ᴀɴᴅɪᴇ💥🤞🏼×͜×🏁❤️

Being able to hold a meeting of the Hellfire Club at all was cause for celebration in Eddie’s book, especially since the school would no longer allow them to host events on school grounds, despite the fact that all the charges against Eddie that had started the witch hunt in the first place had been dropped. Hawkins wasn’t exactly a forgive-and-forget kind of town, something Eddie had always known and been even more acutely aware of given the even more frequent, vitriolic stares that had been following him around since March. 

Still, he was soldiering on for now, at least until graduation–thanks in no small part to the apocalypse stopping crew currently clamoring over each other at the front counter. Despite the school’s best efforts, the club venue had been relocated to the Munsons’ newly minted trailer, courtesy of the government suits. And with the revival of their D&D campaign came the start of this new tradition–begun by none other than Steve himself, who had pulled up to Forest Hills to pick up the kiddos that first night, stuck his floppy-haired head out of his BMW like an overgrown puppy, and offered to meet everyone at the local DQ, his treat. The Corroded Coffin boys had begged off coming that first time–and the week after that, and the week after that–but, still. Standing under the hazy fast food fluorescent lights and with the promise of a chocolate malt ahead, life–for the moment, at least–was as good as Eddie could ask for, all things considered. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” With three quick snaps of his fingers, Steve tried to corral the kids into some semblance of order, one hand already settled in its customary position on his hip. “One at a time, you guys. Try to cut, ah…”

“Brandi,” the brunette behind the counter supplied helpfully when she saw Steve squinting at her name tag, face blooming into a bright grin. 

Eddie was pretty sure he recognized her from his second senior year math class, and there was a vague memory of seeing someone who sort of looked like her in the cafeteria tickling at the back of his mind, sitting a few tables from the jock zone amongst the lucky hopefuls looking to catch the attention of a baseball or basketball playing potential boyfriend. If so, that definitely explained the big moon eyes she was currently shooting Steve’s way. 

But Steve only returned her smile with a harried one of his own, his attention still firmly focused on the demands of his many babysitting charges. Eddie tried to tamp down the sick twist of satisfaction he felt when Brandi deflated slightly. 

“Right. Try to cut Brandi here some slack, alright? Believe me, slinging ice cream is plenty of work without having a bunch of little menaces shouting in your ear.”

As the group finally managed to file themselves into something that resembled a line–with plenty of jostling and grumbling along the way–Erica gave Steve’s polo a sharp tug and then jabbed two fingers in his direction.

“Free ice cream. For life,” she emphasized, the same way she did every week, like Steve needed the reminder. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve waved a dismissive hand in her direction even as he pulled out his wallet, same as he did week in and week out, putting on a show like he didn’t already know he’d be footing the bill for most of the munchkins’ orders. 

Robin had explained the situation to Eddie when he’d asked after their first DQ outing, with the same airy tone they all often used to describe the truly mind-boggling shit they had been through over the last few years. 

“Oh! It’s a leftover debt, from when we infiltrated the secret Russian base under Starcourt. Free ice cream was Erica’s price for getting involved. Never underestimate her ability to drive a hard bargain.”

Eddie had nodded, trying not to let how gobsmacked he felt about the entire story show. “Yeah, I, uh…wasn’t planning to. Lady Applejack is a force to be reckoned with.”

“You have no idea,” Robin had agreed, looking almost strangely…proud about the fact. 

That evening, when Eddie sidled up to join them, leaving Robin in position to guard the three booths sequestered off towards the back they had claimed as their own, he caught the tail end of the sheepies excitedly recounting tonight’s session for Steve. 

“And D20 is…good, right?” Steve asked, still watching the register as Brandi passed a vanilla cone with a hefty serving of whipped cream and sprinkles off to El. 

“Yes, Steve, it’s only the best roll you can possibly make in the entire game.” 

The no duh tone of Dustin’s voice was enough to have Steve raising an eyebrow at him, completely unimpressed. 

“Like sinking the winning shot after the final buzzer at the championship game kinda good,” Lucas explained, much more helpfully, his grin wide.

“Oh,” Steve nodded, and Eddie couldn't help but get distracted by the way his lips, pink and shining with a hint of chapstick, parted perfectly in understanding.

Eddie seized the opportunity to catch Steve off guard, hooking an arm around his shoulders and tugging him into his side. Delight bubbled in his chest at the way the gesture made Steve let out a loud, startled laugh.

“Should've figured that's all it'd take to rope you into playing sometime, Harrington,” Eddie shook his head solemnly. “Sports metaphors.”

“Always with the sports metaphors,” Dustin echoed. 

Steve reached out and swatted the brim of his cap, the force of it just enough to send it slightly askew and trigger a string of cursing from Dustin.

“Hey, I never agreed to that,” he argued, ducking out from under Eddie’s arm in one seamless motion. Jock reflexes, Eddie had decided, were both a blessing and a curse. 

He had learned that lesson firsthand in the past few weeks, as Eddie had grown more and more comfortable indulging in a little light rough housing with Steve, despite the fact that he knew there was no way in hell he had any better shot than their gangly freshmen did at not getting his ass handed to him. Eddie was stronger than he looked, sure, but he wasn’t exactly former basketball captain level athletic, not by a long shot. 

But was it really losing when he got to be pressed up against the firm planes of Steve’s chest, wrapped up in his strong arms–even if it was in a death lock grip–or occasionally pinned to Eddie’s own bedroom floor by him? Eddie definitely didn’t think so, and part of him was also just happy his recovery was going well enough he could scuffle, again. On his good days, at least. Doing it with his hot friend–and crush–was just an added bonus. 

“You know, it’s not my fault Lucas knows how to explain shit to me. I’ll stop talking in basketball when one of you two nerds actually manages to tell me what Mordor is.”

Dustin let out a huff. “If you just read the books–”

Steve cupped a hand around his ear, leaning down towards Dustin and hamming it up for all he was worth. “Huh? What was that? Cuz it didn’t sound like much of an explanation to me, Henderson.”

Eddie tugged a strand of hair across his mouth, trying to hide his grin. “Harrington, trust me when I say–you do not want to open that can of worms. Do you have any idea how long I can go on for once I get started? Hours, man. Days, probably.”

“Can’t be any worse than that time Robin tried to explain, uh…shit, what was it called? German New Wave? Or, no, maybe that was French Expressionism. I don’t know, the point is, it can’t be more boring than that was.”

“It's French New Wave!” Robin called from the back despite the distance, freakily intune with Steve as always. “Or German Expressionism. And sounds like you're due another lesson, Stevie-Evie. Don't worry, I've got a tried and true method to guarantee it all sticks this time.”

Steve groaned, dragging a hand over his face and into his hair–but his apparent grief at the thought of another Buckley-led film history lesson was quickly diverted when he realized it was his turn. 

From there, placing the rest of their orders passed by with little fanfare–apart from the brief, minor hiccup that came when Steve tried to pay for Eddie’s treat on top of everybody else’s. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Eddie waved a finger at him, just barely managing to step around Steve and hand his fistful of dollars over to Brandi. “Your money’s no good here, my liege.”

The title was enough to produce a patent Harrington scowl, all drawn eyebrows and pouted lips. 

When he opened his mouth to protest, Eddie cut him off again. “Seriously, Steve, I’ve got it. One shake isn’t gonna break the bank, you know?” 

“I know that,” Steve huffed. “I just–would it seriously kill you to let me treat you once in a while?”

Steve had done more than enough, and Eddie thought he damn well knew that. Between literally saving Eddie’s life when he’d been about to bleed out in the Upside Down and then sticking around through all of his recovery in the weeks after, the amount he had done was approaching near superheroic levels. 

“You know you don’t have to hover, right, Harrington?” Eddie had asked him one day towards the end of his stay in the hospital, gnawing anxiously at his bottom lip, as he watched Steve look up from the Sports Illustrated sprawled across his lap.

The truth was he hadn’t wanted to say anything, too afraid bringing it up would lead to Steve doing just as he was suggesting…finally leaving. But the anxiety humming in his ears that Steve was just here out of pity had finally become worse, forced the words from his mouth. 

“You saved Dustin, man,” Steve had replied, expression earnest, “and helped distract the bats from me and Nance and Robin, too. I’m not going anywhere. So, you know…get used to it.”

He had punctuated the last statement by giving Eddie a light, friendly slap on his knee, and Eddie had to bite back the beaming, relieved grin that threatened to split his face. 

Steve had stayed pretty much a permanent fixture in Eddie’s day-to-day life after that, proving time and again he was serious about being in it for the long haul. Even through all the embarrassing shit, like Eddie hobbling around on his cane like a baby deer on shaky newborn legs, or needing somebody to help him wash his hair. Not exactly the ideal position to be in with a hopeless high school crush that had come burning back to life with a vengeance, but Steve would hear none of it when Eddie tried to insist he didn’t need to go out of his way like this. 

“What, you want Henderson in here instead?” Steve had asked with a snort. “You gotta be kidding, Munson. Like I said, better get used to being stuck with me.”

“Happy to be stuck together with you anytime, big boy,” Eddie had flirted, the shameless bravado in place to cover up the very real fluttering of his heart.  

In other words…Eddie had already accrued more life debts to Steve Harrington than he could ever hope to repay. And while Steve might have insisted he was more than happy with nursemaid duty, Eddie really wasn’t looking to turn himself into a charity case. Not if he could help it.

So Eddie let his grin grow, obnoxious and wide enough to show off all his teeth.

“It might,” he quipped. “And how would you feel, Harrington, knowing that this was the thing that finally managed to do me in? I’m just trying to spare you the guilt, man, I know what a complex you’d get.”

“Whatever, Eds,” Steve scoffed, steering him towards the designated babysitter’s club booth with a nudge of his elbow, hands full of his and Robin’s matching strawberry sundaes. 

Steve took his customary spot on Robin’s side of the booth, the pair of them, as always, practically glued at the hip. Their friendship, Eddie had learned, was a boundary free zone, one that frequently involved holding hands, devolving into childish slap fights with little warning, and falling asleep sprawled on top of each other while watching bad daytime soaps at the Harrington house. Only their vehement denial and the goo-goo eyes Eddie caught Robin making at the red-haired chick–Vickie, he now knew–from band convinced him Dustin’s loud, frequent, and insistent claims that they were dating were total bullshit. 

As he was just about to slide into his own place across from them, a commotion at the table behind them called for Eddie’s attention. 

“Eddie, El wants to hear you do the roar again!” Mike requested. 

Eddie tilted his head to one side, stroking his chin, as though trying to recall what exactly Mike was speaking of. Biting his lip to keep from smiling, he gave Mike a shrug. 

“No clue what you’re talking about, Little Wheel.”

A chorus of cries rang out from both tables the party had overtaken, shrieks of “Eddie!” and “C’mon, man!” reverberating again and again in his ears. 

Spinning on his heel as though he was set to ignore them, Eddie answered Steve and Robin’s expectant expressions with a quick, subtle wink.

When he leapt up from the floor and into a crouch on the booth seating, Eddie felt a sharp tug at his sides, his scar tissue very eagerly making itself known. Gritting his teeth, he refused to let the hot flash of pain show on his face as he loomed over Will and El, hands curving into claws as he reached towards their table.

“Kas the Bloody-Handed demands vengeance!” he bellowed, letting his voice drop into a deep, growling register. 

His performance was met with what might as well have been a standing ovation, in his book–a series of delighted shouts from the boys, eerily similar head shakes from Max and Erica while they both visibly fought back their smiles, and El letting out a peel of giggles as she hid her face in her brother’s side. 

When Hellfire had started back up again, Eddie had considered starting over from scratch, maybe even trying this deep into the game to veer their campaign in a different direction. He didn’t want something that they all loved to become somehow…tainted, by reminders of everything that had happened. 

“Nah, man, just leave it like it is,” Steve had suggested, one afternoon when Eddie’s fretting had finally bubbled over to the point he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “It's good for their…trauma processing? Or something. I don’t know, you’d have to ask Owens about it. The point is, they wouldn’t want you to change it. Not unless you want to.”

In the end, Eddie had heeded Steve’s advice, figuring he knew more about the way those little hellions ticked better than probably anybody else, at this point. 

Moments like these made him glad he did, proof positive his instincts had been spot on. 

Eddie dropped, satisfied, down into the booth, his foot knocking straight into the side of Steve’s under the table. A little spark of pleasure shot through him when Steve simply bumped his Nike sneaker against Eddie’s Reebok in answer and then left it there, pressed close together.

“No wonder you did drama,” Steve observed, twisting a bite around in his mouth as he sucked up the bright red streak of strawberry syrup. “You’re a total natural, man. Kinda, like…hypnotic.”

Eddie tried not to make it too obvious, how closely he was following the way Steve licked up every last morsel.  

“Yeah, until he dropped out like a quitter.”

“What can I say, Buckley? Organized–well, anything really–just ain’t for me.”

“Says the guy who literally runs an afterschool club,” she pointed the end of her plastic spoon at him in accusation. “Sounds to me like you’re full of it, Eddie.”

“She’s got you there, man,” Steve agreed with a shrug, a drop from his sundae dribbling onto the table as he swirled it around yet again. 

“Oh, napkins!” 

Slapping a palm against her forehead, Robin clambered over Steve and out of the booth, not so much as hesitating to give him a chance to stand up. 

“You know, if you wanna see more where that came from–my flare for theatrics, that is–you could always, I don’t know. Stick around when you drop off the kiddos next week?” As Eddie posed the question, he wondered if the lilt in his voice sounded too hopeful. “I won’t even make you play. You have my word as a dungeon master and a gentleman.”

“Yeah, uh…fat chance of that happening,” Steve murmured, voice low, almost like he didn’t want Eddie to actually hear him, “your friends fucking hate me, dude.”

“They don't hate you,” Eddie protested automatically, feeling the need to defend them even as his own heart sank in his chest, “they're just…a little skittish, after everything that went down with Jason. You–you get that, right?”

“Sure,” Steve shrugged, looking down as he stirred his spoon through his steadily melting soft serve. When he glanced up at Eddie again, a tenseness crept in around the edges of his smile that Eddie desperately wished he could help wipe away. “I get it.”

Robin returned to the table before either of them got a chance to say anything else, sliding over Steve’s lap with enough clumsy limbed flailing it prompted a, Sheesh, Rob. Watch the elbows, will you? out of Steve. 

Seeing an opening, Eddie quickly changed the subject. 

“So, speaking of the ins-and-outs of living in the institution that is our organized society–how is Family Video treating my two favorite, upstanding, and gainfully employed Hawkins citizens?”

Robin snorted. “It’s minimum wage, Eddie. How good could it possibly be?”

“Well, I mean–you could trade places with me if you wanted. Be gainfully unemployed with a side hustle that went up in smoke since that whole–you know, accused of being a ritual Satanic murderer thing put the local law enforcement on your tail.”

Both Steve’s eyebrows shot up at that. “The cop’s still giving you trouble?”

“Not in so many words, but, uh–let’s just say they’ve made it pretty clear I’m not exactly their favorite person, right now. So, yeah. Officer Callahan must have circled the trailer park like–three different times, last night.”

“But…you were exonerated,” Robin protested, the force of her distress clear from the way she slapped a palm down flat on top of the table. “That–that’s a total misappropriation of police funds, not to mention harassment of a private citizen.”

“You ever think that maybe they’re just keeping an eye on the place?” Steve suggested hopefully, “You know…after everything that happened.” 

“Your adorably positive outlook has been noted, Stevie. Noted, but ultimately dismissed.”

“Want me to talk to Hop for you? Get him to tell them to stand down?” 

“Nah, man,” Eddie gave a forceful shake of his head, hair whipping around him in a messy cloud, “I can handle it. I’ve got plenty of experience, evading the Hawkins Police force.”

Rubbing a finger over his sideburn, Steve tilted his head from side-to-side in consideration, before he casually added, “Guess we all do, now.”

“A band of fearsome outlaws, that’s us,” Robin agreed, her nose crinkling as she laughed, loud and bright. 

“More like Robin Hood and his merry men.” At Robin’s pointed glance, Eddie was quick to amend, “…And women, of course.” 

The conversation flowed along at a rapid fire pace from there, the three of them at first trying to assign different characters from the story to all the members of the party before devolving fast into a debate about which cinematic performance of the lead character was the best–and sexiest, though Eddie didn’t divulge that was most of the metric he was using for his answers–and thus which adaptation came out on top. Robin fell into the same camp as him–Errol Flynn all the way–while Steve was a firm defender of the Disney version because, That little fox guy is cute and charismatic, guys, you can’t even argue with me on this one. 

When he had slurped up the last remnants of his malt, Eddie stretched his arms above his head, leaned back against the booth’s cracking red vinyl, and sighed. 

“Fancy a smoke break?” he asked, pulling the pack from his pocket and waving it tantalizingly for Steve to see.

Steve laughed with a roll of his eyes.

“You know I quit, dude.” 

“And so should you,” Robin added pointedly, an argument she’d made countless times since Eddie got out of the hospital, pretty much every single time she caught him lighting up. 

“Cut me some slack, Buckley,” Eddie said, same as he always did. “I’ve been through a traumatic experience. Ciggies are good for the stress, since I can’t exactly smoke weed outside this fine, family friendly establishment.”

“Uh-huh,” Robin replied, deadpan and unconvinced as ever, “we’ve all got our fair share of U.D. related trauma, Eddie. That’s not an excuse to suck on those…little sticks made out of cancer.”  

“Alright, well. Fancy a stand-outside-with-me-and-bullshit break, then?” Eddie directed at Steve. 

Robin raised an eyebrow at him, and Eddie couldn’t quite read the expression on her face. It seemed…knowing in a way he was too afraid to totally unpack. 

She saved him the trouble of having to do so by letting out a put upon sigh, dramatic enough for him or Steve either one when they got going, and a true reflection of the fact she had stuck it out through almost four years of high school theater. 

“Stealing away my own best friend to go join your boys’ club, Eddie? Really? And right in front of me, too. You know, this is just like second grade, when Trevor Milligan convinced all the boys in our class girls had cooties, and Bobby B. wouldn’t race me on the monkey bars anymore.” 

Laying a hand over his heart, Eddie had to fight down the grin that threatened to split across his face. “I solemnly vow to bring him back all in one piece, Buck. I know who's top dog around here.”

The nod she gave him was swift and authoritative. “And don’t you forget it.” 

With a wink and a click of his tongue, he mock saluted her. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She turned to Steve, giving his bicep several sharp pokes. “But just because I'm the girl doesn't mean I deserve to get saddled with child-rearing responsibilities, you know!”

“We're not children,” Red interjected with a dry sort of exasperation from the next booth over.

Her point was immediately undermined by Lucas, using the makeshift catapult he'd made from his spoon to fling a maraschino cherry at Dustin. The other boy let out an indignant squawk when it missed his mouth entirely and got caught right in his curly hair.

Even from behind her glasses, it was pretty obvious what sort of look Max was giving her boyfriend.

“Correction…I'm not a child.”

“Sorry.” Lucas's grin was sheepish.

“Rob,” Steve said flatly, ignoring the kids’ antics to instead pin her with his own look, like she was being ridiculous. 

Which was…pretty fair, this time, in Eddie's opinion. He wasn't sure he'd ever met anyone with quite the same intense level of tired dad–mom–whatever energy as Steve had, and all before he'd even hit his early twenties. When it came to babysitting duties, he definitely wasn't a slacker.

“I'm just saying, as a feminist, I thought you should know,” Robin waved her spoon at them, managing to pull the move off without so much as a drip of her ice cream plopping onto the table.

“We agreed that you'd be the fun uncle,” Steve argued, the lack of protest from Robin proving that was, in fact, a conversation they'd already had, “so then be the fun uncle while Mom and Dad step outside.”

“Mom and Dad?” Robin echoed, eyebrow raising and face scrunching in transparent disbelief–and Eddie had to admit, he was caught on the exact same thing.

Steve only waved a hand at her, rolling his eyes. 

“You know what I mean. Look, it’s only gonna be like fifteen minutes, tops. If you do it I’ll–” Steve spun his hand around in several aimless, pinwheel like motions before finally snapping his fingers in revelation, “I’ll let you put on whatever movie you want at work on Monday!”

Robin stuck her hand out to him. “Make it ten, and you’ve got yourself a deal.” 

Tapping a finger on his top lip, Steve pursed his mouth in thought for a moment. 

“...Twelve,” he bartered. “And you can make it a black and white one. With subtitles.”

Robin’s face lit up, teeth glimmering with the sheer force of her glee.

“Look at that. You really do know the way to a girl’s heart, Steve.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve grumbled, giving her hand one firm, business-like shake. 

Eddie was already up, having impatiently shimmied several paces away from the booth, by the time Steve stood and fell into step beside him.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Eddie couldn’t resist shouting over his shoulder, “Make sure they eat all their vegetables!”

Steve met Eddie’s shit-eating grin with one of his own before adding, “And no scary movies before bedtime!”

Seven individual hands all popped up, shooting them the bird as one.

By the time they stepped out onto the sidewalk, they were both stumbling into each other’s sides with laughter. 

—

Once they were outside and had managed to pull themselves together, Eddie stuck one of the smokes in his mouth and went straight for his lighter, his craving growing palpable. But, as that meant he had to rummage around the tangle of other things jammed inside his pocket, just laying in wait to come spilling out–like a nearly empty pack of Big Red gum, a crumpled receipt, and the spare die Eddie kept on his person in case of D&D-related emergencies–he fumbled it, the BIC hitting the ground with a sad thump.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he complained out of reflex, both from general annoyance and just a tinge of embarrassment, feeling the burn of it with his klutziness deciding to come out around Steve in full force. 

Nat 1 on charisma, Munson. Critical failure.

Steve waved a dismissive hand at him. “I got it, man, I got it.”

And before Eddie could protest, he was stooping down beside him to pick the lighter up off the asphalt of the Dairy Queen parking lot, giving it a toss into his hand like the total show off he was.

Eddie was about to make a crack about it, something along the lines of You just gotta demonstrate your athletic prowess in front of us lesser mortals, doncha, Harrington?–except, well. He didn’t get the chance. 

Because, one second, Steve was popping up and waving the lighter cockily at him, grin bright on his face, and, the next…

The next, and totally without warning, he was leaning in close, cupping his hand to light the cigarette dangling from Eddie’s lips for him. 

Eddie inhaled on instinct, taking a long drag as the cherry glowed to life, a stark red in the fading light of dusk. As for the sudden rush that went to his head–he had little doubt that it was just from the hit of nicotine alone.

And–maybe it was a trick of the low light. But for a long, breathless moment, Steve’s eyes seemed to linger on Eddie’s mouth, and Eddie’s heartbeat kicked up in answer, rabbiting wildly in his throat. The air between them grew thick, heavy-laden with tension that seemed to almost crackle like electricity. 

Eddie took the cigarette from his lips slowly, dropping his hand to let it hang at his side. And, still, Steve’s gaze never wavered, eye line still leveled directly at his mouth. If one of them were to just finally cave into the building pressure, sway forward and close that distance between them, maybe they could…

But, then, from one blink to the next, the heated expression on Steve’s face cleared, replaced by a guileless, easy smile. 

…Eddie tried to tamp down on the flare of disappointment he felt at the sight of it.  

“You know, man–Robin’s totally right about those things.” 

Steve dragged a finger across his throat, pretending to choke as he briefly mimed his own dramatic death scene. The Eddie of a year ago wouldn’t have believed it–but the Eddie of now knew better, had been exposed to Steve’s silly antics on more than one occasion. He could be just as big a goofball as Dustin, as any of the kids, as Eddie himself when he wanted to be. 

“You really should cut back.”

It was all so…normal. Casual. A light chiding about bad habits in an airy tone, like…

Like everything before hadn’t happened at all. 

Eddie stared at Steve for a long moment, trying to read the expression in his wide, hazel eyes. But…they were totally and completely inscrutable to him.

And, look. Eddie was queerer than a three dollar bill–had been since gawky adolescence hit him like a freight train, all too-long limbs and sudden, embarrassingly consistent morning wood. Dudes or chicks, it didn’t matter. Like Bowie, Eddie was an equal opportunist…for all the good it had ever done him, able to count the times he’d made a pass and hadn’t struck out on one hand. Being Hawkins local freak would do that to a guy, and that was before the murder charges and cult-leader accusations. 

But the thought that Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington was anything other than stalwartly heterosexual in the most apple-pie, white-picket-fence, boy-next-store way imaginable? The idea should have been laughable. And a year ago, Eddie would have done just that, laughed it off with a no way, man rolling easily off his tongue.

But now…now he wasn’t so sure. 

Because there was something electric about the growing familiarity that had popped up between him and Steve the closer they’d gotten since their fateful spring break excursion to the Upside Down. He felt it, when Steve slung his arm over the back of the couch when Eddie sat next to him during movie night, or laid a hand in the small of Eddie’s back, easy as anything, to keep him steady when the kids all jostled ahead of them to get through the door at the arcade. 

Maybe it was all just some vestige from Steve’s high school glory days, leftover jock rituals Eddie knew nothing about. Maybe it was total wishful thinking on Eddie’s part, as his crush steadily grew into something gargantuan. Shit, that’s what he tried to tell himself most of the time, if only for his own sanity–but he was still reluctant to say it was all in his head. Especially when moments like this kept cropping up more and more. 

…Eddie was too afraid to push it, though. Hardly over a month old, technically–even though some days it felt like a lifetime–the friendship between them was new. Not delicate, not hardly, but still not something Eddie was looking to scare off when it’d only just gotten started. 

So as the uncertainty settled over him, Eddie finally ducked his head for an instant, gnawing at his bottom lip. Then he reached over and gave Steve’s temple a teasing tap. 

“Sometimes, I just wonder what’s going on inside that pretty head of yours, Stevie.”

The flirtation was thick, sure, but it was easy enough to play it off the same way he always did–just some harmless teasing between two guys, nothing serious. Plus, Eddie figured Steve was more than used to his antics by now. Sometimes, his over-the-top personality really did pay off. 

But behind those words was the truth of Eddie’s thoughts, swirling over and over again. 

Fuck. If only I could get inside his head. Then, maybe I’d be able to figure out what the hell he’s thinking. 

For a split second, he could have sworn Steve’s shoulders stiffened, posture going unexpectedly rigid. But then Steve laughed, brushing the swoop of his hair back, fingers dancing tantalizingly close to Eddie’s own, and Eddie was left to wonder if it was just more of his mind playing tricks on him. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, man. I’m like an open book. Ask anybody around and they’ll tell you–you don’t have to put yourself out to get an answer. It’s pretty much all, like…hair care tips and sports stats, 24/7 up here.” 

“Come on, Steve,” Eddie scoffed, “I don’t believe that shit for even a second.” 

Steve only shook his head, smile still firmly in place. 

“Not sure what to tell you, dude. It’s true. Besides,” the word came out lower, almost as if Steve was talking to himself, “between the two of us, pretty sure you’re more the man of mystery than I am, dude.” 

At that, Eddie let out a startled bark of laughter. 

“Me?! You cannot be serious with that one, Harrington, no way in hell. Have you seen me? If anybody’s the open book here, it’s me. I’m practically a screaming headline on the late night news. Every single thought and feeling I’ve ever had automatically comes flying,” Eddie pressed his hand against his lips and made a sound like an explosion, splaying his fingers out, “straight out of my mouth. Always has. Just ask my old man, he used to bitch about it all the time. ‘Quit that blubbering and toughen up, Eddie, or life will steamroll right over you.’”

Steve’s lips pursed, the same knowing but insulted look he always wore when the infamous Munson patriarch came up in conversation. 

“Your dad sounds like a real jackass, Eds.” 

Eddie could only hum his agreement. 

Everybody in Hawkins knew Al Munson, low down no-account that he was. His reputation preceded him–and Eddie, more often than not. But Steve had more of the inside scoop than most, Eddie having opened up to both him and Robin about his home life. 

Still, he wondered at the vehemence with which Steve defended him, any time the mention of his absentee patriarch came up. By contrast, Eddie didn’t know jackshit about the Harringtons apart from the fact that they were hotshots around town. Steve never mentioned them, not really, and Eddie had never run into them the times he’d been over to Steve’s place. Which was…pretty weird in and of itself, wasn’t it?

Yet another mysterious piece of the puzzle that was Steve Harrington. 

“I don’t know, man,” Steve shrugged, voice gone quiet again, tugging Eddie out of his reverie. “I kinda think your book might be in Hobbit, or whatever it’s called from those books you guys love so much, because I don’t really see you that way at all.” 

Reaching out, he suddenly caught a strand of Eddie’s hair between two fingers. Eddie sucked in a sharp breath at the gesture, face going hot. 

“Besides, haven’t you ever heard of tall, dark, and mysterious? If the hair fits.” 

Steve gave the curl a light tug before dropping it. Eddie immediately snatched it back up, tugging it like a curtain across his mouth, desperate to hide the faint color on his cheeks. 

“Guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree on this one, dude.” 

Steve let out what sounded like an amused huff. “Looks like it.”

When Steve looked down at his watch, Eddie realized, in the time they’d been talking, that he’d smoked his cigarette down to a nub.

“We should probably head back inside,” Steve gestured over his shoulder with his thumb, “before all of Lucas’s toppings somehow end up in Dustin’s hair, and Robin decides to ground them all until they’re twenty-five.”

As he stubbed out the bud with his shoe, Eddie fiddled with his rings, trying to subtly shake off some of the tension that had seemed to build up in the air around their conversation. When he met Steve’s eyes again, he was all cheery smiles, hoping he didn’t look too manic as his cheeks stretched with the force of it.

“Well, now, we couldn’t have that,” Eddie agreed, even as he added, “–Thought she said she wasn’t parenting material, though? Pretty sure fun uncles don’t have to ground people.”

His own uncle was more like a father than anything else, and still he’d never really bothered to try grounding Eddie–his disappointed stare always did more to deter Eddie away from his own stupidity than anything else ever had.

“Sure, she says that, until somebody gets chocolate ice cream on her new favorite button down. Then it’s goddamn,” Steve let out one long, forlorn beep followed by two shorter ones–an unmistakable imitation of Pac-Man’s game over death knell, and proof of just how much time he spent at the arcade with the kids, “over for everybody involved, including me somehow.”

“I mean, you did call us Mom and Dad, man. Guess that makes us responsible whenever the kiddos misbehave.”

Steve sighed, long and loud and clearly just a little exaggerated for Eddie’s benefit, if the way Steve widened his eyes in mock fear was anything to go by. 

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about. Those little shits can stir up all kinds of trouble in ten minutes flat. No telling what the damage is.”

So, with one last jocular pat to Eddie’s back, he began herding him back inside the shop.  

And when Eddie’s own traitorous heart gave a twist at such a small, meaningless gesture? All he could do was send a silent curse up to the sky, and do his best to ignore it. 

—

That night, Eddie fell through a tangle of twisting, nonsensical dreams.

At first, he was in the stolen RV, relieving a memory. The Upside Down crew–Nancy, Robin, Steve, Dustin–stood all around him, preparing for that fateful last trip to try and stop Vecna. After reciting their orders, his hand clapped down on Dustin’s head in reassurance, a last show of camaraderie before they headed off into battle.

But then, without warning, the ground seemed to shift right beneath his feet. 

Coming out of the haze, he found himself staring at a refrigerator, standing in a kitchen he didn’t immediately recognize. On autopilot, with a feeling like his body was being tugged by invisible strings he couldn’t quite control, his hand swung down again, the motion identical as he gave Dustin a fond scuff over his cap. Except…Dustin was shorter, this time, and undeniably younger. And Eddie, well–the Members Only jacket hanging over his shoulders was definitely not his own, though he thought he had spotted one identical to it hanging in the back of Steve’s closet.  

He barely had time to register those weird little details before the world was going topsy turvy yet again. 

Eddie was on his back, a swirl of bats circling overhead like a storm against the violent red splash of Upside Down sky. As his sides screamed in agony, wooziness clenched down on his mind with a vice grip, not at all helped by the fact that the scene around him kept changing. 

One second, he was shirtless, dampness and grime clinging to his chest hair, Nancy Wheeler’s mouth a grim line as she stared down at him with an oar in hand. Then he blinked, and Dustin’s face swam into view above him, fuzzy as Eddie’s own vision blurred around the edges. 

Blink. Wheeler and Buckley, fighting off demobats like two warrior women worthy of only the grandest of campaigns. 

Blink. Dustin, screaming his name so harshly, his throat had to be raw from it. 

Blink. The outline of Eddie himself, shouting up at the sky, demanding they give him all they’d got despite the fucking bone-deep terror he knew he’d been feeling. The out-of-body sensation that slammed into him, existing somehow both inside and outside the moment all at once, was so jarring Eddie’s stomach lurched, like he was going to be sick. 

Back and forth, again and again, like the world’s worst, most bizarre merry-go-round…until finally, Dustin solidified, Eddie’s own memory draping over him like a well-worn but ill-fitting shirt. He flinched a little as he felt dampness drip against his cheeks, and a long moment stretched on before Eddie fully realized that it wasn’t rain hitting him in the face, but instead the fat tears currently racing down the bridge of the other boy’s nose. 

He knew this moment well, viscerally, a long, hellish stretch that had revisited him night after night the past month–and one he’d do almost anything to forget. 

His final goodbyes exchanged, Eddie’s eyes slipped shut of their own accord. It wasn’t peaceful, exactly–some part of Eddie deep down still railed, pissed as hell at what was happening to him–but he was also so fucking tired, after days on the run. Worn out and fed up, and ready to just get some fucking rest.

So, when the blackness swallowed him, he couldn’t help but wonder if this time, it really would be for good.

–And then a faint, familiar voice rang out in the distance.  

“Dustin?!” Eddie heard Steve scream, like a tether pulling him back into his own body. “Eddie?! You gotta be fucking kidding me, where the hell are you guys?!”

The heavy thud of footfalls drew closer, and Eddie practically felt the ground shake as another body collapsed beside Dustin. 

The world flashed, spun again. Suddenly, Eddie was sliding across the rough terrain of the alternate world on his knees, the sound of Dustin’s soft cries making his heart ache…and his own lifeless body spread out on the ground in front of him. 

Large hands fisted in the front of Eddie’s vest, tugging at him urgently. 

“Munson! Munson!” Steve’s words spilled from Eddie’s mouth as his grip on the fabric tightened, giving him a hard shake. “Eddie, come on! I told you not to be a hero. Don’t even think about it, dude–you’re not dying on us now!”

Eddie remembered this, too. Steve’s steely, urgent tone, brooking no arguments, like he could actually will Eddie back to life if he wanted to. Except this time–this time Eddie actually felt the terror behind the words, the urgency making Steve’s voice tremble in his throat. Experienced, in real time, the relief hitting like a truck, flooding through his veins, when his own brown eyes slipped open. 

“Did-Didn’t realize you were my commanding officer, Harrington,” the Eddie on the ground murmured–more like croaked, the sentence breaking unpleasantly in the middle.

“You’re damn right I am,” Steve answered, jaw clenching, and Eddie could feel his muscle twitching with it, “if that’s what it takes to get you to stick around, man, consider me a five star general.”

He’s alive, he’s alive, the Steve in his head sang, again and again, thank fuck, he’s alive.

Because, there and then, he…was Steve. The twin emotions of Steve’s own swelling hope that Eddie might make it coupled with Eddie’s own real shock from what Steve was feeling at the time warred inside him, threatening to overwhelm him. 

Then, like the force of that emotion had thrown him, Eddie landed hard on his back again. Confusion hit him as he glanced down and realized that he was shirtless–Steve was entirely shirtless. Because this had been his memory, before, and now Eddie was back in it. 

The revelation had barely settled before agony quickly drowned out anything else, the demo-bats starting to gnaw at his bare sides. One of their tails wrapped tightly around Eddie’s throat, and his hands shot up, uselessly trying to pry it off. He could feel that darkness creeping in again, the familiar sensation of being knocked unconscious rising up to meet him. 

Fourth time’s a charm, I guess, the voice inside Eddie’s head was wry, and it still definitely wasn’t his own. You made a good run of it, Harrington, but looks like your luck finally ran out this time.

The resignation of it, the acceptance, was enough to shake Eddie to the bone. 

No-no-no, no! Some desperate, deeply buried part of him screamed out. You–You’re the goddamn hero, Stevie. You don’t get to give up.

When the oar slammed down near his head this time, Wheeler calling out a quick Hey, there with Robin and Eddie himself at her sides…Eddie had never been so happy to see someone in his entire fucking life, freaky out-of-body experience be damned. 

The vision, memory, whatever it was…it released Eddie, finally. 

And then Steve was there, standing before him, clad in nothing but sleep shorts and his gray Hawkins Phys Ed shirt, his hair mussed. Darkness surrounded them on all sides, too fuzzy and dim for Eddie to make anything out apart from the figure facing him. 

Steve’s lips moved, the shape of them making out what Eddie thought was his name. Dread dripped down his spine, however, as he realized that no sound–not so much as a peep–followed. 

“Stevie?” he answered, the panicked shrillness evident in his own voice even as he couldn’t hear Steve’s own. “I can’t–shit, man, I can’t hear you.”

Steve’s face drew down into a frown, forehead wrinkled, concern and frustration warring on his face. He tried to speak again, but still, Eddie couldn’t hear a thing. Hand flying upwards, Steve gestured to his own ear, finger tapping it once. 

Eddie shook his head. “Sorry, dude, I–I’ve got nothing.”

On instinct, he reached out a placating hand. Glancing down to see it extended towards him, Steve did the same. Eddie felt his chest clench a little, finding comfort in the thought that even in a moment like this, when they couldn’t hear what the other was saying, they still managed to broach some common ground. 

Their fingertips brushed. A spark ran through Eddie at the touch, seeming almost to infect their surroundings as red lighting suddenly flashed all around them.

Between one blink to the next, Steve disappeared. 

Before he had a chance to cry out, Eddie realized, horror steadily climbed up his throat, that the figure now staring back at him was…himself? 

And not a memory version this time, either. No, this was a living, breathing double. 

His doppelganger’s brow furrowed, head tilting to one side, a bit like a confused puppy.

It was like the sound had been turned on all at once, because when the other Eddie spoke, he could finally hear him.

“Eddie?” his mirror image asked, looking past Eddie, around him, anywhere but directly at him.

If he had ever made it to that shrink Owens recommended, he bet they would have had a field day unpacking whatever this was.

Hands Eddie hadn’t even realized had still been clasped parted, slipping away from each other.

And then, Eddie was sucked back into darkness, feeling adrift as any chance at seeing Steve, his doppelganger, anything and anyone vanished into the distance. He was lost, totally and utterly, and he felt it, every bit of it, the weight crushing in on him as the last dregs of the dream faded away.

—

The next morning, Eddie woke up in Steve Harrington’s bed.

Part 2

He's shirtless. Dozing in the morning light, eyes closed. Skin gold and radiant in the sun, spattered with moles. His waist lean, his shoulders broad, his chest covered in a layer of hair.

Against the railing, Eddie's hand squeezes. Hard.

There's only one person on board that he hasn't met yet.

Which means this man, the most attractive man Eddie has ever seen, the man that's got him frozen and sweating and listening to his own heartbeat thud in his ears, is his captain.

Steve.

Dumbly, he takes a few steps towards him.

And promptly kicks over the tray of dishes he'd deposited by his feet.

Glass clunks and something shatters, and Eddie curses, dropping to his knees and trying to brush it up. What a fucking great first impression, he curses in his head. That glass was probably worth more than a month's salary, you fucking idiot.

There's footsteps. Eddie feels a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck. Great, he's probably coming over here to yell, to tell me I'm fired on day fucking two of this job, to tell me I'm a useless -

"Hey, careful, don't cut yourself on that."

Oh, his voice is soft.

Eddie pauses in his efforts to sweep up the glass in his hands. Swallows thickly, then looks up.

Fuck.

Close up, Steve is even hotter than Eddie had first thought.

Honey-brown eyes, thick tousled hair, jaw square and strong and - and he's squatting down in front of him, gently batting Eddie's hands away from the glass with his much larger ones. "This shit is sharp, we should get some gloves or something."

"Sorry," Eddie splutters. "I kicked it, sort of…forgot I put it there, I was looking at - at the view, at…" He flaps a hand towards the sea. "You can take it out of my wages to replace it, or whatever -"

Steve shakes his head. "No, that's ok. Don't worry, it was just an accident. You're Eddie, right? I'm sorry, I should've come and found you and introduced myself, I figured I'd let you settle in a little first. I'm Steve. Steve Harrington."

A little shakily, Eddie takes the hand offered to him.

It's warm, grip firm but gentle.

"Um….hi," Eddie croaks, kicks himself internally, remembers to snap his mouth closed again.

"Hi," Steve says with a soft chuckle.

Unbidden, Eddie's eyes flick to his.

Steve's eyes are kind, but despite the small smile tugging on his lips, Eddie can see the sadness there.

The captain lets go of his hand and pushes himself to his feet again. "There, think that's most of it. I'll get Lucas to bring the broom up here and make sure there's nothing left. I'll see you around, Eddie." With that, he turns back to the net at the bow, walking away from Eddie.

Eddie's only a man, and apparently a very weak one when it comes to Steve. He can't help but stare at the captain's ass as he walks away - it's not his fault it's hugged so well by his little blue shorts.

Steve's gait is slightly uneven, he notices. A little hitch in his step, like his right leg doesn't quite want to cooperate.

Finally, he drags his attention away. Grabs the rest of the dishes and makes a swift, ungraceful exit from the deck back into the stairwell.

Eddie's leaning against the side of Steve's car, and Steve pins him in place with one hand splayed against his stomach. Eddie's tense, a livewire, and Steve's about to suck the few brain cells Eddie's ever had right out through his dick.

Steve Harrington sucks dick.

Steve Harrington sucks dick like he thinks he might win Olympic gold doing it.

And Eddie has no complaints, thank you very much.

This is an arrangement Eddie feels like he's coming out ahead on. He gets to fuck Steve Harrington. 

Dreams come true, honestly. 

He also gets to tamp down all the feelings he has for Steve, and that's less fun, but manageable. He can be cool. So cool.

"That's it, sweetheart," Eddie whispers, and Steve moans around his cock. Steve likes being called sweetheart, and Steve likes praise. Eddie's happy to give him both. He'd give him anything he wanted, honestly. All he needs to do is say the word.

Steve's mouth is hot and slick against his cock, using so much pressure Eddie's sure he's gonna come before they even get started. 

"You could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch," Eddie blurts out, and Steve laughs, pulling off his cock.

"Well, that's an image," Steve says, bitchily. But the fact that his hand is still stroking Eddie's dick says a lot more than his words. Eddie knows Steve by now. And he's not mad. He's not even annoyed.

He's about to be, though.

Because Eddie is close. Too close. He can't help it if he has a hair-trigger around Steve. He's Steve Harrington. That's understandable. Unfortunately, Steve's mouth isn't on him right now, but he's gonna come anyway.

Eddie covers Steve's hand with his own and aims his cock towards Steve, coming in thick ropes all in Steve's chest hair. 

"Ugh," Steve whines. "Gross."

"What are you complaining about? You're the one that pulled off." 

"Yeah, because you made me!" 

Eddie chuckles, tangling his hand in Steve's hair, tugging. 

"It was hot though," Eddie states. 

Steve scoffs. 

"Oh, it wasn't?" Eddie asks, knowing damn good and well it was.

Steve pulls away, leaning back onto his haunches. He swipes his fingers through the mess Eddie made, then jams his hand down the front of his tight, tight jeans. 

Eddie has no clue how he managed that. Honestly. But Eddie makes a sound of displeasure. 

"What?" Steve asks, knowing exactly what as he works his cock with his hand, now wet with Eddie's come. 

"You could at least let me see," Eddie wheedles, trying to change Steve's mind. 

"Yeah, well, you could have come down my throat like a good boyfriend. Instead, you chose this. Live with it." 

Eddie's brain misfires. The hamster tripped and fell on the wheel, and now he's tumbling along, out of control. 

Well, that's what it feels like anyway.

He reaches forward and pulls Steve's hair again, but Steve uses his free hand to bat Eddie away from his head. 

"Stop, I'm mad at you." 

Eddie whines, and Steve looks at him like he's insane. Maybe he is. 

Feral. 

Low impulse control. 

He shoves Steve backwards, and with his hand jammed down his jeans the way it is, Steve can't do a damn thing about it. 

Eddie gets down, crawling towards him, pressing his mouth to the bulge in Steve's jeans. Mostly hand, he suspects. Steve's got big hands to match his big dick. Still, Eddie licks at him through the rough denim. 

"You're a fucking freak," Steve says. 

Eddie grips Steve's hips, pressing him into the grass. Yeah, he is.

A moan slides from his throat, and Steve keeps moving his hand in his jeans as much as he can, which honestly, isn't a lot. But Eddie keeps mouthing at him, desperate for it. For him. 

Steve called him his boyfriend, and Eddie was under the impression Steve wanted casual. No strings attached. Eddie wants strings, Pinocchio. All the strings he can get. He wants to be so tangled in those puppet strings of Steve's that he'll never be free again.

"What the fuck has gotten into you?" Steve asks, but his free hand cradles the back of Eddie's head, fingers gentle in his hair.

Eddie pulls back. "You."

Steve laughs, beckoning Eddie closer. Eddie follows orders. He can follow orders so good. 

He scoots up Steve's body, pressing his mouth to Steve's. Steve's hand still trapped between them.

Eddie wiggles, shifting his weight until he can get his hand on Steve's fly, working the button, then the zipper. He wants to get his hand on Steve. Needs to.

"Seriously? What's the matter with you?"

"Tonight, or in general?" Eddie asks, fingers finally wrapping around the warm, silky skin of Steve's dick, forcibly shoving Steve's hand aside.

Steve laughs, fingers carding through Eddie's tangled hair as best they can.

Eddie uses his free hand, swipes his fingers through the remaining mess on Steve's chest, and pushes them into Steve's mouth. Giving him what he wanted. Steve sucks, and Eddie finds his eyes, fist still pumping Steve's dick, "You really my boyfriend?"

Steve comes all over his underwear, jeans, and Eddie's fist.

Eddie's gonna take that as a yes. 

"Also hot," Eddie declares, dragging his fingers from Steve's mouth, scraping bottom teeth.

"C'mere," Steve whispers, softer now. Eddie obliges.

Steve's hand cups the side of Eddie's neck, pulling him into a gentle kiss. 

When they separate, Eddie presses his cheek against Steve's, and Steve's crushing him in a hug, arms locked around his back.

"Aren't we boyfriends?" Steve asks, voice far too small.

Eddie's pretty sure he's been dumb about what they are to each other for a while.

"Of course we are, sweetheart."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and @steddieholidaydrabbles to follow along with the fun! 🦇

take me to the river, baby, drink my wine, when i'm going down won't you throw me a line? - Hot Line, Black Sabbath

Steve doesn't look like he's been driving for ten hours. His hair is perfectly gelled, his shirt uncreased. His jeans are tight and must have gotten uncomfortable somewhere around Des Moines, but it's definitely him. Standing in Eddie's hotel room, arms folded, refusing to meet his eye.

"You're in my room," Eddie says pointlessly. "You broke up with me, and you're standing in my room. In Omaha."

"Yes."

"Steve." "Listen, just. Let me talk, okay? Just this once?"

Eddie scoffs. Rich, all things considered. He gestures, and he knows he's mean in his posture, in the sound he makes, because Steve flinches.

"I want to say I'm sorry, but that's probably the wrong thing to say because I meant it all. In that moment, I meant it. You're selfish, and you're too loud, and sometimes you forget that the world doesn't revolve around you, and you make me so fucking angry that I could spit." "Glad you spent ten hours' worth of gas to remind me you hate me."

"That's exactly the fucking problem, Munson," Steve sighs. "If I hated you, I wouldn't have gotten in the car this morning because a robin landed on my windowsill and I couldn't text you the photo." "You're just used to being able to—that doesn't mean anything, Steve! I'm not leaving the band. So I'm still going to leave every other month. I'm still going to be the loud, annoying boy you fell for in high school. We don't owe each other anything." Steve steps forward. His face is desperate; desperate to touch, to be understood, to undo the previous three months. And Eddie knows that's what his face was saying because he knew Steve's face better than his own. Which was entirely the problem.

"You can't," Eddie says. "I can't."

"Eddie, I am sorry. I-I want to go back.”

Steve’s voice cracks on the last word. Tiny thing. Barely there. But Eddie hears it anyway.

Go back.

Like they could rewind the tape and smooth out all the stretched places.

Eddie laughs once, sharp and miserable. “You said you were relieved when I left.”

Steve swallows. “I was.”

That hurts worse than yelling would have.

The room hums with the air conditioner. Somewhere down the hall, ice crashes into a bucket. Eddie can feel his pulse behind his eyes, hot and ugly.

Steve drags a hand through his perfect hair, finally ruining it. “It was quiet,” he says. “You were gone and it was quiet and I could think for the first time in months, and I thought maybe that meant something was wrong with us.”

Eddie stares at the carpet. The mismatched square under the couch.

“And then,” Steve continues carefully, “it stayed quiet.”

Eddie presses his lips together.

“And I started talking out loud because I kept thinking of things to tell you.” Steve gives this awful little laugh. “Like a fucking psycho. A dog stole somebody’s sandwich outside Family Video, and I turned around to make sure you saw it. I bought the wrong cereal because I couldn’t remember which one you hate. Robin asked me if I wanted to go to a movie, and I almost said I had to check with you first.”

“Steve—”

“And every night I kept reaching across the bed.” His voice drops lower. “Every night.”

Eddie closes his eyes.

I'm not better than this, show me what I'm worth.

Because this is the problem. Steve always waits too long to say the real thing, and Eddie always waits around long enough to hear it.

“You said I make you angry,” Eddie says quietly.

“You do.”

“Great.”

“You make me crazy, Eddie.” Steve steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching something wounded. “You leave cabinets open. You forget appointments. You derail every serious conversation with a joke because you hate feeling cornered. You collect people like strays and then act surprised when they need things from you.”

Eddie’s throat tightens.

“And you walk into a room,” Steve says, looking at him now, really looking at him, “and suddenly I can breathe properly again.”

Eddie turns away fast, rubbing at his face. “Don’t.”

“I drove ten hours.”

“That was stupid.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just show up because you miss me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I missed you too!” Eddie laughs helplessly and covers his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You think this has been easy for me? Every city is another thing you’d like. Every diner has pie you’d claim was life-changing. I keep reaching for my phone before I remember you don’t belong to me anymore.”

Steve’s expression folds in on itself.

“I didn’t stop loving you, but I think me loving you is bad for you,” Eddie says.

That one hits Steve clean across the face. His mouth opens. Closes. And Eddie hates himself immediately because there it is. The thing underneath all of it. Steve asking for steadiness, for responsibility, for someone who stayed. Eddie asking for room to still be himself inside the relationship. Both of them clawing at each other hard enough to bleed.

Steve sinks down onto the edge of the bed like his knees gave out.

“I didn’t know you felt like that,” he says softly.

“You never asked.”

“I tried.”

“You managed me.”

Steve flinches again. Finally, he says, “I don’t know how to do this right.”

Eddie huffs a tired laugh. “No kidding.”

“I just know I got halfway to Iowa before I realized I was rehearsing stories for you again.” Steve looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed now. “And I thought maybe if I still wanted to tell you everything, there had to be something worth saving.”

Eddie leans back against the wall because suddenly standing feels difficult.

He looks at Steve. He is exhausted beneath the neatness, held together by pure stubbornness. The man who drove ten hours because of a robin on a windowsill.

Made a thousand people love me, now I'm all alone.

Except not entirely.

Not yet.

“You can stay tonight,” Eddie says at last.

Hope flashes across Steve’s face so fast it almost hurts to see.

Eddie points immediately. “That is not forgiveness.”

“I know.”

“That’s not getting back together.”

Steve nods once. “Okay.”

“And if you steal the blankets, I’m throwing you out into the night.”

A tiny smile tugs at Steve’s mouth. Fragile. Familiar.

“I’d like to see you try, dumbass.”

Eddie stops resisting, but he’s laughing nervously now, writhing on the sheets, while Steve tugs his foot higher, searching for a zipper on his boot. 

“Wait,” Eddie chokes, then laughs again. “You can’t—”

“Watch me,” Steve snaps back, all bitchy because he’s about had it with Eddie’s attitude, and he deserves a stern talking to. Then, finding no zipper on his boot, he starts unlacing it with one hand, the fingers of his other hand still clamped tight around the ankle.

“Jesus, Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters and starts struggling again until Steve has no other option but to climb onto the bed and sit sideways to get a better grip. He tugs Eddie’s leg under his armpit to hold on tight before attacking those laces again. 

“You’re insane, Harrington!”

“And you’re a fucking brat!” Steve spits back. “Could’ve done this yourself and saved both of us the trouble.”

Steve finally gets the laces loose enough to bully off the first shoe, throws it to the ground like the offending piece of footwear it is. Something about that gets Eddie all panicked. He pulls the leg from Steve’s grasp, scrambles up higher on the headboard, and holds out both hands in defense. He’s laughing again, but it’s all high and frantic, like Steve is about to attack him with tickles. 

Which… maybe he should. Tickle Eddie until he can’t breathe anymore. Until all that brattiness is tickled out of him. 

“Next shoe.” Steve crawls forward on his knees and grabs Eddie's leg, which he has pulled up against his front body.

“Steve, you maniac,” Eddie cackles, head falling back into his neck, like all of this is too much for him, but in a way that is highly amusing and highly panic-inducing at the same time. 

Steve tugs hard enough on his ankle that Eddie slides away from the headboard and falls back onto his pillow with a surprised grunt. 

The laces of the second boot are even more stubborn, tied with a double-knot that Steve struggles to loosen with his short nails. It doesn’t help that Eddie starts struggling for real this time, keeps writhing and pulling his leg away, starts thumping a fist against Steve’s back, all while laughing so much that he sounds like he’s seconds away from an asthma attack. When he has the time again, Steve really wants to lecture him about smoking. 

“Hold still!” Steve snaps, frustrated. Eddie does the opposite and starts kicking his leg. Years of wrestling with his friends have given Steve some ideas on how to pin somebody down, so his body acts almost on instinct when he swings his leg over both of Eddie’s, then sinks down on him, clamping Eddie’s legs together with both of his. 

“Holy–” Eddie gasps, kicks his captured legs even harder. “Holy shit, Steve, wait–”

Steve ignores Eddie’s pitiful attempts at tugging on the back of Steve’s shirt and pins Eddie’s shin down into the sheets with one hand, settling harder against Eddie’s upper thighs and lap. Something about that calms Eddie. Although 'calm' may not be the right word. 

Stills him. 

Steve doesn’t care what has gotten Eddie to finally stop resisting, he’s too busy trying to figure out how to get that freaking knot open. 

“Do you ever take off your shoes? Who would wear something that takes hours to untie?”

There’s no answer from behind him, so Steve settles in closer to focus on the upside-down boot, sinks his body down against Eddie’s, knobbly knees poking into Steve’s chest. Only there’s—

“Steve,” Eddie gasps, and then they’re both frozen. Because, because, because…

Eddie is hard. 

And Steve can feel him because he’s fucking pressed the whole entirety of his ass against where Eddie’s filling out and twitching—

That’s it, that’s all the thoughts he has left before his brain shortcuts. 

“Oh, god, oh fuck, I’m sorry,” Eddie groans, but even though he sounds mortified, his hands are pulling on the back of Steve’s shirt like he wants to drag him closer. 

“It’s–” Fine, Steve doesn’t manage to say. He’s not sure if it is fine. He should probably get up. Make some kind of awkward joke about the situation, or even better, pretend this never happened. 

But he’s also a man on a mission, and the shoe is still on Eddie’s foot. 

So, instead of doing any of the sensible things, he attacks the knot with renewed vigor, manages to get it open eventually, and continues on with loosening the laces. 

Eddie is making a sound behind him that Steve interprets as confusion and acute arousal. A sound that makes Steve nearly moan in return. 

There’s something about this, some part of him that he’s never wanted to analyze too closely before. Not the part about him not minding feeling a hard dick pressed against his butt, he’s got that figured out years ago, but the part about it being Eddie Munson’s hard dick. 

Because, for all his annoying habits and bratty behavior, Eddie is also really fucking hot. In that anarchic fuck-conformity kind of way that Steve has never thought he would be into, but apparently, based on his body’s reaction to this whole situation here, and the blood that is flowing fast and hard into his own dick, he very much is. 

If he’s completely honest with himself, and there’s not really any reason not to be, this is not the first time he's thought that Eddie is attractive. For a metalhead. He’s got these huge fuck-me eyes and dimples when he smiles, after all. If only he weren’t such a little shithead all the time.

And so, instead of going by his first instinct to scurry away and pretend this never happened, he settles in and pushes his hips down. Eddie’s hands clamp down on him, ringed fingers pressed next to his hipbones through his jeans so hard Steve thinks they might leave an imprint. 

“Steve,” he growls, sounds close to losing it. “What. The. Fuck.”

Steve pulls off Eddie’s boot instead of providing an answer and throws it over the edge of the bed with the first one. The thump is final and deafening. 

Not having any excuse for the position he’s in any longer, Steve hesitates. Wonders if he took this too far, if Eddie’s not just freaking out because Steve made him hard, but because he never wanted to get hard under these circumstances—under Steve. 

Eddie’s hands disappear from Steve’s hips, and Steve gets the compulsive urge to look at Eddie. He lifts himself up enough to be able to turn around, hovers over Eddie’s lap this time, knees digging deep into the mattress beside Eddie’s hips. 

But Eddie isn’t looking at him. Eddie is hiding his face below both of his arms, only the flushed lower half of his face on display. 

“Eddie?” 

Eddie shakes his head, keeps his arms where they are.

“You want—” Steve considers how to ask his many questions, his stomach churning nervously at the idea that Eddie might reject him. “Should I get off?”

That finally gets Eddie to lift his arms long enough that Steve can catch a glimpse of the rest of his face. Those wide, frightened eyes, the cute blush in his cheeks. Then he’s hiding again. As if he just had to convince himself that it’s really Steve on top of him, really Steve asking that question. He shakes his head again, and Steve lowers himself onto his lap. 

“Steve,” Eddie whines, actually full-on whines. “Is this punishment? Because if it is, you should know—”

“It’s whatever you want this to be,” Steve interrupts him. “What do you want this to be?”

Eddie swallows heavily, and Steve tracks the movement with his eyes, still wanting to dig his teeth into Eddie, but for different reasons now. 

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

“You’re dreaming of me often?”

“Fuck, you’ve got no idea, Steve.”

Steve’s chest sparkles. 

But then Eddie continues, “I know you hate me—”

“I don’t hate you,” Steve cuts in. “You’re a bratty little shit, but I guess that’s part of your charm.”

“Only because it’s so easy to rile you up,” Eddie groans. “You’ve got no idea how cute you look with your hands on your hips and that exasperated look—” Eddie cuts himself off and takes a startled breath. “Oh, fuck, never mind. Ignore me. I’m clearly losing my mind.”

But for Steve, this is as good as any confession he’s going to get out of Eddie. 

“Hey,” he says, all stern and fake-annoyed. “You shouldn’t sleep in your jewelry. Take your rings off.”

Eddie hesitates, and Steve holds himself very still. If Eddie wants to end this here, then Steve will leave him be. Never speak of this again. They can pretend to be reluctant friends for the rest of the weekend, going back to being nothing but casual acquaintances in Hawkins. Steve only hopes that Eddie will continue to pick up a new movie from Family Video, just as he has before. Bickering with him is kind of the whole highlight of Steve’s week.

Yeah, maybe he should get that in writing. I, Eddie Munson, will visit Family Video every Thursday night for as long as I shall live. 

Not that Steve’s planning to work there for the rest of his life. He’s actually been taking night classes for a while, working on changing his career to something in a more social sector eventually. But it’s about the principle of things. About wanting Eddie to be part of his life, no matter how infuriating he is. For the lack of a better thought-out metaphor (because Steve’s never been good at poetry and shit), Eddie’s like the hot sauce on the otherwise incredibly bland meal that has become his life ever since everybody’s moved out of Hawkins. 

So, Steve can’t fuck this up. He needs Eddie to want this as much as him.

“Eddie?”

Finally, after what feels like a freaking eternity, Eddie offers one of his hands to Steve. 

“You want me to do it for you?” Steve asks, catches his hand in his.

Eddie nods, bites down on his lower lip. Steve sinks down on Eddie’s lap until he can feel Eddie press against him again, even through both layers of jeans. The movement also seems to punch all the air out of Eddie’s lungs, his eyes growing even bigger before he hides them under his other arm again. Like he still can’t believe this is happening. Needs to hide how much he wants this to happen.

Steve twists the smallest, least offending ring around Eddie’s ring finger, a simple silver band. It comes off easily enough, but Steve still takes his time, thinks there’s something about it, a reverse of something he would want to do to Eddie years from now on, then his brain whites out like a TV during a thunderstorm.  

Only static. 

“Eddie,” Steve whispers, doesn’t know what he wants to say, only knows that the pressure behind his ribcage is demanding he does say something while he tugs down the second ring from the middle finger. Eddie moves his arm enough that one eye peeks out from beneath it, so many questions written in that one cautious glance. 

“Is that really it? You annoy me because you like how I look when I get pissed off?”

Steve curls his fist around the recently freed rings and tugs on Eddie’s arm with his other hand, pulling it down until he can slide off one of the more obscene rings. The one with the skulls first. Eddie switches arms and hides again, chews on his lower lip. 

“You’re not gonna give me an answer, Munson?” Steve asks, tugs a little rougher on the next ring when it gets stuck around the knuckle. 

Eddie sighs, presses his arm tighter against his eyes. “I’m not always good at…” He hums. “Engaging. I don’t mean to say half the shit I say when I see you. It’s just like I said, easier to rile you up than to have a normal conversation.”

“And… you want to have normal conversations with me?”

“Well, maybe not normal conversations.”

“So abnormal conversations?”

“No, fuck, just conversations, okay? I want to talk to you.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Well, I’m trying, aren’t I? Nobody watches the same stupid movies as much as I do, right? You must see that in your little computer, see how many times I’ve rented out The Thing in the last year alone because I already watched everything else you’ve got in the horror section.”

Steve’s entire body starts humming at that. But it’s not enough; he needs more concrete proof.

“So, you rent out The Thing because you want to talk to me. And you want to talk to me because…”

“Because.”

“Because?”

Eddie flaps his arm to the bed hard enough that the mattress bounces. “Because I’m really into you, Steve, and apparently that makes me incapable of talking to you without putting my foot in my mouth. So, I try again and again, hoping for a better outcome, alright?”

Steve’s just about to pull off the last ring when the confession hits him square on the head, and his brain loses all ability to think again. He sits there with the weight of all of Eddie’s silver rings in his palms, the weight of his words on his chest. Gapes. Until Eddie cringes away and hides his face beneath his arms again. 

“Dear universe,” he mutters, “if you could just drop a meteor on me right the fuck now…”

“That would kill me, too,” Steve says stupidly. 

Eddie sets his jaw in return, turns even redder in the face under the flickering light of the TV and the shallow glimmer of the lamp from Steve’s bedside table. 

“And then I would have to hunt you down in the afterlife. Demand you just have one normal conversation with me without trying to piss me off, even if it takes us all of eternity to get there.”

“Steve.”

Steve wants to say ‘Eddie’ and bitch back at him for being such an idiot, but he can sense the distress in Eddie, and it’s not the cute kind. 

So, Steve does the one thing he can do better than talking. Because he’s also not the best at conversations, but there’s one language that he speaks almost fluently. And so he leans forward, one hand digging deep into the pillow below Eddie’s head, the other carefully releasing the collection of warm metal from his hand until they spill onto the bedside table.

He can feel Eddie’s warm and misty breath against the little triangle between his collarbones as he makes sure the rings don’t roll off the table, and feels him twitch at the sound of metal on wood. When Steve is satisfied that all of Eddie’s rings are safe, he leans back, brackets Eddie’s head with both of his palms. 

Despite all the anxious energy he’s emitting and the tension in his body, Eddie’s also still hard against Steve. Which Steve decides to take as a compliment. He doesn’t ask Eddie to look at him, doesn’t pry the arms away from his forehead. Instead, he turns his head enough that he can get closer to Eddie’s mouth, close enough that their lips brush. Feels Eddie take a shaky breath. 

Steve’s forehead is uncomfortably squashed against Eddie’s forearm, but it gets the message across when Steve pushes in that last inch and lingers there. Perhaps the most awkward kiss of his life. Perhaps the best. Eddie’s shaking below him, shaking, like he’s a loose threat unraveling on a roughly knit sweater (and ha! Steve can do metaphors after all if he gets inspired). 

And then Eddie kisses back. Hesitantly at first, and honestly, there’s not much room to do anything else in this position, but there’s finally some pressure against Steve’s lips, and the simple act of reciprocation is more than just a flutter in his chest. It’s a big fucking bang.

It makes him greedy. Greedier than the situation might warrant, and he flicks his tongue out, just once, just to taste Eddie’s lips, before getting annoyed by the arm in his way and shoving against it. He wants to deepen the kiss, wants to see Eddie’s expression afterwards, doesn’t want to play this weird version of peek-a-boo any longer. 

So, he drags the arm up and away, squishes it between the crown of Eddie’s head and the headboard before weaving his fingers through Eddie’s. Eddie’s hand is cold, and the sensation of those long, ringless fingers against his own is enough distraction that Steve needs to dislodge their kiss.

Eddie has lifted his other arm away on his own volition, hand hovering next to Steve’s face like he wants to pull him in again, and Steve can finally look at him, see the surprise in his eyes, the yearning. 

And, God, Steve’s never been able to resist a good pining about his person. Perhaps that makes him arrogant or narcistic (or whatever that word is that Robin uses when Steve’s taking too much time fixing his hair in the mirror), but yes, he wants to be wanted. So, freaking what? Sue him. 

It helps, of course, that being wanted by one Eddie Munson seems as implausible as it is flattering. Who would’ve thought that he could turn a metalhead’s head? That anti-establishment Munson is into jocks and polo shirts, after all? The thought almost makes Steve snicker. 

He doesn’t laugh because Eddie still looks fucking spooked underneath all that want, looks seconds away from either punching Steve in the face or bolting. Steve squeezes his fingers tighter around Eddie’s, touches nose against nose, hoping it can convey what he doesn’t know how to put into words. 

“If this is a practical joke on my behalf, I need you to stop right the fuck now, Harrington.” The words come out all rough and threatening, but the aggression in them belies a simple truth: Eddie’s freaking out. 

“What kind of stupid joke would that be?” Steve asks with a frown, can’t help but wonder if Eddie’s been on the receiving end of such cruelty before. 

“So, not a joke,” Eddie muses, nods to himself. “Then you’re curious? Wanna see what all the fuss about gay sex is about?”

“Are we doing that tonight?” Steve asks, knowing his face is lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Gay sex?”

Eddie thumps his head back with a groan, the pillow below him too soft for what was probably intended for dramatic effect. “Steve, can you just spell the fuck out what’s actually going on right now? Ever since you’ve climbed on my bed with me, I think I’ve been losing half my brain cells. I don’t get what is happening, I don’t understand—”

“I like that you like me.”

And well, that’s perhaps not what he wanted to get across, and based on Eddie’s frown, it’s not conceived the way it was meant, either. 

“I like that you like me, because, well, I suppose anybody would if the person they’ve been crushing on for years, finally decided to stop being a dick about it.”

Eddie barks a laugh as if he’s never heard anything more ridiculous in his life. “You’ve been crushing on me? For years?”

“Well.” Steve shrugs. “I don’t think I knew that’s what it was, but— I would check the clock. Every Thursday after three pm, every five minutes. Hell, that’s a lie. Probably every thirty seconds. Maybe more. I would check the clock to see how long I’d have to wait for you to show up.”

Eddie’s still looking incredulous, but Steve doesn’t let that deter him. 

“And I told myself it’s because I was bracing myself. Because I knew you would say something that would agitate me. And I was preparing myself, mentally, to beat you this time. To come up with something to say in return, even if I knew I could never be as witty or clever as you. But I wanted to– to make you laugh.”

Eddie shakes his head and says, “Harrington,” in a voice that sounds all disappointed and confused, so Steve doubles down.

“So, yes, I thought I was counting down the minutes because I was already dreading the moment you stepped through the door, but the few Thursdays you didn’t come, well, it doesn’t make any sense, does it? If I hated seeing you so much, why did I get that sinking feeling in my stomach when you didn’t show up? Why was I grumpy for days afterwards, to the point that Robin didn’t want to talk to me on the phone anymore? Why did I get so anxious you might not turn up the week after either?”

That finally gets Eddie to soften, those brown eyes large enough they overtake almost his entire face while they blink up at Steve. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen eyes as fascinating in his life. Says so, rubs his thumb along Eddie’s hand where their fingers are still tangled above his head. 

“Did I spell that out well enough? I know I’m not the best at explaining concepts, but— Do you need something else as proof?”

“I don’t need proof, Steve,” Eddie says quietly, sounds disappointed again, but this time in himself. “Just— Come here.” He lifts his chin, and that’s all the invitation that Steve needs to kiss him again. 

Steve knows how to kiss. Wishes college applications had taken that into account instead of all the other useless skills like math or writing essays. He knows that a kiss should start slow, build tension, tease what’s to come. Steve’s never kissed a man sober, though. All his previous attempts have taken place at that club Robin drags him to whenever he visits her. Under strobe lights, in the crush of other bodies, with too much vodka in his system. Not much anticipation to be built under those circumstances.

So, perhaps Steve doesn’t know how to kiss a man when it means something. And that’s why he’s stuck between two competing impulses: to take it slow, to brush back Eddie’s hair behind his ear and not give him more tongue than he’s ready for, or to do the exact opposite and just take everything he wants from him until they’re both scrubbed raw from stubble burn and can barely breathe anymore. 

Luckily, Eddie doesn’t seem to have any of such concerns, because he leans into the confusingly light pressure of their lips with a groan, tilts his head and opens his lips until Steve follows his guidance and oh, fuck the first lick of Eddie’s warm, smooth tongue into his mouth lights up every cell in Steve’s body, fingers tightening around Eddie’s. 

Eddie still tastes like those chips, which should be disgusting, but somehow isn’t because that’s just Eddie never making things easy for Steve. There are many things that should repel Steve on paper, based on who he was and who some people still think he is. Eddie’s taste in music, those tattoos, that frizzy hair, all the nerdy nonsense that spills from his lips, the constant smoking. 

Things that should repel him, like a magnet with the opposite pole. Or the same? Whatever, Steve doesn’t want to think about science class. What he means to think about, while sliding his tongue deep against Eddie’s, is that all his preferences have been turned on their head, and everything that used to feel like the opposite of him is now attracting him somehow.

Like the acidic taste of salt on Eddie’s tongue, the feeling of his callouses where he rubs his fingers into the back of Steve’s hand, the rough tug on Steve’s hair (which Steve’s very particular about being touched in general) when Eddie wants him to change the angle.

And, yes, alright, maybe there is a middle ground in kissing, because even though they’re kissing each other deep enough, he can feel Eddie’s stubble against his own, there’s also a languidness about it, their tongues sliding together slowly, the rub of it almost… gentle. 

There’s something else to be said about this way of kissing, so close and hot that really gets to Steve, that has his knees buckle, that sparks along his spine like electric shocks. 

Somehow, distantly, like he's not even in the same room, he hears the little sounds he makes beneath the muted chatter of their TV. Unthinking rumbles and desperate drags of air through his nose that Eddie echoes with his own gruff hums and heavy breathing, and yeah, that’s just… yeah. 

And when Steve stretches out, so that he can fit his body along Eddie’s, that’s very close to fuck yeah. They’re the same height, so their chests are in perfect alignment, hips against hips, their cocks pressed alongside each other through their jeans. Steve’s never been harder in his life, straining against his zipper in a way that hurts, wonders if this is the hardest he can get Eddie to be, too. 

Eddie’s legs fall open around him, letting Steve settle between them. The wet meeting of their mouths grows louder in his ears, is almost as deafening now as his own heartbeat, and he feels himself melt into the sensation, melt into Eddie, as if all his bones have liquified.  

“Yeah,” Eddie gasps the first time they separate for a desperate drag of air into lungs, echoing Steve’s thoughts. “Fuck, Steve, yeah. Just like that.”

And then they’re kissing again, Eddie tugging his hand out of Steve’s grasp to cradle his head in both of his palms, the skin against Steve’s overheated cheeks cool and soothing. Steve’s mouth feels slick, his lips are throbbing, his tongue so deep in Eddie’s mouth that he remembers that stupid warning Tommy had given him years ago, before he kissed Claudia Dunster for the first time.

Never use too much tongue. They hate that. Instant turnoff.

Steve knows how to tease, and maybe one day he can use those skills on Eddie, but tonight he wants this, wants too much tongue and too much Eddie, wants him so deep and whole and differently than he’s ever wanted anybody before. Nothing turnoff about this, Steve thinks manically, sinks against Eddie with a heavy, unhurried roll of his hips, the kind of movement he normally reserves for being balls-deep into someone. 

The reaction he gets is instant. Eddie’s fingers dig hard into his skull, a pained noise escaping him and rumbling against Steve’s tongue and mouth, one of his legs curling around one of Steve’s, Eddie’s heel tugging around his shin, keeping him close, pressing himself closer. 

Steve settles into a flow, circling his hips against Eddie’s, much less pressure than on the first roll, but continuous, mimicking what he’d love to do to Eddie after pushing inside him the first time. Something about that must really get Eddie going because next thing Steve knows, both of his hands land on Steve’s ass, palming him through his jeans, fingers digging deep. 

Steve probably shouldn’t be surprised that Eddie catches his rhythm instantly, considering he’s a musician. He guides Steve against him harder, but at the same pace, massaging his fingers deep into his flesh until it’s Steve who has to break the kiss to gasp for air. 

Nobody has ever grabbed Steve there with such bruising force, like they’re going crazy with how much they want him. Even those few make-out attempts at the club have mostly stayed above Steve’s waist (and never lasted more than a few minutes). Not that he ever wanted any of these men to touch him like this or take him home, because—

Oh. 

“Oh?” Eddie asks, pupils all blown up, his hands slipping a bit lower, squeezing Steve’s ass hard through his jeans. Steve’s hips stutter as realization floods him. 

I think I wanted you much more and for much longer than I even realized, he thinks, but doesn’t say. He’s been told too many times to count that he’s clingy, doesn’t want to overwhelm Eddie with his urge to make romantic declarations.  

“Oh, fuck, Eddie,” he says instead and collapses against him, head tucked into his shoulder until he can smell Eddie’s body wash, the hint of nicotine still clinging to his clothes. 

“Yeah?” Eddie breathes, drags Steve forward and back against him to his own rhythm now until it’s bordering on too much, the chafing from their jeans surely something they’ll regret tomorrow. “You like that, baby?”

Steve nods because all words have flown from his head at the pet name. He lets Eddie manhandle him into a heavy grind, pleasure surging through him until he feels blind and mute with it, until he’s concerned for one frantic moment that he might spill in his pants like a teenager. 

And then Eddie shifts his right hand and slips it even lower, his middle finger pushing between his cheeks and digging deep into Steve through his pants right where—

Steve lets out a garbled sound as the pressure registers in his mind, his hips bucking hard against Eddie’s, teeth sinking into Eddie’s shoulder through his Black Sabbath shirt. 

“Yeah?” Eddie asks again, eager.

“Yeah,” Steve gasps muffled against the fabric, because that’s the only word still in his head. Everything Eddie does to him is a yeah. Even those things, he’s never done before. The places he’s never been touched in. 

“Have you ever—” Eddie pants, doesn’t finish the question, but Steve can still hear it and shakes his head. “Would you want to? Not tonight, obviously, but… one day?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies, and takes it upon himself to thrust against Eddie again. “Anything, Ed, anything you want.”

Eddie laughs, sounds delirious. A moment later, he’s pushing Steve’s hips up with one hand, the other finding the button of his jeans and flicking it open with expert precision. Steve wakes from his daze when his zipper is being pulled down and scrambles into a one-armed plank to do the same with Eddie’s jeans with his free hand, unbuttons him as quickly as he can, then drags the zipper down. They pull on each other's pants and kick them down their legs until eventually they land on a heap on the floor together with Eddie’s shoes. 

Steve barely has time to register how their underwear is almost a representation of themselves—Eddie in black boxers with little skulls printed on them and Steve in his navy briefs—before they move to slot together again as they have before: Mouth against panting mouth, chest against heaving chest, their cocks pressed against each other, Eddie’s legs framing Steve’s hips. 

Without the chafing pressure of jeans and zippers and buttons, the grind of skin, thin hairs, and cotton is almost soft in comparison, the shapes of their cocks much more pronounced. This way, Steve can also feel the wet spot on Eddie’s boxers soaking into his briefs, and Steve doesn’t know why, but that might just be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him—knowing that Eddie wants him this much, knowing that he did that to Eddie with nothing more than a little dry-humping. 

Any arrogance is lost the moment Eddie’s hand returns to Steve’s ass, sliding low before cupping him through his briefs the way Steve has done to girls before, fingers curled tight against his taint. Steve groans into the kiss, sensations sparking all along his spine, the pressure in his groin bordering on too intense for him to endure. 

He pulls away, stares at Eddie with wide eyes, and sees the edge of a teasing smirk on his face. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to Steve. Keeping his eyes trained on Steve’s, Eddie tilts his head a little to the side, his smile growing, the fingers sliding higher, higher until he’s pressing against Steve’s rim again, presses one of them deeper, just a teasing first dip inside through his underwear, enough for Steve’s eyes to close and brows to furrow, for a loud moan to vibrate in the space between them.

“Oh, baby,” Eddie croons, voice thick with arousal. “You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you?”

Steve’s arms give in, and he lands face-first in the pillow beside Eddie’s head. He tilts his head to the side until he’s buried it into Eddie’s hair, breathing heavily against his ear, knowing that Eddie will hear even the smallest reaction to his touch this way. 

Steve’s never thought about being fucked before; all his fantasies about a faceless, but lean and pale man with a teasing smirk (yes, the truth is not lost on him now), had been about being the one doing the fucking. But he can’t deny the allure of being the one on the receiving end, of how unbelievably horny the pressure of Eddie’s fingers makes him, horny enough he’s thrusting forward against Eddie’s cock and back against his finger as if on autopilot, any rhythm or attempt at deliberation lost. 

Steve wants. Wants to feel, wants to give up, give in, wants to be Steve without expectations, Steve without borders. He’s not sure he’s ever allowed himself the total loss of control, and isn’t that ironic? That the man who can get Steve’s blood boiling with a few words can also make him feel so… safe?

Eddie’s fingers are rubbing against him harder now, the second palm coming down to Steve’s ass again as well, cupping him, thumb digging into Steve’s flexing muscle, calming his frantic thrusts, and guiding him into something more intentional. Steve moans, feels crazy with how turned on he is. He wants to rub against Eddie like a cat, crawl into his skin, bury himself deep, so deep that Eddie will never get him out again. 

Steve settles for burying deeper into Eddie’s hair, lips pressed against the shell of his ear as he presses out through clenched teeth and burning lungs, “Would you let me fuck you, too?” 

“Oh, fuck, yeah, of course, Stevie,” Eddie groans, the hand on his ass gripping hard enough that Steve wouldn’t be surprised if he found purple imprints there tomorrow morning. “But only after I’ve shown you how to make it really good.” 

He presses his finger deeper against Steve again, the tip of it dipping inside. Precum spurts from Steve’s cock in return, his wet spot much more pronounced now than Eddie’s. 

“God, I want that,” Steve slurs. “Show me now?”

“We can’t,” Eddie bemoans, sounding just as regretful as Steve feels. “Not without lube and condoms.”

Steve groans, hating himself a little for not thinking to pack either. 

“But I could tell you in theory, tell you what I’d do to you,” Eddie adds, sounding just as breathless as Steve feels. His hand on Steve’s ass is rocking him forward against his cock and backwards against his fingers in rapid little bursts that have stars explode behind Steve’s eyelids. 

He nods frantically. “Tell me.”

“Jesus, Steve,” Eddie moans, nuzzling against Steve’s temple. “Okay, baby, let me–” He doesn't finish the sentence but digs in a finger until he's pressing inside Steve again, curls it just so until Steve wants to claw on his own skin before the pleasure comes bursting out of him. 

“First, I’d have to open you up, get you all wet and ready for me. I would take my time with you, make you writhe on my fingers, find that spot inside you that will make you go wild, wait until you’d start begging me for more.”

“Fuck,” Steve hisses in response. He’s close now, feels the pressure in his lower back, like an ache behind his teeth, balls drawing tighter where they rub against Eddie’s.

“I’d put you on your knees, arms above your head, front pressed to the mattress. Fuck, Steve, you’d look so good all stretched out before me, all bronze skin and scars and moles, so fucking pretty for me when I finally push inside of you.”

“Eddie, Jesus,” Steve whines against his ear, toes curling, “I can’t– I’m so close.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, sounds gone, too. “Yeah, fuck, c’mon.”

Eddie stops talking, rocks Steve harder against him, thrusts the pads of his fingers against Steve’s rim, pushing inside again and again as deep as he can go through Steve's briefs. They’re both panting and trading moans back and forth, and Steve’s glad the TV is still on, hopes it’s enough to drown them out. Eddie meets Steve’s rolling hips with his own, throws his head back into the pillow, and groans, long and guttural. 

“I’m going to— Ed, I’m—”

“Fuck, Steve, me too. So close. You’re so fucking hot, baby. So good. I can’t believe I’m allowed to have you like this.”

And that’s it, that’s all Steve can take. Steve yanks the collar of Eddie’s shirt out of the way and latches his mouth on the skin of his shoulder, the taste of salt and soap exploding on his tongue just as his brain whites out. The pleasure wrecks through him like he’s being hit by a truck, sharp and blinding, spills out of him in long ropes, and near unending muffled moans, makes a wet mess of his briefs and Eddie's shoulder where he's got his mouth pressed, teeth sinking into skin. 

Steve's still riding the tail end of that insane orgasm when he comes back to his body and realizes that Eddie's gripping both of his thighs right below his ass, dragging Steve forward while rutting against him so hard and quick the bed starts squeaking. 

Pushing himself up on his elbow, Steve watches Eddie in those last throes of passion, his head tipped back, nose scrunched up, panting mouth open and shaped like an ‘O’ as if he still can’t believe this is happening. And damn if that doesn’t make Steve swoon a little.

Steve tilts his hips down with a hiss, ignoring the sting of his oversensitive cock for the sake of watching Eddie’s face scrunch up in pleasure, then leans up higher and catches his gaping mouth with his, swallows that last punched out grunt from Eddie’s lips, licks inside his mouth, and feels the vibration of his moans when his thighs come up to curl around Steve’s lower back and even more wetness spills between them. 

They keep kissing afterwards, ignoring the chatter of the true crime show for the most part, their hands tangled in each other's hair and sliding underneath the shirts they’re still wearing, until the narrator's voice booms, “In the end, it was his shoes that gave him away.”

Steve collapses against Eddie in a giggle fit, ignoring Eddie’s peeved protests. 

They’re only two hours away from Dustin’s campus now, driving along a country road. Steve’s got one hand curled around Eddie’s thigh, rubbing his thumb into Eddie’s jeans.

Eddie’s elbow is resting on the edge of the rolled-down window, sleeves pulled up, bat tattoos on display, silver rings glimmering in the low sunlight. He’s put his hair into a messy bun after the shower they took together last night. A few errant strands and tiny ringlets have escaped his hair tie, whipping across his face. 

It’s hard not to glance at Eddie when he looks like that. Happy and wild and beautiful. It’s why Steve looks over again now, only to find one of his boots propped up against the glove box.

“Eddie! Take your fucking shoe down!”

Eddie grins. That impish grin that Steve knows so well, it really shouldn’t make his stomach swoop the way it does. Again. 

“Eddie,” Steve warns, pressing his thumb deeper into his thigh. “Don’t make me do it for you.”

“Yeah?” Eddie laughs. “Big bad Stevie is gonna come over here and push my foot down?”

Steve looks between Eddie and the road, thinks he’s going to have a stroke. Or a boner. It’s a coin toss at this point. 

Making sure there are no cars behind him, Steve swerves the car onto the shoulder and hits the brakes. 

As soon as the car has stopped, Steve leans over, curls both of his palms in the collar of Eddie’s shirt, and drags him over the middle console until his foot falls from the glove box. 

Eddie is still grinning, but his eyes are wide in shock before Steve leans in and kisses the last bit of brattiness out of him. 

Eddie runs out the front door of the convenience store, and when he gets to the car, he grabs the fuel nozzle, yanking it out the car, slamming it back down on the cradle. 

Tommy Fucking Hagan spins around to look at the noise Eddie's caused.

"What the fuck, man?" Hagan asks, like he can't see the diesel spill. Can't smell it.

Eddie waves his arms, motioning to the huge, dark mess Hagan’s just made by not paying any fucking attention to his surroundings. He must be dumber than Harrington. He's definitely meaner. Eddie knows that firsthand.

"Can you not read? Do. Not. Leave. Vehicle. Unattended," Eddie says slowly, pointing at the sign, like Hagan's an idiot. Because he is an idiot. Eddie knows that, without a doubt. 

"It wasn’t unattended, you freak, I’m right here," Hagan says, looking at Eddie like he’s the idiot here. No fucking way.

Eddie waves at the mess one more time, "Sure looks like it was unattended."

Steve Harrington comes out of the store, and is just standing there like a slack-jawed fool, watching it all play out. 

Eddie looks at the dispenser, "That’ll be $14.15."

Tommy scoffs, "This car doesn’t hold that much, so unless the price of diesel has suddenly risen to over a dollar, then you’ve lost your goddamn mind, Munson. I knew you were a burnout, but that’s basic math."

Eddie narrows his eyes, "Well, that price accounts for the two or so gallons you ran out all over the ground."

Two gallons of fuel is a pretty big mess. Especially diesel. It doesn't evaporate like gas. And he's gonna have to clean this up, so that's on Hagan for not paying attention to what the fuck he was doing.

"No way."

"You pumped it, you’ll pay for it," Eddie snaps. He's not taking this out of his paycheck. No fucking way. 

"C’mon, just pay him," King Steve says, and Hagan rolls his eyes, but throws two bills, a ten and a five, at Eddie. Of course, they blow in separate directions. Fucker.

Eddie picks them up, and stomps back towards the store.

"I want my change!" Hagan yells, and Eddie turns around, walking backwards towards the door.

"Then you’ll have to come get it, this isn’t a full service station, sorry," Eddie says, and isn’t sorry at all. 

Hagan comes in for his eighty-five cents, and as soon as he leaves with it, Eddie checks the supply closet for the absorbent. Of course, all they’ve left him with is an empty sack, so he heads over the household aisle and grabs the clay cat litter. Uncle Wayne uses it at home to soak up oil spills, so Eddie knows it’ll do in a pinch. 

Eddie carries it outside in time to see Hagan driving through the diesel mess as he leaves, spreading it further. Eddie groans, and barely resists the urge to flip-off the car as it pulls onto the highway.

Eddie instead sprinkles the cat litter over the spill, trying to prevent it from running any further. Mr. Fairmont is going to be pissy with the stain already, and Eddie doesn’t want to make it worse by letting cars track it all over the fucking drive. 

As much as he hates it, he needs this goddamn job.

Steve

Steve looks out the back glass as Eddie Munson shakes out cat litter all over the spill. Huh. Steve had wondered how Munson was going to clean that up. Steve doesn't think diesel evaporates, like gasoline. 

Tommy is bitching about the extra money, and Steve is pretty sure Munson was in the right. You don't get to not pay, just because you spilled it. Tommy pumped it, even if it was out onto the ground. But Steve's not about to open that can of worms, so he just nods along. Going with the flow. 

That's the easiest thing to do, Steve learned that a long, long time ago.

"He's a fucking freak. Rumor has it he's not going to graduate this year. Just what we need, him in our class," Tommy says, stomping down on the gas pedal.

Is it still a gas pedal if the car runs on diesel? Steve's not really sure. 

The school year is barely underway, how the fuck could Munson already be is such bad shape that that he might not graduate in May? 

And if that's true, how would Tommy know about it? They don't exactly run in the same circles.

It doesn't matter, Steve supposes. 

Eddie

They are ships passing in the night these days, Uncle Wayne and him. So, Eddie scribbles Wayne a note, doodling on it as he sits at the kitchen counter and eats a bowl of cereal. 

He's not sure the last time they've actually seen each other. All they have for showing proof of life are these notes they leave on the counter, back and forth, and the mess of dirty dishes in the sink that neither of them have found the gumption to wash quite yet.

Today, Wayne left him twenty dollars with his note and asked Eddie to buy groceries if he has time tomorrow. 

Eddie will make time, even if he has to go late.

And late it was. The place is practically deserted as Eddie walks through the Big Buy, and tries to stretch the money as far as he can. He stands in front of the peanut butter choices, and squats down to get a generic jar from the bottom shelf. It's just as good, he thinks. Or maybe he's just not used to the name brand stuff. 

Either way, with the difference in cost, it will definitely do just fine. Wayne won't care one way or the other.

Eddie hopes he's just about done growing. Neither him, nor Wayne, had been prepared for the amount of food he would consume throughout his teen years. It's like he's always hungry.

Wayne always says he has a hollow leg, without judgment.

But when Eddie asked Wayne why he didn't remember eating nonstop when he was a teenager, it didn't take much of his hedging for Eddie to understand that Wayne, and Eddie's dad, had likely just gone hungry a lot. Maybe that's why neither one of them turned out very tall. 

Eddie's already taller, and he's been hungry since he's been with Wayne. Eddie's still thin, and he could probably eat twice as much as he does, but he's not truly hungry. Wayne's never allowed it to get to that point.

Still, Eddie looks at the price and adds it to his running total on the calculator on his watch. And his dumbass teachers said he wouldn't have a calculator in his pocket while they were struggling to teach him math. Well, he might not have one in his pocket, but one on his wrist is just as helpful. 

He stands back up, and there's Steve Harrington pushing a cart in his direction. Just his luck. He figured Harrington had a maid to do his shopping, or at the very least, a mom. 

Steve has always looked like a mama's boy. Not a hair out of place. Pleated khakis and polo shirts.

Eddie watches him out of the corner of his eye. Harrington's not paying any attention to prices, and doesn't even appear to have a list. He's just adding stuff to his cart all willy-nilly, like an animal. 

Two different kinds of jelly at once. That's how the rich live, he guesses. 

Eddie looks back at his remaining list:

Pretzels, bread, milk, eggs, bacon. Rice and beans. Some kind of cheap lunch meat. Imitation cheese-like slices. 

He's not sure he's going to be able to stretch twenty dollars into all this, but he has some of his own money he can pitch in and just not tell Wayne. He knows Wayne doesn't want him helping with household expenses, but he can. He's old enough to help. 

Plus, he's the one eating like a horse. 

"Did you get it cleaned up?"

Eddie is working over his list in his head, like it's a puzzle when he realizes Steve must be talking to him. They are the only two people in this place.

Looking up, Eddie furrows his brow, "Are you talking to me?"

Steve is staring at him. "Well. Yeah. The diesel. Did you get it cleaned up?"

Oh. Yeah. He did.

"Yeah, I guess. Still stained the concrete."

Steve nods, "Sorry 'bout that."

Eddie nods, taking his apology. Whatever. It's just part of his shitty ass job. 

Steve pushes his cart away, and Eddie continues to carefully pick and choose around the store. When he checks out, Steve Harrington is in front of him. Of course he is. 

Two people in the store, and there's a line. 

Steve sees Eddie, and smiles, just a little, but Eddie doesn't return the gesture. He doesn't need to be pitied by Steve Harrington in the fucking Big Buy checkout line. When Eddie doesn't smile back, Steve turns and hands over an amount of money that Eddie wishes he had in his wallet. And the fact that it was basically all used for junk food, is astounding. 

Harrington had a lot of TV dinners, and that kind of surprises Eddie. Surely, Steve Harrington isn't in the kind of family that sits around eating out of foil tins in front of the television. That's way more of a thing that Wayne and him would do. If they could afford it.

Eddie waits his turn with his basket, and his pre-figures are pretty damn close, and he hands over the money without any embarrassing incidents. He can remember those from his childhood, his mom picking and choosing what to hand back to the cashier, who often looked at her with contempt for just daring to be poor.

It was bullshit.

So, Eddie avoids it as best he can. He's gotten good at figuring up the cost of things, so he doesn't have to hand back a jar of peanut butter or a carton of eggs.

He takes his change and shoves it into his pocket.

He's still got homework, so he's gotta get all this shit home and put away.

Steve

Steve sits on the trunk of his car in the Fair Mart parking lot. Eddie Munson walks out to refill the liquid for the windshield squeegee. They make eye contact as Munson walks back towards the front door, and Steve looks away. 

He's embarrassed that anyone is seeing him this way, especially Eddie Munson. 

Tommy comes back out with a cold can of Coke and a bottle of aspirin, demanding payment for them right away. Like Steve's not good for it. Like Tommy doesn't have the cash to spare, even if he wasn't.

Carol and him both start in on Nancy, and Steve's over it. Fuck this. Fuck them.

He's out.

When he drives through town, he sees two theater employees trying to clean the spray paint of the sign at The Hawk. Steve feels ashamed. He may not have been the one that actually did the deed, but he was a full participant. 

He pulls over alongside the curb, and heads over across the street.

Eddie

Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers are filling up gas cans. Lots of gas cans, and Eddie is standing there watching from the front window.

Huh.

He thought she was dating Steve Harrington. He looked like shit earlier, like he'd had the tar beaten out of him.

Now, Eddie might be bad at math, but it damn well doesn't take much to put two and two together.

Steve

Later that night, way, way later, Steve walks into the Fair Mart, and the fluorescent lights hurt his eyes. He doesn't know what he's looking for. Nothing, really. He's just moving on autopilot. 

Monsters are real. 

What the fuck is he supposed to do with that information? 

"Do you need help finding something?" Munson asks, from behind the counter. Only a little bit snarky. 

Steve shakes his head, "No. I'm just looking, I guess." 

"Byers gave you a hell of a shiner," Munson says, and Steve nods. 

"Yeah, I had it coming," Steve answers, because he did.  

That seems to stop whatever Munson was going to say next right in its tracks. Good. Steve doesn't want to talk about it. He wants to talk about the monster he just fought off with a bat that's now in his trunk, covered in blood and gore, but knows Munson would think he's crazy if he did. 

Maybe he is. 

He can't possibly have just seen what he thinks he saw.

His hands are shaking. 

"Are you gonna buy something or not? It's closing time," Munson asks, and Steve looks at his watch. It's splattered with blood. He tries to swipe it away, but it's dried on now. 

He didn't realize it was this late. He's lost track of time. That's probably normal, once you've been thrown headfirst into hell. All he wanted to do was make amends. Apologize. 

But no. Monsters are real and he feels numb.

"Oh. Sorry, looks like I made it just in time," Harrington says, and Munson looks at him, face unreadable. 

Eddie

Does this asshole not know how time works? Hours of operation? Eddie is incredulous at this bullshit. What an asshole.

"That's not how this works," Eddie says, "It's after ten right now. That means you should be in your car, driving away," Eddie adds, moving his fingers in the walking away motion, "Not milling around, forcing me to keep my register open."

Harrington stops, and looks at Eddie with some really sad eyes. He looks like he might cry, and Eddie wasn't expecting that. Now he feels like the asshole in this situation. Fuck. He's gotta be having a bad day. He totally admitted that he got beat up by Jonathan Byers. That kid is soft. Eddie'd never admit to that under pain of death.

"It's fine, just hurry up, man. I've still got homework," Eddie says, trying to soften his tone, just a little. Harrington has clearly been through some shit today, and while that's not any of Eddie's goddamn business, he doesn't need to kick a man while he's down. He's an asshole, but he doesn't cheat to win.

Steve finally grabs a few things, seemingly at random, pays, and is gone.

Eddie 

Eddie's sweeping the floor of the Fair Mart, the store closed for the night, when he hears the door rattle. 

He takes off his headphones and looks towards the glass door. He can't see anyone in the dark, not with these bright-ass lights on inside the store.

Ride the Lightning is still blaring from the headphones as they hang around his neck. 

"We're closed!" he yells, and pushes the broom further across the floor. 

The door rattles some more, and Eddie huffs out a breath of annoyance, leaning the broom handle against the table of the booth.

When he gets to the door, it's Steve Harrington. 

And his whole face is fucked up. Again. It's a mess of epic proportions. Eddie feels like he's getting déjà vu. He swears they did this last year.

Eddie unlocks the door. 

"Harrington?" 

Steve slips in through the door, and Eddie locks it behind him, out of habit. 

Eddie notices the red bandana around his neck, "You know, if you're gonna rob me, you're supposed to wear that over your face." 

Harrington laughs, just a little, but it must hurt, because he reaches up to hold his cheek. 

"Do you have anything to help dull this? Weed. Or morphine, preferably," Harrington asks, dryly. 

"What the fuck happened to you?" Eddie asks, looking at him.

"Billy Hargrove," he says. 

Eddie is pretty sure he's witnessing the fall of Steve Harrington in real time. You don't come back from this, not in high school, he's gotta be done for.

"You really look like shit. Are you sure you don't have brain damage?" 

"No more than usual," he says self-deprecatingly, and Eddie laughs, caught off-guard. 

That was funny. Harrington is funny? Who knew? Not Eddie. That's for damn sure. 

Eddie digs around in the drawer behind the counter, searching through what amounts to a very poorly stocked first aid kit. He comes up with a bottle of aspirin, and puts it back. If Harrington's bleeding internally, they shouldn't make it worse. He finally finds the Motrin, and takes it over to Steve. 

Then, he gets and fills up one of the little paper triangle cups of water from the employee water dispenser. Because a real cup would be too luxurious for Eddie and the rest of the staff. 

"Thanks," Harrington says, and Eddie nods, picking back up his broom. He supposes there's no reason Harrington can't sit there while he finishes up. He looks fucking pitiful, and Eddie? Well. Eddie likes to take in strays. It's kind of his thing.

So, he can't help himself. He goes over to the ice cream freezer, and pulls out a Choco Taco, and gets a Slice from the walk-in cooler. They're both  new. He'll give Harrington something else to think about besides his busted up face. 

Eddie slides them both across the table to Harrington, and Harrington nods in thanks. 

Eddie goes back to the register and puts a dollar in it from his wallet to pay for both items. He's a lot of things, but he's not a thief, and he'd like to keep this job. Even if he hates it, and all the people that come in here, day after day.

When he's done sweeping, Harrington is sitting in the booth, eyes closed. Ice cream wrapper and pop can, both empty.

"I'm done here for the night, you ready to go?" Eddie asks.

Harrington nods, but he doesn't look ready. Not at all. He looks a little shaky and pale. Traumatized. He looks traumatized. Which is a little dramatic from a fight. Eddie knows he's been in those before.

"I have a joint in my van, if you want?" Eddie offers, and he's not sure why. They definitely aren't friends. 

Harrington nods, "Thanks." 

Eddie locks the door of the store behind them, and Harrington follows him to the van and climbs in the passenger side. It's fucking weird.

But Eddie digs out the joint, and passes it to him with the lighter. 

Harrington takes a deep hit, and holds it in his lungs. Eddie's impressed. He figured this was gonna end with a bunch of coughing and carrying on. 

It doesn't. 

Then, he's offended. If Harrington's smoking weed, where's he buying it, if not from Eddie?

When Steve finally releases it, it's smooth, and he leans back against the headrest. 

Eddie takes it back, and takes a hit himself. 

"Are you sure you're okay? Why are you so dirty?" He smells terrible.

"I was down in a hole," Harrington says. 

"Literally, or metaphorically?" 

"Literally, unfortunately," Steve says, and takes another hit. Eyes closed. 

Eddie looks at him, as much as he can here in the dark. Harrington really has been fucked up tonight. 

"You look like hammered dogshit." 

"Thanks," Harrington laughs. 

Eddie smiles. 

"My ear is ringing," he admits, "Hargrove hit me with a plate. Knocked me out."

Eddie doesn't know what to say to that. Sorry? Not that long ago, he'd have been actively rooting for King Steve to be knocked the fuck off his pedestal. Unfortunately, he likes Billy less than he likes Steve. 

"You have to have a concussion," Eddie finally says, stating the obvious.

"Yeah," Harrington says, like he already knows that. 

"Maybe you shouldn't sleep then," Eddie offers, and that's about the extent of his concussion expertise. 

"Not a problem, I can't go home like this. My parents are actually home for once." 

Eddie is not dragging Steve Harrington home with him like an injured stray cat. He's not. No way. No how. Not a chance in fucking hell. 

That's never, ever happening.

"You can come home with me, if you want. It's just me. My uncle works nights." 

Fuck. 

Harrington turns his head, not pulling it up off the headrest, and looks at him. 

"Okay. Yeah. Thanks. That'd be great." 

"I live in the trailer park, so temper your expectations." 

Harrington laughs, and smiles at him as he closes his eyes again. 

"No sleeping," Eddie reminds him. 

"Just resting my eyes. My very, very sore eyes." 

"Are you okay with driving? Or are you leaving your car here all night?" 

"I'll follow you," Steve answers, moving to get out. 

Eddie watches him go. 

What the fuck was he thinking? Inviting Steve Harrington to his house. Steve Harrington doesn't want to come home with home, except he does, apparently. 

Steve

Steve's whole head throbs, but he concentrates hard, pulling out into the highway behind Eddie Munson. 

What the fuck is he thinking? Following Eddie Munson home. 

But he does, because it's not like he has anywhere else to go. He doesn't really have friends anymore. So, here he is, pulling up beside Eddie's van in front of the old, rundown trailer. 

Eddie ushers him inside, flipping on the lights. Steve looks around. Mugs and hats line the walls, and every surface in the place has stuff sitting on it. It's cluttered, and lived-in, in a way his house has never, ever been. 

People live here. 

Eddie leads him back to his bedroom, and it's more of the same. It's filled to the brim with stuff, Eddie's stuff. 

Steve's own bedroom is sanitized. Put together by his mother's interior designer, with no real thought given to his taste or interests. No clutter allowed. He's got a car poster that he didn't pick out, and that's about it. Set dressing. 

Steve feels like he is set dressing at home. 

But this room is like looking into the deepest recesses of Eddie Munson's brain. He likes it.

Steve thinks he must be stoned. He sits down on Eddie's mattress. 

Eddie digs around in his dresser, finally throwing him a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants. Steve stands back up and starts getting undressed, and Eddie turns his whole body away. 

That's weird. 

But Steve guesses he just hasn't spent the same amount of time in locker rooms that Steve has. 

He gets a whiff of himself, and he smells like decay. The demodogs, he's sure of it. 

"Can I take a shower first? I stink."

"Sure," Eddie says, and leads him into the bathroom. More clutter, and a little lime scaly. There are no women living in this house, Steve is sure of it. 

Eddie helps him with the trick to adjusting the water in the kinda gross shower, without scalding or freezing himself. Apparently, there's a very, very small margin of error. 

And then Eddie leaves him. 

Steve washes his hair, and his scalp is fucking sore. His whole face hurts. 

School is gonna suck tomorrow. 

Eddie

Eddie is trying to fall asleep on Wayne's fold-up in the living room, while Steve Harrington is in his bed. 

What the fuck is happening here? Did he fall into another dimension? 

Eddie isn't sure if Steve should sleep yet or not, but Steve said he was tired and going to risk it. 

If Steve Harrington dies in his bed, the town will have his head on a pike by nightfall. 

Steve

The next morning, Steve walks down the corridor at school with his head up. Fuck all these assholes. Monsters are real, and Billy Hargrove beat the shit out of him. So fucking what? Who cares?

He catches Eddie's eye, and nods, but Eddie looks away. Like Steve didn't sleep in his bed last night. Like they've never spoken, outside of schoolyard taunts. Like they didn't eat breakfast, standing, shoulder to shoulder, at the cluttered kitchen counter in the trailer just a couple hours ago. 

Maybe he deserves that. 

Steve looks away, too, and keeps walking. 

Eddie

Eddie sits in the lone orange, Formica booth in the Fair Mart, trying to do his homework while it's quiet. The end of the night is usually deader than shit, so he can often try to squeeze in some homework so he doesn't have to stay up so late once he gets home. 

He's gonna flunk Ms. O'Donnell's class. There's no way around it. He's not going to graduate. Again. He doesn't know why he's even bothering with this anymore.

If he does fail, he's not going back for a third time. He'll get his GED, if he can manage that, because he can't fathom another year in that hellhole. 

He does fail. Again. And Wayne is hounding him, promising that the third time's the charm, which Eddie knows is bullshit. But he appreciates the vote of confidence, anyway.

He's stuck in summer school, just to get himself into a position to maybe graduate next year. It's embarrassing. He's not this stupid, he's pretty sure. The teachers all just hate him, and will do anything to keep stepping on his neck.

Eddie thinks they'd rather just get rid of him, but no, he's gonna be stuck in their classes again come fall.

At least he has Hellfire, and he hopes the new class of Freshman will have some good recruits. Their numbers are dwindling, and he can't do it alone with just Gareth, Jeff and Goodie. That's not enough people for the kinds of campaigns Eddie wants to create and run.

There's been whispers that they aren't gonna let him keep it, anyway. That he's too old, and that his focus should be on finishing school, not having fun.

Wayne said he'd take care of it, and Eddie knows he will.

Summer school sucks, and it makes for some long-ass days, especially when he works at night. Mr. Fairmont decided they needed to stay open later than ever this summer, and Eddie doesn't understand why. It's deader than dead. But at least he's being paid to do his homework.

It's the Fourth of July and he can hear fireworks in the distance in all directions, and then a siren. And another.

Until it's a whole fleet of them rushing by on the highway, and Eddie stands out on the drive, watching as they speed past, wondering where they're headed. That's a lot of vehicles to respond to something, so it must be big. 

Eddie hopes it's not the plant. Hopes that Wayne is fine, and working, just like Eddie is doing.

Steve Harrington limps in, body stiff, with a horrible black eye and a missing fingernail, wearing a blanket over his stupid sailor outfit that has definitely seen better days. He looks rough, and sad. 

Worn out. 

And he reeks of smoke.

"Are you still open?" Steve asks, and well, that's an improvement, Eddie supposes. Usually, he just barges in and makes himself at home.

"Yes. What happened?" Eddie asks.

"Mall fire," Steve says, slumping into the booth. 

Yeah, Eddie had heard from several customers that the mall was on fire. News spreads fast in small towns with nothing better to talk about, but Eddie hadn't assumed there'd been anyone in the mall. Surely it was closed, it was well after dark, on a federal holiday, no less. 

But still, Eddie brings him a New Coke, and Steve cracks it open, nodding his thanks. Then, Eddie finds a clean-ish looking towel, and fills it with ice from the fountain machine, holding it out for Steve to take. "For your face."

Steve takes it, nodding in thanks as he presses it to his eye.

Eddie doesn't know how they've gotten to this place where sometimes Steve just turns up like a bad penny, bloodied and hurt, like he's looking to Eddie to fix it. 

Eddie can't fix anything. He can't even fix himself. 

He can't even graduate high school. He definitely can't fix Steve Harrington's internal or external wounds.

But he sits with him, looking at his purple eye, and blown pupils. Major head trauma? Or is he fucked up? He looks fucked up.

"Are you on drugs?" Eddie asks. And if he is, will he share?

Steve nods, adamantly.

"I got drugged by Russians. They pulled off my fingernail," Steve says, holding up his hand.

Okay. What's Eddie supposed to do with that information? Is it even true? Why would Steve have encountered Russians in the mall fire?

Steve

He shouldn't be here. He's gonna tell everything he knows. About the Russians. About monsters. About Hawkins.

"What do you know about linear equations?" Eddie asks.

And Steve is thankful for something else to think about. He's not the best at math. But he's not terrible either. He reaches over and takes the worksheet, and tries to focus his eyes on the problem Eddie's trying to work out.

Together, they figure it out, and for a few minutes of this godforsaken day, Steve feels normal.

Eddie

"She wanted to meet you in the woods and you said no?" Gareth asks, sitting behind his kit.

"Swear to god," Eddie says. Chrissy Cunningham wanted him to sell her some weed, but it felt like a trap, and Eddie wasn't into getting the shit beat out of him by Carver and his asshole friends. So he bailed. A last minute decision.

And then they found her dead outside Reefer Rick's. Brutally attacked and murdered. Eddie feels guilty, and he can't explain why. He didn't kill her. Rick didn't either, he's still serving time. But Eddie didn't help her when she asked. Maybe if he had, she'd still be alive.

He doesn't even understand how she knew about Rick in the first place.

Nobody else is as concerned about this as he is, clearly, and they start playing again. Eddie is turned towards Gareth, watching him drumming, when Gareth stands up suddenly, and the music cuts to a stop. Eddie turns to look to see what has caught all their attention. 

It's just Steve Harrington pulling into the driveway. 

"What the fuck is he doing here?" Gareth asks, rounding his drum set. Fire lit under his ass, defensive and hopping mad. 

Eddie catches his arm. 

"He's fine," Eddie says, and Gareth looks at him like he's lost his fucking mind. Maybe he has. 

"Since when is Steve Harrington fine?" 

Eddie shrugs. For a while now, though Eddie's been denying that.

Steve gets out of his car, looking so fucking tired and run-down.

There's a lawn chair right near the open garage door, and Steve sits down in it. Then he props his feet up on the upside down red milk crate that's sitting there, making himself at home. 

Gareth makes a sound of annoyed disbelief at the audacity of this action. 

Eddie cuts him a look, telling him silently to simmer down. Steve's not hurting anything or anyone by sitting there, even if it's weird to show up unannounced and uninvited. But their whole thing has been based on that. Steve shows up without warning, and Eddie is forced to deal with it. 

It's a thing they do, and by now. A habit.

So, Eddie walks over and digs into the cooler beside Steve, and hands Steve a can of beer, sliding it down into a foam koozie first, to hide it a little from the prying eyes of the rest of the nosy neighborhood. They are already unpopular in these parts for the music alone. 

No reason to add underage drinking to the list of complaints.

Steve nods in thanks, and cracks it open. 

Eddie doesn't ask why he's here, and Steve doesn't offer, doesn't say anything at all, so Eddie goes back in the garage, giving Gareth a little shove back towards his drums. Then Eddie looks at Jeff, at Goodie. 

Counting them back in. 

And they pick back up where they left off, like nothing has changed.

By the time they've finished, Steve Harrington is asleep in the lawn chair, warm beer perched on his knee, right there in Gareth's driveway. 

This is fucking weird. He's never sought Eddie out, at least not outside of the Fair Mart, before. He must think they're friends. They definitely aren't friends. That's ridiculous.

He takes the beer from Steve's hand, and pulls him up from the chair. 

Steve climbs in the passenger seat of his own car, and Eddie guesses that means he's leaving the van here. He puts Sweetheart in the backseat of Steve's car, and then gets behind the wheel. 

Gareth, Jeff and Goodie are just standing in a row in the doorway of the garage, looking at him like he's been possessed by the preppy devil. 

He gives them a pointed look, and they stop staring. 

If Steve Harrington knew how bad of a driver he was, this wouldn't be happening. 

But he backs out of the drive, very carefully. And takes them back to the trailer, not sure where else to go. 

Steve

Steve doesn't know what possessed him to just pull into Gareth Jones' driveway and make himself at home. He saw them, heard them, and was just so tired. Everything has been exhausting lately. 

It's happening again, and Steve's tired of it.

If he's gonna be backed into a corner of fighting monsters again, he at least needs a nap first. And when he saw Eddie's van, he knew that'd be a safe place to do it.

Eddie

Eddie is driving Steve Harrington in his own car while Steve dozes. 

"Your house?" Eddie asks, because he knows where Steve lives. They all know where Steve lives. 

There have been numerous house parties Eddie has crashed, and before that, it was the best neighborhood for trick or treating when they were kids. 

"Yours?" Steve mumbles, a question. 

Eddie sighs. He guesses. Though, Wayne might be home to ask questions that Eddie would really rather avoid. 

Steve is asleep on the couch, Eddie sitting on the floor in front of him, when Wayne opens the front door. Wayne looks at Eddie, then at Steve, and raises one eyebrow. 

Eddie shakes his head, begging for Wayne to just let this go. Wayne does, putting his lunch pail on the counter before he heads for the bathroom.

When he comes out, showered, he sits in his chair, quietly.

"New friend?" Wayne asks, in a low rumble. 

"No," Eddie says quickly, then feels guilty, "Yeah, maybe. I don't know."

"Fancy car he's got," Wayne teases, and Eddie smiles.

"Yeah, and I've gotten to drive it," Eddie teases.

"Lord, he's more trusting than I am, then," Wayne says.

Eddie laughs, and looks back at Steve, who's still sound asleep. Mouth slightly open, breathing in a soft snore.

"Where's the van?" Wayne asks. Eddie can read between those lines.

"It's fine. At Gareth's."

Wayne nods.

"He's…he's Steve Harrington," Eddie says, looking at Wayne, "and he keeps showing up for some reason, and I don't know why. This is the first time that he showed up looking for me outside of the Fair Mart, though. He came to Gareth's garage, and just…took a nap while we played."

"He slept through that racket?" Wayne teases, and Eddie grins.

"Shockingly, yes."

"Then you best let that boy sleep," Wayne states, and Eddie nods. That's exactly what he's been doing. He doesn't understand why Steve thinks this is a safe place, but it is, Eddie understands that, too. And has never taken it for granted.

Wayne's has always been safe, and he supposes there's no reason he can't share a little bit of that safety with someone else, even if that person is Steve Harrington.

Steve's laying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. 

"It's starting again," Steve finally says, and Eddie doesn't know what it is, but Steve seems resigned. Chrissy Cunningham died last night. Fred Benson died today. Eddie knows that Hawkins is fucked up.

Eddie still doesn't know what to say to any of this. He feels guilty. If he'd just let Chrissy come over, maybe whatever happened to her could have been avoided. It's eating him up inside.

But he says nothing, and Steve doesn't seem like he was looking for anything from Eddie anyway.

When Steve leaves, he stands in the yard a little too long staring off in the distance towards the Crawford's, like he's in a daze.

Then, he's gone.

Eddie looks up as a RV pulls up to the pump, way too fast, nearly out of control. It looks just like the Crawford's Winnebago, the one that usually sits a few lots down in the trailer park. But he's never seen it move that fast, that's for damn sure.

Nancy Wheeler and Robin Buckley bail out, both wearing camouflage fatigues. Robin in a beret, and Nancy starts pumping gas. Robin has a box of red kerosene cans in her arms, and puts them down so she can start filling them from the dispenser out front. 

Before he has time to really ponder what the fuck they're doing dressed like that, and in a probably stolen RV no less, Steve Harrington comes barreling down the steps. 

Eddie should have known he was involved in whatever the fuck this is. 

Steve's also in fatigues, and Eddie doesn't feel any way about that. He doesn't. Honest.

Steve runs across the pavement, up to the door, and Eddie looks down, wiping the already clean counter. Ignoring him. Ignoring this nonsense that he never understands. He doesn't want to understand, so that's okay.

Because Steve never explains, never has a reason or an answer. Everything he's ever done only gives Eddie more questions to ponder.

And this time is no different, apparently.

But today, Steve rounds the counter and grabs Eddie's arm, pulling him back into the employees only office. Where Steve's definitely not supposed to be. 

Eddie squawks at being dragged around. If he gets caught with Steve Harrington back here, he's definitely gonna get fired.

But then Steve Harrington pushes him up against the wall and kisses him. Hands in Eddie's hair, and Eddie can't do anything besides kiss back.

He fists his hands in Steve's jacket, and arches into him. 

Steve Harrington is kissing him, really kissing him, like it's the last thing he'll ever do. 

Then, the moment is broken by Robin Buckley screaming for Steve out in the front of the store, and Steve pulls away. 

"Steve," Eddie says, and he feels like he sounds stupid. Like he didn't see that this is where this thing between them was always headed. Maybe he didn't. He has taken his senior year three times.

"I just. We're. I don't know. I wanted to do that," Steve stumbles over his words, then looks right at Eddie. Strokes his thumb over Eddie's cheek. "I just wanted to do that."

Eddie nods, dumbly. 

He wanted Steve to do that, too. 

Staring at him, up close, he can see a bruise around Steve's neck that looks like he's been strangled. Eddie's fingers graze it, and Steve's eyes slip shut. "What happ—"

"STEVE!!" Robin yells again, more urgent, and Steve jerks back further. 

"Bye, Eddie. Thanks for everything." 

And then he runs off. 

When Eddie follows, Steve is already banging out the front door, following Robin, and they've left the money for the fuel on the counter. 

Eddie watches them all climb into the RV, sees Steve getting into the driver's seat, and then they pull away.

Eddie swallows. He thinks maybe this was the last time he'll ever see Steve Harrington, for some reason.

When Steve turns up in the middle of the night, he's filthy and the bruise around his neck has darked. He smells like kerosene and death.

Eddie grabs onto him, and pulls him close. 

Steve starts to cry and Eddie doesn't know what happened to him, to the town, tonight. The town is split wide open. Gareth's house fell into it. He's fine, his mom is too, nobody was home. But his house, the garage, Gareth's drums. It's all just gone.

Steve is clearly split wide, too. He's ragged and raw, and Eddie doesn't know what to do for him. If there is anything he can do for him.

"It's okay," Eddie says, and hopes that is true. 

"It's not," Steve says, and Eddie holds him tighter.

Eddie gets him out of his tattered clothing, and ushers him towards the shower. Steve lets him, like his brain has shut down. 

"Your back," Eddie says, fingers hovering, careful not to touch. He was dragged by something, that much is clear. A rope, maybe. 

Steve's standing there naked, covered in all these unexplainable marks.

There are puncture wounds all over him. His sides. His chest. They look deep, and on the edge of infection, maybe. 

Like he's been bitten by something. Gnawed on.

There's a deep, angry one on his thigh. Eddie tries to focus on it, and not anything else that's currently right in his face. For example, Steve's heavy dick, hanging soft.

Not the time, not the place.

"We'll have to clean those up," Eddie says softly, "Wash them real good."

Steve nods, and closes the curtain behind him.

Steve

Steve rests his forehead on the shower wall, letting the warm water beat against his destroyed back. It fucking hurts, everything hurts, but he's too tired to care. It needs to be cleaned anyway. He didn't think he was gonna make it after the bats had a hold of him.

Still didn't, even as Robin and Nancy showed up to help fight them off. Everything after was just tinged with unbearable pain.

They didn't win. Vecna disappeared. This isn't over. It'll never be over.

And he's so goddamn tired.

Of fighting.

Of monsters.

Of feeling so alone.

Eddie

Steve lays his face against Eddie's chest. His wet hair is damp and cold, soaking through Eddie's t-shirt. He's seen Steve in all manner of disheveled, but this is new. He looks younger, and older, both at the same time somehow.

Eddie had picked debris out of Steve's wounds, doctoring them as carefully as he could. Steve never flinched. Like he was checked out, somewhere else far away.

Now, he breathes heavily as Eddie holds him as tight as he dares.

"Monsters are real. This town is rotting from the ground up." 

Eddie doesn't know what the fuck that means. But he's not terribly surprised. 

He's seen how Steve comes to him, beaten, bloody and broken. He has been fighting something for a long time. Something worse than Jonathan Byers and Billy Hargrove.

The same Billy who died in the mall fire, and Eddie suddenly has a lot of questions about what really happened that night.

"I don't…"

"Monsters. Demogorgons. And the dog version. The Mind Flayer. Vecna."

"Those are from D&D," Eddie says, and maybe Steve has cracked. Maybe he's lost his mind.

"Dustin Henderson named them," Steve says, pressing his fingertips into Eddie's ribs. 

Eddie nods. That tracks. Henderson is his favorite little lost sheep.

"We tried, tonight. We weren't enough." 

"I'm sure you did your best." 

"Look at this place? We failed. I always fail." 

Eddie just holds him tighter, and doesn't say a word when it's clear he's crying.

Eddie had dozed off when Uncle Wayne bangs into Eddie's room, startling them both, causing Steve to tense up next to Eddie. 

"You're here," Wayne says, looking just a touch frantic. Eddie nods. He's here. "Half the plant fell into a hole. Earthquake, they say. Never seen no damn earthquake look like that. You're okay?" 

"We're okay. You're okay?" Eddie asks back, even if Wayne looks fine.

Wayne nods, and pulls the door closed. 

Steve is still tense. 

"Hey. It's okay. He's like me. He knows. He doesn't care." 

Steve relaxes, little by little. 

"What can I do for you?" 

"Nothing. This. Just this," Steve says, so Eddie does just that. 

In the morning, Steve gets up. He looks exhausted and dejected.

"I told Robin I'd take her to the Red Cross volunteer thing," Steve says. 

Eddie nods. 

"Do you want to come?" 

Eddie nods again. 

He doesn't, not really, but he'll go help if that's what Steve wants him to do.

They stop by Steve's house, which is still standing, and Steve changes clothes while Eddie sits perched on the edge of Steve's couch like he's in a museum. 

When Steve comes bounding down the staircase, he's dressed, looking like Steve Harrington. Not a hair out of place. Looking totally normal. 

A mask, Eddie realizes. 

Eddie's seen behind it now, and it hurts his heart to know that Steve is so adept at schooling his face into normal that nobody probably even realizes he's doing it.

They pick up Henderson and Robin Buckley, and bring in boxes of stuff to donate to those that need it. 

Once inside, Eddie sorts clothes alongside Steve, and folds them better than he's ever folded any of his own. Ever.

He stands next to Steve Harrington, and works. Quietly, comfortably. 

Later, Steve pulls Eddie on top of him, arms wrapped around him, squeezing tight. Eddie's sure he must be hurting Steve, with all those bat bites, but Steve seems to want this. Need it. So, Eddie kisses his cheeks. His bruised neck. And brushes soft kisses against his lips. He still can't believe he's kissing Steve Harrington.

"I'll take care of you," Eddie whispers. Someone needs to, that much is obvious.

Steve nods. His nose grazing Eddie's cheek. "You always have."

Eddie

Vecna returns. 

Steve was right when he knew that he would. This was just a lull in the action. A pause for them to try and catch their breath.

"Stay here," Steve says, holding Eddie by the shoulders. He has the trashcan lid shield and a spear that Eddie and Henderson had built in preparation slung over his shoulder. They made what they couldn't get smuggled in, and Eddie helped. Not really knowing what they might need, if. When. 

Eddie shakes his head. He can't just stay here. 

"I can help you, surely I can do something to help you guys?"

Steve is shaking his head adamantly. He's never waivered on his assertion that Eddie was not getting involved. He'd involved him enough by going to him, by telling him anything at all.

"Just be here when I get back." 

Eddie can't just sit here and do nothing now that he knows. 

He wants to kiss Steve goodbye, but there are too many people around. Too many prying eyes. 

Steve takes a step away.

Eddie follows, "Hey, Steve?"

Steve turns, waiting.

"Make him pay."

Steve nods, and then he's gone.

Steve

The radio tower jerks, lurching dramatically, and Steve is knocked off balance. Fuck. Shit. He knows he's going over. 

And then, he's gone. Tumbling over the ledge. He catches the edge, and tries to hold on. Fingers digging into metal. He thought his life would flash before his eyes. But it's not everything, it's just—

Eddie.

But the movement, Steve's momentum, his weight, it's all too much. He loses his grip, and falls.

Somehow, Jonathan grabs his hand and pulls him up.

Steve's breathing hard, adrenaline pumping, and Eddie can never know how close he was to falling to his death. He'll get too wound up. 

He's almost died lots of times. What's one more?

Eddie

When Steve comes home, he's wearing a backwards baseball cap, his hair curled around the edges, and is covered in some sort of dried gloop that smells like straight ass. 

"Jesus Christ," Eddie says, disgusted, despite being so happy to see him.

As is tradition, Eddie ushers Steve towards the shower, only this time, Eddie gets pulled inside with him. Crowding near him, running his hands over Steve's body. Checking for any visible injuries.

He doesn't find any.

"Is it over?" Eddie asks as Steve lathers his hair for the third time.

Steve looks lighter. Happier. Like the weight of the world has finally been lifted off his shoulders.

Steve cracks open one eye, swiping away the shampoo that's running down his forehead, and smiles.

"It's over."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

Notes:

I'm so excited that this one is finally finished. I started it in, checks notes, June 2023. Just days after I finished posting Tuesday's, haha. Of course other things moved to the front burner, but when I was digging through my files, I realized this would be perfect for Bingo. It was always called Here You Come Again, based off the Dolly Parton song. So, I dug it out, dusted if off, and finished it.

Choco Tacos and Slice were both introduced in 1984.

The red milk crate, lawn chair and cooler are present on screen in the Corroded Coffin garage practice scene. Just waiting on Steve, apparently.

I didn't want to get into the weeds too much with what would have all changed without Eddie being involved in the Upside Down in S4. That way madness and 20k words lies, haha. This fic was always meant to only cover the very small pockets of time when the UD reared it's ugly head, and Steve was forced to go toe-to-toe. But I did assume that Steve was still (somehow) attacked by the bats, and that they would have worked him over even worse, because they were down a person, with Eddie not there to help bat them away.