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𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧' 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧'
𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧
𝟎:𝟏𝟎 —|—————— 𝟐:𝟓𝟕
♯ 𝐀 ♯ 𝟎𝟏
𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞 : ▮▯▯▯▯▯▯▯▯
┗━━━━━━━━━━━━┛

Sunday, Nov. 6, 1983.

THE HAWKINS SKY paints itself in shades of burning orange and foggy gray, the setting sun casting a glare off of Briggs Reyes' windshield as he takes a left onto Old Cherry. As usual, the town stands quiet under a blanket of rural mundanity, the only sounds being Michael Jackson blasting through the bass-heavy speaker and the tapping of Briggs' index finger on the steering wheel.

"Where's the sister at?" asks Mack Gibson, the irritatingly charismatic nerd Briggs considers one of two best friends. Mack fiddles with his watch in Briggs' periphery, his torn red baseball cap moving as he bobs his head to the music.

"Wheeler's." Briggs tilts his head just slightly to look at Mack, who's nodding like he'd expected that answer. "Mike had this whole extensive campaign for Dungeons and Dragons again. Corey called it a life-or-death situation when she asked for a ride this morning." Mack smirks.

"I'm sure it was." He throws a hand behind his head, staring up at the roof of the car for no reason Briggs can detect. "She with all her little gang? Henderson and Sinclair and Will?" Briggs nods, and Mack exhales through his nose in a sort-of laugh. "I'm glad I don't have younger siblings, man."

"I think I'm more chauffeur than brother at this point," Briggs grumbles as he pulls up the worn gravel drive toward Mack's house. "See you before first hour?"

"Uh-huh. And third, baby. Your lucky eyes," Mack winks as he hops out of the car, swinging his backpack over a shoulder and hustling up the steps to his front door. He mock-salutes Briggs before going inside, and Briggs just laughs under his breath.

Mack might be an annoyingly good student, all advanced classes and high ambitions, but even his late nights poring over science textbooks like his life depends on it can't get out him of third hour gym. It's the only time Briggs feels like he's better than Mack at anything, because God, the kid can't put a ball through a hoop to save his life. It's like whatever set amount of coordination he possesses is harnessed solely on a skateboard and disappears the second he has to throw or catch something.

Tonight, the boys were not joined by the completing piece of their trio, Jonathan Byers. He was working late at the record store. Again.

He's been doing that a lot lately, Briggs thinks, making a three-point-turn and heading out of Mack's neighborhood. He has to swing by the Wheeler house and pick up Corey before he can finally collapse in his own bed for the night.

The Wheelers have a nice place, and these days Corey is in their basement more often than not, having become an avid D&D player. Growing up with Jon's little brother and his three little monstrous friends, she seems happy enough to spend her days hunched over a board full of painted figurines, rolling dice and screaming whenever they land on some unfortunate number.

Corey is already hovering near the garage when Briggs pulls into the driveway, talking animatedly with the boys as they get on their bikes. She waves in acknowledgment, her messy hair blowing behind her shoulders in the faint breeze, before elbowing Lucas in the ribs and smirking at something Dustin said. Lucas looks mortally offended and tugs on Corey's oversized Pac-Man tee in retaliation.

The dark fabric of the shirt, which Briggs is pretty sure was his at one point, is a stark contrast to Corey's pale skin, notably lighter than Briggs' own tanned complexion. Her dark hair doesn't match his golden-brown, her green eyes bright in comparison to Briggs' own dull blue. Briggs' stepsister shares no blood with him, certainly none of the Mexican heritage he received from his father, or even his last name. He used to explain Corey away as a cousin because it was quicker than responding to the inevitable, ignorant remarks of you don't look related or but aren't you Spanish or something?

Shaking his head slightly at the memory, Briggs sighs through his nose. He and Corey certainly didn't get off to a good start when his mom decided to go and fall in love with the mailman, but Briggs admittedly likes seeing his little sister happy now. That angry, entitled, rebellious version of himself that came from an absent father and a lonely house is in the past.

Mostly.

Briggs cranks down the window, leaning one arm on the sill and poking his head out. The cool night air casts a blanket of chill over his cheeks as Corey finishes tying her shoe.

"Any of you twerps need a ride home?" he calls, glancing between Will, Dustin, and Lucas. "Will?" The Byers live particularly far from the rest of what Corey calls "the Party," so whenever Jon's not around, Briggs offers the younger Byers sibling rides.

For some reason, he always seems to prefer his bike. Corey does, too, but the Wheelers are only a few minutes from Mack's, and Danny appreciates it when Corey's not biking around in the dark. Briggs supposes he enjoyed the freedom of solo transportation, too, before he got his license four months ago, though he'd always opted for his board rather than the beat-up bike tucked under the back porch.

"No, thank you!" Will calls brightly, ever the respectful kid. He looks so much younger than the rest of the kids sometimes, between the bowl cut and the several inches Lucas has on him. Briggs tries to remember if he towered over Jon like that in middle school.

Dustin and Lucas throw up peace signs in Briggs' direction before coasting down the driveway, the lights on the front of their bikes blinding him temporarily before fading away.

Will says something that gets Mike's attention, and Corey rolls her eyes at him before saying something that sounds like "dumbass" and bounding over to the passenger side of Briggs' Jeep. It's a '76 Cherokee, a splintering dark green and not much to look at, but it functions for the most part. Corey calls it the Janky Jeep. Briggs calls it a damn good deal, considering the fact that he found it in a junk lot for nearly free and fixed it up himself with parts from the scrapyard. When he'd brought it home in June in anticipation of getting his license the next month, his mom had made some comment along the lines of, if you can fix that thing, baby, I expect the back porch light fixed by Tuesday. It was fixed by Monday, but the Jeep was a much longer process.

Briggs thinks the lights above Mike's garage flash a little, but maybe it's just the residual glare from Will's bike as he flies down the driveway in pursuit of his friends.

"Hi, Briggsy." Corey's mischievous smile seeps into her tone of voice, and Briggs would have a crystal-clear picture of it even if he wasn't looking.

"Call me that again and you can say goodbye to your personal driver, kid," he says. Corey grins and slides into the seat, buckling her seatbelt before Briggs can bug her about it. "Have fun?"

"Oh my god, yeah," Corey replies emphatically as Briggs rolls up the window. "Mike had this sick campaign all planned out and it ended in the Demogorgon coming for the whole Party, and Will was gonna do a defense spell but we got him to go for the fireball, and he would've had to roll a thirteen or higher but the dice went right off the table..."

Her babbling goes right over his head, and it's a wonder Briggs hasn't grasped the concept of the game by now considering how often Corey rants about it, but he smiles softly as she says something about how Will lost but Mike didn't see so he should've just lied, I told him, because he'd never know, but it's Will and he's too good, like lawful good, so of course he told him...

"I'll never understand how you can play that for ten straight hours," Briggs says as he drives past the library. "You're so impatient with everything else," he teases.

"Am not," Corey huffs indignantly, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're just too slow when you eat. It's not normal. Why can't you eat like you swim?"

Briggs doesn't deign to respond to that particular jab or the veiled compliment after it, just grinning at the mental image of Corey nearly dancing out of her pants that morning, waiting for Briggs to finish his bowl of cereal before driving her to Mike's place.

"What'd you do with Mack?" she asks, drumming her fingers on the dash as she tugs her knees to her chest.

"Smoked weed," Briggs deadpans, and Corey's jaw drops, her uneven dashboard rhythm ceasing to devote undivided attention to Briggs.

"Really?"

"No, dumbass," he rolls his eyes. "We hung out at the skate park and drove around." Even after two years, Briggs is still trying to find that balance between being a friend and a brother, unsure what he can and can't say to a 13-year-old without corrupting her too much.

"Oh," Corey says lamely. "That's less cool than fighting a Demogorgon."

"Oh, I'm sure," Briggs sighs as he pulls into the driveway of their little house. The beige front door with its little oval window looks like it's falling off the top hinge again. He'll have to fix it when he gets a chance.

Their house isn't much to look at, but it's functional and has enough space for he and Corey to have separate, tiny rooms. It's a home, more so than it ever was when Briggs' real dad was around. His mom and Danny left the front lights on for them.

Corey jumps out of the car, endlessly energetic, before Briggs even pulls the keys out of the ignition. One of these days, he fully expects her to fall out while the car is still moving.

"Hi, Mr. Clarke!" she shouts at her science teacher and their across-the-street neighbor, beaming as he waves back from the porch. Briggs rolls his eyes as he grabs his board from the back seat, locks the car up, and follows her through the open front door.

"Hey, Ma," he says, toeing off his Vans as she waves from the worn brown couch. "Hey, Danny."

Danny Holbrook grins at his daughter and Briggs, the light of the television casting a reddish glow over his face. He's a kindly man, in his late forties like Briggs' mom, and he has his glasses on, which is the indicator that he doesn't plan on going back out tonight.

"Well, hey there," Danny says cheerfully. "You have fun today?" he asks as Corey plops herself down on the couch beside him.

"You have no idea," she says dramatically, and Briggs rubs the bridge of his nose as she launches into the same explanation of the campaign and the Demo-whatever and the fireballs.

Briggs crosses the room to his mom and squeezes her on the shoulder, planting a kiss on her cheek. She tears her eyes away from the M*A*S*H rerun just long enough to beam at her son as Danny laughs and ruffles his daughter's hair affectionately.

"You say thank you to Briggs for driving you?" He glances up and smiles at Briggs with twinkling eyes, a silent thank you of his own.

Danny is so utterly likable that it startles Briggs sometimes. He used to search for the flaws like it was a scavenger hunt, trying to find some reason he wasn't good enough for his mom, some reason to tell her to ditch Danny and Corey and the whole "new family" thing and go back to the way things were. But standing here, watching Ma and Danny exchange a silent we're watching the next one, right? glance as a new episode starts up, feeling his heart swell as Corey curls into her dad's side on the couch, Briggs wants to slap his past self in the face for taking so long to warm up to the guy. He really just avoided it out of spite, like being angry at Danny would make his actual asshat of a father feel bad from wherever it was he ran off to.

Corey wrinkles her nose playfully, kicking off her shoes and landing them impressively close to the door. "Thank you, Bridger."

"Hey, what did I warn you about?" he calls as he heads down the hallway toward his room.

"You said Briggsy, not Bridger! I listened!" The sound of Corey's giggling follows him until he gently shuts the door, tossing his bag on the ground next to his bed and tugging off his jacket. Nobody except his jerk of a father ever calls him by his full name. He's been just Briggs for as long as he can remember.

He's glad Corey didn't try to call him Bridger back when they didn't get along. He knows he would've exploded—his anger was on a real weak leash back then, always simmering at his father or Hawkins or the world in general. He directed it at Ma and Corey and Danny and even Jon and Mack. Thank the Lord they didn't kick him to the curb for his behavior like they should've, like he probably would've had he been in their place.

Briggs throws his swim gear into his duffel and tosses it against the wall by his bedroom door, ready for morning practice, and hears Corey's shuffling footsteps as she makes her way to her room across the hall. The murmur of the television lulls him to sleep, the soft voices of his mom and Danny in the living room washing over him through the thin walls as Sunday fades away.

▮▮▮

Monday, Nov. 7, 1983.

"Briggs!"

The sharp rapping on the door is most certainly not the expected blaring of his alarm clock, and Briggs groans as light pours in from the hallway and his mom strides into the room with Monday-morning purpose, already dressed and with half a mind out the door, eating a slice of toast while she tsks at Briggs' alarm clock. With a start, he realizes it's just blinking 1:41 on and off, like it got stuck in the middle of the night and decided to see if it could make him late for practice.

He shoots out of bed, fumbling for a change of clothes. "Sh—uh, crap. Crap. Time?"

"Only five after, you're okay," Ma promises, and if she notices Briggs' almost-cussing, she blissfully doesn't mention it as she unplugs the alarm clock and resets it. "Power outages last night. Figured your alarm wouldn't be working."

"Oh," Briggs breathes in relief. "Thanks."

"Mhm," she hums, ruffing his hair as she makes to leave the room.

"Ma," he whines, hand going up to pat down the mess she made, but he smiles as he pulls a shirt over his head and the door closes behind her. Groaning, he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. Too early.

Stumbling into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal, Briggs watches Danny press a kiss to his mom's cheek by the front door. She beams and chirps something about having a great day as she slips her shoes on. She loves her job at the daycare, and God knows she's good at it, but that's no excuse for being so smiley at 5:07 in the morning.

"Bye, Leah," Danny says, squeezing her shoulder and crossing into the tiny kitchen area as Briggs plops down at the counter with a bowl of cornflakes. "Have fun. See you at six?"

"Don't be late," she drawls teasingly, waving to Briggs with a love you! that he returns as the door swings shut. Macy Forbes from down the street picks her up every morning on the way to work, because Danny needs their shared vehicle for his job at the power plant across town, but he picks her up after her shift every day, even if he gets off early and has to wait around outside. Macy sometimes offers to drive Ma home, too, insisting it's no trouble and don't you worry because she's a waitress right next door at Enzo's, but Danny loves that uninterrupted time on the drive home with his wife, which Briggs supposes is kind of sweet and kind of gross at the same time.

Danny flicks on the TV in the adjacent room after grabbing breakfast, and sure enough, the early news channel is all over the power outage, which is going to be just a hoot and a half at work today, Danny groans. He's been at the plant for about a year now, having ditched the mailman gig after marrying Briggs' mom in an effort to support her and two kids.

A woman on the screen thanks the weatherman and says, "And reports of those power outages and surges are coming in from all across the country, but with particular density in East Hawkins, leading many to believe the issue stemmed from a local electrical mishap..."

Briggs washes his bowl in the sink as she drones on about Roane Country Water and Electric and Danny says something about Bill probably having fallen asleep on the job last night. News Lady promises more information when the sun's higher in the sky, and Briggs groans at the reminder that he still has to drive to school in the dark.

A warm light is edging over the horizon as Briggs drives to school alone, not the sun but the fuzzy halo of light just around it, paving the way for the real thing to rise when Briggs is indoors and can't enjoy it. He wonders whose brilliant idea 5:45 swim practice was. On Mondays, Wednesday, and Thursdays, Corey has to bike to the middle school, but sometimes Briggs thinks she'd rather do that than listen to his stupid Billy Joel music anyway. No taste, Briggs thinks as he pulls into the parking lot. No taste.

▮▮▮

Anticipation thrums just beneath Briggs' skin like an electric charge as he snaps into position on the starting block, savoring the way the gritty material digs into his bare feet, readying for the ice cold of the Hawkins High pool to slap him in the face and wake him up. He doesn't have to use the block for warmups, he knows, but the dive is the part he savors the most, the feeling of the water he can never quite prepare for engulfing every sense as the muscles in his legs launch him into a streamline under the surface.

He gets halfway down the length of the pool with arms tucked tight on either side of his head before he breaks the surface, taking calculated breaths as he pulls into a strong freestyle and then flips underwater, pushing off from the wall.

Vaguely, Briggs notes another figure in lane one shooting off the wall in tandem with him, and he pumps his legs faster, faster, knowing there's only one person in this pool he ever really has to compete with.

Coach would say the only one he's got to compete with is himself, always going on about how swim is a solo competition but a team sport, but that's never stopped Briggs from doing everything in his power to leave Steve Harrington eating his bubbles.

The captain himself—well, co-captain—is admittedly an impressive figure in the water, a strong freestyler and even stronger backstroker, but any admiration Briggs has for his unmatched speed and rippling muscles is drowned out by the boy's arrogant smiles and locker room shit-talk. Steve's a junior this year, and Briggs can't wait for the dipshit to get out of his hair when—and if—he graduates in two seasons.

200 yards later, Briggs' palm slaps the wall and he pulls his goggles up to find Harrington watching him over the lane divider.

"Nice try, Reyes," he says, shifting to the side to make room for Walsh, the other captain, as he reaches the wall. "Tuck your chin faster next time."

Briggs waves him off dismissively and nods to Walsh as he surfaces. Steve and Briggs are undeniably faster than him, but the senior specializes in IM and deserves his position for his leadership skills alone. God knows Harrington lacks the ability to give a half-decent pep talk.

It's Ben Walsh's second year as captain—Walshy, the team affectionately calls him—and unfortunately for Briggs, the senior captain has been giving Steve more and more responsibility as he prepares to hand off the mantle to him next season.

Which means Steve is the one who hauls himself onto the lane one block as the rest of the team finishes warmups, clapping his hands together once before he starts barking orders.

"Alright, boys," he calls, "we're hitting IM first, a hundred each, then Coach's breakout set." A chorus of groans echoes in the indoor pool space, the scent of chlorine melding with wet breathing and quiet chatter creating a sort of liminal space feeling always present at these morning practices.

"And then," Steve calls, voice booming as he draws everyone's attention back, "two hundred relays, four per lane."

The groaning morphs into excited chatter, Briggs turning to the three others in his lane and nodding with a smirk. Competition, even among the team, maybe especially among the team, gets his adrenaline pumping in the best way.

"Any stroke?" someone calls from a few lanes over, and Steve shakes his head. Briggs ignores the way the water clinging to the captain's skin highlights the panes of his abs, focusing instead on the concept of a relay, the potential to flutter-kick Harrington's ass into next week.

"Fly."

Briggs breaks out in a grin and wonders if Steve Harrington wants to lose.

He might've come out on top in warmups today, but there's no question that Briggs is the fastest butterfly swimmer this team has ever had.

Practice passes in a flurry of diving and flipping and measured breaths, and Briggs savors the way his muscles burn, the way swimming like this pushes every part of him to its limit and then a little bit further.

Channeling his energy into this might have been what saved him when he went spiraling after his dad left, leaving in a frenzy of harsh words and harsher footsteps, not even sticking around to fulfill his promise of teaching Briggs Spanish. Yeah, he could out-speak anyone in Señor Castillo's Spanish III class, but he's by no means fluent, no thanks to Gabriel Reyes. Being in the water, nothing to focus on but the blue and white tile and the feel of his limbs pushing against the force of the surface, grounds him in a way nothing else has so far.

The breakout set is thoroughly exhausting, brutal for a Monday, and Briggs' panting is lost in the sounds of his team's heavy breathing by the time Coach pulls out the stopwatch for relays.

A 200-yard relay means 50 per swimmer, just a straight shot down the lane and back again. Coach barks out last names and divides the team into lines on the deck of the first four lanes, deliberately separating the captains and leaving each team to work out swimming order themselves.

Which is how Briggs finds himself standing behind Cormac, Hutton, and McCoy, arms crossed loosely over his chest, looking right at Steve Harrington in the lane beside him.

"You and me, huh, Reyes?"

Briggs surveys the three boys in front of Steve. Strong swimmers, but not necessarily when it comes to butterfly. Between himself and McCoy, he's really not too worried about winning this one.

"Don't worry, I won't wait up," Briggs quips. Steve smirks, readjusting his Speedo. Briggs flicks his gaze toward the pool.

"I might, if I'm feelin' nice," Steve drawls, and then Coach's whistle pierces the air and McCoy is off the block, holding a streamline over halfway down the pool and coming up in a hard fly. Briggs cheers him on like it's a real meet, his voice getting lost in the clamor of the shouting of the other lanes.

It's not even close. Hutton's off the block as McCoy hits the wall a solid two seconds before the others. But Hutton's not as good a flyer as Wright over in Steve's lane, and though the other two teams are falling behind, all Briggs can focus on moments later is how tight Cormac and his opponent in lane one are, nearly neck-and-neck as he and Steve mount the blocks.

Steve smirks in Briggs' direction, hands wrapping around the front of the block in preparation for launch.

"Don't go too easy on me, Reyes," he says, and Briggs thinks maybe the guy just winked behind those tinted goggles, but he doesn't too much time to think about it because their teammates slap the wall and he and Steve are both shooting into the water, and Briggs refuses to think about what Steve just said as he pushes himself harder, harder, and then he's at the wall and pushing off and breathing quick, his arms burning, and—

"Reyes!" Coach hollers, declaring lane two victorious, and his team explodes in celebration as Steve surfaces beside him a second later.

Don't go too easy on me, Reyes. Not the same kind of teasing, not that competitive, arrogant edge—like he knew he would lose—and with nobody paying enough attention to hear it, that small admission of modesty.

Steve just nods at him and pulls himself out of the water, clapping his teammates on the back as Coach calls practice and the team swarms to the locker room.

Briggs lingers in the water for just a moment longer. He certainly didn't go easy.

The locker room is filled with chatter, the slap of bare feet against wet tile, and the spray of half-functional showers behind a half-wall on the far side. The obnoxious orange walls greet Briggs as he rubs goggle indents from the skin around his eyes.

"Who's that for, Harrington?" Cormac asks, almost pouncing on the piece of paper Steve's scribbling on against the wall.

"Meet me. Bathroom," Cormac reads aloud, laughing as Steve snatches the note back from the shorter boy and shoves it in his locker. "That for the Wheeler chick? She put out yet?"

Mason Cormac has always rubbed Briggs just a little in the wrong direction, and he's never been able to put his finger on why, but maybe it's this, the way he only cares about whether Mike's sister has put out yet. Though maybe that's not really Cormac's fault, maybe he's just playing into Steve's reputation, and Briggs isn't surprised that he's screwing around with another girl in school bathrooms, but he wonders how little Mike Wheeler would feel about Hawkins High's resident player trying to get in his sister's pants.

Steve flushes a little red under the fluorescent lights, opening his mouth like he's going to say something snarky, but he doesn't get the chance.

"Hey, leave it, Cormac," Walsh calls, and Cormac wiggles his brows and retreats to an open bathroom stall.

Briggs showers fast, letting the lukewarm water chase away the pool's lingering chill and the stick of chlorine, and shakes his hair out of his face as he blindly makes his way toward the laundry basket.

But a towel hits him right in the face before he makes it there.

He figures it was McCoy, but when he lowers the fluffy white fabric from his eyes, he swears he sees Steve's hair disappear behind the nearest row of lockers—funny, Briggs thinks, how someone so worried about his hair picked the one sport where he had to tuck it away under a cap. But even as he hears McCoy call out from the other side of the space, much too far for him to have thrown the towel, Briggs shakes it off and makes for his locker.

He's just making shit up. It's too early for this.

▮▮▮

"I'm telling you, man, Kaminsky's trying to murder us with this one," Mack complains, banging his head against the locker next to Briggs'.

"You say that every time," Briggs responds, not even looking at the shorter boy as he tugs his English stuff from his locker.

"Because he tries to murder us every time," Mack says defensively as Briggs closes his locker door, his eyes locking on something over Mack's shoulder. Steve Harrington, all cleaned up from swim practice in khakis and a striped, collared shirt, glances around in a horribly disguised attempt at nonchalance and slips into the girl's bathroom.

Mack follows Briggs' gaze and snorts.

"Not slick," he says. Briggs shakes his head. "Who's the lucky lady of the week?"

"Nancy Wheeler," Briggs sighs, maybe not hiding the exasperation in his voice quite enough, because Mack gives him that stupid smile he does when he knows something, or at least he thinks he knows something, because Briggs is pretty sure Mack has convinced himself Briggs likes Nancy Wheeler, which is pretty ridiculous, Mike's studious sister with her clean-cut skirts and her color-coded flashcards.

But not quite as ridiculous as the alternative, Briggs thinks with a sinking feeling in his chest.

For a long time, Briggs figured recognizing another guy as attractive was just normal, that every guy would look at Steve Harrington or, like, Harrison Ford in A New Hope and go damn, he's easy on the eyes. But then he hit seventh grade and the slurs started snaking throughout school hallways, words Briggs never wanted to be directed at him, used mockingly on any guy who even hugged his friend or looked too long in the wrong direction.

And Briggs knew he should keep his mouth shut about Han Solo and that cute guy from geography and that idiot Steve Harrington. 

He mentioned it to Jon once, trying for casual and failing horribly, how attractive Steve Harrington is, just, you know, objectively, conventionally, and Jon looked at him for a too-long moment in silence with that scrunched-brows expression he gets when he's figuring something out.

"Briggs," he said, and Briggs swears his heartbeat doubled in speed, "do you... are... do you like...?"

"No," Briggs blurted, laughing breathlessly as he looked anywhere else, anywhere but Jon's face. "No, no, no. Just, you know, the things the girls say, and the guys tease him for his hair in the locker room, you know, and... never mind, you know, it's not... it doesn't matter, forget it."

He didn't—doesn't—even know why he said it, what he was trying to get at, what he meant to accomplish. Briggs doesn't like boys, he's not like that. Just because he's never really liked a girl, doesn't mean he's... he's...

He shuts down that train of thought, because now's not the time and Hawkins isn't the place, and Mack is complaining about hydrocarbons and boiling points and Nancy Wheeler is walking into the girl's bathroom, which isn't at all suspicious by itself, but Briggs knows exactly what's going on in there.

The first bell rings, but Steve and Nancy don't appear in the entryway of the bathroom.

"Hey, where's Jon?" Mack asks, pulling Briggs' attention back. Briggs frowns. Jon usually meets them at the lockers before the bell.

"He was working late last night," Briggs remembers, shrugging. "Maybe he overslept."

Mack shrugs back. "You know who better not have overslept? My lab partner. Fuckin' Kaminsky and his death-trap exams—"

"You sound like Nancy Wheeler," Briggs points out, and Mack wiggles his eyebrows and blows Briggs a kiss as he starts walking backward down the hall.

Briggs already knows it's going to be a long day.

He's right. And as the hours pass by, something twisted worms its way into his gut, Jon's seat staying empty in first hour English, Mack reporting no updates in gym, no sign of Jon in the cafeteria at lunch.

By the time the last period of the day finally rolls around and Briggs sits there tapping his foot as nothing remotely interesting happens, because it's math, he's made up his mind. Mack is studying with his lab partner for his death-trap exam after school, which means Briggs doesn't have to drive him home like usual, which means he can drop Corey off at home and go straight to the Byers' to see what the hell is going on.

It's not like Jon's never missed school before, not like he's never been sick, but something just feels wrong this time.

Things don't feel wrong in Hawkins very often, except that funny feeling he gets when Steve makes snarky comments after warmups and that confused flush that floods his cheeks when he tries to talk to Jon about it, but even that's a different kind of wrong, more like the wrong he felt when his mom sat him down at age eleven and told him the divorce was final, not this type of wrong that feels like the eye of a storm the forecast somehow missed.

Something's not adding up, just like the failed equation scribbled out in his open notebook, and Briggs really doesn't like it.

▮▮▮

Worry has made a point of settling in Briggs' stomach like a sleeping python, kind of just sitting there, not doing anything particularly vile but ready to strike at a moment's notice, and Briggs really just wants to go check on Jon and make sure everything's okay, but Corey is taking her sweet damn time with whatever it is she's doing inside the middle school as he half-heartedly hums along to a Duran Duran song.

He decides to give it five minutes before going in, but then he sees the cop car.

Nope, Briggs decides. Nope, not waiting. He doesn't even make it to the front office before Corey bursts out of it, Lucas, Mike, and Dustin hot on her tail.

Chief Hopper is there, towering behind the kids, some other deputy at his side, and the python stirs a little, scents the air, wonders if it'll have a meal soon.

"Corey?" Briggs asks hesitantly, eyeing his sister's frustrated expression and observing the boys' bickering as they make room for the chief to pass through the doorway.

"Will is missing," Corey blurts, foot tapping against the ground so fast Briggs is worried it might fall right off.

"What?"

"Joyce Byers can't find her son," Hopper sighs, plopping his wide-brimmed hat back on his head and leaning against the wall. "You're Jonathan's friend, right? You heard anything?"

"No," Briggs says, frowning as his heart pounds in his chest, wondering why Chief Hopper knows he's Jon's friend. He knows Joyce has some sort of history with him, but that's weird, right? "He wasn't at school today. I was wondering why."

"They," Hopper says loudly, staring down each of the kids in turn as he points at them, "want to go look for Will. And they promised me they would not." He punctuates each word like he's talking to a four-year-old, and Briggs figures that's kind of valid, given how stubborn the whole lot of them are.

None of the kids look all too happy about their "promise."

"We have our bikes—"

"No," Hopper says exasperatedly, looking back to Briggs. "Make sure they go straight home, nowhere else. Can you do that?"

Briggs sighs. He just wants to go check on Jon, even more now, but the boys look like they're about to bolt the second Hopper looks away and he knows they'll go looking for trouble if he doesn't corral them all into the Jeep right now.

"Yeah," he says, resigned to his fate. "I can do that."

Hopper claps him on the back, the deputy in blue behind him shaking his head as they leave the school.

Briggs glances at each of the kids in turn, groaning and looking toward the ceiling.

"Bikes in the trunk. Don't argue with me. I've been up since five and I'm not dealing with that right now." He leaves no room for argument as he turns on his heel and walks back out of the school, Corey at his side and the boys beelining for the bike rack.

Her eyes light up a little bit when she sees the vacant passenger seat and claims it for herself. She likes Mack, but she despises relinquishing her shotgun position to him. And it's a good thing Mack isn't here today, Briggs thinks as the four kids pile into the Jeep like sardines after cramming all their bikes into the trunk, because there aren't enough seats in this thing.

The boys are talking a mile a minute, and Briggs very seriously considers banging his head into the steering wheel, but instead he clears his throat and looks back at them with what he hopes is an air of authority.

"Okay," he says, pulling out of the parking lot, "so Will is missing. Shut up and let Corey tell me what happened."

Briggs ignores the boys' pouting in the rearview mirror as Corey smirks a little and turns back around in her seat, but the victorious smile fades as she starts to recount the situation.

The kids were with Mr. Clarke looking at a super powerful radio for A.V. club, like, Australia-level powerful, Briggs, it's awesome, but before they could really mess around with it, the cops called them all to the office to question them about Will. None of them have seen him since last night, and Lucas interjects from the back about how he takes Mirkwood home and if Hopper would just let them look, they could find clues, but Briggs tells him to shut up.

"Did you try him on your walkies?" Briggs asks wearily, and Corey scoffs at him like it's the dumbest question that's ever been asked.

"Yes," she says emphatically, but her eyes go a little heavy, shoulders sagging under the weight of an invisible burden in the shape of Will's absence that makes her expression more serious than he's ever seen her. "Radio silence."

"And that's not like Will," Mike says firmly, like he's an expert in all things Will, which Briggs supposes maybe he is, considering how long they've been friends. "He always answers. Always."

"If Troy finds out, he's gonna be a dick about it," Dustin says, and Corey twists around in her seat so fast Briggs thinks she might snap her neck and hisses something that sounds an awful lot like shut up.

"Who's Troy?" Briggs asks slowly, watching the boys squirm in the rearview mirror under the intensity of Corey's glare.

"This kid in our grade," Corey shrugs. "He just sucks."

"So does James," Lucas adds helpfully, but Dustin's elbow to the ribs shuts him up.

"They giving you a hard time?" Briggs asks, glancing at Corey, who's looking down at her hands. "Cor."

Corey sighs dramatically, throwing her head back in her seat.

"Yeah, but they're not, like, beating us up or anything," she says. "They're actually just stupid. Like, they try to make fun of us, but their nicknames aren't even good."

The idea of anyone making fun of Corey except him makes Briggs bristle. "Oh, yeah? What's yours?"

Corey snorts, sounding genuinely unbothered. "Ghost Girl. Because I'm pale. Real fuckin' creative."

Briggs stifles a laugh, because yeah, that is pretty bad.

"Well, if they ever grow a pair and start to give you a harder time, tell me," he says seriously, making sure Corey looks at him and nods before continuing. "I bet I can think of some nasty nicknames for them. Or, you know, I could just punch them."

Dustin grins.

Briggs gets lost in thought as he heads down Maple to the Wheeler house, accepting that he can't silence the rapid-fire conversation of the boys in the backseat. Will is missing. Will is missing. Jon is probably worried sick.

"Okay, I don't know where any of you live except Mike, so you're gonna have to help me out here," Briggs says as he parks in Mike's driveway. After he retrieves his bike from the trunk, Briggs levels him with a glare and says, "Stay. At. Home."

Mike glowers, but nods sullenly as he wheels his bike into the garage.

Then Lucas is hopping out, too, and Briggs remembers that they're literally neighbors. Good. Only Henderson left.

The curly-haired kid lives on Cornwallis, not far at all, so in no time the Jeep is free of hormonal little middle-school boys and Briggs and Corey are on the way home in silence.

"Hey," Briggs says, shoving that gnawing feeling of wrong deeper into his gut and elbowing Corey playfully across the center console. "I'm sure he'll turn up. It's Will. He'll be fine."

Corey nods absentmindedly, fiddling with her backpack straps.

At their house, Briggs leaves his bag in the car but goes inside to call his mom at the daycare, just to let her know what's going on and where he's going.

Corey lingers by the wall as the phone rings, and then Ma's voice says, "Hawkins Childcare, how can I help you?"

"Hey, Ma," Briggs says, and then fills her in on the situation as quickly and concisely as he can.

"Joyce called here earlier, wondering if I'd seen him," she says when Briggs finishes, and he nods. Sounds like Joyce. "How's Jon?"

"Dunno. I'm going to check on him in a minute," Briggs says, and Corey opens her mouth, undoubtedly to invite herself along, but Briggs mouths no and Corey pouts, pulling her Supercom walkie-talkie from her bag as Briggs says goodbye to his mom.

Nestling the phone back in the receiver, he relays the update to Corey.

"I told you," Corey says morosely, staring down at the Supercom with heavy eyes. "Radio silence."

▮▮▮
a/n:

in season four, steve talks about being swim captain, so the part of me from my competitive swim days latched onto it and discovered that steve was supposed to be a swimmer instead of a basketball player and joe keery trained and everything, and they had speedo scenes planned, guys, but then they changed it because they couldn't get an indoor pool for set. we were ROBBED but yeah i thought that'd be an interesting environment to see him in. so, briggs the swimmer was born, and he and steve have their little rivalry thing going on

in swimming, IM means individual medley, which means you swim all four stroke (freestyle/backstroke/breaststroke/butterfly) consecutively.

anyway yeah i'm hyperfixating on briggs and steve

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