#patching

My infamous solarpunk shorts have always had a defect: The belt loops were too small for my belt.

Yesterday I unpicked all five belt loops and cut out seven new ones. I then realized the fabric wasn't very stable, even on the straight grain, so I backed them with my landlady's fusible interfacing. Then I used my machine's diamond stitch to cover the raw edge.

And here's the final product! Cheers to a more wearable, usable garment.

And my sketch, which better demonstrates how shredded that section of the pants seam really was.

#2, ₊˚ପ⊹ tf?

Warnings: cursing!, mention of blood, mostly banter

#one, masterlist

Sunday nights were supposed to be everyone’s worst nightmare — the dreaded Sunday blues. The weekend was gone, homework still unfinished, and five long, miserable mornings waited on the other side of sleep. But for you, Sunday evening was when everything finally made sense. It was when you reset.

Your parents were out of the house doing who knows what, and Lucas and Erica were off wreaking their usual brand of havoc, which meant the house was all yours. Peace. Quiet. You sat cross-legged on the freshly vacuumed carpet, carefully brushing the final coat of pink polish onto your big toe. Big pink rollers dotted your hair, your soft pink robe hanging loosely over your pajamas, a warm cup of tea steaming beside you. Sade hummed through the record player, filling the room with something smooth and comforting.

Of course you loved Lucas and Erica — they were your babies — but juggling them on top of cheer practice and honors classes sometimes felt like too much, even for you. These little pockets of solitude were the only thing keeping you sane—

The front door swung open.

Your thoughts shattered as the front door slammed so hard it rattled the framed family photos in the hallway. Hurried footsteps spilled into the house, loud and sudden, announcing that your quiet was officially over. But the footsteps were more than 2?

“Okay, okay, everybody inside, now—move, move,” you heard Lucas hiss, half dragging, half pushing someone through the doorway.

“What the hell…?” You muttered, already tugging your ruffled robe tighter as more voices filled the house—Mike’s anxious whisper, Dustin’s panicked babbling, Max snapping at someone to shut up. It was chaos, loud and messy and absolutely not supposed to be happening on your sacred Sunday night.

Swinging the your door open you rush outta your room, down the hallway and stomp your freshly painted feet down the stairs, with the stankest face you could muster.

“Lucas Sinclair,” you called sharply, “why are you slamming the—”

And then you saw him.

Steve Harrington was slumped on your couch.

Your couch.

His hair—normally perfect, annoyingly so—was a mess, dark with sweat and maybe a little blood. One of his eyes was already swelling into a nasty purple bruise, his lip split, knuckles scraped raw. He looked nothing like the charming, cocky co-captain you’d practiced pep rally routines with just days ago. He looked wrecked.

You stopped dead in your tracks.

“What,” you said slowly, eyes flicking between Steve and the gaggle of middle schoolers crowded around him, “is going on in my house?”

Lucas turned, already defensive. “Evelyn, it’s not what it looks like.”

“Lucas,” you snapped, “there is a bleeding, semi-conscious boy on my couch and all of you are standing around him like it’s show-and-tell.”

Max stepped forward, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Billy did this. He went completely psycho.”

Your gaze snapped back to Steve. “Billy… Hargrove?”

Steve lifted his unbruised eye toward her, a crooked, pained smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey, Evie.”

The way he said your name—soft, familiar—made your stomach drop.

“You,” walking toward him without even realizing it. “You’re supposed to be practicing our pep rally lift, not… whatever this is.” You say softly.

He winced as she knelt in front of him. “Yeah, well. Got a little… derailed.”

Dustin cleared his throat. “Billy tried to murder him.”

“Dustin!” Mike hissed.

“What?” he shrugged. “He did.”

You shot them all a look that made even Max straighten up. “Kitchen. All of you. Now.”

They hesitated—until you added, “That includes you, Lucas.”

Lucas groaned. “You’re not our mom.”

“No, but I am the only one in this house who knows how to deal with injuries, so move.”

They shuffled off, whispering frantically, leaving her alone with Steve.

For a moment, it was just them. The hum of the record player in your room upstairs still spinning in the background. Sade crooning like nothing was wrong in the world.

You gently tilted his chin, inspecting the damage. “You’re going to have a black eye the size of Hawkins by morning.”

“Adds character,” he said weakly.

She scoffed. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Thanks E, for helping me out and stuff”

Your fingers paused against his jaw.

“…Don’t get used to it, Harrington.”

Still, you stood up and went to grab the first-aid kit. Seeing the kids huddled talking about who fucking knows. “Lucas. Who drove here if Steve was knocked out?” You question, eyes already squinted.

“Ummm we-“ the kitchen phone went off, and Lucas jumped for it—no ran for it. Saved by the bell. You groan and walk out the kitchen with a glass of water and the kit.

Walking back toward the scene you never thought you’d see, you remembered he was on the couch and you froze. You were too angry to realize it before but he was laying on the couch. Your mama’s couch. If there was tiniest like of dirt you’d be slaughtered. No one else just you, being the oldest and all.

So you hit a sharp left toward your stairs and hurry up toward your room. Placing a towel and pillow on the ground along side the glass of water and the much needed med kit.

“Lucas! Mike! Bring Steve up to my room, now.” You yell out.

“Your room? Why can’t you do it down here Evie?” Lucas responds back with the same volume.

“Lucas I know you see that boy on the couch, mama’s couch. Bleeding.” You emphasize.

No reply, only 3 sets of foot steps on route to your room. Your door swings open to reveal Steve with his beefy arms over Lucas and Mikes shoulders.

You point to the set up on your floor, still going through your cheer bag for some Tylenol. A couple of groans later Steve is laid out on your floor. Lucas without a word gives only a look only you could peep, with Steve laid out and Mike already leaving. And your door clicks shut.

“So… are you gonna tell me how you know I use fabrege?” You could hear the smirk in his voice.

Turning around you shove the Tylenol and water in his mouth, “Maybe if you weren’t in the same friend group as my 14 year old brother I wouldn’t have heard it form Dustin,” your attitude evident.

Duh you’ve known Steve since the sand box, and you’ve been friends for just as long. But it was your Sunday, and a bleeding boy was on your freshly vacuumed floor, talking over your playing record. Not the plan.

But even as annoyed as you were, you still knelt down beside him.

“Hold this,” you said, pressing a wad of gauze to his eyebrow. “And if you drip on my rug I will actually end you.”

Steve huffed out a weak laugh. “Wow. This is how it ends for Steve Harrington. Taken out by an angry cheer captain and her mom’s beige carpet.”

“Don’t disrespect the carpet,” you muttered, taping the gauze in place. Your hands were steady, gentle in a way that didn’t match your tone. “Billy hits hard, yeah, but you’re still being dramatic.”

“Hey, I was defending your brother,” he said quietly.

That made you pause for half a second.

You cleared your throat. “Lucas didn’t ask you to play hero.”

“Didn’t have to,” Steve replied.

You glanced at him then—really looked. The split lip, the bruise already blooming on his cheekbone, the way he was trying to pretend none of it hurt. And for the first time since he’d been dragged into your house, your irritation softened into something else.

“…Thanks,” you said, low enough that only he could hear.

Steve’s eyes flicked up to yours, surprised. “Anytime, Evie.”

You finished taping him up and sat back on your heels. The record in the corner had switched to a slow, crackly love song, filling the room with soft static and old-school crooning. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“This is a nice room,” Steve said finally. “Very… you. organized and pink.”

“That’s called personality,” you replied, though you couldn’t stop the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Try not to bleed on it.”

He shifted carefully, wincing. “You always bossy when you’re worried?”

“I am not worried.”

“Uh-huh.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved a pillow under his head. “There. So you don’t pass out and sue us.”

Steve looked ridiculously comfortable now, sprawled on your floor like he belonged there. “You know,” he said, voice softer, “most people would’ve freaked out.”

“Most people don’t grow up with Lucas Sinclair,” you said. “This is just… a weird Sunday.”

Steve smiled at that. Not his flirty, cocky smile—but something real. “Still. I’m glad it was you.”

Your heart did a stupid little flip you absolutely refused to acknowledge.

“Drink your water,” you said instead. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A knock came at your door, followed by Max’s voice. “He still alive in there?”

“Barely,” Steve called back.

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. As the chaos of your house hummed just outside your door, you sat there beside him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, feeling oddly… calm.

Unfortunately this cute moment had to end and soon, before your parents came home and freaked out (just your dad). "You okay to drive? You could take 2 more tylenols if you wanted." You say sweetly. "No I-I'll be good, thanks E," Steve says as he backs out of your room, "see you Tuesday yea?" He smirks, "Yea,".

You watch from the stairs as he unlocks your front door, still a little wobbly. Not before asking if anyone wanted a ride home despite his condition. Dustin turns it down saying they'd hang here for a bit and Steve nods at the reply, then looking back and up at you on the stairs.

Sure he remembers the former mental note to be “less chalant” around you but he just couldn’t help but give you his best puppy dog eyes, “Bye Evie, thanks again I owe you", "Of course Steve, see you soon" you say tilting your head and smiling sweetly.

Maybe this wasn’t the worst Sunday after all.

step 1: figure out what the fuck happened and what you want

what ripped? why? for me, the back of my jeans ripped where i sit, parallel to the pocket seam that was probably causing some strain. i highly recommend you hold your jeans up in front of a light to figure out where the fabric is thinning, you need to reinforce that shit or it'll rip again.

also included in this step is some basic prep: cut those leftover fibers, maybe whipstitch the hole to keep it from fraying, if you're working with more structured pants maybe iron it out.

take some time to think about what you want to do. i didnt want my repair to be super visible, because i dont want to draw attention to my butt, but maybe you want some bright and fun visible mending! maybe you want to give sashiko or decorative embroidery a go, maybe you just really need these pants. i was in the latter category for these jeans

step two: where does the fabric need to go?

put your jeans on. your ass is three dimensional, and so you need to get an idea of where the fabric lays and joins together. i mended these immediately after ripping them, but if you have an actual hole rather than a rip you should do something to fill in the gap. patch the top, darn it, or patch the bottom, just make sure it lays correctly. if you've just got a rip, some tacks (repeated stitches in a few places) will hold it together fine.

step three: we dont want this shit to rip again

reinforcement time!! remember when you held the jeans up to the light and took stock of where the fabric is thinning and which seams are being strained? put the jeans inside out, cut out some fabric and pin it over the areas that need reinforcement. if you have sensory issues when it comes to different textures or thicknesses, use a thin fabric. it'll wear out faster, but it also keeps the jeans wearable; i used an old sheet for this

step four: stitch it down!

i used a felling stitch for this, which you can find tutorials online for. felling is really good for when you don't want your stitches to show on the other side of the fabric, but you could also use a whip stitch or a running stitch. if you have a sewing machine, go for it, but it'll be more visible.

i just left it with the felling stitch around the outside, but you can do some sashiko or running stitches up and down to make it more stable and lasting.

step five: actually fix the rip

you can choose whether or not to take out the tacks now (i did), but go ahead and stitch the rip up. you want to stitch it into the reinforcement fabric you just put in, while also closing the gap. a ladder stitch can work for this, but i never have much luck on denim, so grab a matching thread color and do what you can. if you're doing some fancy decorative visible mend, use some regular sewing thread too. you don't want to be relying on embroidery floss to hold that together (though maybe do the embroidery before your reinforcement, to act as a backing? i've never tried, but that would make sense).

step six: the rest

there's a lot of cool stuff i totally recommend giving a try with mending. decorate it, darn it, patch it (again), sew on some lace or ribbon, etc etc. you can do so much, but this is where i stopped for these jeans. again, this was a practical mend: this is one of three pairs of jeans i own and both of them were dirty when these ripped.