𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐖 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐑. To his credit, he had tried to study, but each time was a failed effort that only resulted in Scout wanting to throw his notes across the room, never to look at them again. In the end, he made amends with the fact that he was never going to remember everything, much less in time. School had never exactly been his strong suit, but there was too much on his mind to try and squeeze in things like math or chemistry. Now, the only thing keeping him from spontaneously combusting was his drum set, which he had been pounding on nonstop for the past hour. 

His grip upon the drumsticks in his hands loosened. He laid them both on his lap and wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his jeans, but to no avail; the perspiration he had just rubbed off reappeared almost instantaneously. Slightly out of breath, Scout gave himself a break, his ears ringing from the bombardment of sounds he was inflicting upon himself. The basement may have been soundproof, but he certainly wasn’t, and it took more than a few moments to gather himself, waiting for his hearing to fully come back. 

His attention turned to the cut on his cheek. Stinging, it forced his fingers to hover over the gash oh-so-gently, wincing when his skin made contact. It had been put there only a few hours prior by a stranger with a knife, the glint of silver slashing toward him as he did his best to sidestep out of the way. He didn’t know it at the time, but that small reflexive movement had probably saved his eye, the knife instead slicing mere inches below its intended target. 

He’d been alone, and therefore a much easier target. The headlock he’d found himself in hurt more than he cared to admit, his breaths coming and going in gasping gulps as he tried to kick and punch whoever was holding him down. He couldn’t remember how long the altercation lasted, only the final kick and the sound of an iron bar falling to the concrete. Apart from the cut, his face wasn’t too bad, if you didn’t count the messy nosebleed he’d gotten when they grabbed him. He’d thrown his clothes off the second he’d gotten home -- replaced them with a cleaner sweatshirt and pants that didn’t have any traces of his blood, unlike the ones from before. When he’d changed, though, Scout’s eyes fell upon the blooming purple patch on his abdomen, yellow blotches dotting the edges that remind him of what an alien cartoon might look like. The bruise pulsed when he breathed, so he tried to do that as little as possible, except it turned out you kind of needed to do that pretty frequently to survive. 

So far, the only thing keeping him from rushing off somewhere was the wave of bliss he felt wash over him when he played the drums, ignoring the pulsating pain his injuries emitted until it became too much to raise his arms. He remembered the panting gasps his lungs tried to muster as the frigid air around him became thick and difficult to draw in, the blurred faces of his attackers swimming before him as he tried to curl into a ball to protect himself. But what he didn't remember were sirens, or the flash of reds and blues that must have followed, because all of a sudden, the three strangers looked at each other and bolted, leaving Scout on the ground to wonder what the hell had just happened, and why. 

He couldn’t remember them, Because they didn’t exist.  

His bike had thankfully landed not too far away, and as soon he could gather his senses, Scout took off in the opposite direction. He’d nearly crashed more than once, even managing to nearly run into somebody a few meters away before gasping out an apology and rushing away as fast as his injuries permitted. Tears dried and knuckles bruised, Scout now had even more to think about, as if everything else hadn’t been enough. 

The blond was just about to begin another pounding session when something flickers in the corner of his eye. Scout turned his head in the direction he thought he’d seen it in a confused manner -- almost curious, if he’d been in the mood. Something flickers again, this time on the other side, and he twisted until he faced the wall of the basement, completely devoid of any change. He was certain it wasn’t the light -- his dad had replaced the bulb two weeks ago. The only thing he did get a glimpse of was what could only be described as a shadow, hovering only meters in front of him, gone before he could blink. 

Caught by surprise, Scout let out a breath, the throbbing at his side now taking a backseat as he cautiously waited for something to happen. His entire body was on edge, unsure if he should get up and slowly go back upstairs or wait the moment out. But before he could settle on what to do -- seemingly out of nowhere -- a dull clang! filled the room; his hands, now empty, flew up to his ears as he twisted this way and that to see what had startled him. It took a full thirty seconds for Scout to lower his hands, and then another thirty to look down and realize it had been him -- he’d dropped his drumsticks. 

Without really thinking, the blond pushed himself up and backed away from his drum set, urging himself that it was all a trick of the light. But his spaciness had come back to bite him again -- this time, Scout was unlucky enough to trip over the cymbal stand, sending him crashing to the floor with a deafening crash. A groan escaped his lips after a whirlwind blur had Scout’s cheek -- not the one that’s cut, thankfully -- flush with the ground. His chest rose and fell against the cold hardwood surface. 

That’s it. He winced through his teeth, another shooting pain rocketing up from his side up to his face, crackling like bolts of lightning. He understood the message now; loud and clear. With his heart pulsating in his ears, Scout pushed himself up for the second time that day and bolted, putting as much distance as possible between the inexplicable phenomenon and himself. 

○ ○ ○

Sometime after his otherworldly encounter back home, Scout managed to find himself in the middle of town. 

He hadn’t taken his bike for fear the ride would be just as painful as it had been before, and instead settled on fleeing as fast as his injured person could permit without him having to double over every few minutes. In his hurry, he hadn’t even grabbed his Walkman for something to listen to -- now, his thoughts have that job. 

And they do a pretty good job of it. 

Although he was hesitant to start making a tally, Scout began to realize that the number of places he couldn’t return to was slowly growing -- albeit it couldn't or shouldn't or simply wasn’t wanted, the list was there, and the top contenders were Night Vale and currently? His own house. Nothing to be thrilled about there, especially considering Letitia’s house was out of the question, too -- that one fell into the very last category for sure. 

Only when he heard a verbal altercation across the street did Scout perk up again. At first, he thought it was a particularly vivacious couple, not paying attention as they no doubt drew attention to themselves, but it wasn’t until a woman’s sharp voice cut into the conversation that he looked up, eyeing a mother and her daughter arguing in front of their car. The girl, doe-eyed and defiant, shaking where she stood, but standing her ground. Like many other people on the street, Scout stared, curious as to what they could be fighting over. Finally, the mother caved, and they both descended into the car, but not before the blond caught a glimpse of the girl’s face on the way down, smiling, knowing she had won. 

For some reason, this made Scout smile too. 

As far as plans go, Scout still didn’t have one. Other than wanting to figure out exactly how Mrs. Thompson -- or as it turned out, Mrs. Nias -- he had been cautious about how to go about it. For one, it wasn’t like information about a possible couple another town over even existed, much less be readily available. Even in that department, Scout was still skeptical -- regardless of what the girls had said, the blond had his doubts. 

Just then, a cheerful ding knocked him back to earth. Perhaps it was the sound itself or the low, curt voice that followed the bubbly store worker’s greeting that compelled Scout to follow, not bothering to check where exactly that was. He finds out a moment later, though, as he steps into the record store -- which loudly proclaims “Goody’s got it!” in smaller pink lettering just below the neon sign. 

“Hi!” The same employee perked up at his entrance, her features automatically brightening. “Welcome to Sam Goody’s, may I --” 

But Scout didn’t hear whatever else she had to say, because a noise split between her voice; first, a thump a few rows over and then, a muffled apology directed toward no one in particular. The blond turned his head to see where it had come from, and after the woman left him to browse -- looking relieved he didn’t require anything more from her -- Scout quietly made his way in the direction of the sounds, gingerly stepping around stacks of records both because he wanted to be quiet, and that the bruise on his side still painfully hammered against his ribcage; walking didn’t help, but he saw no way around that. 

“Scout?” 

That’s when the voice he so easily recognized outside finally catches up to him. The dimmed light above them flickered as the boy spoke, and it takes Scout more than a moment to let reality catch up to him. Now near the rear of the store, he found himself face to face with one of the few people who probably had any idea what he was going through. Not that he knew it. 

“Hi, Jonathan,” said Scout, with a curt nod of acknowledgement. He pretended to be absorbed with whatever records were held in the nearest stack, but it’s hard to be interested when -- barf -- Rock Me Amadeus is the only thing within reach. He dropped the act, and focused his attention on the boy in front of him. 

Jonathan seemed to be as confused as Scout felt, but instead settled for terse. “What are you doing here?” 

“Looking at some… records,” -- the blond lifted the first thing his hand came into contact with, trying to ignore the flush of red creeping into his cheeks when he noticed the particular record in his hand -- “What are you doing here?” 

“Buying records, too, I guess.” Jonathan bit his lip, as though trying to decide between hiding a smile or scowling. “Christmas present for Will. I was, uh, going to to get him something else, but he kept dropping all these hints, and so…” He motioned feebly around him. “Here I am.” 

Scout nodded lamely, suddenly regretting his decision to follow Jonathan. He couldn’t even remember why he wanted to in the first place. “How is Will, by the way?” 

“Good,” Jonathan answered immediately. He’s probably been asked this a hundred times, even if you didn’t include last year. Instead of brushing it off, though, the Byers boy added, “Holding up, you know. He’s excited for Christmas, won’t stop talking about what gifts he’s hoping to get. I didn’t want to disappoint him.” 

Neither of them said anything at first, just standing in each other’s company in awkward silence until Jonathan broke his silent act -- he leaned forward, as though unsure about something. “Were you following me earlier?” 

“What? No!” As quick Scout was to deny it, perhaps it’s his hasty answer that confirms whatever Jonathan’s thinking. He wasn’t even sure why himself. Even if he did, he certainly wasn’t going to reveal it now, especially when this is the first time they’ve said more than a couple words to each in at least three years. 

Jonathan scoffed, clearly not believing him. “Sure, and you just happened to come into the same store behind me and then follow me around too, right? You’re just full of surprises.” He says this last part chock-full of sarcasm, but Scout furrows his eyebrows, not understanding how he’s being insulted. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

The Byers boy shook his head before Scout could even finish. “Whatever,” he dismissed, “Just, leave me alone, OK?” 

“Okay,” the blond replied defensively; somehow, he’s in the wrong, but can’t figure out why. In an odd twist of conversation, he added, “I didn’t mean to follow you, by the way. I just sort of -- came across the place and felt like I should come in. I couldn’t have known you were gonna be in here-- and even if I did, I doubt it’d make you feel any better to say I would have left if I did.” 

The frown on Jonathan’s face only tightened into a scowl at the unpleasant undertone that crossed Scout’s face and features. His dark brown eyes met Scout’s and he’s struck with how empty they look -- maybe not completely devoid of emotion, but as exhausted as Scout felt, like a fallen star that has shouldered the weight of the galaxy, all to lessen the burden of an even dimmer sun. 

“Go away,” he muttered, but it made no difference; Scout didn’t move a muscle. Their contrasting heights seemed bigger now that they’re standing close together -- give or take, the two inches the blond has on the Byers boy sharpens the difference in their shifted demeanors. Scout, now more prominent than he’s ever felt with anyone other than Letitia, and Jonathan, who keeps his head straight, refusing to tilt it any further upwards than necessary. Three years ago, everything about this situation would have been switched. 

“You know,” -- Jonathan once again broke the silence -- “I wouldn’t have pegged you as one of Steve Harrington’s crew. You’re not as much of a douchebag as the rest of them, but maybe that’s changed. I know I haven’t.” 

With that, he turned to leave, heading out of the store without buying anything after all. Scout just stood there with furrowed eyebrows, wondering what the hell the Byers boy meant by what he said. The blond surprised himself when he caught up to the boy just before he reached the door. He held Jonathan back by the shoulder, looking directly into his narrowed eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Jonathan eyed the grip the boy opposite him had on his shoulder, as if it takes all his self-control not to shake it off. He was frowning. The complexity in his expression bewildered Scout. Whatever unspoken history is between them begins to crack as the blond stared back with a different kind of frown. 

Scout hadn't even begun to scratch the surface of he could possibly mean when the Byers boy speaks. "Maybe not. But you do."

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄

??? what even is this chapter?? it pains me so much how obvious of a filler this is (not to mention how it's so much shorter compared to all the others) and i wish i could say i planned for something to happen, but it'd be a big fat lie, i had no idea where this was going

also when i was originally planning stuff for this book there was this whole other side plot with scout and jonathon to like, be on friendly terms but somehow that completely fell through lol. to be honest though i kind of think it's funnier to have them not like each other, partly because it makes more sense (with jonathon's personality and scout being with steve) but also it just seems hilarious to have protagonists hate each other yktv

anyway, thanks for reading!