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hellowoolf · 9 months

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on strawberries and masonry: chapter iii

series summary: you atone for your sins, now, in a jackson garden, learning to care for soft things and yourself. joel miller is a lethal sort of similar, and misery loves company

you live in jackson and meet joel and you’re both damaged little babies and fall in love (but i’m drawing this shit out🫶🫶)

warnings: angst, age gap (reader late 20s/early 30s, joel 50s), blood & gore, scars (NOT self inflicted), knives, guns, SMUT!!, unprotected p in v, fingering (if i left out any, let me know!)

word count: 9k

authors note: the fucking. at long last. thank god. (this is my first time writing smut omg goodbye)

series masterlist | masterlist

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joel speaks to you like copper oxidizing in the sun. it’s slow at first, a shiny amber thing you covet, bestowed every once in a while on patrol or in the dining hall. but when the green catches hold, the gloss of it gone but easier, softer, it’s only a week or two from start to finish. he remains taut with you, strung into a tight wire you weary your hands trying to soften. even still, his prevailing silence makes him a vault, and at every moment you deem appropriate, you store your secrets there.

you tell him about the strawberries first. of the redness of that first one, and the way you’d wept with tommy and noah over the soil. of your hoarding of them, too. you recall to him your brisk walks in the biting air with ellie, smuggling handfuls stained red in the warmth of your coats, to deposit the bunches of them in your kitchen.

he doesn’t ask you again, after his vulnerability on your porch that night, about ellie, but regardless you tally your moments with her to recite for him. you watch him grip to them like a wounded animal in the snow, though still he is joel, and so mostly he is quiet as you recount your greenhouse conversations. you’re certain, now, that he isn’t her father, but she mirrors him to a degree of uncanniness, what with her constant bristling. this you do not say to joel, but mostly because you suspect he already knows.

you pull from joel what he lets you. you learn he lived in austin, before. you learn he worked in a boston qz most recently, up until the trek with ellie to wyoming (the motives of this are strictly off-limits, and though you enjoy pushing him, you allow this omission to stand). you learn he loves music, and played the guitar a lifetime ago. and you gather scraps of him in the moments between the stories, too; he is performative, despite himself, and runs inhumanly hot, and reaches still for his southern manners like he’ll someday be rewarded for them. most of all, though, you learn he is not very good at covering the craters of himself. the small set of moments from his life before jackson he allows you to see are censured, punctured through by his own tongue, you deduce to muzzle the voices of the characters of his past he won’t let you meet. but his recollections remain wounded by his carving of them, and so the ghosts of his memories, unnamed as they are, are clear to you. there is one in boston, and another set along the path to jackson. most incurably, there is one in austin, but unlike the rest, joel carries this specter with him.

the dining hall is always bloated with townspeople when you return from your rounds. the warmth of them overcomes the cold of the outside (it has persisted into late january this year) and as you find a table with joel at your side, the buzzing heat tickles at you from under your coat. you sit down at an empty table with joel on your left.

“but i do think they’re being weird. quiet, i guess, and tommy isn’t ever quiet.” you turn to joel, whose mouth is full already, and he leans back in his chair. tommy pulled away from you, and joel, too, over the last two weeks or so. maria has kept her distance—you have learned to expect this—but tommy is so insistently social, and so his waning outings in town seem odd to you.

“i dunno. tommy’s tommy, ain’t he?”

“yes, tommy’s tommy. but tommy hasn’t been tommy. you see what i’m saying?”

joel shrugs, stabbing again at his plate. “i guess,” but his thought isn’t finished, so you don’t respond quite yet. the brown of his eyes flickers when he’s let the tail of his sentence go, and you’ve learned to make space for them. “i…i don’t think maria’s too comfortable with my bein here.” he won’t look at you, but still it’s as vulnerable as joel ever is with you; he thinks tommy is distant because of him. you’re thrown to that night with maria in your kitchen, asking (demanding, really) that you patrol with joel, to the unyielding truth that your forced proximity to him begins and ends with your proclivity for violence. you aren’t quick to guilt, but it lays its clammy hand on your shoulder while you watch him eat. you’re reminded of how hot the room is, and begin to pull your arms from your jacket, turning your head slightly to lay it across your chair.

“maybe not, but she’s never been too excited about me, either. maria’s protective, very protective. but tommy’s different, too, he–” you don’t know if it’s the looking or his finger that comes first, but in any case you’re jolted somewhat ungracefully into silence. joel’s face has contorted into something unrecognizable as he looks down at your arm, bare in a tank top for the first time in months, and you watch as his pointer finger follows his eyeline down the scar on your left bicep. oh fuck. the callous of his touch just barely dances along the top of it, padding his fingertip along the skin in what feels like disbelief and disappointment and something else entirely. the mark closed up years ago, but the feeling of joel’s hand along your skin nearly burns the thing off. your sanity and your wanting of him are so flammable, and the spark of his touch sets the whole of you in smoke. after a few seconds of it, of the looking and the touching and the silence, joel remembers himself and stiffens again in his chair.

“i’m sorry, darlin, i-” he stops himself. “i'm sorry.”

and him calling you darlin is entirely unfair. you flush, across your chest and down your spine and down through your sex. there is something truly wrong with you. “no, no. it’s okay. i didn’t realize you hadn’t seen it.”

though he’s retracted his hand, joel’s stare remains clutched across your bicep. his fists curl in on themselves in his lap, and he stays there, firm and looking at you and cupping on nothing in his palms. you fill the silence.

“it was a long time ago. i don’t think about it much anymore.” this is only halfway dishonest.

“i shouldnta touched it.” he almost sounds bashful, boyish. he finally looks away from the scar and back at his food. “shouldn’t be starin either.” the depth of his voice tears through you despite the softness of it now, a whisper nearly unintelligible under the sounds of the dining hall. it strikes you that he thinks you a victim, and the thought nearly makes you sick. by maria’s fear of him, you’re certain joel has as blood-stained a past as you do, and late at night you tell yourself he would understand. still, you haven’t had the heart to tell him. what would you even say?

joel shakes his head slightly side to side like he’s reprimanding a child, though the child is him, now, and you could laugh at how awful and sweet and misinformed it is. you’d like to forgive him again, but you think he’ll excuse himself if you say any more about it, so you let the whole thing dissolve away.

“you like strawberries, sting?”

joel groans. yes, along with the lusting and your little fruits, the nickname is a luxury you cannot deny yourself.

“‘n so i played, but never out at bars or anything. tommy sure as hell wanted me to,” he said, securing his horse back in the barn.

“so who’d you play like?” you called from your stall in the stables.

“nobody,” he grunted back.

“you play like sting?”

noah found an old record of his on a run once, and you sat by jesse’s record player for hours at a time listening to it. in truth, it was some of the only music you really knew by heart. as you asked it, the both of you stepped out from your corners of the barn, and he stood with his hip cocked. you grinned at him, but he looked incredulously back at you.

“like sting? are you serious?”

you crossed your arms over your chest. “i’m asking a question. can’t i ask a question?”

“jesus. sting played the bass,” he said, exasperated, as he turned from you to walk out. you thought of his thorniness and guitar playing and the colors of his voice. sting. you decided you’d call him that as you followed out after him.

“i think so. i think i used to.” he seems far more relaxed in his chair now, and it makes you sink further into yours.

“i just have too many now. i’ve been thinking of giving some away,” you say, looking at him. “would you take some?” and it’s true; they’ve been overflowing into your sink and onto your windowsill. your little plant has been bountiful, and you had insisted her harvests were yours, but watching them mold on your counter has not proven as indulgent as you had thought. another, quieter and much more dangerous piece of yourself, tells you that really, you just want to give something to joel, to give anything to joel, but you cite instead the rotting by your fridge and allow yourself to ignore that little voice.

joel eyes you. “you really askin? or you bein courteous?”

“am i ever courteous?” you laugh. he smiles a little and laughs, too.

“no, no. i guess not.”

you’re giddy with the shake of his chest and his grin. he doesn’t laugh all that often, you suppose because it exhausts him so, but when joel laughs it’s an anatomical revelation. the whole of him wrestles with it. you’re wet, again, (it’s nearly constant for how often you’re together), and you eat what’s left of your lunch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your favorite of the group before jackson was danny. you’d met eliza first, in the salt lake qz, but danny was your age, and beautiful in a delicate sort of way that struck you as unnatural. you remember the stories your father told you from the bible, of the angels with eyes and wings and bloodlust, and danny was of that sort. it surrendered you to him, you think, and so you let him fuck you when the moon wasn’t out. he never made you come, really, but it wasn’t about the coming then. you were teenagers and guilty, so heavy and ashamed and good at the killing, and so the rub of a tree at your back as you let him put his cock in you was an escape from your being and the blood on your hands.

in his back pocket danny kept a polaroid, folded up and frayed around the edges, of him as a child, much of the same abnormality and prettiness, and ellie reminds you of that photo. for a thing you’re certain has seen death on and about her, ellie remains strange and stunning. she sits to your left with her legs out in front of her, sorting through your stock of seeds. you spin your knife along your knuckles as you sort through a pole bean plant to harvest the ripened pods, the orange light of sunset filtering through the leaves and quilting shapes along your skin.

“okay, mainly you’re almost outta radishes. everything else you gotta pretty nice setup on,” she says, setting the box down next to her. ellie had broken her outstanding silence with you, and you determine quickly that she isn’t disillusioned with who you have been. she’d told you once that you hold your knife like you’re worried someone will take it from you. she’d laughed and laughed, conjured scenarios of your vegetables rising against you, and you laughed with her. still, she sees your practice with it, the disjoint of your grip against the unmoving of your plants, and inherits the knowing of the damage you’ve done.

“alright. i’ll see if anyone going through the set of cabins down south can find anything,” you say back, sifting still through the bean leaves.

“and what do you say now?” ellie’s voice lilts with her smile, all childlike wickedness, and you turn to her, grinning back.

“thank you, ellie.”

with a grunt and a stumble she stands back up and gives you a half bow, echoing self contentedly, “thank you, ellie.” you snort.

as she leaves, you watch tommy approach through the greenhouse walls. you think he’s frightened of her, hides himself in his coat as though she may reach out and tear him apart, but still he tips his chin to her as he makes his way towards you and crosses her path. you can’t help but smile, tracking the peeking green of a few pole beans she’d stolen bounce from her pocket as she walks away. you walk out the doors to lean on the outside greenhouse wall.

“i see you’ve risen from your crypt,” you say as he arrives fully in front of you.

tommy grins tight lipped, his arms cradled to his ribs as he keeps his hands in the pockets of his jeans. there’s an anxiety to him, to the way he rocks back and forth before you. “yeah, yeah. i already heard it from damn near everyone i’ve seen today.”

“i’ve been more social than you these past two weeks. you know how fucked up that is, tommy?” you’re trying your hardest to show him you’re joking, coax him into honesty. he’s come to confess something to you, you think.

“oh give me a break,” he replies.

you raise your eyebrows slightly and holds your arms out in front of you; you have the floor. a beat.

“well i came to tell you the news.” you hum. “maria and i are, well i guess maria is, shit,” he says, but he’s smiling now, coy and wistful, scratching the back of his head as he asks, “how did people used to do this?” you say nothing, still. “maria and i are having a baby.”

and something between your lungs shifts out of place. they are going to have a child. a child. your first thought is that they will be good parents, tommy and maria; their flesh and blood is warm with sun and work and something lovely, and it will make for something worth growing, you’re certain. they will be of jackson, like your plants and the snow, and maybe the whole of humanity is forgiven for children like this, born into safety and wood cabins.

your second thought is so horrifically selfish you can hardly stomach it, let alone recite it. you swallow it back down.

“tommy, that’s amazing,” and you hug him there, a copy of your embrace standing in the reflection of the greenhouse walls. “how are you feeling about it?”

he pulls back grinning. yes, he will be a good father. “well shit, scared out of my mind, you know,” he chuckles, “but real excited. maria, too.”

you give him a smile that you mean. “well, you guys let me know if i can do anything,” you say, and gesture towards the garden, “if there are any herbs or things that could help maria with any of it you just let me know.”

tommy nods and puts his hands in his pockets, nodding. “i thank ya for it.”

for a moment, the two of you stand there in the waning sunlight, watching what you’ve become. tommy, you think, is precisely what he was meant to be. he has always been far too content with existence, molded over as it might now be, to deny fatherhood. you wonder what he sees in you.

“well, give maria my congratulations. lord knows she’s doing the heavy lifting,” you chuckle as you move to go back into the greenhouse, “and come knocking if i can help.”

you make it to the door before tommy calls your name and you turn around.

“how’re you doin on patrol with joel?” he asks you from his spot, letting the words cross the now sizable distance between you. you’re thankful for how far he is, hoping whatever grin is laying itself across your face is too subtle for him to make out.

“we’re doing okay, i think. he’s a little tense…and can be fucking terrifying.” and now you really smile. “but i can handle him.”

tommy barks out a laugh and begins to walk backwards towards the town square, calling out with a palm cupped to the side of his mouth, “you’re good for him!”

and you let yourself be jovial, laughing as you kneel to your beets, but really you might never forgive him for saying something like that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

joel still hasn’t come to visit your garden, though you’re grateful for this now. the warmth of the greenhouse has become your respite from the constant wanting, and you think if he materialized in the doorway you’d melt there in the soil. pacing through your kitchen, you eye the little basket of strawberries on your counter. you’ve named them joel’s already, but each time you’ve made to bring them to him your resolve disintegrates down your thighs.

but oh, they are so perfect now, reddened into a vivid blush, and if you don’t hand them off today you’ll have to throw them out. you grab the basket and slip out the door, doing your best to avoid spitting up your heartbeat on the walk to joel’s porch.

it’s nearly dusk, and when he opens the door he has a glass with about a finger of whiskey in his right hand. it sloshes as he looks you over, eyes measured a little with surprise and something else, but you stay tied to the wrap of his fingers around the glass and lock your knees to keep from dropping to them.

“hey, sting,” you grin (or grimace, more like).

“uh,” he leans a shoulder on the doorway and the movement brings his chest closer to you outside of the threshold. you smell the whiskey and the pine of him as he continues, “hey.”

his voice is deeper, now, hoarse with the weight of the day, and you conclude that you are, in fact, doomed for madness, if he keeps looking at you like that. you bring the basket of strawberries up to your chest and gesture them to him. “i just wanted to drop these off. they’ll go bad in a few days.”

joel peers down into the basket and grins a little, turning to put the tumbler on a table behind him before stepping more fully out of the house. you think he expects you to take a step back to make room for him, but you allow his chest to crowd yours, tilting your head further back. “well shit,” he laughs, “these are real.”

“yeah, well, now they’re real and they’re yours.”

joel lets his eyes circle once more over your face before extending his hands to take the basket. the warmth of his fingers as they brush yours along the weaving makes you clench and expand in the span of a moment. “thank you, really,” he says softly, sincerely, and the basket is so much smaller, now, held to his front.

you shove your hands into your back pockets. “eat them soon, though, please.”

joel turns around again to put the basket inside just beside the whiskey glass, and says to you behind him, “can always make jam or somethin if i can’t go through em all.”

your stomach twists up and it pushes what can only be described as a giggle (an awful thing) from you. “jam? you know how to make jam?”

he shifts back around and cocks his hip, sticking a knee out. “the fuck you mean by that tone?”

you laugh harder, earnestly, nearly folding over with it as he grips the door, ready to close it. “jam?”

“yes, jam. it ain’t that hard.”

you keep laughing just for the sake of it now, but as joel begins to swing the door shut with a quiet jesus you hold your hands out. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, you just don’t look the type is all.”

with a tilt of his head he asks, “oh yeah? so what type am i?”

this quiets you. please, do not give yourself away, do not bleed your hand, do not. you narrow your eyes at him, dramatizing your assessment, pleading with yourself to construct an answer suitable for near sunset, but you take too long, boots nearly reaching his. he grunts, bringing his thumb and pointer finger up to hold your chin and twist you away from him. you feel the calluses on the pads of his fingers for the moment that he grasps your head between them, and your pussy drools a little. still, you begin to make your way down his porch; this is far from the most aggressive way joel has decided the conversation has ended, and so despite his push of your chin from his palm you make it to the final step pleased, the warmth of his skin still licking where he touched you.

“goodnight.”

you stop, take a deep breath in, the silence behind you petting down your spine. he hasn’t closed the door. he’s waiting for you to say it back. and you die a little death there, with one foot on the road. “goodnight, sting.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the air is noticeably warmer this morning as you drag it into your mouth, padding along the beginnings of spring towards the stables. joel has prepared his horse already when you walk in, giving you a mornin, and he’s leaned up statuesque on her side with an elbow. the sling of his gun’s strap hugs his chest through his flannel, and the barrel peeks up over his shoulder, but only just. you salute to him as you saddle your horse.

“morning yourself.” you feel him stretch behind you as he mounts his horse (you are always so painfully aware of his body) and smirk, “rough night? did the jam give you trouble?”

“christ, i didn’t make any, darlin i’m just tired.”

you mount your horse. darlin. jesus.

“well you rest up, cowboy, i’ll cover you.”

joel grunts and says nothing as you trot out the gates together. he doesn’t think you capable of protecting him; in all, it is your best kept secret.

as the both of you wind through your northern route, you notice again the opening forest floor, weeds and flower beds resurfacing again beneath the trees. elderberries start to bloom out here this time of year, and in years past noah has uprooted the bushes for you to replant and harvest. the flowers are edible, too, and beautiful, and you wonder if joel will let you stop a moment to look for them. you wait until the trees grow thick and quiet around you before asking.

“joel,” he makes a noise in response, “could we stop here for a little? there are berries that grow around here and i want to see if i can find any to take back to the greenhouse.”

joel looks at you from his horse, affectless. “you serious?”

“yes.”

he lets out a sigh that morphs into a yawn midway through and shakes his head around a little, dusting something from his mind. “alright, alright. fine. but stay close, please,” and he trails off as he says it but you catch the end all the same.

you smile up at him, feet already on the ground and setting your rifle at your horses hooves to pull your knife out. as you weave through the shadows of the brush you call back to joel, “maybe you can make some marmalade out of these, too,” and you’re buzzing with the scoff that passes even through the feet between you, but he’s grinning, small and against his best efforts, and you spot that, too.

“you ever gonna let that go?”

and you don’t answer, ducking into an embankment of bush and leaves.

it’s been years since you’ve foraged like this. you used to pick mushrooms and berries from the ground with danny at night when you ran with the raiders, eat them together and take your chances. this feels different, though, charged with a tenderness and gentle knowing that’s new to you now. the world out here looks so much like your garden, feels so much like yours, and it strikes you that the mountains answer to you in your own small way. you could find a spot, up and away from the snow, and decide what grows there, play god with the grasses and the weeds. so though you find no elderberries in this brush, you are quiet with that little victory as you pace back to where you left joel.

as you approach, joel’s voice calls through the trees. a deep and pained “fuck!” and the rustling of clothes grows louder as you pad forward. there’s a shrill grunting, too, not joel’s, not joel’s. you take stock of your heartbeat and your fingers and the blade in your coat. there is someone else here. you move silently on the dirt, hiding your body in the bark and greenery, and then you spot him, kneeling with his hands behind his head, his gun kicked a few feet away, and a scrawny figure holds a glock to the skin of his forehead. suddenly you’re 19 again, and unafraid. joel spots you from your place halfway behind a tree and his eyes widen a fraction. don’t come out, he’s pleading with you, but you will not listen. your father’s knife, tucked into your jacket, coughs to life.

you trample the ground below you as you stumble out, hands in the air. you whine, “please, please, don’t hurt him,” and the man whirls around to you. he looks gaunt, his cheeks pressed into his face, but his beard, which hangs wiry by his chin, is streaked with something bloody and dead. he bares his teeth and laughs with delirium.

“so there is another one,” he says as he approaches, gun pointed now at your nose. you let him think you a coward and flinch as he presses it to your face. “you’re prettier ‘an your partner, ain’t ya?”

you keep your eyes wide, say nothing. not yet, not yet, he isn’t close enough. joel barks from behind him, lowly and wild, “don’t you fucking dare,” but the man has already brought his other hand to drag around your face, through the hollow of your collarbone, down your sternum. you let your lip tremble and joel flinches ahead of you.

the man calls behind him to joel, saying “if i hear you move a goddamn inch i’ll shoot ‘er.” joel’s face is pulled up into fury and brutality and helplessness, nostrils flaring and chest heaving, but he stills.

“please, please, i’ll do anything, let us go,” and as you say it, already his right hand is tilting, the barrel of the gun slowly drifting from your cheek. just a little more.

his breath is soiled with rot as it fans over your face and he’s so close to you now, whispering, “anything?”

the gun is pointed just to the right of your ear.

now.

you twist your arm between your shoulder and his wrist to grab his hand, pointing the gun to the treeline as you duck under it to spin behind him, your free hand reaching into your coat and stabbing through the artery that runs through his neck. blood pours from around the handle as the man falls to his knees, and you grip him by the filth of his hair to pull your knife back out. you let out a breath, standing over what is now a corpse. it’s been years, but you are always yourself, aren’t you?

you falter only when you turn around and joel is there. he’s sat fully on his haunches, arms hanging loosely by his sides as he looks up at you. and the look on his face is…you don’t entirely know. his eyebrows kiss, knit together on his forehead, and his eyes look through you, like you’re an apparition before him, but still his mouth hangs open slightly. you think if you stay here, standing above him, the whole mangled history will come clawing from your mouth, so instead you move to sit beside him, the both of you now facing the body you left behind.

the silence survives, for a few seconds. joel’s shoulders slump as he adjusts himself to sit with his legs out, and he pulls in a deep breath.

“you done that a lot?”

you take a moment before replying, “yeah.” you think of how the truth seems to demand to be known regardless, regardless of your stifling of it and your wanting of joel and whatever innocence you’ve never had but cling to when with him. you think of this, and begin speaking.

“i was 18 when they found me in the salt lake qz. there was a group of them, 9 at the time, and this woman, eliza, she promised they’d take care of me. feed me more than the qz had. and i wasn’t starving or anything, really, or in any kind of trouble. i could take care of myself, you know. maybe i should’ve had a stronger moral compass. i was just…” you take a breath, “i was so alone, then. my father died on outbreak day, and mom was never really in the picture. some of them were my age, some were older. i don’t know. i’d learned how to use the knife like…” you look again at the corpse, “like that by then. i’d killed by then. it didn’t feel like i was losing anything, being a raider.”

joel is still beside you, looking down at his hands, but you know he is listening.

“and so we used to trap people like that. men, mostly. they’d throw me out in groups of them, let them get close and then…” you wave your hand around, a stand-in for the killing. “i ran with them for a few years. they kept their promises.” your scar throbs beneath your sleeve and you take another breath. “and then another group got the jump on us. we’d been looking through a warehouse and they’d been hiding there, i guess. they killed a few, nearly killed me, i think. they sliced through the artery down my left arm,” and you trace the line of the scar as you say it, “but matteo killed the rest before they slit my throat. he tried to stitch me up a little with what was left of our twine. still, they left me there. i didn’t really blame them. still don’t.

tommy found me there. he patrolled with noah, back then, and they came passing through after everyone else had left or died. at first they said i could only stay until the wound was healed, but in the end nobody had the heart to turn me out.” finally, you look at him, and he shifts his head up to look back at you. “i’m sorry i didn’t tell you.” and you are.

joel’s eyes flit over your face, scowling still but soft, too, and brings a hand up, slowly. he cups his palm around your cheek to turn your head, thumb soft along your face, and wipes the blood splatter along your neck and jaw with his other hand. when he shifts your face back to his, he lets his thumb trace the line of your nose, around the curve of your chin, once, featherlight, under your bottom lip. your mouth opens up a little, watching him watch you. he nods, then, decisive, and pulls himself off the ground, helping you up after him.

you ride back to jackson in silence, leaving the dead man in the open. you let joel turn over what he saw, what he heard, in the quiet of your horse’s footsteps. he leaves you in the barn when you’ve dismounted, tells you to stay put, and reports the man to tommy. you stay, leaned up against the barn wall, waiting for him, something inside you scratching along the lining of your body, wondering what he’s thinking and knowing you have no right to it. when joel comes back, you notice the streak of blood on his thigh where he’d wiped his fingers after holding your face. you consider each other a moment from across the stables, and something passes between you. you saved his life today, and he’s grateful for it in a way he’s struggling with, and you can both agree you needn’t mention it again, at least until tomorrow. these thoughts he lets you read, before dropping them.

“you like whiskey?” he asks. and god what you wouldn’t do for a drink, so you nod. he jerks his head behind him and grunts, “c’mon.”

you let him lead you to his house, and for the first time you come inside.

joel has lived in jackson for years less than you, but still he’s filled it more than you have yours. there are books, on little tables and in the shelves, and half-done whittlings, and pencils. you flush with the scent of him, so strong in the curtains and the couch.

joel pours you a healthy shot into a tumbler, and then one for himself, and he lets you roam as you sip on it, following at your back without a word. you approach each of his shelfs, run your fingers along them, linger on the pieces of him he’s littered around. you finger through a pile of guitar picks and set your glass down there.

“what did you think of me when you first met me?” and you don’t entirely know why you ask it, at first. it comes, maybe, out of a selfish need to be reassured, or an even more dire want to hear his voice.

“what did i think of you?” he asks, and you can feel him approaching your back slowly. you hum, and joel reaches around you to set his glass down next to yours. he’s so close now and you squeeze your thighs together. “why d’you wanna know?”

and really you do your best at keeping yourself even. certainly, you tell yourself, he doesn’t mean to have this effect on you. certainly, he’s only trying to be kind after you sliced someone open for him. “i guess…” you think a moment, and then, “you asked me last night what kind of person you were. i want to know what you thought of me.”

he sighs a little, inches closer still. and his voice is so deep when he says at your back, “can i touch you here?” and you see in your periphery his pointer finger at your shoulder, hooking lightly over your hair. you barely muffle the shake in your chest and nod, and he pulls your hair over your other shoulder to bare your neck.

joel runs his nose along the line of your shoulder and lets out a breath there, pained and dismantled. into the seam of your neck, he whispers, “as soon as i saw you darlin i thought,” and he pauses to bring the backs of his knuckles, desperately light, down your spine, and you clench around nothing. “i thought you looked so goddamn soft. the fuckin garden and the strawberries, jesus, the strawberries.”

the paw of his hand, now at the base of your backbone, stretches itself along one of your hips. he says, now, “what about here? can i touch you here?” you nod again. joel’s fingertips press into you over your jeans there, but still he keeps his palm raised with a tremble that feels like restraint. “i thought i’d scare you.”

you let out a breath, slow, and muffled by your own attempt at control, and press your thighs together. the growing wetness at the nexus of your legs sears you, all lightning and heartbeat, and you will yourself to stay standing against the insistent pull of your arousal. joel tips his nose above the lobe of your ear to speak into it, lowly and gruffly and nearly apologetic (but not quite), “i’m too goddamn selfish.” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and breathes deeply again. “and violent.” this time, his words really do sound like repentance, and you stay silent to make space for the full of his confession. but his lips hover over the crest of your shoulder again, barely grazing, branding you all the same. “but you’re…” his jaw unhinges slightly, but he collects himself, “you’re vicious, baby.”

you whimper, then, and the sound of it makes him press his entire hand into your hip, suddenly frantic and squeezing at you.

“you hurt people, haven’t you darlin?”

you have to gasp for air, your pussy leaking into your underwear, because he’s seeing you, horrific and violent, and choosing to seek you out anyway. you nod cautiously, and his hands feel like they’re everywhere. and then gruffly, into your ear:

“you gonna hurt me?”

and you figure now, at least, you must be honest with him. “probably.” you barely recognize your own voice, the color of it darker with want than you’ve ever heard before.

joel pulls himself flush with your back, letting you feel the hardness of him, and allows himself a single push of his cock on your ass, muffling something animal in the back of this throat. he bands his free arm around your front to splay his palm on your sternum, pressing unforgivingly, and you feel the wild screaming of your heartbeat echoed back at you through his skin. he’s shaking, whispering, “don’t let me do this.”

you lay your head back into his shoulder to bring your mouth further up to him, arching yourself into his hold, making a home for yourself there. and pleading is a crime you refuse to commit in the presence of others, but you cannot help your own desperation now. “please.”

he spins you around then, and the lip of the shelf behind you presses determinedly into the skin below the hem of your shirt, but he’s kissing you (like he hates you, almost, or maybe himself) and so you take in the pain like it’s easy and you love it. his hands cup your head on either side, cradling the base where it meets your neck and threading his fingers through your hair as he nips at your bottom lip, laving over it with his tongue. he moans into your mouth as you kiss him back, lord forgive you for what that makes you feel, and you hitch a leg up to his hip to press your cunt into him. even through your jeans and his, he is an inhuman kind of large, and you wrap a handful of his shirt between your fingers to anchor you to sanity as you grind your hips at him. i need you i need you i need you, and you don’t say it, won’t say it, but you think it all the same.

his hands move from around your head to grab at both ass cheeks, dragging your center across the front of his pants and you groan at each other from the feeling. whatever it is that sews you together is being reaped. you let yourself be dramatic; you’ll die if he doesn’t fuck you now.

“joel, please,” you whisper into his mouth, which continues to eat at you.

“please what?” he pants back through your lips. “say it. what are you askin for?” despite this torture, his hands start to grope down your sides and pull at the buttons of your jeans. you move to press yourself into his grip but he insists, pushing you back into the wall. “tell me,” he growls, and it’s shadowy and lustful and deep, but as desperate as you feel, and it emboldens you.

“fuck me now, joel, please, please,” and you continue to beg, though your words turn incoherent, as he brings you up the stairs, holding your pussy still against his cock as it hardens behind his zipper. your pleading tightens joel's fingers on your waist, your thighs, the crook of your knee.

joel splays you on his bed, the tendrils of his hair haloed out around him as you run your fingers through and hold, and joel sucks and bites down your neck as he smooths his hands under your shirt to feel your skin. you whine out as he grabs at you, tight and wanting, and he pulls away so the both of you can pull your clothes off. you’re frantic as you sweep away your shirt and then your jeans, left bare besides your underwear on his bed, and you’d be embarrassed at your frenzy if joel wasn’t equally so pulling at his pants and shirt, but as it is you let yourself marvel at him. the broadness of his shoulders and biceps as he opens himself to you, the softness of his tummy, and oh, god, his cock tents in his boxers and you feel the already overwhelming wetness in your panties spread itself further. as soon as he’s on the brink of nakedness he’s on you again, caging your head between his palms on the mattress and pressing the hard line of his cock into your aching sex. his eyes bite at you with as much physicality as his teeth and tongue. something rumbles and unlocks in joel’s chest watching the rise and fall of your breasts as you heave, still grinding on you like he has no choice.

“goddamn it darlin,” he grits out, letting his eyes close a moment to feel the drag of your pussy against him. “you think about this?” your jaw falls open as you let a sigh out, one that means yes, and he moans deeply as he wraps his palms around each breast and squeezes. “you think about it as much as i do?” you nod again; you are past embarrassment, even humiliation, you are unreachable. it is only joel and his depth and you under him. “you touch yourself thinking of me?” and now you moan with the full of your chest, letting it loose in the sliver of air between you, and he returns it. “show me,” he pleads.

you let yourself a moment to pull the air, now heated with your body and his, into your lungs before you drag your fingers down your front and into your panties. he watches the movement of it, and his mouth stays open around a silent groan watching your fingers circle and push under the fabric, hearing you. you’re fucking dripping, and the squelches of your digits as you fuck yourself on them makes him groan and thrust his hips a little into nothing. you whimper his name and he falters a little.

as a tightness grows in your belly, approaching without mercy with the scent of him at your lips, he finally brings his own hand down into your panties. he cups his palm over your moving hand and you begin to pull it out, but he catches your wrist.

“no. keep going,” he groans. and you realize now he’s feeling how you touch yourself, barely resting his hand over your fingers as you pet inside, and you nearly come at the sight and thought and feeling of it.

as you near your high again, he tightens his grip on your wrist and pulls your hand from your cunt with a growl. you whine at the loss, but he pushes two fingers inside you and suddenly you’re yelping like an animal, thrashing as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. he whispers, mostly to himself, “oh jesus christ you are so fucking tight,” and you keen. joel circles the spongy spot deep inside you and you clench around his fingers, pushing your clit further into his hold, and you’re so close, so close, so close. you tell him so, and he smiles a little, lustful and wicked but nearly in disbelief, too, and he says back to you, “it feel good, honey?” and you could almost laugh at him for questioning something so glaringly obvious, but any thought is cut off by a white and swirling pleasure that coils and then unties itself, and you come with a high pitched moan while he groans above you. that’s it, baby, oh my god. he whispers this to you as you come, but it sounds underwater and you can barely process it even as you come down from your high and joel pulls his fingers away.

when your vision clears, you look above you to joel with his fingers in his mouth, eyes closed and stroking himself over his boxers, and now you really think you’re hinging on death.

“fuck me now, joel, please, jesus,” you say, though it’s breathy and broken with the intensity of your orgasm, which throbs still through your clit and around your walls.

joel pushes you further up his bed and lets his head dip again into your neck as he pulls his boxers and your panties off, biting with a diminishing mercy and chastising, “greedy.” you nod because you are.

when finally, finally, his bare cock is running through the wetness of your cunt, barely catching on the opening, and you’re two heaving bodies with the feeling of it, the both of you pause for the first time since joel’s entryway. you press a little foot into the back of his bare thigh, and you watch each other there, nearly in and of one another.

you whisper, “you gonna be okay, sting?”

joel breathes out onto your face and you feel his cock jump and pulse along your dripping seam. he looks pained, but you grin because you know better, can feel better by the rawness of him on you.

“yeah,” he replies. “are you?” and he looks down to where you nearly connect, gyrating his hips again and prolonging the feeling of his head at your entrance. you have just enough sense to notice his cock is as massive as you’d felt it to be, red and weeping along your pussy, and you’ll take him in your mouth sometime but not now, he has to fuck you now or you’ll blind yourself with your own wanting heat.

you murmur back a yes (it’s the best you can do), and he fists his hands in the sheets by your hands as he pushes himself in.

you imagined joel would fuck you roughly, unforgivingly; in this, you were right. but he is not rushed. joel drags his cock deep through your walls, letting the head bump your cervix before pulling nearly all the way out, and then reburying himself inside, but it is meticulous, intentional. you press back up, as best you can, to rub your clit in the dark curls at his base, and in return he curves his hips deeper into you; the friction there makes your walls pulse, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it pistons in and out.

only when you’ve recovered from the initial stretch of him can you hear the noises the both of you are making. it is unholy, unceremonious, and loud. you’re moaning in his ear as he fucks you, and he groans into your mouth, the side of your head, your neck, every patch of skin on the expanse of you that he can reach.

so fuckin wet f’me, huh?

fuck, baby, this pussy is so fucking good.

yeah, yeah—oh fuck—clench me like that, fuck.

you know you won’t last long, and from the stumble of his hips each time you whimper at him you know he won’t either. with each thrust his balls slap and stick to your skin, the bed frame bumping on the wall.

joel sits up straighter, eyes trained on your stretch around him and the wetness that pours out there. he looks wild, awed at how you suck him in, and you’re mewling just as wildly because he’s so fucking deep and you think you can see the bump of his head below your navel when he thrusts inside. you curl your hand over his bicep and press your nails in, moaning out, “joel, joel, oh my god, you’re so deep i can see it.”

joel follows your eyeline and moans out something broken and incoherent, pressing a palm down where he knots up from your skin to feel himself moving in your walls, and you scream. the sensation makes you clamp down harder on him and joel grips the other hand on your hip.

“stop, oh my god, stop,” he grunts, cock still hard and unyielding and beating inside you.

“i won’t last, joel, please,” you whine back, and joel lets his eyes slip closed for a moment before nodding. he mutters out a fuck and presses your knees up to your chest, slinging each calf over his shoulders as he fucks you harder, deeper, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“jesus christ, darlin, you’ll kill me.” another moan. “come on my cock, baby, c’mon, let me feel it” and it’s a demand and a prayer at once, and who are you to refuse? you feel your cunt soaking him, the squelch of your bodies together intensifying, and the filth of it unravels you a second time. you come like a punishment, hard and drawn out and expansive in your body, and joel is moaning out at the feeling, “so good, so fucking good.”

you drag your nails down his back, hoping the marks are harsh enough to stay, and joel’s head tips back with his mouth pulled open. his cock swells and twitches inside you, and as his fingers turn white with his grip on your legs he pulls out, pushing your thighs together and fucking the skin there until the white ropes of his come paint your chest and stomach.

you both pant as joel slumps slightly over you, keeping an elbow at the side of your head to keep his weight off you but allowing your legs to fall to the bed again. despite the fucking, this is by far the most intimate; your breaths meeting between your faces, his nose pressed against yours. you look for something to say, but come up short. joel spares you by pushing himself off the bed and retreating to the bathroom.

you are both quiet as he wipes you with a cloth, though he remains gentle, diligent. when you’re clean, he throws it somewhere off the bed and sits on the edge, back to you and head in his hands. you shift to let your legs hang off his quilt, but don’t turn to him.

“joel,” you say, lowly. it’s only his name, but you know you’re asking something of him now, something you’re not sure either of you are strong enough to give. still, you wait for his response, keeping your gaze on his floorboards.

“what are we gonna do?” and it’s so soft, it reminds you of the day you met months ago. he is timid again, and it frightens you. the weight of your friendship, which you feel finally has bloomed into something worth nurturing, presses along your airways. you’ve wanted him for so long, and now you’ve had him, and you want him again. and so you’ve had your cake, and you move now to take a bite.

“we…” you let out a breath, as steady as the moment allows, “we’re friends.”

joel runs his fingers through his curls once before looking at you, and you gaze back. his eyes squint as he assesses your naked body on the edge of his mattress. “you gonna want me to fuck you again, darlin?”

you think he’s trying to panic you, euthanize whatever amalgam you’re constructing on his bedroom floor before it overcomes the both of you, but you do not shrink from him. “probably.”

he nods.

“are you?”

joel sighs. “probably.”

and so you redress yourself and return home, legs trembling and aching unbearably between them, and wonder for how long you and joel can deny absolutes in favor of the gray area you’re carving out together. probably probably probably, the both of you are clinging to probably. but you have no qualms with using nails and teeth to find purchase, and so despite all better judgment, you mostly feel sated, at last. what price could you possibly pay for this anyway? your heart? your soul? you forwent your ticket to absolution years ago, and you suppose the last half holy thing you can do is want, so why deny yourself this carnality? this is your last testament to living, to fuck joel and be his friend and deny the inevitable complication. you have taken and taken and taken and the blood remains on your hands, so what’s one last smeared fingerprint on the walls of your existence? when death comes for you, she’ll have such an awfully easy time, for you’ll have left a walkway in red behind you. what’s one last sign post? i am here. and it will be painted in your wanting and platonic insistence and the piece of joel you took within yourself tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

taglist: @koshkaj-blog @shotgun-shelby @limerence4u (if anyone wants to be added let me know!!)

#joel miller #joel miller fic #fem!reader #jackson!joel #the last of us #tlou #on strawberries and masonry #joel miller smut

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mychlapci · 3 months

Note

<- has been in da server room all day

Hey hey I think Tarantulas should plug Prowl into a whole bunch of servers. Cables snake to and from his frame, lodged into ports never meant for such purposes and wires pulled from him and spliced to those of external computers. The webbing he's tied in coils round his frame and the bundles of rubber-sheathed copper. It's almost indistinguishable where the webs start and wires end.

It's never encouraged for mechs to supplement external processors with their own. It's possible, but the chance of injury is high. Whilst manual limits can be set on the machine to prevent an overdraw of power from the mech, if the mech loses themselves in there, their own will is likely to overpower these manual limits and will burn out their processors.

But since when has Tarantulas ever cared for "encouraged" practices.

Prowl's processor is so beautiful, so boundless in potential. His battle computer was known to be unmatched, and yet was never fully put to the test. He had suggested, several times, for Prowl to allow him just a little test- to see how far he could truly push that wonderful mind of his- but Prowl always refused. A stubborn one, he could be. Sometimes, he needed to be coerced into having a little fun.

And that's how Prowl ends up here. Of course he had struggled, as he always does. But not anymore. Now his frame shudders as a city's worth of data is pumped into him, or through him, really.

Each simulation, each request for a calculation, is pushed into his system via ports that are almost never used. Each push of data is but a shock of static, but together are a frame-rattling charge. So much extra data, and power, flows through his cabling. His actuators twitch and his vocaliser glitches with static.

Prowl always loved a challenge, didn't he? Simple tactics and problem solving weren never enough for his brilliant processor. And yet, Tarantulas had only succeeded in getting Prowl to assist him in a simulation once. Just once.

Just once, he had hooked Prowl up to his newest invention. Just once, he had clicked that data cable into Prowl's waiting port and watched him cry out.

It had been mesmerising. Prowl's frame had tensed, optics wide, darting between unseen strings of data being pushed through his circuits. At first Tarantulas had wondered if his partner was in pain, but soon realised his doorwings twitched in the same way they would when Tarantulas stroked his digits down sensitive panelling.

Oh. Prowl had liked it.

Prowl, goaded into it by the promise of yet another glorious weapon, had later reluctantly confessed that it felt like an itch in his processor had finally been scratched. It almost hurt, and yet it was warm and inviting. It felt like someone reached a servo into his battle computer and yanked- and yanked and yanked until it hurt- but in a way that he craved and sent charge surging through his circuits.

And yet he had never agreed to it again.

Which is why he didn't have a choice this time.

Tarantulas coos as he runs his servo down Prowl's sparking armour, relishing in the way it makes the bot's vocaliser crackle and frame jerk and twitch.

His pedipalps busy with another port in Prowl's side, one sliding the overheated port open, and the other gently pressing yet another cord towards it. Electricity arcs between the connector and the exposed contacts of the port, forcing another aborted cry out of Prowl.

He pushes the head of the cable against the port, but doesn't quite push it in. It's just close enough just for Prowl to be able to feel it's charge.

Tarantulas coos and leans his helm into Prowl's as he continues to tease the connector around the open port, systems purring as Prowl keens and whines at the contact.

"Please...!"

Tarantulas' systems purr louder at the broken plea. His servo comes up to cup Prowl's cheek as he leans in to rest his forehead against his partner's.

"Please what, my dear?" He wiggles the cable against the port again, drawing another cry from Prowl. His voice shakes and he strains so hard that his optics are wet.

How beautiful.

"Please- Please do it. Push it in. I want- I need it- Please-!"

Tarantulas chuckles then, nuzzling against Prowl's solvent-stained cheek.

"Of course, my dear. All you needed to do was ask," he whispers before plunging the cable in. It connects with a barely audible click before Prowl wails, current coursing through his circuits and doorwings going rigid

oughhh this is really something. Tarantulas plugs Prowl back in after all that time and they remember how wonderful it is... his battle computer, his entire processor, blinking and buzzing and rattling as the servers struggle to contain all that charge.

Prowl loves it. Loves how overwhelmed it makes him feel, how terribly full his ports feel as the large connecting cables slide in and fill his frame with stimuli. Everything feels so hot and Tarantulas knows that...

#valveplug #plug'n'play #texty

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riaaanna · 10 months

Text

INTERVIEW WITH BRIAN MAY - GUITAR & BASS JANUARY 2008

Affable, funny and knowledgeable, Brian May always gives – as our American cousins say – ‘good interview’. With his much-publicised degree in astrophysics finally done and dusted, he agreed to meet Guitar & Bass for an exclusive chat. We decided to steer him towards explaining the inside secrets of that famous guitar sound, but we took in some diversions along the way – including just what it felt like to play the biggest rooftop gig of all time…

G&B: Keeping busy then?

Not too bad – I’ve still got a head full of astrophysics at the moment, but I’ll wrench it round to talk about guitars! I’ve been rewriting my thesis after a 30-year gap, which has been tough, but I’ve got the doctorate now. I’ll be glad to get my life back, really!

Well then, Dr Brian May… how did you get into guitar? Was it always electrics?

No – for my seventh birthday I asked for an acoustic guitar and I had the Josh White Guitar Method book that came with it. I played acoustic for quite a few years. It was good, because that way I had a solid grounding in rhythm. I used to sing and play, and it was only a few years later, at about 14, that I started getting into lead guitar.

How did that come about?

The first time I went electric, as it were, was when I wound my own pickup. I figured all you needed was some magnets and a bit of wire, so I went to Kingston and got some Eclipse magnets and wound a lot of 48-gauge copper wire round them. Then I connected it up to my dad’s homemade hi-fi amp and, lo and behold, it worked! I’d invented the pickup… but Les Paul had got there first.

Was it a humbucker or a single coil?

A single coil. I didn’t discover humbuckers until last year. It made a particularly wonderful sound, and one that I’ve never quite been able to get back to. But I’m happy with the sound I’ve been able to develop over the years.

What was your firsts amplifier?

That came quite a lot later, because we had no money. That was what dictated my development – we made the guitar because we couldn’t afford to buy one. I didn’t get an amp until I was about 17. I went out and bought something, maybe an early Burns transistor amp, and I didn’t like it. I couldn’t make it do what my dad’s hi-fi amp would do, but I quickly discovered that valves were where it’s at. So I traded in the Burns for a valve amp that was somewhat better. But to cut a long story short, I went to see Rory Gallagher at the Marquee Club one night – and Rory had the sound that I was looking for. I just completely fell in love with it. I loitered around after the show to ask him how he got his sound, and Rory, being a real gentleman – I was only a kid and he was a star – told me “Well, Brian, it’s basically the AC30, and I have this little treble booster, it’s a Rangemaster. That’s what makes it sing.” So the very next day I went out scouring the secondhand shops for an AC30 and a Rangemaster. As soon as I had ‘em, my sound was born – a combination of that and my own guitar, basically what I still use today.

What was it about Rory Gallagher’s sound that inspired you?

Rory was like me, he played rhythm and lead at the same time – it was only a three-piece band. He was able to make chords sound really good, not horribly distorted, but the single notes would sing like a violin. He had a Strat, though, and I’ve never been able to make a Strat work for me – but with my guitar, which as quite a bit more middle, the AC30 seems even better. And now we know why – or at least, I think we do.

There are so many different ideas on why valves might work better than transistors.

My dad had a point of view on that. He was quite an electronics genius, and he figured it out. He said the reason valves work so well is that they go smoothly into saturation as opposed to suddenly from a straight line, which is what transistors do, and that the way to get the best sound from them is to take away all the negative feedback, which makes a very good hi-fi amplifier but stops the overload curve being as smooth. If you can make it go smoothly into overload, that’s really the basis of a great guitar sound, whether you’re talking about Marshalls, Fenders, or Voxes. It’s really the valves and electrolytics [filter capacitors – Ed] that you’re hearing.

Is it an area between clean and dirty you’re looking for?

Exactly, that’s the crucial area for me. I have to be able to get clarity in the chord work but still get that fatness in the notes. The AC30’s special in that way because it works the valves in class A, so there’s no inherent distortion at low levels. You have a smooth straight line at low levels giving you that clarity, then it turns over gently into saturation and there’s that beautiful sustain we all need.

Which of your tracks give the best example?

Tie Your Mother Down has both parts, the chord sound and the lead sound. I’m fond of Bijou - there’s a little bit of extra treatment from the desk, but it’s still fundamentally my sound underneath. All that nice lush guitar – I was able to spend a lot of time on it making sure that the strings vibrated in just the right way. It’s not just the guitar and the amp, it’s down to how you play it. The way that you pluck it can make a huge difference to the sound. There’s a way I have of plucking that you can hear on Bohemian Rhapsody, particularly towards the end, where the finger pulls the string gently to one side and lets it go so it vibrates pretty much parallel to the fingerboard. It makes that very pure sound. Those are some of my favourites.

So playing technique is as important to your signature sound as gear and guitars?

If someone picks up a guitar you can always tell who they are by just listening, because everybody’s technique is different. I noticed that with Hank Marvin, when we were working together a few years ago. People think he’s all about a wonderful guitar and a wonderful amp, but really he sounds like he does because he’s Hank. He played my guitar, and it still sounded like him. I think that’s why the guitar’s such a great expressive instrument, because a certain amount does come through it consciously, but something also comes through unconsciously that says a lot about the person who’s playing it and how they’re feeling at the time.

Do you need to be inspired to play well?

Definitely. There’s a whole lot of difference between someone playing well technically and playing like they mean it.

When did you get your first Vox amplifier?

During 1967, I think. I bought two, secondhand in Wardour street. We still have them somewhere. Later on, we bought them at quite a rate – some current ones but also some secondhand ones, because we figured the older ones had a particular sound to them. Really, though, it was just a question of suck it and see. I just used to plug in and listen, with no theory to it at all. If it sounds good, it is good. It’s still true!

What about other effects?

I customised some Echoplexes myself very early on. I was into electronics, so I made new boxes and added some pickups to make long delays and short ones. That’s how the Echoplex solo began, the Brighton Rock solo. But they were dodgy on the road, as you can imagine. I wouldn’t have liked to be my roadie at the time, but they got by! I had so many problems, though – it was like walking a tightrope every night. It was astonishing they worked at all. Later we were able to replace them with digital delays, which is what we use now.

Is your present sound very different to the sound you got in the old days?

In some ways. The problem with off-the-shelf amps on the road is always reliability, and most of my amps have been rebuilt to be more robust, hardwired and with various modifications. I’d have to mention Dave Petersen at this point – Dave’s responsible for a lot of the work that’s made the amps so reliable these days, and has also made them capable of reproducing a certain sound, because that was always very variable in the past, depending on the age of the valves and what state the electronics were in. the other thing is simplification, because original Voxes had a lot of things I didn’t need, like a Tremolo channel and a Brilliant channel. We stripped out everything that wasn’t necessary that was using up power and quality, just leaving the bare essentials with no frills. It’s quite significant improvement, and Vox have made a special Brian May signature edition which incorporates these improvements. It’s something rather different from the standard AC30, one knob as opposed to many – that’s all you need to get my sort of sound! They work very well.

Are you still using the little Deacy battery practive amp?

Yes, in the studio it’s still absolutely incomparable, although I have to say that Greg Fryer has now got incredibly close with the new version he’s making. But I gather there’s now some guy in the States about to bootleg them, which I’m upset about because you put so much work into these things and it doesn’t seem right that someone can just come up and steal it. I don’t see any need for that – he’s also making Brian May guitars, without permission. But the Deacy amp usually turns up trumps, quite magical really, and I still use it a lot. John played it once, on a song called Misfire. He played guitar; he wanted to do it so I just watched him get on with it, and he made a very good job of it. With his permission I added some bits of guitar at the end, a little bit of icing on his cake.

Were Queen like the Beatles – always doubling up on each other’s instruments?

A bit. Everybody played guitar at some point!

Did you every play any bass parts yourself?

I did, but generally I liked to let Deacy do the final version, because he was better. Certainly Roger played pretty good guitar, and Deacy of course, and Freddie also played on a few songs, mainly on acoustic. He did the original solo on Crazy Little Thin, on a version that got lost, and I had to redo it. He was very good in a particular style of his own. He did play electric onstage – he used to do Crazy Little Thing on a Telecaster which got stolen from the warehouse when we stopped playing. Somewhere, Freddie’s white Telecaster is sitting on a wall. I’d recognise it… but I’m not going to tell anybody how!

The Red Special: any close competitors?

Only the ones we’re making ourselves. Brian May Guitars is now a separate company. I’m in a partnership with Barry Moorhouse; Barry, Pete Malandrone my tech and myself are Brian May Guitars, and we’re directly in charge of the manufacturing now. The quality is zooming up, we’re very pleased with them at the moment, and we’re also making a Japanese range that will be a bit more expensive – and that’s very exciting, too. That’ll be even closer to my original.

We saw a Burns version of your guitar a while back, and the vibrato didn’t work as well as your original. Are the new ones better?

The Burns was a very early attempt, and the trem was a compromise, otherwise it would cost an arm and a leg. We have a much better trem now, with a lot less friction – much closer to mine in feel.

Would you be happy to use those on stage?

Absolutely, and I have done. I use a variety now. Andrew Guyton’s done some fabulous copies for me, including one with a scalloped fingerboard, but I’m not quite confident on stage with it yet. It requires great delicacy, and if you press too hard it goes out of tune. But it gives you great fluidity and no friction whatsoever between the fingers and the board. Ritchie Blackmore invented it, I believe, many years ago – he had a Strat with all the frets scooped out, and Steve Vai also had one, I think.

What gear do they use in We Will Rock You?

Off-the-shelf Brian May guitars, but we usually do some special setting up on them, or else they do it themselves. They’re free to customise them any way they want – particularly my friend Paul Crook in the States, he’s done a fantastic custom job on his… one of the best that’s ever existed. The London show has my customised A30s with separate cabs to give a bit more control in the Dominion theatre. I think the other shows around the world use a mixture of AC30s and smaller Voxes – still bona-fide Vox valve amps, but a bit more controllable.

Has the perfect Vox amp ever been built?

Mmm… the Brian May signature model was very close, but I’d like to do another one with input from Dave and Greg, and all the benefit of our more recent experience. So I believe there could be one more, which could be even better.

Tell us about that Buckingham Palace rooftop gig. What was the technical story behind it?

I used three amps. It was an incredible blast. I stood up there with three tip-top Vox amps in front of me, the centre and the first and second returns from the chorus, and that sounded beautiful, very huge and smooth. Then behind me was a huge monitor with the orchestra in it. I had to balance the two by moving my head. It was an incredible sensation, a bit like going down the fastest bit in Space Mountain – the same feeling right in the pit of your stomach.

You hid the nerves pretty well…

When I’d finished, I thought I’d never be frightened of anything again! So many problems, with the orchestra a few hundred yards away… but if I’d been able to hear them there’d have been a problem because of the delay. I couldn’t see the conductor past a TV monitor, and even that didn’t work until half an hour before the thing was due to start. It was very scary. A million things could have happened outside my control – a broken string, temperature changes putting me out of tune – anything, in front of a million people, live, and I would have looked a complete idiot. But as soon as the roof bit was over, the rest was a doodle. I was beaming the whole time because it had worked!

You made the national news…

The international news, in fact. But I’m not doing it again, although I’m glad I did. It’s had some strangely negative comments recently, which I find odd. But I’ll stand by it to my dying day, because I defy anyone else to do what I did. It wasn’t just a question of going up there and playing the tune, either… there was a whole orchestra arrangement that I did for the fanfare that the BBC and the world used for the opening of the concert – most people probably don’t realise that – and there’s also the piece in the middle that I also arranged for the orchestra., and then on top of that a whole outro section that made the climax of the piece. It involved a certain amount of improvisation and I had to really know where the parameters were, not to take too many risks. If anyone thinks that it was easy or it was crap, I’d defy them to do something similar!

It’s hard to avoid making comparisons with Jimi’s Star Spangled Banner.

It was different, but comparable in terms of risk. There are places you can go in music if you’re prepared to take your courage in both hands – Hendrix did a lot of that, and I’m proud to have done a bit of it. But there was a lot more forethought in mine, because I’m that kind of person. I like to improvise, but I also like to prepare. There were lots of other people involved and we all had to be on our toes. Ray Cooper [percussionist] was fabulous on that occasion. He went through all the rehearsals with me and was really a huge support and magnificent on the day. But it was probably the most – how can I put this – terrifying prospect I’ve ever faced professionally, because it was so hard to make it work.

To come full circle, now your doctorate’s done, will you be taking up the guitar again?

Yes… I’m thinking of taking up the guitar! Seriously, the Ph.D’s been tough for me – I had to ditch everything – but I’ll certainly be enjoying the music even more, because I’ve been deprived of it.

Any more tours in sight?

I don’t know about Brian May Band tours, but you may see Queen on the road next year. We’re definitely talking in that direction at the moment.

Are you looking forward to it?

Yes, I have to confess I am. There’s always slightly mixed feelings because you have to lose your private life for a while. That gets tougher as you get older – I certainly value my private life very highly, spending time with the family and doing all the other things I enjoy. But there’s nothing quite like being on stage, doing what we do. I think Roger, Paul Rodgers and I will be looking at putting something together for next year.

We’re looking forward to that. We’ve missed you during your ‘time off’.

Ah, thanks! You know, I’ve missed me too!

#queen band #brian may #interview #article

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paperbackribs · 9 months

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A Tarnished Copper Boy (3)

Previous | Next Last chapter, Steve fell through time from 1986 to land at Eddie's feet in 1984, patting him down for injuries, and asking for a ride to Dustin's place.

Chapter 3: A Sound of Thunder

Before anyone can speak to Steve’s insane declaration that he’s a time traveller a short curvy woman appears behind Dustin with a warm smile. In the open entranceway of her home, her face is round and welcoming with lovely blonde waves that fall to her shoulders. “Dusty, are these your friends? It’s Steve, right? You’re dating Mike’s sister?”

Steve’s back straightens and Eddie snickers, wondering if this is Preppy Steve returning from under the rugged version that had appeared on his trailer floor.

“Mrs Henderson, it’s good to see you. Yeah, I know the kids and I have a science question for Dustin.” He unleashes the full Harrington smile, which Eddie has to admit is somewhat charming. “He’s so smart, I just knew he’d be able to help me out.”

Mrs Henderson beams and shoos them through the door with a beckoning hand, “Of course, my Dusty is very clever. Mr Clarke—that’s his science teacher—always says that he has the most unique questions in class. Come in, come in.”

Eddie looks curiously around the wide entranceway that curves into the living area and sees that his initial impression of a hobbit home continues. The inside is tidy and orderly with furnishings in earthy tones and photos scattered across the walls full of smiling people. It’s warm and inviting, Eddie thinks, much like Mrs Henderson.

However, even she falters as she finally gets a clear look at Steve, gaze flickering between mud-flecked combat boots up to the dirt-smudged around his face. He smells faintly like gasoline too, if Eddie’s being honest, so he can understand her hesitation.

He leans over, slinging an arm around Steve’s shoulder who jerks slightly before relaxing into his hold. “We’re just coming back from a camping workshop; you know, crawling through the under-bushes and whatnot. Steve has a question about…” Eddie scrambles to think of what one finds at a camping site, but Steve smoothly jumps in. “An animal we found,” he says, smiling. “We’re not sure if it’s a marsupial or not.”

“Oh, of course,” Mrs Henderson shakes off the frown that had started to form and walks ahead, clearly expecting them to follow. Steve makes wide eyes at Dustin who just shakes his head at the older boy, not understanding his wordless message.

Eddie leans across Steve’s chest, his arm still draped around his shoulders, and says quietly, “I think he wants to have this talk in private.”

“Ohhhh,” Dustin says noisily and with no hint of tact.

Steve turns to Eddie, shooting him a covert look of disbelief with a scoff and, for a moment, time stops around him. Arrested by the familiarity and comradery in Steve’s dark eyes, Eddie can only stare. It’s an expression that speaks of a personal connection between the two of them that he has no point of reference for. It’s strange and oddly tempting.

Steve’s gaze sharpens and his mouth opens, but whatever he’s going to say is lost as Dustin loudly interrupts to inform his mom that they’re going to talk in his room instead. Eddie lets his arm drop heavily away as he follows Steve’s retreating shoulders into the deep of the house.

In Dustin’s bedroom, autumnal sunlight pours through long, narrow windows high up the walls and the warm yellows and browns of Mrs Henderson’s design continue to shine through.

However, the kid has put his own spin on it with a working space dedicated to science and science fiction: scattered across it are half-open wires and batteries of all sizes with a scenic-looking ant farm, resting against a silver ham radio are two black walkie talkies, and a R2-D2 sits in the middle of an empty terrarium.

An orange and white cat is curled on the pillow of his bed, but it shoots Eddie a dirty look and saunters away after he collapses onto the single mattress, arms propping him up from behind and feeling the intense need for popcorn to watch this unfolding train wreck.

The sunlight streaming into the room kisses Steve’s hair, making him almost glow as he paces in the short space.

Dustin frowns over at Eddie’s relaxed form, “Who’s he?” Eddie blithely grins back, finding it hard to be concerned in the face of a ridiculous claim like time travel.

However, his smile briefly dips as he remembers the pained gravity in Steve’s voice as he said it hasn’t happened yet and not the right place or the right… time, Eddie belatedly fills in for Steve. Not the right place or time.

Steve throws a careless hand between them, seemingly impatient now that he’s closer to talking about the root of his issue. “Dustin, this is Eddie. Eddie, Dustin. Now that you’ve been properly introduced, can we circle back to my problem? I’m not from around here.”

“You’re a time traveller,” Dustin repeats doubtfully with a hint of scorn.

“Hey,” Steve points a finger at him, “Don’t take that tone. I’m not out of my mind; I’m from 1986 and this is…” He glances towards the bed for confirmation, “1984?”

Eddie nods, but even as he wonders why he’s entertaining Steve a part of him can see the edge of uncertainty, of vulnerability, to him when he’d looked at Eddie. He thinks that maybe Steve is not as okay as he appears.

Dustin darts a glance at the bed before leaning closer to Steve and hissing in a whisper audible across the room, “Code Red?”

Steve nods grimly, “Code Red. I was coming out of the Upside Down in ’86 and I landed in Eddie’s trailer in ’84.”

Code Red seems to be important to Dustin because the kid looks more willing to believe Steve now, but he still hesitates. “And you’re not just…” Dustin waves a hand to encompass Steve and his party reputation, “I don’t know, drunk or something.”

Eddie barks out a laugh despite himself, “That’s what I said, kid.”

Dustin narrows his eyes at the moniker but is distracted when Steve huffs, crossing his arms and looking like he wouldn’t mind following it with a stamp of his foot. The frustration on his face is a little cute. “I’m not high. I’m not drunk. I’m in an Upside Down situation and you have to tell me how I can get back to where I’m supposed to be.”

Dustin squawks, “I’m not H.G. Wells, Steve. I don’t have a time machine in my basement, ready for you to go on a little trip back to the future. Wait.” He holds up a hand that is surprisingly commanding for someone so small, “Did you say you were in the Upside Down? Like Will last year? Easy then. If you came through a portal, then you just have to go right back through it. Bada boom.”

“Easy he says,” Steve mutters, pacing away before turning back to Dustin in irritation. “It’s not easy because the gate is gone. Vamoosed.” He shoots his hand up like it’s a rocket flying out of space. “Out of here. It’s supposed to be in Eddie’s trailer, but there’s nothing there.”

The two lock gazes and Eddie decides to interrupt before they start tearing each other’s hair out. “Did you say that other people had come in and out of this Upside Down? What about one of those?” He ventures while telling himself that playing along doesn’t mean that he believes this story.

It’s just that nervousness is starting to thrum so strongly in Steve that the air is almost palpable with it, and he doesn’t want Hawkins’ golden boy to completely lose his faculties.

“No,” Dustin sharply rebuts, “That would only mean he’s travelling through to the Upside Down in the present. They’re not time machines either.” He squints at Eddie again, turning to Steve to ask, “What’s so special about this guy’s place? Why’s a portal there.”

Eddie wouldn’t mind knowing why Steve chose his trailer of all places too and turns eager eyes to him. However, Steve barely opens his mouth before Dustin lets out a startlingly loud sound, hurrying forward to slap his palms against Steve’s mouth.

Steve recoils, dramatically spluttering, “Dude, gross.”

“Don’t say it!” Dustin shrieks. Eddie winces at the piercing tone.

“What?” Steve asks, looking as bewildered as Eddie feels at this abrupt about-face.

Dustin steps back to a low bookcase and pulls out a thin book with a yellow cover, on it is an icon of a half sun and moon with The Golden Apples of the Sun printed in bold black text underneath. He waves the book at the two of them as if that will make them catch up any quicker, “You’re going to step on a butterfly!”

Steve dutifully looks down at his feet and Eddie stifles a laugh, “I think he meant that metaphorically, big boy.”

Steve’s head whips towards him and an odd expression crosses his face before he reluctantly nods. Turning back to Dustin he says, “Use your words, man. What the hell are you going on about?”

“It’s a Ray Bradbury short story. This guy goes back in time, like all the way back to the Cretaceous period as a tourist, with a tour guide and everything. But he steps off the designated path and kills a butterfly and when he returns everything is different. One small change and the future is nothing like it was.”

Steve shrugs carelessly, doubt furrowing his brows, “Is that so bad? So, what, there were less butterflies or something when he returned.”

“No, Steve, it wasn’t just butterflies.” Dustin rolls his eyes, swatting the book through the air again as if waving away the thick fog he clearly thinks fills Steve’s head. “Before he went back in time, they had narrowly defeated a fascist who was trying to become president. But after that one minor change, the fascist wins and everyone’s acting differently. Who knows what you could do if you start telling us what happens in the future? You’d be stepping on butterflies left and right.”

Steve blinks rapidly, his face whitening to a chalky complexion, “This bad guy… he won because the time traveller changed a few small things? It was his fault?”

Dustin nods eagerly now that Steve’s getting it, “Directly his fault. They fall into a dystopia because the time traveller messed with the proper timeline, and it led to catastrophe!”

Steve wobbles, stepping back like he’s suddenly lost his footing. Eddie shoots forward to hastily grab him by the elbows, trying to stop Steve from falling on his ass. He gently shifts him over to sit on the bed and Steve falls heavily, looking down at his open palms for a long, silent minute.

Dustin raises his eyebrows in concern over Steve’s head to Eddie but Eddie just shrugs: this is their show, he’s just here as the ride and for the sad lack of popcorn.

Looking like he’s about to hurl, Steve finally speaks. “So… I can’t say or do anything or the worse outcome could happen. And I don’t have a way out of here either.” His voice is terribly hollow, vacant and distant like a cold star. “I’m stuck.”

The anxiety that had radiated from Steve has disappeared, but in its place is a tangible loneliness like a child abandoned in the middle of an empty field. It stirs unhappy memories, and greasy shame builds in Eddie’s chest. He shouldn’t be finding any amusement in Steve’s pain, whether it makes sense or not.

He reaches out a hand to Steve’s shoulder, jostling him in a friendly manner. “Hey, at least it’s only a couple of years. Lay low and before you know it, this will be all over.”

“Where?” Steve laughs without humour, still staring down at his hands. “Set myself up in Dustin’s basement? Sneak me 3-Muskateers and keep me like a pet.” He shoots his hand up to wave it in a frantic gesture at Dustin, “No, better yet, let’s rope your mother in. Just add me to Sunday dinners, please!”

“Mom’s roast is the best,” Dustin protests, more form than substance as he eyes Steve, obviously baffled about how to talk him down from his meltdown.

Eddie shoots the kid a warning look but Dustin blusters ahead, “But yeah, we could do that for a little while. It’s a very, very bad idea to introduce you to yourself in the present, so it’s not like you can stay in Loch Nora. That’s less a butterfly and more like a pterosaur.”

Steve’s anguish momentarily subsides in minor confusion and Eddie concurs. They both look up at Dustin blankly before he explains, “Flying dinosaurs. Jesus, what the hell do you study in high school?”

“Or you could stay at mine,” Eddie surprises himself by offering even as he hastens to add, “You know, just for the night or until this resolves itself. The trailer is small but maybe that portal will come back, and you can walk right through it back to your time?”

Eddie can already feel the guilt that will bury its hooks into his flesh if he leaves Steve to wander off today and later hears that he got in trouble or, worse, injured because he’s a little confused.

Steve blinks in surprise before a small smile graces his face, the lines between his brow softening slightly. “That’s really kind of you, Eddie. I think…” He turns to look at Dustin uncertainly, “I think it’s best if I stick around where the portal could reappear. Give it some time and, if it doesn’t, I’ll figure out what to do then.”

He ruffles his hair in a way that Eddie is quickly coming to recognise as a nervous gesture, “Maybe I’ll leave Hawkins after all. Get out of here and do my own thing.”

Eddie wonders why Steve sounds so sad as he says that. Isn’t the prospect of getting out of the hell that is small-town America a good thing? As soon as he gets that diploma, he’s out of here, only looking back because where Uncle Wayne is then Eddie will always circle around to. But only for short visits. Hawkins can suck his sweaty balls.

While Eddie has watched Steve, feeling helpless to do anything but bear witness to his distress, Dustin starts picking up energy in the background. Bouncing up and down on his toes, he mutters something before pouncing on the wireless radio on his desk.

“The guys are going to go insane,” he says, looking up with shining eyes. “I won’t say who or when, I promise. But this is going to blow their minds.”

Steve’s eyes widen in alarm and he bolts off the bed, shooting forward to quickly pluck the black plastic out of Dustin’s hands, holding it above his head. “No,” he almost shouts, startling the younger boy with the energy behind it. “No, Dustin,” Steve says more quietly, although an urgent undercurrent still thrums through his words. “Nothing can change.”

Dustin regains his composure enough to scowl, glancing at the radio that Steve’s playing keep-away with, “I’m not going to change anything. It’ll just be a theoretical, and it’s not like you’ve told me about any future events. I’ll make it into a story,” he decides, obviously off the cuff and thinking that the short, unconvincing excuse will fool Steve.

His curls bob as he darts forward to take back the radio, but Steve dodges back, shooting him a dirty look and pitching it in a soft underhand throw to Eddie.

Surprised, Eddie fumbles the device but thankfully—when he inevitably drops it, and he does—it falls onto the soft covers of the bed rather than breaking to pieces on the floor.

“Steve,” Dustin whines, “It’ll just be this cool story that I make up. I won’t even use your name, relax.”

Steve shakes his head, a grave mien falling around him. He hunches over the younger boy, hands on his shoulders and deadly serious. “You don’t understand how important this is, Dustin. We won something. It was terrifying and it was hard, but we won.” Eddie shivers at the awful sincerity in Steve’s tone even as he continues. “You can’t say anything to the guys, not even the smallest hint.”

Dustin’s face crumples, Steve’s words starting to penetrate his resolve. Steve nods sympathetically as he sees that he’s getting through to him, “You’ve got to forget this ever happened and just… keep being you. You’re brilliant and I know how hard it is for you to let go of something when it’s a puzzle, but if you talk about this then maybe that is the butterfly and maybe we don’t win. Maybe…” He swallows hard, the sound audible across the room. “Maybe even more people die.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, momentarily stunned by even more, but he thinks that Dustin doesn’t notice the slip at the end of Steve’s speech because he only nods in defeat, mouth moving into an accepting grimace. “Okay,” he mutters.

Steve eyes him doubtfully, “Not Mike or Lucas or even Will. Never, ever even think of dropping hints in front of me. Just forget that today ever happened.”

The youth that shines through in Dustin’s short stature and baby-faced features falls away to a maturity that Eddie hates to see in someone so young. “I won’t say anything and I’ll try to forget this ever happened,” he promises.

Dustin’s lips firm suddenly in determination, “In fact, I can’t believe you, Steve. Trying to trick me with such a stupid prank. You really are a— a—” For once his voice fails him and Dustin lamely concludes, “A complete douchebag.”

Steve smiles down at him with pride, relief loosening the tightness in his shoulders. “That’s right. It’s 1984 and I am a complete and utter douchebag. Thanks, Dustin.” He tousles his hair over the baseball cap, a gesture that looks well-practised.

Dustin smacks his hand away with a scowl, youth returning to his features once more and Steve laughs lightly, stepping back. “Be good, you little butthead,” he says before departing without fanfare, striding away.

Yet, Eddie sees the pain that flashes over his face once his back is turned to Dustin. Steve swiftly exits and, in the hallway, he begins to thank Mrs Henderson, politely declining the offer of a snack before they leave.

Thinking about that expression, a bearing full of repressed anguish and responsibility, Eddie doesn’t realise that he’s stood rooted to the spot until Dustin interrupts.

“He’s not that bad,” he says to Eddie, lips pursed like he thinks he doesn’t want to follow after Steve. “He helped out with the Upside Down last year, but he didn’t have to. He’s just Mike’s older sister’s boyfriend. Jonathan told Will that he even helped kill a demogorgon with a nail bat.”

His smile is gap-toothed and sweet, “That’s pretty badass.”

Eddie doesn’t think that Dustin literally means Steve fought a demon lord from the infinite depths of the abyss, but he makes a note to ask Steve about it later anyway. He’s also reminded that Steve said this kid would join Hellfire in the future. Even that he’d like him. And Eddie thinks that maybe he can see why, because, for all of his loudness and tone, Dustin seems to have a big heart.

“I’ll look out for him,” Eddie promises while slightly exasperated at himself for once more allowing a rise of sympathy to push him to watch over Steve Harrington who, on a normal day, would be perfectly fine taking care of himself.

Saying his goodbyes, Eddie steps from the earthy warmness of the Henderson home out into the bright afternoon light, feeling like he’s crossed through a portal himself. As if those moments in Dustin’s bedroom were an event outside of his own space and time. He shakes his head against the fanciful thought, striding over to his van where Steve is leaning against it.

With his foot propped behind him and a pensive expression sitting heavily on his face, he looks like Marlon Brando about to broodingly ask Eddie for a light.

For a moment, Eddie indulges in the thought of leaning in with a flickering flame pressed to a cigarette hanging on Steve’s soft-looking lips. Wonders what he’d do if he leaned in slow and close, all big eyes and heavy lashes.

Eddie shakes his head again, waving away the thoughts like smoke in the air; now is not the time. Ha. He jerks his head at Steve to get into the van, “Come on, let’s go back to mine.”

Distracted, Steve turns and hoists himself up. Eddie flips the stereo off as they reverse out of the drive, letting silence fill the air as they barrel down the back streets of Hawkins. He figures that maybe Steve has a lot running through his head right now and the thunderous roar of Judas Priest may be a bit much for him.

“Are you sure this is okay? Me staying for a few days?” Steve suddenly asks, turning to watch Eddie intently. “You don’t exactly know me. We’re not friends or anything right now.”

Eddie feels a sharp sting like an unexpected prick from a sewing needle, drawing the tiniest drop of bright red blood. He frowns at the sensation. If he’d been asked two hours ago, then his swift evaluation of Steve and him would be that they are not friends.

But this Steve, Rugged Steve, he seems cool. He’s sort of funny, a little sweet, and has a swathe of emotions running so deeply under the surface that Eddie wants to know what else he’s hiding.

“What about in the future?” Eddie asks instead, “We friends then?” He glances over at Steve, but the front seat is empty.

Eddie slams his foot down, the squeal of the breaks echoing loudly on the empty road.

They had been driving at 40 miles per hour down an asphalt road. Either Eddie didn’t notice the obvious movement of Steve clambering into the back of the van (unlikely) or he opened the door, rolled out onto the road, and magically closed the door shut afterwards (very fucking unlikely).

Or Steve disappeared into thin air, Eddie thinks with a racing heart.

Urgently twisting, he confirms that the back of the van is empty with only an amp and a blanket taking up one lonely corner. Falling out of the driver's seat in his haste, he stares out at the silent road. He looks left, right, and behind him, even stupidly glances up to the top of the van as if Steve’s climbed up there like an escape artist that’s about to do jazz hands and call out ta-dah.

Steve disappeared in a moving vehicle, leaving no trace behind.

Like a motherfucking time traveller.

Eddie’s knees buckle and he falls against the van, the asphalt hitting his backside painfully.

It was true.

It was all true.

Steve was from the future and now… has he gone back? He supposes? At least Steve won’t be trapped in his past, Eddie reasons, trying to find the bright side to this bizarre twist. He won’t be stuck on Eddie’s couch before heading out to travel America like some lonely, honour-bound samurai.

And if Eddie feels a small pang at not getting a chance to know Steve more… well, that’s between him and the empty road, because there’s no way he can talk to Present Steve, as he suddenly decides to call him. In no normal world would Eddie ever approach the king at school, other than to heckle the jocks tossing balls into laundry baskets.

No, upsetting the natural order stinks of butterfly carcasses.

Yet the regret hangs with him as he eventually pulls himself off the dusty road and into the van, driving home. It keeps him wide-eyed and awake through the night, thinking about what ifs.

The pang drives in a little harder as he spots Steve in the halls of Hawkins High; they even have history class together today and Eddie sees that, yes, he is assigned the seat directly in front of Steve.

He can’t help but look at him anytime their paths cross; Eddie once again the metal filling to Steve’s lodestone, a magnetic draw that he tries to keep hidden as he covertly stares. He sees it now too, that this Steve looks younger and smaller.

Maybe it had been the leather jacket and boots that Future Steve was wearing, but his shoulders had seemed broader and legs longer. Perhaps it was the grime around Steve’s face, but Eddie thinks that he loses some of that baby fat around his jaw in the next two years, becoming more defined.

He sees Steve one last time at the end of the day, sneaking up on Nancy Wheeler before grabbing her from behind with a cute little shout. Nancy laughs but Eddie thinks her heart’s not quite in it, her smile fading quickly as she turns back to her locker, grabbing the rest of her books.

Steve’s smile dips for a moment before he shrugs it off, moving to gently take the heavy bag from her. He catches Eddie’s eyes as he turns and stops to cooly raise a brow as if daring Eddie to comment.

That’s right, Eddie reminds himself around the pang, not friends.

He blindly turns, heart beating faster than the moment warrants and strides away. But it’s all so confusing and yesterday has become a moment in his life defined by before and after Steve. As if once Steve landed, groaning into his living room carpet, Eddie had become a different person.

He feels like that in those lost minutes yesterday he had started to make a friend. Someone interesting and possibly important to Eddie’s future, talking as if were an action hero, trying to save people in some unnamed war. But Eddie can’t discuss it with anyone; he knows he’ll be doing Dustin and Steve both a disservice if he goes back to talk to the kid.

He’s just going to have to swallow the awkwardness, Eddie decides, slamming the building’s door shut behind him to cross the parking lot.

He blocks out the sound of Steve’s laughter as he exits shortly after as well, closing his ears and stomping on any other fragment of unwanted feelings in his body.

He’ll see Steve when he sees him in the natural order of things. Until then, he’s persona non grata. Just a jock and Eddie will continue to be the freak.

No interaction whatsoever.

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