Dennis wakes up to an empty apartment. It's quiet, calm even. The sunrise peaks through floating curtains. He knows what today is, knows that he will feel off all day. That sickly dropping sensation deep in your stomach you experience after being on too many roller coasters. Can't get away from it and can't be fixed quickly with some paracetamol and water.
Trin had gone to her mom's last night to celebrate. She didn't want to go after a long shift tonight.
Dennis gets ready methodological, he tidys quickly. He has half a breakfast sandwich, himself and trin meal prepped for the week, wrapping the rest to save for lunchtime. Drinks a quick coffee, not really feeling how it burns to finish.
As he is walking up to the hospital, he notices a small collection of daisy's in a crack on the pavement.
His heart clenches. He stops mid step, making him stumble a little.
Before he has fully realised, he is picking them. Fingertips gently brushing over the center.
Glancing in front of him, he sees some bushes with a whole flourish of daisy's at the bottom.
Automatically, he has sat on the brick wall just next to the bushes and is reaching down to pick the daisy's and starts making an intricate chain with them.
He hasn't made a daisy chain in almost twenty years. And hasn't picked them to give to someone in over seven years.
His thoughts drift to broken bow without his control.
Mothers Day wasn't celebrated in full in the Whitaker house. Yes, his mother got tea bought to her in bed, and her boys were all extra good and nice to her that day. Sometimes dennis' father would go out and buy her a necklace or bracelet from the boys.
Once dennis realised this was a day for her, he would go onto their farm and pick all the daisy's that grew along the fences and make her a chain, a crown if you will.
It was cute and touching when he was young. He would get better at the chain as the years went on, but it was when he was seven he made his last one.
His father had looked at the chain and took it from his hands, sternly telling him he shouldn't be doing things like that, that it's frowned upon as a boy.
His father told him this infront of his brothers, who looked on with understanding.
But dennis didn't understand. His mother loved when dennis took his time to choose the prettiest daisy's and took the time to make the chain sit on her head perfectly.
But his father said no more.
The following year, dennis could feel his father watching him, making sure he wasn't getting up to any 'poncey flower business'.
When he did sneak away, he picked some daisy's. There were only a few hiding in his pocket, but he took them up stairs and placed them on his moms vanity.
Later that evening, his mom gave him an extra kiss on the forehead with a quiet 'thank you' on her breath.
Every year following, he would sneakily give his mom some daisy's on her vanity.
Even when he got to his teens and young adult years when things within the family and dennis had started to get complicated; opinions had, feelings hurt.
He still gave her the daisy's on Mother's Day.
The last time he did was just before leaving nebraska for college.
He has the chain made next to him and four daisy's in his pen pocket when trinity sees him.
"Dennis maria is that what I think it is?" Pointing to the chain, "oh, you absolute huckleberry!"
But she's smiling, something soft in her eyes, knowing how today affects him.
With no words and a small smile of his own, dennis is up and placing two of the daisy's from his pocket behind each ear of trin.
Her eyes are wide, and she pulls back a little, but doesn't stop him. Doesn't go to take them out, either.
He nods and starts to head in when
"Hold on huckle" she's placing her hand on his chest to stop his motion. She took one of the daisy's from his pocket and tucking behind his own ear.
"Come on then" trin says while linking arms with dennis and walking them in.
They pass the waiting room, already full so early in the morning. Buzzing in and walking into the ed.
People see the daisy's in their hair, but trinity is adamantly not looking anyone in the eyes, whereas dennis is almost sheepish. When they pass the nurses desk, with dana leaning on the counter, dennis pauses.
Trin and himself are doing their eye contact conversation. It lasts about ten seconds before she nods and heads into the locker room.
"You doin alright hun?" dana is asking, as dennis hovers. He places the daisy chain on the counter between the two of them.
"I know it sucks you have to be here today, like you have super mom mother's day plans later, that I'm sure you wanted the whole day off for.
Anyway- when I was younger, I used to make a daisy chain for my own mother, and I made one by accident?" He is talking a little too fast, a little too overshearing
"And obviously, we here at the pitt appreciate you so much, I thought you should have it.
You can just throw it if you want, or give it to your kid or just er yeah..."
Dana's looking at the chain in thought.
Dennis so badly wants to keep mumbling or just pick the chain up and throw across the ed. But he knows how dana thinks, she takes time, and she contemplates.
"Alright, kid. Thank you." She's picking up the chain and placing on the corner of her computer.
"I'm not spreading any allergies around though, so it's staying here. But it means a lot, honey."
She's looking at him with a complicated look on her face, thankful for the present but sad for his watery eyes that are deep in sad nostalgia.
"Alright darling, now go get ready, we gotta save some lives so I can get outta here before two"
Dennis is smiling as he joins trin in the lockeroom. She makes no comment on how he is no longer holding the daisy chain.
And if later on, trinity has one less daisy in her hair, and mel has gained one in her pen pocket,
and dennis no longer has any in his pen pocket, and robby has one tucked behind his own ear.
The ptmc doesn't say anything.
So it was recently Mothers day (in America?? I always get the snapchat for it but I'm British, mothers day is in march) but made me think of a little something for dennis. Like yes I think collectively a lot of people headcanon him with daddy issues but what about mummy issues yall!
pairing: Art Donaldson x reader, Patrick Zweig x reader, Tashi Duncan x reader
summary: Art comes out of retirement to test out his coaching skills. Your relationship with him continues to spiral.
warnings: smut 18+, cheating, divorce, rough sex, piv, marijuana use, slight angst, hastily proofread
word count: 7.7K
divider by @cafekitsune <3
prev part | next part
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃
Kaleb decides he wants to play tennis. Or that he wants to “get serious” about it. He’d done tennis camp every summer along with soccer camp, and he’d enjoyed it enough. But for some reason, he’s determined to be a tennis player now. You blame it on how much time he’s been spending around the Donaldson’s. Between the various play dates and carpooling, he and Lily have been attached at the hip.
The two of you are enjoying a quiet evening on a weeknight when he brings it up.
“Lily doesn’t really like tennis,” he tells you in between bites of mashed potatoes.
“Well that’s okay. Sometimes our friends end up having different hobbies,” you say.
“Hm,” he puts his finger to his chin, “kinda like you and Mr. Art?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well he’s like the greatest tennis player ever,” he says, spreading his arms out wide. “But you’re terrible at tennis. And you guys are friends right?”
His assertion has you placing your fork down. “Okay, first of all, I’m not terrible at tennis. Secondly, it’s really not fair to compare me to a professional tennis player, K, he’s had years of practice.” Then, you reluctantly think of the last thing he said. About the two of you being friends.
Images of Art kneeling above you in bed dance through your mind. You think of the last time you were with him. How he’d laid his cheek on your thigh while you threaded your fingers through his tufts of blonde hair. His gaze searing as he watched you in all your post-orgasmic bliss. Your chest was still heaving as you tried to recover.
You clear your throat.
“Yeah, um, I guess we are friends.” You avoid eye contact with Kaleb and pray he changes the subject. You don’t want to think about Art.
Unfortunately, your son is too young to properly read the room. If he was, he’d see the way you’re clenching your fork in your fist. Or he would’ve realized by now that his mom is a harlot. Instead of calling you out on your immorality, he turns to you with express earnestness. “I wanna play tennis like Mr. Art,” he says definitively.
He then furrows his little eyebrows and asks you, “you think I can be as good as him one day?”
You smile, reach over to smooth your palm over his curls, and tug his ear. You say what every parent would. “I think you can do whatever you put your mind to, my little monkey.”
He grins at you, dimple poking out.
After all, you’re almost certain this is just an eager phase prompted by Lily bringing Tashi to school for career day. Tashi mentioned to you that Kaleb was very eager to ask questions about her job. Apparently, he thought it was super cool that she “got to coach the best tennis players in the world.” You’re worried that before dinner is over he might ask you to put in a word with her about coaching him.
Once you’ve finished eating, tucked Kaleb in, and tidied up the kitchen, you finally get to relax with a cup of lavender chamomile tea.
Before you settle into the refuge of your bed, you make a note to sign Kaleb up for club tennis.
ᯓ
You’re at a gas station near Kaleb’s school when you realize your dumb credit card has a faulty chip. You grab your purse and lock the doors to your car, having been forced to go inside the store and pay for your gas the old fashioned way.
The door shuts behind you with a ring of a bell. The unmistakable smell of fuel fills your nostrils as it mixes with stale coffee and the emblematic stench of small convenience stores. You grumble when you see there’s a short line.
With a sigh, you take a detour down one of the narrow aisles to grab a pack of gum. You pick out a random pack of spearmint, but your inner child lingers on the yellow packaging of juicy fruit bubble gum sitting beside it. When you were little, your mom would’ve made you pick one or the other. Without a second thought, you pluck the yellow pack out from the shelf and head back towards the front.
On your walk back, you glance out the windows, checking to make sure the pump you’re parked at is still number 5.
The line is shorter now. There’s only two people. You think you recognize the dark head of the person standing at the counter. They’re digging through the back pocket of their jeans and pulling out a leather wallet when your cellphone dings. It’s an email notification from your boss. You read the subject header before dropping the phone back into your purse, hoping to avoid whatever stressor awaits you there for a couple more hours or so. When you look back up, you’re met with the face of the dark haired stranger.
His eyes meet yours. Patrick Zweig sends you a mischievous smile of recognition as he saunters toward you. He snaps his fingers. “I know you.”
“Hi, Patrick,” you say through your tight smile. The last time you’d seen him, he tried to blackmail you into going out with him. If he wasn’t so attractive, you’d probably be repulsed by him.
“Long time no see.” He pockets his package of Marlboros. “How you been?”
“Um just busy you know,” you hum. “You?”
He nods. “Same, same.” He looks you over, smile growing wider when he meets your eyes after lingering on your cleavage. He doesn’t even attempt to be discreet.
You scoff, rolling your eyes to the side.
Thankfully, the bald guy in front of you finishes up his transaction so you have an excuse to say “excuse me” to Patrick as you approach the register. You glance back when you hand your money to the bored cashier, catching one last glimpse of Patrick as he exits through the door. You nibble on the inside of your cheek, feeling the tiniest hint of disappointment.
You accept your change and two packs of gum and make your way back to your car. Not wanting to waste any more time at this point, you toss the plastic bag into the passenger seat and hurry to pump your gas.
You’re leaning against the trunk while the fuel fills your tank when you hear a small “hey.”
You’re startled as Patrick approaches you again. You look around suspiciously. “Um are you stalking me?”
“No.” He huffs out a laugh. “I was standing over there taking a smoke.” He points towards his beat up suv. You wonder why he doesn’t have a better car. You thought tennis players made money. “And I saw you. Didn’t get to say goodbye earlier.”
You click your tongue. “Well, bye.”
“Wait—I hope I didn’t rub you the wrong way last time.” He rubs his palm over the back of his neck. “I kind of have a fucked up sense of humor.”
“It wasn’t the joke,” you supply. “It was more so you trying to blackmail me into going on a date with you.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I don’t know why that didn’t work.” The grin he gives you sends a shiver down your spine.
This time, you smirk, your gaze tracing the length of his body, from his Nikes to the curly wisps of hair flying in the wind. The gas pump clicks, signifying that your tank is full. You don’t remove it right away because you’re busy letting Patrick type his number into your phone. You wish you could say you played hard to get, but that would be a lie of monumental magnitude.
You don’t actually intend to call him, content to let his number go forgotten in your phone. After all, what type of woman would get involved with the best friend of the man she’s having an affair with?
Later on, when you’re having a glass of wine, mommy duties complete for the night, you pause on his number as you tap through your phone. You inhale, take a sip from your glass, and quickly save his contact before swiping out of the app. You can blame it on your being slightly tipsy when you notice that he’s saved as “for a rainy day.”
ᯓ
It turns out that the tennis thing isn’t just a phase. You don’t mind of course. You’d always support your kid in whatever he pursued. The only issue is that Art fucking Donaldson thought it would be a good idea to train little Kaleb. As if you needed more reasons to be around the man.
You’d told him that you didn’t think it was necessary because your son was only eight years old. Surely, he wouldn’t need a retired professional tennis player to train him. His tennis lessons at the local club would certainly suffice. Plus, you imagined he had more important things to attend to than give private lessons to a third grader.
On a random weeknight, you’d gone to pick Kaleb up from a play date with Lily, hoping to grab him and get back home before the rain got any worse. Art had greeted you at the door, placing a hand on the small of your back.
He decided to bring up the topic again. Even Tashi, who was usually busy with training of her own, chimed in, claiming it would be a good opportunity for Art to find real meaning in tennis again. Whatever that meant. Patrick, who you had been avoiding thinking about, once again inserted himself into a conversation, pointing out how young he and Art were when they first started playing tennis. According to him, it was never too early to learn how to properly hit a ball with a racket.
ᯓ
The thought of Art spending time with Kaleb through tennis is an endearing one if you’re being honest with yourself. But you know you would have an intense fight on your hands should Chris find out.
Ever since Art had stepped in with your ex at the fall festival, he’d harbored an attitude toward him. He’d gone as far as complaining about all the time Kaleb spent at his house, accusing you of trying to turn your son against him. If it weren’t for the court mandated visits, you’d have simply told Chris to go to hell. But in an attempt to maintain peace for your son’s sake, you reassured him that Kaleb only spent so much time around Art because Lily was his best friend.
You asked him if it was worth destroying his son’s friendship. He conceded for the time being, but you’re sure if he found out about any extra tennis lessons, he’d blow a gasket.
Ironically, you had never been offered the freedom to express such possessiveness. You had to be content each and every time your son stayed at his father’s new house with his new fiancée that you barely knew anything about. You handle some occasions better than others.
This time, though, when you watch Kaleb go through the front door of their luxurious home, Spider-Man backpack affixed on his back, your stomach churns. Chris’ fiancée smiles and waves to you with her left hand. Bitterly, you think it’s a miracle she can even lift it with the large diamond wrapped around her finger. She places her hand on your son’s shoulder, pulling him into their home, as if she wasn’t the one that helped wreck yours.
Maybe it’s the fact that this past week would’ve been your anniversary, but your shoulders shake with sobs throughout the entire drive home. You sniffle as you think about Kaleb building a life with his soon to be step-mom. You hope she treats him right, but, ultimately, you wish he didn’t have to know her at all.
It doesn’t help that you aren’t able to bury your sorrows in Art’s chest or on his dick. He’d already told you about the gala he’d be attending that weekend for the Donaldson Foundation. You haven’t seen him since last weekend, and you ache to call him, but the thought makes you feel nauseous when you think about the wretched irony of seeking comfort in a married man. In a decision that’s almost homogeneously pathetic, you sit in your lonely driveway and send a “hey” to ‘for a rainy day.’
ᯓ
It doesn’t take long for Patrick to offer to come over. You send him your location as you pop open a bottle of wine.
You reach for a glass, your eagerness causing you to apply too much force as you slam the glass down. It breaks under the pressure of your haste, immediately cracking at the stem. The inconvenience is too much for you. You curse before bringing the entire bottle up to your mouth. You take a swig, red liquid spilling out of the corner of your mouth. With a gasp, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Pitifully, your vision starts to blur again as your eyes swell up with hot tears. You resort to sitting on the kitchen floor, taking the occasional drink, and wallowing in your despair.
You’re propped against the cabinet, knees to your chest as you cradle the green tinted bottle of red wine like a toddler holding a stuffed animal, when you hear your doorbell ring. You stumble to your feet, dragging them as you move toward the door. When you swing the door open, Patrick is standing there with his hands in his pockets. He looks you over once, mumbling that you “look like shit” before stepping into your home as if he’d been there a thousand times.
He lifts his eyebrows when he sees the neglected pieces of glass on your counter. He looks back at the bottle in your fist before groaning. “Please don’t tell me you’re an alcoholic.”
You roll your eyes. “No, I’m just having a pretty shitty day.”
“No shit,” he snorts.
You send him a glare. “I don’t even know why I called you,” you say and rub your temples.
“Because I’m obviously easy and you know it.” He smirks.
It makes you laugh, your red, puffy eyes squinting back at him.
Patrick eventually convinces you to smoke the joint he’d brought with him. You haven’t gotten high in years, and you find yourself mindlessly rambling about your life as you pass the joint back and forth to him. You’d stopped crying a while ago, your eyes now red because of the weed.
You and Patrick are lounging on the floor of your living room. You’re dragging your fingers through the shag rug underneath you and leaning your head back on the sofa when you hear him laugh. He sounds like he’s far away, down through a tunnel, but when you turn your head, his face is right beside you.
“What’s funny?” You grunt.
He shakes his head. “S’nothing.”
You frown and shove his bicep. “Tell me,” you say, scooting closer to him. “I hate feeling left out.”
His smile falters for a second like he’s remembering something, but when you blink he’s sporting a melancholic grin. “It’s just—you kind of remind me a lot of Art.” His head falls to the side to really look at you. “I mean not like completely, and not really how he is now, but when you’re upset—it reminds me of when we were teenagers.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not,” you say. It comes out as a whisper. Your faces are so close that you don’t want to startle him.
“Hm.” His eyes flicker to your lips. “Not a good or bad thing. Just a thing.”
“That’s why you like me?” You mumble teasingly. “Because I remind you of your boyfriend?”
He smirks, lips so close to yours you feel his breath fan them. “Who said I liked you?”
“You don’t have to.” You’re just the slightest movement away from kissing him. If you tilt your head just the tiniest bit—
He lets out an almost imperceptible moan when he finally presses his lips to yours. It’s so quiet, you think you might’ve imagined it. It all happens incredibly fast, but feels like slow motion. Your head is fuzzy and your body is tingling as Patrick grabs your waist, hoisting you onto his lap. It takes you a moment to build momentum, your sensory overload working against you.
When you’re finally able to match his energy, the kiss is searing. He’s sucking your lip into his mouth like you’re already his, hands roaming everywhere he can get them. When he bites your bottom lip, you suck in a breath, giving him room to thrust his tongue into your mouth. You mewl at the way your mouths seem to fit together like velcro. Your toes curl and you tighten your fists into his dark locks when you feel his hot tongue traveling down your throat, leaving white hot bites that feel like being branded. His teeth sting and your cunt throbs as you impulsively rut against his length.
Patrick rubs his large palm over your ass before abruptly smacking it, making you release an embarrassingly airy moan. His teeth tug on your earlobe. “You like that?”
You only nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
“Hmm?” He mumbles, continuing to lave over the skin behind your ear. His hand comes down on your ass again, harder this time.
You let out a pathetic squeal and slam your hips down against him in search of some kind of friction to relieve the ache between your legs. “Oh god—please fuck me—“
His mouth meets yours again. You can barely kiss him properly, panting about needing him to fuck you right now.
He really is easy, you think, but it’s not like you have room to talk.
ᯓ
The first time Patrick Zweig sinks his cock into you, you’re on your knees, face pressed against your rug. The slam of his hips threaten to take your breath away as tears cling to your eyelashes. He’s rough, possessively grabbing your flesh with no regard for potential damage. When he experimentally grips your hair in his hand, tugging your head back gently, you see stars behind your clamped eyelids.
Patrick nearly whimpers at the way it makes you arch your back into his thrusts with increasing intensity. He groans something about you being a slut and fists your hair with less restraint. Your walls clench around him when he wraps his hand around your throat, pulling you to his chest.
He grunts into your ear. “I knew you liked it rough, could tell from the first time I saw you.”
The tears have started to spill now. Whether it’s from the humiliation or the utter ecstasy, you aren’t sure. All you know is that you almost sob when Patrick drags his tongue alongside your face, collecting the salty tears.
ᯓ
He buries himself inside you for a second time no more than twenty minutes after you’ve both cum. You gasp and claw at his back as his body presses you into your couch cushions.
You have to admit that Patrick knows how to fuck. Knows how to read your body, tapping into just the right frequency to get you off.
It’s obvious that you’ve been craving this type of treatment from the way you’re responding to him. But you’re sure that he must have a sexual sixth sense because in the midst of fucking you wildly, he grabs your ankle that’s dangling by his ear, turns his head, and plants a sweet kiss to the bone. It makes you melt into the sofa.
He leans down to shove his tongue into your open mouth. Softly pats your cheek, relishing in your cock drunk state.
“Does he fuck you like this?” He murmurs into your neck.
You don’t have to ask who he’s talking about.
“Huh?” He prods.
You choke down a moan. “Better. He—“ You cry out when you feel him start rubbing harsh circles into your clit. “He fucks me better.”
He huffs out a laugh through his smile, but his hips slam down harder as if he’s determined to change your answer. In less than a minute, you’re biting down on his shoulder when you feel another orgasm rack through your body.
ᯓ
You take a longer break this time. Stopping to pour yourself a real glass of wine. One with its stem intact. Patrick lazily inhales from a cigarette as he watches you, with hooded eyes, attempt to hold a throw blanket over your bare torso. In contrast, he nonchalantly spreads his thighs over your couch, body on full display.
His eyes leisurely meet yours. They shine prettily in the dim lighting of your home. His dark lashes flutter on each drag of his cig and it makes the corner of your mouth curve up when you take a sip. The lamps have cast a cozy shade of amber over the room. It blankets Patrick’s skin in a golden aura reminiscent of something being baked in an oven.
Patrick reminds you of the gingerbread man, you think. It makes you press the tips of your fingers to your lips to stifle a giggle.
He tilts his head at your odd behavior, but he assumes the weed must still be affecting you.
Once you’ve placed your glass on the coffee table, and he’s put out his cigarette, Patrick is pulling you by the ankle, tossing your blanket to the side and kissing his way down your abdomen.
You yelp when he captures one of your hard nipples in his mouth but let him press his hot kisses into your skin nonetheless.
You end up cumming for the third time that night with his head buried between your legs.
ᯓ
Patrick leaves while you’re asleep.
When you wake up around 3am to an empty house, you think it’s for the best. You check your phone. You have a missed call from “a.d.” and a text from Patrick that says “had fun” with a winking emoji. You don’t respond to either, instead, opting to pad your bare feet to the bathroom. You desperately need a shower.
In the morning, you tidy up your home from the events of the night before, cringing at what took place on the terracotta colored sofa.
When the buzzing in your head doesn’t stop after cleaning your entire living room from top to bottom, you find yourself in the kitchen, pulling out ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies.
You’re frantically kneading dough when the doorbell rings. You frown, not expecting company, but clean your hands as best you can as you make your way to open the door. Sometimes, your talkative neighbor, Mrs. Taylor, likes to come knocking on your door early in the mornings.
You’re surprised to find that Art is standing on the other side with a latte and a bag containing a chocolate croissant. You assume it’s for you. He places his things down on the table by the door, the one that holds your catch all tray, and scoops you up into a hug.
He groans into it, making you smile. “Hi,” you mumble into his chest.
“Hi, pretty girl,” his voice comes out equally mumbled. “Missed you.” You can hear the grin in his tone. It makes your heart clench.
You allow yourself to hold onto him, despite the ever present worry that you should be reining yourself in when it comes to him. He moves to let you go, grabbing your face in his palm and kissing the side of your head. You whine and lock your arms around his waist in protest. You inhale his scent, all warm and familiar. You’ve missed him.
“Baby,” he laughs into your hair. You grunt, squeezing him tighter. “Okay, c’mere.” He pulls you into him, securely engulfing you in his arms. “I got you, I got you.”
You eventually release him long enough to walk into your home.
You’re relieved that you’d been overtaken by a cleaning spell this morning because you fear that Art might take one glance at your couch and figure out who had been here. That he’d smell him in the air.
You’re afraid he might’ve detected it anyway when he freezes in the walkway separating your kitchen from the living room. You nibble on your lip as you try to search his body for any signs that he’s onto you.
To your relief, Art is actually focused on the copious amounts of cookie dough you have on the counter of your kitchen island. He turns to you with the all knowing look of a father, his eyes creased with concern. “Oh no, what happened?”
ᯓ
After a therapy session in which you decide to stop letting your ex influence your decisions from afar, you finally relent, allowing Art to begin practicing with Kaleb on their private tennis court. It seems like since you got involved with their family, that’s all you ever do, give in to everyone’s requests. In any other context, it would be disturbing, but the sight of Kaleb racing to the court with an oversized tennis bag fills you with joy. The bag threatens to pull him down, but his excitement keeps him upright as he makes a beeline for Art.
You don’t know who’s more excited to see Art between the two of you. Your son’s tennis instructor waves at you from across the court. And you have to fight the rush that flows through you, threatening to cut off your oxygen, and give a simple wave in return. It makes you feel like a kid with a fervent crush. You could gag.
You remind yourself that you’re here for Kaleb. Not you.
You think that as long as you get to see him happy like that, you’d agree to anything. It’s a scary notion, but becoming a mom has made you aware of a lot of terrifying realities.
ᯓ
It’s this maternal need to preserve your son’s happiness that leads you to another prolonged encounter with Tashi Duncan. She’d caught you when you were dropping him off for tennis lessons one day. Apparently, she had a free day. Lily was spending the day with her grandparents, and Patrick is, thankfully, nowhere to be found. You try to hide your relief when she tells you that. You don’t think you can face him right now.
She insists you join her in their sunroom while the boys practice. You try to think of an excuse to turn her down, but you decide your karma from sleeping with her husband has built up too much to take the chance of tacking on more. So, when she offers to make you a cup of tea, you oblige and sink down into the fabric of a warm sofa.
When Tashi reappears, she sits down with a cup of steaming hot tea for the both of you. You thank her with a smile, letting your eyes trail over her figure. She looks ethereal. The sunlight pouring through the glass forms a halo of light around her, illuminating her like a Madonna painting. She has her hair pulled back into a low ponytail that causes her to have to tuck the loose strands behind her ear every now and then. The motion makes you take notice of her slim neck and the way her collarbones dip into her loose-fitted button down. Even dressed casually, she looks like a goddess.
You feel your heart start to beat a little faster and reach to take a sip of your tea. You wonder how she knew that lavender chamomile was one of your favorites.
It’s only awkward for a moment because the two of you quickly fall into a conversation about what she’s missed now that Art has taken over attending the PTA meetings. That’s how you’d initially met her. She had actually been the one who you exchanged communication with about carpool and play dates. Art’s retirement allowed her to focus on tennis and other aspects of raising Lily that she preferred. You giggle when she admits that she never really liked those meetings anyway. You don’t tell her that you always had that inkling.
When you mention that Cynthia is still advertising her knitting business at every single meeting, she sucks in a laugh before leaning toward you. She presses her lips together, holding in her giggle. “Guess what?”
You squint at her, your expression already anticipating a joke. “What?” You all but sputter out.
“I’m probably responsible for like half the sales on her Etsy shop.” She says like she’s admitting to something top secret. It’s a lot like the expression Lily takes on when her and Kaleb are playing “secret agent.”
“Girl, what?” You didn’t think she’d be a fan of crocheted animal figures.
“I ordered one for my mom for Mother’s Day,” she explains. “She fell in love with the thing I swear, thought it looked just like her little Yorkie, next thing you know she’s asking for the link to share with all her friends.”
You’re snickering into your mug imagining Tashi unintentionally being Cynthia’s best saleswoman.
She smiles at you. “I’m serious. Apparently, amigurumi is the new thing. It’s gonna be flying off the shelves. That’s why I had to go ahead and put in my order.”
“Of course you know the official term.” You toss your head back. “What’s yours look like?”
“It’s a little tabby cat,” she smiles wistfully. “Like the one I had growing up. Her name was Aphrodite.”
It’s a fitting name.
You’re biting back a grin as you take a sip from your tea. You sigh at the taste. “How’d you know what type of tea I liked?” You ask absentmindedly.
“Art mentioned it to me.”
You freeze. “Art?”
“Yeah he says you like to make it before bed. Now, he’s hooked on it.”
All the blood in your body rushes to your head. You feel that unwelcome yet proverbial sinking in your gut. You think you might start projectile vomiting.
“Are you okay?”
You don’t respond. It’s hard to speak when you feel like you’re dangling upside down on a roller coaster.
“Wait… you didn’t think I knew did you?”
For some unintelligent reason, you decide to play stupid. Usually, in times of danger, humans resort to fight, flight, or freeze. You choose fucking idiot. “Knew what?”
“That you’re fucking my husband.” Tashi says quite unceremoniously.
“What—what do you mean?” You squeak out.
“Don’t.” She laughs. “I’ve known the whole time.”
“How?” Your voice is shrinking smaller and smaller to your ears. The sound of Tashi’s voice, her pert laughter, drowning it out.
“Art tells me everything.”
“And you’re okay with it?” You attempt to ask though you can barely hear it.
You know your question reaches her ears because she shakes her head and tells you, “I suggested it.”
Your eyes go wide. Her divulgence seems to propel you forward on your metaphorical roller coaster. In a snap, it brings you out of your stupor.
“I told Art that he should fuck you.” She says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s as simple as telling him to pick up some carry out on the way home.
You’re confused, and your head is starting to hurt from the whiplash, and you wish this ride would end already. “I’m—I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here.”
“Okay, well, Art’s been attracted to you since the day he met you,” she says plainly. “But he’d never actually do anything about it because that’s just who he is. He needed that push—“
“That push?”
She nods. “He needed to know he could do it and everything would be fine. He’s still figuring out how to be open to stuff like this.” She explains, gestures vaguely in the air. “He’d never break up what seemed like a happy marriage, but when it was clear that your marriage was far from happy…well he started to warm up to the idea.”
“What do you mean far from happy?” The shock has you feeling unreasonably defensive.
“Clearly something was off. You never seemed happy with him. You’ve said it yourself that he was a dick.”
“Um—okay, well, I’d say something has to be off if you’re coaching your husband into sleeping with unsuspecting women.” You shoot back. Your gaze is sharp and accusatory.
She lets her eyes fall down to her lap, picking at little buds of lint being exposed by the sun’s glow. “You’re right, something was off between us,” she says like it’s something in the past. Like maybe they’re good now, but at one time they weren’t. “But Art knows how I feel about him.” Then, her gaze returns to you. “Something tells me your husband either didn’t know or didn’t care.”
Her comment strikes a nerve. Chris did know something was off, and she was right, he didn’t care. He made you feel like needing more from him made you selfish. As if the reminder of the vows he made to you was an affront to him. He knew you were unhappy. That you felt ignored. But he didn’t care. When you’d served him the divorce papers, you naively thought that he’d realize what he might lose, that he might beg for your forgiveness, promise to be better. Instead, you watched him sign the document in the same way he’d signed receipts for dinner before closing the tab and tucking the pen inside.
You think you envy her. Because she has a husband that actually doesn’t want to leave her.
“Hey.” She grabs your attention. Her voice softens when she sees your glassy eyes peering back at her. “I’m not judging you. I’m just trying to offer an explanation.”
You work to swallow down the onslaught of emotions threatening to rise up like bile. You release a fractured noise from your throat, letting the revelation fully soak in. “So you really knew this whole time then? Or rather you orchestrated it?”
“Okay, that’s a little extreme,” she says. “When we found out you were getting divorced, I mentioned to Art that he should pursue you. That’s all.” She shrugs. “I never knew if he’d actually do it or when he’d do it. All I know is that the first night he came home smelling like you, he fucked me like he did when I first agreed to be his tennis coach.”
“Then, he was constantly meeting up with you or staying to talk after PTA meetings,” her fingers curl to form quotations around the word, talk. “But I knew what was up.” She bites her lip. “It was honestly kind of hot.”
You frown. The thought of him sleeping with her immediately after being with you has your stomach in knots. The worst part is that you can’t stop wondering if he’d showered first. If he’d cleaned himself up or if he’d went straight to her, buried himself inside her, cock still sticky with your fluids. In a way, it’s like you had also been inside her. If you think about it long enough, you can imagine what it must feel like. So, you don’t think about it. Instead, you fix your gaze on the golden pothos plant sitting on top a table to your right. The tapping of your nail against the ceramic mug fills the silence.
She gives you a questioning look.
Ignoring the implications of what she just told you, you settle for the anger you’re feeling instead of dwelling on any confusing arousal. “Do you not realize how fucked up this is, Tashi?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah! It’s fucked!” You throw your hands up. “I mean I’ve been running around feeling guilty, thinking I was a fucking homewrecker while the two of you get off on a cheating kink!”
She can tell you have more to say, so she leans back and lets you go on.
“I mean how could you do that? I was fucking depressed.”
She snorts. “Not so depressed that it ruined your libido. You two have been going at it like rabbits.” Her smirk makes your cheeks burn.
You place your mug down onto the table. “Wow. You know what?” You’re on the edge of the couch now, body rigid. “You and Art can go fuck yourselves! This is seriously messed up.”
She raises her eyebrows. “As messed up as you fucking another woman’s husband?”
Her words drip with mirth, and it pisses you off that the fiery look in her eyes is poking at a budding desire in your belly. “This is ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself. You’d rather focus all your energy on being outraged than interrogate why this is kind of turning you on. You’re about to stand up to leave when she places a hand on your arm.
“Are you seriously mad right now?” She asks you.
An incredulous look takes over your face. “What do you think?” You spit out.
“Well, would you have preferred I not know?” She asks as if you’re the crazy one here.
“I—“ you squeeze your eyes shut, and try to gather your thoughts. “Obviously not, Tashi.” You glance up to the glass paned ceiling. “I just—it would’ve been nice to know what was really going on. I mean he never even told me that you knew.”
“Well, did you ask?” She asks simply.
Did you? You think back to the past couple of months. The more you and Art hooked up, the more you avoided directly mentioning Tashi. He didn’t bring her up more than what was necessary, so you suspected he was actively trying to keep it from her.
To be fair, he did mention a couple of times that he’d told Tashi you two were going to meet up for lunch, but you thought he must’ve been leaving out the activities that followed. And if she happened to call him while the two of you were together, he would casually tell her he was with you. You obviously assumed he was downplaying your friendship because there was no way Art would be so nonchalant about a mistress. But, apparently, the word mistress didn’t even apply to you.
“I mean, I guess I didn’t.” You stammer. “But I feel like that was on him to bring it up to me.”
“Well that’s where you went wrong. Art can get in his own way sometimes.” A pensive expression works it’s way onto her face. “Or maybe part of him did kind of get off on feeling like he was sneaking around.” The thought seems to bring a small smile to her face.
It still doesn’t make sense to you. You try to tamper down the sinking feeling that you’ve been nothing more than a pawn. “I just don’t understand why you two couldn’t proposition me like a normal couple looking for a third,” you say.
“Who said you were our third?”
“Oh, so there’s other women you’ve sent Art to fuck?”
“No. I—I don’t just pimp out my husband, okay?”
You back down.
“We already have a…third I guess.”
You look at her with furrowed brows.
“Patrick.” She answers.
“Patrick? Like Patrick Patrick?”
She nods.
You laugh cynically. You didn’t think this situation could get any worse.
“I know.” She sighs. “I know how it seems—”
“Was that part of the plan too?” You’re out of breath, chest heaving.
She looks genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Me and Patrick,” you blurt.
“Wait a minute, you’re sleeping with Patrick?” She’s scooting closer to you.
You shake your head. “It just happened once.” You think of how he’d shoved your face into the rug, fucking into you as he grunted out various obscenities. “I was high. I haven’t spoken to him since.”
She looks away for a moment, brows drawn together tightly. She’s piecing together what you’ve told her.
“I—I didn’t know he was with you guys,” you try.
She waves you off. “No, it’s not that.” She sits back. “I’m just not surprised that he wormed his way into your pants. He just couldn’t take that Art had something to himself.” She’s speaking to you, but her eyes are trained ahead.
“So, you really didn’t set that up too?” You ask meekly.
“God, no!” She says. “I had no idea.”
You believe her.
“Look I don’t care what type of weird shit you tennis players are into, if you guys have wild orgies or whatever. I just would’ve liked to have known that I wasn’t a hypocrite.”
“A hypocrite?”
You nod. “I mean I sit here and give my ex shit for cheating on me with that skinny ass whore from Modesto. Hell! That’s why I got so much fucking alimony.” You’re rambling now. “And, then, I go and let Art fucking Donaldson screw me and then send him back home to play loving father and husband like it’s nothing. God! And on top of it all, I also sleep with his best friend! I became the whore from Modesto.”
Tashi’s watching you like you’re a kid experiencing big feelings.
“I felt like a home wrecker.” You sniff. “But apparently I’m actually not…because it was your idea, well only Art, not Patrick, and I—it’s all just fucking with my head.”
Tashi swallows. “I honestly thought you’d be relieved to find out.”
She looks at the frown on your face, takes in the way your plump bottom lip is jutting out. She reaches for your hand. “We’ve never really been the best at communicating. Me and Art. For the past year or so, we’ve gotten better at talking to each other, being honest about what we want, but we’re still working on doing that with other people I guess.” You let her thumb rub the back of your hand before you gently pull away.
You grab your mug again. The handle is cold to the touch.
“I promise we didn’t mean to fuck with you. Honestly, I think Art really likes you.” She offers you a small smile.
You look into your mug trying to still your reaction. You don’t care.
Tashi’s gaze feels heavy on the side of your face as you feel her watching your expression. You start to fiddle with your watch. Checking for the time. Except your watch is too busy displaying your increased heart rate to offer the time.
You sigh.
She reaches out to you again, but this time she brings her hand up to your face, moving the curls falling down over your eyes. You let her nimble fingers caress your cheekbone before trailing down to your chin, guiding you to look at her.
She gives you a steady, knowing smile. “You fell for him didn’t you?”
Your cheeks go ablaze, and you try to look away from her.
“Hey.” She grasps your chin in a firm, but gentle hold. “It’s okay.” She nods as if it’ll telepathically make you agree.
You clear your throat. “I know you say that, but this is all new to me.” Your voice is slightly wobbly and you think you might cry. “I—I didn’t think it’d happen but it did. I thought I could get him out of my system but now,” you inhale and press two fingers against your neck, subconsciously trying to self-soothe. “Now, it’s like—it’s like I can’t stop.” Your voice comes out almost like a whisper. Like you’re afraid to admit the truth.
And, really, you are afraid. You’re fucking terrified.
You’re scared to fall in love with a man who already has one—two people in his life that he’s in love with. The last time you entrusted a man with your love, he was only meant to love you, and he couldn’t even give you that.
What if you realize you’re absolutely enamored by Art Donaldson and he realizes the same thing Chris did? That there’s something about you that makes you unworthy of love. That the depth of you is as deep as your cunt goes and that’s it.
What if he realizes that he already has what he needs in Tashi, even Patrick? What if they realize they actually aren’t willing to share?
You apparently voice the last bit aloud.
Tashi tilts her head, some of her strands have fallen loose again and she wears the prettiest pout on her lips. “Do you want me to prove it to you?”
You gulp when her hand presses into your thigh, and she brings her face impossibly close to yours, forcing you to hold her gaze. “You want me to prove that I’m okay with it?” Her eyes flit between each one of yours with a level of seriousness you’d expect from someone like her.
Her expression demands an answer, and so, you give a faint nod, transfixed on the woman in front of you.
You gasp when you feel her mouth on yours.
You learn that Tashi tastes sweet when she has her tongue in your mouth. You think you can taste the tartness of the lemon she’d sucked on earlier. It’s good, and you realize you’re fucked because you really like kissing her.
Her tongue twirling around yours has you panting quietly, and you keen when you feel her manicured nails press into the nape of your neck. You haven’t kissed a woman since your last girlfriend in college, and you find you miss it. Something about it feels like drinking sweet tea on a hot summer day. Climbing into cool sheets at night when you’re bone tired. Or the feeling you get when you discover the song that you’re going to replay for the next week.
It also makes you feel absurdly wet.
The two of you work up a rhythm of pulling away for a breath before coming back together like magnets, letting your foreheads gently press together as you breathe deeply, thumbs caressing skin, eyelids fluttering.
Your tongue is sweeping across Tashi’s lip, on a path to enter her mouth again, when you hear someone clear their throat.
There’s an audible smack as you yank yourself from Tashi, eyes flying to the doorway of their sunroom.
Art is standing there staring at you, gaze shifting from your face to the hand you still have placed on his wife’s neck. His jaw is clenched, and his bulge is painfully evident in his pants.
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃
a/n: I've been waiting for this since the first post. Let me know how you feel about the reveal <3 as always, my asks are open!
The Creel House stood resolute, tinged the colour of a freshly heal wound, reopened. The same sickly red stain of The Upside Down sky, brown boards blue-hued from strange smokes and cinder. Part of Eddie felt like he’d seen the house before, in some half-remembered nightmare. Deep in the back of his brain, where all strange primal fears were housed, there was a spot saved for the decaying manner.
By all rights, Eddie shouldn’t have been in the house. If they’d followed the original plan, he’d have been on the roof of the trailer. It’d been Wheeler, of all people who’d changed things. She was a smart girl, too damn smart for her own good in Eddie’s opinion. She’d pointed out all the ways their plan could go wrong and as much as Eddie wanted to redeem the Munson name, he didn’t want to walk into a death trap if he could help it.
Nancy was right. That didn’t change the creeping sense of dread he felt whenever he looked her way. It was like one of Vecna’s vines had made a home in his stomach and was creeping up towards his mouth each time the girl did something impressive. Eddie had the sneaking suspicion something was swaying his feelings towards her. Something with light brown hair, who had entered the Creel house brandishing a baseball bat like a medieval sword.
Jesus H. Christ. Seeing Steve Harrington wield the tetanus trap of a baseball bat, full of splintering wood and rusted nails wasn’t a sight he’d ever pictured living to see.
Drifting in from the wasteland beyond the open door, Eddie could hear his amps playing ‘Master of Puppets’ on the boom box they’d borrowed from the Harringtons’. The poor little player had never gotten the taste for good music. Eddie had to admit it was a good idea.
He, Steve and Dustin set up the trap. Once the bats began to swarm the trailer the two older boys boosted Dustin up and out of the portal, much to the kid’s protest. They then snuck around the back of the trailer, while the girls waited in the woods ahead. Nancy had her sawn-off trained on the swarm. Robin had her Molotovs. Range weapons, waiting in the wings. He and Steve were the best at evasion. If this were a campaign, he’d say they made a pretty balanced party, all things considered.
The interior of the house was worse than Eddie expected. It was filled with rotted vines and ash, making the air smell of must and mildew. Eddie’s brain kept telling him to turn tail and run, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
He shifted his shield from one hand to the next as they moved deeper into the house, channelling his nervous energy away from his feet. One misstep and their distraction would be for nothing. Their plan was a house of cards. One gust of wind and the whole damn thing would blow over. If Eddie screwed up Red, along with everyone else in the Creel house, would be dead before the world had time to end.
Steve took the lead up the stairs like Eddie knew he would. He had a hero complex Eddie couldn’t unpick. Once everything was over, he had questions about what the party had seen the last three times they’d decided to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight. There was something about Steve Harrington he couldn’t put his finger on. Sure, trauma could change a person, Eddie was learning that lesson the hard way, but the man charging up the stairs towards their inevitable death in too-tight pants and an army jacket had some explaining to do.
He wasn’t sure who’d done it in the end. Whose foot made first contact with the blackened tendrils, the dominos fell too fast to pinpoint an epicentre. Nancy's body jerked one way, while Steve was sent skyward. His back hit the walls of the house with a sickly wet thud, a mass of undulating vines threatening to swallow him whole. Robin was on the floor at the foot of the steps, hacking away at the vines with an axe. Eddie was pushed against the bannister, all the air fleeing his lungs. This was how he would die.
The sound of distant wings grew ever louder as Eddie’s vision began to blacken around the edges.
In Eddie’s fading vision, he watched as a sliver of light glinted off something overhead. The axe fell like a guillotine, too close to Eddie’s head for comfort. He was free. He took greedy gulps of air, his eyes making contact with Buckley’s. She looked as shocked as he did, like a nocturnal animal caught in floodlights.
They didn’t have time. Robin was off, desperately hacking skywards at the vines still ensnaring Steve. He’d managed to wedge the bat between the vine and his throat. Rusted nails dug deeper into the black mass as it attempted to constrict, but it also buried the nails deeper into Steve’s flesh.
Eddie ran to help Nancy, her lips blue as her fingers blindly grasped for the shotgun that’d landed just out of reach. Nancy was smart, but like all people, the fear of death made her dumb. A bullet to the jugular wasn’t going to fix this.
Eddie tried to slide his fingers between the vine and her throat, to relieve some of the pressure. His fingers kept slipping, sticky with sap or blood. He didn’t know. He wished he had a knife as he tried to untangle the vines from ensnaring her body. There was nothing more he could do. He had to sit and wait as he felt the fight begin to fade from her convulsing body. He listened distantly to Robin’s slew of curses as she hacked at drywall. For each vine cut from Steve’s body, there was another waiting to ensnare him.
Life-or-death situations had a strange way of bringing one's true feelings to the surface. Eddie crouched beside Nancy, his hand clawing at the vine encircling her throat, watching as her panic-ridden eyes flickered across his face. He noticed her hand twitching up trying to pry the vine from its hold on her throat and Eddie’s arm. She was so weak he hadn’t noticed her attempt. He ran a thumb absentmindedly back and forth across her knuckles, trying to soothe her.
“Hey, no. Hey. You’re fine, Wheeler. You’re okay. Slow breaths, alright? You’ve got this,” he muttered hating how uncertain he sounded, how strained his voice was.
He didn’t hate Nancy. He’d hate himself if he let Steve’s chance of a storybook ending die in his arms but Christ that was a lot of pressure.
He crouched there until his fingers turned white and an axe descended upon the vines, cutting them both free. Wheeler gasped, taking deep shaky breaths as she squeezed Eddie’s hand, locking eyes with Buckley over his shoulder. She schooled her features when Steve came into view. His throat wept blood but he was upright, which was more than Eddie could’ve hoped for.
The vines began to retreat for a reason they couldn’t discern. The group rushed to the second-floor landing, as the swarm of bats descended upon the house, rushing in through the open door. Eddie watched as something shifted in Steve’s stance. He twisted the baseball bat in his hands, familiarising himself with the weapon before taking a few practice swings.
“Keep going. I’ll hold ‘em off,” Steve spoke.
Eddie knew it wasn’t a good plan. He knew what happened to the people who stayed behind. Steve had warned him about playing the hero. Eddie wasn’t going to let him have all the fun.
He held his shield aloft in front of himself, trying to see how much of his body he could brace behind it. If this were a campaign, Eddie knew fighting something that nasty on your own would be akin to a death sentence.
“I’m staying. Even the odds,” Eddie spoke, as though two boys fresh off the heels of adolescence taking on a swarm of hundreds of unearthly horrors was in any way shape or form, even. They just had to hold them off until Vecna was dead. The hellscape couldn’t survive without him. Cut off the head and the rest would follow.
If they had more time, maybe things would’ve gone differently. Maybe they would’ve come up with a better plan, but there was no time. Robin looked poised for an argument or a thought-out speech but Nancy cocked the shotgun and dragged her forward. She knew the silent promise that came with goodbyes.
The boys were faced with a black mass of writhing wings. They found a rhythm with ease. Steve swung his bat in a perfect arch, sending any unfortunate hell spawn in its wake flying into Eddie’s waiting shield, empaled on the jagged nails.
Eddie was surprised at how easy it was to find something akin to peace at that moment. He and Steve knew how to move around each other, and how to anticipate each other. They watched the other’s back and oftentimes found themselves back-to-back. Steve’s broad shoulders were grounding where they pressed into Eddie’s. It was the world's strangest game of baseball. With Steve at his side, the horror of the moment seemed to fall away.
They worked better together than Eddie could’ve imagined and lasted longer than he’d thought. Yet, they couldn’t hold out much longer. The room smelled of rotted iron and Eddie’s sides throbbed. He was too hopped up on adrenaline for the seriousness of the situation to take hold, but one look at Steve in his periphery let him know they were both in bad shape.
The boy was covered in blood. The wound in his side was torn open once more. Someone could trace their movement by the bloody footprints littering the floor.
They were dying.
Eddie tried not to let the enormity of the situation swallow him whole.
“Hey? How’s it going in there? You killin’ the son of a bitch or just admiring the view?” Eddie screamed above the beating of wings. When a response didn’t come, Steve and Eddie exchanged worried looks.
“Rob?” Steve yelled, casting a glance through the doorway.
The moment of distraction left him wide open for a bat to swoop, wrapping its twisted tail around Steve’s arm and tugging him upwards. Eddie acted fast, grabbing Steve’s ankle, and pulling him back to the relative safety of the rotting boards, bloated and warping from the mingling blood and black, bat ooze.
“I can’t find the lighter,” Robin’s voice called at last. It must have fallen from her pocket when the vines attacked. Shit.
Eddie plunged his hands into the depths of his jacket pocket and thanked the god he didn’t believe in for his habit of chain smoking in times of crisis. He’d brought another lighter.
“Watch my six Stevie, I’ve got one,” Eddie called, rushing into the room leaving no space to argue.
Nancy had slung the rifle over her shoulder and had taken Robin’s axe, making short work of the few bats that’d managed to sneak past his and Steve’s defences.
Eddie ran to Robin’s side, noticing how the girl’s eyes swelled at seeing him. He was definitely in bad shape then. Her hands trembled as she held out the bottle. Time and time again, Eddie tried to light the cloth. It wasn’t working.
Nothing was working. Panic finally took hold of Eddie. They were going to die. He wished he could say he made peace with that knowledge, but he couldn’t.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Eddie mumbled as the lighter continued to dull and spark.
“What’s going on? I’m coming in,” Steve yelled as he appeared in the doorway barring the opening as best he could, trying to hold the flimsy wood as it buckled beneath the bats' weights.
Steve’s eyes shifted over the scene, assessing the situation within seconds.
He charged forward, taking the bottle from Robin’s hands, and letting the rag fall to the floor.
“Nancy, get ready to shoot,” Steve called as he stalked closer to Vecna’s dangling body. A look passed between the two. The glance told Nancy everything she needed to know.
“Eds, lighter,” Steve called over his shoulder extending his hand. Eddie blinked, tossing it to Steve.
Eddie would remember what happened next for the rest of his life. Whether that life lasted for minutes or decades, it didn’t matter. There was no such thing as a perfect moment, but what followed was as close as they could come.
Steve took a deep swig of vodka, filling his cheeks with the bitter liquid and held Eddie’s lighter aloft, the small flame illuminating Steve’s features, a final spark of warmth amongst the blue-grey walls and ash of the house. His hands dripped blood, what was left of his skin was pale from the loss of it.
Steve spat the alcohol in a perfect arc, through the flame, breathing fire over Vecna’s body, catching the dark wizard alight. Steve was a fallen king turned dragon. A higher kind of nobility. Breathtaking, unearthly, and dangerous.
As Nancy littered Vecna’s body with bullets, Eddie kept his eyes trained on Steve, his heart in his throat. Eddie wasn’t one for sudden affections. His heart was an alley cat, wary and distrustful by nature. Yet, despite everything, Eddie fell in love with Steve at that moment. His heart soared straight past ‘crush’ and on through to adoration. Maybe it was the blood loss but with Vecna’s dead body on the floor at their feet, he knew at that moment, his life would be inextricably connected to Steve’s.
The boy shot him a smile over his shoulder, his lip bloody, vodka smattering his chin. The room smelled of kindling.
The girls rushed to Steve, taking turns embracing him. The sound of bats at the door had finally stopped. It was over. They’d won.
Eddie watched on helplessly as Steve rested his forehead against Robin’s, holding the girl close, his face contorting in pain. Robin muttered a string of incoherent words just loud enough for Steve to hear before pulling back.
Nancy was next. Their hug was less feverish, more familiar. Nancy’s chin rested on Steve’s shoulder and Steve’s hands gripped the back of her shirt as they had a hundred times before. They looked good together. It made Eddie ache. He looked away.
When he looked back, to his surprise Robin had scooped Nancy into a too-tight hug, blathering about how petrified she’d been and how amazing Nancy was. Much to his surprise, Steve was looking at him, his arms open in offering.
The others were close. They had gone through hell together. Eddie was the outsider. It felt strange being offered a place amongst them, but he didn’t know when he’d get another opportunity, so he strode forward letting Steve’s arms encircle his body.
It wasn’t the kind of hug he’d expected. It wasn’t feverish, like Robin’s or as solid and steadfast as Nancy’s. Steve clung to him, his hands gripped at Eddie’s forearms, as though trying to map out the uncharted territory before pulling him closer. His hands snaked around Eddie’s body, finally finding a home, clutching at the shirt fabric around his shoulder blades.
Eddie didn’t know what to do with his hands, finding them slipping beneath Steve’s jacket, just above his waist. His head found its way to Steve’s shoulder and Steve’s did the same. He could feel the boy’s heart pounding. He smelled of sweat, blood, and alcohol.
“You’re a total badass, Steve Harrington.” Eddie gasped. His breath was hot against Steve’s ear. The boy chuckled, causing a shiver to run up his spine.
“I don’t know, Munson. That’s high praise comin’ from a hero,” Steve spoke.
“I’m not-,” Eddie began, but Steve wasn’t having it.
“Take a compliment dude. You went to Mordor,” Steve spoke in the tone of a man who still didn’t know exactly what ‘Mordor’ was.
Hawkins’ golden boy, trying to ‘speak nerd’ to him wasn’t quelling any of Eddie’s feelings.
“Yeah well, next time we go somewhere let’s make it nice. Check out The Rockies, The Grand Canyon, maybe California.”
Later Eddie would blame the blood loss for being so bold.
Steve pulled back, just far enough to look at Eddie’s face. To his surprise, Steve shot him a goofy grin.
「 ❝Habanero pepper is now the Beardies name. We'll let you all see him once he's more stable. We do have aid of a veterinarian and he is on some medicine for parasites and his wounds. Pet store tried to feed him mice instead of bugs and vegetables.❞
❝He is eating all of our collard greens and bell peppers so he's fairing much better already.❞ 」
