#did i use a hard to see photo of stevie nicks for eddie? maybe

[dontfeeltoohot]

Adrenaline + Spite  Steddie  6.1K  Warnings: Use of IV’s Summary: Sound check, to none of his surprise, is mind numbing and like a new brand of torture. His monitors are making his ears feel uncomfortable and achy, and every time Gareth hits a drum or cymbal, it rings out through his head like a gunshot. He’s pretty sure he’s five seconds away from throwing the man’s hi-hat off the stage when he then changes to his mic, the one only the band can hear in their mix. Notes: Rockstar AU! This is basically just a one off from the actual AU I’m writing that shows how he and Steve meet. This fic though is established relationship steddie. Band jargon is based on my own time in a band, though obviously mine wasn’t big like Corroded Coffin. They are loosely based off of P!ATD, but metal. In the actual fic I eventually post you’ll get a lot of background about Eddie and the band. I hope you guys enjoy! 

As they head into the large, twenty thousand person arena, Eddie sniffles and rubs his nose on his shoulder, one hand holding his water bottle, the other carrying his guitar case. He’s been fighting the sniffles off since last night, but now his throat’s starting to hurt in a way that doesn’t bode well for the show that’s in ten hours. When he’d woken up, it had been barely anything, but in the hour the guitarist has been up and about, his throat’s turned raw, and swallowing is agonizing. 

“Did you see how many people are already lined up? Crazy huh,” Jeff says to no one in particular. 

They’re used to playing a venue this big, but this is Chicago , and the sheer amount of dedication the fans have around here is kind of surprising. Tim nods and Gareth laughs, taking a long sip of his coffee. 

“And how many are here for the VIP thing?” 

“Thirty,” Chelsea; their tour manager speaks up, her blonde hair coiled into a neat bun on the top of her head, similar to Eddie’s messy one. 

“Okay, not too bad then,” Tim breathes a sigh of relief.

“Not like DC. Jesus Christ, like…why the fuck would Zack add to the amount?” 

“Because, Gareth, he lives for chaos,” Eddie finally speaks up, thankful when no one seems to notice anything is amiss. 

It’s true. Zack, their bodyguard, assistant manager, and close friend thrives in chaos, and while usually he goes easy on everyone and only picks a few people out of the line every show, four nights ago he’d picked an extra fifteen. If he picks that many again, Eddie might actually tackle him. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with almost fifty individuals. Jake, their photographer and videographer for the tour; another friend of theirs that they’ve been working with for nearly eight years, comes up in front of them, getting some of their conversation. Eddie makes a face for the camera before getting up close to the lens, sticking his tongue out. 

“If you lick thi-” 

“I’m not going to ruin your precious seven thousand dollar equipment, Jacob,” Eddie rolls his eyes fondly, then takes another long sip of coffee. 

They get down to the green room, a big room with a large vanity on one wall, mirrors above it. There’s a few couches and seats, a large coffee table in the middle with their usual food requests like peanut m&m’s, popcorn, and packs of water. Everyone sets their bags down, and Eddie’s eyes move from one couch to another before picking the one in the middle, sprawling out. 

“Nice man, leave room for the rest of us,” Tim rolls his eyes but there’s no heat, and Eddie just grins back at him, making no attempt to move. Gareth walks over and sits directly on top of the eldest member, half on his thighs and half on his stomach.  

“Dude, get the hell off!” 

“Nah, I like this seat.” 

About to protest again, the twenty six year old opens his mouth but a cough bubbles up and he turns quickly, shielding his face with his arm so he doesn’t cough all over his band mates. As he twists back, congestion floods his head, like it’s been knocked loose by the jagged movements. His nose is no longer runny but completely stuffed up, serving only to make Eddie feel worse. 

“Can you hand me a water bottle? Swallowed the wrong way,” he looks at Jeff, who nods and snags one for him, even going so far as to uncap it. The drummer currently on his lap moves so he’s able to sit up, and as the water slides down the man’s throat, he does his best to hide a wince. 

Taking the cap from the bassist, Eddie leans forward a little, propping his arms against his knees, holding the water bottle to his forehead lazily while Chelsea runs through what their timeline today is. He knows it’s the same as every other show, but the woman always insists on going through it anyway. The two other bands touring with them are still on their way after hitting traffic, so the boys end up all at the vanity in a line, signing forty posters, passing them down like an assembly line. 

Mindlessly signing, Eddie feels his nose twitch from congestion, so he rubs a knuckle against it. The feeling only intensifies into a tickle that winds its way through his sinuses and into his nose, making him finally pause mid signature, pulling the neck of his black tee-shirt up and over his face. 

“hih’ATSCHuhEW! ihKKch’uhew!”

“Bless you,” Gareth throws his way, and Eddie nods before- 

“ihGKkheshuhEW! Christ,” he sniffles, though with his nose completely blocked it doesn’t do much help at all. 

“Man, you good?” 

“Yeah, Jesus, sorry,” Eddie doesn’t see any tissues around so he gets up and heads to the bathroom that’s connected at the end of the green room, grabbing some toilet paper to blow his nose into. It doesn’t help much, but the need to sneeze retreats. When he gets back to his seat, he sees he’s fucked up his signature entirely. Taking his sharpie, he writes ‘oops! sorry!’ and then puts an arrow pointing to the signature. Hopefully that makes up for it. 

As the other two bands arrive and start sound check, the band members, Jake and Zach play around the arena. For once, Eddie isn’t on his skateboard whizzing around or throwing a football like usual. Instead, he’s lying on the concrete ground near the sound guy, feeling the kick drum being played reverberating through his skull. 

A chill runs up his spine, causing him to sit up and rub his face. Arena’s are always cold, especially to him since he’s already cold natured, but it’s almost different, this chill. It’s deeper somehow, like it’s clinging to his insides, burrowing into him with no intention of letting up. 

Sniffling into his wrist, Eddie coughs quietly and sits up. He feels exhausted and wants to lay down on something better than cold concrete. Standing, he heads over to Chelsea, giving her a smile. 

“Hey, I’m going to the green room for a few minutes,” the twenty six year old informs, thankful when he doesn’t sound too terrible. 

Chelsea nods, typing away on her phone. “Sounds good, I’m ordering some lunch for everyone. It’ll be here in a bit,” she responds, not bothering to look up. 

Walking back down the hallway and stairs, the curly haired man makes it to the green room and collapses back onto the couch he’d occupied previously. He wishes Steve was laying with him instead of at home, probably watching tv with Robin since Not Just Coffee is closed Tuesdays. Grabbing his phone, he pulls up their text thread and sighs. 

Miss you. 

It’s innocuous enough that his boyfriend won’t think much of it, but will probably reply. Shutting his eyes, Eddie shifts so he’s on his back, stomach and hands resting on his stomach as he waits. As he relaxes, everything starts weighing down on him- just how sore this throat is, how achy he feels, how his sinuses feel stuffed with congestion and his nose is running. 

A few minutes pass before his phone vibrates against his skin. Slowly bringing the screen close, he smiles. 

Miss you too. Robin says hi. 

Hey Birdie. What’re you guys up to? Adventuring and causing havoc? 

Very funny. No, we’re just having a slow day. Made pancakes, now we’re waiting for Nance to come over. It’s raining here so we’re just watching movies all day. 

Jesus I wish I was there, could cuddle up with you and take a nap. 

Tired? You guys had a long drive last night right?

Yeah. Long drive, slept like shit. 

I’m sorry babe. Hopefully you can rest a little before run through.

Currently alone in the green room laying on the couch. 

Alone huh? 😏

As much as I would love to indulge in getting each other off, I wouldn’t be surprised if Zack came down. He’s too good at knowing when we are. Plus lunch will be here soon. 

Damn. Not that I could really do it either right now. 

Can’t wait to see you again. It feels like it’s been years. 

Four days you goof. 

Still. Feels like 4 years. 

I miss you too Eds. So much. You go try and relax some before lunch. I’ll talk to you later. ❤️

Love you Stevie. Have fun watching movies. Tell Nancy I say hi. 

Love you too. I will. 

The second Eddie finishes reading the last text, he deflates. He shuts his eyes again and ends up drifting as he thinks about his friends and boyfriend, about Eggnog their cat and how he can’t wait to be home. 

“Food’s here!” 

Eddie jerks awake, sitting up as everyone clambers through the green room door. Quickly, he rubs his eyes and brushes a few stray curls from his face. He feels no better, but no worse, so that’s a win in his book. Chelsea, Jeff and Gareth are carrying bags of food in their arms. He tries to sniff the air to see what they’ve brought but when he does he’s met with a stuffed up nose and he holds a cough in. 

“What’s for lunch?” 

“Chinese. She ordered some of everything,” Tim tells him as said bags are placed on the table.

Everyone gets what they want, but Eddie’s not concerned with the race for it all. He knows there will be a little container of lo mein somewhere in a bag, his usual. As expected, the white box is handed to him and he’s grateful this is his favorite thing and not spicy orange chicken. 

Zack and Jake crack open fortune cookies as Eddie stabs at a piece of carrot to go along with some noodles, knowing he needs to eat even if he doesn’t want to. Feeling like one big ache, the guitarist eats silently. 

“Dude are you good? You’ve been weirdly quiet today. And you’re like…not being you.” 

Gareth looks at him with concern, and Chelsea and Zack seem to realize this too, turning toward him. 

“I’m good. Just tired,” he lies. “Trying to save all my energy for tonight.” 

When they all look skeptical, he sighs and throws his head back dramatically, ignoring the swimming sensation that overtakes his brain. 

“Don’t you worry you’re pretty, mother hen heads, I, Eddie Munson, am ready for a great night. Someone just happened to keep me up last night from snoring,” Eddie shoots Jeff a look, who looks guilty. 

“Sorry dude.” 

“No harm done, as long as you guys don’t continue to talk shit about me,” he gives a grin. 

That seems to placate everyone, and they go back to eating lunch. Eddie relaxes a little, not wanting to have to deal with everyone being annoyed at him. By the time they’re all finished, he feels just slightly better, his head isn’t hurting as badly and the chill seems to have receded somewhat. He can do this. 

Sound check, to none of his surprise, is mind numbing and like a new brand of torture. His monitors are making his ears feel uncomfortable and achy, and every time Gareth hits a drum or cymbal, it rings out through his head like a gunshot. He’s pretty sure he’s five seconds away from throwing the man’s hi-hat off the stage when he then changes to his mic, the one only the band can hear in their mix. 

After going through Jeff’s guitar and vocals, and then Tim’s bass, they reach Eddie, who’s flopped on his back yet again, making it harder for their sound guy Brian to see when he needs his mix adjusted. Oh well. Standing, Eddie heads up to his mic that’s placed in its stand, and starts reciting his usual sound check spiel about how they need to stay focused tonight, how they need to put on the best performance of their lives. 

He keeps his mouth directly against the mesh of the mic, lips dragging over it. He’s probably germing it up like crazy, but it’s only for him through the whole tour, and he can wipe it down later. After talking, he knows the next step is singing a few bars, so he takes a breath and hopes to whatever deity is out there that his voice doesn’t crack. 

Miraculously, it doesn’t. That is, it doesn’t until they’re halfway through running their first song with the full track and lights, and his voice catches as he goes to hit a higher note. Eddie winces, Tim and Jeff laugh, and Gareth’s voice rings through their in-ears. 

“Damn, that could have been on a highlight reel. Was Jake recording?” 

Eddie shoots the finger towards the drummer, continuing to sing, though he sings ‘fuck off Gareth’ instead of the actual lyrics. 

They go through only three of their 17 song set. It’s the lead guitarist and vocalist who calls it, his throat screaming in protest. He’s starting to worry about how exactly he’s going to get through tonight’s set. He’s pushed through a show with a stomach virus, even performed last year with a high fever, but he’s never had to deal with a sore throat this intense before. 

“Okay, I think we’re good. We just played everything yesterday. If you guys have stuff you need to work through, go ahead, but if you don’t need me, I need to pee,” Eddie addresses his band mates, who all look at him skeptically as he sets his guitar down. 

“You’re good man, go before you pee your parents,” Tim assures, and Eddie slides off the stage to find the nearest restroom. 

A couple of minutes later, after peeing, blowing his nose a few times and washing his hands, the musician makes his way back out, hands still damp due to no paper towels. He refuses to use the hand dryers that blow air out thanks to having read some article online about how they harbor bacteria. Chelsea is right outside the door, waiting for him, making him jump. 

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” 

The woman smirks and shakes her head before going back to looking serious. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“You’ve been…unusually unenergetic today. And if you’re too sick to perform, I need to know now, instead of an hour before the sh-“ 

“I’m fine, Chelsea. Do I feel a little under the weather? Yeah, I guess. But definitely not bad enough to cancel,” he shakes his head, feeling suddenly prickly and ready to fight. 

“Because the flush on your cheeks and the sound of your voice is very convincing,” she deadpans, and Eddie tenses. 

“I know what I’m doing! I know my limits. I know what I can and can’t do. Don’t try and tell me you know how I feel.” 

Arguing isn’t usually something he does with people on tour, but if he does, 9 times out of 10 it’s with Chelsea or Gareth. She looks at him and he stares back, as if to challenge her. Finally, she breaks eye contact. 

“If you pass out on stage, don’t blame me,” she says tersely, and Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, alright. Tonight’s going to be the best show yet, just wait and see.” 

An hour later, the vip stuff starts. 36 people are lined up outside the green room, hanging out in the expansive hallway. A few at a time, people all over the age range spectrum come in, meeting and talking to the band for a couple of minutes. Jake gets a photo for everyone, and then they move to the next people. Eddie keeps his energy up, though not as high as he usually would. A few girls in their young twenties seem to notice, one asking if he’s alright. 

“I’m good sweetheart, don’t worry. Jeff just kept me up all night snoring,” he jokes playfully, tossing a look back to the guitarist, who gives him the finger. 

By the end of the meet and greets, Eddie feels significantly worse. There’s only thirty minutes till the concert, which means an hour and thirty minutes until Corroded Coffin goes on. Sitting down, he leans his elbows and forearms against his thighs, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Hair falls in front of him. Fuck. 

A hand on his shoulder has him looking up. Zack’s standing there with Chelsea, everyone else looking from behind the two. 

“You’re sure you’re alright to do this tonight?” 

Eddie nods, giving what he hopes is a convincing smile. “Yep, I’ll be good to go. Preserving my energy,” he explains, waving a hand in the air lazily. 

Zack doesn’t look fully convinced, and he must not be, because a moment later, the back of his hand connects with the musician's forehead. The bearded man looks back at their manager, sharing a look. 

“Definitely need to find some Tylenol, maybe a thermometer too.” 

“I’ll go find someone on the event medical staff,” Chelsea scurries off, leaving all the boys alone. 

“Dude, don’t push yourself,” Tim says worriedly. “Canceling one show won’t-“ 

“I’ve performed through far worse than a cold, dude,” Eddie says, not bothering to open his eyes as he shifts so he can lay down, stretching his legs out.

Zack, Tim, Jeff and Gareth all start horsing around, telling jokes to Jake’s camera. Jake moves closer to Eddie, talking. 

“Sick as hell and still going strong! What a trooper he is.” 

For his part, Eddie just cracks an eye open and sticks his tongue out. “Nothin’s gonna keep me from performing, baby!” 

A few minutes tick by and then Chelsea is walking back in with two women dressed in navy shirts and bdu’s. Their shirts have little ‘Fulton County EMS’ emblems on the upper right corner, the man notices as one crouches in front of him. She’s got long dark hair pulled into a ponytail, and he thinks she’s maybe from some eastern country. She’s pretty, and he gives her a tired smile. 

“Hey, Eddie, right? Hear you’re not feeling so great,” she says sympathetically. “I’m Violet, that’s my partner Julie,” she gestures to the other woman who’s rummaging around a red bag. 

“Nice to meet you,” he rasps, clearing his throat and wincing. “Sorry to be such a pain in the ass.” 

“It’s what I’m here for, don’t worry. Trust me, this is more exciting than dealing with a split lip or concussion,” she assures, slipping a stethoscope off that’s hanging around her neck. 

He stays cooperative as she listens to his lungs and takes his blood pressure and heart rate. Julie slips a thermometer under his tongue and holds it there. When it beeps, she slips it back in its pouch. 

“101.5.” 

A few of the guys in the room make sympathetic noises. 

“And you wanna perform?” Violet asks, grabbing her own light from her pocket. “Open wide for a sec.” 

“Just because I have a silly fever doesn’t mean I can’t perform,” Eddie shrugs before complying. 

“Damn, those are some of the worst looking swollen tonsils I’ve seen. No wonder you sound awful.” She pats his shoulder and grabs a bottle of water. “Alright, I’m gonna give you a strong dose of ibuprofen, and we’re gonna get a banana bag; electrolytes basically, hooked up to you. That should be able to get you through the show. But I’d suggest finding a doctor to check you over fully tomorrow. Not sure if you should really continue going for the next couple of days,” Violet explains. 

“Thank you, we’re definitely going to be seeing someone tomorrow,” Chelsea nods. 

Julie’s been unraveling some tubing and getting things hooked up, and soon Violet’s swabbing the crook of his left arm.

“Alright, just a quick pinch okay?” 

The IV is started and Eddie shivers, taking the ibuprofen as the electrolytes start getting pushed into his body. There’s only 45 minutes before they start, 35 until they need to head up. Eddie hopes this shit will work, because it’s starting to hit him now, just how sick he really feels. 

He’s been laying there for 24 minutes when his phone buzzes. Grabbing it, he sees Steve’s name on the screen. 

“Hello?”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Steve’s voice is all worry, and he’s confused as to how he would even know. 

“What?” 

“Jeff posted a photo of you with the caption ‘fever of one-oh-one and still determined to rock tonight’s show’. You sound miserable, baby.” 

“I’ll be ok, got an IV giving me the good stuff,” Eddie says softly. When he sees Tim starting to get up, and the other two following, Eddie sniffles and sits up. “I have to go. I’ll talk to you after. Love you.” 

“Be safe. Love you too.” 

Violet comes over and takes his IV out, wrapping his arm with a bright red bandage, laughing when Eddie grins. 

“Matches my guitar.” 

“I tried to, at least,” she grins back. 

“Thank you, seriously.” 

His voice sounds no better, but he can tell the fluids have helped a bit, no longer feeling like death warmed over, more like death lukewarm-ed over. Coughing into his arm, the curly haired man stands and shivers, but takes his sweatshirt off, revealing a plain black tee. He grabs his signature denim vest from his bag and slips it on, realizing he probably should have put some kind of makeup on to at least hide the dark circles under his eyes. Too late now. 

Downing half a bottle of water as they walk up the stairs and down the hallway to the back of the stage, the others turn to him. 

“You got this man!” Jeff squeezes his shoulder. Tim nods in agreement. 

“If anyone can do this while sick, it’s Eddie fuckin’ Munson.”

“…if you need a second at any point, just…please take it?” Gareth looks at his best friend. Eddie nods. 

They head out on stage where the curtain is drawn. Picking up his guitar, the twenty six year old lets out a breath, coughs a few times, then tries to relax. This is what he was born to do. A cold isn’t going to get in the way of it. He can hear the crowd on the other side of the stage for a moment before slipping his in-ears in, then it’s muffled considerably. 

“5…4…3…2…1…” 

They all start playing as the curtain opens, and Eddie lets himself get lost in the adrenaline high, energy suddenly thrumming throughout his body. 

They have seven songs left when Eddie, who’s been doing great all things considered with the past ten, starts flagging. He’s as energetic as always, no different than any of the other concerts. Anyone who doesn’t know he’s sick shouldn’t have a clue that he’s still sporting a fever of 101. Corroded Coffin starts up on another song and the lead vocalist sings out, turning once to cough in the middle of the verse. While Jeff plays a solo, he uncaps a bottle of water and takes a few gulps, trying to soothe the pain in his throat that’s now back with revenge. 

He goes back to singing seven seconds later, fingers moving effortlessly across the guitar neck. As they fade into the next song, Eddie wonders if it’s the lights beating down on him that’s making him feel a little too hot. Swallowing, he comes in on the verse a half second late, but manages to pick back up and correct himself. This song turns out to be the one that alerts all the fans of just how sick Eddie actually is. 

It’s long, he and Jeff both have guitar solos, and it also happens to be the one that’s maybe the heaviest vocally there is, with louder and harsher demand on his vocal chords. The adrenaline high is crashing rapidly. Halfway through the song he pulls back from the mic, coughing raggedly into his arm, wincing at how it hurts his throat. Jeff manages to step up and continue leading when Eddie; red cheeked and suddenly wan looking, takes a shaky sip of his water. 

When it doesn’t help anything, he continues to let Jeff take it, walking to the back of the stage to cough more, gagging from the force of it. 

“Dude, you okay?” Gareth’s voice comes through their monitors, and Eddie waves him off, nodding as he straightens back up.

As soon as he turns to make his way back, he coughs again, wincing as it tears at his throat and makes his ears ache. His right temple is throbbing and the musician feels a wave of weakness wash over him, like his whole body gets its bones replaced with jelly, like his muscles are now spaghetti noodles. Holy shit this isn’t good. 

“Eddie, man, what’s going on,” Gareth tries again. He looks over past the stairs off to the side of the stage at Zack and Chelsea, who start moving to the sound booth to get to the only way to communicate with them, the mic that their engineer has. 

Jeff is finishing the song now, and as the band lapses into silence to change the tuning of their instruments, they look at each other. Eddie looks at Gareth and shakes his head, feeling fuzzy. He knows this isn’t good. The crowd is starting to get a little rambunctious, and Eddie feels like if he tries to sing one more note he might actually cry or throw up. Or both. 

“Eddie, what’s going on? Gareth is he ok?” Chelsea’s voice is loud in the four band mates' ears. Eddie pops one of his IEM’s out, then meets Gareth’s eyes. 

“I feel really fucking shitty Gareth…I need to sit or something…fuck…” he says close to the man’s ear. His voice sounds like he’s swallowed glass, like it’s a mouthwash he’s gargled with, and he sounds exhausted and weak. The drummer winces and goes to hold his own mic close. 

“We’re gonna have to stop. He can’t…” 

No one really knows what to do exactly. They’ve never had to stop a show before. Finally, even through his fever-fogged brain, Eddie goes back up to his mic and takes it off its stand, guitar still hanging from his shoulder.

“Hey guys.” 

The arena goes silent, all 19,000 people suddenly hushing. It’s almost eerie. 

“Uh, some of you might know if you follow Jeff on Instagram but…” Eddie runs a hand through his hair. “I’m really fucking sick. I thought I could get through the show tonight, got an IV and everything beforehand,” he trails off to cough away from the mic. 

“I don’t think I can finish, my whole body is basically screaming at me if I don’t lay down in the next ten minutes it’s gonna make me lay down whether I want to or not. I’m so sorry, this isn’t fair to any of you guys, and it sucks major ass. I’ll uh, see if we can do something for you guys, so don’t lose your tickets,” he talks with as much energy as he can muster, but it’s falling flat even to his own ears. 

“Thank you guys for being understanding, and for coming. It means the world to get to see everyone enjoying our songs. I hope you guys don’t hate us too much for cutting it short. Thanks again, and have a good night.” 

Eddie sets his mic back into its holder, then takes his guitar off. Gareth, Jeff and Tim are all watching him with worried eyes, scrambling to get out their equipment down too, and follow their friend. 

“Fuck,” Eddie mumbles, stopping just to get his bearings. 

He leans back against the cool brick wall, shivering, simultaneously too hot and too cold. He slides down into a sitting position, knees against his chest. A second later his band mates, Zack, Chelsea, Jake, and both Violet and Julie are around him. Zack’s on the phone, Jake’s camera is loosely around his neck, and his eyes are wide. Chelsea looks stunned, and so do the other three band members. 

“Hey, Eddie, how’re you feeling?” Violet asks. 

“Like fucking garbage.” It comes out weak and shaky, the opposite of what he’s trying for, wishing it had come out playful and dramatic. 

A thermometer is once again slipped into his mouth, and he stays silent. A beep, and it’s pulled out. 

“102.6. Let’s get him moved back to the green room, that way he can actually lay down. Eddie, hun, do you think you can walk?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie stands, feeling entirely too shaky. He stubbornly walks the whole way, not embarrassing himself more than he already has by needing help. He gets to the couch in the green room just as he feels himself woozy. 

He hears Jeff and Tim talking about his fever, wondering how he performed at all. Gareth’s on the phone with someone. 

“Alright, so…do we just let him try to sleep this off? Or do we get him to an ER? Or?” Chelsea bites at her lip. 

“With the fact he’s had fluids and a fever reducer in the past two hours and is still this sick, I’d probably suggest transporting to the ER, just so they can figure out what’s going on. I know you guys travel a lot too, so it’ll probably speed the whole process up. We can get him hooked back up to fluids, get him an ice pack or two, see if we can get that fever down. Eddie? How’s your chest? You breathing alright?” 

The guitarist looks up at Violet with fever bright eyes and nods. “S’good. Throat hurts, body hurts, head hurts,” the man mumbles, shivering. 

“Eds, she thinks it’s best to go ahead and take you to the ER, that’ll help get you feeling better. Is that alright?” 

“S’fine…can I have my phone?” 

Gareth hands it to him and he fumbles to get it in his pocket. 

“Alright, we’re gonna get you on the stretcher okay? It’s just a few steps away, you think you can make it there? These guys can help pick you up if you wa-“ 

“They’ll drop me, I got it,” Eddie attempts to joke, knowing they wouldn’t actually, not in this serious of a situation. 

“Hey man! I wouldn’t drop you!” Gareth says indignantly, now off of his cell phone. He moves close to the gurney as Eddie gets on, giving him a smile. “We’ll try and see you in a bit. We’re gonna go head down to see some of the fans as a consolation prize,” he laughs, and Tim squeezes his shoulder. Jeff jokingly presses a kiss to his head. 

“Feel better man.” 

“Thanks. Have fun getting trampled and felt up.” 

From there it’s a blur. Eddie starts dozing restlessly, catching tiny things like him getting a new IV, being asked about his last oral intake (which he barely mumbles out), and getting taken into the freezing night air. He holds the scratchy, thin blanket tighter, then opens his eyes for a moment. Hundreds of fans are looking over, most with their phones out. 

Weak and shaky, he makes the ‘rock and roll’ hand sign, keeping his pinky and pointer finger up, then raises it in the air, arm shaking the whole time. Violet snorts beside him as they maneuver and lock the stretcher into place before electronically raising the wheels up, sliding it into the truck. 

“Alright mister rock and roll, we’re gonna out this IV into your hand, have a preference which one?” Violet smiles, and Eddie just stares confusedly. 

The next time he’s coherent and lucid enough to truly process what’s going on, he’s got an ice pack on his forehead and on both sides of his neck and under his armpits. He’s no longer in the back of an ambulance, instead he’s in a room with sterile white walls that smells of antiseptic and plastic. 

Feeling like he’s been hit by a bud, Eddie’s about to fall asleep again when a noise to his left has him forcing his eyes back open. There, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair is Steve, scrolling on his phone. Blinking, the musician coughs a little, which makes his boyfriend look up. 

“Eds.” 

The nickname comes out shaky, and Eddie instantly reacts, moving his arm out, but it catches on something and he hisses. Looking down, he now notices that there’s an IV line coming out from the top of his hand, blue veins standing out against his paler than normal skin. Oh. Right. 

“Stevie…” he coughs, just barely able to turn away. A shiver runs through his body and he lets his eyes shut again. A hand scoots under his own, making him smile a little. 

“I was eating dinner with Robin and suddenly my phone starts blowing up with Twitter and Instagram notifications of people asking if you’re okay,” Steve says softly. “I didn’t even know you had to stop the show, I just suddenly saw all these photos of my dumb boyfriend getting wheeled on a stretcher into an ambulance.” 

“M’sorry…” 

“It’s not your fault…mostly. I mean. It is. But…right now I’m just glad you’re relatively ok,” the twenty four year old shifts his chair close enough he can lean against Eddie’s shoulder. 

“Where’s everyone?” 

“Chelsea and Zack are out grabbing some food. The guys are staying in a hotel for the night, everyone else is going ahead and heading to Indianapolis to hang for a few days till you’re feeling well enough. How are you feeling?” 

“Worse than I think I’ve ever felt in my life,” he admits, fiddling with the IV tube. 

“Well you have strep, and the beginnings of an ear infection. Doc said this is one of the worst cases of strep he’s seen that hasn’t progressed to scarlet fever,” Steve explains, running a hand through his hair. Eddie melts into the touch. 

“Thought scarlet fever was from like, the 1800’s.” 

“Still around. It’s when strep progresses.” 

“Ugh this sucks. I had to cancel in the middle of the show,” Eddie rubs his face with his free hand. He starts coughing, not stopping until Steve holds a straw to his lips and he sips at water. It hurts like a bitch. 

“Yeah, a bunch of people dm’d me videos. You sounded so fucking sick Eddie, how the hell did you even do that much of the concert?” 

“Adrenaline and spite.” 

Snorting, Steve shakes his head and kisses his temple. “Try and rest ok? They’re pumping you full of fluids and antibiotics. Think they also said something about giving you a dose of steroids for your poor throat if you want it. Your tonsils are apparently very impressive. Three nurses came in to see,” he laughs. 

“Damn right they are,” Eddie gives a sleepy grin, sniffling. “Love you Stevie…thanks for driving up.” 

“Eh, it was more for me than you,” the blue eyed man teases before nodding. “Even if I was 10 hours away I would have come. Just might have taken a little longer. Sleep now.” 

When Eddie wakes up again, it’s dark. Steve is asleep in the plastic chair, and the musician feels bleary and disoriented. Blinking, he sees his phone and tries to grab it but it clatters to the ground, effectively waking his boyfriend with a jolt. 

“Wha?” 

“Sorry, sorry…tried to grab my phone,” Eddie rasps. He notices his throat isn’t making him want to cry anymore. It’s still ridiculously painful, but nothing compared to twelve hours ago. 

“Here…” Steve grabs the black iPhone and hands it to him. 

Eddie shifts until he’s on the edge of the hospital bed, then looks at Steve with big eyes. “Join me?” 

Moments later, they’re both snuggled against each other. The musician unlocks his phone, eyes widening at the sheer amount of notifications he has. There’s a bunch of texts from people on the crew, his band mates, as well as Wayne, a few friends, and even a couple of other musicians. Twitter and Instagram he’s afraid to even look at. Finally, after replying to the texts, he heads to Twitter, wincing at all the photos he sees of him doing a metal hand sign on the stretcher. He doesn’t even remember doing it. 

Clicking the button to compose a new tweet, he leans his head against Steve’s shoulder. 

To everyone at Corroded Coffin’s Chicago show- thanks for coming out and putting up with my sick as hell ass. Turns out strep throat, swollen tonsils and a fever don’t mix well with singing. If I’m honest, I barely remember the show at all. Anyone who got the meet and greet and hugged me, you should probably bathe in bleach. If you do get sick, DM me a photo of your ticket and your meds, and I’ll send you something special.  Stay Metal my friends. 

Extras:

#my fic #em #sh #st #cc #au #rockstarau #did i use a hard to see photo of stevie nicks for eddie? maybe