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[bowie-byers]

Eddie slugged back the first shot like a bird eating a worm, head cocking back to reveal the cartilage of his adam's apple as the liquid snaked down his throat. It wasn't a great visual, but post-show shots always ... stabilized him somehow. Dimmed the ring in his ears and whatever adrenaline was still coursing through his system to cope with Stacy's coked-out whining about improvisation. It was almost ritualistic. With more introspection, he'd maybe recognize this crippling feeling as sobriety. An onlooker could probably tell the vodka was cheap just by the way he smacked his chest after slamming the shot glass down on the bar. The bartender didn't seem too pleased by that. Oh well, Eddie's mistakes always came in pairs and there was one more shot to go!

His fingers wrapped around the second shot glass just as a stranger moved to sit by him - or so he thought. Eddie didn't think much of him at first. Yeah, It was a bit weird of him to scuffle so close at an empty bar, though it wasn't unusual for dudes to find him after a gig. Not that Eddie ever minded the ego boost. He was about to down the shot when the guy finally spoke up. It took a second to register what was happening.

"Long way from Hawkins, aren’t you? I’m Cole Montgomery. Hawkins High class of ’85."

Eddie couldn't even speak at first. The glass hovered mid-air as he processed the face in front of him. The name ... the graduation year ... it hit him like a freight train, and he set the shot back down, more carefully than before. So carefully that he felt fucking sober. Of course he remembered Cole. Vaguely? Hawkins High had a lot of broody teenagers but it was hard to forget about a kid who had rumours spread about a lot of the same shit. That's not the kinda thing you forget. He took in the moment, letting Cole speak. Eddie's body, torso, attention was turned to watch him sip on what looked like an old fashioned. His jaw adjusted at the mention of Twisted Pickle. A distraction from addressing the Hawkins of this all for a second.

"Careful. Craig's pretty sensitive about the name if you like getting your ass beat ... you into that or something?" He sized up Dr. Gloom with the warning, eyes flickering to see if Cole had paid for a wristband or knew someone here. Playfully. The alcohol helped. "I'm kidding." He moved into the actual story without a beat, shot glass bobbing around to emphasize every stupid detail. It probably made him look insane. Many people from back home would say that wasn't far from the truth. "A pickle almost took me out once - like, literally choked me out. I was plastered, man - like so gooned that I could barely stand, so one of my bandmates tried to do the hamlick - or heimlick maneuvor? or whatever, and I sprained my fucking ankle..." Eddie told the story like it was something normal. A grocery list. The time of day. He paused only to work up a dramatic effect for the punchline, not allowing the other to get in a word. "And that's how twisted pickle was born." The story was summarized by finally taking the shot, mind reeling, ready to address the fact that he was in a bar, in the middle of nowhere new york, with someone from Hawkins ... Indiana.

"So - what's the deal with you ... Cole?" Eddie was still wincing from the shitty aftertaste when he dragged out the other's name. In a way that signified he remembered. "Last I heard the residents of Hawkins don't love metal music ... and most of them don't make it out, so, unless you crawled out of that shitty cow town for a reason, you might wanna to tap your pretty little shoes together because you're far from home, dorothy." He leaned over to speak more quietly, more intentioned than before. "Seriously, man, what brings you to the Big Apple? No judgement but ... why the hell are you here, you know, of all places?"

Discord Thread History: Band Fantasy 1.0

Eddie Munson x Cole Montgomery @waldenwritess

Thread #1: Cole's Sexy Y/N Band Fanfic

tw: drugs

Eddie Munson

Their first song was a wash. It’s not like anyone but himself could tell, but Craig’s drumming was a fucking mess. Probably because of the pre-show coke. Eddie refrained from participating this time around. In fact, he did a pretty good job of showing up at this Lower East Side hole-in-the-wall sober, relying on a lukewarm beer kept by his feet to power through their setlist. The establishment itself wasn’t glamorous. Hell, he was surprised they even had a stage. There weren’t any big lights, backstage, fancy equipment – it was just them, amplifiers, and the sweat dripping down their denim. It was a comfortable environment for Eddie, reminiscent of dive bars that became his makeshift homes along the coast early on his career. The crowd itself was tight in front of the stage but he never paid much attention to the audience while performing. With his feet planted firmly on the tempered hardwood, he kept his eyes on the strings, thighs bucking into the backing of his fender. His eyes only bobbed up occasionally to hit cues with Stacy.

Eddie ended their set with his head tilted back, slinking a single smile at the crowd as a final salutation for the night. Cheering could still be heard as Brody mouthed off his signature thank you spiel, as much as a crowd in a shady bar would holler. He proceeded to prance off the stage with his guitar in one hand and lukewarm beer in the other, polishing it off on his way to the artist’s corner. Twisted Pickle wasn’t playing any gigs tomorrow – which usually meant that they’d all go hard at the after party. It was a familiar routine if they stuck around long enough for the next band to finish. He usually waited around for all the artists to wrap up their performances before taking off. It’s not like the night wasn’t young.

He bee-lined for the bar after packing up his gear. His elbow settled on the counter, yelling above shitty overhead intermission music – who plays U2 after a set like theirs? “I’ll take a rum and coke!” The tender shook their head at his choice. “What? – you don’t have rum? – Coke?” He leaned deeper over the bar to clarify, a playful grin curling at his expression, “Is this a bar?” The dude didn’t find it very funny. New York, what a friendly fucking city. “I’ll have two shots then – whatever you got, thanks.” He reached for the bifold in his back pocket and set down a few bills, fingering the ring on his index finger as the tender poured shots.

Cole Montgomery

Truthfully, Cole had no idea what show he was being dragged to, only that his friend Farrah was bringing a friend and the show was in the Lower East Side, so they wanted to use his place as the meeting spot. He didn't mind much. If not for a few select friends, Cole would never see the outside of his apartment. He was reclusive by nature, and since he'd slowed down on drinking and started on his manuscript, Cole had fallen into a routine of early nights with his cat. There were a few lost months, too, months that turned into half a year of drinking to forget. He’d never been very good at finding a middle ground, so the only way Cole could conceptualize not drinking to forget was locking himself away, the Emily Dickinson-style seclusion. Lately, though, he’d been trying to find a balance… or rather, his friends were forcing him to find a balance. Cole was grateful for a growing community, a group of people who truly cared for him, but it was hard to deny the guilt he still harbored. It felt wrong to let loose and have fun when he'd hurt so many people-- Lee, Max, Jonathan, Will, his mother. The list of people he'd disappointed wasn't short, and maybe he should suffer for that. It was only right, right?

Buzz. The self-loathing would have to wait for tomorrow. Cole spent a few seconds circling his apartment looking for Neetz, and before he could find her the buzzing had begun again, buzzes in rapid succession. “I hear you, Jesus Christ!” he yelled as if Farrah could hear him from the third floor. He was about to give up when he spotted a familiar tuft of black fur wedged between the radiator and the bookshelf. Cole chuckled, gave her a goodbye pat, and shoved his keys and wallet into his pocket. A quick glance at his watch told him they were running late, so he took the steps two at a time and spilled onto the street, breathless. “Fuck you, I heard you the first six times you buzzed,” he greeted his friend with a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, I’m Cole,” he smiled at the new friend. The two blocks to the bar were filled with casual conversation, the weather, other such forgettable things— but Cole’s mind was elsewhere.

As they shrugged into the crowded pub, Cole welcomed the loud music and the feeling of the snare drumming in his chest was weirdly soothing. After his eyes adjusted to the dark, Cole glanced on stage. He recognized the hair first, long, brunette curls shaking with every move he made. Eddie fucking Munson. For a moment, Cole thought he was surely dreaming— or hallucinating— but he hadn’t taken anything in weeks. Cole’s eyes were glued to him throughout the whole set. At first to make sure he was real, and then… because he couldn’t look away. There was something addictive about him, and Cole’s stupid high school crush on Eddie “the freak” Munson came flooding back. The music was good— or so he thought, he wasn’t fully paying attention, but Farrah and her friend seemed to enjoy it. Cole spent the whole set figuring out how to get backstage, who he needed to bat his eyelashes at, and he’d solidified a plan. Only then did he notice that Eddie hadn’t gone backstage; in fact, he’d made a beeline to the bar. So Cole did the same, game plan effectively thrown out of the window.

He slid into a seat a few spaces down from the rockstar and eavesdropped for a moment. Cole laughed at the joke, for what it was worth, and caught the bartender’s eye long enough to order an Old Fashioned. Just one drink, just for the liquid courage to actually approach Eddie, who may or may not even know who he was; God knows they hadn’t talked much back in high school. But, who knows, they both had… certain reputations. Maybe the noticing wasn’t one-sided. “Thanks,” he breathed when the bartender returned with his glass. Cole took a large gulp and glanced up at his target. Sliding the glass over as he moved into the seat closes to Eddie, Cole offered a wry grin. “Long way from Hawkins, aren’t you?” he mused, projecting nonchalance. “I’m Cole Montgomery. Hawkins High class of ’85.” It was weird, being this close to a blast from the past. They hadn’t exactly run in the same circles— as if Cole had a social circle at all— but still, it had him lost in thought, remembering high school. His chest felt heavy, all of the sudden, at the thought of how things used to be. Who he used to be. Cole took another long swig of his drink and turned squarely to Eddie. “Good set, but I gotta ask. What the fuck’s the deal with the name?”

[bowie-byers]

Jonathan Byers + Anger Issues Web Weave

Chapter Five: The Flea and the Acrobat/Cop Car, Mitski/unknown/Chapter Eight: The Upside Down/I Would Leave Me If I Could, Halsey/Chapter Five: Dig Dug/ In The Dream House, Carmen Maria Machado/Chapter Four: The Sauna Test/The Fallen Angel, Alexandre Cabanel/ This Is Me Trying, Taylor Swift/Chapter Two: Vecna's Curse/Hollywood, Charles Bukowski/ Chapter Two: The Weirdo On Maple Street

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𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐖 𝐔𝐏 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒. Whispers of rebellion, of a lost district; No family was spared from the fallout of civil war. We'll never go back, they say, and everyone has their ways of coping with it. With life in the districts, short and painful and ultimately meaningless; With life in the Capitol, hedonistic and indulgent and tenuous, on the brink of collapse at any moment.

The 74th Annual Hunger Games are upon us now, the last vestige of a history long ignored. The energy is tangible this time of year, districts walking on eggshells and the Capitol gearing up for celebration. There can be no beauty without pain, after all. 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑?

THEODDSHQ is a Discord/Tumblr Hybrid, 21+ literate, canon divergent roleplay set during the 74th Hunger Games. With appable OCs in the districts and the capitol, plus strict diversity rules, The Odds encourages storytelling, character development, and literacy. The Odds is a plot-heavy group, with regular events occurring on Discord.

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Monster Trap

Episode 8: The Upside Down, Stranger Things

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mid-2000s jonathan byers listens exclusively to divorced dad rock

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RAHUL KOHLI as Sheriff Hassan MIDNIGHT MASS | S01E01

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MICHIEL HUISMAN as Cal Morrison in Orphan Black (Season 2)

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— The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

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crush by richard siken // richard diebenkorn // richard diebenkorn // if there’s a way out i’ll take it by lora mathis

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Have you ever thought about losing your brother?

me vs. making webweaves on dying and family. really this was just an excuse to think about killing flies.

Killing Flies, Michael Dickman | Separation, W.S. Merwin | Eurydice, Ocean Vuong | It, Stephen King | Winnie-the-Pooh, A.A Milne | Fading Kitten Syndrome, ROAR | Quote via. Maurice Sendak | A Meeting, Wendell Berry | Anguish, August Friedrich Schenck | West Wind I, Mary Oliver | Planet of Love, Richard Siken | Quote via. C.C, Aurel | Oats We Sow, Gregory and the Hawk | The Living to the Dead, Käthe Kollwitz | Quote via Fortesa Latifi | Antigonick, Anne Carson | Killing Flies, Michael Dickman (cont.)

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Jonathan Byers,, its hard being a father brother parent at 17 ok

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“Lately I’ve been thinking about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and who I need to become to become the kind of love I want to be…and when I break it all down, when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this: Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.”

— Andrea Gibson

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#iconic

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"I fucked ur mom this" "I have sex with your dad that" well I have a weird homoerotic relationship with your hot older brother and he got lost in my eyes over our jumbo pizza slices and forgot to pick you up after soccer practice. it's raining and you're devestated btw

[bowie-byers]

If someone were to look at Jonathan Byers’ phone right now it would have a pitiful receipt of eight unanswered outgoing calls: Three for a guy called Argyle. Two for a girl called Nancy. One for someone called … “Bald Eagle”? And four for the disconnected cell number of Will Byers. Jonathan didn’t bother leaving voicemails for anyone except the latter but got tired of trying after hearing “we're sorry you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel this is in error, please check the number dialed, and please try again” for the fourth time in a row. The list might have been longer if it weren’t 1am and he’d been anywhere other than stumbling down the shockingly lit streets back to his new home of … Lincoln hall? – Lagoona Falls? Fuck. He had a hard time remembering. Thankfully his phone still had 5% battery to figure it out. It’s not like Jonathan spent much time in Lipton Hall outside of making his bed and hitting the dining hall before the roommate had a chance to get up and, god forbid, meet him. Respectfully putting off the introductions was a solid way to ensure that the other guy didn’t have an opportunity to hate him – or vice versa. Yet. They'd have lots of time to figure it out over twelve months of waking up to the sound of the other's breathing.

Jonathan looked completely misplaced as he strutted down MacDougall Street with a box of multi-coloured string lights wedged between an arm. The fact that a shady hardware store was open at 1am (let alone carried Christmas gear in September) was a miracle. The young man blew past streetlights with an urgency that could only be characterized as Joyce-like, incapable of extinguishing the drunken thought that maybe if he just …. if he could just … string up the lights one last time ….  if he gave himself a final moment to entertain the suppressed wish that Will might be caught somewhere that wasn’t four feet deep in Hawkins’ Cemetery ... then maybe he could accept that his brother’s disconnected number was, in fact, not an error. That it was forever. Permanent. The flicker of a slowly dying lamp and the six beers he’d been handed between a few shitty conversations about cinema made it make sense in the only place that mattered. His brutally stuffy head.

The shoddy wooden chair dragged against the carpet. Jonathan registered nothing in his surroundings except the need to find an outlet in the wall. The rush in his head was akin to white noise - pushing him forward despite the bubble, bubble, bubble, in his stomach and the ever growing need to let it all out. He struggled to hold up the string of lights against the wall, chair creaking beneath him. That's when Jonathan finally realized that he had nothing to pin them up with. He burst out laughing to himself, wheezing with his arms still slopped high up on wall with lights in his fists. The drunk freshman didn't register his roommate's presence until Cole was right behind him, steadying the chair. Hearing a voice outside of his own mumbling scared the hell out of him. "Jesus F-Fuck!" He jumped in terror, knees buckling as his arms dropped along with the lights. The mangled string tumbled to the ground. Jonathan whipped around to narrow his eyes on the dude, steadying himself with the back of the chair. The rush of adrenaline heightened his disorientation, world spinning unbearably. Dots finally started connecting on who this guy was, running a hand through his sweaty bangs as the realization came to him. The roommate. He was too drunk to put together an introduction, eyes moving away from Cole to the lights scattered below him - slurring out a desperate "Shit ... Do you have tape, man?" in the process.

WHO: cole + jonathan (@bowie-byers) WHERE: lipton hall, room 313 WHAT: the roommate from hell

Greenwich Village was cool-- that was a win, at least. Being nestled in the middle of so much history and culture was a far cry from Depoe Bay, Oregon. Cole had been keeping notes in his Moleskin of record stores and dives he wanted to explore once he'd gotten moved in. Of course, all he really had to his name were a couple of odd '80s posters, a couple boxes of books, and a t-shirt collection that desperately needed a wash after the three-day cross-country drive.

He'd made a deal with himself-- a week completely off the grid, settling into his new surroundings before he ventured a call out to Max or his mom or, God forbid, Akeem. It was nice, though, the almost-cold breeze in Washington Square Park; the shitty bodega coffee that reminded him of how Maude always makes it way too strong. But every time he found his way back to Lipton Hall, Cole felt like he was holding his breath, wondering if he'd finally meet his elusive roommate.

He could tell that the other boy had moved in already, from the painstakingly pressed plaid sheets and the single Bowie poster-- but the guy was all but a ghost. He was gone before Cole got up at six and out until well after Cole went to bed. If they'd even talked once, Cole would guess the dude hated him. Whatever, maybe he'd get lucky and the sucker would drop out pre-semester, leaving Cole with a suite to himself. He could always dream.

... Which is exactly what he was trying to do when the door beeped open, yellow hallway light pooling into the doorway. Cole groaned, turned his back to the door, and promptly fell back asleep despite the shuffling feet and clumsy movements of his roommate. At least, until the chair scraping across the floor caused Cole to bolt upright, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the red, blue, green, and yellow lights the other plugged in and held up towards the ceiling.

"Wh-- what the-- fuck, man?" Cole tripped over his words, grogginess pressing against his eyelids. "What... are you--," Cole shoved out of bed to steady the chair while his roommate balanced precariously on its edge. It took him a beat, but Cole frowned upwards. "Dude, are you fucked up right now?"

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Why Things Burn, Daphne Gottlieb

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Coming out Thread // Continued

@waldenwritess

Will:

Will leaned into Jonathan's hug like he had so many times before, only this time he felt himself leaning more heavily, gathering the fabric of Jonathan's shirt into his fists and squeezing his eyes closed. A few tears slipped through, wetting Jonathan knew, that much was apparent, but Will still had to say it. He knew once the words left his mouth he could never take them back. He knew he could never take them back either way. With Jonathan's reassurance, Will pulled away and swiped at his face with the back of his hand, weak smile to show Jonathan that he would be okay. Eventually, maybe. Will followed Jonathan to his bed and sat next to him, eyes falling immediately to the carpet under his feet, fingers once again picking at the hem of his too-big shirt that used to be Jonathan’s. As his brother began talking, Will lifted his eyes to Jonathan’s face, automatically shaking his head in protest as Jonathan started apologizing. He opened his mouth to protest— to promise that Jonathan had been a better brother than he ever could’ve wished for, that it wasn’t him Will was afraid of, really, just the fact that saying it out loud made it real— but Will didn’t want to interrupt. He found himself nodding along, agreeing that things do get way more complicated. Will had felt behind when his friends all started dating and all he wanted to do was play DnD, but he wondered now if that was less about not wanting to date and more about who he wanted to date. “I never felt alone,” he ventured, before Jonathan could move on. “I know you will. You do,” he confirmed in as many words as he could manage without bursting completely into tears. Will’s throat burned from holding back his emotion, and he swallowed hard, determined to pay attention to Jonathan’s words.

Studying his hands, Will clasped and unclasped them in his lap. They felt clammy, and he wiped them on his jeans while he desperately tried not to think of Mike Wheeler. It makes you do stupid shit. Will immediately thought of the conversation he’d had with Mike in the van back in California, how Mike somehow managed to frustrate him more than anyone else in the world, but also felt like home. He met Jonathan’s eyes cautiously, then, not sure just how many confessions he was up for in one go. Jonathan’s eyes pierced through Will’s soul, and he felt frozen under his brother’s intense gaze. Everyone deserves to know what that feels like. HIs eyes welled up again, but this time Will didn’t reach up to swipe at them. He let the tears fall, one and two and then faster, until they streamed together. Suddenly, Will felt like a little kid again— like he was five years old, hugging Jonathan’s leg, begging him not to leave and go to school, just this once. Clinging to the safety his brother always brought with him, the certainty that someone loved him not in spite of everything he was, but because of it. As long as he could remember, Jonathan was Will’s safety net— he ordered for Will at restaurants way past that being acceptable, he talked to strangers on the bus on Will’s behalf, he let Will duck behind him in crowds, but Will knew it had to come to an end. Jonathan couldn’t say this for him. Taking a shaky breath, Will met Jonathan’s eyes again and nodded, trying to soak in Jonathan’s words. Jonathan was always recording things, and for a second Will wished he was recording this, so Will could revisit it over and over and be sure of what he said. The world needs to see it, and there’s someone out there who will love you for it. Once again, Jonathan’s words burned Will’s throat. He reached out and took Jonathan’s hand, squeezing hard to redirect the pressure from his eyes to his hands, and took another deep breath. “Jonathan, I’m gay.” It didn’t feel like how he thought it would. Will didn’t feel freer, or lighter— maybe in an existential sense, he felt good to finally tell the truth. He felt the same, only with a sneaking suspicion that he’d have a headache tomorrow from all the crying. “You already knew,” he said, tenderly loosening his grip on Jonathan’s hand, but not letting go yet. “Thank you. For making it easy to say,” he said, after a beat of silence. Will searched Jonathan’s eyes, afraid he hadn’t said enough to assuage any guilt Jonathan was holding onto. “I think it just… took me a while to figure out what my feelings meant. And then, everything else,” he said, grimacing at the thought of all that had happened this year. The last few years. Too much for a lifetime. He was lost in that thought for a while.

“It’s not because of you, or mom,” Will clarified, though his mind was lightyears away. Jonathan’s words— his promise that someone out there will love him— had a haunting effect. Will had never doubted that he was loved, that he would be loved. He’d always known that his family and friends loved him. But romantic love felt like it was off the table. He remembered telling mom that he would never fall in love; it wasn’t so much a goal as it was the submission to what he felt was true. When he finally spoke up again, his voice sounded small, almost fragile: “Do you really think someone else will… that I’ll find someone? Like me?”

Jonathan:

His own eyes started watering, and he gave his brother a nanosecond to work into the confession. The waterworks always started as soon as Will cried ... It's been that way since time immemorial. He paid no mind to the numbing tingle in the tips of his fingers caught in Will’s vice grip, nodding encouragingly.  Jonathan, I’m Gay. Hearing confirmation of what he’d always known was a breath of fresh air. He stayed silent in fear of saying anything to interrupt his brother’s emotional breakthrough. Christ, he feared breathing too loud and stopping the big words from spilling into this quiet little safe space in his bedroom. Jonathan had picked up on a few signs (for a lack of better words) over the years – not to mention their conversation in Surfer Boy. His big brother sixth sense expected to hear an I’m Gay disclosure at some point. This was a huge moment for Will – And honestly, it was a very joyous moment in Jonathan’s mind. It’s not because of you or mom. That’s when he finally cut his brother off. “Will, feelings are … intense sometimes – it takes time to figure stuff out and you don’t have to have everything figured out right now, either. You’re growing up, you know? And I’m so proud of you for opening up to me about this – so proud ... that takes a lot of guts.” He maintained his gaze with a more serious glint, expression lit with unequivocal trust.  As much as he was an older brother and they’d operated consistently in a realm of honesty over the years… Jonathan was still a young person himself. Giving his brother a glimpse into his own vulnerabilities was uncomfortable, regardless of the age difference. “I think you’re old enough to hear this now but … I never really had anyone to talk to about this kind of stuff – love, relationships and everything that comes with that. There’s mom, you know? but sometimes you just need … someone that isn’t mom …” He swallowed to recenter himself on the point that he was trying to make. “I kinda had to figure it out on my own and … it sucked. You can always talk to me about this stuff – or like boy problems.” He cringed as soon as boy problems left his mouth. Could he have said something dorkier? Probably not. “There’s things that you won’t want to tell me or mom – and that’s okay, but there’s so many people who love you and would break their backs to help you – Hopper, Murray, your friends … Hell, there’s people who even do that for a living … and if – If I don’t have the answers to something, I’ll always help you find them, alright?”

He brushed a hand over his brow. Do you really think someone else will … that I’ll find someone? Jonathan used to ask himself the very same question. Still wonders about it sometimes. A slight chuckle caused mucus to catch in his throat and he promptly coughed it away. Both of his palms moved back to his knees, keeping a sly smile at bay. He really wasn't laughing at Will. The fact that his brother had any doubts about his own merits was amusing but the concern in Will's tone scared the living shit out of him. “You don’t … You don’t have to have to worry about finding someone. Trust me, someone will show up when you least expect it – and when you truly love yourself, inside and out, people are drawn to that ... Soon enough you’ll get grounded for sneaking boys into the house.”  He cracked some light into their conversation, but it was also entirely true. Will was still super young. It’s hard to feel desirable when you’re still growing into your own skin. Jonathan knew how that felt … And although it was probably impossible for Will to fathom, there’d probably be many someones … Boys who swell your heart to five times its size. Boys who deflate it. Boys who make promises.  Boys who show up late – or sometimes surprisingly on time. Boys who are dumb as hell …  Little did Will know that he’d probably meet handfuls of boys before settling on someone who makes his world stop spinning. That’s just life. Deep down Jonathan simply hoped that the right … someone … would be found outside of Hawkins. The world’s a big place and Will Byers deserved to experience everything that it had to offer. Period. That’s what Jonathan wanted for him. “By the way - Just so you know … Mom will find out even if they sneak out of your window.” He nudged his chin towards the single pane window in the corner of his room, picking up the collar of his t-shirt to wipe his nose. These days Nancy used the front door but back at their old place she was jumping out of his bedroom window like an acrobat for most of the summer before they took off to California. “Mom has a sixth sense for that shit so don’t even bother lying.”