#vicky writes

Chapter 1: Lunacy

March 25th, 1986

Eddie swivels on the swing, the groaning of rusty metal slipping through his earphones in the quiet gap between “Fight Fire with Fire” and “Ride the Lightning”. There’s a whole graveyard of cigarette butts at his feet, evidence of how long he's been dicking around, but he’d feel a little more guilty about the mess if the playground wasn’t such a sore fucking sight all on its own. What’s a bit more trash when you're knee-deep in a dumpster, right? 

At least the moon's still there for peasants like him to admire, indifferent to people's pockets. She’s looking particularly dashing tonight; big and bright. Full. Eddie's steel rings are extra nice under the cool light.

Gripping the chains with both hands, he twists the swing to the left hard enough that it rattles, a wave of pleasant vibrations tickling his fingertips as he spins.

One, two, three loops.

Aaand stop.

He loves that familiar, abrupt little pull of the swing as it refuses to keep spinning. Makes his head jerk, earphones now askew. He adjusts his Walkman, making sure he's not gonna get tangled and fall face-first to the ground, and takes a slow drag of his cig. Holds. Spins wildly the other way as he exhales, white smoke clouding around him like a low budget concert.

The swing comes to a halt eventually, but his brain is slow in playing catchup this time, his vision blurring for a second and making the tree line look fuzzy. Like moonlight bleeding into the woods, the wind howling and bending pines out of shape.

Trippy, and he's not even high.

Not yet, anyway. 

All in good time.

He's in a chronological mood tonight, has already made his way through Kill ‘Em All and plans to savor every second of the other two tapes before he heads back inside and lights up while The Outsiders plays in the background. The cases are safely tucked away in his jacket pocket, and he thumbs idly at a plastic edge as he hums along. Makes a mental note to ask Gareth if he's picked a favorite off Puppets yet.

His money is on “Battery”. Gareth’s got a not-so-secret obsession with opening tracks, which—well. Eddie has to give him shit for it, because it’s his sacred duty as a friend and fellow metal enjoyer, but he can’t really blame him, ‘cause, like. Opening tracks are there to set the tone for the rest of the album, yeah? Getting you hooked and revved up is kinda the point, and “Battery” most definitely does the job.

Jesus Christ, that deceptively slow beginning? The way that sweet acoustic leads to beautiful all-encompassing power? And that riff, man. Inspired. All of that paired with the absolute rage spitting from Hetfield’s mouth? A certified headbanging masterpiece. Meant to be kept on setlists until the end of time.

Wait, is it Eddie’s favorite then?

No, no.

Hmm.

Maybe just for tonight it is.

He snorts a laugh and sucks on his cigarette, happy that his biggest problem right now is ranking tracks that have been blowing his mind for weeks. Spring break means he gets to relax without having to worry that he'll blow his chances at graduation if he so much as breathes wrong, and he's determined to take full advantage before he resumes his army crawl towards his diploma.

Which is probably why the universe decides it's high time to screw him over anew, and the tree line splits in two, a lone figure sprinting in his direction at a pace so frantic it's got Eddie scrambling upright and yanking at his earphones just as the bell is beginning to toll. 

So, um.

Say, what are the odds that someone was just really in the mood for an ill-advised midnight jog?

…No?

Seriously, anyone?

Fuck.

Eddie’s legs are shaking with the need to get the hell outta dodge, heed that wise survival instinct and flee until he's safe inside the trailer, but his gaze is stuck on the shifting shadow. Whoever it is, they're still moving forward, but their energy is flagging, silhouette wobbly as feet fight against uneven soil. 

Step, drag, stumble.

A wet cough.

Step, drag, stumble.

Panting, raw and desperate.

Step, drag.

The saddest little whimper, a soft and helpless thing that tugs at the heart.

Shit, Eddie’s gonna have to help, isn’t he? Jesus fuck.

Against his better judgment, he squares his shoulders and marches towards what he’s really hoping won't be an untimely death brought on by a single uncharacteristic bout of heroism.

Shit, shit, shit.

Is it too late to change his mind?

Maybe he can just—

The shadow, the man, staggers and falls to his knees a couple feet away. He doesn't crumble completely, but he looks like a soft breeze would take him easily, and the wind around them is even wilder than Eddie's heart.

With his arms already reaching out, Eddie takes the bravest step he’s taken since showing up at Wayne's door what feels like a lifetime ago. He kneels, ignoring the harsh gravel digging into the rips of his jeans, and tries to steady him. Paws at sweaty skin, the grimy biceps under his fingertips feverishly warm for late March in Indiana. There are scratches on his forearms and blood on the rumpled collar of his shirt and a smattering of moles on his neck that goes all the way up to his cheek and oh god that can only be—

"Harrington?” he whispers. Stares.

The unmistakable brown eyes of the former king of Hawkins High stare right back. “Hi, Munson,” he rasps.

It's a live wire straight to the heart, buzzing loud in Eddie’s ears as he processes that he's no longer helping a faceless stranger here but the guy who asked him for a pen two years ago, didn’t give it back, and left the classroom with Eddie's stupid little heart attached to the tight sleeve of his preppy pink polo.

Not that Eddie's old high school crush matters—it didn't matter back then, and it certainly doesn't matter now—but it still lands like a sledgehammer, to be reminded by a familiar face that something has been preying on Hawkins for years, even if most folks are all too eager to look away and pretend life is fine and dandy. Accept all too readily that Barbara Holland, sweet and sensible Miss Holland, pulled a disappearing act on her parents—parents who actually gave a shit, by the way—and ran away with some dude nobody had ever heard of. As if.

Keeping conspiracies to himself for the moment, Eddie prioritizes and asks, “Where does it hurt?”

Steve breathes out a laugh. Chokes. “Pretty much everywhere, dude.”

Right, yeah. That checks out. 

Based on the awkward half-sprint, he guesses, “Twisted ankle? Busted knee? Broken leg?” He bites his tongue to keep himself from listing every other injury that comes to mind.

“I don't—I don't think so.” He shifts in Eddie's hold and gestures vaguely downwards. “My stomach stings like a bitch, though.”

With no time for bedside manners, Eddie wraps his left arm around Steve and uses his free hand to pull gently at the hem of his blue shirt. Even in the poor light of the playground, it's impossible to miss the bloodfest running down his sides. Too bad it's impolite to have a breakdown all over the person you're trying to save, or Eddie would be buying the goddamn ticket and going to the damn show. 

Barricade, baby.

“I think you might be underselling it,” Eddie hisses, going for sympathy and landing somewhere closer to hysteria.

“Pretty sure the plate to the head at Tina's party was worse. Being unconscious has to be worse, right? Dunno.” His brows furrow, lips thinning as he mutters to himself, “Hargrove sucked.” Sadness creeping in, he adds, “That whole night sucked.”

Like the good town freak Eddie is, he got no such invitation to Tina's infamous party, only the privilege of a few quick business transactions in the woods near school. Still, he'd heard plenty of rumors about the night the king lost his queen and his crown all in one fell swoop. He never bothered to learn what actually happened, too busy planning a mind-blowing campaign to care about their petty squabbles, but it’s no surprise to hear that Hargrove smelled blood and went for the kill, craving a violently official dethroning.

Fuck him, really. The only decent thing about that rabid dog was his taste in music. And his hair.

Eddie’s not sure how to respond to Steve’s personal crisis, so he redirects. “Okay, what's the game plan here, boss? Do I call an ambulance, or drive you to the hos—?”

“No.” No room for argument. “I just—I just need to go home and lie down. I'll be okay.”

He already knows the answer, but he asks anyway, “Are your folks home?”

A scoff. “Course not. My dad would probably make me use the back door so I don’t bleed on our welcome mat. My mom loves that stupid thing.” Softly, he tacks on, “Not that she’s ever even around to look at it, but…”

Wow. Talking to Harrington is like opening the world's prettiest, most depressing Matryoshka doll, and the guy's not even aware of it. Wild.

“Then that's out, unless you want my dirty peasant boots to tarnish Castle Harrington too. There's no way I'm leaving you alone like this, man, come on.”

“I can handle myself,” Steve protests, voice barely audible as he tries to stand on his own. Y’know, like a crazy person with no self-preservation skills.

“And I'm not arguing that, okay?” Eddie tightens his hold on Steve’s shoulder; the poor guy's skin is getting hotter by the second. “I promise you your masculinity is intact, but your body is very much not, so we’re gonna have to do something about that, like, yesterday.” 

As if on cue, Steve's eyes flutter shut, brows creasing as a wave of pain strikes him in the middle. Makes him double over and rest his temple on Eddie’s arm. His hair is damp and gross and real where it slides against the leather, a stray lock sticking to his forehead and begging for gentle fingers to comb it back into place. Soothe. Reassure. And who knew Eddie even had it in him, to be so easily swayed by a jock in distress. A jock that isn’t trying to walk away from him anymore but isn’t quite caving either, and that just won’t do.

Summoning confidence he does not feel, Eddie winks down at him and says, “First aid isn't new to me, Steve. I'll patch you right up and have you shooting balls into laundry baskets, or whatever it is you do these days, in no time.” He tops it off with a soft squeeze to his arm, and it's arguably pretty suave for his standards, even if context and the unforgiving lenses of reality make his attempts at charm useless. 

He can read it all over Steve’s face; the impulse to turn him down. To preserve whatever dignity he thinks is worth more than his life. But most of all, he can see how loudly his tired eyes are screaming for someone to just—pick him up instead of kick him while he's down.

“I want to help,” Eddie says, Wayne's drawl echoing in his head, “but I'm gonna need you to let me.”

Whether it's the words or the tone that does it—or something else entirely—doesn't matter. What matters is Steve's quiet, “Yeah, okay. Okay, you can—Please.”