Slut for Fictional Men

It was a little too quiet when Clyde came to.

The two of you had been up late partying and he'd passed out not long after you'd shut your eyes. It didn't feel like he'd gotten much sleep though.

His eyes swept across the room, landing on the red glow of the alarm clock accross the room.

3am on the dot.

Christ, he'd barely gotten two hours.

You'd both popped a handful of pills a few hours before. An assortment of unlabeled tablets that were cheap enough that he hadn't asked many questions. The effects had been immediate. You'd started nodding off and Clyde had managed to drag you to bed before you passed out.

He groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face and turned towards you.

The first thing he'd noticed was the soft rattling sound coming from your throat.

Your lips were blue.

You were breathing, but just barely.

"Shit." Clyde breathed, shaking you by the shoulders roughly. "Baby, wake up."

You were limp in his arms.

"C'mon." He muttered, dragging his knuckles over your sternum hard enough to bruise.

You didn't flinch.

"No, no, no" his eyes darted from your face to the door frantically before he decided to start shouting.

"Help!" He screamed, still trying to draw some kind of response from you "I need some help in here!"

Johnny burst into the room only moments later, looking panicked and sleep rumpled.

"What are you-" He started, but trailed off when he saw what was happening "Oh."

"She won't wake up!" Clyde was sure he was crying, but couldn't find it in him to care "I don't-"

"Narcan kit." Johnny's brain seemed to reboot and within a half second, he was sprinting back down the hall.

Clyde was glad that someone else was able to do the thinking.

You'd stopped breathing altogether by the time he came back and Clyde had started to give you CPR clumsily in his panic. He had to pause his efforts when Johnny tore back into the room, fumbling with his cellphone.

He was quick to tear open the Narcan kit as soon as it hit the matress beside him, shouting for Johnny to call 9-1-1.

He managed to snap the top off of the ampule, but his hands were shaking too badly to get the needle into it.

He knew how to use it. you all did. But knowing in theory, and actually having to use it on someone he loved were entirely different.

"I-" He sobbed, trying so hard to focus while Johnny rambled to the 9-1-1 operator, trying to give them a picture of what was going on. "I can't get it!"

"Fuck," He sucked in a breath and forced himself to focus, finally managing to draw up the lifesaving medication.

"C'mon, baby." Clyde muttered under his breath as he plunged the needle into your thigh, rubbing the skin hard after the spring pulled the needle into the syringe. "Come back to me."

"It's not working." He breathed shakily, going back to doing chest compresions and rescue breaths "Jesus, fuck. It isn't fucking working."

"Give her another one." Johnny called out instructions from the dispatcher on the other side of the line.

All Clyde could do was nod and try again to draw up a dose, hitting you in the arm this time.

It only took fifteen seconds for you to sit up suddenly, gasping for air like a switch had been flipped.

You'd been struggling since you'd found Pelle.

You knew it. Faust knew it. Everyone did.

You'd moved out of the house immediately. Same day. Just, packed your shit and ran until you found a soft place to land.

Your soft place had been Faust's couch. It was the first place you could think of that made you feel safe.

Since the two of you had first crossed paths a few months before, there had been something building between the two of you. You flirted and Faust tried, but was too shy to do much more than blush and knock his shoulder into yours. You'd never had a friend who you'd been so touchy with, or who was equally touchy back.

You didn't want to be Faust's friend.

You wanted to come home to him at night and lie in bed together. To build a life away from the bloodied attic of the house out in the woods.

But, you'd kind of shut down after that day. It wouldn't have been fair to let things progress with Faust while you were crashing on his couch. You were carrying too much grief, and weren't thinking straight.

So, you left.

You moved into a shoebox apartment above a bakery and shut yourself inside for days at a time.

Sometimes, Faust came over. Others, it was the rest of the boys, trying to coax you out to a gig or to the pub down the street. You wouldn't go though. It was hard enough to force yourself to go to work. There was no way you'd be able to manage a crowded room, even if your friends were there with you.

Being alone so often gave you too much time to think.

You thought about how you'd ruined whatever had been budding between you and Faust by pushing him away. How the phone calls checking in on you were becoming less and less frequent, not that you ever picked up when it rang. You were pretty sure Faust was the only one still calling.

The night hadn't started any differently than every other since you heard that gun go off down the hall.

You'd grabbed a bottle of wine on your way home from work and collapsed, face down on your couch for an hour, not sleeping, but not entirely awake either.

You ate a peanut butter and jam sandwhich for dinner and washed it down with the entire bottle of merlot.

But then, your arm started to itch.

For some reason, you thought of the way Pelle used to drag a blade over his skin. The blood that would drip down his arm until it dried, or you wiped it away. He'd never really had a straight answer for you when you asked why. would just shrug and mutter something about checking if he was still alive. If there was still blood flowing through his veins.

You weren't so sure in that moment that you were alive. That blood flowed beneath the surface of your skin.

You felt for a pulse, two fingers pressed against the side of your throat. Sure enough, there was a steady thump. Maybe a little faster than usual.

But, it didn't reassure you like you thought it might. It wasn't enough. You needed to know for sure. Needed to feel as close to your friend as you possibly could in your grief.

You weren't even really thinking when you stumbled into the bathroom, rifling through the medicine cabinet clumsily, knocking everything off the side of the sink as you went.

Your fingers wrapped around the packet of razor blade refills on the top shelf and you let out a soft sigh of relief, sinking to the floor in a daze.

You hadn't heard Faust come in.

While he'd been helping you move, he'd swiped the spare key right in front of you and you had never said anything. He hadn't used it before, though. In your mind, it was so you could call him if you ever locked yourself out. But, to him, it had clearly come from a place of concern.

He found you sitting on the bathroom floor, staring wide eyed at a large gash on your forearm after knocking for far too long without a response.

If you hadn't looked so surprised by the obviously self-inflicted wound, he might've felt a spark of anger beneath his concern. Faust hated that you'd locked yourself away. That you weren't letting him worry about you or help. You weren't even picking up the phone anymore.

He wasn't sure what had prompted him to come see you in the first place. It had been like you'd tugged on a cord connected to his heart from accross town. Like his body knew when yours was hurting.

Faust thought abuot saying something.

Maybe asking you what had happened despite it being very much obvious once he'd seen the bloodied blade laying on the tile.

He knew that if he did ask, you wouldn't answer him.

You'd barely flinched when he gently pulled you to your feet and out of the bathroom so he could park you on the couch with a tea towel wrapped around your wrist.

Instead of asking, he waited patiently for your eyes to focus and spark alive with recognition when you finally snapped out of it. The question was clear in his own gague. More of a 'why didn't you call me?' then a 'why did you do it?'. He knew why you'd done it. Knew what it was like to spiral and need a tether.

Your bottom lip shook, and gave him a look so full of guilt and pain that he couldn't bring himself to make you speak. He settled for pulling you into his lap and holding you close until you'd cried yourself out.

Only then, did you let him properly take care of you.

You hadn't expected to see Mike that night.

He was supposed to be out with Sicky doing whatever it was that the two of them got into when they were out running shit for Leff. You had some idea, but liked to pretend that your boyfriend had an entirely normal job and just sometimes worked the night shift.

It was harder to pretend when he came home hurt. Usually with a black eye or a bruised jaw.

You'd have prefered either of those to the loud, frantic knock on your door.

For a moment, you thought that it might be the cops looking for Mike. You were frozen at the dining room table, hand still clutching the glass of wine you'd been about to sip. But then you heard the strained, wobbly voice of the man you loved calling out to you from the other side and shot up to rip the door open.

You were so shoked by the state of him that you couldn't speak. Not at first.

Mike was clutching his side, propped up against the door frame to keep himself upright. His t-shirt, peeking out from under that damn leather trenchcoat he always insisted on wearing, was soaked in blood.

His cheeks lacked their usual colour, eyes glassy and red rimmed, as if he'd been crying.

"What the fuck?" Was all you managed to choke out, heart racing in your chest as panic washed over you "Mikey, What the fuck?"

"You got a first aid kit?" His voice was shaky as he shot you a crooked, weak smile.

"Yeah." You breathed, steping out of the doorway so he could stumble inside with a pained grunt. "Yeah, I do."

Your hands darted out to steady him as you kicked the door shut behind him, guiding him over to the diningroom table.

"What happened?" You called over your shoulder on the way to the bathroom to find the first aid kit, frantically throwing open the cabinets and drawers before rushing back with the red and white box clutched tightly to your chest.

Mike was swaying in his seat a bit when you returned, eyes drooping shit.

"You've gotta stay awake, baby." you gave him a nudge, setting up accross from him. "Show me where you're bleeding."

With shaky hands, Mike pulled up the side of his shirt, wincing with every jerky movement to reveal a deep cut a few inches long just above his hip, steadily oozing blood.

"Jesus fucking-" You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, stunned, before rushing to grab a handful of gauze to hold pressure over the wound. "What-"

"The deal went bad." He groaned, weakly trying to pry your hand away from the painful spot. "one of them had a knife."

"Yeah, no shit it went bad!" You snapped, "Where the hell is Sicky? He just let you walk home like this?"

"I don't know?" It came out whinier than he'd intended, but fuck, it hurt. It hurt so fucking bad. "I just fucking ran."

"I ran like a fucking coward."

"You ran because they had a fucking knife, and they were trying to kill you." You corrected as gently as you could, although there was still quite a bit of bite in your tone. "You need stitches, Mikey. I can't do that here."

"You need a hospital."

"I can't just go to the hospital." He shook his head right away, near frantic "They're gonna call the cops and then I'm fucked."

"Then we say you fell while holding a knife or something." You tried, "we can't just leave this, Baby. You didn't lose too much blood, and it doesn't look too bad. But, I'm no doctor, and even I can tell that this isn't gonna close up on it's own."

"Please." You pleaded with him, blinking up at him with eyes full of concern.

"But Leff always says-"

"Leff isn't here." You shook your head dissmissively. "I don't give a fuck what that asshole has to say."

"Mikey."

"Yeah." He nodded finaly, gnawing on his bottom lip "Okay."

You'd waited until Daryl had been asleep for a couple hours before sneaking out of bed and perching yourself on the open window's ledge with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. You glanced over your shoulder every few seconds after lighting your first one until you were sure that he was still asleep.

You'd had a plan before even getting out of bed. You'd gone back and fourth inside your head a few times before grimacing to yourself in the dark and peeling the covers back.

The first burn always hurt the worst. Especially when it was aimed at the crook of your elbow, where the skin was thin and translucent.

You had to stifle a gasp, gritting your teeth as you held the end of your lit cigarette to your skin until it went out.

It was a shitty thing to do with Daryl in the room, but you just could not shake the urge and you certainly couldn't wait until he left the following morning.

If he left the following morning.

You were shaking by the time you'd re-lit the same cigarette and took a drag before pressing it to your skin.

You just kept going.

Every burn felt ritualistic and frantic. Your body knew the pain it was about to experience before each one and you had to fight not to flinch away before you could get what you wanted.

You needed the tether.

Needed to feel the ache to convince yourself that you were alive and breathing.

It was working, too.

At least, it was, until you felt yourself being yanked back inside and found yourself face to face with a pissed-off-looking Daryl.

"What the hell?" He hissed, grabbing yoru wrist roughly to better see the self inflicted damage.

You tried to jerk your arm back, in a panic, but he was holding you too tightly.

Hisi eyes washed over the six new burns, and then the other, older ones peppering the rest of your arm. There had to be a dozen of them, in various stages of healing.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Daryl cursed under his breath before finally letting you go.

Your relief was short lived. You'd let your arm fall back to your side and taken a step back, but started flailing again when he grabbed your other arm and yanked up your sleeve. He all but snarled at the similar array of burns.

"Stop." your voice was weak and scratchy "Daryl, let me go."

"How long you been doin' this?"

You kept your eyes glued to the floor and shrugged.

"Why?" He tried, letting you shake him off, but stepped between you and the door like he just knew you were thinking about running.

"I don't know." You muttered.

"Do I need to follow ya 'round everywhere?" Daryl asked, squinting at you in the moonlight "Check every day and make sure there ain't more?"

Your eyes snapped up to meet his, full of annoyance and an anxious anger that made his skin itch.

"It's none of your fucking business, Daryl. Leave it."

"Everythin' ya do is my business!" He threw his hands up in frustration, shouting "You're like a goddamn child." "Fine." You spat, flattening yourself against the wall "Then leave!"

"What?" he scoffed "So you can kill yourself or somethin'?"

Your eyes widened slightly, clouded with a hurt you knew damn well you had no right to feel. Still, Daryl immediately deflated, looking like he'd noticed his mistep. "That's not what this is about." You breathed, frowning hard "I don't need a babysitter."

"I know." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"This isn't your shit to deal with." You shook your head "I don't want you to feel responsible for me. I don't need you to."

"That's kinda how this works." Daryl muttered, gnawing on his thumbnail the way he did when he was uncomfortable or nervous. "You deal with my shit and I deal with yours"

You weren't sure what to say to that. It kind of was how the two of you had been managing all those months. You sat at the edge of the bed and breathed a sigh of relief when Daryl joined you. Not touching, but there.

"You gonna keep doin' that?" He asked after a beat of silence.

"Doing what?" You hummed absently.

"Burnin' yourself."

"Oh." You frowned "I don't know. No?"

"Ain't very reassuring." He breathed, not looking at you.

"S'all I've got."

The two of you crawled back into bed eventualy and Daryl pulled you into his arms like he was scared you'd try and slip away from him until you fell asleep.

He laid there for hours staring at the ceiling and worrying his bottom lip until he too fell asleep.

Still a little disoriented and half asleep, you groaned when you felt Daryl twitch in his sleep. He did it again anf you inhaled sharply when you caught an elbow to the spine.

"Christ Dare" You hissed, sitting up abruptly to switch on the lamp on your nightstand. "That shit hu-"

The word trailed off as your annoyance shifted to concern once you realized that he was still fast asleep and obviously having some kind of nightmare.

His skin was slick with a layer of cold sweat and his hair was plastered to his forehead as he thrashed next to you.

"Daryl?" You spoke softly, trying to wake him without catching a stray fist. "Hey, wake up."

He let out a whimper, so soft and wounded, and so unlike Daryl that it had you grabbing him harder by the shoulders.

"Daryl!" You spoke louder, hovering over him and letting your weight fall onto your hands.

He woke with a gasp and eyes full of blind panic until his thoughts slowed enough for him to understand that he'd only been dreaming.

You sat back on your heels, a little taken aback, when he sat up and swung his legs out of bed and slumped over, holding his head in his hands while he tried to slow his breathing.

You weren't sure what to do with yourself, afraid of making it worse somehow, and sat there, watching him while you gnawed on your bottom lip.

When he swiped a pack of cigarettes off the floor and lit one while still in bed, you knew that whatever he'd been dreaming of was bad.

Daryl didn't smoke in bed.

Ever.

Images of your limp body hanging from the ceiling fan replayed inside Daryl's head, bringing him right back to his dreams.

The two of you had been talking and he'd stepped away for two seconds to grab something from downstairs.

By the time he came back, you were already cold, and his hands just couldn't undo the knots. He'd been trying to hold you up like it would make a difference. Like your lips hadn't already turned blue.

It had felt like the entire world was burning around him.

"Can't do that again." Daryl breathed shakily, flicking the half finished cigarette into the glass of water perched on the windowsill before turning over and abruptly pulling you into his chest.

"I ain't fuckin' loosin' ya like that. You hear me?" He rasped into your hair "Not to your own goddamn hand."

You felt the guilt sink in and nodded, still wrapped up in his arms.

"I'm sorry-"

"Shut up." he cut you off, unsure if he'd be able to keep himself from crying if he couldn't just hold you and feel your warmth. Feel your chest moving against his as proof that you were still breathing. "Just Shut up."

He could feel eyes on him.

Could hear the whispers in the wind.

It wasn't often that Possum found himself uneasy out in the woods. He'd always found refuge under the cover of the trees. Unworied when he could feel the earth uner his feet.

He'd only recently started experimenting with less natural substances.

It had been a little bit of coke at first, some acid here and there. He prefered shrooms when it came to psychadelics, but the coke got him wired like nothing he'd ever tried in his life. But, it was expensive. Far more expensive than he could afford without a steady paycheque.

Not one to be tied down by anythng as trivial as a job, Possum prefered living as a nomad amongst the woodlands.

So, when he was offered something a little cheeper that would give him a high pretty close to his expensive habit, he jumped at the chance to shift his attention.

Sometimes, it felt good. If he had something to do, something to clean, or take apart. Others, when it got quiet and he was stuck there with his racing heart and twitchy muscles, he'd get paranoid and feel like there were things crawling under his skin.

Then came the whispers.

Sometimes, he tried to run from them. Those times, it felt mor elike a chase than an attempt to flee. He'd run until his legs gave out and lay there in the dirt with his hands clamped down over his ears.

Then he'd get right back up and do it again tomorrow.

Steve Harrington was not having a good day.

From the second it had started, he'd wished he could just snap his eyes back shut and keep sleeping through it.

He'd woken up late and concequently been late to pick up Robin and Dustin for school, who complained loudly the second they got into the car. He could feel the pressure building behind his left eye right away and Dustin's recent discovery of cologne certainly wasn't helping.

There hadn't been time to do his hair, which was like, his whole thing. Robin had pointed it out immediately and faltered in her anxious rambling about being late to shoot him a look of concern. But, he'd shrugged her off, just like he did anytime she, or anyone else gave him that look. She'd looked unconvinced, but had to leave it once he pulled into the Highschool's parking lot

Dustin ran off without so much as a thank you, which was pretty usual for the little shit, but Robin lingered. She'd been slow to get out of the car, asking if he was feeling alright. Was he sick? Did he need her to call Keith for him and take the day off work?

Steve had just shook his head and assured her that he was fine. Just tired.

The bell drew her attention and Robin begrudgingly shuffled towards the door, looking over her shoulder every few seconds.

He'd let out a heavy sigh once he was alone.

There was no mistaking the sharp pain blooming inside his head for anything but the start of a migraine. It wasn't anything new to Steve. He'd started having them after Billy had broken that plate over his head, and they'd only gotten worse after the russains.

Tomorrow was his day off. He didn't have to drive the kids or Robin anywhere, and he'd planned to use it to catch up on sleep. He just had to make it through the day and he could lock himself in a dark room for at least twenty four hours.

Family Video's overhead lighting was the catalyst for full on throbbing pain. He'd have shut them off if it had just been him in the store, but he was working with Keith that morning, and didn't need to give the guy any more reasons to hate him.

Eddie had come in halfway through his shift, and Steve knew that it was going to be a bad one when even the man's incessant playful flirting didn't improve his mood. He usually loved their flirty banter. Loved trying to fluster Eddie as much as Eddie flustered him. Loved to watch Eddie hide behind a strand of hair when he really laid it on thick.

The flirting with Eddie was a game of sorts. Steve knew that Eddie didn't mean it when he was flirting. He was just trying to get a rise out of his newfound friend. He was like that with everyone.

But Steve wasn't playing.

It had been months at that point, since he'd started to yearn for more than friendship from the metalhead. It had crept up on him after dragging Eddie's mangled body through the gate and to the hospital.

Everything Eddie did was endearing. Even when he was being a total dork or ganging up on him with the kids. Steve just couldn't help but wonder what it'd be like to kiss him. His lips were plush and looked so soft, and-

A loud thump against his passenger side window dragged him out of his thoughts and he blinked at an impatient looking group of children standing outside his car.

He didn't even remember driving back to the school.

His head was still pounding. His eyes were dry and his ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. He thought he might be sick.

Instead, he unlocked the doors and winced when they clambered inside, being just as loud and unruly as they always were.

Fuck, he just had to get them home. Then, he could curl up in bed with all the lights off and try to sleep.

Steve pulled out of the Hawkins High parking lot and turned right only for the noise to get even louder.

"Why are you going this way?" Dustin flung his hands out towards the dashboard from the passenger seat, looking baffled.

"Uh, I'm taking you home?" Steve muttered, frowning.

"It's the last friday of the month!" Mike shouted from behind him "Don't tell me you forgot about Eddie's campaign?"

Fuck.

They were right.

Steve had been dumb enough to agree to hosting Hellfire once a month. He probably wouldn't have if Eddie and Henderson hadn't teamed up to give him the puppy dog eyes.

All Steve could do was groan and pull a U-turn, flinching away from the excited cheers.

Eddie, was somehow already inside and setting up when they got back to Steve's place.

His big, round eyes caught Steve's immediately and his brows pulled together, head cocking to the side as he studied him.

The kids were shouting out their snack and drink requests, elbowing their way into the living room, oblivious to Eddie's quiet concern and Steve's glassy eyes.

The two adults ventured into the kitchen, where Steve immediately folded himself over the granite countertop and pressed his forehead to the cool stone, sighing in relief.

"You alright, Stevie?" Eddie frowned, nudging Steve's foot with his own gently.

He just hummed.

"Shouldn't leave your door unlocked." the older boy bounced on the balls of his feet, worrying at his bottom lip "I could've been an axe killer."

"I'm fine." Steve muttered, too shaky to be convincing. "just tired. Forgot hellfire was tonight."

"I reminded you earlier." He got a little closer and poked Steve's side gently "When I came by the store. Remember?"

"Obviously not!" Steve propped himself up as he snapped at Eddie, immediately flooding with guilt when he saw the startled look on the other boy's face.

Steve felt like crying.

"Eddie-" He gasped, clearly horrified as he reached out and rested a hand on his forearm, as if he'd ever walk away. "I'm so sorry!"

"I didn't mean that!" Steve started rambling, eyes welling up with tears and cheeks warmed by embarrassment over how worked up he must've looked "My head just hurts so fucking bad and I-"

"Whoa, whoa." Eddie cut him off and covered Steve's hand with his own, eyes wide as he tried to be reassuring "Calm down, Sweetheart. I know. You're alright."

They stood there for a moment, blinking at each other owlishly before either of them spoke again.

"So, your head hurts." Eddie's voice was soft, immediately adjusted for Steve's comfort "You want me to get the kids out of your hair? Give you a little peace and quiet?"

"They've been looking forward to this for weeks." Steve shook his head, blinking back tears "I'm fine. This happens all the time. I just need a minute. Maybe an asprin."

"How often is all the time?" Eddie frowned, eyes scanning the open cabinets "where do you keep the asprin?"

"Every couple weeks?" Steve sighed tiredly, pulling his hand out from under Eddie's so he could scrub it over his face roughly "I don't know."

"Are they always this bad?"

"Sometimes." he admitted softly.

"And what usually helps?" Eddie prompted, eyes boring down into his "Asprin, honey. Where is it?"

Any other time, Steve might've blushed or gotten flustered by the pet name, but now all it did was make him more upset. He was a mess and ruining campain night, and here Eddie was, being sweet and fussing over him when he should be setting up and going over his notes.

"Stevie?"

"Huh?" Steve frowned, swaying slightly in place, brows furrowed.

"Look at me." A large palm cupped his cheek and he was poweless to stop himself from leaving into Eddie's touch. "Focus for a second, where is the asprin?"

"In my room." he muttered finally.

"Okay, let's get you upstairs, then." Eddie nudged him back from the counter and towards the stairs.

"But the snacks-"

"Fuck the snacks, Steve." he scoffed, guiding him forward with a hand at the small of his back.

"Always taking care of everyone," Eddie shook his head ruefully halfway up the stairs "Who takes care of you? Huh?"

"I do." Steve huffed, letting himself be dragged along.

"You're not doing a very good job though, are you sweetheart?" He breathed, more to himself than anything "Don't worry. I've got you."

Eddie managed to herd Steve into the plaid monstrocity that was his bedroom. It was the first time he'd been in there, and it was hard not to comment on the tasteless decorating. He'd usually be trilled, snooping around and pointing it all out, but all that mattered was making sure that Steve got some kind of relief.

He parked the younger boy at the end of his bed, watching with concern as he hid his face in his hands.

The asprin bottle on Steve's nightstand was nearly empty. It was one of the supersized bottles that lasted most people over a year. The empty bottles of the same size littering the floor next to the bed told him that Steve's 'headaches' must have been much worse than he'd feared. His heart clenched painfully in his chest at the thought of Steve locking himself up here to deal with them alone.

"Jesus christ." Eddie cursed under his breath before upending it into his palm, counting out the recommended dose before presenting it to Steve along with the glass he's filled with water from the bathroom sink.

"I've got your asprin, Stevie."

Steve wouldn't come out from behind his hands.

Eddie frowned.

"Steve." He tried, nudging his knee gently "C'mon, Sweetheart. It'll help"

"S'too bright." Steve's voice came out slightly slurred. "Hurts."

"Do you want me to turn the lights off?" Eddie offered, rushing to flick them all off when Steve made the tiniest movement resembling a nod.

"There you go." He crouched down in front of Steve, trying again to get him to take the pills. "Nice and dark."

It took him a minute to raise his head, and when he did, Eddie noticed the drawn out, shaky breaths falling from his lips and the grimace of pain, just barely illuminated by the sliver of light spilling through the cracks in the curtains.

He could just barely make out the tear tracks on his cheeks.

"Oh, Stevie." He breathed, helping the boy wrap his hand around the glass and dump the pills in his mouth "Has it been this bad all day? Why'd you go to work?"

Steve just groaned.

"Okay." Eddie frowned, brushing his hair out of his face "Asprin, and the dark. What else do you need?"

"I don't know."

"You know, my mom used to get migraines." Eddie nudged Steve further onto the mattress. He begrudgingly let himself be laid down until his head was resting on his pillows. "She used to rest a bag of rice over her eyes, said the pressure helped."

"Don't have any rice." Steve breathed shakily, tears still dripping into his hairline.

"Will you let me try something?" Eddie was too concerned to be thrown by how close to Steve he'd let himself get. "Please?"

Hesitantly, with his eyes screwed shut, Steve nodded.

"Alright." He breathed a sigh of relief, snaking his arm under Steve's head "C'mere."

He'd really only meant to have Steve roll onto his side, but Eddie certainly wasn't going to start complaining when he curled right into Eddie's chest instead.

Carefully, he rested his hand over Steve's eyes, giving just enough presure that it eased some of the pain and had the younger boy melting into him.

"There you go." He muttered into Steve's hair, inhaling the smell of his shampoo and commiting it to memory while he had the chance. "Better?"

Steve just hummed and leaned into his touch, sighing softly in relief.

Eventually, the kids would come looking for them. Hopper would drop off Max and El and they'd realize that both adults had slipped away.

Eddie just hoped that it would be after Steve had fallen asleep.

I could see Gabriel taking you on a date to a county fair and thinking that it would be fine. You love the fair, and Gabe loves you. So, of course he'd jump at the chance to wander around the fairground hand in hand.

It would seem like a good idea on paper. Walk around and play some games, maybe go on a ride or two. But the second that Gabe would open his car door in the parking lot, the noise would hit him before even setting foot outside.

Fair music. Children screaming on rides. The excited chatter of other people enjoying the occasion. He'd flinch, but would power through the initial flare of anxiety in hopes that it would taper off as the day progressed.

But, of course, it wouldn't. If anything, it would only get louder. The further the two of you ventured beyond the gates, the more Gabe would notice.

He'd be hit by a wall of smells. Popcorn. Funnel cake. Hot Dogs. Kettle corn. Every food stall would blend together until it was all he could think about.

Then, as the sun went down, The lights would get a whole lot brighter. They'd flash and pulse, all sorts of colour configurations spread out over the entire fairground. Maybe fireworks would start soon after dark. Just adding to both the noise and the lights.

It would all get to be too much. Gabe would try to enjoy himself for your sake and push down his discomfort so you could enjoy yourself even if it meant letting it build until it spiralled.

You'd realize that something was wrong eventually. He'd be twitchy and spacey, eyes darting all over as he trailed off mid sentence, then stop talking altogether.

Well versed in all things Gabe, you'd understand what was happening pretty quickly.

The easiest way to help with the overstimulation would be to remove as much of the stimuli as possible. I'm sure that Gabe would fight you on leaving. He'd tell you that he's fine and that he just wanted you to have fun. That he didn't want to ruin the day by making it about him.

The only way to get him back to the car would be to tell him that you're tired and that you wanted to go home. He migtht just sigh in relief and follow you out the gates with his shoulders slumped, but his senses still flooded with all the diferent sensations.

I get the feelng that touch wouldn't help. You'd know that and would keep your hands to yourself so not to overwhelm him further by adding one more thing for him to focus on. All you would need to do is unlock the doors and sit with him quietly until he's able to regulate himself.

Dividers and Banners by me. for more graphics, check out my side-blog @dividers-are-us

Erik could still feel the brand against his skin. The flames licking at his fingertips and the jackhammering of his heart as things spiralled out of control.

He still wasn't sure what had happened. How so many things could have possibly gone wrong all at once.

It felt like a big 'fuck you' from the universe. To have to watch his father die in the way that he did, and then deal with this so soon after?

The last thing you'd been expecting when you heard a knock at your door at two in the morning, was to find your boyfriend standing on your doorstep looking ghostly white. He was wearing a t-shirt with the fire departent crest on his chest and his arm was wrapped in a white bandage.

You didn't bother hiding the confusion on your face. He'd wanted to spend the night with his family after losing his dad. You weren't expecting him back until the following morning. He looked just as surprised to find himself there as you did, eyes wide and glassy.

"I thought you were staying at your parents house tonight?" You blinked at him, stepping out of the doorway and beckoning him forward once you'd snapped yourself out of your confused daze. "Not that I'm not happy to see you."

"what happened to your arm?" You reached for his hand after he'd shuffled inside, brows furrowed with concern.

"I got branded." Erik finally spoke, raspy from the smoke, and let out a crazed cackle so loud that it made you flinch.

"You what?" You dragged him over to the couch and made him sit, "What do you mean, you got branded? Are you okay?"

"Oh, Sweets." he scoffed "You have no idea how not okay I am. I'm cursed. I'm fucking cursed!"

"So tell me." You urged softly, squeezing his hand. "What happened?"

So, he did.

In a low, shaky, voice, Erik told you all about the fire and the absolute chaos that had unfolded. Told you about the ceiling fan and the chain stuck in his septum ring. How he'd been scared. More scared than he'd ever been.

He showed you the fresh tattoo and the heart shaped brand over it. Let you guide him into the bathroom and help him wash the smoke out of his hair and re-bandage his arm.

"What-" Jack's eyes darted to the windows, lit up with red and blue flashing lights. "What did you do!"

"You need help, Jack." Shanda held her hands out in front of her as if she were speaking to a wounded animal, her voice shaky and strained "I need you to let me help you."

"You can't help me!" He shouted, grabbing at the roots of his hair as his chest heaved for breath. "You shouldn't be here, Shanda"

Someone was banging on the front door.

"Don't you understand?" He scoffed, laughing bitterly to himself when she made no moves to leave. "I can't leave. I haunt this house. I'm in the fucking walls!"

"You can." His best friend insisted, taking a tentative step forward "We'll get you back to feeling like yourself and then we can go home. It'll be okay."

"This is home." Jack's voice creaked, hands shaking at his sides "They're here, Shanda. They are."

"I know," She kept moving forward, ignoring the sounds of the heavy boots spilling in through the unlocked door. "It's gonna be alright, Jack. I promise."

The second he felt hands on him, Jack's ears started ringing.

He tried to shrug off the first cop's grip on his shoulder, all but snarling as his eyes snapped up to meet the unamused faces of an assortment of paramedics and police officers.

They were all staring back at him with either pity or annoyance.

His brows pulled together and he felt a wave of confusion.

Why were they in his house?

Why were they looking at him like that?

He turned to look at Shanda and had trouble understanding the pained look on her face.

"What are-" He flinched away from more hands, grabbing at him. "What are you doing?"

He could see her lips moving, but it sounded like he was under water. He couldn't make out any words, too busy struggling against the hands gripping at his arms.

"Get the fuck off me!" Jack jerked away, trying to tear himself free "Get the hell out of my house!"

It felt like he'd blinked and all of a sudden he was being strapped down to a gurney and loaded into the back of an ambulance. A paramedic held his arm still while another tried to get an IV into it despite his flailing.

They stuck him once, and then again.

It took three tries to get the needle in his arm as just as soon as they did, Jack felt a burning sensation at the IV site, followed by a tingling in his extremeties.

His efforts to free himself faltered for a moment and his brows furrowed.

He gave a tug at the straps teathering his wrists to the gurney and frowned.

His heart didn't feel like it was racing anymore.

His eyelids felt heavy.

Christ, he was tired.

Maybe he could just shut his eyes.

Just for a second.

Maybe he'd wake up at home.

You'd barely made it two steps into Pelle's room before the smell of copper hit you.

He was on his hands and knees, hunched over the ratty carpet with a coarse haired brush in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. He froze when he heard the sharp intake of breath fall from your lips.

"Hjärtat" He breathed, wide eyes full of guilt "You weren't supposed to see."

"If I don't see, it hasn't happened?" You frowned and swallowed hard. "Is that what you think?"

"I didn't want to worry you." Pelle muttered softly "It's just a little bit. I'm cleaning it."

"I'm always worried." Your smile was pained. Wobbly. "what happened, my love?"

He shrugged, eyes darting down to the bloodstained carpet as his brows pulled together slightly. As if he really didn't know what had happened.

It wasn't outside the relm of possibility.

Sometimes, you found Pelle with fresh wounds and a vacant look on his face. It was easier to get him cleaned up when he got like that. Your tears could run freely without worrying about making him feel bad. That was never the point. You just wished he didn't feel the need to drag a blade over his skin.

It was an old song and dance between the two of you. You'd find him bloodied and clean him up. He'd let you. Weave his bony figers between yours when you were finished and brush his thumb over your knuckles as some kind of apology.

He'd told you once that there were shadows in his blood. That they'd sing to him if he set them free and spill secrets just for him. It was hard to be angry after that.

There was no part of Pelle that would ever want you to be afraid. He didn't mean to terrify you on stage with broken glass cradled in his hands. Didn't mean to make you cry when he went a little too deep and then refused to go to the hospital after.

He'd bleed for anything if it held him the right way.

You couldn't blame him for that. Not really. You'd known what you'd signed up for when you started hanging around him. Knew what hid beneath his sleeves long before you coaxed them up his arms and helped him shrug off his shirt before bed.

Pelle was quietly ill and in no way ready to adress it.

So, all you could do once you'd' gotten over the intial shock was roll up your own sleeves and settle next to him on the stained carpet. Help, and be glad that he was letting you. Bear the weight of his body leaning into yours. A quiet reassurance that he was there.

Warm and alive.

Dividers and Banners by me. for more graphics, check out my side-blog @dividers-are-us