#I have brought you angst

[technically-human]

St. Hilarion's ghost story

[kalivodas]

listen i just had to i have such a fundamental feeling for that bear of a man

part 1

warnings p in v nasty nasty talk he calls you kiddo but come on now

IT’S YOUR FAULT. at least that’s what he tells you, coos into your ear as the wet of his mouth finds refuge against your throat. his beard tickles, but his tongue sears.

“you started it, kid,” he grumbles to the fever-ridden air between you. his truck was hot, fog pilled on the windows. (jesus, you were fucking in the parking lot of a home goods.)

he places a palm on your back, arches it up nice and pretty for him, and teases the head of his cock against you. you hear his breath hitch when he meets nothing but wetness.

“please,” you whine, and you feel goosebumps prick your skin at the rawness of your voice.

“beg for it, lovie,” he urges.

your hips buck, grinding into him aimlessly as he pulls away from you. a man who would stick his dick in you in the back of a shopping plaza, but a man with restraint, nonetheless.

somewhere between the high-pitched whimpers of oh, fuck you and god, please please please just put it in and fuck me, john, please baby, need you bad (it was absolutely this one), he bottoms out inside you.

you feel his hips shutter against you. your lungs fall empty, a pathetic, breathless thing falling from your mouth. when you find your air, catch his cock in a vice, he completely draws from you.

“stop being mean,” you grit, bite at him, and your back heaves when his teeth sink into your shoulder.

he grins. you feel it. “why dontcha’ just be quiet honey? just-“ he jams his length into you, face splits impossibly when he hears a squelch. “let her talk for a little bit, shut that pretty fucking mouth.”

before you get to rebuttal, or a form a decent thought in the mush that was your head, his palm finds the fat of your hip. he squeezes there, hums when you whine, and places a hefty palm on your ass. he lets the other hand snake around, enveloping your mouth.

“fat babies, huh?” his pelvis all but snaps against you, and you bite against his hand when his balls slap your clit. he feels you squeeze him, like a fucking vice, he says, and one of his hands slide to your shoulders.

he pushes you down, cheek flat against the leather of his backseat, and pistons down into you like he got paid by the damn hour.

“i’ll give you a fucking baby.” his chest shudders, you swear you feel the hair of it prick your back. your bear.

“fill you the brim, jesus, i’m gonna make you a mama,” he grunts, and you can hear the brute of him shatter. his words come out slurred and broken, lungs taking in air almost viciously.

your hips lock beneath him, and you paw the hand on your mouth away. “knock me up,” you beg him. “please, gotta be— fuck, gotta be full.”

you’d put twenty bucks on the bet that he whimpered.

“i’m gonna’,” his hands find the pudge of your thighs and he tightens his fingers on you like you might slip out of them. “gonna’ make you all fat and pretty, kid.”

he cums then, hot spurts of him filling your tummy. he peels himself away from you, and has to bite away a smirk at the spent, sweaty state of the two of you.

“no more house shopping for you, mr. price,” you coo up at him, but your body hasn’t moved. in fact, it sounds like your fighting your lungs to breathe.

he laughs. “yeah baby, that’s the problem.”

a / n dedicated to @pricegouge only ur tags awakened something

[turtleblogatlast]

[ cw: referenced mind control / parasites / intrusive thoughts (only in the tags) / ]

(This is just a fun “what if” so bear with me-) I know we make mention of the potential for Krang remnants to be stuck with Raph and/or Donnie, but Mikey and Leo also had a moment with the other two where a type of Krang goop was crawling beneath their skin (this being immediately after Raph broke free.)

So I raise you the potential for all four of them to have a bit of that Krang parasite on them…and for that to have unforeseen consequences.

[multiplicityofmind]

there is something so personal about fabian this season. he comes back from his summer quests, just getting over the shadow of his father's legacy. his mother left her only son, returned from saving the world for the second time, for gilear. and for the first time, he's entirely alone. no waitstaff, no fencing, nothing. it's a big house and he's entirely alone. it's all looking up for him! he's popular, he's dating the girl he has a crush on, everyone loves him! it's his birthday and it's fucking amazing!

then it crashes down. it's his birthday and everyone here is in danger. it's his birthday and everyone close to him is in danger. it's his birthday and one of the last physical remnants of his father's legacy is going to be destroyed. it's his birthday and it's too reminiscent of prom night, thick smoke and his father's blood. its his 18th birthday and he has never felt more young, unprepared.

[elsecrytt]

so i had a thought.

what if 236 is actually jujutsu tech propaganda?

mei mei is broadcasting this entire thing, right? what better way to protect gojo from bounty hunters etc., than convince the entire world that he's already dead?

the final battle happened offscreen, with significantly less fanfare. gojo rescued megumi, defeated sukuna. the day was saved.

at a cost.

gojo gave up everything - at least, everything he valued. the six eyes, his abilities as a sorcerer. he assumed that would make him a normal man, and he was right -

what he didn't realize was that it would also make him blind.

so now... you live in a nice apartment complex. a guy moves in next to you.

you can't help but notice he happens to be blind - at least, he's wearing a blindfold, uses a cane, but he's often swearing and stumbling through his porch, over his entryway. he is very, very blind.

you, wondering what the fuck up is with your obviously blind neighbor who seems to have no sense of self-preservation.

he walks into objects all the time, especially hitting his head on things, since he's so tall. forgets his cane when going out. the dude just left his door open the other day, like, WIDE OPEN, who DOES that?

helping gojo learn, not only how to be human, but how to be disabled. how to not be disgusted with being disabled.

gojo learning that being blind isn't the end of his life, nor the end of his happiness - life is still worth living, even without one of his senses.

helping gojo mourn his lost sense while still finding things to enjoy. gojo who learns to cook by taste, by feeling heat or texture, with your help. gojo learning to organize things so he always knows where they are from memory.

bringing gojo audiobook versions of your favorite stories even if he teases you for your taste. he listens to them when he has nothing to do, which is most of the time, now.

he goes out on walks all the time because he doesn't have a job, you learn. while it's nice to not have to work, you can tell he comes from money, his life comes with a gaping hole inside it, one that isn't entirely explained by the blindness.

gojo who's overstimulated all the time because he no longer has infinity as a barrier, but somehow also as touch-starved as ever, alone in a foreign country away from all his students and colleagues.

gojo, who has only ever done Big Things with his life, who has only ever been an Important Person doing world changing things, now, just an ordinary guy.

he barely cares what happens to himself now. it's not that he wants to die, or anything. it's just that he doesn't have a reason to live.

and that wouldn't change overnight. not with cooking lessons or audiobooks or friendly greetings whenever you see him by the door. not with smiles or waves (he can't see them) or a braille rubik's cube you find online (how did he solve it in under a minute??) or karaoke (he has an AMAZING singing voice, and he knows so many songs better than you do?).

it wouldn't change overnight, because nothing worthwhile forms in a day, or two, or even a week or a month.

but gojo's life doesn't have to be amazing a day after he's gone blind. or a week. or a month. it's okay if it's difficult, he learns, it's okay if he hates it, hates himself, hates every choice that brought him here, even if he would never take it back.

it's okay. it gets better. with you there? it's getting better.

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Thinking about step 9 and the whole concept of forgiveness of one’s self and others and it bringing healing and how bobby and Eddie have been paralleled a fair amount and the idea that Eddie started this process back at the end of s5 with his forgiveness and acceptance of his father but how he hasn’t yet gone anywhere near his mother and their relationship .

How his catholic guilt storyline seems more likely to play on his reltionship with his mother than his father (if his father wasn’t around that much it would’ve been Helena taking him to church etc each week) so the idea of an Eddie - Helena storyline that plays on catholic guilt and potentially his queerness in relation to that has me chewing on glass - it could be so epically good

[gooperts-gunk]

im so crazy over the tragedy of everything q!bbh does being under a demon pretense even though he's a fallen angel.

do u think he just accepts the demon label because it's easier. do u think he believes it too, and catches himself in his thoughts with "oh, right. im not exactly that". and maybe he believes that he did this to himself? do u think what he did was to protect himself or someone? no matter the fall, he still has so much kindness to give and his brain just isn't wired the way a natural-born demon would be, he can't hold back instincts when time demands it, maybe that's why he fell in the first place.

and when he's finally bad, not good, it's treated like the end of the world, without empathy on why he would act out. do you think this keeps happening? the same scenario, multiple times, every timeline? he has to be used to it. so he has to take it in stride. he's good until he lashes out under extreme pressure, and suddenly he's called demon. and once again he's what heaven made him out to be. what he made himself to be, his brain would ruthlessly provide...

i don't think he wants to be that, though he hides secrets behind secrets of which neither identity is a home... but i don't think he wants to have to change, either. and i don't think that's wrong of him.

...you collapse atlantis ONE TIME and all of a sudden YOU'RE the bad guy and SURE it was FUN but REALLY now,--

[justaz]

once merlin puts arthur to rest, the world around him disappears and he’s in ealdor staring at his mother’s back. his sobs from the lake grow worse at the sight of his mother and he wails like he’s a child again, calling repeatedly for his ma. she spins around and finds him, without asking any questions she dashes forward and pulls him into a hug, holding his weight as he falls apart in her grasp, choking out nonsensical words and soaking her dress with tears, snot, and drool, his overwhelming grief causing him to ignore any sense of shame he might’ve felt at such a scene.

he doesn’t remember explaining anything to her, frankly he doesn’t remember much beyond the cries he pressed into her shoulder, but she says he’s been in ealdor for a week. she’s clearly worried and asks, no, begs him to eat or drink but he doesn’t feel the need or desire to, and even if he did, he simply doesn’t have the energy to bring the sustenance to his mouth. she cradles his head in her lap and runs her finger through his hair like she did when he had a nightmare when he was younger. it’s almost enough to make the entire thing seem like a horrible, horrible dream. but theres blood on his tunic where he held arthur’s body to his own so he knows it’s not true.

his mother doesn’t ask any questions, the look in her eyes telling him that she knows anyway. perhaps his nonsensical babble created a clear enough image for her to understand. maybe she just saw the broken look in his eyes and came to the conclusion on her own. she doesn’t mention him. merlin isn’t sure if he’s relieved about that or not. in the end, he brings it up, he asks how she was able to go on after balinor left. he asks how she was able to pick herself back up on her own two feet and carry on life as normal after receiving his letter informing her of his passing. she says sometimes she can’t, sometimes she lays in bed and listens to the birds sing and can’t help but hate them. she says she lives on for him anyway. she pushes herself up and makes food and works in the fields even when she hate the world around her.

merlin tries to relate, tries to understand, tries to imagine himself getting up every morning and living on in his name. he can’t. his parents loved each other, he knows that, but they were their own people and were able to stand the years apart. merlin…merlin is arthur’s, even in death. everything he is, everything he’s done, has been for arthur. he is half of merlin’s soul, the center of merlin’s world. how can anyone expect him to move on as if he’s capable of being alone? how can anyone expect him to function as if half of his soul, half of himself, isn’t dead in a lake? merlin can’t do it, he can’t imagine living a life without arthur. he barely got through the week and that’s only because he was passed out for a majority of it. how could he make it a year, much less another fifty?

he can’t. he can’t do it. he can’t breathe, he’s in agony, the world around him doesn’t exist anymore. not without arthur.

he’s back at the lake now, tears still streaming down his face despite the pounding headache from dehydration yet it doesn’t matter, not anymore. none of it does. he stumbles into the lake and sends his magic into the water to tug excalibur from the depths. he can feel freya pulling the sword back, but his magic overpowers hers easily and the sword springs from the lake, gleaming in the afternoon sun. freya’s face appears in the ripples of the water next to him, her expression pleading and sorrowful. merlin whispers an apology before turning back to the sword, staring at the sharp point of the blade. he brings it closer to hover just over his heart, the metal pressing against his skin but not enough to draw blood just yet.

peace washes over him. the sun warms his skin and the water cools him to keep it from being unbearable. the birds sing in the trees as the wind whistles through the leaves. merlin stares up at the brilliant blue sky and pure white clouds roll by, images of bunnies and birds and crowns and horses staring down at him. he wonders if avalon will be this peaceful, if he and arthur could lay out in a field for eternity, basking in the sun and laughing as they point out misshapen clouds that supposedly look like the other.

he plunges the sword into his chest, right through his heart, and falls back into the water. bubbles trail out of his mouth up towards the surface, blood spills from his wound and mixes with the water. he closes his eyes as he sinks further and further. he knows when he opens them, he’ll be with arthur once more. it’ll all be okay. he doesn’t feel his body hit the bottom before blackness fills his mind.

arthur awakens from his fitful slumber in a bed that is not his own. he squints at the room, or rather hut, around him and finds an old man hunched over a book in the corner. arthur tries to speak but all that comes out is a squeak of air, his throat too dry to speak. the man hears and whirls around to begin treating him once more, prattling on and on about how he found arthur in the woods outside his village donning shiny clothes which he discarded bc of the blood staining them yet he couldn’t find a wound. arthur’s hand reaches up to his side but there’s no stab wound there, not anymore, though he does sport the scar. he remembers how he got it, he remembers stumbling away from the battlefield, he remembers being found by merlin- merlin.

he asks the man about him but he seems confused and denies ever knowing someone by that name. arthur climbs out of the bed (the flash of golden eyes) and hastily pulls on his armor (“i’m a sorcerer. i have magic.”). he’s out the door before the old man can protest. he’s in a village he doesn’t recognize, they must not be anywhere near camelot (“i’m still the same person.”). he turns to the old man hobbling out of the hut and demands directs to camelot. the man stares at him oddly and scratches his ear before informing him that he’s never heard of a camelot before (“you’re my friend and i don’t want to lose you.”).

he instead asks for directions to the woods where he was found and sets off in that direction, the old man shuffling after him (“me, i was born to serve you, arthur.”). it doesn’t take long to reach where he was found. if the old man had carried him home it couldn’t’ve been much of a hike (“and i’m proud of that.”). he steps into a clearing where the man panted that he found him here (“and i wouldn’t change a thing.”). it’s no where near the lake where merlin held him as he took his last breath, it’s no where near camelot. the man didn’t even recognize the name of his kingdom (“it’s not why i do it.”).

arthur sits in the grass as he thinks on his next move and the man who watched over him sits next to him (“i’m not going to change now.”). he speaks lowly of a prophecy about a man from a time long forgotten sent on a journey, a quest, to retrieve what has been lost. he says how the prophecy led many to a sword lodged in stone (“i’m not going to lose you.”) but no one could pull it free. he points out arthur’s armor and calls it odd, he mentions camelot, a kingdom of which he’s never heard, and gestures around the clearing where he found the mystery man. he concludes that perhaps the prophecy spoke of him (“i can’t lose him.”).

arthur, with no other options, follows the man’s directions to a lake. not exactly lake avalon but close enough. theres a small island in the center that seems more like a hill. the sword, his sword, excalibur is buried in a stone covered in moss, misshaping it’s actual form. arthur wades across the water and climbs the hill. he wraps his hands around the hilt of excalibur and closes his eyes. he imagines merlin confident and reassuring expression as they and all his men stood in the woods around this damn sword in a different stone however long ago it was. he breathes in and out (“he’s my friend.”) and pulls.

excalibur comes free just as it did before. arthur watches the metal pull free and as it does, the moss on the stone falls away revealing its form. it looks like a collapsed figure, excalibur having been lodged in it’s chest, right where it’s heart would be. arthur squints at what looks like the head and feels a flash of familiarity. the stone slowly fades away from the hole where excalibur was all the way to the hill. as the stone fades, it leaves behind skin and clothes and hair and…merlin.

arthur drops excalibur and falls to his knees to hold up merlin’s limp form. he feels warm, as if he didn’t just spend however long with a sword in his chest as a stone. he’s not breathing. why isn’t he breathing? arthur grasps around, shifting his clothes out of the way to find the wound where excalibur had once been. the skin is stitching itself together with tiny golden threads. arthur looks back up at merlin’s lax face as the wound fully closes. he inhales sharply as his eyes fly open, glowing gold, and all around him it seemed the world finally inhaled after suffocating for millennia.

merlin exhales and golden sparks shoot from his lips to flurry around in the air. the grass under them grows longer and curls around both his and merlin’s body where they rest against the ground. the water around their island clears from the murky brown to a blindingly clear blue. the air is crisp and clean, the sun brighter and warmer, and one soul finally whole again.

[takethelx3]

Every moment they're on screen I want to draw them. Thank god for sketchbook.

[pocketgalaxies]

C3E37: marisha + nonverbals

[theaxolotlkween]

lol au where Rex and Noah were friends during the Nanite Project.

[sunforgrace]

he sat there on the ground and cried. for cas. cas told him he loved him was taken away and he buried his head in his hands and wept

[masterfuldoodler]

If half alive has 1000 fans I am one of them. If half alive has 1 fan, I am that fan

[jomiddlemarch]

All alone at midnight, where did that beloved go?

After she had drunk the Water of Life and Awakened Alia, Jessica was never alone unless she was dreaming. Her unborn daughter, whom she had earlier only felt as the shifting clouds over the Caladan horizon, lit from behind by the sun, reflecting the unceasing motion of the sea, had become a voice as sharp as the blade of the sgian-dubh her father had worn to battle. Having another witch within her, challenging her, conspiring with her, was something like a blessing, if Jessica had believed in blessings, and something like a fetter, a bond unbreakable, unsought.

Jessica did not have to believe in fetters. She’d been born in them and knew they were as real as he eye in its socket, her blood coursing through her, waiting for the pull of a moon.

Alia slept, but never for long. While Jessica was awake, surrounded by the devout women in the sietch, allowing herself to be fed the highly spiced cakes and stews the Fremen preferred, her daughter carried on a conversation, her eagerness to know the world without demanding Jessica’s attention to every detail. The arch of an eyebrow, the flick of a robe’s sleeve. The soft curling cloud of fine sand kicked up by a determined stride. Alia thirsted and Jessica, who’d conceived her on a world of water, did not hesitate to slake her thirst.

Paul, for whom she’d made every choice, conceiving his sister as a token to be traded, risking her daughter’s sanity for her son’s survival, was absent. 

Paul, the only person who might have grasped the cost, who might have recognized the exhaustion that had overtaken fatigue, held off by her training and her will, was not there to see her collapse after moonrise into a sleep she would never have risked while his father lived.

On Caladan, she had had the luxury of safety and slept as deep or light as she wanted, the castle and Leto’s arm bulwarks against danger.

She slept, on Arrakis, a sleep near to death, and she dreamed.

A hand stroked her unbound, unveiled hair very gently, so that she knew the power therein was restrained by choice. She felt, though she ought not, the heavy signet ring against her skin.

“You have done what you must, melissa,” Leto said, his voice as clear as if they’d been conversing in their chamber, a plate of honey-cakes and two glasses of wine set between them. 

“You’re telling me that to comfort me,” she replied.

“Has it worked?” Leto asked, his dry humor apparent in the quirk of his lip, the gleam in his dark eyes. She was lying with her head in the crook of his arm. No one living would ever hold her tha way again.

“You are a construct and I am dreaming,” she said, feeling the air around her tremble. Leto’s hand paused and she regretted her words.

“You can’t know that. Not on Arrakis,” he said. “Not after you’ve breathed the spice like Caladan’s salt. Not after drinking the Water of Life and opening your mind.”

“You are a ghost, then?”

“From the moment you were bound to me, you have decided who I am to you, Jessica,” he said. “Nothing has changed.”

“How can you say that?” she asked. 

“Because I am honest, even now,” he replied. “You’re troubled, kyria.”

“What I’ve done, what I’m doing, you say it’s what I must do and I want to believe that,” she said. 

“You doubt yourself,” he offered. 

“Paul is unhappy, conflicted. He’s so young and they want him to be their messiah. That’s all they want, the ones who count,” she said. The young woman, Chani, did not but she did not have the ability to shift the course.

“What you’ve done has kept our son alive,” Leto said. “Whoever he become, he was born Atreides and he carries that within him. If he does not wear the ring, he still holds it.”

“He’s desperate. He wants you,” she said.

“I know. I know it’s better to want a father than to know you must disregard him and find your own way in the dark,” he said. “You worry about Alia—”

“They will say she is Abomination.” 

“They’ll say that but the Reverend Mother will wonder why you didn’t conceive her sooner,” Leto replied. 

“And I have no answer,” she said.

“The answer is you wished for another life. Where our children were only that,” he said.

“They would always have been your Heirs,” Jessica replied.

“Fine,” Leto said, smiling. “We would have discussed their marriages, the alliances to be made. Paul would have driven us mad, sequestering himself in the far isles, talking of an anchorite’s retreat when you sensibly proposed Irulan and taking a concubine.”

“Alia needs sisters I cannot give her with you gone,” Jessica said.

“Then it will be hard for her,” Leto said. “Atreides and Arrakis. It’s her heritage. You didn’t ask me to make her. You didn’t ask me about Paul. But if you had—”

“If I had?”

“I would have said yes, melissa. Not for the House, for Thufir or Mohiam. Not for their little souls beyond the horizon. For you. For us. Because I love you,” he said.

“Not loved?”

“We are here together. Now. When you want me, I will be here with you,” he said.

“This is mélange?” she said.

“This desert can be a garden. There is an ocean of sweet water below the sand, a universe of stars we can’t count and know they are there,” he said.

“You are a mystic now, Leto Atreides?” Jessica said.

“I am a realist, as I ever was,” he said. He shrugged and it brought her closer to him. He laid his hand upon her cheek, a familiar gesture that made her eyes fill with the tears that were forbidden to spill on Arrakis. “There is nothing more real than this dream, Jessica. Whoever you must be when you wake, you are still this woman, the one I hold in my arms, whose soul is dearest to me.”

“I miss you,” she said, small words in a small voice, one she had not been allowed to use as a child, that he’d coaxed from her first when she carried Paul, dizzy and ill, fearful of putting her trust in him. He’d known and had told her so, his candor the token she’d needed.

“I miss you too,” he said. “It hurt to go.”

“It hurts to leave. To wake up,” she said.

“There is no call of yours I will not answer,” he said, the modification of the Atreides creed a vow and also a tender jest. She smiled up at him but he did not smile in return.

“Tell me to kiss you,” he said. 

“Kiss me, Atreides,” she said very softly. It was not the command he’d wanted but a plea.

There was darkness then and joy, ecstasy and salt. Her tears on his tongue. His spend on her thighs.

She woke up with the taste of honey on her lips, the strong heather honey of Caladan’s cliffs, her hair in a Caryatid’s plait. When Alia asked her what had happened, Jessica did not answer for a long moment.

“A dream. Home.”

[cheriboms]

doctober day 12: train tracks

fact: their favorite bedtime story is 'how mom, dad, and clint eastwood stole a locomotive and saved the space time continuum'. source: dude trust me

[starrystevie]

tw: main character death, hurt no comfort, angst

steve's staring at eddie's face when he first hears the tinny notes of rock-a-bye baby through the shitty hospital room speaker. he closes the book in his hand, keeping his thumb in the spine to hold his place, and pauses to listen.

it's strange to hear it mix with the sounds of the machines that are keeping eddie alive, keeping stale air in his lungs and morphine in his veins. we're keeping him comfortable, they say as more white coats shuffle in to change soiled bandages and write in their stiff notebooks.

it's all a lie, a fallacy. if they were keeping him comfortable, he wouldn't be poked and prodded and kept so drugged up that he can't open his eyes. if they were keeping him comfortable, he would have hands holding his own without wires and probes in the way. he would have music and laughter and joy warming up the cold, sterile room.

but steve tries to keep him comfortable as best as he can. he comes by in the mornings before work, in whatever afternoons he has free, in the late night visiting hours when yet another date fails because his mind is focused on curly hair fanned out on a too-white pillow and too pale skin with sunken in cheeks.

steve brings books that dustin swears eddie would love, reads them aloud to a shell of a man and hopes he isn't mispronouncing far away planet names. he smuggles in a boombox and plays tape after tape that he finds in the mess of eddie's van, hoping that one will be just the thing to wake him up.

but mainly he talks. he brings him stories and secrets and problems that he locked away in his chest with a rusted over key. he trails fingertips over blue veins under the thin skin at his wrist wishing there weren't tubes and needles just a few inches above. steve sits in an uncomfortable hospital chair until he has to stand, has to pace, before settling back down to whisper unanswered prayers, asking that today is the day that eddie will magically come out of it all.

it isn't any different on the day that it all falls apart. with a book in his hand and one leg crossed over the other, he hears the soft notes start to play. and in a matter of seconds, the machines around the two of them scream out harsh warnings of failures and disaster.

there's what could have beens and should have beens on the tip of his tongue, in the back of his mind, clashing with the lullaby filling the room. steve would laugh at the irony if he didn't think it would bring him crumbling down. it's a life for a life, a new set of lungs gulping in the air that eddie doesn't get to have anymore, cries of joy in a room down the hall overshadowing steve's own. it's a family's world being put together while his own feels like it's falling apart.

after all, a new baby is supposed to be a joyous occasion isn't it?

eddie's machines are loud enough now to drown out the faint lullaby bleeding through the speaker. the flatline is loud enough to drown out steve's broken sobs for someone, anyone to help. and when they call a time and steve's holding his breath like he can breath it in for the both of them, he wonders if they have a song to play through the speakers for that, too.