prompt; discovery of secret relationship
wordcount; 1.4k
wordcount rule; >300
cw; depression, loss, grief, temporary character death
tags; came back wrong, monster!steve, ambiguous ending
Ao3
The week’s past was remembered in fits and starts, a hazy chase of memories slipping through his shaking fingers. In his dreams, the molten earth would be bloated with the bodies of faces not forgotten, writhing of its own accord. Above him, the sky would kick and twist, snarling red. Lightning would be spat at his feet as he danced.
He would wake with a scream on cracked lips, tears like hot blood running down his sallow face. Hours would pass as he slept, dead in none of the ways that mattered, because what was Eddie Munson to do without the boy who shone like the sun? The golden boy who, now lost, cursed his world into one of eternal darkness?
Even as spring brought flowers and longer days, Eddie could only think of rain. The park was a cage he could never leave, not when down the dirt road was a grave known only to him, a dark spot, soot from an old fire, like a house long consumed by flames. He would choke on the smoke whenever he got close, and so he would go back to bed.
There was nothing left of him.
An irreversible tragedy. He’d been gone when the winged leeches had dropped, when Eddie and the girls returned to find Dustin, wailing for his missing brother. It seemed impossible, to have nothing left of a boy who gave everything, who was so full of light. To have hell steal him away, it left them broken.
After, when the girls had torn him from his heart’s hands, as he watched the flesh of the gate knit itself closed, Eddie would stop talking. There was no one left to listen, no one worth sharing with. He could feel himself decaying, eating its own as he wasted away. People would visit, asking for him, but the loud, smiling person from before was gone, Eddie had buried him the night he slept cold and alone for the first time in months.
If the first collapse was the loss of Steve Harrington, then the second was the festering corpse of his love, exposed to them all without freckled arms to hold it close like something precious, vulnerable without its leash of a lover’s ribs. The hungry maggots swarmed like the frothing of ocean waves, and much like the tide, the others bobbed and swayed toward his sinking island, seeing what was hidden within.
New grief was born of the cavern gouged from his soft parts. This wasn’t how they were meant to find out, another goodness stolen from him. Eddie mourned and turned away from everyone else, why should he not, when none other had loved Steve as he had? Robin would call for him the most after this revelation, carrying her own devastation, but Eddie didn’t have the space inside himself for them both to weep.
She stopped coming so often after he yelled at her.
He didn’t mean to push everyone away, Eddie thought, he never meant to lash out at those who cared. He couldn’t help it, caught in the storm without his anchor. He was airborne, moved only by turbulent winds and an anger planted deep in his chest.
The phone would end up in his hand sometimes, and he’d blink awake, silently placing it in its plastic cradle and returning to his room. He never called them back.
His uncle’s worry permeated the trailer like a perfume, but Eddie’s anguish doused the place like spilled gasoline, overpowering. He was avoided like one might eye a spider creeping in the corners of walls, afraid to get too close, and in his solitude, he began to wander. Although it started in his head, then moved quickly to the surviving books on his shelves, then to staring out of the kitchen’s small window, it eventually led him outside.
There was something in the air at dusk, slithering along the breeze like a crocodile might sweep across muddy waters. The cloud over his brain would drift, lifting from him for just a moment, a single moment of free and wistful hope. He would smell sandalwood, burnt pancakes, a lazy morning’s coffee, and he would fall into the dark of the woods.
Maybe, if Eddie had stopped to think about this rationally, he would have realized the danger, but then, would such a possibility have mattered? Would he have cared, when the memories of brown hair, pink lips, and starry eyes were right there, reminding him every waking second of his wretched failure?
The wisp of a voice called his name, his hands, his heart. Eddie followed, stumbling over leaf litter in a trance. As the full moon rose, and the trees were lost to a blur of black shadow, he went deeper, so far from civilization that he could no longer think of the people who would miss him, if he were to never leave these woods again.
As he got closer, and as the smell of char grew stronger, he could hear it clearly now, the chittering and muttering. It clicked and gargled, hissed under a heavy breath, and Eddie was wholly captivated.
Silver like the wax of the stars, he was watched from the looming silhouettes of reaching branches, pin-sharp eyes never leaving his shaking form. The night was freezing, but over the heat of a pounding in his ears, Eddie could barely feel it. He approached languidly, a blanket of calm enveloping him in the face of the stalking beast.
What now, when he’d found his forever, beckoning to him ever so sweetly? How could he possibly think of leaving, when that might break the illusion of the dream? The figure lurking before him was tall, completely still, melting with the shadows that surrounded it. Eddie couldn’t decipher the angular planes of its face, the comet streaks and pale scars that marked its lithe body.
He only saw the eyes, and the glint of teeth.
Daring, he stepped ever closer. He wanted his boy back, he wanted Steve.
And, meeting him in the white of moonlight, was the very man he was wishing for. Impossibly, the ghost of war was blinking and breathing, smiling something small and distinctly off, though Eddie would never notice, not as he folded helplessly around him. Familiar arms held him up, supporting his jelly-soft bones, and he cried. A crooked nose prodded at his throat, digging into the warm junction of his shoulder, and Eddie cried some more, harder than he ever had in his life, so hard he felt it in his empty stomach. It made him feel like throwing up. He was sick with love.
Chapped lips scraped across chilled skin, dragging the points of fangs over his quick-beating pulse. A shroud swept over them, and it was darker than night, darker than the color black. In the pitch, Eddie gasped as he was held tighter, just on the verge of pain.
"Steve?" He murmured through the pouring of tears, and the man suddenly withdrew from him, and he could see clearly again the conflict in the light of his boyfriend’s hazel eyes, all too human. He’d already forgotten what they’d been like before.
"Go." Steve's voice was deep and growling, but Eddie couldn’t find it in himself to be scared. He thought anyone else would be, in their right mind. He also knew that Steve would never hurt him. To his panic, the younger began stepping further away, retreating back into the thicket of the woods.
"What? No, no," He begged, reaching for the other, "I'm not leaving. I can't leave you again."
"I have to go." Eddie grabbed his wrist before he could, and he finally noticed how bony it all felt, how skinny Steve had become. And as he slunk out of the moon’s glow, the softness of the creature’s face drew sharp, muscles flexing in rippled waves as his new body seemed to adjust to the shade. Eddie could feel the tendons under his grip twitch and pull, “I shouldn’t have come back. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m supposed to be dead—”
“Please don’t say that,” Eddie sobbed, wrestling himself against Steve’s chest. The cavity didn’t move under him, unbreathing, “Don’t you fucking say that. You’re not dead, you’re right here.” Wetting Steve’s bare shoulder with his snot and tears, he promised, “You’re meant to be with me. Here. Not anywhere else.”
In one swift motion, Steve’s chest caved in, a single blow of air, a single gulp of it back in, and he gathered Eddie’s trembling form in his bite-ridden arms, “Okay.”
Under a cloudless sky, they would go home together. Steve would not once shiver in the cold, and once inside, he would squint under the low-lights of the trailer, needle-thin pupils glaring red, only for a moment. Eddie would never notice.
———
crossposting from ao3, also technically a repost but i've deleted the original and reformatted some things. there might be a part2 in the works but i've yet to figure a proper ending...
Three children crowded around a gilded display case, newly added to the lavish scenery of the grand hall. They only murmured amongst themselves, but their voices carried loudly in the quiet of the tall, stone walls.
"What's so cruel?" The squire asked sarcastically, "They're dangerous beasts that regularly terrorize people. This is like mounting a set of antlers, or splaying a bear skin rug."
Down the way, a young man turned his head to the group of boys, interest piqued by the subject of the arguing. Shaggy, black strands slipped from the tight material of his colorful hood, and the ears of his costume bounced with his steps.
The one in defense of these 'dangerous beasts' gave the other a pointed look, "That's very generalized of you, Lucas." He refuted, "You know, dragons are intelligent and, most importantly, sentient creatures. They're fully capable of being either good or bad."
"Still." Lucas rolled his eyes, "Who's to say this didn't come from one that scorched a village to the earth? Or slaughtered an entire flock of sheep? Or—"
Eddie was close enough now to recognize the one making wild gestures as Dustin Henderson, the son of the royal's head chef. They had yet to notice him approaching, and continued in not-so-hushed tones.
"Alright, alright! I understand your point." Dustin acquiesced, looking beseechingly at the last boy of the trio who had yet to make his opinion known, "Mike?"
He shook his head, raising his hands and taking a step back, "Don't look at me. I'm not convinced this is even real."
"Of course!" Dustin exclaimed mockingly, "The King and Queen simply fabricated this piece for mere decoration. Say, it is so excellently crafted, I could almost mistake it for having come from the living thing!"
Mike's face screwed, "Would it be so difficult to keep your voice down when making such statements about the royals? You're lucky I know enough not to record the things we say behind closed doors."
"Oh, that's rich coming from you." Dustin said, Lucas scoffing from the side of the pair, "You and your big mouth have said the worst of us three by far—!"
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen." Eddie finally intervened, the fabric tails of his sleeves almost flapping as he waved his arms, "What is all this ruckus about? You're going to wake the castle with all this noise."
"Sorry, Eddie." Dustin apologized offhandedly, though not completely ingenuine, "But this is a topic I just so happen to be very passionate about."
Nonplussed, Mike shrugged his shoulders, "What does it matter what stance we take? This is clearly some form of art. It was probably commissioned from outside of the kingdom."
The object in question was about the size of his hand, scaled in swampy shades of green. It was the spaded end of a serpent's tail, but much larger. Truly, this does belong to a dragon, or more fittingly, did belong. Regardless of the validity of Mike's assessment, this piece of limb had been long severed from its owner.
"But why then commission the tail?" Dustin asked, and it did make Eddie wonder, "Why not the whole head? The massive horns? A set of sharp teeth? Why not display the clawed hands or, or strip the scales from the body and adorn them on armor?"
"All off this to say, the tail is convenient!" Dustin went on, "If you had the choice to display anything of a buck, would it be its rear end?"
Mike eyed him critically, and some distant memory was pulled from the recesses of Eddie's mind. He'd forgotten this boy was an appointed scribe of the castle, "What do you mean by that; convenient?"
"Who cares!" Lucas suddenly shouted, "This is just another show of the King's wealth. It shouldn't be our problem where it came from." He backed away then, straightening his garbs and adjusting his belt, "I have work to attend to, see you guys later."
"I've also things to do. Dustin. Eddie." Mike gave a single, curt wave goodbye, and left down the opposite direction.
Dustin remained silent, obviously still a bit irked. That wouldn't do.
"You know some about dragons?" Eddie inquired, and while it was more a ploy to drag the child from his foul mood, he truthfully was interested in the topic.
As expected, Dustin's eyes practically grew twofold, "I do! I've read every book I could find from both the town and castle libraries. Many of the accounts had their biases, but I did manage to find some genuinely objective observations." He grinned, "Did you know that dragons like to play? I don't mean toying with their food like cats might a mouse. Several have been spotted performing tricks in the air, all completely at their leisure."
It wasn't so far that Eddie couldn't imagine such a thing, perhaps akin to a dog chasing its own tail in circles. Just mindless fun.
Still, Lucas' words rang in his head. These giant reptiles were rowdy creatures, often causing mayhem and being general nuisances. The kingdom of Lenora had never suffered from any notable dragon attacks, but news from neighboring dominions, and their neighbors further, got around.
Honestly, he could not see the Harringtons ever having the will nor might to slay a dragon, and surely, with Lucas a squire, he would have heard of knight from this quarter ending such a beast? Therefore, the only logical assumption to make was that it was either purchased from elsewhere, or a fraud.
"They're misunderstood." Dustin pressed, "They're more like us than you probably think. I mean—" He stopped, and shook his head, "They're like any animal or person. They feel pain... They can be sad, lonely, just like they can have friends and be happy."
"It is," Eddie stalled, "... Certainly, a relevant notion worth considering, what with all the dramatic talk across the realm." He could see that the boy was hardly satisfied with such a lackluster answer, "However! I am a man of practice. I see what I believe, and I believe what I see. There's never been any sightings in Lenora, and so, I am a neutral party."
Dustin placed his hands in his hips, "As much as that frustrates me," he sighed, sounding regretful to admit it, "I can hardly fault your methods."
"Say," Eddie joked, hating to leave the kid hanging on what was clearly a low note, "If the horny beasts really aren't so horned nor beastly, perhaps you can introduce me."
"Very funny, fool." Eyes were rolled good, despite Dustin's more resigned expression, "If only."
He bowed low, "My sincerest pleasure, sir Henderson."
Huffing at his antics, Dustin suddenly straightened up, "What time is it?" He asked, glancing at the fading orange streaming in from open shudders, "Sorry, Eddie. I have someplace to be. See you!"
He watched the younger hurry down the hall, then around a corner. Eddie wondered where he was off to with such urgency, after all, a Baker's apprentice only had so much work to do so late in the day.
Alone, he spared a final appraisal of the tail. Eddie hadn't noticed before, but the cut was smattered in a fine spray of blood, as if not even cleaned after slaughter.
He couldn't help his slight shiver, always having been a bit on the squeamish side. That was why he'd taken so readily to a life of comedy instead of war.
Mindlessly, his lute was unslung from his shoulder. As he continued his peaceful meandering of the castle's impressive grounds, stray fingers toyed with the strings of his machine, playing some distant, mournful song.
prompt; rehab
wordcount; 1 730
wordcount rule; any
cw; car accident mention
There was a point in his life, where he didn’t put much thought into fate. He’d believed pretty steadfastly, that things happened, and that people simply had a tendency to insert meaning into those happenings, for comfort, karma, responsibility, the like.
Then his Uncle ended up in the hospital after a work accident, waiting on surgery and sporting a few broken bones. Eddie was by his bedside for the most of it, talking with him, reading to him, playing him music, much softer than his usual stuff.
Wayne didn’t like him sitting there all hours of the day though, and would regularly bully him out of the room to go on walks and stretch his legs, talk to people, drink in the sunlight before winter hit. That’s where he met him; Steve.
They’d ran into each other a few times since first meeting, sharing this and that. Steve was attending physical therapy twice a week because of a pretty serious car wreck, making the rounds on crutches and saying hello to staff and other patients as he rebuilt the muscle in his legs. Eddie couldn’t help but admire him… For one or more different reasons.
Today was a Tuesday, meaning Steve should’ve been somewhere around the hospital. Eddie wasn’t exactly looking for him, at least, not actively, but he was keeping an eye out for that gorgeous head of hair.
Eventually, he found him at the vending machine, struggling to retrieve an armful of snacks from the drawer compartment.
It was, frankly, perfect timing.
Again, he wasn’t very big on fate, destiny, miracles… But Steve threw a wrench in that, a beautiful, mole-ridden, big, brown-eyed wrench.
Shakily and stubbornly, Steve tried to balance his crutches at an angle so he could reach the machine’s opening. Under his weight, suddenly, one crutch skid on the linoleum floor, and from one second to the next, Steve was going down.
Jumping into action, Eddie caught him, but just barely.
“I’ve got you, Big Boy,” Eddie airily chuckled into his ear, having the air knocked out of him. Steve wriggled in his arms, laughing in disbelief.
“Eddie!” He beamed, peeking up at him through his bangs, “I thought I’d see you today.”
“Did you, sweetheart?” He smiled, Steve’s attitude, infectious. Shuffling them over to some waiting chairs outside of some office, Eddie settled him down, and went to pick up the fallen crutch, setting it with the other against the wall. Playfully poking Steve’s shoulder, he offered, “Need any help with those?”
The younger man tilted his head, puppy-like, “Please?”
One by one, Eddie pulled out candy bar after candy bar, two water bottles, and a packet of cashews, until there was a little pile of it all in Steve’s lap.
“And what occasion might warrant such a feast as this?” Eddie asked theatrically.
“Oh,” He sounded, perking up, “Some of the kids are here with me. They wanted goodies.”
Eddie drew his eyebrows together, “So they sent the guy on crutches? No offense.”
“I volunteered, actually, get my rounds in…” He coughed into his fist, “And maybe ‘cause I was hoping I’d bump into you.”
He could feel his face warm, knowing the feeling was mutual, that they were always looking for one another, like two halves of a soul. Well, maybe not of a soul, as far as Eddie knew, that place was already platonically taken by one Robin Buckley.
“In that case, may I aid you in your long and tortuous journey, Sir Stephen.” Eddie half-bowed, one arm waved behind his back, the other extended in front of him, “You know, I have more pockets than a man should need.”
Steve silently accepted by lifting his arms out of the way, commenting, “Was that supposed to be some sort of innuendo? Because I didn’t get it.”
He shrugged as he stuffed his vest with chocolate and peanuts, “I just say whatever comes to mind, baby. They’ve yet to find an off-switch, I’m afraid.”
Swinging his crutches out, Steve pushed himself onto his feet, the momentum causing him to veer a little much into Eddie’s space. They were practically nose to nose as he muttered, glancing down at Eddie’s lips, “Why afraid? What if I don’t mind it?”
“Uhhhh…” No mirror needed, Eddie knew his face was burning red, his wide, blinking eyes filled with something like shock and desire. If it were possible, there’d be smoke puffing out of his ears; brain malfunction.
Steve giggled, honest to god, before beginning the slow hobble toward some unknown destination.
Eddie was quick to catch up, frantically speaking, “What I meant to say was, that you would definitely be the first.” He breathed, “Not to mind it, I mean.”
Humming as he read over the signage on the wall, they rounded a corner, and then another. Steve stayed quiet, but it was the pleasant kind, his mouth pulled into a soft smile.
Eventually, after a few turn-arounds, they found the wing where they held the therapy equipment, most notably the assisted treadmill that Steve refused to use. There, they found Max, in her wheelchair, with a girl standing at her side, and a boy standing behind her. With one of Max’s arms in a sling, the boy seemed to be the one assigned to moving her around.
They’d never met before now, but Eddie knew from Steve that Max had been in the same crash he was, only in the passenger seat. Steve didn’t mention it a lot, but Eddie got the idea that he felt some guilt about it, even if he wasn’t the one to have caused the accident.
“There you are,” The redhead said, unimpressed, and she gave Eddie a judgemental onceover that honestly rivaled the mean looks he used to get in high school, “Wow, did you pick up a stray?”
“Be nice,” Steve chirped, handing everyone their assorted snacks, and keeping a water bottle and the cashews for himself, “This is Eddie.”
“Oh,” The other girl giggled into her Hershey’s bar, Eddie thought her name was something like Elle or Em, “That Eddie.”
He could only begin to guess what that tone of voice could imply, and all answers set a fire in his belly. Had Steve been talking about him? He didn’t have to ask, Steve’s poppy-red face told him enough.
Scratching the back of his neck, Steve mumbled, “Do you know any other Eddie?”
“So it’s serious?” Max remarked rhetorically, then gestured with her bad arm toward Eddie, “Forward.”
The boy, Lucas, who had been nibbling on a Mars bar suddenly tuned back into the conversation, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair and rolling Max closer to Eddie, so she was only a few feet away from him. Steve looked a bit mortified, but also proud, obviously expecting this, but still dreading the inevitability.
“I’ll only say this once,” She leveled at him, surprisingly intimidating for a teenager who he towered over, “Steve is our babysitter first, and your boyfriend second. If you hurt him, we will resort to violence, gladly.”
The twinkle in her eye told him that she was telling the truth.
He chanced a glance at Steve, who was angled away from the beat-down with a hand over his face. Distracted, he realized he’d missed whatever else Max had said.
“Do you understand?” She repeated, like she was the principal, and he was a misbehaving student who’d just been sentenced to a day of community service.
He stammered, “Uh, yes. Yes, I do.”
She narrowed her eyes, and then suddenly, using her good arm, wheeled herself forward and an angle and out of the boy’s grip, where she ran over Eddie’s toes, punctuating, “You better.”
He yelped, plain and simple.
“Max!” The boy reprimanded, forcibly wheeling her out of kicking distance, though she seemed to have been satisfied with just running him over. Lucas looked at him pleadingly, as if something similar had happened before, “I’m sorry. She’s, um, protective.”
Max stared at him like a cat might its prey.
“Are you okay?” Steve appeared at his side, big, flat hands hovering around him, unsure of how to help. The pain had mostly gone by then, dulled by his thick boots.
“Alive, I assure you,” He said instead of something more serious, she was just a kid after all. What was he going to do, yell at the girl? If anything, he should applaud her and her unpredictable attack patterns.
“Let’s go over to the window,” Lucas suggested, already wheeling Max away, Elle-or-Em trodding after.
When Steve still looked a bit guilty, Eddie assured, “Really, I’m fine. My Uncle’s in here with a broken foot, who am I to complain about a little bruise?”
“Still…” He shrugged, “How is Wayne, anyway?”
“Going into surgery today,” Eddie grinned excitedly, the joy completely washing over any hurt feelings he previously had, “We’re counting down the days he’ll be locked away in here.”
“That’s amazing. I’m really glad everything’s on track.”
He wasn’t stupid, he noticed easily how Steve tried to match his enthusiasm, but fell a bit short, watching the way he bit his lip till it was cherry. He leaned into Steve’s space, until his inquisitive eyes met Steve’s downturned ones, “Hey, what’s wrong, Stevie?”
“It’s gonna sound fucked,” He cringed.
“No, no. Tell me, sweetheart.” Eddie eased, and he could pinpoint the moment Steve’s resolution broke.
“Just…” He started, stopped, bit his lip again. It was only mildly distracting, “When your Uncle’s out of here, you won’t have a reason to visit anymore.”
And that… Oh. He hadn’t thought about that.
He took the opportunity to do something daring, something he might have once called particularly risky if hadn’t been reading all these goddamn signals.
Gently, he took Steve’s face in his hands, where he could spot some faint scarring over his brow, over his mouth, on his cheek, and wondered if those were from the crash, “I’m not just gonna up and leave you, Stevie. We could maybe… exchange numbers…?”
Prettily, Steve’s eyes lit up, “You mean that in the way I think you do, right?”
“Wanna test that?”
…
“You kissed him, didn’t you?” Wayne asked, one eyebrow raised expectantly.
Chewing on a shaggy lock of hair, Eddie nodded with his whole body.
His uncle sighed, relaxing back into his pillow, “Finally. Christ.”
It took a second for his offense to register, “Hey!”
Nasty, foul people the King and Queen of Lenora were, but they paid decently and Eddie had the rare pleasure of finding significant joy in what's become his life's work.
So, somewhat reluctantly, he swallowed any words he had in the face of their demands, sat on his cushioned stool, and plucked his lute. Where it was effortless, it was only what he was asked: slow, long, melodious sounds, more ambiance than a show.
He guessed then, much like the ambiance of the spring wind ruffling the leaves of trees, the royals seemed to have forgotten that there was a musician behind the song. They spoke openly, and around him, gossiping lots, talking lowly of others.
"We mustn't flaunt." Cecilia reminded her husband, "What if the people grow suspicious?"
Richard looked up from his cup rich with wine, "Of what, dearest? Any proper nobility must look the part. We are only claiming what should be rightfully ours, by any means possible."
Eddie had noticed, recently, that the Harringtons had come into a large sum of wealth. As far as he was aware, there hadn't been any recent battles won, any land conquered, nor any contracts signed.
Nothing had changed, and yet, there the royals were, popping expensive cheeses into their mouths and sipping on smooth, aged, burgundy drink. They wore finely sewn clothes, the extravagant material puffing up around their necks like ruffled birds.
Eddie only thought it made their heads look shrunken.
"And what when the river runs dry?" The Queen asked, "A bounty can only last so long. It isn't bottomless."
Her husband clicked his tongue, smiling devilishly at her, "Oh, dearest... Those ugly reptiles are meant to bring riches! Luck! Boundless good fortune! We must only be patient, as we were in capturing the foul beast to begin with."
Cecilia hummed in consideration, "I suppose..."
Most definitely a bit tipsy, Richard giggled, and his face was red and cheery, the embodiment of contentment, "I knew you'd share my vision, my love." He relaxed more into his chair with a long sigh, "Life is fine with such luxury, is it not."
Swirling the wine in her chalice, she seemingly conceded, "Fine it is, Richard. I fail to imagine any other way to live."
Grimacing, Eddie held from scoffing. These rich buffoons couldn't fathom the true beauty of life if it looked them in the eye and spoke their names. Life was uncertainty, it was chaos, it was peace. Life was everything that could not be contained, and this? This lavish living, that eliminated all troubles, was like existence in a cave.
But Eddie knew better than to give his own opinion in the presence of the royals. He was to be heard by way of his music, and nothing else.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once again, he found himself wandering. This time, it was in the expansive gardens. The beds of blooming flowers were the brightest and most colorful piece of the castle. The gardens were a quiet respite. And while the greenery was maintained so as to not overgrow, and while the hedges were trimmed into unnatural shapes, it was enough.
Eddie was someone who could feel absurdly lonely at times, but the gardens offered a different kind of solitude, one that he believed encouraged his writing, either in comedy or in song. Much like the flowers; here, he flourished.
He sat on a white stone bench, the rock expertly and expensively carved to perfectly harmonize with the lush foliage. A pleasantly warm breeze carried with it the sweet fragrance of soft petals, calming his senses.
After a long day playing until his fingers became sore, all Eddie wished for was some peace.
"'Thought I'd find you here." A voice startled him, and Eddie shot his head up to find Michael Wheeler walking leisurely down the stone-pathed path.
The musician tilted his head, "Someone requested my presence?"
"No one." The boy muttered, taking a seat next to Eddie, where he leaned his chin on his hands, elbows resting on his knees, "'Needed someplace free of all their bickering."
"Ah," The older hummed, "The baker and the squire have yet to seize their arguing, have they?"
Mike groaned, "It's only gotten worse!"
"How so?" Eddie prompted.
With renewed exasperation, the young scribe tore into the supposed idiocy of his friends, and condemned their pointless fighting. Apparently, Dustin had lately been retreating from their group, and Lucas, occupying himself more and more with his duties. Mike, ever the observant one, was trapped between the two, watching as they fell away from each other.
Truthfully, where Eddie could listen, he did not know the children so personally as to give any advice that wasn't mostly general. Somehow, they would need to arrange a kind of intervention between the warring boys.
"If you can persuade Sinclair into a meeting, even under a trick," Eddie offered, "Then I can talk to Henderson. With some luck, and my clever speaking, perhaps we could mend this rift?"
With his mouth pulled into a thin line, Mike nodded, "Lord, let us hope."
They parted after that, with the boy excusing himself to continue his day-to-day recording, truly a career that never slept. He seemed doubtful that they alone would so easily find a solution to the problem at hand, so Eddie would have to keep the carriage rolling with his own will.
The sewing machine whirred to life as Steve worked the pedal, pushing the golden material through. From the living room, the stereo blasted Madonna’s Crazy For You loud enough that they could hear it from the dining room.
“I have the scissors.” El walked in from the kitchen.
“Great,” Steve said, “Red, how are those stars?”
She leaned away from the cloth, assessing it with a critical eye, “The real deal.”
El stood over her shoulder, smiling wide, “I like them. Thank you.”
Steve slid the tail-end of the shirt under the machine’s needles, holding up the garment to examine. He wasn’t the best with sewing, but Joyce had taught him the basics, at least enough to put together a decent Halloween costume.
“I think this is about done,” He remarked, laying the shirt out flat on the table so the girls could see. It wasn’t quite the spitting image from the comics, but Hopper didn’t want El getting a cold trick or treating in something not much bigger than a bathing suit, so a shirt and skirt it was, with only minor modifications.
He turned to El, “You’re going to look like you jumped right off the page.”
“What does that mean?” She asked, her face scrunching up in confusion, “Off the page?”
Max capped the sharpie she was using to trace the stars that Steve would later do his best to sew onto the skirt, “It means you’ll look so much like Wonder Woman, that people will think it was really Diana Prince come to life.”
If possible, El’s smile grew even larger, “I would really like that.”
“You don’t need any help with your costume, do you, Max?” Steve wondered.
She bit her lip, but relented, “Freddy Kreuger. I wasn’t gonna go with makeup, but…”
He cocked an eyebrow, “Would take some doing… Might have to do a trial run, see if I’m any good with all that.”
prompt: wings
wordcount: 5.1k
wordcount rule: any
cw: dialogue of self-sacrifice and self-worth issues
tags; angel!steve, pre-steddie, first meeting
Ao3
And I pray the supernova of death takes no one but myself.
...
There was never enough tension beneath the surface of his skin to truly break through.
A part of him, of fear and an opposition to change, was grateful for it. Another, one that shouldered the weight of bodies with legs growing weaker by the year, still naively believed that his mere presence could have made a difference, could have impacted the lives around him like a meteorite would, crashing into a planet.
Instead, he hovered more like a comet; beautiful but useless and far away. He would jump in to take the hits when needed, be the impenetrable wall that he’d grown to be known for, and then veer off when the danger died down. He would return to his natural course of orbit, watching, waiting, the loyal sentry that he was.
Still, he felt it bubbling underneath. On the outside, he was a dusty trail to follow and admire, maps of constellations printed down his back, a bright twinkle in his eye, something old and knowing beyond his age. His gravity would steal those around him like fish to a shiny lure, enamored with his unnatural charm.
On the inside, he was painted midnight blues and shimmering golds. He was unimaginable, purely abstract, something that could burn you blind. He ran so hot he felt cold, searing white like the sun. He knew all too well that he was dangerous, knew all too well how easy it was to hurt others if he really wanted.
But he didn’t.
Like a lion who let the mice pass him by, he got his face caved in year after year, an aching reminder of his painful mortality. Hurting people was hard because it was so easy. He could melt flesh from bone with the warm palm of his hand, pummel craters into all-too-delicate skin, cut with words sharp like the arms of a flame.
His existence alone was a walking contradiction. In the same way he never should have been born, he wasn’t supposed to know all of these impossible things. None of it made much sense, but to Steve Harrington, that sentiment wasn't at all new or surprising.
Which was why, floating in the endless expanse of voidless sleep, it was unfortunate he had to lose so much of what little he already had. Hurtling through the merciless planes of frigid space, it was inevitable for one to crack under the sheer velocity of flight. Pieces would fracture and drift, disappear into the lit black.
He dumbly stumbled upon danger around every corner, and yet avoided the mass destruction he was capable of. Another contradiction. Why, if he was so intent on protecting the vulnerable, would he contain his greatness? His gift born from the cosmos, which could tear reality from its very hinges?
It was fear. It always came down to fear. Cowardice. For all a willing martyr he laid himself to be, he feared the decided end that came with death like the sharp of a knife.
What did it speak of him, guilty of not wanting to die so soon?
But guilt and fear mattered not in the true face of death’s mockery, a twisted mess of anger and revenge, once a person, now a vessel for ruthless violence. Nothing mattered actually, not when so many lives were at stake, and certainly not when he would outlive the end of the world anyway. And an empty world was worse than dying young, he had found.
Death was fair, this was not. Simple as that.
In the end, the choice was clear and obvious, both easy said and easy done, a small, quiet mercy in the middle of all the noise and chaos. He wasn’t worried about the aftermath, or of the emotional downfall that, in his life-long spiral, didn’t seem possible. Above all else, he wasn't worried about his own future, if he ever had one to begin with, solely focused on the red hell unraveling before his eyes.
In the end, they won, and they lost.
He lost so much, shot to the far corners of the universe, telling himself over and over again, there was no need to worry.
...
The sweet caress of the dream was forgiving, motherly almost, in soft touches and whispered lullabies. Feeling was an afterthought, a distant memory not to be bothered with. In a dream, there was no whole being, only mirror fragments reflecting onto each other, an echo chamber where everything was everything else in return.
It was an immaterial world, a wash of color, pale and waterlogged. Something that flowed into every small crevice, flowing through all matter itself, an encompassing rich, amber warmth like honey in the summertime. Though liquid, the bright body was alive with chatter, the mutterings of kings and queens long lost to the fabric of space and time.
He had no such voice, silent in his aimless drifting. He had no thoughts to ponder, no fears to worry, no faces to remember, and no names to forget. Another screw in the machine of being, a single diamond in a crown of many, a ghost, a soldier: simply an idea.
But his whirling mosaic of a heart that wandered and longed, that never sat still enough to capture the nebula in painting, must have caught the ear of some goddess, for his next breath flew stars from his mouth into a blue ocean where once was black void.
“Aren’t you peculiar?” The giant exhaled in old, out-of-practice wonder “Singing so wantingly and mournfully that your song has reached the depths of my throne.”
Her eyes were swirling pits of sun-warmed onyx, smooth and cutting, as she twinkled into corporeal existence, crinkling around the edges with amusement. Her spectral presence surrounded him wholly, cradling his blurry form forever twisting with unrest.
“This isn’t your home, hm? You’ve swung out of alignment, dear,” She cooed, and the low croon was like a humid, august breeze on his invisible flesh, flashing in his mind honeyed curls and sun-kissed freckles, bronze-brown feathers soft with downy. The goddess soared away from him suddenly, the halo of galaxies crowded behind her rocking with the movement, “Or maybe… Is it everyone else who’s gone a bit crooked?”
Tracing his skin still tender from the collapse of his implosion, she smiled something small, like fleeting knowing glances shared between friends, “You’ve made a tremendous journey, but it would be cruel to keep you here.”
Her slender fingers pressed into his wax exterior, digging like at wet sand on spanning beach shores, to reveal his mottled body underneath, bruised from war. He writhed in the momentary, excruciating pain, crystalline branches of light convulsing in fear. It was a feeling new and old, lost but now found, as he was molded into something habitable by a soul.
The fluttering limbs protruding from his back were the last to be shaped, as the merciful goddess blew stardust into his hair and laughed something loud and breathless, leaning closer to whisper into his ear, “Go on now, young star, and find the paradise that settles that beating heart of yours.”
Flung from heaven, his plummet to earth was artless and turbulent. Tears would've been shed if not for the fire of his falling. Misty clouds cleared for his torrid arrival like curtains parting for a grand show, leaving a tail of white smoke in his wake. The ground below came at impossible speeds, so fast he braced to punch through to the molten core within.
The next he opened his eyes, it was to the unfurling of mighty pine branches, their needles singed black in the catching of his fall. Charcoaled grass haloed his angelic form; sacrificial. His first lungful of air was greedy and sharp, dragging on the phantom stitching of his throat. Faint seams melted into the flesh of him, until his fabrication could no longer be seen. One deep exhale, and he was settled into his body.
He rose on shaking legs, having grown used to the weightlessness of the world between life and death, as peanut butter brown wings instinctively spread behind him to keep his balance. In the cold, the feathers hugged his body close, shivering at the new feeling. He began his trek out of the woods as the sun set in orange and purple rays, casting the trees in a postcard fog. His bare feet soon found the gritty pavement of a road, and he followed it down in a direction that felt right. He couldn’t name where it was taking him, but it felt familiar.
By the time he reached the second house that he couldn’t knock at despite wanting to, the soles of his feet were bloody and beaded with rocks. It was the most he’d felt since the fall, and he couldn’t find it in him to be bothered, not when any sensation at all was a blessing. He kept walking, gazing longingly at dark windows and bikes strewn on lawns. His chest ached for things lost, but they were just that: lost.
And lost things could be found.
The last house led him back into the forest, down a dirt path and to a rickety deck of old wood. Sparing the quiet residence a glance, he continued past it, letting the trees tell him where to go. Deeper in, he came upon something smaller, a tent of sorts, and the letters swam as he deciphered them: Castle Byers.
Each location slotted itself in his mind, and the emotions attached to them sang around him, hanging on the air and flowing through his veins. They were all homes in their own right, but they weren’t his home. That, at least, he knew very well.
As the sky grew dark, and the white moon slowly soared overhead, his eyes drooped with growing fatigue. A fear buried within himself made itself known, that it would be unsafe to sleep in the woods, not without the light of the sun, so he kept himself moving. There was something on the cool, night breeze, like smoke and mint. Something about it told him that it would keep him safe in the darkness, and he trusted the feeling wholeheartedly.
What other choice did he have?
The thumping of the music could be heard on the wind, indiscernible and unimportant. His charge was closer than that, somewhere nearer than the smell of cheap alcohol and the sound of people cheering in whooping successions. Whatever had pulled him here was stumbling toward him all on its own, so he decided to wait.
Waiting proved fruitful, and in only a few minutes, he heard approaching footfalls, and the coughing of a not-so-strange stranger. His wings fanned out on either side of him, expectant and eager, excited.
Out from a pine’s shadow, a boy stepped from cover of trees, revealing a pale face of shock. Something about him struck the fallen star as slightly off: soft cheeks too round, night-black hair too short, big, brown eyes swimming with wonder and curiosity and lacking that sharpness of fear. He was drawn to him entirely and helplessly.
“Holy fucking shit. Dude.” The boy muttered, lips parted and dumb with disbelief, “Who spiked my fucking drink, no way those are real.”
The newcomer’s rings and chains caught moonlight in their divots, twinkling in ways he’d only assumed the vast cosmos could. The leaf litter beneath his bleeding feet crinkled as he shifted his weight from the nerves. Impossibly wide eyes, deep as ocean trenches, were locked onto him and him alone. It was both terrifying and thrilling: it felt like power.
"What are you?" The boy asked, dropping his solo cup, and spilling the rest of its contents in the grass. He didn’t seem to notice, closing the space between them in an awestruck daze. That’s not to say the star wasn’t equally as enamored, endeared by the stranger’s gangly limbs and messy, shoulder-length hair. He would do anything to run a brush through the tangled strands, or better yet, his fingers.
“I'm—”
“An angel.” He was interrupted with a breathless whisper, and the boy took up his hands in his own calloused ones, examining them. It tingled where their skin met, like their very molecules were excitedly greeting each other, “You gotta be. Holy shit, oh my fucking god— I mean! Am I even allowed to say that?”
“I don’t—?”
“Angelic, indeed.” He bit his lip, shoulders slowly hiking up around his ears, his intense gaze flitting from the shooting star’s fluffy hair, to his big, honest eyes, the freckled moles on his face, his neck, his arms, “You’re… You are… Hm.”
The taller’s pale complexion flushed a sunburnt red, seemingly stunned into frustrated silence. He dropped their hands in favor of hiding his face behind a lock of dark, shaggy hair, huffing a long, suffering sigh, brows furrowed and mouth thin. He was worth pitying.
"I'm Steve," he said, finally, and the boy lit up instantly with newfound mischief.
"Steve… Steve," he drawled, drawing on the syllable almost melodically, "Steven. I don't think I know of any angel Steven in the Bible." He stuck one ring-clad hand out then, grinning enough to show teeth and crinkling his eyes along with it, "I'm Eddie! Eddie Munson. You have a last name, Steve?"
He didn’t, not that he knew of. There had been a house, a mansion, a cold cavern of a home, situated at the top of a hill, at the end of a street. It was as lonely as it was detached from the neighbors. It was a husk as much as he had been before the goddess granted him new life, though the empty building, he thought, would never have that same chance. He felt that there was a name once, attached to the house and to himself, but that name was lost with his sacrifice: a casualty of war.
Steve shook his head, smiling innocently, “Would you give me one?”
Whatever composure Eddie had gathered before completely disappeared as he stammered, newly flustered, “You want—? You cannot just, just—!” He let loose a single, startled laugh, the nervous and uncontrollable kind, like the ringing pop of a firework, and then covered his face with his hands, “Forget it. Steve: Single name, like Cher.”
Burning, that was what it was. Eddie’s face was burning, the apples of his cheeks glowing with the exuberance of a cherry’s skin. Steve was alive with the bright hue, finding it alluring. He wanted to fan the flame and watch it roar, blow onto the wick, and cup the maplewood smoke between his palms. In that very moment, he knew, without much room for deliberation or error, that he would not be able to forget a boy like Eddie. Not ever again.
And that was a sudden revelation, something rocking like calm ocean waves, subtle, excusable. He had forgotten once before, a time he could no longer remember now. It disturbed him to think that he could lose a face like Eddie’s.
What else was he missing?
“You know,” Eddie said, “It seems a little counterproductive for God to send one of his prettiest angels to someone so… How should I say, prone to sin?”
“I wasn’t sent by a god.” Steve corrected simply, large wings fluttering proudly behind him, thinking of what a privilege it was, to live as a gift from the goddess of the abyss. He saw how Eddie’s eyes followed their swaying movements, and he only felt the urge to further preen, hoping to relieve some unknown feeling in his heart.
“But you were sent?” Invading his space, Eddie was enjoyably close to him again, and Steve held himself from concealing them both under cover of long feathers. It went unnoticed, “For what, pray tell?”
For paradise, he thought. That is what he was sent to find, a small heaven of his own to claim, to settle him, as the goddess had instructed. He almost saw a paradise of someplace in Eddie's sparkling eyes, practically radiating mirth and childlike curiosity. But it was more an island, small and submerged, something to grow and be discovered with time. Steve reasoned, that is what love must be like.
“To find someone.” He condensed. It was easier than explaining the invisible light that drew them together, a fickle but everlasting thing, beyond them both. Steve couldn’t explain it to himself even if he tried, he simply understood.
Eddie nodded, turning away. He snatched his forgotten cup from the ground as he spoke, “Maybe I can help you find this someone?”
Steve smiled sweetly, “I would like that.”
Blushing, Eddie gingerly took his hand and started leading him away from the noise of the party. His palm and fingers were cold in his own, but Steve could be warm enough for the both of them. He could be warm enough to heat a home, a whole town, and to keep her people from the harm of the outside. He will be a respite to the weary and tired, the bright stars above bringing night, and the peaceful allure of sleep.
“You’re not gonna find any person out this late, not unless this person was at that rager,” Eddie quipped, screwing his mouth to the side distastefully, “And I sincerely hope they weren’t, no offense to whoever it is you’re looking for.”
“Why’s that?”
Eddie huffed something unamused, mocking, “They’re all halfwit jocks looking for a quick, good time. Not the kind of people who’d deserve— who you’d want to hang out with.” The dark-haired boy’s cheeks reddened at his near-slip, and Steve had half a mind to guess what he was going to say. Steve was smitten, to say the least.
“But you were there.” He teased.
Spluttering, Eddie straightened up, “Yeah, yeah, I was. I was, uh—” He coughed into his fist, and Steve watched his throat bob with the audible gulp that came afterward, “I was selling to the hungry masses. It’s just this… New, modest business I’m trying out, flexible hours and all.” He became more serious, tone growing contemptuous, “I’ve gotta make a living somehow, and no one’s hiring the sixteen-year-old devil worshiper.”
Steve wasn’t all too aware of what the devil was, and what being associated with such a figure could mean, but he wasn’t too pressed about it. After all, he trusted himself more than the judgment of others, and if danger were to face him, the light that lived within his chest would burn all that threatened him. For some reason, the thought and feel of phantom flames was a comfort in the dark, keeping him safe from otherworldly monsters that no longer walked this earth. He would be sure to keep it that way, as well.
“Next time,” Eddie continued on a lighter note, “I won’t get so shitfaced, messes with my head. I’m… Still trying to decide if you’re real or not.”
Steve found Eddie’s breathless and nervous show of teeth charming. He squeezed his hand in reassurance, “I’m real.”
“Yeah…” Steve’s hand was squeezed back, “Yeah, you’re real. All of you is real.” Eddie glanced at the set of wings trailing behind them, at the way one hovered slightly over his jean-clad shoulder, as if protectively, “Do you have a place to go? To stay?”
He couldn’t very well return to that cosmic heaven, now could he? At least, not through any practical means. He shook his head minutely, “No. I fell here.”
“Right, right.” Eddie nodded, “Fell. Angel. Duh.” Laughing a little, he knocked the heel of his palm against his forehead. It was cute. He looked at Steve then, painfully earnest, “You should stay with me. I mean— Would you like to stay with me…?” His voice deepened into something of a rumble, “Many unsavory folk lurking at this late hour of night.”
“What does that say about you?” Steve laughed, and to save Eddie from any more embarrassed stumbling, simply agreed, “I’ll follow your lead.”
With the moon to guide them, they trekked quietly through the woods. He would catch Eddie’s eye a few times, not that he wasn’t also sneaking glances at the boy when he wasn’t looking. He enjoyed the game, almost as much as he enjoyed the blush high on those round cheeks whenever Eddie was caught staring.
Eventually, the trees broke into soft porch lights and yellow-lit windows. It wasn’t the kind of silence of the woods or the far-away singing of stars, but Steve liked it all the same. It was proof of life, in musical chimes and mutterings and barking dogs. He thought, with time, he would learn to fall asleep to this new, lively ambiance.
Eddie ushered him into the trailer three porches down, his wings catching on the doorframe in their haste. Apologies were thrown his way as Eddie skipped into the tiny kitchen pulling two mugs off the adjacent wall and setting a pot of water on the stove to boil.
“Do you like hot chocolate?” The boy asked him, “Better question; Are you cold? I can see why wearing a shirt might be difficult for you, but I feel like the weather warrants a little more than an old pair of sweatpants.” His eyes moved over him, coming to his bare feet, “Christ! Are you bleeding?”
“Oh, your floors,” Steve realized, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry!” Eddie waved him off, “You’ve been walking barefoot for God knows how long. Why didn’t you just fly or something?”
He couldn’t say the thought hadn’t crossed his mind at some point, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Why would he fly when the people he cared about were all stuck on the ground?
Taking a seat on the worn-soft couch as Eddie fetched a box of aid supplies from the bathroom, he took a moment to observe the trailer’s interior. It was homey, close, comfortable in a way where everything was in reach. The lights were yellowed, and the walls cluttered with color, and on the table was a framed photo of Eddie and an older man, each holding up silvery fish under a bright sunny day.
“Hey,” Eddie breathed, sliding to his knees in front of Steve, “‘You okay?”
He didn’t think he could be any more okay, “Mhm.”
“This is going to sting,” The older teen warned, padding the down cuts with an alcohol wipe. He winced in sympathy, saying, “I’ve gotta make sure there’s nothing wedged in there.”
While it did hurt, it was less than what he was expecting. His remaking at the hands of the goddess had been excruciating, terrifying, tearing into the core of his very being.
By contrast, these cuts were nothing more than a silly nuisance.
In pleasant quiet, Eddie wrapped his feet in gauze, securing the bandages tight so they couldn't budge. He pulled a pair of orange, cat-eared slippers from behind him, holding them up like his younger self did the fish in the photo.
"I got you these," He said seriously, "And don't laugh. I know they look absurd, but they're a gift from my uncle."
"Your uncle," Steve repeated, pointing, "He's the man with you in the picture?"
Eddie made a noise of confusion, looking behind him. A soft smile grew on his face when he realized, "Oh, yeah. That's good ol' Uncle Wayne. He takes me fishing in the summertime."
He looked at Steve then with that same softness, if a bit inquisitive, "Hey, did you want a blanket or something?"
"What for?"
"Well, you never got to answer my question earlier, if you were cold?" He tilted his head, "The trailer gets a bit chilly at night, especially this time of year, and I don't think I have anything that'll fit over your wings, sweetheart."
The pet name seemed to involuntarily fall from Eddie's lips, both of the boys turning red. For his sake, Steve didn’t mention it, instead concentrating, “I think I can— Let me just,” As his focus narrowed to the muscles of his back, he almost imagined tucking his large wings under cover, like folding them onto themselves again and again. There was a faint swooping sound, overshadowed by Eddie’s gasp, and his wings disappeared in the next second, leaving behind only a few stray feathers fluttering idly in the air.
“What the hell was that!?” The metalhead exclaimed.
Steve peeked over his shoulder, marveling at the empty space. He could still feel them, pressing under his skin, waiting patiently for when they’ll next be needed.
Eddie looked at him incredulously, “You could do that the whole time?”
“Could I have?” Steve asked with mock-innocence, “I don’t know.”
“Steven, in my home no less—” He was interrupted by a loud, sudden onslaught of popping. His head shot up at the sound of the angry bubbling, “Shit. Shit, shit—”
Cursing, he scrambled to the kitchen, quickly taking the pot off the burner. He poured two sweet-smelling cups of hot chocolate, carrying them gingerly to the main room’s low table. Steve took his in his hands and contendly breathed in the wafting steam.
"Woah, Woah! It's still boiling, buddy—" Eddie called in alarm when Steve brought the drink to his lips. It was scorching, and he hummed happily as the intense heat flowed throughout his limbs like slow-spilling magma, tingling at the tips of his fingers.
He smiled appreciatively, "It's good."
Mouth agape, Eddie stared at him, until he shook himself out of it, saying absently, "Yeah. No problem, man."
Unconsciously, the star’s eyes drifted to that photo, considering the older man again, Uncle Wayne. He couldn’t help but wonder, worrying for the first real time that night, if the stranger would allow him to take refuge here, in his home. He had no connection to this man, not like he did Eddie, and so, Wayne would have no reason to let him stay.
“Hey,” The dark-haired teen said gently, now back in front of Steve, though this time with a navy, wool sweatshirt in hand, “You went somewhere. ‘You okay?”
Instead of answering, he asked, “Will your uncle be okay with me being here?”
“Wayne?” Eddie tilted his head, something Steve noticed he did a lot, “He won’t mind. Not unless you bring any trouble home, that’s what he tells me. If you get into trouble, leave it at the door,” He seemed to mime the clearing of a table with a sweep of his arm, chuckling quietly to himself. Steve tried to focus on the sound, and not the little worm in the back of his brain, whispering some riddle of irony and tragedy.
He couldn’t understand it, not anymore, not that he wished to, anyway.
Absently, he shrugged on the sweatshirt, but it wasn’t quite enough.
Eddie must have read the off look on his face as doubt, and tried to remedy the situation, getting up in Steve’s space as he spoke, “Hey, why don’t we watch a movie or something? Get you settled in, relaxed…?” For a moment, he trailed off into his thoughts, then returned to the star with wide, sparkling eyes, “Oh, I know exactly what we’re watching. I’m gonna get you hooked on all the good shit, Stevie.”
He raised an eyebrow suspiciously, but Eddie gave no further explanation as he excitedly hopped off the couch. Steve wasn’t so keen on getting hooked on anything a person with Eddie’s… Particular reputation had to offer, but then he had to stop and think about what such a reputation might be. After all, they’d only just met, hadn’t they?
The television buzzed to life, humming some whining frequency that only Steve seemed to hear, and effectively distracting him from the muddy puddle of his memories.
Clamoring back onto the cushions, Eddie pulled a blanket over the both of them, bashfully excusing their consequent closeness. Its material threaded the line between soft and itchy, dark, autumnal stripes criss-crossing over a lighter background. The colors reminded him of fallen leaves set ablaze by the morning sun, the worsening nightly chill, and rows of dirty, orange pumpkins carved into a myriad of frightening expressions.
His skin crawled at the image of vast pumpkin fields, as a phantom rot pervaded his nose, and he shivered.
Eddie noticed, had probably felt it from where they brushed arms, looking over with a radiant smile, “‘You excited? You’re gonna love The Hobbit, I just know it.” Then he tilted his head again, his face morphing into something closer to an impish grin, “And if you don’t, well, we’ll sit and watch it a million times over until you do.”
“I don’t know why, but I believe that,” Steve said, the corners of his lips turning up on their own accord. Eddie cackled, and the star’s heart basked in the hot glory of it.
Still, Steve only had half a mind to watch the film, bothered by the ghostly touches that breathed down tanned flesh, the niggling, nipping thoughts that begged him to remember, to live a life having been led in someone else’s shoes. His wings pressed against their cage of bone and muscle, itching to be free. He held them back.
Hopefully, there would be answers shed in the light of day, where the lives of these people would walk from shadow and slumber. Steve’s eyes flickered, twitched, blinked into some other world which was bathed in red and smelled of loss, for just a second.
The vision left him as quick as it had appeared, and he was thrown back into his body, sitting next to Eddie as he talked about the little characters moving around on-screen. From under the covers, Steve found the other boy’s hand, holding it tight. The chatter died with a short stutter, as a warmth blossomed between them.
He knew from that moment on that he would never let go of Eddie’s hand, not if he could help it, for fear of ever losing him again. Even with him however, Steve did not feel whole, and he knew instinctively that the missing pieces of himself were both close and so far away, both a neighbor and a journey’s distance from this small town.
Tucking his legs to his chest, he kept his gaze fixed onto the television, not turning to Eddie, who he could feel was undoubtedly staring with blushing cheeks.
Yes, he would hold tight onto this nice thing that he’d stumbled upon. Come morning, he would worry about the future, but for now, he was overcome by a sudden exhaustion, the weight of efforts forgotten settling onto his young bones like fresh snow. Tiredly, he wondered if forgotten was the right word, if it fit this feeling of longing in his chest, or if taken would be better.
These efforts, the memories, which were not lost, but left behind, as a price paid in the face of restarting, had pulled and scraped on their way from his mind, like chalk dust clouding from a black board, leaving only flashes of the past that slipped from his fingers in a dream.
He squeezed Eddie’s hand, and Eddie squeezed his in answer.
🍂 i post fanworks as well as my own original stuff. i don't talk a lot but feel free to send asks. my current interests are; trials of apollo, my little pony, stranger things, pokemon, and original content
🍂 navigate my main tags
#barkbeastworks -> any original art
#barkbeastwriting -> any original writing
#barkbeastcharacters -> original characters
#artreblog & #notmine -> just reblogs
#positive -> stuff i find nice
#barkbarks -> textposts
24h poll of titles of your wips that you want to work on
votes for each = number of sentences written for each
when completed, reblog with what's been newly written
the options...
death orders window-side (bb steddie fic)
creeps the shadow (cryptid steve s1 rewrite)
sign it with a heart (secret admirer steddie a/b/o)
a throat's a belt to sharpen the blade (pjo crossover)
Voting ended onJun 27, 2023
all fics listed are stranger things related, specifically with steve and eddie, but mostly steve. i'm not expecting this to get a lot of traction, just thought it would be fun. anyone is allowed to say i invited them to join, as i don't have anyone to tag :]
