#it’s part of a larger blurb but i sorta like it on its own

[someforeignband]

It was always strange, sort of like the world was cracking open again, like all that they’d nearly died for had been for nothing. It was like the ground was crumbling under his feet, like the goddamned sky was falling. His heart thudded away in his chest, painfully hammering, clenching and releasing, clawing at the inside of his rib cage, like it was trying to crawl out of his body.

It was strange, and sort of beautiful, like one of those paintings in a museum that you look at. The swirls of paint are made even more beautiful on account of the fact that you find out the guy who painted it killed himself. And it’s sort of funny, the way that works, the way the art reads like some kind of magnificent headstone, and he figures that he wouldn’t even know what those kinds of paintings were like, if it weren’t for Steve.

His Steve.

The Steve that was calm under pressure, while bleeding himself, who would’ve given his life if it came down to it. The Steve that dragged his half-devoured, nearly-dead corpse out of the gate, who jammed his fists into a shuddering earth and screamed fierce curses at the blood-red sky. The same Steve that returned tears with a sarcastic, utterly bitchy comment, who’d never hesitate to send you one of those wide smiles that made you forget everything.

The Steve that stared death in the face and laughed.

It’s beautiful and tragic, like when the world split open and almost swallowed Eddie with it. And he could stop the world with the way he feels in that moment, he could call himself Atlas, could muster the strength of a titan, with the way he feels like he could cradle the earth if it could make it stop.

But now they’re here, at the edge of the end of the world, surrounded by useless things, just boxes and boxes of nothing, and Steve is crying.

When Steve Harrington cries, the world splits open. It’s like he’s dying all over again, watching his boy sit in a pile of his own objects, a binder full of baseball cards to his left, multiple pairs of swim trunks spilling out from under his bed, dozens of pairs of unworn sneakers laying near the closet door. He’s sitting on a box of something and clutching a pearl necklace in his right fist, there’s pages upon pages of notebook paper in piles at his feet, and tears are streaming down his face.

When Steve Harrington cries, the world splits open. And in that moment, Eddie had never felt more like a damned god, cast to live in the wretched depths of hell for eternity. Like he was Hades, like Steve was his Persephone, damned to weep at his feet, cast out by his loved ones to live miserably within the confines of a future they’d created together.

When Steve cried like this, Eddie wondered if he’d been meant to die that night, if maybe the chasm in Hawkins would’ve sealed itself back over at his offering, if he hadn’t been so lucky. When Steve tried to tuck himself away, tried to lock himself in his room, it was like a part of Eddie died anyway, in that fucking place, where the sky shone red as the blood inside of Eddie’s flesh.

“Steve, honey,” Eddie sobers. “You’ve gotta take a deep breath, sweets.”

Steve throws the pearls to his right weakly, they hit the wall with an unsatisfying crack. He sobs harder, coughing, choking on his own emotion, head down. He won’t look at Eddie.

“Can I come sit with you, baby?” Eddie asks, staying at his perch along the wall.

Steve had said he needed to do this alone. Eddie was inclined to let him, inclined to stay downstairs and mind his own business, but then he heard the sobbing and-

“No!” Steve shouts. “I-I told you to stay downstairs god-goddamn it, Eddie.”

And yeah, a part of Eddie died with Steve that night anyway.