wannabe you. · Y/n story by @ssomethingg

Hawkins, Indiana. July 1985. A heatwave had settled over the town like a thick, wet blanket, turning the asphalt on Maple Street soft and shimmering. The only sounds were the relentless buzz of cicadas and the distant, tinny melody of an ice cream truck a few blocks over.

Steve Harrington

I’m telling you, Henderson, this heat is a crime against humanity. A crime. Scoops was a sauna today. A sauna filled with screaming children who think ‘just a little more sprinkles’ means an entire canister.

Dustin Henderson

You’re just bitter because Robin got the big tip from the family of six.

Steve Harrington

She used psychology, Dustin! She told the kid he looked like a ‘strawberry shortcake connoisseur.’ Who says that?

Through the picture window, a moving van, dusty and groaning, rolled slowly to a stop in front of the long-vacant Cape Cod house three doors down. The back doors swung open with a metallic shriek.

Lucas Sinclair

Hey, look. New victims for Hawkins.

Mike Wheeler

Probably some government plant. Or Russians.

Max Mayfield

Or, get this, just normal people moving into an empty house.

Eleven Hopper

I like the yellow door.

You watched as a family began to unload: a tired-looking man with a mustache, a woman carrying a box marked ‘FRAGILE’, and a girl, roughly your age, hauling a suitcase up the walk. She had her back to you, but her hair—the same shade, the same length as yours—caught the sun in an identical way.

Steve Harrington

Well, go on.

Dustin Henderson

Go on what?

Steve Harrington

The welcoming committee. You’re the heart of the neighborhood, right? Go say hi. Be neighborly.