just a little ratbag

There’s a bell on the door of Radical Records that chimes merrily as Steve steps through, but a first cursory glance doesn’t reveal any staff, or even any other customers. He supposes it’s that weird, liminal time of early Saturday afternoons – close enough to lunch that people are still recovering from the meal, and far enough away from evening that they’ve not yet started to emerge for a night out. He pockets his tape and rubs his hands together, trying to get some warmth back into them – it’s already freezing outside and it’s only mid-October, but inside the shop the air is warm and smells faintly of coconut. 

Steve can’t see the person who is presumably the clerk on duty, but he can hear him, somewhere in the stacks singing along to Bad Company’s Bad Company, which is currently playing overhead, like he doesn’t know anyone is in the store and listening. It wouldn’t matter anyway – the guy has a great voice, and Steve starts perusing, rather enjoying the performance. 

He drifts to the display at the top of the aisle, front and centre near the register, and picks up Mötley Crüe’s new album, Dr. Feelgood – he’s heard good things about it – and turns it over to look at the track listing. Faintly, off to his side, he registers movement and footsteps, and a vaguely familiar man’s voice says; “That’s a good record – you want me to grab you a plastic-wrapped one from the back?” and Steve glances up to locate the speaker. 

And then it happens. 

The strangest thing to happen in a good long while. 

Eddie. 

It hits Steve like a gut punch – and as a man who has taken more than his fair share of punches, this feels exactly like that. It’s unmistakably Eddie; dark brown waves of hair to his shoulders, the lush mouth, the big sloe-brown eyes that traverse Steve’s face curiously, and rings that gleam as he points to the record in Steve’s hand and asks another question that doesn’t even permeate the crisis Steve is having. There’s a whorl of scarring that climbs the left side of Eddie’s neck, one silvery line just creeping over the edge of his jaw. That seems like proof alone that it’s really Eddie – because Steve has matching scars; on his torso, and the thin line around his neck from the bat that had tried to garrotte him. 

The air has been knocked clean out of him, and he feels his own throat working up and down silently, and Eddie’s eyebrow arches when Steve sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth, when he tries to force the air back into his lungs, because he thought– 

Well, he had thought nothing could surprise him anymore. 

“Huh?” he manages to force out, because he’s pretty sure that Eddie has repeated something about three times now and is starting to look at him with concern, and a wariness like he might be about to have some kind of medical episode, or is just a bit crazy. Maybe he is about to have a medical episode, because he fucking feels like he’s about to have a heart attack. Steve presses down on a mildly hysterical bubble of laughter, shoving it down deep, because he definitely already seems crazy and he’s got to keep it together because Eddie is looking nowhere near as shell-shocked to see Steve, as Steve is him.  

“I said, that’s a good record dude – you want me to grab you a brand new wrapped one from the back?” Eddie’s brow is still high, like he’s wholly unsure about Steve and his potentially fragile mental state. He runs his gaze over the planes and angles of Steve’s face again, a little furrow of confusion appearing, and Steve feels every part of that stare like a physical weight on his skin. 

Eddie is alive. 

“Eddie,” he chokes out, not hearing the question. “Eds.” 

He takes a step forward, but Eddie’s hands rise, palms outwards, and his look of confusion deepens. 

“You must have me mistaken for someone else, man,” Eddie says, with a nervous kind of chuckle and half a step backwards. He taps the badge at his chest, over his heart, the one that reads James. 

Steve does laugh at that, because of course Eddie would somehow survive being left for dead in a fucking hellscape and use it as fodder to fuck with Steve, just a little. He definitely deserves it, and hot, acrid guilt crawls up his throat, but he shoves it down to deal with later. “Come on dude, don’t mess around with me, yeah?” 

But Eddie just frowns and takes another small step back, and Steve searches his face, searches for something, because there’s– there’s no recognition in Eddie’s expression. He’s looking at Steve like he’s a slightly mental stranger, like they didn’t steal an RV together, like Eddie didn’t dive into a lake and through a goddamn snack-sized mouth of hell to fight bats with him, like they didn’t have a fucking heart-to-heart in the rotting underside of Hawkins, like Steve didn’t lose him. Eddie rubs at the left side of his jawbone absently, where his scar just creeps over the curve, and he’s still looking at Steve with confusion tugging at his mouth, and he doesn’t remember. 

Steve exhales and deflates, like air escaping a balloon. His throat feels inexplicably tight. 

He mimes playing the guitar, which – dorky. Cute. It’s both. Eddie likes both, so to speak, he plays for both teams. He runs his eyes over the guy again, noting he’s very good-looking. “That’s me,” he says, chuckling. He digs in his pocket for his pack, and holds it out. “Want one?” 

The guy takes one, and Eddie lights it for him. He mirrors Eddie, leaning against the wall with about a foot between them. Eddie watches him in his peripheral vision; he takes a few leisurely drags, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. 

“Did you enjoy the show?” Eddie asks, after a while. He’s curious, but not hopeful – Mr Handsome looks very straight-laced, very pop-rock, very church on Sundays. 

“I could see this much of you from the bar,” the guy says, framing his face between his two hands from his eyebrows to the top of his head. 

“And yet you still came looking, huh?” Eddie can’t help himself, can’t help dipping his toe in the waters to test them – he’s a born flirt. 

Gorgeous shoots him a bitchy sideways look that sets Eddie’s heart aflutter, especially when the corner of his mouth twitches ever-so-slightly. “I don’t know that the sound is for me,” he says, with distaste, the way one would say a daily colonoscopy is not for them. 

Eddie might be in love. 

“Ed! Come on dude, we gotta go!” Jeff calls from the doorway. Eddie lifts himself away from the wall, ashing his cigarette and tossing Handsome a charming grin and a waggle of his fingers. 

“See you tomorrow night,” he croons, following Jeff out. 

***

“It could grow on me,” Mr Handsome says, appearing and taking his spot against the wall in the smokers’ section near Eddie. 

“What could? Mould? Probably need to get that checked, big boy.” 

Oh that look of bitchy contempt. Eddie’s going to write a love song about it.

“I mean, if you want to compare your music to mould,” he says, lifting a brow. He sticks out his hand and opens and closes it in a give me gesture. Eddie’s already handing over a cigarette. 

“Either way, you came back,” Eddie says, running his tongue along his bottom lip. Mr Handsome’s gaze follows the motion for a flicker of a heartbeat before it darts away. 

“I work here. I have to come back.” 

“No, I think it’s me, I think you’re obsessed with me and you’re Corroded Coffin’s biggest fan,” Eddie teases. Their shoulders brush, leather against polo. Behind Mr Beautiful’s head, Gareth appears, gesturing for Eddie to hurry up. 

“There’s that famous rockstar ego, huh?” Handsome says. 

“Guilty. I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Eddie calls over his shoulder as he leaves. “Third and final show.” 

“I wouldn’t count on it!” 

***

Gorgeous is already waiting for him the next night. 

“Steve.” When Eddie lifts a questioning brow, Gorgeous points at himself. “I’m Steve.”

He doesn’t offer Eddie a pack of cigarettes – he offers Eddie his own lit one. Eddie takes it, their fingertips brushing. Steve watches Eddie bring the cigarette to his lips, his eyes trained on Eddie’s mouth, on the way they indirectly kiss by touching the same spot. Eddie feels it so acutely, more than he has in a long time – the loneliness of the road and the lifestyle that he’s been ignoring, the deep longing for his person. It’s a strange thing, to miss someone you haven’t even met yet. 

But Eddie’s had the beautiful bartender – Steve – on his mind for two days now. 

And Eddie… well Eddie’s never exactly played it safe. 

“You know the French have a saying,” he begins, conversationally, “‘qui allume encule,’ which roughly says, ‘light their cigarette, fuck them in the ass.’” He holds the cigarette out for Steve to take back. 

He’s gone very still though, and Eddie tenses, suddenly aware that Steve is clearly athletic stock; probably well and truly capable of kicking Eddie’s ass. Maybe he read this wrong, maybe Steve wasn’t looking at him like that, maybe he’s been alone so long he can’t read signs anymore– 

“You just threatening me with a good time, or you gonna follow through?” Steve asks, low and husky. 

Eddie blinks, because he didn’t realise they were standing so close – they’re facing each other, their shoulders against the wall, a scant six inches between their chests. Eddie can smell his delicious cologne, and see the green in his hazel eyes. Steve tilts his head, rocking a little closer. They’re alone in this smokers’ section, the venue already closed up for the night. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Eddie says regretfully. His hand finds Steve’s hip, and slips around to his lower back. 

Steve shrugs. “I don’t like this job much. My best friend has always wanted to design band merch.” Both his hands rest on Eddie’s chest. 

“Did you just hire yourself to my crew?” Their noses brush. 

“Someone has to come keep your ego in check.” Steve’s mouth ghosts against the corner of Eddie’s lips. 

“I actually haven’t seen him yet – he had to work late tonight, but he should be here any minute.” 

“What’s he coming as?” Jeff asks, joining them. He’s dressed as Miami Vice – a solid choice, but there’s like at least half a dozen of them kicking around this party. 

“I actually don’t know,” Steve says, frowning. “He’s been very secretive about it.” It’s unusual; normally Steve can’t pay his boyfriend to keep a single thought to himself – not that he’d have it any other way. When Eddie and the boys are on tour and Steve can’t go for whatever reason, the peace and quiet of their house kills him. He’d much rather hear, “Sweetheart, look at this bug I found in your veggie patch, isn’t it freaky,” and “My darling, my love, light of my life, I may have accidentally…” and “Did you know that to create this sound effect travelling from the left ear to the right ear he–” than live without the noise and vigour and zest for life and overwhelming love that Eddie fills their house with. 

“Look what the cat dragged in!” Frank – dressed as Indiana Jones – calls from across the packed living room, dragging someone by the wrist over to Steve, Gareth and Jeff. 

It’s Eddie, finally arrived, and Eddie… Eddie is dressed as Steve. His hair, cut a few months ago in what Steve had thought at the time was just an innocent desire for change finally, is all thick, luscious waves to the nape of his neck, very reminiscent of Steve’s hair in the 80’s. He’s wearing Steve’s Wayfarers, and a polo shirt he must have hunted through the boxes in their attic for, the ones that neither of them have had the time or motivation to sort through in the six (Jesus) years they’ve been in their current house. But the pièce de résistance is the acid wash jeans that are sure doing something for Eddie’s long, lean legs and for Steve’s metaphorical Eddie-boner too. His mouth goes utterly dry. 

“I feel like I’ve woken up in an upside down world,” Gareth says, laughing and embracing Eddie, oblivious to the way Eddie’s eye twitches at the words upside down. “Who knew you could jock?” 

“It’s like a horror movie,” Frank teases, shooting Steve a shit-eating grin. They love their token jock, but they love hanging shit on him any chance they get more. 

“Where’d you even find those?” Jeff says, gesturing at Eddie’s jeans. 

“They’re Steve’s jeans! Genuine vintage article,” Eddie says, looking exceedingly pleased with himself. He does a little twirl on the spot. 

“Vintage, ooh, ouch,” Frank says, elbowing Gareth, and raising an eyebrow at Steve. 

Steve’s not listening. Doesn’t react. His throat is like the Sahara. His blood is racing in his veins. He’s about 35 seconds and a lapse in concentration away from popping a supremely awkward boner. 

This is really doing it for him. 

“Guys, we’ve lost Harrington,” Gareth notes, dissolving into laughter. 

“We should go before we see something that’ll scar us for life,” Jeff says, tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks. Frank’s holding him up, but he’s wheezing so hard they might all go down in a second. 

Eddie puts his back to them, and his tongue appears, running along his bottom lip, and if they were home alone right now then Steve might have whimpered. Eddie’s smirking, because of course he knows every single one of Steve’s tells intimately, he knows how affected Steve is right now. 

“What’s doing it for you, sweetheart, the you part or the me part?” Eddie asks, voice pitched low, practically purring. 

“The you part,” Steve chokes out. “You look so hot, but…”

“But?” 

“But normal you is so hot too, I don’t think I’ve ever been this torn and horny at the same time in my life.” It’s a devastating paradox. Steve might never recover. 

Eddie laughs, pulling Steve in by his hips until they’re pressed close together. “You are the sweetest thing baby. This is a one night only bit. Usual programming resumes tomorrow, and I promise I won’t even turn into a pumpkin at midnight.” Eddie turns around, lifting his – Steve’s – Members Only jacket so Steve has a clear view of the seat of the jeans. “I don’t fill these out like you do, I wouldn’t dream of competing long-term.” 

He shakes his hips a little to emphasise his point. Steve feels like one of those dogs whose bell has been rung. They’ve been together for thirteen years, it’s kind of insane that Eddie can still have this effect on him.

“Together for a decade and change and you’re about to start drooling like you’re fifteen, grow up, Harrington,” Frank teases loudly, pretending to gag. Jeff and Gareth quickly join the bit, drawing curious stares from party goers around them.  

“Ignore them baby,” Eddie croons. “Wanna go find some dark closet and make out like we are fifteen?” 

“I think we should just leave altogether,” Steve says, voice still hoarse. “We won’t be missed.” 

“You won’t,” Gareth agrees cheerfully. 

“Whatever you want,” Eddie says, brows waggling playfully. 

“A lot,” Steve says, arms folded, the world’s bitchiest expression trained directly on Eddie – the lone dissenter. “Like enough to have us on the road for a year, easy. Enough to replace your kit–” Gareth’s drumkit has seen better days, and those better days were like two decades ago, “–enough to replace all your instruments if you wanted.” 

Eddie is returning Steve’s stare with equal intensity, and Steve hates that his gut heats every time Eddie narrows those big brown eyes at him. Steve might be bitchy, but Eddie’s brand of mean is bratty; the gorgeous rockstar who can get anything he wants, who can always get his way, hamstrung by the band manager who tries to keep the four of them on earth. 

They’re kind of friends? In that they’d die for each other – almost did – and Eddie had decked that skeezy club manager who’d been so horrible to Steve that one time, and Steve had gone nuclear on that chick Eddie had briefly dated who had not only been using him for the advancement her quote-unquote acting career – and Steve uses the term acting very sarcastically, because she was shit – but also fucking another guy on the side. Eddie is protective, and possessive, and Steve is jealous, but if you’d asked them they’d say they fucking hate each other. 

Maybe it’s fairer to say they just know exactly how to push each other's buttons and rile the other up after all these years, but the mortal enemies angle is good for media attention. It lets Eddie say bitchy things – “Our manager you know, he’s a penny-pinching asshole, you’ll have to ask him directly why we haven’t done Oceania yet,” – in the press, without grievously offending anyone important in the industry. 

Jeff sing-songs, “Clap on, clap off, The Clapper!” and Eddie hisses at him too, but is ignored. “That’s easy. We should do it.” 

“It’s selling out,” Eddie says loudly. No one listens. 

“Can we sing it rock ‘n’ roll style, not jingly?” Frank asks, like Eddie isn’t even there. 

“Of course,” Steve says congenially. He loves when the boys take his side over Eddie’s. He knows they’re sick of the both them, of their bickering and their tension. Jeff has said more than once, you know there’s a thin line between love and hate right, and Frank, who’s far less subtle, has outright told Steve to just, “Fuck Eddie, or get fucked by him, it doesn’t matter, but maybe it’ll calm you both down.”

“They want you to do the ad in your style,” Steve adds, ignoring Eddie’s louder, “Absolutely not!” 

“Ed, come on,” Jeff says, ever the voice of reason. “Think of the money.” 

Corroded Coffin are on the rise, and fast, but money like that would make the next year so much more stress-free. It’s easily enough to take their time recording their next album, to tour, or even to take a break from touring if they’re exhausted, without having to worry about cashflow. 

“It’s selling out!” Eddie repeats, shouting, and he’s such a fucking idiot, Steve can’t take it. 

“Munson, hallway, now,” he snaps, not waiting to see if Eddie follows him. 

He does, arms already crossed, his expression thunderous. “I’m not letting my band join the ranks of corporate sellouts, making soulless garbage, Steve, we’ve been over this before, about the integrity of the–”

Steve shoves him, and that shuts him up quick. Eddie blinks, those life-ruining eyes all wide and shocked and Steve loves that look on him, can easily imagine it as his view from above while Eddie’s on his knees and– focus Harrington. They’ve never come to physical blows before. 

Eddie’s lush mouth presses into a thin line; he uncrosses his arms and shoves Steve right back. 

“Have I steered you wrong yet?” Steve says, with another shove. “Have I done anything that’s not in the best interests of this band?” Shove. “I know it’s your baby,” shove, “I know–”

Eddie shoves back again, his fingers curling in Steve’s shirt and holding on. “You just have to push me don’t you, you just have to push–”

Steve doesn’t think Eddie’s talking about the physical pushing at all, and Steve’s half-hard already because this is years of tension, years since he’d been shoved against a boathouse wall and has thought about that physical dominance ever since – at first thinking he hated it, hated the way it made him feel weaker, but then thinking about the way Eddie’s grip on his collar had yanked at the last second so Steve wouldn’t hit the back of his head on the wall… 

“Just trying to get you to admit you actually want it,” Steve hisses, and he’s not talking about the band or the lifestyle or the fucking clapper ad either. 

“Oh fuck you, Harrington, you already know,” Eddie snarls, and then he’s shoving Steve against the wall again and his mouth is on Steve’s – hot and hard, despite the softness of his lips, demanding and taking and not fucking asking anymore. Steve answers in kind, fisting his hands in Eddie’s hair and tugging, because they’ve been asking each other for too long – dancing around their feelings, both asking the other through inaction to make the first move, arguing like it’s fucking foreplay. Steve laughs into Eddie’s mouth, and gets kissed harder for it – maybe it was foreplay. 

“I’ll do your fucking ad,” Eddie breathes against Steve’s lips, “if I get something in return.” 

“You already know you can have anything you want. Everything you want,” Steve snaps. Eddie’s thigh slides between his own and he bites out a moan. 

“You’re forgiven if I am,” Steve says, and the electrified air presses closer. He could swear he feels something like lips delicately brush the nape of his neck and he shivers. “You’re not a problem.”

It’s the circumstances that are the problem; Eddie has better control of lifting objects now than he did at first, and can write to Steve using a pen and paper that he leaves out for him at all times. He can make the TV static dance into vague shapes. He can make Steve definitively notice the difference in the air when he comes near now, whereas before he just thought he was freezing all the time, that his circulation had given up the – ahem – ghost at the ripe old age of twenty.

But Steve can’t see him.

He can’t touch him.

Sometimes he thinks he can hear Eddie’s voice, but only when they’re at opposite ends of the house, like when he’s just coming out of his shower upstairs, and he thinks he hears the baby grand downstairs playing, and Eddie’s lovely voice singing Springsteen’s Nebraska. Steve loves that song, that album, but the first time he thought he heard “They declared me unfit to live, said into that great void my soul be hurled,” he sobbed so hard he was convinced he’d gone insane. He can never hear Eddie when they’re in the same room, which, okay sure, Steve can admit, is probably a minus in the ‘still sane’ column.

They’ve tried flinging flour on Eddie’s ghostly form – it only left Steve with a horrible mess to clean up, and Eddie’s guilt and melancholia choking the air in the house for the rest of the afternoon. They’ve tried photographing him on film, and on polaroid. They’ve tried flash on, flash off, they’ve tried long-exposure with Jonathan’s tripod – Steve never did tell him why he needed to borrow it, no one knows Steve’s being haunted by Eddie’s ghost – and it all amounted to nothing.

Nothing, until yesterday evening when Steve was hosting the Party’s D&D night at his place, and Dustin spilled a whole glass of Ecto Cooler – just knocked it clean off the dining room table and onto the floor between where he and Steve were sitting. Steve hadn’t actually been participating, he’d been reading a magazine, but Eddie had been hovering just behind him, observing the gameplay, and maybe admiring the picture of Bon Jovi on one side of the page, and Ann and Nancy Wilson from Heart on the other, if anything was to be judged by the way Steve couldn’t turn the page for a good 30 seconds.

“Goddamnit Henderson,” Steve had complained, “anything but the radioactive green juice, surely?”

When he’d come back with a towel and seltzer though, he’d seen it – the outline of a Reebok, and his heart had taken off at a gallop. Eddie had obviously noticed and was keeping very still, lest they alert the kids, and Steve had carefully wiped it off as he cleaned up, but they’d both practically vibrated on the same intense frequency as they waited for the kids to leave so they could test it again.

Steve’s got no idea what the science is, or magic, or whatever. He just knows that Eddie can drink Ecto Cooler – crazy, because he can’t touch any other food or liquids – and after he does, he’s visible, glowing a soft green, and solid, like normal matter. They only had about a quarter of Dustin’s forgotten can left, so it only lasted about 15 minutes, but Steve’s hopeful a full can might have Eddie glowing and visible for hours.

With the dishes done, and the clock finally showing a time when the shops will be open, Steve snatches up his keys and tosses out an excited, “Be right back!” to his ghost.

Forty minutes later, he parks haphazardly in the driveway and grabs the pack of Ecto Coolers off the front seat and races back inside. “I’ve got it!” he shouts, cracking open a can and decanting it into a glass, waiting eagerly for the press of fizzy air that means Eddie is nearby. He feels it, and he watches the Ecto Cooler disappear from the glass – wild – and as it’s emptying, it’s like Eddie fills up; appearing from his feet first, until finally all of him is visible, faintly green and softly glowing.

Eddie’s in the clothes Steve last saw him in, but clean and unblemished. He’s grinning, dimples on full display, those big brown eyes alight with something (not just Ecto Cooler Green Ghost Glow). Steve’s heart is in his throat. He lifts his hands and reaches out, but he pauses, unsure.

“So… what do you want to do, while you’re kind of corporeal?” he asks.

Eddie steps closer and cool fingers cup Steve’s jaw. His thumb slides slowly over his cheek, tracing the space between his two moles. Eddie’s voice is husky with disuse – it feels like his fizzy air on Steve’s skin and it makes his stomach curl pleasantly. “This,” he croaks.

For Frank, it’s the way he still saves stories for the one person who will never hear them. Stories he knows would have made him smile, stories he knows would have made him lean back in his chair, tossing his head, laughing all the way down to his belly like he did when he really got going, his eyes crinkling with it, his dimples a riot of joy.

He thinks about telling Jeff and Gareth his stories, but they haven’t really spoken that much in the ten years since. They’d tried to keep in touch after they’d evacuated, but as they’d eventually gone off to college and gotten jobs and become busy with the minutiae of life, it had become harder and harder. They’ve seen each other at weddings, at funerals, and major birthdays, but when you only get together for the big things, it becomes hard to talk about the grief that haunts the ordinary things.

After a while, he started writing down the stories. At first it was stories about things that had happened since, that he would have wanted to tell him, and then it also became stories about him. He didn’t want to forget them, didn’t want to forget him. His sister had made fun of him for journaling, said it was girly and lame, but he liked it. He liked writing, he liked storytelling, and, inspired by their lost bard, after a few years he actually kinda had a novel drafted up. Corroded Coffin had ceased to exist in the aftermath of the Hawkins earthquakes, but in Frank’s novel, Rusted Reapers are going to make it big. He hasn’t let anyone read it yet.

He wants to read it to Eddie first.

Eddie’s grave is pristine. Someone clearly takes meticulous, painstaking care of it. The headstone gleams, the grass is neatly mowed, and a bouquet of gardenias, harebells and marigolds sits in a jar right in front of it. Frank frowns at them. His mom is a florist – he knows the language of these flowers.

He sits on the grass, spreading his notebook out in front of him, pressing his palms into the soft green carpet. “Hey Eddie,” he says, softly. “Sorry it took me so long to come.”

He reads his story to the place where Eddie has never been, but which is dedicated to his memory anyway. He wonders if it’s Wayne, if he came back to Hawkins to be close to Eddie’s grave, if he’s the one who keeps it so lovingly tended. Those particular flowers still give him pause though. When he’s finished reading, he rips out the page where he’d drafted his dedication page. He selects a small rock from nearby and kneels in front of the headstone, placing the paper on top of it and tucking it under the rock so it doesn’t get blown away.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!”

Frank turns, startled by the shouting. His eyes land on – is that Steve Harrington? Harrington stops short, vague recognition in his face.

“Sorry,” he says slowly. “We’ve had some vandalism troubles over the years. You’re Eddie’s friend, I remember, from Hellfire?”

“Frank,” he says simply.

Harrington sits down next to him on the grass. He’s got a box of McNuggets in one hand and a water bottle in the other. Frank watches him uncap the bottle and top off the water in the jar, and he wonders about those flowers.

For a while they sit in silence. Harrington doesn’t touch his McNuggets, so Frank says, “Won’t they be cold by now?”

Steve lets out a little chuckle. It’s a breathy sound, more wet than not, more grief than mirth, and Frank looks over, surprised to see the former King of Hawkins High with shiny eyes over his friend. How their paths would have ever crossed, he’s got no idea.

“They’re for him,” Steve says, his eyes tracing the name Edward. “Every week I bring them. Before…” His breath hiccups and he pauses, collecting himself. “Before the quake, I promised him. Said I knew he’d had a really shitty week, and that when we got out of the spot of trouble we were in, I’d buy him anything he wanted for dinner. He wanted McNuggets.” Steve sighs, fond and exasperated and desperately sad, all in one. He places the box of McNuggets next to the flowers.

Frank eyes them, and the flowers. Harebells for grief. Marigolds for despair. Gardenias for secret love.