Steddie week. Day 6: True / Misunderstandings. 1k words. Ao3 link.
@steddie-week
Inspired/based on this tiktok.
~
“Are the small crispy fries your favorite?” Eddie asks once they start eating. They’re sitting on the floor by the coffee table. Their favorite take out’s making an appearance once again.
“What?” Steve turns to Eddie, before taking a bite out of his burger.
“Well, I’ve noticed you gravitate towards those. Are they your favorite?” Oh, Steve does do that. That’s not why, but he can see why Eddie would think so.
They usually share a plate of fries, mirroring what they did during their first date. It sort of became a thing to keep doing it. Steve thought it was cute.
He shakes his head. “No, not at all.”
Eddie seems surprised by this. “Then why do you only eat those?”
“Oh. I just noticed you tend to go for the long soggy fries. So I eat the crispy ones for you.” Steve easily explains.
Eddie lets out a small laugh. “Steve.”
“Yeah?” Steve stops eating. Is it weird that he does that? “What’s funny?”
“The crispy fries are actually my favorite.” Eddie rests his chin on his hand, leaning on the table. He looks extremely amused by this.
“Huh? But you never… really?” Steve is so incredibly confused.
“I just start with eating the soggy ones to leave my favorites for the end.” Well, that’s just something Steve never thought of doing himself.
“Why would you do that if we’ve been sharing?”
“It was just a habit, I guess.” Eddie shrugs. “And then well, I thought you liked the crispy ones too so I just kept eating the soggy ones, so you could enjoy them.” He says. Like that’s not the most adorable, considerate and thoughtful thing someone has done for him. It’s something so small, but it feels so big.
“But the soggy ones are actually my favorite!” Steve exclaims. He grabs Eddie’s shoulders and gently shakes him.
The only thing Eddie does is just burst out laughing. He’s laughing so hard he falls down on his back. Steve can’t help it, he gives in to the laughter too. This is so ridiculous, and it could’ve been completely avoided!
“You’re telling me,” Eddie starts once he seems to have started to calm down. Still on the floor, on his back. “We’ve both been eating our least favorite fry.”
Steve nods. “Yep.”
“For months!”
“Months.” Steve confirms.
“Just because we thought the other liked our favorite kinda fry.” Eddie takes a deep breath, he’s calmed down completely now.
“We really thought.” Steve shakes his head, a disappointing look on his face.
“When we could’ve been eating our favorite kinda fry.” A pause. “For months!” He yells.
“I mean… it’s kinda on us for never asking?” Steve rationalizes. They just assumed. And for the looks of it, they didn’t even mind making that teeny tiny fry sacrifice for each other.
“That’s true.” Eddie sits back up, crisscross in front of Steve. “How long were you gonna keep doing that?”
“Doing what? Eating my least favorite fries so you could have what I thought were your favorites?” Steve thinks he could keep doing that for the rest of his life. Even if him and Eddie weren’t together anymore. He’ll always want Eddie in his life, so he’d keep doing that. Always.
Eddie nods. “I mean, at some point you would’ve gotten tired of it, right?”
“No.”
“No?” Eddie raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“For you, every time we had fries; I would’ve kept doing it.” Steve is so very much aware how sincere his voice sounds. It shouldn’t feel like a confession, but it sort of does.
Eddie looks for any trace of hesitation on his face, or signs that he’s just joking. He’s glad he doesn’t find any, because there aren’t any.
Eddie clutches his chest where his heart would be, then he puts his hand on his forehead as if he was swooning. The drama queen falls back on the floor again. Steve rolls his eyes, he’s pretty much used to his antics at this point.
“Oh dear! Steve! Steve Harrington would make such sacrifice? For me? Little old me?” Eddie’s eyes are closed. Maybe because there’s a danger of breaking character if he looks at Steve directly. “Give up his favorite fries? No one possesses this amount of selflessness.”
“You were literally doing the same thing.” Steve tries to remind him.
Eddie ignores him in favor of continuing his dramatic monologue. “Heavens. It must be true love.” Eddie sighs. He opens his eyes abruptly, panicked. “I mean. Uh- um.”
Eddie sits up so fast, Steve worries if he’s dizzy because of the sudden movement. He doesn’t look dizzy, just mortified. Which he shouldn’t be, because for a while Steve has noticed that somewhere along the first time he and Eddie properly interacted and their time dating, he’s probably fallen in love.
Who is he kidding? He absolutely loves this fucking dork. This dork who couldn’t control himself and had to declare his love during a dramatic monologue about fries. Fries.
Steve takes Eddie’s hands in his. Gentle and comforting. “Eds, baby. Relax.” He gives his hands a squeeze.
His curls bounce as he nods, trying to compose himself. He evens his labored breaths.
“It is.” Steve says. Eddie tilts his head up, just enough to look him in the eyes.
“What is?”
“Love. It’s true love.” Steve rests their foreheads together. “No matter the thing, how small, or how big it is. I would do anything for you, Eddie.”
The smile Eddie gives him is blinding.
“I love you, Steve.” Eddie kisses his nose. Makes him giggle.
“I love you, too, Eddie.”
This kiss feels different than the rest. Not because of how gentle, slow and soft it is. But because it’s the first kiss after they’ve expressed their love. It feels charged with truth, finally out. And it feels fantastic.
When they part they cannot help the dopey grins that are plastered over both their faces. Steve feels giddy, not because of what they just said. He’s just also excited. He thinks that even if they have lots to figure out, their future has never looked so bright.
“I think our food’s cold now.” Steve kisses his cheek.
Eddie just throws his head back in laughter.
260 notes
·
View notes
The Last Day.
Steve doesn’t remember what drove him here — he doesn’t remember a lot of things lately, not that he’s mentioned that to anyone. They don’t really question these things anymore. Fucky vision, nightmares without sleeping, or things that just get lost in the everyday grind of remembering to do normal things like eat or drink or where the fuck he put his glasses.
So, he doesn’t remember what drove him here, if he was supposed to get something or if he just needed to get out of the gym, needed to breathe some air that’s not filled with anxiety and grief and the pressure of survivor’s guilt and why and how and when around every corner, behind every door, underneath every donated item and in every bite of stale peanut butter sandwiches.
The library was never a place of comfort for him, and he honestly never really cared about it one war or another. If pressed for it, he couldn’t name five books in all of these shelves. He never really looked.
But now, in the semi-darkness, the empty shelves are somehow daunting. All useful books were taken, children’s books donated to all the families that stayed, all science books stolen by people who were sure they could fix this, could get behind this, could build generators and water refineries and all that shit.
Somehow, the negative space in these shelves draws him in, and he takes a deep breath. A breath that Dustin would like, probably. It smells like books. It smells old. It smells like, somehow, somewhere, there might still be a constant in this world. Something that will remain. Like maybe there will always be a library that smells of old books. No matter how often the world will end.
It’s a strange thought. But comforting. He trails the shelves, not really looking at the books, walking too fast still to make out the titles in the dim light, but he refuses to stop. He refuses to stand. To linger.
The next two rows are completely empty, and it makes him shiver. Robin probably has a name for the feeling. Maybe melancholy. Or maybe he’s just haunted. Susceptible to absence.
Or maybe they’re the same feeling.
Blindly, he reaches for a book, because his hands begin to tingle and he really needs something to do before his lungs catch up and his brain finds out that he’s somehow almost about to panic, or to relapse, or to drop to the floor if his legs don’t regain feeling soon.
He keeps walking, the book in hand. It’s a slim edition, bound in leather, and it feels really old. Looks like it, too.
Michael Bruce
He carefully flips it open, the old paper crackling with the movement, and he wonders briefly if this is the part of the library that’s usually watched like a hawk, the part where you’re not allowed to touch the books without supervision and certainly not without reason. Maybe. Maybe this Michael Bruce hasn’t seen a real face in a long time.
It doesn’t take long for Steve to find out that they’re mostly poems—and of course they are, old books are almost always filled with poems.
He opens the book at a random page, still needing to settle his hands, his heart, his mind. The title makes his heart drop. “The Last Day.”, it’s called; still his eyes glide over the lines, intrigued.
Twas on an autumn's eve, serene and calm.
I walked, attendant on the funeral
Of an old swain : around, the village crowd
Loquacious chatted, till we reach'd the place
Where, shrouded up, the sons of other years
Lie silent in the grave. The sexton there
Had digg'd the bed of death, the narrow house,
For all that live, appointed. To the dust
We gave the dead. Then moralizing, home
The swains return'd, to drown in copious bowls
The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.
Okay. Sure. So, maybe this Michael Bruce dude is not the best company when the world is sort of ending. But somehow Steve can’t stop reading, and for the first time he kind of doesn’t want to stop reading a poem. This one’s different anyway. This one just… it gets him.
Images of Barb flood his mind. Eddie. Chrissy. Max. Everyone who was lost, everyone who has an empty coffin in their grave and an NDA penned to their name.
To the dust We gave the dead.
The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to go back out there. Head to the gym and fold clothes and check the missing posters and make phone calls to find out, to make sure, to keep in touch. The labours of the day. The thoughts of death.
Shaking hands flip the pages, two at once, because he doesn’t want to live the last day; doesn’t want to hear about it. He needs to know how it ends, needs to make sure, needs to find out, just—
A pause ensued. The fainting sun grew pale,
And seem'd to struggle through a sky of blood :
While dim eclipse impaird his beam : the earth
Shook to her deepest centre : Ocean rag'd,
And dash'd his billows on the frighted shore.
All was confusion. Heartless, helpless, wild.
Suddenly, what little light was left to stream through the windows disappears, stealing the words from beneath his eyes, and before he can look up and breathe, the door to the library bursts open, revealing a panicked Robin.
“Steve?”
“Robbie?”
“You… You better come see this.”
He hears it in her voice. The resignation. Oceans raging as the fainting sun grows pale. Confusion. Helpless, heartless, wild.
He closes Michael Bruce and runs toward her on numb legs, not ready to find out about the new apocalypse he’s gonna find outside the library. And seeing black skies through the windows and pale faces behind them, reflecting against the growing darkness, he wonders if he shouldn’t have skipped through the last day. The Last Day.
Terror in every look, and pale affright
Sat in each eye ; amazed at the past,
And for the future trembling.
Steve, too, is trembling. And Robin’s hand in his is shaking just as much.
Poetical works of Michael Bruce : with life and writings. William Stephen ed. 1895.
50 notes
·
View notes