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Steve Harrington is not afraid of death. He realizes this when he's thirteen, and his bike ends up with a broken wheel on the side of the road.
His parents don't show up at the hospital. They call, pretend to be worried, pay for the bill. They don't ask him how he is, only ask the doctors if he'll be okay in time for the swimming tournament.
The doctors say he's lucky to be alive.
He doesn't feel scared, doesn't feel lucky. He feels like a burden, yet another time. Feels like a bill, something to get rid of as quickly as possible. If his parents aren't reminded of his existence, then maybe he doesn't exist at all. Then he's one less this to care about.
He cries himself to sleep, calls for his mom in the cold, empty house that stopped feeling like a home a long time ago; maybe it never did. And it's the last time he does it.
He relizes it once again when he's fifteen, and gets his firts concussion; one of many more to come.
He gets knocked hard into the floor by one of his basketball teammates. Doesn't feel scared while he's rushed into the hospital, alone. Again.
Doesn't feel scared when the doctors tell him to be careful, that he's lucky it's only a mild one. Again.
His parents don't call that time.
He thinks he's not afraid to die, to get hurt. He thinks death doesn't affect him, maybe something wrong happened to him. Maybe his wires are tangled together, in a way they're not supposed to be.
It's when he turns sixteen that he realizes something else.
He'd standing in a house that is not his own, with a nail bat clutched tight in his fists, facing someone, something, that his brain can't wrap itself around. There's a heavy stone in the middle of his chest, dragging his heart down in the depth of his stomach. His veins run cold, his blood freezing.
Dread runs down his spine along with sweat, and he realizes that he is scared of death. He's fucking terrified.
Only not his own.
He's scared for Nancy, hell, he's scared for Jonathan. He's scared this thing will escape, will run around Hawkins to hurt people, to kill them.
So, he uses the fear and turns it into fake, tacky courage. And he fights like his life depends on it - and it does, only it doesn't seem to matter much to him.
From then on, the fear lodges itself in his body, and it grows bigger with every person he comes to care about.
It reaches his stomach with Dustin, down to his legs with Lucas, Max, Mike. His knees and elbows with Robin, Erica, Will, Eleven. It reaches the tips of his fingers with Eddie.
He'd filled up with fear of death, constant and chilling in the back of his head, but it's not his own. Never his own. There is not enough space inside his body for himself.
He stays behind, mindlessly throws himself into danger, gets hurt again and again and again. He does everything in his power, everything he possibly can, to keep his people safe. His family safe.
He gets concussed more times than he'd like to count; loses his hearing in one ear, his eyesight gets worse with every brush with death, but he thinks it's fair. It's deserved.
If this is the price he has to pay to keep the others okay, he'll pay it gladly, without complaining. Just like his parents taught him. Just like their absence molded him to do.
He's never lost any of them, prides himself in that, until Eddie comes along.
He's careless, reckless. He's hyper and tall and loud and fucking beautiful. It makes Steve's insides twist, in a way that is so different from fear.
It warms his chest, the center of that same fear; makes it less present, less pressing. At least for a little while.
He's mindful of his injuries, makes sure to talk louder when he's on his right side, whispers in his left ear if he has to. Gets closer if he has to show him something. Doesn't yell when he notices Steve's face twisting in pain when a sudden migraine hits him. Helps him with the kids, makes them quieter if he needs to, riles them up and makes them laugh when they need to.
He's so unapologetically himself, he almost doesn't seem real to Steve.
And he's a little ashamed of it, but the fear in his body shaped like Eddie roots itself in as deeply as the others, despite only knowing him for so little. It runs just as cold, makes his heart race just as fast.
Well, maybe the heart racing might be something more than fear.
He definitely needs to talk with Robin about it, after they deal with the Upside Down for good.
Which he's so sure they will, despite their less than foolproof plan. They manage to kill Vecna, see his body disintegrating. The ground shakes and shakes, but no more cracks appear in it.
Steve still isn't sure, still feels like something is wrong. There's a little ball of insecurity in the middle of his tangle of fear, and he feels it drop when they reach the trailer park.
Because there they are, Dustin and Eddie, crumpled on the ground.
He runs, so fast he thinks he leaves the excitement of winning behind. He runs, drops down next to them, and feels himself unravel.
The strings that were keeping him together so carefully snap, one after the other, and it's so painful and tangible he can almost hear it.
But still. Still, he yanks them and ties them together, just for long enough. Long enough to drag them out, to take them home.
He can't hear anything past the rushing in his ears, not Dustin's cries or Robin's panicked rambling or Nancy's steely directions.
He covers Eddie's body with his jacket, presses it into his wounds, lifts him up in his arms.
And right there, in the middle of the Upside Down, he realizes one more thing.
He's walking as fast as he can, a cooling, bleeding body in his arms. His head is pounding, he can barely see or feel anything but the weight in his trembling arms. And he realizes it's not death he's not afraid of.
It's not that simple, it can't be. Not when it feels like this.
He tries to imagine a world without his friends, without his kids. Without Eddie.
And he's so terrified of it that it makes his knees almost buckle.
Him, Steve Harrington. The protector, the paladin, the anchor. He's not scared of anything, not fires or monsters or his own death.
Him, who can't cry, can't take care of himself. Does things for other people, always and only other people, and is okay with it. Needs to protect, needs to be needed.
He's carrying someone away from Death's door, and he's never been more scared in his life.
He's scared of uncertainty, of being alone, of not being enough. And it hurts, of course it does. It's unbearable, makes his shoulders bend with the sheer weight of it. Makes him duck his head, guard his heart, put plastic fake smiles on his face.
And Eddie never cared for that, of course he didn't. He saw the weight on Steve's shoulders, and made it his mission to lift it, even if just a little. To help him carry it.
He made him laugh, made him smile, and it's so ridiculous.
It's ridiculous, because he doesn't deserve to die. Not him, not any of them, not after suffering for so long.
He doesn't deserve any of this; the pain and the fear and the possibility of not making it. None of them do, not the kids and not the barely adults and not the actual adults.
And Steve won't take that. Of couse he can't. He'd make Eddie's heart start up again if it came down to that, would give his own away if needed.
Would go down to Hell, up to Heaven, and drag Eddie back from his hand. Would switch their places without a second thought.
What he does is take him back to Hawkins, - the real one - and straight into an hospital. Yells and stomps and makes a scene until they take him in, to fix whatever damage has been done. He's ready to pay the bills himself, even if it means using every single dollar he has saved up until that moment. Even if it means asking his parents for help.
Before he can, the government steps up. They pay the hospital, promise to clear Eddie's name. As a reward for protecting the city - to make sure he keeps his mouth shut.
Steve stays in his room, no matter how long it takes for him to wake up. He forces Dustin to go home, if only to reassure his mother he's fine. He tells Robin he's okay, to go home too; asks her to water his plants - which makes her laugh, because they both know he's not capable of keeping anything alive.
Well, except Eddie, it seems.
He stays until Eddie wakes up, groggy and hurt and confused. He stays for his recovery, no matter how slow and painful it is. Helps him move to the house the goverment promised him and Wayne.
Watches him come back, loud and annoying and alive.
And now, for the first time, he understand why the doctors always used the word lucky. He does, because whenever Eddie looks at him, with that big smile on his face that makes his smile lines appear and his eyes sparkle, he feels lucky. He feels so lucky.
Maybe one day he'll learn to live with the fear, he'll start feeling it for himself.
For now, he's content with letting Eddie feel it for him, at least a little bit.