Eddie sighed wearily, contemplating not even going into the post office today. This was the tenth Corroded Coffin demo tape he'd sent out. That meant nine different record labels either tossed it in the garbage, or listened to it, decided it should be garbage, then tossed it in the garbage. Either way, he was feeling pretty vulnerable. But if he didn't want to roll over and surrender to the pull of Hawkins quicksand, he had to keep trying. This was his last-ditch effort. If nothing came from this tape, he'd start playing shows out of town again. Or at least, he hoped he would. He hadn't exactly talked to the other members about that part. They needed exposure, and with the curfew in place, he was losing hours and money. Even if what the shows paid only covered gas... at least he could get out of Hawkins for a bit. Resolved to venture forward, he stepped out of his van and shut the door behind him, flipping the padded envelope over in his hands.
Eddie was still looking at the envelope when a box was shoved into his arms. Head darting upward, he shifted the envelope to his other hand as he steadied his grip. "Hello to you too, butthead."
He studied the items in the box, wordless as he tried to translate in his mind the significance behind each thing. "I'm gonna have a few questions here to gain an understanding of why you thought these were good options. First, what's on that roll of film? Second, the sulphury copper, whatever the hell you just said... what is the purpose of that? No wonder they said no to it. if you hadn't explained it to me, I'd think you were sending some sort of drug," he joked, though his statement was true. "And the letter... man..." Eddie picked it the letter up to eyeball it closer before he continued. "You couldn't be bothered to write on a new piece of paper without the editing marks? At least write with a pencil if you're not going to re-write the finished product. Listen, I know your girlfriend's a prodigy level genius, but she's also a girl. Girls like marshmallow soft gifts. A mixtape, for starters. I mean, I'm not discriminating. If you think she'd actually care to hear you sing the periodic table, then you gotta shove that bad boy in this box. Press some flowers in a book so that they'll already be preserved when she gets them. Listen, I got a few ideas. When do you need to send this off by? When's her birthday?"
âher birthdayâs not till october,â dustin said quickly, already bristling like heâd been waiting for that exact question. he tugged the box a little closer to his chest, as if eddie might run off with it. âthis is just a⊠regular package. a just-because package. people do that, you know. spontaneous romantic gestures, iâve read about them.â his grip adjusted on the cardboard, fingers tapping the half-taped flap in jittery rhythm. the thing looked like it might collapse if anyone breathed too hard on it but he kept pressing a hand flat to the top like that would magically seal it.
âand for the record,â he added, chin jutting out, âthe film is, uh⊠classified. strictly experimental data. no drugs, no crime, no weird creeper shots, so donât give me that look.â he darted a glance up at eddie, then back down to the box, muttering like the clerk might still overhear. âcopper sulfate was supposed to be the flashy science bonus, but apparently americaâs postal system has no respect for chemistry.â
his mouth kept going even as his feet shifted restlessly, like he was half-ready to bolt. âand iâm not rewriting the letter. do you know how many drafts iâve already gone through? suzie likes seeing the messy parts, okay? it makes it authentic. geniuses crave authenticity.â there was something almost pleading in the way his eyes searched eddieâs, like he wanted confirmation more than argument.
then eddieâs throwaway suggestion about flowers landed and dustin made a sharp noise - half laugh, half scoff - as he snapped his hands up in exasperation. the box nearly slid sideways from his grip before he caught it again. âflowers? really? she lives in utah, man. sheâs got, like, entire fields. sheâs not gonna lose her mind over some pressed dandelion i picked off the side of the highway.â
still the bravado leaked out around the edges. dustinâs voice dipped low, shoulders hitching in a shrug that looked more uncertain than defiant. âmixtape, though⊠maybe. i just donât want it to be -â he waved his hands in overlapping spirals, miming the shape of catastrophe â- too cheesy. iâm aiming for cool-genius-boyfriend, not, like, your auntâs wedding dj blasting âcelebrationâ on repeat until everybody wants to walk into traffic.â
to be fair on dustin's behalf, mike wasn't exactly the leading expert in romance. the only romantic relationship he'd ever had was one that had sort of blown up and then fizzled out, like a really bad firework. since then, he had put exactly zero effort toward finding a new significant other. for multiple reasons, but mostly because he was trying to avoid it altogether. but dustin didn't need to know that right now, and he was more taken aback at the realization that what he thought made great gift ideas could also be considered basic.
it was true, though. sweaters, chocolate, even candles could all be labeled rather so-so in the category of cool gifts. "well, first of all, that sounds a hell of a lot like a love letter to me. take it from someone who's never written one but has read a lot of shakespeare: if you're sitting down penning your feelings to another person, it's not out of boredom or mere friendship," he pointed out. the only question was whether or not dustin and suzie's relationship was a comedy or a tragedy, he supposed.
"i find it hard to believe that you're a power couple at all. you never talk about her anymore," he pointed out, brows furrowed. perhaps it was tactless, but he was simply being honest. the last time he really remembered hearing dustin talk about suzie was ages ago, and even then he seemed less enthused than that first summer he'd met her. "sometimes things don't work out, you know? have you considered just being friends with her? with you guys being so far apart, i'm sure she'd understand," he said, reaching out to pat dustin's shoulder placatingly.
he wasn't trying to stick his nose in where it didn't belong, or be condescending, and it was only a suggestion. if dustin wanted to keep his long distance girlfriend, who was he to deny him of such a thing?
"i was supposed to buy stamps for my mom, but i was in line for forever. long enough to not even realize you'd been in front of me the whole time," he shrugged. he would tell her later that he got caught up doing something much more important - helping dustin out with his girlfriendly woes. besides, it was hawkins. how fast could limited edition stamps really run out?
he tugged on dustin's arm again, all but dragging him in the direction of the nearest general store. "look, i may be basic but i did grow up in a house full of girls. holly, nancy, my mom - the number one thing they all like the most? stuff from the heart," he pointed out. it made him shiver even saying something so sappy, but it was the truth. "if we can find you a gift worth sending to suzie that actually, genuinely comes from your heart, and not from your mind, then it'll be perfect. nothing could win her over more than that."
âbig talk from a guy whose last relationship exploded like a science fair volcano.â his eyes narrowed in mock accusation but the corners of his mouth twitched upward, the kind of almost-smile that gave away he was just pulling mikeâs leg. âand i do talk about her. just⊠not to you. all the time. maybe iâm trying to keep some mystery alive, ever think of that?â
dustin could almost see it - her opening the package, the way her eyebrows would shoot up, that little smile that wasnât smug but made him feel like sheâd just knighted him. it was stupid, maybe⊠but he wanted that reaction again. not because he thought it would fix anything but because it would mean they still had something, no matter how many miles sat between them.
mikeâs âstuff from the heartâ comment earned a groan that he dragged out for maximum drama. âyeah, okay, but what if the stuff from the heart is the part thatâs⊠fuzzy right now? honestly-â he jabbed a finger toward mike, â- i shouldâve gone to nancy first. she probably wouldâve made me feel like it was the best idea in the world just by nodding at me.â
they kept walking, mike still tugging him toward the store and dustin stared at the photos instead of him. the edges were already starting to curl from how many times heâd shuffled through them like a deck of cards - he counted the shots twice, then again, even though he knew exactly how many there were. anything to keep his eyes down, to keep his brain busy enough that it wouldnât blurt out what was sitting heavy in his chest. dustin opened his mouth once, shut it, told himself it wasnât worth saying but the silence felt heavier than the words, and eventually they spilled out anyway.
âwe donât talk much anymore,â he blurted, faster than he meant to. âsheâs got her world in salt lake, iâve got mine here and maybe thatâs just how it goes. you get busy - calls turn into letters, letters into nothing for a while .. until youâre wondering if youâre just holding onto the idea of something.â he turned one over in his hand, pressing his thumb into the back like he could keep it in place. âbut she was there when it counted. back when we were just kids at camp know where and i was standing up to guys twice my size - she saw that. she believed me when no one else did. even last year, when i told her about russians and monsters, she laughed but she didnât call me crazy, mike. she let me be me and i donât wanna be the guy who lets that go first. even ifâŠâ he snapped the stack together, the sound sharper than he intended. âeven if iâm not sure itâs still-â a pause. âstill what it was.â
he shoved the pictures back into his jacket pocket once again, fingers pressing against them like he could keep them from slipping further away. âso fine. weâll find something from the heart but if itâs something stupid, youâre personally responsible for the collapse of a cross-state intellectual empire.â
mike didn't really like being at the post office - did anybody? - but sometimes a boy had to run an errand for his mother. god forbid, right? all that to say that he was entirely checked out as he waited in line. he was only there to buy a special edition of stamps and had subsequently gotten caught up in looking at the postcards. who the hell bought (and sent!) a postcard from hawkins, indiana? did anyone ever want to visit, like, on purpose?
he was brought out of his thoughts as a familiar voice invaded his ears, a box being shoved into his arms as he quite literally shook his head to bring himself back to the present moment. he caught the tail end of dustin's speech, if one could call that a speech (it was more like a diatribe), and looked down at the mess of tape and cardboard that was now occupying his hands.
"what exactly were you expecting her to do with copper sulfate, anyway? clean a pond, kill some snails, or grow crystals? honestly, i'm not even sure that i actually want to know the answer," he muttered, looking down into the box. basically none of it was anything that would inspire suzie to marry dustin, or want to marry dustin, and he reached in to grab the photos before tossing the whole box and its remaining contents into the nearest trash can.
he took hold of dustin's arm before he could even try to fish them back out, herding him out of the post office and onto the sidewalk before the hawkins pd was called about a bomb threat. it was just some innocent powder, but by the time the cops arrived it would have turned into something completely different.
"first of all, was that a love letter?" he asked, one eyebrow raised as he handed dustin his developed pictures back. "because it looked like the first draft of an english paper. how about rewriting it without so many things scratched out if you really want to impress the girl?" he asked. that was a basic fix, in his opinion. "secondly, if you're trying to wow her, maybe get her a real gift. suzie may be the queen genius of your dreams, but she's still a human being. she probably wants something meaningful, not just...loose chemicals, dude."
âokay, first of allââ dustin yanked his arm back like mike had just accused him of high treason. ââit wasnât a love letter. it was a scientifically charming correspondence that just so happened to also maybe imply iâm the best boyfriend from loverâs lake to the great salt lake. totally different category.â
he clutched the photos to his chest like they were classified documents, glancing down at them before he remembered to keep talking. âand secondly, copper sulfate can do all those things, yes, but also - hello - it can grow blue crystals, which is both romantic and educational. youâre telling me suzie wouldnât be impressed if she opened a package and immediately thought, âwow, heâs handsome, smart and he understands chemical saturation ratesâ? please.â
he adjusted his cap, glancing back toward the post office like he was leaving a fallen comrade behind. âalso, thanks for just ⊠throwing my genius into the trash like itâs last weekâs meatloaf. thatâs fine. totally fine. iâll just, yâknow, reinvent the entire gift from scratch.â
the thing was⊠he wasnât even sure what the gift was for. he and suzie didnât talk as much anymore, not since sheâd gotten buried in school and heâd gotten even busier and well, maybe some part of him worried they didnât even like each other the same way they used to. but sheâd been there for him when things got scary and sheâd made him feel like all the weird science stuff in his head wasnât something to hide. he wanted to give her something that said thank you and i remember and hey, i still want you to think iâm cool.
dustin blinked, realising mike was still standing there despite being in a little trance. âwhat even counts as a âreal giftâ to you, anyway? like, a sweater? chocolates? thatâs basic, mike. weâre not basic people. suzie and i are ⊠a power couple of intellect. i canât just send her ⊠a candle.â
he tried to keep his voice light, like this was all hypothetical but it came out a little sharper than he meant. the words hung there for a second, pressing against that sore spot in his chest he never really knew what to do with - the one that showed up whenever he realised someone was still⊠here. still keeping pace with him, even when he was being impossible. it ached in a way that was almost nice, the kind that made you want to say something honest and then immediately hide under a table for doing it.
dustin huffed out a laugh and shoved the photos into his jacket. âfine. but when i come up with something so perfect she proposes to me, iâm gonna tell her you doubted me, just so you know.â he didnât say thanks for dragging me out before i got arrested for mail fraud. he didnât need to - mike had been looking out for him since forever, even if he complained the whole way. and, yeah, maybe it was nice knowing someone still would.
dustin had been in line at the post office long enough for the clerk to develop the thousand-yard stare of someone questioning all their life choices.
the package on the counter was only half-taped, the flaps bending and popping open every time he nudged it. inside: a roll of black and white film from the disposable camera heâd used for his latest experiment, a tiny glass vial of harmless (probably) blue powder and a letter to suzie that had so many cross-outs it looked like a map. heâd been rearranging those three items for ten solid minutes, as if a different angle might suddenly make the box feel complete.
âyou canât send liquids,â the clerk said flatly. âand itâs not a liquid,â dustin shot back. âitâs powdered copper sulfate. totally safe. unless you eat, like, a pound of it. which - why would anyonâ look, itâs fine.â
the clerkâs reply was a slow blink which only made dustin exhale hard through his nose, slapping the tape dispenser onto the counter and yanking the box back toward himself. âyâknow what? forget it. iâm taking this on the road before i commit a federal crime.â
two steps from the counter, still muttering something about 'people who wouldnât know science if it hit them in the face', he spotted the first person in range and practically shoved the box into their hands. âalright, so hereâs the deal. i need something for suzie. itâs gotta be something sheâll think is cool but not, you know, suspicious to a federal agency if they open the box. like, imagine youâre sending a care package to the smartest person you know and you want them to open it and immediately think, âwow, i should probably marry this guyâ â not that i want to marry her, i mean, weâre teenagers, relax. but hypothetically.â
he gestured at the open flaps, then back over his shoulder toward the counter. âbecause apparently powdered copper sulfate is âdangerousâ now and my other idea is bubble wrap and a cassette of me singing the periodic table. which, by the way, would absolutely kill at any science fair.â
[MICHAEL CIMINO, CISMALE, HE/HIM] whoâs that? oh itâs [DUSTIN HENDERSON]. i hear theyâre [18] and are known as [THE FAILSAFE] around [RADIO SHACK]. theyâre also a [SENIOR] at [HAWKINS HIGH SCHOOL]. theyâre known to be [OPTIMISTIC & GOOFY] and [OBSESSIVE & INSECURE]. some people say they remind them of [ pencil stubs worn down from obsessive note-taking, nervous laughter whenever someone gets too close to the truth about how scared he still is, a d20 rolled every morning like a promise & a half-cracked retainer case shoved in the back of his drawer ].Â
dustin henderson didnât grow up in hawkins indiana, though you wouldnât know it from the way he moves through its hallways like someone whoâs always known how the town breathes and how it bites. he arrived at eight - awkward, too curious for his own good and already carrying the kind of hunger for knowledge that made other kids wary and teachers quietly hopeful. he figured out quickly that if he couldnât blend in, he could outthink them, and if that didnât work, he could be useful. he learned to speak faster than he felt, to answer questions before anyone else raised a hand, to make people laugh before they decided to be cruel. he built a space for himself out of loyalty and logic and when the world cracked open and let something ancient crawl through, he survived it by doing what heâs always done - adapting, learning, remembering everything.
he doesnât talk about what happened in the summer of â85, not because heâs forgotten or even forgiven it, but because he knows now that memory is something hawkins treats like a weakness. people want the fire to be symbolic. they want to say things like âat least itâs over nowâ and âthank god the gate is closed,â as if grief can be flattened and hidden beneath a newly waxed floor at the mall or a monument downtown. dustin knows better and he remembers, more than anything, how it felt to watch the world almost end and know that even if it didnât - not this time - something had shifted forever.
heâs a senior now, eighteen and sharp-edged, at the top of his class and already living in the future in his head. heâs spent the last year fine-tuning his MIT application, obsessing over his essay, recalibrating his resume, rewriting everything every time a new fear settles behind his ribs. the goal has always been to leave, to get out, to prove that a kid who grew up indiana - with a mouth full of facts and a brain wired for invention - can build something brilliant and survive it. but as the year unfolds, slow and golden and brittle around the edges, he feels it in a way he didnât expect: that this is probably the last time theyâll all be together, him and his friends who once fought monsters with walkie-talkies and flashlights and more hope than sense. and dustin, for all his clarity, doesnât know what to do with that kind of ending.
he sings in choir - tenor, clear and startling, a voice that sounds older than he looks and more honest than he ever means it to. itâs the only time his mind is quiet. he didnât expect to love it the way he does but itâs become something private, something sacred, a way to feel present in a body thatâs always planning the next move.
he still writes to suzie, though itâs not romantic anymore, not really. the letters are spaced out now, softened by distance and the kind of quiet that comes when two people grow in separate directions. he signs them with âyour dusty,â more out of habit than sentiment but he still smiles when she writes back. she was the first person who made him feel like his mind wasnât too much. that matters, even now.
he keeps a transmitter in his closet tuned to nothing. builds fail-safes in his sleep. dreams of circuits and teeth and fire. he doesnât think the quiet will last, not here, not really. and even if it does - if this year ends in caps and gowns and open doors - heâll still be the one who remembers what it cost to get here. heâll still be the one listening.
he always is.
đđđđđđđđđđ:
dustin still uses his original d20 from the first campaign they ever ran. itâs chipped at the corners, one edge permanently dented and statistically cursed but he refuses to stop using it. he says itâs for the story. he says if he dies, he wants it to be earned.
he still keeps cerebro in partial working condition. itâs not functional the way it used to be - range is shot, frequency drifted but sometimes, late at night, he goes out there, switches it on and listens to static like itâs music.
his room is cluttered in a way thatâs methodical: radios in stages of repair, notebooks filled with both song lyrics and schematics, a lite-brite on the windowsill like an altar. he likes the glow. says it helps him think.
he never quite forgave himself for dart. says heâs over it. he isnât.
he keeps a private signal open on one of his radios, broadcasting a low-frequency hum only he knows how to identify. itâs not meant to be heard. itâs meant to be there. a tether. proof that heâs still listening.
his handwriting is tiny, all-caps, and crammed into the margins of everything. teachers comment on it constantly. he acts like it doesnât bother him, but it does. if he writes smaller, maybe he can keep more on the page. maybe he can show everything thats in his head without word vomiting terribly - even though thats exactly what he's doing.
his choir folder is always perfect. color-coded. taped at the corners. he carries it like itâs breakable. not because heâs afraid of losing it, but because itâs the only part of his life that still feels predictably beautiful.
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