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There is the acidic taste of vomit building in his throat, the beginning of a burn forming on his shoulder from where his last cigarette hit his flesh, the pain dull against the adrenaline coursing through his system, and bloody smears across his face as he looks out into the world.
He sucks in a ragged gasp, a wretched one, one that speaks of horrors unable to be comprehended and also of emotions felt so deeply they cannot be spoken true, before he looks up and grins, his lips shiny with blood, his teeth dark with rot.
Okay, he says, thinks, feels, as the sun burns low in the sky, the whistle of wind skitters through dead trees, no one and nothing but him, alone in the desolate burning world. Let's try this again.
***
There is nothing when the world ends. It is the worst truth to be burdened with.
When he rockets back to himself, when he pieces the vibrant shells of solitude together, sews them into the dull plastic of monotony, when he clutches at shoulders and presses fleeting kisses that burn to brows, he knows.
He knows.
The taste of ash, the taste of rot. How it feels when a bone splinters beneath him, how it feels when a bone snaps internally. How long he can go before he loses it, because he will lose it, because he is losing it.
He is counting down the days for something that might not happen, that he prays will not happen, because it happened once and it didn't kill him and instead brought him back, but he's still not sure that anything is real.
He can't believe anything is real.
***
Steve Harrington lives, burns, and dies again.
This time, it is worse.
This time, he is not alone.
***
She sputters to a stop, her mouth wide and curving, the latch of her jaw rippling as she watches the sun burn low in the hazy sky, the chittering of dead leaves swirling around their feet.
So this is it, she says, wonders, feels. So this is the end of the world.
He does not say anything as he extends the lit end of a cigarette to her. She takes it and does not smoke it, lets it burn to ash between her fingers, lets the cherry embers stain her skin, and she laughs, because she has felt enough in the past week to feel no more, not even pain.
The two sit, watching, as the end of the world comes again, and she turns, as the light grows, and grins, her eyes as fever bright as ever.
See you in the next round, she says.
***
She thinks that the world ending was beautiful and she cannot make herself stop.
She thinks about it every day, out under the sunshine, staring into deep puddles, listening to the clatter of instruments around her and humming under her breath, and she find the markers of impending doom in everything she does, and she still thinks it is beautiful.
The world is going to end, she thinks dreamily, as bats splatter around her and she swings a broken oar.
I am going to see the end of the world, she says to him, as she bandages him up in a tiny broken bathroom, their elbows knocking into everything and their knees touching.
You are not my end, she mutters as she sets fire to a monster who was once a man, who still is a man, who still is constrained by a silly thing like death.
She spins and twirls through the disasters, her hand returning to his every time, their fingers twining together as he worries and she wants, as their hope rises and dies, as their strength waxes and wanes.
He still says nothing, but it is okay. She says enough for the two of them.
***
Robin Buckley speaks, rises, and dies again.
This time, it is welcome.
This time, she is grateful.
***
The next time, there is a hiccup in their lives.
There is a knowing look in the eyes of the third. There is a flicker of animalistic intensity, of desperation, of madness, of a churning desire to know, to understand.
There is something not quite right in the way she smiles, in the clench of her jaw, in the way she handles the gun. Her fingers glide on the trigger, her aim is the best it has ever been, and there is nothing like fear in the set of her shoulders.
There, instead, is something like madness in the shadows of her face, in the way her lashes curtain her eyes, in how knowing and full they are.
I've tasted this before, she says, her mouth wide and unsteady, gun oil smeared across her gums and dripping down her chin, dirt under her nails.
She laughs loudly, the sound flat, continually swallowed by the absence of everything. I knew it, she mutters as the other two watch her, the second silent for the first time in weeks, her face glowing and bright, no shadows cast across the slope of her nose, her fulcrum, her cheeks, as the world ends again. I knew it.
***
She blinks awake, catches sight of her room, and stumbles to her feet, her laughter loud as the earth tilts away from her, as the gaping maw of the future swallows her whole.
She does not stop for hours, finding delight in everything she does and she doesn't worry about anything, not her parents, not her younger siblings, not their worries, not the false end of the world.
She giggles her way through school, snickers her way through days, can't contain her guffaws when bodies pile up, and watches as the others stare at her before they break off into whispers the second she turns away.
Because she knows - she knows! - a secret that none of them know. She knows.
And it is a big secret. The biggest secret. It is a secret about the real end of the world.
The other two say nothing but they also don't say anything, and she thinks that she gets it, thinks that she can remember what was so unsettling the times before for a moment, before the haze of laughter returns and she can't do anything but laugh again.
***
Nancy Wheeler breaks, revolts, and dies again.
This time, it hurts.
This time, she falters.
***
Bad things come in threes, but that ignores the fact that bad things don't stop at three.
The fourth comes to the end of the world weeping.
His eyes shimmer with tears that overflow even when he wipes at them, leaving dirty fingerprints and blood smeared in brackish patterns across his skin, tangled in the curls of his hair.
He whispers to himself as he cries, something sharp and menacing in the shape of the words, in the grit of his broken molars, as if he can off put the end of the world by his sheer presence, as if he was the key to stopping something, as if he matters.
We've done this before, he says slowly, sniffling.
No one answers him, their eyes instead watching the sky grow brighter and he wedges himself into the ground next to them, linking his arm around knobby knees and stained jeans, rubbing his face against them until everyone is blessed with his tears, until the salt seeps through and smears against their skin.
Oh darlings, he whispers to their skin, to the world, as it burns and creaks and implodes. Oh, you poor wretched darlings.
***
He cries in his sleep now.
It is a frightful sensation, to wake up with his face sticky with tears, his pillow cool and damp. He rubs at the pilled cotton, scrapes his fingernails across the quilt over his bed, and scrubs at his face.
He floats through the days, tears leaking from his eyes at the barest touch of emotion. The other three cling to him, swaddle him in everything he wants and nothing he hopes for.
He sings along to a beat he only can hear, his mouth graceless and flopping, his face salty and wet. Tears bubble in his eyes, and sting beneath his lids in a constant seep.
He still guides, still plays, still talks, and laughs, and watches, and sees.
More importantly, he still goes to his death, still pulls at the strings that would lead him there, still walks the path he had once found, a small smile on his face, sharp canines clear between his lips, something wolfish and dangerous in the line of his jaw, his brow, even as he sobs.
There is no end that isn't painful for him, no goodbye that doesn't sting. He is an endless unspooling of sorrow straight from a broken heart.
He doesn't flinch from the punches ever again.
***
Eddie Munson weeps, sings, and dies again.
This time, it is purposeful.
This time, he decides.
***
Their fifth is wrathful.
He pulls through the trees at the end of the world, snaps branches beneath his feet, spits at the ground, and refuses to settle, even as the rest of them do, falling into their usual positions.
You can't accept this, he screams, threatens. You can't do this.
None of them answer him, their gazes trained on the sky as he mutters and paces.
This is unfair, he hisses, curses, gags. This is cruel. This is unfair.
He does not yield, goes to the end of the world with his feet still marching, his heart still beating. There is no stillness in him, as he burns, no surrender in the curve of his spine.
There is no give in him. No desire to know. There is just emotion and bile in the back of his throat, sourness building as he watches the sun dip low in the sky, watches the dirt begin to smoke.
He is angry as he dies, and then angrier as he realizes.
***
He emerges from his room, his camera clenched tight in his hands and he does not speak as he steps out the front door, not bothering to close it behind him.
There is no softness in his jaw, no capitulation as he makes his way out his door, not listening to any of the voices trailing behind him as he lifts up his camera and throws it down.
The glass lens and black body shatter among shouts and he cannot help the way his lips tug up into a faint grin. There is no kindness on his face, no tenderness as he goes back inside and grabs the next one, ignoring the hands tugging at his arms, the voices buzzing in his ears.
He brings them out, one by one, a methodical end to them, an ode to his aggravation.
He moves through the world in the same way, no clipped words from his mouth, just sheer intensity, whip-cruel anger curling from his tongue.
He salts the wounds he leaves behind, bites at those who love, scratches faces bloody and raw. He does not falter, when it comes to hurting, leaves dark imprints of rufous fingers prints across everyone he sees.
He ignores the cries as he circles the damned, knuckles bruised and raw, blood seeping to his wrist, and delights in the way whispers follow him everywhere now.
Monster, monster, monster.
***
Jonathan Byers screams, destroys, and dies again.
This time, it is painful.
This times, he fights.
***
Six is the first number to be considered a perfect number.
It makes sense that perfection would finish with him.
He beats them all to the clearing, familiar and smoky, ash falling across his shoulders, layers on layers of it spilling over him.
He smiles at their faces, cups his hands around their hands.
Did you think you could go without me? He asks, stinging kindness in every word.
He smooths a thumb across faltering pulses, wipes a bit of sweat from someone's brow, touches a tear and licks the tart salt from his thumb.
I'm here now, he vows, promises, pledges, as the world begins to burn, as the sun begins to rot, as their lives begin to slip away, sharp and cutting pain skittering across their skins. I'm here now.
He loops an arm around all of them, huddles them into a group, his fingers tight on their stained and bloodied clothes, even as he gentles touch for their skin.
He clings, and they cling back, as the trees crack through, as the sky splits with a violent lurching rush, as the world ends with a silent whisper of air.
***
Out of all of them, he is the one with the least ties.
He trails after them, soft and gentle, humming along to their heartbeats, to the wind, to the world, because he is joyous, because he is here.
He is alive, and they are alive, and they are living, even as hollow shells.
He brushes hands over all of them, over everyone, slings hugs around shoulders and easy delight spills through his voice. He is unrestrained, and he is merciful, and he is sweet.
He fills in the crevasses between them, stretches himself out to twine himself with them, is always the first hand out and the last one touching.
He is everything they are not, and he knows it.
He feels their terror beneath his skin as he moves along to their breathing, listens as their acidic words burrow into flesh, watches them flounder again and again, until he can get to them, until he can curve a hand down their spine, across their shoulders, over their eyes.
He brings joy when there should be none, and he is beloved for it.
He is loved for it.
***
Argyle grins, hums, and dies again.
This time, it stretches.
This time, he knows.
- OR -
"There's something wrong with them," Dustin mutters, his eyes catching on Eddie singing an unintelligible song from where he's wrapped around Steve and Robin, Nancy and Jonathan and Argyle in a pile of their own only a few spaces away, sprawling crookedly across the Byers kitchen floor. "I don't think they know - I - there's something wrong with them."
Mike tears his eyes away from his older sister, her mouth curved into a familiar smile, one that doesn't drop, even in sleep, and shudders. "Nancy hasn't stopped randomly laughing," he says. "She started like a week ago and just, hasn't stopped." He pauses, swallows hard. "Mom asked her something and she just - tipped her head back and laughed until she was in tears and then just - disappeared for a day before coming back and laughing again when our mom tried to ground her."
"Eddie cries all the time now," Max says slowly. "I said hi to him yesterday, and he burst into tears."
El and Will exchange a look, frowns on their faces. "Argyle is always humming something now, and Jonathan broke all his cameras a week ago," Will whispers, glancing over at them, as if his words could stir something in them, something animalistic. "He's angry now."
"Steve doesn't - he doesn't talk anymore," Lucas murmurs. "He just sits and listens and then does whatever you ask him to do, but there isn't- he's quiet. Basketball is just the sound of us dribbling and nothing else. He used to make these stupid quips all the time, but," he sighs, shudders just a little too. "Now he doesn't say anything."
Erica sucks in a strange hitch of breath between her teeth and wedges herself a little closer to Dustin and Lucas. "Robin's not listening, even when she's talking to us," she points out. "She's just - she's spacey and talking but it's like the words aren't real. Like she isn't here."
Dustin stares out at the six of them again, still huddled together across the floor, somehow having spilled into each other in the moments that he had looked away, their limbs entangled and blurry until they appear to just be one melded mound. He shakes his head, his brow furrowing in contemplation, before he opens his mouth.
"You ever get the feeling we've done this before?"
- OR -
The world spins forwards and then backwards. Bodies pile up, but nothing matters when an eternity stretches, hollow and shallow, the same six weeks on constant replay. Bones break and knit together, veins unspool from arms and muscles detach with sickening thumps. Laughter echoes out over empty fields, empty houses, empty skies.
There is no point.
The six of them live, die, and live again.