#I AM BESIDE MYSELF JESUS CHRIST (WHEEZING LAUGHING)

[hideyseek]

and also WHY DID THESE SUBTITLES TRANSLATE IT AS FUCKING CELLPHONE. CLEARLY THIS IS THE MOB BOSS MEANING RIGHT NOW WHY WOULD A GIRL. CALL DA QING. A FUCKING CELLPHONE

what the fuck happened in chinese etymological history that 大哥大 means both "cellphone" and "mob boss"

[richiettozier]

mal amour

Richie counted to one hundred before pushing against the fancy intercom. Passerby didn't mind his stalling, they just threw a curious glance at him, probably asking themselves why he stood immobile like that for almost two minutes straight before doing anything – he didn't even notice those looks. His eyes are too busy in reading over and over the Kaspbrak tag written elegantly besides the intercom's button.

“Yes?” answered the robotic voice of a woman, and something from his chest fell into the bottom of his stomach. Romantically, his heart. Truthfully, he'd say just bile.

Richie cleared his throat, “Pizza man!” he half–joked. He hoped that she would let him enter with that blatant excuse, but he didn't feel so lucky so he didn't expect anything more of a click and the deaf sound of the silent intercom.

“We never order pizza.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“I was kidding, obviously.” Richie sighed and tapped once against the wall of the apartment building, also leaning to get closer to the device. He was tired from the trip from Los Angeles to here in New York, so he didn't want to raise his voice. He was lacking of sleep, but it wasn't because of the flight he took in the middle of the night. “I am a... friend of Eddie? I believe he lives here. You know, it's his name on the intercom.”

“A friend of my Eddie?” she seemed to gasp. Richie didn't like the sound she was making, the incredulity he was hearing from the metallic noises coming out the device.

“That's what I said.”

“And what you are called?”

The fuck. “Eddie's mom–” he bristled, stopping himself. He glanced down at his bags abandoned by his feet, and grudgingly he decided that he shouldn't make mom's jokes right now, if he didn't wish to go sleep under a bridge tonight – not that he would sleep in any other place, but it was surely more uncomfortable than a couch. “I mean, Eddie calls me Richie, sometimes Rich, and when he's particularly mad at me he even calls me Richard. But actually, everyone calls me Richie, because that's my name. It's a...” he gulped, “A pleasure. Or it would be, if we weren't talking through an intercom.”

The intercom clicked, in the end, and the silence Richie was expecting finally arrived. He leaned his forehead against the cold marble of the building door's edge and closed his stinging eyes, shunning them from the midday New York sun. Shit. He grabbed his two bags and threw them over his shoulders – half himself wanted to go, just go away, because evidently he wasn't welcomed between the lovebirds; but the other half wanted to ring the intercom again and again, until Eddie himself, obviously annoyed, jumped down the stairs to kick him away from there.

The latter seemed to be the best of the two options. At least Richie would see him, angry and alive, before going fuck himself. His finger stopped mid hair, though, when a long bip came from the building's door, signaling that someone – Richie guessed Eddie, at this point – finally fucking let him enter.

Richie didn't know which floor Eddie's apartment was, so he chose to walk up the stairs instead of use the elevator – a grave mistake, but necessary. He started with a quick step regardless of the tiredness he was feeling in his very bones, but just after a single flight of stairs he already was wheezing. “Thank the fucking God,” he huffed, when he reached the third floor and there was Eddie waiting for him in front of the door of his apartment.

Eddie was clearly looking at the elevator, expecting him to come out of it, that was why he almost jumped when he heard his heavy steps stumbling on the stairs. “Why the fuck you didn't use the elevator, Rich?” It was Eddie's greeting, and Richie almost cried hearing it. “I think I never used the stairs in three years, maybe more.”

“I didn't know where your apartment was, dickwad.” Richie inhaled deeply when he arrived in front of Eddie, and he felt his fingers twitch around the straps of his bags. He tightened his grip, “Hey, Eds.”

Eddie's expression melted, and dimples appeared at the sides of his mouth as he smiled and walked towards him, with warm eyes and open arms. “You fucker.” Eddie hugged him, patting his shoulders. Richie's arms almost circled his waist in the hug, but then he decided to just pat his back the same way. He felt eyes looking through him, but Richie tried not to look up and see who the stare belonged to. He had some ideas, though. “What are you doing here? Are you on tour? You didn't tell you were about to start one so soon.”

Eddie ended the hug, and Richie finally felt enough himself to take a good look at him without feeling jelly legs. He was in a suit, so he must have come back from whatever office he was working in to have lunch – with his wife – and he was so good looking that Richie thought it to be very unfair. He tried not to think much about his own state, worse than he was even before getting up the plane, and he wasn't decent then either. “Well, uh,” Richie sniffed, “No, I'm not on tour. I am still in that sabbatical time, or whatever Steve called my doing absolutely nothing.”

Eddie ushered him inside, and only then Richie forced himself not to look at his ass and stare straight ahead. There is no one, no woman watching at him with a frown, no plus–sized wife sending daggers with her eyes. Only Eddie, and the terrible smell of disinfectant lingering in the too white and aseptic apartment.

“Want a drink?” asked Eddie, gesturing at him to go sit on the couch.

“The strongest you have.” Richie knew that he probably just had, like, lame wine, but he was not going to complain, as he sat on the strangely comfortable cushions of the couch, throwing his bags on the floor without much care.

Eddie put a plain glass of water on the coffee table in front of him. Richie didn't even felt surprised. He should have expected it. Had he really married his fucking mother? “I just have water,” Eddie said, defensively.

“I can see that. It's fine,” Richie waved a hand, “So.”

“So.” Eddie sat next to him, closer than expected, but still too far. “Not that I'm not happy to see you, don't get me wrong here, man. But...” Eddie's warm eyes fell on his bags on the floor, “You should have, you know, gone to the hotel before coming here. So you didn't have to bring your things around the city.”

Richie shrugged, “Haven't booked a room.”

Eddie blinked, then sighed. His eyebrows were scrunched in an adorable frown, “I don't know why, but I'm not surprised.”

“I just, got on a plan and came here, you know? Without much thought. I–” Richie lowered his voice and leaned towards him, fidgeting slightly with his own fingers. He didn't want to look around and see if his wife was eavesdropping their conversation, so he just... let it all out. Who fucking cared. “I wanted to see you.”

Make sure you're still breathing, make sure your chest isn't pierced through, make sure that you're not bleeding on the sewers' dirty floor.

Eddie looked contrite, “Rich–”

“Just for a couple of days? I just need to, to stay with you for a couple of days, not much more. Is it too much to ask? You know, this couch is the most confortable couch my ass has ever put his glorious form on, I'm serious!” Eddie laughed, and Richie took it as a victory, “I wouldn't invite myself if I really didn't need it. I really, really need you. Er, I mean, it. Oh, fuck, alright, you! I need you!”

Eddie lowered his eyes, pointing them on the floor. Richie felt the silence stretching for almost thirty seconds before feeling a bubble of idiotic chatter raising from his throat, but he didn't have the time to splutter out a joke – he just wanted Eddie to laugh, after all – because a snort came out of Eddie's nose, “Rich, you idiot, you can stay as long as you want. No one will kick you out of here.” Eddie's mouth clicked shut, as if he said something he shouldn't, something unforgiving. But at the same time, the determination into his big eyes was saying that he wouldn't change his mind no matter what. “But you really have to sleep on the couch, I have no spare room.”

“Damn, Spaghetti boy, such a luxurious apartment and you didn't even have a spare room? You are the worst rich man I've ever met.”

“Shut up and fuck you.” Eddie shoved him, cackling with a tense laugh that Richie didn't really like, but it was better than nothing, he guessed. “Well, I think introductions are in order, considering that you have to stay here for a while.” he sighed, passing a nervous hand through his neatly hair, ruffling it. Richie's fingers twitched. He felt a pang of guilt for causing Eddie's discomfort, and for thinking of how he longed to do the same with his own hand. When he got up, Richie followed him, “I will take some time off from work, so we can... talk, yeah?”

“You don't need to do that.”

“Yeah, I do. You need me, you said.” Eddie threw him a glance through his long lashes, “And you look like shit, Richie. You look like you went to hell and back.”

I did, Richie thought. He desperately tried to come up with a joke, but all the things roaming into his mind in that moment weren't really funny. So he shrugged, “Yeah, the flight killed me.”

“Later we can go eat something,” Eddie was saying, as he walked into a room that Richie thought to be the kitchen, but it was so clean and neat that maybe he put his feet into an exhibition of furniture without noticing it. “We can talk... freely with a slice of pizza in front of us, how about that?”

“That sounds very good, if you add some ice cream right after.”

“What kind of guy do you think I am now?” Eddie snorted. One that doesn't order pizza anymore, Richie almost said, but the words got stuck in his throat at the sight of the woman he found sitting by an island, cleaning the already shiny marble of the furniture.

That woman was... was Eddie's mother. “I'm having a dé–jà vu.” choked out Richie, leaning against the doorframe, passing a hand on his forehead. “Mrs. K?!”

Eddie hissed, cursed and elbowed him in the ribs.

The woman was huge. Usually there wouldn't be anything wrong about this, but the fucked up similarities to Eddie's mother were making the impact way too traumatizing – Richie would say that only the straight, blonde mid long hair falling over her broad shoulders is the real difference that convinced him that she was not really the late Mrs. Kaspbrak.

“Richie, she's my wife, Myra.” Eddie was saying, ignoring the tumultuous whirlwind fucking Richie's mind. Well, Richie knew, from Eddie's words and confessions back in Derry, that he didn't get over the shadow of his mother, that he completely forgot fighting against her abuses when they were teenagers, but – Richie didn't think it was that bad. Jesus. “Myra, this is Richie, one of my childhood friends. I told you about them, you remember?”

“Yes, you did.” she snarled, “They caused you that scar! And you still have contact with them? You bring them here, in our house? They are dangerous! They will cause you harm, dear!” she said, her light eyebrows knitted together in a worried expression that twisted in rage when her eyes fell on Richie.

Richie, as Eddie just ignored her words as if he'd heard them so many times that they have no meaning anymore to him, grimaced slightly though at her outburst. He felt bad, the lingering uneasiness he had in his bones and insides since they all left Derry spiked up suddenly like an old burn sliding against a hot surface again. He eyed at the silver scar on Eddie's cheek, almost invisible but definitely still there. That scar wasn't Richie's fault, even if guilt squeezed his insides nonetheless, even if he always claimed to love him and then he left him alone right when that scar was made; still it could have been so much worse not much later, and at in that occasion it would have been all his fault.

“I'm wounded,” Richie said, pressing a hand against his chest, “Eddie talked so well about you, Mrs. K, I can't believe he didn't do the same to you!”

She narrowed her eyes even more, and Eddie tugged at his shirtsleeve. “Rich, drop it.”

Richie did. He didn't like the tight lines around his eyes, making him older – still hot, but older. More tired. It was the same expression he wore at sixteen every night Richie had found him in front of his front door, with a backpack and a beg on his lips. God, Eddie didn't deserve this shit again.

Later that day, after a hurried lunch with a slice of pizza – Eddie couldn't take immediately time off, so their talk had been delayed – and a more tense too early dinner with Eddie's wife, Eddie went to talk with his boss on the phone, demanding a vacancy for family matters. He made him rest on the couch, gave him a blanket even if there was a fucking terrible heat outside, while he disappeared in what it should have been his and his wife's bedroom.

His wife was with him, and Richie immediately heard when Eddie stopped talking to his boss and started arguing with her. He didn't catch all of their words, but then she shouted something like, “Is it his fault that you are treating me like this for weeks, Eddie?”, and really, call him a son of a bitch, but he really didn't care that they are at loggerheads because of him. He would gladly take the blame – the merit – of Eddie's blown up marriage. And actually, hearing Eddie's voice coming angry and skittish, screaming that “Richie needs me, I am his best friend!” and groaning when she cried and said to him with a teared up voice “and I am your wife!” from the other side of the apartment was easing his nerves, lulling him into a sleep that for weeks wasn't coming to him at all.

❀  read the rest on ao3!

[platypanthewriter]

Switch Your Partner Round And Round (pt 1)

for @ihni​.  The second half will post on Ao3 Sunday, here next Weds!

Steve’s head pounded, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the flickering light and heat on his face. The hard plastic of the steering wheel dug into his cheek, and as he groaned, something slid off his hair and fell on his leg, then clinked to the floor. He blinked to see flames, and jerked his head up, then swore at the blurring lights and rush of pain in his skull. He blinked his eyes again, registering Robin next to him in the passenger seat, her head lolling against the seatbelt. The Camaro they’d t-boned—the Camaro with Billy Hargrove in it—had burst into flames. Billy jerked back against the seat, then started scrabbling at the inside of the driver’s-side door, and Steve pushed his own door open, staggering towards the Camaro.

Billy looked up, his eyes widening, and Steve yanked harder at the door, the heat from the engine block crinkling the paint on the hood. The seat next to Billy was on fire, around a lidless bottle of Everclear. The handle wouldn’t work, and Steve had to put a foot next to Billy’s door to yank it open. Billy yelled, holding his arms up defensively and coughing black smoke in a cloud around them, but Steve grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him out just as the whole passenger seat of the Camaro burst into flames in the air flow from the door, throwing them both to the ground. Billy rolled over him as they fell, hacking the smoke in huge gouts— at least the monster’s gone, in this heat, Steve thought, his brain fading out again as the night as the air filled with sirens, and the sky lit up blue and white.

When he woke again, he wished he hadn’t. Every part of him ached—his whole right side and hand were alternately numb or throbbing, his head hurt even worse than before, and his throat felt like he’d thrown up cement.

“Don’t freak out,” someone hissed, and Steve groaned, trying to swallow.

He tried to move, and his wrist clinked against something. He yanked at it, curling on his side, and it clinked again. Steve slowly opened his eyes enough to see he was handcuffed to a bed, then shut them again against the shooting pain of the fluorescent lights.

“Don’t, stop it,” the voice growled. “Keep your chill, Harrington, christ. Sssh, they’re coming, keep your damn mouth shut!”

Steve groaned again, wanting nothing in the world so much as water. He registered a shower-curtain noise, and squinted up, only to have a man in scrubs address him as “Mr. Hargrove”, and ask him what day it was, and whether he knew his name. He tried to correct him, rasping out a “Haaaa...harrrr,” but the man realized he was dying of thirst, and left to search for a cup of ice cubes.

The second the nurse was gone, the bed next to him squeaked, and the curtain was yanked aside to show him his own face, bruised, cut, and weirdly shaped outside of a mirror. “Shut up, Harrington,” it hissed, and Steve made a noise in the back of his throat, like a dog. “Shut up. If you say anything, they’ll lock us up, cool your jets—”

Steve tried to talk again, and made a perfectly reasonable squawk this time.

“Shut up shut up,” hissed his face. “They won’t believe you, we’ll never get out of here—” It yanked its arm, and Steve registered it was handcuffed as well. That thought was reassuring, and Steve drank the water when the nurse returned and pressed the straw between his lips, falling asleep content that the thief that had stolen his face wasn’t going anywhere.

The next time Steve awakened, he was still in the hospital. He stared up at the ceiling for a long while, waiting to hear someone say, “You’re awake.” Nancy, maybe. He set his jaw, telling himself not to hope for anyone else.

No chairs shifted. No throats cleared, and Steve closed his eyes, smiling tightly at the knowledge nobody was impatient to find out how he was. He rolled his head to frown at the bed beside him, where what looked like his body lay, and wondered again whether he wasn’t awake. I’m in a coma, he thought. S’weird watching myself. Maybe somebody will visit. Try to kiss me awake. He squished the oddly tickly pillow with his face, glowering over at his body. Maybe nobody told my mom I got in a wreck. Maybe everybody forgot I was even here.

Just then, his body snored, and Steve jerked, clacking the handcuff on his wrist against the bed rail. Do coma, uh, coma people, he thought muzzily, do people in comas snore? His body rolled over and curled up, flinging an arm over the edge of the bed—there were all his moles on that dangling arm, and he thought indignantly, how come I’m moving if I’m over here— and then he blinked when the brown eyes that belonged properly in his mirror and not on another person opened and blinked back at him.

“Harrington,” hissed the imposter. “You’re finally awake, jesus. Don’t say anything, okay, they—they’ll think we’re insane, we can’t figure this out any easier in a mental hospital—”

“Gimme hair back,” Steve mumbled, holding his un-handcuffed hand—it was full of tubes—up to block the weird person who’d stolen his face. “Ha! I can’ see you.”

“God fucking hell dammit,” the thief groaned. “Go back to sleep.”

“Thief,” Steve hissed, trying to pull his blanket up, and groaning. The other bed squeaked, and then his bodysnatcher tucked him in, and Steve let his eyes slide closed.

When Steve awakened again, the thief was sitting up, and Robin was hugging him. Steve wondered whether he was having an out-of-body experience, until the thief stared at him over his shoulder, mouthing, “Who the fuck is this?!”

“I guess you’re too dumb to die,” she sobbed, hugging him again, and Steve snorted. The thief stared over at him, and made a kissy face, pointing at her head. Steve shook his head, wide-eyed, and drew his fingers across his neck, sticking out his tongue. The thief looked even more bewildered, pulling his arms back, and Steve wanted to laugh, but he’d just realized the tickly stuff against his face was hair.

He lifted his extremely-entubed hand to squint at a fluffy curl of sun-bleached, chin-length hair. “...gonna complain,” he mumbled. “Hospital putting wigs on me.”

His body-snatcher started cackling, and Robin shot him a weirded-out look. “Sorry,” he wheezed. “I—I’m just—I think I’m still in shock,” he tried, and Robin nodded, ignoring Steve entirely.

Steve wondered what else they’d done to him, and patted his face to find a fake mustache, which he immediately tried to yank off, which hurt. “Ennnh!” he whined, as the guy with his face that his best friend was hugging laughed his ass off.

Robin left fairly shortly after, with a suspicious glance towards Steve, like he was the one stealing faces.

“You’re so high,” the thief laughed, and Steve flipped him off.

He woke again to something hitting his face, and groaned. Something smacked into his nose, and he rolled his head away, curling on his side.

“Harrington,” his doppelganger hissed. “Wake up.”

“Nnngh,” Steve told him, and felt something prod his butt.

“Wake up,” the thief said. “I told them to come back, I said you had a concussion, but they’re gonna want to know what happened—”

“Stole my face,” Steve told him, going to rub his own face, and finding the mustache again. “...what the hell. You should be handcuffed. Stealing my face.” The end of his bed shifted, and Steve raised his head to squint up at his own face, attached to his own body, sitting on the edge of his hospital bed. “Am I on...morphine or something? Am I dead...?” He swallowed thickly, blinking at the ceiling.

“Shut up, come on,” the bodysnatcher hissed, then grabbed the IV stand, and tilted the chrome arm towards Steve. “Hopper lemme loose, he thinks I’m you, he’s gonna start asking questions— look! Look at your face!”

Steve looked at his reflection, mostly out of annoyance, to see... Billy Hargrove’s face. Billy Hargrove’s mouth dropping open, Billy Hargrove’s hand grabbing the mustache Steve could feel on his own face. He sputtered. “What? No. That’s—that’s—no, that—shit,” he whispered, yanking at a handful of curls. “Need a razor.”

“Don’t you fucking dare. What do we tell people?” his face— Steve’s face—asked, and Steve stared.

“...Hargrove?”

Billy snorted a laugh. “Catch up, Harrington—”

He cut off, because Steve had grabbed his nose. Steve turned his own head, with Billy Hargrove inside it, to the left, and then the right, eyes narrowed. “How the hell,” he mumbled.

“Stop pinching by dose,” said Billy, with Steve’s vocal cords, and Steve yanked him closer by the head. “Mmmfng,” said Billy, crawling up the hospital bed as Steve’s thumb pressed against his lower lip. The room was chilly with air conditioning, and Steve warmed his fingers on Billy’s face as it reddened.

“What’d you do,” Steve whispered, wishing his brain wasn’t so fluttery with whatever was making his side and head hurt less. Billy braced himself over the bed, letting himself be pulled in close so he was doing a push-up with his hands on either side of Steve’s shoulders, and Steve realized something. “Wait, how come—” He squinted up, blinking. “How—how come I haveta hurt, you set yourself on fire?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Billy whispered against his fingers, and Steve squished his own face with both hands until Billy looked like a fish. His breath was warm on Steve’s face, stirring his borrowed mustache.

“Sucks,” Steve mumbled, staring into his own dark brown eyes. He surveyed his own moles, and the way the skin under his eyes squished up when Billy started laughing with his face. “...fuck you,” Steve sighed. He thought, then thonked their foreheads together, and Billy-in-his-body winced, snickering.

“Why’d you save me, anyway?” Billy whispered back, grinning away. “Walk up to a burning car. Pulled me out of a burning car, Harrington—how long you been wanting me—”

In a burst of insanity, Steve rolled his eyes and tried the next thing that came to mind. He was thinking along the lines of magic, and fairytales, and he grabbed Billy Hargrove around the back of the neck to give him a firm kiss.

He expected to get shoved, or hit, or maybe, hopefully, to switch back to his normal body, like waking up a princess, or transforming a frog. What he did not expect, and what actually happened, was Billy scrambling closer and opening his mouth, turning his head and sighing as his tongue slipped warmly against Steve’s. He hummed, smiling, and Steve opened his own mouth, the whole body he was in seizing towards the warm heavy bulk on top of him. He felt like every single cell was rushing an urgent message towards his dick, and when Billy pulled away, panting, Steve wheezed out, “Dude, I think your body is gay.”

“So’s yours,” Billy hissed, flinching back. He took a deep breath, smiled, and leaned in to make Steve’s whole body go tingly and stupid again. “Wanted me so bad you hauled me out of a burning car, Harrington—how long’s my picture been in your locker? You’re gay as shit, who’re you pointing fingers at—” He ran a hand along the skin at the edges of Steve’s bandages, inside his starchy hospital gown. “You’re gay as hell, for me,” he mumbled, laughing shakily. “Saved me. Even after I kicked your ass, you—” He leaned in, pressing messy kisses along Steve’s hairline.

The gentleness made Steve’s breath catch and his eyes sting, which didn’t help his argument any. “M’not,” he muttered. “We—we need to fix it, we need to—”

“Shut up, Harrington. Jesus, you’re freezing—”

Steve forced his tear ducts back into submission, squeezing his eyes shut, then opened them to see Billy Hargrove laughing at him.

“You scared?” Billy asked, and Steve growled, lifting his head to meet Billy’s mouth so fast their teeth banged through their lips, and Billy grunted back in his throat, wide-eyed.

“Not scared, I’m a ninja,” Steve hissed, relishing the break from lying staring at the ceiling and counting his aches. “My body’s just gay ‘cause you’re in it,” he informed Billy, who snorted, biting Steve’s lip more gently and letting it slide through his teeth. Steve groaned, closing his eyes and squirming against the feeling of rough hospital sheets against his dick. “Like fifty percent gay now,” he muttered. “S’weird.”

“What?!” Billy started laughing, and Steve tried to lift an arm to punch him, then pinched his side. Billy yelled “Screw you, Harrington—” in his ear, and Steve snickered.

“‘Cause you’re gay,” he whispered, and Billy growled.

“Shut up, I’m—if I am, you are too,” he hissed, and Steve squinted back at him.

“It’s all you! You’re a hundred percent into me?” The math didn’t seem quite right, and Steve narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. “No, why’d you beat me up? Six...sixty percent? Thirty.” He wished Nancy was there to figure it out.

“I’m not—you’re—what have they got you on—” Billy asked, propping himself up to squint at the IV.

“If you’re only thirty percent into me, half of thirty is fifteen,” Steve told him, confident, yet disappointed at the size of the number. “...think maybe Nancy was fifteen percent into me too.”

“You can’t—that makes no—”

“I was hundred percent into her,” Steve announced sadly. “‘F we’d switched, that’d have been. More.”

“You need me to find you a girlfriend, Harrington?” Billy raised his eyebrows, and Steve tried not to laugh, but he started shaking, imagining Billy Hargrove wandering around shirtless and glaring at everyone, wondering why he didn’t get laid.

“Pffffft,” he finally exploded into giggles. “Ow, oh my god. You just get laid ‘cause you look like you— don’t—don’t look like—you’re such a smug asshole —not a compliment—”

“You just need tighter pants,” Billy told him seriously, his eyes crinkled with laughter, and Steve laughed harder.

“How do you move,” Steve wheezed, rubbing the tears from his eyes on the pillow.

“You were lookin’, huh?” Billy mouthed around Steve’s jaw to his ear, breathing hot across the damp skin. “You kissed me first,” he whispered. He laughed as Steve shook his head. He looked weird, Steve thought, both eyes crinkled as he grinned, and he kept laughing. It was impossible to imagine Billy’s regular face that delighted. “You can’t lie to me now, Harrington, you gave yourself away.”

“I was just trying something,” Steve told him, trying to breathe slowly. “Thought—thought maybe it’d work. We’d change back.”

“Let’s keep trying,” Billy whispered back, grinning. “‘Less you want me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare stop now,” Steve growled, squirming. It was deeply weird to see his own face smiling back, so he closed his eyes. “S’like making out with a funhouse mirror,” he mumbled between pants. Everybody makes out with awful people sometimes, he thought. Doesn’t matter.

“S’hot,” Billy told him, laughing. His hands were warm in the hospital’s AC, and Steve arched against them. “Just admit it.”

Steve fell asleep again with sweat cooling on his skin, his face and side warm against Billy. He woke as the warm weight shifted away, mumbling protests, and felt a soft kiss at his forehead.

“S’alright, I know you love me now,” Billy whispered, laughing, and kissed his ear.

“Fuck off,” Steve muttered, squirming closer. He hooked a foot around Billy’s leg.

“Be right back,” Billy told him. “Never get rid of me now. You gave yourself away, Harrington.” He squirmed to slide off the bed—Steve winced, gritting his teeth as the bed shifted—as the door opened, and twitched the curtain between their beds back just enough to hit his own bedsprings as the nurse pushed a cart alongside Steve’s bed.

He stared at the ceiling, bewildered, as she changed his IV, offered to give him a sponge bath—he yelped a no, remembering the sticky mess dried on his stomach, and heard a muffled snort from the bed through the curtain—and then she tried to interest him in some Jell-O, and the laughter behind the curtain turned to snickering as he grilled her on available flavors.

As soon as she left, Billy was half on top of him again, kissing his cheek and smiling into his face. Steve squinted his eyes against the warmth, trying to remind himself that the gentle hands feeding him Jell-O, cleaning jizz off his belly, and offering him sips of cool water were Billy Hargrove’s. The teasing, soft kisses, and offers to suck his dick were from Billy Hargrove, in his body, after Steve had rescued him from a burning car, and also he was definitely going insane.

When Steve came to again, there was finally somebody in the chair next to his bed, and he squinted blearily. The chair creaked as they tipped back and thunked their shoes on the edge of his mattress, and he groaned in complaint.

“...so, heat,” came Billy’s voice, from his body. “Heat of the fire exorcised me. Should have been some pea soup.”

Steve was glad they didn’t actually leave scalpels around like in movies, because he wanted to stab Billy in his own foot. “Seats’re for visitors,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, you’re getting so many of those.” Billy snorted. “Your parents get in a wreck too?”

“Shut up,” Steve hissed, rolling his head to stare the other way, at the curtain.

“You pulled me out first, though. Saved me when I was still trying to murder a bunch of kids,” Billy laughed. “They’re fine, though. I mean, it worked, they—they went home, I guess. The sheriff told me.”

Steve took a deep breath, nodding.

“That Robin girl says she’s fine, but I think she thinks you’re like...a spy? For the Russians? Or something?”

Steve started snickering, which hurt, and he started coughing. Billy grabbed a cup of water with a straw and held it close enough to drink, but Steve took one sip and shuddered. “It’s warm, you spit in it, didn’t you—”

“I didn’t spit in your drink,” Billy shot back, dropping his legs and the chair legs to the floor, and stalking out with the cup of water.

“...fuck you,” Steve mumbled. Probably they’re all busy, he thought. With the fucking Russians. And the monster. And they don’t have time to hang around here.

Billy returned with the cup, and dropped in Steve’s visitors’ chair again, holding the straw to Steve’s mouth.

Steve stared at it.

“Rinsed it out. I let the water run until it was cold,” he said, nudging Steve’s lips with the straw, and Steve opened his mouth for a chilly sip, then kept swallowing, as his thirst hit his brain.

“Dry air in here,” Billy said, tilting the cup so Steve was getting water instead of air. “Want some more?”

Steve stared up at him, stuck on the idea of asking Billy Hargrove for favors, or having to thank him, or really...talking to him at all. “Why’re you here?” he asked, finally, and Billy laughed.

“Shit. Uh. I know I—you—you stopped me,” he said, tipping the empty cup back and forth so it rattled. “I pay my debts, Harrington—”

“Saved your life and I get a sippy cup,” Steve muttered, feeling cheated.

“I can’t go back and—and fix shit,” Billy growled, the cup creaking in his hand. “I can’t—I tried shit, okay, I drank bleach—”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Steve sighed, and Billy kicked his bed—carefully, since it didn’t hurt.

“Piss off and—” Billy cut off, leaning his face in his hand. “Look, I can’t fix anything, I can’t—I can’t time-travel back and not show up at the Byers’, I can’t—do you want more water, that’s—I can’t—”

Steve did, but he bit his lips together, feeling the weird scratchiness of Billy’s mustache against his lower lip. He glared up at the ceiling.

“Shit,” Billy whispered. “I can’t leave anyway, since I’m apparently you.”

Steve snorted. “Gimme my body back. Beat me up, almost killed my friends, stole my body.”

“...yeah, I know,” Billy laughed, lowering his head. “...I can’t—I know sorry isn’t good enough, I don’t—”

"Look,” Steve told him, wishing he could sit up, “—that—that thing in your head, that wasn't your fault."

“Shoulda set myself on fire sooner,” Billy muttered. He glanced over, grinning. “Wouldn’t be having this problem.” He was kind of...hunkered down, picking at Steve’s blanket, and Steve blew air through his cheeks before speaking.

“Rather have this problem,” he admitted, and Billy’s head jerked up. Steve stared back, cursing his own honesty, but Billy’s smile was small and shaky, and Steve couldn’t quite regret his words. “...you’re still a shithead, though,” Steve told him.

“I know,” Billy laughed again. “I—I’m—just. Sorry about—that night. At the Byers."

“Fffyeah,” Steve growled, getting his consonants in a frustrated jumble. "What the hell was that?"

"I was—I was pissed, and drunk, and—he said I had to bring her back. HAD to. He—it was—or else." Billy kicked the little cart, and it rolled to a stop against the curtain.

"Or else what," Steve asked, his face hurting as he frowned. He watched Billy’s hands, clenched in the blanket, and Billy’s face, sweating in the cold air of the hospital, and reached out to squeeze Billy’s fingers. “What d’you mean, ‘or else’?”

"O-or else, I don't know!" Billy snarled, jerking back from Steve's hand, and Steve stared past him at the curtains, putting together Max and Billy’s defensive growling.

“...okay,” he said, reaching out again, but making sure he waggled his fingers, and Billy saw. “Okay,” he repeated. “I mean, it’s not okay, asshole, but—” he stopped, twining his fingers with Billy’s cold ones. They were shaking, and Steve rubbed Billy’s knuckles with his thumb, waiting for him to look over. “Okay,” he whispered. “Gimme some more water. Thanks.”

Billy stared at him, then down at the cup. “You—you’re just thirsty,” he whispered. He wasn’t crying, but Steve recognized the signs—his voice was husky, and he kept taking deep breaths.

“Yeah, so get me some water, water boy,” Steve hissed back. “Work that shit off. You know how many cups of water it’s gonna take? You’re gonna be hauling water ‘til you die—”

“Jesus, okay,” Billy said, but his smile came back, wide and uncertain, as he slid off the edge of the bed. “Whatever you want. Be right back. You, uh, you want anything else?”

Steve tried to think of something outrageous to say, but finally just shrugged. “Tell you if I do. I’ll run your legs off.”

“Yeah,” Billy grinned. “Make me work for it.” He winked, licking his lips as he slid through the door, and Steve’s dick twitched. He groaned, pulling the pillow over his face.

Steve opened his eyes next on Nancy, pushing the curtains back with a “it’s so gloomy in here, let me—” She stopped when she saw him, her lip curling a little, and he wanted to tell her. “What’s he doing here,” she hissed at Billy. “Don’t they know what he did?”

“He’s asleep,” Billy told her, kind of mumbling.

Steve opened his mouth, and then saw Nancy’s mom, dad, and little sister as the curtain moved. Mike wandered in, crossing his arms. Nancy’s mom stared over at Steve, in Billy’s body—she looked sick, he thought, pale and sweaty, and Steve glanced at Billy, in his body, who was staring at Nancy’s mom.

“How’re you feeling?” Nancy asked, grabbing Billy’s hand, and he managed a weird grunt.

“...fine,” he said eventually, and she nodded, firming her jaw for a narrow-eyed glance at Steve.

“Nurse said your football career would be fine, Harrison,” said Nancy’s dad, punching Billy in the shoulder, and Billy stared at him. “I’m...I don’t play football?” he said, just as Nancy hissed “It’s Harrington!” Nancy and Billy shared a moment, cocking their heads in confusion at Mr. Wheeler. Steve bit back a grin.

“Do you want a ride home, Steve?” Mrs. Wheeler asked Billy, who unaccountably reddened, and glanced at Steve. “We can drop you at your house. I bet you’d like a real shower!”

Billy widened his eyes, biting his lips together, then nodded. “Ye—yep. Thanks, ma’am,” he said, so woodenly that Nancy reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

Steve was so wrapped up in figuring out their weirdness he didn’t register Billy’s urgent stare, but he finally remembered and cleared his throat. “What, you gonna miss me, Harrington? Fuck off and let me sleep.”

Billy snorted, his eyes widening further as Mr. Wheeler promised to return after he was discharged, Mrs. Wheeler suggested they all celebrate his release at the diner with burgers, and Steve dozed off again, smug in the knowledge that Billy was about to have an incredibly awkward afternoon.

~

When Dustin finally escaped his mom, got his bike to the hospital, and found Steve’s room—despite people stopping him to ask if he was lost—Steve was gone. His bed was a mess, so Dustin figured he hadn’t gotten far, and shot a glance at Billy Hargrove in the other bed. He was grinning, for some reason, and Dustin wrinkled his nose.

“Where’s Steve?” he asked, and Billy’s mouth quirked. “Whatever,” Dustin hissed at him. “I’ll find him myself.”

“Henderson!” Billy yelled, as Dustin yanked the door shut, and Dustin repressed a shudder at the thought Billy Hargrove knew his name.

He (eventually) found Steve on the roof. “Hey,” he called, running up to lean over the railing next to him. He bumped their shoulders together, and Steve half stared, half glared, tossing a cigarette stub on the ground. Dustin rolled his eyes. “How hard you get hit on the head, buddy? I been meaning to talk to you about that. You know who you saved, back there?” He reached up and knocked on Steve’s head, and Steve just narrowed his eyes, his fingers twitching. Dustin slapped Steve’s shoulder, trying to get his brain to engage. “That guy’s the one that beat your face in at the Byers’, Steve. I know your shitty memory, but seriously? Seriously. Billy Hargrove? There are babies in this hospital that have less oxygen ‘cause he’s alive, Steve, who’s the hero now.”

“What?” Steve asked, and Dustin sighed, letting himself drape over the railing.

“Billy Hargrove, Steve. Nancy said he knocked you on your ass in gym.”

“I know who he is,” Steve gritted out, and Dustin looked him over, wondering whether somebody’d already given him a hard time.

“Jesus, take a chill pill, you had to be the hero, I know. Like Batman. Didja ever think, though, if Batman just killed Joker, he’d have saved, like, a ton of people? You gotta think about these things.” Dustin grinned over, and realized Steve had his hands clenched, white-knuckled, on the railing. “Just some friendly advice, man. Don’t die trying to save the bad guy.”

[unfortunately-lovestruck]

Colors

This is a cute fluff for Diego and MC requested by @seducemeotome-trash. Thank you for your request, I had so much fun writing it!

Note: This is post vampire transformation for MC, just to clarify the timing.

As always, enjoy!

Colors

“Do you want creme or white for the color scheme?” Diego asked MC.

“There’s a difference?” she blinked.

He laughed, the two color samples still in his hand. MC knew as a vampire one didn’t need any sleep, but she was exhausted enough to do so. Planning a wedding in general was supposed to be difficult, but planning a big wedding was a whole nother monster in itself.

“Oh God, don’t tell me ‘eggshell’ is another shade that’s completely different from the two,” she groaned.

“Um,” Diego cleared his throat, putting back another sample.

“Fucking-” MC threw her hands up, “Is ‘cloud’ different from ‘white’?”

“In some stores, yeah,” he smiled, MC sighing in response. “…Hey, maybe we should save this for tomorrow,” he told her. “This seems nerve-wracking for you.”

“A bit,” she admitted, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he rubbed her arm gently, “This is stressing you out. Besides, the store’s about to close anyway.”

“Uhh- oh it is,” she realized. Half the lights were dimmed and the last customers were leaving.

“Yeah, we can just keep looking tomorrow,” Diego smiled, “We have all the time we need.”

She smiled back, letting him kiss her temple. They left the store before an employee could urge (kick) them out, and continued their conversation in MC’s truck. The radio played softly in between them, a lulled, gentle song with drawn out vocals and steady guitar playing in the back.

“I still don’t see the difference between eggshell and white,” MC lamented, “Eggs are white.”

“Some aren’t,” Diego reminded.

“Okay, but why? Why are some eggs white while others are brown?”

“MC, out of all the subject matters I’ve become well-versed in over the last several centuries, egg anatomy and coloring is not one of them,” he blinked.

“Fair,” she commended, turning the steering wheel, “But next thing I know, you’re gonna be telling me there are 500 different shades of red.”

“Oh God,” he sighed, “Don’t even get me started on crimson and scarlet.”

“Jesus Christ,” MC lamented.

Diego only laughed, the sound almost harmonious with the music from the radio.

“MC, regardless of what color everything is,” he spoke past a grin, “It’ll be the same event, so we probably shouldn’t worry about it too much.”

“Diego, that’s literally exactly what I said in the store,” she reminded.

“Perish the thought,” he feigned offense.

MC snorted, amused at the pompous sound he mimicked.

“Did you actually used to speak like that in like the 1800’s?” she asked then, curious.

“Everybody did,” he shrugged, “Well, in England anyway. It sounds ridiculous and dramatic now, but that was the norm. That is, unless you were someone with a Cockney accent, but that’s another story.”

“I mean I get that it was the norm,” she nodded, “But I don’t know, it’s just really funny to think of you shouting random Shakespearean sentences at someone.”

“Shakespearean was 16th century-”

“Yeah, I know,” she acknowledged, “But the way it sounds… It’s like the stuffy British accent beefed up times ten.”

Now Diego snorted, highly amused at the simile.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t been tempted to call Antonio an egg at least once,” she snickered.

‘What, you egg? [He stabs him]’ was the only quote from Macbeth MC remembered from high school, and as far as she was concerned, she didn’t need to remember anything else.

“Who says I haven’t?” he asked, MC breaking out into cackles at the thought of him in a poofy-sleeved vest angrily gesturing to the other vampire.

“What else have you called him?” she asked.

“Nothing PG, I can tell you that,” he admitted.

“Oh my God,” MC suddenly widened her eyes.

“What?”

“I just imagined you yelling ‘Stand ho!’ at him,” she began laughing again.

“My God, it’s ‘standho’, not ‘stand ho’. You are not telling a hoe to stand,” he emphasized, which only made MC start wheezing.

“So you don’t deny thinking of him as a hoe?” she asked, words strangled with laughter.

“I don’t deny thinking of him as a lot of things,” Diego continued, “Qué gilipolla…”

MC was dying, but to her credit, he was laughing along with her, even if it was nowhere near as hard. Finally, they settled down, Diego’s house approaching in the distance as they drove towards it.

“How did we go from color shades for the wedding to the verbal particularities of ‘standho’?” Diego suddenly asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” MC admitted, opening the truck door to get out.

“Well, at least it wasn’t at a Stop-n-Go this time,” he chuckled.

“You laugh as if you weren’t blushing like a 5th grader the last time we were there,” she raised her brows, shutting the car door again.

“Look, you can’t just randomly ask if your blood tastes good like that,” he defended himself, the blush MC mentioned starting to return to his cheeks.

“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” she told him.

“Alright then, how does my blood taste?” he asked, features completely neutral now.

“I-” she froze, blinking. “You… fuck.”

“See?” he smirked.

“Point taken,” she conceded.

Diego laughed as they headed inside, victorious in their banter. They split once they were in the house, MC taking a quick shower and her fiance following right after. 

It was still strange having no need for food nor pajamas when she got home. However, MC decided to dress in them anyway, more for routine and comfortability than anything else. Instead of going for one of her own shirts though, she eyed Diego’s closet, smiling as she cheekily took one of his own and put it on while he finished his shower.

“MC, I was thinking about-Oh….” he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at her.

“Hey Diego,” she greeted, acting as if nothing was different. “So, how was your shower?”

“It…” he seemed to be struggling for words, “It… had water.”

MC snorted, laughing at the adorable slack-jawed expression he had. 

Five hundred years of knowledge and experience, a PHD, and likely thousands of books read in his time, and yet, he said that when all she did was put on one of his shirts.

“Oh my God, Diego,” she smiled, barely containing more laughter. “Mr. Suave giving the smoothest pick-up lines over here.”

He was blushing again, cheeks furiously red. Regardless, he sat next to her on the mattress, lying back and seemingly trying very hard not to look at her, eyes averting when she angled her body to face him.

“I don’t understand why you do this to me,” he lamented.

“Because your reaction is amazing,” she poked his side teasingly, “‘It had water’? That’s going down as one of your official quotes.”

Diego sighed… “The worst part is I can’t even get back at you,” he said.

“I mean, you can,” she refrained from giggling.

“MC, I am not putting on one of your shirts,” he declared, “My dignity has already taken enough damage tonight alone.”

MC wheezed again, stomach actually starting to hurt from all the laughing she’d been doing. Red was still tinting Diego’s cheeks, but it had faded a bit, and now he was looking at her, attention undivided and features set into an unreadable expression.

It took MC a bit to notice, but when his eyes flicked away as soon as she tried to meet them, she grew worried.

“Diego?” she asked, “Diego, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he reassured.

She wasn’t convinced.

“I was just teasing you know,” she told him.

“No, it’s not that,” he shook his head, “It’s nothing, really.”

MC stared at him for a second, then sighed. She scooted closer, laying her cheek on his shoulder before placing a hand on his arm.

“Diego, you’re stuck with me forever. Literally, forever,” she reminded. “If something’s bothering you, you should probably tell me.”

“It…” he hesitated, “It’s not necessarily bothering me I would say.”

MC’s brows furrowed. “Then what’s going on?”

“I just…” he exhaled, clearly trying to phrase his explanation right. “I don’t know. I see you like this, in my bed, wearing my shirt, looking happy to see me, and… I suppose it’s just surreal for me.”

“Diego…” she started, knowing this was his self-deprecation again.

“And I’m not telling you that to say I don’t deserve it,” he disclaimed, actually surprising her. “It’s more so… I’m not sure. I never really expected to marry I suppose. Even when I was human, nothing worked with Eva, and after I turned, I hated myself too much to even consider the prospect of looking for someone else.”

He turned to her again now, expression hesitant, soft even. There was an air of gratefulness around him, a quiet sort of peace that emanated into the night’s quiet.

“For five-hundred years, I never thought there would be someone who could accept me enough to be betrothed to me. Someone who would want to spend eternity by my side. And now, I’m sitting next to you, laughing and joking, only weeks away from having you be my wife,” he continued slowly, as if still trying to fully absorb that the words he spoke were true. “It’s just hard to believe is all.”

MC’s heart swelled with warmth.

He was so sweet it was actually unrealistic. He thought himself a villain still trying to repent for his sins, all while he healed people for a living, only accepted blood from ethical sources, and said things like this as if they were casual statements and not storybook declarations of love.

MC couldn’t just respond with something short and curt. Something that earnest and heartfelt needed something of equal quality.

“Diego… Look, I never thought I would get married either,” she admitted. “I didn’t think I would find anyone right for me, just like you. I was too preoccupied with my own life, and when we first met, us getting married later on would have honestly seemed like insane.”

Diego scoffed, amused. “I can’t say I would have disagreed.”

“Exactly. But the fact is, we have each other now, and I couldn’t be happier. Marriage always seemed too bland for me. You know, to settle down, live the domestic life, have kids. It was too routine and expected. But I know, without a single doubt in my mind, that agreeing to marry you is the best decision I’ve ever made. And nothing will change that. Not even eternity.”

She had to admit, it was pretty up there on the cheesiness scale, but it was the truth. Besides, it did have the effect she’d been aiming for. Diego’s side of the emotional bond practically swelled with pure adoration, a small smile curving his lips before he took her hand and kissed it.

“Thank you, MC,” he told her, pulling her closer as he settled further into the bed.

“For the speech?” she asked.

“For everything,” he clarified, “Accepting me, loving me, agreeing to be with me. I couldn’t have asked for anything better in my life.”

“Neither could I,” she kissed his cheek.

Silence blanketed them then, warm and relaxing, filling the space perfectly.

However, MC still decided to break it when she said, “Also, eggshell is still white.”

“Oh my God,” Diego spoke, deteriorating into quiet laughs, “You’re not going to change your mind for all eternity, are you?”

“Nope,” she told him, “And you’ll just have to deal with that.”

“I think I’ll manage,” he smiled, kissing her forehead. “I’ve dealt with worse in my life.”

And so MC stayed by his side, smiling and content, more than ready for years, decades, centuries of this to come.

tags: @its-dr-fuego @weird-aunt-writing @tomsatos

[superblysubpar]

I am a FUCKING MESS. Wow. Your talent is inspirational and this story...God I'm sorry I feel like I just can't even wrap up into words how I'm feeling right now. I don't know if I've ever devoured something so quickly because I like, needed to. I could feel myself panicking while reading it and crying and just...wow. I'm amazed and look forward to be annoying about everything you write forever 💛 now excuse me, I'm off to print this for my bookshelf.

“I’ll never forget the first time you pinned me to the mats,” he spoke soft, catching you off-guard. You could feel his smile against your ear, the upturn of his lips. “You knocked the wind clear out of me, had me seeing stars, and then you leaned over me to help me up. You had this big, beautiful grin on your face, like you’d never had more fun in your entire life. Robin was doubled-over laughing in the corner.”

“Steve,” you breathed, clutching at the soft fabric of his shirt.

“But when you asked me if I was ready for round two, that’s when I knew I was in love with you.”

“Harrington,” you grit your teeth, slammed your eyes shut. The pulse compelled you. Vines like tendrils slithering beneath booted feet to find you.

“Because I knew you were resilient, and any bullshit I could throw at you, you could survive. Are you listening to me?”

“Harrington. You know, big brown eyes, floppy ears, a tail that wags when you pay him attention.” 

HAHAHAHAHA I love Vickie.

It makes me so sad that she was like in this story but not - like that we just have this version of her we don't actually know and all of that grief and hurt surrounding her storyline. I love that she helped reader fight and reminded her to not carry that memory anymore 💛

Your version of Vickie and this story make me semi okay with her being a big part of season 5. May you secretly be a Duffer or the Duffers are wise enough to let you write with them.

You dove again and again, dives decreasing in length each time until you finally surfaced, gasping for air and screaming for someone to help, screaming for Steve, screaming at Vickie, at Vecna, at the world for doing this to you, and that’s when you found him.

Several yards off, face down, like driftwood bobbing along the shoreline. 

"Amanda, respectfully, I'll kill you" Taylor thought as tears threatened to spill from her eyes and she forced herself to keep reading.

“Steve,” you wheezed, straddling his body. You tilted his head back. “I promised Vickie. I promised her we’d get married. I promised her we’d have a dozen babies.”

WHAT DID I FUCKING SAY?! I SAID I DIDNT LIKE THAT IMAGERY AND NOW HERE WE ARE HOLDING OUR LOVE IN OUR ARMS AND HE'S DEAD AND I AM ACTUALLY SOBBING I HATE YOU

You didn’t like the blue, cast across hard features like the frigid chill of a drowned man. You much preferred the warmth of sunshine pouring in through easterly windows. If you stayed long enough, you’d catch a glimpse of that, honeyed light caressing soft skin, tousling the golds in his hair.

Real life image of Taylor being like, yeah fuck you and your great writing DONT DO THIS TO ME AMANADA

You pulled away with a sad laugh, mopping the tears from your cheeks to slide into the arms of the man beside him. 

“Hey, Harrington, you doing okay?” Steve’s voice rumbled against your cheek, his lips pressed to the shell of your ear. He hadn’t stopped calling you that in months, and you delighted in the way his honeyed gaze lit up when he said it.

*insert that clip of Tyra asking who else was really scared*

JESUS CHRIST AMANADA

AND THEN HE CALLS US HARRINGTON?!

Wildfire • Inferno

The last march into the Ether is fraught with uncertainty. You stumble forward, partner and friends by your side.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Wordcount: 10,887

Warnings: This chapter contains gore and horror, including character injury and allusions to character death. • enemies/rivals to lovers, second chance romance, slowburn, unrequited love, so much pining, blood, gore, character death, best friend!disabled!Eddie Munson, character injuries, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, drowning, concussion, hurt/comfort, fire, panic attacks, insomnia

Fic Masterlist • Navigation • Masterlist

Chapter Six: Combustion

---

THEN

May 1988

The woods sprawled forever, rows of monotonous chaos stretched to a sunless sky. You scrambled through, boots squelching in inexplicably moist soil as you toed over the twist of vines and fallen limbs. A shock of orange guided your way, a light in the greyscale abyss, just out of reach, dipping into underbrush and up the hillside.

You’d made this trek through dozens of times, the steady climb from Roane County Farms to Mary Hill Lane. Countless nights of your youth were spent feeding cows apples from your pockets and scurrying home before the sun crested its final valley. 

You knew the resemblances were eery. The first time you’d stepped into this horrible place, the first time you felt the pull at your navel and the spin in your skull, you’d been nauseated by the carbon copy version of the town you called home. Grocery stores and public libraries crumbled beneath the weight of disembodied tentacles. City sidewalks crumbled beneath your feet. And even after all this time, after countless trips through the portal into the Hellscape, the similarities to your childhood never ceased to unsettle your stomach and itch like anxiety in your chest.

A different panic clawed there now, making the ascent more difficult. Your pack weighed you down, and your mask hung from your throat, lungs burning with strain and inhaling toxic air.

“Vickie!” You cried out for her again, your voice hoarse and cracked. A handful of mulch fell away to make room for your boot, and you pulled yourself up through the tree line and onto Mary Hill Lane.

The asphalt was torn up, a pot hole down the center of the little lane, right where they’d patched it that summer you turned 8. You used to take turns jumping it on your bikes. Once, Vickie hit the lip, and her frail little body went flying over the handlebars. You watched the blood ooze from her knobby knees in horror, and admitted delight, and helped her limp her bicycle two doors down to her house.

A wave of orange flickered in your periphery, and you steeled your breath. Two houses down, with pale yellow siding and a metal storm door, was your best friend’s childhood home. It hadn’t changed since her family moved to the little neighboring town of Hawkins. The tree out front was a little taller, the grass a little sparser, and of course the entire facade was succumbing to the overgrowth of demonic vines that curled and whipped beneath the shutters and peeled back the roofing tiles.

There was a residual off to the Ether, the dip in your stomach that never left once you’d crossed the gaping maw threshold, but now, staring up at a home you grew up in, the off settled into your ribcage like a bad breakfast. “Vickie,” you whispered, following your feet to her driveway. “What the Hell are you thinking?” 

You reached over your shoulder to remove the flamethrower from its holster. Your hands shook around the cold metal. You tried to even out your breathing, panic clinging like condensation to your neck. 

Bang! Something large smacked against the garage door, rattling the whole thing on its hinges.

You scrambled backwards, foot slipping on a rogue bit of gravel. You gasped, catching your fall before you heard another loud thwack to the door.

Then you saw her. Grimy, fogged glass lined one of the garage panels, through which you caught the terrified look of your best friend, a shock of orange and pale skin. 

You called out to her, ran to the door, smacked your fingers against the glass. 

“No,” she shook her head, slamming her hands into the other side of the wall. “Get out of here! Run!” 

“Vick? What’s going on?” You shook your head. “Are you trapped? Stand back, I’m going to torch it.” You squared up, readjusting the trigger behind your forefinger.

“No!” She cried out again. “You don’t understand. You need to run.” 

“Is there something in there?” You asked, trying to peer between her and a stack of boxes to look within the confines of the garage. 

“Yes.” She said. “Me.” 

She disappeared for a moment before she lifted the garage door, one strong push to expose herself and the rotting boxes abandoned beside her. 

“What the Hell is wrong with you?” You growled, dropping the weapon to your side.

“She’s stronger than she looks,” she said, stance square. There was something in her eye that tickled at the base of your skull, sent a shiver down your spine.

“Vic?” 

“Really, your friend held on for so long. She really tried to fight. The two of you had years of good memories for me to lose her in.”

Years of training stalled your reaction, running through your mind in reverse, hours spent on the Scorch course echoing in your skull. You raised your weapon again, and her name left your throat in a whisper. 

“You wouldn’t burn sweet, innocent Vickie would you?” She took wide strides your direction, hands in the pockets of her pants. “Not here. Remember when we called this place home. You and I?” 

You scrambled for the walkie on your shoulder, hands trembling. “Team Lead to Scorch team, requesting emergency evac.” 

“Yes, yes, bring in the troops,” she smirked, something miserable and uncanny, something so un-her. 

Steve’s voice echoed through the speaker, startling you. “Where are you?”

“Roane County, Mary Hill Lane. Quarantine required.”

“Her old house? Is Vickie okay? Vickie?” Robin’s voice called out before Steve cut her off.

“Copy that. We’re on our way.”

“R-Robin?” Vickie’s voice broke, and you noticed a distinct change in her demeanor. Her teeth were grit, fists clenched and shaking at her sides. 

You caught her gaze, eyes filled with terror, and took a few steps closer.

“NO!” She cried out, holding a hand up to stop you. Tears welled in her eyes, spilled over, tracked through the ash on freckled cheeks. She whispered your name, bottom lip trembling beneath her two front teeth. “You have to do it.” 

“Vickie, no. Just hold on. Steve and Robin will be there soon. We’ll take you back and -” 

“It’s too late,” her voice cracked. “He’s in here, and I can’t hold him back much longer. You know I love you, right?” 

“Vickie, stop it.” You shook your head, tasting salt. You didn’t realize you’d started crying as well. 

“Please?”

You shook your head again, obstinate, every bit of you fighting the pleading look in her eyes, fighting the sad smile on her face, fighting the way she said your name.

—

NOW

October 1988

Your blindfold was made of wool, something thick and itchy against your nose and the tips of your ears. You scratched at it, exposing a sliver of light, and you hand was promptly snatched away.

“Will you stop that?” Steve huffed, voice a warm rumble to your left year.

“I’m not going to take it off,” you grumbled. 

Your anxiety had peaked the moment he put it on, relieved only temporarily when he pressed his lips against yours. Then, you were promptly carted down the clanging elevator and shoved past a sea of whispers until a heavy steel door was opened, and brisk autumn air caressed your cheeks.

The familiar rumble of a truck bed chattered your bones, knees knocking against various others’. You sat in silence, sensing a handful of watchful eyes. You were desperate to ignore the gnawing at your brainstem, the villain clawing himself to the surface, desperate for air, for a hint. You focused, instead, on your breathing, on the warmth of Steve’s hand in your own, of the buzz in your fingertips and the weight of something that had been strapped to your back.

Steve’s grip tightened as you came rolling to a halt. Engines idled. The smell of diesel fuel burned at your nostrils. Your stomach churned. 

Your partner pulled you upright with a strong hand beneath your armpit, and you teetered on your feet as the balance shifted with each body that jumped from the bed to the dusty ground below. 

“Wait here,” he muttered, and then released your hand. 

Panic curled into your organs. You reached out for him again, listening for the fall of his feet. Cold replaced him beside you. The ground shifting beneath you. You extended your toe until it hit something, a wheel-well, by the sound of it, maybe a tailgate.

A hand found yours again and pulled you to the cool metal. The machine trembled beneath your clammy fingertips. 

“Sit here, swing your legs over. I’m going to catch you, okay?”

“I don’t need to be caught,” you scoffed, though you followed instructions, feet dangling over the bed’s ledge until you slid into Harrington’s strong grip. 

“Shut up,” he grumbled, gentling setting your feet to pavement. 

You shoved at his chest, and promptly chased him until his hand slipped firmly into yours again. 

“Dudes!” A familiar voice called from not-too-far away, and you felt yourself led toward them.

A fist tapped your shoulder, and the sickly sweet smell of marijuana filled your senses. 

“Argyle?” You smiled.

“You got it, dude.” You could hear the smile in his voice. “Hey, remember that time we played those pranks on Munson?” 

The levity of his sentiment didn’t match the intensity of the situation you were all stepping into, and it caught you off guard. Your memory strained to strum up images of hiding Eddie’s notebook and replacing it with a replica you and Argyle had doodled crude images in. That felt a lifetime ago, when you were all just kids caught up in a war you didn’t understand. 

“Well, that gave me the idea to doodle a dick on the dragon on his new notebook.” Argyle spoke it like a confession, whispered to you from around your veil, words muffled by the thick fabric.

You crinkled your nose. “You did?” 

“Yeah,” he barked out a laugh. “So you’ll have to come back to see the look on his face when he sees it.”

The fear that had settled like a pit in your gut fluttered a little, a glimmer of a heartbeat added to the future you weren’t certain you’d have. 

“Deal,” you choked out, and you felt a hand reach into yours to shake on it. 

“Harrington!” Someone yelled from a few yards away, and you free hand was tugged with careful instructions to follow. You bid Argyle goodbye and stumbled after Steve, slow steps dragged along dusty streets. 

You couldn’t tell the direction, though something deep in you longed for them. Something wondered if you could peer beneath the blindfold and make out a location based on the stones you kicked along with the steel toes of your boots. Something sensed the wind caressing your cheeks, your chest, wondered if it blew in an Easterly direction. 

Another warm body pulled up beside you, blocking the wind. Your shoulders fell in gratitude. You hadn’t realized you’d hiked them up.

“Mind if I lean on you?” Byers muttered, wrapping a soft hand against the crook of your elbow.

You shook your head and accommodated for his weight. You noticed a limp in the sound of his walk, slowed your gait to match his. Another spring of panic fluttered at your chest. “No offense, Jonathan, but… should you be going on this mission? How’s your leg?” You squeezed Steve’s hand on your other side.

He squeezed back.

“Remember that day we took bets on the mats? The one where you wiped the floor with Harrington?” 

“Alright,” Steve huffed on your other side. 

You snickered, remembering the flow of cash into the hands of your best friends. High fives were exchanged. Munson had set up a hydration station in your corner to fan you off between rounds. 

“I won like five hundred bucks thanks to you, you know?” Byers spoke softly beside you, breath a little labored. 

“Oh yeah?” You swallowed back a lump. “Sounds like a deserve a cut of that.” 

He laughed at that, Steve too. “Yeah, you do. Here’s the deal. You kick major ass in there, I’ll give you three hundred.” 

“Double or nothing?” Steve said over your head. 

“Deal,” Jonathan chuckled and squeezed again at the meat of your bicep. “What do you say?” 

“Yeah, okay, deal.” Your voice sounded hoarse. When Jonathan released you, you nearly halted your walk to stay with him, but Steve tugged you along with a firm grip, and you stayed in line with the footfall all around you.

You kept your eyes squeezed closed, resisting the temptation to gain some sort of bearing. You thought of Argyle’s doodles and Byers the bookie and tried to push back the emotion clawing to escape you. 

Then you felt it, the pull. You’d felt it before, dozens of times, that warped tug of gravity that started from behind your navel and led you onwards and upside downwards. It had to be close. You felt the pulse of a gaping maw as if it were your own, the steady thrum-thrum of a heartbeat. Or two heartbeats, in tandem to the pulse you felt in Steve’s wrist against your own. Or three heartbeats, the rhythm of dozens of soldiers falling into line.

A familiar voice called your name from up ahead, and you heard the stamping of feet as someone approached, others moving out of their way. “Hey,” Wheeler breathed. “Have you figured out what we’re doing yet?”

You couldn’t respond, overcome with emotion and terror, that call of the Ether drawing you closer with each step.

Nancy fell in sync beside you. “Remember our first run in the Scorch course? Me, you, Vickie, Robin?”

You remembered being terrified at the prospect of setting monsters ablaze. You remembered spying an intimate “good luck” between Steve and Nancy before she went in with you. You remembered Vickie and Robin exchanging nervous smiles. You remembered sweaty palms around a weapon you’d never used, and you remembered the heat that licked at your skin. 

“We did it in record time, and they were still extinguishing three hours later.” 

“Nancy, I…” You weren’t sure what to say, exactly, couldn’t understand the meaning.

“Us girls have to stick together.” She stuck a bony elbow to your side, then she shouted. “Ready? Let’s go. Battle stations, everyone. You know what to do.” 

You heard the unsettling squelch of vines, the clearing of a membrane from the jaws of the gate, and the tug of your arm halted you. “Steve?” You muttered. “What’s going on?” 

“We’re going in,” his breath was warm against your ear, and he brought your hand to his chest. His heartbeat was rapid, racing your own to the finish line you couldn’t see, couldn’t fathom.

Your mouth was dry. Things within you battled: the urge to turn heel and run and the urge to go diving headfirst into the Ether, into the frigid embrace.

“I’ll never forget the first time you pinned me to the mats,” he spoke soft, catching you off-guard. You could feel his smile against your ear, the upturn of his lips. “You knocked the wind clear out of me, had me seeing stars, and then you leaned over me to help me up. You had this big, beautiful grin on your face, like you’d never had more fun in your entire life. Robin was doubled-over laughing in the corner.”

“Steve,” you breathed, clutching at the soft fabric of his shirt. 

“But when you asked me if I was ready for round two, that’s when I knew I was in love with you.”

“Harrington,” you grit your teeth, slammed your eyes shut. The pulse compelled you. Vines like tendrils slithering beneath booted feet to find you.

“Because I knew you were resilient, and any bullshit I could throw at you, you could survive. Are you listening to me?”

“Steve, are we ready?” Nancy called from several feet away, voice drowned by the thundering in your ears.

“You have to fight him, okay? I promise I will protect you, but you have to promise me you’ll fight back, that you won’t give up. Do you promise me?” He was holding your face now, large hands on either cheek, and you longed to see his brown eyes again, that furrow between his brow.

“I promise,” you nodded, and his lips were against yours, hot and soft, and then they weren’t, and you were chasing for his touch. 

He hooked something into your belt, and you felt cold plastic, with a long cord attached. “Whatever you do, don’t take your blindfold off, or these,” he tugged headphones over your head, the foam around the ears amplifying the pounding of your heart. “I will stay as close to you as I can, but you just need to trust that I’ll be there to protect you. Are you ready?” 

Again, the opposing forces within you pulled in separate directions. All at once, your senses will filled with pop music and panic that you had to swallow back as Steve took you by the hand and led you once more toward the door between worlds. 

—

The Ether smelled damp, like mildew, the rotting flesh of vegetation left to spoil. It tasted of ash and ruin. Static lingered in the air, clung clothes to your skin. The music in your ears was muffled, somehow, like there was too much room for sound waves to travel, so they thinned out and became tinny. The blindfold itched at your nose, and you stood alone, cold, in a void. 

You tried to focus on the happy memories your friends had presented to you, but with every chill that wracked through you, all you thought of was her. 

That shock of orange had been extinguished, had vanished into the grime of this Earth, had smoked out. Happy memories of her turned to ash at your fingertips, laughter to choked screams. 

Then, you smelled gasoline, sweet and strong. You were used to the fumes, that chemical after burn with each torch of the flamethrower, but this was stronger. This stung at your nostrils, made your mouth water. You took a few steps forward to ensure you hadn’t stepped in it and were waiting for someone to light a match.

You felt dizzy with it, that wobble as you walked. You called out for Steve, unable to hear your own voice though the music. You received no response, felt no tug on your arm, no warm hand to your waist. You were only cold, and you were all alone. 

He’d left you. He made a promise he couldn’t keep, just like Vickie had, and you supposed like you had to them. 

Then came the rumble, that slow wave of nausea that drifted from far-off, from mountain tops and Great Lakes, that cosmic sway of land that chattered your teeth and sent you off-kilter, to your knees. You caught yourself on a hand, feeling the snap of your wrist beneath your weight as the Earth continued to rock beneath you. You cried out, though you couldn’t hear it over shrill music.

Then you felt it, the searing agony of torched vines, every vein and nerve ending ablaze, punching the air from your lungs. Screams rippled through you, not yours but the screams of others, of them, agonizing, writhing in horror, screams from gaping mouths with rows and rows of jagged teeth, and you were them and they were you, and you felt it all.

You thought you might rip in two from the pain, maybe you already had, and you lie prone against a cold, hard ground, willing your body to push it away. Everything in you scorched, and everything in you begging to fight. How could you fight fire? How could you fight an unseen force?

Desperate for air, you ripped your blindfold from your face and stared up into a storm-filled sky. Bright red lightning flashed inside a black, billowing cloud. Your eyes ached at the orange glow, and when you turned your head, you came face-to-face with an entire forest ablaze. 

It caught like wildfire, an inferno that scorched the Earth. Beautiful bright whites and yellows, oranges and reds painted the night sky, casting the forest in silhouette as limbs groaned and trees crashed down upon an army of soldiers. 

You sucked in a breath, sputtering to the sand as you rolled over to gain your footing. Your wrist cried out under your weight, but your vision had shifted again. 

It was as though you ran through the woods, double time, rushing to escape the fire. It was as though you flew through smoke filled skies. Your targets wore tactical attire and carried flamethrowers on their backs, and millions of teeth sunk into them, filling your mouth with the taste of their blood.

Something found your ankle, a thick vine that wrapped itself there and pulled until you slammed back into the pavement. You squeezed your eyes shut and kicked at it until you felt the satisfying squelch, the burst of ice cold liquid, and you scrambled away until another could find you.

Then your eyes were on him: Steve torching the wood. His face was tanned, dripping with sweat and grime. He picked up a barrel and threw it into the trees, shielding his face from the explosion as Nancy cocked her rifle and hit her target. Only, you were looking at Steve from an odd angle, and you reached out a clawed hand toward him. 

“Steve!” You cried out, but it was too late. The demogorgon’s claws pulled through his chest to the bone.

Nancy fired rounds into the creature until it had backed into a truck. From there, it was blown to pieces. 

You watched them now, from a few yards away, unable to lift yourself from the ground. She tended his wounds, and he staggered, glancing your direction. Tears stung in your eyes. Somewhere nearby, a song echoed through tattered headphones. Behind your eyelids, allies were being ripped open, guts spilling to the forest floor, but the fire raged on. 

—

The pain subsided, and all was numb and black and void. 

You sat at a desk, sunlight filtering in through a window overlooking the woods. You had a pencil in one hand. Times tables were etched into the paper in front of you. The lines of the numbers flipped and blurred, and you stuffed your tongue between your teeth in frustration. God, you were so stupid.

Your mother called from down the hall. Dinnertime. 

You set your pencil down, and it rolled across the desk top before halting against a terrarium. 

You stood and stretched, rubbed at bleary eyes. You pulled your sweater from the back of your chair and swung it over bare shoulders. 

You crossed to your door, traced the wallpaper in your hallway with fingertips like you did every evening.

Dad’s chair was empty as you passed the living room. The television played something dull and quiet, reruns. 

You rounded to the dining room, table stacked with food for two. Dad must be on another work trip. 

Light filtered in through the sliding glass door. Winter had just begun. The leaves had all browned and fallen. The trees stood like soldiers, all limbs and armor.

You took your seat at the table and sipped the carbonation from your soda. The bubbles fizzed at your nose, and you itched at it before dumping a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes to your plate. 

A slam at the glass door startled you, and you looked up to find Vickie. She looked different, old and grizzled. Her jaw was sharper, the muscles in her arms more defined. She rolled her eyes and peeled the door open. It rolled on its track, and she let herself in. 

“This is where he’s keeping you?”

“Wh-what?” You blinked back at her, wondering if the times tables had messed with your head. 

“Vecna, come on, idiot. You’re flayed. He’s got you by the strings, and he holed you up in the third grade for some reason. Do you have any idea how long it took me to find you?” 

Her words processed like sludge, letters mixing and swapping like they had on the page. 

She leaned over to dip her finger into the bowl of mashed potatoes. She tasted it and blanched, spewing the soft white back onto your plate. “Jesus, there are some tricks he really can’t master. Now come on, we don’t have much time. You need to snap out of this.” 

She tugged at your wrist, and you cried out, a sharp pain zipping through you. You stared down at the tender and bruising limb. 

“That’s a good start,” she nodded. She glanced out at the backyard, forehead creasing in thought before clicking her fingers together. “Quick, think about Steve.”

“Who?” You winced, nursing the dull ache in your wrist with a gentle touch. 

“Harrington. You know, big brown eyes, floppy ears, a tail that wags when you pay him attention.” 

“What?” Everything felt fuzzy, a slog of jumbled words that fell from soft lips and onto deaf ears. You hadn’t remember Mom giving you cough syrup, but perhaps you had a cold.

With a groan, Vickie grabbed you by the shoulders and lifted you from your seat. She shook you a little. “Come on, damnit, remember. You aren’t here in your mom’s kitchen, you’re in the Ether. The Scorch Team is blowing it up. A demogorgon got Steve, and I have a feeling he’s going to die if you don’t snap out of this.” 

“Steve?”

You saw a flash of him staggering toward you, Kevlar shredded, blood tainting the inner corners of his perfect lips. 

“Steve!” You cried out, but you were back in the dining room. The breaker had been flipped, everything dark, everything caked in a layer of rot and decay. Everything but Vickie. 

“Nicely done,” she grinned, yanking at the sliding glass door. “Let’s get out of here!” 

You didn’t hesitate to follow, staring up at the sky scapes of your mind as they began to implode. The woods beyond turned to the craggy, rocky shores of your grandmother’s beach house, and as you stepped through the bog water that had filled your backyard, everything turned to concrete and asphalt and tar.

“Yeah, this’ll do,” Vickie’s sneakers slapped against the tarmac as she ran toward the compound. 

You took off after her, wind sweeping at you like wispy tendrils, desperate to hold you in place. “What do we do now? How do we trap him?” 

“I don’t think we do,” she responded. “It’s kind of like a lucid dream. You’re in charge in here. We just have to get rid of all the places he can hide.” She bypassed a passcode to unlock a familiar steel door and held it open for you to go inside. 

You entered the small hallway, floor-to-ceiling munitions lockers. “And how do we do that?” 

“Well,” one locker opened with a creak, “they’re blowing his shit up on the outside. Maybe it’s time to turn the heat up in here, too.” She reached in and procured a flamethrower.

—

You scorched the Earth. You set fire to the Roan River bed where Vickie had tumbled. You set fire to the little covered bridge and all the horrors that lay within. You set fire to the little farmhouse where you lost her. You set fire to the woods that surrounded your childhood home, to the little fenced in backyard, the rope and plank that swung from the oak down the street. You torched the roof and watched it crumble inward over mashed potatoes and the tv turned to static in the corner. You watched the pages of a times table curl and fall to dust. 

“Making record time,” Vickie grinned, slapping a hand to your shoulder. “Just like Nancy said. Us girls really do make a good team.” 

She turned from you and began to jog down the little lane, pack bouncing, light on her feet as though the world wasn’t crashing down around her. 

When you didn’t follow, she turned, fire lighting her eyes, and gestured for you to join. “You coming or what?” 

The flames made no sound as they consumed your house, a dreamscape of embers in reds and oranges and yellows to the ringing in your ears. The roof fell first, like the house that nearly ate Steve, and then the windows burst and the walls came next. As the fire spilled out across the front yard, chewing at tires and overtaking flowerbeds, you stumbled backwards to join Vickie in the lane.

“One last stop,” she promised, intertwining her fingers in your own. 

“How do you know that’s enough?” You asked with a frown, wheezing a cough into your free hand. Your wrist ached, and the purpling bruise was beginning to crawl up your arm. Your chest felt tight, and the faster you ran, the harder it felt to breathe. The smell of gasoline filled your nostrils.

“We’re running out of time,” she smiled sadly and turned into the driveway of her own childhood home, the place you found her, the place you watched the life leave her eyes. 

“Vickie,” you warned, screeching to a halt just at the end of the driveway, where concrete turned to rubble. Looking to your left, you saw the pothole. To the right, flames had spilled to the neighbor’s house. 

“Don’t be a baby. This is his favorite place to hide. We have to make it uninhabitable.” She explained, stacking lawn furniture to a pile between the garage and house. 

It was his favorite place to hide because it was your worst memory, the place you refused to go back to, the truths you kept hidden under lock and key. 

Something went boom far in the distance. Your ears rang again, and they hurt. Something hot and wet splattered your right cheek. You reached up to find blood spilling from your ear. “Vickie!” 

“Hurry!” She removed her pack, added it to the pile.

“What’re you doing?” You crossed the driveway as she opened a can of lighter fluid from beside the grill and began trailing it across the closed garage door. She splashed some onto her shoes. The cuffs of her pants were soaked in it. “Be careful!” 

She looked up at you then, a sadness behind the mischief in her eyes, and she shook her head. “Don’t you get it? It’s me. He’s hiding himself in me. I’m the safe space for him. He knows you’ll never touch me. You’ll hide from him in the good memories: the pranks with Eddie, the bets with Jonathan, the sing-a-longs with Robin. He’ll hide from you here, with me.” 

Another boom rocked the world around you in ripples. Scratches clawed themselves into your right side, your cheek, your chest, your arm as shrapnel lodged itself within your skin. 

Vickie rushed to your side, wiped blood from your cheek with a thumb. “Hey, I love you, and I will always be with you in your heart and your good memories, but this?” She gestured to the pile of furniture, to the scorch mark in the drive. “You need to let this go.”

You wheezed another cough, violence that clawed at your insides, squeezing every drop from you. 

“Go back to Steve. Get yourself out of this Hell hole, as far away as you can, you hear me? Get married, have a dozen babies. Follow your dreams. Live the life I didn’t get to. Promise me?” She touched her nose to yours. “I love you.” 

“I love you,” you managed, though tears blurred your vision and smoke choked at your lungs. 

She kissed your forehead and took ten paces back, until her feet were touching the spilled can of fluid that had begun to weep down the driveway. “You promise?” She called. 

You nodded, hands trembling as you lifted the flamethrower. “Promise.” 

“Good,” her face lit with that mischievous grin, a smile of peace and of love, and she maintained it as the flames engulfed her.

—

Your ears rang, and your body thrummed, and every nerve in your body stood at attention. The smell of burning flesh and gasoline stung acrid in your nostrils. You blinked your eyes open, expecting the bright oranges of flames and finding only grey, only smoke, and then two big, brown eyes. 

Steve came crashing into focus, and you pulled him into you with desperate hands. The side of his face was torn and bleeding. Thick, dark red spilled down his jaw and throat to gaping cuts across his chest and abdomen, but he was crouched over you, and he was mouthing something. No, maybe he was screaming. 

He looked beyond you before he covered you with his body, and you felt the rain of something down on top the both of you. 

After a long moment’s rest, you shoved at him, desperate to find his eyes again, and he sat up and looked around before he pulled you both to your feet. 

The Ether was chaos all around you, a cloud of smoke and ash. Soldiers and monsters alike disappeared and reappeared through the cloud in flashes of thunder-less lightning and the splatter of blood.

You ducked into the crook of Steve’s arm and followed his lead as he ran, both of you a little wobbly, dodging vehicles and bodies. 

He tripped over a vine, and you caught him under the arm, pulling him upright again so you could continue your journey. He stopped, peering around once more, shouting into the smoke cloud with a hand over his mouth until he was doubled over in a wheezing cough. You covered your own mouth with the crook of your elbow, but the smoke was too much, and the oxygen too small.

You threw yourself to the ground and pulled him too, breathing what air lie between particles of sand in the empty lake bed.

 Steve lie beside you, eyes fluttering with exhaustion and defeat, and he leaned sideways to thumb blood from a stinging wound on your cheek. 

That’s when you noticed the vines. Thick, black, oozing with ichor and something fouler smelling than the ash and smoke, these vines were reaching for something, crawling for air of their own. 

You yanked on Steve’s sleeve and pointed to them, and the two of you crawled after the vines to the edge of a gaping wound in the sandbar. 

The membrane had been popped and water bubbled below, steady waves that brought forth the prospect of life, of fresh air, of home. 

Steve threaded his fingers through yours and nodded, spoke words you couldn’t hear. “I won’t let go.” 

You nodded and took as deep a breath as you could muster before diving headfirst through the portal to the waters below.

—

Righting yourself felt different without gravity, the weightless tug of your body that begged to be back on the other side, back where up was up and down was down. But here? In the void of frigid cold and screaming wounds, of empty lungs? Your body and your brain couldn’t comprehend anything but out and now.

Steve’s hand remained in yours, though you couldn’t see past the blur of dark and sting in your eyes. So you just kicked and pulled at the space around you, weightless and yet too heavy all at once.

Something wrapped itself around your ankle, but you just kept kicking, feet as paddles and anchors. 

You wrist ached, the numbing pull of something as Steve tried to yank you upward, and then you felt his arm around your waist and then your knee, and he was fighting something off, and then nothing. Then he was gone and his warmth and his weight, and your body was surging you upwards and outwards and now as fast as you can.

It hurt. Everything hurt. Your lungs screamed and your soul ached and your heart hurt, but when you burst through that surface and through your head back and filled your lungs at least that was right again.

You slapped your hands to the surface in an effort to stay afloat, and you gasped and sputtered and took in the fresh, clean air. 

Starlight glinted above you, miles and miles upward, not shying beyond clouded skies. God, you’d missed them. 

You floated for a moment, on your back, body screaming for rest, exhausted, eyes drifting closed while you drifted like a log on the water’s surface. Alone and weightless, but free and alive and alone.

Alone. You sputtered, coughed out water that spilled in through your nostrils, and when it had cleared, you looked frantically around you for Steve.

Your distress caused ripples in the water, ripples in reflected starlight, ripples alone.

You took a deep breath, weak, lungs pained, and dove. Your eyes stung and the darkness filled everything below the surface, so you reached out with frantic arms until your lungs couldn’t take it anymore and your body rocketed you back up for another gasp of air.

You cried out for Steve, a wheezing sound that had you coughing again. Your teeth chattered. You could barely hear your own voice above the ringing in your ear. 

You dove again and again, dives decreasing in length each time until you finally surfaced, gasping for air and screaming for someone to help, screaming for Steve, screaming at Vickie, at Vecna, at the world for doing this to you, and that’s when you found him.

Several yards off, face down, like driftwood bobbing along the shoreline. 

You swam to him, one stroke at a time, aching legs kicking until the tips of your fingers met the back of his head, and you turned him to face you. Liquid poured from his open mouth, the sweet curve of his lips. 

You pulled him under your arm and dug in hard to the silt and soil, pulling him up and over the banks where cattails bloomed and crickets chirped. You pulled yourself up too, both of your bodies scraping the sand. 

“Steve,” you wheezed, straddling his body. You tilted his head back. “I promised Vickie. I promised her we’d get married. I promised her we’d have a dozen babies.”

You ripped open what was left of his shirt, bits of material sticking to his shredded skin. You held back a cry and interlaced your fingers. Your wrist screamed, bruising crawling to your elbow. Gingerly, the palm of your hands found his sternum, and you began compressions. 

“You have to stay with me because I love you, and I can’t do this without you.” You tried to keep time to the adrenaline thundering your heartbeat in your skull.

More liquid spilled from his lips.

“No!” You cried out. “Stay with me. Damnit, Harrington!”

You clenched your jaw until something snapped, a tooth, maybe his ribs, maybe your arm, but you didn’t stop, you couldn’t stop.

—

Your throat was so dry, a swallow that burned down your esophagus like sand paper. Your insides smarted with it. Everything was red, too bright, vicious like wildfire. You winced, turned your face to shield yourself from the light. 

The beeping got louder, a steady rhythm that matched the thump-thump of your heart in your skull only fuzzier, dials turned down, a bit of static ebbing and flowing like waves, a current.

Then you heard a mumble, or at least, it sounded like a voice. No, two voices muttered to one another from over top of you, one louder, clearer, the other soft, strangled, too-far away. 

“Have you been here all night?”

“If they try to pull me away from this bedside, I’ll kill them.”

“Have they woken up yet?” 

“Not yet. No one can tell me if that’s good or bad. Do medical charts make sense to you?” 

“Let me see.” 

Something clattered beside you, too close to your head, and your reflexes startled your eyes open. You winced to find everything was no longer red, but stark white and too bright, and your eyelids were crusted over and burned. You groaned and shielded them with a hand wrapped in gauze. 

“Holy shit,” someone spoke your name. 

“Should we call the nurse?” 

“Hold on a second. Sweetheart, are you awake? It’s me, Eddie.” A soft hand reached for yours to pull it from your eyes. “Hit the lights, will ya?” 

Stark white dulled to softer blues and grays, and you lowered your hand from your face. Your eyes adjusted, room and faces blurred until the sweet, sad face of your best friend came into focus. 

Munson smiled back at you, hair swept back over his shoulders, black t-shirt hugging his chest. His body was pressed to yours, butt pinching the wires that were jabbed into your hand and the crook of your elbow. “Bet those drugs are feeling really nice right now, huh?” 

His voice was sweet and low, like molasses, and it buzzed through you warm and soft. You hummed, but the dryness in your throat cracked until you coughed and sputtered and gasped.

“Okay, I’m calling the nurse.”

“You want some water?” Eddie scrambled, snapping his fingers at something on the other side of you, and you turned your head to find Robin with a clipboard under one arm, frantically pushing a large, red button that hung on a cord beside you. 

You tried to say her name, but once again the wheezing and sputtering halted your attempt, so you reached for her instead.

“Water? Yeah, here,” her voice trembled, and her hand as she lifted a large plastic cup from the bedside table and held the straw to your lips. She looked scared, frantic, and tears brimmed in her big, blue eyes.

“I got it,” Eddie took it from her, holding the straw steady for you to drink. 

The cold water soothed your throat, and your eyes closed in the relief. You were exhausted. Your entire body sunk further into the soft cloud you laid upon and wanted to stay there. 

“What’s going on in here?”

“You fall back asleep on us?” You felt the rumble of Eddie’s chuckle, and the tug of a smile played on your lips. 

You peaked one eye back open, and the nurse who stood in the doorway dropped her arms from where they were crossed over her chest. “Well, good morning, sunshine. How’re you feeling? Don’t talk, but give me a thumbs up or thumbs down.” She pushed into Robin’s space to jiggle the tubes attached to you.

You managed a thumbs up, the world still a little fuzzy around the edges. 

Eddie snorted. “Yeah, I bet you’re feeling good.” 

“Your vitals are looking good, but you should probably rest. It’s the fastest way your body can heal.” 

Yeah, rest sounded lovely. You nodded and closed your eye again, sinking farther into the warm cloud embracing you. 

“I’m going to go check on Nance,” Robin muttered from beside you. “You going to stay here?” 

“Try and stop me,” Eddie said, and it pulled another smile to your lips as you drifted off to sleep.

—

Seventeen gates had sealed themselves over night, leaving naught but severed vines and wet patches of pavement. Bits of equipment and body parts slowly began to wash up on shore, but when the lake beds were dragged, no gates had been found. 

Your drug-induced dreams had been void of smoke and screams, void of ash and ruin, void of that shock of orange and the chill in your spine. 

You’d gotten to your feet faster than any of your comrades, despite being one of the last living recovered by the Evac team. You joked about your competitive nature through wheezed coughs behind your cast. 

You and Munson raced walkers down hallways. Much to your chagrin, he let you win. 

Weaning off the drugs, your body ached, bones stiff. The stitches around your cheekbone and shoulder and hip itched something fierce. Your voice came back after a few days, scratchy and raw, but your hearing never returned on that right side.

You begged Eddie to read you the novel he’d been writing every night as you drifted off to sleep. You played card games with Jonathan and Argyle during the days, stuffing aces into the bright blue plaster of your bandaged arm. 

Hopper visited when he could, cursing at a nurse under his breath when she came in to tell him to put out his cigarette. He did so in your abandoned jell-o cup, and before he left, he squeezed the fingers of your hand and said, “I’m proud of you, kid.”

Nancy’s recovery came along quickly, always two steps ahead, and you spent evenings distracting her while her bandages were changed. Burns covered half of her slender frame, but she grit her teeth through the agony. You helped her to her feet when she asked and held her hand to the bathroom and back to her bed. 

Robin came bearing gifts smuggled from the outside, warm socks and soda in glass bottles, a record player and later, hummed tunes. She tried to teach you French one night, Russian another, and if she hadn’t fallen asleep at Nancy’s bedside, she was slumped onto Eddie’s shoulder, the two of them wide-mouthed, snoring out-of-sync. 

Some such nights, you’d sneak out, carrying your IV so the wheels didn’t squeak, the pads of your feet cold against stark white linoleum. You’d bypass the common room, illuminated by the vibrant colors of candy wrappers from a vending machine, and tiptoe down the hall past the nurse’s station. You’d slip into a room two doors down, on the left, masked under the faint blue glow of a heart monitor and sidle up beside the patient there.

You didn’t like the blue, cast across hard features like the frigid chill of a drowned man. You much preferred the warmth of sunshine pouring in through easterly windows. If you stayed long enough, you’d catch a glimpse of that, honeyed light caressing soft skin, tousling the golds in his hair.

You glanced at his heart rate on the monitor, the steady but slow rise and fall, and then you slipped your fingers to the pulse point on his wrist to double check. “Harrington, I’m always saving your ass, aren’t I?” You tutted. 

You tugged his torso to warm exposed shoulders, careful not to drag the material against the plane of his chest, where skin had been grafted together with vicious knots of needle and thread.

You pressed the back of your hand to his forehead, taking solace in the warmth of life, and swept hair from the wrinkle in his brow.

You pulled up a chair and tucked your hand into his, resting your elbows and head beside the dip of his thighs, listening to the subtle beat of his heart until your eyelids felt heavy and your rhythms matched with his.

—

May 1990

Sunlight dappled the landscape in pale yellows and vibrant greens, pouring in from between the limbs of trees and spilling onto the grass like paint to a canvas. A breeze brew through, sweet florals on the wind. You helped it sweep fallen, wilted petals and debris from letters carved into stone. A petrified bouquet was replaced with a fresh one, and you primped rose petals and wiped lily pollen off on a pant leg. 

Robin crouched beside you, freckled nose red and eyes bleary. She kissed a beaded bracelet before wrapping it around the little vase with the others like it.

You stood before her, helping her up by the hand, and both of you kissed your fingertips and placed them to the tip top of the headstone.

“You ready?” You muttered, giving her hand a squeeze. 

She sniffled, nodded, and you began your trek up the dappled hill toward the parked car. 

“Give a kiss for me too?” Eddie asked as you approached, frown etched between his brows. You sunk into his embrace, buried your face in the warmth of his throat. He smelled of the cigarette he’d stamped out on the asphalt. 

“Always,” Robin muttered into his other shoulder, burying herself there too. 

You pulled away with a sad laugh, mopping the tears from your cheeks to slide into the arms of the man beside him. 

“Hey, Harrington, you doing okay?” Steve’s voice rumbled against your cheek, his lips pressed to the shell of your ear. He hadn’t stopped calling you that in months, and you delighted in the way his honeyed gaze lit up when he said it.

You swatted at his middle, fighting back the grin that tugged on the corners of your lips. “I’m changing my name back,” you argued.

He hummed a protest, rocking you back and forth, large hands tracing circles of comfort up and down the length of your spine. He felt safe, a tall drink of relief, calm tides after a storm.

“Well, I think I’m ready for brisket,” Eddie clapped Steve’s shoulder, and you reluctantly peeled yourself from your husband’s embrace to help your friend into the back seat. 

Robin rounded the car to join him, and you accepted Steve’s sweet kiss to your temple before he climbed in behind the wheel. 

With a sigh, you turned to cast one last look down the hill at Vickie’s grave. Light poured down sweet and soft. This place had never felt like her, a disconnect between the girl you knew and loved and the monument for soldiers fallen. 

“Steve,” you turned to see him, big brown eyes staring back at you. 

“Yeah?” 

“Can we make one stop first?” 

“Of course.” 

—

The new owners painted it blue, still pale, but it matched the sky now. The garage door had been painted stark white like fluffy clouds, and a mini van was parked out front. Toys and bicycles spilled out onto the yard like it had when you were young. Someone paved over the pothole in the lane.

“Want me to come with you?” Steve mumbled, fingertips to your wrist as you opened the passenger side door. You noticed his glance in the rearview. 

You shook your head. “I’ll only be a second.” 

The wind ruffled the trees, forest curving downhill toward farmland and beyond, but you turned your back to the trees and took cautious steps up the driveway to the garage door. Two daisies had been chalked beside a hopscotch course. 

You closed your eyes and breathed in all of the memories from childhood: running back and forth from your house to hers, her incessant humming, the sound of her laughter, dancing in circles in a thunder storm, the feeling of her slender fingers between your own, her nose to yours. 

With a smile, you opened your eyes again and turned to go back to Steve’s idling car. That’s when you saw it, a shock of orange out of your periphery that ducked between slats on the porch and flew directly at you. 

Your breath caught in your throat, anxiety clawing at your chest, when you felt the wrap of tiny limbs around your knees, knocking them together.

“Baby, what are you…? Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Honey, let go!” A woman launched herself from the front door.

You looked down to find a child, no older than three, with bright red hair and a toothy grin etched upon freckled features. You smiled back, tears welling in your eyes, and patted her little head. “Hi, sweetie,” you chuckled. 

“I’m so sorry. We just learned what hugging is,” the little girl’s mother reached for her pudgy little hand to pry her off of your legs.

“Oh no, she’s okay,” you let out a wet laugh. 

“Thank you,” the woman huffed. “Can I help you with something?” 

You waved her away. “Oh no, my um… my friend used to live here, before the Earthquake. I came to check in on the place. We um… we used to play hopscotch just like this.” You fumbled for a reason to be stood there, in this stranger’s driveway. 

“Oh, I see,” the woman’s face fell in understanding. “Would you like to come in? I might have lemonade.” 

“That’s alright,” you smiled at the girl in her arms. “Your little one gave me just what I needed. Thank you. Have a nice day.” 

“Bye-bye!” The girl waved before hiding, shy, in her mother’s hair. 

“Bye.” Emotion swelled with a lump in your throat, but you turned to find that wash of relief in your partner, who stood, leaning over the hood of his car, knowing smile stretched across handsome features.

He waved at the mother and daughter behind you and waited until you were safely inside before getting back in himself. A large hand came to squeeze at your knee, two others squeezed your shoulders from the backseat. 

“That baby was pretty cute,” Steve mumbled from his seat, shifting his car into gear to start rolling again.

“Yeah,” you smiled, letting the groans of your best friends fade into the background as you watched the colors of your childhood roll on by.

---

[[A/N: And here we come to the End. I'm a bit emotional here, and would like to, if I may, wax a bit about how much this story means to me.

I haven't written a story this long (haven't finished a story like this) since November of 2019. Like most of us, 2020 took a toll on my mental health, my physical health, my self-esteem, my confidence as a writer, and I think this year, with your help, I'm slowly gaining that confidence back. This story really proved to me that if I put myself into it, my values, my fears, if I truly tie myself to a piece of work, I can do it again.

Wildfire will always be my baby, my favorite, the reader and Harrington and Vickie and all of them mean so much to me, much more than even I know, I'm sure. And I really want to thank all of you for sticking along for the ride with me. I'll never be able to express just how much your words of encouragement have meant. So thank you, so so much, for reading xo]]

[aligalloo]

Tired

Pairing: Reader x Will Lenney (WillNE) Word Count: 2,957 (whew!) Warnings: A couple of swears Requested: Yes! Twice... Requests: Open.  PLEASE send festive requests - I’m inspired (see below for who and what you can request)

A/N: Honestly this is a mess and barely even follows the prompts but WHATEVER I wanted to post something x  

Y/N: Your name Y/F/N: Your full name

“I’ve got a new video out on Friday.  Make sure you watch - it’s a good ‘un.  I love you all, have a good night.”

I switch off the livestream and flop back onto my bed, it’s been a long day and all I want to do right now is curl up and have a nap.  Unfortunately, I promised Gee and Josh that I’d go out with them tonight and I’ve already broken so many hangout dates that I can’t bear to let another one pass by.

I bite my lip and stifle a yawn as I slowly get up off the bed and wander over to my closet.  I look through my clothes and can’t be bothered deciding what to wear so I call Gee to ask what she thinks.  

“Yo.” She answers the phone, and I can hear a male voice in the background who’s definitely not Josh.

“Who’s that talking?” I ask, not even bothering with pleasantries.  

“Oh that’s Will.  Remember, I said we were flatting together from last week?”

“Shit yeah I completely forgot about that.”

“He’ll be there tonight, you can meet him then.  Hey, we watched the end of your livestream - you looked really tired.”

“Wow always a charmer Georgina,” I reply sarcastically, “But yeah, I’m kinda dy... Wait, did you say we?  Don’t tell me you forced Will to listen to me ramble too.”

“Don’t fuss, he seemed to enjoy it.”

“Humph.  I looked like a hot mess.” Suddenly, I remember why I’m calling her, “Oh!  What should I wear tonight?  I don’t want to think.”

“Umm,” She mumbles,  “Wear that sexy red dress of yours and those strappy heals.”

“... I will actually die mate,” I laugh.

“No, you’ll be fine.  Besides, you’re far too stressed, I think you need to get laid.”

“Jesus Gee, who do you have in mind?”

“Well Will’s single...”

“I haven’t even met the boy yet, give me a chance!”  I sigh, “Fine, I’ll wear the red dress, but I’m wearing my MEDIUM heals.”

“Alright, see you soon.”

She hangs up the phone and I go to dig the suggested outfit out of my closet.  I get dressed quickly and run a brush through my hair, deciding to just leave it out.  I generally hate makeup and won’t touch it, but for tonight I whack out some mascara and lipstick.  Checking myself in the mirror, I decide I look presentable and grab my shoes, running down the stairs to hop into the waiting Uber.  I almost doze off in the car, but jolt awake as we stop at the bar.  I pay the driver and head inside, thankfully not meeting any fans along the way.  

I spot them as I walk through the door and make a beeline over.  Gee sees me and squeals, running towards me and jumping on me, making me stagger and nearly fall.  Josh follows close behind her and pulls me into a hug. “It’s been too long, Y/N, where have you been?”

“Eh, you know.  Life’s busy all the time.  Who has time for relaxing?”

I look over Josh’s shoulder to see a tall man that I’ve never met before.  I turn around and quirk an eyebrow at Gee, who seems to come to a realisation.  

“Oh! Y/N, this is Will Lenney, Will, this is Y/F/N.”  

“Nice to meet you,” I say politely, holding out my hand to him.

“Nice to meet you too, love.” He replies, and I blush slightly as he takes my hand.  “Cool livestream earlier, my sister is a massive fan of yours.”

“Really?  It’s always nice to hear about viewers.  What do you do?”

“Ah, I’m a YouTuber as well,” He replies, looking slightly embarrassed. “I only started about 18 months ago.”

“Hey, he’s being modest.” Gee says, coming over to us and wrapping her arm around my shoulder.  “He’s gotten nearly a million subscribers already.”

“Oh my god, that’s so impressive!  It took me a good three years to get even close to a million...  Oh the good old days.” I laugh self-deprecatingly, and gesture over to the table.

“How do you keep your viewers engaged?” He asks as he pulls out my chair for me.

I smile in thanks before continuing the conversation. “I think I’m just myself,” I shrug, “I don’t put on a persona or anything, I guess people see me as genuine.”

“That’s definitely the way to go now,” Josh butts in, leaning over from where he and Gee are sitting on the other side of the table. “YouTube is becoming too mainstream and everyone is starting to behave like actors.”

The night continues, and I get to know Will more.  The more I learn, the more I like him.  He doesn’t seem to just want to get in my pants like most of the other guys I’ve met over my years on YouTube (cough JJ cough), and he’s interested in me rather than my fame.  I keep yawning as we talk though, and eventually I get so tired that he must have felt like he had to say something.

“Do you need to go home?  I can take you, I’ve got my car here.”  He looks at me worriedly and I nod my head.

“If you wouldn’t mind, that would be great,” I reply, yawning yet again and then covering my mouth, embarrassed.

“Yeah sure, lemme just go cover the bill.”

I try to hand him some cash but he waves it away.  “My treat, next time you buy, yeah?”

“Ok,” I sigh, looking over to where Gee and Josh are deep in conversation.  “Hey guys, Will’s gonna take me home, I’m completely shattered.”

One look at me and Gee hops up to give me a hug.  “Alright, have a good sleep.  Call me soon, yeah?”

I mumble an affirmative and wave to Josh, walking over to where Will is waiting by the door with my coat in his hands.  He gives it to me, and we go out to get into his car.  The drive seems to take forever, and before long, I can feel myself nodding off.  I decide to give into the feeling and rest my head against the window, looking out over London in wonderment.  

“It’s so beautiful.” I mumble, and I can feel Will look over at me in amusement.

“Yeah,” He says, and because my eyes are fluttering closed I don’t see him staring at my face before quickly directing his eyes back to the road.

I wake up briefly when the car stops, and I’m surprised when I see it’s not my apartment building.  I look at Will in confusion and he shrugs.

“You were asleep and I don’t know where you live so I brought you here.”

“Ok,” I mumble, and he steps over to loop his long arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to his side as he leads me toward his apartment.  He unlocks the door and lets us in, leading me down the hall to what I assumed was his bedroom.  I protest feebly, and say that I’ll take the couch, but he’s having none of it, and stops in the doorway of his bedroom.  “There you go, it’s all yours.”

I crawl under the covers gratefully, and whisper as my eyes shut for the final time, “Thank you.”

- The next morning -

I wake up suddenly, sitting bolt upright and looking around frantically before relaxing and laying back down again when I remember the events of last night.  Will’s sheets smell like him, and I breathe it in before dragging myself out of the bed.  

I walk into the living room and see a shirtless Will lying on the sofa, which is far too short for him.  His laptop is on his lap, and he’d obviously fallen asleep watching something.  I giggle softly and pull out my phone to take a photo of him.  Something must have woken him at that point because his eyes open slowly, blinking the sleepiness away.  

“Good morning.” His voice is deep, and my eyes linger on his unclothed torso.

I tear my eyes away and look at his face, where I can see a tiny smirk lingering around the corners of his mouth.

“Uhh.. Morning,” I stutter, blushing.  

He heaves himself up and stretches, before turning toward me.  “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, really well actually!  Thanks for giving up your bed, you really didn’t have to.”

“Sure I did, you were absolutely dead on your feet.  Do you want some breakfast?”

“Well thank you anyway.  That’d be good - what do you have in mind?”

“Nothing fancy, I think we’ve got some cereal around here somewhere.”

“Cereal is fine.”  I’m having trouble concentrating due to the fact that he’s still not wearing a shirt, but I snap myself back into reality.  “Gee must have stayed at Josh’s, yeah?”  

“Yep.  She does that a lot, I think she’s only been here one night so far.”

“Surprise surprise, they’re sickeningly sweet sometimes.”

He nods in agreement, then blurts out, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

I’m taken aback, but answer almost instantly, “No. Why, do you have a girlfriend?”

“Nope, I’m single and ready to flamingle.”

I just stare at him for a moment before bursting out laughing. “Single and ready to flamingle?  Where the hell did that come from?”

“I saw it on a tinder profile once and it just stuck, I’ve been using it ever since.”

“Jesus Christ, that’s hilarious.” I wheeze, clutching my stomach.  

“I think it’s pretty great.” He laughs along with me as he finishes getting the breakfast things out.

We eat breakfast, conversing quietly, and then I ask if I can use his bathroom before I head home.  I quickly go in and wash my face, ridding it of the remnants of any makeup from the night before.  I go to the toilet, and am about to head back out when I hear Will’s voice on the phone.

“She has 11 million subscribers Gee!  How could you forget to mention that?  Eleven fucking million.  And she’s so cool and beautiful and I... Ugh.  Beyond out of my league.”

I freeze.  He really thinks I’m out of his league?  That’s laughable.  He’s one of the nicest, most considerate guys I’ve ever met and I’ve only known him for 12 hours!

I make a performance of rustling around and closing the door slightly harder than necessary as I exit the bathroom.  I hear him quickly end the conversation with Gee and I walk over to where he’s sitting on the sofa.  I sit beside him and look at his open laptop curiously  

“Hey, what were you watching last night?  I saw you fell asleep in the middle.”

Will flushes, and looks down at his hands, “I was actually binging your videos.  I wanted to know more about you.”

My heart skips a beat, “Aw that’s sweet.  You know you can always just ask me though.”

“I know that, but you weren’t exactly in a space to have a deep meaningful conversation about life last night, were you.” He meets my eyes briefly before looking back down at his hands.

“That’s true, I was pretty out of it.”

“That you were, Y/N.”

“Anyway, I should probably head home now,” I say regretfully.  “Thank you again for looking after me, and we should do it again sometime?” It comes out as a question, and Will’s head jerks up to look at me.

“Really?  Uh, do you wanna exchange phone numbers?” He asks hesitantly.

“Sure,” Our hands touch as I pass my phone to him, and I feel a shock of electricity shoot between us.  I gasp quietly, and check to see if Will has noticed anything.  It doesn’t seem like he has, so I shake it off and wait for him to finish typing.  

“I sent myself a text so you have my number too.”

“Cool.  See you soon, yeah?”

“Yep,” he replies, walking me to the door.  As I’m about to exit, I decide that I want a hug and turn back around, wrapping my arms around him.  I feel him freeze for an instant before his arms come up tentatively and I nestle into his chest.  We pull away eventually and I am struck by something as I look up into his eyes.  I lean up to him and he bends his head down to meet my lips.  The kiss is soft and tentative, and when we break away I look down at the floor in embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what that was,” I say ashamedly.  “I’ll go now.”  

“No, Y/N, wait.” He exclaims, reaching out and grabbing my hand as I try to leave.

He pulls me back to him and kisses me again.  This one is longer, and he laughs as it ends.  “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I met you.”

I blush, and smile up at him.  “Well, I’m glad it happened.”

I peck his lips one last time and turn away.  “I’ve really gotta go now, I need to film a video.”

“Text me, yeah?”  

I nod and wave as I walk out the door, before stepping into the elevator and calling Gee.

“Y/N?  Are you ok?” She asks worriedly. “Um... I may have kissed Will?”

“WHAT?  OMG, MY OTP IS REAL!”

“Gee... Don’t tell me you shipped us before we even met.” I sigh in exasperation.

“I always knew you’d be cute together.  So, how did it happen?”

I tell her the story of the night and morning as I get into my waiting uber and she squeals and exclaims at all the right moments.  I can hear Josh asking her questions in the background, but she ignores him.

“Hey Gee,” I ask hesitantly, when I’m done with telling her about the night.

“Yeah?”

“I heard you on the phone with Will earlier...  Does he really think he’s not good enough for me?”

I hear her take a deep breathe before replying.  “Well shit, you weren’t supposed to hear that...  I think it’s a pride thing honestly.  He isn’t always happy with the content he makes and maybe he feels like you might think he only likes you because of your fame? ”

“Well that’s utter bullshit.” I groan.  “I’m going to have to talk to him about this aren’t I?”

“Yeah, I think so.  Let me know what goes down ok?”

“Will do, bye.” I hang up as we pull up outside my apartment building.  

I head up to my flat and go inside, falling face down on my bed.  What have I gotten myself into?  I don’t have time for a relationship...  Fuck it, I need to get this sorted out with Will before I drive myself insane.

“Hey.” He answers his phone almost instantly and I chuckle internally.

“Hi.  What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Uh, not much...”

“Do you wanna come over and hang out?” I blurt out quickly, cringing at my eagerness.  I hear him let out a quiet snort and I cringe even more, mentally slapping myself in the head.  

“Sure.”  He replies without hesitation.  “When would be a good time?”

“Whenever really.  I’ll text you the address and you can just turn up.”

“Cool, I’ll see you then.”

“Bye.” I hang up and go to set up to film my new video.

-The next day-

I’m lying on the sofa editing my video from yesterday afternoon.  It has to be uploaded today but I’m having trouble concentrating because I know that Will could turn up at any moment.  I sigh and give up, grabbing my phone to check twitter.  At that moment the doorbell rings, and I jump slightly before leaping up and going to let him in.

“Hey, come in.”

“Thanks.  You look... nice.”  He grins, looking at my sweatpants and sports bra.

“Shut uppp, I’ve been editing all day, no time for getting dressed.” I wink and take his hand, leading him into the living room.  

He gasps when he sees the view out of the window, “So THIS is what 11 million subscribers and their ad revenue will buy in London...  Damn.”

“It was fucking expensive and probably completely unnecessary but I walked in and immediately fell in love with it, so I decided to go for it.”

“Yeah fair enough, I wouldn’t have been able to get my place if Gee hadn’t wanted to move to London too.”

I look at him for a second, thinking.  “Hey Will?”

He looks around at me, hearing my tone of voice become slightly serious.  “Yeah?”

I walk over to where he’s standing by the window and take his hand.  “I heard your conversation with Gee the other day...”

“Oh God, which one?” He blushes and I smile at how cute he looks. “The one about how I have so many subscribers.”

“Oh yeah.  About that...”

“Hang on,” I interrupt, “I just wanted to say that I really like you, and I want to get to know you better.  I think your videos are incredibly creative and I think you deserve at least as many subscribers as me.”

His face lights up in a smile and he grabs my other hand. “Can I please kiss you?”

I don’t answer, but instead wrap my arms around his neck and reach up to meet his lips.  The kiss quickly becomes heated, and he grabs my waist and pulls me closer to him.  We break apart gasping, and I look up at him with a smirk on my face.  “And I wouldn’t mind if you did want to get into my pants.”

He laughs and turns his attention back to my lips, guiding me gently toward the couch.  Needless to say, my planned video isn’t uploaded until the next day.    

-fin-

Taking requests for: Sidemen, sidemen of the sidemen, WillNE, ChrisMD, Joe Sugg, Caspar Lee, Buttercream Boys, STRANGER THINGS