[ oh he is not cracking this nightmare open. he's gonna go yell at steve?? he guesses??? yeah that sounds like the worst idea and that's what he's gonna do ]
[billy does 2 things: decides he’s going to throttle steve, and that he has to give up on the porn. it’s not happening today folks.
the third he does after five cigarettes is uploading a bunch extremely racy photos for the validation, and then he picks his phone up to dead silence on the message front.
he knows he should leave it. he’s twitchy, a little irritated, and he now he has thoughts to deal with and he’s! so! annoyed! ]
munson
munson ?
munson.
[he’s not. going over. nope. not today. maybe not in a while lest he do something stupid like kiss eddie just to prove a point.]
And no, dude. I've accepted your pecs and abs can't be contained. It won't be any weirder than it was in Hawkins and I had a DTF signal hanging out my back pocket.
[ it's pretty sad, really. eddie twirls a damp curl around his finger. ]
If I'm being totally honest, Steve Harrington doesn't strike me as someone whose had many friends. Real ones. Other than Buckley. Maybe Wheeler. They're ride or die, but complicated. The kids are more like his actual children. So the concept of actually giving a damn about the assholes you hang out with when you wanna get trashed or jock buddies you throw balls in laundry baskets with might be a little foreign to him.
[ this one comes a little later: his fingers don’t feel stable, he feels kind of stupid too, like he wants to get fucked up and be reckless to dissipate the energy.
an hour - maybe closer to two - and he’s showered, finally had a miserable little jack off session in his shower that felt more emotionally wrought than he cares to admit. he’s dressed, made sure he’s extra pretty to go out so he can be stupid and mean somewhere else.
his hands are stable when he finally finds his phone. ]
was that last part about me or him
[ • • • ]
nvm i’ll see you saturday. i’ll make sure i’ve got the goods.
i’m going out to get laid to soothe his delicate ego.
[ he has maybe reached his threshold. his "i am a kind and compassionate shepherd to my flock" and straight into an explosion waiting to happen. He really wants to go fuck something up. Set off fireworks. Get another tattoo. Buy a car.
Something, anything, that dislodges this overwhelming amount of feeling.
It's been a brutal... however fucking long it's been since Chrissy Cunningham was broken to bits in his trailer. And then he was on the run. Then watching Patrick get equally mangled. More hiding. More running. More monsters. Eventually just - fucking dying because he's a fuckup who can't do anything right. Getting trapped in a world not knowing if he'll ever see the town that hated him so much they were willing to do a little mob justice, acclimating to losing part of himself and -
And it's a lot. And he is, maybe, unable to handle these sudden extra balls that have been thrown in. His phone buzzes and he covers his face with a groan, keeping it there until he motivates himself to roll over and -
Fuck. ]
Gonna be real man I don't think Saturday is happening.
[the little read takes five minutes. then there’s a bit longer while he smokes a joint in record time, hanging out his kitchen window like the city air will do anything except line his forehead with humidity.
he has a date. a hot one. thirty minutes from now. all he wants to do is maybe get into a fight. maybe he will. ]
cool
[not with them though. he wants a real fight: something destructive and painful. something that’ll blow his knuckles wide open, that will make his ribs ache for days. ]
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the third he does after five cigarettes is uploading a bunch extremely racy photos for the validation, and then he picks his phone up to dead silence on the message front.
he knows he should leave it. he’s twitchy, a little irritated, and he now he has thoughts to deal with and he’s! so! annoyed! ]
munson
munson ?
munson.
[he’s not. going over. nope. not today. maybe not in a while lest he do something stupid like kiss eddie just to prove a point.]
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I live.
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[ ish. shit. he needs to get out of his head about this. ]
Sorry. You got caught in the crossfire.
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he’s stupid as shit. he’ll figure it out.
[the twitchiness is not subsiding. ]
maybe i do my thing and you guys do your thing and we can try this shit again next month for blondie.
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[ his leg jitters nervously against the ground. ]
We're friends. He needs to learn to deal with his insecurity.
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so we’re good for saturday?
it’s not gonna be weird when i’m super hot with no shirt on
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And no, dude. I've accepted your pecs and abs can't be contained. It won't be any weirder than it was in Hawkins and I had a DTF signal hanging out my back pocket.
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enough for one night. ]
No need for homicide.
I'll work on Harrington.
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just had other shit going on.
your ass is fine etc etc
is it bad to laugh
like if i don’t laugh at how stupid this is
i can’t fucking believe this guy thought you were doting on me like i’m a fucking golden retriever???
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If I'm being totally honest, Steve Harrington doesn't strike me as someone whose had many friends.
Real ones. Other than Buckley. Maybe Wheeler. They're ride or die, but complicated.
The kids are more like his actual children.
So the concept of actually giving a damn about the assholes you hang out with when you wanna get trashed or jock buddies you throw balls in laundry baskets with might be a little foreign to him.
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an hour - maybe closer to two - and he’s showered, finally had a miserable little jack off session in his shower that felt more emotionally wrought than he cares to admit. he’s dressed, made sure he’s extra pretty to go out so he can be stupid and mean somewhere else.
his hands are stable when he finally finds his phone. ]
was that last part about me or him
[ • • • ]
nvm
i’ll see you saturday. i’ll make sure i’ve got the goods.
i’m going out to get laid to soothe his delicate ego.
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Something, anything, that dislodges this overwhelming amount of feeling.
It's been a brutal... however fucking long it's been since Chrissy Cunningham was broken to bits in his trailer. And then he was on the run. Then watching Patrick get equally mangled. More hiding. More running. More monsters. Eventually just - fucking dying because he's a fuckup who can't do anything right. Getting trapped in a world not knowing if he'll ever see the town that hated him so much they were willing to do a little mob justice, acclimating to losing part of himself and -
And it's a lot. And he is, maybe, unable to handle these sudden extra balls that have been thrown in. His phone buzzes and he covers his face with a groan, keeping it there until he motivates himself to roll over and -
Fuck. ]
Gonna be real man I don't think Saturday is happening.
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he has a date. a hot one. thirty minutes from now. all he wants to do is maybe get into a fight. maybe he will. ]
cool
[not with them though. he wants a real fight: something destructive and painful. something that’ll blow his knuckles wide open, that will make his ribs ache for days. ]
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