how long till i feel good again?

+his nonna's handwriting sits folded on the counter, blue ink slants stark against white marble. he's pleased to find he rarely needs it now. too capable, WILLING, able to make this in the dark. still he keeps it there anyway──proof\inheritance\something that existed before the monsters ever did, and moves with that same old sports rhythm. pivot, reach, and chop. wrists sure and knife steady. precision the way boys are taught when they're praised for a king's control. it's a sweet mercy to the heat clawing up the length of his neck. a red splotch born from brown eyes watching so attentively across the island.

“is all you're gonna do stand there and stare?” the corner of his mouth lifts to show teeth. heat rearranging itself in the room, gravity bending toward the doorway where eddie leans against the frame, MID - DEVOTION, engrossed by olive oil and red sauce. doe eyes open and unashamed in a way steve remains uncertain how to survive. something in his chest shifts, a hinge loosening. because the leather is absent for once, traded for cotton instead. hawkins swim soft and faded in print. here he appears more boy than battle, more boy than mask. healing looks strange on him. LOOKS GOOD ON HIM. and so steve keeps his eyes on the pan bubbling beside him instead. “i know i'm easy on the eyes and all, but geez.” the words feel strangely new in his mouth, wide and unexplored like the city he used to dream of. but suddenly, the walls aren't closing in; they hold him up instead. a strange, aching excitement that feels like comfort blooming like the flowers of new spring just beyond the cage of his chest.

between knife and spoon he wonders if they can stay this way forever? if eddie's pulse can become the only rhythm he breathes to until one day he can't tell where his skin ends and eddie's begins? if they can keep this safe as they move in the open kitchen, a dance so close there isn't room for the darkness to slip in between? … IT WOULDN'T BE THE END OF THE WORLD, WOULD IT? to stay in a room if the world was already inside that room? “make yourself useful, yea'?” maybe it would just feel easier if eddie looked bored. or unimpressed. or anywhere else. INSTEAD──the hands on the stove are steady, although the rest of him is not. the spoon resumes its slow orbit. sauce thickening. scent blooming. but steve waits and plates nothing yet. it's too early. patience is all part of it. he knows they've still got to let it simmer. some things can't be rushed. “put on some music or something. cooking in silence like this makes me feel like a serial killer.”

steve notices, speaks over pan fried garlic. the notes caramelizing and settling over his tongue with each breath. he starts to wonder if the crushed garlic in nonna harrington's recipe be would be his undoing. though, he'd hardly compare himself to dracula in the 'traditional sense.' his shoulder presses into the wood frame, molding carved with a certain elegance. it’s not like the cracked paint on corners of his trailer, or what once was. there’s no leaks or core rattling heaters that struggle to keep up when the frost collects. the heat holds here in ways that sometimes the windows gather condensation. then he could keep the blinds undone, even if grey skies do little to keep the house lit. “ you know, i’ve never been much of a cook. ” though it’s never stopped him before. eggs for his uncle on his birthday, he never burns them but somehow a piece of shell or two always end up being whisked in fluff. the bacon a little too crispy. wayne had never a man of many words, never tried filling the space where a father should fit, but it gave him a sense of something else. of someone who cared when the town turned on him. he can see that’s what steve’s doing now too. he also was easy on the eyes. the way his hair has curled, it's mold starting giving in after a day of work. the first few buttons of a polo undone as if he'd taken off a tie from being at the office or 'something.' he is easy on the eyes like this.

he wonders if robin had him hauling boxes of records again from the basement of the station. it’s not easy work considering the selection. there must be a few more he’s got to sort through before tomorrow. it’s probably why there’s two sitting at the end of the table now. it’s busy work to keep eddie from going fried, something steve knows that he loves to do anyways. “ alright, alright. ” eddie breaks the stare, eyes dragging from before socks pad across the floor. he untucks old cardboard and flips through the first few. age shows in how soft the corners have gone from being touched. his interest peeks and comfort sets, he feels like he’s at the record store again. the familiarity burns red, like curls braided taut that keep ends from undoing. the last time he was there max was browsing too, had tucked a pretty record like a diary against her body. that was the day he meet kate bush, heard her sing about waking witches and dreams. he fights the fleeting feeling, swallowing the aching spread to taste garlic and something else. he peeks to see steve adding another ingredient, new notes filling the air. “ don’t wanna hear you complain about it when you gave me the option to pick. ” he muses low, fingers fluttering through with the absence of silver, lithe digits pause when a record catches his eye. it’s a blend of genres and decades, stuff wayne would play or something robin would request, tunes that play through the body of the car.

Send me one of the following words in my ask and I’ll write a drabble concerning our muses. 

blue eyes do not dare to look up as his shoulder bumps hers. she tells herself she doesn't care that he wandered over. 𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜: never give them your throat (billy had taught her that) but it's eddie who plucks the album free from freckled fingers with a 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦, evidence inspected in the low - light as her jaw begins to shift. it's subtle. it's defensive. it's as if he's just picked up her diary ɪɴsᴛᴇᴀᴅ of a record. it makes her skin buzz and her stomach churn; she braces for a punch that never lands. because eddie's voice isn't mocking. ᴺᴼ ᴳᴬˢᴼᴸᴵᴺᴱ ᴰᴿᴬᵂᴸ ᴼᶠ ᴮᴵᴸᴸʸ, no challenge to rise up against. IT'S JUST CURIOSITY, and somehow that unsettles her more --- there's a version of max that bares her teeth. there is a version that rolls her eyes so hard they 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 to the linoleum. there is a version that says: 𝚈𝙴𝙰𝙷, 𝚂𝙾? but the version beside him just stays still.

eddie's weight wavers from one foot to the next, his hand going to the back of his neck to rub absentmindedly. he meant what he said about the stereo. he thinks for a moment of all his favorites, each filled with strings fine turned and plucked with soul filled precision. it's part of why he wanted to learn to play. he shrugs then, teeth showing with his grin. “ maybe, maybe not but if i can't you have the van. ” he's already reached into his pocket, keys dangling from curled fingers. they dance along side the magic eight ball keychain, the fortune settling on very doubtful before her. his fate changing in a matching shade of stark blue.