The sun is bright in a way that tells Max that it’s grey outside, cloudy and maybe a little rainy. She groans weakly, rubbing her face before she pushes herself up. She’s on a sofa, and it’s not as firm as her bed, which makes pushing herself up more difficult. Her entire body is sore, and her head is throbbing like her brain has swollen, pressing up against her skull and putting pressure behind her eyes. She groans again, covering her eyes with a hand.

“There she is,” Eddie’s voice says lightly. “Mornin’, sleeping beauty.”

“Fuck off.”

He just laughs lightly, watching her sit up.

It’s a slow process. She sits on the edge of the sofa, the blanket tangled around her legs and laying across her lap, her eyes closed against the dull shine of the sun. She breathes slowly, suppressing the wave of nausea that washes over her.

“You okay?”

“Mm.” She pauses, furrowing her eyebrows. “My mouth tastes like ass.”

”Got you a toothbrush and toothpaste right here.”

She redacts her fuck off. Eddie is an actual angel and she adores him. He has coffee and painkillers for her when she gets back from the bathroom, and she sits back on the sofa with the mug he gives her. (It’s handmade, assumedly by Wayne. The sides are wobbly, fitting under her fingers.) He sits in front of her on the coffee table, looking at her as she sips the coffee with her eyes closed.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Max exhales, savoring the coffee as it soothes her sore throat.

“Which part?” she whispers.

“Whichever.”

He sips his own coffee, looking at her own the rim of his mug. She looks at the floor, thinking, but she doesn’t know what to think, where to start. She feels like a fucking mess, like she’s barely even human. She’s sore and achy but she feels almost numb. Empty.

“I was so angry,” she breathes.

“At what?”

“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head, shrugging weakly. “Everything. Nothing. My mom.”

Eddie is quiet, and she takes another sip from her coffee.

“Why’d you cut your hair?” Eddie asks, sounding curious.

“I don’t know,” she says again, shaking her head. “I don’t…”

She’s breathing hard suddenly, closing her eyes and swallowing her nausea again. She hears Eddie murmur something, but she ignores it.

“I think I looked like my mom?” she says, looking at him, squinting a little. The window is behind him, the sunlight glowing in his stray curls, like they’re made of silver. “I don’t fucking know.”

“‘S okay,” Eddie says softly, nodding as he looks at her.

“Was a terrible idea,” she says, cracking a weak smile. He scoffs, his expression softening.

“I don’t know,” he says lightly, reaching out and pushing a piece of her hair out of her face. “I think it could work.”

She scoffs, lifting the mug to her lips.

“I have an idea that you might hate,” Eddie says, watching her, “because you specifically told me not to tell Steve.”

Max exhales, looking at the coffee in her mug.

“But he’s called the Hair,” Eddie says dramatically. “There’s gotta be a reason for that, right?”

“Yeah, his hair.”

“Which he does himself, so like…”

He gestures vaguely, and she lets out a laugh, shaking her head. He smiles like he’s fond, like he likes seeing her laugh, tilting his head.

“Can I call him?” he asks softly.

She nods, looking away. He stays for a moment before he stands, touching her knee gently.

“Eddie,” she says, still looking down. He stops. “Don’t… Don’t tell him about my legs?”

“…Okay.”

She tucks herself back into the blanket, wrapping it around herself clumsily with her free hand. She can vaguely hear Eddie on the phone, and he might be keeping his voice quiet on purpose. She closes her eyes again, sipping her coffee and tucking the blanket up under her chin like she’s trying to disappear. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so small.

When Eddie comes back, he’s carrying a pair of sweatpants. He gives them to her, and she puts them on after he changes the bandages on her legs, checking the cuts and putting some kind of ointment on them before he re-bandages them. They don’t sting as badly as they did last night, but she feels like she’s overly conscious of them, like she can see them through the dark fabric of the pants. Eddie crouches down to roll up the legs of them, and for a brief moment, Max feels like a princess. Looked after and taken care of.

Eddie makes her toast and brings it to her like she’s sick. Which, she supposes, she kind of is, occasionally subjected to waves of nausea, her head still aching despite the painkillers. Her muscles feel sore.

She’s nibbling on her third slice of toast when she hears Steve’s car pull into the driveway, and she reaches to put it down, pulling her blanket tighter around her as she starts to stand. Steve comes right inside, doesn’t pause to knock, and Eddie doesn’t even seem bothered by it, looking up as he rinses their coffee mugs.

Steve exhales shakily as he looks at Max, lingering in the doorway with the sun shining behind him, staring like he’s waiting for the scene in front of him to change, like he doesn’t want to believe it. Max looks at the floor, her eyes burning, and she shouldn’t have let Eddie call him— he would have found out eventually, but at least maybe he could have found out when she didn’t look so pathetic.

She’s crying again, sniffling and lifting the blanket to her face, and then Steve is on the floor in front of her, kneeling so he can look at her, so he can hold her face in his hands and bring her close so their foreheads are touching.

Max stifles a sob, squeezing her eyes shut, and she falls forward, wrapping her arms around Steve’s neck. He lets her, hugging her waist tightly and tucking his face into her neck. He’s shaking too, and he’s crying, and Max hates this.

She feels Eddie sits next to her on the sofa after a little bit. The weight on the sofa shifts and a hand finds her back, running over it slowly and gently, and she kind of hates this a little less, because they’re both holding her so lovingly, and they actually care.

She sobs. Her shoulders shake and her hands cling to Steve’s shirt, and she somehow falls toward him and Eddie simultaneously. Steve smells vaguely of cigarette smoke, but it’s more comforting than the cigarette smoke that lingers around her mother.

She lifts her head when she starts to hiccup, when she’s almost hyperventilating, and Steve holds her, cupping her face and looking at her intently. He’s blurry, but he’s right there, right in front of her, and Eddie is too, running his hand up and down her back, his other hand holding Steve’s shoulder. Steve is saying something about breathing, something about it’s okay, I got you.

She clutches at Steve’s shoulders, closing her eyes, breaths stuttering from her throat, and she listens to him, his soft voice, and focuses on the feeling of Eddie’s hand on her back, on Steve’s palms on her cheeks.

When she can breathe, Steve wipes her tears away like Eddie did last night, and she falls against him again, sighing heavily. She closes her eyes, tucking her arms between them, and Steve lets her. She could fall asleep here.

She feels Steve’s chin rest on the top of her head, and she feels him press a kiss to her head, and she hears Eddie whisper something too quiet for her to understand. Steve nods against her head, and Eddie squeezes her shoulder before he gets up.

“Lemme see the damage,” Steve says after a few moments, pushing her away gently and assessing her hair, running his hands through it. She lets him, eyes still closed as he pushes it back and forth. When she looks, he’s smiling a little. “I can work with this.”

“Told you,” Eddie calls from the kitchen, and Max rolls her eyes, but she smiles anyway. Steve looks over at him in the kitchen, smiling brightly.

“Ed, can you get me some scissors?”

“Sure can.”

“And a towel. And a comb. Or brush.”

“Anything else?” Eddie says sarcastically, leaning over the counter between them.

“You don’t have a spray bottle, do you?”

“Sure don’t.”

“Shameful,” Steve says dryly, shaking his head at him, and Eddie sticks his tongue out at him. Steve does the same, and it’s childish and stupid, but Max smiles, looking at the way his eyes shine.

She sits cross-legged in a chair. They wrap a towel around her shoulders, and Steve gets her hair wet, and Eddie brings her another mug.

“This isn’t coffee,” she says, looking into it— It’s lighter, sweeter-looking.

“It’s cocoa,” Eddie says, raising an eyebrow at her. “You didn’t think I’d give you two cups of black coffee, did you?” He shakes his head exaggeratedly, like it’s absolutely ridiculous, and she rolls her eyes again, lifting her head when Steve tugs her hair a little.

He snips, trimming away her hair like he’s a professional. She lets him, sipping her cocoa and closing her eyes. Her head feels lighter as the hair falls away, even though he really isn’t taking much of the length off— she didn’t leave him much to work with.

It’s quiet, but it’s a comfortable quiet. Usually it’s noisier, especially at the Munsons’— Eddie isn’t particularly known for promoting a calm environment— but none of them are speaking. Max’s eyes are closed as she takes slow, small sips of her cocoa, and Steve is leaning down, bending over to look at her evenly, and Eddie is watching. He only steps closer to take the mug when Max is finished with it, tapping the end of her nose playfully, and then he’s gone again, rinsing it in the sink and then leaning against the counter to watch some more. He’s got his arms crossed like he’s focusing, like he’s assessing them.

Max starts to nod off. She can’t help it, not when she’s this exhausted and Steve’s hands are so gentle in her hair and on her neck and brushing over her forehead and ears. She hears Steve laugh a little when her head starts to fall, and she shakes herself awake, snorting. He just brushes the hair off the back of her neck and takes the towel to shake the hair off of her before he nudges her up and back toward the sofa. She groans tiredly, falling onto it face-first, and she hears them both laugh lightly before a blanket is placed on top of her.

She’s exhausted. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt so tired. Maybe the day after Starcourt.

But she isn’t quite asleep, not yet— not conscious enough to move or say anything or even open her eyes but conscious enough to hear a soft sniffle followed by a whisper of Steve’s name, and then the gentle rustle of fabric and muffled sob.

She did that. She knows she did. And she longs to get up and pull Steve into a hug and to tell him over and over and over, until he believes her, that she’s sorry. That she’s okay.

Instead, she falls asleep.

She spends the weekend at the Munsons’. Wayne doesn’t even question anything when he comes home and finds her there, bundled up in the sofa with her hair cut short. He seems to have a vague idea of what’s going on with her, and he goes for a shower and changes and then comes back, putting his arm around her and pulling her into a hug that she didn’t really realize she’d been craving. She rests against him, closing her eyes, and she muffles a laugh when she hears him start to snore.

They’re gentle with her, and it’s nice, but she can feel it in the air— the hesitance, the tentativeness. Like any second she might shatter, like the wrong word will get itself lodged under her skin and it’ll push her right to the edge. She hates it, but she supposes it’s worth it if it keeps her here. They’re kind, which she reminds herself every time she gets annoyed. They’re kind to her.

She wears Eddie’s shirts and Wayne’s flannels and she acts like it’s normal that Steve comes by in the morning to see her. She kind of likes this arrangement. It’s quiet and it’s warm and she feels fine in this home, especially when they act like she lives here. But the weekend ends, and she has to go back.

Her mom doesn’t act like anything is different. She doesn’t seem to notice Max’s hair or her two-day absence, nor does she seem to notice the missing glass bottles that are still in Max’s room. She says something about the fridge needing cleaning, and Max doesn’t say anything.

She steals one of Eddie’s shirts. It’s long-sleeved and grey and plain, and she likes it, but she knows what she looks like, and the kids at school don’t shy away from reminding her.

She hears muttered whispers about it, feels eyes linger on her as she goes to her locker, to class, to the library. She ignores them all, keeping her head down and her headphones on, keeping her eyes downcast. She doesn’t even meet Lucas’s eyes when she sees her, when his gaze gets stuck on her and his lips part like he’s in awe, taken aback.

She shouldn’t have come to school today. Really, she should just drop out. Technically it’s not legal, her being fifteen and all, but nobody would really give a shit.

Someone comes up to her during lunch. She’s sitting at an empty table, headphones on, and she can’t hear what he says, but she sees his fucking expression, the stupid smirk on his mouth like whatever he’s said is so fucking clever, and it was probably along the lines of I thought you were a new guy or something. She just looks at him and tells him to fuck off, even though she can’t hear her own voice as she says it. He just laughs a little and walks away, joining his stupid friends at their stupid table. Max doesn’t finish her sandwich.

She shouldn’t have come to school today.

The same kid is by her bike after the final bell, leaning against the bike rack and talking to his friends like they’re here every day, like it’s normal, and Max is fine. She’s calm, and she’s collected, and she isn’t going to lose her mind. Again.

One of them nods his head at Max when he sees her, and she stifles a deep sigh, her grip on the strap of her backpack tightening. She opts to ignore them, passing by two of them and kneeling on the ground to unlock her bike.

“Hey.”

She ignores him. She wishes she’d put her headphones on.

“Hey. I’m talking to you.”

“I’m very pointedly ignoring you.”

They’re laughing like this is just banter, like they’re friends, and Max has never considered herself a particularly violent person, but maybe she’s more like her dad than she’s ever realized. Her hands are shaking, and she fumbles with the lock, twisting it too far before she starts over.

“You look like a fuckin’ dude.”

Creative, she thinks. She doesn’t say anything.

“Was that, like, your goal?” he continues. “Did you want to look like a guy?”

She doesn’t say anything. Honestly, she doesn’t know what her goal was. What she was thinking.

“I mean, you already kinda looked like a guy to begin with, but this…” She finally stands, tucking the bike lock into the side pocket of her back and holding her bike by the handles. She’s shaking. He gestures toward her with a vague wave of his hand, smiling smugly again. “You almost had me fooled.”

Her jaw tightens. His smile widens.

“Right?” he says to one of his friends, leaning toward him like he’s going to nudge him. The other one laughs, looking at Max intently. “The lack of tits was one thing, but without the hair, she really just looks like a fag.”

They’re laughing, and Max is tired.

“Move,” she says quietly, looking at him. It seems to catch him off guard a little, and he blinks, looking at her before glee takes over his face, amused.

“What?”

“Move,” she repeats, raising her eyebrows, gesturing with a tilt of her chin to where he’s standing right where she needs to go. “Get out of my way.”

He laughs.

She’s tired.

“You think you’re tough?” he says, stepping closer.

“I wanna go home,” she says quietly, looking into his eyes, and she’s begging, pleading, but he doesn’t see it, or he doesn’t care.

“Did you do it to look like a guy?” he says again, hyper-focused on it. She could slice her nose off her and her short hair would be a bigger talking point. “Do you just— Do you just wanna be treated like a guy? ‘Cause we can do that.”

“Do it then,” she snaps.

It’s a split second that it happens, her eyebrows furrowing, her jaw clenching, her entire body making the switch from exhaustion to anger.

“What?”

“Do it,” she says again, forceful. “If being treated like a girl is just you fucking looking for my non-existant tits, then treat me like a fucking guy. Go ahead.”

They’re laughing again, like she’s joking, and it just pisses her off even more, and then she’s tossing her bike aside and coming up close to him, her chin raised just the slightest bit because the bastard is taller than her. She shoves him, planting her hands on his shoulders and pushing hard enough that he stumbles back, eyes wide with surprise.

“Hey,” a voice says, a little distant, and that’s Lucas’s voice, but Max doesn’t register it, doesn’t care who the fuck it is.

“Do it,” she says, her voice raising, almost yelling, shoving him again, and he finally responds, knocking her hands aside and pushing her back, and his friends are jeering, saying something about her being crazy, about her being a bitch, and she doesn’t care, because his hand is pulling back, rearing into the air, and this is being treated like a guy. It’s better, she thinks, better than eyes lingering at her chest, searching, better than overly careful hands helping her up and down from the bus or out of the hospital. It’s better than the eggshells that seem to surround her constantly, better than the tentative smiles that she gets from the people she loves. She’ll feel this.

But the hit doesn’t land, because Lucas is here, stepping between them and shoving the kid away. There’s a scuffle of shoes on the pavement, and a flurry of overlapping voices that Max can’t really hear over the blood rushing in her ears, and she’s trembling like she’s freezing, her hands shaking and teeth chattering.

Something is shouted over Lucas’s shoulder at her, but she doesn’t hear it. She shouts back, something about him being a pussy, and then she’s leaving, grabbing her bike and kicking off, leaving it all behind.

She comes to a stop behind the library, not because she wants to be here, but because she needs to catch her breath. Her chest is tight, and she’s gasping for air as she lets her bike fall to the ground. She looks at the sky, tilting her head back. It’s grey.

It takes a while for her chest to loosen, for her lungs to fill like normal.

It’s cold, but she doesn’t go inside. She doesn’t think she can stand that right now, the quiet of the library, the gentle tapping and sniffling and creaking. She leans against the brick wall, closing her eyes and savoring the cold that’s biting at the end of her nose and the tops of her ears. She’s still shaking.

She only opens her eyes when she hears another bike approaching, crunching over the dew-frosted grass.

“There you are,” Lucas says, dropping his bike with little more care than Max had dropped hers. He’s looking at her intently, staring, and she can’t quite read the expression on his face. “Well?”

“Well what,” Max says dryly, quietly.

“What the fuck?” Lucas says abruptly, gesturing vaguely, adamantly. “You don’t wanna talk about what the fuck that was?”

Max exhales, pushing herself away from the wall, looking at him. He looks back at her. He looks angry. She doesn’t see him angry very often. It’s kind of refreshing.

“I didn’t need you to do that,” she says quietly.

“He was gonna punch you,” Lucas snaps at her. “He was gonna hurt you.”

“I was fine—”

“No, you weren’t,” Lucas finally shouts, laughing almost hysterically. “You were so fucking far from fine, Max, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Lucas,” Max says firmly.

“I’m not trying to babysit you—”

“A bodyguard, then,” Max says, her voice raising again, moving closer like she’s going to fight him now. “I don’t need it, Lucas, I don’t need you.”

He’s quiet.

They’re both breathing hard, looking into each other’s eyes, and all the fight leaves Max’s body. Her shoulders fall, and her eyes are burning, and she can see the exact moment Lucas sees it, the anguish in her. He looks pained, his eyes looking back and forth between hers.

“I cannot keep being treated like I’m made of glass,” she says, her voice breaking. “I can’t keep feeling like this.”

Lucas’s eyes are shining, and his throat bobs as he swallows, looking at her before he speaks.

“I get it,” he says quietly, almost whispering. “And I’m sorry. But I…” He hesitates, exhaling as he stares at her. “Respectfully. I don’t give a fuck.”

Max blinks. Lucas steps closer, his head tilted down to meet her eyes intently.

“I love you,” he says firmly, his voice thick. “And I will never fucking just stand by and watch you get hurt.”

He’s shaking too, his lip quivering, his breathing stuttered, and Max can’t think of the last time she saw him like this, this emotional, this upset. Even after nightmares he’s pretty collected, even after the rough ones. Max thinks it might just be the way he is— he shuts himself away, tucks into a corner of himself so nobody else sees whatever it is that he’s feeling. Max gets glimpses when he lets her: the occasional tear, the shuddering breaths that follow being startled awake from something in his head.

But this.

This is different.

“I don’t care how much you hate it,” Lucas says, his voice breaking. “I don’t care how pissed you get at me. I will never let you get hurt.”

Max exhales slowly, shuddering a little, and they stare at each other. They’re close enough that she can feel his breath on her face, close enough that she can see it in the air, pale between them, close enough that she can breathe it in herself.

She turns away, exhaling again, and she rubs her face roughly, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before she leans against the brick wall and slides down so she’s sitting, her knees to her chest. Lucas watches her for a moment before he turns away and does the same, rubbing his face and sniffling.

Max pulls her bag closer and rummages through it for her cigarettes. She’s shaking, flicking the lighter clumsily a few times.

“Do you want me to leave?” Lucas says when Max huffs, frowning around the cigarette.

“No,” she mumbles, her voice quiet. “I never want you to leave.”

He doesn’t leave.

He sits next to her, sliding down against the wall, and he reaches for the lighter gently like he doesn’t want to startle her. Like she’s a stray dog.

She lets him take it, looking up at him as he flicks it once, then twice, then a third time. It sparks, lights, and glows golden between them for a few moments as Max inhales. She can hear the quiet crackling of the cigarette, and then they both exhale. She takes the lighter back.

She lays her head on the wall, resisting the urge to fall toward Lucas. They look at the sky together, and Max blows smoke to the clouds. The wind carries it in Lucas’s direction, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

He’s looking at her. He does that a lot.

She ignores it for a while before she can’t anymore, and she looks back at him, glancing out of the corners of her eyes.

“Is it that bad?” she says quietly.

“No,” he says almost instantly. “‘S not bad at all, actually.”

She scoffs, taking another drag from her cigarette.

“I like it,” Lucas says, his voice soft and fond. It makes her laugh. “I’m serious!”

“Whatever,” she says, suppressing a smile, looking away like it’ll hide the flush of her cheeks.

“It looks nice,” Lucas says, elbowing her. “It looks…”

She looks at him, her head tilted disbelievingly, lingering with the cigarette between her lips. Lucas hesitates, his eyes flickering over her face.

“Would you hate it if I said you look handsome?”

Max’s stomach does a somersault.

“Do I?” she asks softly, shyly.

“Would you hate it?”

“No,” Max admits. Lucas’s expression somehow softens even more.

“Yeah,” he says. “You look handsome.”

Max looks away again, her face hot, and she takes a drag from the cigarette like she’s perfectly fine, like it’s normal for someone like her to be called something as nice as handsome.

She smokes. Lucas watches her.

“You’re staring,” she says after a while.

“Can’t help it.”

She sends him a glare, but he just laughs lightly, reaching out to take her hand, pulling at her wrist so she’s lifting the cigarette to his mouth. He takes a short drag from it, still looking at her, his eyes shining.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, smoke escaping his lips.

“You need your eyes checked out.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Bite me.”

And then he’s drawing her hand back up, his mouth opening wide, and she’s screaming, squirming and trying to push him away without dropping the cigarette. They’re both laughing, giggling like kids, and Max tries to push him away, but he’s pulling her closer. His teeth catch on her wrist, and she’s laughing as she hits him, smacking him away. He pulls her even closer, and their legs are tangled, and she falls against his chest.

And then he’s kissing her, and it tastes like tears and cigarette smoke. His hand is gentle on her wrist now, just holding her, and she falls against him some more, exhaling like she’s sighing. He smiles against her mouth.

When they part, she sighs heavily, her eyes still closed. He touches her face with his other hand, brushing his fingers over her cheek before his arm wraps around her neck, pulling her in and down so he can kiss her forehead.

She groans, slumping against him, and Lucas laughs lightly, swaying with her. She tucks her face into his neck, taking a deep breath— he smells like sweat and cologne and his bedroom, and she loves it. She wants to live here, her cheek pressed up against his pulse, his hand burying itself in her hair.

“Thank you,” she mumbles quietly.

“Hm?”

She shifts, lifting her face a little, resting her cheek on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she repeats more clearly. “For…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, and Lucas doesn’t prompt her to. He hums softly, his fingers scratching a little at her scalp, and she shifts closer, pressing into him, smushing her face into his neck like she’s trying to melt into him. He wraps his arms around her. Squeezes. Presses a kiss to her shoulder.

And she thought she’d cried all her tears out last night, but there seem to be a few remaining, because she’s crying suddenly, her shoulders shaking, her eyes squeezing shut. And Lucas just holds her. He takes the cigarette from her fingers like he knows she wants to hold him back, like he’s anticipating the way her hands clutch at him, holding his jacket tightly. He puts the cigarette out in the dirt next to them, and when his hand is free, he’s drawing her even closer, until she’s between his legs, surrounding her completely.

His fingers run back and forth over the back of her neck, tucking into her hair, and she can hear him breathing. It might be her favorite sound in the world, ranking even higher than Kate Bush and the crackle of burning paper. Lucas says her name. She shakes her head.

He settles against the wall, relaxing and taking her with him.

September, 1987

She should be in English lit, but she isn't. She rarely ever is.

Mr Collins is the lit teacher, and his voice is fucking insufferable— creaky and dry like he’s constantly awfully dehydrated, and bored, like he doesn’t care at all about what he’s teaching the future of America.

It’s not like Max is failing. She goes to class enough to get the books that she needs to read, she turns in her assignments on time and knows the material well enough to pass any pop quizzes she needs to take. And it’s not like Collins really gives a shit if she’s there or not. He barely greets anybody at all.

He really needs to retire.

So she isn’t in class.

She’s in the bathroom on the far end of the second floor in the main building, sitting atop a toilet lid with her feet on the stall wall across from her, her backpack hanging on the door, just within reach. She’s reading, her head ducked in a way that’ll kill her neck later, her thumbnail between her teeth as she skims the yellowed pages of the works of Shakespeare. She isn’t particularly enjoying Macbeth, and doesn’t particularly enjoy reading plays in any case, but she doesn’t have much else to do. Every time she tries to work on anything else, even her next letter to El, her mind blanks, and she finds herself thinking about how miserable she is.

So she reads.

It’s been at least half an hour, and she’s only gone through two pages, skimming the annotations that have to be at least a decade old, but none of them are nearly as helpful as the weird way Eddie tends to break into Elizabethan, spewing old English like it’s his mother tongue. He’d done so in June, when he didn’t graduate, bursting into some dramatic monologue over Steve’s decadent comfort brownies (that unfortunately did not contain weed). Prior to the monologue, Eddie claimed to not be in need of comfort anything, but he would have to be possessed to refuse any of Steve’s baking. He also didn’t refuse the way Steve tugged him a little closer while the three of them watched Star Trek.

Max starts the page over, sighing softly, but it’s fruitless when the door to the bathroom bursts open. She startles, lifting her head and forcing herself to exhale when she finds herself holding her breath, silent like the two teenage girls that are giggling and chittering are hunting her.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” the first girl says. “You said you would tell me—”

“I kno-o-ow,” the second interrupts brightly. “It’s not as exciting as you’re expecting, though.”

Max recognizes the first girl’s voice. She’s in the same algebra class as Max. Jessica something or other. She’s preppy, practically glowing bubblegum pink in the way every girl is supposed to.

“Tell me,” Jessica says adamantly.

“Okay, I… I asked him out.”

Jessica squeals so loudly Max winces, squeezing her eyes shut, and she suppresses a sigh and an eyeroll. This doesn’t sound like the kind of conversation that is going to end anytime soon.

“Okay, but,” the girl continues, like she’s hushing Jessica. “But he said no.”

Silence.

“What the fuck do you mean he said no?” Jessica says, like it’s the end of the world, like her friend’s just informed her of an impending nuclear attack. “Why?”

“He didn’t give me a reason,” the girl says, laughing a little. “He said he was flattered, and I’m nice, but he said no.”

“...What a loser.”

Max suppresses a smile, amused even when the girl lets out a loud laugh that echoes in the bathroom.

“He is not a loser,” she says loudly. “Come on.”

“God, Cindy, you come on,” Jessica says. Cindy laughs again. “Are you okay? You’ve liked him so long, and he just rejected you, I can’t…”

“I’m fine,” Cindy says, but it sounds tight. “It’s… I don’t know. I’m disappointed. Duh. But it’s whatever.”

“It is not whatever,” Jessica argues. “Jesus.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay, well,” Jessica says, taking a sharp breath. “You’re a fucking catch, regardless of what Lucas fucking Sinclair says, alright?”

Max blinks. Her head tilts, and her eyebrows raise, and her stomach suddenly does a flip, which is stupid, because she isn’t a part of this conversation, and it doesn’t matter. None of this matters.

“He didn’t say I’m not a catch.”

“No, but he rejected you,” Jessica bursts, and Max can practically see her flailing her hands in exasperation. “What’s his deal?”

Me, Max thinks. Probably. Hopefully.

“It’s not like he has a girlfriend,” Jessica continues.

“You don’t know that.”

You don’t know that.

“I’ve seen him talk to, like, Brenda,” Jessica says. “Who’s dating Jeff Kinsley, who would probably actually murder Lucas if he hit on Brenda or asked her out or something. And I’ve seen him talk to Mrs Newman, who I’m not too worried about.”

Cindy lets out a bright laugh.

“The only other girl I’ve seen him talk to is that redhead,” Jessica says. “Whatever her name is.”

Oh, wow.

Okay.

Max glares through the door, her jaw clenching. She shouldn’t be mad about this, really. It’s not Jessica’s fault that Max sits in the very back of all her classes, that she barely talks and rarely interacts with her classmates. But still.

“Was just thinking about her— I don’t know what her deal is,” Cindy says, scoffing, her voice muttered like her lips are parted, like she’s applying lip gloss or something. “She’s so…”

“Weird?”

“Yeah,” Cindy says, smacking her lips. “But, like… Have you seen how Lucas looks at her?”

“I’ll be honest, Dee, I don’t pay much attention to either of them.”

Cindy laughs lightly.

“He, like, gazes at her, I swear,” she says, like she’s aghast, and Max ducks her head, suppressing a smile, her cheeks warm. Gazes. That’s nice. “And he’s always smiling at her.”

“Are they friends?” Jessica asks. “Or are they dating? I didn’t think they were, like…”

“I have no clue,” Cindy says. “I only ever see them, like, in the hallways sometimes. She’s never at any of his games.”

Lucas doesn’t mind that. He knows she doesn’t like sports, and he knows that she hates all the jocks with their stupid smug smiles and their shitty mullets. And he knows that the noise gives her headaches, especially the cheering and the music and the band that all echo in the gym. And it gives them something to talk about after that— not that they really need anything to talk about. Max likes seeing how excited Lucas is when he tells her the play by play, and she also likes it when he just kind of flops against her in despair after a bad game. She doesn’t like seeing him upset, obviously, but it’s cute.

The girls are quiet for a moment. Max waits for them to leave, still frozen with her fingers lingering on the pages of her book, like any movement will alert them to her presence.

“...Her hair?” Jessica says finally, sounding hesitant, and a loud laugh bursts out of Cindy.

“I was hoping you’d say something,” she exclaims, cackling, and Max winces, squeezing her eyes shut. “Christ.”

“I don’t wanna be mean,” Jessica whines, and it sounds like nonsense, like she wants to be a sweet, good girl. But, Max thinks, she was the one to suggest weird as a descriptor for Max, whose name she didn’t even remember.

“God, please be mean,” Cindy says, still giggling. “I love it when you’re a bitch.”

“Okay, I—” Jessica huffs sharply. “She— She looks like a guy.”

“I kno-o-ow!”

“I swear to God, when she cut her hair last year, I thought there was a new kid.” Cindy is cackling again. It sounds like she’s thrown her head back, like she’s wild with it. “Why would she do that?”

“It’s like Lucas hasn’t even noticed,” Cindy complains loudly. Max stares at the wall in front of her.

Lucas likes her hair. He tells her sometimes, smiling brightly when her hair is messier than usual, when the wind has tossed it every which way, when it’s falling in her face. He brushes it out of the way and plays with it while they talk, combs through it when Max starts to doze. He thinks it looks good. They don’t know what they’re talking about.

“I mean, maybe she isn’t even his girlfriend,” Jessica says, and Cindy is laughing, letting out a too-quiet, “Jess…” that doesn’t deter Jessica in the slightest. “His boyfriend, maybe—”

And Cindy is cackling, seemingly unbothered by Lucas’s rejection, and Jessica is laughing like she’s a comedic genius, and it’s all stuff Max has heard before. It’s stuff that gets thrown her way while she’s just walking down the hallway, while she’s just rummaging through her locker.

They’re still laughing, shushing each other like That’s too mean, Oh my god, shut up, and Max doesn’t give a shit about what they think of her and her hair, and she doesn’t give a shit about what they think of her and Lucas, or what they’re saying to their friends or what they’re saying to themselves.

Lucas likes her hair.

Cindy thinks he gazes at her. And maybe Max is just a stupid teenager, but she wants to feel vindicated, because Lucas gazes at her, not at fucking Cindy.

But her stomach hurts, and she doesn’t know why.

Something about the way Jessica said it. His boyfriend. Like it tasted funny, like the words don’t go together. Like there’s something wrong with the very idea of Max as a guy, the very idea of Lucas as a queer.

Maybe Max is just defensive, protective because of Mike and the secret he’s trusted her and nobody else with, but she wants to be angry, wants to confront them and snap at them, What’s so wrong with that?

But she barely has the energy to be angry. She barely has the energy to read.

She finds herself at the Sinclairs’ after school, which is where she often finds herself. Lucas’s room is warm, and she’s content as she gets comfortable, kicking off her jeans and wrapping one of Lucas’s blankets around herself. She can hear him in the shower, can hear the spray of the water and his muffled humming— it’s some Duran Duran song that’ll get stuck in Max’s head within a few hours.

She waits, tucking the blanket up under her chin. She wishes she could stay here forever, wrapped up in Lucas’s scent, listening to him hum. For a brief moment, she forgets about her history essay that’s due next week, and she forgets about the algebra test that’s coming up, and she forgets about the growling of creatures that haunt her dreams.

Lucas takes his time, probably because he doesn’t even know that Max is waiting for him— she might have intentionally come over when she knew he would be out of his room, washing away the sweat and grime from basketball practice. She knows his daily routine better than she knows her own. Not that she really has a strict routine to know.

She drifts off. Slumps against the head of Lucas’s bed and the crumpled pillows. She tucks the ends of the blanket under her chin, sighing softly, comfortable. She feels like she should sit up when she hears the shower shut off, when the bathroom door opens, but she can’t really be bothered.

“You fuckin’—”

Lucas’s alarm cuts off quickly, and even half-asleep, Max laughs into the pillow her face is pressed to.

“Asshole,” Lucas mutters under his breath, but he sounds fond as he says it, like he’s smiling and shaking his head at the same time. Max hums lightly, burying her face in the pillow as she listens to him dress, opening and closing drawers. The bed shifts under Lucas’s weight when he throws himself onto it next to her after a few moments, and Max loosens, untucking her hands almost instinctively for him to come closer. “Hi.”

Max hums again, forcing her eyes open when his fingertips skim over her forehead, brushing her hair out of her face. He’s close enough that she can see his eyelashes, can see his pupils against the dark brown of his irises, and she somehow softens some more, her gaze flickering up and down, taking him in. He’s not wearing a shirt, probably still warm from the steam of his unnecessarily hot showers. (He claims it’s to soothe his muscles. She thinks he’s insane.) She can smell his soap, masculine and warm, and she could drown in it, happily.

“What are you doing here?” Lucas asks quietly. Max frowns, closing her eyes.

“What, I can’t just wanna see my boy toy?”

Lucas snorts, and Max can’t help but grin, scrunching her nose as Lucas leans in and kisses her clumsily, still laughing. She likes it when she can get him to laugh. He’s been so dry in recent years, less animated and lively than he used to be when they were kids, like he’s somehow turned forty years old instead of seventeen. But when he giggles like this, it’s like he’s twelve again.

“Lame,” he says, relaxing again, tucking an arm under his head, his other hand falling. Max catches it between them, tangling their fingers together. “How’s your day been?”

Max shrugs, frowning indifferently, watching Lucas’s thumb brush back and forth over her knuckles.

“Uneventful, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Max’s eyes cut up to him, and she suppresses a smile. He raises an eyebrow at her. His cheek is squished against his arm, and it’s so cute she wants to bite him.

“What did you do?” he says, and she scoffs in mock-offense.

“Why do you assume I did something?” she says, aghast. “I’m such a good kid, I never do anything wrong.”

“Your eyes are fucking gleaming,” Lucas says, and Max laughs, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. Lucas releases her hand and reaches for her hip, tugging her closer. She lets him, falling lax and pliant. The blanket falls open enough for him to reach her leg, pulling so it’s hitched up on his hip, and his hand is warm as it slides over her thigh. “Tell me.”

Max scrunches her nose again, gazing at him for a moment.

“Heard you rejected Cindy.”

Lucas blinks, his hand freezing on her leg, and then his eyebrows furrow.

“How the fuck did you hear about that?”

Max laughs again, shrugging and shifting so her hand is touching his chest, brushing over his skin softly.

“I have my ways,” she says, but Lucas just stares, raising an eyebrow and narrowing his eyes in suspicion. She cedes with an eye roll. “I skipped class and heard her telling her friend when I was hiding out in the bathroom.”

A light Hah escapes Lucas’s throat.

“So that’s why you’re so smiley?” he says, shifting a little closer, moving just slightly down the bed and looking up at her. Max loves it when he looks at her like this, all sweet and puppy-dog eyed. She shrugs, which is affirmation for Lucas. He grins. “Were you smiling like this while you were eavesdropping?”

“Okay,” she says, tearing her eyes away from him for a moment to gather herself. “First of all, it’s not eavesdropping when they’re talking that fucking loud.”

Lucas laughs brightly.

“Also no, not the whole time,” Max continues, lifting a hand to touch his face, tracing his cheekbone. “At first, yeah, but now I’m just pretending I didn’t hear the rest of it.”

And maybe this is just her making herself talk about it, because of course Lucas’s expression shifts to confusion and concern, and he asks, “What did they say?”

Max sighs, shrugging once more.

“They just started talking about me. That they’ve seen us talking in the hall.”

“What did they say about you?”

“Just… the usual stuff, you know. My hair and stuff.”

Lucas makes a face, rolling his eyes like he’s trying to see the back of his skull, and Max smiles, dragging her fingertips over his cheek.

“They’re dumb,” he says, turning his face into her palm.

“They have points.”

“Mm-mm,” he argues lazily, his eyes closing as she runs her thumb over his cheek. “They have no points. They’re round. Like spheres.”

Max snorts, shaking her head at him, and his lips curve into a small smile like he’s proud. Max gazes at him, hesitating.

“They said…”

His eyes open.

“Hm?”

Max hesitates again, her mouth twisting and her eyes focusing on the subtle line in his cheek that deepens when he smiles.

“They called me your boyfriend,” she says quietly, almost whispering. His expression doesn’t change, his eyes shining as he looks up at her, and he’s quiet for a moment, his hand lingering in the curve of her waist.

“Did you hate it?” he asks softly. She thinks for a moment.

“...I hated how they said it.”

“How’d they say it?”

She shrugs. Frowns.

“Like it was funny,” she says quietly. “I don’t know.”

Lucas looks at her, his eyes flickering over her face, and he seems to see whatever it is that she’s ignoring, pushing down in her chest. She thinks it might be anger, but she can’t tell. Something that makes her stomach twist.

“…What if I said it?” Lucas asks softly. Max blinks, looking at him, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He shifts a little closer, his hand running across her waist to her back. “What if I called you my boyfriend?”

Max blinks again, and then she scoffs, looking away. Lucas tugs a little at her.

“I’m serious,” he says, half-smiling. “Would you like it better if I said it?”

“It doesn’t even make any sense,” she says dismissively, pushing herself to sit up. Lucas’s hand falls away, and he watches her, shifting to lean against the headboard of the bed. And even though Max has put this space between them, he doesn’t let it stretch— he reaches out for her arm and tugs her closer. She turns toward him, tugging the blanket around her tighter as his hand slides into hers.

“It doesn't have to,” Lucas says lightly. “We have a friend that used to have telekinetic powers and we’ve seen fuckin’...” He gestures vaguely, making a face. “Monsters and creatures and shit. None of it makes any sense. We don’t have to make sense either.”

Max kind of wants to pout, maybe because she knows he’s right. Nothing has ever made sense to her— not her parents’ separation, her father’s imprisonment, the way Billy treated her. Not the reason she couldn’t play with boys after their parents found out, or why boys started talking to her differently in middle school, or why they had to move to fucking Indiana. She didn’t understand why Billy didn’t want her talking to Lucas, and then she did understand it, but then she couldn’t understand why Billy was the way he was. And she didn’t, and still doesn’t, understand all the bullshit that’s happened in the Upside Down, or why it all happened in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.

She doesn’t understand herself, and she hates it. She really hates it.

“Don’t you hate it?” she asks pitifully, and Lucas just tilts his head at her.

“Hate what?” he says. His thumb brushes over the back of her hand lightly.

“Just…” She shrugs. “Me?”

He blinks.

“You’re asking if I hate you?” he says dryly, his voice so flat that Max lets out a scoff, dropping her head. “Is that a real question you’re asking me right now?”

“You know what I mean,” Max says.

“I don’t, really.”

She exhales, looking down at their hands, watching his thumb brush over her knuckles. He lets her pause, lets her think, and then she sighs heavily.

“I’m not a girl,” she says quietly, looking up at him. “Not like I’m supposed to be.”

“What are you supposed to be like?” he asks, shifting a little closer until their noses are almost touching and he’s gone double in her vision. She looks down again, shrugging.

“I don’t know. I should have longer hair. I should want longer hair. I should want to wear dresses and makeup and I should—” She cuts off, shaking her head and shrugging. “Gossip and giggle in the bathroom with the other girls.”

“So you think you should be Cindy.”

Max blinks, and then she glares at Lucas halfheartedly. He looks amused, but there’s a soft shine in his eyes that looks sad.

“...Yeah,” Max says quietly.

“Respectfully,” Lucas says, shifting to face her. Their knees are touching. “Love of my life. My darling. That’s stupid.”

An abrupt laugh escapes Max, and she ducks her head, falling forward so her head is resting on Lucas’s chest. His hand runs over her head, fingers threading through her hair, and she can feel him laughing a little against her head.

“I’m serious,” Lucas says lightly. “It’s so dumb.”

Max lifts her head to look at him.

“You’re so amazing,” Lucas says softly, tilting his head back to look at her, lifting his hands to hold her face. She lets him, her eyes closing for a brief moment as she savors the warmth of his palms, the way his fingers tuck behind her ears. “I hate that you don’t see it.”

“Don’t you wish I was like the other girls?” Max asks softly, and Lucas is already shaking his head, his eyes flickering over Max’s face.

“No,” he breathes. “I don’t want you to be anything other than what you are.”

Max’s eyes sting, and she blinks the feeling away, his mouth twisting as she suppresses the tightness in her throat.

“You’re really romantic.”

Lucas shrugs nonchalantly, smiling, leaning in to kiss her briefly.

“Do you wanna be my boyfriend?” Lucas whispers. Max’s shoulders fall, and she’s looking into Lucas’s eyes like she’s looking for some indication that he’s messing with her, that he’s going to laugh if she says yes. But she doesn’t find it, and she doesn’t expect to, because this is Lucas.

She nods.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

Lucas’s head tilts, and he looks at her sweetly, like she’s cute. She rolls her eyes, turning away, but he catches her, holding her chin and pulling her in. He pauses, lingering, when their noses are brushing, and Max’s eyes close under a smile, her shoulders falling. She can practically sense Lucas gazing at her, can feel his smile without even touching him.

“You’re so annoying,” Max mutters, shaking her head. Her nose brushes against Lucas’s.

“‘M just admiring you.”

“You could be kissing me instead.”

“I could.”

Max opens her eyes just to roll them, and Lucas giggles brightly, pulling her into a kiss. His hand catches her jaw, his fingers pressing behind her ear, and she exhales a soft sigh, her eyes closing again. She kind of wants to fall asleep here in his hands, and she’s already partway there, her shoulders falling so she’s slumping over, her chin lifted so she doesn’t pull away from Lucas. He cradles her, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks, and then he’s murmuring something to her so softly that she can’t understand him at first. She has to focus to understand it, trying as hard as she can to process his words instead of letting them turn to white noise.

My boy.

Her eyes burn, and she doesn’t really know why— her chest aches like there’s something squeezing her heart, like something is wrapping around her and tightening, and she exhales sharply, shuddering. Lucas pulls away to look at her, but her eyes are squeezed shut, holding tears back.

He kisses her mouth again, and then her cheeks and her nose and her forehead before he holds her jaw and tilts her head back so he can kiss down her neck. He’s so gentle. It almost tickles, especially when he just ghosts his lips over her collarbone. Her head falls back, facing the ceiling, and she realizes she’s fallen limp, her hands sitting in her lap, her eyes closed.

She takes a slow breath, suppressing a shiver, before she finally moves. Lucas lets her push him back so he’s sitting, and he lets her crawl onto his lap, her hands on his shoulders. He holds her hips, his head tilting back as she kisses him, but he pauses after a moment, pulling away and glancing down.

“...Are you wearing my boxers?”

Max ducks her head, suppressing a laugh, but it’s pointless when it bursts out of her, bright and too loud. Lucas is laughing, muttering a quiet, “What the fuck?”

“Mind your business,” Max says lightly, her arms settling over Lucas’s shoulders. He sputters, tossing his hands up before they land on her waist again.

“In what way is this not my business?”

Max leans to laugh into his neck, and he lets her. He falls back under her weight, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her tightly even as she falls to lay against his side.

“You come in here like it’s your room,” he’s saying, his tone light and sarcastic and silly. “‘Nd you just take what you want like it’s all free reign...”

“Well I don’t see you fighting me for them,” she says before she can actually think her words through, and her face flushes with heat as he looks at her out of the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow. “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” Lucas sighs, shifting and reaching for a pillow to tuck under his head, tugging Max against himself more firmly. He closes his eyes, and he’s going to be asleep within the next five minutes, Max thinks. “You can take whatever you want,” he says, mumbling a little now. “Long as you keep smoochin’ me.”

Max snorts, and he smiles at the ceiling like he’s proud of himself. She props herself up on her elbows and looks down at him, tilting her head curiously. He looks like he’s already sleeping, his expression relaxed and soft. His resting face looks so much kinder than Max’s does.

She thinks he’s fallen asleep until his eyebrows furrow and his eyes crack open, looking for her.

“Nap time,” he says loosely, reaching for her weakly. “C’mere.”

“It’s almost five pm.”

“And what,” he mumbles. “Wasn’t stopping you before I got here.”

Max gazes at him for another moment, shifting her weight so she can reach for his face, brushing her fingertips lightly over the curve of his brow, his cheekbone, his jaw, his chin. The bridge of his nose, the dip of his cupid’s bow. Lucas’s eyes flutter open for a brief moment before they close, and he sighs, letting out a soft whine. Max smiles.

She leans forward to kiss his cheek before she presses against him, tucking her face into his neck and closing her eyes.

“...I love you so much,” she whispers.

Lucas makes a soft noise, his arm tightening around her before he shifts, rolling onto his side to face Max. His other arm rests over her waist, heavy, and he presses his hand into the small of her back, tugging her closer. Her leg lifts to rest over his hip.

He’s quiet for a few moments, just breathing, and then he opens his eyes and she realizes that she’s just staring at him. (She likes doing that.) He smiles a little, sliding his hand over her back and slipping it under her shirt, running it across her waist. His hand is warm, and she savors it, closing her eyes and humming quietly.

“Can I kiss you tomorrow?” he asks quietly after a few moments, whispering. She blinks, coming back to earth. “At school?”

“At school,” she repeats softly. He hums affirmatively, dragging his nails over her ribcage.

“In the hallway.”

Max suppresses a smile, gazing at him, and he looks away for a moment like he’s blushing, like he’s suddenly shy, even with his hand running over her bare skin, with her knee hitched up on his hip.

“Just wanna show my boyfriend off,” he says lightly, like it’s nothing, and her face burns— she hates how obvious it is when she’s flustered, her cheeks bright red, almost glowing, but she doesn’t mind the way Lucas grins brightly when he notices.

“You know you can’t call me that in front of anyone,” she says quietly, ignoring the heat in her face. “Right?”

Lucas hums noncommittally.

“I could,” he says. “Just… None of ‘em would get it.”

“They’d think you’re a queer.”

Lucas just shrugs, gazing at her, his eyes sleepy.

“Who says I’m not?”

She looks at him, settling on his arm, letting her cheek squish against his bicep. She can smell his soap, masculine and clean, and he’s looking at her the same way she’s looking at him— soft eyed and sweet. Something in her chest settles, and the tiniest of knots unravels in her stomach.

“They wouldn’t get it,” she whispers.

He shakes his head.

“We don’t need them to,” he says.

Max exhales, her eyes flickering over Lucas’s face, and she feels like her heart slows, like she’s perfectly fine all of a sudden, just because Lucas gets it. Just because Lucas gets her.

She lifts her chin and kisses him softly, lingering as close as she can for a moment before she melts against him, pressing her face into his arm.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, resting a hand against his chest, tracing his collarbone lightly. “Kiss me by my locker.”

He does. It’s sweet.

So sweet, in fact, that Max kind of feels stupid about it, like she’s some protagonist in a dumb romance novel, and she giggles, actually fucking giggles, right there in the hallway, grinning against Lucas’s mouth and reaching to hold his face. She doesn’t even know if anybody’s looking, if anybody sees at all, but she doesn’t actually care, because Lucas is cradling her face, and he’s also smiling, and he’s just lingered behind the door of her locker to surprise her, even if it wasn’t surprising at all because she saw his shoes and heard the keychains jingling on his backpack as he approached.

They’d talked for a few moments, and Max could see it in his eyes, could see the way he was checking on her, silently asking if she still wanted him to kiss her, if she was still okay with it. She’d raised her eyebrows at him, tilting her head. Well? Go ahead. His smile had lit up the hallway.

November, 1988

She’d loathe to admit it, but the trailer is kind of cozy in the winter.

She’s bundled up, fuzzy socks and sweatpants and a sweater that’s too big for her— it’s Lucas’s, some shade between purple and blue, and the hood is missing its cord. She’s got the hood pulled up over her head, her hair pushed back under it so it’s held out of her face, and her ears are warm as she wanders back and forth in the kitchen, carrying clean dishes to their proper places, letting them clatter as she stacks them in cabinets.

It’s a slow day. She wants to go back to sleep, but she knows she shouldn’t; she’d slept in until past noon yesterday, even after swearing to herself that she would fix her sleep schedule, and if she takes a nap this late, she won’t sleep properly tonight.

She stops short when she finishes with the dishes, looking across the living room at nothing in particular before she rests against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest before she buries her face in her hands, sighing. It’s weird, but she can’t tell if she feels fine or not. She’s felt more or less fine all day, generally okay even if a little tired, but right now…

Her chest aches. For a brief moment, she’s horrified, the sinking dread of Oh, I’m having a heart attack settling in her stomach before she realizes how insane and improbable that is. It doesn’t even really hurt. It just feels tight, like she’s just woken up from a nightmare even though she’s been awake for hours.

She does that thing that Eddie told her to do, breathes in until she can’t anymore then pauses and takes what little breath she can before exhaling slowly. Then she does it again, and then again. She thinks she might stay here all day, until the sun is falling behind the horizon and her mom’s car is making its way back home.

It can’t be much healthier than laying in bed all day, but she doesn’t think she particularly cares.

But there’s a rapping on the door— three knocks, short and firm— and she startles, her eyes flying open. She hadn’t noticed them close.

She’s opening the door before she even tells herself to cross the room or to check who it is, but it’s fine, because it’s Lucas. The tightness in her chest lessens before it’s back, her eyes flickering over his face.

His eyes are wide, and he looks panic-stricken, breathing steadily in a way that’s intentional and practiced, the way Max had been breathing just moments ago.

“Hi,” she says softly, her voice hushed from disuse.

“Hi,” he says back tightly. “Uhm.”

“What’s going on?” Max asks, glancing past him to his car, parked crookedly in front of the trailer, glancing him up and down. He’s dressed similarly to her, cozy and warm but missing a coat or even a hat. “Did something happen?”

“No, I just…” He pauses, looking at her, exhaling slowly. “Are you okay?”

Max blinks.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Lucas says softly, exhaling again, shuddering a little.

“Come here.”

Max steps back, opening the door wider, letting her sleeves fall over her hands as he follows her inside, rubbing his cheek like he’s suddenly embarrassed.

“What happened?” Max asks as she shuts the door, looking at him as he turns toward her, still looking at her like he’s searching for something on her face, like he’s trying to tell if she’s actually there. “Lu.”

“I, uhm…” He rubs his face again, looking away, past her, and she wants, for a moment, to be embarrassed by the mess, by the bottles on the floor, but Lucas knows it’s not her fault. “I was— I had a— a bad dream.”

His voice breaks a little, and Max’s heart breaks with it.

“Do you wanna tell me?” she whispers.

He’s quiet for a moment, looking at her intently, his eyes flicking back and forth between hers like he’s desperate, and then they’re glistening, and his lip is quivering, and Max feels like she could scream.

“You were—” He cuts off, inhaling sharply before he lets out a laugh that sounds almost hysterical, muffled when he covers his face and sniffles. Max says his name weakly as he rubs his face roughly, like he’s trying to snap himself out of it.

“Baby,” Max whispers, reaching for his wrists, tugging gently, and he exhales sharply, blinking his eyes open. He reaches for her, holds her face between his hands, searching her face again.

“You’re okay?” he asks weakly, and she nods, pressing her hands over the backs of his, holding them in place.

“I’m okay,” she whispers. “I’m fine.”

“You’re okay,” he breathes, letting their foreheads press, closing his eyes. He’s gone double, too close for her eyes to work, and she does the same, listening to his breathing slow and steady.

He lets her move one of his hands after a few moments, lets her drag it down to her chest, pressing his palm flat so he can feel it rise and fall as she breathes. He nods even though she doesn’t ask anything out loud, and they stay close.

His arms wrap around her tightly after a while, over her shoulders and tucking her face into his neck in a way that makes her want to cry, and she runs her hands over his arms, squeezing gently. They sway, squeezing each other. Max can feel his breath, warm through the fabric of her hoodie on her shoulder, and actually, she wants to stay here all day, until the sun goes down, and maybe she should just move into the Sinclairs’ house so she can have this all the time without having to be here.

They part slowly, reluctantly, and Max forces her eyes open, holding Lucas’s upper arms weakly. She takes a breath to say something, to ask if he’s okay, if he’s better, or maybe if he’ll stay here with her all day, but he interrupts her with a kiss that’s desperate and intent and that makes Max’s entire body ache.

She sighs, her hands tightening on his arms, melting against him as he tilts his head, his arms shifting so he’s holding her neck in his hands. His palms are warmer than the ends of his fingers, and his mouth is warmer than the end of his nose, and Max could suffocate here and she’d be fine with it.

Lucas pulls away abruptly, and Max leans forward, gasping.

“Sorry,” Lucas says breathlessly, his fingers pressing under her jaw, his head falling forward. “Shit, sorry, I…”

Max shakes her head, muttering a soft, “‘S fine,” before she leans in herself, holding his shoulder tightly before she winds her hands between their bodies, reaching for his face. Lucas lets out a soft noise that sounds wounded, like the kiss hurts, like her hands are burning him, but he reaches for her waist, pulling her in so tightly she stumbles over her own feet, falling toward him.

He catches her like he always does.

It’s clumsy— One of Lucas’s hands presses into her back and the other finds its way up her neck and under her hood, pushing it down so his fingers can push into her hair, and he’s tugging a little like he doesn’t even notice himself doing it. Max holds his neck, wraps her arms around it, lifts onto her tiptoes even though she doesn’t really need to.

She’s gasping when they stumble into the side of the sofa, letting out a startled laugh when she almost falls over the armrest, catching herself with a flying hand that lands on the back of the sofa and the other that lands on Lucas’s shoulder. He laughs softly, pulling her up by her waist and kissing her again, reaching down to tug gently at her leg, prompting her to let him pick her up, and she lets him. He sets her on the armrest, ducking his head to kiss her.

They’ve never kissed like this before. It’s clumsy, messy and uncoordinated, like they’re in a rush, and Max’s chest aches. She feels too warm.

“Room?” Lucas mumbles between kisses, his lips sliding over hers as she gasps for breath. “Your room?”

She’s already nodding before she even registers his question, pulling him closer as she pushes him away to stand again, grabbing him by the front of his shirt to drag him through the living room. They pause at the start of the hallway, falling against the wall, distracted by each other. Max’s arms wrap around Lucas’s neck, holding him closer, lingering, and Lucas holds her the same way— their chests press, and his arms hug her waist, and Max’s breath catches in her throat. She hears Lucas let out a soft swear into her mouth.

They crash into each other when they stumble through Max’s doorway, again, and again, and again, and Max’s eyes are burning. It’s almost like they’re fighting, tripping and pushing and falling, shoving their hands under each other’s hoodies, sliding across skin and pressing in like they’re trying to rip each other open.

They separate only to let fabric between their faces, throwing their clothes aside like they’re offensive before crashing together again, and they’re both breathing hard, kissing so clumsily their mouths don’t even land square on each other, teeth catching on lips, tongues sliding.

She says his name, and he responds with a soft whine, nodding, running his hands across her waist. She pushes him, holding his neck, her forearms pressing to his chest, and she lingers for a moment, leaning with him when he falls to sit on her bed, savoring the warmth of his skin. She doesn’t want to stop.

She doesn’t want to ever stop.

She pulls away to gasp, tilting her head and leaning back in before Lucas’s eyes can open to look at her, sliding her hand to cradle the back of his head, catching his lower lip in her teeth. His hand slides up her waist, his fingertips brushing the band of her bra— asking silently, but Max catches his hand, pushing it back down to her waist and shaking her head a little. He wraps his arms around her, his hands sliding over her back like the bra isn’t there at all, like he can’t feel the smooth racerback between her shoulderblades, and Max’s throat tightens.

She has to pull away to swallow, to catch her breath and blink tears out of her eyes, and Lucas takes the loss in stride, tilting his head to kiss her jaw and the underside of her chin, pulling her so she lands on his lap, her head falling back. She can feel Lucas’s pulse pounding under his skin, her fingertips pressing under his jaw, and she’s making noises, humming softly as his teeth dig into her skin like he’s being careful not to hurt her.

His hand slides around to the small of her back, pulling so she presses closer, and he feels realer than anything else that Max has ever held, strong and firm and sure. She cradles the back of his head, moaning softly as he sucks a kiss into the soft skin under her jaw.

They fumble out of their pants, separating to roll over onto the bed and shove the fabric down their legs, kicking it all away. They’re laughing into each other’s mouths, giggling when they get tangled like they’re trying to stay as quiet as possible, like they’re hiding even though they’re completely alone. Lucas’s palms are rough with calluses, scratching her skin sweetly as he runs his hands over her bare legs like he’s trying to warm her up.

She pulls him closer. They’re kneeling now, in the midst of Max’s mess of blankets, still cast aside and kicked down to the foot of the bed from when she woke up this morning, and Max doesn’t even know what to do with her hands— she’s conflicted, sliding them over Lucas’s neck and his chest and his shoulders and arms, breathing hard like she’s frantic, rushed.

Lucas hums softly, catching her hand on his chest gently, pressing it into place like he’s steadying her, holding her hand over his heart for a few moments before his hand runs smooth over her arm. He’s so much gentler than he needs to be, and it makes her ache.

He leans her back, pulling away just to mutter, “Lay down?” against her lips. She nods, letting him lay her on her back, glancing behind herself to shove a blanket away from where it’s bunched up under her back. Lucas is touching her as she leans back on her hands, already lifting her chin helplessly, his hands soft over her waist and hips and thighs, but then he stops.

His hands freeze on her legs, stalling like he’s hesitant, and Max blinks when he’s still for a moment too long.

He’s looking down, his eyes caught on her thighs, which are exposed now, the line of her underwear higher than the boxers that she usually wears, above where her stupid fucking scars are shining, silvery like her stretch marks but straight and unnatural and so, so clearly intentional, self-inflicted.

She looks up at Lucas, and it takes him a moment to meet her eyes, looking at her like he’s searching again, like he’s just woken from a nightmare. Max’s throat tightens, and she blinks her eyes when they start to sting, waiting desperately for him to move, to say something, to be angry.

But his eyes are glistening, and she doesn’t want this, not when her skin feels warm despite the snow outside, not when she has Lucas shirtless and hovering over her—

“Not right now,” she says weakly, almost whispering, finally breaking the tense silence between them, and he blinks, his eyes flickering over her face.

“Later,” he whispers, and she nods, reaching hesitantly for one of his hands, still lingering on her leg. Lucas nods back, blinking his eyes like he’s trying to ground himself, to come back, and then he’s leaning over her, pushing her gently so she falls onto her back, and he’s kissing her, but it’s different.

It’s slow, lingering close until they part with soft gasps, and Max’s eyebrows furrow, her hands lifting to hold Lucas’s face. Her legs wrap around his waist, and he holds himself up with a forearm by her head as his other hand slides over her thigh slowly, groaning softly. Max thinks that might be her favorite noise in the world, his voice rumbling in his throat, muffled and weak like he’s falling apart.

Lucas presses his forehead to Max’s, and they share breaths, holding each other close.

“I love you so much,” Lucas whispers, his voice strained like his throat is tight. Max nods, holding his neck, scratching her nails over the back of it gently so he shivers.

“I love you so much too.”

“I love you more.”

“Mm-mm.”

Lucas laughs softly, nudging his nose against Max’s, and Max smiles, moving her hand to squeeze his shoulder.

“Can I touch you?” she whispers.

“Do you want to?”

“God, yes.”

It makes him laugh again, shifting so he’s leaning on his side, and he kisses her again, biting her lip a little. He nods.

He tucks his face into her neck when she reaches down, slips her hand between them to touch him over the fabric of his boxers, letting out a weak sound before he parts his lips to mouth at her throat.

“Good?” Max whispers. He nods again.

“Yeah,” he says tightly. “Fuck.”

She smiles, scratching the back of his neck, and she shifts against him, her back arching involuntarily. He slips a hand under it, holding her tightly, hugging her to himself. She swears under her breath, her hand trapped between them.

“Shit, can I—” Lucas’s voice cuts off in his throat, interrupted by a soft sound that’s at least two octaves above his normal speaking voice, and Max is nodding even though he isn’t looking at her, pulling her hand away and muttering a rushed, “Yeah, yes.”

“How do you even know what I’m asking?” Lucas says, laughing again as he pushes himself up to look at her, pulling his hand away from where it’s been pressed into the small of her back, and she huffs.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want, just— Please, I’m…”

He laughs again, ducking his head to kiss her clumsily, licking into her mouth as he holds himself up above her, kneeling between her legs, and he shifts, moves against her.

She yelps, her back arching, and Lucas lifts his head to check, but she hugs his neck again, nodding desperately, locking her legs around his hips. He scoffs, and she grins lazily, pushing her fingers into his hair absently.

They’re quiet, faces tucked into one another’s necks, arms wrapped around each other tightly. Lucas is whispering to her, murmuring under his breath between weak whines and groans, and she only catches every other word.

My boy.

Fuck.

Max.

Max whines, squeezing her eyes shut and sliding her hand down the line of his spine, pressing into his skin, her other hand squeezing his shoulder. She can feel his muscles shifting under his skin, can feel the heat from his blood, and for some reason, it occurs to her that she doesn’t actually know what his dream was about.

He’s mentioned a few different dreams to her, when and where they’ve been relevant. Mornings during which he looks particularly tired and wants her to know why, nights during which his body jolts awake so suddenly it wakes her up too.

He’s told her about the ones that plague him, the ones where he finds her limp, lifeless body in some dark room that feels more like a void, dark save for whatever is shining light directly on her. Light that makes her glow silver, pale, light that makes the blood that’s fallen from her eyes look black. Her eyes aren’t there, replaced by empty sockets, and her bones are all broken, her jaw dislocated, and Lucas doesn’t even know where any of it comes from— most of the others are haunted by demogorgons and mind flayers, and he is too, but nobody else has ever mentioned something like this. He always wakes up crying.

She can assume that that’s what prompted his drive over, what prompted his unsteady breathing and shaking hands.

She holds him, biting her lip and sliding her hands so her fingertips press into the nape of his neck. He lets out a soft moan that almost sounds like a sob, like he’s crying, and Max’s eyes burn. She’s trembling from head to toe, unable to steady herself as heat swirls in her gut, as Lucas moves a little faster, a little more desperate. He’s gasping, letting out weak whimpers between breaths, and one of his hands slides down to her leg, his fingertips digging into her skin in a way that she kind of hopes will leave bruises.

“Fuck, I’m…” His voice breaks. She nods, pressing one of her feet into the back of his leg, pulling so he stays, keeping him in place.

“‘S okay,” she mutters, nodding. Her chin bumps his shoulder clumsily, and she lets out a laugh that’s almost delirious, because this is insane. It feels ridiculous to be having sex after everything, to do something that actually feels good when she doesn’t really think that she deserves it. “Come on.”

Lucas curses into her neck, whining, and she can feel his muscles tense when he comes, can feel his lips against her skin as he moans weakly, like he’s trying to be as close as he possibly can, like he’s holding back from biting her. She would let him.

“Fuck,” she breathes, holding him until he untenses, until he melts, sighing heavily into her neck, his hand rubbing her thigh gently like he’s trying to soothe the spots his fingers were pressing into.

He hums roughly, shaking his head like he’s burrowing into her neck, nuzzling into her collarbone, and she turns her head to kiss him softly.

“Baby,” Lucas breathes. Max hums. “Can I touch you?”

“Mm.”

He scoffs, his breath hot on her skin, and he rolls back onto his side, lifting his head to kiss her. She melts, her arms falling limp around his neck, because it’s good. It’s always good. And she doesn’t deserve it, this kindness that she finds on Lucas Sinclair’s tongue and in the palms of his hands.

He obviously disagrees, because his hand slides between their bodies, reaches down, and he’s looking at her, smiling when she gasps and nods, holding his shoulders tightly.

“Good?” he whispers. “Is that good?”

She nods desperately, letting out a strangled Yeah before her head falls back, her eyes closing like she’s just passed out. Lucas lets out a soft laugh, like he’s amused, like she’s cute, and Max grins at the ceiling, running her hands over Lucas’s back before she follows his arm down between them, mapping out the curves of his muscles with her fingertips. He’s still panting, humming softly when her hand finds his, gripping it tightly and guiding it where she wants it, where she needs it, making him press harder, making him rub the way she likes.

“Fuck,” Lucas breathes. “You’re so fucking hot.”

Max laughs, rolling her hips against his hand. She laces their fingers clumsily, and it’s awkward and uncoordinated, but she loves it. Lucas kisses her, pushing himself up so his forearm rests by her head, so his fingers can push into her hair, brushing it out against the bed. She sighs, turning her head toward him, holding onto his arm with her free hand, clinging to him.

When he finally pulls his mouth away, Max whines in a way she’s never whined before, and Lucas giggles. She can feel him watching her, gazing at her like he always does, and she knows her face must already be bright red, but she feels her cheeks flush with warmth anyway.

“Feels so good,” she mumbles, her words slurred like she’s drunk, but this is better than being drunk, she thinks. Lucas is better than booze.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.”

Lucas kisses her cheek.

It’s sweet, and soft, and oddly innocent, and it makes her cry.

Her lip is quivering before she can catch it between her teeth, and her eyes are stinging. She squeezes them shut.

“Babe,” Lucas says softly, his hand hesitating, but Max shakes her head, squeezing his hand before he can pull it away.

“Don’t stop,” she says, gasping. “I’m so close, don’t stop—”

He swears under his breath, shifting closer, and she forces her eyes open to look at him above her. He looks exhausted, looks wrecked, and he’s fucking beautiful.

He’s kissing her when she comes, his lips pressing to her mouth, her cheek, her jaw, and he’s kissing her tears away, combing through her hair. He’s so good at this, like he knows just what to do, just how to touch her, how to slow his hand to ease her through it, how to whisper in her ear and tug her hair.

She adores him.

She’s crying in earnest as she comes back down, and she realizes her arms are wrapped around Lucas’s neck, hugging him, and he’s laying over her, careful not to crush her, even if she would welcome it. One of his hands is still in her hair, running through it gently.

He waits while she catches her breath, holding her like she’s delicate, like she’s something valuable, and she hugs him tighter, squeezing her eyes shut.

When they finally part, he gives her a kiss before she can even ask for one, sitting up and pulling her with him as gently as possible. He cradles her face, kissing her softly and sweetly, and Max feels like she’s made of liquid. Like she’s just sloshing around, a puddle in skin.

“Wait for me a minute,” Lucas whispers right against her lips, and she nods without opening her eyes. Her hands fall to her lap when he gets up, and she feels his weight come off the bed, and she misses him even as she hears him go across the room to her dresser, opening it and rummaging for his own underwear that she’s stolen. She suppresses a smile as she remembers when he discovered this— the way he’d incredulously asked why she had them, and the sound he’d made when she told him to mind his business.

Lucas goes to the kitchen and runs the tap, and Max hears him open the fridge and do something with the dish cabinet. She’s still warm, and she kind of feels like she’s meditating— sitting cross-legged, her eyes closed, so relaxed that she’s swaying a little as she visualizes Lucas’s movements in the other room. She smiles when she hears him come back into the room, and she opens her eyes when she feels him on the bed.

He’s kneeling, reaching past her to set a bowl on her nightstand before he crawls a little closer clumsily, holding a glass of water and some tissues in his free hand, holding it up carefully so the water doesn’t spill over. Max’s chest aches.

She sips the water as Lucas wipes her cheeks dry. She tips the glass a little too far to spill some water down her chin, and Lucas shakes his head, smiling because he knows her. He tips his head and catches a drop with his mouth, and Max grins.

“Okay?” Lucas whispers when she hands him the glass, shifting to sit cross-legged in front of her. Their knees are touching.

Max hums, nodding, watching him sleepily as he drinks the rest of the water, tilting his head back. She watches his throat move, and she doesn’t shift to get out of his way as he reaches for the nightstand again.

He’s got a bowl of grapes, which he offers to Max. She smiles.

They eat them in silence, leaning close together with their heads resting on each other’s shoulders, their knees pressed, their free hands resting on each other’s hips. Max closes her eyes, nibbling the grapes in a way that kind of makes her feel like a rabbit or a mouse or something. Lucas holds her when the grapes are gone, running his fingers over her back, tracing the line of her spine, and she sighs, turning to press her face into his neck.

“You feel okay?” Lucas whispers after a while. Max blinks her eyes open, shifting.

“Mm. ‘M fallin’ asleep,” she mumbles. She feels Lucas laugh a little, and she smiles. “You’re comfy.”

“Wanna lay down?”

“Mhmm.”

He pulls her, shifting onto his back and tugging her with him. She giggles a little, letting him move her, falling lax and pliant and heavy as he adjusts them comfortably.

She lays her head on his arm, and they’re facing the ceiling, but they’re looking at each other, their heads tilted. He’s gazing again.

“I love you,” she whispers.

“I love you too,” he whispers back.

She sighs softly, lifting a hand to his and tangling their fingers. He lets her, and he squeezes like he knows she’s anticipating the conversation.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now,” Lucas whispers.

“I know.”

“Do you want to?”

“I think so.”

He waits for her, and as he waits, he gets up to reach for a blanket, tugging it to drape it over them like being covered up will make her more comfortable. It works, and her chest aches because Lucas knows her so well.

Lucas slides his arm back under her head, and she rolls onto her side, tucking her hands between them.

“...It was just once,” she says quietly.

“When?”

“The night I cut my hair.” He’s looking at her, waiting patiently, and she can’t stand to meet his eyes, so she looks away, down at the space between them, where the blanket is dipping. “I got wasted. Like… really drunk. And I… I cut my hair, and then I was just…”

She takes a breath, exhaling shakily.

“I don’t even actually remember doing it,” she says softly. “Cutting myself. I just… I didn’t notice until Eddie made me let him do first aid.”

“Eddie knows?”

She nods, glancing up.

“He promised not to tell Steve,” she says. “And I— I didn’t know how to tell you, and I forgot about it completely, and—”

“Max,” Lucas interrupts gently. She looks at him. “‘S okay.”

She exhales again.

“I’m not mad,” Lucas says. “I’m not upset— I mean, I— I hate it,” he amends, and Max scoffs, lifting her head as Lucas shifts, turning to face her more. “But I…”

He looks at her helplessly, like he’s trying to use telepathy.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says finally, his voice soft. “And I’m not mad, and you don’t need to explain yourself, unless— unless you want to, but I won’t make you talk about anything you don’t wanna talk about, and I…”

He shakes his head, his eyes flickering across her face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “And I adore you. And I don’t ever want you to feel like that again.”

His eyes are glistening, and Max moves closer, lifting a hand to touch his face. He looks like he’s going to say something else, but she interrupts.

“You couldn’t have done anything,” she says gently. “You— You made me feel better that day, when you talked to me in the hallway, and I think I just— just fell apart when I got home, and there wasn’t anything anyone could have done. And I think I… Like. I needed it.”

Lucas blinks, confused, and Max moves her hand from his face, sliding her arm under the blanket to drape it over Lucas’s waist. She sighs.

“I felt better the next day,” she says quietly. “I mean, I was hungover. Very. And I was… sad, and angry, and I felt, like, guilty. I regretted it. Obviously. But I felt… lighter.”

“Lighter,” Lucas repeats.

“Mm. Like I’d gotten it all out. And none of it went away, everything I was feeling, it’s still there, but… I don’t feel the need to get drunk or hurt myself.”

Lucas nods, and he’s quiet before,

“What is it that you feel?” he asks, looking at her curiously.

Max looks at him. She could say it, that she just kind of hates herself, but she knows how much it would hurt Lucas.

“I’m scared that I’m actually a horrible person,” she says instead. “And I just don’t know it.”

Lucas’s expression is blank for a moment before his eyebrows furrow and his nose scrunches.

“Why the fuck would you think you’re a horrible person?”

Max is quiet for a moment, looking at him. He lets her.

“...I’ve never told you about my dad,” she says finally. “Have I?”

“Neil?” Lucas says, his eyebrows furrowing a little like he’s trying to remember.

“No,” Max says softly. “My biological dad. Joseph.”

Lucas shakes his head. He settles a little more, like he’s prepared for a long story, like he’s ready to go to sleep right here and now. His cheek squishes against his upper arm, and Max gazes at him for a moment, admiring him. Part of her thinks he might feel differently about her after he knows this part of her life, but she knows him. She knows he loves her.

“He’s in prison,” she says quietly. “For killing two people.”

Lucas blinks again. His eyes widen just the slightest bit, and they flicker across Max’s face like he’s trying to tell if she’s joking. Like he’s hoping she’s joking.

“He was a good dad,” she says, feeling the need to defend Joseph. “He was really good to me. I— I remember him being angry a lot, but he never took it out on me or my mom, he just, like, raised his voice a lot. He had road rage and stuff, just… Stuff like that.”

She wants to sit up suddenly, to tear her eyes away from Lucas’s, but she doesn’t, forcing herself to meet Lucas’s gaze, to stay close enough to feel the warmth of his skin.

“I don’t know what happened that night, but he— something happened. He got angry enough to kill two guys. And— And my mom used to be nice, but she isn’t as nice anymore, you know, she’s fucking mean sometimes, and I’m…”

Her eyes sting. She blinks them, savoring the feeling of Lucas’s hand sliding over her waist, holding her steady.

“I’m some fucked up combination of them, and, like, how can I not be terrible? How am I supposed to be anything but— but whatever they are?”

“Max,” Lucas says quietly. “Baby.”

Max takes a slow breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out, shuddering. She closes her eyes, and Lucas’s hand squeezes her side before it slides around to the small of her back and presses, pulling her closer.

“You listening?”

She nods.

“...You’re not your parents.” Max’s eyes open, and she looks at him desperately. “You’re not Susan, and you’re not Joseph, and you’re not Neil or Billy.”

Her eyes burn again, and her lip quivers, and she slides her hand over Lucas’s arm, holding him tightly.

“Do you know about Will and Jonathan’s dad?” Lucas asks abruptly. “Lonnie?”

Max shakes her head a little.

“I’ve heard some things about him.”

“He’s a fucking dick,” Lucas says firmly. “He’s notorious. He was an asshole to Joyce, and he was an asshole to Will and to Jonathan, and— when Will first disappeared, Jonathan went to Lonnie’s to look for him, and one of the first places he looked was in the trunk of Lonnie’s car.”

Max winces, frowning.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Complete jackass. But Will is Will, and Jonathan is Jonathan.”

Max suppresses a smile.

“They’re also part Joyce, though. That cancels out Lonnie.”

Lucas scoffs, his fingertips scratching her skin lightly.

“Do you know about Steve’s parents?”

Max exhales, nodding.

“Dicks. Assholes. One might even say monsters.” Lucas lifts his hand to reach for her, running his fingers through her hair as he pushes it out of her face. “Steve is still Steve. And Eddie’s parents were terrible, and he’s still Eddie.”

“He’s also related to Wayne.”

“And Wayne is related to Al,” Lucas says dismissively, shrugging. “Doesn’t fucking matter.”

Max looks at him.

“They’re all good,” she argues weakly. “I’m not like that.”

“You don’t think you’re like that,” Lucas corrects. “You don’t see yourself the way other people do.”

“The way you do.”

“Mhmm.”

Lucas pushes her hair back again even though it hasn’t fallen. He caresses her face, and she lets him, closing her eyes.

“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “You’re kind, and you’re thoughtful, and you’re, like, everything that people are supposed to be.”

“I’m a bitch,” Max says dryly. Lucas scoffs, tugging her hair lightly.

“You’re bold.”

“That’s a nice way of saying bitch.”

“I love you,” Lucas says definitively, his hand resting on her face. “And I know you, and I know you’re a good person, regardless of who your parents are. Fuck them, and fuck everyone else.”

Max scrunches her nose, suppressing a smile.

“I love you,” Lucas says again, looking at her intently.

“...Say it again.”

She’s heard it before. He says it all the time.

“I love you.”

But she doesn’t think she could ever get tired of hearing it.

“Again.”

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He’s still whispering it when she kisses him, his lips moving against hers, murmuring into her mouth.

December, 1988

Christmas passes quietly.

It’s not a particularly festive year, and Max wonders if maybe she’s just getting older, and the joy of the holidays is losing its color.

Susan stays home during her days off, watching television and destroying her liver and seemingly not noticing when Max passes through the room to leave. Max stays at the Sinclairs’ for a few days, then spends a night as the Hendersons’, along with the others, piled up on the floor of Dustin’s bedroom because they can’t all fit on the bed and they can’t agree on who gets it for the night.

The Sinclairs get her a new skateboard for Christmas— it’s brand new, not second-hand like all the skateboards Max has had, and the decal on the bottom is colorful with a flaming skull. She hugs Charles and Susan tightly.

Lucas takes her on a date. They go to a mall a town over and they hold hands the whole time, admiring the lights and festive decorations, and they get hot cocoa on their way out. Then he takes her to the quarry, and it’s a cliche— of course it is— but it’s out of the way and there’s nobody around, unlike their houses, where Max’s mom is passed out in the living room and Erica is home and doesn’t go out as often as she used to.

Erica gives them a look when they come home, gesturing her signature gag me, and Lucas just flips her off and tosses her the paper bag that holds the pastry he’d gotten for her at the mall. Erica is appeased.

But the Sinclairs leave for a few days to visit Charles’s parents, and Max is left to her own devices. She supposes she could go to Dustin’s, or the Wheelers’, but she stays at the trailer, tidying and finishing the homework assigned at the last second with very little energy.

She’s trudging her way through her calculus work in the blessedly clean living room when someone knocks on the door, and her head falls back like she’s praising God for the distraction before she gets up to answer it.

And it’s Nancy, who Max hasn’t seen in months, and Max gasps with more energy than she usually has these days.

She looks nice. Her hair is short, cropped just under her ears, and it’s fluffy the way all the girls at school are styling theirs. She’s wearing a thick jacket that looks like it might be Jonathan’s, but it also just looks like it’s hers, like it was made for her. She looks mature, and elegant, and for a moment, Max wants to cry.

“Hi,” she says brightly. Nancy beams at her, already opening her arms for a hug, and Max lets her easily, hugging her back and pulling her inside to shut the door behind her. “I heard you were in town.”

“Yeah,” Nancy says, sighing as they part, tugging her jacket off to reveal a nice sweater. “Sorry I haven’t been able to come by, my parents apparently made friends the second I left for college.”

Max laughs, stepping back to lean against the side of the sofa, watching as Nancy looks around the trailer. It occurs to her that Nancy hasn’t been here before, hasn’t seen the piles of bottles and trash, the disheveled blankets that Max has sorted and folded. Nancy looks out of place here— she’s always seemed like she was destined for a place far from Hawkins.

“How’ve you been?” Nancy asks like she really means it, and Max hesitates.

“Uh, I’ve been alright,” she says, shrugging a little. “Going through the motions.”

Nancy nods, still looking at her.

“Mom’s having a hard time,” Max says, like it’s just a tough few days, like it hasn’t been years now. “I’ve been trying not to let it rub off on me.”

Nancy gives her an empathetic smile, nodding like she’s proud of her, like Max is doing something right.

“What about you?” Max says, shifting her shoulders like she’s trying to get away from something. “College and shit?”

Nancy laughs.

“College is fine,” she says. “I’ve got an internship lined up that starts in February, and it’s gonna be hard to do that with all my classes, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up.”

“Paid internship?”

“Yup.”

“Da-a-amn…”

Nancy laughs again, and it lights up the living room. She’s really out of place here. Max wonders if she ever feels like she’s escaped, if she feels like she’s looking back into a cage when she comes to visit town.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about something,” Nancy says abruptly, her voice still bright and friendly.

“Oh,” Max says. “Okay.”

“So, uhm. I was at the Sinclairs’ the other day, I was helping Erica with a project, and we needed some tape, and Lucas said he’d just bought some and it should be in his desk, so I went to find it, right—”

Max is already grimacing, her stomach twisting like she’s in trouble. Nancy presses on.

“And in his desk drawer, there was a plastic bag, and he said he just bought some tape, so I opened it, and it was not the tape, that was just in the other drawer, so…”

She shakes her head, waving her hand like she’s clearing the air, like she’s organizing her thoughts.

“Look. It was a box of condoms and some lube, and I’m here to simply inquire about if it’s for him and you, which if it is, we’re going to have a very awkward but important conversation, and if it's not, then… I have two good shoulders and two good ears.”

Max stares at her, her shoulders hunched uncomfortably, and Nancy stares back, waiting patiently.

And Max isn’t a liar.

“We don’t need to have this conversation.”

“We’re having this conversation,” Nancy says so automatically she’s almost interrupting. “It’s happening.”

Max covers her face, groaning.

“Look,” Nancy says again. “Okay. Obviously you guys are being safe and responsible, which I love for you, great job, but there’s more you should know—”

“We really don’t need to,” Max says weakly.

“No one had this conversation with me,” Nancy says, her voice just shy of sharp. Max shuts up and looks at her, dropping her hands. “And I wish someone had. And I’d hate myself if I didn’t talk to you about this.”

Max exhales slowly, crossing her arms over her chest, wishing she was doing calculus.

“Okay,” she says tightly.

“Okay,” Nancy repeats, nodding resolutely. “So. Condoms and lube, great. I’m— I’m sure you guys are loyal to each other, right, but for the purposes of this conversation we’ll imagine you’re not. God forbid.”

Max can’t help but let out a laugh, dropping her head and glancing away.

“Testing is important, regular testing if you're with other people, and it’s embarrassing and mortifying, but it’s important. And you should be completely honest with your doctor, even outside of sexual health, right, if you’re using any kind of substances or anything you need to tell them.”

Max is nodding absently, staring at the ground, listening. Nancy rambles like this when she’s uncomfortable, and it’s nice to know that she hates this just as much as Max does.

“Okay. Go pee after sex, please, if you don’t, you run the risk of UTI, and that sucks, it’s fucking miserable. If you pass out after sex, go pee first, then crash. Also drink water after, right, it’s a form of exercise, and you should hydrate.”

Max nods again. She might actually be having an out of body experience.

“If your partner is ignoring you saying you don’t like something, or if something hurts and they don’t notice that you’re in pain, fuck off, alright, you deserve better than that.”

“Lucas doesn’t do that,” Max says before immediately regretting it, because why the fuck is she telling Nancy anything about their sex life—

“Good,” Nancy says, nodding almost encouragingly, eyes wide. “Good. Also if something hurts, stop right away— you can talk to your doctor, and there are exercises you can do that can help, and also you and Lu— your partner can just do different things, right, sex isn’t as binary as sex ed makes it sound.”

Max covers her face again, nodding.

“Okay,” she says, her voice muffled by her hands.

“Okay, and— and the thing I actually really wanted to say,” Nancy says, her voice stabling enough that Max lifts her head, looking at her before she can tell her to. She’s looking at Max intently, her eyes wide and shining. “Max.”

“Nancy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Max blinks, her shoulders falling as she tries to decipher Nancy’s words, and Nancy must see the confusion in her eyes, because she looks anguished for a moment, like she’s despaired at the prospect of having to explain herself.

“Sex,” she says bluntly. “Like— Wanting sex, and liking sex, there’s nothing wrong with any of it. As long as both of you are comfortable, and happy, and you’re communicating, and you’re both enjoying yourselves, there’s nothing wrong with any of it.”

Max blinks again, and she’s nodding absently.

It’s not that she thinks it’s wrong.

It’s sex. It’s weird, and it’s gross, but she likes it, and Lucas likes it, and she knows that’s all that matters. Even if they’re doing it in his car by the quarry, even if she makes stupid noises when she comes. It’s fun.

And Lucas is good to her. Of course he is. He’s always looking at her face, watching her carefully like he’s searching for something in her eyes, always asking things like Can I go down on you? and Does that feel good? and Do you like that? He always kisses her so sweetly, always touches her just the way she likes, always holds her for as long as she wants.

She nods when Nancy looks at her with raised eyebrows.

“Okay,” she says again.

Nancy nods, her shoulders falling.

“Okay.”

Apparently that was the last thing, because Nancy is quiet now, nodding and looking at Max.

“So.”

They’re both quiet for a few moments, and then they’re both laughing, snorting and turning away because it’s fucking ridiculous that Nancy Wheeler just gave Max The Talk. Max covers her face with her hands, shaking her head as she listens to Nancy giggling, and for a moment she sounds like a teenage girl again, like she must have sounded before it all.

“Jesus,” Max says, looking at the ceiling. “This is so dumb.”

“These are important things to talk about,” Nancy says, still laughing a little. “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Max repeats pointedly, her voice too loud. Nancy laughs again.

“You and Lucas broke up like twelve times by the time you were fifteen,” Nancy says, finally relaxing, leaning against the wall with her hands behind her back. “When’d that change?”

Max hesitates, shoving her hands in the pockets of her hoodie.

“Ninth grade?” she says finally. “I don’t really know, there wasn’t really, like, a moment that we officially said we were together, we just…”

She shrugs.

Nancy’s head is tilted curiously, and Max can’t really believe that she’s having this conversation all over again with another Wheeler.

“I don’t know,” she says again. “We just are.”

Nancy looks at her like she’s going to cry, and Max rolls her eyes, but she can’t suppress her smile. Nancy coos teasingly.

“You’re in lo-o-o-ove…”

“Shut up,” Max says half-heartedly, looking away. Her face is hotter than it was when Nancy was talking about actual sex. Nancy giggles again, her eyes bright and shining like she’s gleeful, like Max’s love brings her joy.

“You guys are so cute,” Nancy says lightly.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Nancy stays a while.

They talk, sitting on the floor, and Nancy does her best to help with the calculus worksheet, but she ultimately tells Max that she’ll need to talk to Steve. She doesn’t seem to mind the mess around them, doesn’t even seem to notice it— the bottles waiting by the door to be recycled, the garbage back that’s slumping against the wall, the stacks of dishes on the counters. She acts like it’s normal, like they’re in the Wheeler basement, like it’s all perfectly fine and it isn’t actually fucking bizarre that Nancy Wheeler is sitting on the floor of Max’s trailer.

It’s weird to think about. That somehow everything in the universe aligned just right for Max to know Nancy Wheeler.

She feels like that a lot, actually. Life is fucking weird. Max is a disaster, a human trainwreck, but she’s loved enough to have a horrifically awkward sex talk with Nancy Wheeler, and she’s loved enough to have a boyfriend that has a particular fondness for peppering kisses across her freckles, and she’s loved enough to have a neighbor and a babysitter that keep cranberry juice in their fridges for her even though they both hate it.

Sometimes it throws her for a loop, even when she’s laying in bed and staring at the ceiling. She thinks too hard about it some nights, and she finds herself wishing it was easier to feel so awful. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, the way she feels vile, the way she feels like the worst person alive just for sitting sitting in her room and waiting to fall asleep, even though she’s loved, even though she knows she’s loved. The contradiction wages war in her ribacage, and it keeps her awake.

Which is why she prefers sleeping with Lucas close enough to hold. She listens to his pulse, and when her brain gets too loud, she counts every beat of his heart.

Some nights, neither of them sleep.

They both know they’re awake, but they don’t talk. They don’t look at each other, even though it’s bright enough with the lamp on to see. Max lays her head on his chest and listens to his heart, listens to him breathe, and Lucas plays with her hair or runs his fingers across her back.

She longs for it when she’s not in his bed, and she savors it when she is.

His arms tighten around her as she groans, burying her face in his chest like she’s trying to reach his heart. He’s laughing a little, she can tell because of how his chest is moving, and he wraps his arms around her head. It covers her ears, blocks out the sound of the radiator across the room and surrounds her in white noise.

“What’s your problem?” Lucas says lightly when he lets go, running his hands over her back, folding over the creases of her sweater. She hums softly, finally turning her head to press her cheek to his chest as she sighs heavily.

“Feel weird,” she mumbles, her cheek squished against him.

“Weirder than normal?”

“Mm.”

Lucas repeats the soft hum, his voice rumbling in his throat in a way that makes Max want to eat him. She isn’t looking up at him, but she knows his eyes are closed.

“Wanna crawl inside you,” she says quietly. Lucas sighs, his fingers pushing into her hair and dragging through the snags. “Wanna live in your chest.”

“I’d like that,” Lucas whispers.

“Mhmm?”

“Mm. You’d always be close,” he says softly. He holds the back of her head like he’s cradling her skull, like he’s holding her as close as he possibly can. “I’d stitch my chest up after you so you can hide.”

Max’s throat tightens. She squeezes her eyes shut.

“That’s nice,” she whispers. “Could be your little secret.”

Lucas hums.

“Like an angel on my shoulder,” he says lightly. “But ‘s a little demon in my ribcage.”

Max snorts, shifting to rub her cheek against his chest.

“It’d be warm,” she says quietly, thoughtfully.

Another hum.

“I’d keep you warm.”

Max aches. It’s bizarre, and it’s morbid, but she wants it so much it hurts. She runs her hand down, slips it between them, and she touches the dip in Lucas’s sternum, just between his pecs and above his abdomen, and she presses. Pushes. She hears Lucas’s breath catch in his throat around a soft moan, and she shifts, looking up at him to watch his head tilt back. His eyes are closed like he’s blissful, and Max eyes the line of his throat, the dip between his collarbones.

She ceases the pressure on his chest, sliding his fingers so her palm is pressing down on him, and he exhales slowly. He’s almost smiling, his expression light.

“You’re weird,” he says lightly. Max smiles at him.

“You like it.”

He finally does smile, grinning lazily at the ceiling.

“I love it.”

Max sighs, pushing herself up to tuck her face into Lucas’s neck, and he holds her tightly. He doesn’t say anything when she starts crying.

May, 1989

She qualifies for graduation.

It’s not a shock, not really, but it still catches her a little off-guard. She doesn’t really try in school, and she finds herself wondering what kind of grades she could be getting if she put in any effort at all.

She’ll have a high school diploma soon. It’ll have her name on it— Maxine Grace Mayfield— and she doesn’t know what she’ll be supposed to do with it. It feels like a big deal, a diploma, but she’d rather walk headfirst into traffic than get it framed in the living room or something, but it also feels wrong to stick it in some box tucked into the back of the linen closet. She also knows that in a few years, it won’t feel like a big deal.

And if she’s honest, it already doesn’t feel like a big deal at all. She’s seen the worst of the world. High school feels like chump change, even if it makes her feel like she’s dying sometimes.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with my life,” she laments from where she’s laying upside down on the Munsons’ sofa. The room is upside down, and her head feels funny, but she kind of likes it.

“You don’t gotta,” Wayne says lightly. He’s sitting in the armchair, flipping idly through a newspaper. “You’re just a kid.”

“I don’t feel like just a kid,” she grumbles, even though that kind of proves Wayne right. She’s a kid. A child. She’s practically pouting right now.

“And I don’t feel like an old man.”

“Well I feel like a kid and an old man,” Eddie interrupts, plopping onto the sofa next to Max, jostling her a little. Wayne snorts, and Max rolls her eyes toward the floor, suppressing a smile. “You don’t have to figure your life out, Max.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t have to figure my life out,” she complains. “Everyone else just… They’re fine. People are going to college, or they’re getting jobs, or they’re doing a gap year, and none of them are standing in front of a wall.”

“None of them look like they’re standing in front of a wall,” Wayne corrects, looking over the rum of his glasses at her. “Some of ‘em have a plan, but none of ‘em really know what they’re doing. Trust me.”

“You had your life figured out pretty quick,” she says. He’s told her so, in fewer words. That he graduated high school by the skin of his teeth and packed up out of Tennessee to Indiana to work at the plant. That he’s stayed put since.

“No the hell I didn’t,” he says, like it’s preposterous. “I got lucky with a job I liked. I happened to not go anywhere else.”

Max sighs, finally forcing herself up. It takes a moment for her blood to fall back into her body, and she leans against the back of the sofa. She can feel Eddie and Wayne looking at her, and she feels like a kicked puppy. Pitiful.

“If it makes you feel better,” Eddie says lightly, “you’re doing better than I am.”

She snorts, glaring half-heartedly at him. He’s shrugging, giving her a calm it is what it is kind of gesture, and it makes her ache, because it is. And she hates it.

“I just…” She looks down at her crossed legs, picking at some stray threads at the seam of her jeans. “Feels like I’m standing still and the whole world is passing by.”

Wayne hums, and they’re all quiet for a moment before he speaks.

“I don’t wanna belittle you,” he says. “Or— Or make you feel like it’s not a big deal, because what you feel is a big deal. But I’ve felt like that my whole life.”

She looks up at him, and it’s only then that she realizes that her vision is blurry. She can’t see his face clearly, but she sees his head tilt at her as he sets the paper down in his lap.

“Every day feels the same,” Wayne says softly. “People go travellin’, and they see the world, and my whole world is Hawkins. I go to work, I come home. I get groceries, I make lunch. I go to bed. I get up, I go to work.”

Max blinks tears out of her eyes, looking across the room at him. He looks so fine. She doesn’t know if she’s ever looked fine like that.

“And that’s okay,” Wayne says quietly, intently, leaning forward a little. “I’ve made my peace with what I’ve been given. I like my life, even if it’s small.”

Max hears Eddie sniffle a little, but she can’t make herself tear her gaze away from Wayne to look at him.

“I love coffee,” Wayne says, smiling now. “And I love watchin’ baseball, and I love seeing the sunrise on my way home every day, and I love Eddie and I love you.”

“Dammit, Wayne,” Eddie swears softly, and a laugh bursts out of Max’s chest. She finally looks at him just in time to see him quickly wipe his cheek. “‘S too early for this shit.”

“It’s one in the afternoon.”

“Whatever.”

Wayne rolls his eyes and looks back at Max.

“Alright? You take your sweet time. If you wanna sit in here and complain for the next five years, I got no problem with that.”

“...Dammit, Wayne.”

She throws herself back on the sofa, covering her face with her arms, and she hears him laugh a little. Eddie pats her leg and then leaves his hand there when she doesn’t pull her leg away. She sighs heavily.

“I don’t wanna spend my whole life in Hawkins,” she mumbles.

“You don’t have to,” Eddie says lightly, like it’s not a big deal at all.

“But,” Wayne says pointedly. “You’ll always have somewhere in Hawkins to come home to.”

“...Dammit, Wayne.”

Lucas is nervous. Max can tell because he’s fidgeting more than usual, wringing his hands like some Looney Tunes Cartoon, running his hand over his head and the back of his neck, cracking his knuckles and twisting his fingers.

“Lu,” Max says from his bed, watching him put away some laundry like he’s dead-set on making his room tidier than it’s ever been. “What’s your problem?”

“I’ve never had any problems in my life,” Lucas says a little too quickly, folding a shirt against his chest. “I’m really normal.”

Max sits up, holding herself up and raising an eyebrow at him, and he looks at her, lingering for a moment as he folds the shirt, his hands slowing. He suppresses a smile, his expression softening, and it makes her grin.

He sighs, tossing the shirt to the deskchair— because clearly he didn’t actually care about tidying up— as he moves to the side of the bed. He grabs her ankles, tugging her toward himself, and she lets him, falling back and laughing. His hands are warm on her bare skin, and she mourns it very briefly when he lets go, but she doesn’t get much time to miss it, because he’s setting a knee on the bed between her legs, and he’s leaning down over her, hovering for a brief moment before he’s kissing her.

She grins, wrapping her arms around his neck, humming as he tilts his head and nudges his nose against her cheek, as he touches her face like she’s made of porcelain, like she’ll shatter if he touches her wrong.

She lets it go on for another few moments, savoring it, sighing into his mouth and holding him in place when his weight presses her down into the bed, and then she turns her face away, laughing lightly when he groans, his mouth sliding across her cheek and down to her neck.

“What’s going on?”

He pauses, letting his forehead press to the side of her neck, and he sighs heavily. She pushes him back, looking at him.

“Are you okay?” she asks, raising her eyebrows, and he nods, gazing at her.

“I’m fine,” he says softly, standing properly and looking down at her. She sits up again, letting her legs fall so they’re wrapped around his hips. “I, uhm…”

She tilts her head. The bed is down low, and she’s looking up at him, her head tilted all the way back, like he’s twenty feet tall, like she’s on the floor, and she’s never minded looking up at him like this. She feels small, of course she does, but it’s not scary like it used to be. Not with Lucas.

“I got into Berkeley.”

Max blinks.

“What?”

“I got the letter last week.”

“Lucas Charles Sinclair.”

He laughs, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders, and she shoves him away before grabbing him by the fabric of his shirt and pulling him back in, wrapping her arms around him tightly and falling backwards with him on top of her. He falls forward, catching himself on his forearms, laughing. She screams into his chest, squeezing him tightly.

“Lucas,” she says loudly when she finally lets him get up again, still gripping the fabric of his shirt. “That’s amazing, are you fucking kidding me—”

“Max,” he tries to interrupt, but she just shoves him weakly again. He laughs, catching her hands.

“Why were you so fucking nervous?” she asks, letting go of his shirt so her hands slip into his. He laces their fingers gently.

“I…”

He hesitates again, squeezing her hands, and he moves, sitting on the bed next to her. She turns to face him, crossing her legs, letting their hands fall to the bed between them.

“I have a question,” he says finally, looking up at her.

“Okay,” she says. “Go ahead.”

“So, uhm. I’ve talked with the student affairs, like, advisory team, whatever, and I explained that I have, like, a sleep disorder, and I can’t have a roommate, and I got special permission to live off campus, right—”

“Lucas,” Max says firmly. He stops. Looks at her. He looks shy. “What’s your question?”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes scanning her face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“...Will you come with me?”

Max blinks.

“Not— I— I know you don’t wanna go to college, and that’s fine, of course it’s fine, but I just— I know you hate it here, and I know you miss California, and that might be part of the reason I applied to so many schools in California, and I want you to come with me, if you want to come with me—”

Max leans in and crashes her mouth against his. It softens after a moment, and their hands separate so they can hold each other. Lucas’s hands settle on her neck, gentle and soft and warm, and she holds his face so intently her palms squish his cheeks. He’s smiling, and she can feel it against her own mouth, and she clings to him, pulling him as close as possible and groaning weakly when one of his hands slides down to her leg, gripping her gently when she moves closer.

“Is that a yes?” Lucas asks softly when Max pulls away to breathe, moving so she’s straddling his lap. She laughs, moving to cradle his face, her palms pressing his cheeks, squishing his face up so his lips pucker. Her eyes sting.

“Yes,” she says breathlessly, nudging her nose against his, letting their lips brush. “Of course, no fucking shit, Lucas—”

He’s laughing, holding her waist, tilting his head so she can kiss him again, and she’s gasping, sniffling as he runs his hands over the small of her back.

She starts to cry, and Lucas lets her, tilting his head to press soft kisses across her face.

“Do you— What’s your plan?” she asks, pulling away from him to look at his face. Her tears have left glistening spots on his cheeks. “When?”

Lucas is smiling, and he kisses her once more like he’s trying to calm her down, like he’s trying to get her to breathe.

“Well, we need to graduate first,” he says quietly, and she looks away, sighing heavily. He laughs, kissing her jaw. “Term starts in August.”

Max nods, looking at him intently.

“I was thinking we could drive,” he continues, his hands stroking her sides absently. “Have, like, a road trip. Maybe stop at the beach along the way.”

Max nods again, letting her hands fall from his face, slumping over a little so they’re eye-level. Lucas wraps his arms around her waist tightly, and he’s still looking up at her, his eyes shining like he’s pleading with her, like he’s still trying to convince her, like she could ever have said no.

“I talked to Owens,” he says. “He said rent and stuff would be taken care of, and we can find a place near campus, and I’ll have classes and stuff, but you can do whatever you want.”

She’s like a bobblehead.

“What are— Did you decide what you’re gonna study?” she asks. He glances away, and she tilts her head, smiling. “Hm?”

“ I can change it,” he says. “If I change my mind later on, I can change my major, but I…”

He goes quiet. Shy. He suppresses a crooked smile, and Max wants to squish him again, but she refrains.

“I wanna be a teacher,” he whispers.

Max beams, leaning down to press her forehead to Lucas’s, closing her eyes.

He’s talked about it before— of course he has. He loves kids, loves hearing the shit they say before they’ve been taught what they’re allowed to do and think. He’s always been Holly Wheeler’s favorite, always putting on dramatics to make her giggle and brighten after tantrums or meltdowns. Max remembers a few times that Lucas mentioned Holly waiting for him to arrive at the Wheelers’ to hang out to ask him for help with her homework— which Mike still will not let go of.

He’s conflicted about what grade level he’d want to teach, he’d said last time they talked about this. He last talked about teaching middle school.

“You’re gonna be a great teacher,” Max murmurs, smiling when Lucas kisses her lightly. “I have butterflies.”

Lucas grins.

“Feel like you just proposed.”

He laughs, kissing her cheek again.

“If I was doing that, you could expect a little more pageantry,” he says quietly.

“Not too much,” she murmurs.

He’s quiet again, brushing the end of his nose back and forth over hers. Max lifts her hands again, reaching up to touch his neck. She can feel his pulse when she lingers for a moment.

“...Would you ever want that?” he asks quietly.

“Hm?”

“To get married,” Lucas says softly.

Max hums quietly, thoughtfully, brushing her fingertips over his jaw.

“Never thought of myself as a blushing bride type,” she says, and Lucas laughs a little bit, tracing his fingertips over her waist. “But if it was you…”

“If it was me?”

“I’d marry you, Lucas Sinclair.”

“Yeah?”

“Someday,” she says lightly. “Eventually.”

Lucas suppresses a smile, his nose scrunching up, and he’s fucking adorable.

“Okay,” he says. “Cool.”

“Cool.”

She hugs him, wraps her arms around his neck and holds him tightly, and he sighs, running a hand over her back. He gets up after a moment, standing and moving to lay Max on the bed, pressing his face into her neck.

“‘M excited,” Max mumbles.

“God, me too,” Lucas says quietly. He sounds a little choked up, but she can’t see him, so she runs her hands over his neck and the back of his head. “Can we get a dog someday?”

“Yeah,” Max laughs softly. “What kind?”

“I dunno, a cute one. Can we name it something dumb?”

“Michael.”

Lucas snorts, burying his face in her neck, and it tickles. She recoils, laughing.

“You’re such an asshole,” Lucas says. “I’m telling.”

“Go ‘head.”

June, 1989

They graduate. Max wears a pair of pants— she’s the only girl to do so— and Lucas tells her as they’re walking to the auditorium that she’s handsome. She kisses his cheek.

The hats are stupid, and Max can’t wait to take hers off. It’s stuck to her head, bobby-pinned into her hair firmly. She can feel the pins digging into her scalp, and halfway through the valedictorian speech (Jessica Parsons talks so much), it feels like they’re reaching her skull. She might be bleeding.

She’s too far away from Lucas. They’re all arranged alphabetically, of course, but they’re seated in a way that places her closer to Mike than anyone else she really knows, and as they’re all sitting, she leans toward him to whisper that he looks stupid in the hat. He looks back and whispers, We all do, I’m not unique. It makes her laugh.

She feels far away from it all. She feels like that a lot lately— a lot in the past few years, actually— but it’s intense now, as she’s sitting, looking up at the stage in front of her, waiting patiently for her turn to walk across it, shake the principal’s hand, and take a piece of paper.

It feels stupid, and insignificant, and trivial, and she doesn’t understand why she feels this way. Everyone else looks so happy, like they’re excited about it, like it’s an opportunity, and it’s like she’s watching it all through a dirty window. It’s all fogged over. Blurry.

She taps on her legs, lifting her hands to clap only when Dustin is called, beaming brightly as he crosses the stage, and then again when Brianna Adkisson is called forward— she’s a nice girl, and she doesn’t deserve the shit the other kids have given her. She can’t help but smile when Lucas crosses, pointing somewhere into the audience, probably to Erica.

It’s not until Max is crossing herself that she hears Steve and Eddie. Steve is going that awful whistle of his, the loud, high-pitched whistle that Max has always hated, but she likes it right now, because she hears it. She can’t see Steve, can’t take the time she would need to spot him in the audience, but she knows he’s there, because he’s whistling as obnoxiously as humanly possible, and she can hear Eddie yelling something that she can’t really understand, but she recognizes his voice, and she knows even without seeing them that they’re sitting next to each other. They tend to do that these days. A few weeks ago, Max even found Eddie’s lighter in Steve’s car.

Max suppresses a smile. She shakes the principal’s hand, which is scratchy and too warm and probably filthy, and he says something like, “Congratulations,” to her, and she takes her diploma. It’s flat, a small, stiff folder, and she tucks it against her chest as she walks away again.

She supposes that if there’s anything to be excited about today, it’s the fact that she’s never going to have to step foot in Hawkins High School ever again. She’ll never have to read the vulgar graffiti sprayed across her locker, and she’ll never have to scrub it off in front of anyone who passes by. She’ll never have to hide in the bathrooms and ignore the way the farthest light flickers, and she’ll never have to hold her breath to hide away from the girls that look at her like there are maggots in her hair and mold on her nose. She’ll never have to rush through homework in the hallway before the bell rings or eat the shitty, lukewarm mush served in the cafeteria, and she’ll never have to wake up in a rush to catch the bus or hear what the kids say about her hair.

Mike is the first one she sees backstage, and people are hugging and crying and laughing, and he just looks at her, like he’s trying to gauge her thoughts. She smiles crookedly, and then he’s grinning, and then they’re hugging each other tightly, catching their diplomas between their chests.

“Michael Franklin,” Max whispers after a few moments.

“Fuck off, Mayfield.”

They’re just starting to release each other when they find themselves crushed between Dustin and Lucas, and Max feels claustrophobic, and she can’t really breathe in all the way, not when she’s being squeezed so tightly and Mike’s long hair is in her face, but she’s laughing, letting herself grin, letting her burning eyes squeeze shut, and she’s happy.

Steve brought a Polaroid camera, and he and Eddie take turns making the kids stand for photos. Max’s mother doesn’t show, which isn’t entirely surprising, but it doesn’t matter. Max doesn’t know how she would have felt if she did show, if it would put a damper on the day or if would allow her the slightest reason to make some kind of excuse for her mom, to think that she actually isn’t that bad because she showed up to Max’s graduation, to one of the biggest days of Max’s life.

It doesn’t matter anyway. She’s not here.

Steve is. And Eddie is. And Wayne is outside when they finally leave, waiting with small daisy bouquets for all of them, and he looks so sweet waiting by his car with his grease-stained hands full of flowers that Max bursts into tears, which terrifies the boys.

They have pizza at Steve’s house after what feels like hours of taking photos and more photos and more photos. Max’s feet hurt, and she’s not even wearing heels. She kicks her shoes off the second she steps foot in the Harrington house, and she strips her slacks off to lounge in the plaid boxers she stole from Lucas, and nobody says anything about it, or the scars that peek out from under the fabric. She eats two and a half pieces of pizza and Lucas finishes what she doesn’t, and Steve has a pack of orange Slices in the fridge with the Cokes that the guys prefer, and she falls asleep before they can even decide what movie to watch.

When she packs, she packs like she’s in a rush. She’s quiet, shoving clothes into the bags she’ll bring— a backpack, a duffle bag, a suitcase— and barely taking the time to fold it all. She’ll do it later. Probably.

Underwear, socks. Shirts, pants, shorts. She throws her dresses and skirts across the room, separating them from the clothes she actually likes, the clothes she’ll wear. Sweaters, two jackets, the only scarf she owns, a few hats. She shoves the shirts she’s stolen from Steve and Eddie into her duffle bag, the flannel Wayne gave her a few months ago.

She thinks she should feel sad, but she doesn’t. It’s an odd thing, whatever she’s feeling. Her heart is beating quickly, and her stomach aches, but she doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to change her mind or slow down. Her hands are shaking.

She pulls the photos from her wall, tosses the thumbtacks to the trash bin under her desk and misses, but they’re out of the way enough that she doesn’t worry about stepping on them. She tears down the posters— Kate Bush, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Sonic Youth— and rolls them up, wrinkling them and folding them when she pushes them into her backpack carelessly.

The cash she’d stashed in her desk has already been counted— $70.89— and zipped into a pocket in her backpack, and the letters she’s saved from El have been tucked into a copy of the Silence of the Lambs along with a few drawings sent to her by Will. When she dumps her cassettes into her duffle bag, they clatter and shake, tumbling over the pile of laundry under them. She takes a moment to zip the bag, careful not to snag it or rip the zipper.

“Are you going on a trip?”

Max startles, fumbling with the bag and dropping it on her bed as she spins around. Susan is in her doorway, leaning against it with her arms tight around herself, holding her cardigan closed like she’s cold, like it isn’t June.

She looks like shit. She’s smiling a little, and it makes Max angry.

She turns around again, grabbing her backpack and opening the front pocket to shove a pack of cigarettes in it, followed by her walkman and headphones.

“Is it a graduation trip? You wanted to go to San Francisco, didn’t you?”

Max doesn’t even remember saying that to her. It’s not that she doesn’t want to go to San Francisco, but it’s not very high on her priority list. But, she supposes, neither is anything else. Except getting away. And maybe that’s why she’s shaking, why she’s breathing too fast— she’s packing to leave, to escape, and as she lingers, even to step around the things that litter her floor, the walls are closing in on her. She’s being stalked, out in the open like a rabbit hunted by hawks.

“I’m leaving,” she says bluntly, her voice empty and absent. Flat.

“Where to?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, because she doesn’t want her to know. Doesn’t want her to follow, not that she even would, honestly. It’s none of her fucking business, and she can’t talk Max out of any of it. Nobody can.

“When will you be back?”

Max stops, rolling a shirt over her hand messily and hesitating. It’s one of Lucas’s shirts, thin and worn, so soft it feels like a layer of gauze. She turns around, setting the shirt on top of her backpack, and she knows she’s glaring at Susan, knows her expression has shifted into something hostile and mean.

“I’m not coming back,” she says quietly, her voice flat. Susan blinks, her head tilting, and it makes Max angry, like Susan is putting it on, like she’s pretending to be confused and sweet.

“What do you mean?”

Max stares back at her.

“I’m leaving,” she says firmly. “I’m moving.”

Susan blinks again, shaking her head and smiling half-heartedly, like she’s trying to tell if Max is joking.

“What are you talking about?”

Max turns and pushes the shirt into the backpack, zipping it shut with a sort of finality, pulling the zipper too hard, and she doesn’t really have anything to actually be angry about right now. Susan hasn’t really done anything, unless Max counts the past four years.

“I’m leaving,” Max repeats, snapping it. “I’m going away, I’m moving out. I might be back for Christmas, but I don’t know.”

“Where— Where are you going?” Susan says, standing up straight, her eyebrows furrowing. “This is so sudden, Max, what do you mean you’re moving?”

“You don’t talk to me,” Max snaps. “You don’t know what’s sudden or not.”

It is sudden, and she knows it. She and Lucas have only talked about it for about a month, and it’s stupid. They’re kids, and moving in together so soon is a terrible idea, but she doesn’t care. They’re kids, and they’re in love, and Max has never wanted anything more in her life than she wants to share a bed with Lucas Sinclair.

“You’re going by yourself?”

“With Lucas,” Max says before she immediately regrets it. Because she doesn’t want Susan to know anything about her life now, doesn’t want her to know where she’ll be or who she’ll be with.

“Your boyfriend,” Susan says slowly, skeptically. “Max, I don’t… I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Max says. It sounds impetant, childish, and she’s really just a silly teenager, talking back to her mom. Rebellious. Ignorant. “I don’t care what you think, okay, you don’t get a say in this.”

Susan looks startled, and then she looks angry, her eyes shining brightly like she’s going to start crying. She always looks like that these days, her skin simultaneously pale and flushed like she’s sick, like she’s been up late throwing up or sobbing or both. She moves, steps away from the doorway toward Max like she’s going to slap her.

“I’m your mother,” she says, but Max doesn’t let her finish.

“You haven’t acted like my mother in fucking years,” Max says too loudly, pointing at her. “You don’t get to start acting like it now.”

“Maxine.”

“Fuck off,” Max yells. Her eyes burn, and she’s overreacting, she knows she is, but the walls are closing in, the room is shutting around her, and she’s trembling. “I’m going. You can’t— You can’t make me stay, and you can’t change my mind, alright?”

“Max,” Susan says, her voice breaking a little. She doesn’t look angry anymore. She looks sad, heartbroken, and Max ignores the pull it has on her heart. “Why are you doing this?”

“I can’t stay here,” Max says weakly. “This town is fucking hell, and I can’t stay here, okay? And I have the chance to go away, to go with somebody that I want to be with, and I’m not going to just let it pass me by—”

“I need you here, Max,” Susan pleads.

“I know,” Max says dryly. She knows. She does everything around here, and she’s tried to not complain about it, tried to not be ungrateful for the fact that she has a roof over her head at all. She cleans everything up, makes breakfast, lunch, and dinner, collects the bottles that litter the floors and counters, sorts through the mail, sticks reminders to the fridge that her mother can’t miss, reminders of rent to pay. Susan needs her. She knows. She’s shaking her head anyway.

“I’m going,” she says. “I can’t stay here, Mom.”

“Why not?”

“You.”

It keeps happening, this sudden, sharp breaking that snaps in her chest. She doesn’t think she’s angry, doesn’t think she’s upset, until she’s suddenly yelling. Until her heart is pounding and her hands are shaking, and she can’t see clearly.

“I can’t stay because of you,” she says. “Because you’re insufferable and infuriating and you treat me like shit, Mom, and I can’t stand it.”

“Max—”

“You’re not the same,” Max bursts, and Susan stops short, staring at Max like she’s got three heads, like she just spoke in a different language. “You’re not the same anymore, and I can’t find you.”

“Max.”

“Mom.”

They stare at each other. Susan’s face is creased, and her eyelids are lower than Max’s, her skin lined with her age, lined beyond her age— Max will look like her someday. She already shares her eyes, her hair, her freckles, her preference for vodka to tequila, white wine to red. She thinks about it sometimes, that she might end up like Susan, that she might have more in common with Susan that she just hasn’t discovered yet, and it’s terrifying. She doesn’t want to get older sometimes. She cried when she turned eighteen, even though she knew it was stupid. She’s still a teenager, still a kid, but she’s an adult. Closer to looking like Susan, closer to acting like Susan.

“You’re not nice,” Max says quietly. She’s eighteen. She’s an adult. But she sounds like a child right now, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “I don’t remember the last time you said you love me, and I don’t remember the last time you said something kind. You didn’t even notice when I cut all my hair, and you weren’t at my graduation, and—”

“I have a full-time job, Max—”

“So does everyone else,” Max says emphatically, gesturing vaguely. “So does Wayne, and he still fucking showed up with flowers, and so do Steve and Eddie, and so does everyone else’s mom, and you were the only one that wasn’t there. You didn’t even say anything the next time you saw me, it was like you didn’t even know—”

“Of course I knew—”

“You didn’t act like it,” Max insists. “But you know what—” She laughs a little, like she’s hysterical. “You know what, I’m actually glad you didn’t show up, because you just— you just would have ruined it, because that’s all you do.”

She’s being mean. She’s throwing a fit.

“I didn’t even want you there,” Max says. “Because I could celebrate without you, right, because I knew how, because I know how to live my life without you, okay? I can do that. I don’t need you. You need me, because you don’t know how to live your own fucking life without making everybody around you miserable, but I don’t need you.”

“Max…”

“I used to need you,” Max continues, frantic, hysterical. “I needed you, because you were my mom, and you weren’t there, so I did it myself. I went to school, and I went to therapy, and I cried myself to sleep by myself because you weren’t there.”

“Where do you think I was—”

“I don’t know,” Max yells. “I don’t fucking know where you were, Mom, where the fuck were you?”

Susan falls quiet. She looks heartbroken, and Max hates herself, because Susan’s ache forms some kind of vindication in Max’s chest, some cruel satisfaction that her pain is shared now.

“I watched him die,” Max says as firmly as possible. Susan flinches, shrinking back a little like she’s the one watching it on repeat in her head. “I watched his chest stop moving, and I held him, and I— I got his blood under my fingernails.” She’s panting, gesturing vaguely to her hands, like it’s still there, the deep red caught in the creases of her palms like she’s been cradling him.

There was a lot of blood. She had tried staunching it, like his eyes weren’t already dull and glassy, like she could have helped at all. El had had to pull her away, and then Steve had had to carry her out of the mall, to an ambulance so they could look her over. She was fine.

She washed her hands when she calmed down. She was there for hours, scrubbing soap into pink suds, digging it out from under her nails, until Lucas found her and guided her to rinse her hands before turning the water off. He’d been murmuring, whispering like he didn’t even notice himself talking. They’re clean. They’re clean.

He’d told her the same later, that her hands were clean, that she was okay, that it wasn’t her fault. And she’d argued until she gave up, until she couldn’t stand to listen to how kind he was to her, until she couldn’t handle it.

“That doesn’t go away,” Max chokes, her voice trembling, her hand trembling as she lifts it and points at Susan like she’s trying to stab her with it. “That stayed, and you— you went away!”

“Max—”

“I fucking looked for you, Mom,” Max says, and she’s yelling now, but she can barely hear herself. She can barely even see. “I looked for you, and you weren’t there, and I fucking tried, so hard, to find you, and to see you, and I needed my mommy, and she wasn’t there.”

They’re standing close now, and they’re eye to eye. Max hadn’t noticed herself grow so tall, or maybe she hadn’t noticed how small Susan is— Has she always been so small? Has she always been so much less than Max thought she was?

“Why the fuck would I stay?” Max says, her voice thick. “I have nothing to stay here for.”

“...I need you,” Susan says pitifully. Her eyes are swimming with tears. Max hesitates, staring at her, watching a tear fall down her cheek, and her entire body aches. She feels like she’s five years old, like she’s just found her first loose tooth.

“I don’t care,” she whispers weakly. “Mom, I…”

She stops, swallowing the lump in her throat, and for a brief moment, she wants to take it all back, to apologize on her knees and beg for her mother’s forgiveness— She wants Susan to forgive her, to press a kiss to her head and brush her hair back like she did when Max was little, when her hair was long.

“I’m sorry your husband is in prison,” she says instead, and it sounds flat and blunt and mean, but she means it. “And I’m sorry your second husband left you, and I’m sorry you’re miserable all the time, okay, and I—”

She can’t read Susan’s expression. Her eyes are wide, glistening, and her mouth is turned into a frown like she’s suppressing it, forcing her lip to be still. The lines in her skin are deeper, creasing her like she’s aged ten years since she walked in the room.

“You don’t deserve your pain,” Max says softly, gazing at her. “But I don’t either.”

“Max, honey…”

“So I’m leaving,” Max continues, nodding to herself, resolute. “Because I hate this town, and I’m miserable here, and I’m going away with someone that loves me, and respects me, and is nice to me even when he’s drunk.”

He is nice when he’s drunk. He’s silly, and he’s sweet, and he makes Max feel like her life isn’t real. (She feels like that a lot, though.) When they were all drinking in the Wheelers’ basement the other night, Lucas pushed Max’s arms aside and climbed right onto her lap, tucking his face into her neck like he was half her size, right in front of Mike and Dustin, like he didn’t care if they saw him letting himself be so small.

He’d talked to her when the others had fallen asleep, his whispering voice muffled in her neck, something about loving her so much, something about her smelling good.

“We might be back for Christmas,” she says, finally turning away, tearing her eyes away from Susan’s, moving back to the bed and picking up her backpack. “But I don’t know yet.”

“Max, I’m—”

“I don’t want to listen to you apologize to me,” Max snaps, stopping her before she can get to it. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

Susan is quiet for a few moments, and Max pretends she isn’t there, turning to roll up another shirt and stuff it into the backpack.

“Will you come see me?” Susan asks. Her voice is quiet now. “If you come for Christmas?”

“...Maybe,” Max says. “I don’t know.”

More silence. She can hear Susan breathing, can hear her crying, and she ignores it, keeps her back turned so she doesn’t have to see it, because she doesn’t want to remember that. Doesn’t want Susan’s glistening eyes to intrude on her dreams, to replace Billy’s.

“Do you need anything?” Susan asks shakily, and Max kind of hates this even more than if Susan had stayed angry. “I can— I can see if we have any other bags, or I can get some food for your tri—”

“Can you just let me pack,” Max snaps over her shoulder. It doesn’t leave any space for Susan to refuse. “Please.”

Susan lets her pack.

July, 1989

It’s all bittersweet. Every last part of it. It makes Max’s jaw hurt.

She aches all the while, muttering quiet goodbyes into her friends’ ears and letting them hold her a little longer than is probably necessary. Eddie and Steve hold her between them, her face crushed between their chests, and she lets it happen, lets them run their hands over her head, lets them coo at her like she’s a baby, or a small dog, lets them be silly so they don’t cry. They’re both so much mushier than they act.

Their final goodbye is at the Sinclairs’, following their departure from the Munsons, where they left Eddie and Steve lingering on the doorstep, their arms around each other like proud parents seeing their kid off for the first time. They mirror Charles and Susan, down to the wave as Lucas’s car pulls away, and as they’re headed down a road of no return, Max closes her eyes, and she thinks of them.

They pass by the sign that’s posted just outside Hawkins, the one that’s been graffitied and vandalized, the one that reads WELCOME TO HAWKINS and COME AGAIN SOON, as though Hawkins is a hot spot for tourists and adventurers. They’re quiet. Lucas’s hand rests on Max’s leg, just above the bend of her knee, and she holds onto it, letting her fingers lace with his, squeezing and tugging like she’s fidgeting. She looks at him and watches him drive for a while, watches the way he moves the steering wheel with ease, watches the way he bites his lower lip like he’s thinking too hard about something.

They don’t even have the radio on. Max can only hear the world going by, the blur of passing cars and landscapes. And it’s fine. Neither of them says anything for a while.

And then Lucas speaks, as they’re stopped at a red light a few towns over, the car alone at the intersection. The town must not be much bigger than Hawkins— quiet and desolate and kind of depressing to look at.

“What are you thinking?”

Max shrugs because she can feel him looking at her, and then she sighs.

“Nothing much.”

“No?”

“Mm-mm.” She hesitates. “Just… I don’t know. Excited. Nervous.”

Lucas hums.

“Me too.”

“You’re the one going to college, you should be excited and nervous.”

“You’re also allowed to be excited and nervous.”

Max doesn’t say anything, and Lucas doesn’t make her. The light turns green.

Their hands twist so their fingers can lace, and she looks outside. She watches the town go by, the brick buildings and the cracked sidewalks, and her chest hurts.

Because she hates Hawkins, okay? She never liked it, not when she was a kid and moving across the country was a big adventure, not when she was lonely and disposable, not when she had friends and fell in love, not when she felt better than she had in years, and not when she was leaving. The town is a shithole, never mind that the cafe on the corner of Cornwallis and Hamilton makes the best cinnamon rolls she’s ever had in her life (and they didn’t even stop by to get any for the road!) and old Mr Cooper’s dog always wagged his tail like he was trying to achieve lift off when he saw Max coming to give him a treat, and that the rain sounded divine hitting the roof outside Lucas’s bedroom, and that when she laid on the roof of the trailer it was like she could see every star in the sky.

And she’s trying to focus on curing her homesick for California, for bright days and the warmth of sun on her skin— her freckles are going to be more prominent, even the ones on her shoulders— but she can’t help but feel like she’s going to be homesick for fucking Hawkins, Indiana. For her nightmares and the monsters that follow her around, lurking just outside her periphery, tucked in shadows and empty liquor bottles.

Her stomach hurts.

At the next red light, she tugs at Lucas’s hand. He turns toward her like he already knows, like he always knows, his head lolling lazily, his lips curved into a barely-there smile. He falls toward her easily when she pulls him in by his neck, humming softly, and she can feel the vibration of his voice against her palm, which makes her fingers tighten, which makes him hum again. He touches her face, lingering close. She can feel his eyelashes flutter against her skin.

“Lemme pull over,” he murmurs when they part, smiling at the way Max leans to follow him, to chase him, and she groans dramatically. He laughs.

It only takes a minute, and Max is as patient as she can be, resting her head back to watch him lazily, suppressing a smile when he glances over at her. He looks almost suave, smug, as he parks the car, glancing around to make sure they’re alone, which they are— They’re in some kind of lovers’ lane area, secluded and cliche.

Max kisses him, and he lets her like he always does, and then he’s reaching down, unbuckling himself and pulling a lever so his seat slides back, and Max is giggling, unbuckling her seatbelt so she can climb across the center console.

He laughs into her mouth, hugging her close, his arms wrapping around her waist, his chin lifting so their mouths don’t separate. Max hums, melting against him, relaxing in his lap, falling against his chest. He’s so warm, he always is, and it’s fucking July, but she thinks she’s always cold.

Lucas’s hands slide across her waist, running up under her shirt, his fingertips pressing into her skin like he’s fighting the urge to rip her open. He’s making these noises, soft and weak in the back of his throat, and Max wants to feel them, so she presses her hand to his neck. He groans, nodding, holding her firmly against him, shifting a little under her.

He reaches up and pushes a hand into her hair, tugs it a little, runs his fingers through it tenderly. She squeezes his throat a little, the way he likes.

He’s touching her almost reverently, pulling her down against himself, biting her lip, and Max feels too warm, but she isn’t moving away.

She has butterflies. She’s shaking.

“Fuck, I’m…”

Lucas nods again, pulling away enough to brush their noses together. He’s panting, his breath cooling the spit that’s spread across her mouth. His hand is slow as he slides it down, rubbing her skin like he’s massaging it, tucking his fingers under the waistband of her pants for a moment, asking, lingering.

She shifts to let him in, arching her back. She can feel him looking at her that way he always does, eyes wide, unblinking, like he’s awestruck.

“Is that good?” Lucas asks softly, like it’s any question at all, like it could possibly not be good. “You like it?”

“Yeah,” Max chokes, nodding, squeezing his neck again and listening to him moan softly. “It’s good, of course it’s fucking good—“

“Yeah?”

“Shit, that’s…” Max moans quietly, rolling her hips a little, reaching to clutch at his wrist, clinging to where his hand is tucked under her pants, feeling his muscles flex and shift as he rubs faster. “Lucas.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Lucas murmurs. “I love you so much.”

“Fuck, can we…”

“Yeah,” Lucas says breathlessly, nodding, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. It takes too long for them to actually move, to pull away so Max can pull her pants off and toss them aside, so she can open Lucas’s jeans and pull his dick out.

“Shit.”

Max laughs, watching his eyes close, his head fall back, his lips curve into a smile.

They’ve done this before, grabbed condoms out of the glove compartment and found their way in the confined space of the driver seat. It’s stupid, and it’s silly, especially out here in the middle of nowhere, and Max loves it. Loves being a stupid, silly, reckless teenager.

“Fuck—“ Lucas laughs when Max lowers on his lap, his hands clutching at her hips, holding her tightly. “You’re so warm.”

”You say that every time,” Max says quietly, holding his neck again, leaning in to kiss him.

“It’s true every time.”

Max watches his face, shifting her hips, and he laughs again because he knows her, knows that she’s just playing with him. She grins, reaching down to pull the lever on the side of the seat, and it falls back abruptly. Lucas falls with it, letting out a laugh, his head leaning back so his throat is exposed.

Max leans down and kisses his neck, closing her eyes. She can feel the vibration of his voice against her mouth when he moans.

“You’re gorgeous,” Max murmurs. “Feels so fucking good.”

“I love you,” Lucas whispers. “I love you so fucking much, you know that?”

“I know,” she breathes. “I do know.”

Max slides a hand under his shirt and plants it on his chest, holding herself up. He holds her hand in place, fingers around her wrist, and it’s good. It’s all good.

He doesn’t last long, which he tends to be embarrassed about, tends to apologize for, but Max loves it. She loves feeling him tremble under her, loves seeing his eyes squeeze shut and his lips part to let out a sweet moan, loves the way his hands tighten.

And she loves it when he holds her down on him, grips her hips so she can’t get off of him, and whimpers something like, “No, keep— keep going—“

He throws his head back, moaning and whining, and Max knows what he wants, so she gives it to him. She moves, bounces in his lap and kisses him messily, grabs at his throat so she can feel his voice in her hand, presses her fingers into his mouth and against his tongue to quiet him down. He gazes up at her, holding her wrist so she won’t move her hand, sucking on her fingers like he’s dying for it, his eyes glistening. She cradles his face, caresses it with her free hand, and tears fall from his eyes when they flutter shut.

She’s trembling when she comes, from her thighs to her fingers, and Lucas must be able to feel it on his face, on his neck. He hugs her waist, sitting up to hold her as close as he can, and she finds herself crying.

It’s good crying. She’s smiling, pliant and heavy as Lucas kisses down her neck, pressing a hand into the small of her back, as he murmurs into her ear so closely she can feel his lips brushing against her skin. She groans dramatically when he pushes her off of his lap, as he slides her underwear back into place and puts her back in her seat. She’s almost ready to jump him for a second round when he lifts her so easily.

He gets dressed. Ties the condom and throws it in the trash bag before he rummages through one of their bags in the backseat and throws a pair of his basketball shorts at her. They land across her face, and she snorts, shaking them off her head before she pulls them on.

They share a water bottle. They hold hands across the console, and Lucas kisses each of her knuckles.

“I’m happy,” Max whispers after a while, looking at him. The sun is shining on him, and his eyes are glowing,

“Yeah?”

”Yeah.”

“You’re not gonna regret leaving?” Lucas asks quietly, and it sounds like a joke, like he’s being silly, but he also sounds somber, almost shy, like he’s nervous about her answer. “You don’t think living together is a bad idea?”

“Do you?” Max whispers.

Lucas looks up at her, still tracing her knuckles, peering at her through his eyelashes.

“I could never regret anything about you,” he says softly.

Max’s eyes burn a little, and her mouth twitches into a weak smile as she gazes at him, her fingers tightening on his. He’s quiet, looking at her like he’s hopeful, and her heart aches.

“When are you going to really get that I feel the exact same way you feel about me?”

He blinks, like he’s caught off guard, his eyes flicking back and forth between hers, and then they’re glistening a little bit, and his lips are curving into a tentative smile.

“I get that,” he says quietly. “‘S just unbelievable sometimes.”

“Well, believe it,” she says. “‘M not going away anytime soon. You could move to fucking Utah and I’d go with you.”

He laughs.

“You could move to the Upside Down, and I’d go with you if I got to hold your hand.”

Max shakes her head, letting out a huff of laughter when he grins, squeezing his hand.

“You’d call me crazy.”

“I already do that.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

She looks at him, lifting her chin like she’s defiant, but he’s gazing, and grinning, and he’s still rubbing her knuckles like he hasn’t even noticed that he’s doing it, and she melts. She falls forward to kiss him, pulling his hands closer to herself, because yeah. She loves him.

August, 1989

Max clips the visitor pass onto the bottom of her shirt, and it hangs, hitting her leg with every step she takes. She can hear it, smacking her thigh, the metal of the clip jingling a little bit, and she wants to take it off and just hold it, but she was told to clip it to her shirt.

They’d checked her ID, made sure she was eighteen (and ten months), asked her some questions about what she was doing here, where her mother is, is she sure she was wants to see him. She’d answered them until she got sick of it, and maybe she shouldn’t have snapped at a prison guard with a gun, but she did. You think being a criminal is fuckin’ genetic?

He’d seemed to find it funny. Of course he did. Men tend to find Max amusing.

She sits, and she waits, and she looks around. It’s a boring room, bland brick walls coated in heavy layers of white paint, dusty-looking plastic windows that can’t shatter. A phone that probably fucking filthy. She doubts it’s been cleaned recently, if ever. There are guards standing around, hanging out like there aren’t guns holstered to their belts, and she hates them. It probably looks suspicious, but she avoids looking at them, avoids eyeing their guns and their heavy black shoes. In her mind, they’re in hazmat suits and gas masks, and the guns are heavier and louder, and she doesn’t want to be thinking about that.

Not when she sees her father through the murky plastic in front of her, led toward the booth opposite her, freezing and staring at her like she’s a ghost.

It’s been a while. And she wonders if she looks like Susan.

She sees him mouth her name. Or maybe he’s saying it out loud. She wouldn’t know.

He sits down in front of her, and she wishes the window was new, clear and clean, instead of whatever it is right now. It’s dusty, warped just the slightest bit.

He doesn’t look like she remembers. He’s older, of course he is, and he’s balding a little. His hair is darker, greying at his temples, and he has a beard. It’s the same brown as his hair. He has wrinkles, resting lines on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth, and she thinks he looks older than he should.

They’re just staring at each other, taking each other in, and she can feel that security guard looking at them, watching them curiously, until they finally reach for the phones. He reaches for it first, and she copies. Her hands are shaking, so she tightens her fingers around it as she lifts it to her ear.

“...Max.”

His voice.

It’s rough, like he smokes, and she suddenly realizes that she doesn’t know if she even remembers him smoking. She remembers him drinking, but there might have been some cigarettes in there too.

Her throat tightens, and she pauses to swallow, hesitating.

“Hi, Dad.”

“You…”

He glances past her, looking, and she stops him.

“She’s not here. It’s just me.”

His eyes find her again, and he nods a little, like he can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it, and then he moves forward, closer to the window, his eyes moving like he’s analyzing her, like he’s committing her to memory.

“What are you doing here?” he asks quietly. He sounds staticky over the phone.

“I wanted to see you,” she says before she immediately regrets it. “I was in the area.”

“Well hi,” he says, laughing a little, smiling, and he looks so much like her dad when he smiles. Her chest hurts. “How have you— What are—”

He stops, shaking his head a little.

“Wanna start over?” Max asks, and he laughs again. It lights the room.

“How have you been?” he asks.

How has she been.

Maybe the worst question he could ask, really. She doesn’t fucking know.

She stares at him, and he stares back, patient. Has he always been this patient? He doesn’t look annoyed with how long she’s taking, he doesn’t look like he’s rushing her or waiting on anything.

“I…”

“...Not so good, huh?” he says. Like he gets it. Like it’s all over her face, like someone’s written BEEN THROUGH SOME SHIT on her fucking forehead.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “No. I haven’t… We haven’t been too good.”

He hums softly, nodding, looking at her.

“Do you wanna tell me about it?”

She scoffs, and he smiles hesitantly.

“I, uhm. There isn’t much I can actually tell you,” she says. He looks confused. “Never mind, we, uhm…”

She takes a breath, looking at the ceiling for a moment before she looks back at him, and he’s staring back at her already.

“Mom got married again,” she says. “We moved.”

“Where did you go?”

She pauses again. And she hates that she came here, that she’s talking about this with anybody at all, because part of her wants to leave it all behind, wants to forget about every last piece of it, even if it will never leave her alone.

“You’ve heard of Hawkins,” she says quietly. “Haven’t you.”

It’s not really a question. Of course he’s heard of it.

“Yeah, on the news,” he says. “All that weird shit.”

She nods slowly.

“Mom’s husband got a job there,” she says. That’s what they said prompted the move, so she isn’t really lying. She doesn’t tell him that they moved because Max got into a fight with a kid at school and broke his nose and got expelled. That it embarrassed Neil enough to move the four of them out to the middle of fucking nowhere, where no one knew their names. She doesn’t tell them that the move was her fault. That they all blamed her for it. “They got a house.”

“And all that stuff that’s happened…” Joseph says slowly, hesitantly, like he isn’t sure he actually wants to hear it.

“I was there,” she says quietly. “The— The mall fire and everything. I was there.”

Her throat tightens. She hasn’t talked about this in a long time. She doesn’t think she’s really been trying to forget about it, but she tries to keep it off her mind as much as possible. The lights, the yelling. The blood. The smells.

They’ve never talked about how the Mindflayer smelled. Christ, it was fucking rancid, like rotting meat and stomach acid. It was everywhere, especially when it started burning, when it turned to smoke in the air, in their lungs. Max was worried that it would get them all sick, that they would come down with some weird alien disease, but she decided soon after that she didn’t really care.

“My stepbrother died there,” she says, her voice a little too strong. Overcompensating. Like she’s defiant. “In the— the fires. I saw it.”

She doesn’t tell him that she’d held him, that she’d wept over his body like she’d loved him. That she’d had to scrub his blood from under her nails. That it feels like it’s still there.

“God,” Joseph says softly. He’s looking at her like he’s heartbroken. “Max, I’m so sorry, how have you— You’ve been getting help? Or…”

“I did,” she says. “For a— a while, I saw the shrink at the school, but she… She was nice, she just wasn’t much help, I guess.”

“And now?” Joseph asks, like he’s about to hand her a list of recommendations, like he’s actually worried. “Are you getting any help now?”

“I’m fine,” she says softly. “I’ve… I have a good support system.”

And she’s suddenly overtaken by the urge to tell him all about them, about the Party, her friends. To explain how El and Will are siblings even though they didn’t meet for a good long while, how Dustin builds robots and radios and Erica rants about My Little Pony lore whenever Max will listen. How Lucas kisses her temple when she can’t sleep and how Mike sometimes sits outside the trailer with her just to smoke in silence. How Robin gave her old hand-me-downs when she was clearing out her room for college, t-shirts and button-downs two sizes too big, how Max is pretty sure Steve and Eddie are a thing now, because she saw them leaning against each other a while ago when she came by the Munsons’ for a coffee. (Steve had been dozing, laying across the sofa so he was resting against Eddie, and Eddie’s arm was around him, holding him like he was keeping him in place.) How Wayne let her call him Dad and how Lucas’s parents want her to be in their next family Christmas photo.

He doesn’t look like he believes her, but he seems to let it go.

“And your mom?” he asks quietly. She wishes he’d just say her name.

She shakes her head slowly.

“She, uhm. She’s not doing so great.”

He stares.

“Neil— her— her husband, he couldn’t take it when Billy died,” she says. “And he just… left.”

Joseph’s expression tightens a little bit, and he doesn’t say anything, still looking at her through the fucked up plastic. She wishes it wasn’t there. She can’t see him as clearly as she’d hoped she would.

“We moved into a trailer park,” she continues. “And Mom— she started drinking. A lot.”

Joseph exhales. She can hear it over the phone, staticky and drawn out like he’d been holding it in his chest. She can see the grief in him, even though the smudgy plastic.

“She’s not like she used to be,” Max says quietly. He nods.

“That happens sometimes.”

She tears her eyes away to take a breath. He has brown eyes— why hadn’t she inherited those? Would she really prefer to have brown eyes? Would she want to have anything from him at all?

“You graduated, right?” he asks, and she looks at him again. He’s almost smiling again, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “You turned eighteen recently, I figured you must be graduating this year unless you needed some extra time.”

It’s a nice way of saying that, she thinks. Sounds like something Wayne would say to Eddie.

“...You remember my birthday?”

He scoffs.

“Of course I remember your birthday,” he says. He makes it sound so obvious. “Why wouldn’t I remember your birthday?”

She shakes her head a little, looking away again because her eyes are burning, and she thinks it’s so fucking stupid.

Susan forgot her birthday. Max never brought it up to her afterwards because she didn’t want to listen to the arsenal of excuses she would have had, but it had broken her heart a little. Eighteen is supposed to be the big one, right?

But Joseph, locked in a cell, had remembered it. Had celebrated it even if only through acknowledgement. Max’s eyes sting, and she pinches her nose a little to ease the tightness of her throat.

“Can I ask you something?” she asks abruptly. Joseph blinks.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Of course.”

“Why’d you do it?”

He looks at her. Exhales like he’s stifling a sigh. It makes the phone staticky for a moment.

“Your mom never talked to you about…”

“She never told me anything,” she says when he doesn’t finish the sentence. “She never talked about it.”

She never talked about you, she doesn’t say.

Another nod. Another exhale. He’s quiet for a while, looking at the surface in front of him, at the little tray with the gap under it, like they’re at a bank. She supposes it is probably for cash.

“I had a sister,” Joseph says finally. “You never met her.”

Max looks at him, half-expecting him to say Just kidding and start over, because that’s absurd. She kind of feels like she’s just been thrown head-first into some weird kind of grief, mourning the aunt she could have stayed with after her mom started changing, the aunt she could have talked to about who her father is, who he was, when he was locked up.

But Joseph looks somber. He looks serious. And Max doesn’t actually remember what he looks like when he laughs, when he smiles, when he’s amused or trying to not give away a prank. When he wakes up in the morning or when he’s sick, when he eats something he likes or when he listens to his favorite music. Max doesn’t remember any of it, and all she knows about his face is this: flat and worn. Grave.

“She was older than me, seven years. When I was twelve, she was… she was nineteen, and she had just started college, and she was making friends, and going out, and…”

Max waits, stares as he gathers his thoughts some more. Patient.

“One day she came home— We lived pretty close to where she was going to school, but it was— it was unexpected. She wasn’t supposed to visit until Easter. And she just showed up out of the blue, and she was… She was a wreck.”

His gaze falls to the tray between them again, his eyes flickering across it like he’s watching it all happen again, like it’s in the vague scratches and scuffs of the tin.

He looks up at her again, his expression settling into light nonchalance.

“She was raped,” he says, his voice matching his face, but Max can see right through it. Can see the rage in him, the agony. “She was out with some friends, and someone slipped something into her drink— which was a ginger ale, it wasn’t even alcohol— and she woke up in the alley behind the bar. She went to the hospital, she went to the police, and nothing could be done.”

It sounds rehearsed. Like he’s said this all before, like he says it every single day. Maybe he does, at least to himself.

“I was twelve,” Joseph continues. He’s quiet. “Our parents didn’t really tell me what was going on, and I didn’t really understand what had happened to her, but I saw it destroy her. I watched her disappear right in front of me. She dropped out of college, she started drinking, she stopped seeing her friends and spending time with me, she just…”

He trails off, taking a slow, heavy breath, and Max recognizes the ache in his chest. It’s different. She knows it is. Of course it is. She has no right to compare herself to him, her mother to her aunt.

“And then she was gone,” he says lightly. “Cops showed up one day to tell us there had been an accident, but none of us really knew if it was an accident or not. We didn’t know with her.”

Max nods when he pauses, looking at her, and then he keeps talking.

“That night,” he starts. “I was out at a bar. You and your mom were at home. It was late. I was outside, and I was kind of…” He gestures vaguely, but it’s not easy while holding up the phone. “Around a corner. There wasn’t anybody there. I was by the kitchen exit, where they kept all the junk and garbage and stuff.

“And then— on the other side of the corner, by, like, where the cars were all parked, these two guys were talking. They didn’t know I was there, but I could hear them, and they were talking about…”

He pauses, and he’s looking at Max with such a pained expression that she suddenly wonders if she resembles her aunt at all. She’s always had a different face shape than her mother, the line of her jaw a little more square, the peak of her hairline a little more pointed.

“They were talking about slipping something into a girl’s drink,” he says quietly. Calmly. Like it’s practiced. “Their plans. One of them was gonna distract the girl, the other would drug her drink, and then they’d wait, and I…”

He’s quiet again, and even through the shitty plastic between them, Max can see that his eyes are glistening, and she wonders when he last cried. If he’s cried at all since being locked up, if that’s even a thing you can do here.

“And I was thinking of Grace,” he says. His voice is tight. Max blinks.

Grace.

“And I was thinking of you at home, and I was thinking of how that girl they were talking about had no idea what they were planning, and how it destroyed Grace completely, and I just…”

He exhales, looking at Max like he’s begging her to understand, to forgive him.

“I couldn’t let that happen to someone else,” he says softly. “I’d been drinking, and there was a wrench on top of one of the boxes next to me, and I…”

He stops. His face shifts into something like before, that forced nonchalance, even accompanied by a weak shrug, and Max is angry.

Because why had Susan never told her? Why had Susan never even mentioned that Max had an aunt, that she was named after her?

“Do you regret it?” she asks. Her voice breaks a little. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“I regret missing you,” he says. “And your life, and watching you grow up, and seeing you become…” He gestures vaguely, his eyes glancing across her face. “...This beautiful young woman.”

Her lip quivers, and she twists her mouth to keep it still, glancing away as she sniffs, blinking her eyes. She can feel him looking at her, committing her face to memory. She wonders if he’s wondering about her hair, why it’s cropped so short above her ears, why it isn’t long and elegant the way it’s supposed to be. But he doesn’t seem put off, doesn’t seem unsettled by it the way he could be— his expression doesn’t change as he looks at her.

“And I feel for their families, their parents and their siblings, because I know what grief feels like,” he continues, and he’s got that pained look in his eye again. “But I don’t regret it.”

Max’s lips part to say something, and she doesn’t even know what— I understand? It’s okay?— but he interrupts.

“I know I broke your mom’s heart,” he says quickly. “And I know I left you without a dad, and I am sorry, Max. I am.”

“I know,” Max says softly. “I believe you.”

“And it haunts me,” he says with a light laugh, like it’s unbelievable. “I see them every night— I didn’t even know their names until the trial, you know that? And the girl they were talking about, I had no idea who she was, you know, she probably didn’t even know…”

He lets out that laugh again, shaking his head.

He doesn’t say anything else, and Max feels stuck. Stranded. She doesn’t really know if there’s anything more to say, but it feels wrong leaving right now.

“I missed you,” she says. “Miss you.”

And Joseph’s eyes are gleaming again, and he looks fucking pitiful, and it’s breaking Max’s heart. She wonders if she would recognize him walking down the street, if she would be able to guess anything about him.

“I miss you too,” he says, almost whispering. “Every single day, Max, I think about you every day, and I’m…”

Max tears her eyes away, a hand darting to wipe away the tear that’s fallen down her cheek. She can’t really breathe, but she ignores the tightness in her throat.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” he says, choking on it a little. “I wasn’t there for any of it.”

“Why didn’t you write?” Max says. She tries to not sound angry, but she always sounds angry.

“Your mom didn’t want me to,” he says, shrugging a little. “She couldn’t stand to be a prison wife, and she wrote to me to tell me she was getting married. And not to write because you were moving away.”

Max stares at him. They moved right after Neil and Susan married, up to where Neil and Billy had been living, and it was a while before they moved to Hawkins.

He’s sincere. He’s telling her the truth, and even if she couldn’t see it written all over his face, she would believe him because she knows Susan. She knows how cruel she can be, even when she isn’t meaning to be. Even when she’s sober.

How fucking dare she? How dare she steal this from Max? A father? A father who actually gives a shit about her, about Susan, who actually would be willing to try?

She’s shaking with how angry she is, and she ignores it. Tightens her grip on the phone and presses her other hand flat against the surface in front of her. It’s cold, and it feels nice against her palms.

“I am sorry, Max,” he says again when she wipes another tear from her face.

“I’m not mad at you,” she says sharply before she softens her voice. “I’m not— I’m not mad at you.”

“Are you sure?”

She lets out a wet laugh, and he cracks a smile, and it’s nice to smile with him.

“I’m sure, I’m… I’m mad at her.”

His smile fades. He looks sad.

“You don’t get along with her anymore?”

Max hesitates, sniffling a little.

“I’ve tried,” she says softly. “She’s not so easy to get along with when she’s always so…”

She trails off, shaking her head, because she doesn’t really know what she’s saying about her. When she’s always drunk, when she’s always tired, when she’s always stressed. When she’s always angry, and bitter, and lonely.

“You don’t live with her anymore?” Joseph asks, interrupting Max’s spiral.

“Uh, no, I actually just left,” she says. “A few weeks ago.”

“Where are you now?”

She hesitates once more.

“My— My boyfriend got into Berkeley," she says, unable to suppress a proud smile. “So we have a little place in San Francisco that we’re…” She trails off. Shrugs. “Living.”

It feels weird to say.

Living.

That she’s living someplace, that she has a place to go home to. They have a bed that they share, that they usually end up tucked together on one side of, with tangled blankets and pillows they keep accidentally swapping. There are still things to get— another rack to hang clothes on, a spare key, pots and pans and utensils, a shelf for their books— but she can’t wait to get back, to curl up in the corner of the shitty sofa that was in the living room when they moved in, to sip the coffee Lucas makes her in the mug that Wayne and Eddie gifted her.

“He must be smart,” Joseph says, and Max’s chest aches. She smiles.

“He is,” she says. She’s practically grinning, and it’s made Joseph smile too, like it’s contagious. Like he likes seeing her like this.

“What’s his name?”

“Lucas,” she says. “He drove me here today.”

“Why didn’t he come inside?” Joseph asks, glancing past her again like he’s going to spot Lucas lingering behind her. But he’s out by the car, hanging out in the shade and reading a book. “I’d like to meet him. If that’s okay.”

Max looks at him.

He does look nicer than Billy, but Billy always had a way of making himself look so fucking charming. Joseph’s eyes are shining earnestly, and he looks almost excited about it, about the concept of meeting Max’s person.

“People don’t always… People don’t like that we’re dating,” Max says choppily. He blinks, his eyebrows furrowing a little bit. “My step-brother especially, he was… He tried to get me to stop hanging out with him and stuff, even though we were just friends, and he was really fucking… gross. About Lucas. And— And people stare at us, especially back in Indiana, but sometimes even in the city, and I just…”

She pauses again, looking at him, and she sets her jaw, her shoulders pushing back a little almost defiantly.

“If you’re gonna be a racist dick, I don’t want him to have to deal with that.”

He blinks again, and Max sees it dawn on him.

And then he nods a little, looking down. Thinking. Max waits, staring at him, ready to hang up the phone.

“...Your step-brother sounds like he was a piece of work.” A laugh bursts out of Max, and she claps a hand over her mouth when a few other people glance in her direction. Joseph laughs quietly, his eyes sparkling. “Probably shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but—”

“No, he— he was a piece of shit,” Max says, nodding. “Him being dead doesn’t change that.”

Joseph laughs a little again, and he’s just looking at her again, his gaze soft.

“I understand why you’d be hesitant to tell me,” Joseph says softly. “But really, I… Max, I don’t give a shit.”

Max laughs again, blinking tears back.

“He’s good to you?” Joseph asks. Max nods. “Okay.”

Max looks away again, tilting her head back to look at the ceiling. The divider between them goes all the way up, and somehow she’s never felt so far away from him.

“Oh, I have, uhm…” She trails off, setting the phone down so she can reach into her pocket, leaning over so the papers slide out easily before she picks the phone up again. “I have this picture of us.”

She passes it under the plastic, and she can hear it hit the tin tray. She leaves the other piece of paper folded in front of her. Joseph doesn’t seem to question it, his attention on the photograph as he picks it up and looks at it, smiling.

Max knows the photograph well. It was taken in the Wheelers’ basement by Mike. Max is talking to someone, complaining about sometime, mid-sentence, her lips parted to let out whatever she was saying, looking to the side. And Lucas.

Lucas is looking at the camera, and he’s grinning, his arm around Max’s neck, holding her close as though she isn’t also clinging to him, her arms around his waist. His eyes are shining, amused and blissful, perfectly content to have their photo taken. Mike had taken a lot of photos that night.

“He makes you happy,” Joseph says, looking intently at the photo.

“He does.”

Joseph hums, still staring at it, and it takes him a few moments to move before he finally looks up at Max thoughtfully.

“I know my opinion isn’t really worth much,” he says slowly. “Considering I’ve been absent almost your whole life. But I…” He hesitates, looking at the photo again. “I like him.”

Max beams, and it makes her face sore, but it feels good. She doesn’t remember the last time she smiled like that.

“Can I keep this?” Joseph asks, holding the photo up. “The only photo I have of you is from your fifth birthday.”

Max blinks.

“You took photos on my birthdays?”

“Yeah, of course I did,” Joseph says like it’s obvious. “On your fifth your mom made you this cake with flowers and stuff, it— it looked like a flower pot? I don’t remember how she did it, but it took her hours and she swore she’d never do it again, but you loved it so much you didn’t wanna eat it.”

Max is crying.

She’s suppressed it as much as she could, but somehow, a birthday cake she has no memory of is the last straw. Tears are falling down her face too quickly for her to catch them all, and she hates the feeling of wetness on her cheeks, nestling in the corners of her mouth before falling to her jaw, her chin.

She misses her mom.

She’s been missing her mom for a long while.

“She’s not making you cakes these days?” Joseph asks, watching her cry, unable to do anything about it but look. Max shakes her head, wiping her face on the back of her hand.

“No, she, uh… She’s not making much of anything these days.”

Joseph nods. Purses his lips. Max hesitates, taking a breath and wiping her face clean as he waits.

“I, uhm…” She pauses, wiping her hand on her leg and darkening the fabric with her tears before she reaches for the folded paper in front of her and slides it under the plastic onto the tray. “I brought her address.”

He stares at her. Unfolds it with one hand. He looks at it, and he seems to read it several times.

Susan Hargrove

56 Forest Hills Trailer Park

Hawkins Indiana 25276

And Max wonders what it is that’s got his attention. If he’s looking at her handwriting— he’s never seen it before— or if it’s the words trailer park he’s distracted by. Or if it’s Hargrove.

“Max, she—“

“She didn’t wanna be a prison wife,” Max interrupts. “I know, but she…”

She hesitates, and her eyes burn again, and she really hates crying. Joseph is looking at her, quiet, his expression pinched like he’s worried.

“She doesn’t have anyone,” Max says, trying with all her might to keep the guilt out of her voice. “She’s in that stupid town, and her husband left her, and she doesn’t have any friends, and she’s all alone, and she—“

She cuts off, her throat tight enough that it shuts her up, and she looks away, blinking hard.

“She still loves you,” she says.

Her voice is thick, and it cracks a little, and she’s in fucking public right now, she shouldn’t be crying—

But she is.

“I know she does,” she continues, “because she has your wedding photo by her bed, and it’s the only photo in the house.”

Joseph blinks. He’s staring at her like he’s waiting for a punchline, for her to retract it all.

“She needs someone,” Max says insistently. “And it’s not gonna be me, and Wayne said he’d keep an eye on her, but she doesn’t even know him, and she… She needs someone. She needs— She needs something to stay sober for.”

Joseph looks at her some more.

And Max knows grief. She’s felt grief. She and grief are very well acquainted.

But this is a different kind of grief.

Less guilt, less shame, less self-hatred. More… Sadness.

She’s sad.

She’s missed her dad more than she’d noticed, and he’s looking at her so kindly even though she’s a fucking disaster, even though she’s nothing like what she’s supposed to be. Even though she’s rough around the edges.

She missed her dad.

He was taken from her, even after being locked up, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever forgive her mom for taking him from her, for taking this from her. But her mom is lonely, and she’s drunk, and she’s fucking pitiful, and Max’s heart hurts, and

she misses her mom.

She feels like a child. Like she shouldn’t have been allowed in here alone, like she shouldn’t be left unsupervised. Like she has a loose tooth and she’s hoping for a dollar when it finally falls out.

She misses her mom.

And she can’t have her back, doesn’t want her back, but she at least wants her to be okay.

“Just… Write to her. Tell her you miss her.”

Joseph exhales. Looks at the paper again.

“Okay.”

Max looks away.

She takes a second to collect herself, looking at the clock even though it’s too blurry for her to read it, and for a moment she worries that she’s been here hours, that Lucas is still just sitting outside, bored out of his mind. But he did tell her to take her time, to not worry about him.

Joseph seems to think the same thing.

“I’d love to meet him,” he says softly. Smiling. Max can’t help it, and she smiles too. She wonders if they have the same smile, if she got it from him.

“…Another time.”

She sees it register with him, that she’s going to come back, that there’s going to be another time.

That there’s going to be more time. That they’re going to have more chances.

His smile grows.

Lucas is sitting on the hood of the car. He’s parked in the shade, and he’s reading a book, his head down.

He looks up when Max sits next to him, and neither of them says anything. His book closes. Max rests her head on his shoulder but she knows he can see that she’s been crying. He reaches for her hand. Their fingers lace. He’s always so warm.

“…I’ll tell you later,” she says softly.

“Okay,” he whispers.

He kisses the top of her head. She closes her eyes.

“We can stop at a gas station for some food on the way home.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“You wanna take a minute?”

“Yeah, just…”

She doesn’t even have to finish the sentence. He waits for her.

And they go home.