Chapter Text
A stygian mist folds over the atmosphere. It blocks all moonlight from entering the dark alleyway.
Droplets of rain pat against the ground, trickling down the sides of Eddie's face where concrete digs into his cheek. Dirt prickles at his face, mud smeared about his skin and clothes. Eddie shivers with the force of the wind as it combs through his fine hairs pointed up like needles.
Water pools below him.
His breaths come out in hitched, trembling gasps, head lolling to the side. The world tilts on its axis with a low rumble. A sharp pang slices through Eddie's chest—rips a flinch out of him and a choked sound. It's nauseating—the way his breaths come in stuttered bursts; the way the rain drizzles down in a soft static—the way it floods the alleyway and every single one of his senses at the same time.
The soft patter of rain muddles with the faint sound of buzzing, honking, clanking; the screech and scrape of tires against the ground; the low rumble of an engine that's too loud to be distant. Hip-hop music plays faintly in the background, coming from a place that feels too far away to be on land.
And down on Earth, Eddie's chest trembles.
His breathing is clipped with a pulse that flutters in his ears. And he faintly recognizes that, despite the weight of the oxygen crushing his lungs, he isn't underwater. Because rain doesn't drizzle underwater. Lights don't flash underwater. Music doesn't play underwater. He doesn't breathe underwater—even all volatile and forced. The chattering of his teeth wouldn't slice through the quiet if he was underwater.
But it does here.
The sound is violent, amplified in his head. Something warm trickles down his nostril. It's a contrast to the coldness of the rain. And it shouldn't be noticable, but Eddie zooms in on it, and the way it glides over his lips. He darts his tongue out. A metallic tang settles at the tip of it and slowly floods his mouth with a taste that's ingrained into the back of his mind.
A taste that he knows all too well.
Eddie's throat constricts with a cough, his chest spasming. A jolt of pain lurches through his body with the sudden movement. And before he can process it, a pool of that warm, metallic liquid dribbles out his mouth. He's choking. He's choking on his own blood. He's—
Eddie's chest locks up; his throat seizes; he coughs again. And again. And again. In a vicious cycle of nauseating hacks that knock the wind out of him.
More blood spills out. It makes a mess. He makes a mess.
A breathy whimper slips past Eddie's lips.
It's weak, pitiful; unlike anything he's ever heard from his own mouth. The sound reverberates against the walls in his head. And when another one of those winded noises punch its way from his throat—something low, caught between a groan and a whimper—he can't help but feel like each cough had slowly ripped a piece of his soul out of his body. Because this isn't him.
This isn't—
Eddie grinds his teeth, the muscles of his jaw pulling taut. His teeth might shatter if he bites down further. Somewhere in between the grinding and the clenching of his jaw, the quivering and twitching of his limbs—a dull ache started radiating down the delicate column of his neck.
And, God—
His head is going to burst open.
The ringing pulses through the air like a siren. He doesn't know when the sound fizzled in; just feels when it knocks the wind out of him. He only knows that it won't stop; only feels when his heart thunders in a distorted arrhythmia that makes the earth spin.
His breathing quickens before he realizes.
Eddie squeezes his eyes shut with ferocity. Blood might leak to the back of his brain with the force of it. But he squeezes—more, and more, and more. His muscles jerk in slow, tenacious twitches. And he lays on the ground, a puddle of tremor and contractions; quivers on the floor in a way he's never done before.
He should be moving; he should be fighting it—shoving down the discomfort just like he's always done.
Instead, he lets his head rest on the jagged, grimy floor as pebbles gnaw into the back of his head. And as his the force of being alive punches ragged breaths from his lips, Eddie makes no move to pick himself up. He stays like that, his body writhing with little jerks that leave him trembling.
And it goes on. And on.
And on. Forever.
Eternity weaves between his hitched gasps and violent trembling. Eddie doesn't know where he is—just knows that he's somewhere, unlike any place he's ever been before. Unlike anywhere, really. He can't hear anything—not anymore; can't touch anything; can't see anything.
But he can feel everything.
The sensations blur together while he's still laying on the ground.
Eddie clenches his eyes shut. The aches move in a slow transition—from drowning him out, to drowning each other out. A deep haze barrels over every crevice of his mind, and he just wants to sink into it. He just wants to let it engulf him. Because then he wouldn't have to fight it anymore. Then he could just—rest.
He's felt it before; the distress of that thick cloud threatening to swallow him. He's felt it under the bullets; under the dirt; under the smoke; under the ascendant waves of an ocean too nauseating for a child with no knowledge of how to swim. He felt it once under the thick, sharpened blade of his utility knife—a straight line etched onto the surface of his thighs. A line his abuela found too neat to be an accident. And here it is again, stealing as much oxygen from the air as it did back then—the submergence just as crippling as it was back then.
But somehow, as the succession of small stones crackle beneath his head with every quiver and spasm—
He doesn't think he recognizes this kind of haze. Not this darkness. Not this murk. It's—
Sting.
Eddie jerks with a hitched breath. He drags his arms against the ground on impulse, hairs lifting as the bite prickles at his skin. But all he can think about is the sting, the tickle of something small crawling further down his skin—trying to bite into him; to chip away at his surface. To make room for it to crawl inside of him.
And suddenly, he can't stop scrubbing—not even when the thick squelch of mud being lathered onto the surface of his arm echoes out.
He doesn't know when he stops. But the weight of his clothes pull his attention, and suddenly, all he can think about is how damp they are; how thick the puddle beneath him has grown. Eddie pries his arm away from the ground, pebble-shaped indentations slowly rising on the skin. And for a moment, he stays like that. Until the twitching slowly fizzles out again. Until the tremors don't jostle him anymore.
And he knows. He needs to get up.
Eddie slowly drags himself upright, his palms flattening on the ground. Something tickles at the skin, but he just clenches. Because it doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. He just needs to get up—to get out. His arm trembles again with a low vibration, like he's teetering off the edge. Like his body is getting ready to detonate. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't. Eddie slowly lifts himself.
It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.
It's going to be alright, his inner voice whispers. Even though the weight of his own upper body threatens to drag him down. Even though his wrist trembles with nothing but the sheer force of something he's held up his entire life—himself; something he's supposed to bear the weight of without having to remind himself that he's fine. Because he is. Everything is okay.
But then his left wrist twists, and his other wrist collapses with the force of it. Until his body's going down—
And Eddie drops to the floor with a wet squelch, grimy water splattering all over him.
Oh, God—
A sharp pang sizzles down his spine.
It pummels a cut-off sound from his throat—curls lower, and lower, and lower. Eddie jerks, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. Because it spears straight through his lower half like a bolt of lightening; it tears at him from the inside—shredding at his innermost flesh. Something that he can't name. His palms grasp the floor.
The ache twists inside, nestling into Eddie's depths. It gnaws at parts so deep inside of him that they've never been thought of before. Eddie cries, a strangled sob escaping his lips. His nails dig into the ground with a force that borders on inhumane. The twitching starts again—quicker than before. It melts into jerks. And spasms. And—
He's—he’s—
He’s going to die.
Ravi's figure fades into the distance.
Eddie watches the space between them grow—not much different from the expanding hollow at the pit of his stomach. He taps a finger against the counter with a pat, pat, pat. And for some reason, Ravi's fading frame lures a nauseating sensation deep into the rotten cavity of his heart.
He exhales, leaning against the counter on his elbows. Cheek smudged into the soft skin of his palms, Eddie searches deep within himself for the origin of that feeling of dread settling at the center of his chest—and why it feels less like something abstract and more like a vermin eating away at his flesh. But like everything else in his life, he doesn’t know.
The night had started off well by his standards, despite the fact that he never achieved their—namely Buck and Ravi's—goal of finding him someone. Eddie doesn’t know how much his opinion on a fun night is worth, because it's not like he's had many of those lately. Which says alot—because he's been happy enough.
Happy and alone. Happy and holed up at home.
But now he isn't.
Ravi's long gone. Buck left earlier with that guy—which he should’ve seen coming, because of course he’s got some stranger wrapped around his pinky finger. Of course he’s got someone spending money on him within moments of meeting him. Of course he's charming enough to do just that.
Eddie's jaw clenches.
He exhales, running a hand over his forehead. His fingers press against the crease between his brows—rubbing circles, smoothening it out, even though he knows that it's not gonna do anything. The instant his fingers leave, the skin’s gonna wrinkle back up like unease is etched onto his face as a permanent stain.
Maybe Buck is partially right. Maybe he does have a problem—which is nothing that he doesn’t already know, because he has quite a few of them—but maybe one of those problems are invisible constraints holding him rigid. A belt. Not a chastity belt, because that would be stupid, but an abstract one. Wrapped around his neck.
Constantly.
Eddie taps at the glass in front of him—empty in all its translucent glory. He tilts it to the side, eyes trailing over the faint puddle of golden brown liquid that settles at the edge of the glass like a slow venom. And for some reason, he can’t seem to peel his eyes away from the color. It paralyzes his gaze like something hypnotic.
And he’s transfixed. Because suddenly, he’s thirsty again.
He brings the glass to his lips, tongue lapping at the little puddle that falls into his mouth, and when he’s sure there’s no more left to taste, he sets the glass on the counter with a tiny clink and slides it up. That’s when he knows.
He needs another one.
He texted Buck earlier, asked if he was alright. And he was. He is. Probably having a good time too—judging by the rapid, clipped response that seemed rushed. Ravi got back safe, too, in a strangely short amount of time. But maybe he just happens to own an apartment building less than ten minutes away. Eddie wouldn’t knock out that possibility. All in all, everyone’s safe; everyone’s doing alright.
So why is he the only one that doesn’t feel so fine?
He nibbles at his lower lip, fingers fiddling with his jacket’s sleeve.
And he thinks about it—the fact that Christopher isn’t home, the fact that he has the entire house to himself and could stumble home, drunk out of his mind, without having to run into his son. Christopher’s at a sleepover. And Eddie misses the kid, he really does.
However, sometimes those sleepovers can be a blessing in disguise. Like right now.
Because right now, he needs a alcohol more than he needs to “unbuckle his chastity belt.”
Eddie scoffs at the thought.
His gaze rakes over every curve in the room—from the dizzying wave of muddled synthwave hues draped over every inch of life, to the blur of dancing bodies so close they almost melt into each other. He doesn’t quite know what he’s looking for. He just knows that he's looking for something. Something to do with himself. Which is stupid, because he shouldn’t be looking for something to keep him here.
He should be looking for something to take him home.
But it’s just one drink.
And one drink can't hurt him any more than the last two probably did.
He lifts a palm, gesturing at the bartender with a motion so small only someone accustomed would be able to pick up on it. The man nods, drawing closer. Eddie slides his glass. The man turns his back on him without a word. One. Two. Three quick seconds tick by. And the man’s sliding a filled glass his way. Which is strange, because he didn’t tell the man what he wanted. He didn't even pay for the last one yet—
“This one’s paid for,” The bartender smiles with a glance to the right.
Eddie follows his gaze.
It lands on the figure of a man sitting at the far end of the counter. They lock eyes. He blinks when the man’s lips curl into a little smile as if he knows him. The man slowly stands from his stool, walking on a clear path to Eddie's seat. And plops down right next to him, staring straight through his eyes with a gaze so sharp it almost pierces into him. All the while, Eddie can barely blink.
“Hey, man. Thanks, but I’m not...”
A low chuckle rings in Eddie’s ears.
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing like that,” He waves, “Saw you with that blonde guy earlier—don’t remember his name, but I recognize him from the news a few years back.” All Eddie can think of is Buck at the mention of blonde hair. “Anyway, you’re a firefighter, right? Looked like you could use another drink but I could be wrong. Hopefully I didn’t come across as creepy or anything.”
Eddie purses his lips, exhaling. “It’s no problem, man. Thanks.”
He tries not to think about the fact that, God—he thought the guy was buying him a drink for other reasons; reasons he can’t exactly put into words because that would push his brain into a hole it’d be unable to crawl out of. And his tongue feels thick in his mouth. Because for once, despite all his usual intoxicated extroversion, he can't find any more words.
Which is pretty fucking inconvenient, because if he just had something to say—even as little as a clipped, languid piece of small-talk—then he might’ve managed to draw the man’s incendiary gaze away from him. It’s a good thing leather holds up to heat, or he’d be embraced by the Earth with a body that’s charred to the marrow of his bones. Eddie swallows under the persistent gaze, digging for his wallet.
“Hey—wait, no.” The man reaches out, his palms ghosting over Eddie’s hands. They’re steely, jagged like rusted metal. “You don’t have to pay me back, okay? Consider it like a token of appreciation—from one firefighter to another.”
At that, Eddie’s eyes widen. “Really? What—”
“Boston,” The man shrugs, even though Eddie finds it a little strange that he doesn’t actually answer the cut-off question. “It’s wild over here. But our crazy probably can't hold a candle to yours. The LAFD’s always making the front page over here. Baby in the wall, first firefighter to go to space? Jesus Christ, man.”
Eddie snorts, “It’s pretty hectic.”
“I guessed so,” The man smiles, “I didn’t get your name, though.”
“Eddie. Eddie Diaz.”
“Nice. I’m Jason.”
The initial stage of their conversation went as any other would. That is, if he could even call it a conversation. It eventually, somehow, evolved into Eddie’s languid nodding along to Jason rambles and complaints—most of which he wanted to respond—that they had a point, that no, he wasn’t being scolded for no reason—because that’s just the chain of command. And it tends to be right. Mostly.
But he never met a firefighter who complained so much.
Eddie doesn’t say that, though. Even though his mouth is really itching to. He just keeps his face schooled, humming along with lips pressed thin into a line as if his mouth will open on its own. And when his body isn’t trying his best to silence himself—he pulls the glass to his lips. It almost looks like he’s paying attention.
At least, he hopes it does.
The glass is almost empty. Jason’s still going on. And fuck, his head is pounding.
“...I guess I’ve been somewhat of a pariah since? Ignoring the nasty glares, I practically look like a stranger. You know, I never really understood the whole fire family thing—it’s all... unrealistic. They always play those firefighter shows, too. Just taunting me at this point.” Jason sighs, his grip tight around his own glass.
Silence passes between them.
“...Eddie?” Jason murmurs with a raised brow. His eyes slowly trail over the movement of Eddie’s fingers massaging into his temple and the deepened furrow between his brows over unfocused eyes. “Eddie?” He calls again.
“Hm?” Eddie mumbles. His vision wobbles in an unsettling way, with the vibrant hues swirling around and muddling into an unnatural mixture. He blinks when Jason calls his name again, says something that he can’t quite decipher. “Uh—sorry, what was that?” He swallows, “I didn’t… catch what you said.”
“I said are you good, man?”
He nods sluggishly, “Yeah. Yeah I’m fine. Must be all the alcohol. S’making me sleepy,” Eddie doesn’t know why he says that. He’d typically walk away. And he doesn’t know how true his words necessarily are. It should’ve taken more than three drinks to make him all dizzy—but maybe it’s because he hasn’t had a night out in a while. Maybe his body is still adjusting. “You—you can continue, you know.”
So Jason does. He goes on. And on. Something about—station? protocol?
He doesn’t really understand, but nods along anyway, having long given up on trying to pay attention. The words are blurring together into something foreign. Jason’s talking too fast and now his nods look weirdly timed. The hues are suddenly too vibrant—and God, why is there so much red?
It makes him wanna—
Something acidic lurches up the cavity of his throat. Eddie swallows down the bitter, burning pool of vomit that attempts to settle there and slaps a palm over his mouth, fingers digging into his cheek with a force that’ll leave marks later. He squeezes his eyes shut at the rapid, gut-churning eruption of his intestines.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He stands abruptly, pushing the stool to the side. It grinds against the floor with a screech so thunderous that it turns a few glances his way. Jason looks up, brows knitted. And Eddie can feel their eyes on him—he can feel their gazes following his every movement. It’s further nauseating.
He needs to get to the bathroom.
Eddie’s eyes sweep across the room, holding himself up on one, shaky palm. A low vignette seeps in across the edges of his vision. Fuck, there’s so many people. Dancing, laughing, crowding. Their bodies block the sight of any doors—and walls. Eddie lets his eyes fall shut again slowly, inhaling like a beast that aches for air.
“Dude, what’s—are you okay?”
Eddie hears it clearly this time. He nods, eyes twitching with the movement that feels heavier than it should. And he swallows the bile before he speaks, “Fine. Just—think I had too much to drink,” He says, even though it sounds too much like his earlier excuse. Even though he doesn’t believe his own words.
This has never happened from drinking before. At most, his over-drinking adventures would go like Chimney’s bachelor party—first he has too much fun, then he wakes up the next morning, pays too many visits to the toilet on his knees, and moves on. But as a crippling nausea embeds itself deep into the hollow of his stomach, a feeling of dread curls around him. Because this isn’t normal.
He didn’t eat anything bad. Didn’t take a fall. And it's almost like the night has shattered, split into fragments that he can’t glue back together. Because nothing he did today could've brought this on. And God, his tongue feels thick in his mouth. He really needs to go—
Eddie stumbles past the counter in a flurry with feather-light legs, pushes past the bodies dancing in their own little frenzy. He bumps into them—catches the sound of muffled complaints in his ears. But they all blur together.
“Hey! Watch it, jackass!”
He slurs out an apology.
But then he bumps into a wall. Eddie glances up.
It’s a bathroom. That much he can tell. Eddie pushes the door open, a creak that grinds in his ears like nails scraping down a chalkboard. The push takes more breath out of him than it should. Something burns at the back of his throat, oh, God—Eddie can feel it rising again.
He slams a palm over his mouth, stumbling to the first stall.
He clutches the wall.
Before he realizes it, his knees slam against the floor with a crack that slices through the air. Eddie leans over the toilet, shallow breaths escaping his lips as he heaves into the bowl, breaths coming out in stuttered bursts. His palms tremble on the wall, a thin line of sweat trickling down his forehead.
A creak echoes, "…Eddie?"
The Earth stops rotating. The music fades into a distant echo. Footsteps grow louder. The sound is thunderous against his ears. Eddie curls in on himself. Just then—he coughs, vomit splattering into the bowl with a splash as he empties out his insides. Another creak.
A small stretch of white, fluorescent light peaking into the stall.
Eddie heaves again. A hand clasps over his shoulders—too hard, too heavy, fingers squeezing at his skin. Eddie flinches. A figure looms over him, speaking with a muffled voice in such a jumbled way that he wonders if it’s even human. Eddie feels it all around him.
The shadow of someone hovering over him.
Someone that’s too close.
The hand leaves his shoulder, trailing down, yet it’s as though the clasp over his shoulder never left, like it’s imprinted onto him. Eddie tries to mumble, but his tongue is so thick in his mouth that it’s just so… heavy. The fog swirls around in his head. He’s slipping away and he…
He can’t hold his head up anymore.
Eddie grows slack.
"...Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you."