( back in hawkins, belief in the impossible had stopped being a choice. and ever since and somehow especially after billy, it had only gotten worse and kept getting worse until the very end. she swears that she can still hear the echoing ticking of a grandfather clock when the din of the crowd fades into panic, something that has to be tamped down over and over again.
and yet, this entire place is downright fantasy — magic and gods and summonings are talked about like it's an everyday thing and there's a beat until she'd realized it must be, for them. but there is a long leap between the visceral powers of the upside down, of vecna and even eleven, of things max can't even begin to find actual names for and some flora god of crops or some crap.
she was thinking she'd began to accept it. it wasn't acceptance. it was avoidance, running, anything other than coping because how do you even begin to cope with —
in the face of this, her solitude is her defense. it's easier to remove yourself, to let yourself drift in some in-between shape of real and imagined when you don't have the solid anchor of familiarity to make it all come crashing down. no cassette player to ease the anxiety, as if kate bush can protect her from some overly friendly locals that can't decide whether to treat her like a kid or savior.
the false confidence — if it can even be called that — wears so impossibly thin at the very sound of her name. it makes her flinch, snap her head up and turn through the rather crowded square.
her heartbeat is somewhere in her throat when her wide eyes find — ) Steve?
( somehow, somehow through it all, it makes sense it would be him. how many times had to he run towards trouble, rather than away? her steps are uncertain, and the messy confidence held aloft like a shield shows hairline fractures as she breaks out into a sprint. ) — Steve!
RUNNING UP THAT HILL PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND
and yet, this entire place is downright fantasy — magic and gods and summonings are talked about like it's an everyday thing and there's a beat until she'd realized it must be, for them. but there is a long leap between the visceral powers of the upside down, of vecna and even eleven, of things max can't even begin to find actual names for and some flora god of crops or some crap.
she was thinking she'd began to accept it. it wasn't acceptance. it was avoidance, running, anything other than coping because how do you even begin to cope with —
in the face of this, her solitude is her defense. it's easier to remove yourself, to let yourself drift in some in-between shape of real and imagined when you don't have the solid anchor of familiarity to make it all come crashing down. no cassette player to ease the anxiety, as if kate bush can protect her from some overly friendly locals that can't decide whether to treat her like a kid or savior.
the false confidence — if it can even be called that — wears so impossibly thin at the very sound of her name. it makes her flinch, snap her head up and turn through the rather crowded square.
her heartbeat is somewhere in her throat when her wide eyes find — ) Steve?
( somehow, somehow through it all, it makes sense it would be him. how many times had to he run towards trouble, rather than away? her steps are uncertain, and the messy confidence held aloft like a shield shows hairline fractures as she breaks out into a sprint. ) — Steve!