#witcher steve harrington | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alleiwentcrazy · 1 year

Text

Stupid fucking vypper. Stupid fucking kids. Why does he even bother? It’s not like the rugrats were in any immediate danger. They weren’t in any danger, actually, they just wanted trinkets. He should stop helping them. He really should! They have stupid ideas and they want to be brave about it, but who gets bitten in the ass because of that? Steve. It’s always Steve.

He knew that danger comes with the job. However, he’s always thought that it comes with being a witcher, not with being a goddamn babysitter.

Steve takes one deep breath and it’s enough to make his head spin. He sways in the saddle. It’s been days since he last saw them all, but at least he managed to kill the beast. He chopped off its head. Extracted the venom. Just like they – again, a bunch of kids – instructed him. And if the razor-sharp claws and rows of teeth almost killed him? Well, that comes with the job too.

Whatever. He has what he needs and he won’t be visiting the swamps anytime soon. He just needs to lick his wounds for a while and he’ll be fine.

“Whoa, Mews,” he utters and burps immediately after, when the disgusting, rusty stench of blood hits his nostrils. He’s not sure whether it’s his blood or the monster’s, but the image of its enormous, ugly head already starting to rot in one of his sacks makes him want to puke either way. It stinks like a bitch. He’s lucky nothing’s attacked him yet—and he’s lucky that he still has some of those herbs to cover up the smell.

The horse neighs irritably as Steve pulls at the reins. He’s been raised by Dustin Henderson alright. The audacity is contagious.

“It’s just a quick stop. This part of the forest seems safe, don’t be a wuss,” he mumbles through gritted teeth. It’s definitely his blood that’s making him sick. He cringes when a trickle of it starts running down his face from the cut on his forehead.

Mews, who doesn’t look comforted at all, snorts again. Steve ignores it promptly. He’s not going to be talking to his horse again. He needs to change the dressings on his wounds and take a quick nap.

He ends up knocking himself out with the potions as well. This stupid vypper got him good.

He’s bad at this job.

“Well, well, aren’t you a pretty thing? Would be even prettier without that nasty cut on your cute little face.”

Steve stirs and groans. His eyelids are heavy, swollen and cracking them open seems like an impossible task, but his other senses are about to explode with too much information—the overwhelming smell of tobacco and amber surrounding him, the taste of iron and something else he can’t quite place, the sound of—

“Oh, and look at that. Bet you had some pretty eyes, too. At least before they turned them piss-yellow during those bush trials of yours, or whatever it’s called.”

He squints. The sun is already high in the sky, and although it’s obscured by something, Steve’s eyes take a while to adjust. Which shouldn’t even be necessary. Even his body is bad at this job. He decides to focus on the thing that’s obscuring his view before he gets too mopey about himself.

Well. Not a thing. A someone.

It’s a man. Young, long-haired man, with eyes bigger and rounder than the eyes of does Steve passes regularly on the track. There’s a spark in his eyes, as if unnaturally long eyelashes weren’t enough to make him look… Mysteriously interesting. He has smugness written all over his face, but he’s not smiling.

For a second, Steve wants to squirm under his diligent stare, but he stops himself. The medallion on his chest hums quietly, although it’s not indicating the presence of any monsters.

Despite his best efforts, the stranger clocks Steve’s unease immediately. The corner of his mouth quirks up. Steve sits still—there’s not much he can do anyway. He’s tied up, with his back pressed to a tree.

The man huffs. “Impressive,” he says after another beat of silence. “I’m meeting the infamous King of the Wolves. Who would have thought, huh?” He overaccentuates the alias Steve’s been given in the past, presenting him with yet another reminder of how much it stings to be mocked, even if it’s deserved.

“My pleasure,” Steve replies, courtly. “Although usually I prefer knowing who the person I’m exchanging pleasantries with is.”

His captor lets out a short laugh and tuts, sizing Steve up. “You can call me…” He makes a thinking face, looks around and tuts again when an idea supposedly pops into his head. “You can call me King of the Banished. Seems to be going along with your theme.”

Steve bites down most of the animosities he wants to spill out right now.

“And what could Your Banishment possibly want from a witcher like me?”

If a glare could kill, Steve would be dead.

The man straightens up and crosses his arms over his chest. He wanders around the small clearing in a lazy, nonchalant way, as if nothing about this whole situation is even interesting. In the meantime, Steve notices how dingy his clothes are, like they haven’t seen a washtub in a long while.

“Rumor has it that the infamous witcher has been missing for a while now. There’s a very worried bard asking after him in the nearest town’s inn, even.”

Cold shiver runs down Steve’s spine. The stranger’s trying to keep his funny ploy up, but Steve can see that he’s genuinely curious now. That he must be seeing some business opportunities here—Steve can’t let him go anywhere down that road.

“She’s got no money,” he says, opting for equal nonchalance. He goes as far as blowing a stray curl from his forehead. “If you want me for ransom. She won’t pay.”

“Hm,” the man stops, suddenly, claps his hands and spreads them next, shrugging. “Then maybe the head of the witcher is worth more than the alive witcher. To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised—You’ve heard the gossip that follows you like a plague, right?”

Steve doesn’t respond. The man glances at him and slowly spreads his hands again, this time over his head, like he’s unfolding a big banner with the name of some carnival attraction. “The most unsuccessful witcher of the century. Gets beaten to a pulp everytime, but somehow still manages to slay every beast that crosses his way. Barely. But he does.” He scoffs. “There’s more, but if you haven’t heard—”

“I have,” Steve cuts him off, losing every last bit of patience. “Listen, if you want to kill me, at least take me in a fair fight. Untie me. Be a man. If the gossip is true, you’ll probably win anyway.”

The stranger has his back to Steve. He’s leaning over a bag that’s been lying on the ground, rummaging about in it. Steve can swear he hears him giggle.

“Oh, I’d gladly take you, but maybe in less hostile circumstances—”

“What?”

“Nothing, sweetness, nothing,” he takes a few steps and turns back to Steve, holding something in his hand. “Now smile for me!”

“What?”

Steve’s face pinches in an exasperated expression—which happens to be the exact thing that his captor needs. He sticks a finger inside Steve’s mouth, rubs something into his gums and in a matter of seconds, the world loses all sense and color.

When Steve wakes up again, the sun is setting and it looks like he’s alone. Still tied down, in a desperate need to take a piss, with his mouth drier than a desert and his head too woozy to think properly, but alone. He doesn’t need much more.

The rope bonding his hands is thick and holds well, but with a bit of struggling, he manages to push it upwards enough to be able to arrange his fingers properly. Sloppy job. He takes a big breath and grits his teeth. He uses Igni.

The flame is small, but Steve barely holds down a yelp when it licks the skin on his wrists. When the rope itself finally catches fire, he uses his whole power to tear it apart before the flame spreads any further. When his hands are free, he slides down and snuffs the fire with his back.

“Fuck,” he mumbles and swallows hard, both his own tears and another yelp. His wrists are raw, but they’re free.

He’s loosening up the rope around his ankles when his medallion starts to hum again. Fuck.

He works on the rope frantically and lets go of it as soon as he decides that it’s enough for him to get out when needed. He hears footsteps. His medallion is fully vibrating.

His sword and dagger are gone. He looks around and finds a nice, thick, sturdy tree branch lying near the spot of last night’s fire. Yeah. It’ll do. He reaches for it and pulls it behind him, trying to remember how he was sitting when he first woke up.

The footsteps stop somewhere behind him, suddenly. Both Steve’s senses and his medallion are screaming at him, so he purposefully evens out his breathing. He won’t have the element of surprise—he’s the one that’s being crept up on from behind.

The sound of footsteps resumes. They’re lighter, now, slower. Gentler; not unlike those of a cat. Cats aren’t too fond of Steve.

When the sound is close enough, Steve springs right into action. He jumps from behind the tree on the side opposite to the footsteps, trying to get his captor from where he doesn’t expect him, and throws a quick but forceful Aard as soon as he sees him, but the man is fast. He ducks away from the sign and throws something back—Steve dodges it, barely, and glances at it when it cuts into the nearest tree. It’s a… dart?

A moment of distraction is enough to throw him off—another dart whooshes past him and in a lucky turn of events, he turns his head in near-sync with it. Near-sync; not enough to get him.

The stranger hops past him, deftly. Steve throws another Aard. This one hits the man, finally, and Steve can look at him for the first time since this morning. He has his hair up. His ears are pointy.

He struggles so much from behind the sign Steve has to take a step back. He reaches for his branch, carefully, but not carefully enough to keep the Aard up. The elf breaks free and lurches at him with a surprising amount of force; Steve swings hard – so hard it pulls him aback – and hits his opponent in the back with effort.

A dull sound cuts through the air. The elf lets out one silent sigh and falls face-first on the ground, like a tree hacked away in an otherwise silent forest. Steve sees the expression on his face. Their eyes lock for a second before the elf’s body hits the ground. He looks a bit like he’s been betrayed.

Steve stands there, panting, looking at the body on the ground with guilt pooling down in his stomach. He’s not sure he’s killed him, but—

He takes a cautious step forward, unable to determine the state of this elf from afar. One more step. And another one.

He’s not sure, exactly, how he lands on the ground—definitely something’s pulling at his ankle, though—but suddenly, he’s pinned to it, with a tip of a knife pressed to his neck hard enough for his throat to start closing.

The elf’s thighs immobilize Steve’s torso and hips, his arm pressing Steve’s chest further into the ground. While he can barely breathe, full-body-style pinned to the ground, with a knife practically slicing his neck open, the elf’s face is so close to Steve’s he can feel his every ragged breath on his own cheeks, and envies him for it. He’d kill for a breath. He’d kill if it meant that those eyes would stop drilling holes in his skull.

The knife goes deeper into his flesh. Steve would groan if he had enough air left in his lungs to do that.

People say that when you’re dying, your whole life flashes before your eyes. It seems like the rule doesn't apply to Steve. Somehow, while he’s dying, the vision of Dustin Henderson’s shrill voice comes to haunt him.

“Eddie, what the fuck! Leave him—EDDIE!”

Weird. When he looks to the side, he can swear he sees him. He sees them all: Dustin, Lucas, Will and Mike. And Max. El. Erica. Robin?

The coldness of the knife disappears. Steve coughs and calls out for Robin, and he can swear he hears her shriek, but the blackness envelopes him before he makes sure that it’s really her.

Steve’s sitting by the fire. Not dead. Yet.

“...but you weren’t coming back, so we sent Eddie and some other members of Hellfire to find you,” Dustin explains.

“They must have split,” supplies Will, “and, uh, Eddie’s…”

“Temperamental. But he wasn’t here to harm you. He wanted to find you! And help you,” Lucas smiles like he’s trying to sell something skimpy to a very picky customer.

“He just likes to play. He’s all about the drama and the theatrics and the way he does things—” Mike stumbles over his words.

“Will make you think that he’s a big baby,” Erica explains, helpfully.

“He’s a buffoon,” Max cuts it short. “He thinks life’s a game. And with his background, he doesn’t trust anyone. But he’s alright, and he won’t hurt a fly if he doesn't feel threatened by it.”

Steve makes a face when El nods dutifully, confirming the kids’ version of the story. He hates this story, but he believes it. Weirdly.

Eddie the Banished, the leader of a group full of outcasts: elves, half-elves, humans and others, general misfits that want to belong somewhere, that want to live with others similar to them in a bubble of blissful oblivion. Safer alternative for Scoia’tael, his mind supplies. Without the killings and partaking in conflicts. Instead with a silly, made-up game about magic and monsters to make the kids forget about every shitty thing they have to go through in this world.

(Steve finds it a little funny, because both magic and monsters are real, and they are dangerous, sometimes more than anyone can imagine. This little clique, however, sees real monsters somewhere else. They see monsters and harm and hate on the streets. They see them in temples. When they pass by the towns, when they have to trade with locals. So in an unsafe world full of places unsafe for them, they created a piece of reality that’s safe specifically and only for them. Steve isn’t sure what to think about it. He won’t know until something happens. And something will, sooner or later, it’s just a matter of time.)

Steve believes it, even though he knows that there’s another side to this Eddie. He can fight. He knows how to use vypper’s venom. He carries really strong drugs around in his bag. Poisonous darts are his weapon of choice.

There’s another side to everything, but Steve won’t be asking about it this time.

He looks to the side, where Eddie’s standing with one of his friends. Other Hellfire members joined them not too long ago, but Steve hasn’t had the chance to meet any of them. They’re clinging to Eddie like he’s the center of their little world—which, to be truthful, he probably is.

Steve hisses when Robin applies ointment to the cut on his face. “Sorry,” she says, “it’s gonna hurt more, I have to redo the dressings now.” She throws a glance at the kids still surrounding them and looks back at him with her eyebrows knitted over her eyes. “Don’t you think that sending the kids away would be a great idea now, Steve? Since you have about a dozen open wounds here?”

“What?” he asks, finally peeling his eyes off the elf – well, half-elf – that almost killed him today. “Oh, yeah. Be gone, children. I forgive you,” he says, flailing his hand like he’s trying to swat an annoying fly.

“You forgive us? We thought you were dead! We wanted to—”

“C’mon, man, he gets it,” Lucas says, dragging Dustin back by his shoulders. He shoots an apologetic smile at Steve, too. Steve loves this kid, all of them, really, but when the group disperses he finally feels like he can breathe.

“I thought I was dead meat,” he mumbles to Robin. “How did I even get this job?”

Robin scoffs. “Bad parents who didn’t want you?”

“Ha-ha,” he mocks and sighs. She applies more of this goddamn ointment to his neck and goes on to wrapping the wounds. He hisses again. Robin doesn’t look him in the eye, but she clears her throat and starts speaking in a small voice.

“I thought—Try not to disappear like that again, will you? Or at least take me with you. I don’t want you to go through this alone.”

You don’t want me to die somewhere alone, he thinks, and it hits him harder this time. He could have died and she wouldn’t have known. He doesn’t want her to live with this thought. He doesn’t want her to ever leave him again. He doesn’t want to die alone, without her to hold his hand. It’s selfish. But it’s true.

“Can do,” he replies, “but only if you write some badass ballad about it. In—wait, how many languages do you actually know?”

Steve groans when she smacks his shoulder.

“I believe this is yours?”

Eddie’s standing next to them, holding out Steve’s dagger. When Steve takes it, he sees that there’s still some leftover dried up blood on it. His blood. He huffs and looks up.

“And the rest of my things?”

Eddie shrugs. “Don’t you think I deserve some compensation for this giant bruise on my back?”

“Don’t you think I deserve some compensation?” Steve’s brows furrow when he sees the smile playing on Eddie’s lips. Robin mumbles some half-assed excuse and gets up. Traitor.

It’s quiet for a moment. They’re looking at each other with a mix of emotions Steve can’t quite place. Firelight illuminates Eddie’s face; his eyelashes cast long shadows over his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally. Steve wants to be mad and spit on it, but under Eddie’s scrutinizing stare, he feels like the lie would be exposed too quickly. He’s not really mad. He’s curious. “For fooling around.”

“You mean… Almost killing me?”

“Same difference. I wasn’t planning on doing that—and I wouldn’t purposefully kill you, I swear! I used the safe darts. They were supposed to knock you out, nothing else. I just—I didn’t believe that kids were telling the truth about you.”

“You felt threatened,” Steve says, and a flash of unease appears on Eddie’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. Steve shrugs. He gets it.

“No problem.”

Eddie looks at him like he’s the craziest person on the Continent. He starts laughing. Bubbly, jovially, honestly. Something warms up inside Steve’s chest; he thinks about the dagger held closely to his throat, about hot, short breaths grazing his skin, about the overwhelming smell of tobacco and amber. He laughs too, quietly, taking in the sight, the smell, the sound. When Eddie sits down next to him on the log, his fingers feel tingly, and not because of the burns.

“You know,” Eddie says, wiping happy tears from the corners of his eyes. “The gossip is only half true. You can fight. You’re not perfect, but… You could be helpful. You know, with the real monsters and stuff. If you stuck around.”

Steve finds it hard to drop his eyes from Eddie’s face, but he looks around at the misfits and weirdos and outcasts surrounding them in the camp. In their safe enclosure. He looks at Robin, hears her laugh loudly at a quip Erica’s thrown towards Dustin. He looks at the kids, scattered around like sheep on the field.

Witchers have one destiny and one purpose: to kill, and, when the time comes, to be killed. To wander, to destroy; words like “build” and “nourish” aren’t a part of their usual dictionary. Steve doesn’t know if it’s possible to fight destiny. He’s heard stories about those who tried—and failed, and failed, and failed, time and again.

But he doesn’t know his destiny. No one does. No one ever will.

When Steve looks back, Eddie quickly averts his eyes, pretending that he wasn’t looking. Steve’s throat clenches. This time, not because of the knife. He shrugs.

“Yeah, I think I could stick around for a while,” he says. Eddie glances at him and smiles. Firelight dances on his face, making it impossible for Steve not to smile back.

He can try. And if destiny fights back, he’s heard he’s not too bad at throwing punches either.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #stranger things #st4 #this post has target audience of exactly one person. me #the party stranger things #robin buckley #witcher steve harrington #elf eddie munson #they arent even tags ewljleklkj #this is long. my bad #steddie fic

45 notes · View notes

flowercrowngods · 1 year

Text

hello i’m attempting something for steddie week too, but it'll be one large thing probably @steddie-week

day 01: pining

2 new messages

eddie The Problem munson: —steeb —esteban —stefano —stevie —love of my life apple of my eye pls pls tell me i can call you —i am very chill etc etc —no i’m not —let me call youuuu —😠🥺🙏

Steve snorts as he picks up his phone and reads Eddie’s messages that keep coming in his usual spam of consciousness, a giddy feeling spreading in his chest as he snorts and goes to answer.

— Call me then, coward

Not a second later, his phone rings. Steve picks up immediately, even though he considers making Eddie wait; just to be difficult. Just to calm his racing heart that is always so lively around Eddie.

“What,” he says, attempting to sound bored and annoyed — in vain, because even he can hear the smile on his face. Traitor, he thinks to himself.

“Steve,” Eddie sing-songs, drawing out Steve’s name like he does every time he’s happy. “Steve, Steve, Stevie.”

“Ed, Ed, Eddie,” he sings back, relaxing into his couch and shutting the laptop. Lesson planning can wait, he decides, shuffling all the loose pages into the text book and placing his laptop on the pile, trusting that physics won’t betray him. “What’s got you so happy, hm?”

“Why do you think I’m happy?” Damn idiot has a smile on his face as he asks that, Steve can hear it. It makes his own grin widen and he huffs into the phone.

“I literally know you, babe.”

Babe. His heart flutters every time he says it — and he tries not to, because it’s meaningless, it’ll never happen. But Eddie picks it back up every time, and Steve is weak. God, he is so, so weak.

On the other end, Eddie hums and Steve basks in the sound for a moment. It’s always so contagious, Eddie’s happiness, and he wants to soak it all up. Wants to be the reason for it. Wants, wants, wants.

“You do,” Eddie says, his voice so light and fond it makes Steve’s whole body tingle. And his heart flutter. And it fills him with such happiness that he feels like he could take on the entire world right now, just with the way Eddie’s voice went all soft on him.

God, he’s hopeless. So, so hopeless. But he’s also weak. An addict, leeching off Eddie’s attention, getting a kick out of the smallest dose, and absolutely certain he couldn’t survive if it were taken from him. He needs it. Even if it kills him a little bit, because—

“She said yes.”

Steve blinks. “Huh?”

“Chrissy. She said— She said yes, Stevie. We’re getting married.”

He says it and he sounds so happy. So, so happy. And Steve is the world’s worst best friend for the way he freezes, the way he almost drops his phone if it weren’t for the vice grip he has on it, frozen in time and space because his heart has stopped beating. It has stopped, surely, because no beating heart can hurt this much. No beating heart can crack open and still work the way it used to three, five, seven seconds ago.

Eddie, bless his entire soul, laughs to fill the silence, and it’s the happiest sound. A boyish one, like there is no pain in the world and not a worry on his mind. A bit hysterical, too. Like he can’t believe it himself yet. Like this is the best day of his life and saying it again has reminded him of it. At least that’s what Steve imagines it feels like when someone wants to be married to you. He wouldn’t know, of course, as the only person he would ever ask is already engaged to someone else. Apparently.

Eddie is engaged.

Engaged and laughing and so, so happy.

And Steve feels nauseous. Dizzy. Breathless. His eyes begin to sting and the hand that’s holding his phone begins to tremble, his grip so tight it hurts.

Steve feels… too much. His hands tremble and he tries hard not to cry.

“You’re getting married.”

“We’re getting married.”

They’re getting married.

Fuck.

Someone has to tell Robin. Because in true Platonic Soulmate manner, Steve and Robin fell in love with the two people who are in love with each other. Like the chaotic mess they are.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you about it sooner,” Eddie continues, a bit more sober now. Sounding genuine and sufficiently awkward about it, in true Eddie-manner. Like the big old softie he secretly is. “I would have, but…”

But I know you’re in love with me and didn’t want to burden you with the love I carry for someone who isn’t you, Steve’s brain auto-fills helpfully. But you keep flirting with me and there was never room for someone else when I was with you.

But, but, but—

He swallows and drags in a deep breath past the pain in his throat where all the words he can never say are forming a massive lump.

“Hey man, don’t worry about that, we all know I suck at keeping secrets,” he offers. And it’s a lie, because he has kept this one thing secret for years and years. This one thing, this huge and all-encompassing thing that he can feel in the tips of his fingers when he is texting Eddie, and on his tongue when they are talking, and in his heart even when he is sleeping.

This one thing, this one secret, is his never-ending love for Eddie.

And he will add another one to that, a lovely little friend for it. To keep it company. That other secret, of course, will be the way his heart has shattered into a million little pieces and will remain that way until he can’t even look at Eddie anymore. And even then will he look at Eddie and smile at him, and Eddie will smile back and the pain will flare up again.

Again and again and again, for the rest of their lives. Possibly even beyond that.

“You do suck at that,” Eddie chuckles, though it is quieter this time, almost private. Fond. Gentle. Always, always like that. It used to mean something once. And if Steve closes his eyes, he can imagine that Eddie smiles his secret smile, the one Steve has only seen directed at himself. It almost breaks him.

Eddie’s I have known you for a whole eternity and love you beyond words, silly, but you also make my life so much harder-smile. That’s what he has dubbed it because that is what Eddie had said the first time he smiled like that when Steve was drunk off his ass.

But. But, but, but—

It’s no use to think of that now, to reminisce and imagine what might have been if… Well. If Steve weren’t Steve.

And that sure is a dark path he doesn’t want to trudge now, not in the face of the even darker path of Eddie getting married that he sure as hell will have to walk down for the rest of his life.

He sighs and tries to think of something to say. Something good. Something that is not Please don’t marry Chrissy. Please don’t take yourself away from me. Please. Please don’t get married to anyone who isn’t me. Please open your eyes and see me, please listen to me, please understand what I say when I say I love you. Please.

He kind of spaces out for the rest of the conversation, not really listening to Eddie’s words over the ringing in his ears and the pumping beat of his shattered heart.

Eddie speaks softly to him, the undercurrent of happiness and contentment still in his voice, and it would give Steve life, it would be contagious, it would be so very precious if it didn’t also drive the knife of pain ever deeper into Steve’s entire soul, slicing him apart with no one around to put him back together again.

Splitting him in half. One half that just wants Eddie to be happy, to sound like he does right now for ever and ever. And the other half, loathing that Eddie’s happiness is not inspired by him, not because of him, not in any sort of relation to him.

It’s not fair. And Steve is torn. So he shuts himself off and lets Eddie ramble, tells him that he is tired after pulling an all-nighter again and wrangling the his difficult seventh graders that were particularly hard on him today when the other man asks him if he is all right.

“Steve,” Eddie sighs, and a traitorous tear rolls down Steve’s cheek at the caring exasperation he hears there. “How often do I need to tell you that sleep is important? You’re gonna wear yourself out at this rate. And the kids just suck.”

“I know,” he says, and sniffs, willing the tears to not fall. Not until Eddie has hung up on him.

“Aww. That emotional, huh?”

At that, Steve sobs out a laugh and gladly accepts the way out. “Well, excuse me, my bestest friend whom I love very much is getting married soon! Or, well, I hope it’s soon, nobody has time for all that suspense. Anyway, I am allowed to be emotional about this!”

Eddie chuckles again and sighs gently. “Yes, you are. I’m glad you are. Thank you, Stevie.”

Don’t thank me. Not for this. Not over this, please, don’t thank me.

“Don’t thank me,” he says with a grin, and it hurts his cheeks from how forced it is. “Thank yourself for being brave enough to actually go through with the proposal! We both know you’re chicken shit.”

Just like me, he thinks. Just like me.

They laugh and it sounds hollow to Steve’s ears. He just wants the phone call to end, wants this to be over with. Wants them to not get married. Never, ever, in this life or the next.

He wants… he wants Robin. No, he needs his best friend, his soulmate. He can’t cry alone, not about this.

Eventually, Eddie hangs up, that smile still so audibly his lips, and that painful happiness still very clear in his voice. Steve wants to share it. But he can’t.

All he can do is stare at the phone in his trembling hand before he closes his eyes and lets himself cry, his head falling back against the couch until he slumps over to one side. He stares and he cries until he can’t anymore.

Eddie. The love of his life. Is getting married. To Chrissy, the other, platonic love of his life, who is like a sister to him. Who, coincidentally, is the love of his real platonic soulmate’s life.

Fucking hell, the mess they find themselves in!

After a while of pitifully staring at the wall, all cried out and feeling thoroughly pathetic, he lifts his phone and speed-dials Robin.

“Stevie?”

He sniffs, and it must sound as awful as he feels, for her next words are, “I’ll be right there. Alcohol or ice cream?”

“Both?” he whimpers after a moment, and Robin hums right back.

“I’ve got you. I’ll be there in ten.”

She hangs up before he can say anything more, and he is overcome with all the love he holds for her.

As he waits for her to come over, he does not move from the awkwardly half curled-up position on his couch, the lesson plans for tomorrow forgotten completely. This is his life now. His Eddie-less life. His engaged-Eddie life. His loveless, hopeless, endlessly pitiful life.

come back tomorrow for: bittersweet & angst | read here

#steddieweek2023 #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #dio words #listen idk if this'll be a whole thing but I hope it will (but also I've written almost the exact same premise for the Witcher once before #so if you feel like this is too familiar I swear I am not plagiarising this is just me again with a hallmark typcial trope dont yell at me #please 🤍#it’s technically not day one for me bc it’s 3:42am but eh

959 notes · View notes