#wayne pov

They're cleaning up from dinner, Eddie quiet at his side, when he says, "Gonna need some help with the mugs tomorrow."

After moving to Oregon once Eddie graduated and he retired, he found an affinity for pottery. Never woulda thought it, but he loves it and tourists love his booth at the farmers market.

He can't think of a better way to get his nephew out of the house, but wonders if he doesn't know his boy as well as he thinks after a decade in Los Angeles, that Eddie'll refuse. He just nods, though, goes back to drying the plate in his hands.

And next morning, right at 6:45, Eddie is in the living room in black jeans that are so worn they're nearly grey in places, and the threadbare Metallica tee Wayne thrifted for him nearly a decade back. It's a win. Small, yes--Eddie doesn't even complain once about the country-western station Wayne plays in the truck--but still a step forward.

Wayne wastes no time parking and handing Eddie a box of carefully packed merchandise. He leads the way, trusts that Eddie is right on his heels until he hears Jim Hopper's voice say, "You better keep an eye on those mugs, son. Your uncle will tan your hide."

He turns to see Hopper balancing one end of Eddie's box, Eddie's cheeks flushed pink. "Sorry, I--uh, I've got it now." Hopper lets go and for the briefest instant Eddie's eyes dart to the side and the pink in his cheeks grows deeper.

Wayne tracks the path Eddie's eyes took and finds--he swallows back a chuckle--Steve Harrington just setting one of his Adirondack chairs into place, his t-shirt lifted to show of a stretch of stomach.

Well. Eddie did always like the pretty ones.

They setup the booth in companionable silence, and Hopper pops back over for a proper introduction. Before he departs again, he says to Eddie, "I got some kids who really love that dnd game and your show. They're going to be crazy to meet you. That okay?"

And Eddie, he's a good boy, he smiles and nods but as soon as Hopper is out of earshot, Wayne's saying, "Hop's kids and their friends are big fans and I know you're heartsore about the cancellation, but you better be polite."

Eddie glares. "What do you think, old man, that I'll be mean to children?"

"Well, with how you've been moping around the cabin these last few weeks, hard to know."

He scoffs. "Yeah, well. Netflix putting your hit show on indefinite hiatus without warning or explanation will do that to a guy."

Wayne knows there's nothing he can say to soften this hurt, so he gives Eddie's shoulder a tight squeeze. "I'm proud of you no matter what, son."

His nephew nods, eyes down, but Wayne doesn't miss the small, pleased, lift at the corner of his lips.

The morning passes smoothly and Wayne pretends he doesn't notice every time he finds Eddie's gaze straying to Steve's booth.

The kids come by around noon, Dustin Henderson breaking away from the pack to shriek, "You're Eddie Munson!"

Eddie smiles, stands. "That I am, young adventurer." He bows low, exaggerated and the kids giggle. "Pray tell, what are your names?"

The chatter is fast and easy, Eddie the happiest he's been in weeks, and Wayne relaxes back in his chair, lets out a long, slow breath of relief at the breaking storm. He stretches back in his chair, eyes catching on Steve Harrington across the way. Steve who is watching Eddie and the kids with an expression Wayne can only think of as fond.

Wayne isn't one to play matchmaker, but--he thinks, just maybe, just this once he could nudge.

It happens late in the afternoon, when business has well-slowed, Eddie asking, "Um--that guy over there, who is--what's his deal?"

Wayne thinks he manages to keep all traces of amusement from his face and voice as he answers, "Who? Ohh, Steve Harrington. He's the guidance counselor down at the middle school. Does a bit of carpentry in his free time. Best friends with the woman who owns that little bookstore."

He watches as Eddie processes, as his eyes widen, probably in remembrance of the pride flags and Protect Trans Kids shirts, how the woman in question wore a lesbian flag pin on her apron. "Guidance counselor?" He says eventually. "Kind of a drag."

"You would think, but the kids love him. The ones you met earlier today? He babysat them for years; imprinted on him, Jim and I say."

"Hmm," is the only response he gets, Eddie's attention back on the man in question.

---

The day after the market, Wayne walks into the living room to find Eddie's laptop tucked into the cushions of the window seat. He hasn't seen the thing since Eddie came home, never used to see him without it, and this--well.

He says, "need to run into town for a few things. You up for a trip? You might could stop at that bookstore."

Eddie nods, takes a sip of his coffee--he's actually drinking it-- says, "Yeah. Yeah, I think that'd be cool."

The store isn't busy when they arrive, and Wayne drifts towards the magazines to leave Eddie to his own devices.

Wayne loses himself to quiet browsing, wanting to give Eddie space, to maybe chat with Robin Buckley, strike up the beginnings of a friendship. Enough time passes, though, that Wayne is wondering where his boisterous, noticeable nephew could've disappeared to so silently.

He winds around a shelf and sees Eddie and Steve Harrington in deep conversation. He can't hear it, not really, but they're standing close, with pink in their cheeks. As he watches, Steve says something that makes Eddie laugh and pull a few strands of hair over his mouth.

They're almost inseparable after that. Eddie, Steve, Robin, and all those kids. They play dnd, have movie nights, spend hours at the diner. And Eddie, he's writing, sketching, gets down Wayne's acoustic guitar and plays around for a while.

When he asks how things are with "that Harrington boy," Eddie flushes red and says, "none of your business, old man" before giving Wayne a quick, affectionate squeeze. 

---

Two and a half months after Eddie came to stay, Wayne's walking back from the river, the sky the light navy of new dusk. His fishing rod is draped over one shoulder, tackle box held easily in his fist, the walk home pleasant, a perfect end to a good day.

The light from the front porch seeps through the trees, and he's thinking about a cold beer, a warm pizza, if Eddie's found his way home yet, when figures standing on the porch stop him in his tracks.

It takes a second, longer, for his eyes to adjust from the dark of the woods, and the glow of the bulb, but then he sees--

Eddie and Steve locked in a fierce embrace, desperate and very much private.

He turns right back towards the river, doesn't mind giving the boys some time.

He waits a good half hour, just enjoying the forest, before heading back. Steve's car is gone, the porch vacant, but the cabin is lit up, bright and warm and inviting.

Wayne steps inside, and his nephew is there, laptop open, but he isn't working, just smiling to himself, chin resting on his fist.

"Okay?" Wayne asks.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Eddie's smile doesn't fall from his face.

He doesn't want to interfere, ask too much, not when he's sure things are still young. Instead, he asks, "What'd you say to ordering a pizza?"

And Eddie, heedless of Wayne's question, says,"you know. I've been thinking about maybe staying here for a little longer."

Hard is definitely a word most people would use to describe his situation. Difficult, disheartening. Maybe even hopeless. But there’s still some hope in this old heart that keeps Wayne coming back day in and day out. Keeps him moving while only getting a few hours of sleep a day. Cause as soon as the night comes around, it’s right back to the plant. Making the money to pay for the care his boy needs to keep living. To pay for the roof over his own head enough so he’ll live to see it happen. 

Truth is, Wayne’s dying here. From the fatigue. From the endless waiting. From the slowly draining pool of hope. Nothing seems to change. Nothing gets better. Six days in a medically induced coma with no hopes of ever waking up. Wayne’s not dumb enough to think that the chances increase the more days pass without him showing any signs of improvement. 

Part of him says that this is the state Eddie will be in for the rest of his life. Wonders if it’s worth all of this just to keep him alive. If he’s really suffering in there and would be better off resting forever. But then the heart monitor keeps beeping and his brain is still active. Wayne’s boy is still in there, he’ll come back soon. 

“Yeah, I bet that’s hard. I still have hope though, I was there when he came in. He looks a lot better now.”

There’s a knock on the door that keeps Wayne from responding. It’s the Harrington boy, in normal clothes this time. Discharged. 

“Sorry to interrupt but your mom said it’s time to go home.”

Dustin dramatically rolls his eyes. “Which one, my actual mother or you?”

“Your actual mother, but I happen to agree with her. Come on, you got school in the morning.” Harrington crosses his arms, looking like he’s ready to start a standoff. 

But instead of fighting Dustin stands. “Have a good night Mr. Munson. I’ll still try to visit as much as I can even though school’s starting back up again.”

“Thanks, kid, I’ll try.”

Harrington ruffles Dustin’s hair as he walks out the doorway. Standing there for a beat before turning back to Wayne. “We’ve never officially met, I’m Steve.”

Steve holds out his hand, waiting for Wayne to shake it. Wayne debates whether that’s a good idea or not. Apparently, it takes too long as Steve returns his hand to his side. 

“I wanted to apologize for the scene I made the other day, you didn’t deserve that. I was just so shocked that they actually cuffed him to the bed. Still have him cuffed to the bed.” Steve looks at Eddie with a guilt that Wayne doesn’t understand. Like he’s the reason Eddie’s strapped to the bed. 

Wayne continues to say nothing, not quite sure what would be appropriate. Tell him that it’s ok, that it didn’t bother him. Or thank him for believing that Wayne knew was true. That his boy was innocent. 

There was more to this story than he knew. Something to do with the kid being there and the rich boy standing in the doorway looking like this is all his fault. When Wayne knows the same scars mark Steve just as much as they do Eddie. Steve made sure that everyone knew that. Using it as proof that Steve was there, and that Eddie was innocent. 

Steve was ready to offer himself up as a witness for a man that the town hates. Wayne should be grateful for that, but it doesn’t seem right. They were part of different worlds. Different status, interests. It didn’t make sense for them to be in the same place at all. Yet here they are supposedly having gone through the same vicious attack. 

“Let me know if you need anything,” Steve continues when Wayne stays silent. “I’m more than happy to help out. Eddie was kind of a new friend and I hate seeing him like this as much as you do.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Wayne snaps. He hates charity, especially from this kid. For some reason he doesn’t really understand why. 

Steve is taken aback. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, but you did. I know my boy and I know how my boy thinks about people like you. So don’t go ‘round gaining sympathy points from the real people who are suffering.”

“I, I wasn’t,” Steve stammers. “I would never.”

“Steve,” Dustin yells. “Get your ass moving, we’re your ride too.”

Steve sighs. “Coming, Jesus. I’m sorry for offending you. I won’t bother you again.”

Wayne shakes his head when Steve leaves, letting out a deep sigh. Maybe he was too harsh, maybe he wasn’t harsh enough. He’s not sure. 

He’s not sure about a lot of things anymore.

part 4

1.

“SHUT UP!” The door slams, the thin wood shuddering in its jam as it does, and Wayne hears the tell tale click of the lock that means he’s not going to see Eddie until tomorrow morning.

Wayne picks up the crumpled pages of Eddie’s essay, the 34 written in large, red marker still legible. He thumbs over it.

His handwriting is neat, for once. The black ink is unsmudged and his paragraphs are indented. His title is centered. All caps.

PRISONERS IN THE U.S.

Wayne stares at the words. The careful penmanship. The numbered pages at the bottom, one through three.

Wayne only has to get to the second paragraph before he can’t read any further, Eddie’s dark pen strokes carefully spelling out My dad has been imprisoned since-

He flattens out the pages. Wonders how in the hell he’s supposed to make this better.

Eddie’s music starts, then.

Wayne winces, the headache he’s been fighting since that morning surging in earnest at the noise. He can’t tell the difference between any of that racket but it seems to help Eddie. Helps to soothe him in a way Wayne can’t.

But it doesn’t take long for the neighbors to complain. He can hear them, just a few minutes in, over the screaming vocals of Eddie’s room, chittering outside like school mice.

So he’s not surprised when he has Mrs. Bellefonte and Ms. Reed on his front porch, blithering away about his nephew's music choices like it’s midnight and not five in the afternoon.

“It’s demonic, what he’s listening to.” Ms. Reed insists, her bright red hair done up in rollers. “And it’s disturbing the whole neighborhood. I’ve never had a problem with you, Wayne. You know I’m not one to complain, but ever since that nephew of yours came around here a few weeks back he’s been nothing but noise and trouble.” She cracks her gum, and a vein pulses in Wayne’s forehead.

Mrs. Bellefonte nods, her saggy jowls waving as she does. “We know it’s not your fault, here, Wayne. Not like you raised him, we know he came from that brother of yours. Not your fault he is the way he is, but we really must insist-”

But Wayne’s had enough. Of these stuffed shirts coming around to his home thinking they can prattle on about his nephew like they know the boy, like they know how good he is or isn’t.

“See here.” Wayne interrupts. And he’s always been quiet. Always been one of few words. Liked to let his actions speak for themselves, but he was a sergeant, as much as he now tries to forget Vietnam, and there he learned how to command those beneath him.

“We’re all gonna let my boy play his music. Because he ain’t bothering nobody. He ain’t knockin’ down mailboxes, like your boys, Miss Reed, and he ain’t leavin’ flamin’ bags of feces on neighbors front porches, like your boys, Missus Bellefonte. And if we ever hear of you running your mouths about him, or what he listens to, or any other nonsense, well, Chief Hopper is an old friend of mine. He might be interested in those pieces of information.” He smiles, through the screen door he hadn’t bothered to open. “And don’t you worry, you can trust that when I take my evenin’ smoke breaks, I see a whole lot more than just that.”

Not like he’d rat those boys out, a bit of property damage is nothing Wayne’d ever bat an eye at, especially in the parts of town those boys do it, but it has the intended effect. The women, seemingly struck dumb by Wayne’s words, huff, then huff again, before Mrs.Bellefonte utters one more intelligent “demonic”, before they leave his front porch with identical affronted looks.

Wayne closes the door behind him. Seals in the raucous noise of Eddie’s music.

He grabs a couple of Tylenol from the bathroom cupboard, and tries to watch the Hoosier’s play.

2.

“Got band practice tonight.” Eddie says, nose in the fridge. “Do we still have jelly?”

Wayne reaches around him, pulls the sticky jar of strawberry jelly from its spot in the door.

“With a knife, Ed,” Wayne reprimands, eyeing the way his boy’s about to empty the jelly onto his sandwich without one.

“Sorry,” Eddie grumbles. But he does what he’s told, grabs a knife from the drawer and dumps half the sugary mess onto bread before slapping it together and shoving it into a plastic bag, sucking the excess off his fingers.

He bolts from the kitchen, rustling around in his room, before running back a moment later, notebook in hand and his guitar and case strapped to his back. He grabs his sandwich and shoves it under one arm, effectively crushing it.

“We’ll be at Gareth’s,” Eddie says, walking to the door.

Wayne nods, looks to the fridge where Gareth- (812)555-6279 is scrawled in messy handwriting.

“Remember your helmet.” Wayne calls, scrubbing the pan he’s been soaking all day.

Eddie makes a noncommittal noise.

“I mean it, Eddie, not playin’ with that type of thing.” He gives up on the washcloth, bends over to see if they still have steel wool under the sink.

“There’s a talent show Thursday.”

Wayne looks up, Eddie at the door, slipping on his shoes.

“Just so you know.”

And then he’s gone, screen door slamming behind him, helmet gone from the basket by the door.

*****

In the end, Wayne had to call Jeff’s parents, Eddie having bolted from the house before giving him a single bit of helpful information.

Turns out his band’s in the talent show. Thursday, 6 o’clock.

Wayne had wanted to sit up front, but the PTA moms with their stiff hair and paisley dresses have taken up the first three rows by the time he arrives. Their husbands are eyeing the stage with unfocused eyes, looking like they’ve been drug here by the scruff of their necks.

Then again, they probably had.

The kids tap dance, and jump rope, and do all number of things Wayne tries very hard to stay invested in. Unfortunately, however, he’s starting to understand the blank looks all those other fathers are giving the stage, especially after two girls double dutch for twelve minutes straight. But when the very harried looking teacher announces Corroded Coffin in her nasally, wispy voice, Wayne sits up straight in his seat.

And Eddie doesn’t talk to Wayne about much. Not outside of the essentials. Nothing outside of we need more eggs and we have a half day at school tomorrow, but he’s seen Corroded Coffin scratched across Eddie’s notebook, the letters dark and angular.

The four of them strut out, Eddie leading proudly, decked out in those dark colors and silver chains that make the rest of the town whisper. He recognizes Gareth and Jeff, can’t remember if Ed ever mentioned the third one. But he sees his boy scanning the faces in the crowd, the hard line of his brows scowling into the audience like he’s bracing himself.

So Wayne waves. Softly, barely above his head, and it takes Eddie a moment, that horrible frown on his face like he knows it’s a lost cause, but Wayne can see the moment his boy sees him. His little eyebrows relax. Those wide brown eyes soften, and the barest hint of a smile graces Eddie’s lips before he waves back.

Wayne feels lightheaded with it. The little smile. The wave. And it settles within him that he’s finally done something right. Because coming and watching his boy play music he doesn’t understand in this stuffy gymnasium with women who glare at him for his dirty boots is never how he planned on spending an evening, but anything is worth it if it gets that boy to smile at him.

That rage he thought he’d buried months ago against his brother and his wife comes back with a vengeance, watching Eddie up on that stage, because how dare they. How dare they give this up, give Eddie up, give up the opportunity to see him play the songs he wrote on a guitar he’s spent months practicing on. Because Wayne can’t think of anything that would be worth missing this for. Miss the little glances of eye contact Eddie feeds him throughout their song, like he’s checking Wayne is still there, checking Wayne hasn’t left, that Wayne is paying attention.

Like Wayne could do anything other than hang onto Eddie’s every movement. Because his nephew is brilliant. Wayne can barely see his fingers, the way they move so quickly on that guitar, and Wayne’s never been one of any musical talent but he can see Eddie has it, can see his friends have it, too.

So he isn’t even embarrassed when all those parents with their ironed shirts and glinting watches stare as he gives Corroded Coffin a standing ovation. He claps his hands above his head and whistles two fingers in his mouth, proud, until Eddie is smiling wide and proper, his face beet red as he clambers off the stage.

Wayne finds them after. All the boys wearing identical expressions of giddy delight, their parents hovering behind them, looking equal parts happy and put upon.

Wayne’s nearly knocked in the face with Eddie’s guitar when his boy sees him. His scrawny arms lock around Wayne’s middle and his curly head of hair presses into Wayne’s chest, that guitar head nearly taking an eye out.

But Eddie’s hugging him. Holds on. Ties his little arms around Wayne and presses close, their knees knocking together.

Wayne swallows the lump in his throat. Wraps his arms around him.

“Now you’re gon’ start playin’ for me, right?” He asks, trying very hard to keep the emotion from wavering his voice, “‘cause I think I might start likin’ all that rubbish you listen to if you’re the one playin’ it.”

Eddie releases his hold, and for a moment Wayne thinks he’s ruined it, thinks Eddie’s about to shrink back into his shell because Wayne had to go and stick his foot in his mouth, but his boy is smiling when he pulls back.

“We have other songs.” He mumbles.

Then Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. Shoves his hands inside his pockets. Like he’s embarrassed at the show of affection. Like he’s trying to contain himself. Trying to tone himself down. To not let himself get too excited. To not be too much.

So Wayne smiles back. Ruffles Eddie’s hair. “How ‘bout we get some ice cream, and then you can play ‘em for me?”

3.

Wayne’s gonna skin him alive. Gonna string him up by his toes on the flag pole until Eddie gets it through his thick skull that no matter how smart that boy is, he needs to go to class.

“Makin’ me leave work.” He hisses to himself, and Eddie better not be at home. Better be off somewhere else so Wayne can cool down before he grounds him ‘til next year, ‘til he graduates- no Hellfire. No band practice. Nothing until that boy starts applying himself.

Because Wayne knows if Eddie could just- sit down and use half of all that energy he spends on those damn campaigns- he could graduate with honors. Which only fuels Wayne’s anger. Eddie squandering himself like this. Because he doesn’t think himself worthy of graduating. Of anything better.

But Ed’s van is parked at home. And Wayne’s never been a yeller. Never been one to raise his voice or lose his temper, but it’s threatening to tear loose, now, seeing Ed’s car parked at home after he’d waved Wayne goodbye that morning.

He stomps inside, ready to see his boy sat on the couch or with his nose in the fridge, and he’s ready to shout some sense into him before he sees the main rooms are empty.

But Eddie’s door is shut, and this is Wayne’s home- and as much as he’s respected Eddie’s privacy over the years he’s not about to grant it to him now, not when he lied. Lied about goin’ to school today, lied through his teeth when he promised Wayne he’d start trying.

And trying damn well means going to class.

So he opens the door without preamble. Without a knock and without announcing himself, he walks into Eddie’s room ready to tear him a new one.

The words die on his lips.

Eddie, shirtless, with the Hargrove boy from down the street, both their belts unbuckled.

Hargrove leaps off the bed, his eyes wide and wild, putting as much space between himself and Eddie as possible.

“Wayne!” Eddie shouts, and his panicked tone makes Wayne look to him.

All that rage he’d felt not a moment ago drains from him, because his boy looks terrified. His eyes wide as dinner plates, his lips trembling as he looks from Wayne to the other boy and back again.

“It’s not-” Eddie starts, but Hargrove interrupts.

“He came onto me.” Hargrove growls, still in the corner. Shirt unbuttoned and fly open. “I’m not one of them, sir, he tricked me- I-”

But Wayne stops listening. Sees the look on Eddie’s face, and that’s all he needs to know.

“Get out.” He says, low and slow.

Hargrove’s mouth clicks shut. He stays frozen, cornered, until Wayne steps out of the doorway. Wayne’s eyes are on Eddie, now, who’s still looking at Hargrove like he’s hoping he’ll take the words back.

“He’s the faggot.” Hargrove barks, “not me.”

Wayne rounds on him. “GET OUT!” He bellows, and Hargrove flinches, good, before fleeing, doing up his jeans as he does.

Wayne thinks longingly of the shotgun under his bed as he follows the boy out of Eddie’s room and onto the porch, watches as that snake tears from his property.

Wayne doesn’t leave the porch until he can no longer see that boy’s silhouette.

“Goddamn it,” he whispers, and he wants to shout, wants to scream, wants to shove Eddie in bubble wrap and lock him in his room because his life was already hard enough. Already enough with his daddy who he is and his mama the way she is, with Eddie dressing the way he does and the hobbies he has and- and Wayne is scared. Scared for his boy and what the world will do to him.

What the world has already done to him.

He walks back to Eddie’s room. Tries to find the words to make this better. Tries to arrange them so he can fix this.

But when he gets to Eddie’s room there’s a bag on his bed, already haphazardly half filled with clothes, his copy of The Hobbit on top.

Eddie’s crouched low, under his bed, frantically tearing through the rubbish in a desperate search for something in particular. He finds it, stands, and freezes when he sees Wayne in the doorway.

His face and chest are red. There are still tears dribbling down his face.

“He’s right.” Eddie snarls, eyes shining. “About what I am. So you don’t have to say anything. I’m leaving myself. I’m nearly old enough.” He crams whatever he had in his hands into his bag, still shirtless, belt still undone, before stepping over to his desk. His shoulders shake. His hands tremble.

So Wayne doesn’t say anything. He walks up to his son, and pulls him into his chest.

Eddie fights him at first. His arms scramble. His legs push against Wayne’s. He pulls his head away, now crying in earnest, hiccuping sobs that shake his chest.

But Wayne holds on. Grips onto him the same way he did when Eddie realized Al wasn’t coming back. The same way he did when his mama asked for money for that final time.

Eddie’s movements get sloppier. Weaker. Until Wayne’s nearly holding his boy up as he sobs into his chest.

Eddie’s knees tremble. So Wayne whispers that Eddie’s okay. That he’s here. That he’s not going anywhere.

He wraps one arm tight around his boy. Brings his other hand up to Eddie’s head and strokes his soft curls.

“I love you, Eddie.” He says. And his voice doesn’t waver. He speaks clear, right into Eddie’s ear despite his own tears. “And you’re mine. Nothin’s ever changin’ that.”

✨✨✨

Part 2

Next part is gonna be longer cause we meet Steveeeee yayy!