#its so fucking gay lmao

[www98vikitoo]

When they uhhh, blue the lock or whatever

[saragrosie]

I may have started the woke communist rpg...

Bonus feelings about Kim's design (Kim my beloved) and some close-ups under here:

[sp0o0kylights]

Part one here:: link

"oh i dunno if Im going to finish this" I say, right before the plot ate me. anyway this was too big to post in full to tumblr. If you want the full, completed fic (with bonus Fun Fic Facts tm) it is finished and up on A03 here:: link

TW vomiting, drug use

Eddie is good.

Eddie is kind.

Eddie does not run over Henderson’s bike, laying haphazardly in Harrington’s pristine driveway, even if it would make him feel better. 

He does slam his van into park with enough force to make the brakes squeal, which he decides is an excellent way to announce his appearance to the entire neighborhood. 

It’s a move he’s pulled countless times. Charging in and making a scene meant people forgot that he couldn’t actually fight for shit, and equally, took their attention off whatever their original target was.

Which in this case, was Eddie’s too fucking nice freshman. 

The rage pulsing through him is white hot and all encompassing, and it’ll get him through a lot--but the switchblade he carries ensures everyone’s safety in these little matters. 

It makes him brave.

Braver than he should be really, but Eddie spent the entire drive over here chain smoking out the window while prepping for this little confrontation and the more he’d thought it all over, the madder he got.

That a washed up jock thought he could still take advantage of actual children. 

Nevermind Hellfire, or Henderson ditching, or Sinclaire’s ranting. 

This was about their relationship with Harrington. 

A picture has been building in Eddie’s head. One that’s only gotten clearer after today, and one he will be putting an end to, because he doesn’t believe for a second Harrington has a headache. 

Henderson might always be the smartest person in the room, but he’s dumb as hell socially. Too honest, too blunt, and frankly, too goodhearted. 

That makes him easy to take advantage of. 

Sinclair was worse--the guy was too easy to guilt trip. 

It was a noted issue with his ranger, and apparently, himself, and Eddie could easily see how Harrington could have twisted the idea of some ridiculous life-debt to keep Lucas in his clutches.  

Even Mayfield, Billy Hargrove’s former stepsister, was wrapped up in Harrington enough to have a go at her own friends over him! 

She wasn’t even one of his flock, but Eddie was her neighbor. Saw how her mom was barely home. How she was practically raising herself, head down, doing her best not to ever let people see her cry. 

Yeah.

Wouldn’t exactly be difficult for a guy like Steve Harrington to swoop in and take advantage there. 

Wheeler clearly wasn’t a fan and Eddie can only come up with reason after reason as to why--King Jackass had the poor kid’s entire friend group under some kind of--of sick spell.

Well. 

Eddie was here to break it. 

Even if it meant storming into the King’s castle by himself and calling him out on his shit. 

Nobody fucked with his people. Especially not douchebag, washed up jocks. 

He’s up to Harringotn’s ridiculous double doors in a flash, banging hard on the wood with a closed fist, positively fuming and uncaring of who sees. 

Surprise, surprise, it’s Henderson who opens it.

“Eddie?” He says, blinking up at him like he’s not sure of what he’s seeing.  “What are you--hey!” 

Hey, because Eddie’s pushed past him, storming into the house. 

“This has gone on long enough.” He announces, loud as he ever has been. “Where the hell’s Harrington?”

Henderson, frustratingly, does not weep or throw his hands up in celebration of Eddie’s incoming rescue. 

Which is fine--Eddie hasn’t broken the spell yet.

Unfortunately he is bitching, in that infamously annoying tone of his.

“Dude, shut up, Steve’s pills really only work for like, an hour--” 

“Fantastic, he’ll be clear headed for our little talk.” Eddie tells him, head sweeping left and  right as he looks for his target. He’s been in Casa de Harrington a few times before to deal, but it was always at night.

He can now say with perfect honesty that the place looks worse in the bright light of the day. 

“Was that Eddie?” Sinclair calls, and Eddie orients towards him instantly, storming down the hall. 

It doesn’t take long to find the kid. 

 Lucas is standing in a kitchen larger than Eddie’s entire trailer, a too-large pink apron drowning his frame. 

He turns, revealing the front of the thing has  ‘Whisk Taker’ written on it in syrupy white font. 

(Baking puns. Disgusting.) 

“Are you cooking?” Eddie accuses with a sneer, though his disgust isn’t aimed at the freshmen. 

This is exactly what he was afraid of finding. 

Lucas just stares at him. “Uh--yeah?” 

“What did I say about too many people, Munson?” Mayfrield spits angrily. It takes a second to locate her--the kitchen is enormous and far too white--but eventually Eddie realizes she’s perched up on a counter next to the largest sink he’s ever seen. 

For a second, Eddie thinks that’s just where she’s chosen to sit. Then she moves, and he realizes she’s washing and drying a series of water bottles. 

He never in his life thought he’d witness Maxine Mayfield willingly do someone else's dishes. 

“Someone get me Harrington.” He’s not trying for anything dramatic, but his voice must sound dangerous because all three freshmen stop dead, eyes wide as if he's just spoken in tongues.

He zeroes in on Dustin with a glare. “Now.”

Who huffs, throwing his hands up in the air like Eddie’s the one being unreasonable here. 

“Absolutely not--we just got Steve to sit down. He’s been following me around the house insisting I’m causing more problems than I’m fixing!”

“Because you are.” Steve says, voice dripping with calm condescension as he appears like a wraith in the doorway. “And I know you’re all into the whole dungeon game, Munson, but this is a little dramatic, even for you.”

Eddie whirls to face him, already vibrating with fury. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from the guy who’s treating them like his personal minions. What’s next, Harrington? Gonna make them re-shingle the roof? Paint your house? Wax your car?”

Steve gives him a flat, almost disbelieving stare. “Do you seriously think I had Henderson miss your game just so I could lounge around while he’s doing chores?”

Eddie doesn’t bite, too busy unloading. “Oh we can both see it’s more than that.”

He doesn’t notice the way Steve’s jaw tenses, or how his hand creeps up to the side of his head, rubbing at his temple. 

“Anything else you want done, Harrington? Maybe make ‘em mow the lawn?” Eddie sneers. “Or teach ‘em to plump your pillows just the way you like—”

Steve finally snaps, pushing himself upright. “You know what Munson, you're right,” he says, voice tight with barely-contained frustration. “I’m clearly a terrible person they need to be rescued from so--”  

He cuts himself off with a hiss,  eyes squeezing shut as his hand goes to the side of his head, and spits out his next words like they hurt. 

“You can play the good guy and take them all home.” 

Dustin, with an exasperated sigh, steps between them. “No,” he tells Steve sternly, as if managing an unruly child, before spinning on his heel to say the exact same thing, in the exact same tone--to Eddie. 

(Jackass freshman can’t even appreciate when they’re being actively rescued!) 

“Eddie, I promise that this isn’t what it looks like.” 

For anyone else it would sound like a plea, but Henderosn somehow makes it condescending.

“We can explain, alright?” Dustin says, raising his hands as though coaxing a skittish animal. “Will you let us explain? Please?”

Eddie glowers. 

“You clearly do not, in fact, know what this looks like. Because if you did,” 

Eddie can make himself menacing and he does so now, pulling on every single year of drama and theatrics and lying to cops he’s had, pushing his shoulders back and making his body tall.

“You would know that it looks like a guy who peaked in high school is forcing a bunch of fourteen year olds to do his bidding.” 

He takes an aggressive step towards Steve, boots thunking hard on the floor. “And that isn’t happening on my watch.” 

“Aren’t you like an extra super senior?” Mayfield says, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Irrelevant!” Eddie swats the air in her direction, as if to physically bat away her words. “I’m still in high school and I’m not emotionally blackmailing a bunch of kids into waiting on me hand and foot while I fake a headache!” 

“Oh ew.” Max’s nose scrunches in disgust, a mixture of disbelief and fury warring on her face. “That is not what’s happening here.” 

“Were you even listening earlier?!” Lucas says, like he can’t quite believe Eddie is this dumb. 

(His character will be the next to die, so Eddie swears.) 

“I did.” Eddie points a finger at him, triumphant. “I heard all about how he’s tricked you into thinking you owe him a life-debt!”

“A what?” Harrington’s squinting, like he’s struggling to follow along what is happening. It’s a halfway decent sick act, Eddie will give it to him, but he knows the facade will drop in a moment. 

As soon as the asshole loses his temper and decides to try and throw Eddie out, he’ll switch from the Poor Me act into the usual pompous, rich dick on a rampage persona. 

“How he’s saved you all, convinced you and Henderson that you’re in debt to him.” 

“Could we just---please stop yelling?” Steve says in the background, heel pressing hard against his eyes. 

Then winces like his own voice hurts his head.

“What the hell, Eddie?!” Dustin’s cut across the room, stepping in between the two older teens. “Where did this even come from!?” 

“Guys.” 

“The mouths of babes, Henderson. Which you would know if you witnessed Sinclair’s rant instead of missing out because King Dickhead demanded your presence at his castle!” 

“Guys.” Steve’s voice abruptly takes on a weird tone, and it’s only Mayfield’s eyes popping wide that has Eddie realizing something is wrong--right before Harrington shoots past him, noisily hurling in the sink.

“Gross!” Max shrieks, throwing herself off the counter. 

Harrington aims a shaky middle finger in her direction. 

“I just washed those bottles Steve, I'm not washing them again!” Mayfield rants, but she’s not fooling anyone. Not with the way she’s already edging back towards him, like she’s afraid he might fall over. 

(Worse, like she might try to catch him, as if Harrington’s broad, barbarian-like shoulders wouldn’t flatten her instantly.) 

“Al-’right.” Harrington slurs a moment later, still panting over the sink. “Everyone--out. Now.” 

“Steve--” 

“Nope. Making it worse. Out.” 

He manages to stand and turn, leaning hard against the counter and for the first time since this all started, Eddie looks at him. 

Properly, and not through the lens of righteous fury. 

Harrington’s pale.

The shirt he’s wearing is stained with sweat marks, his sweatpants clearly old and worn for comfort rather than style. 

His hair…

Eddie has never seen Harrington without his infamously perfect hairdo, and the messy, slick waves plastered to his forehead is more of a shock then him vomiting in the sink. 

He’s got his hands pressed hard against his eyes again, and there’s a slight tremble in his fingers that belay he’s likely in a lot more pain than he’s letting on.

In short, Harrington looks like absolute shit, and Eddie, maybe, possibly, the tiniest bit believes he actually has a migraine. 

Well, it was that or he was really committed to the bit… 

The tense silence that has befallen them all is ruined when Harrington makes a ‘hurk.’ noise.

“I’m going to throw up again.” He decides after a moment of contemplation, before whipping back around to the sink and doing just that. 

“Steve’s right.” Mayfield decides suddenly, over all the nasty noises. “We should leave.” 

“I’m almost done cooking!” Sinclair protests, as if Harrington isn’t presently throwing up the contents of his stomach. 

“You’re almost done burning things, you mean.” Max mutters, but her words can’t hide the blatant concern written all over his face. “I don’t think he’s going to keep anything down.” 

“He needs us to finish what we started.” Dustin argues passionately. “You know how bad he gets, he’s not gonna be able to get up in an hour!” 

(A clear exaggeration, because Harrington looks like he’s not gonna make it across the kitchen unassisted.) 

“What I need is for everyone to stop talking so fucking loud.” Harrington moans, before appearing to give up on life entirely. 

He sort of sags against the counter, resting his head against his arms while bent double, as if that would help things. 

It was at this point that Eddie had the most unfortunate realization that he might be the asshole here. 

Because Harrington looks rough--and if he actually does in fact, have a migraine, then Eddie has done nothing but make it worse.

(Very likely the freshmen have as well, given Dustin is incapable of talking in anything other than a loud yell, and the smell of Lucas’s burnt food has permeated the air.

Mayfield seemed to have accomplished a small amount of actual work, at least.

…If Harrington managed to miss throwing up on the water bottles.) 

“Look,” Harrington interrupts with an audible, thick swallow.“You guys did great, and I appreciate the uh, help. I’m fine, I promise, you can all go home. Munson,” 

He doesn’t turn, but his voice does change into something that’s half pleading, half demanding.

“Can we please fight about this tomorrow? Or next week?” 

“No fighting!” Dustin shrieks, which has the effect of making Harrington cringe into the counter--and that is what finally kicks Eddie over.

Bows to the instincts that now want to wrap up Harrington in a blanket over the ones that want to strangle him, (though both are very much at odds in his head with each other.)

“We can put a pin in it.” He says, all the venom dropping out of his voice,  already knowing what’s going to happen next and hating himself for it. 

Even at his absolute worst, Eddie has never been able to resist trying to fix a problem he’s been presented with--or turn down someone who needs help.

Harrington, clearly, needs help. 

“You heard him.” He tells his freshman, then immediately holds up a hand when all three try to protest at once. 

“Ah-ah, inside voices.” He himself uses a harsh whisper, and then has to fight not to laugh aloud when all three abruptly eye him like he’s lost his head.

He probably has.

(Fucking King Steve.

No one who is that much of a douchebag should ever look that pathetic without deserving it, it’s against the Munson doctrine.) 

“Henderson, have you done anything actually useful while you’ve been here? Like, say, getting a warm washcloth?” 

“I--oh.” Dustin’s on the defense instantly, but for once actually listens before he finishes his sentence. “Uh. No.”

“Go do that then.” Eddie instructs, making sure to keep his voice quiet and even. 

“Sinclair, toss out the eggs, then take the garbage out so it’ll stop stinking up the place. Mayfield, see if these windows open. Harrington…” 

He pauses, watching as Harrington tries to gather himself, moving slowly and deliberately like even breathing hurts. His entire appearance is grating Eddie’s nerves—not because he doesn’t care, but because he does, and that’s infuriating. 

“Go lay down, man.” He finishes lamely. 

He expects the freshmen to listen to him. Knows they will, in his heart of hearts, even if they bitch back, because that’s just how things are when he decides to take charge. So few people truly want to, that others are often relieved when he does. 

Steve Harrington is not most people.

If he argues, he could very well tip things out of control again, which means Eddie is likely going to have to force the trio of fourteen year olds out of the house. 

Henderson and Sinclair he can manage but Mayfield…

Thankfully, Steve pushes off the counter with a groan, muttering something under his breath, but slowly making his way toward the couch without any other protest. 

The freshmen exchange glances, all of them looking just as unsure as Eddie feels. Like they’re waiting for instructions now that their default leader is down for the count.

He clears his throat pointedly. 

“Hello? Did I not give you marching orders?” He bats his hands at them. “Go march!” 

Mayfield mutters something that sounds an awful lot like “hypocrite” but thankfully, does as asked. 

“Are you gonna give us a ride home?” Henderson asks as he finally starts moving around--hopefully to get a damn washcloth. 

“You got yourself here, you can get yourself home.” Eddie scoffs back, taking stock of Harrington’s kitchen. 

He eyes the line of pain pills laid out on the counter, quickly noting not one of them is anything that would help with a sneeze let alone a migraine. 

Typical. 

“Why not?” Dustin disappeared down a hallway, but the fact Eddie can still hear him plain as day speaks to his ability to keep quiet. “You have your van, don’t you?” 

“Because I’m not leaving when you three are leaving.” 

It’s an absentminded comment, given his mind is elsewhere. 

Weed may be his bread and butter but he does have a handful of more serious things on offer. 

Of those things, one or two have some fun little unexpected side effects, and if Eddie recalls Rick’s yapping right, one of said things was stopping headaches. 

Said magic little mushrooms might even be in a pocket or two, here, if he remembers right… 

“Wait, you're staying here?” Lucas protests, far too loudly. 

"Ssszzhh!" Eddie hisses, drawing out the sound dramatically, mostly for the sake of cutting off whatever protests were coming his way. 

“No arguing. Your beloved King clearly needs a nap, and that means you’re all off duty. Unless," he adds with a raised eyebrow, "you intend to watch him sleep?"

Dustin looks torn, but mutters a quiet, "No," his eyes shifting sideways like he's weighing the logic.

"Good. Then if you’re all finished…?”

He waits for the nods he knows are coming. 

“Excellent. Now leave." Eddie says, pointing towards the door. 

They hesitate for a second, but then finally begin to shuffle out, the door clicking quietly behind them. 

And just like that, Eddie’s left standing there, watching Steve breathe shallowly on the couch--with a washrag over his eyes.

(At least Dustin managed that.) 

He could leave now. 

Should leave, really. Giving out drugs for free is not exactly a good business move and Steve will no doubt sleep the headache off without it. But Eddie’s feet don't seem to agree with him, rooted in place as his gaze lingers on the sharp line of Steve's jaw, the slight twitch of his brow every time a muscle aches.

Feels the pull, deep in his gut, to provide the relief he knows he can give. 

Before he knows what’s happening, he’s moving, crossing the room toward him.

“Munson?” Harrington squints up at him as he registers his presence, washcloth nudged upwards by shaky fingers. “Why’r you still ‘ere?” 

“Because I’m stupid.” Eddie mutters, right before realizing he actually said that outloud. 

“What?” 

Thank God for Harrington’s headache. 

“You look terrible, man.”  Eddie says slightly louder. “That hair of yours is so flat I think your crown’s gonna fall right off.” 

He’d meant it as a joke--spoke it like one, but it seems to snap Harrington out of his pity party. 

The sigh that blasts out of him is a whole body affair, and gets his feelings across better than his words do. “I get it. You thought this was something else and it wasn’t. Not the first time that’s happened.” 

He turns, cheek scraping against the fabric of his shirt, red rimmed eyes squinting against the light to look at Eddie. 

“You got your laugh in, so you can go.” 

There’s defeat in his voice. Like he’s accepted this might as well have happened. 

(Like he’s just as beaten down as anyone Eddie has ever saved.) 

“I didn’t stick around to laugh.” Eddie keeps his voice soft, and that somehow, makes the next part easier to say.  

“I honestly thought you were messing around with Henderson and Sinclair, and I uh, I’m used to being the only person who gives a shit. When that kind of thing happens.” 

Harrington grimaces. 

“It’s okay.” he mutters, eyes sliding closed once more. “Most people still think I’m an asshole.”

His tone has gone odd again, wrecked and rasping, migraine clearly trumping whatever strong feelings he had on the matter. 

And the stupid thing was, Harrington himself was never really an asshole. 

Sure he went along with the assholes, and he definitely egged them on if not outright participated in some of the lower tier shitty activities, but he wasn’t the guy slamming people into lockers. 

(Eddie, in fact, has a hazy memory of Steve telling off Hagan for doing said locker slamming.) 

It didn’t make him a good guy--he’d had slung too many insults around to get that label--but in the rankings of assholery, his was of the average variety. 

Which means that Eddie cannot logic himself out of his own stupid desire to help.

Even if he really, really wants to.

“Yeah well, even assholes need assistance sometimes, and since I kicked your help out, it’s on to make up for it.” 

“No offense,” Steve slurs tiredly, “but I don’t think you’re any quieter than Dustin.” 

A smile ghosts over Eddie’s face. 

“I live in a tiny ass trailer, Harrington. Trust me,  I know how to be quiet. I simply choose not to be.” He moves, slow and careful, until he’s seated next to the fallen King on his stupidly huge (and very uncomfortable) couch. 

Steve’s eye follows him over, staring up as he white knuckles his sweatpants, washrag sitting crooked on his forehead. 

“I’m not sure I’m not gonna throw up again.” He admits after a moment. 

“And that right there is one of the things I can help with. Provided,” Eddie waggles his eyebrows, “that you don’t mind taking a more recreational route for your recovery?” 

“....are you offering me drugs?” 

“I am indeed.” Eddie confirms with a real smile, plucking the offending baggie out of a pocket. 

“You ever done shrooms, your majesty?” 

Steve huffs a quiet noise that might have been a snort, had he put any effort behind it. 

“How is that going to help?” 

“Be-cauuuuuse,” Eddie draws the words out, still a showman even if he is doing his level best to talk as quietly as possible, “shrooms are what we call a psychedelic, and those are pretty well known among certain circles as the headache healer.” 

Provided one took the medicinal amount and not the down-the-rabbit-hole amount. 

Harrington’s eyes are back open, only this time they’re looking at Eddie’s fingers the same way a dog looks at a nail trimmer: concerned and not entirely unsure it wasn’t going to bite him. 

“I’m not…” He cuts himself off, frowning. 

“You’ve bought plenty of my weed, Harrington. Trust me this isn’t any different.” Eddie tells him. 

Isn’t offended in the slightest--this reaction is pretty typical for people who have only smoked the ganja. 

Even the ones who asked to try for something with a little more ‘umph.’ 

“S’not that.”Steve admits quietly. “I uh. Had a bad trip. While back.” 

“Ah, gunshy.” Eddie says it without a lick of judgment, because Eddie’s been there.

Or rather in the shower, at two am because he accidentally spilled LSD on his hand and promptly tripped balls for 48 hours after.  

 “I’ll hang around a bit, if you like.” He offers casually. “Make sure things don’t go sideways.”

He gets another huff-snort as Harrington’s watery eyes return their attention to him. 

“And what are you going to do if they do go sideways?”

“Put you back together again.”  

Eddie knows his grin is crooked, but can’t help it. He’s thinking about Humpty Dumpty and the King’s Men.  

Somehow he doesn’t see Steve Harrington cracking that easily—at least, not without putting up a good fight—but drugs did worse things to better people. 

“It really helps?” Steve asks, voice quiet. Doubtful.

Eddie presses his hands to his chest. “Scouts honor.”

“You were not a boy scout.” Steve tells him, but he’s struggling to sit up anyway, looking game. 

“Alright, so how do I do this?” He asks, though he’s already halfway down again, propped up on his elbows.

“First, you lay back down, and I’ll brew it into tea,” Eddie explains. 

“Tea?”

“Well, you could eat them straight, but I don’t think they’d taste too great. Not that I wouldn’t mind watching you try.”

Steve scowls. “Sadist.”

“Guilty,” Eddie replies, biting back the urge to sing-song it, keeping his voice down and steady. “Just a heads-up: they kick in fast, but I’ll go light on you—nothing like the ‘fun’ dose for the usual crowd.”

Which is how he ends up back in the kitchen, this time making tea and humming to himself, before offering the final brewed concoction to Harrington.

Who downs it like a shot, because he’s a fucking frat-bro at heart. 

“I didn’t find a teacup for you to do that.” 

Between a full-body shudder and a dramatic grimace, Steve chokes out “Not gonna lie I didn’t think we owned a teacup.” 

“What, do you think I just have them in my van?”

“Honestly? Yeah.” 

Which is kind of hysterical, and something Eddie may be doing--not that he’s telling Harrington that. 

“And now we wait!” He announces instead of rambling about teacups, nearly clapping his hands together before he remembers the migraine Steve is soldiering through with surprising grit. 

Eddie himself would have turned into a whiny mess, so he can’t help but admire the guy’s restraint.

“Waiting to see if I hurl again, you mean?” Steve mutters, flopping backward onto the couch. “That tasted like battery acid.”

“Think it’s coming back up?”

“No clue.”

They sit in silence for a second, then Eddie pokes, “Maybe it’s best if you crash in your room, man. You look like death warmed over, and this couch sucks.” 

An understatement, if there ever was one. The fucking thing didn’t seem to be made for people to actually sit on. 

Reluctantly, Steve pulls himself up, heading toward his room. Eddie tags along, snarky grin covering the way he holds his hands out in case the jock ahead of him slips on the stairs and takes them both out. 

(Unlike Mayfield, Eddie does not pretend Steve doesn’t outclass him weight wise. The man was built like a brickhouse, and he has to fight to keep his eyes up toward Steve’s hair instead of on his ass.) 

Thankfully, he’s saved from all R-rated thoughts by the sheer horror of Harrington’s bedroom. 

“Harrington, I’ve found the source of all your migraines.” Eddie tells him, tone as serious as he’s ever been.

“Ha-ha.” Steve deadpans, stepping into his plaid fucking room. 

“I’m not kidding, I’m getting a headache and I’ve been here less than five seconds.” 

The whole place truly is a nightmare--like someone took one of those plaid hunting jackets and themed an entire room around it. 

Fucking rich people. 

“Trust me, it’s not the wallpaper.” 

“Given how you’re weaving on your feet, I think it’s safe to say I don’t trust you at all.” Eddie tells him, half helping half dragging Steve towards the bed. 

It’s a comfy looking thing and Harrington falls into it gratefully, immediately crawling under the covers. 

“You know where to find me?” Eddie asks him, refusing to think Harrington snuggling up in his bed is something cute. 

“Yeah?”

“Good. Hit me up next time your head gets bad. I’ll make sure to keep some of this,” He shakes the little baggie, “on hand.” 

Steve’s pulled the covers all the way up past his chin, but he moves it down a little to properly cock an eye at Eddie. 

“Dare I ask what you're gonna charge for that?”

“Let’s call it a fair trade for all those times you’ve driven the freshman home from Hellfire.” 

If Steve even recalls this conversation, that is. Eddie hadn’t exactly given him the “fun” kind of dose, but then, he himself has never tested out what dose is needed to cure headaches rather than simply having  fun destroying one's own ego. 

He supposes that’s something he and Harrington both will have to test, between them--because Eddie meant it when he offered the drugs for free.

No one deserves to suffer from the kind of migraine Harrington clearly had. 

“Think you’re good to drop off.” Eddie tells him, after making sure Steve is happily content in his bed. 

Checks his watch to make sure enough time has passed to safely call it, before beginning to attempt his way out of Steve’s god-awful bedroom. 

Which of course, is when Harrington reaches out, looping his fingers around Eddie’s wrist. 

It freezes him in place. 

In a moment that is so utterly selfish and stupid that Eddie will loudly insist it was a hallucination should Harrington ever dare ask about it, he turns his palm and moves so that he’s clasping Steve’s fingers with his own. 

“Thanks. For all this.” Steve whispers, as they hold hands for a moment. 

Eddie squeezes his fingers against the younger man’s before he moves to make his retreat, flashing a peace sign over his shoulder as he goes.  

“Anytime, big boy.” 

Anytime. 

xxx

The thing no one tells you about creating a doctrine, is that at some point or another, someone’s going to hold you to it. 

In Eddie’s case it’s four very pissed off teenagers.

He has a gold medal in mental gymnastics and a silver in denial. Left on his own devices he could easily excuse everything that happened yesterday. 

Reclassify the fallen King as pathetic, and the kids' weird loyalty to him as a holdover from his babysitting days. 

Blame their nosy-ness on them being involved in Harrington’s life, and happily go back to mocking their relationship with renewed vigor because now he’s not going to handwave their behavior as being afraid of Harrington. 

Nope, they clearly and willingly, have attached themselves to the King, which means Eddie gets to make fun of them for life. 

Pity they don’t leave Eddie to his own devices. 

In fact, the little shits hit him up first thing in the morning, early enough that he's’ a little suspicious that the boys slept over at Max’s trailer. 

“We’re not done talking about Steve.” Mayfield tells him and given the determined (Henderson) angry (Sinclair) and put out (Wheeler Jr.) faces glaring at him from over her shoulder, Eddie figures his chances for getting out of this conversation are slim to none.

“Good morning to you too.” He snarks, voice gravel-deep with sleep. “What do you little shits want?”

“I literally just said.” Max rolls her eyes so hard he thinks about commenting that they may stick back there, only to decide that makes him sound too much like a teacher for his liking. 

(Besides if they get stuck, he’ll have an excuse to whack her on the back of her head without getting murdered for it.

…well. 

An attempt at an excuse, anyway.) 

“And who says I have anything I want to talk about?” He fires back, leaning a shoulder against the old metal doorframe. 

Just because he understood what they wanted didn’t mean he was going to make it easy. 

“Would you just let us in?” 

“No.” 

“Eddie.” Dustin whines, and Eddie redirects his frown his way. “Come on.” 

“Well I suppose if you say it that way,” Eddie hums thoughtfully. “No.” 

“Steve’s sick, you asswipe.” Max snaps angrily. 

“I know,” He volleys back, brightly sarcastic. “I saw him yesterday.”

Because it’s Mayfield, she matches him tit for tat, a mimicry of his sarcastic drawl entering her voice. “Good! You get to see him today too.”

And just like that their little ambush makes sense.

(He’s got to find a new way to get the damn kids to fear him, clearly his usual menacingness  just isn’t cutting it anymore.) 

“And why would I do that?” 

He’s done his good deed. He helped Harrington out, and even offered free drugs to help him get his migraines under control. 

Checking up on the guy was overkill.  

“We were gonna do it, but someone let it slip that Steve was sick.” A cutting glance is given to Henderson, who makes a face but otherwise holds his ground. 

“And his mom called everyone else's parents with instructions that we leave him alone until he feels better.”  

“So now if we go over there,” Sinclair finishes for his girlfriend, “we get grounded.” 

Which neatly answers every question that just popped into Eddie’s head. 

The threat makes sense for the boys--Eddie’s met Claudia Henderson and though she has that bubbly, easy to confuse nature of suburbanites everywhere, there was an undercurrent in her eyes of someone who knew more than she was letting on. 

Or perhaps, someone who simply knew what they wanted, and was happy to settle and wait for it. 

 Likewise the Sinclair and Wheeler parental units seem to want to keep in her--and Steve’s, no doubt, given he carts their kids around--good graces. 

Given Mayfield’s mom wasn’t even home last night, her participation in this farce does not make sense and Eddie narrows his eyes at her in warning. 

“I fail to see how this is my problem.” He says instead of directly calling her out.

She knows he knows, and he’s smart enough to figure out how to relay that without saying it directly. 

(An action taken out of respect for surviving a bad home life, and absolutely not because he’s terrified she’ll crawl through his window to enact revenge in the middle of the night.) 

“It’s your problem because you owe him one.” she tells him firmly. “And us.”

Oh no he does not. 

“How so?” He challenges with a snorted laugh. 

“You did kind of storm into his house and yell a lot.” Sinclair points out. He’s doing better at speaking up, Eddie realizes with a twisted sense of pride and dread. 

Not quite so easy to steamroll after his outburst yesterday. 

A part of him hopes that sticks around--Sinclair needs a spine, and not just because Mayfield will keep running circles around him until he grows one. 

The rest of Eddie is pissed off that he decided to get one now, when it directly impacted Eddie’s Saturday morning sleeping plans.  

Leave it to these dickheads to use a good deed against him.

“Look--we can’t make sure he’s okay. You can.” Mayfield steps up to jam a painted fingernail in Eddie’s chest. “He won’t let us do anything that will actually help him. You, he can't stop.” 

He does not take a step backward and thus lose all the cool points he has left in the eyes of the younger Hellfire members, but only because he’s already leaned up against the doorframe. 

He bares his teeth at her in a silent snarl instead. 

“We made it worse.” She admits, voice sharp. “And I don’t know how to make it better, but you seem to be able to, so congrats Munson--you get to go again!” 

Which gets Eddie’s back right up. 

He pushes off the doorframe, ready to tell Mayfield--and all his little dipshits--right off, except this is when Wheeler Jr., of all people, decides to add in his two cents. 

“If you don’t go, no one else will.” He looks off to the side while he says it, arms crossed tight across his chest and spitting the words out like he's admitting to a crime. “Robin’s not coming back until Monday and Nancy's got some stupid thing, so you’re literally the only person who can go.” 

Well just stab him in the heart, why don’t you. 

“What are the chances of you fucking back off to whatever hole you crawled out of if I refuse?” He asks, already knowing that he’s done for.

Accepted his fate, because he knows what it’s like not to have someone to rely on, when you need them the most. 

“Zero.” Sinclair and Henderson chant as one. 

“Well then.” He tells them with the biggest, most put upon sigh he can manage. “Guess you got me in a box here.” 

Mayfield grins at him.

It reminds him vaguely of a shark. 

A bloodthirsty, slightly demonic, mean shark. 

“Good. Go get dressed.”

“Oh I’m doing this right now, am I?” He complains, but he’s already moving to go back into his trailer. 

“We’re not leaving until you do!” Mayfield yells at him.

Eddie slams the door in her face. 

(He’s never adopting freshmen again, as long as he fucking lives.)

[latenightsundayblues]

I got bored lol

[milkbreadtoast]

Scenes that still shake me to my core more than 10 years later.... god the voice acting in this scene is so good.

[rynli]

me: I should write the one-shot that lives in my head about Harry applying for a job

brain: you will write a whole casefic about Harry realizing being a cop already killed him once, acab applies even to Kim, and he needs to quit if he wants to get better

[marvey-sideblog]

Law firm Specter Ross represent gay club in Seattle

[airlocksandaviaries]

Gay af to be a gentleman tbh. Who are you being gentle to?? A man???? 👀👀👀

[wu-wakfu-undertale]

Re-watching wakfu for the first time in years and s1 Yugo was so silly???

dude discovered he could make portals at will and his first thought after actually acknowledging it is "i can do so many cool pranks with this"

[jvnart]

Art request: Kakagai pumkin carving contest!

So specific, so goofy, ty for the ask

[scorpiusmalfoylovesoscarwilde]

albus severus is the human embodiment of be gay do crime, in this essay I will-

[ribbononline]

Away from home for a week or two so im trying to relearn how to draw on iPad. And what better way then how I learned it all those years ago, ponies,

[zonatcannibalism]

Im really enjoying the Agatha show for now, but wanda maximoff, kate bishop and billy kaplan are my favorite comic book characters of all time and if they treat billy the way they treated wanda in doctor strange 2 and kate in the hawkeye show i will go there and personally assassinate whoever did it

[suffarustuffaru]

hi i made a tier list of how homophobic rezero characters are

hello in the spirit of valentine's day and the very welcoming community here on rezero tumblr i decided to make this with the help of my lovely mutuals.

[icey--stars]

Hey I saw in your bio that your requests are open? Pls ignore if they aren't 🙏🏼 but I had this idea for Azris, and as the queen of Azris angst, I knew I had to at least share it with you

So I've been watching the Shadowhunters show (idk if you've seen it) but basically there's this seen where Jace gets possessed by some spirit thing and starts attacking his best friend, Alec. And they have a whole fight scene and it ends with Jace stabbing Alec with an arrow. All the while the ghost thing is talking THROUGH Jace and saying stuff like "Your boy's in there, screaming, begging me not to do this." And Alec is all like "it's ok, it's not your fault.". (I would highly recommend searching that scene up, it's the best angst inspo and I'm horrible at explaining)

Anyways imagine that buttt...AZRIS!!! What if after they are officially mated and everything, running their court, a new threat emerges that basically possess Eris who then attacks Azriel, maybe he stabs him, maybe there's a bit of burning involved (pls I'm sorry I know it sounds fucked up, but I love a good angst)

And then when Eris gets rid of whatever is controlling, how would they heal from that, like move on and stuff cuz I can imagine Eris would be feeling hella guilty and Az would want to forgive him but still be shaken up himself too...

Anyways if you do decide to write you can change it up as you like, I know whatever you come up with will be AMAZINGGG

You Would Never Hurt Me

Azriel is at a weekly family dinner when suddenly his bond with Eris alerts him to danger. What will happen when he realizes his mate is being controlled by another? What lengths will he go to? - 5.3k words of emotional pain.

Author's Note: Queen of Azris Angst? we sure? y'know what... i'll take it XD. I took a few creative liberties, but actually not too many... but I hope you enjoy :D

ouch my soul hurts. genuinely hurt me to write this but it just hurt so good. Also, I did end up changing the part about Az hesitating to forgive him because he was shaken up purely because the situation was so much more angsty with Az desperately trying to convince Eris everything is okay.

TW: Depictions of violence, mentions of blood, SEVERE burns, Azriel’s canon backstory, mind control trope, descriptions of severe injuries

also this was not edited very much. apologies for any mistakes!

{ ao3 link }

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

The newest threat to Prythian had been biding their time for a while. Azriel wasn’t going to lie that he was nervous. He and his spies in both courts he had close connections to had been unable to find anything of use. The only thing that they seemed to know was that this enemy was intelligent and not without power. They didn’t even know if it was a fae from the continent, Prythian or even Hybern. All reports had come up useless in the grander scheme of things.

“Az, if you keep that frown on your face, it might just become permanent,” Cassian teased. He’d gone to the weekly dinner at Velaris this week. This time, without Eris. Normally he’d come along, but Eris had decided he wanted to finish up some of the paperwork and work on training one of the newest ghost hound yearlings some more commands.

Azriel couldn’t help but feel tense over the matter since he knew he’d seen more signs of the enemy closer to the Autumn Court than anywhere else. It had his metaphorical hackles standing on end almost constantly.

Cassian nudged his shoulder with his knuckles. “Come on, Az,” his brother urged. “Relax a moment. I know you’d rather Eris be here, but he’s going to be just fine. He’s a damn High Lord of fire. I think he can manage a night without your shadows surrounding him.”

Azriel sighed, nodding in agreement. “Sorry, Cass,” He mused. “Something just feels off tonight.”

“How so?” Rhys questioned from across the table, still facing Nyx as he tried to bargain with the child over eating his greens.

Azriel shrugged. “The shadows are jittery. The darkness doesn’t bring comfort. Something is just off,” he replied.

Rhys hummed in acknowledgement. Feyre replied, “Is it about that threat?” She asked carefully. The bags under her eyes were evidence that the little Heir to the Night Court was still having trouble sleeping since his visit to the Illyrian camps.

“I’m not entirely sure. But I’ve seen more signs of them near the Autumn Court than anywhere else,” he admitted. “I wish we knew what they were capable of at the very least.”

“Whatever it is, Az, I’m sure we can handle it,” Rhys said, looking up toward him. “We’ve handled far worse than one crazed individual. But if you’re nervous and you’re not even going to eat what’s on your plate until you get back to your mate, none of us will fault you for leaving.”

Nesta nodded from where she sat beside Cassian, but she was also just playing with her foot with her fork. “That, or you can kidnap him and force him to attend dinner and book club,” Nesta mused, smirking as she glanced over at him.

Azriel scoffed in amusement. “I’m not so sure he’d appreciate that, Nes.”

Nesta chuckled. “No, but it’d make your sorry ass stop brooding for five minutes.”

Azriel rolled his eyes, turning away. He put his fork down. They weren’t wrong to say he couldn’t stomach food with this… itch of some sort bugging the hell out of him.

Suddenly, the bond twitched inside of him. Not a good twitch either.

Azriel sat up straight immediately, putting a hand to his chest when more emotions began flowing through. Worry. Confusion. Fear.

Azriel stood up as quickly as he could, shadows flaring out.

“Azriel,” Rhys mused from the table. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s in danger,” Azriel breathed.

Rhys immediately stood up. “In danger? Eris? The Lord of Fire?”

“Don’t make jokes, Rhys,” he begged, breathing a bit heavier. “Don’t follow me yet. The wards will stop you. Just… keep a tab on my mind. I have a feeling what this is. And it’s not a nightmare.”

Then he winnowed, feeling Rhys gently prod into his mind to stay as a presence just on the outside of his mind so he’d know what’s happening too.

Azriel followed the bond, sprinting as fast as possible through the Forest House until-

Eris was in his office.

But then something stopped. The bond stopped. Empty.

Azriel burst in, panting terribly as he spotted Eris standing at his desk.

“Eris?” He questioned hesitantly.

Eris turned around, but his eyes were distant. Azriel’s heart dropped like a stone when he heard emotionless words come out of his mate’s mouth. “Eris is not here, Illyrian mongrel.”

Azriel squared his shoulders, pressing his already glowing siphon to form his armor over his body. He crouched down imperceptibly. “Eris, this is not a funny joke.”

That was just his denial talking though. Eris had never called him an Illyrian mongrel.

“Oh, he doesn’t?” The male asked hauntingly. “Are you so sure? I know you can’t be… being a bastard and all.”

Something slammed into his mental walls and Azriel stumbled back just as Rhys seemed to reel back in his mind.

Azriel gritted his teeth, forcing his eyes open as he stared into Eris’s eyes, waiting for the familiar clarity to come back.

“You’re pathetic,” Eris snarked. “One measly hit and it almost took you down? Weak.”

Rhys seemed to be doing something akin to building a second wall from within his mind, battling off something. Azriel couldn’t spare any mental energy to figure out what it was.

“Eris… you need to come back,” He said, but it really came out more like pleading.

Flames sparked on Eris’s palms and Azriel couldn’t help his flinch. Though his mate had been helping him overcome his fear as of late, something… something felt wrong about this.

“Eris,” he warned, eyes drawn down to the fire unconsciously. “What are you doing?”

“My name is not Eris,” he hissed, stalking closer. A dagger summoned to Eris’s palm, the flame lighting up the dagger’s edges as if it was some glowing blade. If he hadn’t been so shocked over the loss of his bond and the fear for his mate, he would’ve thought it almost looked cool. But right now? It was downright terrifying.

The male leapt at him and Azriel raised up his arms in defense, dodging to the side with only a few centimeters to spare. He didn’t want to hurt Eris. That was on the forefront of his mind.

But what was he supposed to do when Eris was trying to hurt him?

“Eris,” he pleaded. “Come back to me.”

Eris chuckled, one of the ones reserved for the lords in the council when they were pissing him off. “You know, your mate is putting up quite the fight in here. He’s been trained against people like me, but clearly not like you and your little friend protecting you.”

Azriel spared the moment of suspension to ask Rhys: What’s happening? Who?

Daemati, was Rhys’s only response and it was said as if through gritted teeth.

Shit. Eris was being controlled by a daemati. And though he had faith in Rhys, he knew that the male didn’t have much practice in fighting his own kind.

Azriel’s shadows rose like asps preparing to strike above his shoulders, as if sensing that this was not their beloved mate. No. This was an enemy this time. But he couldn’t hurt what was his.

“Let him go,” Azriel snarled.

Eris put a finger to his chin, tilting his head as if considering the prospect before scoffing. “No.” Then Eris leapt at him again. Azriel hadn’t been prepared this time- too much in shock to truly focus. His shadows reached out to cover his mate’s wrists in a desperate attempt to try and return him back, but it didn’t stop the dagger from lodging itself deep in his shoulder and twisting.

Azriel couldn’t help the pained groan that escaped him. He flared his wings and pushed forward quickly, grabbing Eris’s shoulders and pushing the male back. Though they were of equal strength, Azriel was stronger physically if they really tested themselves.

But the daemati had control over Eris’s magic at that moment and Azriel couldn’t help his yelp when the flames suddenly engulfed his hands. He wanted to scream and run, to get into the sky and never return-

He couldn’t though. This was his mate.

Azriel felt tears dripping out of his eyes as he pushed Eris back against a wall. “Come back to me,” he begged brokenly while staring into Eris’s beautiful fire-colored eyes.

“Please,” he continued.

Keep him held there, Rhys demanded in his mind. And release your shields.

Azriel really didn’t have the mental capacity to question Rhys at this moment, so he simply obeyed. The other daemati swept in, but Rhys met it head-on. Another presence joined the battlefield too- a softer type of darkness. Feyre.

A headache was beginning to bloom behind his temples at all the action occurring in his mind. More than anything though, his hands burned. The daemati was more distracted so the flames were certainly not as hot as they could be, but it still hurt.

Talk to him, Feyre ordered sternly. Bring your mate out of the fire.

Azriel let out a choked sob, his wings flaring behind him as he pressed toward Eris and rested his forehead against his mate’s. “Eris,” he begged. “I know this isn’t you. Come back to me. I know you wouldn’t-”

He cut off with a groan as the flames burned hotter. His flesh might be melting off to be honest. But he couldn’t let him go. Not now. Not ever. Azriel let another sob tear out of his throat as he pressed desperately into Eris.

“Come back to me,” he pleaded brokenly. “This isn’t you, Eris. You’re my mate. You’re mine. And you would never hurt me.”

Let go now, Feyre yelled over whatever clashing was occurring on the battleground between their minds.

“I can’t,” Azriel sobbed. He couldn’t let Eris go. Not like this. Not now. He needed his mate to know he was there and he would forgive him.

Az, let him go before your hands melt off, Rhys snarled harshly.

Azriel sobbed and stumbled backward. Eris remained standing against the wall as Azriel curled his hands toward his chest, shadows curling around them quickly, providing a soothing cold touch to them.

He kept his eyes open, watching Eris and watching his eyes. There was a flicker of fire there. Just a flicker.

“Eris,” he said again. The eyes went distant again and he snarled at the daemati, hoping the bastard could hear him over all the clashing. “Let him go. Let my mate go. Let Eris go, you-”

He couldn’t come up with an insult that could encompass all the hate he felt toward the being at this moment.

The bond flickered and Azriel clutched his chest. That put an idea in his head and he immediately brought all the love he felt for the male in front of him and shoved it down the bond as forcefully as he could. As well as some determination he hoped Eris would interpret as ‘You’re better than it. Fight back. You’re mine.’

Eris suddenly collapsed against the wall, body slumping into the floor. Azriel rushed forward before his head could slam into it as well. He cradled the male in his lap, tears still pouring down his cheeks. Everything was too much and not enough. He needed Eris, and that was about the only thing he could interpret.

“Eris, Eris, Eris,” he began repeating, pushing the hair out of his mate’s face desperately even as his shadows reported the door slamming open and Rhys with Cassian came running in.

They tried to grab his arms and drag him away but he fought harshly. “No! Don’t make me leave him,” he begged them. He needed to know his mate would be alright.

“We’ll get him too, Az,” Cassian said, pulling even more. “Rhys will get him. Come on, before your hands-”

Azriel held onto Eris even more, not wanting to leave his mate alone and afraid. Even if he was unconscious now, he would wake up and feel regret over something that wasn’t even in his control. He knew he would. But Azriel needed to be there so he could comfort him.

“Azriel,” Rhysand commanded sharply. “Let him go. Go to Madja.”

He wanted to disobey the command so badly, but his strength gave out and Cassian scooped him up onto his feet. Rhys picked Eris up into his arms and then they were winnowing straight into Madja’s clinic. Someone must’ve warned her because she already had a bucket of cold water that Cassian forced his hands into.

“Stay still,” Cassian ordered when he tried to twist and see where Rhys was taking his mate. “You’ve got to cool your hands down,” He told him. “Eris is just fine. He’s going to get checked out by Madja. You are going to get healed before your hands scar even worse with more permanent damage. Do you realize your skin is melting off?”

“But Eris-” Azriel tried to protest.

“Do not make me order you again, Az!” Rhys called from the other room. He saw Feyre winnow in as well, running toward where Rhys was. And Azriel was stuck here, useless, with his hands in a goddamn bucket. He couldn’t even feel the pain in the wake of knowing his mate was hurt.

He sobbed through his teeth. This was worse than his brothers burning his hands. This was so much worse than even the worst injuries he’s sustained in war or his line of work.

Feyre suddenly came up to him and her gentle presence ghosted along the edges of his mind before soothing something he didn’t even realize was tearing him apart from the inside it seemed like. The headache eased slightly.

“Is he okay?” He asked, looking up at Feyre. She had the most caring expression on her face and he wanted it gone.

“Rhys is with him right now,” Feyre told him. “Madja is there too, but you’re the main concern right now. He’s only going to have mental wounds. But Rhys can fix it, don’t worry,” she added on quickly when his face dropped.

“How?” He asked. “That kind of-”

“We caught it early and Rhys saw what was damaged in the fight. It’s okay, Azriel. He’s going to be okay. Now we need to make sure your hands are going to be okay, alright? Breathe and keep that even head I know you have. Eris is okay.”

Azriel sighed and slumped against whatever was nearby in relief. It ended up being Cassian. He trusted Feyre. Eris was going to be okay. And that was the only thing that mattered.

“Come on, Az,” Cassian urged, holding him up gently while still keeping his hands dunked in the water. “Your panicking will not help him if he wakes up.”

Azriel breathed and his shadows came up to whisper assurances that Eris was in the other room on a bed with Rhys and Madja. Cared for. He forced his body to come back from whatever super-adrenaline state it had gotten itself into.

“That’s it,” Cassian encouraged. “That’s good, Az. Do you feel any pain yet?”

At the mention, yes. His hands burned and not in any sort of good way. He didn’t dare look into the water. He probably couldn’t anyway since it was bloody. That probably wasn’t a good sign. The stabbing in his shoulder hurt, but it was duller than his hands at the moment.

“Yes,” he gritted out, huffing out some breath to suck more in anew as the pain now took over his being.

“I’ll get Madja,” Feyre said.

“No-” He said. “Leave her with Eris. I’m okay.”

“Eris is unconscious and Rhys is fully capable of caring for him. I’ll go over there too to help. But you need healing.”

Azriel sighed, knowing this wasn’t something Feyre would allow so he gave up on the argument early. “Okay,” he breathed. “Make sure he’s alright. Please.”

Feyre left and Madja was walking in quickly. “Get your shadows to cover your own eyes,” She ordered. The shadows, not completely under his will at the moment, took initiative and covered his eyes while she pulled his hands out of the cold water. They were numb in some places and burning in others.

Madja let out a harsh breath. “Do not lift that blindfold,” she told him and then the burning returned tenfold and he knew she was pushing healing magic into his hands. Cassian kept him restrained even as he tried to keep screams from bubbling out of his throat.

Alas, he could only stop them for so long and they soon spilled out. He lost any and all breath in his lungs all too quickly. Probably a good thing. Cassian kept him in a firm hold which grounded him somewhat but it hurt.

When he was finally given a reprieve, he was halfway towards passing out. When the pain mostly receded to a harsh ache, he finally drew in breath and slumped back against Cassian with his eyes closed.

“Come on, Az,” Cassian encouraged. “Let’s get you over to Eris, alright? Madja will wrap your hands there.”

Azriel could barely spare a hum of acknowledgement before he was being manhandled to his feet and forced to walk on shaky knees with droopy eyelids. His shadows had dropped back down to his hands, covering them from sight. Maybe that was a good thing, he decided. As soon as he saw Eris, he tried reaching out for his mate, but Cassian slapped his arm down.

“You are not using your hands, Az. Sit your ass down,” Cassian ordered. His brother helped him get out of his armor and leathers so he was just in his undershirt and pants.

He was forced to sit on the stool nearby, but was allowed to scoot it as close as possible to Eris to lean down over the bed and rest his forehead against Eris’s skin, breathing his mate’s scent in. It calmed his nerves just enough for him to finally take a deep breath.

Madja came in and forced him to hold himself up for a few more minutes while she wrapped his hands in white bandages as well as his shoulder. Then he was allowed to rest. Rhys pulled away from Eris eventually and he perked up, looking at his brother.

“He’ll be alright,” Rhys assured him. “At most, he won’t remember the fight, which I’d say is a mercy.”

Azriel sighed in relief and rested his head back down into Eris’s now cold palm since he couldn’t hold it properly. There, he fell asleep.

–––––

Azriel didn’t know how much time passed when he awoke. His hands ached like none other and if he had to be honest: everything hurt. Apparently, almost having your mate be gone to mind control by a daemati gave you some really bad tension to deal with. Specifically in his shoulders which were always the hardest to get at. Impossible now because of the thick bandages on his hands. The stab felt as if it’d already healed over. Perks of Illyrian healing, he supposed.

He lifted his head from wherever he was laying and squinted when he looked to his left and saw an empty bed.

“Eris?” He said aloud, sitting up and glancing around more. Someone must’ve moved him to the bed. But where was his mate? Azriel needed to be with him.

Suddenly, a burst of calm exploded from his chest and Azriel gasped for breath, not even realizing he’d been holding it. The bond. Thank the fucking Cauldron it was back. It meant that Eris was awake and okay enough to not be… well, dying.

Azriel groaned as he stood up, flexing his wings out behind him as he stared down at his hands. For Madja to have wrapped them so much he couldn’t even move his wrists… he must’ve gotten burned quite badly, he deduced. But, priority number one was finding Eris.

He tugged on the bond once, slowly wandering out toward where Madja usually sat in her clinic.

Eris was beside her.

Azriel breathed deeply at last, relief coursing through his veins at the sight of his mate being awake and even having a conversation with Madja over something relating to some sort of bright orange plant that looked like fire. He stumbled his way over there as quickly as he could, wrapping his arms around Eris and pressing his nose into the junction of his neck and shoulder to breathe in his scent.

Eris, however, had frozen. And that sent ice barreling through Azriel. What had happened?

“Hi Az,” Eris said hesitantly.

Azriel pulled away immediately, coming around to see Eris from the front to try and discern what the problem was.

For some reason, he had a guilty look on his face. Not a joking one- no, it was similar to the one he had when he figured out he’d accidentally forgotten something in court which led to the death of some farmers. A broken sort of regret.

“Eris, what’s wrong?” Azriel asked, brows furrowed in concern. “What happened? Did someone do something before I woke up? I’ll kill them for you with or without my hands,” he said, rage already pooling in his heart at the thought of someone making his mate feel this sort of guilt.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Eris waved him off, averting his gaze to the ground. “Nobody did anything besides that damned daemati.”

“I’m already killing him,” Azriel said to try and assure his mate. “I’m going to find him, tear his head from his shoulders and put it on a pike. Give the body to the scavengers and the head can be a personal trophy until it decays.”

A small chuckle came out of his mate’s chest and Azriel warmed up considerably, glad he could at least get that out of Eris. A chuckle was a start.

“Come on, Eris,” Azriel said, bringing his bandaged hands up to cup Eris’s cheeks. “Tell me what’s wrong. I’m not blind.”

Eris sighed and then gently grabbed Azriel’s forearms to hold his hands up. “This is what’s wrong,” he pointed out as if it was obvious.

Azriel’s brows furrowed. Then he realized. “Eris, these are not your fault. These are that bastard’s fault.”

“It was my fire that burned you, Az,” Eris argued, releasing his hands and standing up.

Madja stood as well. “I’ll let you two talk this out. Let me know if someone starts dying,” she says as she walks out.

Azriel looked at Eris, checking him from top down for any injuries or other apparent signs of his emotions. Both males had tells even if they were masters at hiding away.

“It was your fire controlled by that bastard,” Azriel argued, pressing forward. He paused when Eris backed up, even more concerned. It’d been centuries since Eris had backed away from his comfort. 

“Eris,” he spoke softly. “I would’ve held you back even if my wings were burned off my shoulders. It is not your fault. Take away that guilt from your mind right fucking now. I could’ve let go the instant the daemati lit the flames, but guess what? I didn’t, did I?”

Eris looked sheepishly now and Azriel opened up his arms.

“It’s okay, Eris. You would never hurt me. I know that. You should already know that,” Azriel insisted. “My hands will heal in time. There’s a reason Madja is so esteemed as a healer. And I’m pretty sure she even got to the burns faster than the guards did when I was 8. The only reason I can speak about that night and not fear the flames is because of you.”

Eris now had tears running down his face and Azriel dared a step forward.

Eris didn’t move, but he didn’t come closer either. “I’m sorry,” Eris whispered, closing his eyes.

“You would never hurt me,” Azriel repeated.

“Your hands-”

“I don’t give a fucking shit about my hands,” Azriel cut him off. “I’d rather my entire arm be torn off than be in a world where you’re controlled by a daemati. Don’t you realize that? I would do anything to protect you. My hands being burned is the least of my worries.”

“Az, I still burned you. In the worst of places,” Eris argued.

“You did not burn me,” Azriel insisted. “You would never hurt me. Trust yourself on that, huh? Trust me on it at the very least.”

Eris choked on a sob and Azriel opened up his arms again. Finally, finally, his mate went stumbling into his comfort.

“I should have fought harder against his control,” Eris said, voice broken and muffled against Azriel’s shoulder. “I could have. But it was just so hard. It felt like everything in my mind had gone under ice, yet I could feel the heat escaping me. Burning you. I tried so hard and it didn’t work-“

“Shh…” Azriel hushed, holding Eris as tight as he could. “You did the best you could, Eris. The fact you even still remember the experience is a miracle in itself. Daemati can be very damaging. Can scratch memories. Rhys was able to repair them but I was so worried about you. You have no clue.”

Eris sobbed wetly into his shoulder and Azriel felt tears slipping down his own cheeks as well. He let his emotions flow freely over the bond. Eris’s were still a mix of guilt, but now it was more of a lost hopelessness than true guilt. More of a “I don’t know how to fix this” kind of look.

“There is nothing that you did wrong,” Azriel whispered. Eris hugged him tighter and he smiled, squeezing him back as well. His shadows were helping him give more force behind it since he was unable to use his hands and the damn plush of the bandages did not help.

“I don’t know what happened beyond the fact I burned you,” Eris admitted. “I was caught off guard since I was tired and waiting for you to come home. He just… snuck between my mental walls and latched on like a damn leech.”

“You need to rest more. Now that we know we’re dealing with a daemati, we need to keep mental shields sharp. But luckily we have some of the most powerful daemati on our side. It’s already two against one,” Azriel joked.

Eris chuckled and finally pulled away to meet Azriel’s eyes. “I’m going to help you heal your hands,” he declared. “I’ll help you with everything. Anything. Writing? Done. Massage or oil? Done.”

“If this is you trying to make up for a fake mistake, don’t,” Azriel said seriously.

“This is me helping my mate through an injury,” Eris replied, giving a small reassuring smile despite the obvious signs he’d been crying not even a few seconds ago.

“Good,” Azriel told him. “I’ll definitely take you up on the writing part. I’ve got to write down things about what happened. See if we can piece together clues. And maybe it’ll help you piece together your memory,” he added.

Eris nodded. “Anything,” he repeated.

“But first,” Azriel said, putting one bandaged hand up, “We’re going to bathe because we both stink.”

Eris couldn’t help the laugh that exploded from his chest and it made Azriel all the merrier. He loved making him laugh like this.

“Agreed,” his mate replied. “Maybe we should talk to Madja about the wrapping of your hands first?”

Azriel nodded in agreement. “Then a warm bath,” he added. “I may take you up on the massage you mentioned,” he joked. “My shoulders ache.”

“You were sleeping on a goddamn stool when I woke up,” Eris said, scoffing in amusement. “Of course your back is hurting, bat. You should have laid in the bed not even two feet away.”

“I needed to be close to you,” Azriel admitted. “I thought I wouldn’t sleep like the dead and be awake with you but…”

Eris chuckled. “You always sleep like the dead when your face is buried in my scent. Honestly, you shouldn’t have expected any differently.”

Azriel rolled his eyes. But the little banter also assured him that Eris was truly okay. At least for now, those thoughts of guilt had been warred against and lost.

Cassian came jogging in loudly suddenly and he sighed in relief when he spotted them. “Thank the fucking Cauldron you are both awake,” he panted. “Az? How are your hands?”

“Hurt, but they’re fine,” Azriel dismissed. “How bad were they?”

“You do not want to know,” Cassian replied.

“I would,” Eris spoke up. “After all, who knows how to heal burns better than the Fire Lord who deals them out?” He said. But luckily, his tone was lighthearted. No guilt to be seen. If there was, Azriel would’ve slapped the back of his head to reprimand those feelings.

Cassian hesitated, but then sighed. “Skin was practically melted off. Some parts were down to the bone. Bloody as hell,” he briefly described.

Azriel sucked in a breath, gazing down at his own hands. How had he not felt that? Apparently, his concern over Eris had been that powerful. Eris also seemed frozen in shock.

Cassian shrugged. “They looked better after Madja used all her healing magic on them. I think the only thing she was concerned about was the potential damage to your sense of touch, Az. Like, light touches.”

Azriel hummed in response. “It certainly wouldn’t be any different than the aftermath of my old injury,” he admitted. “Just takes a few years for it to return to normal.”

Cassian hummed. “Well, anyway, I was just coming here to check up on you,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his head.

“We’re fine,” Azriel assured his brother. After a moment of hesitation, he sighed and said, “Thank you, Cass. You kept a level head.”

Cassian scoffed. “Someone had to. You should’ve seen Rhys. He was practically catatonic with the mental battle. I’m surprised his or your head didn’t burst. Or Eris’s for that matter.”

Eris chuckled softly at that, but didn’t say anything. Azriel glanced at him before stretching his arms out best he could without the use of his hands. “Anyway, we’re off to get clean,” he declared.

“Tell Rhys the Autumn Court isn’t getting one of my brothers as ruler just yet,” Eris joked.

Cassian chuckled and nodded. “Don’t die,” he replied with a snicker before walking back where he came from. Wing beats told them that he’d actually left.

Madja was walking back in too. “While I’d rather keep your hands wrapped, Azriel, I do agree that you two need to bathe,” she explained. “I’ll unwrap them, but they’re going back on immediately after.”

The shadows floated towards her, some settling on the bandages of his hands as if in question to continue the order she gave them last time.

“I believe it will be alright if he sees his hands now, my friends,” Madja told them with a sweet smile. “Let’s get them unwrapped now.”

Barely fifteen minutes later, Azriel and Eris were sitting together in the bathtub, mostly just relaxing. Azriel pulled his hands up out of the lukewarm water (more strict instructions from Madja) to examine them. His old scars… were almost gone. As if burned or melted away. Instead, deep indents remained. His hands felt as if they had lost weight and he couldn’t move his fingers yet, but Madja had told him the muscles still needed time to realize they weren’t melted anymore.

Regardless, it looked odd. The skin was pulled tight. But something felt off about them.

Eris put a hand on his wrists to put his hands back in the water and draw his attention. “It’ll just take time,” Eris assured him.

“I don’t think I’ve heard of burns this bad,” Azriel admitted.

“I have,” Eris said. “Normally it took a few years, but they did eventually heal if they survived the initial burning.”

Azriel hummed. “Guess you’ll be doing the paperwork for a while,” he joked.

Eris scoffed, smiling. “Indeed I will,” he agreed.

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

A/N: hope you enjoyed (and cried at least once because I SOBBED while writing this)

Tagged in all ACOTAR Stories: @bunnymallowo, @officiallyunofficialperson, @margssstuff, @rebloggiest-reblogger, @inpraizeof, @graciereads, @eos-princess, @bubybubsters, @fieldofdaisiies, @skyesayshi, @lilah-asteria,

Tagged in all Azriel Stories: @ladylokilaufeyson5, @marina468,

[theboyskisser]

Got recommended jjk and this is about all I've gotten from the show since starting it