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afewproblems · 2 years

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'Harring' flashes on the caller ID again, illuminated in bright green on the handheld phone in their kitchen.

It's the third time they've called today and Steve is anxious.

He hasn't heard from his parents in the last six years since he cut off all contact with them, so to see their name come up so many times all in the span of an afternoon is...well it's worrisome to say the least.

"Are you going to pick up," Eddie says as he comes up behind Steve, he drapes himself over his lovers back and nuzzles into his ear.

Steve smiles tightly and breathes out, "I don't know".

He turns in Eddie's arms to face him and brings his own arms around Eddie's lower back, holding him loosely.

"It's weird, right?" Steve says softly, "what do they want?" He slides his nose up and down Eddie's own before tipping his face up to his the tip of it.

Eddie hums, "well you won't know unless you answer love," he answers Steve's kiss with one of his own, soft against his lips, "if they call again, maybe pick up?"

Steve nods and flinches as the ringer starts up again behind them.

He breathes in deeply through his nose and out slowly through his mouth, Eddie brings up a hand to cup Steve's jaw and slides his thumb over his cheekbone.

"You got this," Eddie whispers, "if they say something shitty, just hang up, fuck em".

Steve nods and whirls around to snatch the phone off the console, he bites his lip for just a moment before saying a quiet, "Hello?"

"Steven?" A soft voice cracks wetly over the speaker and a sudden chill spreads over Steve's back.

"Mom?"

"Steven, honey," Diane Harrington says softly in a tone he's never heard before, "I need you to come home".

Steve turns around, Eddie is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, Steve feels his face contort with confusion which Eddie answers with a tilt of his head, "what? Mom, no--"

"Steven honey, this is important--"

"No offense," Steve intejects harshly, he's gripping the phone so hard the plastic creaks under his fingers. Eddie's concerned gaze has him releasing the phone from his death grip in a matter of seconds, but it's hard. He's right back there, nineteen years old again, in a screaming match with his dad in the living room, a red handprint blooms over his jaw as he tells Robert Harrington to, 'go fuck himself,' one last time.

"But, you don't get to do this, it's been years mom so forgive me if--"

"Steven, I'm, I'm sick".

Steve stops, his mouth opens and closes as his mother chokes on a broken sob, it comes through tinny and harsh over the speaker.

She tells him of the diagnosis, some form of leukemia, how it's spread much more rapidly than the doctors anticipated, how she refused treatment.

"I'm not going to spend the rest of my time in a hospital with no hair in one of those godawful hospital beds if I can help it Steven".

They talk for awhile, or really Mrs. Harrington talks for another half hour while Steve stands there silently with the phone in his hands. He nods every now and again but the movements are stiff, Eddie paces around the living room, stopping in front of Steve's eyeline every now and again.

"Okay," Steve finally says, his voice cracks just slightly enough to make Eddie cross the living room towards him.

"Mom...I don't know what you expect me to do?"

"Baby?" Eddie whispers, he stands just off to the side trying to catch Steve's eye.

"No, no--no! Mom, I thought I stopped being a Harrington a long time ago, right?" Steve snarls into the receiver, "you had so many opportunities to tell Dad he was wrong but you just sat there, what else am I supposed to think except that you agree with him?"

"Baby, just hang up--"

"Mom, Ma' you have to stop, I'm not coming back, I'm so-".

His mouth snaps shut and a deep flush begins to rise up his neck and over his cheeks, his eyes glassy.

"I'm sorry you're sick, but I'm not coming back, Goodluck".

Steve removes the phone from his ear, little snippets of words and crying trickle through over the speaker as Steve places the handset back on the dock.

"Baby," Eddie tries again, he reaches out tentatively, slowly letting his hands smooth over Steve's arms at the shoulder.

Steve shakes his head, his jaw clenched as his face crumples, he lets Eddie pull him into his chest and tucks his head into the juncture of Eddie's neck and shoulder.

Steve feels Eddie bring them slowly to the floor as he tries to slow down his breathing.

"I'm so sorry baby," Eddie whispers, pillowing his check onto Steve's head, he nuzzles the fluffy hair just once and squeezes Steve tighter.

"I don't, I just, where was this when she was healthy, it's..." Steve takes a deep breath, "why now, and she's not even sorry --neither of them are," he whispers into Eddies collarbone.

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, he stays quiet, listening to Steve's breathing stop and start.

"I don't want her to be sick, but I just," he sniffles, "it's not fair, I'm so angry with her, with them both --its like they get a pass for being so shitty for so long--"

"No, no they don't, not if you don't want to," Eddie says, the words are soft but the tone firm, "you don't have to give them anything you don't want to".

"But--"

"Steve," Eddie pulls back just enough for Steve to raise his head, he lifts his hand to cup Steve's cheek, "it doesn't make you a bad person to not want to see her, to see them".

Steve starts to shake his head but Eddie's hand remains steady on his cheek.

"Do you want to see her?" He asks after a beat.

"I, I don't know," Steve pulls his lower lip into his mouth and chews the corner of it until he tastes copper, "I don't..."

Eddie tilts his head and sweeps his thumb across Steve's cheek in encouragement.

"I don't want my mom to die, I want her to want to fucking fight for herself, for me --she's just giving up again, she's just deciding to quit without even trying to be my mom," he chokes out, his voice breaks as tears finally spill down his cheeks.

"I'm not, I'm not explaining it right," Steve bites out, raising his hands to grind harshly into his eyes, "I don't want to forgive her, but I, I think I would if she would just try, I don't know what to do," he trails off as his voice wobbles and wanes, he breathes out harshly and lowers his face back into Eddies neck.

"Okay," Eddie whispers into Steve's hair as he brings Steve closer, bundling him up in his arms, "you don't have to know what to do or how to feel, especially not right now".

Eddie squeezes Steve once more before shifting to his knees to stand. He hoists Steve to his feet and leads him to the kitchen before depositing him in a kitchen table chair.

Eddie busies himself at the stove, moving the half full kettle from the far burner to the largest left coils, he flicks the element on and lowers the whistle back to alert him when the water boils.

"Did I ever tell you how I handled my mom's funeral?" Eddie asks, banishing the quiet from the room and almost startling Steve.

"I yelled at the casket," Eddie says with an air of non-chalance that does not match the words. He grabs two mugs from the cupboard before grabbing a box of tea from the pantry. He leaves the prepped cups on the counter before turning back around to face Steve.

"It was open, shouldn'ta' been," he continues with a shake of his head, "rural town, mortician wasn't used to working on overdoses so, they couldn't quite cover up the purple".

Steve reaches for Eddie's hands as he comes back to the table, in three slow strides. He smiles but a long sigh escapes Eddie as he sits in the chair next to Steve.

"I was thirteen, and I was so, so mad at her for leaving me," Eddie murmurs, "I couldn't help it, Uncle Wayne had to take me home before it was even over".

Eddie raises his head to meet Steve's eyes, "I felt like shit after though, probably cried all night once we got home".

"Im going to tell you what Wayne told me," Eddie says softly, he scoots to the edge of his seat, until his knees are brushing Steve's own.

"When you lose someone that made your life hard, you grieve more than just that person, you also grieve all that lost potential, everything you didn't have with that person," Eddie squeezes Steves hands once more before gently letting them go. He stands up as the kettle begins to squeal from the stove.

"Everything they never gave you and the possibility that they could change, it's like--like that physics guy," Eddie laughs, waving his hands at Steve's confused expression, "you know the one with the cat?"

Steve shakes his head, a small watery smile begins to bloom over his face as Eddie continues to make their tea and explain.

"You'll never know if they could have been better to you because they died, so they both are and aren't a good parent simultaneously," Eddie says, linking his fingers together, "shit, I bet Dustin could explain this better".

He walks their filled mugs over to the table and takes his seat again

"I dunno about that Eds," Steve mumbles as he wipes his eyes, "when did you get so wise?"

"'All Wayne sweetheart," Eddie hums with a soft grin that pulls at the corners of his eyes, he reaches out to wipe a stray tear from Steve's cheek, "don't tell him though, he doesn't need the ego boost".

Steve barks out a laugh, before Eddie pulls him into another tight hug, "so, you don't have to know how you feel right now, okay?"

"Okay".

Steve isn't sure how long they stay like that, but by the time Eddie let's go, their tea has gone cold.

#thank you fic #some angst #but also comfort #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steve x eddie #steve harrington has bad parents #cw cancer #cw overdose #we love a protective and wise uncle wayne in this house #eddie also gives good advice but thinks hes bad at it #steve whump #thank you for the 500 follows everyone #angst as a thank you fic? its more likely thank you think

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gloomysoup · 11 months

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when the world stops turning (my heart stops beating)

hello hello i bring you some actual writing for once how exciting !! this is based off this post by @acowardinmordor once i saw it my brain just wouldn't stop until i fleshed it out into something relatively coherent so here it is !! if this does well i'll probably put it up on ao3 later

ao3 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4

cw: drugs, illusions to drug abuse and overdose, minor character death, illusions to major character death (probably temporary), panic attack, medical crisis

When Eddie was eight years old, he found his mother on the bathroom floor, a half-empty bottle of pills in her hand. She wouldn't wake up. Eddie hadn't known what to do, so he wandered across the way to his favorite neighbor’s house. Mrs. Westbrooke was an older widow who'd lived in the same house for decades. Once Eddie had told her his mom wasn't waking up, she called for an ambulance. The paramedics came and took his mom to the hospital. Eddie stayed with Mrs. Westbrooke until Wayne came to pick him up.

That was the first time he spent more than a night or two at Wayne’s. It was about a week and a half before he was taken back home. The same thing happened a year and a half later. His mom passed out on the kitchen floor that time, and it was a baggie of colorful pills instead. Something she'd gotten from a friend of his dad. Something his dad had gotten her hooked on several months prior, when the doctor stopped writing her prescriptions. He was with Wayne for three days before his dad came to get him. Two weeks later, he was on Wayne’s doorstep with a single bag of everything he owned, his dad behind bars. He'd been with Wayne ever since.

His uncle had made a promise to him that first night, when Eddie finally realized this was it. He was with Wayne for good. There was no going back. He'd promised Eddie none of that would ever happen again. He didn't have to worry about Wayne disappearing in the flashing red and blue lights. He wouldn't find him half-dead on the floor of their trailer. He was safe. Eddie believed him. For years, Eddie believed Wayne was right. He'd never once let Eddie down before. He was always there. He took him in when he had nowhere else to go.

Too bad Wayne couldn't have predicted this.

New York City. June 1994. A sold out show at Madison Square Garden. Eddie on stage with his best friends. His boyfriend watching from the wings. How it was always supposed to go.

The air was fizzing with energy. The crowd was screaming so loud. Eddie’s heart was pounding, blood rushing with adrenaline. He kissed Steve hard in the green room, a promise between them of more to come. Steve wished him luck, and it was time to take the stage. They'd finally made it. All their hard work was paying off.

About halfway through the set, Steve disappeared. Eddie wasn't worried. He didn't know he should've been. When they came off stage, the crowd was still screaming, and the band was riding the high of a great show. It felt amazing. It was more than they ever dreamed, growing up the way they did in a town like Hawkins. Eddie was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

“Anyone seen Steve?” he asked, handing off his guitar and starting to pull off his mic pack.

“Not for a while,” one of the techs responded. “Said something about the bathroom, I think, but he never came back.”

Eddie frowned, a little confused. It wasn't like Steve not to be there when he came off stage.

“He's probably just waiting in the green room, Ed,” Gareth said, knocking his shoulder against Eddie’s as he passed. “I'm sure there's nothing to worry about.”

Eddie didn't hang around with the others. He headed straight for the green room, hoping Gareth was right. There was a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. The same feeling he got all those years ago, right before he opened the front door to find his mom on the kitchen floor. It ate away at his insides, churning deep and uncomfortably. His heart was racing, and it was no longer due to the high energy of the show. Panic was coursing through his veins.

His hand hesitated on the door to the green room. He felt eight years old again, knocking on Mrs. Westbrooke’s door when he couldn't wake his mom up to make dinner. His hands trembled as he grabbed the knob and twisted, easing it open. The room was empty. Eddie’s heart plummeted. Steve wasn't there. Steve was missing, and Eddie had this horrible feeling spreading through his entire body. He still wasn't sure why the feeling was there; he had never once had a reason to believe Steve was doing anything harder than weed. It was still there, though, and Eddie was panicking. He needed to find Steve. He had to make sure Steve was okay.

He headed for the bathroom next. The techs had said he went to the bathroom. Maybe something happened. Maybe he hit his head and couldn't remember where he was. The feeling said otherwise, but Eddie refused to believe it. He was overreacting. Steve was fine.

He was lying to himself.

The bathroom door was unlocked. He pushed it open, knocking. “Steve? Are you in here?” he called. He could barely hear through the rush of blood in his ears. He stepped inside, and he was sure his heart stopped beating altogether.

Just like that, he was ten years old. His mother was dead on the kitchen floor. Mrs. Westbrooke held him on her front porch as his mother was taken away in a blur of red and blue. He was ten years old, watching Wayne’s old pickup coming up the drive. Through the pounding in his ears, he could faintly hear the gravel crunching under the tires of the red truck. An odd comfort. A reminder of safety. What he wouldn't give to have that again right now.

“She wouldn't wake up, Uncle Wayne,” Eddie said softly, his voice trembling as a few tears rolled down his cheeks.

Wayne bent down, his old knees creaking, and pulled Eddie into a tight hug. “I'm sorry, Ed.” He squeezed tighter, letting Eddie bury his face in his worn flannel. “You're gonna come stay with me for a couple days, ‘til everythin' gets settled.”

“I don't got any clothes, Wayne.”

“Don't you worry ‘bout that right now. We’ll figure somethin’ out. I promise it’ll be alright.”

Steve was lying on the bathroom floor. Eddie couldn't breathe. There was a bag of colorful pills, so similar to the ones his mom had taken, sitting on the sink counter. Next to it was a line of white powder. Eddie’s vision blurred with tears as he dropped next to Steve, shaking his shoulder.

“Steve? Steve, baby, wake up. Please wake up.” Eddie was gasping for breath through his sobs as he tried to shake Steve awake. It wasn't working. He wasn't waking up.

“Mama? Mama, come on. You gotta get up.” Eddie crouched down next to her, shaking her shoulder. “Mama, please. You can't sleep on the floor.”

“Please, baby,” Eddie begged, pulling Steve into his arms on the bathroom floor. “Please. I can't lose you too, Steve. You gotta wake up. Please wake up.”

“Eddie? Are you okay?” The bathroom door opened. Jeff walked in, stopping dead in the doorway. It only took a few seconds for him to gain his bearings and jump into action. He crossed quickly, bending down next to them. “Shit. What happened?”

“I- he- he won't wake up, Jeff,” Eddie sobbed, still holding Steve tightly.

“Okay. Okay, let's not panic yet.”

The cracks in Jeff’s voice were not comforting. Eddie was already panicking. He'd been panicking since the feeling started to solidify, since he didn't find Steve in the green room. Eddie was well past not panicking. Eddie was teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack.

Jeff glanced around, took notice of the drugs on the counter, the way Steve’s chest wasn't rising or falling. He wasn't breathing at all. Jeff stood up quickly. “I'll go get help. I’ll be right back, Eddie. It's gonna be okay.”

Jeff ran from the bathroom. Eddie could barely hear the slap on his shoes on the linoleum in the hall over the sound of his own sobbing, the blood still rushing in his ears despite it feeling like his heart had stopped beating. He held Steve against his chest, burying his face in his hair. He silently begged the universe not to take Steve away from him. He wouldn't be able to handle losing anyone else. He needed Steve.

Eddie wasn't sure how much time passed before Jeff came back, paramedics in tow. All he knew was that Steve wasn't waking up. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he begged and cried, Steve wasn't waking up. His skin was pale and starting to grow cold. There's remnants of white powder on his nose. The paramedics try to move him from Eddie’s arms, but Eddie can't let go. He can't lose Steve.

“Eddie, you have to let go,” Jeff said gently, trying to tug Eddie’s arms off Steve.

Eddie shook his head. “I- I can't- can't, Jeff,” he forced out between sobs.

“The paramedics are gonna help him, Ed, but they can't do that unless you let go.”

“The paramedics are gonna try to help your mama, honey,” Mrs. Westbrooke promised eight-year-old Eddie as they watched from her porch. “Everything'll be alright, don't you worry.”

He missed Mrs. Westbrooke. He wished she were here to hold him, tell him he would be okay. He wanted to sit on her porch in the creaky rocking chairs, eating fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. He wanted safety and familiarity. It'd been a hard day for Eddie when the old woman died. He'd give anything to be back there with her, instead of here in this living nightmare.

Eddie reluctantly released Steve. The paramedics moved him to lie flat on the floor. Jeff’s arms wrapped around Eddie as he continued to sob. Eddie’s hands grasped at Jeff’s shirt. It was clean and dry. He must've changed after the show. Before he found them. The paramedics took Steve away, but Eddie couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. His whole body shook. He couldn't stop sobbing. Over and over, all he could think was that he felt like a little kid again, back when everything was falling apart. Steve was going to die, just like his mom did.

It was all Eddie’s fault.

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chisfics · 7 months

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the fck wrong with you ?? 😭😭

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angelwings-crossbowstrings · 8 months

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Whumpuary Day 25-26 & 29-31

Prompts: Can’t stay awake | “You’re safe.”

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Drugging, Overdose, Allusions to past child abuse

gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

“What the fuck are you doing?!” You shouted, keeping your eyes on Daryl while Tomi loudly rummaged through cabinets and drawers behind you. “Daryl. Daryl, stay awake.”

“M’tired.” The archer mumbled, eyelids heavy, breaths slowing before your eyes.

“Tomi!” You snapped again.

“They injected him with some sort of opioid. I need narcan.” Things were flying around, hitting the floor as the surgeon continued his frantic search. “How’s his breathing?”

“Too slow.” You shook Daryl again. Each time he responded, you felt a short lived relief but it never lasted long. “Daryl, stay with me. Look at me.”

“Y/N…tired…”

“I know but you can’t sleep.” Those normally sharp blues were dull, his pupils contracted to barely there black dots inside the pale cerulean. His eyes closed, head lolling forward. “Daryl? Daryl!” He inhaled sharply, giving you hope that he might regain a normal breathing pattern.

He didn’t.

“Can’t…can’t stay…”

“You have to. Just for a few more minutes okay?” You hadn’t seen when the man had used the syringe, only catching Daryl yanking it from his neck to angrily toss it aside before plunging his knife through the attacker’s skull. It wasn’t even a minute before the archer staggered back against the wall and slid down to where he still sat. “Tomi!” When Daryl’s eyes closed this time, he didn’t reopen them.

“I’m trying!”

“Daryl!” His breaths were further and further apart, agonizing torture to know that one would eventually be his last.

“If he stops breathing, you need to breathe for him.”

“Al-alright.” You could do that. You placed two fingers to his neck, counting the beats over and over, witnessing that number fall each time. “Please, please.”

“Got it!” Tomi dropped down beside the archer, foregoing any measure of sterilizing to just jab the needle into the muscle of Daryl’s bicep.

“What now?”

“We wait. He never stopped breathing. The narcan should level him out enough to move him safely.” The nod you gave was curt and unbidden, your sole focus was the rise and fall of Daryl’s chest. “Okay. Okay, good. It’s picking up. I’ll get a stretcher. Keep watching his breathing.” Another nod.

“Daryl, can you hear me?” Unresponsive. At least each breath was coming in at a slow, but steady pace. You could work with that for now. The wheels of the stretcher were loud in the otherwise empty hospital.

“Vitals are stable for now. I grabbed all the narcan but we need to have access to intubation supplies and IV fluids.” At your confused expression, he added, “I’ll need to insert a tube to help him breathe for a while if he struggles to on his own.”

You nodded calmly before the two of you struggled and fumbled to get Daryl onto the stretcher. Truthfully, the thought of Daryl needing a machine to keep breathing was horrifying. For that moment, you just continued to watch his chest, breaths remaining steady and unlabored.

It took only moments for an IV to be inserted and fluids to begin running into the archer’s hand. His breathing slowed only once more and one last dose of narcan was administered.

Hours later, Tomi concluded that Daryl was out of danger and would likely wake up at any moment. So you waited, instinctively listening for danger as employees returned to the hospital, the walkers having been cleared as well as the living threats, thanks in part to the man on the bed in front of you.

You couldn’t wait to get him home and sleep for at least a day, snug against his side with your head over his heart, able to hear each beat and feel each breath.

Finally, his fingers twitched in your hold, his head rolling back and forth on the pillow, face scrunching.

“Daryl?” You stood, leaning over him. He hated hospitals. The memories of so many visits when he was a child, broken bones and open wounds at the hands of his father. You wanted to be the first person he saw and heard, in hopes of easing that anxiety.

His eyes were clouded, tired and unfocused, when they finally landed on you. “Where ‘m I?” He slurred, still appearing to be exhausted and slightly influenced by the drug working its way through his system.

“You’re in the hospital. You’re safe and you’re gonna be okay.” You squeezed his hand, smiling when he weakly reciprocated.

“Tell me what happened?” His eyes were already trying to close, most likely without his permission but leaving him with no choice.

“When you wake up. I’ll tell you everything when you wake up.”

Daryl hummed and inhaled deeply before settling into a peaceful sleep; one you didn’t fear and from which you knew he would wake. For now, though, you’d rest your head on the hand holding his and count his breaths like counting sheep until you joined him in blissful unawareness.

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aftgficrec · 8 months

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hi besties! can i be a bit weird and ask for sick fics here? old/new/favorites, any will do! just some big ol’ hurt/ comfort, especially if combined with some emotional hurt/comfort 🥰

There’s nothing weird about this at all! Apart from the fics below, there’s also our sickfic tag as well as our hurt/comfort tag for more (see our tag page under the heading ‘themes - injuries/illnesses/conditions’). - S

Previous recs:

cool andreil sick fics here

sick fics here

foxes with headaches/sick fics here

10k+ sick fics here

Andreil in hospital here

Neil with major injury here

Neil gets injured (post canon) here

Neil & car accidents here

accident-prone Neil here

Andreil with amnesia here

medical Andreil/Aaron & Neil here

Neil getting roofied here

Also see…

‘we're one (there's nothing to be done)’ here

‘Just like that day’ here

‘head case (what to do with you)’ here

‘Such Stuff as Dreams are Made’ here

‘Neil Josten Is a Lucky Man’ here

‘Broken’ here

‘If Only I Were Enough’ (completed) here

‘I'll Come Back To You’ here

‘glass in the trees (objects in the rearview)’ here

‘Running Ragged’ here

‘To Love and Be Loved’ here

‘all that looking down’ here

‘next best thing’, keep telling me that it gets better (does it ever?)’ and ‘no matter when and where, we’ll be alright’ here

‘Can Nobody Hear Me (I cannot breathe)’, ‘I remeber tears streaming down your face (for me to wipe them away)’, ‘you crawled inside my head’, ‘living leaves so many holes in us’, ‘Ciggarette Smoke Cure’, ‘Breathless’, ‘i've done my time’ and ‘cats and close calls’ here

‘The Highs and Lows of Pre-med Majors' here (Aaron)

‘Hold My Hand?’ here

‘Echo’ here

I’m More Than This Body of Mine by yall_send_help [Rated M, 88811 words, incomplete, last updated Jan 2024]

The doctor took a pause, which Nathaniel was able to use to ask, “what about my leg?” The two pigs had the audacity to look surprised. The doctor looked over at them with a hint of confusion. “You didn’t tell him?” Towns shook his head as Browning said, “you told us not to.” Dr. Byrd nodded her head in approval and turned back to the bed. “Nathaniel…” she trailed off, reevaluating her words. “Would you mind if I sit?” and only after his own nod did she. “The damage done to your leg… it was unlike what most of the staff at this hospital had ever seen. The surgeons tried to save it, but…” She looked down at where his legs were and Nathaniel did too, only to feel himself pale at what he found. “The surgery took about three hours,” Dr. Byrd continued. “The only reason why it took so long was because the surgeons really did try to save your leg. They did. Amputations usually take only half that time. Eventually, Dr. McCoy called it. Because of the damage done to your leg, we couldn’t wake you up to ask. It had to go. I’m sorry.” or - the one where neil goes to baltimore and comes back missing a leg

tw: torture, tw: amputation, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: panic attacks, tw: blood, tw: animal cruelty, tw: implied/referenced drug overdose

fireproof by mostly_maudlin [Rated T, 2097 words, complete, 2024]

Andrew gets his flu shot.

Things Always Gets Worse Before They Gets Better series by Renee_Walker_09 [Rated G, 40141 words, incomplete, 3 complete works, 2024]

Part 1: Beginnings & Endings (G, 1083 words)

It's 1:30 in the morning. The Foxes are celebrating their championship win against the Ravens the only way they know how to: booze, partying, and a little bit more booze. Nothing could possibly ruin this?

tw: car accident, tw: major character injury

Part 2: You Mean Everything To Me (G, 12767 words)

There are two crashed cars. There’s blood on the floor. Lights are flashing all around. Andrew is standing in the middle of the crash site with a blanket draped across his shoulders as he stares straight at Neil, lying on the floor.

tw: car accident, tw: major character injury, tw: (temporary) major character death, tw: suicide attempt, tw: drug overdose, tw: blood, tw: self harm

Part 3: Hours, Days, Weeks (G, 26299 words)

Andrew is lying in a coma following the accident. His condition is critical. And Neil and Aaron have to find a way to cope. Neil and Aaron’s POVs of the crash and the past 6 weeks

tw: car accident, tw: blood, tw: major character injury, tw: (temporary) major character death, tw: self harm, tw: panic attacks, tw: seizures

NB: find art for the fics by the author here as well as embedded in the fics

Even goalkeepers can’t block sickness by BlowingYourMind [Rated G, 12768 words, complete, 2024]

“Rabbit,” Andrew peered up at him with half lidded eyes, “Yes or no?” “Yes ‘Drew,” Neil clasped his hands at Andrew’s elbows, “it’s always a yes, you know that.” “No ‘s not,” Andrew weakly argued as he took hold of Neil’s chest pad, using it to leverage himself upwards. It was awkward work of walking half-delirious Andrew back to the locker room, shielding him from the crowd while keeping him on his feet, but they managed. Or Andrew becomes very sick at an away game, and Neil and the foxes take care of him.

tw: vomit

the upswing by missgivings [Not Rated, 45569 words, incomplete, last updated Jan 2024]

The next universe over, life has gone a bit easier on Andrew. He’s gainfully employed as a nurse of all things, working beside his best friend Renee, and living in relative harmony with his brother, the recently graduated Dr. Aaron Minyard. Everything’s fine. It’s fine that he hasn’t spoken to Kevin in person for three years. It’s fine if Aaron’s leaving him to marry his stupid doctor girlfriend. It’s fine until the boy with the box-dyed hair stumbles into the ER and passes out at his feet, bringing a world of secrets and trouble with him. And Neil? Neil’s looking for any port in a storm.

tw: major character injury, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced self harm

please (don't bite) by Major_816 [Rated M, 5478 words, complete, 2024]

Genioglossus. It’s a fan-shaped muscle and forms the bulk of the inferior part of the tongue. It stretches to the hyoid bone too. ~ Neil wakes up to a bad day and it just gets worse.

tw: blood, tw: self harm, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: nightmares, tw: flashbacks, tw: vomit

Will you love me for who I am, not for who I was? by something_boring [Rated T, 1580 words, complete, 2024]

Neil is sick on New Year's eve, wakes up to the fireworks, and continues to have a panic attack about his time on the run.

tw: nightmares, tw: panic attacks, tw: implied/referenced child abuse

Your Needs, My Needs by TogeMythia [Rated T, 1073 words, complete, 2023]

‘Neil.’ He whined, his face still buried under the blankets. ‘Hrmph?’ Neil responded with a confused noise from somewhere across the bed. ‘Do you feel as shit as you sound?’ - Or Neil and Andrew wake up sick on Christmas day.

tw: vomit

To be safe by HushedStars [Rated G, 2116 words, complete, 2023]

Neil is feeling unwell. He seeks comfort from Matt. It was late at night. Neil stood in the kitchen, deep in thought but still with one ear alert for any movement of his roommates. He shifted from foot to foot, hands digging into his sore neck

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: panic attacks

Safe with him by 1mNot4Hum4n [Not Rated, 2434 words, complete, 2023]

Neil is sick but doesn't want to admit it. He can't be sick. He can't be weak. Luckily Andrew is there to make sure his junkie is okay, and remind him that he has people around him who are willing to do anything to protect him.

'tis the season by moonix [Rated T, 5579 words, complete, 2023, locked]

Five holidays Andrew had to let Kevin take care of him and one time he got to return the favour.

i called your name ‘til the fever broke by cyanica [Rated T, 5632 words, incomplete, last updated Nov 2023]

Neil’s breath is hot and awful against Andrew’s thigh. “I can’t be sick on your birthday,” he says, like it’s that simple. “I can’t be sick on you on your birthday.” “How considerate,” Andrew’s voice is a bland murmur, and he is left watching Neil’s bloodless, wet lips, as he curls into Andrew’s lap. Neil gently pulls away after a moment, leaning back into Andrew’s hand on his neck. “Is me being sick still making you anxious?” he asks. Fever-stricken with dizzied-eyes and delirious thoughts, he knows Andrew without more than a moment beside him, a look into his eyes that makes Andrew feel undone, found. Or Neil is sick and Andrew isn’t coping well.

tw: vomit, tw: panic attacks, tw: dissociation, tw: anxiety

You Know I'm Good On My Own by sambutwithbooks [Rated G, 4568 words, complete, Aftg Then And Now 2023]

Andrew breaks his arm two games into the season and it feels a little bit like Neil’s world snaps with it. (A snapshot of Neil and Andrew between Andrew coming home from the hospital and going back home to Palmetto State.)

tw: major character injury

that's my line by sillyunicorn6154 [Rated G, 1291 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew is definitely not sick. But he is a little stubborn.

You're not fine, but you will be by karmenvi [Not Rated, 616 words, complete, 2023]

Neil is sick, so Andrew takes care of him. So it was supposed to be a sickfic, but it turned into 'Andrew stares at Neil and thinks his boyfriend is the prettiest boy in the world.' Anyway, enjoy some fluff.

I'll be okay if he's here by obsessivereader156 [Not Rated, 1673 words, complete, 2023]

“Thank you, Drew,” Neil says for the twentieth time, feeling so lucky to have someone take care of him. “Say it again and I will kill you.” “You’re just so nice to me,” Neil says a bit deliriously, “I’ve never had someone take care of me when I’m sick.”

If it means losing you, then no by LostMess_24 [Rated T, 6712 words, complete, 2023]

There was something against his hand, a pressure he knew too well, a hand that fit so perfectly against his, making Andrew’s presence known, making Neil’s entire body relax, slowing his breathing a bit. But before Neil could see the man at his side, it hit him. He was starting to feel it, all around him. Those white walls, the mattress he was in, the soft yet old sheets, the pressure on his arm. And finally, unmistakably, the regular and aggressive beeps, signs of a life that was his own. He was in a hospital bed. There’s an accident. Those idiots would do anything and everything to protect each other.

tw: major character injury, tw: car accidents

cause and effect by mistyrie [Rated M, 13107 words, complete, 2023]

"Andrew realized what he was seeing but he couldn’t comprehend it. He didn’t know how to help. There was no enemy to deal with – there was just Neil seizing on the floor and Andrew didn’t know what to do." Neil starts having seizures and Andrew tries to help.

tw: seizures (epilepsy)

how the foxes act when they're sick by @detectivebambam [tumblr, 2024]

headcanons on the foxes and illness

headcanons on Neil getting sick by @24-0z [tumblr, 2022]

Neil doesn't get sick very often, so when he finally catches the bug that had been going around campus, he's suddenly 8 years old again, sweating and trembling with fever

SICK!Neil for my soul. by @satan-in-a-v-neck [tumblr, 2021]

Neil is acting strange. Ask every fox and they'll tell you that for the past three days Neil Josten wasn't acting very Neil Josteny.

tw: vomit

illness/injuries as background event:

The Songs Around Us by doodlingstuff [Rated M, 80075 words, complete, 2022]

The mission was simple: Nathaniel would join Astral Foxes as Neil Josten and make them part of Moriyama Music. In reality, Neil became real, found a home, and fell in love despite his lies. When the Moriyamas send the Butcher to remind Neil of his mission and Andrew's life ends on the line, Neil will have to find a way to escape his fate and bring Andrew back. As he gets closer to losing the man he loves the most, Neil will realize that sometimes, music is the only answer, and others, truth is the only weapon he can use. Another Band!AU. This time extra angsty.

tw: torture, tw: car accident, tw: major character injury, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: panic attacks, tw: violence

NB: find art for this fic by @doodlingstuff here

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fanfics4thefanatics · 3 months

Text

https://archiveofourown.org/works/39087498

#tim drake #jason todd #bruce wayne #dick grayson #alfred pennyworth #cassandra cain #janet drake #jack drake #overdosing #suicide attemt #fanfic #ao3 #dcu #fic rec

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ironstrange1991 · 22 days

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I see people talking about having multiple f/os and I think it's amazing, but to me it seems impossible. I can't imagine loving anyone other than Stephen. I mean, I love Tony, but it's platonic. I have never fallen in love with a character the way I am in love with Stephen and the very concept of f/o I discovered with him. Since then he has given me so much love and so much comfort, he has helped me deal with so much shit that has happened in my life in the last two years and I am so grateful to him for existing, even if just in his world.

#confession hours #I think I just had an overdose of stephen after reading a couple of fics #love him so much #doctor strange #f/o #self ship

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coffeebanana · 23 days

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Chapter 4: Churning Through A Dark Grey Sky

Adrien squeezed his eyes shut. He did his best to ignore scraping of chair legs against linoleum, announcing the doctor’s approach. He wasn’t ready for this. Exhaustion weighed upon him like a suffocating fog, and his whole body ached, muscles trembling like he’d run a marathon. In reality, he’d spent the early hours of the morning in the throes of full-body cramps, his heart beating overtime as sweat drenched his sheets. The last thing he wanted now, after being poked and prodded by nurses all day, was to have someone digging through his head, too. But he had to play along. To give the performance of his life. He needed to get the hell out of here.

#coffeebanana fics #mtl fic #miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #nino lahiffe #cw suicide attempt #cw depression #cw suicidal ideation #cw overdose

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jamiesfootball · 28 days

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Augusnippets Day 30

Alternate Prompt: overdose, self-harm

cw: drug use, overdose, attempted suicide, self-harm (by way of attempted suicide)

Summary:

“Roy,” Jamie’s voice breaks. “I did something stupid.” - Jamie made a mistake.

Here on AO3

“You’ve ever having one of those days where it feels like someone forgot to turn the lights on? Like you can still see everything and all, but that’s just your mind feeling in the blanks… It ain’t the same, ‘s not really there or nothing, and you know you should feel something about it, but it doesn’t… it doesn’t…”

Roy sets down his kitchen knife. Double-checks the screen on his phone, where the word ‘Prick’ is still proudly displayed at the top of the connected call. For reasons Roy can no longer remember, his profile picture is a photo of a gecko wearing a pink feather boa and sunglasses.

Nothing could be further away from the wet rasp on the other end of the line. The hoarse, dying slur, almost too low to hear.

Roy moves away from the cutting board and towards the windows, like having extra light will help him hear over the sudden pounding of his heart. “Where are you?”

A wet sniffle crackles at the other end of the line.

“At home,” Jamie says. Below the off-putting gravel, he sounds tired. “I haven’t left the house in days.”

“Well, that’s part of your problem. You need to go outside,” snaps Roy. He curses under his breath; his fucking shoe won’t go on. “Are you – listen, just stay there, alright?”

“Roy,” Jamie’s voice breaks. “I did something stupid.”

“No.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he chokes, an awful hacking that isn’t natural, too wet and violent. “I didn't feel good. I didn’t feel anything. I just wanted to feel better. I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“

“No. Listen to me now, alright? You’re gonna hang up. You’re gonna call 999.”

“No.” Roy can picture him shaking his head. “No, I can’t. I don’t want. it’s- its not that big a-“

He stumbles on the lie.

Roy grabs his keys. He doesn’t close the front door behind him.

“Jay, I’m on my way, okay? We’ll figure it out together-“

The call drops.

Roy doesn’t remember the drive. He pulls up to the front of Jamie’s house. Leaves the car running. Punches in the door code. Probably breaks the latch, because it takes an eternity to unlock and he doesn’t have the fucking time to wait before pushing his way through.

The house when he enters is stifling in its silence, with not a slice of life to be found.

The living room is empty. Roy rounds the kitchen, eyes drawn the tile, but there’s nothing – no body that’s gone cold. Nothing still and lifeless and moulded in the shape of his best friend.

He takes the stairs two at a time. If his knee screams, he doesn’t hear it. The distance between himself and the physical world remains at an arms length as Roy bangs open the bedroom door. The curtains are pulled shut to the world, and every mound of clothes on the floor casts shadows on the cave walls.

The bathroom is similar, empty and lifeless and undefinably wrong in a way that escapes Roy’s limited focus, beyond the fact that neither contains Jamie.

After he checks the guest rooms, his soul pulls him back towards the bedroom to stand in the doorway. It’s clawing at his chest, the feeling that he’s just missed him. That if stands on the precipice of this cliff, he’ll hear it. A pitiful whine, a croak, something, anything to prove there’s still air or a heartbeat or just a fucking chance that Roy isn’t too late.

But there’s nothing, and nothing is what walks down the stairs. Nothing stands in the middle of the living room, a lighthouse rotating back and forth looking for signs of life in a terrifyingly placid sea.

Small signals catch his attention, buoying him to one last strand of hope. Jamie’s bag, bright orange like a safety vest, waves for his attention. Jamie’s wallet with all its evidence of existence. His shoes; bright red, a happy red. Nothing like the scene Roy’s been envisioning. His cellphone charger-

His phone.

Roy fumbles his phone from his pocket. The stupid fucking gecko flashing across his screen when all Roy needs, all he wants, is a fucking glimpse of what he’s searching for.

He dials the number.

Billy Joel calls to him from outside.

Roy throws open the sliding glass door so hard he’s amazed it doesn’t shatter.

Sat against the wall of his house with knees tucked tight against his chest is Jamie. He stares up at him, stunned, his mouth mouth agape

“You told me to go outside,” he croaks.

His hair is stringy and unwashed under Roy’s hand. Tears streak his face. His complexion is sharply pale against the dark of his stubble, and his pupils blown unnaturally wide. Something chalky and wet sticks to his chin, and a matching patch on the back of his sleeve, and there’s apparently a whole upturned bottle of pills lost in the dark rank of his bedroom where Roy didn’t see it.

But he’s alive. Roy can feel his heartbeat where he presses him against his chest. He can feel warm puffs of air against his neck as Jamie sobs, as he apologises, as Roy rocks him, uncertain and unknowing of the future.

But he’s alive.

That’s a fucking start.

#augusnippets day 30 #augusnippets #ted lasso fic #roy kent #jamie tartt #cw suicide attempt #cw overdose #cw drug use #it's less dark than it sounds???

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reaper-in-reverie · 3 months

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The Boy Who Cried Wolf

note. tw for dark themes (it's dazai) such as suicidal thoughts and suicide attempts, depression, and overdose. all things dazai, in short (?). angst, angst, angst. i think i relate to dazai to some level. also, just to clarify, I'm not trying to portray the agency doesn't care for dazai, they do care for him and it's obvious, I just thought they don't take him seriously sometimes. turned out longer than I desired. ooc writing. wc. 905

Dazai's pen roughly scribbled word after word onto the piece of paper he held in his other hand.

"Please, just this once,"

His handwriting was messy yet still understandable. He stared at the paper for a moment, eyes growing hazy with tears that didn't dare fall; if this worked, he wouldn't have to live meaninglessly any longer, he wouldn't have to look for a justification for his miserable existence anymore.

Dazai quickly placed the piece of paper down on a nearby table, running it in his head if the paper would easily be spotted. Then he moved the table to the corner to make it more noticeable to anyone who could potentially walk in.

"Please, please, just this once, let me do it."

He shakily reached out to the pill bottle.

He stared at it for a moment.

He stopped himself.

It beckoned to him sweetly.

God, Dazai was so tired. He looked the opposite direction, to the wall where his calendar was hung. Today marked the fifth year since Oda's death. His dearest friend. He could feel Odasaku's stare, somewhere out there, and he could feel Odasaku be torn between letting the poor boy rest and wanting Osamu to live. Everyone had their limits.

"I'm sorry, Odasaku—" the words were erased as fast as Dazai had scribbled it into the letter.

He stared at the calendar a little longer, but he didn't think over what he was about to do. Instead he thought about how absurd the Agency was for being so used to him trying to kill himself—the suicidal maniac was always cheery, after all. Never tired. Always bothersome. The Agency would hardly bat an eye. Maybe Atsushi would ask around. That would be the end of it.

"He must be trying to drown himself again. That sorry waste of bandages—he'll come back."

How cruel of them to think he'd always return.

How kind of them to think he'd always return.

"I hope this works."

Dazai breathed out sharply, moving his head to the opposite direction once more, to the pill bottle at the side. He took it and poured some into his hands. Similar to how water escaped from the gaps of his fingers, some pills fell from his hands. He didn't bother to pick them up. This should be enough. This will be enough.

Another stare at his hands.

Then he let the pills drop into his mouth, letting them sit there before he took a glass of water and swallowed harshly, sealing his fate, the pills sliding down his throat with something akin to enthusiasm.

"Just this once."

Dazai paused, waiting for his vision to blur familiarly before attempting to make it back to his futon. Multiple bottles sat around where he hoped to have his final rest, and he stumbled on a few of them—what an ironic design for a coffin.

"Just this once."

He collapsed into the bed, turning his head just slightly to the calendar again. His head spun. His vision faded. He had not learned to begin to care.

"Let me die."

Let me die.

"Please, let me die."

Dazai still woke up.

And he wanted to die more than ever.

He put on a usual cheery smile on the way to work. He stared at the sears on his arms before wrapping a new roll of bandages over them. Yes, everyone would believe that they were there just for design so long they were clean. Yes, no one would suspect a thing.

The Agency wouldn't bat an eye, he thought.

He was just the silly waste of bandages.

"Kunikida-kun—!" Dazai chatted cheerfully, showing the newspaper he picked up to poor Kunikida. It was an article concerning the Agency. Dazai pretended to find it entertaining as he pointed to a pathetic shot of Kunikida.

"You look so manly here, don't you think?" There was a teasing lilt in his voice, which made Kunikida glower at him.

"Oh, you—I should just strangle you!" Kunikida groaned, rolling his eyes and turning away. Dazai laughed obnoxiously, placing the newspaper on Kunikida's desk. He started to walk off, but Atsushi managed to catch up to him before he could leave the office. The younger boy gave Dazai that bright smile, though it immediately morphed into a dismissive look upon processing Dazai's leave.

"Are you skipping work again, Dazai-san?" Atsushi asked, leaning by his desk.

"Of course that bastard's skipping work again," Kunikida rolled his eyes. Dazai looked back at him, his expression solemn for just a split second—before a smirk rose to his face once more. Kunikida hardly listened, anyway.

"You know me!" He waved, shoving his hands in his coat pockets as he made his way to the exit.

"Don't actually kill yourself, this time, Dazai-san!" Atsushi called one last time before Dazai shut the door on the both of them.

This time.

Dazai sighed, walking down the hall and into the elevator to escape the building.

Of course he wasn't actually planning on scurrying away from work. He was going to visit a certain grave. Where a death of five years lay. He was going to visit Odasaku. He was going to visit an old friend who sat peacefully beneath an old willow tree. He wondered if Oda waited for him, wherever he was. Dazai thought he was probably writing a story, living peacefully in the arms of death.

And, someday, Dazai hoped—that he, too, would follow him to where all stories ended.

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negativeyield · 9 months

Text

if i die before I bake

Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Swiss (Ghost Sweden Band), Phantom (Ghost Sweden Band), Dewdrop | Sodo, Rain (Ghost Sweden Band), Mountain (Ghost Sweden Band), Cumulus (Ghost Sweden Band), Cirrus (Ghost Sweden Band) Additional Tags: Recreational Drug Use, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, green out, Pack Cuddles, Crack Treated Seriously, well this was meant to be crack but it kind of veered away from that, Guilt, Marijuana, Panic Attacks, Vomiting, Swiss is fucking zooted Summary: Phantom bakes some homemade edibles for Swiss, but messes up a vital measurement.

read on AO3

“Hey Mountain,” Phantom said, appearing at his bedroom door. “You went on that weed run yesterday, right?”

The drummer was lying on his bed, idly scrolling through his phone. He rolled to his side to look at Phantom, nodding his head toward the dresser. “Top drawer. You having a smoke?”

“No, I’m gonna make some brownies,” Phantom grabbed the bag. “I accidentally took the last of Swiss’s edible he got in Amsterdam. Told ‘em I’d go to the dispensary with you... and then forgot... so I'm just gonna make some.”

Mountain chuckled, “Have you ever baked anything in your life?”

“Of course I have.”

Phantom had not. But how hard could it be?

“Okay, well if you want some help, let me know. I'll send you the link to the recipe we usually use.”

“’kay. Thanks Mount,” he said and made his way back to the kitchen.

Phantom had watched Swiss or Mountain make edibles on a few occasions, but he pulled up Mountain's recipe. He quickly realized it was a little more complicated than he thought. There was pre-baking, and making a butter, and making the brownies from scratch? Phantom looked at the box mix he found at the back of the pantry. It would have to do.

Soon, the kitchen was a wreck. Measuring cups and bowls were everywhere as Phantom filled their shared space with aroma of baked cannabis. It brought some of the other ghouls out of their room to investigate his baking endeavor.

“Fucking hell, Phantom, what are you doing in here?” Dew was the first to appear as Phantom took the roasted leaves out of the oven.

“My best,” Phantom wiped away some sweat from his brow, glancing at Dew. “This looks much easier when Swiss does it.”

Dew chuckled, hopping up to sit on the counter and watch.

“That’s because Swiss has seen every episode of Great British Baking Show and thinks that makes him star baker.”

Phantom threw some butter in a saucepan and started to combine the components of the brownie mix.

“I believe it. This shit is harder than I thought.”

Dew chuckled, jumping down from the counter and ruffling Phantom’s hair on his way out the back door. “Just follow the instructions, you’ll be fine.”

Phantom sighed, returning to his project.

Cumulus and Cirrus also came by, taking a few finger fulls of leftover batter after Phantom had his bake in the oven. Mountain came by briefly while he sat in front of the oven watching them rise.

“Looks good, Iron Chef,” he smiled, patting him on the back. “Did you make them with or without walnuts?”

“With.”

“Oh fuck, yeah. Be sure to save me one.”

Phantom smiled, feeling a bit better about his baking skills. When the brownies finally came out, they looked just like the ones the others have made. He cleaned up while they cooled, and delivered a generous piece to Swiss’s room for when he returned. Phantom thought about also enjoying one, but a text from Rain about a quick rehearsal tabled that plan. He cut himself a small sliver just to test out the taste, satisfied with the fudgey texture and gooey taste.

“Something is still missing,” Dew tapped his chin. They had spent the last hour and a half rehearsing some new bits for the rituals and testing out a few riffs. One in particular was giving them some trouble. “Maybe we should get Swiss down here. See if he has an idea or if adding a fourth balances it better.”

Rain put down his bass. “Yeah, I’ll go find him.” He left the practice room and headed toward the living quarters. In the meantime, Dew and Phantom continued to run through the bridge of the song.

Suddenly, rapid, running footsteps echoed up the hall. Both of the ghouls turned to find Rain looking pale and panicked.

“Something's wrong with Swiss,” he said, motioning for them to follow. They put their instruments down and ran to Swiss’s room. Phantom could hear the sound of retching from the hallway, which eerily stopped the moment they got into his room.

They found Swiss slumped beside the toilet, eyes unfocused as he barely registered Rain and Dew dropping to his side.

“Swiss,” Dew cupped his cheeks, trying to get the dazed ghoul to focus on him. “Swiss!” The only sound the ghoul made was some weak whimpering. The most he seemed to move was when he’d start to gag and lurch toward the toilet. Rain sat beside him, rubbing his back and looking at the others with concern.

“What do we do?”

“What is even wrong with him? He's sweating like he's back in the pits, but he doesn't feel feverish,” Dew said, hugging his arms across his body. “Food poisoning?”

“I don’t know, Dew, he’s pretty out of it.”

“Is he on something?”

Rain shrugged, “we just got back right before we started rehearsal. He didn’t have anything when he was with me.”

Suddenly, it dawned on Phantom. He looked back at the place he left Swiss’s brownie.

The plate was empty.

“Shit,” Phantom turned back to the others, suddenly starting to panic. “Shit, I made brownies earlier. Swiss had one.”

Dew’s eyes widened “How big?”

Phantom estimated with his fingers. “Not bigger than what Swiss has given me before.”

“Did he eat more than what you brought him or something?”

Rain stayed with Swiss while Dew and Phantom rushed to the kitchen where Mountain was coincidentally opening the pan of brownies.

“Mountain, wait!” Phantom yelled, startling the drummer into dropping the plastic knife on the ground.

“What?”

“Swiss is sick. Maybe because of the brownies,” Dew explained. Phantom grabbed the pan, sighing in relief to find only the piece he cut for Swiss missing.

“He only had what I gave him.”

“Well what was the dosage?”

“Whatever the instructions said, Dew, I don’t know!”

The room started heating up with Dewdrop as the epicenter. “Phantom, you saw Swiss— this is not the fucking time for I don’t know, I need some fucking number—”

“Guys,” Mountain yelled over them, the bag of weed, that now had a sizable dent in it, in hand. His face was especially serious. “Phantom, where is the extra butter?”

He stared at Mountain blankly. “What do you mean?”

“You followed the recipe I told you? Pre-baked the amount you usually see Swiss and me make, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then where’s the leftovers? The recipe is for triple the amount of butter you should have used.”

Phantom suddenly felt like he was going to throw up. “I-I didn’t know that.”

“Shit,” Mountain cursed as Rain called down the hall for more help. Mountain went running, leaving Phantom feeling numb and a majorly heated Dew.

“I thought you were following the instructions,” Dew said, his eyes starting to flicker red, like embers in a fire trying to kindle.

“I was, but I was looking at the butter recipe Mountain told me to use and also reading the back of the brownie box and— and, I guess… I guess I got confused,” Phantom ran his fingers through his hair, tugging on the roots. Dew huffed, turning to go back to Swiss’s room. When Phantom started to follow, the fire ghoul whirled around, eyes fully glowing now.

“You’ve done enough, Phantom. We’ll take care of him.”

He left Phantom standing awkwardly in the hallway, his guilt feeling like a tight wire wrapped around his neck. He stood there until his anger kicked in. Phantom marched into the kitchen, grabbing the pan of brownies and slamming them into the trash can with such force the metal pan bent at a ninety degree angle.

He was angry at Dew. At the fucking instructions for being confusing. At Mountain for not telling him when he was leaving for the dispensary. Really, he was just furious at himself. How did he possibly think that much weed was supposed to go into one batch of brownies? What kind of idiot didn’t double check the recipe when making an edible?

Phantom banished himself to his room, throwing around a few things before collapsing on his bed in a fit of guilt-soaked tears.

Rain think he preferred it when Swiss was vomiting.

After the last time he hugged the toilet, just as Phantom and Dew went to check the kitchen, Swiss had a moment of improved coherence.

“Rain,” he mustered, spitting into the toilet. It was a relief just to hear him have some sort of orientation to what was happening around him. That relief was quickly thwarted by what followed, “I don’t… feel… good,” he said, his voice slurring and slowing. Rain had to lunge to catch Swiss’s dead weight as he suddenly collapsed.

“Fuck!” he yelled, pressing two fingers to his neck. Ghoul vessels did have heartbeats— usually slower than humans— but present. Even for a ghoul, though, Swiss’s was faint. “Dew! Phantom! I need you!”

To his surprise, Mountain was the first to arrive at his aid, helping Rain pull Swiss out of the bathroom and into the more spacious bedroom.

“He just passed out,” Rain said, obsessively checking the pulse points in Swiss’s neck and wrist.

“He’s greening out bad,” Mountain sighed, looking up at Rain with dismay. “Phantom fucked up the edible ratio. It won’t kill him, but we need to watch him until he comes down.”

Swiss’s eyes finally fluttered open again. Still unfocused, and even more out of it than before. Dew appeared at the door, chest heaving with anger. Phantom was nowhere to be found. Mountain took one look at Dew and shook his head.

“Out.”

That didn’t help Dew’s fury. “Excuse me?”

“You’re hot right now. You know he gets sensitive to emotions when he’s high, and right now the last thing we need is him panicking when he can barely comprehend why he’s panicking. You can come back when you cool off.”

Dew looked like he wanted to bite off Mountain’s head, but he did back out of the room.

“Mounty,” Swiss muttered, briefly focusing on the earth ghoul’s face. His hand limply waved, and Mountain grabbed it from the air and squeezed.

“Hang in there, bud. You’re gonna be okay.”

Swiss felt like he was dying.

Or locked in some shadow dimension. Either was possible.

Maybe this was the purgatory thing he’s heard so much about. A land between heaven and hell. It would explain why he felt like the world was melting between his fingers while also feeling like he was floating. He was burning hot and doused in sweat, but also wanted nothing more than to be wrapped in blankets.

A lot of contradictions. The only thing Swiss was sure about was that his stomach fucking hurt.

His head was in the toilet again. Throat burning. A hand rubbed his back and he tried to focus on that instead of the sour taste in his mouth.

Then darkness.

Maybe he was dying.

Sometimes he’d hear some voices. Muted, warped voices he could hardly identify.

One came through clearly. Swiss couldn’t quite identify what was being said, but he knew it was Mountain.

Mountain sounded upset. Swiss frowned working hard at trying to focus on the slow moving blobs around him so he could find Mountain.

A warm hand took his.

Fingers tinkered with his hair.

Touched his blazing skin.

He hoped he wasn’t sick.

They would also get sick if that was the case.

“You can sleep, Swiss miss.”

“We’ll keep you safe.”

Swiss didn’t want to sleep. He was exhausted to the point he couldn’t move, but sleeping seemed like something he wasn’t supposed to do. Like he’s fully succumb to the darkness.

Like he’d wake up in the pit.

His throat suddenly felt tight. Fingers tingled. He tried to suck in more air, but his lungs were sluggish. Slow as the rest of him. Swiss fought, feeling his body being turned. Being lifted and then put down again—

“I don’t wanna go!” he tried to scream, but only parts of it made it to his mouth.

Pressure on his cheeks. A hand on his chest. Swiss’s vision dotted for a few moments before realizing Rain was nose-to-nose with him, his ocean blue eyes pleading for something Swiss couldn’t hear over the sound of ringing in his ears. He looked at Rain’s lips come together and split in the shape of the word breathe.

I’m trying, he wanted to say, but he had no breath to do it.

Rain pressed on his chest. Tapped a pattern that Swiss took to mean as cues to breathe in and out. He tried— and struggled— to follow them at first, but soon fell into rhythm. He felt his body start to relax. His fingers regained feeling. Swiss felt the air fully inflate his lungs, hold, and exit with a slow whoosh.

Slowly, he faded into sleep.

Swiss woke up feeling like he had been dropped in boiling water. He was drenched, the feeling of his clothes on his skin making him nauseated all over again. Feeling a little more mobile, Swiss grabbed at his shirt, trying to ease it over his head.

“Woah, woah, woah, what’s wrong?” a voice asked. Dew's voice.

“’m fucking hot,” Swiss said, back, trying and failing to make it over his head. Frustration started making him upset, and he took a break from his shirt and clumsily pulled at the drawstring of his sweatpants instead.

“Okay, let me help you,” Dew whispered, swatting Swiss’s hands away. Swiss stood still as Dew dropped his pants and helped pull his shirt off. The cool air on his burning skin was a relief, but Swiss still didn’t feel comfortable. He grabbed his underwear, but Dew caught his wrist.

“Those too?” he asked hesitantly.

Swiss nodded, trying to jerk out of Dew’s grasp, but being unsuccessful. Dew sighed and released him, and Swiss finally felt at ease.

He stood there until his body temperature felt normal again.

Then he realized he was fucking freezing. He slumped back on the bed, grabbing as many blankets at possible while Dew watched him, dumbfounded.

“Cold now, Swissy?”

“Freezing. Cuddle me, Dew?”

The fire ghoul groaned, and something landed on Swiss’s face.

“Okay, but you have to put your drawers back on.”

That seemed like a fair exchange. Swiss slipped on his underwear and opened his arms for Dew to come warm him up. The fire ghoul dropped into Swiss’s arms, muttering something about how he “better not puke on him”.

Swiss’s throat was dry when he woke up again. HIs room was dim. Less chaotic than before. Swiss tried to roll to his back, but found something blocking him.

Or someone.

“Swiss?” a soft voice asked, moving so he could plop onto his back. It was Mountain staring down at him with concerned hazel eyes.

“I’m falling off the bed,” Swiss muttered, weakly trying to shove at the massive drummer. Mountain’s concern shifted to mild amusement, and he gave Swiss some more space.

“Just making sure you don’t aspirate, Swissy.”

Satanas, his head was pounding. Swiss flopped down on Mountain’s chest, finding some comfort in the feeling of his heartbeat under his cheek.

“Is he awake?” Rain asked, walking in with Dew in tow.

“He is,” Swiss answered. “He is also so fucking thirsty.”

“Good,” Rain handed him some brightly colored drink. Swiss stared at is suspiciously until he explained. “Electrolytes.”

“Oh. Thought you were trying to poison me,” Swiss muttered, and slowly sipped at the cool beverage.

“That would be Phantom,” Dew muttered, quickly getting an elbow to the ribs from Rain. Swiss looked at them, confused.

“What about Phantom?” His bandmates looked at him and then one another. Swiss couldn’t tell if it was guilt or pity, but he didn’t like it either way. “Whatever it is, fucking tell me.”

“He’s usually pissy when he’s almost down,” Mountain said as though Swiss wasn’t sitting right fucking there.

“Think he’s good enough to tell him?” Rain asked.

“For fuck’s sake,” Swiss pinched the bridge of his nose. Rain placed a hand on his knee.

“Did you eat the brownie Phantom baked for you?”

Swiss slowly dropped his hand, the realization of his pre-nap snack hitting him the moment Rain said it.

“Yeah… it was good, but I’m guessing maybe a little too much?”

Dew scoffed. “At least triple the dose you usually do.”

That certainly explained why he felt like he was on a different plane of existence earlier.

“Damn. Uh, how bad was I?” They looked at each other again. That, and the fact they looked exhausted pretty much answered his question. He also realized Phantom wasn’t among them. “And where’s Phantom?”

Dew pressed his lips together. “I, uh, told him to stay out of the way.”

From the way Mountain and Rain exchanged a glance, Swiss had a feeling it was a little more than that. He sighed, pushing himself up to try and stand, but a rush to his head made him topple right back down.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Dew asked.

“To see Phantom. Make sure he’s not beating himself up over this.”

“You can barely stand still!”

Swiss looked at Dew. “Then go get him!”

Dew looked at Rain, who shook his head. The usually calm water ghoul looked at Dew sternly. “I’m not the one who yelled at him. Go fix it.”

With a groan, Dew departed. Swiss laid back in his bed, focusing on a singular point on the ceiling until the spinning stopped.

“Hey Rain?” he asked after awhile.

“Yeah?”

Swiss ran his hand over his bare chest and thighs. “When did I strip?”

He chuckled. “A few hours ago.”

“Why?”

“Dew said you wanted cuddles.”

Swiss sat with that for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah... that checks out. Can you grab me some clothes, please?”

Phantom wasn’t sure what to do. He snuck down near Swiss’s room a few times to try and gauge what was going on, but couldn’t quite get a complete read. Things seemed to calm down at least. Less sounds of vomiting. Rain, Mountain, and Dew had begun to take shifts of just one or two of them staying with Swiss at a time. Phantom wanted to assume the best, but he still felt his worst.

So he shut himself in his room. Lights off, so his main source of light was the glow of iridescent constellations on his ceiling.

Swiss had helped him put those up. And Phantom had basically poisoned him. What a good packmate he was.

Because he wanted to torture himself, Phantom looked back at the recipe for the butter. Sure enough, it clearly called for almost four times the amount of butter he used— if he had just fucking read it correctly, Swiss wouldn’t be spending the night worrying about choking on his own vomit.

Hot tears ran down Phantom’s face. Though he had formed some great connections with the others, he was still so new. Would they send him away after this? Would any of them trust him again? He ruminated on these increasingly destructive thoughts until there was a soft knock at his door.

“Phantom?” Dew said through the door. “You in there?”

“Yeah,” called, his voice raspy from crying. The door opened slowly, and in came Dew. He was much less angry than usual, but still seemed a little peeved. After taking in the dark room and Phantom curled up on his bed, his face softened.

“Hey…” Dew said, sitting on the edge of Phantom’s bed. To his surprise, the fire ghoul reached out and put a warm hand on Phantom’s calf. “Swiss is okay.”

“He is?”

“A little loopy still and post-high cranky, but yeah. He’s asking for you.”

Phantom bit his lip, curling more into himself. “He’s pissed, isn’t he?”

Dew’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Swiss? At you? Not at all.”

“You are.”

Dew sighed, pressing his fingers together in his lap. “I was. But, I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I was mad and… and scared. Really scared.” Dew looked at him with with this sad expression. “Sorry for taking it out on you.”

Phantom finally sat up, pulling Dew into a hug before he could protest. The lead guitarist hugged him back, pinching his cheek as they pulled apart. “I hope you know you’re banned from baking, though.”

“Fair enough,” Phantom said, smiling for the first time in hours.

They went to Swiss’s room where Rain and Mountain were perched on his bed with them. When Phantom entered, they grew quiet, and started to move out of the way. Swiss opened up his arms.

“C’mere Phantom,” he said with a grin.

All the stress of the last several hours of soaking in self-doubt and guilt came tumbling down at once. Phantom practically tackled Swiss as he dove into his arms, reveling in the joyful laugh the multi-ghoul let out as he squeezed Phantom tightly.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Phantom said into Swiss’s shirt.

“Don’t be, Twinkle Toes, that brownie was fucking fire. Perfect ratio of gooey, but not underbaked. And truly flattered you thought I could handle that much THC.”

“It did seem like a lot…”

“I fuckin’ bet,” Swiss chuckled. “It’s okay, though. I’m good. Sometimes I need a green out every so often. Keeps me humble.”

“Also freaks us the hell out,” Rain said. Swiss pressed his lips together, almost like he felt guilty about being basically incapacitated. He reached out toward the others, and Phantom felt the bed dipped as Rain joined the huddle. Mountain and Dew soon followed, encapsulating the two of them in their body heat and weight.

“Thanks for taking care of me, you guys.”

#cw panic attack #cw overdose #new oneshot just dropped!#fic #ghost band #ghost ghouls #swiss ghoul #phantom ghoul #rain ghoul #dew ghoul #sodo ghoul #mountain ghoul #green out #recreational marijuana use #weed shenanigans but make it angsty #negativeyield

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estupidapendejaestupida · 2 months

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I wrote a fic. It's about Jason's mother (Catherine, not Shelia). If I get feedback I might do Dick's and Tim's mother's too.

Please give it a try ^^ I swear I did my best in writing this lol

#batman #jason todd #red hood #jason tood #dc #angst #my fic #fanfic #catherine tood #robin #second robin #willis todd #pleas read #ao3 kudos #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #tw drugs #tw overdose

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gloomysoup · 6 months

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when the world stops turning (my heart stops beating) - pt. 4

hello yes i know it's been a while. this part has been a pain in my ass for months. i needed to get it just right and rewrote this thing so many times it's not even funny. and now, after editing it five times over the last two days, i'm just posting it. what's done is done. if i came back to it again i would have rewritten and i don't wanna do that. so here it is at least. there is also going to be at least one more part. i'm shooting for two more hopefully but i make no promises. the next part could very well be the last. i hope you enjoy :)

ao3 pt 1 pt 2 pt 3 pt 4

cw: hospitals, dissociation, mentions of overdose, addiction, sobriety, and relapse

Eddie couldn’t move. His body was fighting against every instinct he should have in the moment. Someone could throw something directly at his head, and he wouldn’t react. The buzzing voices around him faded in and out as he stared at a chip in the wood of the table in front of him.

One of Steve’s doctors had finally come to speak with them. They couldn’t say anything for certain at the moment, but he was alive, and that’s all Eddie heard before his head went fuzzy again. His mind was still reeling, caught on the fact that he should have seen this. He should have noticed. He should have been able to help Steve. He failed the only person who’d ever loved him like that, the only one who ever would love Eddie like that. Because Steve was it for him. He’d always known that. No one else would even come close. No one could ever compare to Steve Harrington.

Not only had he failed Steve, but he’d failed Robin too. He was supposed to keep Steve safe. Robin couldn’t lose her best friend; Eddie knew that. He’d promised to take care of him. He couldn’t even do that one thing right. God, what was he going to tell Robin?

They didn’t want Steve to have visitors yet. Eddie managed to gather that much at least. It was still touch and go. He wasn’t awake. They weren’t sure if he ever would be. They’re flushing his system, but it’s really just a game of wait and see. They might be able to see him in the morning, but the doctor wasn’t making any promises. It all depended on how the rest of the night went. If he made it through. They couldn’t say anything else for certain. There had been a lot of drugs in his system. He’d been deprived of oxygen for a long time. There was no way to be sure what would happen next. That was all up to Steve now.

Eddie sat there in that uncomfortable waiting room chair for hours. He didn’t move. He didn’t eat or drink. He didn’t even get up to go to the bathroom. He just sat there, staring at the same chip in the wooden table. His friends all tried their best to get through to him. They tried to coax him into eating or drinking something, but their efforts were unsuccessful. No one could get through to him, and he preferred it that way. He deserved to sit in his own silence, letting his brain run reckless and spiral to the depths of his fears and anxiety. He had failed.

He noticed that the more time seemed to pass, the antsier his bandmates got. Though, he couldn’t be exactly sure that’s what was happening. Time escaped him.

Time was such a funny thing, wasn’t it? It can feel like it speeds up, slows down, or stops entirely, but it never changes. It’s always the same. It’s all in the imagination. Eddie was never that good at telling time as a child. Even as he grew older, he found it difficult to keep track. As he sat in that hospital, his entire life on the brink of falling apart at the seams, time was nowhere to be found. Nothing made sense. He just sat silently, staring. People moved around him, time passed, but Eddie didn’t move. He was trapped. His body was at the hospital, but his mind kept bouncing around. From his mom, to Wayne, to Steve on the bathroom floor. An endless cycle. Eddie was hanging on by a single thread: the only thread of life left in Steve.

Eddie would never survive if Steve didn’t make it out alive.

Eddie was aware that a long time had passed only by the ache in his joints and the dryness of his mouth. He also sort of needed to pee, but that wasn’t important. At least, not important enough to warrant getting up. He couldn't move. He needed to stay right in that spot. Nothing was more important than that.

“Come on, Ed,” Wayne’s gruff voice said from somewhere behind him. Eddie stayed rooted to the spot. “It’s time to go, kid. We’ve gotta get to the reception.”

Eddie stood silently, staring straight ahead at the marble headstone. His mother’s name was engraved with curly letters. Eddie hadn’t known that was possible. There were piles of flowers that he knew wouldn’t be there next week. He didn’t speak. His feet were glued to the soft ground beneath him. His suit was itchy and his worn dress shoes were a size too small. The tie around his neck was suffocating. He couldn’t breathe.

He broke down right there, tears rolling down his cheeks and gasping sobs bursting from his chest. He sank down to the ground at the foot of his mother’s fresh grave, clawing at the stupid red tie that his mother had bought him two years prior and the collar of his white dress shirt. Wayne sighed softly and sat down beside him, gently pulling his hands away and shushing Eddie as he loosened the tie. He let him collapse against his chest, tie almost completely off and the first two buttons of his shirt undone. Wayne held him through each wracking sob and stuttering breath, murmuring comfort until he’d gotten it all out.

“I couldn’t do it, Uncle Wayne,” Eddie whispered hoarsely. “Why couldn’t I do it?”

“Do what, Ed?”

“Save her.”

Why couldn't he do it?

“Eddie, seriously, you need to eat something,” Jeff said, holding out a bag of chips from the vending machine. Eddie stared blankly at the bag, seeing but not really. He heard the words coming from Jeff’s mouth, but his body refused to respond. He couldn’t quite fully process what he was saying. It slipped out of his head before he got the chance, replaced with his mother’s voice, or Steve promising he was fine. He was fine. There was nothing wrong. It was just weed. Nothing more. He was fine.

He lied.

What else had Steve lied about? What else was he keeping from Eddie? Every time Steve came home late, claiming some generic excuse about work or traffic or whatever else it may have been, how often had those been lies? What had he been doing instead? Getting high? Shooting up in a parking garage somewhere? Was he ever with someone else? Someone who wasn’t Eddie?

Steve would never cheat. Eddie had to remind himself of that over and over again. Repeat it on a loop in his head. Anything to get it to stay there.

He would not cheat. He would not cheat. He would not cheat.

But he would lie.

Eddie has never been insecure about their relationship before. He loved Steve more than anything. He always knew Steve felt the same. Steve loved him. No questions asked. Eddie knew. He didn't need to be told that Steve loved him. It was just obvious. Now, though, Eddie was second guessing everything. Why would he lie? If Steve could lie so easily about something like this, what else had he lied about? Had their whole relationship been a lie? Has Steve ever told him the truth about anything?

His brain swirled with more thoughts, more insecurities. He stared at the chip in the table as he spiraled. His fingers and toes were tingling. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a dream, a nightmare. Any minute now, he was going to wake up. Everything would be fine. It was just one big nightmare. He would be laying in bed next to Steve, who would be snoring softly. He would roll over and tuck his arms around his boyfriend’s waist. He could hold him tight, bury his nose in the back of Steve’s neck and breathe in the scent of his shampoo. He could fall back into a peaceful sleep with Steve in his arms, safe and sound.

Except he wasn't waking up. No matter how much he tried, no matter how hard he willed his eyes to open, it didn't happen. He was trapped. There was no escape. Steve wasn't there. He may never be there again. This was all Eddie’s fault. If only he’d noticed. If only he cared enough. None of it was enough. Eddie wasn’t enough. He never should have expected to be enough for Steve. Steve deserved better.

Eddie never should have asked him to come on tour with them.

If Eddie hadn’t asked him to go, this never would have happened. Steve would be at home, in their apartment with Robin, probably sleeping in her room every night. He hated sleeping alone. He’d be sitting on the couch, wrapped up in one of Eddie’s hoodies and the threadbare blue blanket they took from the trailer when they moved, watching movies with Robin and a bowl of popcorn. He wouldn’t be dying in a hospital in New York. He’d be happy and safe. Eddie would miss him like hell, but at least he would be safe.

The sun was shining, blindingly bright, through the tall windows on the far wall of the waiting room when the doctor finally came back. Eddie’s knee had taken to bouncing anxiously a while ago, maybe an hour, maybe more. He can’t be sure. His brain had mostly come back online, but he still felt a little foggy. Untethered. His world was unbalanced. His ears were still ringing even as the doctor started talking. He barely heard a single word. Snippets of information filtered through the fog. Stable. Made it through the night. Up to Steve now. ICU. Visitors. The next thing he knows, Jeff is leading him through the halls with the doctor. It’s just the three of them. Other doctors and nurses bustled around them.

They finally crossed the double doors into the ICU. Eddie’s heart pounded as the doctor led them over to one of the sliding doors. She opened it, and Eddie couldn't move. He could hear the machines inside, see the edge of the hospital bed. If he turned his head a little, he knew he would see Steve. The doctor walked in and picked up the chart at the foot of the bed. She flipped it open and clicked her pen, writing things down and glancing at monitors.

“Eddie, why don't we go inside?” Jeff suggested softly, his hand on Eddie’s arm. “Steve needs you right now.”

Eddie's feet moved of their own accord, taking slow steps into the room. Jeff followed behind him, closing the door once they were both in the room. He carefully led Eddie over to the chair, giving him a light push on the shoulder to sit him down. As soon as he was close enough, Eddie grabbed Steve’s hand. An instinct he would probably always have. It didn't matter what was going on in his brain. If Steve’s hand was there, Eddie was holding it.

“Is he okay?” the doctor asked gently, nodding to Eddie.

Jeff sighed. “I hope so. This is all really hard on him.”

“How long have they been together?”

Jeff looked up, a little startled. It may have been New York, and queer relationships were a little more accepted than they were just a few years ago, but Steve and Eddie had always been careful. Cautious. They all had. But she was quick to respond before Jeff could even think to redirect.

“It’s okay, really. I know what love looks like. I would look at my partner the same way if something like this ever happened to her.”

“Oh.” Jeff glanced at Eddie, who had his eyes glued to Steve’s hand in his. “Um… it’s been almost eight years now. They’ve been through a lot together.”

She closed the chart and put it back at the end of the bed. She nodded a few times, watching the machines that beeped rhythmically. “I’m going to hold on to hope,” she said softly. “For them. For everyone like us. I can’t say anything for certain; this is all up to Steve. We’re doing everything we can. But I’m holding on to hope.”

“I guess that’s all any of us can do now, isn’t it?”

“I think so.” She cleared her throat and took a step back from the bed, turning to Jeff. “I have other patients to round on, but I’ll be back to check up on everything in a couple of hours. If you guys need anything, just let one of the nurses know.”

“Thank you.”

Silence fell through the room as the doctor left. Jeff took the chair in the corner, letting Eddie have whatever time he needed. He was mostly there for Eddie’s sake; someone had to make sure he would be okay until Wayne got there. Truthfully, they were all out of their depths here. No one really understood what was happening in Eddie’s brain. Not even close to the way Wayne would.

They sat there in total silence for a long time. It's unclear to Eddie just how long, but long enough that Jeff had gotten up four times. Once to get food, once for the bathroom, and twice to hit vending machines and coffee. Not that Eddie accepted anything Jeff offered him. His body still felt wildly disconnected from his brain. His limbs were heavy. He also knows it's been long enough that nurses have come in to check on Steve eight times, and his doctor has been back once. It seems the only thing Eddie’s mind can keep track of is how many times someone has entered or exited Steve’s room in the ICU.

Jeff gets up for a fifth time. Another bathroom break, from the few words Eddie managed to retain. The door slid shut behind him, and Eddie was alone again. He squeezed Steve’s hand three times, desperate for any sign that he's still there. That he's fighting for Eddie. Nothing happens. The machines beep. His chest rises and falls rhythmically with the calculated breaths of the ventilator. Steve’s eyes shift beneath his eyelids, but they don't open. They won't open. The door slid open again, and Eddie assumed Jeff was back, though it seemed like he wasn't gone very long. And then he hears it.

“Oh, God.”

Eddie’s head shot up at the sound of Robin’s shaky voice behind him. She looked wrecked. Her face was blotchy, her eyes puffy and red. There were tear tracks down her cheeks. Wayne was standing beside her, looking somber. He watched her take a rattled breath, crossing the room slowly. Her eyes don't leave Steve. Wayne followed a few moments later, coming to stand behind Eddie and put a hand on his shoulder. Eddie wanted to break. As if he hadn't been slowly breaking this whole time.

“They- they said it was an overdose?” Robin asked softly, her voice cracking at the end. Eddie merely nodded, still trying to find his voice. “What- what happened, Eddie? Was it- was he drugged? How- how did this- did he relapse?”

“Relapse?” Eddie croaked, his voice hoarse from disuse. That didn't make any sense. For Steve to relapse, he would have to be…. “He- he was clean?”

Robin frowned, and her gaze finally found Eddie. “What do you mean he was clean? He's been clean since ‘85, Eddie. I- I helped him, after Starcourt.”

All the air left Eddie’s lungs in an instant. This was all his fault. Steve was- he was clean. Sober. And Eddie ruined that. He gave Steve weed. He brought him on tour. He took him to parties full of temptation. He killed Steve.

“This is all my fault,” he whispered.

“Eddie, you have to tell me what's going on,” Robin begged. “When did he relapse? Why didn't he call me? He promised he would talk to me if he wanted to get high again.”

“I- Oh, God. I didn't know. He- he didn't tell me.” Eddie couldn't breathe. His heart squeezed in his chest, and his lungs pushed the air from his body until there was nothing left. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't get it back. He was already hyperventilating. “This is all my fault. Oh my god, it's all my fault.” He was distantly aware of the tears rolling down his cheeks again.

Wayne stepped between Eddie and Robin, crouching down to look up into his nephew's face. His hands were solid against Eddie’s skin, just like they always were. “Ed, you need to talk to me. Take a breath, kid. I'm right here, but you have to tell me what's going on.”

Eddie’s breath stuttered halfway through his chest. “I didn't know, Wayne.”

“What didn't you know, Eddie?”

“I didn't- I didn't know he was sober. I- I thought I- I was just trying to help. I- I gave him weed. I did this.”

Robin’s expression hardened. “You did this to him?”

“I'm so sorry,” Eddie choked out between sobs. “I didn't- I didn't know. I was just trying to help. And- and then he- I knew he wasn't telling me something, but- but he promised it was just weed.”

“Get out.” Robin’s voice was firm, but he could hear the trembling fear behind it.

“What? I-”

“Get out. Get out, right now. You did this, Eddie. He was doing so good until he met you! And now he's dying! So get the hell out, before I make you!"

It was at this moment that the door opened for Jeff’s return. He paused just inside the doorway. Wayne stood up, facing Robin.

“Now, Robin, I think-”

“I don't care!” Robin’s hands were shaking. “This is his fault! I want him out, right now! Or I swear to God, Wayne, I'm going to kill him.”

Wayne glanced back at Jeff, who was the perfect picture of confusion. “Jeff, take Eddie into the hall.”

“What-”

“Don't ask questions right now,” Wayne said sternly with a shake of his head. “Just take him to the hall. I'll be out in a moment.”

As soon as the door shut behind them, and Jeff had led Eddie a little ways from the room, he finally snapped. His knees gave out from underneath him, and Jeff was the only thing holding him up as he sobbed.

This was all his fault. He killed Steve.

First his mom, now the love of his life. It was all his fault.

-----

taglist: @mugloversonly @djohawke @acowardinmordor @hallucinatedjosten @geekyfifi @slowandsteddie @estrellami-1 @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @canmargesimpson @captainoliimar @ilikeititspretty

#gloomysoup #gloomysoup writes #gloomysoup ao3 #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie fic #stranger things fic #steddie angst #steve stranger things #eddie stranger things #steve harrington angst #rockstar!eddie munson #tw: drug abuse #tw: overdose

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hexiewrites · 2 years

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It’s not the first time Steve has to call an ambulance that does it.

The first time he’s fucking terrified, coming home from a long shift at the new Blockbuster down the street and dinner after with a coworker only to find his boyfriend, passed out on the floor of their shared apartment. He panics, at first, because what the fuck is he supposed to do, and then he gets it together and calls 911. The paramedics won’t let him in the ambulance so he follows behind in the beamer, white knuckles the steering wheel, all the way to the hospital. They won’t let him go all the way in and he paces for hours in the waiting room, drinking shitty hospital cafeteria coffee, before the nurse finally tells him where to go.

And the thing is. The thing is it makes sense. Eddie’s been struggling since the Upside Down. So has Steve, to be honest. They’ve both been crashing, different vices, different issues. So the first time he has to call the ambulance, he gets it. It makes sense, even though it hurts. Sometimes things happen, and Steve can’t fault Eddie for one night of too many goddamn whiskeys. Hell, he’s come pretty close to that point himself, more times than he can count lately. He makes a promise to himself to be better, to be there when Eddie needs him.

To be enough.

It’s not the second time he calls the ambulance that does it either, because as much as that one hurts, it still makes sense. Eddie on the ground gives his brain Eddie in the Upside Down, broken and bleeding and almost fucking dead and Steve calls the ambulance but he chugs a beer back before he follows in the beamer. And fuck, they’ve been through it, haven’t they? Eddie’s been trying but of course it’s going to be hard. People make mistakes and god knows Steve’s made his own, so who is he to do anything but try. Try harder to make Eddie see he doesn’t need this shit. To make him see that Steve loves him so much, loves him enough for both of them, loves him enough to get them through it. So that’s what he does.

He tries, even though he’s failing too. There’s beer in the house and he gets it, now. How much it helps to keep the noise down.

They’ve been fighting about it, even though they don’t have much else they fight about.

So of course he gets it.

The third time he has to call hurts even more. Of course it does, it screams Eddie’s failing and you’re failing and why can’t you be good enough, why can’t you love him enough to fix it. But the hurt is washed over by anger because how can he keep doing this after everything they’ve been through? Hours of meetings together. Weeks of Eddie off in rehab. Whispered promises that it’s done, it’s over. You can’t beat addiction but you can control it. They can focus on them. Maybe start that family they keep talking about. It’s behind them now. It was supposed to be behind them.

But it’s not even the third time, because the third time when Eddie wakes up he looks devastated but he still manages a smile. Still manages to say, voice rough because of the intubation, third time’s the charm, right baby? And- the average addict relapses four times, but I’ve always been below average, huh? I can feel it. This is gonna be my year.

And Steve’s not perfect either. He’s doing better, yeah, he’s putting in the work, but he’s not perfect. He’s better though. He’s been better because he’s been trying. He’s still trying because he keeps picturing Eddie, baby on his hip, cooing and giggling. Picturing them curled up at forty, at fifty, at eighty. Looking back and saying wow, we were fucked up then but we had each other. We got through it together like we always did. So the third time hurts. It pisses him off. But he’s still holding that picture in his mind, despite it fraying at the edges just a bit.

But the fourth time, when it should all be behind them because it had been better, they’d been better, when he comes home and finds Eddie on the floor, broken bottle next to him, needle still in his arm…

Well. Fourth time’s the fucking charm for him.

He calls the ambulance, watches Eddie get loaded in, feels the tears drying onto his cheeks. One of the paramedics knows him from the last time and gives him this sad smile. Says “we got him soon enough, think he’s gonna be okay. He’s lucky, your boy, but even cats only get nine lives.” Steve shuts the ambulance door and doesn’t get in his car to follow. He heads back up the stairs, cleans up the vomit, and starts to pack.

He puts his most important things in the beamer, leaves the rest. Doesn’t leave a note because he doesn’t know what to say. Calls the hospital before he goes because he has to know—Eddie’s awake and asking for him.

He drives to a liquor store instead. Drives until he can’t anymore and checks into a motel halfway between Chicago and Hawkins.

Thinks about his blue two year chip (sitting on his nightstand in the apartment, one of the things not precious enough to bring) as he twists open the bottle, and finally finally finally lets the sweet relief of whiskey burn through his throat.

He’ll regret it tomorrow, but tonight? It’s the only thing he has left.

Steve doesn’t go back to Chicago for nearly four years. He thought about it. Thinks about it. Constantly. He knows that Eddie’s alive because Dustin kept in touch, will give him a little knowing nod every time they see each other (rare, these days, as Steve barrels towards thirty and the kids finish university, get jobs across the country, try to make it home for Christmas and don’t always succeed). He never asks for more because it’s too hard to hear. Dustin tells him, one day, that Eddie’s doing really well now. Steve doesn’t know if he can believe it. He doesn’t want to believe it, because if Eddie’s doing well now without him it means he’s the problem he’s the reason he—he calls his therapist and puts in the fucking work.

He stays in Hawkins. Faces his demons, mostly metaphorical now. Spends a lot of time with Hopper, who gets it more than almost anyone but still wants better for him. Spends hours on the phone with Robin, who begs him to go back into the real world but he can’t, because it hurts too much. Takes enough correspondence classes to get an associate’s degree. Starts driving to the community college a few towns over for classes and upgrades to a Bachelors of Psychology, and starts to understand himself and Eddie and trauma, and things start to hurt a little less. He doesn't drink anymore, goes to meetings with as much regularity as he can, and when he’s finally got a new two year chip in his hands he thinks he might be ready. It hurts like an old wound, twinging in the rain but mostly fine, and he thinks he could maybe handle Chicago again.

He still doesn’t go.

At the end of the day, it’s the acceptance letter into the Masters of Educational Counselling program at the University of Illinois that does it. He honestly hadn’t been expecting to get in, it’s a competitive program and Steve Harrington who barely graduated high school doesn’t exactly scream school counsellor material. But his essay was good, he knows it was. And he knows he’s going to be good at this.

So he packs up the beamer, again. Pulls over to sleep in a tent on the side of the road and calls Hopper from a payphone, sobbing because he can’t do it.

He does it anyway.

He gets to Chicago and his apartment’s on the opposite side of town now but the first time he drives past the hospital again he has a breakdown so bad he almost goes home. But he’s been putting in the work, and he’s doing more than trying now. He’s solid, he’s stable, and he pulls himself together. He calls Hopper and Robin, he goes to meetings, he’s doing well.

He’s studying in a coffee shop, down the street from his apartment, when the open mic starts.

“Hi everyone,” says a voice that Steve would recognize from a hundred miles away. He forces himself to look and Eddie’s on the little stage, an acoustic guitar in hand. "Thanks for being here with me today. I've got some new stuff for y'all that I think you're going to like."

And then he plays. Steve gives up on his work, leans back in the chair, and watches. Eddie looks... he looks good. Better than he had when Steve was around. His hair's still long but it's curly and bouncy, and his skin is bright and alive in the way an addict's never is. His fingers skip, sure and strong, over the frets and his voice is that same melody Steve has never let himself forget, with this almost bluegrass twang that makes Steve's heart ache. He’s playing different music, and he’s shining like he’s made of gold in the late afternoon sun.

There's something about it, about watching Eddie, that feels a bit like healing. Eddie had always loved to play, but the music scene he was in had broken him before, not fixed him. He'd always wanted to make more of his own music, and here it is and it's good. The songs are catchy, straddling his blues/folk upbringing and his rock/metal lifestyle.

And then Eddie finishes a song, maybe his sixth, and his eyes scan the crowd and Steve feels when they land on him. He feels the way the whole room runs out of air, all at once, and Eddie is totally frozen for a full minute. Steve's heart is beating a million miles an hour-he wants to get up, he wants to run, but he's frozen to the seat. Pinned by Eddie's gaze.

And he knows he's been doing better, he has, but nothing was ever as good as it could have been because this is what he was missing.

"I've got," Eddie finally says, and has to stop and clear his throat. "I've got one more song for you." He's talking to the audience, but he never looks away from Steve, and the room has narrowed so much it might as well only be only the two of them there. "This one's about the one I chased away."

Steve pays attention to the lyrics and his heart breaks half a dozen times. Eddie sings about hating himself, about Steve hating him, about how the thing that tore them apart is the thing Eddie will never touch again, how the hatred is what drove him to be better. He sings about forgiveness and healing and when he finishes the coffee shop claps, Eddie waves, and the spotlight cuts.

It isn't even a conscious decision, but Steve finds himself walking up to the stage. Eddie turns away from where he's put the guitar away, their eyes meet again and it feels like coming home.

"I don't hate you," Steve whispers, because he's forgotten how to speak. "I never could."

"I'd understand if you would," Eddie says, and he's stepping closer. They're a foot apart now, eyes locked, and Steve's hands are shaking.

"I've been, uh, working really hard on myself." Steve admits, and he can't help himself. He lifts a hand and tucks a curl behind one of Eddie's ears. "I... I think about you all the time."

Eddie grins, and leans into his touch. "Me too," he murmurs, and drags his thumb over Steve's cheekbone. "I've been putting in the fuckin' work, Steve. And it's not easy, and I'm not perfect. I can't ever promise you perfect. But I'm three years sober, and I think I'm worth it, now. I think you're worth my love and I think I'm worth yours."

"I put in the fuckin work too," Steve mumbles, and he tips his head forwards so their foreheads hit.

When they're forty, they look back on this moment and grin at how little they knew. How much they believed their love would be enough, because the first time it wasn't. But this time, now that they've grown, that they've put in the fucking work?

This time, it's enough.

Eddie looks good with babies on his hips. Steve loves him more every day. They look back at forty, at fifty, at eighty, and they know their love could only have existed because they broke it, and learned by themselves how to fix it. It still hurts sometimes, aches like an old wound, but all Steve needs to do is to squeeze Eddie's hand, to feel his heart beating, and he knows:

He wouldn't trade what they have for the world.

(click here to read Eddie’s version, by the incredibly talented @riality-check !)

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