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𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬
𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐛𝐲
𝟑:𝟎𝟕 ———————| 𝟎:𝟎𝟎
♯ 𝐀 ♯ 𝟏𝟐
𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞 : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮
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Dec. 24, 1983.

FLAKES OF SNOW flutter onto the car windows and stick before melting moments later. It's not enough to create any sort of real hindrance on the ground, but it's white, coating the grass of the Wheelers' yard in a scattered layer—not really like powdered sugar, but more of a cotton. It's like how clouds look denser than they are, but you know you could put an arm right through them and only get soaked.

Hawkins seasons are average, never extreme. Just like everything else about Indiana.

Except the monster-Dark-Hawkins-magic shit, which is probably an exception to most things.

It's the time of year Briggs would normally dare Jon to do donuts in the Family Video parking lot, all the more hazardous with the light dusting of snow, but he's not cleared to drive for another two weeks. He misses his Jeep. He misses swimming. He misses September, before everything he knew about the world crumbled like old drywall between his fingers.

But he also hasn't felt this close to his family... ever. Hasn't been on this good of terms with Steve, however awkward things might be in passing. Hasn't been this honest.

Jon taps his fingers against the steering wheel and Briggs turns back to the window, sighing. Not entirely honest.

He wants to tell him.

Without swimming or driving Corey around or both hands free to fix things around the house, Briggs has had a lot of time to think. A lot of time to come to terms with the way he feels about boys, with the word gay and fitting himself into that space in his mind. It's not perfect. He doesn't like the connotations around the word, catches himself flinching when he thinks it every so often, but he's getting there. Trying to deal with the fact that this is who he is and it's not going to just go away.

He's also had time, then, to think about his friends. About Mack and his ultra-Christian family. About Jon and the way he gets angry when people like Lonnie throw around the word queer like it's an accusation toward him, toward Will. Like it's a curse.

And Briggs can't stand the idea of Jon hating him for it, for who he is, for the way his heart twists itself around when he watches Steve and Nancy walk down the hall arm in arm. Can't stand the possibility that Mack might turn him away, that Selah might never open her arms to him again in Mack's kitchen. He can barely even think about it.

But Mack and his parents brought Briggs and his family a hot meal every day for two weeks while Briggs was recovering and Ma and Danny were both at work. Jon brought him homework and drove him and Corey around without ever asking anything in return. These are his friends. They deserve to know who he is.

But every time he gets close, those doubts shoot to the forefront of his mind, demanding to be watched over and over again like film.

So he hasn't been entirely honest. He hasn't told anyone, not outright. But he thinks of Corey, and he thinks of Ma, and he thinks of Danny. He thinks of the way they'd cried in the hospital room as Corey explained the impossible, how they'd believed her, believed him. And he thinks maybe, someday, he'll get there. Liking a boy seems like a pretty small thing next to a monster from another dimension.

"You think Mike's been weird lately?" Jon says as he parks in the Wheelers' driveway, tearing Briggs from his reverie. In the passenger seat, Briggs shifts to face Jon, considering.

"Honestly, yeah." Dustin, Lucas, and Corey are somehow as insufferable as always, but Mike—he's different lately, quiet. A little lost. Like he's just going through the motions. "I think losing Eleven really kind of fucked him up."

It messed Corey up, too. Twice in the weeks after Eleven died, Corey had woken up screaming. Their nightmares are different, Briggs's and Corey's—hers are loud and earth-shattering. His are silent and deadly, wrapping demon breath around his vocal cords and squeezing until there's nothing left in him to fight with.

Briggs doesn't know how the kids can still play D&D after one of their beasts came alive and tried to kill them. But he supposes there are worse ways to cope. Corey won't shut up about her character, anyway, and this campaign Mike is running. And whenever she babbles about it like a little kid, it strikes Briggs like a new thought that it's true—that she is just a little kid. They're all just kids who have seen some monumentally fucked up shit.

"Can't blame him," Jon sighs. "I wish I knew how to help." He shakes his head. "Sometimes it's hard enough just making sure Will doesn't do that thing where he retreats into himself, y'know? Hides behind his own face. I dunno, man."

"It's all fucked," Briggs agrees, and when Jon opens the car door, he follows suit. The Wheelers' place is decked out, a wreath on every window, red ribbons hanging from them.

Usually, Briggs would pull the stepladder from the garage into the house and string lights along the perimeter of the living room and kitchen at Ma's insistence, wrapping the wire around thumbtacks until the rooms lit up in a red-blue-green cacophony of color.

This year, Danny threw tinsel over top of the cabinets. No colorful lights to be seen, only a warm yellow string of them on the family tree. Briggs is glad for it. They'd taunt him, he knows, lighting paths between dimensions, summoning monsters.

Inside, he opts not to follow Jon into the craziness of the basement, but he can hear him as he reaches the bottom of the stairs—"What's that smell? You guys been playing all day or just farting?"

"They have been," Corey announces indignantly. "Not me." Briggs chuckles.

"You have fun?" Jon is asking Will as they come around the corner and through the kitchen.

"Yeah," Will says breathlessly as Corey rambles about a... thessolonian? Hydroman? Whatever. Briggs doesn't care as long as it doesn't come to life and try to kill them in Jon's living room again.

"Hey, boys," Karen says. "Wish your mom a merry Christmas for me, okay?" Briggs turns to see Nancy hovering hesitantly halfway down the main stairs, also decorated in a pine garland with more red ribbons.

She looks nice, bangs pinned back, white collared shirt, denim skirt. That necklace, again. The ballet slippers. He feels a little shabby in comparison, only wearing black jeans, a deep green crewneck that's definitely fraying around the neckline, and an old denim jacket. But Briggs pays more attention to the wrapped box in her hands.

"Wheeler," he says. "Uh. Hey."

"Hey," she flushes. "Um. Jonathan's here?" Briggs gestures toward the kitchen, where Mrs. Wheeler is telling the Byers to wish Joyce a merry Christmas.

"Is—"

Steve's head pokes around the corner of the stairwell before Briggs can finish. He smiles a little, hesitant, as Nancy and her mysterious box head to meet Jon on the way out of the kitchen. Briggs opens his mouth to comment on what was apparently a Christmas present for Jon when Steve jogs down the stairs, and Briggs abruptly laughs out loud. Because Steve Harrington is wearing the most ridiculous Christmas sweater known to man. Big white reindeer on it, knit green and red and everything.

"What?" Steve asks, offended. He self-consciously pats down his sweater. "Do you hate reindeer? Do you hate joy?"

"You look like Santa gave a toddler crayons and free rein of your closet."

"Oh, fuck off." Steve's eyes widen as he glances back toward the kitchen, like he's nervous Karen somehow heard him swear and is about to kick him out of the house because of it. Briggs backs up a few feet as Nancy and Jon approach the door, sensing a need for some privacy as she nervously juggles the box between her hands. In a quiet corner of the living room, Steve shifts awkwardly on his feet a bit, glances at Briggs's shoulder. He got out of the sling last week. "How's the arm?"

Briggs shrugs, both as an answer and a demonstration of his range of movement. "Getting there," he says. "Should be fine by next season. Just a little behind."

Steve nods, rocking back on his heels, hands in his pockets. "You would've been captain, probably," he admits after a long silence. "Sorry you lost the rest of the season."

"Is what it is." Briggs was angry at first, but it's hard to be mad when next year's junior captain is Carson McCoy. He's a good guy. Deserves it. So he deflects with, "Just can't believe I'm spending another year under your dictatorship."

"It is not—" Steve sputters, and stops himself when he sees Briggs's grin, realizes he was just digging for a reaction. "You're the worst, Reyes."

"Someone's gotta be."

Briggs looks around the living room for a moment, takes in the framed photos of Nancy and Mike, the handmade ornaments on the tree, the way Steve and his stupid reindeer sweater fit right into this perfect nuclear family. The ideal suburban boyfriend, he thinks. Good for Nancy.

They got back together a week after the events of November.

He gets it, he does. It's taken him years to figure out what the hell is going on in his own heart. If Steve can find love with a girl and not have to deal with all of this shit, the telling people and the slurs and the unbearable sensation of knowing he's not allowed to be the way he is—it's better that way, isn't it? For everyone.

"But you're happy?" Briggs asks softly, glancing toward the doorway, where Nancy and Jon are exchanging hushed words and a perfectly wrapped box.

Steve smiles, a little weakly. "Yeah," he whispers, eyes on Nancy. "Yeah, I'm happy."

Briggs nods, because he doesn't have any words left. "Well. Merry Christmas."

Corey's voice drifts in from the kitchen as the rest of the boys come upstairs, and Briggs starts toward the front door to meet back up with Jon. Steve stops him as he turns away, a hand on his elbow.

When Briggs turns back, Steve's smiling, but not quite meeting his eyes.

"Merry Christmas."

▮▮▮

An absolute mess of a wrap job has Briggs confused when Corey shoves a bulky package into his hands, bouncing on her knees on the living room floor in buzzing anticipation. "Open it!" Just to make her squirm, Briggs weighs the thing in his hands, inspects the green paper with tiny trees marching across it, all the wrinkles and the ungodly amount of Scotch tape wrapped around it too many times. "Briggs. Oh my god. Hurry up."

Grinning, he rips it open from the top and pulls the paper away. His heart stutters a little when he does.

"It's a Supercom," Corey says proudly, like Briggs is blind. "So you can reach us now. 'Cause we decided you're an honorary member of the Party." She hesitates. "Well, I did. They can deal with it."

"Cor," Briggs murmurs, weirdly touched by a walkie talkie. But it's more than that, he knows—it's an invitation into Corey's life for good, all parts of it, monster-hunting and superpowered little girls and all. It's trust, and it's a way for him to call her if everything in Hawkins goes to shit again. "Thank you." He sets it aside, knowing it'll need batteries because Corey definitely can't reach the batteries on the top shelf in the other room.

She blushes as Ma snaps a picture with the camera Danny got her. "I think if you played with us, you'd be a good fighter."

"Isn't that what you are?" He's pretty sure a fighter in the context of Dungeons and Dragons is a specific kind of role, like Will being a wizard or something.

"Um, no," Corey protests vehemently, like she can't believe he'd suggest such a thing. "I'm a rogue."

Briggs puts a hand up in surrender. "My bad." Reaching behind him, he grabs a rectangular box that he definitely did not wrap himself. He can hotwire a car, but he's never successfully wrapped a gift in his life. He shoves it toward Corey. "Please accept this in apology."

Unlike Briggs, she tears into the gift with reckless abandon, shredded pieces of wrapping paper flying everywhere while Danny shakes his head fondly. She gapes when she sees the logo on the box, then looks up at Briggs, like she thinks it's too good to be true and something else must be inside. He just smiles and waits.

Finally, she opens the box and pulls out a brand new pair of high-top Converse. They're teal, just like her favorite jacket, and she stares at them absolutely slack-jawed. Ma and Danny had helped Briggs pay for them, because he couldn't feasibly shell out twenty bucks with the money he had from lifeguarding last summer, but he'd contributed a good portion. And he's proud of the idea. Her sneakers are literally falling apart, the canvas tearing away from the rubber and everything.

"They're perfect," she marvels, turning one around in her hands like she's never seen a shoe in her life. Then she abruptly drops it and tackles Briggs into the floor, hugging him tightly. His shoulder twinges a little in protest, but he doesn't care. He just hugs her back and laughs into her hair, pretending he doesn't hear the click of Ma's camera again as Corey rambles about how she can't wait to wear the shoes to school.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you—oh my god!" She pulls back abruptly and scrambles across the room, grabbing her Supercom off the floor and waving it in the air. "I gotta tell Dustin!" Ma laughs as the phone rings and she retreats to the hall to answer it.

Corey collapses onto the couch and presses a button, holding the device closer to her mouth. "Dusty! Dustin, guess what?" Her socked feet tap impatiently as she waits, then insists, "Very important message incoming. Pick up. Dustin? Over."

"Briggs, honey?" Ma calls from down the hall. "It's for you."

Who would be calling Briggs past dark on Christmas Eve? He hung out with Mack earlier today, and he saw everyone else at the Wheelers'. He frowns, pushing to his feet and shrugging at the inquisitive look Danny gives as he passes.

"Thanks," he murmurs as Ma hands him the phone and heads back to the living room, giving him his privacy. He puts the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

To his surprise, it's Steve's voice that comes through the other end.

"Better than wearing double denim every day," he says triumphantly, and then the line goes dead.

It takes a long moment of Briggs staring at the wall, processing the words, before he realizes: Steve literally called him just to retort to his comment about the reindeer sweater. Briggs glances down at his jeans, then his jacket, and laughs out loud.

He can't stop the smile stretching across his face as he sets the phone back in its place on the wall. Maybe it's the fact that even an hour after Briggs left the Wheelers', Steve is still thinking about him. Maybe it's the familiarity of their jabs at one another, a rivalry between teammates making everything feel at an equilibrium again. Maybe it's the combination of both of these things and the voices of Briggs's family in the other room, the overhead lights bouncing off the tinsel in the kitchen, the dissolved stitches in his shoulder, the genuine possibility that everything might actually be okay.

He wonders what the word is for this feeling, the ember tucked deep in his chest that no longer burns, only warms.

As he heads back down the hall, the din of laughter and warmth growing the closer he gets to the living room, he thinks it might be content.

▮▮▮

a/n:

okay guys don't WORRY. i know steve being back w nancy is not what you're here for but hear me out:

i forget sometimes, but season one literally takes place over the course of ONE WEEK. that's SO SHORT. and i think it would be really difficult for steve to come to terms with his sexuality in such a short time frame, and nancy is a "safer" option for him at this point in season one. plus, the longer and angstier i can make the slow burn... hehe... the better

they'll have their time ;) but the foundations have been laid

thank you stilestastic for steve's over-the-phone comeback to the sweater insult. you were so quick with it too, an honor doing business

also: you may remember briggs did not in fact let jonathan's camera hit the ground. so what's in the box? hmmm

ON! TO! SEASON! TWO!

[ word count | 2.8k ]