[ the truth of it is this: steve doesn't believe he's ever felt this bad in his entire life.
which isn't saying much - if there's one thing that came into stark focus after that night at the byers' home, it's that steve has lived a very easy, relatively uneventful life. he hadn't realized how nice that was until dustin henderson had all but forced him into his own car to go demodog hunting, until he snuck into an underground russian base and made the decision stay behind. until he climbed into that gate to save the entirety of hawkins and he knew, he knew something was going to go wrong. he'd known the second it happened.
but this is different - everything, since he was pulled out of that lake, has been different. steve has always been good at landing on his feet, at still moving forward even as everything he'd ever known collapsed around him, but he'd genuinely had to work when he arrived here. and he hadn't done poorly, or at least he hadn't thought he had, until now.
he hurts - that's the only real thought he can form at this point. every inch of him, from his skin to his bones to his insides and then back out again both burned and felt too cold, split open and sewn shut. he doesn't think about the ritual itself because he just doesn't think he can handle it, but the now doesn't help, either. maybe it's a godsend, that the fever that's faded in and out of him has left him all but entirely disconnected from the now, his thoughts fading in and out between breaths, between moments, between hours.
it's possible he's fallen asleep, but a good part of steve hopes he hasn't, if only because he doesn't know if he has the strength to claw himself out of the vines again. wonders, if only briefly, if he would just stay there, become another deformed, broken mound of bones and skin and muscle, absorbed into the very walls around them.
steve
there's an edge to it, and that's probably the only reason it actually pulls steve out of his daze. something angry, yes, but also something dangerous. he blinks, and then blinks again, feeling so much of that searing pain come flooding back in that he must have been asleep if only because he hadn't been feeling this. ]
Wha- [ he tries to say what is it? but the voice barely makes it through the first syllable, his mouth so dry, his body so shaky that he can't quite manage it. thankfully, steve's a bit more stubborn than even that, and he pushes himself to sit up off the wall he'd been using for support.
henry is across from him, not much better off, but talking to him. steve needs another second or two to process the question itself before he shakes his head - a poor decision, really. ] I- [ he forces himself to swallow, though there isn't much in there to use. ] I don't know.
no subject
which isn't saying much - if there's one thing that came into stark focus after that night at the byers' home, it's that steve has lived a very easy, relatively uneventful life. he hadn't realized how nice that was until dustin henderson had all but forced him into his own car to go demodog hunting, until he snuck into an underground russian base and made the decision stay behind. until he climbed into that gate to save the entirety of hawkins and he knew, he knew something was going to go wrong. he'd known the second it happened.
but this is different - everything, since he was pulled out of that lake, has been different. steve has always been good at landing on his feet, at still moving forward even as everything he'd ever known collapsed around him, but he'd genuinely had to work when he arrived here. and he hadn't done poorly, or at least he hadn't thought he had, until now.
he hurts - that's the only real thought he can form at this point. every inch of him, from his skin to his bones to his insides and then back out again both burned and felt too cold, split open and sewn shut. he doesn't think about the ritual itself because he just doesn't think he can handle it, but the now doesn't help, either. maybe it's a godsend, that the fever that's faded in and out of him has left him all but entirely disconnected from the now, his thoughts fading in and out between breaths, between moments, between hours.
it's possible he's fallen asleep, but a good part of steve hopes he hasn't, if only because he doesn't know if he has the strength to claw himself out of the vines again. wonders, if only briefly, if he would just stay there, become another deformed, broken mound of bones and skin and muscle, absorbed into the very walls around them.
steve
there's an edge to it, and that's probably the only reason it actually pulls steve out of his daze. something angry, yes, but also something dangerous. he blinks, and then blinks again, feeling so much of that searing pain come flooding back in that he must have been asleep if only because he hadn't been feeling this. ]
Wha- [ he tries to say what is it? but the voice barely makes it through the first syllable, his mouth so dry, his body so shaky that he can't quite manage it. thankfully, steve's a bit more stubborn than even that, and he pushes himself to sit up off the wall he'd been using for support.
henry is across from him, not much better off, but talking to him. steve needs another second or two to process the question itself before he shakes his head - a poor decision, really. ] I- [ he forces himself to swallow, though there isn't much in there to use. ] I don't know.