#rawkinrobin

[nectarot]

what's wrong with anger? to maggie !

she feels the heat like a knife, hard pressed into flesh. the stinging that makes blood boil, something acidic turning inside her. “ ain't nothin' wrong with it, ” even though it's all consuming. she pauses, leaning back where she sits. the rusted chains supporting the porch swing sounding against her adjustment. maggie exhales deep, purposefully. as if she tries to settle what's starting to swell. “ in moderation 'course. ” her lips curl, smile not quite reaching the shine of green in sunlight. “ sometimes it feels like it's the only company i got these days. ” though, it stifles when she sees him smile. the same dimples in soft cheeks, he's a near replica of him. maggie lifts her head, her boot pressing onto the porch to stop the sway. she shifts some, sliding closer to the arm of the chair. her hand patting the space beside her, a silent invitation for @rawkinrobin to join.

“ i ain't sayin' it's wrong to be angry, we all got 'lotta reasons to be these days. ” a world rotting, decay set in more than just structures. a grief core deep. “ but it changes you, keeps you from bein' you. ” maggie motions to her chest, finger tips brushing over a worn out flannel shirt. there a steady heart beat, there grief has made a home. “ an' i gotta say, we all like havin' you 'round. ” hand drops upon their's fingers, patting her knuckles in something comforting, or what she hopes to be. “ world's already took too much from us, don't let it take no more. ” she speaks from experience, from her own rage set in bones.

[hollythehero]

@rawkinrobin  reached  out  ,  for  robin  ! ↳    “    holly  !    what  are  you  doing  ?!    you  were  supposed  to  leave  !      ”

“    but  i  want  to  help  !    ”    &  so  it  seems  ,  a  wheeler  is  a  wheeler  no  matter  how  small  she  may  be  .    holly  ,  with  all  the  stubbornness  of  her  siblings  before  her  ,  had  listened  for  a  moment  .    it  was  fleeting    —    of  course  it  was    —    as  holly  had  barely  felt  the  cool  ,  sharp  november  air  on  her  cheeks  before  she  spun  on  her  heel  to  march  right  back  inside  .    she’d  remembered  how  to  get  back  into  the  hidden  basement  of  the  squawk  (  holly  wheeler  remembered  everything  )  ,  so  she  invited  herself  back  inside  ,  hopping  down  the  last  three  steps  one  at  a  time  like  she  was  all  too  proud  of  herself  .    that  smug  smile  disappeared  the  moment  robin  opened  her  mouth  . “    how  come  lucas’  sister  can  help  but  i  have  to  go  ?    i  can  do  all  sorts  of  stuff  !    i  can  help  !    ”

[upsides]

an unlikely sort of friendship . electric-hum quiet congeals between it and stacks of dust-swept records, the sort of hush that never quite belongs in the belly of the WSQK 94.9 after hours. an accidental sanctum made , carved out of cheap linoleum and old vinyl. the on air placard, long since extinguished. eddie exists there in the middle of this mausoleum of sound , some errant constellation stitched out of denim and unease and incomprehensible insult of existing in a place that believed him to be a monstrous thing. rather, still does.

observe: .. his silhouette flickers as though unstable, a figure whose atoms have forgotten the choreography of remaining still. the board before him, a leviathan of knobs, sliders and dead bulbs watches with unblinking devotion. and into this, one robin buckley speaks. selfishly.. i hope you stay. @rawkinrobin not loudly nor with any sort of flourish, just enough to cleave the room in clean two.

and that sentence of hers detonates without sound, a bloom of meaning that ricochets off the soundproofing. it lands where the world has been scraped thin: the place where he's tucked the word murderer , the place where hawkins has carved its thesis into his bones. robin, a captain of quips, harbinger of cutting commentary now stands in the quiet of the squawk offering something fragile.

he laughs. or at least attempts to. it's half incredulous and half doubtful, thumb worrying at the fraying duct tape on the arm of the rolling chair, peeling and re-peeling a strip. “  is that a legitimate, unironic, emotional statement from rockin' robin buckley ? ” he swivels a little, twirling to meet her face to face. “  call scotland yard. ”

his fingers drum relentlessly against the chair : rat-a-tat-tat. softens, “  i dun'no, man. i'm not sayin' i'm packin' my bags tonight. i just .. ” a falter so minute it might be mistaken for a static hitch. exhales through his nose, long and uneven. his gaze breaks toward the empty booth window as though someone may be watching. a boot scuffs at the floor, shifting gravel-dry dust and shrugs one shoulder. chrissy is dead, the upside down locked down. and yet, it's still not enough. “  it's a limbo. hawkins carved some bullshit kind of headline. y'know. murdering freakshow. facts don't matter. so ..yeah, it's kind of tough shit to settle back in with that fan club. ” the familiar quake of a boy who has never once been invited to stay without calculating the exits. his throat is lodged with shrapnel beneath the sternum. a tremor running the faultline between fight and flight , because eddie's a quiet cataclysm. town pariah, headline villain.