[ it's not the first time that steve has found himself finding solidarity with the exact sorts of people he never would have spoken to otherwise. i mean, if you really needed proof, please look at his current best friend. his right hand. his platonic with a capital P, robin buckley. steve is pretty sure every year that he gets further away from hawkins high, every year that passes since nancy wheeler gave him the biggest bonk on his head of his entire life, he is going to find someone else he was a dick to. someone else that he's going to find himself finding solidarity with. getting to know.
but steve doesn't think too much about that, maybe because it falls into that messy shelf or maybe because he hates remembering the kind of person he used to be. either way, it's just easier to move forward. easier to focus forward (he's already spent enough of his life moving backwards, anyway). and that movement forward apparently, includes eddie munson who tries to move like his entire body isn't in pain. who keeps making jokes and keeps commenting on steve's bossiness and who remains, even after all this shit, so very eddie the freak munson that steve can't help but be grounded by it. steve is careful as he tugs at the jacket, tries his best to keep it from tugging at any of the other wounds, at any of the open, torn apart areas of eddie (and there are so many, so many, that steve starts to feel a little overwhelmed by it). they do get the jacket off, but that feeling remains, and it is probably why steve stills at the sight of it. of eddie's chest, sides, and arms. at the blood, caked over the tears. unwanted, images of eddie's dead body comes to mind. of dustin's hands, gripping at him, saying no, no, no, no, no over and over.
but once again, right as steve feels himself slipping, there is eddie. eddie, who says it's these sick tatties, right? and instantly, steve is back here. in the now. blinks, and he sees more than just the blood and flesh. he does catch some of the ink, some of the tattoos, and steve can't help the way he snorts. ] Sure, it's your sick tatties. [ and even the words feel ridiculous in his mouth, his tone reflective of it. when steve's eyes glance up, he catches eddie's lopsided smile just as it fades, just as eddie's eyes go to steve's neck, where there is still a red, angry mark from the demobats tails.
the quiet of eddie's voice is what strikes steve the most, something fragile, but honest in it. steve lets out a breath as he drops the shredded leather jacket to the bed. your still hurting? and steve considers his answer for a moment, because there's no point in lying, is there? no point in trying to push it off? robin had asked him about his neck, nancy about his sides, and for both of them he'd pushed it off. nah, not much, it's fine. here, though, in the quiet of his own home, with eddie munson, bloodied and loud and different, looking to him and asking if he hurts, steve can't find it in himself to sugar coat it. ]
Yeah. [ he says, just as quietly, as his hands move slowly to the hem of eddie's shirt. the next step, the next job. it's going to suck, peeling this off, but they have to do it. but even then he hesitates, just a few inches away from the shredded cotton, as if waiting for eddie to give him the okay. ] It's better, but...yeah.
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but steve doesn't think too much about that, maybe because it falls into that messy shelf or maybe because he hates remembering the kind of person he used to be. either way, it's just easier to move forward. easier to focus forward (he's already spent enough of his life moving backwards, anyway). and that movement forward apparently, includes eddie munson who tries to move like his entire body isn't in pain. who keeps making jokes and keeps commenting on steve's bossiness and who remains, even after all this shit, so very eddie the freak munson that steve can't help but be grounded by it. steve is careful as he tugs at the jacket, tries his best to keep it from tugging at any of the other wounds, at any of the open, torn apart areas of eddie (and there are so many, so many, that steve starts to feel a little overwhelmed by it). they do get the jacket off, but that feeling remains, and it is probably why steve stills at the sight of it. of eddie's chest, sides, and arms. at the blood, caked over the tears. unwanted, images of eddie's dead body comes to mind. of dustin's hands, gripping at him, saying no, no, no, no, no over and over.
but once again, right as steve feels himself slipping, there is eddie. eddie, who says it's these sick tatties, right? and instantly, steve is back here. in the now. blinks, and he sees more than just the blood and flesh. he does catch some of the ink, some of the tattoos, and steve can't help the way he snorts. ] Sure, it's your sick tatties. [ and even the words feel ridiculous in his mouth, his tone reflective of it. when steve's eyes glance up, he catches eddie's lopsided smile just as it fades, just as eddie's eyes go to steve's neck, where there is still a red, angry mark from the demobats tails.
the quiet of eddie's voice is what strikes steve the most, something fragile, but honest in it. steve lets out a breath as he drops the shredded leather jacket to the bed. your still hurting? and steve considers his answer for a moment, because there's no point in lying, is there? no point in trying to push it off? robin had asked him about his neck, nancy about his sides, and for both of them he'd pushed it off. nah, not much, it's fine. here, though, in the quiet of his own home, with eddie munson, bloodied and loud and different, looking to him and asking if he hurts, steve can't find it in himself to sugar coat it. ]
Yeah. [ he says, just as quietly, as his hands move slowly to the hem of eddie's shirt. the next step, the next job. it's going to suck, peeling this off, but they have to do it. but even then he hesitates, just a few inches away from the shredded cotton, as if waiting for eddie to give him the okay. ] It's better, but...yeah.