nathaniel, neil, nathaniel, neil. andrew flips the two names around in his head like tossing a coin. heads or tails, the coin always comes up abram. nathaniel and neil are two sides of the same coin; forged in a dark basement, in musty hotel rooms, on the exy court. both hate sweets, love to run, to talk back any chance they get.
some days, the coin lands on nathaniel. jack makes one too many comments at practice and neil - no, nathaniel - has him on the ground, raquet to his neck in an instant. he can't hear what the strikers are saying but through the grate of the helment, andrew sees nathaniel's smile.
others, it lands on neil. andrew finds neil and matt splayed out on the couch, three movies deep into a "pop culture lesson". neil motions for andrew to sit and absently cards his fingers through the blond's hair. matt hides his grin in his sleeve.
but abram; he runs to andrew after each winning game to tap sticks, he sits each friday in columbia, talking about escape routes for an alien invasion, he keeps ice cream in the freezer and cigarettes in his backpocket.
heads or tails, doe or minyard, doe or minyard.
doe was made and unmade in california. 13 homes, 13 film reels constantly playing in the back of his mind, each scene driving the cuts deeper and deeper. andrew doe learns the danger of wanting and vows to keep everyone out.
minyard went to juvie for his brother. he crashed the car to keep him safe. he spent years on medication that sent him up up up to protect his cousin. minyard guards himself with knives sharper than his glare; he protects those that are his and fuck anyone else.
heads or tails, the coin starts to come up drew.
it starts small; quick grins in columbia at neil; shared dinners with aaron that don't end in a fight; something like excitment in his stomach before an exy game. when neil is hanging out with the upperclassman, he stays.
amnesia fic where its post season five and everyone’s having a hawkins reunion except mike is not there. was he supposed to be, but never showed up? or has he been MIA recently? doesn’t matter but sometime during dinner, nancy gets a call that has her bolting out of the house
a few days later, nancy finally informs everyone on what happened. mike got into an accident and is now suffering from a head injury, having lost a good chunk of his memory. nancy says he’s okay, but she wont say what the accident was or a lot of the details. and only mike’s immediate family knows the full story
will, despite not having seen mike in years sans occasional party reunions, goes to see him in the hospital with max. surprised when mike recognizes them both, but mainly will. he’s strangely… bubbly. smiley and sweet in a way he never is
mike gets out of the hospital and it becomes apparent that wasn’t because of the painkillers. he just… acts like that now. he’s so unapologetically happy and smiley that will(and everyone else who has known him for the past few years) has whiplash
but it pulls will in again, as things always do with mike wheeler. something drags will back into orbit
one of the days hes talking to mike, will asks him what he remembers. so mike tells him
he remembers his childhood, his life, his friends, his classes. chunks grow blurry during middle school and afterwards. and he can tell something is missing but it feels.. too scary to find. the things he can remember about the blurry times make him shiver all over the place— a sound of a monster in his ear, bone aching cold paired with the sound of a siren, the smell of rotten flesh, gunshots and pizza, dust and yellow skies and a huge monster
will listens to mike explain everything, able to correlate every vague memory to an event, save a few. he can tell mike is happier like this. he wonders if the memory loss was permanent, and briefly, both selfishly and selflessly, he hopes it is
it is. they get the diagnosis a few weeks later
mike doesn’t mind. when he asks about things, nancy tells him. when he wants to know more about what happened in his vague memories, he knows he has the ability to know. he just doesnt want to. the more he learns about his life before, the more hes sure. he knew he was miserable and now hes not. honestly, it felt like a relief
will and him get closer again, and hes happier than ever. he asks about any gaps in their lives together and will tells him. mike doesnt understand why it makes him feel bittersweet. he chases after will and gets the boy. he keeps asking questions
and one day he tells will about another vague memory, about the roof of a building and the sight of his feet— though it didnt seem like his feet, they had to be his— dangling off the edge. cutting through the wind on the way down. he tells will that he doesnt feel that way anymore. he doesnt know why he ever did, and he wont ever know now. and will cries and he holds mike closer than ever before
and one day he talks to dustin and jane about the cliff and asks them all about it. dustin cries and mike hugs him tight. jane says he seems much more mike without any baggage
anyways this became a ramble, but.. amnesia mike!!
Rating: M (for language/canon-typical violence)
Other relevant tags: injury, anxiety, slow burn, Post Season 3, canon divergence
-☆-
A shiver of relief raced up and down Steve's skin as he jogged to the red door of his home in Loch Nora. Things were really turning around for the better. After ten days of scouting around town for help wanted adverts and pestering what seemed to be every store and office within the boundaries of Hawkins, both Robin and Steve were once again satisfyingly employed.
Sure, his new manager, Keith, was a lame dweeb with a superiority complex as thick as the cheeseball dust that coated his greasy fingers, but Steve was certain that if given a month of the old Harrington buddy-buddy charm, he'd have his ex-classmate eating out the palm of his much cleaner hand. The visual of Keith pecking at him for chips like an overgrown crow popped into his head.
Steve couldn't help the grimace that flashed across his face. Jesus, he really needed to stop watching PBS every morning. Robin was already giving him shit over his admittedly narrow scope of cinema. The interview for Family Video could have gone smoother, sure, but he had nothing to prove. So what if Keith didn’t think he was a real Star Wars fan—whatever that meant. He’d been telling the truth. Those little bear aliens were cool. They reminded him of Dustin, which he had not liked one bit when Steve had brought it up during their Sci-Fi-Bananza. Plus the third movie had space bikes? That was pretty cool, too.
Whatever.
Either Keith would have hired him or wouldn't have. Take it or leave it. Obviously, the place had been short on staff for a while, considering the jerk was already titled as management after leaving the arcade. Steve had a feeling it was partially to blame for no one in town willing to work alongside the lump.
Back in the quiet of his home, Steve tossed the green uniform vest—so much better than the sailor suit—along with his keys at the table in the entry. He sauntered over to the kitchen to snag a beer before flopping onto the more worn in corner of the couch. Here the den was hit with a lazy late afternoon sun and the dust motes scattering in the air reminded Steve of his neglected chores.
His deep sigh broke the silence of the house. Occasionally, the air conditioning unit would kick up before falling back into an ignorable hum. The high of getting the job started to dwindle. He should probably call his mom. Give her the good news. But then he worked through the potential steps of calling first the Indianapolis office secretary, being forwarded to the New York branch, then reminded of the current location for his parents gauntlet of business networking, only to be circled back to a hotel receptionist to leave a message for Mr. and Mrs. Harrington to return when next available—yeah, Steve's good mood shrunk just a touch more.
Slouching into the soft cushion of the couch, Steve rested the bottle of pilsner on his chest. The glass tinked against the necklace charm tucked under his t-shirt. The sound made him think back on the last few weeks.
The bruises were mostly gone now, with only the scabbing cuts serving as an itchy reminder to the horrific start of July. Sleep was still escaping Steve. Each night slipped through his fingers as he grasped at his sweat-soaked sheets. His room seemed to vortex the groans of a too-empty house deep into his eardrums. Trying to bury his head while lying face-down caused his stomach to swoop like he was yet again free-falling down elevator shafts. Staring up into the dark ceiling of his room caused imprints of fireworks to explode into his vision. Nightmares would rattle him awake in the early hours of the morning.
And then as he would lay there pretending he wasn't hearing the distinct ebb and flow of a half-formed conversation nearby, Steve would talk back. Sort of. Really would talk to himself. Or sometimes listen to the kids chatter in the walkie if he felt like switching it on. Anything to drown out the voices murmuring curses and encouragements at his side table.
It was fucking pointless.
So yeah, he was fucking tired. Maybe that's why so many of Hawkins’ finest had turned him down for their job listings. Steve Harrington was starting to crack, and the festering panic of his soft insides was slowly oozing out for all to see. Bless Robin and her surprising attachment to him. He really did adore her even if she was a stubborn jerk in the best way. He didn’t deserve her patience with him lately.
She had been quite insistent they kept on working together. Two peas in a Commie-tortured pod. Truth serum and bonesaws really brought people together. Robin joked that she wanted to be nearby in case more inter-dimensional horrors wanted to pop up for Labor Day. The holiday sales at Melvald's were always killer.
Steve thought maybe Robin needed the reminder she was alive and breathing, too.
Draining the dredges of his beer, Steve hoisted himself out of the couch. Tossed the bottle a little on this side of too rough just to hear it loudly bounce in the trash. He decided he'd at least change out of his sweaty clothes with nothing else to do for today. Even with the air chilled around him, the humidity from scouting across town had caused his hair to flatten to the back of his neck.
Halfway towards the second floor he recognized the growling.
The lights in the hallway were cycling again. Their flickering almost mirrored the tempo of Steve’s heart as he followed. It was with a despondent acceptance that he saw them inevitably lead to his bedroom. The chattering that he swore was only of his overactive imagination brought on memories of dank tunnels. Brought back a phantom smell of rot that tickled his nose. A looming dread hung over him as his feet dragged forward. His hand twitched for the bat. For fire. His bedroom cast a yellow glow of warning into the hallway.
Steve reached the opened doorway and all of hell broke loose.
The guttural noises of a demodog were louder in his room. Steve lunged for the bat leaning just within his closet. Nearly popped the sliding mirror doors off their track in his haste. How many? Where were they? They were right on top of him.
Steve spun around, shoulders tensed in anticipation—attack at the ready. The lamp at his dresser flared wildly. Nothing was there—he couldn’t see anything—but he heard them. He felt fucking crazy but Steve’d rather be admitted than dead. He squinted from the blinding lights, whipped at the air while checking the corners at the ceiling.
The dresser skidded to his left and Steve swung wide. The nails of the bat dug into the wood with a sharp crack. The landline he kept in here jumped from its cradle. Instead of the usual dial tone, the whirling noises of otherworldly beasts doubled in volume through the receiver.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!”
Steve kicked the dresser as he yanked back the bat. A flicker of movement caught his eye. He turned towards the closet and watched in dumb horror as Billy Hargrove lunged—a switchblade reared back in his bloody hand.
Steve startled so badly that he overshot with the bat, hurtling backwards. He realized what he was actually seeing was only in the mirrors lining his closet door. It didn’t stop the most unsettling sensation of what could be described as a swoop of cold wind passing through him.
He looked down at his shirt to check that nothing had actually pierced through. He was okay? The cracks in Steve’s psyche continued to spread as he stepped back. The mirrors served as a bizarre window to Hargrove fighting a goddamn demodog in Steve’s childhood bedroom.
The visage of the creature was gaped open—a horrific flower that only promised gore. Rows upon rows of teeth dripped with a slime Steve had been all too familiar with last November. And there it was attacking his fallen classmate. He wasn’t quite sure which of them was the true star of his breakdown.
Noise from the phone continued to provide matching audio. The living dead played a fucked up little stage show just for Steve. It was as the beast finally flung itself towards the closet to dodge Billy when the glass splintered at impact. Steve gave a shout and rushed to the closet only to see it still was not ‘here’ and was still ‘there’ (in Steve’s head?).
Inching closer to the reflection, Steve watched as the mirror’s Hargrove kicked and destroyed his dresser out of frustration in the rotting visage of his room. The noise crackled behind him, following along with a slight delay. The out of sync nature of it caused the insanity to continue bubbling up Steve’s spine until he finally kicked at the destroyed door. Glass rained on top of his bare feet. He didn’t really care.
“Hey!” Steve shouted. “Quit that shit out, asshole! Just stop it already! Go away!”
The guy haunting Steve’s summer didn’t fucking notice him. Steve kicked the sliding door again for good measure before stumbling back to the phone. Glass crunched under his shoes. He could hear the heaving sobs that had to be from Hargrove as Steve raised the transmitter to his mouth.
He wants to hear the way Henry whimpers when he comes.
But instead, he has creaks and he holds his breath to hear the moans. Maybe imagines it, but swears his name floats down the stairs.
Alex jerks off, and he’s mad about it. He’s mad because he could be falling asleep with his cock softening in Henry’s ass if he would just give in and go upstairs. He could be falling asleep with a handful of Henry's chest, but instead he’s alone and annoyed.
(A lil extra addition to this gardener!Billy idea cause I am always thinking of a recovering Billy and his plants!)
Once he's got the vegetable patch in hand, Billy's next project is a rose.
When he first sees it, it's little more than a stick in a pot with a set of decreasing 'Reduced to Clear' price tags, one on top of the other, but Billy is determined. Says it just needs a little TLC and a decent drink and he ignores Steve's rolled eyes when he insists on carrying it all around the store, rather than risk placing it in the shopping cart.
He absolutely dotes on the thing. Nurtures it. Carries it from room to room and lifts it from table to bookshelf until he's happy it's getting exactly the right amount of light.
And it starts to grow. To thrive. And then eventually, after time spent pouring over a whole stack of gardening books and magazines, and checking the upcoming weather forecast and having a series of nice long chats with the green-fingered old lady next door, Billy feels ready to plant it in the yard.
It keeps on growing. Keeps on thriving. Gets bigger and healthier as Billy gets a little too into researching fertilizers and buying weird shit like bone meal and digging eggshells into the soil to keep the slugs away. It isn't daunted by the wind or the rain, it doesn't wilt on the long, hot summer days and, despite Billy's worries, it comes out the other side of its first Midwestern winter unscathed.
It survives every challenge thrown its way.
And then it finally starts to bud.
And Billy is ecstatic. And paranoid. He checks on it every day. Multiple times. He ups his pest control routine, buying a whole array of sprays and powders and spending hours looking over it with a furrowed brow. And he watches with eager eyes as the first spiky green bulb starts to split and open, revealing an inner heart of scarlet, the petals pushing out, bit by bit every day, until the full, beautiful flower bursts out.
And then Billy snips it.
He goes right out the next morning, catching the flower at its most glorious, and raises his brand new red-handled secateurs and cuts it right off at the stem.
Because ever since he first saw that spindly twig in the clearance section of the garden centre, he's had a plan for it. He's always known who was going to get the beauty of that first bloom.
And he's grinning, almost giggling with the satisfaction of a long-held plan coming together, as he takes the rose into the kitchen and places it next to a floral-pattern breakfast tray, already carefully set with a plate of syrup laden pancakes and a cup of coffee made exactly how Steve likes it.
And then Billy pauses. Calms himself. Steadies his breathing as he reaches a shaking hand into his pocket and pulls out one more thing to add to the tray in front of him.
A box.
Small and squat with rounded edges and covered in soft, black velvet. Elegant. Just the right size for a set of matching rings. Big enough for a promise. A hope. A future.
Billy picks up the rose again. Studies it. Brings it to his nose and inhales that heady, sweet scent, before he places it down to lay on top of the jewellery box, petals resting on the closed lid, just about hiding it from view.
He smiles to himself. Takes one more deep, steadying breath. And then he picks up the tray and walks towards the bedroom.
Isildur hardly notices his father’s glare from across the table. “Well, yes. The food on the ship is terrible,” he explains through a mouthful of dinner.
“Some things never change,” Elendil says dryly, almost smirking. His son mirrors his reaction.
Many things have changed. His father did. So has he. But for a moment, Isildur can pretend they are as they were before; untouched by grief.
“Besides that minor inconvenience, how are you faring…in your training?”
The moment passes, too quickly. “Very well.” His eyes betray his answer, so he shuts them tight. “Everything is great.”
She hears him stir behind her and tries nor to sigh. She was hoping to be gone before he woke. She hears the rustle of sheets moving before she feels the touch of his hand on her hip. Rough fingers trail up her spine making her shiver.
"You are leaving," his voice is rough with sleep.
She looks at him over her shoulder. "We both know I can't stay," she says softly.
