#Pre-Hike

[loveinhawkins]

ao3

About twenty minutes into the hike, Steve hears Eddie’s breathing change.

They’re bringing up the rear, but they’re still close enough for some of the group’s conversations to be within earshot—Robin and Nancy leading in a silently agreed upon formation, despite Dustin holding the compass. That way, no matter what, the kids are shielded.

Speaking of the kids, they’re currently having a passionate discussion about who among them will reach the Gate the fastest—and yeah, there’s not a chance in hell that’s happening, Steve thinks, but they don’t need to know that yet.

It’s when the debate specifically turns to who’s the best swimmer that he notices the switch in Eddie’s breathing, air sucked in through clenched teeth. A glance behind confirms Steve’s suspicions; Eddie’s breaking away from the party, his face white, eyes steadfastly on the forest floor.

Steve leaves him be, doesn’t draw any attention to it—but he keeps watch in his peripheral, so he spots exactly when Eddie staggers off, soon swallowed up by the trees. He can still hear his footsteps, though, which is reassuring.

Slowly, making sure it seems casual, Steve bends down and picks up the smallest rock he can find, rubs his thumb across it to make sure the edges are smooth enough.

He throws, hits his target: the back of Dustin’s head.

Predictably, Dustin whirls around, mouth already open to voice his indignation.

Steve quickly puts a finger to his lips.

While Dustin doesn’t look all that thrilled about it, he obligingly stays silent. He’s damn quick on the uptake, of course; Steve can see the spark of understanding in his eyes when he notices that Eddie is missing.

He steps forward with urgency, but Steve’s just as quick to shake his head.

No, it’s okay. I’m on it.

He knows it’s not a coincidence that Eddie left so quietly—that having the kids see him in another moment of vulnerability is probably too much to handle on top of the ongoing nightmare he’s found himself in. Steve gets it; God, if he were in Eddie’s shoes, he’d be taking any opportunity that he could to get some privacy.

Even without words, it’s obvious that Dustin wants to protest, frowning hard.

Steve raises an eyebrow meaningfully. Dude, trust me.

Dustin heaves a silent, dramatic sigh, but he nods all the same.

Steve gestures for the water bottle Dustin’s got in his backpack. Mimes for Dustin to throw it to him.

Dustin brings out the bottle, but doesn’t throw it immediately, like he’s doubtful Steve will make the catch.

Steve rolls his eyes. Seriously? Dickhead.

Dustin rolls his eyes right back.

When he throws the bottle, Steve catches it one-handed as a point of pride.

Dustin’s theatrics grow: he gasps, all slack-jawed, wide-eyed disbelief; Steve flips him off.

Then Dustin taps his watch deliberately.

Steve softens, gives him a brief thumbs up before following where Eddie went. He looks back a couple of times, reassured by the sight of Robin and Nancy stopping and rearranging themselves so the group formation is kept up in his absence.

It doesn’t take long to find Eddie. He hears him first, harsh, bitten off retching—and while that’s not exactly a surprise, the sound still makes Steve’s heart sink.

Eddie’s doubled over, leaning against a tree with one hand. Steve feels a sudden impulse to pull his hair back for him but resists it—remembers Eddie violently flinching away from any touch in the boathouse.

So he just makes sure his presence is nice and obvious without being overwhelming—takes leisurely, even footsteps. He sits down opposite, just close enough that Eddie could reach out if he needed to.

But he doesn’t. He’s barely stopped retching before he’s trying to straighten up, grip slipping against the bark. Steve winces at the thought of splinters digging into his palm.

“Woah, man, take it easy—”

“M’fine,” Eddie mutters. He scoffs harshly, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s shaking. “This is kinda normal for me now.”

His head’s still half bowed, hair falling across his face like he doesn’t want to be seen. It doesn’t stop Steve from noticing the evidence of tears on his face; he thinks they’re simply from the exertion of throwing up, but he can’t be sure.

“Just—just give yourself a minute,” Steve says. “We’ve got time.”

He stretches out right there on the ground, slow and deliberate. It takes a second or two before Eddie—after another wobbly attempt at standing—mirrors him: sinking down until he’s sat, back pressed up against the tree trunk.

Steve listens to his breathing. It’s lost that nauseated gritted teeth sound, but it hitches once, twice, and then��

“I can’t stop—” Eddie covers his face with his hands.

Steve shuffles closer. “You’re okay.”

But Eddie shakes his head. He drops his hands, leans his head back against the tree. His eyes are distant. Haunted. Steve doesn’t need to guess about what he’s seeing.

“Eddie—”

“You know the funniest thing?” Eddie gasps out, like it isn’t funny at all. “I keep thinking if—if only I hadn’t ditched swimming lessons, I might’ve l-learned something fucking useful.”

At a loss for what to say, Steve tries for something normal. Thinks back to high school, something far away from all of this…

“You showed up to swimming,” he says. “I remember.”

He does, though it’s faint.

Honestly, he spent as little time as he could changing in the showers, wanting to make the most out of time in the pool. He didn’t even goof off with Tommy H or any of the other guys, preferring to do solo laps in the deep end. It was repetitive, calming; he treated it like a vacation from the adrenaline of being on the swim team.

Then came that November, and the whole routine became an escape from much more.

Eddie gives him a look that might’ve passed for amusement at one point, if his breathing wasn’t still so shallow.

“Yeah, I—I showed up for, like, the first week, Harrington. Fucking Lewinsky stole my clothes, you only let that kinda thing happen once.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says sincerely. “I didn’t know.”

A wan flicker of a smile passes across Eddie’s face. “Of course you didn’t,” he says. It’s not an accusation. “You were, like, way too busy being part fish.”

Steve huffs a laugh through his nose, but Eddie doesn’t join in. Instead his breathing quickens, like the distraction of high school hasn’t been nearly enough.

“It’s just—I should’ve been more—should’ve known h-how to—” He shakes his head again. Swallows. “After Chr—”

He chokes on her name.

Steve reaches out, only to hesitate and leave his hand hovering in the air between them. “Hey, man, there’s nothing you could’ve—”

“What if it’s not a coincidence?” Eddie whispers. “What if there’s—there’s a… there’s gotta be a reason that—that it’s me.”

Steve moves closer still. Draws back at the last second; Eddie’s still trembling.

“That’s bullshit,” Steve says firmly.

Eddie laughs bitterly. “Is it? D-don’t fucking kid yourself, Harrington, s’not exactly looking good. Two people died r-right in front of me, and I just…” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’d arrest me.”

“Stop, would you just—”

“Come on, man. You’ve gotta know, even if Wheeler and Buckley are still too polite to say it.” Eddie’s voice is soft in resignation. “I’m just wasting your time.”

It’s Steve’s turn to scoff. “Do you seriously think we’d be doing all of this if we thought you were a lost cause?”

Eddie shrugs, the sleeves of his leather jacket scraping against the bark. “There’s only so many signs a guy can ignore, right? Hell, even my watch has stopped, like I’m literally outta fucking time.”

“Okay, no wonder you failed English,” Steve says, “that is overwrought as shit, dude.”

The jab doesn’t quite land—his barely concealed worry just makes him sound sharp. Fraught.

But Eddie’s eyes widen in surprise, and he finally seems speechless, and this is it, Steve realises, the one chance he has to get through to him.

“Nothing prepares you for this shit, Eddie,” he says—thinks of 1983, of seeing the impossible. Terrified out of his mind. “I mean it, there’s nothing you could’ve done. Nothing,” he adds pointedly, when it looks like Eddie might protest. “Chrissy, Patrick, it’s fucking awful what they—but it’s not—not a, um. Not a reflection on—it’s not your fault.”

It’s not enough, Steve knows it—feels acutely like a shitty school guidance counsellor, only able to parrot empty platitudes. He has to dig deeper.

He looks at Eddie directly, unflinching. Can read the fear lurking in his eyes, the one he keeps dancing around.

A fierce emotion floods Steve’s chest—like being flung into the deep end without warning, the water already over your head before you can take a breath.

He’s felt it before, mixed up in a wave of anger as he watched Powell raise that goddamn picture to the camera.

Don’t you go believing a word this town says about you, Eddie Munson. Don’t you dare.

Steve braves a touch, places a hand on Eddie’s knee. Eddie doesn’t move.

“You’re not the curse, Eddie. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Eddie shudders. He looks away, but not quick enough to hide the definite tears this time.

Steve waits. He doesn’t move his hand for a long moment.

When Eddie’s finished roughly wiping at his face with his sleeve, Steve hands over the water bottle. He’s silently relieved that Eddie takes it without a fight, like accepting even this smallest amount of help means there’s still a part of him that hasn’t given up yet.

There’s still hope.

After a few sips, Eddie sets the water bottle aside. He’s breathing deeper now, and when he looks up, his eyes have that keen, almost analytical gaze.

“What’s…?” he murmurs, and then he’s the one that’s reaching out, as if without thinking, fingertips lightly brushing against Steve’s forehead.

He feels cold, Steve thinks. Like he’s still half frozen from falling into the lake.

“Did you… cut yourself on something?” Eddie says.

Steve’s about to say no automatically before he remembers.

“Right, yeah. Um, our flashlights kinda… exploded when…”

He trails off. Watches with sympathy as Eddie fills in the gaps.

“Oh,” Eddie says very quietly.

He keeps following the trail of the cut—Steve can still feel the chill of him: the light pressure travelling across his skin, like Eddie needs the motion to stay calm.

“Ow,” Eddie says, hushed, almost as if it happened to him, too. “You’re lucky you didn’t get glass in your eye, dude.”

Steve doesn’t say what he’s thinking—that he’d have dealt with it, that he would’ve been fine—because he thinks he understands: that maybe by focusing on something small, it helps keep Eddie here, temporarily blocks out the sight of Chrissy and Patrick’s deaths.

He checks his watch. They’re just creeping up on fifteen minutes; they’d better make tracks soon.

He stands but not abruptly, conscious of not rushing Eddie unnecessarily.

“If we cut across, uh, this way,” he demonstrates with one hand as Eddie gets to his feet, “we’ll catch up pretty quick. Don’t need Henderson’s compass to tell me the way. Honestly, he acts like he knows places better than me when I’ve known them, like, all my life. He does it all the damn time.”

Eddie lets out a laugh that still sounds slightly wet; he sniffs as if to cover up the sound. His smile is shaky at best, but it seems genuine.

“Man, he does that to me, too. What is up with that? Last week, he swore he found some shortcut to the Hellfire room that I’d be totally unaware of, like I’ve not spent forever in the damn building.”

He falls into step with Steve as they walk on, and Steve catches the very slight grimace he makes as he swallows.

Steve checks his jeans pocket. It turns out luck is on his side, at least for this: he’s got a couple of mints, still unwrapped.

When he offers some to Eddie, he gets a heartfelt thanks in reply. But at the same time, Eddie also looks suspiciously close to fighting a smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing!” But the smirk’s definitely won; Eddie tucks the mint into the corner of his mouth as he says, “Just didn’t realise I was getting the full Skull Rock experience.”

It takes a second for Steve to catch on. “The experience—?”

Eddie’s smirk grows. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Steve snorts. “Fuck off, are you twelve?”

“Maybe,” Eddie says, halfway to singsong.

Steve shakes his head, half in amusement, half in thought. Sharing juvenile kisses with girls at Skull Rock feels a world away, almost like it happened to someone else. That’s not even why the mints were in his pocket in the first place—not that he’s gonna put a dampener on Eddie’s teasing or anything. In truth, the habit began the night after Starcourt, using a mint—despite his stinging mouth—to help keep himself awake.

Of course he doesn’t say all of that. Chooses instead to nudge Eddie in the side, fighting a smirk of his own.

Eddie acts like he’s been dramatically winded in response, makes a crack about how that move wouldn’t fall under the Skull Rock experience.

Steve thinks he’s getting a handle on how to read him, charting the improvement of his mood through just how stupid he sounds—when smiling no longer seems like it’ll fracture his face from the strain.

By the time they catch up with the others, they’re both stifling laughter (Steve keeps having to remind himself that this is technically a stealth mission), Eddie reaching across to mess with Steve’s hair in retaliation for being repeatedly nudged in the ribs. His hands feel warmer now, Steve realises with a smile, as he pushes Eddie back with a forearm against his chest.

For the most part, it looks like their disappearances haven’t been noticed—Nancy quietly moving to rejoin Robin at the front as if by chance. Steve knows better, knows everything has been carefully coordinated to look that way; as Eddie relaxes at his side, he feels a rush of gratitude for the group’s tact.

Granted, Dustin kind of breaks the illusion when he turns around and starts walking backwards—but what he lacks in subtlety he makes up for in entertainment: using needlessly big, questioning gestures, brow furrowed in concentration.

When Dustin widens his eyes impatiently, Steve relents and nudges Eddie again. “He’s not gonna stop til you respond, trust me.”

“Hmm? Oh.”

Eddie lifts up Dustin’s water bottle with a grin and gives a thumbs up with his free hand.

Dustin brightens, replying with a thumbs up of his own—still stubbornly walking backwards like it’s simply his preferred way to travel.

“Gonna bet on how long it takes for him to fall flat on his face?” Steve says in an undertone.

Eddie snorts in a way that can’t be disguised as anything else, though he gives it a shot with the world’s least convincing cough. He gives up in the next breath, chuckling through a, “Steve,” in joking disapproval, like Steve’s such a terrible influence, which just sets them both off again.

Dustin’s probably too far away to hear them properly, but he’s clearly got the gist, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He does a series of emphatic gestures that Steve can’t make sense of; it just looks like he’s doing a complicated mime for charades.

Eddie must get the same impression because he soon calls out with a shit-eating grin, “Book or movie?”

Dustin flips them both off, but he can’t quite pull off the deadpan expression, his lips twitching, and Steve knows for sure that he’s hiding a laugh when he turns back around to walk with Max and Lucas.

Eddie smiles as if he’s noticed the same thing. He jostles their shoulders one last time, and it feels like there’s something more intentional behind it. A touch that lingers.

It’s easy when there’s still a long walk ahead of them—when there’s still daylight—to be convinced that they’ve got all the time in the world. Steve’s become kind of an expert at it: in his head, he could make swimming lessons last forever.

But even that old trick doesn’t last; he feels the clock restart as soon as that damn vine wraps around his ankle, cold and unyielding.

In the split second before being dragged under the lake, all he can think is thank God the kids aren’t here.

The thought follows him all the way into The Upside Down—later joined by the fervent wish that he could somehow summon up Dustin’s water bottle, as his head spins through the hopefully staunched bat bites.

“Christ, Harrington,” Eddie says when the dizziness persists, and Steve barely catches himself before falling against a vineless tree. “D’you ever take your own advice?”

“What?” Steve says faintly.

He screws up his eyes, forces himself to blink until his vision doesn’t waver—braces his weight against the tree with a sigh, ready to push himself up—

But Eddie’s hand is suddenly on top of his, halting him.

“Just… wait,” Eddie says. “Just a minute.”

Steve doesn’t know if it is a minute; he tries to keep track in his head, but the seconds slip away from him, and all he can focus on is each breath he takes, until they lose that gasping edge, grow deeper. Slower.

The world sharpens around him, like he’s been underwater without realising and has finally broken through to the surface. He feels the muted scratch of damp wood beneath his palm. The pressure of Eddie’s hand—not enough to hurt, but enough for Steve to tell that he’s still freaked out.

“I’m okay,” he says, looking Eddie in the eye. Does his best to silently project the sentiment of I’m not gonna collapse on you, I promise. “We’re not far from Nancy’s place.”

He can see a flicker of light just ahead, off to the side—thankfully not spots in his vision, just the flashlight he gave to Robin and Nancy; he’d tried to make it sound like he was doing them a favour when he actually thought it’d be best to leave both his hands free, just in case he did end up collapsing. At least he’d have a chance to brace for a fall.

There’s an uncertain air to how the girls are walking, and Steve suspects they feel a little like him: at a loss without the kids sandwiched between them. Now the usual priorities are thrown to the wind; what do you do when you want to shield everyone, all at once?

Eddie’s surveying him like he’s far from convinced by his definition of ‘okay.’

Still, he laughs weakly and says, “Good to know your navigating skills still work in this fucking hellhole.”

Steve’s hand shifts beneath Eddie’s as he stands up properly; it’s only then that Eddie moves away.

“Not far, not far,” he’s muttering under his breath, like he’s trying to reassure himself. His voice cracks in quiet desperation, “God, how long have we even been down here?”

Steve glances down to his wrist. He’s met with a watch face that’s smashed, jagged cracks running through it so he can’t even read the time it must’ve stopped at.

“Hey,” Steve says wryly, tilting his wrist so Eddie can see, “we match.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even crack a smile. His eyes just go all big and dismayed, like he’s looking at something far worse than a broken watch.

Steve suddenly wants to tell him that it’s fine, to cover up his wrist like it’s somehow more gruesome than the wounds on his stomach—maybe it is, because Eddie keeps staring like he’s bleeding out right in front of him.

“Shit, Steve,” Eddie whispers with this horrible, helpless little laugh—almost like he’s on the verge of tears. He sounds like he did after throwing up, trying to say that something was funny when it was anything but. “You’ve had that forever.”

And Steve feels a rush of something still too big and complex to name, flickers of emotion too rapid to keep track of: the initial pang of sadness he’d pushed aside because the watch had been his grandfather’s, after all; wondering faintly what classes Eddie had shared with him, that would allow him enough time to notice something so small, you’ve had that forever—

So what? Steve thinks. So what, what does it fucking matter?

He’d rip the watch off if it’d help, Eddie’s too, stamp and grind them down until they’re indistinguishable from the ash in this place, and who gives a shit if it’s overwrought, it doesn’t have to mean anything—they still have time; they’re owed it.

He doesn’t do any of that, because the ground shakes again, and he’s ready—anticipates the stumble Eddie makes and reaches out to correct it.

They land safely away from any vines.

Eddie’s hand is clamped around his wrist, right at the part where the watch strap used to rub against his skin—back in sophomore year, when he’d always put it on too tight in fear of losing it; “Sorry, sorry,” Eddie’s mouthing, out of breath from the fall, but Steve’s holding on just as tightly, can feel Eddie’s pulse thundering beneath his fingertips.

And it’s so fast and frantic that Steve thinks he can hear it, too, a sound that he can’t get away from, in spite of it all: like a clock ticking. Counting down.

WRIST WATCH The explosive time shackle That never goes off Eternal zero Synchronize your deaths —Philip Murray

[cultivating-wildflowers]

ladies, I need to wander despondently across a foggy moor asap

[badolmen]

Surgery tomorrow. Whack.

[fighting-these-demons]

I won't put this in the tags and I will censor it in the post but we all know:

D*m*n K*ssh*

Schw*rz Br*d*r

Andr*w Gr*h*m

Arg* Gulsk**

[loumauve]

a little more disorganised exploring

[restinthewest]

Hallow would make a great medical alert SD because she is very responsive to when my heart rate is weird but unfortunately said response is panic and aggression towards any stranger who dares to look at us. So. Potential wasted lol

[its--ali]

the things I do for my vices, oy vey

[yourninjasareajoke]

hold my beer.

oh sorry i meant my non alcoholic beverage. because i’m 19. no fake id, no nose ring.

[lupismaris]

The trouble with "self care" when you're just fucked up enough to be complicated is that both options on the list could help or harm in equal measure but you gotta spin the wheel and risk it

[xbasement-baitx]

Your bestie sounds so amazing and precious, that kinda energy and love is so awesome, like, seriously!

I’m v lucky bc all of my friends are like that!!

[loveinhawkins]

“Why are you whistling?” Eddie asks after he’s heard Steve do it for the fourth time.

“Huh?”

Eddie imitates him; it’s not like Steve is just casually following a tune in his head—it sounds deliberate. Encouraging whistles, one right after the other, in groups of three. Like a… like a call to something.

“Oh.” Steve chuckles slightly, gestures vaguely to the trees around them—to the evening fog that’s settling in, clinging to the branches. They’ll be nearing Lover’s Lake soon, surely. “Guess ‘cause of, uh… it’s just… a habit.” He smiles as if to himself. “In case of… dogs. So they come to me first.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Dogs. Right. Do I need a translator around you all?”

Steve’s smile grows. “Maybe. Not gonna spill all our secrets just like that, Munson. Gotta respect, um…” He clicks his fingers. “Narrative tension.”

Eddie snorts. “Fine. I’ll get the full story outta you yet, Harrington. Just you wait.”

“Mm-hmm. It’s a good one.”

“Why?”

Steve shrugs, but Eddie follows where his eyes linger: Lucas, Max. Dustin.

“Uh, I guess… it wasn’t really the beginning of… everything. But, um, it kinda was one. A beginning, I mean—for me, anyway.” He huffs, seems to hear himself. “Sorry. That was cryptic as hell and I wasn’t even… Hey, man, lemme know if you find a translator, think I need one for me, too.”

Eddie smiles. “Sure.”

But even as they’re walking towards uncertainty, even though Eddie knows there’s so many little stories he’s missing, all tangled up in the big one…

He finds that he can understand a lot about Steve without needing words.

There’s a tautness to his body as he walks, like even when seemingly relaxed, he’s always ready to run. Like there’s an unbreakable string pulling right from the centre of him, and Eddie already knows that it’ll lead straight to the kids.

Three whistles in the dark.

So they come to me first.

Eddie’s growing certain that this story in its entirety won’t exactly put his mind at ease. But for some reason, as they walk side-by-side, his heartbeat slows, like he’s finally calm enough to feel something other than fear.

Something close to fondness.

Maybe.

I don’t need a translator, Steve Harrington. Turns out I can read you pretty damn well.

[vidumavi]

Russingon and 36 please? ❤️

thank you!! 36. (A Kiss) ... to give up control

(Send me prompts)

It was impossible to determine the span of a day now, but Findekáno thought surely at least a week had passed since the light of the stars had been veiled by roiling clouds and all beyond their torches’ glow was shrouded in impenetrable darkness.

At first, lightning had intermittently rendered the white fleet out on the water visible for fractions of a breath, fewer ships remaining above the towering waves every time. Once, a bolt of lightning had struck one of the masts and the blaze of the burning ship had brightened the sea for miles.

Now, thunder and lightning had ceased and no sound save for the churning of the furious waters and the howling of the wind reached them as they cut their way through the fabric of the unmeasured night. They knew not whether all on the ships had been swallowed by the vast and vengeful depths. It grew darker and colder the farther north they went: Rain and the advancing, inky mass of the sea had doused many of their torches and their rekindling proved difficult.

Findekáno pressed northward along the shoreline, his boots soaked and the cut on his forearm bleeding. Still he commanded the foremost host, driving on his people with words of vengeance and of promise. His limbs were aching and exhausted, but he could not be seen faltering. He could not let himself fall behind either; he had no desire to see his father, who had looked upon him as a stranger, and even less desire to see Angaráto and Aikanáro.

Then, a shout went up somewhere behind him. Findekáno’s gaze moved to the sea on instinct, and for once he was rewarded, though he scarcely wanted to trust his eyes: ships, finally, drawing toward the bay ahead of them. He spurred on his host, called anyone proficient in healing to the front and sent a messenger to his father.

Some hours later, they finally met their kinsfolk as they were landing, and a long while was spent on coordinating supplies and care for the injured. There were few bodies; those who had died had done so largely in the water were nobody could hope to retrieve them, but there were some.

He could not see his uncle anywhere, but with a lurch of sickening relief he noticed Maitimo’s silhouette near a railing, head turned, shouting to someone behind him.

Tyelkormo was the first of his brothers to step onto the shore. He slapped Findekáno’s shoulder in a show of camaraderie that seemed to belong to a long-ago youth, more disorienting for the fact of his own family’s revulsion that awaited him. Findekáno did not dwell on the thought and busied himself with giving orders and taking inventory of their resources. He would not run to Maitimo, he told himself.

The decision was taken from his hands when the cousin in question made his own way to shore, met his eyes from afar and nodded toward the tree line. It irritated Findekáno to be commanded, but this was not the time to spurn anyone on a whim, and so he waited until no one paid him any mind and slipped away from the crowd.

Maitimo was carrying a small, shining lamp that shed a measure of light onto the narrow trail that he had found. They stumbled into each other’s orbit, and for a long moment they looked at each other, at a loss for what to say. The cut on Maitimo’s jaw was old, but the bruises on his face and hands were new. His palms were reddened were ropes had dug into them and his fingernails were ragged. The lamp’s pale light made him look sickly.

“Your father?” Findekáno asked, though he did not particularly want to.

“Is well,” Maitimo said shortly and Findekáno did not know whether the feeling in his gut was relief or disappointment.

Maitimo began to move toward him but seemed to stop himself in time and asked instead, “Are you injured?”

“Not very much,” Findekáno replied. Exhaustion threatened to overcome his body now that he had finally let himself still. The prospect of returning to his company and tell them to move forward was suddenly daunting, and the thought of speaking to his father filled him with dread.

“I am -“ Maitimo began, but Findekáno cut him off.

“Do not,” he snapped and Maitimo swallowed.

Findekáno wanted to hear nothing from him and he did not want to think of anything to say, and so he reached for his bruised cheeks and fit their lips together. For one horrible moment, Maitimo stilled, but then he responded in kind, his hands grasping Findekáno’s shirt where dried stains of blood remained.

It had been a long time since he had kissed him last, and there had not been such a bite to it then, but now he welcomed the sting. This is your fault, he wanted to tell him, fix it for me. It was an inexcusably childish thought, and barely even true at that. He settled for grabbing Maitimo’s hand and putting it on his own wrist, and finally, Maitimo understood what he wanted and tightened his hold.

[rice-enjoyer]

...........the realization that 2 out of my 3 relationships were sampard flavored.

[hollyleaf]

Oh i never posted my gen1+3 (boxed) collection progress here... Im missing a single one. Sapphire now ((:

(i own every single main Pokémon game + Majority of spin offs physical, but i dont have boxes for a few of the main series ones. mainly the cardboard ones cause of damage😭😭)

[inklingowl]

The Road Goes Ever On and On

This poem is a motif that runs all the way through from The Hobbit to the end of Return of the King. If you got this result, you like going for hikes, provided you've got a picnic with you, and you own things like thermos flasks and anoraks. You daydream about going on adventures, or just starting driving and seeing where you end up. You're a bit scatter-brained and whimsical, but in a wholesome, whole-hearted way. Your superpower is eating every component of the trail mix, rather than just picking out the bits you like. ~ The Road goes ever on and on, Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet, Until it joins some larger way Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say. [& subsequent variations

alright folks. it’s time to find out which lotr poem you are. this quiz has 33 potential answers and only one of them is tom bombadil, so your odds are pretty good

[driftwooddestiel]

hike prep is killing me. before i accidentally called steve coogan scroggin