just a little ratbag

sideblog: writer lydjah on ao3

[lydjah]

steddiebang26 project 008

exciting times in my house in 2026 - I am taking on the challenge of my first ever big bang, @steddiebbang, with the most incredible team; the amazing, awesome, fantastic @cosmic-v0rtex as my beta, and the unbelievably talented and brilliant @sheepsicles as my artist.

the important stuff: 55k, post-canon, Eddie is alive but has no memories, slow burn, getting together, besties endlessly side-eying each other's karaoke choices, Wayne and Steve father-son-isms

summary:

It’s a day like any other, for Steve. A day like any other, where Robin and the kids are off at college, a day like any other where Steve isn’t sure who he is without monsters to hit and kids to babysit. A day that is entirely absent of strange things, and strange happenings. 

Except… Steve walks into a record store in Indianapolis on this day like any other, and the strangest thing to happen to him in a good long while happens, because suddenly he’s face to face with Eddie Munson – a somehow very alive Eddie, who bears the scars but has no memories of Hawkins, or the Upside Down, or any of the people he knew back home. 

There is still an inexplicable pull between them, a quiet curiosity Steve had first felt in ‘86 that’s still there, but armed with the smoking gun of knowing things about Eddie that Eddie doesn’t know about himself, Steve has to decide what he should and shouldn’t tell him – because Eddie doesn’t remember anything… right?

excerpt:

There’s a bell on the door of Radical Records that chimes merrily as Steve steps through, but a first cursory glance doesn’t reveal any staff, or even any other customers. He supposes it’s that weird, liminal time of early Saturday afternoons – close enough to lunch that people are still recovering from the meal, and far enough away from evening that they’ve not yet started to emerge for a night out. He pockets his tape and rubs his hands together, trying to get some warmth back into them – it’s already freezing outside and it’s only mid-October, but inside the shop the air is warm and smells faintly of coconut. 

Steve can’t see the person who is presumably the clerk on duty, but he can hear him, somewhere in the stacks singing along to Bad Company’s Bad Company, which is currently playing overhead, like he doesn’t know anyone is in the store and listening. It wouldn’t matter anyway – the guy has a great voice, and Steve starts perusing, rather enjoying the performance. 

He drifts to the display at the top of the aisle, front and centre near the register, and picks up Mötley Crüe’s new album, Dr. Feelgood – he’s heard good things about it – and turns it over to look at the track listing. Faintly, off to his side, he registers movement and footsteps, and a vaguely familiar man’s voice says; “That’s a good record – you want me to grab you a plastic-wrapped one from the back?” and Steve glances up to locate the speaker. 

And then it happens. 

The strangest thing to happen in a good long while. 

Eddie. 

It hits Steve like a gut punch – and as a man who has taken more than his fair share of punches, this feels exactly like that. It’s unmistakably Eddie; dark brown waves of hair to his shoulders, the lush mouth, the big sloe-brown eyes that traverse Steve’s face curiously, and rings that gleam as he points to the record in Steve’s hand and asks another question that doesn’t even permeate the crisis Steve is having. There’s a whorl of scarring that climbs the left side of Eddie’s neck, one silvery line just creeping over the edge of his jaw. That seems like proof alone that it’s really Eddie – because Steve has matching scars; on his torso, and the thin line around his neck from the bat that had tried to garrotte him. 

The air has been knocked clean out of him, and he feels his own throat working up and down silently, and Eddie’s eyebrow arches when Steve sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth, when he tries to force the air back into his lungs, because he thought– 

Well, he had thought nothing could surprise him anymore. 

“Huh?” he manages to force out, because he’s pretty sure that Eddie has repeated something about three times now and is starting to look at him with concern, and a wariness like he might be about to have some kind of medical episode, or is just a bit crazy. Maybe he is about to have a medical episode, because he fucking feels like he’s about to have a heart attack. Steve presses down on a mildly hysterical bubble of laughter, shoving it down deep, because he definitely already seems crazy and he’s got to keep it together because Eddie is looking nowhere near as shell-shocked to see Steve, as Steve is him.  

“I said, that’s a good record dude – you want me to grab you a brand new wrapped one from the back?” Eddie’s brow is still high, like he’s wholly unsure about Steve and his potentially fragile mental state. He runs his gaze over the planes and angles of Steve’s face again, a little furrow of confusion appearing, and Steve feels every part of that stare like a physical weight on his skin. 

Eddie is alive. 

“Eddie,” he chokes out, not hearing the question. “Eds.” 

He takes a step forward, but Eddie’s hands rise, palms outwards, and his look of confusion deepens. 

“You must have me mistaken for someone else, man,” Eddie says, with a nervous kind of chuckle and half a step backwards. He taps the badge at his chest, over his heart, the one that reads James. 

Steve does laugh at that, because of course Eddie would somehow survive being left for dead in a fucking hellscape and use it as fodder to fuck with Steve, just a little. He definitely deserves it, and hot, acrid guilt crawls up his throat, but he shoves it down to deal with later. “Come on dude, don’t mess around with me, yeah?” 

But Eddie just frowns and takes another small step back, and Steve searches his face, searches for something, because there’s– there’s no recognition in Eddie’s expression. He’s looking at Steve like he’s a slightly mental stranger, like they didn’t steal an RV together, like Eddie didn’t dive into a lake and through a goddamn snack-sized mouth of hell to fight bats with him, like they didn’t have a fucking heart-to-heart in the rotting underside of Hawkins, like Steve didn’t lose him. Eddie rubs at the left side of his jawbone absently, where his scar just creeps over the curve, and he’s still looking at Steve with confusion tugging at his mouth, and he doesn’t remember. 

Steve exhales and deflates, like air escaping a balloon. His throat feels inexplicably tight. 

Eddie doesn’t remember.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Safety First

Prompt #22 - "Clap On, Clap Off, The Clapper!" | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: M | CW: Sexual Content, Talk of STIs | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: Established Relationship, 1990s, Sex Ed Teacher Steve, Idiots on Parade, Silliness

It's a hard call to make. 

Steve picks up the phone several times, making a big production before hanging it back up again. Not quite ready to commit to the action. He clearly knows what's best, and knows it's his obligation to follow through with this, even if he's embarrassed.

And he is embarrassed. He dramatically touches his face, patting his own cheek, as if he's feeling heat there. Talking to himself:

"It's okay. It happens to lots of people, and you were smart, got tested, and sought treatment. You didn't ignore the signs. That was responsible of you. Now, it's my obligation to tell all my recent partners that they should get tested, too."

He dials again, and this time it connects.

"Hello. It's Tommy. From the bar. I know this is awkward, but I need to tell you that I have tested positive for a sexually transmitted disease and you should be tested, too."

There's silence, as Steve stands there, acting like he's listening.

"Of course. You're welcome. It was the responsible thing to do."

Then, he hangs up the phone with a smile.

"Cut!" Jonathan shouts, and Eddie is finally able to let out the laugh he's been containing for the past twenty minutes. This script is terrible. Steve's acting is terrible.

It's just terrible all the way around.

"Fuck off," Steve says, and Eddie just grins. "Do we have anything to work with?" Steve asks Jonathan, redirecting his attention.

"I mean, I'll see what I can do," Jonathan says, and Eddie supposes that's all they can ask of him. Steve ain't giving him shit.

Steve volunteering to make a series of sex education informational videos is objectively a terrible idea. Get him behind the camera and he's so wooden. 

And Robin? She's even worse.

The two of them together? Oh boy.

But Eddie's keeping his mouth shut. He has no interest in being the face of VD, especially not at Hawkins High, thank you very much. Even if he feels like he could make this come across far more natural. 

"This is stupid," Max says, and Steve deflates. Eddie wants to wring her neck.

"It's not stupid. It's a teaching tool and he's doing a great job," Eddie says through gritted teeth.

He gives Steve two thumbs up.

"Nobody believes Steve's got the clap acting like that," she argues, and Eddie doesn't think she's wrong, per se, but she's definitely not being helpful either. "He sounds like a professor! Nobody is gonna thank him for calling. They're gonna yell! I'd yell!"

"We can't scare kids into not calling!" Steve snaps. "We have to make it look painless."

"It's a lie!" Max yells even louder.

"Max," Lucas says.

"These videos will be helpful to kids. We can't have them all out there spreading around the clap," Eddie says. He may think the videos are terrible, too, and probably won't do a fucking thing besides be laughed at, but still. Maybe a kernel of truth will lodge in their pea-brains to be pulled upon, if needed. 

Also, it's his job to take Steve's side and hype him up. No matter how foolish he's looking.

"I'm pretty sure I could do better," Gareth says.

"Yeah, me too," Goodie adds.

Eddie looks at Jeff.

"Oh, no, I think he's doing great," Jeff says, lying through his goddamn teeth. Smart man, though.

"If you think you can do better, well, have at it!" Steve bitches, and well, Eddie can't wait to see what happens next.

The videos aren't bad.

They aren't good either, but as far as PSAs go, Eddie's definitely seen worse make it to air on national television. Jonathan did the best with what he had to work with, and for being used at the school? They're fine.

And Eddie didn't have to tell anybody he's pissing fire or anything. So, he's taking it as a win.

Jonathan sent the finished versions today, and they are perfectly serviceable for what they are intended to be.

Steve, Robin, Gareth and Goodie all have their own videos on different topics that Steve's curriculum covers, and next fall, Steve will start using them in his classroom.

In bed, Eddie's lounging, lying in wait.

When Steve walks through the door, he very clearly narrows in on the fact Eddie's up to no good. 

"What?" Steve asks, voice slightly sharp as he pulls his shirt over his head.

"You got anything you need to tell me?" Eddie asks, shit-eating grin firmly plastered on his face, even after Steve throws his shirt at him, hitting him square in the head.

"Shut it, or it'll be so long you won't even remember what it looks like."

Eddie peels the shirt off, tossing it away, then makes the motion for locking his lips.

"That's what I thought," Steve says, shucking off his jeans, and crawling into bed.

Steve reaches over towards the nightstand, opening the drawer. Pulling out a condom, and holding it up.

Eddie sticks out his bottom lip.

"Safety first," he says, and Eddie takes it. It's probably expired. 

It takes less than a minute.

"Okay, I'm done with this. It's not worth the bit. Off," Steve says, and Eddie laughs as he pulls out, tugging off the condom. Sliding back into Steve with ease.

Steve sighs.

"That's the good stuff. Worth the risk."

Eddie makes an affronted noise. That's rude. He's not a risk. 

"Mr. Harrington is a hypocrite," Eddie says, getting back into their familiar rhythm.

Steve scoffs.

Then, raises an eyebrow.

"Is there a reason I should be worried? I thought we were monogamous?" Steve asks, fake hurt filling his voice. Well, he's a better actor in bed than in front of the camera. Still. Not very convincing.

Eddie has very easily kept his dick in his pants for Mr. Harrington, thank you very much.

But if he doesn't think so…

"I mean, if you don't trust me, I can pull out…"

Steve's fingers dig into his back, his tune swiftly changing.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

Notes: I kept thinking about the how stiff and wooden Steve and Robin both acted in that Starcourt Mall commercial, and well, here we are. 🤣

The PSAs in the 80s/90s were prevalent. Steve is positively hinged here in comparison to some of them. Calling himself Tommy was a little bitchy, though. Holding that grudge.🤣

[lydjah]

selling out

for @corrodedcoffinfest

Prompt Day 22: “Clap on, clap off, The Clapper!” | Word Count: 997 | Rating: M | CW: push and shove, language | POV: Steve | Pairing(s): Steddie | Tags: i’m borrowing Band Manager!Steve but making it enemies to lovers, Famous Corroded Coffin, Eddie calls it Selling Out, Steve calls it Paying Our Damn Bills

“Absolutely f–”

“Language!” 

“–ucking not. Absolutely not, Harrington. I don’t care what they offered.” 

“What did they offer?” Gareth asks, curiously. 

“Traitor,” Eddie hisses. 

“A lot,” Steve says, arms folded, the world’s bitchiest expression trained directly on Eddie – the lone dissenter. “Like enough to have us on the road for a year, easy. Enough to replace your kit–” Gareth’s drumkit has seen better days, and those better days were like two decades ago, “–enough to replace all your instruments if you wanted.” 

Eddie is returning Steve’s stare with equal intensity, and Steve hates that his gut heats every time Eddie narrows those big brown eyes at him. Steve might be bitchy, but Eddie’s brand of mean is bratty; the gorgeous rockstar who can get anything he wants, who can always get his way, hamstrung by the band manager who tries to keep the four of them on earth. 

They’re kind of friends? In that they’d die for each other – almost did – and Eddie had decked that skeezy club manager who’d been so horrible to Steve that one time, and Steve had gone nuclear on that chick Eddie had briefly dated who had not only been using him for the advancement her quote-unquote acting career – and Steve uses the term acting very sarcastically, because she was shit – but also fucking another guy on the side. Eddie is protective, and possessive, and Steve is jealous, but if you’d asked them they’d say they fucking hate each other. 

Maybe it’s fairer to say they just know exactly how to push each other's buttons and rile the other up after all these years, but the mortal enemies angle is good for media attention. It lets Eddie say bitchy things – “Our manager you know, he’s a penny-pinching asshole, you’ll have to ask him directly why we haven’t done Oceania yet,” – in the press, without grievously offending anyone important in the industry. 

Jeff sing-songs, “Clap on, clap off, The Clapper!” and Eddie hisses at him too, but is ignored. “That’s easy. We should do it.” 

“It’s selling out,” Eddie says loudly. No one listens. 

“Can we sing it rock ‘n’ roll style, not jingly?” Frank asks, like Eddie isn’t even there. 

“Of course,” Steve says congenially. He loves when the boys take his side over Eddie’s. He knows they’re sick of the both them, of their bickering and their tension. Jeff has said more than once, you know there’s a thin line between love and hate right, and Frank, who’s far less subtle, has outright told Steve to just, “Fuck Eddie, or get fucked by him, it doesn’t matter, but maybe it’ll calm you both down.”

“They want you to do the ad in your style,” Steve adds, ignoring Eddie’s louder, “Absolutely not!” 

“Ed, come on,” Jeff says, ever the voice of reason. “Think of the money.” 

Corroded Coffin are on the rise, and fast, but money like that would make the next year so much more stress-free. It’s easily enough to take their time recording their next album, to tour, or even to take a break from touring if they’re exhausted, without having to worry about cashflow. 

“It’s selling out!” Eddie repeats, shouting, and he’s such a fucking idiot, Steve can’t take it. 

“Munson, hallway, now,” he snaps, not waiting to see if Eddie follows him. 

He does, arms already crossed, his expression thunderous. “I’m not letting my band join the ranks of corporate sellouts, making soulless garbage, Steve, we’ve been over this before, about the integrity of the–”

Steve shoves him, and that shuts him up quick. Eddie blinks, those life-ruining eyes all wide and shocked and Steve loves that look on him, can easily imagine it as his view from above while Eddie’s on his knees and– focus Harrington. They’ve never come to physical blows before. 

Eddie’s lush mouth presses into a thin line; he uncrosses his arms and shoves Steve right back. 

“Have I steered you wrong yet?” Steve says, with another shove. “Have I done anything that’s not in the best interests of this band?” Shove. “I know it’s your baby,” shove, “I know–”

Eddie shoves back again, his fingers curling in Steve’s shirt and holding on. “You just have to push me don’t you, you just have to push–”

Steve doesn’t think Eddie’s talking about the physical pushing at all, and Steve’s half-hard already because this is years of tension, years since he’d been shoved against a boathouse wall and has thought about that physical dominance ever since – at first thinking he hated it, hated the way it made him feel weaker, but then thinking about the way Eddie’s grip on his collar had yanked at the last second so Steve wouldn’t hit the back of his head on the wall… 

“Just trying to get you to admit you actually want it,” Steve hisses, and he’s not talking about the band or the lifestyle or the fucking clapper ad either. 

“Oh fuck you, Harrington, you already know,” Eddie snarls, and then he’s shoving Steve against the wall again and his mouth is on Steve’s – hot and hard, despite the softness of his lips, demanding and taking and not fucking asking anymore. Steve answers in kind, fisting his hands in Eddie’s hair and tugging, because they’ve been asking each other for too long – dancing around their feelings, both asking the other through inaction to make the first move, arguing like it’s fucking foreplay. Steve laughs into Eddie’s mouth, and gets kissed harder for it – maybe it was foreplay. 

“I’ll do your fucking ad,” Eddie breathes against Steve’s lips, “if I get something in return.” 

“You already know you can have anything you want. Everything you want,” Steve snaps. Eddie’s thigh slides between his own and he bites out a moan. 

Eddie’s grin says he knows Steve isn’t talking about just payment for doing the ad. Steve doesn’t give a fuck anymore. Eddie’s mouth is worth his pride. 

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiemicrofic.

for good measure

July Prompt: Micro | Word Count: 555 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Minor Injury, Feet | POV: Eddie | Tags: Future Fic, Established Relationship, Slice of Life, Steve Should Know Better Than To Enter His Lair

"Godamnit, Jesus Christ, what the fuck?!" 

Eddie jolts up straight, only to find that there's a paper stuck to face. He grasps at it, batting it away, trying to assess the situation. 

"What? What's wrong?" Eddie asks. Alarmed.

Steve's hopping around the spare bedroom, the one where Eddie does his hobby shit. 

"I stepped on a Lego!" Steve hollers, voice incredibly bitchy.

Eddie doesn't have any Lego in here, so that seems rather unlikely. But he's not about to tell Steve that. No use poking the bear with a stick.

"Sit down, let me see," Eddie says, heart hammering in his chest. Steve scared the fucking shit out of him. He doesn't usually bulldoze his way into a room, making a ruckus. That's Eddie's schtick. Not Steve's.

Foot in hand, Eddie checks him over. Good news? He isn't bleeding. Eddie sees no glass, no cut. No major disaster. Bad new? There is a red mark on the sole of Steve's foot that Eddie is sure hurts like hell. 

"What'd you step on?" Eddie asks, and if looks could kill, Eddie would most certainly be dead. "I'll find it. Don't worry."

And Eddie starts feeling around the laminate flooring, still half-asleep. He didn't know he was going on a scavenger hunt tonight.

Eventually, Eddie finds the offender. A tiny Micro Machines car. 

Oh, that's definitely Eddie's bad. But to be fair, this is his room. Eddie doesn't go into Steve's home gym, hurt himself, and then blame Steve. And come on, he only dropped that weight on his foot once. He learned. Steve will learn, too.

Eddie had been experimenting with a modern day campaign, just for something new and different, and had found the tiny cars to be perfect. Clearly one of them got away from him. Whoops. 

They do have wheels. He can't be blamed totally.

Eddie kneels in front of him.

"Sorry," Eddie says, picking Steve's foot back up. He's not a foot guy, but this is Steve's foot and he is definitely a Steve guy. He places a kiss on the bottom of Steve's arch in apology. "Is that better?" 

"I can't tell," Steve complains. "Better do it again, just for good measure." 

He's taking advantage. Goading him. Eddie wouldn't have it any other way. 

Eddie kisses the spot again, and relishes the smile that Steve gives him, his annoyance melting away. Eddie's good at making that happen. If he wasn't, they never would have made it this far.

"Thank you. Now, I have something else you could kiss," Steve says, and Eddie is totally game for that. That's much more enticing to him than feet will ever be.

"Oh yeah? Just for me?" Eddie asks, running his hands up Steve's thighs.

"Just for you."

"Is that why you were coming to collect me? You needed a little something, something tonight?"

Steve laughs, and Eddie offers him his hands, helping him to his feet. 

"Sure, we'll say that," Steve teases, and reaches over to turn off the music that's playing probably just a little too loud.

Oh.

Still. Eddie won't look a gift horse in the mouth. 

"To bed!" Eddie says with authority and excitement, as Steve hobbles along in front of him, Eddie hitting the light switch as they exit.

Eddie will really have to make it up to him tonight.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiemicrofic and follow along with the fun! ❤️

[wynnyfryd]

oh my goddddddd they’re so fucking married 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

[cherrysolitary]

It's 1993, LA. Eddie grew his bangs out and Steve got tanned and buff. (from the au I'm working on)

[steddieas-shegoes]

rations

for @corrodedcoffinfest day 21 prompt 'ecto cooler'

rated t | 530 words | no cw | tags: established steddie, slice of life, eddie's hyperfixations

🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃🧃

Jeff looks at the list again. He thought they were on a budget.

It’s clearly Eddie’s handwriting for the next few items. Frankie wrote the rest of the list and all of his requests were reasonable and things they actually needed.

Eddie’s items were:

Oreos, other cookies Ecto Cooler, NOT REGULAR HI-C Steve said water

Ecto Cooler is twice the price of regular Hi-C. And it’s the same damn thing. Mostly.

Jeff grabs the regular Hi-C and crosses it off the list. Eddie can come buy it with his own money if that’s what he wants.

–

Steve may have fallen for it if he hadn’t already been waiting for Eddie to try to pull a fast one.

He invited Eddie along on the grocery shopping trip because he needed Eddie to see in real time how expensive some of his requests are.

It’s not that Eddie is oblivious. He was mostly raised by Wayne, pinching pennies and usually going without a lot of things he wanted because they literally had no choice. He knows that some things are just too expensive, and even if they have some money now, they still need to be smart.

It’s just that Eddie has never had money in a comfortable way. He’s thinking short-term about what that money will buy, but not about how much better it is to buy the store brand of some things so they can have more money for traveling or a new guitar next year.

Or in this case, getting regular Hi-C instead of Ecto Cooler.

“You’re 25 years old. You can have regular versions of drinks you like,” Steve says as he takes the Ecto Cooler out of the cart and replaces it with the regular version of Hi-C. “We’re supposed to keep it under $40 this week.”

“That’s a lot of money. If we just bought frozen pizza instead of chicken-”

“We are 25 years old, Eddie. I am not eating frozen pizzas every night of the week so you can have some Ghostbusters drink.”

“So we can have it. You like it, too.”

Steve does. But he doesn’t care. A drink is a drink is a drink to him. He could be served anything and he’ll be hydrated and happy.

“Not enough to pay double what the regular is. And you already threw Doritos in instead of the regular potato chips. You can only pick one splurge like that,” Steve points to the Doritos that Eddie tried to hide under the bread and toilet paper. “I see everything.”

“You’re worse than Wayne,” Eddie grumbles as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I pick Doritos this time.”

–

The day they find out they’re discontinuing Ecto Cooler, Eddie buys out all of the remaining stock at Melvald’s and the Wal-Mart the next town over. It’s ridiculous.

It defeats the entire purpose of saving money.

But it makes him happy.

Steve and Jeff just sigh and watch as Eddie figures out rations of the supply he has left.

“One a day means I have enough for the next 5 months. And then…” Eddie circles a date on the calendar. “I find a new thing.”

Steve laughs. “Okay, honey.”

[lydjah]

you think there’s a connection between Eddie and the… slime?

for @corrodedcoffinfest

Prompt Day 21: Ecto Cooler | Word Count: 996 | Rating: G | CW: none | POV: Steve | Pairing(s): Steddie | Tags: Ghost!Eddie is haunting Steve, questionable ghost science ahead, first kiss

It’s actually incredibly ironic – that the violently green drink released as a promotional tie-in for a ghost movie is actually helping Steve with his ghost problem.

“Sorry,” he says, after the wet sponge he’s washing dishes with flies out of his hands and smacks him in the forehead, sending soapy water everywhere. “You’re not a problem, I didn’t mean that.” 

The hand towel hanging from the cupboard door handle to his right floats up and gently pats Steve’s face dry. Tingly air presses close to him in contrition – it’s not warm, it’s just… kinda fizzy? That’s the best way Steve can describe it. Like every inch of his skin, like every hair on his body is alive and at attention.

“You’re forgiven if I am,” Steve says, and the electrified air presses closer. He could swear he feels something like lips delicately brush the nape of his neck and he shivers. “You’re not a problem.”

It’s the circumstances that are the problem; Eddie has better control of lifting objects now than he did at first, and can write to Steve using a pen and paper that he leaves out for him at all times. He can make the TV static dance into vague shapes. He can make Steve definitively notice the difference in the air when he comes near now, whereas before he just thought he was freezing all the time, that his circulation had given up the – ahem – ghost at the ripe old age of twenty.

But Steve can’t see him.

He can’t touch him.

Sometimes he thinks he can hear Eddie’s voice, but only when they’re at opposite ends of the house, like when he’s just coming out of his shower upstairs, and he thinks he hears the baby grand downstairs playing, and Eddie’s lovely voice singing Springsteen’s Nebraska. Steve loves that song, that album, but the first time he thought he heard “They declared me unfit to live, said into that great void my soul be hurled,” he sobbed so hard he was convinced he’d gone insane. He can never hear Eddie when they’re in the same room, which, okay sure, Steve can admit, is probably a minus in the ‘still sane’ column.

They’ve tried flinging flour on Eddie’s ghostly form – it only left Steve with a horrible mess to clean up, and Eddie’s guilt and melancholia choking the air in the house for the rest of the afternoon. They’ve tried photographing him on film, and on polaroid. They’ve tried flash on, flash off, they’ve tried long-exposure with Jonathan’s tripod – Steve never did tell him why he needed to borrow it, no one knows Steve’s being haunted by Eddie’s ghost – and it all amounted to nothing.

Nothing, until yesterday evening when Steve was hosting the Party’s D&D night at his place, and Dustin spilled a whole glass of Ecto Cooler – just knocked it clean off the dining room table and onto the floor between where he and Steve were sitting. Steve hadn’t actually been participating, he’d been reading a magazine, but Eddie had been hovering just behind him, observing the gameplay, and maybe admiring the picture of Bon Jovi on one side of the page, and Ann and Nancy Wilson from Heart on the other, if anything was to be judged by the way Steve couldn’t turn the page for a good 30 seconds.

“Goddamnit Henderson,” Steve had complained, “anything but the radioactive green juice, surely?”

When he’d come back with a towel and seltzer though, he’d seen it – the outline of a Reebok, and his heart had taken off at a gallop. Eddie had obviously noticed and was keeping very still, lest they alert the kids, and Steve had carefully wiped it off as he cleaned up, but they’d both practically vibrated on the same intense frequency as they waited for the kids to leave so they could test it again.

Steve’s got no idea what the science is, or magic, or whatever. He just knows that Eddie can drink Ecto Cooler – crazy, because he can’t touch any other food or liquids – and after he does, he’s visible, glowing a soft green, and solid, like normal matter. They only had about a quarter of Dustin’s forgotten can left, so it only lasted about 15 minutes, but Steve’s hopeful a full can might have Eddie glowing and visible for hours.

With the dishes done, and the clock finally showing a time when the shops will be open, Steve snatches up his keys and tosses out an excited, “Be right back!” to his ghost.

Forty minutes later, he parks haphazardly in the driveway and grabs the pack of Ecto Coolers off the front seat and races back inside. “I’ve got it!” he shouts, cracking open a can and decanting it into a glass, waiting eagerly for the press of fizzy air that means Eddie is nearby. He feels it, and he watches the Ecto Cooler disappear from the glass – wild – and as it’s emptying, it’s like Eddie fills up; appearing from his feet first, until finally all of him is visible, faintly green and softly glowing.

Eddie’s in the clothes Steve last saw him in, but clean and unblemished. He’s grinning, dimples on full display, those big brown eyes alight with something (not just Ecto Cooler Green Ghost Glow). Steve’s heart is in his throat. He lifts his hands and reaches out, but he pauses, unsure.

“So… what do you want to do, while you’re kind of corporeal?” he asks.

Eddie steps closer and cool fingers cup Steve’s jaw. His thumb slides slowly over his cheek, tracing the space between his two moles. Eddie’s voice is husky with disuse – it feels like his fizzy air on Steve’s skin and it makes his stomach curl pleasantly. “This,” he croaks.

And then Steve’s being kissed, and it tastes faintly of orange-tangerine, and the air is fizzy, and thank God for Ecto Coolers.

[lydjah]

ordinary moments

for @corrodedcoffinfest

Prompt Day 20: McNuggets | Word Count: 999 | Rating: G | CW: grief | POV: Freak (Frank) | Pairing(s): none | Tags: grief, canon compliant (my two most hated words), secret steddie? unrequited pining Steve? you decide, the language of flowers

🍟🍔🍟🍔🍟🍔🍟🍔🍟🍔🍟🍔🍟🍔🍟🍔🍟🍔

Grief hides itself in such ordinary moments.

Gareth is fine for years, until he puts on a jacket he hasn’t worn in just as long, sticks his hands in his pockets, and finds two tickets for Highlander. They were supposed to go together. It hits him then, like a metric fucking tonne of bricks. His wife can’t understand why he can’t stop crying, on and off, for at least three days after. But he never got to cry when it happened. He never even knew, until later, because his parents had packed them up and gotten out of town when he was still just a missing person.

For Jeff, it’s the absence of the safety he took for granted. The safety of a best friend, someone he could tell everything to, every thought that crossed through his mind, knowing he’d never once be met with judgement. He’s never been that close to anyone since. He feels his grief every single time he lets a conversation pass by without commenting, every single time he censors or edits himself, even just a little. Every single time he holds something back. Even when he meets and marries the wonderful, amazing woman that is his wife, there’s a part of him deep down that he’ll always keep from her – the part of himself that will never again be seventeen, with a best friend like that.

He only has groomsmen. He doesn’t – can’t – pick a best man. He lost his in 1986.

For Frank, it’s the way he still saves stories for the one person who will never hear them. Stories he knows would have made him smile, stories he knows would have made him lean back in his chair, tossing his head, laughing all the way down to his belly like he did when he really got going, his eyes crinkling with it, his dimples a riot of joy.

He thinks about telling Jeff and Gareth his stories, but they haven’t really spoken that much in the ten years since. They’d tried to keep in touch after they’d evacuated, but as they’d eventually gone off to college and gotten jobs and become busy with the minutiae of life, it had become harder and harder. They’ve seen each other at weddings, at funerals, and major birthdays, but when you only get together for the big things, it becomes hard to talk about the grief that haunts the ordinary things.

After a while, he started writing down the stories. At first it was stories about things that had happened since, that he would have wanted to tell him, and then it also became stories about him. He didn’t want to forget them, didn’t want to forget him. His sister had made fun of him for journaling, said it was girly and lame, but he liked it. He liked writing, he liked storytelling, and, inspired by their lost bard, after a few years he actually kinda had a novel drafted up. Corroded Coffin had ceased to exist in the aftermath of the Hawkins earthquakes, but in Frank’s novel, Rusted Reapers are going to make it big. He hasn’t let anyone read it yet.

He wants to read it to Eddie first.

Eddie’s grave is pristine. Someone clearly takes meticulous, painstaking care of it. The headstone gleams, the grass is neatly mowed, and a bouquet of gardenias, harebells and marigolds sits in a jar right in front of it. Frank frowns at them. His mom is a florist – he knows the language of these flowers.

He sits on the grass, spreading his notebook out in front of him, pressing his palms into the soft green carpet. “Hey Eddie,” he says, softly. “Sorry it took me so long to come.”

He reads his story to the place where Eddie has never been, but which is dedicated to his memory anyway. He wonders if it’s Wayne, if he came back to Hawkins to be close to Eddie’s grave, if he’s the one who keeps it so lovingly tended. Those particular flowers still give him pause though. When he’s finished reading, he rips out the page where he’d drafted his dedication page. He selects a small rock from nearby and kneels in front of the headstone, placing the paper on top of it and tucking it under the rock so it doesn’t get blown away.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!”

Frank turns, startled by the shouting. His eyes land on – is that Steve Harrington? Harrington stops short, vague recognition in his face.

“Sorry,” he says slowly. “We’ve had some vandalism troubles over the years. You’re Eddie’s friend, I remember, from Hellfire?”

“Frank,” he says simply.

Harrington sits down next to him on the grass. He’s got a box of McNuggets in one hand and a water bottle in the other. Frank watches him uncap the bottle and top off the water in the jar, and he wonders about those flowers.

For a while they sit in silence. Harrington doesn’t touch his McNuggets, so Frank says, “Won’t they be cold by now?”

Steve lets out a little chuckle. It’s a breathy sound, more wet than not, more grief than mirth, and Frank looks over, surprised to see the former King of Hawkins High with shiny eyes over his friend. How their paths would have ever crossed, he’s got no idea.

“They’re for him,” Steve says, his eyes tracing the name Edward. “Every week I bring them. Before…” His breath hiccups and he pauses, collecting himself. “Before the quake, I promised him. Said I knew he’d had a really shitty week, and that when we got out of the spot of trouble we were in, I’d buy him anything he wanted for dinner. He wanted McNuggets.” Steve sighs, fond and exasperated and desperately sad, all in one. He places the box of McNuggets next to the flowers.

Frank eyes them, and the flowers. Harebells for grief. Marigolds for despair. Gardenias for secret love.

He wonders.

[steddieas-shegoes]

two mcnuggets

for @corrodedcoffinfest day 20 prompt 'mcnuggets'

rated t | 779 words | cw: implied parent death (not any character we know) | tags: established steddie, good parents steddie, adopted children

🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔🐔

Steve didn’t actually think he would ever be a dad. Not with how much responsibility he took on with Dustin and his crew. He joked about it being practice, and still imagined maybe one day having a kid or two, but most of that wasn’t real.

When he and Eddie get together, and stay together, it seals the deal. He didn’t pay much attention in sex ed, but he knows they don’t have the right parts to make it happen and adoption isn’t gonna happen for them. At least not here in Hawkins.

He’s fine with it. He swears he is. And he means it. Maybe sometimes he wonders what it would be like, but he doesn’t regret not having any kids.

But then suddenly, they do.

A baby girl and her four year old brother needed an emergency placement and no one else in Hawkins answered when Hopper called. They didn’t have time to talk about it, Steve looked at Eddie, and Eddie nodded once.

It’ll just be for a few days while we look for their family, Hopper told them.

It may be a bit longer since they don’t seem to have any family in the state, Hopper told them a week later.

That was over a year ago, and since then, they’ve turned their spare room into a bedroom for Alex and converted the office into a bedroom for Sarah. They rearranged their work schedules so they only work when the daycare is open.

Sarah calls them both dada, and Alex has started to come around to the idea that they might be his guardians for the long haul. They never call themselves his parents because they aren’t. He had parents. They died. Steve and Eddie can’t ever be them.

–

“We have meet the teacher tomorrow. Don’t forget,” Eddie finishes folding the last of Sarah’s clothes. “Alex is nervous.”

“About what? We already know who he’s gonna have,” Steve takes the pile of clothes from the bed and turns to the door. “Or did he forget?”

“He knows he has Will. But apparently he’s worried that he’ll accidentally call him Will instead of Mr. Byers,” Eddie gives Steve a small smile. “I told him no McNugget of ours will have to worry about being made fun of by other kids, especially over something so small.”

Steve snorts. “McNugget?”

“Yeah,” Eddie stands and grabs the empty laundry basket. “Like your nuggets, but different. A derivative of chicken nuggets, I guess.”

“Oh my god, you can’t be serious.” Steve nearly drops the clothes on the floor. “You are not calling them that.”

“It’s cute! And Jeff came up with it!” Eddie half-laughs as he leans in to kiss Steve’s cheek. “Alex thinks it’s funny.”

“You called him that to his face?!” Steve sets the clothes back down on the bed and covers his face. “He just started to get comfortable with the idea that maybe he could call us his dads at school.”

Eddie pulls his hands from his face. “You’re being too much about this, Stevie. It’s just a silly thing, and he laughed.”

“But what if he hates it and is just scared to say that?”

Steve might be taking this too seriously. It’s just a little joke. And Alex laughed about it. He wouldn’t have if he didn’t think it was funny. Jeff would have made sure they didn’t ever call either of them that again if Alex was bothered. Sarah is too young to care, but if they put a stop to it now, she’ll never even know.

“Alex isn’t scared to tell us how he feels,” Eddie tells him. And he knows that. “You don’t have to be so overprotective.”

“I know,” Steve sighs. “I just wanna do everything right.”

Eddie pulls him close and Steve lets out another sigh against his neck.

“You want me to make sure no one calls them that?”

“No. If he’s fine with it, it’s fine. I can’t believe that joke stuck for this long,” Steve huffs a laugh against Eddie’s shoulder. “And now it’s evolved.”

“All good jokes have to grow with the group. That’s what keeps them relevant.”

“But at the expense of our kids?”

Eddie kisses his head. “You and I both know that jokes at the expense of someone show how much we love them. Now, I do believe your oldest McNugget needs a bedtime story.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

“And this time, maybe he can sound out some of the words like we said we wanted him to do?” Eddie points a finger at Steve and raises his brows.

“Okay! I’ll let him try.”

“Thank you, McChicken.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “No.”

[spiinka]

Fixing s4 ending 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[lydjah]

if you’ve read any of my corroded coffin fest short stories and thought ‘dang I’d like to read something longer form from that yapperella,’ then I humbly offer you 30k of goofy silly boys being in love, here: electric blue 🌻

[dreamwatch]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Prompt: Day 19 - Rattail | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: None | POV: Eddie | Relationships: Steddie | Corroded Coffin, Grief, Loss, but make it funny, practically autobiographical, low key stupid

The daylight is gone by the time they walk back to the car. Jeff and Eddie had argued about who would drive, but in the end Jeff won out. And thank God, because Eddie can’t imagine driving right now, not after…

No one talks on the drive home, there’s nothing to say. They all saw it, all of them destroyed by it in their own ways. Matty has been staring out of the window the whole way home, avoiding eye contact with anyone. Gareth is jittery, playing with his wedding ring, spinning it over and over.

Eddie is…bereft. Empty. Heartbroken. 

Steve’s coming over tonight, but Eddie’s not in the mood for idle chit-chat, for the ‘how was your day?’ that will inevitably follow Steve’s arrival. Because Steve won’t get it, won’t have any understanding of what this is doing to Eddie. They’re so deeply in love but this is a thing that they will never share.

They stop to let Gareth out first, Jeff pulling up slowly outside the little house where Gareth lives with his wife and new baby. God, that child will never know what they had known, will never have felt the joy of it all. But then they won’t feel the loss, either. A bright spark on the darkest of days.

Gareth unbuckles his seatbelt but pauses before he opens the door.

“Do you guys want to come in? Maybe a beer will help.”

He doesn’t believe that, not really. Eddie can see Gareth’s eyes reflected in the rear view mirror, sad and empty, a witness to a horror they could never have imagined.

“I’m good man, I think I just want to get home, try and—“ Eddie swallows hard, “try and forget it. I think I just need to be alone right now.”

He feels Gareth’s hand on his shoulder, a comforting squeeze; they all know Eddie’s the one that’s struggling the most, he’s older than them and the memories are clearer, sharper for him. It brings a biting pain to his chest, but he needs to hold it together for all of them. They’ve all suffered.

“Yeah, I think I’ll just head home,” says Matty.

Jeff nods in silent reply. The sadness rolls off him, no words are needed.

Gareth gives a nod of understanding, and steps out of the car, but he leans through the open window.

“It’ll be okay, you know? We just need a night to like, digest it. It probably won’t seem as bad in the morning.”

Eddie scoffs, he doesn’t want a night to digest it, doesn’t need one. Time doesn’t heal all ills, some things just cannot be forgiven. And Eddie holds grudges.

Gareth walks away, head hung low, but he’ll be okay, Melody’s home, and maybe she won’t be able to understand exactly, but she’ll be sympathetic. Supportive.

It will be harder explaining it to Steve.

Matty is next to depart, and he gets out and closes the door without a word. He looks broken and Eddie feels a little bad for letting him go through this alone, but he’s got his own cross to bear tonight.

They come to a stop light, and Eddie notices Jeff fidgeting behind the wheel, throwing an occasional glance Eddie’s way. He’s nervous, that’s what it is, and Eddie can’t think of any reason—

No.

“Something on your mind, Jeffrey?”

Jeff clears his throat.

“I just think—I just think we might be blowing this out of proportion, that’s all.”

Eddie thinks of the breathing techniques he was taught to help him get through long nights of panic:

In through your nose, out through your mouth.

“Blowing it out of proportion? Are you for real right now?”

The light changes to green.

“I think Gareth’s right, tomorrow will—“

“No. I’m not talking about this anymore.”

They say a cool goodnight in front of Eddie’s apartment building, and Eddie trudges inside, weighed down with loss.

He’s laying on the bed when Steve lets himself in. He’s too tired to move.

“Eddie? Ed?”

Steve finds him eventually, of course.

“What the hell are you doing in bed, you’re supposed to be making my dinner, wench.” Steve gives him a hearty slap on the ass. “How was the movie?”

Eddie sits bolt upright, eyes boring into Steve’s.

“How was the movie?” Eddie snaps, his eyes blazing. “Just great, just fucking perfect. They gave Obi Wan a rattail. Obi Wan Kenobi, Jedi knight with a fucking rattail, Steve. And that’s not even the worst of it.” He laughs bitterly. “There’s this fucking annoying character, he’s like part frog part basset hound, ‘Mesa so happy to see yousa!’ And it’s just—” he shakes head, trying to find the words to explain to Steve. “It’s just not the same, man. He’s ruined it.”

Steve rolls his eyes as he loosens his tie. “It’s just a movie.”

Eddie splutters. “Just a movie? Are you insane? George Lucas just took a steaming dump on my childhood, Steve.”

He climbs off the bed and paces around as Steve changes.

“I didn’t think it could get any worse after the Special Edition, I just— I was so naive. I just thought, you know, the hubris of man, right? Lucas has got all these shiny new toys, so ok make the explosions bigger, like whatever, but that stupid Jabba scene when Han steps on his tail—“

“Jesus Christ, not this again.”

“Han shot first, Steve! What am I saying, there was no first, Greedo didn’t get a shot in at all!”

“It’s not that deep, dude.”

Eddie practically squeals. “It sets up his arc! Han is ruthless, he’s a loner, someone who will do anything to survive, but we see how friendship and love bring out the best in him. Han shooting Greedo first tells you so much about him. It’s important, Steve. It matters!”

He’s said it out loud now, made it real.

Steve stares back at him, thin lipped.

“So is this your way of telling me you haven’t made dinner?”

Your dear author reacted pretty much exactly like that whe she saw The Phantom Menance back in 1999. And don't even get me started on the 1997 Special Edition.

Here's a few clips from one of my favourite TV shows - Spaced. Me and Tim, we are one.

[steddieas-shegoes]

why would he like this?

for @corrodedcoffinfest day 19 prompt 'rattail'

rated t | 633 words | no cw | tags: established steddie (but they were a secret before), friendship, haircuts, gentle bullying from friends

🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀

Of all the things he thought he’d see, Eddie with a rattail is at the bottom of the list, if it’s on it at all.

This has to be an accident. A haircut gone wrong. A dare. A bet. Something.

No one’s saying anything, so maybe he has to be the one.

Good lord. It really does all fall on him sometimes.

“What’s up with the hair?”

Eddie doesn’t seem bothered by his question, but he also doesn’t seem like he plans on answering it. He’s just kind of sitting there, plucking his guitar, pretending he didn’t show up with the oddest look yet. Which is saying a lot for him since he thrives on trying new things.

“Just trying something new.”

Jeff reaches out and touches it. Luckily, he still left it longer than usual everywhere else. Whoever cut this for him knew what they were doing and obviously cares a lot about him. Realistically, they could just cut the rattail off to match if he hates it and he won’t even have to wait very long for his hair to get back to the previous length.

“Is there a reason you wanted the something new to be…this?” Everyone’s looking at them now, probably grateful Jeff was brave.

“Seemed like a good idea?” Eddie shrugs. “I dunno. I didn’t want anything major right now. Steve said he’d fix it if it got fucked up.”

Ah, Steve. Makes sense that he was willing to be the one doing the damage and the one to save the day if it went wrong. Jeff doesn’t know exactly what his deal is or what Eddie’s deal is about him, but he knows there’s something going on there. He’ll figure that out eventually.

For now, he’s worried about the fucking pitiful braid hanging from the back of Eddie’s head.

“Has Wayne seen this?” Jeff twirls it around his finger.

“Not yet. Just did it last night and haven’t been home,” Eddie swats Jeff’s hand away. “But he doesn’t care about what I do with my hair.”

“Yeah, we know,” Gareth says. “He should care more.”

“Shut up. At least he doesn’t try to give me a bowl cut,” Eddie shoves him. “Or convince me to buzz it all right before graduation.”

“And you like it?” Jeff asks.

Really, that’s all that matters. Sure, they make fun of him a lot, but they’ll leave him be if he really likes it. There’s gentle bullying as a friend, and then there’s pushing too far. They won’t cross the line.

“I hate it.”

Everyone blinks at Eddie, glances at Jeff, then looks back to Eddie.

“So why don’t you cut it off?” Jeff asks the obvious question for everyone.

“Because Steve likes it.” Everyone groans. “What?”

“Since when do you do anything to please Steve?” Frankie asks. “Is he, like, your boyfriend or something?”

“Would it be a problem if he is?” Eddie snaps.

“No! The problem is you keeping a hairstyle you hate because Steve says he likes it. And also, are we sure he likes it and this isn’t a test?”

“He-” Eddie cuts himself off. “Well, he would.”

Everyone waits for Eddie to continue. When he doesn’t, Gareth shoves his shoulder.

“You let him do this to your hair, lie to you about liking it, and keep it even though you hate it. Are you in love with the guy?”

Eddie’s face turns bright red. “I mean, I like him a lot. I don’t know if I love him.”

“Oh my god.”

“Dude. You love Steve Harrington. Never saw this coming,” Frankie laughs.

“Happy for you man,” Jeff pats his shoulder. “But can we please cut this fucking thing off?”

Eddie rushes out of the room and comes back with a pair of scissors. “Please do.”

[inflomora-art]

Knight!Eddie for @novacorpsrecruit 🖤

[lydjah]

your mission, should you choose to accept it

for @corrodedcoffinfest

Prompt Day 19: rattail | Word Count: 997 | Rating: G | CW: none | POV: Max, Eddie | Pairing(s): Steddie, Lumax | Tags: Eddie will do anything for his spiritual daughter, Max, rattails are not appropriate wedding fashion, walk 'em down Wheeler to the rescue

“Munson, look at me. I need you locked in to the mission.” Max follows this statement by pointing two fingers at herself, and then turning them on Eddie. He’s still looking over her shoulder, grinning, so she snaps her fingers right in front of his face. “Edward, focus.” 

“How can I? Look at him.” Eddie sighs dreamily, propping his chin in his hand. 

Max follows his line of sight. Steve glances over, in the midst of tucking his shirt in, his brow wrinkling in sweet confusion as he realises they’re talking about him. “He’s a dude in a suit, Eddie,” she says flatly, turning back to her favourite idiot. 

“He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Eddie says, with a winsome smile. If he was a cartoon character, he’d have literal hearts in his eyes. 

“Hon,” Steve chastises gently. There’s so much love in his tone, that Max would have to rip him for it, if she didn’t have much bigger fish to fry right now. 

“Eddie!” she says, slapping her hands together in front of him. “I am deadly serious. If Dustin Henderson still has that rattail at my literal wedding ceremony this evening, I am going to commit murders, starting with you.” 

“I already said I’d handle it,” Eddie says, still all moony. 

“Yeah, we got it sorted, don’t stress,” Steve says, but he’s just as bad – he goes around to the back of the couch, sliding gentle fingertips over Eddie’s neck, leaning down when Eddie tilts his head back. Max pinches her brown bone exasperatedly while they kiss. “You look good too,” Steve whispers against Eddie’s lips, like Max can’t hear every word still. 

Eddie does clean up nicely in a suit, and for all he’s hamming it up, Max knows he is taking the whole event very seriously. He’s giving her away, after all, the running Mom-Steve and Dad-Eddie joke brought to its ultimate conclusion. He’d cried when she asked him, and she certainly won’t be letting him ever live that down.  

El comes back into the room with the hairdresser in tow, and Max can’t help but grab Eddie by the tie and shake him before she goes to sit down. “Munson. Rattail. I’m serious. Get it done.” 

*** 

Contrary to popular belief, Eddie is taking Max’s imperative extremely seriously. Not in the least because his favourite of the children, his princess, his angel deserves the wedding day of her dreams, down to the tiniest detail, but also because he too hates Dustin’s rattail. He’s tried to tell him, but the stubborn little shit just won’t listen – long hair is metal, short hair is cool, Steve’s swoops and waves of chestnut perfection is the most gorgeous– anyway, Eddie won’t get off track again. The point is, that ratty little string of hair at the nape of Dustin’s neck is horrible, and it has to go. 

“Dustin is missing,” Steve says grimly, opening the door to the suite the Party boys are all staying in just as Eddie is raising his fist to knock jauntily. 

“Beg your pardon?” Eddie says. 

“Dustin is–”

“No, I heard you–Jesus H. Christ, these kids. Come on.” 

Thankfully, they don’t have to go far – they find Dustin strolling into the lobby alongside Jeff, who has a friendly arm slung around his shoulder. Eddie spies Gareth following, looking disgruntled, with a suspiciously scissor-shaped object in his pocket. Eddie exchanges a look with Steve. 

“Eddie! Steve! I’m having the best day,” Dustin says cheerily. “Will and Mike bought me breakfast this morning, and Jon and I had the nicest chat while he was showing me the spots he’s picked for photos. And then just now Jeff took me to shoot some pool and drink beers. Oh! And earlier, Frank took me out to lunch – there’s a dumpling place up the road, God, it was so good–”

Eddie tunes out – he and Steve are having a non-verbal conversation, to the effect of; “Are you hearing what I’m hearing?” “I am, I’m hearing we aren’t the only ones who received the same assignment today.” 

Maybe Eddie should feel insulted that Max didn’t trust him and Steve to get the job done, but it’s her wedding day and she’s getting exactly what she wants if it’s the last thing Eddie does. He’s not entirely sure his Stevie feels the same – he’s got that gorgeous pouty-sad look he gets, and Eddie loves it when that look is not being used on him. Jeff and Gareth sidle over to them. 

“That kid is the slipperiest little fucker on the planet,” Jeff says darkly. 

“It’s like his bones are liquid. Every time any of us have gotten close enough to cut that thing off, he slips right out of our grip,” Gareth adds, sighing in defeat. 

Eddie hears the clicking of heels, and he looks up, spotting Nancy and Robin coming down the stairs, the former with a look of steely determination on her face and something glinting and silver clutched in her hand. Within a split second, Eddie’s mind is made up; he shrugs out of his suit jacket and hands it to Steve, who shoots him a panicked look. 

“Ed, what are you–”

Dustin shrieks like a little girl when Eddie tackles him to the ground, right then and there in the lobby. He screams even louder when Nancy brandishes the scissors, but Corroded Coffin swarms in to help.

“Hold him down, hold him still!” Nancy orders over Dustin’s shrieking. “Hold him!” 

***

Later, at the end of the aisle, Eddie takes Max’s face between his hands and just looks at her for a moment; his princess, his beautiful, smart, strong, spunky girl. He’s so proud of her. He kisses her on the forehead, hugs her tight and doesn’t let go until she does first, and then guides her hand into Lucas’ outstretched, waiting palm. Her smile is incandescent, and there’s not a rattail in sight.

Success.

[lydjah]

gilded cages

for @corrodedcoffinfest

Prompt Day 18: wood paneling | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: G | CW: brief mention of substance abuses | POV: Jeff | Pairing(s): established steddie | Tags: Famous Corroded Coffin, the steep price of getting everything you dreamed of, decor faults as a metaphor for a gilded cage, band tension

The lodge is luxurious, even for them; all marble benchtops, accents of velvet and silk, warm low lighting, and expensive dark wood paneling, with molded edging that separates it from the cloth wallpaper above. 

Eddie is at the grand piano, framed by the massive picture window (surely a nightmare on the heating bill) and the scenic view of the snow-covered landscape outside. His fingers dance across the keys, playing something Jeff doesn’t recognise, but it sounds polished and well-formed, even as Eddie occasionally pauses and scratches notes in his music book.  

Frank is in the kitchen – Jeff knows this, because he can hear cupboards being shut with more force necessary. Gareth is on the plush, outrageously-sized couch that Jeff swears could easily fit twenty people on it comfortably. He might have been dead, if not for the intermittent, indistinct groans about how hungover he is. 

For his own part, Jeff should be doing something productive. But he keeps getting distracted by the corner of the wood paneling that’s lifting away from the plaster. It’s such a jarring detail, amongst the surrounding luxury. 

“Ugh, I think I’m dying,” Gareth groans. 

“I told you the jäger bombs were a bad idea,” Eddie says from the piano, and though his tone is mild, it’s completely without the fond, indulgent teasing it would have held when they were twenty. 

Jeff spreads his music book open on his knees, looking over the songs they’ve written so far. There’s some promising material, none more so than the last song they worked on, but it feels like there’s still something missing, like the bridge is a bit weak, and the chorus could be tighter. But God, it had been a hard fucking slog to even get to this point – half-a-dozen half-finished songs, nowhere near enough to fill out the album they need to deliver in under two months. 

Jeff’s gaze drifts back to the wood paneling. 

When Fleetwood Mac locked themselves away to write, they’d been coke-fuelled, fighting non-stop, sometimes fucking, and always chaotic, but they’d emerged with Rumours – one of the greatest albums ever written. Jeff had proposed this lodge as a writing retreat for them, given their fast looming fourth album deadline, but so far, it hasn’t quite yielded the same results. 

They are, objectively, very successful. Their second album had blown it all apart; a phenomenal, resounding, incredible success, fuelled by the excitement that touring their first album had brought on. Jeff has never seen Eddie like that before, or since; writing music like he was possessed, always tapping melodies against his own thigh, always testing new things out after soundchecks. The jam sessions they’d had in those days had been transcendent. 

But now, Eddie is playing something on the piano – something he’s definitely written, because it’s got his indelible style in it – and it’s new and it sounds almost finished, and this is the first time Jeff is hearing it at all. 

It never used to be like that. 

Eddie used to play him riffs and melodies and snatches of lyrics the moment he thought of them, eager for input and ideas. Jeff stares at the dark gap created by the way that one corner of wood paneling sags away from the wall, and thinks that maybe it was sometime around album three that things started to change a little. Because Eddie was in love by then – or, he had been all along, but he and Steve had finally stopped pretending they were just the best of buds – and so his songs had all started coming out distinctly flavoured. Still metal, but certainly themed, and Jeff can admit they picked at him about it. He can admit they’d all kind of forgotten how vulnerable it made Eddie, writing music and giving it up for the consumption of others, even if it was just them, who’d known him so long, at first. Like sharing little pieces of his soul, from beyond the walls he’d maintained his whole life. Ed was the sort who feigned emotional openness, to make everyone around him comfortable being open too, while keeping the realness hidden, because he still saw his wants, his needs, his feelings as burdensome to others – some bullshit no doubt learned from his dad. But he couldn’t hide it in the music – it was just there, in the open; a raw, splintered edge. 

Like a cracked piece of wood paneling. 

Gareth hadn’t been cool about Eddie and Steve either, maybe still wasn’t fully on board even after years of proof that King Steve was dead – had maybe never even existed – and that was another crack in the wood. Jeff wondered if it was jealousy – Gareth had a nice girl for a long time, but she wanted kids ASAP and when it was clear the glittering Corroded Coffin success train wasn’t slowing down, she’d left. Gareth has drunk too much, taken too much, felt too much ever since, and they’ve all tried to help, they really have, but they’ve been tightrope-walking that whole situation for years with no improvement. 

Frank’s sensitive; he feels the tension with all of them and it manifests in him as irritability – hence the current racket from the kitchen. 

The phone rings, and the piano abruptly stops as Eddie gets up to take the call, like he knows instinctively it’s for him. In the other room, where he can pick up the line with at least a little privacy, Jeff hears his muffled voice saying, “Hi sweetheart. How are you? I miss you so much.” 

Jeff’s eyes go once more to the broken panel. He thinks album four might break them, if they keep ignoring that crack, and the rot underneath. They’re surrounded by distracting opulence, like Corroded Coffin’s fantastic success. And all everyone sees is that success, and Jeff feels like he’s the only one who can see where the wood paneling is starting to crack and fall away. 

[dreamwatch]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Prompt: Day 18 - Wood Panelling | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: None | POV: Eddie | Relationships: Steddie | Corroded Coffin, Eddie's van RIP, Eddie gets by with a little help from his friends and Steve

In the aftermath of everything, post witch hunt, post painful surgeries, post getting his name cleared, post all of that, Eddie has to face one more challenge:

His van is fucked.

It was impounded by the cops and they didn’t give a single flying fuck about looking after it while it was in their care. Wayne collected it while Eddie was still in rehab stretching muscles he didn’t really have anymore, and he was sketchy about it’s condition. “Nothing we can’t buff out.”

Broken headlamps don’t buff out.

But that was fine, the important part was he got it back - minus tapes, bastards - and once he was cleared to drive he’d have freedom again. He could go away with the boys, Gareth had enough camping equipment to open his own REI,  so they wouldn’t need to cough up for motels. 

As with all things in Eddie’s life though, the universe has other ideas.

The paintwork gets keyed more than once. Eventually Eddie and Wayne stop fixing it and just let the motherfuckers have at it.

Then it was the little art projects.  MURDERER was pretty low effort all things considered, but he did at least get a laugh when the idiots spelled it wrong. Who knew illiteracy could be funny?

Slashing his tyres and smashing his windows was the final straw.

“I think maybe it’s time to find something else, Ed," Wayne had said to him, in the kindest way possible. “Might be nice to start over.”

The band’s disappointed, naturally, because Eddie is to Corroded Coffin what Steve is to Robin and Dustin.

“What the fuck are we going to do now?”

“How am I getting to school?”

“I thought we were going to go on tour.”

Eddie stands before them, shaking his head.

“‘Sorry, Eddie, that really sucks.’ Gee, thanks guys, you’re the best friends a guy could ask for.”

They have the grace to look embarrassed.

“And when did we talk about going on tour?”

“When you were in the hospital,” Gareth replies. “You were really excited.”

Eddie stares back open mouthed. “In the hospital. When I was out of my mind on industrial amounts of morphine. That’s when I agreed to it?”

Jeff winces. “Well, when you say it like that…”

Still, it would have been nice. He’s got most of his motion back, he might not be down picking anymore but he can still play better than most. But to go out on the road they need a van and that’s the one thing they don’t have anymore.

He’s woken by banging at his door at barely 10am, an insane time of the day to be waking a human being. Steve is quicker to rise, and climbs over him to get to the door, kissing the back of Eddie’s shoulder as he goes. Eddie’s smile is smothered by his pillow.

He hears voices before his door swings open and Jeff drops onto the bed and slaps Eddie’s bare ass.

“Fuck off! Why are you ruining my sleep? Get out of my bedroom, dude.”

“Good morning to you, too. Listen we’ve been talking and…well, here.”

Jeff pulls out his wallet and hands over a wad of bills.

“Three hundred and fifty bucks. Matty’s dad said we might be able to get an old beater for five hundred. If we could just come up with a little more.”

Eddie sits up in bed, suddenly very awake.

“Dude, I can’t take this.”

“Of course you can. You’ve spent years driving our lazy asses all over Hawkins, this doesn’t even cover the gas for a year. It’s yours, man.”

Steve picks his jeans off the floor and pulls out his wallet.

“Steve, no.”

“Shut up, dickhead.” He counts out some bills. “Seventy-eight bucks.”

“Steve!”

“I want to see you play,” Steve says softly, and Eddie can see the deeper meaning. He wants to see Eddie live again.

Eddie might be falling in love.

“Okay, well I’ve got—“

“Uh uh, this one’s on us.”

He hasn’t been working and he doesn’t have much stashed away, and they know that. After everything that’s happened in the last eighteen months it’s overwhelming; they stood by him, helped pick him up and put him back together again.

He loves them.

“Okay. But you guys pick the van, your money your choice. Just, you know, pick something cool.”

He counts to ten because it wasn’t his money and he told them to choose, but Jesus thundering Christ.

“A station wagon. You bought a station wagon.”

Gareth puts his hands up. “Okay, so hear us out. We found a couple of vans but we were short and there was only so much negotiating we could do, you know?”

It’s missing three hubcaps and the faux wood panelling is pealing in places. It’s fuck ugly. He’s doing his best to keep his cool because it was a gift, but shit, they’re not making it easy.

“So you thought ‘metal’,” Eddie clicks his fingers, “Station wagon.”

They glance at each, mouths opening and closing like gold fish, until Matty coughs.

“The rear seats fold down.”

“The rear seats—Jesus save me. Okay, and where is everyone going? We have guitars, amps, and a fucking drum kit, where are you three sitting?”

“With me.”

Steve leans against the bimmer, arms crossed casually against his chest.

“I told you, I want to see you play. I can be your manager. You know, deal with the money, make sure no one rips you off. I think I’d be good at that.”

Eddie can’t hide the grin. “You would be good at that.”

God, Steve on the road with them, isn’t that a thought? He’d suffer a Country Squire for that.

“We could paint it black? Make it look like a hearse?” Gareth shrugs.

“Absolutely not,” Steve says. “No one is slashing the tyres on a suburban mom’s car, so let’s keep it that way.”

Eddie gives the car another once over and sighs deeply. He’ll get used to it.

Remember people, I write these at stupid o'clock in the morning, when grammar and logic are at their weakest. Excuse the errors.