I am not unaware of the negatives of Biden's presidency, and I am not trying to elide or forgive them. I'm reblogging posts about the Biden administration because I think it's really important that potential voters in the US realize that there is, in fact, a very big difference between the two parties, and voting for Biden is not just damage control--it actually does good. It's okay, you can actually feel a little excited about making meaningful progress, and not just hold your nose.
He's been very unflashy. He's not a great leader, he's not charismatic and he knows it, but he's an adroit politician and administrator, and he's been getting things done. Letting Trump win at this point would be tantamount to throwing the entire country on the bonfire. It's not a choice between bad and bad, it's a choice between meaningful, if imperfect, progress and fucking doom.
Drone armies, expanded overtime pay and over-the-counter birth control pills are just some of the new things Biden has ushered in as preside
Things that he’s gotten done and what impact they have made or will make. I don’t like all of them, but there are a lot I am really, really glad he’s managed (and impressed).
Now, imagine what could happen if we had a unified House, Senate, and White House. If you think of all the bills that have stalled because the Speakers wouldn’t even bring them to a vote…
And if that’s not enough, Justices Thomas and Alito are the oldest currently in office. Wouldn’t it be great to NOT have the guy who names justices be the one who put on the people who overturned Roe vs Wade, if those two should retire?
Ultimately when given a choice between poor options for the US Presidency, it's as simple as this: which party do you want nominating people for the Supreme Court , which is a lifelong post and whose decisions will affect everyone for decades if not generations?
If only for that reason, it's crucial to vote. Whatever else you think of the nominee. Whether you respect or despise Joe Biden, there's no question he's going to nominate far, far, far better options for the Supreme Court than anyone the Republican Party throws up.
Knowing the weirdness is coming doesn't make it less weird.
Steve clings to Jeff's warning like a lifeline in the days after the attack, as Eddie swings wildly from withdrawn and paranoid to brash and itching for a fight. One second he's tackling Steve in a public park, sweeping him off his feet and swinging in a wide, reckless circle, the next he's shooting dodgy glances over his shoulder and suggesting they come up with some kind of tapping code when they want to communicate the urge to kiss or hug in public.
His face is a mess for weeks.
He doesn’t want to talk about it.
Hardly wants to look at it — takes to avoiding mirrors and fucking Steve from behind, or turning off all the lights, or hiding his face behind his hair when he gets between Steve’s legs. Plays it off like he’s just being sexy, trying something new, ‘isn’t this exciting?’ But Steve’s pretty sure he just doesn’t want to see the worry in Steve’s eyes when their kisses hurt his face.
So Valentine's Day comes and goes, and Steve doesn't say it; doesn't say 'I love you,' because he's never sure he's going to get the version of Eddie who’s brave enough to say it back. They don't even do anything for the holiday, really, which kind of kills Steve, even if he won't admit it.
He can't help it; he's a sap.
They do share a heart-shaped box of chocolates in Eddie’s bed the day after, though. Led Zeppelin crooning softly from the record player, and Steve plays it off like he only bought them because they were half off, and Eddie gives him a gooey look and pushes him into the pillows. Blows him within an inch of his young life; smiles up at him at the end, lips slick and full and pretty. Steve thinks, maybe they're okay.
They’ll be okay.
Eddie may still be a little off, a little wobbly, but he’s laughing again, he’s silly and animated again, he’s playing guitar and making jokes, and—
And who is Steve to judge how a person, like, processes or whatever? At least Eddie’s not doing any late night demolition.
They’re gonna be just fine.
The last of the sickly yellow bruising slips away from Eddie's eye as the month comes to a close, so Steve decides to risk it. Asks Eddie out. A movie night, a proper date where Steve can pay for the milkshakes and let their thighs brush against each other when the theater lights go down.
And sure, they'll have to pretend it’s just two straight guys hanging out — do their tapping thing and keep a healthy distance, two bros being pals being buds being dudes — and that shit sucks, but it’s better than nothing.
Steve's never had to worry about PDA before. One more thing he won't admit is kind of slowly killing him; rope burn around his heart when he thinks about it too hard.
"What do you say?" he asks Eddie. They’re lounging on his couch, propped on opposite ends with their legs tangled in the middle. "You want to let me take you out to the city?"
Brookhaven isn't exactly the city so much as the closest suburb whose mall didn't get torpedoed by the commies, but there's a theater and some decent diners, and it's far enough away that they shouldn't run into any classmates looking to cause trouble.
Eddie gives him a wary look. “I don’t know,” he hedges, fingers coming up to worry the thin sliver of a scar under his chin.
Steve swallows the hurt. The twine chafing behind his ribs. "It's okay," he starts to say, but Eddie's eyes flare with defiance.
“Actually, fuck it,” he declares, slapping his knees as he stands up. Gets up onto the couch cushion, spreads his feet wide and puts his hands on his hips; Steve’s little metalhead superhero. Steve can't help his grin when Eddie shakes his hair out big and says, "Take me out and woo me, baby!"
—
part 52
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Eddie jumping up on the couch and shaking his hair out while doing a superhero pose is very endearing I need you to know the amount of affection I felt for him in that moment is unparalleled. And honestly? You SHOULD have written him like that as a little treat after the absolute heartache of literally all the words before it. They’re falling apart!!!! They’re crumbling at the seams!!!! If anything f happens to them I WILL be writing a strongly worded letter just so you know. The ache and the hurts they’re not talking about are actually!!!!! So fucking loud!!!! Like a constant ringing that’s always there, that you’re always aware of, but you’re also refusing to acknowledge for fear of it becoming worse. I’m going to!!!! Bash their heads together!!!! Fuck!!!!
cw: sex & spit & sadness; period-typical homophobia
They're on each other the second they get through Steve’s front door. Something charged and taut between them; something begging to be snapped.
It's not gentle — Eddie pushes him against the walls as he walks them toward the bedroom, tearing off clothes and palming Steve's cock just enough to get it hard. Shoves him down onto the bed and preps him quick with messy fingers, mumbling praise into the crook of his neck as he spreads him open, one, then two, then, breathless, “Three.”
“Oh, fuck.”
“Yeah,” he groans. “There you fucking go.” Frenzied flicks and thrusts, curling just right at the tip, and when he lines himself up he urges, "Come on, baby, let me in- let me—"
Steve tenses, then lets go. Sets his thoughts to run free in a field of wildflowers, lets himself sink into warm depths where his mind is quiet and his body is in flames and everything is so, so unbearably good. Eddie gives him a second to adjust, and when he moves, Steve moves with him. Earth and moon; tidal force. He plants one foot on the bed to match Eddie's frantic pace, the other leg thrown around his hip, urging him deeper, harder, in in in, and Eddie's fucking him so hard he's sliding up the sheets, so hard he can barely speak, his mouth open on one long, continuous moan.
He can't keep not saying it. He can't keep— he can't— "Eddie," he gasps, whimpering as Eddie angles his hips and strokes in deep, slick skin slapping where their bodies meet. "Eddie, I- unh, oh, fucking god, I lo- lov-"
"Stick your tongue out for me, princess."
Eddie grunts and spits in his mouth. Wet and gross and loud, splashing on Steve’s cheeks and nose, his lips, and he chases it with his tongue; licks over Steve's open mouth and fucks his tongue in deep, then pulls back to slide two fingers in and moan, "Suck my fingers while you come. That's it, honey, that's—" and Steve comes with a hoarse shout.
Eddie follows him right over. Fills him up and stays there; collapses on his chest.
He’s still inside him when the tears start.
Muffled sniffs against Steve’s collarbone, wet and warm and mixing with their cooling sweat, and Steve says, “Hey,” but there's no answer.
Eddie stifles another whimper. Steve drops his arms from his shoulders to his waist. "What's wrong?”
The question feels like putting one foot out over the quarry. Fourteen and tipsy on a dare, smiling real wide as his friends counted down from ten. The cheering, the shoulder grabs, handshakes and pats on the back, and then, and then, alone in the bushes, stomach turning as he realized they had almost let him die.
Eddie shakes his head against him; rolls his forehead back and forth on his shoulder, no and no and no. “I can’t— baby, I’m not… I’m not good.” His voice cracks, and he gives a low moan, pained and drawn out like he’s fighting off a fever. “I’m a fucking black hole.”
There's no fight in his voice — no hint of hysteria, no sing-song sarcasm, no boisterous breath. He goes soft and slips out, and it's just empty. Just dead. Speared through by the ruthless roots of old grief, and now some deep, hollow misery churns ugly truth like solar flares, the words blackened and raw and wholeheartedly believed.
And Steve wants to laugh, because he’s the black hole. He’s the rotten thing sucking Eddie into orbit. Eddie’s the brilliant star stuff spinning past his dark horizon. “No,” he says simply, squeezing his arms tighter around him. “No.”
They lie in silence for a while. Breathing out of rhythm, hearts thudding against each other's chests. Eventually Eddie falls asleep, and Steve rolls him over and tucks them in, cleans them up with a discarded t-shirt.
He stays awake for a long time; stares at the ceiling, a question tearing at his mind — a jagged thumbnail worming under the edge of a too-fresh scab:
What happens when two black holes collide?
He’d asked that once. In middle school. Raised his hand in science class, and Mr. Clarke had called the question intriguing, and Tommy H. had called him a fag. ‘Only nerds care about space shit,’ he’d taunted during recess, ‘I mean, what are we, eight?’
Steve sometimes wishes that he was still.
Wishes things could be that easy.
Wishes, more than anything, that he didn’t wake up alone.
—
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Literally so in love with the fact that you had to put a disclaimer about how this will have a happy ending. Literally laughed out loud. Like Wynn you’re out here torturing people so exquisitely that you have to reassure them that there will, in fact, be a happy ending. No sub drop in Wynn’s house. Just extreme edging, followed by tender, loving aftercare and reassurance. Love that for us.
But on a real note this update is like. Doing my head in. How frantic they were, the desperation, both of their emotions bubbling to the surface in vast different ways. Steve feels so much he needs to tell Eddie he loves him, Eddie feels so much it’s making him spiral out of control it’s like. God I can’t imagine the fear and adrenaline still coursing through them, but they manifest in such different ways like!!! Eddie sobbing out he’s a black hole makes me feel. Fine. I feel normal about it. I feel completely 100% well over it. Not at all an emotional wreck. (But also Steve wondering what happens when two black holes collide, the way it felt like my heart was splitting in two at all the unsaid thoughts and feelings running through him like. You e done such an amazing job of characterizing Steve through this whole series that’s it’s intuitive to read even what he’s not saying and I’m. Well im so fucking in love with this series but also breaking apart over it.)
"I'm just saying!" Eddie laughs as he swings himself around the slender base of a young tree, cigarette dangling from his lips. "I could absolutely rock the blue eyeshadow look the main chick was wearing."
Steve doesn't disagree. They're in a dark alcove on the side of the movie theater, Eddie's hair all lit up from behind, a frizzy halo of pinks and blues from the neon radiating off the front of the building, and he looks fucking gorgeous, and he smells like menthol and strawberry shake, and he's been tapping Steve's wrist so much tonight that he might as well be drumming up a new song just for them.
"Can't argue with that," Steve murmurs as he steps up onto the concrete planter. Gets up in Eddie's space; borrows his cigarette, his words floating out on a thin wisp of smoke. "You look beautiful."
"Beautiful," Eddie mimics, tasting the word, looking unbelievably pleased with the flavor that he finds. His eyes go hooded, and there's a sly tilt to his mouth as his tongue slips out to tease the edge. "You tryin' to start somethin', Harrington?"
Steve's answering hum rumbles deep in his chest. His cock aches in his jeans. God, he wants him; wants to back him up a good ten feet until his body scrapes the bricks. Wants to rough him up a little, like Eddie did to him the first time they kissed — make his breath hitch and his skin buzz and his back arch under his touch.
"Oh, you are," Eddie purrs. He takes the cigarette back, their fingers brushing on the exchange, and they're standing so close now, nothing but this skinny tree between them, just a twig of a thing, really, the toes of their shoes touching on either side of the base.
Steve looks down at the snowy soil. Taps Eddie's wrist. Desperately. Frantically. Take me home right now, so help me—
A low whoop echoes off the pavement.
A predatory jeer, and Steve looks up to see three men approaching — three boys, about their age, and drunk, by the looks of it. He grits his teeth.
Their ringleader looks like a caricature; classic bad boy who thinks too highly of himself, some cheap knock-off mash up of Billy Hargrove and Rob Lowe. Steve eyes the shaggy mullet, the dangly earring skimming the lapel of his black jacket, the silver flask and the stupid swagger, and his blood runs hot. Thrums with the promise of a fight.
“Well shit, boys,” the guy grins to his sidekicks, taking a long swig and wiping his mouth. Gleeful malice in green eyes. Little asshole gets close enough for Steve to make out the color; gets right up in Steve’s face and sneers, “Looks like we got ourselves a couple of queers to smear.”
Really? Steve thinks. We’re doing playground games right now? He folds his arms over his chest, flattens his voice; disinterested. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”
Eddie smokes his cigarette, and the smoke curls around them in short, unsteady puffs.
The guy snarls, “Do you?”
Beside him, his friend’s hands ball up in fists. A vicious voice in Steve’s head whispers: plant your fucking feet.
“Nah,” Steve answers. He takes a step in front of Eddie; widens his stance, digs his heels into the mulch. Slight crouch; deep breath. “Think I’m right where I need to be.”
“Fuckin’ freak,” the guy spits at the ground. He sways and pivots just a little, like maybe he’s about to slither back off to wherever he came from. Or maybe he’s about to throw his full weight into a swing.
Eddie’s breath whistles. His nose still healing from the break. “Seriously, man,” he tries as he drops the cigarette, crushing the butt under his boot. His voice is thin; hands up; don’t shoot. “Just- just fuck off, alright? We don’t want any—”
The first punch is slow. Sloppy. Steve sees it coming and dips low to dodge, and the jab cracks against the tree, spraying ice and splintered bark, the sound sharp in his good ear. It’s a plate over his head; it’s Billy cackling while the world dims, and Steve sees fucking red. Tastes metal and acid and rot, and all his ghosts are with him; all of Eddie’s, too. Hargrove, and Andy, and Jason fucking Carver; all the faceless specters of whoever pummeled him that night at the bar, whoever dared to lay a finger on him when Steve wasn’t there to be a shield.
But he’s here now, and his answering punch lands hard — sickening crunch as his uppercut connects with the kid’s ribs, knocks the wind out of him. The guy grunts and doubles over, but he gets in a good swing on the way down.
Steve tastes blood at the edge of his lip.
Someone grabs him by the collar.
One of the guy’s friends, freezing fingers pawing at his shoulder, at his throat, and he pulls back hard until his shirt rips at the neckline and frees him from the hold. Ducks again to dodge a blow, swivels and pops discount Rob Lowe right under the chin.
The kid’s teeth clack together as he bites his own tongue. Steve watches his head fly back like it’s about to fall off — like a ragdoll, like a bobblehead, like it’s happening in slow motion. He collapses on the sidewalk and cracks his head against the bricks, and he's down, he's out, but there’s two more still coming, one in front and one on Steve's right, and that one looks tall and broad enough to do some real damage.
Steve squares his shoulders; braces himself for another concussion, because this is— fuck, is the guy on the ground bleeding?
This is bad.
This is really bad.
And then he hears it.
A familiar thwick, a metallic slice through the sudden stillness in the air as Eddie pulls his knife out of his boot and flicks it open.
"Back the fuck off!" he growls; lunges forward with the blade and stabs at empty air, the metal gleaming like an oath. His expression is wild, sweat on his lip and at his temples, bangs sticking to his brow.
Steve spits blood onto the concrete.
Everyone backs the fuck off.
—
"Holy shit," Eddie pants as they haul ass out of the lot. Fingers trembling on the steering wheel, knee jiggling so badly it jangles all his pins and chains. His whole body is shaking. The radio is off.
In the rearview, Steve gets a glimpse of their attackers dragging their limp friend by the armpits through a snowy flowerbed. He thinks he sees a streak of blood.
“Did you know them?” he asks, his eyes glued to the reflection.
Eddie rolls the next three stop signs.
“No,” he finally says. Swallows hard in the simmering quiet. “They were just some guys.”
—
part 53
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Hi hello I’m. Going. INSANE. That was so!!!!! Fucking intense!!!! I’m!!!! Okay like as soon as I get my power of speech back I’ll tell you exactly what I’m.
I’m like. So so frightened (lovingly) of what’s going to come next because like. That was batshit!!! I was constantly torn between my “yeah fuck ‘em up Steve!” And “oh god oh no how is this going to come back to haunt them and cause even more angst oh god” and because I know you’re sick n twisted a cruel (affectionate) I know it IS going to 😭😭😭
Knowing the weirdness is coming doesn't make it less weird.
Steve clings to Jeff's warning like a lifeline in the days after the attack, as Eddie swings wildly from withdrawn and paranoid to brash and itching for a fight. One second he's tackling Steve in a public park, sweeping him off his feet and swinging in a wide, reckless circle, the next he's shooting dodgy glances over his shoulder and suggesting they come up with some kind of tapping code when they want to communicate the urge to kiss or hug in public.
His face is a mess for weeks.
He doesn’t want to talk about it.
Hardly wants to look at it — takes to avoiding mirrors and fucking Steve from behind, or turning off all the lights, or hiding his face behind his hair when he gets between Steve’s legs. Plays it off like he’s just being sexy, trying something new, ‘isn’t this exciting?’ But Steve’s pretty sure he just doesn’t want to see the worry in Steve’s eyes when their kisses hurt his face.
So Valentine's Day comes and goes, and Steve doesn't say it; doesn't say 'I love you,' because he's never sure he's going to get the version of Eddie who’s brave enough to say it back. They don't even do anything for the holiday, really, which kind of kills Steve, even if he won't admit it.
He can't help it; he's a sap.
They do share a heart-shaped box of chocolates in Eddie’s bed the day after, though. Led Zeppelin crooning softly from the record player, and Steve plays it off like he only bought them because they were half off, and Eddie gives him a gooey look and pushes him into the pillows. Blows him within an inch of his young life; smiles up at him at the end, lips slick and full and pretty. Steve thinks, maybe they're okay.
They’ll be okay.
Eddie may still be a little off, a little wobbly, but he’s laughing again, he’s silly and animated again, he’s playing guitar and making jokes, and—
And who is Steve to judge how a person, like, processes or whatever? At least Eddie’s not doing any late night demolition.
They’re gonna be just fine.
The last of the sickly yellow bruising slips away from Eddie's eye as the month comes to a close, so Steve decides to risk it. Asks Eddie out. A movie night, a proper date where Steve can pay for the milkshakes and let their thighs brush against each other when the theater lights go down.
And sure, they'll have to pretend it’s just two straight guys hanging out — do their tapping thing and keep a healthy distance, two bros being pals being buds being dudes — and that shit sucks, but it’s better than nothing.
Steve's never had to worry about PDA before. One more thing he won't admit is kind of slowly killing him; rope burn around his heart when he thinks about it too hard.
"What do you say?" he asks Eddie. They’re lounging on his couch, propped on opposite ends with their legs tangled in the middle. "You want to let me take you out to the city?"
Brookhaven isn't exactly the city so much as the closest suburb whose mall didn't get torpedoed by the commies, but there's a theater and some decent diners, and it's far enough away that they shouldn't run into any classmates looking to cause trouble.
Eddie gives him a wary look. “I don’t know,” he hedges, fingers coming up to worry the thin sliver of a scar under his chin.
Steve swallows the hurt. The twine chafing behind his ribs. "It's okay," he starts to say, but Eddie's eyes flare with defiance.
“Actually, fuck it,” he declares, slapping his knees as he stands up. Gets up onto the couch cushion, spreads his feet wide and puts his hands on his hips; Steve’s little metalhead superhero. Steve can't help his grin when Eddie shakes his hair out big and says, "Take me out and woo me, baby!"
—
part 52
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Eddie jumping up on the couch and shaking his hair out while doing a superhero pose is very endearing I need you to know the amount of affection I felt for him in that moment is unparalleled. And honestly? You SHOULD have written him like that as a little treat after the absolute heartache of literally all the words before it. They’re falling apart!!!! They’re crumbling at the seams!!!! If anything f happens to them I WILL be writing a strongly worded letter just so you know. The ache and the hurts they’re not talking about are actually!!!!! So fucking loud!!!! Like a constant ringing that’s always there, that you’re always aware of, but you’re also refusing to acknowledge for fear of it becoming worse. I’m going to!!!! Bash their heads together!!!! Fuck!!!!
Steve gets the full story from Jeff later that night.
After Eddie and Wayne come out of the bathroom — after Eddie goes straight to his room and shuts the door without so much as a glance in Steve's direction, after Wayne clears his throat and suggests they all clear out and give the kid a night to cool off — Steve drags himself back to his trailer and paces for a while. Tries not to feel horribly rejected, which is...
It's fucking ridiculous, is what it is.
Stupid to be focusing on his own dumb feelings right now.
Eddie's the one with a pulverized face.
So anyway, Jeff. Steve dials his number, and it feels weird that he even has his number at all — weirder still that, of all the guys in Corroded Coffin, he and Jeff have the most in common. Makes sense, though; Jeff's the only one who likes professional sports even a little.
"Hello?" Jeff's nasal voice comes over the line.
He sounds like his usual self — doesn't sound like he got pummeled, at least. Steve paces a tighter circle, says, "Hey, man, it's Steve."
Jeff makes a clipped noise. "You saw Eddie then?"
Furious heat crawls up the back of Steve’s neck, the image swimming red in his tunneled vision: the welt under Eddie's eye, the blood blooming on his chin. Someone did that to him.
Someone who needs to fucking pay for it.
“Yeah,” he seethes, trying to keep his voice down. “What the hell happened?"
Jeff sighs; launches into the vague version of events that he's allowed to tell — the version with no names and no identifying details, because Eddie made them swear not to tell Steve who was responsible.
"Sorry, man," he says when Steve presses for the third time; sounds like he means it, too. "Eddie seems to think you'd just land yourself in big boy jail if you knew, so…”
Steve clenches his jaw, his fists. Imagines fresh blood against his knuckles, how good it would feel to slam them into someone’s face; has a flashback of Billy Hargrove pinning him to a kitchen floor, laughing maniacally while his world went dull and dim.
…Goddammit. “He’s not wrong.”
So Steve listens, silent and helpless while Jeff tells him as much as he can about the mounting Satanic panic: how the townspeople are still grieving everyone who died last summer, how that grief is turning to paranoia, conspiracies about the destruction of the hospital and the fire at the mall, and now there are all these news articles coming out, whipping churchgoers into a frenzy over the queers and the occult, and the end result of all of it is that Eddie gets his ass beat in the alley behind a shitty dive bar.
All for having the nerve to wear a Black Sabbath shirt in public.
“Eddie said they stole something?” Steve prompts after a short silence.
"His amp,” Jeff says, and Steve sags in relief. At least it wasn’t the Warlock. He can replace an amp no problem. “They stole our fucking tip jar, too. Not there was much in it, man, but still.”
Fuckers, Steve thinks.
"Fuckers," Jeff spits, then sighs, "so much for being Christ-like, or whatever."
Steve chews his lip. Fiddles with his nails, hoping to work out a way to get Jeff to give him names. He only knows one name that comes to mind, but he can’t just go pummeling people on a hunch.
“If you ask me again,” Jeff says, “I’m hanging up.”
Well, damn. He slouches back against the counter, folding his arms over his chest. "The rest of you are alright?"
"Yeah. Yeah, we're good. We were loading the van when it happened.” Another short, derisive sound. “Of course they waited to corner him when he was alone."
"So they planned this," Steve says, and the name in his head is practically flashing on a marquee. Jason Carver and his lackeys at that party back in November. The back of Jason’s head at the midnight mass they snuck into. Is this freak bothering you?
Steve’s voice is a lethal whisper. "Do you think they'll do it again?"
"Steve—"
“Do,” he repeats, “you think” —Hopper’s ghost in his mouth, authoritative and slow— “they'll do it again?"
Jeff lets out a long breath, his words wobbly with nerves. "I don't know, dude. Probably not? One of them looked pretty freaked out by how messed up Eddie's eye was."
Steve tastes blood in his mouth.
Fucking better have.
Another silence falls, rustling and static sounds, and Jeff hesitates. "Listen, uh..."
"Yeah?"
"Nothing, just... Well. Eddie can get a little, um. A little weird, about people seeing him be, like, vulnerable and shit. So. Just a heads up."
Weird like hiding from his boyfriend? the petty part of Steve’s brain supplies. Weird like shutting his door without saying goodbye?
He tamps down hard on the hurt that bubbles up at the reminder, because—
Because Eddie’s seen him at his most pathetic too many times to count. Has seen him blubbering and soft and desperate for comfort; has offered it so eagerly without judgment or thought. And if Steve can’t do the same now, if Eddie thinks there’s shame to be found in it, then that means— that means…
He swallows the glass shard in his throat. “Thanks for the warning, man. For real.”
—
part 51
holy shit i can’t believe i wrote 50 parts of this
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DYING DYING DYING WYNN UR KILLING ME. WHY ARE YOU SO FUCKING GOOD WITH METAPHOR AND DESCRIPTORS AND LITERALLY EVERYTHING.
Like the WAY my breath caught reading the line “hoppers ghost in his mouth, authoritative and slow” like that shit was so visceral and real and AMAZING. UR amazing!!! Just the way Steve’s emotions fluctuate from anger to despair back to anger and it’s so well written I can FEEL that myself. My own outrage and bubbling disbelief. And then the way you just absolutely tore my fucking heart out at what you implied Steve’s feeling at the end…the shame and hurt and the way he tries to ignore it, push it down. GOD. This au will be my undoing
It's a totally normal Tuesday the day it all starts going to shit.
Eddie's got a show at The Hideout, and Wayne's got a rare night off, so Steve's at his boyfriend's place without him catching a basketball game with Wayne and Ernie. He did try to go to the show, to be fair; wanted to, but Eddie took one look at the way he was cradling the side of his head and winked at him to "sit this one out, big boy," so here he is: drinking beer with two old men and watching the most frustrating game he's seen all season.
"Oh, what the hell was that?" he begs the tiny screen, jumping out of his seat to pace a tight circle and rake his hands over his scalp hard enough to pluck a few strands. Beside him, Ernie shakes his head and mutters "goddamn disgraceful, that's what" and in the kitchen Wayne munches happily on a fresh plate of nachos, taps his bald head with a half-eaten chip and warns, "Quit tuggin' at your hair 'fore you wind up lookin' like this."
"Whatever, old man." Steve rolls his eyes, but he loosens his grip. Drags his hands down his face instead. "Don't act like you're not loving this."
Wayne laughs, a broad, smug smile that's pure Munson mischief. "Never claimed otherwise," he says, then he pops a cigarette in his mouth and tells them to get their wallets ready.
Bastard. His team's doing fine tonight. (And sure, the bet was only five dollars, but it's a point of pride, damn it.)
Steve turns his attention back to the game, where the ref is making yet another call that's so laughably bad Steve's not sure how he isn't getting decked for it. A stray elbow to the face, at least. Fucking something.
"Jesus Christ," he mumbles; still pacing, arms crossed. "If they don't fire this idiot, I swear..."
He turns to Ernie for back up; remembers that Ernie's got a lapful of Misty the cat right now and quickly looks away. Creepy little thing still freaks Steve out (even if Ernie's stroking her fur like she's a harmless stress toy and not the razor-clawed, rat-chomping demon she really is.) He still can't look at her. Gets queasy just thinking about all the "presents" she's left him since he moved in.
Ernie catches the way his shoulders tense. "Didn't think you'd be afraid of a little pussy," he teases, scratching the cat behind her ears.
Misty gives a low rumble of approval.
Steve's stomach flips. "Whatever," he scoffs, looking anywhere but at them. "That thing's bad luck. No wonder we're losing."
He settles back into his seat, and the game goes on — and on, and on, until the score gets so embarrassing that Steve considers just getting up and yanking the TV plug out of the wall, or maybe storming out of the place in protest — and he's about to beg Wayne for mercy, ask him to change the station to anything else, when the front door opens so softly it sets off alarm bells in his head.
Steve whips around at the lack of sound. Knows immediately that something is wrong, because Eddie Munson doesn't do quiet. Eddie Munson comes home like fireworks going off: Crack! Whizz! Bang! He's always a burst of noise and energy; he's a fucking racket; Wayne's said so a million times — muttered it angrily when Eddie's music keeps him up, grumbled it fondly over breakfast while he tries to stop himself from falling asleep face-first in a plate of eggs.
Tonight Eddie comes home quiet as a thief. A mouse trying to evade the clutch of Misty's claws. His head's hung low as he shucks off his boots, his face obscured by frizzy hair.
Steve's across the room in a heartbeat.
"Baby?" he whispers, trying to peak behind the curtain. Eddie won't look at him, but his breathing sounds off; labored and whistling, and his hair is matted with something dark. "You okay?"
"Fine," Eddie croaks.
They both know it's a lie.
Steve lifts a hand to gently tip his chin up, but the moment his fingers graze skin Eddie winces and tugs away. "Okay," he says, pulling his hand back. "Okay, I'm sorry, just— can you look at me? Please?" He softens his voice, tries to coax Eddie out. You're safe here; you can trust me.
When Eddie finally looks up, Steve's heart lodges in his throat.
His face is ruined. Caked in dried blood, the skin below his left eye like an overripe eggplant: deep purple and threatening to split down the middle, to spill rotten juices all over the floor. There's a cut above his brow, another nick between his eyes, and— fuck.
His nose is broken.
Steve's gonna kill someone.
"Who did this to you?" he asks, deadly quiet. Whoever it is, they're not living to the morning. Steve's got a car and a nail bat and a boy with a broken nose, and he's going to kill whoever did this to him. "Eddie." He grips his biceps; shakes him a little. Insists. "Eddie, tell me who did this!"
Eddie hiccups a weak sob. Lips shiny with blood and tears, and Steve lets go; feels horrible for making it worse, for letting his anger get the best of him. He wraps Eddie up a gentle hug, cradles him against his chest and doesn't care if Ernie sees. He doesn't give a damn.
"Fucking—" Eddie grunts against Steve's shirt, his teeth chattering around the word. His throat clicks when he swallows. Sticky with blood and phlegm.
Hospital, Steve thinks. Blood loss; sepsis; shock.
Eddie gulps a ragged breath and tries again. "Fucking assholes," he gets out, "they took our- t-took our—" The words cut off with a pained whimper, and he breaks down and just cries. Cries and cries until the heaving subsides, until it lessens to muted trembling in Steve's arms. There's fresh blood on his shirt.
Eddie's blood is on his shirt.
He looks up, eyes wet and wide, and then Wayne's there; two strong, weathered hands firm on Eddie's shaking shoulders. "Is it bad?" he asks Steve. No nonsense; demanding answers. Decorated veteran.
Steve nods without a word.
"C'mon, kid," Wayne soothes. "Let's get you cleaned up."
—
part 50
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GOODBYE FOREVER. This is NOT the direction I thought this was going in. I did not have “Eddie comes home bloody and beaten” on my bingo card but BOY am I on the edge of my seat about it all. I feel like I was lulled into a false sense of security with this one like yes logically I know that the last one left off basically say you were gonna fuck with my feelings but then there were Steve and Wayne bonding!!!! Playfully mocking each other over a sports game!!!! Placing bets and hanging out but I should have KNOWN to look over my shoulder because that god forsaken cat was there!!!!
Also like not gonna lie the minute Steve went on high alert because Eddie came in quietly???? Literally got goosebumps. Like could you image being so in tune with someone, so aware of all the things that make them THEM that the minute they stop you know. And GOD Steve’s “who did this to you” like I am not immune. I am simply not immune to the quest, feral anger present any time those words are uttered. Eddie falling apart in Steve’s arms is my undoing. Like. I fully support the murder in Steve’s heart. Fuck ‘em up, baby
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