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𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐞
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐞
𝟏:𝟏𝟕 ———|———— 𝟏:𝟓𝟎
♯ 𝐀 ♯ 𝟎𝟔
𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞 : ▮▮▮▮▯▯▯▯▯
┗━━━━━━━━━━━━┛

Thursday, Nov. 10, 1983.

THE SOUND OF soft snores eases Briggs back into awareness, eyes groggily blinking away the remnants of deep sleep and making room for the pale darkness of the world just before dawn. Stretched out on the couch, Corey rests with her head pillowed in her brother's lap, each breath coming out a little snuffle that he fully plans on teasing her for later.

Until he remembers why they fell asleep in the living room.

On the other end of the couch, Ma and Danny sleep curled into one another, Danny's arm wrapped around Ma and hand nestled in her loose hair.

The aftermath of an awful night, a mess of sobbing and shaking and the inconsolable reality of the fate of Will Byers.

Briggs couldn't find the words to comfort his sister, unable to do anything to piece her back together as his own heart caved in until all that remained was a frame in the shape of a middle school boy with a bowl cut and a shy disposition, a cold body in an old quarry, until it was just the reality of Will being dead and the girl who was an absolute mess in Briggs' arms.

Danny's phone call to the Wheelers confirmed it. That Will's body had been pulled out of Sattler Quarry, where he'd died alone and afraid with only stifling, cold water for company.

He couldn't find the words for anything at all, even as Ma and Danny wrapped him and Corey in warm embraces and murmured in their ears. He didn't give a fuck about Steve or Nancy or Carol or Tommy or Nicole or swimming or school or anything.

Briggs called Jon over and over and over to no avail. Corey sobbed. And for the first time in a long while, Briggs cried too. For Will. For Jon. For the horrible, devastating loss.

He called Mack, listened to the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, the realization. Neither of them could reach the Byers. Maybe the Byers didn't want to be reached.

So Briggs, Corey, and their parents clung to one another on that three-person couch, grounding themselves with the presence of each other, until tear-stained faces grew heavy with sleep and darkness replaced mourning, if only temporarily.

Now, Briggs slips a hand under Corey's head, tangling in her mess of deep brown hair, trying to shift the girl's body off of his to allow him to move from the couch. The clock on the kitchen wall announces ten after four in the morning. He'll still make it to practice.

He contemplates skipping. Actually, he contemplates skipping school altogether. He really doesn't think Ma would even blame him. But he has to do something with all this emotion and pent-up energy, something.

But just as Briggs settles Corey back onto the cushions and turns to go to his room for a change of clothes, a hand wraps around his wrist. Corey looks half-asleep still, but she's looking up at him tiredly.

"I'm glad you're my family," she murmurs through a haze of exhaustion, and Briggs finds himself holding back tears all over again. Corey has a unique sort of power over him with her puppy-dog eyes and innocent smile. Briggs doesn't know when he became so soft, so susceptible to her charms, but it's far too late to go back now.

Which is why her words outside the Wheelers' house had been suffocating him until now, he realizes. You're not even my real brother.

I'm glad you're my family.

"Me too, kiddo," Briggs whispers, voice low to avoid waking Ma and Danny from their slumber.

"Please don't go?"

Jesus.

Yeah, he's not going anywhere. Harrington can deal. He'll apologize to Coach and Walshy later.

"Okay," he whispers. "But can we go somewhere more comfortable?" He rubs his neck. "That couch was not a good idea."

Corey giggles tiredly and accepts Briggs' hand, and he pulls her up and leads her to his room. Before he goes, he throws a blanket over his sleeping mom and Danny.

In his room, he flops onto the twin bed and scoots over to make room, back pressed against the beige wall. Corey doesn't hesitate, cuddling up against him and burying her face in the fabric of his shirt.

"Go back to sleep," he murmurs. Only moments pass before the same soft snores indicate Corey has listened.

But the few minutes Briggs has spent awake already have his mind racing.

All that happened yesterday seems so...small. Insignificant in comparison to Will's death.

I'm gay, Briggs thinks. He frowns a little. Maybe he's not comfortable with the word yet, doesn't want to deal with all the implications. But it just doesn't seem like this suffocating, huge problem at the moment. Neither does Jon's broken camera or Steve or Tommy or Carol. Nothing really seems that bad, not when his best friend's little brother was just pulled dead out of the water.

Will is—was—so young. Twelve, Briggs is pretty sure. God. Imagining the same thing happening to Corey sends a torrent of despair through every part of him.

He doesn't know why bad things happen to good people. Will was the definition of good. Young and thoughtful and smart and innocent.

Life is too short and too fragile. In fact, it's too short and too fragile to waste time with people who won't accept him for who he is.

He's not about to run around town announcing that he likes boys. He doesn't think he's ready to tell his family, even. But he no longer feels like the world would come crashing down if he did.

Well, maybe a little. But he feels like he has a few people in his life who would maybe stand with him as it fell to pieces around them.

That's something, right?

At some point, Briggs must allow sleep to find him again, because a light knock on his bedroom door draws him from slumber after what feels like only minutes. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he sees Danny in his doorway, a fond expression on his face.

"Hey, kiddos," he says. "You feeling up for school? You don't have to." Briggs glances at his alarm clock and realizes Ma must've gone to work already.

"Bill's covering at the plant for the morning," Danny says, reading Briggs' questioning glance. "So I have a few hours."

Corey yawns, burying her face dramatically back in Briggs' pillow. She huffs in protest when Briggs climbs over her to get out of the bed, slapping him blindly.

"Rise and shine," he teases, morning voice rough with disuse. Corey cracks an eye open just to glare.

"There's a sort of service—assembly, whatever—at the middle school today," Danny says softly, hesitantly. "Uh, for Will. I understand if you'd rather stay home, sweetheart."

Corey goes still for a moment, thinking.

"Yeah. I—I think I'm just gonna stay home."

Danny looks at Briggs in question.

He could skip school. Nobody would blame him.

But if he does, he'll just sit here stirring in nervous energy all day, wishing he could talk to Jon or Mack, and it'll drive him insane. And Mack would become a professional athlete before skipping a day of school, meaning if Briggs doesn't show, he'll be leaving his friend alone to suffer through third hour gym. So he shrugs.

"I'm gonna go."

Corey takes her cue, scampering out of the room so Briggs can change. He pulls on a pair of dark jeans and the first shirt he finds, a long-sleeved beige one with some nondescript logo on one sleeve, and grabs his old corduroy jacket as an afterthought.

Danny's on the phone when Briggs gets to the kitchen to shove a bowl of cereal in his mouth. Glancing at the clock, he thinks maybe Corey is right. He does eat kind of slow.

"Uh, hey," Corey's voice sounds from the hall, and Briggs looks up as she pads into the kitchen nervously. Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she glances at Briggs and Danny in turn, her beloved Supercom clasped in both hands. "So, um, I think I actually am gonna go to school. Mike just said all the boys are going. And I just wanna see them. After yesterday. You know."

Briggs doesn't buy it—Corey can't keep her gaze in one place, avoiding all eye contact. But Danny's half-distracted, on the phone with the power plant, so he nods. Briggs grabs his backpack, tugs on his Vans, and gestures toward the front door, expecting to get his sister's real motive once they're safely in the Jeep and away from listening ears.

And sure enough, in the car, Corey says, "I lied. Can you take me to Mike's?"

Briggs sighs, leaning back in his seat and letting his head fall to the side so Corey can see the skeptical expression on his face.

"I just need to see my friends," she murmurs, wringing her hands, and Briggs gives in. She hadn't been lying about the reason, at least.

"Why didn't you just say that inside?" Briggs starts the car and pulls out of the driveway.

"I dunno. I didn't want Dad to worry."

Briggs isn't at all worried about Corey missing school or getting behind on work. She's the brilliant student Briggs has never been, much like Mack, just absorbing information and enjoying the process of it.

"Why are you going to school?" Corey asks, genuine curiosity in her voice.

"Couldn't sit around all day. I'd explode."

Corey hums, nodding in understanding.

"Not really doing myself any favors with the workload, though. I was supposed to read Animal Farm by tomorrow," he confesses wryly. "Haven't started."

Corey gasps.

"You get to read George Orwell?"

"Get to? More like have to."

"He's a genius!" Corey protests vehemently. "His writing is weird sometimes, but once you realize the farm is representative of the Russian population with Napoleon's rule as the depiction of tyranny, it's actually pretty good."

Briggs blinks at his sister, slack-jawed.

"How the fuck are you this smart? You're a child." He's not sure if he's more impressed with her or mad at himself for having a negative IQ in comparison.

"Watch your fucking language. I'm literally thirteen."

Briggs snorts at her retort. He's probably not doing Danny any favors, giving Corey his sailor's mouth. "Yeah. A child. Reading sophomore-level books, like, for fun."

"I like books," she shrugs.

"Apparently. Damn, Corey." Briggs grins, feeling a bit lighter as Corey smiles back. Any positivity he can get from her after the events of last night seems like a good sign.

He pulls up to the curb outside the Wheelers', where a lack of cars in the driveway indicates that Ted and Karen have already left. Lucas pulls up on his bike and nearly launches himself over the front of it with how quickly he stops.

"Hey," Briggs says, putting the car in park and turning to face his sister. He takes a deep breath. "I love you, okay?"

Despite what Corey said this morning, part of Briggs lingers on the words she'd shouted last time they were in this driveway. But now, she surges over the center console, wrapping her arms around Briggs so tightly he mumbles a surprised oh. He hugs back.

"I love you," she says. "I'm sorry for what I said."

"And I'm sorry for how true it was. I'm sorry for those years, Cor. You needed a brother and I wasn't there."

"Well, I forgive you," she whispers, and everything in her face says she means it as she pulls back and allows Briggs to ruffle her hair affectionately. "You—you're a really good brother. And I'm glad our parents got married."

November air sends a wave of chill through the vehicle when Corey slips out the passenger door. A tight smile masking how much her words meant, Briggs watches his sister run up the driveway and bury her head in Lucas' shoulder in a hug. Mike hovers just inside the front door, and when the three of them are within range, they fall into each other.

As Briggs pulls away in the direction of the high school, he sees Dustin biking toward the house, too. The four of them, drawn to each other like magnets.

As absurd as those kids are sometimes, Briggs finds himself glad Corey has them to comfort one another right now.

He gets it. They need to be with each other, to know they're alive and well and unharmed. Because Will...isn't.

Culture Club sings a grounding melody as Briggs makes the familiar drive to the school, the sun at an entirely different place in the sky than usual because of his skipping swim practice. Another thing that now seems so trivial in the grand scheme of life and death and loneliness.

▮▮▮

"You think Lonnie knows?" Mack asks softly, concern lacing his words. Briggs grimaces. He hasn't even considered Lonnie.

"I don't exactly blame the Byers if he's not their first call," he answers, shoving his backpack in his locker. If something happened to him, Briggs frankly isn't sure he'd want his dad at his own funeral. And if Jon's behavior after his visit to Indianapolis is anything to go off of, Lonnie hasn't improved in the least.

Mack studies him appraisingly, undoubtedly following the thought process leading from Lonnie to Briggs' own father. It's unnerving sometimes, the way Mack is perceptive enough to read people like one of his chemistry textbooks. Sometimes.

The thing about Mack is that when he's there, he's there, and he picks up on everything. But he can only be in one mental space at a time, and when he checks out and starts going down the chemistry rabbithole or thinking about the future, he's gone.

Right now, Mack is here. And he's looking through Briggs' thoughts like his mind is translucent.

"They're shitheads," he grumbles, referring to Gabriel and Lonnie both.

"Yeah. Couldn't even stick around long enough to finish teaching me Spanish," Briggs huffs. "I could've been bilingual, man." He lightens his tone, aiming for a joke, but he cares about it more than he lets on sometimes.

He really does wish he felt entitled to his heritage, but sometimes he just feels...like a fraud, sort of. And maybe he resents his father for that, for giving him nothing but his last name and a half-ass attempt at raising him before skipping town. Or maybe he resents himself for not trying harder to learn, even after he left.

"You still speak decent Spanish," Mack says, conciliatory. "Better than most people."

"Sí, pero no lo suficiente como para hacerme ningún bien fuera de un aula."

Mack looks at Briggs with his head cocked like a dog, and Briggs can practically hear the gears turning as he tries to decipher what he just said.

Someone else, though, doesn't seem to care what the words meant.

"Speak English, dipshit!" Tommy Hagan jeers as he walks past. "We're in America."

And then that nervous energy, the need to do something that drove Briggs to willingly not skip school today, that red-hot and angry exasperation that rode his tail all of freshman year, finally finds a worthy target.

He spins and grabs Tommy by the collar of his jacket, slamming him up against the lockers with nothing but malice. The shorter boy tenses under Briggs' grip, momentarily surprised, but then his usual smirk emerges once again, condescending even in his compromised position.

"Woah, woah, chico," Tommy mocks, grin stretching across his freckled face. "Just making a joke. You can take a joke, can't you?"

"Fuck off, Hagan," Briggs says, low, almost a snarl.

"Briggs," Mack warns nervously, tugging on the back of his shirt to get him to stand down. Damn it.

He wants to punch Tommy in the face again. He wants to let his anger loose, wants to find an outlet for all the shit he's been feeling this week. He wants to take out all of his stress on someone who deserves it. Someone like Tommy.

But Mack is right. This is school property. He'll only dig himself a hole.

He releases Tommy's collar reluctantly, still glaring daggers at the boy, who at least has the decency to look a little shaken. Tommy's gaze flickers from Briggs' face to a spot just over his shoulder, and turning around reveals an irritated-looking Steve Harrington. How long has he been standing there?

Briggs braces for a snide remark. But when it comes, it's not directed at him.

Steve grabs Tommy by the elbow and hisses, "Why are you always such a prick, Hagan?"

Tommy blinks up at Steve, then wrenches himself out of his grip and throws his hands up defensively.

"Briggs and I were just messin' around," he says casually, taking a step back. "No need to pull out the big guns, Harrington, jeez."

Briggs thinks he's probably hallucinating or something right now. The stress has gone to his head. It's a much more reasonable explanation than Steve Harrington trying to defend him in front of Tommy Hagan. Or Steve Harrington defending anyone but himself and Nancy Wheeler, ever.

"Get to class, Tommy," Steve says lowly, voice flat but almost threatening. Tommy tries to play it off, scoffing and sauntering down the hall. But it's clear Steve's gotten to him.

Not hallucinating, then.

Then, the anger Briggs felt toward Tommy finds a new target. He doesn't need this jerk defending him like he's some damsel in distress. What's his angle, anyway?

"I was handling it, Harrington," he spits, turning back to his locker, still open, and digging around for his copy of Animal Farm. He often refers to first hour English as his personal hell, but now he might have to reconsider. His actual personal hell, for one, would definitely have Tommy Hagan.

"He was being a dick," Steve protests. "I know you were handling it. He just—needs a talking to sometimes."

"I don't need your help."

"I didn't say you did!" Steve says in exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air. "Whatever. Where were you?"

"What?" Briggs slams his locker and leans against it, looking up at Steve.

"Practice. Where were you?"

There's the angle. Getting Tommy out of the way to rail on Briggs about skipping this morning.

"I have to, uh," Mack sputters, patting Briggs on the shoulder. "You know. Class. Gonna see if Barb's back today."

He's gone with the scuffle of sneakers against the floor, lost in the crowd of buzzing students.

"Family matters," Briggs says shortly, and Steve's brows knit together. "Sorry, Captain, if Will Byers' death isn't of much consequence to you."

Steve's eyes widen at the scathing tone. "That's not what I—"

"I don't care."

He turns on his heel and stalks down the hall. Discussing Animal Farm is suddenly of pressing importance.

▮▮▮

Ms. O'Donnell sounds like a weird combination of a robot and Sigourney Weaver, and the droning of her voice has reduced Briggs to a slumped-over artist in the back row of the classroom.

Three minutes left, he scrawls in his notebook, pretending to take notes. God save me. He supplements the text with a stick-figure drawing of himself on fire.

Usually Briggs can at least count on Jon to pass increasingly insulting notes throughout the class period, but today—for obvious reasons—he's on his own.

The hour is nearing its end, and all Briggs has really taken in so far is the empty desk beside him and the occasional whispers of the other kids toward the back corner. He always takes the back. Less likely to be called on, especially important in English, in which he basically never does the homework.

"So in terms of politics, we have several parallels between the structure of this farm and the repeated historical event of an overthrow," O'Donnell explains loudly. "Does anyone have thoughts on Napoleon's character in translation to those movements?"

She scans the room of vacant faces. "Briggs?"

Briggs startles, cursing silently at his luck running out. At least she didn't say Bridger. It'd taken a solid few months and a private conversation to get her to refer to him as Briggs.

"Uh," he hesitates, glancing around as if he'll find the answer on the back of one of his classmates' heads. And then Corey's words from the car flicker back to him. "I mean, if the farm's like Russia...then Napoleon kind of just represents a tyrannical government figure," he says, praying he didn't fuck that up. He bites his lip nervously when O'Donnell doesn't respond. "In a way?"

"Brilliant," she says, tilting her head with a pleased expression, and Briggs slumps back in his seat in relief. He owes Corey, like, six ice cream cones. Holy shit. "Some of my juniors would struggle to draw the same parallels, Briggs. Good observation."

A hand goes up in the back of the class. "Yes, Chrissy?"

Briggs smiles, tuning out the girl's response, then hopes silently that this doesn't mean Ms. O'Donnell's expectations from him are permanently elevated. She teaches junior and senior English, too—typical in a school this small. He's had the same history teacher for two years, too.

Either way, he wishes Jon were here to witness the only time he's ever sounded smart in this class. Especially because it'll probably never happen again. Even though he was borrowing his kid sister's words—God, she really has no right to know these things. When did she even read this book? At this rate, she'll be analyzing War and Peace with Mack by next week while he and Jon stand by like idiots.

Just like that, though, the moment sours. Because Jon isn't here. And Briggs isn't going to tell him about his thirty seconds of fame in first hour English, because tomorrow is Will's funeral. His pencil snaps, and he realizes he's been drawing sad attempts at circles all over the margins of his paper.

As the bell rings, Animal Farm seems like a better alternative to reality, tyrannical pigs and all.

He scrambles out of his seat, grabbing his book and notebook with a broken pencil shoved in its spiral binding, and beelines out of the classroom. All he really wants is to escape the hellhole that is Hawkins High. Why did he think this was a good idea?

Quick on his feet, barely thinking as he weaves in and out of the hallway's chaos, Briggs reaches the front doors and slips outside in record time, hoping some fresh air will calm the restless thrumming of his blood in his veins.

It seems someone else had a similar idea.

Nancy Wheeler sits alone on a wooden bench, breathing shakily with her knuckles white around the strap of her messenger bag.

It's a rare sight, seeing Nancy so...not put together. Clad in her pink button-up and neat black pants, hair nicely pulled back like always, it just seems so wrong.

He's always felt distant from Nancy Wheeler. He's been to her house so many times now, picking up or dropping off Corey. He's passed her so many times in the halls, exchanged pleasantries, made small talk. But Nancy is the epitome of perfection. Princess Nancy Wheeler, with her straight As and ironed shirts and color-coded flashcards. As much as it would make sense for them to know each other because of their siblings' friendship, he's never felt that he really knows her, because she's everything Briggs is not.

So he hesitates, looking at her on that bench, just for a moment. But she looks so utterly lost, like a gust of wind blew away her usual composure. And she grew up with Will around, too—he and Mike were friends before Corey was ever in the picture.

So he silently sits down on the other end of the bench, tugging on his jacket as a lame defense against the chill in the air. Nancy looks up in confusion, registering the new presence beside her.

"You okay?" Briggs asks, and she laughs without humor, shoulders shaking a little.

"No," she admits, releasing her death-grip on her bag to put her palms up in an I don't know gesture. "I—Barb's missing."

Briggs startles at that. He figured she'd be back today, and Mack could make his move, and there would finally be something to tease him about other than his serious lack of coordination.

"Still?" he asks, scooting closer to Nancy on the bench.

She nods. "Nobody's seen her since the party, and—and we fought before she left and—and he doesn't even care," she sniffs, blinking at the ground. "He—he just doesn't want the police to find out we were drinking. He doesn't care that my best friend is just gone."

Briggs gathers that the he in this situation is Steve. It strikes Briggs as odd that Nancy is so openly sharing this information with him, but maybe she just needs someone. He can empathize with that, at least.

"That's shitty of him." He puts a hand hesitantly on her shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, the way Mack always does when Briggs stresses out.

"Yeah." Nancy huffs out a breath. "He's just acting like such a dick."

"He always does."

At that, Nancy cracks a smile, her blue eyes flickering up to meet Briggs'. The expression is almost mischievous, like they're sharing a secret. Even though Steve being a dick is the furthest thing from a secret.

Maybe, Briggs thinks, there's a lot more to Princess Nancy Wheeler than he thought.

"You're not half bad, Wheeler," he says. Nancy smiles.

"Neither are you, Briggs," she whispers. "Neither are you."

"Hey, uh," he clears his throat, standing. "If you or your family, need, uh, anything. You can call, okay?"

Nancy gives him a little half-smile.

"Thanks," she says, and Briggs thinks she means it.

Nodding, he stuffs his hands in his pockets, deciding he should go find Mack. But just as he turns to reenter the school, a flash of a striped shirt and fluffy hair catches his attention as it disappears around the corner. Too quickly to be casual, like someone doesn't want to be seen.

Briggs follows the sighting into the alley on the side of the school curiously, and it doesn't take long for the boy against the wall to turn around and stare.

"Reyes."

Steve Harrington's voice, low and emanating the same authority he does at swim practice, demands every piece of Briggs' attention, grabs it and pins it all on him. He stalks toward Briggs, all tense shoulders and drawn lips and raised brows. Oh, fuck.

"What." It's not a question. It's a demand, a defense.

"Are you kidding me? Are you really just gonna try to outdo me right under my nose?"

Briggs frowns. He literally wasn't at practice, and Steve knows that, having confronted him about it this morning.

"What—"

"You and Nance," he says, accusation lacing the words like venom as he takes a step forward so strongly, so dominantly, that Briggs shuffles back a bit.

You and Nance. So he watched that whole exchange. From an alley, which Briggs is pretty sure counts as spying.

"Me and—Jesus, you think I'm into Nancy?" Briggs sputters, throwing his hands up in exasperation. I don't like girls, he wants to shout, wants to get it through Steve's thick skull that no, he doesn't and will never have a crush on Nancy Wheeler, and he was actually just comforting her after Steve was an asshole to her and she needed somebody to listen, which Steve has proven to be very bad at.

"I saw you just now," Steve demands. "Up close and personal, huh?"

"Yeah," Briggs laughs in disbelief, gaping at Steve. "Next time I sit next to a woman on a bench, I'll remember that's a very clear sign I want to get in her pants. God, Steve. That's not what was happening."

"What makes you think you have any right—"

"Listen to me, dipshit," Briggs interrupts. "I am not interested in Nancy Wheeler. Never have been, never will be. Get your head out of your ass, would you?"

"Why don't you let—"

Briggs doesn't let Steve finish whatever idle threat he's thought up. He doesn't like the lack of control he has over this situation.

So he takes it.

He grabs the collar of Steve's shirt with two hands and takes three forceful steps forward, forcing the taller boy to scramble for purchase on the gravel. Steve's right hand flies up to grip Briggs' wrist defensively, the face of his watch catching a beam of light that tears across Briggs' gaze before dissipating.

And just like that, Briggs has the king of Hawkins High pinned to the wall. His usually collected expression morphs to shock, lips parting just slightly as he draws a sharp inhale.

"Don't accuse me of shit you know nothing about," Briggs hisses, pressing his forearm against Steve's chest to keep him against the bricks, ignoring the way his body heat seeps through his striped shirt and into Briggs' skin, his bones, his blood. Ignoring the way Steve's own hand tightens around Briggs' wrist, trying to pull himself free.

Nancy's boyfriend might have an inch or so on Briggs, might be looking down at him with a glare like a serrated blade, but it doesn't matter now, not with Briggs on the metaphorical high ground.

Steve grunts. "Get off—"

"Not that I owe you an explanation," Briggs says coldly, "but Wheeler was just having a hard time because you acted like an asshole. I told her you always do. End of discussion."

Locks of Steve's usually immaculate hair fall into his face, lined with gold in the beams of sunlight snaking into the alley. His slightly raised brows angle above eyes pooling with what Briggs thinks might be a little bit of fear, painting Steve as the portrait of startled, frozen in time.

Steve's hot, ragged breaths fill the mere inches between them now, eyes wide with the realization that he's been bested. The aftermath of an unjust altercation that he provoked.

"Briggs," he pants, his voice tight like the proximity is strangling him. Maybe it is. Briggs knows he's not pushing against the other boy's chest hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make the grip around Briggs' wrist loosen as he realizes he has nowhere to go.

Briggs kind of wants to punch him.

He kind of wants to kiss him.

Pull him in with the hands on his shirt collar. See if Steve's tongue is just as poisonous with his lips occupied by something other than speech.

And that intrusive, impulsive delusion is making him crazy, making him hallucinate, because he thinks Steve's sepia-flecked eyes flicker to his lips for just a moment, that his breath hitches as he stops fighting to escape Briggs' grip.

Just for a moment, he thinks Steve wants to kiss him, too.

And that can never—will never—happen.

So Briggs pushes back from the wall, from Steve, in one swift motion, leveling the still-frozen boy with a scathing glare that says I'm letting you go, but I won.

The bell rings, forcing reality to make a harsh reappearance. He's late for chem.

Turning on his heel, heart beating in places his heart shouldn't be, he storms away. The brisk November air isn't stinging his skin like it should be, not anymore. He's warm all over.

The phantom heat of Steve's breath still warms his face as he stops halfway down the alley, not turning around.

"You're more worried about your reputation than a kid dying and your girlfriend's missing best friend, Steve," he calls back. "That's fucked up. Get your priorities in check."

When he goes, Steve does not call after him.

▮▮▮

"Back!" Briggs shouts, grinning through the sweat dripping down his face as he snatches the ball midair and sends it sailing toward the net. It hits the backboard with a resounding thud and teeters on the edge of the hoop for just a moment before falling in.

His plan to come to school to push his nervous energy toward something other than self-destruction has proved a drastic failure in his usual classes, but between the confrontations with Tommy and Steve and now the competitive, sweaty atmosphere of third hour gym, something inside him is finally starting to settle.

"Dude," Mack pants, appearing behind Briggs and pausing with his hands on his knees. "Don't break the backboard. Take it easy."

Briggs smirks before retreating to the center of the court. Mack is on the opposing team in this little scrimmage of theirs. Just his luck.

The music blasting through the gym chooses this moment to switch to Don't You Want Me, The Human League starting to croon their questions about love into the air, punctuated by the squeak of sneakers against the wood floors.

Briggs blinks hard, trying to shut out the feelings that surface at the words, the image of Steve against the wall outside the school.

He must be making it up. But Briggs could've sworn in that moment, sharing Steve's breath, it was mutual. The wanting.

Anything else. Think about literally anything else.

Mack isn't even a veritable form of defense as Briggs sweeps past him and pounds the ball into the net again.

He doesn't break the backboard, but he comes close.

The adrenaline and satisfaction of victory make the trip to the locker room and exchanged good games with classmates a blur, and Briggs' heart is still pumping by the time he and Mack finally make their way toward the cafeteria after gym. And despite...everything, Briggs feels just a little better.

Mack, on the other hand, leaves third hour with a rapidly forming bruise on one knee and a serious lack of air in his lungs.

"I hate it here," he gasps as walks on Briggs' left.

"Dramatic."

"Asshole," Mack responds eloquently. Scanning the halls proactively for any sign of Steve or Tommy, Briggs finds himself a few steps ahead of his exhausted friend. Which means when he stops in his tracks only seconds later, Mack rams right into him, squeaking in indignation.

"Dude—"

"Jon?" Briggs mutters, tilting his head and blinking hard. Mack shuts up and peeks over Briggs' shoulder, then makes a what the fuck sound in the back of his throat and beelines down the hall.

Toward the last thing Briggs expected to see today.

Jon, walking down the school hallway.

The plan was to go to the Byers' place right after school. Jon has this tendency to shut everyone out when things go wrong, and Briggs was certain he'd be doing it all day. Showing up at school wasn't even a possibility in the various situations Briggs imagined Jon being in today, with Joyce probably an absolute mess at home and the reality that someone would have to tell Lonnie.

Actually, the last thing Briggs expects to see right now isn't just Jon walking down the school hallway.

It's Jon walking down the school hallway with Nancy. The two haven't yet noticed Mack's approach, engaged in a hushed, intense conversation. They keep close to the wall, animatedly talking about a piece of paper in Nancy's hands.

"Hey," Mack says in surprise, the word drawn out as he and Briggs pause in front of Jon and Nancy, who look flustered and almost guilty. "Uh."

Briggs surveys Jon, the dark circles under his eyes, the sleep-deprived complexion of his skin, the messy hair and undoubtedly messier mind underneath.

"Hey," Nancy says awkwardly when it becomes clear that Jon has nothing to add.

The boy in question breathes out shakily, exchanging a weirdly meaningful glance with Nancy, then nods and turns back to his friends. Like they'd just had a silent conversation and agreed on something. The whole situation is completely and utterly foreign to Briggs.

"We have to show you something," Jon says lowly, seriously, his eyes darting around as if searching for eavesdroppers. "But not here."

▮▮▮

"You want to hunt a monster?"

Briggs scans his best friend's face and then Nancy's, both of their set jaws and determined eyes and utterly serious expressions. Jon nods frantically, his hair flopping around with the motion.

"I know how it sounds—"

"It sounds fucking ridiculous," Briggs interrupts, appreciating Mack's emphatic nod of agreement. The red lights of the darkroom cast everyone's faces in a weird, sort of ethereal light, sharpening Nancy's glare and Jon's pleading expression.

"You're telling me you took a picture of it, but you didn't know it existed until now?" Mack demands.

"Just wait," Jon says, peering through some sort of magnifying device and fiddling with a switch on the equipment in front of him. "I thought it was just distorted. But now..."

The darkroom, full of bins of chemicals and photography equipment Briggs has no desire to understand, is blissfully unoccupied by anyone other than the four of them.

Because it's lunch, Briggs' stomach reminds him angrily.

"And you're..." Nancy prompts, leaning on the table's edge to survey Jon's work. The whole scene strikes Briggs as absurdly weird, the way Nancy and Jon converse like old friends despite what happened with the camera, despite the fact that they'd never been friends before.

"Brightening," Jon answers. "Enlarging."

Briggs peers over Jon's left shoulder and watches, but he can't see anything yet.

"There was a fire or something at the middle school," Nancy informs Briggs and Mack. "They were evacuating when we snuck through the side doors."

A moment of panic seizes Briggs' chest before he remembers Corey skipped school. Nancy doesn't seem concerned—Mike skipped too, he remembers.

"Not a drill?" Mack asks. Nancy shrugs.

"There was a truck, but it might've been a mistake. I didn't see smoke."

The second part of Nancy's statement finally registers.

"Wait, snuck in through the—where did you guys go?" Briggs asks, leaning against the wall adjacent to Nancy.

She's quiet for a moment, as if contemplating how much she can say. "I went to find Jonathan. Because of the photos. Well, I went home because of the police interrogation, but then I put the photo back together so I went to Jonathan's and his mom said he'd be at the funeral home—"

"Slow down, lady," Mack says, holding a hand up. "Police interrogation?"

Nancy's head lowers slightly, like she's embarrassed. "About Barb," she mumbles.

"Oh." Mack's the embarrassed one now, the mention of her name making him still.

"Anyway," Nancy coughs. "Yeah. We figured if we could get that part of the picture to show up better, we'd have a better idea of what we're dealing with." She turns to Jon again. "Did your mom say anything else? Like, um, where it might have gone to, or..."

"Wait, Joyce knows about this too?" Mack interrupts quizzically. They'd conveniently forgotten to mention that.

Jon nods sheepishly. "She...I didn't believe her. This whole man-with-no-face thing. She sounded insane, and I thought it was the grief, you know? It still might be. She said Will was trapped in Christmas lights and I had to plan the funeral and there was so much going on I couldn't even listen to her talk. But this—" He glances down at the photo, shaking his head. "This is real."

The machine dings quietly and Jon tosses the photograph into some chemical to develop.

"She said it came out of the wall," he answers Nancy's question. Briggs runs a hand through his hair tiredly. This is all too insane.

A man with no face, kidnapping kids in the woods?

Nancy has always had a good head on her shoulders. She's level, rational. It's only her stake in the situation that stops Briggs from forcing Jon to go home and sleep off his delirium.

Jon said something before about his mom losing her mind—about thinking Will was talking in the lamps or something. Joyce has been on edge for days.

And Corey's been acting weird, but he attributed it to Will's disappearance. What if it's more than that?

"How long does this take?" Nancy asks.

"Not long."

"Briggs," Mack says quietly. He jerks his chin toward to the room's exit, and Briggs follows him into the nearly empty hallway.

"Look," Mack says, breathing out slowly. "Do you—are you worried about him? Because this whole mysterious figure in the woods thing. I'm not following."

Briggs shakes his head, still blinking in the fluorescent lighting of the hall after the dimness of the darkroom.

"I don't know what to think. It sounds...I mean, it sounds insane, right?"

"Yeah. But—so does Jon and Nancy spending time together," Mack shrugs. "Especially after...what happened with the photos." Exactly what Briggs thought minutes before.

Briggs snorts. "Yeah." He's quiet for a moment, until Mack voices the thought that's obviously bothering him, if the way he's tugging on his sleeves is anything to go by.

"I just want—I want to believe there's something we can do. To find Barb. But it's like...the hope seems like it's too much."

"I know," Briggs admits. He does. He wants to believe Barb going missing doesn't mean anything, that she went on a really long drive and will be back tomorrow. He wants to believe Will isn't dead and that his family hasn't gone crazy in his absence.

Maybe a monster stealing people under the cover of night is just a stupid coping mechanism to deal with everything. But is it any more far-fetched than believing Barb and Will aren't gone forever?

"Let's just see what the photo looks like. And if they're going crazy, we...we can talk to my mom, or something," Briggs offers. Mack seems to accept that course of action, and he turns to lead the way back into the darkroom, which is blocked off from the main hall by a winding entrance that shuts out exterior light.

The pair finds Jon and Nancy huddled close together, staring at the developed photo.

"...she said...that's not Will's body. That he's alive," Jon is saying. Briggs freezes halfway across the room.

Nancy murmurs, "And if he's alive..."

"Then Barbara."

At that, Mack freezes too. Briggs marches over as Jon pulls the photo from the chemical bin, taking the space right between Jon and Nancy to observe the image.

His brain short-circuits. The right side of the vertical photo shows a humanoid mass of limbs, dark and grotesque in a way he can't explain. The shape of a man, but most definitely not a man.

And it's undeniably, terrifyingly real. And supernatural. And threatening.

This whole thing makes no sense. It's unrealistic and impossible and insane. But seeing the photographic evidence with his own eyes, he can't deny it.

"Okay, whatever the hell that is—yeah. Someone's got to get rid of it," Briggs breathes shakily.

"What about your mom?" Nancy asks Jon. He bites his lip worriedly.

"She's—ugh. I don't want to her to be in danger, but she's driving herself crazy in that house, too," he admits. "What do we..."

"We need to kill this thing," Briggs says, surprised at his own words. But whatever is in that photo isn't human, and it's running around Hawkins either murdering people or kidnapping them. And then his heart stops. "Wait. Corey."

"What about Corey?" Mack asks, and then facepalms. "Oh, shit. Corey." The pieces of a sinister puzzle are starting to come together in Briggs' mind. Corey's strange behavior. The woods. The van. The lamps. The photo. Will. Barb.

If this thing is on the loose, nobody is safe. But a thirteen-year-old girl running around the woods in search of her best friend is in more danger than anyone else. And that's what Corey is.

Nancy looks confused. "Is she okay?"

"There's no way she's not getting involved in this," Briggs explains. "Or trying to. She's supposed to be at your house, actually." Nancy frowns.

"Mike stayed home today because he felt like crap about Will."

"Right. But she met up with Lucas and Dustin there."

"Mike's been weird lately," Nancy confesses uncomfortably. "Not just because of the Will thing. He and Corey aren't—you know..."

"God, I hope not," Briggs blurts, wincing. "Uh. No offense."

Nancy raises her hands placatingly, shaking her head at the ground. "Trust me, none taken."

Jon snorts.

"Twenty bucks says they aren't there for long," Nancy mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. "They can't stay out of anything." Briggs pictures Corey, Mike, Dustin, and Lucas riding their bikes into the middle of the woods, thinking a few rocks serve as a strong enough defense against a literal monster. He shudders.

"Exactly," Mack agrees, knowing Corey's penchant for trouble just as well as Briggs. "So if this thing is running around..."

Briggs clenches his fists, leaning against the darkroom table, and looks Jon in the eyes. "They're gonna hunt it, too."

▮▮▮

a/n:

~sexual tension between briggs and steve~

anyway, who's pumped for gun-wielding nancy wheeler?

this episode made no sense timeline-wise because nancy's at home putting the photos together and then visiting jonathan (saying joyce told her where he'd be, meaning nancy went to his house, but she doesn't have a car yet?) and then the episode cuts to the younger kids still in the middle of the school day so that was a mess to make sense of

thoughts comments questions concerns? thanks for reading ily all

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