Ahoy Ladies!

He swallows, a hard motion that feels like there's sandpaper coating the back of his throat. He's struggling. The sticky red liquid that's plastered upon his features, down the part of his exposed arms and even along the fabric of his forest green sweater. Some of the crimson belonged to him. Slashes upon skin that he had received to help protect the others that he had been in this trial with. Not wanting them to suffer once their bodies had been pulled from the meat hooks, only for them to find one later on struck through their shoulders again. He draws a breath, a raspy noise, as gaze shifts up toward the other. Mercy was never expected from one in Ji-Woon's position, and Steve, by all the others, wasn't used to receiving mercy from those on the other side. They preferred the act of torture, it seemed, when it came to the ex- King of his school. Had his screams been their music? Had they helped them sleep at night? Was he different than all the others in a way he couldn't think of? Perhaps it was the way he could sass back at the killers when he's got a hook protruding out of his shoulder? He mentally shakes himself. He knows there's no reason to lay here, chin striking dirt beneath him, fear trickling out of his gaze, down along his facial features, spreading through out the rest of his body, as he tries. He still tries, in his very Steve Harrington way, to receive a mercy that he doesn't expect. Yet, when desperation settles in, he discovers that there's no other choice than to beg, even if it's lost to the throngs of sarcasm upon his tongue.

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒  IT STARTED WITH DND, and now they were basically in the equivalent of hell on earth, stranded by the whims of some unknown tentacle monster that grabbed people from far off lands – jesus christ, was he really not in his brother’s board game? Except what would be kid farts in a basement was now replaced with actual blood scattered along a dungeon with four indestructible hooks. Sharp pungant odors were causing him to gag internally, but he held himself together, shrugging off the question presented to him: did he know how to stitch up a wound? From the fact he’d been a normal high schooler whose only real form of torment came from the agonies of shoving back a demonic blob off his girlfriend while being beaten to a pulp in the process by his ex-boss, being around openly grotesque wounds and this pit felt…a whole new level of fucked up.

       ❝ I used to sew a bit when I was Will’s age, ❞ he’d admit, voice falling in volume every spoken word, embarrassment evident. There’s always a next question of what he sewed ; he could never admit that, out of desperation since his dad would never let him have one, he’d tried to make himself a stuffed animal. His mom would probably try to sneak it in, but he knew better than to press it ; the simple nights could have turned upside down the instant it was brought up, seen, mentioned… It’s why he tried to secretly sew beneath the radar, but right now it really came down to the wire of knowing how to patch someone up, make sure they were able to run again, and the sickening truth was that it didn’t matter where he learned it from or what he liked to sew ; it just didn’t matter compared to the savage wound on Steve’s arm – his necessary assistant to their freedom.

        Med kit placed beside him, Jonathan was quick to snap it open, removing the gauze first to place on his lap, avoiding it being thrown anywhere near that disgusting pile of filth that probably came from other survivors he’d seen ; no wonder this place reeked of iron. ❝ Uh…do you want my jacket to bite on? ❞ After the whole Eleven situation, it became common courtesy to ask ; she hadn’t been asked, but he’d made her do it to keep her steady while he had to – the memory is interrupted by him shaking his head. This place was too dangerous to stay in long, so they had to act quickly ; he’d remove his jacket and hold it out to him, careful to keep his sleeves from the floor. ❝ Just in case? ❞

                                                             〤. @ahoyinghats​ starter.

-

Death was a common occurrence ever since he had arrived. Sure, Steve Harrington had seen death. Injuries beyond something he could have imagined and the way that Eleven had happened to carry herself in the final battle against whatever the  fuck that thing at the mall was. Mind Flayer. He barely remembers, just the horror that it brought and the nightmares that he never spoke of. Steve had gone from a life that he made others believe was absolutely perfect to a hell that he couldn't imagine, even aside from the one that lurked in his own house, behind his own four walls. He draws a breath at the thought. He missed the kids. Hell, a part ofh im even missed seeing Tommy and Carol's faces, despite the anger it caused to rise in his chest. He didn't miss Billy, nor did he miss home. He'd like to speak to his mother but he understands that if he ever were to return, it wouldn't be the same. Would she have still cared or would she finally be happy she could focus her time on the man she had married just to make sure he wasn't banging someone else? Another mental shake of his head and his gaze shifts to Jonathan in front of him, a face he hadn't been expecting to see in the fog any time soon.

Jonathan reminded him of home. Of the *King Steve* persona that he had placed in front of the crowd that watched him walk the halls, chin raised, head held high. King of the court, both on and off the gym floor. A cliché, as Nancy had once called him. Funny how such a persona could crumble when certain people shattered those walls and broke down his barriers. First Nancy. Then Quentin. Now he's looking at Jonathan and an unspoken friendship that hadn't really been expected. Nor had this been expected either, the way Jonathan fumbled with the med-kit before them. The way Steve's arm seemed to just keep putting blood from the gash through his skin. He'd be cursing up a storm under his breath right now if he was alone but right now, it felt like poison was coursing through his blood stream. "If we survive this, I'm stealing that bastard of a clown's blade and killing him." Steve mutters, the sound strained from the pain, gaze speaking more than his actual words are letting on. "You...sewed?" He questions, curiosity taking over the white hot pain for a moment longer but he lets the question linger then. He doesn't want to press, doesn't really care enough to know what he sewed. Everyone had their habits, after all. He never questioned Dustin and his habit of knowing everything beyond science and nerd shit.

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒  NOTHING HUMILIATED HIM MORE THAN being seen with sensitivities on display ; he despised it, resented himself for cracking under pressure – how hard was it to simply keep it together?! The brandished sensation could drive him to his knees if he weren’t already down so low. His father could break him with such simple reprimands, basking in his ability to manage it, recounting how rebellious Jake’s leaving was and how much he could pull him back in by screaming about his failures ; he’d gone missing, nearly died on his own, he was lying in a hospital bed with nothing to his name, and now what was he going to do? Live on some pipe dream that it wouldn’t happen again? A broken promise of them accepting him into their home when he knew he wouldn’t last there – his dad was right, his dad was right, his dad was right – Nothing he would do without him to control everything would go well ; he was practically treading shark infested waters, waiting to throw him into jail or make him understand just how he needed to be subservient to whatever his dad laid out for him. The life his father wanted for him was equivalent to dying ; he hated everything about it … 

       Shuddering breaths taken in, feathered by the embrace made from the hiccups that kept his body from simmering down once more. Bordering on a breakdown, he’d turn himself away from Steve, arms coming up to wrap around his quivering form. To be honest, he never thought he’d shed a single tear in front of Steve ; he thought he could hold it together, even when he was facing the idea that he was going to die instead of return to this world again. Seconds before everything collapsed, he’d felt himself smile, mind withdrawn as he realized that the unknown was before him, never once thinking he’d ever see the beautiful blue skies again. In his last moments in the Entity’s realm, he’d shut his eyes and embraced death – after all, he’d fought for them to live not himself… To wake up and be thrown back into a place he’d tried to run from, hide from, was equal to a slap to the face, then to hear the familiar footsteps that had been the reason his tiny adolescent shoulders had tensed approaching from outside the hospital room, he’d thought he’d been sentenced to Hell. ❝ N…No, I’m fine… ❞ Another round of forced breathing, unable to truly calm down but trying so desperately to cling back to the walls that were crumbling around him. A flurry of fresh tears sparked up as his attempts were realized all too futile. ❝ I just – I… ❞ Why didn’t he just blame it on the memories of the realm? His first dream he had left him swinging himself wildly up in a forced back scream, eyes swinging around inside his head – as if searching for something. The humming. He thought he’d heard the humming… Now he sat here with his father’s business card burning a hole in the table (clearly showing the bond between them being nothing more than business) and another round of tears streaming down his cheeks.

       How could he begin to explain it without sounding like a child? He was yelled at ; hardly anything worthy of shedding tears over… Children sobbed over being screamed at, not adults, not Jake Park… ❝ My…My… ❞ Words caught in his throat, lump forming to keep him from speaking up about the pain wrought. Steve wouldn’t judge him – he wouldn’t – so why couldn’t Jake bring himself to say it? How come he felt so terrified of letting someone in? If he lost the only friends he really had, what did he have left? If they hated him – ❝ He…yelled… I’m so stupid… ❞ Hands raised up, once more covering his face. They were a shield against the painful reflection of the world ; it hurt to see faces caring when he felt so backed against a wall always – afraid to wind up miserable but not knowing another life to be in. Stifling another hiccuped sob, Jake could only curl up, trying so hard to disappear from Steve like an animal hidden underneath a porch hid from hunters. 

       Childishly he’d feel limbs trembling, quaking in themselves, hating the cold. A break from the curled up intake would result in his trembling body to wrap arms around the other male, pulling him in, burying his tear stricken head in him, more so feeling as if he were merely using him to better mask the uncontrolled vocalization that came with each breath. For once, he desired it…touch…just one segment of touch against the lashings, the beatings, the reminders of what he didn’t know if he could control anymore – could he control anything?

-

The start differences between worlds had truly been one thing that Steve Harrington hadn't quite been expecting. The difference was, everyone and everything had been the same. The kids. His friends. His ex-girlfriend. Even his parents were the exact same. The only difference had been none of them were living in the 80's. They didn't know the lingo when he spoke it and they looked at him differently when he had seemingly changed from who he was when he had gone missing that fateful night in the Hawkins Lab to who he was standing in front of them after returning, wanting so desperately to reunite with them. Desperate to having something familiar in his life. Something he understood that wasn't this new age era bullshit or what the realm had given him. Instead, he was left with questions and raised eyebrows. Left with more wondering about what had happened when he was gone and this new place he had been gifted. No, was this a gift or had it been nothing short of a nightmare? He had once been the king of the high school, that much hadn't changed and Billy still had still been nothing short of an asshole when he had first left but this...this was different. This wasn't him. These weren't his friends or the kids. It was as if that one movie, Body Snatchers, had to fruition in reality and he had no idea how to make it all go back to the way it had once been.

Tears came with the eventual realization that he was no longer in the realm, nor anywhere near what he had expected to be home. Home had always been a foreign concept to Steve, not quite understanding why people had a habit of calling people that when it was always described as four walls and a roof, but eventually he learned. This place may not have been his, but his friends, the kids, and Quentin were definitely home for him and without them, he'd have been a shell of who had had become after all of it. The man in the elevator? He was just a reflection of nothing more than the person he feared in the mirror. No. That wasn't right at all. That man was a reminder of Steve's father. A man who held himself and his nose far too high than it deserved to go and Steve hated it. No one needed to act like a douchebag just to get by in life, after all, he had learned that the hard way. Though, even now he still wanted nothing more than to make his father proud of him. Make him understand that his only son, his only child, wasn't a complete failure like he seemed to think or even make Steve feel like.

Hospitals had always given Steve the sensation of something too  sterile to be comfortable. They had reeked of death and pain and misery. The last time he had been in one was when his grandmother was slowly letting go of life. Memories fill him to the brim. Something he wished he could forget, watching a person die hadn't been anything he had expected to do, nor would he ever wish such a thing on a person, yet, death had been such a reality for him, that his grandmother's last breath in front of his eyes didn't really seem that bad. Not compared to what had laid inside of the Fog. Not having dying endlessly over and over again by the hands of killers who wanted nothing more than the splatter o their blood across the ground, soaking the meat hooks or glittering upon the blade of their weapons. He draws a heavy sigh at the thought. Steve was thankful to be back, away from the devastation and the darkness and the slow drain of hope and everything happy, but this wasn't his world. This wasn't his era and he knew that. He was a fish out of water. Nothing screamed the 80's except for their silly call backs to his time. The way they professed their supposed love to it by having nights dedicated to it, the music blaring over speakers of all kinds. It wasn't the same and he knew it. What the hell was a cell phone outside of the realm and why were people seemingly obsessed with emojis here more than there? The realm, he grew to understand, this place? It still stood as a mystery but at least he had his friend. The kids were here as if everything had been the same. And of course, there was Quentin at his side.

Silence fills the halls, as feet had stopped at the elevator. The stairs were next to him but it was faster when visiting a patient in a private room. No one wanted to climb three flights of them just to walk even further down the hall and then some. Basketball kept him in shape. Running killers, vaulting windows, anything to do with pallets, all had kept him in shape, but stairs? Some things would always stay in the back part of his mind. Never something he'd force upon himself. Though, despite the thought, the silence of the hall is broken from the sound of the elevator door chiming open, a man who held himself so high, Steve wanted to ask how far the stick was shoved up his ass, but he knows better. His father had taught him those manners in a way he refused to admit happen, even as he thinks about it. This man had the same air about him, the way he carried himself. The way his shirt had looked upon his body. Even the way his hair was groomed and the look in his eyes. Steve wanted to smack him with a good right hook that he had learned hit well when he fought that Russian in a far away land, but he doesn't. Even as this perfectly poised man brushes by him, nose turned up, chin held straight, Steve wanted to slip him his father's phone number and tell him to give the man a call in lessons to be a douche, instead, he simply nods a greeting, walking into the elevator and pressing the button to his desired floor.

@griefknown

     The crackling sound of logs as the fire takes them to ash        is the only sound that fills the air around him. Surrounds him         like a warm blanket. His forest gaze is staring into the mixing     colors of the fire as they dance together in flames. He draws a       breath, not realizing someone else had approached until her         voice reached his ears and he offers a small smile at her      words. “Can you really have bad dreams here?” He questions,        a hint of curiosity is on his tone as he asks, not turning away          from the fire to look at her. He just couldn’t sleep tonight.      nothing to do with dreams or the realm. He missed home and        that seemed like a normal thing. After all, the only people he         had here from home was Nancy but he did figure home could      be more than just where he’s from but also found in a person        too. “You’d think we’d all have bad dreams with being killed         constantly, but no, I just couldn’t sleep.”

@jonbyers

     There’s a pause, a twist of lips at the question and Steve        can’t stop the small chuckle that escapes soft lips. Arms          cross over his chest and he leans back against the lockers      of the high school. There’s a slight raise to a single eyebrow        and his gaze shifts from Jonathan, to Nancy, to Tommy and           Carol and then to Barb before settling back on the other      speaking. “I don’t know.” He gives a slight shrug of a single        shoulder as he speaks, that smile shifting into a smirk just          then and his mind toys with which direction he wants this      conversation to go, since he’s already got that feeling of        being in charge here. “I could always make it scary, if that’s          your thing, Byers but I never took you for a Horror freak.”

@jasonbrenner

     An ice cold can of Coke pressed into the skin just below his eye.        And a part of him was becoming real tired of getting his ass kicked          in a fight. He may have swore he was more of a lover instead      but it would’ve been nice to win one every so often if this was going        to become more and more common in his once calm world. He         draws a sigh, filling lungs, holding the air, before releasing it      slowly, giving a slight shake of his head and he hops off the trunk        of his car in which he had been sitting upon. Forest green gaze          shifts to settle upon Jason, a small ghost of a smile traces corners     of his lips and he shakes his head a little just then. “Doesn’t matter.”       Which, in truth, was true. The fight was over. Everything was said           and done. Steve had messed up and the only thing he could do     now was work toward apologizing for his mistakes. “But if you want       a name, it’s Jonathan. Kinda deserved it though.”