#stevieweek2025

“I agree, Demi. Not having an adult to go to makes it scarier. But wasn’t it brave to keep going even though he was scared?”

Robin chirps and squeaks again. Flapping the puppet’s wings with the special pull cord, she maneuvers the bat around the stage to make it look like Demi is flying.

“Of course, Demi, I’ll always be someone safe for you to go to. I love you.”

Her eyes sting as she says it. God, she cries so much more easily these days. Fucking hormones.

The puppet shivers and shakes in a full-bodied chirp. I love you too.

A howl sounds from just outside the room. Signaling the end of this segment and the start of the next one. 

“Dart must hear someone at the door! Let’s see who’s come to visit.”

The pace is her favorite part of the show. Slow, easy. All done as much as possible in one smooth take. Stevie pushes herself up from the dark-patterned wingback chair, smoothing down her skirt, she walks from one room of the set to the other. The camera trails her, giving Robin a chance to move throughout the specially designed paths that keep her out of frame while she’s holding the Demi puppet.

Unlike Demi, Dart doesn’t that closely resemble his namesake. That was for the feds more than the children. Demi had some aesthetic changes to make her look more friendly, rounded body and visible eyes. Dart was changed fundamentally. Instead of the puckered fleshy face, Stevie can run a hand through sparse fur between two pointed ears. The animatronics Dustin helped their puppet master build let them move, giving the whole face more subtle movement than the other puppet is capable of. Good for the larger, German Shepherd-sized build. Even if the focus of the camera is usually on the face, the top jaw dog, wire-haired and angular, and beneath its pink nose, a split bottom jaw that opens in two wide, distinct joints. More cute than dangerous when a long forked tongue lolls out from it.

As Stevie’s thick rubber heels thunk against the floor of the set, Dart’s pit bull stump tail wags in its excitement at her approach. Back from college, Dustin is operating it today. He maneuvers the body so it faces her now that she’s come to get the door. The charmingly dumb look on its face gets her every time — a grin she has to school back to a more appropriately sized smirk. 

From off stage, someone cues Dart’s reminding bark.

“Has our guest arrived, Dart?”

Dart can nod when Dustin operates it. Always more sure than the rest of them about the intelligence that lurked beneath those demo creatures. Still, someone once again makes the appropriate answering cue.

Robin is standing outside the set, positioning Demi in a window. She chirps and flaps, Stevie’s cue to begin introducing who is behind the door.

“Today’s scary job will have us confronting our glossophobia, that’s our fear of public performance. If your palms get sweaty when you answer a question at school or you think about throwing up when you have a piano recital, we picked this job to give you a special scare.”

Never a theater kid, Robin teases her at how quickly she’s picked this up. Her cues, like this one to open the door, are always hit. She knows exactly what her face is doing, the way her dark lips hint at a smile, and the way the dark of her makeup makes something dangerous and anticipatory flash in her eyes. She’s yet to have a guest not spook just a little when the door swings open. The danger that she used to be humming under her skin was obvious to them when the sound and light cues hit, making the stage flash and sound with lightning and thunder.

It’s one of the joys of the job.

The outside of the “house” is dark, a dual-purpose choice to hide the sound lot that pairs with how nice it looks in post to have the first glimpse of their guest be in that horror movie strobe.

“Welcome home,” she says as always to the blackness outside her door. Thunder booms first, then lightning streaks, and she’s looking at someone who shouldn’t be here. “Eddie Munson, front man of the band Corroded Coffin.”

She steps numbly out of the way, letting Eddie through her door. 

Six years.

Dart rubs its head against her skirt, a move that would be accompanied by a whimper if it were able to make its own sound effects. As it is, she takes the comfort she can get from Dustin. Robin makes a trill; she's not a good enough actor to disguise the nerves in it.

It’s too much to deal with, so as with all things, she decides it’s better not to. There’s a procedure here, a routine. Stevie turns on her heel and starts walking to the set they’re supposed to be on. Eddie can fall into step behind her or, hell, maybe she’ll get lucky and he’ll run away. He’s always been good at that.

Stalking is what she’s doing; it might be what Eddie did too, to find his way over here. Hers means she’s moving too fast through the set for the pace they’re setting, the emotions she’s feeling moving her body like a rocket through the familiar frame of her pretend house. Eddie’s means he’s ruined her fragile peace.

It’s a real multifaceted word. Maybe they should use it for a show. Maybe they could get a zookeeper to bring a big cat on, too.

Eddie finds the guest’s seat at the table, sitting down across from her at the kitchen island, ruining the slight lift of her mood at the plans for a new episode with his continued presence.

He’s already got his hands in the spread on the table. Fingers smudged with the dyed red frosting, pinching a brownie carved into a coffin shape. It looks garish in the bright light of this set. The kitchen, the only set she refused to bow to the other aesthetics of the house. It unnerves instead in its rich, pastel, Stepford glory. Eddie looks just as out of place here -- even with the spiderweb detailing on the cabinets -- as he did in her kitchen in Hawkins.

“Good evening, Eddie,” she says what she’s supposed to say.

His mouth is full, his answer muffled in rich chocolate she baked herself before shooting.

“Why don’t you tell us about your band? I’m a big fan of your guitarist, Jeff Best.”

Jeff, the person who was supposed to be on the sound stage when she opened the door. The band member she had approved of, after being told by producers how enthusiastically the band had been supporting the show. How they wanted on, desperately.

She asks, “What’s the scariest part of your job?”

And asks, “Isn’t it frightening performing in front of thousands and thousands of people?”

And asks, “Are you ever afraid the stage will collapse?”

And asks, “Pyrotechnics are fires and fireworks that can be done inside, but aren’t you worried that something might go wrong?”

This segment has always been less of an interview and more of an exploration of worst-case scenarios. The things that frighten, the accidents that end up on the news, but rarely ever happen. A way to show the kids who tune in that the world can be scary, but it’s usually not. That fear of the coulds shouldn’t be the thing that keeps them from trying.

But she flings these worst cases at Eddie like knives, like saying they might manifest into coming true.

But each interview always ends the same way.

“What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever overcome?”

Eddie spins a chocolate eyeball around on the white china plate. It blurs with the movement until it’s just a white sphere moving around and around the border of fine, red blood splatter. Is he trying to figure out how to skirt his NDA? Is he inventing some stage diving accident or bar fight? Some story that will make him sound like the worldly rockstar the world knows him as?

Sure, he’s softened his aesthetic for this appearance. The only leather is his jacket. His wide-legged black pants, with the red and black brocade vest, straddle the line between professional and showman.

But he’s still Eddie, dungeon master drama queen to the last.

“The scariest thing I’ve ever done?” he repeats. Incorrectly to that point, done implies it’s scary because of his fuck up, overcome implies it’s the world. They’d workshopped the wording of that final question for days before her first interview.

Eddie continues, because if there’s one thing he’s going to do it’s continue whether she wants it or not. “The scariest thing I’ve ever done is go attempt to make amends with someone that I hurt very badly and hope that she’s good enough to forgive me.”

She’s supposed to ask a follow-up here, but she really doesn’t want to.

“Some of those were in the present tense, Mr. Munson.” She’s borrowing words from Robin now, stealing them from somewhere in her soulmate's brain because all Stevie knows is a blank rage that she hopes isn’t in her eyes.

That’s bad television.

“You’re right. The going has happened, the attempt is ongoing, and the fear is in both.”

A clock’s chime fills the room. Loud, sourceless, she’s taken to thinking of it like a school bell, and that’s better than remembering a grandfather clock and Max’s broken legs. Eddie flinches back, not that big a fan of the show apparently. Midnight ends every episode.

“Time sure flies, doesn’t it, Eddie?” A thump comes from behind them, a spot on the third wall out of the sight of the framing of their primary camera. Robin in position for her favorite job.

Stevie gives her her cue, “Gordon?” Robin, on her mark and her applebox, brings down the thick, fleshy, grey hand with the too-long fingers and the blackened nails onto Eddie’s shoulder. It’s weighted at the front, dislodges Eddie from his seat, and jostles him backward. “Introduce Eddie to the others? I know he’s just dying to stay for a while.”

Hand in place on Eddie’s shoulder, all Robin has to do is pull and he’s stumbling off stage like he’s on a vaudeville hook.

She blinks slowly, wills her blood pressure down. Her heart has been thumping in her ears since she laid eyes on Eddie, and even now that he’s technically off camera, she still can’t let go of her rage.

But there’s a show to finish, and she’s going to do her job. She can ignore Eddie’s big, brown eyes that somehow manage to haunt her even in the dark beyond the camera. She can turn down the camera, face it head-on.

She can. She does. “And don't forget: you're smarter than you think, braver than you feel, and you always have a friend right here. Until next time.”

She’s moving even before she can hear the director call, “Cut.”

“Whose fucking idea was this?”

“Not me,” Robin answers, gleeful at Stevie’s rage. She’s got Eddie still pinned in place with her long arm.

“Listen, Stevie, baby.”

“Nope,” Robin says, popping that P and giving Eddie a shake.

Not that anyone but Stevie would have heard that over the way she yells, “You don’t get to call me that.”

“Eddie, dude, not that it’s not good to see you, but I talked to Jeff,” Dustin comes out from the set with his hands already raised.

“And I saw that, Henderson, but don't fret, I wasn't offended. I figured you wouldn't mind if I remedied the situation myself.”

“Never let it be said you've ever learned a single lesson the easy way, Munson,” Robin says.

“Yes, and I'll be glad to catch up with you about that, Buckley. And with you, Henderson. But right now, I would love a moment with the talent. Stevie?”

It's on her tongue to say no again. To send him packing, the quest failed. Let him turn it into some ballad of spurned love and wretched harpies; she doesn't care.

But she doesn’t. She doesn’t. She says, “Five minutes.” And stalks off toward her dressing room.

He doesn't jingle anymore. That strikes her somewhere in the chest. The sound of his trailing behind her, the same melody as hers, told in a round: thick rubber heels on a concrete floor.

She sits down at her vanity and starts stripping off the thick paint of her on-camera makeup. As she slathers on cold cream, she can see Eddie find a seat on the coffee table. It throws her back to that last summer together, getting caught in her mother’s bathroom by a boy she liked in ways she didn’t know how to say yet.

The more things change.

“Listen, Stevie.” It’s funny how she can still tell when he’s started a sentence, not knowing how he plans to end it.

“You came all this way and you didn’t think about how you wanted to actually apologize? Did you get so lost in the drama of crashing my set that you didn’t think of what would happen when it was over?” She keeps her eyes on him in the mirror as she says it, moving through her routine like usual. With each condemnation, she takes her hand towel and wipes a little bit more of Stevie, Princess of the Dark, away until she’s bare-faced, annoyed, and just Stevie Henderson again.

“No,” he lies. “I mean, maybe. Look, Steph, for what it’s worth.”

She grabs her normal makeup, the lightweight stuff that doesn’t have to look good to the limited eye of the camera or sell a character that she’s only sometimes.

“It’s not worth a lot, Eddie. Let me try to save you some time. We finally gave in and gave the band the time of day, you leapt in ass first without a plan, because I’m Princess of the Dark, Princess Stevie, Lady Stevie of the Night, whatever the fucking branding has decided this week so I’ve got the image now. I’m not some baby freak borrowing wardrobe pieces from her socialite mom and her dyke best friend, I’m the right kind of metal that perpetual bachelor, frontman Eddie Munson can be seen with now. Does that about cover it?”

“No, no, Stevie, I swear.”

She can’t even slam down what’s in her hands. The stupid spongy applicator from her eyeshadow would get lost, and if she breaks another one of the eyeshadow colors, she’ll lose her mind. Setting it down gently does nothing to temper the absolute, white out emotion she’s feeling.

“You swear? You swear. The way you swore nothing would change. The way you swore you’d leave on tour and come back with nothing but stories and homesickness. That was the tour that you called me from Wichita to tell me you weren’t coming home, and you didn’t think it would work out if we tried to stay together. In case you forgot.”

“It’s not-”

“This was after you told me you didn’t want me to come when I offered. That it would be stupid of me to leave my -- easily abandoned -- job at the record store. But why would you want the idiot you’re about to leave playing merch girl as you wandered through the Midwest.”

“Are you finished?”

She’s got brown eyeshadow on one eye, her cheeks are pinked, and it’s not from blush. She’s pretty far from done. “That foot-in-mouth condition ended up being terminal, I guess.”

“Stevie.”

She can’t storm out if her eyes aren’t done. A half-done face is one thing, but it’s at least got to be even.

“Stevie, you’re getting mentioned in the same sentences as Elvira, R.L. Stine. You’re Sesame Street if the face was the Count and not Elmo. That’s you, that’s all you. It’s something you created from the ground up with nothing but your charm and vision, and yeah, stunning good looks and a little bit of black mailing the United States government.

“If you had come with us back then, you know what you’d be? My muse, sure. You’d be the merch girl that people whisper about, and wonder how many of the band members she’s sleeping with to get to play groupie. They’d find out things about you, and if you were lucky, they’d just make your life miserable.”

She can’t believe this. “Are you really trying to pull some ‘I left you to keep you safe,’ that is the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Her face is done, she could leave. She’s given him more than the five minutes she promised. 

But then Eddie’s standing. No, he’s collapsing, off the table to her feet. Hands clutched in her skirt, looking up at her from the floor. “You’re right, it wasn’t about you. It was about me being the same coward I‘ve always been. You know what I’m most afraid of, Steph? That one day you would wake up in our rank ass tour bus and you would resent me for trapping you and all of your potential.”

The vanity counter bites into the meat of her hands. “It took you six years to come here and say that.” 

“Yeah, yeah, it did. And it was too long and it wasn't long enough. I would wait forever, Steph. It’s about who you are, not what you’ve become.”

“You’re contradicting yourself, Teddy.” He’s trapped her here, kneeling on her skirt the way he is. “Either you left so I could fill my full potential, which is pretty fucking bold to assume that everyone had that itch to leave Hawkins the way you did and that I wouldn’t have been just fine waiting tables or rewinding video tapes for the rest of my life. But it’s that or you love me no matter what, and it wouldn’t matter if I hung up the witch's broom.”

She’s feeling generous, and she likes how big and wide his cow eyes get when he’s desperate. It reminds her of different times. Eddie’s hand pulls hers off the vanity, and she lets him keep it. Let him pull it close to his chest. He’s probably imagining he’s some knight pledging some oath, and fuck even imaginging what he’s thinking endears her just a little bit more to him.

Letting him in was always going to be a mistake.

She’s never held a grudge as well as Robin.

“There isn’t anything you could do that would make me want you less.”

Still, in the last six years, she’s learned that even though she loves too hard and too long, sometimes it’s more important that she protect her heart. Like her head, it can’t take too many more beatings.

“You want a burger. You want a new record. You want a quick fuck with someone who knows what they’re doing. Wants are quick and fleeting, and sometimes they aren’t even that good. I can’t be a want, Eddie.”

He clutches her hand tighter. He drops his hold on her skirt so his other hand can grab her at the elbow instead. “Stevie, I need you. And if you send me packing, I’m still gonna need you. You’re it. You’re just- you’re it.”

“And if I didn’t follow you on tour, like some love-sick groupie? If I stayed here with the show, you couldn’t see me for weeks and months. You’d still need me?”

“Like air. I’ll call, I’ll write, I’ll come in and compose. I can be your first recurring guest or handle a puppet. Anything at your order.”

She can feel herself caving. Like a sink hole in her chest, the ground giving way to nothing but a yawning starvation. It’s been years, and she’s sunk all of her love and her care and the desperate need she has always had to be seen into this show. It was good, but there has always been so much of her to give.

So she spits back the worst thing he ever said to her.

“And I’m not just some stand-in for Chrissy Cunningham.”

She expects him to drop her arm. To scurry away like some frightened mouse now that the claws of the cat have dropped in front of it. To remember that before the tits and the smirky face she patterned off of Elvira, she was still always a mean girl.

The quiet collapse of Eddie’s face is less satisfying than the rage, the sadness in his eyes more like a kicked dog than an international rockstar.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” He says.

She could echo it, but hers needed to be said.

“If I thought you hated me, it was easier to leave. I could make you just one more thing I fucked up. I don’t see her when I look at you.”

She scoffs, and he pulls her closer.

“I don’t, Steph, I don’t. You’re not some damsel I couldn’t save. You’re the knight who rescued me. Let me make my oath, let me prove myself.”

“I want a new theme song. Something catchy, not metal. And you’re going to come on and do a special segment on the show about dealing with scary things, in terrible corpse makeup. Stop smiling, it’s not going to be fun.”

“I’m sure you’ll make it wretched.”

“I’m going to make you confront all the stupid shit you’re scared of and if you don’t act scared enough I’m going to bring in the rest of the band and tell them you’re the reason this is happening to them.”

“Gareth hates spiders, and Freak is scared of clowns.”

“And I want Jeff on the show. I had to cut out half of our interview questions about the things he’s had to face being black in the scene because you think you’re charming.”

He has the nerve to stand up, stepping on her skirt before he’s shoving his way into her space on the bench seat of her vanity. His hands are warm, fingers long and familiar as they curl around the curves she’s developed since they last saw each other.

“Whatever you want forever, Steph.” He whispers it into the side of her neck like he thinks he’s Gomez Addams, and she’s too weak to not be delighted.

“In that case, you can also explain all of this to Robin.”

“And when she kills me for wronging you?”

He knew Eddie had been pretty surprised when Steve easily agreed to be his...platonic...date when he’d bought two tickets for a full on regency ball with no date lined up, but Steve hoped to use the evening to finally get Eddie to see him in a different light. Years earlier, Steve had thought they were heading towards being something, but then they fell into being just friends, bros, and Steve just wanted to...check. See if they could finally be more.

His phone vibrated in his pocket with an incoming text.

[text] Eddie: You close?

Steve aimed his phone up at the chandeliers, snapping a photo.

[text] Steve: *photo of two huge, gold chandeliers*

[text] Eddie: *photo of a mirrored wall of liquor*

Steve stood on tiptoe, looking over the sea of high hair, feathers, and towering hats to locate the bar. He spotted it in the far back corner of the room and started picking his way around all the wide, elegant ballgowns, making sure not to step on any trains or ribbons.

He almost felt under-dressed by comparison; some of the outfits were just so detailed and extravagant, layered with so many different fabrics and patterns and floofs and ruffles! He walked past someone with a giant white wig with an actual, fake bird in it, while Steve had just curled his normal coif and pinned it up around a fake gold tiara.

He was so nervous to show Eddie his look, he’d imagined so many different reactions, some hot and steamy, some sweet and loving, but the closer he got, the more nauseous he felt. The bar came into view and he tipped his chin up, pushed back his shoulders, and swished around one particularly wide skirt.

[text] Steve: *photo of Eddie’s back. His tamed curls tied back at his neck by a ribbon.*

Steve watched Eddie pull out his phone and check his text. His head popped up and he spun around. The bright smile on his face slid off, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Steve brushed his hand down the black velvet bodice as a crimson flush crept up Eddie’s neck and cheeks.

Steve was frozen, waiting for Eddie to say something, anything. Eddie’s eyes were flitting over him, taking in the image he made.

Instead of lacy flounces and layers of brocade, Steve had found a simple black ballgown, the sleeveless bodice was velvet and looked kind of like a corset, the full skirt was a shiny black material with a black velvet flower design that he loved to just pet.

Robin had helped him with the delicately thin gold lines swirling around his arms and shoulders. And at the last second, she’d added a long gold chain necklace with a gold locket that hung just below his chest, giving him the illusion of cleavage.

He’d forgone finding a mask that wouldn’t mess up his hair and asked Robin’s artist girlfriend to glue gold body glitter and gems around his eyes. She’d gone above and beyond anything Steve could’ve imagined, creating an intricate design of interlocking swirls and flourishes. It almost made Steve want to cry when he thought about how he’d have to destroy it once the evening was over.

Robin’s girlfriend had waved a hand and said it was all about the femoral nature of art? Steve didn’t think she meant it in a blood, sweat, and tears kind of way, but didn’t ask for clarification.

Eddie still hadn’t said anything, but his hand kept raising up as if he wanted to touch. Steve wanted him to touch, but then the hand would just drop away.

Steve glanced down, gripping a handful of skirt, and looked back up at Eddie through his thickly mascara-ed eyelashes. “Well? How do I look?”

Eddie physically shook himself out, taking a stumbling step toward Steve. Eddie’s hand came up again, as if to touch Steve’s shoulder, his neck, his cheek, before he tucked his hand behind his back.

Steve’s knees trembled slightly, his heel tipped to the side. Eddie was so close and yet so far. Steve just wanted-

Eddie’s eyes darkened, dipping down Steve’s body, his hands ghosted up Steve’s arms, settling to not quite cup his waist.

Eddie swallowed hard as his eyes met Steve’s, boring into his soul. “Did you come here to tempt me? Like a beautiful and seductive sorceress, you show me my true heart’s desire, yet you cover yourself in a golden spell so I can’t touch you without marring you, without destroying you. Is this a trap, Stevie?”

Steve’s eyes widened, oh, he really liked that. He realized he wanted to be Eddie’s Stevie, beautiful, dark, and mysterious, at least for the night. He licked his lips, he didn’t know how to play along.

“I just- I wanted you to see me. Do you...think you could-” He didn’t know how to say what he wanted without laying his heart bare, without allowing Eddie the chance to stomp his heart into a thousand pieces. He blinked wide eyes at Eddie, hoping he knew what he meant.

Eddie’s hands finally touched him, holding his waist firmly in his big hands. He stepped in closer, his boots inching under the edge of the skirt. Steve’s hands gripped his skirt, not knowing if he was allowed to touch.

Eddie’s eyes dipped, looking at his pink painted lips, before taking in the curls around the tiara and landing back on his eyes. “Stevie- Steve, I-”

“No.” Steve interrupted, “Stevie. Please, Eddie, I want,” - he shook his head, eyes lowering - “I don’t know what, but I like when you call me Stevie.”

Eddie’s hands brushed up and down his velvety sides and back. He suddenly pulled Stevie in close. Stevie gasped, wide eyes meeting Eddie’s, his hands clutched at Eddie’s arms. Eddie’s nose brushed Stevie’s. His lips ghosted close, not quite touching, not giving Stevie what he so desperately wanted. Stevie’s eyes closed, waiting. Eddie wet his lips, tongue licking across Stevie’s for a mere breath of a moment, before moving back.

Stevie’s eyes fluttered open, tears pricking at the corners. Eddie was still holding him close, one hand pressed hard against his back, one much lower. He just wasn’t almost-kissing him anymore. He was looking at him.

“Eddie?” he said, voice tinged with a sad whine.

“Stevie,” Eddie said, his voice different. It was no longer theatrically deepened, but sounded like they were hanging out at home on the couch and he had a question about the show they were watching, “did you come here to seduce me? Because, if you did, you didn’t have to. I was already yours, honey.”

Oh, Steve blinked at him. All that time thinking Eddie didn’t see him, didn’t want him like he wanted Eddie...and yet. Well, the evening just got a little lighter, Stevie smiled, his shoulders loosening.

He slid his hands up Eddie’s shoulders, clasping his hands behind his neck and looked at him through his lashes, pouting out his bottom lip. “So. How do I look? You like it? Because it was all for you.”

Eddie smirked, humming a low growl, and pulled him flush against his body by the low hand on his ass. “Yeah? You got yourself dressed up all pretty and painted just for me?”

Stevie nodded, smiling sweetly.

“Baby,” Eddie breathed out, “you gonna let me ruin you tonight, Stevie? Smudge all this pretty gold all over your body? Splay your pretty curls across my pillow?”

Steve shuddered, eyes drooping heavy. “Please.”

“Fuck. Let’s get out of here.” Eddie stepped back, sliding his hands along the velvet, griped Stevie’s hand and started walking away. Stevie planted his heels and tugged Eddie’s hand so he had to twirl back around to him. Eddie stepped back in. “Baby, what’s up?”

Steve stepped back, planting his hands on his hips, pouting a frown at Eddie. “Eddie, I drove all the way here for your nerdy, olden time fancy ball. I bought this dress, it took two other people to get me all made up, I have eyelash glue on my face. So, we’re staying and doing all the weird ball stuff. The dancing. The people watching. The five course meal. And then you can take me home and ravish me.”

Eddie blinked at him a few times, glanced around the enormous, crowded ballroom, and nodded. “Yes, to the dancing and people watching, but we’re leaving before the meal. We’ll swing through somewhere for drive through. But then I’m ravishing you for the whole weekend. Deal?”

Stevie grinned at him. “Deal.”

Eddie tucked one hand behind his back and held his other out for Steve to take. Stevie smiled at him, sliding his hand into the crook of his elbow. They turned to walk out to the dance floor, the crowd parting before them.

Prompt list:

cottagecore, prom

cryptid, hospital

horror, princess

jock, pride parade

mall, after party

convention, punk

“Is my father there?”

“He has been informed.”

“But he wasn’t with my mother,” their Robin finishes.

“I have a note that says he told the staff member who called, ‘he would be down from Chicago when he was finished with work.’”

“Thank you,” they say, and their Stevie means it. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

If the employee on the phone finds that strange they don’t have time to say it. Their Robin hangs up the phone with a finality that smacks of disagreement.

“Do we really need to go up to see Mother? Mom is making lasagna tonight and she never got drunk and told us that she thought about going to a special doctor when she learned she was pregnant with Richard’s baby.”

Mom’s lasagna is their favorite, but they’re more prone to regret now. “Call her and tell her we’ll be late. I’m sure she’ll save it for us.”

Mom always said that special occasions meant a dress, father said you don’t go to a business deal unless you’ve shined your shoes.

A hospital visit to see their dying mother, it’s hard to decide if any of those rules apply. But both parts of them are still in the boxers and the white undershirts they’d gone to bed in, so they make due with what they know and the pieces they’ve scrounged from the thrift store since the government check cleared.

They’re used to getting dirty looks when they go places. The perk of their Stevie part still looking beaten half-to-death is most people don’t bother with trying to finish the job. Their Robin finds a nurse who points to the private room Mother is being kept in.

It would be funny that even when she’s dying, Mother still demanded luxury, but then they’d have to admit their sense of humor has gotten a little fucked.

Their Stevie enters the room first, goes to the bed while their Robin stays closer to the door. They don’t need privacy from each other, but they know to others they’re something strange and off putting.

The hospital is one of the worst places they can imagine spending their final moments. The smell of antiseptic and bleach unable to bury the scent of death and bile, even in this room that only privilege can buy. Mother looks smaller than they can ever remember seeing her. Her face and chest a mottle of bruising, a strip of her blonde hair shaved away to make way for a wound the doctors have bandaged. Blood and something tinged yellow are already seeping through it. The machine beside her bed beeps, each one weaker than the last like even it is giving up.

One of their Steve hands brushes hers, gentle. Mindful of the IV going into the back of it. One of her french tips is missing, another broken in a jagged line. The hand reaching for hers is missing a nail too. She’d hate that.

“Mother,” they start. Her eyes are shut, not swollen shut like one of theirs, just closed. The spiderweb of veins is visible through the thin skin, and that’s worse. “Mother, I-”

Mother not Mom or Ma or Momma or Mommy.

It’s always been Mother for as long as they can remember. Mother and Father. It’s hard for them to wrap their mouth around now that they’ve got Mom at home with her lasagna. They’re crying, just a little. The salty sting of tears prick at their Robin eyes.

She’s not going to get better and she’s always going to be Mother. She won’t get to become something different to them, like them.

“Mother,” they try again. Maybe this time the right words will come out. In English or one of the others.

Her spiderweb eyes flutter. They open just a crack. Bloodshot and hazy. “Is that my baby?” Her words are slowed, slurred together.

“Mo-”

Even open all the way her eyes are glassy and unfocused. Her hand tilts up to catch theirs. “My baby.” 

“Morphine,” they remind themself from the other side of the room.

Mother’s eyes track to where the sound came from, and back to the part of them that’s holding her hand. “I always thought there would be two of you,” she says. “The way you’d kick.”

The machine beeps tick higher. Intracranial bleeding, traumatic internal injuries, thrown from the car, intoxicated. Those were the things the nurse had told one half while the other was headed into the room.

She probably isn’t even lucid.

“When they said it was just one, I was sure you’d be a girl.”

“I’m sorry,” they say. They look over at their other half, not for answers but for the comforting reminder that they’re there.

Mother’s hand shakes as she lifts it off the bed, even with theirs beneath it, supporting the weight. The beeps get faster, louder, crying at the effort she’s putting forward. Her fingers are even colder than normal as they brush their face.

“Don’t be sorry, both of you, just as beautiful as I knew you’d be. My twins, my babies.” Her breathing is too fast, too shallow, too much of everything.

But the smile on her face is peaceful.

“I wish I’d been more for you,” she says.

“No,” they choke out from beside the door, tears running faster.

“I couldn’t see it at first, you looked so much like your father; and I missed it. I missed it.” Each word sounds more like an exhale. Each one is harder to hear.

They surround her now, a half on either side of the bed. Their mother is dying.

“Green was always my favorite, you look so nice in it.” Green dress, green button down, emerald and forest.

“I love you.” They manage to say it, gasp it out through the hurt lodged in their throat. She needs to hear it.

The beeps are fast, then slow, she says. “Love you two.”

The beeps stop, the machine whines. A long, loud sound that demands all of the attention in the room. The commotion starts, nurses and doctors flooding in.

But they know death by this point. They slip from the room, walking until there’s a seating area just to the side of a desk of busy nurses. They sit side by side, trying to find the state of whole they only ever feel when sleeping. Thigh to thigh, hand in hand, it’s close enough.

Their mother is dead.

They sit. Mom is at home, lasagna in the warmer; but Mother is cooling on a bed down the hall.

An elevator chimes, a clipped conversation at the nurses stand too quiet to hear, then. “Steven, what in god’s name are you wearing?”

Their shoes are shined, they twitch left and then right on their Robin feet. The white Chuck Taylors had looked better with the dress, they had decided while getting ready.

“What are you hoping to accomplish,” Father continues, his question after all had never really been a question. Much like this one.

“You were too late, I’m sorry,” they say, hoping they manage to sound consoling.

“The only thing to be sorry about is that whoever hit you didn’t do as well as the fucking car did. Christ, I just hope no one important has seen you looking like this.”

Dad said their attempts at makeup were avant garde.

Two separate instincts war within them. The one that’s snarky and snappish and fights demodogs and soldiers versus the one that knows the danger of the wrong idea being shared by the wrong person.

Love you two. Her last words.

They stand, hand in hand, united physically as they are in every other way. They walk past him, sputtering and spitting with a rage no father should have for their child. It will take all four of their hands but they can move their things out of their room to the other in the house where Mom and Dad love everything they have become.