𝑬𝑳𝑴𝑨𝑿- 𝑴𝑨𝑿 & 𝑬𝑳𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑵

Rain hits Hawkins like it’s been personally offended by the town.

It’s been going on for hours now—steady, heavy, almost rhythmic—turning streetlights into blurry halos and turning every window into a soft, glowing rectangle of warmth against the cold outside.

Inside Max’s room, though, it’s completely different.

Warm. Messy. Alive.

A cassette player hums low on her desk, some old mixtape playing something between indie rock and faded pop songs that Max swears “sets the mood but in a non-cringe way.” Her skateboard is still propped against the wall, like she forgot it existed mid-sentence earlier.

Max is sprawled across her bed like she owns gravity.

Eleven is tucked closer to the headboard, knees pulled up slightly, hoodie sleeves covering half her hands. She looks calmer than she used to—still quiet, still observant, but not lost in it anymore. Like she’s learned how to exist inside moments instead of just passing through them.

And then there’s you.

Right there in the middle of it.

Somehow folded into their space like it was always meant to be that way—like Hawkins itself eventually gave up trying to keep you all apart and just… accepted it.

Max glances at you first, always the first one to break silence.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she says, squinting slightly.

“What thing?” Eleven asks immediately, looking between you both.

“That thing where they look like they’re thinking too hard about existing,” Max replies casually, like she didn’t just expose you in one sentence.

Eleven tilts her head slightly, studying you for a second. “Are you alright?”

Max snorts. “She’s fine. They just overthink everything.”

“I do not overthink everything,” Eleven says, offended in the quietest way possible.

Max points at her. “You literally tried to analyze why toast sometimes burns unevenly for like two hours.”

Eleven pauses. “…it was important.”

That earns a small laugh from Max, and the tension in the room loosens again almost instantly.

You’re still there in the middle of it all—watching them, being watched back, existing in that strange shared orbit where none of it feels forced anymore.

Eleven shifts slightly, closer to you this time. Not hesitant—just natural now.

“I brought snacks,” she says, holding out a small paper bag like it’s an important announcement.

Max immediately leans over. “If it’s weird fruit chips again, I’m staging an intervention.”

Eleven ignores her and offers them to you first.

That’s her pattern now.

Max notices, of course. She always notices everything.

“Oh my god,” Max says, dramatic. “You’re the favorite. I’ve officially been replaced.”

“You are not replaced,” Eleven says calmly.

“Sounds like something someone who replaced me would say,” Max mutters.

But there’s no real bite to it.

Just warmth underneath everything.

The three of you end up closer without even trying.

Max shifts until her shoulder bumps yours, casual like she didn’t plan it but also like she absolutely did. Eleven settles on your other side, quiet but steady, her hand resting near yours—not grabbing, just close enough that it’s there if you want it.

The rain outside gets louder for a moment.

Inside, Max exhales and stares at the ceiling.

“You know,” she says after a pause, “Hawkins is kind of terrible. Like objectively.”

Eleven nods once. “Yes.”

A beat.

Then you both wait, because you know Max isn’t done.

“But,” she continues, “this part? Right now? This is the one thing it hasn’t ruined yet. Which is honestly suspicious.”

Eleven glances at her. “Do you think it will ruin it?”

Max shrugs. “It ruins everything eventually.”

That lands a little heavier for a second.

But then Eleven shifts her hand—slow, deliberate—and lightly takes yours. Not tight. Not afraid. Just there.

“I do not think everything is meant to be ruined,” she says quietly.

Max looks at both of you.

Then rolls her eyes like she’s trying to escape feeling something too deeply.

“Okay, wow,” she says. “We’re getting philosophical now. Someone turn on a movie before I start crying or something.”

But she doesn’t move away.

Instead, she scoots closer again so the three of you are basically tangled together on her bed—legs overlapping slightly, shoulders pressed, warmth mixing in a way that makes the rain outside feel like it belongs to a different world entirely.

Eleven leans her head lightly against your shoulder for a moment, like she’s testing comfort she’s finally allowed to have.

Max notices.

Of course she does.

She sighs loudly. “I hate both of you.”

“You do not,” Eleven replies instantly.

Max pauses.

“…I don’t,” she admits.

Then, softer, like she doesn’t want it to become too serious:

“But don’t make it weird.”

A beat.

The cassette player clicks softly as the song changes.

And for a while, nobody says anything else.

Because it doesn’t need words right now.

Just rain outside.

Warmth inside.

And the three of you—somehow, stubbornly, finally—here.