Breathe
Also I’m trying my hand at a permanent taglist… let me know if y’all want to be added!
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Eddie had gone on before him. It wasn’t fair to keep him waiting, but, well… Steve had tried to warn him about smoking.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Steve’s eyes drop closed as he thinks over his life. It was good. Once Vecna was gone, once the hospital scare was over and done with, it was good.
Exhale.
Inhale.
They’d all grown up, separately but together. Robin and Nancy, surprisingly enough, had been the first to leave. Then one by one, the rest of the Part followed in different directions.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Robin and Nancy had moved to San Diego. Dustin and Suzie settled in Maine, of all places. Lucas and Max picked Florida. Will and Mike were closest in Indy. El and Erica—with whatever they had going on—were in Oklahoma, trying to find normalcy.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Steve and Eddie had bought an RV and traveled the country. Visited the kids. They were there for Dustin and Susie’s first kid (and second, and third). They were there when Nancy got her first journalist award. When Mike and Will tied the knot, even if it wasn’t exactly legal yet. When El and Erica needed some familiar faces. When Lucas and Max had gotten hitched. They’d even driven them to the airport, seen them off for their Colorado honeymoon.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Never any kids of their own, Steve reflects. Except in all the ways they did. Everyone had been there for Eddie. Crowded into the hospital room, annoying the fuck out of the hospital staff and uncaring, because that was their Eddie, their brother, their uncle, their grandpop.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Steve had seen memories flash through Eddie’s eyes, like they’re doing in Steve’s mind right now. Their first kiss, sun-drenched and summer-sweet, tentative and so, so hopeful.
Exhale.
Inhale.
When they bought the RV and visited everyone for the first time, rolled up in front of their houses and laid on the horn until someone had gotten annoyed enough to peep out the windows, only to run outside when they realized who it was.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Will and Mike first, since they were closest. Eddie and Steve had taken them out to a gay bar—a nicer one than they’d ever been to at the boys’ age—and had fun for a night. They’d stayed for a few days before making the trek up to Maine to see Dustin and Suzie. Skiing and dinner and loud laughs long into the night.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Then they’d gone to see Max and Lucas in Florida, getting horribly burned the first day and regretting it for the next few days. Max and Lucas had both made fun of them. Then a rather uncomfortable drive to Oklahoma to see the girls. El, who had been learning to cook, made them all dinner. They were introduced to May and Alex, two kids who had needed help. Eddie had put his arm around Steve’s shoulders like he knew Steve had been holding back tears.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Then off to San Diego to see Robin and Nancy. Robin had yelled and barreled out the door. Steve had done much the same thing after parking the RV, and the hug lasted long enough that Nancy had helped Eddie bring their things inside and were well on their way through the first of many iced teas. They’d stayed there the longest, even toyed with the idea of making home base somewhere near.
Exhale.
Inhale.
But Steve knew Eddie, knew he’d want to be near Wayne, at least while he could be. So they returned, set up camp in a town about the same size as Hawkins, about an hour away. Settled in. Hired someone to cut the grass. Bought groceries. On their third day there, kids had come around, intrigued by the new RV, drawn close by the sound of Eddie’s guitar. Kept close by Steve’s snacks.
Exhale.
Inhale.
They’d pseudo-adopted a few kids from that town. The kids had decent parents, who would come over from time to time and joke about Steve and Eddie stealing their kids. The nights would end in beer and laughter and more guitar, softer than the metal Steve had fallen in love with, but no less beautiful.
Exhale.
Inhale.
They grew up together. They grew old together. What goes around comes around, because a few short years ago Eddie had been in this very same hospital, right back in Hawkins. The familiarity of it all had given Steve double vision at times. He’d been there when Eddie passed. Felt him squeeze Steve’s hand for the last time.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Steve hadn’t cried until he’d gotten back to the RV. After all the condolences, the paperwork, the well-meaning bouquets and cards. The family they’d made, who were just as heartbroken as he was.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Steve had driven off, secluded himself for a few months, as he learned how to breathe without Eddie around. He didn’t make any more trips, but he did return to the town they’d made their own. He saw their youngest kids, their parents. More condolences. More faked smiles.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Now, he gives the ceiling a genuine smile. He’d kept Eddie waiting for too long. He takes his last breath and steps into the rest of forever, Eddie by his side.
Permanent Taglist:
@justforthedead89 @ilovecupcakesandtea @madigoround (you didn’t ask but I figured you’d be ok w it… but if not lmk, no hard feelings!)
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Uh, so, I saw this kickass piece of fanart by @thwipped and whoops, innit:
---
If caught and asked about it, Jamie couldn’t have explained why he did it.
Actually, no. Scratch that.
He could have explained, probably. He just wouldn’t have cared to.
---
The way it goes is this:
He’s been with Richmond for a couple of months and haven’t those been the longest fucking months of his life, because yeah, ‘course it’s fun being the best fucking player on the team, ‘course it’s fun hearing the fans chant his name, doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo, and getting a bit of rest from his dad ain’t bad either, but Richmond is a shit club with a shit manager and the only fucking bright spot—
Well. That’s turned out to be shit too, hasn’t it.
At least Jamie’s killing it, at matches, at training, every fucking time he steps onto the pitch. No one can fucking touch him, dominating yeah, and today’s been a good day for it too, what with the photographer on the sidelines snapping picture after picture for some promo or other. Jamie didn’t pay too much attention to the details, just made sure they got him from his best angle (every angle’s his best angle), and that’s that, until a couple of days later when he walks past Hopkins’ (or Huggles’?) empty office and sees the photos spread out all across the desk.
And well. ‘Course he steps inside to have a look. Bound to be a bunch of him looking fit as fuck, right, and who doesn’t want to see that, and maybe he can grab one for Keeley, bet she’d love it.
There is a bunch of him looking fit as fuck, no surprise there. Difficult to choose the best one really, they’re all fucking brilliant (‘cause he’s fucking brilliant), and he’s deliberating between an action shot of him about to score one of the prettiest goals this sad fuck of a club ever saw and a shot of him afterwards, chin raised against he blue autumn sky like a hero out of a movie or something. Gorgerous, innit.
And then his eyes fall on a picture of Roy.
A picture of Roy fucking Kent. And. Like. It’s not even anything special, not like Roy’s actually doing anything in it, it's just a stray shot of him caught unawares with his shirt raised to wipe the seat of his forehead and he’s—
He’s. Uh.
Fuck. Jamie stares and he stares and he stares because for all that his old attraction to Roy didn’t survive five fucking minutes of actually being in the same room as the man, that’s just—
The shorts riding low on his hips. The dark hair trailing down and down, and the glistening drops of sweat on his forehead and Jamie can fucking smell him and that’s not sexy, is it, except it really fucking is, and those arms, and something unguarded and vulnerable and the real Roy Kent is a royal cunt but the Roy Kent in the picture—
He’s something else, isn’t he. He’s fucking fit. (Okay, the real Roy Kent is that, too, but it kind of fades in the face of him being an insufferable old twat and all that.)
Jamie grabs the picture. Doesn’t let himself think too much about it. Shoves it in his pocket and walks away, feeling it burn, burn, burn against his side.
---
When Jamie was twelve his mum gave him a poster of Roy Kent and Jamie was over the fucking moon. When Jamie was twenty-three he met Roy Kent and Roy Kent glared at him with unmitigated disgust and okay, fuck you too, mate. You’re not even that good anymore, and still you expect everyone to fall at your fucking feet, do your fucking bidding and make like you’re the fucking king, and fuck that, the king is dead, old man; long live the king.
Thing is, looking at the picture now it’s not that hard to forget about the real Roy Kent (nasty bastard) and remember the Roy Kent (fucking legend) that looked down on Jamie from his bedroom wall and whispered encouragements in the back of Jamie’s head and, a little later, featured frequently in fantasies of a different sort.
Picture in one hand, cock in the other, Jamie wanks to Roy for the first time since he came to Richmond (and if it’s not all just the memories of the man he once imagined, if it’s a little bit tinged with dark looks and growls and Roy snarling his name like it’s an insult… Well. That’s nobody’s business, that.)
---
He keeps the photos in the bottom drawer in his bedroom and he doesn’t pull it out a lot, ‘cause there’s Keeley and she’s fucking fit and the sex is mindblowing and Jamie doesn’t need to gawk at pictures of sad old has-beens to get his rocks off.
Sometimes there’s a different sort of itch, though, and he scratches it. No big deal.
(He wonders sometimes, what the real Roy would say if he knew. Plays it out in his mind, all the different ways it might go. Cums as he imagines it.)
He thinks maybe Keeley would like the picture too. Not ‘cause she’d like Roy, she’s got way better taste than that, and she’s fun and she likes a bit of fun and if there’s one thing Roy Kent ain’t, it’s fun, innit. But he’s fit and all, and Keeley’s got eyes.
He imagines it, sometimes, the two of them getting off together over the picture. If Roy – the real Roy – wasn’t such a miserable old prick, he’d suggest it to her maybe. But Roy is such a miserable old prick, and the whole thing is way too complicated to explain, so he doesn’t.
Then Keeley dumps him and the dream was only ever that.
---
They send him back to City. Jamie doesn’t understand. One moment he’s sharing a bottle of tequila with Dani Rojas and taking up the Richmond chant and Jamie’s not wrong and for the first time he wonders if maybe there could be something for him here, and the next he’s woken up by his agent and that same evening he’s back in Manchester like he never left, only the stale air in the house he bought with his fifth paycheck tells him he did, and the numb sense of loss as he steps through the door tells him he did.
It’s months before he gets everything from London shipped and sorted. Busy getting up to speed with everything at the club and all. It’s good to be back, really, a proper team, a proper coach, all that. Dad starts getting in touch again, sure, but it is what it is.
So yeah, it’s months before he gets all his stuff unpacked and months before his fingers brush over something familiar and he stands there staring down on the picture or Roy and it’s odd because it seems like only yesterday he first saw it and it seems a lifetime ago.
A rush of lust – Pavlovian, right, Keeley? – but a rush of something else too, rusted barb wire tugging at his guts, sharp and sickening.
He looks at it for a long time and then he puts it away and this time he doesn’t take it out again. That’s over and done with.
(Only, he doesn’t throw it away either. Just lets it sit in a neglected drawer, ignored but never let go, like all the other things that must never be.)
---
(There’ll be a time, some years later, boxes packed and moved and unpacked and an old photo slipping to the floor and
what the fuck is this?
and
what’s that, babe? oh my god, you look hot! fucking hell! jamie, where did you even get this?
and
when did you get this? i’m still playing here
and
uh, well, you remember that photo shoot they did for the promo just a couple of months after i joined richmond?
and a raised eyebrow and
yeah?
and a shrug and cheeky grin and
yeah, well, picked it up for darts practise, didn’t I
and Roy snorts but he’s smiling too and
figures you’d be shit at darts
and
what are you on about, man, i’m aces at darts… ooh, because there’s no holes in it you mean, yeah, no, you’re right, you’re right, i’m shit at darts, fucking terrible
and they’re both smiling now and Keeley is too and Roy notes how it’s clearly been handled a lot and what were you doing with it really and the glint in his eyes says he knows but Jamie tells him – tells them – anyway, in great, great detail.)
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