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It starts as an aching line of tension that flares all the way from the back of his neck up his skull to his eye socket. He’s familiar with these slow-building kind of headaches, and they can either fade away on their own, or turn into full-blown debilitating migraines.
Steve knows he should get up and eat something, take some painkillers for it, but he’s in the middle of grading tests, and he wants this to be over. As the gym teacher at the high school, he normally doesn’t have to deal with stuff like this. But this year there’s a teacher shortage, and they need someone to cover their sex-ed unit that would fall to someone else during a normal year. It’s his first time getting roped into it and he has no idea what he’s doing. He’s still kind of baffled by the absurdity of the situation, and stressed about the extra workload. He definitely wouldn’t have pictured himself ending up in this position back in his King Steve days. Still, it’s better he teaches it than someone who has no idea what they’re talking about, or wants to teach abstinence-only sex-ed, god forbid.
The high-pitched screech of a guitar riff slices through the air, piercing into his thoughts with a burst of pain. “Jesus,” he says to himself, setting his pen down and rubbing his eyes. On a normal day, he has no problem with Eddie composing and practicing in the room that functions as an office-slash-music-room. The door is shut, but it isn’t soundproof, and if he has the amp plugged in (which Eddie often deems imperative to good songwriting) it does little to quiet the sound that thrums throughout the house.
Steve’s head now pounding, and his mind made up, he walks over to Eddie’s office and knocks before opening the door.
“Hey babe!” Eddie grins, looking up from where he’s jotting down notes on some staff paper.
“Hey… I’m trying to grade some papers right now, how much longer are you gonna be?”
“I don’t know yet; I’ve kind of hit a good stride. I’m feelin’ this one, you know?” Eddie says excitedly, his eyes getting that wild roundness to them. Cradling his guitar in his lap, his leg bounces with energy as he taps the pen against his thigh to a rhythm only he can hear.
Steve sighs. He’d roll his eyes, but it would hurt his head too much. “Okay, but can you try and be quick? Or maybe it can wait until later tonight? I want to get these done.”
“I’m in the zone, man! I just need to finish this hook. Give me like ten more minutes!” He’s already picking up his guitar again, distracted by the creative inspiration flowing through him. It was one of the things Steve loved about him, but right now his headache was tainting it, turning it into something unbearable.
Steve scoffs and doesn’t bother with a response before he turns to leave. He gives the door the tiniest of slams as he shuts it - something he isn’t proud of.
Returning to his papers at the kitchen table, he can feel the blood pulsing through the veins in his skull. He looks down and the words start to blur on the page. Fuck. It's an aura. There goes the chance of this headache fading away on its own. Taking a deep breath, he stands up. Not wanting to walk all the way upstairs, he settles for laying on the couch, angrily pulling a pillow over his head as more earsplitting music echoes through the house.
The pillow helps a little, and he tries to relax. The aura will take about twenty minutes to pass, so all he can do is drift in the meantime. He hates being this helpless. At least with his eyes closed it’s harder to notice the aura warping his vision; that’s always the most unsettling part. He does his best to zone out and not worry about it.
Twenty minutes pass, and Eddie is still playing. He gets lost sometimes, wrapped up in a flow state when he’s composing. It can be a good thing, but it does make him oblivious to those around him. The aura has worked its way out of Steve’s vision at this point, and he gingerly removes the pillow from his head, readjusting to the light in the room. The nausea hits him as soon as he sits up, and he has to pause to breathe through it. The pain is even worse now, the shrill notes from Eddie’s guitar like an ice pick digging into his skull.
Vaguely, he remembers Eddie had said to give him ten minutes. It’s been at least twenty. After standing up and making sure he’s got his footing under him, he stomps back to Eddie’s office, opening the door with more force than necessary.
“Eddie, seriously! I asked you to stop! No one wants to listen to your shitty music!”
“What the fuck did you just say?!” Eddie’s features contort in a mixture of anger and shock, his fingers freezing on the guitar strings.
“It’s giving me a headache!” Steve glares back at him.
“Well fuck you very much; I didn’t know that!”
“Well, now you do!” Turning on his heel, Steve lets the office door shut behind him, heading upstairs in a huff.
Anger burns through Eddie, and he sends one last loud riff reverberating through the air before setting his guitar down somberly and running his fingers along the neck.
“Don’t listen to him, sweetheart,” he says to her. “He wouldn’t know good music if it smacked him upside the head.”
Eddie knows his music is good, objectively. His fans are proof of that, selling out concerts and buying up every record that Corroded Coffin releases. Hell, his music paid for this fucking house. And he knows, of course, that Steve likes his music too. He wouldn’t lie about something like that. The pain is probably making him say shit he shouldn’t. And yet, Steve’s comment still has its hooks in him, nagging.
After several minutes of alternating between sulking and angrily pacing the room, he heads upstairs – either to continue their fight or make up – he hasn’t decided which yet. He stalks through the house, unable to find Steve in any of his usual haunts, the kitchen and living room both empty. Heading to the bedroom, he’s puzzled to find it empty too, until his eyes land on the en suite bathroom, the light filtering out from underneath the closed door. Worry prickles along his skin. He steps closer and hears the muffled sound of Steve being sick on the other side.
“Steve?” he says, tentative.
After a couple coughs followed by a pause, Steve’s weak voice filters back to him. “…Yeah?”
“Can I come in?” He presses his palm against the wood separating them.
“I guess,” Steve says, “I’m kind of gross.” But Eddie is already opening the door. He’s greeted with the sight of Steve sitting up against the bathtub, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The toilet finishes flushing, having whisked away the evidence of Steve’s bout of illness.
“Are you okay?” Eddie wants to go to him but also wants to give him the space he needs.
“Um…well, I think my migraine is getting bad,” Steve says, sheepish and wrung out. He’s shaking slightly in the aftermath, and Eddie gives in, dropping to his knees next to him.
“Steve, why didn’t you tell me?” Eddie places a careful hand on his elbow.
“I’m sorry, I was – I’ve been so stressed today and it kind of snuck up on me.” Steve massages the bridge of his nose to release some of the pressure in his sinuses.
“I feel like a jackass. I wouldn’t have played if I knew it was making you worse,” Eddie says, running a hand through his black curls.
“It’s not your fault. It’s my stupid head.” Steve’s hands now come up to rub at his temples. “I’m sorry I said your music was shitty. It’s not.” He brings his knees up and hugs his arms around them, curling in on himself. Hides his face in the little oasis of darkness he created. Eddie rubs his arm, wishing he could take the pain away. If this was one of his D&D games, he could give him a healing potion that’d have him right as rain within minutes.
“It was just so loud, and my head hurts so much,” Steve says, holding back a whimper, his voice tight with pain. “I can’t even think right when it gets this bad.”
“Hey, hey – it’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it. Don’t worry about it right now, okay sweetheart? Let’s just get you in bed and feeling better, yeah?” He gives his shoulder a squeeze and Steve raises his head to give him weak smile, squinting at the bright lights.
“Can you get up?” Eddie asks. “Are you gonna be sick again?”
Steve takes a second to think about it, closing his eyes and mentally feeling his body out. “No, I should be good.”
“Alright, come on then.” Eddie reaches under his arms and helps pull him up, keeping hold of him when Steve sways a bit, lightheaded before he finds his footing. Each new movement causes his head to throb.
Eddie starts to steer them towards the bed, but Steve stops him with a hand on the bathroom counter.
“Wait.” Steve clumsily grabs the mouthwash.
Amused, Eddie asks, “You’re not looking to get fresh with me, are you, Harrington?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Shut up or I’ll puke on you,” Steve says, surprising a laugh out of Eddie.
“Now that would be pretty metal. But let’s not.” Eddie tilts his head playfully, meeting Steve’s eyes in the mirror.
Steve gargles and spits out the mouthwash, then walks towards the bed, Eddie hovering the whole time. He knows Steve hates it when he hovers, so he’s either too out of it to care, or he’s giving him extra leeway to make up for snapping at him earlier. Eddie gets him settled under the covers, then sits on the edge and fiddles with the comforter.
“I’ll get some water and your meds,” he says, taking a moment to brush the hair back from Steve’s forehead. Steve’s tired eyes watch him as he leans over to press a soft kiss to his forehead before getting up and heading to the kitchen.
He hears a quiet, “Thanks,” from Steve, who already looks somewhat improved now that he’s laying down.
A few minutes later, he returns with the water and meds, handing them to Steve, who sits up gingerly and takes them. Eddie crawls into his side of the bed.
Steve looks at him with guilt in his eyes, “You don’t have to… I know you have work to do.” But Eddie knows he doesn’t like to be alone when he’s in this much pain.
Waving away Steve’s protests, he says, “Actually, I think a nap sounds good right about now.” He scoots closer to Steve, and they meet in the middle. Steve buries his face in Eddie’s neck, soothed by the sound of his steady breathing. Eddie holds him in his arms, rubbing his back until his hands make their way up to Steve’s neck.
“Is this good?” Eddie presses his fingers into the tense muscles at the base of Steve’s neck. Steve has coached him through it before, told him what feels best, so he knows what he’s doing, but he still makes a point to check in every time.
“Mmhmm,” Steve manages before his breath catches in his throat. The relief is so sudden that his mind blanks out for a moment.
In a low voice, Eddie says, “You’ll have to eat something when you wake up. It’ll make you feel better.”
Steve, with his stomach still roiling from earlier, and the pain still making him nauseous, replies with a wry, “Gross.” The thought of eating right now has his face scrunching up in disgust, but he knows Eddie is right. After all, he’s only going off the information Steve has given him from his past episodes.
“I mean, what do I know? I’m just the guy who plays ‘shitty music,’” Eddie says airily.
Steve groans, his lips brushing against Eddie’s collarbone as he says, “I’m never gonna live that one down, am I?”
“Not for a while, no.” Eddie hides his teasing smile in Steve’s hair.
“I’ll make it up to you later,” Steve says, half asleep. Eyes still closed, his fingers drag along Eddie’s skin, featherlight with promise. Eddie marvels at the fact that he somehow still has game while nearly dead to the world with a migraine.
He chuckles. “You really don’t have to, but if you insist, I’m not gonna stop you.”
Steve mumbles something in the affirmative, meds kicking in and pulling him under.
Eddie brushes his lips against his forehead. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Steve knows he will be.