#Bottom Pouring Ladles

[rajceramics9]

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[vaspider]

Every time I look at my canning-specific ladle, I get a little overwhelmed about how much thought went into it, and how beautiful it is for such a simple thing.

It has a little hook on the back, so you can hang it off the edge of the pot, and it doesn't get your stove messy or your ladle contaminated with stovetop germs.

It has a pointy front that gets right into the bottom corner of the pot so you can scrape out the last bits of salsa or jam.

It's got pouring spouts on either side, so left or right handed people can easily use it.

If you fill it right to the top, it holds exactly enough to fill a half-pint jar with 1/4" head space, the correct amount of head space for most water bath recipes.

It's pretty! It's red and white! Look at this pretty red scoop with its pretty white handle!

The person or people who designed this object did so with deep knowledge and understanding of the process of canning food. They made it beautiful and functional. This and its matching funnel are probably literally the best $25 I've ever spent on any hobby.

But I'm really just overwhelmed about how much thought went into this simple object.

Aren't people neat?

[divinedelusional]

rafe being grumpy when he's sick

rafe cameron x female reader

word count: 678

warnings: none

rafe never got sick anymore like ever

ever since he hit puberty he wasn't catching cold anymore, no health problems (expect for being fucked in the head)

so to say you were surprised when you saw him lying in bed under a thick duvet in the middle of summer would be an understatement

"yo topper what happened to rafe? i leave for three days and my boyfriend's completely wiped out??"

"is he asleep?"

"yeah! that's what's weird!"

"weird? girl you're lucky he's asleep, he's been a complete diva last two days"

rafe woke up after an hour and told you that he must have got sick when they were out at the beach and suddenly it started pouring cold rain and he was soaked before he got in the car

"yeah they brought me some syrup so cough is gone, but who gives a shit, this fuckin fever is too much anyways"

turns out rafe barely ate the last two days since he couldn't get out of bed and he was sick of the food topper and kelce were ordering for him

"wendy's not a type of food you eat when you want to get better rafe"

"hell i know, but what, is it my fault i have to have idiots as friends?"

you rolled your eyes and told him to lay down with cold compress for the fever

in the meantime you drove to get grosseries and made him chicken soup

you could see he really liked it but when he ate he mumbled a quiet "thanks" and went upstairs

that's the last you saw him that day and you were kinda mad at him

next day it didn't got better since he noticed you didn't come to bed last night

"i went to guest bedroom, im not catching whatever you got"

you didn't see him much for another day, only when he was coming to the kitchen for next bottle of water

so at least he took your advice to stay hydrated

not like you could hear him saying: hydration this, hydration that, who tf would want to pee that much

topper was right, you lived with a diva under one roof

grumpy, 6'2, hoodie clad diva

but on the third day you were finally about to reach a truce

rafe came for breakfast and you could see he felt better, as he was almost smiling and wasn't shivering

you ate breakfast in silence but he followed you like a lost puppy to the couch where you sprawled out to watch tv

you were watching real housewives of atlanta and rafe sat down with you for 3 episodes fourth now staring

he was quiet but all of the sudden he started to complain how awful it is to be sick in the summer

he tried to grab your attention, he knew you were testing him, you never binged rhoa for that long

you also knew exactly what he was doing, he was trying to make up with you but you weren't having his ways, so you informed him that you're going to take a swim

rafe was upset that his plan didn't work out, apparently not only sitting through four episodes of rhoa wasn't enough sacrifice for you but it also made him hungry

so he decided to win you back with very simple and little bit goofy solution

you came back after hour and a half, also hungry

you found rafe sitting at the table

there was a faint delicious smell in the kitchen

"you made soup?" you asked rafe after taking a peek to his plate

rafe didn't respond and held out a spoon to you, letter pasta forming words: im sorry bby

you couldn't be mad at him anymore

you ladled yourself a bowl of soup and formed a response on your spoon as quickly as you could

rafe smilled at words ur cute and let out a chuckle

"i missed this smile" you said and kissed him lightly, happy when you felt him smiling into the kiss

"and i missed those lips"

a/n: my first work for rafe, hope it was okay and feedback is really appreciated ♡

bottom divider by: @astralnymphh

[sturnioz]

shy!reader gets caught under the mistletoe.

you remain pliant and still on the bathroom counter, the cool surface pressing against your thighs through your sheer tights as kitty's fingers gently cup your jaw, tilting your face as the other hand carefully applies the red lipstick to your lips to match the colour of your sweater and the ribbon tied neatly in your hair.

"there we go," kitty murmurs as she leans back to assess her work. "now rub your lips together, like this." she demonstrates for you, her own lips pursing and pressing together, the glossy sheen of her own dark lipstick catching the light.

your gaze lingers on her as you follow her instructions, mimicking the motion before your glittery eyes flick to the mirror, staring at your reflection. you look a little different—a good different—and you lean forward slightly to take a better look at yourself, studying your face like it belongs to someone else, finding something surreal about the way you look.

"you look pretty," kitty compliments, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth as she slides the cap back onto the lipstick tube with a quiet click. her words make your cheeks feel hot, and your lips curve into a shy smile, your eyes dropping to the floor for a moment as you let out a soft, sheepish laugh.

she playfully swats your knee for you to get down, and you push yourself off the counter, your mary-janes landing with a soft tap against the tile floor. you smooth out the creases in your black skirt, tugging at the hem until it lies just right before brushing your fingers over the soft fabric of your sweater, making sure you look presentable enough.

as you step out of the bathroom and into the hallway, the hum of chatter and christmas music fills your ears, growing louder and louder with each step as you walk down the stairs.

you're a lot more comfortable with this frat party. it feels better — filled with just the frat brothers instead of being packed with strangers that usually leave you feeling so overwhelmed and overstimulated.

a gentle smile spreads across your face once you reach the bottom step, taking in the christmas decorations — the multi-coloured christmas lights, the bows and garlands draped over the doorways, and a tinsel and ornamented tree towering in the corner (which has been knocked down more times than you liked to admit).

you glance around as you walk across the floor, giggling at the sight of everyone's festive-ish outfits — some wearing red and green coloured fits, others wearing santa hats and elf ears with fuzzy christmas sweaters.

you're happy. really happy. the faint scent of cinnamon and nutmeg leads you into the kitchen, where the island is filled with snacks and drinks. you read for the ladle in the eggnog bowl, pouring the creamy mixture into a red plastic cup, and you're about to bring it up to your lips for a sip until you hear bee.

"be careful with that," she warns you, eyeing you from where she leans against the counter. you pause mid-sip, lowering the cup slightly, a confused hum slipping past your lips as your gaze flits up to meet hers.

"why?"

bee gestures toward the bowl, "nate ended up pouring all kinds of alcohol into that thing."

"hey!" nate's voice shouts from behind before you can reply, and you feel his shoulder bump into yours as he steps into the space beside you, leaning down to peer into the bowl with a playful pout. "i read the recipe wrong, okay? when the thing said whiskey, rum 'n brandy, i thought it meant add all of it in. not pick which fuckin' one."

for a moment, you just blink at him, your mouth parting in surprise as you slowly lower the cup to put it down. "you.. you added all?"

"yes."

"do.. the others know?" you ask, glancing toward the door leading back into the living-room before looking back at him.

"course they do," nate grins as he takes a cup for himself, moving around you to throw his arm around bee's shoulder. "merry christmas!"

he raises his cup in a mock taost before leaning in to press an exaggeratedly loud, wet smooch to bee's cheek who whines and smacks at his chest, a grin playing on her lips as he steers her away.

"merry christmas.." you murmur softly, your voice drowned out by the chatter and christmas music as you watch nate and bee disappear into the living-room. you glance back at the eggnog bowl, your lips twitching into a small, amused smile before opting for something less strong.

with a fresh drink in hand, you slowly make your way out of the kitchen, weaving through the crowd of people scattered across the room. your eyes scan the space before landing on chris, standing by the christmas tree—a joint dangling lazily between his lips as he takes slow, deep drags while fiddling with his phone, his thumb swiping across the screen.

you make your way over, a small smile tugging at your lips as you take him in. he's wearing an oversized red sweater, the soft fabric hanging loose over his frame, paired with black jeans and a backwards cap on his head, messy strands of dark hair peeking out from beneath the brim.

"we're matching.." you state softly as you reach him, extending your arm out a little to show off the same shade of red you're both wearing.

chris doesn't react immediately, he just lifts his head from his phone to stare at your sweater with dark, unamused eyes before flicking his gaze to your face. smoke wafts from his lips as he exhales, his attention dropping down to your lips before he finally speaks.

"you got lipstick on your teeth, kid."

your eyes widen in utter embarrassment, and you pull your arm back to raise your hand and cover your mouth. panic flares in your chest as your tongue darts out, running over your teeth in a frantic attempt to remove any traces of lipstick.

chris watches you as you do this, his lips twitching as he leans back slightly, balancing his joint between two fingers as his own tongue prods against the side of his cheek in subtle amusement.

"m'jokin'.." he says finally, taking another drag and letting the smoke curl from his lips as he exhales.

you slowly drop your hand from your face with a pout and a glare, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you try to recover from the humiliation. "not funny.."

chris opens his mouth, probably to fire off another remark, but before he can, a voice from a frat brother interrupts as he drunkenly stumbles over. he cheeks are flushed, and his grin is wide and sloppy as he holds something up above your heads—mistletoe.

your heart skips a beat, and you instinctively glance up at the dangling mistletoe before flicking your gaze back to chris. a nervous laugh bubbles in your throat, but it simmers the moment you take in his expression—chris is glaring at the frat brother, his jaw tight and his lips pressed into a thin line, clearly not happy.

"c'mon, it's tradition," the frat brother slurs his words, oblivious to the tension as he waves the mistletoe around clumsily, nearly dropping it as he stumbles again. "it's christmas, man. just kiss her already, those are the rules."

your cheeks heat up, and you glance nervously at chris who still hasn't moved or said a word. his gaze remains locked on the frat brother, his shoulders tense and his fists clenching at his sides. the silence feels suffocating, and your stomach twists as you shift uncomfortably.

"seriously.. you're makin' this weird," the frat brother pesters, his drunken grin faltering slightly. "what's the big deal? s'just a kiss... you shy or somethin'? scared?"

that's when you see it—barely noticeable but impossible to ignore.

chris' chest rises sharply, his breathing quickening ever so slightly. his jaw twitches, knuckles flex, and his fingers curl into tight fists at his sides. he doesn't spare you a look, and he doesn't even flinch as the frat brother sways closer, still holding the mistletoe.

"it's not that deep, man," the frat brother presses, his voice louder now, and it makes your stomach churn. his lips curl into a genuine smile, trying to make a joke. "you don't know how? need me to show you how it's done?"

chris doesn't laugh. he doesn't smirk or roll his eyes like you expected. instead, his breathing gets harsher, his chest rising and falling faster now, and his fists clench to tightly his knuckles turn white, his entire body looks like a spring ready to snap.

is... chris panicking?

"get that fuckin' thing out of my face," chris growls through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous. "or m'gonna—"

"jesus, dude... chill," the frat brother mutters, a frown tugging at his lips. "you're actin' like i'm askin' you to marry her or somethin'. s'just one little kiss, like—"

"hey. hey," matt's voice cuts in suddenly, stepping in chris' personal space to grip his shoulder, stopping him from moving forward when it looks like he's seconds away from snapping. "that's enough, yeah?"

the frat brother blinks at matt, "what? it's just—"

"did you hear me? said that's enough," matt interrupts, his tone sharper now with an edge that makes the frat brother pause, especially when matt glares at him. "go find someone else."

for a moment, the frat brother looks like he's considering staying, but he ends up muttering something incoherently under his breath as he stumbles away, the mistletoe swinging loosely in his hands.

the tension in the room doesn't disappear immediately though, you can still feel it, thick and heavy. you remain silent, chewing on your bottom lip as you watch matt with chris, barely making out their quiet conversation.

"hey.." matt speaks a lot softer now, moving his hand from chris' shoulder to his chest, rubbing slow circles with his thumb. "it's alright, yeah? breathe, man.."

chris exhales sharply through his nose, his fists loosening as he nods subtly, not sparing either of you a glance as he turns his head away, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly, his expression unreadable.

you stand frozen, unsure of what to say or do. your chest feels tight, and your earlier embarrassment for not being kissed has been replaced with something closer to unease.

matt glances at you briefly, his expression somewhat apologetic before turning his attention back to chris, "y'good?" he asks quietly.

chris nods his head once, muttering something under his breath before taking the cap off his head to run his fingers through his hair. you swallow hard, throat dry as you observe his tense posture and distant stare, making your stomach twist.

something is wrong—something is very wrong.

you're not sure what comes over you, but before you can think twice, you take a slow step forward. maybe you want to comfort him, or maybe you're planning to ask if he's okay—you're not even 100% sure yourself.

but just as quickly as the thought forms, you stop in your tracks when chris finally looks at you. his expression is blank, but his eyes are filled with something you can't quite understand that freezes you in place.

"don't." he says flatly, his tone leaving no room for argument, and you nod your head slowly, swallowing back the lump rising in your throat.

chris doesn't look at you again. instead, he adjusts the cap back onto his head, his jaw clenched tightly as he turns away from you, leaving you standing alone next to the christmas tree.

divider credits. @issysh3ll

© STURNIOZ

[suosteacup]

Pancakes ~redux~

pairing: Kozume Kenma x gn!reader

genre: fluff

wc: 0.8k

tw/cw: post-timeskip, food, Kenma and reader are newlyweds here, one swear word from Kenma, kitten as a term of endearment from Kenma to you.

a/n: a rehashed version of an old Kenma drabble I wrote on @/mrskodzuken. Thank you Mari @littleplantfreak for betareading this AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA ilysfm 😘 Star dividers by @cafekitsune + support banner by @adornedwithlight 🫶🏻 tagging @pixelcafe-network

The whole house is quiet on an early Sunday morning, save for some tapping and cracking sounds coming from inside the kitchen. A soft plop! can also be heard as Kenma carefully discards a stray egg shell away from the pancake batter mix using a spoon. He then slowly pours fresh milk into a liquid measuring cup until it reaches the desired level, before carefully adding it to the mixture. Next, he picks a measuring spoon nearby, unscrews the cap off a bottle of vegetable oil, and adds two tablespoons of it into the batter.

It’s unusual for Kozume Kenma to wake up early in the morning, much less cook breakfast, but today is very special; the reason why he woke up earlier today is to make you breakfast in bed—after a month of saying “I do’s” to each other, to make your favorite kiwi fruit pancakes with love.

He remembers something you’d said almost a year ago, while having a friendly date at a cafe just beside Kuro’s office one early morning…

“You know, Kenken? When I get married, I’ll ask my husband-to-be to make me pancakes like this one day,” you say to Kenma as you take an IG-worthy photo of a plate of kiwi fruit pancakes drizzled—no, heavily soaked—in maple syrup on your phone.

“Ehhh… really? Well, good luck to him, I guess.” He looks at you with a shit-faced grin plastered on his face. “That ‘one day’ is going to turn into ‘one week’, ‘one month’, and so on—ow!”

“Zip it, Puddinghead. As if I would force him to make pancakes everyday, you know?” you tell Kenma poutily, waving a forkful of pancake in front of his face before stuffing it up to your mouth. “I’m not that cruel~”

He sighs in defeat and smiles sheepishly before taking a sip of his latte.

“Okay, okay, if you say so…”

After slightly mixing the batter, Kenma adds the minced kiwi fruit that he prepared earlier and whisks it in until fully mixed. He then proceeds to dip a ladleful of the batter into the preheated pan, quickly shaping some of the corners with a clean toothpick to resemble cat ears before the bottom side completely cooks.

“Cute,” he chuckles softly, looking proud of his ‘artwork’.

“It sure is…”

Kenma suddenly jumps from where he’s standing, his golden cat-like orbs widening. He slowly turns his head around to see you peeking over his shoulder, sleep still evident on your face.

Your husband holds his breath in for a second before letting it go as butterflies start fluttering inside his stomach. “H-hi, Y/N, my love. Morning.” Fuck. Kenma internally slaps his mouth after messing up his greeting.

“Hi, Kenma, my love… g’morning~” Kenma feels your arms snaking around his waist as you snuggle closer to him from behind. He notices you looking at what’s into the pan and—Kenma finds this adorably endearing—your eyes twinkle as they widen a bit, sleepiness a thing of the past.

“Pancakes! And they’re cat-shaped, too!”

He hums and smiles, slightly checking the bottom side for any signs of browning before flipping the cooked side of the pancake with a spatula. Bringing his free hand to gently pat your head, he says in a matter-of-fact voice, “Did I also mention that they’re kiwi fruit pancakes?”

“Huh? Kiwi… fruit?”

Kenma feels your embrace around his waist getting a bit tighter. His cheeks gradually heat up as he silently continues on making another pancake, with you still hugging him.

He finally speaks in a soft voice. “Um… y-yeah. Because you told me to make one for you when we get married one day…”

“Oh. That conversation we had at the cafe that time…” You smile, both of you fondly remembering the memory.

“Yeah.”

Kenma silently cooks the remaining pancakes, the only sound heard in the kitchen is the slight sizzle of the pancake batter cooking. He feels your weight shifting from behind, strands of your hair tickling the side of his neck. He wonders if you can still feel his heart beating loudly just as he can feel yours.

“Y/N, kitten? Still sleepy? I’m almost done here, you should sit down and wait for me. Then we can eat breakfast together—“

A sniffle. “Thank you.”

“For what?” He then glances at your small form in alarm before quickly turning your attention back to the last piece of pancake, bringing the pan to a big plate sitting nearby before tilting it down, the cooked pancake sliding off and on top of the stack. Kenma turns off the stove. “Y/N… are, are you crying?”

You snuggle closer behind your husband again in reply—Kenma can feel a slight wetness forming at the back of his shirt, accompanied by a few sniffles and chuckles.

“Thank you for remembering. Thank you for coming into my life. Thank you for loving me, all my flaws and strong points. Thank you for marrying me. My bestest friend in the entire universe. My love. My everything… I love you, Kenma.”

Kenma holds your hand and kisses it softly, smiling. “I love you too, my Y/N.”

And he really loves you back. More than everything in the world.

Likes are okay, reblogs are nice, reposts and plagiarism stuff are frowned upon 🥰 | ALL WORKS BY SUOSTEACUP © 2024

[oh-koenig-my-koenig]

(cw: mentions of losing a close family member)

König doesn’t really know how to cook.

Well, anything other than the basics… Most of his meals consist of rice, meat and some kind of vegetable. Or like a carton of eggs. And of course, he can warm up meals and cook pasta and put pesto on it. But working in the military his whole life, he never really had the need to learn to prepare something to eat other than those basics, because most of the meals were provided and he’ll eat any- and everything. When he’s on leave, he cycles through his staples and also orders a lot of take-out, just to satisfy the calorie intake he needs at his size.

His grandma used to cook for him, ever since he was a little boy and then when he returned to Austria as an adult, she always made sure to prepare his favourite meals. He hasn’t been back ever since her funeral, he tells me while he gets some ingredients out of the fridge. Eggs, milk and butter. He misses her and her cooking, but that’s just how it is in life. Flour from the pantry. Mixing it all together, eyeballing the measurements, and adding a pinch of salt.

She taught him how to make Palatschinken. Thin pancake or crepe-like sheets of dough that he apparently made too much of. Rolled up, filled with jam and powdered sugar on top.

“Pala- what?”, I ask, wanting him to teach me how to say the word properly.

“Pa-la-tschin-ke.”, he repeats, sounding the syllables out, and I imitate them, until he tells me that I’ve got it.

I sit at the cooking island in his kitchen, on one of the chairs, and watch him pour the thin dough into the hot buttered pan. It bubbles and sizzles as he swirls it around, until the whole bottom is covered. Waiting for it to be cooked from one side. He lifts the edges with a spatula to make sure. Then he looks at me, raising his brows, like ‘Look at me, look what I can do’, lifting the pan of the hob, holding it in front of his body.

Oh, oh, that won’t- He flips it with a rehearsed flick of his wrist, the thin pancake rotating in the air for just a moment, then landing in the pan again.

I coo, clapping excitedly. He bows jokingly, with the pan still in his hand.

When it’s done, he puts the Palatschinke on a plate, spreads apricot jam on the thin dough, rolls it up and then sprinkles powdered sugar over it, setting the sweet roll in front of me. Gesturing me to eat.

I dig in, cutting it, and the fluffy dough almost melts on my tongue, the sweet jam spreading in my mouth as I chew. God damn it, that’s good. Simple, but very tasty. I finish the first one in record time and he puts the next Palatschinke on my plate. I fill it myself, devouring that one as well. He starts to make more, stacking them on a separate plate.

“You wanna try to make one as well?”, he asks me then.

I nod excitedly and get up from the stool. He hands me the pan and the ladle, putting some more butter onto the hot teflon, and I add the dough. When it’s cooked through, I try to do the flip just like he did. The little crepe flops up a bit and then folds in on itself. I burst into laughter and he joins in. Well, that didn’t go as planned.

“Don’t worry, that happened to me a lot of times.”, he says, scrapping the dough into the bin. “We’ll try again.”

So, the same spiel again. Until the Palatschinke is ready to be flipped. He’s standing behind me, we’re both gripping the handle of the pan and he’s looking over my shoulder, coaching me through it.

“Mit Gefühl.”, he tells me. “Carefully, but with determination.”

“I wanted to flip this thing, not get a lecture on how to enter some-“, I quip, but I get cut off when he playfully pinches my butt cheek.

It makes me jump up a bit and I bat his hand away. “König!”, I yelp, with pretend indignation, but he only grins down at me.

“Come on, you can do it.”, he says, nudging the pan in my hand.

“On three. One, two, three!”, I count down and then we flip it, together. The piece of dough rotates in the air and lands in the pan again.

“First authentically self-made Palatschinke.”, he says, with joking solemnity, as he drops it onto my plate. I do the rest of the steps and then eat it as well.

He makes Palatschinke after Palatschinke, telling me some more about his grandma and the dishes she used to cook, until all of the dough is gone. I listen to him and eat a whole bunch of them until I’m so full, I feel like I’m gonna burst. He finishes the rest of the thin pancakes, decimating a whole stack of them with lots of jam and sugar.

“The rest we can cut into small strips and put into soup.”, he explains.

“Into soup?!”, I question what he just said.

“Yes, Frittatensuppe. It’s really delicious.”, he says like it’s a normal thing.

I shake my head. Those Austrians and their weird dishes.

If you wanna try and make your own Palatschinken like metalhead!könig and reader, I got a recipe for you! Enjoy! a/n: this is the start of a little series I'm doing for mh!k x reader because I have so many scenes (some already finished a while ago like this one) that don't have a certain place in the plot and are just sitting in my word document, left to rot, so i'm gonna post them as their own random scenes that are still connected to them! some of it is gonna be sfw comfort fluff like this one, some is gonna be nsfw - stay tuned <3 Wanna get to know them better? Find more chapters in the Masterlist

[the-meme-monarch]

hi i wanted to rewrite the butterscotch cinnamon pie recipe i borrowed as of this post now that I’ve made it maybe 5-6 times and have messed with variables and made things easier for myself, though maybe it’s more convoluted to read

I’ve made my own pastry crust a few times but none of them were to my liking. graham cracker crusts forever ok.

in a medium saucepan:

-1 cup brown sugar

-1/4 cup water

bring to a boil, stirring. once thick and bubbling, turn off heat

in a bowl or maybe a measuring cup:

-5 tblsp heavy cream

-2 tblsp butter

-1 3/4 cups milk

RESERVE 6 TBLSP OF THE MILK/CREAM, but go ahead and put the rest into the saucepan and mix

in a second bowl, mix:

-6 tblsp of that milk/cream that I told you to reserve you reserved it right

-2 egg yolks

-1/2 tsp salt

-4 tblsp cornstarch (i recommend putting the cornstarch in last, so you can immediately start mixing it and it doesn’t become a Brick in the bottom of the bowl/measuring cup)

continue whisking this cornstarch mixture and ladle in maybe 3-4 ladle-fulls of the saucepan mixture to temper the eggs. Then pour it into the saucepan mixture. turn the heat back on, to med-high, stirring constantly until thickened (and i Mean constantly, bc it will just very suddenly turn thick) maybe 2 minutes

add and mix in:

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp vanilla extract

maybe make some whip cream to put on top when you’re ready to eat it but honestly it’s fine without it

[yebreed]

Warring States Beverage Fridge of Marquis Yi of Zeng

Judging by the burial items, Marquis Yi, this Chinese Petronius, was a socially inclusive person and managed to keep a positive outlook on life even under the Warring States.

This antique beverage fridge was found in 1978 among the treasures of the Leigudun Tomb No.1, Suizhou, Hubei.

A smaller vessel (Fou 缶) with rice wine was placed inside Jian (鑑) bronze frig, fixing all with three hooks on the bottom, and ice cubes were poured between the walls. Cooled rice wine was filtered and scooped up with ladles when needed without removing the inner container.

Two such beverage fridges were discovered in the burial site. Like some other items, Jian frig is signed “For the perpetual use by Marquis Yi of Zeng.” In his quirk, the Marquis is not unique: beverage fridges have been common since at least the Spring and Autumn period. However, for few they were such an essential utensil to take it with to the afterlife.

Total weight (Jian + Fou) is 168.8 kg. On display in Hubei Provincial Museum (湖北省博物館).

Photo: ©湖北省博物馆藏

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

we had a chef MC headcanon, now how about M6 when MC made them a meal but it tasted just downright horrible and MC is just kinda oblivious to it, asking M6 with the brightest, most innocent smile "Do you like it?"

i hope you have fun writing this if you do choose this humble request

- 🌼

The Arcana HCs: When MC is a terrible chef

~ this reminds me of the time when teenaged me combined old rice, hot dog chunks, cold broccoli, and buffalo sauce (in one bowl!) for a late-night snack. thank you for the giggles this gave me, yellow flower friend, let's hope I pay them forward! - brainrot ~

-- to set the scene --

Somehow it's been one of those weeks when everything in your food supply begins to reach its end or expiration date at the same time. You know your regular grocery shopping is tomorrow, and you have an extensive list prepared, but dinner is up to you tonight and you don't have anything comprehensive planned. It looks like it's time for your famous "everything but the kitchen sink" stew. You've only made this in the past when it was just you in the shop and you were still figuring out how to cook, but you remember it being fairly edible.

(Continued below the cut)

You get some beans boiling (there hasn't been time to soak them), add a cup or two of vinegar to soften them faster, dice the not-molded parts of a tomato and onion you found at the bottom of a sack, and rinse the slime off of some wilted greens before throwing them in. You're craving something spicy, so you dump in the rest of your chili sauce, but when the steam makes you tear up you scrape out the rest of the mayonnaise to even it out. It was starting to smell funky anyways. Your hand slips when you add the salt, so you pour in some honey to counteract it, and in a final burst of inspiration, you plop in two bananas that have gotten too mushy to eat. The signature suspicious scum of your original dish is just floating to the top of your soup when your beloved returns, hungry from a day of work.

Julian

Too happy to see you to notice the poison on the stove at first

The words die in his throat when he does. Tell him it's a potion. Tell him it's a curse. Tell him it's a prank. Don't tell him, don't tell him it's ... it's dinner, isn't it?

He watches you happily ladle a generous scoop of your curdled concoction into his bowl and gulps. He loves you. He's got this. He will eat your food, he will tell you it's delicious, or he will die trying

He's starting to get caught up in the poetry of it as he sits down across from you. Like a lamb to the slaughter, accepting the sweet taste of death from his beloved's cruel hand - stew isn't supposed to be sweet, oh god why is it sweet

But for his darling's delight, he will overcome -

"Julian, is everything alright? You look like you're about to go on stage."

"Oh, is ah - is that what I look like, my dear?" He's pale and sweating at this point, poorly disguising the tremble in his hand as he brings his second glass of water to his lips

"It's my stew, isn't it?" you dolefully lift a gelatinous spoonful and watch it fall back into your bowl with a sickening squelch. "I remember it tasting weird, but not this weird ..."

"No, no!" His voice cracks against his will as he sees your sadness as proof of his failure. "It's delightful, delicious - worthy of the gods, even." You hear him mumble a prayer for forgiveness under his breath and drop your spoon

"I know when you're acting, Julian."

"Ah, so I - so I am. You know -" he stands abruptly, his chair falling behind him in his haste. "I just remembered that Pasha invited us for dinner tonight. Shall we?"

He's never been so happy to see you walk out his front door

Asra

They can smell it as soon as they walk into the shop and are immediately concerned. That is the smell of death. Why is the smell of death in your shop oh no - "MC? MC, where are you?"

"I'm upstairs!" Thank the patrons, you're okay

Then again, maybe you're not, considering how perfectly comfortable you seem standing over whatever monstrosity is releasing toxic vapors into the atmosphere. Is that ... soup?

Color him intrigued. He's doing his best to hide a laugh and find a way to ask what enabled you to create something so terrifying out of simple kitchen ingredients without insulting you

"So, is this recipe an MC original?"

"Yep!" You smile at him cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the stomach-churning way that the chunks plop from the soup spoon into their bowl. "I always make this when we're running low."

"You've made this before?" They're starting to get concerned again

"Just a few times, when you were on a trip. Do you like it?"

He takes a bite, so intrigued by the way it seems to wriggle down his throat that he tries a second. "I've never had anything like it."

"What do you think of the mayonnaise? It smelled a little funky ..."

We have mayonnaise? They wonder, but on the outside they're still smiling. "It certainly adds to the experience. Is this ... banana?"

"Yeah, it seemed too mushy to eat on its own, so ..."

Asra sets down his miraculously empty bowl with a loving smile. "MC, you shouldn't have to do the cooking so often. Let me help out more often."

Nadia

She doesn't know how it's come to this. Nobody knows how it's come to this, when the Palace kitchen is kept fully stocked and there are chefs available at all hours

But you had said that you missed your home cooking, and she had given you full access to the backup kitchen to do as you pleased, and - ah, the only things kept in there are leftovers

That would explain the stench

Speaking of, her respect for your resilience has reached new heights. How you've been able to survive on your own is a mystery to her. Please tell her this isn't how you ate for three years -

But you seem as deathly serious as the radioactive sludge that's churning in her fine china like a lava lamp, and she realizes that this is going to be a labor of love. She must eat her fill and do so with elegance

You watch her bring the daintiest (read: tiniest) spoon of slime to her lips, pausing to test the aroma before setting her jaw and putting it in her mouth

Oh, look at that, she's already eaten her fill

"MC, my darling, what do you say to an evening walk? It seems I haven't the appetite to dine at this moment, how about a stroll around the palace gardens? The night is still young."

She's relieved at how easily you agree, deeply concerned by the fact that you've already finished half of your bowl, and eager to get you out of the palace so that the maids can make dinner disappear

She's going to lose sleep for the next three months about whether or not she should be honest about what happened to your soup

There's now a bald patch in the grass behind the kitchen that hasn't been able to grow anything in three years. There's a rumor that stepping on it will release a stench so foul that you won't be able to eat for twenty-four hours afterwards

Muriel

He's not too worried. He used to eat spoiled food out of the trash heaps all the time as a kid, he's sure he remembers how

But he's a little surprised that said rotting food is being actively cooked. By you. Seemingly in a choice made of your own free will

He wasn't expecting ... this, but a quick glance around the hut makes it clear to him that nothing terrible has happened, that you seem perfectly sane, and that you don't think anything's wrong

Well, you seem to trust your cooking, and he certainly trusts you, so ...

He side eyes Inanna's dramatic performance of whimpering and pawing at her nose, eventually turning to let her back out of the hut as you serve your bowls with a smile

He takes a glance at his serving as you dig in. Asra still talks about the time he ate a whole chili pepper without flinching - he can do this. He picks up his spoon, scoops up a jiggling chunk, and eats

You're a little surprised at how quickly his bowl disappears. You're not really enjoying your food yourself, but you're not going to judge his strange enthusiasm

"Muriel? If you're still hungry, there's more on the fire ..."

"I'm fine." He's getting out of his habit of depriving food of himself, but in this case, refusing to eat is a personal kindness

He drinks several glasses of water while you finish your dinner, asking you about your day and trying not to grimace at every silent burp that pulls the aftertaste back into his mouth

Inanna buries the rest after the two of you go to bed. Nobody knows how she managed it without opposable thumbs, but everything is possible for a wolf desperate to preserve her nose

Portia

Her brother might be an award-winning actor, but her flair for the dramatic only goes as far as silly little bits designed to make people laugh and pretending that she isn't about to punch somebody

She is a woman who knows her mind, her heart, her strength, and her limits. This is a limit, and she is doing her best to pass it

You can tell right away that she doesn't want to eat what you've made. You've never seen her smile look so uncomfortably tight, and you certainly didn't miss the way her stomach heaved when she leaned over the pot to take a closer look at your creation

But she's insistent on going through with your evening, even steering you towards the kitchen table and serving the bowls herself. She tries so very hard to mask the look of revulsion on her face when different chunks of stew jiggle at different frequencies

She places your bowls on the table and lifts her spoon, waiting for you to take the first bite in the hopes that your eyes will be opened and you'll insist on eating something else

No such luck. You're two spoonfuls in, so in the spirit of keeping an open mind, she loads up her utensil and shoves it in her mouth

You weren't expecting to be sprayed by the choke that seizes her, but sitting across from her puts you in the splatter zone and you're quick to give her your napkin and ask if she's okay

She nods weakly, looking slightly green. "MC," she says, "you are definitely stronger than I imagined." She takes another look at the gelatinous blobs on her table. "Stronger than you need to be."

She dusts off her hands and practically drags you out of the cottage. "Let's eat out tonight! My treat. And I just had the best idea for our next date night - we should take cooking lessons together!"

Lucio

He notices Mercedes and Melchior acting up on the way back to your campsite, but doesn't have any idea why until he gets a whiff and - oh, that is nasty

Some kind of skunk jacked up on magic must have done that, never fear, MC! He's here to save the day now - what do you mean that's dinner? That is not dinner. Dinner is not supposed to smell like that

He's not sparing a second to consider manners or acting. Lucio calls it like he sees it, and all he sees is poison

"MC, do we have to? It smells so bad, look at it MC, just loo - bleugh - no I'm not being dramatic! The smell made me gag for real, watch!"

And he leans over the pot again, just to take a deep lungful and subsequently let out the most visceral gagging belch you've ever witnessed

"See? It's bad, it's really bad, and I don't want to eat it! Why are you being so mean to me, MC?"

To be honest, you're not particularly excited to eat it either, but it's all you've got until you make it to the next town tomorrow, so you tell him as much as his pout slowly deepens

"Fine, I'll do it. I guess it can't be that bad if you made it -" He watches the way it slops into his bowl and gulps. "I take it back."

Sure it's a little spicier and clumpier and saltier and sickly sweeter than you planned, but you're able to stomach it just fine

And to your surprise, Lucio can too. He complains loudly the whole time, but his whining somehow grants him the ability to eat three full bowls

"See, you ate so much of it!"

"Well of course!" he puffs out his chest proudly. "I'm the best. At least it's not as bad as what we had in the army. But - MC?" he looks at you with pleading eyes, "please don't make that again."

[oliversrarebooks]

Augusnippets Day 5: Feverish Caretaker

Masterlist

tw: fever

June ladled water out of the bucket, careful not to spill a drop. It was almost empty, and she couldn't help but run her tongue over her parched and cracked lips. The burning of her throat was like she had swallowed needles, only outmatched in pain by the hammering in her head, and she longed to feel some cool water down her throat, but she couldn't. Not yet.

Instead, she brought the ladle to Henry's mouth. "Drink. You need it."

Henry's eyes were vacant as they had been for several days now, but he opened his mouth enough for the water to flow in. She poured it slowly, not wanting him to choke, especially since he could barely sit up. The moment he had finished with the water, he collapsed back down into the bed. She pressed a hand to his forehead, hopeful that his fever would break.

"Still hot as a furnace," she said.

"Thanks," he mumbled. "Glad you haven't caught it from me."

She nodded. She didn't have the heart to tell him that she was burning too.

He closed his eyes and fell back into a fitful sleep. Even the small effort of sitting up for a drink had taken all the energy he had.

June's eyes traveled back to the bucket and the thin layer of water that still sat on the bottom. She didn't dare drink it, because then they would be out, and then she'd have to make a trip to the well for more. She was hiding from Henry the fact that she was too weak to stand, much less carry a heavy water bucket all the way to the house.

Still, if she faltered, there'd be no one left to take care of Henry. She dipped the ladle into the last of the water, savoring the relief as she swished it around her dry mouth.

Maybe if she got some sleep, she'd feel well enough afterwards to go to the well. Just a quick nap, while Henry was sleeping…

Masterlist

@augusnippets

[battorlstuff]

Story: Fall of the Jock P.4

Filling his Ego

Suddenly it's as if Jace had regained his strength, fighting and throwing insults, but instead his body seemed more weakened than ever.

Those muscles that he boasted so much had deteriorated, those abs that he kept flexing in front of the mirror were no longer even visible, instead a tender roll of fat ruined the complexion of his abdomen that now protruded a little outwards. His arms looked big, but they didn't have anywhere near the same definition and his legs and butt were quite flabby now, his pecs were turning into mobs and jiggling as Jace struggled.

"This is the last video of Jace in that chair, I think I'll move him to a couch, you know he's getting quite fat, our pig will need more space"

Despite his declining physique, Jace continued to disparagingly insult the man, calling him a fat pig, but that only made things funnier for his captor who was standing in front of Jace watching him fight. He laughed as the new flab that covered his entire body wobbled at his outburst.

The man left for a moment, leaving Jace struggling in the chair, then with a squeak the man entered dragging a large standing mirror.

"Time for Jace to see what I've done to his tight body."

"What the hell have you done to me?! No, I can't be fat! My abs, I've had abs since high school...I couldn't let you do this to me...I'm disgusting"

Jace screamed and cried as he watched his once beefy pecs jiggle like tits, while he felt the heaviness in his numb legs and watched his belly grow and bury his abs.

"Well, he didn't take it so well..." a close-up of the boy's new flaccidity from every angle, the man brought the camera closer and shook his new layer of fat, twisted and played with his nipples, gave a few spanks on his butt that It looked like jelly now. On his legs his thighs were beginning to come together and finally he gave a few good pats against his new belly, that flaccid navel, far from what used to be his hard abs, looked swollen creating a small belly, and the rolls of fat were beginning to appear hiding his old six pack, needless to say, his v-line also disappeared under the layer of fat.

There was a cut and the title appeared on the screen: "His real punishment begins, week 5 238lbs"

"An old friend has a good restaurant, and Jace will try the specialty"

A huge pot was on one side of the couch, Jace had a marker lying there at the bottom, it seemed like it was hot in the room because the boy was sweating profusely and even his captor had sweaty shirt. It only gets worse when I drag Jace near the steaming pot.

"Chili with meat and beans...I ordered the leftovers, anyway, that's what pigs eat, right?" The man takes a huge ladle, dips it, and then brings it to Jace's mouth. "Come on, try it." He doesn't wait for Jace to react, instead he shoves the wooden ladle between the boy's lips and makes him swallow a handful of beans and meat.

Impatiently, the man took a funnel and began pouring the chili through it.

"oh no buddy...I won't let you stop, you don't deserve a break"

"mmmmfd..please...too much...vomit...mmmm" Jace grunted, as his stomach swelled beyond its limits, meat falling down his torso, broth accumulating between his rolls of fat, but the man continued pouring the chili for almost ten minutes.

Then, seeing that Jace might vomit, he decided to make it slow again. Even though he still didn't want to give Jace a break, he dipped the ladle into the pot and fed Jace.

He had barely finished the first bite when the spoon was in front of his mouth again. He chewed and swallowed nonstop, but the pot was still far from finished. It seemed just as full as when he started,

Jace stopped for a moment again, trying to recover a little and fighting not to vomit. There was less than half of the chili left and his captor was waiting for that pot to finish.

"Oghghh" Jace grunted as he was forced to continue eating, his captor wouldn't give him a break, the taste of the chili was disgusting, it was clear it was leftovers from days ago, Jace's stomach growled as he continued eating, he felt cramps but the man didn't stop, delighted to see Jace's stomach grow.

"FUCK! You're too slow!" shouted at him after almost half an hour Jace was halfway through the pot and it was evident that he could no longer continue, Jace was panting and with his mouth open, saliva was dripping out along with the chili.

"Maybe you need motivation huh?" the man wasted no time in starting to masturbate Jace hard, the now ex jock had gotten used to this, he didn't need more stimulation, if his stomach was full and swollen, his dick would be hard.

Jace did not react, he was barely able to moan as he released his load, that was new, Jace took several minutes to finish shooting and his captor would make sure that all of his semen fell into the pot.

The following days the routine was repeated, the pot was emptied and the man refilled it, little by little Jace lost all trace of muscles, he went from 238 lbs to 298 and now on his "last day of chili" the man helped him walking to the scale.

Jace is weak, his legs and arms atrophied from the lack of movement, stretch marks were visible on his butt and belly, and a laugh was heard when Jace reached the scale, the video ends with Jace being masturbated once again, the man pokes his belly, spanks his deformed butt, and squeezes his new mobs, Jace had reached 316 lbs, and when he sat down again, the chair broke under the weight of the now fat boy.

[d011zk1ll]

I'll admit I don't know much about aidlyn, but maybe (in an au away from, uh.. whatever SBG has going on) you could write about them watching a movie or cooking? I enjoy little domestic scenes like that. maybe they're cuddled up on a couch watching a terrible movie one of them rented, or teaching the other how to cook a favorite dish, etc etc etc.

i ask for you forgiveness its midnight this ended up tacky but erm yes oui oui

Aidelyn fluff :3

The kitchen was warm, and in all honesty cramped. Each time Ashlyn needed to reach the stove, she’d end up brushing past him, arm against arm. It wasn’t that there wasn’t enough space, she still had some room- more so the comfort of human contact. The simple things in life, really. “Have you grated the carrots yet, Aiden?” She asked, stirring the sauce with a wooden spoon, and sifting the spices in. “We need those, the onions and the tomatoes added in soon or the sauce will end up evaporating.” 

Aiden didn’t look up from his chopping board, shifting the pile of carrots to one side and beginning to chop the onion. “If you’re in the spaghetti, how are you supposed to help me cook?” 

His face was never straight, always in a grin that could melt anyone's sharp corners, like fire next to ice; still, it didn’t waver as he retorted with a soft tone. 

“If this pan wasn’t scalding, I'd hit you in the back of the head. You know that, right?” 

“Oh,” He laughed, “I am well aware. I’m so screwed when there’s no longer a fire hazard.” 

She grumbled under her breath, eliciting nothing less than a chuckle from Aiden as he finished with the onion, bringing the chopping board over to the stove. “Special delivery, Ash.” They were so close to each other, she could feel the way his body shifted as he brushed the vegetables into the sauce, the dressing creating a small plop sound as they fell in. Ashlyn could feel his breath, solid and a simple comfort that felt no less than necessary for her wellbeing and life. 

“Should I drain the pasta?” He broke the silence, not out of want, but out of need- Ashlyn could hear the water begin to bubble too much. “Yeah, the sauce just needs to be stirred and we can go watch that shitty movie you rented, what was it? Quid Game?” She grimaced, flicking her wrist to turn the stove off. “That sounds like an absolutely horrible rip off.” 

“It sounds brilliant, you just lack a sense of humour,” Aiden countered, a spike of joy evident in his tone. “I think it's going to be comedy gold.” He finished, bringing bowls with noodles over and reaching for the ladle.

Ashlyn sounded unamused,“If you say so.”

The metal scoop brushed against the bottom of the pot, red broth and mince scooped into the ladle as she poured it onto the noodles, doing the same for his bowl.

He had a habit of taking the chipped ones, and leaving the ones without the porcelain exposed to her; aware of how it made her uncomfortable.

“Come on then,” she turned for the door, Aiden batting a braid with the back of his hand like he always did. “We can put the leftovers into tupperware when you inevitably get bored after ten minutes.”

[crystalbeetle888]

Voyage into the Unknown Pt.6

Master List Pt.5 - Pt.6 - Pt.7

Many more days pass, riding across fields and forest, through little valleys and rivers, up and down hills, in rain and sun. And during that time, I have only grown closer to Kili.  Not forgetting Bilbo, and Fili. Their company is the only thing keeping me sane as the older men continuously thwart any attempt of mine at helping. I feel stir-crazy as the days melt together, with nothing productive to do except talk, ride, and train at sword fight with Fili until dusk. 

The company rides up a grassy hill laying at the bottom of a tall cliff-face, large boulders scattered along the way. At the top, the ruins of an abandoned house lay. Thorin rides up to it “We’ll camp her for the night” He says, Gandalf already wandering around, inspecting the house. “Fili, Kili, look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them” he says to his nephews. Hoping off my horse I hand Kili the reins, and take my pack down “I suppose I won't be training with your brother tonight then” I swing my now very heavy bag on my back. “Well you can always watch the ponies with us, keep us company” I look over at Thorin who seems to be arguing with Gandalf in the ruined house “I’m not sure that he’s in the mood for suggestions right now, plus I think he’d say I’m ‘too distracting’” I mock Thorins’ deeper voice. Kili chuckles “You’re probably right”. “I’m definitely right,” I nod, pursing my lips. “And how do you know that?” he asks, “Because I’m a woman, and I know everything” we laugh together, Kili nodding along until a loud outraged voice interrupts us “Myself, Mr.Baggins!” Gandalf storms past us “I’ve had enough of dwarves for one day” I hear him mutter to himself as he wanders off into the wild. “Come on, Bomber, we’re hungry” Thorin calls over. The company whispers to one another “Where do you think he’s going?” I turn to Kili in concern, “Probably just off for a smoke, maybe a bath” He shrugs, not caring that the powerful being has essentially left us until further notice. Anxiety begins to creep into my mind, making me feel restless. Kili wanders off with his brother taking the ponies with him. 

Settling in for the night, Bofur fills up peoples’ bowls with the thick stew. I get up and hop in line for seconds, behind Bomber, who patiently waits for his turn. Bilbo fidgets, walking back and forth “He’s been a long time” He stomps over, “Who?” Bofur asks, “Gandalf” Bilbo stresses, Bofur scoffs “He’s a Wizard. He does as he chooses. Here, do us a favour. Take these to the lads” He hands over two bowls to Bilbo who didn’t really want to help out. Bomber sneaking the ladle for his fourth serving, tries to sip straight out the spoon “Stop it. You’ve had plenty” Bofur chides him, wrestling the ladle from him. “Let him eat if he’s hungry” I say, frowning at Bofur. The two turn to look at me, Bomber smiling under his thick braided beard, and Bofur shaking his head “Don’t start down that road lass, he’ll eat you out of house and home” He wags his finger. I roll my eyes at his antics “He’s not a bottomless pit”. Bofur laughs and whacks Bombers fat belly “He’ll eat a whole cheese wheel and then some lass” the two dwarves laugh, Bomber looking quite proud of himself. “Bullshit” I say, causing the two to chortle louder “Language lass! Bombers appetite is something to behold” he exclaims. I uh huh them, taking the ladle and pouring a scoop into my bowl “I’ll believe it when I see it mate” “Well, maybe one day you’ll have to experience a true dwarvish feast, that’s where the real action happens” He winks and I laugh “I suppose I’ll have to then aye” He nods with a chuckle as I turn away, and walk around the socialising men to find a quiet spot to sit and enjoy my meal. 

The wind is nice and cool after a long hot day of horse riding, my legs ache deeply, my heart aching also. Homesickness isn’t something I thought I would be feeling. But here I am, sadly sipping my stew, longing for my daily, or even weekly routine. Opening up the studio in the early morning, working away at my latest collection of paintings until noon, where I would then go and help teach at the local dojo to the juniors class. Some may think my schedule was repetitive or boring, but I really enjoyed the normality and structure. Always buying a vanilla iced chai from the bakery next door, possibly a mini pizza or pasty. Always passing by the same calico street cat, sitting on the town statue down the front most street, waiting for pets or food offerings. I had always thought her name was Fatty or Big Bess, Bessie for short. But I’ve heard other suggestions like Spot or Tiger, or more suitable ones for her weight like Jabba or Big girl.

I sniffle, face heating up at the thought of home. Taking a deep breath to settle my heart, I barely notice Balin walking over “You alright lass?” I jump, his voice surprising me, “Yeah just missing home, you know” I continue to sip on my now cold soup. “Aye I know that feeling well” He sits down on a rock beside me “Sometimes it helps to talk of it” He smiles warmly at me “Tell me about it hay?”. I sigh “I was actually thinking of a fat street cat” I laugh sadly and he chuckles “Not thinking of family?” He jokes. I smile strained at him “No, I don’t have any family left” stir my soup aimlessly. “I’m sorry lass, I didn’t mean anything by it” He apologises quickly “Nah it’s all good mate, they died a long time ago” I stare out over the dark valley, clouds rolling over the hills. “How’d they pass?” He asks quietly, “My mother died of- uh a brain illness, and my father died from- overindulgence in substance” I say before sculling the last of cold stew in one gulp. “I’m sorry lass, sometimes terrible things occur and all we can do is hold out, in hope of a better day” He leans over and pats my shoulder in a very fatherly way, causing my eyes to water “Thank you” I whisper. 

The moment of solemn silence between us is broken by two princes rushing through the brush shouting “Thorin! Mountain trolls have snatched the ponies!” they shout alerting the company “Bilbo went ahead to try and release them, we don’t know how long he’ll last” Fear strikes my body ‘Shits’ just gotten real’ I think scared as the men grab their weapons, preparing for a fight ‘What the fuck is a mountain troll?’ I place my hand on my sheathed sword. I've never had to use this in an actual fight before, let alone aim to kill someone. Balin places his hand on mine “Stay here lass, if we don’t return, run like the wind and find Gandalf”. I nod shamefully, knowing I won’t be of much use. As the men march off to battle, the princes leading the way, a deafening silence washes over the camp. My anxiety spiking through the roof, ‘When am I supposed to run?’ ‘Where am I supposed to go’ and most nerve-wracking ‘What if they need help?’ I jitter and buzz with adrenaline, pacing around the camp. “How about I just go and check it out? Yeah, then if they need help I’ll- do- something” I hype myself up. Pulling out my machete from my pack, I jog into the woods, making sure to keep low. A bright glow lights up the forest ‘How did we not notice them?’. I creep up to the light and hide in a bush at the top of the mound, overlooking their camp. In the centre of the clearing a large bonfire is lit, with some of the dwarves spit-roasting over it. Three giant, ugly, ‘mountain trolls’ stand around arguing with Bilbo about how they're going to cook the company, before one of them picks up Bomber and dangles him over his mouth. Sliding on my belly, down the mound and through the brush, I sneak up behind Thorin who lays closest, and grab the rope tying his sack closed. Thorin jumps at the touch before I shush him, working on cutting him free.

“Oh, not that one. He’s infected.” The troll turns to look at him “Huh?” “You what?” they ask outraged. “Yeah, he’s got worms in his- tubes” Bilbo makes something up quickly, and to my surprise the troll toss Bomber back on the pile with a loud “Eww!”. “In fact, they all have. They're infested with parasites. It’s a terrible business and I wouldn't risk it. I really wouldn’t” He tries to convince them. 

Their conversation about parasites drift into the background as I focus on cutting though this stupidly thick rope, with my stupidly small pocket knife. Finally cutting it, I pull the cord loose from around Thorin's neck, and attempt to grasp the back of Thorin's shirt and pull him up. However he’s much heavier than I expected, and I struggle to pull him even an inch up into the scrub. “Come here you!” one of the trolls exclaims before I am suddenly lifted up by my leg. “Oi look Tom, look what I've got” He proudly waves me in the air, ragdolling me, to the other trolls. “Put her down!” “Leave the lass alone!” the company shouts angrily. The troll brings me to his face and gives me a long sniff. “Mmmh man-flesh” he says, rancid breath wafting over my face causing me to dry-heave upside-down “And it’s a female” he says excitedly. “Taste better than the males” He raises me high above his face causing me to shout out in fear and wriggle furiously in his grip, kicking and punching his hand “Put me down you fat ugly cunt!” I scream at him causing him to crack up laughing. “Do you ‘ear that Will? This ones’ got fight in it” He shakes me around violently, ceasing my wriggling. 

“The dawn will take you all!” Gandalf’s voice bellows over the commotion. “Who’s that?” “No idea.” “Can we eat him too?” the trolls ask before Gandalf strikes the stone he stands on, breaking it in half and allowing the morning light to cascade over the trolls. They retract, groaning in pain as they quickly turn to stone. The company cheers joyfully “Oh, get your foot out of my back” Dwalin complains from the spit-roast. Still hanging upside-down in the dead troll's grip, the blood really begins to rush to my head. “A little help anyone” I mutter weakly as my vision begins to spot. “Just hold on lass we’ll get you down” someone yells.

Eventually, after they had saved themselves, the dwarves managed to get me on the ground again. “You could’ve sustained serious injury, have you no care for yourself?” Thorin hisses as he marches over. Tired and nauseous, I lay flat on the dewy grass, without saying a word in response. I groan in discomfort, being shook around like that has really pulled everything out of place. “Do you have nothing to say for yourself?” He scoffs. “Yeah, I do have something to say actually. Sod off!” I bark back at him before covering my eyes with my arm, a headache slowly creeps up my neck. Balin interrupts Thorin by saying something in Khazdul, causing him to back off in a huff. Thorin then goes to harass Gandalf leaving Balin to tend to my wounds.

Master List Pt.5 - Pt.6 - Pt.7

[steviewashere]

Decorate My Silence While I Figure Out How to Breathe

(also on ao3)

CW: Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide in a Minor Character, Self-Harm (Without Realizing That's What it is) This is rated mature on ao3 for a handful of reasons, including the content warning. Please take caution and care for yourself.

wc: 10,624 (I know, it's a doozy), Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Season 4, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Steve Harrington is a Mess, Self-Hatred, Worried Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Bathing/Washing, Steve Harrington Has Shit Parents

(I apologize for how long this is, but I just don't feel comfortable separating it into different posts.)

Heed tags and all content warnings, please!

—

The night was silent. Except for the wind. It was whispering in Steve's ears. Muttering soft things, soothing him, blowing air back into his lungs.

He's sitting in his backyard. On his diving board. Jeans cuffed to mid-calf, feet dangling in the cold water, beer between his hands—it wasn't cold at all, pulled straight from the box and warmed with the setting sun. He watched it disappear over the horizon, dipping down between the trees, tucking itself into the soil. He wishes he could do that. Maybe if he could mingle with the worms and the centipedes and the forgotten pinecones, the night wouldn't seem so lonely.

It's July 1st, 1986. Steve's anticipating the onslaught of fireworks. Waiting for the hissing of fuses, billowing of smoke, and shout of color overhead. Over the last week, he's kept his ears on high alert.

In case, he tells himself.

Though it's silent, with the wind brushing against his back, he can hear a heavy accent spitting words between his eyes. Can feel blossoming bruises and fresh, dripping blood. Crunchy hair stuck to his tacky cheeks. Burns across his body from what kept him tied up to Robin.

Speaking of Robin, he wonders how she's doing. What she's doing. Her parents ushered her out of Hawkins to a lake trip. He hopes she can still call. Her voice is constant when he's so absent to the world. Maybe she's in the wind. Maybe she never really left. Maybe she's just as bad off as he is.

He shutters when the wind stops teasing his spine.

It's late. The sun is asleep. His feet are numb from the water. And the beer has been sipped once.

He's not really a beer drinker anymore, not since Barb's death. How did I get here, he wonders.

Steve is sitting alone in his backyard, staring down a beer tab, longing to go under the freshly cleaned water, and sink to the bottom. Lonely and tired and desperate for the phantom touches to go away, that's his life post-Upside Down.

He sips his beer. It fizzes against his lips and leaves a sticky trail under his nose. Drips down his Cupid's bow. Trails across his wobbling lower lip and chin. Then, it settles atop his thumbs, not tracing along the ridge of the can. Sharp under his fingertips, scraping across the sensitive skin, giving him a taste of muted pain.

Terribly he wonders, If I dug a little deeper across the rim, would I bleed? (Maybe he should put the beer away, drain it into the pool, and let it swirl across the surface.) Would I bleed? Would I seduce the monsters below me? Could I be nothing just for the next few days?

He takes a deep breath. Lets it fill out like a balloon and pop between him and the gravestone embracing his feet.

It's late and Steve is tired. Stuck in a dredge as sticky and lukewarm as the beer in his hand. The silver spoon he ate from as a kid digging into his sternum, melon-balling his cigarette stained lungs and beaten, but broken heart, ladling his blood like pasta sauce, and pouring it across the world for all of Hawkins to see. For the demogorgons to taste. For the people he calls his friends to stumble upon, gag over because it's the essence of Steve Harrington spattered across the poolside, and scrub at like taping over a wedding video.

He aches and sizzles. Burns and shrivels. Drinks and drowns.

Nothing bad is going to happen again. Nothing as dangerous as having to pull Eddie Munson from the Upside Down, protect Robin Buckley from Russians with sharp teeth and blunt force, save young Lucas Sinclair from Billy Hargrove, and defend oneself from being eaten alive—by bats and friends and own self-hatred.

Nothing terrible is going to happen again. So, why does Steve Harrington want to throw himself into danger so bad, why does he yearn for it, why can't he feel bad for himself? What does he do if the person he needs to protect the world from is him?

Let the fireworks come, Steve threatens. Let them rain upon me. I can't care anymore.

---- Steve wakes up in his bed the next morning. Unaware of how he even got to his room.

The sunlight is pouring through his window, spilling across the carpet, and staining his duvet. It's warm. Makes his skin itch and burn.

He's still tired, he finds. Aches erupt behind his eyes, under his thumbs, across his cheekbones. Fresh bruises. Belts digging into skin. Blood across his drooping eyelids. Everything hurts and tenses and rips into him.

The spoon digs deeper. Closer to his bare back. Travels to the bottom of his ribs. Scrapes against every bone in his abdomen, squelches every inch of his intestines. He wants to scream, but the energy to pull sound from his lungs hurts.

In the sun drenched room, warmed by rays and birdsong and gentle sway of trees, Steve wants to disappear into the world. Melt into his mattress, if possible. He wants to sit straight in his bed, hands cupping under his chin, mouth gaping with saliva, and project acrid yellowish beige puke across his fingers, escaping through the gaps to his lap. Wants to sit in the mess for a long while and realize, there's no point in cleaning himself up if he's going to do it again.

There's no point in a lot of things post-Vecna. The party is almost the same age he was when all this shit had started, they're about ready to run off and rebel against the damned world they swore to protect. Robin and Nancy and Jonathan are leaving to go to school. Eddie will surely go off and do his own thing, always too big for such a small town. His parents weren't present before and they've already communicated they won't come back.

So where does that leave Steve? The kid who had everything laid out for him. A future promised by his name. Friends who were on par with him; not that his new friends aren't, they just are bigger and better than what he could ever imagine for himself. He doesn't deserve them or this current life he has.

He's decided, he doesn't deserve anything. All his life he's been handed the better deck of cards. Been boasted over. Has been a bully though and through; major aggressions like the breaking of Jonathan's camera, minor aggressions like threatening to knock Dustin's teeth out, a joke that would have never landed. Got Barb killed by his own selfish needs and tired to persuade Nancy to move on; that was too fast and he knows that now. If only I hadn't been so stupid, he muses. Couldn't get into college. Or make his parents proud. Has nearly gotten other people killed too.

I should've died, he laments. Which, shouldn't that be true? The demogorgon in 1983, those demodogs and Billy in '84, Russians in '85, bats and Vecna in '86. He had every chance to get himself killed, to show that he's done his job, that he's taken the hits for the people that mean so much more than whatever pathway he's dug. He couldn't even do that right.

And now...now it's just a countdown to the next thing that could get him killed. Hoping for once, that nobody goes after him or is there to be his aid. To let him slither away, be beaten beyond pulp, and pulled apart like pork. Even then, would his killers be satisfied? But he knows he should die.

Maybe he can conspire that in his bed. Where he doesn't move from. Maybe a stray firework will come crashing through his bedroom window. He hopes that it will explode and drench him in stray fire. Hellfire, drown me in hellfire, he wants to beg to nobody in particular.

Steve rolls to face away from the window. He wraps the blanket tighter over his shoulders and buries his face into the pillow. It smells like night terrors. The skin on his face is slick with sweat. Torso ripped by scars. He doesn't want to move. Isn't hungry. Isn't thirsty. Doesn't want anybody to find him.

He doesn't have much energy, but he forces himself out of bed. Only to go down to his front door, hide the key on his porch, and lock it behind him. He pulls shut all the curtains. Climbs the stairs like a mountain and slams the bedroom door behind him.

In hindsight, maybe he should call someone to say that he's sick or something. That he wants to be left alone. He doesn't though. Maybe he should shower and eat and force himself to have a good day. But he doesn't. Won't.

Can't. That's going to be his favorite word. And who's going to shut him up? Nobody. They can't.

---- It's July 4th.

Steve hasn't left his room in two days. Well, only three times to use the bathroom. But otherwise, he's kept his promise. Successfully made himself a shadow, a silent specter.

When the phone rings, he covers his ears. Everything is so loud, he realizes. The fireworks and neighborhood kids screaming. Cars driving by. Even the smell of smoking barbecues, which really doesn't make sense, but it's so much.

His stomach growls, but his limbs are stiff. Unable to shift and get food. At the very least crackers or soup. Even then, he can't.

Steve's starting to smell ripe. Which is pretty unusual for a guy so high maintenance. The mere thought of standing under a shower stream or having to strip his clothes or having to even turn the bathroom light on is, daunting, to say the least. There's only ten feet between him and the upstairs bathroom and even then, he only goes for emergencies.

With the way he smells, he could envision himself rotting. Turning green from the outside. Turning red and mushy on the inside. If a mirror were placed in front of him, he could watch the way his eyes turn white and glassy. See the areas of his skin that are burned red from the pooling of his blood. He could watch the life literally leave his body. He could watch his body warp into spirit and then continue to haunt his childhood home. I've already rotted, he thinks. I'm already a ghost.

The phone rings and rings. His fingernails dig into the soft flesh around his ears. He pulls at the roots of his hair. Grips to his biceps and squeezes. Makes himself hurt over and over and over again. To escape his senses. To feel something else.

There's an emptiness where his lungs are. It's sucking down every bit of his insides. Enveloping him in a dry-heaved breath. Where he would usually cry and swallow down his guilt over how he's survived, there's nothing. He feels every last awful thing of himself, but not the tears. Can blink and be spitting in Jonathan's face. Take a deep breath and be recommending Tina's party to Nancy. Bite his lip and hear the way Dustin's name spill from his mouth to the Russian bastards. And he can rub across his skin, feel the way his scars aren't as deep as Eddie's. But he can't cry. Can't make himself feel better. And he doesn't know if that'll ever be a possibility for him again, if he's stuck this way. If he'll be forever broken. Ruined.

Because this is new to Steve Harrington. Not once has he ever felt so in the dark about himself. But now that the fights are over and everybody is safe and living as large as possible...Now he's left with what didn't happen, what should've happened, with the question on the tip of his tongue: Why am I still here? And he can feel himself crumble under the weight of his own breath. And though he's miserable, he aches to feel this way forever.

This is karma. This is what he deserves, right?

---- A rustle and drop break Steve out of pulling his hair.

There's something downstairs in his home. It could be a demogorgon or a demodog or a demobat or Vecna. Something dangerous could be lurking in house. But he can't pull himself up to find his nailed bat. Can't come to his dull senses and put his fists in front of his face.

He can't pretend to care.

Footsteps cause a stampede on his stairs. Heavy with each step. Loud on purpose. To alert Steve most likely, but he can't bring himself to be alarmed.

The thing hasn't even made it to his bedroom door. But all he can feel, for once over the last few days, is relieved. This is his moment of release. The moment that should've come during the first Upside Down encounter; Steve Harrington's untimely demise.

He holds his breath. Untangles his fingers and lets them drop across the pillow. He swallows all the saliva pooling in his mouth.

The door swings wide open and a breath is released into the air.

Nothing happens after that. The thing's presence is standing in his doorway, but it doesn't move or breathe or prowl. It assesses, but doesn't do anything else.

Steve doesn't drown in a pool of his blood or get ripped to shreds or strangled by a rope-like tail.

He cracks his eyes open. And there, watching his form, is Eddie Munson.

Eddie's hair is wiled, more untamed than his everyday. Like it was in the Upside Down. As if he fought to get over to Steve's house. His clothes are nothing usual. Sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, Reeboks still on his feet. There isn't a jacket or a vest or several chains. He's normal, regular citizen, must've rolled out of bed, Eddie.

When his eyes finally meet Steve's, he whispers, "Oh, thank God." He even does the Sign of the Cross with his eyes closed, finishing by kissing the edge of his t-shirt's collar, where a cross would lay. His eyes reopen to gaze at Steve once more. "Oh, thank God," he fervently presses into the air.

His eyes are too intense. Steve looks away without speaking. He buries himself further into his blanket and stabs his fingernails back into the meat of his biceps.

Eddie hastily makes his way to the side of the bed that Steve lays on. He slowly crouches down to land on his knees. Brings his hands up to lay on the space between Steve's heated body and the spare room on his mattress. His eyes roam. They map every exposed bit of skin, the drooping, greasy hair, rumpled clothes. He reaches outa hand to lay atop Steve's, to try and pull his fingers away.

Steve flinches backwards and growls, "Don't."

"Okay," Eddie placates. He pulls his hands back towards the edge of the mattress. Lets there be distance between them. Steve hates it, but he can't express that. There's no way he can express anything other than apprehension. "I just," he stammers. "I came to check on you. The backdoor was unlocked. You weren't answering your phone and both Robin and I were getting worried."

His voice is soft and sad and concerned. It makes Steve's skin itch.

"Well, you're here," Steve flatly states. "And I'm alive."

Eddie is taken aback by the tone of his voice. He winces like he was slapped. And maybe the lack of intensity, yet the severe intensity of Steve's voice, really has that power.

"Well apologies, asshole," he spits back. "But when somebody in the group doesn't fucking answer, we tend to get worried. We thought you weren't alive," he barks. He pushes his body up and looms at his full height. With one last look thrown in Steve's vague direction, he makes his way to the door.

Steve knew he couldn't say anything in return. Not yet, at least. Because how would he respond to that? "I wish I was dead. Sorry for worrying you, but I think you'd be terrified to know what I'm thinking about."

So instead of saying something as treacherous as any of those responses, his body betrays him differently.

Right before Eddie crosses the threshold to go back into the hallway and down the stairs, Steve lets out a wounded whimper. He lets several loose into the tense air. Maybe he will cry, he can't, but it could happen, but it can't, and it will, but he so badly wishes it wouldn't.

"Steve?" Eddie whispers over his left shoulder, eyes pierced to where the lump of his friend stiffens with every sound. He feels his heart breaking like a brick wall struck by a wrecking ball. His ribs are collapsing. His heart is sifting through stomach acid to try and float back to his chest.

Steve's body convulses with every breath. He stammers, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm s-sorry." Over and over until each word is unintelligible. "Don't go," he pleads between each staccato intake.

He feels warmth crowd over him. Like the sun. There's a hand hovering over his shivering shoulders. But it doesn't touch him. As if, to Eddie, it can't.

"Sweetheart..." he coos sadly. "What's wrong?" He watches Steve's face turn red. Sees the tremble of his eyelids as it tries to contain whatever pressure is building there. How his chin wobbles.

Steve doesn't really respond. He mutters "Wrong" on repeat and "Dunno," but each word is slurred. Eddie sits down and asks to touch him, when he gets a nod in return, his hand digs into the greasy hair. He lightly scratches his scalp. Untangles knots. Repositions certain strands of hair to where they'd normally sit.

Eddie notes how pale Steve is. The indents of fingernails on his biceps and areas of red, irritated skin where his hand teases hair. How wrinkled his pajama bottoms are, indicating how long they've been worn. His hair is an easy giveaway. He can hear his stomach growl. He realizes how resigned and numb Steve appears. The way there's no other emotion on his face outside of accepted misery.

He sweeps his hand to cover Steve's exposed right ear. His thumb is careful as it caresses his cheekbone.

"I don't know what's happening, but I've got you, Stevie." And as if that was all the permission Steve needed, he begins to sob. Wet and congested and rough. "I've got you," Eddie whispers. Soft like the wind.

Every screeching sound leaving Steve's barren chest ripples through the air like an ocean in a storm. Each gasp rocks Eddie's body and settles tense like a fresh scream. The noises are that of several sheep being slaughtered brutally by the hands of unkind men. Calloused is his breathing. Innocent are his cries.

The spoon has cleared all the way through Steve. In its wake is a gaping, frayed crater. Each seize of his lungs squirts blood halfway across his room. If he squints, there's droplets the size of beads bedazzling over Eddie's left side. The sprays seep into his clothes and harden the carpet and stain his closet door. In every part of the house, though he's been cooped up in his room, Steve can feel his soul being ripped apart and strewn over; every corner occupied with pre-1983 him and every seam in the hardwood now glued by the residual sweat from his last run through the Upside Down. The carpet contains his footprints. But his room is a slaughterhouse; in his bed is him, the version of Eddie pre-occupied by the last swirl of demobats, but by his dresser is Nancy fresh from the pool, and out his window is Barb grasping to a cement edge, being dragged by her feet, and taken for all she both was and wasn't. His house is a morgue and a graveyard and a funeral home; it's a last resting place and a crime scene. There's death everywhere.

And that's why it would be perfect, right? For Steve to rot there?

He has been. He still is. He can't stop.

When the room has fallen silent, so has every emotion Steve could possibly feel. His eyes burn like they always do after he cries. But, his chest is loose, yet tight. There's a new hollowness to him. And it's exhausting every stretch of his muscles.

Eddie is still caressing his face like he's something worthwhile. He's gentle. Even if he's usually boisterous in conversation, violent in his mannerisms, brash across his clothes.

Steve's breath quakes in his throat as he chokes, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Eddie whispers. "You needed that, it's alright."

He shakes his head at that. "No, I'm sorry for being so mean," he swears. "I didn't mean it, I didn't mean to be that way, I didn't," he garbles and gargles and drowns.

The hand on his face shifts to his back. It taps across his spine and presses between his shoulder blades. "I know, honey. I know you didn't mean it. You're okay," Eddie coos once more.

"Somethin' is wrong," Steve tells him. "Bad."

Eddie's face glows with fear. His eyes widen as two black holes. Mouth wrinkled downwards. "What do you mean? Do I need to call Joyce?" he tries to not frantically question. Reaches out, too, to grab Steve's right hand, squeezing over his fingers, thumb massaging against his bones.

Steve turns to strangle his face in the pillow. Mutters, "No, no, no...with me. Not Vecna, just me."

And then there's silence. Nothing now. The wind is stagnant. Eddie's hands have stilled.

Steve isn't sure what to do with so much swirling inside of him. What he's willing to let spill across his mattress. If there's a way to go back in time to when Eddie was just about to leave, stomping out the front door, and for his underwhelming, sad, decomposing body to be left here; he wants to figure out that science.

"Steve," Eddie calls. "Can you tell me what's wrong? Maybe I can help you out." He continues to rub Steve's back. Squeezes the hand he's holding too.

He waits a while to hear a response. Steve is still pressed into the pillow. But he positions his face to look out over the side of his bed, not looking directly at Eddie, though it's nearly the same.

"My body hurts," he whispers. He inhales as deep as he possibly can, exhaling what feels like shards of crumbled glass. "And I'm heavy," Steve states. "Like...like somebody set a cement block on me. And I can't get up." His voice is small and worn and stretched thin.

Eddie acknowledges by humming and rubs against the veins in Steve's hand.

"But I also don't want to get up? Not in the lazy way, but in the..." he trails off. His breath catches in his throat, knocking around the tunnel of his windpipe. There's a ruthless, scalding burn settling in his chest. "In a way that would make a lot of people unhappy, but I can't stop thinking about it. And I know maybe I shouldn't think that way, but it won't go away. And I wonder..." He doesn't finish.

"What kind of thoughts, Stevie? What are you wondering?" Eddie calmly asks. Inside though, he knows the answer. Has heard it before from his own mother. Came across her in the after of those aforementioned thoughts, seen the way life had been cruel. How life chose, so full heartedly, to take goodness from the Earth.

"Why does it happen to good people?" He had asked Wayne at one point. His uncle's response, "I'm not sure, Bubba. I wish I could tell you." And Eddie had whined, "That's not fair." Wayne responded, "I know Ed. I know."

So, though Eddie could relay to you the words he knows are building in Steve's chest, he's freaking out. Trying to connect the dots as to when this all started. Asking himself if it's possible to go back in time and prevent these horrendous thoughts from building inside his friend. Praying too that they may never come, that he can be safe from torment. But none of that can happen, won't, wouldn't. He'll forever be stuck in a time where he's met Steve Harrington as a great person to the universe, where he beats himself internally for things outside of his control, where he walks across hot coal just to make himself feel alive.

"I wonder if—if maybe dying would make it stop," Steve admits, shamefully. "I think I've been wanting it for so long that it doesn't surprise me, but I've never felt like this." Eddie's fingers begin to tremble from how hard they grasp to Steve's slick skin. "I can't stop it and I think I deserve it, Eddie. I really do."

His body nearly seizes with the intensity of his breathing, willing himself to not cry. He's never been so ashamed to be the person he is. And the person he isn't. Every word cuts across the roof of his mouth and scrapes against his lips. He wants to be evaporated into the hole in his chest. Waits, practically, for the universe to collapse in on itself now that his confession is out in the open.

Instead though, gentle hands continue to traverse his frame. They squeeze passionately at any tense muscle. Not once do they pull away or become sharp in nature or shove him.

"You don't deserve death, Steve. Nobody does. Not for anything like this," Eddie whispers. "I can't say that I know, but I want to understand. And I want to help you not feel so bad."

"Why?" Steve breathes. "I'm not worth that."

"Because you deserve good things. You deserve kindness," Eddie replies, factually. "I'm not sure how to stop those thoughts. But maybe I can help you feel fresher? If you'll let me?" he offers. His eyes are full and earnest, hand still careful, breath warm across Steve's skin where he now bends to gaze into his eyes.

The offer rattles in Steve's skull. Eyes searching over each one of Eddie's features; his beautiful, brown eyes, bulbous tipped nose, his chewed lips, and small freckles; each one reads: "I'm telling the truth, I want to do this." He's never been offered help as large as this. And he hates the way he feels, yet finds he can't do anything about it. This would be good, his brain says. Then you can rest, it adds.

"What did you have in mind?" Steve asks. His eyes drift down to where his hand is being held. He brings his other fingers to tap across the back of Eddie's hand, toying with his sharp knuckles.

Eddie swipes his thumb across Steve's ear. He hums thoughtfully. "I was thinking of running you a bath. So that you can sit instead of stand? And while you soaked or whatever, I make you something you'd like to eat. Then, I'd change out your bedding, but I would put it in the dryer for a little bit so that it's warm when you get tucked back in. And the rest is up to you," he lists. "Is that some stuff that you'd like to do?"

He caresses the side of Steve's face. Patiently, he waits.

The energy used to keep talking is depleting rapidly. He isn't sure how much longer he'll be able to keep up with Eddie for the day. For the night, more like. It's already 8 PM, fireworks sounding distantly. But Steve remains heavy in his bed.

"Sounds nice," he eventually breathes. "But, can you stay with me in the bathroom? I don't want to be alone," his timid voice shakes. As if asking such would turn around to punch him across the jaw. He swears he can feel the pain bloom from his chin, an unsettling pop tossed around the room, echoing across his plaid walls.

"Of course, Stevie," Eddie murmurs. His face is soft. Dimples barely appearing around his mouth, but still he gives Steve a gentle smile. It pays to see Eddie at night; quiet and careful and less devious than when he's around everybody in the party. "I'll do whatever you need right now."

----

Eddie's sitting in Steve's bathroom, filling up the tub with warm water. He's got a plastic cup sitting on the ledge, a mountain of bubbles threatening to spill out onto the tiled floor, a washcloth, and two towels; one for Steve's body, one for his hair.

Steve still hasn't left his room. He's currently sitting up on the edge of his bed, staring down at his bare feet in the carpet. His torso is curled over his knees and his head pounds. There's hair falling into his eyes, but he can't bring his fingers up to swipe them away. He's only wearing sweatpants; but his heart is worn across his chest in a splattering of reds and pinks and muted blues. With every beat there's that creeping itch to collapse onto his back and crawl through the mud that is sleep. He yearns for the firm mattress to comfort his exhausted muscles, a pillow to smother himself in, his blanket to cover the errors of each Upside Down fiasco; drag scars, torso chunks, plate cuts, crooked nose.

He wants to close his eyes against the brightness curling into his bedroom from the hallway, so he does. Lets his head droop down to curve the top of his spine. Blood settles along his lower back, sloshing down the tops of his thighs, anchoring to his toes. There's almost a calm within being so weighted, to being too heavy for words and sounds and lights and movements. With each breath, the crevice from the spoon begins to stitch. Not entirely. It won't ever close up completely, but he can feel the sinew of muscle reattaching; blood seeping across his chest hair, tacky across his sternum, threatening to pour back into his belly button.

Eddie opens the door and tiptoes to the bed. He settles on his knees in front of Steve.

Though he can't bring himself to stand, he can feel Eddie's warmth. And he yearns for it.

"Ready to go to the bathroom?" Eddie questions. Not loud. Mellowed and pastel in the way it breaks through Steve's collapsing lungs. Steve shakes his head.

"Not yet," he whispers. "Can't."

Instead of being shamed, like he would be when he was home from basketball practice and too sore to move, he's left with softer words, "That's alright Stevie, take all the time you need. I can always refill the bath." Eddie stands and sits next to Steve on his right. His hand tucks hair away and tickles down his earlobe, settling warm across the back of his neck. Thumbs dig into the top of Steve's spine, lightly scratching over several moles and freckles; connecting them into various constellations. Eddie doesn't say anything for a while. Just hums random notes and heaves breathing exercises when Steve seems to seep inwards.

Steve raises his head ever so slowly, every vertebrate realigning. He tilts from side to side, reintroducing his muscles and nerves to the normal of sitting straight. "I'm ready. I think. Can I—" he begins. There's a voice in his head that screams: Don't ask for help, you don't need it. Don't ask for help, you don't deserve it. A battle twitches between his eyebrows. The muscles throw grenades and stab arteries and shred arms like raking soil. He tentatively asks, "Can I lean into you while I walk?"

Without answering, Eddie stands in front of Steve. He grasps onto his hands, heaving his body fully, steadying him when he wobbles on shaky knees. One of Steve's arms goes across Eddie's waist. "Put your head on my shoulder, I got you," he whispers.

They make their way and when they cross to the lip of the tub, Steve feels heavy with no emotion; only one cracks through him though.

Adoration.

That's the first thing outside of being bodied by emptiness and loneliness and weighted cowardice, that Steve can feel through every limb, in every vein, at the edges of his frayed nerves and still beating heart. For a mere moment, he is able to tally away one reason why he shouldn't disappear. And that makes his heaviness lighter, he sits like a bag of bricks, but his toes begin to tickle like feathers.

Eddie is silent and attentive in the way he undresses Steve. With his eyes as they roam over wilting hair and kissed-pink puckering scars and knotted muscles. And with his deft fingers as he plucks away the sweatpants' waistband, shimmies them over Steve's knobby knees, and bunches them over his long feet. He folds the dirtied laundry and sets them on the floor by the sink. Tucked away, yet noticeable for later; whether Steve cleans up or Eddie does by proxy when he changes the bedding for a warmer set—a duo of sheets covered in dainty lavender flowers and a duvet dusted with pink stitching.

He dips his elbow in the sudsy bath water, nods to himself over the temperature, and then carefully maneuvers Steve's legs to face inwards. His left hand holds steady to Steve's and his right massages over the other's shoulders. Simply just smearing his palm's softness over the spattering of back moles; previously connected by careful lines, shining bright like an array of white fireworks in the dimmed bulb of the bathroom.

Once Steve is submerged to just under his pecs, Eddie whispers featherlight, "Does everything feel okay?" His hand cards through stringy hair, timidly cautious when he meets a new knot he hadn't quite untangled.

Steve nods. Words feeling too big for his sullen mouth.

"That's good," Eddie states. "Do you want me to help you with washing up or would you rather I sit here and talk?"

He isn't sure how to respond quite yet and Eddie doesn't seem upset at his molasses responses. In fact, when Steve looks over him, his eyes boring and at ease, he finds that Eddie is just patient. Which normally, he's stubborn with his temper and anxious to get things moving and for his voice to be heard. But in this moment, he longs not to be heard, but to be understood. And that's enough for Steve to request, "Please do both."

Eddie's hand slips through the ends of his hair and easily reaches over for the washcloth folded neatly on the toilet lid. He dips it under the mound of bubbles and brings it back to wring out. His movements are languid, wary, but not in a fearful way. As if when his body settles over his heels, he's gauging Steve's reactions, as subtle as they are.

"Do you want bar soap or body wash?" He kindly asks. And Steve feels warm without sweat at the question. He's never had the choice before when he took baths as a kid; his mom always ran a bar of soap between her hands and then gently stroked it over his body.

"Bar," Steve croaks.

The washcloth is set on the edge of the tub. Eddie leans over to the bathroom's counter and grabs a handful of boxed soap bars. Each one has a different label.

"I found these in the cupboard. There's a peach scented one, vanilla musk, whatever that means, and the classic Irish Spring. Is there one you're more particular to?" He asks, holding each box up as he goes, and then placing them on the edge alongside the rag.

"You smell like Irish Spring," Steve observes.

The scent had brushed him once at a gathering in the Wheeler's basement. It had been a warm day in May and the A/C was running, but everyone and their mother was sweating. He had been invited to watch a campaign oneshot. "Something short enough to keep your attention," Dustin had said. The kid genius had been right, of course. Though, Steve paid attention differently on that day. He noticed this new awfulness he resides in start to creep across his skin, light like the hum of the air conditioner. He was fighting with himself during that little get together, but Eddie had came over during a snack break, long arms, slim figure. Plopped down on the worn sofa and slung an arm over Steve's shoulders. His t-shirt was damp with sweat, but all Steve really could smell was the citrus and bergamot disguised in green.

The feeling of Eddie's arm was comfortable. And so the scent stuck to the inside of Steve's nostrils. When he left that night, he stopped by Melvad's and bought a bar. With the intention of eventually using it, but he had to work through his body wash first.

He is given the option here. He can ask for it.

Eddie chuckles, "I guess I do. It's my favorite soap. Wanna use it tonight?"

Steve nods and whispers, "Please."

So, the washcloth is redipped in the warm water, rung out so it's not sopping wet, and the bar is ran through ever so carefully. Eddie starts with Steve's neck, rubbing small circles across his skin. The dead skin flakes away over the coarseness of the cloth. It's worked over the slope of his shoulders, into his chest hair, his biceps, and pecs.

But Eddie skips his hands and instead moves down to his legs. Each swipe like a paintbrush marking a sunset sky. The reverence in which Steve is being treated with is so foreign that he begins to tear up. His lips tick into a tiny smile, only an inch wide, but brighter than any firework beyond the windows.

"Still doing alright?" Eddie asks when he rings the washcloth out once more and hangs it to dry over the toilet.

"Doin' better," Steve whispers. Though, there's still a fault line fracture in his soul and a bullet would scar from that spoon.

He inches his fingers to settle over the surface of the water. They're pruned. Over the lip of the tub, he dances them until he's touching Eddie's pointed elbow.

Eddie gently takes his hand. Intertwines their fingers. He smiles without teeth.

"You're really good at this," Steve mutters through a sigh.

"Used to do this with my mom. I don't mind doing it," Eddie responds.

Steve hums. He licks his dry lips. Feels each one of Eddie's words settle over the bathwater and drown his limbs in sorrow. Ever so carefully, he shifts his hand back into his own lap, and watches with regret as Eddie's beautiful face sours. He sucks on a lemon in the time their hands separate. And Steve is so tired.

His throat stings. Scratchy with oncoming tears. His eyes water. Bubbling with something he didn't know he had to feel that night.

Remorse.

It seems that being gone to the world for days on end, for a while so it's been said, really brings down everybody. At one point, Steve was okay with being alone on weekends and holidays and birthdays. He was doing just fine inviting over Tommy and Carol for stale beer his dad forgot about or muck water weed. In his evenings, he was settled with laying in his giant, cold bed; tucked under a duvet that smells like a different detergent than his childhood. And it seems that's how life moves. Steve grows bulky and remorseful and regretful. He grows ashamed and bastardly and inside this need to be constantly admonished.

Never in his life did he imagine he'd feel so greatly, yet so few. Would be left with a rusted spoon in his grip and a body feeding from survivor's guilt. He wants to scoop the rest of himself from his ribcage and serve his rot to the world. Force Mother Nature to birth a son and kill a son and start his grass anew.

If younger Steve knew that he'd grow to not only disappoint, but also make his friends sad, he would have gone missing or ran away or been found dead by age ten. His mind flashes with Tommy yelling at him in that convenience store parking lot, a cold Coca-Cola forgotten in his tyrant rant. A sign reading: Nancy "the Slut" Wheeler. Jonathan's hardened face over being called queer. And Robin's original distaste for him. The way Dustin had to call him out over the teeth joke. Eddie's initial bias over his popular jock persona.

Now, he's looking at Eddie's crumpled face. Hearing back his concern and Steve's blatant disregard for the tremble in his voice.

I should just drown in this tub, his inner-monologue hisses.

A tear he couldn't feel drips down into the rapidly cooling bathwater.

Eddie's hand scrambled to cup Steve's face. He says, "Steve, it's alright. It's okay." But those words fall upon deaf ears.

Steve flinches back hard enough to slam his head into the ceramic tile backsplash. His voice trembles, "I'm sorry that I made you sad. Maybe you should go, I'll finish in here and then I'll go back to bed and you won't have to deal with me anymore. I'm so sorry, so so sorry. I didn't mean to." There's wetness coating his cheeks, an erupting pulse of pain in his head, an empty ache in his chest.

As he begins to sob again, albeit quieter than before, Eddie begins to speak. "No, Steve, no. You didn't do anything wrong, I promise." His voice is all passion and alighted flame and bursting firework. "You were caving again and I was getting worried, you're alright. You're alright," he whispers when Steve's body shivers and his crying slows. Hesitantly, cautiously, he shows both his hands and floats them closer. "Can I check the back of your head? Just to make sure you didn't crack or split anything." Steve nods with the smallness of an injured child fallen on hard pavement.

Eddie combs his fingers through hair, separating along Steve's part. His fingertips lightly trickle over and around and through. He doesn't miss a single spot. With care, he massages at the irritated red patches from where the hair had been pulled. "Nothing damaged, but let's be careful," he breathes against Steve's ear. He settles back on his heels and assesses.

Steve won't look at him. Can't look at him.

"Steve," Eddie whispers. He doesn't get anything in return. Steve's body sits like a Raggedy Andy doll that's been shoved onto a high shelf. And that's really who he is, isn't it? He's been placed somewhere he can't get down from and needs somebody to pull him away. He keeps pushing back, flailing, and then the other person gets hurt.

His eyes close. Throat bobs with the force of his swallowing. He takes a dangerous moment of peace in the silence. With it, his skin crawls. But he doesn't mind. When he does breach the quiet, he asks, "Can you hold my hand again?"

Eddie obliges. Both of his hands wrap around Steve's left.

His skin is hot. Not uncomfortably. Not in a sexy way either. The heat reminds Steve of soup and saltines when he was sick as a kid. Reminds him of late night bonfires with old friends out by Lover's Lake in the fall. Heated pool late at night. That beer from a few days prior. The sun.

He's decided that Eddie is both the wind and sun.

Bright. Yet calm. Brash. Yet timid. Burning. Yet soothing.

And that's really Eddie's essence, isn't it? Some bigger, more necessary, more constant thing. Washed between trees and light all around. Creeping his way through billowing curtains and gaping doors and finger gaps. Looking to nestle and maneuver and cushion. In his consistent, over-bearing, tumultuous everyday normal; Eddie is all around in smaller ways, hesitant moments, and manicured silences. He's worked his way to being somebody Steve can expect as being reversed in his mannerisms; going from big to small to mild. In each sense, Steve's been wondering where the sun and wind are. They're here in his bathroom, holding his hand so lightly it's as if they're merely brushing skin with feathers.

Eddie knows how to decorate Steve's silence.

So, gently and shamelessly, Steve requests, "Tell me about your mom?"

"Do you want me to wash your hair while I do?" Eddie asks. Steve just nods. He grabs the shampoo and squirts a small amount into his palm. "Well, she's a good woman first. One of the best people I've ever come to know." Once it's warmed in his hand and frothy, he gently rakes through Steve's hair, not going to the ends. "Very kind. Warm. Soft. It's a wonder that I ended up the way I did, guess we can thank my dad for that," he snorts.

Steve's eyes are drooped, body lax against the back of the tub. He whispers, "I think that you're all those things."

"Yeah?" Eddie breathes across the crown of his head. His hands scrub fervently, precisely, and painlessly meticulous. Steve hums. "I think you are too," he states.

He fills the plastic cup with warm water and leans Steve back. One arm wrapped around his neck and back of head. His thumb massages where skull meets spine. He doesn't pour the water all at once, rather trickling small waterfalls over and over. When the suds aren't as noticeable, he eventually does pour it all. And then, he begins on the conditioner. Warms it the same as the shampoo.

"My mom, she dealt with what you're going through. I think almost as long as I got to know her." He rubs the conditioner over the ends of Steve's hair, bunching it as he goes. "She had her ups and severe downs. Sometimes we'd go out for days on end; basking in the sunlight, feeding ducks at the pond, going out for ice cream. Those were great days." Steve watches a wistful smile ripple in like a small tidal wave. Intense in the nostalgia and the childhood and the ache. "Her down days...Toughest fucking days I've ever had to endure. Saying something, I suppose, considering all that was spring break."

"I'm sorry," Steve sympathizes. Though, he can taste empathy like a packet of salt on his tongue. Violent in flavor, buried in his teeth, roaming through his saliva. Each swallow burns.

"It's alright," Eddie whispers. He works water through hair again. "I was with her on those days. May have been tough, but at least I got to spend time with her." He assesses Steve's hair. Wonders very briefly if he should do one more shampoo rinse. He does, a smaller amount filling the well of his palm. "She did what you've been doing. Laying in bed, not really doing much, but that was all she could do. Several days she'd go without washing herself or eating something, sometimes just drinking water was too much on her mind."

He shutters through his next breath. It stutters warm and cold over Steve's skin. Audibly, he swallows. As if he was consuming whatever was left of his mother. The bad days. The good days. The end.

"She lived in those thoughts you've been having," Eddie adds. Barely makes a sound. If Steve weren't sitting so close, so heavy to the world, he would have missed it. "I could just tell some days when she was lost in one. Had to hide things around the house. Medicine and sharp things and cleaning products," he lists. Each word cutting against his throat, deeper and deeper. "Dad had told me about all of that. In case he wasn't home. He rarely was considering his criminal history, but at least he taught me something valuable."

His hands travel down Steve's neck and the slope of his shoulders. Works all the way down to hands, wrinkled like old skin. And Eddie thinks, I want to see him like this.

Eddie keeps his eyes on the shriveled tips of fingers. "One day I came home and she was just still. Silent." His throat clicks through the next swallow. "I didn't get much time with her. Only twelve years, but each day I spent with her was the best. Whether it be that we walked to the park and she pushed me on the swings or I washed her skin the way I've been washing yours. As long as I could help her feel at least cleaner, it was a good day."

He falls eerily silent. Steve uses any mustered strength to squeeze at his veins, his fingers, his palms.

"So, whatever we need to do today, I'm willing to offer. Because I love you so much, Steve. I can't even find all the right words. I'd say you're everything," he whispers. "Everything," he urges. "And I want you here, and I have the chance to help those thoughts simmer. So, let's get you dried off and reclothed and then I'll make you some food. How does that sound?"

"Like music," Steve shares. His eyes burn, his breath cuts, his brain is silent. For the first time in two months, his brain hears silence.

----

After several minutes, Eddie sits Steve down at the dining table. He sweeps wet hair away from his forehead and gazes into his eyes. Steve's face is dim and hard-set, wrinkled with loss.

"I'll make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, get you some ice water too," Eddie whispers between them.

Steve hums. "Can I have mine without crusts, please?" he sweetly asks. His lips curl up and his eyes are consuming. Color starts to wash over him, painting hues like a sunset, a billion red and blue fireworks, the deep magentas and light pinks of cosmo flowers.

"Of course, sweetheart," Eddie breathes into his left ear. Before he evades Steve's space, he presses a light, simmering kiss to his temple. His lips brush skin as he says, "I'll turn on music too."

So he slithers away to the kitchen and turns on Mrs. Harrington's radio in the window. Usually, he'd tune it to a heavy rock station, but today he turns on pop. He mutters under his breath, hoping that Wham! plays. The ingredients aren't hard to find and neither are the utensils.

His hands keep busy while Steve sits at the table. Back hunched over tangled hands. Set down onto a hardwood table that used to house family dinners.

Visions of his father at one end, his mother by his side, him across form his mom. They eat Chinese takeout because it's a Friday night and nobody has to work or go to school over the weekend. Steve's dad eats sweet & sour chicken directly from the box. His mom eats rangoons with her dainty hands. And Steve slurps noisily at sauced noodles, successfully coating his lips in something sticky and his cheeks with a deep color. Mr. Harrington sticks the chopsticks under his upper lip, mustache tickling over the edge, and he barks like a walrus. Steve laughs so hard that tears spill down his cheeks, water spraying from his nose. Mrs. Harrington giggles too. In this, they're happy.

But now, Steve is—he's muddled. Eddie notices how cold the downstairs is. The scrapes in the hardwood from chairs digging and being shoved around. He recalls a time a while back where Steve had mentioned his parents purchasing a new home in Southern California. The postcard he got in the mail reading, "Greetings, From Sunny California." There was a return address, but specifics about not contacting them. Not visiting. That they'd handed him the home in Hawkins, his responsibility now, cursing his name for digging his feet in retail and Barbara Holland disappearing from their backyard. Disappointment being scrawled in bold, black, scratchy handwriting. And then, when Eddie chanced a look at Steve's face, he was resigned.

Like he is now.

He wonders if that postcard had been the start. If Barb's disappearance eventually settled in his lungs after Nancy's Vecna vision. Maybe it wasn't familiarity that Steve was looking for in the Upside Down, but rather, protection from himself. A time where things were simpler and happier and smaller. Where his life wasn't on the line.

Now, he's looking for that sign. For that moment of brevity where Satan climbs through the forest floor and creates a vortex to Hell. A whispering through the wind, vicious and hissing, telling him to "Climb in."

Maybe if Nancy wasn't the one that Vecna trapped, it would've been Steve.

Eddie realizes, he probably would've broken out of it. And he would've been upset to hear Steve swear, "I'm still alive!" like a slur.

Steve is a teenage boy still, even if he's freshly twenty years old. But, his maturity certainly hit him all at once. Whether that be the last time the Harringtons were all in the same room or when that nailed bat was being swirled around in the air, Eddie isn't sure. Somewhere though, Steve lost his sanity. Lost his patience. Lost himself.

He comes back to the table with two sandwiches wrapped in paper towels and a tall glass of ice water. Wham! is on the radio.

"Thank you," Steve murmurs when he takes his sandwich. He takes a bite and hums. "Like when my mom made them."

"That a good thing?" Eddie asks.

"Yeah, I like to think so," he mutters. "Also, you don't like this music, how come you're playing it?" His big eyes land on Eddie's.

Eddie grins. There's crumbs on Steve's lower lip. Water in the corners of his mouth. He reaches out without thinking and drags his thumb to wipe away the wetness. "You like it," he answers. "Anything you like, I like." His thumb rests on the divot under his lip. Gently holding his chin.

Steve's chewing slows and he swallows. His eyes fill with something. A sparkle where they were once vacant and drowning. "You're too nice to me," he whispers. His head swivels back to his food, leaving Eddie's hand to roughly drop onto the table.

And his eyes clear once again.

"You know, you don't have to stay here with me. I'm probably just going to be like this for a while," Steve hollowly states. That spoon is back again. Playing his ribs like a xylophone; hitting hard enough to crack and disturb. He wants to throw up the little bit of food he's managed to swallow.

He just wants to disappear.

Eddie opens his mouth to say something, but he eats his sandwich instead. Slowly, too. The room is heated with tense energy, crawling under his t-shirt, scraping against his spine, and ripping his hair.

His friend, best friend he considers, curls smaller. Hands picking at the crustless edges. Balling corners of paper towels, eyes half-lidded and just empty.

In another life, Eddie starts to think, we would be eating sandwiches and watching fireworks. His hands tremble on the surface of the table. In another life, he begins, we are sitting at this dining table creating a grocery list, arguing whether or not we should get orange juice with pulp. Steve's not eating anymore. Head firm in his hands, elbows on the table, so informal. In another life, he muses, he is so happy, overflowing with it, body warm with it, eyes shining with it.

In another life, Steve doesn't cry into his hands at the dining table. He doesn't fall in love with a boy. He certainly doesn't work measly retail. Or have scars across every inch of his back. He doesn't sit by his pool late at night, wondering if he could die by proxy.

In the next life, he can only hope he's treated with reverence like this, from birth in screams and blood to death in whispers and halted breaths.

The radio fizzles. Batteries dead. Fireworks quiet for the night.

Every inch of the Harrington house is silent. Surfaces coated in stale breath and curdled blood. Bathwater cold and getting colder. Beds stiff and empty and too wide.

The silence is so loud.

And so hungry.

Steve aches. He confesses, "I love what you're doing Eddie, but I'm tired. And I'm so empty. And I don't know what to do. I can't—" His chest stutters so hard that the muscles in his back spasm. "I can't do this everyday." His arms fold crossed onto the table, head hitting his forearms.

Eddie scoots his hand close and gently brushes his fingertips over Steve's left forearm. "What do you mean, Stevie?"

His fingers tremble where they rest.

"I can't be like this forever. I feel like I've been stuck since we got back from the Vecna shit." His hands reach up to rub harshly at his face. "What if I never get better? You don't want to take care of me everyday and I can't do it by myself. I mean, God—" His palms press harshly into his eyes. Hands turning white from the pressure. "I've been in bed since the first. What if I just stay in bed for weeks, Eddie? That's hardly living. I can't do that to you or anybody or myself."

Eddie's palms firmly grasp his arms. They pull Steve's hands away from his face. There's blooming redness across his eyebrows and waterlines. Snot threatening to drip across his lips.

The shuttering breaths that Steve explodes into the air are breaking Eddie's heart further. Crumbling into thousands of little pieces like bread crusts.

"Steve, I need you to listen to me okay?" Steve doesn't respond, but Eddie continues anyway. "I want to help. I'm sure our other friends would be willing to help too. It's daunting, but eventually you may have to talk to somebody. We won't be able to help with everything, but we can do our best." He swallows every awful emotion making itself known on his tongue. Flashes of his mother and her death. "If you need to rest because your brain is telling you to, then you rest. Even if it's for weeks or months. Fuck, Steve, you could lay in bed for years. You've been through so much awful shit and it's all over. Of course you're stuck right now. You aren't in overdrive. It's okay to be this for a while," he breathes.

His breath leaves him hot and wet. Choked in muscles and blood. Rippling through ribs and fingers and toes. "You don't have to be anything right now. If you have days like these, then that's okay. I would rather be here taking care of you, helping you, whatever you need. I'd rather clean your home or change out your bedding or run you a hot bath. I'd rather do all of these things than..." his voice wavers and thins. "Than go to your funeral. Because you deserve to be here Steve, no matter what your brain says. I know that it's being unkind and that you think this is it for you, but I promise it's not.

"It's not. And we'll figure out what we need to do when we get there. But for now? Let's finish our sandwiches and I'll change your bedding and then, you can just sleep. If that's what your body is asking for, then we oblige. No need to do anything else, do you understand?" He asks, smoothing his hands to hold Steve's. Eddie's eyes are wet, he knows that. His eyelashes are anticipating the need to clump. But for now, he gazes at Steve's form, watches it fight and breathe and shiver.

Steve nods and squeezes in return. He doesn't let go with his left hand, but with his right he continues to eat his sandwich. It's sweet and fulfilling and warm in a comfort sort of way.

Eddie eats too and they both end up with crumbs on their lips.

----

By the end of the night, nearing eleven, Eddie has warmed Steve's bedding and tucked him under the duvet.

Steve's hair is unstyled and wavy and spread like a halo around his head. There's a crumb still nestled on his mouth, but neither make a move to brush it away. Eddie lays across from Steve, gazing, memorizing, creating memories.

In eight hours, Eddie will wake up with strains against his spine. Each vertebrae will pop and settle and his blood will be warmed. Steve will still be asleep most likely. And what he looks like in that state, Eddie can't wait to see.

For now, he holds his breath and counts Steve's moles. Over and over three times. Making sure he doesn't forget. Because, what misery would it be if Steve was forgotten in these silent hours? Terrible, it would be. There's something new to ogle at. A freckle birthed from the sun. Those damned bread crumbs. Flecks of gold and green and honey brown in each eye. Stray blonde hairs nuzzled into his hairline—baby hairs.

His palm holds Steve's left cheek. Thumb dotting over two moles. Then, it sweeps under his eye, catching in an eyebag divot. "You can sleep, honey," he murmurs.

"Can't," Steve mutters back. "Don't wanna lose you."

"You won't, I promise," Eddie fervently swears. "I'll still be here in the morning."

Steve hums. His left palm cradles Eddie's wrist.

His head scoots closer to Eddie's. He basks in this. How pleasant they both smell, wrapped in the same scents and breath; peanut butter and strawberry jelly and bergamot. Though that crater still throbs in his chest and his mind swirls and teeters, there's something settling inside him. With each swipe of thumb, each careful cradle, each promise whispered like prayer, Steve feels one thing.

Contentment.

He knows that tomorrow he will get up feeling like an untreatable basket-case. With a new gruesome idea and unpleasant ending. In the sunlight, he will drown and try to save himself by scooting away from the window. The fireworks will be silent, but the imagines of Barb's wretched screams will wash through Steve like a shipwreck on shore. He'll pick apart his brain, wood buried under sand, and find the sunken eyes of her teenaged body; still vulnerable and venerable.

Steve will bury himself in blankets and wish it was dirt. He'll burn and shiver and sob and choke. Each hour spent in bed will feel like eternity. And he'll rot from the outside in, then the inside out, and in each corner, the tub, down the stairs, out the front door.

He'll have to call Robin. And he will berate himself as she rambles down the phone how worried she was, how miserable her night had been because she spent each second twisted with nausea and anxiety and panic. He is going to remind himself that she doesn't mean it in a "you're an asshole" way, but rather, "I thought something terrible happened and I'd come home to you gone."

I'm still apologizing, he thinks. I deserve everything bad, he will think.

There will be a memory of this week when he's eventually out of his rut. And it may be shameful, but he'll be fond.

"I'm glad you came over," Steve admits. "I'm sorry that I'm so...bleh."

"That's alright," Eddie whispers. "We'll do this together and maybe you'll get sick of me."

"Never," Steve promises through giggles. "I love you."

Eddie presses another one of his wet forehead kisses into Steve's skin. Sweet and long and reverent. "Love you too, now get some sleep. I'll bring you pancakes in the morning."

And so, though tomorrow will be hard, possibly the next day too, Steve snuggles closer to Eddie. Head on his shoulder, one arm wrapped around his waist, thumb rubbing into his side. And he sleeps.

Dreams of Irish Spring soap and warm duvets and kind, unwarranted comfort.

—

Apologies, again, for how long this was. I just really love this one that I wrote some months back, thought it was worth sharing here, too. Take care of each other <3