"Steve!"
Eddie stages-whispers his boyfriend's name before he has even reached the bedroom. He furiously rubs his bare arms, shaking from the cold.
He'd dried off as best he could downstairs, first kicking off his muddied boots at the front door. He discarded his soaked shirt and (likely ruined) jacket in the laundry, settling for drying his hair with a dishcloth he had nabbed on the way.
He has probably left wet footprints all through the house, but the mark they will leave on Mrs Harrington's hardwood floors is a problem for Tomorrow Eddie.
"Steve! Psst! Steve! Steve... Steeeeeve," he says, focusing on Right-Fucking-Now Eddie as he toes his wet socks off in the doorway.
He hobbles along, shivering as he reaches the foot of the bed. Of course, being left to fall asleep alone during a rainstorm, Steve has completely starfished across the bed.
And he is snoring. Loud.
"Steve!" he not-so-much whispers this time, he taps the exposed foot sticking out from under the covers and begins peeling off his soaked jeans.
They stick to his legs and he stumbles sideways, catching himself on the edge of the bed just before he hits the floor. The move practically jolts the mattress a solid inch. But Steve doesn't move. He merely snorts, all wet and throaty (it's gross). He then groans and retracts his foot back under the blanket.
"Dude!" Eddie yelps, slapping a hand to his forehead.
This is what he gets for insisting Corroded Coffin still play their scheduled Tuesday night gig at The Hideout when Hawkins was supposed to receive the worst rainfall in three years overnight. And of course, the pretty weather lady in her green dress and gigantic side ponytail on the local news was more than correct.
"Mrmphf."
Finally, something.
He ducks down onto the floor, feeling around in the darkness for a t-shirt, a sweater, those silly boyish pyjama pants Steve wears... Anything that is dry and preferably warm. His hand touches something and he kneads it.
Okay, so maybe not Steve's Family Video vest.
He shakes his fist in the air and growls as he tosses it. Now on his hands and knees, he scrambles around. Carpet... Carpet... Steve's jeans... A sock... Carpet... The jacket he decided not to wear tonight... Another sock...
Bingo! A sweater.
A sweater that smells like Steve's cologne and fruity shampoo. Eddie shudders. Or maybe it's more that he doubles over in a rain-induced shiver.
He shucks it on and moves to his designated side of the bed, teeth chattering all the way.
"Huh?" Steve says, clearly on a sleepy delay (and completely oblivious to Eddie scuttling around on the floor looking for some damn clothes) as he palms around nowhere near the bedside lamp.
"Move over! I'm freezing!"
He doesn't wait for an answer. Or movement. He just starts shoving Steve's barely-conscious deadweight without a great deal of success.
"Okay!" Steve grumbles, heaving himself back over to his side with a dramatic huff, taking most of the blankets with him.
Eddie slips under the scrap of covers he is left with, burrowing in close to the warm space Steve just vacated. He squirms his way close enough that he can slip his hands up under Steve's sleep shirt, a paper-thin piece of material that is wholly inappropriate for such a freezing night.
"You're cold," Steve says with a slow motion-like gasp, eyes snapping open as he arches his back away from almost-frostbitten fingers.
"Yeah, no shit!" he retorts, immediately regretting it because Natural Space Heater Steve Harrington has all the power here.
But to his surprise, Steve kisses him on the cheek as he flaps the blankets around enough to cover them both fully. He pulls Eddie closer with one arm, still strong despite being half asleep.
"Why aren't you wearing pants!" Eddie exclaims far too loudly for the silence of Steve's plaid-soaked bedroom.
"But it's warm in here," he grumbles back, eyes fluttering shut too quickly to see Eddie rolling his. Steve wiggles closer still, tangling their legs together as he mumbles, "C'here... I need to... go back to sleep... now..."
He hardly gets the words out as they morph into a low snore directly in Eddie's ear.
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when there's snow or rain coming down hard and the day's dark and gloomy and whumpee has no choice but to keep trudging along the road or through the woods or field. they're headed somewhere - maybe somewhere they know they're safe, maybe just anywhere but here - but they've got a ways to go and they can't give in. exhaustion clings to their body, the cold is so sharp it cuts all the way to their core. their clothes are long-since soaked, and the water mixes in with the blood. their battered body aches but they have to keep going. one foot in front of the other, keep going.
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Daily Doc Doodle! This one took about an hour and a half.
The daily poem attached to this one is: Early Frost by Scott Cairn
Full poem under the cut!
This morning the world’s white face reminds us
that life intends to become serious again.
And the same loud birds that all summer long
annoyed us with their high attitudes and chatter
silently line the gibbet of the fence a little stunned,
chastened enough.
They look as if they’re waiting for things
to grow worse, but are watching the house,
as if somewhere in their dim memories
they recall something about this abandoned garden
that could save them.
The neighbor’s dog has also learned to wake
without exaggeration. And the neighbor himself
has made it to his car with less noise, starting
the small engine with a kind of reverence. At the window
his wife witnesses this bleak tableau, blinking
her eyes, silent.
I fill the feeders to the top and cart them
to the tree, hurrying back inside
to leave the morning to these ridiculous
birds, who, reminded, find the rough shelters,
bow, and then feed.
Early Frost by Scott Cairn
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