𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎.

𝙾𝚑, 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚜.

𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎.

𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢.

𝙽𝚘𝚠, 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠

𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎

𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘.

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠,

𝙸𝚏 𝙸'𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚠,

𝙸𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍,

𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕,

𝙸𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚜, 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗,

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜,

𝙸𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏,

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜.

𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑,

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑.

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎,

𝙾𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚜,

𝙾𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚜,

𝙾𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚑𝚘𝚕,

𝙾𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎.

By the end of the night, Eddie gave Lennon his leather jacket so she didn't freeze and after saying a very quiet and sleepy 'goodbye', she stumbled into the house and faced her very ill brother.

"You realize it's two in the fucking morning, right, Lenny?" Brontë grumbled sleepily.

He didn't care that it was late, he was simply concerned. He didn't expect her to get in so late and it was odd behavior for her to show up drunk enough to be stumbling to walk.

"You realize I don't careee?" she rolled her eyes and moved into the kitchen for some water.

Brontë sat in the living room with a blanket curled around his shoulders and a small trash bin at his feet. Lennon ran some water and turned her back on the sink as she drank. Her brother had uncurled from the blanket and approached her with a look of confusion as he studied the girl standing in the kitchen like she was barely conscious.

"Are you alright?" he asked nervously.

She had an unusually large leather jacket hanging off her frame, she was drinking water like she was dehydrated, and she looked exhausted. Between the state of her being and the time she came back, Brontë felt it was necessary to make sure she was okay.

Lennon had her eyes closed as she finished her drink and hummed amusingly. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?" she set the glass down in the sink and wobbled towards the living room.

"Because your face is as a baboons ass and you look like you've been dragged through the snow," he countered with a weary smile.

"Wellll... you should've been therrre," she sighed, walking up to Brontë and leaning her head on the wall between the hallway and the living room. "Harrington the Hemmoroid was extra irritating tonight."

"You know Steve's pretty upset with that name you've started about him," Brontë crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his sister for being so cruel.

"Yeah, well, the name holds up," she grumbled. "And I wasn't supposed to be going alone so..."

Her brother scanned her up and down and narrowed her eyes at her exterior. "Billy didn't do anything to you, did he?" Brontë was quick to snap at her protectively.

Lennon cringed and groaned and pulled herself upright with disgust. "Ugh, he didn't touch me, Bro. That is soooo over and done with," she yawned, scraping her feet against the floor as she trudged toward her room.

"What the hell does that mean?" Brontë rebuked. "I swear to God if he hurt you-"

"He didn't huuurt me," she whined and whipped around to face her insistent and overprotective brother. "Fuck, Bro... Caaalm down," she complained. "I'm just not interested in seeing him again..."

"The fuck did he do?" Brontë barked back angrily, sensing something was off in his sister's vague and nonchalant response. She never had flings or hookups and the fact she was acting so calm and unbothered about Billy wasn't convincing him that he didn't do something to hurt Lennon.

"Don't worry about it, Bro..." she complained. Her shoulders had slumped and she turned back to her room because she was tired and the emptiness she felt in the absence of Eddie made her want to sleep.

"Then whose jacket is that?" he continued to follow her down the other hall. "Who drove you home?"

"A friend dropped me off, Brontë. Why do you always make suuuch a big deeeal out of everything?" she rolled her eyes again and fell on top of her mattress with very little strength to stay upright.

"That's a dude's jacket. What friend?" he leered suspiciously from the doorway, watching her as she was draped lazily over her knees to untie her shoes. "I would be less worried if you stopped hiding things from me because the fact you hide things just tells me I have every reason to be worried! Innocent people don't have anything to hide, Lenny. You know that."

"Yeah, and I know if the jury doesn't like the truth then I'm fucked either way," she spat back, tossing one of her shoes into the corner of the room impatiently. "I'm being safe..." she groaned, pulling at her laces and staring at her untied shoe for a moment to collect her scattered and drunken thoughts.

"The truth is that I'm being safe and I'm happy but you don't think that and so then I'll be punished and I'll be fucking depressed at the same time. So, yeah, I don't really wanna tell you, Brontë. Thanks though," she shot back sarcastically and threw her other shoe in the corner.

She sighed and shrugged the jacket off her shoulders before gently laying it at the foot of her bed.

"What friend, Lennon?" Brontë furrowed his brows and shook his head in disbelief. "He didn't put his hands on you, did he-"

"I wish," she scoffed, falling back and pulling the backs of her hands to her forehead and smiling at the thought.

"Whuh-" Brontë furrowed his eyebrows ferociously and stared at his sister in utter shock. "The hell does that mean?" he asked in bewilderment.

Lennon hummed and shook her head slowly as she was caught up in a daydream.

"Lenny!" Brontë called out. "What the hell does that mean?"

She snickered and pulled herself further into bed so her head was on her pillow.

"That should passss your little tessst," she giggled and blinked unevenly. "He said he wasn't gonna touch me until I was sooober," she laughed maniacally before moving to take her earrings out since they were poking the sides of her head when she laid on her side.

"Len- Oh, my God. Lennon, who?" Brontë grew impatient with her avoidance and took a seat at the edge of her bed.

"Eddie Munson," she giggled with her eyes closed, holding her earrings in one hand and pressing her other hand to her brother's knee like it was funny.

Brontë felt the blood drain from his face but it was hard to be angry when his sister was giggling and shaking his knee like she was encouraging him to laugh with her. "That's a joke," he reeled back, staring at her shaking hand in disbelief. He thought maybe she was laughing because she was making a joke.

But little did he know, she was laughing because Eddie made her happy.

He made her happy and it was funny that no one wanted that for her.

Everyone else hated him and Lennon hated that they hated him but he made her happy. Everything, all in an instant, everything they shared flashed before her eyes.

Meeting him and having a conversation about herpes and charismatic serial killers.

Meeting his gaze from across the cafeteria.

Talking to him about everything and nothing out in the cold.

Watching him play live music at the Hideout.

Sharing a joint with him and running away to his place afterward.

Falling asleep beside him.

Curing each other's panic and anxiety attacks.

Staring into his eyes and feeling safe when he stared back.

Reading with him.

Dancing and singing with him in the living room.

Having his support at the winter final.

Watching him play D&D with his friends.

Remembering how uncomfortably comfortable she was with him for no obvious reason at all.

All the laughs, all the smiles, all the jokes, all the kisses, all the cuddles, all the hugs, everything.

Being with him made her happy and she couldn't help but smile at the thought of everyone else hating the person that made her happiest.

She had moved to Indiana for a new start. She had a very clear image in her head of what she wanted. Eddie was not a part of that plan and yet she was happiest with him. It wasn't the easiest, but it made her happy nonetheless.

The freak of the town made her happy and she was just waiting for Brontë to tear that to shreds.

"No!" she laughed. "No! I'm very serious," she sniffled and sighed, letting her hand fall from her brother's knee to lay limply over her waist.

"So you're still hanging with that freak? Even after I told you about the drugs and the cult?" he countered judgmentally.

"Oooh!" she opened her eyes and wiggled her fingers in her brother's direction sarcastically. "Dungeons and Dragons..." she reached to wag her fingers in her brothers face as her tone of voice wavered satirically, but he cringed with disgust and shoved her away before she could do so. "A game about wizards fighting fivvve-headed dragons is soooo scary, Brontë. Oh no! The gateway to Hell is sitting in the middle of the Hawkins High drama studio!" she cackled and derided her older, bigoted brother.

"What the fuck has gotten into you?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"You know," she peered up at her brother's face and smirked despite her doubt. "I find it interesting he's aaaalways the one who has my back when it's you... who leaves me high and dry," she shoved his knees and dropped her earrings on her bedside table. "He doesn't want anything from me and he's still the most reliable person I've met. Says more than you," she rolled her eyes and fell back into her pillow.

"I work to support your ass," he grumbled. "He's a jobless slob with an addiction to needles and ketamine. He's got nothing but time."

"How do you know so much about an old high school nobody you haven't been to school with since you weeere my age, Bro?" she giggled and pressed for more answers.

"Be-" he cut himself off. "I don't fucking like the guy but I'm not telling you shit," he cursed sharply. "I've seen things since high school, Lenny. I know things you don't know about that freak, alright?"

"Someone has a liiiittle crush..." she made fun of his serious tone and closed her eyes to relish in the satisfaction of her mockery.

Brontë scoffed and rolled his eyes. "This has to be a joke," he shook his head in utter disbelief and got to his feet. "We're not doing this tonight," he quickened his head shaking and scratched at the back of his head nervously. "We'll be talking about this in the morning."

And the next thing she knew, the lights were off and her door was being slammed shut, causing her to gasp and flinch and her laughing came to a halt in an instant.

In one night, she managed to make everyone in her life hate her:

Tina for 'stealing' Billy away from her.

Steve for refusing to give him drugs.

Billy for being a stand-off who walked out when she caught him kissing Tina.

And now Brontë; merely for being happy.

She went quiet in the dark and suddenly became hyperaware of her drunken state. It instantly dawned on her what she had said, how she had said it, and who she had said it to.

She started trembling, uncontrollably shaking in every sense. Her hands were wobbly, her shoulders were tense, her head started to shake, and her legs didn't feel like her own. This wasn't a panic attack but it wasn't normal either.

She took a deep breath and pulled herself towards the foot of her bed. She slid the leather jacket from the blanket and curled up to it for comfort. Because what else was there to do?

Eddie wouldn't sleep with her no matter how hard she tried and he continued to be the constant variable that allowed her to sleep soundly.

Brontë refused to let her use her own common sense to make friends. He assigned Steve from the start and it was a nice gesture, but she needed to be her own person. She needed to be the person she knew would survive, not the person her brother wanted her to be.

Billy and Tina were unhappily happy and going back to school in the next two weeks was going to be a grand experience because of it.

She was drunk and lonely and horny and sad and there was nothing else to do but lift the leather jacket to her nose and find warmth in her own body heat.

She didn't cry, she didn't scream, she only shook. Her body felt fuzzy and light and empty and cold. Her belly was full of vodka but she realized she hadn't eaten yet.

She laid on her side, feeling deprived of many things and food was not what concerned her.

How far was Brontë going to go with keeping her away from people like Eddie? What was Max going to think about her friend going out with her brother? What was Eddie thinking? What was she going to do at school now that people knew about the drugs and her separation from Billy?

With a mind full of thoughts, a nose full of sweat and cheap cologne, and an empty stomach, Lennon managed to doze off after a few minutes.

When she awoke, the sound of loud crunching made her know she wasn't alone. Her stomach was aching and her head began to throb intensely the moment she realized where she was. She had turned in bed, facing the direction the sound was coming from, and forced her eyes open just a crack.

She saw her bedroom door was open and the room wasn't dark anymore but blindingly bright. Everything else remained the same as before she fell asleep. The only addition that didn't make her feel physically ill but rather mentally, was her brother who had taken it upon himself to sit on the floor of her bedroom with his back pressed to the closet door, angrily eating a bowl of cereal as he watched her stir from her slumber.

She groaned and instantly pressed her palms into her eye sockets for some relieving pressure but it wasn't enough to stop the headache.

"You're up," Brontë grumbled, popping another spoonful of sugary cereal into his mouth and chewing obnoxiously loud to purposefully irritate his sister.

"Mmhmm," she hummed negatively with a deep rasp to her voice that seemed almost too masculine to have come from someone so delicate and fearful.

"Talk to me about Eddie the freak," Brontë immediately replied, wasting no time getting the conversation out of the way.

"Mmhmm," she repeated herself in the exact manner she had before. She removed her left hand from her face and flipped him the bird without having to reopen her sensitive eyes.

He grinned amusingly but didn't stop prodding. "You're telling me, Eddie Munson, the freak of Hawkins High, refused you, Lennon Seagrave, the carbon copy of yours truly, a quick, drunk, no strings attached, fuck?"

She thought his backhanded compliment was terrible and rebuked any sense of truth but she didn't catch it immediately. If she was fully conscious and pain-free, she might have jumped to the conclusion of some kind of sexual history being between the two of them; but because her headache was taking up most of her sleepy thoughts, she didn't catch that either.

"I'm repulsive. I get it," she whined in a groggy voice, taking a deep breath and peering through her squinted eyes in an attempt to adjust to the sunlight filtering in through her uncovered window.

"Nah," Brontë quickly shot back, popping another spoonful into his mouth but chewing less severely now that he had Lennon's attention. "I wanna know why that sex addict didn't take the easiest bait of them all when he had the chance," Brontë leered skeptically.

"Wow. You piece of shit," she snapped, turning to him and glaring spitefully at the man who continued to sit across from her bed. "Just call me the sleaziest of skanks, why don't you, you ass," she derided, forcing herself out of bed before Brontë stopped her.

"Ah!" he snapped his fingers and pointed at her bedside table. "Sit down and take your meds, baby sister," he stared at her in disbelief.

As much as she wanted to ignore him and the pain meds and water he left for her, her head hurt too much to complain about much else.

She sat at the edge of her bed and swallowed the pills while Brontë continued eating his breakfast-lunch.

"With a face like that, with the genes we share, you aren't repulsive no matter how shitty of a personality you have," he scoffed. "You wanna tell me what that freak wants with you?"

"Nope," she replied steadily, removing the sweater she fell asleep in which left her in a white button-on that felt less stuffy than before. "And has it ever occurred to you that you're the freak for being so invested in someone you knew four years ago?" she peered suspiciously, not forgetting how strange it was that Brontë seemed to have so much intel on Eddie.

"Nope," Brontë shot back in the same tone as his sister. "What have you been doing with him?" he asked darkly, finishing his bowl of cereal and setting it down in front of the doorway.

She scoffed. "Not having sex."

Brontë cringed and rolled his eyes. "Clearly," he curled his lip and flared his nostrils in disgust. "He selling you drugs?"

"Does it look like I have access to any money for drugs?" she narrowed her eyes at him like he was a brainless twit.

"Oral?"

"No," she looked at him with disgust for even suggesting she be used as nothing more than a warm mouth.

"Prostitution of any sort?"

"What do you think?" she widened her eyes in horror and tilted her head in question.

"I don't know anymore, Lenny," he said tersely. "You're keeping secrets and hanging with guys way too old for you who sell and take drugs and are known to be fuck around. You tell me what I think of you."

Lennon pressed her elbows into her knees and threw her head into her hands. "This is precisely why I didn't tell you," she informed him in a monotone voice. "He doesn't want anything from me. Trust me, I tried. Can people not be friends without benefits these days?"

"Not Eddie," Brontë countered.

"And you know this, why?" she peered up at him and leered.

Eddie would have been fifteen when Brontë graduated. They might have known each other the year prior, but it was odd for her brother to still know so much about him. Eddie was nineteen now and Brontë was twenty-one. They would cross paths at the Hideout two days out of the week, but that wasn't enough to know as much as her brother knew. There was something he wasn't telling her.

Brontë stared back at her emotionlessly.

"You been dealing with him, Bro?" she accused him in the same manner he was doing to her.

"No," he furrowed his brows at the accusation. "Reefer Rick gives ten percent discounts to loyal customers. Why the hell would I go to a third party that sells full price?" Brontë argued.

"Again, you know this, why?"

"For fucksake," he rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Or why don't I ask you?" Lennon added sarcastically, growing aggravated with the man she shared a house with. "You and Eddie, you two been sleeping together these past few years? Giving head for a Hamilton? A little rub and tug for a tenner?" she spat back bitterly.

"You're disgusting," he cringed.

"So are you," she looked at him with disdain.

"If you're not fuck buddies, what've you been doing with him?" Brontë pressed insistently.

"Why don't you ask him?" she smiled sarcastically and fluttered her eyelashes with fake charm and pursed lips. "You two seem well-acquainted as it is..."