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It’s ‘82 and Eddie’s legs just aren’t working like they should. His voice has evened, finally, but his body has gone and re-invented itself over night without his permission. There are new secretions everywhere. There are these smells, right, these peak-a-boo death odors that no amount of deodorant and the exact 1.5 sprits of ole Wayne’s Cool Water can mask. Then there are the boners—erections with a talent of showing up, not only unannounced, but as if they kicked opened the parlor door of a funeral home all spirit fingers and show tunes. It’d be an impressive bit of showmanship—because Eddie’s a big fan of how his teenage dick has been filling out—if they’d been invited. They’re not though, not ever and certainly not the fuck now.
He’s been trying for several long minutes to divert one of those pesky (peck-y?) devils from an acute drop in, staring hazardously at the way some of the other boys’ shoulder blades turn in when they move their arms, how sweat drips down their bare spine and darken the waistband of their gym shorts—when his foot catches on a lodged-in rock during the mile. Coach clocks him instantly (the bastard has been up his ass since the beginning of the year), uses that hell-siren of a whistle, and calls for someone to bring the first aid kit.
Eddie wishes he can blame the fact that he’s got these new factory model legs while he’s shifting through last years manual, la version en espanol, all done so with a good attitude and 8th grade foreign language, but he can’t. He’s literally just this unlucky. How he’d managed to trip on the only rock in an otherwise smooth track at Hawkins High is pretty much a message from the universe and it’s saying, hey buddy, maybe it’s time to admit that you and your Bambi legs are discounted bologna, hm? Have you tried not sucking ass because that seems to work for the other kids.
He’s so busy envisioning all the mean things the universe is plotting against him and saying behind his back, and hissing at the mild pain that’s starting to blossom, that he doesn’t notice that someone’s approached him.
“Munson right?” Says a shadow. Eddie has to shade the sun from his eyes when he looks up.
It’s Steve Harrington, the burgeoning legend himself. He’s this dude with lots of money, charisma and hair. Lots of hair, on his head and dotting his chin, and up his chest and dusting his belly and down into—Eddie swallows.
“What’s it to you?”
Harrington doesn’t say anything, just smiles and waves around the little first aid kit. Eddie sighs, gives his consent with a shrug and wave towards his busted open skin.
“You got some weird knees dude. They look like little aliens.” Harrington says, taking an alcohol pad and wiping away the blood.
“Christ, don’t I deserve the villian-y monologue before the fuckin torture?” Eddie jerks away some, but Harrington keeps him firmly in place. “Oh, and thanks, because I already don’t feel like an alien in my 15 year old body.”
Steve Harrington laughs, the bastard.
“You know, I think I get what you mean. Sometimes I wake up and wonder where all the chest hair came from and if it’s ever going to like, strangle me in my sleep.”
“Strangle you in your—how the hell does your mind work, Harrington?”
“So you know me.” Harrington says casually, layering on some antibiotic ointment.
“We have four classes together.” Eddie says, then he immediately reprimands himself. Dumb, so dumb.
“I know that. But you always seem lost in another world or, I don’t know, not interested in what anyone else has got going on?” Harrington says, placing gauze down and sealing it off with medical tape.
“Usually I’m not.”
“Thought so. Okay, all patched up. Take two of these and watch where you’re going, next time, huh Munson?” Harrington says, not handing him anything, but packing away all the supplies and trash.
“Yeah.” Eddie stands and dusts himself off. “Thanks a lot, doc.”
“Don’t mention it. For the record, your knees are totally weird, but like, in a cute way.” Harrington says, wiping away the sweat on his brow. “Gee, I’m soaked and we’re 10 ’til next period. Gunna hit the showers. See you in Chem.”
Steve Harrington just called his knees cute, said some other unimportant bullshit right after, and now Eddie’s mind is stuck in error. His words are suspended in pause. Eddie’s lower body, however, as it has now known to do, reacts swiftly and horrendously.
-
It’s '83 and Eddie’s gotten a hang of this teen thing. And guess what, some of those coming of age films get it exactly right. The drama of not knowing who you are and who you even want to be, that’s some heavy and real ass shit, man. But Eddie’s got some of it down now. He’s not found a lot of people like him, but he’s found his people for sure. His people sit at the back of the class (when they make it). Some of them wear all black and shred some serious led. Most of them get stoned and talk dragons. His new Dungeons & Dragons club (name pending, but dude when he figures that one out he’s going to get them some sweet ass shirts) becomes somewhat of a second home. It’s one of the only places in Hawkins where he feels free to be exactly who the fuck he wants to be without any repercussions or anyone looking down on him like he’s some warm dog shit at the bottom of their shoe. He could be Eddie the dragon slaying rock god and nobody’ll say otherwise.
Eddie’s always plotting and drawing up things for his campaigns—on his wrist, scribbled in napkins, written in the margins of his history text book—but mostly in his school binder. He’s got more notes in there on D&D than he does from all his classes combined. Shame his binder’s shot though. It’s his fault for constantly dropping it and getting it caught in his locker door too many times.
He’s trying to fit the flyaways into a neater pile when Tommy H. comes walking by and hits the entire thing out of his hand.
“Watch where you’re going, freak.” The asshole says.
“Oooooor,” Eddie grins, “you keep those dumbo ears tucked in so you don’t accidentally clip anyone else in the hallway.”
Eddie gets no time to be proud of himself for the quick rejoinder, just swallows thickly and frowns as Tommy comes hurdling towards him, pushing him into his locker and poising back a curled fist.
“Wanna repeat that?” Tommy says through his teeth.
“Is it the depth or width of them bad boys?” Eddie asks.
“What the fuck are you talking about now, freak?”
“That makes you hard of hearing.”
“You son of a—“ Tommy actually growls, like a feral wildebeest, and Eddie pinches his eyes close in anticipation of an inevitable bruising.
But principal Higgins rounds the corner at the very hour of Eddie’s last breath. He’s never been thankful to see principal Higgins, and he’s totally not going to start now, but he knows that he should appreciate that the stars have aligned with him on this one since it so rarely happens.
“Hagan! Walk it off, son.” Tommy H. breathes through his nose and shoves Eddie by the lapels of his demin vest.
“This ain’t over, queer.” Tommy H. spittles a bit. Eddie wipes the crud off as he saunters away.
So, there’s also that. The other thing he’s gotten his mind around. He spent a good three months hating that he was like this. Sometimes, when lovely people like Tommy H. reminds him that being like this isn’t only frowned upon, but discouraged and hated, he still does. But mostly he’s come to a quiet peace about it. And made sense of it in the only way he knows how: There are girls, right, and he’s supposed to like them. Which he does. They’re neat and pretty, and he wants to woo them and treat them like queens. Then there are boys. They are also neat and pretty, but he wants them to woo him and treat him like a queen. King. Whatever. The point is, Eddie’s spent the better part of freshman year going over the what-the-hells and why-comes of his hormones and feelings and he’s done fighting what feels right.
It doesn’t matter to anyone but him, anyway. Doesn’t matter to the mildly cute boys that don’t notice or care that he’s drooling over them. And it certainly doesn’t matter to Steve Harrington. Not that it matters if it would matter to Steve Harrington. Only, if it did matter to Steve Harrington Eddie might have imagined several scenarios where in the manner in which it matters, like, positively matters to Steve Harrington. But again, that just doesn’t matter. It’s all some big time what ifs that always lead to as ifs. He’s saying as much, aloud to himself, when Harrington comes out the woodwork to help Eddie pick up his drawings.
“It finally happened, huh?” Harrington says.
“What, Tommy H. finally flew on back to the mud-hole with his mama-phant where he belongs?”
“No, I mean, your binder’s finally kicked the bucket.”
Harrington hands him some drawings, stands and jogs some odd feet away a towards his locker and comes back with a fresh, navy blue three-ringed binder. Eddie doesn’t grab it at first, just stares at it as if it was cursed. Harrington whose got exactly zero of Eddie’s unlikely demon-treasure anxieties, shoves the binder into his chest. He’s got no choice but to catch it.
“What’s this?”
“A binder?” Harrington says with a bit of unease, his brows knitted together.
“No shit, but why are you giving it to me?”
“You had that one since the beginning of freshman year. Looked like you could use a new one.”
“Oh, I get your angle, man. Poor trailer park boy can’t even afford a new binder, right? Fuck off.”
“That’s, whoa, not my angle at all. Look, I’m not sitting here throwing loose bills into a Salvation Army bin, dude, it’s a gift. You know what those are right?”
“But again, why are you giving one to me?”
“I want to.” Harrington says, crossing his arms and leaning sideways into the lockers. He looks more towards Eddie’s feet than at him when he says, “Besides, it’d be a shame for you to lose all those cool drawings. You’re really talented. I don’t know, thought, maybe with this one you could get some new inspiration or at least, more drawing space. It’s a 2 inch.”
The bell rings and Steve turns to him with a nod and a tight smile before he dashes away.
Eddie does not get to say thank you or argue further. It’s a 2 inch, Eddie mocks. But he does eventually transfer all his drawings and notes into it. He might even draft a new character sheet, some beefy ranger with beauty marks all down his neck whose mission it is to save his pretty prince from a mountain troll. He does not, he doesn’t, scratch S.H. in blue bic pen on the inside of the binder where no passerby could see it.
-
It’s '84 and well, money’s always been tight. And the weed, that’s always been good. He takes Reefer Rick up on his offer. He makes a killing with the rich kids. There’s a party at Steve “The King” Harrington’s house and he goes to work it. The music is far from his taste, the beer is trash and it’s hot. Everyone is halfway drunk by the time he makes his rounds. He’s sitting poolside, one foot stuck in and another propped up, just done counting his earnings and nursing a warming beer when someone falls pretty ungraciously next to him. It sounds like it hurt.
“Munson.” They greet. It’s the King, of course. Eddie hopes it hurt.
“Majesty.”
“Fuck off, man. What are you doing here?” Harrington asks. He grabs hold of Eddie’s shoulder and his face contorts in pain, before he lets out a burp with bass. He grins apologetically.
“What, it’s a crime to go to a party now?”
“Why do you always go on the defense, dude. Alls I’m saying,” Harrington burps again and brings up his feet to remove his shoes and socks. “Just never came to any of my other parties before.”
Harrington hisses when his feet and legs move into the cold water. Eddie decides to match his stance, sticking his other foot in with the other.
“Never been invited.” Eddie says, opening his lunch pail and finding a pre-roll.
“You don’t have to be invited. Nobody’s ever like, invited. I just mention in passing something about my parents being gone for the weekend and people show up with booze.”
“And drugs?” Eddie says, holding up the unlit joint. A peace offering.
“And drugs.” Harrington says, taking it and pulling it between his lips.
Harrington looks back to his house full of laughing teenagers and frowns.
“Wait, are you like a pensive smoker?”
“No spelling-bee words while I’m tipsy.”
“Well, are you gunna get all broody because —“
“I think I just got dumped so hand me a lighter or actually fuck off this time.”
Eddie doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. When Harrington motions impatiently, Eddie holds out his favorite zippo (engraved with his initials, a gift from his uncle), unabashedly watching the way Harrington’s cheeks concave as he lights the tip and inhales, then how his long lashes hit beer pink cheeks as he watches smoke leave his nostrils and into the cooling night. And Eddie’s a little enraged by how attractive he is. He gives nothing away, he thinks, just goes back to staring at the pool water ripple with the little kicks of Harrington’s right foot. They share the joint in silence and is nearing the butt when he notices that Harrington’s been staring. Eddie’s nostrils flair, eyes flittering to the side. Then Eddie shifts fully so he can meet the gaze of the blatantly staring bastard, mouth curving up and dimples deep. He can’t believe that the dude is already blasted. What weak sauce.
“You’ve got a really great smile.” Harrington says with a dopey grin, reaching out his fingers to brush softly against Eddie’s cheeks, fingering into a dimple. Harrington’s thumb gets achingly close to grazing his bottom lip, but Eddie chooses fight instead of flight and bites him. Harrington rears back laughing and waving around his hand to placate his pain, legs out the water and kicking Eddie in the side. He almost loses his lunch pail of goods and winnings to the deep and darks of Harrington’s pool, but ever the athlete, stoned as he is, Harrington quickly moves to action and saves the day. And Eddie’s savings.
“You bit me. Why the fuck did you bite me, you weirdo?”
“It’s not weird when some smelly fingered weirdo tries to strangle you.”
“You always this dramatic?”
“Worse, probably. But I don’t meet me often so I can’t give you an objective answer.” Eddie tries to stand, still frazzled, but Harrington holds onto his wrist and Eddie falls back on his ass with a thump.
“What if I’m— I’m unlovable?” Harrington laughs. It’s sort of manic.
“What makes you say that?” Eddie watches Harrington run tired hands through his hair as he retells the story of the bathroom, wasted Wheeler and bullshit.
“So she doesn’t love you. Not all people will. I’m proof of that, man. That doesn’t make you, uh, unloveable.”
“It’s just, with Nance, I did my best to do everything right. Wasn’t good enough. I mean, can’t force something that isn’t working. I know that. Like, I know that, alright? But I thought it was working. But, look, even before Nancy I was—I’ve been so stupid for this other, uh, person and I’ve tried my best to give them all the hints and they just—splifffffttttssss—nothing and sometimes I wonder if I’m just waisting my time wanting him too because that’s probably never going to happen in a million years.”
Eddie’s heart is clenching, trying his best to be a good person while Steve Harrington’s all but slammed his heart on the table and said, here, troubleshoot this for me will ya? A good, self-less helping hand is all Eddie wants to be. But his body and brain are co-conspirators and they’ve decided that he must focus on the fact that Harrington’s said he. He said HE and Eddie is a terrible person, thanking God, Allah, Buddha and that science god Tom Cruise worships that Nancy Wheeler got drunk and threw up all over Harrington’s Adidas. The fact that Harrington likes boys. There’s some sort of chance. God, he feels like a piranha. He’s gotta leave. He’s gotta say something neutral and comforting. And then he’s gotta leave.
“You’re not unlovable, Harrington. They’re just idiots.” Eddie says, “But, hey, I gotta get going. You gunna be cool?”
Steve frowns and pulls out a cigarette from the front pocket of his jacket and gives Eddie an unconvincing grin. Eddie bites his lip and gathers up his shit.
“As a cucumber. Drive safe, Eddie.”
Eddie wishes that he could trust himself to stay longer, wishes that Steve would ask him to too. But Eddie doesn’t, because Steve doesn’t.
-
It’s '85 and Eddie’s got his newly printed Hellfire Club tee under a black blazer. He’s got on dress shoes that he’s nicked from Wayne’s closet, too, but his curly hair’s a total nest. Chrissy’s telling him a story about how her friend farted during the homecoming game and almost got the squad to lose formation, and Eddie is howling with laughter. They’ve been holed up at some table, talking and drinking the spiked Hawaiian Punch since they’ve arrived. Chrissy’s only made him dance twice, thank god, stating urgently that everybody’s supposed to have fun tonight, and you’re part of everybody no matter how much you deny it. Because it’s prom, and he loves the hell out of Chrissy, he does his very best to Wang Chung tonight. He’s having fun with her, truly he is. But they’re announcing prom queen and king soon, and even if he could give two shits about that type of thing, he knows who’s been in the running. And he’s been trying to avoid looking at him all night otherwise he’d start to think some unhelpful thoughts and break his own heart. He reaches behind his ear and finds the solo cigarette he’s brought (he promised Chrissy he wouldn’t chain smoke).
“Excuse me m’lady, but vices don’t wait.”
“They certainly won’t wait to kill you either, but what would I, daughter of a pulmonologist, know.” She says with narrowed eyes.
“Never change, Cunningham.” He says, kissing her on the cheek. She pretends to wipe it off and grins up at him with sparkling, playful eyes.
“Please change.” Chrissy says deadpanned. “Please.”
She winks at him as she goes to talk to some of her other popular friends that absolutely hate that she’s here with him. He wiggles his fingers in a mock hello and they all flick their hair and roll their eyes in disgust. Eddie laughs all the way out the gym.
It’s a cloudy night, a little windy, but he doesn’t worry about rain, not when it’s getting warmer the way it does this time of year. He falls into the brickwork of the gym and hangs his head. He can hear the announcements. The cheers. He can hear the music shift and feel the collective sigh of relief coming out of the class of ’85 as they go big for one last time, dressed in their best and having it up with their perfect fucking dates. The thought makes him stupidly bitter, even if coming with Chrissy is still some sort of dream. They’re best friends despite high school stations, and each other’s first pick for prom dates, but not their desired picks. Chrissy’s been secretly hung up on some chick with red hair and a tuba, and he’s, well…
Eddie tries to light the cigarette but the wind stops it some. He’s just got it lit, mid-inhale, when there’s a hand reaching out and plucking it from his lips.
“Been needing this.” Says the newly minted prom king. “Thanks.”
Harrington looks wicked in a tailored grey suit, loose tie, black shoes and a shining silver crown crooked and pushing back his brown waves. He smells good, like something mature, smokey and woodsy, but there’s also that subtle bit of vodka that they both share. He’s smily and airy and so close.
“Anything for you, your majesty.” Eddie says, then crosses his arms for fear of what they’d do if he lets them out on their own.
“Jealous, Munson? Didn’t peg you for someone who gave a shit about prom statuses.” Harrington says, handing back the cigarette.
“You wish. Anyway, I’m holding out for next year.” Eddie takes a few drags and then hands it back to Harrington.
“What, you coming back for Chrissy’s prom or something?”
“No, uh, I’m repeating the entire year. Or something.” Eddie says, wiping his hand down his face and accepting the smoke back.
“Oh.” Harrington says, rubbing at his chin and raising his brows. “That’s rough. If it’s any consolation, I’m getting cut off from dear ole dad because I couldn’t get into any good colleges and now I’m fumbling for a part-time.”
“It’s not.” Eddie laughs.
“Gunna be fishing around the new mall they build, you know, Star Court? See if something catches. You should, like, or, uh, if you’re ever there just, you know, come say hi.”
“At the job you don’t have yet?”
“Well, after I get it.”
“Can’t say I relate, but I admire the self-assurance in that sentence.”
“You can say that I’m full of myself, it’s cool, lots of people think that. I know you think that.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about what I think about you.”
“Then what do you think about me?” Harrington asks, taking a long drag and blowing smoke out his nose.
Harrington leans into the building, head propped back, chin up, watching the clouds part to reveal the pale moon. Eddie study’s Harrington’s long, exposed neck in this new light—the cut of his jaw, the sparse hairs that cover the curve of his Adam’s apple, and all those damn beauty marks that pepper his tanned skin. He’s so stupidly handsome.
“Yeah, no, full of yourself.” Eddie says, miming his head blowing up. “Total balloon head.”
Harrington ducks his chin into his chest and chuckles.
“So you and Chrissy, huh?”
“Friends.” Eddie steals back the smoke and takes a drag. “Just good friends. Since kindergarten.”
“Oh, cool. But you like her don’t you?”
“Who doesn’t?” Eddie says, purposely keeping his answer vague.
“Well, she doesn’t like you.” Harrington says matter of factly, throwing the cigarette butt into the asphalt. He’s crushing it with his dress shoe and giving Eddie a cocky grin.
“How do you know that?”
Harrington steps impossibly closer, and his hand disappears behind Eddie’s head. Eddie’s stunned silent, watching Harrington watch him with a soft smile, retrieving his hand and twirling a maple leaf between his finger and thumb. Eddie blinks. Harrington shoves his hand in his pocket and something crunches. Eddie pays it no mind. His ears are burning with embarrassment.
“That’s been there all night and your so called date didn’t even notice.”
“She’s short?” Eddie tries and fails to argue.
“A huh.” Harrington watches Eddie’s mouth.
“You did, though, you noticed.”
“I’ve always noticed you. You’re not a subtle guy.” Harrington says and then watches in awe as his hand lifts, as if it had a mind of its own, to take a lock of Eddie’s curls and brush it behind his ear.
Harrington’s got to feel the heat there. He’s got to feel the heartbeat that’s pulsing wildly. He’s got to know Eddie’s a dying man in the ER and this non-distance is the equivalent of Harrington tripping on the wire and accidentally ripping out the plug. Eddie watches as Harrington bites his bottom lip, licking over the indents he’s made.
“Just as soft as I thought it would be.” Harrington breathes. Then he closes his eyes tightly and their noses brush. And they’re sharing shaky, hesitant breaths. And Eddie doesn’t know where the bravery comes from, but he’s leaning in, waiting for Harrington to meet him there in the end, only, Harrington jerks back the second before their lips could touch. Harrington rubs harshly at the back of his neck, slaps his cheeks a few times and looks up to Eddie with wide eyes. They’re cloudy with booze and so much undeniable regret. Eddie can’t look at him much after that, so he doesn’t. His lips are tingling, legs are shaking, fingers curling into fist at his sides, and eyes are warm, no, he’s warm all over. God, he’s such an idiot.
“I’ve gotta—I’ve gotta get back to my date.”
“Yeah, uh, me too.” Eddie manages.
“I really hope I see you around, Eddie.”
Eddie hums and doesn’t watch Steve Harrington walk away. He stays in place, glaring at the cigarette butt they shared. Eddie hopes he doesn’t see Harrington around. Matter of fact, he’s gunna do his best to avoid all the spots in Hawkins where their paths might accidentally cross. He stays there so long that he doesn’t notice the gym emptying out.
That night he kisses Chrissy for the first time, and she lets him lead her to bed. It heats but dies out as quickly as it’d been sparked because he’s sobbing into her belly. They fall asleep curled around each other. In the morning she demands answers, which he gives freely (he admits now, that it’s love, what else could it be when he feels this wrecked), but she doesn’t ever give him shit about it.
-
It’s '86 and it was supposed to be his year. In lieu of happy-fun-woo times, he witnessed his best friend’s murder, been framed for said murder, and went to war in another dimension. It’s so outlandish and stupid, and everything’s happened so fast that he hasn’t gotten a chance to wrap his mind around the heavy parts of it. There’s been no moment to mourn. To rest. To feel. He’s just been continually propelled by the collective will and might of his new friends and fellow survivors.
It’s all ridiculous.
Harrington, Wheeler and Buckley come running towards the dark-twin trailer, saying they’ve done it. It’s done. He’s gone. Then they’re hugging and shaking with post-battle adrenaline. And Dustin’s jumping for joy in the right side up and extending the rope. And a tired, but otherwise healthy-looking Erica is nodding down at him impressed from where he climbs up after the girls (Harrington refuses to let anyone but himself go last), and Max is safe and alive, cradled in Lucas’ arms (who’s sporting a black eye but breathing). And then they’re all walking towards the clearing where they left the motorhome. And it’s ridiculous to feel this giddy after all that. It’s ludicrous. But they’re happy, he’s happy. Falling to the forest floor, bones aching and stinging where the demo-bats got him. Harrington falls next to him, cupping his hand behind his head. They’re defunct with laughter.
The grass is dewy. The night is clear of clouds. The only creatures buzzing around them are fire flies. Their friends are all slowly congregating elsewhere and it’s just the two of them, lying in the grass.
“I missed how you laugh.” Harrington says, as he’s calming down. “It’s the best.”
“You know, you used to tease me like that in school.” Eddie snorts. “What’s wrong with you? We almost died. Read the room, Harrington.”
“What’d I do?”
“Give me all these nonsense compliments.” Eddie pivots his head and admire’s Harrington’s profile. Harrington closes his eyes and quiets. Eddie watches his throat work. His chest heave up and down. His fingers drumming over the discoloring bandages wound around his stomach. He’s hesitating.
“You remember that, right?” Eddie pushes. And then Harrington quickly props himself up on his side and he looks up at Eddie through his thick eyelashes.
“Yeah, mean, there’s no forgetting how I had that massive crush on you.”
Eddie does not move of his own accord, rather his body is propelled forcefully and swiftly by some master puppeteer and he’s crawling over Steve Harrington’s mangled-up body and bringing him into a filthy kiss. Harrington falls onto his back and lets Eddie climb over him properly, groaning when Eddie’s tongue finds his, mewling, whining when their clothed crotches brush. Eddie grinds and pushes harder, and Harrington’s hands are leaving his hair and grabbing desperately at Eddie’s ass, pulling him closer, lifting a leg and getting them a better angle, whispering fuck fuck fuck, and Eddie pulls back winded, terrified and happy. And ridiculously turned on.
“You were being serious.” Eddie’s says through a pant.
“I—I—yeah, every time.” Harrington’s brows knit together. “Of course I was.”
“And that time at the party? Idiot number two—”
“Hey, I never called you or Nance idiots. That was all you, man.”
“But it was me, right, Harrington? You were talking about me?”
Harrington covers his hands with his face and vibrates with laughter. Eddie peers over him and tugs them off. Harrington takes the moment to entwine their fingers, lets them drop above his head. The movement makes Eddie fall in closer, pinning him to the forest floor.
“Steve, please just call me Steve.” Steve says with a little bit of exasperation, then fonder, softly, close, “Eddie, it’s been you for a long, long time.”
Steve heaves himself up some, to press a light kiss at the corner of Eddie’s lips, and Eddie smiles at him before he returns to his side.
“It’s always been you, too, Steve. Always you.”
They stay there lying down in the dampening night, holding hands under the stars.
Later, when everyone’s patched up and fed, when everyone’s dispersed to back to their homes, Steve drags Eddie to his house. They take turns showering and fall into a heavy tangle of limbs as soon as they get in the bedroom. Eddie’s a mess in the dark—fidgety and paranoid. Steve’s not too bad, but not better by much. They leave the hall light on anyway.
Steve curves himself behind Eddie’s back, and Eddie holds on tight where Steve arms come around him. It’s only then, in the quiet between them, that it all comes crashing down. Eddie tucks his face into the pillow murmuring Chrissy’s name, breath catching, eyes filling and then Steve’s holding on tighter and pressing kisses into his hair and repeating I know. I know. Baby, I know. Then Eddie is really sobbing. He falls asleep to the image of her last smile.
He wakes not long after that to feel Steve fidgeting beside him. He’s panicking, arms flailing like someone’s strangling him and Eddie strokes off the sweat at his feverish brows and whispers, I’m here. It’s just a dream. A stupid dream, sweetheart. I’m here. Then Steve’s stilling, breath coming harder but leveling out, and when he comes to, his wide hazel eyes are messy with tears. Eddie wipes them away with his wrist and thumb, kissing Steve’s jaw and cheek and forehead, mumbling I’m here, right here. in-between each press of lips.
They don’t get much sleep that night. Or any of the following nights after. But it’s easier with the other around. They make a vow to keep it that way.
-
It’s '87 and Eddie shows Steve the initials he scribbled in the navy binder he gifted him, and every D&D character that he’s inspired. Steve shows him the lighter he stole and half a maple leaf he’s pressed into an old copy of Fellowship he’s been trying to get through when he found out Eddie was a Lord of the Rings fan.
It’s ’87 and he’s is working through all of ’86’s grief and trauma with the coolest and most understanding dude on the planet, nurturing their budding love, surrounded by some kick ass people who he’s come to love like family.
It’s ’87 and damn it, it’s finally his year.