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Wayne only catches breadcrumbs of his nephew’s newest guest: the heavy, padded navy jacket folded carefully over the kitchen table, a pair of well-worn Nikes from ‘84, and a shiny burgundy BMW parked around the bend to the trailer park.
He hears them sometimes. He’s not so nosy as to press his ear to the fake wood of Eddie’s bedroom door, but if he slows down as he passes, perhaps his knees just aren’t what they used to be and he’s slowing to relieve the pressure. They have a soft voice, one that cracks along its edges nervously, and when they laugh it's either a soft exhalation or boisterous and nasally.
Wayne is never done parenting Eddie – God knows he needs to, after last spring – but his boy is sound of mind enough to make his own choices. But then Wayne unwittingly catches a goodbye between Eddie and his dirty secret, and his updo does him in. If Steve Harrington was anything other than a slimy, preppy, airhead bully, then maybe Wayne might’ve taken a deep breath. But it’s Steve Harrington— Harrington as in golden doorknobs and enough money to pay off all the janky trailers in the park. So Wayne waits until Harrington’s prissy curls are down the gravel road and marches up the steps to the trailer.
Eddie is propped up against the headboard with a toothpick stuck between his teeth, strumming the start of one of his metal songs. He’s already looking up when Wayne enters.
“Why was Harrington ‘round here?” he asks.
Eddie makes a sour face. “Steve?”
“Sure. That kid— was he buyin’ stuff off of ya?”
“Uh,” says Eddie, and then he gets this shifty sort of look about him, like he’s rolling his next sentence around his head like a ping pong ball in a roulette wheel. “Yeah. Yeah, just came around for some weed.”
Wayne looks at him. Eddie stares back, vaguely hysterical, his mouth twitching. “Are you two—”
“With Harrington?” Eddie snorts. “Nah. Never.”
There’s a pepto-bismol pink polo thrown over the edge of Eddie’s laundry basket. Wayne keeps his eyes away from it. “Alright. Jus’ checking.”
“Thanks,” says Eddie.
—
Gretel sticks around.
The breadcrumbs stop, though. Suddenly hyperaware of Wayne’s presence, Harrington’s jacket gets shoved between Eddie’s black and maroon leather jackets when he comes by, his shoes are placed behind the lamp, and his BMW is parked all the way down the road.
Wayne wakes up with a mouth sticky from spit and the remnants of a memory from Eddie’s graduation. There’s soft laughter coming from outside his door. He sort of stumbles to the bathroom and pushes the door open and—
Steve Harrington flinches, hard. He meets Wayne’s eyes in the mirror. There’s something awful about his face, all his features arranged as perfect as chess pieces on a porcelain board, but his eyes are dark and haunted and there’s a greening bruise stamped over his cheek.
The bathroom door doesn’t lock properly. Wayne doesn’t usually bother with knocking, since Eddie sings in the shower and he’ll know when to wait for him to finish. Steve turns around and stares at him. His feet are pointed towards the door. “Mr. Munson, sir,” he says.
He never really understood why dads used to make jokes about shotguns and their daughters’ boyfriends, but he gets it now. He wants to kill Steve. His eyes narrow.
Something startlingly full crosses Harrington’s face, heartbroken and doleful, but then his face rearranges itself and he nods.
“My bad,” says Harrington.
Wayne grunts.
There’s nothing stellar about him. He’s pretty, sure, but so are a thousand other polo-ed, daddy’s favorite boys. Really, Eddie, anyone other than Steve Harrington would’ve been fine.
Harrington brushes past him as he leaves; he smells like fancy cologne and faintly earthy, like the soil after rain. “I’ll get out of your way then.” Catty. At least he’s not a pushover. Wayne turns to watch him leave. His shoulders are set and his white polo stretches across his back.
Of course, if Harrington wants to visit Eddie he has to acknowledge that Wayne lives here too. He lumbers down the hallway, teeth freshly brushed, and into the kitchen. Steve flinches again from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table and Eddie glances over his shoulder and gives Wayne a look that clearly reads, Dude, stop.
Harrington ducks his head and scrawls something on the paper in front of him. Eddie’s head swivels down and he murmurs, “No, hon— Steve. You’ve got to roll for stats.”
With an annoyed sigh, Harrington grips the pen tighter. Under the warm lights the bruise looks much better than it had before; Harrington chews through his lip.
Eddie had always been a sensitive child. Wayne has gotten good at reading his emotions. He’s curled over like a semicolon, mouth set, his eyes darting between Steve and Wayne like he’s trying to decide which one hurts less to look at. Wayne smiles weakly.
Eddie shows his emotions openly, anyway. When he’s happy his whole face brightens, teeth gleaming as his dimples curl. When he’s sad his eyes go droopy and he wraps himself in a hug.
When Harrington is – something like sadnessangerfrustration – whatever he is, he looks the same as he always does. The only difference is the set of his jaw and his quivering lashes. Eddie clocks it before Steve does, reaching across the table and patting his forearm. “Hey, Stevie, it’s okay. We’ll keep working on it.”
“I don’t really wanna,” says Steve. He peels Eddie’s hand off almost reverently and places it on the coffee-sticky table. “I’m sorry.”
Wayne has never heard anyone say sorry like that. Resigned. Almost familiar.
“It’s okay,” Eddie soothes. “Are you going to come on Wednesday still?”
“Yes,” and then with a little more feeling, “I’m sorry that we can’t have it at mine, I swear as soon as my parents leave we can.”
“We don’t have to always use your house,” Eddie says.
“I want you to,” says Harrington firmly. “You said open space is better.”
Eddie’s eyes gleam as he playfully tugs on a lock of hair, delighted and doing a bad job of hiding it. Harrington smiles like he knows this.
Wayne’s coffee is black and as bitter as he is. Eddie is smiling the smile he usually reserves for the stray cats that rove around outside. He can kind of see it, actually: those cats and Steve have the same big eyes. “Next time,” Eddie promises.
That makes Harrington's shoulders relax. He’s sort of uptight. Wayne doesn’t like that. He takes another sip of his coffee and looks away.
Steve doesn’t stay for dinner, thank goodness. Eddie offers because Wayne raised a gentleman (with bad taste, but he can’t win them all), and Harrington recites a practiced little routine of sniveling. When he leaves, something makes Wayne come out to see him go.
The navy jacket he’s wearing is far too small. He carries himself awkwardly, with proud posture but inward turned shoulders. Wayne is hit with the humiliating knowledge that Harrington is only twenty. Not that it gives him an excuse to look like a hurt puppy, but he’s just as unsure as those kids he totes around.
“Look,” says Eddie, leaning against the doorway. Warmth brushes the right side of his face, his dark eye now chestnut colored. “I know you don’t like him, but he saved my life.”
Wayne turns halfway, not looking exactly at him but seeing him more clearly. “Is that why you like him?”
Eddie’s jaw makes a clicking sound. “Wayne.”
“I’m ‘jus saying, son. Sure he’s nice and all now, but he wasn’t a couple years back. What if that’s who he is, deep down?”
When Eddie doesn’t respond, Wayne finally looks at him. His mouth is pinched and his face is screwed up in hurt. “There are things,” he says slowly, “that you don’t understand. Yet. About… the earthquake. And other stuff. But I need you to believe that I know myself and if he hurts me I’ll handle it on my own. I’ve accepted it.” And then, very softly, “But he would never hurt me. His heart’s too soft.”
Wayne doesn’t know about that. Harrington’s heart is none of his business, anyway. He thinks of the bruise on Steve’s face and wonders how he got it.
“He’s a good guy,” Eddie whispers, “I promise.”
It’s snowing softly. It drifts over the yellow straw grass and brushes over Eddie’s lashes. Wayne turns away. “Tell him that it’s supposed t’be a cold winter. His jacket is too small.”
—
The next time Wayne sees Steve is on Wednesday. He closes the door behind him, cheeks red and mouth chapped as he says softly, “Mr. Munson,” without meeting Wayne’s eyes. It’s less like he’s nervous and more like he’s aware his presence is unwanted and is making himself smaller for Wayne’s sake.
The thing is, Wayne doesn’t think he hates him. There's something almost pathetic about Harrington: the way his gaze is steely and confident but somehow weary all at once, the slump of his quarterback-wide shoulders, the bruise on his cheek that’s gone now, but both he and Wayne know it was there.
Eddie is buzzed after several cans of pop, and he whirls Harrington into a half hug, mouth smearing across his unhurt cheek warmly. Harrington freezes up and gives Wayne this cute panicked look over Eddie’s shoulder, and Wayne swivels his eyes down to the book he’s reading.
“You brought the kids?” Eddie asks.
“They’re getting Max,” Harrington tells him. Not a moment later, Dustin barges through the door, somehow sweating in his puffer jacket.
Harrington beams. It softens his face and Wayne jerks his hand, book snapping against the ceramic counter. He’s never seen him look that happy.
Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie is staring at Steve with this starspun look, his eyes fathomless and full of pure adoration. Wayne feels his heart squeeze in his chest.
“Alright!” calls Mike, banging his knee on the door on his way in and wincing. “Are we gonna play or what?”
Eddie rolls his eyes and looks at Steve, some unspoken joke passing between them, and then he’s hauling the kids into the family room. Harrington shuffles as he pulls a pack of cards out of his back pocket – Wayne had thought they were cigarettes – and opens them. He’s very obviously not looking at Wayne like he thinks Wayne is a bulldog that won’t attack as long as they don’t make eye contact.
It’s not like Wayne is actually gonna pull a gun on him. Besides, he thinks wearily, eyeing the new bruises around one of Steve’s wrists, it seems like someone else is already disciplining him.
For what, though? He’s a goddamn kid; not even over twenty one, still has a fake unlike Eddie, isn’t yet old enough to act as a legal driving instructor for the kids. As far as Wayne knows, the kid hasn’t done anything wrong. He may have been an asshole three years ago, but Jesus Christ, Eddie was an asshole three years ago!
A hot swig of shame burns his throat. Steve is very carefully lining up the cards to play solitaire. Wayne turns around and starts to set some tea on.
Eddie’s voice echoes softly through the kitchen, gentle and soothing but with a gleeful undertone. Harrington laughs, pausing his set up, and as if he was expecting it, the sounds of the kids whining fill the trailer.
The tea finishes boiling a few minutes later. Wayne glances over at Harrington, who is squinting hopelessly at the cards laid out on the countertop; the cards are well-worn and coffee stained on the edges, crumpled from use.
“You can move the nine pile under the ten to your left,” Wayne mutters.
“Sorry?” squeaks Steve.
Wayne sighs. He lumbers over and again— Steve flinches like a sparrow caught pecking seeds from the sidewalk. They make eye contact. Harrington doesn’t have brown eyes. They’re hazel, more sage and caramel than anything, and they perfectly convey the apprehension Harrington is purposely keeping out of his body language by overrelaxing his shoulders. “The nine pile,” Wayne says – by God – gently, tapping his finger on it. “You can put it under the tens. It’ll free up th’ card under.”
“Oh!” Steve nods. “Oh. Thank you!”
Wayne grunts. He ambles away, picking two cups off the shelf and pouring tea into them. Steve is stuck again when Wayne steps back over, but he doesn’t tense when he sets a cup in front of him.
“‘S this your first time playin’?” Wayne frowns, looking at the mess of a game Steve’s made. He’s got a row from king to three, and somehow he hasn’t gotten an ace of spades yet.
Steve huffs. “No. I’m working on it,” he says testily.
Wayne sips his tea to hide a smile. “Seems like y’don’t know how to play, boy.”
“I know how to play! I’m just rusty!”
Wayne carefully leans over his shoulder and is pleasantly surprised when Steve relaxes and moves away to give him space. “You can put this three up ‘ere,” he says, “and then you’ve got an open card again.” Wayne flips it and voila. Ace of spades.
He pulls back smugly, taking a sip of his tea, and Steve whirls around. His black sweatshirt makes him seem smaller than he is but his broad smile makes up for it. “No way! Thanks, Uncle—” he freezes, mouth pursed, and quickly barrels on, “Thank you so much, Mr. Munson.”
Uncle Wayne. Eddie’s name, which he usually shortens to Wayne or “old man” or something equally imprudent. Dustin’s name, whispered shyly like he’s embarrassed to say it. Max’s name, which she shouts when she sees him and yells as she barrels across the road to say hello. Not Steve’s name. Wayne is supposed to keep Steve at arms length. Wayne doesn’t even like Steve because he’s macking on Wayne’s nephew.
But then Steve jerks away from loud noises and heavy footsteps and just Wayne in general. Steve is strong and brave and saved Eddie’s life. Steve goes home and no doubt gets dragged around by his father, if those bruises are what Wayne thinks they are. So if he’s gone soft on the kid, it’s because he understands that part, at least.
He’s not ready for that name, though. So he grunts and sets his tea on the counter. “Gimme the cards. Let’s play bluff.”
It’s not all that fun to play bluff with two people, so they quarter the deck and take one fourth each.
“Four sixes,” says Steve. He’s been permanently looking over Wayne’s shoulder this whole game, but then his eyes flash down to the cards and Wayne snaps his next card over Steve’s.
“One seven,” he grouses.
“Damnit,” mutters Steve. “Two eights.”
Whether he knows it or not, Steve’s tells are obvious. He can keep a straight face but his hands twitch like nobody’s business. Wayne peers down at his shaking pinkie and says, “Bluff.”
“Fuuuuuuck,” he whines, and then peels the cards off the top to show one two and one king. Wayne cackles.
“What the hell are you two doing?” Eddie stands with his hands on his hips, glaring playfully at them. Steve snorts and expertly shirks a card at him. Huh.
“Your boy’s a better hand than you,” Wayne says to him.
He freezes, looks down at Steve, whose face has turned ashen, and then up again. “‘Course he is. I’ve got good taste.”
Wayne doubts that. Harrington will probably never be good enough for his Eddie – but then again, he doubts anyone will. Eddie is his boy, and, Wayne supposes, Steve is Eddie’s.
Later the kids are all breathing clouds of heat up by Steve’s car, which is parked by Max’s house. Wayne ambles to the window and watches as Max gets Lucas around the neck and starts pulling him around. Lucas’s fingers tighten over her burgundy winter coat, crinkling the thick fabric.
“—Stop,” Steve hisses, “Eddie!”
Eddie tugs Steve’s scarf around his neck with a grunt, settling his gentle, pale hands on either side of his boy’s face. Something in Wayne breaks. It crumbles off the cliffside of his heart and drops into his stomach, plink, and he thinks Oh. Because the look on Steve’s face is— all the pinched nervousness, the tight, scared glint of his pupils, it’s all gone. He looks warm and tender and happy, incandescently happy in a way Wayne knows he must not have felt for several years. The way he smiles is like he’s testing if his muscles still stretch out that far.
“I love you,” whispers Steve, and Wayne turns away.
“I love you too, baby.”
Eddie presses a sticky kiss to Steve’s cheek and then Steve is gone, stomping outside and yelling at his kids to move their asses.
“So?” his nephew asks.
Wayne shrugs. “He’ll do.”
—
It’s one thing to tell Eddie but another to tell Steve. Eddie wheedles him, pokes him until Wayne corners Steve three weeks later, sliding the remainder of his solitaire game off the counter.
“Um,” says Steve.
“Look,” Wayne starts, and then sort of looks at him. Steve sniffs. He’s broad and bigger than Eddie, taller and wider and somehow emptier, though that seems wrong when Wayne’s raised maybe both the bravest and loneliest boy on earth. He’s starting to think Steve’s father’s got the trophy for the second.
“You cook?”
“Uh. Yes, sir.”
“Clean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve gotta job, correct?”
“Yes… sir?”
Wayne nods. “Let’s play bluff. An’ next time you come ‘round, bring something for dinner. God knows Eddie can’t eat Kraft forever.”
Steve grins. It’s slow and unsure. “Yeah,” he says, “I can do that. Sir.”
Wayne smiles back. “Jus’ Wayne is fine, boy.”