Give me O!Steve in his freshman year fooling around with A!Eddie. Maybe they both thought it was a summer fling or Steve was looking for it to turn into a relationship but Eddie wasn't. Give me Eddie 'oh shit I'm catching feelings' Munson start to pull away from this amazing and funny and lovely omega he's seeing.
Give me heartbroken Steve who, after skipping a heat, finds out he's pregnant with his the alpha's pup(s). Give me steve freaking out cause holy shit he's too young to be a dame and his alpha doesn't even want him.
Give me steve crying and making a decision that's too heavy for a young mom- or person- to make. He makes the difficult decision to terminate the pregnancy. He's just too young. He wants kids but not at this point in his life.
Give me 4 years of steve avoiding Eddie and Eddie forever regretting leaving the omega. Both because he's still afraid of the love he saw and steve always scents so sad around him.
Give me steve borderline depressed and wanting kids, having to live with the what-ifs of his life. Of how big their kids would be now. Of how they'd be talking and probably have Eddie's eyes and hair. Of trying to brush and tame the wild frizzy locks while they tell him about their day. Give me steve in mourning because of a difficult decision he was forced to make. Give me reserved steve because of how, regardless of what decision he made, he still marred his youth and had to grow up too fast.
Give me him being a surrogate mom for dustin, and when Ms Henderson comments on what a lovely parent he'd be, he cries himself to sleep alone in his bed.
Hello~~! It's been a hot minute, but boy, how things have progressed! In case you missed it, I'm now cross-posting it on Ao3 under No grave can hold my body down (I'll crawl home to you). It's still the same storyline, but some of the writing may be a tad different (read: edited, lol). I also have a chapter count in mind! This sucker is growing by the minute—it was supposed to be about 10k total, and we're already past that in my drafts 😅 Thank you so much for all the love and support! I'll let you get on with the story now.
Trigger warnings: same as parts 1 and 2. Mentioned animal disappearance/death. No beta, we die like Barb- I mean, Steve.
He didn’t go in his pool much these days. In fact, he outright avoided it when he could.
By the time the doctors pronounced him fully healed, summer had ended with fall close on its heels. His shoulders were a myriad of pigmentation, the graft never quite blending seamlessly. Then again, they did say it was going to scar.
There was also a bright red line where his temple kissed his hairline. His longer hair tended to cover it up, but it continued to raise eyebrows until it faded into a gentle pink.
The years passed with long school days, short weekends, and occasionally brief breaks. Middle school came and went. And then high school started.
“Son, as a Harrington, there’s a lot to live up to with our name. As you know, I was captain of the swim team, my father the captain of track, and his father before him. Now, I fully expect you to try out for every team they have available. Especially swimming.”
Fear shot through him. His mom glanced towards the pool, panic building in her eyes.
Richard continued, “My son is going to live up to our legacy and earn himself a full ride. Harvard. Ann Arbor. Chicago. Purdue. You’ve a lot to live up to. You will not disappoint.”
Steve sat down at the edge of their pool, his toes grazing in the water ever so slightly. This was the furthest he’s gotten in years. Before, he was never able to quell the rising dread that surfaced like a tsunami. To be fair, he couldn’t control it now either, but with the threat of his father’s hands in his mind, he tried to calm his racing heart.
Slowly, he rose to the steps, water now ankle deep. He gripped the railing like a lifeline, knuckles strained white. Another step. It was mid-calf now.
His pulse jumped like a frantic hare, some unknown threat hot on his heels as he dodged through the underbrush.
Knee-high. Terrified of loosening his grip, his hands did not slide down the railing but went hand over fist. Breaths came faster – mid-thigh. All he could think about was falling.
Falling. Imbalance. Drowning.
Letting go of the railing. Falling. Drowning.
Submerging with no safety net. Weightless; untouched by gravity. Drowning.
His mind repeated it like a broken record, and his eyes refused to close.
He should’ve asked his mom to stay home with him. But that would mean his dad would see.
Letting out a shaky breath, he inched his way into the cerulean shallows. The railing was now submerged, and he waffled between letting go and latching onto the concrete curb. It wasn’t as reassuring, but if he planned to go deeper, he’d have to let go of the pole eventually. The thought sent a new curl of fear through him, and he could feel his jaw muscles start to tremble and tighten.
The water was up to his navel now.
His breath came faster as the pressure around his legs and stomach seemed to tighten, the cold not abetting his shivers. The sound of water rippling around his movements shot panic down his spine as he minutely made his way forward.
Just a little more… If he could float, he told himself, then he could bear tryouts.
Pushing down his growing trepidation, he took a step, then another, and another until the water swelled to his chest, just cresting his pectorals. The trembling grew as he took a breath in before shakily blowing it out. He felt like he was going to vomit. Or soil himself.
Maybe both.
The more seconds that ticked by, the tighter the pressure around his lungs. It was like he was stuck in a boa constrictor's vice. Breathing failed him as the tightness in his chest grew and grew, spreading to his seized up muscles and choking the very existence out of him. The sound of his rapid breaths did nothing to quell the rising fear, and he couldn’t bear to be wrapped in water a second longer. Clawing at the edges of the pool, he tried to pull himself up, but the water seemed to tighten its grasp.
He was getting frantic now. Nails catching on the tiny bumps of the concrete and pulling against the nail beds, he could feel them start to separate from his fingertips, but he didn’t care because he couldn’t get out, he couldn't get out.
–
His fingers were scarred, the nails partially lifted off, and there was a nasty rash along his arms for weeks on end.
–
He makes it on the basketball and baseball teams.
“But not swim?” The glowering look in his dad’s eyes unsettled him further.
“No, sir. Didn’t make the cut.” It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie.
He never applied. Ergo, he didn’t make the team.
“I’ll have to have a talk with Mr. Randleston. We can get this corrected.”
Anxiety dripped and pooled in his stomach, and his wide eyes snapped to his mom on the couch. Recognition flickered on her face before she quickly spoke up. “Richard, aren't two enough?” With unyielding grace, she made her way to the drink cart by her husband’s chair and poured a whiskey, neat. “He already made the other teams, and it sounds like his schedule would be full as is.” Carefully, she extended the half-full glass before sitting on the armrest of his chair.
A carefully concocted distraction from the barely concealed fear in Steve’s frame.
Richard’s hand dropped to Dianna’s waist as he contemplated his drink with a hum.
–
It’s as he’s coming back from basketball practice that he spots an angel. Her name turns out to be Nancy. Nancy Wheeler. Her laugh sent butterflies through him, her face looked crafted from a master artist, and her voice was like a bell. When they were together, all the bad thoughts just tended to… drift away.
He’s had a lot of firsts in his life. A lot of relationships, and his virginity had been long gone. But… this… she made him feel whole. Like he was worth having around. She was his first in many things. The first one to truly melt his heart, the first to believe him as he told her (an admittedly heavily censored version) of his childhood. First to take his heart with gentle hands and make him truly believe that someone could love him.
Maybe his whole life had been leading up to this… All the torment, he decided, was all worth it if he got to have this miracle in his life.
Barbara never liked Steve Harrington, and he was okay with that. Or at least, it’s something he tried to tell himself. Some people, for whatever reason, just… didn’t like him. The rejection always hurt – the disapproval in their eyes forever too familiar. He had learned to either try harder (to quote his English teacher: a Sisyphean task) or turn a cold shoulder.
But no matter what, there just always seemed to be this incessant, borderline-but-not-quite obsessive need to win their approval.
Plus, he owed it to Nance to get on Barbara’s good side.
So, he offers her a beer.
It’s just him, Nancy, and Barb by the poolside, and he offers to teach the latter some party tricks. Hopefully, this could at least bring their relationship from cold acquaintances to lukewarm ones.
He gave it a solid two attempts at explaining how to shotgun before switching to a hands-on approach. Admittedly, he’s a little drunk, but Nancy is smiling. Nancy’s smiling, so it’s okay. Everything’s alright.
As he’s positioning her hands and the knife, a hiss of breath rips out, and Barb clutches her palm close. The sneer sent his way made his stomach lurch. As she opened it to inspect her hand, he couldn’t rip his gaze away, and a high ringing filled his ears.
There was blood in her nailbed. Blood in the fine ridges over her skin, and blood falling onto the concrete.
She shook her hand out with a quiet curse, and a stray droplet flung into the pool. Inky red plunged into the water, static at first before dispersing like smoke. A wave of panic overtook him as a scream clawed and tore its way up his throat.
He could almost see the long-dried, red splotches across the pool. It didn’t matter, though; he knew where his blood embedded itself on the concrete that day, and suddenly, he couldn’t get away fast enough.
Tipping over a lounge table before regaining his footing, he sprinted into the house. He barely made it to the sink in time before his stomach emptied its contents. The sliding door pulled open silently, and he startled when Nancy appeared beside him, hand on his back.
Gentle circles worked themselves into a warm rhythm on his back as he shook and heaved. Involuntary tears streamed down his face as fear and shame thoroughly soaked him. Flicking on the water, he hung his head and let the cool metal of the sink chill his feverish skin as his sick diluted and washed down the drain.
He didn’t know just how long he let the water run.
Eventually, the circles slowed to a warm, steady presence and he tilted his head into the running water. The chill was a welcome relief.
He rinsed his mouth before cupping his hands and properly wetting his face. Nancy’s presence behind him ebbed before returning with a kitchen rag. Thanking her, he pat his face, shut off the water, and leaned against the counter.
Please don’t be angry…
Peaking an eye open, he saw her standing there in all her beautiful glory, and the only things in her eyes were love and concern. A gentle patience. Relief flooded him before the shame swept through.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Steve opened his eyes, not knowing when he fully closed them. Nancy stepped closer and cupped his neck, “You’re okay. It’s alright…” Surrendering, because how could he not with Nancy, he leaned into her hand as it swept through his damp hair. Blue eyes reflected concern when he opened his again, and he felt his love deepen for her.
“I’m sorry.”
Her brows met in a furrow.
“I’m sorry, I-”
“It was the blood, wasn’t it?”
Steve weighed his answer before settling on a soft, “Yeah…”
A small, forgiving smile graced her face before she leaned up and into his arms. “It’s okay.” Gentle circles worked their way into his shoulders as he brought his arms up and around Nancy’s waist.
Her body pressed against his, his nose in her hair, and their arms around each other created a warmth in him that fought away the oncoming shivers. It took longer than he’d like to admit before he remembered the world outside them, and he could feel his muscles tighten.
“What is it?”
“Shit- Barb.” Steve squeezed her for a few seconds before gathering the strength to let go and get the first aid kit. There was still the nasty cut to take care of.
Making his way back to the kitchen, he pressed his lips quickly to Nancy’s hair before heading outside.
“Barb?”
Silence greeted him. But he knew she was around here somewhere - the air was charged with another presence. He tried again, “Barbara?”
A rustling in the forest caught his attention, and the distinct feeling of being watched slowly crawled up his spine. The hair on the back of his neck began lifting, and he looked around. Finding nothing in the dark foliage, a raspy, distorted yip startled him. Or maybe it was a laugh? Almost like something was breathing in while trying to scream - its voice hoarse with disuse. Whatever it was chuffed before mimicking a bark, notes disconcerted and wrong, sending a shiver up Steve’s spine.
A note that sounded like a wounded animal’s cry hit the night and Steve wanted to bolt.
On the ground in front of him was a drop or two of dry blood, and about ten feet away, something metallic caught the light.
Hesitant to leave the yard lights but curious, his instincts screamed at him not to turn his back to the woods as he slowly made his way over to the gleaming metal object. He didn’t know why his body was on high alert - it was almost like he’d tapped into a live wire, the constant message of danger! danger! danger! repeating in his head.
It was likely a stray dog or fox, he told himself, but he listened to his greater instincts all the same.
Slowly squatting down, he picked up what looked like a metal charm bracelet – it had ‘B & N’ blocks that spun on a fixed, bendable wire with a smooth ball on each open end.
Huh.
He carefully called out for Barb a few more times before Nancy met him outside.
Whatever he’d run into, it hadn’t left, but at least it was silent.
Showing her the bracelet, she gently took it. “Yeah, that’s Barb’s… We made it together a few years ago.” Looking around, she placed it in her pocket before holding onto Steve’s arm and shivering. “Where’d she go? It’s creepy out here.”
Steve made an uncertain noise, and they stayed out for a few minutes longer before the chill of the night crept up on them and headed inside.
“Do you think she went home?”
“Without a ride? Does she live close?”
Nancy hummed. “Not really… I mean, we walked here, but it’s weird she’d leave without saying anything.”
Steve nodded. “Yeah, it doesn’t sound like her to just… up and leave. I guess we can ask her Monday at school?” It wasn’t as reassuring as he’d like it to be, but it was the best he could do.
Dropping off Nancy at home, he settled into bed refusing to look out the windows that overlooked the backyard. Even as he drifted with the curtains drawn, a heavy disquieting certainty settled in his gut. Monday, he thought, I’ll apologize Monday.
Except Barbara isn’t at school the following Monday. Or the rest of the week. Or the ones after that. It was like she simply… disappeared. The sounds Steve had heard in the forest replayed in his mind the more time went on. Could something have gotten to her?
If his body refused to die, could that mean something… other… was out there?
Whatever it was, Steve couldn’t help but think it should’ve been him as he looked into Nancy’s tearful eyes.
–
Barbara Holland’s blood washes out of the concrete.
Nance wears her bracelet every day.
–
When Steve was little, his mother let him keep a rabbit. It was a tiny thing, found in their yard and sick. They took care of it, and it stayed up until the day a door was accidentally left open.
Steve was inconsolable, and his mother spent all afternoon making missing posters with him. It was his first pet, something he could pet and talk to. Something that would listen to him, and he listened in return. That bunny wanted for nothing, and Steve checked out so many books about rabbits that he earned a nickname at the library.
A week after Fluffy ran away, his mother had to break the news that he may not be coming back. It broke his heart, and he was so adamantly against it that he refused to talk to his mom for three days. But as the month dragged on, his pain lost its shine and was replaced with a heavy weariness. A sadness that grew larger and fainter the more time went on.
“Is… Is Fluffy dead?”
That stopped his mom. “What makes you say that, honey?”
“Well- Well I read that lots’a things eat rabbits. Like coyotes, and dogs, a-and owls. Foxes, too.”
“Well, that’s certainly very learned of you.”
“But you’re not answerin’ the question mama.”
“Well… the truth is, I don’t know.”
Steve’s face scrunched up as his tears slowed. “Whaddya mean you don’t know? Big people are supposed to know everythin’.”
His mom gave a sad smile. “Well, we know a lot, but it doesn’t mean we know things beyond our control.”
“And Fluffy’s beyond our control?”
–
Steve put another tack in Barbara’s missing persons poster. Three days of searching, and so far, nothing. As he stared at the community board, he couldn’t help but notice its history. Countless staples in the corkboard, ripped pages, tape, and even forgotten push-pins. Missing pets, lost objects, offered services, business cards. And one recurring poster. “Have you seen me?” was hand-written on a piece of printed paper, with two heart-breaking pictures of a small missing child. Will Byers. Couldn’t be older than 11.
He double-checked the poster.
12.
Just a kid. It hurt to think that there was a family out there missing a child. The absence noticeable in their home. Around the table. All the places that should be loud - quiet. A parent missing their son. A sibling mourning their brother. To have to sit and live with the fear of them not coming back.
Of the growing likelihood that their child isn’t coming back. That something happened to them. A predator, succumbing to the elements, all the atrocities another person could provide. Not to mention whatever was in those woods that night.
–
They run into Jonathan Byers a few times while hanging posters. Poor guy looks worse and worse each day. Apparently, his and Nancy’s brothers are best friends.
They chat about it, the conversation heavy with grief and ending on a desperate, yet hopeful, note. They decide to meet at Jonathan’s house this coming weekend to search the woods.
–
The baying screech alerted Steve’s body before the rest of him knew to draw a connection.
Surprisingly, Steve survives the demogorgon that comes through the wall in the Byer’s house. He doesn’t know how, body screaming with adrenaline and a spiked bat at his side, but he comes out with minimal damage. There is, of course, the shotgun wound in his arm, which is going to be hard to hide from his parents, but so is the reality in which monsters come through walls and abduct little boys and high school girls.
–
He tries to do everything right. He goes to dinner with the Hollands, he sits back as Nancy and Jonathan get closer, trying not to be jealous, and he pushes down the frantic pounding of his heart when he thinks about that night. The cries in the woods. The blood. That damn pool.
–
The next time he dies is from a broken heart. Not physically, but it's somehow worse.
“I chose you over Barb, and now she’s gone. Do you understand? Gone!”
“She’s dead, Steve. She’s dead because I chose you!”
And quietly, oh so quietly yet not silent enough, “I wish it had been you.”
Steddie fic where steve gets possessed (upside down, demons, etc.) who try and wreck his life and relationships? But it has none of his memories cause either 1) Steve ain't letting it happen 2) x entity doesn't have that power. All it has to go off of is emotions? Cue possessed!Steve meeting Eddie and breaking up with him to harvest more chaos, only
Steve and Eddie aren't together
P!Steve: "It's you, not me. I just don't love you anymore" <feeding off emotions
Eddie: ...
Steve: aw shit
P!Steve: *contains malicious chuckle*
Eddie: ... what?
P!Steve: Ik Ik, I still want to ravish you, but I can't! We're over, I'm breaking up with you. I hope you never get over me and think about my face on every pretty boy you fuck
Hi everyone! I'm back with the second installment of my To Die Today series! >:3c I already have an idea for part 3, so I'll do my best to update you. Comments and tags really help me know you enjoyed it and want more!! So let me know if you love it like I do; much love!
Trigger warnings: same as part 1, but with some throw-up, a panic attack, and a touch of deadly ideation. No beta, we die like Steve.
He doesn’t remember much, but he still thinks about that place he visited. He always yearns to go back to the absolute peace when things get too loud.
Sometimes, he just wishes he could fade into black. He can still hear the waves every now and then calling, and his soul yearns.
From the incident on, Steve had a faint scar; it rested on the back of his neck and wrapped around slightly to the side. It refused to fade.
He hid it with concealer.
He hid it with his hair.
He was still doubtful on whether or not he had died. Or, what it meant to him.
It had to’ve been a fluke…
… Right?
Maybe it just took him a little longer to… bite the dust?
The next time he died, he was 10.
His parents were away for the week as they did more and more often these days, and it was the start of summer.
The crisp bite of cold water reduced the sting of the sun, and there was really no other place to be. He spent his days poolside, enjoying ice pops and canned soda from his parent’s cooler. He’d run and jump and splash and play until his skin shriveled from water or split from the sun. Whichever came last.
This was the summer he learned a vital lesson.
See, there are rules when you go to the pool or pond or really anywhere to do with water. But Steve was just a kid; rules were put in place by adults because they didn’t like to have fun.
So he ignored them.
It was Thursday, midday, and he’d just gotten off the phone with his parents. His mom was checking in and making sure he was safe and being smart, and he reassured her he was. And he was, for someone who had yet to learn certain hard truths.
He ran to jump back into the pool, but there was just one millisecond where the traction failed under his feet, and his heart leapt in it.
And that was enough.
A puddle on concrete.
One second, he was pool-bound, and the next, everything went black. Color shot into his world again as his vision came back, yet left his eyes unfocused. Vague and unseeing. He experienced the sound and distant vibrations at the same time he heard an earth-shattering crack and bone-shaking rumble. His eyes opened again to see bloody concrete roll away, and he distantly felt like an egg being cracked open.
The ‘splash’ came second to the cool sensation crashing around him. Enveloping him. Eating him alive. What little oxygen he had bubbled to the top of his lungs, most slipping out in a silent but all-consuming exhale.
His eyes burned as chlorine forced its way in; sparks ripped their way around his eye socket and popped inside his skull.
His lungs were on fire - conflicted and stretched to the max to save what little oxygen they could. He wanted to scream. All he did was choke.
The heavy swish and weight of water in his nose and throat unsettled him, and he heaved. Body flexing and struggling as dark blues began to bloom with a soft black. He coughed. All he got was a lung full of water and the endless feeling of throwing up.
Something sharp catches on his throat and covers his flooded windpipe for a moment - something flimsy that bent with the water. Some brown debris coughs its way out of his system and triggers his gag reflex again. His tears are like lava.
His last thoughts are just how heavy and muted everything feels: the sound of water in his ear, the cold darkness that envelops him, and how his body screams.
He doesn’t know how long he chokes and burns.
Is this what dying feels like?
He just wants to go back. Why couldn’t it be like last time? With the beach and the waves? Instead of feeling hot water forced out his nose and back into his lungs?
–
There was no peace. No comfort like last time. Instead, he wakes up and feels his weak body burn, trying to suck in air while purging the water. After an eternity of choking, a warm static embraces him, granting sweet numbness as he drifts again. A few hours feel like minutes before he’s dragged into the cycle again.
–
Three days pass before his body floats to the surface. Three days of a small, infinite torture before he feels dry heat on his back. When he comes to, his body kicks fruitlessly again, and his arms swing around, desperately trying to find the surface. He chokes and vomits water back into himself. Something feels different. He doesn’t have time to investigate as he’s purely in fight or flight mode, his body out of control and flailing.
Things go black again.
–
Eventually, he finds himself floating over to the shallow end. He hits a wall, and when he scrambles back to consciousness, his feet hit the pool’s ground as he gags and expels water from his nose and mouth and lungs, flailing wildly. His hands find a ledge and pull.
When the sun sets, he comes to with snot, water, and blood running down his face and pooling on the concrete beneath him.
–
It took two days for the rot and swelling to go down. During that time, as his body worked to mend itself, half in the pool and half out, his mind drifted to that pleasant space. No more was this pain and fire. Instead, there was finally fuzzy peace.
His mind relaxed, and his soul just… floated. It was dark, the ocean. Rain clouded the sky in dark grays, rolling and tumbling onto each other like the very waves they kissed. It was cold.
The churning of the waves put him at peace. It could never be horrifying, despite looking into the mouth of some cosmic horror. Instead, it felt… outside himself. It was all simply a part of the universe as death and creation rolled onto itself, creating the peacefully roiling and vicious clouds. It did him no harm, and he knew it wouldn’t, so he existed and felt.
Everything ached. His head throbbed with dehydration, as it felt like every drop of water was wrenched out of him. Railroad spikes of pain hammered into the side of his skull, practically nailing him to the ground as he writhed. He felt nauseous and on fire. His mouth was dry, his skin burned, everything inside him ached, and the sun and water felt like needles on his arms and legs.
Water. He needed water. Water and shade. His body screamed as he used what little strength he had left to pull his torso up and roll himself out of the pool. His skin burned where it met the abrasive concrete, and Steve barely processed the blood stains beneath him. He could feel his tight skin stretch with the movement, almost as if it would tear at any second.
Minisculely, he crawled over to the patio door. When he reached up for the handle, that tight feeling in his skin came back in a warning, so he instead clawed the door open from the floor. Getting over the door track was like shuffling through barbed wire, but the cold of the tile instantly replaced the burning.
Catching his breath on the floor, Steve looked around while panting. The sink was his first thought, but he couldn’t reach it like this. He couldn’t stand, and he definitely couldn’t reach it, so the refrigerator it was.
Scooting himself along, he reached into the blissfully cold fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Sitting up as best he could, he twisted the cap, winced at the burn of his wrist, and downed the bottle. A blast of frosty spikes took over his mouth before moving to his throat and stomach. It hurt as much as it helped.
Gasping between swallows, he held the cold plastic to his face and breathed at the relief it brought. The second bottle he took slower to prevent the frigid pain, uncaring about any that escaped his lips. It was like a balm across his too-hot skin anyway.
His stomach cramped and heaved at the freezing intrusion while he fought down the urge to vomit.
Keep it down, force it down, you’re not going to throw up, you’re not- vomit surged up before he could repress it and left him shaking, freezing, overheating, and crying. The stench bloomed through the kitchen and stung his nose. Clutching his water bottle, he scooted across the floor, snot running down his face as he took hiccuping sips. His arms hurt as his shoulders moved with each cry.
Giving up, he laid down as far from the vomit as he could and rested his body against the cold tiles, sighing at the minor relief. Catching his breath, he quickly sank into a rough sleep, his mind replaying the sensation of falling and being unable to breathe.
He woke with a pounding headache, temples squeezing him and tile warm beneath. Spotting the forgotten bottle, he ripped it open and chugged the remains. The room-temperature water set right in his body and, thankfully, didn’t cause any cramping this time. Shakely, he got up on all fours, crawled to the fridge, and stretched over his vomit - ew - to pull another few bottles.
He eventually managed to stand up after what felt like hours of trying. By then, he’d already drunk his room-temperature water and was feeling somewhat better. Not entirely, but at least his headache had dulled.
Cold showers helped, and when he tried to put on a shirt, his body screamed in pain at the stretch and sensation of fabric. So he went shirtless and passed out face-down in his bed.
His parents came home the following morning. They bustled in with luggage and bags, his mom chatting happily to Steve from the other room.
“Oh, darling, you look dead on your feet!”
Steve didn’t have the energy or strength in him to find it funny.
His dad made a displeased noise. “Where’s your shirt? Did we raise an ignorant heathen? Put a damn shirt on - you’re not a kid anymore,” he rumbled.
His mom came around the counter and reached for his face, stopping short, and a worried look locked on her face. “Darling, your shoulders, what happened? They look so red. Did you get sunburned? Oh, I know I taught you to wear sunscreen.” The ends of her eyes scrunched up in an attempted smile.
“Did I stutter? Put a damn shirt on!” His father growled from the kitchen. Steve held in a sigh and resigned himself to the pain. He’d just have to get over it, as his father would say.
He turned around, and before he could get a step further, his mother gasped and dropped her bags.
“Steven! Your back!” She sounded horrified, and Steve tried to turn around and see what she was talking about, but his neck protested and burned too much. He could feel her body heat when she came up behind him.
His father’s footfalls even came closer. “What on Earth…”
“I’ve never seen it this bad before - ever…” His mother trailed off, voice a bit wobbly.
-
Dr. Goodmund, his pediatrician, took one look at Steve’s back and muttered, “Well, that can’t be good.”
-
They ended up going to the hospital.
On the way into the ICU, Steve was lectured by his parents and the staff on the importance of sunscreen.
It wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t just say that without his father seeing it as an excuse. He was already mad about how “it’s always something” with Steve or that “he must’ve been truly dumb to let it get this bad and not notice.” “It’s a visual thing, Steve.” He’d say. “How could you not see it? Or feel it, for that matter?” He gripped Steve’s upper arm tight - sunburn screaming as the swollen and blistered skin was squeezed, “When we get home…”
Richard didn’t have to finish that for him to know what was coming.
Steve wanted to go back to the rolling storm over the gray sea.
-
The nurses, already a step ahead, began bustling about getting things ready and set up. The doctor started talking with them and wrote some things down on the clipboard.
The doctors say he'll need a skin graft.
But if he can't feel it, is it really that bad? He says as much, and the doctor stays impassive. "That is a common misconception." They explained. "See, the damage here goes all the way to or through the hypodermis - the bottommost layer of skin, which is right above the muscle. Which means that with severe burns, it travels through all the layers of protection our body makes and damages the nerve receptors. When these are shot, we typically can't feel anything.
"Now, what we're going to do is administer a painkiller – looks like you've got some second-degree burns too, which I'm sure you can feel – and start you on an antibiotic. Looks like some of these lesions are already becoming infected, and we want to solve that. We'll also start you on an IV so that we can replace some of your fluids."
Steve liked them. He felt much more seen than with Dr. Goodmund.
When the doctors walked away, his mom approached his bed. His dad had opted to go home. Her voice was a whisper," It happened again, didn't it?" Steve was quiet, head hanging low. Mom reaches for him, something broken and defeated in her eyes. She stops right before touching him. "It happened again, and I wasn't there to help. What happened?"
Steve was instantly brought back to the sensations of drowning, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. All he could feel was water in his throat and nose and lungs. He coughed violently, trying to clear his throat from the sensation and failing.
A nurse was called.
It didn't help.
–
Using two mirrors, he eventually saw what everyone was talking about. The apex of his shoulders had black and deep red dimples that dug into his skin, all varying in size — some as small as a fingernail and others as large as a baseball. Ragged, torn, and infected flesh patched itself around the lesions in a red-and-black fashion. Yellowish but transparent welts the size of his palm and the girth of his fist littered his back and legs.
Instead of the red color he was used to when he got sunburned, he was met with waxy, white, and cracked skin.
The flesh was swollen.
The flesh was tender.
The flesh was going to scar.
–
The sight of it made his mother cry.
His father said it's what he deserves.
They eventually stopped looking.
–
The blood never did fade from the concrete, no matter how much Steve tried.
Hii, thinking about continuing for myself, but if this gets enough love, I may post other parts. So much love to my fellow gremlins.
Trigger warnings for death and all the related shit to it (pun intended), child and domestic abuse, and alcoholism. No beta, we die like Ste- I mean Barb
Steve Harrington first died when he was 6.
He remembers running down the hall and wanting to ask his daddy about a new word he found in his book. His father had a heavy hand when it came to showing love. Long story short, he took a ‘tumble’ down the stairs. He remembers the smack from his father, the weightless feeling before hearing the thud of his body repeatedly against the stairs. Everything felt like static, like fuzzy, cold, and light gray pressure simply bending his body in different directions. He was dead before he hit the floor.
He doesn’t remember much after that; he was aware that time passed, but it was just a black void to him.
There was a weightlessness to it.
Like he could just close his eyes and drift, so drift he did. The edges were fuzzy, and it felt like he was on the shore of a beach. He could feel the gentle morning sun on his skin and a cold breeze in the air. Distantly, he was aware of waves washing over each other and the sound of foam popping quietly. It was nice. Refreshing.
But it wasn’t entirely real, no. It was like there was a transparent element to it. He could feel it, like it was in his soul, but he couldn’t see it. Just imagine. Like when he went to the beach with his parents.
Parents.
He vaguely remembers his mom walking with him down a beach on the west coast and picking seashells in the early morning light. His dad would usually be in a business meeting.
Dad.
His dad… Dad? He was with his dad… previously… but the memory slipped through his gentle grasp like smoke.
He was alone. But he didn’t feel lonely. It was actually very peaceful.
Dad.
Dad.
Dad!
As his brain latched onto the memory of his father, he began to feel a tug in his tummy. It started small, like the gentle waves folding over each other close to him. The pull started to speed up, taking him by surprise. He didn’t want to leave, but the memory of his dad’s backhand was coming into focus too much. He was pulled, slipping away like the sand against the draw and recession of the waves. He felt like he was being pulled through a funnel - a siphon of sorts as feelings came rushing back. He struggled against it, but deep down, he knew there was no way of stopping it. He still tried.
Emotions and adrenaline spiked and started to saturate everything. The air was like ice daggers, spiking into his body as he felt like a cork pulled from one of Mom’s wine bottles. His ears popped as he opened his eyes and fought to breathe. It was too much. It was not enough.
A loud sound banged around him, but everything felt muffled. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes shot up and found a ceiling above him, blurred with tears. There was a face in his view, but it was too blurry to make out. It seemed feminine, with brown hair and lightly tanned skin. Distantly, it felt like his mom.
With each breath, it pulled needles screaming and deep across his body, and he immediately became aware of his arms. They felt like white, painful static, and he wished it would stop. The beach he had been slowly drifting away, and he fought to go back, back to where it didn’t hurt. Back to where he felt safe. Back where he was at peace.
He felt blood rushing through him like a tidal wave as he was turned on his side and started heaving. None of it was enough. He couldn’t breathe in; he couldn’t breathe out. It was all not enough and too much at the same time.
It was a short eternity before his breathing stopped hurting so much and his eyes began to clear. A hand was stroking his hair. It was too hot but soothed something inside him. When he finished heaving, he noticed it was his mom’s voice and gentle hand stroking through his hair. He became acutely aware then that he had made a big, well, potty mess and felt stress and unease flood his system, beginning to choke him. There was also a sharp yet sickly sweet smell he couldn’t place.
The kind and gentle hand on his head was tugged away. Before he could properly mourn the loss, larger hands were running up and down his side. It was his doctor. Why was he here? Why was his mother crying? Was she worried?
“There, see! I told you all he needed was rest and a couple of comforters. Let the body do the healing.”
Everything was still a shock, and he couldn’t willingly move. His doctor waited outside with his father as his mother cleaned him up in the restroom. The two men were smiling to themselves, but his mother’s tears didn’t stop.
The doctor said he took a tumble down the stairs and must’ve hit his head on the wall. He said that if it happened again, Steve just needed rest and as much heat as he could have to warm him up again since he was so cold.
In actuality, his neck snapped on the third tumble down the stairs.
He had been dead for 5 hours before he woke up.
For the next week, his mother hardly let him out of her sight. When he asked her what had happened, she said that he must’ve tripped down the stairs and hit his head. But there was something she wasn’t telling him. He could see it in her eyes. There was such a hidden mix of fear and worry; he ended up asking if she was okay a lot of the time.
She started drinking more.
Richard blamed it on her “seeing things” or not being in the “right state of mind,” but Steve saw her, and her stare pierced everything. His father was wrong, but Steve didn’t know what to do.
His mother was looser with wine and slurred her words. Maybe she would tell him then?
“Mama, what had you so worried that night?” He asked a year or two later.
“Hmm?” She hummed, and he watched as her head bobbed before leaning back on the couch.
“That night when I- when I fell down the stairs…”
She froze, and the hand on her wine glass became a starch white. She eventually lulled her head over to him despite the rigid movements. “You died.” She answered plainly.
He felt like he was struck by lightning.
Her eyes were piercing; there was no doubt about her lucidity.
“What- what do you mean? I’m alive?” Why did it sound like a question?
“I mean that you died.” She said simply, like it wasn’t the most confusing answer. She continued on. “What I mean is that I saw Richard push you down the stairs. I don’t remember why, but the cuck did.” Another sip of wine.
Her head moved until she was staring at the ceiling again. “You went down, down, down... You know, I still hear that sound when I close my eyes. My little baby just,” she makes a vague, repetitive gesture. “And I knew that something was wrong,” The tears marked her eyes as she looked back at him. “I was just hoping you’d be able to,” another gesture, “get back up.”
Her hand moved to her mouth. “You know, I touched your face, and- and some part of me just… knew.”
“Knew what?”
She looked back over at him, and with a broken voice, “That you had died. I don’t know how- I just knew. I checked your pulse and told myself I was hysterical, but… darling, there was nothing there.” The tears in her eyes began to overbear themselves and fall.
“I tried telling Rich- and that we needed to go to the hospital, that something wasn’t right, but he-” she choked a little “- we had a pretty big fight about it. You know how it ended…” A gesture to her face.
Richard’s hand.
“I couldn’t let you go.” She drops her voice to a whisper and meets his teary eyes, “I just, I couldn’t let you be alone for one second. Because it was already too real.”
The back of his nose began to sting.
“I held you and cried, but your father wouldn’t listen.” A gasping breath. “And- and eventually, I laid down on the bed with you, and- and-” she pauses and shakes her head slightly in disbelief. “And then you breathed.”
"It would not just be a quick fuck - it would mean everything to me. If you stay... if you tell me that you love me -- Eddie, I am not that strong to resist you. You would ruin me, Eddie, in ways I cannot express.
"If you stay, you better mean it, or I will haunt you til the end of your days. I am not a game. I'm not a toy. If you stay, it will mean something, and you have to take responsibility. You had my heart, Eddie Munson, and I cannot bear having it broken again."
