Chapter Text
***
For months, Steve had been having the same nightmare.
Him, Dustin, Lucas, Max and Robin, stuck in the same old, creaking attic. The wooden floorboards were a color of dark faded brown.
It smelled of dust, lilies and mold. The space was cramped with cabinets and shelves, boxes, vases and blurred oil paintings.
“A little help here, Steve?” Dustin’s reproachful tone pulled him out of it.
“I think,” he said, looking around. “I think—”
“That’s new,” Robin said. “But we need more than that.”
Despite the eerie aura, none of them were tense. Lucas and Max were in a corner, on their knees, Steve couldn’t exactly tell what they were doing.
Drawing? Playing scrabble? Steve grabbed the lantern placed neatly nearby, and lit it. A sort of red light pulsed out of it, with the flame dancing inside of its cage.
Someone knocked at the trapdoor.
Someone always knocked at the trapdoor.
Steve stepped towards it, and Dustin grabbed at his arm.
“Are you mad? You don’t know who’s out there.”
Gently, he pulled Dustin’s hand off of him. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, taking yet another step as the knocking grew louder with each hit.
Steve? Steve. Steve!
His name in several mouths coiled together to become nothing more than background noise. He held a hand out, but the figures — the Robin, Dustin, Lucas and Max ghosts — still moved, while pestering him to leave it be.
The trapdoor was close to coming off of its hinges and the banging became insufferably loud.
He pressed a hand to it; there was a time where he would’ve tried to hold it in place with his entire body.
This time he turned the handle.
***
Eddie’s body was raw, muscles contorted where he lied. Dried blood sticking to the ripped fabrics of his clothing.
His leather jacket stunk like iron and death. He smelled like funeral flowers, but none of them grew here.
Hello? He croaked. The word didn’t have an echo, his voice dry and torn. A taste of pennies in his mouth. What happened? Where was everyone else?
Anyone? He tried lifting his body into a sitting position. His gums ached, his tongue was sore. The blunt, vague pain continued down his neck, his back, towards his thighs and ended at his shins. Near him lied a makeshift shield, its spikes coated in something akin to rust, some bent, a torn bat’s wing rotting on another. Further away he saw a spear. He felt like a newborn in the middle of a battlefield; a foreigner, a lodged object in one’s eye.
Eddie. The voice — a growl of a beast, tearing at the ground underneath him; it beckoned.
He pulled his body up like a dying thing, and his leg muscles spasmed as if twisting around the bone. He shook. A shot of pain from the heel towards his hip followed every step. Eddie stumbled and fell to his knees, desperate palms pressed to the ground, violent tremors passing in waves through them.
Eddie . It had hooks lodged in his chest. He would not outrun it. Not that he wished to — his whole body begged for the unspoken promise of relief.
He lift his head, eyes searching for one that called for him. A mass of heavy scarlet mist was spreading along the horizon. In the middle of it something moved, a slight hint of darkness — blink and you might miss it — before it disappeared. He gathered his strength and pulled himself up, wincing at every stone underneath his foot, every bat’s screech above his head.
In the end, when he could reach the mist, he crumbled.
A firm hand, with claws as sharp as a wild animal’s, grasped his jaw, his chin; he felt a single prick at his throat. All air left his lungs as his legs fell to hard ground, but his upper body never followed. Eddie’s eyes widened, throat spasmed. His mouth was dry, lips cracked and peeling.
Before him stood a tall… Man. Although being, perhaps, would’ve been a better term to have used. His skin was pale and gray and a soft tint of cold purple plagued it. It was so tightly wrapped around his skull that it had torn. Pieces of intricately carved gold covered some of these wounds as if to fortify: at his lower jaw and up to his cheekbone, both sides of his lower nose and along the left side of his crown. His eyes were a glowing carmine red and corners of his lips lifted just enough to show a confident, knowing smile.
Everything down from there was but the same muscle and bone, his numerous ribs looked like lifeless branches and instead of waist he had slithering dark vines, curling around his arms, going for his neck.
The same metal covered his bony shoulders and hips, and a faded purple skirt fell to the ground, hiding the rest of his body.
The man looked like an undead king. Eddie swallowed thickly, not daring to do as much as blink in his presence. Something pressed to his back, and his eyes darted to side. It moved, enveloping his waist. Vines. He looked back at Vecna, leaning dangerously close, hungry eyes piercing right through as he tilted his head from one side to another. “You and I,” he said, his voice low, husky, and like a serpentine too fast to catch before it coiled around one’s throat, his breath settling on Eddie’s face — sickly sweet, “We are going to do great things, Eddie.”
***
Eddie’s eyes opened. The small trailer with dark vines holding it together was his favorite place to stay. Away from Vecna and his armies with a taste for blood.
It felt a lot like he imagined a home would’ve had to, and often, he wondered. About the world above. About the things he lost, never to return. The muddied, dust-coated mugs left there, the torn, stained mattress.
Time passed differently in the upside down. The sorrowful blues, the aching purples and the faint pinks painted the sky above his head. For so long after coming awake did he ached for light to breach the dark clouds, but now, he found beauty in the soft, subtle streaks of it, a gentle mix between a peach and bleeding tongue’s pink. How familiar it felt, to watch it shift like it was a living being.
He pushed off the rock he’d been leaning against, brushed the dust off his hands. The vines — he’d been wary of them at first — now reacted to his presence and lifted to greet him as he passed. Like a loyal dog brushing at its master’s palm, yearning for their touch. Eddie was no fool; these were no hounds, and Vecna liked to know where he strayed. His hands often sat on Eddie’s scruff or rested at the space between his shoulder and the crook of his neck, the gleaming claws a vibrant reminder of his luck.
He reached out towards a peaking vine; it spun gently around Eddie’s fingers, browsing through his rings. A soft curve formed from his lips, like a blade through butter. I’m here, I’m here. He allowed the vine to explore around his wrist before reluctantly moving away. The rest followed its example, brushing past his boot, his shin, the back of his neck, tugging at a single strand of hair, one that had escaped from the bun at the back of his head — just enough, if only to make him turn around. In the weirdest of ways, it was endearing.
A dark, webbed thing flashed through the sky before bolting towards him.
Within his iron grip the bat screeched — its crazed appearance even now left the hairs on his body up, a shiver like ice needles rolling through his back. While his memory had been tangled and inconsistent, he remembered these vile creatures well. They took flesh from his throat and legs and left his chest open, with a heart for taking. He remembered… His name being called; the tornado of winged rats; he remembered…
“Yeah ,” he whispered, bringing the bat closer to his face. His gums pulsed with the need to tear into the small, helpless body, “Look at you now .”
It hissed, the action left unfinished; Eddie uncoiled his grip, allowing the bat to drop. Dark blood left on his claws trickled down into his hand. He stood there for a moment before his jaw unhinged, revealing sharp canines and the long red tongue slid through his palm, leaving nothing but a faint blush. He kicked the animal aside as he moved past it, away from the trailer.
Eddie was sure if Vecna knew what he heard in these spaces — the human, very human laughter, the voices his mind might’ve not recognized, but his heart certainly seemed to, his wanderings would’ve been quickly restrained. I need my lieutenant by my side , he’d say, and Eddie would succumb. Because he enjoyed the feeling of being praised and needed, and the sword between his palms, how his muscles moved effortlessly to wield it. How it cut through flesh like it had no bone, and his mouth would open, tongue waiting for the delightful wave of sweetness. He supposed he needed Vecna just as much, if not more, because what would he have done — where would he have gone if his voice in the distance wouldn’t have called for him to come close, and closer still.
Eddie had a —
He halted, and the voice trailed off. Sometimes, when he passed this house on his way back, two-story and with a broken swing set in the backyard, he’d hear people talk. But this was different. The sword at his hip vibrated — with excitement, anticipation to spill blood of those who lurked inside of the house. His gut said it’s a trap, and thus, we’ll have to kill them and Eddie’s hand flew to the handle, gripping it tight, pulling it out of its sheath. A gorgeous obsidian blade, hooks carved close to its base looking like teeth. A single thought of feeding threw a thick veil over his mind and it remained the only conscious thing, the only action that mattered. Yes, his body said, about time.
The door was unlocked. It creaked when Eddie opened it, and so did the tired wooden planks underneath his step. Can you get me the… The same voice — a voice he would’ve considered a young boy’s, echoed again. It felt like a sting towards where his heart was. Eddie’s head jerked up. It wasn’t fear; it was… It trailed off, just like before, but he was certain it came from upstairs. On his left there stood wooden stairs with the railing wrapped entirely by a vine, their bodies stretched along the steps and up the walls.
As he went up, they awoke and just like before, leaned towards him. This time, however, their grip was more demanding, stubborn and outright angry. As if he had crossed a line, as if they’d rather he stayed down. Despite their efforts, Eddie avoided being tangled up in the lot of them, sprinting up the first set of stairs, turning right and continuing up.
If Vecna’s truly —
Precise steps led him to the door left slightly ajar, he held his breath placing his free hand on the door, the other ready to confront the culprits. Culprits. He nearly scoffed at the thought, yet everything turned still when he bolted into the room. Empty of people. Empty of voices. He looked around, focusing on any sound around him, but he was sure — he knew his ears couldn’t have led him astray. He looked up.
“What the hell?” He exhaled, watching the lights of soft orange and yellow and pearly white dance together like sparkling dust around the chandelier. Straining just a little, he reached to touch them, and they twirled around his touch, his fingers, like they were dancing or they were ripples and he was touching still water after a flood. It tickled. His heart hit his chest. Something about the way they moved, came alight brighter when he allowed himself to touch, was wickedly familiar. Then again. Before he knew, his heart was pounding, not a bird but a hammer against its bony entrapment.
Steve..? The voice sounded worrisome, building towards something far bigger.
Robin, move away! The steps, a heavy object colliding with the ground. He flinched, wide eyes searching the ceiling.
At that moment, the lights scattered. Like dust, if you blew. Like glass, if you shattered.
He moved his hand away, coming down onto his heals, wide eyes still fixated on the spot where they just were. These names left a tingling feeling at the back of his head. It built into an ache. A scrape against the inside of his skull. Eddie sheathed his sword. He remembered Steve — a figure without a face, scattered features he tried to put together but no amount of frowning, no amount of growing annoyance helped. No, no, there was a Steve, there was a — a Robin, but all his mind came up with was a chirpy bird with its chest red, pestering the faceless figure while sitting atop his shoulder. Then again, that Robin knew how to speak. That Robin couldn’t have a beak she’d peck at Steve’s head with like she was teasing him for all the… Hair that he had.
“Hello?” His breathing became rapid and uneven. He found a wound. He was determined to dig out the bullet. “Steve?”
Nothing.
He listened to his own breathing, heavy and thick.
“Dustin?! ” The name tore through his throat like shards of glass.
His eyes burned. He pressed a hand to them, fingertips coming off wet. “Anyone?” He went quiet.
The world was silent here, and whoever they were — they would not, could not — hear him.
There was a possibility he was imagining things, or his mind was playing tricks on him.
Powerful energy thickly laced this world, and for all he knew, it made him see things he wished to see.
He heard movement a second before he felt it. A vine wrapping around his hand. Comfort and familiarity filled up the cavity inside of his chest.
He watched it travel across his leather, a living being feeling out every curve of his limb. It tugged him back towards the wall, gently guiding into their embrace while another slithered around his waist and third made its way from his shoulder towards his throat, under his jaw — a subtle, yet firm lift; he almost laughed at the theatrics, but his heart , it fluttered for a single moment, and there was another tug. His body relaxed, feeling the shift of them behind his back, his eyes still set on the ceiling, but his mind was already wandering after the vines who took their sweet time covering his physique inch by inch. His teeth flashed as one came too close to his mouth, and as soon canines pricked the leathery flesh, he was gone.
***
Just as his right knee hit the ground, the vines dispersed like shadows and dust rose in a soft, transparent cloud around him.
The Plane of Ash, where Vecna so often lived, differed from others; it was light, albeit the sky was still void of color, and white mist surrounded everything.
He caught the glimpse of the purple fabric first, then lift his head, dragging his stare up towards the gold. He watched him, too, red eyes following Eddie’s movements as he stood.
Vecna reached with his bony hand, pressing the nail of his thumb south of where his beard — not much more than a stubble, really — started, reaching one scar he had already earned during his time there. Eddie felt a prick and jerked away. Vecna turned on his heel, moving towards the citadel in the distance.
The Citadel of Cavitius stood far in the distance, half a light gray skull and several towers growing out of it. The path they walked, Vecna first and Eddie following close by, was surrounded by hard formations with his master’s victims, or their bare bones, frozen in their last terrifying moments on this plane. Vecna revelled at the sight, often watching the unmoving figures, kept there to discourage anyone who could’ve been brave enough to challenge him. Eddie was looking at them, too. Their faces stuck in such unnatural expressions he couldn’t look away. They passed a girl; blonde hair, petite. Eddie’s eyes narrowed, deep wrinkles forming between his brows. Her features so familiar — even when distorted by Vecna’s fatal grip, that he caught himself pausing his step for just a moment.
This is what he does.
Hand on his sword. He turned to Vecna, then looked around. No, they were alone in this place.
He takes, and he takes and he takes, until there’s nothing else to give.
He was losing his goddamn mind. At the house, and here again.
Except this time the voice didn’t echo, but was a whisper coming from his shoulder, an invisible devil with his breath landing on Eddie’s ear.
How long has it been since Vecna had breathed life back into his bones? He was stronger, faster, his wounds healed up better than he could’ve ever imagined, he was plagued by no illness and yes, while he missed the sun and the taste of sweet cherries and — ah — the way beer bubbled on his tongue, Vecna was clear of what sunlight would do to his skin. How it’d turn it back into rot and how it’d burn and how lucky he was to not experience such pain here. Yes, that sounded anything but appealing to Eddie. Slashes and hits he learned to take, propping back onto his feet in a swift move, but the idea of his body turning into a carcass while in a fit of searing pain wasn’t something he wished to explore.
“I am glad the fight at Shadowfell is going well,” Vecna spoke finally, turning his head just enough to give Eddie a quick glance, “Well enough you feel comfortable exploring elsewhere.”
Eddie’s jaw clicked as he turned it to sides. His hand was still on the handle of his blade, fingers tapping a rhythm. In the beginning, he wished to serve, he would’ve bent over backwards if it pleased Vecna, but with time he learned how to bite back — sometimes literally, like he did with his vines, sometimes not.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d believe that to be a complaint, master,” he said, brows shooting up as he tilt his head. His voice was pleasant as ever, if hoarse. “But that surely can’t be it,” he continued, his tone catching a drama bug. He swore he could see Vecna’s eyes roll, a displeased huff between his teeth, “For I am not the—”
“Enough. ”
“Alright,” he said, pressing his lips together, so a grin wouldn’t fester. But it spread.
And faltered soon after.
The next victim his eyes found got him halting and out of breath. Once healthy bronze cheeks were now a sickly gray, long limbs twisted, mouth hanging agape.
We know that one.
Eddie forced his muscles to move again, but for the first time nausea was building up. We know that one. A series of images flashed through his eyes so fast his head spun. A boat, terror spreading through his chest, cold water seeping through his clothes, the sound of bones snapping as the boy’s body was up in the air. He remembered it like he was there — he was, wasn’t he? He was there when Vecna took him.
Vecna, with his eyes on his face, searching it.
He plays a concerned master well.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. He stared back at Vecna, feeling like someone had plucked him out of an icy lake.
“Feeling a little peckish,” he gave an answer to the quizzical look. The droplets he took from that skinny little bat did nothing but inflame his appetite and ever since, he was not feeling well. If he fed, surely, his mind would come back to him and he wouldn’t feel the need to argue with a voice inside of his head and he wouldn’t feel the need to scratch his heart out, because it burned , it burned like the sun was devouring it.
“Nothing that cannot be fixed,” his voice was velvety, and it enveloped him like a silken ribbon. The vines growing out of his belly, the ones that shifted like pet serpents, reached for him, for his hand, to caress against, then his arm, and his shoulder and —— there , he breathed out, palpable relief overcoming every piece of turmoil he held onto. His legs moved again, light and careless, following his master’s step.
The inside of the citadel was just as he remembered. Cold stone, lighter than one would’ve thought Vecna to choose — but perhaps that’s why he wished for Shadowfell, other than hunger for secrets, power and land, to be somewhere it felt more like home. For Eddie, the light was preferable, although he could understand the sentiment.
He caught a whiff of human scent before he saw any of them. His vines were holding them pressed to the high walls, tied to the columns, even floor. Others were kept down by their ankles and wrists. Saliva flooded his mouth, the need , for his tongue to be at their supple necks, his teeth pierce their soft skin. Right underneath he'd find arteries thick and vibrant. He took a shaky breath, grasping at the vine around his waist like an anchor. His fingers slid through it, playing absent-mindedly as he did. He wanted, so much, to dry and leave nothing but a pile of skin and bones. The heat at his throat pulsed through his chest, like the beat of a ravenous heart, it pulsed and spread at his underbelly.
“Patience ,” Vecna said, stopping him from stepping towards them. One of them was wounded. He could smell it, hear the drops of blood hitting the marble floor. What a waste. Vecna moved down the cracked stone stairs and so Eddie followed, towards the subtle pit where his victims lied. He saw the blood, he stifled a desperate grown. The further into the pit they went, the more his body shook. His vision was blurring, all he heard was a dozen of hearts beating like drums; an unsynchronized orchestra.
What a waste.
Eddie’s consciousness came back like a swinging brick. His mouth filled with a taste of blood, his lips, his cheeks, his neck, his hands — tainted with it, sticky. The pit was slathered with corpses, with human bodies cold and with their throats open. Not a single heartbeat there. Oh, he was sated. But at what cost?
He looked around, looking at each of his victims faces, trying to drill them into his memory. Mid length brown hair, groomed and light, square face…
This is the cost of your survival.
A girl with strawberry blonde hair, cut short, now sticking together in threads with dried blood, her lips pale.
He takes, and he takes,
A boy with curly hair, a redhead girl draped across the floor, a pair of siblings holding each other in a tight grip.
and he takes.
“Oh god, ” the words like sand in his mouth, he breathed it out, and choked. Desperate, desperate, desperate boy with his chest opening right in the middle, he scrambled on his fours, the marble stone slippery, towards the bodies he knew. He grasped at their numb cold limbs, at soft waists. No. No, no, no —
So many wars won, enemies slain and here he was, shaking like a leaf, a scared, hopeless child again. No amount of blood spilt would take that away.
The hand he held dear...
Was a stranger. Eddie blinked once, twice. He checked and checked again, each line and freckle.
He should've been relieved, yet the feeling remained; someone’s friend, sister or brother, and son. The voice whispered,
Till the next time, then.
***
His days weren’t the same afterwards. Like wild horses pulling thunder through the sky, flashes of the life he had lost came stumbling in.
The scraping at his skull he had felt a time ago now was a feeling coveted and missed. When he remembered them, he wouldn’t forget.
The bright faces, the hands that kept him away from the fury-ridden mob.
The war was going well. It always went well with Eddie there to oversee it. For his master, he conquered entire lands; he stood before dragons and demons alike.
He flung himself into battles, enemies falling at his step, but soon the field of bodies looked too much like the pit with his own victims.
Someone’s friend, sister or brother, and son. He didn’t escape the thought it could’ve been his. So close. So close to it being his.
How could he have forgotten, so easily, eagerly, carelessly?
The whispering on his shoulder had gone quiet since, its job done as it planted the seed of terror and despair.
A cornered animal with his teeth sharp, with his claws ready, with his blood boiling, with the only instinct left inside of his breath; to survive, to go back, to remember.
He walked for five days, the vines wouldn’t bring him to where his master was, dreaming up the idea of becoming a god, the only god, and eating the earth bite after bite.
Perhaps they knew more than Eddie could tell, or read his intentions, saw how the grip of his sword just wasn’t right, how his face had hardened, how his body was purging the foreign object lodged deep in the flesh of his belly; Vecna.
By the sixth day, he could see the Rotted tower in the distance. From top to bottom, the plane was a dark gray and a ruthless, dirty blue.
There were sinkholes and bubbling swamps, and creatures peeking their heads Eddie hadn’t seen before.
Large black tadpoles with eyes taking up half of their body and white, intense, following him as he walked the path.
By the seventh day, the single tower surrounded by smoke orange and gray, it stood there waiting for him to come in.
Eddie unsheathed the sword, the onyx blade glistening in the dim light.
Feed us.
There was reason behind the request, the sword in his hand buzzing. If he was starving, Vecna could get ahold of his mind more easily. Not if we’re quiet enough.
If he’s clever, he won’t get caught; he will walk on air, if he has to, and he’ll split his skull, and all the secrets will pour out like butter, like gold.
He would not feed again. Not on people he didn’t pick, not for people that didn’t allow, not on people that didn’t deserve.
Curious tongue peaked out of his mouth, pressing to his top lip for a second. The air was still, his soul was not.
You’re stalling.
He pushed the heavy wooden door open, a spiral of stairs meeting him as he entered. He walked around it, listening, but that was redundant;
even now, the bond between him and his master was much like an ever lasting thread. One he’d have to cut off in the next few minutes, one that could leave him dead, too.
The higher he climbed the stairs, the harder it got. When he could see the very top, when he could see the vines spread, his breath was shortening,
his heart was doing somersaults, his brain was coming up with entire lists of reasons he should turn back, right now, right this second.
Keep going.
The sword Vecna had forged for him, turning against its maker. A maker, with red energy buzzing around him, a maker with his back turned.
From the top of the tower they saw the mountains far, far away. Creatures of every kind screeched and slithered from one hole to another.
It was a devious, hellish place, yet he hadn’t felt the need to leave in a long, long time.
He swung it, and it sliced into dark flesh.
The vines went into panic, flaying, trying to get to Eddie’s throat, his ankles and wrists as he continuedly cut them down and in the mid of all of that…
There he stood. His eyes were wide, in shock, betrayal — or hurt, but Eddie couldn’t think clearly enough to decipher. Vecna lift his hand and Eddie’s body slammed back into the wall.
He hurried to get up, ignoring the lack of breath, the pain, the newly formed wounds. There was no way back from this, and he was determined to win.
He slammed again his body once more, this time the vines got half of him, and there Vecna stood, enjoying the sight of failure.
“You ,” he said, moving closer, “I brought you back to life. I built you. And you ,” his voice became a snarl, “Would betray me like this? —— For what ?”
There was a part of him — how large he couldn’t say, and was afraid to confront — who wished to apologize and crumble at his feet but his sword vibrated in his hand,
it begged him not to cower now, not to waste away a chance he would never receive again.
Freedom, his heart spoke.
“I’m sorry,” his mouth moved out of his control. It opened wide and tore into the nearest vine. The grip loosened, and he swung again, cutting off Vecna’s left arm.
The fight was bloody. Eddie felt his skin part in several places on his jaw, his forehead, his arms and legs.
He bled. Exhaustion was taking over.
He had fought wars before; this would be his last.
His eye, Eddie.
He wielded his sword as it wished to be, cutting at neck and pure bone of his ribs and the vine coils around his waist,
and it aimed at his head to tear the skin off, to swing again and —
In a slow, dream-esque way he saw Vecna freeze, with his sword through his left eye. The figure so great once before now stood there like a skeleton which belonged six feet under.
Bright orange light began seeping from Vecna’s body, aiming to occupy the entire realm. Eddie closed his eyes, hiding his face behind the sleeves of his coat and felt a wind catch him,
only to blast him away.
***
He preferred evenings. For one, the sun was hiding and he could admire its yellows and oranges from far away, and it wouldn’t burn him to his bones.
Two, it was something about the crisp autumn weather, when the leaves just colored themselves to match the sun , that resonated with him.
He stood before the small house his uncle owned. He didn’t exactly know why or how, but he figured the government took care of those who witnessed something they’d rather be kept quiet. Through the window, he saw the figure of his uncle move around the kitchen; he heard the pots and pans, he could smell his uncle’s favorite veggie stew.
He’d always try to buy fresh bread for it, and he’d only make it during autumn. It was just spicy enough to warm you up well, and it filled you like nothing else.
He had lost count how many times he went up the stairs to knock at the door, and turned back and hid behind the tree across the street.
He felt so silly, yet the fear remained; would he be terrified, seeing Eddie scarred and changed? Did Hawkins tortured him with stories of Eddie the murderer, Eddie the freak?
He heard a car coming up that way and pulled himself out of sight. It turned right into his uncle’s driveway, and Eddie’s breathing stopped.
He saw Robin climb out clumsily, open the trunk and pull out a basket. Vickie and she went straight to the door, bursting in.
He saw, even through the window, how his uncle’s face lit up seeing the both of them.
Dustin was chewing Steve’s ear off with his new theories. Steve pat him on the head as they walked right in.
Oh.
His uncle wasn’t alone. He was loved. He had people who visited him. Who he could cook his stew for.
Tears dwelled up in his eyes, but he wiped them with a sleeve as soon as the door opened again.
Steve rushed out, sprinting towards the trunk of his car.
“Found it!” He yelled back, pulling out a bottle of wine. Blue jeans, yellow shirt, a gray jacket on his shoulders.
“Hey , Harrington.”
The wine bottle broke on the ground.
“What the fuck,” he whispered. His mouth wide open, eyes unblinking.
Eddie locked his hands behind his back, carefully making a couple of steps forward. “Yeah ,” he murmured, “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Dustin! ” Steve might’ve wanted to yell, but his voice was nothing but panic; it came out a croak. He stepped back, with a hand on his chest.
Like an old lady seeing a ghost. Eddie’s lips twisted, he bit into the bottom trying to quiet his grin.
“You can take a moment, I mean —”
Steve swallowed, and his shoulders dropped. “No, no… No — you died .”
“I did.”
“But you’re here .”
“Perceptive.”
Steve’s breathing thickened, his face was flushed. Were there tears forming at the corners of his eyes, or was he mad? Terrified?
Eddie could hear how fast his heart beat, how wild and violent. His chest barely contained it. He would’ve placed a hand there, and he believed it’d calm.
“Shut up,” Steve said, and a smile so subtle, so short-lived — because his lips, like his hands, were trembling. “The others, they’re—”
“I know.”
Eddie watched Steve as he struggled with the concept, with how he, Eddie, the one with blood in his mouth, was alive (questionable) and well, and here, here, right before his eyes.
So what if the earth was scarred from where the earthquake had shaken and torn it; Eddie had scars, too. All was well.
This young man, an overgrown boy with brown hair that was too fluffy for its own sake, he struggled no more.
He leapt like a bird out of its nest, and his arms spun around Eddie, pulling him close, and his mouth, hot and alive and still shaking,
pressed into his so hard he thought he’d never be able to get the marks off of him.
As if he’d want to.
As if he’d ever dare.
His hands uncoiled, slow and unsure. What was he supposed to do with his hands? What was he supposed to do when Steve kissed him like he’d never been touched before?
With abandon, with fingers pressing in so tight to his coat Eddie felt them leave imprints on his skin.
Eddie pressed palms into his cheeks, keeping him in place, in control. His breath hot, the heat travelling throughout his body in a pleasant shiver,
his fears washed away with saltwater and soft lips and the tip of Steve’s nose against his cheek and yearning.
“Steve, man, did you get trapped under the hood?” Dustin’s voice rang mockery as he leaned out through the window. Steve pulled away, his hands never quite leaving Eddie.
Dustin’s eyes exploded as he screamed, “Eddie!?” Swinging his body out, dropping (god, that kid), stumbling his way forward, clashing into him like a wrecking ball.
Eddie grunted, wrapping him up into an enormous hug.
He saw the face of his uncle, and the others, and his chest, where pain once had lived, filled up with warmth, and love, and future.
He had bruises and wounds, as the soil beneath their feet did, but all was well in Hawkins.
All was well.