..and very old men, they dream of summers
rated G | 1102 words | cw: major character death, mention of drug use, hurt/little bit of comfort
for @steddieangstyaugust prompt “ghosts” (day 2)
Vaguely and very creatively inspired by “Ghosts” by The Presets
Remnants of snow are clinging to the ground as a few shy flower buds slowly emerge, following the sun like Eddie is following the gravelly road back home.
Strangest walk of shame to ever be treaded the one you take after an entire life of big cities, sparkling lights on blurred faces, extremes explored and barely survived to.
Strange because c’mon who runs back home after more than forty years on the road? What even is home when the only sense of belonging you ever found was in the lingering spaces between too many words spoken, in the quiet hours before sun dawn, in the foggy and fuzzy brains chasing drug-induced highs that claimed to self-fulfil all of one’s youth-driven naive dreams?
Strangest because never in all of his nine cat-like fast-burned lives would Eddie ever have said that it was the Indiana torrid and unforgiving blitzkrieg summers he wished to warm his old bones to. Mid-May’s traitorously cold spring tail end was kicking his ass, but Eddie could be patient for this.
Wayne’s old trailer looked like a vintage memorabilia, something straight out of the eighties. Eddie bought it out of the city-owned land for way more money than it was worth it because they were a sentimental little clan, the Munsons. More like a duo maybe. Now a one-man band since Wayne passed nearly a decade back.
Eddie had briefly come back then, just to retrieve his beloved uncle’s ashes, scattering most of them over Wayne’s favourite fishing lake and keeping some to melt into a customised guitar pick because he was a morbid gremlin like that, Eddie.
Thing is ‘course this is home like he spent the majority of his young life between those tin-foiled pressed baking tray walls mock-off, how could he not think back with nothing but fondness about it, slowly climbing the porch steps and sitting down, hugging his cane like he once held a too big guitar during endless strumming-filled nights.
But as a few weeks pass by, the first seeds of summer expanding warm late afternoons into longer comforting nights, when the sun packs its bag for the day and grazes the horizon, Eddie knows he has another ghost to chase before he can settle for good, before old deeds are taken care of, before he can rest.
-- in peace?
You see memories are kind of a funny thing when half of your brain has been fried by poor life choices you don’t really regret but sometimes wish could have left you with some more cooperative neurons.
So when Eddie spots the familiar mop of hazelnut hair he sighs and gets up from the old deck chair, aching bones rattling and all. He could take the car, but he knows it would kill half the fun despite what his knees have to say.
Once he reaches the road outside the trailer park, it’s a solitary basketball rolling down the asphalt guiding him.
“You know I’m not picking it up, right?”
A light phantom laugh travels in the breeze, mid-June still a short way from summer, but the air feels warm and playful.
Eddie sees shoulders shrugging in a yellow sweater, a smug smile, happy crinkled eyes.
The still waters of Lover’s Lake shine behind him but no that’s not right he’s still walking down the street, the woods are in the opposite direction.
Colourful neon lights make it difficult to focus on his face but that’s not right either, this is not San Francisco, this is Hawkins, Indiana.
-- you really are old.
So Eddie keeps on walking, no basketball in sight but a quiet whistling reaches his ears, Fleetwood Mac maybe?
“Oh so your music tastes finally got better at least, that’s a relief”.
Vespertine nostalgia coats the inside of his mouth with smoke and cheap beer and he needs a moment to catch his breath because now it’s the weight of arms around his neck that makes it difficult to keep walking, the weight of a hug he hasn’t felt in a long while too much for his battered back.
“How much longer?”
-- just a little bit more, Sunshine.
Eddie scoffs at the willful unending mission of never acknowledging his Prince of Darkness nature just to fuck with him.
there’s no darkness in you when you smile at me.
“You’re very talkative today”
-- you’re home, closer now.
Eddie lifts his gaze to meet the rusty gates of the old cemetery greeting him, creaking their welcome. As he goes through them, they merge with the glass sliding doors of a big fancy house, humidity radiating from the pool in front of him sticking to his skin.
His brows knit in confusion and he stares at the headstones further away. He starts to walk around the pool to reach them, but a soft hand to his chest stops him.
-- no need to, loverboy, just walk beside me.
So Eddie follows and as he looks down, there’s actually no pool, which ok weird, just wet patches of grass, Spring’s late goodbyes he guesses.
“I’m cold.”
-- I know, just a few more steps.
His cane gets stuck in the mud so he drops it, kind of stumbles forward, closing the distance between him and his destination.
Steve Harrington
October 17, 1966 - March 27, 1986
Beloved and dutiful son.
best friend
brother
babysitter extraordinaire
Eddie sits down by the grave, shivering a little. He traces the dates and the scratched cliches devoid of any actual feeling his parents left there, smiling at the way the truer later contributions by the ones who truly loved Steve steal the spotlight.
“I miss you, y’know?”
-- I know, Sunshine.
“I’m sorry I didn't come back sooner”
-- sooner wasn't the right time, rockstar.
“Do you ever think about how things could’ve been different?”
-- no, because they couldn't.
Eddie sighs once more but stays silent, regret is an ugly parasite to eradicate.
-- Life does what life does, nobody could've known. I’m glad you got to live a full life, Eddie. More stories to tell me, now.
Eddie lets a small sad smile fight for space on his wrinkled face. “I guess”.
He didn't even notice the sun slowly spilling into a new day in full force, warming his skin.
-- I wanted to wait so you could feel Summer instead of Ghosts.
Eddie laughs, a hearty low rumble escaping his smoke-fatigued lungs. He lifts a hand and rests it on the gravestone, patting it with affection.
“Oh but you are both, sweetheart. And I dreamed about it for a very long time now”
Edward W. Munson
June 21, 1965 - June 21, 2035
Beloved freak.
Sunshine
