“Floyd, could you sing to me?”
The big brother looked up from where he was tucking the blanket under Branch’s feet. “Sure thing,” he said with a light smile. “What would you like to hear? A lullaby?”
“I don’t know,” Branch mumbled as he nestled his head into the pillow. “You choose.”
Floyd could still see a crease of worry between his baby brother’s brows. He softly brushed a thumb over it in a silent reassurance that everything was going to be okay before he turned around to reach for their dad’s old guitar.
I think Floyd would often sing to Branch to get him to fall asleep, usually the songs and lullabies their parents sang when the older four were still little.
I know in the movie it seemed like they all left right after their fight, but I like to imagine that they just stormed off to cool off and that they actually left in the following days. And that this was the last song Floyd sang for Branch that night. :')
Both Sides Now (specifically this cover by Voncken)
Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They snow and rain on everyone
So many things I would've done
But clouds got in the way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's clouds’ illusions, I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancin' way you feel
When every fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way
But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughin' as you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away
I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions, I recall
I really don't know love at all
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way
But now my friends, they’re acting strange
They shake their heads, and say I've changed
Well, something's lost, but something's gained
In living life each day
I've looked at life from both sides now
From up and down
And give and take
And win and lose, and still somehow
It's life's illusions, I recall
I really don't know life...
I really don't know life at all
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humor me. imagine if you will. dearest wilson, who is in his mid forties and drunk and having a little mope time because he may be a freak but he's a freak with depression. and he's bemoaning to house about his looks bc he saw an old picture of himself from med school or whatever, like fully being a little loser about it. "i used to be so cute. i had friends that would tease me for being a 'prettyboy'. (little sigh)"
and house is eating this UP because of course they're drinking together, he gets to see wilson be like..... an unserious amount of pathetic. literally not even paying attention to the tv anymore. "do i need to insult you more to fill your quota or something"
"no, no it's not that it's just," and wilson is still present enough to know he's gonna regret showing a weakness to house of all people but whatever. "miss being a pretty face i guess, i dunno"
house (who is NEVER going to let this moment be forgotten holy shit) has to like bite his tongue so he doesn't actually laugh in his face and get him to clam up. "aw, jimmy, (takes wilson's jaw and shakes him a bit like silly dudes do or like when you roughhouse with a dog) you're always a pretty face" and he's teasing of course but also. house is house, and house says some peculiar things regarding wilson so how fr he's being is an absolute mystery
cut to house actually looking at him and wilson is staring right back at him like 🥺 with big big beautiful brown cow eyes which are still kind of unfocused, cheeks a little smooshed where house is still holding his face, the weight of his head in his palm when wilson relaxes a little. "you think i'm pretty? 🥺"
and it's so much house has to avert his gaze. loosens his grip into something a little more soft. "yeah. sure"
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Don't want to put this on the post itself for risk of derailing it, but that post the other day about Terry Pratchett's early work really stuck in my mind. OP had sent in an ask saying that they heard some of Pratchett's earlier works had problematic elements (not unusual for a male english writer in the 80s) and they weren't sure whether to go ahead with reading the work anyway.
What I really want to ask that person, or indeed all persons who are hesitating over whether or not to read problematic works or works by imperfect authors:
What are you worried about happening, if you read a work with problematic elements?
I'm worried that if I read this art, I will run across hateful images or words that will shock or upset me
I'm worried that I will spend money on a work of art that then financially supports a bad person, and that thought makes me uncomfortable or upset
I'm worried that I will read works of art written by a bad person, and comment or react on them, and other people will see what I am reading and will think less of me because of it, or will assume that I hold the same bad beliefs as the author
I'm worried that I will read works of art written by a bad person, and I will enjoy them, and the author will find out about my enjoyment and feel emboldened to do bad things because of it
I'm worried that I will read works of art written by a bad person, and their badness will contaminate my way of thinking and make me a worse person in turn
Because these are all different answers and some of them are more actionable than others
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Eddie's supposed to be writing. The guys, they all agreed they'd each come to practice armed with two whole new songs they could pick from to add to their set list at the Hideout. And he's got his pen, and he's got his most recent trusty Composition Book, and all his lyrics are fucking bullshit about golden tanned skin and honeyed eyes and tracing constellations in freckles and moles, pathetic lines about being twisted in bed sheets, and the hopeless love he found himself in.
For the fifth time in an hour, he rips out the offending page, crunches it into a tight ball, and throws it across the room.
He can't write about Steve Harrington for the rest of his life; spend his nights aching for the boy who established himself as a fixture in Eddie's life and then just disappeared.
The worst of it--the very worst--is that Eddie knew better. Steve was never his, not in any real way, no matter how many times they fucked. He's Steve Harrington. Straightest guy in Hawkins. Popular. Rich. Whole fucking life laid out for him on a silver platter. And Eddie fell for him. It's the Munson curse, he supposes; always wanting what you can't have.
It started the way these things usually do, "got any weed?" and "come back to my place, Harrington" and "I got this stupid job at the mall, meet me there?" and lying "hey, guys, can't make band practice, gotta help Uncle Wayne" and "Munson, I really want--can I kiss you?"
In every other fantasy Eddie's ever had, it ends there. Steve gets his kiss and they never see each other again. But Steve Harrington--he's full of surprises. It catches Eddie off guard, makes him want, makes him trust. Because it's not just kisses. It's hands and mouths and "anything you want, Eddie. Let me make you feel good."
Maybe it wouldn't have hit so hard--maybe Eddie could've stopped from falling--if Steve hadn't been so good. Bitchy, sure, but genuine and kind. Had this whole gaggle of junior high kids he babysat, like what the fuck. Would hang out with Wayne and shoot the shit about whatever sports nonsense was on tv. Harrington never was as mean, as spoiled, as superficial as Eddie suspected.
Then Starcourt. That's when it all changes. Steve stops coming around then, in the aftermath. It hurts, but Eddie tells himself it's for the best. Now, he knows it would have been.
Two weeks with no contact, and Steve shows up at his door in the middle of the night. Eddie winces at the healing bruises and cuts on his face, can't imagine how much worse they were to start. He steps aside, lets Steve in, plans to say that he can't be whatever they are anymore.
Steve kisses him. It's a hot, needy thing, wild with teeth and tongue, nothing like before. Eddie is helpless to it, helpless to the way Steve grinds against him, already hard. He should slow it down, check-in that Steve is in the right headspace for this, but Steve is moaning low in his throat and Eddie can't think.
They're in Eddie's bed and Steve says, "fuck me, Eddie?" and Eddie says "are you sure" because he can't stop himself. Steve rolls his eyes (beautifuly bitchy), says, "I need to feel you inside me, baby."
How can Eddie say no?
Eddie's never done this before, but it doesn't matter. It's everything--Steve is everything--he could ask for.
The next morning, he expects Steve to be gone. Thinks they'll never see each other again. But he finds Steve in the kitchen, in his boxers and Eddie's Iron Maiden shirt, making eggs and talking to Wayne like it's the most normal thing in the world.
The next month and a half are the best of Eddie's life. He and Steve spend more time together than they do apart. Nights at Eddie's trailer, in Eddie's bed. Days lounging at the Harrington pool and driving around the nothing that surrounds Hawkins. Sometimes they'll stop in the middle of nowhere, climb on top of the van, and just--be. Steve takes his shirt off, and Eddie traces their names in the sun-soaked freckles, thinking maybe he really gets to have this, have Steve.
It ends as quickly as it started. One morning in September, Steve is cupping Eddie's neck, pulling him in for a goodbye kiss, saying, "sorry, baby, gotta get home for my parents. I'll see you later tonight, yeah?"
Except Eddie doesn't. Eddie doesn't see Steve that night, or the night after, or the night after that. He stops coming around and all Eddie is left with is a broken heart and these piss poor excuses for songs.
He rips out the latest page, waxing lyrical about the wonders of August, and time slipping away, and the boy he'll never forget. Crumples it into a ball and bats it into a pile of junk accumulated in the corner of his room.
Eddie needs a break.
He flies into the living room, snatches up his keys from the floor by the coffee table, and flees his house and all those memories of Steve. It's not like he has anywhere specific to go, so he drives around town, with his windows down and his music up.
His tires screech as he rounds the corner to the video store and arcade. He's not planning on stopping, but honestly, maybe a few rounds of Space Invaders is exactly what he needs.
The van hasn't even come to a stop in the parking spot when his eyes fall on Steve Harrington. He's standing in the middle of the parking lot surrounded by a gang of kids (including some of Eddie's new little sheepies) and Robin Buckley. Steve wears a sunny yellow sweatshirt, tight jeans, and his hair is perfectly coifed, falling in an elegant wave. His hands are on his hips, mouth and brows pinched stern. He's gorgeous, perfect.
It's an assault, an attack, Eddie's entire body shakes as the months they spent together crash over him. He has the van in reverse before he consciously thinks to do so, flooring it out of the space hard enough to burn rubber.
The noise, the speed, it draws the entire group's attention to him.
His eyes meet Steve's.
Time stops and so does he, idling in the middle of the parking lot. For a second, one moment in time, Steve's face falls. His mouth loses that grumpy pinch, his eyebrows drop, his beauty transformed by grief, by fucking longing.
Steve takes a step forward, and Eddie hits the gas, van screaming out of the parking lot. He watches the group shrink in his rearview mirror, sure that he imagined the sorrow in Steve's face, anyway.
They're nothing to each other.
Never were.
By popular request: Part Two
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