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missfangirll · 2 years

Text

A Kinder Sea

Fandom: The Untamed

Rating: General

Relationship: Song Lan/Xiao Xingchen

Tags: Yi City fix-it, canon divergence

Words: 5106

Summary: Xiao Xingchen finds an injured man on the road, but this time, things take a different turn.

Read on AO3

- - - - -

This is not a Xue Yang apologist fic, and only in the broadest sense a redemption fic. He still is a murderer by the end of this. But it may be a softer approach, trying to show kindness to the wolf and seeing how he'll react.

A sequel to Sunlight, can be read as a stand-alone.

- - - - -

There is a love where it's not about being together - sometimes there are loves which can't withstand the reality of each other's current selves - but that blooms a sort of wish for well-being from a distance.

☾❅

After they found each other again, after four years of loneliness and heartache, there is a certain reluctance to let the other out of sight for a longer period of time, Xingchen has noticed. It’s not that he is anxious without Zichen around, but he does feel calmer in the other’s quiet presence, and so it is quite a rare thing that he is actually on his own for the day.

They have found temporary shelter in an abandoned city and it’s where he is headed now, after a stroll to a nearby stream to bathe and wash some robes. Zichen is off to replenish their supplies a town over, having gently but firmly explained that Xingchen is a hopeless case when it comes to haggling and didn’t need to accompany him, but could do something else instead. He desperately tried to suppress a grin when he said that, but he had a point, and so Xingchen, grumbling, agreed and went to the stream instead.

He is halfway back to town, the sun already bright in the sky, when something in the air catches his attention and he stops to listen. It is a feeling of sudden dread that overcomes him, like a shiver of icy wind on an otherwise hot day. Tilting his head, he focuses on the sounds around him. The birds have gone quiet, he notices, and there is a faint rustling, a movement in the grass nearby. Xingchen is immediately on guard, his breaths deep and calm as he turns into the direction. A cultivator’s senses are sharp and his have been honed through years of training, blind or not, so he has Shuanghua drawn almost before his consciousness has time to decide what to do. The grass stays silent, however, and after a brief hesitation he takes a step closer, sword raised in a defensive stance.

Nothing moves for a while, the only sound a lonesome bird in a nearby brush, and he almost turns away again, when a breeze drifts past him and he catches the scent it carries. Blood, he realises with a start, and quite a lot of it, if the smell is that prominent. If there is a person in the thicket, they definitely need help, he thinks as he steps closer, parting the grass with Shuanghua. With the next step, his foot catches on something soft. Carefully he crouches down to feel what exactly is lying there, and almost startles when his hand comes back wet. A person, very badly hurt, bleeding and unconscious.

After hesitating for a moment, the decision is made. He can’t leave them here, and so he sheathes Shuanghua again and reaches over, trying to find the other person’s arms to wrap them around his shoulders. It is a man, the light touches tell him, wearing sturdy leather armour that now has large gashes, long hair that has fallen out of his ponytail, and a sword, sheathed on his belt. Despite the man being quite tall, he isn’t that heavy, and so Xingchen has no difficulties carrying him.

He knows the way to their house by the sound of his steps, by the way the ground feels under his feet, and so he is almost at their temporary home when it occurs to him that Zichen might not appreciate having a bleeding stranger lying in their bed. Suppressing a wry huff of laughter at the thought, he turns left towards one of the other houses he knows to be empty. Inside, he carefully feels around for a bed, then deposits the other on it. He knows they have a bucket with boiled water next to the hearth in their own house, so he goes to fetch it, along with some clean scraps for bandages.

Back in the hut, he rolls back his sleeves and sits on the bed next to the man to examine his wounds. Two fingers to his wrist tell him that he too is a cultivator, even if the qi roiling in his meridians feels—different, wild and intense. Skimming his fingers over the wounds he maps their dimensions, proceeding to clean and wrap them as best as he can.

He keeps his touches light as he works, but can’t help but notice the other’s muscular frame, lithe but strong, and wonders absently what fierce of an enemy the man has met that apparently almost defeated him.

When the stranger’s wounds are tended to—he hasn’t moved a muscle during all of it, he must have lost a lot of blood—Xingchen sits back, listening to the other’s breathing. It’s still too shallow for his liking, but steady and slow, not erratic anymore, so that has to be a good sign.

With a sigh, he raises to his feet to walk over to their house, to wait for Zichen.

It must be dark by the time he arrives, Xingchen has felt the sun set earlier, the last rays warm on his face, and night birds have begun their concert. He rises to his feet when he hears the door close to greet the other, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips with a smile.

Zichen hums in return, then moves past him to put the things he bought away and start their dinner. Xingchen has kept the fire going, but even with his sight, his cooking couldn’t hold a candle to Song Lan’s, so he happily lets the other take charge of their meals. They work in silence next to each other for a while, cutting and preparing vegetables and tofu, and when that is finished, Xingchen steps aside to make tea.

He takes the freshly brewed pot and two cups and sits at the low table, listening to Zichen putter around the kitchen, humming quietly, and smiles to himself at the sound.

“Zichen?”

“Mh?”

“Tell me about your day.”

Zichen snorts faintly, then hums again. “What do you want to know?”, he asks, a hint of a smile in his voice.

Xingchen takes a sip of his tea, hiding his own smile in the cup. “Well, what about the market? Is it big? What kind of vendors are there? What did you buy? Did—”

“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you.” Now Zichen’s amusement is audible, a lilt to his words that is always there when he is smiling.

“Well,” he starts with the gravitas of a seasoned storyteller, “a vendor told me the market is held every other week, so I first went to find a stall with fresh vegetables.”

Xingchen leans back against the wooden wall as he listens, trying to imagine the pictures Zichen describes. He sees the little food stalls with the sticky hawthorn candy, can smell the fried youtiao and fresh steamed baozi. Next to it, a brush vendor with an assortment of different coloured ink, then a woman who sells jewellery and guans, necklaces and jade pendants clinking in the light breeze.

Zichen keeps talking until the food is ready, then he places a bowl in front of Xingchen and lowers himself to sit at the opposite side of the table.

Xingchen doesn’t move for a moment, still caught in the silk threads of the story, but then Zichen clears his throat and he startles slightly. With a slightly sheepish smile, he feels for the bowl on the table.

They eat in silence as they always do, the only sounds their chopsticks clinking against porcelain, leaves rustling in the evening breeze, a lone bird calling for a mate. It’s tranquil and peaceful, Xingchen thinks, as he lowers the bowl to the table and leans back against the wall. He can hear Song Lan doing the same, the soft rustle of his robes, then a contented sigh, not more than a whispered exhale.

“I love you,” Xingchen says, just to hear the other’s breath hitch at the words, and smiles to himself at the low hum that follows.

“I will go wash the bowls,” Song Lan replies and gets to his feet, and if Xingchen can hear a smile in his words, he doesn’t comment on it.

It is only later, much later, with his head on Song Lan’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, that he remembers the man in the other house.

☾❅

The next morning Xingchen wakes before Song Lan, which isn’t unheard of, but still happens rarely enough that he feels a bubbly kind of glee when he rises soundlessly from their bed, so as not to stir the other. Song Lan’s breathing doesn’t change, and Xingchen slips out of the door with a grin, carrying his robes under his arm.

Being representable again, or at least as much as he manages without being able to look into a mirror or do his hair properly, he collects a few fresh bandages and walks towards the house where he left the stranger. He can navigate the surroundings of their temporary home just fine, Song Lan has made sure of that, so it takes him only a few minutes before he arrives.

Entering the small house, he immediately notices a difference. Instead of the deep, slow breaths that accompany unconsciousness, he hears the sheets rustle as the one laying on them moves, then a hitched breath, followed by a shaky exhale.

He steps closer. “Good morning,” he says warmly, “I hope you’re feeling better now. You are in Yi City, I found you injured on the road and brought you here.” Raising the bandages, he smiles in the direction of the other’s face. “I tended to your wounds, but I hope I didn’t make it worse, since, as you can see, I am blind.” The other still doesn’t react, only his heavy breathing reveals he is awake. Xingchen lets his hands sink to his sides, then shrugs awkwardly. “My name is Xiao Xingchen,” he adds, like an afterthought, and the sound of his name seems to calm the other person.

“Thank you,” he hears a raspy voice, younger than he imagined, and smiles wider.

“No need,” he says and takes a tentative step closer, raising the bandages again. “Let me...?”, he asks, and the other is silent for a moment, then hums in agreement.

Changing the bandages is not as difficult as Xingchen expected, the wounds are healing nicely, there is no smell of infection and the stranger’s breath doesn’t change as he works.

After he is finished, he rolls up the used bandages, readying himself to go, when the stranger speaks up again.

“Aren’t you going to ask?”

Xingchen smiles, then shrugs lightly. “What should I ask?”

A haughty laugh. “What I did to end up in a ditch. What kind of person I am that someone felt the need to cut me open with a sword.” He pauses, holds his breath. “My name.”

Xingchen’s smile widens as he shakes his head. “I am not one to pry into other people’s affairs,” he says lightly, “nor are you obligated to tell me anything because I helped you. If you want to share anything with me, I will listen, but I do not expect anything from you.”

The other breathes another short, raspy laugh. “But,” he says slowly, his voice taking on an almost playful tone, “aren’t you curious?”

Xingchen huffs a laugh, then shakes his head and makes to get up, when a hand lands on his forearm. Startled, he sits back, his face turning towards the stranger, who removes his hand immediately.

“Can you... stay?”, he asks eventually, sounding almost shy, before adding hastily, “I mean, only for a while, and only if you want to, it’s just...” He inhales deeply. “I have been alone for so long, it is really nice to have company.”

Xingchen hears the tremble in his voice, the way his breath hitches on the last word, and decides he can spare a few moments for this stranger with the young voice and the raspy laugh.

The stranger, it turns out, is nothing like Xingchen has expected. He has a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue, a strange sense of humour and a penchant for grand stories; and Xingchen feels something in himself resonate more strongly with every passing moment. It isn’t as if his life with Song Lan has been dull, never that, but there is a reason he is called the unmoving frost to Xingchen’s wandering breeze. They mirror each other, complete each other, but Song Lan is not, nor has he ever been, a playful character. This stranger, however, seems to unfold himself under Xingchen’s tentative smiles like flower petals, talks to him as if they were old friends, and by the time the sun has wandered enough that Xingchen can feel its warmth on his back, he is laughing so hard he has to hide his face in his hands, long forgotten mirth bubbling in him.

This is how Song Lan finds them, after Xingchen has failed to return for breakfast, and after—after it all, there is no warmth left.

☾❅

Song Lan wakes in increments. First his ears, taking in the birdsong outside and the wooden planks creaking in the breeze. Then he feels the warmth on his chest, indicating the sun has already started its journey and that it’s later than he usually wakes. He stays as he is for a while, basking in the contentment of the moment, the feeling of safe and warm and home. There is, however, something missing, and the longer he waits, the louder its absence rings in his ears. There is no sound coming from the adjacent room, nothing to indicate Xingchen is there doing something.

(It’s a thing Song Lan would never tell Xingchen, who has always been prone to self-consciousness, but since he lost his eyes, Xingchen can’t do things without making noise. He knocks his cane on the wooden floor, taps his fingers against surfaces, hums or sings softly or talks to himself, a constant auditory response for Song Lan. It’s not the only change he’s observed, he himself has learned to talk more, be Xingchen’s eyes where he needs it, but he finds it reassuring to always know where Xingchen is, like a needle finding north.)

So it is especially unsettling not to hear anything from the kitchen, and it takes him only a few heartbeats to wake fully after realising. With a sigh he rolls over to get to his feet, beginning the daily routine of dressing and preparing breakfast.

Xingchen wouldn’t go far, he knows as much, so he isn’t particularly concerned, but when the congee is finished and there still is no sign of the other, he sighs and resigns himself to go looking for him. Xingchen is easily distracted, he knows that, and sometimes he can find him sitting under a tree, listening to the wind and the birds, a serene smile on his face, having totally forgotten he was supposed to fetch water or firewood.

(In these moments Song Lan watches Xingchen’s face, his cupid bow and plush bottom lip, his sharp nose, his dark eyebrows, the messy hair and the white bandage, and is terribly, achingly in love.)

After he puts the congee to the side, he dresses in his outer robe and leaves their little house, walking slowly so as not to miss any sounds that would indicate Xingchen’s whereabouts. And there it is, a few streets over, from another dilapidated hut he can hear the crystal clear laughter, ringing like a bell in the still morning air. He pauses in his steps, then continues almost noiselessly, not wanting to disturb the moment.

He knows Xingchen’s smiles, knows his sorrow and heartache and anger, knows his mischievous smirk and his playful grin, but he hasn’t heard him laugh like this in a long time. Song Lan knows he is not what people would call conversational. He is reserved, silent—there is a reason they call him distant and cold. But not with Xingchen, he never was. Xingchen has always been his guidance, his northern star, bright moon and gentle breeze and the sun and all the stars, melting the frost and the snow until nothing was left of him but love and warmth. Xingchen is his true north in more ways than one, but sometimes, in darker and bleaker moments, Song Lan wonders what he is to Xingchen.

He has, for what it’s worth, at least never managed to make him laugh like this, and so, silently, he walks closer.

Later, he wouldn’t be able to tell what exactly set him off, the way the man held his head maybe, or how he brushed his hair behind a shoulder, or his voice, or the way his pinky finger didn’t bend with the rest as he made a fist. But he knows that only a lifetime of training prevents him from freezing to the spot, and when the man opens his eyes again, Song Lan has stepped back from the open door, as silently as he came.

Xue Yang.

On this bed, in a small hut in a city so far off they had to ask four different vendors to find their way here, white bandages around his ribs, a cocky grin on his face sits the man who has cost Song Lan everything, his family, his home, his eyes, and almost Xingchen, and—Xingchen. Who sits next to him, laughing with him like he hasn’t heard that laughter when his shifu clawed at his robes, heard it when the world went dark, heard it for months after when he closed his eyes. But no, he doesn’t know. He can’t know, he wouldn’t... He wouldn’t. No matter how kind, how naive and trusting Xingchen can be, he would never let their enemy this close, wouldn’t open his heart to him if he knew... If he knew. He doesn’t know.

Song Lan takes a deep breath, then another, then another, letting the hate and the anger and the blinding pain seep out of him until nothing is left but cold resolve, not less searing in its intensity. With careful steps he withdraws from the house, going back the way he came, to wait for Xingchen.

It doesn’t take long for the other to arrive, but even if it did, Song Lan would not have had any concept of it, all he can think of is his face and his laughter and his—

“I’m back,” Xingchen greets cheerfully, and Song Lan startles violently out of his thoughts. Before he can croak a response, Xingchen has crossed the distance and plopped down next to him on the wooden bench on the outer wall of their kitchen, an aura of contentment still surrounding him.

For a second, Song Lan feels almost guilty for what he is about to say, but then he remembers his shifu and the feeling is gone.

“Xingchen,” he begins hoarsely, but is interrupted.

“Zichen, I forgot to tell you, yesterday I found a stranger and—”

“I know.”

Xingchen raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I saw you just now, but—”

“Good, then you will understand when I bring him a bowl of congee later. You can even come with—”

“Xingchen.”

Something in his voice makes the other flinch visibly, his mouth closes with a clap when he turns to fully face Song Lan.

“Xingchen,” he repeats, “it’s...” Inhale, exhale. “It’s Xue Yang.”

There is nothing in Xingchen’s posture that would indicate he heard the words, he remains still like a statue, barely breathing, only his hands are clenched so hard around the fabric of his sleeves that his knuckles are white.

“Xingchen, did you—”

“No.”

Song Lan looks up at this, hears myriads of emotions in that word, and doesn’t know what to say.

“No,” Xingchen repeats, and this time the incredulity is gone, replaced by boiling anger. “No, it can’t...” He turns to Song Lan, reaching for his hands until Song Lan links his own stiff fingers with Xingchen’s. “It can’t be, Zichen, I talked to him.” He still sounds angry, but also hurt, betrayed. “I talked to him and he... We made jokes about... Zichen, what have I done?” He lowers his head, blood seeping out under the bandage, and Song Lan reaches automatically for a cloth before it can reach his white robes.

“It’s not your fault, Xingchen,” he tries, but the other shakes his head.

“I didn’t even ask... I didn’t ask him anything,” he mumbles between wet, shaky inhales.

Song Lan doesn’t reply, instead he pulls the other close, wrapping his arms around Xingchen’s trembling shoulders.

They sit like this for a while, until Song Lan feels marginally more calm, then he extricates himself from the embrace, a tight grip on Xingchen’s arms.

“You know I have to...,” he begins, but the words fail him. Xingchen has understood him anyway, because his eyebrows shoot up.

“You can’t just kill him like this, Zichen,” he says, almost offended, and Song Lan snorts humorlessly.

“I can, and I will,” he says coldly. “I have a right and a duty.”

“Yes, you do,” Xingchen agrees, “but not like this. Zichen, that is not you. The Cold Frost would never kill a wounded man.”

Song Lan thinks of his shifu and shimei in the courtyard, thinks of blood and laughter and darkness and says nothing.

☾❅

In the end, they reached a compromise. Since Xingchen hasn’t told Xue Yang he isn’t alone, Zichen will stay hidden until Xingchen deems his patient well enough, then they will confront him and then—Xingchen deliberately doesn’t think further than this, the very idea of Fuxue and Jiangzai clashing again, here where he thought he had finally found some peace, is enough to make him want to scream.

The ethics of Daoism say it’s better not to intervene in anything, to let things run their course, and Xingchen can’t help but wonder what role he played in all of this. If he hadn’t tried to save the man, Zichen wouldn’t be lying in bed at night, wide awake as if waiting for an ambush, if he hadn’t tried to save the world, Xue Yang wouldn’t have been so hellbent on destroying him and destroyed Zichen’s family instead, if he hadn’t come down the mountain, if he hadn’t been so arrogant, so blind, so naive… If only he had known, if only he had seen...

One night, he dreams.

“A-Chen,” he hears his teacher’s soft voice, dry, but with an underlying fondness, an amused exasperation. “A-Chen,” she says again, taking form in her usual white robes.

“What have you learned today, A-Chen?”

What have you learned today, who did you meet, what did you see, a lifetime of learning in those questions. He never had the right answers, and even now he feels lacking in the face of such indulgence.

“What did you learn today, A-Chen?”, she asks again, and slowly, tentatively, Xingchen raises his head to look at her.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and it is the truth, he doesn’t know anymore, has lost the path he thought so clear after descending the mountain.

“But you do know,” Baoshan Sanren says, kind and understanding, and suddenly Xingchen does.

“I learned,” he says slowly, “that it wasn’t my doing.” His teacher pauses, then smiles radiantly at him, so he continues. “Baixue, Zichen’s family, what he... what Xue Yang did, it wasn’t my doing. I was kind, you taught me to be kind, and what he did with that kindness isn’t my fault.”

Baoshan Sanren nods slowly, as if he found the correct answer to a particularly difficult riddle, then fades into the darkness, her smile the last thing Xingchen sees before he wakes up.

It stays with him during the day when he brings the injured man a bowl of congee, stays with him when he sits at the man’s bed and laughs at his jokes, stays with him when he meets Zichen’s eyes across the table and feels like a traitor.

What did you learn?

Xingchen had resolved himself to not interact with Xue Yang more than necessary, but still he brings him food, cleans his wounds and stays with him when he is awake, and can’t help wondering at how ordinary the man is, how young. He whines when he’s bored, complains loudly when his injuries ache, jokes and laughs and seemingly has found his purpose in riling Xingchen up. He knows he can’t say anything, won’t say anything, but sometimes Xingchen wonders what had to happen for Xue Yang to become so sad, so angry. He wonders if there could have been a world where Xue Yang could have stayed the laughing boy in a dusty bed, telling dirty jokes to a stranger.

☾❅

Song Lan had promised Xingchen time, and he is not in the habit of breaking promises, so he waits. Not patiently, not gracefully, but with his anger burning holes in his skin and pain clawing at his chest. But he promised, and so he waits, until the day Xingchen says, Tomorrow, and they both look at each other in silence.

They agreed that Xingchen would visit the old hut one last time, Song Lan following shortly after, so as not to give the man a way to escape. So when Xingchen leaves their house that morning, wooden bowl in hand, Song Lan watches him as he walks down the street and tries not to think of laughter.

He waits, counting his own heartbeats, until he deems the timespan long enough and gets to his feet, securing the straps of his scabbard one last time before he turns towards their enemy.

The house is quiet as he arrives, and maybe he should have spared a thought on that, but his mind is filled with ash and smoke and so when he enters, his movements come to an abrupt stop.

On the bed opposite the door Xue Yang is kneeling, Jiangzai in hand, the black sword glistening ominously against Xingchen’s throat.

It is as if he went blind again, Song Lan thinks dimly, for all he can see is the black blade against white skin, a red droplet forming under it, rolling down Xingchen’s neck, and for an absurd second Song Lan thinks, at least it’s not his eyes.

Xue Yang grins at him, waving his free hand in Song Lan’s direction and startles him out of his stupor.

“Daozhang,” he hears in a mocking tone, “long time no see. I should have guessed though,” he nudges Xingchen’s shoulder, which causes another droplet to roll down. Song Lan makes an aborted movement in his direction, stopping immediately. Xue Yang snorts. “I knew something was wrong as soon as Xingchen,” he says Xingchen , Song Lan notices numbly, not Xiao-daozhang or Xiao Xingchen, he says his name as if it was his to use, “stepped over this threshold. So when I heard your footsteps, it was easy to, you know.” He gives Xingchen another nudge. Song Lan feels himself starting to shake at the sight, all the pent-up anger and frustration and pain finally finding an outlet.

“You”, he growls, taking a step towards the man on the bed who just shakes his head, an infuriating smirk still on his face. “You,” he repeats, “are a murderer. You murdered a whole clan, you destroyed Baixue, you slaughtered my family, you stole my eyes, and I will punish you for this.”

Xue Yang laughs humorlessly, tutting as if talking to a stubborn child. “Daozhang, daozhang,” he says, sounding so condescending that Song Lan’s grip on Fuxue’s hilt draws blood, “I think you misunderstand. The real culprits were already punished, by me. They got what they deserved.”

“Did they deserve death?”

It’s Xingchen who asked this, softly and quietly, like an afterthought, but both Xue Yang and Song Lan startle at the sound, as if they forgot he was there as well.

Xue Yang cackles when he replies, “Of course they deserved it. Do you see this finger?” He wriggles his pinky in front of Xingchen’s face, the one that doesn’t bend, then pauses to snicker unkindly. “Ah, no, I forgot, of course you can’t.”

Xingchen visibly deflates at that, his shoulders slumping with such misery that Song Lan has to grit his teeth and only half listens when Xue Yang tells a ridiculous story about a boy and a carriage.

“So, it was all for justice, Xiao-daozhang,” he sneers, “why did you have to get yourself involved, huh? Why did you have to intervene? Doesn’t the Dao say you should let things be?”

Xingchen is silent for a while, then says quietly, “Yes, but humanity demands helping others, standing up for those in need.” He pauses. “Like someone should have stood up for you then.”

There is silence behind him after that. Xue Yang has closed his eyes, his hands are trembling slightly, which makes Jiangzai draw another drop of blood from Xingchen’s neck. Song Lan wants to move, wants to do something, but somehow this moment feels significant, like he isn’t supposed to disturb it, and so he doesn’t.

When Xue Yang finally opens his eyes, there is something in his expression Song Lan can’t quite gauge, something raw and vulnerable, flayed and open for the world to see. He makes a strangled noise, then lowers his sword, only to hurl something at Song Lan with his other hand. When it explodes in front of him, everything dissolves into green smoke.

When he finally is able to see clearly again, Xue Yang is gone, Xingchen still sits on the bed, pressing a finger to the superficial cut on his throat.

“He is gone,” Song Lan says, unnecessarily.

Xingchen nods, exhales. “I want to go home.”

☾❅

Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be, but go with good fortune, I wish you a kinder sea.

- - - - -

The first quote comes from a friend of mine, whose insight has helped me immensely in bringing this thing forward. ILU @thursdayplaid <3

The last one is from Plato, quoted by Emily Dickinson in a letter.

#the untamed #cql #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #song lan #xiao xingchen #songxiao #otp: roam the world‚ eliminate evil #my writing #writing queue #a kinder sea

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sailing-through-hawkins · 2 months

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When Eddie sees her, sitting on the picnic table, her feet shuffling back and forth on the bench like that one dancing scene from The Breakfast Club (so what if he went to go see it? It's a good flick!), he almost runs back the way he came.

Because here's the thing about Robin Buckley.

While Eddie's status at the bottom of the social ladder is guaranteed, what with his hobbies and his music and his ability to irritate even the most patient of individuals (bar Uncle Wayne, blessed be the man), he doesn't fuck with Robin Buckley.

She was never anything to write home or gossip over coffee about, not when Eddie started his first senior year or even before that, when he was just starting up Hellfire and went to band to see if he could recruit any lonesome souls. Robin wasn't interested then, more keen to avoid his eye and fumble with her uniform, so he chalked her up as another lost to the masses.

Then all the shit with the Zombie Boy (a killer moniker, wouldn't that make for an awesome song title?! But he doesn't know if it'd be like, copyright infringement or whatever) went down and he got a little more protective of his circle, cloaking them from the unmerciful eyes of the Hawkins mob, pushing back when shit hit the fan and that mob tried impeding on his people.

And it worked! Nobody messed with him or his, not enough to be met with more than a snort - hell, even that asshole Hargrove stayed away after Eddie pulled a knife on him in the school parking lot. He wonders if all that wild anger the dick had to choke down went into the fight he had with -

Anyways.

Point is that Eddie knows his place, and thanks to a little intimidation and a lot of false-turned-true-confidence, nobody messes with him.

The thing is - he still doesn't mess with Robin Buckley.

Like he said, she was always another one of the masses to him, and he never expected any different.

But then something happened to her.

Some people say that she got trapped in the mall fire and it burned half her face off, she's just wearing enough makeup to cover it up, but it messed with her head.

Other people say she was always a little - uh, airheaded, he'll say, to be polite - and the Starcourt fire just made it more obvious, burned through the façade she'd wear in public.

One or two voices whisper that she's being haunted, that when she laughs to herself in the silence of the classroom, it's because of the spirits of Starcourt's casualties that lurk in her shadow.

(That last one was Jeff actually, and Eddie has to hand it to him for the poetic imagery.)

Any way he hears it, Eddie's instincts go red alert, telling him to give Robin a wide berth in the hallways, to avoid eye contact for longer than a single moment, to ignore her quiet snickers every time he ties his hair up.

So yeah, when he's about to head to his favourite picnic table and finds wacky Robin Buckley laughing to herself as the leaves around the table kick up without a hint of wind in the air, he almost turns around and shoves himself back into his van. Eddie Munson may be a freak but he's no -

"Oh, you're here."

He freezes in his steps, glancing back to see Robin smiling thinly at him, one legged crossed over the other as she leans back. Her eyes glaze over for a second before she barks out a laugh, making Eddie jump in place.

"Didn't expect you, to be honest." She tilts her head.

Eddie's throat is too dry. He starts a sentence, backtracking when the leaves stop kicking up and it's just his shaky voice in the silence between the trees. "Well, it is my spot, Buckley."

Her eyes glint and she uncrosses her legs just to spread them, leaning in and staring at Eddie with an untethered expression stretching across her face. "Is it?" Her raspy voice asks.

Blood roars in Eddie's ears. His fingers twitch, and he's ready to run.

"Don't." She orders and he freezes. "We need to talk."

He hates it when people say that. It's always, always bad news and it's just too cliché.

"And what, pray tell," he says, raising his arms out with a confidence he doesn't feel. "Is it that you could ask of me?"

The leaves kick up behind him. He resolutely ignores it.

Sighing, Robin crosses her legs, shuffling back on the table (and they call Eddie a heathen, jeez). She looks to the right, where the leaves are swirling in a mini tornado. Her smile is small, and a little sad.

"We need your help."

Eddie gasps as the leaves kick up ferociously, the wind bites at his fingertips and Robin glares at him, at the chaos around them with eyes like nothing he's ever seen.

"Stop it."

"Wh -"

"I said stop," She glares at him and his jaw clicks shut. "We agreed - yeah, yeah, we did! Stop it, you're scaring him!"

"I -"

"I'd say the grown-ups are talking," Robin cuts him off with an eye-roll. "But someone's being a big baby."

"Look, Buckley -"

"I swear to god," Robin waves a hand towards Eddie. "Either you play nice, or we're never figuring this out! Do you wanna be invisible to everyone forever?!"

There's a heavy silence at that.

No leaves rustling, no wind, no nothing.

It's like the entire forest just went...dead.

Then Eddie feels a brush of something down his hand and he screams.

"Awesome!" Eddie jumps when Robin grabs his arm (when did she leave the table?!), staring at her smile as foul terror quakes his bones. "Don't be afraid, Eddie. We won't hurt you."

A rustle of leaves smack his shin and he shrieks, unable to jump (or run) thanks to Robin's steel grip.

"Well, not physically."

"Buckley, I have never messed with you before," Eddie whispers as the something trails down his hand, shoulders and face. He's frozen in the wake of the touch. "Fellow freaks of Hawkins and all, but -"

Whatever it is, it grips Eddie by the shoulders and his jaw clicks shut. Robin's grasp on his arm tightens and she nods, staring into space.

"Okay, so could you do it?"

Silence. Eddie's heartbeat races.

"Like what?"

The something ghosts over his fingers and he almost whimpers.

"Oh, like this!"

With that, Robin grabs Eddie's hand and takes off one of his rings. Before he can sputter or shout or cry, she replaces it with one of her own.

And then, like he was always there, Steve Harrington appears before his eyes.

A bloodied, ghastly Steve Harrington who's staring right into him.

"Holy shit," Eddie whispers and the spectre grins a sharp, toothy grin.

"Hey Munson," Steve croons. "Miss me?"

#steddie #stobin #<- my target audiences for this #writing #ficlet #au content: ghosts #sailing queues #the dinguses (affectionate)#sailor✧writes

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