excerpt:

And for some reason Steve does not fucking understand.

For some reason he will continue to question for long after this. 

For some reason he still won’t have an answer to years from now when they’re well and truly past this.

For some reason, Steve puts himself between Eddie and everyone else, says a quick “You might want to run” over his shoulder as he pushes Eddie toward the door with one hand, the other –

Well, in the span of approximately 1.7 seconds, Steve smiles, flips Tommy the bird, and kicks the leg out from the makeshift bar table. 

The folding table holding a smattering of drinks.

The folding table holding the absolutely massive punch bowl. 

Just in time for Tommy to collide with it.

And crash to the floor.

“Holy fucking shit.” Eddie laughs, hot on Steve’s ear.

Steve laughs too, actually, kind of shocking himself as he watches the punch bowl shatter – watches the greenish-red liquid spray everywhere. The fake eyes and dismembered candy fingers scattering across the floor. The partygoers shrieking as they’re coated in punch.

Tommy falls across the table as it collapses, getting completely drenched in punch and glass, the punch bowl half-beneath him as it crumbles.

Jason is hot on his heels, stumbling and falling on top of Tommy, the pair of them groaning in tandem.

“Oh–” Steve is laughing hard now. 

Laughing as he watches Jason and Tommy writhe on the floor, helplessly trying to wipe the punch and glass from their…well, their everywhere, really.

Turns out glass likes to stick in things. 

“Holy fucking shit.” Eddie whisper-laughs behind him again, a sentiment Steve wholly agrees with, except –

“Run, man, seriously.” Steve’s eyes are wide as he pushes Eddie a half-step towards the door, even as the laughter is still coursing through him, making him feel more alive than he has in who fucking knows how long.

“You’re fuckin’ dead.” 

Which comes from a voice Steve has grown to loathe in a few short months. 

Billy goddamn Hargrove. 

Steve turns, watches Billy stop on the other side of the table catastrophe. People are still screaming and laughing and running around – mostly, they’re running away from whatever the fuck is happening. Forming a perimeter around the spectacle, circling them like they’re in a fucking ring about to face off. 

“Running. Running now.” Eddie says, which, yeah – Steve told him to, so why the fuck is he still here? 

“Dude, go.” Steve half-whispers over his shoulder, still trying to push Eddie toward the door. But, Eddie is more of a solid pillar than he would’ve imagined.

“Uh, yeah.” Eddie says with all the sarcastic merit of a 5th grader. “Let’s.” 

“Wh–”

“Jesus.” Eddie’s hand wraps hard around Steve’s bicep, full-bodily yanking him back toward the patio door. 

Billy is honest-to-god actually growling at them, mouth open, like, teeth bared and shit, fists clenched at his sides as he stalks across broken glass and spilled punch, when Steve…

Well.

Steve holds up a finger, somehow actually making Billy stop a foot away, surprise etched on his face. Then, Steve grabs a half-empty cup left forgotten on a shelf by the door. 

“Sorry, did you want some?” Steve asks before taking a sip. “How rude of me. Here.” 

Then, in some feat of King Steve of days past, he takes a big mouthful, pulls down his sunglasses just enough and winks at Billy, before spitting the drink all over Billy. “Enjoy.” Steve croons as he throws the rest of the cup at Billy and blows him a fucking kiss. 

Steve laughs hard as he turns and tumbles through the patio doors and out into a run across the yard with Eddie motherfucking Munson still holding onto him.

Stars flicker in and out behind passing clouds, winking at them like someone who knows all of their secrets. Eddie supposes that they do these days. The night has heard their whispers and their confessions, an altar of sorts upon which Eddie feels laid bare. Steve shivers behind him, with Eddie’s back to his chest and Steve’s back against the tree. 

Eddie wants to turn, to hug him warm again, but he can’t anymore. The flush of Steve’s blood coursing through him only lasts for so long.

“Wanna go inside? You’re cold,” Eddie whispers, his voice still foreign to his heightened hearing. 

“I’m fine, I like it out here.” Steve squeezes Eddie tighter around his middle despite the lack of give. “A little chill never hurt anyone.” 

Eddie sighs— a habit more than a necessity— and closes his eyes as he leans back into the embrace. He’s still shaken by their talk, by the idea of outliving Steve again. It feels obvious now, but Eddie has been so wrapped in the fact that he’d been spit back out by the Upside Down that he hasn’t thought to consider his own lack of mortality. Or how willing Steve is to give his up. 

Once upon a time, he’d thought the only real monster was forced conformity. Those days were so simple, so cut and dry. Eddie sits with the boy who he loves more than life and has to ask himself whether or not his still heart and useless lungs make him a monster. Does wanting Steve for eternity make him selfish? Does acquiescing to Steve’s requests that he feed from him make him greedy? Is being loved by someone without a beating heart dangerous?

Love is sacrifice though, isn’t it? 

Eddie knows that with an ache where his heart no longer beats. His mother sacrificed for him, Wayne sacrificed for him, and now, as Steve shivers and recovers from Eddie’s bites, gently pressed into his thigh to keep their bloody little secret, he realizes that he, too, has sacrificed for him. 

When is it enough? 

Eddie looks down at his feet, unblinking. His new Reeboks look exactly like his old ones, white but earning a fresh layer of dinge. 

Summary:

Steve Harrington should stop being so nice. Or maybe he should just change his contact info to protect himself from old college friends bringing up debts he made years ago. If he had done that, he wouldn't be in such a mess, but he also wouldn't have met the most charming, hilarious, hot (and perfect for him) resident of New York City, aka Eddie Munson. The worst (or maybe best?) part is that Eddie seems to be into him and they fit great together. It would be perfect if Steve hadn't met him while pretending he is Tommy Hagan. Or if he knew how to tell him the truth without making an ass of himself.

Eddie Munson thought his comatose neighbor's big ass dog was a huge problem, but that was onl until he met Mrs. Hagan's nephew Tommy (or Steve. Who has a fucking name for a nickname? Tommy Hagan apparently). Steve just moved next door to take care of the pets, which would be fine if he wasn't the nicest, hottest, most charming motherfucker who ever crossed Eddie's life. And if Eddie didn't have so many trust issues. Steve seems too good to be true, so there's gotta be something wrong there. But what is it?

Snippet:

To: Robin Buckley <[email protected]>

From: Steve Harrington <[email protected]>

Subject: did he believe I am Tommy Hagan?

Yes. To my absolute dismay, he did. Robin, I'm so fucked. I don't think I have ever met someone so charming.

Eddie, that's his name, "oh man, just call me Eddie", he said. That's how everybody calls him since childhood, apparently. His apartment looks insane, by the way. He has so many band posters and paintings and framed pictures, it's like he lives in one of those hip bars–in a single dude way, of course, but a lot more organized that my apartment would be if I had that much stuff. Seriously, he has stuff everywhere: books, shelves full of trinkets and action figures, guitars hung on the wall, boxes of vinyls and VHS tapes. Who still keeps their VHS tapes??? And so many mugs. I think I counted twenty. He lives by himself!

But well, he told me about Tommy's aunt Doris, showed me the way he found her, showed me the pets. I'm gonna kill Hagan for not telling me the woman has a fucking Great Dane. At this point I think I should just kill Hagan and get rid of this debt I have with him, to be honest.

What do I do, Robin? I'm standing there at this insane apartment, listening to this handsome guy talk about how he likes Doris, how she's such a kind person and how he hates to ask me to drop my humanitarian work in Ethiopia just to do this, but his job performance is getting compromised and he's very sorry. So okay, I nod, I pretend I'm Tommy (whos in Bali, not in Ethiopia by the way), I tell him I'm moving in because aunt Doris's pets need someone regularly. I can tell they do. I know what you're gonna say, Robin, but those pets need me. Angel, the dog, needs to go out three times a day! And Mr. Doodles and Muffin, the cats, seem so lonely. You'd do the same if you saw the looks on their faces, I know you would.

Steve

Moodboard:

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.