[ sometimes you just have to put this into messy little shelves and shove them back somewhere, and firmly decide not to deal with them at all. and maybe that's not healthy. maybe that leads one to get high off an old blunt and sit alone in the dark by his swimming pool. maybe it feels like you're somewhere on the cusp of losing your mind (only on a daily basis). and who could have thought that eddie munson would find so much solidarity in steve harrington.
the thing that munson was coming to learn more and more about steve, is that the guy didn't seem to stop. stop moving, or doing or worrying too, and that all of it was done with some mix of chaotic efficiency. and then he hears him talking about calling robin — which inspires thoughts of the others again, that tightening apprehension he can't quite define or explain. maybe because it's a reminder that everyone will have to deal with it. that is a series of ups and downs and they're back at compartmentalizing again.
then there's eddie, sticking out like a sore thumb in the crisp neutrals of harrington's guest room. the room smells nice, actually, something like clean linens and a floral soap. and he's thinking he finally caught his breath enough to keep pulling at a sleeve when steve is again just right next to him and he almost jumps. let me help and there's that bossy tone again and it isn't that he hates it that much (or at all) and maybe it other circumstances, he'd take the opportunity to tease him about it some more. see how patient steve is, one high charisma player to another. ] Okay, okay. Jesus. [ eddie says, still a little breathless, reluctant, though seemingly without much protest. only tries to wiggle out of the sleeves where he can and wonders how steve was just up and running only a short while after wheeler wrapped a dainty piece of a sweater around him when the bats came for his pound of flesh.
some errant comment strolls into his mind as harrington tugs down the jacket, something like buy me dinner first, that he bites his tongue on. halfway because he has to, jaw clenched tight.
until steve stills and eddie looks back over to him — with that telltale lurch of worry, with that creeping panic over silence — only to find him staring. he snorts, following the look down to himself, pinching at the torn once-white fabric of the hellfire club shirt. its full of holes now, shredded in some (most) parts. bummer, he liked that shirt a lot. aaand it's going to suck to get out of, isn't it? but there's a lopsided smirk as his eyes turn back to steve, though the humor is half-assed. ] It's these sick tatties, right? [ its definitely the ink, isn't it? though inevitably, his own eyes fall to steve's neck, still carrying the healing remnants of his own run-in with the demobats. he doesn't even want to know how his looks like right now. what comes to mind instead is the quiet ask of: ] Yours still hurting?
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the thing that munson was coming to learn more and more about steve, is that the guy didn't seem to stop. stop moving, or doing or worrying too, and that all of it was done with some mix of chaotic efficiency. and then he hears him talking about calling robin — which inspires thoughts of the others again, that tightening apprehension he can't quite define or explain. maybe because it's a reminder that everyone will have to deal with it. that is a series of ups and downs and they're back at compartmentalizing again.
then there's eddie, sticking out like a sore thumb in the crisp neutrals of harrington's guest room. the room smells nice, actually, something like clean linens and a floral soap. and he's thinking he finally caught his breath enough to keep pulling at a sleeve when steve is again just right next to him and he almost jumps. let me help and there's that bossy tone again and it isn't that he hates it that much (or at all) and maybe it other circumstances, he'd take the opportunity to tease him about it some more. see how patient steve is, one high charisma player to another. ] Okay, okay. Jesus. [ eddie says, still a little breathless, reluctant, though seemingly without much protest. only tries to wiggle out of the sleeves where he can and wonders how steve was just up and running only a short while after wheeler wrapped a dainty piece of a sweater around him when the bats came for his pound of flesh.
some errant comment strolls into his mind as harrington tugs down the jacket, something like buy me dinner first, that he bites his tongue on. halfway because he has to, jaw clenched tight.
until steve stills and eddie looks back over to him — with that telltale lurch of worry, with that creeping panic over silence — only to find him staring. he snorts, following the look down to himself, pinching at the torn once-white fabric of the hellfire club shirt. its full of holes now, shredded in some (most) parts. bummer, he liked that shirt a lot. aaand it's going to suck to get out of, isn't it? but there's a lopsided smirk as his eyes turn back to steve, though the humor is half-assed. ] It's these sick tatties, right? [ its definitely the ink, isn't it? though inevitably, his own eyes fall to steve's neck, still carrying the healing remnants of his own run-in with the demobats. he doesn't even want to know how his looks like right now. what comes to mind instead is the quiet ask of: ] Yours still hurting?