Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steve Harrington doesn’t know when it was collectively decided that his house was going to be the crash house for everybody, the designated meeting point no matter the occasion, but somewhere along the line, it had. Clearly, he thinks, as evidenced by the handful of young teens scattered in loud, raucous pubescent chaos around his living room. Tonight’s grand to-do? Movie night. And of course that meant Steve, who by some mildly sadistic twist of fate actually managed to keep his job at Family Video in spite of a sudden and unannounced absence ( job abandonment, he thinks, would be the appropriate turn of phrase ) has had this litter of brats dangling from his glorious hair all day. 

Brats, he says, but there’s a certain sort of affection that softens the way it echoes in his brain. Because they’re his brats. His kids, really, and Steve also doesn’t know when it was decided that he was the best nanny Hawkins had to offer, either — or why — but here he is, standing in the doorway with an armful of VHS tapes and a bucket-sized bowl of popcorn on his hip, just taking in the chaos. He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t love it, that the sounds of their laughter and riled up screeches didn’t fill the wide open spaces with something that felt just a little bit better, a little bit lighter than the silence that swallows it up in their absence. 

That said, when he’d agreed to graciously host the rag-tag party of gremlins, it’d been under the notion that he wasn’t going to be the only chaperone present. Robin and Nancy had sworn he wouldn’t — Robin had pinky promised, in fact, and Steve had half a mind to tell her not to take the sanctity of such a swear too lightly before realizing he sounded a little too much like Henderson in his head and that he was better off just griping to her about the night on their next shared shift at the movie store — but at the last minute, they’d both claimed vague but urgent plans and bailed. 

The thought of calling Jonathan crossed his mind — his younger brother was amidst the gremlins in question, after all — but that likely meant the accompaniment of Argyle, and look, it’s not as if Steve doesn’t like the guy, he’s actually pretty funny and he seems to have a good heart. It’s just that last time he was over, Steve couldn’t get the stupid pot-smell out of his upstairs bathroom for the rest of the weekend. He likes to shower without worrying he’ll come out smelling like a skunk, okay?

And anyway, the moment the kids arrived, Steve realized he might not technically have to call for backup. He was expecting a smattering of bicycles on his lawn when the sound of their voices began to drift through the open windows, but instead there’s a sliding of metal doors, the faint ( but aggressive, Steve thinks, even at this volume ) melody of a guitar and the shout of a voice that while not expected wasn’t unfamiliar either. Eddie. 

How they’d managed to rope their dungeon master into moonlighting as a chauffeur was beyond Steve, but as he trotted down the stairs and onto the path leading up to his suburban home, the look on the other’s face made him wonder if he hadn’t somehow been coerced. He certainly didn’t look like he was having a good time, after all, having exited the van now to try and corral the kids out of the back with “ a little more urgency, please! ” and a pinched expression to match. He looks irritable. No, he doesn’t. He looks tired. Now that he’s looking, even from this distance, Steve can see the dark, bruise-like shadows under his eyes, the way usually vibrant features — vibrant? who said vibrant? Steve only meant that he usually looked a little more alive — seem paler, washed-out. 

Before he could even notice his feet were moving, Steve was closing the gap between himself and the van, jogging up to a halt and flashing the older male a wry smile. “What kind of bet did you lose to end up bus driver, Munson?” Steve teased as Dustin and Mike tried desperately to get his attention, muttering something about horror movies and R-rated before they’re all but batted away toward the house by Steve, Will and Eleven and Lucas and Max trailing behind as they shuffled out of the old, sputtering vehicle. Eddie just shrugged, a half-hearted response as the van door was yanked shut and heavy boots began to carry him back around to the driver’s side door, still ajar and letting in mosquitos. “Hey, wait!” Steve isn’t sure what inspired him to speak up in that moment, even less why he’d decided to reach out and cup a hand on Eddie’s denim-clad shoulder, but he does. “You’re not staying?”

Eddie turned to face him at that because, really, what other choice do you have when Steve Harrington is grabbing onto you? And wow, okay, Steve was right. He did look tired. Not just had a bad night tired, either. Eddie looked like he hadn’t gotten more than a wink in days, and it wasn’t far-fetched to suspect the redness in his eyes wasn’t solely a side-effect of the herbs he smoked just as much as he sold, at least not this time. The question seemed to take him by surprise, brow wrinkling as he looked from Steve’s face to his hand and back to his face again. 

“Wasn’t planning on it, Harrington,” he admitted honestly, and there’s a gravelly edge to his tone, much like he’d adopted in the first day or two after they’d made it back from the upside down. Surely a side effect of all the screaming, not that anyone could pass judgment for it. They’d all been through some scary shit. Steve couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been screaming again lately, if he’d had any reason to. Maybe he was plagued by the same nightmares as Steve, the same creatures that sprung up from the darkness every time he closed his eyes… “You know Thursday’s my night with the kids.”

It wasn’t pitched like a joke, but Steve had laughed anyway, because yeah, true . Thursdays were Hellfire nights, and arguably the quietest nights in the Harrington household anymore. He tried not to think about it too much, the fact that he and Eddie basically split custody of a handful of rowdy, found children. That they were essentially co-parenting. It makes him feel weirdly domestic and fluttery in ways he’s not sure he’s ready to unpack yet, especially not with Eddie the freak Munson, even if Steve would never actually call him that. Not now, anyway. Not anymore. Steve thought for a moment about asking him to stay, about giving him the option to sit in on movie night and stuff his face with popcorn and soda and forget about the bullshit that life constantly hurtled at him, if only for a few hours. 

He thought about it, yeah, but then he decided against it. Eddie wasn’t getting an option. The hand on his shoulder slid to curl around his bicep and give him a tug, and Eddie barely had the time to shove his door shut before he was being yanked away with a, “Harrington, what the fuck? ” If he really gave any protest, though, Steve didn’t see it, and he let himself be dragged along inside without much more fuss. 

That’s how Eddie finds himself on Steve Harrington’s loveseat, shoulders hunched and head down so his face is partially obscured by a mess of humidity-wrecked tresses and not even paying a lick of attention to the argument unfurling on the floor in front of him between Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Labyrinth. Steve watches it all unfold for a moment from his spot in the doorway, unable to shake exactly how out of sorts Eddie seems. And look, it’s not like he doesn’t know that people process trauma differently, and he also doesn’t take lightly that it’s the first time Eddie’s been thrust into this mess, but it just looks… well, it looks like he’s been sapped of all his energy. The Eddie he was used to would’ve already been on the floor with the kids, slinging aside their tapes in favor of Aliens or Poltergeist II and riling them all up for a night of chaos and general spookery.  But this? This quiet, sullen and curled-in-on-himself heap of leather and denim? This is not the Eddie Munson he’s used to. 

Steve takes it upon himself to settle the arguing for everybody when he drops the bucket of popcorn between them and snatches up Labyrinth, sliding the tape into the VCR to a mix of delighted cries and disgruntled groans. And, no, it’s not because he just wants an excuse to look at David Bowie in those pants, alright? Shut up and stop talking to Robin about it. He’s just seen Ferris Bueller one too many times by this point, the store TV often playing it on a loop in tandem with Top Gun, and besides, he gets the feeling that maybe the puppetry and theatrics of this particular choice might be more up Munson’s alley than a high school comedy flick. It’s his house anyway, he gets the final choice, and he says as much to anyone who protests. 

Once the opening credits are rolling, Steve is one quick game of kid-twister away from falling into the open cushion on the loveseat beside Eddie. Not like he’s got much choice, anyway; Max and Lucas are taking up most of the couch, with Dustin perched on the arm, while Will sits on the room’s only armchair and El and Mike round out the group on the floor. He’s not expecting Eddie to startle — shit, he really must be out of it — but he does, jumping a bit and only settling, still frazzled, once he realizes it’s only Steve who’s sat down next to him. It’s not a lot, but Steve tries not to read into how Eddie stilled at the sight of him, how he maybe soothed the panic just a little . And now he’s that he’s thinking about it, he’s realizing that maybe he shouldn’t. Outside of the playful banter and flirting, the we-almost-died-together bond they can’t escape, are they really anything more than acquaintances? Who’s he fooling trying to act like he’s anything to Eddie? Or — or even that he’d want to be?

So Steve pushes the idea out of his mind as quickly as it’s appeared, holding out his own, smaller bowl of popcorn in an offer with a smile that even Steve himself isn’t sure the goal of. And when Eddie shakes his head, silently turns down the shared snacks, Steve simply deposits the bowl on the side table nearest him and sits back, turning his undivided attention to the movie.

The movie , he thinks, as if he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone, and not the way that Eddie’s head has slowly, steadily begun drooping over the past forty-five minutes, falling toward him so closely that Steve can feel the tickle of split ends as they brush against his bare arm. His neck . At some point there’s a thud, and Steve’s not sure when he decided to care so much ( but that’s a lie, isn’t it? he always has ) but suddenly he’s afraid to even take a breath too deep because Eddie Munson has fallen asleep on him and the absolute last thing he wants is to wake him up. So what if there’s a little bit of drool seeping through the thin cotton of his t-shirt? And so what if he can’t really make out the best parts of the Goblin King’s dialogue over the subtle but present drone of Eddie snoring right by his ear? It’s fine. The guy sure as hell looked like he needed sleep, and who’s Steve to deprive him?

It can’t be more than five minutes after he’s noticed that Eddie dozed off that the older boy’s moving again. A hand comes up and swipes at his face beneath a curtain of hair, and in this light, Steve can’t really see what he’s doing. Still half-asleep, pawing at his face to rid it of ticklish hairs, he assumes. It’s a wonder Steve himself has been able to last this long without trying to brush them away. But then his body tenses, muscles tightening against Steve’s side where they’d only just a moment ago been so relaxed, and Steve’s about to ask him what’s wrong when his head bobs forward once, twice, in a silent flurry of curls. His hand is still poised at his face and Steve blinks, tries to decide if it’s worth it to prod him a little, ask him if he’s alright. If ever there were a time, it would be now — the dialogue of the movie has ebbed into a softer score and for once, the kids are relatively silent as they stare at the screen. He opens his mouth but is quickly interrupted.

The sound, however much he tries to smother it under his palm, is enough to have the kids shouting and hollering at Eddie’s interruption as he buckles forward with a surprisingly violent sneeze, nearly toppling into Steve’s lap. He expects Eddie to react, to throw a pillow or reach out and noogie the closest head he can grab in light of the protests, but he’s surprised to find that Eddie remains still. Still half-pressed against his side. “Hey, Eddie,” he begins slowly but Eddie shakes his head as if to wordlessly tell him to wait. If Steve had any inclination at all to wonder why, it vanishes the second Eddie lifts off him only to pitch forward with another short volley of sneezes, this time muffled into near-silence between steepled hands. 

It's only once he's stopped moving that Steve registers any sound at all, a quiet whine as Eddie falls back into the cushion, this time a little further away. It sounds pained, and Steve's never really been great at masking his worry.  The kids have quickly turned their attention back to the film, already bored of the interruption, and Steve seizes the opportunity to fix his focus on Eddie. "Hey," Steve says after a moment, with all the softness you'd expect were he trying to corner and catch a wild animal. "Are you alright, man?"

Eddie, to his credit, tries to answer. It takes him a moment to find the words so at first he simply nods at Steve, one ringed hand pressing gingerly into his side, right where — oh. Suddenly it makes sense to Steve, like everything's clicked all at once, and he frowns. "Yeah, 'm good, it's just the, uh… the bites, you know?" And yeah, Steve knows. He knows better than most, actually, and the sympathy is all at once evidenced on his face. He can only hope it doesn't come off as pitying. "Quit looking at me like I'm some kind of kicked puppy, Harrington, it's weird." 

There's a muffled snuffle that follows, one Eddie punctuated with a quick swipe to his nose with the back of one wrist, and even in the lame television light, his cheeks look ruddy, flushed. Is that a side effect of the impromptu nap or is Eddie Munson actually blushing? Steve tries not to dwell on it long, convinced there are more pressing matters to deal with. Because there are. He blinks at Eddie, nods toward the hand still clutching his middle. "When's the last time you changed them?" 

Eddie simply stares, either unprepared for or confused by the question. "What?" 

"Your bandages, Munson," Steve says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. To him, it kind of is, particularly from the way Eddie's still palming at them through screen-printed cotton.  "When's the last time you changed your bandages? Or even, y'know, just cleaned your wounds?" Depending on how it's delivered, he knows the questions can come off as condescending, reprimanding, even. Of course Steve doesn't mean them that way, and the soft but serious tone to his inquiry suggests as much. Belies his worry as if he didn't already wear it on his sleeve just the same as Eddie's tattoos. Clear as day.

Either he genuinely doesn't know or he can't recall when — neither is the preferable option if you were to ask Steve — because his only response is another shrug, albeit smaller than the last. Eddie looks down at his chest, chin pointed to the ground so hair comes to obscure his face once more, clearly abashed. It softens something in Steve and he doesn't wait for an invitation to lean in a little, one arm draped over the back of the loveseat and the other poised in his lap. He doesn't want to overstep any boundaries. "Can I help you?"

If he'd planned to wait for an answer, Steve changes his mind when it isn’t immediately provided and instead rises to his feet, a hand outstretched for Eddie to take. "Come on, the kids'll be fine until the end credits roll which gives us…" he trails off, pausing to look at the screen and do a little mental calculation. Sarah is on screen now, suddenly back in her own bedroom after a wild and winding whirlwind of adventure. A few fingers are bent, tongue taps upper teeth for a second and then Steve looks back, "We've got at least twenty minutes, should be plenty of time." And if Eddie wants to protest, Steve doesn't give him the chance, hand still held out expectantly as he nods toward the open archway out of the living room. "It'll be easier in the kitchen. Think I've got a first aid kit under the sink."

Nobody even notices them leaving, and for once Steve’s more grateful than affronted by the notion that his absence is irrelevant to them — and look, he doesn’t know why he cares so much what the little shits think of him, he just… does , okay? And it’s not like Eddie didn’t say he felt the same way. Eddie. He’s hoisted himself up off the sofa with a visible effort ( one that’s nearly enough to make Steve wince, and he’s not even the one struggling ) and started to shuffle along behind him toward the kitchen, head still tucked low. Steve spots the bandana that’s normally dangling from the back of tattered jeans; it’s crumpled in one of Eddie’s fists now, frayed corners peeking out from between fingers as he thumbs one of the edges. Steve thinks he looks nervous. Anxious, even. He can’t for the life of him figure out why. What kind of vibes was Steve giving off right now? Surely it had to be him — right?

The Harrington kitchen is spacious, near-spotless ( save, of course, for a burnt bag of popcorn and a few empty beer cans Steve had left on the counter in his parents’ absence, he’s been meaning to throw them away… ) and empty. Sometimes it feels so large and vacant that after a couple of drinks, Steve will sometimes sprawl tanned limbs across the marble island and stare up at the ceiling, expecting it to just swallow him whole. It never does . He nods toward the island as they enter, suggesting for Eddie to wait there as he flips on the overhead light and makes his way toward the cabinet beneath the sink. It takes only a few moments of digging around before fingertips graze cool metal and Steve is seizing the first aid kit from beneath a heap of cleaning supplies. 

“Well,” Steve says expectantly when he turns around, fingertips tapping an awkward rhythm against the lid of the kit before he slides it across the counter. Eddie has his back to him, the Metallica patch emblazoned across the shoulders of his vest — not the vest, Steve thinks, mind wandering to the tattered and pinned up heap of fabric still draped across the back of his desk chair upstairs and how, no , he just hasn’t had the time to return it yet, okay? it’s not that he doesn’t plan on it… doesn’t he? — starkly illuminated under the bright fluorescents of the light fixture overhead. “Are you going to let me get a look at them or what?” He gestures with a wave of one hand to the older boy’s clothes, having expected by now he might’ve shed the jacket. At least the vest. But no, he’d kept them on the entire time he was inside and, even now, chipped, polished fingers are picking at the hems like they’re some sort of security blanket. Steve wonders. “Because I’m not digging past your crusty clothes to try and get to those bites, Munson.”

Although he means it as a joke, a playful prod to lighten the mood a little, Steve regrets the words almost immediately. He doesn’t know why — it’s far tamer than some of the banter they’d tossed at each other before, none of which has ever seemed to faze Eddie. He couldn’t count the number of quips he’d made about the smell of that vest after Eddie had chucked it at him in the Upside Down, and then, then of all places , he’d only been met with smirks, winks, and bright, cackling laughter. Now Eddie looks a little like he wants to curl in on himself and disappear, maybe. That, or like he’s suddenly realized he’s made the wrong decision following Steve in here and he’s readying himself to bolt the first chance he gets. 

A few seconds follow in silence and Steve’s stomach twists a little tighter with each one that passes because, yeah , maybe that might’ve actually been a dick thing to say. And Steve, to his credit, is working up the gumption, the words to apologize, to elucidate the intention behind his words. He hadn’t meant them to be mean. But Eddie is interrupting him before he can, speaking up for the first time since they’ve left the living room at all. His voice crackles, breaks a little at the start and he coughs into a fist to clear his throat. “If you were trying to get me naked, Harrington, all you had to do was ask.” And fuck , he knows it’s dumb, but Steve lets out a little breath he doesn’t even realize he’s been holding in literally all night because, oh, there it is. There’s a little glimpse of his Eddie. Wait, no — his Eddie? That’s not what he meant — just that it was, like, the Eddie he knows , you know? The Eddie he’s familiar with. ( Who is he even trying to convince? ) Whatever.

Eddie must assume the sound means Steve’s affronted by the suggestion because he spins to face him, albeit with significantly less dramatic grandeur than usual, and Steve is immediately stunned into silence because he isn’t expecting Eddie the Grump Munson to be wearing a smile for the first time all night when he does. It’s not as blinding as ones he’s seen in the past — not that Steve’s keeping a catalogue of the guy’s smiles, of course, he’s just seen it a few times — but it’s arguably just as infectious because Steve can feel the corners of his mouth twitching upward ever so slightly even as it hangs mildly agape. “Don’t worry, I know. Not while the kids are awake,” he says, and Steve is bewildered and almost wants to laugh because what happened while he was getting the first aid kit to make him shift dispositions so quickly? “I’ll behave if you do.” 

And then he’s shrugging gingerly out of his jacket, reaching down to the worn cotton hem of a ratty Black Sabbath t-shirt and Steve feels like maybe he’s staring and wonders if it would be more polite to look away — you know, like, for his modesty? — but to be honest, he’s glad he doesn’t. If he did, he might’ve missed it. The way Eddie’s smile falters for just a second behind messy black waves, how hands hesitate as they curl around the bottom of the shirt like maybe he doesn’t have to, like maybe he still has a chance to change his mind and keep it on. Oh, Steve thinks. Oh, he thinks, because he’s never seen a break in Eddie’s bravado quite like this, quite so… so intimately and suddenly everything makes just a little more sense. It’s all a show. A mask Eddie snatches up and hurries on the moment he begins to suspect he’s lowered his walls even a fraction too far, revealing a little too much of his softer underbelly. 

Steve knows what that’s like, doesn’t he? An inexplicable yet wholly and undeniably crippling fear of being vulnerable. Of showing weakness. Steve understands what it’s like to feel like he needs to stay strong, needs to at least appear strong in front of everyone else around him, and yeah, okay, maybe himself included. He knows what kind of long-suffering, exhausting curse that is. And he wants to tell Eddie as much, to assure him that he really doesn’t have to do that right now. Because he doesn’t. Steve would never judge him. His house is a safe space — no, the safe space — for anyone he’s willing to invite inside. And that includes Eddie. But Steve can’t say any of this because he shouldn’t have even been looking closely enough to notice in the first place .

That’s fine, though, because somewhere in the midst of his convoluted internal monologue, Eddie seems to have steeled himself enough in this facade to tug the shirt over his head. ( Steve has no explanation for the way his mouth goes dry when the older boy shakes his hair loose once it’s off, scattering long, dark curls over pale, inked shoulders. How many tattoos does he have again? ) Eddie coughs again, and Steve’s sure it must be to catch his attention this time because shit , he’s been full-on staring for what has probably been way too long to easily explain away at this point, hasn’t he? Right. “Did you hear me? I said I’m ready when you are, Nurse Harrington.”

That seems to snap some life back into Steve and he nods as if he’s been ready this whole time, swings around the counter and stops just a few feet away from Eddie so he can properly assess the damage. A low whistle spills from his lips as he takes in a pale, battered torso; what few bandages litter his lithe frame are haphazardly placed with literal scraps of tape, nearly soaked through and barely hanging onto his ribs, his hips, and Steve can only assume they must be covering the absolute worst of the wounds because the rest of them remain open and uncovered. Dozens of bite marks — even more than Steve could claim, and even his own were healing up decently — and the skin surrounding them is puckered pink and inflamed, hot to the touch when Steve reaches out unconsciously to graze the edge of a shallower puncture. 

“Shit, Munson, these really don’t look good—” 

“But they’ll make for some pretty hot battle scars, right? ” 

“Eddie, I’m serious.” There’s a sternness to the words that Steve doesn’t think either of them are expecting, and he doesn’t intend for them to come out as harshly as they do, but Steve can’t help it. He means it. He’d known that Eddie was worse off after the battle in the Upside Down, that the demobats had torn into him so savagely that it was a fucking miracle he hadn’t bled out when Steve and Nancy and Robin had tried to hoist his limp body through the gate back home. But this — well, this was far beyond what he’d been expecting. Most of the open wounds are infected to some degree and Steve fears for what he might find hiding behind dirty, deteriorating gauze. “Seriously, man, how’d you let it get this bad? You may have two feet back in Hawkins again, but this shit could still kill you.” 

Eddie deflates in front of his eyes and Steve is too caught up in the ache of it all to realize he should be bracing for impact. “I get it. I get it, okay? I know I’m probably totally fucking disgusting right now, and I’m twenty years old, I — I should be able to take care of myself better than this and — and clean my own fucking wounds and — and, shit , know how to use that stupid hospital tape, but I just — I don’t, Steve. I can’t and I don’t.”   Eddie doesn’t look at him when he speaks, instead turns to lean back against marble countertop and fix a glassy stare on some far off point in the ceiling. At this angle, Steve can clearly see the wetness welling just behind dark lashes and wonders if maybe that’s why he’s yet to blink. Because the moment the first tear falls, that’s when the mask crashes down. From what he can tell, it’s already started crumbling. Steve remains silent. He doesn’t know where this is coming from, but he  waits to see if Eddie will continue and can’t tell if he’s surprised or not when he does.

“I feel like I’m losing it,” Eddie whispers, and his hands are twisting and curling and tugging on the bandana again but his stare remains unwavering. “Like — like the entire world is hurtling forward around me and it’s so fast and I’m just stuck in the same fucking spot and I can’t move and I can’t breathe and I can’t sleep — Jesus Christ , Steve, I can’t remember the last time I could sleep for more than a few minutes, and it’s all I fucking want, I’m just so tired it hurts. But every time I close my eyes, I see things. I see — I see her, and I can’t fucking — I don’t know how to just tuck it all away and move on, man. I keep trying — I’m constantly trying, it’s all I do anymore and it’s still not enough because I don’t fucking know how. How do you do it, Steve? Am I — am I just crazy?” 

Steve doesn’t know how to answer, so he doesn’t. Not at first, anyway. No, Steve lurches forward, closes the gap between them as he pulls a very upset, very shirtless Eddie fucking Munson into the tightest hug he feels is safe given his current state. He doesn’t want to hurt him. Steve wraps his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and holds them there, waiting to see if Eddie will protest or try to push him away or make some sort of off-handed comment under his breath. But he doesn’t. Instead, he seems to shatter under the embrace, breaking down all at once so suddenly and so violently that Steve hardly has the time to process the fact that Eddie is clutching tightly to the back of his shirt now, sobbing into his shoulder. There goes the mask. Eddie is falling to pieces in his arms, and Steve is careful to make sure he catches every single one of them. 

It feels like forever that they just stay there like that, in that moment, with Steve’s hands offering reassuring squeezes and combing gently through tangled tresses as Eddie hitches and cries and shudders in his arms. He feels so small, so fragile right now; Steve knows he’s not, knows he wouldn’t have survived what he had if he were truly as breakable as he seems under the harsh lights of the Harrington kitchen, but he feels compelled to comfort him. To be there. Outside of Henderson, his Uncle Wayne, did Eddie even really have anybody else? He’s not sure if it’s been several long seconds or if they’ve stretched into minutes by this point, and Steve doesn’t want to let go of Eddie if he needs this — and it’s clear to Steve he really fucking needs this — but he knows they don’t have too long before the movie’s over and the kids come snooping. There’s not a doubt in his mind, Eddie doesn’t want any of them to see him like this. Hell, he probably doesn’t even want Steve to see it, but he’s got no choice now. He’s already in it. 

Steve doesn’t have to break contact, though. He doesn’t have to make that call because Eddie suddenly hiccups, choking on a sob that has him twisting like a threatened snake to get out of Steve’s grasp as it triggers what sounds like a truly painful, almost barking string of coughs he’s quick to smother into the folds of his bandana. Steve doesn’t get the memo to let go at first, not even as Eddie turns until his back is flush with Steve’s chest and his shoulders shake with the abrupt and breathless fit. He only steps back once Eddie’s breathing has slowed, once he’s only gasping for air and not choking on every breath he attempts. Steve glances toward the kitchen door, grateful to find it still empty. A glance at his watch tells Steve they’ve got about ten minutes left until curious teenage heads come poking in. Not enough time for everything, but enough to help him get cleaned up, at very least.

And speaking of getting cleaned up, Eddie finally seems to be able to collect himself a little bit, scrubbing at his face with the scrap of black cloth once he’s caught his breath. Steve decides to give him a moment to himself before trying to break the silence, turning his own focus to the first aid kit and slowly starting to unpack its contents onto the counter. Disinfectant, antibiotic ointment, gauze, tape. With his own injuries, it’s a wonder he still has them on hand, but he quickly remembers why. It’s because he had help. He’d had the precision and care of Nancy’s delicate hands to clean his wounds after they’d gotten back, the countless offers from Robin to help him change the bandages he couldn’t reach, whether right here in his kitchen or in the cramped employee bathroom at Family Video, the kids raiding the pharmacy with their allowance to buy him all the band-aids and candy they could carry. Steve barely had to take care of any of it on his own. And Eddie — well, Eddie didn’t have that same luxury he’d taken for granted. Not until now. 

Arsenal of supplies assembled, Steve turns back to Eddie. He’s got his back to the countertop again, bandana shoved back in his pocket so hands can curl into cool marble on either side of him. Like he’s bracing himself . Steve wonders how much of it is actually for the physical pain he knows is just around the corner. He wouldn’t guess more than half. He’d just shown a display of vulnerability, of emotion far more grand or sincere than anything he’d ever pulled out at one of his little dragon games, at least from what Steve has seen, and he’s probably waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Steve to criticize him or lecture him or confirm that yeah, he is actually crazy, did he really not know that already? But Steve doesn’t do any of these things. Mostly because Steve just doesn’t think that’s true, and also because he’s realizing at this very moment he’d argue the whole lot of Hawkins until he was blue in the face to convince anyone who disagrees about Eddie otherwise. And if that didn’t work, maybe he’d start swinging too.  

“You’re not crazy,” Steve says finally as he twists off the cap to a glass bottle of disinfectant, douses a cluster of cotton balls in a generous soak of the liquid. “I mean, no crazier than any one of us.” He steals a glance at Eddie and is glad he did; the playful jab at themselves is enough to garner a twitch of the lips. Almost a smile . Even that’s a lot to ask for right now. Figuring he can use his words as a distraction, cotton is left on a paper towel on the counter so Steve can begin to peel away the old bandages littering Eddie’s torso. “If I’m being honest, I don’t really know how I deal with it either. Or if I even do. ” Eddie flinches as he starts to pull at the tape, but he doesn’t move away, so Steve keeps working away gently and talking all the while. “Whatever it is, however it may appear, I can promise you I’m not handling it well.” 

Steve sighs, sucks his teeth as he uncovers a particularly nasty bite, still oozing as he peels the gauze away. It’s deep. Keep talking. “Nancy says I’m good at compartmentalizing, whatever that means. A fancy word for bottling it all up, I guess. She and Robin, they think I might spontaneously combust one day if I keep it up. Or worse — go gray. ” That one earns a wheeze of a laugh, and Steve’s crouched in front of Eddie now so he has to look up to see it but there is, in fact, an actual smile. It disappears as soon as Steve tugs at another piece of tape, tapering off into a whine he tries ( and fails ) to bite back. Steve’s heart lurches for some fucking reason and he has to remind himself that they’re almost done. Almost done with this part, at least. 

“Can I tell you something?” It’s something Steve’s never told anyone, not even Robin, and he’s not sure why he feels compelled to expose himself right here and right now, in front of God and Eddie Munson , of all people, but he does. There’s a hesitance to the nod that answers him, like Eddie doesn’t know exactly what to expect, like the uncertainty almost puts him on edge. “Sometimes… sometimes, Eddie, I just feel so empty. It’s like, I know in the back of my mind, in my heart , that I should have all of these feelings. All of this raw, directionless grief and anger and sadness and confusion. After everything we’ve been through? Are you kidding? I shouldn’t know what to do with everything I’m feeling. But more often than not, I just… I don’t. I just don’t feel it. And I don’t know why, and I don’t — I have no idea where all of those feelings go.” He’s peeling back the last of the gauze now, and somehow, Steve’s still not sure who’s being laid more bare at this moment. But he did this to himself. No, he did this for Eddie.

“Sometimes it feels like I’m just a void. Just like this big, empty fucking house, hollow and silent and eerie . And I can’t stand that feeling. I can’t stand the quiet or the empty or the lonely . When I was younger, I used to throw parties—” A quiet scoff suggests Eddie is familiar with the parties in question, but he doesn’t interrupt. Steve can’t tell if he wishes he would or not. “—and then, all of a sudden it wasn’t the parties but the kids . And fuck, Eddie, they really were kids. They were so young. Dustin was too fucking young.” If he doesn’t reel it in, Steve knows he’ll be the one choked up next, so he tries to swallow it down. This isn’t about him right now, not really. “And then it’s Robin and Nancy coming over. Shit, even Jonathan and Argyle, you know? I just needed people to fill the space. I needed to feel needed . I guess I still do.”

“Is that what you’re doing right now?” And okay, yeah, Steve should have expected that response. He’d sort of set himself up for it. He doesn’t answer immediately. Can’t, really, because he’s still processing that he’s said any of that out loud to anyone other than his reflection in the mirror when he’s half-drunk on warm beer at two in the afternoon and can’t think straight from hours in the sun. Instead, he gathers up all of the dirty bandages he’d been collecting on the nearby stool, tossing them in the trash can on the way back to the sink to wash his hands. Gloves were the one thing the first aid kit was lacking, and Steve needs his hands to be as clean as possible after handling those used bandages. He won’t ask Eddie again how old they were, and if he’s being honest, he’s not sure he even wants to wager a guess. There’s no judgment, though. Only sympathy. Understanding.

“No,” Steve says eventually when he turns around, hands dripping as he shakes away the excess water. He’s not supposed to dry them on anything, right? That would defeat the purpose of sanitizing them? Shit, he doesn’t know, he’s not a doctor. “What I’m doing right now is saving you from keeling over from septic shock in a week.” There’s absolutely zero bite to the retort, but it is true. That’s not what he’s doing right now. Steve doesn’t think so anyway. This feels… different, even if he can’t really articulate why. Closing the gap between them once more, Steve reaches for the cotton balls on the counter and fixes Eddie with a serious gaze. “I apologize in advance, but this is going to sting. A lot .” Eddie closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and nods. They both know there’s no other way around it. Steve’s just about to make first contact with flushed skin when Eddie suddenly asks him to wait, and Steve’s not sure why until he sees him tug the bandana back out of his pocket, twist it into a rope and bite down hard around it. Then he nods at Steve, wordless affirmation. Go ahead.

So Steve does. He presses soaking cotton balls gingerly and meticulously around the perimeter of each wound, dripping antiseptic into the many punctures and lacerations that scattered his body. Some of them are deeper than others, and some of them require gentle prying apart to pick out loose strands of gauze, fragments of tape. Eddie, to his credit, is clearly trying his best to stay calm through it all, but Steve knows that every second of this must be agonizing for him. He knows what this feels like, and he wasn’t even trying to fight off the same kind of infection. Eddie groans against the fabric muffling his cries when Steve presses just a little too hard, whimpers and whines and for a second almost makes Steve feel like the villain for putting him through this. Almost . Steve knows this is necessary. But for Eddie’s sake, he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice the hot tracks of tears that have started streaming down his face, dripping off his chin and down onto Steve’s hands as he goes. 

He tries to work as quickly as possible while still being thorough, still being careful . Eddie is swaying on his feet, and even that is a testament to his impressive pain tolerance, because Steve doesn’t know many other people who wouldn’t already be down for the count. When Steve’s hand slips and grazes a particularly angry cut just above his left hip Eddie can’t help but cry out, eyes clenched shut and head thrown back as he tries to swallow it down. Instinctively, Steve reaches up. He wants to grab Eddie’s hand, but they’re both curled so tightly around the counter he knows it would be an impossible task. Steve grabs ahold of his wrist instead. Anything to tether him. To ground him. 

“It’s okay,” Steve says as Eddie’s heart pounds wildly, angrily in his chest. He watches it rise and fall rapidly as Eddie tries to calm down, flushed and red in splotchy patches and glistening in a thin sheen of sweat. “It’s okay, I’m done. The worst of it is over, I promise. You did it. ” Pushing himself up to his feet, Steve launches the wad of cotton balls across the room into a waiting trash can, relieved when it drops in effortlessly and doesn’t, like, stick to the wall. He doesn’t stray from Eddie’s side, though, lingers close by him while he tries to calm down and regain a grip on his surroundings. Makes sure he’s okay. It isn’t until Eddie moves to lift his hand from the counter that Steve realizes he’s still holding onto it, and it’s all he can do to offer an, “oh, sorry, ” as he finally lets go. 

And then Eddie’s tugging the bandana from between his lips, letting fabric fall as limp as the hand does at his side. His free hand scrubs roughly at damp cheeks as if he can hide the evidence. Hide his pain , as if Steve hasn’t already just seen it all up close. He heaves a shuddering sigh and Steve could almost swear he hears it rattle in his chest. Eddie must hear this too — or feel it — because he waits a second in mild panic, almost afraid to see if he’ll start coughing again. When he doesn’t, shoulders sag in relief and he finally spares a glance in Steve’s direction for the first time since he’s begun the arduous process of disinfecting his wounds. “We’ve only got a few more minutes ‘til it’s over, right?” Steve’s head has to be on Mars right about now because it takes several long seconds for him to process the question Eddie grits out. Until what’s over? Eddie must sense his confusion, because he elaborates. “The movie, Steve. Think you could patch me up before the brats start sniffing around?” 

Right. Right. How could he forget so quickly? Fortunately for the both of them, they’ve now made it to the easiest part of the entire endeavor. The least painful part. Steve’s hands are still gentle as they apply Neosporin to the wounds — and okay, no, he doesn’t actually know if this stupid little tube has enough medicinal power to do much of anything at all for Eddie, but it’s worth a shot  — and they’re quickly covered with layers of thick, clean gauze, secured into place with more tape on each than Eddie probably had between all of his bandages at the start. And Steve makes certain they’re all covered this time, doesn’t stop until he’s taped up over half of Eddie’s torso. He doesn’t know when Eddie’s going to change them again — if Eddie’s going to change them — and needs to know they’ll hold up. Just in case. 

When Steve straightens after securing the last strip of adhesive, he comes face to face with Eddie. They’re close. Very close. They sort of had to be for Steve to wrap him all up like that, but he’s got literally no excuse right now. And yet, he’s not stepping away. He’s stuck there, his face only a foot or two from Eddie’s, fingertips still pressed at the very tips to the edge of his hip. Basically touching skin. Bare skin. And Eddie’s looking at him so intently. Wide, dark eyes are watery and rimmed in red and Steve wishes he could read them, maybe that he could see past them to Eddie’s thoughts… wishes he could pretty much do anything but get fucking lost in them like he’s doing right now. Are they suddenly back in Lover’s Lake? Steve feels like he’s drowning in dark, uncharted waters. ( Something inside of him urges Steve to swim deeper. )

“Thank you,” Eddie mumbles, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. It’s the first thing either of them have said since Steve began bandaging him up. And he’s still looking at Steve and Steve doesn’t know what he’s looking for but he can’t help but look back. Stuck. There’s a loose strand of hair stuck to Eddie’s  lower lip as he speaks and Steve isn’t sure if he notices it or not. If he can even feel it. But all of a sudden it’s the only thing Steve’s brain can manage to fixate on and his hand is coming up, up, up to brush it away and he can’t tell if he’s shaking or not but Eddie is leaning in and his heart is in his throat and fuck is this really about to happen? Is he really about to kiss Eddie Munson, right here in his own fucking kitchen? His hand finally finds Eddie’s face, fingertip hooking around the loose tendril of hair to pull it away from his lips. His lips. Steve is so close them, if he wanted to, he could just lean in and cup his cheek and—

“Holy shit, Eddie, you’re burning up!”

Chapter Text

“Holy shit, Eddie, you’re burning up!” 

It’s clear that’s not the response either of them had been expecting. Eddie startles, fumbling backward a little as if he’s suddenly been broken from a trance. And Steve? Steve’s gone from oh Jesus Christ holy shit is this happening this is happening to flipping his hand and pressing it more firmly to Eddie’s cheek, to his forehead even as the older male inches impossibly further against the counter. He knows this is what Robin is talking about every time she tells him he was built with Mom-Friend Override, but he can’t help it, okay? He worries. It’s just who he is. And quite frankly, he doesn’t think he can be blamed for getting a little frantic over the discovery of a fever in someone who could already very possibly be headed toward sepsis. Even if the timing is horrible, and no, Steve won’t deny that it actually really is. What could have just been if Steve Harrington wasn’t painfully and unapologetically himself? “Could it be because of the infection? I mean, your bites looked pretty bad, but I didn’t think it was anything too — wait, does that mean it’s spreading? It’s probably in your blood by now. Shit.” 

Steve expects this newfound information might send Eddie spiraling into another panic, might have him crumbling right back into hysterics at the realization that, oh shit, yeah, this might actually be bad. And it’s not that Steve thinks Eddie is prone to reacting this way — quite the opposite, actually, save for a few frustrated swears along the way — but right now? Right now Eddie is fragile. They both are. Steve’s already pulled his hand away from Eddie’s face, pressed it to his own lips as he starts pacing the length of the marble island, working through his thoughts, his worries aloud. He’s waiting for Eddie to react, to say something. Anything at all. What Steve Harrington isn’t anticipating is the light, cackling laugh that cuts through the silence of the kitchen. Wait — he’s laughing? Steve feels like the floor’s been yanked out from under him. What’s suddenly so funny?

“Look, Eddie, I get if it makes you uncomfortable to — to, I don’t know, look weak? To ask for help?” As much as he’s shooting for empathy, for understanding, there’s a vaguely sharp edge of defensiveness lifting the pitch of Steve’s words. He can’t help it. Here he is, stomach twisting in knots with worry, and all of a sudden it feels like he’s been left out of a joke. “But I just — I feel like you’re not taking this seriously right now, and—”

“Harrington. Harrington. Steve! ” The sudden exclamation of his name has Steve finally halting in his anxious tracks, looking back up at Eddie. His laughter has died down for the most part ( probably because he’s read the room ) and his expression has softened. Steve would almost swear it looks like he feels bad. Like he feels guilty. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’t have laughed,” Eddie begins, and he’s got that threadbare Black Sabbath t-shirt back in his hands, wringing it between balled fists as he tries to find the right words. Steve blinks. He isn’t expecting an apology. He isn’t expecting Eddie to understand what he’s feeling right now. Shit, Steve’s not sure he even understands it himself. “It’s just—” Another chuckle, quiet and raspy this time, accompanies a shake of his head. “It’s just you kind of sound like Buckley right now, you know, with the whole rabies bit.”

Steve’s not sure if he could control his face right now if he tried, and he wonders briefly if his disgruntled expression looks more like a scowl or a pout from Eddie’s frame of reference. He hopes it’s the former. Eddie must sense the way Steve bristles either way, because he’s quick to continue, nearly stumbling over his words. “And you’d be right, probably! Totally justified. Couldn’t argue.” Steve can’t help but think now, after seeing Eddie’s wounds, that maybe Robin’s fears were a little justified too. He’s twisting the shirt now, tugging it between his hands in a way that makes Steve marvel at how it hasn’t fallen apart yet. He’s seen that shirt. Steve’s never noticed quite how fidgety Eddie is. Has he always been like this? 

Eddie keeps going. It turns out he is going to argue. Steve’s listening. “ Except — well… except for the fact that I’ve kinda felt like a steaming hot pile of molten shit for like… fuck, at least a week now. I don’t even remember. Probably—” A scoff, another shake of his head, and it looks to Steve like Eddie’s trying to swallow something down but he can’t tell what. He ends up coughing up his words instead after the scoff catches in his throat. “Probably since my fucking double dip in Lover’s Lake, when I was hiding out at camp Skull Rock. I’m not gonna stand here and say that shit didn’t do a whole number on me, Steve, but I don’t — I mean, I don’t think I’m dying of rabies or septic shock or whatever you called it. I just — I don’t know, I probably just caught some fucking crud on my foray through the forest. ” There’s a sort of sing-song quality to Eddie’s voice as he waves a half-hearted hand through the air, but it’s an odd contrast. There’s nothing cheerful about his words. “Clearly this fortress isn’t in the most defensible shape right now.” 

Oh, Steve thinks. Oh , because to be perfectly honest, he doesn’t know what else he could think. That’s a lie, actually, because underneath that crown of thick, brunet tresses, his mind is racing. There are so many thoughts, he couldn’t possibly pick any of them out amongst the others. It’s like trying to pick out a single frequency amid a flurry of radio static, nearly impossible — so at least it’s not a blood infection, right? That’s good. Less life-threatening. At least, they think it’s not because of the infection. How would they really know? Steve’s not a doctor, and he sure as fuck knows Eddie isn’t either. But he’s sick? Shit. Why didn’t he mention that he was sick? — and so ‘oh’ is the only thing he can latch onto. It’s also the only sound that comes tumbling out of parted lips, at least at first. “You’re doing it again,” Eddie says after a few seconds, punctuates the remark with a sniffle that almost makes Steve feel like he’s the one that can’t breathe for how awful it sounds. How did he not notice sooner? “I know I probably look fucking feral right now, but I’m not like, some sick, wounded gutter puppy, I swear.”

And that is some grade-A bullshit if Steve’s ever heard it. Looking at Eddie now, under the harsh fluorescent bulbs and in this new lens, there’s not a single doubt in his mind. Even if he didn’t just own up to being sick as a dog when Steve pressed him about his flushed cheeks, even if Steve hadn’t just seen his wounds up close and personal, he’d still call bullshit. Steve can see it in his eyes. Wide and glassy and wet and bright with fever ( a fever, it should be noted, that Steve still hasn’t stopped worrying about, even if gears have slowed a little from likening it to something so dramatic as life or death ) and full of a desperation that Steve can’t place, can’t explain. He can feel it though, burning right through him as Eddie waits for him to speak up. Waits for him to say anything at all . Steve’s working on it — he’s trying to figure out what to say, what to do to help Eddie without the guitarist making an emotional retreat, huddling back in on himself and putting back up his walls — but, as things often tend to go for him, Steve runs out of time before he can decide. 

Interruption comes in the form of rowdy laughter and disjointed shrieks growing closer, the flickering on of the hall light that leads right down to the kitchen. Right to them. Steve freezes, thinks thinks thinks for a second before the sight of Eddie fumbling with his shirt, shaking it out to tug back over his head, forces him to finally speak up. “Don’t,” Steve says quickly, a little more sternly than he means to. He just needs Eddie to listen. To hear him for a second, please . A hand raises to point toward the bundle of fabric clutched to Eddie’s narrow chest. “Don’t you dare put that back on after all we just went through to disinfect you, Munson, or so help me God, I will be the one kicking you into the gutter.”  

It’s clear Eddie wants to protest. He looks flustered, frantic. Steve doesn’t blame him. The kids are coming down the hall now and he can hear them arguing amongst themselves about the best way to convince Steve to order them pizza. Steve and Eddie, they’ve got literal seconds until this strange little safe haven they’ve created turns into a raucous public forum, and Steve knows Eddie doesn’t want them to see him like this, all weak and battered and tearful. Broken. He knows , okay? If he were in Eddie’s shoes, he knows he’d feel just the same. The more he thinks about it, the more Steve realizes he might have a little more in common with the guitarist than just the shared parental rights he’d thought. “Just — just let me handle it, okay? It’ll be alright. Just trust me. Can you do that?”

There’s a gleam in Eddie’s eyes, fraught and panicked, as he stares Steve down. Steve knows that look, knows that it means Eddie doesn’t believe for a second that there’s any world in which Steve might be able to explain away the sight of the two of them right now to a sextet of arguably too-curious teens. It means that Eddie is weighing his options, mapping out any and all potential exit strategies and trying to combat the urge to succumb to fight or flight. The fact that he’s still standing there — that he still hasn’t pulled that grubby band shirt back over his head — well, Steve thinks that must mean he’s winning. He doesn’t wait long enough to find out for sure. For the umpteenth time tonight, Steve Harrington is not giving Eddie Munson any option. “ Good boy ,” Steve says, and that seems to stir something in Eddie that Steve will have to unpack later — later and alone . For now? “Just follow my lead.”

No choice. The second Steve spins on his heels to face the doorway, a cluster of pubescent bodies come tumbling through, all at once and wholly a force to be reckoned with. A tidal wave of laughter and energy and sound . Any other time, Steve would be so grateful for it, for the sheer noise of it all. But he doesn’t have time to get sucked into his own stupid, sentimental thoughts right now. Especially not because— 

“Steve! The movie’s over and Lucas said he would wash your car tomorrow morning if you ordered us som—”

“Hey, wait, I thought we said Mike was going to do it!” 

“What? No! I think we’re all missing the obvious here. What about Dustin? I don’t even need pizza! We’ve got popcorn and Steve made cookies, but Dustin said—” 

“You know that fancy car soap makes my fingers get all weird and pruny! Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Steve, would you please — wait. What are you guys doing in here?” 

For half a second, Steve wonders if Eddie maybe could have slipped out of the kitchen unnoticed. In between the constant banter, the back-and-forth-and-back-again, if he could’ve slipped through the cracks of their ceaseless bickering… as they argue about their plans, Steve decides it’s not as unlikely an idea as he’d first thought. Not that it does them any good now. Eddie is still half-naked and half-obscured behind Steve’s bright, sweater-clad frame and somewhere amongst all the fussing and the fighting over a pizza — one Steve hasn’t even agreed to order yet — Henderson’s noticed there’s something off about the scene. Of course he has, the little shit. Steve’s always saying he’s too bright for his own good. Too observant . Always picking up on things that even Steve sometimes doesn’t see. 

Suddenly there are six sets of eyes glued expectantly to the pair of them and this is it, Steve thinks. Here goes nothing . “First of all, you have all lost your minds if you think I’d let any one of you and your chaotic little raccoon hands near my beamer. Try again .” Protests are immediately hurtled at him, all of which Steve silences when he raises a hand in the air to shush them like a school teacher. It’s clear as the shouting quickly dwindles that this is not the first time he’s had to do this. He wishes . “ Nope! Stop. Seriously. I’d sooner order you pizza for not touching my fucking car. I mean, c’mon.” A few calculating and conspiratory glances are exchanged between them, as if trying to decide telepathically as a group whether they could use that to their leverage. Even Henderson looks intrigued by the information. Maybe this isn’t going to be as difficult to diffuse as Steve thought. He’s relieved. He hopes Eddie is, too. If he can distract them long enough with food and another movie, maybe he’ll have the time to go grab Eddie something clean to change into, even rifle around in his folks’ medicine cabinet and see if he can find some cold medicine. At least some Advil. 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Well, shit. That was short-lived. “What question?” 

Dustin gives Steve a look that’s exasperated far beyond his years, and Steve wants to laugh. He doesn’t, because he knows better, diligent to even keep his lips from twitching upward. His stare is one of feigned innocence, and it’s unwavering. He’s giving Dustin absolutely nothing and he can tell that it’s driving the younger boy bonkers. “What are you—” he points at Steve, speaking slowly and emphatically as if he were trying to communicate with a toddler, and fuck , Eddie’s right, it really is all in his tone, “—and Eddie doing in here—” hands wave wildly toward the general vicinity of the kitchen, “—when you were the one that picked Labyrinth to begin with?” There’s an indignant and undignified crack in his voice at the question, and Steve thinks his vote must have been for Ferris Bueller. Shit. You win this time, David Bowie. Steve sighs, opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted again before he can even begin. “And why isn’t Eddie wearing a shirt?”

Son of a bitch. Steve wonders if Henderson knows how close he is to losing his unspoken ( by one party, and very loudly spoken by the other ) title as Steve’s Favorite. He wants to bring it up, to use it as a bargaining chip to get him to just shut up for a second, but he can’t. For one, he’s not even supposed to have a favorite. He’s supposed to be impartial , yadda yadda. And he tries to be, really. But Dustin’s always been a persistent little thorn in his side, and over the years, he’s become attached. The kid’s practically his best friend. But for two? Steve is not about to incite an actual riot in his kitchen right now. No thanks. Instead, he steels himself, rolls shoulders back until they fall into an impossibly casual shrug. ( So maybe Steve has a mask he wears sometimes, too. It’s fine. )

“We were making popcorn.” 

“Popcorn? ” Dustin repeats, more incredulous than Steve thinks he has any right to be. “You spent half an hour in the kitchen — and missed the end of the movie — because you were making popcorn?”

“Yeah,” Steve says breezily, rolling his eyes at the question because he’s all in now. He has to be. Hand curls into a loose fist so he can swing a thumb over his shoulder and gesture toward the counter behind them. In front of the microwave sits a bag of popcorn, half-open and clearly burnt to a crisp. A few dark kernels litter the marble. “We were making popcorn because I saw how quickly all of you were scarfing that shit down and I had to call in for back-up. But Munson totally torched the first bag, so I told him he was on butter duty. And when I went to go toss him that bottle — you know the one we snuck out of the movie theater when we went to go see Return of the Living Dead? The big one?” There’s a quiet sound just behind his left ear and Steve isn’t sure if it’s a cough or a laugh or a scoff or some combination of the three, but he can feel Eddie’s breath, warm against the back of his neck, and he realizes he’s forgotten exactly how close they’re standing. Stay cool.

“No! Dude! Say you didn’t spill the Big Bottle ! That’s like thirteen years of bad luck! We worked so hard for that, Steve!” 

Oh, shit. He’s actually buying it. Dustin looks like he’s on the brink of absolute hysterics from the idea that Steve is proposing. Stay cool. Stay cool, Steve. Focus. “Relax, Henderson, there’s still enough to get us through at least a year of movie nights, and anything after that probably expires, right? Anyway, it’s fine. But it did make a hell of a mess. You ever try to clean up a ten inch puddle of pure butter-flavored oil? Any of you?” Steve is met with silence because of course he is . “Of course not. None of you have ever worked entry-level retail or customer service. Just wait. So we had to spend, what, like, at least ten minutes cleaning that up, right?” Steve steals a half-glance over his shoulder and he can only just make out a thicket of wild black curls in his peripheral. Eddie hums a hoarse but affirmative response, and Steve thinks he sees a nod, so he snatches up the opportunity to continue. 

“Right . And then, we’re finally done when I notice that Eddie’s got butter all over his Blake Savage t-shirt—” Steve feels a hand curl around the back of his sweater and tug it gently and then there’s a whisper in his ear and it’s so warm and so soft and almost bashful and it makes Steve’s heart want to flutter and flip and do all sorts of wild things but it can’t because he has to focus. He’s so fucking lucky Eddie is behind him right now so he can’t get distracted by those big, stupid, dewy eyes. Even just picturing them is — no, he needs to stop. “—all over his Black Sabbath t-shirt, so I told him to take it off so we could try and get the butter out before it stains. And that’s what we were doing. Before we were interrupted by you animals, anyway.” There. If Steve had a mic, he would drop it right about now. Boom. Foolproof. 

“But then why do you have all of that first-aid stuff out?” Fuck. Or not. Steve wants to be mad, thinks he deserves to be at least a little bit frustrated that they’ve all collectively decided that the game of the night is 20 Questions and the only person playing is Steve. But the question comes from El, and she moves around from behind Mike to get a better look at a counter cluttered with antiseptic and gauze. And then she says, “Is one of you hurt?” And goddamnit , the question is just so earnest and so gentle, so worried , he can’t even fault her for asking. Even if he doesn’t have an answer for this one. Shit . He doesn’t have an answer for this one. Steve’s pulse spikes as he quickly scrambles to put something together, something that makes sense, but he’s coming up blank. 

“No!” Steve isn’t sure what startles him more — the exclamation, or the way Eddie’s hand finds his shoulder as he tilts the entirety of his head out into full view of the kids for the first time. It’s warm. Too warm , Steve thinks, and tries not to think about it too terribly much. That proves difficult, however, when Eddie’s hand lingers there, fingers curling into Steve’s sweater again in a way that makes Steve wonder if Eddie’s clutching onto him for balance.  Is Steve the only thing helping him stay on his feet right now? Eddie still stands hidden behind his broad, athletic frame, and Steve doesn’t intend to move unless he asks. “No, I just heard somewhere that hydrogen peroxide can get even the oldest, gnarliest blood stains out of clothes, so I thought that maybe… if it works on blood, it might work on butter. Why not?” 

For the first time since they’ve all gathered in the kitchen, Will speaks up. “Have you tried baking soda? That’s what mom uses.” He’s looking straight past Steve, straight through him to the curly-headed dungeon master half-hiding behind him. His eyes are hopeful, wide. Steve would be hard-pressed to miss the adoration that illuminates them, admiration he doesn’t even need to look for to see because it’s just so plainly evident. It’s right there \. He’s sure he’d feel a twinge of jealousy if he didn’t also just… get it. And he does. Steve can’t believe he’d ever say this, but he’s glad Will Byers has Eddie Munson in his life. He’s… Jesus Christ, he’s a positive influence. “Not — not to clean blood. Or, I mean… maybe? But not just blood. Like… anything. Anyway, I bet it would work! I could help if you wanted.” 

See, and it’s this kind of sentimental shit that’s the reason why Steve never means it when he bitches and bemoans being their unofficial babysitter, why he lets them splash around in his big, empty pool, dogpile on the floor of his living room every weekend. They’re good kids. Good people . Steve wonders when he went and let himself get so soft. He wonders even harder when he feels Eddie lean into him, chest pressed gently flush against the curve of his back so he can poke his head out further, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder, just next to where his hand still sits. The only thing keeping Steve’s legs from turning to jelly is the knowledge that if he goes down, they’re both going down. Tile floor is unforgiving, Steve is all too aware. 

“You have a kind heart, Will the Wise,” comes Eddie’s theatrical voice from behind him, arm outstretched now beyond Steve to point a heavily ringed finger in the direction of the younger Byers. Steve swears he can hear the smile in Eddie’s words, and it’s reflected back to him in Will’s face as he stares toward them. Steve’s heart does a flip in his ribcage. Eddie clears his throat and Steve tries not to frown when he feels him duck briefly behind Steve to stifle a cough into the folds of the crumpled shirt in question. Without missing a beat, he pops back up over Steve’s shoulder, and Steve can only imagine how exhausting it is to keep this mask of perfectly fine, peachy keen in front of a live studio audience. From what he can see, the kids can’t tell the difference. Not really, anyway. But Steve knows better now.  “ And some good ideas, which is why I’m not going to make you do my laundry tonight. But I am gonna raid Harrington’s spice rack, see if I can find some baking soda. You don’t mind, right, Steve?”

It’s hardly been a full minute and Steve has already forgotten how to be an active participant in a conversation. He’d been doing so well, too. Damn. Maybe it’s because he can feel Eddie’s question against his skin as he breathes it only inches from his ear, feel the light tickle of tangled tresses against his neck. Maybe it’s because he can’t focus on anything else but stay cool stay cool stay cool — his new mantra, apparently — to keep both features and feet steady, unwavering. Maybe Steve is losing his ever-loving mind because all he can manage is a half-shrug, a nod. A wordless, why not? It’s all Eddie needs to press forward, looking back toward the kids. “Now! Children of the damned! Your quest, should you choose to accept it — and you’d better — is to split into teams and order two large pizzas. One each. No more than four toppings, and the winners — the conquerors on the quest for The Best Pizza — you get to pick the next movie.” 

The room suddenly erupts in strategic chatter. From somewhere deep in the chaos, Dustin shouts, “But who’s the judge?”

And if Steve’s about to make some sort of sarcastic retort about how there aren’t that many options, Henderson, it dies on his tongue the second he feels a pair of arms wrap around his middle from behind, rest just above his hips and give him a light, playful squeeze. Eddie lifts his chin, taps it emphatically against Steve’s shoulder and out of the corner of his eye, he can see it. Eddie is grinning. “ Harrington, of course . Aren’t ya, big boy? It is your house, after all.” Steve doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. His mouth is drier than the Sahara Desert right now and he’s pretty sure his heart’s about to strangle him, the way it’s gone and lodged itself in his throat. What is happening right now? Eddie taps an open palm against his chest before disentangling his arms from Steve, taking a single step back to lean against the counter again. 

“Now go on, get moving! You heard the commercials — I want it in thirty minutes or less. Or you guys are paying.”

Chapter Text

The moment the teens file rowdily back into the hall, having already broken off into two competing trios, Steve lets out a sigh that’s so dramatic, so full of exasperation and relief that it coaxes a raspy laugh out of Eddie just behind him. If Steve wants to react, he can’t. He can’t even bring himself to turn around. His face is on fire — he can feel it — and he’s sure his cheeks must be damn near as flushed Eddie’s right now, only he doesn’t have the excuse of a fever from some stupid fish flu or whatver it is Eddie’s gone and caught out in Lover’s Lake. No, the only thing Steve can blame is Eddie himself; the arms that were only just wrapped snug around his waist, the tickle of warm breath on his neck when Eddie laughed with his chin tucked on his shoulder. So casual — as if he and Steve were like this all the time. And fuck, Steve? Steve feels like he’s got some sort of giggling, schoolgirl crush, and he doesn’t know how to get himself together. He needs to get himself together.

“Hey, you with me there, space cowboy?” There’s a snap of ring-clad fingers that draws Steve back to reality, and suddenly Eddie is standing right in front of him, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked and lips twitching upward in a way that makes Steve realize he needs to look somewhere else. The shirt is slung over his shoulder now, the dark fabric a decidedly sharp contrast against his pale chest, save for the few bits of ink that peek out from behind it. Fuck, don’t look there, either. He nods, if only for something to do to buy himself a little more time to get his shit straight. It appears that’s enough for Eddie because he continues, shoving hands in his back pockets and rocking back on his heels ( albeit a little unsteadily, and Steve readies himself to rush forward and catch him if he wobbles, hands twitching at his sides before he even knows what he’s doing ) and flashes Steve a smile that’s as bright as any he’s gotten all night. “Good, ‘cause that may have bought us some time and some cover, but those little brats are insatiable. Little fiends. They’ll be back soon enough.”

“Right,” Steve says. “Right.” And he nods again, this time to ground himself. To find his focus. A hand reaches out to snatch the shirt, seizing the opportunity while he has it, and Steve’s crossed the length of the kitchen to toss it down the laundry chute before Eddie has a chance to protest. “Oh, relax. I’ll wash it for you and you’ll get it back.” He says this as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, as if Eddie’s got no reason in the world to believe he won’t see that shirt again. As if the last article of clothing Steve had taken of Eddie’s wasn’t still sitting upstairs, folded across the back of the chair right next to his bed. The same place it’s been since they’ve gotten back. And no, he hasn’t washed that yet, but he swears it’s only because he has no idea how to launder denim that doesn’t look like it’s been washed in a decade. With his luck, the thing would disintegrate from the heat of his dryer and Eddie would have Steve’s head. 

( He can only imagine how much work went into it, okay? So he looks at it sometimes, whatever. It’s like one of those I-Spy books with everything sewn and stuck to it, sue him for being curious when he’s tossing and turning and can’t sleep and it’s the only thing within reach. All Steve’s saying is he’s seen how the patches must’ve been painstakingly attached by hand, run his hands over specks of dark near the stitches and thought about Eddie hunched over on his bed with a sewing kit, tongue stuck out and tilted up between his lips as he concentrated, swearing under his breath every time he pricked his fingertips with a dull needle or snapped the thread. )  

“Come on,” Steve nods toward the hallway, and he thinks he’s soothed his frayed nerves enough to spare a glance at Eddie and make sure he’s picking up on the hint to follow without his heart leaping back up into his throat again. At least for now. “We can clean that up later. For now, I think I’ve got something you can change into upstairs.” If Eddie makes some sort of playful passing remark about Steve just wanting to get him out of the rest of his clothes, Steve pointedly ignores it. Or he tries to, anyway. But then there’s a voice ringing out behind him, melodic as it is hoarse on his tattered throat as Eddie sings his name to garner his attention. There’s something about the rough edge to his tone, the way congestion has worked its way into his chest and dropped his pitch to something lower, something more gravelly. ( Steve’s never heard Eddie’s band play — would swear he’d never be caught dead somewhere like the Hideout, especially not for music that sounded to him like little more than chaotic and unadulterated noise — and he doesn’t know if Eddie actually sings or if he just plays the guitar, but he’d be a liar if he said he’s not a little curious right now, in this moment. ) “Stevieee!”

Oh. Stevie. That’s new. Steve swallows hard and tries to pretend he doesn’t notice. It’s easier with his back still to Eddie, he finds, and he’s grateful for the narrow width of the staircase branching off the hall toward his room. “You know, not everyone’s trying to claw their way into your pants, Munson.” If his voice wavers a little at first, almost uncertain, Steve quickly recovers. “Especially not when you look like you’ve already got one foot in the grave.” His tone is teasing now, lighter than it had been the first time he’d made a dig about Eddie’s crusty clothes. He knows better now, treads carefully. And to be fair, Steve is telling the truth. Not everybody wants to get into Eddie Munson’s tight, tattered black jeans. Then again, Steve Harrington’s not everybody, is he? A palm drags over the length of his face as he ascends the stairs and Steve steals a look at the guitarist over his shoulder once he’s made it halfway. “Some of us are just trying to make sure you don’t… I don’t know, catch your fucking death of delayed-onset pneumonia and die on our couches.”

“Oh?” Steve wonders when he’s going to realize that absolutely nothing about Eddie Munson is predictable, that he’s been flying blind this entire time, no matter how much he’s tried to convince himself to the contrary. Steve Harrington likes to be in control. He likes to take charge. It has nothing to do with his ego, it’s just that — well, he knows that he’s good at it. He’s got natural leadership skills. And he’s got countless moments of anecdotal evidence filed away in his brain to prove it, too. But Eddie? Eddie seems to enjoy snatching that control right from Steve’s unsuspecting hands, dangling it in front of him like Steve’s a housecat and his sense of security is just a simple feather on a string. It riles Steve up in much the same way too, makes him all wild-eyed and impossibly frantic, on edge and helpless to avoid it. He’s doing it again, ruffling Steve’s feathers, and Steve can’t help but wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. The way he’s grinning up at Steve, dark gaze crinkling at the corners of his eyes, cheeks pink and smattered with a dusting of faint freckles. Steve looks back toward the top of the staircase, if only to keep himself from going weak in the knees. “Shit, maybe Buckley was right. You really do have a heart of gold, don’t ya, Stevie? You’re just a big softie under there, huh?”

Steve lets out a strangled sort of sound because wait, Eddie’s talked to Robin about him? He wants to ask about it, to pry for details because this is news to him and what would the two of them have to say about him anyway? And when? But the words fall short of his tongue as Eddie’s own question is punctuated with a two-fingered poke directly above the center of Steve’s side. ( Several inches above his own wounds and thankfully not on them. Steve can’t help but wonder if this is a very fortunate coincidence — surely it has to be — or if Eddie’s paid enough attention to know where he’s hurt, which places to avoid even when they’re hidden by buttercup-yellow cashmere. It’s just a lucky chance. It’s gotta be. ) It results in a yelp all the same, one that echoes off the last few feet of the staircase as Steve stumbles toward the top. And then Eddie’s laughing, raspy and bright with amusement at the reaction he’s garnered, and Steve must not be able to help it — must be so weak for the infectious nature of the sound — because suddenly he’s laughing too and he’s got to reach out for the railing to hold himself steady as they both wheeze and gasp their way up.

By the time they reach the second floor hall, Steve is breathless and Eddie’s laughter is dwindling, interspersed with a series of coughs as he tries to catch his own breath, a reminder that serves to level Steve’s head a little and bring back to focus the actual task at hand. “It’s down this way,” Steve says over his shoulder, and even though it’s dark, the hallway is a straight shot so he doesn’t bother to turn on the light. He doesn’t consider the possibility that Eddie will curl a hand into his sweater once more, this time for guidance in the low light. If his heart skips a beat at the sheer fucking softness of it all, Steve is quick to force it back into rhythm before it gets out of hand. As they near his bedroom door, Steve’s stomach does a flip for reasons he’s not sure he could articulate if he tried, rolls his shoulders back under the camouflage of darkness and braces himself for something even he’s not certain of, tries not to overthink the way his hand hesitates on the doorknob. 

And God, this is all so stupid, isn’t it? So Steve’s inviting Eddie into his bedroom for the first time, like, ever. So what? What’s the big deal? It’s not like he didn’t already have to traipse through piles of dirty clothes and old rock magazines when they were back at Eddie’s trailer, like he didn’t personally lay eyes on the flimsy, stained-up mattress Eddie crashed on every night. He’d already seen the rawest, realest glimpses of Eddie’s life through the most unfiltered lens, so what did it matter that he was allowing Eddie a small peek into his own now? If nothing else, at least Steve could say his bedroom was clean. So clean, in fact, it hardly looked lived-in, save for the wrinkled and unmade sheets on the bed, the half-empty bottle of vodka on the nightstand. Eddie must notice, because he quickly points out as much as he slips past Steve and through the open door. Steve doesn’t even realize Eddie’s the one who turned the knob until the hand that’s all of a sudden encapsulating his own is gone, and Eddie’s already inside.

“Geez, Harrington, what is this? A guest bedroom or a sad bachelor’s crash pad after a three-day bender?” Steve can’t bring himself to do much more than watch at first as Eddie invites himself to explore the space, leaving him standing in the doorway as he sways his way around the room. Long, dark curls tumble back to hide the tattoo on his left shoulder as he tosses his head back to gaze up at the high ceilings, the extravagant light fixture. His gaze dances around before landing on a bookshelf, and even though there’s very little of Steve’s personality to show in the things that decorate the room, he decides he doesn’t think he’s ever felt more exposed. ( Except for maybe twenty minutes ago in the kitchen when he was pouring his heart out over neosporin and band-aids, but he’s already trying to tuck that one away in the back of his mind. Compartmentalize . Maybe Nancy is right about him. Steve wonders. ) 

“I’m just messing with you, Steve,” Eddie says, but he’s not looking at Steve, too busy thumbing through one of the books he’s plucked from the shelves. Steve’s not sure he’s bothered reading any of them, and couldn’t even venture a guess which one he’s picked. “It is… spacious in here, though. Big.” Quiet. Empty. The words may go unspoken, but Steve hears their implication in the echo left behind when Eddie slams the book shut. “I don’t think I could do it,” he continues, and Steve’s not sure what he means, so he waits. Eddie’s spinning the book between his fingers like a pinwheel, but his gaze drifts upward, back toward the ceiling. Far away.  

“I feel like I need the clutter, the noise — just — just something to constantly keep my brain busy, you know? Even, um — even before, you know, everything.” He pauses to clear his throat and Steve realizes he’s still standing in the doorway, finally steps inside and pulls the door shut behind him. Eddie doesn’t break his staring match with Steve’s vaulted ceiling. “Like I can’t handle being alone with my own thoughts or something. Like I don’t — like I don’t trust myself with them. Which is — it’s dumb, I know.” The confession is punctuated by an awkward laugh as a hand buries itself in tangled curls to scratch sheepishly at the back of his neck, and Eddie shrugs. Brushing it off. As if he hadn’t just peeled back another layer of himself for not the first but the second time tonight, so honest and vulnerable, laying himself bare and all of it for Steve’s eyes only. “But I don’t know how you do it. With all this space for your thoughts.” 

Steve blinks. The conversation has suddenly careened around a sharp u-turn from teasing and laughter into existential territory and it takes him a second to find his footing. “I already told you,” he says, lifting a finger to tap at the side of his head as if Eddie’s even looking his way. He’s not . “It’s all a void up here.” And, okay, that’s not entirely true, but it’s better than trying to explain the way the emptiness does haunt him actually, every waking moment that he’s alone here. It’s easier. And it coaxes a near-silent breath of a laugh out of the otherwise dazed and distracted guitarist, so quiet Steve might’ve missed it were he not still looking. Which he is , admittedly, but only until Eddie reaches up to tug at the silver chain hung around his neck and Steve finds him hyper-fixating just a little too long before suddenly remembering why they’re even in here. Averting his attention to the dresser, Steve digs around half-empty drawers ( he needs to do laundry, okay? he’s just been… busy, but he’s going to get around to it soon ) to find something suitable for Eddie to change into. He’s glad his back is turned, because he could almost swear he hears Eddie mumble something like, “... gotta be somethin’ behind those pretty eyes…” and suddenly his whole fucking face is on fire. It’s okay. It’s fine. Focus.

He settles on an old t-shirt and a pair of well-worn pajama pants in faded blue plaid. Steve’s favorite pair of pajama pants, actually, and he’d swear it’s because it’s the only pair he has clean — it’s not — and not because he knows they’re probably some of the comfiest clothes he owns that he’s giving them up to Eddie Munson so casually. He’d once snatched them right out of Robin’s hands one night after they’d both worked a double and then decided to get smashed at his place and watch Fast Times, drunkenly muttering something about them being sacred before tugging them on right over his jeans. ( It’s not like it’s a vest he spent hours customizing and D.I.Y-ing himself, though. Not even close. ) Steve also grabs a fresh pair of socks because he’s seen Eddie’s clothes, thank you, and if half of his shirts and even more of his pants have holes in them, he can only imagine what his socks must look like. His hand hovers for a second over the handle to his underwear drawer, and for several long seconds, he has a silent crisis over whether or not it would be weird to offer him a pair. It wouldn’t be weird, right? Why would it be weird? It’s just clothes. It’s not like he’s going to start spiraling at the thought of Eddie Munson, dressed entirely head-to-toe from Steve’s wardrobe. Right?

Figuring Eddie can make the decision for himself whether he wants to wear them or not and that he’s taking too long anyway, Steve grabs a pair or boxer briefs from the drawer and adds it to the bundle of clothes in his arms, turning back to face Eddie. Only Eddie’s on his bed now, legs hanging over the edge like he’d sat there for a moment before deciding to flop back and gaze up between the four bedposts, near-black hair looking even darker splayed wildly against the cornflower-blue backdrop of his cotton sheets. Steve’s sheets. Because Eddie Munson is laying on Steve’s bed right now, hazy and dazed and half-naked. Fuck. His eyes are closed, and yeah, Steve gets it. For all that he tosses and turns on the very same bed, he can’t deny it’s an expensive mattress. The thread count on the sheets isn’t half bad, either. Steve knows one thing for sure — it definitely beats the dilapidated cushion Eddie calls a mattress. That much is evident as Eddie sinks deeper into the duvet. 

“You can sleep up here tonight, if you want to.” Steve blurts the offer out of the blue as he approaches the side of the bed. He can’t help it . If he didn’t need Eddie to change into cleaner clothes, maybe get something in his stomach before he passed out, Steve wouldn’t have even made an effort to disturb him now. Eddie probably would have been out like a light in a matter of minutes. “Here, these are for you. They should fit.” The clothes are dropped in a pile at Eddie’s side and when he doesn’t stir, Steve reaches out and gently prods his shoulder. And it doesn’t matter how many times he’s been reminded of the fact tonight already, Steve’s still startled by how warm Eddie’s bare skin is beneath his hand. Maybe he can find a thermometer somewhere… in his parents’ medicine cabinet, maybe, or back downstairs in the first aid kit. Is that even the kind of thing that comes in a first aid kit? Steve doesn’t know. 

“ Hey. C’mon, Eddie, don’t fall asleep on me yet,” Steve says, and his tone’s softer. Gentle. He crouches down beside the bed, closer to Eddie. Dark bangs are plastered in messy pieces to his forehead with sweat from earlier that’s since dried. Steve wants to brush them away, and he doesn’t know what’s gotten into him tonight but fuck it, there’s nothing stopping him right now, so he does. “I know you’re tired, but you gotta get up now, alright? Just for a little bit. You gotta get up and get changed first and help me deal with this whole pizza debacle you caused because I’m not doing that alone and you started it.” That earns a sleepy whine from Eddie, who turns to bunch up the duvet and bury his face in it. Hiding from the light. Hiding from Steve . It makes his heart twinge a little in his chest and he decides to relent, to give him a few more minutes of rest before making him move again. “Alright, fine. I’ll be right back. But then you gotta get up. Do not make me pick you up out of this bed and carry you out of here, Eddie Munson.” The jab is light. There’s no real threat there. But he would do it.

Steve sighs, rises to his feet and pats Eddie softly on the shoulder as he goes. Arms come to cross against his chest as he exits the room to the hall, and he spends most of the short walk to his parents’ bedroom with his gaze locked on the ceiling, wondering what he’d done to end up down this bad for the guitarist dozing in his sheets right now. And look, he’s not that unaware. He’s not obtuse. Not an idiot . It may not have been a long time coming, but Steve can’t say in good conscience that he didn’t see it coming. Didn’t feel it coming. He’s known that he wasn’t only attracted to women for a while now ( a hard realization to come to in the locker rooms at Hawkins High, and one the basketball superstar did his best to keep hidden away from everyone, himself included more often than not ) but he never expected it would be Eddie fucking Munson to start making him fumble over his words, to make his heart race like he’s fifteen and naive and excitable all over again. 

But then again, he’d never expected Eddie to become an actual, tangible presence in his life, never thought he’d be anything more than a concept , a name to bitch and bemoan to Robin about whenever Henderson brought him up and Steve was feeling particularly sensitive, a face he’d see in passing when he picked the kids up from their dragon game. Hellfire , Steve corrects himself without even thinking about it. He remembers seeing a flash of something in Eddie’s dark, inquisitive gaze that he didn’t quite like the last time he’d called it that to his face. Disappointment , maybe. All of a sudden, he feels even more compelled to make sure he doesn’t have to see it again. Regardless, Steve hadn’t expected Eddie Munson to come crashing into his life like a freight train hurtling off the tracks, to violently invade every inch of his personal space with touches and smiles and, God, Steve would swear it was flirtatious banter. 

He doesn’t bother turning on the lights in his parents’ room either. Not because he knows the layout the same way he knows the rest of these halls even in pitch darkness, but because it just feels weird, being in here. Steve thinks that this is a guest room more than his room ever was, if only Eddie had seen it instead. At least he’s home most nights to sleep in his own bed. At least his room feels lived in . Their sheets have been untouched for weeks and the air smells stale, stuffy like perfume and mothballs. He’d been forbidden from entering this room as a child — off-limits, his parents had said, because they deserved privacy just as much as he did — and it meant Steve had spent more time with the nanny growing up than he had his own flesh and blood. It also meant that it didn’t feel quite right, and even now, almost two decades later, Steve still gets a weird, funny feeling in the pit of his stomach when he steps inside. Entirely for Eddie’s sake and not at all because he feels a strange, inexplicable tightness in his chest does Steve decide that it’s imperative he hurry. In and out. Quick and easy.  

It’s only once he reaches the en-suite bathroom that Steve bothers with the lights, figuring it’ll be easier to root around in the cabinets if he can actually see . Hazel eyes scan the labels of various vitamin and prescription bottles in shades of orange and white, some of the names looking more to Steve like they should belong to monsters in Eddie’s fantasy game than to supplements and pills for human ingestion. He can barely even read some of them. Jesus, were they too good for regular Tylenol? Tablets clatter in their plastic containers as Steve sifts through them once, twice before settling on a bottle he remembers seeing on the counter earlier that year. Steve’s father had thrown his back out or something several months prior — Steve doesn’t know, he wasn’t actually listening when the old man was griping about it — and he’d stayed in town long enough to get a prescription from their family doctor before jet-setting off without it in less than a week’s time.  If Steve has any mind to wonder what the point was, if there even was one, he dismisses the thought before it has a chance to take shape. He has more important things to worry about right now anyway.

There’s no thermometer either, at least not from what Steve can see, only fancy cold creams and half-empty bottles of aftershave. A pair of toothbrushes in cups on opposite sides of the cabinet, looking for a lonely audience of one like they’d never been touched before. Steve wouldn’t be surprised to find that they hadn’t. He’s also not surprised to find that they don’t have a thermometer. Sick days had never actually been a thing for him growing up, not unless it was from the nanny taking pity on a young, sick Steve; left to his parents’ care, he’d be told to drink more water, go outside and get some fresh air . Like that’s all it would take to fix him. ( It never was, but that’s okay. It made Steve stronger, taught him how to look after himself. Maybe that was the whole point. Fuck if he knew anymore. ) So Steve snatches up the prescription, the only thing worth salvaging in this cold, empty room, and shoves the mirrored door shut with a slam so accidentally loud that the echo nearly makes him jump in spite of himself.

When Steve returns to his bedroom, he’s not surprised to find that Eddie still hasn’t made it out of his bed. He is a little shocked to find him sitting up though, and to find that he’s changed into the clothes Steve left him, balling up his own dirty laundry and tossing it haphazardly over the foot of Steve’s bed. A stark contrast to the otherwise pristine, unlittered carpet, but Steve finds that he doesn’t mind. Eddie still looks exhausted, though, that much Steve can see even from his spot in the doorway. Dark eyes are puffy and half-lidded, like even keeping them open is proving to be a struggle, and if Steve looks closely, he can almost see Eddie swaying a little as if it’s taking a conscious effort for him to remain upright. Steve’s about to speak up when he notices something in Eddie’s lap, when he realizes what it is. The vest . Fuck. Please don’t embarrass yourself Steve. Please. It’s at the very same moment that Eddie seems to notice his return and he looks up, gaze sleepy and smile gentle, lopsided.

And Jesus Christ , Steve has to clutch the frame of the doorway with his free hand because he was absolutely not a single fucking bit ready for this. The t-shirt he’d given him was an even paler shade of blue than the pants, sun-bleached from all the times he’d worn it on his morning runs through sprawling, suburban Hawkins, peeling letters on the chest spelling out Why don’t you pick on someone your own age? and, just below it, Hawkins Senior Olympics 1983. He’d gotten it from a volunteer gig Nancy had roped him into, something about supporting the community by providing enrichment for the elderly. Steve was mostly in it for the free t-shirt and the snacks. And the chance to spend a few hours with Nancy, but — look, that’s not a can of worms Steve wants to crack open right now. Not that he could even if he did want to, because he’s too busy thinking about how fucking soft Eddie looks sitting cross-legged at the center of his bed, how the pale blue cotton has somehow made his cheeks look rosier , framed by loose, dark waves that didn’t quite make it to the low bun he’s pulled his hair into in Steve’s absence. He’s never seen Eddie’s hair pulled back like this before. Remember to breathe, Steve .

“Hey,” Eddie begins, and he’s dropping the vest back into his lap like he’s suddenly forgotten he’s holding it in favor of looking at Steve, digging socked heels into the sheets to scoot himself a few inches closer to the edge of the bed. Closer to Steve. And even though he hasn’t said more than a single word, not yet, it almost sounds embarrassed to Steve. Bashful. Like maybe he’s been sitting in here the whole time Steve’s been gone, trying to come up with a way to politely ask for it back now that Steve isn’t, you know, stuck half-naked and barefoot in the Upside Down. Steve raises his eyebrows in response, still clutching at the doorway like it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. Still trying to make that somehow look casual . Act natural. Why is that so hard right now? 

“I’ve got a question,” Eddie continues, and Steve braces himself to absolutely wither away with embarrassment because here it comes. Tongue taps at his teeth behind his lips to the same rhythm his fingers play against the pill bottle curled in his palm. “I know I’m already, like, robbing you blind here, Steve. Stealing your clothes—” Eddie says, as if Steve hadn’t willingly handed over the best of them after insisting himself that Eddie needed to change, “—and getting all my grimy germs all over your bed, which, sorry , by the way—” he apologizes as if Steve hadn’t just offered him use of it for the rest of the night only moments earlier, grimy germs or not, “—but it’s fucking freezing in here and I was wondering if you had like, a sweater, maybe — even an old sweatshirt? It doesn’t need to be anything nice, I’ll probably just end up getting it dirty anyway, and I don’t wanna ruin something like the one you’re wearing now…” Steve looks down at his chest and lets down a little breath of surprise, because he hadn’t even noticed. Sure enough, Steve’s own sweater is damp and wrinkled in splotches where Eddie had buried his face into it in near-hysterics downstairs. 

Oh, Steve thinks lamely, and for what must be the thousandth time so far tonight. Oh , he thinks, because this was not at all the question he’d been expecting when he’d walked in to find Eddie with the vest in his lap and an indecipherable expression on his face. But he’s pretty fucking grateful for it. So much so, in fact, that he’s not even answering before heading over to his closet, pill bottle between his teeth so he can rifle around the hangers inside for a moment. He flicks past a few thinner cardigans, a hoodie, before hands land on something thicker, cable-knit, and Steve’s tugging a cream-colored winter jumper out of the depths of his closet. “Here, catch!” Steve says and tosses the sweater toward the bed, deciding he should probably change, too. Tugging his own over his head, Steve shakes out his hair before tossing the bundle of yellow fabric effortlessly into the laundry basket across the room. If he thinks he hears a little bravo, Steve convinces himself he doesn’t and finds himself a t-shirt instead.

When Steve spins back around to face the bed wearing an old gray long-sleeved crewneck emblazoned with the Hawkins basketball logo, he expects Eddie to have pulled on the sweater, maybe even fallen back against the bed in another silent protest against heading back downstairs. But Eddie isn’t doing either of those things, because Eddie fucking Munson is anything but predictable. No, he’s staring at Steve, mouth hanging slightly agape — and Steve will just blame that on the fact that he probably can’t even breathe through his nose right now, nothing more — with the sweater still clutched loosely in his hands. His tongue darts out across his lower lip and he suddenly averts his gaze away from Steve, literally anywhere else, like he’s been caught red-handed. The flush in his cheeks grows impossibly brighter and he immediately starts fumbling with the bundle of wool in his arms. “I, um — thanks. For this. I — uh, yeah. Mhm.” And Steve might be in denial, but he’s not stupid. He can tell when someone’s checking him out. When Eddie Munson is checking him out. Holy shit. Stay cool, Steve. Remember? “You ready to go feed these brats?”

Eddie is unsteady when he rises to his feet, knees wobbling, and Steve is there again at his side in an instant, ready to catch him if they start to buckle. They don’t talk about the way Steve helps him into the sweater once he’s standing to make sure he stays upright, the way one hand’s held careful but secure against Eddie’s waist to support him. They don’t talk about the way his other hand lifts to brush loose dark tresses away from his face. Rests against his cheek just a few seconds longer than it needs to. And Eddie’s looking at him again, all wide eyes and wild curls and wanting, and Steve’s leaning up, letting the hand on Eddie’s cheek slip into his hair so he can pull his head closer, tilt it down so he can press his lips to Eddie’s… forehead. Fuck. He could’ve gone for it. He knows he could have gone for it and his heart is pounding so wildly in his chest it’s a wonder Eddie can’t hear it for how close he is, with his lips on Eddie’s forehead and Eddie’s bangs tickling his face, and he knows that again, it’s not what either of them had been expecting, but for some reason, Eddie’s still leaning into his touch and it takes everything in Steve to break away before it’s gone on long enough to be awkward. If it’s not already.

“I couldn’t find a thermometer,” Steve offers as if that’s any fucking explanation at all for whatever that moment was they just shared. In his mind, it is. It makes enough sense, right? It’s not illogical. He’s seen enough movies to know that’s a semi-reasonable way to take somebody’s temperature when you don’t have anything else. Right? But Eddie’s still staring at him, still so fucking close to his face like he always is, like he’s never even heard the word boundary before, and Steve can’t really tell, but it looks like he’s thinking. Thinking or waiting. And Steve. Fuck, Steve doesn’t know what to say, but he feels like he needs to spit something else out if for no other reason than to break the silence that’s lingering between them that’s growing thicker, heavier by the second. “You still have a fever,” is what he decides on because, yeah, he’ll double down on that if he’s got nowhere left to turn. What else has he got?

And before you ask, no, Steve’s not sure if that’s the right thing to say or not, even if it’s the only thing he can manage. It’s not like he’s doing anything but repeating what the both of them already know. But he doesn’t even have the chance to see, not a moment to gauge Eddie’s reaction, because Eddie isn’t giving him the chance. Once again, Eddie Munson is ripping the control right out of Steve’s open, waiting hands. And then Eddie Munson is kissing him. Suddenly, Steve’s whole fucking body is on fire. Somewhere in the distance, far off behind the roaring echo of his heartbeat churning in his ears, he can hear the pill bottle clattering to the floor and, fuck , he didn’t even realize he’d let go of it. But of fucking course he did, because Eddie Munson is kissing him and that means he’s got way more important things to be doing with his hands in this moment. The one that lingers on Eddie’s waist pulls him closer until their bodies are nearly flush while the other disappears further into his hair, fingers slipping into dark curls and tugging them loose of their elastic bind. 

And then Steve’s kissing him back. And it’s long and hard and heated and gentle and cautious all at once because Steve doesn’t want to hurt Eddie, but fuck , he’d be a liar if he said he hasn’t been thinking about this for days and it’s overwhelming and overstimulating and it’s enough to make Steve feel dizzy as he finally comes up for air who knows how long later. “You’re gonna get me sick, Munson,” Steve mumbles, breathless, against Eddie’s lips as fingers twist in his curls. As if he even cares at this point. ( To be clear, he really fucking doesn’t. ) Eddie’s hands are knotted in his shirt and when he laughs, they’re still so close that Steve can taste his lips all over again, like cigarettes and cola and cherry cough drops on his tongue. He wants to go back in for more, so he does. Fuck it, what does he have to lose now? He doesn’t know if he’s surprised or not to find that it’s just as electrifying the second time around, and Eddie’s rings feel white-hot against his skin when a calloused hand comes to curl around his neck, grasping greedily for more. 

“I’m — sorry?” Eddie pants against his lips before letting his head slide down and fall to rest against Steve’s shoulder so he can catch his breath. His hand falls to start twisting at the fabric of Steve’s sweater again and he’s got this big, stupid, breathless grin on his face like he’s not actually sorry at all and it stretches all the way up to his big, stupid, dewy eyes and Steve feels a little like he might implode. “I just — I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t spend the rest of the night swooning like a damsel in distress over you, Steve Harrington, my white knight , fucking — pining in my misery and wondering… will he kiss me? Does — does he want to kiss me? Heart fucking fluttering in my chest every time you touch me like I could barf up butterflies at any moment, because that’s the effect you have on me, Steve fucking Harrington, and I don’t — I already feel like shit, I couldn’t handle feeling like that on top of it. So I had to do it. Because, I mean, fuck, either it works out and I’m not totally fucking crazy and misreading everything about this — about us — or you, what? Push me away? Tell me to get the fuck out of your house?”

Eddie shrugs, and if Steve wants to interject — wants to assure Eddie that no, he wouldn’t have reacted like that, wouldn’t have said that even if he hadn’t wanted this just as badly, or maybe even wants to address the fact that, wait, now there’s an us? — Eddie doesn’t give him the chance. And what is it with him and deep, revealing monologues? Steve wonders if it’s a normal thing or maybe just a very fortunately unfortunate side effect of the fever, the sheer exhaustion. “I was ready,” he says, and rolls his head back against Steve’s shoulder, glances up at him with a conspiratory nod as if they’re sharing an important secret. Steve supposes maybe they are. “For either option, I was ready. I mean, say you decide to kick me to the curb, right—” Eddie pauses, tilts his head away from Steve to direct a raspy, rattling cough toward the floor and Steve readjusts his hold on Eddie’s waist to keep him steady until he can do it himself. Maybe even after.  

“I — I still made out pretty fucking well. I mean, yeah, maybe I gotta pick up all the little pieces of my heart on the way out the door, and there’s probably a lot of them, because when that thing starts falling apart? Fuck. Forget about it. It’s a fucking mess. But, like — I’ve done that before. I’ve done that more times than I can fucking count, actually , because — I don’t know if you can tell by now or not — I’m really not good at this. Not as much as I pretend to be.” The way they’ve shifted, Eddie has his back to Steve now, shoulders pressed to his chest so he can pillow his head in the crook of his neck, and he’s got one of Steve’s hands between both his because the other one’s still curled around Eddie’s waist, and he’s not looking at him but he’s toying absently with his fingers. Almost bashful again, as if he’s not the one putting himself out there like this, giving Steve just as much control — more, even — than he’s already stolen away from him. “And at the end of the day, I still got you, my fucking white knight of Suburbia, to heal my wounds and clean me up and — fuck , make me feel the closest I’ve been to sane for the first time in — I — I couldn’t even tell you how long. That’s already more than I ever could have dreamed of asking for, you know? So it was — it would have been worth it either way.” 

Not for the first time tonight, Steve doesn’t know what to say. But instead of trying to come up with something, trying to wrack his brain for the right thing right thing right thing, this time he doesn’t. No, instead, Steve just holds Eddie. He holds him and he doesn’t say anything at all because he doesn’t need to. Because Eddie may have thought it would be worth it either way, but Steve’s convinced that this is the right way. The only way. With him finally relaxed, unburdened, all wrapped up in Steve’s arms and still playing with his hands, running fingertips over his knuckles and along the curved lines of his palm. It doesn’t matter what any of this means for them outside of this moment, outside of this room . They can think about crossing those bridges when they come. For now, Steve’s simply content to just exist here for a little while longer, just like this , with his back against the post of the bed and his face buried in Eddie’s hair to hide a smile that Eddie’s not even looking at because he’s too busy smiling himself, slipping rings from his fingers onto Steve’s and twisting them until they’re right-side up again. It’s almost enough to make Steve forget—

The doorbell. Fuck. Steve’s been so caught up in his own little world, he must’ve lost track of time, but the ringing echo of the doorbell and the muted shouts of his name that follow are enough to snap him back to reality. The pizza must be here. Goddamn it. They couldn’t have given him a little longer than thirty minutes? Not just this once?

Chapter Text

The moment they descend back into the chaos of Steve’s living-room-turned-movie-theater — and back upon the six hungry, rowdy, competitive teenagers that wait there — Steve suddenly finds himself yearning for the peaceful quiet of only a few moments prior. And, fuck . The thought’s nearly enough to give him pause as Steve rifles around in his pockets for his wallet, because, really? Steve wishing for quiet? Who was he? It’s just that — well, it just felt different upstairs. Different in a way Steve can’t quite articulate, like the right words were on the tip of his tongue but teetering just millimeters out of reach. It felt different with Eddie. But Steve doesn’t have time to think about that right now, doesn’t have so much as a moment to begin unpacking whatever that means because the goddamn pizza guy is ringing the doorbell again and it’s all Steve can do to shout, “Alright! Alright! I’m coming, could you give me literally one second?” as he steps over an ever-shifting obstacle course of limbs and bodies that litter the floor, nearly tripping not once but twice in the process. And then the doorbell rings again and it’s so loud by the front door and Steve’s trying not to swear as he swings the stupid door open to—

“Harringto-o-on! Shit, I didn’t even realize this was your place when I took the delivery!” Argyle has been to Steve’s house at least three times now — more if you count all the times he’s dropped off Will — and yet, somehow, this information still doesn’t surprise Steve. He’s repeated Steve’s address back to him on the phone before. Maybe it’s the Purple Palm Tree Delight or whatever, but Steve doesn’t understand how the guy functions as well as he does on the day-to-day. It’s mind-boggling, yeah, but it’s also pretty impressive that he’s still alive and not like, lost in the wilderness of Hawkins somewhere. Suddenly Steve’s not irritated at all anymore, even if he wants to be. No, instead, he’s chuckling as he continues to pat at his pockets, realizing his wallet must be inside. “I got your pies, man! Made them myself. With love, of course.” Argyle’s still talking, and from behind him, Steve can hear the kids start to realize who’s standing at the door, laughter bubbling up in spurts at his words. “Noticed you were feeling extra creative tonight! Mad respect. I see you, Picasso. Flavor is your canvas and I am but a brush for your art, an extension of your masterful hand.” 

“Flattered as I am by that,” Steve says as he looks back up at Argyle, “...and I think I am, anyway… the kids came up with those pizzas, man, and now you’ve got me even more nervous about what I’m gonna find in those boxes.” Why had Eddie decided to give them a four topping limit? If it were Steve, he would have stopped at two. ( No, actually, if it were Steve, he would’ve just ordered the pizzas himself instead of making a whole event out of it, but he gets why Eddie did it. That’s just who he is. Plus, he was right — it did buy them a whole lot more time. ) And the fact that it’s Argyle of all people praising the flavor choices — well, sue Steve for having a couple of reservations about it, okay? Steve steps aside when he realizes he’s still coming up empty-handed, out of the way of the entrance, and pulls the door open a little further. “You want to come in for a minute? I think I left my wallet in the kitchen.” But Argyle’s already letting himself in the moment Steve moves and oh, okay, Steve thinks, because that works too. “Come on, it’s over here.” 

They’ve got to take a detour through the tangle of teens to get back to the kitchen and Argyle spends the entirety of the trip singing praises of pineapples and jalapenos to excitable ears, interspersed with shouts of “See?” and “I told you so!” that have Steve wondering what the hell Eddie’s signed him up for. The kids, to Steve’s relief, don’t rise to follow after them, too busy determining their choices for the next movie now that judging is so close. It’s in sight. Either that, or they just expect by now that Steve will emerge from the kitchen in a few minutes with pizzas, plates, and napkins in tow. Steve wouldn’t blame them for assuming. They may be entitled little brats, but Steve Harrington knows he’s partially to blame. He helped make them that way. A glance is cast over his shoulder to make sure Argyle’s still following him and Steve blinks when he realizes the displaced surfer’s disappeared from his heels without so much as a word. How can one person be so stoned and still, still so stealthy?

Narrowed amber gaze flits around the room before finally landing on a garishly bright Hawaiian shirt and Steve realizes that Argyle must have spotted Eddie because at the same time, he hears, “—damn, Munson, you look snugger than a bug in a rug, my guy! What is that? Angora?” And Steve’s not even on the receiving end of the remark but he can still feel warmth climbing up his neck to flood his own cheeks. Like he’s blushing for Eddie. Who could blame him? For as cozy as the clothes appear — and they really do, Steve thinks, Argyle definitely isn’t exaggerating — Steve knows they’re so far beyond Eddie’s actual comfort zone of dark-dyed cotton and shredded denim. From across the room, Steve can see Eddie shrug, shoulders rising and falling beneath thick wool, but then he’s saying something that Steve can’t quite make out from here but they’re both laughing and Argyle’s shifting the pizza boxes to one arm so he can reach out and feel the cable knit. He’s got his hand on Eddie’s arm and Steve knows it’s stupid to feel any kind of way at all about it, but he just — “For real, I could take a nap on you right now, man, that shit’s so soft!” — fuck. He can’t help it, okay? He’s not jealous. And even if he were , he wouldn’t have any right to be. But he isn’t, so it’s fine. 

Steve wonders if Eddie can feel him watching. Staring, more like. He must — and Steve must be pulling one hell of a face — because out of nowhere, he’s looking up and suddenly those big, dark eyes are right back on him, creased at the corners with a smile that only reaches his gaze once it meets Steve’s. But he looks curious. Confused, maybe, like he’s trying to put together a puzzle but he doesn’t quite have all the pieces. And Steve realizes that he is , in fact, a fucking idiot, so he just smiles back like one. The sudden contrast in his expression must be comical because then Eddie’s laughing again and Steve ducks his head sheepishly, averts his gaze so he doesn’t start swooning at the sight of it. Get a grip, Harrington. You’re not fifteen anymore. And he’s not. Steve Harrington is grown. He’s mature. He’s got six kids of his own and he goes on plenty of dates in between babysitting them, thank you. He knows what he’s doing. Kind of. So why, all of a sudden, is he turning to silly putty around Eddie Munson? Steve doesn’t know, so he shoves his hands in empty pockets and tries to dim his smile before it becomes too noticeable. Too uncharacteristic.  

It’s unclear whether Argyle somehow senses he’s standing in the middle of a second, unspoken conversation happening across the room or if he just finally remembers why he’d come inside in the first place, but he claps Eddie on the shoulder — fuck , Steve can see him wince from here, however much he tries to hide it behind a tight grin because it’s not actually the stoner’s fault, how could he have known? — and gives the sweater a last, longing squeeze before he finds his way back over to Steve. “Sorry, man, I’m a sucker for some fine, woven textiles,” Argyle says as he approaches, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Maybe it is. He’s surely not the only one who can enjoy a good sweater from time to time, but maybe he’s the only one who ever bothers to speak up about it. And why not? Steve can’t knock him for that. “How long do we gotta be friends before I can borrow from the sweet, sweet sweater sanctum of King Steve?” 

Steve’s already halfway to the kitchen and hoping Argyle has picked up on the hint to follow, but the question nearly makes him stop in his tracks. Play it off, play it off . It turns into a clumsy half-stumble and he rights himself quickly as he turns through the doorway. “I’m sorry, man. I don’t know what Eddie told you, but my closet’s not a lending library. I don’t go, like, renting out my sweaters.” He doesn’t , but saying it out loud, Steve can’t help but wonder. It would mean no more Saturday morning shifts at Family Video, no more talks about morale and attendance with Keith. Maybe … What is he thinking? No. It’s unsustainable. If Argyle’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he looks absolutely unfazed, a hazy smile on his lips as he balances the pizzas in one hand with a little more active effort than Steve thinks is actually necessary. It looks like he’s constantly just about to do some cool trick with the boxes, and then he doesn’t. Or maybe the cool trick is really just that he hasn’t dropped them yet. Steve should find his wallet. “Besides, I kind of just… owed him one.” 

“Right. Yeah. Sure,” Argyle says, and from anyone else the words might sound clipped, insincere, offended. But Argyle draws them out long and slow and he’s got this way of smiling into his words that makes them sound so genuine that Steve doesn’t for a second worry he’s upset him. Argyle is so honest, so unapologetically himself all the time that Steve thinks he would’ve known it if he had. Steve also thinks there’s not a single item hanging in his closet that he could picture someone as eclectic as Argyle actually wanting to wear, so he doesn’t let himself feel bad about it. “I figured as much. But I also figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, you know?” Steve shrugs, because he can’t actually fault that, and — oh, fuck , there it is. Snatching his wallet off the stool by the counter, Steve quickly pulls a couple of bills from the fold; Argyle hadn’t given him an actual total, but it was just two pizzas, and no matter the cost, Steve’s offer leaves enough room for a generous tip. 

Steve isn’t sure how long he stands there, holding out three ten dollar bills and waiting for Argyle to hand him the pizza, but it feels like a little bit too long. Like, at least two-and-a-half minutes too long. And Argyle’s just looking at him. Or rather, looking at the money. But not even, really. Looking at his… hand? And that’s when Steve sees it. The rings . Thick bands of burnished metal adorned with dark, glittering gems and intricately etched designs. They look so out of place on his hands, so bulky and strange. And yet, Steve’s already forgotten he was even wearing them. Argyle, however, seems to have noticed them right away, and there’s something different about his smile as he finally looks up at Steve that he can’t quite place. Like Argyle maybe knows a secret that even Steve isn’t fully sure of yet. Like he knows something. It makes Steve’s stomach do a flip and he nods toward the bills, just wishes Argyle would fucking take them so he can grab the boxes from him and escape from whatever awkward, confusing hell he’s just found himself in. He just wants to pay for his pizza . 

It feels like a lifetime before Argyle finally speaks up. Steve wonders if it takes his brain that long to put together a cohesive thought, if he spends all that time just thinking , or if he’s somehow figured out that if he holds out just a little longer, he can watch as Steve’s heart falls out of his ass right here in the middle of the kitchen. “Nah, man,” Argyle says, and he’s waving his free hand, flapping it haphazardly against the cash and sending one of the bills fluttering to the floor before Steve can catch it. “I don’t want your money. Not when celebrations are in order. Are you kidding? Pizza’s on me tonight, my dude.” Steve’s half-aware of the fact that his mouth is hanging open, that he’s just staring , wide-eyed and slack-jawed, at Argyle. To be honest, he’s still not entirely sure he understands what’s happening. What Argyle’s even talking about. If Steve tries to stutter out some kind response, some excuse for a thought that he doesn’t even know for sure if Argyle’s thinking, Argyle doesn’t let him. He lifts his hand again, this time waving it at Steve himself, and — Jesus Christ, he’s actually shushing him. Steve can no longer hide it. He’s truly flabbergasted.

“Steve. Steve. Just take the pizza.” It’s not even a question. Argyle reaches past Steve to slide the pizza boxes onto the counter, and Steve drops his hand, confused and defeated, shoving the cash into his pocket. Free pizza. Okay. Steve did say he was a good guy. Maybe he’s just being nice, being a friend , and Steve’s the one all weird and in his head about it. “Oh, wait!” The exclamation makes Steve wonder what Argyle thought he was about to do, because he still hasn’t made a move. He’s just standing there, dumb as a sack of doorknobs. He watches expectantly as Argyle tilts his visor to one side, hands disappearing into nearly waist-length locks by his ear. When he pulls it back, Argyle’s holding a joint out for Steve that — shit, Steve didn’t even see it hiding up there under all that hair. And Argyle must notice the question lingering, waiting, on the tip of his tongue. “It’s for you and Munson, dude!” Steve only blinks, so Argyle continues. “After you got all the rugrats packed away in their little sleeping bags for the night, of course. But seriously, it’s good stuff — maaajor body buzz. ” He grins, nods toward the joint because Steve still hasn’t taken it from him. “Excellent for a movie night cuddle sesh, believe you, me.” 

Oh. Steve really is blushing now. He holds up a hand, starts to shake his head. “Argyle, wait, I don’t think—”

But Argyle’s already reaching out, taking Steve’s hand in his own and dropping the pre-rolled joint into his open palm before curling his fingers closed around it. Steve wonders at what point tonight he must’ve lost his autonomy because he’s hardly made a decision that was his own, but he doesn’t protest. Maybe Argyle’s right. Maybe it is a good idea. Steve decides he can work that out on his own later and moves to tuck the joint behind his own ear in the same fashion the stoner had, but he discovers Argyle’s still holding onto his hand, turning it over between both of his. Examining it. He does this for several seconds, longer than Steve’s actually expecting him to. When he finally lets go, it’s to flash Steve another smile. This one, if possible, seems even more genuine than the first, stretching impossibly wider as arms come to cross in front of a brightly screen-printed chest. “The rings are a good look for you, man. I like it.” 

If Steve’s curious about the intention behind Argyle’s words, he’s got all the time in the world to think on it because Argyle’s offering him a casual salute and heading backwards out the doorway, calling, “Smoke it wisely, Steve!” as he goes. Tossing what’s left of the crumpled bills onto the counter, Steve shakes his head, tries not to pick apart every minute detail of their conversation as he gathers a fistful of disposable plates and a roll of paper towels and stacks them all on top of the pizza boxes so he can haul everything back into the living room at once. Argyle’s already gone by the time he returns with the food, and from across the room, he notices at once the way Eddie’s gaze is locked on the doorway. Like he’s waiting for Steve. Steve wonders if Argyle said anything to him on his way out, but the thought is short-lived, replaced the second Eddie pulls his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees and giving Steve that smile again. He just looks so soft like this, with dark, frizzy curls illuminating his face in a halo of bronze and gold from the yellowy light of the lamp behind him, Steve almost can’t blame Argyle for wanting to just reach out and touch him. Steve wants to, too.  

But Steve doesn’t get the chance, because the second he steps through the doorway, he’s being ushered by a dozen small arms across the room to the couch and pushed back — which, rude — until he’s falling back against the cushions a few feet away from Eddie. He doesn’t bother to chime in or referee as Dustin and Lucas and Mike argue over which pizza deserves to go first, sits back and crosses his legs, lets them duke it out themselves, and waits until, for once, they’re the ones dishing out dinner to him. This would be great, Steve thinks, if the dinner in question weren’t so absolutely horrific . He’s presented with two options. The first, a hand-tossed pizza flecked with pineapples and jalapenos, studded with bits of chicken and bacon, and Steve won’t say it’s entirely unpalatable, but it’s not good . And anyway, he doesn’t like spicy food like that and he’ll die on the hill that says fruit does not belong on pizza. Or he didn’t think it does, anyway, not until he’s being presented with pizza number two. It’s a thin-crusted abomination, covered in anchovies and shrimp and— “Wait, what is this green stuff?”

“It’s spinach!” Dustin chimes in brightly, beaming from ear to ear, and Steve just knows he’s the mastermind behind this one. That makes him even more nervous. He already misses the pineapple. “We were going for an under the sea theme, if you couldn’t tell, and I thought the spinach might look like kelp or seaweed—!” Behind him, Lucas is nodding in full agreement like he’s on board for everything Dustin is saying, but Max has her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes toward the ceiling like she knows they’ve already lost and she knew it was coming, too. Steve wouldn’t doubt it. She’s a smart one, that Mayfield, and Steve wants nothing to do with her team’s pie. He’s forced to take a single bite, if only for respect to the competitors, and Steve’s pretty sure he almost feels his soul leave his body when he chews because, no. Just… no. Eddie’s lucky he’s sick, lucky that Steve’s taking pity on him tonight, because otherwise Steve would be making him down a whole slice of the monstrosity just to atone for spawning the idea that led to Steve having to taste it at all. Especially the way he’s laughing — almost giggling — when Steve wrinkles his nose, tosses the offending slice back into the box. Steve just wants to kiss that stupid smile off right off his stupid blushing face and —

“The winner! Who’s the winner, Steve?” 

Oh. Right. If he’s being honest, Steve thought it would go without saying. “Under the Sea Pizza Party—” Steve begins, and Dustin starts bouncing on his toes the way he does when he’s just got too much excitement for his small body to contain, like he’s positive Steve’s about to announce his brainchild the victor, “—do better. That was arguably the most horrific thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. Even bad pizza is still good pizza, but not that pizza.” Dustin deflates to the echo of Mike’s hollers and El’s delighted laughter, but he’s quick to change his tune when he actually bothers to take a bite of his own creation. Steve watches him wither a little as he tries to force it down without gagging. “Uh huh. Yeah . And you guys are eating all of that, too. I paid for it.” No he didn’t, as a matter of fact, but that’s irrelevant. They don’t need to know that. It’s the principle of it, after all. “And I don’t want your fishy leftovers stinking up my fridge.” 

“Oh, I will,” Dustin says around a mouthful of half-chewed shrimp. He’s struggling to get the words out, but Steve’s gotta give it to the kid, he’s still grinning. “It’s delicious.” And Steve’s had enough of being gaslit over pizza by a bunch of teens, so he’s quick to tell everyone to grab plates and instructs Will to queue up the movie since it’s his team’s choice. They’ve settled on The Goonies , and Steve’s not mad about it, even if it is a little on the nose. In the time it takes everyone to get settled, Steve’s found his spot in the corner of the couch and Eddie’s starting to stretch out beside him. “You want one of these?” Steve asks quietly, trying not to draw attention to the pair of them as he sets his plate on the coffee table in favor of the pill bottle he’d found upstairs earlier. The movie might be a little easier to sit through if he’s not hurting so bad, and maybe they’ll get lucky and it’ll help him fall asleep later too. Steve taps out a white tablet and drops it into Eddie’s palm when he nods abashedly, watching as Eddie investigates it for a second before tossing it behind parted lips without a second thought. 

Steve also tries to insist that Eddie eat — “At least a little bit. Please? You really shouldn’t be taking painkillers on an empty stomach….” — but he doesn’t blame Eddie for wanting to refuse when he looks at his options. Even Steve doesn’t want to eat them, and he’s feeling fine. Maybe a little hungry, even. But not for that. He manages to soothe Steve’s worry a little when he reaches over to grab the unfinished crust from Steve’s first ( and very possibly only ) slice and and starts to nibble at the bland bread. Well, at least it’s something, right? As the movie starts, Steve twists, reaching behind him to turn off the lamp. When he turns back, Eddie’s scooted closer. Steve reaches out instinctively before he can stop himself, places a hand on Eddie’s shoulder as if to wordlessly request he wait before getting comfortable, and shifts his own position. When he settles, Steve’s back is tucked into the corner of the sofa, one leg extended along the length of the back cushions and the other angled over the edge, foot planted on the carpet. He nods to the space between his legs. Eddie looks at him like he’s suddenly grown a second head. 

“It’s fine,” Steve hums, tossing a hand in the general direction of the pile of pillows and bodies sprawled across the floor as if to physically dismiss Eddie’s worry, to just… wave it away. “Last time they didn’t even notice we’d got up and left until the movie was over, and that’s only because they wanted something.” And, okay, yeah. Maybe Steve’s a little surprised himself at how cavalier he’s being about the thought of cuddling up to Eddie Munson on his couch while the kids watch a movie only a few feet away. But he’s right. The VHS is still rolling through previews and they’re already glued to the screen, to tiny pockets of conversation bubbling up between them. Lost in their own little world. And even if they weren’t… well, Steve doesn’t actually have to deal with that right now, but he’s not sure it would change his mind. He doesn’t know that he’d do anything different. And he tries not to think about what might mean. 

( Steve’s always wanted something serious , someone… someone he could introduce the kids to, who he could integrate effortlessly into his bizarre little found family until they eventually built their own. Six little nuggets packed into a Winnebago. It was just… well, nobody’s ever felt like the right fit before, you know? )

The hand that rests on Eddie’s shoulder gives it a soft squeeze before Steve slowly starts to coax him back. “Come on. Just relax, alright? And finish your pizza crust, you fucking gutter puppy.” There’s nothing but fondness in the words, the gentlest of teasing as Steve calls back to the words Eddie definitely did not use to describe himself. Eddie must trust him at least a little, because he starts to lean back, finding a comfortable spot to rest against Steve’s chest with his head pillowed in the dip in Steve’s shoulder between his neck and the arm he has propped up against the couch. And not to sound stupid or dramatic or anything, Steve thinks, but Eddie does kind of fit there pretty fucking perfectly. Even with his wild curls tickling Steve’s skin every time he moves his head, and even with his too-warm sweater serving as an unneeded blanket on top of an already balmy late spring night. Steve might be a little sweaty, yeah. A little itchy. But he could get used to it, he thinks. Definitely. “But don’t go getting your crumbs all over my couch, yeah?” 

It’s a moot point, Steve notices quickly. Eddie has already abandoned his lame excuse for a meal, having tossed it onto the nearest plate he could reach on the floor so he can have hands free to reach for Steve’s instead. He holds Steve’s hand close to his chest, curled loosely in both of his own; roughly polished fingers twist around his, tap and turn and rearrange rings tiredly. Contentedly. Steve’s watched Eddie — seen Eddie, he’s seen him — toying with his jewelry dozens of times at least, fidgeting with the metal bands when he’s feeling anxious, stressed… happy, even, or excited. When he’s feeling anything at all, really. Steve just never would have guessed he’d hang onto the habit if they weren’t on his own fingers. And Steve would have guessed wrong, apparently. It’s kind of endearing, actually, and Steve finds that he can’t help but lose a few minutes just watching him, gazing fondly over Eddie’s shoulder with a big, dumb smile on his face. He can feel it. 

A big, dumb smile that falters the second Steve looks up suddenly at the sound of a loud, clattering crash. It’s on the tv, because of fucking course it is, this movie’s full of them — Steve’s watched the Goonies at least a dozen times by now at work, but these kids have hardwired his brain to be on the constant lookout for chaos when they’re around and it’s hard to kick the habit, okay? But they’re all still staring toward the screen, wrapped up in their blankets with only heads and hands poking out to pick distractedly at pizza as they watch. Eddie rasps a quiet laugh as Steve startles under him and Steve’s just about to look back at him, smile already returning when his gaze meets another, less expected , across the room. Henderson. And he’s looking at him hard . Looking at both of them. That tracks, Steve thinks, because if he’s said it once he’s said it a million times: the kid’s fucking observant. Steve can almost see the tiny gears turning in his brain from here as brows furrow beneath his hat, the way he’s studying Steve’s face and Eddie’s hands and trying to figure out exactly how they’re sitting in the dark. 

Steve stares back at him. He doesn’t break eye contact for several long seconds. It’s like, a power move thing, right? Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see Eddie is blissfully unaware of the entire staredown, his own gaze soft and sleepy as it dances across Josh Brolin’s silhouette on the television set. ( Wait, slow down. Does Eddie Munson have a type? ) The painkillers must be starting to kick in because he’s looking dazed, a little dopey. Kind of adorable, actually, and Steve wishes he could enjoy it without being locked in this stalemate with Henderson. When Dustin continues to stare, Steve raises his brows, shakes his head expectantly and mouths a silent ‘what?’ in his direction. Clearly at a loss for words, the younger boy gestures with both his hands toward the whole of the sofa in what Steve finds to be entirely too dramatic a charade. Somehow, nobody takes notice. Steve’s luck is going to give him whiplash today. He can’t keep up. 

Jaw sets and head tilts forward in a look he knows Dustin is familiar with, one he’s been on the receiving end of too many times. A look that says ‘Not right now.’ Steve knows they’re going to have a conversation about this — there’s no avoiding it, not when Henderson’s as persistent as he is, and he goddamn is — and to be honest, Steve’s not sure it’s a conversation he’d be unwilling to have. But the thing is, Henderson obviously wants to know what the hell is going on between his babysitter and his dungeon master, and that would be fine — if Steve actually fucking knew. Except he doesn’t. He has no idea what this is, or what Eddie wants it to be, or — or what he wants it to be. And how could he? It only just started even being under an hour ago. ( It hasn’t even been an hour since he’s kissed Eddie Munson, Jesus Christ. So why does Steve feel like the whole world somehow already knows? He’s hardly had the time to process any of it himself. ) But even if Steve did have the answers, even if he did feel so inclined to share them with Henderson — and he would, he already knows he would, because the kid’s his best friend and he couldn’t actually keep a secret from him if he tried — he’d hope the kid was bright enough to pick up on the fact this was clearly not the right setting for that conversation. Not here, not now, and not in front of everyone.

Dustin stares at him a moment longer — and holy hell, does he ever blink? — as he quietly deliberates. Then shoulders slump in something like acceptance or defeat and he collapses back into the reclining armchair he’s staked a claim on with a sigh. Finally, a point for Steve. But his eyes linger on them a second after he’s sat back, and Steve watches as they flicker from him over to Eddie and back again. And then he smiles. Kind of. It’s a confused sort of smile, like he’s happy even if he doesn’t quite understand what’s happening. Either that, or the abomination of a pizza he created and then committed to eating nearly half of is giving him indigestion and Steve will have to go digging out the antacids later. It’s hard to tell with him. And then Steve nods toward the tv, a wordless command to mind his business that Dustin, surprisingly enough, actually obliges. ( There it is, that big, dumb soft spot in his heart again. Steve really fucking loves that kid. He’s a good kid, like the little brother Steve never knew he wanted. ) All at once, Steve’s granted the relief of being able to return to his own little world and he does so all too gladly.

The first thing Steve notices is Eddie’s moved again. It’s a subtle shift in position, the way he’s twisted from laying back fully against Steve to curling onto his side between Steve’s legs; his head is still pillowed against Steve’s shoulder, but now he’s got it resting a little further down so he can better see the movie, dark curls splayed wildly across Steve’s chest. One hand still holds Steve’s in his own, but he’s not fiddling with the rings anymore. He’s just holding Steve’s hand, their fists curled together and tucked up by Eddie’s chin to keep it from tilting downward as his head grows heavier with fatigue. The other has snaked around Steve’s hips until it’s wedged between his lower back and the arm of the sofa, and Steve can’t see it, but he can feel the fingers that have curled tightly around his sweatshirt, holding him close. 

It’s enough to have his heart fluttering in his chest in a way Steve hasn’t felt in — fuck, he couldn’t even tell you how long — and he understands now what Eddie meant when he said that being around Steve made him feel like he could barf up butterflies. Steve feels it now, too. Overwhelmingly so. His arm slides down from where it’s stretched across the back of the sofa, comes to wrap around Eddie’s shoulders instead. They’re a tangle of limbs now, all wrapped up in each other, and Steve can’t help but wonder what’s taken him so fucking long. He knows it wouldn’t make much of a difference, but he still can’t shake the thought that he could’ve had this for days now, at least, if he’d just picked up the phone and given Eddie a call one of the dozens of times he’d thought about it. ( He never did, and he’d be kicking himself for it now if he weren’t so caught up in this moment that he’s currently incapable of forming another thought. Besides, better late than never, right? )

“You know,” Eddie murmurs, and his whisper’s so quiet and so hoarse he loses about half a syllable when he speaks, “you would’ve made a better Brand.” And for a moment, Steve has no idea what the fuck Eddie’s talking about, thinks maybe it’s the painkillers scrambling his words around on his tongue as they start to metabolize. A better brand? What does that even mean? But then Steve remembers that, unlike him, Eddie’s actually been watching the movie, and it dawns on him that Eddie’s talking about Josh Brolin’s character. Oh. Steve waits to see if he’ll elaborate. “You’re both — you both got the whole sporty, protective older brother thing going for you, y’know? And — and you both got these kids that you’re just trying to keep alive, booby trap after booby trap after living-flesh-fucking- hivemind-vines booby trap. A whole fucking handful of them. Kids, I mean. And traps.” As he speaks, Eddie continues to gaze toward the screen, as if it’s too much effort to tilt his head back to look up at Steve anymore. To be fair, Steve thinks it probably might be. Eddie Munson has been through hell and back tonight. It’s a wonder he’s even conscious right now. “But you gotta do it, right? You just… you just gotta. So you do.”

Steve wonders if he should start keeping a tally of the number of unprompted monologues Eddie’s rambled his way through tonight, or if after a while maybe he’d just lose count anyway. “But you do it so much better. So much better. Brand wouldn’t — he wouldn’t do half the shit you’ve done for these kids. No way. And even if he’d tried, he wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale, you know? He wouldn’t have made it. Like diving into that lake? No fucking way. No way.” And Steve knows it’s probably just the painkillers talking, making Eddie so sentimental and loose-lipped, but fuck, he’s clinging to every word like his life depends on it. Eddie’s eyes may be glassy and half-open and okay, yeah, he’s not even looking at him right now but it doesn't even matter because at this moment Steve is sure he’s never felt more seen. Because at the end of the day, there’s not a single thing he wouldn’t do to protect the heap of kids piled on his living room floor. His kids. He’d go to the ends of the earth if he had to. Hell, he could argue he already fucking had. And he’d do it again.  

And no matter what he says, Steve knows Eddie would too. When it came down to it, he didn’t run. Or if he did, it was right back into the line of fire to protect Dustin, to protect everyone. To protect Hawkins, the town that fucking hated him, deemed him a pariah for daring to be even the slightest bit different. Steve can feel himself growing irritated just thinking about it, so he wrenches his attention back to Eddie to save himself the anger. Eddie, who’s still trudging through a long-winded whisper of an argument for why Steve’s got leading man potential when Steve finally tunes back in. “—and Brolin’s nice to look at and all, sure, he fits the type. He’s conventionally attractive. But, like, you.. you are something else entirely, you know?” No, actually, Steve doesn’t know. He would love to know. Then Eddie tilts his head back just enough to lift his gaze to Steve and if he sees anything at all, it’s a wonder to Steve because his eyes are barely open, hardly visible through dark lashes. His grin, though, Steve would be able to spot that from across the room. It’s wide and lazy and inviting and so fucking earnest it makes Steve’s heart skip a beat. 

The hand that’s been curled around his since the start of the movie finally releases, and Steve feels his ability to breathe shift from automatic to manual as a warm palm rises to cup the side of his face. He stutters on an inhale and nearly chokes, but manages to swallow it down before it becomes embarrassing because Eddie’s still looking at him. “Because you — you are fucking beautiful, Steve Harrington. Ethereal. It’s… fuck, it’s so much it makes me stupid sometimes, I don’t — I can’t even think straight. And the whole world — the entire world — would fall in love with you, Steve. I know they would.” Oh God, Steve’s heart is racing and he can’t see it but he can feel that his face is on fire beneath Eddie’s touch, and suddenly he doesn’t know how to speak. Doesn’t know what he’d even say if he did. Eddie Munson thinks he’s beautiful? That’s a lot of information to take in and Steve doesn’t know how he’s supposed to just process it casually over The Goonies like it’s no big deal. 

( It’s the biggest fucking deal he’s had in a while, okay? Maybe that’s embarrassing. He doesn't know. Leave him alone. ) 

What Steve wouldn’t give in this moment to be anywhere other than this couch in this living room because all he really wants to do is lean forward and close the space between his lips and Eddie’s, to put an end to the compliments Steve doesn’t know how to take with a kiss. Or several kisses. Steve’s not particular, he just knows what he wants. But he also knows that he can’t kiss Eddie, not right here. He shouldn’t. The kids are distracted for now, sure, but all it would take is one pair of wandering eyes during an expositional lull for chaos to descend upon the whole space. Steve’s not ready for that. He knows Eddie isn’t either. But he’s so close to Steve right now and he’s got that soft look in his eyes that makes Steve’s limbs go all gooey and makes his chest get tight, and if he’s quick about it, maybe he could just sneak a little—

Nope. As if the universe itself were stepping in and telling Steve to get a grip on himself and to Jesus H. Christ, behave, the moment Steve even thinks about moving closer, Eddie’s suddenly pulling away, ducking his head forward in a flurry of curls to smother what Steve swears must be a cosmically aligned, divinely intervening sneeze into the sleeve of his sweater. He wants to be grateful for the distraction, for the moment it might give him to get himself together and get his fucking hormones in check after he was really about to just risk it all , but Steve’s heart lurches at the pained whimper that accompanies the movement ( even with the pain medication ) and the way Eddie just falls back against him afterward, mumbling an exhausted apology into his shirt. Leave it to Steve to fall for someone who’s literally falling apart. “Don’t be sorry,” he says, mostly because he doesn’t think Eddie should feel like he has to be. For anything. Except maybe short-circuiting Steve’s brain every once in a while and making him forget every known word in the English language, but Steve can forgive that. It’s not his fault, after all. “You make me stupid sometimes too.” 

“What? Me?” Eddie’s got his face buried in Steve’s sweatshirt now, so his words are muffled and he can’t see Steve nod that, yes, in fact, he does. Quite a lot, if he’s being honest. Actually, if he’s being really honest, he thought it was pretty fucking obvious. Steve might not always be as suave as he likes to think he is, but he’s not usually one for stumbling over his words. Or being rendered speechless entirely, for that matter. Eddie Munson, when Steve is in his presence, has a talent for making him do both. The way he flirts, the way he smiles and fucking bats his lashes at him in front of God and everybody like he wears his heart on his sleeve right alongside his tattoos and scribbled on it are the words ‘belongs to Steve Harrington.’ Steve can’t be blamed for thinking he was that way with everybody, could be that way with anybody , at least at first. He’s starting to think a little differently now, like maybe Eddie was trying to get his attention this whole time. Just him. Just Steve. His stomach is doing somersaults. 

“Yeah, you. Who else?” Steve doesn’t know if he’s expecting an answer or not, but Eddie doesn’t have one either way. Steve could almost swear he could feel him smiling against his chest though, the way he’s got his face pressed into it. He’s starting to relax again too, every ounce of tension in his muscles replaced with liquid exhaustion as he all but melts into Steve. And Steve’s not sure what compels him to do it, but he lets his hand slip and get lost in Eddie’s unruly hair, fingers gentle as they weave through the knots hidden in dark curls and slowly start to detangle them. Eddie doesn’t protest, having fallen into a comfortable silence against Steve with his head tilted toward the television but his eyes absolutely one hundred percent closed, and Steve does his best not to pull as he tries to tame his seemingly untameable tresses. If anyone could do it. And he does. For the rest of the movie, Steve works his way slowly through Eddie’s hair, until all of his curls ( save for the few pinned between Eddie’s head and Steve’s sweatshirt ) are wild and fluffy and soft and he can run his fingers through them without catching on a single snag. He must’ve had a light touch, too — that or the pill finally started working its magic — because by the time the credits are rolling, Eddie’s snoring.

Deciding that he’s entirely unable to move without disturbing Eddie, Steve doesn’t bother to turn on the lights. The kids are winding down anyway, a day of hauling ass around Hawkins on their bikes and a collective sugar coma from Steve’s snickerdoodle cookies leaving the whole lot of them not far from dreamland themselves. Dustin’s still awake, though, and he’s looking over at Steve again, so Steve capitalizes on his incessant curiosity. “Last movie of the night. It’s your pick if you get up and put it in, Henderson.” For the first time tonight, there are no protests, only a few mumbled suggestions as Dustin slides out of the chair and over to the television set. Steve thinks he’ll probably circle back to Ferris Bueller, so he’s surprised when the previews for another familiar tape start playing instead. Ghostbusters. It feels like a good choice to end the marathon, Steve thinks, they’ve all seen it at least half a dozen times and nobody’s going to miss anything if they happen to fall asleep. Or if they’re already out cold.   

He’s also surprised when, instead of returning to the coveted recliner, Dustin decides to toe his way around the floor camp all the way to the sofa, scooping up a pillow and a blanket from the heap along the way. Steve watches him assess the couch for a moment in the dark before tossing his pillow into the corner opposite Steve; the way Eddie’s got his legs tucked up to his chest  has left the end cushion completely vacant, save for Steve’s foot, and it appears Henderson’s decided it’s the perfect spot. If it were any other night, under any other circumstances, Steve might have used that foot to nudge him right back onto the floor with his friends so he could stretch out in the unoccupied space. But he doesn’t. Not tonight. Instead, Steve lets him stake a claim on the rest of the couch if he wants it, watches in the low light as Dustin carefully drapes the blanket in his arms over Eddie’s sleeping form before tucking himself into the corner at his feet and pulling the rest of the blanket up over his own legs. 

Steve wonders if this is his way of letting Steve know — his way of saying before they have the chance to talk — that this… whatever this is, that Dustin’s okay with it. And maybe that’s just Steve being dumb and hopeful, but it really feels like it might, the way he gazes over Eddie to Steve and meets his gaze with a sleepy, tired smile before tugging the pillow under his head with his hat still on. And then Eddie’s nuzzling into his chest and Dustin’s closing his eyes like he didn’t even plan on watching the movie at all, and Steve thinks, this must be it. Steve’s got a lot of love, more love than he knows what to do with sometimes, but he’s sure in this moment that his heart has never felt more full. Is this what he’s wanted — what he’s needed — all along? Eddie fucking Munson? Nothing’s ever made so much sense to Steve while simultaneously making absolutely none at all, and he thinks he’s got to learn a thing or two about observation from Henderson because he’s never felt more fucking obtuse. His chin comes to rest on the soft curls at the crown of Eddie’s head and Steve closes his eyes too, because he’s seen the movie too many times before but this experience, this feeling is new , and he just wants to live in it for a while. 

Steve knows he’s going to wake up in a couple of hours with an unbearable ache in his neck and an inability to feel in most of his limbs, sweaty and gross from the heaps of layers of blanket and sweater and Eddie piled on top of him. He knows this going into it, but decides it’s worth it anyway. And if he intends to bask in the sheer fucking domesticity of it all, about the bona fide living dream of it all, his window of opportunity is short-lived; Steve’s asleep too, only moments after he’s finally shut his eyes. He dreams of white picket fences and cluttered kitchen counters, of childrens’ laughter and lullabies strummed on a vintage acoustic guitar. He dreams about his future, about having a life and a family, like he always has. But there’s something different about it this time. Someone different. Eddie.

Steve doesn’t know what’s happening when he’s ripped from the most peaceful ( if awkwardly positioned ) sleep he’s had in a while to the sound of a loud, strangled shout echoing so loudly in his ears he can almost hear them ringing on top of it. Before he has a chance to figure out who’s screaming or why — before he can even open his eyes — Steve’s groaning as an elbow connects with his gut. And then he realizes it. It’s Eddie screaming. It’s Eddie thrashing and flailing and struggling in his arms as he cries out like he’s being attacked . He can hardly see for the darkness, for the stars suddenly shrouding his vision as he tries to catch his breath, get his bearings so he can figure out what the fuck to do. Somehow, over the sound of Eddie’s shrieks, Steve can hear the kids have begun shouting too, clearly woken in a panic the same way Steve had been, minus the involuntary assault. He reaches out blindly and tries to find some part of Eddie to hang on to, to hold him down until he can calm down so he doesn’t hurt himself, but Eddie’s already tumbling to the floor with a heavy thud.

Dustin’s hyperventilating beside him, clutching his pillow to his chest and staring at Steve so hard Steve can feel it. Urging Steve to fix it. To fix Eddie. And Steve wants to — christ, does he want to — but then Eddie’s scrambling to his feet. He stands there for a second, so wobbly Steve’s terrified he’s about to collapse right there, and he’s staring at Steve with eyes wide and dark and frantic, full of fear and confusion. Panic. Like a deer caught in the headlights. At least he’s not screaming now, but his breath comes in heavy, staggered gasps as he looks right into Steve. Looks right through him. And then Eddie takes off in a sprint. He’s stumbling out of the room before Steve can even register what’s happened, and by the time he can pull himself up off the sofa — because look, he can take a hit, but Eddie was really swinging — he can already hear the slam of a door echoing down the hall. It’s quickly drowned out by the sound of his name, at least a dozen times in half as many seconds. 

“Steve, what happened? What was that?”

“Is Eddie okay, Steve?”

“Did he hit you? Steve!”

Steve. Steve! Steve! It’s enough to make Steve want to shout too, so he does. “Enough! Enough!”  His voice is deeper, louder than any of theirs and it quickly drowns them out as he yells. They all fall into silence, and Steve drags a hand slowly over his face. He wants to take off down the hall after Eddie, to make sure he’s okay, but he knows he can’t leave the kids like this. They’re scared, too. Rightfully so, Steve thinks. They deserve some kind of explanation, even if Steve doesn’t really have much of one to offer. “I don’t — I don’t know what happened. Maybe he just had a nightmare—” That one earns some murmurs of agreement, understanding. There’s not a single one of them in the room that can’t relate to that. “Or maybe — I don’t know.” It’s not great, okay? Steve knows that. But he also just woke up two minutes ago to a hit that nearly knocked the wind out of him, so forgive him if he thinks he deserves to be cut a little slack. He was having such a good dream too. Fuck. His fucking luck. “I’m sure he’s okay, he’s gonna be fine, but I’m — I’m gonna go check on him.” Steve sees the kids start to wriggle out of their sleeping bags to stand and he shakes his head, waves a hand at them. 

“No, no. I’ll go. You guys stay, and — I don’t know, go back to bed.” Okay, no, Steve can’t blame them for protesting that. The adrenaline in this room is much too high for two in the morning, and everyone’s buzzing with worry and confusion. And Steve realizes it’s not just him. They all care about Eddie, every last one of them, and they were all just as scared by the sudden display as Steve was. As he is. “Just — turn on another movie or something then, okay? I don’t care. I just don’t think we need to crowd him right now, that’s all. Come on. Dustin still hasn’t seen Ferris Bueller anyway.” Steve knows that they know he’s just trying to distract them, but they’re smart enough to listen. They know he’s right, even if not a single one of the brats would ever say it out loud. That’s okay, Steve doesn’t need them to. He sees it when it counts, like now, as Mike shuffles over to the tv set, still halfway in his sleeping bag as he switches out the tapes. ( Without rewinding, Steve notices, but he knows he’s got to give him a pass this time. ) Satisfied as they start to settle back in, this time closer together in their little pile on the floor, Steve turns to leave. Dustin catches his wrist before he can get far.

“I’m coming with you,” he insists, and his eyes are still squinted and heavy with sleep but he sounds determined. Resolute. It’s not a question.

“No,” Steve says simply, as if it’ll stop him. It doesn’t.  

“Steve, it’s Eddie.” And when Dustin says his mentor’s name, it comes out as a whine, as if he truly believes Steve will refuse him, make him sit back down and watch the movie. “I’m coming with you. Please.” Steve can’t say no to that. He can’t. Not after what Dustin’s been through with Eddie. Instead, he sighs, nods his head forward as if to gesture for Dustin to follow him. When he goes to shake his wrist free of Dustin’s hand, he notices the younger boy clutches at his sleeve a little tighter. He doesn’t try to make him let go again. “I saw that he, um, he accidentally hit you, when he was—” Dustin’s free hand comes up to mime the frantic motions Eddie had made on the couch moments earlier, “—and I just wanted to make sure — you’re okay, right?” Steve reaches up with the hand that’s still latched to Dustin’s head and gives it a pat before letting them fall back at his side. He’ll be fine. “Good, because it looked — well, I just wanted to make sure. He almost got me too, you know, when he started kicking — I guess I’m just proficient at dodging.” He lets out a little nervous laugh at that, and Steve thinks there must be some joke he’s missing. He laughs along anyway for a second before they both trail off. Dustin breaks the awkward silence. “He looked so scared, Steve.” 

“I know,” Steve says, because he does. He saw it too. He’ll never unsee it now, actually, a heartbreaking image now branded into his memory. The wound’s still fresh, and it aches when he thinks about it. It’ll haunt him later. Something new for his own nightmares. He drops Dustin’s hand then, but only to pull him into a one-armed embrace at his side. “I know.” Steve holds him close like that until they make it to the end of the hallway, and Dustin leans into him for comfort and support as he trudges along. The both of them hesitate as they reach the bathroom door, though, footfalls slowing to a stop. Dustin grips Steve’s sweater and urges him forward, so Steve reaches out and raps his knuckles once, twice against the painted wood. “Eddie?” Nothing. Steve knocks again. “Eddie? Are you in there?” He leans in, presses his ear to the door while Dustin squishes impossibly further into his side as if it’ll help him hear too. And then Steve hears it.

It’s quiet at first, so much so that Steve almost misses it at first, the sound of low, muffled gagging broken up by sudden bouts of coughs and choked, stuttered sobs. Oh. Fuck. Eddie. Instinct has Steve immediately reaching for the doorknob, and he swears under his breath when he tries to turn it and finds that it’s locked. Goddamn it. Dustin bounces worriedly at his side when he hears Steve, and Steve can feel his panic rising so he tries to calm himself down so he doesn’t feed into it. “It’s fine. It’s going to be fine.” And if it sounds like he’s convincing anyone, Steve will swear it’s for Dustin’s sake and not for himself. He already knows it, right? Right. “I think he just needs a minute.” Steve sighs again, turns and sinks down against the door until he’s seated on the floor with his back pressed to it. He looks up at Dustin. “You should go back in with the others. I’ll make sure he’s okay, I promise. You wanted to see the movie anyway, right? They all go back tomorrow, you know.” 

In hindsight, Steve should have expected Dustin wouldn’t listen to him. He’s only obedient when he wants to be, when it suits him. Now, on the other hand, he wants absolutely nothing to do with Steve’s suggestion. Instead, he takes a seat next to Steve on the floor, folds his legs beneath him on the carpet and rests his head on Steve’s shoulder. A silent protest. It’s not his usual, but under the circumstances, Steve understands. Steve reaches up, pulls off his hat and tosses it in his lap so he can ruffle the hair underneath. He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe to try and provide some small shred of comfort to the boy all but clinging to him for it. Or maybe it’s to remind the both of them that he’s still just a kid, that he doesn’t have to carry the weight of this emotional burden alone. Dustin may be strong, but Steve knows it’s heavy. He’ll take on as much of it as he can. Always. Either way, Dustin huffs a half-hearted laugh, but he doesn’t bat his hand away, leans into it a little even. 

“Hey, Steve?” Dustin says, and there’s something about the way he says his name that gives Steve pause. It’s like a warning, like something’s coming. Steve knows what’s coming, and he sucks in a breath, bracing himself for impact. The talk. The talk. He thought he’d at least have until the morning to work himself up to it. But here it is, the perfect fucking opportunity, and of course Dustin’s seizing it. He’s ducking out from under Steve’s hand now, scooting and twisting to look up at him, and there’s something so earnest in the way his gaze is already searching Steve that he knows he couldn’t get out of it now if he wanted to. Steve looks over at Dustin, lifts brows until they disappear behind his bedhead and waits for him to continue. He wonders if he looks as holy shit absolutely fucking terrified as he is. “Are you in love with Eddie?” 

“Shit, that is… that is a big word, Henderson,” Steve blurts out, the only thing he can manage, because while he’s anticipating the direction of the conversation, he hadn’t expected Dustin to come out of the gate swinging. But it isn’t a no. He didn’t say no.

“It’s okay if you are!” Dustin insists quickly, like he wants to make sure he gets that clear, first and foremost. He must see the blank fear in Steve’s face as he struggles to process that, yes , this is actually happening right now and yes, he can still hear Eddie getting sick on the other side of the door and he sounds like he’s in pain and take that fear as a direct reaction to his question. He supposes it’s not entirely off the mark either. “It’s not — it’s okay, I promise. And I’m not going to tell anyone, I swear. I just — I think he likes you, Steve.” If Steve wants to snort — because yeah, he thinks so too, and he can’t fucking believe it — he doesn’t, because he knows it’s not fair. Dustin’s trying to have a heart-to-heart, and Steve listens because he deserves it. “Like, really likes you. And Eddie’s special, Steve. He’s not like most people, and he’s not — he isn’t what most people think he is, either. He’s a good guy. And he cares a lot. He cares so much .”

Steve wonders where this is going, if Dustin’s about to turn this into some protective little brother, don’t-break-his-heart speech. “And then I just — I saw you guys tonight, and I saw the way he was looking at you, and — and whatever you guys were doing in the kitchen, but I just — even though he cares so much about everybody else , Steve, sometimes I’m scared he thinks nobody cares about him.” Dustin’s fidgeting with his hat now and Steve, for the umpteenth fucking time tonight, is speechless. He knows where Dustin’s coming from — he can see what he sees, he saw it tonight — and it makes Steve feel things he doesn’t know how to describe. If Eddie Munson can see people, Dustin Henderson can read them like an open book. “But you make people feel safe, Steve. It’s like some weird sort of mom energy you give off—” That earns a light shove from Steve, and Dustin’s laughing again, but this time it sounds a little more genuine. A little more real. “—and I think that maybe he needs that right now. I think that maybe it’s good for him. That you’re good for him.”

“Dustin—”

“I’m not done! I’m not done.” Steve falls silent at Henderson’s protests, palms raised in front of him as he waits for him to continue. “Because I think that maybe — maybe Eddie would be good for you too. I know you’re lonely, Steve, and — hey, before you hit me, that’s not a jab! It’s okay! Seriously. It’s natural, right? But you’re never going to get with Nancy—” Dustin is pushing his luck and he knows it, but Steve can feel that he’s slowly beating his way around to a point and he’s trying to be patient because as much as he hates himself for saying it, he needs to know what it is. Wants to know exactly why it is Henderson thinks this is all a good idea because Steve so desperately wants to believe it is too, wants someone to validate him for thinking it could be. It just so happens that his best friend’s fresh into high school and no, that doesn’t make it lame or weird at all. Who else is he supposed to talk to about this? Robin’s not here. She bailed. Henderson never bails. “—and you’re not getting anywhere flirting with the customers at Family Video, but Eddie — he’s right here, you know? And you’re always smiling when you’re around him, and laughing at his jokes, and I just think—” Dustin pauses, and Steve thinks it must be to take a breath, because the kid’s deep into a monologue that could rival one of Eddie’s right now. 

“I just think that if you love him then that’s awesome, because I’m pretty sure he’s in love with you too, and you both deserve to be happy. You’re like, my two favorite people in the world.” Another pause, and Dustin grins. “And then I can tell people I have two dads! How cool. I always wanted two cool dads.”

And if Steve is wrinkling his nose at the odd specificity of Dustin’s words, he doesn’t see it, because Steve’s also pulling him into a tight hug right there on the hallway floor. It’s awkward and painful and Steve has to twist to pull Dustin into his arms, but once he’s there, Steve doesn’t let go for several long seconds. It could be minutes. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. He could cry right now, but he doesn’t let himself. Steve knows what it’s like to feel like he has to stay strong. But inside? Inside, Steve Harrington is crumbling. He may not know if he loves Eddie, may not be ready to put that word on anything quite yet, but Steve knows one thing for certain: he fucking loves Dustin Henderson. And he says as much, mumbles it into his matted curls as he squeezes him tight and tries not to act like he’s just been laid completely fucking bare by a fifteen year old. When Dustin says it back, Steve just laughs. Laughs so he doesn’t cry because he’s so overwhelmed with so many feelings all at once and he’s not used to this, he doesn’t know how to handle it, and he hugs Dustin tighter. 

Steve’s not sure how long they sit there after that. Dustin talks to him about Dungeons and Dragons and Metallica, about the new game shop that’s going to be opening up across town soon and how Eddie’s going to take him there to buy these things called miniatures that they’re going to paint together. Dustin talks until he wears himself out and Steve lets him, waits patiently through peaks and valleys in conversation until his words slow to a halt all together and Steve looks down to find he’s fallen asleep with his head in his lap. On the other side of the door, Eddie’s grown quiet as well. Steve deliberates for several long moments with his head against the door before sliding his legs out from under Dustin’s head. He stirs but doesn’t wake, so Steve shifts to his knees in front of Dustin and gathers his sleeping body in his arms, rises to carry him back out to the living room.

Steve’s glad to find everyone else has also passed out in their absence, after the adrenaline had passed. He returns Dustin to the couch, picks the blanket up from where it’s been strewn across the floor and covers him with it once more. And then Steve’s leaving the living room again, turning the corner down the hall and taking a second to breathe for the first time in what feels like hours. When he makes it back to the bathroom, Steve pauses in front of the door. He’s got every intention to wait all night right outside the bathroom if he’s got to, camp out in front of the door just to make sure Eddie’s okay when he finally comes back out. He’s not sure what has him reaching for the doorknob again, as if anything’s changed at all in the few moments he’s been gone, but Steve’s surprised when it turns and the latch clicks open. His touch is gentle, hesitant as he pushes it open just a crack, peeks his head inside.

“Eddie? Hey — shit, Eddie, are you okay?”

Chapter Text

Steve doesn’t know what to expect when he opens the door, has no idea what he’s going to find on the other side. As much as he tried to muffle the sounds of it — and Steve could tell that he’d tried, he really had — it was clear to him that Eddie had been going through it in the bathroom while he and Dustin were busy having a heartfelt discussion only a few feet away. Dustin might not have been able to hear it, but Steve had. Christ, he had. And once he did, it was nearly impossible to tune out. Steve’s lucky his gaze is trained on the floor as he pushes open the door to step inside, otherwise he might’ve tripped right over Eddie on his way in and ended up with a faceful of tile. Very lucky, Steve thinks, if the current state of the floor is anything to go by. The first thing he notices are the towels — until tonight, Steve’s pretty sure they were more decorative than anything, but now the pristine, embroidered and monogrammed hand towels are bunched up and scattered across the tile, and Steve’s got to push them out of the way with the door to get all the way inside. 

When he does, Eddie’s right there, sitting in the middle of all the mess and the chaos with his back pressed to the cabinet beneath the sink and his legs pulled tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around them in a self-swallowing embrace. He must’ve moved close enough to unlock the door and promptly given up on making it any further, not that anyone could blame him. Steve can’t see his face at first; it’s buried somewhere between his knees and the sweater and so much hair that he’s almost entirely obscured. What Steve can see is that he’s shaking, his whole body quaking with tremors and shivers that Steve can make out even through the many layers of fabric that shroud him. And then Steve’s on the floor before he knows it, kicking towels out of the way so he can come to kneel at Eddie’s side. Eddie looks so small like this, so hunched over and curled in on himself, like Steve could just reach out and gather the whole of him up in his arms as if he were light as the blanket Steve had just been holding, fragile as the glass on the counter making home to half a dozen toothbrushes just overhead. Like one wrong move, one fumble in Steve’s hands and he might just shatter. Eddie’s words from earlier ring out in his ears and Steve can feel his stomach twist into knots. Forget about it. It’s a fucking mess.

( On any other night, Steve would be swearing under his breath because just remembered he's sent all the brats to bed without brushing their teeth, but tonight… tonight, he thinks, warrants an exception. For all of them. Even if it means his kitchen will be full of their god-awful shrimp-pizza breath in the morning. ) 

“Eddie,” Steve says as knees crash down against the tile, and yeah, he knows he’s going to feel that later but right now he can’t feel anything for the adrenaline that’s back buzzing through his veins. “ Hey. Hey, Eddie, c’mon. Look at me.” At this point, Steve isn’t coaxing for answers. He can already piece together what’s happened, from the towels to the water still running in the tap, forgotten, to the smell of sick lingering in the air. And no, he’s not going to bring it up, he’s not an asshole, but fuck . Steve was right. He knew Eddie shouldn’t have taken those pills on an empty stomach, knew that a few half-hearted bites of pizza crust wouldn’t be enough to invalidate the warning label on the side of the bottle. He wants to be mad at the kids and their stupid, ocean-themed pizza, but then he thinks about Dustin’s face, about his goofy lopsided grin and how fucking excited he’d been about it, and suddenly Steve can’t find it in himself to be angry at all. If anything, he could be mad at himself; he’d read the bottle, after all, and it wasn’t as if his kitchen was as barren as it looked. He could have found something.

But those kinds of thoughts don’t do him any good now, Steve thinks, not when Eddie’s falling apart right there in front of his eyes and he doesn’t even know where to begin trying to put him back together. So he shoves them away, pushes them to the back of his mind for later and turns the entirety of his focus toward Eddie instead. Where it belongs. And fuck, poor Eddie. He’s still got his head tucked between his knees and his shoulders are shaking so violently Steve can’t tell if he’s shivering or sobbing as he chokes in breath after shuddering breath. Steve can’t tell anything. He can’t see anything. And as much as he doesn’t want to startle Eddie, doesn’t want to accidentally provoke him — Steve thinks back to the boat house on the lake, to sharp shards of a broken bottle pressing into his neck and tries not to shiver himself — Steve knows he can’t help until he gets a good look at him. He just needs to lay eyes on him, okay? To make sure he’s alright. To figure out what’s wrong . 

Slowly, carefully, a hand slips into the space between Eddie’s knees, pushing past wild curls Steve had only just tamed that seemed somehow now worse than before, pausing when fingertips brush against his chin. And then Steve’s lifting his head up, and if Eddie wants to resist, he’s too exhausted to do much more than whine a pitifully half-hearted protest. The most Steve gets out of him is a flinch when he first makes contact, but Eddie doesn’t try to get away. Steve tilts Eddie’s head back and the hand that’s holding Steve balanced on the floor reaches up to fumble with the lightswitch, brush away all the wild waves stuck to ruddy cheeks as fluorescent bulbs flicker on with a hum and illuminate the situation for him. Steve’s immediate first thought is that he almost wishes he’d left them off. In this light, Eddie manages to look both too flushed and also several shades too pale, even for him; faint freckles disappear beneath skin splotchy in shades of pink and red from fever and distress, replaced with a smattering of broken blood vessels that dot the edges of his eyes and the dark shadows that rim them. 

There’s a new injury to add to Munson’s roster too, Steve notices as Eddie tries to hide himself underneath Steve in the shadow of his silhouette to dodge the lights. A cut sits high on Eddie’s left cheekbone, jagged at the edges and roughly two inches across; deep purple bruises are already beginning to blossom to the surface surrounding the wound, and Steve thinks it’s close enough that when everything’s settled, he wouldn’t be surprised if Eddie ends up with a black eye. How the hell did he do that? The cut’s not bleeding, at least; not anymore , Steve tries not to swear under his breath as he notices the streaks of mottled red gluing dark curls to Eddie’s cheek, mixing with the tears already staining his skin to form sticky stripes. “Hey, hey, Eddie. It’s okay. Just breathe,” Steve coos because Eddie’s still hyperventilating and every time he sucks in a shaky breath, his bottom lip goes with it and his teeth are tearing the soft flesh apart and Steve can literally feel his heart breaking in his chest. “You gotta calm down, babe. You’re gonna get through this, I swear. You just gotta ride it out. You gotta breathe.”

Steve’s not sure where the words are coming from, but they tumble and spill from his lips as he pulls Eddie into his arms, a mantra he can only hope is soothing. And then Steve’s twisting, shifting so that he’s on the floor too, so he can tug Eddie off the cold tile and onto his lap. He doesn’t know if that’s the right thing to do — if any of this is the right thing to do, because he’s not a fucking professional, okay? — but Steve thinks that it will at least give him the upper hand at containing Eddie if he tries to thrash around again. But Eddie seems to welcome the touch, to give into it. The moment Steve’s pulled him into his lap, Eddie is collapsing into his chest, curling into himself again but this time clutching onto Steve’s shirt as if his life depends on it. Maybe it does. Steve doesn’t pretend to know anything anymore. Instead, he wraps his arms around Eddie as tightly as he can without fearing he’ll hurt him, pulls him impossibly closer to his chest and buries his face in the wild curls at the crown of Eddie’s head, murmurs soft reassurances there that, at this point, are just as much for himself as they are Eddie. Does it help either one of them? Steve’s not sure, but he keeps doing it anyway in the hopes that maybe it will.

And maybe it does, because after several long moments spent just like that, with Steve holding Eddie close and rocking the two of them together on the floor, Eddie manages to choke out a few words. “I‘m s-so sorry, Steve,” he grits out through clenched teeth, and Steve can feel the effort it takes for him to speak, to try and spit out the words between hiccups and gasps. His voice is raw, rough. Barely there, Steve thinks, and it’ll be a wonder if he’s got any of it left by morning. ( It is morning. Fuck. ) He can barely hear the apology, so Steve uses it as an excuse to move even closer, nudging his own face in past the curtain of hair hiding Eddie’s profile and resting his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. He thought he’d told him no more apologizing. A hand slides all the way up Eddie’s back with a firm but gentle touch before slipping into his hair, and when he starts to comb fingers through the strands and smooth them down, he’s not sure who it’s to relax more. 

“I shouldn’t be he- here right now, fuck. I should’ve jus’ left, could’a gone h-home…” If that’s not the most absurd, horrifically insane thing Steve’s ever heard, he doesn’t know what the fuck is. He’s trying to imagine Eddie — this Eddie, who’s probably half-delirious from a raging fever and high off his ass an unexpectedly violent course of opioids — back at his trailer, alone, just trying to sweat and writhe and thrash this shit out on the couch ( or worse, that flimsy excuse of a mattress ) while his uncle works an overnight shift at the plant, completely unaware. Absolutely not. Steve doesn’t care what’s happened, there’s not a single thing Eddie could’ve done for Steve to think that was an even remotely viable option. “I — I told you I can’t s-sleep anymore, because every time I do, every time I try, I f-fucking go back there. I always go back there. And I’m so fucking stupid, I don’t — I don’t know why I thought —” 

Steve can hear Eddie getting himself worked up again, getting frantic as panic bubbles up in his throat, and he knows he needs to intervene somehow, even if he doesn’t want to interrupt, not when Eddie’s finally actually saying something. The hand that’s not carding through his hair reaches up to find Eddie’s own, to curl around them and twist their fingers together the same way Eddie had been doing on the couch. A distraction, maybe, and arguably not even a good one, but Steve’s banking on it working, banking on himself actually being right about something on the first shot for once. He gets fidgety when he’s anxious, Steve’s seen this before — like when he happens to cross paths with Jason and his cronies out on the street or in the school parking lot, or when he can’t stand still across the counter at Family Video as he tells Robin and Steve all about the gig that Corroded Coffin finally got booked to do ( and, no, Steve’s never thought about why that particular scenario would’ve made Eddie anxious, not before now, but he had looked at Steve funny when Eddie had offered to pick him up and he replied with, “Aren’t you supposed to ride with the band?” ) or when Dustin makes a decision he’s not anticipating in his well-thought-out D&D campaign and sends his entire eight-week plan awry.

And fuck, Steve Harrington isn’t even sure he believes in a God, not anymore, but if he does exist? Steve’s thanking his lucky fucking stars for him right now, for the fact that he actually was fucking right. Eddie’s hands are drawn to Steve’s like a moth to a flame, instantaneously and full of a wildly chaotic, fluttering energy that Steve couldn’t keep track of if he’d tried. Suddenly he’s glad he’d decided not to abandon the rings before falling asleep hours earlier, because Eddie’s twisting them again, sliding and tugging and swapping them before twisting them once more until they’re all upright in yet another combination on Steve’s fingers. Steve wouldn’t say it hurts, but there’s something a little more aggressive behind the movements now, something more urgent in the way fingers flit across metal and tug it over his knuckles. This seems to soothe Eddie in ways Steve’s not entirely sure he understands, but he finds that he’s grateful to be a part of his source of relief. To be included in it, whatever that might mean. “I — I guess I just thought that maybe this time would be different.” 

Because he fell asleep in Steve’s arms. Steve doesn’t mean to fill in the blanks here, doesn’t mean to be presumptuous, but if anyone gets it, it’s him. After all, tonight’s the first night in a long while Steve was able to fall asleep without being immediately confronted by his own inner demons, plagued by nightmares he’s seen in the flesh. It’s the first night he himself didn’t wake up in a cold sweat or with a frightened shout, dreaming of horrors and tragedies if he even managed to dream at all. And Steve doesn’t want to get all teenage rom-com sappy and say it’s because of Eddie, but also, he fucking dreamt about Eddie. He’d be an idiot if he didn’t connect the dots there, right? “And even if I didn’t, it’s not like I could — it was so hard to keep my eyes open, Steve, and I kept trying to focus on the movie, thinking that if I just — if I just didn’t sleep , e-everything would be fine and I — I wouldn’t have traumatized the kids. The fucking kids , Jesus fuck…” 

And somehow, in spite of everything, Steve wants to laugh. Because of course Eddie would be thinking about anybody but himself right now. Everybody but himself. The conversation he had with Henderson flashes to the forefront of Steve’s mind. The kid’s right. Eddie Munson cares so fucking much. It would be funny, endearing, even, if it weren’t so totally fucking painful to see playing out in this moment. Steve knows his fear’s not misplaced, either, and he thinks that makes it worse; he doesn’t know how much of the scene Eddie remembers, what he even saw, but Steve can tell he knows it was bad. ( Is it always this bad? Steve can’t help but wonder. And is he always alone? His heart aches at the idea. ) He also knows that the kids were right there, that Eddie had nearly fallen on top of them when he’d tumbled from the couch, and their panicked shouts had already started rising by the time he’d stumbled his way out of the room. They’d gotten a front row seat. Steve feels compelled to downplay it, to assure Eddie that it really wasn’t as bad as he thinks, but he also doesn’t want to lie. Not when Eddie’s been so real, so honest with him the entire fucking night. He doesn’t deserve bullshit. 

“They’ll be okay.” But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t also deserve comfort. Steve tilts his head, nudges Eddie’s cheek with his forehead. Steve’s gentle and Eddie’s — well, Eddie is sticky , but Steve’s not paying attention. He hardly even feels it. The hand that’s lost in Eddie’s hair slides inward to find his neck, to just… hold Eddie’s head close to his for a moment. His breath still stutters and hitches softly, but the interruptions are getting fewer and farther between. He’s calming down. “If there is one thing I can promise you with absolute fucking certainty, Eddie Munson, it is that those kids will be fine. They’ve seen a lot worse, believe me.” It’s not funny, not in the grand scheme of things or really in any scheme of things at all, so Steve doesn’t know why he laughs. But he does. It’s soft and distracted and he’s spending more time studying Eddie’s profile than he is amused by anything , and Eddie doesn’t laugh, but Steve would swear he sees the faintest twitch of his lips, gone as quickly as it arrived. Blink and you’d have missed it. Steve didn’t miss it.  

“They might not look it, but they’re pretty tough,” Steve says, because it’s the truth, and he knows it to be an undeniable fact. “They’re just… well, they’re just worried about you right now. Of course they are. They’re good kids, too, but even on top of that, I don’t know if you’ve noticed — they fucking idolize you. Byers, Wheeler — shit, Dustin’s convinced the sun shines out of your ass, Eddie. You know that, right? You can see that, can’t you?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer, supposes maybe it’s his turn for a monologue. That’s fine. He’s got a lot to say on this particular subject, and for the first time all night, Steve’s not actually tripping over his words when he tries to get them out. “He loves you. They all do.” Steve nudges him again, and this time he’s smiling, looking at Eddie so matter-of-fact, like his words couldn’t be refuted. And they can’t. Steve dares Eddie to try. “So they’re a little shaken up. Yeah. But they won’t be for long, because they know something that you don’t.” 

It seems impossible a feat, the way he’s got Eddie teetering on the brink of a smile right now in spite of literally everything, but Steve’s words give him pause. He doesn’t look over at Steve, but he does look up, fingers stilling against Steve’s hand like he’s suddenly got his full attention. Because what couldn’t Eddie already know? That’s fine. Perfect, even, because it gives Steve the chance to tilt his head just right to press a kiss to Eddie’s cheek when he’s least expecting it. “ That you’re pretty tough too. ”  And then finally it’s Eddie being rendered speechless and not Steve and the only reason Steve’s not ass over elbows in worry is because Jesus fucking Christ, Eddie’s actually smiling. It may have been corny, but it worked. It fucking worked. And Steve meant it. He wants to kiss Eddie again, so he does, because he decides there’s not a reason in the world not to; he plants several kisses up and down the curve of his cheek ( and pointedly ignoring his mouth because Steve very much needs to find him a spare toothbrush ) and doesn’t stop until the smiles have turned into these raspy little giggles that make Steve’s chest go all tight again and Eddie’s batting him away. Not far, though. He still leans into Steve, still holds tightly to his hand with the one that’s weaving up between them. 

“Hey, Eddie,” Steve says as he lets himself be shooed and finally relents, resting his chin back against Eddie’s shoulder. He squeezes Eddie’s hand in his lightly, runs a thumb over rough knuckles, and fixes his gaze back on the side of Eddie’s face. The flush has become more prominent now, and Steve wonders what world he must be living in that he can make Eddie Munson blush. “Are you, uh… do you wanna tell me about it? What happened?” If Eddie tries to duck his head away, to hide behind his hair and out of Steve’s line of sight, Steve doesn’t let him, tucks the hand not tangled up in Eddie’s fingers under his chin to keep it from dropping and turns his face gently toward him. “No, come on, none of that. I think we’re probably past that now, right? I mean, unless we’re not sitting next to a pile of pizza crust puke towels and I’m totally misreading this entire situation. Because if I am—”

“Fuck, I’m sorry about the towels.”

Of course he is. Of course that’s what Eddie’s worried about. Some shitty hand towels that Steve’s probably got a dozen more of in the linen closet because no one ever fucking uses them , that haven’t even been changed since last fall judging by the design in the embroidery. He’s apologetic to a fault, like somewhere at his core, he believes that even just his sheer existence is a burden upon everyone around him. Like he thought Steve would get mad at him for this. As if Steve could ever be mad for something like this. “Don’t be,” Steve says quickly, definitively. “They can be washed. And besides, they’re ugly anyway.” As if to prove his point, Steve kicks away the towel closest to his foot with a clumsy sort of nonchalance. “While you’re at it, stop apologizing. I already told you, I don’t know what you always think you have to be sorry for, but you don’t. Hey —” Steve taps his chin with one finger to refocus his attention, waits until Eddie’s eyes are locked on his again. Those fucking eyes. Steve thinks he could drown in them — and he’d probably die happy. Fuck. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about. You hear me?”

“I fell,” Eddie blurts out suddenly, and it may not be the response Steve expected, but he’s listening anyway. Eddie has his full attention. “I just remember standing in your living room, and I — fuck, I knew I was gonna be sick, I could feel it, and I could think was — fucking shit, I cannot hurl all over Steve Harrington’s expensive ass carpet right now. So — so I ran, and by some fucking grace of God, I guessed right on which one the doors was the bathroom because I’m fucking stumbling inside but I tripped over the — the — the fucking rug.” Eddie gestures a hand toward the offending rug, half-bunched under the cracked door and Steve nods knowingly, because he’s always hated that rug for the very same reason. Now he’s got a reason to get rid of it altogether. Maybe he’ll burn the stupid thing. “And I tried to catch myself on the sink but it didn’t work because of course it didn’t work and the next thing I know I’m on the floor and I must’ve clipped the cabinet door on the way down or something, I don’t know, because my face —” 

Steve’s still got a hand on Eddie’s face, or he thinks he might’ve moved it away by now, the way he averts his gaze when he speaks. “But it’s not like my body gives a flying fuck that I just wiped out, right? So then I can’t even make it to the fucking toilet and I just—” One hand parts from Steve’s to gesture lamely to the floor. “Jesus Christ, this is embarrassing. It’s so — I’m so fucking disgusting, this is so gross and I’m — I’m so sorry, Steve. I know you said not to be because you’re Steve Harrington and you’re just naturally the kindest, best kind of fucking person, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry about your bathroom, and your sweater that I knew — shit, I knew I was going to get it dirty, I said —” Eddie makes a move to squirm out of Steve’s arms, out of his lap, but Steve holds him tight a moment longer. Not yet. “Look, I should just — I’m gonna clean this up some, uh, some more, and then I’ll probably just — I should go, right? I can just take the van and, um… and go. You’ve done so much already, and — and I’m so thankful, and I’ll, um, I’ll wash these and give them back, but I really just need to—”

“Are you serious?” Steve asks. “You’re ser—? Oh my god, he’s serious right now.” He blinks, disbelieving, to a crowd of no one, and then looks back to Eddie. “First of all, the fever has already fried your brain if you think I’m letting you drive anywhere tonight. Are you kidding? We just got your name cleared for murder, I’m not going to jail, not for this. Not for this. If you’re six feet under because you wrapped your steel death trap of a van around a tree in the middle of some painkiller haze and I’m in a cell because I willingly allowed it to happen — which is basically manslaughter, I’m pretty sure — who’s gonna watch the kids? Huh? That’s right. No one. It doesn’t work.” Steve’s tone is surprisingly playful given the circumstances, given the fact that the only reason Eddie’s not on his way out the door is because Steve won’t let him go. He doesn’t know how else to lighten the mood, but fuck, he’s desperate for it. He doesn’t want Eddie to leave — doesn’t want Eddie to want to leave — but he also doesn’t want to force him to stay. 

( Steve will, though, if he has to. He wasn’t kidding, Eddie’s not driving anywhere for at least a few more hours, more if he has anything to do with it. He’d sooner drive him home than let him get behind the wheel, but Steve’s already decided that’s not happening either. )

“Steve, I—”

If Eddie wants to get a word in edgewise, Steve doesn’t allow it. He’s already lifting both of their hands, weaving his fingers with Eddie’s and pressing both of their index fingers to his lips, effectively shushing him. Eddie’s stare is wide, confused as it searches Steve’s face. Steve thinks he sees a little bit of hope in there somewhere, a glimmer of light in the otherwise glassy darkness. Maybe it’s just the fluorescents flickering above them, but Steve wants to believe there’s something more there. He wants to believe that Eddie will trust him, will let his walls down around him because he knows Steve will be gentle when he does. Steve’s not going to hurt him. “Shh, no, just — just shut up and let me take care of you, okay?” Eddie still looks hesitant, like he’s still clinging to the thought that once Steve lets go, he can scramble out of there like the wild animal he is and retreat back to the trailer park to lick his wounds in private. Like he’s a flight risk, out the door in the blink of an eye the second Steve lets his guard down. Steve’s not going to let his guard down. But he does lower their hands slowly, rests them back in Eddie’s lap, still interlaced. “You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you? Of course you are.”

Steve sighs, shakes his head, but he’s smiling that stupid smile he gets around Eddie again, the one that’s all soft and wide and genuine and showing way too many teeth. ( The kind of smile Steve would normally hide, the one he’d be self-conscious about if he caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. It doesn’t even cross his mind to try and hide it right now. ) And Eddie… Eddie’s still staring at him like he doesn’t have the slightest clue what to expect, like he doesn’t know what will come out of Steve’s mouth next. He’s stopped struggling in Steve’s arms though, stopped trying to weakly shrug his way out of them. Curious.  “I’m not asking you out of pity, or whatever you think,” Steve says, and fuck, Eddie’s eyes are so intense but he forces himself not to look away, not to lose focus. “I’m not doing this because I wanna be some knight of suburbia or whatever it is you called me, or — or because I’m trying to fill my own fucking voids or something either. This — I need you to know this isn’t any of that.” 

Rings are starting to dig into his fingers because Eddie’s got his hand in a fucking vice grip now, and Steve’s sure if he looks down, he’ll see the extremities starting to turn purple from how tightly Eddie’s holding onto him. He doesn’t mind. He’s felt a whole lot worse for a hell of a lot less before. But this? This is just mild discomfort, and more than anything, Steve’s convinced it’s worth it. Of course it is. The words linger on the tip of his tongue for a second, threatening to fall with the same urgency as the tears he can see welling up behind Eddie’s dark lashes. Steve thinks he must know what’s coming, he has to. It seems like every single moment of night has been leading up to this — the fleeting touches, the intimate glances and even more intimate confessions, the way they’d fucking fallen asleep on the couch together with Eddie in Steve’s arms — and suddenly, the ball’s in Steve’s court. Again. He cannot miss again.  

It’s funny, though — Steve’s been scared all night, hasn’t he? He’s been nervous and anxious, barely able to string together a sentence half the time. He’s been worried for Eddie, afraid of his own feelings, terrified of taking the plunge every single time the opportunity to kiss Eddie arose and wasting it every fucking time . And suddenly, Steve realizes he doesn’t know why. For all the time he’s only just spent trying to convince Eddie not to hide, Steve’s been hiding himself all goddamn night. ( Well, almost all night. Henderson’s always been able to see past his bullshit, much to Steve’s chagrin… and fuck, if he’s being honest, relief. ) But now — now , in this moment, Steve’s never felt more certain of anything. He’s not scared anymore. There are no boundaries between them anymore, no longer any walls built up for either of them to hide behind, and Steve Harrington doesn’t even fucking care anymore. When Eddie stares now, it’s inquisitive. Pressing. He doesn’t even need to say the words aloud for Steve to know the question behind his eyes. What, then? If not any of that, then what?  

“You’re really gonna make me—? Fine. I’ll say it. I’m asking you to let me take care of you because I care about you. Because I fucking like you, Eddie Munson.” Eddie makes a small, choked sort of sound in the back of his throat and Steve’s not sure if it’s a laugh or a sob or some sort of strangled in between. He’s started rocking a little bit in Steve’s lap, and Steve can see teeth sinking into his lower lip but he thinks it almost, almost looks like he’s biting back a smile. Steve can work with that. “I like you so much it makes me stupid,” he continues, calling back to Eddie’s words from earlier that night. “Like — like I can’t get you out of my brain. Ever, it feels like. At least lately. And the crazy thing is, most of the time? I don’t even want to. It used to drive me crazy, the way Henderson would just go on and on about you and your Hellfire Club and your ‘ sick band’ and Eddie this and Eddie that . But now — shit, this one’s embarrassing. I look forward to it, Eddie. The kid starts talking and I just… I don’t know, somewhere in the back of my mind I’m always hoping he’ll bring you up, that I’ll get another little glimpse into your world, you know?” 

Steve shakes his head, as if he can’t even believe he’s admitting any of this out loud, but Eddie — Eddie looks like he’s hanging onto every single word, if he can even believe it himself. “And I know it’s my own fault, too, that I didn’t get more of that. More of you. I could’ve picked up the phone — should have picked up the phone — and I’m sorry I didn’t, because I wanted to.” Eddie had needed him then, too. He doesn’t say that — in part because he doesn’t want to appear presumptuous, cocky, but also because in some way, Steve can’t help but think if he just had called, he would’ve been able to check on Eddie before it got too bad. Before Eddie got too bad and ended up showing up on Steve’s doorstep looking like he had one foot in the grave. “But I’m here now,” Steve says, and it’s just as much for himself as it is for Eddie this time. “I’m here now, and you’re stuck here, and I can help you — I want to help you, if you would just let me.” And then he’s cradling Eddie’s face in his hand and leaning forward until their foreheads are pressed together and Eddie’s is still radiating so much heat it’s a reminder to Steve that it isn’t enough to just be sentimental, that he does still need to be concerned. “Will you let me?”

“Okay,” Eddie whispers and it’s so soft that they’re inches apart but Steve would have missed it were he not waiting, listening for it. He is, though, and he’d be hard-pressed to find the words to express the relief that swells and crashes over him in waves when it comes, to properly convey the sheer fucking magnitude of it all. And Steve thinks, this really is it.   “Okay,” Eddie repeats, and he’s nodding now, sniffling a bit as he finally disentangles his fingers from Steve’s to give his eyes a rough swipe with the heel of his hand. And that’s all the invitation Steve needs. After triple-checking that Eddie’s sure he thinks he can stand, the both of them rise slowly from the floor. Steve can already feel a dull ache in his knees as he gets up but he stretches his legs and ignores it. He’ll be fine. The entirety of his attention is focused instead on Eddie; he doesn’t wobble when he stands, if only because Steve’s already got an arm securely around his waist to hold him steady before he’s even on his feet, but he does lean into Steve as he shuffles them both across the cold tile. 

Flipping the lid to toilet seat down, Steve nods for Eddie to sit, carefully helps him down until he’s slumped against porcelain. His eyes are closed again, like making it eight feet across the bathroom has zapped the last of his waning energy, and Steve takes advantage of the opportunity to study his face at this improved angle. To assess the damage. Steve hasn’t touched it yet, hasn’t made any move to clean it, but he’s glad to find that the cut on Eddie’s cheek appears relatively shallow. At most, it’ll require a butterfly stitch or two, maybe even just a band-aid to help keep it closed. Steve’s got both of those in the first aid kit out in the kitchen, he knows, and tries to remember to snag the box on their way upstairs once Steve’s got Eddie cleaned up. ( Because, no, after everything that’s happened, Steve’s already decided they won’t be returning to the couch tonight. His bedroom seems the far superior option for everyone involved, even if it means helping Eddie back up those stairs again. Maybe he’ll carry him. It would be the easier option, and save Steve the fear of an unsteady Eddie taking a tumble down a flight of wood steps… ) 

“Wait here,” Steve says, and he’s brushing bangs away to press his lips to Eddie’s forehead for good measure before heading back to the sink. If Eddie whines a little when Steve finally parts from him, well, Steve’s got to get his heart in check to keep it from twisting up into knots at the sound and rendering him completely useless. The faucet’s still running and he turns that off first so he can maybe hear himself think. The silence that follows is startling in a way Steve’s not expecting, but he tries to use it to refocus. Most of the towels the bathroom had to offer are dirty now, scattered across the floor in small bundles, but Steve finds a stack of clean washcloths folded up toward the back of the cabinet and snatches one off the top. It’ll do. He turns on the tap one more time to soak it in warm water, lathers one corner of the cloth up in soap and wrings it out over the sink before returning to Eddie. His eyes are still closed, head pillowed against the basket of toilet paper rolls on the tank behind him as he rests, but Steve knows he’s not asleep. He’s not going to let himself sleep.  

“You ready?” Steve asks, receiving little more than the slightest tilt of Eddie’s head in response. It’s enough for Steve, so he stands so that he’s straddling Eddie’s legs on either side of the seat and leans in, sets to work. He tries to keep his touch gentle as he scrubs away streaks of blood and tears and snot, silent and methodical and careful in his methods, until he’s wiped every inch of Eddie’s face clean and done the best he can to tend to the cut with the fresh side of the cloth. “Alright, Sleeping Beauty,” Steve murmurs, and there’s a fond lilt to his tone as he leans in, pushing away the damp hairs clinging to Eddie’s cheeks from residual soap bubbles with the edge of the rag. “Good as new. Well… almost. ” There’s a pause and Eddie stirs, peeking a squinted eye open to look up at Steve. “We should probably wash your hair.”

Steve almost doesn’t say it, because fuck, he knows Eddie’s already exhausted — he is, too — but there’s blood and who know what else drying in the curls that frame Eddie’s face, and he knows he wouldn’t feel clean until his hair was too, wouldn’t want to lay down if he knew he’d crunch against the pillow when he did. Eddie lets out a quiet groan of protest, and Steve knows what he’s thinking. A shower is a lot. It’s too much . Especially after only just bandaging him up a few hours ago, to have to go through the entire process again — Steve’s not sure either one of them could handle that, not tonight. “Yeah, I know. But just trust me,” Steve says — insists, really — and he’s already tossing the washcloth into the hamper by the door. While he’s at it, he gathers up the rest of the towels and dumps them in the basket as well. ( He’s been saying it for days, weeks even, but now he really does have to do laundry tomorrow. ) 

“Does that make you my Prince Charming, Stevie?” 

Even punctuated by a cough that’s harsh enough to make Steve wince as Eddie rolls his head toward his shoulder, the dreamy retort is undeniably endearing. It’s enough to make Steve feel like he might swoon when he bends down to turn on the bathtub faucet because, fuck, actually, wouldn’t he really love to be at the end of the day? Prince Charming. He’s not sure he’s qualified for the title, not deserving of quite that level of praise, but it’s such a dumb little thought that Steve catches himself grinning like a fool at it before he can stop himself. And Eddie, his damsel in distress . It’s a ridiculously fantastical concept, but Steve thinks there might not be a single tower he wouldn’t climb if he knew Eddie would be waiting for him up there at the very top. The realization is both exhilarating and absolutely fucking terrifying. Stay cool, Steve. Stay cool. “No,” he says, and he’s back by the sink, dumping the toothbrushes from the cup onto the counter and grabbing the last of the clean washcloths from the cabinet. He spins back around to find Eddie’s been staring a hole through his back the entire time. That must not have been the answer he was expecting. Steve’s still smiling. “I think it makes me Dopey.” 

Suddenly there’s a hoarse boo from across the room and a roll of toilet paper sailing through the air toward Steve’s head. Well… kind of. The aim’s not too off, but it falls so far short of him, bouncing to a stop somewhere halfway between them both, that Steve’s got to bite his tongue to keep from teasing Eddie for such a pitiful throw. It’s not Eddie’s fault, after all. Not this time, anyway.  Instead, he walks back over to the tub, making a show of kicking the toilet paper out of his path with a mouthed ‘really?’ at Eddie as he goes. “Wrong movie, Steve,” Eddie argues, head flopping back against the basket as he finally breaks his gaze from Steve to stare up at the ceiling. “Wrong movie, wrong princess. There are no dwarves in Sleeping Beauty. You’re s’posed to know this, you know, how are you — how are you supposed to sell movies for a living if you can’t get your Disney straight? How — how many kids have been led astray?”

“I take it back,” Steve announces with an air of certainty as he lines the folded washcloths up along the edge of the tub as a makeshift cushion, “I think you’re Dopey. And since you’re going to call me out, I feel like I should tell you — Prince Charming is from Cinderella, actually. Aurora? Sleeping Beauty? She ends up with Prince Phillip.” Steve isn’t sure at what point this conversation went entirely off the rails — how the hell he’d ended up here, in his bathroom at almost three in the morning, about to shampoo Eddie Munson’s hair while they argue about Disney princesses of all fucking things — but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He gives Eddie ample time to think of a comeback while he tests the temperature of the water, and when none comes, he returns to Eddie’s side. “C’mon, time to sit up,” Steve says, and he guides Eddie’s arms up so he can pull the sweater over his head. ( Steve tosses that into the hamper as well — just to be safe. ) Eddie protests the abrupt lack of warmth by pulling away from Steve, but Steve doesn’t let him get very far. 

It takes some serious coaxing on Steve’s part to convince Eddie to get back down onto the floor, but once he does, Steve positions him strategically against the side of the tub so he can rest his neck on the washcloths as he leans his head back. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, sure, but they both know it’s better than either alternative. Steve doesn’t speak as he fills the cup with water from the spigot and slowly starts to saturate Eddie’s curls, doesn’t know what he would say if he wanted to. What do you even say to the man you’ve suddenly developed an overwhelming and embarrassingly highschoolish crush on when he’s half-high on painkillers and you’re massaging Herbal Essences into his hair in the middle of the night? Unsurprisingly, it’s a pretty fucking intimate moment — a far cry from the Disney princesses or flying toilet paper rolls from moments earlier. It’s raw and real and it gives Steve a chance to look at Eddie, to really see him. And as much as Steve wants to savor the opportunity — and fuck, he does, it’s such a rare one — he tries to move quickly for Eddie’s sake. 

Fingers glide through dark, soapy locks to rinse them and Steve thinks back to earlier that night, to thoroughly detangling Eddie’s curls over the duration of the Goonies, and how fucking glad he is that he’d just decided that was a thing he could do, for all the time it’s saving him now. The whole ordeal is over in a matter of minutes, and Steve only parts from Eddie’s side long enough to locate an actual towel from the linen closet in the hall to soak up all the water dripping from an abundance of wet waves. He should have grabbed a second, Steve thinks when he’s about a minute and a half into the absolutely impossible task of trying to dry Eddie Munson’s hair, because his curls are like a sponge, and no matter how much Steve wrings them out, there’s still more water. There’s always more water. Eddie must notice his complete incompetence because he wriggles himself upright and takes the towel from Steve’s hand, whipping his hair forward with a flip of his head ( Steve can smell the musky, floral-scenty shampoo as he’s generously doused in a smattering of droplets ) and gathering it all up in the fabric. Then he goes absolutely wild in a flurry of hands and hair and Egyptian cotton that lasts several seconds, all of which find Steve in a state of relative shock and awe as he watches on.

When Eddie finally emerges from the towel, his hair has nearly doubled in volume, some of the shorter curls almost sticking straight out from his head in a way that looks so goofy and so soft that it makes Steve’s heart skip a beat. And it’s still damp, because of course it is, but at least it’s not dripping. He sways a little when he tries to straighten up and Steve instinctively reaches out to steady him with a hand on his shoulder. “Shit, sorry,” Eddie stumbles out, shaking his head and focusing on a point just beyond Steve for several long seconds with a glassy, distant stare. “‘S the best way to get it dry, but it’ll — fuck, that shit’ll make you dizzy on a good day, you know?” He pauses for almost long enough to give Steve worry before speaking up again, and this time he’s actually looking at Steve. And his eyes are usually so sharp and dark and intense but when they find Steve’s now there’s something so gentle, so warm about them that it’s almost even more striking. “Hey, how fucked up is it that this — Jesus Christ — that this still feels like a good day t’me?” 

“Eddie, how the fuck —”

“Because!” Eddie interrupts him, and he sounds incredulous, as if he couldn’t imagine how Steve might disagree with him. “Because I kissed Steve fucking Harrington.” And for as gravelly, as absolutely wrecked as his voice is in this moment, he’s still singing the words again — singing Steve’s name — and Steve thinks maybe, just maybe, he’s going to have to go see Corroded Coffin perform sometime. Just… well, just so he can compare, okay? It’s for science. It’s absolutely not because Steve wants to hear him sing, really sing, and definitely not because he goes a little braindead imagining Eddie dedicating a song to him up on stage, lips dragging against the mic as he sighs Steve’s name through half a dozen speakers. ( Look, he knows it’s never gonna happen, okay? It’s not — he isn’t delusional. But it’s an amusing little thrill, isn’t it? Steve imagining a world in which he’s a dedicated groupie to a small-town metal band , of all things. A world in which he’s got a rockstar boyfriend who writes songs about him. It may not be his dream, but he’d be a liar if he said it wasn’t a fun one to fantasize about. ) 

Steve doesn’t say anything at first, pushes the damp towel off Eddie’s shoulders and into the tub so he can wrap his arms around them instead and pull Eddie into his side. “You’re insane,” Steve informs Eddie when he finally does speak up, “you know that, right?” There’s nothing but fondness in his voice, though, save for the slightest hint of sheepishness he tries his best to hide. The warmth creeping up his neck is a different story, one Steve’s entirely unable to control, much less keep hidden. But Eddie’s too dazed to notice anyway, a fact for which Steve finds himself surprisingly grateful. It’s not that he’s trying to hide his feelings, that he’s embarrassed of them — clearly fucking not, because he’d just thrown them all out in the open in front of God and Eddie and the all stupid birds in the stupid painting hanging above the toilet and, really, what was the point in backpedaling now? — but it’s just that he knows if Eddie saw him blush over something like that, Steve would never be able to live it down. Not in a million years, or a billion more. “But if you get up and brush your teeth, I might just let you do it again.” 

Is it a ploy to try and get the two of them moving again so he can get Eddie in an actual bed where he belongs? Maybe. But it’s not stupid if it works, right? Steve thinks Henderson’s said that to him before, and right now, he’s inclined to agree as Eddie shifts in Steve’s arms to look at him with a curious twinkle in sleepy, fever-bright eyes. And there it is. That wide, lazy smile that made Steve’s heart all but shit itself on the couch earlier is back, and Eddie’s letting his head fall into a tilt so he can gaze up at Steve through his lashes and — is that eyeliner? Steve doesn’t know how he didn’t notice. He’s never seen a man in makeup, not this close, anyway — in movies, sure, but that’s different, that’s not Eddie — and he wonders if that’s what’s making Eddie’s look so impossibly large, even when they’re half-lidded. ( Steve thinks he might like it. A lot. Fuck. ) It’s Eddie’s voice that brings Steve out of mild reverie and he tunes back into reality just in time for his question. “Got a spare toothbrush for me, Stevie?” And of course, Steve does. 

Once he’s got Eddie back on his feet, it doesn’t take long to find one in the drawer under the sink, still sealed in the plastic package. As if entirely aware he’s being watched ( and vaguely under the impression he’s being judged for his performance ) Eddie does a particularly thorough job brushing his teeth not once but twice and then ducks his head under the faucet to rinse his mouth out, and if Steve wasn’t quick to snatch his hair up as he did, several split ends would’ve landed right in the residual toothpaste in the sink. Seriously? He just washed it. And then Eddie spits straight into the drain and turns off the faucet, turns to look at Steve with a toothy grin and he can’t tell if it’s to show off a job well done, or if it’s to aid in the delivery of his next line. “Were you pulling my hair back there, Harrington?” Steve stammers a little, looking down to the curls still twisted between his fingers because — no, actually, he wasn’t. Or he wasn’t trying to, at least. He didn’t think it was too rough, anyway, but he was trying to hurry about it… “You could at least buy me dinner first.” 

“I did,” Steve argues, suddenly finding his words again, and he’s already unwinding Eddie’s hair from his fingertips — and shit goddamnit fuck he forgot about the rings, how does Eddie even manage — and tossing his head back to flip his own hair out of his eyes so he can fix Eddie with a look. “I bought you pizza. It’s not my fault you let the kids pick the toppings and then couldn’t hang with the obvious and inevitable consequences of your actions.” And okay, no, for the second time, he didn’t actually buy it. But again, not the point. Once he’s finally untangled himself from Eddie, Steve takes a quick look around the bathroom, decides it’s clean enough to leave for now. He’ll mop it later in the morning, once the sun’s up, and deal with Eddie’s clothes and the, fuck, so many towels in the hamper. It’ll be fine, he has off tomorrow anyway. “Now come on.” For now, he settles on shooing a much cleaner Eddie out the door because Eddie may not be able to sleep, but Steve at least needs to sit down. It’s been a hell of a night. 

“You think you can make it up?” Steve asks as they reach the foot of the staircase, and Eddie eyes the wooden steps warily before nodding. He doesn’t look too sure of himself, though, so as he starts to ascend, Steve follows only one step behind with one hand on Eddie’s back and the other on the railing in case he loses balance. By the time they make it to Steve’s room, he’s winded. Exhausted. Leaning into Steve’s side for support all the way down the hall and only parting once Steve’s pushed open the door so he can find his way straight over to the bed. There’s an audible thud as he flops into the duvet face-first and groans in something that Steve thinks sounds kind of like relief. A hell of a night, just like Steve said. He pushes the door shut and walks over to the nightstand to turn on the small bedside lamp so he can shut off the bright ceiling light overhead. He wonders if he’ll have any luck getting him to move, or if he’ll just have to figure out how to lay with Eddie starfished across the center of his bed. Steve doesn’t have much time for the thought because just when he thinks Eddie’s exhaustion has outweighed his fear of falling asleep, he’s rolling over in a tangle of limbs and sheets and — oh fuck. The vest. Steve forgot about the fucking vest, forgot that Eddie left right there on his pillows earlier. 

Steve braces himself. For what? He doesn’t know. He can’t even imagine what Eddie might have to say about it. And then Eddie sits up a little, props himself up on one elbow, half-facing Steve but mostly just gazing down at a fistful of crumpled denim. ( That’s his fault, too — Steve’s kept it nice. Kept it folded. It still smells like Eddie. Not that — not that Steve would know that. He just happened to notice it once. Or twice. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. ) Even as his cheeks grow warmer, Steve steps toward the bed. Eddie looks up when he does and Steve can’t quite read his expression, but he can see the amusement in it. “Were you ever gonna give this back? Or is it just, like, yours now?” Eddie asks, and the way he says it, the way his tone tilts precariously around the word yours , Steve would swear it sounds like he doesn’t even want it back. Steve’s gaze lingers on his hands, the way he’s taken to twisting the pins that line the breast pockets. Suddenly he’s hyper-aware of Eddie’s habit of fidgeting, of the weight of the metal rings he’s still wearing. “You should probably just keep it, honestly… you need a little variety in your wardrobe.”

“If this is a tactic to steal another one of my sweaters—” 

“No, no, don’t you worry that pretty little head, I’m not gonna go thieving all your precious cashmere in the dead of the night after you fall asleep—” Steve crosses his arms over his chest, finds himself yearning for the pathetic, sleepy Eddie that seemed ready to pass out in his bed and give him some peace only moments ago. Where’s all this energy to tease Steve coming from all of a sudden? “It’s just — man, I can’t fucking believe I’m saying this, I spent so many hours on that stupid son of a — but I just — it looked so good on you. It looks — it looks better on you.” Eddie’s shaking his head now, and Steve can still see a few stray droplets go flying from his hair onto the sheets. “This was the crowning glory of my closet, Steve, but in the name of how fucking hot you are, I have no choice but to give it up. She’s yours now. Treat her well.” 

And Steve’s sorry, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to need a minute, thank you. Not to sound conceited, but it’s not like he hasn’t been called hot before. Hell, he’d even gotten a few stares when he’d bend over in the Scoops Ahoy uniform — mostly from older women, but Steve still counts it. But Eddie? Eddie Munson saying it? Steve’s not sure why but the compliment feels brand new and he finds himself blushing as if it’s the first time he’d ever heard it. Because it’s not just that Eddie thinks he’s hot, it’s that he thought he looked so hot in Eddie’s vest that nobody else could wear it but Steve now. Right? That’s what he’s saying? Jesus fuck. He thinks about when he’d worn it, imagines Eddie’s eyes and thoughts on him when his own head’s a million miles away as they trudged through the Upside Down. Thinking about how good he looks. Steve has got to get a grip on himself. What is even happening right now?

When Steve finally manages to get his brain operating at a high enough capacity to move his feet again, he makes his way over to the bed, and Eddie instantly scoots to make room for him. “Actually,” he says out of the blue as Steve finds a spot next to him, sitting up a little straighter, “you should put it on.” Steve blinks, stares at Eddie for a second because he can’t really tell if he’s being serious. The way Eddie stares back makes Steve think he is. He shakes his head, starts to protest because no, absolutely not — like he said, he hasn’t washed that thing since he’s gotten it, and besides, why does Eddie even want him to wear it? But then Eddie’s giving him that look, the wide, puppy eyes that Steve thinks are definitely not fucking fair and he should not be allowed to use them against him. He does , though, and after a few seconds Steve’s sighing and grabbing the vest from Eddie’s outstretched hands. He’s just about to shrug it on when Eddie grabs ahold of the garment again to stop him. “No, but you’ve gotta, like — you have to take the sweatshirt off first. For the, um, the full effect?” 

And this time it’s Steve’s turn to stare because, seriously? “Are you just trying to get me out of my clothes, Munson?” he quips. “It’s probably so dirty and—”

“Please?” Steve is not budging. “What if I told you it would make me feel so much better?” Eddie turns his head away to give a weak cough to his cause, and looks back at Steve. Fuck. Okay. Maybe he’ll budge a little.  

“Then I would tell you there’s no way there’s any sound medical explanation for that and you’re just full of it,” Steve retorts, but he’s already tugging the sweatshirt over his head to oblige Eddie’s begging. Maybe just to get him to stop looking at Steve like that. His heart can’t take it, alright? The second he’s got the shirt off, Eddie snatches it up off the bed and immediately pulls it on, stretching his arms into the longer sleeves and tugging them down over his hands a little. Steve gawks. “And then I would tell you that you’re a dirty liar , Eddie Munson,” he says as Eddie pulls his damp curls from the confines of the collar, shakes them free, but there’s a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips that exposes the truth — he’s not actually bothered at all. To be honest, he’d worked up a sweat in the bathroom, and it was a relief to ditch the too-warm garment. “I thought you said you weren’t gonna steal any more of my stuff?” Eddie just grins at him in response. 

“Last time, promise,” Eddie swears, and Steve doesn’t believe him, but he accepts it anyway. Then he pulls on the vest so he can shift positions in the bed, slides back until his shoulders are pressed to the headboard and rests his head against the wood. His eyes are closed, but he can feel Eddie moving on the bed too. Steve assumes Eddie’s resuming the half-lounged stance he’d adopted before Steve joined him on the bed, but he squints an eye open when he feels a pair of hands on his knees, pushing his legs apart. And for a second, Steve can’t help but wonder what the fuck is about to happen. Then Eddie’s turning so he’s got his back to Steve and falling back against Steve’s chest in almost the same position they’d been in on the couch. Steve smiles as his chin finds the crown of Eddie’s head again and Eddie tucks his head into Steve’s neck. It’s been a rough night, Steve thinks, for the both of them. It’s been near hell. But this? This is nice. If they could just stay here like this, with no interruptions or injuries or nightmares. God, what Steve wouldn’t give. 

And then — then Steve remembers something. The gift Argyle had left him with in the kitchen, had dropped casually into his hand before making the world’s most confusing exit, still somehow tucked away behind his ear, entirely forgotten. The joint. Steve reaches up, wraps his fingers around it, and really, he can’t help but laugh. Maybe it’s a bad idea — Steve doesn’t smoke all that often, and Eddie’s already on painkillers, but maybe a little bit of pot might mellow them both out. Maybe it’s what they both need to finally relax. Maybe — maybe Steve owes Argyle a whole lot more thanks than he thought. He really is a good guy. And way more perceptive than people give him credit for, apparently. Who would’ve thought? Eddie looks up at Steve when he starts to laugh, and his confusion quickly turns into curiosity when his gaze flickers from Steve’s to the joint between his fingers. “Wanna smoke, Munson?” 

“Shit, Stevie, I thought you’d never ask,” Eddie hums dramatically. Steve lets Eddie light the joint because they both know he’s probably better at it, and if Steve had any foresight at all, he’d think to crack a window. But he doesn’t, because Eddie’s already passing it to him and it’s lit and it’s all he can do to take a drag. A long one. Eddie looks mildly impressed as Steve holds the smoke like a champ — he was on the swim team and he was a lifeguard, of course he’s got the lung capacity for it — and Steve’s so caught up in the attention he almost chokes on the exhale. Eddie takes the joint while Steve tries not to sputter and hits it with the confidence of someone who does this kind of thing all the time. He wonders who else Eddie smokes like this with, if he’s rolling up alone in his room at night or passing one around a close, intimate circle of friends. Gareth and Jeff, maybe. He’s sure they’ve smoked together before, and Steve’s not sure why he feels any type of way about it, but he knows he shouldn’t. Steve wonders if either of them choked the first time they smoked with Eddie, if they were just as hyper-aware of the lips they shared a filter with as the joint was handed around. Probably not. And then he thinks he’s got to stop comparing himself to everyone all the time. That shit never works out for him, and most of the time — times like now — he doesn’t even have a reason. 

Steve’s snapped out of his thoughts by sudden movement in his lap, by the sound of Eddie coughing through a cloud of smoke that disperses around him. He’s holding the joint up and away from himself and Steve takes it so he doesn’t drop it on the bed and burn the whole place down, wraps his other arm around Eddie’s middle to hold him steady as he bends forward with a painful sounding fit that makes Steve’s own chest ache out of sympathy. It takes several seconds for him to finally get it under control and catch his breath, and he falls back against Steve again, panting. “Fuck,” he breathes, looking up at Steve with watery eyes, “I don’t think this is gonna work.” And yeah, Steve’s pretty sure he’s right. He’s not sure why he thought it would work to begin with, not with how totally fucked Eddie’s throat is. How could he have possibly expected anything else? Oh, right. Obtuse. Goddamnit. Steve furrows his brow in thought as he takes another hit of the joint, mindful to tilt his head back and blow the smoke up toward the ceiling when he does. 

“No, hang on,” Steve says after a second, and he’s looking back down at Eddie, thinking thinking thinking. “I’ve got an idea. Tilt your head back.” If Eddie looks confused by the request, he obliges Steve anyway, and leans back against Steve’s chest, tilts his head back until he’s looking up toward his chin. Then Steve draws in another hit of the joint — smaller this time, he’s careful of that — and leans forward until his lips are angled just an inch or so above Eddie’s. “Now breathe in,” he instructs, and his voice is tight from holding in the smoke until Eddie parts his lips and inhales and Steve breathes the smoke right into his lungs. It’s a gentler hit, cooler, and Steve’s relieved to find that Eddie’s able to take it without choking this time. Only once he’s absolutely sure does Steve seal the hit with a kiss — a swift little peck to unexpecting lips before Steve’s straightening back up. “We’ll just have to do it that way, I guess.”

And they do. They smoke the joint all the way down to the filter that way, with Steve taking hit after hit of the joint and breathing each one back into Eddie so they can share it. By the time it’s smoldering out, all of Steve’s limbs feel heavy and fuzzy and warm and Eddie’s practically melting into them and they’re both red-eyed and breathless because they can’t stop giggling. Steve feels weightless, like all of the baggage, all of the trauma he’s been hauling around all night has finally been cut free of him and he’s no longer tethered to any of it anymore because the duvet is a blanket of clouds and he’s not even on this planet right now. But he’s with Eddie, so Steve’s not sure it would matter where he ended up. They laugh and talk and whisper for what feels like forever after that, sharing stories and secrets and rambling, heartfelt confessions in the dark that neither of them will remember when they sober up, and Eddie pushes the vest aside to pillow his head on Steve’s bare chest and his hair is tickling Steve’s neck again, but Steve was right. He can get used to it. 

Eddie eventually does fall asleep, just as the sky outside the window starts to lighten to a lighter, greenish blue. Steve thinks he can hear birds chirping. He doesn’t even want to know what time it is. Doesn’t think he cares. The kids will probably sleep for a few more hours anyway. Who’s he kidding? They’re teens now. Steve will be lucky if they’re up off his living room floor before noon. Steve can feel his own eyes growing heavy, and Eddie nuzzles further into him when he moves to cover a yawn. He doesn’t dream this time when he falls asleep himself, only moments after Eddie’s nodded off, but that’s okay. He’s not sure he needs to. He doesn’t know that he needs anything more than this right now. 

When Steve wakes, it’s to the blinding sunlight of a late morning flooding into the room from parted curtains, illuminating the bed in bright, warm yellow. He blinks awake to find Eddie still — thankfully — peacefully asleep beside him, his face half-hidden by some of the wildest bedhead Steve’s sure he’s ever seen. Dark curls frame a face still dusted faintly pink across a freckled nose and cheeks, and Steve was right, there is a pretty gnarly bruise settling under his left eye, but he finally looks calm. In fact, Steve’s not sure he’s ever seen Eddie Munson quite so still.  At some point over the course of the night, he’d pulled the blanket half-up over the both of them, and even though he’s rolled off of Steve’s chest, he still has an arm draped across his waist. Like he wanted to make sure, even in his sleep, that Steve wasn’t going anywhere. Steve’s not. For a moment, he’s so caught up in the softness of it all that Steve doesn’t even know what’s woken him. He doesn’t hear the kids downstairs yet, and if Eddie’s still asleep, then—

The sound of the telephone on the nightstand rings out in his ear like an alarm and Steve’s quick to shimmy in Eddie’s arms and turn to grab it before the shrill ring can wake him. “Hello?” Steve mumbles into the receiver, his voice still groggy with sleep, and he scrunches his eyes back shut the moment he hears Robin’s voice shouting at him on the other end of the line. “Where have you been? I have been trying to get a hold of you for like, two hours!” Steve blinks tiredly, turns his gaze to the clock on the wall across the room. It’s nearly one in the afternoon. “Tell me why I got off the phone with Nancy this morning because Jonathan came over to her house and told her that you were having a sleepover… with Eddie fucking Munson? Excuse me!” It’s too early for this, God, it’s too early. Steve can feel Eddie stir at his side and he tries to shush Robin, but his best friend is having absolutely nothing of it. 

“I should have been the first to know about this, Steve!” Robin cries, and Steve actually has to hold the phone away from his ear because he thinks she might’ve discovered a new decibel in all of her indignity. He glances over and Eddie’s yawning, dragging an arm away to bat lazily at his face. Steve’s not even sure he’s awake yet. He thinks about trying to argue with Robin, to protest that whatever she’d heard through the grapevine ( because he knew, he knew there was no way Argyle wasn’t telling Jonathan something ) and insist that it’s not what she thinks and anyway, how could he even call her last night if he wanted to? But she hardly lets him get a word in edgewise. So Steve lets her rant for a moment, half-wonders if he kind of deserves it as he watches Eddie and listens to her go on about everything Nancy told her. Then Eddie’s scrunching up his nose, eyes still closed, and burying his face in the pillow to cover a sneeze and without even thinking about it, Steve says, “Bless you.” Robin falls silent on the other end of the line immediately and Steve knows all at once he’s made a mistake. 

“Oh my god, he’s there with you right now, isn’t he? Steve. Steve! Oh my god. Is he in your bed? What did you even do? I swear to God —” Robin doesn’t even pause to take a breath so Steve doesn’t even decide to wait, instead says over her a simple, “I’ll call you later,” and hangs up the phone. He can’t handle that right now. He’ll tell her — of course he’ll fucking tell her, and she’ll be pissed to find out that Henderson found out first — but he just needs to wake up first. Steve turns to face Eddie, watches as his face emerges from the pillow slightly pinker than before, and he smiles softly. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Steve says and reaches out to nudge Eddie’s shoulder lightly. Eddie mumbles something in response that Steve can’t quite make out, but he thinks it sounds like ‘ dopey’ and he chuckles. “How you feeling?” 

Eddie sighs into the pillowcase before fully meeting Steve’s gaze and he offers a sleepy smile of his own. “Better,” he says, and immediately winces because everything about his voice seems to contradict his answer. Namely the fact that it’s all but gone, little more than a hoarse, scratchy whisper. “Better than I fucking sound, I swear,” he adds and then laughs, clears his throat a little to see if it’ll help. It doesn’t. “ Shit,” Eddie swears and looks past Steve toward the wall, shaking his head. “Guess I gotta call the boys, I can’t practice like this today. I can barely even talk.” He’s right about that, Steve thinks. He sounds like shit, and it’s a wonder Steve can understand him at all, the way his words keep cutting in and out in spite of his best efforts. “Can I borrow your phone before I leave today? Wayne’s, um, I think he’s gotta pay the bill tomorrow for ours, but it’s the weekend, so—”  

“Yeah, you can borrow my phone, but why are you leaving?”

“Well, I just… what?”

“I said, why are you leaving?” Steve repeats as if it’s the most obvious question in the world. Eddie looks like he’s been thrown entirely off guard, like he doesn’t know how to answer, so Steve continues. “I mean, I don’t work today. You just said yourself that you’re gonna have to cancel your band practice or whatever, right?” Steve scoots back a little so he’s sitting upright, stretches his arms over his head as he speaks. He’d fallen asleep in the vest, and he can feel the metal from the pinbacks scattered across the denim unsticking from his back and his chest as he does. “You might not be knocking on death’s door anymore, but you’re still sick. And your uncle works all night, right?” Eddie nods, and he looks like he’s surprised he knows that. Steve doesn’t actually know why he knows that. Henderson probablys said something about it once — like Steve said, he always pays attention when the kid brings up Eddie. “Right. So… he probably needs to sleep after all that, which means that he can’t really take care of you. That leaves the obvious choice… just stay here.”  

“Steve, I’ll be fine,” Eddie says quickly, and he’s already pushing himself upright in the bed, pushing the sheets away like he’s just going to get up right now. Steve sighs. “I can just—” 

“C’mon, don’t do this again, Eddie,” Steve groans, and his words are equal parts teasing and exasperated, just light enough to not sound like an actual dig. Because Steve doesn’t mean it as one. “I’m not asking you to let me fucking — I don’t know, play nurse and wash your hair again,” he says, waving a hand in the air as he does to emphasize his point. His eyes catch on the glint of the rings — Eddie’s rings — in the sunlight. “Just — literally just hang out here. We can watch movies or play a board game or — Henderson’s mom’s out of town so I’m kind of watching him right now, you guys could do your Dungeons thing. And I can also make sure you aren’t actually just getting a second wind before the grim reaper really comes knocking.” The offer is enough to give Eddie pause, and Steve watches as he sinks back down into the mattress to consider it. A few seconds pass before his shoulders lift into a shrug and he looks back over at Steve and nods. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and he’s still nodding, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Yeah, okay. Also, it’s called Dungeons and Dragons. You ever play, Stevie?”

Steve has to remind himself he definitely won’t regret extending the invitation.

And he doesn’t. Dustin stays back with Eddie while Steve chauffers the rest of the kids to their respective homes in Eddie’s van, and while Steve’s out, he stops at the corner store and picks up a few things. Some actual cold medicine and tissues, a few cans of Campbell’s and a pack of the blue Fun Dip for Dustin. When he gets back to his house, he finds Eddie and Dustin have set up camp on the sofa, a blanket stretched between them and the TV playing little more than background noise while they pore over a number of open books and loose papers. Steve thinks he can see depictions of monsters, but he can’t make out any of the words for the fancy, complicated fonts they used. It doesn’t really matter, Steve doesn’t understand any of it anyway. But it does something funny to his heart, walking in the doorway to the two of them laughing and smiling as Eddie imitates some fantastical beast, and Steve wonders if maybe one day it wouldn’t be so bad to learn.  

Today isn’t that day, though. After chucking the bag with the tissues and the robitussin in the general direction of the couch, Steve heads to the kitchen to start working on heating up the cans of soup. Once he’s got a pot on the stove, he sets to work gathering up all the laundry from the hamper in the bathroom and hauling it all downstairs to stuff in the washer with a generous scoop of detergent. Maybe two, actually. By the time he’s made it back up to the kitchen, he’s only got a few minutes before the soup’s ready, and it’s not long until Steve’s heading back out into the living room with three bowls of chicken and stars in his arms. It takes a little bit of nagging on Steve’s part to get them to clean up the books, but they’re piled high on the floor beside the couch by the time Steve’s got the coffee table pulled up close to the seats and the bowls lined up. Eddie and Dustin both immediately settle back into the couch, occupying the end cushions on either side. 

That leaves the middle seat open for Steve after he rewinds the tape in the VCR and presses play, and he settles comfortably into the spot between the two of them. The opening credits for Ferris Bueller begin to play — and yeah, Steve knows he was supposed to return it today, but Dustin never actually got to see it, and Keith will never know if his late fee just happens to… disappear , it’s fine — and Dustin readjusts the blanket in his lap, hands Steve a corner to pull over himself and Eddie with a bright, beaming grin because Steve did tell him he’d already returned the movie. A white lie every now and then wasn’t horrible, not when Henderson’s brand of excitement was the outcome. Steve settles back into the cushions, shoulder-to-shoulder with Eddie and Dustin who have already started eating, both pairs of eyes already glued to the screen as they subtly lean into Steve on either side, almost at the same time.

And yeah, Steve thinks, this must be fucking it.  

And then he thinks he's got to call Robin. Fuck. 

Chapter Text

Hello, angel babes! I just wanted to drop in here and say hello, and I come bearing good news!

I couldn't bring myself to call it quits on this particular AU because I'm still so soft for these boys it hurts, so I've decided to turn this work into a series! The first part of the next installment is up, and if you'd like, you can find it here at everything is going wrong (but we're so happy!)

Anyway. That's all I've got for now, but if you're reading this, I love you sm and I hope life treats you to a fantastic day. 💗