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kenjakusbraincum · 4 months

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Walls

Sukuna x Reader

A small addition to Vows

Synopsis: Two scenes exploring the first times reader and Sukuna respectively break down in the face of reader's terminal illness. Tags/Warnings: sick!gn!reader, master/pet dynamics, angst, hurt/comfort. (Chronologically takes place after reader and Sukuna talk about him taking new pets in the original fic!) Word count: 1.2k Author's note: This is probably as vulnerable as I'll ever write Sukuna :3

You tried to be strong. So long, so hard you tried to be untouchable. You knew sukuna hates weaklings. But you're in so much pain. You can barely swallow anything properly with how sore your throat is from the coughing. It takes so much out of you, physically and mentally, to pretend that this harrowing illness is nothing, and that you're somehow okay with it and ready to die. You're not. You don't want to die. You don't want this life that you've built with Sukuna to end. At least not as abruptly as it seems it will happen. One day you just can't pretend anymore.

Sukuna always asks if you're doing okay. He hopes that one day he'll hear you say yes. But you don't. You mutter a quiet no, and hope the topic would quickly. Not quickly enough. Because you break down crying. It starts small, your usual, timid little crying, but as you talk through it, the weight of your illness presses down on you like a rock - and you break. Loud, helpless. Hysterical bawling, the crying that leaves you breathless, the crying that drains you of everything you have and more.

And Sukuna doesn't know what to do - usually telling you to stop would work, because you would obey his every word, no questions asked. But this is different, this isn't your usual crying about something small, something you aren't allowed to do or something mean Sukuna said. This is a honest, heart wrenching breakdown that has been impending for a while. And he can't tell you to stop - because you can't stop. All he can do is hold you tight, and remind you to breathe.

There's nothing he can do. Healing you is a double edged sword, that provides relief, but at the cost of crashing hopes when the symptoms return. They always return. How useless of him. He can't properly comfort you because he's so detached from human emotions and interactions, he can't save you from this hardship... And he can hardly make it any easier. All he can do is sit with his guilt, little weeping you curled up in his arms, and... that salty drop of liquid that just escaped from his eye to his lip. What was that? Is he?... No, it's impossible.

Of course, reader falls asleep quickly after this. Sukuna stands up to leave, but he finds himself unable to part his stare from the bloody napkins and abandoned crochet projects by your bed. Tea gone cold and plates still full of food and sweets that you didn't have the strength to consume. Clothes untouched, folded neatly in your closet - you don't change out of your sleepwear anymore. The doorknob to the terrace, the one that leads to the garden you love so much, gathering dust after days, weeks of being unopened. You used to go into the garden every day. Your descent is slow, like that of a flower, whose petals slowly dry and detach, until none are left. His favorite flower, the one he loved to admire every day, at every opportunity. The type of flower that grows, blooms once in a hundred years and more.

And Sukuna is a stone, was a stone, stoic and unshaken for the longest time. But he is not as he was before. Love spares no one. Love leaves no one unchanged. He breaks.

You're in his lap in the garden, during one of the last sunny days of autumn. He stares into the distance, lost in thought as he often is, but... his face looks different. Tense, with his brows furrowed and his lips tight. He looks worried, almost sad. You ask him what he's thinking about, and he hesitates. There's a lump in his throat, and you hear it in his voice when he finally speaks. Nothing. He should've said nothing. What a fool.

He tells you he struggles to imagine life without you. And then he looks at you, and you feel it so vividly. A punch to your gut, a knife to your heart. Oh. You know you're dying, but if you had even the slightest of doubts, it's gone now that Sukuna is opening up to you. Sukuna and vulnerability don't exactly go hand in hand.

You sit up and plant a kiss to his shoulder. You tell him what you believe to be true - that the pain is fleeting, and that one day he will be complete again, alone or with someone else in your place. He frowns at you, once more unwilling to accept that scenario. But you want that for him. You truly, wholy believe that he is worth your - and anyone else's love. That he's beautiful, he keeps you safe, provides for you, pleasures you, listens to you - what more can anyone ask for? There's a thousand humans who would die for a chance to be loved like that, who would be just as genuine and grateful as you - and he crumbles, telling you to just shut up! He turns his head in another direction, facing you with the veins popping in his neck. He should've known you would try to make it better. He should've known you wouldn't let him wallow in his misery.

You crawl closer, reaching your hand for his face and trying to pull it towards you, but he doesn't budge. He holds his breath. He really doesn't want you to see him like this. Weak, pathetic.

Sukuna. You call him by his name. So intimate, forbidden. So personal you don't think you've ever called him that outside his bed, and even then it was pried off your lips, pulled from the depths of your conscience, out of your control. Anyone else would've paid for the mistake of uttering his name with their lives. But it's nothing new that you have privileges others don't.

Sukuna. You wrap your arms around him and lean into a hug, and he accepts it, squeezing you so tight he almost leaves breathless. You kiss up his neck, his cheek - wet, and his lips, almost trembling as they touch yours. There's so much more you want to tell him - but he shushes you. Kisses you again, tells you to forget it, it will be fine. You're not sure if he's saying it to you or to himself.

You tell him you know, that's what you've been trying to say the whole time. Then you smile at him, that angelic smile of yours, and smooth your hands over his face, wiping the frown off of his face. What a magical little being you are, he thinks to himself as he savors your beauty. You always had the power to take his anger and turn it into love.

No, Sukuna doesn't think that he could ever scoop up another little human like you out of the crowd. For a moment he thinks maybe it's better that you die, simply because he fears how far he would keep falling for you if nothing stopped him. He thinks maybe he would've become a different man. A better man. But your fate is sealed, and with it, any and all hopes for a changed Sukuna. Soon you will breathe your last breath, and Sukuna will once again be a monster, unbound by anyone or anything. Free of the confines that you've passed upon him - the heaviness of a human conscience. Closer to the man he was before he met you. But never, ever the same again.

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk angst #sukuna angst #sukuna fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #this fic has authenticity points #bc it was written when i was sick with the same symptoms as original vows reader #so like if this actually sucks its bc i was genuinely sick #and if it doesnt thats bc i was in character lmaoooo #help..#vows

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finntheehumaneater · 17 days

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Southern Nights

(steddie, some depictions of blood, gore, and talk of death, just over 8k words)

chapter one: an aching feeling that you can't get rid of

“The road is longer than it is hard. With no one to guide you, and no one to hold. No best foot forward to sway the odds. Just a voice inside you, and a stone to throw.”

-Ethel Cain and Wicca Phase Springs Eternal, “God’s Country”

Steve’s thighs were going numb from sitting in the car for so long, so any kind of stop was greatly welcomed. Hell, he practically flung himself out of the stuffy car the second it was stopped, being extra careful not to slam the door in his haste.

Georgia was much hotter than Indiana. He had only been here once before, on a trip down to visit his grandma before she died, but that had only been for a day. Now he was supposed to live here. Five-Hundred-and-eighty-two miles away from his best friend, and five-hundred-and-eighty-two-miles away from the reason that this was all happening.

His parents hadn’t told him why they were moving, but he knew. They wanted to get as far away from the rumors about their son being queer as they possibly could, which meant a quick (and as he had only learned on the car ride over, permanent) trip down to his mother’s childhood home—one that he had heard her curse and slander thousands of times growing up, but one that she now had a kind of faux-eagerness to visit, trying to play into the lie they were feeding him.

There was a reason his mother had quit trying to become an actress when she was younger. She wasn’t very good at faking things, and she hadn’t gotten any better as she had aged. Her smile was tight and forced as she gingerly stepped out of the car, making a show of putting her hands on her hips as she glanced at Steve, sighing. “I missed this.”

“Sure you did,” he muttered, giving her a strained smile of his own, nothing but doubt evident in his voice. He wasn’t allowed to be rude, but he could sass them all he wanted—for the rest of time, actually, if it came to that, he was quite good at it.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been back here, you know,” she said matter-of-factly, walking past him to get to the door to the rest-stop, her heels clicking against the worn, cracked pavement.

Steve nodded, glancing back at the car where his father was still sitting, his head leaned against the back of the head-rest, eyes closed, probably reveling in the quiet that had been so scarce as of late. Steve had made sure that his Walkman’s volume was at its highest so that they could hear the music playing even when he had his headphones on. They didn’t tell him to turn it down, even though it annoyed them. They knew he was upset.

He followed after his mother, grabbing onto her arm lightly when she tripped over a crack. “I know, ma, it’s probably hard to visit here if you’re off in Paris all the time,” he said gently, patting her shoulder.

She nodded, her eyes kept down. He didn't want to be mad at her, because this was all his fathers idea and she just had to play along. This was hard for her, too, but he was still upset. She didn’t say anything to convince Richard otherwise—but it’s not like anything she said would have helped. “Let’s get inside, hm? It’s hot out here, your makeup will run.”

She stayed silent, her eyes glued to the ground in front of her feet. Steve sighed, his head ducked down near her shoulder. “Ma?”

His mother’s head snapped up, flinching when she noticed how close he was. He dropped his hand from her shoulder, stepping back. “Let’s go inside. Dad’s waiting.”

Adelina nodded and took in a shuddering breath. She was holding together a lot worse than Steve was, which wasn’t a surprise. It took her a moment, and a gentle nudge from Steve, but she kept walking, her son trailing behind her as they entered the building.

It was small, run-down with peeling wallpaper, a couple rows of shelves with half-crushed bags of chips and pretzels, a few freezers with flat sodas and warm water bottles. “Restrooms are over in the corner, I think,” Steve whispered to his mom, pointing off to a darker area of the room with a short hall and a couple of doors with worn down signs. “I’m gonna make a call, get some chips.”

Adelina nodded, a slight stumble in her step as she walked off. Steve pitied his mother, the poor thing–her whole life uprooted and moved back to a place that everyone knew she hated. Maybe seeing how miserable she was here would change his dad’s mind and he would take them someplace closer to Indiana, where he could still see Robin.

This was all Tommy’s fault. Every fucking bit of it. But Steve didn’t want to think about Tommy anymore.

He turned to face the counter. The clerk looked less than friendly, scribbling away in some notebook, her stare bored and her cheeks flushed. She was pretty, a short blonde braid down her back, a too-big flannel rolled up at her elbows. Steve ran a hand through his hair, sighing before heading over.

“Hey,” he said lightly, leaning against the front of the counter. The girl didn’t look up. He could see freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose now that he was closer. Her eyes were a gray-green. “Could I, uh–use the phone over there?” he tried again, ducking his head and motioning to the phone on the wall near the back door.

“Nope,” she said, still not looking up from what she was writing. It took everything in Steve not to look over her arm and see what was on the pages. He didn’t look.

“I need to make a call,” He tried again, moving slightly and shifting his hand more towards her arm so as to get her attention, his voice softer and more pleading. Being pathetic always worked to get him what he wanted.

“And I said no, I'm not allowed to let people use the phone unless it’s an emergency,” She said, looking up, her voice slow as if he was dumb. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

“It is an emergency, I need to call my sister,” he lied, faux-sadness seeping into his tone. “She’s little and alone, I need to make sure she’s okay before we keep driving.”

The girl didn’t bother him with too many questions, didn’t ask why his (not real) little sister was being left alone, only sighed and shook her head slightly, rolling her eyes. “Fine. Two minutes.”

Steve grinned, nodding and pushing off of the counter. Robin answered in only a few rings, her voice choked with a half-sob, “Steve–”

“Hey, hey, Jeez,” Steve whispered, his voice quiet. He didn’t want the clerk to overhear, but then again she really didn’t seem to care. “Don’t just assume it’s me, Bobbie.”

“Are you okay?” She asked breathlessly, panic in her voice. “You haven’t been answering my calls!”

“We haven’t gotten to the house, yet, babe,” He leaned more against the wall. “You’re calling an empty house.”

“Well, the phone answered the last time I called but all I heard was wet -choking sounds and I got worried.”

“Okay, Jesus, well—“ he huffed, shaking his head slightly, his fingers tugging at the hair on the back of his neck. Robin heard things all the time, but it didn’ make the eerie feeling in his gut go away. “It’s an old house, Robs, been empty for a long time. It was probably just some people fucking with you when they heard the phone ring, yeah? Relax.”

Robin didn’t sound relaxed when she spoke again, but she sounded better than before, her voice less shaky. “Thought you died or something.”

“I’m alright, babe,” he whispered, sighing.

“If you get to live in a haunted house without me I’m going to kill you,” she whispered back, her voice still a bit choked.

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s not haunted, just old. Can’t have fun with ghosts without you, don’t worry.”

“And don’t die in it, either, I don’t want to move to Georgia just to see you because you’re dead,” she threatened.

“I won’t die,” he said firmly, his eyebrows pressed together. “Promise.”

It was a strange promise to make, and one that virtually meant nothing, but Robin seemed satisfied. “Okay. But you could—“

Steve’s head snaps over to the side when he hears the click of heels, whatever Robin was saying dying away before it could reach his ears. His mother rounds the corner, the skin around her eyes blotchy and red, but she instantly straightens up and wipes her cheeks when she sees him looking, giving a shaky smile.

“I gotta go, Bobbie,” Steve interrupts whatever she was saying about EMFs. “Promise I’ll call you tonight once all of the unpacking is taken care of, okay?”

He heard Robin sigh. He knew where she was sitting, curled up in the beanbag by her room, leaning against the wall with all of her Madonna and Elvira posters–probably wrinkling them, her fingers twirled around the cord and her knees pulled to her chest. There were probably books covering her floor again, even though he had helped her clean it just a few hours before they left two days ago because she never remembered on her own.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice small and quiet–fragile.

Fuck, he missed her already.

“Hey,” he said softly, pushing off of the wall. “I love you, okay? I’ll call you tonight, go and clean the papers off of your bed.”

Robin giggled, and it sounded wet, nasally. “Love you too–and stop being right about things, that’s my job.”

“So there are papers on your floor, huh?” He prodded, grinning.

“I’m hanging up!” She shrieked, and Steve flinched away from the phone slightly.

“Okay, Bobbin, bye.”

The dial tone beeped and he sighed, running his hand through his hair to make sure it was fixed before going back over to his mom, forgetting about the snacks. They’d be at the house soon, anyways.

Adelina smiled, thin and watery and not at all happy, rubbing her hand against Steve’s shoulder briefly before placing her hands on her hips. “I’m just–so sentimental, baby, I'll be okay soon.”

“I know you will,” Steve said, nodding once before trudging off, waving goodbye to the clerk who didn’t look up from her writing.

He wasn’t prepared to be back in the summer heat, squinting through the brightness, the crunch of his shoes and the clicking off his mother’s heels on the pavement all too much. She always complained to him about how uncomfortable they were (to him, not Richard), he didn’t know why she wore them all the time, they were the only pair she had.

He opened the door to the blue BMW–his car, because his dad insisted on driving this one down through the heat instead of having a mover take it like he did with the other car–and slipped inside, reveling in the air conditioner and dreading getting out again, even if it meant he had to be locked in a car with his dad for the rest of time.

“Jesus,” His dad breathed when Adelina finally trudged her way to the passenger door, slipping inside and taking a deep breath.

“Richard,” Steve’s mother chided, the only thing she said for the rest of the ride.

Everyone was quiet–mourning the loss of something, because they all didn’t want to be there–stuck together, miserable together. Steve wished they would go back to Paris soon so that he would at least have the house to himself. Then he could sit and call Robin all day without his dad telling him to stop bothering ‘that poor girl’. He never liked Robin, always saying it was unhealthy how attached they were on the few days that he was home, that he shouldn’t be hanging out with a dyke, and that he should hang out more with the Hagan’s boy.

Now he wanted Steve to hang out with anyone but Tommy. Steve wished they had never kissed–even though it felt like more than just kissing with how touchy Tommy was, but it wasn’t like Steve had been complaining when it had happened–and that he had listened to Robin and hadn’t pathetically begged Tommy to come over because he didn’t want to be alone.

The rest of the car ride went by in a blur, green trees rolling past and the blue smudges of the ocean against the fogged up window from his breath. Careless Whisper playing through his headphones just made him miss Robin even more. It was the song that she liked to dance to with him, made him play it all the time whenever she would come over. She would have liked seeing the ocean here. It was pretty.

His new house wasn’t at the coast, but it was within walking distance–through a little swampy area, his mom had said, an always-flooded graveyard and a stream that no one went by because of all the old deer carcasses that kept showing up without warning. She hadn’t given much detail to that, but then again, no one knew what was killing them.

“Oh,” Steve’s mother breathed, her shoulders slumping slightly as soon as the house came into view. It was more ruined than Steve remembered it–old and tall, chipping stone and rusted iron railings up the steps to the front door. Some of the windows were cracked, and there were vines moss up the walls.

He wanted an excuse not to have to go in, but saying ‘this house makes me feel like I want to die’ would do nothing to deter his father. He sighed and turned off his Walkman, slipping off his headphones and stuffing them all back into his backpack.

His mother got out and sighed what Steve assumed was supposed to sound nostalgic, but sounded almost like a whimper. “Isn’t it just…”

“Falling apart?” Steve recommended, raising his eyebrows.

His dad sighed, shaking his head as he got out of the car, smoothing down the jacket of his suit. “Steven.”

“What?” He muttered, looking away from his mother’s shaking hands.

“You and your mother go and unpack what we have in the car, I need to drive up and make sure everything is all set in the office.”

“You’re leaving?” Binaca said quickly, turning. “I–can’t I go with you, the movers will be here in an hour–”

“I told you to stay here and unpack,” Richard said sternly, his expression challenging Steve and his mother. Try and argue with me again. See what happens.

Adelina straightened up, nodding, her breath catching deep in her throat as she watched her husband unpack the few bags they had from the trunk. Steve wanted to throw his father in the supposed river outback, but he picked up the bags from the patchy grass instead.

His mother stood watching the car drive away, and then for a while after, her gaze focused on something that he couldn’t make out. He knew that something happened to her in this house–there had to be a reason that she had left, and why she was this upset about coming back.

Steve left her there as he walked over to the house. The inside was more homey, less falling-apart but still worn and tattered in the corners. Everything looked well loved. There was one stair step that was more worn, lighter and scratched away over time, with a little chipped paw print painted in green on the side. Steve didn’t know what it meant. There was so much history in this house that it made him feel sick—little porcelain birds that each had a story, crosses with writing painted into the sides that he couldn’t understand, and a jacket draped over the dining room chair nearest the kitchen, collecting dust.

Steve set down the bag with his clothes on the table, going over to it. It was brown and leather, kind of faded and scratched. His fingers came away gray when he touched it. The inside was sewn with a flower print, red roses on dirty white lined cloth, no longer soft from years of wear.

“Steve, bambolotto,” Adelina said, stepping through the door and into the kitchen. Steve watched as she looked around at the faded floral wallpaper and the dark brown wooden panels. Her eyes fell onto one of the many framed photos that were cluttered on the far wall–ones of little girls in long white dresses, all black and white.

Adelina sniffed and wiped her eyes with her free hand, her husband’s bag of clothes at her feet. “Right,” She started again, sighing, watching as Steve set the jacket back over the chair, picking up his bag. “There’s a room in the attic, that’s yours, carissima.”

“The Attic?” Steve asked, frowning. They drove all this way down and he got the room in the attic?

“Yes, Steve, the attic,” His mother said, a bit more firm this time, her eyes watering. “You go and set up, I'm going to go and sit out back for a while.”

Steve nodded, huffing and going to find his dingy attic room. He glanced over at her quickly when she gasped as he set foot on the stairs.

“Don’t step on the middle one,” She said quickly, her eyes wide, and she looked so on edge that Steve didn’t question it, skipping over the worn step with the paw print and continuing up the stairs.

There was a door down the hallway at the top of the stairs, with another, steeper set behind them, flowers painted on the handrails. Steve kept his hands off so that they wouldn’t chip. He had now resigned himself to his fate, but he was going to be nice about it.

At least he might have a good view if he had to be in the—

Oh.

The attic room wasn’t tattered at all. There were photos and odds and ends on the wall, a couple skulls mounted above the window and some…hanging bones in the corner that he wasn’t going to touch in case they were cursed. The bed was small with a metal frame and a pretty pink and white flower quilt that had seen some better days.

The dresser in the corner was green and yellow with white foxes painted on the drawers. He opened it to put his clothes in and found a dead bird, dropping the bag with a gag and cringing away. “Oh, ew,” He muttered, picking it up by the foot and going over to the window. The latch was hard to undo with one hand, but he got it after a minute, shoving at the glass with his shoulder until it opened, tossing the bird out onto the grass. It fell the story down and hit the ground with a sickening thwap!, and Steve held back another gag as he backed up, leaving the slightly cracked window open to let the room air out, since most things were covered in a thin layer of dust.

“What the hell is wrong with this place,” He breathed, eyeing the hanging bones and the corner as he slowly opened the drawer again before putting his clothes away, trying to busy himself with sorting before the movers came and he could help them. They hadn’t brought a lot with them, seeing as they hadn’t really had much in their old house to begin with–it has been mostly empty since his parents had barely been there for a few days before they left for their work trips, his mother only going along to make sure Richard didn’t try and stick his dick into everything that moved–but his father insisted on hiring movers anyways to take the few boxes that would have fit in the car with them.

It didn’t take long for his clothes to be put away, since he didn’t really have many clothes already–a few polos and some jeans and a couple loose t-shirts here and there. If he had free time he could call Robin, but if he called her this close to the last call she’d expect frequent calls all the time, and his parents would probably have things around the house to keep him busy.

But on the other hand…Robin…

He called Robin.

“Did the ghosts kill you yet?” Was the first thing she asked, the cord scratching on the other end like she was spinning back and forth in her desk chair.

“How do you always know it’s me?” He muttered, sitting down on the bed, but it was a bit uncomfortable since the old phone on the wall couldn’t quite reach that far. “And no, Bobby, I am very much still alive.”

“Oh, good. Have you seen any ghosts yet? Anything weird?”

“No,” he rolled his eyes. “Ghosts aren’t real though.”

“Do you even know who you’re saying that to, Steven?”

“Don’t call me Steven,” he whispered, standing up and leaning against the wall.

“Sorry—but I love ghosts. How could you do this to me?”

“I’m not preventing you from liking ghosts, babe, you can still like them without me.”

“But we were supposed to go on ghost hunts together when we were older!” She whined, and he could hear the pout in her voice through the phone.

“We were?” He muttered, his eyebrows pressed together. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have had to, you should have just known,” She muttered back.

“But won’t it be more fun if I don’t believe it? To contradict what you say?”

There was a long pause. “Do you even know what contradict means?”

Steve frowned. “Yeah, I do.”

“That’s a big word for you, Stevie,” she teased, and he knew she was joking but his shoulders still slumped.

“I know big words,” he defended, his voice more quiet. “I’m not stupid. Please don’t start thinking I’m stupid…”

Maybe this would be better than Hawkins. Maybe his reputation this time could be better, too. Back home, everyone thought he was pretty, but also a fucking idiot. ‘Jesus it’s like he doesn’t listen unless you’re talking about sports,’ Carol was fond of muttering, rolling her eyes and making his shoulders shrink in like they always did when he got upset. He always tried his best to listen, but when she talked about her romance novels it was hard to follow along with all of the names and who had sex with who.

Things just slipped his mind, especially the important things, it seemed. He only really knew three things about Carol, even though they had been best friends for years:

She kept a hairdryer in her purse and used to let him borrow it after rounds when he was still on the swim team

She liked fancy french perfumes but they discontinued her favorite one so she only used it when she was trying to hook up with someone during the many times her and Tommy had broken up

She liked girls,too, but if Steve told anyone she would “strangle him with the hair dryer cord”

“Oh, no, Steve—“ She said quickly, her tone dropping the teasing. “You’re not stupid, I was just joking.”

“I know,” Steve said dismissively, hating that his insecurities were making Robin feel bad. “I know, I'm sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” She whispered, and Steve really wanted to touch her right now. It felt weird to be so far away from the one person who he knew actually cared about him. Sure, there were plenty of people in Hawkins who liked him, but no one he knew was missing him right now except Robin. And maybe Carol. He’d have to ask Robin to find out her new number so he could call her, since he hadn’t seen Carol since she moved to the next town over. She switched highschools and didn’t even bother to tell him she was moving.

Maybe that was why Tommy kissed him. He didn’t even know if Carol knew about the kiss, but he hoped she wouldn’t hate him for it. Sure, he had asked Tommy to come over, and he hadn’t told Tommy to stop when Tommy had slid his hand up his thigh while they were watching the movie, or when Tommy had pulled Steve into his lap and kissed down his neck, his hands up Steve’s shirt. Steve had kissed him back, but he thought that Tommy and Carol had broken up–that it was fine because Tommy didn’t have a girlfriend anymore, and because Tommy and Carol both kissed other people when they were “taking a break” all the time.

But later that night Tommy had said “my girlfriend”. Because she was never just “Carol” to him, she was “my girlfriend”. Steve told him to get the fuck out of the house after that.

And then he was here. In Georgia, in the attic, standing silently and listening to the silent line where his best friend was on the other end.

Steve?” Robin whispered, her voice hesitant and unsure.

“Hm?” he hummed back, his fingers drifting over the wood of the fox-dresser.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

“No, Bobby, I’m not mad,” He muttered, sighing and tugging at the phone cord. “Just tired, babe, that’s–”

His head snapped towards the door when he heard a wet sounding cough and a thud. His brows furrowed and his finger tightened on the phone cord. “What the fuck?”

“What?” Robin said quickly, sounding panicked. “What happened?”

“Nothing, nothing, I just–” He glanced towards the door again when the noise happened again. “I gotta go, unpacking and stuff, okay?” “Okay,” Robin said, sighing. “Call me tomorrow?”

“Will do, birdie, love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line went dead and he shoved the phone back into the holder hurriedly, running over to the stairs. “Ma?” He called, being careful not to trip down the steep steps out of the attic. He really hoped she wasn’t choking, because that’s what the noise sounded like.

“Mamma?” He tried again, leaning over the railing and trying to see into the kitchen once he got to the second set of stairs to where she had left the screen door to the back porch open. “Stai bene?”

There was no answer again.

“Shit,” He cursed, practically running down the rest of the stairs. “Mammina?”

He ran through the kitchen and pushed open the screen door. “Ma?”

His mom was curled up in a white rocking chair, her long brown hair–wavy from being in a braid all last night–falling down her shoulders. Her shoes were thrown in the grass in front of the rotting porch steps, the top one caved in. There was moss and lichen across the planks, cracks and holes, and it all creaked when Steve walked over to her, kneeling down next to the chair.

“Ma,” He whispered, placing a hesitant hand on her knee. “Are you okay?”

His mom just sighed, turning to look at him, shiny tear-streaks down her face. “Sì,” she whispered back, shifting in the chair and reaching over to push some hair out of his face. “I’m okay, baby.”

Steve sighed, nodding and standing up. The wood creaked dangerously underneath him, but it stayed still. Steve made to leave, give him mom some space to deal with her emotions in peace, but her hand slid down and circled his wrist. “Why?”

“Hm?” He looked down at her fingers, shaking and cold against his skin, even though it was so fucking hot outside.

“You were worried,” She explained, her grip softening to let him go. “Why?”

“I heard, like,” He trailed off, waving his hand absently in confusion. “Choking sounds somewhere, wanted to make sure it wasn’t you dying or something.”

“You could hear me out here?” She said, sounding a little panicked.

Steve felt confusion seep into his skin before it shed off. He took in her tears streaked face, cheeks flushed again and shaking hands. She was worried that he had heard her crying.

It wasn’t the first time he had seen his mom cry, but that had been when his grandma had died and they had to come out here for the funeral. That was a good thing to cry over, she had said to him. She kept telling him that this–being upset over moving–was stupid and that she just needed to adjust to the change and get over it. Steve didn’t think it was stupid to cry over, but he didn’t say that, just took her hand from where it was hanging limply at the side of the chair and squeezed it gently, his voice quiet. “No, no. I couldn’t hear you, mamma, I just had the window open to air out the attic and I wanted to be sure it wasn’t you. I couldn’t hear you, It’s okay.”

Adelina sighed, nodding, her thumb brushing against Steve’s palm as she relaxed back into the chair, her eyes closed.

“Mamma?” Steve whispered, tracing his hand up her arm to rest on her shoulder.

She didn’t answer. The rocking chair stilled.

Steve picked up the high heels from the grass, skipping the most rotten step and placing them at his mother’s feet. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, patting her knee lightly before going back inside, closing the screen door as quietly as he could.

He needed a shower. And a nap. And maybe for Richard to come back so that he could check out the town without worrying about his mom being alone in the house.

He went back up the stairs, turning to the bathroom which was just next to the door leading up to his bedroom. THe bathroom was small, with one of those claw-foot bathtubs that was supposed to be white but wasn’t anymore, a shower curtain dipping into it, hiding the inside. It was big, big enough for four people to sit comfortably, he thought.

It made Steve uneasy. He never kept the shower curtain open in Hawkins, not after those horrible fucking nightmares about vines and that man with burned red skin and claws. There was some perfume on the sink counter: a pink flower bottle that read “EAU DE TOILETTE”.

Maybe he’d mail that to Carol. It wasn’t the kind she wore on occasion, but the bottle was from Paris. He slipped off his shirt, folding it and placing it on the toilet seat before pulling back the shower curtain and–

Steve screamed, falling backwards, his back hitting the sharp corner of the sink. There was a boy in the bathtub, curled up and coughing, his long curly brown hair swaying slightly around his shoulders like it was underwater. His face was a ghostly pale, his hands shaking.

Steve gasped at nearly the same time the man did, shooting up and making to leave for the bathroom before he heard the man gag again. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He couldn’t just leave this person here to suffocate.

He looked back at the boy, whining in the back of the throat as he ran a hand down his face before slipping into the bathtub with the boy and helping him move onto his knees, leaning over near where the drain was. Always the fucking hero. God, this was going to get him killed one day. Maybe in a few minutes when this intruder stopped dying.

“Jesus, man, breathe,” Steve muttered, patting the man harshly on the back. All of his former training as a lifeguard suddenly left him in this moment of panic.

The guy hacked again, choking out a garbled, “Ri–Ri…ver…”

Steve frowned, his hand stilling, but going back to its original movement when the man gagged again. “River?”

The guy nodded, gasping and trying to sit up, but Steve kept him bent over. Water spilled out of the guy’s mouth and into the drain, black and murky and gross.

“Fuck, what happened?” Steve asked, panicked, holding the guy’s long curly hair out of his face as he spat up more of the black liquid. It felt weird in his fingers, cold and not-really there, soaking wet just like the rest of him.

“Jus’ go,” The boy muttered, shaking his head.

Steve shook his head, too, frowning. “I’m not just leaving you–”

The boy cut him off with another cough. “Go,” He snapped, coughing up more goo.

Steve stood, startled at the forcefulness of the man’s voice. He scrambled out of the bathtub, his back stinging with white-hot pain as he moved to the door. “The river?” He asked slowly, turning back around.

The man nodded, one arm wrapped tightly around his stomach and the other bracing himself against the edge of the bathtub, black dribbling down his chin.

“Jesus, fuck, okay,” Steve breathed, grabbing his shirt and slipping out of the door, calling over his shoulder, “If you die in here while i’m gone, that’s on you.”

He slipped his shirt on, ignoring the obvious feeling of a bruise forming on his back when his shoulders flexed. He ran down the stairs again, a death grip on the rail that grated on his palm. He felt bad for leaving that poor boy there, even if he was intruding and had probably broken in–maybe while Steve was outside with his mom?–the thought of the shit he kept spitting out made him want to throw up. He stepped around a dusty metal bowl on the ground next to the door, running down the porch steps and ignoring his mom as she asked where he was going.

He could see the river a few seconds after moving around trees and ducking under vines, his sneakers wet from the damp moss.

There was a boy in the river—the same boy from the bathtub—lying limp on the side, his arm twisted and tangled in a root. He had blood coming from his mouth, but he was unmoving, the red mixing with the murky black water as it watched over his mouth. His hair was dirty, matted, and if Steve didn’t know any better he would have thought that the swaying of his other arm in the water was him moving, trying to keep his head from going fully under.

He stepped forward, wet soaking the knees of his jeans as he kneeled in the wet moss, disentangling the boy from the tree root that popped above the ground, trapping his arm. The body let out a whimper and Steve froze, grabbing onto the boy’s arm before he could float further away.

“It’s okay,” He whispered to the corpse, dragging him back onto the muddy earth. It felt stupid to soothe someone who was dead, but he didn’t seem all that dead, even though he wasn’t breathing and his hands were cold. “I’ve got you now, you’re safe.”

The body didn’t make any more noise as Steve looked around, his eyes landing on the old shed. The boy’s wet hair was cold against Steve’s shoulder as he carried him, pushing the creaking wood door open with his hip and leaning the boy up against the corner. The wood was rotten like the porch, damp smelling with little beetles crawling in and out of the holes and knots.

Steve brushed some hair out of the boy’s face, his fingers tracing over his cheeks. The boy choked again and Steve flinched back, startled. The black goo he saw in the bath trickled out of his mouth and Steve helped him lean over again so that he could cough it all out. He didn’t like how the boy whimpered, his eyebrows pressed together, so lifelike for a corpse.

“Hurts,” the corpse whispered, and Steve made himself still, sucking in a breath.

“I know, but you’ll be okay,” he said back, his fingers untangling some of the bloody and gross curls on the back of the boy’s neck. “You’ll be alright.”

Steve didn’t know why he was so calm, but he didn’t want to panic and worry the corpse, even though a corpse shouldn’t be allowed to be worried. There wasn’t really anything to be worried about when you were dead.

“You’ll be alright,” Steve whispered again, rubbing his hand up and down the corpse’s back, trying to help him calm down even though he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. “I–you’re okay now, right? I can go and check on you inside?”

The corpse fell still, slumping forward, his cold, damp forehead hitting the rotting wood floor. Steve leaned him back against the wall, standing up slowly. His hands were shaking, and he could feel his breath stuttering already.

He wasn’t going to cry he wasn’t going to cry he wasn’t—

Fuck.

When he got back, the boy twisted his arms, trying to get his shirt off, his hair dripping water down his pale, scarred chest. Steve watched as he stood up on his tip-toes to get a better look in the mirror above the sink, his face contorting in a sob as he bent over, his spine pressing up against the thin, pale skin of his back. There were red lines between each bump, thin and scarred, one bleeding down towards the waistline of his wet jeans.

Steve stared, his cheeks flushing. He wanted to reach out and trace the ridges of the boy's spine, feel his waxy skin under his fingers–the way it bumped and dipped, his skin feeling not-all-there…

Steve shook his head, frowning. Normal thoughts, fuck, think normal thoughts–

“Are you okay?” Steve whispered, watching the blood make a mark along the boy’s pale skin as it soaked into his Levi’s.

“Fuck,” the boy moaned, dropping his head back, exposing his neck which was also scarred, but not as much as his chest. Steve felt his face flushed as he took a hesitant step closer.

“I can breathe, holy shit,” the boy muttered, rubbing at his throat, sounding almost in awe, which was immediately followed by a sob as his legs gave out, his hands covering his mouth as he all but collapsed on the tile floor.

Steve decided that all of the ‘who are you and how the fuck did you get into my bathtub’ questions could wait until later. “Okay, Jesus—“

Steve reached forward quickly, grabbing the boy and easing him onto the ground, his hands on the guy’s shoulders. “Hey, hey—“

The boy’s eyes were big, brown—looking down at his knees as he ran his hands quickly through his hair, which looked more dry than it had a few moments ago. “Holy fuck,” he sobbed, dropping his head down.

“What’s your name?” Steve asked, turning the boy slightly to look at his back, trying to wipe some of the blood away before pressing his hand to the cut to try and stop it from bleeding.

The boy winced, dropping his head onto Steve’s shoulder, and Steve tried very hard to stay still, his jaw set. “Eddie.”

“Eddie? Okay, Eddie—wanna tell me what happened back here?” He pressed a bit harder to try and stop the bleeding and could feel the boy’s face twist up against the skin of his neck, a whimper slipping out.

“I don’t know, I was—I was helping Evelyn get rid of those deer and then I was…cold,” Eddie whispered. “And then I was wet and I was choking a-and then–but I’m not anymore–”

“Slow down, Jesus,” Steve whispered, patting the boy’s back as he coughed up the black goo, which ran down his chin and landed just in front of Steve’s knee. “Fuck, what is that?”

“Dunno,” Eddie whispered back, shrugging as he cleared his throat and ran a hand over the scar on his throat. “I just…I can’t go back outside.”

There was a sense of urgency in the boy’s tone as he looked up at Steve pleadingly. “I can’t—if…if Jason is still there he’ll…”

“Who the fuck is Jason?” Steve muttered, his eyebrows pressed together as he kept his hand on the boy’s spine when he stood, blood flowing from under his finger in a steady stream. There was blood in the bathtub, too, on the tile floor and on his jeans. On his shoes. His arm.

Eddie looked down, wiping his eyes and reaching behind him to push Steve’s hand away. “He…I don’t want to tell you. Maybe I can haunt him, though, if I’m not stuck here.”

“Haunt?” Steve asked incredulously, wiping the blood off of his hands and onto his already ruined jeans. “What do you mean haunt?”

“Like a ghost,” Eddie whispered, wiggling his fingers and then wincing. “Wooo…”

Steve sighed, shaking his head and running a hand down his face, which only smeared blood. “There were two of you.” He said calmly,clenching his hands into fists to try and stop them from shaking. They shook anyway. “Why were there two of you, Eddie?”

“Woooo…” Eddie repeated, wiggling his fingers again, an apologetic smile on his face before he winced again, and Steve grabbed him before he could tip over, his eyes wide.

“You’re a ghost?”

Eddie shrugged. “Something like that. I think.”

“Jesus fucking christ,” Steve whimpered, running a hand through his hair, not even caring about the blood that was getting in it. “Holy fuck—“

“Hey—,” Eddie tried to get in, his expression softening, but Steve shook his head. The panic he had been pushing away was finally catching up to him. He felt like he was going to throw up, saliva filling his mouth as he gagged, bracing himself on the sink counter.

“It’s okay,” Eddie whispered, placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder, and it went through his skin, which made Steve feel even worse. “Shit, sorry, I’m still not used to the touching stuff.”

He placed his hand in Steve’s shoulder and it stayed, but Steve was really beginning to realize how fucked all of this was—why Eddie’s skin really didn’t feel right, why he looked kind of hazy, why there had been two of him—god, why had there been two of him—

“There you go,” Eddie murmured sympathetically as Steve took a deep breath, the hand unmoving on his shoulder, and Steve wanted it off, wanted this feeling to go away, but he didn’t say anything. “It’s okay…just breathe for a second, don’t try to talk, alright?”

Steve reluctantly snapped his jaw shut from where he had opened his mouth, with a bit more force than he wanted to. He felt warm in the heat of the bathroom, but he was fucking cold. He flinched when Eddie’s fingers shifted slightly, absentmindedly, tried to play it off, but Eddie must have noticed because the hand slipped off with a sigh.

“Sorry, man, I just…sorry,” Eddie muttered, his hair looking just a bit more dry, but still wet around him, sticking to his face.

“I feel like I’m gonna be sick,” Steve whispered shakily. He wanted his mom, but he didn’t think she’d understand why he was so upset, and that would just make her worried.

“I can go,” Eddie offered, wringing his hands out awkwardly. “I mean, I can’t…leave the property but I could go and hang out in the basement for a bit if you need some space?”

“Why can’t you leave?” Steve muttered, his head tipped back as he tried to breathe again. “You know what, I don’t care, just go, okay?”

Eddie nodded, looking down, and Steve reached around to feel at the spot where his back had hit the counter, hissing. It felt better when he kept his hand on it after a moment, though. “Yeah, I’ll…I’ll go.”

Steve nodded back, closing his eyes and sinking to the floor, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs as he sucked in a shaking breath, shaking his head. He was okay. It wasn’t like his entire world just got flipped fucking upside down, because now there was a ghost in his house, and a body in the shed, and blood covering the bathroom floor.

Right. Blood. He should—he should clean that. He stood, grabbing a towel from the sink and wiped down the edge of the tub, running the shower to help it wash away. He wiped the floor next, and then the sink counter, biting back tears as he tossed the towel into the sink huffing. Fuck showering, he didn’t want to be in the bathroom at all anymore, not after what just happened.

He went into the hall, surprised he didn’t find a trail of blood down the stairs from how much Eddie was still bleeding.

The leather jacket was gone from the dining room when Steve got downstairs, sitting down on the floor in front of one of the kitchen cabinets, the green paint chipping.

The screen door clicked open and his mother padded in, looking exhausted, her heels in her hand and her makeup smudged. She shot him an odd glance as she grabbed a cup from the cabinet, and filled it with water from the sink. She let the cup overflow as white sediment collected at the bottom, her lip quivering as she dumped out the glass and set it on the counter. “Hey, baby?”

“Hmm?” Steve hummed, trying to keep the shake out of his own voice as he stood, his hand cupped at her elbow. “What?”

She hesitated, looking him over.

“Mamma?” He prompted gently, rubbing his thumb in a circle, trying to focus on how real her skin felt.

“Nothing,” she whispered, shaking her head, but she looked like she wanted to say more. She kissed his forehead, having to stand up on her toes now that she wasn’t in her heels anymore. “Are you okay?”

Steve scoffed, looking away, but his breath was still shaky. He rolled his eyes, dropping his hand. “I’m okay, ma. Don’t worry.”

“I am going to worry, you’re all shaky,” she murmured, lightly poking him in the ribs before her hand smoothed up and down his side. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m tired,” Steve lied through his teeth, shaking his head and letting her pull him into a hug, feeling heavy when she swayed him back and forth, her feet rocking, her heels forgotten next to them.

“I’m tired, too,” she confessed quietly, like it was something she wasn’t supposed to say, and Steve fit a hand on the back of her neck, his nose pressed to the top of her head. He hated how she thought she couldn’t tell him these things. How he was just supposed to believe her when she said she was fine each time, because she was his mom.

He stayed quiet, nodding, and trying to ignore the way he heard the muffled sound of the basement stairs creaking, his eyes screwed shut. “It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

Adelina nodded, a hand coming to rub up his back, pausing when he winced. “Steven?” She muttered, her tone worried, and fuck, she never called him his full name.

“I’m okay,” he lied again, bending down to hide his face in her neck, pull her closer and hoped she wouldn’t push, because he didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m okay.”

He needed to stop telling her that.

“I was thinking of heading up to church,” Adelina muttered, pulling away, and Steve wished she would stay—not leave him alone in this fucking house with Eddie, but he nodded.

“I’m staying here, I don’t—“ he breathed out a sigh, shrugging. He hated church more than he hated ghosts. “I’ll just stay.”

“Alright,” his mother said, grabbing her high heels and wiping her eyes. “There shouldn’t be any services right now, I just…need to speak to Dan. Take my mind off of things.”

Steve paused, looking her over as she fidgeted with her dress. She looked embarrassed and he wanted to know why, but he knew she wouldn’t tell him.

“He’s—he’s an old friend, carissima,” she explained quickly. “It’s nothing, just…wanted to catch up, see how he’s been doing in the…years I’ve been away.”

Steve nodded, “Mhm,” as he took the glass and filled it up with the now clear water. “I don’t need an explanation, ma.” He turned, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll tell dad you’re visiting one of your lady friends if he gets back before you.”

He passed the water to his mom, who sipped it and muttered. “One of my lady friends?”

Steve nodded, leaning back against the counter. “Yeah,” he smiled, a thin and weak thing, but a smile nonetheless, nudging his shoulder against his. “Go, you don’t wanna keep Dan waiting.”

Adelina rolled her eyes, but she pushed off of the counter and walked upstairs to fix her makeup.

comments and reblogs are appreciated! they help cheer me up and motivate me to write more if i know that you guys are enjoying this nonsense hehe

the taglist for this will always be open, but i am in the midst of a writing break (a very short one) so it might take me a while to post the net chapter of this <3

(divider by florietas)

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