#disabled! steve
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The bus always drops Billy off exactly a block from home. They took his car when he failed a vision test from his chronic migraines, so there isn’t much of a choice. Which is fair. He really doesn’t want to drive anyways after his accident. But, the bus isn’t always on time.
He’d been visiting Max at the hospital to play catch up before the new year. There’s always a good excuse to go visit her, but today especially. There’s fireworks going off like crazy from all the drunk hicks celebrating the passing of another year. Fireworks that terrify Max because she can’t even see them, after losing her vision in the battle for her life.
He’s lucky he got out of the hospital earlier that night because Max requested an extra strong dose of her meds to drown out the sound of the fireworks.
Unfortunately, there’s too many of those same drunks to cart around that the bus hadn’t made its way to the hospital until an hour after it was supposed to pick him up. He’d meant to be home by 9, but it’s already after 10.
Even on his eventual walk home from the bus stop, drawn out by his limp and his cane, the sky is full of smoke and colors. And noise. Lots and lots of irritating, terrifying noise.
Billy walks the last stretch faster than he should. He’s eager to get home to Steve for their first new year together anyhow. He’ll blame it on that instead of the lick of fear in his stride from the booming.
Right away as he shoulders the door open on his good side, the one not leaning on a cane, he calls out into the house, expecting Steve to be right there since he’s running a little late, “Baby?”
But there’s no answer. That’s not so unusual. They’re usually in bed by now anyways, aged at least three decades by the events of two summers ago and basically every day since. He’ll just hang up his coat, kick off his stretchy old man shoes, and try again.
“Steeeevie?”
Still nothing.
One too many times panicking from not knowing Steve’s exact location has taught him to calm down a little, and get his head on the right way before he starts tearing the place apart looking for him. Taking his time so as not to hurt himself in the process, Billy decides to go upstairs and check before he makes the ruling that Steve’s MIA. For his sanity.
He finds his boyfriend disguised as a pile of blankets on their bed, and he almost misses him because the lights are all out.
Right.
Fireworks are pretty rough for Steve too. Nothing brings more sensory overload than colorful death bombs in the sky. Billy sighs. He hates this town and the constant cacophony of fear it brings. Can’t they ever have a moment of peace?
He climbs into bed next to Steve, announcing his presence with a clearing of his throat before he plops down next to the curled up figure under the comforter.
“What’re you doing in here?”
The quiet response from Steve comes out barely audible, “Hiding.”
Yeah. Billy kinda wishes he could hide from a lot of things too. But right now, this is not about him,
“What from?”
The blankets rustle and a small mumbled response comes, “Loud.”
Just to be sure, and so Steve doesn’t have to do as much talking, Billy clarifies, “The fireworks are too loud?”
Again, there’s a shifting sound of Steve’s hair against the sheets, as he nods gently.
Billy wants to hold him. He’d like to strike down every last motherfucker that made Steve feel like this too. He can settle for lifting up the blanket and sliding under it with Steve, and talking gently to try and soothe him.
“I think so too. They uh.. remind me of..”
His voice breaks off from the quiet whisper into just nothing. Even now, even trying to be strong for Steve, there are some things that are too hard to talk about.
Steve’s face goes scrunched up with sympathy. Like he’s trying hard on purpose to feel bad for Billy, though that’s not really how it goes in his head. He even apologizes, though that isn’t what Billy wanted at all, “I’m sorry.”
Instantly, Billy rushes to reassure him, “Stevie, you didn’t-“
But it doesn’t change what Steve was already determined to tell him. They don’t talk a lot about the serious things. About how they’re both disabled now, and certainly both jam-packed with more trauma than the sky is packed with lights tonight. Maybe they should, so Steve won’t sound as guilty as he speaks,
“I’m sorry I’ve always been like this and you were made into this.”
That makes Billy pause. He has to catch his breath and then turn on his side to look at Steve’s face, centering on his nose so accidental eye-contact won’t happen.
No way is he letting Steve blame himself for this, any of this.
“That’s not true. I hated fireworks before too. We’d watch them on the beach, and I’d get scared because the water looked like it was on fire.”
Just from that tidbit, Steve tears up. Billy tears up. They both know what part of the story is coming next, and suddenly Billy remembers that he told this story before and simply forgot, but it’s too late to stop now.
“Momma held me and told me that it wasn’t real, but.. after momma left.. I was always afraid of irrational shit like that. Still am. Just today I was scared the hospital would burn up from the fireworks if I left Max there. Or I’d choke on the smoke on my way home. And then I got back and I couldn’t find you and I just-“
Yeah. Steve gets it. They’re both trying their damndest, even when another pop sounds in the near distance, and Steve presses his headphones a little closer to his ears.
The not quite silence speaks more volumes than their words. Steve spreads his arm out, and makes a soft little humming sound. An invitation for Billy to come close and wrap his arms around Steve. They need each other right now.
Billy dives into the offered cuddle. He’s been waiting for this moment all day. The moment where he could just sob into Steve’s chest, and feel Steve’s own tears wetting his hair. Sometimes, this is what it takes.
Laying in bed and purging out all their bad emotions isn’t exactly the ideal way for two ex-King’s like them to spend their New Year’s Eve, but it’s how they’re going to, and neither would ask for any other way to move into another year. They fought hard to be able to do that.
Nobody can take that away.
They don’t talk again until Steve is ready. With all the noise and chaos, Billy doesn’t mind the silence, just listening to Steve’s steady, unsteady, one-two-skip, heartbeat. He hears Steve’s words rattle up in his chest as he speaks them, “Fireworks are stupid.”
That makes Billy crack a smile. They both know all this crying isn’t about the fireworks. Not that it helps, but that’s not the point.
Maybe fireworks will be the spark that lit the fire. From now on, it’s about opening up a little more.
“Yeah. What’s so great about all that toxic shit in the air anyways?” Billy meant that in more ways than one, but whether or not Steve got the double meaning about all that glory covering up the ugly truth, isn’t what he focuses on.
Steve lingers on the idea of the bad air, and Billy’s asthmatic lungs, and lets the worry come back, “I didn’t even think about that. You okay?”
Billy nods against Steve’s chest, and pulls back a little so his head is resting by his arm instead, and they’re face to face now, “I’m just fine.”
It’s such an automatic answer, Steve catches it too. Satisfied that he noticed, he points out, “You sound just like Max.”
He does. It feels like it’s already been an eternity since he got back in Steve’s arms. He forgot that today was the same day he visited Max. His memories get mixed up like that sometimes.
The silence after Steve’s little teasing must eat away at Billy’s mask, because Steve makes a small sound of worry, like a gruff sniffle, and asks, “Was she okay?”
Trying hard to remember today’s visit over yesterday's or the day before's or nine months before that’s, Billy gives details by the moment he remembers them, “Still tired. But alright. Got her to smile.”
“Did you tell her-“ Every single day Steve asks the same questions. He cares so much about doing the right thing.
Seeing him now, all curled up in bed and sad on a day that’s a celebration for everybody else, makes Billy even more sure that he’s going to do the right thing as well. Right now, that’s reassurance,
“Yep, I said ‘hi from Steve.’ And I made sure to tell her you miss her. All the usual.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come.” Steve went once, and that was all it took for the constant beeping, rushing, wheeling, to trigger a meltdown. Never again.
But Billy’s alright with that, and Max was too the last time they talked, “Baby, we’ve told you. It’s fine. I can barely get my ass on the bus either.”
Steve doesn’t look like he believes him. His eyes are wide and teary again. His nails scratch at his palms, so Billy gently takes his hands and keeps them separated.
“Promise?”
Billy kisses Steve’s knuckles on each hand, soft and barely able to be felt as a graze across warm flesh. He’s going to do anything to make Steve stop worrying about the harder things they’ve been through a few times now.
“I promise.”
Billy reaches out slowly, ever so slowly so Steve has time to assert his boundaries before Billy's hand makes contact with his face. Instead of stopping him though, Steve blinks slowly and closes his eyes, and allows Billy to gently hold his cheek. His skin is flushed warm, despite it being so cold out. He’s the softest thing Billy’s ever had the privilege to hold.
Next he wants to taste. The angle they’re at is awkward and it hurts Billy’s back. He taps Steve’s cheek as a silent way of asking him to be the one to initiate their kiss and fix their tangle of limbs. Steve obliges, without opening his eyes, shifting off of his hip so his chest is against Billy’s now, and their faces are just inches apart.
Billy isn’t even sure which of them actually closes the gap, but in the next moment he’s kissing Steve slowly and carefully like either of them could break at any second.
In the next moment, Steve does break, only in that he separates the kiss.
“Wait a sec.”
Billy’s eyes are half open, his face warmed by the love he felt from the kiss, which left him too lax and calm to be worried about Steve’s interruption, “Hm?”
Not for no reason. Steve’s panic looks a lot different from his lightbulb ideas, and right now, Billy can tell before Steve even speaks it’s going to be the latter. One of his good ideas.
“We have to save up our kisses for midnight.”
Not exactly the most thrilling idea ever. Billy instinctually scrunches his nose as an expression of doubt, but Steve’s eyes are still shining with his own brilliance.
“I don’t know, babe..”
“It’s good luck!” Steve swears it like it’s a revelation, and he’s just cured all that ails Billy.
Seeing him that happy, instead of shaking and hiding from the overstimulation like earlier, Billy could say that Steve’s just about done that for real.
Billy plays his role as the skeptic though, pouting over-exaggeratedly so Steve knows he’s not serious, “Didn’t know that meant we had to wait.”
It earns a laugh, more akin to a delighted giggle, out of Steve, who decides on a compromise for their imaginary plight, “You can have one kiss on the cheek for now.”
He leans over and just barely pecks his cheek, soft lips ghosting over Billy’s skin and making him shiver with the feeling of goose pimples popping up on his neck. The small kiss transforms with the shape of Steve’s smile from Billy's reaction, and then Steve gives him another, slightly stronger, press of his lips.
“Thank you, Stevie.” Billy makes doubly-sure Steve knows he’s not really as pouty as he was playing to be. Really, any affection from Steve makes his entire day better, after months where they weren’t able to have these moments between doctors visits and monster battles. The peace of just being in one another’s arms, finally safe from all of that, is enough. “Love you.”
Declarations of love always give Steve a reason to show his happy hands. He taps the tips of his fingers in a rhythm against Billy’s collar bone, and returns the declaration in a silly, stimmy voice, “I love you too.”
Their bliss is interrupted by another thundering firework outside. A distressed squeak cuts off Steve’s words, and he buries his face into Billy’s form, hiding along the contour of his arm, with his face pressed against Billy’s ribcage, so he’s as close to Billy as possible, and as far away from the threat.
It’s not really a comfortable position, but if it keeps Steve feeling safe, Billy can live with a dead arm for a while.
“I got you, Steve. Those fireworks aren’t gonna get us, babe.”
“Too loud.” Steve repeats his sentiment from earlier. That’s a nice affirmation that this is all rational. They’ve both had their share of fear driven breaks, which are much harder to solve.
Since this one’s the kind that doesn’t scare Billy, he keeps joking with Steve to keep him from slipping into that worse place.
“Want me to sing for you? Drown it all out?” He questions, knowing full well he can’t hold a tune worth a damn.
“Please no.” Steve’s so polite about telling Billy what he already knew. It’s really sweet actually.
Billy chuckles lightly, suppressing his laugh so he doesn’t jostle Steve too much, “I hear you. We’ll just be nice and quiet then.”
After so long like that, without any more booming interruptions from outside of their safe spot, Billy’s eyes start to get heavy. He caught Steve the same way, blinking extra hard so his eyelashes danced over Billy’s skin, and so his eyes wouldn’t shut without him.
Normally he’d just let him sleep, and he considers it for a moment, but it’s the celebration of the new year, and Steve would be devastated if they missed the midnight kiss.
Billy realizes they’ve been laying here for so long, he doesn’t even know what time it is, “I’m gonna peek out of the blanket. Check the time.”
Steve doesn’t waste energy on responding beyond a simple nod.
Billy uses his free hand that isn’t under Steve to pull the heavy comforter back down to let the real world back in. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the room again, and then he squints at the clock to see how close they are to the moment.
“Oh shit. It’s 11:56. Only 4 minutes left.” He announces, and Steve pops up beside him from under the blanket eagerly, every bit of tiredness gone from his face and replaced with glowing excitement.
“Are we gonna count them down?”
Billy smiles and shrugs as much as he can with Steve’s weight still on his one arm, “Don’t see why not.”
They count the minutes down together quietly. That’s too long to do it out loud and wear Steve out before it’s even time. Their way of doing that consists of Billy laying still and letting Steve tap out each passing second against the scar in the center of his chest.
When they finally reach an achievable countdown, Billy starts with, “10.”
“9.” Steve takes the next, and they do it in alternating order, although from the way Steve is vibrating with excitement, he’d probably rather skip this step altogether
Still, Steve is so loving with him, even when Billy feels like he doesn’t deserve it.
“8.”
Billy would hold him through anything it took to make Steve feel safe expressing that kind of love.
“7.”
They fought so hard to be this comfortable. Last year, Billy was still in a coma, and Steve was still too scared to even touch him to hold hands.
“6.”
Their first kiss was two months after they started dating, leaning around stitches and big emotions to both finally feel like everything was in place.
“5.”
Someday, they’ll be totally in sync and know when those hard times have passed, but right now it’s a loving, tender work in progress.
“4.”
And maybe someday, they’ll get out of Hawkins, and far away from all the chaos here.
“3.”
Billy gets stronger every day, mentally and physically. Steve gets more in tune with his own needs and self-worth. That’s what a support system and a whole lotta care will do for a couple of guys like them.
“2.”
Most importantly, they’re getting better all the time at communicating, building up the foundations of their relationship.
“1!”
Steve initiates the kiss, grabbing both sides of Billy’s face and smashing their lips together rather than kissing him. It’s reminiscent of their first kiss, in all its clumsy, anxious glory. Billy thinks that’s a good momento to end the worst year of their lives with, and start into what will hopefully be the best.
“Looking forward to another year with you, baby.” He promises, when they break apart and finally get a breath.
Steve wears a delightful smile, “Here’s to another.. hm.. 100?”
That sounds nice. Just him and Steve for the rest of time, no matter how many years pass or how many painful explosions happen.
“Yeah. Cheers to that.”
#harringrove#billy hargrove#billy x steve#billy & max#disabled! steve#disabled! billy#my writing#ej writer#happy late new year y’all#i meant to post this yesterday but life got in the way#as it does with a lot of things#my resolution is to keep up with my writing and my friends more at the same time#anyway#love you all <3#long post
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this summer is definitely something...
#tumblr news update#elon musk#mark zuckerberg#black butler#the suicide squad#disability pride month#steve rogers#captain america#the white house#colleen ballinger#sweden#twitter#misha collins#fall out boy#we didn't start the fire#covid 19#war in ukraine#france#emmanuel macron#nimona#mattel
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Eddie posts a Tiktok of an old home video with the caption “I AM THE MOST PATIENT MAN IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.”
The video was actually filmed in Gareth’s Mom’s garage after the band’s first world tour. In it, Gareth is filming Grant make shadow puppets while slightly off-camera, Steve and Eddie are having a conversation that they’re both too high to be having.
Grant is making his shadow dog’s mouth move along with Steve in the background like, “You want me to be someone’s boss? Like a capitalis- like my dad?? You wanna fuck my dad now, Eddie?”
Eddie, with the deepest sigh: Baby, I just think a service dog would be good for you. And you wouldn’t be its boss, you didn’t hire it
Steve: But it’s doing a job for me. It’s my employee then.
Eddie: You’re not paying him!
Steve: So, like a slave?!
Eddie: No. It’d be like… A service dog is like a friend. They help you out because they’re your friend. And dog is man’s best friend
Steve: Robin is my best friend!
Eddie: Oh my god
#Eddie: *makesca suggestion about Steve’s disability*#Steve in 1988: So you want to sleep with my dad? is that what you’re saying?#Eddie fought a long and hard battle for Steve to get a service animal#and then he finally gets one it’s a dog that steals Eddie’s Doritos#eddie munson tiktok saga#steve harrington#eddie munson
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Steve helps Eddie learn to walk again after he heals up from the bats. Eddie’s supposed to practice taking steps outside of physical therapy too, with someone’s help or with his cane. He can be stubborn about using it, and his Uncle is working doubles to cover his medical bills, so he’s not always there to help. Eddie’s apart of the group now, he kept Dustin safe, and Steve just wants to do whatever he can for him.
Eddie’s always confident with everything but he gets frustrated sometimes, and Steve has found that it works best if he stands in front of Eddie, arms hovering at Eddie’s sides just in case, taking steps back while Eddie walks to him.
It’s one those frustrating days where Eddie has tears in his eyes and sweat on his brow, leaning heavily on his cane and clenching his teeth as he makes the final step and collapses in Steve’s arms. That’s when Steve can’t help it, he just hugs Eddie so tight and presses a kiss to his forehead without thinking.
Eddie doesn’t seem to mind, he starts to aim for it. Every time from then on, he makes it to Steve with a smile on his face, waiting for his forehead kiss, and sometimes he earns cheek kisses too. Of course, Steve knows Eddie is touchy with everyone, he thrives on little affections so it motivates him more.
Eddie’s working so hard, walking further and further everyday, Steve’s so proud of him that it gets to the point where a peck on the forehead and to each side of his scarred cheeks doesn’t feel like enough.
Eddie catches Steve’s eyes falling to his lips one too many times, and he’s so glad when Eddie smirks and says, “I think I earned a little more than a kiss on the cheek, Harrington, don’t you?”
“Hm… depends. Where else do I owe you one?”
He grins when Eddie plays coy, pointing to his lips.
They kiss, long and sweet until Eddie gets tired of standing and Steve lifts him up in a hug so they can keep on kissing. It feels more than earned.
#boyfriends who heal together#steddie#eddie munson#steve harrington#disabled eddie munson#steddie ficlet#steddie fic#eddie with a cane#rueswriting#my fics#steddie headcanon#mp#eddie munson headcanon#steveddie#eddie x steve#steddie fanfiction
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I’ve been thinking a lot about late-deafened Steve, and what that actually would have looked like. Because the thing is: I love this head cannon. Boy got bashed around so much, ESPECIALLY on his left side, theres no way he didn’t come out of that with some long term damage. And I’ve been thinking about what that means for him, when his hearing starts to go, and how isolating that would be.
Except. Then I keep thinking about Robin.
Give me child-of-Deaf-adults Robin. Robin whose parents met at Gallaudet. Who were confused and upset when the doctor said, relief clear on his face, oh thank god, how lucky, your baby is normal, she can HEAR. Robin who grows up a in a Deaf home with a Deaf family. Who learns ASL before she learns English. Who never learns to be quiet because at home it doesn’t matter, so she can blast trumpet all day long to no complaints, and forever feels uncomfortable in places where she has to try to keep it down. Robin who grows up learning ASL and English and thrives, loves the way her brain works when it’s parsing languages, and starts teaching herself French and Spanish too, blasting day time Spanish soap operas constantly whenever she’s at home, shouting along with the screen. Robin who interprets for her parents, taking on burdens no seven year old should when she’s the one who has to tell her mom the cancers back. Robin who, four years later, gets to tell her dad that the surgery worked. The cancers gone. Moms gonna be ok. Robin who, at eleven, doesn’t know the sign for remission but she signs CANCER-one hand eating at the other like the disease that almost took her Mom-and signs FINISH, signs NONE, signs MOM-OKAY, MOM-SAFE, and is glad her dad can’t hear how loud her sobs are because even she’s embarrassed at the noises she’s making.
Robin who doesn’t quite fit at home, the loud little girl in the odd quiet house (not that her house is ever quiet: if you dont realize you’re making noise you don’t do anything to tamper it), and who doesn’t quite fit at school, when she shows up in kindergarten signing instead of speaking and all the other kids make fun of her for years, call her spazzy Buckley and imitate the signs, crude and heartbreaking and she can’t even cry here because everyone can hear her. Robin who teaches herself to speak without signing, sits on her hands and tries not to internalize the hatred, but her fingers still twitch constantly along with the words. Robin who thinks she’s never going to fit in, and tries to separate out the two different parts of herself because it’s easier, most days, to pretend to be “normal” even though that feels wrong too.
Give me Robin, who knows Steve inside out and who knows what it looks like when someone can’t hear you but pretends they can. Robin who clocks Steve immediately, even though he tries to brush her off like he’s been doing to everyone. Robin who finally takes him home to meet her parents, explaining it all in the car (into his right ear, which is better than the left though still starting to fade). Robin who gives Steve the gift of understanding and hope for the future. Who holes up with him and teaches him sign, slow at first (because Steve has never been good at grammar, and he constantly furrows his eyebrows despite her pleas that eyebrows are important in ASL and he needs to use his face more or he’s going to confuse everyone, it’s the visual equivalent of lilting your voice up like every sentence is a question and it’s weird, Steve!) and then faster as he starts to realize how useful it is, starts to bring her lists full of signs to learn, starts to lean on and cherish the experience of this new way to communicate. Robin, who helps him practice lipreading even though she’s terrible at it. Robin, who finally convinces him to get a hearing aid and lets him sob into her shoulder when the doctor says it’ll help for a few years, but long term there’s probably nothing they can do, and then tells him to buck it up because there are way worse things than being a little deaf and besides, now the Buckleys will just have to adopt him for real because they did always talk about adopting a deaf child or two, if there was ever one in need.
Give me CODA Robin, whose never felt like she belonged until she nearly gets murdered by Russians with her best friend. Who brings Steve into her life, shows him Deaf culture, gives him a place where he fits. Robin who finally realizes that this is her place too, and it’s so much sweeter for getting to share it with the people she loves.
And then, after, give me Eddie knocking on the Buckley door and begging to learn ASL too. Give me Robin’s mom, somehow roped in to teaching him and the party, as they try to learn in secret to make Steve’s life easier (and their own, because ASL is god tier for pulling pranks from opposite sides of a high school cafeteria). Give me Dustin, excitedly telling Miranda Buckley to FUCK-OFF every week for months because he thinks he’s saying THANK-YOU and she finds it too funny to correct him. Give me Eddie trying to surprise Steve and ask him out on a date, but instead of signing HUNGRY, WANT YOU&ME GO AFTER WORK? he signs HORNY, WANT YOU&ME GO FUCK?
And give me Steve, who thinks about it for a long minute (partially because Eddie totally botches the grammar, but partially because he looks so hot, standing there nervous and trying to communicate with Steve in a way that will make him the most comfortable) before he smirks and signs back YEAH, and takes Eddie on the best goddamn first date of his life.
#sorry i just!!! had so many thoughts#steve harrington#robin buckley#eddie munson#steddie#at the end there#deaf steve harrington#disabled steve harrington#CODA robin buckley#asl#stranger things#stranger things headcanons#is that what youd call this#idk#word vomit#hex writes stuff#kind of!#oh and uh sorry about the angst in the middle#i couldnt help it
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STWG daily prompt 6/9/23
prompt: no spoons
characters/pairing(s): steddie
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It's 12pm, and Steve is still in bed.
He doesn't want to be in bed. He had so many plans for the day when he went to bed. A morning run. A shower. Scrambled egg on toast. A trip to the nearest mall with Eddie.
But instead, he's still laying in bed. He hates when he gets like this.
It's actually a hundred times more embarrassing today, because Eddie stayed over last night. It's the first time he'll see Steve on a day like this, rather than just hear about it after the fact.
"Stevie?"
Steve doesn't know when Eddie appeared in the door, but he looks at him and make a vague humming noise in response.
"You okay, lovely?"
The simple question makes sudden tears well up in Steve's eyes, and he hastily brings his hands up to wipe at his face. What is he even crying for.
"Yeah, I'm fine." He says, but the words sound wobbly even to his own ears.
He keeps his eyes closed as he hears Eddie walk over and then feels the bed dip as he sits by him. A gentle hand comes up to card through Steve's hair.
"You're not a very good liar." Eddie says, and somehow his voice is gentle enough that it feels comforting. Steve sighs.
"I just can't do it today."
"Do what?"
"Anything." Steve confesses, and finally takes his hands off his face to look at Eddie.
An expression of understanding paints Eddie's face.
"No spoons?" He asks.
Steve nods, and feels something settle in his gut at the fact that Eddie understands him so well.
"Okay, well." Eddie thinks for a moment, keeps playing with Steve's hair, "How can we make getting up easier for you?"
"Oh."
No one's ever asked him that before.
#stwgdailyprompt#steddie#autistic steve harrington#steve harrington#eddie munson#they're my babies#my blorbos#disabled steve harrington#mywriting#dailydrabble
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Old face, new place
Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles warm up: High school or College AU
rated: t | cw: none | tags: disabled Steve Harrington, pre-Steddie | wc:1000
Steve and Eddie meet again in college. The Upside Down still happened, but Eddie was never involved.
Honestly, Steve never thought he would go to college. Between his average grades, lack of ambition, and just not knowing what he wanted to do, it just didn’t seem to be on the cards for him. But it all changed after the Upside Down turned his life upside down.
After it was all over, and he’d been disowned by his parents, he and Robin moved to Chicago together. It was there she encouraged him to start taking classes at the same community college as her, to try and get a degree.
And that was how he got here, facing down the door of an art room, trying to build up the courage to go in. He’d signed up to be a nude model for a figure drawing class. At $20 a session, it would really help stretch his and Robin’s lousy paychecks that bit further. As he opened the door, he could hear the teacher reminding the class to be mindful about the model's bodies. That made him feel a little more uneasy, because it reminded him that it was the first time anyone other than doctors or Robin had seen him uncovered since everything with Vecna, and then losing his leg in the final showdown. He stripped down in the cubicle at the side of the room, changing into just a bathrobe.
As he came into the main space, he could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on his prosthetic. He reached the stool set up for him, and slipped off the robe. A collective gasp rang through the room, and he knew it was because of the scarring from the demo-bat attacks.
He got into a pose, and tried to forget where he was. Whenever he took a minute to move because of getting too stiff, he glanced over the class, seeing if there was anyone he recognized. There was one guy who felt vaguely familiar, who would not stop staring at his scars, his gaze more intense than anyone else’s.
Eddie had always known that college wasn’t in the cards for him. Hell, it took him three attempts to graduate high school. And he was only successful the last time because everyone in the class of ‘86 was allowed to graduate without sitting their finals because of the freak earthquake, and the murders, that happened during spring break that year. Wayne had all but forced him into volunteering in the relief efforts, but as soon as he had his diploma in hand, he was hightailing it out of town, looking for something better.
He ended up in Chicago, working evenings in a bar, and getting an apprenticeship to become a tattoo artist. He was a few months into the apprenticeship when his mentor recommended that he take a couple of semesters of art classes at the local community college to help him with technique and to refine his style. He tried to deny it on grounds of cost, but it was covered under the apprenticeship program.
Which is how he found himself a few months in, sitting in a figure drawing class. He zoned out a little as the teacher brought up the rules that had been laid out on the first day of the figure drawing unit, about making the models comfortable and not saying anything about their bodies. That hadn’t happened before any of the other models came in, so it did make Eddie wonder. Maybe it would be a guy with a really interesting dick.
Instead, it was Steve Harrington, of all people, that limped into the room. Eddie couldn’t help but watch as he went into the corner blocked off for the models to change in. What had brought King Steve to be a model for an art class? Looking for more validation on how pretty he was? Trying to pick up girls?
He brought himself out of his thoughts as Steve came out in a robe and. A prosthetic leg. That explained the limp, but brought so many more questions about what had happened. Because Eddie clearly remembered Steve in those tiny gym shorts and he definitely wasn’t missing a leg at that point.
Then Steve dropped the robe. Eddie, alongside the rest of the class, gasped. And not for the reason he’d thought he would be gasping when seeing Steve Harrington naked. He had horrific scarring on his chest and sides. Just opening even more questions to what the hell had happened to him.
He did his best to complete the assigned drawing, but his eyes kept getting drawn to Steve’s scars. The curiosity kept building as the time went on, and he was unsure if he’d be able to keep it in.
He packed up slowly at the end, wanting to try and catch Steve. They’d never been friends, but he needed to know if he was okay. He waited until they were both out of the room, before he called after him. “Hey, Harrington.”
Steve turned around, and looked at Eddie for a moment before recognition flashed in his eyes. “Munson.”
“Are- are you okay?” He asked, feeling a bit lost, unsure if what he wanted to ask was inappropriate.
“You mean my-” Steve rested his hand on his side where the worst of the scarring was. “Animal attack during the earthquake. It’s fine now.”
“And your-” Eddie’s gaze dropped to Steve’s legs.
“An accident a few months later.”
“Damn. You’ve really been through it, Harrington.”
Steve gave a bitter laugh that Eddie couldn’t quite read. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“Maybe you could tell me some of it? Over coffee if you’re free?” Eddie suggested.
Steve looked at his watch. “I’ve got class in like twenty minutes. But I’ll be free after eleven tomorrow?”
Eddie ran through his scheduling in his mind, he was in the shop in the morning. “I’m working in the morning, but I’ll be off about two. We could do a late lunch or something?”
“It’s a date.” Steve agreed.
#steve harrington#eddie munson#steddie#steddie fic#disabled steve harrington#steve harrington x eddie munson#steve x eddie#pre steddie#steddieholidaydrabbles#college au#atimeofyourwrites
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Corroded Coffin gains a weird reputation in the metal world for having really accessible concerts.
It's still a metal concert. There's no avoiding killer loud music and rowdy crowds, but they do so many things other bands don't. They hand out CC themed ear plugs and headphones for free as merchandise, even though it loses them a ton of money to not charge, they're one of the first bands in the scene to have an interpreter who travels with them and signs at their shows, they offer free tickets to all personal assistants, they refuse to play venues that aren't wheelchair accessible. They won't even accept 'temporarily' wheelchair accessible. Places that put up a hasty ramp that will easily get torn down after they leave are unacceptable.
It becomes a pretty big deal as they gain publicity and fame. Fans know going in about the things that are always the same at every show, and they end up creating a stir in the metal community about making concerts something everyone can enjoy.
And the most important thing (for Eddie at least) is they never do pyrotechnics or strobe. Ever. There is no flashing lights, so sudden bursts of fire at any Corroded Coffin show, not even for the openers. They won't even play big concerts with other huge bands if they're going to have those special effects. Managers and fans alike have practically begged for these things, but the band always shuts it down. No discussion, no explanation, just a simple 'no'.
The real fans know the reason. They know that it's all for the lead singers found family, so they can go to any show they want to if they decide to. It's for the family, but especially the sweater loving weirdo who's been going to their shows since 1986. The one who never misses so much as a rehearsal, even though he doesn't really like metal music. The one always sitting on the sidelines wearing industrial grade neon orange headphones, heart eyes, and a big smile.
#Steve harrington#Eddie munson#steddie#steddie hc#steddie ficlet#st#st 4#stranger things 4#I'm not disabled so I can't really speak to the rest#but as a migraine haver#I gotta prep to go to concerts#and usually I just can't go#ANYWAYS#if any of this isn't accurate or weird shoot me a note#steve harrington#stranger things#eddie munson#st4#Writing(withacapitalW)
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only one (1) coherent thought in my skull right now and it’s domestic steddie with Steve washing Eddie’s hair after he’s discharged from hospital post-Vecna.
I’m imagining Eddie’s being discharged to Steve’s house, because Steve is but a simple man with a saviour complex (and also a crush on Eddie) so he’s letting Wayne and Eddie stay with him. Partly so they have somewhere to be while the government sorts out some new housing for them, but mostly because Eddie needs support for these first few weeks out of hospital and Wayne is away at work a lot. Having Steve around as well means Eddie won’t end up in a situation where he needs a hand but is stuck home alone for hours.
Eddie’s recovered enough for discharge but still requires a lot of physical therapy, and one of the things he still can’t do is raise his arms above his head. He can’t wash his hair pretty much at all, and while the nurses washed it for him in hospital, they didn’t do it frequently enough for Eddie’s standards. His hair has been driving him insane, as the limp, greasy feeling against his face, neck and scalp makes him want to claw his skin off. When he’s told how long it’s expected to take before his arms have full range of motion again, he makes a joke-that’s-not-really-a-joke about going back to his buzzcut days just to avoid dealing with the feeling.
Steve is horrified at the suggestion, and immediately offers to wash Eddie’s hair for him. He also divulges that part of the reason he styled his hair the way he did in high school was because he played a lot of sports, and couldn’t stand the feeling of sweaty hair against his neck and face. Sure, he genuinely did want his hair to look good, but styling it up so it was out of his face was an added bonus.
Eddie’s hair is driving him so crazy that he says yes, especially once he realises Steve might actually get where he’s coming from.
Cue an emotionally tense shower, where both Steve and Eddie are stripped down to their boxers because they don’t want to this fully clothed but they sure as fuck don’t want to do it naked, either. (Spoiler alert, they’d both actually love to have a naked shower together, they’re just both too nervous to bring that up at this stage!)
But then Eddie slips while in the shower, still unsteady on his feet and learning to adjust to his bad leg, so Steve makes an executive decision to switch over to the bath. After a bit of manoeuvring they find a comfortable position to do this; Eddie sitting in front of Steve in the bath, Steve’s legs stretched out either side of him. Between the physical intimacy of having your hair washed by someone else, and the way they don’t have to look at each other’s faces as they do this, they end up talking. They get a lot more personal than they were able to in hospital or during Spring Break, and it’s such a nice experience that they’ll each happily put up with the sensory hell of waterlogged boxers.
Eventually - after Eddie and Wayne have moved into their new place, but Eddie and Steve are over at each other’s houses often enough that they might as well still be living together - Eddie can move his arms enough to wash his hair on his own. He’s gotten more used to his bad leg and can stand long enough to even shower if he wants to. They go about three weeks with Eddie washing his own hair, both of them desperately missing this little routine they’d built but not wanting to admit it. One day, however, Eddie feels so lonely and so tired from physical therapy that day that he asks Steve to wash his hair for him. Steve accepts in a heartbeat, almost before Eddie’s even had time to say the words.
It feels different that time. The energy between them is charged, everything feeling more intimate somehow. It’s so palpable a difference that after Steve runs the conditioner through Eddie’s hair to let it sit for a few minutes, Eddie turns around in the bath to face Steve. He takes a breath, trying to steel his nerves, and asks: can I kiss you?
Steve doesn’t answer him; he thinks the way he leans in and slots his lips in between Eddie’s is answer enough.
#steddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#stranger things#steddie ficlet#domestic steddie#charlie writes things#they are AuDHD4AuDHD in this!!!! they’ve both got sensory issues!!!!!#inspired by my own sensory struggles with unwashed hair#also in this universe eddie absolutely is disabled post-vecna and steve has hearing/vision issues due to head trauma#those things just don’t really come up#might make this into a proper fic if I have time/motivation
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Eddie Munson
Steve Harrington
Rafe Cameron
⤬ reblogs, comments & likes are appreciated ⤬
Multi-Fandom imagines / videos 💭 📺
Eddie watching his gf stim
Eddie said sit on it
Obx daddy issues
I watch Scream for the plot
Subby lil Eddie
Joe🤝Joe
Eddie and Steve? Nah, Ghost and Konig
Eddie in a ski mask
Cute stupid head Ed
I can take them both (not in a fight)
Steve’s predator stare
If Billy was in Queen of the Damned
We all wanna sit on Keerys lap
Daddy Steve vibes
Head? Head.
Hybrid puppy Ralph vibes
Joes an ass man
Billy loves Steve’s eye contact
Joe calls Dacre mommy
Cocky Keery
Let Quinn take you to a bad place too
Arthur can’t take the pressure
Arthur deserves a good ride
Sweaty Ed
Joseph’s BBC
Eddie and corrupted princess vibes
Eddie soundgasm
Rockstar Eddie’s f*ck song
Looks can be deceiving Mr. Keery
Oh yes Rio
Steve Harrington? No, Steve Gallagher
Dacres fine like wine
Twitter links
Put a knife in me Rory
Rafe can handle it
Mommy Nancy
Damon’s words get you wet
Big boy Hopper
Big boy Billy
Riding Steve’s thick limbs
Eddie whoppin yo ass
Eddie say please?
Steddie voices
Do it in the shower Billy
Spencer is a womanizer
Dacre can’t stop lookin at you
Eddie’s warning stare
You crawling to Eddie
Eddie being too calm during punishment
Steve grabbing Eddie’s ass
Eddie’s jeans..
Which Joe can you see
I need Billy and Eddie to wreck me
Joe reacting to a dirty text
Eddie loses V-card
Your beautiful goofball Ed
#multi fandom masterlist#stranger things masterlist#obx masterlist#eddie munson#steve harrington#joe keery#joseph quinn#the vampire diaries#steddie#robin buckley#argyle#billy hargrove#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson smut#eddie munson x plus size reader#ralph penbury#dickensian#virgin reader#gn reader#sick!reader#autistic!reader#drew starkey#jj maybank#matthew gray gubler#spencer reid#lgbtqia#stranger things fanfiction#ems mlist#black reader#disabled!reader
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Ok so I’ve talked a lot about hoh steve harrington but what about Eddie Munson with a cane. Like after everything he still needs help walking and the cane has been doing that perfectly. (Later on when Ozzy starts walking around with a Cane he feels even cooler) he’ll walk around with a ugly as cane for a while, until the group gets him a better one. And when he has it? Everyone regrets it because he’s constantly swinging it around trying to look cool (he does) and he’s started to jokingly smack everyone in the ass lightly when they aren’t walking fast enough for him. Just with a small “smack” and “move it old man, I’m on the move and you’re about to eat my dust, Henderson.”
But boy he doesn’t hold back for anyone. When Max is home and in a wheel chair, he’ll take any chance he gets to lightly tap her wheel and whisper excitedly. “Race you to kick Lucas’s ass.” And their both zooming to get to the poor kid. (They both think they are fast but in reality they are moving half the walking speed, but it’s doing wonders for their strengths) ((and by kick ass Max runs Lucas’s toe over or Eddie “accidently” smacks him in the shin with the cane.))
Then there’s the thing with Steve. Eddie knows if he acts it up enough he can get the guy to carry him where ever his heart desires. And boy does he love it. Steve caught onto his antics a while ago and now doesn’t even have to be asked to pick him up. Though there’s a few things that he’s started to do himself. He’s started to call Dustin and Eddie “limp and limper” when they are together. Laughing when he gets a dirty look and grins amused when they aggressively come for him. Though Eddie doesn’t need the cane forever, he starts to just have it for decoration.
And when Steve pulls his back doing something? You bet your ass Eddie is forcing him to use the cane. He finds it hot. Though he still has some difficulties raising his leg higher then a few inches but it’s more then what it had been. And because he’s been a little handicapped he starts to guilt trip Steve into taking care of himself as well. With soft comments like.
“You know harrington, if I had the chance. The opportunity to get something to prevent this I would. Like do you think glasses could make my toe see better so it stops bumping into things?”
“I get the hint Eddie I’ll go next week” is grumbled back.
And no one is more excited about steve getting hearing aids then Eddie. Who’s swinging and bouncing up and down and nearly tackling the guy to see them. They aren’t cool, but he’s sure he can make them amazing. (By amazing he steals Steve’s hearing aids for like two days just to paint little bats on them to match his cane)
Just- ahhh so many ideas
#steddie#stranger things#eddie munson#steve x eddie#steve harrington#bxb#steveharrington#steveddie#eddie stranger things#steve and eddie#hoh steve harrington#Eddie munson with a cane#they be disabled your honor#dustin’s dads#steve and dustin#dustin and eddie#eddie and max#poor Lucas will be crippled by times he’s twenty at this rate
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Maybe three weeks before the beginning of the holidays is a little early to start, but if he doesn’t do it now, it’s not getting done.
See, the Harrington’s are kind of known for the food they bring to Holiday parties, be that the Christmas celebrations with his fathers side, or Chanukah with his mother and her sisters family, but Steve’s been the only Harrington around for the past few years to do the preparation baking. His folks show up for the first day of Chanukah, stay for the week until Christmas Day, and then it’s back to work, whether or not the week is even over.
It’s lonely, lighting the shammash and menorah on his own. They used to have one for each of them, even though it was always a stressful event to get his father to light his candles at the right time, but now it’s just one lonely symbol of how far apart he’s grown from his home.
Especially now that he’s in his own place, just the tiny first floor of a run-down duplex apartment, he’s got to pick up the slack and do what his parents are too busy cruising in the Bahamas to do if he wants to be allowed into the Christmas Eve party at his aunt Shelley’s, or at tante Reyna’s party on Shabbat during Chanukah, just like every year.
Regardless, and of course this would be the case, he has to be the only one to make six different types of cookies, two pies, and sufganiyot, which he thinks taste horrible frozen anyways, but he’s got to do everything in advance if he doesn’t want to get off schedule. Not that his baking is ever going to get finished on time anyways at this rate.
He’s just not patient enough. He doesn’t take the time to make sure no pieces of egg shell fall in the dough, or to remember the difference between teaspoons and tablespoons, or to let things rest when they’re supposed to rest, or to not just beat things that are supposed to be folded, or to not just preheat the oven too high and pull the cookies sooner.
Somehow, his treats always turn out fine enough that nobody throws them out, and he hasn’t set the house on fire yet, so he doesn’t see a reason to change. Except for the fact that, as he had attempted to convince himself so many times to beat this apathy he’d developed for it, if they’re good when he messes them up, they’d be perfect when he actually tried.
That isn’t the point though, the point is that currently, in his little kitchen barely big enough for more than one person, there’s a mess that would have been enough to make the housekeeper, when he still had one living back at his parents house, quit on the spot.
His stove top is covered in a pile of old bent up baking sheets he’d stolen from his mom, the marble counters covered with rows of cooling cookies. There’s a card table against the wall with a mixer full of dough and even more baking sheets lined with still raw cookies, while the sink is full to the top in both sides with dirty pans, mixing bowls and beaters. Thanks to all this mess, the entire front of his torso, protected by an apron with silver snowflakes and golden coins printed on dark blue material that his grandma gave him years and years ago, is covered in powdered sugar from an unfortunate incident with the mixing bowl.
Steve’s a little.. disheveled, to say the least.
Before, he never could say he was very organized, but lately, he’s been struggling with some other things that make it all worse. It’s like, there’s a constant swarming fog in his brain, that only sometimes gets clearer, or more cloudy, depending on the day. Today is a cloudy day.
It’s while he’s trying to sweep up a baking soda accident off the floor, watching the little kitchen timer to make sure it doesn't ring while he isn’t paying attention, that he’s pulled, rather abruptly, from his mangled up, tangled up whirlwind of thought.
Someone bangs on the front door, from the sound of it, with their whole fist, and quite urgently too. He drops his broom and it knocks over a bottle of vanilla, thankfully with the cap still on, onto the floor.
But Steve is too frozen in place to pay any of that a piece of his mind.
For just a split second, he filters through other options. It could be the neighbor asking him to move his car off the street again. It could be Russians tracking him down to finish the job. It could be his dad coming home early to drop off twenty-two years of forgotten Christmas presents.
He creeps to the door, cautious about creaking floorboards as if the Christmas tree he wrapped in silver and blue tinsel isn’t bearing enough white light to reveal in its glow that he's home, or that the radio isn’t blaring old holiday songs he’s heard a thousand times loud enough to be heard from the door.
Maybe he should shut that off. He flips a switch to cut the power to the radio, just in time to hear the doorbell ringing now, its chime cut short by itself as it starts over, again and again. Whoever is out there is smashing the button in.
Steve’s tension-wrought shoulders sag with relief, without even having to peek through the window, he knows who it is now. That annoying energy, the roughness and the impatience.
Yeah. It’s Billy.
The same that, after spending far too long in the hospital, had moved in just a few months ago in place of Robin, who herself had left behind being Steve’s roommate for a better break living with her girlfriend a street over. Billy, who uses a custom wheelchair to get around now, while breathing in artificial oxygen stored in a tank underneath his chair, and taking a thousand pills a day to keep the holes in his lungs from opening again.
That damn Billy, who Steve loves dearly and with all of his too-big-for-his-own/good heart, though that part is just for him to know.
Steve, confident that he’s not in danger now, opens the door and steps aside, holding it wide open so Billy has room to get his chair and himself in. It’s a tight squeeze, but after many times skinning his knuckles off the door frame, he has it down and practiced to get into the living space. There’s a path just for him, crafted by shifting all of the furniture into tight spots to give him plenty of space to move freely.
Steve locks up behind him, “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I live here too, you know. Not my fault I need a hand with the door.” Billy snickers at himself, takes humor in playing up the whole, ‘almost died and did become paralyzed from the chest down by saving Steve and everyone else’s lives’ thing.
He stops moving forward and Steve bumps into the back of his chair, his reaction times to sudden changes much slower now. They both mumble a sorry, before Billy explains, through a sort of snide comment anyways, what made him stop so suddenly, “Woah. And it was my kitchen too, if you could even call it that anymore.”
Oh yeah. It’s still a pretty big disaster in there, visible even just a few rolling steps into the adjoining living room. Steve forgot already. Blame that on the brain-fog.
“Well if it bothers you that much, you could help me.” Steve tried to play Billy’s game, but he immediately regrets it. Somehow demanding your wheel-chair bound, barely held together by always-never healing pins and stitches best friend help out with chores crosses the line into plain asshole territory, “I-If you’re alright to, I mean-“
Billy shakes his head, playing it off as no sweat. He likes to do that, make Steve feel like he’s doing everything right, so they can keep the peace after their first month living together was spent viciously arguing over their admittedly shrinking differences. So Billy bucks up now, and volunteers himself to Steve’s original request, even if it hadn’t been serious, “What do you want me to do?”
Steve himself had learned through many tears and screaming matches never to tell Billy he can’t do something. He gives him a manageable task to start with instead, while he tries to figure all this out in his head, “Wash your hands.”
“I literally just got back from the hospital.” Billy argues, clearly sarcastically, because he’s already taking himself over to the sink, waiting for Steve to reach the faucets for him. They really need a more accessible place, but they’re already damn lucky that this is the only apartment for miles that doesn’t have steps up to the porch. Fuck Indiana and it’s never updated infrastructure or building regulations.
For now, Steve will have to do just fine to turn the water on and put two pumps of soap on Billy’s hands for him. They know how to make it work.
Even if they still act snarky, like Steve isn’t carefully adjusting the water temperature to be comfortable for Billy as he speaks, “That’s worse then. Wash them twice.”
Instead of waiting for a hand towel though, Billy just flicks the warm water off of his hands onto Steve, who’s so thoroughly covered in baking ingredients even while wearing his special Chanukah apron, or he might’ve complained otherwise.
He doesn’t have time to though, before Billy is demanding, “Now what, Stevie?”
Immediately after he asks, and before Steve even needs to, Billy folds his hands in his lap, the agreed upon silent signal for, ‘Hey, you have full permission to push my wheelchair.’ Steve touches the handles and waits once more for Billy to nod, the second clarification before he moves Billy’s chair over to one of the card tables he had set out, at chest level so Billy can reach his work.
Leaving room behind his chair as he flutters around the kitchen, always a mass of nervous energy, Steve rearranged little pieces of his earlier baking disaster until he has a bowl of dough, an empty, but lined cookie sheet, and a set of measuring spoons laid out in front of Billy, to demonstrate the answer to his question.
“I need you to make tablespoons of this dough, and put them onto this- baking sheet.”
Billy reaches to start doing his part, but Steve interrupts him again, “Not before you get in uniform, though.”
He produces a second apron, this one Christmas themed, as it’s patterned with little felt gingerbread men and gumdrop beads. Usually, it gets left in storage, since it’s not really the one that suits Steve, but for this, for Billy, of course he’ll make an exception.
With a hand on each of the aprons' shoulders adorned with jingle bells, Steve holds it up in front of Billy’s work space.
Billy turns his head, deadpan, despite a glint of humor in his eyes, “The hell am I supposed to do with that?”
“Put your arms up so I can put it on you.” Steve directs simply, when met with Billy’s stubborn defiance, putting one of his hands on his hip instead of holding out the stiff fabric, “Please? It’ll save us time when we clean up later.”
Billy laughs like the suggestion is funny somehow, and honestly, yeah. It is. But that’s not the point. He’s trying to share the festivity with his friend who spent last year sleeping through Christmas, barely remembering a thing about himself, let alone the holidays.
Steve tries to make a convincing pleasing face, but again he’s met with a traditional stubborn Billy response, “I’m not wearing your grandmother's dish rag, Stevie.”
It’s with light humor, or at least, Steves pretty sure it is since Billy called him by his nickname, so he argues back, “C’mon. My kitchen, my rules.”
“Not yours. I still pay for half of it too.” Billy reminds him, apparently very insistent about his stake in the apartment, but his body language doesn’t add up to his words. He puts his arms on the braces and pulls himself away from his wheelchair back support as far forward as he can, so Steve can reach to tie a bow on the apron around his back.
He fumbles as he wraps it around, just because his hands aren’t as accurate as they used to be before he hit his head another dozen times and got drugged with whatever, but eventually he gets it tied securely behind Billy’s back.
Then, and only then, he realizes it’s tied over top of Billy’s oxygen tube. Not very convenient if they want him to have any mobility at all.
Steve mutters an apology and starts over, carefully placing the apron against Billy’s chest while he moves the thin tube out of the way, realizing that he’s closer to the other than is maybe necessary when he looks up to do the second tie around Billy’s neck, and his nose almost bumps Billy’s.
While he’s there, to avoid doing something he regrets,
“You should let me put your hair up too.”
Billy pushes away suddenly, swiping his hair, grown out long since he’s been out of the hospital, over his shoulder so Steve can’t touch it, “No way! M’not your dress up doll.”
Even Billy, in all his defensive glory, is smiling about it. Maybe they have to do everything in this roundabout way, but at least they can have fun with it now, instead of the painful tension that used to settle over them. That’s gotta mean more than just the holiday spirit.
Steve laughs, “Would you rather wear a hairnet?
Not even giving a second to really consider it, too proud of his hair and all the growing he’s done, literally and metaphorically, Billy shuts down that idea faster, “No fuckin’ way! Go ahead and do your shit, Harrington!”
Using just a movement of his neck, he flicks his hair back over to the middle. The long, ringlet-like curls from the new care routine he’s gotten into, hang down to his mid back. It’s going to take a minute for Steve to get it put up nicely, so they’ve learned from many failed attempts at doing ponytails and buns and what have you. Steve’s most successful is a braid, so that’s what he goes with.
He’s delicate with Billy’s hair, as he sections it into three slightly tangled sections of gold. It’s probably been a few too many days since Billy detangled his mane. Steve wishes he’d tell him when he needed a hand, but that’s why he’s doing this right now instead of letting Billy try to do it on his own later when he’s exhausted and sore.
His silent acceptance is all the confirmation Steve needs to keep going, because Billy wouldn’t let him hear the end of it otherwise.
So they have a moment of peace, while Steve carefully uses his fingers to pull apart knots, or brushes them against the soft hairs at the base Billy’s neck gently as a tender apology for pulling too hard. Billy sniffs his nose while Steve goes slow braiding each piece over the other, one at a time, his tell-all sign that he’s starting to doze off in his wheelchair just from Steve playing with his hair a little.
So he’s pushing himself too hard again. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to help with these cookies though. And that’s what’s so worrying.
Steve wishes he had the spine to tell Billy not to do that. Not to worry. He’ll take care of him just fine.
To tell Billy that he loves him.
Reaching the end of functional pieces of hair, the length of Billy’s hair choppy and uneven enough that the braid only holds just over half of his hair, the rest trapped in a horses tail at the bottom, Steve ties it off with a hair tie he keeps in his apron pocket just for this.
This happens a lot, needing to get Billy’s mane of hair out of the way while he tries to participate. It gives him time at the start to prepare and assert his promise to himself to complete whatever task is laid out in front of him, while it gives Steve time to try to subliminally talk him out of it.
Maybe they need to use their words more often. Only then, would Steve have the guts to say just how much he wants to tuck the curly pieces of hair at Billy’s temples, the ones that always fly away and don’t stay tied back, away behind his ears, and just hold his face for a while. How much he wants to kiss him, after they sit and look into each other’s eyes, and feel that warm feeling that isn’t coming from the oven.
Oh shit, the oven-
Steve, more suddenly than he’d ever want to, breaks his connection with Billy. Right now, he’s grabbing one of the oven mitts that hang from the cabinets on little magnets, and setting to taking the cookies out of the oven, which at first only produces a cloud of white smoke.
Steve burnt the damn cookies. He completely forgot he’d just put a batch in before Billy got home.
It’s a moment of chaos with Steve swatting at smoke with the tray of blackened cookies balanced on the other hand until it’s too hot, and he drops it down too hard on the counter. Cookies burnt into stones scatter between piles of ingredients and a few onto the floor. Billy’s laughing so hard at the slapstick scene he breaks into a coughing fit, while Steve scampers to collect the fallen remains of his treats, falling on his ass when he gets dizzy from looking up too quickly to check on Billy’s deep, rattling cough.
It’s another disaster, to say the least.
Once Billy catches his breath again with the help of switching out his cannulae for a concentrated mask for a few minutes, and Steve has most of the smoke from the disaster cookies, which are now in the trash, funneled outside through the barely open window to avoid too much cold getting in, Billy reignites the conversation, “So what are those anyways?”
Steve stares blankly for a second. He realizes Billy’s referring to the cookies only once he actually points at the burnt pan in the sink.
“Oh. They were snickerdoodles.. I think.” His doubt isn’t a quip. He can’t really remember. Billy smiles patiently while he tries to bring the knowledge back, but it doesn’t come to him yet. Too many other distracting things in his head.
Moving on, Steve wipes his hands on his apron roughly, though nothing was even on them, and comes back to the prep station where Billy is still awaiting instruction, “This should yield like, two dozen or so more, and then we have to start the kichel.”
Steve demonstrates, using two spoons to scoop out just the right portion, so Billy, with the plastic ones instead of metal, copies him, and they both plop little balls of dough onto the cookie sheet, industrial sized because this one was taken from Steve’s parents, and could hold a whole dozen to bake at once.
It’s exactly what Steve described, but Billy still looks at the slowly filling tray in front of them with doubt, “Damn. How many cookies d’you think we’ll need?”
“Enough for the Christmas party where literally every last one of my dad’s relatives will be- And which you are going to by the way.” Steve reminds him, expecting Billy to argue and call his multi-faith celebrations lame or something.
But they’re thankfully beyond that now; way, way beyond it. Billy knows the limits of his teasing. He’d only like to point out, “Sure, whatever. M’pretty sure we won’t have enough room in the freezer for these though.”
Now it’s Steve’s turn to laugh, because he’s right, and they’re going to have to deal with finding places to pack away all these treats later. That’s exactly it though. A later problem.
“Quit your complaining and just roll me some more cookies.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Billy rolls his eyes, and keeps tossing sticky dough between two spoons, just going at his own pace.
They work as a team to get through a few more batches, and when Billy gets too exhausted to keep going, Steve lets him be the taste tester for his jam fillings instead.
It’s getting pretty late by the time they’re finishing up. They locked the windows after the sun went down, for Steve’s own peace of mind, and it’s been at least a few hours since then. Lately, that’s become the norm. When Steve’s been with Billy, he’s been losing track of the time. Just enjoying what they have together now that they’re a part of one another’s adapted rhythm.
The kitchen is mostly dark except for the soft glow of the tree from the next room, and the light inside of the oven. Billy looks like he’s about to doze off in his chair while watching Steve pull the very last tray of cookies from the oven and start the clean up. Right now, that’s just getting all the dozens and dozens of piles of cookies on his counter into plastic containers and small baggies to freeze. They’ll deal with all the dishes and powdered sugar messes tomorrow.
Right now, once everything they need done is put away, Steve takes the reins of Billy’s chair, after another moment of silent communication about if that’s okay, and brings them both into the equally dimly-lit, but just as warm and fuzzy and safe living room. In just a few weeks, the room will glow brighter with the light from his menorah, and maybe one for Billy too, depending. He still has the abandoned extras of his other family members. Maybe this will be they’re thing.
Billy interrupts his spiraling daydreams, “Hey. Thanks for including me.”
“You do pay for half.” Steve answers light-heartedly, remembering their earlier banter. He suspects that’s what this is too.
But Billy’s expression stays serious, and while he’s smiling, this one is gentle, a lot different from the shark-toothed snicker he wears when he’s playful.
“No, I mean like, making me feel normal.”
Steve, knowing the sting of being othered, called an idiot and a dim bulb and a thousand other things by his used to be friends since his brain started working a little different, rushes to assure him, “You ar-“
But Billy isn’t interested in listening.
“Don’t. It’s not normal to be like this.” Billy’s eyebrows knit together, deep in thought about something, and he starts again, choosing his words more carefully. It reminds Steve of the frustration of trying to explain his own experience to Billy, when he accidentally forgot to refill his medicine. The balance of guilt and pain, and self-acceptance and daring, “Hell, maybe it is, but it’s not my normal. I’m still not used to it anyway.”
Steve tries to help Billy, since he thinks he relates, “Tell me what I need to do to make it feel normal again.”
And, well, an interfaith, autistic guy with short term memory problems and a whole array of physiological stuff going on, maybe isn’t the one who should be offering up anything about lessons in normal, but he’d still like to be there for Billy.
“Ain’t your damn problem.” Yeah, even the Billy who shut him down almost instantly, out of the same fear that Steve understands far too well.
“Sure it is. I told you when I asked you to move in that I’d do anything I could. So.. you could at least stop asking your step-mom to take you to appointments..” Steve even gives examples, because he wants Billy to know how much he means it.
Maybe this is about how in love he is with Billy.
If only Billy understood that, instead of making excuses against Steve’s offer, “You were busy. It’s fine.”
“I could restructure though.” Steve’s upping the deal, choosing every word like a promise right from the heart, “You can be a part of my busy.”
Billy stares at him, processing, but then his expression crumbles like one of Steve’s burnt cookies. He hangs his head, “Damn it, Steve.”
Instant panic. Steve is back to searching his brain for whatever he said last, worried his stupid broken brain let something bad slip- “What? What’d I do?”
“I wish I could stand up and grab you by your adorable face and kiss you, right now.” Billy answers instead of explaining whatever cruel thing Steve might’ve done, and suddenly it’s all clicking into place. It wasn’t a mess up.
This is a really, really good thing.
A kiss. Steve wants that too.
He leans over the arm of the couch, and closer to Billy’s wheelchair. That’ll do a number on his neck, but he just wants- “Is it okay if I..?”
He’s never done this before. Not like this. Anxiety makes bubbles in his chest, that he has to shake his arms to work all that bad energy out. Except the movement makes him lose his balance, and he almost faceplants right into Billy’s lap. He scrambles to sit back up, but somethings still not perfect.
Billy chuckles warmly, and explains what he wants Steve to do, their role as the one with confidence switched, as it does in many situations thanks to their respective navigations of life in this new this way, “Just sit facing me. You’re tall enough. We can meet part way.”
“Okay.” Steve feels like he has to answer before he pulls away, and sits back, crossing his legs one over the other. He watches Billy reposition his wheelchair at an angle, and they’re actually face to face this time. It takes more than he's used to to get here, but so did remembering all the recipes and baking cookies.
He finds he doesn’t really mind taking the extra steps, “Like this?”
In the face of all that nervousness, Billy just looks at him all soft, like the gooey caramels before they burnt to the stove top, “It’s just a kiss Steve. We don’t have to get it right on the first try.”
“Right. So- Here goes-“ He nods, but he doesn’t lean in and kiss Billy it even move at all. He’s frozen with the distance of just a few inches apart, while he’s there, at least taking in every detail of Billy’s features.
The pale freckles on his nose, perpetually a little pink from the tubes going past, and the dryness it causes. Permanent oxygen therapy is rough on him sometimes, but it’s better than the suffering his coughing fits earlier gave just a glimpse into. Steve observes the old scar on Billy’s cheek and how it healed a dark, red-ish color. Just like Billy’s lips. Steve’s searching eyes meet Billy’s, and finally the stretching silence is broken.
“You’re still worrying.”
“Sorry, I-“ Steve automatically starts to apologize, but Billy interrupts it, with the press of his lips against Steve’s.
They’re both tense. It's painfully awkward for a first kiss. But it’s nice.
It’s like.. the cinnamon and the vanilla. Warm and sweet and subtle. It’s a craving he wants more of.
As gently as he can, he shifts places, and draws one hand up to hold the side of Billy’s face. Billy’s own hand comes up to reposition Steve’s where he won’t press down on his oxygen tube, but he doesn’t push him away. He holds him there.
Slowly, they ease into each other enough to shift, and start the kiss all over again. Still gentle, still new, but this time filled to overflowing with all the things they’re feeling along with it.
They’re going strong for a few minutes, and Steve just wants to keep pressing closer more and more, and channeling all the feelings about love too big for shaking out into this new outlet. He wants to taste all of Billy and see if he’s sweet enough to soothe his craving.
But Billy pulls away too soon. Tipping his head forward so his forehead, and his messy bangs, press against Steve’s. His breath comes out in short puffs, “Needed to breathe.”
Steve rushes to apologize again, flushed for two reasons now, “Sorry.”
He only chuckles softly, sounding almost tired in comparison to the howling laughter that filled the air just earlier. Like he’s relaxed now. Finally safe after sharing a kiss with Steve.
As if to demonstrate his gentle sweetness, Billy assures him, “It’s good. You're probably the best way to suffocate.”
Now Steve’s the one who laughs, unsure what that even means, but finding it makes his heart beat a little faster anyways, “Um.. Thank you?”
“No problem.”
It’s such a casual exchange, Steve would hate to interrupt it, but-
“Oh- I just remembered something!”
It was probably too sudden. Probably rude. Steve doesn’t even have the time to filter through every degrading comment he’d received in the past before Billy is distracting him with an inquiry into what was so important to ruin their moment. Genuine curiosity too.
“What’s up?”
“The whole house isn’t decorated yet.” Steve really had noticed out of the corner of his eye, that the tree is decorated with handmade Chanukah ornaments and, conversely, store bought candy canes, but beyond that, nothing else is ready. He won’t have time if he doesn’t do it now, even though it’s late and Billy’s getting tired, and oh!
Billy’s talking!
Steve’s panicking in his head long enough to tune back into the ending Billy’s denial, “-I just don’t do this Christmassy shit well.”
Like Steve’s doing much better with silver and blue baubles and miniature dreidels hanging on the damn Christmas tree. “I don’t either, that’s why I need your opinion. Please?”
“Alright, sure. What is it you need help with?” Well. That was easy. Billy’s got a soft spot.
Only, Steve has no idea what he needs. He just wanted to get his decorating done, and talk to Billy some more. He’s so in love with Billy, just thinking about him derails all the thoughts he has of tinsel and festive table runners and snowflake wreaths.
He forgot again.
Billy’s patience, in his round eyes and his dimple-showing smile, never falters, but Steve feels more panic, for just a second, until he finally remembers at least something.
“Oh, oh, I got it!”
There’s a sprig of mistletoe inside the candy dish out in the kitchen. He wanted to hang it up before Billy got home earlier, and he’d forgotten it when it got lost in the mess of all his baking tasks.
He’d wanted it to be for their first kiss, but, that already happened, the memory of those few seconds with his lips pressed against Billy’s making each step Steve takes, as he goes to fetch the mistletoe, bouncier, and squeaking a small noise of delight past his lips.
He’s just got to come up with an idea for it now.
A roll of tape and the small branch in hand, he goes to the small hallway, which leads to every room in the apartment, and picks the primary doorway into the living space where Billy is, holding it up,
“Is this a good place for this?”
It takes Billy a moment, after being turned to face the furniture Steve was sitting on for their kiss, to turn back round in the small space between the sofa and the coffee table. Steve understands how patient Billy is being with him and his foggy thoughts, so he honors the same temper for his love.
Billy finally observes, his half-tired smile growing across his flush-warmed face, “You do realize we’re gonna cross through there like, at least ten times a day.”
Steve just shrugs. That was kinda the point. He liked kissing Billy so much, he’d like to do it all the time. “So I’ll get some practice in.”
“You need it.” Billy snarks, only playful, which Steve can detect because Billy told him what to look out for after a misunderstanding about the other boy calling him silly. He sees the raise of Billy’s eyebrows and the curl of his lips over a suppressed smile, so he plays along too.
Taping the mistletoe up against the molding anyways, Steve juts out his lower lip in an equally as unserious pout, “Hey! Now you owe me two kisses!”
“Fine. Come redeem ‘em.” Billy doesn’t waste his energy moving himself all the way over to Steve and his two working legs; he just opens his arms, and that’s all he needs to.
Because now that he can, Steve is always going to go running for that warmth, and, just like before, he crashes their lips together in a kiss slightly less delicate than the first, but all the more reflective of the light of their mutual feelings, an even better motivation than the cheap plastic version of the iconic berry to kiss Billy.
Or to love Billy. To celebrate his holidays with Billy, and bring some light back into both of their lives.
#harringrove#my writing#ej writer#disabled! billy#autistic! steve#disabled! steve#jewish! steve#pure holiday fluff featuring interfaith traditions#like last time#shout out to my friend george for being my jewish culture consultant <3#another first kiss fic#also on ao3!
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In it For the Long Haul (And Then Some)
Rating: Teen and Up
CW: Minor Internalized Ableism
Tags: Post Canon, Post Season Four, Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hospitals, Hospitalization, Medical Conditions, Steve Harrington Has Head Trauma (Brief Mention), Amputee Steve Harrington, Amputee Eddie Munson, Disabled Steve Harrington, Disabled Eddie Munson, Whump, Implied/Referenced Depression, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve's Injuries Actually Have an Effect On Him, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names, Medical Accuracies (Surprising, I Know), Tattoos, Implied/Referenced Sex, Getting Together
Guys, oh my god, my Apple keyboard has prosthetic emojis?! That's so cool.
🦾🦿—————🦾🦿
He thought it’d be another concussion that would put him out this time. It’s practically the stamp of approval left on his body by the Upside Down. Should be bright green and sticky on his forehead and in big bold letters for everybody to read. But it isn’t a concussion. And he’s not sure what to do with himself.
Maybe they should’ve taken him to the hospital to get medical treatment after the bat bites. It wasn’t just on his back and arms and stomach. The marks were on his legs, too. Even though he had tried to kick the demobats off, they still sunk their teeth in when they had the chance, albeit briefly. Considering, too, he also walked through that hellhole without shoes on. He should’ve seen a doctor. First thing, he should’ve seen a doctor. But he didn’t. And he had the infection to show for it. Except, his body hadn’t healed the way it was supposed to. His immune system didn’t cooperate. It didn’t keep up.
The infection spread through the muscle of his left foot. And when it didn’t go away fast enough, it worked its way through his toes, shot up his ankle, and into his calf. Right below the knee.
His pinkie and ring toes went first. They—and he wishes he could spare the gruesome details—turned purple and swollen and numb. That’s when he knew things would be different. As soon as those parts were gone, he had begun to turn his face away from the window of hope. Instead, he looked out at the deep ocean waves of regret and grief, and imagined himself as a sinking ship. Filling with water. Plummeting to the bottom. Rotting.
Robin and the kids would all come around. Flood into his room. Talk to him while he was delirious from anesthesia first, then morphine next. Spoke to him when he hissed through phantom pains. Looked away when he had to be wheeled into the all too spacious hospital bathroom. “Tug the red chord if you get stuck,” he recalls a nurse saying. “Don’t put pressure on this foot, it’s still draining,” another had said. And by the time he could stay out of the wheelchair, he forgot what it was like to pee without the reminders, what it was like to go to the bathroom and be able to stand on his own.
Because of his luck, though, he lost the whole foot next. The infection had worked its way into his tibia. Didn’t fall asleep willingly after he was taken off of medication. Just sat in his cramped hospital bed, staring down at the stump of where part of him once was, and wept. Hands curled over his thighs, nails digging into his flesh, lips tight against his teeth, unblinking and weeping softly into the silence of his room. The first night without morphine and without the foot, he sat in the dark. In the black ink of his room. Choking on himself. Uncaring towards his limp and greasy hair dangling in front of his eyes. And he didn’t sleep. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t take the glare off his absent foot.
He stopped flexing the other foot, stopped running it against his left leg when he did try to sleep, stopped wanting to use it all together.
It wasn’t until the calf was removed completely, leaving him with half a leg and just his knee, did he stop talking. He just sat in the bustling white noise silence of his room. Wide eyes that were dry and red and bloodshot staring down at the thin cloth blanket draped over himself. An even thinner hospital gown stuck to his sallow skin. Stomach rumbling with hunger, but he couldn’t eat in the presence of himself. He just sat and thought of blankness, of absence, and of loss.
He’s been in the hospital nearly a month—endless surgeries and endless bouts of infections—when Eddie finally visits. Steve barely glances at him. Notices his silhouette and odd gait and the hiding of his right arm, but nothing more. Goes back to his lap with a raw emptiness, gaping and pulsing the more and more he sits in this room. Still recovering. Not even at the point of physical therapy yet. Still trying to heal his, how he views it, now useless body.
Eddie sits down in the chair to his left. Grunting with the exertion. He releases a measured, deep breath. “I heard from Robin that you were up here,” he states conversationally. “Thought I’d come up and see you now that I’m not stuck in my own room.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. Just traces his thumbs over the hem of his blanket. He thought he’d be angrier at the mention of Eddie being discharged. Filled to the brim with bitter jealousy. But all that tinges in his chest is a beastly want. An ache. The sizzle of something dwindling out.
“Haven’t had the chance to thank you, Steve,” Eddie murmurs. “I thought I’d die down there. Figured it was the best option, y’know, considering my circumstances? But then you and Dustin did the whole tourniquet thing and risked your lives and welcomed me in like a friend. So, my mind’s been changed. Hate this town and how it hates me, but I’m glad to still be here with some of the best people I’ve met,” he says sincerely. “But—I, uh—I wanted to come keep you company, as a friend. Show you something, too.”
At that, Steve raises his eyes slightly. Enough to catch on where Eddie’s knees are pressed firmly against the side of his bed. Angled oddly to stretch out and wiggle his right arm in sight of Steve’s vision. That’s when his eyes catch on the limp sleeve of the flannel he’s wearing. How it just flattens to the bed, red and black, lifeless.
The sleeve rolls up to reveal the stump of Eddie’s arm. His hand, wrist, and half of his forearm completely gone.
“We match,” Eddie says. And it should be grim. It should be a devastating statement to make. But something in Steve starts to warm. A desperation sort of growth, one that comes from the want and need to be seen. Eddie continues, “And—Look, I know it’s not ideal. It really isn’t. If anything, this is like majorly fucked up for the both of us. But…We’ll figure it out, you know? Get prosthetics. Cut up our clothes to accommodate our limbs, or well, lack of. But you aren’t alone; that’s my point.”
Hesitantly, Steve raises his head. Finally looking at Eddie in his entirety. The palm sized scar on his cheek, pink and shiny and stark against his face. The ring around his neck and the other red raw scars that creep into the collar of his t-shirt. And his hair. It’s gone. Shaved down. Replaced by a bit of fuzz and one long scar that goes from the widow’s peak of his hairline, to where it tapers at his neck. Steve doesn't remember Eddie getting injured there, but it must've been from when he fell through the portal—limp and loose.
He realizes, looking down at himself, that there are swirls of scars from the back of his own arms, deep white lines on his knuckles, the ring around his neck surely present, and that doesn’t even include the ones that ache on his back. He looks back to Eddie.
Eddie reaches out a slow hand, cupping his cheek, wiping at something. That’s when Steve realizes that he’s crying. “Hey, oh, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry, Stevie. I didn’t think that—“
“You get it?” Steve squeak-rasps. His throat throbs. It's dry and brittle and painful all the way through him; down to his stomach, into his sweaty palms, at the base of his stump. Phantom stings that make him twitch. But his voice...It's nothing like him. It's haunting to hear himself. And for a moment, he wishes he didn't speak. Eddie, however, startles and softens all at once. Eyes glistening at Steve, worried and concerned and cautious, but also enamored and welcoming and empathetic.
Nodding, Eddie says, “Yeah, sweetheart, I do. I’m still getting used to it, too.” He pushes up into Steve’s messy hair, swiping it away from his forehead. Doesn’t even grimace at how gross it surely feels on his fingers. “You don’t have to sit alone about this. ‘Cause I’m right here with you. And…” His eyes grow immeasurably softer. “…I may not have both hands, but I’ve got both arms to hold you," he breathes.
It’s easy to lean into Eddie’s hand. To close his eyes and let himself feel this. Sobbing quietly, muffled behind his lips. Shoulders shaking with it. He blubbers, “I hate this, Eddie. I hate this, I hate this, I—“ And cuts himself off with a loud, unashamed, explosive sob.
“I know, sweetheart,” Eddie is saying as he wraps himself around Steve. Tucks himself in close, to where Steve is able to set his head on his shoulder. He sits on the edge of the bed so that he doesn’t overcrowd. And just holds on tight. “You feel how you need to feel, Steve. Get it out, it’s okay.”
Steve groans harshly in the back of his throat. Gasping in short breaths, chest rattling with the effort. He slams his forehead into Eddie’s chest, over and over. Muffling into the fabric of his shirt, “Nobody else gets it. They don’t understand. They don’t…All of them.” Eddie doesn’t speak. Afraid that Steve will stop if he does. “They think I’ll just bounce back, but everything is different now, Eds,” he cries, “Everything.”
And he finds that he does mean that. He knows he's too quiet. Knows he's behaving too serious for his bones. Too mature for his lungs. He's hollow to his core, and bleeding between his teeth. There's something deeply fractured in him now, even if he were to ever show a sliver of who he was before.
He allows himself to cry for a few minutes more before slumping with exhaustion, but he doesn’t close his eyes. Doesn’t let sleep pull him under. Just shakes and shivers and twitches in Eddie’s warm hold. Until, Eddie pulls back. Arms set firmly on Steve’s shoulders. Eyes wandering his face, his hair. “You look so tired, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “When’s the last time you’ve slept?” Steve shrugs in lieu of a response. Eddie's eyebrows twitch down, a frown wanting to form, but he worms it away. Offering with a well-crafted small smile, “How about you sleep and I keep watch for you?”
He shakes his head. “They’ll take more of me if I close my eyes. They keep doing it,” Steve mutters. His voice is weak and slightly petulant.
“What do you mean, Stevie?” And Eddie's face drops again. Frowning through the floor.
“They come in here and tell me the infection spread. Tell me about how it goes bone deep. Or how my limbs are turning purple. Or how something doesn’t look good,” Steve rambles on, “Then, they have to take me back for surgery. And I have to let them because I get it, I do, because my body isn’t healing right. And it's not something I'll just make up for at home, so I let them. I let them and then...I wake back up and more of my leg is gone. I can’t let them take more from me. I can’t lose more of myself. I can’t, Eddie, I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—“
Softly, Eddie shushes him. Rubbing his remaining hand up and down Steve’s arm in long stripes, carefully avoiding his still agitated scars. “Shhh, baby, you’re okay. It’s scary, I know. But they said that you’re doing better. Treatment is working, Steve. You won’t lose anything else, okay?” His eyes are wide and imploring. Deep brown, enriching, swallowing Steve whole. “You won’t. This is it. They just need you to rest. I’ll be right here while you do so; I won’t let them do anything to you that you wouldn’t want. But you need sleep. You’re wasting away on me.” His hands push firmer on Steve's shoulders. Imploring again, searching and hoping for Steve to understand. He reiterates, “You’re wasting away.”
“I’m not,” Steve weakly argues.
“You are,” Eddie whispers, “You look like you haven’t slept in days, Stevie. And the doctors already told me how you’ve been refusing to eat. That’s not good. You gotta rest and get healthy, to a place they need you to be, so that you can go home.” Steve doesn't like that idea. Back to his big, almost always empty house. Eddie must read that, somewhere, on his face. He gently splays his hand over Steve’s chest, shoving at it with light force. Promising low, "Home can be with Robin or Nancy or me, Stevie. But you have to get better first. You have to. Just lay down and talk to me, sweetheart."
Hesitantly, Steve lays down with Eddie’s push. Head lolled on the pillow so that his face is pointed towards where Eddie sits. He stretches out his hand and weakly grips to Eddie’s fingers. “I’m scared,” he finally confesses. The words falling heavy from the tip of his tongue.
And though Eddie knows, Steve can see it in his eyes, he asks anyway, “What’s got you spooked?”
Steve blinks groggily. Wrung out from the tears. From the sobbing. The speaking. From existing the way he has been. “Of not being myself,” he answers, muttering. “I can’t drive now. I can’t work out the way I used to. Can’t even stand to use the bathroom. I’m not losing more of my limbs, but it’s like I’m gone.”
Eddie’s thumb pushes firmly into the back of Steve’s hand. And he looks straight on at Steve’s tired, tired, tired eyes. “I ain’t letting you go,” he swears. “We’ll find what works. We’ll find you again, I promise. Especially now that we have all the time in the world.”
“It’s going to take so long, though. You don’t want to be stuck with me during that.”
Simply, Eddie shrugs. “So, what? I’ll be figuring out myself again, too. And from what I’ve heard, you’re the kind of guy to take no shit. If anything, you’re going to be the one stuck with me.” His voice grows lower and lower as Steve’s eyes dip to a near close. “Go ahead and sleep, Steve. It’s okay.”
With a long, grieving sigh, Steve closes his eyes completely. Mumbles, “You’re a good guy, Eddie.” Voice slow and sticky. “I’m glad you’re my friend.”
As Steve’s grumbling snores fill the room, Eddie stands to lightly open the curtains. Soft sunlight pooling through the room. It makes Steve glow in yellows, his hair shiny and his skin glistening. He’s worse for wear, that much is evident to Eddie. But he can work with that. He’ll accommodate all that Steve is willing to give. And he’ll keep an eye and an ear out, too. Even if that’s all he’s allowed to offer.
He sits back in his original chair. Stretching himself so that he can lean over Steve's bed. And swipes the stray hair away from his eyes. “I’m glad you’re my friend, too, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs into the white noise of the room. He stays until visiting hours are over.
And comes back every day until Steve gets to go home.
———
Their prosthetics don’t match perfectly to their skin (the prosthetic’s skin being a shade darker than what they’d usually have), but they make do with them. And they find a way to joke about it. To mingle with the still raw ache of what they’ve lost.
Steve ends up painting the nails of Eddie’s prosthetic hand to match his real fingernails, black and shiny. Eddie aids with changing out Steve’s sneakers so that they match his polos and sweaters. And they find it especially funny, when they get together and hook up for the first time, to be laying in a pile of limbs quite literally on Eddie’s bed—but to look off at his side table, their arm and leg are cradling each other. Just as they do. Holding one another on the worst days, through the phantom pains and the afternoons where they sob. It comes easily, being with one another.
It takes time, like all things do. Like watching paint dry on some days. Or waiting for water to boil on others. Prone to lash out, sure. Prone to stay stock still in bed with far away eyes. But they’re in it. They live it. And as time pushes, days grow to be normal. To be expected.
“We should draw tattoos on our limbs,” Eddie suggests one day.
“I can’t draw, Eds. But what do you have in mind?”
In it for the long haul, with a drawing of a hand, is put on Steve’s prosthetic calf.
And then some, with a leg wearing a Nike sneaker, goes on Eddie’s wrist.
“Can’t believe my first tattoo literally cost an arm and a leg,” Steve mutters later, admiring the work Eddie’s done. And all they can do afterwards is laugh until their stomachs hurt, air is impossible to catch, and their cheeks are wet with tears.
🦾🦿—————🦾🦿
When my mom was alive and, obviously, still used her prosthetic leg, she'd threaten to beat up my bullies by taking her leg off and whacking them with it. Also, her leg had a piece of see-through plastic on it where she could have something customized in it, it said "Kicking ass and taking names."
#stranger things#steddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#disabled steve harrington#disabled eddie munson#amputee steve harrington#amputee eddie munson
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Eddie posting to Tiktok: Unfortunately I have to announce that I’m getting divorced.
Eddie: I know. I know. I am just as shocked and as sad as you are by this news but it has to be done.
Eddie: Today, Steve got back from visiting Erica in DC and I found out that he did something that I cannot forgive.
Eddie: He changed the background on his Lock Screen from this picture of us *makes background of the video the picture of Steve and Eddie at Max and Lucas’ wedding that has been his Lock Screen off and on for years* to this
Eddie: *holds up Steve’s phone so you can see the Lock Screen. It’s a picture of Steve, Erica, and the president of the United States*
Eddie: The betrayal. Honestly, I don’t know how I’m going to process this. We may need counseling. What do you have to say for yourself?
Steve: *has the look of a man who has been listening to this for way too long*
#Steve went as Erica’s date to some White House function because Tina was busy running a her company and Steve’s a disabled teacher with a#service animal. that’s just good optics. which Eddie points out#Eddie: She used you for your disability and job#Steve: Not true. She used me for my good looks too#eddie munson tiktok saga#steve harrington#eddie munson
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Maybe instead of getting better after Starcourt, instead of healing and mending that which has been broken, Billy just gets worse.
There’s no more playful grins behind cigarettes or keg stands held in good fun. No more speeding down empty backroads or engines revving in parking lots. He gets quiet, and that’s the scary part.
Because as soon as someone presses him to talk, he gets mean.
He outright says no when he’s asked to keep an eye on Max, because there are no repercussions anymore — his wounds from the “fire” haven’t healed just yet, and if he shows up in the hospital with new bruises over freshly cracked ribs, the doctors will suspect something.
So the most he gets is a glare from Neil and a stern do it or else.
And Billy, a believer of malicious compliance, picks himself up a walkie-talkie. Does whatever the fuck he wants while the thing sits on his dresser.
If any voices come through, he shuts it off, or at the very least tunes it to a channel that only he and Max use.
She knows better than to use it.
Things between them aren’t any less tense than before, but it’s different now. Now he knows.
So the playing field is even.
He doesn’t meddle in Max’s business, who she hangs around, and Max doesn’t burden him with asking for rides and things alike. Not that he could really do much with his car sitting in the junkyard — Harrington has taken over the task of chauffeur anyway.
Harrington, who apparently also picked himself up a walkie-talkie.
And who somehow managed to learn about Billy and Max’s private channel.
“Hargrove? You there?”
The voice is staticky over the radio, but not out of range. After the brief moment of shock passes, Billy rolls his eyes at the thought of Harrington parked down the block, sitting behind the wheel of his Beamer listening intently for a response.
Rather than reach over to his nightstand, Billy rolls over to face the wall.
His sheets have become more of a nest as of late. Gathered around him in piles because he prefers the chill on his skin to sweating beneath scratchy blankets.
He hasn’t changed the bedding in weeks. Hasn’t opened the blinds or really even left his room at all this summer — the pool has likely already filled his position. Not that he’d be going back any sooner than a year or two from now.
If he ever feels comfortable taking his shirt off again.
“Billy? Look, I know you’re there, man. Max said that this was the channel to reach you on, and—“
Billy snatches the walkie-talkie and holds the button down.
“Go fuck yourself. Over.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then static pours through. Likely the air conditioning in Harrington’s car.
“Touchy,” he tuts. Exhales a heavy sigh and blows a raspberry. “Don’t always have to be such a dick, y’know.”
“Being a dick isn’t something all of us have to try at, rich boy, so put your shit in gear and get off my block.”
There’s another brief pause.
“How’d you know I was in your neighborhood?”
“Walkies don’t work out-of-range, fuckhead.”
“Damn, okay,” Harrington huffs. “Sue me for wondering how you were doing.”
Wondering how I’m doing?
“Wondering how I’m doing?” Billy repeats.
He stares up at the ceiling, brows pinched together.
“Yeah? Y’know, like checking up on you?”
“Why?”
For months, Billy has done nothing but rot in his bed. Too sore to move, too short-fused to bother talking about it.
Too guilty to open any of the get-well-soon cards that he’s received.
Among the poorly-addressed ones with crayon scribbles from his former swimming students, he recalls one almost equally as poorly-addressed dawning the signature Steve Harrington at the bottom.
It was the only envelope he’d bothered to open. Practically had to rip it up with his teeth because of the lack of dexterity in his fingers, though, he never worked up the nerve to dial the number scrawled at the bottom.
Harrington scoffs over the channel.
“It’s like you’ve died or something, man. It’s worrying.”
Disregarding the flush spreading across his cheeks, Billy rolls his eyes and spreads out more atop his comforter.
“If you’re so worried, why didn’t you just ask Max?”
“If she answered my questions, do you think I’d be on this channel right now?”
Billy presses his lips into a line.
He knows he hasn’t been the best brother. Quite the opposite, actually.
But it still aches to learn that Max apparently refuses to so much as talk about him. Makes his limbs sink deeper into the mattress like gravity has doubled down on him.
Makes him want to shut his walkie off and never turn it back on.
“Well, you’re a few months too late on your check-up, Harrington,” Billy rasps. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head at the sound of his own voice coming out so wet and pathetic. “Walking corpse at this point.”
A beat of silence persists. Then the static comes through again.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
“I have a therapist that already doesn’t help, thank you.”
“Well, if you change your mind…” Harrington trails off. He holds the talk button down for a long beat, absently tapping his fingers against the door panel in his car. Then, he sighs. “Is it okay if I use this channel again?”
Billy’s vision blurs and he sniffles. Thankful that it can’t be heard by anyone but himself.
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice shakes with it.
And that’s how Billy’s radio goes from being dead silent to constantly filling his room with chatter.
It helps and it hinders all at once.
Billy smiles for what feels like the first time in over a year, and laughs, even. But each time Harrington tells a little joke or giggles over the channel, Billy’s heart starts to ache more deeply.
It opens up old wounds.
He feels like Neil knows, somehow, when they’re both in the kitchen together. Accompanied by nothing but silence.
Neil asks if he can babysit for the weekend, and Billy drops the mug that was in his hand with a shaky wrist, fearing an entirely different question that doesn’t even get asked.
When Neil would normally berate him, he simply watches the way that Billy flexes his fingers. The way that he makes a weak fist, unable to straighten his fingers completely once he relaxes them, and his brows pinch in mild worry.
“Still havin’ trouble?” Neil asks.
His voice is gentle enough that Billy’s eyes well with tears as he nods. Bites his lip to keep it from wobbling.
Neil pulls him into a hug and Billy sobs into his shoulder. Not because of the pain or disability, but because he thinks he’s let a hint of love creep back into his life after all this time.
Which should be a good thing.
For once, Billy agrees to watching Max, if only because he doesn’t have the energy to snark back right now. Neil pats his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Asks if he’s sure, like it’d be no issue at all for him and Susan to cancel their weekend plans.
Billy can’t help that he huffs a laugh. Can’t help that it comes out sounding closer to a scoff.
Why be accommodating now, after a lifetime of neglect and maltreatment? He shakes his head to himself, and his expression must give his thoughts away.
Neil digs his thumb hard into his shoulder, earning a stifled whimper and another influx of tears.
Billy cleans up the broken mug and wipes the liquid away from the floor by himself, knelt on his achy knees while he’s watched like a hawk from the doorway. Like he might shove the glass under the counter if he’s left unsupervised for even a second.
Over the weekend while their folks are away, Billy takes Max out to pick up a couple of movies and get a few snacks with Susan’s car.
Since he so scarcely leaves the house, he turns a few heads when people recognize him.
None so much as Harrington, who gawks at him from behind the fucking desk at Family Video. Billy glares hard at Max when she smirks at him before disappearing to the horror section.
The brunet is a bit more rugged than Billy recalls. Has a stronger jawline and more hair. Lots more hair.
It makes Billy feel especially pathetic, draped in a t-shirt that used to fit his figure well, but now swallows him more than anything.
That heavy feeling droops his shoulders down. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks away nonchalantly when Harrington abandons his station, leaving Buckley behind the counter floundering at the register.
“Look who’s out ‘n about,” Harrington chuckles. He has no issue reaching out and setting his hands on Billy’s biceps, moving close as if to inspect him. “Have I always been this much taller than you?”
Billy flushes red and straightens his posture. Brings himself back up to eye-level, which spurs a dull pain in his spine. He must not do well in terms of hiding it, because the brunet’s brows furrow.
“Do you wanna sit down?”
Rather than respond right away, Billy huffs and waves Harrington off of him. Shoots Max another glare when he spies her watching the exchange from behind a shelf.
“All I fuckin’ do is sit,” Billy grumbles. “If I knew I was gonna get a pity parade I would’a just sent the shitbird in.”
Harrington nods to himself. Takes half a step back and smiles.
“Alright with standing, then. Got it.” He tilts his head to the side. Eyes never leaving Billy for even a second. “Your hair’s grown out a lot.”
His gaze is a fond one. Like they aren’t in public right now. Like Billy is his damn girlfriend on prom night, and he’s seeing the gown for the first time.
Billy shrugs. Absently toys with one of the curls that dangles over his collar bone.
That weird pit is back in his stomach. The one that leaves him crying in the dark when Harrington signs off after hours of chatting about everything and nothing at once.
Billy wonders where he parks his car when they talk for that long. If he’s right outside or in the deep quiet of the woods, where the stars can really be seen and the train shakes the ground.
He’d rather Steve just climb through his window.
“I like it,” Steve adds. Nudges Billy’s elbow with his own. “It’s a soft look. Fits you really well.”
“Are you this nice to all the girls that come in here, or just the ones you wanna pork?” Billy teases.
Steve laughs, and it sounds so much better in person. Billy wants nothing more than to bottle it up and keep it forever.
Before the brunet can come back with a snide little joke of his own, Max meanders up to them. Holds up a few tapes for Billy to approve. Without really looking them over, he hands her the cash, and they all move back to the register together.
Steve rings them up. Max pays. Everything is so much slower than it should be going, like he’s trying to prolong the encounter as much as he can.
Billy understands the feeling.
When Steve slides Max the receipt, he’s less smiley. Billy turns to face the door, but doesn’t miss the way that Max nabs a pen and scrawls something on the slip of paper before sliding it back towards Steve.
Billy decides not to pry. Fears that if he asks, he’ll find that it’s some secret nerd shit that he can’t be privy to.
Fears that the heavy feeling will bear down on him again.
He doesn’t have to ask, turns out. The phone rings later that night, and Billy’s blood pressure spikes when Steve’s voice pours over the line.
“You should come out more often,” he says easily. “Really need some sun.”
Billy just tsks. They wind up sitting on the line for a little under half an hour. Billy wishes it lasted longer.
But he’d rather not explain the minutes away when his father shows him the phone bill.
Just before they hang up, after giggling at each other nearly the entire time, Billy barks out, “Don’t call here again.”
Then he hangs up.
Steve, naturally, gets on the radio not a few seconds later. Giggles and says, “Okay, dick. You can call me from now on.”
They stay up for practically the rest of the night talking.
Billy stares up at the ceiling and wonders how long this little thing between them will last.
He starts to question it more when Steve actually, by some miracle, convinces him to come out a handful of times.
The brunet is really touchy. Always has an arm around Billy’s shoulders or a hand on his back, and constantly bumps their knees together when they’re sitting down. Billy feels stupid for wanting more.
Why, he doesn’t know, because he’s fairly certain that he could ask for anything at this point.
Steve never calls again and that’s okay.
Billy prefers hearing whispers over the radio anyway.
It’s one evening in particular that Max is out of the house for the night, away at the Chief’s place for a sleepover, that the pit in Billy’s stomach turns into a black hole.
Steve has been ranting about his manager for the last half hour, only stopping to mention how a movie cover reminded him of Billy. How he couldn’t even wait to get home before he turned his radio on and pressed to talk to him.
The black hole consumes Billy before he can catch the words leaving his mouth.
“Do you like me?” he hears himself ask.
His voice gets choked up, and the second he lifts his finger off of the button, he rolls over and screams into his pillow. Quiet enough that Neil and Susan won’t hear, but hard enough to let a fraction of the tension out.
“Obviously,” Steve says. “Why else would I be friends with you?”
Billy presses his face harder into the pillow.
He can feel the pressure building behind his eyes. Feel the blistering heat of fresh tears and the throb in his temples as he huffs a strangled sigh into the pillow. Before he can even decide between turning the walkie off or fabricating a response, static pours through.
“Jesus Christ, Steve, he means do you have feelings for him,” Max groans.
There’s a beat of silence.
“What? Rea—“
“What the fuck are you doing on this channel?” Billy interrupts.
He can feel the veins in his neck straining from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. Can practically see red when giggles pour through the radio.
A red hot flush of shame paints Billy’s face when he realizes that Eleven is listening in too.
“What are you still doing on this channel? If you didn’t want us to eavesdrop, you should’ve switched forever ago.”
“How long have you been listening to us talk?” There’s a beat of silence. Billy huffs. “Max. How long?”
“How long have you and Steve been talking?” Max asks.
Her rhetorical question is accompanied by giggles that are cut off when she lifts her finger from the button.
There’s nothing but silence for a moment. Then two.
Billy’s vision blurs as he sets his walkie down on his nightstand. The cold fingers of embarrassment wrap around him and drag him down, lower than he’s ever been drug before.
He’s ruined everything.
His sister not only hates him, but she knows about him now, and the only guy he’s ever let himself truly like is going to want nothing more to do with him after this.
Not for the first time since Starcourt, he wishes that monster had killed him.
“Billy?” Steve asks gently. When there’s no response, he sighs. “Look, we can figure out the channel thing some other time, but… was she right? Is that what you were trying to ask me?”
Silence. Then, giggles.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m right,” Max teases.
“Radio silence,” Steve snaps. “Now.”
His tone is stern. Brotherly in a way that should be surprising, but isn’t, really.
“Signing off…” Max says dejectedly.
Astonishingly, the channel falls silent. Billy sniffles as he reaches over to paw at his nightstand, curling his fingers weakly around the radio.
He doesn’t press the button. Tries to swallow his silent sobs in a failed attempt to compose himself first.
“Billy?” Steve coos, voice much softer now. “If you don’t wanna talk over the radio, that’s fine, but—“
“Yes,” Billy rasps.
A beat of silence.
“Yes?”
“She was right.”
Billy winces at how broken his voice sounds. A whistle pours through the radio.
“Oh, man,” Steve chuckles, and Billy’s heart sinks. “The boy of my dreams wants to know if I have feelings for him? Are you dense?”
There’s a crisp millisecond of confusion before Billy presses the button.
“What?”
“Of course I like you, dude.”
Billy inhales like he just resurfaced for air for the first time in years.
“Why?” he breathes.
“You’re funny, smart, surprisingly sweet, and pretty easy on the eyes. Just for starters.”
If his heart was thumping fast before, it’s going light-speed now. All he can do for a few beats is focus on controlling his breathing.
“You don’t like me,” he murmurs. “Trust me, Steve, I’m fucked up.”
“You aren’t the only one who’s a little fucked up.” Steve hums a laugh to himself. “And I do like you. You’re not gonna be changing my mind about it anytime soon.”
“What if I told you to go fuck yourself?”
“I’d tell you that you don’t always have to be such a dick.”
A tiny hint of a smile creeps its way onto Billy’s face when he hears Steve chuckle.
His eyes are dry. The pool of dread in his belly has begun to drain, and he feels the slightest bit hopeful.
“If you’re so sure, then I guess picking me up for dinner and a movie sometime won’t be difficult for you, will it?”
Steve sighs fondly at the notion.
“Are you asking me out?”
“Are you accepting?”
There’s a brief pause. Billy’s unable to keep from smiling giddily to himself.
“Depends,” Steve lilts. “Gonna open your window?”
There’s a light tap on the glass. Billy pushes himself up and draws the blinds, revealing a grinning brunet standing about a foot below, holding his walkie-talkie.
Billy tosses his on the bed before he opens the window and leans his elbows against the ledge.
“Is this the part where you ask me to let down my hair?” he teases.
Steve chuckles, but furrows his brows as he steps closer to the house.
“Were you crying?”
Taken aback by the question, Billy wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm. Shrugs nonchalantly, which doesn’t seem to be the answer that Steve was looking for.
“I was expecting things to go a bit differently,” Billy admits.
Steve frowns, and the expression doesn’t look right on him. He reaches up. Settles his hand on Billy’s forearm, smoothing his thumb back and forth against his skin until Billy shifts to dangle his arm out the window.
The pads of Steve’s fingers are soft where he holds Billy’s hand, clasped and suspended in the air together.
Billy really does feel like Rapunzel for a moment.
“I can be a little thick-skulled sometimes,” Steve says softly. “You’re always talking about yourself like you’re some unsalvageable disaster, so when you asked me if I liked you, my mind instantly went there. I wanted to make you sure you knew for certain that I do.”
He gives a little half smile. Billy squeezes his hand gently. Hopes that Steve doesn’t notice how weak his grip is.
“It’s not like I really gave you any context clues.”
“True. You didn’t.”
“I am a bit of a disaster, though. Feels like I’m only good at messing things up sometimes,” Billy sighs. “Max already hates me, and when I thought for a second that you might too, everything felt so lost.”
Steve makes a face.
“I would never, and I’d like to point out that Max doesn’t either.”
Billy blinks. Huffs amusedly, and as always, it comes out sounding closer to a scoff.
“Pretty sure she does. You’ve said yourself that she wouldn’t even talk when you asked about me.”
After thinking on it for a brief moment, Steve laughs.
“Yeah, man, ‘cause she bites the head off of anyone who asks about you. Definitely told me to mind my fucking business more than once.”
Again, Billy just blinks.
He never considered that maybe it was a protective thing and not a shame thing. The revelation has a surprising amount of weight lifting off of his shoulders.
“Definitely sounds like her,” he says.
They share a chuckle. Billy flattens his other forearm against the windowsill and rests his chin against it.
“Thanks for trying to lift me up earlier?” he muses. “Didn’t really work in the moment, but still.”
Steve softly swings their hands from side to side and sighs.
“I can tell. Your eyes are all puffy.”
“Should’a seen me the other night.”
The brunet cocks his head to the side in mild confusion.
“What happened the other night?” he asks. “Didn’t mention anything while we were talking.”
“It was, ah… after we signed off for the night. It’s no big deal, really. I cry after most of our talks.”
Billy looks away. Steve squeezes his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“‘S okay,” Billy rasps.
His eyes prick with tears again and Steve steps closer. Drops his walkie-talkie in the grass and reaches up with his free hand to cup Billy’s cheek.
“Oh, you’re just a big crybaby, huh?” he coos. Billy chuckles sadly and leans into his touch. “If I’d known, I would’ve snuck over here sooner.”
“My old man checks in on me sometimes, so it’s probably better that you stay in your car.”
“Well, do you have a curfew? I’d love to steal you away every now and again and kiss your cute, stuffy nose.”
Billy sniffles, and chuckles again. Wipes his eyes with his free hand and shrugs.
“Haven’t really had anywhere to go ‘till now,” he says.
Steve nods.
“You eaten yet?”
A smile cracks across Billy’s face. Steve mirrors the expression.
“You buying?”
“I’ll spend my entire paycheck on burgers and fries if it gets you outta this fuckin’ room. I swear sometimes it’s like pulling teeth.”
They share a chuckle, and Billy sits up. Flushes red when Steve presses a kiss to his knuckles.
“Gimme a sec.”
Again, Steve nods. He’s slow to release the blond when he pulls away, and Billy can’t help that he’s grinning like an idiot as he opens the door and pads out of his room.
He finds Neil and Susan in the living room watching tv. Makes up some lie about a few friends having a kickback. Even goes as far as to apologize for the short notice.
His folks share a look. Susan spreads a big smile and sets her hand on Billy’s bicep.
“No worries, sweetheart. Go ahead,” she says. “Have fun, alright?”
“Will you be coming back tonight?” Neil asks.
Billy stays quiet for a moment. Then two, just processing, and eventually shakes his head.
“It’ll probably be too late,” he says, and clears his throat. “I have somewhere else lined up, though.”
He winces at his own words, regret beading on his skin like a cold sheen of sweat.
Neil nods. Turns his attention back to the tv.
“Just stay outta trouble.”
And that’s it.
Nothing more is said, but Billy still stands there like he’s waiting for something else to happen.
When nothing does, he nods curtly and pads back down the hallway to his room, deciding not to press his luck by letting them think too hard on it. Once he has the door shut behind him, he’s immediately leaning out the window again.
Steve has his walkie back in his hands, rocking back and forth patiently on the balls of his feet while he waits. He smiles when he notices that the blond has reappeared.
“What’d they say?”
“Go get your car, I’ll be ready by the time you pull up.”
Billy leans back. Grabs the window and shuts it just as Steve nods enthusiastically. Turns on his heel and jogs off of the lawn and back towards the street.
Giddy, warm feelings pool and buzz in Billy’s stomach as he digs through his drawers for jeans that he hasn’t worn in forever. Already has a date-worthy outfit in mind as he unfolds a pair.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when static pours through the radio still sitting idly on his bed.
“Update?” Max asks.
Billy rolls his eyes. Moves to grab it when another voice comes through.
“We’re goin’ steady,” Steve informs, out of breath.
“Yes!” Max shouts.
Then, a third voice comes through.
“Finally! Jesus,” Dustin huffs.
There’s a beat of silence, followed by Steve panting when he presses the talk button.
“How many of you dickheads are on this channel?”
“Just two?” Mike says. “Technically, since we’re only using two walkie’s.”
There’s laughter over the radio, and Billy rolls his eyes. Can’t really find it in himself to be mad right now with all of the butterflies swirling in his tummy.
“You’re all banned from the front seat of my car,” Steve huffs. “And the wedding, when it happens.”
“No! I wanted to be the flower girl!” Eleven whines.
“I was gonna walk you down the aisle,” Dustin adds.
“Good luck finding another officiant, then, I guess,” Lucas says with a scoff.
More laughter is had. Max and Mike chime in with various jokes about ring-bearers and bridesmaids, but they’re cut off when Steve presses to talk again.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I highly recommend switching channels.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Max muses.
Billy can practically hear the smirk in Steve’s voice when he speaks next.
“‘Cause I’m gonna start using this one for sex stuff, and it’s gonna get real weird real fast, so be warned.”
Multiple groans and sounds of disgust pour through the radio.
“Yuck,” Max says. “Switching channels.”
“Ditto,” Dustin adds.
Then silence. True silence.
Billy grabs his walkie.
“We really gonna have phone sex over the radio?” he muses.
Steve laughs. The subtle rumble of the engine is audible from the street as his car pulls up to the curb.
“Not if you hurry up and get your ass out here already.”
The blond bites his lip. Can’t believe for the life of him how light he feels. How, for once, he feels better for having survived car wrecks and slimy monsters in the dark.
Feels like letting someone new into his life won’t cause him grief this time around.
“On my way, pretty boy.”
#harringrove#billy hargrove#steve harrington#max mayfield#billy & max#the party stranger things#disabled billy hargrove#fluff and angst#tw abuse#internalized homophobia#it’s important to me that Neil is shown being more than a two dimensional mma fighter when it comes to his relationship w Billy#so I wrote him a little differently based on my own personal experiences with abusive parents#also mainly wrote this to show that Billy deserves love and compassion even if he doesn’t start making steps towards bettering himself#because healing begins with support!!#ficlet#my writing#unedited#billy antis dni
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Something something Steve Roger's was disabled and became able-bodied, Tony Stark was able-bodied and became disabled, the processes that led to those changes were intimately connected to their becoming heroes and just as connected to their respective treatments by fandom
There's a point in here but I'm too congested to stay awake and write it out
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