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cosycryptid · 2 days ago

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Preparing for Battle - Part 3

Steve goes to Eddie's trailer. Also on A03: [Here] Part: 1 / 2 / 3

“So,” Robin says from the staff room doorway the second Eddie disappears. “You wanna explain, or should I start guessing?”

“Explain what, Buckley?” Steve replies, already sounding defensive.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Robin says, stepping into the room. “Maybe the fact that I just watched Eddie Munson fawn over you for five straight minutes, and not only did you not stop him, you asked me to leave so you could be alone with him.”

“He did not fawn over me,” Steve scoffs.

Robin rolls her eyes and launches into a dramatic reenactment, pitching her voice to mimic them both:

“Oh my God, Eddie. You came back.” “You asked me to, Steve. How could I deny you anything? Also, have I ever told you your hair is gorgeous?” “No, Eddie. Your hair is gorgeous.” “Steve, stop it, you’re making me blush.” “You know how pretty you are, Munson. You stop it. Okay Robin, you’re gonna have to give us a moment. Alone.”

She finishes with a smug look; arms crossed like a lawyer resting her case.

Steve stares at her, unimpressed. “You seriously need a hobby.”

Robin shrugs. “I have one. It’s watching you spiral. Now, care to plead your case?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Steve mutters. “You majorly embellished.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Robin reaches for the post-it note by the till and holds it up like it’s Exhibit A. “Then what’s this? If I still had the scoreboard, this would be your first tally under ‘You Rule.’”

Steve snatches the note and tucks it into his pocket. “It’s just his number. We’re hanging out Thursday. He wants help with something he’s working on.”

Robin raises an eyebrow.

“I said yes because…” Steve hesitates, then sighs. “Because I’m hoping he’ll see I’m not a total loser now. And maybe we can be friends. I haven’t had a guy friend my age in a long time, Rob. And I don’t think I’ve ever had one who wasn’t kind of an asshole.”

Robin’s expression softens. “Well, that’s heartbreakingly honest.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”

“You don’t even know Eddie Munson that well,” Robin points out. “Can we really be sure he’s not an asshole?”

“Dustin likes him,” Steve says. “Don’t ever tell him I said this—he does not need the ego boost—but I trust the kid’s judgment. Sometimes. About some things. If he says Eddie’s cool, that’s a point in his favor.” Steve shrugs. “Besides, he seemed nice enough just now.”

“Oh, he seemed very nice,” Robin says with a smirk—but it fades when she sees the look on Steve’s face. “This is really important to you, isn’t it?” she asks, softer now.

Steve nods. “Yeah. I think so. I don’t know why, but... yeah. Weirdly enough.”

Robin studies him for a beat, then sighs. “Okay. I’ll lay off. It’s no fun if the teasing actually hurts your feelings.”

Steve gives her a grateful look.

“And listen,” she adds, “if Munson ever hurts your feelings—even by accident—you tell me right away. I will have words for him. Sharp, pointy ones.”

“Wow, Robin. That’s terrifying,” Steve says, rolling his eyes affectionately.

“Shut up and let me defend your honor,” she replies, sticking her tongue out at him.

---------------------------

Somehow—by some absolute miracle—Steve might actually be about to have a male friend who isn’t years his junior.

He knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer at 5 p.m. sharp. There’s the sound of quick footsteps, a bit of muffled mumbling, and then the door swings open with a dramatic flourish. Eddie stands there, bowing low in the warm light spilling out behind him. He’s wearing pajama bottoms and a band t-shirt, and his hair looks soft, like it’s been freshly washed and towel dried.

Steve wonders what it would feel like under his fingers, then mentally slaps himself for being weird and staring. Again.

“Good evening, Sir Steve,” Eddie says grandly. “Welcome to my humble abode. Feel free to keep your shoes on or leave them at the door. The world is your oyster.”

“So, it’s ‘Sir Steve’ now?” Steve grins, stepping inside and immediately removing his shoes—etiquette drilled into him since before he could walk. Eddie closes the door behind him and heads toward the kitchen.

“Felt more fitting,” Eddie calls over his shoulder. “Seeing as you’ll be Corroded Coffin’s knight in shining armor if you agree to help us.” He grabs two glasses. “Want anything to drink?”

“I like it a lot more than ‘King Steve,’ that’s for sure,” Steve replies. “Water’s fine.”

“Our finest tap water, coming right up,” Eddie says with a smirk. “Only the best for former royalty.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but the smile doesn’t leave his face as he takes in the space around him. It’s like stepping into another world, one completely unlike the open-plan, perfectly curated showrooms of the Harrington house. There’s clutter everywhere, and the small table in front of the couch is covered in enough coffee rings to make his mother faint on sight.

But it’s cozy. Lived in. Loved.

And that’s something Steve’s never been able to say about his own home.

Here, he feels like he can breathe. Like he doesn’t have to worry about breaking something just by existing too close to it. His house may have two stories and a pool, but it doesn’t have a fraction of the warmth this place holds in every corner.

Steve really, really likes it here.

Eddie clears his throat and hands Steve a glass. “It’s probably not much to look at compared to your place, but it works for me and my uncle Wayne.”

“No, I like this way better than my place,” Steve says honestly. “It feels like people actually live here. It’s nice.” He glances around. “Also, the mug collection? Really cool.”

“Please don’t let Wayne hear you say that,” Eddie groans. “He can and will talk your ear off for four hours straight about the origin story of each one if you give him the chance.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “I wouldn’t mind that,” he says, and he means it.

He can’t imagine what it’s like to have a parental figure who talks about anything other than work or expectations. If someone asked, Steve isn’t sure he could name a single fact about his father that doesn’t involve his job. The idea of someone like Wayne—someone who wants to share his interests, who wants to be known—feels almost unreal.

Eddie’s eyes widen slightly, but then the corner of his mouth lifts into a small, surprised smile.

“Well then,” he says, voice lighter, “it’s a good thing he’s working tonight. I can’t have someone else stealing your valuable time and attention when we’ve got important work to do.”

He leans into Steve’s space with a casual grin, like it’s nothing. But it isn’t nothing—not to Steve. A familiar rush of adrenaline sparks in his chest. Eddie leans in even closer, and Steve’s eyes, without permission, zero in on his mouth.

“Follow me, Big Boy,” Eddie says, patting Steve on the shoulder before turning and walking away.

It takes Steve a few seconds to snap out of it. He’s still staring at the spot Eddie just vacated, the words Big Boy echoing in his ears like a fire alarm. His brows furrow. He shakes his head, like that’ll help.

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” he says blankly, forcing his feet to move—clumsy in a way he never usually is.

--------------------------

Big Boy? Where the hell had that come from? What the fuck was Eddie thinking?

He’d known this was probably a bad idea the second the words “You should come over” left his mouth at Family Video. The plan had been innocent enough. He wanted to give Steve a chance to get comfortable singing in front of someone before throwing him to the wolves. And by wolves, he meant his three brutally honest bandmates, who could sniff out nerves like sharks scenting blood in the water.

What hadn’t occurred to him—until it was far too late—was that this meant Steve would be in his trailer. Alone. With him. For hours.

Steve, who had recently proven to be surprisingly chill about Eddie’s teasing. Steve, who was dangerously easy to talk to. Steve, who was very much Eddie’s type.

It was a recipe for disaster. Eddie’s brain-to-mouth filter had a long history of catastrophic failure, and tonight was no exception. One slip—one stupid pet name—and he could end up with a black eye.

Maybe he could make a black eye look metal. Wear it like a badge of honor while shredding on stage.

But then Steve had walked in and looked around like the trailer was a palace. Like it was better than the mini-mansion he lived in. He’d said he liked it. Said Wayne’s ridiculous mug collection was cool. Said he wouldn’t mind hearing the story behind every single one.

And Eddie had leaned in. Instinctively. Too far.

And then—Big Boy. Jesus Christ.

He’d turned away fast, hoping Steve wouldn’t register it. Half-expecting to hear the front door slam and find himself alone again. But Steve had followed him. Into the bedroom. Calm as anything, placing his glass next to Eddie’s on the nightstand, eyes curious and open.

“Sorry it’s a bit of a mess,” Eddie said, twisting his rings.

“No, it’s cool, man. It’s your space. I’m not gonna judge,” Steve replied, eyes scanning the posters before landing on Eddie’s guitar.

He stepped toward it, and Eddie tensed—but didn’t stop him.

Steve didn’t touch it. Just looked. Admired. “This is amazing. The design’s really detailed,” he said, smiling like he got it. Like he understood how important it was. Like he respected it.

Then he turned back to Eddie. “This whole room is so you, dude. It’s really cool.”

Eddie laughed. “Well, yeah, Steve. I do live in it.”

Steve frowned, and Eddie—of course—couldn’t leave it alone. “Do you not have stuff you like in your room?”

“Not really,” Steve shrugged. “It’s just a room.”

Eddie blinked. “Huh.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. It was kind of sad, the idea of Steve not having a space that felt like his. A room should be a reflection of who you are. A place where you can just be.

Steve deserved that.

“So,” Steve says, clearly trying to shift the mood. “You’re the lead guitarist, I’m guessing?”

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner,” Eddie replies. “What gave it away, Sweetheart?”

Oh. Oh no. Big Boy was one thing, but Sweetheart?

Eddie may as well start bracing for impact now. He clenches his fists at his sides, waiting for the inevitable punch.

But instead, Steve laughs. A real, full laugh that bursts from his chest—and then he gently pushes Eddie’s arm, not a fist to the face.

“Shut up,” Steve grins. “I was trying to show genuine interest in your part in the band, jerk. I picked up some tapes from the record store after work yesterday. I’ve never really listened to this kind of music before, but the solo guitar parts sounded so complicated and impressive. Like that must take a lot of skill. Can you do that?”

Eddie’s brain short-circuits.

He really needs to stop having expectations when it comes to Steve Harrington. Every time he thinks he’s figured the guy out, Steve does something that makes Eddie feel like he’s about to go into cardiac arrest.

“Wait a minute,” Eddie says slowly. “You—Steve Harrington—mean to tell me that you went to the record store, bought metal, and listened to it? Unprompted?”

Steve blinks. “Yeah?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were body-snatched,” Eddie mutters. “Who?”

“Who?” Steve echoes, confused.

“Yeah, who did you listen to?”

“Oh. Uh, well, I didn’t know any band names, and Robin just gave me a weird look when I asked her,” Steve admits. “So, I went with the one I saw on the back of that jacket you were wearing the other day.”

“Dio?” Eddie’s voice cracks a little. He folds one arm across his chest and tugs a lock of hair toward his mouth with the other. He tries not to notice the way Steve’s eyes follow the movement. “You listened to Dio?”

Steve nods. “Yeah.”

Eddie swallows. “Thoughts?”

Steve doesn’t answer right away. He’s thinking—really thinking—and Eddie can practically hear the gears turning. The silence stretches just long enough to make Eddie’s stomach twist. He braces himself for disappointment.

But he waits. Because Steve has surprised him all night, and maybe—just maybe—he’ll do it again.

Steve shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking between Eddie and the guitar again. He’s quiet for a few more seconds, then finally says:

“I thought it was... kind of awesome, actually.”

Eddie blinks.

“I mean, I didn’t know what to expect,” Steve continues, rubbing the back of his neck. “I figured it’d just be loud and angry, but it wasn’t. It was intense, yeah, but also kind of theatrical? Like, dramatic in a cool way. And the guitar solos—dude, they were insane. I don’t even know how someone’s fingers move that fast.”

He pauses, then adds, a little sheepishly, “I liked it more than I thought I would. A lot more.”

Eddie stares at him like he’s trying to figure out if this is a prank. Steve can practically see the disbelief written all over his face.

“I’m serious,” Steve says, holding his hands up. “I even rewound one of the solos a few times just to hear it again. I think it was from a song called ‘Rainbow in the Dark’? That one was sick.”

Eddie makes a noise that might be a laugh or a choked sob—it’s hard to tell.

Steve smiles. “So yeah. I mean, I’ve always been into rock, but metal is cool. I can see why you like it.” He shrugs, trying to play it cool, but there’s a flicker of something earnest in his eyes. “I just wanted to understand what you’re into. Felt important. Especially if it’s the kind of music your band will want me to sing if I decide to join you.”

Steve sits on the edge of Eddie’s bed, looking a little unsure of himself. Eddie joins him without hesitation, still reeling a little.

“Can I tell you something kind of embarrassing?” Steve asks.

“Anything,” Eddie says, and winces at the slight shake in his voice. He’s trying to play it cool but come on, Steve likes Dio. Steve complimented metal. Eddie’s barely holding it together.

“You won’t judge?” Steve asks again, quieter this time.

Eddie’s chest tightens at the uncertainty in his voice. “Of course not,” he says. “You’re talking to Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson. Judging people isn’t really my thing.”

Steve gives a small, crooked smile. “I don’t think you’re a freak.”

Eddie doesn’t know what to do with that, so he just waits.

“You’re probably gonna think it’s dumb that I’m even embarrassed about this.”

“Try me.”

Steve looks down at the floor. “I just really love music. Like, all kinds. I think it’s amazing that there’s always something out there that fits whatever you’re feeling. And the fact that people can write something that connects with so many others? That’s wild to me. Like, a song can make someone feel understood—or even save their life.”

He pauses, then keeps going, voice picking up a little. “And sometimes I’ll be listening to something I’ve heard a hundred times, and suddenly I’ll notice a new sound in the background—a guitar riff, a harmony, something small—and it’s weirdly satisfying.”

Eddie watches him, heart thudding.

“And when a band I like drops a new song and it’s actually good?” Steve laughs softly. “It feels like my team just won a championship or something. I get this rush. I don’t know. It probably sounds dumb.”

Eddie shakes his head, gently placing a hand on Steve’s knee before he can stop himself. Steve glances down at it but doesn’t pull away.

“Steve,” Eddie says, voice low. “None of that’s dumb. That’s exactly how I feel about music. Well, minus the sports metaphor. For me, it’s more like when a D&D campaign I’ve been planning for months actually works and everyone’s into it.”

Steve looks up at him. “You really think it’s not weird?”

“I think it’s awesome,” Eddie says. “Honestly? It makes you way more interesting than half the people you used to hang out with.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Thanks. I guess I’ve just never really talked about it before. Didn’t think anyone would get it.”

“Well, I do,” Eddie says. “And for the record, it’s not weird to care about stuff. It’s actually kind of great.”

Steve meets his eyes and smiles—soft, genuine. “Thanks, Eddie.”

“You’re welcome. Now,” Eddie says, sliding his hand away from Steve’s leg, “let’s talk about the singing.”

“The singing,” Steve echoes, shrinking into himself a little. “What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever sung in front of someone before?” Eddie asks gently.

“Not that I know of,” Steve says. “Unless you count someone accidentally hearing me in the shower.” He lets out a small laugh. “I never thought I was good enough to sing for people. I just like how it makes me feel. It’s... comforting. Freeing, I guess.”

Eddie very valiantly does not think about Steve in the shower. He definitely doesn’t dwell on how cute Steve looks when he talks about this stuff. He’s cool. Totally cool. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

“Okay,” Eddie says, clearing his throat. “So, I know I said I’d show you some of our songs, but I think we should start by getting you comfortable singing in front of someone first.”

He stands and crosses the room, grabbing a mic and stand from the corner and setting it up in the middle of the room.

“I’ve filled in as lead singer before—kind of am right now while we’re figuring things out—and I’m decent. But I’d rather focus on guitar and then support with backing vocals and maybe some ad libs. The good news is I know a lot of the warmups and techniques, and I can teach you those. But for today, I thought we’d keep it simple.”

Steve watches him, nodding slowly, though his eyes flick to the mic with a hint of apprehension.

“I figured you could just sing something—anything you want—and I’ll be your audience,” Eddie says. “No pressure, no new songs, no band yet. Just you and me. That way, you can build some confidence without getting overwhelmed.”

Steve hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. That sounds doable.”

“Okay. Then come on over here, pretty boy,” Eddie says, gesturing to the mic stand. “Might need to adjust it for your height, but we’re probably close enough.”

Steve doesn’t move right away, so Eddie reaches out and grabs his hand, gently tugging him to his feet. Steve’s face turns a very intriguing shade of pink, but he doesn’t protest the nickname—or the touch. Eddie counts that as a win and mentally gives himself permission to keep the pet names coming.

He’s very fond of them, after all.

As Eddie adjusts the mic and flips on the speakers, he notices Steve eyeing the setup like it might bite him.

“Okay, first things first,” Eddie says, grinning. “I promise the microphone won’t hurt you. You can stand a little closer to it. Just don’t, like, put it in your mouth and you’ll be golden.”

Steve blinks. “Why would I put the microphone in my mouth?” he asks—then jumps slightly when his voice echoes through the speakers.

“You’d be surprised,” Eddie says, laughing. “We’ve had people try out for the band who did exactly that.”

Steve squints at the mic, then at Eddie. “How? Like... how did they even fit their mouths around it?”

Eddie opens his mouth to answer, then immediately regrets it. His brain goes somewhere it definitely shouldn’t.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says instead, waggling his eyebrows.

The laugh that bursts out of Steve is bright and unguarded, and Eddie knows—knows—he’s going to hear it in his dreams tonight.

--------------------------

Steve tries to stop his chest from tightening. It’s just a microphone—an inanimate object. So why does it feel like it’s staring him down? Eddie’s been nothing but kind, and the last thing Steve wants is to let him down. But right now, the idea of singing out loud makes his heart feel like it’s trying to escape through his throat.

“Right,” Eddie says, adjusting the mic one last time. “I think we’re all set. Got a song in mind?”

“Uh...” Steve’s mind goes completely blank. His throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. Something must show on his face, because Eddie steps in without missing a beat.

“Okay, last time you were singing Fleetwood Mac, right?” he prompts. Then he chuckles. “That’s actually kind of funny—you’re Steve, and you were singing a song by a band with a Stevie.”

Steve huffs a laugh, grateful for the distraction. “Yeah, well... maybe if you play your cards right, your band will have a Stevie too.”

“Hopefully,” Eddie smiles. “So, which one of their songs would you say you know best?”

“Probably Dreams,” Steve says, leaving out the part about how it’s the one he listens to on his more emotional days.

“Think you could sing a bit of it for me? Even just the chorus?”

Steve looks at the microphone, and suddenly his breath catches. The room feels smaller, like the walls are closing in. His chest tightens, like there’s a belt wrapped around it, cinching tighter with every breath. He feels exposed—like he’s facing a Demogorgon with no weapon.

“I don’t know about this, Eddie,” he admits, voice tight. “What if the other day was a fluke? What if I’m not actually any good? I—”

“Hey,” Eddie says gently. “Look at me.”

A warm hand settles on Steve’s shoulder, grounding him. Steve lifts his gaze and finds Eddie’s eyes—kind, steady, safe.

“You don’t have to worry,” Eddie says. “It’s just me. If it helps, you can close your eyes and pretend you’re alone. This isn’t about being perfect. It’s just about trying. Seeing how it feels.”

“I don’t have to be perfect?” Steve echoes.

No one’s ever said that to him before.

Usually, it’s the opposite. He has to be perfect—because if he isn’t, he might lose the game, lose his job, lose his parents’ approval. Or worse, someone he cares about might get hurt. There’s never been room for mistakes. Not without consequences.

“Of course not. Hell, when I first started learning guitar, it took me days just to figure out how to hold the thing properly,” Eddie says, a fond smile tugging at his lips. He’s looking at Steve like he’s someone worth protecting for once, not like he’s the one who should be doing the protecting. Steve doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I’ve messed up on stage before. So have the other guys. No one’s gonna give you trouble for it. You’re human, Steve. Mistakes are human.”

Steve’s eyes sting. There’s a tightness in his throat that has nothing to do with singing. He suddenly realizes there’s a very real chance he might cry and embarrass himself completely. Eddie’s never going to want to invite him over again.

“Eddie,” he says, “if I decided I couldn’t do this would you still want to hang out sometime?”

Eddie blinks, stunned. “You want to hang out with me?” he asks, pointing to himself like he thinks Steve must’ve meant someone else.

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “I know we don’t really know each other, and there’s no reason we have to spend time together outside of this, but... I don’t know. You’re really cool, Eddie. I like talking to you. Most of my friends are the kids I babysit and Robin. It’s nice to talk to another guy my age without all the macho, popularity crap getting in the way.”

He hesitates, then adds, “So, I don’t want to let you down, but if I did, would you still want to hang out? Watch a movie or something?”

It’s too much. Steve knows it. His brain is screaming at him to take it back, to laugh it off. But it’s out there now. No hiding it.

“Sweetheart,” Eddie says softly.

There it is again—that strange, fluttery feeling Steve gets every time Eddie calls him something like that. It’s warm and thrilling, like a spark under his skin.

“You couldn’t let me down even if you opened your mouth right now and it sounded like absolute garbage.”

Eddie’s hand tightens on Steve’s shoulder, grounding him. His thumb moves in slow, soothing circles against the fabric of Steve’s shirt. It’s the kind of gentle care Steve’s only ever gotten from Robin and even then, not like this.

“You’ve already impressed me, Steve. I never thought I’d enjoy your company, but you’re not what I expected. In a good way. I like talking to you too.”

He smiles, earnest and a little shy. “So, if you really don’t want to do this, it’s fine. I’ll tell the guys to back off, and we can hang out whenever. But I think this could be something really good for all of us. So, I think you should give it a shot. What do you say?”

The tight grip around Steve’s chest loosens. The microphone no longer looks like a threat. The walls stop closing in.

He takes a deep, centering breath and nods. “I think I can try.”

“Good,” Eddie says, giving his shoulder one last squeeze before hopping up onto the bed and settling cross-legged on top of the duvet. Steve tries not to think about how empty his shoulder feels now. “I know it probably feels awkward without any backing music, so if you want me to grab my guitar and play backup, just say the word. I’m yours to command, Sir Steve.”

Steve chooses to ignore that last part for the sake of his sanity. Yep. Not thinking about the implications of that.

“Right,” he says. “Okay. I can do this.”

“You got this,” Eddie agrees. “Look at the floor if you need to—we’ll work on stage presence later.”

Steve thinks that if Eddie had been at his basketball games or swim meets, he probably would’ve won every time. Eddie has enough confidence in him for both of them. That thought is what finally pushes the first few lines out of his mouth.

It starts off quiet, a little awkward. He’s staring at the carpet like Eddie suggested, and he can feel Eddie’s eyes on him. It’s a familiar feeling from sports, but never from singing. That’s going to take some getting used to.

But then it happens—that spark. That feeling of freedom. His voice fills the room, clear and steady, wrapping around him like a warm blanket. It’s comforting. Empowering. The fact that he is making this sound, that it’s his voice reaching every corner of the room, leaves him in awe.

He starts to relax. His posture straightens. His eyes lift—and find Eddie.

Eddie is beaming, eyes wide with delight, and Steve’s next line comes out with a laugh. He feels elated knowing he caused that expression. Something soars in his chest, and for a moment, he feels invincible. He starts to project more, leaning into the feeling.

By the time he finishes the song, Eddie is already on his feet, pulling him into a tight hug. Steve barely has time to react before he’s hugging back just as tightly, laughing into Eddie’s shoulder.

“You did amazing, Stevie,” Eddie whispers.

And just like that, Steve knows.

He’s going to say yes to Corroded Coffin.

Because he kind of wants to feel like this forever.

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #my fics

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starswornoaths · 10 months ago

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1. Steer

Serella wants to set sail. Her father doesn't have it in his heart to keep her focus ashore forever.

word count: 1,002

To hear her father tell it, Serella was born a Captain.

When her Da scooped her off the ground and set her in front of the wheel, her hands sought spokes they couldn’t yet wrap around like it was second nature. Her little arms made proper handling impossible but that was fine; their little mockup was attached to the playground built outside the Carpenter’s Guild, and wasn’t going anywhere anyroad.

“Captain! What course are we to set?” her Da asked her.

“We sail for…adventure!” she decreed, pointing ahead of them.

“Course has been set! For adventure!” he declared, matching her enthusiasm and pointing in the same direction.

Even with no resistance but the simple cogwork of the wheel, it was hard for a child of three summers to twist and turn but that did not deter Serella, face scrunched in consternation and focused on imaginary waters with her whole being.

In her mind’s eye, the tide whorled around their grand galley, lapping at sides port and starboard alike. Storms blew all around, ignorant of the sun warming their backs in truth.

When she tried to turn the wheel to fight a particularly strong wave to the port side, Serella struggled against the wood, hearing the sanded off wooden gears protest the movement. “Hard to steer,” she huffed.

“The waters are choppy this night,” her Da said sagely when he saw her struggle.

If she could stretch her arms out to even the next spokes over she might have enough leverage, but she’s so small…

Despite her best efforts to cling to the imaginary and continue with play, all her dreams of sailing involved a boat her size, something she could reach and use and lead and, and, and—

“No, hard to steer.” she huffed again, letting go of the spokes and crossing her arms.

Frustration welled up in her and quickly overflowed her small frame, heating her face and threatening her eyes with the sting of tears. Embarrassed, she hid her face in her hands.

“Hey now, Little Acorn, what’s the long face for?” her Da said, immediately dropping their play titles.

How could she start to explain what was hurting her heart? Why did she not understand what she was feeling? Frustration mounted ever higher, and tears ran down her face.

“I’m too little!” she cried.

Serella’s had never known her Da to be a man possessed of alacrity—an injury from before she was born had given him a cane and a limp that she had always seen him with, and it took him a few moments to carefully ease himself down to her level.

“You’re a growing little acorn, love,” he reminded her, and when she opened her arms asking for comfort he wasted no time in scooping her into a big hug. “Every tree started out just like you, remember?”

Through sniffles and uncaring of the snot she wiped on his shirt, Serella nodded.

“You’re only little for a little while, you know,” he said, his voice growing strangely thick as she tried to get her tears to stop. “And ‘afore you know it, you’ll be taller than me!”

“Taller than you?!” she squeaked, pulling back enough to look up at him incredulously.

“Taller than me!” he confirmed with an affectionate rub of their noses together that never failed to send her into a fit of giggles. “But it takes time—plenty of time for you to learn how to be taller. Can’t have you wobbling around like you’ve got stilts for legs, now can we?”

“But I can’t steer now,” she whined.

“Mayhap you can’t steer that way, but there’s plenty of ways to steer all sorts of things—here, I’ll show you. It’s getting late anyroad, and your Ma will send a search party if we’re gone too long, eh?”

With a conspiratorial wink that got his daughter to giggle again and follow him back to their chocobo, content and grazing not far from the Carpenter’s Guild fence.

A pirate is always carries a bit of the sea with them, so it was only natural that her Da hoist her and himself onto the back of their chocobo.

Once they were situated in the saddle, her Da pointed toward the leather reigns and said, “See? Riders use this to steer their chocobo—and that’s how you’re going to get us home in time for supper.”

“Me?!” Serella squeaked.

“That’s right! You’re a natural at steering, Ellie—you just have to practice. Like so,” he said as he began to reach for the reigns.

It took little and less encouragement and instruction before she had her hands where they needed to be.

“Good. Now, there’s more ways to guide a steed than even this—like I told you, lots of ways to steer. Watch, I’ll have her start moving for you.”

With a click of his tongue and nudge of his boot, Addie began to dutifully meander out of Gridania proper and back onto the Shroud. The sway of the bird’s massive body almost felt like what Serella imagined a ship felt like, all that rocking back and forth like her Da would tell her.

Under her Da’s tutelage, she carefully led Addie until they were out of the gate and down the walking path.

The reigns felt vastly different from the ship wheel and yet, it felt like she was beginning to understand how this was also meant to steer—the pull of the leather on either side to turn, both to stop, and a nudge to go faster. Sails and rudders, wheels and anchors. Anything could be a ship if she wanted to guide it, anything could steer that ship if she could make it listen to her.

When they were far enough away from civilization, her Da leaned down from behind her and whispered, “you know, the winds are fair this eve, Captain. What say you we open the sails and ride the wind home?”

Years later, Serella would remember looking up into his eyes in that moment, twinkling like stars guiding their ship home.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxiv #Serella Arcbane #Hanvesh Arcbane #I'm just kinda posting as I can finish stuff it's just a follow along #hoping I'll get over this stupid mental block and actually post finished stuff #I've had shit in drafts for literal years and I should just clean it up and put it out there dfkjgfdlsg #this is a good way to get back into it #so this is messy but like that's the point fjkghdfkg #ANYWAY here have some kiddo!Serella and her Da being a good Da

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