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luveline · 10 months

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𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

Best friends since middle school, you tell Eddie everything, which is why he's so surprised to find out you've been keeping a secret —you’re hearing a voice whenever you're home alone. He’s always had a thing for the fantastical but he can't believe in ghosts, and the longer you insist on it, the more worried he becomes. This would be bad enough if Eddie didn’t have a secret too, and it threatens to change everything between you. [22k]

fem!reader, best friends to lovers slow-burn, mutual pining, eddie is infatuated with you, idiots in love, paranormal activity/au, heavy hurt/comfort, angst, fluff and affection, wayne is uncle of the year every year, ghost-hunting

cw assumed auditory hallucinations, talk of mental health, surrounding worry and circumstances, mentioned mental illness stigma, recreational drug use mention, prescription drugs, grief

my endless gratitude and thank yous to @h-ness1944 and @mrcylvsu for their sensitivity beta reads and for answering my questions so many moons ago, I'm very, very thankful for all that hard work, and all the time and energy you both spent!

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Eddie's desk fan is on the fritz. It twists back and forth with a weak metallic clicking sound that promises eventual electrocution but for now provides momentary relief. Even the nights have been hell lately. No matter how many windows he and Wayne open, the air at home stays thick with humidity.

Sweat shines on his brow and collar. He refuses to tie his hair back, and each hour it grows more and more uncomfortable.

"Are you sure you don't wanna come and lie up here?" he asks, shifting reluctantly to peer over the side of the bed.

You're laying on the floor of his room, just as sweaty but half as unhappy. You've abandoned a book to your left, having declared the weather too much to concentrate through.

"Our body heat will mingle."

"The fan is really helping," he argues lightly. "If you die on my floor Wayne won't ever let it go. Just come up here."

You mumble something he doesn't hear and pull your shirt from your chest. You attempt to fan yourself with the thin, clinging fabric. It doesn't work, but it does expose the soft hill of your abdomen to his guilty eyes. His mouth dries up.

"It's getting late," he says. He's not trying to get rid of you, promise, but now he's thinking about your body heat mingling and why it wouldn't be such a bad thing, and he doesn't want to. "I'll drive you home, yeah?"

"In a minute," you agree, looking as if you have no intention of moving.

You turn your face to the side, eyes closed, lashes skimming the delicate skin of your under eye. Eddie sits up and rakes his greasy hair away from his face. He'll drop you home, take a cold shower for purely heat related reasons, and hopefully sleep through the night. It's a very unlikely outcome, but a man can dream.

"Come on. We'll roll the windows down and go really fast."

"Eddie," you chastise.

"Moderately fast."

His sleeveless tank top gets caught as he leans down to try and flick you. Eddie can only ever forgive his fourteen year old self for maiming perfectly good vintage in times like these. A completely unnecessary culling of an entire wardrobe's worth of sleeves, but when the weather gets bad for a few heady weeks every summer, he remembers the reasoning behind it.

He's stripped of all his clunky jewellery for now, adorned only in the dark ink of his multiplying tattoos. His most recent addition is an artist's rendition of the Eye of Sauron, blinking up at him from beneath his volley of bats. Still sick, he thinks to himself smugly.

You've pulled yourself into a sitting position with your arms crossed over the bed, your hand stretched out to touch his plaid pyjama bottoms. You're in a nearly matching pair; when Eddie called you to hang out earlier you'd turned him down, citing a reluctance to change. He'd promised to pick you up in his own pyjamas, and you've been lying on his floor since then.

You're the laziest kids this side of the Wabash river, Wayne'd said, looking over your limp bodies with a smile.

The other side, too, Eddie popped back. Will you put those chicken wings in the oven for us, please?

Eddie's not a monster, the wings were pre-prepared. Any other day he'd correct his uncle, say, hey, we haven't been kids for years, but the heat makes him feel gross and sometimes you just want your dad to make you dinner. (Sometimes Eddie's just lazy, also.)

"Eds?" you murmur.

He lets his hands fall away from his hair where he'd been scratching mindlessly and turns to you. He's lethargic, feels like he's turning his head through molasses. "What, sweetheart?"

Years of being friends lends an easy affection. His pet names are purely platonic. Or they used to be. Either way, you aren't perturbed.

"Can I sleep over?"

He usually says yes to that question immediately. But again, the thought of your sweaty body curled into his with your hands breaching a friendly gap to curl over his waist like they tend to do fills his stomach with dread.

His little crush is making him a bad friend, he decides. He will always, first and foremost, be your friend.

"Of course you can." He rubs his mouth. Feigning casualness. "How come?"

You peel out of your fatigue and get on your knees. The extra height is all you need to finally grab his legs, smiling sheepishly. Eddie won't judge you for almost anything and you know that, so it's gotta be outlandish.

"I think…" You tap his kneecap. "Okay, laugh at me if you need to, but I'm pretty sure my house is haunted."

"Like, by a ghost?"

"What else?" you ask, laughing good-naturedly.

"Why do you think it's haunted, superstar?"

You drop your face onto his thigh, giving him a disjointed hug. He hugs you back for as long as the heat will allow it, a handful of stolen seconds with his hand over your back.

"I swear, sometimes, I can hear someone talking."

That's… scarier than he imagined. "Shit, I thought you were gonna say a coat fell off the hanger, or the light in your bathroom started flickering again."

"It has," you admit, your mouth pressed to his thigh. "But it's just the bulb."

He pushes you off of him, your voice sending vibrations through places he'd prefer it didn't, and you fall back with a half-hearted stab at melodrama.

"Oof," you say, straight-faced.

"You really think it's a ghost?" he asks.

"No. I don't know. I won't believe in ghosts until I see one, and I haven't seen one, but if it were a ghost, this is the type of behaviour I'd expect from it. So I guess I do. Does that make sense?"

"Sure." He doesn't know. "What does it say?"

"Here's the bit where you won't believe me."

You smile at him from your spot on the floor. Your hand curls out, like a tight budded flower coming to bloom.

"She asks about you," you say quietly. "It's pretty much all she says."

"Who?"

"The ghost."

"She's a she?"

"Sounds kind of like one."

"Come sit up here with me."

Eddie knows his voice has gone hard and weird, but he can't help it. He understands that he doesn't understand anything, that the world is large and works in mysterious ways, but he wouldn't forgive himself if he took this lightly. You sound so convinced — it makes him feel ill.

Because Eddie doesn't believe in ghosts.

You climb up onto the bed in front of him and he doesn't take your hand. He should. You won’t meet his eyes, a sign that you're slightly embarrassed. It's not what he meant to do.

"What does she say?” he probes.

You go teasing and shiny, a glimmer in your eye. "I know you don't believe me, Eddie."

"Who says I don't believe you? I just need you to explain."

"She says…" You laugh. "Okay, she says stuff like, 'Eddie is okay?'"

Eddie stares at you.

"I was going to tell you–"

"When?" he demands.

"I'm telling you right now!"

"How long have you been hearing voices?"

You climb up on knees to wrap your arms around his head. "You think I'm delusional," you say, a loving murmur in his ear.

He grabs your waist. Unsurprisingly, hugging you doesn't make him nearly as electric as he'd worried. It feels the same as it always has, like hugging his best friend. Loving the smell of your hair is new, but everything else stays the same.

"I don't think you’re delusional, I don't, I just– if I told you the same thing."

You pull away, and his hand comes to rest atop the curve of your hip. "I'd believe you," you say.

"I believe that you believe there's someone talking to you about me. Uh… if it is a ghost haunting your house, why's she talking about me?"

You take his hands off of your waist, squeezing his fingers together in your palms. "Don't know. I tried asking but she never answers, and last night…"

Eddie stands up.

"Where are you going?"

"We gotta let Wayne know you're staying and he's about to fall asleep, and I want a cigarette, and you need something to drink."

"I don't want a beer."

"No," he says. When he says to drink, he really means something cold to sip on. He's hoping to grab you back from… whatever it is you're going. "Soda, apple juice, drink what you want."

He fiddles with the drawstrings on his pants, waiting for you to join him at the doorway. You stay sitting on his bed. He doesn't know what your face means.

"Hey, you still have to tell me about it. I want to know, swear to god. We have all night." He holds out his hand. Wiggles his fingers at you. "I'll let you paint my nails again too, like a real girls night."

That grabs your attention. You slide off of the bed and take his hand, shrieking as he yanks you ten miles an hour down the skinny hallway and into the living room. Wayne's got the sofa bed out already, his padded roll-up mattress laid out over the springs and a sheet stretched corner to corner.

"Hey, kids," he says, fluffing one of his pillows. He chucks it at the top of the mattress. "Home time?"

"Can I stay over, Mr. Munson?" you ask.

Wayne rolls his eyes. You once spent eight days here with no breaks sometime in the summer of 1987 and he hadn't batted an eye. Eddie made sure it was truly alright with Wayne, of course, and you'd done your share of housework. Point is, both Munson's find your asking to stay unnecessary.

"I'll make pancakes in the morning," you add.

"Oh, in that case." Wayne throws his blanket out over the bed and sits on top of it. "By all means, kid, stay over. Tell your guardian."

"Can't. In Santa Barbara."

"Ah, then I have to insist you stay," he says, laying down with a huff.

Eddie passes him the TV remote. "She's a big girl, Wayne." You're well past the age of parental supervision.

Wayne answers with a grumbling sound that means, hey, you can keep talking to me but there's no guarantee I'll answer.

"I won't be annoying, promise," you say.

Wayne grunts again.

"That's old man talk for I know you won't," Eddie translates.

You nod, glad to have permission, and meander into the kitchen. "Can I–"

"Yes!" Eddie and Wayne call simultaneously.

Wayne laughs to himself in that pleased gruff way he's good at and tucks his arms behind his head. He's wearing one of Eddie's t-shirts. They've been the same size since Eddie was seventeen, something both Munson's utilise when laundry day is approaching but not quite upon them.

"Lighter?"

Wayne scrunches his eyes in displeasure. "By the sink."

"Thanks." For some reason, Eddie doesn't leave. He stays standing by the TV, listening to the voice of a late-night talk show chuckle through a joke about some scandal.

When Eddie was younger, he'd get into bed beside Wayne and watch TV until his eyes hurt. Too young to have stopped needing comfort and too old to know how to ask for it, he'd drift down the snug hallway into the living room and Wayne would usually be asleep or almost there. Eddie would stand by the TV hesitantly, and if he was sleeping Wayne must've been able to feel it, a new parents instinct or something, because he'd soon wake, and if he wasn't he'd look at Eddie like he'd been waiting for him. Like Eddie was running late.

His teenage years were almost solely defined by bad dreams and TV with Wayne. On the good nights, Eddie would go back to bed. On the bad nights, heartache would swallow him whole. Well, almost whole. His cheek would rest on Wayne's shoulder as the night went on. Miraculous and ordinary at once. That's the only bit of him that didn't hurt.

Pain emaciates the good from his memory, but it can't erase the comfort of watching TV with someone who loved him when they didn't have to.

Wayne pretends to chop Eddie in the stomach. Eddie laughs and dodges out of his path.

"Gotta be faster than that," Eddie taunts.

"Don't chain smoke," Wayne says.

"We won't be up long." Eddie's lying. He can't imagine that either of you will be getting an early night tonight considering the nature of your confession. What he means is, you won't be keeping Wayne up, and Eddie won't smoke more than what's wise.

Wayne hums.

You're in the kitchen screwing the lid back on a gallon of apple juice, your cup a quarter filled. You're like that. Won't ever take more than you need.

"One for me?" he asks.

"I figured now all your taste buds are dead, you wouldn't want any."

"Ha-ha," he says. The kitchen is unusually clean. "Shit, stop cleaning my house. Good god."

You pull one of his jackets off of the seat of one of the kitchen table's chairs and shake it out. "So I can sleep here, eat here, but cleaning is where you draw the line. I like it."

Eddie grabs the lighter from beside the sink in one hand and your wrist in the other, pulling you away from the table before you can start organising their mail and through the back door.

It's still sticky-hot out and the steps are warm to the touch as the two of you sit down hip to hip. He pulls the stiff pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket and hands them to you. Your hand is already waiting. You peel off the plastic and tap the pack against your chest. You like doing it, arguing that it makes you feel like you're Chelsea Marino in Glory Days, all dark smiles and indulgent self-loathing.

You open the pack, tug out a lone cigarette, and pass it to him.

"You're like a pez dispenser," Eddie says, putting the butt of the cigarette between his lips.

"You little freak."

He laughs and almost drops his cig. Wayne's heavy zippo struggles to light, low on gas.

"Loser can't even light a cigarette."

"Who put two dimes in you?" he asks, thrilled by your negging.

He takes a sharp inhale as the end of the cigarette finally lights, the heat tickling his throat until it burns the way he needs it to.

"Somebody must've," you say.

"Reckon we can tip you upside down and get something to eat?" he asks through an exhale of smoke, tapping ash into the small egg cup to his left that's been serving as an ashtray for as long as he's been smoking. It used to be yellow. Every now and again he washes it and sees the old chicken paint underneath. "Too late for cooking."

"Are you hungry?" you ask genuinely. "I told you we should've had more than just wings."

"It was too hot to eat hot stuff. It's still too hot. Tomorrow, we should go to Bradley's and get stuff for sandwiches."

Eddie waits for your answer. "I'm sick of PB and J, Eds," or "Yes! And a pitcher for sweet tea, my captain." You don't say anything, your face turned up to the sky and your eyes closed, soaking in the heat.

He has half a mind to go get a spray bottle and douse you before you collapse.

"What's going on with you?" he asks.

"I'm just thinking."

"Think out loud. Don't be fucking selfish."

"I'm not sure you wanna hear it."

He puts his cigarette in the eggcup ashtray half-smoked, ribbons of white curling up into the shimmering summer heat. Any other time he'd lounge back and let the nicotine course through his system, a momentary relief against the winding tightness that comes with being so hot, and so worried about you.

"If I ask you how you've been feeling lately, could you answer me?" he asks. "Without assuming I don't believe you. Don't get mad, just tell me."

You drop your shoulder against his. "I feel fine, I think. You know me, I– I worry too much, and work is overwhelming. If you took me to a doctor, he'd probably prescribe me ambien and a week in a dark room, but. I really don't think I'm making this up."

"I don't think you'd know," he says. Isn't that the deal? If you're having a hallucination of some kind, it would likely sound and feel real enough to trick you in some capacity.

"Trust me," you say. Your hair brushes against the top of his damp arm. He can't smell good, but you don't say a thing about it.

"I do." Eddie turns his head to take another drag. He blows the smoke as far from you as he can manage. "Tell me about last night," he says, eyes on the weather worn plating of the trailer. "What happened?"

If you're not messing with him, your ghost has been talking to you for a while now. Something happened last night to scare you in a way you hadn't been before.

He fights his rising nausea with a final drag on his cigarette. You stop leaning on him, hands back in your lap as you tell the story.

"I was listening to the stereo real loud while I did laundry. I don't know if I was trying to, you know, block it out if she started talking, I'm not stupid, I– I know it could be all in my head. I don't think it is, but I'm not stupid. I went down to the basement to swap the load out in the dryer, and while I was down there…"

You look like you don't know how to explain it. Eddie bites his cheek.

"She wrote me something," you say finally. "In my notebook, the one you got me for Christmas. She said hello."

"I could've written it," he says. "I don't remember, maybe I left you a message in it knowing you'd find it."

"Did you come in and take it off the shelf, too?" you ask gently. "Eddie, I know your handwriting. I'm not making this up."

He sighs, rubs his face with both hands, the smell of smoke and salt ingrained in the lines of his palms. He gives himself a long five seconds scrubbing at his stubbly jaw and wishing it was colder, then he shoots up onto his feet and pulls open the door.

"Early night," he says decisively. "If you're still sure there's a ghost in the morning, I'll come over. See if she'll talk to me too. How does that sound?"

You hold your hand out. Eddie takes it, hoisting you up.

"It sounds like you need a better strategy for getting girls to go to bed with you."

"It's working, isn't it?"

"Loser."

—

You wake up to Eddie tapping your shoulder.

"Come on, sweetheart," he says quietly, his voice rough as hewn stone. "I made you pancakes."

It's as if you're submerged at the bottom of a shallow pool. Sound and heat and sunlight reach you, but it's dull. It takes you a second to understand what Eddie's saying, and why his thumb is rubbing into your shoulder.

"Come on," he says again, "'fore they get cold."

You blink. Blink blink blink. Your throat hurts and you have a bad taste in your mouth. Your eyes feel like somebody flicked sand at you while you slept, gritty and dry. You kick the thin blanket away from you, a long day of writhing in the heat yesterday having turned you to sludge, your limbs limp and uncooperative.

Eddie's frowning at you when you look up.

"Want me to get you a rag?" he asks.

"No, I'll wash my face." Your words string together like toffee melted between them and hardened again while you weren't looking. "Oh," you murmur, wincing as you set your feet on the ground. "My back really hurts. Did you push me out of bed last night?"

"You slept like a log. Same position all night." He reaches for you, but his hand wavers. He must change his mind.

Eddie leaves the door wide open as he leaves. The radio is on, and a song he secretly loves but won't admit to wars with the sound of sizzling oil. If you strain, you can hear him humming. You get closer and dip into the bathroom, the door open so you can listen to Eddie sing the chorus.

Dance with me, I want to be your partner, can't you see? The music is just starting.

He doesn't sing well, really. It's a light, high-pitched rendition. He isn't trying. He feels comfortable enough around you to be unapologetically mediocre, and it's somehow sweeter than if he had a voice like Larry Hoppen.

You wash your face with handfuls of cold water, your lips tasting of salt as it drips down your nose to your neck, rogue rivulets of run-off seeping into your rolled sleeves.

The heat broke overnight. A light rain patters soundlessly against the windows, and the back door has been propped open in the kitchen to let in the smell of fresh churned earth. Petrichor.

You pat your tacky face dry. Eddie turns to the sound, and you nod at Wayne's empty seat.

"Where's your uncle?" you ask.

"He wanted to get epoxy and a fresh roll of duct tape in case we spring another leak. The rain was pretty bad last night, I think he's worried it'll rot the ceiling. I don't know. Don't worry, I made him something first."

You sit down and let Eddie serve you a stack of pancakes. The ones on the very top are piping hot. You slather them in butter and maple syrup as he sits down next to you, a plate of his own in hand.

"How's your back?" he asks. He's being too soft with you.

"I saw a ghost, Eds, I'm not dying." You slice down the pancakes with the side of your fork, attempting to act unbothered. "Worst case scenario, I'm schizophrenic."

Eddie sits down in the chair next to yours. It's a small table but there's ample room. His proximity is a choice. "Worst case scenario, you're being targeted by an evil demon, but schizophrenia could also be really bad," he says. "S'why I'm worried."

"Eddie." You put down your fork, swallowing a half-chewed mouthful roughly. "Hey. If it's my head, I'll go to the doctor and I'll let them take care of it and everything will be fine." You have no way of knowing if what you're saying is true. Mental illness isn't easy. You're just saying what you think he needs to hear without outright lying. "I'll take the meds and you'll be there for me. But I'm fine. And you're being weird."

"You're trying to piss me off."

A little. Pissed is better than anxious. You'd rather give him something to glare at than a reason to twist himself into knots. "You're easily riled," you jest.

His eyebrows rise. He eats his pancakes and you your own, the wrinkled knees of your pyjamas rubbing against one another as he jigs his leg along to the song on the radio. The rain starts to worsen, fat droplets slapping the screen door like the thwack of a bullet. From your seat, you can see the sky dark with grey clouds, the sun a long forgotten foe. The humidity has been cut in half, which is to say bad but not unbearable. Last night, if you'd been awake to feel it, the rain would've been warm in your palm. Getting up to close the door now, you nudge the ajar screen wide with your foot, letting some of the rain lash your arms and face.

You sigh at the chilly coldness of each blessed drop.

"Heatwave from hell is finally over."

"Thank fuck for that. Let's hope it's miserably cold for weeks," Eddie says.

It's mid September —summer has said goodbye with one last fierce kiss. By October, you'll be wrapping yourselves up in throw blankets on the couch on the porch, or hiding inside with Wayne's special pasta (buttered noodles and green pesto for the 'brave') watching slashers on Eddie's blurry TV. The humidity will be nothing but a gross memory.

You wash your plates and Eddie lets you shower first. You have your own shampoo in the corner, and a rose scented body wash Eddie buys but doesn't use (but it isn't for you, idiot, why would he buy you something so expensive? He got it by mistake). You could draw the cracks in their shower tiles with your eyes closed, and the condensation that clings to the cold water pipe, that's how many times you've been in here. You finish quickly, dry quicker, and pull fresh clothes over your still-clammy skin.

You tap Eddie in. He's somehow even faster than you were, and you swap places in his room. While he's changing, you dry the bathroom walls with a towel as soon as he's out, knowing the small room has a propensity for dampness.

"Stop cleaning my fucking house," he says when you traipse back into his room, his head hanging upside down as he towel dries his curls.

You forgo your usual explanations and tell the truth. "I know you're perfectly capable. I like helping, that's all."

"I know. Ugh, you suck. Do you have any deodorant?"

You grin and pull your deodorant out of your bag, a new-ish stick of Teen Spirit. Eddie sees it and sighs, obviously unprepared to smell like Pink Crush for the rest of the day. "I have like, half an inch left of Caribbean Cool. Coconut?" you offer.

He goes with the coconut scent. The wall of privacy between you has eroded to a scrap of paper after so long living in each other's laps, but you feel guilty for looking at him, the shifting muscle beneath the skin of his arms and chest stealing your focus. If Eddie were to see you without your shirt, you doubt he'd find himself anywhere near as distracted. He'd look if you let him because that's the way he is, unaffected by simple intimacies, but when you tell him to face the door it doesn’t aggrieve him. Most of the time he’s already averted his eyes.

"Gotta add that to the list of shit we need. Have you seen my shoes?"

"Your white sneakers are in the hallway. One of your converse is under the bed, but it's hard to say about the other." You swallow a sudden lump. "Are we going shirtless?"

Eddie does not go shirtless. He pulls a shirt on that thankfully has sleeves, and then a zip up hoodie under his leather jacket. You didn't think to bring a coat yourself due to the extreme baking temperature of the day before. You're lucky you had clean clothes here, considering you hadn't intended to spend the night. Or, not lucky, loved. One of the Munson’s has washed what you’ve left behind.

You have a momentary lapse as Eddie puts his shoes on, trekking into the bathroom to look in the mirror. It's no secret that you aren't pretty. You can make a good effort, and you keep it classy, stay clean, but you aren't pretty, not by your own opinion.

Eddie knows everything about you (nearly). He knows you don't think much of yourself. And a younger version of him had comforted you as earnestly as an awkward teenage boy could manage, but these days he goes for the root of the problem. He still tells you that you're pretty occasionally, or rather, "Looking good, babe," but not today.

"Hey." Eddie looks you up and down. "What's wrong?"

"I look stupid." You glance at your legs. Why does everything look so weird on you?

He hooks his arm through yours and starts to drag you down the hallway to the front door, sideways like two crabs. "No."

"Yeah, I do, and people are gonna think I do, too."

"Who cares what other people think?" And there's grown-up Eddie's rhetoric, Who gives a fuck what other people think?

"Me," you say.

You understand exactly what it is he's trying to do: free you from the anxiety of overthinking. It doesn't work as often as you wish it would, but he gives it a good go.

"No, you don't. We don't care what other people think because it doesn't affect us." He doesn't make light, exactly, but his eyes are bright and his smile is sweet as he opens the front door and gestures for you to go down first. Rain and wind are quick to kiss at your naked arms.

"What if they all think I'm some sort of slob?"

"Then they'd be wrong. It's okay for people to be wrong about us. That's their problem." More familiar argument. It actually does make you feel better, despite hearing it a hundred times before. "People are wrong all the time."

Eddie follows you down the first step and turns away to lock the door.

"Like you and my ghost," you say, trying to steer the conversation from your moment of weakness and into happy territory again. "You don't think she's real."

"Baby, I'd love it if you proved me wrong with that one." He jogs down the rest of the steps, knowing it’ll give you a conniption, the wet metal a death trap waiting to happen. “Go! Get in the van!”

You scramble across the grass and the curved pathway to the drive where the van is parked and yank open the passenger door with all your strength. The handle is notorious for sticking shut. When nothing happens, Eddie curses up a storm as he clambers into the driver's seat and over the console to force it open, giving it a good old-fashioned kick from the inside. It flies into your waiting hands and you rush up the step into the front of the van away from the rain that’s growing heavier and heavier by the hour.

“Well, glad I didn’t waste time letting it dry,” Eddie says, wringing his hair out over his lap. It only drips two or three drops, but it’s funny all the same. The top of his head shines like a dark halo. “About the ghost. Do you really believe in them?”

“You asked me last night–”

“I know, but last night you said you wouldn’t believe in one unless you saw it, and then proceeded to talk about it like it was real.”

“I’m agnostic about ghosts.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks. He sticks the key in the ignition and turns it until the engine groans to life. The van was old when he got it. Now it’s super old.

“No. What’s agnostic mean?” you ask.

“We’ll buy a dictionary.”

“I kind of believe in ghosts. I believe in my ghost. If I ever see one, I’ll believe in all the ghosts. Shit, I sound stupid.”

“No, you don’t– you don’t! It’s okay to not know, I wasn’t trying to interrogate you about your personal beliefs.” He is a very responsible driver these days. He keeps his eyes on the road. His hand, however, strays to your arm. “You’re not stupid, superstar.”

“Don’t,” you plead. Superstar is a nickname that stuck despite your vehement disagreement with its origin and further usage. “It makes you sound like an old dad and I’m the son who just got benched at little league. Again.”

You stand as much as your seatbelt will allow and dig out the purse from the butt pocket of your jeans. “I’ll get gas.”

“Way too personal for our relationship.”

Bad, overused joke.

Eddie doesn’t want you to pay for gas, the same way he doesn’t want you paying for takeout or birthday presents. He hates ‘handouts’ —it took you a while to convince him that gas money isn’t a handout, it’s you trying to keep things fair. You know how it feels to need the money and not want to ask for it, so you put him in a position where he never has to ask.

Things are easier now. You’re not in high school anymore. Work doesn’t pay as well as you want it to, but it’s enough to get by, especially while you’re living in your childhood home with only partial bills to pay. Eddie isn’t hurting for money either. That’s something to be grateful for.

Eddie pulls into the gas station. He won’t let you pump while the wind is whipping, but you sprint into the gas station and trawl the fridge for the biggest drinks, sticking two cans of iced tea under your arm. The cold immediately eats into your naked skin. You jog to the counter to pay.

“Pump two, please,” you say, putting your cans down.

“Twelve dollars.”

You frown. Eddie only put ten dollars on the pump. Well, deducting your two cans of iced tea at 99 cents each, ten dollars and two cents. What an asshole.

You hold out a twenty dollar bill with a smile, and look out the window as you wait for your change. The rain is too heavy to see him, but you imagine Eddie drumming the wheel of the van with both hands. You shiver out a thanks as your change hits your palm, dropping it into your purse with your best receipts. There’s one for bowling (a triple defeat, Eddie a secret master), one for two whole frozen cheesecakes you’d eaten in bed a month ago with double-sized dessert spoons, a couple for Hawk theatre; Back to the Future II, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, Ghostbusters II (‘89 was a great year for sequels). All your best memories printed on thermal paper.

“Holy shit I’m so cold,” you squeak, prying open the door without the aid of Eddie’s kick.

“You’re soaked, you fool. You want to go home first for a sweater?”

You close the door behind you and drop the iced tea into the console, grimacing at the great clang they make. Your seatbelt snaps into place around your soft middle, and without ceremony you’re back on the road for your original mission.

“No sweaters, Bradley’s. Stupid to double back.” You look at him from the corner of your eye. “I think we should get frozen pizza and extra toppings to put on them. And fries, obviously, and dessert.” The ghost won’t care. Probably.

“You forgot the side salad.”

“Forgot,” you say, laughing. “Why yes I did.”

“Dessert,” Eddie says, his turn now to make some decisions. “I want a slurpee real bad right now, so I’m thinking we buy a bag of ice for your food processor and get some syrup.”

“We could go get slurpees,” you say encouragingly. If that’s what he wants, why not?

“We have shit to do,” he says, smiling so much his dimples peek out. “Ghosts to convene with, notebooks to analyse. Feasts to prepare.” He looks deeply speculative. You assume he’s thinking about the maybe-ghost, but he says, “Why are we getting frozen pizza? They have those pre-packaged ones now that are basically fresh.”

“They taste the same.”

“Liar, the bottom of the frozen ones go soggy and the cheese burns on the crust. You know that I’m right, don’t give me dish.”

“Aren’t you always?”

Eddie has a horrible tendency to be right about things. Maybe that's why you hadn't told him about the ghost for so long, because you'd wanted to handle it yourself without his explanatory assurances. You’re the worrier and he’s the one who always sets it straight.

What if I make a fool of myself? you've asked him once.

I’ll make one of myself, too.

What if they fire me?

We’ll get you a new job with me cleaning up after idiots.

What if it never goes away?

It will.

What if body snatchers get us while we’re sleeping?

That one made him smile. The fondest upturn of a pretty mouth, not an expression you often see. Then they get us, he’d said, whispering across the pillows, face only partially visible in the struggling light of the TV. It’ll be awesome. Me and you. No brains, no worries. Just lettuce heads forever.

You watch him beating along to a song you aren’t privy to against the wheel. He hadn’t seemed to mind the idea of losing his mind with you back then. He doesn’t believe you now, but that’s because he hasn’t heard her voice. The whistling wind warping itself into coherent syllables. Reaching for you, a dark slice of sound.

Eddie… has… a secret…

You look at your lap, tamping down a shudder at the sensation of ice riding your spine.

Don’t we all?

—

Eddie feels you’ve been overly relaxed about the situation at hand. He doesn’t want to back you into a box and declare a health crisis, but he’s been thinking up possible illnesses while you weigh the pros and cons of pizza toppings in case he has to take you to see someone. He’s not sure how gas lines work but he’s sure a quick phone call to the Munson landline could clear it up for him. Perhaps the most effective test of all for carbon monoxide poisoning would be to subject himself to the same circumstances. He’ll spend a few days at home with you and see how he feels afterward. If push comes to shove he’ll light a match and see what catches.

On the inside, Eddie’s panicking about your mental health and, admittedly, the slim reality of a supernatural presence. On the outside, he’s playing along with your unconcerned dinner plans and aimless chatter. If you want to pretend that today is the same as any other day, he's prepared to let you. He won’t do the same, but he won’t discourage you, either.

You cut through one of the home aisles toward the front of the store with a heavy basket on your elbow, Eddie hot on your heels. He grabs a pocket dictionary from the display to his left and hurries to keep up with you.

You’re shivering. “I really didn’t think it would rain,” you say.

Eddie looks past the registers to the glass doors at the front of the store where rain pelts with a force bordering on stormy weather. If it gets much worse than this, he'll insist you both go back to Munson headquarters and hunker up to wait it out.

“The weather,” Eddie mumbles, unlike himself. “Are we expecting a storm? Maybe we should grab a cart and get some basics. Crate of water.”

“Okay, we can do that. Are you worried?”

“Kind of.”

He meets your eyes. He loves your eyes. He knows you don’t. You're not insecure in a way he feels he can fix —if he can fix any of it. It’s like you dissociate, for lack of a better word, from the things you can’t love. You don’t look in the mirror, won’t let him take photographs of you. You don’t say it. You call yourself stupid, weird, silly. Never ugly.

But he knows.

And now this whole ghost business. Eddie needs to think of something he can say to you that will inspire a better level of honesty going forward.

“How long have you been speaking to the ghost?” he asks.

You grin at a conveniently abandoned shopping cart at the end of the aisle and slide toward it on squealing shoes. You look around broadly for an owner, and when they don’t appear you place your basket in the stomach of it. The only thing remaining from whoever used it beforehand is a small tray of four cupcakes.

“Four. One for you, three for me,” you say, ignoring his question with a smug giggle.

Eddie loves you in a way not many people can love someone else, the kind of love that takes years of patience and acceptance and sweetness to take root, kind of love you only feel after seeing someone at their best, worst, and weirdest — memories come thick and fast whenever he thinks about the sheer years you’ve spent together, seeds of affection long germinated and rearing to grow. You, throwing up behind a Denny’s with sick in your hair, crying so hard you couldn’t catch your breath, and when you could, asking him if he wouldn’t mind buying you a new t-shirt to wear in the car as though you were some dastardly imposition, and not his sick best friend. You, on top of the world, surrounded by people who loved you with a birthday cake in front of you, eyes brighter than the blinking flames of each dripping candle. You, in pyjamas too tight, too loose, old or brand new with your hair up, down, washed, and greasy, your lips chapped, bruised then healed, parted against one of his pillows as you slept, as you yawned, as you laughed, talked. No matter what you’re wearing, saying or doing, you, in his bed, completely at home.

Eddie has a thousand images of you in his head and they all fight to play again, like a VHS on constant rewind, or a movie with duplicated film, double, triple exposed. Before even an inkling of a crush had ever come around, he loved you. That's why it doesn’t really matter that he can’t kiss you. He can’t imagine loving you more than this.

Sometimes, sometimes… you put your leg over his and your thigh spreads out across the top of his, and he has to beg himself not to want to touch you. He wonders if you’d mind. Eddie thinks about asking so often it turns into its own fantasy. He knows what cadence his voice would take, the exact grit and warmth, his hand waiting on your knee and aching to inch downward.

You pull him from his sickly introspection with a poke. Your fingernail dents his shirt precisely atop a small beauty mark. He doesn’t know if you know what you’re doing, if you’ve seen his naked chest enough times to realise that there’s a mole right there an inch shy of his belly button, if you’d ever looked at him in so much detail.

“Transmission incoming,” you say, your fingers flattening over his abdomen, your palm hovering apart. Like the pole of an opposite magnet, it refuses to connect. “Chirp. Houston, we’ve been attempting to connect with Astronaut Munson. He is unresponsive. Let us know when you make contact again.” You smile at him ruefully. “Damn moon keeps dropping signal.”

“Sorry… Astronaut Munson? Do they call astronauts astronauts? I thought it was commander.”

“I don’t know, Eddie, I haven’t brushed up on NASA related job titles lately.” Your deadpan wanes, replaced with a genuine concern. “Are you okay? You really did get lost.”

“I’m just thinking about, you know– Your ghost,” he lies. The ghost should be his highest concern, and for the most part it is, but he’d let his attention get pulled along by other things.

That’s the thing about love. It feels much more important in the moment than anything else, even when it shouldn’t.

“You’re super worried about the ghost.”

“It is an uber worrying ghost.”

“‘Cause she talks?” you ask.

“Well, yeah. Most of the time you just get, like, blurs on night vision cameras or the general malignant presence of the thing. Not words.” Not questions concerning your best friend.

“Casper talks and he’s gorgeous,” you say. “A true sweetheart.”

“Doesn’t Casper have to protect Lucy from his evil ghost uncles?”

“Who the fuck is Lucy?”

“The girl. Lucy and Johnny.”

“Bonnie?”

“Oh. That sounds right. But her name doesn’t matter,” Eddie insists. “My point was that the bad ghosts outweigh the good three to one. That’s more than half, you realise.”

“His name is Casper the Friendly Ghost,” you say, shrugging. Eddie hopes you know where it is in the store you’re going to. He hasn’t looked away from your face for the last twenty minutes. “It’s in the name.”

“But your ghost isn’t Casper,” Eddie says.

“No. My ghost isn’t Casper, but she hasn’t tried to kill me. She would have written something threatening in my notebook or knocked all the books off of my shelf if she were evil.”

Eddie frowns. You’ve steered him around the store like you’ve never been here before, changing your mind after turns to go down the opposite aisle, murmuring about bottled water. He reaches for your hand on the shopping cart rail and can’t resist squeezing it as he pulls it away.

“I got it,” he says.

He swears that your expression flickers. Worry breaking through the closed shutters of your blasé.

You’re not so chatty as you follow him toward the back of Bradley’s where they keep the big jugs of water. He grabs one, thinks back to the bad weather and grabs another. It’s unlikely that you’ll need them, but Eddie would rather be safe than sorry. “Do you have a lamp?” he asks. “An oil lamp? Or a flashlight?”

“I have a flashlight,” you confirm. “Is it really so bad? Uh, I don’t wanna ask again, but I– maybe I could–”

Eddie wants to pull your face into his chest. He thinks about it. Would he have hugged you like that a year ago, before the butterflies and the late nights daring to think of the dough of your thighs or the column of your throat when you tip your head back? He might’ve. It would mean something different, but he might’ve.

He throws an arm around your shoulder and gives you a good shake. “What is wrong with you? If it gets any worse, you’re staying with me. I’m only asking about a flashlight in case we have one of those worst case scenarios and get stuck in your haunted house. I refuse to die like the jocks in a b-rated horror.”

“The jocks or the whore? Isn’t it the girl who sleeps around that gets murdered in the dark?” you ask.

“Super unfair. I sleep around, do I deserve to die?” he asks, dropping his arm.

You mime stabbing him in the gut. Everyone's so violent.

Eddie is amazingly unharmed as he gets you to the register. You try to fight him on who’s paying, but you’re an idiot who insisted on getting gas. It’s the leverage he needs to win. Out of Bradley’s and back into the rain with grocery bags double bagged, you run for the van and thrust the spoils of your shopping trip in the passenger seat footwell. Eddie opens the side door to lug the water jugs inside and you take the cart back to the front of the store against his wishes.

He waits for you to be in arms reach and gets back in the van. You’re soaked to the bone. He’s cold in three layers, so you must be freezing. He shrugs off his sopping wet leather jacket and then the zip hoodie underneath, draping the zip hoodie over your lap and chest and then rushing to put his leather jacket on again.

“Thank you, good sir,” you laugh.

He’s already fiddling with the air conditioning. Heat bursts from the left vent but not the right, leaving you in a cold bubble. “Shit, I’m sorry, the right vent’s still busted. Ol’ Beauville keeps letting us down.”

“Don’t hate on the Beauville!” you scold through chattering teeth.

“You're dying,” he says. “Hold on, I’m gonna do ninety.”

“Do not speed!”

You get to the road outside of your place without any hydroplaning. You live on a regular American street in a two-story semi-detached house not too far from Hawkins High school with your guardian, who isn’t home very often. It has three bedrooms, one bathroom, and a lot of white walls. You often lament that the house doesn’t really feel like your own, and punctuate with a giddy laugh he doesn’t understand but adores nonetheless.

Eddie parks his van on the long gravel driveway as close to the house as he can get it and ushers you inside with your keys. You’re cold enough to listen without complaint.

He puts the groceries in the kitchen on the countertops and kicks off his shoes, intending on putting them away when he’s sure you aren’t in any danger of hypothermia. He kicks off his shoes by the door, locks it tight, and starts up the carpeted stairs to your room.

He’s not surprised to find you half-naked, but overfamiliar, affectionate friendship doesn’t necessarily mean you like being seen. He averts his gaze from your naked legs and tries desperately to think about anything but underwear. The more he tries not to think about them, the worse it gets.

“Hey,” he says, covering his eyes so you know he isn’t perving, “our horror flick just got dirty.”

“Yikes,” you say. “Don’t look.”

“I’m not, I’m not. You could’ve closed the door. You know, spare me a guilty conscience.” Then, because he just can’t help himself, “When did you start wearing fancy panties?”

“Fuck off, Eddie,” you laugh.

“Do I have to make the switch to tighty whities?”

“Our underwear choices do not concern one another.” You trek toward him. He peeks through two spread fingers and finds you thankfully reclothed in dry sweatpants and a sweater soft with age. “I thought tighty whities hurt your–” You raise your eyebrows.

He regrets being honest with you when you were teenagers. A little secrecy might help repaint him in your mind as less of a huge loser. You could possibly find him attractive if you weren't privy to the numerous embarrassments that make up his life, he thinks.

He chokes on his own tongue and dies right there in your bedroom. “Why do you remember shit like that?”

“Same reason you keep a heat pack in your room in case I get all crampy,” you say.

You give him one of your sick smiles —you have to know what you’re doing, you have to— and drape your arms over his shoulders, nearly knocking him down with the sudden addition of your weight. He, stunned, plants a foot behind himself so you don’t both trip and fall on your asses.

The plane of your back beckons beneath your sweater. What he’d give to slip a hand under the hem to explore the ridge of your shoulder blade with his fingertips.

A quiet ensues. Your hug turns from a joking attempt to push him around a bit to a real one. He steel-arms your waist, tightening them around you three times in quick succession, nose buried in your hair to steal a deep breath.

“This where the ghost talks to you?” he asks, looking over your head into the chaos of your room. It’s not dirty, but it isn’t tidy, either.

You sigh too much like a moan for his sanity and stand up tall, your hands trailing down his chest unthinkingly as you follow his gaze. “Yeah. I don’t know if we’ll hear her over the rain. It has to be really quiet.”

“What are you doing? Experiments?” he asks. He sounds as distracted by it all as he feels.

“No. Something I noticed, is all.”

“I don’t get why you didn’t tell me the first time it happened,” he confesses, voice dropping to a murmur.

“Um… remember senior year, you kept missing class because you had all those doctors appointments?” You smile sheepishly. “‘N’ you didn’t tell me about it until after you knew you were okay?”

During his first senior year, Eddie found a small cyst in his arm. Small compared to other cysts, large in his arm. He worried it was malicious, or rather Wayne worried and Eddie didn’t know what he thought about it until after they’d cut it out. It had been a thankfully speedy affair in a doctors office they couldn’t afford. Eddie didn’t tell you about it until he’d been all stitched up and tested — he tried, but then he would imagine the look on your face when he did, and it made him feel like his intestines had learned to jump rope.

He still remembers when he finally told you, the split second between, “a tumour,” and “but it’s not cancer.” The relief on your face. The shock of upset tears it caused.

“I guess I was trying to be good to you,” you say, shrugging and starting down the stairs.

Eddie follows. “If something like that happened again to me, god forbid,” —he dips into a melodramatic voice, scared of the sombre mood that’s descended— “I wouldn’t keep it to myself. I’d make it your problem instantly.”

Every now and then, Wayne will lean over the back of Eddie’s chair at the breakfast table and grab an arm, feeling for a tiny bump that hasn’t come back. You’d done the same in your own way: you wrote ‘check for lesions :D’ on a piece of paper and taped it to his bedroom doorway. It fell off ages ago, but he occasionally gets déjà vu as he leaves the room. And as he walks down the hallway, he’ll roll up his sleeve and check that there's nothing there.

Eddie didn’t tell you senior year. A lingering abandonment issue, maybe, ‘cause Dad didn’t stay when things got hard, who cares? He doesn’t think about that shit anymore. Figures the mark it left was enough. But these days, he’d tell you if he found a lump in his arm, or a ghost in his room. Your scribbled note made sure of that.

"Are you listening to me?" he asks.

"You'd make it my problem," you provide. "Tell me something I don't know."

He grabs you by the shoulders at the bottom of the stairs and blows into your ear.

With the lights on and the radio at a low volume, the rain outside doesn't seem nearly as imposing. The kitchen is small with a long strip light above that gives the room a near clinical white cast, the countertops shining clean, not a plate in the sink. It's evident how much time you don't spend here. No photos on the fridge, no salt or pepper shakers on the table. Where Eddie and Wayne have their insane mug collection made up of states and hours and way too much money in some cases, you have four black coffee mugs in a tower stack by the seldom used machine. Where they have a corkboard of photographs, Polaroids and printouts from Walmart off of rinky-dink digital cameras, you have one photo on the wall, a professionally done portrait of you from the day you graduated and Eddie, unfortunately, did not.

Eddie's grad pictures are much less robotic. Too much eyeliner but just enough you, he has his arm thrown over your shoulders in the back of a grungy restaurant, his smile blisteringly bright. He might as well have written 'Thank Fuck' across his forehead. There's another one of him and Hellfire Club at the time, blurry with the flash making him pale as snow. You and Wayne had been trying to make the camera focus, twin scowls on your faces. Eddie's expression was one of pure joy.

He tried to make up for your shitty grad pics by celebrating your first job with a pack of Polaroids. You'd looked adorably strange in the uniform, so young but so done with his shit, eighteen and exhausted. He keeps one in his room in the bottom of the box with all his rings and chains. If you ever found it, he'd think about drowning himself.

Your appointment with a ghost waits until after dinner. You pull your frozen pizzas out of their boxes and put them in the oven (you don't preheat, which Eddie thinks is a questionable choice, but he'd help you get away with murder). While they defrost and start to cook, you slice and dice your extra toppings on the wooden chopping board beside the stovetop. He stands there with his hands washed and nothing to do. Just watches you cut up jalapeños for him and thinks about how he's going to take care of you if the ghost doesn't speak up. Does he tell your guardian? You're an adult. All your healthcare would be private and confidential. Could he tell Wayne? Would that be a betrayal?

"Check the pizzas?" You scrape the seeds out of a jalapeño, eyes pinched in concentration.

Eddie doesn't know if he can eat. You aren't as out of it as you were at the store, but you aren't fully present. A song you love plays on the radio and it's like you don't hear it.

He pulls the pizzas from the oven. He makes a smiley face out of pepperoni and jalapeños, earning half as big a smile as he thought he would from you in response.

Together, you clean the small mess you made. The pizzas brown. When they're done you take them out, cut them up, plate them, and carry them up to your room on a tray with a two litre bottle of sprite and two plastic cups. Eddie changes into a pair of his pyjama pants that you keep at the bottom of your dresser before he sits on your bed, wide-eyed when he sees how many slices you've managed in his absence.

"Nobody's gonna take it away from you," he teases lightly.

"Can't be too careful 'round you," you say, dropping a crust onto his plate. It's his favourite part.

"Thought you wanted fries?"

"And I thought you wanted a side salad."

"I wanted snow cone syrup," he says, shrugging.

He considers offering to go make you some fries anyway, but he takes a big bite of pizza and it tastes so good he forgets about it. Eddie doesn't know nothing about nothing, but if he had a say, he'd make it so that he and you could spend the rest of your lives doing this, meaningless jabbering over greasy food. It's not a good idea —you need vegetables that aren't on pizza, and fresh grains, and who knows what else to stay healthy— but Eddie's never claimed he had them. He wants this.

He gets it most of the time, but he's selfish. He wants it every night. He loves Wayne but he wants to come home to you, or to have you come home to him, in a space that you decorated, a life that you made. He wants a dog and a pet fish and, in five years or ten or never, a baby if it's what you want too. A front door lined with three pairs of shoes.

He also wants a limousine that takes him from place to place and a room full of thousand dollar guitars. A man can dream.

The first port of call for any dream is making sure you're okay. Let the ghostly stakeout begin.

Sated and sick at once, Eddie puts your empty tray on the dresser and goes to turn on the TV. "She won't talk if the TV's on," you interrupt.

"Ugh. Any chance she likes the stereo?"

You slouch down where you'd been sitting and shake your head. Your jaw goes soft, eyes softer when you smile. "It's not all bad. She doesn't care how loud you turn a page."

Eddie can't be with you every second of the day, the same way you can't be with him. There are shifts to take, shifts to cover, dungeons to pilfer and dragons to slay. You have your job, your other friends (none as handsome as he is), your hobbies. How often are you home alone, talking to ghosts?

He stands by your bookshelf, eyes skipping over the titles in slight disinterest.

"Hey," he asks, "where's your notebook? I wanna see her handwriting."

"I left it on the top shelf."

Eddie stares. There are a few other notebooks and sketchbooks aligned here, but not the one you'd described.

"You sure?" he asks.

"I left it right there,” you say with a yawn.

Eddie looks at you from over his shoulder. You’re tired. He figures he can see the notebook later, and offer you some remedial comfort now. Anything to wipe the frown off of your face.

He grabs a book off of your shelf at random and cracks it open. You love being read to. You'd beg and beg him growing up, and he'd almost always oblige.

"Can I read aloud, or does she hate that too?" he asks, turning away from your shelf.

"I've never tried it."

"I'll do it quietly?"

"Sure," you say, a tired but pleased smile on your lips. "I've read that one before."

"Should I get a different one?"

"No, it's good. It's the one I told you about with the demons who eat stars."

"The dirty one?" he asks, dropping like a stone near the top of your bed, the blankets under his hip warm from the residual heat of the pizza plates.

"It's not dirty. There's one scene toward the end where they get handsy, no graphic detail."

"And by no graphic detail, you mean…"

"No graphic detail," you repeat. It's awful how funny you find each other.

"Not even, like… hand stuff?"

"Do you want there to be hand stuff?"

"With the demons?"

You devolve into giggles, the kind that start slow and thicken into a giddy sort of breathlessness, your head supported by the headboard. Eddie looks up at you in awe.

"I could be into that," Eddie furthers, stretching your laughter as long as it will go. "Are they the kind that look like people but with extra arms or wings or something?"

"You'd like that, huh? Extra arms?"

"I wouldn't be opposed to extra arms."

"Gross," you cheer through another wave of laughter. "I don't wanna think about it."

Eddie looks to the book's first page and tamps down a grimace. You don't wanna think about him in that sort of position.

Eddie, excluding any extra appendages, thinks of you like that more than he should. Never when you're near, not if he can help it, but at night when the hot shower water beating down against his back can be shaped into the vague sensation of a body behind him, he thinks of your chest. Your hands. Or in the early mornings, when he's writhed into a contortionist’s ball and the streaking sunlight through the curtains is kissing his abdomen, he imagines it's your leg thrown across his hip, with your face turned into his chest.

Fuck, it kills him, because he knows what the real thing feels like. He's had you clinging to his waist on colder nights, and he's been under your hands. Tipsy, free with your touches, he's felt the breadth of your palms cupping his cheeks.

You're pretty, you'd told him, as you love to tell him when you've been drinking, but you need a haircut.

He never would've let you kiss him in that state, but he kids himself into thinking you wanted to. It was only booze doing what booze does.

"Read to me, serf," you demand.

Eddie clears his throat.

"The enemy is close," Eddie reads, "and the lane is overrun. Sympathy for the second kind had felt natural to Mellissa once, but now that she sees the sharp angling of their shoulders in the dawn light, she aches with hatred…"

The novel isn't bad. It isn't Eddie's favourite; the tone falls flat, and the main character's actions aren't fed by any particular emotion. Its first arc is formulaic, and soon the hero's forced to answer the call. You evidently find his rehashing tedious, as your head tips toward his head, and you wriggle your way down to his shoulder amicably.

"Don't fall asleep," he says.

"It's your whispering."

"I don't want to disturb the ghost."

"Okay." You start to pick at your nails, little scratches against the cuticle. "I won't fall asleep."

—

Your snores aren't gentle. You're a human being and Eddie doesn't expect you to breathe like a princess, but the wheeze is concerning.

He waits for you to settle down, easing your head onto the pillow. Your airway clears, and your snoring quietens to the same ambient level as the rain hitting the window outside. He feels your head for a temperature carefully. Back of his hand, fingers curled in so his ring can't startle you, he tries to gauge if you're running a fever.

It isn't normal for you to cat nap in the middle of the day, but the sun is occluded by dark clouds and the rain blots out what's left, leaving the bedroom in darkness, and you'd been warm and fed and Eddie had been doing something monotonous. It makes sense that you'd drifted off. Eddie wishes he felt tired too, so he could slide down under the sheets with you and curl a hand around your wrist.

He lies on his back, arms crossed over his chest, straining his ears for the sound of a voice.

I swear, sometimes, I can hear someone talking.

You have a vent in your room, and perhaps a couple of late nights after your shifts had you mistaking a groaning foundation or the wind for a whisper. That's a thing, right? People hear something in the wind. Fatigue has your mind playing tricks on you. Eddie should go to the library and see if they have anything to do with sleep deprivation.

It's no fun listening for ghosts. Eddie's shoulders and upper back begin to feel tense. The feeling travels lower, a snaking ache that wraps around each vertebrae. Even his tailbone hurts.

He shifts onto his side and stares at your closed eyes. He blows a breath at you to watch your lashes flutter like tufts of grass in the breeze.

Your breaths are like a metronome. He syncs his to yours for kicks, just listening. When you're both asleep, does your breath sync on its own? How do your bodies react to each other? Eddie has woken up to your arms around him or your body halfway across the bed, leg falling out from under the covers. You're irregular, where he has a tendency to grab at you while he's knocked out. He doesn't wrap his arms around you so much as hold you in his hands. His fingers curl in the hem of your t-shirts or bracelet your bicep. If he falls asleep with an arm above your head, he'll occasionally wake to find his hand at the top of it, your hair mussed.

He must be stroking it in his sleep.

Or maybe you're frizzy.

No shame in frizziness. Eddie's frizzy more often than not. Curly hair is hard to take care of and he has a lot of it. God knows it was worse before he started seeing that hairdresser in the city who makes magic happen with her thinning shears.

Your lips part.

Thunder cracks outside.

Eddie lifts his head to look out of the window in surprise. Summer days have come to pass and sunset comes earlier in the day, fractals of light bouncing between the violent rain. In an hour or two, it will be pitch black outside.

He should call Wayne and see what's happening. How he is, and if he thinks Eddie should come home and bring you, too.

Eddie clambers off of the bed, careful not to wake you. He slides across your hardwood floor and takes the empty dinner tray with him down the spongy carpeting of your stairs, back to hardwood in the hallway, and finally onto the freezing cold linoleum of your kitchen.

He locates the source of chill quickly. The window in front of the sink has unlatched. It's the thing you call him over for most; when you want to hang out you go to Eddie's, when the window won't close Eddie comes here.

His shirt hikes as he leans against the sink, his abdomen pressed to the cold countertop as he yanks the window and twists the handle the wrong way, goosebumps climbing his arms. It groans in resistance, but Eddie knows from experience that it’ll stay closed for a while.

He takes the liberty of turning your thermostat up as he waits for Wayne to answer the phone, coiled cord pulled taut.

Wayne isn't too bothered by the weather, "It's not a hurricane. A storm, sure– you'll be fine. But by all means, come home if you're scared."

"I'm not scared, jerk, I'm concerned."

He winds the cord around his arm, leaning in when Wayne's voice is hard to hear like it'll make a difference.

"...might go out," Wayne's saying, "call me, or call around Roger's… get back to… warm."

"Where the fuck are you? I can't hear a thing you're saying."

"Don't cuss at me. I'm with Roger, that's why I said to call Roger if I don't answer, he has that new pool table…" Anything Wayne says after that is garbled, like he has a hand pressed over his mouth.

“I thought Roger had a broken leg?” Eddie says. “How’s he getting around?”

“He hops. I left money in the bread bin for you, did you see it?”

“No, I didn’t see it. Wayne, we’ve talked about this before, I’m working. I appreciate it, I do, but I don’t need you giving me money.”

Whatever Wayne says at first gets eaten by static. Eddie doesn’t know if it’s your phone or the Munson’s. He doesn’t need to hear what Wayne’s saying to get the general gist of it. “…water bill..”

This again? Eddie paid the water bill. He thought he’d be allowed to do that, considering he uses the majority of the water, but it’s been a great point of contention between them.

“I’m sorry!” he says. “If I knew it would bother you so bad I wouldn’t have done it. But I don’t want it back, I’m not a kid anymore, half the time you don’t let me pay for groceries–”

“This might shock you, son, but I’ve been paying for you to eat for a decade. I ever complained? No, ‘cause it’s my job, and I don’t want you thinking any…” the words scratch out. Eddie guesses what he’s saying.

The broken phone is starting to irritate him.

He holds in his argument. Call it respect, love, whatever you want. “I’m not saying that! Listen,” —Eddie laughs to himself, words wrought with it like bubbles— “you’re senile.”

“You weasel–” The phone gives up. Whooshing air is all Eddie hears.

"I can't deal with this. I love you, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" Eddie asks, rubbing the space between his eyebrows.

"Yeah, love you too, kid. Eddie–"

He doesn't catch the end of Wayne's sentence. The line goes dead. He pulls the shiny receiver from his ear and frowns at it.

Wayne was probably just telling Roger and the guys what Eddie was up to. Or what he thinks Eddie's up to, at least. Eddie told him via note that you wanted help rearranging your bedroom furniture. A small lie, but he didn't want to expose you to any outward judgement until he's sure himself what's going on.

Eddie hangs the phone on the hook. He grabs your plates, throwing the meagre leftovers in the trash and dumping the plates in the sink. He turns on the hot faucet and grabs a sponge and the dish soap and gets to work cleaning. It takes him all of five minutes, and he's oh so smug about being a decent person that he doesn't notice the chill.

He dries the plates and puts them in the cabinet across the room with his back to the sink. The dishes clatter together loudly, like a gunshot in the silence. He winces internally and tries to be gentler closing the cabinet door.

The hum of the kitchen light catches his attention. He looks up, unsurprised to find a bug crawling inside of the plastic covering that shields the long bulb. A moth, Eddie thinks, it's fuzz silhouetted in shadow. He doesn't really like moths, but he also doesn't wanna watch one die.

The rain seems worse when he turns off the light. Your kitchen faces out into the backyard, and through the night Eddie can see the house that's behind yours with its porch lights on. It turns the rain to quicksilver, and provides just enough illumination for Eddie to look up at the kitchen light and know what he's doing.

He drags a chair to the middle of the room and steps onto it. It's disturbingly slippery. Thankfully, Eddie doesn't plan on doing any acrobatics. He reaches up to the warm plastic light covering and feels along for the ridges to pry it off. One ridge clicks off, and another. He leans precariously toward the other side and feels for the third and forth ridge when thunder rumbles outside, and somewhere in the distance lightning flashes.

Eddie flinches but doesn't fall. "Fuck," he mumbles. Pussy.

The plastic falls into his hands and Eddie climbs off of the chair as quickly as he can. It's too hot to handle, banging against the kitchen table as he chucks it down. He'd turned off the light thinking the plastic would cool down fast, and he’d been proven very wrong.

"Shit," he mumbles some more. Your neighbour's porch light turns off, leaving him in total darkness.

Eddie’s hand aches from his mild burn. It's like whenever he has to wash the frying pan at home, he forgets that while cold water might cool the pan itself, the slim piece of metal that connects the dish to the handle stays hot. He's burned himself so many times on that fucker–

Lightning flashes again.

There's someone standing in your yard.

The second he notices the figure, it lunges left.

Eddie stands frozen on the spot, unsure if he should approach the window to get a better look, or if he should move backward and away from the potential harm.

He takes a step forward. Mind in a numb state of thoughtlessness, he walks to your sink and stands there silently, looking into the grass and trees for any hint of irregular movement.

Tree branches rail in the wind and rain. Eddie leans further forward.

A third flash of lighting comes, and it must have struck close by, as the light it gives off is long and bright. He gets a clear look at the yard and the image of his own reflection in the glass. No dark figure in the tall grass toward the fence, no heinous murderer trying the back door.

It’s dark again. Eddie puts a hand over the racing pulse of his heart. Fuck, he thinks. I’m seeing things. He’s on edge ‘cause of your fucking ghost, and it’s not your fault but he wonders if maybe loving you is making him tired. He regrets it as soon as he thinks it, what does that even mean? He’s loved you for years. It has never felt like a chore. But… tired. He’s tired. Pining for someone you already have, just not in the way that you want, is exhausting. It’s not your fault and it doesn’t change the fact that he’s exhausted. Today has been a long day.

He scrubs his eyes with his palms until they burn and lifts his head.

There’s a girl on the other side of the glass.

Eddie startles, startles again when he realises she’s not on the other side at all, she’s behind him, outfitted in white like an apparition, like an angel. She’s inside the house, ten feet away in the doorway.

His neck cracks with the force of his turn.

“Sorry,” you say, taking a step back into the hall. “I thought you heard me.”

“Oh, shit.”

You’ve turned the light on in the hall. Eddie turns back to the window and sees your reflection again, no angels and no apparitions. You’re just a girl.

He half turns and gets stuck like that, hand braced against his eyes, torso pitching forward. “Shit,” he mutters.

“Are you okay?”

Eddie laughs. “You surprised me. I’m fine,” he assures you, though he takes his time standing at full height. How can such a small scare feel like a marathon? “Creep, who fucking does that?”

“You were totally spaced, dude, don’t blame me,” you say, holding your hands up in mock surrender.

“I do blame you. I hope you feel blamed. Fucking fuck, that got me.”

“I wasn’t being quiet. I yelled. You didn’t hear me?”

He can’t stop the dubiety that warps his face. “No? What’s your definition of yelling? ‘Eddie?’” he imitates you, tossing his own name into the dark kitchen. “Unbelievable.”

“What were you looking at?” you ask, nodding at the window.

“Lightning.”

“That why you’re in the dark? Or have I interrupted something?”

“‘M moonlighting as a serial killer.” He grins at you. “Got me.”

You lean against the wall next to the light switch and turn it on, exposing the chair shy of his leg and the plastic cover from your light on the table.

“What the–”

“I’m doing a good deed. Or, I was. There was a moth at one point."

You help Eddie clip the light back into place. He climbs back on the chair and you hug his legs to make sure he doesn’t fall either way, arms encircling his thighs and your face pressed comfortably to his stomach. Your cheek flush with the naked stretch of his stomach, his shirt hiked up as he struggles to finish what he started, he explains the moth, who, for lack of an escape, has probably found a home in your curtains or your coat rack. You laugh at his softness.

Back upstairs, you won’t let him read to you again, and the ghost monitoring continues on. Eventually, you both get bored and turn on the TV. Eddie forgets his fright, you forget your haunted house, and the night ends. You fall asleep against his shoulder, drool leaking from the corner of your mouth. He pushes you gently down into your pillow, and goes to brush his teeth with a snort.

Eddie wakes in the morning with a crick in his neck. He feels better, having slept. All his monstrous yearning has fizzled out overnight, and he’s glad to find that the damp circle of dribble under your cheek isn’t cute, it’s gross. (Okay, it’s a little cute. He’s only human.)

The window brags an end to the extreme weather. Rain nor shine reaches through your drapes; the morning looks mundane. He kicks your shin ‘by accident’ and waits for you to rouse, keeping a safe distance. He doesn’t wanna get his morning breath all over you. That would be inhumane.

“Ouch,” you croak.

“It wasn’t that hard.” His voice is as rough as yours.

“Not your kick,” you moan. “My throat.”

“You’ve been drooling again.”

You cover your face sluggishly and your pinky must feel the wet spot staining your pillow.

“It’s embarrassing.” You dig your heels in at the bottom of the bed and pull your head off of the pillow so you can grab it and throw it out of view. Once it’s bashed against your mirror with a concerning glass sound, you pull the blankets over your face and sigh. “I’ll be here forever, if you need me.”

“Could be worse,” he says lightly. “Imagine waking up with a stiffy.”

“Did you–?” you ask, like you’re terrified to know but couldn’t not inquire.

“No, but I have. You know I have.”

“True. That is… unfortunately awkward.”

“‘Xactly. Don’t feel weird about your spit.”

You don’t feel as bad as you pretend. Sure, it’s embarrassing. So is puking in your lap at the movies, or ripping your pants climbing over the fence into the woods by Forest Hills, or getting fired after two weeks from the Palace Arcade because the manager didn’t like your ‘general demeanour and/or presence’, all of which he’s done and you’ve been a witness to. He thinks you might be impervious to humiliation as long as you’re together.

Eddie pulls the blankets over his head, pleased that the morning light reaches you even here. You’re curled on your side underneath them, bleary eyes meeting his from across the small stretch of mattress. You hadn’t touched him once while you slept.

“I don’t remember falling asleep,” you say quietly.

“We watched Poltergeist. You fell asleep with twenty minutes left.”

“Can you blame me? Snore.”

“You wanted to watch it.”

“It’s the only movie I own that has a ghost.”

You share a silent look. Eddie tries to keep a straight face and ultimately fails, his laugh roaring. You join in, half reluctant and half delirious in your fatigue. Your sleep-swollen eyes close like you can’t keep them open anymore.

He stays under the sheets stealing looks at you for as long as he can, despite the building, smothering warmth. The day passes with much of the same.

—

When you first started working at Leaven, Eddie called you a traitor. He said you’d made it impossible for him to show his face in Bradley’s. He’d been joking — the prices at Leaven are ridiculous, and completely out of the average joe’s budget. Bradley’s remains your go to for everything. He’s come around these days — he likes the fancy soups and admits Leaven’s has the best fresh fruit.

Despite the rich old women who frequent and make your workdays… less than ideal, you like working at Leaven. Your days consist almost exclusively of stacking shelves, but occasionally they chuck you on checkout and you get to sit in a padded chair for ten hours. You’re basically living the American dream.

Working here has introduced a special brand of monotony to your life. It’s very, very quiet, and that’s how you like it. But there’s something to be said for noise, for Eddie and Wayne’s noise specifically. You like going there after work to shock your body back into the real world. Here’s sound. Here’s life. Here’s love.

You’re scanning a bag of ‘holistic’ lemons when you notice Eddie lingering toward the front of the store a mere twenty feet away. You don’t wave at him, lest your customer think they aren’t the sparkling apple of your eye and report you to the manager, but you nod jerkily, hoping he takes it for ‘I see you’. He smiles and points his thumb toward the store’s cafe.

When your arms are numb from another twenty minutes of scanning and typing in coupon codes for people who don’t need coupons, you shut down your register and lock it all tight. You take your lunch break early, and thankfully there’s nobody in the cafe to yell at you for being unprofessional.

You waltz over to Eddie sitting at the back next to the huge glass windows and prop your lunch bag against the coke bottle he’s opened. “Hello, handsome,” you say.

“Hey, beautiful.”

“You want half of a turkey sandwich?”

He beams at you, kicking your chair out so you can sit. “Nooo, I brought you a hot dog.”

“Oh, gross. Give it to me right now.”

You know he made it at home before he’s even pulled the foil wrapped package from his bag. Eddie makes the best hot dogs ever. Fancy brioche buns, caramelised onions and a mixture of sauces on the world's worst meat. They make you queasy and they might be one of your favourite foods. You open it, delighting in its retained heat.

His wrist is shiny. You put your hotdog down to grab his arm and bring it closer to your face. He’s wearing a simple tennis chain with black gems like a rich girl. “What is this?” you murmur, pleased to see him wearing something nice.

“You like that? It was thirty four dollars from a magazine.”

“I love it. What’s the occasion?”

“My mom’s birthday.” He fishes his own hotdog from his bag and slaps it down in front of yours. You take a huge bite, and can’t answer him when he asks, “Is that really weird, buying myself something when it’s a day about her?”

You steal a swig of his coke and wince the entire time. “Sorry.” You cough. “No, that’s not weird, Eddie. Wanting to buy yourself something nice is a good way of dealing with a shitty day. A day that makes you feel shitty,” you amend.

“Maybe I should’ve got her a big bouquet of flowers or something.”

“You can still get her flowers.”

“Yeah.”

You take another bite of your hot dog and slip away to get a bottle of water from the cafe. You feel like an asshole for not hugging him. When you return Eddie’s already polished off his hot dog, and has moved onto one half of your turkey sandwich.

“Are you gonna be weird about it if I hug you?” you ask him genuinely.

“No.” He puts down the sandwich. “I don’t know. Maybe. I want one, though.”

You wipe your hands in a napkin showfully before approaching his chair. You slide a knee next to his thigh and wrap your arms around his head, a hand between his shoulder blades and the other pulling his face to your chest. You have to slouch. It's not entirely comfortable but it doesn't feel awkward, so you take the win.

"I'm sorry, Eddie," you say quietly. You think about kissing his head.

"Me too."

There's a moment in there where you feel a nasty emotion brewing, sadness and much worse. You know that the gutted pain aching through you right now is nothing compared to what Eddie feels. That loss.

It must feel so, so heavy.

You pet his neck affectionately. Your nose dips into his hair, the tip touching his scalp. Your hands come up, like trying to hold water as it trickles between your fingers, Eddie's slipping. You grapple to keep him with you.

"I love you," you say honestly. He's your best friend.

Eddie pats your back. "I love you too, loser."

"You're my best friend."

I would fucking think so, he'd say.

"You're mine," he says.

You smile and give him a good squeeze. When you pull away he doesn't look as odd as he had, relaxing against the hard-backed wood of the cafe chair as he tucks his hair behind his ear. He holds your gaze without any weight to it. You sit in your own uncomfortable chair and lean forward to compensate for the space between you, like two slanting trees in the wind, parallel but untouching.

"It's a really nice bracelet," you say.

"She'd like it, I think."

You don't know anything about Eddie's mom. She isn't someone he's ever been able to talk about with you. You can't remember the photographs you'd seen once upon a time, but you remember having the distinct thought that Eddie looked more like her than his dad or his uncle Wayne. She'd been beautiful, and her life couldn't be more starkly mourned.

"I'm sure she would. It's pretty."

His mouth wobbles. You're horrified for a moment, thinking he might burst into tears, but it's laughter he's chasing, and his little giggle is like a beam of sunlight. "Sorry," he says. Laughter doesn't seem like a good enough word to describe the sounds he's making, such understated, small curls of sound. Fleeting, golden. "She would've liked you, too. She would've loved you."

"That's a good thing?" you check, cautious that he might be on the precipice of a nervous breakdown.

"Yeah, that's a good thing. Is it ever bad? To be loved?" he asks.

He's teasing, but it feels like he's asking you something else.

"You could be a stalker, with that logic."

And there you go, ruining a moment with a shitty joke because you're too much of a coward to ask questions when you don't know the answer.

Eddie grabs his coke, tipping his head back as he says, "Who says I'm not a stalker already?"

Funny how the subtext of a conversation can contain magnitudes for one party and not the other. You worry you're in love with your best friend. He sips at coke and threatens perversion.

"You're definitely a stalker. You couldn't wait a couple hours to see me tonight?"

"I didn't realise I would be seeing you tonight," Eddie says, lifting his brows.

"Oh. I asked, didn't I?"

Eddie shakes his head. "Are you sure? I don't remember you asking, babe, I'm supposed to go play at Gareth's."

Babe is his funniest pet name, in your opinion. It doesn't suit you, or him, but it feels good anyhow. Like you're a babe, supermodel pretty for TV or magazine spreads, long legs and not a single wrinkle that isn't marring the paper itself.

"Bummer for me," you say lightly. "What are you doing, Dio tributes again?"

"Don't say tributes like that, like we're out sacrificing goats in studded jackets."

"That's a good image." You laugh. "That's funny."

"I don't know. He wanted to try something he wrote. Invited Jeff and Jamison. Band's back together."

"I'll get out my t-shirts."

You have all the corny classics; I'm with the band; I'm with the guitarist; a Corroded Coffin faux tour shirt, different Hawkins locations written in typeset sharpie on the back. When you made it, Eddie had been wearing the t-shirt and the ink leaked through. He had 'Lover's Lake, Nov 18' between his shoulder blades and 'The Hideout, May 22' over his tailbone for a week. By day three the words had become illegible but you'd known them anyway, in the same way you knew the dots between the letters H and I were freckles rather than ink spots. You've always looked at him more than you should.

"I could cancel."

You and Eddie experience the natural ups and downs of friendship, or rather the ebb and flow. You know you come back together eventually if you get too far apart, and there hasn't been a time since you met him where you were worried about the permanence of your relationship. You're human, and you get insecure about it anyway, but then he says stuff like that and you're confronted with how close you are. He puts you first. He has other friends, other healthy friendships and a life outside of you, but you still get to be a huge and important part of the majority, and that is more than enough. (It should be more than enough. Some days it is.)

"Now why would you do a thing like that?" you ask, sarcastic but soft. "You know they sound shit without you."

"I don't like knowing you're alone."

"I'm not lonely," you say. Truth or lie.

"That's not what I said." Eddie's eyes narrow.

"It's stupid to worry about me, I always lock the doors. I lock the windows, even the ones upstairs. I don't think I'm gonna fall victim to a home invasion anytime soon."

"I don't think many people think they're gonna be in home invasions until their homes actually get invaded. And it's not really what I'm worried about."

"Do you ever think that we worry too much?"

"Yes. We worry constantly. It's, like, our parasitic relationship with each other."

"Like a tapeworm," you agree solemnly.

"Exactly. I'm your tapeworm. And I'm worried about you."

"Can tapeworms worry?" you ask.

Eddie kicks you mildly. "I don't know? I don't think tapeworms have a level of consciousness beyond what's needed for them to survive. They probably think about eating and parasitizing and that's it. Don't make me ask, please."

You take a pull of your drink to prolong the inevitable. "Ask about what?"

"Your ghost."

"Ah."

Eddie waits.

You sigh again. "Look, I don't even know if she is a ghost, I probably just imagined it."

He pulls himself forward and there's the weight you'd be waiting for, sternness marked into his face one feature at a time. "Liar."

"What?"

"You're lying. You don't think you imagined it." He looks you up and down. “You think I don't know when you're lying?"

"I'm not lying," you lie.

"You are. I know you are," he says, smiling despite the point he's making. "I know what you look like when you do."

"What do I look like?"

"I can't tell you, you might change it, and then I won't know when I'm supposed to look out for you 'cause you never tell me anything."

"I don't want to talk about the ghost."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't believe me," you say too loudly.

Eddie reaches across the table but doesn't touch your hand. He puts his palm down and leans ever forward, says, "Hey, I do."

"No, you don't, you think there's something happening to me."

"What would you think, if it were me?" he asks, frustration seeping in. "Try and see it from how I'm seeing it."

"If it were you'd I'd believe you because you needed me to."

You cringe at yourself and veer back into your chair, shoving your hands between your thighs and clamping your legs closed. Your fingers turn numb.

Eddie doesn't look shocked, exactly. Surprised that you're talking to him unkindly, sure, and concerned.

This whole situation is ill-fated, you know that. What good can come of a ghost? Hooks from the past. "I never should have told you," you say quietly.

"Did you tell me?" Eddie asks, speaking with an anger that forms each word like a cut, clean and hurting. "You won't tell me anything. You tell me she talks to you, that she asks you about me. But you won't say what she says, exactly, and you have nothing to show for it. Your notebook conveniently disappeared. I can’t hear her."

He thinks you're making it up.

Fuck. He thinks you're making it up. Eddie thinks you're lying to him, and while it hurts like a sharp kick to the solar plexus, a flooring, winding pain, it's the embarrassment that has tears glowing along your last line. If he really believes you'd make something up like this for attention, what does he think of you? That you're some silly leech clinging to him through bad lies? That you're bored? That this is a game you're playing with him?

Your heart beats hard enough that you can feel it in your chest. Your hands shake with anger and hurt at once, your leg bouncing under the table in an attempt to keep the rush of it at bay. You look at Eddie with your lips parted, trying to say what you mean and not what you feel. You want to say something scathing, and you don't want to be cruel, and these are two facts existing at the same time.

Eddie has other ideas. He sees your eyes turn glassy, he must, because his anger drains and he turns sorry and soft. It reminds you of a different moment like a film cell played overtop, of a younger, remorseful him. The expression he makes when he's just popped you in the mouth wrestling, or burned behind your ear with the hair iron. An accident.

"I'm sorry," he says. Sheepish, gentle, sincere, embarrassed, too many threads of emotion to summarise with one word. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. Don't cry."

"Fuck off," you mumble, looking down at your bouncing leg. You push your hand against it, forcing it to lay still.

"I didn't mean it."

"Stop, Eddie."

"I'm just hurt you're not telling me everything and I'm acting like an asshole 'cause I'm a big baby," he says, two shades from frantic.

A tear rolls down your cheek. You thought for sure you'd escaped them, but it had already welled, and with nowhere to go it races down your cheek. You paw at it and hope he won't see it.

He does.

Eddie's chair screeches across the floor as he stands up. You know he'll hug you before he's touched you. Same way you know he's freaking out on the inside, allergic to girl tears.

His hands take to your shoulders, hesitating there, and one slides behind your neck so his forearm presses against both shoulder blades. His lips ghost warmly over your forehead as he leans in. His other hand meanders, braceleting the top of your arm and running downward before swiftly changing paths to flatten out against the small of your back.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, rubbing your back.

His tender hug exacerbates the hurt, like an exsanguination. You cry as quietly as you can manage and Eddie feels it under his hands, the two of you condensed at the back of an empty room. You forget where you are, what you're wearing, what you've been fighting about. What he said. You realise how badly you'd needed him to comfort you lately, and hate yourself for giving in.

He shushes you so quietly you think you might have imagined it.

Or maybe it was your ghost.

"I'm sorry," he says, his breath kissing your scalp. "I'm a dick."

"It's fine," you say. You despise yourself for how weak you sound.

"It's not fine."

"I wanted to stay because it's getting worse," you tell him. You don't mean to.

"Okay. Okay. Then you'll stay. It's no biggie."

"It's worse," you say, turning your face into his chest.

You're shaking hard. Eddie can't make it stop no matter how tightly he holds you.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

He doesn't have to be. If he was acting out, fine. If he does or doesn't believe you, fine. You don't need him to see ghosts, or apologise that he can't.

"I just didn't want to do it by myself," you confess, at the very pit of pathetic. You hope he won't hear. Your growing panic about the ghost is a secret you hadn’t meant to tell.

Eddie pulls away. He looks down at you, and if he wanted to he could kiss you, his lips are that close, but he widens the distance. He takes your face into his hands, calluses rough against your tacky cheeks.

"You think I'm gonna let you? I know I'm fucking it up royally right now, I know I'm an asshole, but I'm not fucking going anywhere, okay? Don't worry. Don't worry about it." He drops his hands to your shoulders. "I'm your parasite, right? Do you know how hard it is to get rid of a parasite? Sometimes they have to pull them out, and they're excruciatingly long, it's a process you don't wanna go through–"

You laugh wetly. Eddie promptly stops talking about parasites.

"Forgive me?" he asks.

You nod on automatic. Of course you do.

"I swear she's real," you say, rubbing your forehead with the meat of your thumb. You think she’s real, but the truth is that you just don’t know. You amend quickly, "I swear I'm not lying. I am hearing someone… even if she's not real."

Eddie frowns. "I know. I believe you."

That's when the real trouble begins.

—

Eddie wants to hold your hand desperately. You're wearing your nicest dress, split hem sewn with infinite care, and your dress shoes with the tiny heels. He doesn't get to see you like this very often, and he wishes it were a better occasion.

You've had your hair down at the hair stylists in the city, you're wearing concealer. You've done everything you can to look presentable. You look beautiful. He hopes you know that, at least.

You heave a sigh. You're as anxious as Eddie is to get this over with.

“You remember Hawk?” he asks you.

“Jack 'Hawk'?” you ask.

“Yeah, Hawk.”

“He’d come around for green?” you ask.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Alright. So, when you were on vacation last summer, Hawk knocked on the door, I answered. I’m straight, right? Haven’t sold anything in years, no plans on selling again. But Jack barrels up the steps and starts going on like I promised him something. I said, dude, I don't deal anymore, and could you possibly shut the fuck up? Wayne’s inside making milkshakes. Blender on, couldn’t hear us but I’m sweating bullets.

“Jack, fucker, starts begging.” Eddie leans into your shoulder, hushed. “He’s saying c’mon Munson, I know you got some, don’t you have a personal stash? I’m desperate.” He picks a piece of hair off of your sleeve. “I didn’t, obviously, and I told him that but he’s not listening to me, he’s getting all wild-eyed and fucking wound like he needs the hard shit. I’m just trying to get rid of him at that point, I don’t know if he was tweaking but he looked like he was going to hit me and I wasn’t interested in fighting.” He laughs, encouraging a smile from you. “Wayne’s inside making milkshakes. Full fat with vanilla extract– I’m not about to take a trip to Hawkins General.”

“What did you do?” you ask.

“I said to him, even if I did you wouldn’t be getting anything, asshole, and pushed him toward the steps, you know? It felt good, standing up for myself.”

“And he left?”

“No, he fucking hit me straight in the dick. Can you imagine that? Junk shot on my own front door.”

You gasp with giggly indignation, hanging on his every word now. Eddie knows he’s taken you out of your head, even if it’s temporary.

“He hit you in the dick,” —you whisper ‘dick’ like it’s insidious within these four walls— “‘cause he wanted pot? You should’ve pushed him off of the porch.”

“I would’ve but he fucking winded me.” He starts laughing again, your giggles contagious though you try to smother them with your hand. “It’s funny now, but it wasn’t funny at the time.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“He was five foot one. I’ve never felt that humble in my life, I told Wayne I was coming down with something and had the worst afternoon nap ever. Didn’t even get my milkshake.”

“No,” you mumble sympathetically. Your eyes widen. “Eds, I’m sorry, that’s not funny. He assaulted you–”

Eddie waves his hand at you. “He got in a cheap shot. I was fine. I’ll still have kids.”

You snort, “Thanks for the information.”

“I got him back for it, anyway.”

He pretends like that’s the end of that, like the story doesn’t go on and he has nothing to tell you. You wait raptly for him to explain but he gloats, knowing you're hooked.

You elbow him.

“What?” he asks. “Oh, you wanna know how I got revenge? You’re evil.”

“Less shame and more story,” you say.

“Alright. Are you ready? Here’s where it gets complicated.

“I’m at The Hideout listening to that new band that blazed through here a couple of months ago, Board Growth, or something? They’re incredible, the booze is cold, I’m tipsy and Gareth owes me anyway, I’m putting it all on his tab and he, seemingly, isn’t noticing. It’s great. Better if you hadn’t been on vacation again, what the fuck, but it’s good.

“And there he is. It’s the fucking Hawk. He’s looking down his nose at these young girls smooth-talking them. Or, he’s trying to smooth talk them, but it’s like watching a worm flirt with a praying mantis, okay, we all know who’s gonna lose.” Eddie’s knee rests against yours, your hand is on his thigh, he’s losing the thread of his story fast under the smell of your perfume and hair oil. “I knock back the rest of my drink, slick my hair like I’m James Dean and, in all my drunken intelligence, decide that this is the perfect moment for me to get him back.”

“I wasn’t on vacation.”

“What?”

“I only went once.” You’d gone for two days with some old friends. He remembers now, and rushes to fix the story.

“Why didn’t you come, then?” he asks, flipping the script. “You’re such a flake.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know when this was.”

“Stop bailing on me and ruining my stories,” he says, teasing.

“Okay, you’re hopped up on liquid courage and about to hit Jack in the dick,” you prompt.

“Right! I stroll up to Hawk and he’s instantly wriggly like the worm of a guy he is, and I say, hey Hawk, how’s it hanging?

“Maybe he’s just that stupid or maybe he thinks I’m putting out the olive branch but he actually starts telling me how he’s doing, and I’m looking at these girls as if to say, can you believe this guy? I cut him off, and I’m a loser, I’m not half as cool as I think I am but again I’m slightly incredibly inebriated. I’m making bad decisions.”

“Where’s your cafeteria bravado?” you ask.

“It’s worse than that. Imagine me at my most insufferable. I smile at the girls and I lean into Jack’s space, I’m laughing, I feel bad about what I’m gonna say before I’ve said it but I say it anyways. I lean right into his ear and tell him at full volume how sorry I was to hear about his recent bout of syphilis. I’m just so glad they caught it in time, man,” he says, imitating a past self.

You open your mouth. “And,’ Eddie says, jumping to finish, “so happy you could keep most of it, buddy.”

“Eddie…”

“I’m a bad person.”

“No,” you mumble, hiding your smile on his shoulder, your forehead a hair’s width from his chin. You’d laugh a storm any other day to make him feel good, whether you think he’s funny or not, but today all you can manage is a hand on his leg. “You’re not a bad person, he deserved it… fucking hit you…”

The story isn’t true.

He made it up. Right here right now. He just spent five good minutes of your lives spinning an outrageously awful story with poor jokes and one glaring plot hole, for what?

This is hard. Making you cry, begging you to see what a doctor has to say, playing grown up in a grown ups body. Eddie thought you’d get to be kids forever. He never imagined what would come after school, and then suddenly it is after, and everything’s an ugly boring mess except for you (and Wayne, god bless), and now you’re sick. The waiting room you’re in, the road here, the look on your face when he told you what he wanted from you. It’s all… heartbreakingly monotonous.

One doctor's appointment, he whispered across pillows. Late and neither of you asleep. The sound of cicadas outside and Wayne’s deep snore a room away.

You nodded and closed your eyes, and you didn’t say another word all night.

What’s the worth in a made up story? What good will it do? You have to see the doctor eventually. Distraction, Eddie thinks pleadingly. Relief. He just wants to give you as much relief as he can from what’s happening with the only thing he feels he has —his quick mouth.

He stares at your hand on his thigh. He wills himself to raise his own and put it on top of yours. He channels his thoughts, like this is telekinesis and not his own body, move. Move your hand, he says to himself.

It's a millimetre out of his pocket when they call your name.

You shoot up like a stalk and smile at the nurse who's come to collect you. You don't look jittery anymore, but there's a distinct doe in the headlights look about you as Eddie watches you trail down the hallway into the doctor's office. You look back at him three times, and each time is a whip.

As soon as the door closes, he bends forward in his chair and heaves a sickly sigh. His nausea has him coughing into his hand and praying he doesn't throw up here. If they want you to go somewhere today, like a pharmacy for temporary medication, or the emergency room for a CAT scan, he can't be covered in his own vomit.

A child babbles across the room. Eddie peeks at her through his fingers. She's pale with dark hair, much like Eddie himself, and her mom is the same. The kid's mom doesn't look like Eddie's mom besides that, but seeing her here in a hospital makes it impossible not to think of her. She's been on his mind so much lately. Her birthday is at the end of the month, and it isn't the same —she'd been in hospital for three brutally short days— but you're being here is like peeling the scab off of a wound he thought healed years ago.

Mom was everything. She was willowy and beautiful and tough as a board. She was smart, she knew everything; how to make microwave pizza taste gourmet, how to make whistles out of blades of grass, how to make a bad day feel brand new.

He wished he could say that he has her every detail committed. The cruellest, most terrifying thing about the people we love is that they aren't permanent, not their life and not what they leave behind. Over time, his mom has turned from an aching spear of love to a dappling of sunlight through the branches of an old tree — scattered. Beautiful and impossible and a thousand pieces in his memory, slowly fading over time.

There'll come a day where Eddie can't remember her. He knows that. He knows his frame of reference for who she was will reduce down to her photographs, and the nearly empty bottle of her perfume under his bed.

Eddie is haunted by her absence everyday.

There is no corporeal apparition of her at his shoulder, no cool chill running down his spine, but he's haunted all the same. It's why he won't accept your ghost. It's why he can't. He knows what it feels like to have someone with him who isn't really here, and he won't let you suffer through the same thing. He'll protect you from this, from her.

Even if it means he has to take you to doctors offices an hour out of town. If he has to bargain for it, and make you cry at work, and– and fucking drive this wedge between you, he'll do it.

He needs you to be okay.

He can't think about his mom anymore. He loves her, he misses her, but if he thinks about her too much he won't be able to stand up.

Eddie sits up, takes a lungful of air in, and waits. He senses you as you come back down the hall, grateful for your dry cheeks, and your small, small smile. Tiny but irrefutably there.

He stands up and holds out his hand. You don't take it, but you walk into his side so your hips are pressed together and he falls into step with you.

"So…" he says.

"She asked if I was getting enough sleep," you say, "and I told her I was. I explained everything to her like I promised I would, even– even… I told her everything. And um, she seemed very open."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, she– OK." You frown.

"Listen, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I know I practically forced you to come, but it's still your life, and you can have privacy from me–"

"It's not that. I just don't want to cry in here."

He puts his hand on your shoulder, his arm folded against your shoulder. You don't speak until you're out of the doctor's office and weaving through people as you walk toward the parking lot.

"She thinks I'm having auditory hallucinations. And that it could be an initial symptom of schizophrenia, or something else. She said it usually starts around my age, and–"

"Hey, it's okay," he says, though internally he feels as distressed as you're beginning to look, horrified by your crumpling chin and wringing hands. "It's okay. You don't have to say it if it's going to upset you."

"It might not be anything," you say, shaking your head. "She said the human brain is complicated, and sometimes stuff like this just happens. She wants to, uh," —your voice twists up very high— "see me again after I've had some sleep to see if it's persisting."

Eddie nods. He's fucking glad that the doctor took you seriously, grateful for her advice and her reluctance to misdiagnose you with something. It's not as though Eddie wants you to be experiencing hallucinations. But he thinks you are, and he needs help looking after you if that’s the case.

"Did she prescribe anything?" he asks.

"A week's worth of ambien. She didn't really want to, but I told her about, you know, you coming over to make sure I'm okay, and I know that was because of the gh–" You bite your lip. You're shaking like a leaf. "Well, she thought it was you making sure I'm not an insomniac. Which I'm not."

"I'm really proud of you," he says quietly. "I know you don't want this to be happening. I get it, I promise. I don't want it either, but this is a good thing."

He can see you regaining some composure. You smile a little, and you offer him your prescription paper. "You know it only costs seven dollars for seven ambien?"

"I could get you some for free."

Your laugh startles him. "No, I don't think so."

"I'm not offering. Just saying. I know a guy."

"No, you knew a guy who knows a guy who could get me something ridiculous, like a percocet."

"I'd never give you anything like that."

"I know." You come to a halt. The cloudy weather paints you in shadow. "I'm sorry this is happening."

"You're what?" He doesn't let you answer moving to stand in front of you. "Why would you apologise for this?"

"Because it's my head," you say stiffly.

"You didn't want this to happen. And– and it might not be happening at all. You'll try the ambien, and you'll take care of yourself, and we'll go from there. I wasn't trying to scare you… I wish I could brush it off, you know? I wish I could believe that you…" He takes you in. Your skirt and jacket are swaying in the cold wind. You look one sharp shove from falling over. "I get that it isn't like me, to not believe in the fantasy–"

You save him from his miserable attempt at placating you.

"I know."

He licks his lips.

"I love you," Eddie says as he starts toward the van again. "Let's go fill your prescription, and then I'll get you whatever you want to eat."

"Boys are so weird about I love you," you say, following. The light behind your eyes makes your teasing worth it. "You say it like you chewed on it first. Struggled to get that one out, did you?"

It's not your best insult. Neither of you are exactly on form.

"Just so hard to say it to you."

You take what you perceive to be an insult on the chin. Only Eddie knows there's a sliver of truth in what he's said.

You generously let him help you into the passenger seat. He's hopeful that your mood's improved until that wretched frown worms its way across your pretty mouth once again. You wait for him to round the hood and start the van before you explain yourself.

"There's a support group. For anybody who's, um, hearing voices. Schizophrenics, manic depressives…"

"Is that something you want to go to?"

"I don't know. Can I be honest with you?"

"Yeah. Absolutely."

"I don't know if I believe that it isn't real. I know that's the point. The definition of hallucination is, uh… an experience involving the apparent perception of something not present, and so… it makes sense. My ghost isn't there, even if I think she is, so I must be hallucinating, but Eddie," —you shrink in on yourself— "I have this feeling that won't go away."

He loves you. You're terrified.

He's already guessed what you're going to ask for.

"Can we try again? Please? I'll take the meds and I'll go to the support group, but in the meantime, could you please come back and just– just listen. Maybe it takes a while for her to talk to someone else." You scrub your face. "Fuck. I sound fucking crazy."

Eddie squeezes the wheel. "Don't say that. Don't say it like you've done something wrong. You didn't do anything wrong."

People say crazy but they mean sick. They ridicule what they can't understand.

He doesn't understand, but he wants to. He says, "If you want me to, we'll try again. I'll come over."

You look up from your palms. He notices almost habitually that they're smaller than his. When you were young teenagers there'd been a short period of time where you'd been the taller one, with bigger hands and a bigger smile. Lately, you've seemed small.

"Really?" you ask hopefully.

"You came here 'cause I asked you to. It was hard for you." He turns his eyes to the road and turns the key until the Beauville's engine is thrumming with life. "I'd do a lot of shit for you, superstar. Like, anything. If you need me to keep trying then I will. And you'll–"

"I'll keep trying too," you promise.

It's all he can ask for.

—

The sky is all kinds of grey. It stretches like a sheet from one corner of your eye to the other, darker toward each limit of your vision, a gradual decay into colourlessness toward the very top where the sun fights hardest to burst through an impossible expanse of clouds. They seem thick as marshmallo, but where they begin is hard to decipher.

Your eyes feel sore. You imagine a hand reaching for you, hitting you, pressing its cold knuckles to each bruised eye socket to calm the raging ache behind them. You hadn't expected to feel this way. It isn't the first time you have, but to feel so intensely unreal while there's someone still with you is new. You lean your weight against the sill and let your arms swing from the open window ledge, knuckles scraping the scratchy brick of the house's exterior walls, instantly chilled by the weather.

A black band of birds burst across the sky somewhere leftwards. The pitch and tumble with no discernible formation. They're too far to hear. You imagine the flap of wings, their buoyed cawing, screeching to one another as they swim between pylon cables and their brothers spread wings.

"What kind of birds do you think they are?" Eddie asks.

You feel his weight settle into the ottoman beside you. You'd dragged it to the window with tired arms. You haven't felt up to anything since you got home, though Eddie's promise should've restored a little hope. He's going to keep trying to meet your ghost. You'll have to hope you don't get worse before that.

You know, starkly, that you aren't having auditory hallucinations. You know, starkly, that your ghost had written to you in your missing notebook.

But maybe that's the nature of your hallucination. A night bent over the pocket dictionary had ended as this one begins, with the crushing realisation that you cannot trust what you know. To put it plainly, you're afraid that you're mentally unwell. Terrified of how it’s going to change your life, the people in it.

Eddie's afraid too.

Your orange bottle of pills glares like a flame to your right where it stands waiting for you on the nightstand. Eddie's made up your bed for the two of you. He could sleep in the guest room, and he never has.

"I don't know," you say hoarsely. Your voice sounds as you feel, like something has its hooks in you, and it's dragging you down, down…

"They're too big to be pigeons."

"They're too dark. They're crows," you guess, tracing an outlier as he skirts the crowd of his family and spirals up into the air.

Like a party trick, you expect him to disappear, or explode, or rocket up into the cotton clouds and out of view. He slows as he falls, and then he dives back toward the main swarm of birds as they migrate toward the horizon.

There's a feeling brewing in you that you don't like.

If you can't trust your own perception. If real isn't real. If you need someone to sit beside you and distinguish real from fake, if… if you're sick.

If you're sick, what does that mean?

You search for something in the air to hold onto.

Eddie hums softly, his hand pushing out into the static as he points toward the glowing clouds. "Sun's going down slow."

You raise your hand and wrap it around his. It isn't enough. You force your fingers between the gaps of his, just a little longer, thicker, solid, and lock him in. He feels real. That's the key. As far as you know, hallucinations don't carry that far. Bugs crawling over your skin and through the strands of your hair, an itch you can't scratch, a drop of rain from a concrete ceiling, the brain can recreate these things. But the exact width of Eddie's palm or the feeling of his calluses against your loveline, your lifeline, and the heartbeat that bumps against the meat of your thumb when you focus, that's impossible. That's a level of precision the human brain can't find.

Right?

Eddie curls his thumb around yours. You can feel his gaze on your cheek like a breath blown between parted lips. You turn toward him, and you catalogue every little mar or mark, every fine hair. His wrinkles, his textured jaw. The strands of a fallen curl come apart near his eye, grown out bangs kissing the highest point of his cheek.

You're panicking. There's a thumping behind your eyes.

"I don't know if you look right," you say.

"I look very right. I'm extremely handsome," he says.

You hold his hand out of the window, worried you'll drop it, and it'll fall.

If Eddie were at home tucked into his double bed a mile away, she would've talked to you by now. Your breath shortens as the meaning behind that thought solidifies.

She only comes when you're alone. Why do you think that is?

She's not real.

Is that how it works? Can hallucinations, auditory, visual, or otherwise, take place in the company of others? You know next to nothing. Maybe they aren’t so common with loved ones standing guard.

You push your head out of the window again and look down at the flat, dying grass in the backyard, a yellowing carpet of bluegrass. Bluegrass is prominent because it can grow anywhere, like mould. With all the rain these past few days, the grass should've livened into a plush and solid green, like the lawns in the southern side of Hawkins where the rich people lavish in sprinklers and gardeners alike. It remains rumpled.

Eddie rubs the back of your hand. It's far from the closest you've ever been. There have been nights you spent unawares in his arms, waking with your face tucked into his neck, so embarrassed you couldn't look at him afterward. But it's the most intimate touch you've ever endured. The whorls of his fingerprint embossing itself into your hand, a quarter circle that doesn't cease. Time feels brief and unsteady.

Eddie must realise you're having a bad moment. He shuffles closer to you, your arms twined, his hair tickling your shoulders. It snaps you back, in a way, with its softness.

"Let's go to bed," he says when the sky's more charcoal than light.

You're cold. You follow. You latch your hand in his and he doesn't say a word, closing and locking your window with one hand, pulling the sheets of your bed back deftly for you to climb in. You slide across to the outermost side and he follows, leaning over you to pull the sheets to your chin.

He stays hovering there.

He holds very still.

"Everything's going to be okay," he whispers.

"What if it isn't?"

"It will be, you…" he trails off. He keeps your hand in his, but he plants his elbow on the other side of you, like a lover about to share sweet nothings, his face so, so close. "You'll be okay, no matter what happens."

"I wish she'd told me more," you say.

"The doctor?" He draws a small, careful line across your cheek with his index finger. "Sweetheart, we'll find out everything there is to find."

"I want to know how scared I should be. Because this feels like torture."

"You don't have to be scared." Eddie smiles, and as far as you can tell, though you're having trouble trusting yourself, it's one of his genuine smiles. "Why do you think I'm here, huh? It's not to watch as something bad happens."

You lift your chin. He's too close to look at both eyes at once: you have to choose, and you can't. Your irises dance back and forth between them, shuddering in indecision.

"You'll look after me," you say, not a question.

He turns his hand, stroking down the length of your cheek with the backs of his fingers. They feel much softer than the undersides, the flat of his nails like silk. Your eyes burn as you free your hand from his, hoping he'll be kind with that one, too.

"I'll look after you."

You tuck your hands behind the trim of his waist and, knowing you shouldn't, let them feed into his shirt. You draw a shaking line through the downy soft blanketing the small of his back until your finger is skipping up the jutting bumps of his spine. It's like climbing a staircase by touch alone. You wonder if anyone else had ever done this to him, if they ever wanted to, and if he'd let them.

Eddie releases a breath. Warmth feathers along your skin.

His hand strokes down to your neck, resting at your collar. Half a second and his petting returns, the side of his thumb brushing your soft jawline tenderly.

He must feel you swallow. His pupils travel down the whites of his eyes like the steady descent of the setting sun.

"I can't," he says softly.

Can't what? you want to ask. You don't know if you should. You know the answer, but does he?

"You're not all here," he says, hand paused. He cups your cheek, holds you in place. You hadn't been moving. "But when you are, I could. I could."

"I don't know if I…" you drift off. How can you explain it to him? I don't know if I'll feel better any time soon.

His eyes move sideways, as if the instruction for your reassurance lay somewhere in the apple of your cheek.

You don't want him to kiss you if it's a fixative meant to soothe your rampant nerves. You want him to kiss you for a hundred reasons, but that's not one of them. You're not sure he wants to kiss you beyond that.

He would, you realise. Kiss you, if he thought you wanted it badly enough. That's a lot of power to have over someone, more than you want over him, and you can't ask him to. You look away from his eyes and search upward, trembling hands and the starts of your forearms pressed to his back, hiking his shirt up one inch at a time.

He sits up agonisingly slowly, in the same way the sky has fallen from light to dusk; inchingly, so as to escape notice, until suddenly you can't feel the emanating heat of his chest against yours anymore, and the only light inside of your room is a yellow band sliced by the ajar door.

Your hands fall back. One under the sheets, one over. Eddie sits where you lay, his hands at the crook of your elbows. He gives symmetrical, superficial massages to each.

The life has been sapped from you, as if it were tied to the sun sunk beyond the horizon. A brutal fatigue sets in.

"You should take your ambien," he murmurs.

"Okay."

The eye tattooed on his arm seems to follow you as he reaches for your seven dollar bottle. He twists off the cap and shakes a single pill out for you, and you watch as the lines of his arms start to blur.

You take your pill, lying firmly in the middle of your pillow, and wonder if now would be an appropriate time to burst into panicked tears.

"I'll look after you," Eddie repeats after a while. Or maybe he doesn't. The weight of the day and the helping kick of your medication pulls you under. He lays down next to you carefully, his hand searching under the covers for yours.

And there, standing in the corner of the room, is your ghost. Real. Stunningly, terrifyingly real.

You can’t open your mouth wide enough to warn him.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

end of part one! thank you so much for reading, I really hope that you enjoyed! this was my baby and such a labour of love in April and I’m so happy now to share it :D if you have the time, please consider reblogging, it means so much to me and I’d love to know your thoughts on the story so far <3<3

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader

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thesocklesswonder · 4 months

Text

Ohio's mental health authority is trying to ban transgender healthcare - esp for people under 21 years of age, BUT they are asking for public input! Hurry, though, as it's only through 5pm local time (US Eastern Standard Time) on January 19th!

Changes to the Ohio Department of Mental Health and Addiction Services rule, "5122-14-12 | Private Psychiatric Hospital: Program, Specialty Services, and Discharge Planning", are to prohibit any kind of transgender care for those under 21 in a psychiatric hospital. Full document here, but be aware it is to a pdf

The rule includes the text, "Medical services shall not include any of the following: ...the prescribing, administering, or furnishing of any prescription drug or hormone...", which means if someone under 21 enters a private psychiatric hospital and who is already on puberty blockers or hormones, the doctors there would be prohibited from giving them the prescription they already have.

A new proposed rule for the same Ohio department, "5122-26-19 | Gender Transition Care" states the requirements for anyone needing transition care under this department. They are targeting the most vulnerable with these rules: young people who have mental health issues who also need transgender care. Full document here, but be aware it is to a pdf

Included in this rule: A doctor may only provide transgender care after three requirements have been met - a psychiatrist who has experience with the patient's age group must be employed by/contracted with the provider, an endocrinologist who has experience with the age group, and the provider has a comprehensive written plan that includes a detransitioning provision.

It also requires any such patient to have a thorough mental health evaluation and counseling period of at least 6 months prior to any transgender care. It also appears to become part of their medical record.

In addition to a ban on any transition surgeries, even if the patient jumps through all of those hoops, is a curious item that prevents doctors from referring patients out to other doctors that can provide care:

Another thing that made me pause was what seems like a scare tactic:

The terms "orchiectomy" and "penectomy" mean the removal of testicals and penis, respectively. The word "castration" could only be redundant or referring only to chemical castration, which seems to not fit in with gender reassignment surgery (correct me if you know it does fit). "Castration" is a scary word for most people with penises. I think it would likely provoke a knee-jerk response, like, "Oh, no, castration is bad. No castration! Enact these rules to keep people from being castrated!"

⚠️ The time is now to tell the Ohio Department of Mental Health and Addiction Services what you think about this! ⚠️

The option to comment on these needless restrictions can be found at the link in the first paragraph, but it's just an link that takes you to your email app. You can also just email them directly at [email protected] no later than 5 pm EST on Friday, January 19, 2024.

Please reblog to get this message out! We all have a stake in how rules and laws are enacted. They often lead to more in other states/countries. So, even if you don't have a stake in this personally, please make sure others see it.

Why do I care? I don't live in Ohio, but I have friends all over, including Ohio, who need transgender care. You might know someone like that, too.

#transgender #trans healthcare #ohio #ohio law #lgbtq+#comment #comment period #mental health #transition #transitioning #transgender healthcare ban #ban

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indulgentdaydream · 4 months

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I may request something for our Jason boy, what about a nurse!reader where he saves her and she just goes 'so, do you're the guy who makes my job a living hell'?

If you can't do it, it's fine luv 🩷

of course I can do it!

Meet Cutes

Jason Todd X fem!nurse!Reader || Fluff Word Count: 1,035

Sorry this took a couple days, university is being rough :(

Warnings: blood, death, injuries, medical tool use (needle and sutures, etc.), drug mention, broken glass, stitches

You worked for a small Gotham 24-hour walk-in clinic. You always tried not to think too much about who was coming in and out. Some patients would stumble in, covered in blood and bruises, yet not have a scratch on them. Where did the blood come from? You never asked. You would treat whoever was assigned to you and then be on your merry way.

The clinic was closer to Crime Alley than anyone would have liked, but it settled for good service. Especially once the Red Hood started patrolling. Your very first day at the clinic had you stitching up five bullet wounds on the same patient. Your first patient of the day, at that, who had stumbled in at five in the morning. He was mumbling the whole time, swearing and cussing out Red Hood's entire legacy.

Over the months you had now worked there, bullet wounds were your most common injury. Followed by any kind of broken bone. Most of them babbled about the Red Hood, saying how he gotten them. You never asked any further, hoping to never poke your neck out to far in order to gain any attention.

You stood in the back, cleaning up one of the clinic rooms after having sent another probable criminal on their way with stitches and bandages. A crash rang out from the front, making you swivel your head.

You ran out to the lobby before freezing in your tracks. A robber stood at the prescription counter, gun in hand, pointed at the pharmacist. The shattered glass of the divider lay out on the floor around them, the pharmacist assistant cowering in fear as the robber yelled at her for certain drugs.

There weren't any patients in the waiting area. There were none left in the back. No other employee had been hurt. Only badly scared.

The robber hadn't see you yet. You were close to the reception desk. You inched sideways, trying not to make a sound or any sudden movement. There was a panic button under the desk that you could press, easily alerting the authorities. It was a clinic. They would prioritize you over all other petty Gotham crimes.

It was sad, but true.

The poor pharmacist assistant, Cindy, was slowly sorting out the drugs the robber was asking for, placing them in the bag he had thrown at her. She was trying to drag things out. That much you could tell.

You were behind the desk now, reaching for the button ever so slowly.

The automatic sliding front doors of the clinic opened. The robber changed his aim. Staring down the figure in the doorway.

Red Hood aimed his own gun, his shiny red helmet reflecting the florescent lights overhead.

Both of the shots rang out at the same time. Cindy screamed, dropping the bag of pills onto the floor.

Red Hood's shot landed true. Right between the eyes. The robber's had gone astray, but still managed to shoot through the out side of the Red Hood's leather sleeve, making him flinch back as a result.

You were frozen, hand hanging over the panic button. Did you press it? Or did you let the vigilante do his work?

You were still deciding as Red Hood walked over to Cindy, making sure she was alright. Two other nurses and another pharamacist ran out to help her. You watched as Red Hood stepped back, letting them take over.

He turned around, placing his gun back in his holster as he started to walk back out. He moved his hand to his arm, clamping his hand over it.

He walked past the reception desk.

"Wait," You said.

He paused and turned to look at you.

You nodded to his arm, "Let me stitch you up."

Surprisingly enough, he followed you into the back. He sat down on the cot you told him to. Took off his jacket when you said.

You found it awkward, standing in silence with the Red Hood. You decided to speak up as you started the first stitch, "So... you're the guy who makes my job a living hell?"

He turned his head to look at you, those white eyes of the helmet boring into you. You wished you could see some sort of facial expression of his.

When he spoke, his voice was modulated, "Did I not just save your clinic from a robbery? How is that a living hell?" There was a tone of sarcasm to it.

You smiled a little, "We get a lot of criminals coming in here post-fights. I've gotten pretty good at sewing up gunshot wounds that were your doing." You glance up at the helmet's eyes, "No offence."

"You fix up those assholes?"

"I fix up those human beings," You retaliate, finishing the last stitch. You step away, "I don't know them or their pasts. To me, they're innocent people that just need some healing."

You can see the confusion in his body language, his head turning down to ponder at how quickly you had stitched him up. He stayed quiet.

You turned away from him, gathering some bandages to wrap his arm up, "Though... I will say how most of them will rant to me about how much they hate you. More often than not admitting their own faults as they do."

Something like a chuckle filters through the modulator, "You know what? I hear the same stuff."

You can't help but laugh back. You bandage him up before nodding, "You're all set."

He nods in thanks, slipping his jacket back on. He extends his gloved hand for a shake, "What's your name?"

You give it to him, a little surprised at his firm yet gentle grip, "You may want to leave out the back door. I pressed our panic button before bringing you back here."

Red Hood nods in understanding, before walking out.

This would not be the last you saw of him. Because now he had a personal nurse.

The day after every visit of his, a bill comes in from Wayne Enterprises. You look at your colleague, "This guy is straight up stealing money from the rich to pay for his medical bills."

"As he should."

"Agreed."

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housethemd · 3 months

Text

So in the episode where House is on methadone

Everyone is trying to figure out what’s going on with House, why he’s being nice, etc etc and eventually Wilson is just like “he’s on heroin.”

The surety with which Wilson says this really struck me. Like Wilson doesn’t just suggest House must on drugs that aren’t Vicodin, doesn’t even merely suggest House could be on heroin. No he says with absolute certainty that House is on heroin.

The only way Wilson could be so sure, would be if he’s seen House on heroin before.

Now while I’m quite convinced that House was an occasional recreational drug user prior to the infarction, heroin usually isn’t a drug you might take just for fun at a party every now and again. This leads me to believe that sometime in the early days post infarction is the most likely time House used heroin.

I’m imagining Wilson showing up after work to check on House. Stacy left weeks ago and House is still dealing with that on top of healing and being newly disabled so he’s been in a pretty god awful mood that only Wilson seems to be able to tolerate.

But when Wilson gets there House is in a better mood. Not just a better mood, he’s happy. Wilson knows immediately something is going on.

“What did you do? What did you take?” He’d ask. He knows people’s moods don’t change overnight like that, so either House took something or he’s planning to kill himself. Both are equally possible given his recent trauma and mental state, and Wilson needs to figure out which.

“What? Nothing. Well Vicodin but you know I’ve got a prescription for that.” House would reply, waggling his finger in Wilson’s direction like this is all some kind of joke.

Wilson frantically searches through everything within arms reach of House. Thankfully even with his better mood House can’t move very quickly, and Wilson manages to unearth a bag, and dashes out of House’s reach to open it. It’s filled with powder and syringes and Wilson has done enough ER shifts to know what it is.

“No, House. No. How did you even get this?” He’d ask, shocked.

“It’s easy when you know the right places to go.” House would say, not looking at Wilson anymore.

“The right places to… House you can barely get from the couch to the bathroom how the hell did you get this?”

“I guess I was sufficiently motivated.”

And Wilson’s heart breaks. He doesn’t have it in him to be mad at his friend. His life is upside down and House has never been good with change. Wilson does throw away the needles and flush the drugs and it pisses House off (“Do you know how much I paid for that?”) but once House calms down he makes House swear never again, that he won’t go down that road. Wilson says he’ll do anything, even write him more Vicodin prescriptions if he just promises not to use heroin again.

And House promises.

So when House is suddenly in an unexplainably good mood years later, Wilson thinks he knows exactly what’s going on. He’s angry, House promised. Wilson held up his end of the deal for the most part, so he comes up with a plan to catch House and make him admit to it.

But we all know how that plays out.

#housethemd writes #just regular Saturday thoughts #house md #james wilson #hate crimes md #greg house #hilson #dr house #dr wilson #wilson x house #house/wilson #gregory house #house md meta

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macgyvermedical · 2 years

Text

How to Go To a U.S. Hospital in 2022

Welcome to the hospital. You may have heard that we're understaffed. We are. We are no longer in a position to live up to the hospital experience you had back in 2019.

This post is about how to get the best possible care despite these trying times. Much of it is also applicable to long term care facilities and other institutions who are running on empty.

The Emergency Department

Consider: Do you have to go to an emergency department to get the care you need? If you need a prescription or a covid test or an inhaler or an x-ray or a STI test or basic diagnosis and otherwise you're probably fine, go to your doctor, a quick clinic, or an urgent care. You will not get care faster in the emergency room. I promise. Go to the ED if you are reasonably sure you would die or lose a limb if you didn't.

The ED is not first come first served. People who are going to die if they are not seen get seen first. If you are stable, even if you are in pain, be prepared to wait. At the height of covid we had stable people waiting for over 24 hours in the waiting area. We also cannot legally tell you to go somewhere else, even if we're pretty sure you're not sick enough to get seen anytime soon.

Bring your home meds. You are going to be there a while and you might not get in a bed in time to get your next dose. Even when you do, it takes a long time for a doctor to order your home meds. We never intended you to stay here for 4 days, so the infrastructure isn't there. Also, bringing your home meds is going to save you money.

RE: the above- tell us what you're taking, when you're taking it. We do want to know that so we don't give you anything that would interact with it. We also really want you to keep taking your home meds so you don't get worse.

Bring a charging cord for your phone, a change of clothes, a book, and if the visitation rules allow, a friend. You're going to be here a while.

The Emergency Department is designed to figure out what's wrong with you and do things that will save your life or help you leave the ED without having to get admitted. Sometimes the ED will treat pain, but each pain medication dose is ordered separately, so it's probably not going to be on the time scale you want or need. I hate to say this, but do keep asking. We have been really conditioned to assume if you stop asking, you're not in pain anymore.

If they tell you not to eat, or not to take a certain med, follow that advice. I know you've probably been there for a while and no one's told you why you can't do these things. That's not great. Ask why if you can, but assume the request is legit.

In order for you to be admitted, you need to be sick enough that they can't just kick you out with a cab voucher, a prescription, and a turkey sandwich. That's pretty dang sick these days. Pretty much, you have to be in danger of dying or losing a limb if you don't get admitted. And also, a bed in the hospital has to become available that can accommodate your needs. This usually means someone else has to get discharged or die. That might take a while, because they were just as sick as you when they came in.

The Hospital Floor

So they decided to admit you, a bed became available, and transport finally showed up to take you to your new bed.

Bring the following: A charger for your phone (I know you'd think we have these, but I swear we don't- they've all been stolen). If you smoke, bring nicotine lozenges or gum (you can't smoke or vape here. We have patches, but if you wait until you need a cig, it's too late for a patch to work, and if you try to sneak out most places will not let you back on the floor and you'll have to go back to the ED). If you have heartburn regularly, bring tums (we can order you tums, but you'll only be able to take like 1 every other hour, and let's be honest, if you use tums you usually need more than that). If you take a weird med, bring it (especially HIV drugs, chemo drugs, and meds for autoimmune conditions, because it takes forever to get some of these because we don't always have them on site). If you have severe allergies, consider bringing your own food. Seriously.

RE the above: Tell us what you're taking, when you're taking it.

Do not bring narcotics. There's too much liability on our end. Both because we cannot control how much you take if they are in your possession and if we find them we have to call security to watch us count them and store them in a locked drawer and which will be destroyed in 30 days if you forget to ask for them on the way out. It's just a hassle and someone is always in danger of getting sued over it.

If you drink more than 4 drinks a day, or use street drugs, tell us. Tell us please please tell us. We will not tell the cops. If we know, we will then be able to ask you questions about your withdrawal symptoms and can give you meds to control them. If you wait until you start swinging at us and having seizures we will not be happy.

Also, if you're on MAT, tell us. We don't automatically re-order suboxone or vivitrol like we do other meds. Addiction med has to be consulted, come see you, and work miracles to get that ordered for you while you're in the hospital.

If you see pain management, tell us as early as you can. Pain management has to be consulted and then work absolute miracles to get the admitting providers to order your home regimen, because anything more than 10mg of oxycodone every 4 hours is terrifying to them, even if you take 160mg of methodone everyday at home without a problem. The sooner they know you're here, the less likely you'll be miserable for a week before those things can be re-ordered.

Also, bring a friend. Seriously. I'm not kidding please bring a friend who is willing to help take care of you- things like turn you, help you dress, feed you, hold your hair back when you puke, and change your sheets when you pee the bed. And please bring someone you feel will follow the rules and ask before getting you something. You don't want to stay longer just because your friend brought you food you weren't supposed to eat because they felt bad for you.

A scheduled event is not really scheduled. Yes, you might have been told that your surgery is scheduled for 8am. You might have been told your dialysis was going to be "this afternoon". These things are not set in stone, and unless you are literally and currently dying, nothing is happening "right now". I have watched people wait days for appendectomies, gallbladder removals, displaced fractures, and other urgent-but-not-immediately-life-threatening problems. All a late intervention means is that someone else would have died if they did it as scheduled.

MOVE. Barring an unstable pelvic fracture or two broken femurs, if you can get out of bed and walk around, walk (ask your nurse if they want you to ask for assistance when you get out of bed to prevent falls). If you can't, sit up in a chair for part of the day. If you can't do that, move around in bed- roll back and forth, bend your knees, point your toes, do anything to keep you moving. If you're in pain, take pain medication strategically and move when it's most effective.

6:30 to 9:30, day or night, is the worst time period to put your call light on. Report time is 7 o'clock, meaning we have about a half hour to learn about our patients and set up our day, after which we have about 15 mins allotted per patient to assess the person, discuss goals for the day, find and pass daily medications, get vitals and blood sugar if applicable, and do anything the patient needs to get them set up for the day (water, pain meds, set up tray/feed, toilet, etc...). Put it on if you need to, but know that it will take a lot longer to be answered during these time periods than any other time of day.

You can refuse anything you want to refuse. You just can't sue us about it later. You can even say "I know you told me to do this thing, I am not doing it, please document accordingly". We will probably try to explain the consequences of not doing the thing. I recommend you listen, but the choice is certainly and always up to you.

You can leave against medical advice. It is also a thing you can do. As long as you let us tell you the risks, you can leave with prescriptions, education, and a wheelchair ride to the front door if you care to stick around for an hour or so after you declare you would like to leave. Some insurance companies have rules about this, which you can find by calling them. Just call and ask "what are the consequences of leaving against medical advice?" Some insurances don't have any consequences, some will completely refuse to pay for the stay, and some will refuse to pay for a second ED trip or admission within 30 days for the same problem.

Our prioritization system is: Critical (CPR, evaluating changes in status, dealing with changes in vital signs) Urgent (bed change for incontinent patient, pain/nausea/time-sensitive meds, drawing stat labs, answering phone calls from doctors, etc..) Routine (scheduled meds, scheduled assessments, calling family members, basic comfort things, ambulating patients, education, etc..) and Extra (everything else that has to do with comfort but isn't necessarily going to change outcomes).

I have had whole shifts where I don't do anything that isn't critical or urgent (with one routine med pass that was really late). I've rarely had a shift in the last 3 years where I've been able to do anything extra.

We're doing our best. Seriously. Nearly every shift I've worked has been absolutely flat out for 12 hours, and it takes a solid 2 days actually to recover from 2 days in a row of work. I would say I rarely get a full lunch break. Our patients are more and more complicated, and the decisions higher and higher stakes. Please understand. If you or a loved one hasn't been seen by the nurse in a few hours, it just means we're not as worried about you as the person down the hall who keeps trying to die.

We wish we could give you 2019 care. We really, really do. We don't have the resources for that anymore. We are triaging. The hotel vibe they were trying to present in 2019 is in the facility design only. You have to bring your own bells and whistles. You have to help us help you now.

#hospital #hospital life #tips and tricks #nursing #patient

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dream-a-little-bigger-x · 8 months

Text

King of My Heart | Spencer Reid

Add yourself to my taglist! | Here’s my masterlist!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (I think it's pretty GN, lemme know if it's not!)

Warnings: Curse words, fluff!

Author's note: Remember the 'untitled Spencer fic' in my ideas poll? This is the one! If you have 20/20 vision (fy, honestly), you probably won't relate to this, but indulge me, please? Thank you. Sincerely, a glasses/contact lenses-wearing gal.

Words: 2K

Nursing my cup of coffee in the break room, I read through the case file JJ had given us. We had been working on it for three days straight and were still so far from a solution. It had been hard to think without any sleep for thirty-six hours. And the humid San Francisco air didn’t help me much either.

My eyes were as dry as a desert, making wearing contact lenses hurt like a bitch.

I harshly squeezed my eyes as I looked at the file, in hopes to get them some moisture. Of course I had forgotten to pack my glasses. Most of the time, I don’t even need them. Without them, I could just see about enough to stumble from the bathroom to any bed. But I couldn’t take them out while working.

“Hey,” the familiar voice of Spencer Reid captured my attention.

Spencer and I had hit it off quite quickly when I joined the BAU one and a half years after he had. Mostly because we were the closest in age and our similar interests had drawn us together as well as the fact I had spilt coffee over him the first time we met. Now, one year later, the two of us were pretty much inseparable. Even our supervisor, Aaron Hotchner, barely dared to split us up. Put the two of us together and we’d come up with the best theory for the case we were working on.

“Oh, hi, pretty boy,” I greeted back, smiling up at him with narrowed eyes.

He offered me one of the pastries he and JJ went to get before they came into the precinct. “Here. You need some sugar,” he told me and I gladly accepted the sugary good. Spencer took a seat opposite of me, delving into his own pastry.

“Oh, King of my heart,” I grumbled, enjoying the food a little too much.

“Did you find anything in that code yet?” he asked instead, ignoring my food-orgasm.

Shaking my head, I broke off a piece of the pastry and popped it into my mouth. “I thought it was the Caesar Shift first, but I can’t figure out what the shift would be…” I mumbled, furiously pressing my knuckle underneath my right eye.

When Spencer didn’t react to my mumblings, I looked up to find him rummaging through his satchel. I furrowed my brows as he procured a rectangle-shaped box and out came his glasses. Confusion rose within me as he offered them to me, which I believed was apparent on my face as he explained himself.

“Take out your contacts and put my glasses on,” he ordered in that honey-sweet voice he only ever used on me. “You’ve been squinting and blinking for about half an hour while going through that file and your eyes are bright red. So, unless you want to tell me you’re on drugs right now, take out your contacts and put these on.”

Hesitantly, I reached for the frames. “Spence, do we even have the same prescription?”

“You’re a -2 on both eyes, aren’t you?”

It surprised me a little that he knew that. More than it surprised me that he knew I was struggling. He was a profiler after all.

“That’s what I thought,” Spencer said and took another bite of the pastry in his hand, watching me to make sure I’d put the glasses on.

My eyes skidded from the glasses to Spencer and back. “I don’t have my little contact case with me here. It’s in the hotel.”

I shouldn’t be surprised when Spencer fished out a bottle of lens care solution and an exact replica of my contacts case, but somehow, I was. This guy kept on surprising me, no matter how well I thought I knew him.

“Now, take out your contacts and put my glasses on.”

Sometimes, Spencer would do these things, these tiny gestures that had my stomach fluttering in a way that a friend shouldn’t make you. It was often just him getting my coffee in the mornings or handing me a sweater when I shivered. He got me food before I even realized I was hungry or a glass of water before I realized I hadn’t even drank anything that day.

He was simply marvelous and it was merely impossible not to fall for him.

Once I had Spencer’s glasses on and looked at the code again, I finally deciphered it. Excitedly, I ran into the briefing room where Derek, Elle, Spencer and Hotch were gathered. I was too focused on explaining them the theory behind the code, that I had missed the exchange of glances between Derek and Elle until they voiced their thoughts.

“Are you wearing Reid’s glasses?” Morgan asked, a teasing smirk on his face.

“Yes, my contacts were hurting me, but that’s not the point–” I said before lapsing back into my explanation. There was no time to stand still to explain to them why I was wearing Spencer’s glasses nor did we have time for them to tease me about it.

Though it wasn’t until two days after the case that Elle eventually spoke to me about it. The team had decided to go for drinks at O’Keefe’s and Spencer had handed me the back-up sweater he kept in his satchel for me.

“So,” Elle started when she joined me at the bar to grab another drink. “When are you gonna admit you’re in love with him?”

Though my cheeks felt hot, I scoffed. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“You’re wearing his sweater,” she pointed out, bemused that I would even try and lie to her.

I shook my head. “No, this is my sweater… Which he evidently keeps in his bag for me because he knows I always forget it and I… just… like… how it smells –” I groaned, rolling my eyes while Elle let out a loud cackle. “Fine! Fine. Okay?” I sneered.

“Admit it.”

“I admit it, okay? I am… in love with Spencer – But how could I not?” I hissed at her before turning my head to look over at our table where Spencer, Hotch and Derek were laughing at something Penelope had said. “He keeps doing these… gestures… Like, the other day, I was struggling because my eyes were hurting so much and he just handed me his glasses. He remembered my prescription and knew I was struggling before I could even tell him.”

A smile landed on Elle’s lips as she nodded her head. “And he always brings you your coffee in the mornings.”

“You noticed that too?” Elle nodded her head in response. “See, I couldn’t not fall in love with him. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose,” I said between gritted teeth as though I was actually mad at Spencer for making me fall for him.

My coworker scoffed. “Almost like he’s in love with you, or something.” The sarcasm was dripping off her words, but I shook my head at her.

“No, he’s not. He’s just… nice like that.”

Glaring at me, Elle conveyed her message of, “Are you kidding me?” before the words actually left her mouth.

Her words haunted me for a good week before I finally dared to ask Spencer about it. Though it was more snapping at him rather than actually asking him. During one particular case, I was getting frustrated by the way he was treating me and the way it was making me feel, I let those feelings take the better of me.

For an entire day, I had been crabby and snapping at everyone who even dared to insinuate I was on my period. Of course, I was, inconveniently, on my period, but no man needed to tell me to calm down. Spencer must’ve noticed, because that night, he knocked on my hotel room door.

“Hi,” he greeted with a soft smile.

“Are you here to tell me I shouldn’t have been so snappy towards that captain? Because I know,” I told him immediately, not even giving him a ‘hi’ back.

He shook his head and held up a tub of ice cream and a hot water bottle. “I got these from the reception.”

Eyeing up the items in his hands, my insides went all mushy. But before I could allow myself to melt into putty, I groaned and turned on my heel, marching into the room and leaving the door open for Spencer to walk in. Confused, he followed behind me and closed the door behind him.

“Are you okay, y/n?”

“No! No, I’m not okay, Spencer.”

He looked at me and seemed so lost. There was no reason for me to snap at him, but I couldn’t handle it anymore. I couldn’t handle this ball of feelings sitting in my chest. It was bound to explode at some point and that point was now. All it took was for him to knock on my door with ice cream and a hot water bottle.

“Y/N? What’s wrong? What’d I do?”

After rubbing my hands across my face, I tangled them into my hair, debating whether or not to tell him the truth. “How do you expect me not to fall in love with you when you keep doing shit like this?!”

Spencer flinched slightly at the volume of my voice and the harshness of my words. Once it registered in that magnificent brain of his, he let out a chuckle. It surprised me a little that he found this so amusing. My anguish was amusing to him.

“Do you think it was easy for me to try and not fall in love with you when you spilt coffee on me the first time we met and you were dabbing my chest with napkins?”

The memory of meeting him in the coffee shop before either of us even knew we were going to be colleagues, flooded into my mind. I was nervous for my first day at the BAU when I smashed into him, coffee flying everywhere. He’d tried to calm me down, spewing facts about coffee and people wanting to outlaw it.

“Do you think it was easy for me not to fall in love with you when you asked me to go and watch that French film about the choir without subtitles? Or when you call me ‘pretty boy’? Or when you get all clingy when you’re drunk?” he scoffed, his eyes trained on me whilst my insides turned to mush.

“I’ve been trying to push these feelings away since we met at that coffee shop, y/n, but I realized that I couldn’t turn them off. I couldn’t stop myself from falling in love with you because you are quite literally the person of my dreams and I wanna continue to take care of you and make sure you feel loved because that’s what you deserve.”

My eyes watered at his words, my brain registering that everything happening at that time was real and not a dream. As Spencer let out a relieved sigh, I knew that the waterfall of words coming out of him had been building up inside him until the dam finally broke.

He stood there, a few feet away from me, staring at me with those puppy-dog eyes that I could never really resist. His lips looked so kissable. An urge I had been able to keep at bay for a while, though it became harder and harder the longer I didn’t give in.

But right then and there, in a hotel room somewhere in Delaware, I had to give in.

Within three big strides, I was in front of him and grabbed his face, bringing his lips down to mine. The kiss surprised him a little, but he quickly melted into it and melted into me the same way I melted into him.

“The ice cream is melting,” Spencer mumbled against my lips and pecked a few short kisses to my mouth before grabbing my hand and guiding me towards the bed.

As he opened the tub of ice cream, I let out a groan. He had picked out my favorite; cookie dough. Though that didn’t surprise me anymore. “Ugh, King of my heart,” I scoffed with a delighted roll of my eyes before digging in with him.

And all at once, he was the once I had been waiting for.

King of my heart, body and soul.

Everything taglist: @calamitykaty @littlemissaddict @n0wornever @wanniiieeee @unnowhatthisistbh

Criminal Minds Taglist: @boimlers-gonna-boim @samsbirks @tinaasthings @dysphoricsanity @love4lando @elenamoncada-ibarra @r-3dlips @magstheslayer

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem! reader #criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #friends to lovers

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writers-potion · 1 month

Note

i was wondering if you could give some points and tips on writing about a character who is suffering from DRUG ABUSE

Writing A Drug Addict Character

Know Your Drugs

Was the drug invented? A scene using insulin set in 1820 is problematic since this treatment wasn’t discovered until the 1900s. Fentanyl shouldn’t be used in a 1930s scene since it wasn’t available for use until the 1960s—opium or morphine would be more accurate choices.

Was the method invented? Since insulin must be given as a shot, that scene is even less authentic as the hypodermic needle wasn’t invented until the mid-1800s. Older historical fiction could involve the use of poultices and mustard packs, while skin drug patches (transdermal patches) are only appropriate in more modern scenes.

The most common drugs abused by gangs are: Marijuana, Methamphetamine, Heroin, Cocaine

Or, it can be prescription drugs

Although many medications can be abused, the following three classes are most commonly abused:

Opioids—usually prescribed to treat pain;

Central nervous system (CNS) depressants—used to treat anxiety and sleep disorders; and

Stimulants—most often prescribed to treat attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). (common example? caffeine)

Write In Stages

Stage 1: First Use

Some people use a substance for the first time out of curiosity, while others use substances due to peer pressure. People may also be prescribed medication, such as opioids, by their doctor. Individuals may view their first use as a one-time occurrence, but this opens the door for future use. Some people try a substance one time and never use it again.

You character will feel:

Angry and/or desperate

Miserable

Lonely

Trying to run away from a certain problem

Persuaded into doing drug

Guilty

Stage 2: Regular Use

If a person uses a substance and enjoys how it makes them feel or believes it will improve their life, they may start to use the substance regularly. They may use drugs or drink alcohol on the weekends while at parties or hanging out with friends. Occasional use may become a regular occurrence. It might become a part of a person’s routine.

Your character:

Will start getting in careless activities while doing drugs

Will probably be violent

Won’t think he has any issue whatsoever and shrug it off

Start associating themselves with harder drug users

Have a false sense of security that they’re able to quit whenever they want.

Stage 3: Risky Use

The next stage after regular use is risky use. A person will continue to use a substance despite the physical, mental, legal or social consequences. Their use likely started as a way to escape or have fun with peers but has now taken priority over other aspects of their life.

Your Character will feel:

uncomfortable around family members/friends who start to notice

Exhibit more reckless behavior

Driving under influence, stealing money to finance substance use, etc.

Underperforming at work or school

Experience tension in personal relationships

Stage 4: Dependence

The next stage is a physical, mental and emotional reliance on the substance. The individual is no longer using the substance for medical or recreational purposes. When a person doesn’t use the substance, their body will exhibit withdrawal symptoms, such as tremors, headaches, nausea, anxiety and muscle cramps.

Your Chracter Will:

Develop a sort of rountine/typical place where they abuse

Believe that the substance is essential for survival

Use substance even when it's unnecessary

Stage 5: Substance Use Disorder

While some people use dependency and substance use disorder interchangeably, they’re very different. Once a person develops a substance use disorder, substance misuse becomes a compulsion rather than a conscious choice. They’ll also experience severe physical and mental side effects, depending on the substance they’re using.

Your Character:

Has noe developed a chronic disease with the risk of relapse

Is now incapable of quitting on their own

Feel like life is impossible to deal with without the substance.

Lose their job, fail out of school, become isolated from friends and family or give up their passions or hobbies.

Research the Trends

Medical knowledge changes over time and with it the drugs prescribed. This then impacts the type of prescription drugs available on the streets.

late 1800s: chloral hydrate used for anxiety and insomnia > bromides > 1920s: barbiturates, barbital > benzodiazepines ("benzos") > early 2000s: opiod drugs > opiod drug bans led to growth of black markets: ilicit fentanyl > and so on...

Different countries/locations will have varying trends of drug abuse (depending on laws, availability, costs, etc.)

Research the Slag

look for "[drug name] trip report" on YouTube, etc. to get first-hand accounts of how drug addicts behave.

The main focus should always be to use the words your characters would use in ways that suit the world you have created.

The slang for certain drugs is a difficult vocabulary to maintain as it is ever-changing and varies based on country, region, town, even by streets. Some writers use what they know or have heard locally, others invent their own.

Resources

FDA (Food and Drug Administration) and DEA online databases and drug resources

Social networking groups focusing on related specialty writing topics, such as trauma or emergency medicine

Newspaper articles and medical journals are great places to find real cases.

The US national poison center

Helpful Vocab:

Addled - sense of confusion + complete lack of mental awareness

Crazed - emotional anguish experienced by the addict

Desperate

Despondent

Erratic

Fidgety

Hopeless

Impressionable

Struggling

119 notes · View notes

jtargaryen18 · 1 year

Text

His Inheritance: Chapter 26

Part 26: Duplicity

Series Masterlist

Words: 4.3k

Pairing: Mobster Steve Rogers x Mobster daughter reader

Warnings: References to illegal prescription drug use, firearm use, and deception. This is a dark fic. Please read responsibly.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but archiveofourown and tumblr, it has been reposted without my permission.

Summary: For @alexakeyloveloki. Your father is the head of one of the most powerful crime families in Boston but he’s protected you from that life. In your quiet home outside the city, you’ve been cared for and protected. When the desires of a more powerful man with the will to dominate bursts into your life, all your illusions are shattered as he comes to claim what is his.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 26

Dark dreams pulled Steve from sleep. It was 3:37 AM according to his phone.

With a sigh, he pulled himself out of bed, propping his pillow behind his wife’s back in his place. She was sound asleep and that had him smiling. The night before in the bath had been delicious. He had her again later in bed.

She’d need to sleep in after that.

So much raw emotion welled up in his chest as he watched her. His wife took up a lot of room when she slept, sprawling over the bed at night. Over him. He loved it, especially now that she mostly slept nude as he did. She was beautiful, her radiance and confidence growing by the day.

As he got dressed, he kept stealing glances at her. She’d brought a hell of a lot more than just status into his life. His wife challenged him. She challenged everyone. As delicate as she appeared now, asleep in his bed, she was formidable as a lioness, especially when defending those she cared about.

Steve couldn’t wait to have children with her. How fierce would their sons be? Hell, his daughters would be fierce too. He hoped they looked like her.

Making his way downstairs, thoughts of the family he wanted faded like dreams as he reached his study, returning to reality. Wincing in the light when he flicked it on, he saw the office was just as neat and sterile as it had ever been. Steve always had strict rules about who was allowed in his study, just like his father had.

Those rules didn’t apply to his wife, he realized, who came and went from his center of business as she damn well pleased.

Those memories he loved. Holding her in his chair, spanking her over the desk. Twice. That last one had to led to him just taking her like a beast on that refined wooden surface. It had him stirring just thinking about it. Steve wanted more memories like that. He wanted more.

What would it be like seeing toys littering the floor one day? Or to have little drawings left for him on his desk?

With a deep sigh, he sank heavily into his chair.

Ever since his wife had entered his life, she’d blurred the lines between his personal life and business. Steve walked a fine line between frustration and ecstasy the entire time with her, his need for her so often consuming his thoughts.

In the meantime, everything he thought he had control of was unraveling.

Barnes was coming for him, swiftly and methodically, and he needed to deal with that before he lost respect and credibility in that dark world. The fact that his rival was getting away with hitting his turf made Steve look weak, incompetent. Barnes striking his home, his family’s home, demanded a harsh answer. His leadership of the families would be defined by the decision he made here.

But Steve also needed to protect his family. And hadn’t he done a poor job of that lately? His sister had been severely beaten by her husband and before that Clint had been shot. Hansen’s attack on their home left Belova and Dyson both laid up.

His enemies seemed as obsessed with his wife as he was. If Hansen had gotten his hands on her…

Barnes had more than adequately demonstrated that no one was beyond his reach.

That had to change.

Steve had tried to be diplomatic in calling the meeting with the other family leaders. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Why was he trying to win the other families over when at least one of them was gunning for his?

“Up early, boss?” Luca looked in, making Steve realize he didn’t remember to close the door.

Steve nodded.

The portly cook walked just inside the office door. It was the only time of the day he ever saw the man in a pristine white apron.

“Your father used to do the same thing. Couldn’t sleep the night before. He’d just get up and get started. Always admired that about him.”

Steve snorted. “Probably never found himself in a situation this fucked up.”

“Sure he did,” Luca told him. “Someone challenged him, he hit them hard, and he hit them fast. That’s all. No mercy. No regrets.”

Luca made it sound so easy.

“You got a new consigliere yet?” Luca asked.

Steve nodded. “I’m going with Murdock.”

Luca nodded his approval. “Good choice. We’ll see what he’s made of these next few weeks.”

That was an understatement.

“I’m calling a meeting this evening,” Steve told him. “If I remember right Dyson’s going to get medical tests this morning?”

“That’s right,” the cook said. “Him and Belova both. They should be back from the hospital by this afternoon. We sending Scott with them?”

Steve shook his head. “I’ll be here all day. Send Neal.”

Luca nodded, closing the door behind him on the way out of the office.

Steve would spend some time getting his thoughts together. Then, with his crew, they’d decide how best to deal with Barnes.

***

Dyson smiled when she made her way from the exam room back out to the waiting area.

“How did it go?” he asked.

Yelena smiled back. “The CT scan didn’t show any damage. They also did a Brain Trauma Indicator test, but it will be a couple of days before we get the results of that.”

Dyson rose from his chair, and she hoped that meant they were ready to head back to the house. While she took some comfort from the fact that Mrs. Rogers’ husband was there with her – and she had Scott, Luca, and Clint – things were just so tense right now. So dangerous.

She would feel much better once she got back.

Dyson shrugged as they walked out of the office area to head back into the reception area of the hospital. “I’m just old.”

He laughed with her as they found the lobby where there were gift shops, a cafeteria, and an information desk. Neal sat not far from that desk with the paper in his hand. So much for being there to keep her and Dyson safe. He looked like he could really care less.

Neal couldn’t have cared less when Bruce Banner had been about to knock the shit out of her boss. Scott pulled Mrs. Rogers back but that wouldn’t have stopped him. And she was still cursing herself for not hearing the commotion sooner than she did.

Neal noticed the two of them a beat before they reached him. Dyson cleared his throat loudly, telling Yelena he was as unhappy with the soldier as she was.

“Ready to go?” Neal sounded bored.

“Yeah,” Dyson grumbled. “Go get the car, will ya?”

Yelena was hard put not to laugh as Neal glared at him, folding up the paper. His knuckles were white as he gripped that paper and marched toward the exit to do as he was told.

Just as he was walking out the electric doors at the hospital’s entrance, a familiar figure in teal-colored scrubs was walking in. Agnes spotted Yelena in an instant, smiling brightly.

Her heart nearly stopped in her chest.

Of course Neal recognized her, slowing down and glancing over his shoulder to get a good look. He would remember she came to the Rogers’ home. He’d already mentioned thinking she looked familiar. It wouldn’t be hard for him to put the pieces together and figure out why she really came that day.

It was the worst timing imaginable.

Dyson didn’t know either, so she had to fake a smile when Agnes walked up. It wasn’t her fault, and Yelena talked to her for moment. Her ID badge announcing her position as an RN was right there in plain sight.

“Let me know when the lady of the house needs another manicure,” Agnes said, a big wink and then she headed off to work.

Beyond the glass entrance, she could see Neal pulled up to the door in the car. She felt Dyson’s attention on her. She took a step but his hand on his shoulder stayed her.

“That’s the lady you brought to the house to do Mrs. Rogers manicure?” he asked.

Yelena nodded. “She does it as a side hustle,” she tried.

“She’s an RN according to her badge,” Dyson pointed out.

She shrugged, turning to meet his gaze. “So? She does a good job. Mrs. Rogers was happy with how her nails turned out.”

Yelena tried to continue walking. This time Dyson jerked her to a halt.

“Please tell me you didn’t do what I think you did,” he said, dead serious.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Yelena played dumb. She wasn’t counting on it to work but she had to try.

“Yes, you do.” Dyson blew out an exhale.

Yelena shook her head. “Mrs. Rogers is perfectly healthy. What other reason would I have to bring Agnes to the house?”

“To make it so Mrs. Rogers don’t get pregnant,” Dyson said, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Oh, my God. Do you know how bad this is?”

Yelena didn’t deny it. But she didn’t drop her gaze. The deed was done now. What did he expect her to say?

“Did she put you up to this?” he asked.

Now her heart slammed on her chest. If she said yes and this went as badly as she suspected it was about to, Yelena would have betrayed Mrs. Rogers. And she couldn’t live with that.

But if she said it was her own idea, and it most definitely was, she jeopardized her own position. And Lloyd was still out there. And Dyson knew it.

“Fuck,” Dyson muttered a little too loudly. “You know Neal recognized your nurse friend, right?”

She wasn’t stupid.

“The trick here is to keep him from telling the boss what he thinks happened here,” Dyson explained. “And he’ll think exactly what I think.”

Now Yelena was seeing red. “I know he’d like nothing better than getting Mrs. Rogers in trouble with her husband.”

She could tell Dyson didn’t expect her to say that, but it was the truth.

“When Banner showed up at the house, the only one protecting her from him was Lang,” she insisted. “I was down there as soon as I heard the commotion. Neal? He would have let Banner have her.”

Now the older man looked appalled. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

“Because he doesn’t like Mrs. Rogers,” Yelena said. “And he doesn’t appear to have her best interests at heart. That puts her in danger because the boss trusts him implicitly.”

“Neal’s earned that,” Dyson replied.

“So much so that the boss should choose him over his own wife?”

Dyson shook his head. “Come on.” He motioned towards the car with Neal watching them from the driver’s seat. “I got to try and get to the boss before Neal does or there will be absolute hell to pay.”

She was all too afraid he was right.

“He’s going to ask if there was a problem,” Dyson instructed her. “When he does, you act pissy. I’ll tell him you didn’t get one of the tests I wanted you to. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sending up every prayer she knew, Yelena followed him out to the car.

***

You made it back to your room, still winded because you’d practiced for nearly two hours today. Sitting on the edge of your bed, you removed your pointe shoes, the band-aids and tape beneath. You winced at the fresh blister forming on the outside of the smallest toe on your left foot.

What you’d planned to wear the rest of the day was already laid out on your bed, you just needed undergarments and socks and you’d be ready to shower. You smiled when you opened the drawer where you kept your intimates to see the satin red thong there that went with the teddy you bought in New York for Valentine’s Day last week.

Well, Steve bought it for you after surprising you in the city when you thought you’d catch holy hell for being out of the house.

What a night that had been. Your heart still fluttered to think about it.

The hum of your phone on your bedside table got your attention. Maybe it was Yelena. You hoped her and Dyson’s medical tests went well.

The text was from Yelena, but it stopped you in your tracks.

I'm so sorry.

You stared at the text message from Yelena on your phone, wondering what the hell that meant. Your heart was sped up as you typed a reply asking if she and Dyson were okay.

You heard voices beyond your window. Peering out, you saw the black Jeep had pulled up, watched your husband climb out and march towards the front door. You hadn’t realized he left the house, but he sure seemed on a mission to return to it.

We are fine. I’m worried about you.

What?

Her next text came a beat later.

Neal figured out who Agnes is.

You froze in place. Holy shit. If Neal knew who Agnes really was, he had an idea of why she came to your house. And if he didn’t figure it out, Steve would.

Telling Steve would be the first thing Neal would do with that information.

Steve’s tread was loud on the stairs, pounding in time with your heart. Steve was coming and you had nowhere to go, no time to prepare.

The door of your shared bedroom flew open, and Steve slammed it behind him, his face flushed from the cold, from anger. His blue-eyed gaze found you fast, and there you stood in leotard, leggings, and bare feet. You were sweaty, tired, with your hair pulled back from your face.

As much of a sweaty mess as you were, your husband looked as well-groomed as always. He peeled off the leather jacket he wore and tossed it over the chair at your vanity. The deep wine of the sweater he wore with jeans emphasized the angry color seeping out of his collar.

Dropping your phone on the edge of your bed, you folded your arms across your chest, bracing yourself for the storm that was coming.

Steve took in your stance. A muscle at his jaw flexed.

“We need to talk,” he said with a tight voice.

You just nodded. What else could you do?

You calm demeanor only seemed to piss him off more.

“Tell me about your manicure a few weeks ago,” Steve demanded, moving closer to the bed.

You held your ground. You didn’t like the way he was trying to set you up.

“I already did,” you said. “You said you liked my nails. Remember?”

His scowl deepened. “What was the woman’s name?”

“Agnes.”

“And was this manicure your idea?” Bitterness crept into his tone.

It was hard to hold your tongue. That question put you on the spot. If you said no, and you were pretty sure you told him Yelena arranged it to lift your spirits, he would get rid of her. And you needed her. As your friend and as a protector.

That meant you had to take the blame. And you weren’t sure you were ready for the consequences of that…

“It was,” you said finally. It wasn’t entirely true, but it was the course you chose.

Steve paused, surprised at your admission. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, just staring at you.

“She did more than your nails.” Steve shook his head. “The injection is good for three months, right?”

Wait. Agnes said that there would be no medical record of the injection. Had she lied to you? Or did he…?

“How do you know it was an injection?” you had to ask.

“Neal paid Agnes a visit at the hospital today.”

Steve knew everything.

“What did Neal do?” You were seeing red now. “Agnes isn’t in this. If he hurt her...”

“Neal warned her,” Steve told you.

Neal was intimidating. The poor woman just came to do you a favor.

“Neal is good at subduing women,” you told him. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he wasn’t so quick to protect me when Banner stormed in this house,” you said. “Scott pulled me away. Yelena saved me.”

“Don’t try to shift the blame for this to Neal,” Steve said. “Neal has proven his loyalty to me.”

“I’m not one of your men,” you shot back. “I’m your wife.”

“And a wife’s duty is to give her husband a family. To take care of that family.” New emotion entered his voice. He wasn’t just angry. “Why? Why would you go behind my back and do this?”

You shook your head, frustration welling up in you fast. Was he serious?

When you didn’t say anything, he charged forward, grabbing your chin in his large hand. His grip hurt as he pulled you to him by your face.

“You know what I want,” he said angrily, his face inches from yours. “Every time I’ve made love to you, I was hoping that was it. That was the one. And it would only be a few weeks after that when you’d be waiting here for me for a different reason. To tell me I was going to be a father.”

When he shoved you away from him hard, you stumbled back. The bed was right behind you, and you tumbled onto the edge of it.

“But here we are,” he growled.

Your own temper flared at that. You were going to be punished for this. You knew that. You weren’t going meekly. You weren’t just handing him a victory like he’d been handed everything else in his goddamn life.

“Here we are,” you said. “And once again, it’s all about what you want. About what you expect.”

“Enough!” he yelled. “This is the part where you remind me that you had no choices. I know. Your father hid you away and then I forced you to marry me. And I’m sorry, I truly am, that he didn’t even try to be a father to you.”

The venom in his voice told you he wasn’t trying to make you feel better. Steve’s fury was palpable, you could feel it coming off him in waves.

“Want to know what I regret?” Steve asked. “I regret that he didn’t try to prepare you for the world. He should have taught you your place.”

You would have agreed with him if you hadn’t been so angry yourself.

“No, he did just what he was supposed to, according to you. He didn’t spend time with my mother, or my brother and I from what I hear. She tried to get us out of your world.”

“She found a lover.” Steve moved closer. “If she hadn’t done that, maybe she and your brother would still be alive.”

Jumping off the end of the bed, you marched forward and slapped him across the face with all your strength. It was satisfying to see his head turn with your blow, but he was quick to recover.

“I wasn’t prepared,” you told him angrily. “I haven’t been married before. I never had a lover before. You’ve had many. You’ve had time to enjoy life and learn what you like, what you want. You’re at a place in life where you want to start a family. I haven’t had that time or experience. What? I was just supposed to spread my legs and pop out babies because that’s what you wanted?”

“You didn’t have a lot of experiences in your life,” Steve pointed out. “I considered it an advantage.”

You snorted. “I’m sure you did.”

“Somehow all of this lack of experiences wasn’t a problem until you married me,” he said.

“Is that what you thought?” you asked. “I’d go from being his hidden little girl to your dutiful wife? That just makes you naïve.”

Scrubbing a hand over his beard, Steve stared you down. “You might have a point there. I was naïve in just letting you run free in this marriage. Letting you do what you wanted.”

“I’ve asked for so much,” you shot back, sarcasm bleeding into your tone.

“I gave you the bodyguard you wanted,” Steve snapped. “I had to find out she was training you with weapons when Hansen attacked my home. You hid that from me. I allowed it. Now I find out you hid your little contraceptive shot from me. I can’t trust you. What else have you hidden or lied to me about?”

Steve was right. You had hidden things from him.

“What is your problem with starting a family?” he wanted to know. His gaze swept over you. “What else are you going to do? You’re fit. You could probably have children and get right back in shape after.”

“So I’m vain?” you asked.

“Are you?” Steve asked. “You’ll have the best doctors, the best care. You can hire personal trainers if you're worried about your figure. We can hire people to help you with them once they're born. Nannies, tutors. Whatever you want.”

Now you were staring him down. “Don’t you know how that sounds? You want us to be parents and you’re already planning on how to let other people raise them.”

“Excuse me?” That pissed him off.

“I had all of that,” you said. “Nannies, tutors, governesses. What I didn’t have was a good relationship with my father. I didn’t have a mother or a sibling because of your world. I’m not saying I don’t want children one day. But I’d like to reach the point you have where I’ve lived a life and I’m ready for that.”

“Did you ever think of trying to tell me that? I thought we were finally on the same page. That we wanted the same things. You let me believe that,” he said bitterly.

“Would you have listened?” you asked. “And maybe I did let you believe that I could pregnant. But I was afraid. How could I enjoy sex when each time I was worried that would be the one? And I’d be pushed into something I wasn’t ready for. Responsible for a child.”

The hurt showing on his face surprised you. “You enjoyed sex with me because you knew you weren’t going to get pregnant?”

Your heart lurched. You felt like so much was riding on your answer, and you were angry.

But it was truth, damn it. Hiding things was how you got here.

“Yes,” you said slowly. “I would hope you’d understand why. I wasn’t even familiar with sex. I just wanted time.”

“You just wanted to take control away from me.” Steve’s glare made you pause.

“I thought you wanted me to trust you? You said you hoped one day this marriage would be something I needed too.”

“I thought you loved me,” he said with a finality that had fear spiking in you.

Faster than you could blink, Steve snatched your phone off the bed and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. The speed of his movements had you flinching. He noticed.

“What are you doing?” you asked, sounding way less confident now.

“Taking control of my household,” he said coldly. “Just like I’m getting ready to take care of business with the families. What do you think I’m doing?”

You swallowed hard. Steve’s gaze on you was assessing. He could read you so easily.

“Thought I’d spank you?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I think you’d enjoy that.”

Humiliation had your face heating up, remember the last one that you’d provoked.

“I should have done this from the beginning.”

“What do you mean?” you had to ask.

Steve moved back, putting a distance between you.

“Your injection is good for another four weeks,” he said. “We’ll resume our marriage then.”

What?

“Resume our marriage?” Your voice pitched higher than you would have like. But he caught you off guard. “What does that mean?”

“That means when that shot has reached the end of its efficacy, I’ll be back. Until then, you’ll stay in this room. My men will bring you meals and anything you need for toiletries and supplies. But that’s it.”

Oh, this wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

“Your men?” You had to be careful now. “What about Yelena?”

“She’s done,” Steve said curtly. “She’s worked her last day in this house. She just makes you worse.”

Tears stung the backs of your eyes. It was exactly what you feared.

“You can watch television but I have your phone,” Steve continued. “And your laptop is downstairs.”

And he was cutting you off from the rest of the world, from any support. Tears streamed from your eyes. Some from regret, most from anger. You blinked them back as you considered the weeks ahead.

And what you’d done to Yelena. What if losing this job put her in danger? What if Hansen got to her?

“When I come back, we will get to work on starting a family,” he informed you. “Just maybe you’ll be more grateful by then.”

“Or I’ll hate you.”

Steve shook his head, marching for the door of the bedroom you’d been sharing. “I’ll find another place to sleep in the meantime.”

“I’m sure you will,” you said through your tears. Visions of him with Kat flashed in your mind, threatening to break you.

And with that Steve marched out of the room. You heard the lock turn a beat later.

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#His Inheritance #Mafia AU #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes #Lloyd Hansen #dark fic

532 notes · View notes

transmutationisms · 8 months

Note

thoughts on adhd diagonsis and the rising numbers of it? heard a couple different theories, including a school therapist saying that he thinks children are just getting misdiagnosed because they’re cutting recess times, but interested in your thoughts! lol

yea i talked about this a bit here but i would add for clarity:

this kind of narrative of 'rising rates of' [any dsm diagnosis, in this case adhd] is kind of misleading on the surface because these numbers, and cultural and medical attitudes toward these labels, vary widely. matthew smith gives a very abridged introduction to varying attitudes toward adhd globally, and points out that countries that have 'embraced' the adhd diagnosis and its corresponding drug treatments tend to be countries where pharma companies have pushed to expand their market for these drugs, and have been able to succeed in partnering up with local and regional medical guilds and practitioners' professional interests. which is to say that any 'rise' in 'adhd' should be interpreted with an eye to material factors, meaning, specifically, profit-seeking and broader patterns of imperialism and global market expansion.

none of this is to say that the impairments people experience in adhd are any less real, debilitating, or distressing. however, when we ask about those impairments becoming more widespread or severe, often the conversation becomes rapidly re-routed to cover only a narrative of individual cognitive or neurological 'failures' constituting a distinct 'disorder'. elided from this framing is the idea that an impairment of this sort arises not just from the individual's brain-mind-body, but from the extent to which that person is being accommodated by their social context, specifically demands for productivity, sustained attention, &c in the home / school / workplace.

the core research methodologies & data interpretation in the psy-sciences embed social valences into neuro-psychological investigations, heightening the perceived contrast between, eg, 'normal' and 'adhd' brains / neurotypes / &c. susan hawthorne points out that this is a powerful feedback loop: social values are embedded in the scientific investigations, the results of which are then of further social interest, and together social and scientific values tend to converge, mutually reinforce one another, and strengthen the ideas and data interpretations supporting the concept of a discrete, pharmacologically actionable, transhistorical and cross-societal brain disorder.

i truly cannot overstate the extent to which it matters that when ritalin arrived on the us market in 1955, psychiatric diagnosis of and pharmacological prescription for children's behaviours were in a very different state to how they are today. it is quite common (in psychiatry but also in other branches of medicine!) that diagnostic definitions and categories change, or even come into existence altogether, at the behest of pharmaceutical companies who need a diagnostic label in order to ensure insurance coverage for patients interested in taking their patented drugs. this combined with marketing direct to patients, and paid promotion to physicians, is a critical piece of the history of the adhd diagnosis.

because i always feel the need to make this crystal-clear: i do not oppose or object to people seeking or using stimulant medications lol. i <3 stimulants. that's not what this is about. i want you and me both to be able to use white-market amphetamines whenever we damn well please and you don't need to justify that on any moral or medical grounds. xx

#adhd #psychiatry

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morallyinept · 4 months

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I have covid and I’m just wondering how the Pedro boys would take care of you during covid :) Love what you do thanks!

Hey Non! 🖤

Aww, so sorry to hear you've got Covid. I hope you rest up and feel better soon! 🖤

Thanks so much for asking this, and I hope the Pedro Boys can make you feel somewhat better... enjoy! 🖤

Joel Miller - Joel would really want to take care of you, but he would keep his distance. This man has seen the end of the friggin’ world for Christ’s sake, and all the gross shit that comes with it. If he had to take care of you, it would be behind a thick screen of plexiglass and passing your food and meds to you through a hatch. Whilst wearing a Haz-Mat suit. Joel is so done with infections. And mushrooms. No mushroom soup for you, only chicken and noodle.

Ezra - Ezra would probably give you space leaving you enough water and Bitz Bars in his tent for you to take care of yourself whilst he proffers more of his coveted loot, Birdie. Returning later to periodically paw at you when he needs his dressing changed or just wants some sweet Kevva loving. It won’t bother him that you’ve got Covid and are all sweaty, until he catches it from you and ends up becoming the worst. Patient. Ever.

Marcus Pike - Marcus would climb into bed with you and give you all the cuddles, hold you through the fever shakes. He’d make you fresh homemade soup. He’d bring you extra-fluffy pancakes in bed with fruit and syrup and feed them to you patiently. He’d hold your hair back if you got sick and would wash you down in the bath with extra bubbles and candles. Even if he got sick himself, Marcus would still want to care and make a fuss over you.

Max Phillips - Max is the only Pedro Boy who would be immune to catching Covid due to, you know, being dead... But still, he wouldn't want you coughing up gunk all over his fancy, new suit. So he’d send you home until you’re fit enough to return to work and be his personal blood bag again.

Oberyn Martell - Covid wasn’t around during Oberyn’s time, however he’s seen a lot of illness and being royalty doesn't have to, or want to, deal with it. You’re no good to him in this sickly state. So your Prince has no real use for you until you’re fit, healthy and supple again for him to have you spread eagle in his chambers.

Frankie Morales - Frankie would likely get sick with you; the man’s immunity is probably wrecked anyway due to the coke, so you’d both be laid up in bed together moaning and groaning, and not the good kind of moaning and groaning either. But you can bet once he starts feeling better, he’ll want some sweet medicine and he’ll find it between your legs, hermosa. And you can bet it'll make you feel miles better too.

Dave York - Dave has no patience for sickness or germs, which is ironic because he has two children who are in the prime ages for getting all sorts of sicky bugs. But then he’s not at home much so he never gets sick. And he can’t tolerate all that needy, whiny crap either. The most Dave would do is to deliver you some meds and Kleenex and leave them on your front door step. Begrudgingly, of course.

Marcus Moreno - Another caregiver, Marcus would literally stop saving the world to make sure you're okay. To drop off some hot Thai soup to make you sweat it out, to get your prescription filled for you, to fluff your pillows, to smooch you on the pasty head. You name it. Anything you need, Marcus will be your hero, baby.

Javier Peña - Javier doesn’t do sickness. Period. He’s out catching a drug lord, you think he has time to tend to you, cariño? The man doesn’t have time to eat, let alone make sure you do. You’re on your own. You’ll only see Javier when you’re fully recovered and he’s skulking in at 2am ready to give you a fever of another kind…

Javi G - Javi G would take care of you and give you everything you could need and want when you're ill, but probably to the point it would become a little unbearable. You’d force yourself well just to get out of the Paddington movie marathon he puts on for the sixty-seventh time.

Maxwell Lord - A sick man himself, Max knows how bad Covid can feel, so he’d want to make sure you get well as quickly as possible. Even going so far as to wishing for it. But we all know how that went down. Step away from the dream stone, Max! Just make some hot honey tea instead, yeah?

Dieter Bravo - Dieter is probably the most over dramatic and tiresome patient when he is sick, and he really can’t deal with you being ill and not able to take care of him. He’d keep a distance, wearing several masks, slipping notes under the door to inform you that he doesn’t know how to work the timer on the oven so has been surviving on KitKats, or that the dishwasher has stopped working and there are now bubbles all over the kitchen floor… When you're better, you return to a chaotic house turned upside down and a very worse for wear looking Dieter surrounded in the mess.

Agent Whiskey - Known to get things done (as long as there isn’t a meat grinder around), Whiskey will want you ship shape and in good health as quick as possible, so he’ll tend to you, feed you, wipe up all the mucus and whip you back into shape quicker than a tornado in a trailer park, sugar. Whiskey wants you fit and well, it's the only way you'll be able to keep up with this handsome cowboy after all.

Silva - Tending to you gently, Silva will have you laid up in his bed all comfy, dabbing at your skin with a cool cloth whilst he tells you stories of a dreamy ranch life. He’ll watch you sleep in his rocker at the end of the bed, spoon feed you soup and run you a bath whenever you need, and will join you in it.

Din Djarin - Din would want you better, and so would The Kid. To the point that The Kid would just Jedi Mind Trick those Covidy germs right outta your system so you can carry on collecting those bounties with your tin can man. This is the germ-free way, Mesh'la.

Pero Tovar - Another hypochondriac when he gets unwell, Pero would be useless in taking care of you when you're sick. He’d grumble all the way through it and ultimately end up sick himself, resulting in you taking care of him whilst you’re still riddled with the ‘rona.

Comandante Veracruz - There’s no such thing as Covid on Veracruz’s agenda. He’ll shut that shit down right away. You won’t be sick on his watch, cariño. Nope. He won’t allow it. You got a job to do. So just get on and do it, lest you make the Comandante mad…

🖤

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psychoticallytrans · 10 months

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A great harm reduction method for drug use could be to have a teen drug ed program like we have teen sex ed programs. DARE is basically the same thing as abstinence-based sex ed, and works about as well. But a drug education program that was comprehensive and evidence-based could be incredibly helpful. If it has to be restricted to legal drugs such as alcohol, nicotine, and opioids, it can be framed as "Here are some drugs you may encounter in your adult life."

I think that "Some drugs are okay actually" and "It's okay to be an addict" are true statements, but I think it would be a very hard sell to try to get permission to teach that to teenagers, so I'll limit my ideas to what I think would be feasible to get permission for.

Some topics a theoretical evidence-based drug ed program could cover:

-Average starting dose of commonly used drugs, as well as the dose of a regular user. This helps to limit overdoses.

-Honest discussion of drug interactions and what really cannot safely be taken together, so that experimentation is limited to mixes that at least won't kill them.

-For opioids in particular, since a LOT of people are prescribed them after surgery, there should be a chart of what a good taper looks like and information about why you need to taper off of them. Even if they don't ever take them recreationally, it's important knowledge for your adult life.

-Education about how some people (Those with ADHD and/or chronic pain in particular) need to use prescription drugs regularly and how dependence differs from addiction.

-Addiction MUST be framed as morally neutral, with good explanations given of how addictions form and what you can do if you don't want one, as well as resources being freely and nonjudgmentally given for anyone who wants to break an addiction.

-Discussion of what overdose for various drugs look like, as well as a brief training on how to use Naloxone.

-Teaching them to always tell paramedics the truth when drugs are involved in a medical emergency. This includes non-overdose emergencies! If someone has an unrelated medical emergency while taking a drug, the medics need to know so they don't, say, give someone who just took an opioid more opioids because they have a broken leg.

-That it's important to keep track of EXACTLY how much you take if possible.

-The importance of having at least one trusted sober person around in case there's an emergency and you need someone who's not completely zooted, ex. a building fire.

If comprehensive and evidence-based sex ed can lead to teens having later and safer sex, I see absolutely no reason that comprehensive and evidence-based drug education couldn't have a similar effect.

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notallangelsaregood · 11 months

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My thoughts on Spy x Family Chapter 82

Needless to say, (some real serious) manga spoilers alert

Oh, boy, I'm gasping for air. I'm panicking, and I've not panicked this much about Spy x Family since Anya's last hijack incident (which my heart has not recovered yet). Mr. Endo, may you, please, pay my cardiologist bill? I'm not joking, I'm hyperventilating, and my chest is TU DUM, TU DUM.

The mole was discovered! Poor guy (or not, who knows?). I wonder what SSS will do to him. How far will the organization go? I believe we won't even know.

I'm seriously nervous for him. Twillight is used to things getting on his way, with minimum complications and this situation is definitely not it. Of course, he could figure things could go bad, since It's a really risky operation, however, I feel his frustration in not getting much time to secure the real wheeler.

Damn, my heart is not surviving till the end of this chapter.

Our man got ✨ The Skills ✨ Still, all this shooting is getting me pretty nervous. I'm immediately getting my anxiety meds. Endo, what the actual f-

Yeah, Twilight is The Man! Still, my hands are trembling and so is my apprehensive cardiac organ. This is sure to be qualified as torture.

He is quite wise disguising as Yuri. Haha, got it? I'm not okay, Christ.

Damn, Yuri is very intelligent, as well. The brains had to go to one of the Briar's, am I right? (Poor Yor, I love you, It's not personal. Bad comedy is my coping mechanism when I'm nervous. I'm so sorry!)

He is right about that. Twilight is nervous. And I wonder why. Maybe because there's more on this game than before? He is a father. A husband. He worries. He is not the same he was before, as much as he tries to convince himself that he is not attached to his fake family dynamics.

I can clearly imagine his thoughts racing. He's thinking about Anya, about Yor, about WISE, while trying to run and get these thoughts away from him in order to not commit mistakes, like leaving a footprint behind. Just saying.

Oh Yuri, you are so sweet, in a way. And you know absolutely nothing.

The panic™ on his face. Poor Yuri, I'm truly divided right here. See? I'm calmer, not panicking at all, this is certainly my clonazepam working.

Quick (but important) writer's note here, I'm actually diagnosed with intense anxiety and use prescribed medication, I joke about it, cause It's better to laugh than cry on the reality of my condition, however, never use anxiolytic/benzodiazepines drugs without valid prescription and conscience, it might cause long-term dependency and tolerance. My Pharmacy academic self felt the need to point this out. Moving on!

By the way, have you noticed the "waver"? Twilight is hesitating, deeply, which makes him more prone to aiming wrong. Haha, ha… I'm okay, I swear 😰

...

HOW THE FLOOF AM I SUPPOSED TO BE CHILL AFTER THIS, HUH?

Okay, two theories. I'm okay, I swear, my blood pressure is just fine.

Theory number 1. Twilight gets Yuri shot on some of his limbs, probably one of his legs, so our spy can buy time, run to encounter the others Wise's agents and hide. Gladly, he can aim just on the spot when no much damage is made to Yuri, even though the spy is extremely nervous. Twillight was totally not expecting to find him on that corner, and he knows that doing something so serious like UNALIVING HER WIFE'S BROTHER will tear her apart. Why else he would waver? He is the best spy of Westalis. He doesn't hesitate, but this is different.

Theory number 2. Which I believe is less likely, but still possible, Yuri gets our incredible Spy shot on some area of his body where the disguise falls off, and he realizes Twillight and Loid are the same person, but he does nothing about it, at least not for a while. Making him and the spy share this major secret for a while, due to numerous reasons, but mainly to protect Yor and take her out of her position as Loid's wife safely. But as I said, I find unlikely to Yuri shoot TwiTwi, even though the latter is quite nervous and might not dodge the shot. Besides the fact Loid has his arm aimed at Yuri first, while Yuri has his arm sideways, which gives Twilight an advantage in time.

Be sure to talk to me in the comments, I would love to hear what you guys think. Moving on to the last past of the chapter.

Lady Yor! Our grownup baby! She is still with the same outfit and hair down, so I assume it's late at night or afternoon, maybe Anya is already home or at a sleepover with Becky? Not sure.

Our poor girl is nervous due to Yuri filling her thoughts with the possibility of Loid cheating (which is dumb as floof, because he is a loyal boy) but still, even sober, Yor is worried. She cares about this family so much it probably hurts and confuses her. Her face on the left gave me chills, so much is going through her mind, almost if she senses something is wrong.

So. Much. Blood. I'm. Nervous. I. Can't. Breath. Properly. What. Was. This? Whose blood is this? (Not Yor's, I assume). I always count the days till the next chapter, but for this one, I'll be in severe mental pain until its release date. My mind racing like Yor's, wondering if Loid will come home late or come home at all.

I keep imagining scenarios where one of the boys gets shoot and the aftermath of that, Loid or Yuri at the hospital or being held by their organizations in order to get intel from them, Yor drying with worry, there are so many possibilities. This arc has been the most intense so far, for me, at least. I don't know how I will cope till June 26th.

What do you guys thinking? If my heart survived until now, yours will! Make sure to like, reblog and support my work here on Tumblr, I really appreciate it. Now I will rest, cause that chapter was (hell) difficult 🌹 (this post will be reviewed soon, so if you encounter any grammar or spelling mistakes, forgive my bilingual mess self)

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mezmer · 6 months

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Here I will explain why my blog banner describes me as an anti sugar activist. I try to be as "scientific" as my brain and heart allow, but I value my experience over scientific studies even if they support my view, huge ridiculous autist sugar post incoming

Sugar is highly addictive for most people. The problem is way more dire than we act like it is. Added to foods you wouldn't even think to include sugar. The link between sugar and obesity, endocrine disruption, general inflammation and malaise, disease, diabetes, your teeth rotting out, and even cancer, is undeniable no matter what articles or studies you try to dig up. not many people want to admit how bad it is. People who enjoy sugar, who might say "you only live once! It's not like I'm shooting heroin" suffer weird problems and assume it's something else. Children set up for a lifetime of failure because their parents don't pay attention to their sugar intake at all. I have a very drastic example of this I won't go into much detail about, but a set of parents close to me are feeding their daughter extreme amounts of sugar. She has a learning disability and is a very intense child. I've hinted at the sugar link and everyone is in denial.

I have baby sat this child and gotten her to eat organic wheat bread PB and J with a no sugar added, all fruit jam.. happily told her parents who did not care at all. It was such a feat to me. Everyone knows a picky child. It's worse than you think. This is a gateway drug and I'm totally serious. I said I would not go into great detail... I too was raised on welch's fruit snacks, "pancake syrup", sprite, Kool aid, and worst of all I was allowed to put as much sugar that I wanted into my tea. My parents were wonderful, they just didn't think or know how bad it was to do this

I've struggled with a sugar addiction before and since getting clean from drugs and seen the effects of it firsthand. The most obvious to be seen from the outside that I can make people believe is my struggle with acne. We know bacteria feeds off of sugar. This is why people who drink sugary drinks are at risk for UTIs. If bacteria enters their bladder, sugar makes it grow. Well no amount of washing my face, bentonite clay masks, washing my pillow cases, wearing a bonnet, would make the acne go away. Recently I tried to only eat a certain pint of ice cream thinking less sugar would help. It didn't and I'm over two weeks off of all sugar that isn't naturally occuring in honey and fruit. Crazy how natural sugar does not feed the bacteria and hormonal disruption. I've been in this cycle more than once. Not only does the acne go away, my face appears radiant every time. Breakouts as soon as I relapse. Maybe you are thinking, this is a bunch of hogwash and I eat little cakes often without a problem. That's fine. I know addicts who have used meth for 30 years and you wouldnt wonder much about them. Smokers who lived to 80. Sugar doesn't do me any good at all.

Neither my mom, who was just put on a medication with awful side effects because she is developing diabetes. Her doctor (doctor she's had for decades who is a total piece of garbage and prescribes dangerous cocktails of conflicting medications !! That's a whole other post!!!! Put my grandma on pills which nearly killed her! Plus other people HAHAHA) saw her coming up with high blood pressure, blood sugar, and cholesterol without thinking to suggest a diet change first. My mom is overweight and likes to eat sweets. My mom told me, I can still eat sweets, I just have to eat less. I did tell her that didn't work for me. I quit because I don't want to end up sick this way. Diabetes runs in our family. The prescription is making my mom nauseous and dizzy. Insane to me right?

Why aren't the dangers of sugar recognized? Why am I the only advocate I know? I would shut the fuck up if the dangers were believed by more people. Is it Because Sugar Taste good? Not seen as a vice. We accept that corn syrup is not so good. Canola oil pretty bad. Dyes in food causing children to develop ADHD and autism, or whatever. Is there no risk in consuming sugar? Many health professionals don't want to admit it? I feel strongly. I feel sick when I eat sugar but I can't find myself able to stop unless I truly try. We are all convinced that it's just a danger to your teeth if you don't brush enough. MIL is a sugar addict who buys birthday cakes on clearance and clears the whole cake in a few days, a twice daily flosser and brusher, who has lost over half of her teeth to extractions, sees the link, and has no intention to quit.

Finally, I bake yummy dessert recipes excluding half the sugar while using honey, maple syrup, brown sugar for what is left (which is slightly better than white sugar from my understanding) and I have never made a baked good that is ruined by doing this. You can't even tell that I've excluded sugar and the foods have more flavor because sugar doesn't overpower the dish. They don't make your teeth hurt. You can eat more cookies because there is less sugar and they taste better. The texture is the same. Bakers will tell you this isn't true and you need to use the whole amount of sugar so the cookies and cakes arent ruined. Yes, you need torched sugar on creme brulee. Fine.

Do you ever find yourself scraping icing off of a cake? I have baked more than one birthday cake for loved ones excluding sugar and adding natural alternatives (NOT stevia or monkfruit which taste like shit and suck) and ive gotten nothing but compliments. My brown sugar maple cake with cream cheese icing using very little sugar was a hit for my partners birthday that everyone probably ate too much of. This isn't a brag, it's an idea for anyone who bakes to try and change your recipes. It hasn't failed for me. Ok SOrry

#edit check notes

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morningberriesao3 · 9 months

Text

MWMD - Hold Me Close

Steve Harrington X Virgin!Eddie Munson

Summary: Steve can't keep living on Wayne’s couch. So Eddie makes him an offer.

Word Count: 4K

Chapter: 3 of 6 CHAPTER LIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Content Warnings: Explicit m/m sexual content including… Virgin Eddie Munson, Dry Humping, Coming Untouched, Coming in Pants, Minor Crossdressing (ahem, EDDIE WEARS A G-STRING), Oh no they’re both tops?! what will they do!!?!, Top Steve Harrington, Power Bottom Eddie Munson, Blow Jobs, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Nipple Clamps, Under-Negotiated Kink, Unsafe Sex, Creampie. Underage Drinking and Recreational Drug Use.

Tags: Eddie Munson lives, 5 + 1 Things, slow burn, POV Eddie Munson, Gay Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Caretaking, Massages, Sharing a Bed, House Party, Play Flighting, Bros Being Bros (JK it’s very homoerotic), Halloween, Boys in Makeup, Independence Day, New Years Eve, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending

Many Ways, Many Days, to Say ‘I Love You’

MAY 18th, 1986

Steve continues to walk around the trailer with a pained look on his face, stretching and popping his back, kneading at it with his fingers, swallowing Tylenol with his morning coffee. And he continues to refuse to go back home to his own bed.

“Seriously, Munson. Not another peep from you.”

Eddie has been trying for the last half hour to convince Steve that he’ll survive overnight on his own. He’s rarely in pain anymore and he has some pretty good drugs from the doctor that he can pop if it becomes too much (although he’s been frugal, storing most of them in his little metal drug box because prescription pain meds can go for like, five bucks a pill).

“Your back has been fucked up for days, man.” Eddie puts his hands on his hips and briefly thinks about how he’s been spending so much time with Steve that he’s now adopting his mannerisms. He switches to crossing his arms over his chest instead. “You’re literally in worse shape than me now. Go home.”

Steve sighs, shrugging his vest for Family Video on overtop of a pink polo. He kind of looks like a lollipop that Eddie wants to lick. “Can I level with you, dude?”

Eddie isn’t expecting the look he receives from Steve. Up through his lashes, soft, maybe a bit embarrassed. Definitely a little timid. Eddie nods.

“I don’t really want to go home.” Steve watches as Eddie takes in the information. He furrows his brows a bit, because who wouldn’t want to go back to a four-bedroom, two-level, mini-mansion with a swimming pool, to slum it on the ancient couch inside of a cramped trailer? “I know it’s like, a lot to ask. If I can stay here. I just – this feels like home. More than my place ever did.”

Eddie gapes at him.

“But I can leave if you want me to. I know this was supposed to be – um – temporary.”

“No,” he says slowly, squinting his eyes at Harrington like he has fine print written on his face that might give Eddie more insight. “You’re telling me you want to be here, and not at your place? Not just to like, take care of me?”

Steve nods, chewing on his lip on one side.

“Why?”

Steve raises his shoulders and lets them drop back down. “I don’t get along with my parents.”

“Shit, really?”

Eddie knows all about that. He left the home he used to live in with his folks to move in with uncle Wayne. Of course, it was because they had figured out that Eddie was gay when they saw him kiss another boy on the cheek on Valentines Day. God forbid. Eddie didn’t know it was wrong at the time, but he sure figured it out pretty quickly when his parents shamed him about it everyday for the next year. He was sure Steve would never have to deal with that, but yeah, he knows what it’s like to have shitty parents.

Steve just kind of shrugs it off, like he’s marinated with the idea for long enough that it no longer phases him. “Yeah. But, like I said, I don’t want to be a nuisance or anything.”

“You’re not a nuisance.” Eddie feels kind of bad, if he made Steve feel unwelcome by trying to get him to go home. He just assumed that he’d want to leave and was taking pity on Eddie by staying. But who was he to say no if Steve liked it better in the trailer? “You can stay as long as you want, man. Wayne likes you here. This place has never been in better shape.”

It’s true. Steve has made it a bit of a routine – cleaning and patching holes and painting on his days off. Things that neither Eddie nor Wayne cared about or were capable of fixing. It was another thing that Eddie just assumed was pity, but he’s starting to learn that maybe it’s coming from a different place entirely.

Steve perks up, a bashful smile playing on his beautifully full lips.

Shit, not that Eddie is like, staring at them or anything.

“Yeah?” he asks, nudging Eddie a little too hard in the arm with his fist. Ex jock. Underestimates his own strength. “Like roommates for real?”

Eddie subtly rubs his upper arm. “Like roommates for real. On one condition.”

The excited expression wipes away from Steve’s face and is replaced by one of skepticism. “And what is that condition?”

“You take the bed.”

“No,” says Steve simply, quickly, shaking his head and grabbing his keys from the counter where he leaves them. “Nope. Nadda. Not a chance in Hell.”

“Harrington!” The trailer door swings open and slams shut behind Steve’s ridiculous (perfect) mousy brown hair before Eddie can even get a word in. He runs to unlatch the door, fumbling down the steps and onto the sharp gravel where he dances around on bare feet. “If you say no you have to go home!”

It’s an empty threat. Eddie would never kick Steve out – make him go back to his parents that he obviously doesn’t like – even if he wanted to couch-surf for the rest of his life. But Steve doesn’t need to know that.

“Well, that’s not happening,” Steve says, rounding the curve of the driveway to his shiny BMW, which sticks out like a sore thumb next to Eddie’s rust bucket that he calls a van. “I’m still a guest and I refuse to kick you out of your own goddamn bed. So I guess I’m going home.”

Eddie bristles. “For fuck’s sake, dude. What’s it gonna take?”

“You could offer me all the money in the world –” which Eddie finds hilarious because Steve already has it, “– and I still wouldn’t kick you out of your bed, Munson.” Steve folds himself into the driver’s seat of his car, turning the ignition and cranking the window down to smile up at Eddie. “Should I move out tonight, or do I have a grace period?”

Eddie knows that Steve is playing along. They are both stubborn in their own way, so arguing will probably be counterproductive. Perhaps a compromise is better.

“What if we share?”

The offer slips past his lips before he realises that – fuck – that’s really weird. He only has a double bed, which means there’s not much room. And even if there was – even if he had one of those California Kings that he’s only seen in magazines – guys don’t just share beds platonically.

He opens his mouth to retract his offer, or maybe, somehow, turn it into a joke.

But Steve always has a way of surprising Eddie. Of making him nervous beyond compare. Of making him regret the things he says, and in this case, offers.

“Yeah, okay,” he says easily like it’s the most normal suggestion he’s ever heard. It makes Eddie’s eyes bug out from his face. “I want the side closest to the door.”

Steve’s window is rolled up and his car is backing from the driveway before Eddie’s coherent enough to form a response. Mostly because he never in a million years imagined himself sharing a bed with Steve Harrington (well, he imagined it, but he never thought it would come to fruition). Partly because, perfect, he likes the side closest to the window anyway.

It’s almost alarming how quickly Steve accepted the offer. No rebuttal. No counteroffers. Just a simple yes.

It’s enough to cloud Eddie’s mind with questions like ‘what does that mean?’ and ‘what did I just do?’ as he frantically strips his bed and washes the sheets and the blankets. He even puts the fluffiest pillow on Steve’s side (oh God, Steve has a side), because he’s nice like that. Also because the flatter pillow is about a decade old and Eddie doesn’t want Steve’s face pressed into the place he’s been drooling his whole life while he’s trying to sleep.

Well, fuck, maybe he does?

Steve only has a five-hour shift, and Eddie spends the entire time cleaning his mess nervously, like Steve hadn’t been in his room that very morning, wading through the piles of both dirty and clean laundry on the floor. He clears out the top shelf of his dresser because Steve has been living out of a suitcase and it was about time that ended.

It all feels very domestic. And a little embarrassing, because he didn’t think the first time he moved into a single bedroom with someone he’d still be under the same roof as uncle Wayne.

None of that really matters though, because Steve and Eddie will only be sharing a bed in the most innocent sense of the phrase. There will be no canoodling. It’s kind of sad, but it’s the only fact that keeps Eddie from having an actual panic attack.

Two bros, sharing a bed. As they do.

Maybe it would be easier if Steve had never seen Eddie naked. If his fingers had never grazed Eddie’s junk. Maybe it would be easier if Eddie hadn’t been squeezing the shit out of the soft flesh that covers Steve’s hips just a few days ago. If he didn’t explicitly remember exactly what that felt like. Maybe it would be easier if he hasn’t gotten into the habit of panting Steve’s name right before he comes, in the very bed they’ll now be sharing.

For actual, literal, Christ’s sake.

He just hopes that he doesn’t do something stupid in his sleep, like try to make out with him or something. If that’s even something people accidently do in their sleep.

Every thought Eddie has ever had leaves his head when he hears the slam of Steve’s car door outside of the trailer. It’s impossible that it’s been five hours, but when he looks at his alarm clock, he’s proven wrong.

He can’t help but wonder if maybe it’s all too much – that it’s weird he cleared out part of his dresser and made up the bed as nice as he could manage. But there was no going back now.

“Hey, man,” Steve says as he swings open the trailer door like he really does consider it home. “What’s that smell?”

Oh, another thing. Eddie sprayed his room down with lavender fabric refresher. It’s supposed to help you sleep, and Eddie feels like he might need all the help he can get in that department. Maybe then he won’t stay up to stare at Steve all curled up next to him.

“Nothing. Uh, just laundry detergent.” It’s kind of the truth, so it works. “How was work?”

“You know, stressful as always. Rewinding people’s returns is really taxing stuff.”

“So I hear. I don’t know how you manage, day in and day out and day in…” Eddie drones on dramatically. “That’s why I’m – what do they call it? – an entrepreneur. Totally self employed, baby. Short hours, all profit –”

Steve snorts as he unpeels his banana. “Yeah. You’re rolling in the dough.”

“I do well for myself!” Eddie snaps, mocking offense. “Plus, I don’t have to pay taxes on my income.”

“And that’s not even the most illegal part about it.” Steve cocks an eyebrow.

“C’mon, Harrington, live on the edge a little bit. I’m sure Mr. Reagan will live without my yearly input of fifty dollars and ninety-two cents.”

“Stick it to the man!” Steve shouts, jabbing his banana in the air and twisting it like a knife. It’s actually kind of hot. “Right?”

“You’re learning,” Eddie says, trying to hide the fact that he’s flustered over fruit weapons. Steve could wield anything and it would be attractive. Like a frying pan, or a brass candelabra. But using his bare hands (and teeth) in the Upside Down was arguably the hottest thing Eddie had ever seen. It was that moment that really sealed the deal for him. When his crush from junior year turned into something a bit more… real.

“So, I was thinking,” Steve starts, rustling through a bag that Eddie hadn’t even noticed he’d carried in. He pulls out a VHS tape – “Critters. It looks dumb but I think you’d like it.”

He inspects the front cover, littered with little monsters with sharp teeth and bold, red lettering for the title. “That’s kind of insulting.”

“You like dumb movies.” Steve shrugs. “Like Labyrinth, and Rocky Horror –”

“Do not slander Tim Curry!” This time, Eddie’s offense is a little bit more genuine. “He’s sacred and I will not stand for it in this house.”

“Whatever.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Anyway. I thought we could watch this really amazing looking movie, and order in Chinese or pizza or something?”

Eddie pretends to think about it for a minute. “Did you bring snacks?”

The bag rustles again as Steve does more digging. He holds out a couple packages of candy. “Twizzlers and M&Ms.”

“Popcorn?”

“There’s already some in the cupboard.”

“Hmm.” Eddie scratches his chin. Steve rolls his eyes, waiting patiently for Eddie’s obvious answer. “You got yourself a deal.”

“Cool,” Steve says, heading to Eddie’s (their?) bedroom. “Wow, dude. You can see your floor.”

Eddie blushes and shrugs it off as coolly as he can manage.

Steve turns to him, pointing to the badly made bed. “You didn’t have to do all this for me.”

It’s not shocking to Eddie how obvious it was that he dejunked because of their earlier conversation. He kind of wishes there was a little bit more mystery in it, but he probably hasn’t tidied since 1984, so why else would he have done it today? “It needed to be cleaned anyway.”

‘Cleaned’ is a very loose term for what Eddie did, but at least it’s leaps and bounds better than it was when he woke up.

“It looks good.” Steve throws himself onto the bed that he’ll be sleeping on tonight (with Eddie, oh my God). He kind of rolls to the centre of it where it’s sunken. It’s an old mattress. “Smells good, too. Lavender?”

“Yeah.” Eddie chews on his lip, staring at how big Steve looks on the double mattress. All sprawled and consuming. He wonders how they’ll both fit on there, and it dawns on him just how close they’ll have to be.

Not that he minds, like, at all.

“That’s why,” Steve says in a way that makes it seem like he’s answering a question he’s asked in his head a million times. Internal and without explanation. It makes Eddie a bit nervous, like maybe he should be embarrassed about something if Steve’s been thinking about it.

“That’s why, what?”

“Why you always smell like lavender,” he explains, tucking his arms behind his head. “I always thought it was an oil or something, but I never saw one in the bathroom. But it’s just your bed.”

“I smell like lavender?”

“Yeah. When you don’t reek of pot and menthols.”

And the warm feeling that Eddie was experiencing is gone.

“Shut up,” he says, kicking at Steve’s foot that’s hanging from the end of the bed. “Are we watching the movie or not?”

That’s exactly what they do, popping popcorn and tossing it in a ridiculous amount of melted butter and salt. Eddie holds the bowl in his lap and each time Steve reaches over for a handful he can’t help but let his mind wander a little bit. Not that he’s a pervert or anything. It’s just been a really long time since another guy has been reaching into his lap for any reason. A really long time, as in a couple of years, and even then it was just the once.

They pause the movie halfway through when the food is delivered, which is fine because the movie is shit. But Steve’s right, it’s shit in the way that Eddie loves. The way where he’s laughing instead of jumping at the scenes that are meant to be scary.

Either way, he’s smiling by the time the credits roll and so is Steve.

“It was like Gremlins, but less scary.”

“Less scary?” Eddie asks. “You find Gremlins scary?”

“They’re pretty scary, dude.” Steve gets up from the couch and stretches, exposing a strip of skin that Eddie definitely doesn’t stare at. “Why do you think I call the kids gremlins? Terrifying.”

Eddie snorts at that, pointedly making eye contact instead of letting them drop lower (again). “Those brats are worse than any horror movie.”

“You’re telling me,” says Steve, picking up the empty dishes from the coffee table and carrying them the short distance to the sink. He washes them quickly, then dries them, and places them back into the cupboard where they belong. If it had been Eddie, they would have been left in the sink until the morning, or maybe until the next afternoon. If Steve stays much longer, Wayne is going to expect Eddie to start upping his game. “Bedtime?”

Eddie checks his watch and it’s only just past 9pm. But Steve looks at him so expectantly that he finds himself nodding. And truthfully, there are way worse things that laying next to Steve in his bed before he falls asleep.

They do their normal routine, brushing their teeth and their hair. Steve uses a fancy cleanser on his skin that he forced Eddie to never tell anyone about (“I have skin problems if I don’t use it, okay?”), and Eddie just uses a bar of glycerine soap. The cheapest kind from the general store. Maybe that’s why Eddie still gets pimples on his chin at the ripe age of twenty.

When they get to Eddie’s room, he can’t help but stand awkwardly and wonder what the hell he’s supposed to wear to bed. He’s usually a boxers only type of guy, but Steve has always worn sweats and a t-shirt when he’s sleeping on the couch. Eddie doesn’t even own sweatpants, but he might have a pair of PJ pants that he got from Uncle Wayne one Christmas shoved to the back of one of his drawers. They have a pattern of little frogs playing guitars and that’s just fucking embarrassing to wear in front of a guy like Steve Harrington.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long, because Steve starts stripping himself down to a single layer. Eddie averts his eyes as heat radiates into his chest and cheeks. Maybe now it would be extra weird if he just wore his boxers to bed. Since, like, Steve was already doing it.

“It’s nice to finally ditch those sweatpants,” Steve says, kicking his jeans ungracefully from one of his feet. “It gets unbearably hot at night.”

“Yeah. I mean, you could have – you didn’t have to –” Eddie struggles to find the right words. “No one would have blamed you for ditching them, man.”

“I know. It would just be a little awkward to have my junk almost out in front of your uncle.” Steve points to his crotch as if Eddie doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And when he does, Eddie’s eyes flick downwards.

Who can blame him? Steve just drew attention to it.

And yeah, his dick is clothed, but he’s only wearing these tiny tighty-whities that really leave, like, zero up to the imagination. Eddie can see the angle that Steve’s dick is resting at in his briefs. And he can tell that he’s – well – he’s circumcised. And even though Steve’s dick is soft, it’s um. Ample. Thick. And – and…

Jesus Christ.

Steve crawls into Eddie’s bed – the side closest to the door, with the fluffy pillow. “You good?”

Eddie’s brain is moving about as fast as a sloth in sand – meaning not very fast at all. So he says, “Act cool,” aloud, because that’s what he’s thinking. And then he smacks his palm to his forehead and says, “I mean, I’m cool. I’m all good,” like that might fix his blunder, even though it very much does not.

“Well, cool.” Steve says, smiling. “Are you gonna stand there all night, or are you coming to bed?” He pats the comforter next to him.

Eddie squeaks a noise that really doesn’t sound like him at all. He resents his vocal chords for betraying him at a time like this. He strips down to his boxers and is really thankful that they’re a lot looser than Steve’s briefs. Because he’s slightly chubbed, and Steve had seen his dick enough times that he’d know.

He crawls into the sheets, trying to keep a healthy distance between him and Steve. But Steve is fucking manspreading onto Eddie’s half of the mattress, so his thigh and shoulder ends up pressed against Steve’s skin anyway.

It’s not helping his little situation. His dick kicks up disobediently. Thank fuck Eddie is under the cover of a blanket.

“Geez, man. Move over,” he says, not because he doesn’t like it, but because he likes it a little too much.

“I can’t help it!” Steve wiggles a couple of inches away, but not enough to stop himself from touching Eddie. “Your bed is small, Munson.”

“Would you prefer a king-sized mattress for the king himself? I’m sorry you must reduce yourself to a double, my liege. How will you survive?”

“Shut up, man.” Steve smacks Eddie. Eddie smacks Steve right back, a little harder. “Ouch! It doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t control where I end up once I’m sleeping.”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m a cuddler.”

“You’re telling me that now?” Eddie pretends to be horrified, even though the thought of being cuddled up next to Steve is admittedly wonderful. “That’s it. I’m retracting your invitation.”

“Too late. Are you big spoon or little spoon?” Steve asks, but before Eddie has the chance to respond (which would have been a load of bullshit, because how is he supposed to know when he’s never been cuddled?), he says, “Doesn’t matter. I’m always big spoon.”

“Does that mean I’m gonna wake up to you plastered on my back?”

Steve shrugs, making the sheets under Eddie’s ear crinkle. “Better get used to the idea now.”

They banter back and forth like that for about an hour before Steve’s eyes get heavy and he finally gets consumed by sleep. Eddie stays awake for another couple after that, reading a few chapters from Return of the King (for the nineteenth time).

He only wakes up once that night, and lo and behold, Steve is wrapped around him like a koala bear. Only Eddie isn’t facing away from him – they are chest to chest. Nose to nose. More importantly, they are dick to dick. One of Steve’s legs is hiked up on top of Eddie’s, which is lodged between Steve’s thighs. Steve is pinning him down with an arm securely circled around Eddie’s shoulders. Their goddamn noses are touching. Steve is breathing into Eddie’s mouth, and it takes everything inside Eddie to refrain from sticking his tongue out to taste Steve’s lips.

But Eddie would like to reiterate that he is not a pervert.

Instead, he readjusts the best that he can (because he definitely has a boner that is definitely pressed up underneath Steve’s cock). It doesn’t help much, so he tries his hardest to keep still. Because each brush of Steve against his dick, however light, sends a thrill into his core that makes him impossibly harder than he was a minute ago. And if Steve wakes up, if Steve feels Eddie pressed into him, nearly nestled between his glorious thighs…

So Eddie practices mindful breathing. He lets himself fall back asleep after twenty excruciating minutes, still with an erection that he can’t force away. Because really, it would be rude to move out of Steve’s grasp and wake him up from such a peaceful looking slumber.

And if waking up like that becomes another strange habit over the following days – weeks – Eddie isn’t going to mention it. Of course he’s not.

Because neither is Steve.

NEXT CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

SOCIALS

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