[ 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?
[ 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.
[ maybe they’d met one another at just the right time — when steve was no longer the person he was, and eddie was just the right amount of jealous to see what dustin was even talking about when it came to him. maybe there was more solidarity found in the shared horror of experience.
it’s easier to make jokes than to let the silence seep in. because if he doesn’t stop focusing on harrington, on that bossiness that carries its own convincing charm, on harrington’s older injuries, a sharp face made sharper still by the evident tiredness, messy hair somehow still falling infuriatingly perfectly (seriously? is it the shampoo??) — if he doesn’t stop focusing on all of that he’s worried about where that would leave him. that it would leave him with his own pain and his own fears and the memories threatening to replay themselves every time he blinks and it would leave him alone —
thankfully, steve answers, looks back at eddie and it feels honest and he lets out a short huff, shakes his head. ] Sorry. That sucks, huh. [ is it too early to say he gets it? he’d probably be the best one to get it though, all things considered, standing here looking like a wreck. inevitably, his own thoughts go to that night on the boat. never would have jumped in after you in normal circumstances, and here they were, nothing normal left in the spaces between, and eddie wouldn’t think twice about taking that dive again now.
eyes drop to steve’s hands, reaching for the hem of his shirt, clear enough in intent and eddie makes some non committal wave first, makes some move to try and see if he can lift it off of him himself — only to wince, flinch, and manage to look mildly sheepish when he says — ] Looks like I’ll still need the help of your capable hands, Harrington.
[ he does laugh though, short as it is, a hand hovering over his ribs for a moment longer. ] Pound of flesh.Sooo wish you’d been kidding.
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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?
no subject
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.
no subject
it’s easier to make jokes than to let the silence seep in. because if he doesn’t stop focusing on harrington, on that bossiness that carries its own convincing charm, on harrington’s older injuries, a sharp face made sharper still by the evident tiredness, messy hair somehow still falling infuriatingly perfectly (seriously? is it the shampoo??) — if he doesn’t stop focusing on all of that he’s worried about where that would leave him. that it would leave him with his own pain and his own fears and the memories threatening to replay themselves every time he blinks and it would leave him alone —
thankfully, steve answers, looks back at eddie and it feels honest and he lets out a short huff, shakes his head. ] Sorry. That sucks, huh. [ is it too early to say he gets it? he’d probably be the best one to get it though, all things considered, standing here looking like a wreck. inevitably, his own thoughts go to that night on the boat. never would have jumped in after you in normal circumstances, and here they were, nothing normal left in the spaces between, and eddie wouldn’t think twice about taking that dive again now.
eyes drop to steve’s hands, reaching for the hem of his shirt, clear enough in intent and eddie makes some non committal wave first, makes some move to try and see if he can lift it off of him himself — only to wince, flinch, and manage to look mildly sheepish when he says — ] Looks like I’ll still need the help of your capable hands, Harrington.
[ he does laugh though, short as it is, a hand hovering over his ribs for a moment longer. ] Pound of flesh. Sooo wish you’d been kidding.