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queerofthedagger · 1 year

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all this growth and this decay

[Steddie | T+ | 2,9k | ao3]

you will open your wounds / and make them a garden —Wale Ayinla

One of the weirder things in the aftermath of hell dimensions and surviving by the skin of his teeth is seeing Steve Harrington kneel in the middle of a flowerbed, elbow-deep in soil.

Eddie watches him for a little longer than he probably should; the methodical movements of his hands, hair pushed back carelessly, the skin revealed by the loose tank top that, frankly, should not be doing it as much for Eddie as it does.

Sue him; he survived the apocalypse, so he might as well enjoy the aftermath.

“If you’re determined on staring, Munson, at least hand me the hose, will you?” Steve says without turning around, not sounding too bothered about it. Eddie’s still glad that the sticky summer heat hides the flush that rises to his cheeks at having been caught.

“What are you doing anyway?” he asks, once he nudges Steve with the hose and drops down to sit next to him on the warm stone.

Beyond the property, the forest is humming with the August afternoon, everything bright and languid and achingly peaceful.

“If the bushes aren’t taken care of regularly—“

“Not that,” Eddie cuts in with a huff of laughter. “Why are you gardening in the first place? Didn’t exactly take you for the homey type.”

Steve cuts a glance at him, all raised brow and judgmental twist to his mouth. “What, not metal enough for you? Expecting me to chew on Demobats in my free time?”

“Yikes, don’t say that. You know what I mean.”

Steve shrugs, all casual, and scans the rose he has been working on as if it is the most fascinating thing in the world.

Eddie looks at Steve the same way, so perhaps it is a good thing that Steve isn’t looking back.

“Do you know what a pain rose bushes are if you let them run riot?”

Eddie doesn’t; if anyone had asked him ten minutes ago if he thought that Steve Harrington might have the answer, he would have laughed.

Which, really, is probably on him; the last couple of months should have gotten him used to Steve constantly flipping the script on him.

“Still, didn’t expect you to do it yourself,” he says, watching the careful way Steve’s hands push the soil into place.

Steve shrugs, still not looking at Eddie. “It’s nice. I don’t mind.”

It’s the way he says it, quiet and a little tired; or perhaps it’s the way he brushes his fingers over the dark green leaves, his expression oddly pensive. Or, perhaps, it’s all Eddie reading into things—in the end, it doesn’t really matter.

In the end, he watches as Steve waters the rose bushes, careful not to wet the leaves, and chews on the feeling that the explanation he has been given covers only the smallest part of it.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t explain why Hawkins High’s former king suddenly took up gardening; fortunately, Eddie has always liked a bit of a riddle.

---

For the most part, Eddie does not, in fact, think too much about it. Between navigating Hawkins and its continued animosity, the kids, and his ever-growing crush, it isn’t exactly among the top ten things he has on his mind.

He’s reminded of it once October rolls around, the days golden and cool in the evenings.

He spends most of his time at the Harrington residence these days, some nights with Robin, others—most—only the two of them, talking and watching movies and spinning fantastical plans for a future that Eddie still struggles to believe he is allowed to have.

It’s a rainy afternoon, the first real cold one of the season, when he arrives after his physical therapy. Truth be told, the main reason he still goes at all is that Max would never forgive him if he quit, and he still hasn’t learned how to say no to her in the slightest.

The house lies quiet and dim when he lets himself in, which is unusual in itself. For the briefest second, panic wants to climb up his spine, but he pushes it down. Takes a deep breath and walks through the foyer into the living room, and the air still trips out of his lungs with relief when he finds the patio door open, curtains billowing.

The rain has slowed to a drizzle, but puddles are scattered across the porch, and the ground beyond is a riot of colors from the maple trees’ leaves.

On the far end, Steve is kneeling in front of the rose bushes, a stack of cut fir branches beside him.

Eddie grimaces at the gray sky and pulls his jacket closer around himself. In the end, his curiosity wins out, though (or, if he’s honest it’s all concern, but these days any pretense about all the godforsaken emotions Steve causes in him is a welcome one, in Eddie’s books. There is only so much a guy can take before he has to have some serious concerns for his own sanity).

“Hey,” Steve says, once Eddie comes up to him. “I didn’t expect you back this early; you can wait inside if you want, no use in us both getting drenched.”

It’s such a Steve thing to say. Eddie’s fingers are itching to run through Steve’s wet hair, to tip his head back. To make him look at Eddie, perhaps become a horrible, pathetic cliché and kiss him right here in the quiet rain.

“What are you doing here anyway?” he asks instead, burying his hands in his pockets.

“Winter-proofing,” Steve says, as if that makes any sense. “They dislike soil frost.”

Eddie blinks. “Okay but—can that not wait until it’s, you know. Not raining?”

It finally gets Steve to look up at him, a small crease between his brows. The hoodie he is wearing is washed out, fraying at the seams, and he looks tired.

Then again, he always does; it is just rare not to see him pretend otherwise.

“It’s impossible to say how far the temperature will drop tonight. Really though, just wait inside, I’ll be done in a moment.”

His hands are dirty with soil, pink with the cold. There are pine needles everywhere, the smell of them mixing with the rain.

By now, Eddie likes to believe that he has come to know Steve fairly well—hell, it would be quite sad if he didn’t, considering how much time they spend in each other’s pockets.

It’s clearly important, he can see that much. It’s clearly something Steve doesn’t necessarily want to explain, although Eddie is mostly sure that he could needle an answer out of him if he tried.

He’s strangely reluctant to do so, though; the thing he doesn’t understand—about the importance of rose bushes, about Steve’s sudden brittleness, about his own hesitation—is why.

It doesn’t stop him from curling a hand around Steve’s shoulder briefly, squeezing. From saying, “Alright, I’ll warm up some food then,” and letting his hand linger for a moment, for just this little bit more warmth, before going back inside, leaving Steve to his garden.

---

Eddie grows used to Steve’s strange affinity for plants, ironically, when winter washes across the land and most of his gardening gets focused on the various indoor plants that somehow, Eddie hasn’t paid much attention to before.

It’s a thing, though, their presence and Steve’s calm care for them; his herbs on the windowsill in the kitchen, thyme and mint, rosemary and sage and basil. The orchids in the living room that seem fickle even to Eddie, and the ivy climbing up the balustrade of the stairs.

It’s a thing, even when Eddie moves from spending the nights in the guest room to spending them in Steve’s bed, legs tangled together, mouth to skin. When still, some nights, he wakes up alone, knowing he missed one of Steve’s nightmares. How he finds him tending to one plant or another, steady hands and quiet voice.

Eddie will wrap his arms around Steve’s waist, those nights, letting the warm weight of his body leaning back against Eddie’s chest calm them both; he still knows that if he asked, Steve would tell him.

These days, it is more a matter of feeling that he should get it than the charm of a riddle, but something about it remains just out of reach.

---

Spring crawls across the land slowly, spindly fingers pushing back against the seemingly ever-lasting gray. All thoughts on gardening aside, Eddie cannot wait—for longer days, for fewer clothes, for all of his, Steve’s, and Robin’s plans that wear titles like Chicago and two-bedroom apartment.

For now, though, March is still struggling to assert itself, and Eddie is picking up Max from physical therapy. She has been getting better, can walk mostly fine without a cane, and the progress of the last couple of months has made her a little lighter, too.

Still, there is some kinship between them about the months they spent listening to Mrs. Parker droning on about exercises and discipline, about the gritted teeth and pulling scar tissue, and how this godforsaken town has never learned to mind its own business.

They are driving down Maple Street, Bowie playing quietly because it’s a compromise they both can live with. It’s a detour, but it’s Wednesday, which means the market stalls downtown are open, which means they are going to get donuts from that one stall that makes them with enough sugar that they can feel their teeth rot in real time.

Eddie pulls into the parking lot and ignores Max as she climbs out of the van—their deal, after all; he doesn’t help, so she lets him pay. If it works, and all that.

It’s busy, which, of course, doesn’t stop people from staring, but they ignore it. Eddie thinks that if there is one thing he would like to leave behind once he finally gets out of this hellhole, it is for Max to let all the small-town bullshit roll right off her.

Eddie’s never mastered it as well as he would have liked, but he has high hopes for her.

They get their donuts—dark chocolate for him, glazed for her—and huddle around one of the bar tables somewhat out of the way.

It’s when he sees it, one of the stalls at the far end of the market. It’s not been around the last couple of months, ever since autumn made Steve cover his garden with branches of fir, but Eddie remembers it from last year.

He nudges Max, keeping his voice casual when he says, “Hey, mind if we stop at the plant stall for a moment?”

“Sure,” she merely says, her grin knowing, and pops the last bit of her donut into her mouth.

There is a reason she’s his favorite, really.

Truth is, Eddie has no fucking clue about plants whatsoever, and until he started being friends with Steve, he did not much care either. He can admit, though, that there is something pretty about it, and perhaps that’s the point; to make that empty house into a bit more of a home, some self-chosen colors amongst whatever nightmarish monster of decoration the elder Harringtons had let lose however long ago.

He runs his fingers over the petals of some tulips when Max says, “Don’t get cut ones.”

Eddie turns to frown at her. “What?”

“Bouquets; he doesn’t like them.”

Under different circumstances, Eddie may have at least tried to pretend that he didn’t know who she was talking about, but he has been turning over the matter of Steve and gardening for well over half a year now. Steve has never been much help, all Eddie’s assumptions that he could simply ask aside, and no matter how much he has turned it over and over, it always felt like he was missing something obvious. Something that he should get.

So, Max remarking upon Steve’s preferences for flowers, of all things, makes any urge to pretend take a backseat.

“Why not? They are less work, aren’t they? Put them in a vase, give them some water—“

“—Watch them die,” she interrupts with a shrug. She isn’t looking at him. “He likes the work, though; to keep them alive, watch them grow.”

And oh. Oh, Eddie is a goddamn idiot, isn’t he, he thinks as his heart stumbles into a violently painful rhythm.

Steve with his nail bat crusty with blood, always jumping in first; Steve, always ready to be the one to pick the fight, kill the monster, do what needs to be done. Offer up his rose-thorned heart to spare everyone else their shreds of remaining innocence.

Eddie swallows the revelation down like burning absinthe, and if Max notices his sudden unsteadiness, she is kind enough to keep it to herself. He asks the old woman inside the stall for her most long-living plant, barely pays attention to the price, and tugs the dragon tree sapling under his arm as he and Max make their way back to the van.

He has no idea yet what to do with this new piece of information, isn’t even sure Steve is aware of why he’s doing this himself. What he does know is this; if he were to love Steve Harrington for the rest of their days, it still would not be enough.

Fuck him if he isn’t going to try, though.

---

When he finds Steve in the kitchen cutting herbs, of all things, he kind of wants to cry, although it would feel rather selfish, all things considered.

So he carefully puts the sapling on the counter and offers Steve a smile when he turns, raising a brow at the plant first, at Eddie second.

Eddie crosses the distance and wraps his arms around Steve’s waist from behind; slips his hands beneath the worn sweater, traces the path of the scars. With his forehead between Steve’s shoulders, he breathes and breathes and breathes.

“Hey, you okay?” Steve asks when the silence stretches. He turns in Eddie’s arms, knife forgotten and hands heartbreakingly gentle on Eddie’s face. “You’re starting to freak me out a bit here, sweetheart.”

Eddie laughs and it comes out wet, but god. God.

“Difficult to explain,” he says, because damn it, this shouldn’t be about him, this shouldn’t be—

“Try me, then,” Steve counters, mouth quirking.

Eddie loves him so much, it would be enough to grow a garden of its own.

“That’s why you do it, isn’t it?” he says, not making any sense. “The plants, the gardening, taking care of them—something to keep alive, to take care of? To… I don’t know, something good.”

Steve’s brows furrow, his eyes skittering away, through the kitchen, back to Eddie. The afternoon light is soaking tentatively inside, and it has been a long time since Eddie has felt this untethered; he’s not sure why this feels so monumental, only that it does. That he shouldn’t have missed this.

“I’m not sure…” Steve starts, shaking his head, shoulders tensing. “It’s not that deep, honestly, just—“

“Steve.” Eddie’s voice doesn’t break, but it’s a close thing.

Steve sighs. “It’s… Nice. To make something grow for once, you know, instead of…”

“Yeah,” Eddie whispers, his voice rough. He leans his forehead against Steve’s, breathes him in. “Yeah, I think I get it.”

Because he does, is the thing, the same way he has been pouring himself into their relationship, into his friendships with the kids, with Nancy and Robin and Jonathan. The same way he is tired, so tired of destruction and decay; he has no idea how much more true this must ring for Steve.

He still thinks that he should have gotten this sooner, that it should have been obvious, but he doesn’t apologize. Perhaps, in the end, it doesn’t matter, isn’t really about him or them. Either way, Steve seems content enough where he is, breathing slow and even in the dim kitchen, the smell of thyme and sage still lingering.

“So,” Eddie finally says, pulling back just far enough to grin at Steve. “Update for the flat search then, huh? A garden, or at least a balcony; can’t risk having you take up knitting next, my tattered reputation would not survive self-knitted scarves.”

Steve’s laughter is unexpected and bright, his head falling back so that Eddie can trace the familiar spattering of moles. He nuzzles his nose against it, the crook of Steve’s neck his favorite place in the world.

“Christ, but I love you,” Steve murmurs, his voice turning quiet once more.

It isn’t the first time either of them has said it, but Eddie’s heart still jumps and trips all over itself. He takes Steve’s face between his hands, makes sure to hold his gaze. Says, “For what it’s worth, I think we are growing this, too, just fine.”

He kisses Steve before he can answer, but he doesn’t miss when the dragon tree ends up on the windowsill of their bedroom that same night, re-potted and watered with care.

He doesn’t miss the way Steve’s fingers clench into his skin, trembling and desperate, when Eddie whispers, “Good, you are so good, Steve,” a vow pressed into his skin.

Eddie makes a second one—hours later when Steve is long since asleep—that he won’t stop saying it until Steve believes him, too.

#st #stranger things #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #mona's writing

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poemaseletras · 9 months

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ENCONTRE UM AUTOR:

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#frases #textos #citações #livros #autores #escritores #books

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morepeachyogurt · 6 months

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studies of light

#web weaving #parallels #light #on light #wounds #the light as a wound #ocean vuong #richard siken #anne carson #ada limón #alexander harding #erin slaughter #sun yung shin #mine <3

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liyazaki · 2 years

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Kinn carries himself with the relaxed ease of an heir born to inherit a throne, and the singular, brutal focus required to keep it. The first time we see him, he casually shoots a man point-blank without a sideways glance (literally)- not out of necessity, but as an almost-aside power play.

Time & time again, we've watched him seamlessly transition from compassionate and thoughtful to icy calculation in the blink of an eye. He lives life on a razor’s edge and makes it all look easy…effortless, even.

These qualities alone would make for a fascinating character, but the pièce de résistance: the more time we spend with Kinn, the more his complexity grows.

The glowing, beaming Kinn in the forest scenes of episode six was so far removed from the man we had seen so far, he could almost pass for another person entirely. It would require an enormous amount of mental and emotional effort for most people to slip in and out of starkly-different personas like they’re a second skin, but Kinn does it on the regular.

Note: there are plenty of brilliant meta posts out there analyzing the decisions Kinn makes, the way he leads, etc., so I won’t be delving into that here. When I’m trying to understand why a character acts the way they do or anticipate what they might do next, I always go back to back to the beginning- both in the literal sense (their past), but also to the fundamental building blocks of who they are. I won’t be going into any theories here, either (Jesus, Mor; WTF are you even writing, then?).

My goal here is to establish a baseline of what makes Kinn, Kinn, because everything else- his choices, his mistakes, his strengths and weaknesses- all flow from it. I'm also fascinated by why Porsche appeals to Kinn in this fundamental, elemental sort of way, which ties back big-time to that character baseline.

You are waiting inside your father’s shadow. -Wale Ayinla, Portrait of a Boy with Grief

Always deferential to his father, Kinn takes his duty as the obedient heir apparent very seriously. This undoubtedly comes just as much from the drive to fulfill his obligations to his family- and keep them safe by extension- as it does from a baser, fundamental need for love and approval. In Kinn’s world, both are irrevocably tied up in the harsh realities of being a part of Bangkok’s strongest mafia family.

All three Theerapanyakul brothers were born into a bloody, no-win game. There is no opt-out option, no alternative to this life they're in. There is no room for flawed, human sons with needs and desires and concerns and hurts- well, not the heir, anyway. Work-life separation can’t exist here, and forget any expectation of autonomy: in this world, choosing any other kind of life is tantamount to betrayal.

In almost every conversation Kinn and Korn have, the focus remains the same: the family- the mafia family- always comes first. When conversations take the rare turn toward the personal, Korn always redirects the focus back to the business, painting a picture of a father-son relationship based not on unconditional love and acceptance, but on performance, strategy and success.

Caring equals vulnerability. Never show either. -Malorie Blackman, Knife Edge

Constantly playing chess both literally and figuratively, Korn is such an intelligent strategist, I’m sure he’s only too aware of the softer, sensitive Kinn underneath the persona- a fact that he’ll undoubtedly use to his advantage at some point. Korn knows how his son ticks, and I can see him trying to use that knowledge to keep Kinn exactly where he wants him: firmly under his thumb.

Case in point: Korn pressing a finger into the metaphorical wound in reminding Kinn of how things turned out the last time he fell in love.

Like the saying goes, “when someone shows you who they are, believe them.” No scene gives us as much insight into Korn than the conversation he and Kinn have at the dining room table.

Kinn is so fresh out of the hospital that he’s still hooked up to a machine monitoring his vitals. Korn briefly acknowledges his injuries before getting to the task at hand: giving Kinn a history lesson in how his love for Kinn’s mother distracted him from his goals, and by inference, from what’s really important.

She wants you to be a god. -Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

At the end of his speech, Korn hands Kinn a piece of an apple, telling him to come back to his family- that they’re waiting for him. Kinn hesitates before casting his gaze downwards, then taking and eating the apple with silent resignation.

There are so many symbolic interpretations here, but the heart of it is that this is far from a sentimental, fatherly request: Korn is asking Kinn to rise above the “distractions” he couldn’t, above the joys essential to the human experience.

To elevate himself beyond common humanity and essentially 'become a god' (meant in the literal sense in the quote's source material, but too good of a quote not to use here). Be everything his brothers could not, or would not. Take on the mantle. Earn the love.

Kinn is motivated by familial duty beyond his father, too. Tankhun's kidnapping likely created little ripples of trauma in the family that went well beyond him- and there’s no way it was dealt with in a healthy way- or more likely, dealt with or acknowledged at all.

At some point, Kinn- the middle child- stepped up and took on the burden of leadership that was meant for Tankhun. While we don't have the full story yet (if we ever will), he probably did it with zero complaints. The only moment when we get a hint at how much the his role weighs on him- and the fairness of him having to bear it- is in his (micro) confession in the woods with Porsche.

Left to his own devices in the shadow of Korn's expectations, Kinn would never able to fully step into whoever he could be (or may have been)- all in this insidiously-intelligent way that masquerades as freedom. The epitome of the gilded cage. Is it any wonder Korn seems to consider love & human connection the ultimate threat?

You wanted to be in love again. To feel that feeling where a man you hardly know gazes into your eyes & seems to be the only human being who ever understood the real you. -Nancy Horan, Loving Frank Kiss me & you’ll see how important I am. -Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals

Before Porsche enters the picture, Kinn is getting by on whatever scraps of pseudo-affection he can get (read: booty calls kept at a careful emotional distance) while pouring himself into his responsibilities to escape the pain of the past. In public, he's all princely grace, ease and power personified. In private, he's hurting but he's an island, and it shows.

From an outside perspective, Porsche is the polar opposite of Kinn and the life he leads. When Kinn looks at Porsche, though? Like a mirror*, I think he sees the truest version of himself reflected back: bright, filled with joy and laughter and life. The man he would've liked to have been always, not just in small moments hidden away from judgmental eyes, and a life that doesn’t allow for anything less than absolute strength and perfection.

*I've mentioned many times how Porsche is like mirror in that he reflects back whatever he's given (or not given). I think the analogy applies to Kinn's experience beautifully, just in a completely different way.

The first time we see Kinn smile- and I mean, really smile- was with Porsche on the dance floor. He felt comfortable enough in Porsche’s presence to drop the facade and allow himself to get carried away in pure, simple joy. When Kinn leaned in to kiss Porsche on the dock, he moved toward him like he was a magnet- a flower stretching toward the sun. And who wouldn't after meeting someone who personified everything you wanted to be while simultaneously being so incredibly easy to love?

It is perhaps when our lives are at their most problematic that we are likely to be most receptive to beautiful things. -Alain de Botton

Despite every logical reason why he shouldn’t have gotten involved with Porsche, of all people- who drove him borderline insane in the beginning, to boot- shadows can only resist the sunlight for so long, or all the life and new possibilities its warmth brings with it.

I think this is the unique appeal of Porsche to Kinn: when he sees Porsche smile that megawatt grin or throw his head back with full-body, unrestrained laughter, he doesn’t just see the best parts of himself. A hope for more- for just one more taste of this delicious, new sort of life- starts to grow there, too.

I see you, beneath the surface. I see your untamable wild. I see you… You are seen. You are seen. You are seen. And my god- you are beautiful. -Jeanette LeBlanc

We all crave the feeling of being truly seen, romantically or otherwise- to have someone intrinsically know us, who easily sees through our all niceties and public-facing facades to the soul underneath. Porsche does this for Kinn just by virtue of being himself. And for a man who’s had to be everything but himself his whole life? That’s everything.

In a world where dropping your guard could mean death, just being in Porsche’s presence must feel a little like freedom to Kinn. Porsche is likely one of the realest, most straightforward people Kinn’s ever encountered: he can’t be bought, he doesn’t need or want anything from Kinn, and he’s violently (affectionate) himself at all times. That kind of unapologetic authenticity would be pretty attractive to most of us, let alone to a man with a past and upbringing like Kinn’s.

The Kinn we meet in episode 1 seemed to be carrying the world on his shoulders- like he's already lived several lives, all of them filled with constant danger and betrayal. Porsche having a tattoo of the symbolic representation of resurrection- of life after death- couldn’t illustrate just how much he means to Kinn more beautifully.

When we hold each other in the darkness, it doesn't make the darkness go away. The bad things are still out there. The nightmares still walking. When we hold each other we feel not safe, but better… For just a moment or two, the darkness doesn't seem so bad. -Neil Gaiman

Kinn in love is practically lit from within, radiating childlike joy. The more Kinn and Porsche find meaning and connection with each other, the more we see the truest, most fundamental version of Kinn emerge- and it’s a beautiful thing.

There’s nothing performative in the least between them; no metric of perfection Kinn needs to meet first to earn and keep Porsche’s affection. The tender, kind, softer side of Kinn isn’t just seen by Porsche, but celebrated.

There's some sad poetry here, too- in Kinn experiencing carefree happiness like this possibly for the first time (or for the first time in a long time), if only his world were different.

While the grim realities of Kinn’s world probably never completely disappear when he’s with Porsche, his love makes the darkness more bearable- worth the struggle, even. The world lifts off his shoulders for a minute, and for the first time in probably a good long while, he’s Kinn- just Kinn.

I know you’ll speak no truth at this time. I’m to be guided solely by your silence, your eyes & the inaudible appeals of your heart. -Suman Pokhrel

Kinn has been brutally betrayed in the past: his struggle (Porsche’s, too) will be in letting himself go and allowing himself to trust. That sounds pedestrian enough- who doesn’t struggle in some way or another in letting other people in?- but this is going to require a monumental amount of vulnerability for a man in Kinn’s position.

It’s the equivalent of a lion going against his every instinct to willingly expose his throat, only to then show you exactly where to make the killing cut. He’s had a lifetime’s worth of lessons taught to him by his father, his environment and his own lived experience, all working against this fragile, beautiful new connection he’s found.

With everything Kinn stands to lose- and the losses and heartbreak he’s survived to get here- the fact that he can love and hope at all is a testament to his incredible inner strength.

It also makes his every surrender to Porsche’s love- big and small- that much more meaningful.

(I'm sure I could've wrapped this up more poignantly somehow, but I'm 8+ cumulative hours in at this point & now the flu** is trying to kill me, so. hope you got something out what feels like a giant nothing burger to me at this point 🙃)

**edit: that flu? she was COVID. I feel like one of those fan fic writers that apologizes in the notes for being late on posting the chapter because they gave birth or something, except I, uh- finished this while hacking up a lung? ignore me; I have a fever)