#jockshed

SHE HASN'T BEEN ABLE TO BREATHE SINCE THEY FIRST BREACHED THE UPSIDE DOWN, HOURS AGO. A LIFETIME AGO. the weight of an entire world sits on her concaving chest, and her lungs quake so terribly every time she tries to suck in the stale, iron - tangy air of the interrogation room that it spits back out in a gasp before she can have any real taste of it. the cuffs rattle with how violently her hands shake, so cold on the tender skin of her wrists it stings, REMINESCENT OF THE FIRST MESS SHE EVER DOVE INTO. except he isn't strapped to her back this time -- she's alone, freezing and exhausted, eyes burning from the single flickering lightbulb above the steel table she's shackled to. AND ALL SHE CAN THINK ABOUT IS ― steve plummeting off the radio tower, will locked in the hivemind, nancy facing a gargantuan alien monster, el . . . EL. she can't even begin to wrap her mind around any of it. her stomach rolls and she tastes bile in the back of her throat, and she wonders how long she'll be stuck in here. MAYBE THAT'S THE MILITARY'S PLAN: keep them all isolated, let them waste away so they can't tell anyone what happened here. sharp, icy fingers crawl up her spine: DYING ALONE ISN'T THE WAY SHE IMAGINED TODAY WOULD GO. dying, a strong possibility: but she at least thought ... there'd be someone. steve, nancy, anyone. holding her hand, maybe, or at least by her side when everything went downhill. THIS ... is a thousand times worse than anything she ever imagined.

THEN THE BUZZER ABOVE THE DOOR GOES OFF, tearing through the thick silence with such sharpness that robin nearly leaps out of her chair -- if not for the chains linked to the table. her heart takes on a wild staccato in her throat as the uniformed man walks in, face blank as the walls around her, and procures a key to undo the manacles. fingers drift thoughtlessly to her freed wrists, massaging into reddened skin, and she's led out of the room into the sterile hallway. SHE FEELS LIKE SHE'S WALKING INSIDE OF A DREAM -- a terrible, too long dream when you know you're dreaming but can't wake up, and the hallway only stretches longer the further you walk, and she just can't make sense of it. DISTANTLY, WONDERS IF THIS IS A DEATH MARCH. on and on she somehow walks, with legs made of jelly, feet tied to an anvil, and a heart cinched in a noose. FINALLY, her head jerks over her shoulder to ask, to shove words past the lead wall between her vocal cords and her tongue, where the hell are you taking me? she doesn't get the chance because the army douche pushes her onward with a hand between her shoulder blades, causing her to stumble as toes scuff against concrete floor, and she looks up to catch her balance, and ---

she's at the end of the hallway. there, in the widening center of the room beyond, is @jockshed. ( the others, too, she'll recall later: but he is who she zeroes in on instantly. instinctively. ) as messed up as he came in but no worse: no reverse - rainbow of bruises blooming on his face, blood crusted to his skin, pupils big as saucers ― just mud and unspeakable goo and the slight widening of eyes as he sees her, too, the knitting of his brows softening in that unconscious way that speaks of relief, the kind that finally lets a full breath into your lungs even as the crumbling remnants of fear crush in around it. AND SUDDENLY ROBIN HAS STRENGTH AGAIN, because she's bounding across the way with no hands or shouts to stop her, because steve is here and he's alive and she didn't lose him on top of that radio tower or underneath that horrific monster, and his arms are already dropping open on instinct and she's crashing into his chest like he's her last thread of sanity.

blue  eyes  widen  in  surprise  when  she  feels  steve  gently  kiss  her  cheek  ,  heart  quickening  and  hoping  nobody  saw  him  ,  not  wanting  to  put  either  of  them  on  the  spot  .  question  of  what  was  that  for  ?  dies  before  it  can  escape  her  lips  ,  gaze  catching  sight  of  the  other  decorations  around  the  house  .  the  wreaths  on  the  walls  ,  the  hanging  colorful  lights  strung  up  .  right  .  of  course  .  “  i  told  my  mom  mistletoe  is  a  totally  outdated  tradition  ,  ”  she  mutters  ,  fingertips  sweeping  over  her  cheek  .  the  last  time  they'd  been  together  for  christmas  crosses  her  mind  :  her  sophomore  year  .  they  had  just  gone  through  all  the  shit  with  the  upside  down  ,  and  thankfully  will  had  been  brought  home  .  steve  had  gotten  jonathan  a  camera  to  replace  the  one  he  broke  ,  but  nancy  had  been  the  one  to  give  it  ,  a  peace  offering  of  sorts  .  nancy  can't  recall  if  she  had  said  it  was  from  both  of  them  or  just  her  ,  but  it  didn't  matter  now  .

it  was  their  first  and  last  christmas  together  ,  because  come  halloween  the  next  year  ,  they'd  be  broken  up  .   the  snow  ball  had  came  ,  and  she  went  with  jonathan  to  help  out  ,  had  seen  steve  drop  off  dustin  and  take  off  .  did  he  know  that  she  had  seen  him  ,  that  she  had  thought  about  him  that  christmas  ?  he'd  been  a  thought  when  her  family  was  gathering  for  gifts  ,  and  she  had  his  wrapped  up  in  her  closet  ,  untouched  with  a  pretty  bow  .  is  he  all  alone  today  ?  maybe  his  parents  came  home  for  the  day  .  the  answer  then  would  probably  have  been  a  no  ,  and  she  feels  a  stab  of  bitterness  and  anger  that  it  most  likely  still  would  be  . 

his tongue runs over his teeth, all normally dull. no sharp point that he pricked himself with the other day. there is a slight and somewhat familiar misalignment in one tooth he's always had, feels it and tries to ground himself with it. it was a habit he thinks, nerves shown in movement, in being unable to keep still. this feels like him, he remembers this. he knows steve is watching him, feels the way it burns into his back with each movement. he wonders if he thinks about how he probably doesn't fit in this reality, in his life like before.

“ it's that weird, huh? ” eddie sighs, lets his tongue settle in place as he words do. his unease in his lap now, rubbing over the fabric of bleached denim. they're steve's jeans, they don't fit well, but enough to be comfortable. the shirt is his though, some old metallica shirt that he went to war with a pair a scissors. it makes him feel more like himself.

@jockshed shrugs, his words caught. that shade of brown beneath lashes have much more to say than he lets on. there's a familiarity in ways that eddie still struggles understand, that steve sometimes expects. “ you're different from what i expected. ” steve looks away then, busies himself into stirring his coffee as if he hadn't already blended it well after he poured it.

the words hit strange, like bad notes pulled from a fretboard. he remembers plucks of silver, something he feels his fingers actually doing. he watches them work, delicate and skilled. he thinks of fine polished wood, cracks of red bleeding through black. the chords like thunder and old lyrics. they scatter suddenly like torn pieces of paper. his fingers clench and he stills, leaning forward toward steve. he feels the end of the table stopping him, his plate now untouched. he'd only taken a few bites of toast to start. “ i know i am. ” the words sound like more an apology than anything. guilt tinged and sour. they burn like decaying soil in his eyes, like the rot he found himself in.

it rises in pin pricks, heat at the back of his neck. it's far too warm in leather that eddie's adjusting how he's sat on the edge of the couch. his interest in book is waning, has him peeking over the ends where @jockshed has vinyl boxes before him. there's a pinch in his brow as he organizes by genre, setting aside some favorites to play later on. he'll have to sneak in a few of his own for his sake later.

eddie's shifted, book discard as he sits up and finally moves. he rounds the end table, plopping with purpose beside him. it's enough to break steve's concentration because he's looking over, the pinch catching a different meaning than that of focus. he knows he can be annoying, steve's told him time and time before. he thinks sometimes that his tones wavers on a spectrum of fondness than the actual feeling of.

“ so, ” he begins, already laid back on the couch, legs thrown over the end of it and sneakers hanging untied. the top of his head barely touching his thigh. it's a boundary he's admiring steve at this angle, the way his jaw is shaped sharp and there's a distinct scar rounding his neck. he has one to match. “ robin said you got a girl's number. ” in the cereal aisle next to the honeycomb. some former high schooler with doe-eyes, to be specific. those were robin's choice of words.

when eddie's all nerves he fidgets, callouses working on frayed ends of a flannel or the buckles of his leather jacket. the victim this time in the pins fastened to old denim, the loose seams of a patch he sewed on. steve's got his signature smirk, the way it curls up more on the left and show a dimple. fuck, that stupid dimple. eddie turns away as steve speaks, “ it seems to me that you are a little jealous. ”

his fingers tread the pattern of his mattress, once so stiff over eighteen months ago. the firmness had been so uncomfortable against what'd been trying to heal. now the springs know the weight of him, how he favors one side to another. it’s the left, with his back turned to the window. it’s the only one he really keeps open with the fence being high enough. today all the windows are open and he faces a sun without the threat of persecution. his name cleared like how spring melts into green, a season beginning as a free man.

“ guess you're looking forward to having your place back. ” he sighs, lets a pause settle before speaking again. “ especially now that things are going back to normal. ” it sounds like there’s a shrug stuck in his tone, like it doesn’t matter to him. and in its own weird way, it’s odd to feel free. to not feel stuck within the harrington house and the radio station. he could walk out the front doors simply because he wanted too, but he stays here, planted in the familiar spot of the guest bed. though, it feels more like his own.

he remembers there was one time during a dark spell of isolation steve and robin had left him be. he hadn’t even realized they had gone until after he’d fallen asleep. he woke up to the steady footsteps coming in and out of the house, soft mutters to watch where you step because the floor boards creak. he’s grown to know where they are too in time. when he walked out in a haze of sleep he struggled to make out the damp boxes and miscellaneous items inside it. treading closer he could finally make out what exactly. eddie, steve and robin had spent close to two hours sorting through the remains they pulled from his torn up trailer. he didn’t see it, but he also didn’t really want too.

it’s records, books and even a sketch pad. some of his own clothes. l as of then he’d been living in some of steve’s and whatever robin had managed to take from her house. there’s even a old photo of his mother in a broken frame. a mug of his uncles. all these items now surround him and have become a piece of this room. his room.

he wonders what forest hills looks like now, if there’s still a place for him. he’ll have to find his uncle, somehow explain and make up for months of hiding. its brings an pang to his chest knowing he’d been alone all this time. it’s was better that way, to keep less people involved. it's an ache he tries to physically shake from his mind for right now.

✖ @jockshed inquired: who’s that?

more two word prompts | accepting

Christopher Weaver was the type of guy her sister would describe as 'All-American'. Pretty to look at, strong, and utterly void of anything worthwhile. Not necessarily a fair description, but, it also wasn't untrue. He was closer to age with Kyla, enrolled in a college not quite far enough away to keep him from making weekend trips back to Hawkins. Usually for the same three things. Local parties with classmates who never left, his mom doing his laundry, or to drop off whatever coursework he didn't want to do ( which Fox suspected was a majority of it ). It was the third option that had him interrupting their conversation. If it could be called interrupting. He had lingered on the edge of her periphery, waiting or watching or what, it didn't really matter. She'd excused herself and walked over, hoping whatever he had to say today wouldn't take long. Embarrassed.

"Who's your friend?" He'd asked quietly, already giving her his familiar smile that always felt a shade too close to pity. "Nevermind, I don't care." He'd continued before she had a chance to answer. Holding out a packet of folded paper that she took without a word. Chris leaned closer after, not quite level, but enough that she could smell the Hubba Bubba wafting through his perfect teeth when he grinned.

"Parents are out of town," he started, emphasizing the statement with another chew. She watched the pink slide between his teeth, entranced the way she always was whenever he spoke to her like they were sharing a secret. "Having a party." Fox made herself look him in the eye as if it was brave, only to find he wasn't looking at her at all. He was looking past her. At Steve.

Christopher Weaver was the type of guy her sister would describe as 'All-American' because he was pretty to look at, but there never seemed to be much going on behind his eyes. When he looked at Steve, however, that changed. There was something going on behind his eyes. Something that brought out a gleam, a spark of interest or intent or what, she wasn't sure. What she was sure of, was he was sizing the other up and something about it made the fine hairs at the back of her neck rise.

"You should come--if you can finish your homework on time." Chris finished, pulling back. "Otherwise, see you Sunday." He gave Steve another appraising--or disdainful--look and left. Fox watched him go, feeling as if the wad of his Hubba Bubba had somehow caught as a lump at the back of her throat. The walk back to Steve felt two times longer than walking away from him had.

Who's that? "No one," Fox answered, likely too quickly. Not looking at him, lest he have the same odd shine in his eye. "--Said he's having a party." Don't. Don't. Don't. "Want to go?" Part of her wanted to see that look again, the way his green eyes had flared emerald, but the other part...that part knew it might be a very, very bad idea.

mid day he’d been reading, robin’s voice breaking between songs. he’s only half paying attention, foot tapping to the beats that have grown on him on time spent listening. there’s a few key songs, stuff he had memorized by now. when a crawl is planned or new information is to be shared. there’s always a few dedications to share when robin’s feeling sentimental or to let lucas know he’s not alone in max’s visits. the familiar voice of kate echos almost like it had on his home system. it makes eddie wonder how max is doing, wish he could see her for himself.

robin speaks again, her tone high and sweet with static. he misses her too, hopes she’d visit soon, odd snacks and all. she’s on about time and how it she’s always late to things, how it’s one of the flaws her mother often mentions. he’s quick to catch on, but there’s something in him that hopes he’s wrong. he almost believes it… until robin quiets down and opening notes play he knows.

looking out on the road rushing under my wheels,

it aches suddenly, book pressed flat against it. somewhere inside him feels more raw than healing bat bites did months ago.

trying to confuse it with that you do survive.

he seemed to lose track of the however many times this month it is and he tries to understand. he’s not out there, technically dead to the town. his only experiences with the outside world is within the harrington house or the squawk.

honey, you really tempt me, you know, the way you look so kind. i'd love to stick around, but i'm running behind.

before the song finishes, he’s shut it off and turned over on the couch. his back exposed to spilling sun from filtering curtains. he normally listen to robin’s entire show, even the banter between. she’ll treat him to so favorites to keep sanity from spiraling, but he ends up drifting off instead.

the    walk    by    the    cure    is    playing .    japanese    whispers .    i    kissed    you    in    the    waters    and    made    your    dry    lips    sing .    his    own    lips    feel    dry    now ,    chronically    chapped .    why    this    song ?    why    this    album ?    who    the    hell    had    put    it    on    when    he    had    been    outside ?    he    wants    to    bet    it    was    robin ,    but    from    the    way    she’s    looking    at    harrington ,    then    back    at    jonathan    himself    ….    shit .    he    breathes    in ,    attempts    to    knock    the    anxiety    out    of    his    body    by    shaking    his    head .    he    wants    another    sip    of    his    eggnog ,    but    he    can’t    find    his    damn    cup ,    someone    must’ve    drank    the    rest .    shit .    SHIT .

❝    good    song .    ❞    he    approaches    steve    slowly ,    trying    to    seem    nonchalant ,    but    his    chest    is    pounding    so    fast    he’s    sure    murray    can    hear    it    all    the    way    back    in    illinois .   ❝    did    you ,    uh ,    like    the    mixtape    i    made    you ?    ❞    ugh ,    saying    it    like    that    made    it    sound    like    he    had    a    crush    on    the    guy ,    but    jonathan    was    so    over    those    days ,    he    wasn’t    thirteen    anymore ,    and    him    and    steve    were    barely    friends    (    he    can    still    feel    steve’s    hand    in    his    own ,    shaking    it    firmly ,    can    we    just    start    over ?    would    we    have    been    friends    after    all ?    )    and    it's    not    like    he    actually    cared    if    steve    liked    the    cure    and    whatthefuckisoverhishead    ––

everyone    seems    to    notice    it    at    the    same    time ,    the    fucking    plant    above    jon    and    steve’s    head .    instantly ,    jon’s    cheeks    turn    a    shade    of    pink    that    would    rival    nancy’s    closet .    he    had    resigned    himself    to    never    kissing    steve    harrington    years    ago ,    and    now    here    they    are ,    a    fucking    cliche .    jon    would    never    fucking    forgive    that    stupid    parasitic    plant .    his    eyes    dart    around ,    taking    in    the    girls’    gaze    on    the    two    of    them ,    and    he    almost    winces .    no    getting    out    of    it ,    then .    ❝    don’t    ––    don’t    be    ––    fuck    it .    ❞    face    still    bright    red ,    he    leans    forward ,    catching    steve’s    lips    in    a    firm    kiss .    he’s    not    a    coward ,    he’s    going    to    do    it    right .    besides ,    he    thinks    to    himself ,    gripping    onto    the    collar    of    steve’s    shirt ,    knuckles    turning    white ,    when    would    he    ever    get    this    chance    again ?    all    jonathan    knows    is    that    he’s    not    going    to    be    the    first    one    to    pull    away .