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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

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Anonymous said: I didn’t know too much about the late British philosopher Sir Roger Scruton until I followed your superbly cultured blog. As an ivy league educated American reading your posts, I feel he is a breath of fresh air as a sane and cultured conservative intellectual. We don’t really have his kind over here where things are heavily polarized between left and right, and sadly, we are often uncivil in our discourse. Sir Roger Scruton talks a lot about beauty especially in art (as indeed you do too), so for Scruton why does beauty as an aesthetic matter in art? Why should we care?

I thank you for your very kind words about my blog which I fear is not worthy of such fulsome praise.

However one who is worthy of praise (or at least gratitude and appreciation at least) is the late Sir Roger Scruton. I have had the pleasure to have met him on a few informal occasions.

Most memorably, I once got invited to High Table dinner at Peterhouse, Cambridge, by a friend who was a junior Don there. This was just after I had finished my studies at Cambridge and rather than pursue my PhD I opted instead to join the British army as a combat pilot officer. And so I found out that Scruton was dining too. We had very pleasant drinks in the SCR before and after dinner. He was exceptionally generous and kind in his consideration of others; we all basked in the gentle warmth of his wit and wisdom.

I remember talking to him about Xanthippe, Socrate’s wife, because I had read his wickedly funny fictional satire. In the book he credits the much maligned Xanthippe with being the brains behind all of Socrates’ famous philosophical ideas (as espoused by Plato).

On other occasions I had seen Roger Scruton give the odd lecture in London or at some cultural forum.

Other than that, I’ve always admire both the man and many of his ideas from afar. I do take issue with some of his intellectual ideas which seem to be taken a tad too far (he think pre-Raphaelites were kitsch) but it’s impossible to dislike the man in person.

Indeed the Marxist philosopher G.A. Cohen reportedly once refused to teach a seminar with Scruton, although they later became very good friends. This is the gap between the personal and the public persona. In public he was reviled as hate figure by some of the more intolerant of the leftists who were trying to shut him down from speaking. But in private his academic peers, writers, and philosophers, regardless of their political beliefs, hugely respected him and took his ideas seriously - because only in private will they ever admit that much of what Scruton talks about has come to pass.

In many ways he was like C.S. Lewis - a pariah to the Oxbridge establishment. At Oxford many dons poo-pooed his children stories, and especially his Christian ideas of faith, culture, and morality, and felt he should have laid off the lay theology and stuck to his academic speciality of English Literature. But an Oxford friend, now a don, tells me that many dons read his theological works in private because much of what he wrote has become hugely relevant today.

Scruton was a man of parts, some of which seemed irreconcilable: barrister, aesthetician, distinguished professor of aesthetics. Outside of brief pit stops at Cambridge, Oxford, and St Andrews, he was mostly based out of Birkbeck College, London University, which had a tradition of a working-class intake and to whom Scruton was something of a popular figure. He was also an editor of the ultra-Conservative Salisbury Review, organist, and an enthusiastic fox hunter. In addition he wrote over 50 books on philosophy, art, music, politics, literature, culture, sexuality, and religion, as well as finding time to write novels and two operas. He was widely recognised for his services to philosophy, teaching and public education, receiving a knighthood in 2016.

He was exactly the type of polymath England didn’t know what to do with because we British do discourage such continental affectations and we prefer people to know their lane and stick to it. Above all we’re suspicious of polymaths because no one likes a show off. Scruton could be accused of a few things but he never perceived as a show off. He was a gentle, reserved, and shy man of kindly manners.

He was never politically ‘Conservative’, or tried not to be. Indeed he encouraged many to think about defining “a philosophy of conservatism” and not “a philosophy for the Conservative Party.” In defining his own thoughts, he positioned conservatism to relation to its historical rivals, liberalism and socialism. He wrote that liberalism was the product of the enlightenment, which viewed society as a contract and the state as a system for guaranteeing individual rights. While he saw socialism as the product of the industrial revolution, and an ideology which views society as an economic system and the state as a means of distributing social wealth.

Like another great English thinkers, Michael Oakeshott, he felt that conservatives leaned more towards liberalism then socialism, but argued that for conservatives, freedom should also entail responsibility, which in turn depends on public spirit and virtue. Many classical liberals would agree.

In fact, he criticised Thatcherism for “its inadequate emphasis on the civic virtues, such as self-sacrifice, duty, solidarity and service of others.” Scruton agreed with classical liberals in believing that markets are not necessarily expressions of selfishness and greed, but heavily scolded his fellow Conservatives for allowing themselves to be caricatured as leaving social problems to the market. Classical liberals could be criticised for the same neglect.

Perhaps his conservative philosophy was best summed up when he wrote “Liberals seek freedom, socialists equality, and conservatives responsibility. And, without responsibility, neither freedom nor equality have any lasting value.”

Scruton’s politics were undoubtedly linked to his philosophy, which was broadly Hegelian. He took the view that all of the most important aspects of life – truth (the perception of the world as it is), beauty (the creation and appreciation of things valued for their own sake), and self-realisation (the establishment by a person of a coherent, autonomous identity) – can be achieved only as part of a cultural community within which meaning, standards and values are validated. But he had a wide and deep understanding of the history of western philosophy as a whole, and some of his best philosophical work consisted of explaining much more clearly than is often the case how different schools of western philosophy relate to one another.

People today still forget how he was a beacon for many East European intellectuals living under Communist rule in the 1980s. Scruton was deeply attached in belonging to a network of renowned Western scholars who were helping the political opposition in Eastern Europe. Their activity began in Czechoslovakia with the Jan Hus Foundation in 1980, supported by a broad spectrum of scholars from Jacques Derrida and Juergen Habermas to Roger Scruton and David Regan. Then came Poland, Hungary and later Romania. In Poland, Scruton co-founded the Jagiellonian Trust, a small but significant organisation. The other founders and active participants were Baroness Caroline Cox, Jessica Douglas-Home, Kathy Wilkes, Agnieszka Kołakowska, Dennis O’Keeffe, Timothy Garton Ash, and others.

Scruton had a particular sympathy for Prague and the Czech society, which bore fruit in the novel, Notes from Underground, which he wrote many years later. But his involvement in East European affairs was more than an emotional attachment. He believed that Eastern Europe - despite the communist terror and aggressive social engineering - managed to preserve a sense of historical continuity and strong ties to European and national traditions, more unconscious than openly articulated, which made it even more valuable. For this reason, decades later, he warned his East European friends against joining the European Union, arguing that whatever was left of those ties will be demolished by the political and ideological bulldozer of European bureaucracy.

Anyway, digressions aside, onto to the heart of your question.

Art matters.

Let’s start from there. Regardless of your personal tastes or aesthetics as you stand before a painting, slip inside a photograph, run your hand along the length of a sculpture, or move your body to the arrangements spiraling out of the concert speakers…something very primary - and primal - is happening. And much of it sub-conscious. There’s an element of trust.

Political philosopher, Hannah Arendt, defined artworks as “thought things,” ideas given material form to inspire reflection and rumination. Dialogue. Sometimes even discomfort. Art has the ability to move us, both positively and negatively. So we know that art matters. But the question posed by modern philosophers such as Roger Scruton has been: how do we want it to affect us?

Are we happy with the direction art is taking? Namely, says, Scruton, away from seeking “higher virtues” such as beauty and craftmanship, and instead, towards novelty for novelty’s sake, provoking emotional response under the guise of socio-political discourse.

Why does beauty in art matter?

Scruton asks us to wake up and start demanding something more from art other than disposable entertainment. “Through the pursuit of beauty,” suggests Scruton, “we shape the world as our own and come to understand our nature as spiritual beings. But art has turned its back on beauty and now we are surrounded by ugliness.” The great artists of the past, says Scruton, “were painfully aware that human life was full of care and suffering, but their remedy was beauty. The beautiful work of art brings consolation in sorrow and affirmation…It shows human life to be worthwhile.” But many modern artists, argues the philosopher, have become weary of this “sacred task” and replaced it with the “randomness” of art produced merely to gain notoriety and the result has been anywhere between kitsch to ugliness that ultimately leads to inward alienation and nihilistic despair.

The best way to understand Scruton’s idea of beauty in art and why it matters is to let him speak for himself. Click below on the video and watch a BBC documentary broadcast way back in 2009 that he did precisely on this subject, why beauty matters. It will not be a wasted hour but perhaps enrich and even enlighten your perspective on the importance of beauty in art.

vimeo

So I’ll do my best to summarise the point Scruton is making in this documentary above.

Here goes.....

In his 2009 documentary “Why Beauty Matters”, Scruton argues that beauty is a universal human need that elevates us and gives meaning to life. He sees beauty as a value, as important as truth or goodness, that can offer “consolation in sorrow and affirmation in joy”, therefore showing human life to be worthwhile.

According to Scruton, beauty is being lost in our modern world, particularly in the fields of art and architecture.

I was raised in many different cultures from India, Pakistan, to China, Japan, Southern Africa, and the Middle East as well schooling in rural Britain and Switzerland. So coming home to London on frequent visits was often a confusing experience because of the mismatch of modern art and new architecture. In life and in art I have chosen to see the beauty in things, locating myself in Paris, where I am surrounded by beauty, and understand the impact it can have on the everyday.

Scruton’s disdain for modern art begins with Marcel Duchamp’s urinal. Originally a satirical piece designed to mock the world of art and the snobberies that go with it, it has come to mean that anything can be art and anyone can be an artist. A “cult of ugliness” was created where originality is placed above beauty and the idea became more important than the artwork itself. He argues that art became a joke, endorsed by critics, doing away with a need for skill, taste or creativity.

Duchamp’s argument was that the value of any object lies solely in what each individual assigns it, and thus, anything can be declared “art,” and anyone an artist.

But is there something wrong with the idea that everything is art and everyone an artist? If we celebrate the democratic ideals of all citizens being equal and therefore their input having equal value, doesn’t Duchamp’s assertion make sense?

Who’s to say, after all, what constitutes beauty?

This resonated with me in particular and brought to mind when Scruton meets the artist Michael Craig-Martin and asks him about how Duchamp’s urinal first made him feel. Martin is best known for his work “An Oak Tree” which is a glass of water on a shelf, with text beside it explaining why it is an oak tree. Martin argues that Duchamp captures the imagination and that art is an art because we think of it as such.

When I first saw “An Oak Tree” I was confused and felt perhaps I didn’t have the intellect to understand it. When I would later question it with friends who worked in the art auction and gallery world, the response was always “You just don’t get it,” which became a common defence. To me, it was reminiscent of Hans Christian Andersen’s short tale “The Emperor’s New Clothes”, about two weavers who promise an emperor a new suit of clothes that they say is invisible to those who are unfit for their positions, stupid or incompetent. In reality, they make no clothes at all.

Scruton argues that the consumerist culture has been the catalyst for this change in modern art. We are always being sold something, through advertisements that feed our appetite for stuff, adverts try to be brash and outrageous to catch our attention. Art mimics advertising as artists attempt to create brands, the product that they sell is themselves. The more shocking and outrageous the artwork, the more attention it receives. Scruton is particularly disturbed by Piero Manzoni’s artwork “Artist’s Shit” which consists of 90 tin cans filled with the artist’s excrement.

Moreover the true aesthetic value, the beauty, has vanished in modern works that are selling for millions of dollars. In such works, by artists like Rothko, Franz Kline, Damien Hirst, and Tracey Emin, the beauty has been replaced by discourse. The lofty ideals of beauty are replaced by a social essay, however well intentioned.

A common argument for modern art is that it is reflecting modern life in all of its disorder and ugliness. Scruton suggests that great art has always shown the real in the light of the ideal and that in doing so it is transfigured.

A great painting does not necessarily have a beautiful subject matter, but it is made beautiful through the artist’s interpretation of it. Rembrandt shows this with his portraits of crinkly old women and men or the compassion and kindness of which Velazquez paints the dwarfs in the Spanish court. Modern art often takes the literal subject matter and misses the creative act. Scruton expresses this point using the comparison of Tracey Emin’s artwork ‘My Bed’ and a painting by Delacroix of the artist’s bed.

The subject matters are the same. The unmade beds in all of their sordid disdain. Delacroix brings beauty to a thing that lacks it through the considered artistry of his interpretation and by doing so, places a blessing on his own emotional chaos. Emin shares the ugliness that the bed shows by using the literal bed. According to Emin, it is art because she says that it is so.

Philosophers argued that through the pursuit of beauty, we shape the world as our home. Traditional architecture places beauty before utility, with ornate decorative details and proportions that satisfy our need for harmony. It reminds us that we have more than just practical needs but moral and spiritual needs too. Oscar Wilde said “All art is absolutely useless,” intended as praise by placing art above utility and on a level with love, friendship, and worship. These are not necessarily useful but are needed.

We have all experienced the feeling when we see something beautiful. To be transported by beauty, from the ordinary world to, as Scruton calls it, “the illuminated sphere of contemplation.” It is as if we feel the presence of a higher world. Since the beginning of western civilisation, poets and philosophers have seen the experience of beauty as a calling to the divine.

According to Scruton, Plato described beauty as a cosmic force flowing through us in the form of sexual desire. He separated the divine from sexuality through the distinction between love and lust. To lust is to take for oneself, whereas to love is to give. Platonic love removes lust and invites us to engage with it spiritually and not physically. As Plato says, “Beauty is a visitor from another world. We can do nothing with it save contemplate its pure radiance.”

Scruton makes the prescient point that art and beauty were traditionally aligned in religious works of art. Science impacted religion and created a spiritual vacuum. People began to look to nature for beauty, and there was a shift from religious works of art to paintings of landscapes and human life.

In today’s world of art and architecture, beauty is looked upon as a thing of the past with disdain. Scruton believes his vision of beauty gives meaning to the world and saves us from meaningless routines to take us to a place of higher contemplation. In this I think Scruton encourages us not to take revenge on reality by expressing its ugliness, but to return to where the real and the ideal may still exist in harmony “consoling our sorrows and amplifying our joys.”

Scruton believes when you train any of your senses you are privy to a heightened world. The artist sees beauty everywhere and they are able to draw that beauty out to show to others. One finds the most beauty in nature, and nature the best catalyst for creativity. The Tonalist painter George Inness advised artists to paint their emotional response to their subject, so that the viewer may hope to feel it too.

It must be said that Scruton’s views regarding art and beauty are not popular with the modern art crowd and their postmodern advocates. Having written several books on aesthetics, Scruton has developed a largely metaphysical aspect to understanding standards of art and beauty.

Throughout this documentary (and indeed his many books and articles), Scruton display a bias towards ‘high’ art, evidenced by a majority of his examples as well as his dismissal of much modern art. However on everyday beauty, there is much space for Scruton to challenge his own categories and extend his discussion to include examples from popular culture, such as in music, graphic design, and film. Omitting ‘low art’ in the discussion of beauty could lead one to conclude that beauty is not there.

It is here I would part ways with Scruton. I think there is beauty to be found in so called low art of car design, popular music or cinema for example - here I’m thinking of a Ferrari 250 GTO, jazz, or the films of Bergman, Bresson, or Kurosawa (among others) come to mind. Scruton gives short thrift to such 20th century art forms which should not be discounted when we talk of beauty. It’s hard to argue with Jean-Luc Godard for instance when he once said of French film pioneering director, Robert Bresson, “He is the French cinema, as Dostoevsky is the Russian novel and Mozart is German music.”

Overall though I believe Scruton does enough to leave us to ponder ourselves on the importance of beauty in the arts and our lives, including fine arts, music, and architecture. I think he succeeds in illuminating the poverty, dehumanisation and fraud of modernist and post-modernist cynicism, reductionism and nihilism. Scruton is rightly prescient in pointing the centrality of human aspiration and the longing for truth in both life and art.

In this he is correct in showing that goodness and beauty are universal and fundamentally important; and that the value of anything is not utilitarian and without meaning (e.g., Oscar Wilde’s claim that “All art is absolutely useless.”). Human beings are not purposeless material objects for mechanistic manipulation by others, and civil society itself depends upon a cultural consensus that beauty is real and every person should be respected with compassion as having dignity and nobility with very real spiritual needs to encounter and be transformed and uplifted by beauty.

Thanks for your question.

#ask #question #sir roger scruton #scruton #art #aesthetics #beauty #architecture #music #paintings #film #cinema #personal

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eicke · 2 years

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#midori hirano #rival consoles #music #Spotify

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jgthirlwell · 3 years

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2020 Year In Review

This year once again I invited some friends and colleagues to reflect on 2020

JG Thirlwell

Composer

Foetus Xordox Manorexia Steroid Maximus Venture Bros Archer

www.foetus.org

2020 was a troubling and disturbing year. I created a lot of music and experienced a lot of nights waking at 5am in a panic. I deeply missed the sacred experience of being able to see live music. In its absence of that I listened to a lot of music. It was difficult to whittle down this list but here are a lot of albums I enjoyed in 2020, in no particular order.

Le Grand Sbam Furvent (Dur Et Doux) John Elmquist’s HardArt Group I Own an Ion (900 Nurses) Roly Porter Kistvaen (Subtext) Liturgy Origin Of The Alimonies (YLYLCYN) Clark Kiri Variations (Throttle) Dai Kaht Dai Kaht I & II (Soleil Zeuhl) Chromb Le livre des merveilles (Dur Et Doux) Horse Lords The Common Task (Northern Spy) Ecker & Meultzer Carbon (Subtext) Insane Warrior Tendrils (RJ’s Electrical Connections) Jeff Parker Suite For Max Brown (International Anthem) Jacob Kirkegaard Opus Mors (Topos) Tristan Perich Drift Multiply (Nonesuch) Bec Plexus Sticklip (New Amsterdam) Vak Budo (Soleil Zeuhl) Merlin Nova BOO! (Bandcamp) The The Muscle OST (Cineola) Zombi 2020 (Relapse) Regis Hidden In This Is The Light That You Miss (Downwards) Rival Consoles Articulation (Erased Tapes) Sarah Davachi Cantus, Descant (L.A.T.E.) Sufjan Stevens The Ascension (Asthmatic Kitty) Idles Ultra Mono (Partisan) Daedelus The Bittereindeers (Brainfeeder) Boris No (Bandcamp) Aksak Maboul Figures / Un peu de l’ame des bandits / Onze Danses Pour Cobattre La Migraine (Crammed) Noveller Arrow (Ba Da Bing) Felicia Atkinson Everything Evaporate (Shelter Press) Ital Tek Dream Boundary (Planet Mu) Author and Punisher Beastland (Relapse) Sparks A Steady Drip Drip Drip (BMG) Corima Amatarasu (Soleil Zeuhl) Code Orange Underneath (Roadrunner) Deerhoof Future Teenage Cave Artists /Silly Symphonies / To Be Surrounded../ Love Lore(Joyful Noise) Sote Moscels (Opal Tapes) Run The Jewels RTJ4 (Jewel Runners) Oranssi Pazuzu Mestarin Kynsi (Nuclear Blast) Master Boot Record Floppy Disk Overdrive (Metal Blade) Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith The Mosaic Of Transformation (Ghostly International) / Ears (Western Vinyl) Michael Gordon Acquanetta (Cantelope) Neom Arkana Temporis (Soleil Zeuhl) Rian Treanor Ataxia / File Under UK Metaplasm (Planet Mu) Helm Saturnalia (Alter) Ivvvo doG (Halcyon Veil) Robert Normandeau Figures (Empreintes Digitales) Ben Vida Reducing The Tempo To Zero (Shelter Press) Beatrice Dillon Workaround (Pan) Dan Deacon Mystic Familiar (Domino) Sea Oleena Weaving A Basket (Higher Plain Music) Elysian Fields Transience Of Life (Ojet) Rhapsody Symphony Of Enchanted Lands II - The Dark Secret (Magic Circle) Duma Duma (Nyege Nyege) Ulla Strauss Tumbling Towards a Wall / Seed (Bandcamp)

Honorable mentions Carl Stone Stolen Car (Unseen Worlds) Nazar Guerilla (Hyperdub) Iwo Zaluski with the Children of Park Lane Primary School, Wembley The Remarkable Earth Making Machine (Trunk) Nahash Flowers Of The Revolution (SVBKVLT) Cindy Lee Whats Tonight To Eternity (Bandcamp) Insect Ark The Vanishing (Profound Lore) 33EMYBW Arthropods (SVBKVLT) Declan McKenna Zeroes (Tomplicated) Layma Azur Zeii (Bandcamp)

FILM TV Succession ZeroZeroZero Escape at Dannemora 1917 Small Axe : Five films by Steve McQueen Pirhanas Monos The Hater Better Call Saul

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Drew Daniel

Matmos, The Soft Pink Truth

an alphabet of 2020 recordings

Arca “KiCk i” BFTT “Intrusive / Obtrusive” clipping. “Visions of Bodies Being Burned” Duma “Duma” Eilbacher, Max “Metabolist Meter (Foster, Cottin, Caetani and a Fly)” Forbidden Colors “La Yeguada” GILA “Energy Demonstration” HiedraH Club de Baile “Bichote-K Bailable Vol. 2” Ian Power “Maintenance Hums” Jeff Carey “Index[off]” Kassel Jaeger “Meith” Laurie Anderson “Songs From the Bardo” Mukqs “Water Levels” Negativland “The World Will Decide” O’Rourke, Jim “Shutting Down Here” Perlesvaus “These Things Below with Those Above” Quicksails “Blue Rise” Rian Treanor “File Under UK Metaplasm” Slikback “///” Terminal Nation “Holocene Extinction” Ulcerate “Stare Into Death and Be Still” Various Artists “HAUS of ALTR” William Tyler “New Vanitas” Xyla “Ways” Y A S H A “Summations” :zoviet-france: “Châsse 2ᵉ”

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Sarah Lipstate (Noveller)

With all live performances canceled, this was truly the year of demo videos and home studio recording for me. These are 10 pieces of gear that came out in 2020 that helped keep me feeling creative and inspired during lockdown. In no particular order:

EHX Oceans 12 Dual Stereo Reverb - The Oceans 12 ticks all the boxes for what I’m looking for in a great soundscaping reverb. I used the Shimmer and Reverse algorithms in conjunction a lot when I was composing music for a film score.

Chase Bliss Audio Blooper - While I don’t actually own a Blooper, I had the pleasure of borrowing one from Mike of Baranik Guitars after NAMM this year. He made an incredible Blooper-inspired guitar and I was completely charmed by them both. Chase Bliss always delivers pedals that push me creatively and the Blooper truly hits the mark.

Cooper FX Arcades - I love everything Cooper FX has released to-date so the opportunity to access those sounds in one pedal via plug-in cartridges is just awesome.

SolidGoldFX NU-33 - I was asked to do a demo of this pedal for its release and ended up being really charmed by this box’s approach to lo-fi nostalgia. I’ve used it a lot for film scoring and highly recommend adding it to your collection.

Demedash Effects T-120 DLX V2 - I LOVE a good tape echo and the T-120 Deluxe V2 ranks up there with the best I’ve tried. This pedal made its way to me this Christmas and I look forward to making some beautiful sounds with it in the new year.

Hologram Electronics Microcosm - The Microcosm is one of those pedals where you should fully read the manual before diving in but once you put in that initial effort you’ve got a massively powerful tool on your hands. It does glitch like no other. Definitely worth the homework

Azzam Bells MP019 - I discovered this unique instrument through a post on Reverb’s IG page and immediately looked it up and ordered one. These experimental percussion instruments are hand-made in Italy and they’re as beautiful visually as they are sonically. I used it for bowed cymbal and daxophone sounds on a film score and it was absolutely haunting.

Echopark Dual Harmonic Boost 2 - I love the control you have over dialing in the perfect amount of grit with these dual boost circuits. I use it a lot as a textural tool when I’m laying down drones or bringing in big distorted swells. It’s one of the most versatile overdrives in my collection and I love that.

Fender Parallel Universe Series Volume II Maverick Dorado - I was smitten with the Maverick Dorado when I first saw it at NAMM. It has a lot of the specs that I look for in a guitar and the body shape with the Mystic Pine finish just blew me away. I hope that I get to use it live soon.

Polyeffects Beebo - The Beebo is one of those pedals that I genuinely feel is smarter than I am. It’s like an entire computer in one small touchscreen box. I can’t claim to have mastered using it yet but the sounds that I have managed to get out of it so far have been brilliant. I’m looking forward to spending more time with this box in 2021

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HELM 2020 REVIEW

Let's get the bad stuff out the way first, 2020 was undoubtedly an awful year. I'm still not sure how to really respond to seeing a global pandemic bring the capital to its knees and everything I love and hold dear to a grinding halt. Our government fucked it's response, putting profit before people and killing tens of thousands. The Labour Party descended into farce with the newly elected leader Sir Keith revealing himself as a bland centrist with no opposition or ideas. On a personal level it sucked not being able to travel or see my friends in different parts of the world - or even the same country - who I am starting to miss a lot. However, I was fortunate enough to get through the year with my sanity intact. Music, art and culture once again being my main positive. I think I listened to more music than I have in any year ever. I read more books than I have done since I was a teenager probably. I also re-discovered the joys of walking long distances and am extremely thankful for living near a lot of incredible green spaces: Epping Forest, Walthamstow Wetlands, Walthamstow Marshes, Wanstead Park, Wanstead Flats...

Music. My favourite albums of the year.

Oranssi Pazuzu - Mestarin kynsi Wetware - Flail Raspberry Bulbs - Before The Age Of Mirrors Necrot - Mortal Rope Sect - The Great Flood Private World - Aleph Oneohtrix Point Never - Magic Oneohtrix Point Never Pyrrhon - Abcess Time CS+Kreme - Snoopy Speaker Music - Black Nationalist Sonic Weaponry Drew McDowall - Agalma Regis - Hidden In This Is The Light That You Miss Nazar - Guerilla Zoviet France - Russian Heterodoxical Songs (and all the ZF reissues!!) Triple Negative - God Bless the Death Drive Permission - Organised People Suffer Actress - Karma & Desire Acolytes - Stress II The Gerogerigegege - >(decrescendo) Chubby & The Gang - Speed Kills Flora Yin-Wong - Holy Palm Eiko Ishibashi - Hyakki Yagyo The The - See Without Being Seen Prurient - Casablanca Flamethrower Henning Christiansen - L’essere Umano Errabando La Voce Errabando Subdued - Over The Hills And Far Away Rian Treanor - File Under UK Metaplasm Komare - The Sense Of Hearing Shredded Nerve - Acts Of Betrayal Jesu - Terminus Autechre - SIGN Hey Colossus - Dances / Curses Sparkle Division - To Feel Embraced Mark Harwood - A Perfect Punctual Paradise Under My Own Name Still House Plants - Fast Edit The Bug & Dis Fig - In Blue Kommand - Terrorscape Haus Arafna - Asche Khthoniik Cerviiks - Æequiizoiikum Worm - Gloomlord Kraus - A Golden Brain Faceless Burial - Speciation

A shout-out to Jon Abby's AMPLIFY series on Bandcamp / Facebook, which I contributed a new piece of music to.

A shout out to the labels where most of the music I listened to seemed to come from:

The Trilogy Tapes Iron Bonehead Penultimate Press Dais La Vida Es Un Mus

Gigs. Despite live music being destroyed in 2020 I still saw a few unforgettable performances at the beginning of the year.

Graham Lambkin @ The ICA, London Puce Mary / JFK @ The Glove That Fits, London Demilich @ Finnfest, The Garage, London Container / PC World / National Unrest @ Venue MOT, London S.H.I.T / Asid / Chubby & The Gang @ Static Shock Festival, ExFed, London

Books I enjoyed. Most not published this year, but all read in 2020.

Joe Kennedy - Authentocrats David Balzer - Curationism Tom Mills - BBC: The Myth Of A Public Service Simon Morris - Consumer Guide: Special Edition Luke Turner - Out Of The Woods Various - Bad News For Labour Mike Wendling - Alt-Right Baited Area issues 1 & 2.

Film. Three good films I saw this year which I hadn't before.

Suspiria (Remake) Midsommar Cannibal Holocaust

Podcasts. I listened to a lot of these whilst walking.

We Don't Talk About The Weather Novara Media Tysky Sour & Novara FM Grounded with Louis Theroux System of Systems Red Scare loveline episodes Suite 212 NOISEXTRA Social Discipline CONTAIN

TV.

Didn't watch a huge amount and what I did was mostly trash. For some reason I rewatched both series' of This Life, a British drama from the late 90's about a group of young professionals house sharing and navigating their careers. Very cringey and has aged terribly, but it was perversely fascinating to revisit something from that time in the age of the pandemic. Following on from this I binge watched the entire series of Industry which was entertaining enough. A programme about a bunch of horny bankers with what felt like a confused ideology behind it. It seemed stuck between trying to criticise and glorify the culture around the industry, but also protect the industry itself from outside criticism by portraying anyone who may oppose as an insufferable wanker. Currently halfway through Succession which is OK. The Murdoch documentaries on the BBC were excellent and a rare respite from their descent into client journalism.

Thanks to anyone who listened to my music this year also. Best wishes to you all for 2021.

Luke Younger

http://hhelmm.com | http://alter.bandcamp.com

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Elliott Sharp

composer

1. My Nr. 1 lesson: patience. Whether it's bouncing through 30 seconds of severe turbulence at 39000 feet or slogging through 30 minutes of a interminable piece of concert music, one attribute I've tried to develop is the ability to see past the discrete and awaited ending, the exact framing of the immediate process, but put it into the context of a larger time frame. I've found that this year more than all others has demanded it. Breathing helps...

2. Books: revisiting old favorites from the realm of Thomas Pynchon and Philip K. Dick (both especially relevant), digging into John Lomax's portrait of Jelly Roll Morton, the works of Colson Whitehead, random things off of the shelf…

3. Composing: with touring off the table, I focused on that which needed to be written, some requested and commissioned, some spontaneously springing forth. Composing requires that one open the windows wide to the world, which at this moment brought in grief, terror, uncertainty, anxiety, visions of plague and pestilence and incipient fascism. Okay, now shut the window and get to work! How to process, translate, transform? The work can be a comfortable and obsessive cocoon once one learns to handle the radioactive materials and put them into the creativity reactor.

4. Beans! We have long been a fan in our house of the wide world of legumes but this year brought two stars to the front: the black bean and the red lentil. The black bean commands the lofty peaks but the seemingly infinite variations of dal surround it. Ginger, garlic, turmeric, smoked paprika, cayenne, onions, and olive oil form the basis then imagination builds.

5. Online teaching substituted for my canceled conduction of workshops in the Pyrenees Mountains of France. Between the participants and myself, we built a temporary but very congenial space online to share concepts and music. In addition, private lessons brought conversation and music with new friends in Germany, Italy, California, Australia, Illinois, Denmark, Pennsylvania, Spain, Florida, Brazil.

6. What started out as "stress baking" (before I even had heard of the term) soon became a frequent practice that yielded very edible results. The twins preferred the sweeter forays into banana bread and chocolate cake. I tried to find a balance between tried-and-true techniques and experiments in texture and taste with yeasted pumpernickels, multi-grains, and seed breads.

7. While not the same as performing 'live ', online gigs proved that it was possible to generate a surprising amount of adrenaline even without the pheromonal handshaking of a room filled with receptive ears. As a corollary, online recording collaborations with friends worldwide proved to be inspiring and a suitable substrate for sonic experimentation, exploration of new instruments, tunings, effects programming, structures. In these realms, shout-outs to Helene Breschand, Mike Cooper, Henry Kaiser, Tracie Morris, Mikel Banks, Dougie Bowne, Payton McDonald, Billy Martin, Colin Stetson, Jim O'Rourke, Scott Amendola, Roberto Zorzi, Jason Hoopes, Eric Mingus, Melanie Dyer, Dave Hofstra, Don McKenzie, Sergio Sorrentino, Veniero Rizzardi, Taylor Ho Bynum, Scott Fields, Bachir Attar, Karl Bruckmaier, Robbie Lee, Matthew Evan Taylor, Matteo Liberatore, Al Kaatz, David Barratt, Jessica Hallock, Kolin Zeinikov, Robbie Lee, Jeremy Nesse, James Ilgenfritz, Sergio Armaroli, Steve Piccolo, Sandy Ewen, David Weinstein, Jim Whittemore, Chris Vine, Werner Puntigam, William Schimmel.

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Daniel O’Sullivan

(Grumbling Fur, Guapo, Miasma & the Carousel of Headless Horses, Ulver, Sunn O))), Æthenor, Laniakea, Miracle, Mothlite, and This Is Not This Heat.)

Music Richard Youngs - Ein Klein Nein Alabaster DePlume - Instrumentals Hildegard von Bingen - O Nobilissima Viriditas Francisco de Penalosa - Missa Ave Maria Peregrina Carlo Gesualdo - Responsoria 1611 Dirty Projectors - Five EPs Sonic Boom - All Things Being Equal Brother Peter Broderick - Blackberry Richard Horowitz - Eros Of Arabia Duncan Trussell Family Hour Cocteau Twins in the bath

Books/comics Alexander Tucker - Entity Reunion II Derek Jarman - Chroma Stephen Harrod Buhner - Plant Intelligence and the Imaginal Realm The Penguin Book Of Irish Poetry - edited by Patrick Crotty The Gospel Of Ramakrishna - translated by Swami Nikhilananda Lucretius - De Rerum Natura Plotinus - Enneads Ram Dass - Grist For The Mill Lisa Brown - Phantom Twin

Other Fasting / meditation / macrodosing Walks in freshly coppiced woodland (for the smell mainly). Plants / Foraging / Growing Traditional ferments Douglas Sirk movies Mandolorian Writing songs on the piano Rediscovery of Kenneth Graham via my kids

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Karl O’Connor (Regis)

01.Wolfgang Press - Unremembered, Remembered 02. Klara Lewis - Ingrid Live at Fylkingen 03. Jesu - Terminus 04. Dave Ball - Leeds Poly Demos 1979 05. Edwin Pouncey - Rated Sav X (the Savage Pencil Skratchbook) 06. The Bug - In Blue 07. New Order - Power,Corruption and Lies ( Writing Sessions ) 08. JG Thirlwell and Simon Steensland - Oscillospira 09. FM Einheit and Andreas Ammer - Hammerschlag 10. Thurston Moore - By The Fire 11. Body Stuff - Body Stuff 3 12. Ann M Hogan - Honeysuckle Burials 13. Rob Halford - Confess (Autobiography)

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Caleb Braaten (Sacred Bones Records)

Shirley Collins Hearts Ease Dehd Flowers Of Devotion Duma Duma Bob Dylan Rough and Rowdy Ways Green-House Six Songs for Invisible Gardens John Jeffery Passage Drew McDowall Agalma Sweeping Promises Hunger For a Way Out Colter Wall Western Swing & Waltzes and Other Punchy Songs Woods Strange to Explain

My Favorite 90’s Nostalgia Movie Rewatches

Colors Ghost Dog Menace II Society The Player Rounders Safe Starship Troopers Trees Lounge Vampires Waiting For Guffman

Most Culturally Bankrupt Year : 1997

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Charlie Looker

(composer, Psalm Zero, Extra Life, Seaven Teares)

Ten Things That Didn’t Happen in 2020

1. I didn’t write a ton of new music. Don’t get me wrong, I wrote some. I always do. But mostly I focused on my new YouTube channel, essays, and on getting old recordings released. I haven’t even been working a day-job so I thought I was going to write my next Ring Cycle, but I really didn’t find Covid inspiring.

2. Trump wasn’t re-elected. Cool.

3. I didn’t lose anyone to Covid. I am, of course, profoundly grateful for this. But I feel pretty embarrassed remembering group-texting ten friends in March, “We are all going to see a loved one die. Every single one of us. Don’t kid yourselves”. I can get hysterical, and that was somewhat irresponsible of me.

4. No revolution happened. I don’t mean to be smug or cynical, or to belittle anyone’s participation in the protests. But, as far as I can tell, nothing happened in 2020 that promises to reduce police brutality or human suffering of any kind. We’ll see. That burning Minneapolis police station was exciting to watch at the time, if only on an aesthetic level.

5. I have a stack of unread books I bought this year, just staring at me, with nary a crease among them. These include:

Adorno and Horkheimer, The Dialectic of Enlightenment (looks amazing, but I haven’t touched it) Marx, Grundrisse (it’s 1000 pages for fuck’s sake. Amazon also accidentally sent me two copies, and its double presence in the stack is just comical) Reza Negarestani, Intelligence and Spirit (the first 15 pages blew my mind, then my mind blew it off)

6. I didn’t settle into living in LA. I moved here six months before Covid and I was just starting to cultivate some friendships and play shows. This was quashed and I still feel like I still live in New York. I still barely know the layout of the city here.

7. No brand-new buzzy musical artists burst onto the scene, that I can recall. No new hyped micro-genre of the moment. There was just no way for there to be a hot new trend. I’d say that was refreshing, but it wasn’t.

8. Tyson’s return was not awesome. Two minute rounds, ended in a draw. I’ve been getting way into boxing this past year. This fight was a bummer. I’m looking forward to Mayweather vs Logan Paul (LOL) because we know it’s comedy ahead of time.

9. For three weeks in July, I didn’t do a single thing other than watch street fight compilations on YouTube and Worldstar. That’s just grim.

10. There were no school shootings in March. Apparently, this was the first March with no school shootings since 2002. Not a single 7th grader got a hand job in March either. I cannot begin to imagine what it’s like to be a kid now.

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Chuck Bettis

https://chuckbettis.com

Other People's Music released this year:

Coil "Musick to Play in the Dark" (Dais)

Duma "s/t" (Nyege Nyege Tapes) Twig Harper "External Boundless Prison/ in 4 parts EP" (self-release) I.P.Y. (Ikue Mori, Phew, YoshimiO) "I.P.Y." (Tzadik) Kill Alters "A2B2 Live Stream 11/13/2020" (self-release) Krallice "Mass Cathexis" (self-release) Lust$ickPuppy "Cosmic Brownie" (self-release) Doug McKechnie "San Francisco Moog: 1968-72" (VG+ Records) Merlin Nova "Boo!" (self-release) Omrb "Milandthriust, The Graths of Mersh" (self-release) Akio Suzuki & Aki Onda "gi n ga" (self-release) Yoth Iria "Under His Sway" (Repulsive Echo) Wetware "Flail" (Dais)

My own music released this year:

collaborations

Chatter Blip "Microcosmopolitan" (Contour Editions) Matmos "The Consuming Flame: Open Exercises in Group Form" (Thrill Jockey) Reverse Bullets "Dreampop Dsyphoria" (self-release) Snake Union "live at Roulette" (self-release) Snake Union w/ Hisham Bharoocha, Bonnie Jones, Heejin Jang, Matthew Regula "Three Arrows" (Rat Route) Thomas Dimuzio "Balance" (Gench Music) YoshimiO & Chuck Bettis "Live at the Stone" (Living Myth)

solo Chuck Bettis "Arc of Enlghtenment" (Living Myth) Chuck Bettis "Motion Parallax" (Living Myth)

compilation Various Artist "Polished Turds Vol.1" (Granpa)

Music Books read this year

"Intermediary Spaces" by Eliane Radigue/Julia Eckhardt (Umland) "Ennio Morricone In His Own Words" by Ennio Morricone/Alessandro De Rosa (Oxford University Press) "Free Jazz In Japan: A Personal History" by Soejima Teruto (Public Bath Press) "Rumors of Noizu: Hijokaidan and the Road to 2nd Damascus" by Kato David Hopkins (Public Bath Press)

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Maya Hardinge

(musician / artist)

list of things i liked this year

first ever solo road trip through new mexico and Texas right before lockdown experiencing manhattan with no cars on the road . having a car to escape in to nature. (which i craved so much) walks and bike rides with friends… FRIENDS! The web site ‘workaway’ that helped me feel that there were options for escape. playing games weekly on zoom during lock down teaching yoga weekly on zoom. Witnessing and being part of the BLM protests. witnessing and being part of the demise of T sitting on my couch at 6am drinking a cup of tea, appreciating my apt. making time to meditate. halloween without tourists .

some music I’ve bought and/or enjoyed this year Elvis Perkins-Black Coat Daughter Patricia Kokett -Soi soi Henning Christiansen - OP201 Bryce Hackford- Safe Svitlana Nianio and Oleksander - Snayesh yak? rozkazhy Brannten schnure - Sommer im Pfirsichhain Killing Joke - Nighttime David Shea - Tower of mirrors Shakey - Shakey Woodford halse tapes Coil - Musick to play in the dark

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BJ Nilsen

sound artist / composer

Work 2020

Despite Covid 19 lots of things actually did happen.

In Feburary I visited the only active nuclear plant in The Nederlands as part of my "Expanded Field Recording” project together with SML. In March revisited the Acousmonium at the Elevate Festival in Graz with an additional trip deep inside the Schlossberg recording old mining trains. In March and April I did two daily recording projects “Pending and Auditory Scenes” - both of Amsterdam during lockdown. In May did my first Zoom field recording workshop with the CAMP project. In June & July two research trips in Waldviertel, Austria with Franz Pomassl. In August recorded bells and organs in 10 different churches around Amsterdam for Jacob Lekkerkerker. In September recorded Kali Malone at the Orgelpark in Amsterdam. Performed at Heart of Noise Festival in Innsbruck and A4 in Bratislava. Also went ice-skating for first time in 20? Years. In November and December I travelled to Jeju island to record field recordings for a project by Femke Herregraven for the Gwangju Biennale, commissioned for 2021. Did lots of gardening, released two tapes “Call it Philips, Eindoven” and “Zomer 2020” with Sigtryggur Berg Sigmarsson. NOW! Looking forward to 2021.

http://bjnilsen.info https://soundcloud.com/bjnilsen/sets/auditory-scenes-amsterdam

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Vicki Bennett

(People Like Us)

Negativland - True False https://negativland.com/products/truefalse-cd (this came out last year but is so THIS year) Bob Dylan - Rough and Rowdy Ways https://www.bobdylan.com/albums/rough-and-rowdy-ways/ The Soft Pink Truth - We from Shall We Go On Sinning So That Grace May Increase https://thesoftpinktruth.bandcamp.com/album/shall-we-go-on-sinning-so-that-grace-may-increase Carl Stone - Stolen Car https://unseenworlds.bandcamp.com/album/stolen-car Porest - Sedimental Gurney https://porest.bandcamp.com/album/sedimental-gurney Matmos - The Consuming Flame: Open Exercises in Group Form https://matmos.bandcamp.com/album/the-consuming-flame-open-exercises-in-group-form Domenique Dumont - Miniatures De Auto Rhythm https://antinoterecordings.bandcamp.com/album/atn044-domenique-dumont-miniatures-de-auto-rhythm The The - See Without Being Seen https://www.thethe.com/product/see-without-being-seen-cd/ Ciggy de la Noche - Hold Tight HMRC https://soundcloud.com/ciggydelanoche/hold-tight-hmrc Neil Cicierega - Mouth Dreams http://www.neilcic.com/mouthdreams/

and my details: http://peoplelikeus.org/ https://peoplelikeus-vickibennett.bandcamp.com/ pic: http://peoplelikeus.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/Welcome-Abroad-promo3-2-scaled.jpg

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DJ Food

Music - Type 303 - Sticky Disco / Analogue Acidbath 7" (45 Live) The British Space Group - The Ley of the Land CD (Wyrd Britain) Squarepusher - Be Up A Hello LP / Warp 10 NTS mix (Warp) dgoHn - Undesignated Proximate (Modern Love) LF58 - Alterazione LP (Astral Industries) Robert Fripp - Music For Quiet Moments series (DGM) Run The Jewels - RTJ4 (BMG) Simf Onyx - Magenta Skyline / The Unresolved 7" (Delights) Luke Vibert - Modern Rave LP (Hypercolour) JG Thirlwell & Simon Steensland - Oscillospira (Ipecac) Aural Design - Looking & Seeing 7" / DL (Russian Library) Luke Vibert - Rave Hop (Hypercolour) Clipping. with Christopher Fleeger - Double Live (Sub Pop) APAT - Terry Riley's 'In C' performed on Modular Synthesizer (YouTube) Field Lines Cartographer - The Spectral Isle LP (Castles In Space) Jane Weaver - The Revolution of Super Visions single (Fire Records) King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard - K.G. LP (Flightless) Humanoid - Hed-Set - forthcoming on (De:tuned)

Film / TV - Inside No.9 (BBC) What We Do In The Shadows Season 2 (Netflix) Tales From The Loop (Amazon) Keith Haring - Street Art Boy (BBC) John Was Trying To Contact Aliens (Netflix) The Social Dilemma (Netflix) The Mandalorian (Season 2) (Disney+) Long Hot Summers - The Style Council documentary (Sky Arts) Zappa (Alex Winter)

Books / Comics / Magazines Confessions of a Bookseller - Shaun Bythell (Profile books) The Often Wrong - Farel Dalrymple (Image Comics) Edwin Pouncey - Rated SavX (Strange Attractor Press) Jeffrey Lewis - Fuff (all issues - really late to the party on this one) Rian Hughes - XX - A Novel, Graphic (Picador) Cosey Fanni Tutti - Art, Sex, Music (Faber) Caza - Kris Kool (Passenger Press) Dan Lish - Egostrip Vol.1 Electronic Sound magazine Decorum - Jonathan Hickman & Mike Huddleston (Image) John Higgs - Stranger Than We Can Imagine Simon Halfon - Cover To Cover (Nemperor)

Very few exhibitions or shows this year for obvious reasons

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forestcoric-mogai-fox · 3 years

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Ionte

Ionte(EE-OHN-TAE): a gender that is calm, sophisticated, moody and even melancholic but it has bursts of happiness and upbeat mood, it associates with monochrome colors and blues, reds and yellows accents, winter, future, technical things, robotics, space, movement of time, perception of space, time lapse, mathematic structured rhythms, slight noise, feel of infinite space and subtle melodies. It can be aesthetigender or musicagender of an artist you think this description can applied to. The flag and label are inspired by music of English composer Rival Consoles.

#ionte #aesthetigender #musicagender #xenogender #mogai #mogai+#lgbtq+#lgbtqiapn+

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thejoyofviolentmovement · 2 years

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New Audio: Rival Consoles Shares Glistening "Running"

New Audio: Rival Consoles Shares Glistening "Running" @rivalconsoles @ErasedTapes @terrorbirdmedia

Ryan Lee West is a critically acclaimed, London-based electronic music producer, best known as Rival Consoles. Over the course of his 15-year career, the London-based electronic music producer’s work has diversified from the challenging electronic output of his early EPs to gradually become more conceptual and metamorphic: 2020’s Articulation used drawings and sketches to imagine and developed…

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#electronic music #Erased Tapes #instrumental #London UK #New Audio #New Single #Rival Consoles #Rival Consoles Articulation #Rival Consoles Now Is #Rival Consoles Now Is LP #Rival Consoles Overflow #Rival Consoles Running #Rival Consoles World Turns #Running #Single Review #Single Review: Rival Consoles Running #Single Review: Running

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iamlisteningto · 4 years

Audio

Rival Consoles’ Articulation

#rival consoles #articulation #erased tapes #music #electronic #electronica #bandcamp

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orionwhispers · 4 years

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Perfect Places // Steve Harrington

(A/N - yep. this isnt peaky, i know. im taking a little breather so i dont completely burn out writing tommy, but trust me i have 3 wips for him coming soon!! i dont know if any of you guys will like this bc its stranger things and thats ok!! i just had a blast writing it and i love steve and it really challenged me. pls let me know if u like it!! stay safe my loves xxx)

warnings - angst but also so much fluff your teeth will rot

You felt like the moon was mocking you.

It loomed overhead, round and full and beautiful, the colour of purity and innocence, a beacon of light contrasting against the ink coloured sky. Your face was red hot, streaked with tears that dripped down your nose and collarbone and into your shirt, staining you with sadness that you could feel clawing under your skin.

You were sat on the Byers’ front porch, the sneakers you had once kept so pristinely clean were now caked in mud, your socks soaked through. You felt numb, you ached for something; a familiar lash of anger or heartache, anything to make you feel human again, but you just felt numb.

You could hear clattering from inside the house, low murmurs of voices and whispers tangling together, but you blocked them out like it was just white noise. The steady hum of those you loved and trusted brought some comfort, but that was instantly replaced by longing for the one person who deserved to be there, the person who deserved to still be alive.

You had been ecstatically high on adrenaline, you were terrified but vivacious as you helped bundle your boyfriend and the kids into Hoppers’ car as he raced past the Laboratory’s gates. You remembered the feeling of Steve’s hands around your waist as he pushed you into the back, flustered and protective, determined to get you away from any danger.

You should have said something.

You knew something was wrong, but you kept quiet. The air in the car was thick and dense like smoke, and Hopper was covered in crimson coloured splotches, you noticed the way he didn’t look at you, instead keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead. You should have said something, should have asked where your Uncle was, should have demanded an answer, but instead you pushed those thoughts away and watched the road through the windshield until your vision went blurry, Steve’s thumb soothingly rubbing over the top of your hand.

You knew he felt it too.

It was only when you reached the driveway of the Byers bungalow, feet moving on autopilot, tearing through the front door and seeing Joyce waiting for you, tears running down her face as she pulled you into her chest, did you realise the immensity of the situation. You let out a wail that could rival a demogorgon, sinking down into the coarse fabric of her hospital gown, her hands clambering across your frame, desperate to offer any comfort she could.

Steve was beside you in an instant, gripping your elbows to stop you falling onto your knees and onto the shag carpet, cradling you into him like a child. He felt so helpless, not knowing how to ease your pain, words getting stuck in his throat like cotton balls as he watched the girl he loved shatter into pieces. One look at his familiar face contorted in torment and it set you off again, coughing and spluttering like you were drowning in your tears. You pushed the consolatory hands off of you harder than you had intended, feeling suffocated and in desperate need of some form of relief. You were no good to anybody like this, you needed to wallow in your grief alone, Joyce had bigger problems and you refused to drag her down under with you.

You stumbled towards the front door, murmuring “I need some air.” You sank into the darkness like it was an old friend, wrapping your arms around yourself as your head throbbed and pulsed. You let the cold air hit your bare skin and fell to the ground, knees to your chest and silent screams leaving your throat.

Steve ran forward to be by your side, but Hopper pulled him back by the hood of his jacket, a large hand consoling your distraught boyfriend, “Let her go kid, give her a minute.”

He gave you five.

Watching the hands tick away meticulously on the clock above the fridge, he flexed his fingers and allowed the slow and steady noises to keep him grounded. He loathed the idea that you were outside alone, beautiful face covered in tears, heartbroken and shattered. Not only that but the knowledge that those things could be looming in the woods waiting to sink their teeth into you was driving him mad with paranoia. The only thing stopping him from pulling you inside where he could safely watch you was the unwavering concern that not letting you grieve would do more harm than good, so he settled for watching you through the window, hands clamped around his trusty bat - just in case.

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You were sure you had run out of tears. Exhausted and dehydrated, you buried your head in the palm of your hands, desperate to stop the mind numbing pain at the back of your skull. The trees rustled gently, olive coloured leaves glinting under the stars. You wondered what could be lurking inside of the forest, but you were too drained to care.

You heard the door creak behind you, but relaxed at the familiar weight of Cortez’s against the soft wood.

“Hey.” His voice was soft, almost timid. Sounding so foreign coming from his mouth, so cautious and kind that it almost made you start crying all over again. He paused momentarily, before inhaling and sitting down beside you, his long legs awkwardly bent, his back starting to ache, but he couldn’t care less. You both sat in a comfortable silence for a minute, unsure how to break down the barrier that was forming between you. Your hazy eyes lingered on the T-shirt’s and sweaters dangling from the Boyce’s washing line, sleeves swaying with the movement of the wind, almost as if there was an invisible person dancing inside.

Steve was the first to break the silence. He usually was, his quick wit and smooth demeanour had been one of the reasons you had fallen for him in the first place, the only person you had ever met that could make you melt into a puddle and then cry with laughter with just a few sentences.

“How you holding up?” He faltered, picking angrily at a loose thread hanging from his denim jeans. “That was a stupid question, I’m sorry.”

You didn’t trust yourself to form words just yet, but you tilted your head as much as you could muster, communicating with your boyfriend in that nauseating way that only the both of you understood, except this time it felt sour instead of sickeningly sweet.

You crunched a stray leaf under your shoe, mulling over the sound as it tore under your heel. “It doesn’t feel real.” You muttered finally, biting your lower lip with your front teeth, letting the pain stop your tears. “I keep expecting to see his face, his stupid goofy grin.” You smiled gently, “I keep waiting for him to turn up and say it’s all a prank, but I know he won’t, he’s too kind for that.”

“He was the nicest person I’ve ever met.” Steve said truthfully, “He was a good guy.”

Was. Three words that swam around your head and tangled your stomach into knots and you choked on the thickness in your throat. The strangled groan was so heartbreaking that Steve wanted to tear apart the things that did this to you with his bare hands, but instead he pulled you closer with them, clasping you against his chest.

He let you cry, he let you ruin his t-shirt and cover him in your mascara and wet, hot tears. He would let you bawl into everything he owned, even his prized The Clash shirt or limited edition Charlies Angels sweater that was buried in the back of his wardrobe - he would give it all to you, to stain and rip and ruin, if it meant you had at least one moment of solace.

Under the beautiful navy sky littered with stars, Steve sighed, wishing he knew what to say. He wished that he was as articulate as Nancy, or as strong as Hopper, he’d even take being as soft spoken as Jonathon, if he knew it would make you feel better. But you hadn’t fallen in love with any of them, you had fallen in love with him and he was going to do everything in his power to try and make his girl hurt a little less. So he tried to distract you.

“Do you remember our first date?” He said, breaking the silence, his eyes focusing on the branches of a tree swaying in the distance.

He heard you sniffle, felt the rise of your head under the palm of his hands. If you were surprised by his question you didn’t show it. “How could I forget?”

He smiled, thinking back to the day, over two years ago. If he thought hard enough he could almost relive the gut twisting anxiety and the sweat pooling on the nape of his neck as he pulled up to your house. The two of you had been friends forever, bound since the day you both shared peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the playhouse in kindergarten. But you both started naturally drifting apart around the end of middle school, settling onto different paths as you grew up, only really seeing each other in the hallways or at the back of the school bus.

By the time you both entered high school, Steve was completely swept up with basketball and his newfound popularity, and you were settling into your own friendships and trying to stay on top of your grades. You rarely saw one another, but by chance the two of you were paired as lab partners one semester in sophomore year, and soon science became his favourite subject. Seeing you became the highlight of his day, better than scoring a goal in basketball or cutting class with Tommy and Carol. It was as if no time had passed between the two of you, the conversation so easy and genuine, and he made it a personal challenge to have you in stitches by the time the bell rang.

He fell hard, and fast. He had always thought you were beautiful, even when you were just kids and you wore your hair in two braids and seemed to always be covered in glitter. There was just something about you, an ease and a lightness that you carried, something about your smile and sound of your laugh that had him stumbling over his sentences like an idiot. He liked hearing about all of the things he had missed, like how you got grounded for sneaking out of your room to go and watch the new Star Wars, or how you crashed your dads car into a tree the very first hour after you got your license.

It wasn’t long before he realised that his day didn’t feel complete unless he had spoken to you. He started noticing how every game he searched for your face in the bleachers, the only person he really cared about seeing. His eyes would flicker over faces at parties, determined to find your sparkling eyes and kind smile, finding the hit of seeing you more electric than the cheap beer and fizzled out joints being passed around him.

He was nervous. He didn’t get nervous - he was Steve Harrington for Christ’s sake, but somehow you had managed to turn his whole world on its axis. He tried to live his life with as little regrets as possible; but in the quiet of his bedroom, with the moonlight casting shadows across his walls, he couldn’t help but feel furious with himself. If he could go back in time and do everything all over again, he would make sure to hold onto you as tight as possible and stop the two of you drifting apart.

He wasn’t stupid, he knew you were a knockout. The kind of girl that would bring even the strongest of men to their knees, the kind of girl that lingered in his brain long after he had fallen asleep. He also knew that he wasn’t the only one who had been completely captivated by you. He had seen the way Mike Adams cornered you after the school assembly, laughing at something you said as you sat with a group of friends, an enamoured look in his eye. He saw the way Jacob Taylor tried his hardest to get as close to you as possible at a house party, dazed by the way you twirled your hair obliviously and smiled like white, hot sunshine.

He knew what they were going through, smitten and stupid and dopey and practically a puddle at your feet, because he felt exactly the same way.

He was going to ask you out to dinner and then the movies. He had an elaborate speech planned in his mind, one that he had practiced in the mirror repeatedly - not that he would ever admit it. He was nervous. So goddamn nervous of screwing up the one thing that he really fucking liked, of potentially ruining your friendship and making himself look like an ass for misreading the signals and making you uncomfortable that he almost talked himself out of it as he walked into the physics lab one rainy afternoon.

But when he saw you there, looking up at him. As sweet as cinnamon in your oversized lab coat and stupid goggles, lips slightly chewed and fingertips stained with charcoal, and he couldn’t stop himself from blurting:

“Doyouwanttogooutwithme?”

For a moment he wished he took photography class, so he could snap a picture of the blush on your cheeks, have a physical copy of your wide smile and the glint in your eyes; something to look at when he was trying to fall asleep.

“About time, Harrington.” You had said, and it had knocked all of the wind from him, and he had walked around with a big goofy grin for the entire rest of the day.

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“I remember being so goddamn nervous. I thought I was going to throw up.” He said now, his voice laced with humour, somehow always knowing how to diffuse any situation.

You curled up further into him, craving his stability and warmth, and you relaxed as you felt his palm rubbing comforting circles across your back.

He looked into the darkness, remembering the anxiety filling him as he waited for you on the street by your house. He remembered peering into the rear view mirror, fluffing the edges of his hair with his fingertips, twisting and pulling the strands until they sat where he wanted. He could feel his leg shaking, foot hovering above the gas as he struggled to keep his composure. He hadn’t even been this nervous when college scouts came to a game, and he seriously needed to stay cool before you opened the door and saw him.

“You brought me flowers.” You said quietly, and he looked down at you with a gentle smile, his heart clenching at the sadness in your voice.

He remembers standing in the grocery store, cursing and muttering under his breath, wondering what was more romantic: tulips or sunflowers.

He bought both.

He can remember holding them in his shaking hands as carefully as he could as he walked up the stone path to your house.

“I had to talk myself into ringing the doorbell.” He felt you scoff under him and he laughed,

“Seriously! I was terrified, more scared than I was tonight.”

Its a lie. Running through the junkyard and fighting off strange monsters had been exhilarating, but also the most terrifying experience of his life; especially when he knew that the kids and you were just metres away, hidden in the old bus. He really thought he was about to die when the demodog reared and snarled in his face, teeth gnashing at his throat, but in those moments all he could think about was protecting you.

It’s strange, he had never been so terrified to lose someone.

“And then Bob opened the door.” Your voice was heavy and thick, like you were swallowing honey and it snapped him out of his thoughts, reminding him of the reason you were both huddled outside.

Your parents worked ninety percent of the time, only really coming home to crawl into bed and then driving back to work six hours later. You were used to it though, falling into a somewhat stable routine of eating TV dinners and doing your homework to the sounds of Jeopardy! playing in the background. Despite the lonely nights and your parents distance, there was always one person who tried their absolute best to make you feel safe and secure. Your uncle, Bob Newby.

The goofy, gold hearted manager at RadioShack was always there for you, especially whenever your parents weren’t. He always made sure your refrigerator had something green inside, and would come over after work to sit and watch cheesy rom coms with you. He even installed new locks and security lights in the yard and on the porch, just to make you both feel better, even though it was Hawkins - and nothing ever happens there.

He was basically a surrogate dad and your best friend, and you weren’t even embarrassed to admit it. Some of the happiest nights of your life had been with him, like when you went to the midnight viewing of The Godfather and shared toffee popcorn and cherry twizzlers, or when he drove you to Lake Michigan for your birthday and you ate sandwiches next to the water.

So when he found out the captain of the basketball team had asked you out on a date, he was a little apprehensive.

“He really grilled me.” Steve muttered with a sad smile, it hurt him that one of the most poignant moments of his life was now to be covered in a thick, black cloud, and he could only imagine what you’re going through. “I thought he was going to pull out a shotgun.”

“Psh. It would have been a lightsaber.”

You remembered shovelling in cereal at the breakfast bar the morning of your date. Bob watching you over his steaming mug of coffee curiously.

“So… Any plans for today?”

You rolled your eyes and smiled fondly at your uncle. “Steve is taking me out. This is only like the billionth time I’ve told you.”

He nodded, “Right, Right. Steve. Steve.” He tested the name on his tongue. “And Steve is - the captain of the basketball team right?”

“Yep.” You said, through a mouthful of sugar. “Oh, and he’s the leader of this really tough biker gang, to get in you have to murder three kittens.”

You watched his eyebrows shoot to his hairline, and then slowly fall back to their original spot when he caught on to your teasing. He held up his hands in playful surrender, taking a swig of his drink and then placing his mug on the granite counter.

“I know I’m being a fusspot! But I’m just looking out for you.”

“I know, Bob! But I’ll be fine! We’re just going to catch a movie and then dinner.”

“Ok.” He sighed, turning to wash up the dishes left from the previous nights pig out fest, but his hands stilled before he could twist the faucet. “Wait! Nothing R rated - or too romantic, and tell him to knock it off if he tries that whole ‘I’m so tired, let me put my arm around you schtick!’”

“I’m ignoring you now!”

You remembered getting ready, picturing the soft blush hue of your summer dress, and the taste of your strawberry gloss on your lips. You remembered the heat of your curling iron as you meticulously styled your hair, checking your reflection as a way to distract from the minutes ticking by.

You knew the familiar feeling of sweaty palms and butterflies before a date, but that morning it was as if somebody had realised a kaleidoscope of monarchs and swallowtails inside of you. You were completely nauseous, but so excited, and you felt like you were floating on cloud nine, unable to believe that Steve Harrington - the boy you had been crushing on since first grade - wanted to take you out.

You were nervously touching up your makeup, widening your eyes and applying yet another coat of mascara, when you heard commotion downstairs - and the telltale sound of your date getting completely grilled. You practically flew to your feet, haphazardly tying your converse and grabbing your purse, hoping to save Steve from the clutches of your overprotective Uncle. You nearly slid down the carpet when you noticed the door was ajar, smiling widely at the sight of Steve clutching two bouquets, his hair perfectly coiffed and his sneakers white and gleaming.

“- No I’ve never been in an accident, Sir.” You heard Steve say, his voice carrying through the hallway.

“Hmm?” You heard Bob reply, “And what about alcohol? Do you drink it?

“Only eggnog at Christmas.” Steve replied with a grin, his lips falling down when Bob sent him a glare. “Ok, not in the mood for jokes.”

“Are you under the influence now?”

“What? No! Why would I… Wow.” He faltered when he noticed you at the top of the stairs, and for the first time his mind went totally blank, his brain short circuiting at the sight of you. He felt his mouth go dry and he struggled to say something, not wanting to look like any more of an idiot than he already was, but Bob got there first.

“You look great, sweetheart.” He said, voice brimming with pride.

You blushed a deep crimson, feeling awkward under both of their stares. “Thanks, Bob.”

As soon as you reached the floor you blinked up at the men watching you, raising a brow slowly when Steve didn’t move. “So are you ready?”

“Yep. Yes. Yep.” He said quickly, rummaging around his pockets for his keys, and then realising they were in his hands the whole time. “Lets go.”

“Be home before eleven!” You heard Bob yell, his words just carrying into the night before you managed to slam the front door shut.

After the initial awkward meeting at your door, and Bob shooting unconvincing daggers at Steve as he guided you towards his car, the rest of the date went smoothly. You had been out with boys before; middle school crushes that took you to the ice cream parlour in town, and letting your best friend rope you in for a double date with a boy you had never met - but nothing like this.

As the car lulled through the streets, any unease forming quickly uncoiled between the two of you, and it wasn’t long until you were both in stitches. It felt so natural and easy, and you found yourself wanting to know everything about the hazel haired man sitting next to you.

You ate at a diner just outside of town, because according to Steve: “they have the best strawberry milkshakes - ever. I swear they’re like crack.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Harrington.” You had said, shooting him a million dollar smile over your shoulder. He was glad that you walked in first, because it felt as though a bullet had soared through his gut.

——————————————————————-

“I remember the milkshakes.” You said. Steve looked down at you, curled up on his lap. He nodded at your words, thinking of summer days and winter nights snuggled up in your booth at the diner. You must have shared hundreds by now, drinking such an obscene amount of the sweet treat it was a surprise neither of you looked like a strawberry. You had ruined the fruit for him. He couldn’t take a bite from a strawberry without remembering the taste of your lips or the sound of your laugh, it was conditioned into him like he was one of Pavlov’s dogs. But he would be lying if he said he didn’t love it, strawberries had become his favourite fruit.

“I told you those milkshakes were great.”

“Yeah, you did.”

He could feel you wobbling under him, could feel the heart wrenching tremor of your body starting to shake with tears and he swore internally, trying his best to distract you again.

“And then we watched Ghostbusters.”

You let out a half hearted laugh. “And you almost shit yourself when you saw Slimer.”

“He popped up outta nowhere!”

“And then you spilt popcorn everywhere.”

“Yeah, that old lady was pissed.” He clicked his tongue at the memory, crumbs and melted butter flying everywhere, the entire row in front covered in his mess and glaring at you both, you laughing so hard into your sleeve you thought you might just pass out.

“And then I drove you home - way before curfew I might add - because I’m a gentleman.”

“And then you kissed me.”

“I think you’ll find you kissed me.”

“Ha.You wish.”

It felt good to hear the bite back in your voice, and it warmed him like a zap of electricity that his plan of distraction was working.

Besides, it was partly true - you had kissed him first.

That night as he pulled into your driveway, his gut felt like a huge boulder inside of him. There was nothing more that he wanted then to lean over the console and kiss you, but he was too goddamn nervous.

The date had gone so brilliantly, and he could feel himself, tripping, stumbling and falling completely head over heels for you, but he was so uncharacteristically anxious that it was kind of freaking him out. He was getting all worked up about things he had never thought of before, like his teeth clashing against yours, or accidentally knocking your heads together and giving you a mild concussion.

He left his car running, because he didn’t want you to be cold, (and the constant vibrations were good at hiding the tremor in his legs). It was fully black outside, the night sky a long stretch of navy and the stars were pretty but not nearly as pretty as the girl smiling at him in the passenger seat. Just as your eyes connected and he thought he was going to finally kiss you, the porch light turned on, a nice little reminder from Uncle Bob that he was still watching. You laughed exasperatedly and reached over, filling the distance between you as you tried to grab the strap of your handbag and Steve leant over to give you a hand with the sticky door, but instead your lips caught his and he froze in place, his eyes closed and his heart feeling like a jackhammer in his chest, all of his worries evaporating behind him like ocean spray, because suddenly everything felt right.

“Night, Harrington.” You had said smugly, leaving him in his car that suddenly smelt like cotton candy and coconut shampoo, and with an entire carnivals worth of fireworks erupting from his stomach.

————————————————————

“When I got inside he pretended he had just woken up.” You said now, your words coated with tears but laced with tenderness. “Tried to act like he wasn’t staring through the window watching us kiss.”

Steve tangled his fingers through your hair, anchoring the two of you together, hoping that the small action would give you at least some comfort. He mulled over all of the memories the two of you shared, picturing them shattered at his feet like shards of shimmering glass. He wasn’t sure how to comfort you and it hurt, the silence settling around you like thick, poisonous gas.

“What about our first anniversary? The first time we committed a felony.”

“It wasn’t a felony.”

“Yeah and I’m sure it wasn’t the first time either, you little criminal.”

He remembered when you went out to a much too fancy restaurant in the city. How angelic and beautiful you looked in a little sundress and heels, stealing the breath right out of his lungs whenever he looked at you. How even when he was out of his comfort zone you felt like home, always making him feel stable no matter where he was. He remembered those glances you stole at one another, tongue in cheek laughter and suppressed smiles at the strange place you were both in, the two of you sticking out amongst the older, richer and snootier couples like a sore thumb.

He remembered the glint in your eye and the look on your face, the one that had him completely wrapped around your little finger - (but really, you could look at him anyway and he was a complete goner). It was how you both stood up at the same time, grabbing your handbag and wallet and rushing through the sea of people, laughing loudly as he slipped his hand in yours and pulled you with him, dodging the doorman who was cursing loudly at the kids who had just dined and dashed, even though neither of you had had more than a mouthful of your overpriced starter.

“You are such a bad influence, (Y/L/N).” He had scolded, playfully pinching the inside of your thigh as you lay stretched out on a picnic blanket overlooking the forests on the edge of town. You swatted him away, and he felt his breath hitch at the sight of you, hair tousled and makeup slightly worn, so effortlessly beautiful beneath the headlights of his car.

“Oh, please Hargrove. You would be lost without me.”

He didn’t reply, because it was true.

Instead he leaned over your body, stealing a quick kiss and also a handful of fries from the drive thru bag next to you.

“Hey!” You whined, leaning up and swatting at him. “Those are mine!”

“Technically, technically,” He said, licking salt from his fingertips. “They were at the bottom of the bag, not in either of the cartons - so they were never really yours.”

You rolled your eyes, punching him softly in the gut and laughing as he collapsed on top of you. “You are such a dumbass.”

“Yeah, but I’m your dumbass.”

He ran his tongue over a canine, finding clarity in your eyes.“I can’t believe you’ve put up with me for a whole year.”

“Me neither, but the money your dad gives me to go out with you makes it worth it.”

His finger trailed along the bridge of your nose, his lips curling the same as the path his fingerprints followed. “Stupid.” It was a terrible comeback, but when you looked up up at him like that, all of his sentences spilt into a bowl of mismatched alphabet soup. He blinked down at you, feeling the way his heart hammered against his rib cage, engulfed in the terrifying feeling of being so in love with somebody. “Seriously though, this has - this has been the best year of my life.”

Your rosebud lips parted, showing him that dammed smile that would make him burn down the whole town if you asked him to. “Mine too.”

——————————————————————-

“Remember when I got a black eye because of you?” He murmured, glancing up at the stars that flickered above you both.

“Because of me?” You scoffed, halfheartedly. “Hardly.”

“Ok. Keep telling yourself that.”

There was once a time where he loved nothing more than spending Friday through Sunday completely wasted, waking up on somebodies couch, his mouth tasting like sour liquor and his clothes scattered across the floor - but not after he met you. He used to long for the high from downing tequila shots or jumping into the pool with hazy eyes, a burnt out joint being passed around friends, but soon he realised that nothing came close to the fever high he got from simply being around you.

He remembered sitting in the school parking lot on a Friday afternoon, listening to Tommy and Carol natter about how a group of seniors were going to break into the rec centre and get drunk, but there words were nothing but static as he looked for you among the familiar faces.

You had been officially dating for a few months, and much to Tommy’s dismay, it seemed as though neither of you had any intention of letting the other go. It stung the teenager when Steve started blowing him off to hang out with you, his usual alibi for wild parties leaving him high and dry. He was jealous of the way you managed to consume all of Steve’s attention, and the fact that since the two of you had gotten together, Steve was so much kinder to everyone, and didn’t want to join in with his juvenile antics. When you went to parties, he drank less and laughed more, and Tommy was left doing shots and keg stands alone.

More than anything though, Tommy was jealous that Steve had scored a girl like you, kind and soft and sweet, when he had trouble getting Carol to stay over longer than the time it took to drain a bottle of stolen wine. It made him feel envious and insecure, watching the way you kissed Steve in the hallways with rosebud lips and your eyes shone like diamonds under the gentle sun; when was a girl going to look at him like that?

“You coming tonight, Harrington?” He asked from the hood of Steve’s car, his legs dangling onto the asphalt.

“No.” Steve said, chewing on his fingernails. “Sorry man, I’m taking (Y/N) to the drive in.”

“Aww.” Carol preened, a solid supporter of your relationship. You hadn’t known her too well before you started seeing Steve and hadn’t expected to become so close to her, but now she was one of your best friends. Sure she could be a little vapid and a little rude, but she also made you laugh loudly and always helped you get ready for dates with Steve, and you really appreciated the way she let you into the inner circle. “That’s so sweet. You guys are too cute.”

Tommy ignored her. He could already feel himself boiling over.

“Cmon Harrington, it’s one night. It’s tradition.”

“No it isn’t.”

He exhaled loudly. “Well it should be.”

“I’m good, man. And besides, we’re still going to see the Bulls play on Saturday, right?”

“I guess.”

Silence settled around them like cigarette ash. Tommy, growing more irate by the second, toyed with the collar of his shirt and curled and uncurled his fingers. He wasn’t quite sure why he was pissed - as Steve’s best friend he should have been pleased with how love struck and happy he was, and it wasn’t as though he never saw Steve anymore, or that you had split up the group or anything - but he was still annoyed, and that’s why he said it.

“God, I hope she’s a better fuck than she looks. I mean, she must be if she’s got you this whipped.”

It took a moment for Steve to process what he had said, swallowing his friends words like they were barbed wire, his throat filling with blood.

“What the fuck did you say?”

“Just what everybody else is thinking.” It wasn’t what everybody thought, but Tommy thrived off of mob mentality, and the small crowd watching in the parking lot was enough to spike his adrenaline.

“Tommy.” Carol warned, her voice thick and heavy, eyeing him from over the roof of the car.

“What did you say about her?” Steve asked, his face turning crimson, the shade matching the colour coating his pupils.

Tommy didn’t hold back, his hands firmly grasping his shovel, ready to dig himself deeper. “Jesus. Look at you! Look what she’s turned you into. She’s a bitch, and so are you.” He gestured wildly with his hands, the severity of what he had said was slowly sinking in, but he was stupid enough to stand by it for the time being.

Steve was livid. His body rattling like he had been struck by lightning. He knew he wasn’t some fucking white knight who had to defend your honour, but there was no way in hell he was going to let some fucking prick about you like that.

“And…you know what? The both of you can - ”

“Fuck you.” Steve brought his fingers to a fist and clocked him right in the nose, a sickening thwack echoing around the school. Tommy recoiled backwards, almost falling through the windshield. He managed to regain his balance at the last second, and his face was contorted with both pain and disbelief.

“What the fuck man?” Tommy seethed, spitting out a wad of blood and lunging at Steve, managing to grab him by his collar and slam him onto the asphalt, their jeans ripping across the gravel.

The two of them rolled around, a deadly mix of closed knuckles and crisp white sneakers. A small crowd had gathered around the two of them, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and rich with stories to be shared around the party that night. They both managed to get a couple good hits in, Steve just managing to get the upper hand before the school janitor started calling in for backup.

You had just left World Civ, your textbooks still cradled in your arms and your best friend laughing in your ear as you made your way out of the school and towards the parking lot.

“Yeah, I swear! She…” Your best friends voice trailed off as she noticed a blur of movement in the distance, her ears picking up like a bloodhounds. “Oh my God. I wonder what’s going on.”

You looked up shrugging your shoulders, expecting to see some of the wrestling team or soccer players roughhousing like they usually did, but your blood turned cold when your eyes focused fully and you caught sight of that damn perfect hair.

“Holy shit. Steve!”

If only your phys ed teacher could have witnessed the speed you ran across the car park; dust picking up with your shoes as you bolted towards your boyfriend. You managed to break through the inner circle crowding around them, the teenagers egging on Tommy and Steve as they scrambled towards one another, the sound of elbows and knees and fingernails clashing all around you.

“Hey. Hey! That’s enough!”

Poor Mr Springer tried his best to separate the two of them, wrapping his arms around Tommy’s waist and trying to tear them apart as they continued scrapping like junkyard dogs.

Your mouth was agape as a couple of boys helped break the two of them up, your eyes widening at the scarlet red blood staining the ground and the deep purple bruises already starting to show. You managed to catch Steve’s line of sight, his eyes widening at the sight of you, his face starting to swell.

“Steve? What the fuck!”

“Oh! Hey, babe? How did your pop quiz go?” He asked, throwing you a dazzling smile as though everything was right in the world.

Despite everything, you bit back a laugh, kneeling down to wrap your hands around him. “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.” You said, cradling the now puffy side of his face, a quarter sized apricot indent growing under his eye.

He winked at you as he was pulled away and dragged to the principal. He knew he was in for a months worth of Saturday detentions, but he couldn’t care less. He avoided the death glare his former best friend was giving him, licking the blood pooling across his split lip.

If he had to chose between you or Tommy, or choose between nights in with you or nights out with the rest of the seniors - hell, if he had to choose between basketball and you, it would be you, every time.

Point blank, period.

———————————————————-

There was a chill in the air, swallowing the both of you whole. Steve could feel his jeans dampening, your tears cascading down your face and onto his denim. He could feel eyes on the back of neck, and knew without turning around that Dustin and the rest of the kids were watching from the kitchen window, waiting to jump out and rescue you both if something crawled out from the bushes.

He didn’t have much time left. Soon he would have to bring you back inside, away from the vulnerability of the night and into the embrace of those you had grown so close to. He thinks back with a grimace, to the fight you had over your new routine.

Bob and Joyce dating came as a shock to everyone involved, especially Steve. Not so much that Bob had found companionship with the pretty single mother, but more so that it meant you were spending more time at their house - with Jonathon.

He wasn’t jealous.

He wasn’t.

No matter how many times you rolled your eyes and teased him - he wasn’t jealous.

He just didn’t like the idea of you sat next to him at movie nights, laughing with him during family board games, eating breakfast in the chair beside him, driving to school together and singing along to the stupid obscure bands that Jonathon liked.

Ok maybe he was a little jealous. Sue him.

He’d spent the night at your place, under the guise of helping you with your calculus homework, even though you had a higher grade than him, and he watched with sleepy eyes as you rummaged around your desk in the morning.

“What?” He mumbled under the slowly rising sun, half of his face still buried in your pillow. “What? Where? Where are you going?”

You rifled through your handbag and examined the contents, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Bob’s taking everyone out for lunch - well it should have been breakfast but someone - ” you emphasised with a playful glare, “Is making me late.”

“Whose going?”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“You know. Me, Joyce, Jon and Will.”

Jon.

“You didn’t tell me Jonathon was going.” He’s not sure if it’s true. He remembers fragments of you telling him your plans for the weekend, but he also remembers your words shattering before they reached his brain, because of that little strappy top you were wearing and the blackberry colour of your lipstick.

“What?” You asked distractedly, untangling your headphones from your Walkman. “I did.”

“No.” He clicked his jaw, a sign of his annoyance. “You just said Bob was taking you out.”

“With everyone - everyone includes Jonathon.”

“Right.” He’s pissed. His anger isn’t directed at you, more so the floppy haired teenager you’ll be sharing pancakes with, even though it’s not exactly his fault either. “Since when did you guys become The Brady Brunch?”

You let out a dry laugh, oblivious to the fact your boyfriend was getting more agitated by the second.

Did you really have to wear that skirt? He thought. Why did it have to be the short little denim one covered in cherries that made you look so damn good?

“You know how much Joyce loves her kids, Bob just wants to make an effort.”

“Yeah but why do you have to go?”

You shrugged, applying a swipe of lipgloss and tightening your cardigan in an effort to hide the hickeys blossoming under your collarbones. “He invited me, said it’s a family thing.”

“It’s not as though you’re really family though is it?”

He regretted it the moment the syllables left his mouth, but he was too wound up to think before he spoke. He cringed at the way you lost his gaze in the mirror, really fucking hating himself when he saw the crimson blush rise from your throat and onto your cheeks, and the sheen coating your eyes.

“I should go.”

You didn’t hesitate, grabbing your belongings and darting down the stairs. Family had always been a sore subject for you, and he loathed himself for striking you in the one place that it really fucking hurt.

“Wait.. Baby I -” He chased after you, but you were too fast. He wished that you would stay and argue with him, he’d let you scream and yell and shout at him, because he deserved it and he wanted to let you know he was sorry for being a prick, but you were already out of the door.

“Just up when you leave.” Were the last things you said, disappearing into your car.

He apologised with your favourite chocolates and red roses and an attempt to make you dinner. You couldn’t stay upset with him and his sheepish grin even when half of your kitchen was covered in tomato sauce and your moms pan was coated in burnt pasta.

The boy could screw up, but he always knew how to make up for it.

He trusted you, and loved you, and apologised for - in your words, ‘being a class A jackass’ - and even put away his pride long enough to tell you that, Ok, fine, maybe he was a tiny bit jealous of Jonathon and the bond growing between you.

That night as you curled up on your living room floor amongst an abundance of pillows and crocheted throws, you reassured him that you were in love with him and only him, even when he drove you up the wall. He fell asleep a little easier that night, his girl happy and safe in his arms, your words calming the storm that was once brewing in his mind.

…And maybe Jonathon wasn’t that bad.

———————————————————-

The light of the moon was harsh, almost like the street lamps that flickered in the distance. Steve could feel you moving underneath him, and his palms were starting to dampen, the reality of the evening finally sinking in.

Bob was dead.

As though the same thought had passed through you, you spoke, your voice strained and quiet. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“I know.”

Your voice cracked like thin ice. “He didn’t deserve to die. He didn’t… He.” You choked on your words, and Steve pulled you into him firmly, as if to stop you from falling apart.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

You sniffled, a sob tearing through your lungs and clawing through your throat, and you tried desperately to not think about your poor uncles lifeless body. “What am I going to do without him?”

You weren’t looking for an answer, but Steve gave you one.

“It’ll be me and you, it’ll be us. Forever.”

His future was uncertain. He was under a mountain of pressure from his teachers and coaches and guidance counsellors to get his head down and decide about college and scholarships and what he was going to do with his life.

He even took one of those quizzes that was supposed to help him figure his shit out, but when he sat there, pencil in hand and he read the words - where do you see yourself in five years? The only thing he could think of, was you.

He thought of you, so smart and pretty, your future just as undecided as his, but still by his side. He could see road trips and night drives and long distance calls, he could see morning laughter and monumental arguments and make ups, in the distance he could even see a house with a white picket fence and a big dog and a few kids who looked like a mixture of the both of you.

It seemed so simple. So much more simple than applying for college or an internship, because he knew that whatever he did, he wanted it with you.

And then this crazy fucking year happened, and things weren’t so simple anymore. Soon he was best friends with a bunch of pre teens and fighting off big scary fucking monsters and Billy Hargrove. Soon his small world of basketball and strawberry milkshakes and tongue kisses was filled with danger, and he needed to keep you safe.

“I miss him.”

“I know.” He says honestly. “I miss him too.”

He remembered the last conversation he had with Bob. It was before they found Hopper underground, and Bob was getting ready to leave and see Joyce and Will. You were in your room, finishing off the last of your homework, and Steve was heading downstairs to finish off the last of the pizza. He had just grabbed a Coke and a slice of pepperoni, when he saw Bob rummaging through the cupboard in the hall.

“Hey,” Steve said, waving the hand with the soda in it. “I heard about Will. Is he alright?”

Bob gave a kind nod. “Yeah.” He hesitated. “Well, actually, I’m not sure. I’m uh - I’m looking for my old board games for him to play with.”

Steve smiled, because that was exactly the thing Bob would do. “Well, give him my best.”

They exchanged pleasantries, and Steve spun his heel to rejoin you upstairs, taking a big bite of melted cheese as he walked, before Bob spoke aloud once again.

“There’s something strange going on in this town.”

Steve remembered the year before, standing in Jonathan’s living room, twinkling Christmas lights draped on the wall and a baseball bat in his hands. He remembered Barb and Will, and the body from the quarry.

“Yeah.”

Bob exhaled, moving so that he was standing face to face with the teenager. “You make sure nothing happens to her, alright? You know she’s - you know she’s my little girl.”

Steve straightened, his voice solid. “I would never let anything happen to her.”

“I know. You’re a good guy, Harrington.”

He doesn’t know if he agrees, but he knows that for you, he will be.

“Take care of her.”

“Always.”

And they had partied ways: Steve upstairs, where he pulled you into his arms and made you laugh as he planted wet kisses on your face. And Bob to the Byers house to find a map spanning the length of the walls, and then the hospital, and then ultimately, to his death.

———————————————————-

The dark felt much more menacing now, shadows moving like long fingernails and jagged claws around you. He knew that he had to get you inside. He knew that the others would be making plans and setting traps and he knew how much safer you would be there. His heart was shattered after the small sobs leaving your body, your chest deflating like a burst balloon. He also knew that the best people to comfort you would be inside, Joyce with her motherly love, Dustin with his sweet, silly nature, and even Jonathon who truly loved you like a sibling.

“Cmon, lets get you inside.”

He wrapped his hands around you and helped lift you up, steadying you as you swayed on shaky legs. He cradled you into him, feeling the warmth of your breath and tears against his throat, and he inhaled, preparing himself and readying himself, telling him to be strong, for you.

He wrapped a free hand around the door handle, waiting to twist. He took one final look at the menacing bushes and trees surrounding you both, listening for a rustle from the branches.

He doesn’t know what will happen next. But he does know, that whatever it is, you’ll face it, together.

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