Chapter Text
Eddie Munson was a proud underachiever, but he was also stubborn and determined to graduate this time, yet even he had his limits. The looming threat of a pop quiz in Mrs. Click’s history class- on treaties and tariffs he couldn’t weaponize into a campaign plot hook- was a limit. So, fourth period found him not in class, but seeking sanctuary in the one place guaranteed to be deserted: the wind-swept, cracked asphalt of the school’s outdoor courts, hidden in the dank, pigeon-haunted space beneath the home-side bleachers.
He lit a cigarette, the first drag a sweet burn of rebellion. The silence was a balm. Then the thump-thump-thump started.
Rhythmic, solitary, insistent. Peering through the rusted latticework of the seats above, he saw Lucas Sinclair. Alone. Dribbling, stopping, shooting at the crooked hoop. The kid’s movements were stiff, frustrated. Eddie watched, a detached curiosity taking hold. It looked less like practice and more like a war against the pavement.
Footsteps crunched on gravel. Eddie froze, shrinking back.
Steve Harrington walked into the clearing. He had a distracted air, like he was running an errand. He spotted Lucas and paused.
“Sinclair. Shouldn’t you be in class?”
Lucas caught the ball, looking briefly guilty. “Study hall. Coach said I could use the court if it was empty. Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Dropping a box off to Buckley. Left it in my car.” Steve’s eyes tracked to the ball, then to Lucas’s tense posture. He seemed to make a decision. He shrugged off his forest-green Family Video vest, folding it carefully and placing it on the bleachers bench- right above where Eddie was crouched. The movement made Eddie’s heart stutter. “You’re all shoulders. No follow-through.”
What followed, to Eddie’s utter bewilderment, was a masterclass in a language he didn’t speak. Steve’s critique wasn’t the vague, masculine grunting Eddie associated with gym class. It was specific, technical, and delivered with a calm authority that demanded attention.
“Don’t push it with your palm, you’re killing your arc. Fingertips. Like you’re reaching into the cookie jar on the top shelf.” Steve demonstrated his own form fluid and effortless. The ball swished through the net without touching the rim. “See?” The movement was pure, unthinking grace. A distracting, fluid line from shoulder to wrist that Eddie’s eyes tracked against his will. A scuff of his shoe and an unwelcome flash of Jason Carver’s smug face, the echo of ‘freak’ from a sneering mouth, tightened Eddie’s gut even as he couldn’t look away.
“Yeah,” Lucas breathed, his earlier frustration replaced by focus.
“And your stance. You’re standing like you’re waiting for a bus. Knees bent. Weight on the balls of your feet. If I shove you right now, you should be able to move, not fall over.” Steve gave Lucas a light, testing push on the shoulder. Lucas adjusted, his body lowering into something more alert, more ready. The casual, confident contact sent a weird, hot jolt through Eddie’s own nervous system. Get a grip, Munson.
Eddie watched, his own lack of basketball knowledge turning the lesson into a series of foreign yet fascinating shapes. He didn’t understand ‘picking and rolling,’ but he understood the tactical glint in Steve’s eye as he explained it. He didn’t get ‘boxing out,’ but he saw Lucas’s face light up with comprehension, the nerves of being judged melting away under the sheer, undivided attention. Lucas looked at Steve not with the tiny-general intensity of his sister, but with something softer- a pure, puppy-like absorption. He was being seen, and he was thriving. A bitter, possessive thought clawed its way up: He looks at me like that when I explain a new monster. That’s my look. And Harrington’s stealing it with a goddamn bouncy ball.
After a series of drills- Steve calling out adjustments, Lucas implementing them with growing confidence- Steve leaned against the cool metal pole of the hoop. The pose highlighted the lean strength in his arms, the line of his throat as he tilted his head. Eddie’s morbid curiosity took a sharp, unwanted turn towards the anatomical.
The casual coach vanished, replaced by the older-brother interrogator. “Okay, time out. Real talk. I gotta ask, and you gotta be straight with me. Is this for you? Or is it… armour?”
Lucas stopped dribbling, the ball resting against his hip. “What do you mean?” he asked, but his eyes said he knew.
“I mean, do you actually love this?” Steve gestured at the court. “The playbook, the sweat, the sound of that swish? Or is it because you think being good at it will make guys like Jason Carver think twice before messing with you? Because if it’s armour, I get it. I do. But there are other kinds of armour or other sports. I can teach you to swing a bat that’ll rattle a Demogorgon's molars. Do petal headed beasts have molars?”
Lucas chuckled, “That’s probably more of a Dustin question.”
From the shadows, Eddie’s mind stumbled over Demogorgons and petal headed beasts and snagged on that word coming up again in relation to the siblings. Armour. It reframed everything. He’d been watching Lucas’s new interest through a lens of pure betrayal- a nerdy foot soldier defecting to the enemy camp. He’d never considered it might be a shield. A defensive move the other club members, with their white skin and different social threats, didn’t need to make. A cold thread of shame wound through Eddie’s gut. Jeff, he thought abruptly. Quiet, observant Jeff, who never talked about home. Check in with Jeff more.
Lucas scuffed his sneaker on the asphalt. “It’s… it’s not just armour,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “I mean, yeah, that’s part of it. You’re not wrong. But I… I really like it. I like the strategy. Calling a play, reading the defence… it’s like a live-action campaign. And some of the guys, they’re not all like Jason. They’re into the stats, the history of the game. It’s… it’s its own kind of cool.” The admission felt like a betrayal. They’re not all like Jason. But enough of them were. Enough to make the halls a minefield. Steve was showing Lucas the one cool teacher, ignoring the pack of wolves waiting in the hall. He was making it look safe. It wasn’t.
Steve’s stupidly pretty face transformed, his reaction betraying Eddie's views, why couldn't he see the wolves? The serious lines eased into a warm, relieved smile that reached his eyes. “Okay. Good. That’s what I wanted to hear. Then we play. But listen to me, and listen good: if anyone in the Party. Mike, Dustin, anyone… gives you crap for this, you tell them Harrington said a diverse skill set makes you a better campaign asset. Or some other nerd shit they’ll understand. You don’t have to choose, Lucas. You get to be both.”
You don’t have to choose. A traitorous part of his mind whispered that he was staring at a man who had chosen. He’d chosen sports. He’d chosen Tommy and Carol. Sure, he didn’t have them now. But he had chosen.
The words echoed in Eddie’s skull, clashing violently with the foundational law of his universe: You must choose. Freak or normie. Outcast or king. Metalhead or jock. His leadership, Hellfire itself, was built on the sanctity of that choice. Lucas being both felt like a heresy. A contamination of the tribe. Eddie’s mind raced, trying to fortify its walls. He’ll leave. Games will conflict. He’ll pick them. Steve is making him pick them.
But the evidence before him refused to cooperate. Lucas wasn’t looking conflicted. He was beaming, standing taller, the ball looking like a natural extension of his arm. Steve hadn’t recruited a soldier; he’d empowered a kid. The corruption Eddie feared looked an awful lot like joy yet felt like door clicking shut between them.
The bell rang, a shrill intrusion. Eddie jolted. He was trapped. If he moved now, they’d see him skulking in the shadows like a creep.
Lucas gathered his ball, his whole demeanour lighter. “Thanks, Steve.”
“Anytime, man. Seriously.”
Lucas jogged off towards the school. Steve lingered for a moment, watching him go with a satisfied expression. Then he turned, walking back towards the bleachers to retrieve his vest.
Eddie held his breath, pressing himself against the cold concrete foundation.
Steve bent down, his hand closing over the green fabric. As he straightened, his gaze- which had been idle- swept across the court. It passed the chain-link fence, the dead grass, and dipped into the gloom under the bleachers.
It stopped.
Eddie was pinned. Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly, adjusting to the shadow. He saw the pale oval of Eddie’s face, the glint of a chain, the curl of smoke long gone cold. He didn’t startle. He didn’t look angry. His expression was one of deep, weary contemplation. He held Eddie’s gaze for three long, silent heartbeats. Eyebrow raised. The message was clear, and it wasn’t friendly. It was a challenge.
I see you hiding. I see you judging. I know what you’re thinking. And you’re wrong.
Then, Steve did something small. He gave the faintest, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Not in denial. In disappointment. In a sad kind of understanding. That the terrifying painful truth was both: Steve was good, and he was still a thief. He was stealing Lucas’s loyalty with kindness and competence, and Eddie hated him for it almost as much as he was in awe of him.
He pulled on his vest, turned on his heel, and walked away, the gravel crunching under his shoes until the sound faded into the hum of the school waking up.
Eddie didn’t move until long after the silence returned. He uncurled his fist. The cigarette filter was crushed, the paper torn. He felt gutted.
He’d paused instead of fleeing, fearing Lucas’s betrayal. He was leaving, realising he was the one holding the knife of “us vs. them,” and Steve had just held up a mirror, forcing him to see the blood on his own hands. Steve didn’t make Lucas choose, he wasn't making him pick. Eddie had made him hide, he was causing a rift he couldn't figure out how to close. Unlike Eddie's own mind, the man in the vest wasn’t a puzzle or a project anymore. He was a moral compass and Eddie’s needle was spinning wildly, lost.
The hook in his chest was no longer a pull of just fascination. It was the sickening lurch of a foundation giving way. He wanted, more than anything, to explain himself. To say he wasn’t like that. But the truth, witnessed from the shadows, was damning. He was like that. And Steve Harrington, with a single, disappointed look, had seen right through him.
He walked to his van on autopilot, the crushed filter falling from his numb fingers. The question echoed in the hollow space Steve’s look had carved in his chest: Why do I care? Why does his disappointment feel like a dent in the world? He had no answer. Only the cold, certain knowledge that he did.