voy cabalgando ese fuego

“Okay fine, it’s more the aftertaste if you know what I mean. When you get those coffee burps. Anyway…” he trails off, train of thought lost as he shoves the couch back into its usual spot and grabs his keys and wallet from the kitchen counter.

Where Chai goes and who he spends his time with when he’s not home isn’t something Steve has been made privy to, nor has he cared to ask about. It’s a bit much to expect from a roommate he hadn’t grown up knowing, because as nosy as Steve can be at times, he also isn’t one to ask question unless it pertains to him and his own life.

“You think I’d pretend to be friends with your brother? For what, internet clout?” he asks as he approaches the front door. Steve thinks of his newly unlocked Instagram account with its climbing following count. Okay, so maybe he has Chai to thank for that but what will followers ever amount to? Extra likes on his selfies and random posts about the weather or what he’s watching on TV?

“I don’t really know what Chai’s up to most of the time, ya know. Not unless he’s asking for help with a video or making dinner. Kinda none of my business otherwise… cherry, by the way.” He gestures for Sana to follow him as he steps out into the hallway, only one place on his mind for his slushie fix: the convenience store at the nearest corner.

             Coffee burps? Ew. Her expression was all he needed to see to know her feelings about that comment. Sana rifles through her bag for a moment, removing whatever items she needs and stuffing them into her pleather jacket. With her current outfit, it was hard to miss her resemblance to her missing older brother. 

                       “So, is it, like, just a girl thing to let your roommate know where you’re going. You know, just to make sure someone knows where you’re at?” Sana gives him a look. If anyone needed to be kept tabs on, it was Chai. At least that was her opinion, considering how much of an idiot he could be on occasion. And with all of his issues? Sana swipes a hand down her face. 

             She probably knows where everything is around the neighborhood better than Steve does, so she’s hardly following. 7-11 sits on the corner across the street and down the block. Her wallet feels like a bulging rock in her pocket.

                     “Okay, fine, that’s fair, I guess. I just fuckin worry? He’s like-- Chai pretends he’s okay. Like, a lot. And then I get a call from the fucking VA hospital and...” Sana frowns, snaps her mouth shut as she takes the lead toward the store. “I shouldn’t be telling you this if he hasn’t said anything so... anyway.”

            She fills up a large cup full of red sugar flavored icee water even though she knows full well he could do it himself. Her frown seems to be a permanent fixture on her brows. Sana regards him as she shoves the drink, capped and with straw at him. 

He keeps doing his social media stuff, his YouTube channel. That's at least popular and brings in a few extra dollars.

But then they make a hit single, two hit singles, and suddenly they are in the spotlight and Chai doesn't know how to deal with that. It doesn't really sink in until Lara's telling him they have a big thing, they're opening at a concert and Chai's heaving in the bathroom with their manager or whoever saying, I don't think he's going to be able to do this.

But he does. For better or worse, and it's definitely more like worse. He doesn't want to disappoint Lara, but all the attention, all the stress, everything hits all the bad notes for his PTSD and suddenly his pretty good coping mechanisms aren't cutting it. And he's backsliding, drinking too much. His injuries, the hip that makes it hard to walk some days, the shoulder that has 85% mobility on good days, they don't like the increased... everything. He doesn't like drugs, but the pain gets bad, gets worse and before he knows it, he's taking whatever he can to dull it.

God, probably. Steve wants to laugh; wants to grab Chai by the shoulders with a shake to wake him up and inform him that there is no god, there can’t be, because if there is, then he’s the biggest douchebag there ever was instead of the merciful being everyone always goes on and on about. Everything about the past few years has Steve convinced of this harsh truth, and he’s long since stopped expecting anything to come along and change his mind.

Instead what he does is watch Chai struggle with himself and maintains a respectable distance.

“I did. They’re fucking stupid.” Not to mention the fact that Steve’s tolerance for alcohol has shot up so much within the past few months alone that he’s sure nothing short of an entire fleet of whiskey bottles is going to put him on his ass like half a bottle used to. This Steve keeps to himself; Chai doesn’t need to know he’s been battling his own demons lately, that some days he’s uncertain as to how he even manages to get up in the morning.

“Kinda heard you were gonna be here though.”

This particular statement isn’t a lie. Because despite not remembering who had invited him in the first place, he had caught wind of Chai possibly making an appearance. If it had been a lie he supposes he would’ve snagged a bottle from the kitchen and gone home to drink by the pool now that he isn’t afraid of its depths and what he knows.

“You gonna let me drive you home, or what?”

                       “Don’ I feel spe-cial.” 

            Chai snorted. What did it matter if Chai was coming around? He hadn’t been much fun for the party. It was just an excuse to get wasted. When his mood was this crappy, he didn’t make for good company. Chai had spent most of the party hiding out in the corner with whatever was in the punch bowl. He wondered who had mentioned anything. Was news that quiet that his appearance actually warranted a trip around the rumor mill? 

            He grimaces at the question. Steve trying to be the rescuer, the knight in shining armor. Chai wants to kick him. Or punch him. But he’s more likely to end up on his ass and wouldn’t that be embarrassing? Chai huffed a sigh, looking back at Steve in an awkward position he abandons quickly. 

                       “The fuck I said already?” Chai grumbles. “Ain’t goin’ home... Don’ wanna screaming match. She’s gonna be screamin’ enough, soon.”

            Chai trails off, letting that trail of thought flutter off and die. He doesn’t want to bring that up. Not when he’s stumbling over words and unable to think straight. 

“No thanks. Coffee tastes like barf.”

Which isn’t the point; Steve can recognize an olive branch when it’s being extended. He can hardly be blamed for his sullen response. Sana had interrupted a rather impromptu dance routine which he’d found on YouTube and had subsequently shoved the couch to the other side of the room so he wouldn’t kick a damn hole through the wall. Gyms aren’t exactly Steve’s thing, and he’ll die any sort of gruesome death before he jogs in broad daylight.

Pon de Replay by Rihanna is still filtering out of his wireless headphones at an alarming volume and he turns them off, tossing them at the couch. They bounce and land on the patchy carpet.

“…but I’ll take a slushie,” he amends, bending over to re-lace his sneakers. “No idea where Chai is, by the way. Haven’t seen him all day.” Obviously. He wouldn’t have been dancing and taking up the entire living area otherwise.

                    “What kind of coffee are you drinking?” 

          Sana gives him a disgusted look. She’s kind of a coffee snob, despite working at stupid Starbucks. She wants to change his mind, just on that statement alone, but she’s getting sidetracked. Sana came her for Chai and--he’s not here. She looks like she’s ready to punch something or someone as soon as he tells her. 

                    “Cabron...” she mumbles. The one reason she got on the train and he wasn’t around. Sana sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly through her nose. This is fine. This is fine. “I bet. He gets up at stupid o’clock. I don’t think he really sleeps. Like, how does anyone get up at 5am all the time?” 

         She looks him over again. Suspicious. 

                    “You’re gonna tell me where my idiot of a fucking brother is right now.”

            Not the nicest way to greet your brother’s roommate in their apartment, but Sana didn’t care. With her backpack slung over her shoulder she shoved passed the other and into the living room. The bag made a loud thunk as it hit the floor by the couch. She crossed her arms over her chest, frowning, sizing up Steve Harrington with a swipe of her gaze. She softened a little, looking away as if suddenly self-conscious that she was acting like a brat. Sana hooked a strand of hair behind her ear.

@explodeseven​ ( cont. from 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 )

Chai doesn’t need to ask, but Steve doesn’t verbalize the obvious, not after Chai swats at him, the action missing him completely and nearly taking out a row of ceramic lawn gnomes, all of them leering in a row like some sort of council with their creepy smiles and empty eyes.

For the first time in a long time, Steve is sober at a house party. Not for lack of trying, either. He just hasn’t had the urge to drink much lately, not with how he’s been trying to pick up the pieces of last summer. There’s so much he has yet to process or understand, and every time he attempts to, he gets a splitting headache, which he supposes is what happens when a Russian guard kicks the shit out of you over and over again until you inevitably pass out. The headaches are a reminder, just like the tiny scar by his lower lip that he traces over with his tongue out of habit from time to time.

Another wound to lick.

“I’m not gonna leave you here, man. Come on, I’ll drive you home. My car’s across the street.” Steve can’t remember who had even invited him out. He’s lost touch with most of his old peers despite still living in Hawkins, and he barely talks to anyone outside of the circle of people who had been at Starcourt the night everything had gone down. His limited energy for anyone else has been used for shifts at Family Video, though he feels grateful enough that Robin tends to take over for him whenever he shows signs of an oncoming migraine.

“Seriously, who pissed in your cereal this morning? I’m just trying to help.”

                      “God, probably.” 

           He’s not the type of person to do this. He doesn’t push people--or, rather, he doesn’t let them get close enough to be pushed. Everyone he knew in high school? They’re just acquaintances. People he knew for the fun of knowing them. To throw a party. To be popular--because it was fun being popular. It was being Nice Guy Chai, while it lasted. High school is over, now, though, and there’s no going back to Before Last Summer and he hates that. He hates the way he can’t get out from under the rain cloud that’s been following him ever since. He hates waking up in the morning. He hates that Mikhail wants to join the army and he hates that he’s going with him.

                        “Maybe I don’t want ya fuckin’ help,” Chai mumbles as he shakes his head, tries to get a little more sober. “Lemme wande’ off inta the woods n’die.” 

             God, he drank too much. He has to stop doing this. He knows he has to because he hates being drunk and it doesn’t help any. It just makes him feel like worse shit. Horse shit? Chai makes it to the curb, loses his footing and--sits. Makes it almost look natural. 

                        “M’sorry, m jus’...goin’ off the deep end, I guess,” Chai says, a little louder. He peers over at Steve, frowning. “...I thought you stopped comin’ ta these.” 

@friendrequest

                  “You got terrible taste in sandwich spreads.” 

         Chai searches the fridge for the jar of mayonnaise he definitely, oh so totally, bought just last week. He didn’t go through it that fast did he? Or maybe he didn’t buy it at all. His memory is not what it used to be.

                   “M’tryin’ to make you the best pernil sandwich you’ve ever tasted n’you’re gonna say ‘cover it in mustard’? Que tosta.” 

          He shuts the door, staring at the cut open brioche loaves, the tray of chopped pernil, the rest of the items waiting on the kitchen counter. He shifts, taking weight off his bad hip. Chai imagines she’s probably had better sandwiches considering her status and all, but that doesn’t mean he can’t boast about his own cooking skills. Who knew taking a trip with Lara through all those clubs would land him a friendship with someone so high class. Except, of course, she was saying to slather mustard on a sandwich so obviously that didn’t mean much. 

@explodeseven​ ( cont. from here )

Mykah shouldn’t even be here. By all accounts, he should be snug in his bed for the week; some posh little apartment he’s managed to snag because some ex-actress decided that downing an entire bottle of pills was a better alternative than continuing to get rejected at auditions. Something about ageism in industry or whatnot — Mykah had only listened to her rant for all of thirty seconds before directing her to her lights, and poof! An expensive apartment and whatever had been left of her weed and cocaine, all for Mykah’s grubby little hands to hold onto.

George is the reason he’s here. He’d had a bet going with his fellow reaper, one to see who could woo Daisy, another coworker: Mykah or Mason, who in George’s eyes are just two sides of the same idiotic coin. She’d won by placing her bets on neither Mykah nor Mason, and taken the whole kit and caboodle when Daisy had instead settled for some upscale architect from across town. Go figure. Mykah had only been in it for the drama of it all anyway, bored out of his skull as he constantly is in the afterlife. His punishment for losing the bet? Doing sweet little Georgia’s bidding for a week, much to his chagrin. This means doing her reaps for her while she lays on her ass and watches Maury.

“Aw, shit.” It’s all Mykah can say as he rounds a corner and sees someone on the ground as the rain continues to pour down, the hood of his black sweatshirt soaked through. He hates when he arrives on time and is forced to watch his reaps die right before his very eyes, but even as he decides to get it over with and simply take the stranger’s soul, a loud crash and bang erupts as a car hurtles down the road and crashes headlong into the building to the left of them at full speed.

“Fuck. Let me guess. You’re not T. Pilar?” he asks the person on the ground as he looks down at the post-it note in his own hand.

             The car crash cuts through Chai’s haze of pain with a shot of adrenaline. He scrambles, slipping in rain water and slumping onto his backside. Wild eyes find the strange figure, standing there with the post-it note in his hand. Chai blnks, once, twice, and wonders if he’s hallucinating. He swipes ran water out of his face with a shaking hand.

                       “What?” Chai says, breathless, tremulous. “N-no.” 

              Several car alarms sing to the broken vehicle. Chai can’t see it from where he’s at, but he sees the billowing smoke up into the sky. There’s bound to be an ambulance coming soon and-- it would be lucky for him, right, if they found him? Chai hates the thought. 

             He doesn’t want to be here when they come with their sirens. He has no idea what this guy might have wanted with T. Pilar and doesn’t want to become the replacement. The problem is he can’t get up. The searing pain in his side, in his leg, in various other parts of him, cut through the adrenaline.