Everything is coming up booty shorts

COVER (verb)

1: to guard from attack

2: to hide from sight or knowledge

3: to lay or spread something over

- - - - -

Eddie knows all about scars.

How they go deeper than your skin. How they remind you of things you wish you could forget, and how they can turn every look in the mirror into a test of courage. How to turn them into something beautiful - each tattoo an affirmation of power written in ink, pain and blood; a refusal to let things that can't be undone define you.

What Eddie doesn't know is how to stay out of things he shouldn't get involved in.

There's a million different reasons why he should turn Steve away. Because the size of the motif he wants is ambitious at best for a first tattoo, and borderline insane at worst. Because something about his story just doesn't add up. Because he is exactly the kind of man that brings Eddie dangerously close to the edge where professionalism ends and obsession begins.

But Steve has been living with those scars for over ten years, and his body is the most intriguing canvas Eddie has seen in a while. As they set out to reclaim Steve's story, Eddie finds his obsession growing deeper with every drop of ink. Especially when it turns out that their past, present and future are more closely entwined than either of them imagined.

- - - - -

A story about covering scars, uncovering secrets, and recovering what was lost.

“Did you know,” he says, carefully peeling the wrapping paper off his snack, “that if things had gone a little different, we might have been neighbors, you and I?”

Steve, who has just taken his first bite, makes a quizzical noise.

“As I learned today,” Eddie explains, “my uncle almost moved us to Hawkins when I was a kid. Crazy shit, isn't it? We would've gone to school together, maybe even shared some- Fuck, are you okay?”

Steve just broke into a round of big, violent coughs. Eddie is by his side in an instant, hand raised, but hesitates at the sight of the fresh outlines on his back. They're lightly raised, the surrounding skin irritated and angry, and slapping him between the shoulder blades would hurt like a bitch now. On the other hand, he can't very well let the guy choke, right?

He is just trying to remember how the Heimlich actually works when Steve straightens in his chair, balls his hand into a fist and delivers a very firm, very well-aimed hit to his own sternum. There’s an audible pop as something dislodges from his windpipe.

“I'm okay,” he claims, still more than a little breathlessly. “Sorry, that was- … I was just- … Are you for real?”

“I, um-” Eddie stammers. His legs feel like jelly, so he quickly falls back into his own chair. “Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to- … I just thought it was funny. How life has brought us together, here and now, when we could've known each other that much sooner. I don't necessarily believe in fate and all that shit, but it seems like a crazy coincidence.”

“Not sure about fate,” Steve says, and takes another, more careful bite of his granola bar. A smattering of crumbs is sticking to his bottom lip. “But if it's real, you should thank it. You wouldn't have wanted that.”

“To know you any earlier?”

Steve scrunches his nose, slightly annoyed, and shakes his head.

“Shut up, that's not what I meant.” He pauses, running his tongue over his lips and leaving them pink and shiny. It doesn’t get the crumbs. “You may be right, though. Not sure if you would've liked teenage me. I was a bit of a jock.”

“What, you? Shocking,” Eddie deadpans. “You grew up to be a coach. I just inked a giant baseball bat all over your back. Let's just say I had a bit of a hunch.”

Steve smiles wryly, washing down the last of his snack with a long gulp of water.

“What I’m trying to say is that you should be glad you weren’t around for- … everything. Don’t get me wrong, I love it there. It's my home, and some of the best people I’ve ever known live there, it’s just … It wasn’t a great place to be, back then. You dodged a bullet, man. A big, fat, massive one, believe me.”

In the two or three seconds of silence that follow, Eddie almost asks. About the earthquake. About the tanks and the fences and the watch towers. About the meaning behind the fresh lines on Steve’s back, that he chose to carry with him for the rest of his life. About the scars underneath.

But then Steve claps his hands and gives a sharp jerk of his chin. Eddie flinches, wondering briefly if this is how he beckons his players onto the pitch before a game.

“Okay, that’s enough for a break. Time for the home stretch, c’mon.”

“See?” Eddie grins, wheeling himself closer. “There you go with the sports metaphors again.”

Steve drifts off again after a minute or two, the deep and deliberate breaths he’s taking to guide himself through the pain slowly evening out into something slower, more shallow. When Eddie checks in the mirror, his eyes have slipped shut. Not asleep, but definitely somewhere far away. It’s for the better, probably. The tailbone is a bitch to get inked, even for people more familiar with the sensation of the needle slipping in and out of their flesh, the rattle of the machine against bone, the echo of it in one’s ribcage. And no matter the odd fascination that Eddie is developing with both the town of Hawkins and this man, who chose to spend his life there after the horrible things it did to him, it’s not his story to uncover.

Still, as he works in silence, his eyes keep travelling back to the scars on Steve’s shoulder blades, now surrounded by the outlines of the roses, waiting to be covered in vibrant reds and greens in four weeks’ time. He has seen scars like that before. On bikers who got into accidents, skin peeled right off their bones as man and machine slid over the unforgiving asphalt. On a guy, once, who got his jacket caught in the door of the school bus as a kid, and was dragged over several yards of concrete before the driver heard his screams.

He wonders how exactly Steve ended up with injuries like that in an earthquake.

The ones on his hips, too. The deep, uneven ones that look like something long and sharp and jagged dug into the flesh and tore it right out.

He bites his tongue and keeps working.

It's not like it's any of his business.

They stand there in silence for a moment, filled in only by the ambient noise of the spring night. The buzzing of the lightbulb above them, fluttering moths flickering in and out of the light. The gentle sound of the breeze rustling the tree leaves around them.

Then the spell is broken as Steve clears his throat and smiles apologetically, "Sorry, I know you were probably on your way home. I won't keep you. Just… Glad I was able to catch you before you left."

"Yeah, uh. Thanks. I appreciate it." Eddie says.

"Anytime." Steve says, "Bye, Eddie."

"Bye, Steve." Eddie says, turning slowly to start back down the path towards the edge of town.

They stand there in silence for a moment, filled in only by the ambient noise of the spring night. The buzzing of the lightbulb above them, fluttering moths flickering in and out of the light. The gentle sound of the breeze rustling the tree leaves around them.

Then the spell is broken as Steve clears his throat and smiles apologetically, "Sorry, I know you were probably on your way home. I won't keep you. Just… Glad I was able to catch you before you left."

"Yeah, uh. Thanks. I appreciate it." Eddie says.

"Anytime." Steve says, "Bye, Eddie."

"Bye, Steve." Eddie says, turning slowly to start back down the path towards the edge of town.

“Hi, I'm Steve.” 

He holds out a hand. A large, graceful hand with ridiculously long fingers. It's dotted in tiny moles and still glistening with residue moisture and dish soap, and Eddie feels like this is a very inopportune time to remember how very gay he is.

“Hi, I'm ga-” he says. Realizes his brain-to-mouth filter is busted. Reroutes. “-me. Game store. The one across the street. I own it. I'm Eddie.”

Steve chuckles. His handshake is strong and firm.

“Oh, I know. You've been lurking out there smoking your cigarettes and staring daggers at my door for weeks, like some sort of grumpy dragon in a leather jacket. I was a bit worried you were plotting to burn the place down, but Dustin assured me you were cool.” 

“Wha-” Eddie says. “Burn? No. I wasn't- … That would be crazy. I was just curious what you were making of it. I used to come here, sometimes, when it was still-”

“Sometimes?” Dustin pipes up. He has claimed one of the barstools and is righting his hat, using a chrome napkin holder as a mirror. “More like every day. You probably were Benny’s main source of income.” 

“Yes, Dustin. Thank you,” Eddie hisses, thinking that he must come up with a really cruel and creative way to kill off the kid's bard. Steve’s face, meanwhile, lights up.

“Oh, really? Well, in that case I hope I'll be seeing you more often.” 

His eyes go large. He looks a bit like an eager puppy dog that way. A broad-shouldered, golden-skinned, floofy-haired puppy dog with stupidly hot, stupidly large hands. One of which is still clutching Eddie’s in a light, warm grip. 

Eddie yanks his hand back. 

“Oh, I dunno,” he mutters. “I'm a bit of a picky eater.” 

Dustin snorts into the printed menu he has picked up from the counter. The unfortunate bard's imminent demise is getting more gruesome by the second. 

Steve just keeps smiling. “Well, let me convince you? It's just me in the kitchen right now, so the menu is still a bit on the small side, but if you tell me what you like, I can whip something up.”

Eddie cringes. Something in those eyes makes his stomach do funny flips. Or maybe he actually is more hungry than he thought. 

That, or that cereal from earlier was bad. 

“That really isn't necessary,” he hedges. “And I left my wallet over at my shop, so-” 

Steve waves him off. “Please, it’s on the house. A little peace offering from your friendly neighbourhood chef.” 

He winks as he says it. Eddie doesn’t know why he finds it hot. He also doesn't have any time to examine it, because Dustin spins around so fast the barstool wobbles. 

“Can you make us burgers? The ones in your feed looked-” 

“Excuse me, dipshit, was I talking to you?” Steve doesn’t even take his eyes off Eddie. He sort of wishes he would. 

Dustin scoffs. “Eddie would eat wet cardboard if you put enough ketchup on it, you're wasting your-” 

“Burgers are fine,” Eddie blurts. Anything to get the two of them to shut the hell up, really. “I used to have Benny’s cheeseburger all the time.” 

“That's what I said,” Dustin mutters. “Wet cardboard.” 

Eddie sits there, stunned, cigarette dangling between his fingertips burned down to the filter. He swallows thickly, chest filling with those tangled emotions again that he still doesn’t want to acknowledge, but finds himself coming closer and closer to doing so anyway.

“Steve…” Eddie says roughly. “Thank you. You’re my friend too.”

Steve’s lips twitch, the first sign of a smile on his face since earlier that morning. Eddie finds his own lips tilting up at the edges to match it.

“Good.” Steve says, settling back into his chair. “I’m glad we got that cleared up.”

--

November 12th, 1983

He’d just wanted to apologize. 

Steve ran through the Byers’ front door, pushing it closed behind him. He kept going, sliding a little on the gravel at the end of the driveway and almost slamming into the side of his car when he reached it. His keys slipped out of his shaking hands, and he glanced briefly back at the house as he picked them back up. 

The whole past week had been crazy (crazy echoed in his head, the same way he kept saying it over and over again inside), starting with Barb’s disappearance. That was what had made Nancy start pulling away, which led to whatever she and Jonathan had been doing and his own stupid response to it, which led to… well. He guessed he knew what Nancy and Jonathan had going on now. He just hadn’t been prepared for the answer to be a literal fucking monster. 

He had just wanted to say he was sorry for how he had acted, the things he had said. Now he wanted to unsee what he’d seen. 

He just needed to get in the car. He just needed to get in the car and then he could go home, back to a world where the lights didn’t flicker and his girlfriend didn’t point a gun at him and monsters didn’t come out of the walls. 

Something glinted inside the car and caught his eye as he finally got the key into the lock. There was a thing laying on the driver’s seat that hadn’t been there before. It looked like a kid’s magic wand: some kind of toy stick with a ringed planet on the top, all stars and sparkles in deep teal and blue. 

It looked awfully familiar for something he’d never seen before in his life. 

He got the door open, finally, and reached for the stick. 

“Go, Sailor Neptune,” an unfamiliar young female voice called out as soon as he touched it. Her voice was weird and echoey, like a memory instead of something he had heard out loud. “I will seal it away. Go!” 

He glanced around. No one, obviously. It wasn’t like the Byers’ house was on a well-populated street. He looked back down at the stick. A symbol was etched into the planet part. It kind of looked like a fork. He rubbed his thumb over it, and it started to glow.  

His eyes were drawn back to the house. The lights flickered. The thing – the monster – had come out of the wall when the lights flickered. It could be coming back, and Nancy (and Jonathan, but Nancy) was still in there. 

Steve made a decision.