Briggs is restless, bored with the mundanity of Hawkins and the drag of rural Indiana November. That energy is channeled into laps up and down the Hawkins High pool, where he's worked his way up the ranks of the swim team and found a rival in one of...
IF BRIGGS HAS learned anything over the course of his friendship with Jon, it's that an angry Joyce Byers is something to be feared. Immensely.
And the Joyce Byers who storms into the police station isn't just angry. She's furious. He presses himself against the wall of the station, like he can erase himself from the world if he just becomes small enough. Thank the lord that Joyce is so tunnel-visioned that she doesn't notice him as she walks inside, coat flowing behind her on some phantom wind as if she needs help being even more imposing.
As he lingers outside the building, just close enough to the corner of the wall to keep an eye on the parking lot, he weighs his options, staring at the ratty laces of his Vans.
He could go in now. He should go in now. Or he could hold out for a few minutes, come in after Joyce releases her wrath. It'd hardly be fair. Not that his abandoning Jon in the alley was all that fair, either, but he knew how it'd look—blood on his face and knuckles in front of the officers who'd caught him in similar positions a few too many times before.
He grimaces at the thought of everything he got into near the beginning of Ma's relationship with Danny. He hadn't known where else to put his energy, so he let it out with his fists on whoever he knew would fight back. Those years... well, they didn't leave him with the best reputation. And so when Jon got pressed up against a cop car, Briggs ran.
He isn't sure where Mack disappeared to, but he can hardly blame the guy for booking it. He was maybe the only one there who wasn't at fault for something.
Briggs's thoughts are like a maelstrom, anger and regret and Jon and Mack and sirens and Tommy Hagan's jeering, bloody face and Corey where's Corey where is she and danger and Steve, Steve, Steve—
You're different, Briggs.
Not now.
You, Briggs, you're driving me insane.
Fuck off, Briggs thinks to his little mental Steve. He kicks at a pebble on the asphalt, trying to channel his frustration into something physical. He wishes he was in the pool right now, arms burning, lungs straining.
The blood is gone now, hastily wiped from his jaw and knuckles in a gas station bathroom. He examines his cracked knuckles, already knowing how much they'll sting in the pool, and sighs.
"Come on!" Briggs shouts. "Hit me again! You asshole!"
Jason Carver spits blood onto the pavement, grinning wide and slow. He won't get in trouble for this and he knows it. Hawkins' golden boy. He listens, landing a swing to Briggs's jaw, and Briggs retaliates with a punch to the ribs. There is nothing but the heat and anger of the moment, the fight. There are no consequences. There is no rationale.
