[ don't be a hero would have been funny enough on it own, coming from steve harrington. not again strikes a small cord of disbelief and sends inexplicable butterflies rustling around in his chest and eddie was glad to have busied his hands then, thumb pressed to steve's pulse. he must have mumbled a — ] Nah, no way, man. Me? [ some sardonic, autopilot response, when all he could think of, while tying the rope around, was the helplessness he felt when chrissy was killed. he was powerless to do anything then, other than stand by, frozen in fear. and when feeling finally returned to his legs, he just ran. and ran, and ran. maybe a small part of him, deep down and unresolved, is a little proud that there was the one time he didn't. and they were okay, steve had said, everyone was okay and sure there was some addendum in there somewhere, a but sitting between the lines that would be later addressed. and it isn't that he thinks a single rope would be their salvation, or that he would be doing something particularly heroic enough right this very instant or that this was a particularly brave thing to do at all.
but it was action regardless, something that helped him not feel useless, juxtaposed against how quickly steve had come down to help him. how steve brought supplies, a pack ready with who knows what else. how steve kept talking, plan in hand. so even if it was just some stupid buddy system, eddie felt like at least he was doing something. the pain was secondary — impossible to avoid when every part of you ached anyway.
but steve goes along with it, going down beside him and then everything that happens next feels like it both takes seconds and hours. steve's hand is bunching the fabric of eddie's shirt when they go through, together. eddie's stomach lurches, the world turns upside down and topside up and maybe he yells out and it all spins and it takes a moment of looking up at the star-speckled sky to slowly find his bearing. somewhere beside him he hears a single laugh, rope taut enough to tell him he wasn't alone, that harrington didn't get left behind.] Jesus H. Christ.
[ and eddie munson, lying on the cold asphalt in the middle of a ruined highway, doesn't disappear into a puff of smoke, contrary to his own expectations. eddie munson, somehow, had managed to cheat death. his chest heaves, his heartbeat a loud ringing in his ears, racing hummingbird quick in the birdcage of his ribs.
steve comes into focus above him, upside down and smiling and eddie answers with a grin of his own, suddenly elated. his hand reaches out to grasp steve's offer. real. this was all real and solid still and no one was disappearing in any smoke or illusion or bats and bad memories.
it takes some effort to leverage himself back up. there's a part in his brain — some remnant of self-preservation — that understands he's tapped out. there comes that dip in senses, that white-out lightness in his head as the tinnitus reaches a peak, as he lifts himself back up and only in large part thanks to steve, grip back on the forearm and holding tight, does he not go teetering face first into the asphalt. his grin, a touch lopsided, stays. there's an unsteady laugh spilling back out.
his other hand slides up to rest back on the junction between shoulder and neck; there's a short squeeze. comfort in the returned proximity, gratitude and a curious sort of fondness he never expected to have. but they did fight — and win, and lose — to a very real, very unimaginable evil and maybe that allowed for him to be all...this about it. whatever this was. he just cheated death and steve fucking harrington, former king of hawkins high, just saved his ass from being stuck in that stupid place forever. what a crazy, crazy world this was.
and, obviously, he's just holding on so he doesn't fall over. of course. ] Never thought I'd actually be happy to hear that, Harrington.
[ he finally chances a better look around them, eyes landing on harrington's beamer, ostensibly parked not too far away. he points at it with a wobbly finger and pretends to ignore the tremble returning to his hands. ] Now, I'm — going to go sit. In there. Before I eat shit right front you. [ that cool with you? is intoned between the lines, he hopes. not that he doubts the ability of your strong beautiful arms to carry his unconscious self over to your car but...there were limits, man. ]
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but it was action regardless, something that helped him not feel useless, juxtaposed against how quickly steve had come down to help him. how steve brought supplies, a pack ready with who knows what else. how steve kept talking, plan in hand. so even if it was just some stupid buddy system, eddie felt like at least he was doing something. the pain was secondary — impossible to avoid when every part of you ached anyway.
but steve goes along with it, going down beside him and then everything that happens next feels like it both takes seconds and hours. steve's hand is bunching the fabric of eddie's shirt when they go through, together. eddie's stomach lurches, the world turns upside down and topside up and maybe he yells out and it all spins and it takes a moment of looking up at the star-speckled sky to slowly find his bearing. somewhere beside him he hears a single laugh, rope taut enough to tell him he wasn't alone, that harrington didn't get left behind.] Jesus H. Christ.
[ and eddie munson, lying on the cold asphalt in the middle of a ruined highway, doesn't disappear into a puff of smoke, contrary to his own expectations. eddie munson, somehow, had managed to cheat death. his chest heaves, his heartbeat a loud ringing in his ears, racing hummingbird quick in the birdcage of his ribs.
steve comes into focus above him, upside down and smiling and eddie answers with a grin of his own, suddenly elated. his hand reaches out to grasp steve's offer. real. this was all real and solid still and no one was disappearing in any smoke or illusion or bats and bad memories.
it takes some effort to leverage himself back up. there's a part in his brain — some remnant of self-preservation — that understands he's tapped out. there comes that dip in senses, that white-out lightness in his head as the tinnitus reaches a peak, as he lifts himself back up and only in large part thanks to steve, grip back on the forearm and holding tight, does he not go teetering face first into the asphalt. his grin, a touch lopsided, stays. there's an unsteady laugh spilling back out.
his other hand slides up to rest back on the junction between shoulder and neck; there's a short squeeze. comfort in the returned proximity, gratitude and a curious sort of fondness he never expected to have. but they did fight — and win, and lose — to a very real, very unimaginable evil and maybe that allowed for him to be all...this about it. whatever this was. he just cheated death and steve fucking harrington, former king of hawkins high, just saved his ass from being stuck in that stupid place forever. what a crazy, crazy world this was.
and, obviously, he's just holding on so he doesn't fall over. of course. ] Never thought I'd actually be happy to hear that, Harrington.
[ he finally chances a better look around them, eyes landing on harrington's beamer, ostensibly parked not too far away. he points at it with a wobbly finger and pretends to ignore the tremble returning to his hands. ] Now, I'm — going to go sit. In there. Before I eat shit right front you. [ that cool with you? is intoned between the lines, he hopes. not that he doubts the ability of your strong beautiful arms to carry his unconscious self over to your car but...there were limits, man. ]