[ the first day of coming back from the dead, eddie had — in all sorts of irony in the phrase — slept like the dead, in the blissful nothing of exhaustion, of a body and psyche worn down to the bone. and he had to hand it to harrington — that guest bedroom mattress was comfortable. it had been a nice few hours, before daylight happened and along came the complicated realities. the reality of reunion, difficult but heartfelt and eddie didn’t hide the fact that he cried then too. the reality of hiding again. expected, maybe, but he was just over it. over being called a murderer, and a cultist and blamed for ritualistic sacrifices and it made his stomach turn thinking about it.
though, it was still nothing short of incredible that steve harrington, infamous king of hawkins high and entirely unexpected in so many ways, had not so much as offered his guest bedroom as insisted and the man had all the persuasion, the charisma in the world when he wanted to and at the end of the day eddie munson, fugitive, cultist, alleged dead-man, was bunking down at harrington’s for the next foreseeable future. maybe he ought to feel a little bad, a little like he's intruding. but he doesn't — whether its because munson can be rather shameless, or because harrington really didn't seem to mind, is anyone's best guess. maybe a bit of both.
because after all the noise settles, after henderson finally leaves to go back home; after wheeler stops her strategizing and talks of changing the narrative and all that hopeful crap (he appreciates, it, he truly does), after all of that — including getting help from sheriff hopper, who had absolutely busted his ass several times in the past — after all of this there still remains steve, coming home, because it’s his house after all, and eddie munson doesn’t have a moment to feel alone.
the nights shortly following that fateful first morphed into a much different story, and no cloud mattress and soft bedsheets could keep the nightmares at bay. they taunt him. replay memories of chrissy’s death first, and then the bats and it ebbs and flows and changes the longer he stays asleep. it had become a bit of a personal fight — fighting against closing his eyes, until he finds himself bolting awake with contracted lungs and drenched in sweat.
tonight isn’t all that different other than the fact that the nightmares are worse, instead of showing any signs of mercy. sheets tangle along restless limbs, as eddie tries to fight off an intangible evil and the phrase that might catch steve’s attention is hissed out and desperate —
no, not him, don’t you dare — panic, as the nightmare lifts harrington from the ground, as his bones come so close to breaking he can almost feel it in his own and eddie is helpless again, not again, not steve and —
— and he startles awake, a pressure on his shoulder jolting him back. his hand shoots out in front of him, grasps out at whatever steve is wearing, fist curling as his forearm flattens to steve’s chest. there’s a long-bated moment of where he simply stays like that, wide-eyed and panting. strands of hair plastered to his forehead, heart racing and not-quite healed injuries straining from the tension as he looks up at him — ] Shit — [ eyes try to focus as he leverages himself up to an elbow, as if he’s checking to make sure that harrington is both real and okay, currently leaning over him. the fabric of his shirt remain bunched up between fingers, as though that would keep him from floating up. ] — sorry. Shit. [ a breath longer before his grip eases away, before he seems to come to his senses enough to relax and feel bad about it. ]
no subject
though, it was still nothing short of incredible that steve harrington, infamous king of hawkins high and entirely unexpected in so many ways, had not so much as offered his guest bedroom as insisted and the man had all the persuasion, the charisma in the world when he wanted to and at the end of the day eddie munson, fugitive, cultist, alleged dead-man, was bunking down at harrington’s for the next foreseeable future. maybe he ought to feel a little bad, a little like he's intruding. but he doesn't — whether its because munson can be rather shameless, or because harrington really didn't seem to mind, is anyone's best guess. maybe a bit of both.
because after all the noise settles, after henderson finally leaves to go back home; after wheeler stops her strategizing and talks of changing the narrative and all that hopeful crap (he appreciates, it, he truly does), after all of that — including getting help from sheriff hopper, who had absolutely busted his ass several times in the past — after all of this there still remains steve, coming home, because it’s his house after all, and eddie munson doesn’t have a moment to feel alone.
the nights shortly following that fateful first morphed into a much different story, and no cloud mattress and soft bedsheets could keep the nightmares at bay. they taunt him. replay memories of chrissy’s death first, and then the bats and it ebbs and flows and changes the longer he stays asleep. it had become a bit of a personal fight — fighting against closing his eyes, until he finds himself bolting awake with contracted lungs and drenched in sweat.
tonight isn’t all that different other than the fact that the nightmares are worse, instead of showing any signs of mercy. sheets tangle along restless limbs, as eddie tries to fight off an intangible evil and the phrase that might catch steve’s attention is hissed out and desperate —
no, not him, don’t you dare — panic, as the nightmare lifts harrington from the ground, as his bones come so close to breaking he can almost feel it in his own and eddie is helpless again, not again, not steve and —
— and he startles awake, a pressure on his shoulder jolting him back. his hand shoots out in front of him, grasps out at whatever steve is wearing, fist curling as his forearm flattens to steve’s chest. there’s a long-bated moment of where he simply stays like that, wide-eyed and panting. strands of hair plastered to his forehead, heart racing and not-quite healed injuries straining from the tension as he looks up at him — ] Shit — [ eyes try to focus as he leverages himself up to an elbow, as if he’s checking to make sure that harrington is both real and okay, currently leaning over him. the fabric of his shirt remain bunched up between fingers, as though that would keep him from floating up. ] — sorry. Shit. [ a breath longer before his grip eases away, before he seems to come to his senses enough to relax and feel bad about it. ]