Star, the Cozy One

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.