i don't even go here

—————————————

While exploring a ‘haunted’ hotel:

Mike: Hey look, all of Steve’s bitches are in this room.

El: There is nobody in there.

Mike: Exactly.

He turns to look directly into the camera with a sly grin and the others start laughing.

Steve: Yeah, yeah. You’ll be laughing when I drive home without you.

—————————————

At the same hotel.

Steve: Dustin. Your little light box thing is broken, it’s been flashing on and off for the past five minutes.

Dustin: Oh my God, Steve! That means it can sense a spirit. Why didn’t you say anything?! Did you not listen to my long and detailed explanation of how the equipment works?

Steve: I’m gonna be so honest with you. No, I didn’t.

—————————————

On their Mothman episode trip to point pleasant.

Steve, staring at the statue (we all know which one): Ok, but why is he kinda…

Lucas: Please stop talking.

Dustin: No sexualising the cryptids please, Steve.

Steve: If they didn’t want anyone to sexualise Mothman, then why would they give his statue such a defined ass and abs?

Max: I mean, he’s not wrong.

—————————————

Eventually, Steve gets peer pressured by the comments into starting his own channel. And since he still has no idea what he wants to do with his life, he decides to go ahead and do it.

At first his audience are super confused because his content is a hard pivot from the supernatural and unsolved mysteries content people are used to seeing him in. He mainly reacts to DIY haircare videos and gives tips on how to do what the people in the videos were trying to do properly without risking ending up bald.

He also makes wholesome baking videos, and has a side podcast with Robin, where they talk shit for 3 hours about anything they want - usually celebrities and assholes on the internet - as well as having a segment where Robin makes Steve watch a movie he's never seen and they review it. People who came from the paranormal channel still love his content because he’s funny and sassy and his videos are surprisingly helpful at times. He’s soon catching up to his friends in subscriber numbers.

Eddie and his band have a channel where they upload music videos, live performances and backstage/tour vlogs. They also make the occassional song covers where they take requests in the comments for metal versions of pop songs. Eddie also has a side channel where he runs D&D campaigns with other influencers (he hates that word).

One day he’s doing a Q&A and when someone asks which influencers he’d like to invite for his next campaign, he mentions Steve and says he’s been secretly watching his videos for a while and they’re kind of a guilty pleasure. He’s even tried some of Steve’s hair care tips because his hair was looking a bit frazzled under the heat of the lights on stage and it was getting in his way during performances. Now he swears by them because his hair has never looked or felt better.

Steve’s never seen any of Eddie’s videos but he starts watching them after that, he particularly likes the metal versions of pop songs because it makes the genre more accessible to him. Sometimes he makes joke song suggestions in the comments. Every single time, the song he suggested gets covered.

The boys are all insanely jealous of this new development because they’ve been fans of Eddie’s channels for years and have been bringing up references to some of his campaigns in their videos to try and get him to consider them for the next one, but so far have had no luck. Meanwhile, Steve, who doesn’t even know the first thing about D&D has his full attention. Steve was going to ask Eddie to consider asking them out of the kindness of his heart, but after they’ve given him a little too much attitude over it, he decides he’s gonna join the campaign instead just to spite them.

Gareth sighs. “He's the best stylist in town, and you're lucky he agreed to see you. Let's go, he doesn't like waiting.”

“The fuck?” Eddie sputters as Gareth drags him inside. “I'm a fucking rockstar, I'm never late. The show starts when I arrive.”

“Okay, Gandalf,” says a voice.

Eddie freezes. Because damn, that was a solid comeback.

Also because it came from the most gorgeous man he has seen in his life. Perfectly styled caramel hair. Cheekbones that look like they were carved from marble. He's regarding them with his hands on his hips, the seams of his pink polo straining against the muscles of his arms.

On Eddie, another seam strains. Further south.

“Eddie and Gareth, right?” says the man. There's a name stitched into his polo, in the same cursive font as the sign outside. Steve.

“That's us,” Gareth nods. “It'll be ten years since our first number one hit next week, and we have that big photoshoot.”

Steve, who has been dancing around Eddie, lifts a strand of frizzy curls between two fingers.

“His last haircut was around the same time, I guess?”

“Fuck you!” Eddie blurts. “I did cut it. Like three years ago. Also, the hair is my trademark.”

Steve gives him a look. “This isn't a trademark, it's a cry for help. Give me two hours.”

He's lucky he's hot, Eddie thinks. He'd never agree to this otherwise.

*

“Done,” Steve declares, swivelling the chair around so Eddie can look at himself in the mirror. “What do you say?”

Eddie doesn’t say anything. For one thing, he’s still weirdly floaty from the feeling of Steve’s hands in his hair, Steve’s fingers turning his head, Steve’s voice telling him to hold still or sit straighter.

For another, his jaw is currently on the floor.

Gareth puts down his magazine and whistles through his teeth.

“Amazing! It looks like his hair but … good!”

Steve smiles, spritzing Eddie’s curls with something smelling of citrus and herbs. The bottle says it’s for a glossy finish.

“One of my easiest exercises. You like it?”

“It’s not horrible,” Eddie concedes, standing from his chair and grabbing a grinning Gareth to pull him out of the shop. It’s the understatement of the century and they all know it. “Call our management about the bill, yeah?”

“Will do,” Steve promises. “Make sure to come by for a touch-up soon. Preferably sooner than ten years from now.”

Eddie guesses he will. Just because the guy is hot, obviously.

Wayne insisted that he would get Angie from the salon to try to fix it, but he knows what Angie charges and he knows Wayne doesn’t have that kind of money. That’s how he got in this mess in the first place.

Steve opens the door and somehow manages to keep his face neutral as he pulls Eddie inside. He silently leads him upstairs and into his bedroom, then into the connected bathroom because Steve is rich. Or at least upper middle class enough that he doesn’t have to leave his room to take a piss.

Must be nice.

There’s a chair set up in the middle of the floor with a variety of scary looking bottles and tools on the counter. He recognizes a hair dryer, and a comb, but nothing else. He’s a little worried he’s about to end up on the news, and not in the way everyone expects of him.

“Sit. I have a lot of work to do.”

Eddie sits. He’s not scared of Steve. Steve’s probably the only jock who hasn’t taken a chance to punch, hit, or kick him. He doesn’t even really say anything particularly rude or hurtful towards him. Maybe behind his back once Tommy and his gaggle of meatheads have had their fill, but never to his face. But he has a certain tone that makes him obey without question.

And if his dick twitches a little in his jeans, that’s between him and the tight Levi knockoffs wrapped tight around his hips and legs.

He starts picking up strands of his hair and sighing, moving around him to take in the disaster on his head. Eddie clears his throat, but before he can say anything, Steve speaks.

“I can fix it, but it’s gonna be a while. You got anywhere to be?”

Eddie laughs nervously. “Rather not go in public like this so. All yours for the day.”

Steve pats his head like he’s a dog and Eddie’s dick reacts like he’s a dog wagging his tail. He swallows and hopes Steve doesn’t suspect anything. His damn hormones are just all over the place and he’s nervous and embarrassed and—

“I need to wash it first. It’ll help the curls fall more on their own. You said he did this yesterday?” Steve drags the chair over to the sink and Eddie cannot think about how much strength it takes to pull him across the floor like this.

“Yeah. Not even sure he read the instructions.”

“Even if he did, he didn’t have the right tools. But it’s not the first bad perm from attempting one at home. Probably not the last,” Steve pushes his head back into the sink. Eddie’s tired of his dick thinking this is foreplay. “Close your eyes. The chemicals will burn if any gets in them.”

Despite how straight to the point Steve’s words are, his actions are slow and careful. Almost soft. His hands are gentle as he scrubs what Eddie assumes is his shampoo for what Eddie assumes is longer than necessary. It feels so good.

He rinses just as carefully, placing his hand across the top of his forehead to try to prevent anything from getting in Eddie’s eyes. It’s the most taken care of Eddie’s ever felt in his life, probably.

Steve guides his head up and starts scrubbing his hair with a towel, his stomach and chest rubbing against Eddie’s shoulder and arm as he does. He’s sturdy, muscular, but not built like some of the other jocks who spend all their free time in the gym. His muscles are less obvious, and Eddie’s dick is getting harder by the minute.

“That already helped a little,” Steve explains as he combs through his hair slowly. “I’ll use something to strip the rest of the perm chemical out and then wash it again. Then I’ll have to use a leave-in conditioner and let it sit for a while before washing again.”

“Okay.”

What else is Eddie supposed to say? Steve’s helping him and he’s enjoying it. He’s not gonna turn any of that down.

Nearly two hours later, as Steve’s blow drying Eddie’s hair to make sure he’s fixed it, he’s pretty sure he’s gonna come in his jeans. He needs to get the hell out of here.

Steve doesn’t seem to notice. If he does he hasn’t said anything.

“All done. You might want to wash and condition your hair again tonight or tomorrow. It’s dry.”

Eddie nods. He doesn’t even own conditioner, but he can’t tell Steve that.

“You can have this bottle,” Steve hands him one of the bottles on the sink. “I got a new one anyway.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Eddie stands and takes the bottle from him, hoping that his jeans are arranged in a way that hides how hard he is.

Steve steps closer. Too close. Kissing distance away close.

He smirks. “I can give you a minute to take care of that.”

He glances down at Eddie’s crotch for a second before looking back up.

“Or I could help.”

Eddie blinks. “What?”

Steve rolls his eyes and grabs the bottle back from him, setting it on the counter before he drops to his knees in front of Eddie.

“Changed my mind on the weed. Let me suck you off instead.”

“Um. Okay.”

The first sign is the look on Robin’s face. One second she’s laughing at one of Steve’s dumb jokes; the next she’s staring across the diamond, aghast. It has Steve whipping his head around to see what’s so shocking, and his eyes land on the screen just in time to see a version of himself doing the same, on a moment’s delay. A gaudy pink frame, made up of heart-shaped bubbles, surrounds the two of them.

Steve turns back to Robin, her eyes as wide as he’s ever seen them. That expression communicates two important things to him.

One: She does not want to kiss him. That’s nothing new, and it doesn’t bother him at all. If anything, he’s a little grossed out by the fact that he ever entertained the thought, even if the last time he did was a million years ago.

Two: They’re watching. Steve, they’re watching us. It’s a silent plea to make them stop watching. He knows how she feels, because there’s a chittering murmur starting up in the crowd, and suddenly he feels surrounded by strangers who are desperate to witness their embarrassment.

What Steve does next isn’t an idea—it’s more of a reflex. He turns away from Robin, and before he knows it he’s got his lips locked with the guy sitting on his other side.

He didn’t clock it until he was already yanking him in by the front of his shirt, but the stranger he’s kissing is a guy. Even though long curls tickle his cheeks, Steve has enough experience to know the difference in an instant. The problem is, he can’t bring himself to care—partly because the guy is starting to recover his wits, and instead of shoving Steve away and kicking his teeth in, he’s kissing back.

He’s a good kisser, too. A great one. As suddenly as he initiated the kiss, Steve loses control of it, and he fucking melts. He feels his shoulders droop as all the tension falls out of them. He somehow manages to cup the guy’s jaw with his palm, despite his arms going all numb and tingly like he’s been lying on them for a while.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Steve is aware of the fact that he basically just outed himself to an entire stadium full of people, many of them now laughing and wolf-whistling. That’s not what breaks the kiss, though. Instead, it’s Robin tapping him on the shoulder and gently clearing her throat.

“Uh, dingus? They’ve moved on.”

Steve isn’t the one to pull back, either. The stranger’s smirk disconnects from his lips and murmurs, “Wow. Turns out I love baseball.”

Eyes fluttering open, Steve spots an older man in the seat beyond him, suppressing a grin.

Robin leans across and says to the stranger, “Thanks for taking one for the team.”

Blushing, Steve mumbles, “Yeah. Thanks, man.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, big boy,” the stranger replies, still smirking.

The last couple innings go by without further incident. But as they stand up to leave at the end of the game, Steve feels a folded scrap of paper being slipped directly into his hand. He opens it slowly as the stranger departs with a coy look over his shoulder.

Eddie spots Tommy across the practice field, and stomps up behind him, placing a hand in the center of Tommy's back, shoving. Hard. Tommy falls face first into the grass, and Gareth reaches up and pulls at his own hair. He's trying to grow it out, but that won't matter if they both get slaughtered in the next few minutes.

"What the fuck?!" Tommy yells, rolling over, kicking his legs, wiggling himself back onto his feet. Lunging towards Eddie. Already hopping mad.

Eddie dodges, taking a step back.

But Tommy has made a mistake, a critical one, because Eddie comes across, decking him good with a right hook. Holy shit. Gareth didn't even know Eddie knew how to throw down like that. Jesus Christ.

Tommy screams, and whirls around, taking a knee. Gareth's never seen anything like it.

"Stop being a pussy," Eddie says, "You wanna talk shit? Then take it like a man."

Eddie moves to take another step towards Hagan, but Steve Harrington places a hand in the center of Eddie's chest, holding him back. 

"What's this about?" Steve asks, holding Eddie back as Tommy makes a fool of himself on the ground. Eddie tries to wriggle away, but Steve just fists Eddie's shirt in his hand, twisting, pinning him down.

Eddie uses both his hands to try and push Steve away, but Steve doesn't let go. He just tightens his grip. Shit. They're in trouble now.

Gareth goes up and shoves Steve, but he doesn't act like he even felt it. 

Steve barely glances at him, "Just say no, kid."

Well, that's embarrassing.

Gareth stills. Waiting. Watching.

"It was just a joke!" Tommy yells, holding his eye. The one that's certainly gonna be black tomorrow. Everybody knowing you got clocked by the freak is really gonna piss Hagan off, Gareth knows.

Gareth sees Steve's hand loosen on Eddie's shirt. Barely. A twitch.

"What was a joke?" Steve asks Tommy, and Tommy looks like he's scared of Steve now. Well, okay. Maybe this is their out. If Steve lets go of Eddie's shirt, then Steve and Tommy can hash this out, while Gareth and Eddie can run away. That's a solid plan. Gareth likes it. 

Tommy doesn't say shit.

"Tommy," Steve demands.

Tommy mumbles under his breath.

"What was that?" Steve asks.

Gareth doesn't catch all of it, just a trailed off, "...mom is a hoebag."

But Gareth can connect the dots. Fuck. Well, they're gonna fight this one to the death, he supposes. Gareth doesn't know a lot about Eddie, not yet, but he does know he doesn't fuck around about his mama.

Steve lets go of Eddie's shirt, pulling back like his hand was burned. Fuck. Maybe Steve Harrington knows that, too.

"Fuck, Steve, what the fuck? You're not gonna help me?" Tommy whines, looking like he's getting ready to flee. "I thought we were friends."

"We are," Steve says, "but you're on your own with this one."

"What? Why?!" 

"Because even Harrington knows you don't fucking disparage dead moms," Eddie says, and lunges towards Hagan, both of them hitting the grass. Eddie pummels him like he's suddenly been transformed into Ox Baker.

"I didn't know she was dead!" Tommy screams, and Gareth thinks that's probably true. Surely he wouldn't have been this fucking stupid if he had. 

"Then maybe you shouldn't run your fucking mouth," Eddie says, poking his hand into Tommy's ribs, making him howl. They roll in the grass some more, and Gareth watches. Just like Steve Harrington is watching from next to him.

Eddie has finally stopped hitting him, probably scared of the trouble he'll get into if he really fucks Hagan up. So now it's just Eddie pinning Tommy down with all his weight, while Tommy tries to wriggle away. It's not working out so great for him.

Eddie's just embarrassing Tommy at this point. Which is funny.

"You ready for the mile tomorrow?" Steve asks, and Gareth takes a second to realize Steve's talking to him. Oh. Yeah. Freshman P.E. The torture.

Gareth looks in his direction.

"Uh, no," Gareth answers, and Steve laughs.

"Just don't cut corners on your laps. Coach will make you start over," Steve says, while Eddie and Tommy squirm around at their feet. Cussing and struggling with each other. Gareth knows Eddie is winning. It's surreal.

"Thanks for the tip," Gareth says.

"Anytime."

And maybe he goes about it… not quite the right way. But hey, Munson looks ready to bolt every time they make eye contact, so Steve’s gotta do some groundwork first.

It’s like basketball, he thinks. Like swimming. He’s got an end goal, a championship to get to—he’s just got to put in the practice and the legwork. Running drills and laps ‘til he drops.

See, the thing is, they don’t interact. They haven’t spoken even once, much less bumped past each other in the halls. Maybe that was where Steve should have started, but Eddie had this thing about him that reminds Steve of the deer his dad had taken him out to hunt, once. Skittish. Might gore him with his horns or disappear into thin air.

So he goes down a different path.

Eddie’s always played music—Steve overhears the complaints sometimes, the shrieky metal of his guitar not to anyone’s taste but his own.

He finds The Hideout. It’s a dive, through and through, and they don’t even bother asking him for ID. It’s the kind of place his parents would have to fight a gag being near, and he loves it immediately. He loves it even more when Eddie clambers on stage with his band and belts out songs that would’ve had any of Steve’s old acquaintances bleeding from the ears.

He gets a clearer picture of Eddie, beyond the initial infatuation that draws him in. Something solid, something to hold on to when he goes looking for more.

He sees Eddie pin up a poster for the club Steve didn’t know he ran. Hellfire, with a caricature of a red demon in stark contrast to the white paper. He wonders if Eddie’s the one who drew it. Maybe he drew his own tattoos, too. Steve’s never been much of an artist—jumbled the colors in his rainbows in kindergarten and left them kind of square-ish—but he can appreciate the skill all the same.

It’s gone by lunch, and Steve frowns. He keeps a better lookout, the next time. Eddie’s put so much work into it. He wants to find out who takes it upon themselves to ruin it.

Eddie’s quieter at Wednesday lunches, Steve realizes. For the first five minutes, there’s no shouting or ranting or kicked-aside lunches. It’s interesting, and when he goes to check, he finds it’s because Eddie’s engrossed in the pudding the cafeteria only sees fit to give them once a week. Chocolate, because what else would it be. Steve doesn’t mind the pudding—finds it gives him something to look forward to when he’s trying to keep his eyes open in chemistry.

He thinks he’d look forward to Eddie’s smile more, enjoy his surprise more than any pudding.

Eddie deals out in the woods back behind the soccer fields, at the little picnic table no one even knows exists anymore. Besides Eddie and his… clients.

Steve finds him there, about a month and a half before prom. It’s good timing, he thinks, before everyone goes batshit about prom-posals and the world gets run over with planning and reservations and sold-out florists. He doesn’t know what Eddie might like, not for sure, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get it with time to spare. That’s what he’s been practicing for, hasn’t it? Endless drills with one championship game in mind?

However one wins at prom, Steve plans to do it.

He sits across from Eddie and feels the old bench bend under his weight. Eddie cuts his a withering glare that makes Steve grin, and before he can help himself, he’s asking, “Will you go to prom with me?”

Eddie stares at him, for a minute, and Steve stares back. From up close, just as he’s wanted to since what feels like forever. Eddie’s even prettier from here. Steve wants him even more.

The woods echo with Eddie’s shout, better acoustics than the shitty dive bar he plays at, but Steve will keep going all the same. He repeats himself, all but tingling with excitement, and then—and then Eddie’s grinning something sharp, something that looks like it could cut the pads of his fingers were he to try and touch.

“Tell you what,” he spits, and Steve’s helpless to do anything but lean in, closer, breathless with the way Eddie leans in, too, as he continues, “You get me a bouquet of roses as black as your twisted, festering soul, and I’ll wear a pretty little dress for you, too.”

Roses. Roses, roses, roses.

Does Eddie like roses above any other flower? It makes the romantic part of him thrum, excited and planning and thinking.

Black roses? Steve’s never seen them before.

“Do roses… grow in black?” Eddie swallows and sneers and Steve wonders if that’s something he should’ve known already. Maybe.

“I guess that’s for you to find out and for me to know, Harrington,” Eddie sneers. He gets up, snatches his lunchbox, and stalks back through the trees to school.

It’s the definition of left him hanging. It’s practically cruel, mean, waspish. Challenging, Steve thinks. Black roses. No problem.

But that’s what drew him in in the first place. Eddie’s acerbic, snappish, blunt, rude, at times. He doesn’t give a shit about what anyone else thinks. He doesn’t give a shit what Steve thinks, and Steve admires him. Likes the image it paints. So he says, to Eddie’s retreating back, “Benny’s at six?” and grins when Eddie tells him to go fuck himself. That’s how Eddie is, after all, and that’s what Steve wants.

The weeks leading up to prom go exactly how he wants them to.

He leaves his pudding at what he knows is Eddie’s spot at the Hellfire table and Eddie grimaces at him. It feels like the adrenaline of a buzzer-beater winning shot.

Win, win, win, something chants.

He catches the guy who keeps ripping up the Hellfire posters. Steve doesn’t know his name but he knows Steve’s—and he scatters into the crowded halls during passing period with his eyes downcast and a quick step.

He seeks Eddie out, ditching a class or two, and finds him smoking against the brick facade of the building. His curls frame his face, the smoke makes the light around them hazy. He looks good, and Steve finds the words slipping from his mouth without being able to help it.

He practices with the flowers, because, as the only florist in town tells him, looking at him strangely, no, black roses don’t exist, not naturally, but Steve can dye them, if he wants. She’s more than happy to sell him handful after handful of white flowers, however, and the first one that turns out okay—though not perfect—he drops through the window of Eddie’s van. It sits pretty on the seat, and Steve grins.

Eddie’s still grinning, one day, stumbling last out of the music room, and Steve can’t help himself—gets too close and murmurs something about his voice and his music, too fast, too distracted. He can’t quite remember what he said even minutes later, the shape of his smile and the memory of his fingers dancing over guitar strings seared into his memory.

A night that Steve can barely remember, plagued by nightmares and sleeplessness, he finds Eddie at the only convenience store that has the shitty coffee that actually keeps him awake. He trades a pack of smokes he can’t really tolerate anymore for one of Eddie’s beers, and they sit in silence. Eddie’s warmth, even with a inches of air between them, soothes something pacing and frantic inside him, and when he gets home, he sleeps the best he has in months.

It feels like injustice that just a few short days later Billy Hargrove decides he needs his head bashed in, but, well, it can’t always be coming up Harrington, right? And it doesn’t matter—it hurts less, because Eddie looks at him a few seconds longer, his mouth twists in something like concern when he sees Steve’s face, but not Billy’s, and that’s enough to numb the sting and grin right back at him.

That afternoon, he has to deck Tommy Hagan when he catches him out by Eddie’s van, pocketknife in hand, after practice has let out but not Hellfire, spitting obscenities and accusations about them both that make Steve see red. He learns later that he’s broken Tommy’s nose, but, well. Tommy should’ve known better.

...

Prom day comes, and Steve realizes—okay, maybe he’s a little dumber than he thought.

See, Steve’s not all that great with sarcasm. He’d like to blame the concussion that has a Billy Hargrove byline, but in truth, he’s never really gotten it.

Billy Hargrove’s plate definitely made it worse, though, and maybe Steve should’ve gone to the doctor but—who has time for that, anyway?

Anyway, the point is—maybe Steve overlooked some sarcasm in favor of being generally charmed with Eddie’s leaning-towards-asshole nature. That’s his fault.

Doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.

He’s at Benny’s at six. Like they’d agreed—like he’d thought they’d agreed. A few minutes before six, even, despite how he’d agonized for longer than he ever had before on what he should wear, what fit with Eddie, what he was supposed to wear for prom. Spent agonizing minutes on what felt like every individual hair so it’d fall in that way he liked, that he hoped Eddie would like.

But he’s there at six. Eddie isn’t. Figures, at first, that he’s late, maybe. Got caught up.

The clock on his dash creeps closer to seven, and then, Steve assumes, maybe Billy scrambled a little more up there than he’d realized. Had he said six? It’d probably been seven, right? That made more sense.

He’s half-asleep in his car when Eddie does appear—a result of even more nightmares and anxiety and maybe, possibly, though he’s terrified to admit it, brain damage. Scared the exhaustion is permanent.

But he jolts awake well enough when Eddie slams his fist on the beamer’s roof, loud metallic clang echoing through his skull like a gunshot.

“—your damage, Harrington?”

“Ed—Eddie,” he chokes. “Hi. Hi, Eddie.”

Eddie looks pissed. Angry, the same kind of frown that’d first drawn Steve’s eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

Steve doesn’t really know how to answer, so he goes for honesty. It’s failed him in the past, but hell, what else can he offer?

“Um. It was—Benny’s at seven. I was waiting for you.” He’s never felt quite so nervous, wringing his fingers like a little kid. He spies the flowers out of the corner of his eye, lying on the passenger seat, wonders when would be the right time to present them to Eddie. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Eddie still looks mad. The same face he makes when he’s ranting and putting on a show and anything else Eddie.

“It was Benny’s at seven, right? I thought it was Benny’s at six, at first, but I can’t really keep dates straight up here, anymore,” he knocks against his head with a knuckle, like a moron, “All the pointless melon-splits of American sports, or whatever.” It’s one of the rants he’d managed to pay attention to, Eddie’s hatred of sports in general an easy topic to digest. At least he understood half of that one.

“It was at six,” Eddie huffs. “I didn’t bother showing up.”

“Oh.” Steve can’t keep looking at his face, with that acknowledgement, and notices—Eddie’s not exactly dressed for the occasion. Not at all, really, unless it’s another of his things to show up to prom in Garfield-patterned pajama pants and a dark band tee that Steve can’t make out the name of. He doesn’t really understand. Wouldn’t really mind, any way. “But you did. Now.”

“Yeah, well.” Eddie pulls away. There’s something properly bitter when he says, “Call it a lapse of judgment.”

Oh. Oh.

He can’t look at Eddie anymore, suddenly. Can’t stand it. Realizes, now, how it went over his head, but, again, doesn’t make it hurt any less. There’s black under the fingernails he’s picking at, and he feels so dumb.

But Eddie’s funny in that way. Funny in that it reels Steve back in like a fish too weak to fight a line. Unwilling, maybe.

Eddie doesn’t make fun of him for it. For being confused. For being dumb. Doesn’t make fun of him for missing something that would’ve been so immediately obvious to anyone else. But he does ask.

“What the hell was your plan here, Harrington?”

Steve’s helpless but to answer, like a fool. “Dinner, and then, you know, prom? Isn’t that how is usually goes?” It’s certainly how he’d been hoping it would go.

“You realize you’ve wasted your only senior prom on this dumb joke, right?” Eddie spits. Steve’s head spins. “And I didn’t even fall for it? Way to have your priorities in order, King Steve.”

The name stings, but something else burrows deeper.

“I’ve had the misfortune of having two, and I didn’t subject myself to either. So—”

“Wait, hold on,” Steve manages. Because now he’s confused, again, more, but it’s not clicking, either. It doesn’t make sense. And he’s dumb, but, still—he doesn’t get it. “It wasn’t—what joke, Eddie?”

Eddie’s face does something funny then. Still angry, but also a quiet kind of… devastation, almost. “You know,” he says, like it doesn’t matter, like it’s what should’ve been, “Lure me to prom. Dump a bucket of pig’s blood over my head or however that movie goes.”

What—what? What the fuck?

A stone lodges in Steve’s throat, prevents him from answering, and Eddie finishes, “Even I’m not that dumb, man.”

Steve’s world turns on its head. It feels comical, almost, like shaking a snow globe and then smashing it against unforgiving concrete.

“That’s fucked up,” he hears himself say, distantly, “There’s a movie like that? I wouldn’t—that’s not what I—”

“Yeah, I think I’m starting to get that.”

Steve stops. Can’t bear to speak again.

Eddie thinks… Jesus, fuck, working through what Eddie thinks of him makes Steve want to vomit. He can’t do it. He doesn’t know what to do, now, kind of wishes something would put him out of his misery.

“That was you, wasn’t it? With the pudding and the posters and the flowers.”

It’s not a question. Eddie knows, and Steve can’t bring himself to regret it, even though now it makes his stomach churn.

“I broke Tommy’s nose when I caught him trying to let the air outta your tires, too,” like he’s confessing a sin. It might as well be.

Something in his chest feels like it shatters, and it’s only a second later that he realizes that it was Eddie, instead, pulling open the passenger-side car door. He almost can’t stand to look at them but can’t see all the hard work he put into the flowers, for Eddie, put to waste, and they’re scooped up into his lap without second thought.

And then Eddie’s next to him, all of a sudden. “Okay,” he says. He breathes in quick like it hurts. ““I didn’t know you were being serious. I thought it was just a dumb joke.”

Something twists. “Yeah, I got that part,” Steve chokes.

“Those were for me, right?”

Steve looks up. Eddie’s not looking at him—he’s looking at the flowers. The goddamn flowers. They feel like acid in his hands, and he passes them over, even though he’s almost worried they’ll burn Eddie like they’re burning him.

“Kinda makes it worse, but sure. Yeah, they were for you.”

“Worse?” Eddie asks.

Steve laughs. Can’t help it. At least one person deserves to laugh over that stupid joke, right? “I thought it’d be funny. You said you’d wear a dress if I got you black flowers, but I—I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to get you flowers you’d like.”

He really did. He wonders if it looks like that to Eddie, or if it’s another joke Steve didn’t see coming.

Eddie touches the flowers like they’re something precious instead of poisonous.

“You’ve been… practicing these.”

Of course he was. How could he have given Eddie anything less than perfect flowers?

“First ones came out a really gross kind of green,” he admits. Like it matters anymore—like there’s anything to win anymore instead of being booted from the team. Stupid fucking sports metaphors—Eddie hates sports. What’d he been thinking?

“I don’t do prom,” Eddie says next. Steve wishes the car would swallow him.

“Yeah, I figured that one out,” he sighs. Can’t look at Eddie, but sees him press a finger to one of the thick thorns on the flowers’ stems.

“No, I mean—I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d thought you were being honest from the get-go. I don’t DO prom. It’s the death of counter-culture and individuality,” Eddie clarifies, but the words swim around in Steve’s head. He doesn’t understand them, and he doesn’t understand why Eddie is still in his car.

“I don’t know what that means.”

Eddie’s twitchy. Not in the same way he was just a few seconds ago. It’s impossible to keep the shreds of his heart from fluttering.

“What I’m saying is, I’m not gonna go to prom. Ever. That’s an invitation to douchebags like Hargrove and Hagan to split my skull open on the gym floor.” Eddie’s leg jumps, like he wants to run at the idea itself. From Steve, maybe. “I don’t want my last breath to be weeks-old jock socks.”

He ducks like he wants to see Steve’s face.

“But there’s this bar I go to,” he continues, “It doesn’t really check ID. I think they’d go out of business if they did. They let us play on Tuesdays.”

The Hideout. “I know,” he admits, like he could ever forget how Eddie looks up on that stage. When he looks up, it’s not the same Eddie that meets his eyes. A more breathtaking one, almost, wild mass of curly hair backlit by streetlights that make him glow. God help him, Steve still wants.

“That’s more my speed,” Eddie blurts, after a second of silence, like he can’t help himself. His fingers are tearing one of the thorns off of the roses Steve worked so hard on. “It’s… probably better than prom as a first date, anyways.”

First date.

“Really?” he breathes before he can help himself. It feels like a rope dangled over the edge of a cliff to pull him back up. “That’s—you’d wanna? Really?”

He’s gotta be a masochist, with the way his hope builds and withers and builds again, when Eddie responds, “I mean, not right now. I’m not really dressed for the occasion. But maybe, like… tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” It feels like a promise that’s a thousand miles away and in the palm of his hand all at once. “That’s soon.”

Eddie’s embarrassment is cute, the red flush climbing up to his ears hidden behind frizzy curls. “Or never,” he snaps, but it doesn’t hurt, this time. “That works too.”

Steve’s smiling, he thinks. How can he do anything else? He’s won. “Tomorrow’s good,” he agrees, and it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

Eddie mutters, “Yeah, well. Better be.” And he kicks Steve’s door open—Steve might’ve ripped anyone else a new one, but that’s how Eddie is, and that’s what Steve wants.

“See you then, Eddie,” Steve chirps, as Eddie backs out of the lot, old van clanking up a storm.

He’s gone soon enough, but Steve sits there a while longer.

It’s weird. Everything’s shifted, tilted on its axis, but… it’s almost like this is how it was supposed to be, from the beginning, and Steve had only been content with what he had before because he hadn’t known this was an option. It feels like he can see right through Eddie, to his bones and his soul, knows how to step around him and be welcomed. It’s different—no longer glances from across the room, hoping he won’t run, but a sure touch and knowing.

He hopes Eddie keeps the flowers. Forever, maybe—maybe tomorrow, after they’re a drink or two deep, music pounding so loud it threatens to give him a headache he’ll gladly ignore, Steve can tell Eddie how the florist explained that he could press the flowers, between two heavy books, and immortalize them. It’d be a good memory to keep.

~

It's probably a good thing they're alone, in the middle of the woods, on opposite sides of Eddie's favorite deal-making table, so no one's around to hear him yell, "What the fuck?" It echoes around the woods anyways, maybe louder than he meant to be, which is good, because it's definitely a 'what the fuck' moment. They've literally never spoken before. Actually, they've done less than spoken—they could live on opposite poles of the Earth, for all the interaction they've had. They don't share any classes. Hell, they don't even see each other in the halls. And now Steve Harrington is staring at him like he's actually waiting for an answer. Again: What the fuck?

A record scratches in his brain and yup, there’s Harrington’s voice again, smarmy little smile on his face, asking: “Will you go to prom with me?”

As in, Steve Harrington just asked, in this existence, in this reality, on this planet, for Eddie Munson to go to Hawkins High Senior Prom with him. For real.

For real?

No. No way.

Harrington’s joking, Eddie knows. Figures the day’d come he decides torturing Eddie is just as much fun as the rest of his shit-jock cronies made it out to be.

And then, suddenly, Eddie knows what it is. Has seen enough of those terrible movies on early-morning TV with Wayne. Has seen the same damn plot enough times to smell it coming from a mile away.

“You know what,” he says, leaning into Harrington’s space, too close, brimming with irritation and a disgusting desire to one-up the smug, cocky bastard, “You get me a bouquet of roses as black as your twisted, festering soul, and I’ll wear a pretty little dress for you, too.”

Harrington’s frown makes anger tighten Eddie’s jaw. “Do roses… grow in black?”

“I guess that’s for you to find out and for me to know, Harrington,” Eddie sneers. He gets up, snatches his lunchbox, and stalks back through the trees to school.

He throws a “fuck you” over his shoulder when Harrington calls out “Benny’s at six?” but doesn’t turn around because the last thing he needs is to eat shit tripping over a goddamn branch. As it is, he’s already waiting for any of Harrington’s little friends to appear out of the shadows and jump him. That’s how it goes, right?

Only, it doesn’t.

There’s no swirlies, no shoving into lockers, no missing clothes after gym, no brutal beatdown on late days after Hellfire. Eddie’s almost worried the meatheads have had too many concussions and forgot he was next on the hit list.

And then he realizes—oh. Oh no. They’re waiting for prom. Actual prom night to fucking flay him open on stage in front of the whole school or something equally psychotic. Drown him in the punch. Stomp him to death on the dance floor.

Clearly, they HAVE had too many concussions if they think Eddie would EVER show his face there. Fuck Harrington, and fuck his minions. Like Eddie’d make it that easy for them.

Except, in the days leading up to prom, weird things keep happening. And Eddie doesn’t know what to think about it.

There’s pudding at his spot at the head of the table. Once a week, because the cafeteria only has pudding once a week. Eddie loves cafeteria pudding.

Steve Harrington grins at him from across the goddamn cafeteria and Eddie’s gut curdles.

One of the Hellfire posters he puts up monthly (and is always shredded by first period’s end) is still up a week later. Sure, torn and taped back together, but it’s not slush in a toilet, either.

Steve Harrington tells him that he looks nice when he finds him smoking just outside the school, and Eddie’s skin itches like he needs to tear it off.

There’s a flower on the driver’s seat of his van the day he forgets to close the window all the way, a day-old daisy with the petals stained a dark blue, the yellow center dulled.

Steve Harrington says he’s got a nice voice and he’s really good at playing the guitar and Eddie wonders how the hell he knows that.

One day, Harrington drops down to sit on the curb next to him, in the parking lot of the shitty little convenience store that’s a five-minute walk from the trailer park. He passes over a pack of his fancy smokes and nabs one of Eddie’s cheap beers so they can drink and smoke together and neither of them say anything. Eddie wants to say it’s because he doesn’t want Harrington to realize exactly what he’s done and get his shit beer cans crushed over his head, but in truth, it’s because he can’t get a damn read on the guy.

Another, Harrington and Hargrove both come to school looking like they’ve been run over, then backed up over, and then run over again for good measure. Hargrove doesn’t haggle him for weed again, and Harrington still smiles at him from across the cafeteria like the pull of his cheek doesn’t make his broken nose and black eye smart.

Again: What the fuck?

He asks the guys. “What the hell is going on with Harrington?”

He doesn’t like how they look at him, mouths twisted and uncomfortable and unsure.

“Heard he and Hagan beat the shit out of each other a while ago. Haven’t talked since.”

Hagan. Not Hargrove. A while ago.

“Ditched Carol P. and Stacy C., too.”

…

What the fuck?

…

The day of prom comes. Vaguely, Eddie remembers: Benny’s at six. Yeah-fucking-right.

He doesn’t go. Doesn’t have a suit, anyway, and wouldn’t have gone even if he did. Obviously. He might be stupid, repeating senior year, but he’s not THAT stupid.

An hour later, the phone in the trailer rings. When he picks up, Gareth is on the other end of the line. Distantly, Eddie can hear the shitty pop that makes up the school’s prom mixtape.

“What’d Harrington’s face look like?” he asks. “Was he pissed?”

“He didn’t show,” Gareth admits. “I dunno, man, maybe he was being serious.”

Eddie’s laugh probably pisses off half the trailer park. He can’t hear Gareth’s through the phone. “Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t kill the messenger.”

“Messenger might get me killed,” Eddie bites back, and then he hangs up. He hopes the punch is spiked and Gareth gets so drunk he falls asleep in a bush.

He grabs his keys off his nightstand and the trailer door slams behind him when he leaves.

Outside Benny’s diner is dark, shadows over the parking lot, but Harrington’s beamer is still there, clear as day. Maroon and hideous. God-fucking-damnit.

Harrington is in the driver’s seat, arms crossed over his chest as his head lolls back against his seat, half-asleep and definitely getting there. He’s wearing a nice shirt and nice pants and his tie goes flying like a whip across his cheek when Eddie knocks his fist against the roof of the car.

“The hell’s your damage, Harrington?” He barks, before the guy can even get his bearings.

Harrington fumbles, flailing limbs punch a short blare out of his horn, and his tie ends up over his shoulder.

“Eddie, hi. Hi, Eddie.” There’s drool at the corner of his mouth. Eddie’s lips curl.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps again. Harrington’s window is half-down—he can definitely hear him.

“Um.” Harrington looks sheepish, now, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “It was—Benny’s at seven. I was waiting for you. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Eddie’s jaw tightens.

“It was Benny’s at seven, right? I thought it was Benny’s at six, at first, but I can’t really keep dates straight up here, anymore,” he knocks against his head with a knuckle, “All the pointless melon-splits of American sports, or whatever.”

Vaguely, Eddie remembers a long-winded rant on the top of a cafeteria table about the same subject.

“It was at six,” he acknowledges. “I didn’t bother showing up.”

“Oh.” Harrington’s eyes drop, take in his pajama pants and his threadbare tee. “But you did. Now.”

“Yeah, well.” Eddie turns the words over. “Call it a lapse of judgment.”

Harrington nods. He’s not looking at Eddie anymore. It sours something in his gut that he doesn’t acknowledge.

Eddie looks past him. In the passenger seat, a bouquet.

Of black roses.

Harrington’s fingertips are stained a shade darker, black stuck underneath his nails.

What the actual fuck.

“What the hell was your plan here, Harrington?”

Harrington blinks up at him with those stupid big eyes that Eddie definitely, absolutely hates.

“Dinner, and then, you know, prom? Isn’t that how is usually goes?” He asks, like Eddie would have any fucking clue.

Eddie grinds his teeth. “You realize you’ve wasted your only senior prom on this dumb joke, right? And I didn’t even fall for it? Way to have your priorities in order, King Steve.”

Harrington’s face scrunches. Eddie bites his tongue.

“I’ve had the misfortune of having two, and I didn’t subject myself to either. So you can cut the shit—”

“Wait, hold on,” Harrington cuts him off. “It wasn’t—what joke, Eddie?”

Oh. Oh no. If Gareth’s right, he’s gonna have to throw himself from the quarry cliffs.

“You know,” he spits, like it doesn’t affect him, that every last goddamn person in fucking Hawkins sees him as a freak, like a bug to torture and then squash, “Lure me to prom. Dump a bucket of pig’s blood over my head or however that movie goes.”

Harrington—Harrington looks horrified.

Well. The quarry’s always empty at seven in the evening.

“Even I’m not that dumb, man.” He ignores how the words come out, slower, an edge of uncertainty.

“That’s fucked up,” Harrington whispers, “There’s a movie like that? I wouldn’t—that’s not what I—”

“Yeah, I think I’m starting to get that.”

Harrington’s jaw shuts with a click, and they’re both quiet for a minute. And then, like a curse he doesn’t want to say aloud lest he bring it to life, Eddie asks, “That was you, wasn’t it? With the pudding and the posters and the flowers.”

“I broke Tommy’s nose when I caught him trying to let the air outta your tires, too,” he says, hollowly, like it doesn’t matter anymore.

Fuck.

There’s no one in the parking lot, and Eddie tells himself its the only reason he rounds the car and drops into the passenger side seat. The flowers are saved by Harrington’s quick reflexes, and Eddie kind of wants to curse him out for having his doors unlocked.

“Okay.” He hypes himself up like he’s seen Harrington do in PE, a quick breath in and out. “I didn’t know you were being serious. I thought it was just a dumb joke.”

“Yeah, I got that part.”

He twists his fingers together. “Those were for me, right?”

Harrington hums. Hands them over. “Kinda makes it worse, but sure. Yeah, they were for you.”

“Worse?”

Harrington laughs, scrubs a hand over his face. “I thought it’d be funny. You said you’d wear a dress if I got you black flowers, but I—I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to get you flowers you’d like.”

Fuck. Eddie does remember that, now.

The stems are still thorny and prick at his fingers when he hold them. He likes them better that way.

“You’ve been… practicing these,” he realizes. Remembers the little blue daisy.

“First ones came out a really gross kind of green,” Steve admits.

God fucking damn it.

“I don’t do prom,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, I figured that one out,” Steve replies. Dry. Still isn’t looking over at Eddie.

“No, I mean—I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d thought you were being honest from the get-go. I don’t DO prom. It’s the death of counter-culture and individuality.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“What I’m saying is,” he takes a deep breath, a little part of him still praying Steve won’t punch his damn lights out, “I’m not gonna go to prom. Ever. That’s an invitation to douchebags like Hargrove and Hagan to split my skull open on the gym floor. I don’t want my last breath to be weeks-old jock socks.”

He ducks, tries to catch Steve’s gaze. Doesn’t manage. He ends up pressed against the dashboard like a moron.

“But there’s this bar I go to,” he continues, “It doesn’t really check ID. I think they’d go out of business if they did. They let us play on Tuesdays.”

“I know.”

He knows? Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe Eddie needs to buy the flowers. About six dozen. Fuck him.

His leg jostles, knocks against Steve’s door. He finally looks up.

“That’s more my speed,” he admits, in a big rush. “It’s… probably better than prom as a first date, anyways.”

Steve’s eyebrows jump up into that famous hair, perfectly styled. Eddie’s is a mane of despair and hopelessness, wilder than a tornado.

“Really?” he asks, like Eddie didn’t just say he’d thought he was a piece of shit in seven different ways. “That’s—you’d—really?”

“I mean, not right now,” Eddie scoffs, and Steve’s face drops. He hurries to amend, “I’m not really dressed for the occasion. But maybe, like… tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Steve repeats, and Eddie flushes. “That’s soon.”

“Or never,” he snaps, because he’s a goddamn moron, “That works too.”

Steve’s grin splits his face and Eddie has to look back at the flowers in his lap. “Tomorrow’s good,” he agrees, too easy.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, kicks the door open, probably leaves a scuff, but Steve doesn’t say a word. “Better be.”

Steve’s still grinning as he gets out of the car, slams the door closed, rounds the side again. He’s not scared of a gaggle of dipshits ready to jump him because they’re not there. And he’s got a bouquet of black roses pressed to his chest.

“See you then, Eddie,” Steve chirps, as Eddie climbs back into his own van, and Eddie—Eddie has to hide his smile behind a curtain of hair as he throws the piece of shit into reverse and backs out of Benny’s diner.

…

He leaves the flowers on their tiny kitchen counter and the next morning, Wayne’s put them in a vase Eddie didn’t know they had, with water and that weird flower-food crap and everything.

~

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.

I kind of love the idea of neither of them considering men before but also neither of them freaking out about it. Steve has dated girls, Eddie kissed his best friend and got pure rejected and the only other girl he liked is dead (or just Very Injured) and he got blamed for it.

But Steve's arm feels nice around him and it isn't so bad when Eddie turns his body a little and tucks in even closer, nuzzling Steve's shoulder because christ he could use the comfort right now and Steve seems so happy to give it.

Nobody even says anything as discussions continue, they definitely get a few furtive looks, completely missing the sudden bewilderment that crosses Dustin's face.

Steddie just Exist now, Eddie survives, somehow gets cleared whilst in hospital, and it's when Steve is sat quietly by his bedside with Wayne that Dustin finally barrels in, mouth open ready to speak before he looks at Wayne "oh hi Mr Munson..." then sits quietly until Wayne gruffly says he's got to head to work.

Steve assures him he'll hold the fort, Dustin nods enthusiastically, waits about 5 seconds after Wayne leaves before darting for the door and closing it.

It's the first time Dustin's been alone with Steve since Everything Happened, so naturally Dustin starts ranting.

"I can't believe I didn't see it, it all makes sense now, the hostility, the refusal to come to D&D, the slew of failed 'dates', the way you both are always unavailable on the same nights."

"Dustin, what are you talking about?"

"You and Eddie!" he gestures where Steve's hand is almost touching Eddie's on the bed, where he'd been holding Eddie's hand at one point even under Wayne's watchful gaze. "This whole time! And I get it, I understand, you probably wanted to tell me, but you were scared I wouldn't understand the gay thing, or that I wouldn't like him. OH! You probably told him to look out for me, Lucas, and Mike! Dude, you didn't need to do that," Dustin rambles, Steve watches in confusion and he's very happy that Eddie's already had his brief dalliance into consciousness this afternoon and isn't being subjected to this.

"But he's great, totally approve, actually you're batting above your station a little, man, but aren't we all?" he pauses and sighs wistfully, muttering something about Suzie, before nodding with a determined look on his face and pulling Steve into a very awkward "hug of approval".

It takes Steve way too long to realise Dustin thinks he and Eddie have been together for months, hell he realises it as they're sneaking a kiss, pulling back looking mildly horrified as he whispers it across the air between them.

***

“He thought everything I liked was stupid,” Steve complained an hour later, pleasantly buzzed. Well, it would be pleasant, if it weren't for the whole Eddie thing. “And he wouldn't shut up about it! We had to listen to his music and watch the movies he liked and if I ever suggested anything he was all some of us have taste, Steve. Fucking asshole.”

“He sucks,” Gareth agreed from his spot on the couch next to Steve. “You're better off without him.”

“I played DnD for him,” Steve continued. “And he wouldn't even watch a baseball game with me.”

That had been the final straw. And Eddie had had the gall to look bewildered when Steve had dumped him later that night. Asked if they could talk about it. Steve had said sure, let's talk, and run through a list of every time he could remember that Eddie had mocked him or laughed at him or otherwise made him feel like crap just because he had interests that weren't Eddie's nerdy shit.

He'd been avoiding Eddie's calls ever since, and refusing to open the door for him when he came around. Because Steve missed him so fucking much and he absolutely did want Eddie back, even knowing that Eddie would go right back to making Steve feel shitty about himself.

He'd talked to Robin and they’d agreed: Steve had to stay away from Eddie until he could be trusted not to forgive him in a moment of weakness. Robin wasn't picking up Eddie's calls either, in solidarity.

Gareth patted him tentatively on the shoulder.

“If it helps, I think he's really sorry.”

“Yeah, sorry that he's not getting his dick sucked any more,” Steve said without thinking, and had to pound Gareth on the back when he started choking on his beer. “Sorry. Too much?”

Gareth waved a hand at him, coughing. “All good,” he wheezed. “Just caught me off guard.”

***

The phone was ringing.

“It's probably Eddie,” Steve said morosely, now solidly drunk. “He's been calling every night.”

“Want me to tell him to fuck off?” Gareth offered.

Steve burped. “Be my guest.”

Gareth grabbed the handset. “Hello?”

They were sitting close enough together that Steve could hear Eddie's tinny “Gareth?” over the line.

“Yep,” Gareth said.

“What are you—nevermind. Can I talk to Steve?”

“Oh!” Gareth said, apparently having remembered why he answered the phone. “No. Fuck off.”

Eddie started to say something, but Gareth hung up on him before he could finish. They both stared at the phone.

They were still staring at it thirty seconds later when it rang again.

Gareth picked up. “We don't wanna talk to you,” he said, and promptly hung up again.

“Was that even him?”

“Dunno,” Gareth said. “Probably?”

When it rang a third time they both jumped.

“Should I?” Gareth asked, then answered anyway without waiting for Steve to make a decision.

“Yeah?”

“Please let me talk to Steve.”

Gareth eyed Steve. Steve shook his head.

“He says no,” he reported.

“Gareth, man, c’mon. I thought we were friends.”

“Steve's my friend too,” Gareth said. “And you were a dick to him.”

“Yeah, I know, I—can he hear me right now? Steve, baby, if you're listening…I'm so fucking sorry, okay? I was an idiot and I'm sorry. I had my head so far up my own ass I didn't realize how much I was hurting you. I miss you so much. I want you back.”

“Eddie,” Steve blurted out. Fuck, his fucking heart hurt.

“Steve? Gareth, give the phone to Steve.”

Gareth offered the phone to Steve, who said a silent apology to Robin, grabbed it, and curled up with his back to Gareth.

“Eddie,” he said again.

“Thank fuck,” Eddie said. “I thought you were never gonna talk to me again.”

“Wasn't gonna,” Steve said. “You made me feel like shit.”

“I know and I'm sorry. Wayne about bit my head off when I told him what happened. Said he raised me better than that. And he's right.”

Steve should’ve hung up. Steve definitely should've hung up.

He didn't.

Instead he said quietly, “I miss you too.”

There was an audible sigh of relief.

“Give me another chance,” Eddie said. “Baby, please. I'll do better, I promise.”

Steve was not strong enough for this.

“One date,” he said, clutching the phone so hard his hand hurt. “Then we'll see.”

“This Saturday,” Eddie said quickly, like Steve might change his mind. “I'll pick you up.”

“Okay,” Steve agreed, and hung up before Eddie could get the chance to talk him into anything else.

Gareth was staring at him with wide eyes.

“He's gonna take me on a date,” Steve said. He was still holding the phone, pressing it to his chest like it was something precious.

“You sure that's a good idea?”