Abyssal Beach

from abell 2218 by eric gamalinda, published in amigo warfare: poems

- it’s fun to be awake & in an upright position

- consciousness is a gift

rated T | written for the @steddiemicrofic prompt ‘three’ + 333 words | slice of life, injury, being goofballs as always

—

Three. That’s how many front teeth Eddie knocks out of his head trying to pull off some boneheaded trick at the skate park. “Owwwww,” he whines pitifully from the back seat of Steve’s car where he’s got his head in Robin’s lap, the sound muffled behind a bag of frozen peas pressed to his mouth.

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, stepping harder on the gas. Eddie’s teeth are in his pocket. “That’s what you get for trying to impress a little girl.”

“Excuse you,” Max glares from the passenger seat. “I’m fifteen tomorrow.”

“You’re a baby.”

“I have tits!”

“Ew.” Steve doesn’t want to think about her tits, for god’s sake.

“Steve,” Robin chides, adjusting Eddie in her lap as they round the last corner into town. “Don’t body shame.”

Max ignores her. “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “It wasn’t even impressive.”

“Hey!!” Eddie sits up; takes the bag off his mouth to protest; ends up spraying blood across the roof of Steve’s car as they go over a speed bump. Goddammit. Goddammit, he’s lucky Steve would do anything for him.

Steve scowls at him in the rearview and pulls up to the dentist’s office. “You’re cleaning that up.”

—

They get Eddie in to see the dentist surprisingly quickly.

Steve goes back with him, hangs out at the edge of the exam room and horrifies the assistant when he fishes three teeth roots-and-all out of the blood-stained front pocket of his jeans. Eddie’s all loopy on laughing gas so they can reimplant the two front teeth — “we’ll need to replace the lateral incisor” — and the whole ridiculous ordeal is kinda worth it when, at the end of the appointment, just the two of them alone in a tiny room, Eddie looks up at Steve like he hung the moon, gives him a big gap-toothed smile, and says “hey” like ‘I love you.’

He reaches out to hold Steve’s pinky. “Thanks.”

for @corrodedcoffinfest day 7 prompt 'the california raisins'

rated m | 696 words | cw: past character death, referenced serious illness, drug mentions | tags: good uncle wayne, eddie and jeff friendship, eddie's childhood

👥👥👥👥👥👥👥👥👥👥👥👥👥

His first lunchbox had He-Man on it. He remembers how cool he felt showing it off to everyone on the first day of school. His mom packed him his favorite ham and cheese sandwich, a bag of chips, and a soda as a treat.

And then she got sick.

Eddie didn’t realize how bad it was. He was only six. How could he know that the reason his mom stopped packing his lunches and making sure he took baths and making him dinner was because she was too sick to get out of bed?

Her hair started to fall out and she slept a lot and he had to try to make his own sandwiches for a while.

And then one day, his uncle showed up at school. His eyes were red and he tried to fake a smile and Eddie just knew.

He forgot the He-Man lunchbox when he was packing his things to move in with Wayne.

–

Wayne bought him a California Raisins lunchbox on sale at the mall the next week. It wasn’t as cool as the He-Man one, but it matched Jeff’s. He was technically supposed to be in kindergarten, but he moved up a grade a year early because he’s smart. He knows a lot about space. Eddie likes talking to him.

No one else really likes their lunchboxes, but Eddie doesn’t care.

They eat lunch together every day even though they don’t have the same teacher. They’re best friends, or at least Eddie thinks so.

He even gets to go to Jeff’s birthday party at his house and have cake and ice cream and meet his parents, who are really nice. His dad knows even more about space than Jeff. Wayne says he works for the government, but he doesn’t know what that has to do with anything. His mom is a secretary. She doesn’t have to work, but Jeff says she likes having something to do.

Eddie’s mom worked for a while. She was a waitress. She didn’t like working, but he thinks it’s because she didn’t make a lot of money, not because she was lazy like some people said.

He doesn’t think his dad ever worked a real job. He doesn’t work now. He’s in jail.

Jeff doesn’t laugh at him when he brings his lunchbox to his party. He didn’t know they would feed him sandwiches there. He just sets it on the counter and drags him outside to eat and play with all the other kids.

It’s nice.

—

When it comes time for Eddie to make some money to help Wayne out, his options are pretty limited.

The grocery store will hire him to work Friday nights and Saturdays, but by the time he pays for gas and his food, he comes out with no money to pay the bills. It’s not even worth it.

So, he finds Reefer Rick at 16 years of age and decides the life of crime is a life of profit. Well, mostly. He’ll definitely make more than Melvald’s.

He starts with a small enough amount he can just keep it in his pocket. He sells it quick. High school is a great place to sell drugs, apparently.

He has to upgrade. He pulls the California Raisin box from under a cabinet and hides the drugs there. No one gets suspicious. Who would? It’s the California Raisins.

Jeff doesn’t say much to him about it, but he knows he doesn’t approve. He just doesn’t understand. His parents give him an allowance and have plenty of money to pay the bills on time every month. They even pay for extra stuff, like sending Jeff to summer camps and his guitar lessons. Eddie’s never had spare money in his life before now, and most of that goes into savings for when his van needs work.

Eventually, he starts carrying more than just weed. Nothing too serious, but he buys a new lunchbox.

It just didn’t feel right using his childhood lunchbox anymore.

He’s grown now. He has grown up problems that require grown up solutions.

written for @steddiemicrofic | prompt: ‘three’ [title from 'past lives' - børns]

rated g | 333 words | no cw | tags: domestic bliss, existential crisis He first says it like a joke, tossed across the living room like it’s nothing more than another stupid Harrington-ism, something to make Eddie snort and call him drama queen.

“Three lives,” Steve mutters, hip-bumping the coffee table straight while sweeping guitar picks and loose change into his palm. “King, babysitter, and whatever the hell this one is.”

This apartment wears them well: laundry in limp mountains on the couch, Eddie’s favourite mug sweating on the windowsill, Dustin’s spare key hanging beside theirs in a crooked row. A grocery list on the fridge, old ink beneath the fresh scrawl where Steve kept changing his mind about who they are now, what they need. Whole milk, low-fat, lactose-free. Life one, life two, life three.

King Steve lived in mirrors, in the sheen of a car hood and the hollow clamour of parties that never felt like fun. Babysitter Steve lived in bat-splintered knuckles and Eddie’s van, in the thud of sneakers racing down cracked-open suburban streets, and in the terrifying knowledge that he loved kids who weren’t his and would kill monsters for them.

This Steve lives here, in the dip of their shared mattress under Eddie’s weight, in the three towels that hang in the bathroom - one for him, one for Eddie, one permanently stolen by Dustin when he crashes. Now-Steve lives in the click of three locks on the door each night, counted off under his breath.

“One, I’m not at my parents’ house,” he says, thumb brushing the deadbolt.

“Two. I’m not in the Upside Down.”

He hesitates on the third, palm pressed flat against wood grain.

Eddie’s voice comes from the bedroom, lazy and sure. “Three, you’re here. With me.”

Steve exhales - it feels like shedding old skin - and turns back toward the soft bedroom glow, scattered guitar magazines, a man waiting for him with his hair tied up and his heart uncluttered.