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leiawritesstories · 1 year

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A Rose As Red As Blood

well, once again, i didn't write what i said i was going to write. *sigh* but here's.....this thing, pulled from the depths of my WIPs. and YES your model/designer au is coming i PROMISE

A loosely Beauty and the Beast-inspired AU :)

Word count: ~3.4k

Warnings: some language, illness, bad parenting, grouchiness

Enjoy!

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Evening was just beginning to darken the blush of sunset when Kasida galloped up the dirt path leading to the Galathynius home, her reins hanging loose around her bridle. The mare stopped mere inches from Aelin, whinnying and panting like she was desperate.

Aelin dropped the basket of vegetables she'd been harvesting from her little garden and grabbed the mare's reins, smoothing a hand down her neck and speaking soothingly into her ear. "Shh, my girl, it's all right, you're home." She stroked Kasida's sweat-dampened coat. "What's wrong, Kas? Spooked in the--Da?"

She'd just realized that Rhoe, who'd headed out early that morning to go to the market three towns over, was not with Kasida.

"Da?" Looping Kasida's reins around the hitching post, Aelin all but sprinted into the stable, praying to whatever gods existed that her father would be there, putting away the saddlebags with a grin on his face and a joke on his lips. You worry too much, my Fireheart, he'd tease. "Da? Are you there?"

Out in the yard, Kasida whickered, scuffing her hooves against the dirt-and-gravel front path.

Rhoe was not in the stable.

A furrow wrinkled Aelin's forehead, concern creasing her thoughts. She strode back over to Kasida, stroking the horse's sides in a gesture of comfort. "Shh, it'll be alright. We'll go find him, I promise." The horse huffed as if in agreement. "I know, I know. We need to go now."

"Talking to the horse again?" interrupted a male voice--far too loud for a conversation at dusk.

Bracing herself, Aelin turned slowly around to find Chaol Westfall leaning against her front gate, a stupid grin curling across his face and his ever-present quiver of arrows peeking over his shoulder. "I don't recall inviting you here, Westfall."

"No need," Chaol declared. "Miss Galathynius, chérie, I simply happened to be walking past and saw you conversing with your horse." He laughed. "And I thought, how adorable, she thinks the horse can understand her."

"How wonderful," Aelin grumbled, hurrying up the front steps into her house. "Goodni--"

"Why don't you come to the tavern with me tonight, darling?" Chaol appeared at her side, propping one arm against the doorframe and smirking down at her. "I've been hoping to have the most beautiful woman in town on my arm."

"I'd rather die," Aelin muttered.

"Quoi?" He placed his free hand dramatically against his heart. "Surely you tease, ma belle?"

She rolled her eyes. "Get off my porch, Westfall. Then take your disgusting thoughts about marrying me and shove them up your flat little ass."

And she slammed the front door in his face.

Chaol remained on the porch for another two minutes before storming off in a huff, grumbling about ungrateful women and his inestimable glory under his breath.

Aelin grabbed a couple of hunting knives, strapping one to her thigh and sliding another into her belt, threw some food into a small bag, laced up her boots and pulled her thick cloak around her shoulders, and hurried back out the door, locking up behind her. She checked Kasida's saddle, tightened up the straps, fastened her saddlebag in place, and swung herself up. "Alright, Kas, let's go find Da." Kasida whinnied and launched into a half-canter at the bares touch of Aelin's heels, only pausing for Aelin to fasten the gate before galloping off into the falling night.

Within an hour, they had reached the Oakwald Forest, its vast expanse of greenery dimmed to a gray, charcoal, navy, and black blur by the night. Aelin patted Kasida's neck, encouraging her. "It's alright, my girl, just a bit dark." She rooted around in the saddlebag, grinning when she found the striker. "Here, let's have a little light, yes?" Catching a stray dry branch, she lit it aflame, casting a circle of firelight around herself and the horse. "Let's go, my girl. Da's waiting, I know he is."

Kasida trotted into the forest, guided by whatever instincts had led her on her mad dash back home to Aelin. Eventually, they came to a fork in the path, partially obscured by a great old tree that had fallen across the road, its trunk splintered by what looked like the marks of a lightning strike. Aelin nudged Kasida leftwards, onto the fork that wasn't blocked.

It wasn't quite another two hours before they reached a wrought-iron gate that hung loosely on its hinges, creaking faintly as the curling breeze nudged it further open. And just in time, too--Aelin's torch had burned to a bare stub and she snuffed it with a breath, tossing the blackened end into a patch of slushy snow.

Odd--she could have sworn it was barely autumn, and yet here, there were patches of snow scattered across the ground. The Oakwald opened up beyond the gate, giving way to...a palace? A castle?

Even more odd.

She'd never been aware there was any kind of castle in the forest.

Still, the once-landscaped gardens wound towards a dark stone building, and a building meant shelter, if nothing else. And she needed shelter. So Aelin dismounted, wrapped the reins around her hand, and led Kasida into the castle grounds, her boots crunching gently against the fine layer of snow crusted atop the cobbled paths. Distantly, some part of her brain noticed how well-kept the grounds must once have been, with lush greenery and smoothly raked paths extending all across the property. But it had clearly long since fallen into disrepair, probably abandoned by whoever the last owner had been.

Eventually, Aelin came to the castle proper, finding it just as empty as the grounds had been. She led Kasida to the stable and unsaddled her, settling the mare in a stall with plenty of water and, surprisingly, a bucket of fairly fresh oats. She didn't allow herself to wonder how in all hell there was fresh feed in an abandoned castle.

That train of thought could only lead to runaway imaginings.

A little more cautiously, Aelin headed up the castle's front stairs, her saddlebag gripped tightly in her hands. She nudged the great oaken door with her foot, jumping slightly when it opened a fraction. Quickly recovering her wits, she pushed the door open enough to get herself inside, then closed the door behind herself and stood for a moment in the silent, dark entrance hall.

At least the place was warm.

Torchlight flickered some distance down the corridor to the left, so she headed that way, hoping to hell and back she wasn't walking into the lair of some criminal. You stop that! she chastised herself, swatting her cheeks. Find Da and go home. That's why we are here.

Someone or something must have been guiding her path, because before long, she found herself at the foot of some prison-like stairs. The stone steps spiralled steadily upwards into the tower, the stairwell's damp darkness broken every several steps by a wall sconce. The torchlight flickered and wavered, unsteady, only enhancing Aelin's sense that this was a prison. And if it was a prison, that was likely where her father was.

And she would do anything to get him out.

Torch firmly in hand, Aelin started up the steps, climbing with single-minded determination. Her focus helped the stairs go by faster, and it was only a few moments before she reached the top and found herself, as she suspected, in a hallway lined with iron-grate cell doors. Raising her torch, she crept down the hall, scanning each cell for her father. Most were empty--strange, but not so strange for a castle in such a remote, almost forgotten, part of the woods.

Then she heard it. A muted, broken moan.

Her father's voice.

"Da!" She darted towards the sound, finding her father in a cell towards the end of the corridor. "Da, it's me!"

"Fireheart?" Rhoe croaked, gripping the bars of his cell door.

"It's me," Aelin repeated, shifting her torch to one hand and pressing the other atop her father's hands. "I'm here to get you out, Da."

Terror flashed across Rhoe's face. "No, you--he'll--Fireheart, no." He clutched her hand, earnestness and deep fear warring in his face. "I can't let you risk yourself for me."

"Like hell you can't." Aelin set the torch in a nearby sconce, freeing her to look for lockpicks. "Why are you here, Da?"

He shuddered. "He said I trespassed. Stole."

"Da..." Her brows furrowed. "Who? Said what?" Tugging a couple of pins from her hair, she inserted them into the cell lock and poked around, figuring out how the lock mechanism worked.

"The...the prince," Rhoe whispered. "He found me in his garden, found the rose, threw a godsdamned fit."

"The rose?" The lock clicked, and she tamped down her pride.

Rhoe's hands shook. "I only wanted to bring you back something pretty, my Fireheart, I thought the castle was abandoned and I could just spend the night in some kind of shelter, I never meant to harm anything."

"Da." Aelin yanked the cell door open, only wincing a little at the grating screech of the metal, and grabbed Rhoe's arms, tugging him to face her. "There's a prince?"

Rhoe nodded shakily. "He--he was--"

He was right behind them, a kerosene lantern in one raised hand and a near-feral snarl on his face. "Who the hell are you?"

Ten Years Ago

Prince Rowan Whitethorn was supremely uncomfortable.

The jacket was too tight, the pants were far too tight, and the stupidly massive wig his valet had placed atop his head made him look ridiculous, like a small child trying to play at being his father. He was barely fourteen--indeed, this whole elaborate costume ball was supposedly to celebrate his birthday--and yet his father insisted on the most pomp and ceremony possible for every event.

He didn't have the words or the heart to say he didn't want it.

"Son!" Prince Pyotr Whitethorn entered the room, regally imposing in his own ornate suit and towering wig. "Ah, lovely. You are ready!" Without waiting for an answer--because the Prince of Doranelle did not ask questions--he took hold of Rowan's arm and led him out towards the ballroom.

"Father." Rowan managed to pull free partway down the long hall. "I..."

"What, boy?" Pyotr looked crossly at his son. "We haven't the time for your nonsense."

Rowan gulped. "Might--might I see Mother before I go to the ball?"

"We do not--"

"It would be wise to allow the boy a visit." Gav, who had been Pyotr's valet for many years, interrupted. "To soothe his temper, as it were." Gav had long been skilled at the art of placating Pyotr, knowing precisely how to phrase his suggestions so Rowan's father would see reason.

"Very well," Pyotr relented. "I will be there momentarily, son."

Rowan bowed quickly and hurried off towards his mother's room, slowing down as he approached her door. He knocked twice--their secret knock--and entered, going silent as he walked over to his mother's bed.

Princess Enna Whitethorn laid pale and silent in her bed, her pine eyes fluttering weakly as her son came to her. "My son," she whispered, her voice a frail thread of breath.

"Mama," Rowan croaked, folding her wasted hands into his.

Enna managed a flicker of a smile. "I love you, my Rowan," she rasped. "To whatever end."

"Mama, please, don't go," he whispered back, heart cracking in two when she squeezed his hands.

His mother's face was placid, restful. "If only I could stay," she murmured, thumb brushing weakly over the back of his palm. "Now tell me, little hawk."

He gulped. "To--to whatever end."

Enna's lips twitched upwards, the only bit of joy she could express.

Then Pyotr's hand laid itself onto Rowan's shoulder, his father's commanding presence brooking no refusal, and Rowan was directed away from his mother's bedside, keeping his eyes--her eyes--trained onto her until the dark mahogany doors closed before his face.

"Stand tall, son." Pyotr murmured, his way of trying to encourage Rowan before they entered the ballroom. Despite his attempt, though, he couldn't quite mask the harsh undertone.

Rowan sniffed once, straightened his spine, and schooled his features into the same unfeeling neutrality he so often saw his father wear. "I'm ready."

Too many hours into the ball, Rowan lounged in his decidedly uncomfortable throne, wondering idly if his father had consumed enough liquor to let him escape unnoticed. He was on the verge of standing up to weave through the throng of dancers and slip out a side door when the entire room went dark.

A frigid gust swept through the expansive ballroom, extinguishing every flame and light in its path. Seconds later, thunder cracked through the grand hall, bringing a ripple of gasps and shrieks from the gathered people. Directly in front of the dais--directly in front of Rowan and his father--a writhing cloud of light took form, expanding and morphing into a female shape, a woman's form.

His...mother's form?

"Enna?" Pyotr inquired, frowning at the figure. "What on earth--"

"Silence." That was not Enna Whitethorn's voice. That was not the voice of the woman who comforted Rowan every time he sought out her gentle, loving warmth.

"Enna, what in the name--"

"I said, silence." The woman who was and was not Enna lifted a hand, cutting off Rowan's father's words. He opened and closed his mouth, trying in vain to force words out, until he was propelled back down into his throne. "You know why I am here, Pyotr."

Pyotr's face blanched and he gripped the arms of the throne, drilling the ferocity of his glare into the woman's face.

She wasn't intimidated in the slightest. "What is the price, Prince?"

No answer.

"You will respond to me." She flicked her fingers. "What is the price, Prince? What is the cost of this, your reign?"

"Th--that which I love the most," Pyotr rasped, the words escaping him against his will.

She nodded. "Indeed. Look before you, Prince Pyotr Whitethorn, and see the cost."

He swallowed harshly. "If the price is paid, go."

A soft, menacing laugh. "Foolish words, Prince. For how could you love anything more than your own self?" When he tried to respond, she silenced him once again and turned outward, towards the gathered crowd. "Hear me well, my people. See what befalls those who would care only for themselves." Threads of her light wrapped around Pyotr, coiling up his arms, his legs, his body. "See how the selfish one is repaid."

Rowan could do nothing but watch, stunned, as those threads dragged his father into the enchantress's--for that was what she was, his mother, an enchantress--light.

And then she turned to him. "Little hawk."

"M--mother?" he whispered.

Sorrow flickered briefly across her face. "I am sorry, my little hawk, but the price must be paid." Once again, threads of gold spiraled out, this time towards him.

This time, though, the threads wove around his head and heart, not to kill but only to curse.

"Until the prince learns the meaning of true love, let the loveless winter blight the land." Enna's voice was a thousand voices at once, layers of sound echoing through the great vaulted ballroom. "Until love is the meaning and foundation of this place, let the land reflect the heart and mind of the father." Those threads burned, and Rowan groaned, feeling the curse sink into the fabric of his being.

Gently, Enna brushed her hand across her son's cheek. "Fear not, my son," she murmured, now speaking only to him. "For you are my son, and I taught you to love." Her touch was a cooling balm after the burn of the curse. "Now tell me, Rowan. Promise me."

He forced back his tears. "To whatever end."

"To whatever end."

With that, Enna Whitethorn exploded into shards of glowing gold, the sparks shooting through the ballroom and re-igniting all the lights.

And Rowan collapsed backwards into his throne, shaking, a barrier of ice forming around his heart.

That ice--his mother's curse--protected him for years, keeping his heart sealed off and inaccessible. It was a blessing when the court abandoned him and his castle, when the land forgot the Whitethorn name and lands and stories. It was a blessing when, every so often, a lost traveler stumbled across the wintry territory and Rowan had to growl and menace the lost traveler away from his castle.

It was a curse, though, when he couldn't shed a single tear at his mother's grave.

It was a curse when he found himself growing into a moody, temperamental recluse with a bad habit of snapping at the handful of faithful staff who remained to care for the castle and the prince.

But Rowan had never been so aware that he was cursed as he was when he came face to face with a gorgeous woman in his prison tower, a woman protectively shielding the middle-aged man Rowan had caught trying to steal a rose from his mother's garden. She'd clearly picked the lock of the cell he'd thrown the man into, was clearly in the process of breaking him out.

And his soul screamed at him that this was the woman to break his curse.

He shoved his soul aside. "Who the hell are you?"

"None of your godsdamned business," the woman snapped, sparks kindling in the gold flecks of her eyes.

Rowan nearly growled. "You're trying to break out a prisoner I rightly claimed; it very much is my business."

"Rightly claimed?" she echoed, indignant. "My father was seeking shelter for the night, not trying to kill you."

"Seeking to steal from my lands, too." Enna's roses were incredibly precious to Rowan. It might have been a bit much to throw the man into a cell for marveling at the roses' beauty enough to try and pluck one, though.

The woman raised her chin in defiance. "My father was trying to bring me something I asked for. If it's a prisoner you want, take me. I'm the reason he tried to clip one of your roses."

"Aelin, no," the man whispered, trying to maneuver his daughter away from the cell.

She turned to face him, sorrow and determination in those beautiful eyes. "I'm sorry, Da." Then she pushed him aside, swung herself into the cell, and slammed the door shut before he could stop her. "Go, Da. I love you."

The man gulped, looked to Rowan's menacing stance, and took off down the stairs, running as fast as his legs would take him. Minutes later, the outer doors slammed shut.

Rowan glanced out the window to his left, watching the man gallop away on his horse. Then he turned back to the woman, striding right up to the cell door to glare down at her. At Aelin. Gods, but the name suited her--and struck something in his curse-frozen heart.

She glared right back, unflinching. "Are you just going to stand and scowl, or do you have better things to do, prince?" She spat his title like a curse.

"You took his place." Rowan was not expecting his voice to soften like that--like there was something human in him after all.

"Some of us possess human qualities," she scoffed.

Just like that, the curse shot ice through his veins. His expression shuttered. "You are not to leave this castle unless and until I release you," he recited. He'd had this little speech down for a few years at least. "The staff will bring your food. Do not even think about escaping--the castle knows me and I know it."

Aelin rolled her eyes. "Anything else?"

He had no words. So he just took his lantern and stalked away, ignoring the faint little voice inside of him that had, despite his efforts, returned to yell at him not to leave her there like that. That voice sounded suspiciously like hope.

And if there was one thing Rowan Whitethorn had learned from a decade under the curse, it was that hope had no place in his heart.

~~~

TAGS (please lmk if you want to be added or removed!):

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@chronicchthonic14

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

#my writing #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #beauty and the beast inspired #beauty and the beast au #a rose as red as blood #pls be nice 🥺#i've been wanting to write this forever

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flowercrowngods · 11 months

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part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (these make one big story, you won't understand this part without the others)

day 04: here come the tears

a/n: the people have requested a surprise eddie pov and i have decided to pull a eurovision and ignore the public vote, just a little bit. but you get a tiny eddie pov, as a treat 🤍

Steve is crying. It's 1:07 a.m. and Steve is crying. And there is nothing Eddie can do about it as he's lying in bed, his heart breaking further with every passing second that they lie there in silence, quiet sniffles carrying over the phone.

Steve is crying and Eddie is breaking. Steve is not talking to him and Eddie is breaking. Steve is not okay, and neither is Eddie. They're both breaking.

And Eddie doesn't know what to do about it, how to fix it. How to make it better. How to tell Steve that he misses him, how to ask him to talk to him, how to keep him. To stop him from slipping through his fingers further and further until all there is is silence.

"You know," his mind wanders back to years ago, his heart cracking at the memory. "I had the biggest crush on him for the longest time. Forever, really."

He remembers the way Steve's eyebrows shot up, his eyes round with... shock? Surprise? Or maybe something bad?

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Eddie had chuckled, fiddling with the straw in his drink to give his hands something to do. "Remember that kiss?" Steve nodded. "Well." Another chuckle, awkward this time, and possibly too revealing.

Steve grinned at him, a self satisfied smirk that wavers just a little. "So you're saying you did fall madly in love with me, Munson?"

Eddie's breath had hitched a little because Steve remembered those words so perfectly that had since doomed Eddie completely. But he covered it up with a laugh so easily, he was sure Steve didn't notice.

"Maybe," he grinned. "But eh, that's in the past."

It wasn't a lie; not really. But wasn't the truth either.

The truth was that Eddie had moved on. The truth was that it's the kind of crush that was never really a crush. The kind that is a Forever more than anything else.

The kind that will always be there, a flame burning inside my chest that carries your name and keeps it alive, keeps me warm. The kind of flame that will always be ready to become a bonfire again. Just say the word, Stevie. It's written in the universe. Say the word and I'll be yours.

"Good," Steve said after a while, and Eddie remembers frowning, remembers that he wanted to ask what that tone was, what Steve was thinking. If he was worried or disgusted or felt betrayed that Eddie's been so hopelessly and helplessly in love with him.

But all he said was, "Yeah. Remember Chrissy? We're kinda official now."

And Eddie had known then just as he does now, that he'll be a happy man with Chrissy. She's his best friend, a sunshine on bleak days. She's no Steve, but she makes him happy. He had to move on from Steve – to try – and allow himself his own kind of happiness. He'd never expected to find it with Chrissy, but he loves her so much. He's grown to love her in the past years – not the movie kind of love, not the all-encompassing Steve kind of love, because that flame inside his chest can still only carry one name.

But life is not a movie. And love is not always a fire. But he's still warm, still content, still happy. And so is Chrissy. She knows about his flame, says she understands. Eddie thinks he has one of her own, but he never asked; just held her that night, creating more of that silent happiness.

…Is he happy? Lying in bed, listening to Steve's quiet breaths that are barely audible over the phone, remembering the kiss, the confession, the Forever that he tried to move on from, he wonders what he's doing. Wonders if that contentment is worthwhile if it somehow lead him to losing Steve.

Did he miss something? Did he fuck up without realising?

He can't ask; Steve won't talk.

All he can do is lie there and feel that flame that still carries Steve's name after ten, eleven, twelve years scorching his insides.

All he can do is wonder if the whispered, "Good night, Stevie. I miss you," is some kind of goodbye. All he can do is lie awake all night and wonder where they started losing each other.

~*~

Missing Eddie is worse than loving him. Missing Eddie makes it feel like all the heartbreak songs are written for Steve and his pain that will persist.

It’s been three months since the engagement party, and the sharp, biting heartache that cut into his lungs every time Steve tried to take a deep breath has dulled now, turned into a constant ache, an emptiness, the sorrowful traces of where an I love you turned into an I miss you.

He’s barely talking to Eddie anymore, and with every passing day he just misses him more.

Steve types the words I miss you over and over and over again, but never hits send. Just stares at them, wondering if Eddie knows. Wondering if he’s doing the right thing. He isn’t. There is no right thing. Nothing is right. Not without Eddie.

He scrolls up in their chat, past Eddie’s questions if he’s okay, past his very own I miss yous, up and up and up to the strings of hearts, to the inside jokes, to the gentle teasing, to the You’re my favourite persons, to the happiness and joy and good, good times.

He scrolls and scrolls until his phone vibrates and tells him there’s a new message in the chat. Steve frowns, his hollow heart racing as he scrolls down again to see Eddie’s new message.

Eddie Munson: — Can I come over?

Steve frowns.

— why? are you okay?

Eddie Munson: — No. — Nothing is okay. You’re gone and you’re not talking to me and I miss you and I’m losing you and I don’t know why — I dont know anything. — I just wanna know, wanna talk, wanna understand — I wanna fix this. I fucked up, I think, and I wanna make it better. — I need to talk to you — Please. Please can I come over

Steve swallows hard, as he reads the incoming messages over and over again, watching the little bubble that says Eddie’s typing still. Watching as it disappears and reappears, reading until his eyes begin to sting and his vision is blurred with tears for the first time this week.

Letting them fall as he types,

— no. please dont

Eddie doesn’t reply to that, and Steve breathes out long and hard, throwing his phone to the side, not caring where it lands on the couch as he slumps over to the other side, turning up the music even louder.

Oh, can you tell I haven’s slept very well Since the last time that we spoke. I said, ‘Please understand I’ve been drinking again And all I do is hope.’

It consumes him, this song and the way it was written for him. The way it was written about him. Because he has no right to ask Eddie to stay. He’s the one who’s leaving. He’s the one not telling Eddie what is wrong, why he’s pulling back so suddenly.

I’m not strong enough for the both of us. What was I supposed to do, You know I love you. Please, stay.

Please stay. Please, please, please stay. It’s about him. It’s about Eddie. About them.

And Steve listens to it over and over again, not caring that his neighbours will know it by heart by know, will be so tired of him wallowing for weeks and months, and will come knocking soon. He doesn’t care, not when Mayday Parade are singing, All the love’s still there, I just don’t know what to do with it now.

He types that into Eddie’s chat. Doesn’t hit send. Sends it to Robin instead, and gets a shaking hands emoji in return. It makes him smile as he re-starts the song.

~*~

That night, he wakes around 2 a.m. to a missed call an hour ago and one new message on his mailbox. He lifts his phone to his ear with shaking hands and bated breath, a pit opening in his stomach when he hears the Judas Priest song that’s been in his Sad Eddie playlist since the beginning.

His heart cracks open when he hears Eddie’s sniffle, a heavy sigh, and another sniffle, followed by a little, Fuck.

“Stevie? I’m… You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to just— to just disappear. To slip through my fucking fingers, or float away like a— a dream, when you wake up, and you wanna go back to sleep because it was a good dream, and you— I don’t wan’ you to be a good dream Steve. You’re like… Fuck, man!”

Eddie’s voice is breaking, and so is Steve’s heart as his hand begins to tremble and he sits up in bed, closing his eyes, squeezing them shut because he doesn’t want to see the world as Eddie’s rambling at him.

“I miss you. I miss you so much, and I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t… I don’t wanna miss you. How do I get you back, Stevie? Please just… God, please just talk to me. I’d do anything for you, you know that. Just tell me, just say the word. Just… Just say the word, please.”

There’s silence after that, only Judas Priest’s Here come the tears over and over as the song is ending. Steve is crying as he listens to Eddie’s silence.

“Just. Just… Please, Stevie.”

The call ends then, the line cutting to the staticky voice instructing him to save or delete the message. Steve saves it. He doesn’t know why.

He also doesn’t know why he’s scrolling through his contacts with trembling hands and hits Call when he reaches Eddie.

The call doesn’t even get to the second ring before it’s picked up already.

“Stevie?” Eddie sounds breathless, wild, and just a little hoarse. Like he was still crying.

“Hi,” he says lamely, still shaking, a little breathless himself, and with absolutely no idea what he should say.

“I’m… Hi.”

Silence falls, and Steve wipes at his eyes. He’s still in bed, just sitting there with his phone pressed to his ear, and the ball that’s coiled inside him is growing larger and larger with each passing second that he doesn’t say Sorry, that he doesn’t say I miss you, too. That he doesn’t say I love you.

“Can I come in?”

He blinks, the question throwing him off his thought spiral. “Huh?”

“I’m sort of… outside your building right now.”

Why, he wants to ask. No, he wants to say. You’re gonna see, you’re gonna know, you’re gonna hate me forever.

“Okay,” he breathes and climbs out of bed, blanket around his shoulders despite the summer heat, because suddenly he’s freezing. He buzzes Eddie in, listens to him on the phone as he walks up the stairs, neither of them thinking of hanging up, and opens his doors with shaking, trembling hands.

tagging: @sexymothmanincarnate @mcneen @livsters @eddiemunchondeeznuts @abstractnaturaldisaster @steddie-as-they-go @hyperfixationgoddess @goodolefashionedloverboi @stxrcrossed186 @imzadidragonfly @eddiemunsonswife @bidisastersworld @ghost-ly-s @romanticdestruction @walkingaftermidnight07 @anaibis @rainydays35 @mightbeasleep @sunfloweringstories @korixae @tuesdaycats @totoroinatardis @ilovebookshowboutyou @musical-theatre-gay @theluckyalien @copingmechanizm @srra @changelingbaby @sassygoop @obsessivelyme @r0binscript (sorry if i missed anyone just give me a shout if i did <3)and thanks to everyone who said nice things about this 🤍🌷

come back tomorrow/later for [redacted] | read here

#steddie fic #steddie #steddieweek2023 #steddie week fic #steve harrington whump #eddie munson whump #dio words #hi uhm. please nobody be mean to eddie for moving on or think he's emotionally two-timing chrissy i swear i'll try to make it make sense #but moving on is good and healthy pls don't give him shit for it <3 sometimes in life that's what happens #also thank you all for being so nice to me legit all your comments and tags keep me going 🥺😭🤍🌷 thank yous

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