#valentine’s day 1990

[a-strange-inkling]

Valentine’s Day 1990

Part Two is now up ❤️

[retroness-is-fabulous]

[justseventeen]

'February 1994.* 'Fun or funky, scented or sweet: our editors' choices for the best gifts to give your valentine (or yourself).'

[yodaprod]

1991

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

[weirdadvertisements]

I scanned some Valentine cards from 1993--enjoy!

[bilbao-song]

American Greetings Peppermint Rose Valentines, 1993.

[gottastaychai]

[qulizalfos]

[runs in after abandoning my blog all week and throws this on the table] HAPPY BIRTHDAY WAYLI @wayward-sherlock PLEASE ACCEPT THIS FICLET AS A SYMBOL OF MY GRATITUDE TOWARDS HOW FUCKINF AWESOME U ARE ALWAYS <3 I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU BTW!!! anyways i hope u enjoy 2k of college byler shenanigans :) mwah

home (is wherever you are tonight)

“Oh, my God,” Will says, sitting forward, face alight in ways that terrify Mike. “There’s another reason, there’s a huge reason you're here, you—” “It’s Valentine’s Day, right?” The shift in Will’s expression is instantaneous. It might’ve qualified as comical, too, if Mike’s heart wasn’t about to explode.

You’d think Mike would have scrounged together a better sense of how to backpedal when he’s about to do something incredibly stupid. 

He’s trying not to think too hard about how quickly they rattle off in his head, the world’s most inconvenient list of reminders. What is wrong with you? We’re just… not in the mood right now. You’ve been on the bench all year. Not for the first time he’s gritting his teeth and wondering if it would have been entirely too much to ask for him to have acquired, by now, some intricate sixth sense for recklessness. He’s well aware that there’s no cosmic cure against the potency of his own mistakes, but he’d take anything to help him generally steer clear of these specific situations.

Encounters with murderous, eldritch entities ought to do that to a person. In his —for the record, totally impartial— opinion.

No goddamn dice, he thinks as he raises a fist to knock.

Maybe it is different, he supposes, because he’s less consumed by a wave of defensive volatility and less likely to bury the truth at the first sign of scrutiny, recoil at any chance of being left behind, and more willing to stop before he gains too dangerous an amount of momentum. It still happens, obviously— (case in point: now, loitering in an empty corridor, bland wallpaper finding a way to make it look like it’s laughing down at him, shifting his weight as he waits) he’d just convinced himself he had it more under control.

It’s ridiculous anyway. This whole thing is clearly careening towards a setup for a copious amount of slip ups on his part. But, it’s whatever.

Will’s probably out, anyway, he considers, belatedly.

It’s Valentine’s Day, —granted, a Wednesday evening dragging by with a sluggish, hazy quality— but a significant date all the same. Will is, Mike hedges, almost definitely out, maybe with the mystery guy in their joint history lecture, whose name Mike neglected to wheedle out of him last week. Maybe they’re both walking home from some fucking café, and Will would be getting cold like he does when the threat of snow looms at every waking moment, and to make matters worse, the other guy might do something sickeningly romantic like wind his scarf around Will’s neck, all while Mike’s standing at his dorm door like an idiot.

It’s possible he’s not very committed to the whole “breathe” thing El suggested, the day before the sky turned blue again, the day he was most convinced it never would again.

He threads a nervous hand through the disaster-prone section of his hair, hoping to smoothen it out, as he lifts his clenched hand, setting his face in concentration and aiming to knock one more time, and—

He has to flinch back to avoid accidentally punching Will in the face with his knock. Needless to say, that would be pretty counterproductive.

Will. Standing in front of him, soft furrow between his brows, loose sweater, lips parted.

He’s beautiful.

He shoves the thought to the side. It’s not the safest one to have when Will is less than two feet in front of him.

“Mike?”

It hits him about an hour too late: Maybe it’s ironic, how this holiday, composed entirely of spontaneous lovesick bullshit and cordiform chocolate boxes, doesn’t warrant him showing up at someone’s door unannounced. Not when it’s already 7pm.

It isn’t that he hadn’t brought that into consideration, just that now it’s not just an inkling in the back of his mind he has to ignore if he has any hope of getting ready with minimal distraction, but a real, pressing concern, and—

Will’s face splits into a grin, and the thought vanishes as quick as it came.

“Hey,” Mike tries, too hastily. The longer Will stands, just blinking at him, the further Mike burrows his hands into the pockets of his jackets.

He snaps out of it fairly quickly, and the expression has melted into something pleasantly surprised. Mike can work with that. He’s done much more with much less. “Uh— hi.”

“Are you busy?” Mike cranes a neck to peer around Will’s shoulder, unsure of what he’s looking for but appreciating the lack of anything all the same. “If you’re busy, I’ll totally come back, to— fuck, maybe not tomorrow, you have that—”

“Mike.”

“Yep.”

“I’m not busy,” he says with bright eyes, stepping back from the door to accommodate him. “I— don’t just stand there, come in, of course I’m not busy. Why, what’s up?”

“Thought maybe you were off at a candlelit dinner,” Mike remarks, because it’s easier to get out than the other thing, kicking off his shoes and trying not to think too hard about Will, the same Will in the same shadowy alcove as him, whose expression is tinged with fondness, at dinner; with warm lighting and a muted hum of chatter and someone else sitting across from him. “With the fancy napkins.”

“I think I would’ve mentioned the horrors of scraping together enough money for anything like that,” he says, and Mike’s efforts at miming cradling the aforementioned, hypothetical napkin receive a raised eyebrow. “Seriously, is something going on? If Max—”

“Nothing’s happening,” Mike tells him, passing him out and swiveling around to keep walking backwards, reversing into the couch and pretending he didn’t whack his knee as he drops onto it, picking at the edge of the nearest cushion, sprawling out as much as he can manage to. “Which is precisely why I’m here. Well, one of the reasons.”

Will hums, folding his arms and leaning on the back of the couch, contemplative. It has no right to be as endearing as it is. “Are there a lot of reasons?”

“I’m not allowed to visit you anymore?” Mike jokes. “Should I have called and given you a week’s notice?” He sits up, relishing the back and forth. “Should I—”

“No, you’re just… I dunno.” Will pokes his shoulder and skirts the couch, settling in the space Mike makes for him. “You seem nervous. Like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Shit.

Mike lets out what may be considered as the fakest laugh he’s ever mustered, darting his eyes away and plastering on a frown. He gives a half-hearted attempt at an unconvinced, hopefully somewhat assuring scoff, tugging free the crease that’s formed at the ankle of his jeans. “What makes you say that?” he asks. He’d like to describe it as nonchalant. Maybe he’s not as good at hiding as the boy in front of him, but he’s been sidestepping the obvious for what feels like his whole life. He’s had more than enough practice.

“Oh, my God,” Will says, sitting forward, face alight in ways that terrify Mike. “There’s another reason, there’s a huge reason you’re here, you—”

“It’s Valentine’s Day, right?”

The shift in Will’s expression is instantaneous. It might’ve qualified as comical, too, if Mike’s heart wasn’t trying its damndest not to explode. Again, counterproductive.

Will’s mouth drops open a little, the line of his body stock still, and just hovers there, close enough that the warmth of his breath brushes Mike’s face, and the room slips into little more than a backdrop. Mike searches his eyes for a sign that’s not there. He lifts a hand from where it’s resting on a dark green cushion, weighing the implications and consequences of reaching out against the part of him that doesn’t want to consider technicalities until far, far later. The moment stretches, engraving itself into Mike’s memory. 

And then it shatters.

Will slumps back, clearing his throat twice in rapid succession, and the corners of his mouth quirk up in diplomacy. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

Mike’s throat feels unreasonably dry. “Nope,” he says, omitting any mention of the crisis he’d had marching down the hall, questioning whether he’d gotten the date wrong and everything would blow up in his face tenfold, and just drumming his fingers against his thigh.

“So—” Will frowns, “what are you trying to say?”

This was all going much smoother during the numerous rehearsals in his head. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” he parrots, trying not to think about Will’s sharp inhale too much, “and I haven’t done something on Valentine’s Day for years, and you’re free, and I’m free, and…” he trails off, searching for the right words. “I don’t know, I thought we could hang out.” 

Silence.

It’s about to backfire, he can sense it, so he rushes to add: “In solidarity.”

“Right,” Will says, faraway. Mike sort of needs to run outside and scream for an untold amount of time.

“Doesn’t have to be super special,” he says, sensing the need for a prompt change in subject. “Unless you want it to be special, but I just figured— like, what were you gonna do before I came?”

Will glances at him once, quizzical, but drops it. 

—

It’s a short walk from the dorm to the closest Circle K, and one spent wrapped up in pleasant, amicable conversation, catching up on the various aspects of each other’s lives that aren’t entwined already, and about halfway there Will stoops to tie his shoelace. As Mike waits he considers how scary it could be if he dwells too long on how noteworthy the most mundane tasks become in Will Byers’ company.

They wander inside, Mike leaning on the door to open it for Will in what he hopes is a courteous manner, and trails down an aisle beside Will, the faint beat of a trashy pop song barely covering the echo of their footsteps on the tiles.

“Just the sodas?” Mike checks, swerving to avoid a display stacked high.

“Yeah,” Will says, nabbing a coke and gesturing to the fridge. “Take your pick.”

Mike reaches for a 7Up.

“Knew it,” Will says, something indecipherable in his tone. And then he’s extending a hand, covering Mike’s for a split second — long enough for an odd sensation to bloom in his ribs, but short enough for him to want to say, fuck it, and tangle their fingers, but Will teases the can out of his grip, leaving Mike with a cool smear of condensation on his palm.

“We can pool our resources,” Mike quips as Will deposits the cans on the counter. The cashier flicks a lazy glance at them and tells them the price. “I have a quarter.”

“Generous of you,” Will observes, producing a crumpled dollar note from his back pocket.

They settle on a wall outside, and Mike kicks the solid stone intermittently with his dangling heels, sipping away as Will starts to talk. The sky runs like spilled ink above them, perforated with only a smattering of stars and a few dark clouds, but Will is bathed in the gold ring of a streetlamp. There’s a lull in conversation, but it’s fine. Mike’s content to stay here all night.

“This was nice,” he says, in lieu of everything else.

Will bumps against his shoulder. “Yeah?”

A tiny droplet of rain lands on Mike’s nose, and three more freckle more of his exposed skin. A low fizz kicks up, drilling into the gray landscape surrounding them, and more dots pepper on the wall.

“Yeah.”  Will turns away. Mike scans the area around them, but they’re alone save for a few empty chip packets strewn across the concrete. Will’s gorgeous. Mike can’t explain it, but he knows when warmth floods your veins it’s a sign that merits extra morosis, and his intentions are in the right place, and it’s so hard to steer himself in any direction other than pitching forward and propping up a hand on the other side of Will’s jaw. Mike doesn’t let himself think too much of it as he presses a kiss to Will’s cheek.

It’s as short-lived as it is sweet: Will’s answering gasp, all wide eyes and questions in every line of his face, the beads of rain on his skin, near lucent in the orange lighting, the tickle of his bangs getting in Mike’s eyes a little when he turns.

And then Will’s breaking away to set down his Coke, and closing the gap between them.

Truthfully, Mike didn’t know that kissing could feel like this. It seems like something so untouchable, so far from what’s in his own comprehension of the world, that finding this kind of warmth could happen, but Will’s slinging an arm around his back and all coherent thoughts promptly dissolve in the now steadily falling rain. 

[goshyesvintageads]

Mars Inc, 1996

[a-strange-inkling]

Working on VD1990 P2 thought I’d share a funny little snippet…

“Wuv you!” Livvy returns.

Chrissy can hear him whimper, that always gets him, makes him a blubbering mess. She feels him hug her from behind, whining into her hair. “God, our kid is too damn cute, I can’t handle it.”

“You’re too cute.” She smiles as she arranges the blooms. He makes their daughter feel so safe and loved. “That’s the sweetest… a love bug!”

He bobs his head. “I know, I had to.”

“Wait till you see what I got her.” Chrissy tells him excitedly, clapping her hands.

“Oh, does poor Livvy have to wait for her gift too?”

Chrissy lifts her nose. “At least she can be patient.”

“…Is it a puffy red dress and a matching hair ribbon for her to wear for dinner?”

Chrissy eyes widen, her lips twitching.

Darn him to heck!

She whips her head around. “How did you…?”

He smiles coyly, hiding in her shoulder blade. “I’m a very good guesser?”

“Eddie…”

“Okay, okay, I saw a box under the bed and I opened it.” he says quickly in one breath.

She screams quietly in incredulous shock, turning around sharply to grab him by the front of the shirt and yank him down to her level. “Alright, Edward Robert, now I’m mad at you!”

“I’m sorry! You know I have no self control with hidden boxes! You shouldn’t have put it there!”

“Are you serious!?” she cries. He is no longer cute! He is the enemy! “What if it was yours!?” Not that he could actually find his, it’s just the principle of the thing.

He doesn’t look remotely sorry enough about it. “Okay, look, I’m sorry, but I need to know the price range so that my gift is of equal or greater value.”

“The price range!” Chrissy gives him a little shake before releasing him. “I wanted to surprise you with her outfit!”

“Oh my God!” He’s actually grinning, the punishment clearly worth the crime for him if he’s figured it out. “Is that it!?”

She seethes. “No it is not!”

“Okay, so not Livvy’s cute little outfit.” He strokes his chin, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully before suddenly gripping her hips and tugging her closer. “Is it a cute little outfit that you’ll wear?”

She snorts. “If it were, I’d return it!”

“Noooooo!” he coos loudly, hugging her to him dramatically. “You wouldn’t!”

“Yes,” she says, smushed into his faded shirt. “You’ve lost your cute little outfit privileges.”

“Forever!?” he cries pitifully.

“Indefinitely.” she mumbles.

“It was an accident!”

She lifts her head, chin on his chest. “You can’t open a hidden box accidentally.”

“We just moved! It could have been one of mine. How was I supposed to know?”

“You knew!” she whispers harshly, squinting up at him.

“I didn’t!” He’s lying. His voice is all squeaky. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m still stumped on mine, I have no clue…” He changes gears, eyes glimmering, revealing his true intentions.“For all I know it could be made out of metal or…”

“Eddie, no.”

“Leather?”

“No, stop!”

“C’mon, it’s like twenty questions…Wood?”

“No.”

“Vinyl?”

“No, as in no more questions!”

“Okay, not wood, not leather, or metal or vinyl then… wait is it alive!?”

God in heaven!

“Eddie, stop asking!”

[disneyprint]

[harrisonarchive]

The Beatles with the Dresner family, Miami Florida, February 1964 (photo published in The Australian Women’s Weekly, April 15, 1964); George at the Chelsea Flower Show in May 1999 (photo © Alamy Stock Photo).

“[Sgt. Buddy Dresner, the security detail for The Beatles during their time in Miami, Feb. 64] misses his family. He forgot Valentine’s Day until George reminded him. George sends flowers in Buddy’s name to his wife. […] A couple of days go by. Sgt. Buddy calls home. ‘Sorry I’ve been so secretive,’ he tells his wife, Dorothy. ‘Let’s have a big dinner tonight.’ That afternoon Jeri and her mom arrange tables in the living room. Jeri assumes that her favorite Uncle Harold from California and some cousins must be coming for supper. Uncle Harold is so funny and nice. A limo pulls up. The Beatles trot into the house. You are Jeri Dresner, age 12. The Beatles are in your living room. You love Paul. You tell yourself: ‘Don’t say anything dumb.’ You look at Paul, cuter in person than in his photographs, by the way. Paul says hello. Asks about your life. So do the other Beatles. They're down to earth, funny, unspoiled. Normal! Supper. Jeri’s job is serving the potatoes that accompany mom's roast beef. Her stomach churns with anxiety. George looms ahead. Fumbling with the spoon, she drops a hot potato on George's lap. Oh, my God. But George doesn’t act like it’s the end of the world. He laughs!“ - Tampa Bay Times, January 29, 2014

“[George] was a very romantic person.” - Olivia Harrison, Larry King Live, 2007

“[He spent] hours and hours [in the garden]. I bought him one of those lights you put on your head. He wasn’t just out in the garden, he was IN the garden. He would walk out the door and come back in with the tiniest little thing and he’d go, ‘Look at that!’ — and he'd hand you the tiniest little flower. He’d notice things. We’d walk along in the grass and he’d bend over and go, ‘Oh, look at that little guy’ and it would be a bug. I’d say, ‘How did you see that?’ He was just really present.” - Olivia Harrison, The Sun, June 12, 2009 (x)

[not-theangelofmusic-sorry]

who needs a valentine LMAO

[agheaven]

Valentiny Day

American Girl Magazine, January/February 1999

[Ko-Fi Donations]

[blogandmablog]

"Isn't everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?"

🎥 'Before Sunrise' (1995). dir. Richard Linklater