Tags:

Government Detention / Imprisonment (non-legal, temporary), Forced Relocation, Loss of Autonomy, Post-Final Battle Against Vecna, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a happy ending, Mutual Pining, Childhood Friends, Slow Burn, Trauma & Recovery, Road Trips, Platonic Soulmates, Eddie Munson Runs Away, The Party Sticks Together (Eventually), Does the author love Winnipeg or hate it? We will never know. Excerpt:

Eddie is in a coma the first time Steve says, ‘I love you’. Unconscious and unable to reply. Over the next few years, the memory will grow cloudy and unreliable. The doctors will spend a lot of time explaining that, although it can happen, it’s probable that he is not remembering the specifics of conversations. It’s more likely that he remembers visits from familiar voices, can recall ambient sounds and comforting music. But Eddie knows for sure that isn’t what it is; he is positive that he heard the first time Steve told him that he was probably in love with him. That’s not something you just let slip out of your brain, even if your body remains asleep and incapable of responding. When the hottest man in Hawkins admits that he’s fallen for you, you hold onto that information, even if you can’t convince yourself to shake yourself awake and demand answers at the time. 

Steve Harrington is a pendulum, always has been. He swings back and forth between being the boy who was not serious enough to handle much of anything, and the Harrington Heir who was way too serious about everything. Even before the Upside-Down, Eddie had known that. Over the seven years of not-quite-friendship, Eddie had learned not to predict which version he was going to get.

The secret of their association had never really bothered Eddie; being a freak in a small town prepared you well for the reality that friends you had in private didn’t always translate into the ones you had at school. He’d genuinely liked seventh-grade Steve, from that first moment he'd shown up like an apparition to Eddie's secret forest fort behind the park. 

The first version of Harrington he’d met had whimsy and joy etched into his bones. He made dumb jokes and thought deeply about things that the other boys would never admit to caring about. But he was also the boy that Wayne had warned Eddie about when he’d moved to Hawkins. He was A Harrington, with a capital H, and Eddie understood very early on that that designation came with many more roadblocks than money could solve. Steve is so scared of his own softness, his own fanciful soul, that he shoves it down beneath hairspray, unkindness, basketball, and flirting with the girls he’s expected to flirt with. 

The fear takes over as they hit high school, as the stakes of being Different become more painful. Eddie had understood it, even at the time. He knew the pain of isolation intimately. His understanding came at a cost, though. When Steve stops coming around at all in the middle of his junior year, Eddie’s understanding turns to bitterness. Then, Eddie doesn’t graduate. Then, Steve’s little cronies seem to realize he’s a great target for their low-brow bullying. The longer he gets trapped in Hawkins, the harder it is for Eddie to ignore them. Suddenly, it turns him into a villain in the story of far too many people at school. He isn’t scary, not even a little bit, but he leans into the safety net the Scary Persona affords him. Leans into the asshole behaviour and the loose morals that do more harm than D&D ever has. 

Eddie knows the truth about Steve because he’d been right beside him for years. But how many times is he, Hawkins' own impish Puck, meant to put up with the swing? How many times are they all supposed to pretend Steve hasn't hurt them all? How many times is he going to stand in a proverbial boathouse, broken bottle in his hand, and pretend Steve is just a stranger, a jock, an asshole who intimidates Eddie for fun? 

He can’t quantify the confession, can’t get past the fact that he’s seen Steve at both his best and his worst, and can’t decide which version is sitting beside his hospital bed. 

Is it the one from the picnic table, twelve years old and afraid of the dark? Is it the one from the third-floor men’s room, demanding free cigarettes in exchange for not letting his friends steal his bag again? Is it the sixteen-year-old who’d push Eddie against a wall in the dark corner of his bedroom while a party raged downstairs? The one whispering that it was fine if Eddie tugged his hair a bit as his tongue found purchase along the column of his throat? 

That memory always sparked heat in Eddie’s chest. It wasn’t the only time their hidden friendship had crossed boundaries into something else, but it was the clearest in his mind. Probably because Steve’s expensive cologne had filled his senses as nimble fingers gripped his jacket. The way Steve had whispered his name like a confession against his skin.

But Eddie’s body hadn’t obeyed as Steve spoke words that seemed essential for him to get out; he couldn’t ask when exactly this ‘love’ had developed. Was it during those childhood forest adventures? After the Upside Down turned everything on its head? Or somewhere in the murky middle, when they had pretended to be nothing more than reluctant acquaintances passing in school hallways. 

So, though he hears it, though he even fully understands, the first time Steve Harrington tries to tell Eddie Munson he loves him, Eddie decides to stay in a coma rather than sort that all out. 

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

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

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

And then it happens. 

The strangest thing to happen in a good long while. 

Eddie. 

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

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

Well, he had thought nothing could surprise him anymore. 

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

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

Eddie is alive. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things are finally looking up for Steve. Vecna is gone, Hawkins is free from the machinations of the Upside Down, and Steve has gotten accepted to the University of Chicago. Nothing could derail his new beginning.

Until Robin suggests that he ask Eddie Munson to be his roommate.

Eddie, who snores like a subwoofer.

Eddie, who leaves his dirty socks hither and yon across the apartment.

Eddie, who is apparently a culinary genius and likes to remind Steve of all the ways in which his cooking skills are inadequate.

Eddie wasn’t stupid, contrary to popular belief. Sure, his teachers may have thought so, and maybe his father did too, but he wasn’t. Or at least, he hadn’t been. He hadn’t been, until he decided to follow his stupid boyfriend to Chicago, even with the pit of unease that creeped into his gut and didn’t leave.

He hadn’t been, until he ignored everything that told him this was a bad idea because Tommy was so good at talking him out of his own thoughts.

You’re overthinking, he’d say.

You need to relax, he’d say.

You’re seriously going to stay in your podunk town just because you ‘feel weird’? C’mon, Eddie.

And he sounded right, at the time. An apartment he didn’t have to pay for, a job already lined up at the same company Tommy’s dad ran, someone there so he wasn’t alone in a new city.

It seemed right. It seemed stupid to refuse.

That was until he found himself unceremoniously kicked to the curb after one fucking fight. A fight that Eddie refused to settle on, and kept poking the bear until Tommy reported him to his father for harassment, got him fired, and tossed his bags out the fourth floor window of their apartment.

Tommy’s apartment. Because Eddie wasn’t on the lease.

Eddie didn’t think he was stupid, but he sure felt like he was as he sat on the curb of an unfamiliar city, two shitty duffle bags of his clothes and not much else sitting beside him as he smoked through his last pack of cigarettes. It had only been three months. Three months, until he was suddenly homeless, jobless, and apparently fucking brainless to boot.

It wasn’t even like it was a new fight, it was a fight that had been shoved aside so many times, he kind of expected it to keep being pushed off until it was irrelevant. It wasn’t even like Tommy was cheating, or pursuing other people; he wasn’t looking elsewhere, he didn’t have wandering eyes, and he wasn’t afraid of claiming Eddie in public whenever they went out — which was new for Eddie. Maybe that skewed his idea of a healthy relationship, just a little.

No, instead it was like there was a third man in the relationship that was never actually there.

A ghost.

A remnant of a life that didn’t even exist. One that Tommy just couldn’t get out of his head.

Eddie’d never even met the guy.

Steve Harrington.

Apparently he and Tommy had gone to high school together, before either of them even realized they were gay. Which would mean nothing, as far as Eddie was concerned. He’d had plenty of gay awakenings in high school that went absolutely nowhere, and they fizzled out fairly quickly.

The problem was that it wasn’t flizzling. Every time Eddie did something slightly wrong, it was ‘Steve did it this way’ or ‘Steve did it that way’ or ‘Steve’s dinner tasted better, but yours is good too, Eds.’

For once Eddie just wanted to have a nice night in with his boyfriend, without having Steve Harrington hanging over the conversation. He was overthinking, Tommy said; he was paranoid, he insisted; it wasn’t like Steve was even in the state, Eddie, they were just high school friends, get over it.

So Eddie told him he wasn’t the one who needed to get over it. It was Tommy that kept bringing him up, it was Tommy that kept inserting some random guy into their relationship, it was Tommy who compared every little thing Eddie did to Steve, when — News Flash! — Steve clearly didn’t want him, it was Eddie who had moved states to be with him, it was Eddie he’d begged to follow him, it was Eddie who’d made them dinner every fucking night to several back-handed compliments and critique disguised as praise.

Apparently that wasn’t the correct thing to say, he scoffed to himself as he flipped through the contacts in his phone and debated whether or not calling Wayne for a ride or walking to the nearest bus station was better. Wayne would have to drive for a few hours to reach him, and that would definitely result in ‘I told you so’s and ‘I hated that boy from the beginning’s that Eddie didn’t want to deal with right now.

On the other hand, the Greyhound station was a couple miles away, and he’d have to call Wayne for a ride once he got to Hawkins anyway.

Eddie groaned, poking around through his social media just to delay his choice for a few more minutes. He didn’t think he’d be this annoyed by the end of a two-year relationship. He figured he’d be sadder, maybe a little depressed, maybe he’d feel all his emotions congeal into a blob of despair that would clog up his lungs and his throat and choke him from the inside out.

At least, that’s what the movies and books would claim.

Instead, he felt righteous indignation burn a hole through him as he looked at Tommy’s latest instagram post — a picture of their dinner from a couple days ago, Eddie’s ring-clad hand loosely resting around the stem of a wine glass (one he’d kind of wished he threw at Tommy’s head) that was taken right before their fight started and ended with their relationship up in flames.

Sometimes it’s all worth it 

The caption stared at him mockingly. Eddie wasn’t even tagged in it or anything, it was just Tommy’s smug little way of looking perfect online — he didn’t need Eddie for that, he just needed a prop, another body to show the world that Tommy wasn’t pathetic and alone, to pretend that he wasn’t hung up on some high school nobody like the loser he was. God, Eddie was so mad.

The timestamp was even minutes ago, as if he hadn’t already told Eddie he was fired and his stuff was on the curb by then. He could strangle that little weasel, he could march right back up the stairs and pound on the door and demand he delete the stupid picture.

But what would that do?

Tommy wouldn’t even open the door, let alone delete his stupid post. He probably had a stockpile of their pictures just to keep up the relationship on Instagram for appearances. He scoffed, the sound ripping from his throat sharp with anger that had nowhere to go.

Posting some angry rant online calling him out would just make Eddie look like a lunatic, and give him proof to hand over to HR to justify his firing. Was slinking back to Hawkins with his tail between his legs really the only thing he could do about this? Tommy deserved to feel like shit, he deserved to get a relationship thrown into his face over and over again, Eddie wasn’t just a prop, he was a person.

He was angrily scrolling through past pictures, his last cigarette hanging from his lips when a username caught his eye.

StevietheHairington had liked one of their early pictures, one with Eddie’s hand clasped in Tommy’s over a fancy tablecloth with candles and mood lighting, and suddenly he had an idea.

A petty one, for sure, but Eddie had never exactly been known as level-headed. He was a big fan of petty, a huge fan of petty — call him Tom Petty he was so ready to not back down.

So he went to Steve’s profile, just for a peek. Just a look — not even a look, a glance, just a little one.

The guy was gorgeous, he’d give Tommy that. All tan and happy, pretty mole-dotted skin that could absolutely stick in someone’s head for years. He looked sweet, nice even, which he hadn’t quite expected from someone who was friends with Tommy in school. He had several pictures with some girl, declarations of best friends and platonic soulmates that said Steve was probably single, which worked perfectly for the little plan that was vaguely forming in Eddie’s head.

It wasn’t even a plan, yet, just the whispers of a plan, really. It was kind of crazy, even for Eddie, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to try.

So he opened his DMs and sent probably the most unhinged message to a stranger that he’d ever sent in his life. He started with a simple ‘Hey man. You don’t know me, but I think you know my boy—’ he deleted the last few letters and shook his head, clearing his throat from the anger that suddenly climbed up to choke him, ‘ex-boyfriend,’ he amended.

‘We’d been dating for a few years and he dragged me to a new city just to throw me to the curb because he was too obsessed with you. I know that’s not your fault, and I’m not mad, but I was wondering if you’d maybe be interested in helping me get a little revenge?’

‘Ik this is weird and a lil fucked up and everything but he seriously left me stranded and got me fired and this is the only thing I can think of to get back at him…’

He didn’t exactly expect a reply, to be honest. He kind of figured that would be that, and he’d just have to suck it up and deal with getting his life back in order — starting with the trek to the train station with his stupid bags weighing him down like cement blocks.

He was sweaty and tired by the time he got a ticket and a seat, a vague text to Wayne about coming to visit for a few days… or weeks, that he then ignored. He had two hours to gear up for the ‘I told you so’s, he didn’t need them before he and his uncle were even face-to-face.

When his phone buzzed a few minutes later, he figured it would be the exact type of text he didn’t want to read, but it was a DM instead.

From Steve.

Eddie scrambled to open the app, nearly dropping his phone in the process, heart skyrocketing into his throat like the king of rock himself had just messaged him instead of a stranger.

‘weird lol whos ur ex?’

That’s all it said. Simple.

‘Tommy Hagan?’

‘I’m in.’

The reply was instantaneous. It popped up like a liferaft, dragging Eddie’s drowning emotions to the surface with renewed clarity and hope. He didn’t think it’d be that easy, he didn’t think he’d get a reply at all, let alone an immediate one.

A bubble popped up, ellipses drifting in and out until Steve replied again.

Steve's found the perfect hiding spot for the game of hide & seek he and his cousins are engaging in. Well his five year old brain thinks it's the perfect spot. He's crouching down behind a large rose bush. He hears one of his cousins run past him trying to find a spot to hide. He hears a rustling sound coming from deeper in the bush and turns towards the sound. He witnesses a deep purple rose slowly opening as it blooms. The petals look velvety soft as he shuffles closer to inspect it. He doesn't notice how the thorny branches move aside, keeping him safe.

He's completely mesmerised as the petals shimmer with a golden hue. Steve reaches out to stroke the bloom, curious to see if its as soft as it looks, but the bloom closes as soon as he touches it. He frowns and huffs before sees a second and third bloom opening up, both the same deep purple but each has a different hue to them, one silver and one soft pink. The bushes rustle around him again, accompanied by chittering and clicking. The branches around him slowly move aside creating an opening, making way for an uncanny looking dog. It's limbs are too long and spindly, its body too thin with bony ridges sticking out, its fur short and bristly. It's muzzle is what truly makes it look otherworldly, the lower yaw is hanging open with a seem running between it that's split open.

Had Steve been older he would have realized the danger he could be in, but all he saw was an interesting looking dog. He holds out his hand palm up so the dog can sniff his hand. He giggles when the dogs hot breath tickles his hand as it deeply sniffs him. The dog steps closer and starts sniffing at him, burring its nose in his hair. Steve pulls a face as the dogs warm and rancid breath hits him full in the face.

On the twenty-third day of September, in an early year of a decade not too long before our own, the human race suddenly encountered a deadly threat to its very existence... This terrifying enemy surfaced,as such enemies often do, in the seemingly most innocent and unlikely of places.

A dying suburb on the edge of the big city. Hawkins was not the thriving metropolis it had once been.

The money upped and left years before, leaving little behind in its rush to kick up dust and go. The shadow of wealth still clung to the buildings, looming structures that once held finery and grandeur now housed thrift stores and discount wear houses. Laundromats and repair shops filled the spaces where coffee shops and bakeries had used to fill the street with sweetness and life.

Eddie Munson lived here. In this suburb of the forgotten, the ones that couldn't or wouldn't escape, the ones who were left behind. But he dreamed big.

He wanted to get out; he wanted to escape the shit hand that the world had dealt him. Eddie had come to the city looking for his big break, and he stayed because going back to his Uncle Wayne out in the boons would mean admitting he had failed.

He was alone. The rest of his band had called it a day, and now he lived in the tiny one-room apartment below the flower shop that had offered him work because he knew how to use a hose and could tell a weed from a rhododendron.

He didn't know much, but he knew plants, and that had saved him from returning to bumfuck nowhere with his tail between his legs.

Creel Flower Shop was exactly what you would expect from a plant shop in a built-up city suburb where most people only had a window box, or if they were lucky, a balcony to grow. Nothing new or exciting sat on the shelves; no, this was not a place for that, as much as Eddie would like to put his self-taught talents to better use.

Mostly, the owner, Henry Creel, left him to his own devices, and he filled his days with pottering around the shop, filling orders for the contract clients. The only thing that kept the shops' heads above water was that the Henderson's at the funeral home kept them in business. And when he wasn't fashioning wreaths for the dearly departed, the proximity to the subway meant occasional businessmen passing through from whatever whore house they had frequented, buying a bunch of perfectly cut roses to appease some of their guilt when they got home.

Eddie had a lot of time to think and curate his own little slice of paradise up on the roof.

You wouldn't think it if you were looking at him. The ripped jeans, the tattoos, the long hair, and the rings didn't exactly scream green fingers. But Eddie loved plants, the weirder the better.

Vriesea, Flaming swords, and Hemerocallis grew side by side, blooming under his careful care. He filled his spare time hunting for something new, something exciting, something that would make him famous. Eddie Munson, botanist to the president. Admittedly, it wasn't as cool as metal god. But at least he wouldn't have to rely on anyone else for his success.

On this day, it was a day just like any other.

Until it wasn't.

Eddie often bought plants from other local vendors, people who also liked the strange and unusual. Bauman Botanics and Exotic Goods sold everything from houseplants to bootlegged Russian vodka; the inventory varied depending on how much the owner, Murray, liked you, or how much, and what you could do for him in return.

Eddie had several exotic plants that he would never have seen in real life if it weren't for Murray's eccentric nature. So he didn't even bat an eyelid when the man in question flounced out of his shop, adorned in bright blue underpants and a housecoat looking like a bargain basement pimp.

He greeted Eddie by gesturing towards the table along the storefront. Showing off his new saplings, fully grown succulents, and sweeping vines that Eddie inspected with curiosity, even if he was not looking to buy.

Out of the stock before him, Eddie already had cuttings and mature plants in his collection, so nothing had caught his eye. Nothing piqued his interest, not even the creeping vine that seemed determined to snuff out the death's head clematis that bordered the shop door.

He was just about to say as much when the bright sunshine around them suddenly faded, darkness fell, and the street became quiet and subdued.

A total eclipse of the sun.

It lasted a second, if that, and Murray looked just as confused as Eddie felt. Nobody had mentioned they were due for a solar eclipse, yet there was no mistaking the astrological phenomenon currently taking place.

And just like that…

It was over. And when Eddie turned to ask Murray if he had any idea what that was all about, he noticed it.

A plant unlike anything he had seen before, nestling into a coffee can and leaning towards the returning sun.

Eddie reached to grab it, sure that the plant trembling was entirely in his mind.

It didn’t look like any of Murray's other plants, but he sold it to him anyway.

~◼️▪️◼️▪️◼️▪️◼️~

June ██, 1983.

"Listen, listen," Steve held both hands up to quiet him, "It's not carved in stone, it's not predestination, it's choices, weaves," he balled his hands into fists in a sign of mild frustration, "Look—" he unwrapped the scarf from his neck, holding the tasselled end up at Eddie, but… it was June… and Eddie could've sworn Steve didn't have a scarf, he'd have noticed, right? Especially one like that, thick and knitted, made of a soft looking, vibrant yellow wool. "—Fate is a tapestry, it's huge and all encompassing, and unlike this—" he pulled at the frayed edge of the scarf, unravelling a handful of threads, "—that tapestry has an almost infinite amount of threads."

"Steve?" Eddie whispered, pointing at the scarf in confusion as Steve carefully draped the ends of the threads across the side of his left hand, gripping the bulk and presenting them to Eddie as an offering,

"Which gives you choices." Steve either didn't hear him or was ignoring him, too wrapped up in his explanation. Sluggishly, Eddie started to accept that maybe the scarf had been there the whole time—of course it had, a bright yellow scarf was hard to miss—he looked instead to the offered threads, uncurling his hand into a reaching grab before he hesitated and narrowed his eyes.

"What are they?" he asked, "my choices."

"Hmm…" there was a strange intensity in Steve's eyes as he leant forward, the iridescent hazel was lost to the swell of his pupils and all Eddie saw there was darkness, inky and infinite, even the reflection from the dome light had slipped away from them, unable to find purchase on once-glossy lenses. The thick fog of Eddie's high seemed to settle in his throat as Steve regarded him, a nervous swallow doing nothing to shift it as he was stripped bare under that peculiar gaze, raw and exposed, seen.

"Uegk—" it was an odd noise, but it was the one he made, shrinking back until he was slumped against the side of the van, breaths coming out short and uneasy until Steve lifted his hand and disrupted Eddie's line of sight with the dangling threads. His head fell back against the panelling and he sucked down a few deep breaths of weed laced air, closing his eyes against the too-bright dome light as he recuperated from high-induced paranoia—it wasn't the first time his high had veered off course, but it rarely did so with company. "Jesus…" he sighed, shaking his head to clear it before peeling himself from the panelling, feeling sticky and damp with sweat as he honed in on Steve, watching as he drew a few of the threads back over his hand, "shit's strong…"

"Sorry," Steve hummed distantly, lifting golden eyes from the red yarn dangling across his fingers and meeting Eddie's wide-eyed stare, smiling at him with soft reassurance, "Your choices?" he gestured with the yarn and Eddie nodded,

"Ready."

"Great," Steve's voice was barely above a whisper, but then he cleared his throat and spoke crisp words into the air between them. "There are six threads," he stated and Eddie dragged his eyes across them, counting each one with a deep nod of his head, "six paths you can take, six choices you could make,"—he wondered absently if Steve knew he was rhyming—"Freedom, Aspiration—"

"Freedom from what?" he asked, interrupting, Steve looked thoughtful for a moment before shrugging,

"I dunno," his voice pitched up as he spoke, curiosity piquing him briefly, "You're the one who knows," he offered helpfully, twisting his mouth to the side as Eddie gave him a bemused look. He shrugged again, then continued, "Duty, Conformity—" As if, Eddie would sooner die than conform, and his thoughts must've been written all over his face, because Steve hesitated, giving him a curious look before touching his thumb to the second thread along, pulling it back over his hand with a subtle caress. "—Stability, and, of course, Nothing."

'Nothing' was a curious one, "What do they mean?" he asked, rephrasing in the hopes of a real answer as he gestured at the five remaining threads, Conformity was gone at least, but the options he was given were abstract and confusing,

"I couldn't tell you." Steve answered, which was part of the game, Eddie supposed, it was his job to figure them out and pick the right one.

"Do I just go with my gut and guess?" he scratched his eyebrow, closing one eye and keeping the other on the strands, as if their meanings would become clear, Steve didn't answer, "they're not in order." he knew that much when Conformity got removed, they were shuffled,

"I suppose not." Steve was still watching him when he looked up, soft eyed and airy as he kept his arm outstretched.

"Is there a right choice?" his voice felt too quiet, child-like as the weight of this bizarre game sat heavy across his shoulders, like it might somehow affect the rest of his life,

"What do you mean?" Steve cocked his head to the side, "whatever choice you make is your decision, so it's the right one for you." that wasn't exactly the answer he was looking for,

"Do any of these choices—" he hesitated, he felt stupid and small, like his question was too simple, too naive, "—Will any of these choices make me happy?" the look on Steve's face was oddly reassuring, that weighty seriousness lifted with the slight raise of his brows, a sweet smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, baring teeth that glinted sharp in the dome light,

"Two of the six offer… fulfilment, what you do on the path you choose is where happiness is found." it was a strange way to phrase it, two of the six, had Eddie already discarded one of his chances? That didn't seem right, he'd discarded Conformity, there wasn't a single timeline in which conforming could end in Eddie being fulfilled, conformity would be a wife, a litter of kids, a house with a picket fence, a cushy job, that sounded like Hell, not the recipe for a fulfilled life.

"I take it you know which two." he huffed, regretting it when he chased that smile away and painted a frown across that painfully pretty face,

Excerpt:

"Alright, that's it, time's up," he snaps, getting out of his car. Startling Jeff, who pushes off the wall to, surprisingly, try and discourage him with hands outstretched.

"Whoa there, hang on, Steve-"

"No, no, I'm done waiting," Steve just walks around Jeff, speaking over his shoulder as he walks up the steps to the side doors of the school. "Eddie's rules can go shove it, alright? I have a responsibility here, and I'd rather get my ass kicked by him than hear one word from another parent." He barges into the school, walking down the halls to Hellfire's base.

He's so determined that Jeff has to jog to keep up, still hesitantly trying to hold Steve back and definitely failing at trying to talk him down. "You-You know he's just gonna tell you off right?" He chuckles nervously. "I-I mean, can't beat a Munson in a debate and it would just kill the scene," he says through gritted teeth before trying to laugh it off again, "s-so what's even the point there-"

"Well maybe," Steve spins to look Jeff in the eye, freezing the poor guy in place, "Eddie should've thought of that before taking another half hour to nerd out."

He really doesn't mean to make Jeff the subject of his annoyance, but there's this weird energy in the air now. Makes his skin all buzzy, and a warmth suddenly radiates through him. It almost feels familiar, like the faint burn of a sun tan residing in every move you make after coming inside. Something about it acts as fuel, as Steve turns to trudge the last few feet and bust open one of the doors to Hellfire.

Of course, he's immediately met with a chorus of ("totally-not-girly, gosh Steve, grow up") yelps from every single person in the almost pitch black backroom. All the kids are seated around the center table, each of them going bug-eyed at Steve's entrance and freezing on the spot. Eddie, standing with his back to Steve at the furthest end of the table, flinches so hard it almost makes Steve want to apologize.

Almost.

"Eddie, I do not care how long this thing takes, I'm not waiting another second to- to…"

And Steve just stops. Because something catches his eye from the darkest corner of the room.

It's Gareth, the youngest of Eddie's crew. He's sitting on their poor excuse of a couch next to the last original Hellfire member (Freak or Frank or Harold or something like that), both just as wide-eyed as the rest of the room. The only difference is, in the darkness, Gareth's eyes have a glowing spark at the center, and Steve swears a magenta hue streaked behind his head when it swiveled to see him.

That makes Steve look back at Eddie and finally notice that, beyond the brilliance of the moon in front of him, Eddie is glowing.

Eddie is still in a braced position from his fright, and begins to slowly turn to face his friend, right side first. But by the time Steve catches his nervous/scared/guilty expression, Eddie can see him too, and he immediately forgets hesitation to turn the rest of the way and gape at Steve the same as the others.

And in his left eye, as though stolen straight from the night sky itself, is the moon.

The suffocating silence finally catches up to Steve. He slowly brings his free hand up, not wanting to believe what was so clearly right in front of him.

The sun's going down and the floodlights have been turned on, turning the soft golden hour light into something harsh and stark. Despite his helmet and mouth guard, Eddie can still taste dirt and iron between his teeth from the constant clods of mud kicked up by the tires. The arena is filled with the stench of exhaust and oil and gas, burnt rubber and the ozone sharpness of metal grinding against metal.

Beneath Eddie, Corroded Coffin wheezes and gutters, the hearse on its last legs. She can't take many more hits. She struggles to turn right, and the brakes grind, and the body is dented in enough that his left elbow constantly rubs against the quilt strapped to the driver's side door as makeshift padding.

Across the arena, Harrington's Chrysler Imperial has lost all of it's polish and shine, paint ground off, scraped through, coated in mud, though the light still catches on the sheen of lingering glitter. Eddie can't see his face at this distance, cast in shadow, even staring straight down the barrel. But he can hear the engine roar.

A head-on collision is stupid. It's a good way to trash your car and knock yourself out of the running. But.

Eddie's heart pounds and his blood sings and every fiber of his body screams at him to drive his car directly into, against, through, Harrington's, until mangled metal twists together and you can't tell where one body starts and another ends.

They're the last men standing. And a head-on hit always makes for a good show.

Rating: Mature

Estimated Word Count: 50,000-55,000 words

Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Eddie Munson & Wayne Munson

Characters: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, Wayne Munson, Vecna/Henry Creel, Minor or Background Character(s)

Content Warnings: Health Issues Typical of an Aging Character, Period-Typical Homophobia, Minor Instances of Police Corruption and Attempted Sexual Assault, Mentions of Gun Violence