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tbi
[ When Eddie said '86 was going to be his year, what he hadn't meant was that it would be the year he finds out about fucked up sci-fi shit, the year he becomes the town pariah, or the year he joins the near death experience club. It's all sort of funny, he thinks, though not in the "ha ha" sort of way. For someone who has spent years of his life telling stories of death and adventure, he was completely unprepared for the real thing. Eddie can't really remember what it was like, almost dying, and he's not sure if that's because of the blood loss, or if some part of him has resolved to push the memory down, lock it away somewhere he won't be able to find it again.
Because he's alive, and he's grateful for that. More grateful than he's ever been. Yes, he had been brave, but he had also been stupid, some part of him had known that the moment he had sliced through the bedsheet rope. He wonders now if bravery and stupidity are perhaps strange bedfellows, intrinsically linked together. Eddie had learned that lesson the hard way, had thought about while he made his long recovery. They hadn't taken him to the hospital, instead the guest bedroom of the Harrington house had been his sick bay. It was a hell of a patch job, but he hadn't bled out or lost any limbs to gangrene, so there was that.
It was easier to let Hawkins believe he was dead, even as the town emptied out. There was no story they could spin that would clear his name. When the government came in to clean up yet another mess, they had at least been able to make any actual charges go away, but there was nothing they could do about the court of public opinion. So once he was sure his uncle new he was alive and well, Eddie had resigned himself to being a (hopefully temporary) resident at cada de Steve.
As far as hide outs go, he could do a lot worse. The house is huge, Steve's parents are never home, (And sometimes he thinks they might be permanently gone) and Steve himself isn't bad company. The weeks wear on and they spend more and more time together, most of it playing cards, or watching movies, drifting close but never quite coming together. And then there were the nights when one of them woke up screaming, ripped from sleep by nightmares, and in those instances they were quietly drawn to the other. Eddie's lost track of the number of times he's slipped into Steve's room to curl up at the edge of his bed, the inches between them like miles of distance. But just the weight of someone nearby, the sound of breathing, was enough to lull him back to sleep.
They don't actually talk about those nights, and it's just as well. Why ruin a sort of good thing by talking about it?
It's Friday, not that weekends mean all that much for him anymore. All his days are blurring together with their sameness, and today he's feeling particularly cagey. Which is why Eddie finds himself doing laps in the living room, unable to keep his eyes off the clock as he waits for Steve to get back from work-- or volunteering-- or checking on the kids-- he can't quite keep it all straight anymore. But as soon as Steve is through the front door Eddie's practically launching himself at him, eyes wide and looking just the slightest touch manic. ]
I have got to get out of here tonight. [ He knows he sounds a little desperate, but he feels desperate, so it fits. ] I think I'm actually starting to go crazy in here.
Because he's alive, and he's grateful for that. More grateful than he's ever been. Yes, he had been brave, but he had also been stupid, some part of him had known that the moment he had sliced through the bedsheet rope. He wonders now if bravery and stupidity are perhaps strange bedfellows, intrinsically linked together. Eddie had learned that lesson the hard way, had thought about while he made his long recovery. They hadn't taken him to the hospital, instead the guest bedroom of the Harrington house had been his sick bay. It was a hell of a patch job, but he hadn't bled out or lost any limbs to gangrene, so there was that.
It was easier to let Hawkins believe he was dead, even as the town emptied out. There was no story they could spin that would clear his name. When the government came in to clean up yet another mess, they had at least been able to make any actual charges go away, but there was nothing they could do about the court of public opinion. So once he was sure his uncle new he was alive and well, Eddie had resigned himself to being a (hopefully temporary) resident at cada de Steve.
As far as hide outs go, he could do a lot worse. The house is huge, Steve's parents are never home, (And sometimes he thinks they might be permanently gone) and Steve himself isn't bad company. The weeks wear on and they spend more and more time together, most of it playing cards, or watching movies, drifting close but never quite coming together. And then there were the nights when one of them woke up screaming, ripped from sleep by nightmares, and in those instances they were quietly drawn to the other. Eddie's lost track of the number of times he's slipped into Steve's room to curl up at the edge of his bed, the inches between them like miles of distance. But just the weight of someone nearby, the sound of breathing, was enough to lull him back to sleep.
They don't actually talk about those nights, and it's just as well. Why ruin a sort of good thing by talking about it?
It's Friday, not that weekends mean all that much for him anymore. All his days are blurring together with their sameness, and today he's feeling particularly cagey. Which is why Eddie finds himself doing laps in the living room, unable to keep his eyes off the clock as he waits for Steve to get back from work-- or volunteering-- or checking on the kids-- he can't quite keep it all straight anymore. But as soon as Steve is through the front door Eddie's practically launching himself at him, eyes wide and looking just the slightest touch manic. ]
I have got to get out of here tonight. [ He knows he sounds a little desperate, but he feels desperate, so it fits. ] I think I'm actually starting to go crazy in here.