Steve doesn’t remember what drove him here — he doesn’t remember a lot of things lately, not that he’s mentioned that to anyone. They don’t really question these things anymore. Fucky vision, nightmares without sleeping, or things that just get lost in the everyday grind of remembering to do normal things like eat or drink or where the fuck he put his glasses.
So, he doesn’t remember what drove him here, if he was supposed to get something or if he just needed to get out of the gym, needed to breathe some air that’s not filled with anxiety and grief and the pressure of survivor’s guilt and why and how and when around every corner, behind every door, underneath every donated item and in every bite of stale peanut butter sandwiches.
The library was never a place of comfort for him, and he honestly never really cared about it one war or another. If pressed for it, he couldn’t name five books in all of these shelves. He never really looked.
But now, in the semi-darkness, the empty shelves are somehow daunting. All useful books were taken, children’s books donated to all the families that stayed, all science books stolen by people who were sure they could fix this, could get behind this, could build generators and water refineries and all that shit.
Somehow, the negative space in these shelves draws him in, and he takes a deep breath. A breath that Dustin would like, probably. It smells like books. It smells old. It smells like, somehow, somewhere, there might still be a constant in this world. Something that will remain. Like maybe there will always be a library that smells of old books. No matter how often the world will end.
It’s a strange thought. But comforting. He trails the shelves, not really looking at the books, walking too fast still to make out the titles in the dim light, but he refuses to stop. He refuses to stand. To linger.
The next two rows are completely empty, and it makes him shiver. Robin probably has a name for the feeling. Maybe melancholy. Or maybe he’s just haunted. Susceptible to absence.
Or maybe they’re the same feeling.
Blindly, he reaches for a book, because his hands begin to tingle and he really needs something to do before his lungs catch up and his brain finds out that he’s somehow almost about to panic, or to relapse, or to drop to the floor if his legs don’t regain feeling soon.
He keeps walking, the book in hand. It’s a slim edition, bound in leather, and it feels really old. Looks like it, too.
Michael Bruce
He carefully flips it open, the old paper crackling with the movement, and he wonders briefly if this is the part of the library that’s usually watched like a hawk, the part where you’re not allowed to touch the books without supervision and certainly not without reason. Maybe. Maybe this Michael Bruce hasn’t seen a real face in a long time.
It doesn’t take long for Steve to find out that they’re mostly poems—and of course they are, old books are almost always filled with poems.
He opens the book at a random page, still needing to settle his hands, his heart, his mind. The title makes his heart drop. “The Last Day.”, it’s called; still his eyes glide over the lines, intrigued.
Twas on an autumn's eve, serene and calm.
I walked, attendant on the funeral
Of an old swain : around, the village crowd
Loquacious chatted, till we reach'd the place
Where, shrouded up, the sons of other years
Lie silent in the grave. The sexton there
Had digg'd the bed of death, the narrow house,
For all that live, appointed. To the dust
We gave the dead. Then moralizing, home
The swains return'd, to drown in copious bowls
The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.
Okay. Sure. So, maybe this Michael Bruce dude is not the best company when the world is sort of ending. But somehow Steve can’t stop reading, and for the first time he kind of doesn’t want to stop reading a poem. This one’s different anyway. This one just… it gets him.
Images of Barb flood his mind. Eddie. Chrissy. Max. Everyone who was lost, everyone who has an empty coffin in their grave and an NDA penned to their name.
To the dust We gave the dead.
The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to go back out there. Head to the gym and fold clothes and check the missing posters and make phone calls to find out, to make sure, to keep in touch. The labours of the day. The thoughts of death.
Shaking hands flip the pages, two at once, because he doesn’t want to live the last day; doesn’t want to hear about it. He needs to know how it ends, needs to make sure, needs to find out, just—
A pause ensued. The fainting sun grew pale,
And seem'd to struggle through a sky of blood :
While dim eclipse impaird his beam : the earth
Shook to her deepest centre : Ocean rag'd,
And dash'd his billows on the frighted shore.
All was confusion. Heartless, helpless, wild.
Suddenly, what little light was left to stream through the windows disappears, stealing the words from beneath his eyes, and before he can look up and breathe, the door to the library bursts open, revealing a panicked Robin.
“Steve?”
“Robbie?”
“You… You better come see this.”
He hears it in her voice. The resignation. Oceans raging as the fainting sun grows pale. Confusion. Helpless, heartless, wild.
He closes Michael Bruce and runs toward her on numb legs, not ready to find out about the new apocalypse he’s gonna find outside the library. And seeing black skies through the windows and pale faces behind them, reflecting against the growing darkness, he wonders if he shouldn’t have skipped through the last day. The Last Day.
Terror in every look, and pale affright
Sat in each eye ; amazed at the past,
And for the future trembling.
Steve, too, is trembling. And Robin’s hand in his is shaking just as much.
Poetical works of Michael Bruce : with life and writings. William Stephen ed. 1895.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
just read your fic of valery and shenkov (posted on thenatashapulleyuniverse) - the writing! the characterization! you capture the essence of them both in the most luscious way, a truest delight to read
thank you so much for writing it, lots of love <33333
aaah oh my god thank you!! 🥹🥰 this ask is so sweet, what a wonderful thing to wake up to 🥹 i’m so happy you liked it!!
and technically what i sent to them was only the beginning of what in my head is a slightly bigger thing (right up in my kostya feels), but i have a lot of things on my plate and thus need to be patient with myself and write only in increments unfortunately 😔
but anyway, since you’re here now— 👀🤍
[preceding snippet the ask is about]
There is no response to his words, and Valery wonders not for the first time if this house swallows noise just like the lab will swallow time. Maybe the impossibility of their situation has created the tiniest of black holes right here, swallowing the gentlest wishes of a good morning or a good night, and forcing them to repeat the words and fight to make them true.
Valery sets his coffee mug — half empty already because there are no boundaries between the two of them — beside Kostya’s, frowning when he still doesn’t move, doesn’t look up or reach over to acknowledge Valery’s presence. On other Sunday mornings, Kostya would lean back in his chair, the back of his head bumping into Valery’s chest with a happy little sigh, and he’d get a kiss to his forehead for his troubles. Then Valery would ask him what the newspaper said, what his least favourite word of the day is, and why the Brits are madmen for inventing it.
But Kostya is immovable, and Valery wonders if the tiny black hole that swallowed his voice has come and swallowed Kostya’s mind, too.
“Kostya,” he speaks instead, daring the world confined to their living room to challenge their impossibility and steal his voice once more. His hands come up — slowly and gently — to rest on Konstantin’s shoulders, which seem tense even buried beneath his navy blue sweater.
Time seems suspended between gentle touch and careful consideration, but then Valery feels tense muscles becoming rock solid for just a fraction of a second before Konstantin flinches and all but wrenches himself out of Valery’s touch with a choked breath.
Something inside him breaks at the sound of it, at the vision of Konstantin curled forward, as far out of Valery’s reach as he can be with the table in front of him. Valery takes a step back, feeling the black hole grow in size and viciousness, and stumbling as its mass bends gravity around it, sucking him in and away from Konstantin.
He grips the kitchen counter to stabilise himself and keep his mind from running away, running in circles trying to solve a problem he doesn’t yet know the origins of. All he does know is that touching Konstantin seems like a bad idea right now — no matter how his hands twitch, his mind conjuring up images of the two of them curled together, Valery draped over his back as Konstantin attempts to understand the Brits’ obsession with one thing or another, murmuring Russian insults between them like they’re a secret love language.
“I’m sorry,” comes Konstantin’s voice, too carefully crafted into something presentable that Valery can easily make out its shakiness. It hangs in the air, brittle, just waiting to break apart and reveal what it truly means.
So Valery waits. He watches as Konstantin clenches and unclenches his hand, reaching for Valery’s coffee mug to wrap his hands around it. It’s a silent message, one he might not be all that aware of but Valery is good at waiting, he’s good at observing and finding patterns. Kostya will find something of Valery’s when he could have easily used his own, and attempt to ground himself with it. Even when they’re fighting.
It leaves him grateful beneath his confusion, that he left it there.
“I’m sorry,” Konstantin says again, but still he doesn’t move. Frozen again — or still.
“It’s alright,” Valery says, his own shaky voice a thousand times more stable than Konstantin’s. “I promise, it’s alright. We’re safe.”
Konstantin huffs, and the black hole is not kind enough to swallow it this time, leaving Valery to frown, the weight of worry becoming nearly unbearable now. Does he not believe it? Does he not know?
“Talk to me, Kostya,” he pleas, his voice a whisper still, his hands clenching around the counter to keep himself from reaching out to the man he loves and challenging their impossibilities one time too many.
Steve lifts his head off the pillow to look at Eddie, his back arching in a much needed way after lying on his stomach for so long, and he ends up groaning appreciatively as he stretches his back a little more. It makes Eddie smile. All the small things do.
Overcome with sudden but gentle affection, Steve rolls over with a matching smile and comes to a stop lying halfway beneath Eddie, getting a glorious view of his deepening dimples.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking,” Eddie says, his hand coming up to brush Steve’s hair out of his forehead. Steve leans into his warmth a little further, feeling so incredibly loved when Eddie looks at him like that.
It’s infinite, what he feels for Eddie. What he feels with Eddie.
“Oh? ‘Bout what?”
Eddie leans down and brushes a kiss to the tip of Steve’s nose. “You,” he says. “Me. Us.”
Steve hums, wrapping himself in Eddie’s scent as he buries his face in his chest, his arms trapped between them. He can’t move. Can hardly breathe. It’s perfect, and Eddie always indulges his cat-like tendencies, as he calls it.
“Tell me about your thoughts?”
A hand weaves its way into his hair, scratching wonderfully along his scalp in lazy, soothing patterns.
“I’m gonna put pillows on the walls for you.”
“Hmm?”
“When we have our own place. I’m gonna put pillows on the walls for you. In the kitchen even, so you can sit on the floor and still be comfy. You can have a little nook for floor time with Robin. And it’s gonna be padded with pillows, but the ones that are still solid. Only a little soft. Still grounding.” Eddie mumbles, a little lost in thought like he’s still imagining it all unfold.
Steve melts, first rolling further into him and then back, so he can look up and meet those soft, soft eyes.
“That’s what you’re thinking about?”
“All the time. Never wanna tell you about it so I won’t ruin the surprise, but, I don’t know. Wanted to tell you. You’re gonna have bougie-ass wall pillows, angel.”
And Steve doesn’t know how to handle this. How to take it all, take everything Eddie gives him and live his life an unchanged man. His heart is going to burst one of these days. It’s gonna burst and it’s gonna go everywhere, remind the world for all eternity of the love they shared. Built. Shaped and reshaped in all the ways they needed.
“Everything,” he says, his voice weak with the awe he feels, his own hand coming up to Eddie’s cheek.
“Hmm?” Eddie’s nuzzling the palm of his hand, brushing kiss over kiss to the centre.
“You’re— You’re everything. Can’t believe it sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?” Eddie teases, making Steve laugh for the first time in hours. It’s easy. God, it’s so easy.
“Don’t be so full of yourself.”
“Oh, I’m gonna be full of som—“
Laughing, Steve claps his hand over Eddie’s mouth, shutting him up and revelling in the giggle that follows before Eddie nips on his palm.
“I hate you,” Steve grins, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s middle.
“Yeah, well,” he hums, fond affection settling permanently on that pretty, pretty face. “‘M still gonna put pillows on the wall for you.”
Steve sighs, hoping to relieve some of the intensity he’s feeling. It’s overwhelming, even after all this time.
“I love you.”
“I love you,” Eddie whispers, hovering above him in an almost-kiss. “Endlessly.”
@puppy-steve i love you. i’d put pillows on the wall for you 🤍🌷
🤍 permanent tag list gang (i hope this is okay even though it’s only a tiny thing) (and maybe some reprieve from all my current angst): @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @stobin-cryptid @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround @pukner @i-amthepizzaman @swimmingbirdrunningrock @hammity-hammer (lmk if you want on or off)
It feels a little ridiculous, interrupting the process of baring his heart and soul to the paper, the pen, and the walls of his room, to ponder the frequency of the hand-written word. It makes him falter, though, the sentence half finished on the paper before him, his desk lit only with candles because it’s two on the morning and long past the time for any kind of lamps, desk and ceiling alike.
Who even writes letters anymore? Letters like this, somewhere between a confession of love and an apology. Emotions that don’t do well, being said out loud, and that do even worse in a text message.
The written word, ink on blank sheets of paper, weeks and months old and nowhere near finished yet, was invented for situations like this. For feelings like this.
For Steve. For Eddie. For Steve and Eddie.
The eternal What If. The little lump in his heart that feels so real even though it can’t be. The thought in the back of his mind, a calling presence that is imaginary at best. The vision of a future that is no more than wishful thinking.
And thinking, he does. Oh, does he think. And always, always about Eddie.
Eddie, who wasn’t brave enough to love him, and whom Steve never gave the space to be. Eddie, who did love him, but showed it in different ways than Steve was used to. And when he realised, when he recognised, it was all in hindsight.
They were both too scared. Twice. Scared and stupid and—
But Steve’s not scared now. It’s late, he knows, and it might be too late.
It’s fine if it’s too late, he writes, and he means it. But I want you to know. I need you to know. I want to be brave, and I‘d rather be brave too late than not at all.
There is no filter, he finds. The ink unforgiving and unjudgmental alike, guiding his hand across the page from one word to the next, until suddenly there are six of them, and Steve could keep going forever.
I want to love you. I think I want to love you, not just the idea of you. I want to give you the space you need and learn to love and be loved. I want to do it right. I want to take your hand and hold it. I spend days just thinking about holding your hand. Holding you.
It’s not a love letter. He doesn’t even mean to send it, just wants to get it all out and not have his friends tell him it’s a bad idea, tell him Eddie doesn’t deserve him, Eddie’s not right for him.
Steve doesn’t believe that.
He just wants a chance. A conversation. They never really talked — not the first time, and not four years later. He wants a real chance this time, wants to be brave and talk and see.
And he wants to give Eddie a chance, too. A chance to mess up, a chance to speak, a chance to be brave and talk and see for himself, and a chance, maybe, to try again.
For real this time.
So he writes the letter; doesn’t care if people even do this anymore. He does. For Eddie. That feels like it’s all that matters.
He ends the letter at the bottom of page six.
I’m not writing you because I want to get back with you. I’m writing because I need you to know that I can’t stop thinking about you. And because I want to talk. A lot. And because I think they’re all wrong.
And I’m writing because I spent the party last weekend looking for you, hoping to see you. My friend told me to finish this letter and send it if you mean so much. And you do. Endlessly.
But it’s okay if all this is one-sided. It’s okay if you don’t even read until this point. It’s okay if it’s too late.
Steve
He takes it with him the next day, just on a whim, not entirely sure if he’s gonna send it or throw it in the trash, the coil in his stomach lightened since the last word’s been written.
In the end, he misses his train back home and has to take the long way with the bus that’ll only take him halfway there. He decides to walk the rest, taking a detour and passing Eddie’s apartment building.
He finds the name Munson on the doorbell nameplate outside. He stares at the door, the drizzle picking up until it’s pouring, and still Steve is staring.
He tries the front door. Another whim. It’s not supposed to open. Someone unhooked the latch. It gives in to Steve’s gentle push, and warmth envelops him as he suddenly finds himself face to face with Eddie’s mailbox.
The letter is in his bag. Secure. Heavy.
His heart, however, is light as he fishes it out and slips it past the lid, the thump as it gently hits the bottom the only sound in the universe.
written for @steddieas-shegoes as a follow-up to this "can you read the letter for me" post-breakup scene
(@artaxlivs wrote a wonderful version over here for you to read!)
cw: drug mention, OD mention
Steve's body doesn't quite feel like his own as he walks to the playground with his breath lodged firmly in his throat and his heart trying out an old beat that used to be familiar. It's struggling, though, and Steve tries not to think about it. The cold breeze of the night hits his face, making him shiver for more reasons than one.
He hasn't been to the playground for years now. It used to be their spot when they couldn't sleep, kept awake by nightmares and memories and the worst of scenarios. They would come here and sit on the swings, steal glances at each other and talk into the night air, pretending like the other wouldn't hear, and hoping that he would.
He first took Eddie's hand here, swinging as they were, and Eddie had chuckled through his tears, and then his smile hadn't left all night – nor did his hand.
Maybe it's a bad idea, meeting him here. After everything. But some part of him thinks that it might be what they need. If Eddie really is doing as badly as he said, if he really does need a break of several weeks, a tiny part in Steve (the part that would always put himself last as long as it means that the other person gets the tiniest bit of comfort) wants Eddie to have this.
Their little bubble. Or the memory of it at least.
Steve is shaking as he sits down on one of the swings, one of his hands wrapped around the cold chain, the other balled to a fist in the pocket of his jacket. He feels oddly tethered even as the world begins to sway this way and that, even as the breath lodged in his throat solidifies into a lump and he feels as though he's about to cry.
Maybe that, too, comes with the muscle memory of swinging.
He spends an odd second envisioning himself from twenty years ago, laughing and squealing with his friends as they tried to do a looping, and then jump right up into the sky above, see who got farthest.
It brings a smile to his face and a nostalgia to his heart that he hasn't felt in a while.
He feels like he hasn't felt anything in a while. And that he won't until Eddie will apologise. Until he will explain.
The steady squeak–squeak–squeak of the swing is almost eerie in the quiet of the night, but to Steve it brings a certain calm; a safety that he knows is treacherous, but he feels it tingling in his arms, because–
Eddie is there. Slow steps approaching, the gravel crunching underneath his feet that makes Steve want to look up, but, tightening his grip around the chain, he refuses.
I’m sorry for being too much and not enough at the same time.
He knows the letter by heart now, and he wants to see. He wants to see how much space Eddie will be ready to take now, how much he'll let himself be this time. It's unfair, he knows; Eddie's not fine, he should take a step towards him. And he is. He's here. He has agreed to meet with Eddie and hear him out. He has agreed to allow himself a chance at mending his own heart.
Steve feels so torn inside, in more ways than one, that he feels paralysed and petrified and frozen. Part of him wants nothing more than to leap up and take Eddie in his arms, tell him that they'll figure it out, that they can do it, that they can make it work. That second chances are just a thing that happen in life. That it doesn't have to be one and done.
That's another reason he won't look up. There are so many reasons.
"Hey," Eddie's voice cuts through his racing thoughts, though it sounds so gentle and fragile that Steve wonders if it's not Eddie who's been cut.
The steps have stopped, the gravel no longer crunching, and Steve can see a worn pair of Chuck Taylor's in his vision. Not Eddie's usual armour. It throws him off, makes him want to cry, makes him shiver in a way he can't blame on the breeze anymore.
"Thank you," he continues, sounding even more gentle, and Steve squeezes his eyes shut, no longer wanting to hear that voice, not when it sounds like that. So bare. So raw. So vulnerable. "Can I sit with you?"
Steve swallows hard, and doesn't have to consider at all. He nods. Gravel crunches again, then twin chains squeak, the old wood creaking and groaning a little above them, but Steve knows it'll hold. It always does. While Steve is gently swaying, one foot anchored to the ground, Eddie remains impossibly still.
Maybe they're both about to break.
After a while, Eddie speaks up again with the words that Steve has been longing to hear for four years. "I'm sorry."
They're not nearly as satisfying as he always hoped. The world is still broken.
"Okay," he rasps, not really knowing what he's supposed to say. What Eddie wants from this. What he wants from this. If either of them still have the right to want things.
"I had this speech prepared," Eddie continues, still entirely still aside from the way his voice wavers, his laugh a bit breathless and bitter at himself. "But... I didn't... I didn't think you'd come, to be honest."
"Funny," Steve says before he can stop himself, cutting off the rest before it can leave his mouth and make it worse than it is. Coming from the one who left.
"I'm sorry," Eddie says again, and Steve is already tired of it.
So he says nothing, and his silence seems to mute Eddie.
"What does it mean?" he asks eventually, still not daring to look over at the man who used to hold his heart in his hands and then threw it down the quarry before leaving town without another word for four years. But he can feel Eddie's eyes on him. "That you're sorry, what– what does that mean."
"It means that I..." Eddie starts and trails off, considering his words in a way that makes Steve wish he wouldn't.
Just tell me. Take up space. Be enough. Be too much. Just tell me.
"It means that I wish I hadn't left, but that I know I had to in order to find out that living without you is not living at all. It means that I know that I broke your heart and your soul and your future, maybe, for this need of mine to just... find out. To run away. To be someone I could choose to be. And, God, it wasn't worth it. None of it. And still it happened, still I did it, still I know that I just... I had to do it. Being the person I was then, it... I just. I'm sorry. You didn't deserve this. None of it. And if I could, I would turn back time and just tell you. Or sleep it off. Get help, talk with Wayne, anything. Anything that wouldn't lose me the... That wouldn't lose me you. And I'm sorry."
When Eddie finishes, his voice is hoarse, and Steve can't look away any longer. He opens his eyes and prepares to meet Eddie's beside him even in the dark of night, but he finds that Eddie is looking up instead, towards the sky where the moon is busy painting a cloud in silver light as it moves to cover it incrementally, and Steve takes a second to look back down at Eddie and watch him for a second.
His hands are clenched around the swing's chain, and they're shaking a little – so minutely that Steve's not sure if he's imagining it at all, but he feels like he knows Eddie enough to know that he's shaking, too. That they're in this together still. His thick leather boots are replaced with the worn, dark red Chuck Taylor's, and he's wearing a pair of jeans that aren't ripped at the knees. His black denim jacket is plain, no pins, no patches, no rips or tears or any sign of Eddie.
It leaves Steve feeling bereft, untethered once more; and isn't that unfair. It's not fair for Eddie to come here looking like this, looking so open and plain and vulnerable – how is Steve supposed to talk to him now. To talk at him, knowing his words will only meet armour. Armour that will make Eddie leave again.
How is he supposed to say anything when Eddie might not leave again. Or when he never came back in the first place?
"What happened to you?" he asks, the apology forgotten at this need to know. This need to protect, even after all these years. This need to be Steve and Eddie. If only just for the duration of a question.
Beide him, Eddie huffs and looks away from the now covered moon, meeting Steve's gaze with those big brown eyes that look so much bigger now. So much... sadder.
"I've spent all my life knowing who I didn't want to be. Knowing what to be against. Knowing what to hate. And then I– Then I met you. And I got to be someone for myself, you know? You let me be that. And I didn't see, I never... I never quite saw that, Stevie. Because that sad, scared, angry teenager part of me still wanted to hate and rebel and to leave and to be someone. And it didn't matter who, what kinda person, just... Just someone. So I left, and I– God, I lost myself. That self that you brought out. That self that wanted a life full of, like, love, y'know? Not hate. Not anger. Not... Not battle vest, leather armour, sticking it to the Man. But when I realised, it was too late."
"When did you?"
Eddie breathes out heavily. "Last year? Friend of mine OD-ed. Lou. Found her in the hotel, just..."
He breaks off, and Steve can see him blinking away tears just as he blinks away tears of his own.
"I called the band in this, like, full-on panic attack. Told them it was over. Told them I didn't want this anymore. They– They talked me down, because they're great guys. Helped me through it. All of it. Jeff told me to send the letter. Said, 'If you wanna find yourself again, Ed, you gotta start where you last had it, and you gotta start sending the letters.' Best fucking guy I know."
Eddie is smiling through the tears, telling all of this like it's not worth telling at all – like they're not both crying silent tears at it.
Like Steve's not understanding what he's saying. You made me into someone I liked being. and I did write to you, I just never sent them.
"You wrote me letters?"
Eddie nods. "All the fucking time. Wanted you there with me. Stayed sober for you until I... Until I couldn't anymore, because I'd left you, and I left this fucking swing set, and I... God, I'm so sorry, Steve." Eddie is really crying now, hands covering his face, and it's not really a decision at all when Steve gets up to stand between his legs, wrapping his arms around Eddie's shoulders and letting him cry into his chest.
Eddie wraps around him almost instantly, and Steve holds him, running his hands through his hair, shushing him gently, just allowing Eddie to cry for as long as he needs.
And I got to be someone for myself, you know? You let me be that.
You let me be that.
"I'm sorry," Eddie repeats, over and over, and Steve finds himself saying, "It's okay, Eddie, it's okay. I forgive you."
They stay like that for a while. Until Eddie calms down enough to breathe normally again, and even longer still before Steve slowly, gently pulls away – ready to move back in and hold him some more. Even though he shouldn't. Maybe.
"I'm sorry that happened to you," he says at last. "And I'm glad you're taking a break. Glad you sent that letter, too."
"Mm-hmm, me too."
Silence settles between them once more as Steve finds his way back to his swing; and that's when he starts thinking again.
"When you left, I was devastated. And I couldn't even tell anyone, not even Robin. It's like... It's like when you left, you took away that part of me, y'know? I didn't know how to talk about you. The words were gone, or something. And then you... You wrote your songs. And it was double unfair, because not only you get to leave, you also got to talk about it? To, like, thousands of people? I never... I still– it's.... It's like I still don't know how to talk about it. About you. Or to you. There are things I wanna say, but... You said them all, I guess. You got to say them."
"Steve," Eddie breathes, and he sounds just as devastated as Steve feels. "I never meant to– I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."
"No?"
"No! No, you... No."
Their eyes meet again, and Steve swallows hard again. "Tell me."
"What?"
"What you were gonna say. What you want to say."
Eddie breathes deeply and lets it all out in one long breath. "You didn't deserve that," he says at last. "You deserve someone who treats you right. Someone who lets you be who you want to be, too, and who will bring you flowers, and who will buy you an Winnebago and get you everything you could ever wish for. You deserve someone who's not broken, someone who'll do anything for you because they realise that you're everything they could ever dream of and more."
Steve sighs and feels frustrated again, because Eddie still doesn't get it, Eddie still puts him on that pedestal and made him out of reach for himself to the point where he had to leave because Steve was already gone for him.
"Eddie," he says, and his heart breaks a little when the other man flinches a little at his sharp tone. "I don't ask for that, I would never ask for that, God. I just... I just want a simple, sometimes complicated, sometimes dramatic but ultimately worth it life. I want a– a boyfriend who will say weird shit sometimes because he's a fucking nerd, and who will discover things about himself when he's with me, and go to bed with that smile that tells me he's safe with me. And happy. I don't want anyone throwing away anything, I don't need anyone giving me everything, I just..." I just want you.
But the words don't quite make it past his lips, too much history forcing them shut. It's been four years.
"I don't want to make you into someone. I don't want the weight of that, the responsibility that one wrong look could make someone's entire life fall in on itself. I just..." I just want you.
And that's when he realises what he's always sort of known. That Eddie doesn't even need to ask for a second chance for Steve to hand it to him on a silver platter.
He stands again and comes between Eddie's legs again.
"I forgive you. But I want to talk. About all of this. Not just tonight, but every night. I want to know how I can help you, I want to start over, I want it to be right this time. I don't want you to ever run away again. I want you to talk to me, Eddie. And to take me with you next time you need to run. Because you don't get to run from me, okay? You don't– You don't get to do that, Eddie Munson."
Eddie looks up at him, the moonlight catching on the tears in his eyes, making them look even bigger, and Steve wishes he wouldn't look so small.
"You– But... But I'm so... broken." His hands flail a little, an aborted motion that shows nothing of his usual energy.
Steve's hands find his way to Eddie's cheeks if only to stop him from running away again.
"And I'm not gonna fix you. But I can hold you through it, and stay right where you need me to. That's what people do when–" He cuts himself off before he can say it.
But Eddie understands anyway if the way his eyes widen even more, welling up against the moonlight, is any indication at all.
"Still?"
Steve nods, his thumb stroking Eddie's cheek tenderly, wiping away the fresh tears. "Still. All you had to do was come back."
Eddie falls forward, then, and buries his face in Steve's stomach. It's not running away. It's quite the opposite, actually, and Steve holds him as long as he can.
The night is filled with many more tears as four years of anger and sadness and lostness finally find words to express them.
It's dawn when he says goodbye to Eddie at Wayne's new trailer, waving at the man drinking his coffee on the porch. Eddie holds Steve in a tight embrace for a whole minute before either of them are ready to let go, and only with the promise of Same place, same time tonight.
It's not a new beginning yet, but it's the closure they both need before the new beginning will happen in due time.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
the prompt: pool | rating: G | cw: none
as per popular request: yearning (requited)
Ripples of light dance across his skin in hues of silver and blue and Steve wonders if Eddie knows how it steals his breath, how it makes him want to trail the light’s path from Eddie’s chest up to his cheeks where the tiniest of smiles leaves dimples that have become so achingly familiar these days.
It leaves him jealous, for just a second, the way that the light is allowed to touch Eddie so intimately. The way it gets to make him look like that.
It leaves Steve with that familiar ache in his chest, reminding him that he doesn't know Eddie like that. No matter how often he dreams it up, no matter how many times Eddie occupies his every waking thought to the point where they have entire conversations that will never happen.
It leaves him aching with the need to touch, to feel, to taste. And, most pressingly, to tell.
The words rest on the tip of his tongue even now, in the deepest part of the night where silence reigns, allowing even terrified boys to rest their minds — but not their hearts. Not their needs. Not their skin tingling with phantom touch that they keep dreaming up night after night after night.
Steve swallows and tears his eyes away from the droplets of water that drip down the curled ends of Eddie’s hair, landing on his chest, his legs, or the pool beneath him. He doesn’t make it far, though, captivated instead by hooded eyes that refuse to look away once their gazes lock.
Cool water lapping at the skin of his legs where he's sitting on the edge of the pool is the only thing that keeps him anchored as Eddie looks at him like that across the water that separates them.
Water, and a plethora of words unsaid, silent confessions in the deepest night that feel like so much more than wishful thinking right now.
Especially when Eddie's smile widens, painted with a silver brush that catches every droplet as though they were stars and Eddie the night sky.
"I could stay here forever," he sighs, his exhale gentle and heavy at the same time.
Steve wants to sink into the pool, wants the cold water to surround him and clear his head, wash away the aching, the yearning, the words on the tip of his tongue.
Tell me, then. Tell me how I get you to stay.
"You can," is all he says, the water rippling in time with his rapidly beating heart.
"Yeah? Willing to keep me, Stevie?"
When Steve nods, breathless, Eddie's silver-streaked smile widens.
Steve can’t breathe anymore. Not around Eddie. Not when he looks like that, completely at ease, cigarette between his lips, smoke in his face and in his hair, eyes closed. Allowing Steve to look. To stare. To see.
Allowing him to feel the way his heart picks up its rapid beat against his rib cage, to feel the lump forming in his throat, and that tingling sensation to travel from his fingertips to his palm where he imagines touching his hand to Eddie’s face, tucking that one stubborn strand of hair behind his ear, and then keep it there. His hand against Eddie’s cheek. Thumb stroking gentle patterns until Eddie’s eyes catch his, catch the meaning behind his stare, behind the way he can’t look away, can never look away, and—
Lean in. Lean his forehead against Eddie’s. Breathe him in. Inch closer, torturously slow but clear in his intention. Smile before he even gets there, before he feels those lips agains his own, claiming them in a kiss.
No, not claiming. Asking. Offering. Treasuring.
It makes him tingle, that thought. That all-encompassing thought that keeps him from sleeping, keeps him from focusing at work, keeps him even from listening to Eddie’s words right now. Those lips are moving, spreading into a grin and then a laugh, and—
“Steve.”
He blinks out of his love-crazed stupor and looks at a beautiful, smiling, delighted Eddie. Steve wants to trace that smile with his lips.
“Hm?”
Eddie blows out the smoke and smiles impossibly wider. “What is it, huh? What’s got you looking like that?”
Don’t you know? Can’t you see? Aren’t I the most obvious person on this planet? Won’t you see me?
“Nothing,” he rasps, falling back onto the grass, looking up at the purple sky above them.
Eddie doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make him talk like he usually would. He just takes another drag of his cigarette, and hums, looking up as well — allowing Steve to watch again. He always does that. He never looks back. Never looks at Steve like that.
Won’t you see me?
Steve wants to reach out. Eddie’s ankle is right there, his chin resting on his knee, looking like he’s in deep thought. Or just serene. Either way, completely oblivious to the yearning that tears Steve in half and makes him want to wrap his hand around Eddie’s foot. Just to touch. Just to be there.
But he can’t.
He can’t.
And maybe there’s nothing to see anyway. He exhales, wishing for his feelings to disappear right along with the air in his lungs.
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5
(these make one big story, you won't understand this part without the others)
day 06: true & misunderstandings
Eddie doesn’t say anything for a while, filling their bubble with a silence so long that Steve’s entire being re-centres itself around Eddie’s hand in his, focusing on the warmth, on each minute twitch, and on the way his thumb aches to move and stroke the back of Eddie’s hand.
A silence that is disrupted in the gentlest of ways when Eddie, trembling just as much as Steve, says, “I love you.”
Steve blinks, not entirely sure for a second or two if he heard that right, or if that was just another thought his own, pressing and urgent and so, so real.
“I’m in love with you,” Eddie says again, and Steve is sure that he didn’t imagine it this time — but that doesn’t make it make sense. It doesn’t feel real. Eddie sounds so sad about it, too, like he is confessing to Steve a crime that has been weighing him down forever, something that he can’t be redeemed from.
It makes the dam break, the image of loving him as an irredeemable act, an unforgivable crime, a sin irremissible. Years and years of learning how to be in love with Eddie and not being too much, learning not let that consume him — years and years of trying and failing — all come crashing now as he hears that sad little voice.
Steve as the one who’s in the way of Eddie having a good life, a great life, a happy little bubble for himself in a world that used to be so cruel to him. Steve as the one who makes Eddie so incredibly, unbearably dejected.
It eats away at him, tears away at his soul so much that he barely even registers the words that belong to the sad, sad voice.
I’m sorry, he wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat; and Eddie asked him to listen.
“It’s always been you, Steve. To me, it’s… You’re it. Always have been. But I had to move on, you know? After years, I just… God.”
Eddie’s collecting himself, gathering his thoughts, trying to find the right words that are slowly trickling through the fog in Steve’s mind and settle just behind his stinging eyes.
“Remember when I told you I used to have a crush on you? Years ago. And how that was all in the past, and that I had moved on? Well,” he huffs, nerves wracking through him as he squeezes Steve’s hand repeatedly. “Turns out, not so much. Don’t think it ever will be. But I thought, you know, I thought I was past the stage where it consumed me. Because you were still in my life, still right there, still happy, happier than I think I could make you, and… You were there. Still. After all those years, you were the one thing I hadn’t ruined. and I couldn’t tell you. I had Chrissy, I was— I was getting over you. I could breathe again, I could love again. But not… Not with everything I have, because that’s still with you. Only with you.”
Eddie lets out a shaky breath, his hand shaking now, and Steve wants to let go, wants to turn around and wrap himself around Eddie, hold him, his face pressed to the back of Eddie’s neck as he listens, feeling those vibrations in his cheeks as he talks.
He doesn’t. He stays right where he is, but the urge is becoming stronger and stronger.
Eddie loves him. And he sounds like he is about to cry because of it. Steve still wants to apologise.
A sniffle. “Chrissy knows. She said she’s the same, that she has a person like that, too. I never expected to love her as much as I do, but it’s a… It’s a different kind of love. And if I got to spend the rest of my days with her, life would be good, you know? Like you said about Robin. She said the same, said we’re doing the right thing. But—”
Eddie stops here, his voice growing hoarse and his breath hitching a little as if he’s holding back tears. Steve wipes away his own.
“But I don’t want a world where losing you is the right thing, Stevie.”
They both let out a sob at that, the weight of Eddie’s words settling inside Steve as he becomes aware of what Eddie is saying. Of what he is doing.
What are you doing?
Changing the world.
“I’ve done everything,” Eddie continues, purely and utterly heartbroken. “Everything, to get over you. And it seems that I did it so well, because now I’m losing you. And it seems like I got it all wrong, too, because— Because I don’t wanna lose you. I don’t ever wanna lose you. But you have to know. I need you to know that I’m so in love with you I can barely even breathe. Or, or think. When you’re there, but especially when you’re gone. Loving you is part of who I am. It’s like, it’s like a rule in the universe, you know. A law of nature. Simple biology, like you’re the sunshine and I’m a measly dandelion, and there’s so much more of me because of you. And when you’re gone, then so am I.”
Eddie’s crying now, and Steve pulls his knees to his chest, burying his face in them to hide he way he’s falling apart. Because this is not happening.
“And if you wanna leave, if I’ve done something you can’t live with, that’s— I won’t stop you. But please, I would just… I’d like to understand, Stevie. Because I love you. So much and for so long that I know I will never stop. It's just what I do in this life. And if I’m gonna have to stop, I need to know why.” A beat. “Please?”
There are no words coursing through Steve’s head as he tries and tries and tries to say something, anything. There is no, I love you. There is no, Because I can’t bear the thought of watching you live a life with someone else when all I ever do is imagine my life with you.
There is no, Tell me why you love me. No, Tell me you love me. Say it again.
All there is, all that comes out, is, “I’m sorry.”
And behind him, Eddie’s shoulders fall. He slumps, just a little, but Steve can feel it in his tension-riddled body.
Steve wants to scream. Wants to be brave like Eddie and bear his heart, because he loves him too! He loves him and maybe they can get it right, maybe their loves can match, maybe they can fix this.
But all the words get stuck in his throat, because they have seven years of practice.
“You don’t get to do this,” Eddie says quietly, just barely louder than a whisper, and Steve tears at himself from the inside out. “You don’t get to just… Say that. I’m sorry. Leaving me like that, after all of this. After everything? You’re sorry? No, fuck you, Stevie.”
Eddie’s hand is still in his, his hold unwavering, as if he’s holding Steve in place. And he is. Eddie is an anchor, he’s the north star, he’s— fuck!
“You’re everything,” Steve rasps after all, the dams broken and breaking, seven and more years of keeping the words to himself come flooding now.
He turns around this time, freeing his hand from Eddie’s, who tries to hold him tighter for one second, two, three, before Steve’s head lands between his shoulder-blades and he finally allows Steve’s arms to come up around him.
“You’re everything, Eddie, and when you told me you used to have a crush on me, I wanted to tell you that I’m right there with you. I wanted to tell you that, finally, finally I was right there with you.”
He says the words into the space between his heart and Eddie’s, feeling tremors underneath his hands. Breath is scarce as the air in his lungs is filled with Eddie once more, that familiar scent of him, everything about him; everything.
“But then you weren’t there anymore, said it was all in the past, and I had missed my chance. But I didn’t care. Because, Eddie Munson, you’re impossible to un-love. It never stopped. Never, never stopped. And it was fine, it was fine. But then you got engaged. And I can’t watch you anymore, Ed. I can’t watch you be the happiest you’ve ever been and have it not be my fault. I can’t watch you live that life you’ve always hated, the life that I always imagined having with you. The life I thought you’d grow to love because of me. I love you, Eddie. But I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Underneath him, Eddie is still as Steve silently cries into the back of his t-shirt, clinging to him now, holding him. For one last time, maybe.
Silence falls as they both just breathe air that’s filled with confessions and apologies.
And then, eventually, after an eternity or two, Eddie says, “I’m not marrying Chrissy.”
Steve’s heart stops, just for one second. He blinks. Swallows. Doesn’t dare to hope. “You’re not?”
Eddie shakes his head, reaching for one of Steve’s hand where it’s splayed across his middle. “No. She, uhm. She said we shouldn’t. Said I should get my boy instead.”
“Wh— Why?”
“Stevie,” Eddie breathes. “Because it’s you. And I… Tell me I’m not late again. Tell me I didn’t fuck it up again, tell me there’s a chance.”
What are you doing?
Changing the world.
Steve lets out a breath, breathing out Eddie, unreasonably scared that if he lets go of the air in his lungs, Eddie will disappear again. Leave again. Get over him again, for real this time.
“Is it true?” he asks instead of answering.
“Is what true?”
“What you said. That you love me. And that Chrissy knows. And that it’s fine. That it can be okay. That it… That we… I’m scared, Eddie.”
“What are you scared of, Stevie?” A whisper, a question so gentle that Steve lets out a pathetic whimper as he tries not to cry again.
“Me,” he says. “Fucking it up. Not making you happy. Not getting it right. Freezing like I always do, because it’s muscle memory. I’m— I don’t wanna make you sad, Eddie.” And you sound so sad. You already do.
Eddie breathes deeply and moves his hand, lacing his fingers with Steve’s as he leans back slightly, further into Steve’s embrace.
“It’s true,” he whispers. “All of that and more. And I’m scared, too. Because that’s not how I planned it, you know? Three in the morning with more tears than anything else, sounding and feeling like the world’s gonna end. You deserve a better love than that, Stevie, but… It’s sorta all I have, you know? If you’ll let me. If you want to. We can be scared together and figure out how to not be that anymore.” Eddie lifts their linked hands to his lips and brushes a kiss over Steve’s knuckles. “It’s all true.”
Steve lets out the breath he was holding, sinking further into Eddie, holding him tighter. Daring to brush a kiss to the back of his neck — a featherlight one that is barely more than a touch of lips to overheated skin. It makes Eddie’s breath hitch, so he does it again.
“Can you stay?”
“Hm?”
“The night. Here, I mean. Can you stay here tonight? I wanna… Just wanna hold you for a bit. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, Stevie. That’s okay. Do you wanna go to bed?”
He nods, still tightening his arms around Eddie, scared that he’ll leave. Scared to wake up if he moves. Scared to— Just scared.
“Hey, I’ve got you, c’m’ere” Eddie whispers, somehow winding himself out of Steve’s hold and pulling him up to stand.
And there, standing face to face with Eddie, everything is slowly starting to become real. The confessions. The broken dams, years and years of pent up tension, of hidden emotion and a yearning so deep it’s left scars, little ridges in his rib cage from where his heart has broken and healed and soared and burned and fluttered over and over and over again.
It has all come to this. Here. Eddie’s hands in his, his thumb stroking gentle patterns on Steve’s skin.
“I’ve got you,” Eddie whispers again, not moving. Only winding his arms around Steve’s shoulders when he leans in, tucking his head under Eddie’s chin, holding him tightly.
“I love you.”
Eddie smiles against the crown of his head, Steve can feel it with everything he is. “Yeah?”
He nods, mirroring the smile he cannot see. “Yeah.”
“Then let’s get you to bed, yeah? We can talk more in the morning?”
It’s a question that makes Eddie sound so small, so insecure — like he half expects Steve to take it back, to run away again and leave him. It breaks his heart, what he put Eddie through. What he put himself through. What they have put themselves and each other through, inevitable as it was.
“Yeah,” he promises, taking Eddie’s hand again and leading him to the bedroom, blanket thrown over his shoulder. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. I think you’ll have to explain again.”
“I will. As often as you need.”
I know, Steve thinks. I know you will. I love you.
It still feels like a dream, falling asleep with Eddie in his arms. It still feels like it will burst the moment he makes a wrong move, the second he blinks too hard or breathes too long.
He’s still trembling a little, still reeling, still confused and tentative in his hope. But at least this time Eddie is with him, stroking his cheek like he, too, can’t believe that this is all real. Like he, too, is scared.
But maybe they can be scared together. Maybe they can make it work. Maybe their love can match.
For the first time in weeks, months, years, or even forever, Steve falls asleep with a smile on his face, his forehead pressed to Eddie’s.
