#yellow gatorade supremacy

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles pop-up Spring challenge.

Holding Out For Spring

Prompt: Spring | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: M | CW: Alcohol Abuse | Tags: Eddie POV, Corroded Coffin, Future Fic, Struggling, Chronic Pain, Post Break-Up, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Gatorade: Not a Sponsor

Eddie scratches his pen against the page, scribbling forth and scratching away the words that are spilling out onto the loose papers shuffled all around the desk. He reaches for the bottle sitting on the edge of the desk, and takes another long pull.

It was supposed to be a sober month, and he only made it eight days. That's two more than last month, he supposes. 

Writing drunk never gets him anywhere, not really, but he's doing it anyway. Because he feels too much right now. 

The door to the hotel room opens and closes, and Eddie ignores it. He doesn't want the lecture, not from any of them. He's heard it all before, and it doesn't bear repeating.

It's Gareth, and he's quiet as he gathers up the discarded empties, dropping them into the small trash can across the hotel room. Then, he's putting his hand on Eddie's, covering his fingers as they grip the pen, stilling his wrist. Stopping the flow of words.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Gareth tells him, and it's too soft. Too gentle, and Eddie fucking hates it. Hates him. Hates this godforsaken band. 

Hates the never-ending winter he's suffering through. Freezing him to the bone while he moves through the world.

Gareth can't fix that, nobody can, and there's nothing the three of them can scheme up to change this. No amount of babysitting, no amount of coddling, and no amount of treating him like he's fragile. 

He's not fragile. He's broken. There's a difference.

And Eddie wants to fight back, wants to snarl and bite, but he doesn't. He lets go of the pen, and watches as it rolls off the desk and onto the carpet. 

Gareth pulls him up off the chair, and leads him towards the bathroom, getting the water turned on and to the right temperature. Eddie just leans there watching it all happen, numb. 

"Can you stand?" Gareth asks, and Eddie nods.

It's too cold, this winter that's lingering. Steve left, and that saddled him with six more weeks of winter. Only, it's been six months now.

And he's still holding out for spring.

If spring would just come, then maybe he'd be able to breathe again, even if that feels impossible these days, without Steve. 

He gets in the shower, and sticks his head under the spray, trying to sober up. Scrubs at his sides, fingers digging into the scars there. The ones that have faded, but will never disappear. He's in constant pain. The nerve damage, the muscle loss. You can't get gnawed on by bats and just bounce back, at least Eddie couldn't.

Steve did.

But Steve's always been stronger than him.

He's not gonna be fixed, not ever, but they have a show tonight, and if they cancel any more gigs, shit's really gonna hit the fan. He's a goddamn mess, has been since Steve…took a break. 

It's just a break, not a break-up, Eddie tells himself. Over and over, because he won't survive, if this is permanent. Even as the days have turned into weeks, into months.  

He can hear the rest of the band arguing outside the door, Jeff and Goodie now involved. Throwing ideas around. The same old, same old. 

Rehab, again. Canceling the tour, again. Calling Wayne, again.

The last resort, calling Steve.

They can't do any of those things. Won't. None of them will help, will fix him. This is just the way he is, and they have to work around it.  

So, they'll get him sobered up for the night, for the week, and pretend he'll be better this time. He won't be. He never is. The pain will come back, and he'll turn back to the bottle. 

It's genetic. The Munson way. He's cursed, and there's no point in fighting it. 

When Eddie gets out of the shower, Gareth has his scribbled lyrics in hand, waving them around as he talks. Like Eddie isn't even here, listening. Eddie sees the bottle of yellow Gatorade on the desk, that one of them must have gotten from the vending machine, like it'd be enough to sober him up, and Eddie bats it away, sending it skittering across the carpet and into the wall, leaving a dent near the baseboard that they'll have to pay for. That's nothing new. But it shuts them up, just for a second, before Goodie picks the bottle up off the ground and hurls it back at Eddie. Eddie ducks instead of catching it, and it slams against the mirror, glass against glass, all of it shattering to the carpet below.

Eddie lunges towards Goodie, while Gareth and Jeff struggle to hold them both back, and the shouting starts, all over again.

Eddie comes off the stage, and a bottle of Gatorade is pressed into his fist, and he downs it. Ignoring that it's the wrong color. He prefers yellow, and Steve knows that. So does the band. But this stranger, this roadie, doesn't. So, it's red. 

It's fine, but it isn't right. 

Eddie still claps the kid on the shoulder in thanks, and walks away. 

Opening the door to his dressing room, there's a bottle of yellow Gatorade waiting on the coffee table, and Steve waiting on the couch. 

Eddie can't be mad they called him, can't do anything other than crumple in on himself at the sight of him. Steve shouldn't be here, shouldn't be trying to save Eddie from himself, yet again. It hasn't worked before, and it probably won't work now, either.

But Eddie wants it to work. Wants to be good enough for Steve.

"Why?" Eddie asks, and Steve stands. Crosses the room, takes Sweetheart off of Eddie's back, sitting her down gently. Then he pulls Eddie to his chest, those large, warm hands sliding up and down Eddie's back. Soothing him, warming him. 

"You know why," Steve says.

Eddie held out for spring, and he's here now. 

His sunshine, in a yellow sweater.

The start of the thaw.

Inspired by the song Spring by Ed Sheeran.

I said I'd do a sober month, I failed, but tried, and wrote this drunk, Oh, what a state we're in, I'll keep holdin' out for spring Spring, Ed Sheeran

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