Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Eddie ran away, he was four years old.

It was before his dad started teaching him how to hot-wire.

It was a cold winter. That winter where the heater broke and Eddie caught cold after cold that took weeks to disappear; there was not money to turn on the heat or fix the perpetual draft that crept through their windows, so there certainly was not money to get Eddie any cold medicine. It got so bad, Eddie coughed and coughed and hacked, his breathing was a constant wheeze and Eddie's father had had enough. Not enough to get him to a doctor, but just enough to drive him to Wayne Munson's trailer, where he dumped him. It was not the first time Eddie met his uncle. Far from. But given the backpack he dropped him off with and the gruff comment to bring him back, when he stopped sounding like a broken A/C unit, it was the first time he would spend more than a few hours with him.

That first night in his uncle’s home, Wayne Munson laid a bleary, tired, sleep deprived Eddie — because Eddie had not been able to sleep for more than an hour or two consecutively for days, since he kept waking himself up coughing or sneezing or struggling to breathe — to sleep in his own bed. Packed him down with heavy, thick blankets and two heated water bottles filled with hot water. And Eddie fell asleep to a callused hand sweeping hair away from his face, surrounded by warmth and a gruff, but warm voice mumbling about killing someone if he ended up with pneumonia, whatever that was.

It was the first week Eddie ever spent under his uncle Wayne's care. It was also the first time Eddie learnt that there was warmth and care to be found under his uncle's roof and safety in his arms.

Only two months after that experience that remained half-buried under a bleary fever, Eddie ran away for the first time.

It was the middle of the night. Or close to, at least. Eddie had been slow to learn time and the clock, so he had no idea what time it was. But he knew, he should have been asleep a long time ago, only he was not. His body was buzzing and frantic. A wild river was coursing through his blood, impatient and racing; coursing through him with wild abandon. And he had not been able to lie still in bed. His feet had rubbed together under the blanket. Back and forth. Back and forth. He had played with the ears of his bunny, constantly flipping them all around and rolled from side to side, unable to find a position that could soothe the itch underneath his skin.
  In the end, he got up. Skin buzzing with an energy that zapped against him, and it hurt him, it hurt so much, he could not—, he needed to—, it hurt. He needed it to stop and he needed to move and he needed something and he didn't know what, but it burned against his skin and clawed at his chest and nothing was helping. So, he tried getting up and jumping around. But the noise drew his father and a loud voice that did nothing to settle the burn and buzz working its way across Eddie's skin. And he tried to explain, he really did, but his voice was static and he couldn't find it and the words didn't make sense and he was babbling in half-curled sentences, because his thoughts were racing through his head and he couldn't grasp them into one, so he was halfway through one sentence, when his mind had already moved onto the next one, so he had to scramble to grasp that one, before it disappeared too, and—

Pain exploded across his cheek and Eddie cut off. He raised his eyes to find his dad with a hand raised in the air and a hard set to his jaw.

It made it worse. Eddie turned on his heel and started pacing. He flapped his arms up and down by his sides and the wild river tore at his chest, trying to eat him from the inside out and Eddie just wanted it to be satisfied. To stop. So, he babbled, could not really stop, and he knew his dad had hit him; he had done smaller things like that before; taken a rough hold of his arm, when Eddie wouldn't sit still in the diner; smacked a hand on the side of the car seat, when Eddie’s fidgeting made the car rock by swinging his legs — that were too short and hanging above the floor anyway — back and forth; pinched Eddie's skin, when he talked too fast and the words stumbled wrong out of his mouth, when Eddie's dad was trying to focus on something else. So, Eddie wasn't confused. He knew what it meant. He just could not stop.

It only took a few paces through the room, before Eddie's dad had him by the front of his shirt. Hands curled in the fabric of his shirt, tight and tense. He shook him back and forth and Eddie's teeth chattered and clattered together and he bit his tongue. Eddie’s dad spat in his face and told him to shut up and go to bed.

"But I can't! I can't! I tried and I can't and it hurts!" Eddie smacked at his dad's arms. Maybe he would understand, if he would just listen. It earned him another hard smack on the head and a hard punch to the jaw. This time Eddie stopped. It hurt. Worse than the pain in his chest.

When Eddie's dad let up his grip on his shirt. Eddie ducked under his arm, ran out of his room and escaped out the front door. He was gone, before his dad ever had the chance to shout him back.

That first time, four years old, caught in his pajamas and with tears down his cheeks, running through the street of early spring, was the first time he ran away from home.

After running through the cold embrace of night in bare feet and bare arms, he wound up on his uncle's doorstep. Wayne Munson opened his door and swept Eddie inside with nothing more, but a sad smile and a warm embrace.

It was not the last time Eddie ran away. Far from it.

Later, when Eddie had grown a little, his father started pulling Eddie into his side-business and odd jobs — and by consequence — teaching him how to lock-pick and hot-wire. A tool in his mouth and wires between his fingers taught him his father’s skill; a gravelly voice in his ears taught him his father’s cynical worldview.

All through his childhood, sparks of electricity and hard, cold fingers digging into his shoulders, taught him the world was a cold place and Eddie would have to fight to survive in it. Nothing would be given to him, so he'd have to take it for himself.

The world was a cruel and cold place. That was Brian Munson’s doctrine. One he had no issue instilling in his son.

And Eddie took it to heart, because he was a kid and that was what you did with the things your parents handed you.

Eddie's father taught him to lock-pick and slip people's wallets from their pockets entirely un-noticed and unremarkable. And Eddie swallowed it up like a sponge did water, despite the wrong wrong wrong that repeated in his heart. Because it was his father, who handed it to him and it was all he knew how to do.

The one thing his father never should have taught him was the road that lead to his uncle's trailer.

Whenever he got tired of having Eddie underfoot and got impatient with him, or — as Eddie learned when he got older — wanted to go to Chicago and Eddie would be more a hindrance than help to his errand; he dropped him off on his uncle's doorstep. Which was how Eddie came to know with certainty that his uncle Wayne was a far warmer man than his father; that he had a home, which would not cut and bruise him; arms that would catch him, when he fell, and also how he learned the way to get there.

By the time he was six, he knew this with such certainty in his heart, that when his father unknowingly chased him out of their house with his loud, angry voice and his angrier hands — which happened more and more as time slipped passed, as if the time was made out of barbed wires and cut at his father as it passed him by, making him sharper and harder and more cruel — it was the place Eddie ran to, half-blinded by the dark and heavy rain, clutching one of his stuffed animal — the one thing he had grabbed onto, when his father first raised his voice — and nothing else, because Eddie's racing heart and quick feet had brought him out the door, before he could think to grab anything else.

Uncle Wayne opened the door to him crying on his doorstep, shivering, cold and sopping wet, and brought him inside with hardly a word. Eddie warmed up snuggled into his side with his arms around him. That night cemented Wayne Munson as the only safe place to run to, when the world and his father's hands turned too sharp and cold and yet still found a way to burn him.

It was the only home Eddie had ever known.

The place in Hawkins that belonged to his father had never been more than a couple of rooms and the four walls of Eddie's tiny bedroom. There was no one else. Nowhere else. There had only ever been his father or his uncle. He never knew his mother. She left when he was two years old.

So really, running away was in his blood.

And always had been.

It became the one thing that stayed with Eddie as he grew older. The colder his father's hands became, the more Eddie ran away.

His father would drink or he would come home, with something angry buzzing under his skin like bees of an active beehive and Eddie would do something wrong, say the wrong thing or whirl around the house with an energy that kicked up all the dust from the dormant tornado, his father had brought back home and everything would explode.
  And every time it got too much, Eddie would sneak out the window or out the door, while his father's back was turned, and he would run and run, clutching a small bag or nothing at all, through half of Hawkins until he would be in front of the trailer door, standing on the porch steps, trembling and shaking. And every time, his uncle would let him in with the same kind eyes and relieved smile. He would tuck Eddie inside with an arm thrown over his shoulders and ruffle the top of his head, even though there wasn't any hair there to mess up, because Eddie's father kept his hair buzzed and short. Once every month, since Eddie was seven, he'd shave all the hair off Eddie's hair, so it was easier to shove a beanie or hat on top of his head, when he pulled Eddie out the door with him to one of his jobs. Something Eddie had always hated.

Some days, it felt like he had spent half his childhood on the streets. Running. Always running.

No wonder then, that running away came second nature to him. It was practically in his blood. Made a part of his DNA. The atoms in his body rearranged and shifted so often to survive the cold, sharp winds and the harsh embrace of night, because he was a kid, who jumped out the window in just a t-shirt, before he would face the hallway and living room on the other side of his bedroom door; the atoms in his blood rearranged to change 'fight or flight' into 'flee to survive'.

When Eddie got older, his father went to Chicago more and more often. It was not always to do the kind of stuff that made Eddie’s stomach turn. Mostly, it was to smoke foul-smelling cigars, drink oddly colored liquids and play poker in a darkly lit room with people filled with drawings all over their skin. Eddie only knew this, because one time, he had snuck to the back room once, while the bored-looking teenagers that were supposed to be watching him, were distracted by a rounded and oddly shaped glass — that they all took turns bending over and blow smoke out of their mouths — and found his dad bent over that poker table with rough, angry looking men sat around the table with him. Brian Munson was quick to catch him and throw him back out of the room with a hard grip on his arm and an even harder voice.

Whenever Brian Munson went to Chigago, Half the time, he would take Eddie with him and they would stay there the whole weekend. Sometimes, they would even stay there a full week, even though it meant Eddie would miss out on school.

It was worse there. Brian Munson was worse there. But in Chicago, Eddie had nowhere to run to.

At least, it felt like that.

He still ran away. His hummingbird heart gave him no other choice.

A few times, he called his uncle halfway across town from the grubby motel his dad had found, and Wayne would drop everything to come get him and drive him back to Hawkins, where he'd spend a few nights in his uncle's own bed, until his dad came back home.

When Eddie's dad was caught and thrown into prison, Eddie went to live with his uncle. Wayne Munson was quick to buy a fold out cot, but even faster to declare his bedroom as Eddie's own, as if he had been keeping the words waiting on his tongue for years.

When Eddie's father came back out, he came to get Eddie back from Wayne and Eddie followed.

It was a pattern that went in a circle.

By the time Eddie was eleven, Eddie's dad had been thrown in prison three times. And every time, Eddie went to live with his uncle and tried not to look at the countdown to his dad's release as the end of the world.

It all stopped after Eddie turned twelve.

One week, his father took Eddie with him to Chicago.

In their motel room, they got into an argument.

Eddie had not wanted to come. He’d wanted to go and stay with his uncle. He'd wanted to stay home so he could go to school and go to practice with his band, but his dad had practically dragged him to the car, shoved him inside and slammed the car door behind him.

Before they even got to Chicago, Eddie had decided to leave. To get back to Hawkins on his own. To, essentially, run away again.

When his dad found the bag and money he'd stowed away, he was pissed. More angry and red in the face than he'd already been. It was not the first time he hit him, but it was the worst.

The motel room got a hole in the wall and Eddie got a broken hand.

He never even took him to the hospital. Just told him to go to bed early and turned his back on him, spitting about god giving him a cowardly fairy for a son.

When his dad got distracted next, Eddie pulled his bag out from the space between the wall and the musty bed, slipped out the window (even though they were on the second floor and his dad's car was parked below it) and ran; bruised and aching, clutching his hand to his chest; he ran.

In their fight, his father had taken all the money, Eddie had squirreled away, so Eddie had no way out the city and no way to call his uncle.

He tried asking for help. But no one would help a bruised, broken kid, who looked as rough and dirty as the vets lining the streets. Eddie tried stealing some, but with a broken hand, he was not as quick as he could be and people caught him. Threw him around and kicked his shins. He tried sneaking his way onto a bus, but he was thrown out. He tried stowing away on a pick-up truck, but was found.

In the end, it was the police that scraped him up off the ground of an alley. They took him to the station. Hauling him by his arms in hands as angry and sharp as his father’s.

The police asked him about his parents and Eddie, spiteful with anger and raw with pain that did not all come from his hand told them about his father and where to find him.

While his father was brought into the station for money laundering and identity theft, Eddie's uncle was called and drove all the way to Chicago to get him.

It was his uncle, who came to pick him up.

It was his uncle, who took him to the hospital and his uncle, who not only drove him back to his place, but brought him back home.

It was his uncle, who cried, when social services finally gave him a signed and sealed document that declared his custody over Eddie.

And it was his uncle, who saw Eddie through the tears and pain of trying to revive his messed up, broken hand, once it got out of the cast. Who was there, when Eddie was told he would have permanent damage in his hand for the rest of his life.

It was his uncle, who, time and time again, helped Eddie through bad days and nights, when his hand cramped up and pain kept him awake and away from everything he loved.

Eddie’s father only came looking for him once. It was before his trial and subsequent final prison sentence (although they did not know that at the time).

He came to Forest Hills trailer park, hammering on their door in the middle of the night, demanding Eddie back. Saying loud and drunk that Eddie was his and Wayne couldn't take him; he needed Eddie. Wayne just sat with Eddie in the furthest room and furthest corner from the front door and held him tight. Hands pressed into him and arms encasing him in his body while Eddie shook and shook; while Eddie clutched at his uncle with his one working hand and the tips of the fingers of his broken one; the tips of his fingers just peeking out of the cast, barely able to graze his uncle's flannel. His one hand digging so deep, he must have left bruises, and shook his head, burying away in his uncle's chest, trying to drown out his father.

But then his father let slip how Eddie had always had such clever hands and could manage tricks he never had.

That had his uncle surge up, tell Eddie to stay and stomped out to the door. The door banged open and the sound of a gun cocking rocked through the trailer.

Eddie clamped his hands over his ears, the best he could, and squeezed his eyes shut, rocking back and forth. Mumbling and whispering nonsense to himself, as if he could drown out the world, if only he could remember his favorite passages from The Lord of the Rings and the Earthsea trilogy.

Despite his desperate efforts, he still heard his uncle tell his dad to get lost, that Eddie was Wayne's kid and had been since the first time Wayne found him on his doorstep; since he'd gotten Eddie through his fever; since Wayne was the first one to hold him in the hospital back when he had been born. He also heard the ugly, loud words his dad spewed at his uncle in return. And the gunshot that ripped through the air. (Later, Wayne did tell him it had been a warning shot into the air, but that had not changed the way Eddie had flinched hard and then felt such relief course through him, when the night fell quiet and he wondered for a moment, if that meant his father was gone for good.)

Eddie’s father left without another word.

The trial came and went and Eddie’s father went to prison on the longest sentence yet and Eddie never saw him again.

In his uncle's home, Eddie could finally stop running.

But that did not mean he ever did.

Running away was a hard-learned lesson and it was harder still to let go off.

His uncle did everything he could to soothe the bruising touch of Eddie’s father, but it was an uphill, impossible climb.

He never gave up on him though. Not on his bad days. Not when the police came knocking on his door with yet another warning that they had pulled Eddie from some unsavory corner and bothered its neighbors. Not that time he came to on the floor of their shower, shaking and trembling with his latest supply from Reefer Rick’s flushed down the toilet and the knowledge that it had been a close one. Not when he failed to graduate High School the first time. And not the second time either. Not when he spent days and nights, kept awake by this desperate fervor to learn a new song on his guitar or write the latest idea for his campaign down that filled the missing gap he had been searching for, for weeks.

Not when he first got the signed document declaring his custody and Eddie wrenched himself out of his relieved embrace and told him, all sharp-edged and burning with heartbreak, the one thing he had always thought he would keep locked up tight inside him for the rest of his life. Not even then.

The last time Eddie ran away from his dear old dad, he was fifteen.

It was the day of his father's funeral.

Eddie did not want to go. If he went, he just knew, he would just kick the casket until it broke or throw a lit cigarette at the depressingly tiny selection of flowers gathered by its feet so it lit on fire and ate the entire thing up. He just knew he would do something that satisfied the angry buzz that blazed under his skin and boiled in his blood; like the swarm of angry bees that had erupted from the nest that had dropped to the ground and cracked open like an egg, when the Newman's at the other end of the trailer park, found a beehive in the tree by their trailer and asked the Johnson's to do something about it, because Mr. Newman was allergic to bees and they could not risk leaving it there.

The day before the funeral, Eddie's blood was already boiling and buzzing, and no manner of stamping around and huffing or jumping up and down, fisting and un-fisting his hands did anything to expel it; even his steadily growing collection of metal music was not working, nor did any of the cigarettes he smoked. So, he crawled out the window in the middle of the night, before his uncle came home from the night shift at the plant, he had only just taken on and high tailed it to Reefer Rick's.

Pockets full of newly acquired goods, he snuck into an abandoned building on the edge of town that was popular with drunks and bored high school students looking for a high, where he spent the day in a thick, syrupy haze on the musty, old couch. Before he collapsed on the couch, he might have thrown around one or two of the many empty beer bottles that littered the ground everywhere you looked in the building though. Which might have been a big contributor as to why he came to behind bars in the police station; his skin layered with dust and grime and the sticky, cold feeling of dried sweat and the taste of old beer and dank breath in his dry mouth. The afternoon sun was going down outside past the windows and his uncle was waiting on the other side of the bars, his Sunday hat in his weathered, callused hands and wrinkles on his face that had not been there, when the news of Eddie's father's death had reached them; wrinkles, Eddie knew from years under his uncle's care, were only ever there for Eddie.

Care and concern that Eddie was only just getting used to accepting after three years of his uncle patiently leading him there.

It had taken a lot of time. Longer still.

They were so different. Brian and Wayne Munson.

Polar opposites.

Where one left, the other stayed. Where one tried to take Eddie's hands and mold them into something they were not; the other held them, loving and soft, just as they were.

Eddie had learned how to hotwire cars from his dad, how to pick locks and pockets. Under his uncle’s care, he learned how to fix broken machinery. How to listen to engines and clicking, scratching parts of cars, A/C's, fans and other moving parts; how to pick up the hurts from just a sound and how to make it whole again.

Eddie's father taught him how to break things; his uncle taught him how to fix it.

The last time Eddie ran away ever (before Chrissy and alternate dimensions and freaky kids, who treated the End of the World and superpowered wizards with less hesitation than high school bullies), was when he was seventeen.

Ever since Eddie was a kid, running away was the one thing he could always count on. It would protect him, when nothing else would. It would keep him safe and bring him somewhere warm and safe. That was the only lesson he had learned from his dad (however unintentional it had been) that he had a hard time throwing away. And it took years before Eddie stopped running away at the smallest thing. There was a rabbitty heart inside Eddie's chest and it was always one drop away from carving away at his chest with a single repeating message in its grasp. Getawaygetawaygetaway. He did not always know why, just that he needed to get away.

But eventually, with the comforting smell of his uncle's home all around him, of smoke and coffee; with his uncle's arms and his soothing rumbling voice that had never quite lost the accent of his first ever home all around him; Eddie learned to let go of that failsafe. To trust. To stop running, whether that was out into the night or the smothering, heady embrace of drugs.

Until Chrissy.

In those terrible days, of bones snapping and the gruesome last image of Chrissy burned into the dark of his eyelids; of boatsheds and water lapping against wood, the sound loud and roaring, getting closer and closer, like the warning of something creeping towards to him, the longer he was curled up inside the dingy; he was haunted by both terrible images of Chrissy's death and his hand cramping up in terrible, blazing pain. The final gift Eddie's father had left him; a hand that cramped up with pain and locked up stiff and useless, especially in the cold. Just the cherry on top of the worst week of Eddie’s life.

After long nights and days in the cold of the boatshed, Skull Rock and then the Upside Down, his hand was unforgiving. It cramped up with a burning agony. It turned stiff and locked up; the joints stiff and cracking. Pain blazed to life and tore through his muscles. The inferno came hand in hand with his new nightmares of Chrissy; an old companion, in the arms of a new one. Lightning shot through his hand every time he used it. No amount of trying to work through the cramp or massage it made much of a difference. The cold made sure of that.

It was only thanks to a night in the RV they hijacked that some life returned to his hand. While the others made plans and prepared — checked their makeshift weapons and equipment and went over the plan in repeated details — Eddie sat in a shadow in the RV and worked through his stiff hand and its locked up joints, desperately trying to loosen it up, so he wouldn't be one hand down in the fight. Trying even more desperately not to cry from the pain tearing through it.

And it worked.

Barely.

It was only thanks to sheer determination and gritted teeth, burning through the flaring pain with an inner fire Vecna had poured gasoline on, when he took Chrissy, Patrick and tried to take Max that Eddie even made it through Master of Puppets. When he went to climb up the sheet leading back home, the pain flared to life like blaze of fire that tore through his hand, up his wrist and towards his arm. He stood there with a hand that would not close properly, unable to grip the sheet, and knew he would not be able to make it to the other side. He stood there and knew, if he stayed, it would be Dustin's death; it would be doom to the entire plan.

So, Eddie turned and ran and tried not to hear the ghost of his father's voice in the slap of his footsteps.

When Eddie ran from the bats, it was the pain in his hand that had never quite healed right and the echo of his father's voice, calling him weak and a coward, telling him that he couldn't run from everything, that made him turn around.

It had always been the greatest fault Eddie's father saw in him. Cowardice and a runaway.

But Eddie never understood him back then, why running away was such a bad thing. Was that not why his dad had taught him all he knew? Was that not why Eddie's fingers had been blackened with electric shocks and his father's choices through his childhood? Was that not why Eddie's fingers had been shaped and molded to easily slip money from pocket to pocket, and never once be felt — like Eddie's touch was nothing more but a whisper of the wind, a ghost and a spectre — so Eddie would always have a way out?

Not according to his dear old man.

See, the trickiest thing about teaching your kid to always look out for oneself first, was when they began to take it to heart and protect themselves from you.

Eddie's father found that out too late.

Teach a kid to be fearful and he will fear his parents too.

Teach a kid to be quiet and small, so no one will see him, when he steals the stuff his father asks him to and when he steals himself away, his father will be left with his ghost, long before either of them are dead.

Running away has always been the one thing Eddie has known. The one thing his body knows the steps off as much as it knows the strings of a guitar, if not more so. The one thing he can do asleep, high as a kite or drunk off his ass. Flight, is the one thing, whose footsteps he will always recognize, even blind.

So, really, by the time Hell broke through its gates and rained reckoning down upon Hawkins, Eddie simply did what he knows best.

Is it any surprise, he spent all this time running?

Then, why, oh why, did he ever stop and turn around, when he learned long ago, only death lies waiting in the shadows of his footsteps?

Maybe Eddie has lived so long without having to run away, he forgot the hardest part was never to take that first step, but to keep going once you started. That the biggest threat to Eddie's safety has always been his own mind, not the monsters he tried to leave behind.
Maybe he just wanted to prove his father wrong once. That he was different than him.
Maybe, he wanted to be brave like the people, who had come to help him, when the world was crumbling all around him and he was left hurdling through a black hole with nothing to keep him tethered.

Maybe, just maybe, he was scared and it was an easier way out. Simple.

Maybe he forgot the one person he’s always had the hardest time convincing of his own worth was himself.

Beep-beep–beep-beep. Beep-beep–beep-beep. Beep-beep–beep-beep.

The steady beep of a machine fills the air. It drags Eddie from the heaviest, deepest sleep he has had in—. He does not know how long. The answer alludes him.

Surprise ripples through him. At the noise. At the dark all around him, which he is finally registering. He supposes it is better than the supposed nothingness he has been folded into in until now. It is that he is registering it that is the surprise. He was not supposed to be able to register it at all.

Darkness clutches at him from all sides and he floats in its grasp, unable to tell up from down, much less where his eyes are and if he even has them anymore.

He remembers a broken body. Clouded and empty eyes.

But that was some time ago.

The dark keeps swarming at him. And from its grasp, he remembers a different swarm. Made up of leather and gnarly bones and snarling teeth.

The Upside Down.

There were bats. So many bats. Everywhere around him. Attacking him. Killing him. And he still can't find his eyes. Who knows, maybe they took a leaf out of Vecna's book and gorged them out.

The flashing image of bared teeth, unholy screeching and thundering, rumbling clouds, sends a spike through him. It jumps and jolts through him. Dropping him like the rush of jumping off a cliff.

Something shifts. Fabric rustles. So, Eddie may not have found his eyes, but he has found his ears.

"Hey, Munson," a soft, gentle voice says. Something nudges him, shaking him gently. The touch makes Eddie flood back into his body. Like his soul has been held back in a container and this tipped it over and he rushes forward, like the currents of a river.

Light rushes forward. Washing over his closed eyelids. It prickles, sharp and stinging against him. His body remains floating, oddly numb and distant.

"You waking up over there?" says the familiar voice.

A small grunt escapes past his mouth, rough and gravelly. "Shit, man," the words rasps rough and croaky from his throat. Every word rubs against his throat like sandpaper. He pulls a face, eyes squeezing shut. The light against his eyelids disappears in the scrunch of his face. "Not sure I want to."

The hands stays on him, pressing warmly into his arms.

Finally, Eddie finds his eyes and blinks them open.

Bright light floods his sight. It spears into his eyes, like a pair of daggers, stabbing repeatedly into them.

Rapidly, he blinks.

The light stays blaring into his eyes. Flooding his vision with bright, white light. Burning against his eyes.

He groans and gives up, closes his eyes and keeps them closed.

"Robin, Robin—” one of the hands leaves his arm “—the light, the light." Fabric rustles, like someone is gesturing wildly, air whooshing and swooshing.

Someone moves. Footsteps hurry across the floor. Shoes slaps against linoleum. Hands fumble against the wall, nails clicking, fingers fumbling. A switch clicks. The light bathing Eddie's eyelids vanishes.

"You still there, Munson?" The hand returns to his arm, joining the one that never left. Fingers clenching in a small squeeze.

Eddie wants to say, 'How the hell am I alive and which devil did you sell your soul to, to ensure that?' To Harrington, of course. If anyone were to have found Dustin curled over Eddie's body and refused to accept it, simply for the grief in the kid’s eyes and the tears on his cheeks; it would be Steve. If anyone would go through hell and back, to keep Eddie alive, if only to keep the kid happy, it would be Steve.

"I always expected a one way ticket downstairs. But this is certainly too bright to be Hell," Eddie says instead, slowly blinking his eyes open. Steve's frowning face greets him. Faint light touches upon him, barely lighting up his face. Eddie makes a face at him, shooting for exaggerated and comical and not sure if he manages. "Though I'm not sure I'm ready to stare at your ugly mug for all of heavenly eternity," every word croaks from Eddie, rubbing against his raw and tender throat. Grating and dragging through him, as if his vocal chords have turned to sand, while he has been lost to oblivion.

He tries to swallow. The motion hard and rough. It clicks loudly inside of his throat. Air rubs harshly against the walls of his esophagus and a weak cough claws up through his throat, scratching at the dryness. He turns his head to the side and coughs weakly into his pillow.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," Steve jumps to his feet, arm reaching for the small bedside table standing to the side. A cup stands waiting there, complete with a little straw sticking out of it, bend at the top.

Eddie blinks at it; at the promise that they were waiting for him to open his eyes; at the forethought to keep him comfortable once he did.

Fingers closing around the side of the cup, Steve brings it forward, gently tipping it. A finger juts out, keeping the straw in place, letting Eddie drink from it.

The water burns down his throat the first two careful sips. By the third, it has turned into a gentle twinge. The fourth washes the last bit of pain and sand clinging to his throat and mouth away.

"Thank you," he says quietly, glancing tentatively at him, when Steve pulls the cup away at a nod from him.
When he sets the cup back on the table, Eddie eyes the pair of sunglasses set aside there. Out of place and strange in a hospital room.

Clean stale air rushes in to Eddie's lungs from a cannula set into his nose. Every push of air rushing from the tube stretches his lungs. It almost scratches against them. His lungs sore and raw, throbbing at the touch of the stale, slightly hard air. It is almost as if he had been breathing in harsh chemicals and burned the flesh inside of his lungs, leaving the flesh raw and vulnerable.
  Every breath forced into him, tears at the soft flesh, almost rubbing against throbbing scratches, sending flashes of twinging pain through him. The plastic inside of his nose itches slightly, but it disappears completely in the grasp of the throb inside of his throat and lungs.

He is lying in what feels like a hospital bed. The room around him is lifeless and clinically cold, its walls that carbon copy that most government buildings and hospital has.

Someone shifts, fabric rustling lightly, pulling Eddie's eyes back to Steve and Robin.

Gaze looking up and sideways, Eddie eyes Steve up. Pale, drawn skin stares back at him. Heavy circles drag below Steve's eyes. Something tight and tense clings to the corner of his mouth and around his eyes, drawing tight up across his brow. Honestly, he looks worse than he did after their first round with the Upside Down, bleeding out and chunks of flesh missing from his stomach.

"And here I thought, I was the one nearly dying," Eddie says, casting another glance up and down, then raises his eyes to his, meeting his gaze with raised brows. "You look like hell, Harrington."

"Yeah?" A crooked smile quirks from his lips. "You should see the other guy." But the tightness around his eyes does not let up.

A glance sideways shows Robin wearing a wary, pained look, which she throws at Steve, lips pressed into a tight line and her brow tense. Catching Eddie's eyes, she shakes herself out of it and forces her mouth to tilt up into a small smile.

"Well," he says, breaking the suddenly tense air lying around them, casting a glance between the two of them. "This is one hell of a welcome committee. Where's the fanfare and the trumpets?"

"Company budget cuts." Robin makes a face. "The fanfare and band were the ones to go."

"Oh, well," he shrugs, "I suppose, I'll survive without just this once." He points a finger at them. "But I better get some kind of bonus."

"Like what?" Steve frowns. Bafflement flickers across his face.

Eddie thinks for a moment. Expression musing, though far from the extreme exaggeration he usually falls into. His body far too heavy and tired to sink into old patterns and comfortable cloaks. Fingers snapping, he points at him. "Like free rental movies for life and waived fees, no matter how late they are."

A snort bursts from Robin.

Eddie arches an eyebrow at her.

"It's just—” she grins, words bubbling and light, carrying a laugh in its grasp “—Erica said something similar, back when she got pulled into it."

He huffs a laugh. "Figures. That girl is a power house." He eyes both of them, trying hard not to get stuck on the bruises painted across their skin and snaking up both of their throats. "How are you not both out of job from caving to her demands?"

"Rental videos aren't the same hot property as ice cream, that's why," Steve says with a grin. Tightness still clings to his face. It twists the grin slightly, making it look heavy and forced.

A grunt sounds from the back of Eddie's throat.

He raises a hand to rub at his face. Tubes of plastic rustle. They pull and tug at his skin, lifting up into the air along with his arm. Eddie looks down his arm, following the curve of the tubes stuck into his veins. He quirks an eyebrow at them and says, "I suppose, waking up as a pin cushion is better than not at all." He drops his hand back down, but keeps it lifted slightly up off the blanket. He stretches out his right hand. Fingers stretching and curling back up. For the first time since the first morning in the boatshed, Eddie's hand stays entirely pain free. There is not even a twitch of stinging pain or a prickle of pins. He lays his other hand on top of it, fingers folding around his palm and rubs at his right hand, the best he can past the needles and tubes attached to it. Careful of the IV on the back of his hand, he digs and massages at the palm of his hand. Digs his fingers into the muscles, flesh and ligaments lying underneath the skin at the back of his hand and in the palm. It does not even ache.

A small sigh of relief falls from Eddie's lips. God bless America and god bless morphine.

Dropping his hand back down, he lifts his eyes back to Steve and Robin, letting his gaze truly settle on them and their rumbled appearance, far too bruised and far too tired.

"You guys certainly are a sight for sore eyes," he tries. "Never expected to be so happy to see your ugly mugs again." A grin stretches across his face, wobbling and shaking on his lips.

The fingers curled around his shoulder gives a squeeze. Hand shaking him lightly, Steve grins down at him. Smile equally shaky and weak. "What are you talking about," he says, voice forcibly light, "we're always a delight to look upon."

Rolling her eyes, Robin comes forward and settles by the edge of his bed, turned towards him. One of her hands lands on the bed beside Eddie's feet. Her eyes, worried and slightly red, focuses on his. "How do you feel?"

He cracks a grin at her, teeth flashing. "Like death warmed over."

"Certainly gave it your best shot." Steve looks at him, unimpressed. Eyebrows arched high on his brow, he says, "What did I tell you about being cute?"

"Oh, but I'm so very good at it." He grins, all flirtatious and shameless.

Face a mask, Steve stares deadpan at him. Something undiscernible swirls inside of his eyes.

Cold tickles down Eddie's back. Like cold water rushing over his spine.

The grin drops off his face.

Eddie looks away from him. Gaze falling over the blanket covering him, following the creases and lines over it. He clears his throat. "Sorry."

"That's not—” Steve tries. "I didn’t mean—” he breaks off, sighing. One of his hands falls on Eddie's shoulder again, the touch light and gentle.

Tearing his eyes off the linens, Eddie raises his gaze to his, looking up at where he sits perched beside him.

"You did what you thought was necessary," Steve says. "You held the defense line. You did good, Eddie," his voice is raw. Every word has been raw, Eddie thinks. Carried croaking and dry from his throat. As if he has to force them out past sandpaper walls.

Frowning, he lets himself look at Steve. Head tilting up and down the pillow to look him up and down.

The clothes he wears is rumbled and wrinkled. It hangs limb and flat from his back and shoulders. But it is not what Eddie's eyes zero in on. Black, blue and purple bruises hang around Steve's neck, coloring his skin like a morbid necklace or scarf. Blooming like flowers, they reach up and down his throat, almost looking like strains. A bruise pops out from his cheek. Another from beneath the neckline of his shirt, just peeking out past the edges.

"Just," Steve continues, unaware of Eddie's divided focus, giving his shoulder another light shake, "next time you follow the plan, yeah?"

"Haven't anyone ever told you plans don't always work out?" Tearing his eyes away from his bruised and mottled skin, Eddie grins, like he is talking about one of his D&D campaigns, not real life monsters. The grin drops from his face almost immediately though. A rush goes though his stomach. Swoops through him like the drop off of a high cliff. The ground gives out beneath him and his eyes widens. "Next time?" he repeats, voice picking up in a shrill tone. His pulse picks up. Heart giving a throbbing, heavy beat. A responding, hurried beepbeep–beepbeep echoes it from the machine standing off beside Eddie's bed, monitoring his heartbeat. "What do you mean next time?" Frantically, he looks back and forth between him and Robin. Eyes wide and white.

At the foot of his bed, Robin picks at the blanket covering Eddie's body. Fingers tangling in the fabric, eyes downcast. A hollow appears in her cheek, almost as if chewing at it with her teeth.

Neither one of them responds.

"There wasn't meant to be a next time after this, right?" Eyes still darting frantically back and forth between the two, picking up the grimaces twisting across Steve's face and the tightness entering Robin's. Eddie's own eyebrows lift high on his brow, his voice gets higher and higher as he continues, words tripping over each other, "Vecna was meant to be it and we fought him and we're here and this doesn't look like the end of the world to me, so we won, right? It should be over, right?" Through his rapid tirade, words tripping over each other the more he speaks, Steve and Robin glances at each other. Wary expressions cross their faces. In his chest, Eddie's heart picks up speed and his pulse jumps through his veins and roars in his ears. "Right?" he adds in a whisper, hands clenching into a tight fist, like a child grabbing their blanket at night, gripping it vice-like, as if it is the only thing keeping them safe from the monsters under the bed.

Resignation falls over both of them. Robin shoulders slumps. Defeat creeps over the turn of her mouth and she looks away, avoiding his still searching gaze.

Sighing, Steve's lifts one hand and rubs it over his face, fingers digging briefly into his eyes.

Eddie does not wait for any of them to speak. "Fuck," he says, breath whooshing out of his mouth like someone punched him in the gut. He sits back. Slumping back against the pillow, his entire body slackens, muscles giving out.

Maybe the prize for Eddie's life was not Steve's soul. But Vecna's. Maybe Eddie got life breathed back into his lungs and in exchange, Vecna was given the same; one soul for another, except they both live. A different kind of balance, but balance all the same.

"Hey, hey," Robin says, rallying. A fragile smile stretches from her lips. She shifts her hand from the bed to Eddie's leg. Hand falling on Eddie's ankle, she squeezes and gives him a slight shake. "We got through it this time. We'll get through it again."

"Shit." Inside of his chest, his heart pounds. Every beat jolts through him, like small shocks running through his veins and slamming into his chest. The heart monitor picks up its increasing rapid beats, beating increasingly louder and faster, somewhere to the right of him; filling the room with his fragile heart.

Everything inside Eddie is shaking. Trembling. Shaking. As if the earth beneath him is shaking, still shaking, trying to throw him off.

Breath trembling, Eddie raises his hands. At least, he tries to. Plastic tubes from the IV tug at him, prickling underneath his skin at his movement. Grimacing, he glances down, looking over himself. An IV sticks out of the back of his right hand. It runs up alongside his arm before falling out of bed, leading to a pouch filled with clear liquid, held up by a metal stand that stands by the head of his bed. A pair of metal clamps has seized his other hand, clamped over two of his fingers, almost like a pair of jaws, digging incessantly into them. It makes him increasingly aware of the cannula still sticking into his nose, pushing stale air into his lungs, tickling through his nostrils and prickling oddly inside of his lungs.

He raises his hand again and fidgets with the tube, lightly pushing at it, as if that small motion might rearrange it enough to lift the constant itch inside of his nose.

"Hey, don't pick at that," Steve says softly. Reaching out, he grabs at Eddie's arm and pulls it away from his face, careful not to dislodge the cannula.

"I'll go get a doctor." Robin jumps to her feet and hurries to the door. Shoes thump over the floor again, disappearing out the door.

Eddie looks around at the headboard above him, gaze trailing over it. "What?" he says, "I don't get a red string?"

"Um, we're not—” Steve begins, stumbling slightly over his words.

Curious, Eddie turns his gaze back to him.

Steve rubs at the back of his neck and says, "We're not at Hawkins Hospital."

Eddie raises his eyebrows in a wordless question.

"You remember what we told you, about the other times?"

Not that they managed to tell him much, in what little time they had to spare for him, in between fighting Hawkins newest monster and trying to keep each other alive. But what little they did, he remembers vividly. "Gates opening to another dimension, human flesh-made monster, girl with superpowers and tulip-looking monsters named after D&D," he says monotone and deadpan. "Hard to forget any of that."

"Yeah, the people from the lab, they came back. They had to scramble to make the lab functional and inhabitable again, but they're trying to help with clean-up and all that." He gestures loosely between them. Hand drawing a weak map in the air, connecting the three of them, even with Robin gone for the moment. "That includes stitching all of us back together."

Eddie snorts. "They going to take credit for all the hard work we did for them too?"

"More likely trying to find a believable cover story."

"Riiight," the word stretches long and languid from his mouth, "there are no heroes in Hawkins, because there's no reason for there to be."

"You're getting it," Steve says with a grin and glinting eyes, which is so unfair Eddie wants to pinch him in retaliation.

Thankfully, Robin arrives back just in time to save him; a doctor right on her heels.

He steps into the room. Shoulders covered in the typical white hospital coat and a folder held in his hands. The gaze that meets Eddie's is somber and serious. Eddie takes it as a point in his favor, when he does not smile at him.

"Mr. Munson, that was quite a condition we found you in."

Eddie makes a so-and-so gesture with his hand.

The doctor tries a small smile, clearly going for friendly but missing by a mile. Eddie thinks it makes him look far too schmuck and a little creepy too. But maybe that has more to do with everything Eddie knows he let happen without stepping in. When Eddie just stares at him without reacting, he glances down at his folder, holds a paper up and scans through the one below it. "I'm Dr. Sam Owens, I've been following these supernatural events, since '84, so you're in good hands here." The folder is lowered and he looks back at him. Grey eyes look down at him. He places a hand on the frame of the bed. "Now, how you feeling, son?"

"Could be worse," Eddie shrugs. He tilts his head to the side, considering. "Surprised I'm not feeling worse actually."

"We've got you on some strong medication to get you through the worst of it. Now that you've woken up, we'll be waning you off it bit by bit, so that you can come back to the land of the living."

Eddie resists making a face at that. Considering the amount of bats he remembers swarming him and the hazy memory it has left him with, he expects before long, he will be missing the sweet relief of strong, probably morphine shaped, medically prescribed drugs.

While the doctor quickly looks over the charts and papers in his hands, Steve pulls a nearby chair close. Pulling it right up beside Eddie's bed and sits down in it, leant forward, with his arms lightly crossed, propped up on Eddie's bed.

Robin goes to stand beside Steve, keeping away from Eddie's bed, freeing up the space, but remaining a firm figure by Steve. She props herself on the backrest of Steve's chair, sat perched and twisted at the waist. Arms crossed and a firm expression on her face. Her eyes sharp and focused on the doctor. Almost as if she expects to need to watch his every step as much as she would a trick from Vecna.

The doctor casts a drool eye on them. Expression somewhere between resigned and exasperated.
Eddie follows his gaze. Eyes falling onto Steve and Robin as something uncomfortable and scared curls up inside of his chest. He expects the doctor to send them out of the room or something, but he simply returns his eyes to the papers clipped onto his clipboard and begins.

Over the droll of his voice, Eddie throws a quirked eyebrow at them.

With Robin too busy staring the doctor down, Steve is the only one that catches it. He gives a roll of his eyes and a shrug.

The casual way Steve does this with, settles settles deep and warm in Eddie's chest, so different to the scared sharpness of before, when he thought they would be sent away.

It also gives him a feeling that something passed between them and these doctors before, where they made a point of fighting for their right to be at his bedside. Enough that their presence is accepted now.

Relief swoops through him, cool and steadying, settling in his stomach like a comfortable weight.

It surprises him.

He supposes, amongst boats and tarps, quick there-and-gone-again mentions of monsters and otherworldly battles come to life; these people wormed their way underneath Eddie's skin in a way no one has, since his uncle first slung an arm around his shoulder and pulled him into his side and called him his kid, while Eddie's hands were still blackened and blue from sparks of electricity and scarred from the times his father was too deep in a bottle or himself to care that his anger and irritation cut more than himself; Eddie, a kid scraped raw and tender from the rough, calloused hands of his father and the gravelly sound of his voice; grinding at him and his thoughts until only malleable dust and mud remained.

Eddie turns back to the doctor and listens with half an ear as he goes over Eddie's condition and treatment.

The first thing he tells him is that the five of them, who had been in the Upside Down, suffered damage to their lungs from toxins and alien bacteria from the air in the Upside Down. The four, who had been stuck in there previously for longer, even more so.

When the doctor says this, Eddie looks to the side, eyes falling on Robin and Steve. They both nod. Something must pass across his face, because Robin cuts across the doctor’s voice and adds, voice something gentle, and tells him the four of them had been wearing oxygen masks for a while, when the lab people first came back into Hawkins, just in time to catch the final wave of the battle and their bloodied bodies, as they tumbled back through the gate.

The words cause Steve to fidget. He crosses his arms across his chest. Huffs a large puff of air and collapses back in his chair, nearly throwing himself against the backrest and almost pushing Robin off. A grimace flashes across his face. Twisted and rough, pulling on his features in a pained mask.

Eddie cannot help but watch him working through it. Eyes tracking every movement he makes.

He wonders if he too is thinking of brown curly hair and wide eyes; round, chipmunk cheeks and an incessant voice, talking a mile a minute and how misplaced that had been in that hell dimension.

It is easier then, to keep looking at Steve, at the way his chest rises and falls with quickened breathing, fisting at the flesh of his arms; knuckles at the back of his hand standing out, bones shifting and rippling against his skin as he raises a hand and rubs his face. Steve also tears his eyes away from the doctor or scientist or whatever he is. Drops his hand and turns his head away, staring at the wall with hard eyes and a flexing jaw.

Without looking at him, Robin reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder.

At her touch, Steve's shoulders ease, falling back down from his ears. A deep breath passes through his chest. He turns his head back around, but fixes his eyes away from the doctor, settling them somewhere above him. The look inside of them is intense and sharp. Fire burns deep inside of them, unforgiving and aflame with a dull anger, like the heat of embers in the embrace of a burning pit.

Gritting his own teeth, Eddie forces his eyes away from Steve and turns back to the doctor, listening as he lists all of Eddie's lingering injuries and the treatment of them, how long it would take to heal and how long he will have to stay.

When he mentions stitches, Eddie looks down himself, eyes sharpening, trying to see past the bedclothes; to see past the bandages, he can feel wrapped tightly around him, plastered up against his skin.

In the corner of his eyes, he catches sight of movement; Steve, shifting slightly back and forth in his chair with a soft rustle of fabric.

Eddie looks at him, a question in his eyes.

Catching his searching gaze, Steve gives him a small smile. A twitch of the lips really, but Eddie takes it for the acknowledge it is.

Steve reaches down. He grabs a hold of the edge of his sweater and pulls it up. Brunching the fabric up — shirt underneath included — he bares his stomach, presenting one side to Eddie. White bandages wrap around his stomach, thick and wadded, pressing into the places where Eddie knows chunks of his flesh are missing. But aside from a very small dip in the bandages, Eddie cannot see any trace of the gaping wounds the bats left in him. He holds it up long enough for Eddie to get a good look at it, then smooths his shirt back down over it.

Unaware or perhaps uncaring of the inattentiveness of his audience, the doctor drones on.

Once he finishes the itinerary of Eddie's many injuries, he comes up, fiddles with the pouch attached to the tube going into Eddie, looks over the heart monitor, takes a few notes on one of the pages gathered on his clipboard and leaves with a last, irked warning towards Steve and Robin about letting Eddie rest or they will be kicked out.

"Wouldn't need to deal with us, if you'd been here sooner, buddy," Robin says, pointedly closing the door behind the doctor. Turning, she sags against the door and crosses her arms over her chest. "Urgh, I do not understand, how you've been able to deal with these guys the past 3 years," she groans, her head knocking back against the door.

"It's like conditioning," Steve says, snapping his finger and pointing at Robin. "We get used to their ugly mugs meaning the worst is over. And we start liking them."

"Shit, they're going all Pavlovian on us," Eddie says. He pulls a face, expression souring. "I hate to tell you, but I kinda think it's working."

"I still kinda hate them." The line of Robin’s arms tighten and tense as she bristles her teeth at them. "I still can't stand to see my signature from all that massive NDA they made us sign last."

Steve clicks his tongue. "Nothing like a good ole NDA to bring you back to earth after battling yet another all-powerful monster from an alternative dimension and saving the world again."

"You'd know," Robin says, face twisting in an imitation of a sneer, all playful and mocking.

"Hey, my ego got well beaten down in '83 and it still hasn't got back up." Steve holds his hands up in surrender. "Don't think we're in any danger of that."

"But I bet you're really good at signing those NDA's, huh?" Eddie adds with a large grin and a sideways glance at him.

Something twists across Steve's face. It's gone too quick for Eddie to pick it apart. Voice bland and his face a mask, he says, "Yeah, and I bet my signatures even prettier than yours."

"Aw—" Eddie puts a hand on his chest "—you trying to make me jealous, Harrington? And here I thought we were past this." The grin he shoots at him is teasing and crooked.

Steve rolls his eyes but gives no other reply.

A lull falls between them. Quiet settles in the air, heavy and tense. The kind Eddie has become used to this last week.

"How's Dustin?" he finally asks, looking at Robin, because it is somehow easier to ask her, than look at Steve, who shares too many things with Eddie, when it comes to this particular curly head of hair.
He still sees him cross his arms and huff in the corner of his eyes, pointedly turning his head to the side, looking down.

Cheek hollowing, Robin considers, chewing at her cheek. "He's not great." A grimace twists across her face. She scratches at the back of her head and casts a glance at Steve.

The words drop heavy and loaded into Eddie's stomach. He looks away from her. Head dropped forward. Gaze skirting across the white blanket covering him. His hands pick at each other. Searching for the familiar metal usually wrapped around them. When he keeps coming up empty, he moves his hands forward, skirting from twisting fingers to the blanket, twisting into it, pulling and rubbing at it.

"He wanted to stay here. For when you woke up," Steve says, bringing Eddie's eyes up, back to him. He leans forward on the chair again, leaning into Eddie's bed, almost leaning across it. Arms still crossed but his face open and his eyes warm. "We couldn't really move him."

"Thank god Mike, El and Will returned to town and finally gave him incentive to leave," Robin says with a smile. She looks back at Eddie and tips her head towards him in a nod from her position by the door. "Nancy promised she'd make him rest some and eat a proper meal, before bringing him back."

"Okay, okay, that's good," he says, voice distant and small. He picks at the blanket. Fingers dancing across the surface and pinching at folds in the fabric, looking up and away from them. Eyes skirting the ceiling. "And everyone else?" he asks, tentatively. His eyes fall closed as the words leave his mouth, as if they cannot bear to stay open and see the way they land.

A stilted pause walks through the room.

"Shit," the word shakes from his mouth, trembling from his chest and into the air. He lifts a hand. Brings it to his face and rubs. Pushes fingers into his eyes and grinds until it hurts. White light flashes against his eyelids. A burst of pain chases it, striking through his eyes with a viper-like burst.

"No, hey, it's okay." Footsteps hurry across the floor, lurching towards him. The mattress dips and a hand settles on his shoulder once again. Another weight settles on his ankle.

Warm fingers press into him as the hand on his shoulder squeezes.

Eddie peeks out from behind his fingers, looking up at Steve hovering above him. By his ankles, Robin has stepped closer, dropping an arm over the edge of the bed, curling a hand around his ankle.

Steve looks down at him, his gaze steady, and says, "We're okay. A little bruised—” he makes a face and tilts his head to the side “—a lot traumatized. But alive. Okay?" Their gazes lock. Steve’s eyes burn unyielding and impossibly strong down at him and Eddie's own are as if hooked to them. Impossible to look away from; impossible to look at for too long. "We all made it. We're still here. We're okay."

Slowly, Eddie drags his hand down his face. Leaving them curling loosely over his chest. Still looking up at Steve, their gazes locked with an unknown force, he nods. Slowly tipping his head up and down, not once breaking eyes away from Steve's.

"Okay," Steve echoes. Giving his shoulder one last squeeze, then leans away from him. The intensity falls off of him like the shredding of a different skin, leaving him sitting on the edge of Eddie's bed, shoulders sagging slightly; just as weighed down as he has been, ever since Eddie opened his eyes.

Eyes darting between them, Eddie looks from Robin to Steve and back again. Over and over.

The heaviness clinging to Eddie's body, rushes forward like the rushing tide. A wave tiredness, tinged with the dull touch of heavy drugs and pain medication. It ebbs and rises through him. Lapping at him like the sea at shore.

He stifles a yawn in palm of his hand and blinks heavy eyelids that drag up and down, trying to pull him under the waves.

It would be so easy to follow them in. To follow their tantalizing call and get swept away in their grasp. Bury away in the darkness and hide from Vecna and everything he has touched. But Eddie fears what would be waiting for him in the dark. Fears the snapped, broken limbs, the sunken, burst eyes and the blank stares, waiting for him in the dark. Without the knowledge that everyone else is safe, to keep him shielded against its touch, he fears he would drown in the nightmares waiting for him in the dark of his eyelids. And so he pulls himself free of the heavy waves lapping at his body and looks up at Steve, trying not to gnaw at the inside of his cheeks. "Tell me?"

The two share a glance. Something flickers across their faces, not quite grimaces, but too heavy to be anything else.

"What do you remember?"

"Not much," is what he answers.

The truth is this: he remembers leathery bodies swirling around him. The smack of boney-leathery wings hitting his body; sharp teeth that tears at his flesh; pain shooting through him, burning him up like an inferno; the eerie silence and the ringing in his ears; a heartbeat, all at once, pounding with the speed of light and sinking below the surface of heavy waters. He remembers the end. That the bats were swarming him and suddenly they were not. Bodies tumbling down around him and smacking to the ground. Dustin was there, somehow back beside him, despite all of Eddie's efforts. If he could have moved, Eddie would have cursed every god he had ever heard the name of for making it happen. He would have thrashed and shouted and screamed that Dustin was not meant to be there. Dustin was supposed to stay safe.
 Nobody heard the soundless screams tearing through his already mauled body, and Dustin stayed holding Eddie as the pain gave away to numb. He stayed. Hovering above him, face swirling at him out of the red and black.

Eddie tried not to feel grateful, but it was hard not to feel relief flooding through him that his last moments would not be spent alone in a world worse than the one he would be headed to.

Which was another thing, he tried not to feel grateful for; Hell would be a relief after this.

All that is left in his memories is Dustin looking down at him, his mouth moving. The words he said are garbled words that emerge from his memory all wrong and static, like loops from a broken record; scratched and incomplete.

What he knows with certainty is that he passed out, out there, somewhere between red skies, cracks in the ceiling and the floor of his trailer; dragged back to life by people stronger and braver than Eddie has ever been.

If they see the echo of those red skies and Dustin’s last promise in his eyes, they do not comment on it.

Robin comes around the side of his bed and sits down in the chair closest to Eddie, the one Steve abandoned. She lifts a foot. Props it up against Eddie's bed, between Steve's legs. The soles of her shoes squeaks against the bed.

Steve stays sat on the bed. Turned and twisted towards Eddie, one knee bent up and laid on the edge of the bed, his other leg stretched out, touching the floor with his foot.

They do not start where Eddie wants them to. "We returned after setting Vecna afire. We expected you to have cleared out, like planned. But we found you, away from the trailer and on the ground."

They tell him of the aftermath. Not everything. He can tell from brief, stilted pauses and long shared glances between them. But he does not call them out on it. He just listens to their tale. A tale of returning to the trailer with empty hands and an even emptier victory, expecting to find them waiting on the Rightside Up of the gate, but finding Dustin curled around his prone body, desperate and determined not to let him go. Eddie was apparently awake then. Looking up at them with glazed eyes.

Steve was the one to disentangle Dustin, much to the other's protest.

It plays out like a scene from a movie, in Eddie's mind. Their voices echo out over the images blooming before his distracted, distant eyes, like a voice over, half a second behind the moving image. Disjointed and jagged. Like two damaged pieces, trying hard to fit together. Try as he might, he will always be missing those seconds that are lost in their cracking seams and jagged edges.

The picture is gruesome.

It tells a story of Eddie and Dustin, both covered in grime and blood; Eddie prone on the ground, Dustin above him, curled around him, clinging to him, screaming himself hoarse and raw at Steve, Nancy and Robin as they draw nearer; deaf to their quiet words of offered soothing and comfort. Clinging to him. Thrashing with every effort of Steve trying to pull him away.

Steve tries to get through to him, but his words fall on deaf ears; Dustin's grief so severe it drowns out the one thing that could shelter him.

Screaming and crying, Dustin clings to Eddie, fighting off Steve's every attempt at pulling him away. It takes a few tries of pulling and tugging at Dustin's arms, but Steve's strength wins out in the end and he manages to tear Dustin away.

Dustin thrashes and twists in Steve's arms. Arms slapping and leg kicking, screaming himself hoarse at Steve, “—on't understand! You never even liked him and you're probably glad he's dead and it's your fault! He never should've—” and Steve has to hold him tight to keep Eddie and Dustin safe from the kid's thrashing kicks “—it should have been me! It should have been you! Why Eddie? Why take Eddie, when we were so close?" And Dustin crumbles into Steve, falling into his arms.

But Steve barely allows him time to hold him, before he's throwing him at the girls with a hard shove and returning his focus to Eddie.

The two girls catch him, barely just keeping him from stumbling and falling over his ruined leg.

And then there is Steve, crashed to his knees by Eddie's side. Arms a blur as he whips his jacket off his body. He bends over Eddie, a concentrated, furious expression on his face. Hazel eyes burning out at him in the dark night. As if the fire in them will burn away the darkness creeping towards Eddie from the corner of his eyes and bring him back into the light; a fire just for Eddie to ignite himself on and blaze back to life.

Steve lays his hands on Eddie and the fire burns away the night, taking Eddie with it.

And the scene winks out.

Here, Robin tells him, Steve held Eddie together with first aid. But Eddie cannot pull a single image out of the black hole in his mind. Not even his own fantasy rises to fill out the blanks.

A grim cloud of heavy somberness has crept forward, pouring out of Eddie’s wound – hidden beneath his hospital clothes and blanket – and the edges of Steve’s voice; filling the room with its looming shadow. Almost suffocating everything in its presence. It falls over Robin and Steve, shadowing them; pulling furrows across Robin's brow and twisting a frown onto Steve’s face, forcing his gaze to the floor, arms crossed tight and tense in front of his chest.

Eddie glances at Steve. "Didn't know you knew first aid, beyond mouth to mouth, Stev-o." A weak smile pulls at his mouth, although it feels more like a grimace.

The attempt at lightness falls flat and dead to the floor.

"I told you. Lifeguard," he says, short and flat. Eddie crooks an eyebrow and Steve shrugs, then adds, "I took a course after the second time. Couldn't really rest until I did, really."

Robin throws a sideways glance at Steve. The line of her mouth presses thin and tight. After a short moment, she shakes herself out of it, then turns back to Eddie and resumes the story. She tells of Steve managing to hold Eddie together long enough to lift him up and carry him out of the Upside Down.

"Aw, you carried me." Grinning, he nudges Steve side. "What a chivalrous knight you make. I'm sorry, I missed the main event of the night, then. What a sight that must have been."

Steve rolls his eyes. The mask of tension over his face finally breaks and it feels like a victory. Tiny and insignificant. But a victory nonetheless.

Robin's words made another image break loose from the depths of his mind.

It floats at him from the depths of his mind, like a petal bopping and floating on a river, pulling Eddie’s attention away from them.

There is Steve, hovering above Eddie, looking down at him with pained eyes, his face twisted in a grimace. Eddie knows, he is bruised. The short time he has been awake has barely afforded enough opportunity to see them all, and most of them are probably hidden away, beneath layers of fabric and bandages, but he can so easily see the dirt and grime clinging to his skin, the dried blood he picked up somewhere between it all and the marks collected over his neck, reaching up towards his jaw.

In the memory, Steve hardly even looks at him. Just bends over him with a shuttered look over his face. He eases his arms beneath him and oh so carefully rises to his feet with Eddie cradled gently in his arms. Body pressed up against him; chest solid and firm, rising with every breath he takes.

Eddie does not know how much of all of these scenes that play out in his mind is memory and how much is imaginary; drawn forth from Steve and Robin's voices, painted with the brush he has used to guide his players through campaigns in his years as DM.

He supposes, it is easier trying to stitch together the moment of his near death, as if it were movie, from their rough, croaking voices, than to focus on the looks in their eyes and see just how thin and frayed they are.

The memory fades and he can focus back on the tale in time to hear Robin tell that Steve's first aid kept him alive long enough for the lab people to storm the city. Leaving a small handful of people to keep Eddie alive, right there on the dirty floor of his trailer, while they got their shit together, seized equipment from Hawkins Hospital and could transfer him to the lab.

He tells himself, he is grateful his memory is fuzzy and tries not to feel the aches across his body and inside his chest that have nothing to do with his new scars, and everything to do with old wounds picked apart and picked open anew; baring his soul and heart on his sleeve.

It is easier, Eddie tells himself, to let it play out like a scene from a movie in his mind. Easier than wonder if the memory of those arms around him, that heartbeat beating out against him, that rise and fall of a steady, solid chest, those pained eyes looking down at him, are merely wishful thinking; a make-believe story to lull him to sleep at night, when the darkness makes the red lightning seared against his eyelids that much brighter, or if it is a true memory.

They fall quiet for a little while. The moment of Eddie's close call with death hangs heavy and limp in the air all around them.

After a long moment, Eddie clears his throat. "And everyone else?" he finally asks.

It turns out; Eddie was the only one of the Upside Down crew that ended up in a hospital bed.

Vecna left Robin, Nancy and Steve with bruises and rasping voices. Dustin with a limp and a hunched, sad disposition, hovering around inside of Eddie's room like a ghoul, waiting for him to awaken.

They only tell him the rest of it as quick and simple as they can; Lucas carrying both bruises and a shaken heart; Erica shaken and angry, but whole, which is a small miracle in of itself.

But then they get to Max.

Max, who is left with milky eyes and vision impairment; with all of her limbs broken and wrapped in full body casts; alive and awake in Hawkins hospital, but barely saved from Vecna's claws. When they tell him this, voices small and hesitant, Eddie's eyes fall closed. His breath catches in his chest. Hitching inside of his lungs. In his chest, his heart flutters, like the weak flutter of dying wings. Heart stuttering and scrambling to keep up with it all. He shudders. It surges through him in wave after wave. He grasps for something to catch him. Hands clutching at the blanket. The fabric twists between his fingers, pulling tight and taut. A painful lump forms in his throat. It scratches and claws at him with every hitching breath he takes. His eyes prickle. Tears build and immediately fall from his eyes. Falling from closed lids and rolling down his cheeks, leaving a damp path on his skin behind.

Eddie brings his hands to his face and hides away in his palms. Not drying his tears, just letting them absorb into the skin on his hands.

The weight beside him shifts. Fabric rustles lightly from the movement.

A hand touches his own. Fingers skim over the back of his hand, grazing his skin. They shift forward, moving down and around, where they curl around his wrist. A thumb sticks out and flicks across the back of his wrist, careful of the IV tube. "Eddie," Steve tries. But Eddie keeps his hand up, despite the warmth of Steve's grip and his fingers curling solid around his wrist.

He pulls his hand up. Fingers unfurling from his wrist and drawing up towards Eddie’s. It inches into the space between Eddie's palm and his face. Skin smoothing against Eddie's, grazing as it touches him, fingers wrapping around his.

A gentle pull tugs his hand away from his face. Steve pulls Eddie's hand, tugging it through the air to rest on a soft, supple surface.

Eddie's eyes flicker open and he watches, breath caught in his lungs, as Steve lays his hand in his lap. He smooths his palm over Eddie's, pressing it gently down into his thigh. After a moment, he slots their palms together, letting his fingers fall into the spaces between Eddie's own.

Looking down at their joined hands in his lap, Steve brings his other hand forward and tugs Eddie's hand into it. Curling his fingers around it, cupping the back of his hand with his, encasing Eddie's hand in both of his.

"It's okay, Eddie, we made it out," Steve says, voice smooth and gentle, still looking down at their hands. He looks up then and turns his gaze back to Eddie, locking Eddie's eyes within his gaze once more. "She made it out. Max will be okay."

"It wasn't meant to be like this." Eddie shakes his head, breath hiccupping in his chest. "She was meant to be okay." He presses his free hand into his face. Pain stabs his eyes and cheeks at the pressure.

Steve's hands tightens around his other hand in a squeeze.

By his feet, Robin lays a hand over his ankle and rubs it lightly.

Even with so much hanging unsaid in the air between them, heavy and cloying and suffocating in the hospital room, they do not say much else. And Eddie does not ask them to.

Steve remains sitting on his bed. Eddie's hand clasped in his own, resting them in his lap. And Robin stays sitting at the foot of his bed. Her hand a comfortable weight on his ankle.

Time passes by them, almost as thick and cloying as the air itself. The steady beeping of Eddie's heartbeat and the gentle rush of their breathing remains the only sound that passes between them. It rises and falls in near tandem.

Enough time pass that Eddie cannot keep himself separate from the tide flowing in the periphery of his consciousness and the lightness of Eddie's painless limbs rush over him. It washes up through him and floods his head. Its touch light and heavy all at the same time. His body floats somewhere in the air, carried in the warm grasp of a drifting cloud. Head heavy and weighting down on his pillow.

Eddie yawns. Blinks heavy eyes at them, forcing them to stay open every time they slide closed. He raises a hand to grind at his eyes.

"What happened? Really?" he finally asks between yawns. "You said Vecna—” he stutters over the name “—you said he wasn't— you said it wasn't over."

Looking away from him, Steve and Robin shares a glance. Expressions hesitant and wary.

"Look, you're tired," Steve says, turning back to him. "Just rest some more." He lays a hand on his shoulder, fingers curling around him and looks down at him. The look in his eyes warm and understanding. "We'll tell you everything, when you wake up again. But I promise you, right now, for a while, we're okay. We've won some time. I promise you that." Hazel eyes lock with Eddie's. A strength, bright and unbreakable, unbending and unyielding burns inside of his eyes. They stare down at Eddie. The strength inside of them offered up for Eddie to take as much of as he needs. Even if it should leave Steve with nothing.

And Eddie almost wants to reject it. Wants to take his words and throw them back at him, cursing him out. Almost wants to grab onto that soft looking fabric of his blue sweater and shake him until he tells him everything that Eddie has missed. To demand that they stop coddling him.

Except.

It has never been coddling.

Not once, since they found him in that boatshed with a broken beer bottle clutched in hand — his eyes wide and pupils blown, every breath rapid and shaking within his chest and his entire body trembling — have any of their actions or the words they have spoken to him, coddled him.

He looks at Steve. Eyes trailing over him, picking at the corners of him; at the clothes hanging all creased and wrinkled from him; at the limp swoop and sagging strands of his normally perfectly styled hair; at the tiredness that clings to the corners of his face; at the way, despite it all, his eyes still burn bright and strong down at Eddie.

A huff of air blows from Eddie. Chest deflating, he looks away from both of them. "Not sure I can fall asleep, knowing it's not all over." He shakes his head. The movement small and tiny, barely able to move his head at all through the heavy grasp trying to drag him under.

Still. Once Steve leaves his bed to sit down on the other chair, Eddie blinks sluggishly at them. The weight of his eyes even heavier, now that attention has been brought on them.

Only when Robin tells him they will still be here next time he wakes up, is he able to breathe deep. Air falls slowly in and out of his lungs. Its touch makes his chest rise and fall steadily, deeply.

Finally, Eddie allows his eyes to fall shut and for his body to fall into the waters of heavy painkillers. It does not take many beeps of the heart monitor, ringing deep inside of his ears, as if chasing away every other sound, before the tiredness clinging to his bones, rush forward like the tide at sea.

He falls asleep to Robin and Steve's voices drifting into his ears, soothed on the waves of their soft words and he wonders, if he will ever be able to fall asleep, as easily as he does then, without being carried in their embrace.

The next time he wakes up, he wakes up to vines wrapped around him. They crawl along his arms and clamps over his hands and fingers, and lies up along his body, reaching for his throat and face.

Gasps bursts from his mouth. Air rattles in his lungs and claws at his throat. His chest jerks and jolts uselessly up and down. He thrashes at the vines holding him down. Claws at his throat and nose. At his arms and hands. Bright light cuts into his eyes and Vecna has taken him next. Wrapped him up in his grasp and taken his sight and instead of darkness, he has blinded him with burning light.

Noises rush shapeless and wordless into his ears. Garbled and distorted.

Something tries to take a hold of his hands.

A yell tears out of his throat. Breaking through the walled up, thick walls. It explodes harsh and grating out into the air all around him. Every sound claws at his raw throat. Tearing its way out of him, as if made of broken glass and claws, not empty air.

Vines scrabble at his hands again. Touch firm and burning. Trying to hold his hands down.

Eddie cries out. He tears his hands away, violently and desperate. Claws and pushes against the vines grabbing for him. Fingers scrabbling desperately against them. His own nails catch on his own skin. Fire flares at their touch, leaving a trail of flames up and down his skin.

A weight settles on his shoulders. It pushes him down into the surface below him. A surface that is soft, not hard, like he expected it to be.

Noises burst out at him from the light.

The weight atop him shapes into hands, transforming from grimy vines into soft skin.

The garbled words twists and warbles and finally turns into words.

"Eddie, Eddie. Eds. It's okay," Steve is speaking fast, his voice calling out loud and clear. "Eddie, it's okay, you're okay. Come on, man. Breathe. You're safe." Disoriented and breathless, Eddie blinks up at him. He finally finds Steve in the light. The brightness recedes with every blink of his eyes, as if now that Eddie has been jerked back to reality, the world beyond his nightmares can finally take shape.

Steve's face hovers right above him, his arms out and braced against Eddie. A hand on each of his shoulders, near his chest, palms braced on top of him, fingers digging into his flesh. The weight of him pushes Eddie down into the mattress, keeping him in place.

Their eyes lock.

Eddie heaves to catch his breath. Chest rising and falling rapidly. Air rushes in and out of his gasping mouth; rushing through his nose like a man starving for air.

"You're okay, Eddie, you're safe," Steve repeats, gaze sharp and unwavering on his.

Eddie nods. Unable to find his voice between his gasping breath and raw, throbbing throat. The movement rubs against his pillow and his hair rustles around his ears.

"Shit," he breathes. The word shakes from his chest, trembling from his mouth. He raises an unsteady hand and rubs at his face, pushing his fingers briefly into his eyes. White stars bursts behind his eyelids at their burning touch.

"It's okay." The weight pushing down into Eddie eases up. One of Steve's hands gives Eddie's shoulder a squeeze.

Steve leans back, settling on the edge of his bed. The mattress dips towards him, shifting beneath Eddie.

He waits a while, waiting for Eddie to settle. Then, after a long moment, he withdraws one hand from Eddie's shoulder, but keeps the other anchored where it lays against him. Fingers clenching around the curve of his shoulder, still looking down at him with a steadying, calming gaze.

Behind Steve, just visible around his back, is Robin, curled up in her chair, turned sideways, with one propped up, leg bent and pulled near her chest, the other dangling out over the side, foot reaching towards the floor. A book propped up on her knee, the cover angled just right so he can make out the title splayed across it. Annie On My Mind that Eddie absentmindedly think he’s seen on the bookshelf of one of his friends in Indianapolis. She’s turned to look at him. Eyes wide and concerned, mouth pinched in worry. But she’s staying back, letting Steve help him. In the short glance Eddie throws her way, she catches his eyes, gives him a quick nod and turns her eyes back to her book.

The room is still empty of wild curls and insurmountable egos; Dustin still not back from his trip outside these stifling walls.

A while passes of Eddie breathing in and out. Reaching for the sound of Steve's steady breath, trying to match the calm rise and fall of his chest, following the sound like it is the light at the end of a dark tunnel, guiding him out of the dark.

As if knowing the reason behind Eddie's burning gaze on him, Steve breathes as deep and slow as he can, making each passing breath loud; a hook cast out for Eddie to hold onto, for Steve to pull him back ashore with.

"You good?" Steve asks after a while of matching breaths, his voice quiet and low in the blanket that has fallen between them.

Head rubbing against his pillow, Eddie nods. Rustles sound right next to his ears, where his hair rubs against the pillow. "Yeah, I'm good."

The morphine is still in his system. It reaches for Eddie and laps at his shore, trying to drag him back under its dark and empty depths, whispering promises of nothing and darkness, touch tantalizing and hypnotizing, making his limbs heavy, almost numb with sleep.

The hand still placed on his shoulder gives a light squeeze. "Try to sleep some more," Steve says, voice and expression kind.

Eddie rubs a weak hand over his face. Palm scrubbing lightly against his skin. He throws a glance at him, arching an eyebrow. "I'll be sleeping the month away. At this rate, you'll be needing to find a true love's kiss to wake me up again."

It brings a smile to Steve's face. Lips tugging upwards, wrinkles curl across his sun-kissed skin in lines of laughter. He smiles down at him. The corner of his eyes crinkling. "We've faced monsters of all kinds from another dimension, I'm sure we could manage to dredge up a magical cure to wake you from your slumber."

"Not too soon though," Eddie mumbles, eyes falling closed, "I'd hate to—” but what Eddie would hate, he will never know. He falls asleep, before he can finish the sentence and the words turn to sand in his hands and vanishes.

When Dustin first sees him awake, he cries.

Eddie comes out of a bout of sleep. Blinking out at the room, bleary and sluggish, still half-caught in the arms of sleep.

Blearily, he rubs at his eyes. Grinding his knuckles into them. Dry sleep crust prickles at his skin, so he digs the tips of his fingers into the corners of his eyes, picking it out.

Still rubbing at his face, trying to drag sleep from his skin, where it seems permanently settled, permanently trying to drag him under its grasp, he turns his head, searching for his bedside companions.

In the chair closest to his bed is Dustin. Head bowed forward, the curly mop on top of his head bulging out from beneath a cap.

With the chair firmly occupied, Steve has been banished to the other chair, where he is being suffocated by Robin sat curled on top of him, knees drawn up and a folded up newspaper lying against them, a pen tapping at her lips and her brow furrowed.

Steve's head is tipped back, pillowed by the backrest of the chair. Eyes closed, chest rising and falling steadily, seemingly fast asleep, despite the awkward angle and the way it must dig painfully into his bruises and wounds.

Music plays from somewhere in the room. Soft and soothing.

Dustin must catch the movement of Eddie's arm, because he looks up from his book. Their gazes lock. A sharp gasp of air rushes in through Dustin's mouth. It jolts through him and his entire body goes still and stiff, locking up tight.

"Hey, buddy," Eddie croaks, voice rough and raw from sleep.

"Eddie," he says.

The book tumbles from his hands. It sails through the air and falls to the floor, where it lands with a heavy thump. Dustin surges up from his chair and throws himself at Eddie. Arms come up around him and winds around his shoulders, wiggling and inching between Eddie and the bed, shoving their way forward. Fingers curl into Eddie's shirt, grasping at him for purchase.

Eddie wraps his own arms around him. Tubes click and clack lightly, pulling at his skin, protesting lightly at the movement.

Against him Dustin's body shakes. Sniffles and quiet gasps of air fills his ear, coming loud from the head right beside his own.

"Hey, hey, man," Eddie tries as gentle as he can, "didn't they tell you I woke up, while you were gone?"

Dustin nods. His head rubs the side of Eddie's.

"I'm just really happy you're okay," he manages. "I thought you—” he breaks off with a loud gasp. The sound is wet and ugly in Eddie's ear.

"Yeah, I know," Eddie says, voice quiet and low. He rubs Dustin's back. Runs his palm up and down his spine, up to his neck, where he curls his fingers, palming the back of his neck. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just—” his breath catches in his throat “—just never do that again."

Over Dustin's back, Steve has picked his head up and opened his eyes, apparently not asleep. Or, perhaps, he has simply developed a radar for Dustin that goes off, when the kid is unhappy. It would only be too easy, Eddie thinks, for Steve to develop such a hyper-focus on any of the kids, after years of babysitting them with a sprinkle of interdimensional monsters and several apocalypses thrown into the mix.

After everything they must have been through and faced through the years; things they have only managed to leave like breadcrumbs for Eddie to pick up and console himself with, in that boatshed, once they had to leave him, off to go and hunt down the monsters that drove Eddie there. Developing such awareness that just hones in on the kids; a radar that goes off, if any of them lands in danger, in any sort of distress or so much as sneezes in the wrong way, seems like the only normal thing, Eddie has seen in a week. It is almost enough to make him laugh.

Steve keeps his gaze on Dustin for a moment longer, then pulls his eyes to Eddie, briefly looking him over.

Across Dustin's shoulder, their eyes lock.

Eddie pulls his gaze away. Rubs his palm up and down Dustin's back. The shakes and trembles that jerks through his body, echoes out into Eddie. The air around him filled with Dustin's shuddering and hiccupping gasps.

Eventually, Dustin pulls back from him. He leans back, his eyes wet and shining. Cheeks wet with tears.

Hands sliding off his back, Eddie catches him before he goes too far. Grasps him by his shoulders, fingers squeezing to keep him there.

"Hey," he says, catching his eyes, "I still love you. Yeah?" He squeezes his arm, shaking it lightly, as if in substitute for ruffling a hand through his hair, with it out of his reach. "Remember that, Henderson."

Pain twists across Dustin's face and a shadow falls over his eyes. Face screwed up, he sniffles, "I love you, too," and raises a hand to wipe at his eyes.

Dustin stays by his bedside. He just stays hovering by his side. Slightly leant over his bed. Figure crooked and bent, as if dragged slightly down towards Eddie. Hand reaching out and curling into the fabric of the blanket covering him. Another fisted hand lying by his shoulder and collarbone.

Robin speaks and Eddie's gaze is pulled towards her, "Word for a partially shaded area of an opaque object, seen in eclipses," she calls out, voice muffled by the butt of the pencil caught between her teeth. "It ends with A and the sixth letter is a B."

"Gross, Rob." Steve makes a face. He yanks on her hand, pulling the pencil from her mouth with a wet pop.

"You're not my mother." She sticks her tongue out at him and plops the pencil right back in her mouth, teeth chomping down on the end.

The two continue to argue quietly, voices lowered and playfully hissing at each other.

Grinning at their antics Eddie, turns his gaze back to Dustin still hovering by his side. "Come on, Dustin, sit down." He gives his shoulder a light shake. "I'm not disappearing anytime soon."

Reluctant eyes meet his as Dustin's brow pull unhappily together.

"I promise," he says. Gaze fierce and locked with his. "I'm right here."

Loud and annoyed, Robin's cuts between them. "Steve, stop telling me what I can and can't put in my mouth and start telling me the word I'm looking for." The butt of her pencil taps the newspaper pointedly. A sharp, insistent tap-tap-tap follows it.

"How the fuck am I supposed to know what word it’s asking for? Why would you even need a different word for shadow?! That's just ridiculous."

"It's not just a shadow, Steve. It's the shadow of an eclipse."

"Last time I checked that's still a shadow," Steve says, voice obnoxious and irate, eyebrows raised.

"Babe, I love you, but just because you can't keep more than one noun in your head, doesn't mean anyone else can't." Her words make Steve roll his eyes.

Dustin looks over his shoulder at the two of them, his expression annoyed and exasperated. "Could the two of you act any more like children?"

"I'm sure Steve could." Expression teasing and playful, Robin reaches out and pinches Steve's cheek between her fingers, waggling it back and forth.

Steve pulls his head away from her. Lips twisted in a snarling scowl. He swats a hand through the air, pushing her hand away from his face. "Stop that."

Robin snatches her fingers in a claw. It snaps open and closed. Snatching after his cheek. Mouth snapping open and closed, her teeth crack against each other with a sharp clack-clack-clack; emphasizing every snap of her fingers with the sound.

"Seriously, I mean it Robin." Head twisted and held away from her, Steve holds a hand up, blocking her path. Palm open and held out, pushing her hand away from him.

Robin tilts sideways. Cheeks split open in a laugh, face screwed up and her freckles disappears behind her scrunched up cheeks. Her hand falls away. It drops and sags in the air, landing on top of Steve's arm, where it hangs loose and limb.

Steve's scowl only grows deeper. "I mean it. I'll throw you off right now."

Abruptly, Robin's laughter breaks off. Head snapping up, her mouth clamps closed. Cutting off her laughter mid-cackle. Eyebrows arching, she taps the newspaper on his shoulder. "You wouldn't dare."

A smile twitches at the corners of Steve's mouth. One of his eyebrows arches up towards his brow. "It's a prospect that's looking more appealing by the minute."

"Eugh." A grimace twists across her face. "Fine, I'll be good, mom," she stresses the last word. A chuckle bursts from her chest, but it cuts off almost immediately, brought to an early grave by the disgust that twists across her face. "Ew, that was worse, than I thought it would be." A shake of her head shakes the word and expression off of her. She tucks herself into Steve again, elbowing him in the stomach in the process.

"Son of a—”

"Language, Steven." Robin raises her eyebrows at him. "Wouldn't want the children to hear."

"Hey!" Dustin shouts, outraged.

They both ignore him.

Robin focuses back on her newspaper. "I still need that word."

"It's penumbra, Robin," Eddie cuts in before Steve takes the opportunity to needle her again, something he is sure he has done more than enough, if Henderson's long-suffering expression and souring look, is anything to go by.

Lips moving soundlessly, Robin mouths the word, sounding it out by the shape of it. The tip of her pen follows the marked boxes in the crossword before her. A winning smile takes over her face and her body perks up. "That's it!" she exclaims, taking the pen to the paper and, presumably, filling the boxes with Eddie's word. "Thanks, Eddie." She cuts him a glance, smile twisting into something crooked and teasing. "I'm sure this jerk would have had me chasing my tail all day, if given the chance." She jerks her pen at Steve. The pencil flaps through the air.

"Careful, Rob!" Hand darting up, Steve holds his palm out, catching her hand and the offending pencil. "You could take my eyes out with that thing."

“Oh, yeah, it’s a real dangerous weapon. A pencil, deadliest animal of them all,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “We should remember that the next time the Mindflayer melts a bunch of people for parts.” Rolling her eyes, Robin ducks down, focusing back on the paper before her.

Eddie turns back to Dustin.

Dustin squirms before him. A look of hesitation and wariness crosses his face.

Eddie tips his head forward, tries catching his eyes. "Dustin?” he asks. “What's wrong?"

"It's just—” he breaks off. Huffing loudly, he stands up from the bed, shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls it back out. Hand fisted and clenched around something. He stares down at his fist. Head lowered, face and eyes shielded by shadows cast across his face from the cap on his head. "When you were—” he shakes his head “—I didn't think you'd make it." He sniffs loudly. "I thought, you were gone," he adds voice quiet and small. "I thought you died in my arms."

Eddie leans across the bed. Fire licks at the wounds littering his stomach and back. It bursts through the heavy cover of morphine and painkillers keeping it smothered. Bursting to life like gasoline poured on the last embers of a dying fire. It stabs through the blanket of morphine, stabbing through Eddie’s wounds, like prongs of fire all over his body. And still Eddie leans forward, practically hangs over the edge of the bed as he reaches across the space. His fingers snag onto Dustin's grey sweater. He grabs the fabric and tugs Dustin closer.

Dustin stumbles and limbs his way forward. Following the weak pull of Eddie’s fingers.

Eddie tugs on his sweater until Dustin sits back on the bed. Then he lays his hand on top of his shoulder, grounding him to the bed.

Dustin keeps his head lowered, but with him close once more, sat above him, Eddie can see the pinch at the corner of his mouth, the tight press of his lips and the quiver that still trembles from them.

Pulling his hand down, lower over Dustin's shoulder, he rubs circles into his back. Palm rubbing gently back and forth at his shaking back.

"I didn't want it to get lost,” Dustin eventually manages to say. “I never saw you without it, and I didn't—” air shudders from his lungs, shaking past his lips, softly cutting off his words. Shaking his head, Dustin opens his palm and shows Eddie his guitar pick necklace. The black pick lies nestled in the bed of his palm. Broken string curled up in a in a messy tangle against his skin. "I didn't know what to do with it. I thought, maybe you would want your uncle to have it. Or maybe I could find somewhere nice and bury it."

A lump forms in Eddie's throat. It burns dull and hard.

"I'm sorry," Dustin says, voice wobbling and head shaking. "I didn't—” he breaks off with another shuddering breath.

"Hey." Moving his hand up his back again, Eddie grips Dustin by the shoulder, tugging lightly at him. Dustin turns his head enough to throw a pained look at him, like the last echo of the terror and grief he looked down at him with, back when Eddie was dying right before his eyes. "It's okay, Dustin,” he says. “I'm glad you had it." He gives him a small smile. Eyes darting down to the pick necklace in his hand in place of a gesture. "You can keep it, if you need to."

"No!" Dustin shakes his head. Sharp and vigorous. Eyes wide and horrified. Back straightening, he pulls himself upright and stares down at Eddie. Fingers curling tight and taut around Eddie's pick necklace. "I don't want it. I want you to have it. Here." Arm jerking through the air, he holds out his hand to Eddie.

"If you're sure," he says, watching Dustin with careful eyes.

"I'm sure." His head jerks in a sharp nod. Eyes darting down at his out-held hand, prompting him jerky and impatient. "You're awake now, so I don't want it anymore."

“Okay,” he says softly. “That’s alright.” Eddie holds out his hand and Dustin places the necklace in his palm. Plastic and leather string land in his hand with a soft patter. Warm from Dustin’s grip. Eddie curls his hand around the necklace and looks up at Dustin. Eyes gentle and smile soft. "Thank you, for keeping it safe for me," he says, squeezing his shoulder.

Head lowering, eyes seeking the floor, Dustin nods. Mouth pressing into a thin line. "I just don't ever want to hold it, ever again. I'll never forgive you."

"Okay," Eddie says, voice quiet and small. "I'll take better care of it," he promises and means it.

Dustin lifts his head once more and looks back at him. Sharp eyes search all over his face for the shadow of his words cast over it. Finally, he nods. Tension in his shoulders seep out and he breathes out, breath falling heavy from his lungs.

Eddie lets him sit there, slumped and heavy for a moment. Then, he gives his shoulder a light shove, gently pushing at him, and says, "Go on, sit down, Dustin, I'm not going anywhere."

Dustin searches him one last time. Gaze looking up and down his blanket-covered body and returning to his face, thoroughly searching every crease and stretch of skin. After a long pause, Dustin finally backtracks and settles down on the chair once more. As he does, he bends over, scooping his book back up from the floor. Palms smoothing over the cover. His fingers fall to the side and pick at wrinkled pages, smoothing them out.

Eddie eyes the book. "What'cha got there, buddy?"

Wary eyes look up at him. A hesitant look falls over his face as Dustin looks back down at the thick tome on his lap, obsessively smoothing his palms over the cover.

The cover of the book flashes at Eddie out between the gaps in Dustin's fingers. Smooth colors of brown in a painted imitation of leather and colors of red and yellows.

Head bowed, Dustin says, "It's your book."

Confused, Eddie frowns.

Dustin picks up his unspoken question. "We were able to sneak back into your trailer with the earthquake keeping the cops occupied. So we went back for some of your stuff," he explains. "I grabbed some of your books and mixtapes, and Steve packed you some clothes."

"You went back?" Eyes open wide, his gaze darts between Dustin and Steve, the latter still caught up in Robin and unaware of the emotions that slams into Eddie at these words.

Dustin inches forward on his chair and nods. Eyes wide and earnest and a small, but bright smile spreading across his face. "I wanted you to have something good to wake up to. And Steve said you'd never forgive us, if we tried to fit you into his clothes, once you woke up."

Hearing them or maybe finally sensing Eddie's eyes on him, Steve picks his head up, ducking out of his heated debate with Robin, where she is pointing aggressively at the newspaper folded up in her hands, the page of the crossword before her and her face twisted in a perpetual scowl.

Across the space, their gazes lock. A small smile grows across Steve's face. He tips his head towards Eddie. Then turns back to Robin.

Brought out of his reverie, Eddie looks back at Dustin.

Hands curled anxiously around the top of the book, Dustin leans forward, sitting on the edge of the chair. "I'm sorry. I hope it's okay I've been reading your book."

"Hey, I'm sure it's okay." He waves his worry away with a hand swatting nonchalant and unconcerned through the air. "What did you choose, anyway? I'm not sure even I could sleep long enough to leave you enough time to finish that one." Racking his brain, Eddie tries to come up with any fiction book, he has lying around somewhere in his room, that matches the sheer volume of the tome Dustin's picked and comes up empty.

"It's um—” Dustin hesitates, fingers squeezing around the book, before releasing, falling to the side and gripping it by the sides, holding it up in the air for Eddie to see “—your D&D manual." The dulcet, fantastical cover of his old D&D manual hovers before him. The Monster Manual, to be specific. The cover shows the familiar old brown filled front — like the cover of a worked leather book — with darker brown and golden symbols drawn around it and a circle in the center of which a red dragon appears out of. The book is slightly frayed and worked. Well-used and beloved. It was a copy Eddie picked up in one of Hawkins second-hand thrift stores.

When he was a kid — both before and after he came to officially live with his uncle as his charge — one day every week, his uncle would give him a few lose change as pocket money and they would go out. Sometimes, they would stop by a gas station and use the money to buy a pocket worth of candies. A few other times they would pick the largest ice cream or largest cup of slushy and sit outside on the sidewalk, hands sticky with melted ice cream and sugar. But most of the time, his uncle would hand him the pocket change and they would go their separate ways; Wayne to the grocer and Eddie to the thrift store. Hands clutched around his money, Eddie would hurry to the thrift store and race to the massive dumpster sized box it had (which had actually just been an old dumpster repurposed to sell used books). It was always filled to the brim with old and used books, all thrown haphazardly inside the dumpster, most of them frayed, its edges curled over with age.
  Eddie would spend hours poring through it. There were times where he lost an entire day with his head buried in that dumpster. Hands rifling through the many books; searching for just the right ones; slowly pulling one out after another, stacking them on the floor by his feet, building a small tower of books until he was satisfied, he found the right ones and the money in his pocket could not stretch any further.

The day he found the manual was one of the only times, he went to the secondhand store and only left with one book. That day, he trawled through the dumpster books. There was already a small pile of three books by his feet, but then he went on to the second dumpster and almost right on top of that one, there was a book that caught his eye. The cover dark and intriguing with an illustration on top and words he did not recognize as an actual book. Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. Players Handbook. That was no ordinary book. If it was, it sounded really weird. Eddie liked weird. Always had. He stopped his search for books to read the back of it and found it wasn't a book. It was something much better. He dropped to the floor, crossed one leg over another and cracked the book open right then and there.

It only took a few minutes of leafing through the book, skimming pages and dictionary like descriptions for something that had no place in a dictionary. The book had Eddie hook, line and sinker. It build a world of unknown, infinite proportions in his mind. Endless of possibilities stretching out before him. It took him more than an hour to scrape himself off the floor and finally make his way to the register, clutching the book to his chest. It was impossible for him to stand still. He bounced on his heels. Chewed on the inside of his cheek. Tapped his fingers on the sides of the book, desperately trying not to just throw his pocket money on the counter and the woman behind the register — who tried to send him a kind smile, but who Eddie thought just looked constipated — and run out the door with the greatest of prices in his hands.
  It nearly broke Eddie's heart, when he came home, actually read the book and found out there were more books out there; different manuals he would need to fill his world up with monsters and planes and so much more. Eddie was inconsolable and laid out on the couch on his stomach, face smushed and buried into the cushion below him. It took his uncle's reasonable hand carding through his hair and his gruff voice telling him, they would go back first thing in the morning and look for those other books, as they would surely be waiting for him there too, just as the Players handbook had been. It had taken all of Eddie's non-existent self-restraint to not drag his uncle out the door and into his car right then and there. That and Wayne's half-chuckle, reminding him it was evening and the store would be long since closed now.

After a week of reading through the manual — and the two others his uncle Wayne pulled out of the dumpster while Eddie was pacing back and forth, too busy catastrophizing and thinking the worst thing possible about never finding them and never getting to play and never being happy again, now that he knew this amazing thing was just out of his reach (catastrophizing was a word his uncle had taught him and a word he was very fond of reminding Eddie about, whenever he spiraled into these kind of thoughts, making it no surprise that Eddie was less fond of it than his uncle) — he brought the books with him to band practice, nearly vibrating out of his skin and spent the whole time they were meant to be practicing rambling about the world of fantasy, role-playing and world-making. Trying to convince his band mates that yes, it would be fun to play, and no, Corroded Coffin would not suffer from the hours lost to it, he swears. Thankfully, they were all just nerdy enough to give it a try (or maybe they just wanted Eddie to shut up about it after 3 hours of listening to him go on and on) and Eddie has not looked back since.

The years have seen Eddie scribbling everywhere in the margins of the book, adding tiny notes, scrawled near imperceptibly between the lines in his crooked handwriting, desperately writing down his ideas on the nearest surface, before his train of thought vanished from his mind in a puff of smoke.

It is almost impossible to look through the book, any of Eddie's D&D manuals actually, and not see at least a few scribbled lines somewhere across the page. There are very few pages in that book that did not make Eddie's fingers itch and his brain run miles and miles, jumping from one thought to another, making him scrawl desperately on the nearest surface to get his ideas down before they evaporated at the touch of the wind.
  It is a miracle Dustin has even been able to read the book at all. But, looking at Dustin now, at his wide, eager eyes, and the way his hands lay almost reverently on the battered cover, maybe it was not the text within the book itself, he was searching for, when he first picked it up, but something of Eddie to hold on to, while Eddie himself was lost in a hospital bed.

"That old thing?" he asks, a crooked smile spreading across his face.

"It's genius!" Dustin bounces in his seat.

"Well." Maybe Eddie no longer feels excitement and the world opening wide and boundless in front of him, when he thinks of D&D and conducting, threading together an epic tale out of rolls of dice and a world brought to life from said D&D book and Eddie's endless imagination, but if pulling at just the right thread linked to Dustin's excited eyes and bright smile can make him forget the IV and heart monitor attached to Eddie and the monsters that brought them there in the first place, then he will gladly pull on the thread. No matter his own reservations and jumbled up feelings on the matter.

So, Eddie fights the lure of heavy painkillers in his system, jerks his chin at the book and asks, "Found anything good in there, then?"

That gets Dustin talking. Hands gesturing through the air, he perks up, eyes brightening and widening, an excited smile bursting to life across his face.

Relaxing back into his pillows, finally easing up on that strain in his neck, Eddie listens to Dustin talk with a gentle smile on his lips.

Eventually, he does fall asleep, carried in the embrace of heavy painkillers and the distant sound of Dustin's voice slows to a gentle lull and Eddie sleeps.

Time passes — though Eddie has no idea how long as he’s asleep for most of it and he does not ask what day it is and no one goes out of their way to tell him — with a few more visits from important looking people. People in the lab, doctors or nurses or scientists — Eddie's not exactly sure and he does not really care to know — coming to take a look on his vitals, check his bandages and the sutures that lie beneath and talk with him about how he’s feeling.

Body still heavy and tired with morphine, he slumbers, going in and out of sleep. Peripherally aware that someone is always in the room with him. His room filled with Robin, Steve and Dustin’s — who is the loudest of all them until someone shushes him — voices. Keeping him company through the heavy waters that keep pulling him under a heavy blanket of sleep.

Intermittently, he wakes up and stays awake long enough to eat some of the Jell-O and water someone has left on his bedside table. And Steve is always quick to jump forward and help him with this. Adjusting the bed and pillow so he can sit up as comfortably as possible with bandages and sutures digging into him, and removing the plastic foil on the Jell-O cup, when Eddie’s hand are too weak and shake too much to do it himself.

Sometimes, he pulls himself out of the heavy embrace of morphine and sleep, blinking his eyes open, groggily, gaze sweeping through the room for his companions, just long enough to lay eyes on them and fall back asleep with the image of them, sat by his bedside, pressed into his dark eyelids. A soft embrace to carry with him into the apathetic grasp oblivion.
  Once, he sees Steve sleeping in one of the chairs, Dustin curled up on his lab — still reading that Monster Manual — mouth open and face slack, soft snores drifting out of him.

At one point, the guard by his bedside changes and instead of opening his eyes to Steve and Robin, it’s Nancy, who’s sat in one of the chairs by his bed, head ducked in some newspaper, book or other. A few times, Eddie opens his eyes to find Nancy furiously scribbling in a notebook, a look of furious concentration on her face and her pen zapping over the page even faster than Eddie’s able to do, when he’s on a roll while writing a campaign. Other times, she’s curled up in one of the chairs, reading a book, her disposition drawn and tired, but less tense than he’s seen her yet.

Eddie’s too tired to exchange more than a few words with her. So, he lets her read out to him from the book she has with her. Which turns out to be Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. It does not demand anything from him, so he can lie there in bed, listening to her read aloud, while drifting in this half-there state, his mind and body clouded with heavy drugs and the toll of physical trauma. He thinks about asking what happened in their fight with Vecna, but the furious way she wrote in her notebook, as if it had personally wronged her, makes him think better of it. That, and the fact that he’s too scared to ask. He’s heard mention of some earthquake or other, but no one has really elaborated on that. And he’s scared to find out what that means. He could fight it. But he’s never really been a fighter. More a shield or — fittingly — a distraction.
He lets himself be scared and does not ask.

"Where did Robin and Steve go?" he asks instead, some hours and more morphine-induced snoozing later.

"They’re with the kids." She makes a scrunched up little face and tilts her head to the side. "Well, Steve’s with the kids. Robin’s with him."

It makes a small chuckle bubble forth. Which is a mistake. Eddie coughs rough and croaky. Clearing a painful scratch inside of his throat. When he comes back up, he says. "The little sheepies needed their big brother, eh?"

Nancy leans forward. Her hand closes around the cup that stands permanently on the little table beside his bed. She holds it out for him. It is not quite like when Steve has helped him in the past with it. Eddie has to reach up and angle the straw into his mouth himself. "He makes them feel safe," she says. Eyes on the cup and her voice soft. "He’s been quite the protector, these last few times. Always putting himself between them and danger."

Eddie watches her above the cup. The look in her eyes and the way she says it, speaks nothing to the True Love Shit Eddie had convinced himself was there, while they were in the Upside Down. There is something there, but it is fond and soft with age and quiet affection.

Throat and thirst quenched, Eddie sticks his tongue out, pushing the straw back out of his mouth. Nancy gives him a flick of her lips into a tiny smile, then pulls the cup away and sets it back on the bedside table. Eddie watches her do it. "Huh," he says thoughtfully. "Makes sense they’d latch onto him as safety, then."

One of her dainty, but secretly dangerous hands rises through the air and tucks her hair behind her head. She nods. Drops her hand back down and taps an indiscernible rhythm against the book in her lap. "You saw him this time. How quick he was to jump in the lake and how he still went first in line, even though he was injured."

"Yeah, I get it." And he does.

Much later, but no idea how much later, Eddie blinks his eyes open again and the room is dark. The fluorescent, sharp light from above turned off. The only light comes from a lamp that stands on the table shoved off to the side — looking like something belonging in a magazine for the suburban upper middle class family or a comedy series on TV — dimmed to a low setting. It casts a soft glow through the room, falling over everything with this faint, yellow glow, like a small, golden moon. It looks absurd in Eddie's makeshift hospital room. Surrounded by his heart monitor machine, the IV drop and the tube leading to it, and the other few medical things attached to Eddie like a poor imitation of a puppeteer, like the universe heard him playing Master of Puppets atop his trailer in the Upside Down and decided it wanted to try and play a practical joke on him. Eddie does not think it lands.

There are two other occupants in the room. Steve and Robin. They are back. Both of them knocked out and asleep; both of them in the same chair, despite the presence of a second chair.

The chair has been pulled right up next to Eddie's bed. They are both curled over. Slumped together, all limp and loose. Robin sits lowest with Steve on top of her. She's bent forward. Head against Steve's back, her cheeks and face all smushed up into him. Steve's curled even further forward. He's lying on top of Eddie's bed. Slumped and folded over. Arms folded beneath his head, turned to the side with his cheek pillowed on his arm, face squished in a way that should not be adorable but is.

Hair rustling against the pillow beneath his head, Eddie turns his head to the side, turning to look at closer at Steve. He can just barely see the loose, slack arm Robin has slung around his stomach. It rests by his hips, well away from the wounds Eddie knows lie by his waist.

It's a soft sight. It feels almost sacred. The way they are curled up together, as close as they can get, so clearly bypassing the second chair, even though it would have been more comfortable, because they wanted to sit together. Or maybe needed to.

Even with Robin plastered all along Steve's back, snoring more roughly against him than Steve himself is, Eddie cannot help but keep his eyes on Steve; he always was charismatic and magnetic; impossible to look away from. Figures he still would be, even with Robin curled up with him and with the Almost End of the World still clinging to them in the form of shadows and worry wrinkles all across their faces and bruises, spread grotesquely across their skin, just barely visible from Eddie’s angle.

For a while, Eddie looks at Steve. He almost feels as if he should not. That Steve already did so much — gave so much — for Eddie to make it through literal and metaphorical hell. Paying him back by ogling him, when he has clearly been staying by his bedside past exhaustion, feels like poor repayment.

But on the other hand, Eddie almost died and he’s been a hedonist for some time. A hard-fought one, but one nonetheless. It took fighting past that that initial teenage rebellion against the world, by the way of self-destruction and self-hate; finally realizing that the biggest form of rebellion he could do was loving himself and being unapologetically himself in a world that was always trying to make him smaller. After he fought his way past that; he was a quick proponent of hedonism, even if it took a while for him to truly let go of that ingrained response to reject any of his own desires and wants and just let himself enjoy life’s big and small pleasures. But he got there. And now that he has it, he has a hard time renouncing it again. Case in point; Steve.

Well. He’s fought his way through Hell and back again (even if Steve and the other’s did the heavy lifting in bringing him the last few steps and keeping him alive), he figures, he can allow himself to look just a little. It even feels right that Robin is right there too. Eddie has not known them long, but what little he has seen, they have barely been a foot away from each other unless they absolutely had to, and even then, they were always quick to find each other again. Like two unique magnets, only magnetized towards each other; always searching, always reaching for that other half.

It is not the first time Eddie has looked at Steve. But it is the first time, it brings a feeling of something gentle and soft to his chest. Warmth sinks into his stomach, calming and soft-edged, like lying on the warmed roof of his trailer in the summer with his Walkman playing music into his ears; like the soft, hazy touch of smoking half a joint while one of his uncle’s favorite records plays in the background, soothed by music much softer than his own.

During the events of this last week from Hell, he looked at Steve more than even Dustin. So much so he lost count of how many times, he let his eyes fall onto him. And it was not because of his looks — of which he is admittedly incredibly blessed — and his pretty hazel eyes.

But it was no more altruistic for it.

In those days in the boatshed, whenever Dustin came tumbling in through the door with Steve, Robin and Max on his heels, Eddie looked at Steve for reassurance so often, so naturally.
Looking at him just brought a stability back to the center off the earth, like casting an anchor in the middle of a storm. Steve had a certain kind of steady strength and stability to him; it oozed from him, and Eddie could latch onto it and hold himself steady. It was like an anchor in a storm that was trying to tear him apart; a lifeboat in an ocean trying to drown him.

Through it all, Steve was there. With that grim expression on his face, that reassuring nod, that steady strength in his eyes and Eddie was helpless but seek it, when the world beneath his feet was shaking apart and cracked open like it was trying to swallow him up.
  And also because, whenever Eddie was getting lost in monsters, gates to interdimensional worlds and an all-powerful, telepathic wizard from one of those dimensions, seeing Steve Harrington stand there and casually say the words "girl with superpowers" was a shock to the system that jerked Eddie out of his spiral so effectively, Eddie made it his new fool-proof technique to stopping himself from spiraling and he made use of Steve for this exact purpose a lot in those days.

The looks he throws at him now is so different.

The light of the lamp placed on top of the table casts a gentle glow on him. Edges soft, Steve looks softer still.

Eddie does not know what to make of this Steve.

He is so different from everything Eddie ever expected of him. King Steve may not have walked the halls of Hawkins High since '83, but his ghost continues to haunt the place; guys imitate him, trying to build a crown out of the dust he left behind himself, when he threw down his own; girls meet their hook-ups and boyfriends in the make out spots that still carry Steve Harrington's name like an honor badge, as if they're still chasing that light Steve cast around him, everywhere he went, even though his light has long since softened and turned to cast light elsewhere.

Eddie may not have known Steve personally then. But he's known guys like King Steve since he first stepped foot in school.

They may have had different names and different ways of batting him around, but in the end, they are all the same. Eddie can't count the number of times someone threw gum at him, or threw him around and slammed him into school lockers, tried to trip him up so they could grab him by the hair and pull him into the toilet stalls, where a toilet swirlie was waiting with his name on it (although Eddie was far too scrappy to end up with his head in the bowl more than twice).
  In freshman year, Eddie was particularly tired of the same old trick of gum in the hair, Eddie just took the gum with its teeth marks and spit slick surface and popped it in his mouth, just to see the horrified expression it brought to the offenders face, when he turned to look at them and threw them a wink. He kept doing it and before long, they stopped throwing gum at him.

Which was also around the same time, Eddie realized the bullies who previously tossed him around or tossed slurs and ugly words his way, as if they were in a sports game and Eddie their ball, were skirting around him with sneers and disgust twisting their expressions, but not their tongues or fists.

It clued Eddie into the endgame of their little dance.

A few faces twisted in disgust and people skirting around him in disgust and Eddie realized he could bite back in a way that would remove him from the game entirely. He'd be an entity. An observer. A DM watching the board, but never stepping onto it.

So, he learned that if he weirded people out enough; if he branded himself 'freak' instead of 'fag' then people would veer around him in a large circle, instead of trying to beat the faggot and dirt of the trailer park out of him.

With this knowledge fresh in mind, Eddie grabbed a hold of these parts of himself that would turn people's heads away from him and he stitched them into a cloak for himself. Made a Freak out of parts of his soul, like the patchwork of his battle vest, he had just started to work on. Pulled at the parts of himself society deemed unsavory and forced them into the light.

By the time, Steve secured his crown and became King — very early in his freshman year — Eddie had in return settled well into the role of Freak. The moniker hung around him like a shield, making himself someone bullies avoided rather than targeted. Freak hung around him like a moat people had to cross to get near him and it worked.

Someone like Steve, who used words — rather than toilet water and fists — to rule the court, stayed clear of Eddie. Whenever they crossed paths, he looked towards him with barely even half of the disdain as the others did, but was careful never to step close enough for Eddie to sink his teeth into and make a spectacle of the King's foolish attempt at making a fool of the Freak.

Through the four years they walked the same hallways, their paths barely crossed. Sure, they had caught sight of each other and neither could go far without hearing the name and title of the other. Such was the life of Fool and King; you could not have one without the other. There was no King without a Fool to fill his court and there was no Fool without a King to mock.

Steve may have steered clear of Eddie, since he first began to climb the ranks of high school as a freshman, but that did not mean Eddie didn't know of him. He did. Another jock that mindlessly followed the masses. Slipping into the roles society presented as admirable and desirable. Just another brain dead sack of meat that couldn't think for himself and never sought to challenge the ideas society presented him with.

It meant instead of hating Steve, Eddie just disliked him. Hated everything he stood for and the things he perpetuated and enforced in his starring role of King of Hawkins High, yes. But Steve himself? No. Eddie never hated him. Mocked him and dragged his name through the mud with his friends, when they got high and complained about High School? Sure. Disliked him and sneered at him, if their gazes crossed paths with all of his teeth bared, just in case the King should get any ideas? Absolutely. Who do you think Eddie is?

But Steve was always someone to hate in principle, not in person.

So, when Steve Harrington's name started popping up over the table at Hellfire, he thought it was a fluke or a joke.

He took these new kids under his wings and gave them a safe place, where they could grow into themselves, without threat of getting the light in their eyes snuffed out by the cruelty of high school bullies, and then they turned up with Steve's names on their tongue, but instead of the horror stories Eddie expected to follow Steve's name with kids like them, they brought stories of a good guy worthy of kidlike worship; the kind given to older brothers and heroes. That he hated. And stubbornly refused to believe.

He clung to the shadow of King Steve as he had known him. Held it up as a shield against Dustin's words and let himself disregard the look in Dustin's eyes and the familial love in his words with rolled eyes and thinly veiled sneers directed at Gareth and the others above the kids' heads.

And he kept holding it up. Kept holding onto the shadow of Steve's past. Even after he came to pull him up off the dirty floor of Reefer Rick's boatshed with understanding and sympathy cupped in his hands, as if they were a gift to be given, not a weapon; even after Eddie started looking at Steve for that stability and steadiness inside of his eyes, whenever Dustin or Robin went off on a small tangent about the Upside Down in the following days; he kept a hold of it.

King Steve was familiar. King Steve was distant. King Steve was safe. A different safety than the steady strength Eddie found in Steve's eyes against the Upside Down, but safe nonetheless.

It was when Jason came looking for him that the image of King Steve Eddie kept a hold off crumbled to dust in his hands and coated his skin in ash.

Here was someone so lost in hierarchies of high school and in his beliefs of people he did not even know; in fear and prejudice; in pride and self-righteousness that he would hunt Eddie down in the name of it and call it justice.

After Jason had chased him out of hiding, forced him to run out into the night, soaking wet, shaking and trembling with a heart that was trying to slam its way out of his ribs and hands that would not stop shaking; how could Eddie look at Steve and claim he saw the same in him as he did in Jason? How could he abhor the Kings and Queens of Hawkins High for the boxes they put other people into, when he kept doing the same to Steve, when he had, time and time again, shown himself to be a completely different man to the King he had once been?

He couldn’t.

When Steve fell out of the bushes, yapping at Dustin, Eddie felt only a great sweeping wave of relief and could finally look at Steve for the first time without trying to see the King in his shadow.

Eddie followed Steve and Dustin through the woods and tried not to stare at the former every few steps. Which was really difficult when he looked so soft and pretty in that yellow sweater. With the ghost of King Steve Past left behind in that boatshed, it was as if a barrier Eddie had kept up in the space between them was gone and with it, his eyes were drawn to him more than ever.
  Eventually, Eddie just gave up and put himself in the front, just behind Dustin, firmly fixing his eyes ahead, which turned out to be a good thing so he could yank the kid back, before he ran right into Lovers Lake in his excitement.

It also meant that later, once Lovers Lake had swallowed everyone else, Eddie dove into the water after Steve without a single thought to the man he had once been.

Without the ghost of the King in Eddie's hands, Eddie could admit to himself Dustin had been right about him all along; Steve was a good guy, a guy worth diving into Hell for, a badass, and a guy, who looked way too fucking hot biting a bat's head off and ripping it in two with his bare hands, holy shit.

Dustin had tried to tell him. (About the rest of it. Not the thing about the bat. No, that was an addendum added solely by Eddie). Of course, he had. But all Eddie had seen was this freshman with Steve's name on his tongue and stars in his eyes and absolutely no reason for why it was there. It meant Dustin received more than his fair share of scowls. And that Eddie was left wondering what cosmic joke the universe was trying to play on him now. And just when the shoe would drop and he would have to pick Dustin’s broken heart up off the ground, when the King got tired of playing babysitter with a bunch of nerds.
  He tried to prepare him for that inevitability. Whenever Dustin brought Steve's name up — for some reason always needing to wonder what Steve would do when faced with D&D monsters and determined to voice it — Eddie told Dustin, “Steve Harrington, you sure you got the right guy?” Or “Are you sure, he wouldn't just shove their heads into the toilet like every other unimaginative bully that ever lived,” or “Harrington? Yeah, right, I'll believe it when I see it.” With a lot of rolled eyes and derisive snorts. Which he tried not to direct at Dustin.
  He did not want to tear the little guy's world down completely. It was just this involuntary reflex that happened, whenever Steve's name was brought up in good faith. He just didn't want Dustin to see something that wasn't there. Just wanted to gently try and get him to see Steve might not be what he thought he was, so he would not end up burning himself on the glare of the King’s crown. Because that was what Hellfire was for. Keeping each other safe from the sharp edges of High School hallways and the sharp teeth of bullies’ jaws.

So, Dustin had tried to tell him. Eddie had had plenty of warning about the Steve Harrington that was walking around Hawkins nowadays. But he had not listened. Had not believed. And in consequence, he had been wholly unprepared.

The Upside Down, Vecna and Jason fucking Carver had kept Eddie plenty busy, so he hadn't really had time to sit with it.

But now he did.

And he did not know what to do with it.

This new Steve. So different to the King, Eddie had known in school.

This soft, gentle person. The one before him now and the one who's been right beside him, with a steady gaze and outstretched hand, making sure Eddie was still standing in the midst of the Apocalypse and Hell trying to break out of its gates with a super wizard as its patron.

It was easy; to steal stability and steadiness from Steve in the boatshed, but not let him get any closer. Easy to take those things from his steady eyes and his grim smile, while white knuckling the image of King Steve as a shield between them.

The memory of King Steve in his glory days is safe. If Steve cannot get any closer, he's safe.

So, Eddie sought stability and a safer ground in the look in his eyes and his understanding nods, as everything around him was shaking apart, all the while he steadfast told himself he still did not believe all the good things Dustin had ever told him about Steve Harrington.

If Steve Harrington was still just as much of an asshole as he had ever been, then Eddie never had any reason to get any closer and find out just why he was so terrified of looking at Steve without the shadow of the King between them.

Looking at Steve now. Soft and gentle in the dim light of the lamp by the side of his bed, Eddie feels oddly bereft without the image of King Steve between them. Eddie's known how to deal with bullies and the royalty of Hawkins High for years.

This, he has no rulebook for.

Eddie sighs. Low and quiet.

Reaching out with a careful hand, he touches a finger to Steve's arm laying on top of his bed, grazing the tip of his finger over his sweater. "Why are you here, Steve?" he whispers. Eyes roaming over his face, he searches for an answer in the dark circles clinging to the skin under his eyes and the bruises peeking out by his throat above the collar of his sweater. "Why have you stayed?" He could direct the words to Robin too, but her presence is not as earth shattering as Steve’s. And he has a feeling Eddie is only half of the reason she’s here.

He does not get an answer and falls asleep soon after, still searching for answers in the quiet, calm sound of Steve's breathing and Robin's snores.

When he claws his way to consciousness next and awareness floods back into his body once more —chasing away the heavy weight clinging to his bones, like a tidal wave of sensation rushing back over him — a murky grogginess coats the corners of his mind, making his thoughts fuzzy and sluggish. It leaves him with the feeling that he has been asleep for the longest time yet.

He blinks his way to wakefulness and finds Steve and Robin awake and absorbed in their own conversation, unaware of him.

It is the first time he sees them after Nancy took their place, so he says, “And here I thought you had signed me off to someone else the first chance you got,” every word croaks trough his rough morning voice, tinged with sleep.

Robin and Steve’s conversation come to an abrupt stop. Their heads jerk his way. Mouths snapping shut, words cutting off half-finished.

Steve hardly seems thrown by his comment. “Morning, Eddie.”

“Hey, there.” Robin wiggles a hand at him. Smiling at him through dark circles under her eyes and a tired disposition. Not that Steve is any better. He is decidedly not. The night — or what Eddie assumes has been night — has done nothing, if not worsened, the bruise-like shadows under his eyes and the drawn, pale color of his skin. The bruises spattered across both of them also seem to have multiplied. Or maybe they have just grown deeper and darker in their color. Or perhaps, Eddie was just so out of it and not awake long enough the other times to truly take in the impressive spread of color splashed all over them (or it would be impressive, if Eddie was not highly aware of the hurts lingering underneath them and what put them there in the first place).
  In the light of day — or well, the light of right now, because Eddie does not actually know what the time is or even if it is day or night, there are no windows in the room he is in, no clocks either, just the fluorescent, bright light from above that blares down at them with the kind of aloof cruelty only found in buildings of some kind of gravitas and importance — their bruises look truly atrocious and grotesque. The ring around Steve’s throat seems particularly gruesome. The purple wrapped around his throat is so dark it looks nearly black. It would look almost painted on — fake and unreal — if not for the lesser bruises of blue lying around the purple, like a perimeter.

Sickened by the hurts stretching across their skin like a particularly gruesome canvas, Eddie tears his eyes away from them.

“How’re you feeling?” Robin asks, leaning forward with concern in her eyes.

Eddie rubs a hand over his face, scrubbing at his skin with as much vigor as he can with his hand still ceased by the IV. “Eh.” He shrugs one shoulder up and down. Tension pulls at him. It whips through his back and chest. Jolting tight and taut. Like the bandages wrapped around his chest and stomach all pulled taut, unforgiving in the shade of his movement. It’s not painful, Eddie assumes there are too many high quality painkillers in his system for that, but it is still uncomfortable and he grimaces into his hand. After another quick scrub over his face, he drops his hand back down. “Any chance I can sit up anytime soon?” Up until this point, he has only been sat upright long enough to wash down cups of Jell-O and the occasional glass of water that he refused to drink lying down, despite the straw so helpfully supplied and sticking out of it. The doctors also had Eddie pee in a bedpan. At the time, Eddie was too weak and tired to protest, but every time he wakes up, he feels more invigorated and he swears he will be old and grey, before he sees that bedpan again.

“Why? Are you in pain?” Robin immediately straightens up. A jolt goes through her body and she shoots forward, all the way to the edge of her seat. Hands braced on either side of her, fingers clamped around the armrests, ready to catapult herself out of the chair should Eddie’s answer be dissatisfactory.

“No. Worry not, brave lady-knight.” He holds a hand up. Palm open and out, halting her before she can pick up any more steam and call down a horde of doctors or what other kinds of government creatures they’ve got hiding away in here. “I don’t feel a thing.” Appeased by his words, Robin settles back down against the backrest, sagging back into it, following the movement of his hand, as he slowly lowers it and lays it back down on the bed; as if the two were connected for a moment, a puppet pulled by its strings, guided by Eddie’s placating hand. A concerned furrow remains between her brows, pulling and tugging her eyebrows down over her eyes, so Eddie sends her a lopsided smile. “I’m just a little tired of lying down like this and straining my neck, whenever I wanna talk to you.”

“Probably not.” Steve makes a face. “But we can maybe make it a little more comfortable.” He rises to his feet and steps up alongside Eddie’s bed, reaching for his pillow. As careful and gently as he can, he begins fluffing and puffing the pillow underneath Eddie’s head.

Eddie would like to repeat. Steve Harrington has stepped up to his bed to fluff Eddie’s pillow to try and make him more comfortable.

As he works carefully around Eddie’s head, Robin leans forward, grabs a remote that hangs off the side of his bed and fiddles with it. A button flicks on with a click. The bed beneath Eddie whirs and wheezes. A jolt shoots through the bed, jostling Eddie. Steve immediate shoots a hand out and lays it on Eddie’s arm, steadying him, even though Eddie hardly did more than breathe differently. Something pushes at the mattress underneath him, pushing up against him and Eddie lies completely still as the top most part of the bed rises. The bed continues to move and Steve’s hand stays steadying him through it, even though it is hardly a rollercoaster.

Robin does not let the bed rise for long. Eddie’s upper body has hardly come higher than 15 degrees, when the whole bed gives another jolt and stills. With it goes the whirring sound of a machine at work. She leaves the remote hooked onto the side of his bed.

Steve puffs his pillow one last time. Less like he did before and more in a maneuvering movement, adjusting it to Eddie’s new position even though he has only come high enough to not feel like he has to strain his neck to look at them. “Better?” he asks, keeping his arm hooked on top of the mattress. Eyes warm and soft as he looks down at him.

Eddie nods. All words still lost to the fact that he unprompted and unasked, took it upon himself to fluff Eddie’s pillow. What a world we live in. One where a mirrored, Hell-version of Hawkins lies underneath their feet; where monsters from that alternate dimension are able to punch through to the Rightside Up and has done so several times before; where Hawkins has its own experienced monster hunters, protecting it and keeping it safe time and time again, when these monsters come calling; where Superpowered Wizards haunt traumatized, depressed teens to rip portals into the fabric of their two dimension in an attempt to take over the world; and where Steve Harrington, a former High School King would care enough about social outcasts like Eddie Munson and fluff his pillow without ever being asked to. Apparently.

Steve sits back down in the chair he came from. Both him and Robin pull their chairs closer, apparently discontent to sit farther away from him now that he is awake. Legs scooting across the floor with loud, trumpeting honk honk’s that slam into Eddie’s ears with a force like the all-encompassing pressure that swoops through your head, when you dive under water.

He throws them a grin — easier now with that extra little bit of elevation to his head — and flicks one of his eyebrows. “So, were you two just the ones to draw the short straw or does no one else want to see their favorite DM hooked up on morphine?”

“You really believe we wouldn’t have started another bloodshed, if we’d given the others a chance to come see you?” Robin snorts. The sound truly magnificent and ugly. Eddie immediately loves it. “No, the lab is asking us to keep a low profile and keep as few visitors going back and forth as possible,” she explains.

“I ask again, was there a short straw?”

“Why? You trying to get rid of us, Munson?” asks Steve.

Eddie lifts his hand in an imitation of a shrug. “You don’t really need to be here.” Moving through the shrug, he gestures out at the barren, lifeless room around them that is housing Eddie through his hospital-but-in-a-lab stay. “I’m just lying here, snoozing my battle wounds away.” He looks back at them. Hand falling back down on top of his blanket-covered bed and throws them another look, head cocking slightly to the side against his pillow. “Besides, don’t you have more important things you should be doing?” He waves a hand at them, circling the air around them. Movement casual and loose, almost nonchalant. “I don’t know what, but whatever you guys do after fighting off another Apocalypse. I’m sure there’s a checklist somewhere in Miss Nancy’s gun-shoe-box.”

“There really isn’t.”

Eddie points a finger at her. Brows crooked and smile lopsided. “But it would be in her gun-shoe-box, wouldn’t it?”

Robin shakes her head. Hair shaking back and forth on top of her shoulders, grazing by them. Lips pressed together, bravely stopping the smile pulling at them in its tracks.

Steve, in complete opposition, snorts. Head jerking up and down in a bop with the noise. “What makes you think she doesn’t keep it in her purse?”

“You’re right. It would be at hand at all times. Better be prepared for anything.”

“If she has one, I haven’t seen it yet.” Steve shakes his head back and forth. A humored smile on his lips. “Believe it or not, there isn’t a lot for us to do, once it’s all over.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“Well, there’s not really all that much to do once the monsters are gone.” Steve pulls one of his shoulders up in a half-shrug. “The government always swoops in and takes over ‘clean-up’.” He lifts his hands and makes quotes around that last word. Expression twisted into disbelief and distaste, telling Eddie exactly what Steve thinks about that.

“Well, if you’re not busy going through Nancy’s thirty-eight point bullet list, pray tell, why aren’t you out there with the rest of Hawkins’ protectors, breathing in all that hard-earned fresh air?”

“We didn’t want you to be alone,” he says it so simply, so easy and natural, like it takes nothing from him, to send those words out into the world. When they slam into Eddie with all the force of a sucker punch. Reaching for his chest and wrapping up tight.

Eddie tries to speak through the lump those words bring to his throat. “I mean, it’s okay. You don’t have to be here. Not all the time.”

“We want to,” says Robin.

“You’re injured and bruised too.” Eddie cannot help but throw a quick glance at Steve’s waist. A quick darting glance. Barely there and gone again. He makes sure to look at Robin, as he adds, “You should rest somewhere better than those chairs.” And then he remembers his trump card. “Or be with the kids. I’m sure they need you for longer than a single day.”

A heavy, heaving sigh blows from Steve. He rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. Arms crossed in front of him and says, “Will you stop trying to sacrifice yourself and just accept that we’re not going to leave you to do this on your own?”

That shuts Eddie up.

The others did want to come see him, but they are busy staying with Max — making sure she’s okay and help her through that impossible hurdle of the first few days after a debilitating injury — and also preparing the cabin for guests after it’s been unoccupied since last Summer and left to the mercy of the forest for just as long. At least, that is what Robin tells him, when he later jokingly asks about his Hellfire disciples and why they aren’t standing vigil by his deathbed. A phrase that gains him a smack on the head by Steve. Which makes Eddie clutch dramatically at the offended site. “Watch it! I’m not a hardheaded jock like your old teammates!” Steve is still leant forward on the edge of his chair, so he is conveniently within roughhousing distance. Something Eddie is very aware off, now that he has been reminded just how much of a jock Steve is. But Steve just rolls his eyes and huffs loudly. Probably because he’s worried Eddie will fall apart, if he hits him again.

That incident does tell him that Steve considers them on roughhousing friendship basis. Eddie would crack another joke at Steve’s expense about it, but he knows roughhousing is jocks’ love language, so he is honestly a little touched. Even though he’s trying very hard not to be.

The next time Eddie wakes up after yet another nap, he wakes up to the sharp-edged claws of the last vestiges of a dying nightmare; and to the distant sound of music.

He emerges from the murky, heavy waters of sleep, slow and groggy, his heart a pounding heartbeat in his ears and his blood rushing through his veins with the absolute certainty that he just managed to escape something horrible, though he has no memory of what. Heavy darkness clings to him like mud. It washes over him in wave after wave, trying to drag him back under, dragging him below surface like clinging to a raft at sea, constantly getting batted about by crashing waves and struggling to stay afloat; barely kept at bay by the fear slowly receding the more he lies aware and awake.

What washes the last grains of sleep away and clears his mind enough to crawl all the way back to consciousness is the soft sound of music. Drifting towards him out of the dark, bringing with it light and the rush of awareness flooding back into his limbs.

Poppy sounds and harmonizing preppy vocals call to him. The music distant and low, just enough to wash over Eddie like the babbling of a gentle brook. A radio somewhere nearby is playing music. The song playing is unmistakably ABBA. A band Eddie definitely does not listen to normally to recognize. It drifts into his ears, tugging at the heavy waves lapping at him, holding them at bay, like two forces pulling each other back and forth. It soothes the sharp spikes of his heartbeat until that too settles. Nightmare forgotten and abandoned in the wake of its touch.

Drifting in the arms of the music is a voice Eddie does recognize though.

He blinks his eyes open and peeks out at Steve sat in the chair off to the side. A more peaceful expression on his face, than Eddie has seen him wear since—, well, since he pushed him into a wall and held a broken bottle to his throat.

One of his feet bops up and down, his legs crossed by the knees, a newspaper spread out before him. Steve sings softly along to the radio. Voice soft and quiet in the room, falling and rising with the rhythm of the music filling Eddie's hospital room with a gentle beat. Eyes on the newspaper, but his gaze distant, barely focusing on the pages before him. Robin’s sat in the chair beside him. Head buried in another book, seemingly content to sit in the comforting presence of Steve’s singing and the words before her.

Unable to help himself, he cracks a smile at the scene before him. Lips twitching up in a small, soft smile.

There is something about Steve. Something about the peace and softness settled comfortably around Steve's shoulder that chases away any teasing remarks and comments, before they can even rise up through Eddie's throat. And instead, he simply watches him a little.

Warmth inches its way underneath Eddie's skin and settles inside of his chest, where it curls up like a comforting weight.

A perpetual itching, crawling, claw-like feeling — that have made a home of his chest ever since that very first moment, when Chrissy would not respond to him and only grown since then — fades at its touch. Ants that have buried their way under Eddie's skin, crawling and clawing at him, rippling through his skin, ever since he ran from his trailer with the image of a broken girl burned into his eyes, suddenly just disappears. Vanishing at the touch of Steve's gentle, soothing voice, when nothing else have been enough to chase them away.

Before he can be spotted, Eddie closes his eyes again. Smile tickling away into nothing as he forces his breathing to be soft and lulling once more.

Eddie keeps his eyes closed and just lies there, listening to Steve singing softly along to the music, newspaper crinkling and rustling occasionally with the turn of a page — and Robin’s smaller, softer rustling paper of her book — until the heavy darkness washes over him again. This time it is carrying Steve's voice in its grasp as well, and Eddie fades away, cradled in Steve's voice until that too fades.

The third day of his hospital-but-in-a-lab stay, he is able to stay up for longer and spends much less time sleeping (although he still drifts off once or twice). He spends his newly re-won time conscious catching up with whoever sits by his bedside.

For a while, it’s just Robin and Steve. But one time, his eyes pop open to find Dustin at his bedside once more and Nancy, who is, once more, occupying the other chair. A book in front of her, held aloft in her elegant hands curled around the soft paperback cover. Curly hair messy and frizzy atop her head, kept out of her face with a big, claw-looking clip; as if she has not had the time to do more than pull a brush through it — and Eddie knows the look of curls after being treated to their mortal enemy, so he recognizes the walking crime sitting right before him, even if hers is clearly a perm — and leave it at that. Eddie figures it is safe to assume hair care is low on her list of priorities in the wake of the Apocalypse.

Steve and Robin are gone. There is just her and Dustin.

When Dustin realizes he has joined the land of living once more, he jumps forward, eyes wide and mouth spilled in a wide grin. He immediately launches into an excited babble about all the work they are putting into the cabin to make it inhabitable again and even shows him the cracked nail he has on one of his fingers from mishandling a hammer. Apparently, Dustin ability to find trouble does not stick to D&D and monster hunting. Unsurprising considering his babysitter has been busy with Eddie. There is even a big fat Band-Aid around it. Of the Garfield variety.

“You better put that away before Steve sees it and tries to blame it on me,” he says with a wide grin, jerking his chin towards the offending nail.

“He wouldn’t.” Dustin drops his hand. “Not now that he’s finally met you. Besides, he’s already seen it.”

“And given it plenty kisses, I hope?” Eddie quirks his eyebrows at him. Grin broad and well within shit-eating boarders.

“No,” he says petulant, pouting slightly. A moment passes. “He was the one to put the Band-Aid on,” he finally mumbles, head lowered and feet toeing the ground.

Eddie snorts. “There’s the Steve you’ve told me so much about.” He is very happy to hear it though. The thought of Steve painstakingly wrapping a Band-Aid around Dustin’s finger — tongue between his teeth in concentration and his brow furrowed in the same — carefully wrapping the Band-Aid around the offending site, making sure it is all safe and sound, is a very welcoming one. It bubbles bright and joyful inside of Eddie’s chest.

Eddie throws a glance around the room that is more for show. “Speaking of,” he says. “Where is that harried babysitter of yours? I was almost starting to think him and Robin were glued to those chairs.”

“Max needed him. So, I came with Nancy to keep you company.”

“Ah. How’s she doing?” he asks and Dustin proceeds to spend some time telling him about Max adjusting to her blindness. Nancy adds a few comments here and there. Mostly stuff about the prospects of the duration of her time spent in casts and what the doctors had to say about her eyes (mainly, that they had never seen the likes of it before).

“I haven’t actually heard what really happened, you know,” Eddie says, when there a moment of quiet between them. “With Vecna.” He swallows. Glances between the two of them, focusing mostly on Nancy. “Just how I ended up here and Max’s injuries.”

Nancy puts her books away.

This is when Eddie is finally told the entirety of what happened that night, instead of just the Hall of fame of survivors Steve and Robin originally told him about.

He does not really like asking it while Dustin is right there. But there is not much he can do about it now, besides, he knows, Nancy knows he directed it mostly at her.

So, the two of them tell him about the fight. What they won, what they lost.

It feels like a never-ending nightmare of what-if's and could-have-been's in the worst way possible. Through their scattered retelling, Eddie almost does not breathe. Chest tight, breath slowly squeezing out of his lungs, as if caught in a tight, unforgiving grip, slowly squeezing all of the life out of him.

Nancy tells most of it. Through it all, she remains calm and collected, almost telling him each detail with a cool, almost cold exterior. Reciting facts with a mask of stone over her face. Eddie can imagine how she would look and sound the same, working at the newspaper of Hawkins High, recounting bad news and clinically picking just the right words to spread the word through Hawkins.

When she goes over the group that went to the old Creel house and everything that happened there; of Max and of the end; it is like the pop of a balloon. Tightness that has been wrapped around Eddie’s lungs, since the tale started deflates with a pop. And finally, he is able to breathe again. But when air rushes back into his lungs and he finally feels as if he can breathe again, he is not sure it feels like a victory or just a standstill. Like sitting atop the high of a rollercoaster, right before the drop, never knowing when it will start moving again.

Nancy is also the one, who finally manages to tell him about the earthquake that shook through Hawkins; how Vecna nearly broke out; how he tore the streets apart in his attempt at returning to this side of the two dimensions; how he may be gone for now, but he left a lasting impact on Hawkins, worse than ever before (though, not as bad as it could have been, adds Nancy in a clipped addendum, about the glimpse of Hawkins, Vecna overwhelmed her mind in).

Apparently, El, the superpower girl, superpowered once more, reached through thousands of miles to help them.

And still, it was nearly not enough and Vecna almost won.

He almost won.

It is not surprising to hear, he’s been expecting it ever since he woke up to Steve and Robin’s shared, secret glances and grim half-truths. But it still drops the floor out from underneath him.

She tells him about all of it. How Vecna, like the mighty hand of a god, broke through the two worlds and reached for Hawkins. With Max fading, the gates were shaking, their borders burning away and Vecna's power shook through Hawkins, slowly tearing it apart. But then, El fought him back; took his presence that was threatening to burst through and fall over Hawkins like a tsunami and shoved him right back; placed her hand over Max's faltering heart and pulled her back to life. With the connection between Max and Vecna snapped, his power was ripped from Hawkins.
 The snap was not without waves though. The final blow sent a concussive wave through Hawkins. An earthquake that left the earth shaking and trembling, leaving the town in shambles.

That is what they tell him.

"Was it worth it?" Eddie asks her at last, meeting Nancy's sharp, unwavering gaze.

Gaze sharpening, as if searing though him, she says, "Even if only one of us is left standing, even if no one is; stopping Vecna will always be worth it."

And Eddie clings to the promise of her words like a dying man clings to a raft.

In the morning of the fourth day of his hospital-but-in-a-lab stay, Eddie gets to dress in his own clothes. Up until now, he has only been allowed to wear the hospital gown — that does absolutely nothing for his complexion or image, if Eddie might add — and has been hooked up to machines and IV’s. Although, they did remove the heart monitor and everything but the IV yesterday, while Nancy was still at his bedside.

A plastic bag leans up against the leg of one of the chairs, pulled out from the pocket dimension beneath his bed and shown to him by Robin, back when she elaborated on the tale of Dustin dragging Steve on a heist to his trailer, coming out with a bag of clothes and a Dustin-sized armful of his stuff.
  It has been taunting Eddie ever since he learnt of it. Just sitting there, within sight but not reach, mocking him with its presence and impossible clothes waiting for him within. Eddie’s had a few staring contests with it and made a few faces at it, especially back when Robin had just dumped it on top of his bed, letting it sit by his feet, before Steve — sighing like a harried, put-upon mother — put it away and placed it on the ground up against one of the guest chairs legs. Eddie is absolutely convinced the bag made faces right back at him. It also won one of the contests, the bastard, as if lording the awful Hospital gown over his head was not enough. No, Eddie had to wear the very itchy and very uncomfortable hospital gown — no matter how much he whined and complained — and he had to be bullied by a plastic bag. Unbelievable.

But that is all over today.

Shortly after he wakes up the fourth day, a nurse or doctor — honestly Eddie’s been here for four days and he still has no idea what or who the staff flitting around him is — took the IV out of his hand and clears him to wash up, freeing him to get dressed in his own clothes. Finally. Before the nurse—, doctor—, very nice person has even left the room, Eddie ceases the bag with a victorious crow and hightails it to the bathroom pointed out for him, hobbling and running on ungraceful and shaky legs past the nurse, who jumps aside to clear the way for him, watching him hightail it out the room with worried eyes and a pinched upon expression, as if she has to bite warnings and ‘be careful’ remarks back, struggling not to offer him a heling hand.

After he washes up in the sink — because he still has to be mindful of his stiches and not soak them too much — he finds a pair of clean black jeans, a soft cotton band tee with their logo splashed across the front and his leather jacket in the plastic bag. The latter worse for wear and riddled with a few tears, but still there.

He holds the armful of folded clothes up before him and smacks a loud, generous kiss to the fabric. “Mwuah!” he adds for good measure.

When he is finally fully dressed and shucks on his leather jacket, he tells it, “Oh, darling, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you. It’s been dreadful without you. Just dreadful,” voice heavy with his uncle’s southern drawl. In the silence that follows, he imagines the shrill complains about being forgotten and abandoned he gets in return and what was that about the last time they saw each other with those dreadful bats and strange, red skies and he better not ever treat her that way again. Smiling all the while. “Oh, hush, darling, there’s no need for foul language, you’re no babygirl after all,” he says, tilting his head to the side and crooking his eyebrows, pulling and tugging at the jacket’s open front, shrugging it into place. The words would make little sense to anyone else, which makes him all the more happier to say them.

Darling is the name he has given his leather jacket. He loves to give his beloved possessions names. Much to other people’s confusion and his uncle’s entertainment. Darling is also not the only one with a given name. Far from. His guitar is Sweetheart, his van Babygirl, his leather jacket Darling and his battle vest Doll, and they get named in and out of company. It would be rude not to address them by their names, after all. Which means, if someone spends enough time around him, they will hear him address those items thusly.
 Babygirl is the loudest, most foul-mouthed of them all, especially when she is in a bad mood and she is always in a bad mood, no matter what, which he finds rather pertinent to remind Darling of, the way she’s currently going. “You know I didn’t mean any of it,” he tuts at her. A pointed silence follows that where he hears the vexed huff Darling makes and he clucks his tongue at it.

Fully dressed — and fully finished entertaining himself with talking to Darling — he goes back to his hospital room, where Nancy, Robin and Steve, are all waiting for him. Robin, sat on his bed, holds out a plastic cup for him, as he goes to sit down next to her.

Crooking an eyebrow at her, Eddie plucks it from her grasp and looks into it.

Small, heavy silver metal rattles around inside of it, bouncing all over from the movement.

It is his rings. Freshly unearthed from wherever they have been, since he woke up the first day with his fingers bare and naked without them. All also freshly cleaned and rubbed shiny again. Free of all the dirt and muck of the Upside Down and his own blood.

"We managed to save them, before the doctors came to swoop you away," she tells him.

Still staring down at his rings, he blinks tears out of his eyes. Tears that seem oddly placed here, for just a bunch of rings and goes to put them on.

Sliding them onto his fingers feels like coming home. Even if he is still missing his battle vest. Which is presumed dead. Killed in action. RIP. Although, come to think of it, Steve had changed out of it after their trip to the War Zone and he remained a walking advertisement for the army, not Dio, ever since. So, his vest had not been dragged back into the Upside Down, when the rest of them were. Not killed in action, then. Missing in action. Either way, Eddie's shoulders and back remain free of the familiar weight of worked denim.
 Back in his own clothes, he feels almost bereft without it and the usual flashes of color that linger in his periphery and catch his eyes occasionally from the many patches sewn onto the vest. But there is nothing he can do about that feeling now.
Rings reclaimed, he drops the empty plastic cup off to the side, leaving it to litter the bed. Eyes fixed on the silver glinting from hands, he rubs at his rings, clinging to the familiarity of them back around his fingers, instead of the absence of his vest that lingers around him.

Shortly after he's fully dressed and ring-clad, a woman in a crisp suit and black hair in a short chop, steps into his room. Everything about her screams professional and carefully put-together, from her pressed together and carefully tailored suit, to the expensive watch on her wrist and the business briefcase, dangling from her hand. She is also the reason Nancy offered to be there.

"Mr. Munson. Good to see you up and about," she says, voice just as sharp and no-nonsense as her outfit. "I'm Agent Ellen Stinton, I'm here to discuss the final details of your release with you." She gives a quick, sharp nod at Nancy, Steve and Robin.

Nancy pulls out her own notebook. Clicks her pen and holds it poised above, her eyes raised and stuck to Agent Stinton as intensely as she had looked, when she had pushed them to strike at Vecna, before he could them. Gaze sharp and intense, her mouth set in a firm line.

Figuring this is going to take some time and still quite tired and exhausted from his many wounds and the drugs still moving through his system, Eddie shifts. He lifts his legs up onto the bed and scoots back, leaning up against the head of the bed, which remains raised and elevated, perfect for a laid back, seated position from earlier today, when he first woke up and raised the bed up.

All sharp lines and angles, Stinton pulls forth her black briefcase and sets it on the foot of his bed. Quick flicks of her fingers opens the clasps keeping it locked tight and the lid springs open. She reaches into it. Papers rustle and shift against each other as she holds them up before her, stacking them together in her hands. She glances at their content. Barely scanning the black lines Eddie can only see the shadow off through the paper.

Then she begins. Tone and voice no-nonsense, her words quick and fast. She talks about the murders, about the gates. She talks about Chrissy. "Now, Mr. Munson, we're well aware you had nothing to do with this, but this town has made you the scapegoat behind these attacks and you can't walk into the street, when the next incoming car would sooner drive you over than pull to a stop." Above the papers, her eyes are sharp, looking impassively at him, her face a mask.

Eddie wonders, if they've been here all along, if they've known all along; why they let the police alone all this time to draw their own conclusions; why a bunch of kids and teens were the ones to bring Eddie a safe place to be; why they let Eddie hide in a boat house, night and day, unable to sleep, unable to breathe, jumping at every noise — his body sweating and shaking as if going through withdrawal, when Eddie has been careful to not let it go that far in some years — while they could have stepped forward with answers that would have the town looking another way, the way he has been told they have done time and time again, since '83 (and for longer still, if children with numbers for names and tattoos should be taken into account, which, if you ask Eddie, they should).

Flicking through her papers with quick, snapping flicks of her fingers, she goes over ideas and plans they have drawn up to free his name and free him from this stifling room.

The first suggestion she gives is a new identity; a new name; a new town; a new home far from Hawkins and everything Eddie ever made his own. Whisked out to live the rest of his days somewhere unknown; a place where they never heard of Eddie 'The Freak', Eddie 'The Banished' or Eddie the murderer and cult-leader; a place that should feel like safety and relief, but only feels like another black pit made up of serrated teeth and sharp edges.

The new life spreads out right before his eyes, held in the hands of a crisp suit and expressionless eyes; sell his soul to the sea-witch for a chance at freedom and the opportunity to walk in the light of day once again, just for the simple price of his name and home.

Deep in Eddie's closet, there is an old lunch box filled with folded up bills. The picture across it depicts a red-scaled dragon, spewing yellow flames across the blue expanse of the box's surface. Shoved between sweaters and jeans Eddie’s long since grown out of. The smell of cheap laundry detergent that clings to the fabric a mark of how long ago Eddie has reached for them and how far down they are shoved; the smell of weed and smoke, gasoline and cologne simply cannot reach them.
  It is all the bills he has saved from years of selling weed in the dark corners of the trailer park and the woods surrounding Hawkins High; bills meant to be Eddie's ticket out of Hawkins, only broken into when something new in the trailer breaks that neither Eddie or Wayne can fix themselves and cannot live without, or when his uncle comes home from work, trailing heavy brows and deep wrinkles, mumbling words of his hours getting cut down or just his pay, always avoiding Eddie's eyes as if ashamed or scared of what he might see, if he meets them.

It has been a while since Eddie has thought of them, had the space or time to think of them. He thinks of them now. Wonders if they survived the search by police. Or if the gate in the ceiling grew and managed to swallow them up too. Wonders if his ticket out of Hawkins is still open to him, or if he will be stuck here, for the rest of his life, in the town that branded him murderer without looking twice. Wonders, now that it is offered to him, all expenses paid for the price of his name, why it fills him with such dread.

The woman's words sinks through Eddie's skin and a hollow pit of despair opens in his gut. It surges through him, like the drop of falling off a high cliff with no floor underneath him to catch him and as her voice keeps going, Eddie keeps falling.

Heedless of Eddie's response, or rather, lack thereof — utterly unaware that Eddie is drowning in her voice — she continues, glancing more at Nancy than she does him. She draws examples in the air, pulling forth answers and suggestions, as if they are in a game show; open one curtain and the price will be yours, Eddie will only find out if he has won or lost years from now.

His hands curl and unfurl. Twitching against the bed, searching for level ground. Fingers flexing and fidgeting across the bedspread beneath him. He pulls and tugs at his rings. But the drag of metal against his skin and the dragging movement is not enough to catch and still his fingers. So his hands move on.
Small wounds and scabs litter his skin, up and down his hands and arms. He picks at them. Staring down at them, gaze fixed as if stuck there, unable to tear his eyes away. Nails flick across dried scabs. Edging underneath and tugging until it comes loose with a spark of pain, shooting through his nerves like the stab of lightning. But the lightning is painted red, not white and Eddie flinches at the sight of them. Jerking his fingers and nails away from himself and finally he can pull his eyes away. Ripping them from split skin and beads of blood that slowly appear across his hands like raindrops.

He lifts his head, raising his eyes back to the government-sent woman. He lets his gaze settle on a single button of the woman's suit and forces his thoughts to remain. He picks a song, not Metallica, but one from Rocky Horror and goes through the lyrics, singing them in his mind as if in the theatre at a midnight showing, right between shouting at the screen, staring at Tim Curry's legs and heckling the characters on there, as if they were real. When he finishes one song, he begins another. Finger tap-tap-tapping the beat against his thigh, hidden in the folds of the blanket. 'Sweet transvestite' turns to 'Time Warp' turns to 'Sword of Damocles', and somewhere along the way, he begins thinking about 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' and he lets Dorothy take over. The memory of her sweet vocals rise from the depths of his mind with the gentle rise and fall of the song, longing for a land beyond. Shit, man. He even goes for a loop and takes a page out of Steve's book — and he's sure it is Steve, Robin's tastes are much more eclectic and, you know, good — who has been playing the radio in his lab-made hospital room with ABBA, Queen, Bowie, Wham! and Madonna, in interims while Eddie has been out, napping or snoozing the last few days; music slipping into his ears like thick molasses, in turn dragging him from his nightmares or simply drowning them in 'Somebody To Love', 'Waterloo' or other shit, Eddie usually despises; as if it is not only Vecna's curse that is nullified and washed away by songs and music, but also his touch and the shadow of the Upside Down, still clinging to Eddie.

Still staring at a single button, Eddie goes through the lyrics to 'Bohemian Rhapsody' and 'We Will Rock You'. Screaming them in his mind, as if standing atop a cafeteria table with his nails painted black and the hanky in his back pocket a banner. To an audience of absolutely no one, unless you count the ever-apathetic gaze of his father, hanging in the corners of his mind like cobwebs he can never reach; or the eyes of the jocks and science geeks, always sneering or frowning, whenever they look his way; all the ones who neatly fold themselves into boxes, then turn on Eddie and hate him for being able to step outside one and yet still they shove him in one, as if they need everyone else to fall into a neat framework — all lined up like rigid soldiers — to not feel the constraints of their own prison, made up of a world build on the frail framework of conformity and normativity. Figures shoving Eddie in one box would never be enough; no, they had to break the one they made for him and build a new one instead; one made up of the blood and bones of other people, just as lost as he once was, before he picked up the broken pieces of the names people flung at him and made a new home for himself.

After some time, with most of her words lost to Eddie's ear, the agent packs her many papers back into her suitcase, gives them one last firm nod and leaves.

Eddie is left alone with Robin. Nancy and Steve have gone. Shortly after the woman left, the walkie Steve carries with him everywhere crackled to life and Dustin's voice came through, words loud and unforgiving, claiming they could not go and pick Eddie up without him, it broke the integrity of the party's code. His words made Steve roll his eyes, but Dustin kept complaining.
  Eddie is pretty sure Steve would have shut the radio off, but then Dustin's voice cracked and his words turned raw. Soon after that, Steve told him he'd pick him up and Nancy shrugged, saying he could drop her off at the same time, so the car wouldn't be too crowded, on the drive back and they left with Nancy's departing, "See you, soon," and Steve dropping a quick kiss onto Robin's cheek and a squeeze of her shoulder.

Which means, for the moment, Robin and Eddie are alone.

"You know, they tried to take you away," she says, voice quiet and small. They sit next to each other on Eddie’s hospital bed. Robin sits facing outward, both of her feet outside the bed, swaying slightly back and forth, her hands shoved under her thighs. Eddie sits turned towards her. One of his legs swung outside the bed, the other placed in the bed, bent at the knee and his hands clasped around his ankle, where he fidgets with his rings.

Eddie lifts his head from where he has been busy reacquainting himself with his rings on his fingers. The rings clack to a stop against each other. Stilling from his fidgeting. "What?" The floor threatens to give out beneath him.

"They wanted to bring you out of the state. Hide you in some safe house half way across the country and cut off all contact between you and Hawkins." She brings her hands up and makes quotes in the air with her fingers, as she says, "For your safety and all that." Her hands drop back down and she rolls her eyes. The action is half-hearted and lifeless.

Eddie looks at her. Wide eyed and still. Trying to understand what she is trying to tell him.

Robin shifts. The weight of her body ripples through the mattress beneath him, shaking the bed lightly. Her eyes skirt away from him. She lowers her head and stares at her shoes. "Yeah, um—” she clears her throat, eyes still skirting all over the place, avoiding his gaze “—it was after they stabilized you and you were out of surgery. They were going to shove you in the back of a van and take you out to the city in the dead of night." Her nails click and clack against each other as she picks at her nail beds, nails picking at imaginary dirt and cuticles. She glances back up at him. Eyes wide and a little unsettled. A weak smile flickers across her lips and she frees a hand from her anxious picking to bite into the skin by her nails, teeth clacking as they tear at it. She speaks past her finger, "As soon as we heard, Steve told Nancy and within, like, a few hours, they were both back here and were bringing up a storm to force them to let you stay."

"Holy shit," Eddie whispers. Eyes wide and stuck to the blanket around him. Hands clenched up and twisted in the fabric. He imagines a world where he would have woken up to a room just as strange and unknown to him as this one, but with no familiar faces to draw him out of the dark and no one whose eyes carried the same shadows and echoes of the Upside Down as his did. Feeling lost in the weight of it all. Fear creeps back into his blood and rattles his bones. It trembles through him and makes his heart pitter-patter against his chest, making him grateful the heart monitor can no longer broadcast his fear for all the world to hear.

The image it draws to life inside of his mind is almost as terrifying as Vecna himself had been.

How could Eddie have survived, if he had to bring himself back to life, without Steve, Robin, Nancy and even Dustin by his bedside? And just how close had that been his reality?

"Yeah, holy shit," Robin echoes, letting both her hands fall back in her lap. "Thank God, Nancy's such a powerhouse." She sends another shaky smile his way.

"Well. Shit," he says, still stuck in that world, where he would be left to deal with the after on his own.

"We never told the kids though," she adds quietly. "Didn't really want to make them anymore scared than they were."

"Yeah, no shit."

For a moment, they are quiet. Then Robin claps a hand on her leg and smiles at him. "Never mind that, now that you're coming to the cabin, we've brought some stuff there so you won't die of boredom out there." They have not told him much about this cabin. Just that it is there. That it was once home to Eleven, the superpower girl and Hopper, her adoptive dad. That it is safe.

"Oh yeah?" He grins at her.

She nods and tells him about gathering stuff from their houses and that Family Video is always there, if their loot should prove inadequate, because, as she tells him in a ramble that barely leaves her room enough to breathe, let alone let Eddie have a word or two, "If worse comes to worse, Steve and I still got our keys to Family Video, even though it's currently closed and slightly damaged, we could always sneak in and steal a movie or two, in case you start losing your mind of boredom in the cabin, which I would probably on day one." Which is when he does manage to cut her off, before she rambles her tongue out her mouth.

He is not really interested in hearing about the stuff they have accumulated for his entertainment. He is much more interested in the nagging feeling he's had about Robin for days now and he has a feeling he won't have the chance to bring it up with her for some time. The cabin is not that big, they told him. It will be crowded. There is no telling when he will have another private moment alone with Robin. (Especially without one Steve Harrington right beside her and he may trust Steve with his life now, but this is one thing he cannot trust him with. Not himself and not Robin either. He's seen Steve stand by people like Tommy H. far too many times for that, even if it has been years since that).

Thanks to Robin incessantly adding into conversations "Platonic with a capital P" about her and Steve whenever applicable, the design of boobs and chicken scratch words she's drawn onto her converse, the book she read a day or two ago that he is pretty sure he's seen on a bookshelf in an apartment one of his friends from Indianapolis shares with another and Robin’s own, frankly, incredibly large "I'm gay" eyes, whenever she is in the same room as Nancy; Eddie is pretty convinced he is not the only queer in this monster hunting group.

With that inkling nudging in the back of his mind, he decides to try and let her know about his own preference in some way. A trail of breadcrumbs to lead her, if you will. Instead of leading her to a house of candy and gingerbread, it would just be a big rainbow flag and a neon sign pointing to Eddie.

He does not have to wait long.

Robin asks him about his favorite movies, to see about getting a hold of. Which is the perfect opening, Eddie could smack a kiss onto her cheek.

He doesn’t. Not yet, at least.

Eddie does mention a few other movies first. But eventually, he makes his way to Rocky Horror Picture Show. If Robin's wide eyes, snapping to his are any indication, she knows the weight that movie carries behind itself.

But, just to be sure, he adds — after leaving it hanging in the air for a moment or two — it would be nice to see, even if watching it in the cabin, could not be likened to going to see it at a midnight showing and that it might not be the safest movie to watch out in the open.

Robin is still watching him with wide eyes. Which is when he asks her, if she has ever gone to a midnight showing.

Eyes a little sharp and knowing, Robin looks at him, gaze darting all over his face, pulling out the truth he is trying to tell her from the knowing, calm look in his eyes and the twitch of the weak and fragile smile, pulling at his mouth. "I've gone once or twice," she answers carefully then, eyes never once leaving his own, "it's a very special experience. And a special movie."

"I know," he says, keeping their eyes locked. A knowing smile grows from his lips. Kind and warm. "It's quite important to me."

"It is?"

"Very."

Robin's eyes flickers from his. Darting down to her hands in her lap, Robin's head lowers, fingers fidgeting where they lay.

He waits a bit, watching her. "Robin," he finally says and her eyes jerks up to his, wide and far too fearful, when the fear she must be carrying around inside of her, merely reflects his own. "I see you." He keeps their gazes locked. "I understand."

"You do?" A hesitant, but such a warm smile grows from her lips. It does not quite erase the fear in her eyes, but overshadows it slowly and steadily.

"Very much so." He nods and after a moment adds, "Me too, you know." He nudges her with his foot. "Us friends of Dorothy gotta stick together, you know."

It makes her laugh. "I'm glad," she manages to say. And then, after a short moment, she adds a little breathlessly, "I've never known anyone like me."

That's when he smacks a kiss on her cheek though. Grinning wide, he leans over, grabs a hold of her and pulls her in. Smacking a loud, obnoxious kiss right on her cheek.

"You know," he says, keeping his arms locked around her shoulders and grinning at her, "even if your incessant insistence on you and Harrington being platonic with a capital P, hadn't clued me in, your converse certainly did." He gives a kick with his leg then. The kick bangs their feet together and Robin's foot sways back and forth. Their eyes dart to her shoe, where several pens have marked the material with a lot of drawings of boobs — and Eddie means a lot, those poor Converse are drowning in them — sentences Eddie can only catch a few words off and other weird drawings. It is probably the gayest shoes Eddie's ever seen and he's been to Indianapolis and one of the covert bars there.

After that, the two of them talk about being queer in a small town like Hawkins. About never knowing someone like them. About loneliness and years of feeling wrong. About the fear that forever lurks inside of their veins; a fear they share just as anything else they bring to light before each other's eyes.

They do it as quietly and low as they can, eyes darting to the door and back.

And finally, they talk relief at finding people who welcome them and joy at finding someone just like them. For Eddie, that is his uncle and Gareth. For Robin, that's…Steve Harrington?

Which is...

What?!

"What do you mean 'Steve knows'??!" he screeches.

"Exactly that." She laughs and tilts to the side, leant over his bed, face scrunched up. Both her feet now pulled onto the bed, crossed over one another in front of her, as she sits facing him.

The expression on Eddie's face is incredulous and outrageous. He knows, he is being dramatic, okay? But that is his god-given right after learning Steve fucking Harrington, knows his closest friend is a queer. And he makes sure Robin knows how impossible and insane that is. "Mr.” —he brings his hands up and makes air quotes— “'Ladies man, The Hair, Straight as a ruler, once threw queer around as a slur like a basketball' Harrington knows you're a lesbian and you talk about it?!" he says, voice increasingly distressed and incredulous.

"That's the one." Her mouth pops. She grins at him, mouth stretched wide and happy, her eyes sparkling out at him. "I told him, while we were drugged to the high heavens by the KBG on the floor in a pair of Starcourt’s toilet cubicles, and he mocked my crush." This time, her face scrunches up in annoyance. "He still does that actually."

"Okay, KGB drugs," Eddie says, measured and slow. He clasps his hands together, holds them up in front of his face, fingers stapled together. Air passes in and out of his nose. Deep and slow. "Let's put a pin in that." He turns his hands out, pointing his fingers at her. "You mean to tell me, you regularly talk to Steve 'the Hair' Harrington about wanting to suck face with girls?"

"Yeah?" He face scrunches up. "And he's super annoying about it too." She rolls her eyes. "He's either egging me on or telling me they're duds."

"What" —and Eddie truly, desperately means this— "the fuck?"

"It's okay." Robin pats his shoulder. A mock sympathetic look on her face. "It took me a while, and a secret Russian code, infiltrating an underground military branch and being balls to the walls high, before I truly accepted Steve's character development. You'll get there."

There are so many words in that sentence and all of them confuse Eddie to the point of making him want to rip his hair out. He does not. But it is a close one.

Instead, he puts his head in his hands and screams into his palms.

Robin pats his shoulder again and even the touch of her hand feels sarcastic and mock sympathetic. It's a talent, really it is. Eddie would be surprised, but he has no surprise left to give. Steve ‘ally to the queers’ have taken them all.

Robin rubs his back. "He's actually a really great beard," she says, voice musing and thoughtful. "Unplanned, but good. Way too chivalrous, but I think that's just his nature."

"What?" his voice sounds truly dead and flat now. He does not drop his hands away.

"Yeah.” And Eddie can hear the loving earnestness in just that single word. “We bonded after escaping Russian torture and bonded even more, when we were coming down from the drugs they gave us. We've been pretty much inseparable since." While she talks, Eddie finally raises his head from his palms and lets his hands fall away, turning to face her again. "But yeah." She gives a one-shouldered shrug and makes a face. "People just started thinking we were dating, because we're always together and there's apparently a look about us — whatever that means—” she makes a side-eye, raising them to cut at the ceiling “—that makes people not believe us when we insist we aren’t dating." A laugh huffs from her chest and her face scrunches up in a grin. "It probably also doesn't help that we call each other babe."

Eddie snorts. "Probably."

"But it’s fun and it drives Dustin nuts."

Eddie is well familiar with beards and the different shapes they come in, but usually they are planned, either by both or the party it protects. "It was unplanned?" he asks, after a quiet moment.

She nods. "Yeah. Steve saw the way my parents were looking at me and he's heard me worry for hours about them, and talked me down from one or two panic attacks about it, so after one too many times, when people commented about how sweet we were together, he offered to be my stand-in boyfriend to get them off my back and to protect me.” She makes a face at him. Tongue sticking out of the mouth and all. “We don’t tell people we’re dating, but we kinda just let them think what they want and don’t correct them." Her head tilts to the side. "He doesn't mind as long as we can tell our friends we aren't dating." A puff of air huffs from her mouth and she rolls her eyes. "Not that they believe us."

"Huh," he says, thoughtfully. "Steve Harrington, world class beard. Who would be thought?"

She knocks her shoulder into his. But he can see the bright smile stretching across her face from the corner of his eyes.

Later that day, they release him.

After signing a paper mountain, getting checked over one last time while being told instructions of what to look out for and how to tend to his new souvenirs — spoken all the while gloved hands gently poke and prod and then rewrap his wounds in clean bandages — and being handed a stack of papers with the same instructions, medicine timetable he is to follow rigidly and a smaller slip with the date for when he needs to return to get his stiches taken out; they finally release him.

He walks out of the lab on shaky legs with Dustin by his side and Steve and Robin walking in front. Legs unsteady and shaky underneath him, nearly threatening to give out every few steps. Weak and trembling from his many wounds and after lying in bed, recovering for days on end. Instead of focusing on that, or cursing his legs out for making the ground beneath him trembling more than it already is, he fixes his gaze dead ahead, where Steve and Robin walks. Arms looped around each other’s and leant into each other’s space, both slightly bent and drooped to the side, as if they are magnets; forever drawn to each other and seeking the other.

The car waiting for him outside the hospital is Steve's bimmer. It stands parked underneath the awning and roof, as close to the front doors as it can get.

The sight of it appearing right before his eyes as the doors open in front of him causes Eddie to halt. The soles of his boots — rescued from his trailer also curtesy of Dustin and Steve, because apparently his Reeboks were beyond repair, which Eddie has a hard time believing, those shoes have been with him through things more disturbing than a lake and whatever shit the Upside Down carries, they wouldn't flake out of him now — skids against the ground.

He takes a moment to look back and forth in the empty space surrounding the bimmer, then turns and raises his eyebrows at Steve. Grin sharp and crooked and far too shit-eating. "What?” he says. “No armed escort?"

"No escort could possibly be big enough to match that ego of yours." Steve rolls his eyes and finally detaches himself from Robin to walk closer to the car. He reaches out as if to open the backseat door for him, but Eddie sidles closer and continues before he can.

"You wound me, Harrington, truly" —he places a hand on his chest—"and here I thought I had enough holes in me already."

"They're bite marks, if anything," Dustin pipes up, helpfully.

Eddie raises a hand and palms the top of his head, pushing it down and away with a grin.

A small laugh bubbles from Dustin. He hops to the side, one-legged, swatting at his hand and trying to duck out from under it.

"Just get in the car, dude," Steve huffs, not without a smile twitching from his lips.

"But the windows aren't even tinted!" Eddie throws his arms dramatically up in the air. He lets them drop, walks forward and steps up to Steve. He places a pointed finger on his chest, pushing lightly. Crooking his eyebrows at him, Eddie grins at him, teeth bared playfully. "Why, it's almost as if you want me dead, Harrington."

Steve tips backwards. Rocking back on his heels, swaying slightly at Eddie's push. Keeping his eyes on him, Steve crooks an eyebrow at him. Eyes narrow and a dangerous tilt to his smile.

Looking up at him now, it is clear to see where King Steve was born.

People may look at Eddie and be repelled by the carefully curated armor he has made out of the names he picked out of the air from where they threw them at him, making it into his home; repelling people from just how different and unpredictable and freaky he could be. But underneath it all, Eddie is quite softhearted. Too warm and soft, if truth be told.

But Steve? Oh, he may have shredded the mantle of King and dethroned himself that fateful year of '83, but his throne did not come from nothing. Steve has a mean streak that is a mile-long. Where before it was used for court in the cafeteria, in classrooms and across crowded school hallways – more like a particularly bitchy mean-girl, than the bully Tommy H. and Billy Hargrove was — now it is used for the comfortable hearths of his friends, who look close enough to see past that gold crown now lying rusted and cold by his feet. And for cold blooded monsters from another dimension, apparently.

He would have been easy to hate. But while hate and anger was an old familiar friend to him, Eddie had so many more people to hate; people who actually hurt him and hit him. Bullies that wanted more than the slurs they threw across crowded hallways at him and his father especially, reserved the right for that burning anger coursing through his veins. Steve had never done enough to catch the flames of Eddie's hate. Not even the distant heat of it, had ever scorched him.
  When it came to Steve — him personally and not the things he stood for — hate slipped off Eddie's shoulders like water off a ducks back. Steve has always just been another douchebag in the crowd to ignore. High enough up Eddie’s shit list to be sneered at, but not far up enough to be avoided. Steve was easy to skirt around in the school’s hallways without catching any of the sharp edges and hard fists that surrounded bullies much bigger and angrier than him; the same could not be said about the other bullies of Hawkins high.

Even if he had hated him, the last week has certainly done enough to blow away any remains of it clinging to his hands. Eddie still looks at Steve and finds himself wondering at everything he sees, but these days, it is with far more wonder, than it is with scrutiny. After all, why spend time searching for the last remains and pieces of the past, left to rust at Steve's feet, when the man standing before him — covered in shadows of the Upside Down, the blood he shred making sure other’s would remain unscathed and monster carcasses — a babysitter at the End of the World — is far more interesting than the King that walked before him.

"Maybe I truly have been keeping you alive this last week, just so when someone snipes you in my car, I can decry culpability," Steve says. He rocks forward on his toes and ducks closer to Eddie's ear. "You really should have thought twice, before trying to sway Henderson to your side and all."

Laughter bursts from Eddie, shocking even himself. He sways back away from Steve. Hand on his chest and pushing him away.

The crooked, slightly mean mask on Steve's face falls away. A lighter grin washes it all away to laugh lines and wrinkles around his mouth and eyes.

"No, dude, it'll be okay." Steve jerks his chin towards the car. "The town's too busy scrambling after the earth quake. The police's too busy with clean up and rescue to look for you." And the people too busy mourning to hunt for their self-declared 'freak' scapegoat goes unsaid between them. Kind eyes meet Eddie's own with a steadfast, unwavering strength. When he adds, "You'll be fine," in a soft, warm voice, Eddie hears, We got you.

"I'm still filing a complaint," Eddie turns, reaches for the car door and pulls it open, looking over his shoulder and grinning at Steve, "I'll forever be disappointed about that armed escort."

"Take it up with the management," Steve shrugs with his hands in his jean pockets, a matching grin on his face, "I'm just the driver."

"So I've been told." Eddie jerks his eyes at Dustin.

A startled laugh bursts from Steve's chest. He looks down. Lifts a hand and rubs at his eyebrow with his thumb, shaking his head. A low, "Yeah, I bet you have been," falls from his mouth. Far too fond and far too gentle.

Robin walks past them. Eyes rolling around in their sockets at them. Expression a mixture of dry and wry. She brushes past them, deliberately knocks her shoulder into Steve's. As the motion jerks through him, Steve's eyes jerk to the side. Immediately seeks and locks with hers, as if they were each other’s north on a compass and Steve gets this soft look on his face.

"Come on, dingus, let’s go before they drag us inside for to sign another NDA paper mountain." Her gaze seek past Steve's shoulder and land on the building. The look inside of her eyes becomes distant and heavy as shadows falls over her face.

Steve touches a gentle hand on her shoulder. Touch simple and sweet. Just a brief graze of his fingers. It is enough.

"God. This place gives me the creeps." She tears herself away from the building, reaches for the door handle of the front passenger seat. A hard yank pulls the door open and she throws herself down into the seat, quickly throwing her leg up on the dash.

"Seriously?" Steve says, bent over and looking down at her through the still open door with raised eyebrows. "How many times do I have to tell you? Feet off, Rob." He waves his hand at her. Hand whipping back and forth, gesturing wildly between the dash where her feet lay crossed and her face. She makes a face at him and he crosses his arms, staring down at her. Arms crossed and his face an impatient, annoyed mask, most of which Eddie figures is for show. Eddie's well versed in the performer’s trade, he is pretty sure, he can recognize it when he sees it.

Steve waits until Robin pulls her feet off the dashboard with a long-suffering sigh and a roll of her eyes. Then he closes the door for her and walks around the front of the car.

Eddie finally pulls open the door to the backseat. While he lowers himself into the car, Dustin stays lingering by his side. Only once he is seated does he leave Eddie to limp around the back to the car.

The door opens on the other side, the whole car shaking with the yanking motion, and Dustin clambers into the car. Once inside, instead of plodding right down in the seat by the door, he crawls his way further across the seats and firmly plants himself down in the tiny, middle seat, shimmying in place so he is as close to Eddie as possible without threat of suffocation.

"You okay there, Henderson?" Eddie asks, glancing down at him with mild amusement.

Looking around with a small, little frown as if confused, he says, "Yep, I'm good," And clicks the seatbelt on.

Robin looks over her shoulder, catches sight of them and grins. "You guys comfortable back there?"

"Do I have something on my face?" Dustin asks nigh on incredulous. "Why all the questions? We're good. Now drive or we're never getting anywhere."

In the review mirror, Steve rolls his eyes. He goes to speak. Mouth opening, a retort is on the top of his tongue, Eddie can just tell. But his mouth snaps closed and he shakes his head. A twist of the key and the car grumbles to a start. A few turns of the wheel and bumps of feet on pedals pull them away from the building and off they go, out past the parking lot and through gates that open with a buzzing noise at their approach, the fence rattling as it rolls open.

Driving on, Steve maneuvers the car along an unfamiliar road with a lazy sort of expertise and navigation, Eddie wonders about vague references to we've done this before and try us and wonders just how many times Steve has done this before and just how many pieces Eddie is going to have to pick up and fit together, now that the worst is over and they finally have room to breathe.

As soon as the lab and all signs of it has disappeared in the rearview mirror, Steve reaches for the radio and Eddie groans before he even flicks it on with a click.

He folds himself in half, slumping back into the seat and sags into the car door, still groaning loudly. "No, please no. If I have to listen to any more Tears for Fears or Rod Stewart or Wham! I'm jumping out this car, before I even get to see this mysterious cabin in the woods."

"What's wrong with Tears for Fears?" Steve asks, flicking on the radio anyway. It is not Tears for Fears that comes out, but Madonna.

"The fact that you even have to ask." Eddie shakes his head, tutting softly. "You're a lost cause, Harrington." Quick, quicker than is probably advisable considering the many stitches currently keeping him together, he jerks forward and leans into the space between the two front seats, just about catching himself on the seats with his hands. He sticks his head right between Robin and Steve, forcing Dustin to lean away from him somewhere south-west of him, squashed by his body. "Hey, Buckley." A lightly curled up fist knocks on the side of her seat with two dull thud-thud's that reverberates through the seat, jostling her lightly. "How come you haven't knocked some sense into him yet?" He jerks his thumb at Steve. Light catches on his newly reclaimed rings, glinting at him from between his knuckles.

"Come on, man!" Steve waves a hand in the air, his voice loud and distressed. "Everybody wants to rule the world. It's a classic!"

Robin makes a face. Glancing sideways, she exchanges a conspiratorial look with Eddie. "I may have cracked a top secret Russian code, but even I am not good enough to crack Steve 'The Hair' Harrington." And with that, Robin reaches for the radio and tunes the station. Under her hands, Madonna gives way to static. Bursts of music and snippets of songs blares from the speakers, while she fiddles with the frequency until finally a tune far more punk than rock falls out of them and Robin sits back, allowing Joan Jett to take over.

Steve complains, loudly and annoyed, but does not reach for the radio again.

Throwing a sideways glance at her, Eddie exchanges a bemused expression with Robin. Honestly, no wonder Henderson's a little shit. With the way, he worships Steve and follows him like a duckling and drags him all over the place like a little brother, in equal measure; it is no wonder he carries annoyance and attitude problems so well. Maybe he has simply learned from the best.

Steve throws him a sideways glance. He does a double take. Eyes jerking from Eddie to the road and back again. A low noise sounds from the back of his throat and he looks at him with this distressed line pinching his brows. "Dude, sit down before you pull your stitches."

"I didn't know you were so interested in sewing, Harrington.” Eddie grins, all crooked and lopsided.

In the rearview mirror, Steve rolls his eyes. The distress falls away to exasperation. "I didn't drag you out of that place, just to have you bleed all over my backseat."

Expecting a teasing remark in return, Eddie's left blinking at him, slightly owlish.

The car turns around a curve in the road and Steve throws another glance at him. He rolls his eyes with exasperation again. "Seriously, dude, sit down, the roads around exactly super safe after the earth quake."

Pulling himself together, Eddie manages to dredge words out of his mouth. "What if I don't want to miss this oh so secret cabin you're taking me to," the last few words takes on a tone that is low and mysterious, like a character from one of his campaigns; dredged up from the depths of Eddie’s mind and dusted off from all the Upside Down ash and dust laying all over it.

"For Christ sake, it's hidden in the woods, not in any of your nerdy D&D magic." With that, Steve takes one of his hand off the wheel, twists his arm back and around, places the heel of his palm on Eddie's forehead and pushes him back, all without taking his eyes off the road.

Eddie lets himself tilt back. As he falls, Dustin's arms come up and catch him, guiding him some of the way, as if determined to absorb some of the impact.

Eddie lands back on his seat with a heavy thump that shakes through the car.

When Dustin glances at him, Eddie catches sight of the worried look in his eyes, his face heavier than he is used to seeing.

"Don't worry, Henderson," Eddie ruffles his hair, curls flying at his touch, despite the familiar cap placed on top, "I'm not gonna break apart at any minute movement. They put too many stitches in for that to happen."

The rest of the ride passes in relative peace. Although the car jostles and jumps over more bumps in the road than Eddie is used to driving over on the roads he recognizes and the world outside the window look far more messy than it was, when he went into hiding.

At last, they drive onto a path cutting softly through the forest. A line of trees stands like a fence on either side of it. The path itself is dirt and dried mud. Old tire tracks and bumps lumped together jostle the car. The tires rolls over these road blemishes with groans and protests from the car itself, every groan and scrape of the bumper against a taller mound of earth has Steve gripping the wheel, the bones of his hands flexing and standing out against the pale skin on the back of his hands.

Eddie expects him to complain. But the tightness in his shoulders only twists and roll with the bumpy ride and aside from catching a flash of his eyes every now and then, whenever he looks into the rearview mirror, gaze searching the space behind them, he remains quiet. And Eddie wonders if it is the car he is concerned about, as he expected, or something else entirely, but does not comment on it.

The cabin appears like a ghost out of a horror movie. The forest flash by them past the windows. Trees whooshing past until suddenly a small gap appears between them.
Off to the side in between the trees, the cabin rises up, peeking out from overhanging branches and crowns bedecked in green leaves. Nestled in the arms of the forest with its right side near the road. The wood panels of it old and aged, but kept.

The unmarked path does not lead to the cabin, as if it is as unaware of its presence, just like the inhabitants of Hawkins itself are. It stops a little beside the cabin and does not go far enough to cut in front of its steps. The closer they get to it, the slower the car moves.

Unable to sit still, Eddie curls a finger in his hair, fiddling and twiddling with the curly strand, wide eyes darting over the side of the cabin that grows slowly closer and closer; taking in what little he can see of its boarded up windows, boards of wood placed on top of them, some of them tilting slightly and lopsided. In completely opposition to the rest of the cabin, it looks rough and new. Haphazardly thrown on.
A large patchwork of wooden boards lie on the side of the wall and on top of the wood in several places, as if it was recently damaged and even more recently patched up. Branches of trees that reach towards the mended holes are snapped off, ending abruptly, as if someone had to saw it off.

The car stills with a jerk, jostling its passengers. In front of them are two other cars. Lights out and still, a small coat of dust on one of them and a few scattered leaves on them both.

No one gets out.

Eddie's leg jiggles, shaking through his whole body. Biting at one of his nails, he glances between Robin and Steve in front of him, who he can barely make out are looking at each other, sharing unspoken words and grimaces. Steve’s hand lifts up in the air, a flash of fingers curled up in some kind of gesture that goes by too fast for Eddie to see. The line of Robin’s shoulder’s move in response, jacket rippling under movement, but Eddie – sat directly behind her seat – cannot see if she too makes some kind of gesture.

"Anyone going to bite the bullet?" he offers, voice twisted in something mimicking wryness, muffled by the nail caught between his teeth.

Sighing, Steve twists in the seat, looking back at him. Both of them, Eddie notes, have unclasped their seatbelt.

"Okay, so before we head inside, you need to know some more."

Shrugging, Eddie says, "It's not like I'm unused to getting information sprung on me out of nowhere at the moment." He drops his hand from his hair and mouth. "Shoot."

Feet propped up on the dashboard once more, having put then there somewhere along the drive, Robin too twists around to look back at him.

Voices lowered, as if they are not protected by the confines of the car, the empty path of dirt leading back where they came and the trees standing tall all around them, still afraid of being overheard; they tell him about Hopper, alive and brought back from Russia. Eddie thought he heard it all, or at least was prepared for anything, but resurrected chiefs of police, kept captive in a Russian prison and working through the skin on his back and surviving through horrors unknown – human horrors, but horrors still — is unexpected, to put it lightly. And, well, to say Eddie is speechless and wide-eyed is perhaps an understatement.

Through the small story they tell him, they even mention some of the cover stories suggested for Hopper. They mention comas and mixed identity in a hospital in Indianapolis. They mention moving Hopper to a different city. They mention more. It all sounds a little familiar and Eddie hears the echo of a no-nonsense voice in their words. All three of them fade into this muddled oblivion, turning to sand that tickle through his fingers. Eddie tells himself it’s important to listen. He wants to listen. But he hums and stares and feels the way his leg jiggles and jiggles and he shakes it more so his body — and the car too — really shakes. And he kinda wants to hit his own head because this is so not the time for his head to fall apart. Even though it is a familiar feeling and he has been waiting for this — like the drop of a penny, ever since the adrenaline and fear stopped pumping through his blood at every breath he takes, which only happened a few days ago, in the lab-hospital, with Steve's hands on his chest and his eyes staring wide and intense into his own, his voice telling him, it's over — it is still frustrating enough to make him want to scream.

It has been happening more and more ever since Steve caught him. Like waking up. Like drowning.

And it is far too familiar.

On the best of days, Eddie is scatter-brained. Forgetful. Easily distracted. But these last few days feels more submerged. Like he dropped into the water at Lovers Lake and never came out again. Murky water and foam and smoke flooding his thoughts, making the world imperceptible to him.

"Eddie." Eddie tears his eyes away from the back of Robin's seat and finds Steve, looking back at him. Concern bleeds off him as easily as his blood had after those bats had dragged him halfway to hell. "You okay?"

Biting down at the skin around his nails, because his nails are not long enough anymore, Eddie nods and humms. Looking back wide eyed at him.

Steve meets his eyes, his own widening slightly, wordlessly repeating his question. Darts his eyes from Eddie’s to the finger stuck in his mouth and back again.

Following his prod, Eddie glances at his finger. Blood pours forth in a small river, flooding alongside the crevice of his nail. Grimacing, he drops his hand down in his lap and folds it into his other hand. Hiding the blood and Eddie's own scattered thoughts that are picking at the seams of himself.

He glances sideways at Dustin, who's watching him more wide eyed than Steve. Concern warring his every feature. Eddie pulls a face, looks back at Steve and mouths, "Sorry," at him, feeling like he will never apologize enough for the wounds he has allowed Dustin to get close enough to see.

Steve raises a hand, palm flat, as if calming an animal standing on its hind legs, keeping it in the air for just a moment before letting it fall again. "Ready to go?" He looks over at Robin, who shrugs.

Eddie pats himself down. Movements large and exaggerated, making his reclaimed leather jacket crack softly and fabric underneath rustle. Holding up his empty hands, rings glinting from between his fingers, he says, fingers wiggling, "Think I'm all set."

They get out of the car, carefully parked off to the side, beside heavy tree trunks and large overhanging treetops, branches and leaves folding it into its embrace, partly hiding it from view.

"To the secret cabin we go." Eddie steps over a thick tree branch lying across the ground.

At this point, he almost expects them to pull him back. To tell him he's going the wrong direction or that this way lies more monsters and dark vines and red skies, as if the cabin before his eyes is just a smokescreen for something more sinister and not the safe haven he has been told it has been for a young, traumatized teenage girl and her pseudo adoptive father. But Steve steps over the branch with Robin and Dustin following close behind him.

Letting out a puff of air, shoulders slumping, Eddie lets them walk past him and steps into the footprints they leave in the earth for him. After a few more steps, Steve falls behind too, letting Robin and Dustin take the lead. Eyes intense and sharp on Dustin's limp and lagging leg, a small frown wrinkling between his brows. As Eddie watches him from the corner of his eyes, his gaze jumps forward, searching the forest floor ahead, jumping and jerking.

Eddie, looking ahead at Robin picking her way across the forest ground, remembers another time not too long ago, with another figure beside her, the floor littered with things much worse than a bed of grass and wildflowers, twigs, pebbles and rocks.

He grimaces. More out of principle than anything. Surprisingly — or not, considering the little hummingbird heart, fluttering inside of his chest, oh so familiar and still so new, whose name and shape he knows, but has never gotten close enough to hold — he finds, he does not mind walking beside Steve through these woods.

"Careful here," Steve hangs back, watching Robin step over something invisible. Holding out both arms, he grabs the hand Dustin lifts and supports him, one hand on his elbow, the other on his shoulder, while he steps over the same thing. Steve's arms tense up, muscles flexing, heaving some of Dustin's weight up, almost lifting him up over the boundary, despite the strain it must put his injures through.

"Some spell invisible to the uninitiated or what?" Eddie remarks, mouth twisted in a wry smile.

"Nah." Steve hangs onto Dustin's arm until his bad leg have cleared the space, watching him until he's steady on the other side. He casts a backwards glance at Eddie. "The chief rigged this place years ago. There's a snare running through here—” he points, sweeping his arm back and forth “—it'll give off bang, if someone comes trespassing. Someone reset it a few days ago."

"Ah." Eddie nods. "The good ol' gunshot in the mousetrap." At least that is what Eddie thinks the snare could be leading to. Glancing around, he searches the trees around the area Steve indicated, trying to see if he can catch a glimpse of the snare thread glinting in the light from the sun or the corner of a mousetrap. But the chief did a good job back then and Eddie finds nothing.

Arm held out towards him as if he might need to support him as well, Steve beckons him forward, fingers curling.

Eddie follows. But does not take his hand, no matter how easy it would be to take the offering and the strength Steve carries with him everywhere and so easily hands out to others.

A single, tiny step shuffled forward, brings Steve closer to the supposed trip snare. He stops there. "It's right here," he says and points downward, tapping the side of his thigh with a pointed finger.

Eyes narrow and scrutinizing, Eddie can see the thin, near invisible thread of a snare, just shy of pressing against the washed out denim of Steve's jeans.

Eddie lifts his head back up and takes a quick glance around them. He spots the line of trees, which sort of mark the boundary holding the line aloft. With them in mind, he steps over the snare, hoping he will know where to step the next time, without Steve literally putting himself in the line of fire.

Clear of the trip snare, the cabin lies before them, angled sideways from their position. Unassuming and weathered.

For a moment, Eddie pauses, staring up at it. The others, as if sensing it, pause as well, without even looking back at him, as if they too need to take a moment and are not just reflecting Eddie's own image and shadows back to him; like a comforting hand holding your own in the dark of night; like the soft, crunching footfalls of another person keeping in step beside your own under a sky flashing red; like the final moment of eyes connecting, locking, and the tiny nod of understanding and a promise made in the arms of everything unsaid, before the end.

A small porch lies in front, the roof of the cabin hangs out over it, shielding it from the sun, overhanging tree branches and any weather coming from above it. Square boards of wood frame it. Leading up to the porch are a set of stairs. A few footsteps across the porch is the front door. Age, wear and tear have darkened the wood, scratched at its surface and marked it.

Movement to the right of him pulls Eddie's gaze towards Dustin, his bad foot scuffing against the ground, head turned slightly to the side, as if unable to let Eddie fall behind his line of sight.

Air passes silently in through Eddie's nose, filling his lungs with crisps, cool touch of the forest and he says, "'Roads go ever ever on, Under cloud and under star, Yet feet that wandering have gone, Turn at last to home afar. Eyes that fire and sword have seen, And horror in the halls of stone, Look at last on meadows green, And trees and hills they long have known.¹'”

The words make Dustin grin. It stretches across his face, slow, steady and all encompassing. Scrunching up his cheeks in that chipmunk-like way they are wont to do. Teeth flashing white and bright in his face.

Eddie smiles back at him. He can't help but glance sideways and catch Steve's eyes, regarding him with careful attention.

Hazel eyes scan the air between Eddie and Dustin, as if searching for something.

Their eyes catch and Eddie tips his head towards him. Then, he turns his attention back on Dustin. He walks the few steps between them and raises his hand, palming the top of his head, roughly ruffling his curls and cap, gently shoving him. "Come on, Henderson, can't let the other sheep miss us too much, can we?"

Dustin's laugh rings brief and quick through the trees, but it is still music to Eddie's ears.

Grinning, he shoves at Dustin's head one more time, who ducks under his arm, hobbling oddly on his good leg, his bad leg lagging in the air behind him.

"That's bad form, Eddie! You can't pick on the injured! It's child abuse."

Eddie grins. "I've got more holes and seams in me than a boy scouts vest, Henderson, if anything I'm punching up."

Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie catches Steve shaking his head at them, his eyes taking a roundabout in his eye sockets. But he also catches the smile playing across his lips, so, who he is trying to fool, Eddie does not know.

Robin, standing by the steps, looks back at them, smiling softly, her eyes crinkling with laugh lines.

Continuing his momentum out from under Eddie's arm, Dustin keeps going, limping across the forest ground. He rounds the side of the cabin, walking to the steps. Before he gets to them, Robin leaps up the steps, taking the lead. Steve and Eddie just behind their heels.

The steps up to the cabin creak under their weight. Boots and shoes stump loudly on them, scuffing across the weathered wood. The closer they get to the door, the more Eddie can hear the life hiding behind it. Voices filter out through cracks in the wood. It fills the air, lighting up the woods.

Robin throws the door open and the noise from inside doubles, washing over them as she enters — not that it is particularly loud, just a buzz of life rushing over them like the waters of a brook — boots thumping across wooden boards. Dustin follows behind her, but walks to the side and stays standing beside the doorway, turning his head and looking back at Eddie. Catching his hesitation, Eddie quickly ducks into the cabin.

The open doorway behind him casts a square beam of light across the floorboards. It frames Eddie and Robin, who stands a little behind Eddie. Their shadows long. At the bottom of the beam, other shadows shifts and move, along with the soft sounds of Steve moving around by the door.

The sight greeting him is bright and warm. A living room spreads out in front of him, greeting him as the first. Colors spring out amidst all the brown and beige of the wood. Piles of clothes, pillows and blankets lie all over the couch while piles of board games and all kinds of other stuff litter the tables and the entire cabin, honestly. Streaks of dried mud, dirt spatters and gravel lie all across the floor, tracked haphazardly in through the door. Blankets, pillows and two thin, musty mattresses lay across the floor near the couch. It is like a domestic bomb with items gathered from three separate households has gone off inside the cabin.

Two doorways line up on the wall to his left, both separated by a piece of fabric that hang like a curtain over it. They line up the wall with a few feet between them. Bedrooms, he figures. Or a bathroom.
On the other side, to the right, there is a kitchen adjacent. Small and cramped looking, but with more elbow room than Eddie is used to.

Further into the cabin, past and off to the side of what he can only call the living room and to the right, there is a door that leads to a smaller room. It has been left open a small crack and through it, voices drift, light and bubbly, in the way he has come to recognize from Dustin, Lucas and Mike, ever since he picked them up in the cafeteria. Behind the door a glimpse of colorful fabric and moving arms flash, merging with the loud voices.

Midst all the chaos of a hastily patched up cabin and piles of stuff — gathered for the end of the world or the celebration of its saving, Eddie is not entirely sure — are people he recognizes, some more than others. Amongst them the reputed, resurrected Chief Hopper himself, who is sat by a small dining table in the kitchen, holding a cigarette in hand, bent over the table, facing a brown haired woman. And honestly, seeing him now, in the flesh, makes Eddie thankful Steve and Robin made sure he knew he was back before he saw him. If he's being completely honest with himself, he might not have handled it all that well, if they hadn't. Eddie's been through a lot, this past week. He can admit that to himself now.

A mattress is spread on the floor near the couch. Lying on top of it is Jonathan, who Eddie recognizes from school, although they never crossed paths with each other, despite both being on the lowest rung of the social ladder. Beside him lies a young man that Eddie has never seen in his life before. He has light brown skin and a magnificent head of hair. It's long and black and lies all around him, like a spread out halo of silky, black hair.

At the sound of their footsteps, Jonathan tips his head back and looks up at them.

A tense smile spreads across Eddie's face and he lifts a hand, tipping his head at him. "Hey."

Jonathan gives a small smile in return.

"Yo, my man!" the young man beside him calls, spreading his arms out, lying like a starfish across the mattress and Jonathan. "Judas Priest, now that's what I'm talking about!" He points a finger at Eddie. Turning his head to the side, he digs an elbow into Jonathan beside him. "Judas Priest, my man." The guy nods, expression all solemn and somber as he turns back to look at Eddie and holds up a fist in rock’n’roll. "Judas Priest. Nice."

"They are," Eddie says with a bemused smile.

"You must be Eddie," he says. "They said you were dying, but you look pretty good to me."

"Argyle," Jonathan huffs with a small smile and an elbow into his side.

"What? I said, he's not dying, that's a good thing," they guy named Argyle says, pulling his arms back in the relative space of the mattress. "I thought that would be a good thing," he adds in a mumble, side-eyeing Jonathan, "we wouldn't have to bury him too."

Confused, but delighted, Eddie laughs. He has no idea who he is, but he seems fun.

Behind him, soft noises drift through the air and curls into Eddie's ear. A quiet voice speaks and Eddie throws a glance over his shoulder, hands in the back pockets of his jeans, just in time to see Steve gently admonishing Dustin.

He has a hand on Dustin's arm, keeping him from walking away, and gestures back and forth.

Dustin rolls his eyes and huffs loudly. But he steps back to the door long enough to knock his shoes into the still open doorway. Feet thump against wood and soles knock into wood. Dirt gets knocked from the bottom of shoes against the side of the door and finally the door is shut behind them. It cuts off the light from outside and the beam of light, haloing their figures, casting long shadows across the floor, vanishes with a thunk and a small rattle.

"Eddie," Robin says with a grin, stepping up to stand beside him, knocking her shoulder into his, "you know Jonathan, probably." Her face folds into a frown, freckles scrunching up. "Maybe, I don't know." She looks at him. "Do you know Jonathan?"

"I know Jonathan." Eddie nods, looking back at Jonathan, smile bigger and more real than before. "Hey, man."

"Hey." The smile Jonathan greets him with is the same awkward, tight smile he has always worn. Eddie vaguely recalls having passed him a few times in school, though, where Eddie was making a spectacle of himself in the drama club room, Jonathan was quiet and withdrawn, face hidden behind his camera half the time and shut away in the photo room the other half. With Jonathan two years below Eddie, and the paths they trod through Hawkins High hallways so different, they never crossed by each other much.

"This is Argyle, Jonathan's friend." Robin points at the other guy.

"What's up, my dude?" he says, voice bright, hand lifted in greeting.

Movement sounds from the kitchen, pulling Eddie’s attention away from the two cosying up on the mattress.

A woman with brown hair rises from one of the chairs by the small dining table, a gentle smile on her face. She glances past Eddie for a quick, barely there moment. Eyes briefly darting to Steve and Robin before settling on Eddie, as she comes forward. "Eddie, right?" the woman says, taking a step forward, rubbing her palms together, as if trying to rub them clean. Eddie gives her a nod. "I'm Joyce Byers, but you just call me Joyce." She holds out her hand to him.

If Eddie had not heard scattered and broken off stories of the past few times, these people have apparently clashed with the Upside Down, and picked up the pieces he could understand like breadcrumbs, and carefully putting them away for later, as if, if he only collects enough, he might finally make a puzzle picture that will make all of these things make sense; he might have called her mousy. But if there is one thing Eddie has picked up on, it is that Mrs. Byers is a force not even the Upside Down can stand against.

"I tried convincing everyone to have a welcome party, but I was shut down," Dustin says from behind him, shouting over his shoulder. "No one but me has any taste around here," he adds in a mumble.

"The circumstances aren't really all that welcoming, Dustin," Steve says and gives Dustin a light slap on the back of his head.

"I don't know." Eddie grins at them over his shoulder, releasing Joyce's hand. "The welcoming party in the Upside Down felt rather inviting. They would hardly let us leave."

Laughter snorts from Robin, ugly and loud and so very welcome.

A grimace cuts across Steve's face.

"Too soon?" Eddie asks him, grinning still.

Steve shrugs and heads further into the cabin.

Eddie turns back to Joyce.

That is how he is introduced to Mrs. "Call me Joyce," Byers; with a warm smile and gentle eyes.

Joyce walks past Eddie in a whirl of gentle smiles and kind eyes. She steps up to Steve and immediately pulls him into a hug.

"Steve, sweetie, it's good to see you. You've barely stayed long enough for me to get a good look at you, since we got here."

"Mrs. Byers."

"None of that nonsense," she says, voice firm but still warm. She grips Steve by his arms and looks up at him and Eddie can only imagine the same tone of her voice reflected in the look on her face. "You're family."

While the two of them speak, exchanging quick greetings and summaries of the last few days – swiftly adding Robin into the mix, when Joyce goes to pull her into a quick hug too — Dustin limps his way past Steve and Joyce. He hurries to the door left ajar further inside the cabin, peeks in and quickly disappears inside it. Voices past the door pick up, rising in volume and enthusiasm, before they are muffled behind him, when he closes the door, leaving a crack behind himself, smaller than it was before.

Freeing herself from the little reunion huddle, Robin rounds the couch, dumps the bag with Eddie's prescribed medicine on the coffee table and throws herself down onto the couch, where she immediately slumps down among soft blankets and pillows.

Managing to free himself from Joyce with just a few more words and a pat to his arm, Steve walks past Eddie and falls onto the couch beside her.

Immediately, Robin slumps sideways, back and shoulders hunching, curling into Steve's chest. Lifting an arm, Steve curls it around her, easily and seamlessly pulling her into himself, folding her into his embrace. He puts his chin atop her head and rests it there. Faces sagging with the same tired and hollow raggedness that has been there, since the second day of chasing the supernatural and following the trail of breadcrumbs Vecna left in his wake.
The two of them huddled into each other is rapidly becoming a familiar and comforting sight to see. Eddie was awake in the lab long enough to get used to see them sit together as close and intimate as some married couples — more than some, even — he hardly ever bats an eyelash at them anymore. Even when the first few times he looked to the side and saw them sit snugly together on the same chair, limbs folded up and around each other like puzzle pieces neatly fitting together, his stomach rolled and curled up, shriveling up like raisins and old potato peels. Only repeated complaints and their monologue of Platonic with a capital P, washed the feeling away and allowed Eddie to look at them again, without feeling the urge to blink rapidly or tear his gaze away as if burnt.

"What's this?" Hopper says, coming forward from the little kitchen adjacent, his voice quiet and gruff, his movements stiff and careful, looking more like the movements of an animal on the hunt, rather than something careful of its wounds. Gaze sweeping over the table, newly bursting with half the contents of a hospital.

Robin is the one that replies, "Eddie's medicine."

Taking the bag with him, Hopper walks back to the kitchen, upends the contents of the bag on the tiny dining table. Pill bottles, rolled up gauze and bandages tumbles out onto the wooden surface, clattering across the wood with a small racket. Hopper gives it a quick, brief once over. He then turns and begins stacking everything away in a cupboard without saying a single word.

That, it seems, is that. Eddie is there to stay. No questions asked.

Blinking, Eddie resists the urge to open and close his mouth, his own questions tumbling forth through the warm air swirling inside of the cabin; remembering a time when his uncle swept him under his arm and pulled him home, no questions asked there either. Back then, Eddie carried fewer wounds on top of his skin to be tended, but a heart hardened and bleeding itself dry from the cuts of his father's touch. He slowly follows Hopper into the kitchen. Steps quiet and hesitant, but still leading him there, pulled by the echo of his uncle that appears from Hopper.

"Munson, yeah?" Hopper says, looking at him over the contents of his medicine, as Eddie comes to a pause near the table. "Not the best of circumstances, but it's good to see you again." He reaches out, palm open and inviting.

Eddie clasps his hand in his. Weathered, bumpy calluses greets his own. Dry skin, spattered with patches and flakes, rubbed dry and then rubbed some more, until the skin broke, rubs roughly against Eddie's own. It almost reminds Eddie of his uncle's hand. The calluses and dry skin so near his, it is enough to make Eddie's heart twist with pain.
  Eddie's own calluses, from playing guitar and working at the car shop is nothing compared to Hopper's.

A squeeze of hands and their arms drop, retreating back over the space separating them.

"You too." Eddie nods, his head bopping up and down, some distant energy thrumming restlessly under his skin making him bop it up and down, up and down, his hair wiggling along with it. He stops. Forces himself to still. "You know, alive and all." He grimaces, wanting to take the words back. No doubt, Hopper will hear remarks about his health and resurrection from everyone else, he does not need Eddie to remind him of his time in Russian captivity too. Helplessly, awkwardly, Eddie tugs his mouth into a lopsided smile and shrugs. "At least you didn't have to pull me over for speeding or anything this time. Or come to drag me out of some abandoned corner."

In the early years under his uncle's care, Eddie was well aware his name had been thrown around the police station as a delinquent and budding criminal, sure to follow in his father's footsteps, who had over a handful of tally marks behind prison bars to his name, and even more nights spend in police custody than that.

In the first few years in his uncle's care, the ground beneath Eddie's feet was unsteady and his steps even more so, leaving him stumbling back and forth between the echo of his father's voice and his uncle's caring hands; Eddie, not committing crimes, but certainly calling more attention to himself, went places he shouldn't; answering the angry buzz beneath his skin and never-ending scream that burned inside of his chest, the only way he knew how. He had never done much of anything. Mostly wandered around by himself, ending up in places where people saw his dark silhouette and called the cops before they called out to him. Before Hopper came back to Hawkins, the other cops dragged him away from wherever he had found himself, pulling him by the arm back to the station and shoving him through the door, their fingers twitching as if itching to slap him in the cuffs glinting by their belts.

When Hopper came back to town, and they began sending him after Eddie instead, he treated him more like that annoying neighborhood kid that always came knocking on your door, asking to come into your backyard, because he kicked his ball over your fence, again, despite the fact that Eddie had never played any type of sports and certainly never kicked a ball around, if he could help it. Hopper never grabbed him. He simply just regarded him with tired eyes, spoke with a hazed and distant voice, whenever he managed to squeeze a few words out for him. Mostly he just found Eddie, jerked his head back towards his car and drove him home, letting him sit in the front seat and watch the world go by, rather than casting him as a criminal and putting him in the backseat, like all the other cops before him had done.

Back then, Hopper never said anything about how Eddie fidgeted and could never sit still, how he picked at his skin until he bled or scratched at his hair. And Eddie never said anything about the tremors clinging to Hopper's fingertips, his blown pupils or the empty beer cans rattling on the floor in the backseat, rolling back and forth, as they drove or the orange pill bottles he occasionally saw him surreptitiously pull out of his pocket.

With how many times people caught Eddie somewhere they deemed 'shady' or suspicious, subsequently seeing him being driven away in a police cruiser, through the town, either to his uncle's place or the police station, people just started believing that he belonged there. That he was living up to the Munson name and the father slapped behind bars more times than fingers on one hand.

Or, perhaps, it was simply easier to lump Eddie in with his father, than look any closer and face any uncomfortable truths about lonely kids, abandonment and prejudices.

"Your uncle doing okay these days?" Finished with stacking his antibiotics and pain meds and what not away, Hopper grabs a mug standing off to the side and pours coffee into it, steam rising from it. He cups it in his hands and leans back against the counter. Dark, hollow eyes watch Eddie from above the rim and through the steam rising from the mug.

"I think you could ask anyone else right now and they'd have a better answer than me." Eddie shrugs his leather jacket off and throws it across one of the two dining chairs in the kitchen. "Haven't seen him since this whole nightmare started."

Hopper hums in reply. Standing still and quiet, Hopper looks at him, his eyes darker and deeper than Eddie has seen on anyone. Gaze heavy, but surprisingly not suffocating, as if the understanding and empathy in his eyes carry everything else away. "How're you holding up?"

Something in his gaze, perhaps the understanding, perhaps the weight and shadows that Eddie only ever sees in the addicts that come to him for drugs, when their regular supplier is out of town or simply just out. He remembers seeing it in his uncle's eyes whenever Vietnam and his service there comes up. A topic Eddie has never dared to breach, only ever follows his uncle, when he brings it up himself and just listens to him, when he mumbles about it, one of the few times in a blue moon he gets spectacularly drunk, or at night, sitting on the steps of their trailer, the night sky stretching dark and infinite above them, a cigarette in his shaking hands and a nightmare clinging to the shadows by his shoulders and the hollows beneath his eyes.

"Holding up, you know." Eddie shrugs. Hooks his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and looks away from those eyes that seem to be able to look right through him. "It's—, yeah, it's a lot. It's been—” he peters off and shrugs again. One finger sticks out and he taps it against his thigh. "But we handled it. We made it through."

"Yeah, you did." Hopper steps forward. He claps him on the shoulder. His hand lingers there, heavy and warm for just a moment. "Remember that."

Lump in his throat, hard and painful, Eddie swallows thickly and nods.

Hopper claps him on the shoulder one more time. He twists around and leaves his coffee on the table. Smiling, he turns back to Eddie, tilts his head to the side and beckons. "Come, you'll be staying here a while, so you should meet my kid."

They leave the kitchen, but only have to round the corner, before they come to a stop by the door left ajar from wherein the kids’ voices come from. Hopper lifts a hand. Knuckles grazing the wood and knocks lightly on it, as he pushes it open.

The door falls open with a quiet creaking, slow and gently beneath his hand. A wash of noises and loud conversation washes over Eddie.

Inside are Max, sat in a wheelchair, at the foot of the bed, all of her limbs covered in heavy casts that have been scribbled on with a few bulging words and colorful drawings. Slings, wrapped around her neck, hold her stiff arms in place and the footrests of the wheelchair stretches out, keeping her legs aloft and straight. Her eyes lost to a veil of milky whiteness, making her eyes pale and washed out, almost bleached of color, something that look entirely too eerie and fantastical, as she turns her head to seek the sound of the door opening.

Stacked into the room are Lucas, Mike and Erica, and Dustin, having wormed his way into their midst, since making his way in here. Among them is a young teen Eddie only knows from old missing person’s posters, and a girl he has never seen before.

Every pair of eyes jerk towards them at the sound of the door opening. Their gazes fall onto Hopper standing in the doorway, missing Eddie standing half-hidden behind him.

Mike is the first to spot Eddie.

"Eddie!" he hollers and perks up. His enthusiasm slams into Eddie, even though it has to go through Hopper to reach him.

Mike jumps to his feet and lurches across the floor, throwing himself through the empty space in the doorway beside Hopper. He grinds to a halt mid-leap, almost as if slamming into a wall and comes to a stop right before Eddie. Shoes skidding and screeching against the floor. Arms half raised and an awkward, hesitant look over his face.

Rolling his eyes, Eddie puts a stop to that immediately and slings his arms around his shoulder, pulling him into a hug.

Perhaps, Eddie will miss putting the fear of god into these little shrimps with just a cutting look and a few words. It was entirely too entertaining to watch the way they would jump and startle at just a tiny gesture or sharp grin from him. But being able to tussle and wrestle with Dustin and fight off imaginary villains; to grin and laugh with him, even in the face of immediate doom and certain death, has given Eddie something he has never had before. He would not exchange that for anything. So, he makes sure to put that boundary far behind them, before Mike can build it up between them again.

When Mike pulls back, everyone in the bedroom has certainly found Eddie behind Hopper now.

The girl has risen from her place beside Max and stands by Hopper, one arm winding around him, leaning into him. One of his hands settles on her shoulder, with Hopper himself smiling down at her with a soft, entirely loving and tender look on his face.

Hopper ruffles a hand over El's buzzed hair. "This is my kid," he says with that same loving smile, his words directed at Eddie, even though nothing else is.

"You are Eddie," she says, looking at him with wide, bottomless eyes.

"I am." He nods. "And you're the El I've heard so much about."

"I am. I have to stay hiding." She looks him over. Eyes lingering on the visible patches of gauze over his wounds. "They told me you did too."

"Oh yeah. There will be no solitude within these walls,” he says, gesturing loosely at the walls around them with a smile. “Never worry. We can be Fugitive friends."

She frowns at him, brow furrowing and forehead wrinkling. "Fugitive?" she asks, voice hesitant, sounding out each syllable carefully.

"Yeah, like, a person who’s in hiding from the police or authority."

"Fugitive friends." She nods, apparently giving her seal of approval to the name he coined for them.

Saying "Sweet" and raising his hand for a fist-bump brings a smile curling from her lips. "Fugitive friends," he repeats as she bumps their fists together.

That is how Eddie is introduced to El, the superpower girl with her superpowers reclaimed and Will Byers, the kid who died and came back to life. Eddie is beginning to see a pattern within these cabin walls.

Will and Eleven, or El and Jane — as she tells him he can call her — both wear two very different expressions, upon meeting him. Will is hesitant. A sort of quiet and frozen stillness falls over him, as soon as he lays eyes on a stranger.

El is different. Her face is almost closed off. Expressionless, but her eyes on him sharp.

So, Eddie makes sure to needle Mike — who is hovering behind them, watching their exchange anxiously, eyes darting from El and Eddie, to Will and back to Eddie, as if he cannot quite decide which of them to watch most — about Will being quite a popular topic, as Mike is incapable of going through a Hellfire campaign without talking about him at least once, and by Dustin and Lucas who likes to mention him too, and he is honored to meet such a reputable D&D player and DM. His flowery words and praise brings a hesitant smile spreading across Will's face and an interesting flush rising to his cheeks. He glances between Eddie and Mike. Eyes furtively darting towards Mike behind him, which Eddie eyes, for just a moment, eyebrow rising in consideration. But he leaves it be. For now. And instead turns to the supergirl, still plastered alongside her pseudo dad's side and says, "I am honored to meet you at last, El." He puts a hand on his chest and bows his head. "These people certainly have talked about you, but they never did say just how badass you look. Rocking that hairdo I must say." He waves a hand at her hair, circling the air in approximation of her buzzed hair. "You know, I had buzzed hair once too, but I never did wear it as well as you do." He nods. "It's metal."

"Metal?"

"Yeah, you know, something cool and badass."

Smiling, El nods. "Bitchin'."

"Sure." He grins. "Bitchin'."

Shortly after that declaration, they leave the kids to their own devises. Hopper shows him to an old ratty and musty curtain that hangs on a rack, separating the room behind it from the living room. The space behind the curtain is small and still dusty and the furniture is sparse. There is really just a single, rickety cupboard, a thin mattress on the floor and a single bed. He is quick to tell Eddie the bed is his place to sleep from now on. Eddie does protest, but Hopper brings up the medicine he packed away previously and the bandages bulging beneath Eddie's shirt.

"I won't have any injured kids sleeping on the floor or couch. Not under this roof." As with his medicine, that is that. Hopper takes the chair in the living room, Eddie the bed and no one will hear anything off it.

In the afternoon, well installed in the cabin, Eddie has claimed the couch, a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring — which Dustin ceremoniously handed him, after pointing out three bags in the bedroom behind the curtain as the ones he and Steve filled with his stuff, after their trip to the trailer while they were waiting for Eddie to wake up — balanced on his lap. Right next to him, plastered up against his side, sits Dustin, reading along with him. Every time he reaches the bottom of the page, he hums. It falls near perfectly with Eddie's own speed and he can turn the page mere seconds after reaching it himself.

"It's symbiotic, Eddie," Dustin first said in defense of himself, when he plastered himself up Eddie's side, and Eddie told him it would be a mess to read side by side from the same book. He has one hand on the book, keeping it still from Eddie's perpetually bouncing legs. Whenever Eddie turns a page, he flicks out his thumb, and takes a hold of the page Eddie tugs under his hold. It is more comforting than Eddie thought it would be.

When Dustin first began reading with him, he thought he would end up not being able to concentrate on the pages himself, forced to sit still and keep that buzzing and hum underneath his skin locked up tight. But the second he bounced his knee and the movement rippled through him and the book he held, he was able to bring his eyes to the words and follow them. Dustin simply reached out and held onto one side of the book. Keeping it still enough for the both of them to be able to read the words across the page.

So Eddie is sat, bouncing his knee violently, the couch almost shaking beneath him, to his heart’s content with not a single comment from Dustin, as they follow Tolkien's words from the Shire to Rivendell.

Somewhere nearby Steve sits in the armchair, head buried in a newspaper. Feet crossed at his ankles and lying on the coffee table. When Eddie first installed himself in the couch with the book, Robin was sat with Steve in the armchair, curled up in his lap and laid against his chest, despite how difficult it must be to sit like that painlessly with the wounds and injuries Steve gained in the Upside Down. But at some point, she stood up, dropped a kiss to the crown of Steve’s head and disappeared behind the curtain leading to the bathroom. Shortly after, the sound of the shower turned on.

The door leading outside is wide open. Air blows through it, gushing excitedly through it. A fresh breeze picks its way through the cabin, ruffling discarded papers, curtains and falling softly over their skin.
  Somewhere past it, among the trees and cars left in the makeshift driveway are Mrs. Byers and Hopper. The breeze brings the distant smell of their cigarette smoke towards Eddie’s nose. Its familiar smell scratch lightly at his nostrils.

In the middle of the page, Eddie’s eyes are drawn up away from the book, as he catches movement by El’s bedroom door. The wood swings open and Eddie follows its beckoning. Voices rise, blowing like the crash of a wave through the cabin. A firm thunk and a petulant click of a tongue closes the door once more. Muffling the sound behind it again. Erica walks away from the door. Arms crossed and a petulant expression on her face. Loudly she stomps across the floor and plops herself down on the couch beside Dustin.

"What are you two nerds reading?" she drawls.

"Lord of the Rings," Dustin says, distractedly. "And it's more than just nerdy. It's a phenomenon."

"Whatever you say, nerd," she stresses, the roll of her eyes audible in her tone of voice.

"If you don't like us nerds so much, why'd you come out here?" Dustin says, leaning away from Eddie and the book, crossing his arms and looking down at her.

"Lucas is being a toadface," she says, her tone practically dripping the with the unspoken 'uh duh'.

"The little queen is welcome to share the journey of the fellowship," Eddie declares softly, voice quieter and more subdued than they both would have become familiar with in the drama club room at school, surrounded by D&D figurines, atmospheric background music and the familiar clatter of dice hitting the board; eyes still directed to the page before him.

For a brief moment, Erica looks incredibly pleased with being called Queen, but then the pleasure drops and she cuts them a look, snorting derisively. "As if I'd want to read crap like that."

"You don't know what you're missing, man. Lord of the Rings is a cultural classic. It's transformative," Dustin's voice rings with reverence.

"What's so good about it?" Erica's voice in comparison rings with sarcastic disregard and a clear 'I know better than you' tone.

"I don't know, you tell me. What's so good about the wars to end all wars, the fight for humanity, the rise of an age with the mourning of the one before passing. Good versus evil and the hope and strength of small people carrying the fate of it all," Dustin's know it all attitude shines with his every word.

To the side, Steve huffs a small chuckle. The sound brings Eddie to glance at him. He catches his eyes, the newspaper lowered and slack enough to be seen. Steve shakes his head at him. A mocking 'what can you do' headshake. A ghost from a mirror world of their own with Dustin's voice echoing from far away and shared looks above impossible glowing lights.

A snort escapes from Eddie and he has to duck his head to hide his grin.

"If you loved your Lady Applejack and Eddie's high elf Llorelei and dwarf Iorik, you'd love the characters in this one."

"Can't be cooler than Applejack." Tilting her head up, Erica crosses her arms firmly again.

"And how would you know?"

Lips pursed, Erica scans Dustin up and down. "Alright, nerds," she says, dropping her crossed arms. She crawls across the couch. Stabs her elbow into Dustin, pushing him back and away. "You've had that book for long enough. It's my turn."

"Hey, hey!" Dustin shouts. His arms shoot up. They push and shove at Erica, fending her off.

Shouting with protest, Erica knees his thighs, arms wafting through the air, clawing for the book in Eddie's hands.

Jerking back and away, Eddie leans over the armrest of the couch. Arms stretched up and out, holding the book up in the air, well away from the two.

Laughter fills Eddie's chest and bursts from his mouth. Steve isn't faring much better. He rolls his eyes, but his shoulders and chest shake. A quiet laugh coming from him.

Turning fully away from Eddie, Dustin faces Erica. Arms raised and hooked onto her shoulders, holding her away from him, as he ducks and swerves, evading her attacks. She doubles down. Pulls her knees under her and sits up. Hands on Dustin's shoulders, she pushes forward, pulling and shaking him back and forth, trying to dislodge him.

"I've been stuck listening to Lucas and Mike yammer about shit for hours. You've had the book for just as long. Just give it over. It's my turn."

"Nu uh!" Dustin manages between bursts of laughter and gasping breaths. "You can't just come and claim it in the middle of everything! We've just gotten to the good part! Besides, you can't start with the Fellowship. You have to read the Hobbit first."

"And?" Between tugs and pulls in their roughhousing, she levels an impressed stare at him. "You've clearly read it before. You're not the boss of me. I don't care what I have to read first. I want to read that one."

"You can't—” Dustin huffs. "She can't—” he breaks off with a huff and a struggled breath. Arms wrapped around Erica's arm and shoulder, palms pushing her back, he turns and looks back at Eddie. "Tell her, Eddie. She can't come and claim it while we're reading. That's not how it works!"

"He's not the master or leader or whatever you nerds call him, not anymore." Erica says, pulling a face. "He can't tell me what's what."

Pulling and pushing at each other, they both look at Eddie expectantly.

A large grin still twisting across his face, laughter bubbling from his chest, Eddie frees one hand from the book and holds it up. "The lady has spoken. Who am I to deny the curious from Tolkien's work?"

"Son of a bitch," Dustin complains, turning back to Erica, wiggling away from her jabbing foot. "Stop that!" He twists away from her kicking foot. It sends him shooting back, jerking into Eddie, pushing him further into the armrest.

Pain ignites. It bursts to life from the wounds littering Eddie’s torso, like shooting sparks off of flames. It stabs him from his chest and small sparks of lightning shoots through him. A grimace twists across his face. Hissing, he jerks away from the armrest. He stops mid-move. Catching himself. Slowly, he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. The pain only builds, jolting through him. His body freezes up. Every muscle seizes up. Breath caught in his lungs.

"Okay, that's enough." Newspaper dropped, Steve jolts forward. He jumps across the space, surging up off his chair within the space of a single breath. Arms out, he comes forward, reaching for the two wrestling rascals.

"Steve, Steve, no! Don't you dare! Stay back!" Dustin yells. Twisting and turning, he pulls his leg out and kicks at Steve. Foot flapping against Steve's legs, fending him off and trying to trip him up.

Erica yells, her voice shrill between Dustin's shouts.

Elbowing his way forward, Steve pushes his arms between them and tugs playfully at them.

United in a common goal, Dustin and Erica turn away from each other and begin attacking Steve. Yelling a war cry Lady Applejack would have been proud off, Erica hops up on her feet and flings herself over Steve's back. She slings one arm around his neck and shoves another into hair. Hand pushing at his head and messing up his hair. Dustin wraps his legs around Steve's, crossing ankles between his thighs, arms clamped around his hips and a single hand wrapped around his left hand, fingers curled around his wrist, tying it down. And Steve hops awkwardly about, slinging himself all over, trying to shake them off with no success, much to Erica’s shrieking delight and Dustin’s raucous laughter.

Eddie watches it all happen with a distant horror and a kind of wonder; wondering just how often these kids have seen Steve bruised and broken, but still acting and walking about as if he is perfectly alright, for them to so easily see past and forget the numerous wounds he carries; wonders just how often Steve brushes away his own hurts for others, the way he just did for Eddie and the way he continues to do so for Erica and Dustin. It is a kind of wonder to see and horrific, all at the same time.

Steve stumbles. Hopping and limping, as if he was the one with the bad leg. Looking like a deformed hunchback like creature, he stumbles away from the couch, two yelling kids attached and wrapped around him, like aggressive, screeching koalas. Caught underneath their constantly shifting weight and playful tugs, Steve overbalances. He trips backwards right into the coffee table and it, mercilessly, blocks and trips him up.

“Die, Sailor!” Erica cries and gives one final yank on his arm and down he goes.

Yelling, Steve falls over and crashes to the ground. The two kids yanked along with him. Limbs sprawl and flail through the air. Bodies crash to the ground with heavy thumps and bumps, quickly chased away by Steve’s heavy groan.

Book kept safe in his hands, Eddie leans forward and looks down at them.

Somehow, Steve managed to twist in his fall and he lies on his side. Shoulder and arm squished beneath him. The side of his face is pressed into the floorboards, cheek pillowed like a squirrels. Erica still hangs on his back. Shifted to the side, one arm still around Steve and lying by his chest, cocooned in one of Steve’s arms, safe from the fall.

Dustin lies by his stomach. Curled up around his leg and waist, his face pressed into him.

Eddie grins down at them. “‘So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion,’” he quotes with gravitas. “‘And so pass also the days of Gondor that you have known; for good or evil they are ended.²'”

"Shut up, man," Steve huffs, voice muffled and pressed into the floor in front of him. Air blows from his mouth in a pointed huff. “Do you have that entire book memorized or what?”

Eddie tilts his head to the side. “Hmm. Just about,” he says with a thoughtful expression on his face. Then, he grins and asks, eyes sweeping him up and down, "You good down there?"

"Vecna was easier to handle than these two, I swear."

Tugging at his own arms and legs, Dustin pulls himself free from the tangle of human limbs. He turns around and sits down on Steve's legs. Arms crossed in front of his chest, as he stares down at Steve with a lifted chin. A triumphant and superior expression spread across his face. "You should have learned not to interfere in battles for justice by now."

A long-suffering sigh blows from Steve's chest. He drops his head back. It thumps against the floor with a boney thunk. "Somehow, I still don't know any better."

Dustin grins smugly down at him. Every part of him screams superiority and arrogance.

Steve rolls his eyes at him. "You gonna sit there and gloat all night? Get off, man." Raising the only hand not pinned down by his own body, Steve shoos at Dustin, flapping his hand at him.

"I don't know. It's kinda nice down here." Smirk widening, he wiggles in place. "Even if you're not exactly the softest chair."

"I'll take that a compliment." Managing to place his palm against the floor, Steve turns. The muscle in his arm flexes as he pushes against the floor.

Quickly freeing herself, Erica scoots over the floor, inching away from him.

Expression still twisted in mocking victory, Dustin shifts with Steve. Sitting firmly in his lap when Steve has turned, lying with his back against the floor.

Steve stares unimpressed up at Dustin.

The two stare at each other. Expressions caught between unimpressed and prompting and victorious superiority.

Wordlessly, the two communicate. Expression twisting and shifting. Eyebrows flick up and down. Mouths pull and twist.

Rising to her feet, Erica walks around the two caught at impasse and plops herself down on the couch next to Eddie. "Does that mean I win?" she says, reaching out towards the book in Eddie's hands.

"No! Hey! No way!" Dustin scrambles off Steve. Feet squeaking against the floor, he jumps back towards the couch, hopping on his one fully functioning foot over Steve's spread out legs. "That doesn't count! Steve's the one that lost!" He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, back at him.

Argument picking back up, their voices fill the air, loud and indignant, nearly drilling into Eddie's ears.

Mumbled words comes from Steve, sounding perilously close to, "Ungrateful brat." But he pushes off the floor and sits up, pulling his legs back to himself. Using the coffee table, he braces himself with a flat palm and pushes up off the floor, gathering his legs underneath himself. Air hisses past his teeth and his hand jerks towards stomach. He stops it in mid-air. Letting it hover, tense and stiff before him. Face twisted in a brief mask of pain. Quickly, he wipes his expression clear. But his body remains stiff, every muscle tense, his movements almost jagged, as he goes to walk back to the armchair.

Before he can go too far, Eddie, still huddled by the side of the couch against the armrest, reaches out and grabs onto his arm.

Pausing, Steve looks down at him with a crooked eyebrow.

"You okay, man?" Eddie says quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the arguing taking place right next to him.

Throwing a quick glance down himself, Steve crooks a wry grin. He looks back up at Eddie with a quirked eyebrow. "Yeah, it's fine." He shrugs and waves a hand. "It's not like I haven't had worse."

"Still, you shouldn't be wrestling against hyper kids with those wounds. Might pull your stitches." He points towards the spots in Steve's stomach, where he knows the demon bats gouged out at least a pound.

"It'll pass." He shrugs again. "Besides, they were hurting you."

"Doesn't make me feel better it hurt you instead."

"It's fine, don't worry your pretty head about it, Munson." Flapping a hand in the air, Steve waves away his concern and walks the last few steps. Carefully, much more carefully than when he sat down earlier, he lowers himself down on the chair, folding himself back against the cushions. A sigh escapes from his chest. Shoulders easing and loosening up.

After considering Steve one final time, Eddie turns back to the two arguing beside him. "Alright!" He claps his hands loudly together. The clap whips through the cabin. Mouths snapping shut, Dustin and Erica stills and turns to look at him, eyes widening. "The fall of man over the hobbits—”

"Come on, man," Steve complains.

“—has decreed what shall be read," Eddie continues, ignoring Steve. Discarding the Fellowship on the table with a loud fwoomp, Eddie rises from the couch. He ducks briefly into the room with Hopper's old bed, given to Eddie for his perusal. He heads for the bags of his belongings by the wall and sticks his hand into one of them, rummaging around until his fingers curl over another book and he pulls it out.

The cover is used, foraged from his beloved book dumpster from the thrift store. Old paint splatters are scattered across it from when Eddie painted D&D figurines a little too close to it and did not care enough to move it out of the danger zone. Smudges of chocolate, coffee and ketchup — from when Eddie was reading and did not want to put it down just to eat — also paint the surface. The smudged out, dried spots lie amongst the painted landscape cover of green fields, grey mountains and treacherous terrain and Eddie would not have it any other way.

He turns and heads back towards the door opening, but an object catches his eyes and he immediately grinds to a halt. Eyes snapping to the wall with an incredulous, almost hysterical laugh bubbling inside of his chest, threatening to burst out of him. He just about stops himself. Bites his lips and takes a deep breath.

What has captured Eddie’s attention so, is a baseball bat. But it is no ordinary baseball bat. Oh, no. Of course it isn’t. It is none other than the baseball bat. One that he did not notice earlier, when he went to grab The Fellowship of the Ring with Dustin right on his heels.

Up against the wall, is an epic looking baseball bat with tons of nails hammered into it and sticking out of the end. It’s metal, is what it is. And Eddie knows very well to whom it belongs. The third day in the lab, when he was there with Nancy, Dustin told him a story or two about their previous adventures with the Upside Down. Much of which made very little sense to Eddie, because the little shit was so enthusiastic about being able to tell him about it all, finally, he forgot to actually explain any of it to him. Which means all Eddie has is this rapid-fire, extremely detailed play-by-play description of how Steve Harrington fought a small army of demodogs in a junkyard, but little idea of how he got there or why and what a demo-dog even is, except a smaller demogorgon — which from the description he’s been told, looks nothing like its DnD counterpart and Eddie would like a chat with the kids why they named those monsters after them despite knowing this, which is a punishable offense if you ask him — concerning references to a fight with Billy and not much else.

Giving the bat another once over, eyes lingering on the abundance of nails sticking out of it, Eddie shakes his head and gives another little, incredulous, “hah!” that toes the line of hysteria. Wrenching his glued down feet off the ground, he escapes the room, the monster hunting gear, and any other Upside down memorabilia it may hold.

Book in hand, he ducks through the curtain hanging in the doorway and returns to the living room.

As he catches sight of Dustin and Erica waiting for him, he waves the book in the air. A grin stretching from his lips.

Erica wrinkles her nose at it.

Dustin looks at Erica. Grin stretching from his lips and pushing his cheeks into chipmunk like rounds. "You sure you want to stay for this, Erica? Not sure your stats can handle anymore. There'll be no going back after this. Tolkien's all or nothing, you know. Your nerd stats will rise to unsalvageable heights."

Eyes seizing him up and down, Erica throws him an unimpressed look. "You won't be getting rid of me that easily. You shouldn't be calling me nerd as often as you do. It loses its power with every repeat." She crosses her arms and lifts her chin high, sniffing. "Besides, my other stats are still better than yours. I think it weighs out."

Eddie makes his way back to the couch and reclaims his previous seat. "Brave warriors," he calls out, voice stretched regal and mighty, as if he is still sat in the throne that is locked away in the drama room of Hawkins High. If Eddie ever returns to finish his senior year and manages to claim his diploma, he has plans of sneaking into school and steal that throne, taking it with him. His uncle has claimed he will have to find somewhere else to live, if he does, as there's not enough space for that and Eddie's ego both in their trailer, but Eddie figures, if he plays his cards right, he can swing it and succeed in sneaking it in under his uncle's nose. Either way, he will find a way to get it, even if he has to disguise it as their living room chair or somehow find space for it in Eddie's own room. Maybe he can shove it into the tiny shower stall for storage, when neither of them are using it?
  At least, those were all thoughts and considerations he had before hell literally broke out and tore through Hawkins, wrecking Eddie's already messed up life, their trailer and any and all chances he had of graduating his third repeat of senior year.

Wiggling in his seat, Dustin settles back down on the couch, folding himself up next to Eddie. Head turned to Erica, he says, "You wanted to read it, well—" he nods his head towards the book held between Eddie's ringed fingers "—this is what you get. You can't read Lord of the Rings before the Hobbit. You'll just have to trust us on that."

"Trust you?" An exaggerated sneer works its way across her face and she crosses her arms, staring down her nose at him, despite her head being lower than his, even though she’s sat on her knees. "Yeah, no thanks. You're the ones who endangered a ten year old child in a Commie bunker."

"As if! We didn't know it would lead us to a small military base!"

"Details." She flaps a hand in his face. "I still missed Uncle Jack's birthday and I still haven't heard an apology for that."

"Dustin," Eddie tuts, voice exaggerated, all theatrical, dragging his name out in comical disappointment, eyebrows furrowing at him, "you haven't apologized for dragging her to Russia and making her miss a birthday party?"

"It wasn't Russia!" he protests, throwing his arms up in the air. "It was a secret Russian bunker."

"As if that makes a difference,” she sniffs. "All I hear is this—” Erica flaps her hand back and forth, fingers opening and closing like mimicking a puppet “—when I should be hearing, 'Oh, Erica,'" her voice falls into a low pitched mimicry of Dustin's voice and she folds her hands together, clutches them to her chest in a mimicked begging act, as she leans up closer to Dustin, "'I'm so sorry, I made you miss Uncle Jack's birthday and endangered your life last summer.'" She drops her hands, folds her arms across her chest and leans away from him again, staring at him with her eyebrows climbing high on her brow. "And look," she looks around at them again, "here we all are again, having fought another monster. Child endangerment." Fingers outstretched, she touches them on his chest and pushes him, making him sway lightly away from her. "Just saying," she adds, all matter of fact, crossing her arms once more.

"This time doesn't count!" Dustin's voice pitches higher. "You inserted yourself into this and demanded to be involved."

"‘Course I did," she huffs, rolling her eyes, "You nerds don't know what you're doing. You're lucky, I was there to help you all out. You'd probably all be dead without me. Just like when I saved your asses as Lady Applejack."

"You can't be serious," Dustin bitches. Looking between Steve and Eddie, he asks, "Either of you going to say anything about this." And waves a hand in the air, gesturing wildly at Erica, who is still staring expectantly at him.

"Looks to me, she has everything under control," Eddie says, settling back against the cushions.

Steve barks a small laugh. At Dustin's abhorrent glare, he snaps a hand up and hides his laugh in it. A play-acted cough bubbles from his mouth into his closed fist.

"Steve!" he calls offended. He turns back to Erica and throws his arm out at Steve. "What about him! He's the adult! You should be asking him for your apology."

"Mhmm, maybe I will. But first I have to collect yours. I'm traumatized for life, you know. Especially from having to hear your rendition and butchering of Never-ending Story. That was worse than the commies." Over Dustin's loud protests, she quirks her eyebrow at him even more. "I'm waiting."

"Fine!" Huffing loudly, he throws his arms up into the air. "Erica," he says, turning to face her. "I'm sorry for endangering your life and pulling you into a secret Russian military base and into all the shit with the Upside Down."

"Hmm." She glances him up and down, chewing on her cheek in consideration, "Okay," she finally says and settles back against the couch cushions. "I'll consider forgiving you."

"Son of a bitch," Dustin says quietly, more to himself than them, "You're a hardass, you know that?"

"Thank you," she says, raising her head high and flipping imaginary hair over her shoulder, "I do my best."

They both finally fall quiet.

"You guys ready now?" Eddie asks, propping the book up in his lap as if it's a done deal.

"I still haven't agreed to this," Erica says.

"You're free to leave any minute." Dustin sweeps his arm out in the direction of El’s door.

Nose wrinkling, Erica does not respond. But she does free her legs from beneath herself and sit back comfortably on the couch.

Dustin eyes her with raised eyebrows and a superior expression on his face. "No? I thought so."

A scowl breaks out across Erica’s face and she kicks out at Dustin's thigh.

Dustin jerks away from her with a loud hiss, palm smoothing up and down his thigh.

"Okay, okay," Eddie holds his hand out, palm flat and open, "the battle has been fought and won, my brave knights, it is time to rest your sword and your poison-soaked kukri. Rest your weary souls for the night, or you will be banished to the other room." He jerks his chin towards El's bedroom door.

"No no! We're good!" Dustin holds his palms up in surrender.

Erica wrinkles her nose and sneers, "I'm not going back in there,” voice full of derision.

"So, it has been decided. Settle down and listen to Eddie the Banished tell the tale of the Hobbit-thief, who has never stolen a thing, the King under the mountain and his companions of twelve of dwarves, and their wizard guide." Propping the book up once more, Eddie cracks it open. He turns to the first page with a soft rustle of pages crinkling.

Eyes falling over the page, he begins reading aloud, letting his voice draw the picture of the Shire, a good morning that could mean many things and the beginning of a big adventure for a small hobbit and the beginning of it all. When he reads for any of the characters, he falls into the theatrics he so loves; stretching his voice into high pitches and low grumbles, giving each character his own pitch and timbre; falling into roles of the wizened wizard, the sprightly dwarf and his many companions, the tortured King under the Mountain and the Hobbit at the heart of it all.

Surprisingly, Steve stays in the armchair, gaze drifting lazily and unfocused, listening to Eddie's reading.

Shortly after he begins reading, the door to El's door opens once more and the girl herself comes out. She spares them a single, brief glance, hardly worthy of any notice and crosses the floor, heading outside. The door falls quietly shut behind her, as quick and quiet as she was. Not long after that, Robin comes out from the bathroom. Hair damp and newly washed and wearing what looks like a blue polo underneath her soft flannel that Eddie is certain belongs to a certain jock. As her gaze falls over their cozy gathering, a smile stretches from her mouth.

Glancing at her over the edge of the book, Eddie's eyes meets hers for a moment. A grin of his own stretches from his lips, mangling the words drifting from his mouth.

She pads across the floor and drops to the ground by Steve's legs, leaning back against them. "Missed me, babe?" she talks loud enough for her words to reach Eddie above his reading.

"You know it." Steve ducks forward and presses a kiss to the top of her head. He sweeps a hand across her neck, fingers grazing over her skin and pulling damp strands of hair away from her skin, where they lie plastered. The collar of the polo flicks as his hand passes over her neck, but other than a private, loving smile, Steve says nothing to it.

"Good. I'm your better half." Her words award her a finger flicked at her head and Robin scrunches her face at Steve in return. The bubble around them breaks as Robin turns her eyes to Eddie. She tips her head down and jerks her chin towards Eddie. "Which one?"

"The Hobbit,” Steve tells her. His hands inch forward and settle on her shoulders, squeezing them.

"Nice." Wiggling a little in place, she settles further back into Steve's legs and his grip on her shoulders. Neither of them move away and Steve keeps his palms resting on her.

Through it all, Eddie continues reading.

As he reads on, a flicker of movement occasionally pulls Eddie's eyes away from the page and his eyes fall over Steve pulling his fingers through Robin's hair, fidgeting briefly with it as if going to braid it or otherwise style it. But he always let's it drop through his fingers, letting it fall back, where it sways shortly back and forth before stilling against Robin's neck again.

Somewhere between pages turning with a soft rustle and his voice turning softer, Erica lays down in Dustin's lap, while Dustin himself sags into Eddie’s shoulder, and still he reads on. Soft breaths fill his ears in a gentle breeze of their life, along with the muffled music playing from the other room.

Sitting there on the couch, Dustin pressed into his shoulder and Erica lying on down beside him, Steve and Robin near him, hovering on the edge of his vision; a gentle form of tranquility settles into Eddie's bones; the rush of his blood falls quiet and still, losing the rush and anxiety that's been picking up and jerking through him at intervals, ever since he woke up in that hospital bed; a fear that remains clinging to his skin with every inch of its teeth, as if reluctant to let him go, finally fades in the tranquil air that settles over them.

Time passes. Grains of sand that run through the cracks between Eddie’s fingers, time itself cupped in Eddie's hands, carried on by the soothing sound of his reading of The Hobbit and the gentle rise and fall of Dustin and Erica's snoozing breaths.

A few chapters into the book, the shadows all through the cabin have moved and the slivers of light shining from cracks in the boarded up windows have shifted, Eddie pauses. Voice raspy and throat dry with every word he speaks rubbing against his throat. When no one protests and urges him impatiently on, Eddie lays the book down in his lap.

Carefully, he stretches his arms up above himself, stretching as much as he can without waking Dustin and Erica. The motion pulls at his back. Soft and muffled little cracks pops the tension alongside his spine and back, clicking it into place. A small groan falls from his mouth at the release of tension that floods his spine after the fact.

Somewhere across from him, Steve stands. Robin leans away, giving him space to move. He ducks away for a moment, disappearing into the kitchen adjacent to Eddie’s right. Water runs, splashing against a sink. Then it shifts, splashing against something softer and smaller. Sounds of it filling up container after container fill the living room in absence of Eddie's voice.

When he comes back, he is holding five colorful, mismatched plastic cups. Held precariously between his fingers. Crouching down, he lets Robin pluck one from his grip. Barely a glance between them has her grinning at him. “Always the babysitter, huh?” she comments, voice dry and bright, but reaches out to relieve him of two of the cups, scoots forward and pushes them across the table within reach of Dustin and Erica.

On cue, Steve rolls his eyes and huffs. “Someone has to make sure they stay hydrated. They’re already bruised and injured, I don’t want them to end up dehydrated too,” as he speaks, he rises to his full height and crosses back over to the couch, keeping his head slightly turned and eyes on Robin.

“And you do it so well!”

Steve rolls his eyes again and holds out one of the last two cups towards Eddie. The red one.

Surprise flashes across Eddie’s face and he blinks stupefied at Steve. After a short pause, he takes it from his hands. "Thank you," he says quietly, throat still rasping slightly.

Steve wordlessly waves his gratitude away and goes to sit back down in the chair with his own cup in hand.

Eddie downs half his cup in two big mouthfuls, while Robin and Steve sip at theirs. He lowers the cup and keeps ahold of it with one hand.

"You know, you don't have to do that, right?" Steve asks once he has lowered his own cup of water, his voice all quiet and gentle. He gives a single nod of his head towards Eddie and the book laying in his lap.

Eddie shrugs. "I don't mind." He looks down at the book. Runs his free hand over the used and creased cover in circles. A soft swishing sound drifts up from where his skin smooths over the surface. He runs over one more circle, then shifts his hand. Curls up his fingers loosely, all except one, which he uses to follow the curving title; following the curve of each letter carefully with the tips of his finger, like the curving letters show the steps of a dance for his finger to follow. He speaks to the book, even if his words are for another, "After all they've been through, if I can help them get some fun or peace and relief in any way these days, I'll take it."

"It's good of you. Kind." The words make Eddie look up. Eyes darting up, immediately landing on Steve. Gentle hazel eyes meet his own. The regard inside of them is deep and dark. Warmth builds inside of them, burning out at Eddie.

A short, quiet moment passes. Indie-like and soft pop sounds fall through the air, sneaking between them distorted and muffled by El’s bedroom door and the muffled sounds of their voices. In its grasp, Robin takes another sip of her water, sets it off aside on the table and holds her hand up and back, fingers flicking open and closed for Steve’s. He too takes another quick sip, then holds it out, leaving it in Robin’s hand and she leans forward one more time to set it off on the table, right beside her own.

Eddie keeps his cup close to his stomach. The bottom balanced on top of his thigh and little finger, curled beneath it. One finger runs up and down its side. Nail scratching at the rough and almost grainy-like surface texture.

After another short, quiet moment, Steve throws his hand out, gesturing loosely towards Eddie and clears his throat. "It's a good story, though. You’re a good reader. I can see why the kids adore you in that D&D game you play."

Gasping, Eddie clutches a dramatic hand to his chest and leans back against the backrest of the sofa behind him, as if struck. The movement is smaller and weaker than it would have been two weeks ago. "I must be having a heart attack. Steve Harrington likes Tolkien? And he recognizes a Dungeons and Dragons talent, when he sees one?" He pretends to swoon for a moment, then drops his hand back down. It falls limp and flat back into his lap. Following it down, his eyes land on the book in his lap once more. Gaze soft and contemplative. With a small, twisting smile, Eddie adds in a low and quiet voice, "We truly must be in another dimension."

"Yeah, yeah, hold your horses," Steve's voice too is subdued, lacking of the same energy missing from Eddie. Movement flutter in the corner of Eddie’s eyes and he follows it up to catch Steve holding a hand in the air. Palm out, hand moving up and down towards Dustin in a weak and lackluster flapping motion. "Don't tell the little shithead, though.” Eyes rolling, but lips smiling softly, he drops his hand down along the side of the armchair, loose and slack. “He's been trying to make me read Lord of the Rings and all those books for years. I'd never hear the end of it."

Eddie sews his lips shut, then mimes turning the key and throwing it over his shoulder. "My lips are sealed, Harrington." Leaning forward, palm placed on the book closed in his lap, he grins secretly at him. "Your secret's safe with me," he says and throws him a wink.

Robin snorts. She tilts her head back, damp hair splaying all over Steve’s knees and looks up at him with a teasing grin. "Wouldn't want anyone thinking you a nerd, right babe?" A click of her tongue sends a wink his way.

Steve knees her in her back. It jostles through her and she jerks forward. Grunting, she lifts her arm and elbows him, digging her elbow into his shin. Steve hisses and doubles forward. His knees jerk up, pushing against her and she falls forward, dangerously close to crashing to the ground.

"Okay, okay!" she says, raising her hands in surrender. "You win." She twists and slaps his knees, mumbling, "See if I ever sit by your knobbly knees again."

A snort bursts from Steve's mouth. "As if you have another best friend to sit with."

"Maybe I do." She throws a hand in Eddie's direction. "I'm sure Eddie will appreciate me more than you ever did."

"Whoa whoa!" Steve jerks forward as if shot through with a spark of electricity. "Let's not say anything either of us might regret tomorrow. Besides, you know how Eddie sits at the best of times." He too throws a gesture at Eddie, arm jabbing through the air, Eddie almost feels under fire. "Dude can't sit still under the best of circumstances. He was rocking the car all the way from the lab to here with his fidgeting."

Holding his hands up, one palm out, the other cupped around his cup, Eddie shows his empty hands. Well. Hand. The other is still keeping a hold of his cup. "Guilty as charged," he says, smiling. "I cannot sit still for the life of me."

"See, Buckley? I'm your best option, babe, and you know it." Smiling smugly, Steve settles back down in the chair, offering up the space by his legs with a pat-pat of his hands by his knees.

"Yeah, yeah." Robin flaps a hand back and forth in the air, flapping his hands away. "Platonic soulmates for life and all that. Now move your piggy hands so I can sit."

As she crawls back into her spot, Steve holds his hands up and frowns down at them, eyes darting back and forth. Gaze jerking to Eddie's, he mouths, "Piggy?"

"You've got nothing to worry about, darling," Eddie dismisses, "I think they're lovely hands."

Robin's eyes darts to Eddie’s. Their eyes lock. She coughs into her hand, quickly averting her gaze.

Before Steve can think too much about that, Eddie holds the book up in the air and gives it a gentle wiggle. "Wanna hear more?"

Gaze hesitant and careful, Steve glances at the slumping figures of Erica and Dustin. He makes a small grimace. "Better not until they're awake again. We’d all go deaf from their complaints."

"Don't be so sure," Robin comments, eyebrows arched at Eddie. "If Eddie's hearing could be damaged, it would have happened years ago with all that heavy metal."

Shaking his head, Eddie tuts at them. "Your ears don't know what they're missing out on."

"And thank god for that. I’ve already filled out my quota," Steve says, making very little sense to Eddie and sagging into the armchair.

Eyebrows arched and quirking, Eddie says, "So, you don't want me to perform a rendition of the most metal concert ever?" He barely just saves the smile on his face from falling into a grimace at his own slip-up and reminder of it all. Well, he never said, he was perfect.

"Sure." Steve shrugs. His eyes search Eddie’s face. "If you'd feel up for it."

"I'd fucking love to hear you play!" Robin jolts forward. Hands slapping her own knee and eyes widening.

A wry smile twists from Steve's lips. "Dustin's been raving about it non-stop, since we got you to the hospital and knew you'd live through it. It's just been yab-yab-yab non-stop—” he touches his thumb to his fingers, moving them up and down like the mouth of a puppet opening and closing “—'Eddie was so awesome' this and 'Master of Puppets' that." He gives a valiant roll of his eyes, despite the smile betraying him from a mile away. "It would be annoying, if it was anyone else."

"Aw, you going soft on me, Harrington?" Eddie bats his eyes at him. Smile stretching a little too bright to be truly teasing.

"Just growing used to you, it's like an overgrown wart—” he gestures loosely in the air, somewhat successfully in Eddie's direction “—at some point you just get used to seeing the sucker on the side of your face."

"King Steve?" He raises his eyebrows at him. "I hardly believe you have much experience with that."

Robin claps her hands on her thighs repeatedly, pulling their eyes to her. "If you can put aside warts and male friendship rituals aside," she says, cutting them an unimpressed look. "I would have loved to see you play, Eddie." She folds her hands together on her knees and looks at him. A bright smile spreads across her face. "We'd be a better audience than those demo-bats too."

"Not exactly a tough crowd to beat."

"Who knows, maybe they're metal fans," Eddie adds with a large grin. "They did come running from far and wide just to hear me."

"Or maybe they were just desperate to put a stopper to that racket."

Eddie grabs a pillow free from Dustin and Erica's collapsed huddle and throws it at Steve. It hurtles through the air and smacks into Robin's unprotected face. Bulls-eye, if he had been going for her. She disappears behind the pillow with a squawk. Well, Eddie never was very athletic. It is a wonder it even hit her that perfectly.

Eddie winces and grimaces in mock sympathy. "Sorry. That was meant for Steve." Perking up, he clicks his fingers. "Although, given that you're attached at the hip, it stands to reason I can hit Robin and by default hit Steve too."

Scowling, Robin smacks the pillow away and rakes a hand through her hair, smoothing flyaway strands down. "We're not that codependent."

"I literally saw you asleep on top of one another in one chair in the lab, when there was a free one right next to it."

"We're recovering from trauma. It doesn't count,” she sniffs, but does not look particularly bothered.

Just before evening falls over the cabin, Joyce goes around and collects the kids to drive them home. They shuffle reluctantly through the living room and out the door. Apparently, even though they are trying to keep a low profile and keep Hopper’s return quiet and El hidden, she, alongside Jonathan and Will, has made herself known and been seen in town, stating something about coming back to help with the disaster relief, after she heard about the earth quake.
  It would make it a lot more difficult, if the entire family had to stay hidden and none of them could go out or run errands in town, Eddie figures. More complicated than it needs to be, when El was a mostly unknown person before they moved to California and no one in Hawkins knew of her and any that would connect her to the Byers family is already a part of the inner circle.

Car filled with Lucas, Mike and a groggy, grumbling Erica — carefully woken up by Steve, mindful of Dustin beside her — she drives off to drop them off at home.

When the sound of gravel crunching under tires fade, Hopper comes inside, El glued to his side, hands wrapped around his arm and face smushed into him. Apparently unbothered by the kid hanging on him like a hug-happy octopus, Hopper goes into the kitchen, and begins to pull out boxed lunches and dinners, scanning their packages with quick efficiency. When he has to open higher cabinets, his hand falls on top of El's head, palm carefully shifting her head down and aside, easing the cupboard open above her.

"I'm gonna begin on this," Hopper says, waving a hand over the gathered boxes and frozen bags of vegetables on a kitchen counter. He turns his head towards the living room, looking at Steve, Robin and Eddie. "You mind going around and waking up the kids and tell the rest it'll be dinner soon?"

"Yeah, we got it." Steve waves a hand.

"Don't worry about it. We'll get them." Eddie marks his spot in the Fellowship, having picked it up shortly after leaving the Hobbit for another day and sets it aside, quickly stretching and going to rise.

"Dude, just sit and chill." Steve holds his hand out, palm facing him, held in arrest. "You spent like two hours reading to Erica and Dustin." Waving his hand, he gestures for Eddie to sit back down. "I got it."

"Yeah, reading, Harrington." Eddie quirks his eyebrows. "It's not exactly a strenuous activity."

A snort bursts from the back of Steve's throat and a disbelieving expression falls over his face. "It's not the way anyone else would do it, but you act out all those voices and shit, you deserve to chill."

"I've been chilling while the little sheep have been napping, I'm good."

Giving a final shrug, Steve turns and makes for the El's bedroom. He goes to stand in the doorway. Hand on the doorknob, he peeks into the room and exchanges a few quiet words with the ones inside. Urging voices burst out past him, pulling and tugging at him. “Okay, okay,” he says, easing himself further into the room, “jeez, I’m coming.” The noise does not die down, but he walks fully into the room, quietly closing the door behind himself, shutting himself inside with them.

Eddie has no idea what the little sheep could have possibly discovered in the time they have been in there, but apparently something exciting enough to insist on drawing Steve into it. He finds himself grinning at the door in the wake of it.

Giving himself a small shake, he turns to the kid passed out against him and reaches out a careful hand, gently shaking Dustin awake.

Gradually and groggily, not without a few complaints and groans, Dustin wakes.

After he has finally managed to open his eyes and push himself away from Eddie's side, Eddie rises to his feet and makes his way into the kitchen. With a few words, he immediately and easily falls into helping Hopper, who is down one arm with El still pressed to his side, his arm trapped inside her hug.

With a thankful nod from Hopper, Eddie grabs containers and pours out frozen and refrigerated food into pans and pots.

As they work, Hopper occasionally stumbles over El’s immovable form and strong grasp on his arm. It almost goes wrong several times. Where Hopper knocks into a pot or box and with his arm kept hostage, he jerks haltingly after it, unable to catch it from falling. But before it can fall or tumble over, the pot and box stops mid-fall, caught in the air by an invisible hand and carefully pushed back and righted with nothing more but a stare from El and a drop of blood forming in her nostrils. Eddie tries not to stare, but he has to shake himself free the three times it happens any way. And who can blame him? He may have heard about El coming to their rescue thousands of miles away, as he laid recovering in a hospital bed, and may have heard a handful of throwaway comments about 'this girl with superpowers' from the others in the boatshed, Max’s trailer or the RV, when they were talking about Vecna and their previous battles against these interdimensional monsters. But seeing it is something else entirely. It is done so casually too. It’s baffling, how Hopper just smiles down at her and ruffles a hand through her buzzed hair in thanks.

It throws Eddie for a loop and a half.

The first time it happens, he has to remind himself. Oh yeah, superpowers. Duh. That’s nothing new. Like, hello? Get with the program, Munson. The second time, she saves a bowl full of corn and peas from being knocked over and Eddie watches with wide eyes as it wobbles a little, rights itself back up and sets itself back into place. Movements smoother than a newly oiled cog. He has to shake himself out of it and force his focus back on the pots bubbling over the burners. The third time. Well. He does a little jump, when El stops Hopper from accidentally elbowing a pot off the stove entirely.

One day, Eddie will be used to these people’s casual mentions of fighting interdimensional monsters, super powered kids and the other batshit insane things they have done, and it will pass him by like any other Thursday, but that day is clearly not today and it would not surprise him, if he is completely healed and free of stitches before it does.

When the food is almost done, Steve enters the kitchen. Movement flutter and sound from behind him, announcing the kids have made their way out of El’s bedroom, stumping back and forth from the living room to the bathroom. Voices zipping through the air in half-conversations and remarks. Stepping nearer to their workplace, Steve pulls up the sleeves of his shirt, baring skin and toned arms.

Like a siren's call, Eddie's gaze zeroes in on his bared arms. He eyes up the long, strong line of his forearms. Skin sun-kissed and patterned with a dusty sprinkling of hair falling up and down his arms. Scabbed over wounds and bruises color his arms red, black, blue and purple.

Eyes occupied elsewhere, the spoon in Eddie's hand, continuously stirring the contents of a pot full of mac and cheese, jerks and slips free. Creamy cheese splatters from the spoon, splattering across Eddie's arm and hand. A chunk of pasta flies from the spoon. It flies through the air and falls onto the worktop with a wet plop.

El snickers at him, her face peeking out from Hopper's side, arms thrown around his stomach, having finally freed his arm after a few too many stumbles and near accidents.

With a secret smile, Eddie flicks the pasta off the table and offers it up for her on the ends of his fingers.

Smiling, she takes it and pops it in her mouth smacking loudly. It must meet her approval because her smile grows into a grin.

"Your manners have not improved much these last months, huh?" Hopper comments, ruffling a hand through El's hair. "And here I thought Joyce would be a good influence on you."

"If she was Jonathan's probably done enough to counter that," Steve says grinning over the cardboard plates and cutlery he is slowly gathering in his hands, "I heard it was like a busy train station in his room, right?" He grins at El.

"It smelled like one," El says, wrinkling her nose.

"And what exactly does that mean?" asks Hopper, former chief of police and very much aware of all laws prohibiting use of marijuana.

Sensing danger, Steve, the traitor, ducks away, arms full of cutlery and plates.

"Errr, he's been smoking," Eddie offers with a slight grin and a click of his finger. "Cigarettes. I heard he took it up as a hobby in sunny California. You know, big life changes. It can drive one to seek relief in nicotine,” he finishes smartly with plenty of nods to drive his point home.

"Yeah." Hopper's eyes narrow on him. "It's real dreadful and boring out there. The nicotine would be life-saving."

"So, you understand." Eddie claps a hand on his shoulder.

Steve comes back in time for the danger to pass. "Anything done there?" he asks, popping up behind them, plates and cutlery discarded somewhere.

Hopper points at the pot on the furthest burner.

Steve comes forward, crowding close to the stove. He reaches for it, pressing up against Eddie, as he does. "Sorry, I'm just gonna—” he says right beside Eddie's ear. One of his hands touches the small his back, his other arm stretches out past him, grappling for the handle.

Warmth blooms from his hand, blazing into Eddie’s back from where it lies. Eddie's heart jolts. He sucks in a breath and holds it, body stilling alongside it. Air stills inside of his lungs. It presses out against his chest, tense and taut. He stands frozen, held in place by Steve's touch. Hand and spoon hovering still in the middle of a pot of creamy mac and cheese. Burning warmth echoes from Steve's hand, blazing through Eddie's lower back, where his fingers press into him. His body emanates heat alongside Eddie’s body, where they are crowded close in the small kitchen.

When Steve retreats, steaming pot in hand, his handprint remains on the small of Eddie’s back. It prickles with warmth against Eddie's back.

Unable to help himself, Eddie follows Steve's retreat from the kitchen, eyes falling on those exposed, bulging forearms again.

Eddie clears his throat and pulls himself out of the standstill Steve’s touch brought him into. He tears his eyes away from Steve's arms, back to the work before him. Head ducked and lowered, he uses a rag to clean himself from the splatters of cheese still on his skin and firmly attaches his hand — and eyes — to the pots bubbling before him.

That first evening, as they eat, Eddie finally gets the full overview over the cabin inhabitants, as everyone spreads all over the living room and kitchen, huddling on the couch, chairs and floor, bowed over steaming plates of food. As his eyes zip over them all, he is also told bits and pieces about them, mostly about how they came to be here now. Courtesy of Robin, of course.

Feet propped up in Steve's lap and her own bowl of dinner in hand, she leans into his side and goes through the spiel between mouthfuls of mac and cheese and store bought ready-made chicken. It is something he should already know and he vaguely recalls hearing the same sounds come out of her own and Steve's mouth a day or so ago, while he was laid up in the hospital bed in the lab. But while he may have heard the sounds, he never registered the words. Robin, who must have seen the bewildered and befuddled expression on his face, as he looks at the poor cabin struggling to house all its occupants, takes pity on him and spends dinner scooping spoonful after spoonful into her mouth, talking to Eddie out of the corner of her mouth and pointing at the recipient of her gossip with the handle of her spoon. Steve joins her with a few comments here and there. Head leant near Robin’s, tittering with her as the two go back and forth over details, which often ends with “Which one of us was there again?” or some variation thereof, with pointed eyebrows.

Recently returned from California, are the Byers, somewhat familiar faces to Eddie, if only because of the way their names spread through the town like wildfire, back when Will went missing, and when, apparently, they went against the Upside Down and its monsters the first time (which is still a topic that goes by far too fast and glossed over, much to Eddie's continued confusion). Their friend Argyle was apparently drawn into it as unaware getaway driver, suddenly faced with the chaos apparently following these people everywhere they go, including as far as California. And ended up hunted across two states, chasing El and the military branch after her, alongside Jonathan, Will and Mike; one of several reasons why El is to stay in hiding with him.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, low and incredulous, “they were what?”

Robin nods absentmindedly, as if this is very old news and of little remarkability, because of course it. These people fight an otherworldly monster and shut down government-sanctioned operations annually. A little military shoot out is nothing, what are you talking about Eddie, that’s nothing, oh my god, you should see the demogorgon corpse from yesteryear. “Shot at and chased across stateliness by a branch of the American military.”

“Yeah, Dustin’s girlfriend helped them locate El in the secret Nina bunker.”

The first part of that sentence, Eddie cannot deal with. He treats it like any other factoid or breadcrumb about the Upside Down that he is faced with and shoves it into a box, which he throws so deep into the corners of his mind, it will never see the light of day again. Poof. Gone.

The other half, he can however deal with. “The secret what?” Eddie is so confused.

“Yeah, he’s very proud about that,” Steve adds, smiling down at his pasta, completely bypassing Eddie’s confusion, as if Eddie’s tone is not very obvious about it; seriously, it is like a drive-by neon sign that Steve very clearly has no issue zooming right past. Vroom. Oh, what’s that? Nothing, just Eddie’s sanity and confusion left in the dust and getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, again. “He paraded around all day, when Mike and them returned and told him the whole story. It was like watching a peacock strut around. And it was worse after he got ahold of Suzie and heard her tell it too. Insufferable, I’m telling you. Kid’ll hit the ceiling and keep going past it, he’ll be floating in space before we know it.”

Robin snorts into her very sparse plate of chicken mac and cheese with not a single vegetable in sight, because they were mushy and gross, something El seconded. But where Robin could scoop a heaping spoonful to the very edge of her plate, only to then shove them off to Steve’s plate once seated and out of sight from judging eyes, El could not. Prodded on by Joyce’s soft hand on her back and Hopper’s fond reprimand, much to her clear dismay. Robin grins at Steve. “Takes one to know one, right?”

“Know what?”

“A parading peacock.” Steve elbows her, only making her snort again.

From the Byers, they go to Hopper, recently returned from Russia, briefly going over his journey from Russia to here, still gracefully glossing over the details of ‘captive in Russia prison’ part. That naturally brings them to the super girl, El, with a shaved head and a quiet, but bright smile. “Hopper took her in back when this all started, after the first time,” Steve quickly tells him. “After she escaped from the lab.” He ducks his head to take another bite of mac and cheese, his fork speared through a strip of chicken, but pulls his head up quickly again before he can. “But don’t ask her about that, if you can help it. She was a part of an experiment. It went wrong. Because of Henry, we know that now. They all died except her, leaving her trapped there until '83, where she escaped. She’s found the kids and Hopper since. That’s all we need to know. The rest she’ll tell us herself.” His eyes zip back and forth between Eddie and Robin, checking the impact of his words. Robin nods through it all. Apparently having her own role in this and used to it. Eddie follows with his own jerky nod.

For a while, they are quiet. Chewing on that and their food.

“The lab?” Eddie eventually asks, quietly disturbed.

“Oh,” Robin says and jerk forward in her seat. She is quick to add that those particular people are gone now, when she see the alarm those words bring to his eyes. It does not do much to soothe him. Eddie knows it's more than just the people who ran it, because above them are the men who approved and funded it, and they may have shut down the program that involved El and too many other kids, but that does not mean there are not other programs that looks like it. Other than that, they do not tell him much more about El.

Eddie does not really need them to. He can fill in the blanks.

After that, there is really only the kids left. And Eddie knows their part of the story. Although he knows Max less than the other boys. He does know her a little from nods across their yards and from the past week from Hell. Max, with her whited out, blinded eyes and her limbs covered in casts that carry a few doodled on scripts and drawings, which he swears have a few more additions, than when he saw her earlier. Including a little baseball player and a skateboard riding stick figure pair that looks suspiciously like Steve and Max, the style unlike any of the other drawings that sit displayed across the plaster, as if drawn on by another hand.

Max was not driven home along with everyone else, when Joyce rounded Lucas, Erica and Mike up. No one made a move to bring her home, then and no one mentions the possibility of it now.

Eddie cannot pretend to be surprised.

According to Robin, when the talk first began about getting her discharged from the Hospital, she put up a real fight. Clawed and bit and used every pressure point she knows, to get her mom to leave her in the hands of Steve and Joyce. It a was a screaming match that Eddie imagines could have easily torn down half the hospital, much less all of her mother's protests and any willpower she had to get Max to stay with her. Something Robin tells him in fewer words, when Steve has gone for refills.
  Eddie cannot say, he's surprised to hear this either. Even though Max has been subdued and carried around that heavy weight inside of her eyes, ever since she told Eddie, "Try us," inside that boat house and he's seen her much the same, ever since her and her mom moved to the trailer park; Max has a spitfire soul and seemingly endless strength. Eddie would not put it past her, to put up a fight with her mom to get what she wanted.

Neighbors since last fall and their trailers facing each other; Eddie's seen the bottles of beer sticking out of their trash. He's seen Max outside of their trailer countless times and not a glimpse of her mother. It makes him wonder just how much of her determination to stay here is because she needs to stay with her friends and how much of it is something else. Sure, it has a factor to play; to be surrounded by people, who knows exactly what you've been through and not have to navigate a wall made up of the ten thousand foot NDA's they have all had to sign since '83. But Eddie knows what it's like to live under the roof of a parent who, for some reason or other, never looks far enough past their own shadows to see you standing there in front of them.

He may not have talked with Max or seen much of her outside knocks on his trailer door, asking him or his uncle for help with the grinding sounds made by their A/C and the electricity cutting out, a strange noise in their stove hood or their drain clogging up again; but through that and his windows, Eddie saw enough of empty bottles and beer cans piling up by the trash outside the house to ask any questions now.

Eventually, as evening crawls forward and settles over their little corner of the woods, the cabin fills with the sounds of people getting ready for bed; feet padding back and forth, running water and toothbrush-filled shouts. Eddie retreats behind the curtained off bedroom and prepares for bed.

The first thing he does is reach for the tote and plastic bags Dustin had pointed out for him earlier; ones he and Steve had gone back to his trailer to fill with Eddie's stuff to give him something familiar and comforting to wake up to. He had looked briefly into them earlier, when he first picked up The Fellowship of the Ring, but did not take the time to look through them then. He does so now. As he picks up the bags, his eyes look off to the side, towards the wall adjacent with this one, where another cluster of bags sit. Specifically, his gaze seeks Steve’s metal as hell baseball bat. He huffs a humorless laugh and goes back to his quest. Snatching the bags up off the floor, Eddie goes to the cot, throws himself down on it and dives into his stuff. Bags placed on the ground between his feet.

One bag — filled to the brim with clothes — other than a quick shuffle through the fabric, is quickly discarded. The other contains a bunch of Eddie's second hand books (among them are the other two of his Tolkien books, completing the Lord of the Rings trilogy, the Silmarillion, and the Earthsea trilogy, plus a few others Eddie knows he has ranted about at the cafeteria table, to the audience of a very attentive Dustin, evidently).

There is a smaller book, between all the others. Crammed between them all and in danger of being squashed into oblivion. Its cover faded and crinkled, made out of cardboard and scribbled upon with absentminded doodles. Eddie's notebook.

A small smile tugs at Eddie's lips as he pulls it out of the bag. It is the notebook uses to write songs in, something he has been doing for years. Using them to work through thoughts and feelings and frustration. An outlet as much as listening to metal has always been. It's a relief to see it here in the cabin. He can just imagine new material buzzing inside of him, just waiting to come out in the shape of lyrics and notes and it would be heartbreaking to lose all of that, just because his notebook would be lost in his trailer. That would be a silver lining to come out of all of this, at least. Walk into Hell and come out of it with a bunch of new friends and some kickass songs. Hmm. He is not sure that's a good enough selling point, but it is what he's got.

He picks up a corner of flicks through the pages in a quick fwi-ii-iip not looking far enough into it to see any of the lyrics he's previously written, but just as a little hello to his notebook. A little 'nice to see you'.

He flaps the notebook in the air once and drops it back down in the bag, then ducks his head down to look through the rest of the content inside the remaining two bags.

Eventually, he sighs and drops the last bag back down of the floor. It lands in the space between his feet with a thump. The end of his search has not brought him his two hand warmers. It's the kind you crack and snap, like glow sticks, but instead of glowing, heat will flow out into it and warm it up, like a hot water bottle. It only works like that once though. But Eddie's kept them. When he needs warmth on his hand, he dumps them into a pot and boils the water over a burner, when it's been in long enough, he takes one out and cups it in his bad hand, letting the warmth loosen up his stiff joints and muscles and ease the pain tearing through it. When the first one goes cold, he replaces it with the second one he left in the hot water.

Thanks to the heavy painkillers he was given to bring him through his bat-induced injuries, his hand does not hurt now and it has not hurt since he woke up in the hospital bed in the lab. But one day those painkillers will run out and the pain will surely come back. It always does. After a week from Hell with his hand cramping up with pain worse than ever before, he does not like having to face that without his hand warmers as a crutch and last minute relief.

But he's not exactly surprised. Dustin's seen him clutching at his hand and massage at it during long D&D campaigns and bad days at the cafeteria table; he's heard him talk about an ache in his hand and pop a painkiller occasionally, but Eddie's never talked about how bad it actually is or gets or why.

It is not that he doesn't want to. Silencing anything ugly or disabling is exactly what the prim and proper society wants him to do; something Eddie is staunchly against. But he just does not know how. He's never had any close friends.

All through his life, his friends have come from shared interests; Corroded Coffin and later Hellfire; they have never really stepped out of those frames. Their friendships have always been colored with meeting up to practice for gigs and Hideout performances. Or phone calls to plan the next time they will meet up to fill their character sheets or a D&D campaign. They have never really been the kind of friends to meet up just to hang out, just because they want to. It's always been for a reason. Hellfire. Corroded Coffin. That's it.

Hellfire has always been a club to be free and let loose; to be yourself and not worry about being judged, because everyone else in that room, knows what it's like to be different, in one way or another. He never wanted to shadow that with his disability and chronic pain. It was meant to be a safe place. For him too. Even if he could never truly escape the pain.

Corroded Coffin was a different way to be free. To shout and scream, to let out all the anger and hurt and pain inside of his chest. To release the claws and sharp nails shredding him to pieces from within. The others knew there were days where Eddie was slower or fumbled more chords than usual, but they knew him to be easily distracted and have trouble focusing on the right things or just being high, so they always assumed it was that, not his fucked up hand. Gareth knew. But Gareth was the closest thing Eddie had to a best friend, even if there was always a few steps separating them. Calls that were answered with "maybe later" or quiet hesitation, only passed by barely audible breathing and a tension in the air neither of them could figure out how to dispel. Gareth didn't understand Eddie and Eddie couldn't meet Gareth where he was. Not always. It was like there was a river separating them and neither had the tools to build the bridge they needed to cross, but they tried and they talked loud enough to be heard over the currents and that was enough. Always had been.

Gareth never had understood why Eddie didn't just tell the band his hand hurt too much and he couldn't play that day. He didn't understand why Eddie wanted to play through the pain in the first place. But that's always been okay too. He rolled his eyes or shook his head, while looking at the ground, but never stopped Eddie. Though he did always call for more breaks on those days, where Eddie was slower or fumbled the chords, without ever asking Eddie if he needed it.

That was just how it was between them.

Eddie does not know how to handle his fucked up hand now that he's around these new people. These new people that break all barriers and charge right through the dust swirling in its wake with ‘Try us,’ ‘We believe you,’ and ‘It's gotta be me. No complaints, right?’ with ‘We didn’t want you to be alone,’ and understanding eyes that look as old and tested as his uncle’s, whenever Vietnam shadows them.

It leaves him feeling a little unmoored. Like the rulebook he has had in his back pocket all his life has been thrown out the window and he’s left navigating new waters all on his own without a guide. The Munson doctrine clearly does not extend to veteran monster hunters.

Finally, Eddie sets the bags back in their spots by the wall and sits back down on the bed, shrugging out of his clothes. Sat on the edge of Hopper's bed — which is really more of a cot — he shrugs out of his shirt as the curtain snaps and plastic rattle over the rack. Pulling his shirt the rest of the way off, Eddie looks up and sees Steve coming into the room.

Eyes catching each other, Steve tips his head in greeting and Eddie jerks his head to the side in the same.

They both quickly go through the motion of changing into their sleep clothes. Eddie usually sleeps in loose bottoms and no shirt, but considering he's sharing a bed with Dustin, he figures he can sleep with a shirt on too.

Steve steps into a pair of soft looking flannel pants that look a lot like the ones he shoved into Eddie’s arms, when bedtime first brought chaos and movement to the cabin. He also pulls out a shirt from one of the plastic bags sat by the wall, bulging with clothes — one of those that does not contain Eddie's stolen belongings — but he leaves it on the mattress lying on the ground beside Eddie's bed. Instead, he, with a few quick passes of his hands, unwinds the white bandages wrapped around his stomach and waist, pressed up against his wounds. He wads it up and leaves it in a crumbled heap on the floor by his mattress, then reaches into one of the smaller plastic bags and pulls out a small, white tube.

Sat on over the side of the bed, Eddie tries very hard not to stare at the long stretch of warm skin revealed to him. But it is hard not to. No matter how hard he tries to keep his gaze averted, his eyes dart up and take a peek at Steve.

One thing Eddie never got a glimpse off, when Steve pulled off his shirt in the boat and in the Upside Down, was the many moles that decorate his skin. It was too dark, so he never saw just how many there are. They greet him now. Moles spread up and down his back, dotting his back like a canvas of the night sky. It should not be as pretty or charming as they are, but they are.

The removal of the bandage reveals a world of injuries, splayed all over his skin like a particularly gruesome canvas. He's scratched to hell and back. Red and angry marks claw up and down Steve's back. Skin scratched up and torn with large patches of torn skin, mottled wounds and marks that almost looks like burn marks. Joined together by barely scabbed over wounds from where the bats must have dragged him across the ground.
  Two large marks lie by his shoulder blades, one on each side, almost filling out his entire shoulder blades. Skin burned away and torn up enough by his trip into the Upside Down to leave two large scabbed over scars, almost furrows with the depth they cut into his flesh. The skin around it is raised and red still. The back of his arms and elbows are the same, skin rubbed and scratched away with deep furrows, just barely scabbed over and skin angry and red, with some blue bruises hugging it.

The sight makes Eddie's eyes widen and his throat feel thick and tight.

Around Steve’s front, there are single wounds shaped in an imprint of claws and fangs, scattered across his chest, as if the bats had picked at him, before honing in on his stomach. The image those very particular shaped wounds bring to Eddie's mind is nausea inducing so Eddie rips his eyes away from them and focuses on something else. His gaze does not go far. It's difficult when Steve is right there and far too entrancing to look at, even with his many battle wounds and the memories they bring.

Steve’s always been known for his fitness and it shows. Firm, solid muscle wrap around him all over his back. By his waist, thick sutures cut into his skin. Stitches stretch and pull at his skin, keeping it sewed shut. The skin puckers around the thread; the flesh underneath it is slightly hollow. A concave that dips into his side, where the bats tore at his flesh.

Unaware of Eddie’s enraptured gaze, Steve pop the top off the bottle and gets to work smearing the ointment into his sutures. As he works, his hands begins to shake and tremble. Fingers passing over his stitches, a hiss falls past his teeth, sharp and pained.

It is painful to watch and Eddie almost manages to psych himself up to offer him a helping hand, when movement pulls his eyes away, stopping the words before they can make their way past his tongue.

Robin shoulders past the curtain, toothbrush in mouth and walks across the room, passing them by with hardly a glance. Head kept low and eyes focused. For a short moment, she rummages around in one of the bags, separate from Eddie's, then straightens back up and goes to head back out the curtain. She only takes a few steps, before she pulls up short and turns on her heel, whipping around to face Steve.

A noise of distress comes from the back of her throat. She jumps forward and swipes the ointment out of Steve's hand. The toothbrush wrenches from her mouth with a sharp tug. Garbled words fall out of her mouth as she jabs and points her toothbrush at him, wielding it like a weapon. Eddie does not understand them, but Steve must because he answers her without pause.

"It's fine, Robin," he says, holding his hands up and out in surrender, "it's not that big a deal, I can do it."

"No." She jabs her toothbrush at him again. A blob of white foamy toothpaste flies off the end and sails through the air. "Jus' 'tay 'till." With one last withering glare, she runs out the room. The curtain flaps and flutters in her wake.

Steve sighs and drops his hands. Using a tea towel, he dries his hand off the product.

Eddie and Steve barely have time to share a look, before Robin comes hurtling back past through the curtain. "You're a fire hazard, Steve," she says, holding the medicinal ointment in hand. Toothpaste trails in a trail of foamy white from the corner of her mouth, smearing slightly across her cheek. She waves the tube in the air, brandishing it accusingly at him.

“A fire hazard?” he echoes, voice incredulous and mocking.

“A fucking pain in my ass, who’ll stay in a burning building if he’s the only one inside.” She huffs, loud and emphatic. Then, she says, in a quieter voice, "I told you not to do this yourself."

"It's not that big a deal."

"Babe, if we had to wait for what you'd consider a big deal, you'd be dead." Her jaw works through a stiff looking flex. As the words pass through her, her gaze flicker down and land by Steve's neck. Eyes heavy and darkened with the shadow of the great, ugly bruise that wraps painfully around Steve's throat. She swallows. The noise works thick and loud through her throat. She wrenches her eyes away from his neck in what looks like a painful move and straightens her back. "So, just shut up and let me help you."

Steve exhales. Long and deep. "Okay," he says. "Sorry."

Robin rolls her eyes and pops the top. "I swear, you'll be the death of me," she mutters as she steps up close to Steve.

Steve scoffs. Head and chin jerking up, as if freeing up the space for Robin. "You're too stubborn for that."

"Damn right, I am. I have to be to live with you." She gets to work, carefully smearing the cream into the sutures cutting into his waist.

Eddie sets his discarded clothes aside and tries not to watch. But it's difficult, when every movement catches his eyes and makes him follow it like it is beckoning him. It is really not a conscious choice. Eddie has always had problems not following movement that ripples in the corners of his eyes or turn his head at sudden noises.

Instead of watching them and feeling like a creep, Eddie lies on his back on the bed and pretends not to be able to see Steve and Robin out of the corner of his eyes.

Robin walks carefully around him and replaces Steve's hands from before with her own.

Soft rustles and cream squishing against skin fills the air. A harsh, medicinal smell fills the air the more she works it into Steve’s stiches and wounds.

Even looking away from them, Eddie still catches sight of movement, catching glimpses of something ducking in and out of view; a thick, muscular arm moves back and forth, lifting up and down; Robin leaning closer to Steve; a white object passed from one hand to the other behind Steve's back, hands moving carefully up and down his wounds.

"You know, you don't have to do it yourself, right?" she says, all gentle.

Steve sighs. "I know."

Eddie does not want to intrude and he certainly does not want to eavesdrop, and he really tries not to look, but it is like his eyes are magnetically drawn to the soft, yet firm curves he can see of Steve; to the skin cast in yellow light from the light inside of the cabin, giving it a look as if his skin is truly aglow from within. His eyes are stuck to him. Travelling over soft skin and firm muscles. Puckering wounds and scabs strewn across his skin that are clawing up and down his back and curving around his shoulders.

Steve's shoulders hunch and stiffen as Robin carefully smears the medicinal smelling ointment over the stitches in his left side.

It’s the same ointment Eddie has. He looked at it briefly earlier, when Hopper dumped it out on the table and packed it away in a cupboard. It was something anti-bacterial, or other. For keeping it clean and promote healing or something. He's pretty sure he should have done the same to his own stitches, when he was the one occupying the little bathroom the cabin offered, but he did not. Eh, he'll do it tomorrow.

"Is it still bad?"

In the lab, even though he was out for most of it — sleeping off the last week of basically sleepless nights and whatever painkillers and medicine they had given him — he was still awake enough to see Steve and Robin interact with each other when time and imminent doom were not hanging over their heads like an axe or guillotine. Curled up together and latched onto each other’s side, as if glued together.
  It was not an uncommon sight, for Eddie to open his eyes, whilst in that hospital bed, look off to the side and see Steve squished beneath either Dustin or Robin. The other sometimes sprawled across him, limbs spread out like a starfish, or curled up tight, buried away in his arms and chest. So the softness and familiarity between them now, is no surprise.

"Not as bad as it was. The painkillers help."

"But not enough." She pauses, looking up at his face. Something must pass over his face, while he makes a half-hearted protest, for Robin scowls lightly at him. Pinching him in the side, well above the wounds in his stomach, she says, "Don't lie,” she bites, then softer, “I can see your hands shake, Steve."

A small pause ensue. Filled only with the sounds of Robin working the ointment over Steve's skin.

"Will you ask me next time?" She moves on to his back, ducking out of Eddie's view and appearing half obscured behind Steve.

Eddie makes a grimace neither of them can see. He should not be here for this conversation.

Tearing his eyes away, he stares at a spot on the ceiling above him and tells himself to keep an eye out from now on, so Steve's wounds have been tended to before Eddie makes his way into this bedroom past the curtain.

"I can do it."

"I know you can. But Steve, you don't have to."

A loud sigh drifts through the room, squeezing between the quiet sounds and rustles coming from people moving around beyond the curtain. "You might not be here."

"No, but you will be." It is said with absolute certainty. Not a hint of doubt or hesitation.

Eddie supposes Steve staying here was never a question to be answered by anyone; he is as welcome here as El; as Will and Jonathan; as Eddie himself. It would almost be a surprise, except everything, from the very first moment Eddie had lowered the broken beer bottle and sagged against the wall, inviting these people — who had come looking for him with quiet despair and even quieter fear in their eyes and deep, understanding voices — to see the look in his eyes and the tremble clinging to his hands; their welcoming and inviting, kind and understanding nature, is simply just that. Nature.

"Just look around, Steve," Robin's voice is soft and gentle as she continues speaking. "You're never alone here. Not with us. So don't force yourself to be," every word falls from her mouth so warm and gentle, Eddie almost feels guilty that he can hear them. But he can't very well get up and walk out. So, he simply lies there and pretends he cannot hear the words cradled in Robin's hands. "We've been through hell with half of these people, fought monsters born there with the rest. No one will bat an eye at your battle scars."

Steve's snort, though quiet and small, still breaks through the peace hanging over the cabin and the darkening light pervading inside of it.

"Just ask someone. Joyce, Hopper—” Robin's arm flails through the air in the corner of his eyes “—Eddie. Anyone."

And as if Eddie has been waiting to be called on, he says, "Seriously, dude, just listen to Robin. It's not that big a deal. We can all help you."

"See?!"

Eddie picks his head up and smirks at them, immediately catching Steve's eyes, who is facing his way with Robin at his back. "Besides, we all already know you're metal as hell, no need to toughen it out just to prove it further."

"Yeah, yeah," he says and flaps a hand in the air. "I'll ask someone. You can both stop nagging me."

Robin steps away from Steve. Catching Eddie's gaze, she rolls her eyes, a wry expression on her face. The cap on the bottle snaps closed. She drops it onto Eddie's bed and disappears past the curtain, hands held up before her, carefully not touching anything as she walks away.

Steve must have done this himself before, because he quickly takes a wad of bandages and smoothly wraps them around his own waist, covering up the scars in his skin with a few quick passes around his stomach and back. When there's a wrapping all around his waist, he sticks the end down with some medical tape, flattening it with a few smoothing passing of his thumb, and packs both it and the gauze roll away in a smaller plastic bag standing by another group of totes and bags that seem to make up both his and Robin’s clothes.

Done with tending to his wounds and stitches, Steve bends down and snaps his shirt off the bed. He rucks it up and pulls it up, over his head. As soon as his head is through, he throws Eddie a look and jerks his head at him. "What about you? Do you need help with yours?" One of his thick, muscular arms moves through the air, shoved through the sleeve of his shirt. He grabs the bottom and pulls it down over his chest, tugging it into place over his stomach.

Without an ounce of remorse or guilt, Eddie nods and says, "I did mine in the bathroom," lying through his teeth.

Steve nods. His eyes catch on something at the end of the bed. Without pause, he scoops the antibacterial ointment up from the bed and throws it towards his bags by the wall. It sails through the air and smacks into the small plastic bag from which it came. It ends up lying halfway out of it, the side of the bag caught underneath it, folded up under its weight.

Eddie makes a playfully scoffing noise. "Jock."

Steve throws a kick at one of the legs of the bed. It jostles and shakes underneath it. But he's smiling so Eddie does not take it personally.

Later, when Dustin has scrambled into bed with Eddie and his soft snores fill the air; when night has crept through cracks in the walls and blanketed the world inside the cabin with a certain type of stillness and quiet, only brought on by its touch, Eddie drifts in that place in between sleep and wakeful. Not quite asleep and not quite awake. Hovering. Blanketed in soft snores of the people around him.

"Steve," Robin's soft voice drift at him through the heavy waves lapping at him. It hooks around him and pulls Eddie further from sleep, dragging him further into wakefulness. He shifts on top of the bed and smacks his mouth, mind heavy and clouded.

A hum sounds out.

"I'm just— I'm glad it's you," she says. And Eddie gets closer to the surface. Awareness surges back into his body, but he cannot find the way to his eyes. Robin's voice fills the air again, soft but louder than most whispers done at night. The sound of it guides him awake, like following a guiding light in the distance, stepping closer and closer, and the light grows and grows, nearing, until it's right in front of you and floods you with light. "I'm glad it's you, I get to fight monsters with," she says. "There's no one else I'd want to traverse the Upside Down with or crack secret Russian codes that brings us to the worst elevator ride of our lives."

A puff of air tickles through the air, carrying a light chuckle in its grasp.

With a soft sigh, the last dregs of sleep fall away and the heavy fog in Eddie's mind slinks away. Groggily, he blinks his eyes open.

Soft light greet him. It falls in a gentle glow over the walls and ceiling. Seeping out from behind the curtain separating them from the living room, touching on the small room they are in through slivers between fabric and wall.

He cannot see anything but the ceiling above him and the walls opposite from where Steve and Robin lie. When Dustin crawled into bed, he placed himself on the side of the bed, where Steve's mattress lies, firmly placing himself in the middle between Eddie and Steve. He remains pressed up against Eddie, his body a warm and solid weight beside him. Figure shapeless beneath the blanket they share, alit with a touch of light that drapes over the high plains of his formless shape; a small barrier between Eddie and the rest of the room.

Eddie was doubtful, when he first laid eyes on the cot and was told he might have to share. Don't get him wrong, he doesn't mind a cuddle. Invites it even. But the cot is small. Narrow and thin. And true to form, when Dustin crawled in beside him, the cot proved barely able to hold both Eddie and Dustin. But if they don't move around too much or too fast and at least one of them lies on his side, they'll be okay. It's a squeeze, but just about doable.

"Me too," Steve's voice is equally soft, perhaps softer still than Robin's. Or maybe it only seems so, because no matter how many times Eddie has been surprised by Steve Harrington the past week or so, he continues to surprise him still. And every time it happens, Eddie is left scrambling a little. He did let go of the image and shield he kept a hold off of King Steve past — at Skull Rock, after he had to flee from Jason, as if the water of Lovers Lake had washed it off of him, making the image too slippery for Eddie to keep a hold off, when it had been the look on Jason’s face and the mad anger in his eyes that had turned King Steve to dust in his hands — that much is true. But Steve has this way of being, of acting and speaking that comes out of nowhere that no matter how much Eddie has admitted to himself that Steve is a different person than he was in high school — a much better, good and warm person — he's still left blindsided and grasping in his wake.

It leaves him with a feeling as if he is standing on the precipice of a ledge, just a few small nudges away from falling off the edge. Feeling as if, every time Steve does something unexpected, something kind, something warm; Eddie is left feeling as if he is going to fall off and he has no idea where he is going to land.

Steve continues, "There's no one else I'd save the world with."

"You'd better not."

"Wouldn't dream of it,” Steve’s voice carries the sound of his smile in its arms.

For a moment, they are both quiet. Then, a gentle kiss pops through the room.

"Go to sleep, Robin," says Steve, voice quiet and soft.

Quiet settles into the room once more.

It takes a while, but eventually their breathing slows down and turns deep, joining in with Dustin's soft snores.

Eddie is left to the waking world with just his thoughts and a soft symphony of snores for company.

Before Eddie found out Hawkins has its own monster hunters, all he knew of Robin was glimpses caught in hallways and past classroom windows, when Eddie stalked the halls, skipping class or told to take a walk, because his 'antics' may be entertaining to him, but were disrupting to everyone else. Said every teacher, Eddie has ever had. Repeating the sentiment recreationally in his classes and at every parent–teacher meeting, as if it was a mantra they had made a pact or game to say to him at least once a week and the loser puts a dollar in a jar.
  If you ask Eddie, that is an F on originality. The least they could do, if they were determined to curse him out, is be a little more creative about it. That would make things a little more interesting. Which Eddie thinks they kinda owe him? He's been in High School for six grueling years and he's made every single one of those years interesting. At least, when Eddie is 'disrupting' and 'acting out' he's shaking things up; the same can't be said for his teachers, whenever they remove him from their classes with the same old comments.
  It's a sentiment Eddie has lamented to his uncle more than once. Especially after said parent–teacher meetings or another class that ended with a glare and a, "Please stay after class, Eddie."

Steve he only knew a little more. More because he knew of him.

Impossible, impossible Steve Harrington. King of Hawkins high. One day on top of the world with the court following his every move; the next, still as enigmatic and charming as ever, but quieter, smaller. Keeping to a small corner of the cafeteria with just his girlfriend and occasionally, surprisingly, Jonathan Byers, the guy who he had previously turned his nose up at, when people around him called him names and threw him around.

Eddie did actually share a few classes with Steve through Eddie’s repeats of Senior and Steve’s Junior and Senior year. Those last two years of '84 and '85, did more to bring him into Eddie's radar, than years of bullying in the hallways and toilet cubicles have done, because Steve was never actually a participant of those things.
 The Steve he saw then was so different from the times he had previously come across him in the hallways and the cafeteria. That new, crownless Steve was edging the corners of the school. In classrooms, he was either sat in the back closest to the wall of windows or in the front, closest to the door. And in the cafeteria, he was suddenly alone in the corner, far away from the court he had been in the center of for years. Eddie remembers seeing glimpses of him, with Wheeler beside him, and later no one, because he stopped appearing in the cafeteria at all, until the end of the year, when he occasionally appeared, sitting with both Wheeler and Byers. And like so many others, Eddie noticed all this. Of course, he did. Who did not turn their eyes to the former King of Hawkins High, unable to keep their eyes off him, as if just waiting for a spectacle, waiting for him to crack and break and show just why, exactly, King Steve had fallen from grace.

Though Eddie never really cared about that. He was just another kid on top of the high school hierarchy chain, who had been picked apart by the vultures calling themselves his friends, until there wasn't enough left of him to keep him standing on top. Steve was just one of the few guys, he had allowed himself to look at. Pretty and harmless across the cafeteria with his hair and hands empty of the scepter and crown that before had made him too sharp to even glance at. It had never been the shine of his crown, after all, that drew Eddie’s eyes to him.

Eddie did look at Steve, occasionally back then. But he had been simply been another tally mark to the list of unattainable guys Eddie looked at and another name to the 'assholes to keep away from, seriously Eddie, they already call you freak, don't make it easier for them than it already is' list. Safe to look at, but a fire hazard if he got any closer. But then, Eddie never has been good at self-preservation and was a self-made hedonist. So, yeah. Sue him, he had looked. It was Steve Harrington. There probably was not a single person in Hawkins High, who did not look at him, at least once. Following the sweet, enticing call of envy, hate, jealousy, desire or attraction. Everyone looked at him and Steve clearly knew they did, with the way he was known to strut around the hallways, back when he owned them.

Honestly, Eddie looked at him more after he stopped having his posse of jackals and basketball groupies following his every step.

There was something about him that was all the more enticing without all the posturing. As if a hole had been put into the wall all around him and allowed you to look a little closer at the man beneath the crown. He was almost enigmatic in those days. Still kicking with the popular kids, when they came to talk to him, still greeted everyone with a charming smile and more chivalry than the entire basketball team ever possessed, but turned his nose up at people like Tommy H. when they came bearing sneers and shut their comments down with a tired, exhausted efficiency, as if he could barely even be bothered to look their way, much less pay their sneers any heed. An apathetic fallen King. It had been fascinating, all the more so because it had been Steve. Who had actually been Eddie’s first hate-crush in his Sophomore year. Which he is mature enough to admit to himself now. Without a single pout or huff in sight, too. Growth, Eddie, growth. How much of that is himself and how much of it has been forced on by the Upside Down and Vecna, Eddie does not care to know, but he will, however, take the full credit, thank you.

Eventually, Eddie drifts off to sleep, still thinking about the enigma that is Steve Harrington.

That first night, Eddie jerks awake, heart throbbing in his throat and his breath caught in his lungs. Air burns in his chest. Trapped beneath a tight gallon of tension that keeps his chest hostage. Blood rushes through his veins. A distant rush of his palpitating heart echoes in his ears. Distant screeches and rumbles from his dreams linger in his mind, nearly drowning out the sound of his pounding heart.

The blanket lies heavy and smothering on top of him. It presses down into him. Clinging to his skin, wrapped tight around his chest, suffocating him.

Choking on a gasp, Eddie flings the blanket back and away from him. The fabric snaps through the air. Cold air rushes over him, rushing at the fabric of his borrowed pajamas that clings to his skin, heavy and damp with sweat.

Damp strands of his hair clings to his skin. It stings his forehead, where it sticks to his clammy skin, smearing across his brow, their touch prickling and sticky.

He jerks upright and swings his legs over the side of the bed. One hand on his rapidly rising and falling chest; another on the bed stabilizing him. There, he throws his head from side to side. Desperately taking in the room and trying to ground himself there, instead of the flashing images from his nightmare, trying to pull him down under. When that does not work, he turns his head and twists around to look at the others.

Behind his back, Dustin sleeps on. The quiet and gentle rise and fall of his chest so different to the rapid in-and-out of Eddie's own breath. Up and over him, on the mattress beside the bed, lower than the cot, lies Steve and Robin. Both sound asleep and wrapped around each other. Chest to chest and buried deep in each other.

It should be calming, looking at them, trying to reach for their calm, deep breaths and make them his own, but Eddie's hands, when he raises them to push his hair out of his face, shake and tremble against his skin. A curling strand of his hair catches onto his finger and twisting around it.

He yanks his hand down. It pulls at the strand of hair, sending a spark of pain through his scalp, but he barely registers it. He's too busy pressing his palm to his chest, pushing against his rapidly rising and falling chest, trying to reach for his even more rapidly beating heartbeat; maybe to calm it, or maybe just to assure himself of its continued beating, even if that currently should not even be a question, given the rush jolting through his bloodstream and roaring in his ears. There, atop his chest, his hands still shake and he is not sure it would even do any good, if he even could reach his heart.

As if it is all suddenly too much, Eddie jolts forward, jumping out of bed with jerky movements.

Heartbeat echoing with increasing beats in his ears, he flings himself across the floor and crashes into the wall before he can catch himself. Air wheezes from his lungs and he sags into the wall, shoulder pressing into the firm surface for just a moment.

Cold sweat prickle all over his skin. It sticks to him slick and clammy, soaking the fabric of his shirt and pajamas pants, making them cling to his legs, stomach and chest.
Fingers pinching the fabric, he tries to pull his clothes loose and wafts the soaked fabric back and forth, as if it might stop it from falling right back onto his skin.

He looks down at himself. At the way, the wet fabric sags and droops from his fingers, swaying back and forth.

The hand holding it shakes. Fingers trembling. Shaking the fabric. Almost jiggling it back and forth in the air.

Eddie drops the fabric as if burned.

A sound from outside jerks through the cabin. It hits Eddie like a gunshot. He jerks and doubles around. His heart bursts. Shooting through him, as if shot. It jolts through him as if carried on by a bolt of lightning. It is as if it kick-starts him. Like cable starting a car. Like the voltage shooting through a failing heart when resuscitated.

He pushes off the wall and stumbles for the opening, where the curtain hangs. The fabric jerks back with a rough jerk of his hand and he lurches through. Light washes over him as he enters the living room and he comes to a halting stop.

Someone left a light on in the kitchen and in the living room. The two bulbs of light casts a yellow glow all through the cabin, banishing the dark of night to the nooks, crannies and corners of the cabin. Large shadows fall over the floor, cast from the couch, coffee table and armchair at its touch.

He looks for barely a moment, before he jerks forward once more. Urged on by the blood jolting through him, rushing inside of his veins and the stuttering, rapid pace of his heart.

He tears through the cabin.

Claws through shelves. Grasps at objects and discards them after little more than a cursory glance.

Somehow, and he does not know how, he does not wake anyone. Or maybe he does and they are all just kind enough to pretend to be asleep. Leaving him to lose control with no one to witness his senseless, frantic rampage of the cabin.

Cupboard doors rattle and objects clatter against each other. Object after object rolls and crashes to the floor with banging and rattling racket. Nails scratch against wood and tap over metal. It sounds loud inside of his ears, joining the rapid, drumming pounding of his heart in a cacophony of noise. But maybe that is just him. Drowned in their grasp.

Everything is carried forward by Eddie's own breathing. Loud and rapid in his own ears. In-out in-out in-out. A constant stream of short breaths that fall in and out of his parted mouth and nose. Rushing through him, barely filling his lungs with enough air before escaping again. The rush of his pounding heart runs a beat of thundering drums underneath it.

Small beads of perspiration break out across his cooling skin. And he is reminded of a different time, where he could not catch his breath and all he had was the tight cramped space of a boat, filled to the brim with miscellaneous stuff that cut into him, bruising and painful; where every sound made his body twitch and his eyes dart around the darkness swallowing him; made his heart lodge in his throat and roar in his ears; the neck of a smashed beer bottle clenched in his hands and clutched to his chest, all that kept him from floating away in the arms of his rabitty heart, the monsters that suddenly filled the shadows and the sense that the world had cracked open underneath his feet and swallowed him whole.

Fingers trembling, he trawls through the cupboards and cabinets of the cabin. Pushing and shoving aside the stuff that fills the shelves. Unsure of what he is searching for, but knowing he needs it. Desperately needs it.

Salvation comes in the form of a familiar square package.

It stands in the lowest cupboard in the kitchen. Pushed up to the back of the cabinet. Still wrapped in plastic film. Crispy and crinkling but not new. A small layer of dust lies in a small coat on the top. Grime, dirt and dried spatters of mud lies up and down the sides.

A breath gasps through him and he lunges forward. Arm whipping through the air, Eddie's hand claws at it, grasping, tearing until he feels it against his palm. He wrenches the packet free from its resting place and pulls his arm out, the packet clutched between his fingers.

Light from behind and above Eddie's shoulder touches upon it. The plastic film reflects it back at Eddie, glinting out at him beneath a layer of grime and dust.

He barely spares a second to brush it off and jumps to his feet.

Pack of cigarettes in hand, a lighter in the other, he hurries to the front door. Feet swallowing the distance across the cabin. A blink of his eyes and he's by the door, hand held out, reaching for the handle.

He grinds to a halt. Feet skidding against the floor, halting right before the door. Air catches in his throat with a small hitch.

Heavy, pounding heartbeats slams against his chest. It pounds away against his ribs, as if it is trying to dig its way out through sheer blunt force trauma. Every beat rushes through his veins like shots of lightning. It jolts through him. Drowning him in fear and the memory of dark woods shrouded in a never-ending night.

The sound of his heartbeat and his rapid, shallow breaths fills his ears. It drowns out the world with a roar and he is almost blind to everything else.

His hand is still on the door handle. Arm held out. Frozen. Caught in the air, as if the space by the door has grown jaws and clamped down on his hand. Keeping him still and trapped in its grasp.

He cannot open the door.

It is like being doused in freezing cold water. Like his veins have turned to ice and in turn, his entire body is stuck. Unable to move a single muscle.

Thoughts slam against him, screaming at him to just open the door. It's just a silly door. It's just a silly, little, perfectly normal forest outside of it. Just a bunch of ordinary trees and a dark night sky with only the moon and stars to cast light across it.

Nothing else.

The forest may hold shadows, and the trees may hold creaking and strange noises, but that is all it holds.

No matter how much he shouts at himself, he cannot unlock the parts of his body that will give him access to his hand. His fingers remain stuck frozen and his heart remains convinced it is in a race against racehorses.

His chest hurts and aches. The sharp, static bursts of air jerking in and out of his mouth does nothing, but make it more painful. Making him all the more aware how important it is to breathe.

One last shaky breath breaks his hand free and he slowly eases it off the door handle, clutching it to his chest. Another shaky inhale and he breaks in two, knees giving out beneath him. Slowly, shakily, he sinks to the floor. A small rustle makes its way through the cabin as he slides down the door. Body weak and sagging, like everything inside of him has sunk. Like the slow deflation of a bouncy castle. Like a ship capsized at sea, slowly swept over, filling with water and sinking into its darkest depths.

He hits the floor and comes to a stop, crumbled up against both floor and door. Sagged into the door, collapsed sideways into it. Knees pulled to his chest, the packet of Camel's lies between his thighs and his stomach. The box sits hard and stiff against his stomach. Sharp corners dig into him, cutting into the aching wounds left on his stomach and chest. Pain stabs through him, bursting aflame from where his sutures lay.

He sits propped up sideways against the door with one shoulder and knee pressing into the hard wood door. Painfully so.

A shaky breath blows from his mouth, shuddering from inside of his lungs. He puts his head on his knees, arms coming up around himself. Small tremors shakes through him. Almost as if his entire body is shaking apart, as if the ever shaking tremors beneath his feet — from a world shaking apart and crumbling — is no longer enough; as if the tremors have finally reached him and are trying to shake him apart too.

A sob tears itself free from his mouth. His hand jerks up through the air and slaps onto his mouth, trying to catch it, when it is already too late.

Tears fill his eyes. The world around him blurs out and wobbles. Drowning in the water that steadily takes over his vision. He blinks and the first tears fall. He lets them. Keeps his hand pressed against his face. Mouth buried in his palm, his skin absorbs the quiet gasps and cries coming from his mouth.

The sounds of his cries fall through the cabin, muffled and broken.

Pain claws and tears at his chest. It tears and rips it apart from the inside. A different pain entirely from the bats that got there first and despite the two being not too far from each other, this new pain has nothing to do with the physical wounds left behind by the bats.

Eddie sits there and cries. Crumbled up and broken. Pressing himself into the door, as if he might disappear into the wood, if only he pushes hard enough. Burying his cries in his hand and tries to hold onto the promise the morning light will bring.

It takes a while, before he is able to pick himself back up again.

Fingers still trembling slightly, heart ever quivering with aftershocks, he pushes up off the floor. The rapid beat of his heart calm once more, but not any more steady for it.

The packet of Camels lies on the floor beside him. Left where it fell sometime while Eddie was lost inside of himself.

He picks it back up now and rips into it. The plastic crinkles and tears beneath his hands. Finally, he frees one packet from the bundle. And he knows, the doctor at the lab told him he should stay off cigarettes for at least two weeks, if he wanted the cleanest and quickest way to heal up without risking infection and what have you not, but Eddie has been chased from his home to a boatshed to Skull Rock to Hell and back and Hell again, for good measure, because one goddamn time wasn't enough, was it? No, it never fucking is. By monsters and men and godly eldritch beings with power to take over your fucking mind and trap you inside of it, sniffing out feelings of depression, guilt, sadness and trauma like a fucking High School bully — which was terrifying all on its own, when Eddie stood neck deep in new trauma, nightmares he did not understand and guilt the size of Connecticut. He's allowed a little leeway here, he thinks. If he can't smoke to smooth out all the new sharp edges inside of him, then he might as well jump back into that fucking pit of despair and let the demo-bats finish the job, because there is no way he will survive the next week without nicotine, never mind surviving this one night.

Jesus H. Christ. Eddie's only been here for a week and already he's ready to throw in the towel.

He taps the cigarette pack closed with still shaking fingers.

Unable to face the world outside of the walls of the cabin, he pushes himself to his feet, wobbling and swaying unsteadily and turns his back on the door. Stumbling slightly over his feet, Eddie makes his way to the toilet. The only room where the boarded up windows were left with cracks large enough for smoke to escape out of.

Sat on the toilet, a cigarette dangling from between two fingers, shaking in front of him, Eddie tries to breathe deeply in and out, telling himself the spinning room is from the smoke and the nicotine it brings and the dark the night has brought out; not his own frayed nerves and the nightmares following him out of his dreams.

Only after two smoked cigarettes does his hands stop shaking. And it is only when three cigarettes have been reduced to ashes that he is able to leave the toilet and return to bed.

He shoves the bundle of cigarettes under the cot. The one packet already broken into, he sticks into the pocket of his jeans that are lying crumbled on the floor, waiting for the morning to come.

He does not sleep again for the rest of the night. Just lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Watching the shadows stretch and elongate as the slivers of moonlight shifts across the wood. Listening to the quiet breaths and snores from Steve and Robin on the other side of the bed; to Dustin breathing beside him and the occasional grunt and snore that drifts out of his slightly parted mouth.

Sometimes, through the rest of the night, Dustin shifts and moves; the bed shaking and shuddering with him. The movement jolts through Eddie, making his heart stutter and skip a beat. His hands clenches the blanket tight, like a lifeline, until his heart is convinced the danger has passed.

Other times, he hears someone getting up in the other room past the curtain. A few murmurs. Feet that pitter-patter across the floor. A door that opens and closes. The sound of someone jerking awake with a sharp intake of breath.

Eddie does not let anyone know that he is lying awake and aside from catching the glimpse of Joyce peeking in through a gap in the curtain at some point during the night, no one comes looking for him.

The night passes in the cold, unforgiving hands of this new night that has been borne out of the hollow eyes of a dead girl and the long-reaching grasp of a shadow shrouded world. This new night has borne time that is slow and heavy. It passes Eddie by like mud; thick and sludge-like; coating everything around him in its heavy grasp, slowing the world down by its poisonous touch.

Eventually; finally; the light across the ceiling changes. It morphs from the artificial yellow glow of light bulbs and the blue and silver light of the distant moon to the reds and yellows of a rising sun. Dawn chases away the shadows of night in a way only its gentle touch can do. And soon the cabin fills up with the noise of the living waking up and getting up; chasing away the phantom sounds of night trying to drown Eddie in their grasp and finally Eddie can breathe deep again.

After one hell of a night with barely any sleep to show for it — but miles long bags under his eyes on top of the bruise-like eye bags already hanging there, dried blood clinging to the crevices of his nails from where he bit clean through when the cigarettes proved insufficient, shaking hands and an aching pain inside of his lungs, as if he's been gargling water all night long, fighting for his life to stay afloat against cresting sea waves, instead of fighting shadows and phantom sounds — morning comes for Eddie. By the time it comes, he is wading through heavy waters. Half awake and half asleep. Drifting in a place where his mind is heavy and murky with tongues of curling fog that is as heavy to the touch as bags of sand and as thick as mud; clinging to the corners of his mind and dragging him down into the thin, musty old mattress beneath him, which he can feel every inch off, as it digs into his back, every stretch and curl of his limbs and every painful suture keeping him in one piece.

Morning falls over him with the gentle sounds of padding feet and rough, gravelly morning voices speaking from a room away. Light washes away the dark lying against his eyelids and though there are no birds singing outside the window — chased away by the heavy hand the Upside Down has hanging over Hawkins, no doubt — Eddie still presses his face further into his pillow, begging the morning to come slower so that he might sleep just a little, even if he has not yet managed to. One can only hope that he would with just a little more time.

The light against his eyelids gets brighter and brighter. Going from black to dark grey to this golden wash of light. The noise in the cabin builds, chasing the night further and further away. And Eddie could cry from relief that the night's long, sharp claws has finally let him go — so alike are they to the claws and teeth of the bats that tore into him in that otherworld and yet altogether different enough from them that their reach went much deeper than the bats ever managed to — but as they retreat, so too does the heavy feeling of this trance-like consciousness fade — that is, in truth, only a poor mimicry of sleep, but far better than none at all — and Eddie could cry all over again, begging for it to come back and pull him fully under. Where his eyes will not hurt anymore and they will finally get to rest and where the shadows in the corners of his eyes cannot reach him any longer. But it is too late. A cupboard door slams. A heavy pot bangs against a table and Eddie is awake.

He drifts in that strange land of clouded fog and heavy limbs, but fully awake in his body. Clinging to the last vestiges of sleep for as long as he can and tries to tell himself he cannot hear or shifting and rustling movements happening right beside him, as Steve and Robin wake up and move about.

The mattress underneath him shifts and dips and Eddie jerks to his full senses, as if catapulted back into his body. A rush shoots through him, throwing him into full consciousness with its brutal, shocking touch. It lights up his every nerve with lightning. Air flies in through Eddie's nose and his eyes spring open. His head jerks, twitching on the pillow. Head turned to the direction from which it came, he can just barely focus on Dustin, who has swung his legs over the side of the cot, rubbing at his face and mumbling under his breath.

Soft noises sounds off to the side and Eddie whips his head around and latches onto the sight of Steve and Robin sat in the mattress beside his own, curled inwards towards one another, heads bent together, as they change out of their pajamas. Steve rummages around in a bag, pulls out a comb and a hairbrush, the first which he takes to his own hair and the second he hands off to Robin without casting her a glance. The morning light has managed to finds its way into the room through slivers between the boarded up window and the golden light of dawn falls over the scene like the touch of gods. Watching them with the night's shadows still pressing into the dark of Eddie's eyelids and the still shaking echo of its touch, ever shaking inside of Eddie’s heart and turning his heartbeat into a rapid pitter-patter that feels more like an earthquake shaking him apart from the inside than a the heartbeat it is supposed to be, it truly does feel like a scene taken from the land of gods.

A weight nearby shifts. The cot creaks and the mattress shifts as the body right beside his own pushes onto his feet. Footsteps scuffing and rubbing against the floor, Dustin limbs past, heading towards the curtained doorway. The last of the heavy weight filling Eddie's head retreats to the sound of Dustin limping across the floorboards and shouting at the shower to hurry the hell up.

"Fuck," Eddie whispers, veins still racing with the phantom of night clinging to his skin, as he watches the curtain flutter in his wake. He drops his head back on the pillow and stares with unseeing eyes up at the ceiling above him. A grunt grinds against Eddie's throat and he frees his hand from the blanket to rub it across his face far more vigorous and unforgiving than he should.

"You okay, man?" comes Steve's voice from somewhere beside him.

Eddie makes a noncommittal noise from the back of his throat. He keeps his hand pressed into his face.

"The first night is always the hardest. It'll get better," Robin says, her voice somewhere between empathetic and pained.

"I highly doubt that,” he says, voice dead and empty.

"To be fair, you've already had your first night, this so technically your—" she pauses to count lowly under her breath "—1-2-3-4—" then cuts off "—well, it's your first night after it's over and at your own full senses."

"He slept in the lab," Steve throws out. Still glued to his pillow, Eddie turns his head. Steve has his eyes buried in one of the bags, one hand rummaging through it. Muttering something that sounds like "Could’ve sworn it was—" cutting himself off before he can finish.

Robin makes a face. Nose scrunching up and all. She flaps a hand in the air. "Okay, so, not your first night, but it still kinda feels like the first night. I mean, I didn't really feel like it was all over until the lab discharged you and we all got here, so I kinda figured maybe you'd—”

"Did it get better for you?" Eddie asks, only half listening to the ramble she had been descending into, not wanting to be as rude as his voice no doubt sounds after the night he has had, but so very desperate to know her answer.

Robin does not look perturbed or even half-annoyed by him cutting her off. In fact, she looks rather understanding, and far too empathetic for the morning light and the bruises still lining her skin, mottled and gruesome underneath the collared neckline and shirtsleeves of the pale purple polo that once again looks a size or two too big to be hers. "Well, no." She makes a face and shrugs. "But I didn't really have to do it on my own. Steve was there at my window within the first 30 hours, at least, once he got out of the hospital and watchful eyes of Ma Henderson."

Steve snorts. "That was harder than the Russian bunker, I swear." Robin turns and elbows him. But she's grinning and snorts with a sound that sounds eerily close to Steve's. "What?" Steve laughs, slapping back at her with a hand that flaps in the air between them. "It's true. The Henderson’s turn into a fortified fortress as soon as Ma smells blood and she's like a shark, when it comes to that."

"Or she just knows better than to listen to you, when it comes to your health." The sweet smile she throws his way is just as sharp and pointed as the words she says, no matter how sweetly she says them. For her efforts, Steve mouths soundless words at her, his expression all mocking and twisted in a pretend sneer. "Stop it, dickhead." Robin punches his arm.

"Ow!" Steve jolts. A hand flies to his arm and he rubs it up and down where she struck with an annoyed frown on his face. "Robs, you can't do that. I'm injured. And already more black and blue than skin. I'll be back in the ER, if you keep that up."

"Please." She rolls her eyes so had it looks like it physically hurts. "It'll take another demogorgon to get you willingly into the ER." Huffing loudly, Robin turns back to Eddie, her expression falling into something kind and gentle, as soon as her eyes land on him. "The point is, you get used to it. At some point. Someday." A weak smile stretches from her lips and she looks at him with heavy and sad eyes. Almost apologetically, she tilts her head to the side. "We've all been where you are now. And we're here. We'll help you through it."

"Thank you, Robin," Eddie manages to say past the thick lump in his throat. "Means a lot."

"Of course." She throws a kick at his legs and almost manages to flip herself off her own mattress in the process. "Woah!" A quick arm whips up and catches her in time though and Steve pushes her back up with a fond smile, his eyes latched onto her with such adoration. He rights her, then glances at Eddie. The smile turns from fond to empathetic and the light in his eyes turns to embers.

"Yeah, we're here for you, Munson." He claps his hands, rubs them and then uses them to push off the mattress. "But first, breakfast," he says as he jumps to his feet, far too sprightly for someone with nearly as many stitches as Eddie himself and as bruised as if he had fallen fifty feet off a cliff and somehow managed to survive. He holds out a hand to Robin and pulls her up from the mattress. "And I seriously hope Jonathan and Argyle stocked up like they said they were gonna do, because last time I checked, those cupboards were full of more dried mud and dust than food," as he talks, he almost absentmindedly holds a hand out to Eddie, face and eyes turned elsewhere.

Eddie rubs a hand across his face. Trying to rub out the creases and crusty feeling lingering all over his skin from the night away. Hand dropping away, he offers Steve a weak, but genuine smile, who finally turns his expectant gaze to his. "Yeah, sure. Breakfast," he agrees and claps his hand into his, letting him pull him to his feet.

When they troop out into the kitchen to join the breakfast foray, Hopper and Joyce have already eaten, so the older teens try to squish around the tiny dining table, while the kids cram themselves all over the couch and the floor. It is a tight fit, but with Robin sat on Steve's lap on the same chair, Eddie on a smaller stool and Jonathan and Argyle so close together they might as well have sat atop one another too, it just about holds them.

While he eats, Eddie as good as hangs over the table, folded over and only kept afloat by the elbow he has stabbing into his own thigh with his hand holding his head above his plate of plain toast. Blinking slow and dazedly as if he is still floating somewhere half-asleep, groggy, his other hand shoving toast into his mouth with an automatic, robotic-like rhythm. The sound of people talking and exchanging quiet words — that get louder and louder the more food is consumed and the more time is spent awake — turns to a distant, drone sound, drilling incomprehensibly into Eddie's ears. Like the babbling of a brook or buzzing flies. He very much wants to tell them to shut up, but, despite the lingering feeling that it has been years since he last saw his uncle, he can still feel the phantom slap Wayne would have left against the back of his head and the gruff, but warm, "Manners," he would receive from it. So he keeps it in. He does throw Robin a stink eye when she shoots an arm through the air, gesturing wildly at the tale she's telling about when she went on a trip last October with her parents, something they prefer to do rather than stay at home and celebrate Thanksgiving, apparently.

As they eat, Robin and Steve talk about finally going to donate some stuff at the relief aid shelter set up at the high school. "We've been putting it off, because we wanted to make sure you made it through okay," Robin tells him, her voice muffled through a mouthful of toast and jam, sucking her fingers clean of the same jam, because she spread too much on the slice and its spilling all over the sides, even as she makes a face at it and sticks her tongue out of her mouth, wafting it about as if the taste is something foul.

Between it all, Joyce finds a gap between them, reaches across the table and deposits scrambled eggs, from a burning hot pan on every plate. When she reaches Robin and Steve, who are sharing a plate, she leaves two heaping spoonfuls of cloudy eggs beside the toast. Before she even retreats out of their crammed bubble, Steve reaches out, turns the plate so the eggs are closest to him. He picks up one of the more burnt toasts left without jam on it, scoops some of the egg on top of it with a spoon and bites a generous piece off.

Robin wrinkles her nose at it, but puts her bitten toast down on the plate, pushing it towards Steve's eggs, then goes to dig into Steve's assembled toasts of only butter.

"Hmm, 'fank you," he says through his eggs, then swallows and adds with a little concerned frown between his brows. "You don't want it?"

She makes a face. "We’re having a disagreement today."

“Ah.” Steve eyes her spread of toast and seems to immediately understand what she means, because he adds, "That would be marmalade. I think—” he cuts off and scans the table, lays eyes on something and immediately seizes a jar filled with jelly-like jam. "Jam. No seeds or chunks," he says, as he sets it down on the table next to her, then scoops another helping of eggs and toast into his mouth. "I'll go shopping next time,” he says through his mouthful. "Make sure there's more of the seedless jam. If they have it."

"Hmm. No cranberry, though."

"God no." Steve makes a face reminiscent of Robin's scrunched nose, as if it was the most offending thing to be said on gods green earth. And they continue dressing their food and consuming it — grabbing jars of peanut butter and handing it over without the other ever saying a word, as seamlessly as if they were of one mind — as if they have been starved for weeks, pushing and prodding toasts and bits of food towards each other, for the taking. So seamlessly in sync with each other it is making a mockery of Eddie, who is struggling just turning on his fine-motor skills to keep his head aloft, chew his food without choking and keep a steady flow of his hand moving back and forth with a piece of toast between his fingers.

He forgives them for it though.

True to word, after breakfast, a flurry goes through the cabin as the group prepares to leave for the high school and the temporary shelter made there. While they hop from one foot to the other or simply just shove their feet into their still tied shoes, guilt forces Eddie to pull Robin aside and ask her for help to tend to his stitches. She gladly does it and even takes the time to pause and goggle at a few of his tattoos along the way, then wraps it in gauze and bandages again, packing it all away with one last twitch of a smile and a pat to his arm.

It goes without saying that Eddie stays in the cabin. Of course. El too. Although they are far from alone. Staying behind with them are Max, Mike, Lucas and Erica, the latter three who came through the door at the end of a very chaotic breakfast with everyone shouting for their favorite box of cereal or the last bits of scrambled eggs.

When everyone else is tromping out of the door — Steve herding everyone and reminding them about going to the Wheelers to pick them and their stuff up first — Steve hangs back and gives Eddie a once over, his eyes trailing him up and down with a worried frown breaking out between his brows.

"Don't worry, Harrington, I'll be good here. Besides—" Eddie jerks his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at El, sat on the couch, her feet tucked under herself and Hopper's arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest, his eyes focused on the news running across the TV screen and El herself seemingly content to just sit with him “—I've got my Fugitive Friend right here to keep me company."

And so with one last nod and twitching smile, Steve claps a hand on Eddie's back in a very jock-like manner for all that it is very careful that has Eddie sneering mockingly at him — out of principle and reflex more than true disdain — and leaves with Robin, Dustin, Argyle and Jonathan.

Shortly after they leave, Hopper drops a kiss on top of El's head and goes around helping Joyce clean up after breakfast. Eddie had thought to move and do so himself, but, as soon as the door shut behind the group, he dropped down in Steve and Robin's shared dining chair and did not move again. Joyce going around picking stuff off the table rouses him from his dead-eyed slumber and he shakes himself out with a sharp inhale.

"You okay, honey?" she asks, stacking plates and bowls in her hand by the dining table left in messy chaos in the morning's wake.

"Yeah, fine," he mumbles into his hand as he rubs his face.

She grimaces an empathetic smile at him. "Rough night?"

"Hmm, something like that." He drops his hand and surveys the messy spread before them. "You need a hand?"

"Oh, no, that's very kind of you, sweetheart, but I can take care of this.” She touches her free hand to his shoulder, her touch gentle and soft. “You just go and rest, you look like you need it." And she turns and leaves the stack off to the side of the sink, where Hopper installs himself.

Eddie grunts but he is too tired to argue.

Music crackle and flare in the background, popping into being as it begins to play behind El's bedroom door. It plays quiet and low, carried in the arms of Lucas, Max, Mike, Will and El's voices that drone quietly beneath it.

After finally tearing himself away from the little chair a second time, Eddie plops himself down on the couch. Body heavy and tired from barely any sleep the night before and the heavy, drowsy touch of his prescribed medication. The TV runs one of those programs with home adverts that try to sell you a bunch of products that Eddie always thinks looks like bullshit. Despite that vehement opinion that never changes no matter how many times he’s watched it high off his ass and giggly — alone or with company, depending on how pathetic he sounded over the phone or if any of the other members of Hellfire had a veritable mountain of unfinished homework and too spineless to stick it to the man physically (or anxiety in Gareth's case) or a desperate desire to avoid a pop quiz that day — he still lies and mindlessly watches it, because he honestly cannot imagine convincing his body to do anything else in its current state.

The more he lies there, the heavier his eyes gets. One of the hosts on the program, a pimped up woman with perfectly rolled doll-like curls, red lips and heavy blue eyeshadow, acts out over-exaggerated surprise and joy at a sweeper that proclaims to be 100% more effective than regular sweepers. A phone number flashes across the screen in a big, colorful font and Eddie blinks slow and heavy-lidded at them. Hardly even seeing any of it past the blurry sludge that has fallen over his eyes.

Before the two hosts have moved on to the next hot thing, he drifts off. Falling into a pit of heavy sand and blessed darkness made up of loud, obnoxious voices from the TV and the sound of music and the kids distant conversation from the other room.

He jerks awake what feels like barely ten minutes later, but when he pushes himself upright, rubbing at his eyes with a closed fists, the TV, muted and soundless, flashes the kind of News at him, he knows runs around midday. And true enough, a clock framed in the bottom of the screen reads 12:23.

Turning his head from side to side, he takes a cursory sweep of the cabin long enough to find out that the others have not returned yet.

He sits there, staring with bleary and heavy eyes at the news for some time. Enough time that there are no more news to give and the screen switches to some other program. What program Eddie has no idea. He is far too tired to dedicate any brainpower to find out and he spends quite some time watching it pass by with unseeing, blurry eyes.

When he finally wrenches himself away from the couch an hour later, Eddie peeks into El's bedroom to see how they are holding up. They perk up at his appearance in the door, enough that before he realizes what's happened, he has been pulled into the room by their urging voices alone and goes to sit with them. Even if the music they play continues to be all pretentious pop, indie and synth artists.

Which is how he comes to spend the day sat on the floor in El's room with the girl herself, Lucas, Max, Will and Mike.

In the bed, Max carefully propped up and supported with pillows for her limbs in casts — her wheelchair set aside in the living room, to make room for all the kids trying to shove themselves into such a small room – sits side by side with Lucas, a comic book propped up before them. Voice soft and quiet, he guides Max through the pictures depicted before her, now lost to her milky white eyes, the pictures and text too fine and small for her blurry, distant sight to pick up. At the foot of the bed lies Erica, curled over a My Little Pony coloring book and a pile of crayons. (A sight Eddie is very happy to see. Grateful, that there is still some childhood joy left for Erica, after the Upside Down and angry, white evangelists tried to take it from her.)
 In the corner, is Will. Sat with his back to the bed, a drawing pad before him and coloring pens beside him. Whenever there is a lull in the music playing, the sound of his pens scratching lightly against paper flit through the air. When Eddie first comes into the room, El sits beside him, hunched into him, voices lowered and sharing quiet words. A bubble of something comfortable and warm surrounding them, despite the heavy air that usually seems to hound them, though the smiles they share are small and weak and heavy.

The music comes from a boombox. Its speakers fill the room with the clang and rhythm of instruments and voices stretched into beautiful vocals and harmonies, poppy sounds and far too many synths if you ask Eddie. A pile of tapes lie haphazard and messy before it, as if someone upended a bag out onto the floor and no one's cared enough to try and sort it since. From the looks of them alone, Eddie can tell it's an amalgamation of everyone's taste. There are even a few homemade mixtapes thrown into the pile. Even a few of Eddie’s own tapes have managed to find their way among them, he realizes, eyes catching on Metallica’s familiar, flashing letters and a Black Sabbath title. How Eddie has no idea, considering the stuff Dustin and Steve packed for him remains tucked away in bags in the other bedroom.
  It is quite the impressive collection. And not without effort, he knows, as he has been dutifully told that they have been through the Wheeler's basement, Dustin's many boxes and Steve's mansion to try and gather enough entertainment for the people stuck inside of the cabin. (They do not call Steve's house a mansion, but Eddie is far too spiteful to not call it that, even though it is no longer directed at Steve himself).

Past the door, Joyce and Hopper stay as a soft rumble of gentle voices that manage to creep into the room through the crack left in the doorway.

Through the day, they go through a good dozen tapes — and Eddie almost thinks they are trying to go through as many as possible — the boombox filling the room with one band or singer, only for the tape to be changed and a completely different sound booms from its speakers. It is enough to give someone vertigo, and Eddie would, except he's used to far louder and harsher sounds and sudden changes, when he gets bored with one tape and switches to another mid-song.
 Not one artist or song goes by without at least one comment from one of the kids, dripping with playful derision or teasing; ribbing it and trying to guess who brought it there. Eddie pegs ABBA, Wham! and Queen to be Steve's. But he would not be surprised, if the Cyndi Lauper that managed to sneak its way into the pile also comes from him, even though he could peck several other occupants inside the cabin to be a fan of hers.

Bopping her head along, El claims her like for ABBA. She does recognise them from the radio, but claims Jonathan and Will never really played them. As time has passed, she has inched her way a little further into the room, sprawled on her stomach across the floor, her knees by Will, elbows in the ground, keeping her head up, facing out into the rest of the room.

When the ABBA tape finishes, Eddie fishes it free from the cartridge, turns it over between his fingers and holds it out for her with a flourish. "A gift for my fairest of ladies," he proclaims in a far softer and quieter voice than he usually would.

Eyes hesitant and guarded, she takes it from his hand. When it is in her hands, she runs her fingers back and forth over the smooth surface in repetitive motions, smiling quietly down at it.

Eddie leans closer to her and touches a finger to his lips. "I'm sure Harrington won't miss it. If he does, you can claim the rats took it." He grins and taps the side of his nose.

A small chuckle bubbles from El. She clutches the tape to her chest and grins at him. "He said we wouldn't be able to get you to listen to our music."

"He also said your ears would start bleeding, if you ever caught a snippet of ABBA," Will pipes up from behind her, head still turned down, eyes fixed on the strokes his pen makes over the paper in his lap. The playful grin playing across his face still peeks out, despite the shadows trying to keep him tucked away from the rest of them.

Eddie crooks an eyebrow at Will, but directs his smile at El. "It can be our secret." He throws a wink at her. "Those basketball players like Steve can have a fragile world view—”

"Hey!" Lucas cries.

“—it's best to let them keep their narrowed view," Eddie continues, throwing a sharp grin at Lucas, full of teeth.

A sound of protest comes from the bed, where Lucas’ head jerks up from his comic book. "That's not—”

"Am I wrong, Sinclair?" he asks, cutting him off with a quirked brow.

Lucas huffs, but returns to his comic without another word.

Quiet cracks fills the room, as plastic shifts across the floor and clacks against each other. The sound makes Eddie turn his head down. The pile of many cassette cartridges moves on its own. An invisible hand shifts them around, spreading them out and they bump into each other. Eddie throws a look at El. A tiny drop of blood hangs down from El's nose. Brow furrowed, she looks over the tapes. Eyes on the tapes, she says, "Steve said your tapes are like a bag of howling cats. He said I shouldn't play it too loud, because it would make the birds drop from the skies like flies."

"Did he now?" Eddie quirks a brow at her, grinning lopsided, entirely lost to her focused shifting through the pile.

Max snorts from the bed. "He also said they were a danger to shake Vecna out of his grave."

"Which ones are they?" El asks, eyes still passing over the many tapes. A small frown continues to furrow her brow.

"It's the one that says Metallica," Max calls, trying to lift her arm, but only succeeding in shifting it slightly against the pillow supporting it. Flashes of drawings and doodles in full color splashes out across the cast covering it, nudging against Eddie's eyes as it shifts. She huffs and jerks her head instead. "Big, fat red letters."

Hand whipping through the air, Eddie lurches forward and grabs a tape from the pile, holding it up between two fingers. "Now, kids, now this is music." The tape is Black Sabbath. Not Metallica. He did mention Ozzy to Steve and he is not sure he will ever be able to listen to them and not remember the sight of Steve slamming a bat into the ground, ripping it in two with his bare hands, spitting blood and flesh out of his mouth with gore dripping down his chin and chest. Well. At least parts of that mental image is more breath taking than breath catching. But Black Sabbath is not Metallica, so he hopes it is safe from the shadows of the Upside Down. Besides, if Eddie cannot try and listen to his music in a room full of kids with warm smiles and still beating hearts, all of them trying to free themselves of the lingering shadows the upside Down has cast over them, just as he is, then he never will and he will be damned if Vecna takes this from him as well.

Leaning across the space, Eddie slides his tape into the empty socket in the boombox and presses play with a final click.

The volume of the music is a good middle. Screeching instruments, hammering drums and throaty voices drift out from the speakers, filling the corners of the room without drilling into their ears. It is not the way he usually listens to metal or Black Sabbath, but he does not want to fall on Hopper's shit list after so many years of avoiding it — despite so many citizens of Hawkins attempt at painting him a delinquent in the eyes of police — and be thrown out of the cabin, because he damaged the kids' hearing blasting loud metal music.

During Black Sabbath, Mike rises to his feet. He moves around the bed, picking his way carefully across the floor amongst tapes and discarded blankets, and comes to stand at the end, where Will sits in a world of his own making. As Mike steps up to Will, bopping lightly on his heels, he throws a careful look towards El laid out on the floor.

Now. A dutiful Dustin has informed Eddie that Mike and El are a couple. But, so far, that seems up for debate, considering the way the two act around each other. Eddie has seen none of the lovey-dovey, self-absorbed air that circles teen couples like vultures. Granted his time with them in the same cabin, or room even, has been limited, but the frigid air around them is palpable enough even for him to sense.
According to Dustin, they have been together for well over a year now, but then they were also together before but not really, it was all very confusing and he was not really clear on that front, when he told that to Eddie; frantically adding commentary to every person in the cabin, like Eddie needed to pass a test in who knows who and where they met, in order to be a part of the monster hunting group. So maybe the vultures have passed on for them. Gone on to newer relationships and, while it's a little earlier than most and they seem to have skipped a few steps, they seem to be settling into the loath and dead weight that shadows married couples like a different type of grim reaper.

Mike and El seem well enough. But the air around them is almost tepid. Almost, as if one side is hesitant and wary, the other sort of turned to the side. As if El is no longer looking at Mike first, when she enters a room. The boyfriend more an afterthought, a footnote, than the headline. And she hardly seems eager to talk to him or spend some time alone with him, the way Eddie would assume couples would.

And Eddie would do anything for these kids, but he is not touching that, even if he should be armoured from head to foot in dragonscale armor and a ten foot lance.

"Can I sit?" Mike asks quietly, giving a small wave with the comic book in his hand towards the empty space on Will's other side.

Warily, Will looks up at him. The corner of his eyes grows tense and a shadow falls over his face. He tries to give a small smile, his mouth twitching, but his expression is too tight and closed off to allow the smile to grow.

Mike smiles at him and waves at the spot beside him again.

Will casts a glance down beside himself at the empty space, back up at Mike and down again. "Uh, sure, yeah," he eventually says and shifts to the side, making space for him. A quick glance cast to the side, has his eyes falling on El, who is looking over her shoulder, the expression on her face hidden from Eddie, but the tight smile Mike gives her, when he catches her looking, is not.

In the corner of his eye, Eddie glances at them, trying not to seem too obvious but a little too curious for his own good.

It was surprising at first, to see Will and Mike together. From all of the stories Mike has told him of Will, his named best friend and D&D extraordinaire, he expected something else. Certainly not the pain in Will's eyes or the closed off expression that falls over his face, whenever Mike approaches. And not the hesitance that hangs around Mike like a well-worn cloak.

While Mike gets comfortable, Will looks to the side. His eyes catches on El. He shares a small smile with her and shrugs. One of El's shoulders lifts in a responding shrug and she turns back around, turning the back of her head to the two. The expression on her face gives nothing away to Eddie, as she returns to the game of Clock Solitaire she has spread out before her; a game she told Eddie — when he asked about it, as she first laid it out before her — Hopper used as a way to teach her the clock and how to read it during the first few weeks of her living with him. And she has apparently taken a shine to it since, because she runs through quite a few rounds, before she huffs at yet another unsolved clock and leaves the cards off in an unsorted, messy pile off to the side.

The more time that passes with the two boys sitting side by side, marked by the passing of songs through the air, with Mike occasionally reaching out and pointing at something in his comic book or Will's drawing, voice lowered for just him, the more Will loosens. The expression he wears opens up, his eyes brightens and his smile lights up. Mouth pulling up into a gentle, warm smile, he looks back at Mike, answering him in a quiet and soft voice.

And finally Eddie can recognize the sadness in his eyes, as something not belonging to the Upside Down, but entirely to himself.

It does make Eddie wonder. Things he has seen glimpses off in Will that he knows from himself.

Maybe if he were anyone else or were closer to Will, he would have a chance of bringing it up or offer a certain kind of trust and understanding, he suspects, Will has never known or been able to find in anyone else. But he is not. Perhaps one day, he muses, casting another quick, sideways glance at him. If these days in this cabin can give him anything; if these days can give Will anything more than old nightmares and demons coming back to haunt him, then it is a chance for them to build some kind of bridge between them. A bridge Eddie can one day cross and offer a hand for Will to come up and meet him on and give him the one thing Eddie always needed, when he was a kid with the same kind of ache in his heart.

Or maybe he is wrong. After all, he does not know Will and has only seen glimpses up until now. Who knows. Maybe Eddie will see more th more time he spends inside these wooden walls.

In the afternoon, a long time after Black Sabbath has been replaced with a more moderate tape, the others return.

The front door opens with a rusty creak. It swings on its hinges and sends a protesting scream ringing through the cabin. It slams into the side of the wall with a bang! that reverberates slightly through the walls.

Light voices drift from the front, reaching through the open door of El's room. A pair of footsteps thump against the floor. Behind it, someone else kicks gently at a wall, knocking shoes against it repeatedly. Voices rise and fall through the cabin, Joyce's gentle voice replies, her words muffled by the music still playing. Underneath the ruckus, a different set of footsteps walk through the cabin, pace much more measured and sedate, heading towards El's room and the crack left in the door.

Eddie has already turned his head, seeking the newcomers past the wall. He watches the door to El's room opens, a hand knocking lightly against it and nudging it open.

Standing in the doorway, hanging onto the doorknob with one hand, the other raised, knuckles grazing against the doorframe, Steve looks in at them, gaze roaming over them. A soft look immediately falls over his face, as soon as he lays eyes on them. "Everything good here?" he asks with a small smile.

"The birds stole your tape," El says, grinning. Laughter breaks out, muffled behind hands and hidden in comic books.

A puzzled expression falls over Steve's face, brows furrowing and mouth crooking. "What?"

"Nothing." Eddie flaps a hand in the air towards the kids. Their titter picks up from the action. Still watching them, Steve's bewildered expression only grows.

Pushing off the floor, Eddie jumps to his feet, hair flying all around him. Pain jolts through his body from several spots. It bites at his skin and zips through him like bolts of lightning. The scars scattered across his back and chest coming alive with a flare, like a spark casting fire, burning through skin and flesh. Hiding a grimace, Eddie picks his way over discarded tapes and comic books, walking off the thin mattress spread across the floor he had occupied, more measured and careful than when he jumped to his feet. Expression tight with the pain he cannot hide.

He comes up beside Steve, who shifts to accommodate him, and stands with him in the doorway, slumping sideways, caving to the pain carving into his flesh. The scar by his left shoulder and one down by his hip especially painful, as if the bats are still hanging on, teeth sinking deep, tearing him apart with brutal hunger and bloodlust.

Steve is looking back out into the rest of the cabin. Eyes heavy and expression drawn. The only reason Eddie's pain goes unnoticed, he suspects. Jonathan and Argyle remain absent, but Robin has claimed the couch, her legs thrown up on the coffee table.

"How was it?" Eddie asks, voice lowered with gravity, as if just by coming to stand beside Steve, some of the weight on his shoulders falls on Eddie's too. Good thing they are the same height then.

"Yeah, it was—” Steve sighs, shoulders slumping and runs a hand through his hair “—it was bad. Not as bad as it could have been, if Vecna had won," he adds with a sideways glance at him, "but it isn't pretty out there."

Ever since coming to in the lab, actually, ever since he ran from his trailer, leaving Chrissy's body broken and alone on the floor of his home, he has had to pick up the truths and news of Hawkins from these people's lips; their kind smiles and their giving hands. Trusting them to give him the full truth, instead of trying to spare him. And he does. He trusts them. Completely and wholeheartedly. Somehow, in the middle of the end of the world, that is the easiest thing Eddie has ever done.

Past Steve, Eddie tracks Dustin's movements as he limbs in through the door, expression heavy and clouded. Fists clenched and shoulders hunched, he lumbers his way across the floor, his one severely sprained leg lagging in a limb behind him, and throws himself down in the armchair, arms crossed and breath huffing.

Resigned and quiet, Steve and Eddie stands side by side, watching him.

"What happened?" he asks softly, turning his eyes on Steve.

Shoulders slumping, Steve sighs, his expression heavy and worried. The light of his eyes flash, gaze darting up, glancing at Dustin. "We saw your uncle at the gym." He drags his thumb across his brow, skin dragging and pulling. "Dustin got really upset, seeing him. He wanted to tell him everything. Or as much as he could," voice lowered to a soft murmur, Steve tells him, occasionally glancing back at him, occasionally glancing all over the cabin, as if concerned of eavesdropping in a place where all the people under the same roof, all bear the same bond forged by blood and the impossible; the one place he would never have to be worried about it. Dragging his hand down, he rubs his palm across his face, then drops it, looking up at Eddie, head turned down as if weighted down. "It was hard. Seeing your uncle. Harder seeing Dustin struggle with it. I almost had to drag him away."

For a moment, the two of them stay side by side. Bearing identical worried frowns, looking at Dustin. A deep ache twists through Eddie; the twinging, pulling ache from his scars, momentarily forgotten for another.

"Well," he eventually says, pushing away from the door and flashing Steve a smile, ignoring the ache that twinges inside of his heart at the mention of his uncle, "we can't have the little lamb all downtrodden now, can we?"

Feeling Steve staring after him, Eddie makes his way over to Dustin. When he comes to a stop before him, rocking back on his heels, Dustin barely looks up at him. His eyes red, carefully looking away from him. It tugs at Eddie's heart. A small hole inside of it hollows out, sinking deeper, as if a black hole has dug itself into his heart and digs itself deeper still, sucking everything into it, every time he sees Dustin's bright and cheerful expression disappear behind grief and pain. Picked up in the Upside Down, when Eddie went down to ear-splitting screeches and flapping wings; when Dustin came to pick him off the ground, tugging him into his lap and begging him to stay.

The image forms a lump in his throat. It claws sharp and painful at his windpipe.

Heart twisting inside of his chest, Eddie shits his foot forward, nudging at Dustin's uninjured one. "Come on, Henderson," he says, forcing his voice to sound brighter than he himself feels. A small smile breaks out across his face. "We can't have you sitting there grim all day." Jerking his head, he nods back towards Steve, who is standing off to the side, leant against the wall beside El's door, arms crossed, watching them with barely concealed concern. Rocking on his heels, Eddie leans closer to Dustin and bends over, as he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I've been trying to get Harrington to deal a game with me and I think I've finally got him cornered, but I need a backer."

Groaning in the back of his throat, Dustin's head falls back. "Urgh, Steve only ever wants to play stupid basic games," he says sulking, wiping the back of his hand across his nose.

"So the man is simple." Eddie shrugs. "What else can we expect from someone, who can't even appreciate the intricacies of D&D?"

"That's true." Dustin nods matter of fact.

"So, you game?"

"Yeah, okay." He rises to his feet, the slump in his shoulders still lingering all across his back.

"Great." Eddie claps his hands together and lays them on top of Dustin shoulders. He pushes him forward, steering him towards the shelf near the front door that holds all the board games and decks of cards. "Go. Pick our fate, beloved bard." He shows him forward.

Huffing a puff of air, Dustin steps out of Eddie's grip and makes his to the shelf. He scans the games over it, pointed finger running over the side of the boxes, mouthing along to himself, as if arguing the merits of each game.

Eddie stays leant up against the back of the couch and waits, watching him with soft eyes.

"Aha!" Dustin eventually exclaims. Triumphantly, he holds a board game high in the air, like the celebratory stance of a knight at the end of a hard won battle, or a pirate finding his treasure at the end of the treasure map. Grin wide, he shakes the box. Cardboard and plastic pieces inside of it jiggle and rattle.

His bright grin makes Eddie trudge over, ruffle his hair and agree. He throws a look over his shoulder at Steve. The grin stretching across his lips quickly dims at the sight of how run down and exhausted Steve looks. Pain clings in lines of tension around his eyes and by the corners of his mouth. Eddie just catches the tail end of the minor headshake Steve sends Robin's way, face twisted in a grimace, mouth shaping a soundless word and a quick, flashing almost rhythmic gesture he makes with his hands through the air, fingers curling and positioned oddly.

The tightness scrawled all over Steve's face, as he turns his eyes back to Dustin — worsening as he catches sight of the game he holds, though he is careful never to let even the shadow of a grimace or protest cross his features — is as clear as a cloudless sky. The sight of it makes Eddie pluck the game out of Dustin's hands, scoot it back on the shelf and pick up a dusty deck of cards instead. Ignoring the groan Dustin gives him, he snaps the elastic band keeping it stacked together off and turns to Dustin. Grin spread wide across his face, Eddie shuffles the cards, fingers nimble and quick like a poker player. The cards jumps between his hands, fwii-ii-ii-iip-ing between Eddie's palms. Gathering them in a neat stack again, he reaches out and taps them on Dustin's shoulder, grin broad and sharp. "Think you can handle a game with these, my dear bard?"

"Who do you think I am, Steve?" he scoffs, affronted.

"Well, then." He taps the stack to Dustin's shoulder again. Turning, he catches Steve's inquisitive gaze, holds the cards up and flaps them once them in the air. At this, a look of relief sweeps across Steve's face and he nods. The pain tickles off the corners of his expression and his shoulders sag in a soundless sigh.

Sweeping an arm up in the air, Eddie palms the back of Dustin's head, ruffling his hair, while pushing him forward, gently guiding him towards a corner of the living room. A pleased grin stretches from his lips at the look of relief and gratitude Steve sends his way, making his way towards the side of the cabin.

Dustin ducks under his hand. He swats Eddie's arm away, jumping on his one fully working leg, grumbling words under his breath that sound suspiciously like, "Never should have wanted them to get along." Not that Eddie pays it any attention, his eyes still caught on Steve across the cabin, settling down on the floor and clearing a space for them between discarded pillows, blankets and a thin, ratty mattress that claimed the corner before them.

They cross the floor and join Steve at his spot.

As Eddie settles on the floor, crossing his ankles in front of him in criss-cross-applesauce, he throws a look over his shoulder at Robin and wiggles the deck of cards in the air. "What about you, Buckley? Care to join?"

"Not on your life, I've worked enough today."

"Suit yourself." He shrugs and turns back to the two others. "Alright, so," he says, shuffling the cards from one palm to the other. A loud fwii-iip bursts forth. "What shall it be, my fellow monster hunters?" He looks at them, eyes darting between the two with a challenging grin growing from his lips. "A game of cards should be easy stuff for you. I can't promise it will be as fraught and challenging as Vecna and his army of bats, but I can promise you to deal a mean hand." Cards flashing through the air, he flips the stack together. Fingers flicking, rings flashing, the cards flip and turn, the trick impressive and flashy, worthy of, if not a theatre, then at least a poker table in Vegas.

It was his uncle, who taught Eddie these sleight of hand card tricks and shuffles.

When Eddie came to him — the times he ran away to hide with him in his trailer or after custody had finally been given to him — hands dirty with his father's tricks, his uncle Wayne took them into his own and shaped them anew.
 His uncle Wayne never had the same inclination his father did towards tricks and sleight of hand to fish wallets from other people's bags, nor for simple lock-picking, but he did take Eddie's hands in his own, lovingly cupping them in his own, and turned them from lock-picking and sleight-of-hand to card games and poker tables.

For years, Eddie has nursed a deep seated feeling in his bones that he will never be able to repay his uncle for all the kindness, love and warmth he has showed him through the years; almost as if the grime of his father's hands never truly rubbed off of his skin and instead of washing off, it settled deep into his bones and spread to his uncle's skin. No matter how many times his uncle helped him clean his hands from bruises and blood.
  In front of Dustin, his eyes lighting up, smile stretching goofily across his face, for the first time since Eddie roughhoused with him in a field of homemade shields gripped in sweaty hands, at the sight of Eddie handling the cards in master sleight-of-hand and impressive, showcase worthy flips and shuffles; for the first time in his life, Eddie knows that it was never about payback or blood or even kindness, but simply just love. Love and care for your loved ones.

Steve looks up from Eddie. He turns his eyes on Dustin and catches sight of his starstruck eyes and excited smile. It sends his eyes rolling. But a smile he cannot quite repress stretches across his lips anyway. Not that Eddie was fooled for even a single second before its appearance. "I really don't care." Steve shrugs.

Dustin is far too occupied with admiring Eddie's tricks to give his own answer.

Glancing between the two, Eddie shuffles the cards one more time, and holds them to the floor to line them up into one stack. Each card clatters against the wooden boards as he taps them into place, letting the cards all line up with each other in a neat stack once more. "Alright, executive decision," he says, the tip of his finger pulls the edges of the stack up and flicks through the entire stack once. The cards snap! underneath his finger. "I deal you and you get to guess the game out from the stack you end up with." And he immediately begins dealing out. The cards fall onto the floor in piles of three. Each card landing with a soft plop.

"What?" Steve blinks befuddled at the cards slowly piling up on the floor in stacks of three.

Click. Shaking his head, Eddie tuts and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "It's a simple game of deduction, Harrington," he says, hands flicking though the air, dealing out card after card to Steve, Dustin and himself in an ever-repeated circle. "I'd have thought you experienced in the matter, considering how you've been spending your time chasing monsters through Hawkins since '83." The smile he flashes him is sharp and playfully mean, a shadow of the characters Eddie plays, when sat in his role as dungeon master.

"More like the monsters were chasing us, man," Steve mumbles, gathering up his stack of cards. "If you think, I was the one solving the puzzles and shit, then you weren't paying attention those two years we shared classes."

"I wasn't, clearly." Eddie grins at him, less sharp, but no less wide, gathering his own pile of cards. "Given I had to repeat those classes again." Reaching out across their circle, he puts two fingers to Steve's forehead. "Besides," he adds, and gives him a shove. Steve sways back with the motion, going cross-eye looking up at Eddie's fingers. "I'm sure you managed to add a nugget or two to solve the mystery." Hand dropping, he meets Steve's eyes, and the smile across his face turning smaller, but softer for it. "It would be a shame otherwise." Eyes flicking up, his gaze lands on Steve's infamous hair. "I mean, all that hair's gotta hide something."

Beside them, Dustin snorts, cutting through them, landing between them like the crash of breaking glass.

Steve jolts. Eyes widening. Looking almost startled, of all things. Clearing his throat, he glances sideways. Gaze darting to Dustin.

"The only thing his hair's hiding is the secret to how he didn't have to redo senior year," Dustin says, grinning cheekily down at his cards. "You know how it is. Big hair, big ego and big, empty head." Raising his eyes, he meets Eddie's with a sly look in his eyes, eyes crinkling and almost disappearing behind his rounded chipmunk cheeks. "You'd lose your shit, if you saw his true stats."

"You know, the insult doesn't work if the insulted party doesn't know what you're talking about," Steve says, rolling his eyes. Movement sounds from behind them and Robin walks into view, she plops herself down beside Steve, half behind and half beside him, leant up against his back and peering at his cards over his shoulder. Steve throws her an automatic smile, angling his hand to accommodate her.

"Maybe it's an insult that works two ways,” Dustin continues.

"Can't work two ways if the road is blocked, man."

"Alright, eyes on the prize, boys." Eddie taps his own pile of cards on the floor. Tap-tap-tap. "What're we playing today?"

Steve’s brow furrows. "You're really—”

"Ah-ah! Harrington!" Hand snapping through the air, Eddie mimes a mouth snapping closed. Fingers hovering right before Steve's mouth. "Unless it's to answer what's behind prize 200, I ain't gonna want to hear it."

Swatting his hand away, Steve huffs a breath and rolls his eyes.

Dustin flicks through his own pile, mumbling under his breath. Eyes zipping back and forth across them. Cards slap faintly against each other underneath his hands. Across from him, Robin leans even closer, if that is even possible, to Steve and points at a few of his cards, speaking into his ear too loud if her words were meant to be a whisper. Steve shakes his head and responds lower than her voice had been.

"Hang on!" Dustin says. Leaning forward, he reaches towards Steve, fingers clawing at his cards, swiping them from his hands, before he can stop him.

"Hey! Man! Those are mine!" Steve protests, hand swatting through the air to reclaim them. "Nobody likes a cheater, Henderson."

"I'm not cheating." Dustin fends off Steve's attempts to reclaim his cards, leaning away from him and lifting a foot off the ground, placing it on his chest and pushing him away. "Eddie said to guess, I'm just collecting all the variables at my disposal." He waves Steve's deck in the air, backside up, the side with the numbers and symbols on carefully kept face down and away from all of their eyes.

With a loud huff, Steve sits back on the floor. "Collecting variables, my ass," he grumbles, swiping a crude hand through the air. His eyes narrow on him. "Why do you even need to count them all? You can clearly see they've all been dealt."

"I want to make sure it's equal." Dustin flicks through Steve's deck one more time, then sits back up and holds them out to Steve again, who swipes them from his hands with an irritated air about him. He quickly pulls them to his chest and hides them beneath a splayed out palm.

Rolling his eyes, Dustin "tsks," at him, then turns to Eddie. "May I have a look at your cards, milord?" he asks, mimicking the tone once deployed over a D&D table and towards a much beloved science teacher, though Eddie is unaware of the latter and the compliment behind it.

"You may, my young padawan." With a flourish, Eddie dumps his cards in Dustin's awaiting hand. Catching Steve's eyes and his annoyed manner, he grins at him. "It's okay, Stevie," he says, "you can still play, even if you can't guess correctly." The name tumbles out of Eddie's mouth before he even realises it. In his chest, his heart tumbles and the smile on his face falters, lips wavering. Doubling down before anyone can see the doubt curling up and down his spine, like an irate, restless snake, Eddie flashes his teeth at Steve. Never have Eddie backed down from anything. Eddie will double down, even if means setting fire to an already losing hand.

So focused is he on not baring his own hand — the one kept close to his heart, not the cards still in Dustin's custody — he barely even catches the look that flashes across Steve's face. Mouth opening and closing, his eyes widening, Steve blinks at him, with an open, slack expression.

Eyes darting away from his, Steve shifts back and forth, rocking gently from side to side once, quickly wiping the expression off his face. Clearing his throat, he turns his eyes to Dustin. "You found out what we're playing yet?" he asks.

Wide eyed, Eddie stares at Steve. Breath caught in his throat with a small hitch, the air in his lungs fills out every corner, ballooning inside of his chest, all tight and all encompassing; warm and comfortable all at once.
 It is almost like seeing a cat roll over and bare its stomach. Almost like seeing the soft belly of an animal; trusting you enough to roll over and show you its vulnerable side. Eddie almost wants to reach out and touch. Poke his soft spot and find out if Steve will allow his hand to settle there or if he will flash his claws and dig into his flesh for betraying his confidence in him.

"Son of a bitch." Dustin throws Eddie's cards on the floor. They fall with a small patter, scattering in a smooth slide towards Eddie. Grabbing his own deck, Dustin spreads them out and looks at them, eyes darting frantically all over the row. "You have to give a clue, Eddie, or it's just not fair. How are you sorting yours? High to low or low to high? Or parting them in blacks and reds?"

Picking up his own cards, Eddie gathers them in his hands, spreading them out. Humming lowly, he picks up two of them and rearranges them, sliding them neatly into the folds between the other cards, placing one in the center and the other right at the end by his left. A glance at Dustin reveals his rather affronted and annoyed expression. It is enough to make Eddie lower his hand, doubling over with a laugh bubbling out of his mouth.

Crossing his arms, Dustin stares at him in his unimpressed glory, giving him the side-eye. "I'll never forgive you if it's Go Fish."

"Dude, no way" —Steve wafts his own stack back and forth, air wafting from them— "Go Fish doesn’t hand out the entire deck."

"Just tell us, man," Dustin whines, voice stretched and dragging out every word. "Steve's gonna be an old man by the time we can play, if you wait for him to figure it out."

"Woah," Steve protests, holding his hand up, palm out. "Harsh, Henderson." He jabs a hand at Eddie. "Eddie's a year older than me. If anyone's gonna go grey first, it's him."

"Impossible." Dustin shakes his head. "Eddie's too metal for that."

"What? The laws of aging just doesn't apply to him now?"

"Look at him!" Dustin throws a hand in Eddie's direction so hard and wide, Eddie almost has to dodge the arm. Instead, he just stares impassively at the two — and at Robin, who pulls her lips into her mouth, stifling her laugh in her teeth — as if he is above such arguments, when every word and flicker of expression darting across their faces is sending Eddie to such delights it's a battle not laugh. "He hardly looks like someone who's gonna go grey."

"So what? The grey hairs takes one look at him and just packs up and goes on their way?" Steve continues, voice mocking. "It doesn't work like that, Henderson."

"I'm just saying—” he holds his hands up “—I've never seen a metalhead with grey hair, the evidence is lacking, Steve." Lowering his hands, he throws him a look. Eyebrows arching pointedly at him. "You can't deny the facts." He slaps his stack of his cards into the palm of his hand. Cards smack against his open hand with every word he says.

"Have you considered the fact that the metalheads just lose their hearing before the grey hair hits them, so there's no metal left in them, when they go grey?" Steve adds his inflection and mannerisms adopting Dustin in a mocking mirror, his tone obnoxious.

"And the shots keep coming." Eddie clutches a hand to his chest. Mimes a shock going through his entire body and falls back, as if struck right where his hand lies. "You people are brutal." He shakes his head, straightening up from his 'shot down' caved over position and removes his hand from his chest. Pursing his lips, he tuts, looking between the two of them. "I'm offended that neither of you think I could rock grey hair." Reaching out he tugs on the hat on Dustin head, pushing the brim down over his head, shoving lightly at him. "Especially you." He throws his head in Steve's direction. "We all know Harrington's a lost cause—”

"Come on!"

“—but I had higher hopes for you," Eddie continues with a grin sent towards Steve. Eyes glancing sideways at him and his comically affronted expression. The look that hangs around his eyes is too light to be truly offended.

Dustin reaches up and tries to swat Eddie's hand away from his cap.

Grinning, Eddie gives one more tug on his cap. He shoves it lower over his face and ruffles it into his hair, then retreats. He leans back, props himself up with one hand braced behind his back. "You should know metal has no age. Besides—” using his free hand, cards clutched between his fingers, he gestures up and down himself “—I'm a looker, not even age can change that."

Dustin fixes his cap, pushing it properly onto his mop of curly hair with a huff. He crosses his arms and glares at Eddie. "Just tell us the game, man."

Pursing his lips, Eddie tuts at them. Finally, he gathers three cards and puts them facing down in a new stack in the midst of them. "Two ace and a jack," he says and delights in Dustin's continued confusion. "It's bluff, dude." Tilting his head to the side, he muses, "or bullshit, depending on how much you like to curse."

Bluff, Dustin mouths perturbed at the little stack Eddie laid down and immediately shuffles his cards.

Casting him a grin, Eddie says, "Thought you were meant to be the smart one of the party, Henderson." He tuts and shakes his head. "Might have to rethink those Intelligence and Wisdom stats, if we ever get a campaign up and running again." He sweeps a hand at the hand he played. "Anyone wanna challenge my claim?"

Dustin narrows his eyes at Eddie's play, at Eddie himself and back again. Finally, he sighs and shakes his head.

Steve grins at him. "Your downfall is trying to keep thinking everything's the most complicated it can be, dude. I keep telling you, simpler is better." Fingers closing around a card, he plucks two cards out from the stacks in his hand and drops it on top of Eddie's, declaring a pair of Queens. Unlike Dustin, he does not re-arrange his stack with Eddie's declaration of the game they are playing.

Eddie quirks an eyebrow at him. In reply, Steve shrugs with this tinny smile quirked on his lips.

"So, bluff or bullshit?"

"Steve doesn't like bullshit."

"I don't like the word bullshit," says Steve, eyebrows pointed above his deck of cards.

"Particularly against vulgarity, Harrington?" Eddie grins. "I didn't take you for a fan of censor. Better be careful. All those kids and now censoring, one might take you for a PTA mom."

"I'm not." He rolls his eyes.

"Just bullshit?"

"Yep."

From the quick, shared glance between Steve and Robin, Eddie figures there is something more to it than just that, but as long as he does not tell him himself, he won't ask.

Dustin calls Steve's bluff and has to take the cards onto his own hand with an annoyed huff.

And so they play.

Sometime later, Eddie slams his final pair of cards down, declares them a pair of two's and when Dustin calls "Bluff," in what truly must be one last desperate attempt to keep Eddie from winning just a little longer, Eddie can turn the cards — and his middle finger — over as two two's indeed stare up at them.

"Motherfucker."

Throwing his arms up in the air, Eddie crows, "That's how's it's done, baby!" Points a finger in Steve's face, who was just a few cards behind him and just as nimble with them as Eddie — and not nearly as easy to fool as Dustin — and grins. "Take that and kiss ass, Harrington!"

"Son of a bitch," Dustin bitches. He throws his own hand down on the floor. Sending his cards scattering with a soft patter.

"Aw, Henderson, you don’t want to finish the game?" Eddie asks, still grinning.

Arms crossed, Dustin sends him a glare that could kill as easily as a horde of demo-bats and is just as bloodthirsty as one. "As if I want to lose more than I already have."

Eddie cackles.

Once Dustin has gotten over his quite severe defeat, he quickly dusts off his argumentative skills and claims the rights for losers to have a chance at clawing their way to victory. Which, naturally, means they play three more rounds. And Eddie cannot emphasize enough how great a duress they are under to play all three extra rounds. It is imperative, Eddie would like noted, just how persistent he is about winning, if only they will play one more round. It is almost impressive how forceful Dustin can be, when needs be. Or it would be, if Eddie had picked any other game than Bluff to be trapped in playing four rounds of.
 The smile on Dustin's face grows steadier and brighter, the more they play, throwing card after card onto a pile on the floor and shooting the shit between them. The bright glare of it loosens the tight knot inside of Eddie's chest and he figures it is worth it, in the end.

Once Dustin's desire to win has been exhausted — and it has been proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he sucks at this game and will lose out every time, despite his many, many claims otherwise — they pack up the cards. Steve rises from the floor with them in hand, ruffling a hand over Dustin’s cap-covered hair as he walks off to put the deck back on the shelf, Robin — who has stayed glued to his side during every game, despite her many, colorful complaints at boredom — quickly following him, only to flop all over the couch once more.

Rising to his own feet, Eddie shuffles into the kitchen. He opens the fridge with a yank and sticks his head inside, moving the prepared lunches and ready-made meals from the supermarket aside, searching for a cola or a beer. A sound and shuffle behind him makes him turn, closing the door again.

Dustin stands behind him. Arms crossed and head bowed low, shielded by the large shadow cast from the cap on his head.

"Dustin?" he asks, stomach dropping. A frown crosses his face. He hoped Dustin's dark mood would have been helped by spending some time with him, the one at the root of his pain and Steve, the one clearly occupying the space of 'big brother' and 'safe' in Dustin's life. But after all they had been through, perhaps it was too much to hope for.
 Eddie's lips twist. He should probably know better by now that the pain these kids’ bear are ones far too large and deep to simply put a band-aid over and kiss better.

Without saying a single word, Dustin surges forward. A force slams into Eddie. It knocks the air from his lungs. Arms wrapping around him, Dustin sniffs into his ear, turning his head down and burying it in his chest.

Carefully, Eddie wraps his own arms around him. He claps his palms on his back and shoulder and draws him in closer, smoothing his palms over his back, enfolding him in his arms. "It's okay, Dustin," he says, turning his head down and speaking into his head. "I'm okay."

At the sound of his voice, Dustin's arms tighten, painfully so. The pressure around Eddie's ribs squeezes the last bit of air from his lungs, which the echo of Dustin's tortured face and broken cries flashing from his memories have not chased out already. His tight touch sends pain burning through his wounds, but Eddie does not care. He could pop every single stitch from this hug and he would not step away until Dustin does.

Running his palm across Dustin's back, Eddie palms the back of his head, thumb smoothing through the wild curls peeking out beneath his cap. Then brings his hand down onto his back, palm pressing into his shoulder blade.

Across the cabin, past the kitchen and back in the living room, Steve stands, watching them. A frown on his brow and a downturned twist to his mouth.

Their eyes catch and their gazes lock.

Something unspoken passes between them. An understanding deep set in Steve's eyes and the clench of his jaw as his throat works thickly.

It was as if they had this unspoken pact. An unspoken pact not to die, not to suffer, not to fall in front of the kids. It was in the way Steve held the boat while Robin, Eddie and Nancy climbed into the boat. In the way, Eddie turned and pushed Dustin back, when he tried to follow them, saying, 'There's only room for three,' his body baring the way for any of the kids to climb in after them. In the way, Steve immediately after pushed off the shore and hopped into the boat himself, stranding them at the shore, while they floated towards the gate. It was in the way their plan kept everyone on the other side of the Upside Down, and the pain locked in Steve's jaw and the tight fisting off his hands as Max insisted on throwing herself to the wolves; how he had come out of the RV's bathroom sometime later, bumping into Eddie right outside the door, who had stood waiting, pale and shaking, but never said a word of it and Eddie had immediately understood the plea inside of his eyes and kept quiet too; how, in the Upside Down, Steve and Eddie locked eyes right before they departed, Dustin somehow down there with them, despite everything, telling each other, 'he will not die down here', and 'I will keep him safe,' and 'I will stay safe, because I have to' with just a single glance.

The unspoken.

Steve might have gone first down to the gate and put himself first in front of the four of them in the Upside Down, as a swarm of bats headed their way, like a dark, black cloud drawing closer. But, every time after that, Steve walked in front and Eddie walked in the back with Dustin between them.

An unspoken promise between them.

Then, Eddie went ahead and broke it. When his hand would not close around the sheet, cramped up and burning with pain, he did everything to make sure Dustin was safe. He cut the rope and ran, not away, as he had done every time the Upside Down had come knocking at his door that past week, but towards. Ending in a whirlwind of demo-bats, screaming at them. And still Dustin found his way there. Clinging to Eddie as the world around him turned muffled, quiet and cold.

Steve is the first to look away. Head turned down, mouth pressing into an unhappy line.

Even so, it takes a while for either of them to move and Eddie will not be the first one to.

After a long moment, Dustin finally pulls away. Wipes his nose on the back of his hand and sniffles quietly against it.

Easing away from him, Eddie drags his arms from around his back, palms sliding against him. Hands on his shoulders, Eddie holds Dustin out in front of him, searching his eyes. "You good, bud?" he asks, ducking his head just enough to catch his gaze.

"Yeah." Dustin nods, a shaky smile twitching from his mouth. "Yeah, I'm good." He swipes at his cheeks, grinds his fist into his eyes for a moment. Smile small, but more genuine, Dustin ducks out of the kitchen. He stops by Steve for a moment, hesitating, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

A word from Steve and an arm raised — hand curling, gesturing him closer — has Dustin surging forward, falling into his chest as well. Steve is prepared for him. Arms already halfway raised and reached towards him, he simply lays them around him, pulling him close. Head tipped down and pressing into his curls, cheek pillowed on the top of his head. Despite Dustin's generous height, Steve still has to stoop, back curving to fold Dustin into him.

Words pass out of his mouth, spoken softly from barely moving lips. The words are quiet and soft spoken and do not reach Eddie, where he stands, lingering by the edge of the kitchen, toeing at the floor. But Dustin nods into Steve's chest. Fingers curling in his shirt, grabbing a fistful of his shirt in each, head bopping up and down against his chest.

Pulling away from him, Steve holds Dustin in front of him, fingers curled around his shoulders. Intently looking him directly in his eyes, eyebrows rising earnestly on his brow as he talks.

Eddie lets his eyes linger on the two of them for just a moment longer. At Steve's warm and open earnestness and the concern that lingers in his eyes. At Dustin's nods and the way his hands still hold onto Steve, fingers twisted in his shirt. Then, he turns on his heel and heads back to the fridge, sticking his hand inside and fumbling around until his fingers close over the cold and damp metal of a beer.

He stays with his back to the rest of the cabin.

Footsteps limp across the floor. A door opens. Voices behind it rise, almost like the volume of a movie playing on TV suddenly turned higher. A thunk brings the door to a close again and the voices disappear behind it, muffled once more.

A breath passes. Then another. Only then does he turn.

Dustin has gone. Steve has settled on the couch with Robin. She is laid out along its length and Steve sits with her legs in his lap, one hand on her ankle.

Beer in hand, he heads to the front door. He scoops his book up from the coffee table as he passes it and outside and waves the book over his head in parting to the two on the couch. The door falls shut behind him with a thunk. He crosses the porch and goes to lean up against the railing. Arms laid over the railing as he looks out into the woods.

He takes a pull of the beer then pushes away from the railing and sits down on the porch. Back against the wall of the cabin, feet propped against the railing and stares out at the patches of sunlight finding their way to their little sanctuary through the treetops and clouds overhead. Stretches of sunlight blaze on the ground, like golden, glowing rays.
 Maybe, if Eddie looks at it long enough, the sun will reach into his mind and chase away the lingering shadows and world of night etched into his mind like a carving. Maybe, if he stares long enough, he can burn it all from his memory with its touch.

He knows it won't.

Still. He can't help but seek out this forest of light and colors and the sound of life, hoping, just maybe tonight it will stay with him and replace the forest of monsters and night in his dreams, so maybe just maybe, for one night, he can wake up without a scream choking in his lungs, the taste of blood on his lips and ash burning in his lungs.

Later, when evening and its darkening sky has chased Eddie inside once more, Hopper comes to him. Hands clasped in front of him, he sits down the couch beside him.

"Dustin and Steve told me they met your uncle earlier," he says, voice gruff and low, but so very steady and warm. A rumble that flows from his chest to Eddie's ears. "Just wanted to tell you, we're thinking of some way to solve this. While the big brains are working on a cover story and to clear your name, we can at least let your uncle know you're alive and safe." His fingers tap against his knee. "Maybe bring you out somewhere so you can meet."

"You don’t—," he tries and finds that he can't quite manage to get them out the first time around. He swallows thickly, a sound that moves loudly and impossibly through his throat, and tries again. "You don't have to do that." Ducking his head, Eddie looks down at his hands. He twists and turns the rings on his fingers around.

"Yeah, kid. I kinda do. It's not a good thing to sit in. Thinking your kid is out there somewhere. Dead or injured and unsafe. Marked by a town that would sooner see him dead than alive," he says, voice quiet. When Eddie glances at him, there is a pensive look in his eyes. "I know your uncle. It's been a few years, but we've shared a beer or two occasionally, when we were both in the bar at odd hours." He meets Eddie's furtive glance with gentle eyes. "He's a good man, your uncle. And you're a good kid. He was always talking about you. 'My kid, Eddie,' 'My boy, Eds,'" Hopper echoes with a warm smile so reminiscent of Wayne’s it physically hurts. "He'd smile and shake his head, when I told him of the latest rooftop or shadow I'd pulled you out of."

A painful lump forms in Eddie's throat. He pulls his eyes away, quickly seeking his fidgeting hands instead. Pressing his lips together, he tugs a ring around his finger. The pads of two fingers rolls and pulls it in a circle like one of Eddie's spinner rings.

Hopper continues, voice still a gentle rumble, "He deserves to know you're not lost somewhere or buried under a rock by some angry hick."

The lump in Eddie's throat grows and the walls around it turn heavy and thick. They press tight and tense against his vocal chords, swallowing it up and pushing painfully into it. Trying to swallow past it, Eddie nods, keeping his eyes down and averted, fixed on his twisting fingers. His eyes prickle.

A hand claps his leg and Hopper nods decisively down at him. "We'll figure out a way to tell him. Soon. Just hang on a little longer, yeah?" Fingers clenching in a brief squeeze, he pats Eddie's knee again, shaking him lightly.

The lump cuts firmer against his throat. It burns inside of it, clawing against it, as if trying to rip him apart. Still looking down and away from Hopper's steady gaze, Eddie nods. He swallows thickly. The noise works loudly past his tight throat. The motion itself painful and grating. "Yeah," he echoes quietly, voice raw. Nods again. Still gripping his ring, he twists and twists it around. The steel drags against his skin. Pulling it along with every turn. It burns a path into his skin. Touch blazing and almost burning beneath the forceful motion.

"You'll be okay, kid," Hopper's hand leaves his knee, but it rises through the air and lands on his shoulders. Grip strong, steady, and warm against him. "It's gonna be over soon." The words strike a chord in Eddie's chest. They fall like a piece of heavy lead in his heart and water builds behind his eyes. It burns and prickles against them.

Lifting his head back up, Eddie looks up at the ceiling and tips his head all the way back. Eyes burning and prickling, he blinks rapidly at it and tries not to cry.

Somehow, Hopper is still right there.

He sits down beside him again. One hand still on his shoulder, warm and heavy on top of him. The other reaches across Eddie and finds his opposite shoulder. Hand settling across his back, Hopper pulls him into his chest without a word.

Eddie buries his face in his palms. Breathes a shaky, "Fuck," which stutters out of his chest, past trembling lips.

It's not fair that Hopper spent months locked away behind Russian prison bars, beaten and tortured probably, forced to work labor in inhuman conditions. Then claws his way to freedom, only to come home and get his hands full with traumatized kids, only one of which is his own. It is not fair that he has to deal with monsters from another dimension for the fourth time in three years, while the scars on his hands and arms are still healing. And still takes the time to reach for Eddie. A stranger. Someone apart from all of this. Only pulled into it by circumstance and rotten luck.

It is not fair.

Eddie still takes the comfort of his hands and the steady weight of his arms around his shoulders; the press of his chest against Eddie's shoulder and his chin balanced precariously on top of Eddie's head. It feels like stealing from a starving man, but Eddie still takes it.

The couch dips. A depression in the lumpy pillows appears on his other side. A warm hand settles on his back, lighter than Hopper's and lower. It rubs him up and down, palm rubbing him in circles.

"You okay, man?" Steve asks, when Eddie finally peeks out from Hopper's full embrace and his own hands. Steve meets his searching gaze. Hazel eyes earnest and his expression open. Arm still slung partly around Eddie, his hand still resting on his back. Robin sits right beside him, leant into Steve's shoulder, cheek bunched up from where she's tucked against his arm, eyes watching Eddie with great concern.

"Yeah," Eddie says wetly, dragging the back of his hand along his nose, pulling his hand up and rubbing his fingers along his cheeks, wiping at the wet skin beneath his eyes, "It's just been, like, the worst day of my life for like a week straight." He laughs wetly. "And I've been in high school for six years. Which is meant to be the worst years of your life." Side-eyeing Steve, he looks him up and down, somehow managing to send him a weak grin through the tears clogging up his throat thick and wet. "Unless you're hot and popular, which has been proven repeatedly I'm not." Turning his gaze inwards, he looks himself up and down. Finds more snot and tears clinging to his skin and wipes at it with the palm of his hand. "So—” he trails off.

The hand on his shoulder squeezes him. Palm pressing warm and firm into him. Robin reaches across Steve, fumbles in the air and grabs his hand. Their fingers intertwine. Grip tight, painfully so, Robin sends him a pained grimace. Her words go unsaid, but Eddie still hears them.

For a while, they sit there. Quiet and somber, Eddie's heavy weight between them.

At some point, Hopper leans back and kicks his feet up on the table. His hand leaves Eddie's back, his arm slung over the couch behind him instead, but his presence remains solid and steady beside him. He turns the TV on with a click of a button. On Eddie's other side, Steve stays. Leaning into him slightly, knee pressing into his own, arm still slung around his back, settled low on his hip, curled into the bones and resting there. Robin stays too. Curled into Steve and keeping Eddie's hand in her own laid out in Steve's lap.

None of them really speak beyond that, but perhaps there simply is not much more to say. Not anything Eddie cannot pick up from the air hanging around them anyway.

That evening, El drags Hopper to the couch, sits down and pulls on his arm until he sits down next to her (which barely even takes a single tug). From the couch, El uses her powers to pick up one of the tapes stacked in two towers beside the TV, which Eddie has already read all the titles off and found out that not a single horror or thriller movie has found its way to. Eyes slightly narrowed and focused, she lifts the tape up through the air, guides it to the VHS player and slots it into the empty socket with one final push. Machinery whirls as clicks as the tape slides into the player. All the while Eddie watches wide-eyed from the sidelines, because he may have seen El's powers at play once or twice, since his arrival, but he is still as floored and fascinated (and a little excited) every time he does. Real life powers, man. Shit, Eddie's dreamed about stuff like this, since he picked up his first X-men comic, when he was a kid. Although real life is far too terrifying and not as exciting and rosy-colored as ten-year old Eddie had believed.

The TV flickers and snaps on, displaying the beginning of the movie E.T.

"So, this is what we're doing, huh?" Hopper asks, voice warm, looking down at her with even warmer eyes.

"Yes," is all El says as she pulls her feet up onto the couch, wraps her arms even more around Hopper's arm — that she's kept hostage since she cleared out her own dinner plate — and leans all the way into his side.

The opening of the movie plays out into the cabin and before long, a small movie theatre has gathered in front of the TV. Half of the kids squish themselves onto the couch, the armchair and the floor before the couch. Before he sits down, Dustin grabs onto Steve's arm and manhandles him to the TV and down onto the floor with him. Steve, of course, goes with great protest and even greater resistance. When he eventually does sit down, he rucks a hand through Dustin's hair — for once without one of his beloved caps — and tucks him under his arm, all while wearing a warm grin. When they are both leant back against the sofa, all comfortable and content, Robin walks up to them, throws a kick at Steve's legs and throws herself down next to him, only to be immediately enveloped in Steve's arms. Leant up more against him than the couch, head tipped to lie on his shoulder and her body curled up, tipped into him. At their arrival, someone points the remote at the TV and clicks a button and subtitles splay themselves across the bottom of the screen.

Dustin turns his head, finds Eddie watching it all from the kitchen, throws him a grin and pats the space next to him. And well, how is Eddie supposed to say no to that? So, he goes up to the couch, jumps over the sprawled feet of Steve and Dustin and settles down next to the latter. His arm presses up against Dustin's where Steve's wrap around, so he can feel it pressing into his shoulder. The warmth of it blazes through Eddie's shirtsleeve and settles as a solid, grounding weight against him.

Within the first fifteen minutes of the movie playing, sees the rest of the cabin's occupants inserted in front of the TV. The kids squash onto the couch, almost stacked on top of each other to try and make room for everyone. Lucas sits perched on the armrest, right next to where Max sits in her wheelchair, turned towards the TV despite her vacant, lost eyes. Argyle and Jonathan take the armchair. Pupils blown and tittering with giggles and laughter, even when the movie falls quiet with a sober or tense quiet. A fact that has Eddie glancing towards them and hiding laughter of his own at the comedy of their high.

It is a good night. Even if there are quite a few more tears at the finishing credits than usual. But that, Eddie supposes, is a good thing too.

The next day, Eddie once again finds himself seeking the woods surrounding the cabin. At least, what he can see of it from the porch, well aware of the many warnings to stay within sights of the cabin at all times. An old ashtray sits abandoned on the porch. He does not use it right now. Ash still lingers on his tongue from last night, when nightmares woke him from his hard won sleep and he sat on the toilet, smoking three cigarettes until he could convince himself the scratch and tightness in his lungs and throat was from the smoke and not the fear still clawing its way through Eddie's body.

He tries to read. Rather unsuccessfully too.

Out there on the porch, the distant static clinging to Eddie's thoughts like mud, surge forward like a flood and he is left, staring out into thin air, gaze unfocused and his mind buzzing, heavy with cotton. No matter how hard he tries he cannot bring his mind back to himself and he is just stuck. It is not the first time it has happened, especially not lately, but before—, before Chrissy, before everything, it was never this bad. Back then, it was just this distant fuzzy feeling that made his thoughts fuzzy and unclear. Everything coated with this honey-filled layer of boredom and disinterest. Nothing to hook onto Eddie and bring him out of a slump, as if when he sat down, he sat down in a swamp of mud and it was keeping him anchored to the ground and there was just no energy and no interest to try and get up. Everything would just be mud. Whenever it happened, he tried to pick anything up, but his hands were slick and coated in the thick honey-like syrup and his eyes were blurry so he could not even get them to focus on his hands, even though he has never needed glasses.

Now it is in his mind. Not his hands. Not a bed of mud, he is lying in. But his mind itself. Static has overtaken his thoughts and swarmed them in a horde of bees. Like the black and white fuzz that flits across a screen, when the TV can't find the signal and there's nothing to give but static that fuzzes in your ears and flickers before your eyes. It drifts into his mind and smothers everything. There is nothing left. It has died under static and angry bees and a soft touch that has smoothed everything down until there is only barren ground all around him.

Eventually, he abandons his book off to the side and takes out his notebook instead. The one he reserves for lyrics, scribbled thoughts and distorted sentences to be made into song lyrics. And for a while, he sits there and tries to pluck images from his mind and tumbled, jumbled up emotions from his chest, trying to push them into sentences that make sense that can be strung into a song. Like plucking at his emotions and bottling them up in a jar for all to see; smaller and easier to handle, cool to the touch and distant enough to avoid being burned; a glass of fireflies or Christmas lights; pretty to look at and beautiful, when you succeed, but a mess to make in the first place. He is only marginally more successful at it than he was reading.

Sometime later, as Eddie sits staring out into the air, gaze unfocused and his thoughts buried in fuzzy static, lines of distorted lyrics gathered on the page in the notebook lying abandoned in his lap, the door opens with a creak. Wood cracks slightly under someone's touch.

Eddie finally manages to tear his gaze away from the blurry line of trees before him and turns to look, his head rolling loosely on his neck.

The doorway makes way for Max, her legs heavy and thick in full casts, stretched out before her by the chairs raised footholds. Behind her is El, hands curled around the handles of her wheelchair, a small, hesitant smile on her face. In contrast, Max's expression remain impassive and closed off, her gaze distant and eyes misty white, in that same way Chrissy's had been.

Ever since Nancy and the others told him what had happened — each of them, picking up the pieces of that night and stitching them together for him, when his hands had still been too weak and shook too much to do it himself, even if Nancy had done most of it — Eddie has found himself carefully aware of Max. Every pearl of laughter, every twitching smile or sarcastic pull of her mouth, every poke and jabbing comment at Lucas, Dustin and Mike, echoes through Eddie and he breathes a little deeper, despite the fact that they had been but strangers before the events of last week (or, at the very least, neighbors). The sound of her voice, whether it comes from behind El’s bedroom door or somewhere in the living room, ripples through Eddie with the breath of relief. Even if her voice is sharper than he knew it to be before, the strength of her smile smaller and the light in her milky eyes is dull; despite that, it is still there. That's the first step, as far as Eddie knows.

Steve has told him that Max is on heavy painkillers and he should not be surprised to find her sleeping most of the time. And already Eddie has caught sight of her weighed down by painkillers and dozing the day away. Her painkillers are even stronger than the ones prescribed to Steve and himself. Eddie already feels sluggish and heavy, caught up and lost in the fog of trauma and the heavy, dark waters of beckoning sleep. Limbs heavy and slow. As if his very bones each weigh a ton. Caught between the two. Like the dance of tide lapping at the shore. A push and pull of sand and sea. It is hard to imagine the weight of even stronger painkillers. He thinks if he were Max, he would just take the painkillers and sleep it all away and only wake up once his body is whole again.

But then again, Max has already proved herself stronger than anyone should ever have to be, it is unsurprising she is strong in this as well.

As Max and El stand in the doorway, on the precipice of the porch, they remain quiet at first.

Eddie waits.

With a glance at Max, El turns her head towards him. "We heard you reading to Erica and Dustin the other day," she says, with a glance at Max, whose head is turned down. Fingers shifting back and forth, the tips just able to reach past the casts to touch each other, as if determinedly keeping her focus off them. "It sounded fun," El continues, earnest eyes back on him. "You're a good storyteller."

A small, soft smile curls from Eddie's lips. He looks up at them, smiling kindly. "I can read you a little bit now," he offers quietly, "if you'd like."

A loud breath huffs from Max and she looks away. Head turned away and cast in partial shadow, she purses her lips. A sour expression crosses her face. Closing her eyes, she waits it out. She tips her head back. Breath going measuredly in and out. Air slowly blowing in and out of her nose. Eventually, she opens her eyes again and nods, eyes clear, but still unfocused. Almost wet.

"Come on out, join me." He pats the space next to him, more as a welcoming gesture than anything else.

Earlier, he did bring the book out with him, but he has yet to crack it open. The thoughts and images in his mind too loud, burning inside of his mind; everything too bright to focus on the words before him. It was easier to write, than read; easier to try and pull something from the storm inside of him, than try and find a way out of it.

Now, he sets his notebook aside and cracks the book open. The binding crackles softly in his hands. Pages idly turn as he leafs absently through them. Keeping a careful watch of El helping ease Max's wheelchair over the foothold in the doorway, then pushing her out completely onto the porch. There is barely enough space for them, but Eddie pulls his legs close to his chest and scoots to the side, making as much space for Max as he can.

Once she has brought Max to a good place, a glance cast down and a word asked too soft for Eddie to catch, and Max gives a quick, sharp nod, El rounds her chair and comes to sit down beside her, knees pulled her chest, her arms wrapped around them.

"Do you know Tolkien?" Eddie asks them, looking at them over the top of the book.

"I've read them," Max says stiffly, while El just looks at him with her eyes a little wide and a little too intensely focused, the way he has grown familiar for her gaze to be.

Nodding but saying nothing to it, Eddie begins to read.

It takes a few days before Eddie meets Murray. The journalist turned P.I. turned Russian translator at the end of the world. But the day after he read to Max and El, he finally does.

The day he comes to visit, he walks in through the door in the early morning, while they are all still sat in their bed-head, bleary eyed morning glory. Sprawled all over the couch and dining table, making their way through a bowl of cereal or scrambled eggs.

Steve's sat on the couch. Hair truly magnificently wild and haloed around his head, strong arming his way through a bowl of honeycombs, like it is the Olympics. He had originally sat down with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, but then Dustin moaned from the stove in the kitchen, about the last eggs disappearing. "I thought, you were having cocoa puffs?" Steve called, expression already resigned.

"I wanted to save the eggs for last," Dustin called back, voice sad and somber.

So, Steve stood back up with a sigh, went back to the kitchen and after some rustles and rummaging, came back with a bowl of cereal instead. Coincidentally, Dustin preceded him, hurrying across the cabin to El's bedroom with a self-satisfied smile on his face and a plate of eggs in his hands.

On the floor off to the side, Jonathan and Argyle both lie. Somehow, his head pillowed on Jonathan's stomach, Argyle has fallen asleep, after clearing his plate of food, despite the chaos breakfast brings to the cabin. Jonathan lies calmly, one hand pillowed behind his head and the other buried in Argyle's silken hair, occasionally brushing through it. Calmly listening to the quiet music playing from El's bedroom, if the slightly concentrating look on his face is anything to go by.

Also on the couch, Robin is leant up against Steve, head pillowed on his shoulder. Eddie's sat on the other side of Robin, hunched over and clutching a cup of thin coffee, as if it is his lifeline. And it is thin coffee. As Joyce told him, when he made a face at the pathetically colored drink, they have to be sparse and ration out some of their supplies in the cabin. Apparently, the stores are struggling in the wake of the earthquake and rations all through Hawkins remain at an all time low.

Eddie yawns over his pathetic cup of coffee and contemplates if it would be worth it to try and follow Argyle's example or content with the tiny spark of caffeine offered by the thin coffee.

He does not get very far in his contemplation, because that is when the door opens and a bright, sarcastically cheery voice calls out, "Good morning, folks." Eddie looks over his shoulder, barely catches sight of this new arrival as the door closes behind him with a thump and he streamlines into the kitchen in a flurry of movement.

"Murray, hi," Joyce calls, the smile in her voice bright and light. "You're just in time for breakfast,” she adds, clearly lying, because they are all finished with theirs. Except from Steve, that is.

"No thank you, Joyce, I had some before my drive."

"How's our foreign friends doing?" she asks, voice hushed, but not hushed enough given the small size of the cabin.

Eddie casts a side-eye at Robin and she shrugs. "That's Murray," she tells him in a mumble.

"Hmm." Eddie nods into his coffee.

The cabin fills with the gentle sounds of Joyce, Hopper and Murray's conversation, as they talk over the small dining table, the adults commandeered earlier.

Eddie may not have met him yet, but he does know off him. Apparently, Murray was the other half of Joyce's duo that went storming through Russia to fish Hopper out of his prison cell. Eddie is not entirely clear on the story and at this point, he's almost afraid to ask.
 Ever since that night in the boathouse, where Steve, Robin, Dustin and Max came to find him, they have dropped little snippets at his feet about the Upside Down and the last three years of their lives, that progressively get more insane and hare-brained the more of them they leave. Eventually (quite quickly) Eddie decided to just take their words for it. If anyone wants to elaborate, they are welcome to, but Eddie is fine being in the dark. In fact, when it comes to the Upside Down, Eddie likes the dark. Metaphorically, that is. Literally, he is much like everyone else in this cabin and keeps the light on at night.

Eddie is a little more awake, when Steve begins walking through the cabin, collecting the kids discarded plates, bowls and dirty cups, careful of Jonathan and Argyle's sprawling limbs, Eddie throws back the last dregs of his pitiful excuse for a coffee, pulls up his sleeves and follows him into the kitchen.

Steve dumps the dishes in the sink and Eddie picks up a tea towel.

"Eddie, sweetie, you don't have to do that," Joyce says, sat on a chair by the dining table, looking at him with wide eyes and a gentle smile. Hopper is standing behind her chair, half leant up against it, one hand on the backrest, Murray on a chair opposite them. "Just leave it off to dry. I can get it later." On the table before her are three coffee cups and two plates. All shoved off to the side to make way for a newspaper, spread out to a page with a grey photo, a bolded headline Eddie cannot read from the sink and lots of text that the adults had been focused on before.

"I'm living here with the rest of you," Eddie says, shrugging her off. "The least I can do is help with chores. It's not like the gremlins are tripping over their feet to do it." He tips his head in the direction of El's door and smiles.

"Oh, well, thank you."

"Let me take those, Joyce." Steve steps forward, holding his arms out. Joyce takes their abandoned plates and holds them out for Steve to take with a gentle smile. Coming back to the sink, Steve gathers all the dishes beside the sink. Eddie grabs a hold of some of them and begins scraping off leftovers. Falling into rhythm with him, Steve takes them from the stack he leaves them in and rinses them off.

"He's new," Murray says with a pointed finger, pointing at Eddie. Caught under his piercing gaze and disapproving frown, Eddie freezes, hovering above the trashcan, plate in one hand and a knife in the other. "What have I told you kids?" Completely ignoring Eddie's deer-in-the-headlights look, Murray leans back in his chair and shouts to the rest of the cabin, voice booming through the air. "You can't go telling all of your little friends." One of his arms sweeps through the air. "You're buried under a mountain of NDA's," he continues, loud and reprimanding. "Not to mention, if the government finds out, you'll all be put before a firing squad."

"Murray, it's okay," Joyce cuts in, voice soft and gentle. Laying a hand on his arm, she nods at Eddie. "This is Eddie. I told you about him."

"Oh, Eddie. That Eddie." The stressed expression on his face falls away. "That's alright then." He waves a hand at Eddie. "Never mind. Carry on."

"Um, okay?" Blinking confusedly, Eddie pulls himself out of his frozen state and returns to the dirty stack of dishes.

When everything has been rinsed and scraped off, Steve fills the sink with water, drops them into the soapy water and begins washing it all, one plate at a time.

Small footsteps pads across the floor, approaching the kitchen. El steps into the kitchen with two plates held out in her hands. One has been scraped completely clean with only crumbs left and the other has a half piece of toast and small puddles of syrup left on it. She leaves it on the side of the sink with a smile at Steve.

"You don't want the last half?" Steve asks.

"No, I'm full." She shakes her head. "Dustin let me have some of his eggs."

"I'm sure, he did." Sighing, Steve shakes his head. "That little shithead. He takes my eggs and he doesn't even help with the clean-up," he bemoans dramatically.

El lingers, expression hesitant. Eyes darting back and forth between him and Eddie.

"Alright, then." Steve shoves a hand on top of her head and ruffles her buzzed hair. "Go on, get out of here, before I make you work for your bread and bed."

A bright smile blooms across her face. "I'd just tell Dustin and he would annoy you into letting me go."

"Probably." He gives her head one last shove.

Grinning, El ducks her head and jumps away. Before she walks off, she makes a stop by Joyce and Hopper. She steps all the way into Hopper. Tucks herself under the arm he lifts up for her, throws her arms around him and buries into his side. Hopper runs a hand up and down her back, smiling down at her.

Smiling, Joyce turns to her. "Everything okay, sweetie?" she asks and rubs a hand up and down El's arm.

El nods and says something quietly to her.

"Yes, of course." Joyce nods. Turning to Murray, she holds a hand up and says, "I'll just be a minute."

"By all means." Murray gestures her to the floor.

Rising from her chair, Joyce throws him a relieved smile, glances back at Eddie and Steve, then follows El out the kitchen. The sound of El's door opening and closing follows behind them. Hopper takes Joyce's vacated seat. He and Murray fall into quiet conversation. Voices rumbling softly between them.

Turning back to the sink, Steve plucks the toast up off the plate and takes a big bite of it, halving the toast.

Disgust twists across Eddie's face. "And to think I was the Freak in high school," he says.

"What?" Steve frowns through chewing at the toast.

"You and El." Eddie waves a hand in the air. Gesturing back and forth between Steve and El's abandoned plate. "You're the true freaks around here."

"It's just toast."

"Yeah, soaked in syrup," Eddie hisses and shudders.

Steve looks him dead in the eye and puts the last bit of the toast into his mouth — which is quite a mouthful, Eddie might add that — and chews obnoxiously. Mouth opening and closing. Lips smacking, teeth gnashing, the chewed up toast moves around inside his mouth, swirling at every smack of his mouth.

"You're a monster," Eddie whispers.

Steve snorts. Mercifully, he closes his mouth and chews the rest normally. He steps back into place by the sink beside Eddie. As he slots back into place, he throws his hip out and hip checks Eddie.

Eddie huffs and rolls his eyes at him, despite the pleased smile that stretches across his face at the action. He may not speak in jock himself, but that does not mean he cannot understand it.

They fall back into a steady rhythm of washing up. Steve washes a plate and holds it out for Eddie to take. The few times Eddie's hands aren't free to take it, he sets it down on the side for him to take when he's ready.

At some point, Hopper says something about a smoke and quickly disappears out the front door. Alone, Murray bends over the newspaper.

After a few more dishes, Robin comes in. The fridge pops open with a fwoosh of air and suction breaking. Keeping the door open, she pulls a jug of milk from the fridge, twists the top off and goes to take a drink directly from the jug.

"No, don’t—” Steve lunges across the space and swipes the jug out of her hands. Milk sloshes around inside of the jug. "Gross, Robin. We're all drinking from that. What are you, an animal?" A grimace pulls across his face. "Fill a cup, if you want some."

Robin takes the jug from him with a sharp pull. Looking down at it, she makes a face and sticks her tongue out at it. "But I only want, like, one sip. It's just a waste to make a cup dirty for that." Eyebrows arching, she looks back up at Steve. "I'm actually helping you here. I'm saving you some washing up." She holds her hand to her chest. "If anything, you should be thanking me."

"Robs, babe—” he pinches the bridge of his nose “—I love you, but no. Just no. It’s gross. Just take a cup." Steve waves a hand towards the cupboard filled with mismatched cups, mugs and glasses.

Throwing her head back, Robin sighs long and hard. A groan builds in the back of her throat. "But it's not fun that way."

Standing off to the side, Eddie presses his lips together to keep the smile off his face. Nodding solemnly along with Robin's statement. It's true. It is more fun, when you drink straight from the jug. Only Robin catches sight of his nods. She grins at him. Lips pulling back and baring her teeth at him.

"Jesus. I'm surrounded by children." Steve rolls his eyes. He does a double take and looks back at Robin. Expression braced for impact and greatly distressed, he says, voice thin and suffering, "Please, don't tell me you've done that every morning."

"Please, what do you take me for." Swatting a hand in the air, she rolls her eyes. "I've definitely done it during the day too."

Eddie grins and holds up his hand, which Robin immediately slams her palm into in a high-five.

Steve looks at him. Horror flashes across his face. Throwing his hands up, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Okay, okay, I don't care. You wanna drink out of the jug we all have to share? Be my guest. Just don’t do it, when I can see it, okay?"

He turns back to the sink and throws his hands right back into the soapy water.

"Oh, you children truly are a gold mine," comes Murray's voice, cutting between them.

Eyebrows shooting up his brow, Eddie turns his eyes to him.

Leant back against the small backrest of his chair, Murray is watching them, his coffee and the newspaper abandoned on the table before him. Eyes darting back and forth between Steve, Robin and Eddie. A delighted grin fills up his cheeks, spread fully over his face, making his eyes disappear behind crinkled lines of mirth. A light of something knowing glints in his eyes, as he looks at them.

Robin wrinkles her nose at him. Ignoring him, she turns and puts the jug of milk back into the fridge without taking a sip from it.

Eddie takes Murray's non-sequitur as he would any other snippet about the Upside Down. Which means he pretends to know what he's talking about and turns back to the task at hand. Today, that means turning back to stack of newly washed dishes, Steve leaves on the side of the sink for him.

Footsteps pads across the floor and Robin comes into view. She wraps her arms around Steve and shoves herself up against him. Chest plastered against his back and face pressed into him. Steve leaves off the dishes long enough to lay his arms atop hers. For a short moment, he sways them gently from side to side. "Hmm. You okay, babe?" he finally asks.

Robin turns her head and touches her forehead to his back. "Yeah," she sighs. "Just, you know," she leaves the sentence unfinished in the air, but Steve picks up on it anyway.

"Yeah," he says, voice soft and gentle, "I know."

Another short moment passes.

"You can get back to work," she says, head turned to the side, pillowed against him. "I'll just be here."

"In a minute."

The two stand chest to back, arms laid atop each other. Content to just stand with each other. Eddie dries the last dish Steve managed to wash before he was seized and then he turns to lean against the kitchen cupboard. Arms crossed before his chest, resting, as he waits.
 Finally, after another minute or two, Steve lifts his arms from Robin's and sticks them back into the soapy water filling the sink, getting back to work washing and scrubbing the dishes clean.

"Just don't get water on me," says Robin, voice muffled against his back.

"What?" Steve asks, face scrunched in confusion, movements pausing and the splash of water stilling.

She lifts her head and repeats herself.

In response, Steve rolls his eyes. "This is a splash zone, babe. If you don't wanna get wet, you should get out of it."

"Eh, I'll take my chances."

It does not take long for those chances to make themselves knows. Steve lifts a plate out of the water, holds it aloft for a moment to let the water run off of it, then leaves it off to the side of the sink for Eddie. It is when he grabs a cup and shoves the brush inside of it that the water decides to play tag. The brush pushes down into the cup and water splashes out of the cup. It flies out in an arch and splashes across Steve's stomach where Robin's arms lie.

"Steve!" She jerks away from him. Arms held out, as if contaminated.

Steve throws a look over his shoulder and laughs at the disgruntled look she wears. "I told you to get out of the way, if you didn't wanna get wet."

"Asshole." She flings her hands at him. Drops of water sprays from fingers, spattering against Steve's face.

He makes a face as it hits him. "Aw, babe. Don't be like that." He pouts theatrically at her. "It's just water."

"Soapy, disgusting water." As if to emphasize her point, she flings her arms about again, moving as if flinging even more water about. "You know I hate washing dishing." Eddie takes pity on her and pauses long enough to hold out his dishtowel for her to take. Robin makes a face at him, eyes catching on the offering. But takes it and quickly rubs it across her arms, wiping away with rough swipes. When she's done she throws it back to him and Eddie gets back to the small pile of clean dishes.

"You hate touching wet food," Steve points out with a tilt of his head. "There's a difference and the water is clean. I rinsed everything before I filled the sink."

"Urgh, why do you always have to be contrarian about everything I do? Can't I just pick a fight without you contradicting me?"

"No." Robin stands close enough that Steve only has to take a step away from the sink, hands still held out towards it, dripping water and soap at the floor by his feet, to plant a kiss on top of her head. "I live to make you miserable. That's why you love me."

She taps a hand on his cheek in an imitation of a loving hand cupping his face. "And don't you forget it." Apparently satisfied now that she has had her fight of the day, Robin shuts up long enough for Steve to focus back on the washing up.

Not for long though.

Eddie catches Robin in the corner of his eyes. The mischievous grin on her face sings to him like it is calling his name and he turns his head to watch her step up to Steve. Arm lifted up, she props her finger in her mouth, pops it back out and sticks it into Steve's ear.

"Jesus—!" Steve jumps and jerks away from her hand.

Eddie throws his head back and laughs loudly, cackling at the ceiling.

Laughing, Robin jumps away from Steve and the spray of water he flings her way. She scurries out the kitchen, still laughing merrily.

Steve ducks his head and rubs his ear back and forth on his shoulder. Expression twisted and disgusted.

It looks so funny and Robin is still laughing somewhere behind them. Eddie can't stand upright. He falls over, bent over the table, arms braced on the counter before him, hands still buried in the damp tea towel and laughs.

"Robin!" Steve stops wiping his ear on his shoulder and turns his head back, shouting after her. "Why would you—” he breaks off with a loud groan. "Urgh," he mutters, "disgusting." Then louder, "I hate you!"

"No, you don't!"

A deep sigh follows those words. "No," Steve says, shaking his head with mild annoyance and extreme fondness. "I don't." He rolls his eyes. His next words are mumbled under his breath as he scrubs the brush viciously into a mug, "God knows why."

"Aw, babe, you should have just said!" Robin comes back into the kitchen, right up against Steve's back in a flash. Palms planted on Steve's shoulders as she pulls him towards herself and plants a smacking kiss on his neck. She eases away from him and shakes him around. Eyes glinting bright and teasing. "You know hate talking is my love language!"

"Robs!" Steve's shoulders rise to his ears. He leans back and away from her, arms shaking and elbows tipped backwards and out, fending her off him. Robin only jumps away from him, cackling merrily. Steve watches her go and flaps a soapy hand at her. "Go away. I'm trying to work here!" He calls, head tipped back as if pointing the words in her direction will make it any better.

"It's cute you think my silence will help with that." With a laugh, she crosses the tiny space and hops onto the counter adjacent to the sink, right beside where Steve stands. Her legs reach out and mimic the action of tripping someone up against Steve's legs, even though he remains standing still.

"You’re the actual worst." Steve scowls at her and slaps her legs away. "Watch it.” He points a menacing finger at her. "I’ll get you back, one day."

It only makes Eddie laugh harder. Laughter bursts forth, jumping from inside of his chest. It shakes and rattles through his body, a wheezing laugh that falls out of his mouth, where he is still bent over, collapsed against the kitchen counter.

"Sure, dingus," says Robin, laughter still bubbling in her voice. "I'm pissing my pants from fear." A loud, ugly snort follows her words.

A hard sigh blows from Steve. "Shithead," he finishes, quiet and lame.

Eddie's laughter cuts off with a snort. He looks up at Steve from the table. Looking out from eyes half-buried behind laughter lines. "Eloquent, Harrington. I can see that A+ in English so vividly."

"Shut up, man." He hip checks Eddie again, shoving him to the side with a harder check than before.

Position already precarious, Eddie stumbles into the table. The counter and cupboard punches into him and pain echoes from his many wounds, singeing from where his stitches lay. Air huffs from his chests from the blow. Still grinning, he pushes himself back up and throws a hip check back at Steve, who does not even sway in place and cannot even be gracious enough to pretend to be knocked off balance. The bastard.

He returns to work and the pain creeps back into his wounds, returning to the distant simmer of ache buried under a mountain of painkillers and medication.

"This really is interesting," Murray muses from the dining table. "You've certainly gone on an adventure, haven't you, Steve? First Nancy and Jonathan, and now this." At these words, a huff of air puffs from Steve's chest. Eddie casts him a sideways glance and searches his face. But he remains impassive in the face of Jonathan and Nancy's names being thrown into the air. Murray continues, "You people just keep on giving. Really, I thought Hopper and Joyce were going to be the most interesting out of all of you. But this really takes the cake."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Steve says, throwing a look at him over his shoulder. Expression folded into that same exasperated annoyance he so often bears around the kids. Except there is much less fondness in his eyes now and a pull of irritation across his brow instead.

"Oh, you'll know, Steve dear," Murray says, tone mysterious and all knowing. "You'll know."

Eddie glances back at him in time to see the salute Murray gives Steve with his coffee cup and the wink he throws him. Mouth pulled into a knowing smile, eyes glinting from behind mirth-filled crinkles.

Turning his head back around, Eddie casts a glance to the side, looking at Steve. "You guys know each other?" he says, voice quiet and directed just at Steve.

"We've met. Briefly."

"Oh, we're old friends, aren't we, Steve?" Murray calls.

"I don't—” one of Steve's hands lifts up from the sink. Water drips from his palm. It splashes back into the sink and runs down his forearm. Steve waves his hand in the air, lost and resigned. He huffs. Expression confused and lost. Shaking his head, he ducks his head to focus back on the wash up. Then, he glances to the side and catches Eddie's eyes. A mirrored expression of confusion and befuddlement on his face. The corners of his lips twitches and he rolls his eyes. "Don't mind Murray," he mutters, voice quiet, but definitely not low enough, considering Murray is right behind them and has already shown them, he cares very little for social niceties and carries a propensity for eavesdropping. But then again, Murray does not seem the kind of man, who cares about what other people say about him.

Steve grabs another bowl and swipes the brush over it. Suds and soap bubbles swirls all over the surface. Bristles scrub lightly against it with a faint rubbing noise. Water tinkles from the plate back down into the water-filled sink. Sloshing all over the surface. "He's just a bored old journalist, who gets off on other people's relationships, because he's too unlikeable to have his own."

Eddie huffs a small laugh and takes the plate Steve holds out to him. Water drips from the plastic. It trickles into the increasingly damp towel in Eddie's hand.

"Interesting you'd choose the word 'relationship', Steve, my old friend," Murray chimes in. "Interesting indeed."

Steve rolls his eyes again. He nudges Eddie with his elbow in wordless comment.

They wash the rest of the dishes in comfortable silence. Only joined by the sounds of sloshing water, rustling bristles of the brush and the clunk of stacking plastic plates and bowls on top of one another.

Before they finish, Murray folds up the newspaper, rises to his feet and disappears out the door, joining Hopper outside.

For the rest of the day, they don't have a lot of words to exchange. But occasionally Eddie catches Murray watching him, Steve and Robin. Always with the same delighted expression from earlier on his face and a knowing look in his eyes. Whatever he finds in the air between them, to give him such an expression, he keeps to himself. Still, his knowing gaze and delighted smirk makes Eddie's skin crawl. As if there are ants underneath his skin. Crawling all over him.

For the duration of his visit, Eddie ducks behind the curtain to his temporary bedroom or seeks refuge outside, as much as he can. Even if it makes Murray grin at him all the more knowingly.

Later that night finds Eddie sat by the dining table in the kitchen wearing just a sweatshirt, he grabbed off the floor as he got up, when it became clear, he would not be falling asleep anytime soon; a soft blue sweater that Steve wore that day and which Eddie resolutely refused to smell, when he first put it on, which naturally means it is a scent he is currently swimming in. Sat by the small dining table, he is wrapped up in the sweater's embrace and the phantom feeling of Steve's warmth that he has kid himself into believing is still there. With one foot propped up on the chair, his leg close to his chest and the other leg thrown out over the side of the chair, bouncing up and down in a never-ending jiggle. On the table in front of him is his notebook. Cracked open and spread out to a page that he, earlier that day, filled with scribbled key words, titles to non-existent songs and half-finished sentences to disjointed songs that were barely more than the echo of an idea in his thoughts. Now nearly completely buried under so much black ink, it is hard to believe there is any more left in the fountain pen in his hands as he doodles heavy and absent minded on the page.

The ink has left his hand stained. Splotches of it spills across his skin, rubbed off at the tips of his fingers and the side of his hand. Lines across his palm cut deep with ink, filled with the stained black, like tiny rivers of black water on a map.

At one point, the door to El's bedroom creaks open and the girl herself tiptoes out. Hardly a twitch flickers across her face at the sight of Eddie in the kitchen. Wordlessly, she sits down across from him.

"Water?" he says in lieu of greeting, tipping his own half-filled glass of water towards her. She nods and he stands up, grabs a cup and fills it with water. Sitting back down, he puts it on the table before her.

Careful hands reach forward and curl around the cup.

"You doing okay?" he asks, after a while, voice quiet and soft.

"Bad dreams," she says with a shrug.

"Hmm, I know the feeling." He scratches the pen viciously across a few lines of lyrics that do not belong to any song, but whose few words he hates with a passion. "Want to talk about it?"

She shakes her head. Looking up at him, her gaze locks on his. Eyes sharp and intense in the way Eddie has come to expect from her. "Why are you not sleeping? You didn't sleep last night either. I heard you."

Last night, like the others, Eddie had woken up from nightmares of snapping bones and the mutilated faces of kind girls and he had spent a small part of the night in the bathroom, collapsed on the toilet seat, shaking and trembling, just trying to hold himself together. The other part of the night, he had spent by the kitchen sink, smoking his way through a packet of cigarettes. While he had been standing there, slowly drowning himself in cigarette smoke, he'd heard soft voices from behind El's cracked bedroom door. But they had not sounded distressed or scared, so he'd let them be. Not that he thinks he would be of any help to them. Considering he is still new to most of them.

"And I heard you." Eddie tips his head towards her. "Both you and Max and Will."

She nods.

There is not much else to say beyond that. Eddie goes back to doodling in his book. El remains a silent figure in the periphery of his vision. They do not speak again. Eventually, El rises from the chair and returns to her bedroom. Eddie does not.

The day after Murray comes to visit the cabin is blessedly free of knowing eyes and delighted smirks. A good thing it is too. Eddie might have lost his cool if Murray looked at him with that knowing smirk one more time.

The day is another quiet one. The other kids — Mike, Lucas and Erica that is — do not show up. It's been a while since Eddie has seen them, too, (or Nancy for that matter). Neither of them have managed to come by since the day Steve and the others went to the shelter at Hawkins High (except Lucas, who was here two days ago and stuck to Max's side like glue the entire time). Forced to stay at home, presumably by their parents, who still do not know their kids are monster hunters in their spare time and have saved the world 4 times now. (All in a day's work, and all of that, you know). Oh, and Hopper, who keeps a sharp eye on the comings and goings by the cabin. Although, Eddie is sure the other kids' absence is sure to have been to great and loud protests, but he is not the recipient of those and is perhaps a little too unsympathetic towards those who do, all things considered.

What is surprising out of all of that is that Eddie finds he misses the little guys. Mostly. The cabin does get a little crowded and rather snug when they are all together, and the few times they have all been there, it was rather loud, but Eddie thrives in noise and chaos, so maybe it should not be so surprising he misses them.
Not that the cabin is quiet without all of them there. Oh, no. There are far too many people here for that to be possible. But Eddie actually surprises himself that he ends up missing Lucas and Mike a little. He even misses feisty little Erica, who he does not know as much as the rest. But she was rather memorable in the campaign she subbed in and she was so fucking fearless in the face of the Upside Down that Eddie felt nearly as starstruck by her as he was Steve. She was definitely on par with Nancy Wheeler, who made a fucking sawed-off shotgun with such ice cold determination, even Eddie could say he got a hard on for her. Strictly platonic though. And strictly intimidated.
The point is even with Dustin, Max, El, Will and all the others in the cabin, it occasionally still feels empty without the rest of the kids there.

Today, on this quieter and smirk-less day, Eddie goes to sit outside on the porch again somewhere around midday. Notebook and Fellowship under each arm, intending to get further in at least one of them. But, before he can even sit down and get comfortable, Robin follows him outside, which means Steve does too. Footsteps clattering across the floorboards, they exit the cabin, right at each other's heels. Voices loud and obnoxious as they complain at one another, as if trying to one up each other with such vigor and exuberance, Eddie is starting to suspect complaining is one of their love languages.

As they sit down near him so the three of them make a skewed triangle, still yapping at each other about today's inane thing Eddie has yet to catch onto, he lets his books fall away to the side and leaves them unopened on the porch beside him. But it's alright, because Robin and Steve let their argument fall away and draw him into easy conversation. Their voices fill the air with a rumbling babble and the occasional bark of laughter. Eventually, Robin pulls out a deck of cards and they play a round of Crazy Eights. Then another round. And another.

During the third game, phantom pain echoes in Eddie's hand. The right one. The chronic pain nuisance. Not the left one. No, leftie has always been a model citizen and rightie should take a few notes, as Eddie has been telling it for years with no success.

It is not actual pain. Any lingering pain or ache has been well smothered beneath the heavy pain medication the doctors at the lab sent him home with. But Eddie has been hounded by pain in his right hand since he was 12 and came out of the cast with chronic pain and a permanent disability. It is not a pain easily forgotten. And after Hell Week where the pain was worse than ever before, the ghost of it sticks to his bones and muscles like mud or thick slime. More a memory of pain than actual pain, but still somehow burrowed deep in his bones.

When the fourth game of Crazy Eights finishes, he instinctively puts his hand in his other and pushes his fingers into the soft flesh. Digging and massaging at it, even though it isn't actually hurting and has not since he came out of the hospital armed with strong painkillers he would have given his left leg for years ago. The action is quite an automatic and thoughtless one. Something he usually does when the pain is too much or his hand feels too stiff to try and massage the aches out of it. It never quite works, not for long anyway, but the act of massaging the tissue eases some of the aches when he does. Which is why the act has become a rather automatic reflex through the years.

Ever since those long, cold nights in the boathouse, the muscles and joints inside of his hand remain slightly stiff. Like one wrong movement or a position held for too long, will cause inflammation and pain to flare through his hand and fingers again, locking it in place, cramped up, useless and burning, as if he'd stuck his entire hand into a fire, just as it had been all those days in the boathouse.
 It hangs like a threat above Eddie's head. Threatening to burst forth at a moment's notice and drown him in burning pain.
The pain in his hand is not always so bad. But the nights spent in the boathouse has soured it more than even his father did, when he first broke it, back when he was twelve. And Eddie fears the retribution it will bring, when it finally breaks free of the painkillers currently drowning it.

Sighing softly, he stops the motion and lets his hands fall away. Before he takes the new round of card Steve deals out, he shakes his hand out. Fingers flapping and whipping in the air. As if enough force will throw away the memory of the immense pain that followed him everywhere since that first night in the boathouse. It is not something Eddie likes to remember, but it's hard to forget. Pain had flared in his right hand in the middle of the night, as he laid clutching the beer bottle he had smashed with the same hand. It had built slowly as the night crept on and the more he lay in the cold, but he had been blind to it, too lost in the memory of Chrissy's final moments and too fixated on every shadow and sound around him, to remember the one that had already seized him. When it blazed into burning clarity, it was bad enough to make his grip falter and his fingers shake with more than fear. He had to slowly unfurl his grip on the beer bottle. Fingers opening with a static and halting motion, as if his hand had turned into cogs in a machine, every joint and cog old and rusted, stumbling along to work properly. It had taken the one comfort Eddie had found away; unable to clutch the neck of the beer bottle as tight as he wanted to. But it had not all been bad. For the first time ever, there had been a good thing to come out of the pain. The one good thing the pain had brought him was, whenever the darkness swept in and Chrissy began swimming before his eyes, the pain had been there and brought him out of his thoughts; keeping the fear from swallowing him up and drowning him; tethering him to that boathouse, instead of the monsters in his mind.

The memory of it is enough to make his hand prickle and tingle with phantom pain again.

He turns back to the game as Steve finishes dealing out their cards and shoves the memory of the pain of those days far away.

Only a little later, Steve, a distant mirror to Eddie's previous automatic movements, begins to fidget more and more. A particularly loud and raucous shout from inside the cabin makes him flinch. Brow furrowed, he rubs at the back of his neck, as if working out tension. Brings his hand over his face, fingers digging into his brow and rubs. The bones and tendons on the back of his hand stands out and ripples against his skin, as he works at it. At one point, he fishes out a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and puts them on, tilts his head back and crosses his arms over his chest. Mouth pressing into a firm, thin line and his cards abandoned in his lap.

"Steve?" Robin says, carefully. He does not answer her at first. "Babe?" she tries again. Hand lowering, she eyes him more carefully, lower lip between her teeth. Eyes darting all over his face and brow furrowed. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He makes a small wave of his hand, still keeping it close to his chest, just a flick of his wrist, his voice low and rumbling. "It's nothing."

"Liar," her voice has none of the sharpness Eddie has come to know comes easily enough to her, when she wants it to. Expression softening, Robin lays a careful and very light hand on his ankle. "You're getting a migraine."

"It's fine. I knew, it was coming," his lips twists in distaste. Sighing, he drops his arms. Hands flopping back down by his side. He keeps his head tilted back, those impassive sunglasses staring up at the awning overhead, reflecting a small image of slated wooden boards back at Eddie. "It's been creeping up for a while."

"A migraine?" Eddie eyes the tight and tense lines creeping over his face and just about keeps his instinctive, sympathetic hiss to himself. "You sure, you're okay?"

"It's nothing, don't worry about it." Steve waves a hand in the air, brushing it aside once again. "I've gotten used to them." Even without looking her way, Eddie catches sight of the sour grimace twisting Robin's expression at these words.

He does look her way, though, when she drops her head and shakes it at the floorboards as a quiet "Dingus" falls from her lips.

"Wouldn't sitting out here make it worse?" Eddie asks, frowning lightly. "I mean, I am no expert on migraines and I am blessedly free of them." He holds up his hand, palm open in surrender, because he knows just how unwelcome and frustrating unsolicited advice is when you are in deep, chronic pain. "But seems to me sunlight and sound are your no.1 mortal enemy, when it comes to migraines." Expression thoughtful, he tilts his head to the side. "Or is that just a hangover?"

"It can be?" Steve says, voice tilting up in more of a question than statement. Expression far too dismissive and apathetic, he shrugs. "But I'm already alone and bored out of my mind, when I'm in the depths of a migraine. If I had to be alone leading up to them, just to maybe have them ease up a little bit, I'd lose my mind."

"Say no more." Eddie holds his hands out, blocking any more words before they can come forward.

They don't really return to the card game after that, even though Steve protests and says they can keep playing. Mouth drooping in an unhappy line, Robin simply shakes her head at him and leaves the card game abandoned between them. When he tries to insist one last time, she deliberately messes up her own and Eddie's hand with vicious vigor and studied carelessness. "Oops," she says, voice completely neutral and deadpan at the cards spread out all over her lap and the floorboards in a colorful mess. She holds her empty hands up in faux innocence. "Guess I lost." Steve rolls his eyes, but the tension by the corners of his mouth lets up just a little.

Not thirty minutes later, Steve rises to his feet. Head ducked low and a hand held up, shielding his eyes despite the sunglasses, heading towards the door. When he passes by Robin, she reaches out, palm open and catches Steve's hand in her own. Fingers clamping around his.

Feet thudding against the porch, Steve comes to a stop. His own fingers close around Robin's, curling around her hand.

Robin looks up at him. Eyes soft and concerned and a furrow cutting a soft path across her brow. "We're right here, if you need anything," she says, voice just as soft as her gaze. Eddie catches the squeeze of their hands, even if he cannot see who initiates it.

"I know." Steve lifts his hand up from his face. The shadow cast over his features lifts enough for him to flash a weak smile at her.

Their hands drop away and Steve makes his way inside. The line of his shoulders tense and his back hunched over, as if all of his weight has been dropped on top of them in the time they have been sat outside together.

Lip caught between her teeth, Robin watches him go. Eddie does too.

To distract the both of them, Eddie leans over and begins gathering the abandoned — and abused — cards from the mess Robin threw them into, when she slapped his from his hand. When they are all gathered into one rather crude stack, he picks the entire thing up and begins turning them over to make them all face down. The cards shift and shuffle softly against each other from between Eddie's hands. At last, he picks up one corner and flicks them, eyes scanning the flash of colors that wink at him from any that he missed. The last card on top snaps! into place and the flash of color disappears. Satisfied, he begins shuffling them. Over the stack, he throws a look at Robin, crooking an eyebrow.

Mouth still pressed into a tight line, she shrugs, then nods. "Gin Rummy."

Eddie deals out the cards for Gin Rummy for two people. He skips the part about having to draw for a dealer.

"Chronic migraines?" Eddie guesses after a while.

"Yeah," she breathes out, chest deflating with a whoosh. "They really suck."

"Hmm, I can imagine." Eddie picks up the card that faces up in the stock deck, puts it into his fanned out hand of cards and selects a card at the same time to throw it in the growing discard pile between them.

For a moment, they sit, quietly playing the game. Eyes on the cards before them, Eddie sucks at his teeth in thought. Brow lightly furrowed with the same concern playing across Robin's face.

Eventually, into their second game, Eddie breaks their quiet. "How long has he had them?"

"They were episodic since Halloween '84, but got worse last summer." A twisted grimace plays across her face, full of displeasure and misery. "Since Starcourt basically."

"Shit, really?" Eyes wide and round, Eddie's gaze darts to the door, as if seeking Steve in the space he last saw him in.

"Yeah, um—" her words cut off as she takes a deep breath, air rushing in through her nose and blowing forcefully out of her mouth, head ducked, eyes stuck on the stack before her "—turns out getting the shit beaten out of you and earning two concussions in less than a year is really bad for you."

"Yeah, no shit." Eddie raises his free hand and rubs his palm over his face, scrubbing viciously at his skin, as if it might take the irate unfairness prickling underneath his skin away. Sighing, he brings his hand up, tugs at his hair, pulling it away from his face and shoulders. "Man, that—, that really sucks."

Wordlessly, she nods, expression tight and pained.

They keep playing as they talk, more distracted and thoughtless than before.

"How long do they usually last?" he asks, as he switches out another card.

"Depends." She shrugs. "I've counted one to about 7 hours once. That's the better end. But some have lasted up to a few days."

A heavy sigh blows from Eddie's lungs. He draws the knuckle of his thumb across his forehead. The touch drags a small burn behind it that stings across his skin. "I'm getting the sudden urge to kill some Russians."

"Oh, they're already dead. Probably." She makes a face. "We think. It was a strange and chaotic night. Some Russians died, for sure."

“Well, in that case, I could use those satanic powers I'm infamous for and resurrect some Russians from the dead, so we can kill them all over again."

"If you ever manage to, do let me know."

He throws her a grin. "You'll be first on the list."

It is when the second game finishes and they immediately pick up a third without saying a word about it, that Eddie looks up at Robin. Eyes sharp and calculating, as if he has just now been handed a piece to complete a puzzle he has been trying to solve for days. "I haven't seen him like that since all of this began." Gaze jerking back and forth between her eyes, he searches the expression on her face. "Is that really his first migraine since everything?"

Head darting up, Robin rounds on him with surprising speed, eyes narrowing on him just the tiniest bit, full of flint.

Quickly, Eddie brings a hand up. Palm up and out in a placating gesture. "I'm not trying anything, Buckley. I'm just wondering," he says softly. He drops his hand back down. Robin's eyes follow it to his lap and snaps back to his face. At his next words, Eddie feels his own face soften, "Vecna was already a nightmare on his own. But he dove down to the gate first—" so we would not have to, goes unsaid, but he can still see those words write themselves across Robin's eyes "—and was the one of us pulled to the Upside Down and set upon by murderous demon bats. I can't imagine having to handle all of that, trying to escape the Upside Down while bleeding out, then having a migraine on top of it."

"Oh." Gaze softening, Robin considers him anew. The look on her face opens up. When she is satisfied with what she has found on Eddie's own face, she throws a look over her shoulder, looking back towards the door. "No," she finally says, turning back to him. "All of that—" she waves a hand in the air, gesturing loosely "—can be really stressful—" Eddie levels an unimpressed stare at her and she makes a face right back at him, tongue sticking briefly out of her mouth, expression twisting and scrunching up "—and stress can trigger them. So yeah, he had a few bad days." A snort bursts from her throat, though her expression remains heavy and sad. "Not that he told me, but I know him too well. He couldn't hide it from me, if he tried." She rolls her eyes. "And somehow he keeps trying to, even though it's a useless waste of his energy."

Eddie waits quietly. Observing her with gentle eyes.

Sighing, Robin blows at a strand of her fringe. It flops up and down on her brow. "He had one on the day Max almost died. That one lasted into the next day." She rolls her eyes. "Of course, he didn't tell Nancy, or anyone else. But he was worried it would cause him to miss the signs and it would endanger Max even more." A look of concentration falls over her face as she recounts it and even that is tinged and weighed down by remembered sorrow and pain. One of her fingers taps a rapid rhythm against the sole of her shoe, ankles crossed before her. "He had a worse one the day we went to fight Vecna. Then that first day in the lab, when we were waiting for you to wake up, it all kinda slammed into him and we had to turn all the lights off and he was just curled up on the chair in the corner." Pain pulls across her face in a heavy grimace and twists up her every feature. "I wanted him to go home, but he couldn't really move and it's not like I could carry him, or drive, if we got that far. And—" she shrugs "—he didn't really want to leave Dustin and you alone in the lab." She falls silent. An unhappy twists pulls at her lips. For a moment, she just looks down, head bowed and the hand holding her stack of cards drooping limp and slack in her lap. "It was painful just to watch," she finally says, voice lifeless. "It was as if every touch and noise just wracked through him. I've been with him more than anyone else through his migraines, and that's the most painful one I've ever seen."

Expression contemplating, Eddie looks past Robin, back at the door, as if his gaze might be able to follow Steve inside. "Kinda makes you think," he says, voice quiet.

"Think what?"

He does not answer immediately.

Mind elsewhere and distracted, they play a few more cards. Each card they throw land with a soft plop in the growing pile. Eddie is hardly paying attention to the combined value of the cards in his hands and he wonders if Robin is, given the way she picks up a few that he throws down without much consideration. "That he still jumped in the lake first," he finally says. "And he still drove all of us around and helped prepare to fight Vecna."

"It's not like any of us can sit out on it or just leave the rest to solve it on their own." She shrugs. "We all want to protect each other. Make sure we all make it out of it alive. None of us could turn our back on it now that we know it's happening."

"Still, he's been through this four times now and already gained chronic migraines and now a bunch of fucked up scars. And he's not walking away."

Lifting her eyes from the game, Robin crooks her eyebrows, gaze inquisitive. "Would you?"

"I don't know." He pauses. Contemplating for a moment. "The three of us. You, Steve, me. We're here by accident." At least, that is what he has gathered from what they have told him (and what he has managed to retain from the inflow of senseless information thrown at him. Especially when it comes to any of the stuff, the kids have told him). "The kids, Joyce, Jonathan, Hopper, they were all caught up right in the middle of it. Themselves or their families in danger. Yeah, the kids wanted to find Will, but from what I get, they picked up El in the forest and harbored her in secret long before they knew anything else was going on. There's not really any going back from it after that. As for the rest, it's harder to walk away from all this—" he waves his empty hand in a circle above his lap, encompassing their world "—when it's your brother or mother." He presses his lips into a thin line. Considers his cards with barely a throwaway glance and switches out another card. "But Steve's dedicated himself to kids that aren't even his family and he's given so much just because he loves them. Just because he was there and he could. And he keeps giving." Carefully looking down and avoiding Robin's far too understanding eyes, Eddie shrugs. "I'm just not sure, I would have been able to keep going. Keep on giving of myself, until there was nothing else left."

"I think you're underestimating yourself, Eddie," Robin says, voice soft and gentle. Head still ducked, Eddie chances a peek through lowered lashes at her. She catches his furtive gaze and quirks an eyebrow at him, then continues before he can avert his gaze again, "We may have cursed you out for it, but you did more than what we'd planned," her voice is quiet and small, but her eyes carry the intensity her words do not and so Eddie is locked in her gaze, unable to look away. "You wanted to make sure the bats stayed away from us and Dustin, so you ran out to face them instead of escaping out the gate. I mean, we found you in Dustin's arms, near death. Steve had to carry you back. And it was only thanks to his first aid you made it." Her eyebrows lift up high on her brow. "Furious first aid, too."

Finally released from Robin's blazing gaze by the words her mouth carried to him, Eddie turns his head down, lowering his eyes from hers. Eyes landing on his right hand, he flexes his fingers, remembering the pain that had colored everything with the haze of an inferno that whole week. "Yeah," he echoes, voice distant and quiet. "Maybe."

When they both declare they have completely messed up their stack and value, they declare the fourth game lost and do not pick up another.

Later, when they go back inside, Steve is not even in the living room, but has retreated behind the curtain leading to their shared bedroom. And he does not come back out again for the rest of the day.

Eddie figures his migraines must be a well-known fact to everyone. As everyone starts coming out of their respective caves for dinner, Dustin asks where Steve is only once and when Robin quietly says that it's a bad day with a pointed look towards the curtain, he, Will, El and Max fall quiet and somber expressions fall over each and every one of them with more than a few glares at the curtain separating them from Steve, as if the strength of their glares can make his migraines go away. A tactic Eddie is positive they have exhausted and long ago discarded, even if they keep trying it.

Despite their heavy mood, neither makes a move towards the bedroom, and, Eddie notices, they are a little more careful to keep their voices low in the living room, than they have been any other day and as soon as they hear Robin answer Dustin, the music from El's bedroom cuts off rather abruptly with a sharp, cutting glance from the girl herself.

Eddie wonders if Steve is aware of all the love the people inside of this cabin holds for him.

That night it is, for once, not nightmares that wakes Eddie up.

Blearily, Eddie blinks his eyes open. Heavy mud and sludge churns through his mind, sticking to his thoughts and slowing them down, making it impossible for him to grasp for what has woken him. It is like the slow move of molasses, waking in the darkness without adrenaline pumping through his blood and his heart hammering away at his chest, trying to beat its way out of him with sheer blunt force trauma. For a second, he does not know why he is awake or if he was even woken up by something and spends that second cursing that even when he has a moment free of nightmares, he isn't even allowed to appreciate it. Then a sound, loud and thick comes from beside him. Liquid gurgles and bubbles thickly, struggling through a walled up throat. Water splashes. A heavy, pitiful groan follows it. The sound chases sleep from Eddie's mind and his heavy, sluggish body. He props himself up, just enough to lifts his head clear of the pillow, mindful of the wounds littering his body, and turns his head to look out into the room, eyes searching for the source.

A yellow glow from the living room beyond the curtain lights up the room to a yellow-grey-scale landscape. It falls in through the thin fabric and a gap between it and the doorframe. Along with the low silver and blue moonlight sneaking into the cabin, through slivers in the boarded up windows, there is just enough light to make out the room. The space and walls are lit up with the low yellow glow and the blue moonlight. Their combined glow washes out most colors into the low saturation of washed out blues and greys with only high planes touched by the yellow.

A figure is huddled beside Eddie's bed. Sat on the edge of a smaller mattress spread across the floor. Back hunched and huddled, curled around himself. Head ducked low, his neck bared and grazed by the yellow light, glowing back at Eddie.

For a moment, Eddie still does not understand.

He just looks at him uncomprehending. Thoughts still dragged down by the last vestiges of sleep.

Blinking confusedly, Eddie considers his position and finally remembers the bucket Joyce sat on the floor beside Steve's mattress, when she went to check on him in the evening, before going to bed, retrieving the half eaten dinner plate, Steve had left on the side at the same time. Then it clicks.

"Shit. Steve." Eyes wide, Eddie throws himself out of bed. The blanket catches onto his legs and tangles them up in it. They pull and flail uselessly inside of it, before he manages to catch the corner in his hand and fling it off. He stumbles over Steve's mattress, feet and hands scrambling across it.

He lets himself fall to the ground. Knees crashing into the air mattress, catching himself on one arm, coming to an abrupt halt right beside Steve. The mattress beneath him jolts and bounces lightly, jostling the hunched over figure.

Steve groans into the bucket.

"Steve," Eddie repeats, his voice a mere whisper. One of his hands hover hesitantly in the air, right above Steve's back.

Another weaker groan comes from Steve. He lifts one hand from the bucket in his grasp, a few fingers raised in a weak wave. He is still in the blue sweater he wore earlier. A glimpse of his underwear — whitey-tighties, if Eddie was wondering — peeks out beneath the soft cascade of blue fabric gathered around his hips, pooling at the juncture where his legs meet his hips, barely covering his ass. The bare skin of his legs glow a mix of soft silver and warm yellow in the light from the two warring sides. It lights up the long stretch of his legs, where they fold and curl in front of himself, his feet on the ground and ankles crossed around the bucket.

Eddie lays a careful hand on his back. Palm flat against him, gently rubbing it in a circle through the soft fabric of his sweater.

"It's fine," Steve mumbles into the bucket, barely raising his head and tilting it slightly in Eddie's direction, "I knew, I shouldn't have eaten with how bad it was. Knew it was just going to come up again," his voice is wrecked, every word comes out raw and croaking from his throat.

With nothing to really say to that, Eddie rubs another circle into Steve's back, then draws his hand up and over Steve's head, where his gentle touch reaches for his fringe. Fingers grazing over his forehead, he brushes his floppy hair out and away from his eyes.

"Sorry, I woke you," Steve says, voice faint. "I know you don't sleep very well."

Even though he is not looking his way, Eddie shakes his head. "I don't mind, and I really don't care about that right now," he keeps his voice very quiet, every word a soft whisper that barely lingers long enough in the air for Steve to catch onto and he wonders if Steve even heard him with no reaction from the man, but he is reluctant to raise his voice, afraid volume would hurt him more.

"Dustin?" Steve suddenly asks without raising his head to look.

Eddie does it for him. Twisting his head around, he glances at Dustin lying still and quiet on the bed, blanket draped over him, Eddie's side of the blanket thrown halfway across him, snuffing quietly into his pillow. "Sound asleep," he says, turning back to Steve. There is no reaction so Eddie repeats himself, chancing to speak a little louder to make sure Steve hears him through the pain. And thankfully, he does this time.

"Good." His head bops up and down with the word, moved by his chin, balanced on the back of his hand on the edge of the bucket. "I don't like him seeing me like this." He glances sideways at Eddie. The look in his eyes and the low volume of his voice remain raw and croaked like harsh sandpaper. It makes his words feel like a secret to be kept safe. "It always makes him so upset."

"I understand," he says, careful to stay in that volume where he would still be heard, but nowhere near a shout. Eyes darting all over the miserable line that makes up Steve, Eddie pulls his hand back and settles it on his neck. Palm curled around its curve.

A small moment passes in silence.

For once, the extra space on Steve's mattress is not filled out by Robin. When night fell and it became clear Steve was still very much in the throes of his migraine, she took her pillow, pressed a kiss to Steve's limb hand and went to sleep in El's bedroom with the two girls. Presumably, to make sure Steve's pain would not be exacerbated by her presence beside him.

A sigh blows from Steve's lips. He turns his head, pillowing his cheek on the side of the bucket and on back of his hand. Every inch and line of his face is cloaked in misery and, even in the limited light, his eyes are drawn and tired. Long and dark shadows fall down the skin underneath his eyes, his face heavy and his complexion more sick than it was after getting a good pound of flesh eaten out of him.

Unable to help himself, Eddie reaches out. Soft, luscious locks fall over his skin and Eddie marvels at the feeling of it, as he draws his hand through Steve's hair, gently brushing his fringe away and out of his face again. A strand of hair bounces back, flopping back over his forehead. Lips pressing into a small smile that he cannot quite keep at bay, Eddie sticks his thumb out and tugs it back up, his gaze following the movement, as he smooths it back. The soft pad of his thumb grazes over Steve's soft skin. His gaze falls back down to Steve's.

Hazel eyes, half-lidded and heavy, blearily look back at him over the edge of the bucket. Faint pinpricks and soft twinkles of light from the glow within the room reflects back at him inside of his eyes.

"Can I do anything?" Eddie asks.

"Not much," Steve sighs, shaking his head just the slightest bit. A twitch really. Arms curling tighter around the bucket before him, his hold over the lip tightens. Hands clenching and flexing, rippling with movement.

"Anything. Just ask, Steve. I want to help."

Steve's eyes fall closed. A sigh passes soft and quiet from his mouth. It takes a moment, but eventually he says, "Make a cold compress. Like a packet of frozen peas from the freezer or just soak a cloth in some cold water."

"That I can do." Dropping his hand to his shoulder, Eddie lets his palm linger for a moment. Even through the sweater covering his skin, he can feel the cold that has seeped into Steve's limbs. So he hesitates a short moment, just enough for the warmth of his hand to seep out into Steve's cool limbs. Then he gives his shoulder a small squeeze, bids a quick, "Be right back," and gets to his feet. He hurries out of the room and into the kitchen, grateful for his escapades the previous nights, if only because they have made the path to the kitchen familiar to him now, even if the two lights, forever burning the night and its shadows away, remain lit and would have guided his way, even if it had not been.

When he gets to the kitchen, he heads straight for the fridge and the small freezer compartment inside of it, quickly yanking it open. A fwoosh breaks the sealing of the cold. Door held open with one hand, he sweeps his gaze through the freezer. A cursory glance through its content reveals the lack of ice cubes or anything like frozen peas that he could use instead. Only frozen meals in cardboard boxes and he remembers Joyce making a comment about needing to go grocery shopping soon with so many mouths to feed and he sighs at it. The fridge is similarly lacking.

He huffs loudly at it and grabs a water pitcher filled with water instead. Steve tends to keep a water pitcher in the fridge so there is always cold water available. It makes him look far too much like a suburban mom and both Eddie and Robin have taken plenty cracks at him about it, but Eddie is thankful for it now. It means he won't return empty handed to him now.

He sets the pitcher off on the kitchen counter and ducks into one of the cabinets, where he grabs a clean cloth and bowl. He places both beside the water.

For a moment, he pauses. Straining his ears, Eddie tries to listen for any sounds from the bedroom he left behind. Not a sound or a rustle comes.

Warily, he turns his head and glances out into the living room. His eyes skirt over the sleeping figures of Joyce, Hopper, Jonathan, Argyle and Will. Wondering if he should wake one of them. If it was one of the kids, he would, without hesitation. But this is Steve.

Steve, who has been having migraines for two years.

Steve, who is so used to them by now, he shrugged it off, when Eddie asked him about it.

Steve, who must have lost count of how many times, his head has brought him crawling to a bucket or a toilet.

The thought of Steve all alone, in that large and, most of the time, empty, house of his, makes Eddie's stomach turn. A cold, empty swooping sensation drops through him and it is only the thought of Robin telling him, she has been by Steve's side for most of them that makes Eddie able to stomach it.

Shrugging it off, Eddie grabs onto the handle of the water pitcher, pulls the bowl closer and fills it up. Water streams out of the pitcher and rushes out into the bowl. Surface bubbling and gurgling faintly in the quiet night. When the bowl is half-full, he stops. Before he puts the water back inside the fridge, he fills it back up.

Cloth and bowl in hand, he makes his way back to the bedroom, where he comes to a stop by Steve once more.

Bending down, he carefully sets the bowl on the floor, then sits down on his knees beside Steve again, who, by the looks of it, has not moved a single muscle since he left him. A ghost of Robin's earlier words echoes faintly in his ears, so he carefully sits as close to him as he can, making sure not to crowd or touch him. He keeps his legs pulled up under himself, knees digging into the mattress and ignores the bruises that scream at him from when he took a tumble running from those fucking bats.

Dumping the cloth into the bowl of water, Eddie wets it thoroughly. Ice-cold water streams over his hands, weighing the cloth down and he has to bite back his own hiss at the ice prickling his fingers. Cloth now thoroughly wet, Eddie pulls it out and wrings it, trying not to flinch at the iciness of it. Water drips from the fabric, back down into the bowl in a thin stream, splashing against the surface.

"Where do you want it?" he asks softly, turning back to Steve.

"Back of my neck." He gestures. Hand flopping limb and useless in the air. It drops back down on the edge of the bucket, curling around the lip of it, loosely holding on.

Scooting forward on his knees, Eddie leans closer. Carefully, he folds up the cloth, then lays it on the back of Steve's neck. He swipes at his hair. Hand gently pulling it back and away from his neck, tucking it off to the side, out from under the compress.

A sigh falls from Steve's mouth. Shoulders loosening and chest deflating with the sound, he slumps over the bucket. A few muscles in his body seems to deflate as his limbs sag and goes slack. He keeps his face turned towards the bucket, but Eddie can still his eyes flutter closed.

"Robin told me a little bit about your migraines, after you went back inside," he tells him, voice soft.

"Hmm."

"It's been a bad one, huh?" Eddie cannot help but sweep a hand gently through Steve's hair, a little starstruck at how soft it is even now.

Eyes opening, Steve turns his head towards him and gives him a humorless smile. "I'm craving pain relief via decapitation."

"Brutal and efficient." Eddie nods. "I like you more and more, Harrington."

A huff of air puffs from Steve. The ghost of a smile flits across his lips, but tension falls just as quickly back over them, pulling them down and into a pained line once more.

Eddie sweeps his hand through his hair again. Gentle eyes watches Steve's face for every miniscule emotion flashing over his expression. "Do you need me to wake anyone?"

"No, let them sleep."

"You sure?" He tilts his head to the side, fingers brushing back and forth through Steve's hair. "I might be new, but I know they would want to help you." He cuts a playful grimace at him, more because he can't help it, rather than for Steve's benefit, who Eddie's usual mannerisms are currently completely lost on. "And you know Robin would kill you, if you needed her and didn't wake her."

A ghost of laughter puffs from Steve's chest and he gives a tinny shake of his head. "She'll live."

Eddie watches him, eyes sweeping all over him, taking in everything he can. "Okay," he whispers after a moment. Steve keeps his eyes on him until he does, then turns them back to the bucket, head lowering over it once more.

Steve lifts one of his hands and holds it against his head. Palm spread out across his brow and his eyes squeezing shut. Features twisting up into a grimace. A small, almost wounded noise escapes him, trembling inside of his throat.

Eddie makes a face, grimace pulling into a sympathetic mask of pain.

A strand of hair dangles over Steve's forehead, past the back of his hand, pointed towards his eye, where it sways dangerously over his now squeezed shut eyelids.

Hand leaving the back of Steve's head, Eddie reaches over and tugs at the strand of hair. Two delicate fingers grab it and pulls it back over his head. Following the sweep of his hand, his fingers buries into Steve's hair, brushing most of his hair back and away. Gaze following the path of his hand, as if unable to look away from where his fingers meet Steve's soft and golden locks.

The heavy frown burrowing deep across Steve's face lessens. But the tightness around his eyes and the pinch of his mouth remain. A frown lingers across his face, just with slightly smaller wrinkles across his brow, halfway hidden behind his hand.

Eddie turns gentle eyes back down. "Do you have any painkillers?"

"Right here." Dropping his hand from his head, Steve jiggles the bucket. Liquid inside of it sloshes wetly against the bottom and sides. A weak attempt of a smile twitches from his mouth, teeth glinting behind his lips. His expression drops again. Tightness clings to the corners of his eyes and brow. One shoulder rises and falls in a weak shrug. "Joyce brought me some at dinner. They don't always work, but—" he breaks off, one hand lifts from the bucket and wafts through the air, the sentence haning unfinished behind it.

"I'm sorry," Eddie says again, because he is.

Steve gives another half-hearted and weak shrug.

Eddie's gaze remains on Steve. Eyes trailing over his heavy and slumped and defeated figure. A frown marks Eddie's expression, eyebrows pulling low over his eyes. "Have you managed to sleep at all?"

"Not much." Pain twists across his face. "It's hard to fall asleep, when it's this bad."

"Understandable. That sucks though."

"Mhmm."

For a while, the two sit there. A few times Eddie removes the cloth from Steve's neck. Dunks it in the bowl of cold water by his feet, wrings it and puts it back. Always sweeping his fingers back up into Steve's hair, his arm held aloft, carefully making sure he feels none of the weight of his hand and cards gentle fingers through his locks.

At one point, Steve ducks his head and raises a hand, placing it on top of his head, near his temple and eyebrows. Pressing his fingers into his scalp, lightly rubbing and massaging the spots. The movement is familiar and faintly reminiscent of the way Eddie massages his own hand, when it flares with pain.

Eddie eyes Steve's tight grip on himself and the way his fingers dig into his skull with pained vigor, remembering his own messed up hand. "Does that help?" he asks, and nods towards him, eyes fixed on his head, when Steve throws him a questioning look.

"Oh, um, maybe a little?" He gives a small shrug. "Or maybe it just tricks me into thinking it does." His fingers dig deeper. The tendons on the back of his hand dances and ripples in the light glowing through the room, standing in sharp contrast against his skin.

"Would it help if I—" he trails off and lifts a hand, slowly reaching out towards Steve.

With a look at Steve, who is just watching him quietly, Eddie slowly eases his hand underneath Steve's own and buries his fingers in his hair, putting the pads of his fingers in place of his. Finally, he presses down into his scalp. Fingers digging and rubbing over the spots they're placed.

At the first pressure of his fingers digging into him, Steve hums. The sound rumbles softly from his throat. A small sigh follows on its heels. And just a smidge of the heavy, tight frown across his brow eases. So Eddie keeps going.

After a while of massaging his scalp, with Steve's head bowed forward and Eddie leaning near him, Eddie hums and sits back a bit. "Anything more coming?" Removing his hand from his hair, he reaches out and taps a finger at the side of the bucket.

"Not right now, I don't think."

"Give it here, then." He holds out his hand, palm open. "I'll go clean it."

Raising his head, Steve turns and looks at him. Pinpricks of light shines and gleams inside of his eyes. "You don't have to do that."

"You've been dealing with this since last summer." Eddie rolls his eyes. "The least I can do is help out where and when I can." Fingers beckoning, he snaps his hand open and closed a few times, the command silent but clear.

Leaning a little to the side, away from the bucket, Steve eyes him. After a moment, he relents. He uncurls his arm from the bucket and holds it out for Eddie to take with a sigh.

"Thank you."

No longer propped up by the bucket, Steve tilts to the side and falls onto the mattress, where he lands with a walloping fwoomp.

Giving Steve's bare thigh a pat, Eddie rises to his feet and goes to wash out the sludge and vomit from the bucket, even if most of it is just fluid and bile.

Bucket in hand, clean and empty once more, Eddie returns to the bedroom. With a flourish, he holds it out for Steve to take.

Lips twitching, Steve takes it back, setting it before himself, but does not curl up around it again.
With Steve lying on his side. Eddie sits down behind him. Knees bent and pulled up to his chest, one arm slung limp around them, sat sideways to Steve's back.

Looking down at the body curled up beside him, Eddie reaches out. Carefully, he lays his hand on Steve's back and rubs his palm around in a slow, gentle circle. At his touch, a sigh falls from Steve. It echoes through his whole body and hollows out his lungs beneath Eddie's palm.

For a while, they sit in silence.

"You know," Steve says after a while, "you don't have to stay up with me. Just go back to sleep, lord knows I'd do it, if I thought I could."

Eddie lingers. Stomach tight and tense at the thought of just leaving Steve to himself.

He can almost hear him roll his eyes. "Dude, it's fine."

He still hesitates. "You sure, I can't do anything else for you?"

"Yeah. Just go back to sleep. We both don't have to be sleep deprived and tired tomorrow."

"I wouldn't mind, staying up a bit with you."

"You already have, Eddie," a light tone brightens his voice, even as it remains dragged down by tiredness. "Go. Sleep. I'm just going to lie here, resting, trying to get some sleep too."

"Okay." Hesitating for a moment longer, Eddie looks him over one last time. Eyes wide and searching. Finally, he rises to his feet and returns to bed. Crawling back under the covers, he tries not to jostle the cot too much, careful of disturbing Dustin, who remains sprawled on his side with his back to them, allowing a small space beside him for Eddie to lie.

When the sounds of Eddie's rustling fades, he looks back out through the room at Steve. Figure dark and curled up at the edge of his mattress. "Will you wake me, if you need me or if it gets worse?" he asks.

He does not answer at first. And Eddie almost resigns himself to Steve's martyrdom in his pain, when his voice comes through the quiet, "Sure, yeah, I'll wake you. If only to shut you up."

Eddie takes it as the small victory it is and turns his head, burying his tiny smile in his pillow.

A breath whooshes from Steve. "God, you're stubborn," he says.

"It matches yours. People have always said my style is eccentric and I do love to accessorize." He grins at him, even if he is turned away from him.

A small snort bursts from Steve. The sound jolts through his body, lightly jerking through him.

After another long moment, Steve uncurls from position by the edge and pushes himself into the middle of the mattress. Slowly, his every movement painstaking and painful, he arranges his limbs back on the mattress, finally pulling the blanket back over himself, settling down with a sigh.

On his side, Eddie looks down at him, hand pillowed on his pillow, tucked under his head. After a moment, he reaches out, hand trailing through the air. Soft hair brushes over his searching fingers. Twitching at his touch. A rush of air, drawn sharply in through a nose, goes through the room. Under his touch, Steve's body stiffens for a moment. Then, his breath rushes back out of his mouth and he relaxes. A small ripple goes through his body with the loosening of shoulders and the shift of muscles unwinding.

A soft smile grows from Eddie's lips. He brushes his fingers through Steve's hair. Gently pulls them through silky, soft locks.

"This okay?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," Steve's soft voice answers. "Yeah, it's okay."

Eddie lies there. Arm hanging out over the side of the bed, his fingers carding through Steve's hair, brushing through it with a gentle, tender touch until sleep washes over his body, weighing down his limbs and drags him back down into darkness.

Steve never does wake Eddie again that night.

In the morning, Eddie wakes up and sees Steve's brow is still furrowed with pain and his eyes hidden behind his palm. Before he leaves to scavenge the kitchen for breakfast, Eddie makes sure to persuade him to move to the cot that must surely be more comfortable than the fold out mattress no matter how musty it is. He has to pull him up from the foldout with a hand in his and another at his elbow, guiding him up onto the bed, while Steve stumbles and fumbles his way forward. Eyes blinking sluggishly, painfully falling shut every other blink and narrowed in pain when they aren't, every movement oddly reminiscent of a drunk. But after some stumbling and even more fumbling, where Eddie practically has to carry half his weight, he manages to get him there. Only because Steve's too tired and in pain to fight him, he suspects. But he will take it.

After he has moved the bucket to the other side of the bed, where there is more space and it can be within reach, just in case, and pulled the blanket up over Steve's body, Eddie walks out the bedroom and pulls the curtain shut behind him. Plastic clacks and fwips across the curtain rack, whipping softly through the cabin.
 On the couch, bowl in his hand, Dustin's head jerks up at the sound and looks towards him. Gaze darting all around, eyes searching the space beside and behind Eddie. A slump settles into his shoulders very quickly as he realizes the space remains empty. Despondency creeps heavy and drooping into his eyes and he drops his head down to frown unhappily at his cereal.
 When Eddie passes him going into the kitchen, he also makes sure to ruffle his hair, gently pushing at his head with his palm, towards the bowl of cocoa puffs before him. Dustin complains loudly, but the heavy weight tickles off his shoulders.

In the kitchen, nursing steaming mugs by the dining table are Joyce and Hopper, their breakfast already cleared away. Hopper hums good morning to him and Joyce offers him her signature warm smile. "Good morning, Eddie. Sleep well?"

Eddie hums at both of them. He has never been a morning person and prefers at least an hour of wakefulness before anyone can expect full words from him.

Sat atop a kitchen counter, Robin watches as Eddie walks into the kitchen. "Was he awake?" she asks, above her cup of tea and bowl of cereal.

Okay. He supposes he can drag himself from morning grumpiness and the last dregs of sleep to answer Robin. Robin's nice. And she's asking for Steve. He rubs a hand over his face and sighs into his palm. "Yeah," he says and even that single word is tinged with heavy empathy. "I got him to move to the bed, before I left, though." Before he has even finished speaking, she has set down her bowl and mug, jumped off the counter and hurried out of the kitchen. Eddie's eyes follows her until she disappears behind the curtain to their shared bedroom. Then he pushes Robin's abandoned tea further away from the edge it is dangerously close to, and goes about to scavenge his own breakfast from the cupboards he still is not quite familiar with. Once his hands are full, he joins Jonathan and Argyle on the mattress spread out on the floor in the living room, legs and ankles crossed before himself, even if the stitches keeping his wounds together protest at the movement of lowering himself to the ground. It's fine. Dustin, Will and El occupy the couch anyway. He can kick them off when they have polished off their breakfast. Besides, he likes Jonathan and Argyle and has a feeling Argyle is a perfect remedy for morning grumpiness.

Later that day, a little after noon, Steve comes slinking into the living room.

Robin is first to notice him. And no wonder. Ever since she and Eddie sat down in front of the TV, she has periodically turned her head and sought the curtain to the bedroom, searching Steve in the empty space that lies there. She does so again now. The movement of her head turning to the side flickers in the corner of Eddie's eye. Head turning away from the TV, Robin glances off to the side. Catching sight of Steve's emerging figure, she quickly turns back around, snatches the remote up from the coffee table and turns the volume down. It was already low, but now the people speaking on screen turn to an indistinguishable buzz.

Eddie turns his head to follow her gaze and finds Steve walking out from behind the curtain. Shoulders hunched, back practically folded in half, he heads towards the couch. One hand raised, rubbing at heavyset eyebrows. Dark circles cling heavy beneath his eyes and his face is drawn and practically carved with a tired and heavy disposition. He has managed to pull on a pair of loose grey joggers and a soft looking knitted sweater, instead of the one he spent the night in.

"Hey, there," Robin says. She twists at the torso and hangs an arm over the back of the couch, watching him make his way towards them.

Steve grunts at her. He shuffles across the floor. Bare feet shifting against the floorboards, hardly even seeming aware of any of his surroundings. He rounds the couch, where he comes to a stop, only to immediately collapse onto it with a heavy fwoomp. Body just collapsing, like a puppet with its strings cut. Every limb loose and floppy.

Shifting around, he tucks himself into the space between Robin and Eddie. Arms crossed and pulled close to his chest, turned onto his shoulder and his head buried in the cushions.

"Feeling better, babe?" One of Robin's hands comes to lie on Steve's ankle. Fingers rubbing lightly back and forth, shifting softly against skin and fabric.

"Yeah," he sighs, chest deflating with the word. "Now I just want to sleep for ages."

"Okay, sleeping beauty." A smile, lacking any of the bite usually accompanying her teasing, grows across Robin's face. "How about starting with just a few hours and go from there?"

"I'd be without those stupid migraines though."

"Yeah, but Dustin would miss you."

"He has Eddie now." He flaps a hand towards Eddie. "He'd live."

"Unacceptable, Harrington," Eddie says. "We're co-parenting that kid, if anything. And you're not getting out of that for anything. I thought, I made that clear, when I signed the divorce papers."

Air blows from Steve in a puff. A weak laugh echoes in its grasp. "Damn," he says. "If we're divorced I won't even be able to seduce you to reconsider with my good looks."

"Well, you could always try, maybe I married you for your looks in the first place." A grin stretches wide from Eddie's lips. He reaches out and tugs at a single flopping strand of Steve's hair. Just a gentle tug. Steve's eyes remain closed.

"Hmm, maybe later, too tired right now."

"You just going to sleep there?" Robin asks, nudging his ankle. "It's not exactly the most comfortable couch."

"Don't wanna be alone anymore," Steve mumbles into the cushions. Arms flexing where they cross in front of his chest.

The words hit Eddie like a punch to the gut.

Glancing sideways, Eddie catches Robin's eyes. Something flickers across her face too fast for him to catch. "We'll be right here." She pats his leg.

"Yeah, and we'll even keep the little gremlins away from you," Eddie adds.

As if pulled along by his voice, Steve tips his head back, freeing it from the cushions, eyelids fluttering open. Hazel eyes look up at Eddie. Softness breaks out past the heavy tiredness pulling at his face, something gentle, almost tender blooms in his tired gaze. "Thanks for last night," he says, softly.

A soft smile curls from Eddie's lips and he looks down at Steve with gentle eyes. Warmth and light flickers to life in his chest at seeing the pain lifted from Steve's face, both feel far too tender to the touch, almost sore. "Of course." Slowly, Eddie lifts a hand and lays it across Steve's forehead, thumb sticking up into his hair. He rubs his thumb back and forth, brushing Steve's fringe and the top of his head. Soft, slightly sticky skin and soft locks of hair rubs against the pad of his thumb. At his touch, Steve's eyes flutter closed and a rush of air leaves his body with a ripple. Body slumping and sagging even further into the couch. His breath leaves his mouth in a gentle whoosh of air. "Any time," Eddie adds, in a soft whisper, curling his fingers through Steve's hair. The urge to bend down and press a kiss to his forehead burns like a bed of embers inside of his chest. Warm and buzzing and near all encompassing. Instead, he lifts one finger from the bed of his soft, fuzzy hair and draws it across his forehead. The tip of his finger caresses his skin, pulling gently across it, smoothing away the last echoing lines of pain left crinkled in the skin.

"You should have something to eat first, Steve," Robin says and Eddie glances sideways at her, catching her eyes. "You barely ate anything past lunch yesterday, and Eddie told me you threw most of it up."

"Later," his voice rumbles, face still shoved halfway into the couch, his eyes closed once more, "when I'm not cross-eyed and able to actually keep my eyes open."

"Okay." Tipping sideways along the length of the couch, Robin bends over and lays her head over Steve's legs, looking up along Steve's body at him and hugging his legs to her chest. "But I'm holding you to that." Chin perched in his thigh, she rubs a hand up and down his calf.

Movement slow and heavy, almost sluggish, Steve removes one arm from underneath himself. Twists it down the length of his body, palm open and facing up. A warm smile blooms across Robin's lips and she reaches out, slotting her hand into his. Palms sliding together and fingers curling around each other's hands.

"Love you, Robs," he says softly.

"Love you too, dingus." The word falls from her mouth with a tenderness Eddie has never heard from her before. Eyes soft and loving, Robin gives his hand a shake, fingers clenching around his. It wobbles through him, jostling him lightly. "We're right here. Go to sleep, Steve."

A hum rumbles deep in Steve's chest. And Robin let's go of his hand with one last squeeze, letting him pull it back and tuck it under himself.

With one last soft smile down at Steve, unseen by the man himself, Robin eases herself back into a sitting position and turns back to the TV. Leant back against the couch, she places her elbow on the back of the couch, head pillowed in the palm of her hand and tilted sideways, eyes stuck on the TV. A glint of light flickers in her eyes from the moving pictures flashing across the screen. She keeps her other hand curled around Steve's leg, just above his ankle.

For a while, it is quiet.

The soft sound of Steve's breathing fills the space between the three of them. A gentle rise and fall of Steve's chest grazes against Eddie's thigh with every breath that drifts in and out of him. Head similarly pressed up against him, pressed lightly into the side of his thigh.

Eddie breathes with him. Allows his hand to linger in his hair. Occasionally, he pulls his fingers through his hair, gently carding through his locks. Soft strands brushes against Eddie's skin, now a familiar feeling after last night. The touch chases the memory that lingers like a ghost against his skin of his hand buried in his hair through the night; the feeling aflame anew.

A little over an hour later, after the TV has jumped from one program to another, the door to the cabin bursts open. It slams into the walls behind it with a loud bang!

Footsteps thundering, the kids come running through the doorway into the cabin, voices loudly chasing each other. Noise slams through the room and into Eddie's ears. In an instant, Robin whips around. Expression sharp and eyes cutting. "Hey! Shitheads!" she hisses, voice stressed low and quiet, but no less sharp.

Skidding to a halt, shoes screeching against the floor, Will and Lucas come to a halt. Caught in mid-laugh and in the middle of grappling with each other. Wide eyed, they turn and look at her. Lazily, Eddie hangs his head sideways and lands his gaze on the two. Lucas remains the only one of the kids not staying at the cabin to have successfully escaped his parents clutches and come back. Today is the second successful attempt since the day Steve, Dustin and Robin went to the shelter at Hawkins High.
 The girls are not with them. Earlier, before Eddie laid claim to the couch with Robin, he caught sight of Max knocked out in El's bed, clearly overwhelmed by her heavy medication and healing body, El curled up in the space beside her, careful of her casts and broken limbs and a comic book in her hands.

Dustin comes limping hurriedly after them. As soon as he catches sight of their frozen state, he stops and sags, hands clutching at his hips. "Son of a bitch!" he bitches loudly. "You're a bunch'a—"

Robin's loud hiss cuts him off and his mouth snaps closed. "Keep it down." Robin throws a hand at Steve lying between her and Eddie. Movement sharp and jabbing. "Steve's finally fallen asleep."

Faces falling into regret, Will and Lucas mumble a, "Sorry." Tight, thin grimaces pulls across their expression. They shuffle in place and look properly chastised. An impressive feat considering Robin's barely said a word.

Pulling his eyes from the kids, Eddie's gaze passes over Steve's face. He remains quiet and still. Expression as clear and free as it has been ever since he fell asleep. Breathing a sigh of relief, Eddie looks back up through his fringe, casting his eyes on the kids, keeping his head turned slightly down, able to catch it, should Steve make even the smallest movement. Even so, he keeps his fingers buried in Steve's hair, gently brushing through his locks.

"Is he okay?" Will asks, taking a step closer and slapping Lucas' grip on his arm away.

"Yeah, migraine's finally gone away." Robin pulls a face, as if she is incapable of mentioning Steve's migraines by name without making her feelings on the matter known. "But it exhausted him. You know that." Hand jerking up into the air, Robin points a firm finger at the three of them, expression hard again. "So, keep it down." Eyes sharp, she cuts a look at the door. "Stay outside if you can't."

"No, no." Lucas holds up his hands. "We'll keep it down."

"Good."

A small, crooked grin twists from Eddie's lips and he quirks an eyebrow. "We'll tell El to smack you around a little with her powers, if you don't."

"That's not necessa—" Lucas tries.

Will's snort blows over his words. "Don't tell her that if Mike's nearby."

Lucas throws him a doubtful look. "It can't be that bad."

"It is. I think she was ready for a round two after her fight with Vecna," Will tells him. The two of them turn around and head towards El's bedroom, voices quiet but insisting as they keep on in the same vein. They peek past the door and call a gentle, "Hey," into the room, El and Max's more subdued and quiet voices greet them and they shuffle into the room. But not without one last concerned look back at the couch.

Dustin stays behind.

Expression miserable, Dustin limbs towards the couch. He comes to a stop beside it, right at the end, where Robin sits with Steve's legs thrown over her lap and one of her hands curled around his leg.

"What's up, Dustin?" Robin reaches out and lays a hand on his back. Palm rubbing him up and down. "Why the long face?"

"Did he sleep at all last night?"

She makes a face. Then, she carefully folds it away and looks up at Dustin with a gentle expression on her face. "Not much. You know how it is."

"Yeah, I know," he nods, voice small. "I just hate that he gets them."

"Yeah, we all do."

He toes at the ground. Head turned down and face carefully shielded from them. "And it's all my fault."

"What? What do you mean?" Robin turns to face him fully. Expression falling into something heavy and concerned. Brow furrowed and eyes searching his face.

"It's just, he never would have ended up in a fight with Billy, if he hadn't done it to protect us. And he never would have been beat up by the Russians, if I hadn't tapped into that communication array and dragged him down there."

"Hey, hey," she says, voice soft. Her hand lifts up from Steve's knee and comes forward to grab Dustin by his arms. She pulls at him until he comes around the side of the couch, where she positions him to stand before her. "It's Steve. He never would have done any of those things, if he didn't really want to." Dustin's scoffs at this. Robin keeps going. Lips twisted in a half-smile, she pulls an apologetic shoulder shrug. "And you know him. He would do anything you asked of him. Anything to protect you. I mean, the idiot kicked up a fuss the second they caught us, just to keep their attention off me and we were barely able to carry a conversation without insults back then." When Dustin remains unresponsive, she ducks her head and tries to catch Dustin's furtive eyes. She waits. "Hey." Dustin finally looks up. "Does the migraines suck?" she asks, keeping his gaze. "Absolutely. He would be the first to tell you. But does he regret any of it? No," she says and gives a small shake of her head, voice absolutely steadfast and unbending. Her hands squeeze Dustin's arms. "He'd do it all over again and you know that. For you and me."

"It's just not fair." Twisting to the side, he throws a kick at the floor, keeping away from Robin. Foot swinging and skidding across the wooden boards. He drops his head down again, eyes firmly stuck to the ground once more. A grim, twisted look falls over his face as his lips twists in dismay.

"I know, Dustin. I know." Wrapping her arms around Dustin, Robin pulls him into a hug, pulling him close. Following her tugging grip, Dustin folds into the hug, his own arms winding around her. "That's why we have to take care of him and give him the space he needs. Make sure he can get some sleep, when he can," she says quietly into his hair.

"I know." Dustin nods against her head. "I'll make sure we're quiet. And we'll keep our music to the Walkman's."

"You're a good kid, you know." The hug releases. Robin brings a hand up and ruffles Dustin's hair before he can pull out of her reach.

Face scrunching up, Dustin straightens up. Hands jerking up towards his hair, grazing around the crown of his curls, as if making sure they remain intact. "Don't do that just because Steve and Eddie does," he grouses.

"Someone has to take over for Steve, when he's out for the count. And he's passed the baton to me,” she says, all pompously as she nods at him.

Rolling his eyes, Dustin turns on his heels, beginning to walk away. He pauses mid-step and throws one last look at Steve, eyes heavy and worried.

"We're taking care of him," Eddie says, waving a gentle hand at him, shooing him away. "Don't worry. We've got him."

A smile grows across his face. Just a shadow of his usual bright and goofy grin, but there nonetheless. "I'm happy you finally met him," he says, eyes on Eddie, smile stretching across his face and chasing the shadows away from his expression. "The circumstances could have been better. But I'm happy." His cheeks bunch up, just a hint of his cherub, chipmunk cheeks. "Told you he was great."

"That you did." Eddie waves his hand in a shooing motion. "Now, scram, Henderson. It's our naptime. Even if it's only sleeping beauty here" —he nods down at Steve— "who's sleeping."

Finally, Dustin turns fully around and makes his way to El's room. When he opens the door, the voices behind it fall out into the rest of the cabin, a wash of quiet and calm conversation. Carefully, he closes the door behind himself. The wood barely makes a sound, when it clicks closed. It takes the kids' voices with it.

Quiet falls back over the three of them sitting on the couch.

A moment passes.

"Murray left two copies of the same newspaper when he came by the other day." Robin leans forward, grabs two folded up newspapers from the coffee table and pinching two pencils on the way. Turning, she holds them up for Eddie to see. "Want to race to finish the crossword first?" A playful grin stretches across her face and she wiggles the newspapers in the air.

Eddie grins and holds out a hand. "You're on, Buckley."

In the days that follows, Eddie tries to make something out of his days in the cabin. In moments where he is with Steve, Robin, Dustin, Jonathan or any of the others, he is mostly fine. Sometimes, they have to repeat themselves for Eddie to catch what they are saying, half distracted by nothing at all. Which is not exactly anything new for him, but he finds himself fumbling around in the noises his ears pick up, trying to search for intelligible words in his empty hands far more often, than he usually does.

As soon as he is alone and there is nothing his mind can latch onto, his thoughts turn to static and he just sits there and stares at thin air. Teeth gnawing at one of his fingernails, eyes distant and blurred. Screaming at himself to get up and just do something, for Christ's sake. Which is another way to say that the minute he is left to his own devices, it all goes to shit.

He tries to read, but finds it is a rather futile endeavor. Every time he tries to read further in Fellowship of the Ring, the words turns to smoke before him and he cannot catch them. A fog drifts out from the corners of his mind and clouds everything with its heavy, choking embrace. Leaving him unable to focus on anything.
 Time after time, he pulls himself out of the fog's heavy grasp and finds himself just sat on the couch, the floor or outside on the porch, just staring out into thin air, gaze distant and unfocused. Mind full of static that buzzes and swarms around him like a horde of bees; notebook or Fellowship — or Earthsea, the days he gives up on Tolkien — abandoned and forgotten in his lap.

The more days that pass, the longer time he spends in no-man's-land, the more he wants to scream. It builds inside of his chest, clawing at his lungs, but it is as if he is locked in space and time. Unable to move, talk, or even think.
 If he does think about anything, it is the Upside Down or Chrissy and Patrick his mind circles back to; their bodies floating in the air as an otherworldly power breaks into them and the hard crack of bones snapping echoes in his ears. As if they are still hanging there; still breaking apart; forevermore dying inside of his head; frozen in time, trapped in their gruesome deaths.

But as long as he is surrounded by something or someone, and there is movement he can latch onto, he is mostly fine. It is hard being dependent on other's conversation or games they play, though, to keep himself from drowning in the fog. It makes the ground beneath his feet feel thin and even more shaky than it already does.

Eddie really wishes he would at least be able read so he could retreat to Middle Earth, which have always been a refuge for him. Maybe then he just might be able to forget the real life Mordor he walked through that keeps haunting his dreams. Whether it's the book itself and its content; the gruesome, cold touch of war and the way it changes the people it touches, the weight of an indescribable burden around ones neck and how it can change the very atoms of your being, and the bonds you share with people that pull you through it all; so familiar and so close to Eddie's still bleeding wounds, or just his own brain doing what it does best, which is trip itself up; he does not know. He tries to read and he cannot.

The sun rises and falls again and in between it, Eddie opens his book and stares at the pages without seeing a single word. Such is the nature of this new world. One that has monsters and gates to other dimensions and a power to keep Eddie from reading his favorite books, when it has been the one thing, he has always been able to count on through the years.
  And the days just sort of pass, muddling together into one in his mind. Days of the week have long since ceased to exist. They began blurring together while Eddie was shut away in the boathouse and finished doing so while he was in the Upside Down. So Eddie has no concept of which day it is, much less which date. They are only marked by the moments he shares with the kids, conversations he has with Argyle, Jonathan, Robin, Steve or the kids. Or the games he plays with any of them, where they manage to scoop him out of the fog, long enough for him to sit for game or two.

A few days after Steve's migraine, in the early afternoon, Eddie rolls out of bed after a nap. All through the morning, he was tired and heavy (after yet another difficult night with horrible nightmares that chased him from bed) but determined to not give in to the siren call and heavy blanket of painkillers lying over him. Mostly because it made him feel groggy and he was bored of just napping, when he could… Well, he can't do as many things in the cabin as he usually does at home, but there are some things, he's sure. He just has to find them first. And find the ability to actually do them. Which has a very low chance of happening, considering his recent success rate at reading or focusing in general. Which is at an all-time low. Needless to say, he gave in and tucked himself away for a nap around midday.

Head groggy and murky with that type of fog only brought forth by napping, he pushes up off the cot. He shuffles into his pair of moderately destroyed Reeboks, he managed to convince Robin not to throw out — only because he looked pathetic enough, he suspects — and pads his way out of the little sectioned off bedroom. A yawn travels through him and stretches his mouth open wide, nearly splitting his face in half. Smacking his lips, he lifts a hand and ruffles through his messy, bedhead hair. The motion shakes and pulls at his curls, shaking them all around his ears, rustling against them and tapping lightly against his shoulder and back. He knows he should sleep with it in a loose bun or some sort of up-do to protect the curls. He's been scolded by one of his friends in Indianapolis enough about it to have it as ingrained into his skull as the frets and strings on his guitar is, he just cannot be bothered to care. His curls have been with him through toilet swirls, beatings, being grabbed and thrown around by rough, angry hands and literal Hell now; it can survive being slept on.

He brings his hand around and rubs at his face. Palm scrubbing near painfully over his skin, pulling at his nose and cheeks, pushing into his nose, as if trying to flatten it.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," Robin calls from her position sprawled across the couch with her legs in Steve's lap, leant up against the back of the couch and into Steve's side, her head tipped and pillowed on his shoulder. A book in her hands and propped up in Steve's lap.

Eddie grumbles into his hand and lifts his other to flip her off.

Robin cackles. "How was your meeting with Hypnos?"

He ignores her. Until he has his back to the couch, just before he steps into the kitchen. "I'm firing him. The guy's got horrible time management."

Robin's responding laughter follows him into the kitchen. As does Steve's quietly mumbled, "Who the fuck's Hypnos?"

Robin fills the cabin with her reply, as she tells him about Greek gods. Her voice overlapping with sound from the TV playing some Jeopardy program.

Eddie tunes both out.

In the kitchen, he trawls through the cupboards and because he's feeling especially lazy and sluggish — only some of that is drowsiness from the heavy painkillers gifted by the helpful, but creepy doctors at the lab — he settles on a newly opened packet of cocoa puffs, because the sight of the box of honeycombs makes Eddie feel as if he is going to throw up and just the thought of trying to eat any brings such a thick and heavy nausea, he has to eye the distance to the bathroom or sink every time he catches sight of the cereal. It has ever since that first morning in the cabin and he saw Honeycombs among the array of breakfast cereals in the cupboards. He has not been able to eat them since.

Argyle and Jonathan are sat by the tiny dining table, a game of Stratego set out between them.

Eddie grabs a bowl, hops up on the counter and settles in. While he chews through his late sugar-filled lunch, he eyes the game Jonathan and Argyle are elbows deep in. Little plastic towers in red and blue stand spread out over the board. A good handful of the little plastic objects have been removed from the board and set off to the side in a graceless cluster of red and blue. The one side that is open to Eddie is Jonathan's, his back to him too and Eddie glances over his army, and tries to spy where the flag is, amongst the tiny pictures plastered on the back of the towers. He finds it in a cluster of what he thinks are a few soldiers and two generals off to the side, some steps away from the bottom and just a little off from where Argyle is focused.

Half a bowl later, he's still on the counter, the packet left beside him, the plastic bag inside of it, spilling out at the top, where Eddie left it, because he knows he'll want more. A bowl cupped in one hand, held close to his chest, and because most of these people have already seen the worst of him and Eddie does not care to smooth his edges over for the rest, he just uses his hand to shovel the dry cereal into his mouth. Jonathan and Argyle keep playing their game and Eddie watches with distracted interest while he eats.

Steve is the one that finds him there.

Pausing at the unmarked boundary between the kitchen and living room, he looks at Eddie. Eyes darting between his face and his hands, the box of cereal at his side and back again. "You're eating cereal?"

Eddie snorts. He gives himself a once-over. "Looks like it." And shovels another handful of Cocoa puffs into his mouth for good measure.

"It's the middle of the afternoon."

"It sure is."

An adorably baffled expression falls over Steve's face. And Eddie immediately feels like hissing at it. It is unlawful. Not approved by cooperate. Steve's allowed to be hot, pretty and handsome, and far too attractive while fighting demons from hell and traversing through one of Hell's nine circles, but adorable? No. That is not allowed. The guy's gotta choose. He cannot be all of that, metal, far too cool for someone who wears polo's and most certainly irons his clothes, by the looks of things, and adorable. It is just not how things work. And, again, Eddie stresses, not approved.

Completely unaware of Eddie's mental debate, Steve crosses the floor. He grabs a kettle, goes to the sink and turns on the faucet. Water streams out and splashes loudly against the sink. "Why?" he asks over the sound of water filling up the kettle he is holding under the faucet.

Eddie shrugs and says through a mouthful of cloudy, dry cereal, "I'm hungry. Couldn't wait for dinner."

"What?" Steve turns his head and looks at him over the sink.

"I'm hungry."

With a yank that looks more pointed than it needs to be, Steve turns off the water. He leaves the kettle off by the side of the sink and turns to face Eddie, hip digging into the cupboard beside him. Eyebrows arching, he crosses his arms in front of his chest and says, "What?"

"I said," Eddie emphasizes through crushed cocoa puffs and the cloud of cereal dust that blows out of his mouth, "I'm hungry."

A look of resigned annoyance falls over Steve's expression. He rolls his eyes and says, "Dude, my left ear is fucked, you're going to have to speak clearer for me to hear you."

Finally, Eddie swallows. The mouthful goes down too hurried and scratches painfully against his throat in retribution. He ignores it in favor of Steve. "Shit, really?"

"Yeah, I've lost a good portion of my hearing on it." He lifts a hand and wiggles two fingers, pointing towards his left ear. "I'm half deaf."

Eddie makes a face. Half apologetic and half, well, half something else. It's an apologetic grimace. On a spectrum. Apologetic and X. Find the X and solve today's expression and five other reactions you should NOT give your friend, when they tell you of their disability. Eddie should know. He's been dealing with them himself, since he was twelve. 'Can't you just exercise it away? ' 'Oh, but you're just too lazy and sitting on your hands all day'. 'It's from all the pot, isn't it? ' 'I had no idea. Sorry. It must be so hard to deal with.' (That last one said in the most condescending tone ever, is a crucial note to make). Jesus H. Christ. Act any more like a fucking condescending PTA mom, will you, Eddie?

"Don't be sorry." Steve rolls his eyes as he says this for good measure. "Just don't speak with your mouth full. For a multitude of reasons."

"Got it." He holds up a hand in acknowledgement.

Steve rolls his eyes again. He turns back to the sink. Resumes filling up the kettle, then places it over a hob on the stove, which turns on with a turn of the knob and a few clicks.

Eddie crunches through more of his bowl of dry cereal and sneaks glances at Steve, who remains standing by the stove, watching the kettle as it slowly boils the water. In the end, his curiosity and inability to leave shit alone, wins and takes full control over Eddie's mouth. "So, like, feel free to tell me to fuck off, but how did that happen?"

Steve makes a face. Expression twisting and the tip of his tongue peeking out. He turns around, crosses his arms across his chest and leans back against the stove, apparently confident his ass won't burn. It's probably insured. Or immune from fire. Can't catch what it already is. Okay, focus Eddie, you can contemplate his ass(ets) later, you asked the man a question, pay the fuck attention to his answer. "Migraines are a package deal, apparently. Buy one, get one free." He shrugs one-shouldered. "Got beat in the head a bit too much, a bit too closely together." His eyes immediately move away from Eddie and fall onto something past him. Resignation falls over his expression. Making him look heavy and tired.

Eddie turns his head and follows his gaze. He finds Jonathan. Shoulders high and raised close to his ears and tense.

"Sorry, man," Jonathan says, voice just as heavy and tired as Steve's expression.

"Not your fault," Steve says immediately. The words so quick to come Eddie suspects he had them lying in wait on his tongue, just waiting for Jonathan to speak, before he could add them. "It wasn't what gave me migraines and poor hearing. Just a broken nose. Besides, I was an asshole. I deserved it. Shouldn't have run my mouth."

Shaking his head, Jonathan bows his head forward. Eddie cannot see his face, but he does not have to, his entire frame is dripping with guilt. "I still didn't exactly help your chances against chronic migraines and hearing loss."

"Jonathan, we've talked about this," Steve says, careful and patient. "You're not the one who should be apologizing. If I didn't want to get my ass beat, I shouldn't say such things."

Eddie glances at him. The look he wears, all at once so defeated and wretched makes him give him a tentative once over. "What did you say?" he asks, apprehensively.

Steve throws him a quick, furtive glance. His lips twists in hate in a way that makes Eddie think it is directed at himself. "Awful, stupid things," he says. For a quick there and gone again moment, his lips purse. Then he gives a tiny, miniscule shake of his head. He points his gaze back at the back of Jonathan's head and continues, pointedly, "Things that deserved an ass-beating."

Eddie cannot see Jonathan's response to those words.

"Yo, listen to your monster brother," Argyle pipes up. Leant back against the backrest of his chair, arms raised and palms cupped around the back of his head. "It's his migraine. Can't argue with that. It's probably telling him all sorts of secrets. That's what Palm Tree Delight usually does."

"I don't think migraines work like that," Jonathan says, but the sound of his voice carries a small smile, so Eddie figures it's okay.

"No no, it does! Think about it—" and he begins a tangent about how anything that takes your brain higher places will open up your mind.

A small puff of air huffs from Jonathan. He does not say much to it, but eventually, his shoulders fall back down and he relaxes.

Eddie grins at the two, absolutely delighted by Argyle's argument.

In the meantime, the water has boiled. The kettle lets them know with a high-pitched whine. Steve turns and sees to it. He pours the steaming water into a hot water pitcher and begins pulling out mugs. "Anyone want any tea?" he calls out. Jonathan and Argyle both decline. When Eddie does not answer, he throws a look over his shoulder and Eddie shakes his head. Turning back to his task, Steve opens two cupboards in his search for tea bags and eventually finds them after some shuffling around and a, "Aha!" which Eddie thinks is just adorable. And very on brand.

Eddie waits until Steve is done rummaging around and making noise. Tilting his head to the side, he asks, "So, how long have you been deaf?"

"Half deaf," he corrects with a small smile and a pointed finger from where he holds a package of tea bags. "And I started losing my hearing in '84, after Hargrove smashed a plate over my head and beat the shit out of me."

"A plate, really?" Eddie asks, eyebrows raised incredulously high. Not that it seems unbelievable. The aftermath of the fight between Hargrove and the former King had spread like wildfire through Hawkins High and every single soul, who walked the corridors in those days, knew about it. Eddie just had not known it had happened in the middle of Hawkins second monster Apocalypse. But it was probably the most believable thing Eddie had heard about this groups escapades with the supernatural. Hargove had always seemed like a faulty grenade that was just lying in wait, waiting for someone to misstep or get too close to go off. Violence had cloaked him from head to toe and Eddie had always done everything he could to avoid him, including diving through Ms. O'Donnell’s open classroom door in recess and ended up in a ten-minute argument with her about Eddie’s latest missing assignment and if his written medical exemption about his disabled hand was truly lucrative or not. The note had been a new accessory for Eddie to show off to his teachers. Wayne had been furious on his behalf, when it proved his hand had probably had a, like, 30% responsibility for Eddie failing his second senior year. And, in response, Wayne had used nearly all of their savings to get Eddie to a doctor, who could write a note for him, so his teachers would actually give him extensions and more time, when needed. It had been given to him as a birthday gift, because there had not been money for anything more after that.

Steve shrugs. "Yep. The dude was a creative ass-kicker."

"On your head?!" Eddie reiterates, because Steve is being far too calm right now.

"Yeah?"

"You're way too calm about that."

"It was a long time ago. And I've been beat way worse since then."

"That's really not as reassuring as you think it is!" Distressed, Eddie flaps his arm around. He looks around at the others, but all of them look completely calm. "Why am I the only one, who's freaking out here? You do realize how insane that sounds?"

"You're not!" Robin shouts from the living room. "I keep telling him he shouldn't dismiss it, too. But he won't listen to me either!"

Steve rolls his eyes at the both of them. Mostly Eddie, since he's one of them that has visual on him, but he's pretty sure, when it comes to Robin, visual and visibility is a non-essential. She probably picked it up from the air through their psychic connection, anyway. "It was just a plate, man. And Max sedated him, before anyone got hurt."

Eyes narrowing, Eddie gives him a look. "Your hearing was permanently damaged and you got a concussion. Wanna try that sentence again?" Steve just gives him this guileless, beaming grin.

"Oh, man, that does not vibe," Argyle pipes up, eyes once more lowered and focused on their game.

Steve half turns his head towards him. An amused smile flits across his face and he quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Damn," Eddie says, forcefully blowing air out of his mouth and raking a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. That does not sound fun."

"Yeah, bastard got a few good hits in." Wariness creeps over Steve's expression. He twists, looking over his shoulder, back at the living room. After a moment, he twists back around and shakes his head, sighing, looking down at the floorboards beneath his feet, as he mumbles, "Not to speak ill of the dead." Raising his eyes back up to Eddie, he shakes off his wariness and lifts a hand up to his left ear, wiggling a few fingers around. "I was left with a constant ringing in my ears for like two weeks and when it faded, it took more with it. Almost nine months later, I'm getting the shit kicked out of me by some fucking Russians and I come out of it with a worse ringing, another concussion and even more hearing loss."

"Fuck." Eddie sucks air in through his teeth. "That sucks."

Grimacing, Steve makes a so-and-so gesture. He turns back to the tea. Picks a tea bag from the bunch, drops it into one of the two mugs standing side by side. There's another mug standing off to the side alone. This one Steve drops a second tea bag into.

"Anything I can do to help?" Eddie asks. As soon as the words leaves his tongue, a grimace pulls at his mouth. "Or, like, are there things that make your hearing worse? I'll stop doing them." He makes a face. "I might forget. I'll try not to, but my memory, man, it's a sieve on my best days and a fucking basketball laundry basket on any other day." Steve mouths the words laundry basket soundlessly, a humored expression on his face. Eddie keeps going, "You've seen me—" he points a finger down at the bowl of cereal still in his hand and waves it all over himself "—I forget to eat and drink, if you're not literally eating in front of me or throwing a plate of food at me." Which Steve has had opportunity aplenty to do and has indeed done several times, since they moved into the cabin, much to the other man's continued exasperation and despair. Continuing, Eddie snaps a finger. "I forgot I needed to use the bathroom for like three hours yesterday, and when I finally couldn't hold it anymore, I got off my ass but then Dustin was in there for like twenty minutes and I had to go piss in the woods." He throws a pointed thumb over his shoulder. "I keep forgetting I should be better about using the bathroom, when I need to before it becomes critical, now that I'm in a house with, like, seven other people instead of just myself and occasionally my uncle, when our timetables overlap."

Steve gets another confused, adorable little frown on his face. "You forget to use the bathroom?"

Ignoring him, Eddie says, "Christ" —and throws his head back— "I miss being able to just forget shit and not to have it coming to bite me in the ass later. You should see the trailer—" he throws a sideways glance at him, holds his arms up and spread out, bowl still in hand and the other with fingers spread, as if showing the unfolding of a banner "—sticky notes and words written in permanent ink on the walls everywhere."

Steve arches an eyebrow and quirks a humored smile at him. "Why permanent ink?"

"I remembered something important and I needed to write it down asap and a marker was the first thing in sight, so a marker it was."

"I'm gonna be honest with you, that sounds very confusing."

"Yeah, my uncle tried to get me to write stuff down elsewhere. He got me a notebook to write everything down I need to remember. And it worked well enough. I wrote down important homework and assignments and other stuff as I got told about it or remembered it. But I honestly kept forgetting to look at what I'd written, so I still forgot it. That was a new low for me. Forgetting to look at my forget-me-not book of notes." He sighs and shakes his head, making both acts as exaggerated as he can; after all, he is a theatre kid at heart, despite all the leather and heavy metal patches that usually tricks people into thinking otherwise. Quirking a smile, he says, "Wayne's come to accept the sticky notes as part of our lives, now." Snapping his fingers, he points a single one at Steve and waggles it in the air, as if making a point. "But he did manage to get me to stop writing on the walls some years ago, though. Aside from a few small incidents, that is." His eyebrows jump upwards at that and he grins. He shrugs, then shakes himself out of that train of thought and hops back on the previous one. "Anyway, hearing. Bad. Yes. Anything I can do or not do to make it better?"

"I don't know," Steve huffs and shakes his head. One of his shoulders pull up in a shrug, as he pours steaming water into the single mug. He leaves the tea bag to steep. He sets the pitcher down, picks up the mug and throws Eddie a quirked smile. With that, he leaves the kitchen, heads out the front door, where he exchanges some words with Joyce. When he comes back his hands are empty. Eddie stands waiting for him. As he comes back into the kitchen, Eddie throws him an arched brow and taps his foot pointedly.

Steve huffs and rolls his eyes. "It's not exactly rocket science, Munson."

Eddie wafts a hand in the air. And barely restrains himself from flapping it into Steve's face and yapping about P.E. classes, stupid teachers who don't listen to their students and just why Eddie ended up skipping so many of them, and how the current school system leaves behind any kid who are disabled or in any way disadvantaged to the supposed white and healthy majority. "Don't mind, don't care. Tell me anyway."

"Okay, sure." Steve shrugs. One of his hands lifts and scratches at the back of his neck. A contemplative expression falls over his face. "Mumbling is bad. If you whisper to me, do it in my right ear, but don't expect me to catch all of it. If you talk with a full mouth, it doesn't matter how loud you shout, I won't be able to hear it. Clarity, like, talking clearly and concise—"

"Yes, I know what clarity means," Eddie says sagely, nodding his head.

Steve keeps going as if he was never interrupted, but he does shoot him a crooked grin, so Eddie knows he heard him "—is more important than volume. And I can't read lips well yet so don't try to get me to play some kind of spy game from across the room behind everyone's back."

"That's—" he takes a moment to blink. "That's very precise. I thought you said it wasn't rocket science."

"Thank you." A winning grin spreads across Steve's face. Bright and blinding. It could honestly be its own spotlight. Eddie should make a note of it, should he ever be allowed back to play with his band at The Hideout and one of the stage lights bows out. Which is highly possible and has happened several times before. Sometimes, while they were playing too. Steve's grin could be their emergency solution. Or regular solution. Eddie is not picky. He might prefer it actually. Anyway. Steve adds, "Robin helped me make a list."

"Of course, she did," Eddie says and shakes his head, nearly as fondly as Steve.

"Yeah." He rubs at the back of his neck. Expression almost rueful. "It was frustrating and disorienting in the beginning, but then she helped me by talking a lot and running around my living room for an hour or two until we got a basic list made. Dustin too, when he walked in in the middle of it."

"Okay, scientific approach." Eddie clasps his hands together, pointing them at Steve. "I get that. Wouldn't expect less from her or Henderson." He then curls his fingers over between one another so only his index fingers are pointed "But why?"

"I had no idea what to do with the 17 and 67% hearing loss the doctor gave me, but Robin very much did, so I just let her run with it, to be honest. And I just had to sit and repeat words or shit like that, for a while." He shrugs again. "Honestly?" For a moment, he pauses, cutting a small face at him. "I think, they mostly did that to distract me, because it was hard to realize I'd lost my hearing permanently." He pulls another, smaller shrug, expression falling into nonchalance again. "But it did help me figure out what I could and couldn't hear."

Eddie tips his head to the side. "Perks of having an action-ready nerd like Robin as a best friend, I suppose," he muses, half distracted by a thought. His brow furrows. "Wait. What do you mean you can't read lips? I've seen you do that with Robin all the time."

"Yeah, but that doesn't count. That's just Robin." Steve waves it away with a swat of his hand and a pffft-like expression on his face.

Eddie stares at him. Expression deadpan and disbelieving. After a moment, he pulls himself out of it and shakes it off. Mannerism loud and exaggerated, he points a finger and taps it to his lips, folding his expression into one of emphatic understanding. "I see," he says, nodding violently. "You don't need to read her lips, because you're communicating through telepathy."

Confusion wrinkles Steve's brow. "Through what?"

"You're reading her mind and vice versa."

Steve rolls his eyes in that patented way of his, where his head sways a little, going along with the motion. "I don't read her mind."

"Yes, you do." Eddie gives a full-body shake, shuddering. "You're mind-melded. And in sync. It's like you were conjoined twins, separated at birth, but despite that you remain psychically linked. It's freaky." He waves his hand wildly through the air. "And don't tell me it's not possible. I've seen Jane-El move stuff with her mind; I know what's going on around here."

Scrunching his nose, Steve leans away from him. "We're not." He turns, grabs the two mugs he set out earlier and the pitcher with the rest of the hot water in it.

"Steve." Eddie ignores his very clear signal to pack things up. "I've seen you hand her a hair clip before she moved to tie her hair up. You literally had an argument yesterday through eye contact alone, until you both suddenly started shouting. You constantly communicate with just your eyes," he says.

Stepping away from the counter, Steve glances sideways at him. He rolls his eyes at him and proceeds to leave the kitchen, balancing the three items in his hands.

Ignoring that he is currently being ignored, Eddie follows him, still talking, "Like, if you ever lose your hearing fully, you'll just need Robin to follow you everywhere and you'll know what everyone's talking about with just a five second eye-contact with her," while he talks Eddie follows him to the couch, where Steve deposits his loot on the coffee table. The mugs and pitcher thunks against the table as he sits them down. Robin sits forward and helps him. Actually, no. She just snoops. She plucks the tea bag out of one of the mugs, holds it up to her nose, sniffs, makes a face at it and plops it back into the same mug.

"Hah, that would be classic, my man," says Argyle from the dining table, snapping his fingers.

Across from him, Jonathan snorts. "You are weirdly in tune with one another."

Argyle enthusiastically point his fingers at him. "Like those Vulcan guys on TV."

"Or Galadriel and Gandalf," Eddie adds, pointing back towards them. "Or the movie Scanners."

"Dude, I hope not. That movie is freaky." Turned to look back at them, Stratego abandoned for the moment, Argyle shakes his head vigorously and gives a full body shiver. And his eyes do look rather wide and freaked. "Uh-uh. I'm saying right here, right now, I do not vibe with that. And I do not consent." He points a finger, taps it down into the table, then proceeds to point it threateningly at Robin and Steve, the former who looks highly entertained and the latter highly annoyed. "If they start talking in my brain I'm outta here."

"We are not," Steve insists and throws himself down into the couch beside said psychic partner.

Eddie scoffs playfully. "Come on, Buckley," he toes at the back of the couch in favor of nudging the girl herself, "back me up here. Even you must admit you and Harrington are freakish psychic twins able to communicate through osmosis."

Steve throws his hands up. "First psychic, now osmosis?"

Robin sniffs haughtily. "I prefer the term telepathy."

Steve rolls his eyes at them. He leans forward and begins pouring steaming water into their cups. Above the cloud of steam that rises from the cups, he throws Eddie a look, where he hangs back behind the couch and gives him a long-suffering look. "Can we go back to why you're eating cereal in the middle of the afternoon?"

"It's not nearly as interesting as your parapsychic relationship with Robin, but sure." He figures, he does not mean it literally, but Eddie still answers, just to be deliberately pestiferous. He shrugs and wiggles his bowl in the air enough for the cereal pillowed inside to rattle against each other. "I forgot to eat lunch before my nap and now I'm hungry."

Steve throws him another look, this one more resigned than the last. "Dude."

With no other answer to give, Eddie just shrugs and shoves a mouthful of cocoa puffs into his mouth.

The next day, in the middle of a very lovely breakfast, the door bursts open. It slams into the wall with a loud bang!

Eddie jerks. Cereal goes flying out of the bowl in his hands. "Jesus!" Thank god he was eating dry. What? Dry cereal is a comfort food. Don't look at him like that. When he first started living with his uncle, the fridge was struggling to conjure milk on the regular, so he got used to crunching through dry bowls of cereal on the couch, sat side by side with his uncle and that days chosen TV program or the record player softly playing one of his uncle's favorites in the background and Wayne's own commentary above the newspaper with humor just as dry as the cereal.

Waving a newspaper around in the air, Robin walks in through the liberated doorway and kicks the door closed behind her. "They did it!" she calls.

"Robin?" Steve says confused from the kitchen. He's standing with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in his hands and an incredibly confused expression on his face. Eyes darting to and fro as if trying to pick up the answer from the air all around her, he asks, "How did you get here?" And his confusion is understandable. After all, he did drive Robin home in the afternoon the previous day. For the last long while, her parents has been staying with her grandparents, but now they are home again, they wanted Robin to be too. After some grumbling and complaints — and a few minutes on the phone, trying to convince them to let her stay with Steve for longer — Robin acquiesced, separated her stuffs from Steve's into a single plastic bag and let him drive her home. Apparently, she found a single night and a handful hours was more than enough and is back already.

"I biked, dingus."

"But—" his frown grows deeper "—I was going to pick you up later."

Robin rolls her eyes. "Babe, how'd you think I got around before you? I biked everywhere. It won't kill me."

"It might," he grumbles and turns around, scooping another forkful of eggs into his mouth with a rough scrape of metal against plastic.

Eddie looks himself over and brushes off the bits of cereal sprawled across his arms and chest. A speckle of brown against his darker hair catches the corner of his eyes and he finds several pieces stuck in between his looping curls. He lowers his head over the bowl and shakes his head vigorously back and forth. Like a wet dog. It shakes through him, his entire body rippling and shaking and he grins like a maniac at the feeling.

Paper rustles and crackles in the air as Robin waves it around again. "It's the Hawkins Post. The lab finally got through and they printed it."

Hair cereal free and frizzier than before, Eddie throws his head back and looks at Robin upside down with his head pressed onto the top of the couch. He grabs a handful of cereal and shoves it into his mouth. It crunches hard and loud inside of his head as he chews through it.

Robin catches his eyes and grins at him. "Wanna read it?" She wiggles the paper in the air.

"Eh." He shrugs.

"Suit yourself." She slaps the paper on the top of his head and walks past him, heading into the kitchen.

"That's abuse, Robin," he calls after her.

"Oh, kiss your own ass better, Munson," she responds completely unsympathetically without another glance at him.

"I'll report you!" Predictably, she ignores him. Everyone else does too and Eddie is left to theatrically pout at just himself and his breakfast.

"Robin, seriously, you could have waited," comes Steve's voice, "I was going to pick you up in, like, 20 minutes."

"I know, babe, and I love you for it, but I got excited and I couldn't wait."

A sigh falls from Steve. A fork scrapes against plastic. Then, Steve asks through a mouth stuffed with food, "So, what's it say?"

She does not answer immediately. "Want me to read all of it or just the highlights?" is what she says, when she finally does.

"Highlights," he says, mouth now empty of food. "Headline first, though."

"Munson, murderer or misunderstood hero?'" she says in a play-acting voice. She adds in a sarcastic undertone, "Those people at the Post really know how to put it so sweetly."

Clutching the bowl to his chest, Eddie rises from the couch and makes his way into the kitchen.

Robin's leaning back against the fridge, newspaper in front of her. Near her is Steve, leant up against the kitchen counter, looking at her with wide eyes. There's a small pinch to the corner of his mouth, as if he is still protesting her arrival without his help. Joyce and Hopper are sat by the table, each with their own steaming cups of coffee. Both are looking at Robin expectantly. Behind them are Jonathan and Argyle, huddled together. Argyle's sat on the kitchen counter, his legs spread apart and Jonathan stood between them, a mug of steaming coffee cupped in his hands. The kids, already done with breakfast, have long since fled the scene of the crime, before anyone could rope them into cleaning up.

As Eddie as he skulks into the kitchen, hunched up and over his bowl of cereal, Joyce look up and offers him an automatic smile.

"You shouldn't gossip about other people, you know, it's unbecoming," he says and goes to stand beside Steve, clutching his bowl to his chest.

"We're not gossiping."

"It is when it's behind my back." He hip checks Steve and quirks an eyebrow at him. "I thought, you'd left those days behind you, Stevie." Shaking his head, he clicks his tongue. "I'm disappointed. Really. Completely heartbroken."

Steve rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Lips tilting up in a small, humored smile. "Yeah, you look real heartbroken to me."

"Devastated." Eddie shakes his head at him. From the table, Joyce watches them with a small smile half-hidden behind her coffee cup.

Argyle leans in and whispers into Jonathan ears, who swallows his grin in his coffee, as he takes a sip.

Eddie shoves another handful of cereal into his mouth, then sets his bowl on the countertop behind him. "So, what's the hot goss today? If you're gonna gossip, you better do it properly." He points a finger back and forth between Steve and Robin. "I'm expecting full out. Just completely deranged rumors. That time someone saw me eat dirt in their garden. The garden gnomes I've been stealing since I was five."

"The giant worms living underground, you can control with your mind," Argyle supplies.

Grinning wide, Eddie snaps his fingers and points at Argyle, a wordless see, he gets it, then points at Robin again. "I'm a vampire from the middle ages and I've been turning Hawkins youth since '83. I'm in a long con to get in the Chief's pants, so I can sleep my way out of arrests." At these words, Hopper grunts and coughs into his coffee. Jonathan ducks his head, hiding a laugh in the side of his shoulder, coffee cup evidently insufficient to provide good enough cover. Keeping his hand held out, Eddie rubs his hands together and explains, "The hot goss. The lot. All of it."

Robin snorts. Steve, on the other hand, looks just as confused as ever. Bless him. "When have you ever—"

"Ah ah ah!" Eddie flaps a hand at him. A wide sweep of his arm throws it all away. "It's not about being correct, Steve! It's about the gossip!" He grabs Steve's shoulder and shakes him back and forth. "Sensationalism and rumors! Dragging your worst enemies through the mud! The drama! The town pariah was a shark all along!" he declares dramatically. Releasing Steve, he clutches a hand to his own chest, throws his head around and swoons. His knees bend, as if the weight of it all is crashing down on him and too much to bear, or a small town southern belle too weak for such deviance. Knees bending, he sinks down towards the floor, back dragging against the cupboard behind him.

"Jesus—" Steve jerks to the side. He hooks an arm under Eddie's elbow and pulls him back up. "Careful." A final pull jerks Eddie fully upright. Steve pats his chest as he sets him back against the cupboard, eyes sweeping over him. "You'll pop a stitch."

"Pfft." Eddie brushes it aside with a flick of his hand. "I'm stitched to hell and back. I'm fine."

"That's not how it works."

He pats Steve's chest in mock consolation. "I'm pretty sure it is."

"It's no—" Steve throws a hand up into the air. Expression exasperated and long suffering. "Why am I even—," he huffs and drops his arm back down. He throws him a sideways glance. The corner of his mouth tilts up, wry and fond. "I swear, you're worse than Dustin."

Eddie hips checks Steve again. A fond smile breaks out across his face. "You're Dustin's no. 1 fan. I don't think that's the insult you want it to be." Turning to Robin, he claps his hands. "Continue, Robin. Give me the deetz. You can gossip about me all you like, I just wanna be a part of it." Hands rubbing together, he grins sharp and wide. "I've got a bet going on with myself about it." Eyes wide and eager and grin bright enough to blind and distract from the shadows clinging to the corners of his eyes, he gestures for them to move along. "Go on, I wanna know if I'm sent from heaven or hell. I need to know what I should dress up as next Halloween. But it better be what I'm hoping it is—" he levels his hands out, eyebrows pulling up his brow "—I'm poor and my future job prospects are looking especially dire and I've only got three crumbled bills in my pocket and I'm pretty sure one of them is from a monopoly game. It'll be a pair of devil horns from when I was 11 or nothing, so either it's vintage devil or the shittiest, discount angel anyone's ever seen."

"You can't make angel wings and halo out of cardboard boxes?" Robin asks, tilting her head to the side, face scrunched up.

"Oh, absolutely." Grinning like the Cheshire cat, Eddie sweeps another hand through the air. "Never doubt, Buckley. My DIY game is out of this world—" he shrugs and lets his hand drop back down by his sides "—but that'll be the discount part for you."

"You would make a smackin' angel, my dude," says Argyle.

"Thank you." He touches a hand to his chest and inclines his head. Then throws a hand out at Argyle, eyes fixed pointedly on Steve. "At least, someone appreciates my talents around here."

"I never said—"

"Up-bub-bub-bub." His hand whips back up into the air. It cuts Steve off. Fingers opening and closing rapidly in front of his face. "Robin came here to share the news. Let her share it." The humored-but-trying-to-make-it-look-like-irritation mask on Steve's face only get more irate, but he rolls his eyes and turns them to Robin, so he figures he takes it in the good humor it was meant to be.

Finally, Robin gets to read out the highlights of the article. But Eddie's far less enthusiastic about that than he was guessing at it.

It's been a labor of hard work from Joyce and Hopper as Eddie understands it. Ever since the people-and-doctors-in-the-know came back to the lab in the wake of Vecna's destruction, the two of them have regularly gone there to talk strategy or what other stuff they might need to. Really, Eddie has no idea what they spend so long talking about. What do you discuss in the wake of the almost-end of the world and months of captivity in a foreign land? Eddie certainly does not know and he hopes he never will.
  What he does know, is that, apparently, it's been a tug of war to get them to focus on clearing Eddie's name. Apparently, many of them would prefer to just focus on the cracks between the Rightside Up and Upside Down of Hawkins. Shocker, right? At least that is the consensus according to Robin (and Steve, who is often right beside her), who is not above listening to other people's private conversations; or Nancy, who just inserts herself into those conversations, before anyone realizes she should not be there. Eddie likes to imagine Nancy walking into a conversation with such ease and poise, neither Hopper nor Joyce notices she's there, until she's sucked every last detail that the grownups would prefer to keep to themselves, out of them.

Which means, Eddie's got several sources to tell him about Hopper and Joyce putting some pressure on the shady government people to try and get them to clear Eddie's name. Apparently, Murray has joined Hopper and Joyce at the lab with suggestions of how to spin it for the public, too. His specialty, if Nancy is to be believed. Which she is.

Steve had actually been the one to point out, if they wanted to take advantage of the chaos of the earthquake — which half of their cover stories for Eddie demanded — they had to get something out soon.

The story they landed on was one where a serial killer had been on the loose (duh, Hawkins already knew that), a copycat of the Creek murders 27 years ago. That the murderer had tried to frame Eddie. That he had seen it happen to Chrissy and had since then been in hiding from the killer.

The first job had been for the people at the lab to take contact with Hawkins police. Or, in other words, take over the case. When they had cleared his name in the eyes of the police — the easy part, some thought, which Eddie was inclined to agree with even though he hated the pigs — it came to the harder part; convincing the public. Hence Hawkins Post. Although, Eddie also knows there have been several interviews and reports on the News about it, too. He just does not know if this is the first piece that declares his innocence and all of his charges dropped or if it has been circulating for a while. Considering Robin's enthusiasm and speedy return to the cabin, he figures it is. Maybe it is the first piece that goes in depth into the cover story the lab have shielded him with.

The story written out in the paper was the one where Eddie was found by the killer shortly after he fled from Jason at Lover's Lake, as he finds out when Robin goes through the highlights. He'd been incapacitated and dragged to the Creel house, where he was later found in its collapsed ruins; wounded and trying to help Max, who'd been another target and had been brought there too, shortly before the earthquake hit. The story paints him a savior of Max, who would not have survived the collapse of the Creel house, if Eddie had not been there to shield her. There is even a picture of him in a hospital bed in the lab — although you cannot see the lab past its generic, white walls that looks like any other hospital — looking real rough and pale.

"Look," Robin says, turning the paper around to show them the picture. "It's like a Red Cross greeting card."

"They even got your good side, Munson." Leaning forward, Steve squints at the picture and nudges him with his elbow.

Eddie acts offended. Jerks away from Steve and clutches a hand to his chest. Expression shocked and open. "Are you saying I have a bad side?"

Steve grins wolfishly at him and only after Eddie has gotten a good look at it, does he bury it away in a cup of tea. His eyes still glint at him above the steam though and no amount of Eddie narrowing his eyes at him makes him repent.

At one point, Steve goes to look at the newspaper over Robin's shoulder, plastered all over her side, as if the two cannot stand side by side without becoming conjoined twins. It takes him a while, but once his eyes have roamed all over the page — as if he cannot quite settle them on the words — his face scrunches up and he snorts. Head jerking away, following the jerk back motion of his snort, like the recoil of a fired gun.

"Come on." Robin needles him in the side with her elbow. "It's good."

"Nance could do better," is what Steve says, rolling his eyes and his head again for emphasis. "It's like they didn't even try to write it. They just interviewed Powell and the cops, who might as well have been following scripts from the lab, and the journalists just directly quoted them too."

"It can't be that bad," says Jonathan with mirth-filled eyes, still relaxed against Argyle.

Steve crooks a single eyebrow at him and turns his eyes back to the article. "'The investigation into the recent murders have unhear—," he stumbles, face scrunching at the page, "—unearthed new evidence, including several witnesses and would-be victims of the recent Copy-cat serial killer. Teste—, testimor—, fucking," he grumbles emphatically at the page, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Testimonials," supplies Robin.

Steve nods. "'Testimonials have cleared Edward Munson of all charges,'" he recites, voice all mock prim and proper, eyes rolling around in their sockets. "It's all hallmark movie script." He snorts, then continues, pointing further down the page, brow furrowed and concentrated. "'Police have issued a full apology to Edward Munson and his legal guardian, Wayne Munson. Both have been suitably compensated for the troubles caused. We urge Hawkins to do the same.'" He jerks his hand up and away from the page. "See? Hallmark."

Eddie's nose wrinkles. "Bullshit."

Robin looks up at him. "Oh, no, that part is actually true."

Eddie blinks at them. "What."

"The government's giving your uncle a shiny new home in exchange for seizing your trailer and they're giving you a good chunk of hush money as an apology for ruining your spring break." Steve explains. He turns his head and looks at Eddie with a furrowed brow. "You don't remember? They said something of that manner, when they released you from their care."

"Must've slipped my memory," he murmurs glancing away.

"What?" Steve asks with that look on his face that suggests he didn't hear you, but he's trying to play it off as simple confusion.

Little Stevie didn't get enough hugs as a child, so now he's trying to hide away all of his needs in hopes he won't be alone again. At least, that's what Eddie's picked up from him, in the days after his first migraine and his hearing loss admittance. Not that Eddie should be psychoanalyzing anyone. God forbid. He's hissed and made a sign of the an upside down cross (which is painfully ironic, now that he thinks about it) at Ms. Kelly enough times in his freshman year (and sophomore, and junior, and senior, and second sen—, you get the point), which was basically whenever he was thrown into counselling and he was thrown in counseling for being a troublemaker a lot, so the teachers didn't have to deal with him and could treat his bad grades as a sign of his own failings, rather than theirs. So really, at this point it is probably illegal for him to psychoanalyze anyone. But eh, it's not like anyone’s gonna tell on him.

Do not get him wrong. It's not like Eddie blames Steve for his trained response. Or that he is particularly against counselling. He isn't. At least not in principle.

Actually, Eddie's all for talking about his feelings*. *With people he trusts. *With people who has already seen him at his worst, therefore seeing more off it, doesn't mean a damn thing, or who shares his pain and so will understand all the ugly parts of it. *With his uncle, who breaks down Eddie's door with such a warm touch, calm eyes and soothing, quiet voice, it makes Eddie wonder why he ever shut the door on him in the first place. All of it means this; not a fucking school therapist, who is looking at Eddie like they see all the way down to his very bones, to the very make-up off him and acts as if they have all the answers. No really. Please, tell him how he feels one more time and why. As if Eddie could not tell you that himself. Godforsaken condescending bastards.

Oh. When it comes to therapists and Eddie's issues. Woo boy, do they love a cliché. They will talk for days about Eddie's supposed anger and frustration with the world and society all stems from his father. Eddie cannot be generally pissed or wake up on the wrong side of the bed or stub his toe without the following curse and kick at the coffee table leg being a result of his father. According to them, all answers boil down to Eddie's father. How fucking original. Maybe, just maybe, Eddie has a whole mountain of problems that has nothing to do with his dad at all and it is all ignored in favor of a ghost Eddie does not give two damn cents about. His dad was in prison — recreationally too — and now he's dead. Good fucking riddance and a happy New Year, and Satan bless it too. Eddie's only regret about him is that he never got to kiss a boy full on the mouth (or shove his tongue down his throat, if he's feeling particularly spiteful) in front of him while flipping him the bird. Satan fuck him for ending up on the wrong end of a shiv in prison and taking that opportunity away from him. He called Eddie a fag for years — as an insult not accusation — and he never got to tell him just how true it was. The look he would have had on his face is one Eddie mourns every day and that is the only part about him he has mourned, since the day he died.
  The only time Eddie ever mourned his dad, was long before he died, back when Eddie was still a kid longing for his father's love and comfort. He found it, eventually. Just in his uncle, instead. And he's never wanted for anything else, since his uncle took him in.

Which is a really longwinded way of saying, Eddie thinks Steve is trying too hard to make himself as small as possible and his needs smaller still. Which is exactly what society wants him to do. They might try to pretend otherwise; everything to make your image and others perception of yourself as shiny as possible, after all, but it's all a fucking performance. People like Eddie are told to shut up, sit still and just try harder and not given an opportunity or the tools to succeed. Fuck the man, Harrington, and voice your problems.

All of this to say, while the others continue on the newspaper, Eddie leans closer to Steve and repeats that he simply must have forgotten everything he was told at the Lab, "I was under heavy drugs and morphine, after all, and rather determined to savor it for as long as it lasted. That was all I said." The small but incandescent smile Steve gives him, makes Eddie swear to himself to look for these dismissals and make sure to step deliberately past them.

The newspaper goes from Robin to Jonathan, who holds it with one hand, Argyle holding the other. The two of them skim a few lines, then hand it off to Hopper and Joyce at the dining table.

Robin falls into step beside Steve as they leave the kitchen, following him around the cabin in a small radius, as if as soon as they are within sight of each other, they have to be no more than an arm’s length away from each other; easily within reaching distance and never out of sight.

Hopper stops Eddie from following in their footsteps with a small tap on the table with his fingers. And Eddie stops in front of the table, waiting.

With the same gruff, but somehow warm voice he handles everything with, he tells Eddie to keep being careful. "The police have cleared your name and this have gotten the ball rolling to the public, but there's a long way to go yet, before you can be safe in Hawkins' streets," he says, patting the newspaper.

Watching Hopper with wide eyes, Eddie crosses one arm across his chest, elbow braced against it and pulls a strand of hair in front of his face. He nods. Hair cutting across his cheek, pulled taut against his mouth and stretched in through his lips. Bouncing up on down on his feet and gnawing silently on his hair, Eddie listens to Hopper telling him to stay within the cabin and keep within sight of it. And that he's sorry, but they still cannot say when he will be able to return home.

The government people may have sown the seeds for clearing his name, and even though the police have dropped his charges, it is still very much up in the air. At least, that's what Hopper tells him. Voice quiet and gruff, rumbling through the kitchen. It is not the police that matters, at this point, but the public. It was not the police that brought a manhunt after Eddie, after all. Besides, who knows if the town is buying it. Maybe they are still polishing their pitchforks, waiting for Eddie to make an appearance.

Better safe than sorry.

At least that's what Hopper tells him, somewhat apologetically.

Eddie nods and mumbles his assent.

Hopper turns back to the newspaper.

"What about my uncle?" Eddie asks, before he can think better off it.

Hopper cuts a grimace. Eddie's heart sinks at the sight of it. "We're working on it."

Eddie eyes the Hawkins Post and the pages spread out across the table. "But you at least told him I'm still alive, right?"

Joyce gives him a sad and apologetic shrug. "We tried, but—"

Expression heavy, Hopper cuts across her words. "Communication has been rather limited and we're trying to keep attention off us, until things die down and we're sure that other army branch hasn't followed El here. Right now, the town is too cautious and alert to be safe. For any of us. And any action around Wayne Munson is currently like an exposed live-wire." He sighs and rubs a hand across his lower face. "I'm sorry, kid. But I've had to choose between us and him." Eddie hears the government speak hidden in his words, no matter how well they are hidden or how regretful he is.

Anger bursts to life inside his chest. He throws a hand out. Sharp and demanding. "So my uncle had to find out I'm still alive and declared innocent from the fucking Post?"

Pain flashes briefly across Hopper's face and he closes his eyes against it. He grinds the knuckle of his thumb against his eyebrow and heaves a sigh, eyes opening to settle on Eddie again. "Yeah, he did. Can't change that, and I won't apologize, 'cause I know how little that means in the face of stuff like this." His hand drops back down again, settling across the table and the newspaper laid out across it. One of his fingers taps once, then points down into the table. "But I will tell you that I'm not giving up or leaving you behind. We're working on convincing the people at the lab that you and your uncle are safe and that he can, at least, be trusted with visiting you."

"Great. Just great." Concern folds its way across Hopper and Joyce's faces. Eddie waves them both away before they can take form. "It's fine," he bites out. "Thanks, I guess." He turns and heads directly for the front door. Quiet pervades still and preternatural around him for those few hurried steps across the floor. Or maybe, that is just the tunnel vision blinding Eddie to all else, stifling everything nearby. Either way, he pulls the door open with a hard yank and steps out onto he porch.

The door falls shut behind him, the resounding bang! like a gunshot that echoes through the overhanging trees. A breeze blows from the trees and gusts into him, as he goes to the railing and curls both of his hands around it. For a single moment, he feels grateful for the rush of the wind, even if it does nothing to extinguish the anger burning in him.

"Damn it!" he curses and smacks a hand into the top of the railing. The pain the shoots through his palm and up his arm is far overshadowed by the ache burning inside of his chest.

He stays out for a long time.

No one talks about it then, but Eddie finds out later.

That night, when he goes to smoke his nightly cigarette, drenched in cold sweat and nightmares, the paper lies abandoned on the tiny dining table, folded up and shoved aside. He shrugs and brings it to the single light left on in the kitchen. Cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, drooping down, he opens the paper, though he is careful to leaf past the piece about his own apparent heroic deeds and absolution.

Page lit up in the light from the lamp above him. Cigarette glowing with burning embers at every breath he pulls in, he skims the Hawkins Post. What he finds almost makes his hands shake more than the nightmares had, even though he does not know why. It should make him relieved. Make him feel hopeful that he can one day exit these woods again. All it does is make something tight and tense burn in his stomach.

Towards the front of the same issue, there is a piece about Jason Carver's body being found in the old Creel house underneath broken pieces of the roof. Killed by the earthquake and fallen debris. It explained that in the autopsy, drugs had been found in his system. Which was apparently how they decided to explain away his ravings about Eddie being a Satanist and having supernatural powers, gifted by Satan and why a sweet, golden boy, had been so determined to rally a town into a man hunt to kill him.

It is enough that Eddie tries reading a bit about his own supposed victimization and clearing of his own name, to drown out the words written about Jason, but he does not get far.

'After the earthquake struck Friday night, Hawkins resident Eddie Munson, was found in the Creel house (formerly a crime scene of the infamous Creel murders in 1959, see page 13 for more). He was discovered severely injured and near death, protecting another would-be victim of the killer, Max Mayfield, who is recovering from her own injuries with her loved ones. Eddie Munson is currently in a safe house, recovering from his injuries and considered clear of all charges. The testimony he gave to authorities has led to—' he stops after that. Expression twisted in disgust and nausea.

He does not pick the paper up again after that.

It takes one very bad night before Eddie takes Argyle up on his offer. Which is, incidentally, the day after Robin brings the newspaper with his own name and headline with her to the cabin.
He has been in the cabin for a week and a few days. The fact that he has not cracked and begged for something to dull the memories floating like leaves on a river in the forefront of his mind, yet, is a miracle in of itself.

The night is a particularly bad one. Eddie has three nightmares and all three times his nightmares wakes him up. Fear pumps through him with every rapid beat of his heart. It surges through his blood and tears through his veins with a vengeance. It glues him to the bed and he is stuck. Frozen still and stiff. Terrified to get up, terrified to even move and he has to just lie there, heart in his throat and his pulse roaring in his ears, staring out at the dark. Body stiff and every muscle locked up with trembling tension, hardly even breathing. After the third nightmare, he does not fall asleep again and he does not want to.

For hours, he lies, stuck frozen, waiting for morning to come or sleep to take him back under. Blinking tears out of his eyes. Desperately trying to convince himself the monsters and men from his nightmares have not followed him out into the cabin and are just waiting for him to make a sound or move and reveal his position to them.

He cries silently. Unable to even raise a hand to stifle his gasping breaths or dry his eyes. Body shaking and trembling. Veins quivering with blood that rushes through him with their fearful touch. Tears fall down the sides of his face, leaving wet trails on his skin and sinking into the linen of the pillow.

And Eddie still lies there. Silently begging Steve or even Dustin to hear him and wake up; for one of them to reach for him, draw him into their arms and chase his nightmares away with their touch. But unable to ask for it. He would even welcome Joyce peeking through the curtain to check up on them, if it would mean someone would see and come to his rescue.

He cries for his uncle. Wishes he could run to him and he would sweep all the bad stuff clinging to Eddie like heavy mud away with a warm embrace and open palms. Just like he did, when Eddie was still a kid living with his father and his uncle's trailer was the place he ran to, when everything got too heavy for Eddie to hold on his own.

He cries and wishes for that telltale creak of his door as Wayne checks in on him while he sleeps, just to make sure Eddie's safe.

It has been years, since Eddie has cried for his uncle. It is also the first time in his life, his uncle has been out of reach for him and does not come running to catch him. Even whenever Eddie's father drove the both of them to Indianapolis or Chicago, Wayne still found a way to catch Eddie when he called for him.

If Eddie was a braver man than he is, he might have called out or reached one of his shaking hands past the edge of the bed, stretching his fingers out towards Steve. He might have reached out for someone to catch him inside this cabin and not the one person miles away, who cannot hold him; the one person who might as well be a galaxy away, for all the distance Eddie feels between them. Twisting and aching inside of his heart. Like a string connects his heart with his uncle's, always has, always will; pulling them together and leading Eddie home, whenever he strays too far. It has been there, ever since Eddie first shoved shirts, his pillow and his two worn, beloved stuffed animals into his dirty and falling apart backpack; the bag so stuffed the ears of his ragged bunny fell out of the top, drooping down its side, and the sight of those brown ears, bopping up and down with every slap of his feet against the ground as he ran, gave him the courage to keep going until he stood on his uncle's doorstep, still hugging the overstuffed bag to his chest.

That thread connecting them is now stretched to its limit. Pulled taut and tight. Almost enough to tear in two and leave Eddie truly on his own.

But he is not a braver man.

Eddie's bravery has always been something small; something just for him. Something small cupped in his own hands, only for him to see and feel; a tiny, fragile beating heart that he had to nurse and guard, like the single flame of a flickering candle in the mouth of the wind, only guarded by the shield of his hands cupped around it. That was Eddie's bravery, small and fickle and far too fragile without a safeguard; the handkerchief in his pocket that only those in the know would recognize, its presence more a flagship than the coded message it could have been; the music he listened to and the clothes he wore; the moniker he draped around himself like a cape, if only to keep himself safe in the arms of a name less sharp and cutting than the one others had made to throw like bricks and stones at him; a wide smile full of too many teeth in the face of vulturuous high schoolers; how he'd made himself a freak within a year of high school, because if people steered clear of you with sneers on their faces, then they were no longer close enough to burn you; the way Eddie would rather make himself louder and bigger than hide himself away and disappear. It was never meant to withstand hurricanes and earthquakes. Not meant for monsters and a real life Vale of Shadows. Just the wind and even then it needed Eddie to keep his palms cupped around it to keep it alive.

That bravery is too small and frail for Eddie to thaw himself on now. It flickers, weak and cold inside of his chest. The storm that has Eddie frozen and bound too strong for it to survive its touch and Eddie is left on his own again. Crying in the dark. With barely enough light around him to get him through the night.

When morning finally comes, the brightening light and rustling sounds as others get up, chases the eye of the storm that has him surrounded away. The light of dawn ignites his own candle flame courage and it flickers to life once more. It is too late for him, though. The shadows under his eyes have taken a piece of the night with them and grown beneath his eyes. Even as he is finally able to move again and rises from bed, his hands still shake and he jumps at every loud noise that whips through the cabin. Blood rushes through his veins in flashes like ever-continuous strikes of lightning. Inside of his chest, his heart lurches and jolts. It lurches through him. Sharp and cutting and he jerks around. Convinced there is an enemy at the other side of the noise, when it's only Joyce working at the stove.

All through breakfast, his hands tremble and shake. He can barely hold onto his spoon, much less get it to still long enough to scoop any cereal into his mouth.

"Hey, Eddie," Steve calls. The sound of his voice, small and quiet as it is, still jerks at Eddie and his gaze darts to the side, landing on him. Eyes wide and fearful and the air caught inside of his lungs in a painful grasp. Steve is sat floor beside the couch, turned to the side, his bowl of cereal on the coffee table before him. Wide and concerned hazel eyes roam all over Eddie. A small furrow digs into Steve's brow. "You okay?"

"Bad night," he says, voice a mere croak that barely makes it past his throat.

Steve's eyes drop to his mouth and watches the shape of the words pass his lips. The concern in his eyes grows and he looks over him again. "Can I do anything?"

"Not really." Eddie shakes his head and lowers it, pulling his eyes away from the concern and worry etched into Steve's face, but not before he sees Steve's lips press into a thin line at his words.

Eddie does not like the defeat settling like a kicked puppy over Steve, so he offers him an olive branch. Biting at the skin around his nails, in an attempt to calm the fearful tide rushing through him, he says through his finger, "You want to help?" Eyes wide and earnest, Steve nods. "Don't stop me." The words make confusion break out over his face. A much lighter expression than the heavy concern from before. But Eddie does not explain further. Just leaves his breakfast uneaten on the coffee table before him and leans back against the couch, trying to breathe deeply in and out and to convince himself the danger has long since passed with the sounds of life fluttering around him from the other people in the cabin.

After breakfast, while Hopper and Joyce are occupied washing up after them, Max knocked out by her medication and napping on the couch, El and Will distracted with a game of Go Fish! in the corner with Jonathan and Argyle, Eddie approaches Argyle and crouches beside him, asking in a lowered voice, if his offer still stands. He tries to hide his shaking hands by fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeves, but he knows it does not go unnoticed. Well aware of Steve's heavy eyes on him.

"Alright, Judas Priest," he says with a grin and nodding his head. "I've got you, my man." He turns to Will and El before him. "Alright, my fair fellows, it's been rocking playing with you, but duty calls." He throws a hand up in the air, his thumb and little fingers pointed out and jiggles it around.

"You can finish the game," Eddie offers just as quietly with a weak smile at Will's worried glance and El's impassive mask. Hands pulling and fidgeting more violently at his shirtsleeve.

Argyle does not get the chance to make a decision about just laying his cards down and abandoning it right there or let Eddie hang about and wait for him to finish. A sigh sounds behind Eddie's back and someone rises to their feet. "Come on, then."

Two footsteps clatter near and Steve steps into Eddie's line of sight, a hand clamped around Robin's wrist — who once again showed up on her bike towards the end of their breakfast — dragging her along. "Go on," he says, stepping up to Argyle and lowering himself into his spot, even though Argyle has not moved away yet. "We'll take over." He throws a glance at El and Will in front of them, a gentle smile blooming across his mouth. "If that's okay with you?"

El beams and nods. Will looks a little bit panicked and like someone facing impending doom, but he nods anyway and quickly ducks his head and pink cheeks to his cards, where he sends the occasional jumping glance upwards at Steve. Eddie is too far gone to feel any sympathy towards him.

"Alright, brochachos." Argyle claps his cards face down into Steve's chest. Steve jolts. His hands jerk up and he quickly takes them from Argyle, as he inches his hand out from beneath his. Grinning, Argyle throws a pointed finger at El. "But be careful, my man, she's been reading my mind this whole time, I swear."

"I have not!"

"That's not her powers, Argyle," Will says with a roll of his eyes and a long-suffering sigh. "You've been holding them angled so we can see them."

"No, no." Argyle shakes his head. "Mind powers, I'm certain of it." He claps another hand on Steve's back. "Good luck, brochachos." With that, he rolls over and onto his shoulder and back, throwing his legs up and over Steve's head and rolls forward, now facing outward.

Quietly, beside him, Robin has switched places with Jonathan and Eddie would feel guilty about leaving Will with Steve and taking his brother from him in one fell swoop, but his hands are still shaking and fear curls deep in his stomach and chest, as if he's back in that boat and boathouse the first night after Chrissy died, jumping and twitching at every little noise, scared out of his mind and not entirely sure what he was scared off.

As they pass the armchair, where Dustin is hunched over Eddie's copy of the second Earthsea book, the kid raises his head and looks up at Eddie with worried eyes. Eddie cannot offer him any reassurance. He can only shove a hand on top of his head, push his head down and ruffle his hair lightly underneath the cap he wears. "Mind your own business, Henderson, nobody likes a snoop."

Dustin scoffs and pulls his head out of his grasp. "I'm not snooping." Rough hands grasp his cap and shove it firmly back into place with a pointed huff. But he does turn his head back to his book.

Finally, Eddie heads out the door and into the surrounding forest with Jonathan and Argyle in front of him. Steve's heavy and concerned gaze follows them out.

They walk a bit into the forest. Just far enough for the cabin to nearly be lost between the trees, but still within sight. Argyle is the first to drop down onto the forest ground. Legs crossed in front of him. Practiced, easy fingers produce a joint and a lighter with a flourish from deep within the baggy, colorful harem pants he's wearing. Meanwhile, Jonathan settles down right next to him, leant back on his elbows and already relaxed and Eddie carefully sits down opposite them. Every one of his own limbs feels stiff and tense, like an exposed livewire.

"Alright! Here we go," Argyle says, waving the joint in the air. "Get ready, my friend. Palm Tree Delight will change your life."

"I'll go for just changing today," Eddie says as he takes the proffered joint and lighter.

Argyle's weed is a different sort than the one Eddie is used to. The scent is heavy and just as putrid and recognizable as the sort Eddie's been used to for years, but there is a trace of sweetness to its smell. Or maybe that is just Eddie's relieved brain rejoicing at the scent of an aphrodisiac coming to save him from his own mind.

Smoke drifts and builds between them as the joint travels from hand to hand and the first joint disappears quickly between the three of them.

Once the weed starts to take effect, Eddie sprawls against the trunk of a tree. Relaxed and free for the first time since Chrissy died. Completely and utterly free of any thoughts or memories. Later, after the second joint has been reduced to ash, leftover filter and paper and the last clouds of smoke drifts in the air above them, he lies sprawled on his back on the forest floor, utterly blazed out of his mind and happy.

The weed smoothes out all his raw and bleeding edges and fear is a distant memory he barely knows the name off. Up, up, up it takes him and makes him float past the treetops, among the birds that fly high on the sky. Body heavy with muscles that finally remember how to relax and his head in the clouds, he lies and stares up at the treetops and the glimpses of sky dotted between it. Jonathan and Argyle lie right beside him, their heads by his hips in a T. Their legs are crossed, intertwined with each other. Even knowing Nancy and Jonathan are still a couple, he does not quite know what to make of Argyle and Jonathan's relationship, but their closeness and comfortability with each other is enough to be envious off. And most days, Eddie does not know whether to be jealous of them or Robin and Steve and the relationship or friendship, or whatever they've got going on. No matter what though, he always lands on good for them.

Later, when the sun has moved well across the sky and the floating high begins to retreat, leaving him with a gentle buzz that pulls him back down amongst the treetops, leaving the sky to the birds and the birds to themselves; Steve comes out and finds them amongst the trees. A platter of grilled cheeses held in his hands. "I know grease and fast food is the be end all, when you're coming down from a high," he says, smiling down at them, "but this was the best I could do, since most places are still closed because of the earthquake."

"I adore you," Eddie says. The words trip out of his mouth before he can realize they are even on his tongue. Making a face, he quickly tries to amend, "You're a godsend." Nope, that does not sound much better. He makes a face at himself.

But Steve looks down at him and smiles. Eyes bright and crinkling by the corners. "I'm sure," he says, still grinning. His foot comes out and he nudges Eddie's side with his toes. "Come on, sit up." When that proves insufficient, he gives a small kick. "The diner won't open unless all patrons are sitting."

"Urrgggh," Eddie groans low and long, making the unfairness of that statement known. He gets no sympathy. Only Steve staring unimpressed down at him with a hand on his hip and his eyebrows raised. With another protesting groan, Eddie drags himself off the ground. Barely upright, he reaches for a grilled cheese with grabby hands.

"Jesus, slow down, Eddie." Steve pulls the plate stacked with food away from him, holding it up high in the air, well above his head and out of Eddie's reach.

Eddie blinks at the empty air, uncomprehending and confused. Hands opening and closing, as if he might be able to pull a grilled cheese from the plate through the air and into his hands, like El might have done.

Steve waves his free hand at him, gesturing open-handed at him. "You've got—" breaking off with a small, fond smile, he reaches out and brushes at Eddie's shoulders. Hand swishing and brushing at him, shuffling his clothes and hair. Dirt and leaves tumble from his shoulder, drifting down his front and flitting against his leather jacket.

"Oh, yeah." Looking down at himself, Eddie pulls his hands back and roughly brushes leaves, grass and dirt off of himself.

But Steve's hand keeps touching him. It draws around his back, brushes along his shoulders and runs down his spine. Palm warm and light against him, even through his Darling leather jacket. His touch sends a light tingle everywhere it touches and the places it does not. Shivers travel from his shoulders and back, down his spine and out through his arms and legs. Eddie stills his own rough pat down, caught in the shivers and warmth from Steve's hand.

After a moment that feels far longer than it actually is and not long enough, Steve pulls his hand away.

Eddie shakes himself out of his standstill. "Am I cleared?" he asks, looking up at him and spreading his arms out, presenting himself.

"Almost." A fond smile stretches across his lips. Steve reaches out again and plucks at his hair. The touch stirs at his hair and starts a gentle shiver that spreads from his scalp, to his neck and runs all the way down his spine. Goosebumps raise on the back of his neck and along his arms.

A shake moves through Eddie's body and he lets it travel through him, as if he has to shake off Steve's touch and the shiver that lingers on his skin.

Steve's hand linger in the air directly in front of his eyes. The offending leaf pinched between two of his fingers. He holds onto it long enough for Eddie's unfocused, high eyes to settle on it, then he throws it away, dropping it off to the side. It flutters down to the ground and settles among twigs and undergrowth. Finally, he holds out the grilled cheeses.

Eddie's arm flashes through the air as he snatches one of them. It still carries some heat and emanates warmth out into his hands.

Beside him, Jonathan and Argyle have already tucked into theirs. Munching at them with euphoric expression on their faces. Eddie notes that Steve did not keep their grilled cheese hostage until they brushed the forest floor off them. It would be a gross example of favoritism, except Eddie is definitely Steve's favorite, so the two do not exactly add up, but Eddie's thoughts are still pleasantly fogged, so he doesn't really care to try and make a sense of it.

Actually, he wishes Steve was still brushing leaves off him, if only because his hand and arm was warm against him and Eddie would love to sink into his embrace and bury away in his chest for the rest of this day. Let Steve's warmth and solid, steady embrace catch him as he drifts down from his high and get settled back on the earth. That would be the dream. To get un-high with Steve's arms around him. Actually add that to Eddie's bucket list. Not that he has one. Considering that he has vehemently opposed them up until now. He’d rather choose hedonism, no matter how negatively the moral majority chooses to look upon it. If you want something and it doesn't hurt anyone, just do it, instead of putting it on a fucking bucket list. If you need a list to get it done, you clearly do not want it enough and you never get it done any way. But he will make one for this. Get un-high in Steve Harrington's arms. Yep. That's Eddie's bucket list and new year's resolution. The only item on both lists. Sounds about right and just as impossible to accomplish as those lists usually are.

Instead of trying to see if he can sneak himself into Steve's arms and wrap himself up in his embrace without being noticed, he clutches at the grilled cheese and steals the warmth that emanates from it.

Still standing, Steve looks down at him. Smile still spread warm and fond across his lips.

"I can't believe you made us grilled cheeses," Eddie says, looking back up at Steve.

"You're welcome." The look on his face is far too self-satisfied, just a stone's throw away from smug. It would be annoying, if it wasn't such an attractive look on him. Urgh. Disgusting. Eddie wants to kiss him so bad.

Steve sets the plate on the ground within reach of all three of them and sits down beside Eddie, hands braced behind himself. "You better appreciate it too." A crooked grin splits across his cheeks. He tips a foot and nudges Eddie's own. "I had to fend off all the little shitheads for you, or they'd have robbed the plate empty, before I even made it out the kitchen."

"Hah! As if," Eddie says. "I bet you gave in to at least one of them." He throws him a lopsided grin. "I bet you let Henderson and El nick one each. Will too."

A grimace twists across Steve's face.

Laughter bursts from Eddie's mouth. Smiling wider, letting the turn of his lips turn salacious, he arches an eyebrow at Steve. "And there's no way you didn't make sure Max got one too."

Rolling his eyes, Steve shoves at Eddie's shoulder. The push sends Eddie jerking to the side and he falls over, collapsing back. His elbow digs into the ground, holding him up and stopping him from falling to the ground. Laughter bubbles and bursts from his mouth, bouncing between the trees. Mirth narrows and crinkles his eyes, as he looks up at Steve.

"Eat your toast, Munson," Steve says, trying very hard to sound annoyed, but his efforts are unsuccessful with that smile on his face and those warm eyes, glinting out at him.

"With pleasure." Eddie tucks into the grilled cheese. Warm, melted cheese fills his mouth and flavor explodes on his tongue. Eyes widening, he quickly chews through the mouthful and takes another bite.

Steve sits quietly beside him and watches with gentle eyes as he devours the grilled cheese.

Halfway into his toasted messiah, Steve's knee falls to the side and nudges at Eddie.

"Feeling better?" he asks, smile small and gentle.

Humming, Eddie nods and rips a far too big piece of grilled toast off. It hangs out of his mouth and he shoves it into his mouth with two of his fingers, still chewing. Melted cheese sticks to his fingers, coating the tips slimy and stringy. "Oh, yeah," he says through his massive mouthful. "Much better." Melted cheese and toasted bread muffles his voice and it comes out distorted, hardly audible. "Six stars. Ten out of ten."

It takes a moment for Steve to parse through that. "The weed or you?"

"Both." Eddie shrugs and takes another smaller bite off the toast, even though he's barely chewed through the massive bite still inside his mouth.

The smile on Steve's face blooms, growing wide and far. Humor crinkles by his eyes. "I may know first aid, Munson, but you should still chew your food properly and not rely on the Heimlich to save you."

"Eh." He shrugs, swallows it down. "What a way to go, though." He side-eyes Steve and blinks prettily at him. "Besides, why save you the chance to be a hero, when it looks so good on you?" He grins and tears another large piece off. Eyes sparkling and dimple spotlighted on his cheek, as he chews.

Steve rolls his eyes, head rolling along with the motion, turning slightly away from Eddie. Pink dusts his cheeks. "I've already made you food, you don't have to butter me up, Munson."

"You have enough girls knocking on your door, you don't need me kissing your ass, too," he speaks once his mouth is clear, because he may be high, but he does still remember Steve's hearing loss. One of his shoulders lifts in a shrug. "Take that how you want it."

While Eddie's mouth is empty, he takes the time to put his fingers in his mouth and suck the melted cheese off them. It does not escape his notice that Steve's eyes follow the motion. It would be interesting and definitely worth his attention, if the grilled cheese was not so good. Truly, it's heavenly. Salted and creamy. Just the right side of grilled and crispy. The melted cheese still warm and all stringy, pulling into long strings as Eddie bites pieces off. The toast grilled and burned just right. It's the best grilled cheese Eddie has ever gotten. If gay marriage was legal, he would marry it. Because it's definitely too salty to be a anything but a gay man. But since it's not, he'll just have to make do with this.

"Duuuude," comes Argyle's voice, word drawn out long and near euphoric, "this is the best grilled cheese I've ever had. It's, like, heavenly, dude."

"That's what I was thinking." Eddie smacks his arm out and points at him. Hand bopping up and down in the air.

"It's so good," adds Jonathan, voice muffled with sleep and food. He's sat hunched over his grilled cheese, one hand holding his head up, the other occupied with the toast. His eyes are hooded low and drooping. He chews slow and methodical, looking half-asleep. "It's even better than mom's lasagna. Don't tell her that though," the words leave his mouth all sluggish and sloth-like. Eddie stifles a laugh in his own toast as Jonathan peers at Steve with eager, earnest eyes. "She's very proud of her lasagna."

"We know." Argyle pats his back. "I'll tell the squirrels and the trees to keep your secret."

Steve just grins at them. A bright smile spreading across his face. "Thanks," he says. The look in his eyes as he looks between them is far too warm for Eddie. So he focuses on finishing the grilled cheese. That is much easier to handle. Also, there are more on the plate Steve brought out and they all have Eddie's name on them.

Steve stays out with them until the platter has nothing but crumbs and splatters of melted cheese gone cold on it. Unfortunately, Eddie did not get to eat all of them. There were three for each of them in total with one extra. Eddie's pretty sure it was meant to be for Steve himself, but when he saw the eyes Eddie was making at it, he held it out towards him and let him have it. Eddie almost proclaimed his love for him right then and there.

"You coming back in soon?" he asks them, rising to his feet and brushing his jeans free of dirt and grass.

"At some point." Eddie shrugs, waving a hand so-and-so in the air as he lies back down.

"It might rain later, if you're not in before then, I'll come back for you."

"I'd demote your babysitter status, if you didn't," Eddie says with a teasing grin.

Steve throws a kick at Eddie's foot. It smacks into the sole of his boot and rocks his feet from side to side, swaying up through his legs. He turns to leave, but Eddie catches sight of the grin stretching from his lips before he does. Joy bursts to life and bubbles inside of his heart, filling his chest with warmth.

Chest bubbling with warmth from the grilled cheeses, he watches Steve retreat back through the trees. Grey jacket glinting between the brown and green and magnificent hair ruffling lightly in the wind. If his eyes slide down to stare at his ass, it is between him and the wood nymphs.

Days pass.

Eddie finds himself becoming more and more familiar with these strange, new people, and while he still wonders what might have happened to him, if they had not been the kind of people to come look for a stranger in an abandoned, decayed boathouse; he begins wondering even more, what will happen to him without them everywhere around him, once he finally gets to return home and the life he left in tatters and remains beside Chrissy on the floor of his trailer.

He gets used to the sound of their voices and movements; to the constant swell of bodies within the cabin and the warmth of bodies beside him, whenever he goes to sit outside on the porch and some of them comes to find him. He gets used to the smell of Hopper's cigarettes and Joyce's cooking; to Steve's cologne and hairspray; to the rabble of Dustin's near constant chatter and Will's quiet snarks and eye-rolls and the near-constant scritch of pen against paper; to Robin and Steve's loud and expansive complaints and the way they are nearly always stacked together in some way; to El's casual use of her powers and her even more casual comments about bat-shit insane stuff, they all have done the last few years; to Will's gentleness and his brilliant joy about D&D and art; to El's kindness and Max's unwavering prickling comments and strength, despite the casts she is swathed in nearly from head to toe.

For the first time in his life, Eddie drowns in the familiarity of close friends and bonds stronger than Hell itself. It is thick enough to suffocate on, but instead of drowning him, it picks him up and floats him along their familiar back-and-forth, their quiet understanding and warmth, and sibling-like prickliness.

It should make him feel even more like an outsider, just like their many, insane comments about their previous encounters with the Upside Down. But it only lifts him up.

It reminds Eddie of the mix-matched families he has seen in the queer scene, the times he's been to Indianapolis. But instead of watching it all distantly, he's in the thick of it. Not only that. He's invited in. Enfolded in their arms, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Even Joyce, whose arms are already full with three traumatized kids — one which has superpowers and the other who nearly died several times over — enfolds Eddie into her already more than full embrace. Whenever she checks up on them all, which is something she does several times daily, she also lays eyes on him. As if the need to make sure everyone made it through okay, extends to him. And Eddie gets used to seeing Joyce's gaze pass through the cabin, until she has laid eyes on every single individual shielded beneath the cabin's roof.
 Almost religiously, she, at least four times a day, checks on them all. She sticks her head in through El's door or lets her eyes pass over them, as they're spread through the living room, watching TV or playing a game, and casts a cursory glance to wherever Steve, Eddie, Robin, Jonathan and Argyle find themselves in that moment.

At night, when Eddie is not sleeping, he sometimes hears her get up and do her route through the cabin. A few times, she gets up while he's standing in the kitchen and Eddie gets to see her go through her practiced routine. Before she even stands up, she will sit on the couch and watch over the pile that makes up Jonathan and Will (with guest star Argyle), for at least five minutes. When she has had her fill, her head turns to Hopper, if he is still laid out in the lazy-boy and has not already left to sit outside in the night air. After that, she rises to her feet. Upon catching sight of Eddie in the kitchen, she will give him a small smile, then make her way through the cabin. First, she looks in through El's bedroom door, which is always open a crack at night, then she makes her way to the curtain that separates Eddie's borrowed bedroom and peeks past it long enough to sweep her gaze over the occupants behind it. Sometimes, that is just Dustin. Other times, Steve's behind the curtain too, which is usually whenever Robin is there to keep Steve wrapped up in her arms and the blanket through the night.

Surprisingly — or unsurprisingly, now that Eddie has come to know Steve past his old high school persona and town reputation — Steve does the same. It would be easy to tease him, but Eddie sees the, sometimes, frantic, worry that burns inside of his eyes until he has accounted for every kid under the cabin's roof, and even then, some tension lingers around his shoulders, until Robin notices and draws him out of it. So Eddie swallows his teasing remarks and only offers Steve a reassuring and understanding nod, whenever his eyes fall onto him.

After the first week, Robin begins to spend some nights at home. Apparently, in the time after the earthquake, her parents stayed with her paternal grandparents, who also live in Hawkins and they went to take care of them through their minor injuries (which was at least one sprained ankle), making sure they made it through everything okay and helped them with their house. Instead of going with them, as they had wanted, she had used the fact that apparently, "Please, my parents love you more than me," according to Robin herself, when Steve had made a comment about it. And had gotten her parents to agree to let her stay with him. But with her parents home once more, Robin starts spending more time away from the cabin.
  Eddie did ask Robin why she had not just gone with her parents, back when she first told him about it in a rambling mess that first evening in the cabin. It might have been nice, he thought, to get out of Hawkins, even if it was only to the very outskirts. Robin did not share that sentiment. The look she had given then had been humored, but the look in her eyes full of shadows. "You don't want me and Steve separated in the immediate aftermath of the Upside Down, trust me," she said to him then. Eddie fully believed her.

At night, Eddie hears a lot of whispers. Whether he is standing in the kitchen, over one of the counters, smoking, or laid in bed, waiting for sleep and more nightmares to take him, whispers find their way to him. And he gets used to hearing the occasional whisper break out. Half the time, it comes from behind El's what bedroom door. The other half, when Robin manages to sleep over again, it comes from Steve and Robin's huddle on the other side of Eddie's bed.
It comforts him, even if he never reaches out to these whispers to let them know he too is awake.

Some nights, when Eddie stumbles from bed with his heart in his throat and the last echoes of nightmares dying in the corner of his eyes, someone else is already awake, sitting silent and quiet, hunched over the table in the kitchen or somewhere in the living room. Most often, it is Hopper he finds awake. The times Eddie finds him awake, he looks so far away, he looks more like a ghost than a man, even in the light they leave on every night that falls over him. Sometimes, Joyce is by his side, but it never does much to make him look less like a ghost.
  Other times, it will be Will, who's awake. Knees pulled to his chest and his cheek pillowed on top, curled up on the mattress he shares with Jonathan and occasionally Argyle, too, when he does not find some other nook or cranny he fancies camping out in. El often joins him. Both of them wearing the same heavy shadows and poorly veiled fear, making the resemblance between them heavy and painting them as the brother and sister they have come to be.

And, ever since that first night Robin began staying at home with her parents, half the time, when Eddie stumbles to the kitchen or bathroom, shaky fingers seeking the pack of cigarette he keeps close by, the space by the front door will be filled by a figure curled up on one of the dining chairs. Arms folded together over his chest and a deformed bat tucked between them; a silent guard to see them through the night.

The sight of him, hunched over by the front door, sometimes nodded off to sleep, other times wide-awake and at attention, makes Eddie's heart hurt, but neither of them ever acknowledge it and the silent guard remains a silent part of the night.

One night, after another nightmare has chased Eddie to the kitchen in the middle of the night once again, he watches with a cigarette burning between his fingers, as Hopper jolts awake with a sharp intake of breath. He sits up in the lazy-boy and leans forward, elbows braced on his knees with his head in his hands. For a while, he just sits there. Measured breaths straining in and out of his chest with decreasing speed.

Eventually, he rises to his feet. He casts one brief glance to the side and catches sight of Eddie. Eyes meeting, he gives a small nod, but says not a word. He makes his way to the door and pauses right in front to it, where he turns to face the wall and crouches. One of his hands comes forward and lands on the shoulder of the figure sat on the small chair, slumped into the wall with his arms tucked around his stomach, head loose and dropped forward, chin on his chest and a nailed bat between his stomach and arms, hugged to himself.

As soon as Hopper's hand lands on his shoulder, he jerks awake. Steve's head snaps up and he jolts forward, body snapping into attention. Air rushes in through his nose in a sharp gust of wind. One of his hands flash out and grasps the handle of the bat, reflexively keeping it from falling to the floor, while the other rubs at his face. Hand curling into a fist and grinding into his eyes.

Low words fill the air as Hopper talks to him.

Eddie barely catches glimpses of it.

"—can't keep—"

"—yeah, I know, I—"

"—understand, but you need to take care of yourself."

"I just can't—" to a lot of nods or shakes of the head. At least from Steve. Hopper just crouches before him and keeps a steady hand on his shoulder, voice low and gruff, but somehow still so gentle and warm.

Eventually, Hopper reaches out with the hand not keeping Steve steady. He gets a hold of the bat and tugs on it until Steve lets go, reluctantly allowing Hopper to pull it from his grasp. He sets it aside by the door, propped up by the frame.

After a few more words exchanged between them, Hopper makes his way outside. Steve rises from his guard by the door. Stretches and rubs at his face. He only has to take a few steps along the wall he was leant up against to reach the bedroom both he and Eddie abandoned at some point in the night. Just before he disappears in through the curtained doorway, he turns his head a little to the side and lifts a hand in greeting at Eddie.

Eddie raises the hand not holding a cigarette, palm open and out towards him. And then Steve disappears behind the curtain. The fabric sways behind him. A gentle rustle fills the air, marking his passing through it and then the cabin is quiet and still once more.

Eddie takes his time to finish his cigarette and then joins Steve back in their bedroom. Neither of them say a word, but from the sound of his breathing, Eddie can tell Steve is not asleep yet.

Eddie wishes he knew how to break the quiet between them. But, for once, he has no words. Perhaps, one day, he will have something to offer in return for everything Steve has done for him, ever since he and the others found him in that boathouse, so he does not have to sit guard in the middle of the night to keep them all safe.

One day, maybe.

He closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep. When he wakes up the next morning and it's clear to see Steve went back to the door at some point after Hopper had pulled him away, he sighs and tries not to feel his heart break on his behalf.

Dustin and Robin remain the only sporadic lodgers of the cabin. The ones to sleep over more than move in, as Eddie seems to have done alongside Will, Jonathan, Argyle and the others. But once Robin starts spending more time at home, Dustin ends up staying more than her, but, occasionally, he, too, will leave with Steve and not come back for a while. Eddie does question, if he isn't missed by Mrs. Henderson. The reply he gets to that is a shrugged shoulder and a, "Sure, but ma is busy helping the relief effort at the hospital and high school. She's actually very happy she has Steve to watch out for me, while she's busy with all that." And sure, Eddie knew his mom was a nurse, but he did not know she had offered up her free time for the relief work through Hawkins. It does not surprise him, though. When Dustin isn't busy being all attitude and smug, he is a great kid with a massive heart, he's got to have that from somewhere.

Then there's Steve.

The days pass and Steve never makes a move or speaks of returning home himself. Night after night, he stays, despite the house Eddie knows is waiting for him, whole and intact, having survived Vecna's earthquake. He only ever leaves to pick up someone else or make a grocery run, which he comes back from with bags bulging and weighing down on his arms (usually at the same time, so there are no unnecessary trips going back and forth from the cabin).

Eddie is grateful. Ever since he came to the cabin, he has seen very little of Nancy. Apparently, Karen Wheeler has grown a firm hand in the wake of the earthquake and serial killer, and has taken to keep both Mike and Nancy near. There is always Jonathan and Argyle, but Jonathan has spells where he falls quiet and withdrawn and when he does not, he sticks to Argyle. The two brighten and bloom beside each other, and while Eddie enjoys several card and board games with both of them — and a few quiz games they make up on the fly — he tends to give them the space to bounce off other the way they seem to be most comfortable in. Even when Jonathan does not fall into a quiet spell, or hang off Argyle, he tends to stick to Will and El, and Eddie would hate to come between that. From what little he has learned — which is not a lot, even though the kids and Robin have taken to inform him of their previous encounters with the Upside Down with concerning vigor and devotion, because Eddie gets far too easily confused by all the information they dump on him and far too forgetful with the rest, though it should be impossible to be forgetful with any information that contains demo-monsters and alternate dimensions — both El and Will need all the love and care they can get.
 Aside from that, Jonathan and Argyle have taken to gather the blankets they usually sleep with, throw them into the back of Argyle's pizza van and bunk there for a day or two, completely disappearing from the cabin in that interim.

All of that to say, Eddie is grateful Steve stays in the cabin and he has him to hang around, when he needs company his own age. It is different with him. Steve was there with Eddie in the Upside Down. Robin too. They share his sharp edges and shadowed creases. They understand without either of them ever saying a single word and Eddie is grateful that he can look in their eyes and see a reflection of the Upside Down there.

It makes him feel less alone.

Even though everyone else in the cabin understands, not everyone truly knows what it is like to bleed the black and red of that otherworld.

So Eddie clings to Steve and Robin's footsteps, when he can and seeks refuge in the kids laughter, Argyle's wit or Jonathan's steadiness when he can't. And counts himself lucky Steve is a permanent fixture in the cabin and Robin is never far from where he is, even if her parents start demanding for her to stay with them half the time, now that they have returned home.

Despite the questions burning on his tongue and pressing against his teeth, Eddie never asks Steve any questions about his permanent move in. In some ways, he already understands and knows the answers.

It does mean Eddie gets to see Steve in every way all hours of the day. And he means every way. Steve usually hops in the shower early in the morning before anyone else wakes up (or during mid-morning, once everyone else has had their turn). It means Eddie gets to see him stumble out of the makeshift shower in all of his newly showered glory. Usually right as Eddie's waking up himself, giving him absolutely zero chance to escape the room, before he can become trapped there by the sight of Steve's inviting warm skin and sculpted body. Steve just walks right out of the bathroom in just his whitey-tighties or a pair of washed out jeans, his chest and stomach bare; the stitched wounds in his side oddly dented, the skin puckering and pinched shut. The healing bruises and stitches far out shone by miles long of warm skin, a blanket of chest hair and his godlike sculpted muscles along his arms and stomach. And Steve himself remains completely oblivious, with absolutely no concern for closet gays stuck inside the cabin with him. Not that Eddie is complaining. Not really.

The sight is glorious and like seeing the statue of the Greek god Adonis himself come to life. And if it is the gods or satan himself or some cosmic apology for the shit Eddie's been through recently, he will gladly take it.

It just happens far, far too often for Eddie's hitpoints to survive intact.

Self-preservation is a distant concern Eddie forgets the name off as soon as he opens his eyes to Steve's morning after-shower routine, which is maybe a bit too reckless considering he is one of aforementioned closet gays stuck inside the cabin. But Eddie is caught in Steve's charms and effortless beauty and he is helpless but to watch.
Despite trying his hardest to tear his gaze away, telling himself he should not be watching; telling himself it would be better if he never had anything of him to hold; despite; Eddie watches.

It is also not a short-lived pleasure. Because sometimes when Steve steps out of the shower, he takes his time to tend to his wounds. Skin still damp, drops of water trailing down curved and rounded muscles; their path down his muscular and firm body almost caressing, Steve smears the antibacterial cream over puckered and sewn shut skin. Breath wheezing and hissing. Eyes falling shut against the pain. Fingers shaking and trembling against his skin. Usually, he goes to their shared bedroom to so, and so the first thing greeting Eddie in the morning is Steve's Adonis-like body. Even the days where Steve showers later, Eddie cannot fully escape the sight of him, because sometimes Max has thrown the boys out of El's bedroom and they have gone into the other bedroom instead of sprawling all over the living room. So Steve is forced to go back to the bathroom to tend his injuries in the mirror, leaving the curtain open behind himself or he just stays out in the living room. Again, completely uncaring that every time Eddie sees him like that; sculpted by the gods themselves, yet so marked by his own vulnerability and sacrifices; he is taking a sledgehammer to Eddie's sanity; completely obliterating Eddie's carefully constructed walls and distance he's trying to keep up between him and his heart, with such arrow-sharp precision and strength, it is hard to remember Steve does not actually know the effect he has on him.

Despite the wounds and now yellow and green bruises stretched far and wide all over Steve's skin, Eddie cannot help but watch Steve tend to his stitches. Back bared, skin torn and speckled with hardened scabs, skin at the sides of his stomach stretched, puckering in the hollows left by the bats, kept together with careful stitches, almost like patchwork, looking a near copy of Eddie's own; his entire body a myriad of marbled green and yellow bruises. Eddie watches, because even in this, even with pain burrowed deep and carved into his skin, he is beautiful.

And so, Eddie gets used to seeing him in his sculpted vulnerability; back rippling with shifting, flexing muscles, his chest rising in static, still movements of a pained breath.

Sometimes, when Steve tends to his wounds within sight, he cannot tear his eyes away. He just looks at long stretches of muscle and soft skin, mottled and painted with bruises.
 Other times, he cannot bear to look at Steve and the pain he sacrificed for others carved so visibly into his skin. On those days, if he does not manage to escape the room before Steve comes back, he keeps his head turned away and his eyes fixed in the opposite direction until the sound of movement changes and fabric shifts, releasing Eddie from his stiff and breathless stupor.

His is not the only hurt Eddie has watched wide-eyed and frozen stiff.

The days in the cabin has given Eddie plenty time to pull out the hurts and aches from the people around him; affording him hours to sit and stare at the bruises and scars stretching themselves across Dustin, Max, Nancy (the few times she managed to visit), Steve and Robin’s skin. To pull them out and draw them forth, as if he needs to memorize every new mark and scar on them, needs it branded into his eyes; as if every one of their scars and every inch of bruised skin is Eddie's fault. If only he had held out longer, if only he had stood firmer, or been someone braver and stronger, then they would not bear them.

He knows it is bullshit, but Eddie knows he is a masochist before a martyr and they did not leave his body behind in that hellscape, so there is only masochism left for him.

It is all he has left to give them.

And he tries not to look at their many bruises, cuts and shadowed eyes for fear of the inadequacy of his own empty hands.

But, the sight of Steve getting his wounds treated becomes a familiar sight in the morning and evening. Either by Steve himself or someone else, when Robin's sharp eyes or Joyce's warm gaze catches sight of how his hands shake too much or the way pain causes his fingers to jerk violently; smearing ointment and antibacterial cream across unblemished skin.

Once or twice a day, he goes through the same song and dance of trying to do it himself, no matter how many times Robin raps him over the head and Joyce gently admonishes him.
 And every time Eddie catches sight of it, his own wounds throb with pain at every pass of someone's hands over Steve's stitches, like a phantom echo in the ghost of their mirrored scars.

They make sure Eddie's are seen to too. They were quick to notice, he was too prone to ignoring it. As if turning a blind eye to them now could undo that they had ever come. Half the time he chooses to willfully ignore it. The other half he simply forgets. Even when they prickle and bite at him, their pain burning through him, despite the pain meds, he forgets. He has too much practice ignoring pain for it to make much of an impact in his consciousness. The only good thing to ever come out of the chronic pain in his fucked up hand.
Not that it is an achievement to successfully forget things. It is perhaps one of three things Eddie is an expert at. And while there are not many things to forget out here in the cabin, Eddie is sure he is still forgetting them.

Forgetting to tend to his wounds — despite they way they still ache beneath the waters of his painkillers — is like having to put post it notes up on the sun shields in his van, his own script yelling at him in capital letters not to forget that extra shift he picked up at mechanics shop or the dates of Hellfire that month, or that history test or homework for Ms. O'Donnell; notes that are repeated in his room, plastered alongside his wall amidst all of his posters and even some finding their way to the bathroom mirror, curling up with the damp air they catch after steam fills the room, when Eddie or his uncle showers.
  And despite putting them up himself, he sometimes forgets to look at them. Even when they are hovering right before his eyes; his gaze sometimes just jumps right over them, as if they are not even there or not worth of taking notice off. They simply fall into the background, buzzing somewhere deep in his subconscious, alongside everything else that slips past his memory, fading into oblivion, until one day they surprise Eddie when his eyes passes over one and he finds one from three months ago, he forgot to take down.

It is why he can look at Steve tending to his own wounds and still be surprised when he afterwards throws the anti-bacterial cream at him with a reminder to tend to his own.

That is why, this particular morning, almost two weeks into his stay in the cabin, when Steve comes out of the shower, only dressed in a pair of wash-out jeans, his chest bare and exposed — the scars by his stomach stark and puckered, yet oddly hollow, as if they are nestled in a crater — Eddie is simply enjoying the view and trying not to get caught with not a single alarm bell going off in his head.

Cigarette dangling sideways from his mouth, his eyes leisurely and languidly tracks Steve coming out of the bathroom and his movement across the room. Gaze moving across the planes of his hairy chest, strong muscles and mole-speckled skin; still far too enamored by the sight, despite the green and yellow bruises mottled all over his skin in ghostly imprints of the vines and bats that nearly killed him.

This morning, he does not get to do it for long.

In the middle of Eddie's regularly scheduled viewing, Steve comes to stand before Eddie. He looks down at him on the couch with a familiar white tube in his hand, and finally the quirk of his mouth makes sense to him. Internally cursing his internal alarm bells that should have warned him before the trap snapped shut around him, Eddie groans loudly. And vigorously. The one cigarette he allowed himself to light dangles from his mouth, drooping and slack off to the side. Smoke curling in a thin strip from the burning end in the corner of his eyes.

It is not the first time someone has come to force Eddie to take care of himself. A few bats set their teeth in Eddie's back, gouging out small pieces by his shoulders. It means, even if Eddie remembered and wanted to remember, he would need a helping hand. Mostly, it has been Robin who's helped him. The rest of the time, he's asked Joyce or Jonathan, who for some reason feel safer to ask than Steve. Something Eddie tries very hard not to look too closely at.
Although, Steve is not the only one, Eddie avoids getting help from. Dustin has offered many, many times, but Eddie refused to let him near enough to see the aftermath. It was bad enough he was there to pick up Eddie's broken body after he fell; this was a sight Eddie would make sure he would never see. Like Dustin, Steve has offered, but every time he has, Eddie has been quick to dodge and dive behind Robin or Jonathan and Joyce, if she is unavailable; not sure he could handle knowing just what it feels like to have Steve's hands smooth up and down his skin; knowing it would be impossible to escape his touch once he has known it.

Evidently, this time, Eddie was not fast enough and he curses himself for being hit and rendered useless by the Nat20 the sight of Steve's bare chest is. And this time, there is no one around to save him. Robin is at home with her parents, Joyce and Hopper have gone to the lab for one of their meetings and Jonathan have gone grocery shopping with Argyle.

"Come on, dude," Steve says, rolling his eyes. "You don't want Robin to go on another tirade about infection and how damaging bad role models are for adolescent teens, do you?" A playful smirk curls from Steve's mouth.

Eddie groans again for good measure. Head thrown back and groan rolling from his throat, scratching against his throat with every sound, making his displeasure as known as he possibly can.

Ignoring his loud complaints, Steve neatly steps over his legs, curls a hand around Eddie's arm and pulls him up from the couch. Then marches through the cabin with him without another word.

A look over his shoulder makes him catch sight of Will sat by the dining table with his drawing pad. Head ducked down, he, at a glance, seems completely absorbed in his drawing, but his cheeks grow redder and redder as Eddie blinks at him. Just before they disappear behind the curtain sectioning off the second bedroom from the living room, Will's eyes dart up again. He does not catch onto Eddie watching him. He is far too busy looking past him. Eyes latching onto plains of gorgeous skin, rounded shoulders and the lines of firm muscles across Harrington's glorious back. Not that Eddie can blame him for overlooking him, when Steve so shamelessly parades around like that. Me too, little Byers, he thinks, entirely too sympathetic to his blazing cheeks and furtive glance, me too. That was another revelation that had made itself known, after just a few mornings of Steve coming out of the shower with glistening, warm skin and exposed chest hair. Solidifying Eddie's suspicions about Will. Another revelation and another notch in the column of 'Eddie really needs to talk to Little Byers, like, asap.'

Pushed the last way around the curtain, Eddie leaves Will to nurse his little crush with another tid-bit of bare skin and chest hair and steps all the way into the little sectioned off bedroom.

Steve pulls the curtain closed behind them with a yank. The fabric jerks into place with a rattling, plastic fwii-iip.

A pointed look sent his way, has Eddie grabbing the bottom of his shirt and pulling it up over his head, cigarette miraculously still dangling from his mouth. He throws the shirt aside on the bed and holds his arms out, as if to say, 'Well?'

Rolling his eyes, Steve steps up to him, plucks the cigarette from his mouth and puts it in his own. It dangles sideways, caught between shiny white teeth and slightly puckered pink lips. The barest glimpse of pink tongue peeks out between his teeth and touches the base of the cigarette.

Eddie stares at him for a moment. Wide eyed and lost for words, his mouth too dry to voice them had there been any. For a moment, he struggles and barely manages to escape opening and closing his mouth, like a particularly dumbstruck fish. "Dude, you can just put it out," he finally manages to choke out, waving a hand in the air.

"Hmm," Steve takes a step closer, medicinal ointment held aloft in his hands, "Not sure I can risk it, Munson." He crooks an eyebrow at him. "I don't trust your generosity to be big enough to forgive me for killing your cigarette long before its dead," he finishes with a crooked grin and a glint in his eyes.

And Eddie cannot tear his eyes away from him. From his charming, lopsided grin, his bright eyes and his handsome face. All of it. He is completely trapped in the sight before him. Eyes darting from the pink glimpse of his tongue, poking at the butt of Eddie's cigarette and his mouth stretched around the cigarette, keeping it in place in the side of his mouth, surrounded by pink, round lips; to his bare chest and the sculpted muscles along his stomach and waist, to the pair of jeans hanging on his hips; skin warm and shining with drops of water still clinging to the planes of his chest. Arms long and rounded with firm muscles. Even with the bruises mottling his skin green, yellow and blue, he is still so annoyingly attractive, it is disgusting.

Eddie's hands ache to reach out and touch him, or maybe just pluck the cigarette from his mouth, flick it away and put his own lips in its place, to feel the shape of Steve's mouth against his own and get a taste of that lopsided smirk on his tongue.

Instead, Eddie pointedly looks away from him. Curls his hands into fists, digging his nails into the bed of his palm and locks it all up tight.

Fuck, he thought it was hard to sit back in the boat and watch him pull his sweater off, revealing firm muscles, a blanket of hair all over his chest, and invitingly long stretches of tan, warm skin. Even harder in the Upside Down to watch him rip a demon bat apart with his bare hands, blood dripping from his mouth, grime and muck all over his body, like a character straight from an action movie, or model strategically covered in blood and mud. Or when he had to walk right beside him then, Eddie's vest on his shoulders in a way Eddie never thought he would allow his vest to be worn, but so very happy to when the chance had unveiled itself before his eyes; the sight of it plastered across Steve's back far too familiar and comforting, like a shining point for Eddie's mosquito eyes in that dark hellscape.
 It had been far too hard to keep his distance after that, and while it had been far too easy to slip into flirting with Steve, Eddie had, in a small way, been thankful, he had plenty to keep him occupied in the hours after escaping the Upside Down and in the lead-up to the battle against Vecna, so he had no opportunity to get swallowed up in Steve, more than he already had.

What that will do for him now, he does not know.

Eyebrows arching, Steve lifts his free hand in the air and makes a twirling motion, a finger sticking up in the air.

"Your wish is my command, your majesty," Eddie drawls, a smirk playing from his lips. Arms splayed out, he bends over, bowing theatrically and smirking up at Steve. Once he dips low enough and manages to catch Steve's eyes for a heart stopping moment, he straightens out with a popping jump and turns on his heel.

"Shut up, man," Steve says, voice too light to carry the practiced annoyance that crosses his face. One of his hand reaches out and lands on Eddie's shoulder. Touch light and easy on his skin. Fingertips grazing the center of his back between each shoulder blade; the touch far too light to do anything to stabilize and support Eddie after his wild spin.

Goosebumps shiver up and down Eddie's back, running out through the hairs on the back of his arms at Steve's touch. It sends his heartbeat inside of his chest stumbling.

"Oh, you don't like King Steve?" Eddie continues smirking, even though it is only the wall receiving it at the moment; even if it is an effort, keeping his voice from betraying the hiccup of his heart.

"As if anyone sane would."

"Would you prefer princess?" he asks, voice teasing and light.

The hand on his back pauses. Fingers hovering on top of his skin. Steve is a quiet and silent presence behind him, the wall of his body lingering on the edges of Eddie's senses.

"Shut up, Munson," Steve finally manages, his voice carefully measured, but muffled by Eddie's cigarette and the press of his lips to keep a hold of it. "You'd think you'd be smart enough to be nice to the guy, whose going to have his hands all over your injuries."

"Did you or did you not miss the fact I'm going on three years in senior year of High School?" Eddie points out, tilting his head to the side, in lieu of pulling a face at him. "Smart isn't the first word used to describe me out there."

"You should hear Henderson talk about you then," there is a smile audible in his words. He finally moves his hand from between Eddie's shoulder blades and they vanish from his skin.

Twisting and looking over his shoulder, Eddie arches a pointed brow at him. It is a mistake. His face is way too close. The perfect arch of his perfect lips cups the cigarette, puckering invitingly around it and far too close to Eddie's own. Before Eddie can do anything stupid, like find out just how true the rumors about those very lips are, Eddie plucks the cigarette from his mouth, turns back around and snuffs it out on the rickety bedframe. He drops the half-burned, now crumbled up filter to the ground.

Eyes following every move of Eddie's hand, Steve quirks an eyebrow at him, mouth tugging into a crooked smile.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Eddie says in lieu of literally anything else, hoping it will distract from the rush of blood pumping through his veins right underneath his skin within easy reach of Steve's fingers. "It's impolite." He sniffs loftily. "Besides, you were burning it out anyway, just letting it sit there."

"Sure, whatever." Steve shrugs, a small smile clinging to the corners of his mouth and turns his attention to Eddie's upper body and the mess left behind by the bats. Finally, he pops the top of the tube and begins smearing it into Eddie's stitches.

While he works at his scars, pinched together with too many stitches to count, trust him; Eddie has been bored enough to try and count them, Steve starts talking again. "I'm serious, though," he says. At his voice, Eddie throws a look over his shoulder. His eyes are firmly attached to where he works at Eddie's skin. A small frown pinches between his brows, as if the act of tending to Eddie's numerous scars needs careful attending and all of his focus. Gaze sharp and intense, his hazel eyes burning with the strength of it. Eddie is not entirely sure about what he is speaking of, until he continues, "You told me, Dustin wouldn't shut up about me to you, but what you fail to notice is that the kid worships you even more." The smile on his face grows, somehow fond and exasperated at the same time. Despite his smile, the furrow remains between his brows. Eddie wants to reach out and smooth it over with his thumb. Maybe even draw his hand further up and sink his fingers into his soft locks, something he has not been able to do since the night he sat with him through his migraine. The urge seizes Eddie inside of his chest more and more, the more times he finds himself in front of Steve, close enough to touch. An occurrence that is happening alarmingly regularly and an urge that only grew after his migraine. The feeling is becoming concerningly familiar to him, but short of grabbing Steve by the hair and pulling him into a kiss, Eddie has found no way to make it go away.

Eddie draws in a careful breath around the feeling and turns back around, fixing his gaze ahead.

"I should have told you, when we were down there, don't know why I didn't. But the kid thinks you're a genius. He's obsessed." A huff of air blows from Steve. It washes across Eddie's neck in a warm gust. Shivers tinkle up and down Eddie's skin in its wake. "I thought the kid was going to explode that first time I picked him up after a Hellfire campaign," he adds. "He was flying off the car seat, man." Coming to stand on his side, head ducked down, gaze on the wound littered across Eddie's ribs, Steve rolls his eyes, a fond smile stretched across his face. "He wouldn't shut up for hours. I thought my ears were going to fall off. I think, he went through the entire campaign that evening. He dragged me inside and all. And I had to sit through Claudia's green beans casserole—" his eyes dart up to Eddie's, smile twisting archly "—thanks for that, by the way."

"Oh, you're so very welcome," Eddie says dryly.

Rolling his eyes again, Steve turns back to his wounds. "I think it took him like 2 hours to tell me the whole story thing" —he waves a hand at Eddie— "you'd made, then an additional hour to gush about the whole thing, where he went through so many theories about where you'd take the campaign next time and the clues you'd dropped at them and shit."

A fond, soft smile grows from Eddie's lips. Embers burn warm and tender inside of his chest. Head lowering, he turns his smile to the ground.

"And I can't count the times he's talked about you, since that first time. It would be annoying, if it didn't make him so happy," those may be the words he says, but his voice is far too fond for his proclaimed annoyance to be anything but playacted. Steve takes another step to the side and comes to stand in front of Eddie. Before him, Steve's eyes roam over his chest. Gaze darting from stitched wound to scar to another patch of stitches. His gaze trails a burning path from the bite marks scattered across his ribs to the side of his stomach, just above his hipbone and up to the one lying by his throat, right at the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. That was the most dangerous one, the doctors at the lab told him. Had it been a little more to the side and just an inch deeper and it would have killed him.

Quiet settles over them while Steve tends to his front. At first, Eddie tips his head back, looking up at the ceiling, determinedly keeping his eyes off of Steve. But after a short while, he cannot quite keep himself from tipping his head back down, eyes falling over the small frown wrinkling across Steve's brow, his lips pressed together in concentration and his burning hazel eyes, still so intense, despite the fond words he spoke.

So close to him, Eddie aches to reach out and touch.

Shit.

He was right to avoid Steve's help with his injuries. Steve is far too dangerous up close.

"I don't begrudge you, you know," Steve says after a while. Warm fingers massages at the wound by Eddie's throat. Thumb going out and rubbing at his collarbone. A thin layer of the antibiotic cream smears across his skin, trailing in the wake of his touch. "I'm happy he has you." His eyes dart up and finds Eddie's. For a moment, their gazes lock. A breath rushes in through Steve's nose, chest rising and falling. In his hazel eyes, Eddie feels stripped bare, even though he is not the one baring words to him. Steve swallows and tears his eyes away, focusing back down. "You can give him things I never could. I tried reading up on that fantasy game he loves so much, but, no surprise, it went right over my head." Removing his hand from Eddie, he mimics the path of something sailing right over his head and blows a soft whistle sound from his mouth. "Still would. Even if the letters would sit still long enough for me to understand them." Smiling, he shrugs. "But you can give him that." He brings his hand back, settling it back on Eddie's skin again.

Eddie wishes he would keep it off.

The words he speaks settle warm and fuzzy inside Eddie's chest, almost warm enough to burn and the touch of his hand, warmer still, makes them light up in an inferno, making them all that much harder to bear without burning up.

Oblivious to the fire he has started beneath Eddie's skin, Steve continues, "And I've never quite been able to stop caring what people think of me, or likeability and shit like that." His hand lifts up once more and flaps in the air, gesturing loosely. "But you don't give a shit about what people say about you. You're just unapologetically weird and intense and a little insane, and underneath his curly hair and soft exterior, Dustin is a little insane too and I think he needed someone to pull that out of him. To show him it's okay to just be yourself and not care what other people think about you." Finished with the last wound on Eddie's body, his hand leaves his skin. It falls away from him, dropping down to hang limb by Steve's side, flopping uselessly back and forth a few times before settling. "I've never been able to give him that," he says, voice suddenly soft and quiet. His eyes lift to lock with his. Intensity burns deep inside of his eyes. Gaze far too entrancing, locking Eddie in a hazel ocean. "I'm happy you can do that for him. I'm happy that it's you."

Eddie blinks uselessly at him. "Shit, Harrington."

Tilting his head to the side, Steve cracks a small, almost apologetic smile.

Eddie purses his lips and shakes his head. "You were so much easier to hate across the hallway in High School, man."

A snort bursts inside of Steve's throat and a surprised flash of humor breaks across his face. Shaking his head, he looks down at the floor between his feet, smiling and shuffling a little in place. He looks back up at Eddie, hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and tips back onto his heels. "You fond of holding grudges, Munson?"

"Nah." Eddie waves a hand in the air, brushing it aside. "I've been overcharging jocks and preppies, since I first stepped foot in the forest behind Hawkins High." A large, Cheshire cat grin stretches from his lips. "It's really therapeutic, I've found."

Laughter barks from Steve. He throws his head back and laughs, face scrunched in bright humor. "Oh, you've been overcharging us fuckers since day one, haven't you," he says. Expression bright and humored, his laughter disbelieving. Head shaking and eyes filled with mirth, he looks back at Eddie.

"Guilty as charged." He raises his hands in surrender, palms open, then lays one on his chest, in mock solemnity. "Someone had to pay for all the equipment for my sweetheart and I gladly volunteered them."

Lips still stretched in laughter, Steve crooks an eyebrow and asks, "Sweetheart?"

"My guitar."

"Ah." He nods, then crooks his head to the side. "Why Sweetheart?"

Eddie waggles his eyebrows. "Because we make sweet love together."

"Wouldn't that be lover, then?"

"Please, I'm not crass."

"But crass enough to call your guitar playing love making?"

"Just about." Eddie throws a wink at him. That is when he finds enough hitpoints that have survived Steve's touch and the critical hit his still bare chest smacked him with, to step out of Steve's reach, snatch his shirt off the bed and pull it back over his head. Head popping out of the neck, he tugs the hem down over his front and pulls his hair out from underneath the neckline. Curly strands fly in the air and flops back down onto his back.

With one last quirked smile, Steve turns to leave. Before he can go too far, Eddie stops him. "I'm happy too, you know," he says, sticking his hands into the tight pockets of his jeans.

Feet hitting the floor with a soft, skidding thud-thud, Steve turns and looks back at him, eyebrow raised inquisitively.

Caught under his gaze, Eddie shrugs and adds, "It goes both ways. I'm grateful that little shrimp is in my life." Head tilting to the side in a conceding manner, he crooks a small, lopsided smile. "I mean, it feels a little like being imprinted on by a baby duckling. But Dustin is probably one of the best things to ever have happened to me."

The smile Steve gives in return is soft and warm. "Yeah, he tends to have that effect on people."

Their eyes lock. Understanding passes warm and heavy, yet somehow infinitely light between them.

They both look away at the same time.

Ignoring the skitter of his heart and the warmth fuzzing inside of his chest, Eddie falls into step behind Steve as they both leave the room.

"So, what other nicknames do you use for your stuff?" Steve asks him with a grin and a sideways glance.

"I'm so glad you asked, Harrington. Surprisingly, no one else thinks about that. Who would've thought?"

"The nerve of them."

"Yeah, you wouldn't believe." Steve laughs and Eddie continues, "So, my van is my precious, but foulmouthed Babygirl. The mouth that girl has is unbelievable…" And so Eddie follows Steve to the kitchen sink, where he washes the harshly smelling medicinal cream off his hands and tells him all about his Darling leather jacket; Doll, the battle vest and the other names Eddie has given his possessions over the years.

It was meant to be a simple day. A simple afternoon. Hidden in the safety of the cabin among people, who all know exactly what sort of monster is lurking in the cracks of the floorboards and underneath Eddie's skin; bubbling in his blood and curling in his chest; shaking, shaking, shaking with his every breath.

And maybe it was Steve's steady gaze earlier, his quiet voice and warm hands; chasing the cold of the Upside Down from the crevices it has hidden itself away in inside of his bones up until now. Maybe it was his soft and tender words or his fond smile. But for a moment, just a moment, Eddie cannot ignore the quake trembling in his chest.

The moment is enough.

It builds underneath his skin. Quaking and shaking and trembling. It builds and builds and builds until his breath quivers; until his hands shake and until his gaze cannot focus past the blur and imprint of the Upside Down etched into his eyes; until his gaze darts everywhere and he still sees nothing.

Eddie tries to shove it back under the floorboards where it belongs, but he can't.

For a while, he tries grounding himself in the movie Dustin convinced Steve to watch with him, but even if he it had helped, Steve gets distracted by Robin, who managed to come back around the same time the grocery shoppers did, and who keeps interrupting the movie to talk to him. Eventually, Dustin heaves a heavy, long-suffering sigh very reminiscent of Steve’s, stops the movie and clicks over to MTV and picks up a book instead.

Despite the flimsy anchor he had tried to fashion out of the movie vanishing, Eddie stays, trying to steady himself in the images flashing across MTV and Steve and Robin's jabbing conversation instead. Neither help.

Finally, Eddie jolts forward and jumps to his feet. He runs across the living room, fleeing to the little bedroom. The walls inside the curtain are so much closer; the room so much smaller; suffocatingly so. The shrinking walls makes Eddie wish he had run for the front door instead.

Hands in his hair, he paces the room. Mumbling incoherently under his breath. Fingers clenching and tugging at his hair. Pain prickles along his scalp. Bursting like small sparks from his grip. Air escapes his mouth in small, rapid puffs. Inout–inout–inout–inout.

The room is too small. Too quiet.

He bursts back out into the living room.

Ignoring the inquisitive eyes following him, he tries to sit down again. Leans back on the couch on Dustin's other side. He fidgets. Fingers picking at the skin up and down his arm. At the skin around his nails. Bites at it with his teeth when that does not work. Both of his legs bounce and jiggle, shaking the entire couch, as if it is falling apart, while distant, empty eyes watches flashing images whirl across the TV as one big blur.

Sat back and leant against the armrest of the couch, legs thrown up and sprawled down the length, Dustin — who long since kicked Steve off the couch, banishing him to the lazy-boy with Robin —gives him a look over his borrowed book. At his worried glance, Eddie bounces up off the couch and heads to the kitchen.

He rummages through the shelves of the cupboards and cabinets. Opens the fridge and gives the contents a once over. Catches the muffled sound of music playing from El's bedroom and quickly shuts the fridge again, skin buzzing anew.

Empty handed, fingers twitching at his sides, he returns to the living room, places a hand on the back of the couch and leans over it. He swats a hand at Dustin and the book in his hands. Pagers rustling, the book jerks out of Dustin's hands and Eddie snaps his fingers in his face. Dustin's eyes blink with every snap-snap-snap of his fingers. "Hey, hey, Henderson," he says, "What would we play for you?" every word comes out of his mouth in a stumbling rush. "I mean, what's your favorite song?" Wide, wild eyes turn to the rest of the room, where Jonathan, Argyle and Nancy — who has finally managed come to visit, along with Mike, picked up by Jonathan and Argyle, when they had done their grocery run — stare up at him from their shared mattress and the card game spread between them; at Steve and Robin watching him carefully from their shared lazy-boy. "What's everyone's favorite song? I don't know that. Why don't I know that?" Frantically his gaze darts from Robin, to Argyle, to Jonathan, to Nancy, to Steve and back again. For a moment, he's clearheaded enough to be thankful that Joyce and Hopper are not around to witness his breakdown. Even if he is positive, someone will tell them when they come home. "I should know that," he says, finally landing his gaze on Robin. Only to tear his gaze back to a wide-eyed Dustin, looking at him over his discarded comic. "I need to—, I should—," he forces a breath out, air shaking from his lungs. "Tell me your song, Dustin."

Dustin gives him a careful look. "Eddie, are you—"

He flings himself away from the couch and Dustin cuts off, even more wide eyed than before. Arm hanging in the air, Eddie points back at Dustin. "Think about it. Okay? We need to know." He looks around at them all. Their gazes skitter beneath his skin. Crawling all over him like the prickle of ants against him. "You know—, you said—" he stumbles over his words. Raising his hands, he puts his palms on his head. Fingers sink into his hair, settling between curly, frizzy strands of hair and he pushes his hands into his skull. Pressure builds, zipping into his head, building beneath his hands and chasing his every racing thought with stabbing pain. "Vecna could return any moment. We should know everyone's song. Like. Make a list or something," he finishes lamely and drops his arms back down. Hands swinging lamely by his sides, slapping into his thigh twice before settling, as he stares at them with a racing heart.

The living room is heavy. Quiet settles tense and heavy over them. Eddie feels their wide and worried eyes like a trail of fire burning his skin.

He can't stay to burn to ashes beneath their shared gaze.

Eyes darting over them all one last time, Eddie throws himself through the living room and into the little bedroom. He flings the curtain back into place. Snapping it across the rack with a hard yank. The curtain jerks through the air. It hangs, swaying in place, not even covering half of the opening.

Eddie cannot pay it any mind.

He turns into the room.

He paces. Walks back and forth across the small space still available at the foot of Steve's foldout mattress and the bed Dustin and Eddie share, like a walkway. It is not enough. But he keeps going. Unable to stop.
His thoughts race. Flashing with images of Chrissy and thundering red skies, as it so often does these days. Boots thumping across the floor and hands shaking by his sides. Jumping up and down every few steps, as if it will shake the crawling feeling that claws at him away.

It does not.

Finally, when it feels like his legs are going to give out underneath him, he turns and sits on the bed. Shoulders hunching, his back caves and his head drops forward into his hands. Palms rubbing roughly at his face.

After a moment, he drops his hands, only to immediately twist them together instead. Fingers fidgeting, he pulls and twists his rings, gnawing absentmindedly on his lips. One of his legs bounces, foot tapping increasingly rapid on the floor.

The tight, suffocating feeling inside of his chest expands. It claws at his lungs, then his ribs; growing; reaching out; encompassing his entire chest; grasping him tightly and squeezing every bit of air from him, leaving him suffocating and gasping for breath.

"Eddie," a voice says. A hand knocks on the wall.

Eddie's head jerks up. Eyes darting through the room, he finds Robin leaning against the open doorway, looking in at him. An unhappy twist pulling at her mouth and a furrow splitting across her brow.

For a moment, neither speaks. They simply stare at each other across the small space, taking each other in. One pair of eyes wide and fearful and another wary and full of a heavy weight, both shadowed with the mirror image of their world.

Throwing one last glance over her shoulder, Robin pushes off the wall, crosses the room and comes to sit on the bed beside him, her hands folded beneath her thighs.

"I feel like I'm losing my mind, man," the words fall out of his mouth before he is even aware of it. "I know, I should be used to it by now, it's been almost two weeks! But I'm still so—" he breaks off with a stuttering breath and does not finish. Propping his elbows on his knees, he drops his head into his hands, burying his face his palms. He breathes loud and heavy into his palms, as if it might chase the suffocating feeling from his lungs and allow him to breath unhindered again. It does not. Instead, he pushes his hands higher up and presses the bed of his palms into his eyes. Starbursts burns before his eyes. Sparking white and bright in the dark, their touch hot and painful. "How did you do it?" he finally asks from behind his hands, voice raw and hoarse.

"I didn't sleep for two days straight after," Robin's voice is low and small. "Every time I tried, I saw that monster or those fucking Russians before me and I would jerk awake and wouldn't calm down for hours," she continues. Eddie keeps his hand raised, buried away in their depths, but he listens to her every word with the desperation of a drowning man. "On hour, like, 30, I finally caught sight of Steve's headlights parked on the road by my house. So I went out and sat with him and we drove around with the radio on low until it was morning."

"Rich people," Eddie mumbles half-heartedly and finally drops his hands, freeing his eyes from the pain boring deep into them.

Robin sways sideways, bumping his shoulder with hers. "When morning came, he drove me back home and I dragged him inside. We fell asleep on the couch watching a movie, practically stacked on top of each other and slept till the late afternoon." Air blows from her mouth in a small puff, carrying the shadow of a laugh behind itself. "Thank god we were both out of jobs or we would have been fired right then and there."

Eddie makes a small noise in the back of his throat. "Don't think I can do the same," he says, hoarsely. "I'm not exactly swimming in options out here." He holds a weak arm out, presenting the empty air to his other side. A sigh falls from his mouth and he drops his arm back down, letting it flop limp onto his lap. With both hands in his lap, he clutches desperately at the rings adorning his fingers. Eyes dropped down, fixed to his lap and fidgeting hands, he watches his clunky rings twist and turn around his fingers. It drags and pulls at his skin, caught in the grasp of metal and the tape wrapped around it to keep them on his fingers.

"I know what it feels like," Robin says, her voice small and soft.

A noise croaks inside Eddie's throat, all throaty and raw.

"I mean, it really fucking sucks."

That noise scratches inside of his throat again. It lies somewhere between an incredulous laugh and a pained grunt. He pulls at one of his rings in a particularly vicious and violent tug. Pain pulls across the knuckle of his finger, the twist of the ring a small burn that cuts into the appendage.

Thankfully, Robin takes no heed of his response and keeps going, "It's like everything you saw is burned on the back of your eyelids and every time you close them, you see it happening, over and over until you don't really know, if what you're seeing is real or not and you're constantly scared. And everything around you is either too much or too little, like the world got a hundred times brighter, while you were in the Upside Down, or like everything is muffled. Like a fog is constantly pulled over your thoughts, or you have been locked away in a box and your vision is distorted by stained or blurred out glass and everywhere you look, it's just blurry."

Head turned down, his eyes fixed on his fidgeting hands, Eddie listens quietly to Robin. Metal occasionally clinks together from his rough yanks and pulling twists. Fingers still twisted up in each other, pulling and dragging his rings around. Beneath the violent twist of his rings, a soreness builds with every twist and pull his fingers make until every one of his fingers burn with their unforgiving touch.

Unperturbed by his silence, Robin continues, "And your old nightmares suddenly seem really fucking harmless, but then they just start looking like that monster and Russian doctors torturing you and sometimes you wake up in the dark and you start to believe you never really escaped any of it, that the nightmare is real and you've just been imagining everything else—"

And suddenly it's all too much. Yanking his fingers from each other, he jerks his hands up and clutches his head, as if needing to shield himself from her words. "Robin," Eddie says, voice painfully tight and his eyes squeezed shut, "you're not helping." Neck bowed, head held in his palms, his hands grip his head like a lifeline. Nails bite into his scalp and pain slips from their grasp, stinging into his skin.

"Oh, sorry," she says apologetically. She shifts from side the side. The dip in the mattress wobbles and jostles under her movement. Fabric shifts and rustles lightly against each other.

The sound of breathing fills the room; one heavy and straining, heaving and gasping; another quiet and low, steadily rising and falling beside him. Almost an imitation of ways waves crash at sea. Turbulent and calm; loud and quiet; harsh and soft. Two sides of the same force.

"I'm sorry," the word blows shakily from Robin and Eddie can manage to open his eyes again in their touch. "I'm probably the last person you want right now." The mattress shifts and dips as Robin moves beside him, turning to face him. Knees come up to press into the side of his thighs. Out of the corner of his eyes, Robin's hands gesture wildly through the air, as she falls into a near frantic ramble, "I mean, I ramble nonsensically at the best of times, and when you're losing your mind, that's the last thing you want more off. And I really only got here last year, so I'm not as experienced in this as Nancy and Steve and the kids are, so I'm really still losing my own mind."

"It would actually be nice," Eddie says, his voice subdued and quiet, "to talk with someone, who's still new to all this. Who isn't just treating all this like a typical Tuesday."

"Yeah, I get that." A moment passes. "Eddie." A hand lands on his arm and Eddie slowly removes his hands from his head. Sparks of pain shoots through his scalp from where his nails laid imbedded in his skull, prickling and stinging at his head. Arms lowered, he looks up at Robin, who meets his gaze with her own eyes slightly wide and shaky, but somehow strong in spite of it. "It’s okay," she says and squeezes his arm. "I get it. And I'm here. You're not alone."

"I know. Thank you," he croaks. Then, louder, because he is desperate to make the air in the room lighter, "Think my reputation can make it through this?" he says, looking himself up and down. "I mean, I'm not exactly metal material right now." A twitch of his lips is the only thing that manages to survive the smile he tries to send her way.

Robin gives him a smile in return that is weak at best. Just a small upwards pull of her lips, the movement wobbling and shaking, as if the earthquake ever trembling inside of Eddie's chest has managed to reach her and now quakes inside the both of them. "You know, I'm not as learned in this as the others are," she says, quietly. "But I've been where you are. I can't count the hours I've spent sat on my bedroom floor or in the shower, just feeling like I'm shaking apart and I'm barely keeping myself together with the smallest of threads. I've lost hours, where I should be doing homework or working or practicing for band, but my mind is just this static, white noise and I can't focus, because whenever I try, all I see before me is that monster ripping another human apart or Steve being dragged unconscious into a room, nearly beaten to death, and there's always a split second, where I'm back in that chair, scared he's dead all over again and I no longer know where I am. Especially at night." A glance down shows her nails picking at the skin on her fingers. Nails clack-clack-clacking softly against each other and the tips of her fingers trembling. Turned face to face, her eyes meeting Eddie's own are round and wide, a wild look growing inside of them.

Without another word, Eddie reaches out and grabs onto her hands, locking them in his own. Grip tight and strong.

Robin swallows thickly. It travels noisily down her throat, the sound loud and painful between them. She looks down at their hands, then back up again. Lips pulling into a wobbling smile.

A moment passes where neither says another word.

"I know it feels like you're losing your mind, and that you're alone in it," Robin says after a while, voice steadier and less rapid than before, quieter too. "But you're not, Eddie. I promise you, you're not." Her eyes lock with his. Understanding burns inside of them. "I've seen Steve jump like two feet in the air, if his thoughts wandered too far and the Family Video doorbell startles him. And he doesn't calm down for almost an hour. Even with me there." She takes a deep breath. The air shakes in and out of her lungs. "I've spent hours at night, driving through Hawkins or parked out by the quarry, when neither of us can sleep and as a result we've sported matching eye-bags more times than I can count." The wobbling smile gives away to something smaller, something warmer. Like a gift given to him, just the same as her words are. "I've caught him napping on the couch in the backroom at Family Video in the quiet hours far too many times and I know it's because he can't sleep all alone in that big, empty house of his, even if he won't admit how hard it is for him, sometimes." The smile falls away. A weight and gravity enters Robin's eyes, her gaze on him heavy and serious. Every word that falls from her mouth is quiet and small now, her voice so soft, almost fragile, in the small space between them.

"I can't step into an elevator without having a panic attack and I freak out whenever I hear a Russian accent, even if it's just in a movie I've seen before. And I can't tell you how many times, I've fallen asleep in Steve's car and woken up on his couch with my head in his lap and some movie playing on low on the TV," the more she speaks the more her voice speeds up, her words picking up that way she stumbles gracelessly along, when she rambles, words just tumbling one after the other from her mouth, almost disjointed, as if she has barely finished thinking them, before she is speaking them, "because he's like one of the only people I feel truly safe with and comfortable around right now. I mean, that number was already pretty small before, because—" she sends him a look "—you know why, you know that I'm—" she nods and flaps a hand in the air "—and my parents can't know and with my mom criticizing everything I do like she's a fucking vulture, it's so hard to feel safe with them, even before all this," now her voice rises in volume, eyes widening. "But after everything, that safety, that comfort narrowed down to just Steve, so half the time I can't even sleep in my own fucking bed unless he's there or if the radio's on," she continues, rapidly spewing word after word, as if running a marathon. One of her hands frees itself from his grip and she waves it in the air, movements blurry and uncontrolled, gesturing frantically through the air, eyes wide and wild. "And sometimes I have to call him on the phone and force him to spend like thirty minutes just talking random shit with me, because I can't convince myself my house is safe or that some Russian soldier won't break down my door the second I close my eyes." A large puff of air blows forcefully from her mouth. It passes through her, chest deflating with a sharp jolt. She gives him a glance. Removes her hand from the air and lays it atop his again. "So, if you feel like you're losing your mind, you're in good company." A wobbly and shaky smile grows across her lips. "Because I am too."

A small moment passes. Her words settle in the air between them.

"Not sure if I should feel better or worse now," Eddie finally says. At his words, a weak smile twitches from Robin. "Suppose it does make me feel a little better, to know I'm not the only one feeling like this," he adds quietly.

Wordlessly, Robin gives his hand a squeeze. The smile still flickering shaky from her lip.

For a moment, they sit there, side by side, facing each other, hands clenched tightly between them, as if that is the only thing keeping them from falling apart.

In the wake of Robin's words, Eddie finds he is able to look at the forever trembling earthquake burrowed deep in his chest without immediately falling apart in its rippling shocks. So he looks at Robin and lets her see. "It feels like there's an earthquake inside of me," he says and Robin's hands reflexively tighten around his. "Like the center of my chest keeps shaking," he continues in a quiet and broken whisper. "Like I'm shaking apart from the inside out and nothing can steady me again." He frees a hand from their desperate grasp and holds it to his chest, palm pressing into the center, holding the very spot that threatens to scatter him to the wind. "It shakes from inside my chest to the ground beneath my feet and everything is crumbling beneath the weight of its touch. I'm just waiting until the day my skin starts to split apart and I'm left in pieces. Or with cracks all over my skin, slowly eating away at me until I eventually crumble to dust." He takes the pain clawing and trembling inside of himself and rips them from his chest, carves them into words, baring them for Robin to see and share. Maybe if someone else can hold it, the earthquake won't shake him apart. In the end, it is easy, taking his pain and carving it into words for Robin to hold. He has spent years crafting stories and songs out of nothing but his heartbeat and the air in his lungs. The hard part is not forming the shadows and the everlasting tremble into words. No. It is holding it out for her to see without bleeding all over his own hands in the process. Enough blood has been shed. His own and others. Robin can carry his words; she does not need to carry his blood too. He lets his hand fall back down to the desperate grasp they have on each other.

"You're not." Robin grasps his hands tight, quickly enfolding his returned hand back into their clasp. Nails dig into the back of his hands, biting at his skin. The pain is so different to the quake trembling inside of his chest, he seizes it and latches onto it, gasping for it, like breaking the surface of a pool after hours of being submerged. "I promise you, you're not. Even if you shake apart, we'll be there to keep you together." She leans forward and catches his eyes. "We’ll catch you, Eddie. I promise." Her lips pull into a fragile smile and she tilts her head to the side in a commiserating shrug. "It doesn't ever really go away. I wish I could say it does. But it doesn't. Not that I've really had the chance for it to. But it does settle. It gets smaller and you get used to it. You claw your way through the worst of it and then you learn to live with the rest. But it doesn't stay the worst. I promise you. The nightmares get fewer and father between and the bad days spread out." She squeezes his hands. "You will be able to sleep again and things will return to normal."

"Steve doesn’t sleep."

Robin cuts a grimace. "Steve has—" she tries and cuts off, grimace twisting her features further. "He isn't—" another cut off. She huffs quietly and gives a gentle shake of her head. "Steve is Steve."

Eddie huffs and rolls his eyes, the act a ghost of his usual exuberant playacting.

Her hands squeeze around Eddie's.

For a while, they sit in it, until exhaustion settles heavy over Eddie, like his very bones weigh him down. It slams into him and chases all air from his lungs. As if an elephant has decided to take a seat on top of his chest. An elephant after Christmas day.

"Urgh," Eddie finally groans. "Losing your mind is exhausting." And he promptly collapses on the bed, limbs flopping everywhere. Air blows from his chest with a punch.

"I know," Robin whines. Shifting to all fours, she crawls up and curls herself around him. Arms around his neck, her head pillowed above his and legs curled up, pushed up to his stomach.

Raising his hands, Eddie lays them on her arms, curling his hands around them.

Another quiet moment pass.

Voices and occasional bursts of laughter drifts quietly from the other room, the TV playing low, sending bursts of noise through the curtain towards them. A quiet rumble in the background comes from even further away, the boombox playing music somewhere behind El's door, as it has done nearly daily, when the kids are not occupied with each other, books or movies on the TV.

Above his head, Robin moves, her head shifts, softly rustling against the bed and her arms around him tighten in a small squeeze. "I can tell you Steve's favorite songs," she says quietly, chin grazing the top of his head. "You can always make fun of his music choices."

"Well," Eddie says quietly, his voice raw and hoarse, rubbing almost painfully against his throat, "it would be a crime not to. He makes it too easy."

"Okay, so, he loves Everybody Wants to Rule the World."

He scoffs, the noise smaller and quieter than he would normally make it. The wind in his sails dead and lifeless. "Of course, he does."

"But I know, for a fact, his favorites are Queen's Somebody to Love and Crazy Little Thing Called Love."

"Hah, why am I not surprised." He makes a face. "Queen is great though. I have to give that to him. They're no metal band, but they are brilliant in their own way."

"And here Steve claims you would combust before listening to any music other than metal," says Robin with light humor in her voice, as if her mouth is upticked at the corners.

"I am a musician, Robin, I can appreciate good music when I hear it. Metal or not," he sniffs. "If anyone's a music snob around here, it's Steve."

She snorts harshly into his ear. "You're both snobs. You'd rather voluntarily participate in P.E. or sit through a ten hour history class than one of Steve's mixtapes and he'd rather lose the rest of his hearing than sit through yours." Hands gripping his shoulder, she gives him a light shake, rattling him. "Just admit you're both snobs and incredibly garrulous about it and move on."

As if trying to prove her 'garrulous' comment wrong, Eddie harrumphs quietly. "You might be right," he grumbles. Then he perks up, "But Steve's worse than me, right?"

"He's so not," she objects loudly. "He might complain like it's his job, but I've never heard him play one of his own tapes, when the kids are near and demanding music rights. When was the last time you let someone play their tape in your van?"

She is right of course. Edie grumbles but cannot really protest more than that.

A little while passes before Robin speaks again. "You know, when we raided our houses for stuff for the cabin, I convinced Nancy to throw in some of her nail polish for the girls to play around with."

"Hmm, I feel like I haven't painted my nails in years." He holds a hand out in front of him. Fingers curling and moving back and forth as he inspects his nails half-heartedly. They stare back at him, chipped and rough, some nails broken off and cracked. Ever since he came out of that hellscape, he looks at them some days and still feels as if dirt and grime clings to them, despite how many hours he has spent scrubbing himself raw, trying to remove the days spent in Reefer Rick's boathouse and the Upside Down. Maybe that is why he keeps biting at them, when his thoughts race with remembered red lightning or end up submerged in heavy fog that cloud everything in a blur; because nothing but his own blood will wash away the lingering touch and grime of those days.

Around him, Robin's arms tighten. "If our hands are shaking too much, we can always rope Steve into it. He's got a crazy steady hand, it's kind of annoying."

"Perfect hair, perfect body and a nail polish master, how's a guy supposed to resist?" he teases. Or tries to, at least. His voice remains dull and lifeless; a mere echo of what he once was perched atop his throne in the drama room.

Despite their words, they remain lying in bed, unmoving. Perhaps, Robin feels as lifeless as he does. Heavy with the burden and weight of a thousand shadows and another world.

Desperately searching for something else to focus on and landing on the first thing that comes to mind, Eddie asks, "Have you seen Baby Byers?"

"I know, that bowl cut is a crime against humanity, but it honestly works on him."

Eddie huffs a weak laugh into her shoulder. "I know you're used to reading Steve's mind and bitching about others with him, but that was not what I was going to say."

"Then what?" She shifts. Body rustling restlessly against the bed, even though she keeps herself carefully pressed against him.

He taps a few fingers on her arm as if to soothe her with it. He does not know it if does, but she does settle down and he keeps his fingers dancing up and down her arms where they lie crossed around him. It also helps him ground himself there in the bed and not in the red storm in his mind. "Well, I've noticed a few," he pauses, searching for the right words, "similarities between him and myself."

Robin is quiet for a moment. Then, "There's something you should know, about me and Steve."

His fingers stop for a moment. He tilts his head. "Yeah?" Then resumes tapping along her arm.

"Everyone thinks he's the oblivious one, because everyone thinks he's dumb—"

"He's not."

"It depends on the day," she agrees with a sniff. "I think he likes being obtuse just to be annoying.” He can practically hear her eye roll leaking into her words. "But what I meant is I'm the oblivious one, not him. You're gonna have to spell it out for me, Munson."

"Hmm," he hums and taps a rhythm that lies dangerously close to Dios Rainbow in the Dark against her skin, fingers skimming across her arm, as if it was the frets of a guitar. "Sorry, Buckley, no can do."

An outraged noise begins building in her throat. "Arrg—"

He taps a single finger on her skin in silent rebuke and her mouth clamps shut mid-protest. "If you don't already know what I'm talking about, then I can't tell you. You'll have to see for yourself."

"Nooo!" she whines half-heartedly against him. Her head rubs against his. Hair crinkles and scratches against each other, echoing in his head. She grips him by the shoulder and shakes him and her protest rattles through him. "I'm curious to a fault, Eddie. You know that! You can't do this to me! I'll be agonizing over it for weeks, now!"

He huffs a low laugh and pats her arm in consolation. "Just look at baby Byers next time Steve comes bare chested out of the showers."

She pauses. "Cryptic and weird. Feeling frisky, Munson?" Another pause. She shrugs and the pull of her shoulder shifts against him. "Okay, sure, I'll do that." She stabs a pointed finger into his arm. "But then you have to tell me."

His grin goes unseen by her. "You're smart, Buckley. I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out."

They fall quiet again.

After a while of lying together in the silence, movement past the curtain comes closer. Footsteps thud over the floorboards, stopping just outside the room. The curtain flutters and Steve pulls it back far enough to poke his head inside. "You guys okay?" he asks, gaze passing them over, as if checking for any visible injuries.

"We're good, just chilling," Robin says, shrugging against Eddie.

"Oh great, I'm exhausted," he says and saunters into the room. He flops down on the bed on the other side of Eddie, flipped opposite them, long limbed and heavy, effectively bracketing Eddie between the two of them. He lands with a cascading thump and a gust of air whooshing from him like a gut-punch. The cot bounces and ripples beneath his weight. Even with Steve lying opposite them, his knees by Eddie's chest, feet dangling over the edge of the cot and his head past their feet, it still pushes them incredibly close together, limbs overlapping and elbows digging into sore bruises and far too close to stitched wounds to be comfortable. The cot is small after all, and there is hardly any breathing room left for them. Surprisingly, as used to having his own bed as he is, Eddie would not change it for the world. "What are we doing?" Steve asks once settled.

"We're contemplating the meaning of existence, when we probably won't live to 30 with the rate we're going at," Robin says without missing a beat.

A moment passes. "I don't think I can contribute anything to that," and his voice sounds properly despondent at that, too.

"That's okay, babe, you're pretty enough to make up for it." Robin pats Steve on the knee.

"Hmm, wake me when you're ready to contemplate, like, Freddie Mercury's vocals or the compatibility of Danny and Sandy in Grease."

"They're not compatible, Steve. That's the fucking point." The eye-roll that no doubt accompanies her words is audible even in her tone of voice. "I love you, babe, but we've been over this."

Steve sits up, jolting upright as if shot through. He looks down at Robin from the foot of the bed. Elbows digging into the mattress and his eyebrows raised to high heavens. "No, the point is that compatibility and where you come from doesn't matter as long as you're willing to try for the other person and as long as you care for each other," his voice is loud and passionate, as earnest as the expression on his face. One arm leaves the mattress and he waves it through the air, gesturing with the flow of his words. "If you care to try, then cliques and, like, social groups and standings don't matter. Because you love each other for these differences and because of them, not in spite of. That meeting in the middle and loving each other matters more than where you stand. And shit like loving each other is more important than caving to the expectations of the people around you." Impassioned speech finished, his hand drops back down.

Silence greets his final words.

Steve looks between the two of them. Eyes wide and earnest and far too bright for the gloom from before to survive in the room.

"Damn, Harrington," says Eddie, whistling lowly. "Didn't take you for a film critic."

"So you agree with me." The smile shining down at him is a winning one and Eddie almost has to shield his eyes from being blinded by it.

"I didn't say that," Eddie quickly says, not because he doesn't think Steve has a point, but more for the principle of it. And to remove that grin from his face, before something breaks or Eddie loses consciousness or something. That grin must be a fire-hazard or something. That shit is bright. No wonder it makes little Byers weak in the knees, Eddie might just fall prey to the same.

Lifting one hand, Eddie places it behind himself, palm pillowing his head and shoots an assessing glance up and down Steve's body, at least what he can see of it. "Those years on the throne of Hawkins High gave you some perspective, huh?"

Steve snorts. "More like perspective was repeatedly beat into me and the threat of being eaten by monsters smacked me in the face until I got a fucking clue." With that, he flops back down on the bed, breath whooshing from him at impact. The bed shakes with his movement.

"That's fair," is all Eddie says to that.

Robin's low sigh blows into Eddie's ear. She follows it with a whispered, "Dingus," that Eddie doubts Steve could have heard even with perfect hearing. Then, she says, loud enough for Steve to hear again, "I take back all the mean things I've ever said about you liking Grease."

"Really?" he says, full of disbelief. "Does that mean you'll stop making fun of me? Because I gotta admit, your jokes were getting kinda lame and repetitive."

Robin throws a leg across Eddie. Feet swinging at Steve. It lands with a meaty thump, her leg smacking into Eddie simultaneously. Steve groans lightly. The mattress dips with Steve's body jerking, a jolt passing through him, arms crossed and covering his stomach. It does not stop him from laughing at the ceiling. "Aw, babe! I thought you were being serious."

"I was! But you're making it so hard to be nice."

"I thought that was just a you thing."

"Asshole," she sneers at him.

"Dweeb." A pause. Steve waits until Robin's leg retreats and settles back down again. "Does that mean I can bust out my John Travolta, when Family Video reopens?" Steve asks, brightly.

"Absolutely not. If you start Grease Lightning on the counter again, all bets are off. I'll key your car."

Steve makes a mock outraged sound. "Babe, you wouldn't."

"Try me. If I see you dance that number again, I'll have to bleach my eyes. It's the car or nothing, babe."

"You drive a hard bargain."

"Grease Lightning is a heterosexual nightmare on its own in Grease, and you force me through it enough times, I don't want to watch that more than I have to."

"I'm beginning to think entering Family Video is at your own peril, with you two manning it," Eddie says, grinning, turning his head and trying to look up at Robin and only catching sight of her cheeks and chin.

"Hey," Steve whines, "my moves are a delight to behold."

Eyebrows quirked, Eddie turns his head, throwing a quick glance down at him. "Is that why you're a single mother of six?"

"Well," and god bless him, Eddie can hear the smirk in his voice, "those kids had to come from somewhere."

"Ew! Steve! Ew!" Robin yells. She shoots upright and bends over. Hand swatting through the air, slapping Steve.

Laughter bursts from Steve. Arms held up in the air, he fends off Robin's hand, his body jerking away from her.

"That's undisclosed topic number two," she shouts.

"What's number one?" Eddie can't help but ask, grin curling wide from his lips.

Steve begins to speak, but his words are bowled over by Robin, her voice loud enough to drown out his, "That is undisclosed, Eddie," she says firmly with another swat at Steve. "That should be obvious in itself."

"Oh, well, can't blame a guy for trying." He shrugs.

Robin shoots Steve a warning look, which he only grins at, then settles back down again.

Silence stretches nice and long between them. Quiet breaths fill the air in a soft rhythm, each of them falling into each other's; a chorus of soft breaths going in and out, like a harmony. The bodies pressing against Eddie shifts. Moving up with his own chest and deflating with their exhale, grazing Eddie with every breath they take.

Eventually, Robin lifts her head and breaks the silence. "Wanna paint my nails?"

"Sure, yeah," Steve sighs, then sits up, rubbing a hand over his face. Pushing off the bed, he stretches. Arms stretching enticingly long and lean above his head. He drops them, and grins at Eddie. "I'll even paint yours, if you're real nice to me, Munson." A wink is thrown his way, and then Steve turns on his heels and walks out the room. It freezes Eddie where he is in the process of sitting up too. Bent halfway over at the stomach, arms behind his back, pushing off the musty mattress.

He blinks dumbfounded at the curtain, swaying back and forth at Steve's disappearance behind it. "I'm always nice!" he calls belatedly after him.

Steve's laugh chases him all the way across the cabin, through the curtain to where he sits.

Soon after, Steve comes back into the room, carrying a small purse inside of which glass clinks against each other.

With the space inside of the bedroom sparse, the three of them sit down on the mattress Steve and Robin usually sleep on. Vials of nail polish poured out of the purse and spread out on the mattress between them.

Steve takes Robin's hand in his, touch careful and gentle, and Eddie gets hit with the very real realization that he did not think this through, before so carelessly agreeing to it. With the very imminent, very real, reality that he will have Steve’s hands holding his own with such a gentle, tender touch, he tries very hard to psych himself up. Or psych himself down from panicking. It's fine. It's just Steve, Eddie. Steve who ripped a demon bat in half with his bare arms. Steve who has driven the gremlins to and from D&D more times than their own parents. Steve, who was there when Eddie woke up in the lab. Steve, who has come so much closer than Eddie was ever prepared for. Steve, who let Eddie be by his side through some of his migraine; let him brush fingers through his hair and take care of him. And who made him grilled cheeses and came to check on him on a bad day, when Eddie was high.

Steve. Who is so much warmer than he ever thought he would be.

Eddie is beginning to think he swallowed more than he can handle, agreeing to getting his nails painted by him.

As soon as Steve bends over Robin's hands and swipes the brush across the first nail, the two get swept up and swallowed in each other, the way they tend to be, when they manage to sit close enough to each other to get drawn into each other's bubbles, no matter how many other people are around them. Like a magnetic field surrounds them at all times, only ever attuned to the two of them; two lonely magnets finding each other; always seeking the other and bringing them together, if they get close enough to sense each other.

But Eddie does not mind. The bubble around them is large enough to encompass him as well and their home with each other falls over him, warm and comforting like an old, well-loved blanket.

While Steve paints Robin's nails, Eddie does not say much. He just lies slightly back against the bedframe, wrapped up in the calming stream of their voices, like a leaf bopping along a river. Occasionally, he will ease himself into their conversation with such ease, the bubble around them hardly matters.

And if his eyes pause on the tip of tongue sticking out of Steve's mouth in concentration, brow furrowed the slightest bit, then no one but himself has to know.

Once Robin's nails are painted and gleam at them with drying green polish, Steve turns to Eddie with raised, expectant brows.

A roll of eyes greet Eddie, when he picks out the black nail polish in the small pile of little gleaming, glass bottles. But Steve dutifully takes it from his hands, untwists the top and gets to work. Soft and gentle hands receives Eddie's own. Hands so carefully cupping Eddie's, like his hands are something worth handling with such care. Like Eddie is worth this tenderness.

Steve’s gentle touch smacks into Eddie's chest with the force of a quarterback gut-punch. And Eddie should know the feeling. He has been the recipient of one far too many times, considering he's never stepped foot on the football field. Air squeezes from his lungs and his entire chest grows tight; a pressure wraps around his lungs and squeezes with all its might, Eddie is almost surprised he does not see stars before his eyes.

Eddie's cheeks burn with a gentle heat and he ducks his head, grateful Steve's too preoccupied to notice anyway. With his eyes focused elsewhere and Robin laid out on the floor beside them babbling away, Eddie's blush goes unnoticed and he can allow his eyes to linger on Steve's face and the cute little furrow on his brow and the tip of his tongue peeking out between pink lips.

Once finished and black nail polish glint up at Eddie every time he looks down at his hands or gestures in the air, fingers flashing black back at him, a grin takes over his face. He did not know how comforting the familiar sight of nail polish at the end of his fingers would be or how grounded in himself it would make him feel, after everything. Perhaps, it will take him longer to be able to hold his guitar pick without hearing the distant screech and flap of bat wings or see the flash of red lightning and dark, spindly black vines at the opening chords of Master of Puppets or be able to jump into a pool of water and not fear what lies at the bottom. But this part of himself, however small, has not been lost to the Upside Down and the terrors it holds, and that feels like a small victory in itself.

Much later, once dinner has passed and Jonathan has driven Mike, Nancy and Robin home again, Dustin, without a word, determinedly puts a movie on, grabs Steve by the arm and sits down on the couch. He loudly begins cajoling and complaining about the point of the movie flying Steve by and he is going to miss half of it, and Eddie wouldn't it be much better, if Steve could hear all of the details and theories from the source itself instead of Dustin?

Eddie sees right through him, but dutifully sits down on Dustin's other side.

It is far from the first 'movie night' they have. But Will, El, Max, Jonathan and Argyle find their way to the space in front of the TV with enthusiastic speed and settle in with a few murmurs about the choice of movie and longings for popcorn and sweet snacks that has been sparse all through Hawkins since the earthquake.

That night, when nightmares come to chase Eddie from bed, the black polish sitting at the end of each of his nails, is enough for Eddie to able to stay in bed, gasping for air, shaking and sweaty all over, and instead of scrambling for a makeshift shelter of cigarettes and smoke, he remembers the feel of a pair of hands carefully holding his own and Steve and Robin's ongoing competition about who has caught Keith doing the most embarrassing thing at work.
 In their echoing embrace, he is able find comfort just listening to the sounds of the people sleeping all around him under the same roof; safe and warm. A harbor in the midst of a storm.

Although, they never did manage to convince Steve to let them paint his nails, despite all of their attempts and pleas at the contrary.

The next day, Steve and Dustin leave for a visit to Ma Henderson in the midmorning. As they head out the door, Steve palms the back of Dustin's head and gives him a light shove forward with a comment about surviving the perilous dangers of Ma Henderson's cooking and her infamous rock hard salted cookies. Dustin ducks under his arm and limps around on his booted foot, still trying to keep his conversation up with Will, generally ignoring Steve.

Rolling his eyes at Dustin, Steve swings his car keys a swing around his finger and lifts a hand towards Joyce by the dining table, then out into the living room. "Bye you little shitheads," he calls to the cabin even though Max is half-asleep on the couch, her eyes drooping and breathing low and slow, as has become customary in the first hour or two of a new dose of pain killers and medication in the morning. Hands buried in her hair, El's sat on her knees by the edge of the couch, braiding Max’s hair with careful and intense focus, after Eddie refused to let her touch his own hair, despite her award winning puppy-eyes. Steve whips a pointed finger back and forth between all the visible kids, even though he is definitely taking the worst instigator of them with him. "If you’re gonna burn the house down, today will be the day to do it, so I don’t have to deal with cleaning up after you little dipshits."

"And deprive you of the joy?" Eddie asks. "They’d never dream of that."

Steve rolls his eyes at him, but Eddie catches his lips twitching.

By the dining table, Joyce raises her head from a newspaper. "Take care, honey!" she calls back, rising from her chair. "Will you be back tonight?"

"You never know." Steve slips one of his hands in his pockets and shrugs. "You know how this one is." He throws a thumb over his shoulder at Dustin's, who's struggling to pull on his jacket while gesturing far and wide at Will, speaking a mile a minute about the benefits of getting a mascot to the cabin, like a Tews 2.0, to help with their trauma or some other farfetched excuse like that. Something he's sure he is this close to convincing Steve to. Never mind that he should be convincing Hopper and Joyce, too. "And I wouldn't want to disappoint Claudia."

"That's alright, sweetheart." Smiling gently, Joyce walks up to him. She lays a hand on either side of Steve's shoulder. "You just take care of yourself and Dustin, while you're gone, then we'll see you sooner or later." One of her hands lifts up to cup his cheek and she leans forward, leaving a kiss on his cheek.

Standing completely still, as if he has stopped breathing in this moment, Steve raises a hand and lays it on top of the hand she has palming his cheek. Eyes fluttering closed at the touch of her lips to his skin. "Yes, we'll be fine." Steve gives her a small smile then turns around, stepping out of her hands and slaps a hand on Dustin's shoulder. "Come on, dude, let’s go."

"I'm coming! Jesus." He rolls his eyes and turns back to Will. "I'm sure—"

Steve walks out the door. Footsteps hurry down the steps in a cascading clatter and he calls back, "And get your stuff, dude."

"Alright!" Dustin shouts. "God, you're—" He turns and scurries out the door, taking his profanities and complaints with him.

“Backpack!”

“Alright, asshole!" And he limbs back inside, gets ahold of one of the straps and slings the offending item onto his shoulder, hurrying as fast as he can with one limping foot in heavy boot.

Footsteps clatter over wooden floorboards, then crunchy earth. Two bangs of car doors slamming closed follows them. Soon after, a car grouses to life, machine rumbling and roaring lightly. It chugs down the path and then the air falls quiet once more.

The two of them occasionally do this. Leave to spend a day or evening with Mrs. Henderson. Eddie wonders if this will be the time Dustin will not be allowed to return. How he even managed to weasel himself away from home for several days and nights, when half of Hawkins are still in a state of disrepair, a good fourth of the population have left and everyone is tense and scared, Eddie still does not know. But he has a feeling it has something to do with winning smiles, swooping hair and many, many pleas.

After that, the day passes slow and sluggish. Slower than any day before it has. With Dustin gone and Steve with him, the kids are quieter. Max stays sluggish and tired, caught in the embrace of heavy painkillers and the painstaking, slow process of her bones knitting themselves back together. El and Will hover around her while she's on the couch. They sit on the floor, leant up against the couch, drawing or watching TV with the volume turned low enough to not disturb Max whenever she nods off, but high enough that she can listen, when awake. A drawn expression on his face, Will toys with Eddie's copy of The Hobbit he's left on the coffee table, but he leaves it be.

Through the rest of the morning and midday, Eddie jumps between three spots; one of the chairs in the kitchen; his usual spot on the porch outside or the lazy-boy armchair (whenever they are not occupied by any of the other occupants in the cabin).

Jonathan and Argyle spends some time playing tapes from the boombox they've borrowed from El's bedroom and playing cards.

Further along the afternoon, Eddie occupies himself doodling on the backside of one of Will's discarded drawings. One Will threw off to the side after vigorously crossing out his drawing with a black pen. After making a sad, down-casted comment about Argyle's long hair and how fun it would be to style, El's sat cross-legged on Jonathan and Argyle's mattress, Argyle on the floor before her, her hands buried in his silky, thick hair. From the bright grin on her face, Eddie can almost guess it is quite the step up from Max's and what her own had been before the buzz. It is easy to agree with the grin on her face. Argyle's does have a glorious mane of hair. So it is not a surprise that when they all file into kitchen to scavenge dinner that evening, Argyle's hair is decorated with a bunch of little braids — some with threads in them and some without – and a bunch of butterfly clips and other fun hair clips spread all over his hair. He does not seem to mind, and chats enthusiastically about El's talents as a hairdresser, but the sight makes Eddie even more determined never to let any kids near his hair. His father had a fondness for buzzing Eddie's hair, because it was easier to manage, but more importantly a proper haircut for a proper man, like soldiers and army men. Eddie's had a major dislike of anyone touching his hair since.

Night falls over their corner of the woods and while it brings the moon high to the sky, it does not bring Steve and Dustin’s return. It ends with one of those rare nights, where Eddie gets to sleep alone on the cot and Will gets to sleep on Steve's mattress, instead of cramming into Jonathan's with his brother and Argyle in the living room.

Somehow, that does not make the night any easier to bear.

The next day is even quieter.

During the night, Will picked up a somber, heavy mood. As if picking up on it, El's humor too takes a dive and plunges into dark and heavy waters. The air around both of them as dark as the skin beneath their tired eyes and the shadows they drag around in their wake.

After breakfast, Max begs for some peace, so they leave her to her own devices in El's bedroom with the boombox playing one of her Stevie Nick tapes. The music muffled and quiet from the sliver left in the doorway. Muffled voices and smothered instruments flicker through the air, too unintelligible for Eddie to pick out any lyrics or identifiable sounds, but these days, distant music is Max's own signature; a way to tell she's nearby without ever hearing her move around or speak. Hopper disappears somewhere outside with Joyce. A faint smell of smoke trails behind them. Creeping in through cracks and slivers in the walls and windows, carried inside by the wind skirting past the cabin. Brutally reminding Eddie of the three cigarettes he lit last night to chase off his nightmares and the shakes they left in his hands.

The only sound that drifts through the cabin is the TV turned onto MTV and the sounds of Jonathan quietly turning pages in a book and Argyle playing a solitary card game beside him on the air mattress they share at night. Legs folded in front of him with Jonathan lying beside him, head pillowed on his thigh and the book held up in the air.

Like the day before, it is a day without any visitors from the others (which is really only Lucas, Erica, Mike and Nancy). Hopper's been a little firmer about enforcing the secrecy of the cabin, so both Lucas and Mike has had to reluctantly stay away, despite their determination to spend every day by Max's or Will and El's side, respectively.

Seeing the somber, heaviness dogging El and Will's every step, Eddie draws them out and manages to convince them to play a game of monopoly with him. Even though he usually calls the game a sleeper agent to brainwash kids into accepting society's capitalistic Hell without questioning it. But it is a sacrifice he is willing to make. And that is his defense, if anyone wants to question him on it.

Monopoly goes by quiet and slower than normal. Eddie's antics limited and subdued. Loud exclamations and grand, sweeping gestures of his arms exchanged for quietly despairing pitches of his voice and small flicks of his wrist.

It is like all the energy, all his usual mannerisms and wild gestures, all of his posturing and loud exclamations said from atop cafeteria tables have all joined together; squished and compressed; squashed down into one tiny ball of rapid energy, shaking and trembling and jumping quietly within him. Constantly shaking inside of Eddie, but not any further. It just sits in his chest. And shakes and quivers. The most it does these days is make his hands shake, but that is not from energy, desperate to be released. No. Far from.

These days, he does not have the energy for grand gesturing sweeps like he used to do hunched over the D&D table, voice mangled into a villains cracked voice or high pitched and ringing, like the voice of an elf of the high woods.
 But while he might not be able to act like he used to behind his DM screen, he can still do a little. He's seen the shadows under their eyes and the haunted look their heavy gazes carry; the way Will withdraws into himself and becomes unsettled, whenever the cabin gets a little too cold and the way El picks at the small, prickly strands of hair on her head with a deep sorrow in her eyes and trembling fingertips. And he's heard both of them awake far too often in the middle of the night, voices filtering out from under El's bedroom door, along with the light that frames the crack and slivers around the doorway.

He might not know much of what they've been through, these last few years. But he knows enough and he's seen far more. So, Eddie wrangles his flair for dramatics and plays monopoly with El and Will, acting out much the same way he did in front of Chrissy, when her frayed nerves and fearful eyes jumped out at him from across a table. Easing nerves and lifting dark clouds like he tried to do then. But he does not play a character like he would have done had it been Dustin, Lucas or Mike across the board from him. When he lands on El's property, one slowly growing with houses and hotels, and she reaches her hand out, palm open across the board, her grin mischievous and her eyes sparkling; Eddie puts a hand on his own chest and acts wounded. "No! My hard earned treasure! Don't take it from me! It's all I have left!" He grabs a stack of cash far more than what he owes El and clutches it to his cheek, batting his eyes at El. "Would you really take an old man's money, after his wife divorced him and left him all alone?" Okay, so he does play a little character. But Will seems to like it, so he sticks to it.

"Yes," El says decisively; mercilessly.

Eddie plucks the money he owes from his fake mound of cash, holds it up before him and sighs. Eyes wide and sufficiently sad. "I'll never forget you." He plants a kiss onto the little handful, then dumps it into El's waiting hand. The character drops from his frame. "Robbing me blind, you little thieves," he says above their bubbling chuckles.

When they land on his property and complain loudly, protests exaggerated and playacted, carried on by his own playful behavior, he pulls strands of his hair in front of his face. Acts coy and twirls his hair between his fingers, flirting their money from their hands, and later, when they try to bargain each other's properties for as little as possible, their properties.

But every act, every stretch of his voice, is subdued; quieter and smaller than Eddie usually does. As if the firecracker behind every explosive movement he makes has gone out; the wind in the Upside Down too strong and powerful for him; one strong gust and the armor Eddie has worn from scraps of fantasy game manuals, studded bracelets and heavy metal bands, chunky rings and nail polish, cigarette packets, guitar strings and denim jacket patches was blown away, leaving Eddie to face the storm alone; raw and exposed without his usual armor.

But maybe that is just how the Upside Down leaves you; raw; exposed and shaken; left scrambling to glue together what's left of your life after its touch finally withdraws.

And perhaps, Eddie just has more for it to take. Or maybe, he is just not strong enough.

Looking at all of these people around him; some who have lost more than him; some who have given far more for others to survive, than Eddie ever thought possible; Eddie cannot help but feel cowardly and broken in turn. Less.

How any of them are still standing, much less facing the same enemy again and again is astounding to him. Eddie has had one round with it and it left him hardly able to stand.

He feels it. The difference.

The explosive energy, the manic, bubbling joy and effervescent spark; it is all gone. Faded. Subdued and quiet. Like the still waters of a calm, dark lake. It is still there. Now, there is just a heavy weight on top of it. Smothering it. Everything has been pushed down, forced into a tiny tight ball that quivers inside his chest; an ever-lasting earthquake, forever quaking inside of his chest; threatening to unravel him from the inside. Eddie's arms cannot gesture exaggeratedly to the masses any longer, but his hands can shake and his fingers can tremble.

From Eddie the Freak, to Eddie the Fearful.

Showmanship has always been a part of reclaiming everything anyone has ever tried to take away from him or tell him he was not allowed to be or touch. It was a raised finger to everyone, who has always looked down on him. A 'yeah well, you told me I couldn't, and yet here I am, and you can no longer ignore it,' because Eddie made sure he was loud enough that everyone would see. From the people who told him he would never step out of the shadow his father and the trailer park cast over him; to the people, who looked at him and called him fag and queer. From the people, who called him nerd, to the people who called him a high school dropout surety, not even a month into his sophomore year. Eddie made armor out of names such as freak and nerd. If Eddie introduced himself with these names, then no one could call him that to trip him up, not when Eddie had already placed their legs across his path and he knew where to step to avoid them; a perfect, impenetrable armor made out of words Eddie picked, so they forgot the words they used to call him that were far more dangerous.

After the Upside Down, it feels as if none of these things are left. Scrubbed raw and bleeding.

Eddie has never been afraid to talk loud and to shout. It is who he is, who he made himself into. It was defiance. It was rebellion. It was life itself. But when the shadows grow and the corners of the world shout louder than he ever could, drowning out his every word, what is left for people like him?

He does not know.

That scares him almost as much as the Upside Down did.

In the middle of their monopoly game, Eddie catches El's eyes following him. Gaze falling down and lingering on where the cuffs and hems of his clothes hang loosely, draping off collarbones and from his arms, the sleeves pulled up, exposing his forearms.

Pulling her eyes back to the game, El says not a word and Eddie leaves it be. But occasionally, when black ink flashes from pale skin, her gaze jerks back, almost as if pulled by some magnetic force, invisible to the eye, but oh so powerful. Watching her look at his tattoos — gaze skittish and wide — words push themselves against Eddie's teeth, and for once he has to bite them back, not wanting them to bite, when he simply wants them to be a hand reached out in kindness. So he waits.

More than halfway into the game, but before either party is willing to call it quits, a distant sound of a rumbling machine and groaning gravel sounds from outside the cabin. Not soon after a car pulls up outside the door and the machine cuts. A door opens and slams closed. Halting, stomping footsteps, one heavier than the other, hurry closed.

Another door opens. "Hey, shithead!" Steve calls. "You gonna help me with these or what?"

The footsteps retreat with a low grumble and more than a few insults.

Eddie glances up at the closed door with a grin. "Sounds like they're back."

El's nose wrinkles. "He sounds like dad."

Will snorts. "Oh, he'd just love to hear that."

More pointed words and annoyed comments drifts through the closed cabin door. Then there's another round of heavy, halting stomps moving across dirt and wood, followed by a quieter pair of feet. Finally, the door flies open with a bang and Steve and Dustin enter. Both have their arms full of tupperware. Grocery bags hang from each of Steve's arms, burdening him with extra weight. Hands occupied, his keys hang from his mouth, jangling back and forth from his lips.

Turning to the side, Steve knocks his shoes into the side of the doorway. A light dusting of dirt falls from the soles of his shoes into the floor. With that done, he steps further into the cabin and kicks the door closed behind them.

"Hey guys," Dustin calls with cheer.

"Hey," Steve says, voice muffled around his keys, nodding towards them.

Somewhere by the couch, where the air mattress lies, Jonathan and Argyle call their own greeting. "Hey, Steve."

"Sup, my mans."

Both El and Will pipe up a greeting at them. But they keep their heads bent together. Whispering while gesturing all over the board. Pointing suspiciously at Eddie's properties in particular and the die. It makes Eddie narrow his eyes briefly at them. He has a suspicion they are conspiring against him and he is absolutely certain he saw the die moving suspiciously a few times during their rolls. This does not help their case.

He leaves them to their mutiny and looks back at the newly arrived. "How was dear Mrs. Henderson?" he asks, teasing a lock of hair into his finger and twirls it around exaggeratedly, like a girl on the phone with her crush. Eddie has only met her once or twice. But Dustin's mentioned her plenty of times, even if it is to complain about her baking and try to pawn off his home-baked snacks on the rest of Hellfire, clearly trying to poison them and threaten the whole campaign, despite the dangers of doing so with Eddie as DM. She is a nurse, he knows that at least. She must be busy, these days. Maybe that's part of the reason why she's comfortable leaving Dustin with Steve most days and nights. So she knows he's in good hands, while she's taking care of the rest of the town. Dustin has also complained enough that Eddie is more than aware of the fact that Mrs. Henderson is a fretter. How she does not utilize that fretting to sneak her way into what she believes is Steve housing Max at home and taking care of her through her loss of fully functional limbs, Eddie has no idea, maybe Claudia just isn't as strong a fretter as he's been lead to believe, or the charm of Steve's smile is stronger. He is inclined to believe the latter the most. But, he is self-aware enough to admit that, at this point, he is biased in Steve's favor.

Sigh. How the mighty have fallen, eh, Eddie?

"Good, she's good." Quickly shifting his arms around, Steve rearranges his grasp around his loot and snags the keys from his mouth. "How's it been here?" His eyes roam all over the cabin. Gaze falling on every nook, cranny and mound of blankets, as if he can pick apart the remains of the night in the folds and wrinkles left in the fabric and be able to tell any hurts it may have left in them.

"Blessedly quiet." Eddie throws his lock of hair away and grins shark-like up at them. "You took the worst one with you."

Steve flicks his eyebrows. "I hope you enjoyed it, then."

"Oh, immensely."

Eddie eyes the armful of Tupperware he holds. "You stopped by a bake-sale or something?"

"As good as." Steve grins. He hops back on his heels. "Ma Henderson thinks I'm taking care of Max at home, and clearly thinks I'm starving both of us, so she wouldn't let me leave without either packing up or cooking half her fridge for me to take."

Eddie's brow pulls together. "How does she thinks that works, when you sleep over?"

Steve shrugs. "I tell her Robin stays with Max, when I have to leave for more than an hour."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Steve manages to shrug his jacket off while keeping the entire load of tupperware secure in his arms. With a final shake, he pulls the last sleeve off his arm and throws it at the couch, where it lands with a limp flop, draped over the back. He pulls his eyes back to Eddie and continues, the air around him fondly annoyed, "Anyway, she's the one insisting I come stay with her and Dustin. Apparently, she's convinced I'm going to work myself to death for these kids." He rolls his eyes. "No idea why."

"Nooo," Eddie says, dragging out the word long and exaggerated. "No idea. Why it couldn't possibly be because you've been babysitting the kids and come back with unexplained bruises several times, could it?" Expression wry and arched, he lifts his eyebrow high on his brow.

"It was a few times. Two tops." Sighing, Steve rolls his eyes again. "It's not that big a deal, I don't know why everyone keeps going on about it."

"Steve, babe," Eddie holds out a hand towards, palm facing down, "I know you got hit over the head a few times and have chronic migraines, but that's no excuse for such a gross understatement."

"He also got tortured." Arms still leaden with tupperware, Dustin leans over El, eyes on the board as his gaze roams over the properties lying in front of each of them and the board itself, lingering briefly on the only two properties to have gained a house. "No one is going for the ferry strategy?" His voice dips low and disappointed, as he shakes his head, looking down at the board. "Man, you're missing out. It's the best one."

"No, it's not." Will rolls his eyes. "You always go for it and you always lose."

"That's because the rest of you are cheating scumbags."

"The ferry strategy," El says, leaning closer to Will, "I thought that one was just a waste?"

Eyes comically widening, Will makes a noise and waves his hand around. Outrage smacks into Dustin's face and he loudly complains, flapping his hand at them.

But Eddie is not really paying attention to them anymore. Eyes wide and stuck to Steve, mouth dropped open, he hisses, incredulously, "You were tortured?!"

"It was almost torture. We got out before the bone saw did." He snaps his fingers and points at Dustin. "Now, forcing us to watch Back to the Future was." Those might be the words he says, but the expression on his face is clearly uncomfortable. A touch of pain flickers across his face and he grimaces, features twisting up deep and heavy.

Eddie does not really think this is one of those things that should be ignored, but he knows a boundary when he sees one, so he lets it go. He figures, if he wants the correct answer to that question, he can ask Buckley. Given the fact that she carries all of Steve's self-preservation, she probably also carries his sense of reality.

"I can promise you, we won't be seeing that monstrosity, if I get a say in it," Eddie says, tone distracted and disinterested, by design. He waves a hand at Steve and his tupperwares and grocery bags. "But back to this." A small smile unfolds across his face and he arches his eyebrows at him. "Mrs. Henderson really must be worried. It looks like quite a loot."

Steve sighs. Shoulder slumping with relief, he crooks a tiny smile at him. "You have no idea, she's a fretter. Honestly, it's a miracle she didn't send me off with a whole bakery."

"That would be worrying. I've heard she's quite a disaster at baking."

"It would, wouldn't it." Steve smirks and flicks his eyebrows. The grin pulls into a smaller, warmer smile. "It'll be gone soon enough with these greedy, little gremlins." A dip of his head and a grin gestures towards Dustin.

"How far are you guys? Who's winning? Have you counted recently?" Dustin asks, ignorant to their backtalk about him. His eyes scan the board and their stack of cash with rapid zooms. He stops in the middle of it all and his eyes jerk to Eddie. "Actually, wait. You're playing monopoly?" his voice picks up, snapping loud and incredulous through the air. A large frown spreads across his face, furrowing his brow with heavy lines as he stares at the game spread out before them.

"Clearly." Maneuvering past the weight of the grocery bag on his arm, Steve thwacks a light hand on the back of his head.

Cap jerking in place, Dustin squawks and ducks. "Hey!" He grabs onto his cap and quickly shifts it around, yanking it back in place. One of his arms jerk through the air, pointing wildly at Eddie. "I'm just wondering why Eddie would put himself through 'a capitalistic nightmare designed to make us fall in line with society and squash any rebellious and anarchist tendencies, before they can appear,'" he quotes with impressive accuracy and two fingers curling in the air, arms still wrapped carefully around his armful of tupperware.

"Yeah, well, you can do that later." Steve rolls his eyes and steps around him. "Don't just stand there and gawk, help me put this shit away." Hefting his own armful of Tupperware and plastic bags up, he turns on his heel and heads into the kitchen.

"Need help?" Jonathan calls from the side, still sat with Argyle on their mattress.

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

Jonathan leaves his book on the mattress and jumps to his feet, heading to the kitchen.

Dustin huffs but dutifully follows them.

Noises soon fill the air. Cupboards open and close. The fridge pulls open with a break of suction and a fwoosh of air. Bags ruffle and plastic thumps, as they rummage around, putting stuff away.

Dustin walks over there long enough to dump his armful on the small dinner table. Once his arms are empty, he takes a dive for one of the Tupperware. Scooping it up and ducking into it with a grin splashed across his cheeks. When he puts it back onto the pile, a round, brown object is in his hand. And he waddles awkwardly back into the living room with his cast-boot, munching on the cookie, cheeks all chip-munked and satisfied.

"Hey, you're just gonna leave it there, shithead?" Steve calls.

Turning on his heel, Dustin turns to look back at him. "Uh, yeah?" he says in that characteristic arrogant way of his. He turns around again, heading towards where Eddie lies with El and Will.

"Dipshit." A crumbled up towel comes flying. It smacks into Dustin's shoulder and he stops. Mouth dropping open, he looks at the towel caught limply on his shoulder. The towel hangs with one corner on his shoulder. A moment passes. Gravity hangs onto the fabric and it slowly pulls off Dustin's back. It falls to the floor with a lackluster, limp flutter.

"Did you just throw that at me?!" Dustin asks, voice pitched high. Expression so comically affronted, you would think someone stepped on his cat's tail.

"You can't prove it." Steve ducks into one of the grocery bags, avoiding Dustin's accusation. But the glances Eddie catches of his face, as he unpack stuff into the cupboards is clearly one that's fighting humor. Lips pressed together and quivering, his eyes bright and happy.

"I have witnesses." Dustin waves a hand back at them.

Steve barely casts a glance towards them. "I think you'll find they were too busy with their game to see who threw it."

Eyes prompting and incredulous, Dustin looks at them. "He threw it, right guys?"

"Don't ask me." Eddie holds up his hands. "I'm busy being robbed by these two." Grinning, he gestures at El and Will. "Maybe it was El," he offers, because he will always add to the chaos, rather than solve it. "She can move things telepathically. You know that, dude."

"You guys suck." He shakes his head at them. Bending down, he scoops up the towel, crumbles it into a loose ball and throws it back at Steve.

Without even looking up from the second grocery bag, Steve catches the flying tea towel with the tips of his fingers, managing to snag it from the air, even as it falls short of him. He shakes it out and throws it over his shoulder. The sight should not be as attractive as it is, but Eddie's never claimed to be perfect.

And it is. Attractive. Annoyingly so. Who knew Eddie's type was retired jocks with an air of annoyed plder brother. Not Eddie, that's for sure.

He pulls his gaze away before he can be caught.

"Max?" Dustin asks, voice muffled around another bite of cookie, coming to stand above their game.

"In my room," El says. She squints her eyes at the cookie in his hand. "I thought your mom was bad at baking."

"Oh, she is." He nods. "But Steve caught her in the middle of her batch and took over before she could mistake the salt for sugar or burn anything."

"Steve bakes?" Eddie blinks.

He nods. Smile wide and eyes shining with something that looks like pride. "He can't fight, but he can bake and cook."

Eddie throws him a crooked eyebrow, but very skillfully refrains from telling him what he thinks of that statement.

"Here." Turning around, Dustin scurries back into the kitchen. Loud rummaging and protesting shouts from Steve follows him. He does not listen, because he very clearly comes back with a tupperware in his hands. Cracking the lid open, he holds it out for the three of them. Both Will and El are quick to snag a cookie from within.

Eddie throws a disbelieving look to the cookies lying inside of it. Don't judge him, okay. It is a little hard to believe Steve Harrington, darling of Hawkins and former co-captain of the swim team would be baking in his spare time, enough to enter someone else's home and come back out with his own home baked goods.

"You better not eat all of them!" Steve calls. "I promised your ma you'd share them this time!"

"We're not!" Dustin shouts back, louder than necessary considering the cabin is as small as it is and the kitchen is right there. In fact, Eddie can turn his head and watch Jonathan and Steve at work putting tupperware and groceries away with an efficiency usually accompanying Nancy, wherever she goes.

Turning back to them, Dustin shakes the box. The cookies inside of it rattles around. He grins down at Eddie with round chipmunk cheeks and a bright grin.

Shrugging, Eddie grabs a cookie from the box and Dustin pulls the box back.

He snaps the lid back over it (not before snagging a second cookie for himself), while Eddie takes a bite of his snack.

He eats half of it, before he turns his head. Eyes finding Steve in the kitchen once more, he says, "It's good," with an appreciative glance, "who knew you could bake, Harrington."

One of Steve's arms waves around in the air above where his head is buried behind. "Yeah, yeah, Munson. The kids have been on my back about it since '84. Get in line."

"I'm not joking," Eddie says. Eyes wide and sincere, his tone gentle but loud enough for Steve to hear. Which is a thought. Maybe he just couldn't hear the sincerity in Eddie's tone. Especially considering the clanging and rustling that is playing around his ears, as he and Jonathan puts the last few things into place. There's a pause in Steve's movements, so Eddie repeats, "I think it's nice."

For a moment, he's still. "Thank you," he eventually says and grabs the last few tupperware Jonathan holds out for him.

Dustin walks into Eddie's line of sight, returning to the kitchen with the Tupperware full of cookies held out for Steve to take. He does with a loud huff and a roll of his eyes and goes to put it away in the cupboards with a muttered word.

By the fridge, Jonathan finishes with his last load of grocery bags. The door closes and he makes his way out of the kitchen. As he sidesteps Steve, he claps a hand on his back.

"Thanks, man," Steve says with a quick glance over his shoulder at him.

When Dustin walks back out, close behind Jonathan, he does not stop by El and Will again, but keeps walking forward with a half-limp to his step. "I'll just give this to Max." He holds a third extra cookie aloft in the air.

"She wanted some time alone," Will warns with a look up at him.

"I'll just give her a cookie and she can kick me out, if she wants to." He grins and wiggles his extra cookie in the air. With a few more halting footsteps, lagged by his still healing leg and the boot firmly around it, he heads to El's bedroom. Curly head ducking past the door, Dustin disappears into the room with a quiet, but bright, "Hey, Max, I'm back," as he carefully closes the door behind himself. Max's voice drifts out the door in reply, but Dustin closes it before her words can take shape in Eddie's ears.

After finishing up in the kitchen, Steve comes into the living room and collapses on the armchair with a heavy sigh and a newly acquired newspaper.

Eddie returns to Monopoly.

Some time later, when the three of them decide the game is exhausted; when it is clear Will is winning and both El and Eddie are slowly going bankrupt, with no Dustin around to urge them on to the finish line, as Eddie knows with absolute surety he would, they declare the game over and Eddie ruffles Will's hair with a, "Well done, Wizard Will."

Will grins and ducks his head. Expression pleased and far lighter than when they began.

While they pack the board game away, stacking cards, stacks of money and plastic miniatures back into the box, El's eyes tracks the movement of Eddie's arm. Gaze higher than his hand.

"You like my tattoos?" Eddie asks, pulling back the sleeve of his right arm, fully exposing the black ink settled into his skin there. Grinning wryly, he taps the skin just below his trio of bats. "Hard to believe I'm not a prophet with these bats."

"I like them." El nods. "I also like your nails."

"Well, those I cannot take the credit for." Flexing his fingers, Eddie holds his hand out, his black nails shining up at them. Small pinprick of light gleam off the shiny polish, winking up at them. "Steve did them for me a few days ago." Lowering his hand, he leans his arm forward, baring his tattoos again. "But these I did choose, even drew some of them myself."

Eyes wide on his tattoos, El slowly reaches out.

Eddie shifts his arm closer.

Careful fingers brush over the inked drawings of bats flying on his forearm. "Did it hurt?" she asks quietly, fingers tracing invisible lines between the flying bats, almost like connect-the-dots drawings or constellations.

"These bad boys?" Eddie shakes his arm. "Nah, others have been worse."

"Worse?" El leans forward, so earnest.

He almost, almost flashes them the tattoo hidden behind his lower lip. Instead, he turns his side to them and pulls up his shirt, showing them his ribs, where a few of the plethora of tattoos decorate his chest, even if they a few of them have been ravaged and damaged by bat bites and the sight might not be the prettiest. The ones that remain unmarked by his trip to the Upside Down are still great. Once Eddie heals and he gets a little more distance to this whole ordeal, he might even be able to look at his damaged, half-tattoos and think the sight metal. One can only hope, after all. Both El and Will's eyes are wide on them. "Tattoos across bones are the worst," he says and smooths his shirt back down over his ribs, hiding marred, broken skin, puckering stitches and concave bite-marks beneath fabric once more.

"Where'd you get them done?" Will asks. "There's not a tattoo shop in Hawkins."

"That there is not." Eddie flicks a pointed finger at him. "My answer depends on who's nearby to hear it." Eddie grins widely and taps the side of his nose.

El blinks at him. "I do not know what that means," she says, brow quietly furrowed, glancing sideways at Will, as if searching him for the answer.

In response, Will shrugs.

Dropping the joke and the grin, Eddie's lips falls into a more measured smile. "A few of them was done by a friend." The truth is not exactly child friendly, considering he got half of them in alleyways and in backrooms with the smoke of weed curling lazily across the ceiling. "I even have a few I did myself." However ill-advised it had been, marking his skin with the stick-and-poke, slowly bringing forth the inked picture on his skin, had felt something like a victory. Something like pulling names out of the bared teeth across hallways and across the street, from sneering mouths and hard eyes and reclaiming it as his own.

Eyes widening, El leans closer. "You can do that?"

"Yeah." He nods at her. Bending down, he reaches for his pant leg and quickly pulls it up. Revealing pale skin, dusted with long, dark hair. Above his ankle lies dark lines in the form of a rounded triangle-like figure; a guitar pick, like the one he has on a string around his neck. In the hollow of his other foot, still hidden from sight from the two young teens, underneath the bone of his ankle is a triangle. Maybe one of Eddie's more impulsive tattoos, but he came home one day with his blood boiling and buzzing underneath his skin, from seeing one too many flyers from another conservative Christian, decrying the AIDS-crisis and calling it a gift from God. A way to cleanse the world of the sin of homosexuality. The words had brought a fire to life inside of his chest. A fire that burned hot and devastating, as if it could tear down the world with just another spark.

Fingers itching, he had taken the stick-and-poke he'd used once before and brought the triangle to life on his skin. Daring anyone to see it and call him out. One final way to once and for all let the world know just exactly where Eddie stood. Should the boat sink with the queers, fags and dykes, Eddie would be the one to heist the flag and go down with it. Rather that than ever pretend to be anything he was not, even if he still had to do it quietly to keep himself safe.

"What is it?" El's fingers graze the pick by his ankle.

In answer, Eddie reaches for his necklace and pulls out the pick hanging on it, letting it dangle from his fingertip. The blank surface glints in the light, catching the edge of his sight. "It's a tool for playing music. You use it on the strings of a guitar."

El looks intensely at the guitar pick dangling from his necklace. "Dustin said you saved the world with your guitar."

Smiling to himself, Eddie lets the necklace fall back onto his skin. Huffing a quiet laugh, he shakes his head slightly, still smiling. "Did he?"

"Yeah. He said you were awesome. The most metal ever," Will adds, eyes brightening.

Eddie hums. "It was pretty metal."

Eyes searching and serious, Will looks at him. "Will you ever play again?" His eyes scan his face, as if they have seen something there. Which he must have, for asking a question no one else has caught hovering around Eddie, since that night.

Breath catching in his throat, Eddie pauses, fingers stilling. "What?"

"I mean, I just—" Will averts his eyes, gaze falling everywhere and not settling on anything. Shifting restlessly, he looks down at his hands. Fidgets with the die and a little plastic building that he was meant to pack away between his fingers. The hard plastic clacks against each other. "When everything happened to me. I was scared. I didn't like to remember. I couldn't touch my crayons for a few months after. And I—" he pauses, breaking off. Then shrugs. "Yeah. I just thought you might feel the same. Scared of your memories."

Lump thick in his throat, Eddie watches Will. The way he sort of curls in on himself. Grows quiet and small. Fingers still fidgeting. The pads of his fingertips runs over the smooth surface of the die in continuous circles. Eyes stuck on the motion, but his gaze distant.

"Maybe," Eddie admits, voice soft and quiet.

Blinking almost owlishly, Will's head pops back up and he looks up at him with wide eyes.

"It might not be the same," Eddie says, leaning in closer, as if passing off a secret, "but I don't know, if I can play my guitar right now. I think about it and I remember standing atop that trailer in the Upside Down, demo-bats screeching in the distance and flying towards me. Circling me. And my fingers start shaking." Almost like he cannot imagine playing his guitar without feeling as if he would attract another storm of bats to him.

"You do?" Will blinks at him. Chest still and frozen, as if his breath is caught in his throat.

"Mhm." Eddie nods.

"But you're—" he breaks off, expression embarrassed.

"Fear has no age," Eddie offers quietly. "I've been scared of a lot of things through my life. And I've run from most of them too." There's something in Will eyes that makes Eddie say these things. A wild and desperate look. "There's nothing wrong with being afraid," Eddie continues with a small shake of his head. "It's okay to be scared. Especially considering everything you guys have been through."

"I—, I know." He nods, but looks down. "But it's always been Steve or Nancy or my mom and Jonathan. And they've always been so—"

"Fearless," El says quietly. "They are strong."

"So are you guys," Eddie tells them quietly. "And I'd bet you Steve and Nancy, and especially your mom were more scared than they showed. But they wanted to be strong. For you. So you wouldn't be more scared than you already were."

Hesitant eyes look his way. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah. They're scared too. Absolutely."
"I know." Will shrugs. "It's just hard to remember when they're always so composed. Especially Nancy and Steve."

"Well, I can tell you, I'm terrified of picking my guitar up again. I'll try, once I get it back. But some days it feels like I'll never play again." Wide eyes scan Eddie's face; every nook and cranny and shadow. In Will's gaze, Eddie shrugs. "It's not easy, to leave the shadows of the Upside Down behind."

"No," Will says carefully, eyes guarded. "It's not."

After a quiet moment, Eddie rolls his pants leg back over his ankle, hiding the tattoo. Nods at El, when he is still once more. "They told me you had a tattoo yourself." Eddie's seen flashes of it, but he's tried not to stare.

Nodding, she looks down at herself and holds her arm out. Two fingers curl around the cuff of her flannel, pulling the fabric away and baring her wrist. A small number lies against her pulse. Three black numbers stand stiff and dark on her small wrist and pale skin.

011.

He has heard about it, but never really seen it until now. Not up close, at least. Not as anything more but a flash of black against her skin. It honestly makes him feel a little sick to look at.

Tilting his head to the side, Eddie says thoughtfully, "You can cover it up, you know."

"Cover it up?" A frown pull and tug at her brow. "I sometimes wore a watch or big bracelets to school to cover it up." She looks back up at Eddie and suggests, "Cover it up?"

"Well, yes, that would just cover the tattoo and hide it from view. But a tattoo cover-up is something different," he explains simply, gesturing in the air. "You could pick a drawing of something that you like or ask someone to draw a cool design and then a tattoo artist could tattoo it over your existing tattoo, covering it up."

"Oh! It's like if you draw something you don't like on a piece of paper, instead of erasing it with an eraser, you'd just draw something else on top," Will explains, finally putting away the dice and stacking away the last few miniature houses, voice measured and calm.

El stares down at her wrist. Her fingers shift out, grazing over the numbers. Thumb shifting over skin, her touch whispers over the tattoo. She moves her palm to fall over her wrist, covering the damning letters.

Tidying now forgotten, Eddie watches the small wonder in El's eyes. The way she searches and searches the skin by her wrist, as if her eyes might draw forth a design much like Eddie's tattoos to cover the number written on her skin, if only she looks hard and long enough.

Quickly, rising to his feet, Eddie finds a marker pen and sits down again, now by El's side. He scoots closer, using the heel of his foot to push the board game away and make more room. "Here," he says, propping the lid of the market in his mouth and pulling it loose with a pop. Turning, he spits the lid out. It clatters and rolls over the floor, disappearing somewhere across it.

Holding out his hand, he beckons with his fingers, curling them rapidly back and forth.

El glances tentatively at her adoptive brother. Will catches her searching look and nods, smiling at her.
Unfolding her arm, she places her wrist in Eddie's palm and he gently shifts it around, lying it in his lap, held still, bracketed by his hand, fingers pressing gently into her skin.

"Now," he says, turning his head down and looking at her bared skin, "I am no artist like your Will the Wise here—" he jerks his head at Will, just catching the surprised look that crosses his face at his words, before focusing back on El "—but you will find no one in Hawkins more experienced than me at making fake tattoos with markers." Holding the pen up, he flips it between his fingers.

"Is that what you've spent all your time doing all those years in high school?" Steve pipes up for the first time, since he sat down with his newspaper. "No wonder you never graduated."

"Ignore him, he's just jealous he doesn't get a tattoo." A hand swatted through the air dismisses Steve and his words. Eddie carefully does not take his eyes off El, acting as if Steve's remark isn't worth his attention. Behind him, Steve snorts. He ignores that too. Only El and Will can see the humored grin that spreads from his mouth. "What would you like?"

"I do not know." She shakes her head. Gaze dropping, her eyes find the bats below Eddie's elbow again. "Your tattoos are cool. Bitchin'," she adds with a satisfied nod. "Draw a tattoo you'd want."

"Hmm," he hums, tapping the bottom of the sharpie to his lips, "something I'd like, you say," he echoes, expression playfully thoughtful. Now, if Eddie had a bit more practice at drawing stuff other than DnD characters and metal shit, he would give her some kind of bird. It would be fitting for her, he thinks. But he is not.

Decided, he ducks his head and touches the pen to her skin. Lips pressed together, his cheek caught in his teeth, Eddie drags the marker across her skin, slowly and carefully drawing on top of the tattoo nestled on her pulse. While the marker drags over her skin, El is almost inhumanly still beside him. Body frozen and kept in perfect stillness, as if pulled straight from the frozen screen of a paused movie.

It is almost eerie. The way she stills. Hardly blinking, hardly even breathing. Wide eyed, she watches every single move of the marker, as if watching the slow fall of a trap falling shut.

It makes Eddie want to ask. Makes him want to know more than what little they have given him of El's past (most of which he got from what Nancy told them about the vision Vecna gave her). Not that he can't draw his own story and conclusion from breadcrumbs of lab-raised children with numbers tattooed on their wrists; of men driven to the unforgivable all in the name of science and country; of a child reaching through the dark in her fear and tearing the world in two, all because of men much bigger than her, but so much smaller, forcing her to face fears they would never have been able to do themselves.

For years, Eddie has drawn stories from books from the library and from second hand and thrifts stores in the cheaper part of town; for years, he has pulled stories forth from books and D&D manuals, paste and cutting parts of one with something from another. Stitching worlds together from ideas and thoughts drawn from his own mind, merging them with the worlds he so admires from people who have always seemed so much bigger than himself.

El's world is almost like one of his stories come to life and Eddie has never wished to be a dungeon master in real life, but he wishes he could roll a dice and erase the childhood she had, snatch her from the cold walls of the lab, that he himself only got a small second-hand taste off, and give her a life with Hopper that much earlier. Maybe bring them to the cabin, before El ever even learned to walk. Maybe make Hopper the hero that saw the suspicious nature of the lab, long before monsters found their way to Hawkins on the back of a frightened child. He would bring him to the lab, where a small tag of unsuspecting heroes uncover the horrible nature of those grey walls and its unassuming title. He would make them bring the lab to its knees, wash out the people lurking inside of its walls in a tidal wave of anger, justice and blood curdling horror. And then, Hopper would find a small, frightened child kept caged in the lowest levels. He'd lift her up and his arms would be the first taste of warmth and kindness little 011 would feel. And with alarms blaring of intrusion, not monsters, Hopper would bring her out into sunlight for the first time. For life to begin anew in the arms of someone who would teach her love, kindness, warmth and safety from example, not exemptions.

But life is not a story, and here, Eddie has no power.

It is harder to hate his own lot in life, with El's eyes so wide and so still right beside his own.

While he draws, Will crawls closer. He leans up against El, pressing close on her other side. Occasionally, he reaches out, points at a spot on El's skin and the drawing slowly coming to life there with a few quiet words leaving his mouth, quietly commenting on Eddie's work and drawing El into conversation.

"Is this okay?" Eddie asks halfway through the image that has taken shape in his mind. He picks his eyes up from El's skin to take her in.

Thanks to Will, her shoulders are loose and lowered. Her eyes still intensely focused and sharp, but without the wide eyed shock inside of them. Smiling, she nods. "I like it," she says. She looks back down at the drawing taking shape again. "What is it?"

"It's a snake and flowers," he explains, bending over it once more. "It's quite popular as a tattoo subject, because it's so versatile and flexible." Glancing up, he catches Will's eyes scanning the stretch of marked skin thoughtfully.

"That makes sense," he says, gaze following the coiling length of the snake. "It would be easy and natural to wrap them around curves and long limbs."

Lifting the marker from El's arm, Eddie points at Will with the end. "Exactly." He appraises him with an appreciative look. "You've got an artist's eye, Will the Wise." At these words, Will beams. Eddie returns to his work.

In the end, El is left with a snake and a garden of flowers. Body long and curled around, the snake's body curls and coils around a bed of flowers. Across her pulse, one coil of the snake carefully lies on top of those incriminating numbers, hiding them beneath black colored scales. Flowers and leafy vines grows all over her wrist, spanning the length of almost her entire forearm, making it a garden bed.

El looks down on her newly decorated arm, holding it in her other hand. Wrist cradled in hand, her eyes are wide and fixed to the drawing on her skin.

"There ya go!" Finished, Eddie twirls the marker in his hand once more for good luck. "A masterpiece for a badass girl."

El throws him a grin. "Cool."

"Damn right, it's cool."

Still cradling her wrist, El slowly rises to her feet.

Leaning forward in the armchair, feet planted on the floor and his elbows braced on his knees, Steve beckons her closer with a warm smile. "Here, let me see."

She goes to him. He gently takes her arm and holds it up, cupping it in his palm, as he looks down on it.

"That's cool," he says, eyes warm and kind. His gaze flicks up to hers and he continues, voice real soft and tender, "I bet you'd like to have something like that for real."

She nods. Still smiling brightly. "It's bitchin'."

Off to the side, Argyle leans over the space from atop the lower air mattress. "That's dope!" he says, bright and cheery. "My little superhero friend."

Jonathan too looks over, a smaller smile on his face. His eyes fall over the snake nestled on her forearm, following it up and down her skin. "Beats bracelets and plastic cuffs, doesn't it?"

"Maybe." Her nose scrunches up. She looks back down at her arm. "I still like bracelets." She throws a look over at Eddie. "Just not the big ones like Eddie's."

Eddie throws his hands up in the air, two fingers still curled around the uncapped marker. Today his wrist remain bare of the cuff like studded bracelets he likes to wear, but he has worn them enough times that El definitely knows them. "Hey, they're not for everyone," he says, shrugging. "I get that."

Perking up, El exclaims, "I have to tell Max!" and heads towards her bedroom.

"Make sure to wash it out before going to bed tonight! It's not good for your skin," Steve calls after her, tipping his head back and watching her go.

With Max's earlier request to be alone now null and void in the face of Dustin's disappearance into the room, El quickly vanishes behind her door, too, and Will jumps to his feet, following her inside with one last humored look at Steve at his warning.

Disappearing into her room, El's arrival in is greeted by a wall of noise. Voices rising in volume, talking excitedly. Entering the room behind her, Will's voice joins the fray, quieter and smaller than the rest, but just as earnest and excited. Eddie hears his own name thrown into the mix, before the door finally closes behind them by an invisible force.

Shaking his head and sighing, Eddie looks away from El's bedroom door and says, "You are determined to be a spoilsport, Harrington." He tilts his head and gives Steve a look. "Let the kid have her fun. From what you've told me, she deserves it more than anyone."

"Exactly why she shouldn't have to deal with things like skin cancer and shit like that."

"I hardly think it's as serious as cancer, Stevie." Eyebrows arching, his lips crook in a twisted smile. Absentmindedly, Eddie twirls the marker between his fingers once more. Eyes skirting across the floor, searching for the lid he threw away without thought.

Sighing, Steve leans over his own knees, arm reaching down towards the floor. Hand disappearing underneath his chair. Plastic rattles and scrapes lightly against the floor and then Steve is straightening back up. Arm held out towards Eddie with the cap for the marker between his fingers.

Taking it from him, Eddie caps the marker and throws it at the coffee table, where it lands with a plastic rattle. It rolls across the table and blessedly stops by the edge, caught by The Hobbit lying so innocuously in its path.

A wall of noise slams into the closed door. Eddie whips his head around and raise his eyebrows at the door. Something of particular significance must have been said. The kids’ voices slam into the door like one of El's casual throw of her hands that sends a force of incredible strength at the object of her stare. Excited words and shouts explode from behind it, loud enough that the poor door stands no chance in hell of keeping them at bay.

Turning from the door to look at Steve, Eddie grins crookedly and arches a brow at him. "Sounds like trouble, don't you think?"

"Trouble for us, I'm sure." Steve huffs a laugh, shaking his head, a smile playing on his face.

The excited voices fall into a lull, some power shushing the kids behind it.

"Now, see, that's more worrying," Steve comments, pointing a finger at the door and wagging it, as if the kids behind it are able to see him.

"Got war flashbacks, Stevie?" Grinning, Eddie turns to him, batting his lashes.

"You would too, if you'd been kidnapped and thrown into a car with a speed devil under 14 at the wheel."

"Oh, that story I must hear." Eddie rubs his hands together gleefully.

A look is thrown his way. "Haven't you already—" Steve does not get to finish or even start his story. The door to El's bedroom bursts back open and El comes marching back. Expression determined and fierce, she grabs Steve by his arm and pulls him up from his chair, dragging him with her back into her room.

"Hey! Woah—! What're—" Steve's questioning shouts and exclamations go unanswered and he and El disappears behind the door. Shouts and laughter burst through the cabin at Steve's appearance in the room. A giggle carried beneath it all. An invisible force closes the door behind them, taking with it Steve's loud voice and the raucous delight exploding in there.

Later, when Steve reappears, a soft blue color gleams from every one of his fingernails, catching glimpses of light and casting it back to anyone looking his way.

It gets a few raised brows from some of the others. A smile pressed together in attempt to hide it from view, and snickers from the kids, when they sit down to have dinner spread all through the small dining table and the couch and floor of the living room.

"That's a nice color," Mrs. Byers says, pointing a finger towards Steve's hands, when he reaches out to take the bowl of sweet corn and peas from her. The smile on her face warm and kind, her gaze on him gentle.

"Yeah, well, turns out those kids can be really persuasive when they want to be." Lifting a hand, he puts his palm on top of Max's head, sat in her wheelchair beside him. Scowling, she leans away from him, jerking her head away from his hand, before he can rub away at her hair. She can't quite stop a grin from growing from her lips though and it quickly wipes away her scowl.

Steve continues unperturbed, "And this one and El—" he jerks a thumb at Max "—already took the other colors, so I figured I'd take the last one."

"There was black and green too," Will points out.

"Yeah, but Robin and Eddie got there before us, so I figured I'd complete the set." Holding up his hands, he fans his fingers out, showing them for all to see, where they are spread out all over the living room and furniture.

"Steve did ours for us." El holds up her hands, her nails painted a mix of glossy red and bright yellow. The colors each skip a nail, so they're spread out on every other finger respectively. Both are glossy, shiny polish that shines in the light, reflecting it back at them, the same way a pool of water would a reflection of the moon. Mostly turned towards Hopper beside her, wiggling her fingers in the air before him.

A glance over at Max beside the couch, shows her nails the same, just reversed. Like her nails are the other half of El's. The fingernail that's red on El's hand is yellow on Max's. And vice versa.

Expression soft, Hopper smiles down at her. He reaches out a hand and takes a hold of one of hers. Gently brings her hand around, pushes it down to let them catch the bright light. "Yeah?" he says, everything about him soft and warm. "They're really nice."

"Yeah, they're bitchin'." She smiles up at him, eyes sparkling. Expression brightening, she perks up. "And Eddie gave me a tattoo!"

It is almost comical how quickly Hopper's expression falls, morphing into something mortified and horrified. "He what?"

"Might want to finish that sentence, El," Eddie says, twisting a strand of hair around his finger, pulling it in front of his face and hiding away in it.

Confusion carries away Hopper's horror and the look in his eyes fall into bewildered confusion.

"I drew a little on her arm," Eddie explains. "She liked my tattoos so we talked about how cover-up tattoos are used to cover up scars or even old tattoos."

Eyes softening, Hopper turns back to El, looking quietly down at her. "Is that something you'd want one day?" his voice is soft and gentle, almost tender.

Turning her head down, El plays with her fork, pushing it back and forth, where it lies on her plate. Eyes cast down and directed towards her hand. Or maybe more the slit of wrist peeking out behind her long sleeved shirt. She shrugs. "Maybe."

"Well, you would have to be a little older to get one, but if it's something you'd really want and it would help you, then that is something we can consider." He places a hand on her back and rubs her shoulder.

When she looks back up at him, the smile El gives him is enough to melt all of Alaska and if Eddie was still wondering how the old Chief of Police, once known for always being halfway through a bottle of alcohol and a bottle of meds, fit together with a traumatized, superhero girl, he no longer would.

In the morning the next day, Eddie helps washing up after breakfast, helping in one of the only ways he feels capable of these days. Lucas – who arrived that morning on his bike — comes in from El's bedroom. With Eddie elbow deep in water and suds of soap, he steps closer with Max's plate in his hands. The food on it only picked at, left in ripped pieces and small chunks. One minute he's not there, the next, Eddie looks up and there Lucas stands, frozen between one step and the next. Face blank and eyes wide, he stands beside the small dinner table, looking down at the plate in his hands, frozen and still.

For a while, he does not move and he definitely does not hear Eddie's gentle call of, "Lucas? You okay?"

The slippery plate in Eddie's hand slips from his fingers and Eddie snaps his head away from him for a moment, saving the plate from its incoming doom as broken pieces. When he looks back at Lucas, his shoulders are shaking and his eyes are swimming with water. The red colored plate of plastic clutched between his hands, wobbling in his knuckled grasp. Cries shakes silent and quiet from him, barely even whispering in the air. He does not move. His swimming gaze stuck to the plate of food in his hands.

Before Eddie can move a single muscle, Steve comes forward, swooping in from the living room. In one smooth motion, he gently takes the plate from his hands, leaves it off to the side and steers him out of the kitchen and out of the cabin, guiding him along with quiet, soothing words.

The front door falls shut behind them with a final thud.

Wide eyed, Eddie watches them go.

In the wake of their abrupt departure, the cabin is quiet, almost suffocatingly so.

Eddie pulls himself away from the front door and returns to the rest of the dishes. Stepping forward with a gentle smile and kind eyes, Joyce snaps up a dishtowel in her hands and wipes down the dishes he leaves on the side of the sink. As they work through it, Eddie throws glances at the front door, but neither Steve nor Lucas makes a reappearance.

After the dishes are all clean and have been stacked away once more, Eddie joins Hopper on the couch, mindlessly watching the TV, his leg jiggling and bouncing up and down and tries not to search for a sign of Steve and Lucas in the air. Wherever they are, they are far enough away that even the wind does not carry their voices to the cabin.

Joyce briefly goes outside, but comes back inside after just a short while. When she walks back in through the door, Eddie turns his head and their eyes meet. With a small smile, she shakes her head.

Eddie turns back to the TV, sinks into the couch and tells himself to leave it be.

Some time later, the front door opens again with a creak and a small thunk against the wall.

Looking over his shoulder, Eddie watches Lucas head back inside, his head bowed slightly forward, his eyes red and his face flushed. Steve lingers in the doorway, eyes following Lucas across the cabin, until he disappears into El's bedroom and closes the door behind himself.

His gaze darts away. Their eyes find each other across the room.

Pulling his gaze away from his, Steve reaches for the door and pulls it closed. He makes his way to the couch and falls into the empty space beside Eddie.

"Is he okay?" Eddie asks, quietly.

"Yeah, he—" he sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "Everything they've been through, especially what Lucas had to go through with Jason and being there when Max—" his voice cracks and he breaks off, face twisting in a painful grimace. "It's enough to traumatize anyone." Head bowing forward, his gaze falls down. An unhappy frown twists across his mouth. "They're still just kids." He shakes his head. "They're kids. They shouldn't have to—" a sharp breath blows in through his mouth. He blinks. A single tear falls from each of his eyes. They drop into his cheeks and roll down them. He lifts a hand and pinches at his nose, pulling at it in a practiced motion, as if it might stop the tear in its tracks.

Wordlessly, Eddie lays his hand on Steve's thigh, palm open. A wordless offer.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Steve's hand surges through the air, almost lunging for Eddie's. His fingers clasp around his in a tight, painful grip.

Eddie curls his fingers around his hand, gripping him back just as tight.

For weeks, Eddie has watched Steve step up and take care of the kids as if they truly were his family; a big brother making sure the kids make it through the storm. Shouldering their tears and burdens and pains, never once asking himself if he is able to carry any more. He just does it. Because he loves the kids. Because they need him to. Because they ask him.

When Steve Harrington turned out to be the man Eddie threw against the wall and held a broken bottle to his neck, Eddie never expected to find such a warm and generous person at the end of it. But even with the monsters and telepathic demons hanging over their heads, Steve took care of them. Made sure they ate and got what little sleep they could, even if it was haunted by nightmares; made sure they were safe in the RV; was the first one to jump in Lovers Lake, before the question could even be posed.

More surprisingly, he has been doing the same for Eddie. In the boathouse and in the cabin. Somehow managing to pull Eddie off the edge, just as he is falling.

Every time.

Steve shoulders everything he can and then some. It is all at once a wonder and heart breaking to watch.

Eddie figures, he is entitled to his tears. After all these years of fighting the Upside Down and keeping it behind closed gates, and being there for the kids, through literal Hell and outside of it too. Honestly, he should be falling apart at the seams. It is a wonder he is not crumbling beneath it all.

"I just feel like," Steve gasps softly, "I can't do anything to help him. To help them."

"You're okay," Hopper says from beside them, voice a quiet rumble. "You're both doing okay."

Clinging to Steve's hand, Eddie turns and looks at Hopper, eyes wide, as if he needs to hear the words falling from his mouth as much as Steve does.

"The kids will be okay." He turns his head and looks at them. The look in his eyes steady and firm, full of the belief so often missing from his gaze these days. "One day, we'll all be okay again. In the meantime, you're doing everything you can to help them through it. And that's enough." He gives them both a nod. "You're enough."

It takes a long time for Hawkins to get back to normal. Longer than Eddie expected. But then again, he never saw the damage. He has only second-hand accounts to go from and most of the time, he shuts himself off from any and all comments that make their way through the cabin that contains words of Hawkins, earthquake, shelter and many more, because as it turns out, a lot of things fall under the new category of things that make Eddie's skin crawl and his heart to start palpitating, and as he has found out since Spring Break and the almost-apocalypse, Eddie is a big proponent of sticking his head in the sand, but it goes doubly (probably triply) for the word Vecna. Though that last one is probably a monumentally bad idea to turn his back on, but Eddie does not have the strength to keep on his toes and stay vigilant, day in and day out, to the owner of that given name. He nearly lost his mind that first night in the cabin and he's been trying to keep it ever since, if that means a little (okay, a lot) ignorance, he trust's these people to have his back and get him out of the sand, before it costs him more than he can afford.

But thanks to Vecna and the great whopper of an earthquake El sent through Hawkins, when she beat him back, the stores are either closed or suffering somewhat under the stain the town is under. It is a small miracle they are able to get their hands on enough food for everyone staying in the cabin, much less transport it here without drawing any unwanted attention. Which is why, when the cupboard gets stocked with more than white bread, Mac and cheese boxes, cereal, canned fruit and premade meals, there is a race to get to the kitchen first.

After someone sniffs out the processed sugars and salt, there is a race and a small tussle to get their hands on at least one thing from within. Two if their nails are sharp enough and their elbows boney enough.

The cupboard and its sporadic conjuring of processed sugars and salt, brings Eddie to the floor in the living room one slow day. A spread of processed snacks and the last of Mrs. Henderson's cookies in the middle of the floor and piled in small piles in front of Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, Argyle and Eddie himself. A game of poker spread out between them. With nothing else to do, why not make things a little more interesting and use their snacks for currency instead.

When the game first began, Steve just dumped his small packet of half-eaten chips and a handful of gummy bears in Robin's pile and draped himself over her back, hanging onto her frame like a sloth with his eyes dragging lazily over the cards before them, legs on either side of her, crossed and overlapped with hers. Through the game, they occasionally stick their heads even closer together than they already are (which is somehow possible, even though Eddie has no idea how) and just start chatting, as if Robin is not elbows deep in a game of poker with their shared loot.

The first time they did that, Eddie picked up a crumbled up bag of sour patches — which did not survive the first thirty minutes of its arrival in the cabin — threw it at them and cried, "Foul! No cheating!" They both stuck out their tongues at him and ignored him. He had not expected anything else from them and couldn't help but grin back at them, as they resumed their chatter from before. A chatter that was far too loud to be private, but everyone bent over the game of poker politely ignored them and pretended it was, which Eddie has found to be quite customary, when it comes to a lot of things Robin and Steve does.

It is not really necessary to make a game of poker or even fight each other to get to the cupboards first. These days, it has become natural for them, to pass the snack around and make sure everyone has a small handful. Well, most of the time. The kids are still kids and half of them are still stuck in a cabin in the woods after yet another traumatic experience, so sometimes, they are a little too quick and a little too good at claiming territory over a full packet of chips or candy. When that happens, Steve and Eddie are also very good at bullying them into sharing their loot, so it all goes up in the end.

It is still more entertaining through, to play pretend poker and treat it like they truly are gambling away the first piece of sour candy or salted caramel cookie they have seen since Spring Break. If only to make the long afternoon pass a little faster, than it has up until now shown itself inclined to.

Which is why Eddie ends up pushing the pile of most of their candy and chips towards Nancy with a defeated huff.

Smirking, Nancy plucks a bag of chips from the pile, pops it open and throws a chip into her mouth. She grabs a small handful, then passes the bag to Robin, who holds it out for Steve. They pass the bag of chips around, while Nancy spreads out the loot of snacks in equal piles among them and begins gathering the cards again.

Before they can begin a new game, Dustin comes out of El's bedroom, sits down on the floor between them and demands to be taught. Adding that he would already have known how to play, if he had not been preoccupied reading a book on chess and its many tactics in his spare time for a bit of fun. Not that he actually wants to play it, he tells them, just that he needed something to read and apparently chess was it.

Not long after, they are joined by El, who speaks quietly to Steve. Nodding, Steve leaves Robin's side and Eddie can almost hear the suction as they detach, and he goes to El's bedroom. Soon after the voices of Max and himself drift out into the cabin, through the crack he left in the door. And only a little later, after some movement back and forth of carting items from bathroom to bedroom and quiet words drifting through the door, the sounds that usually follows of Max getting her hair washed and combed through, fills the air with quiet splashes, tickling water and Steve humming a quiet song; something he does at least once a week.

The kids not trying to learn poker, try to snatch the snacks with an occasional hand that sneaks forward. Fingers tip-toing for the chips. Only to be rewarded by a sharp glare from Nancy, or a light rap from Eddie or Robin, when that proves insufficient — which is not as often as you would think, that girl has a stare as mean as her sawn-off shotgun.

Later that day, after Eddie lost and then later won all of his snacks from Nancy in a game of poker — because if there is one thing Wayne Munson is, it is that he is great at Poker and even better at dragging Eddie along to his bi-weekly meets with a handful of old pals he works the plant with — Eddie, sprawled across the couch, watches a game of Monopoly slowly inch closer and closer to the demolition of war and trauma-forged friendships. A game Steve had been cajoled and heckled into playing by the kids, which Eddie only managed to escape by pretending to be absorbed in his notebook.

A good half hour into the game, Robin — who has been plastered along Steve's back — jerks back and away from the noise. A painful expression on her face at the wall of noise as the kids yell at each other about Dustin once again landing on the Free parking slot.

Still wearing her pained expression, Robin, in an impressive — hitherto thought impossible — feat, manages to detach herself from Steve's side all on her own, without any outside interference or motivation, and rises to her feet. Snatching Eddie's arm, she forcefully pulls him up off the couch, away from the living room and into the small bedroom; Eddie, who was just waiting for the opportune moment to begin convincing the players into abolishing capitalism and live in a utopia where money didn't matter or exist — something he stopped himself from doing the first time he played Monopoly with Will and El, only because he had picked up enough about El and her past by then, to know that it would only have served to confuse her

"Aw, come on, Robin, it was just about to be good," Eddie pouts, looking wistfully back at the game. "I was just about to convince them into anarchy!"

"I'm not sticking around to watch all friendships dissolve under Monopoly, and I'm not staying for whatever speech you've got prepared." With one last disgusted glance back at the mutinous game being played and one last hard shove on Eddie's back, she pushes him the rest of the way into the bedroom and shows him the cards she nicked from the shelf. "Come on, I wanna slap some cards." And so they immediately dive into a game of Slapjack.

And so their afternoon passes with slaps and yells, instead of capitalism propaganda. At least it does until they are all slapped out and cease the game in favor of lying back against their respective beds.

Cards discarded, Eddie lies on his bed, notebook in hand and a pen in the other. One side curled around the back, so he only has one page to content with. Sat on the mattress she usually shares with Steve, Robin's leant back up against the side of his bed and a game of solitaire laid out before her.

Shouts and indignant bursts of voices occasionally flare up from the other room, but other than that, Eddie finds it rather calming and nice to lie there with Robin nearby, just existing together. He's never really done that with any of his other friends. Whenever they meet up, it is usually just for Hellfire or band stuff, or the few times they get high together, but that's more for weed than for Eddie himself. He's never really had this.

It's. Nice.

For a while, he bounces around all over a page in his notebook, working on one of his new songs. Which. Is not great? He can never get quite satisfied, when he works on song lyrics without accompanying music. There's a lot of things missing, since Eddie can't fuck around making new arrangements on his guitar alongside his half-baked lyrics, but he makes do with imaginary strings on his stomach and hummed notes around the pen between his teeth. Even if a lot of lines end up crossed out with a lot of pointed pettiness and too much force.

The lyrics to the one dubbed Gates of Hell stares down at him and Eddie resists the urge to stick his tongue out at them.

Finally, bored with trying to fit the verses fit together, he lowers the notebook and turns to Robin.

"Have you figured out what's up with Baby Byers, yet?" he asks her.

Head whipping up, Robin snaps around to face him. Wide, excited eyes greet his, when he lifts his gaze off the page. "Oh my god! Yes!" she shouts and throws her cards down. She twists, facing him. Elbows and arms resting on the mattress, as she peers at him. "Can we talk about it, now? Please, let us talk about it. I've been dying! And I can't even tell Steve about it!" He laughs. She smacks him for it. "Don't laugh, asshole! I'm not used to it!" she cries, flapping her hands about in an uncontrollable mess. "Even if it wasn't breaking the queer code, his ego would rise to unbearable heights. The cabin's not big enough for that! And Little Byers has been through enough."

Eddie snorts. "So, are you dying because you need to talk about it or are you dying because you can't talk to Steve?"

"Shut up." She hits him on the arm. Really hard too. Fist clenched and all. And here Eddie thought violence was jocks' love language, not geeky gay band nerds. Or maybe she is just in such close symbiotic relationship with Steve they have started to merge together in that part as well.

Eddie makes a wounded noise and rubs at his arm. "Ow, no need to be so violent."

"Oh, you big baby, I thought you were meant to be metal?"

"I am! There's nothing masochistic about being a metalhead." Rubbing pointedly at his arm, he pouts down at Robin. "Why all the violence, Buckley? I thought jocks were the ones that were emotionally repressed. Not band geeks."

She rolls her eyes, grabs his arm and shakes him. "Come on." And she pulls him up, drags him out the room, to the front door and outside with a yelled, "We’re going for a walk!" over her shoulder.

"Woah, Buckley, why so hurried?"

"I’m not talking about this, where we can be overheard."

"Smart. And paranoid. I dig it."

And so she pulls him across the porch, down the stairs and out into the woods until the cabin is distant behind them. Where she finally plops down on the ground and stares expectantly up at him.

Smiling softly, Eddie rolls his eyes and drops down beside her. "So, Baby Byers, huh?"

"I know!" Hands snapping up, she claps a round of these little, snapping claps. "It's so cute."

"Adorable."

Grin wide, Robin claps her hands on her cheeks and rubs them. "And he gets the sweetest little red cheeks, whenever Steve gives him that signature overly charming smile of his." Hands dropping, she rolls onto her back and laughs merrily to the sky. When she's done, she props herself onto her elbows and looks up at Eddie, eyes crinkled in mirth. "Did you see him that other night?"

"No," Eddie says with gleeful anticipation, his grin wide and massive, he can almost feel his almost twinkling with delight and barely resist scooting forward like an eager kid on his birthday. "What did he do?"

"He, like, leaped to sit down next to Steve, before Dustin could. It was hilarious. Dustin looked so butthurt and Will pretended not to notice, it was so fucking funny! And Steve never noticed. Just ruffled his hair and tucked him closer like any other little duckling. I don't think I've ever seen Will look as quiet or flushed as he was then. And he's the quietest of them all. I nearly pissed myself, trying not to laugh!"

Eddie laughs. All giggly and shot through with delight. "I can't believe I missed that! I wish, I hadn't! Oh, that's just precious."

"I know." Robin grows quiet. Grin dropping, a contemplative expression falls over her face, dousing her humor in a heavier weight. "I wish, I could talk to him about it," she says, voice heavy and low. "Like, let him know he isn't alone. I think, he's lonely. I see these glimpses of some pain he's keeping to himself. But I don't feel like it's my place. I barely know him. And I'm not trusted like Jonathan or Steve or any of the others are. I'm just Steve's overly attached friend. At least, that's who I am to the kids." Expression heavy and dreary, she collects herself from the ground and sits back up, arms folded and wrapped around her legs, pulling her knees to her chest and resting her chin on top of them.

"I don't know, maybe that doesn't matter." Fingers restless, Eddie fiddles with the edge of his notebook he had not had time to drop, before Robin dragged him outside. "Maybe he doesn't need to know or trust us as well as he does his brother and Steve. Maybe we just need to tell him that we're an option, when it comes to queer stuff." He casts a glance at her. "I mean, when I was a kid, I would've given anything to have an older queer see me. It would have meant so much to me, if another queer had told me about this stuff. Hell, just told me that it was okay to feel the way I felt. That I wasn't alone. I don't know about you, but I don't think there's a currency on that kind of thing."

Robin tilts her head to the side. "Yeah. That's true."

They are quiet for a while.

Eventually, Robin perks up and nudges her toe against Eddie. "So. Who was your first crush? Like those harmless crushes you get on older teens?"

"Hmm, it was this punk teen that hung around while my uncle was playing poker with his old 'nam crew. I think he was one of them's son. But he had piercings and wore tons of spikes and shit and was just really cool." He sighs dreaming in remembrance. "I couldn't stop staring at him." Which is mortifying in hindsight, really. A punk, Eddie? Really?

She snorts. "I'm not surprised."

He playacts a shudder. "It's mortifying,” he echoes his own thoughts. “A punk? Please." Expression twisted in mock disgust, he swats a hand through the air. "I'd literally rather snog Tommy Hagan than a punk." A grimace twists across his face. "Okay, maybe not Tommy Hagan." He waves a hand in the air. "Some other jock, then."

Robin crooks her eyebrows at him. "Aren't punks in the same ballpark as metalheads?"

Affronted, Eddie cuts her an outraged look. "Punks are not metalheads. Buckley, I can't believe you'd say something so offensive to me." He picks up his notebook and slaps it lightly against the top of her head. Which she makes a face at, nose wrinkling and all. Then, with a smile and shrugs, he tells her, "There's actually quite a lot of strive between punks and metalheads. If you’d believe that."

"So, I said the most offensive thing I could have ever said to you?"

Smiling crookedly, he tips his head to the side. "Just about."

"Nice." Grinning, she pumps a small fist. "And I wasn’t even trying."

Eddie slaps her lightly over the head with the notebook again.

Another moment passes.

"Go on, then." He tips his chin at her. "What was your older teen crush?"

Cheeks red, Robin smiles bashfully. "Mine was Ebony Miller." She fiddles with the edge of her shirt. Fingers picking at ruffles and wrinkles across the fabric. "She was this black kid down the road from mine. At the time, I didn't actually know she was my crush. It took a while for me to realize I was gay, you know." She cuts him a glance at this and he tips his head towards her in acknowledgement. Yes, he knows, she's told him. "So, I thought, I just looked up to her and wanted to be like her or something like that. Like, she was just cool, you know, and didn't hate the sight of me so it was even more of a novelty. But looking back, it was definitely a crush." Her hands move through the air in wide, broad gestures to her words, following scenes and motions of some mirror of days long past. "For a summer straight, I, like, followed her everywhere like a duckling. Well, not followed her. It was just—, whenever I saw her, I would stop everything I was doing and run after her to talk her ear off about something or other."

Eddie hums. "How old were you?"

"9? I think? And she must have been 15? Maybe 16? She used to sit by the playground and read, while watching over her younger brother. I spent one day playing with her brother in the brushes because we both wanted to look for worms, instead of playing with the other kids. He didn't really talk much, but that was fine. He brought me to his sister and gestured between us and she was able to guess what he was saying without problems. She wore a ton of rings on her fingers, had a glorious afro and I thought her clothes was the coolest shit I've ever seen. And I became, like, obsessed with her."

"Aww, cute baby gay Buckley." Shit-eating grin painted across his face, Eddie reaches out and pinches Robin, as if she was still that baby gay wobbling around on bambi legs. She scowls and swats his hand away. "I'm sure she thought you were adorable."

"Pathetic, more like."

"Nooo. Don't say that." He sits up on his knees and smacks his hands on either side of Robin's face squishing her cheeks. And his expression may be a little comical and his hold on her face a joke, but his words and his eyes both are serious. Looking deep into her eyes, he says, tone gentle and soft, "Young, puppy love is a stable of queer youths. Just look at Will. It's the first fading footsteps of our sexuality. They quickly vanish in the sand, but we'll always remember they were there. It guides us on our way to who we are. Even if we didn't know what it was long after it's gone. It's still something we keep, remembering it years later, when we collect these memories and impressions like pebbles and finally piece together the puzzle and realize it's been there all along."

Rolling her eyes, she swats his arms and he releases her from her squishy cheeked prison. "Fine. It's cute and a stable of a queer youth. But it's still fucking embarrassing to remember little Robin stumbling after a cool older girl in her yellow rain boots with pockets full of mud and worms and snails."

Smile sharp and a little condescending for the fun of it, Eddie pats her cheek. "That it is."

Robin huffs, but smiles back at him.

They stay out for a while, talking about things they cannot inside the cabin’s walls. The trees, whispering leaves and rushing winds carry their secret in their gentle grasp, cradling them all in their soft embrace; carrying them off into the distant, blue sky and wispy clouds to keep safe for the rest of time, as so many other secrets before and after them.

On day 15 of Eddie's cabin-in-the-woods forced vacation, school opens up again. Why Hawkins has decided to open the doors to Hawkins High on a Wednesday, instead of just waiting until next week, Eddie does not know. But the kids sure cheered when they found out the school week was two days shorter than it should have been. At least, they did once they stopped complaining about having to go back to school again.

The only reason Eddie knows any of this — the dates and day, especially — is because Dustin shoved a paper in his face when Eddie made noise about his date and time wayward ways. Time is a bastard at the best of times and never Eddie's friend. He struggles with keeping track of the hours of the day and the dates outside of the cabin, where his uncle and the big, fat, friendly calendar he slapped on the wall are there to remind him. Not to mention their sidekicks the radio, TV and newspapers. Somehow, most of the time, Eddie still manages to forget the dates and the important assignments and/or tests on those days. (Although, it's not always about forgetting, but having this vague idea in the periphery of his thoughts that there's an important thing coming up on a specific date and having it creep slowly closer, but just being unable to make himself do anything about it, like, you know, study, or prepare for it in any, and suddenly it's the 28th and he's going "Oh shit, the test's today?" It's forgetting without forgetting. Forgetting he has to pay attention to his thoughts and what they're trying to tell him. Forgetting to remember, even. It's very confusing to Eddie too.)

Time in the cabin is no different, except it is so much worse.

Time moves differently out here, Eddie will swear by it. He might even bet his beloved sweetheart on it. El's got a lot of power; powers Eddie still does not know the full extent off (and he isn't entirely sure he wants to), he's sure there's something in there about creating a bubble of time, wherein everything will just move slower or faster than the outside world, depending on forces Eddie is not attuned to.

If Eddie was better at paying attention to the stuff they said on TV, whenever Hopper zaps onto a news channel (which he does a lot) or the newspapers that magically appear on the coffee table or dining table, then he might have a better grasp on the date, but Eddie is not.

But Eddie knows this time, because of the raucous school returning caused inside the cabin. So there's that, at least. Two weeks and a day and the school opens up — despite its gym still being used as a makeshift shelter for the people who lost their homes in the earth quake — and the kids are sent right back to its hallways and monotone lessons with a lunch slapped in their hand and a kiss on the forehead.

Of course, the kids do not go quietly.

The last two days before school opens up passes with loud complains and a lot of arguments about being allowed to skip, when they've just saved the world for the fourth time running, using Will, El and Max as an escape attempt. In the afternoon of their last day before incarceration — as one might be lead to believe from their incessant complaints, which Eddie might even agree with considering how much he dislikes school and its rigid system — they run their arguments dry, using the last hour before Steve is to drive them home to try and convince him to let them come back to the cabin, instead of High School, dogging his every step and flooding his poor ears with protests and loud complaints. Some of which he acts as if both of his ears have suddenly gone deaf, instead of just the one. Culminating with, "But they'll be stuck in the cabin! What if they need us and we'd be in school, unable to help?" in their very final minutes as they are being shoved out the door, in one last lackluster attempt at escape.

"Uh huh," Steve says in what Eddie has started to dub his signature Mom Pose, hands on his hips and raised eyebrows and his entire aura dripping unimpressed. "And what 'help'—" he lifts his hands off his hips long enough to quote the word, then puts them right back "—would they need from you that they can't get from us?"

A wall of noise slams into Eddie's ears with words such as trauma, nightmares, Vecna, bad pain day, and distraction highlighted.

It does not land.

Steve sends them out the door with a sympathetic, but condescending pat on the head and a much less sympathetic expression on his face. It should, however, be noted that he does send Robin off with much more reluctance.

And that is that.

With Lucas, Mike, Dustin, Erica, Nancy and Robin back in school, the cabin starts feeling a lot less crowded.

More often than not, Steve leaves in the morning to drive Robin (and Dustin, seeing as, half the time, he still manages to wiggle his way into spending the night at the cabin) to school, either having to pick her up from home or disappear out the cabin door with her already on his heels. Later, he'll pick her and the kids back up. Sometimes he brings them all back here, and the cabin fills with noise once more. Mostly, he takes a little longer to return and returns alone, but with bulging grocery bags on both arms.

Video Family remains closed. Some damage to the structure or building, Robin said. They also both do not actually know, if they still have their jobs, considering they went M.I.A for a week following Chrissy's death. But Robin firmly clings to the promise of a job once it does open, citing Keith’s incompetence, while Steve rolls his eyes and begins looking through the meagre 'For Hire' section that appear in the newspaper.

The earthquake distracted everyone thoroughly and the town has its hands full with damage control and rescue missions. Eddie the murderer is no longer front and center on their minds and the manhunts have died out with Jason, if Dustin, Steve and Robin are to be believed. But that evening after their first day back, Eddie does find a crumbled up piece of paper in the bottom of Steve's jacket; a missing person’s paper, Eddie smiling out from it at him, devil horns drawn in red marker on it.
  Eddie did not need the poster to know, he already did, it simply confirmed what he has been thinking since that very first night, hiding under a tarp in a boat; the town might move on, but they will not forget; Eddie was dead the second Chrissy stepped into his trailer with Vecna's curse hanging over her head.

Once a freak, always a freak and Eddie has always played the part.

  It is strange to hear them talk about the state of the roads and buildings, even stranger when the kids begin talking about school. Here in the cabin, surrounded by the woods, Hawkins feels so far away. So distant and intangible. If you asked Eddie about the state Vecna's earthquake left Hawkins in, he would not be able to tell you. The only thing he has is the echo of an impression, like a ghost that only ever haunts the room furthest from the one he's in.

But Hawkins does not seem to be in the greatest of shapes. Not the worst it could be. Considering just how close Vecna had been at bringing his four gates together and breaking out through them. Fitting, for a town whose sign has been vandalized to warn any approaching vehicles and their passengers, about the curse one part of the town believes Hawkins suffers under and the Hell the other half believes Hawkins to be. Upside Down and all the shit it brings with it not included.

According to Steve and Robin, a lot of people have left. But most are stuck.

It almost makes Eddie feel better about being stuck here.

Almost. But not quite.

When the kids go back to school, Eddie does not ask about himself. He's been after that diploma for years and he is not letting go of it just yet, but he still does not ask. It would be easy to let it fade into oblivion between the ash and spores of the Upside Down. But any time Eddie considers letting go, it just feels like another victory for Vecna; another thing for him to lose to this war, and Eddie may be a runner and a quitter, but he is also a stubborn ass, who has given his uncle uncountable headaches through the years. He can be a quitter without being defeatist, too. He's multifaceted like that. So he keeps holding onto a small hope, but does not ask.

At this point, he has asked a few times, enough that he could recite the answers in his sleep. The response has always been magnanimous and rather vague, even though they got his name cleared in the eyes of the cops after week 1.

The time is not right.

The lab folk want more time to soothe the public.

The police aren't confident about his safety.

Some idiots are still calling for his head.

He isn't safe. He isn't safe. He isn't safe.

Eddie thinks he gets it.

The lab folk still want to stuff him into the back of a blacked out car and drive him somewhere far, far away. Hopper, Joyce, Nancy and the others do not want them to do that. So they keep fighting for his freedom, even if they don't have to fight for his name to get cleared anymore. And they keep postponing letting him return to his life until the lab won't freak out, when they see him on the street and kidnap him for 'his own safety.'

Honestly, had it been just months ago and a bunch of suits had knocked at his door with a golden opportunity to get him out of town and set up in a big city, Eddie would have jumped before asking how high. But that was before he shared scars and sharp edges deep in his soul and cracked skin with a group of kids and older teens.

No.

If Eddie were to get into a car to leave Hawkins, it would be with his uncle right beside him and an easy way back to these new people who held a piece of Eddie's souls and salvation. And even then, Eddie is unsure if it would ever be enough. If he would ever feel safe and whole without the warmth of Dustin's body right beside his own, safe, and the sound of the kids' voices and their blaring poppy, pompous indie music from next door, and the knobbly ankles of Robin's elbows and feet as she lays splayed across him, and the sight of Steve's bright smile and hazel eyes.

That should scare him more than it does, but it does not.

It makes him feel safe. Which is the only thing that does that these days.

His uncle is another story.

Weeks in and he still has not seen him. Eddie would have counted the days, but he has always been shit with days and keeping track of the date. The only thing clear about it is that it has been far too long and Eddie is beginning to feel far too close to that young kid, shaking behind his bedroom door in his father's broken down apartment and gathering his courage from amongst the dust and motes beneath his bed, to crawl out the window and begin the long trek to his uncles, back before that road had become a familiar one.

It would be easy to slip out the door at night and find his way back to his uncle. Eddie thinks he would make it before anyone found out, even with Steve regularly posted at the door in his usual guard at night. But the wires in Eddie's mind have become tangled and the idea of seeing his uncle again almost scares him as much as Vecna did. Even if Hopper managed to wrangle the suits and plopped Eddie in front of his uncle tomorrow, Eddie is not sure he would know what to do with himself, or if he would just prove himself for the coward he is and turn tail and run, before his uncle could get a closer look at him and see the new shadows in his eyes and the shaking of his hands.

The image of his uncle has brought Eddie peace and comfort ever since he was a kid. Now, it brings a senseless kind of fear and shame Eddie has never felt before no matter how much it filled his days, back when he struggled with his sexuality, before he spat it at his uncle in a misguided attempt to make him abandon him too, when the thought of being taken in under his roof, only to be kicked out when the truth came out, was too much for Eddie to handle.

Eddie does not know what to do with that, so he stops asking about his uncle and detaches himself from the idea that he could ever get his diploma; it was a pipe dream after all.

That Thursday, Eddie retreats outside with the Fellowship of the Ring in one hand and his notebook in the other, as he has found himself do so often, since he arrived at the cabin.

For a while, he stares at the trees and tries to pull at the shadows and creatures hiding in the leaves and crowns, to put them down on paper in his notebook, in an attempt to draw them out of his dreams and nightmares as well, so maybe, if only he finds the right words, he will be able to close his eyes at night and not see a world of fears before him. It is not as easy, workshopping songs without his guitar there to fuck around on with melodies and strumming along to the idea of instruments in his head as he goes through lyrics — and he wonders if he'll be able to remember the shape of the music meant to accompany his lyrics, once he gets out of these woods — but he manages.

The more he writes, the more his hand hurts. A fire that slowly builds and builds, burning through his palm and out into his fingers, sparking alongside his nerves, like embers, eating away at his flesh.

It is the first time it has truly hurt, since he woke up in the lab, pumped full of morphine. The meds he takes for his wounds have been kind enough to keep the pain in his hand at bay as well. Which has been a blessing, after those days and nights in the boathouse, where the pain was worse than ever.

The memory it brings back is not kind.

Taking a deep, measured breath, chest rising and falling with the rush of air, Eddie slowly opens and closes his fist, careful to move every finger and joint. His ring and little finger both move slower than the rest. Movement stuttering and disjointed. Stiff.

He grimaces down at his hand.

Holding his hand out in front of him, Eddie shifts his other hand up from his wrist, into his palm and the back, fingers seeking certain points, where he lets them latch onto and digs into the soft flesh. Breathing slow and methodically, he massages into his hand to try and work through the cramp. Fingers seeking those well-known spots that he's been familiar with since he was thirteen and first got it out of the cast and was told, it was permanently damaged, because he didn't seek treatment in the first thirty hours.

Sometimes, the pain will come on its own. He'll wake up to it smarting with a throbbing pain, or he'll collect it through the day, like the lint that gathers in his pockets. Picking it up amongst the cars he works on at the mechanics, amongst all the wires and whirring parts and greasy oil; from the top of a table in history or English class, between the pens he uses to scrawl miles long notes for a D&D campaign, when he should be focusing on school work instead; from between the frets and strings of his guitar, each pluck of his fingers pulling at the air around the strings, dragging it forward onto his skin, until it seeps into his muscles and bones and suddenly, every shift of his finger sends a stab of pain through his hand. Occasionally, his muscles will lock up, as if they have suddenly forgotten how to function. Every joint and bone turn stiff and awkward, like the stubborn, grinding motion of an old crank to a car window. Every move stuttering and stiff, as if there's a force wrapped around his hand, determined to keep it from moving and he has to force his hand to move in short, painful bursts of movements until it lets up. Whenever that happens, Eddie can kiss playing guitar goodbye. Writing is a lost cause, too. He has stacks of paper with ugly, crooked lines from when he needed to write something down and he only had his left hand to his disposal.

Through the years, his uncle has held Eddie through several bad days and nights, where the pain in his hand kept Eddie from sleeping and he was crying, sick and tired of the pain and the insomnia it brought with it. Frustrated with himself for not being able to handle it and hateful of his father for giving it to him in the first place.

The people at the lab gave Eddie two bottles of prescribed painkillers with him, when they left the lab. One bottle was enough for two weeks, the other for a month.
Eddie took the last pill in the former a few days ago. Ever since, the pain in his hand has prickled at him, slowly creeping forward, like waves at shore, now that the thick barrier keeping it at bay has crumbled.

The stitches scattered all over his body smarts and burns more too. But that's almost easier to ignore.

The pain in his hand was so severe and so all-encompassing in the days, where he was hiding in that cold boat shack, it's almost synonymous with it now. Eddie can't feel even a stab of pain in his hand without being sent back to musty and mildewy smells of that moldy boathouse, the sound of water gently bopping against wood and a boat occasionally creaking and bumping into the side of the platform.

It is almost enough to send him right back to the end of the sheet, where his inability to make his hand close up around it, had sent him out the door and into almost-certain-death, instead of safety.

It is almost enough to make Eddie want to gnaw his hand off. Almost. But, if Eddie would ever end up giving in to that desire, he would have done it in the boathouse.

Hell. He would have done it years ago.

As he sits massaging his hand and the pain slowly abates to a dull ache, the door opens with a rusty creak and wooden clang.

"Hey, man," Steve says, walking out onto the porch with his sunglasses on.

"Harrington." Eddie throws him a quick glance and drops his hands back down in his lap. "How's the head?"

"Oh, you know, still trying to suffocate itself."

"Damn. What a bastard."

A twitch of the lips. "You got that right." Steve comes to sit right across from him. One leg bent, the other stretched out, lying beside Eddie, his foot hitting the wall by Eddie's back, leant back against the porch railing. He gives him a small smile. "I keep wondering where you disappear off to, and you're always out here."

"Here I am." Gesturing in the air with a flourish, he waves his left hand. An impish grin grows across his lips. "Careful what you say, Harrington. One would think you were missing me."

"Hardly." Steve rolls his eyes. "Maybe I was just wondering at how quiet and calm the cabin suddenly was."

"Mhm mhm," Eddie hums, nodding his head in time with each sound. Eyes narrowing, he leans forward. Raising a hand, he crooks a finger at Steve, teasing him closer.

Arching his eyebrows at him, Steve leans across the space. The expression on his face is so clearly humoring him. It is easy to imagine him wearing that very same expression with the kids hanging on his arms and dragging him all over Hawkins.

Grin turning crooked, Eddie turns his head — as if whispering right into his ears, even though he keeps his volume — and says, "I don't believe you."

Snorting, Steve leans away from him again, rolling his eyes at him.

Eddie tips himself back, leaning back into the wall behind him and throws his arms up, putting his palms behind his head. "Admit it, Harrington. I'm growing on you." Lifting a foot off the floor, Eddie nudges Steve on the thigh. A glint in his eyes, his smile lopsided and teasing, he says, "You like me."

"I like you quiet."

Eddie's eyebrows lift high on his brow. "Oh, I can be quiet, if that's what you're into."

Another roll of the eyes greets his words, but a flush rises in Steve's cheeks and Eddie's not entirely sure, if his eyes are playing tricks on him or if the sun has somehow warmed them up, past the awning hanging over their heads. Because Steve blushing at Eddie's suggestive words are surely not a possibility in any dimension, alternate or otherwise.

Eddie eyes him and the sunglasses he's been wearing since morning. "You know, you don't have to come out here and sit with me, if it makes your migraine worse, right? If you want company, I can just come inside."

"Nah." He swats a hand in the air. "It's not a bad one. Besides, it's boring if I can't do anything every time I have a migraine. If it's not debilitating, I might as well try and do some things and keep myself from going insane."

Eddie hums. "I get that."

"What are you doing, anyway? I keep finding you out here." Head turning, swiveling around, Steve's gaze roam the porch as if searching for something, despite the area being empty. He turns his head back, eyes finding Eddie again. "The house got too small for you?"

An eyebrow arches at him. "I live in a trailer, Steve, if anything it's too big."

With a contemplative expression on his face, Steve shrugs. "I don't know." Expression shadowed and overcast, he looks down at his hands, fingers fiddling and fidgeting with each other. "Houses become a lot smaller, when you're suddenly not allowed to go outside them."

Eddie hums non-committally. He runs his hand over the open page of his notebook. The pads of his fingers smooth across the paper. One finger lifts up and tap at it. Nails hitting the surface with a steady taptaptap-taptaptap-taptaptap.

The memory of all the times Steve has looked at him, these past days — hell these past two weeks — and managed to draw him out; managed to understand the shadows inside of his eyes with just a single searching glance makes Eddie speak now. "I don't know," he says, voice quiet. Eyes shifting to the side, he looks out into the forest stretching out before him. "I think, I've somehow convinced myself, if I sit out here and stare at the forest long enough, I have a chance of forgetting that other one." He tears his eyes away from the woods and glances at Steve.

Dark sunglasses meet his eyes. Head turned to him, Steve watches him with careful eyes, as if he has to catch his words with his eyes as well as his ears, determined not to lose a single thing Eddie says to the space between them and the hollow space in his ears.

Eddie clears his throat. The sound is loud, where his words had not been; almost explodes around them, as it passes through the air between them. He pulls his gaze back to the trees.

"I get what you mean," Steve finally says. When Eddie looks back at him, he has finally torn his gaze away from him. His eyes cast down, stuck to his lap, where he directs his next words. "Every time it gets too dark or I look at a shadow for a little too long, I have to convince myself I'm not back down there, stuck in the Upside Down again," every word croaks oddly from his throat, as if the words have immediately dried out his throat and lodged themselves there; forcing him to rip them carelessly from himself to pass them to Eddie. He takes a deep breath. Chest filling with air, it rises and expands at its touch, then deflates with the rush of air blowing out of his mouth. Lifting a hand, he pulls it through his hair, tugging at the strands. Fingers stuck deep in his hair, Steve lifts his head up and twists to the side, gaze seeking something in the air there. "I thought I was finally done with seeing demogorgons and demodogs inside of them, but then, of course, this shit happens again and now I'm just seeing something else."

Eddie nods in understanding.

Quiet settles heavy and still between them.

Unable to settle his eyes on just one thing, Eddie's gaze zips between the notebook in his lap and Steve. Unwilling to look away from him for too long, but unable to keep staring at him, the weight of him heavier than usual.

Eyes off to the side, stuck somewhere on the floorboards near the door, Steve throws himself forward, leant across the porch and scoops up a lone rubber ball sat off to the side, abandoned off to the side near the wall, as if the door had pushed it aside last it had been pushed open. Pushing himself back up, he clenches the red ball in his hand. The rubber squeaks and creaks lightly against his skin. A light groan escapes him, as he pushes himself upright. The fingers of his free hand twitches, jerking towards his stomach, where Eddie knows the bats carved out a piece of him. But he settles back into the railing behind him and does nothing else to reveal the pain his lunge across the boards gave him. And Eddie knows it would have. He's jumped from sitting to standing or hopped around on one foot in a circle, as he fought to shove his other foot into his Reeboks, past the laces he refuses to undo, no matter how much easier it would make putting shoes on. Eddie says nothing and lets him have his pain in silence, as Steve begins fiddling with the ball between his hands.

The two of them continue to sit in silence.

Eddie distractedly begins rubbing at the ache in his hand again.

"You okay?" Steve asks.

"Hmm?" Eddie looks up in time to see him tip his head down at his hands, still locked together in an attempt to massage at the threatening flickers of pain. "Oh, yeah." Letting his hands drop back down in his lap, landing on top of his open notebook, Eddie tries for a smile. "Just a small cramp. The pen usually corroborates more, when I'm aggressive. At least, in my experience. It's almost as bad as I am, at doing what its told to."

Why Eddie hasn't told anyone about his disability and mildly broken hand, he is not sure. It boils down to being unable to when Max is mummified in casts on her every limb and lost to her own pain or heavy painkillers and 'they have enough to see to' what with their own nightmares and sleepless nights that cling like heavy eyebags under their eyes and the threat of Vecna's return forever hanging above their heads.

No matter what, Steve casts one last considering glance down at his hand, then seems to accept that and leaves it be.

Eventually, Steve breaks the quiet between them, "You know," he says, eyes fixed on the rubber ball in his hands, he keeps shifting from hand to hand and all over his fingers, "for years I couldn't walk into a room without the light being turned on. I'd burn all the lights in my house or make sure every door was shut to the rooms not in use." He taps the ball against the floorboards from between his knuckles bap-bap-bap and side eyes him. "You remember how we could manipulate the lights in the Upside Down."

Eddie nods. Eyes wide on him.

"Well, we weren't the only ones. The monsters do, too. Every time they show up, the lights begin to flicker." And Eddie nods, remembering flashing lights and floating girls. Ball in hand, Steve waves a hand around in the air. Two fingers stretched out and pointing, the others curled over the ball. Gesturing to non-existent lights, before he drops it back down again. "They would just start to flicker wildly and then a demogorgon would burst out of the fucking wall." He falls quiet. Gaze lifted and distant, fixed somewhere to Eddie's right, stuck to the wall. Eddie wonders what he sees there. Finally, he pulls his gaze away. He holds the rubber ball up in his hand. Throws it up into the air and catches it again. Rubber lands in the bed of his palm with a smack. "When Will went missing—" he throws a quick glance at Eddie, as if checking he's still there, then throws the ball out, bouncing it on the floor up onto the wall and catches it in his palm again and throws Eddie a look, this time much more focused and prompting. "That was when it all started you know. The demogorgon took him to the Upside Down and he hid there for a week. He talked to Joyce through the lights, so she hung up Christmas lights all over her house." The hand holding onto the rubber ball lifts up into the air, and Steve gestures to the wall in front of him, keeping it in place between three of his fingers. "I ended up fighting the demogorgon in her house with Jonathan and Nancy. The Christmas lights flickering like crazy everywhere around us."

Steve throws the ball again. It bounces against the floor, flies up into the wall beside Eddie, bounces off and sails back through the air, landing straight into Steve's awaiting hand. He does it three more times. Thump-thump-smack! Thump-thump-smack! The sound of rubber thumping against wood smacks out into the air. Every time it bounces into the wall beside Eddie, the thump reverberates through the wall, echoing slightly against his back.

Catching the ball in his palm again, Steve lowers his hand to his lap. "Christmas is really bad for me ever since," he says quietly. "I still can't have any Christmas lights up." He shrugs. The look on his face folds into a carefully nonchalant expression, but there is something tense and taught in the line of his shoulders. "Good thing my parents are on business trips or vacations half the time anyway. The last two years, they've come home for New Year's and just thought I was useful for once and tidied everything up early." Once more, he pulls his arm back and launches the ball at the floor. It bounces off the porch, jumps up at the wall and straight back into his hand, where it lands with a thwack.

Eddie pulls his lip into his mouth and gnaws on it. One of his fingers taps on the still open page of his notebook. "I'm sorry," he finally says, "it can't make it any easier with parents like that."

"It's fine." Steve shrugs. Expression still carefully blank and empty. "There are worse parents."

"Doesn't make it right," Eddie says quietly, echoing Steve's words from a different conversation.

A small jerk zips through Steve. His dead whips towards him. Even behind his sunglasses, Eddie locks gazes with him.

Steve does not say anything. After a moment, he tilts his head towards him in the smallest of nods and pulls his gaze away.

He sends the ball across the porch a few more times.

Eddie glances down at the notebook in his lap. The page has turned over to another page in his inattentiveness. A half cooked song from before his banishment stares up at him. The words seem to reach out from the page. They claw at Eddie with their make-believe monsters and a world of before.

A painful grimace twists across his face. He slams the notebook closed with a snap.

Sighing, he tips his head back, leaning it up against the wall behind him.

Steve's words have brought the memory of snapping dolls, broken bodies and a world of nightmares back into life before his eyes.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Just for a moment. Just to see if he can force the images away with enough force.

He can't.

"Does it ever end?" He tips his head to the side, glancing sideways at Steve. Expression pained and tortured.

A grimace flashes across Steve's face. "Depends on what part you're asking about."

Air huffs in a weak attempt at laughter from Eddie.

A weak smile twitches across Steve's lips. He swallows. The noise thick and loud. When he speaks again, his voice is low and quiet, every word hushed and fragile, "I thought it would be over two years ago, but it keeps coming back and truly, I'm terrified we'll be fighting it until we're all dead." Wide eyed, Steve glances at him, expression flashing through true panic for just a moment, before he forces it away with a grounding breath. "But, handling it? The nightmares? Looking over your shoulder? Checking every room you're in for exits and things you could use for weapons? That gets easier. I can't tell you if that ever goes away. I haven't gotten to that part yet. Anytime I think I might be okay and I might be able to pick my life back up, everything goes to shit again and we're, once again, fighting for our lives against those fucking monsters." A breath shakes past his mouth. He raises a hand and rakes it through his hair. Drags it down and rubs over his face. It drops back down and he tips his head sideways, looking at Eddie with a weak, wry smile.

"Well, shit," Eddie says.

"Yeah," Steve hums. "Shit."

After a moment, Steve clears his throat and nods towards him. "I've seen you writing in that notebook quite often now. What are you working on?"

Almost reflexively, Eddie's hands curl around the notepad in his lap. Fingers curling over the edge and pressing into it. Nails dig into the cover and furrows grows beneath them, cutting into the cardboard front. The ache in his hand twinges. "Nothing substantial." He shrugs and forces his stiff fingers to let up. The cardboard like cover cracks and squeaks softly.

"You don't have to tell me." Past sunglasses, Steve's eyes on him are so calm and steady. Asking for nothing. Simply offering Eddie to take what has been left for him.

Sighing, Eddie smooths one hand down the front of the little notebook. Eyes following the path of his palm sliding over the silky cover. "It's just a little song writing. For my band, you know." His eyes dart up, a look cast briefly at Steve, before he looks back down. "Not sure I'd ever get the opportunity to play with them again, or if I'd even want to play, but it helps, you know—" he raises a hand and taps on the side of his head with a sardonic smile "—with everything. Makes my thoughts feel less disordered and scrambled." Laying his palms on his notebook, he spreads his hands out, skin sliding smoothly over the front. "Like it's all in front of me and I can look at it all and not feel like I’m suffocating. I can pick it apart and sew it back together again and make it make sense. Or I can change what happened. Or just make it go away. Pretend I'm someone else and write a story of my own." He twitches a smile at Steve. "Sometimes, it's easier to sit with all of your memories, if it's through song."

Eddie actually began writing song lyrics because of his uncle. After his hand healed and was finally freed from its prison of plaster, it was weak and still felt broken, riddled with pain as Eddie painstakingly had to fight through homemade physical therapy they had not been able to afford professionally and Wayne had grown tired of Eddie exploding with irritation and anger at him and he'd told him, "It ain't me you're angry at, kid, go take it out on something else."

Eddie had kicked a trashcan and mumbled through another spike of annoyance.

To which his uncle had sighed and told him, "That music of yours, seems to me it can hold a lot of emotions and thoughts. Why not turn it into that instead of breaking your other hand?"

So Eddie had sat down and listened to several of his favorite songs, just focusing on the lyrics in an attempt to figure out how to write his own. In the end, he just had to try. He had to write with his off-hand at first though, with his hand still clumsy and stuck in the early stages of DIY physical therapy. It had lit a fire in Eddie that has never once gone out since.

Through the years, with Eddie laid out on the couch, his hand out for the count again, either stiff and curled up in a claw, useless to hold a pen or crippled with excruciating pain, his uncle wrote down lyrics while Eddie dictated to him. Helping him get his thoughts down, before they vanished, while Eddie was unable to write them down himself.

"That's—" Steve pauses. His search for the right words flicker across his face. Like a kaleidoscope offering him an insight into his seeking thoughts.

"Weird," Eddie finishes for him, "I know."

"No." Steve shakes his head. "That's not what I think." He waits a moment longer. "It's cool," he finally says, "that you have that. It's good that you can do something with it. That you can turn it into something else." He offers a small shrug with a single shoulder and a tentative smile. "Maybe it means that a little good can come out of it too. Not just something bad."

One of Eddie's fingers lift. He taps it against his notebook once. A single tap. "Maybe."

Silence falls over the porch.

A contemplative look falls over Steve’s face and he keeps throwing little glances at Eddie.

Eddie sighs. "Out with it, Harrington."

"Can I see some of it?"

Eyebrows shooting up his hairline, his eyes dart all over Steve's face. "You're interested in reading metal song lyrics?" he asks. And then as if to emphasize, "Written by me?"

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs, “why wouldn’t I be?” He scratches at the back of his neck. “And you know, I would like to see what you could make of it. I’ve been trying to put all of this Upside Down shit into words for years and I always come up short, but it might, I don't know, help?" He shrugs. "To read something that reflects it all?” Though he is looking straight at Eddie, his eyes not once straying from him, the look on his face is so hesitant, so lacking of all that confidence that followed him like a second shadow through most of High School. The glare of his hesitance leaves Eddie blinking at him, feeling as if he is looking into direct sunlight, all clouds and shadows removed and shredded; baring himself to him. It is almost blinding.

"It's not very good," Eddie offers, "any of it." He touches a finger to the edge of his notebook. Pad running up against the pages, pulling them up and snapping them. The paper flicks up and down at his touch with cascading snap. "It's all just kind of a mess. I'm not even sure it makes sense to me."

Steve does not look like he cares. "I'd still like to read it, if you want to share."

For a moment, Eddie looks at him. Eyes narrowed and his mouth pressing together. Eventually, he shrugs. “Sure, yeah. Why not.”

Dropping his head down, he opens the notebook, quickly leafing through the pages. Scrawled lines and words flashes as the pages run by him. He stops at a page that has more than just a few lines of song, with as few crossed out lines as possible. He considers the lyrics. Eyes zipping down the page. Then he grabs the spread sides and cracks the page open completely. Paper crinkling and crackling under his hands. The title Graveyard of the Broken stares back at him in his own hand. With one final considering glance at the page, he shrugs one last time and holds out the notebook to Steve, who reaches out across the gap between them and takes it from him.

"I'm a slow reader," Steve says, laying the notebook in his lap, eyes still caught on Eddie with a crooked smile twisting across his face, "it might take a bit."

"I don't mind." Eddie waves him on.

Quiet falls over them as Steve turns his gaze onto the page. Eyes moving from side to side, occasionally jerking all around, as if the words occasionally fly over the place, like an errant insect. As he reads, his mouth shapes every word he comes across. Soft whispers and murmurs fall through the air, towards Eddie, all too low and unintelligible to hear. For a while, the only thing breaking the quiet between them is a soft, rustling whisper that falls from his lips and the distant wind, rushing through the trees.

Eddie fiddles with his rings and tries not to chase the effect of his words in every nook and cranny on Steve's face. He turns his head and eyes down, fixing his gaze on his fingers and the rings caught between them.

Movement pulls Eddie's gaze back up and he looks up in time to see Steve raising his head.

"It's good," he says, looking back up at Eddie with bright eyes. "I like it."

"Yeah?" Eddie pulls a piece of his hair in front of his face and hides his smile behind it, soft eyes seeking Steve through it.

"Yeah." An earnest expression falls over Steve's face. Wide eyes fall into place with Eddie's. He glances down at the notebook, back up at Eddie and down again. "I mean, I'm no English teacher and my grades would haunt me for saying this, but this is good stuff, Eddie." Lifting up the notebook, he holds it out for Eddie to take.

Releasing the tuft of hair hiding him away, Eddie takes the book back from him. He lays it down in his lap and smooths a hand over the cover. A grin stretches across his lips as he looks back up at Steve. "It's better with instruments." The grin on his face turns teasing and playfully sharp. "Though I'm sure you'd prefer it without, given your abysmal tastes in music."

"You would think you'd be careful to call my tastes bad, after I've said I like your song." An arched eyebrow and a smirks crooks at Eddie.

"I'm pretty sure we've established that I'm willing to do a lot, when it comes to dragging your name through the mud, Harrington." Sharp teeth glints from behind his lips, when he grins back at Steve. "I'm not above sinking the ship with myself aboard to do so."

"I would hope you'd get tired of it at some point, but the kids have been going at me since '84 and they're not stopping anytime soon, so I know better."

"And the man can learn!" Grinning, Eddie holds a hand to his chest, feigning relief. "Truly, I was getting worried there, Stevie. But perhaps, you're not a hopeless case after all."

Steve rolls his eyes at him. But a smile stretches from across his mouth.

"I'm getting particularly good at referencing the Upside Down and Vecna with metaphors, if I say so myself." Eddie tilts his head to the side, considering. "It took a bit of finagling, but I think I'm getting the hang of it."

"I noticed."

Eddie grabs onto the notebook and taps it against his knees. "So what do you think?" He grins at him. "Think the suits will let me drop hints of the Upside Down in my songs, when I become a rockstar and tour my way through the country?"

A grimace pulls across Steve's face. "I'd be watching the road for car accidents, if you did."

Laughter barks from Eddie. "Yeah, you're probably right about that." He taps the side of his nose, as if hinting a secret. "I can always try for subtle hints though."

"You don't strike me as someone who can do subtle, Eddie." A smile plays across Steve's lips and one of his eyebrows crooks at him.

"Hey, I don't claim to be perfect." Grin stretching wide, he holds his hands up. "There's a flaw in every plan and that was the one in mine."

"At least you're honest about it."

"Jesus Christ, Henderson, right?"

"I know," Steve commiserates, eyes rolling so far they end up in space. "That kid needs an ego check. And I'd rather he get it before Vecna comes knocking on our door again."

Ice swoops through Eddie's chest, sinking straight down in his stomach. He winces and rubs a hand over his face, hiding the pained grimace beneath. "Shit. Don't say that, Harrington, I'm worried enough about those kids as is."

Steve lifts a foot and knocks it into the side of Eddie's thigh. "Don't worry, I'll be there to shove him out of the way. The tank, I think he called me once from your fantasy game shit."

Dropping his hands, Eddie glares at Steve. "If you think using D&D terminology is gonna make me ignore how you so carelessly throw yourself into danger, hypothetically or not, you're wrong."

Steve rolls his eyes. Then closes them and tips his head back, knocking it lightly into the railing behind his back. "Don't think too hard about it, Munson. I'm only expediting the process by jumping first, before anyone can ask me to."

Eyes narrowing, Eddie glares at him. But Steve keeps his eyes closed and his lips set.

Eddie huffs, but lets it lie.

For now.

Grabbing onto the notebook again, Eddie quickly leafs through the pages, finds the one he's looking for and holds it back out to Steve. “I liked writing Crucifix. If you want to read another," he offers with a small smile.

Dutifully, Steve takes the notebook from him, careful to slip his hands onto the open page and keep it there. As he turns his head down, he slips his sunglasses up onto his head, even if it makes him squint his eyes for a moment and there is still a tight line of pain drawn across his brow.

Eddie opens his mouth, ready to protest. But hazel eyes flick up, catching him with a quirked brow and a sardonic twists of his lips. Without a word, Eddie snaps his mouth shut and tries not to huff at his own hypocrisy from all the times he's wanted to strangle someone from unsolicited advice and comments about his hand.

Turning back to Eddie’s notebook, Steve's eyes flicker all over the page. Mouth once more shaping the words, as he reads. Following the dance his words make across Steve's lips, Eddie can almost see his words before him. So, he begins reciting, his voice quiet in the air between them, so different from how it would be sung,

[verse 1]
“'So here I am at last,
The end that's come to claim me,
No matter how fast I ran;
The floods that've come to carry me away
At this, the end of my days.
I never slashed my wrists
Yet still the blood pours from my veins;
A flood for me to drown in.
The world around me has gone quiet and dark
The sky above filled with the cries of men
Calling for my blood
The price of being kind, in a world of thorns and devil-dogs,
Demon-kind

[chorus 1]
They come running,
Again and again,
The mob, the horde,
The self-proclaimed gods
Poisoning the broken and calling it justice

[chorus 2]
Lonely world, lonely earth
My blood of black and broken bones,
Left with bruises and bloody teeth
This empty street, my graveyard soil
The black sheep, the crucifix
That's what they've named me.

[verse 2]
Before they drag my soul to the gates of Hell
I look into their eyes
and I see human and demons in a battle of wills
And still, I do not know,
If they are the gods they claim to be,
Or just another devil,
With a crown of bones
hiding the horns on his head
Another would-be demon
Claiming victory in Hell

[chorus 1]
They come running,
Again and again,
The mob, the horde,
The self-proclaimed gods
Poisoning the broken and calling it justice

[chorus 2]
Lonely world, lonely earth
My blood of black and broken bones,
Left with bruises and bloody teeth
This empty street my graveyard soil
The black sheep, the crucifix
That's what they've named me.

[bridge]
Tell me, what is left in this world
When the price of living
Is too high to pay, for the damned,
the broken and forsaken?
When the thunderous skies is just the battle-cry
Of kings with crowns of cafeteria waste
And the broken fingernails of girls stronger than them?
Tell me, once and for all,
When the dead is the best of us and the living the worst
Is the blood in our veins enough to wash clean the world
Or will I pay another price,
To save me from the gods of high school and heroin

He pauses, knowing the last few lines are meant to be the final chorus. Then, he continues,

"'They leave my body on the ground,
Another broken man for the graveyard of the damned
So here comes the ravens and the vultures,
Picking apart what's left of the broken
And they can tell the world
The flesh that was beneath
Was just another man,
Dragged to the gallows
With no ones blood but his own
on his hands
Just another crucifix for this lonely world to bury'."

He finishes with a small, sad smile. “I'm not sure of it yet, and it’s kinda pretentious, but I think it gets the point across, don’t you?”

“Eddie,” Steve begins, gently. The look inside of his eyes, when they lift from the notebook and find Eddie’s, are so soft. Something almost broken flickers inside of them.

A lump forms in Eddie’s throat. Turning his head down, he glances at Steve through his fringe and heavy eyelashes, lips twitching in a weak smile. He drops his gaze and the stretch of his lips at the same time, swallowing thickly.

"You don't have to say anything," Eddie says, still keeping his eyes averted. "In fact, I'd prefer that you didn't." He does not know why he directed Steve to that song, when, now that it is hovering in the air between them, Eddie wants to take the words back and pretend they were never there; never seen and never heard.

A moment passes between them.

All around them, the air lies thick and heavy. Almost suffocatingly so.

From the corner of his eyes, Eddie sees the moment Steve drops his head, returning his gaze to his notebook.

Paper rustles and flicks through the air. Through the fringe hanging over his eyes, Eddie can glimpse Steve leafing through his notebook.

“Lots of crossed out sentences in here.”

“Yeah, you know, it’s hard to write concise when your thoughts are a muddled mess.”

"I get that." With a final snap, Steve shuts the book closed and reaches back across the space, holding it out for Eddie to take.

Eddie does so. Once it is in his hands again, he drops it back down in his lap and smooths his palm over it. Beneath his hand, the cover holds a lingering warmth from Steve's hands and the heat reaches out towards Eddie's skin.

“Have you only written about, you know—” Steve waves a hand in the air, flapping it loose and shapeless around himself “—Jason and his goons, and Vecna?”

“Nah, they're not that special." One of Eddie's arms waves through the air, brushing it off. An attempt at a smile curls from his lips and he taps a nail against the notebook. "There’s one or two in here about my favorite monster hunters, too.”

“Really?” Steve's eyebrows arch high on his brow, skin wrinkling at their touch. Hazel eyes dart down to the notebook in his lap, then back up at Eddie. “Which ones?”

“There’s one called ‘Kids in the Dark.’" Smile crooked and lopsided, he throws him a wry look. "The title is rather self-explanatory, so you can get an idea from that. And there's a few others, too."

"Cool."

"Cool."

Steve lifts his eyebrows at him. "Maybe I'll get to hear those one day."

Eddie smiles back. Small, but steady. "Yeah, maybe you will."

Friday afternoon, once school lets out for the weekend, Steve drives Lucas, Erica and Dustin back to the cabin directly after school, managing to charm most of the kids parents into letting them stay the night.

It is barely an hour past when they all came hurtling back in through the door, yabbing at each other and talking a mile a minute. In the middle of his conversation with Lucas and Will — easily scooped up and dropped into the on-going conversation, as if he had been a part of it from the start, instead of joining mid-word — Dustin finds a way to Eddie's side by the dining table and does not stray more than a single step away from him.

In the next hour, Dustin stays right by Eddie, going from rambling away to quiet, even follows him from the kitchen to the living room, standing right by him as Eddie leans over the back of the couch with his arms crossed before him, balanced on top of the couch, watching the images flickering across the TV in bored curiosity and glazed eyes. And when Eddie bounces back off the backrest and returns to the kitchen in search of some drink, Dustin follows once more.

Eddie lets him be.

Eyes on El and Will, who have taken over the little dining table with a pile of color pencils and paper, Dustin reaches for Eddie for the fourth time in just an hour. Eyes focused on El and Will before him, his other hand gesturing freely in the air around him. Mouth talking a mile a minute and words tumbling out in a rapid-fire. He keeps his fingers clamped firmly around Eddie's jacket, grip tight and desperate, as if he lets up, Eddie will slip past his fingers and slip away.

This behavior is not entirely unusual, these days. Ever since Eddie woke up in the lab in a hospital bed, Dustin is quieter. The spark in his eye dull and dark. He barely speaks. Talks quieter when he does. Sometimes, Eddie will turn and he will just be there, standing right behind him. Reaching for him still. Hands curling around his arm, fingers clinging tight and tense. A few times, Eddie's skin will bruise from it, though he is careful to never show Dustin these new bruises. Eddie made Dustin see him fall. The least he can do is take the bruises it caused.

Eddie misses him. Misses the way he could talk his ear off. The spark inside of his eyes. The energy and passion driving him. Sometimes, he catches Steve's eyes, while Dustin clings to either one of them and they just stand there, understanding each other. A quiet grief in their eyes for all the weight that has been placed upon Dustin's shoulders. Unintentional and reluctant it may have been.

The nights Dustin stays in the cabin — which is most of them — he will, without fail, lie down next to Eddie, inching as close as he can without literally lying on top of him. During the day, he mostly sticks to Max, Will and El, and Mike and Lucas, whenever they are here, too. But occasionally he will dog Eddie's steps. Walk on his heels and sit down where ever Eddie decides to flop down, legs and shoulders pressed together, as if trying to glue himself to Eddie's side.

Sometimes, he will reach for him, hands clamping tight around his arm or wrist, gripping almost vice-like onto him.

Sometimes, Eddie's still rubbing his wrists and arms from how tight Dustin grips him, long after the other boy has let go.

When there is a lull in the conversation — with Lucas and Erica in El's bedroom with a foul-mooded Max, who kicked everyone else out — Eddie asks, "You okay, Dustin?"

A frown falls across Dustin's face. Eyebrow pulling together and his mouth falling open slack. "Yeah, sure, why?" he says, distracted, his eyes on the table, trying to peek at the pictures blooming across the page beneath Will and El's hands. His hand is still hanging onto Eddie's wrist, gripping it just on the wrong side of comfortable.

"Just, you seem a little extra—" and Eddie does not want to say clingy, because he does not want to give him the wrong idea, so he quickly changes it "—down today."

Finally taking his eyes away from the drawing duo, Dustin looks back at him. For a moment, he simply looks confused at him, then his gaze falls down and he follows the line of Eddie's arm to his own. "Oh," he says, face falling. "Sorry," he adds and removes his hand from him, arm retreating across the space between them.

"No, no," Eddie shakes his head and turns to face him fully. Placing his hands on his shoulders, he ducks down, meeting his gaze head on. "You know I don't mind. I just—" he pauses, considering his words. "I just need you to know, you can talk to me."

"Yeah, I know." Dustin nods. Eyes wide and stuck to Eddie.

By the table, Will shouts. "Hey—!" And Eddie lifts his head in time to see a pencil pull itself out of Will's hand, zip across the table and slam into El's waiting hand.

Will's eyes narrow. "Keep doing that and I'll dump your eggos in a bucket of water."

"You can try," El sniffs and taps her stolen pencil against the table with a self-satisfied grin.

A sigh falls from Will's mouth and he shakes his head lightly, rolling his eyes. "Seriously, El. You can't keep doing that. Just ask." But his lips are pulling up in a small smile, his eyes light and bright, despite the shadows clinging to the skin below them. The look he sends her way is hardly pointed enough to be even half of a glare.

El sticks her tongue out at him, lips curling up at the corners in a barely repressed smile. "Clearly, I can." Grinning, she wiggles the pen in the air, then folds over and sets it to her paper, scribbling away.

Smile growing across his face, Will rolls his eyes again, then reaches out and picks up another color from the pile lying on the table.

Pencils scribble and scratch lightly at paper. Filling the air with their soothing sounds.

Pulling his eyes away from them, Eddie turns back to Dustin. "You can cling to me all you want." He grins and gives him a light shake, making his entire body wiggle. "Like a monkey or overgrown wart, if that's what you need." A light chuckle falls from Dustin's mouth, sounding distorted and shaky from Eddie shaking him. "Just remember you can talk to me, too." Swinging an arm over his shoulder, he pulls him close, tugging him into his side. His hand finds the back of his head and he shoves it down, knuckles rubbing against his head of curls. A wide grin stretches across his face while he noogies the shit out of him.

"No! No! Eddie! Don't—! Shit—" Loud protests and shouts bursts from beneath his arm. Arms shoot out and scramble at him. One hand lands on his face, palm shoved on top cheeks, nose and mouth. Another hand on his chest and Dustin shoves against him, uselessly trying to push himself out of his grip. "Seriously, man," he complains, voice loud. "Come on! Not the locks."

Grinning widely, Eddie pulls his head away from Dustin's palm shoved into his face, tipping his head back and away from his searching hand. Grin still stretching wide on his cheeks, Eddie gives one final rub of his knuckles against his scalp, then loosens his arm around him.

Hands finding purchase on his chest, Dustin gives a shove and finally manages to free himself, ducking down under Eddie's arm, hopping one footed across the floor away from him. A scowl twists across his face, as his hands fly up to his hair, tugging and adjusting them, throwing a glare at Eddie. "Seriously, man." Scowling, he shakes his head at him, still rubbing at his scalp and curls.

"You have been spending too much time with Steve," Eddie shakes his head, tutting lightly, and he makes sure to raise his voice and turn his head slightly to the side, directing his words back into the living room, "starting to sound a little too much like your second favorite babysitter there, Henderson."

"Second?" Steve calls from behind them. The face that greets him, when he turns to look at him is entirely offended. Laughter slams into Eddie's chest and he presses his lips together, trying not to laugh.

Raising a hand, Steve points his thumb over his shoulder. "I didn't drive his ass to and from the Snow Ball two years in a row or protect those dipshits from an army of demodogs for second place."

"Admit it, Harrington—" walking the few steps between him and the couch, Eddie saunters forward to the couch and leans sideways into it, one hand braced on the backrest in front of him, a smirk overtaking his face, his eyes crinkling and gleaming down at Steve on the opposite end of the couch "—you just don't stand a chance against all of this." With his free hand, he gestures up and down himself. "Metal head guitar player, DM-extraordinaire and the best dressed of Hawkins High since its foundation."

Steve snorts. "High schooler at 20 and major nerd, I think that brings your stats down to a manageable level."

Eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline, Eddie looks appreciatively at him, smirk dropping into a lopsided grin. "I'm impressed, you remember enough about D&D to use it against me." Expression theatrically impressed, he tips his head towards him. "We'll call it a tie, then?" Smile stretching wide across his cheeks, he quirks his eyebrows at him. "The metalhead Dungeon Master and the monster fighting babysitter."

A wide grin stretches across Steve's cheeks. "There's a joke in there somewhere."

"We're waiting." A shit-eating grin spreads across Eddie's face and he spreads his arms out, inviting Steve to the floor, leant against the back of the couch with his hip.

A grimace pulls across Steve's face. "I'm workshopping it."

His arms drop back down. "Well, don't hurt yourself."

"Fucking—! El!" Will shouts behind them and El's laughter bursts to life quickly behind it.

Eddie locks eyes with Steve and they share a grin.

Hazel eyes shines brightly back at him from across the couch. In his gaze, Eddie tucks at a piece of his hair and pulls it over, in front of his face, hiding behind it. Head ducking slightly, but his eyes remaining fixed with Steve's, grin kept safe behind his lock of hair.

That Friday Nancy comes to sleep over at the cabin with Mike, which is the only way Mrs. Wheeler will allow Mike to stay out past dark these days. In turn, Steve follows Dustin home and stays the night there. Which means the mattress beside Eddie's bed, gets moved to El's bedroom and Nancy spends the night in there with the girls, while Mike sleeps on the air mattress with a very red faced Will, and Jonathan and Argyle decide to camp out in the pizza van with a few blankets and the smell of marijuana that Hopper frowns heavily at, but — miraculously — manages not to comment on.

In the morning, light falls over the cabin once more.

With the sun casting a bright, golden light into the cabin through cracks in the boarded up windows and holes in the walls, the kitchen fills to full capacity by Eddie, Nancy, Jonathan and Argyle, picking at the food in the cupboards and fridge for breakfast. Jonathan stands by the table with a bowl of cereal in hand, quickly scooping spoonful after spoonful of into his mouth with Argyle stood beside him. Pressed hip to hip with him. A bowl of cocoa puffs in hand. Which he poured milk in first. Before the cereal. An interesting choice for an interesting man.

Half of the kids are still asleep, the other half spread over the couch, with their own mismatched bowl in hand. Quiet conversations filling the cabin with the clack of spoons hitting plastic.

Ducking into the cupboard, Eddie stumbles over a newly bought vodka bottle, below the shelf full of canned corn and peas and sweetened fruit.

He pulls it out of the cabinet and flashes it to Nancy and Jonathan, a winning grin spreading across his face. Held victoriously in the air, he says, "Shame we don't have any shot glasses lying around here."

Nancy blinks at the bottle. "It's nine in the morning."

"Eh," he says, shrugging, "it's happy hour somewhere."

Throwing a look over his shoulder, Jonathan's gaze falls to the bottle on his hands then up at Eddie and a small smile stretches across his face.

A few digging and sharply teasing remarks from Will has informed Eddie that Jonathan would have been a boon to Eddie's business, if he had made his way to Hawkins for any other reason than following the trail of the apocalypse and Eddie had remained Eddie the Freak with a side job, not a side murder accusation. From what Eddie has seen and smelt, he's definitely not been using drugs as much as he reportedly did in California, But that probably for the better too. Considering all the shit they have seen. Self-medicating through recreational drugs seems a recipe for disaster and addiction. Not to mention the ever growing, ever-present threat of Vecna's return looking over all of their heads. Like a heavy, dark cloud on the sky, slowly drifting nearer but with no sign of when it would be directly above them and when it would open up and drown the world.
  Now, Eddie is all for a little occasional drug use. But self-medicating the demons and shadows dogging their every step, both metaphorical and not, well, even Eddie is smart enough to know how bad a choice that would be. Enough so that he is grateful that his access has been cut off, so to speak. Which is also why he's tried to keep away from Argyle's offer and only taken him up on it the one time. Even if it is a nice comfort to know, it is only a small nudge away.

The door opens and Joyce walks in, trailing the smell of smoke and clean, morning breeze, only throwing them a quick cursory glance, too quick to notice the bottle in Eddie's hands. Throwing a small smile their way, Joyce walks through the living room and sticks her head in El's room, her voice quiet and gentle.

Before she can see his price, Eddie tucks it back in the cupboard and turns back to the breakfast.

After breakfast, Nancy scans through the cupboards one more time, gaze far more critical than when she went hunting for breakfast earlier. A notepad and pen in her hands, which she scribbles on after looking through each and every cupboard. Shortly after, she goes shopping with Jonathan who joins her with an awkward smile and a comment about needing some air. Argyle trails after the two with an easy grin and a "Laters," thrown out into the cabin as he walks backwards out the door, along with the salute he touches to his brow and throws back at Eddie.

The three drive away with the sound of a rumbling motor and gravel crunching under the wheels of the pizza van.

An hour or two later, they come back with bulging grocery bags on their arms and the smell of fresh air clinging to their hair and clothes.

In the afternoon, when Eddie has to go hunting for food in the cupboard, because he forgot to eat lunch and Steve has yet to return with Dustin, a stack of plastic shot glasses stands beside the bottle of vodka, along with vodka bottle no. 2. Eddie arches his eyebrows at them, but of course they give no answer as to why they multiplied or who made sure they did.

Grabbing the toast and crunchy peanut butter he opened the cupboard for, he closes the door and leaves them be. For now, at least.

That night – with Dustin and Steve returned to their usual sleeping spots — for once, when Eddie wakes up — chased from his dreams by red lightning, floating girls and screeching demon bats — he does not take the nightmare with him, when he opens his eyes to the dimly lit bedroom behind the curtain. It is not easy, to leave it behind and it takes a few deep breaths, but his heart manages to calm down on its own. Rapid, flashing heartbeats calms to a steady beat and the air in his lungs falls steadily in and out of him. Chest rising and falling slowly. He rubs a hand over his face and his fingers are not shaking.

He lies there for a while. Throat dry and rough. Beside him, Dustin's body is warm and solid. Arm and shoulder pressing into Eddie's, lying on his stomach, one arm sprawled down the length of his body, the other wrapped underneath his pillow, hugging it to his face. Head turned away from Eddie, his mop of curls ruffled and nearly burying him underneath them. Deep breaths fall slowly out of him. Every sound sends his shoulders rising and falling. Shifting against Eddie with how close they're lying.

Eddie rolls his head to the side and looks down at the mattress beside the bed. It is empty. Blankets left thrown across its surface, limp and wrinkled. Like they were thrown aside and Steve did not bother to tuck them in again.

The sight makes Eddie sigh.

To make space for Nancy and Mike, Robin, once again, did not stay over, so Eddie is not exactly surprised to find Steve's mattress empty and cold. It has become a familiar sight that he will only fall asleep and stay asleep with Robin's arms to keep him captive through the night.

Eddie's hands are not shaking. The shadows the light have not managed to keep at bay have not turned into monsters. But there is a scratch in the back of his throat and he is thirsty and a mounting thought in the back of his head whispers that if he goes back to sleep without a crutch, the nightmare will come back with a vengeance. So, he still eases himself out from under the blanket, careful to leave it in place around Dustin and leaves the bed, cigarettes scooped up in hand.

Past the curtain, he finds Steve sat guard by the door again. This time, he is awake. But he stares blank faced and completely empty out into space. This heavy and tired look painted all over his face, as if hollows and shadows have grown all over him in the time since he last saw him, when they went to sleep. As if Steve takes on all the shadows of the cabin at night, so the light can reach the rest of them more easily; their path unblocked and cleared.

Eddie looks him over. Bouncing lightly on the tips of his toes, the distant memory of his own nightmare — however small and inconsequential it is tonight — forgotten in favor of the one Steve's in. It hardly takes more than a second of contemplation, then he shoves his cigarettes back into his socks, heads to the stove, and begins making tea. In all the time it takes to heat the water, Steve never stirs. He just sits, checked out and completely lost on his little post, trusty nailbat shoved under his arm and hand, feet planted firmly on the ground.

As soon as the first whistle cuts through the air, Eddie yanks the kettle off the burner, pours the hot water into a cup and dumps a teabag into it. One that he knows Steve has sought out on bad days before. He brings the cup with him, kneels in front of Steve and reaches out. A careful hand touches his knee, settling gently atop the curve of his leg.

"Steve?" he asks gently. Steve blinks. "You there?" He rubs lightly at his knee. Steve blinks some more. Hazel eyes dart, scanning easily through the air and then they jerk, falling onto Eddie. There is a light in them now, some recognition, but not enough awareness. Definitely not. Eddie does not like the faraway look in his eyes. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck raise and his skin crawl. As if he should be watching the lights for flickers and the night sky for demo-bats. "There you are. Hi," he says lightly with a small, sad smile pulling at his lips.

Steve blinks some more. A shiver passes through him. Body twitching and jerking in one heavy and massive shiver. "Eddie?" his voice is soft and quiet. All rough around the edges and rumbling inside of his chest. And heavy still. As if it comes from underground. As if he has to force it out.

"Yeah, I'm here." And he gives Steve's knees another little reassuring rub, hoping to pull him a little closer to the surface with it. It does not do much, but that is what the tea is for. He waits another moment, then shifts, holding out the cup of steaming tea towards him. "Here. Tea."

Another moment passes. Sluggish hazel eyes blink down at the mug and then they blink into focus. "Tea?"

"Yep. Tea. All for you." He holds it further out. "Here."

"Why?"

"You look like you needed it." He shrugs. "And I wanted to."

Steve frees one arm form his folded criss-cross keeping the bat to his chest. Reaches out and winds his fingers around the mug. He holds it in front of himself, staring down at it with clear, but uncomprehending eyes. As if he is seeing it, but he still does not understand it. A few rapid blinks of the eyes. Then, a shaky breath. "I don't think anyone's ever made me tea before," and his voice sounds small and thick, all wobbly and wrong.

Eddie looks up at Steve with a ready-made little quip on his tongue, but stops wide eyed in his tracks. Alarm rushes through him. Steve is crying. Water fills up his eyes, making them shiny and wobbly. A few blinks and the tears dislodge themselves, trailing slowly down his cheeks.

Without a seconds pause, Eddie takes a hold of his wrist and carefully takes the tea back, then gently pulls him to his feet and guides him to the little kitchen table. When Steve is reluctant, body stiff and unmoving, Eddie shifts them around, pushing Steve gently to sit in the chair so he can face out into the room and still see the door. He puts the tea down in front of him and sits down opposite him with a glass of cold water.

It takes a long while, but eventually Steve says a small, "Thanks," and rubs a hand over his face, taking in a sharp breath and pulling himself up taller, as if it might force him back to himself.

Even though his eyes are downcast, Eddie still shrugs in response.

A short while passes.

"Are you okay?" Eddie eventually asks, quietly, but loud enough for him to hear, considering his hearing loss that Eddie's had enough days between learning about it to now know where his hearing limits lie.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." One of Steve's hands waves loosely in the air, brushing his searching eyes away. "Just couldn't sleep."

An unhappy twist pulls at Eddie's mouth. He looks at Steve for another moment. Quiet and contemplative.

The expression on his face is tired and drawn. Heavy, dark circles cling to the skin beneath his eyes. Tightness pulls at the corners of his mouth and cuts across his brow. In other words, he looks rough. And not just from the tightness that always clings to him, when one of his migraines come knocking.

After a moment, Eddie pulls his gaze away and looks down at the cup in his hands. He taps one of his fingers against the side. Finger tap-tapping it with a dull thump. "How's your head?"

When Dustin and Steve arrived that evening after the rest of them had finished dinner, Steve had hardly said a word before retreating into the bedroom and Dustin was left to confirm the latest migraine to them and that the other had apparently been stubborn about driving Dustin back to the cabin and return him to Will, El, Max, Mike and Lucas, despite its appearance that morning.

"Better," Steve says with a small sigh, voice rough and small.

Eddie casts a glance up at him.

Brow tight and tense with furrowed lines, lips pressed into a tense line. Hazel eyes stick to the cup before him. Gaze distant and unfocused and the line of his shoulders pulled up tense and taut.

"It's okay, if it's not," Eddie says cautiously, voice quiet. His hands won't be still. They shift back and forth. Fingers fidgeting and twisting. Pulling and tugging at rings that are not there anymore, so they just twist uncomfortably at his skin. "It's just—, you looked really checked out. And kinda not okay." He looks down at his fidgeting hands. Head lowered, looking up at Steve through his fizzy fringe and eyelashes. "It's okay, if you aren't. You don't have to be okay all the time, you know." Pulling his hands away from each other, he lays one of them flat out on the table. One finger lifts up and down, repetitively tap-tapping against the surface. "You don't have to sit by the door, every night Robin isn't here and then pretend you're okay. You don't have to spend every other night, guarding the door and then pretend that you aren't." At his tentative words, Steve's hand curl tight around his steaming cup. Fingers flexing and gripping it in a vicelike grip, so much so, his knuckles turn white and knobbly. The bone white and visible against his skin. "I may not know exactly what you've been through these last few years, but I know it's been a lot. And I know you've been protecting those kids the best you could. You've been making sure they got through alive and safe and made sure they were okay afterwards. Shit, you always make sure they're okay. Whether it's a paper cut today or the demogorgons from the Upside Down. You're always taking care of them, Steve. And I can imagine— no, that's a lie, I don't have to imagine, I've seen it." He points a finger and puts it on the table, as if digging in his point. Eyes fixed on Steve, but not sharp. "You always put everyone else first and you don't let them see you hurt. You barely even let us know, when you're having a migraine!" he adds incredulously. "We only know because half the time you have to retreat to somewhere quiet and dark, but sometimes you just let a migraine come and pass without saying a single word about it. And we have to pick up the signs you try to hide, like we're looking for smoke signals from far away."

A sound comes from the back of Steve's throat. A half-laugh and half-sob. It is ugly and too loud in the quiet of the night. Steve looks back at Eddie. Eyes a little wide. Expression tight and tense, his jaw flexing and shifting. "What do you want me to do?" he asks, voice tight and small, and far too incredulous. "Oh, everyone, I'm having a migraine for the third time this week, so stop everything you're doing and come and sit at my bedside and feel bad for me." He breaks off with a loud scoff and a roll of his eyes. His hand drops from his brow. He tucks it to his chest and crosses his arms, leaning back against the backrest of the chair. "Yeah, right," he scoffs, with another roll of his eyes. "Like I'm going to do that. It happens so fucking often. I'm sick of having them and everyone else is sick of hearing about them, too. I don't need to bring attention to another migraine, again, when I have one every other fucking day. It's not necessary." Mouth twisted, he flaps a hand in the air, waving it callously aside.

"Yes! Yes, it is!" Eddie insists, hissing. He leans forward. Hand curling into the edge of the table, gripping it. "You not telling us, only brings you more pain. You let the kids shout and talk loud and you only sometimes snap at them and then they think it's just because you're annoyed, when it's because your head is being split apart from the inside."

The expression on Steve's face shutters. It twists and flickers, as if he is battling between shutting the factory down before Eddie's words can sneak in through cracks in the walls and letting his thoughts fly freely across his face.

Eddie tries not to grip him by his shoulders and shake him, until something rattles loose and he can shake it until he lets some common sense enter his mind. It helps that there is a table between them and Eddie is not as frustrated, as he feels like crying on Steve's behalf.

Looking at him, Eddie's expression softens. Sadness falls over his face. Eyes heavy, his mouth pulls into an unhappy frown. When he speaks again, his voice is soft and gentle, "You play off your pain as annoyance and you just let everyone think you're a natural killjoy, when you're only actually annoyed half the time."

"Don't think so highly of me. I actually am that annoyed most of the time," Steve says with a trace of the sneer on his face making its way into his tone.

"Maybe half the time, I'll give you that."

The sneer on his face twists further. "You shouldn't. Everyone knows annoyed is my comfort zone."

"Not nearly as much as you pretend it is."

Sighing, Steve leans forward over the table again. Expression falling, he tucks his crossed arms on top of the table, loosening their tight grip and leaning himself against the table. "It doesn't matter, Eddie," he says. There is something absolutely tired and weary inside of his eyes. Mouth pulling and tugging downwards. "I have them all the time. You're not used to them yet, but you will be. It'll be old news soon enough and then it'll just be something stupid and bothersome. I don't need to make it into a big thing." One of his shoulders lifts in a small shrug. The corner of his mouth tugs up in a weak, sad smile. "I have migraines, so what?" His arm lifts up in a shrugging motion, brushing it all aside. "It's just a thing that happens. It doesn't matter," he stresses.

"No." Eddie shakes his head. He pushes off the table and leans back into the chair. Back falling into the backrest and crosses his arms, almost in a mirror image of Steve from before. A firm, stubborn look falls over his face. There is a wall inside of Steve's head and Eddie is determined to keep charging on ahead like a bull seeing red, until he crashes into it and it crumbles. "I refuse to accept that," he says with a small glare. It makes Steve roll his eyes again. His gaze falls to the table and he does not return them to Eddie.

"It matters, Steve," Eddie continues, arms tightening across his chest. "It matters, because we care about you and we want to help you. No one is tired of hearing about your migraines." Unable to stop it, a scoff falls out of his mouth. "They couldn't be, because you don't fucking talk about them."

"Oh my god," Steve mutters. Uncrossing his arms, he raises his hands and buries his face in his palms, elbows digging into the table. "This is so fucking stupid," he tells his palms, voice muffled, nearly lost to his skin.

"It's not stupid, it's important." Eddie leans forward, not enough to lean across the table, just enough to place his crossed arms on the table; another mirror of Steve's earlier position. "You put yourself first in the Upside Down and against monsters, but then put yourself last, when it comes to everything else." He looks at Steve. Eyes falling over his clenched jaw and his fingers digging into his face, pulling and twisting at his skin, digging furrows into his flesh. Tendons on the back of his hand standing out tight and tense against his skin.

Eyes wide and earnest, locked on Steve across from him, Eddie lowers his voice, words softer and smaller. "Look, I get it," he says softly, careful to stay in volume so Steve can still hear him. "Maybe it's been so long, it's just ingrained in you to not let the kids see your pain, but you don't have to pretend with everyone, Steve. You don't have to pretend with me. There's nothing to protect me from. Absolutely nothing."

Sighing, Steve lowers one arm. It lands on the table, curled on top of it. The other stays up. Palm cupping the side of his face, holding his head up. Eyes fixed somewhere around Eddie's chest. "Eddie, you don't have to—" he tries.

"No," Eddie cuts him off, voice still soft and low. "Let me finish."

Steve falls silent.

Eddie waits.

A moment passes. Quiet and tense.

Eddie just watches Steve, hunched up, braced against the table with just one elbow and a hand holding up his head. A painful grimace pulls at his face. Brow furrowed and tense.

Finally, Eddie resumes speaking, "You can say, you're struggling. You can say, you're not okay." Eddie throws an arm out, jabbing it towards him. "Shit, you don't have to even say it. I can see it. I wake up every night from nightmares, and half the time, you're not in bed, sleeping, as you should be, you're sitting guard by the door with that fucking nail bat in your arms. The only time I see you sleeping, is when Robin's here." His arm drops back down. Placing it back on the table, he curls it back around his other arm, curling it towards himself, almost as if he is curled up, protectively around himself. Gaze locked on Steve, watching him with wide, wary eyes, he continues, "That is not the behavior of someone, who is okay. You have chronic migraines and you brush it off your shoulder like it's lint, instead of saying 'you know what, it fucking sucks and it really hurts and I hate it.'" Eddie leans forward, over the table. Hands on top of the table, keeping him balanced. Staring at Steve with wide, earnest eyes. "It's okay, if you're having nightmares. It's okay, if you can't sleep. You can talk about it. You've faced interdimensional monsters four fucking times. And stared death in the face double that, at least. You can freak out about that. God knows I've freaked out." Lifting one hand off the table, he touches it to his chest and sweeps it out, gesturing in a loose circle at the world. "Since all this shit happened and pulled me into it like a fucking vortex, I've lost my head so many times, it's a wonder it's still attached to my neck." Dropping his arm, he sighs and shakes his head. He stares at Steve with wide-open eyes and says, voice soft and gentle, "You don't have to say you're okay, not when you're struggling. Please, understand when I say, I see you. I see that you're not okay and I won't let you suffer alone and in silence. Please understand that I'm not going to ignore your pain. Because I care about you." He takes a deep breath and meets his eyes head on, not shying away from anything he might see in them; but embracing it. "I care about you and I don't want you to suffer pain alone, not when you don't have to." The words bring some other words to mind. Words, he once overheard Robin say to Steve, his first evening in the cabin. If Steve will not listen to Eddie, maybe he will listen to Robin, even if she is not here. So, Eddie says, "Don't force yourself to be alone. Not when you don't have to be."

Steve sucks in a sharp breath. Eyes darting up, roaming all over face. When he swallows, the sound is loud between them and his throat clicks. The hazel of his eyes turn clear and shine out at him.

"Steve," Eddie adds, stressing his name. Steve's eyes fall away from him. They dart down and latch onto the cup on the table in front of him; a cup that has long since lost its steam. Leaning forward over the table, Eddie tries to catch Steve's gaze with gentle eyes. "You're not alone. I'm not one of the kids. You don't have to be strong," he says, voice a soft whisper. "There are no monsters to fight here. No one to protect. It's just me."

Steve's breath shudders. It shakes in through his mouth and shudders in his lungs. The hand holding his head aloft turns. Lifting up, it moves forward and shifts, falling down, like the closing of a pair of shutters. Brought away from his cheek and pulled to cover his eyes. Fingers held close together, shielding his hazel eyes from Eddie's gaze.

For a moment, Eddie sits there. Staring wide eyed and shocked at Steve's shaking body before him. Shoulders shaking and chest trembling as it rises and falls. He did not expect to actually get through to him. And yet, he watches in wide-eyed horror, as a teardrop falls past Steve's hand and runs down his cheeks.

Horror floods through Eddie. It crashes into his chest and rushes through him, like a wave crashing at sea. Making Steve admit and accept he is not okay was the goal. Making him cry was not.

"Shit," Steve says, voice wobbly and small. He turns his head to the side, facing away from Eddie. A shaky inhale of air shudders through his lungs. Raising both of his hands, he quickly wipes at his face and swipes at his cheeks. Movements rough and messy. But his tears keep falling, so he just puts both hands over his face and buries away in his palms. Little gasps of air hiccups from his chest. Hiccupping through him.

Eddie sways a little back and forth. Teetering on his seat. Unsure of what to do, now that he has well and truly broken through to Steve. Way more effectively than he intended to, but now that he has, he is not going to leave Steve to deal with the rubble and dust on his own. But indecision still rocks him back and forth. Lips sucked into his mouth, teeth tugging and gnawing on them.

"Sorry," Steve says, voice rough and croaky. Still carefully keeping his head turned away from him and hiding his face.

"It's okay." Eddie holds one of his hands up, as if to stop him from wiping his face clean off tears or to reassure him. "As I've been telling you, it's okay."

"Shit," he repeats, voice thick and raspy. And another, emphatic, "Fuck."

Eddie waits a short moment, leant forward and hovering on the edge of his seat. Brow furrowed and lip caught between worried teeth. He shifts forward as if rising to his feet, then stills, caught in the middle of the motion. "Can I come over there?"

A noise chokes in Steve's throat. After a moment, he nods. Face rubbing against his hands. "Please." He nods. Small and careful.

Rising from the chair fully, Eddie makes his way to stand before him. He reaches out. Careful fingers touch his chin and he tips his head up and back. Steve's hands fall away and Eddie gets to look down at him, emotion and expression bared for him to see all. Tears stream from his eyes, running down his face. He looks raw and rough in the grasp of his pain and exhaustion laid bare. And Steve just lets him see it. Despite his usual attempts at shielding his own pain from all eyes but Robin’s.

Eddie lays his palms on his cheeks, cupping his face in his hands. Gentle swipes of his thumbs catches the falling trails, wiping the trail off his cheeks.

For a moment, Steve allows their eyes to meet. Allows Eddie to see the raw look on his face and inside of his eyes. Then he ducks his head down, turns it slightly and presses his face into Eddie's palm. Eyes falling closed.

A small sigh falls from Eddie. It is more like a ghost of Steve's pain, billowing tinny from Eddie's mouth. He draws one hand up from Steve's face, towards his head and cups the side of his brow. Careful fingers drags his across his brow. Touch soothing and gentle. Across his brow, he wipes his thumb at the pained furrow carved into his skin, then pulls it up into his hair, shifting his other fingers up into it too. Soft locks brush over his fingers, swaying and flickering slightly as his fingers bury deep into his locks. Furrows cut through his hair, growing from where Eddie's fingers disappear.

He lets his thumb drag across Steve's brow again.

Steve's eyes remain closed. Tears still fall from them. Trailing down his cheeks. Hiccupping breaths stumble from his chest. Shoulders quivering and shaking against Eddie. Finally, Steve's arm comes up. They wrap around him and tug him close.

Hobbling forward, Eddie's feet shuffle and scuff against the floor and each other, stumbling just a little, as Steve pulls him closer. Legs slotting together as a natural gap appears in Steve's leg, letting Eddie's body and his legs slide into place there. As easily and seamlessly as puzzle pieces finding their matching sides.

With Eddie right in front of him, Steve turns his face out of his own palm and buries it in his stomach.

Strong arms tighten around Eddie. Pressing taut and tense against his body. Pushing and pulling, wrapping tighter around him. Pressing him more firmly into Steve. Merging them together as if not even air is allowed to come between them. As if Steve does not need air; only Eddie.

A dangerous thought. But it sticks to Eddie nonetheless, even if he shoves it into the corners of his mind to disappear into the cracks and shadows there.

Wordlessly, Eddie tucks his arms firmly around Steve. Wraps them around his shoulders and tips his head down, pillowing his cheek on his head, burying his face in his hair in turn. For it is something Eddie has always found comforting, whenever his uncle, for once, found his heart more broken and bruised than his skin; other than his uncle pulling him close and burying Eddie in his arms, pressing himself as close as he can, it was his uncle pillowing his head on top of his, as if the touch of his head on top of Eddie’s assured him of his safety more than anything else.

So that is what he does now. Holds Steve tight. Pulls him as close as he can and closer still. Arms tight and tense around him. Palms pressing firm and warm into shoulders. And his face buried in his hair.

Against him, Steve breathes quiet and stutteringly slow. Every breath falls in and out of him in tightly measured blows. Chest tense and tight, shuddering with muscles pulled taut against Eddie. Despite his carefully measured breaths, Eddie's shirt quickly grows wet and damp. A spot that sticks to his skin right where Steve's face disappears into him.

"It's okay," Eddie speaks into his hair. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" he sighs and lightly shakes his head, rubbing his face against his hair. "I know you have Robin, but I just wanted you to know I'm here for you, too. Like you are for me. For all of us." He cards a hand through Steve's hair, runs it down his neck and rubs his shoulders. "I'm sorry. It's okay. I'm here."

After that, neither speak or move.

He stays there until Steve moves.

At one point, long after Eddie's cramped muscles has begun aching, Steve's arms slowly unwind from around Eddie. So slowly, it is as if he has to move inch by inch, pull his hands loose finger by finger, painfully. Then, he eases away. Frees his face and eases back into the chair. Painstakingly slowly.

Despite his misgivings and how much he wishes he could pull Steve into his chest and bury him there until all of his aches and pains have been soothed, Eddie lets him.

Blooming red skin greet Eddie, when he looks down at him. Cheeks shiny and wet.

Before Steve can go too far, Eddie brings his hands forth, cups his face in them and gently wipes at his cheeks again.

Steve will not meet his gaze. Head tilted down, his eyes remain stuck to the floor. Those hazel eyes that Eddie has come to anticipate so regularly and eagerly meeting his own through these days at the cabin; stubbornly kept low and away from him.

Thumb wiping gently at his skin, he says softly, "You can talk to me."

"I know," he says. "It's just—" he stutters. "I don't—" a sharp inhale gasps through him and he breaks off, waving a hand in the air, in front of his face, half-waving off his words and half hiding behind it.

"It's okay." Eddie shakes his head, small and careful. "I just need you to know. I'm here. You can come to me, when you're ready," his words remain a small whisper. "It doesn't have to be now. It doesn't have to be tomorrow. Just, when you're ready, I'll be there. Just like you've been there for me."

Steve nods. The movement makes his hair sway and bop lightly.

Letting his hands fall away from his cheeks, Eddie grabs his own glass of water and lowers himself to the ground, crouching before Steve, looking up at him with a gentle expression on his face.

Steve is still half cast in shadows. Head bowed and lowered so far, shadows play heavy across his face, burying his expression in its grasp. He presses his chin desperately into his chest, as if looking away; as if keeping his eyes averted, will make this moment in time turn to sand and allow Steve's pain to fade back into the ether to be ignored and buried once more.

The glass of water is still in Eddie's hand. Held up before him. A silent offering.

After a moment, Steve reaches out. Weak fingers inch their way around the glass.

Gentle, Eddie touches his free hand to the back of Steve's and keeps it there, like a support barrier. Palm and fingers lines up with Steve's, gently holding onto it from behind. He passes the glass into his hand, and keeps a careful hold of it from both sides, through Steve's hand.

"Thank you," he croaks, voice raw and tender. Hazel eyes flick up to his. "Not just for this." He tips the glass towards him. "For everything you said." A small stretch or his lips, pulls them into a thin line across his face. "Even if I'm slow to listen."

"Of course," Eddie says softly. One of his hands comes to lie on top of Steve's knee. Warm and gentle against his thigh.

Raising the glass to his mouth, Steve takes a few careful sips. Eyes darting everywhere, jerking all over the kitchen and traveling the cabin around thrice; everywhere but at Eddie. The glass comes back down to his lap. He holds it precariously on top of his lap. Cupped in one hand and balanced on top of another, the bottom placed on his fingers.

When nothing else happens, and Steve remains with that faraway, hollow look in his eyes that Eddie walked in on, Eddie takes the glass back from him and puts it away on the table. It slides it across with a soft clunk and shift. Eyes never once straying from Steve.

Reaching out, he takes one of Steve's hands in his. Unfolds it between both of them and cups it. He brings it up to close to himself. Places it before his face and gently presses it against his lips. Not to kiss it or do anything really. Merely just to hold his hand and let him know, he is not alone.

Steve's finger twitch and give a small squeeze. Some awareness comes back to his face. Eyes flicking down to Eddie's, their gazes meet for the first time, since he buried himself away in his arms.

"When was the last time someone hugged you?" Eddie asks quietly.

A small grunt comes from the back of Steve's throat. He gives a shrug. Expression twisted in confused furrows. "I hug Dustin and Robin all the time."

"No." Eddie lets their joined hands fall back on Steve's lap. Keeping it held firmly in his hands, he looks up into Steve's eyes and searches his gaze for an answer he is sure he already knows. "I mean, when was the last time you were held, Steve? Really held? Being held in someone else's arms. With intent. Not just your nightly cuddles with Robin," he adds, because honestly, at this point he is not sure the two of them count as separate people and so he doubts their constant cuddles and hugs counts. He gives his hand a squeeze, emphasizing his words. "And not you doing the holding."

Steve's gaze flicks down. Hazel eyes latch onto their joined hands and the way his own is swallowed up by Eddie's, completely gone in their depths, with only his fingers peeking out at the other end, curling around Eddie's.

Steve gives a small shake of his head. The hand not held captive by Eddie lifts into the air, gesturing in a shrug. His mouth shapes the words, I don't know and although no sound actually comes out, Eddie still hears them.

"Okay. Well—" Eddie gives his hand another squeeze and lets a small twitch of a smile flicker from his lips "—we're fixing that." With the tips of his fingers, he swings Steve's hand back and forth, swaying them on top of his lap. "If that's okay with you," he adds gently.

Steve nods. He tries giving Eddie a small smile, but it is nothing more but a twitch of his lips.

Squeezing Steve's hand one more time, Eddie pulls him up from the chair and tugs him into a hug.

Steve's arms wrap around him.

At first, he is stiff, without tears running down his face and his walls crumbled by his feet. Eddie just stands there, holding him close and tight. Eventually, Steve's arms wrap fully around him. He sinks into the embrace. Body sagging, he relaxes fully into Eddie's embrace. His palms flatten out on his back and press into him. Every finger pressing against him. He ducks his head down and tucks it into his neck, burying his face away. Just completely sinking into the hug.

After standing there for a while with Steve's arms around him tight and squeezing, giving no sign of letting up anytime soon, Eddie glances at the chair Steve left behind. Considers sitting down on it and pull Steve to sit on top of him and just hold him through the night. But he wants something better. Wants to give him something better than being crammed on a small, hard chair, where aches and pains and discomfort will eventually chase them away from each other, sooner than Steve might pull away on his own.

So, Eddie squeezes his arms tighter around Steve and offers in a quiet, gentle voice to go to bed.

Steve pulls away from him. His expression twists up. "You don't have to do that." He shakes his head. "Seriously, I'm fine, Eddie." But he won't meet Eddie's eyes.

"Seriously, I'm not asking." Eddie grabs onto Steve's shoulders before he can go too far. It makes Steve finally look at him. Hazel eyes dart to his. Eddie meets his gaze. Expression as open and gentle as he can make it. "I'm offering." He gives Steve's shoulders a squeeze. "No expectations, no questions asked, nothing at all. Just let me hold you."

A long moment passes.

The look in Steve's eyes remain wary and hesitant.

Finally, after a long time where Eddie just stands there. Looking at Steve with an open expression, waiting, Steve finally nods. "Okay," he says, voice quiet and soft. "Okay." He moves to step completely away from him. Arms sliding off Eddie's shoulder and back. But Eddie reaches out and catches his hand, before it can fall too far.

Steve looks on, slightly wide eyed, as Eddie folds his hands into his own and gives his arm a slight tug, turning to walk out of the kitchen.

Quiet and silent, Steve follows Eddie back through the living room. Footsteps pad-pad-padding softly across the floor, past the sleeping Hopper, Jonathan, Argyle, Will and Joyce.

In the bedroom, Dustin's soft snores drift up from the bed. Eddie lies down on Steve's mattress. Keeping a firm grip on his hand, pulling him along.

Steve follows him down. Back folding over and knees bending. He lands on the mattress on his knees with a small thump. For a moment, he just sits kneeling there, staring at him until Eddie gives him a tug and then he goes to lie down beside him.

But Eddie does not give him the chance.

Once more, Eddie wraps his arms around him, freeing his hand to pull him close instead. Arms wrapping around his shoulders and back, drawing him near, chest to chest.

At his touch, Steve goes pliant and lets himself be pulled.

Soft sounds and rustles fill the room as the two of them come together in the middle of Steve's mattress. Shifting around to come together as one.

In the end, Steve ends up on his side, almost his stomach. Lying on top of Eddie, his chest and stomach overlapping with Eddie's, one leg across his, slid into place between Eddie's.

Eddie cups one hand on the back of his head, palm cupping his neck and his fingers curled into the back of his head, buried away in the hair at the nape. The other hand presses into back, keeping him secure and tucked close.

Held close to him, Steve ducks his head down and tucks it into Eddie's shoulder and neck, burying his face away in him. Warm breath puffs from his mouth. Fanning hot and damp across the skin on Eddie's neck.

Eddie runs his hand down Steve's head. Palm smoothing down over his hair, reaching his neck and picking it up again, laying it back on top of Steve's head, only to repeat the motion.

A short while passes and Steve's shoulders begins to shake, like he never truly stopped. Just put a pause on it all. Like a stopper in a sink, keeping the water held back until it gets unplugged again.

Hot tears land on Eddie's throat like the soft patter of the first few drops of rain.

On top of him, Steve's body shakes. Small, stiff and shuddering. Like every muscle is locked up tight, careful not to make himself heard or felt. As if he can't cry any other way than silent and repressed. As if he has been keeping his cries silent for years. As if he no longer knows how to make himself be heard.

"I got you, Steve," Eddie says into his hair, "I got you. You can let go."

Steve's cries do not get louder, but he does begin to breathe more. Great heaving, shuddering breaths of air that shakes through his body and echoes out into Eddie, rippling through both of them. Every gasp jolts through them. Sharp and bursting. Ripping through Steve. Loud and ugly and wet in the air between them.

Eddie cradles Steve to him. Even long after Steve falls silent and his body goes slack and loose against him with sleep. He just keeps holding him. Keeps running a hand up and down his back, occasionally smoothing it through his hair as well. The harsh, gasping breaths has long since been replaced with the deep, slow breath of sleep. And still he holds him.

In the morning, when Dustin blinks down from the bed at their intertwined bodies, all evidence of Steve's tears wiped clean from his face, and asks what the hell Eddie is doing down there, Eddie simply tells him he was kicking him in his sleep, so he decided to spare his shins the bruises and have a cuddle with Steve instead, since Robin left a post open.

Dustin does not question it.

In the cover of the blankets, Steve squeezes his hand.

A sharp, deep ache rips through Eddie's chest. Like the painful stab of a knife through his heart. And Eddie wants to kiss him so much.

Instead, he squeezes back.

Later that day, he writes a song about Steve.

Atlas Drowning, he calls it.

It is the first song he allows himself to write about Steve and only Steve. Words and sentences have been knocking around his head for too many days now, beating in time with his aching heart that falls more and more as the days go by.
 He's been resisting it up until now. Still is, in some ways. Putting his emotions into song would just cement Steve in his heart. Would just invite him to bury his way even further. But it hardly matters. Steve continues to bury deeper into his heart and Eddie can do nothing, but stand on the sidelines and watch, as he does so.
Besides, writing songs about it hardly makes any difference now. Although, it does make him increasingly anxious about where he sits and writes them and where he puts his notebook, when he is done. He’ll just have to remember to tuck it into his copy of Fellowship of the Ring, when he's done with it or something.

The only consolation he has is that up until now, no one but Steve has shown interest in the things he writes in his notebook. He figures everyone else probably sees the furtive look in his eyes, when their gazes pass a little too close to the open page he's scribbling on and has taken the hint. It is also not really Steve, Nancy, Jonathan or Argyle he is worrying about. They have a far better sense of privacy and decorum than the kids. So the only worry he really has are the kids, snooping little shitheads they are. But he has some assurance in that department, at least. The Hellfire kids, Dustin, Lucas and Mike have seen him with his notebook plenty of times in the school cafeteria or scribbling away before the start of a campaign and have been at the receiving end of Gareth or the others’ warning not to sneak a look or pester him, while he's writing in it, so they are well aware there will be hell to pay, if they peek at the songs hiding inside his notebook.

Here's to hoping that old fear will keep, with something far more incriminating than the occasional fucking ballad or awful song Eddie should have burned as soon as he finished writing it, hidden inside of it.

"I just don't get it," Steve says, waving a hand at the game of solitaire Robin has laid spread out beside her.

"I don't need you to."

"No. But solitaire's just boring, you know?" the last two words carry a different tone than the rest. Confusion colors them hesitant and a furrow pulls across Steve's nose, crumbling it up. He casts his eyes up, seeking Robin's eyes, darting between them, as if truly needing to understand every part of her, even this; a simple card game to stave off boredom.

"It's better than sitting and doing nothing. That's what's boring. It keeps my hands and brain happy."

"But there's gotta be better games than solitaire to do that, though," he emphasizes with a comical grimace, as if disgusted by the very word.

Robin rolls her eyes. "I like the repetition."

It is Sunday. The midday sun hangs up above between overhanging trees and clouds half-covering the sky. Sunlight streams down from the sky above, painting the world bright and golden. A soft breeze winds through the forest and past the trees, rustling the leaves hanging like a blanket above head. Playing a soft canopy of rustles, rising and falling with every blow of the wind; rushing gentle and soft over Steve, Robin and Eddie sat on the porch. Louder above that, music plays.

Earlier, Eddie and Robin relieved the Boombox from the kids for a few hours, sneaking it out from El's bedroom while the rugrats chased each other to the kitchen, grabbing for the sandwiches Joyce and Steve, stood side by side building — because he apparently could not say no to her, no matter how much he rolled his eyes and pretended he was suddenly completely deaf, when it was the kids themselves who bugged him about making food for them, when they were too busy reading comics or squabbling to bother with it themselves. Understandably, she would rather have the chaos briefly brought to the table after making them, than the destructive chaos of letting them assemble their own sandwiches would be. It, at least, offered for plenty chances of needling for the opportunists. Which is to say Eddie and Robin. "Just like a regular old housewife, Harrington. You do make a rather fetching one, so you've got that going for you at least," Eddie said then, grin splitting wide and bright, as he stole pieces of chicken, ham, pickles and cut-off crusts whenever Joyce looked the other way and Steve did not.

"At least, I've got something," Steve snorted, knocking his hand away for the seventh time. "What've you got , Munson? Guaranteed hearing damage and lung cancer by 30?" He quirked an eyebrow at him. "At least, I didn't make myself deaf with music from the junkyard." And then, Eddie had to high-tail it out the kitchen with the jam before Joyce saw him swipe a mouthful from it with his bare finger. He was trying to stay in her good graces after all.

Once the sandwiches were all assembled, all lying in stacks on two plates on the counter, two plates shuffled off to the side with two sandwiches, one with a concerning amount of pickles and one with the crusts cut off — presented to El and Dustin with a roll of Steve's eyes and a fond ruffle of hair — the kids stormed the kitchen, Joyce barely escaping by the skin of her teeth, arms held high in the air as she laughed at the whirl of kids barreling past her. And, as planned, while the kids were preoccupied plunging the kitchen, Robin ducked away into El's bedroom and grabbed the boombox and a pile of tapes. Before she could be seen, she quickly ducked outside with her loot and threw a sharp grin towards Eddie, as she did so.

Eddie does not know how long it's been since then, but they are still basking in their treasure.

The boombox stands off to the side of them. Music streams from its speakers, echoing out softly among the trees. A handful of tapes lies beside it. Some Rolling Stones and Bowie, and even some ABBA, but only because Steve is exhaustively bitchy about getting to appreciate their genius. Which Eddie really only disagrees with to be contrary and because it is fun to rile him up where he gets all huffy and bitchy about it.

Currently, the boombox has a fun old time spinning a tape by Kiss. One of only three bands Steve and Robin can agree on without ending with someone's face shoved in the dirt and plenty of colorful curses. Or so Eddie has been told. So far, they seem pretty content with each other's music choices, both listening to it and playfully mocking each other for it. One of Robin's feet bops up and down in time with the beat. Head bopping along occasionally, when the beat and song is particularly well-received by her. Sat beside Eddie, she leans up against the wall, legs spread out over the porch. Arm pressing into Eddie's, her presence solid and warm against him.

Legs crossed in front of him, Eddie has a beer in the empty space created in the middle, fingers occasionally reaching out to fiddle with the metal. A cigarette hangs lazily from his mouth, drooping slightly downward with smoke curling in a thin, faint trail from the end.

Steve's sat across from them. One leg bent, arm slung over it, balanced on the knee. A beer in hand, he tips it back and forth, rolling it on its curved, round bottom against the floorboards. Bottle rattling and clinking against the wood.

Robin's beer is left on the side. A deck of cards occupying her hands. She's got them spread out on her other side, laid out in a game of solitaire, some rows still facing downward, other already stacked with cards facing upward. Occasionally, she reaches out, leaning slightly away from Eddie, her warmth against his arm and shoulder disappearing, and adds a card to a row or shifts a row, adding it to another.

Today it is just them and the kids. After lunch, Hopper and Joyce went on one of their many walks in the woods. Jonathan and Argyle went on a trip with Wheeler in the pizza van before midday and still have not come back.

Lips stretching into a mischievous smile, Steve shifts his foot. It tips and turns and pushes into Robin's thigh. Toes digging into her soft flesh.

"Iiiip!" Shouting, Robin jerks her leg away, her entire body jolting forward. Arms flash through the air, pulled close to her chest with her full-body jolt, a card clenched in hand and all.

Across from her, Steve grins at her, chuckling lowly. Heavy crinkles forms by his eyes.

"Stop that, asshole," Robin says. She kicks her foot through the air, kicking her heel at Steve. "Just because I can keep myself from boredom, doesn't mean you get to take yours out on me."

"Okay, okay." A light chuckle bubbles from Steve's chest. Holding up his hands, palms out in surrender, Steve shifts his leg to the side, pointing his toe away, freeing up the space once more.

Robin throws him a glare. Stretching her leg out once more, she bristles, "Dingus." But a small smile stays on her face, when she returns to her card game.

"Careful, Steve-o," Eddie says, lazily removing the cigarette from his mouth and tapping it against the ashtray on his other side. Ash falls from the end, pattering into the bed of ashes already lying in its concave grasp. "She's armed. You'll be covered in paper cuts, before you know it." He puts the butt back in his mouth and drags in a lungful of smoke. After a moment, he lets his mouth drop open and the smoke drifts out in a shapeless cloud. Head tipped back against the wall and rolled sideways to look at Steve with a lazy smirk curling from his lips.

"Threatening me for her, Munson?" Steve asks, a corresponding smirk growing across his face. "You're getting rusty, Robbie—" he nudges her leg again with his toes, this time a different place and far less pointed "—if you're turning to others for comebacks."

"Or maybe I've just realised my insults are lost on you," she says without missing a beat, head still turned down, gaze directed on the cards beside her. "Eddie's just not realised it yet, but I'm sure he soon will."

"Might take a year or three." Tilting his head to the side, Steve pulls a face, feigning consideration, raking his eyes up and down Eddie's body. "Not sure I have all that much to fear from someone still in High School at twenty."

"At least, I didn't work in an sailor themed ice cream shop." Lips curling, Eddie's grin turns sharp, teeth bared, flashing white. "Remind me, how tall was that hat you wore?" He raises his hands, fingers pointed and puts them on top of his head, palms facing each other, as if miming a tall hat sitting atop his head.

Robin laughs. One sharp, quick burst of laughter. "Oh, he hated it." Looking up, she tilts her head to the side, grinning. "What was it?" The grin on her face turns sharp. "'Ruining your best feature'?"

"Oh, Stevie." Head thrown back, Eddie laughs and shakes his head. Laughter still shaking his shoulder, he drops his head back down and looks at Steve. "You truly have been taking that nickname to heart, haven't you?"

Annoyance plays across his face as Steve tips his head back, leaning it into the railing behind him, rolling his eyes. A smile twitches in the corners of his mouth, battling the press of his lips, trying to hold it at bay. "Not my fault. Who was I to deny the people of Hawkins what they wanted?"

"Pretty sure, they came for the ice cream, Harrington," Eddie says, voice dripping, "not for a chance to see you in your sailor suit, however a glorious sight that may have been."

Robin glances at him. A wry look falls over her face and she arches an eyebrow at him. Eddie takes another lazy drag of his cigarette and shrugs with one shoulder. Eyes crinkled and humored, Robin presses her lips together, swallowing the grin clearly struggling to burst forth.

"Oh, shut up." Oblivious, Steve rolls his eyes. "You'd look, if you were in their shoes, too."

Eddie crooks an eyebrow at him. "I'm no girl, Harrington, but I doubt they'd be falling over their feet at every pretty boy, who flicks their hair at them, no matter how swoopy it is."

Steve shrugs. Then, apropos of nothing, he leans slightly forward and says, "Come on, babe" —and claps his thigh— "round those cards up and we'll play a round or two."

Squinting her eyes, she frowns at him. "You didn't want to play half an hour ago."

"Yeah and now I do." Hand held out, he snaps his fingers. A quick snap-snap-snap. "Come on. I'll even shuffle and deal."

A sigh blows from her chest, long and drawn out. But she quickly passes her hands over the cards and pushes them all together. The edges of the cards catch on each other with a slight clack-clack-clacking noise, then slides together. All gathered, she flips them up and taps them on the porch, lining them into one stack. All gathered and lined up, she hands them over to Steve.

Receiving the cards in his hand, Steve pulls a face at them. "These are a mess. You didn't even turn them right side down."

"Well, that's on you, isn't it?" she says, shrugging nonchalantly and sitting back. "Should've let me finish my game."

Rolling his eyes with his whole body it seems, Steve spreads the cards out in his hands, pushing them out in a large fan. With quick flicks of his wrists, he flips them, grabbing a small handful and turning the cards around. When he reaches the end, he fans through the stack again with a thumb at the corner, eyes darting over the painted side that flashes out at him. Satisfied, he nods and taps them on the porch. The cards falls in a cascading patter past his fingers, settling into a neat stack in his grasp.

All sorted, he begins shuffling them. Above the deck of cards and quick shuffling motions, he throws a glance at Eddie. "You in, Munson?"

"Sure, yeah," he shrugs. He takes one last pull from his cigarette and stamps it out in the ash tray beside him, discarding the curled up butt in the ashy remains in it.

With quick flick of his wrists, Steve deals out three piles of cards.

For a while, they play. Teasing comments and barbs fly between them like sparring back and forth. Music from the boombox fills the space between them, when they fall silent.

In the middle of the game, Eddie's eyes fall on Steve's hands, casually holding his stack of cards up. Blue nail polish on the ends of each of his fingers shines out at Eddie.

"I must say, Steve," Eddie drawls, picking up a card and inching it between two cards in the stack in his hand, the stiff paper slides softly against each other, "are Robin and I not good enough for you?"

Glancing up at him over his own stack of cards, Steve frowns lightly at him, brow furrowing. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, I can hardly fail to notice the color you're sporting." He waves a hand lazily in Steve's direction, towards his hands.

A sigh blows from Steve's mouth. He tips his head back. It tilts back, hitting the railing with a thump. Resignation falls over his face, as if he was just waiting for Eddie to bring it up. "I knew you'd bring it up at one point. You're like a dog with a bone or something," Steve mumbles, throwing a card onto the growing pile. It lands there with a faint plop.

"I've got nothing against a guy flashing some color on his nails, I'm all for it," Eddie says, holding his free hand up and curling his fingers quickly one by one, a wave rippling through them, the chipped black nail polish still hanging on most of his fingers, "and I must say, the blue suits you, Harrington." Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he shakes his head, feigning disappointment. "I'm just disappointed all it took was for some little lamb to bat her eyes at you and then you're all for it, when I know Robin and I tried very hard to bat our lashes at you not that long ago." Waving a hand, he gestures back and forth between him and Robin. Then puts it on his hip, arching an eyebrow at him. "What, aren't we pretty enough for you?"

"Maybe you're just not cute enough."

"Blasphemy." He reels back as if stuck. Hand on his chest. "Never have I heard such a smear on my character before." Turning his head, he looks at Robin. "I'm plenty cute, aren't I, Robin?"

She holds her hand up, palm out. "Not my area."

"Boo." He blows a raspberry at her. "You just don't want to admit, I'm cuter than you."

She shrugs with one shoulder. "Sure, in the right light."

"Which is?"

"Darkness." Steve barely manages to say the word before he snorts. Loud and ugly.

Eddie tries to glare at him. But the humour twisting bright and airy across his face with self-satisfied chuckles bubbling from his chest, takes the wind right out of his sails and the glare is lost to a too fond and affectionate smile, considering Eddie has barely known him for a month at this point.
But maybe time means less, when you have faced the end of the world together and come out bearing the same wounds and bruises across their skin.

Steve's mirth has barely faded before commotion breaks out from inside the cabin and the door swings open with a bang! Cutting between them, loud and explosive.

All three of them startle. Bodies jolting and twitching, they jerk, turning towards the door whip-fast and wide-eyed. It is a miracle their cards don’t all go flying.

"I knew it!" Dustin calls, standing in the doorway, arms still spread out from pushing the door open. Glaring down at them, he continues, voice loud, face twisted in outrage. "You assholes have stolen our boombox!" Arm flashing through the air, Dustin points accusingly at them. Pointed finger darting from Steve to Robin to Eddie and back again. Quickly behind him are the rest of the kids, all gathered to stand in the doorway, peeking over shoulders and other limbs to see. Most of them look annoyed and perturbed, the glare either directed at the three of them or Dustin himself. Eddie even catches a roll of eyes from Will.

"Wasn't exactly rocket science, Henderson." Eddie throws a look at the kids standing in the doorway and spilling out at the porch. "Could have followed the yellow road to find the source of the music for a while now." He crooks an eyebrow at them. "Clearly, it hasn't been missed."

"You can't just take it!"

"Oh, yeah, we kinda can," Steve says, tone arrogant and obnoxious, almost a perfect match to Dustin's own, when he's on a roll.

"We want to listen to music too!"

"You've had it to yourselves for days, man." Steve rolls his eyes. "It's called sharing and generosity."

"Something you're so familiar with," Dustin says sarcastically, also rolling his eyes. It is comical how much of a mirror of each other the two of them can be, when they really get going and begin playing off of each other.

Looking at them, eyes widening, Eddie presses his mouth together, desperately holding his laughter back. A look thrown towards Robin reveals a long-suffering expression on her face. Eyes rolling heavily in their sockets.

"Sure." Steve shrugs. "If you wanted me to stop driving you places and pay for your snacks and shit, you just should've told me."

Dustin makes an outraged noise. "That's clearly not what I meant!"

"Uh huh." Eyes narrowing, Steve leans forward. "So, tell me, what did you mean to say to the guy, who so generously—" he stresses "—frees up his time for your leisure?" An eyebrow crooks.

"Dustin, don't," Lucas hisses, tugging at his arm. "It's not worth it."

"Okay, okay!" Dustin swats his hand, brushing him off and away. Turning back to them, he crosses his arms. "But you've had it for forever now. It's our turn."

Robin raises an arm and looks at her bare wrist. "We've had it for like an hour."

"I thought you guys were studying and doing your homework?" Steve adopts a near perfect disappointed-dad expression all over his face.

"We are! We were! That's why its our turn! We need music to keep ourselves invigorated and our minds engaged. It's food for education, everybody knows that!" Dustin exclaims. "An hour's long enough. You guys are just being a bunch of assholes."

Eddie raises a hand, palm flat and facing the kids. A flat stare directed at them.

They fall silent. Shifting from foot to foot, Mike, Dustin and Lucas glance at each other out of the corner of their eyes. It is almost pulled straight out of his memory, from in the beginning of them joining Hellfire. All timid and shy, looking up at Eddie with such admiration. A veneer of fear hiding in their eyes, whenever he directed a look at them; a glimpse of a time when all he had to do, to put the fear of god — or satan, rather — in them, was look at them sharply.

How the hell Eddie used to scare them, when they've looked into the mouth of actual monsters and certain death as many times as they have, Eddie will never know. A mystery greater than the Upside Down itself, he is sure.

"You were perfectly happy sitting in silence for the last while," Eddie says, adopting a dangerous tone of voice, he might have used behind his D&D screen. Arching an eyebrow, he stares pointedly at them. "You've got three walkmen between you, that's enough, don't you think?"

"Since when are you on their side?!" Dustin points accusingly at Eddie. Arm sharply cutting through the air, gesturing aggressively all over the place towards the three of them.

Eddie looks at them unimpressed and stone faced. "Since you decided to start being entitled brats." Looking away from them, he grabs a hold of his beer and takes a drink.

"You're drinking!" Arm flapping in the air again, Dustin points between them once more. Face extremely appalled.

"Pointing out the obvious, Dustin. And here I thought you were above such things," Steve says, voice drool. He rolls his eyes and raises his own beer for a sip.

"Can I have one?" Max asks, voice hopeful, shoulders pulling back, posture straightening in her chair between them all.

"Nope, no way" Steve makes a face. Hand waving though the air, shoving that request away. The tips of his fingers pinched around the top of the beer, liquid inside of it sloshing against the side at the motion. "You're like ten."

"I'm almost 16!"

"Almost doesn't help your case," Steve points out with an arched brow.

"Please?" tries Lucas with a charming smile, ever the mediator.

"Come on, Steve, be cool for once," Mike says, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. "Just let us have one."

Steve purses his lips and shakes his head. "I said, what I said, neither of you can have one and that is final," he says decisively. He puts his beer down. Pointedly letting the bottom clang against the wooden boards of the porch.

Mike scoffs. "Seriously?"

Steve shakes his head again. He lifts the hand holding his stack of cards and settles his eyes on them, turning away from the kids. "Uh huh, nope."

"Robin?" Dustin says hopefully. And when she ignores him, "Eddie?" Turning big, begging eyes on him, his expression folds into something imploring.

"Whatever you're throwing, Henderson, I ain't catchin'," Eddie says, lifting his own stack of cards and throwing his turn out on the growing pile of discarded cards in their midst.

"But—"

"Unfair!"

"Come on!"

"You're a bunch of assholes."

"That is such bullshit—" they break out in protest. Voices raised, loudly overlapping and drowning out each other.

A final sharp look from Steve shuts them up.

Raising a hand, Steve points a finger at them, eyes sharp on them. "When the adults are all out, you're left with Steve here—" turning his hand around, he points his thumb at himself "—and Steve says no." He shakes his head, arm cutting through the air. Expression firm and unrelenting. "That's just how it is and you're gonna have to live with it."

"Bullshit," Max says, voice sharp. "You were totally drinking at our age."

"Yeah, and I'm sitting here with like five letters of rejection from colleges," he deadpans, eyebrows lifting high on his brow. "Save your livers and college, kids."

A loud scoff bursts from Max. Rolling her eyes, she leans back, collapsing against the back of her chair. "You're a bunch of assholes. It's not like any of you are old enough to legally drink."

Steve levels an unimpressed — and unnecessary — look at her. "You are also on heavy painkillers and insane medication, Max. So even if you were older, which you aren't," he stresses, tapping the bottom of his beer against the porch with a hard clink, "you still shouldn't be drinking."

"So are you!" she shouts.

"Not as strong as yours and not the same type. And my limbs aren't all in full body casts."

"You're such hypocrites," Max scoffs, which might be the first time Eddie's heard her agree with Mike.

"Maybe." Steve shrugs, looking not particularly bothered by such accusations.

"Seriously?" Max continues, voice loud and incredulous. "You're just—"

"Max," Steve's cuts her off, voice careful and calm, but with a thin layer of firmness to it. Not any angrier than before, just stronger. Max stills. Expression caught in the middle of her outrage. Steve leans forward. Eyes fixed on just her, as if, for a moment, the rest of the kids disappear and there's only her. "You asked me to take care of you. This is me—" he waves another unnecessary hand at himself "—taking care of you."

Max makes a face at him. All scrunched up and, in a way, playfully irate. "Hypocrite," she says with none of the fire from before.

"Menace," says Steve, his own expression playful and fond.

Max rolls her eyes, but relaxes and lets her back fall to rest against the backrest of her chair.

Mike throws a disgusted look at Max. Face twisted in distaste. Sour like he sucked on lemon's worse cousin. Whatever that may be. He scoffs at her white flag and turns back to them, directing his glare at Steve. "No way!" he yells, arms held out. "That's not good enough. That’s such bullshit."

"Come on," Lucas tries with a warning glance at Mike. "Don't you think you're being a little unfair?"

"Come on, guys. It's not that important," Will says, looking between his friends with annoyance writ clear across his face, leant back against the open door, halfway in shadow. "It's just beer."

"Yeah, it's just beer," Dustin agrees with a much different tone, pointedly looking at Steve. But Will sighs and rolls his eyes, mutters a few choice words under his breath and takes a step back from the huddle, retreating even more into the cabin. El follows him half a step and whispers a few words to him, which Will just shakes his head and flaps a hand. Another word from El and Will shrugs. She stays in the shadow with Will, but turns back around to face the rest of them. Heedless of Will’s initial meaning, Dustin continues, "Just let us have one. It's not like it would be the most dangerous thing, we've ever faced." He flaps a hand in the air. "Something much worse than alcohol has tried to kill us. Multiple times."

At these words, Robin's face twists up. Head snapping around, she throws her eyes to Steve and Eddie follows her sharp movement, just in time to see Steve's jaw flex and his lips press together. "I don't see how you think that helps your case,” he says, completely neutral and impassive. "You shouldn't have been there for that either."

"Yeah, but we were!" Mike throws his arms out. "We've faced demo-dogs that killed an entire lab full of people, been hunted down by bad men and been shot at by the military and where the fuck were you?! Stop trying to protect us, when you're already too late for that! You're not our dad! It's not like you cared before any of this happened! Why are you even here?! No one asked you to protect us or be here. Just go home and leave us be!"

Through Mike's tirade, Robin lays her hand on Steve's ankle without ever taking her eyes off of the huddle of kids.

Mike's words fall flat and empty. A ripple goes through the huddle of kids. Will and El look outright uncomfortable, nearly pained. The rest shuffle around, wrong-footed and uncertain, but still certain enough to know a line has been crossed. Except Max. Max looks furious.

"Mike!" Max snaps, voice cold, where his had been burning with heat. Head snapped around towards Mike with such speed and sharpness, Eddie swears he hears her neck snap. "Take that back!"

"Why should I?" He turns on her, arms still thrown out and his cheeks splashed red with the sort of indignant, self-righteous rage of a teen. "He's dumb and stupid and no one wants him here!"

Face twisted in rage, Max snaps forward in her chair. Body rigid and tense, barely stopped by the stiff position of her two arms laid out in their casts and her stiff legs out in front of her. "You shut your mouth before I run you over! You're a rat, Mike, but you're still here! Maybe you don't want him here, but I do!"

"Mike, seriously," Lucas says, shaking his head, expression twisted in distaste, as if he has stepped in something disgusting and wet with his bare feet. "Drop it."

"Oh, so you're all on his side, suddenly." Mike raises his hands and wiggles them by his head, all sarcastic and impudent. "Three years ago you hated him as much as I did."

Scoffing loudly, Dustin whirls on him and slaps a hand on his arm. "That was three years ago!"

"Grow the fuck up!" Max spits near venomously, a look of utter disgust on her face. "You were off having a holiday in Cali, despairing about your relationship with El and your love life, well, piss off! While you off chasing clouds, we faced Vecna and Steve was first in line, as fucking usual. Oh, boo hoo, I'm Mike and I can't tell El I love her. Well fuck you, Mike! Steve got fucking tortured to save Dustin and Robin from the same and he's never once complained while you never fucking stop!" She throws her head to the side, as if in mimic of something else with all of her limbs stuck in casts. "Shut the fuck up, before I make you."

Mike's face grows redder. Splotches colored by more embarrassment, than righteous anger. He's fully turned towards Max, Steve and their original question long forgotten in favor of tearing into each other. Mike throws out an arm. "I'm just saying what we've all been thinking!"

"Fuck!" In spite of her casts and the broken bones lying inside it, she lifts an arm and lets it slam back onto the armrest. "You're such a pissbaby sometimes. If I could, I would smack you so fucking hard, right now! Be fucking glad I can't."

Hand raised towards them in a pacifying gesture, Steve calls out, "Okay, that's enough," gentle, yet hard all at once.

Mike turns and throws him a sneer.

Sighing, Steve lowers his head. He raises a hand and pinches the bridge of his nose and wipes at it in a practiced motion that speaks more of habit than choice. When it drops back down, he raises his head and looks at Mike, who finally looks a little uncomfortable and wary. Squirming from foot to foot. Old enough to be aware that he went too far, but still too young to know how to take them back.

"I know, you're angry and frustrated that it happened again," Steve says, voice calm and collected. "I know that you're hurting and scared and went through something traumatic and awful yet again. Without any of the people responsible for it stepping up to help. Or even any grown up who could help, helping. I know that. So I know you're just taking it out on an easy target. You're smart enough to know that throwing such a big fuss about beer of all things isn't worth it. And I'm smart enough to know that it's not all about the beer." As Steve speaks, Mike grows more and more uncomfortable. Mouth pressed in a thin, unhappy line, he ducks his head. Eyes shadowed and dark, seeking the floor by his feet. Lucas, who looks just as uncomfortable as Mike himself, takes half a step closer and lays a hand on Mike's back, rubbing back and forth. Shame falls over Dustin's face and he shuffles his feet. "I'm an easier target than a demo-dog or the Mindflayer or fucking Vecna himself. But I've been right here, going through the same shit as the rest of you." He ducks his head, trying to catch Mike's shadowed eyes. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Mike," he continues with gentle eyes and a far gentler voice. "I'm trying to take care of you, even when you don't want to take care of yourself."

A few feet gets shuffled, scuffing over the floorboards. "We know," Mike says, subdued and low with only a smidge of the petulance he usually carries everywhere. Although, he does a small roll his eyes, too.

"Yeah, we're sorry," Lucas adds, still eyeing Mike. "It's just beer." He waves a hand through the air and finally casts his eyes away from Mike, looking around at the others. "It's not worth it. Besides, we'll get to it, when we're older."

Steve holds a hand out. Palm open and placating. "It's fine, just—" he sighs and shakes his head. "Just try and remember who you're really angry at, next time, yeah? We're all scared and we've all been through hell. Let's not forget our friends just because some monsters tried to fuck things up, okay?" His hand drops down.

Robin, hand still on his ankle, immediately moves to seize it. Palm lifting from his leg, it whips through the air and latches onto his hand, fingers clamping tight. The porch is small enough that they can reach each other without having to shuffle around. Their fingers fold together. Automatically intertwining and falling into place with one another, looking as natural and easy as breathing. As their hands close up, a small, near imperceptible sigh blows from Steve's mouth that Eddie sees more than hears. The shift of it falling from his lips ease a smallest bit of pressure from his shoulders, making them drop slightly down.

Words of agreement and confirmation ripple from the kids. Their huddle shift and sway as they tip-toe, shuffling uncertainty from foot to foot.

"Go. Get out of here." Steve waves a hand, shooing them away with the ghost of a small smile on his face. Like he's trying to force it, but there's not enough strength to bring it out full force and all they get is a phantom.

The kids look between each other. Expressions wary and hesitant.

"Are you—"

"We can—"

"Maybe—" Will, Dustin and Max all speak over one another, trying to soothe the echo of Mike's words still hanging heavy in the air between them.

Expression serious and a determined set to his jaw, Dustin takes a step forward. Eyes locked on Steve, looking near battle ready.

"Hey, hey," Steve cuts them off, waving his free hand in the air, as if it will bat their words away more effectively. "It's fine. I'm fine. You've apologized, I've accepted. You know it went too far and that's enough."

It takes a few more words and a half-hearted kick in their direction, but eventually, the kids turn around and shuffle back through the door. Heads and eyes downcast and mouths set in frowns. With more than a few glances thrown over their shoulders at Steve as they go.

Stepped back out of the shadows, El lingers with one hand on Max's wheelchair. "Don't be sad. Mike is very good at saying hurtful things without realizing it."

Eddie snorts. "He's good at putting his foot in his mouth, you mean."

"I don't know—" she says, hesitating, side-eyeing Max carefully.

"It means what you said," Robin explains for her. "Saying things without thought or consideration for others."

El considers this. Thoughtful expression on her face, she tips her head to her side, then nods. "Yes. He's good at that. Foot in mouth."

With one last penetrating and searching glance at Steve, El moves to push Max back inside. Max jerks in her chair. Head shaking a small, near imperceptible protest. Jaw set and milky eyes straight ahead.

"Max, it's fine. Go on, go back inside," Steve says, voice incredibly soft and kind.

Her cheeks ripple and shift, as if she's chewing on them. She's quiet for a moment. "Are you mad?" she finally asks.

Letting go of Robin's hand, Steve shifts and leans forward, far enough to reach for Max; far enough to clasp his hands over the tips of her fingers that remain free of the cast on her arm. As he moves, Robin shifts her hand to lay against his arm, not letting go of him. "Not at you."

"At Mike?"

"No," it comes without hesitation and with such loving tenderness in his eyes, Eddie has to look away.

A moment passes. Milky eyes search the space where Steve is, trying to pick him out from what little of her vision remains, Eddie guesses. Finally, she leans back, slumping back into her chair and nods. "Okay." Her lips purse the tiniest bit. The last bit of tension that clinging to her.

Sitting forward, shifting to his knees, Steve brings a hand up and cups the back of her neck. He brings her in for a careful hug. "I love you kids. All of you. Nothing you do or say changes that."

Weak fingers flicker against Steve. Grasping at him the best she can with just her fingertips. "I hate Mike sometimes. I want to hit him for what he said."

"And what do we say about that?"

"Violence is not the answer. Beating him at the arcade and hiding his minis an hour before a campaign, is."

"That's my girl." Smiling, he leans back and ruffles her hair. She tries scowling at him, but it is wiped out by her smile before it can fully form. Steve claps her once on the shoulder and shakes her gently. "Now, get out of here. I'm fine. I've got my own friends right here. I'm sure they'd love to plot where we can hide Mike's minis for when we get out of here and he joins another D&D campaign."

"As long as I can help."

"You know it." Hand still on Max's shoulder, Steve looks to El and gives her a nod, which she returns with such steadfastness and purpose, you would have thought he passed a shield to her in the midst of battle and passed his guard duties to her. With that, Steve looks back at Max and gives her neck another squeeze, then retreats, sitting back down against the railing.

That seems to be signal enough, because El steps up to her once more, lays her hands on her chair and gently manoeuvres her inside. The door closing behind her by itself with a rattle and a thunk.

As the two girls disappear back into the cabin, re-joining the others, Eddie swears he hears Max mutter, "Remind me to kick him, when I get these things off," and Lucas' responding, "I can put you in his way so you trip him up?" who must have been waiting for them. And Eddie has to stifle a snort in his beer.

Once the kids are gone, Robin abandons her seat and her handful of cards and crawls over to sit beside Steve, slotting herself into place beside him so close they line up like puzzle pieces, seamlessly and easily. As easy as breathing.

Sighing, Steve tips his head to the side and rests it against Robin's head. Shoulders drooping and his entire demeanour collapsing. A weary and heavy tiredness falls over his face, folding it into something far too worn and far too weathered. Eyes older than his years. A world weary soldier, as his uncle would say.

Robin takes his hand again. She folds it into her grasp. Arms looped around each other, both of her hands cupping his between them, burying his hand in her lap.

"You know not to listen to Mike, right?" she says quietly.

A weak snort blows from Steve. "He's hated my guts since I first held Nancy's hand and continues to do so, as if it's his personal mission in life." A small pause. Then, quieter, "Yeah, I know."

"He's just—"

"Can we just let it lie? Please?" he says quietly, eyes falling closed.

Robin does not reply, but she tucks her head on top of his, chin resting against the crown of his hair. Eddie supposes that is answer enough.

A moment of quiet passes.

Trying to lighten up the mood, Eddie says, "Might wanna put a lock on the fridge, before they get any ideas."

Steve stirs and shakes his head lightly, still tipped against Robin. "Nah, they wouldn't go that far. Not yet, at least."

Another moment passes. During which the current tape runs out and Eddie has to crawl forward and switch it out, since neither Robin or Steve makes any sign of moving.

Eventually, Robin manages to pick up her cards without shifting too far from Steve or letting go of his hand.

They finish the game in silence. Quickly and without pause. And soon enough, Robin wins with a subdued cheer and her hands thrown up in the air. Leaving Eddie and Steve to throw their cards down with defeated — and lackluster — sighs.

Leant back against the wall, Eddie fishes a cigarette out of the packet from his jean pocket. Pulling his lighter from his leather jacket and lights it with a few clicks from the trigger.

When Robin sees this, she makes a face at him. Face scrunching up, her nose wrinkling. "You really have to do that now? Again?"

"Yep." He shucks his head to the side, throwing hair out of his face. "I'll breathe the other way," he offers apologetically. "Even if it doesn't make much of a difference."

"Eh, whatever." She waves a hand in the air.

They fall quiet again. The only sound between them music from the boombox circling through a Bruce Springsteen tape and Eddie's breathing highlighted by inhales and exhales of his cigarette.

Head hanging slightly to the side, Eddie holds his hand out and taps a finger on the cigarette. Ashes drops off the end, falling into the ashtray beside him. A cloud of smoke billows from his mouth. He looks straight across, eyes caught on Steve.

"You do know, it's better to let them drink a little around us, right?" Eddie says, eyebrows rising significantly high on his brow. "Better have them drink in safe surroundings, where we can make sure they're safe and somewhat responsible than have them drinking themselves in a ditch without our knowing." Hand waving through air, he gestures in a circle out at the forest around them. Cigarette caught between two fingers. Trailing a small path of thin smoke behind itself. Eyes still on Steve, he pulls his arm back, raising the cigarette to his mouth and pulling another drag from it.

"Yeah, I know." Face twisted in a grimace, Steve rakes a hand through his hair and looks off to the side. "But I don't want them to start drinking for the wrong reasons, or find out it can be used for the wrong reasons. Vecna was only weeks ago, man. Not even a month, yet. Nothing about that combo screams safe and responsible to me." A sigh blows from his lips and he shakes his head. Head dropping, he looks down. One of his painted nails taps against the glass bottle of his beer, placed on the porch directly in front of him. "I'm not saying they're like that or that they would drink because of that. They're resilient as hell, but after all they've been through, I'm not giving them an out in alcohol."

Stopping short, Eddie pauses. Looks back at Steve and considers him, eyes stuck on his face for a moment.

He would have thought by now, he would know Steve well enough. Know him to no longer be surprised by him. But he keeps saying little things, or acting a certain way, that throws Eddie for a loop. Surprising him with the kindness or consideration he has for people around him. The kids and Robin especially.
This knowledge and the warmth it brings, every time he sees it, does not mix well with the tingles running up and down Eddie's spine at an intense look from his hazel eyes and touch of his hands, nor with the warm, bubbling feeling curling inside of his stomach and chest.

Considering that it is Steve 'The Hair' Harrington causing these reactions in Eddie; it feels rather like sucking on a lemon. Face twisting in distaste and a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

Except, nothing about it is sour or distasteful.

More that Eddie was not expecting to find something like this after the almost end of the world and certainly not because of Steve Harrington, Hawkins golden boy and sweetheart.

The only thing distasteful about it, is that Eddie cannot believe he is here again, crushing on another painfully straight, painfully attractive, painfully unattainable boy. Especially after so many years of catching glances of Steve across the hallway and cafeteria; allowing himself to look, because he was just another pretty face in the crowd; safe to look at, but too far to ever get close enough to touch or be touched by him.
But Steve is close now. Oh, is he close. Close enough to burn himself on. That much more real and solid. So much more gentle, warm and considerate than Eddie ever expected. And still so unattainable.

Cigarette still caught between two of his fingers, Eddie rubs the knuckle of his thumb across his forehead. Dragging the hard knuckle over his skin, sighing into the arm hovering before his face. Pain stings through his skull, where the knuckle pulls across.

Removing his hand, he puts the cigarette in his mouth and takes one final, heavy drag of it, pulling the last bit of smoke and nicotine from it. Then reaches out and grounds it down in the ashtray, snuffing it out, before discarding the filter amongst the ashes, leaving it pillowed on top of his homemade graveyard.

He hangs his head back, tilting it into the wooden wall behind it. Looks up at the roof hanging over them through half lifted eyes. Lets his mouth open, smoke pouring from it languid and inelegant. "Yeah, I get that," he finally says. "And you're probably right."

"I'm not saying never," Steve says with a small sigh. "I'm just saying not now. Not while Vecna is still hanging over their heads."

"You're a good babysitter, Steve," Eddie says after a while. He does not look to see how his words will land. "And an even better brother."

For a little while, they are quiet. The air between them filled with Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. Eventually, the tape rolls to an end and the boombox falls silent with a quiet click.

Once more, Eddie is the one to crawl forward and flip the tape to B-side, arms reaching out through the air, skin pale and flashing with tattooed where his sleeves are pulled back, exposing the cluster of bats below his elbow and the jagged wounds and half-scars that missed them by inches.

As he sits back down, Robin reaches out and slides a hand over his skin, finger smoothing over his inked skin.

"I've been meaning to ask," she says, "where'd you even get your tattoos? We don't have a shop in Hawkins."

Leaning back against the railing behind him, Steve rolls his eyes and mutters, "Why does that even matter."

"Because I'm curious!" she snaps back at him, rolling her eyes in return and violently flapping a hand in the air. "You know, my brain can't leave a question be once its found something interesting to gnaw on. It's like it keeps gnawing away at itself until I satisfy it, you know that."

"Jesu—, I know! I just thought there was a more interesting question in there."

"There might be, if you let me get to it!"

"Peace, my fellow monster fighters," Eddie says in a voice not unlike the one he uses to calm his players, when they start stabbing at each other's throats instead of the monsters Eddie so painstakingly put in their path, holding out his arm, as if trying to cut between them. "It is a fair question, my fair lady Buckley. And answer it, I shall." All theatrical and slightly renaissance faire, he holds his hand up in the air, finger pointed. Seeking the ink on his arm, Eddie grabs at his own arm, twists the skin, pulling it towards him and looks down at the tattoo on his arm. "I've got a few I made myself, actually, with the good ole stick'n'poke," he says and shrugs, letting go of his arm again. Lifting up his beer, he takes a swig and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, then sets the beer back down again. "But I have a friend in Indianapolis. Whenever I'm in the city, I go to visit him and he'll slap one on me for a few bucks less than regular."

"Sweet."

"How'd you get such a deal?" When Eddie throws him a look, Steve is frowning.

"I met him in a bar, actually."

"You met your tattooist in a bar?" Steve's eyebrows fly up. "That doesn't seem sanitary."

Beside him, Robin snorts a laugh.

Eddie huffs a small laugh and shakes his head. A fond smile pulls across his lips as he looks at him. "He wasn't there as a tattoo artist."

"Obviously," Robin adds and swats at Steve's leg. Smiling, she rolls her eyes at him. "Dingus."

"Yeah, obviously," Steve echoes, voice dripping, and rolls his eyes too.

Finally, Robin eases away from Steve. Not back to her old position beside Eddie, just not sat so close to Steve they might as well have been glued together. So they end up sitting with one leg crossed, always touching, and the three of them sat out in more of a triangle. Gathering cards into her hands, Robin taps a few of them on the floorboards between them. "Wanna play another round?" she asks with a winning grin, pushing the deck together again.

Leant back against the railing, Steve shrugs. His eyes find Eddie. "I wanna know how Eddie went to a bar and came out with a life-time discount on tattoos."

"Well, that's easy to remedy!" Eddie grins and spreads his arms out. Clapping his hands in front of him, he rubs them together and leans forward, hunching over, as if bent over his DM screen in the drama room. Robin shrugs, gathers the last few cards and though she keeps flicking through them, fidgeting and playing, she clearly listens.

"I was still wobbling around on my new unsteady eighteen year old legs." Eddie tilts from side to side, as if mimicking a wobbling imbalance, quickly falling into the role of dramatic storyteller he's had his whole life, long before D&D came into his life to focus it. "I'd been to Indianapolis before and explored the bar scene aplenty before, so I knew my way to the best bars." He glances at Robin and throws her a wink. "You know what I'm talking about, Buckley."

"I wish," she sighs wistfully, placing an elbow on her thigh and her chin in her palm. "I've not been outside Hawkins aside from my parents yearly trip to my grandparents in Memphis."

Eddie clutches a hand to his chest and feigns sadness. "Aw, baby gay is truly baby gay."

"I'm not." She swats a few cards at him. "I've known since sophomore year."

"Baby," he repeats in a near whisper, still pouting. This time, Robin just throws cards at him.

Eddie cackles, leaning to the side, away from the sprinkle of cards raining over him.

Ignoring the bloodbath of cards all over him, he returns to his story. "But there I am—" he throws an arm out in front of him, fingers spread out, palm facing down "—I'd just found out, I didn't graduate senior year the first time. So I went to Indy to drink my sorrows away. And I was feeling real sorry for myself, lamenting that my life was over at seventeen and was drinking far more than recommended really." He throws them a look. "A drag queen off duty for a moment came and sat by the bar. She noticed the cloud of doom that hung over my head—" he tips his head to the side thoughtfully "—or just the sheer number of empty glasses in front of me." Shaking his head, he swats a hand through the air. "Doesn't matter. Anyway, she went up to me and introduced herself, and started talking to me. Marilyn Matte, bless her nine inch high heeled heart and matte lipsticked lips." He puts two fingers on his lips, kisses them and throws them out, throwing the kiss up to the sky. "She let me unload a shit ton on her, while I was drunk off my ass. And she was just so kind to me." A soft grin pulls across his lips. He drops his hand back down. "I'd clearly drunk too much and when I let slip that I was there in my van and intended to park on a curb and sleep the night in the back, she let me crash on her couch. The next day, I met him as David and we chatted over coffee and tea instead of alcohol. He told me about his day job at a tattoo parlour. By then, I'd already done a few stick'n'pokes on myself, so I asked his rates. Before I drove back home, he opened up shop for me, on a Sunday and gave me one." The smile tinkles off his lips. Head lowered, he looks thoughtfully down at his hands. A slightly sad expression creeps onto his expression. "I think, he must have seen something in me. That I needed something to hold onto and so that's what he gave me." Looking back up, he tips his head to the side, lips pulling up into a smile. "That and an offer to crash on his couch, whenever I came visiting Indianapolis again." Leaning back against the wall, he lifts his arms up and folds them behind his head, fingers intertwined. "So that's what I did. Crashed on his couch and occasionally got a new tattoo, when inspiration struck or I saw a design of his I liked."

"Cool." Steve nods neutrally.

Eddie's noticed, Steve is incredibly good at looking impassive or having this fool-proof neutral, impassive expression on his face. Like shutters have fallen over his face and nothing gets through. As if he's shut down all communication between his face and emotions. He's doing that now and Eddie has no idea how to interpret it. Unnerving, really, given the casual way Eddie threw David's night-time occupation out into the air and the kind of bar you can deduce Eddie was at from that. He arches an eyebrow at him, but says nothing.

A moment passes.

"So, which one hurt the most?" Steve asks, waving a hand at Eddie's arms.

"Bull and boring," Robin cuts in. "I wanna hear the most interesting story you’ve got about them."

Grinning wide, Eddie turns to Robin, folds his hands together and cracks them. "Thought you’d never ask." He taps his chin in exaggerated consideration, then opens his mouth—

"Wait, no!" shouts Robin, throwing her arms out, interrupting him. "I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want any story. I want the one behind your lip tattoo."

Eddie pauses. Beer dropping down and halting in mid-air. Brow wrinkling, his eyebrows shoot up. How Robin knows about it, Eddie is unsure, but he supposes it is not entirely unlikely that she's caught sight of it somewhere. Maybe she's seen the yearbook from '85, where he posed for as many pictures as he could, pulling his lip down and exposing the ink left on its underside, even though very, very few survived past the yearbook committee's ruthless hammer.

"You have one on your lip?" Steve asks, voice higher pitched than normal, jerking Eddie's eyes towards him. Only to meet Steve's wide, hazel eyes. Expression wide open and shocked, the cool, impassive expression has well and truly been smacked off his face.

Glancing sideways, Eddie exchanges a look with Robin, her eyebrows lifting up towards her hairline. More because of the high pitch of his voice, than the question itself.

"Yeah, man." Lifting a hand, Eddie hooks two fingers on the bottom of his lip, one in each side, and pulls down over his thumb, exposing the inner side of it. Air rushes over damp skin, prickling at it slightly.

A stunned expression smacks into Steve, as if he was hit in the stomach by one of his beloved baseball bats. Pre-nailification, of course.

Wordless, almost frozen, Steve stares at him. Hazel eyes wide. Mouth hanging slightly agape.

His hazel gaze burns.

Tension zips down Eddie’s spine, like the spark and shock of lightning. It curls up in his stomach. Buzzing and warm, tingling in his veins.

Eddie's own eyes stuck are on Steve. Rapidly blinking at him, as if unable to believe the picture before him is real. His mouth goes dry.

Clearing his throat, Steve tears his gaze away.

Freed, Eddie pulls his fingers away from his lip, letting it fall closed again with a small pop.

Almost as if needing something to hold onto, adrift at sea, Eddie grasps onto his beer bottle and clings. Fingers closing tightly around it. A glance sideways reveals Robin looking at him. Eyes darting between him and Steve, confusion splayed clear across her face.

Catching his eyes, she makes a face at him. Expression twisting comically, skin wrinkling.

"I got it last year, when I failed to graduate the second time." He'd been pulled aside by the school's supervisor and told that he didn't have high enough attendance or even the grades to graduate and he would not be able to scrape enough together through extra credits to do so. It was a Wednesday and in the middle of a school week, but Eddie still went to Indianapolis and heavily utilised his fake ID, crashed on David's couch and went with him to work the next day to get a tattoo to celebrate. In the chair, he bemoaned about never being allowed to graduate. "I'd have to kiss all my teachers asses to get that diploma," is what he specifically said and like a strike of lightning, inspiration struck him and he straightened up with a jolt, eyes wide and grin bright.

Back in Hawkins High, he'd posed for several pictures for the yearbook with his lip pulled down and tattoo exposed. Only one of those pictures had survived the cruel hands of fate and the up-stuck yearbook committee, who wouldn't know fun, if it bit them in the ass, and the words had been there for all to see in between pictures of smiling graduates.

Finally, Steve seems to have found the key to his limbs and with it the ability to move again. Arm held up, he scratches at the back of his neck. Head turned away and eyes averted. "I couldn't read it from here."

"It says, 'Kiss me'." Eddie grins, teeth sharp and bared. "I considered 'Bite me'" —he lifts his hand and makes quote marks around the word— "but I thought it might be a little too on the nose."

Wheezing, Robin doubles over.

"On the nose of what?" Steve blinks at Robin, dumbfounded.

"No!" Robin jerks upright. She throws an arm out towards Eddie. Expression tight, she repeats, "No!" And throws a wide-eyed, panicked look at Steve. "Don't ask!" Her hands whips towards him. It whips back to Eddie. The shape of it a blur between them. "Don't answer." She cuts her arms through the air. "Never tell me stuff like that. The less I know the better."

The grin on his face spreads wider. Shark-like and sharp. "What, Buckley? You're telling me you don't like seeing hankies waved around?" Nevermind that his is more because of James Hetfield than the queer code (besides, it would be signalling wrong, if it was). But that does not mean he cannot tease Robin. Which he does. Gleefully. Tutting, he puts a hand on his chest and pouts. "And here I thought, you'd be supportive of your peers."

"I am!" she hisses. "I just don't want to know what goes on in your bedroom."

"Sadly, nothing." He shakes his head solemnly. "Despite my best efforts." He slaps a light hand on the side of his hip, despite his pocket being empty these days, since he's lost his handkerchief in the Upside Down somewhere and been unable to replace it since. Not that there's anyone he could flag around these parts, even if that was the reason for its presence.

"Please, stop," she begs, expression pleading.

Steve nods, looking heavily confused.

"Okay, then," Eddie says. Eyes falling up and down Steve, at whatever weirdness has fallen over him. Whipping around, he turns his head towards Robin and finishes his retelling of it with, "It was a motherfucker getting it done. Worth it though." Grin sharp, he bares his teeth. "It's like constantly flipping the bird to assholes, all the while sneaking a juicy secret right underneath their noses."

"Secret?" Steve asks, a strange affected tone to his voice.

"Yeah. That I mean it, you know," he says the words casually, almost like a throwaway comment. But in his chest, his heart stutters and picks up. Heart slamming against his ribs. Coursing through him with a rush. A tension builds in his throat, like walls closing in and he struggles to keep it from his voice, when he continues, "That sometimes when I flip my lip and my bird at those guys—" he raises a hand, middle finger pointed up and out "—I would like them to kiss me." Hand dropping, he shrugs. "Even if they're jerks." Eyes falling down to the beer in his hand, as he raises it and takes a long, fortifying gulp, trying not to look at Steve for his reaction.

Steve snorts. Noise bursting loud and sudden from his throat. "You could definitely do better than them."

The drink goes down the wrong way. It jumps inside of his throat. Burning against it and his airways. He coughs. Beer bursts from Eddie's mouth, bubbling back into the bottle. It squirts over the edges and spills over Eddie's hand. Coughing, he puts the bottle back down on the floor. A flush rises and burns in his cheeks, leaving his skin hot and warm.

Knowing Steve is a-okay with Robin, even talks about it with her frequently, like her number one cheerleader, is one thing. Hoping he would then be okay with Eddie's preference for men is another and Eddie has not exactly been holding his breath for it. He's been here plenty of times before. Some people are fine when it's the opposite gender, but as soon as it's a queer person who's attracted to the gender they themselves are, they get uncomfortable. Fucking figures.

So, Eddie would not exactly have been surprised, if Steve reacted with a lot more disgust at learning about Eddie, than he had when he had learned about Robin. Girl on girl is hot, after all. Or something like that.
But hearing him say the words, 'you could definitely do better than them,' is a completely different thing, it is in another ballpark. Fitting, considering Steve's aptitude for sports.

Robin just laughs at him, though when she meets his eyes, her own are sympathetic.

A small cough works its way through Eddie. Burning up and down his throat.

Bending slightly over, Eddie looks up through blurred eyes, water stinging inside of them, at Steve, who continues as if oblivious of Eddie's condition. "I mean," he says, hand waving through the air as if swatting an errant fly, "those high school assholes are just a bunch of airheads. And most of them aren't even good looking, so they're not even worth the eye candy."

Jolting, as if zapped with a shard of lightning, Eddie straightens back up. Airways free once more and his eyes clear, he stares at Steve, blinking, almost dumbfounded at him.

"It's like I keep telling Robin." He throws an arm out. Gesture sharp towards Robin, who jolts, startled, eyes wide on Steve. "Tammy Thompson this, Heather Jennings that, but then when it's someone cute and nice from band, it's all—" he makes his eyes wide and pulls his hands to his chest, fingers twiddling, and pitches his voice ridiculously high "—'but she can't possibly like girls, Steve, I'm doomed to live forever alone. Even if the girl I like rent's Fast Times and pauses on boobies—" he pulls his hands up to the side of his head, hands clasped together, tilting his head into them like a pretty princess from a movie "—and we shared a moment while making sandwiches together, there's just no way she likes girls'." A self-satisfied grin grows across his face. Finished, Steve drops the act. His hands fall back into his lap. One curls back around the neck of his beer, grip loose and lax.

Robin glares at him. Fingers flexing around the neck of her beer, as if just longing to replace it with his.

Eddie looks away from her, pushing his lips firmly together to keep from laughing. But he can't quite keep it all in and his body shakes with laughter bubbling from his chest.

Arching her eyebrows, Robin crosses her arms across her chest.
Eddie decides to come to her rescue. A small one.

"Robin just needs a little experience," he says. A mischievous grin spreads across his face. He throws a wink towards her. "One day, when all this is over—" he waves a hand around, gesturing all around "—I'll drive you to the city. Introduce you to David and his friends. Take you to one of the bars. I'll even buy you a drink, before the girls there can drown you in them."

Blood flushes Robin's face pink, flooding the freckles splashed across her nose and cheeks. Ducking her head, she glances back and forth between him and Steve.

"You can even bring Steve," he adds with a teasing grin, casting a glance at the other guy. "If he can behave and not break a nose, because guys won't stop hitting on him." He crooks a lopsided grin at him.

Steve looks back at him. A careful expression on his face. Eyes shifting back and forth between him and Robin. Catching Eddie's eyes still on him, he fidgets. "I don't think anyone would be interested in hitting on me in a gay bar."

At his words, Eddie's eyebrows pull together. "You're kidding me, right?" Looking back and forth, his eyes dart from Steve to Robin and back again. Robin has emerged again. She glances at Steve and sighs, shaking her head.

"You don't mean to tell me Steve Harrington is insecure?" Eddie continues.

Pulling his eyes away, Steve averts his gaze and presses his lips together. Eyes firmly stuck to the floor.

"You're kidding me?" Eddie's eyebrows rise even higher on his brow. He shakes his head and adds, voice almost wistful, "You used to have the confidence the size of the Statue of Liberty, man." He throws himself back into the wall behind his back. "What the hell?"

A grimace twists across Steve's face. He keeps his head lowered and eyes averted.

"Eddie," Robin says softly and shakes her head slightly. Just a small twitch of her head that barely makes her hair wobble.

"I'm not—" he breaks off and shakes his head sharply. He grabs at the cards still scattered around him from when Robin threw them at him. Fixing his gaze to them, as if unable to look at either of them. "You're a fucking dreamboat, Harrington," he huffs almost angrily, grabs onto one of the cards, pulls it up and shoves it into place elsewhere, just for something to do. "Handsome, kind, friendly and good with kids and way too good looking. You don't look like a one night stand, you look like a first prize boyfriend." Freeing one hand from the stack of cards, he shoves it into his face. Palm pressing into him, he adds, voice distressed and pained, if only because it's painful to admit, "Even with the polo's, you'd be swarmed in a gay bar." Although, he's managing to endear himself to Eddie all the same with the polo's as without them. Who knows, maybe Steve is just the kind of guy, where his winning smile and charming personality cancels out everything else, no matter how damaging it should be to his charisma stats.

It is infuriating, is what it is.

It is chipping away at Eddie's defences faster than he can build them back up.

Silence greets his words.

Sinking further down the wall, Eddie keeps his palm shoved into his face and holds his cards higher up with the other, just for good measure. Heat flushes his face and burns on his cheeks. He sticks his tongue between his teeth and bites down to stop himself from either adding more to his peer review or scream.

"You think, I'm handsome?" comes Steve's voice, quieter than expected and without a single trace of the mockery and satisfaction Eddie expected to color it.

Eddie wants to scream.

A groan grows in the back of his throat. Exploding out like the chugging of an old, struggling machine. After it's had its time to run, Eddie drops both of his hands down to the floor, letting both shields fall away. Huffing, he pushes off the porch, pushing himself back into a more upright position. Sat back fully against the wall, he rolls his head on his shoulders. "Handsome. Pretty. Whatever." He swats a hand through the air. "I'm a metal head, not stone hearted." Lifting a hand, he pinches the bridge of his nose. Face screwing up in a grimace, as if bracing for impact. "Water is wet. Grass is green. Steve Harrington is handsome. Okay? Can we move on? Please?" He drops his hand and throws a pleading look at Robin, who is watching it all unfold with raised eyebrows.

She catches his eyes and throws her hands up. "This is just as painful to me as it is to you."

Groaning, Eddie throws his head back. The back of his head thump against the wall behind him.

Steve ducks his head. A soft smile blooms from his lips. Two small spots of pink make their way onto his cheeks.

Huh. Not the reaction Eddie ever expected after calling a straight, ex-high school asshole jock pretty. He'd expected a lot more pain and disgust, for instance. Pain for him and disgust for the other.

Steve falls quiet. For a moment, he stares down at the can of beer. Finger tap-tap-tapping against the side. Robin just keeps playing with the cards in her hands.

Slowly, the heat in Eddie's cheeks and the desperate need for the floor to swallow him up — or even for the bats to come back and have another go at him, he's not picky — leaves Eddie and he can lower the cards from his face and come out of hiding.

Finally, keeping his head lowered and his eyes on his beer, Steve asks, "How'd you know?"

"Know what?" Eddie frowns. "That a guy is pretty?" He lifts his eyebrows. "I thought that would be fairly obvious."

"No." Steve groans. He drops his head forward and catches it in his hands. "That you like men."

Eddie's head whips up and he blinks at Steve. "You want to know, how I found out I was gay?"

Raising his gaze to his, Steve barely looks at him for a second, before his eyes flit away. Darting all over the place. He rubs at the back of his neck. "I mean, yeah?" He shrugs. "I always thought, it was just something you knew. Like. You either like girls or you like boys. But I don't know. I've been wondering." He shrugs again. Eyes skirting away, avoiding their gaze.

"But why?"

"It's just been on my mind, okay?" Raising a hand, he pulls it through his hair. Fingers tugging and pulling wildly at the strands. "Like, do you always know it? Or is it like a thing you have to struggle with? How do you know?!" Eyes wild and wide, he throws his hands up.

Eddie glances at Robin.

Robin makes this awkwardly confused face, like she's trying to puzzle out what Steve said, when his question was as straightforward as a question about queers can be. Eyes on Steve, she touches a hand to her forehead and moves it forward and down in some weird gesture. But it's a gesture with intent, even though Eddie has no idea what the fuck it means.

Steve makes a face and gestures back at her.

Robin huffs loudly and makes several more signs that Eddie cannot follow or understand. When her hands still, Steve curls his hand into a fist and wiggles it up and down. Then drops it and shakes his head.

Now that Eddie knows Steve's hard of hearing and partly deaf, he can actually recognise those gestures for what they are. Sign language. Those two bitches are not only practically psychically linked, they know ASL, too — at least enough to communicate brief conversation to each other — as if their mind-meld thoughts and psychic communication was not enough, no. They gotta have another one up on everyone. Cheats, he thinks grumpily.

It's strange to sit on the side-lines right beside them and see. He's used to being in groups with the people that care the least about what other people think of them and care little for performance politeness, but Steve and Robin are next level, with no concern about leaving anyone out, while they retreat to their own little world of SteveandRobin. As long as they are the two of them, they're so unapologetic themselves and it is fascinating to see, when Eddie has seen Robin fumble and almost drop her trumpet in Band in the middle of a run-through, causing a loud, sudden Honk! to sound from her and immediately turn bright red under the eyes of startled people looking her way. And he's seen Steve—, well, he's seen Steve care so much about his image he got swallowed up by the masses at school and swept along the possé's and wannabe super athletes. But with Robin he does not care at all. And is at his most comfortable, ever.

It is deeply fascinating, Eddie wants to study them. But not like the frogs they force you to dissect in biology. More like the kind of documentaries of wildlife seen on TV. Like, Eddie could be jumping from bush to bush and climb trees to follow them around as they make their way around Hawkins in their daily life. Hawkins and the psychically linked twins. Hmm. Maybe not. The two telepathic twins. Nah, that sounds like a movie, not documentary. Then again, might be an interesting one. But knowing those two, it would just be increasing obscure scenarios as they move from job to job, barely aided by their telepathic link. If anything, it would make each of their idiosyncrasies worse.

Finally, with one last scrutinizing look, Eddie shrugs and says, "Alright." And throws himself across the porch. Catching himself on the floor with one arm, holding himself upright, he reaches out across the porch with the other. His fingers clasp the volume button of the boombox. He twists his hand, turning it up. Music blares out of the speakers. Slamming into Eddie's ears, bellowing out into the air. He slams his hand on top of it and turns it around, turning it to face the cabin, not them.

With that done, he pushes himself back, but twists around and throws himself down beside Steve. Settling down beside him on his right side, the side where his hearing is best. Shoulder pressing into his. He bends his left leg, the one furthest away from him and throws his right arm over it. Arm resting, balanced on top of his knee.

He turns his head enough to glance at Steve and finally says, "I always knew."

Head whipping to the side, Steve's gaze dart back to him. The look inside of his eyes is still a little wide and wild, but inside of it, there is something heavy. Like there is a weight attached to his gaze. "Really?"

"Yeah, I don't know what to tell you, man. I never had to search for it. I just knew." Eddie shrugs. "I never had an interest in girls. I never looked at them, never cared to. When I watched TV, I was watching the men. When I was a kid, I wanted to marry Bowie. Before I got into metal, I was obsessed with Freddie Mercury and Michael Jackson and Bowie. When everyone around me started talking about boobs and girls, I wanted to talk about boys. When birthday parties started bringing out spin the bottle, I wanted it to land on a boy and I knew what it meant. At least, before they stopped inviting me," he adds with a one-shouldered shrug. "I never had to wonder. It just made sense to me." He rolls his eyes. "And my dad hated me for it, but yeah. I knew. I know, it's not like that for everyone, but it was for me."

He picks up one of the cards that lie across the floorboards, holds it between two of his fingers. Gaze roaming over its glossy surface, he turns it over in his hand, then flicks it out. The card cuts through the air. Whizzing straight across, it smacks into Robin.

A jolt goes through her. Arms jerking up, she shields herself from the projectile too late.

"Buckley? How 'bout you?" Eddie asks as she scowls at him. He pats the space beside him, even though he's too close to the wall of the cabin and the space is not big enough for her. "Wanna reminisce about your gay awakening with me?"

She reaches for the card he flicked at her and throws it back at him. It tumbles weak and lacklustre in the air right before her, flickering and swivelling in the air as it drifts lazily to the floor.

She sighs, then puts her hands behind herself. Pushing off the floor, she scoots across the floorboards. Arm pushing, legs pulling, like crab walk. Or rowing herself forward. She does not have to move much, but she scoots until she's in the space right before them. Both Eddie and Steve have to move their legs to make space for her.

Sighing, she pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Hugging them close. "I didn't know," she says, low and quiet, but still loud enough to carry to them.

Steve's eyes dart to her. Gaze hooking onto her.

"I didn't really have any best friends as a kid," Robin begins, loud enough to be heard above the music blaring out of the boombox and Steve's damaged hearing. She cuts a grimace. "I mean, I had Barb, but once she and Nancy found each other, it was kind of over." She shakes her head. "Anyway. The few times, I was invited to sleepovers and girl-only birthdays, I felt so conscious of myself. Like a switch in my body had been turned to a 100. I would stare and stare at the girls and I wanted to touch their hair or sit as close to them as I could. When they braided each other's hair or painted their nails, I wanted to be the one to do it. I was so obsessed with other girls' hair. I always wanted to be touching it in some way and I was so happy, when they invited me to join their braiding circle." A deep breath blows from her lips. She curls over. Back hunching over. She leans forward and places her chin on top of her knees. "And whenever I sat close to a girl and our shoulders touched, I felt like I couldn't breathe. And my chest felt so tight, but it wasn't painful. It was like I was going to burst or like I'd swallowed the sun. But I never understood it. I never understood why I never wanted to stop, when I braided Jennifer's hair." She gives a small shake of her head. Eyes widening, she continues, voice turning thin and frail, "When they all looked at pictures of boys in the magazine, I just thought they were ugly or weird looking. But I didn't understand. I didn't understand, why I felt wrong, when I started saying my crush was some random boy just to get them to stop frowning at me." She shakes her head. Eyes lifting up off the floor, her gaze lands on Steve. "In high school people began calling me dyke and it scared me. God. That word scared me in a way nothing else ever had before. I was terrified." She pulls her gaze down to the floor and stares at it. "When the girls my year started giggling about Steve Harrington or Tommy B. from senior year—" she rolls her eyes "—or some other asshole, I just felt disgusted." She pulls a face.

"I would too," Eddie says sombrely and nods his head. An expression of mock solemnly falls over his face. "Out of all the jocks and they chose Steve Harrington." He tsks and clicks his tongue. "What a tragedy."

A weak smile flickers over Robin's face.

Steve digs an elbow into his side.

Clutching a hand to his ribs, Eddie leans away from him, grinning. "Unoriginal, too," he adds.

Steve rolls his eyes, but Robin twitches a relieved smile at him.

Looking back at Robin, he meets her eyes. His grin fades to a small smile and he gives her a nod.

A deep breath falls in and out of Robin's lungs. Chest rising and falling against her legs. "One day, my freshman or sophomore, I can't even remember, Steve was seen kissing a girl from my year under the bleachers and everyone was talking about it. The girls in my class were so jealous. They kept going on and on about wanting to kiss Steve under the bleachers, I saw myself there, too. But I wasn't kissing a boy. I was kissing Jennifer or Heather J. or Martha. That's when I knew. When all the girls in my class wanted to kiss Steve Harrington, but I wanted to kiss a girl. I ran out the classroom in the middle of English and spent all lesson in a bathroom stall. Panicking and trying not to hyperventilate. When I finally came back out for history, Mrs. Click sent me to the nurses office, because I looked so ill. Mom picked me up early and once she left me in my room alone, I spent hours crying into my pillow, begging god to change his mind. Even though I've never prayed before." Arms tightening around her legs, she speaks her next words to her knees, voice a faint whisper, "I knew then, I liked girls, but I was so scared and so desperate for it to not be true."

Steve looks frozen in place. Eyes wide and concerned and just as pained as Robin herself had been. As if he picked up the remembered pain off her and slipped it into his own heart. As if he was unable to hear of any of her pain without taking it for his own.

Eddie pushes off the floor and crawls over Steve's frozen form and long legs, crawling the little space that remains between them. They're so close, Steve actually has to move his legs out of the way to make space for him by her side.

Landing on his knees before Robin, Eddie throws his arms around her and pulls her close.

Robin lets her knees fall to the side and wraps her arms around him. Hands fisting his shirt, she clings to him, turns her head down and buries away in his shoulder.

Every breath shudders from her chest. Falling measured and forced in and out of her lungs.

Steve manages to shake himself out of his frozen state. He scoots closer and lays a hand on Robin's back. Palm rubbing up and down her spine. The top of his hand touch against Eddie's arms with every pass of his hand upward. One of Robin's hands whips out, finds his free hand and latches onto him. Clinging.

"I'm sorry," Steve finally says, sat beside her, leant all up against her, "I didn't know it was like that for you."

"It's okay." Robin loosens her arms around Eddie and leans back. Her free hand lifts up and swipes at her eyes. A humourless chuckle bubbles from her mouth. Looking at him with a small smile and shiny eyes, she adds, voice raspy, "How could you?"

Once Robin's eyes clear, Eddie sits down on Robin's other side. He keeps one arm around her shoulder. Loose and relaxed, at home on her back.

It takes a while before any of them speaks again.

"To think, I've been a part of your gay awakening since the start, huh?" Steve says, voice light with humor, as he nudges her shoulder, still right up in her space.

"Urgh," she groans. "You were everywhere. It was so annoying."

He smirks. "You truly must have hated me."

"Still might."

"Nah, you love me."

"I'm reconsidering."

"You'd never survive."

"I know." She leans her head on his shoulder. "Dingus."

Quiet falls between them.

A moment passes.

Above Robin's head, Eddie can just see as a grin stretches wide on Steve's face, as he slowly lifts up his elbow and digs it into Robin's side.

"Motherfu—" Robin jerks away from him. She turns and throws a fisted hand at Steve.

Laughter bursts from his wide split mouth. He ducks and throws his arm up, laughing merrily and shrinking away from Robin's wrath.

"Asshole!" Robin emphasises with another hit on his arm.

Shoulders shaking with laughter, Steve rolls to the side, falling to the ground. Face split in humour, body curled up and hunched over, pulls himself away from Robin's fisted hand. Calling out a choking, laughing, "Babe, babe, babe," to every one of Robin's fists that lands on him and her loud shouts.

It is a day Eddie tucks away in his heart, like a snapshot to warm him on colder days.

Monday dawns slow and quiet. Dustin and Robin are shuffled off to school and Max to her post-breakfast, post-meds morning nap. Once she wakes up again, Steve goes to wash Max's hair and Eddie is bored enough to join them.

Upon her request, he brings The Fellowship of the Ring and sits and reads aloud while Steve works through her hair.

It looks like this: Max lies on El’s bed with her head by the foot and Steve sat on a stool behind her, a bucket between his feet and his elbow braced on his knees. Max’s head lies over the edge, held up by one of his hands. A bucket of water stands below her hair, half filled with water with a small plastic cup floating on top of its surface. Another bucket of water stands by Steve’s feet, ready to tag out the other one when called on.

Keeping her head held carefully up, Steve uses the cup to scoop water up and run it over her hair, movements careful and practiced. Water washes over her hair, wetting her red locks. It runs down in a dancing rivulet and splashes softly back into the bucket.

Eddie reads loud enough for Max to her him through Steve working shampoo into her hair, enough to give even Steve a chance to follow along, if he wanted to.

Above the book, Eddie can just see the shift of her hair, swaying back and forth where it hangs as Steve's fingers work at her scalp, rubbing the foamy soap into her hair. Several times, Eddie has to force himself to focus on the words before him and not the way Steve's fingers work almost hypnotically through Max's hair. Every few sentences, the movements of his hand will catch the corner of Eddie's eyes and he has to tear his gaze away from the way veins, tendons and bones stand out on the back of Steve's hand as he works.

"You could always just cut it," Max says when Eddie reaches the end of the chapter at the same time Steve bends down to pick the cup back up again to rinse the shampoo out. The bucket beneath her head switched out for the empty one to catch the suds and spray of shampoo that falls from her hair, keeping the water in the other one clear and clean.

"Do you want it cut?" Steve asks, voice quiet and soft.

"I don't care," she says, but her voice is hard and harsh and her jaw set.

"Hmm." Head lowered, Steve keeps his eyes on her hair. "You didn't want it cut before, though."

She does not answer.

A quiet moment passes.

Gentle eyes fixed on the kid before him, Steve gently runs his fingers through her hair, checking for any leftover shampoo clinging to her fiery locks. Then, he finally breaks the quiet between them, "I don't mind washing your hair. I'd rather work with long hair that you like, than with shorter hair you didn't want," he tells her all soft and gentle. With that he scoops another cup of water up. Carefully, he lowers it over her head, keeping the lip of the cup to her hairline and pours it out over her hair, mindful to keep the rush of water away from her forehead and eyes.

It is a soft sight to see. One Eddie almost feels wrong in seeing. As if he should never have been allowed access. The care of which Steve takes to keep the water away from her eyes; the tender way her keeps her head aloft; the complete, barren love in his eyes. It all feels private. Something so soft and tender he suddenly finds himself holding in both of his hands and with nowhere safe to put it.
 It is so gentle and fragile, he is bound to break it. And yet, it fits itself right into his heart. Just slides right into place, where the light of Eddie's life and the beat of his heart lives, as if it belonged there all along and Eddie's been saving a spot for it, all of these years.

Steve stays bent quietly over Max, unaware of the way the image of it all settles warm and soft inside of Eddie's chest, right where his heart lies; pulsing alongside his heartbeat.

"So, what conditioner do you want today?" Steve asks, prompting Eddie's brow to furrow and his eyes to seek the hair products sat aside on the floor within reaching distance. In the cabin's bathroom, there are three conditioners crammed into the small bathroom stall that's clearly been homemade. The shower stall. Not the conditioners. Those came from the store. Only one has found its way to the floor by Steve's feet.

"Yours."

"Uff, feeling fancy today, Mad Max?"

"No, but I know you splash out on hair products and I like bleeding you dry."

A small chuckle huffs from Steve. "I know you do." A smile stretches across his face, brighter than the soft expression that has filled his face through the entire process.

"Is Eddie still here?" Max asks, tipping her head slightly to the side, trying to look towards Eddie with her milky eyes, as Steve grabs his conditioner waiting by his foot.

"I'm here, Red," Eddie says, voice quiet and soft.

"Keep reading. I want to get to Mordor in this century."

"That's going to take a lot of hair washes."

"Then you better get going."

"As my liege commands." Sweeping a hand out, he bows his head. It might not be necessary to act out in front of Max, with her lowered and legally Blind status, but Eddie's performances have always been just as much for himself as everyone else, so he'll still do them. Besides, Steve sees him and sends him a lopsided smile. Eyes bright and happy. Which is more than enough.

With flick of his thumb, Steve pops open the conditioner with just one hand.

Eddie ducks his head to go back to reading, but his eyes stay drawn up at Steve. "Need a hand?" he asks gently.

Steve shakes his head and plops a drop of conditioner directly onto Max's hair. "I've got it." Putting the lid back on, he reaches down and sets the bottle back on the ground. He sends Eddie a winning grin. Keeping his eyes on him as he does so. "I've done it enough times to have a system that works." Turning back to Max, he brings his hand back into her hair and slowly works the conditioner through.

Eddie nods, turns his eyes back to the open book in his lap and begins reading aloud once more.

A sweet coconut scent fills the room. Hair rustles softly with every sweep of Steve's fingers brushing through it, as he runs his hand through her hair. A smaller tug pulls at her strands and Max hisses a small breath. A grimace pulls across Steve's face and he flinches, as if it was his own hair, not Max's. "Sorry," he whispers and his touch turns gentler still.

Still reading, the center of Eddie's chest warms. As if a switch has been flicked and a small light bulb begins to glow or he has swallowed a swarm of fireflies; a soft glow that slowly gets brighter and warmer, still; his very heart warmed by the sight before him, as if Steve laid a hand directly over Eddie's heart and is keeping it warm by his body heat alone.

Ignoring the embers in his chest, Eddie ducks his head and continues reading.

Sometime later, Steve finishes with her hair. He pushes the buckets out from under her with his foot, grabs an awaiting towel and pats her hair dry, still keeping Max's head aloft and with only one hand working at it. It is a wonder his arm isn't shaking from exertion and aches by now. Eddie's own arm almost starts hurting from just looking at it. But then, from what Eddie has heard, Steve's spent the last three years stepping in front of the kids and keeping them safe from any and all pain, it is hardly a wonder he would do the same here without ever speaking a word of discomfort.

"Eddie, can I borrow you?" Steve asks when Eddie pauses at the end of a sentence, voice still soft and quiet, as if he's still bent over Max and just speaking to her.

Falling quiet, Eddie folds a dog-ear into the open page, sets the book aside and rises to his feet. "What do you need?" he asks.

Instructed by Steve, Eddie hooks his arms underneath Max's body and lifts her further down the bed so her head no longer hangs over the edge, as carefully as he can. Steve follows her down, cupping her head in both hands, carefully keeping a hold of it until Eddie lowers her down back on the bed and Steve lays her head down to rest on the towel spread out over the foot of the bed.

"Thanks." He shoots him a grin.

"Anytime."

Steve immediately pulls his stool closer to the bed and returns to patting Max's hair dry. Eddie returns to the book.

Once her hair is damp and left to dry on top of the towel, Steve begins tidying up. Eddie offers a hand, but Max shifts on the bed. Not a lot, barely more than a twitch really. She's not able to do a lot in her full body casts on all limbs, but it is enough to catch Steve's eyes and he shoots her a careful glance. "Better stay in Middle Earth for now," he says with a grin and proceeds to cart buckets and hair products out of the room.

So, Eddie stays and reads.

He keeps reading for a few chapters.

After Steve finishes tidying up, he comes back and sits down on the floor, back to the bed and resting against it. And keeps his warm, hazel eyes on Eddie, listening to every word falling from his lips, as he reads on. Eventually, after another half-chapter, Steve rises to his feet again and leaves the room once more. Sounds rustle and bang past the door. Shortly after, he comes back inside with a plate full of sandwiches and two glasses of water with a blue straw coming out of one of them.

So, Eddie sets the book aside to eat lunch, while Steve helps Max with hers, before he eats his own.

As he munches on Harrington's homemade specialities, Eddie's eyes sweep over Max.

Drawn red, black, blue, green and yellow are spread far and wide all across her casts. The colors spread so generously over the white surface it can hardly be called white anymore, filled as it is with chicken scratch words and sentences. Drawings of varying artistic skills, splashed everywhere like an explosion of a middle school art room. All in the hand of the other kids. And more are added to it by the day. It seems Eddie cannot lay eyes on her without a new addition to at least one of her casts.

Most of the words and sentences written across the casts are puns and bad jokes. Including a bunch of science puns and chemical compounds, which Eddie is not entirely sure was cleared with the redhead. All of the kids' names are also written somewhere on the casts at least once. It is like a game of 'Where's Waldo' to find them all. The colors of the rainbow write out El's name, a little clumsy and wonky. Lucas is signed with a flourish and a heart, which is just adorable. A pair of walkies frame Dustin's on her wrist and an antenna rise out above the 'i'. Bulbous, bubble letters make up Will's name, full of artistic flair and prowess. Someone has crossed out Mike's name with two large X's both places where it's written. The one by her foot has even spawned devil horns and a tail. The other by her elbow has a small head popping out of the 'e' with hands up by their mouth and a line that cuts to a small 'boo'.
  Bigger than the other names is Max's own. It's been added to her forearm in a pretty green pen. All around it there are characters and symbols from arcade games and a small figure with a flame of red hair doing a skateboard flip over it.

There's even a drawing of Steve with his nail-ridden bat slung over his shoulder and sunglasses on his face by her shoulder. His name isn't there, but Eddie thinks what he gets instead is even better. Because curled over his head in a banner are the words, 'world's best babysitter'. Eddie wants it framed.

By her knee, there's a sign that says 'El+Max (+Lucas)=4eva'.

There's a drawing of two kids, clearly meant to be Max and Lucas, sat side by side with popcorn in their laps and funny, wide eyes. The two stick figures are even holding hands. Cute.

Across one of her thighs, there is also a cluster of venn diagrams with all of the kids names that overlap into different groups. It is one that Eddie has a lot of fun deciphering, as he eats. Max and Mike overlap into 'frenemies'. Max and El into 'sisters before misters.' Dustin and Max overlap into 'Steve's favorites', which is hilarious, given Eddie has definitely heard Steve himself protest that he does not have favorites (which is a white lie, if Eddie's ever heard one, so the kids are clearly right about that one). 'The better half' turns out to be Max, El and Suzie. And another that makes Eddie snicker into the crust he has saved for last is where Dustin and Erica join in 'smarter than thou, still idiots'.

Eddie cannot see the rest as it curls around the back of her thigh. But he can see that all of them overlap into 'Steve's six kids RV dream' which might be his favorite.

It takes up a lot to space. Unsurprisingly.

"I must say, your friends are quite the artists," Eddie says, chewing through the last bit of his sandwich. "I'm loving the ink."

Max grins. She's done with her lunch and freed Steve to make his way through his own. "Will and El's done most of the drawings."

"That one's dope." Pointless as it is, he points at a rendition of the game Dig Dug with a small figure overlooking it, who has red hair and a crown atop her head. "Fitting for the master of Dig Dug." His eyes pass over her body, doing a cursory glance. Eyebrows arching high, he says, "They've been very generous with their drawings. No one's even left a dick on you." He makes an exaggerated face of respect and admiration. "You must be terrifying, to be able to keep teenage boys from drawing dicks all over you."

"Really?" she sounds disappointed. "That's lame."

Eddie's eyebrows shoot up in his hairline. "You want a dick drawn on your cast?"

"Fuck yeah. What's the point of drawing on your friends, if you're not adding dicks to it?"

"Fair point, my fiery friend."

So Eddie grabs a marker, crouches on the side of the bed and bends over her lower leg to add an artistic dick to Max's growing collection, to Steve's great amusement.

Humming satisfied, he leans back and twirls the pen in the air with a flourish. "Now you have a dick."

"Sick." She nods. "I hope you made it really ugly."

"Oh, the ugliest."

"With two mismatched balls."

"I can draw faces on them as well?" he offers with a grin.

"And a speech bubble that says 'I'm ballsy."

"Hell yeah." Eddie laughs and bends over her leg to add it.

When he straightens back up, he spins the marker around between his fingers, then pops the cap back on. "There," he says, "now you're truly a piece of art."

"Dope."

One thing about Steve's migraine's that Eddie quickly learned living in such close quarters with him, is that Steve does not always tell them, when he has a migraine.

Which is a faulty strategy if anyone were to ask Eddie, but he digresses.

There are small signs that Eddie began looking for, as if collecting them like pebbles in his hands, since the third ne had come and gone and the only reason he found out about it was Robin’s snippy comment behind his back about it. Something he notices Robin does too, except she's just as likely to throw them back at Steve in an attempt to get him to admit his pain, than she is keeping them close to her own chest.

Despite Steve's best attempts at keeping his migraines to himself, Eddie knows with certainty about the one he gets Tuesday. Because it wakes him up in the middle of the night.

He wondered earlier. When Steve grew quiet at dinner and stopped responding to the kids teasing jabs and Dustin's rambles about band and that new book he picked up from the school's library, even though he still has yet to begin reading the book he's meant to be reading for english. He still helped wash the dishes and clean up, never even said anything as he sat down to watch the movie the kids put on afterwards. Didn't even retreat to bed before all of them did. But he snapped at Dustin, sharper than his usual annoyance and he rubbed at his temples just once, brow furrowed in pain. He did retreat outside with his own walkman and stayed out there for at least an hour, talking to Robin, who was home with her parents, for once, but Eddie thought that was more to do with the two of them being unable to be apart for more than an hour without their world ending and less about any possible migraine he might be having.

Eddie noticed this earlier and he wondered. But Steve never said and he did not retreat to bed like he usually does, when it is at its worst. Never even dug out his sunglasses.

He guesses, he has his answer now.

It is the second time the sound of Steve retching and throwing up wrenches Eddie from his sleep.

Before he has even blinked his eyes awake, he is stumbling from bed and crashes to his knees beside Steve.

"Can I touch you?" he asks loud enough to be heard, hand held aloft in the air above his shoulder.

The wet, sharp sound of hacking fills the air. Steve spits into the bucket and nods.

Eddie shuffles closer and lays his palm on Steve's back. He rubs his palm over his back as Steve stays hunched over the bucket, hugging it to himself. A few time, Steve hacks and spits into the bucket. The two of them quiet and wordless through it all.

Eventually, Eddie leaves Steve's side long enough to grab him a glass of water.

Back beside him, knelt on his knees once again, he puts a hand back on his shoulder and holds out the glass to him. Water wobbles inside of it. A twinkle of light gleams on the surface, wobbling along with the motions shaking it, reflecting the light from beyond the curtained doorway back at them.

Trembling hands takes it from him, unsteady and slowly. Cup in hand, Steve quickly rinses his mouth, spits it out into the bucket and sips from the cup.

Watching him take a small, careful sip, Eddie asks, "Do you need me to wake anyone? I could try—"

"No, it's fine," Steve's voice is rough and wrecked. Every word hoarse, cracking inside of his throat, as if the walls have been replaced with rough sandpaper.

A frown pulls at Eddie's brow. "Are you sure?"

Steve looks down at the cup in his hand. Eyes focused on the water swaying gently inside of it. "They’ve dealt with worse things than my recurring migraines." He pulls a face, as if having sucked on a lemon. "They don't need me to, like, ruin things again."

"I've told you, you're not ruining anything, Steve," Eddie says, voice soft, even as his eyes roam over him, as if trying to pick up the seams where they intersect; Steve voicing thoughts Eddie has lived with for years, leaving him not knowing if it is something Steve has picked up in the years since he laid down his crown and let himself fade into the crowd at Hawkins High instead of being above, or if Eddie has started to bleed; the two of them getting so close, these days, his thoughts seep into the space between them, falling into the seams of Steve's skin, the thing closest to him these days, one of two people Eddie has allowed to get under his skin. Perhaps, it goes both ways. Eddie cuts himself open, allowing someone to see into his heart, unaware that his hands have turned into double-edged swords and anyone he touches, will end up vulnerable and bleeding too, even if the blood on their skin ends up being Eddie's and not their own; blood is still spilled; blood will still stain their skin and seep into the cracks in their skin, the kind of blood unable to be washed out.

Shaking off his train of thought, Eddie reaches up and lets his hand brush through Steve's hair. Soft locks falls past his skin, shifting up and down his fingers. "Everyone— they— you're—" Eddie fumbles for the right words to say. A sigh blows from his lips and he lightly shakes his head. Across the small space between them, his eyes find Steve again. They follow the curve of his shoulders still hunched, caved in, as if weighed down. "You're very loved by these people, you know that, right?" Eddie finally says. "Your pain is not a burden to them."

Looking at him wearily over the side of the bucket, Steve glances at him. Eyes tired and dark. In their gaze, Eddie presses his lips together. Teeth gnawing at his lips, wondering if he saw too much of his own reflection in Steve, so much he was blinded by the image of himself, to see Steve inside of his hazel eyes.

"Just feels stupid, when it happens so often," Steve admits, voice low and ragged, eyes pulling away from his own and looking out into the empty room, distant and distracted. "It doesn't feel necessary, when I know there's nothing seriously wrong. It happens often enough that this—" one of his fingers lift and taps against the lip of the bucket "—is nothing new. Nothing I don't know how to handle."

"Yeah, right." Eddie rolls his eyes. Unable to help the cynical edge from creeping into his voice. "Because gritting your teeth and pretending you're fine alone, when other people could help you, is handling it."

"What else do you want me to do?" Sharp eyes, sharper than they have been from the moment Eddie woke up and found him hunched over the bucket, jerk to his. A fire burns inside of them. Even in the low light, his gaze pierces through Eddie's. "You don't know how it feels to lose days to a pain so great that you can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything, but just lie there and wait for it to pass and beg that there's still something of you left once it does. You don't know, what it's like to go to bed in pain, knowing there's no relief in the morning. You don't know, how many times I've had to say no to Dustin and turn him away, because I can't open my eyes without being stabbed through my head. Do you know what it feels like to see that disappointment and the immediate shame that comes over him, when he catches himself?" the words fall sharp and cutting from his mouth, even while he remains quiet, carefully controlling the volume of his voice. A painful grimace falls over his face and he touches a hand to his head, fingers pressing into his forehead. The look he wears shows the pain is more at the words that follows, rather than the one in his head. "Or how it feels to let him down, time and time again, for something I can't even fucking control," his voice turns tight, as if he has to force it past a walled up throat. "Just because the Upside Down and demo-dogs and fucking Russians and getting a concussion twice and broken ribs once wasn't enough. Or losing my fucking hearing and going deaf on one ear. No, I had to fuck my brain up for good, too. As if I wasn't hopelessly stupid in the first place."

A moment passes.

Eddie looks down at his hand. Fingers curl up and clench into a fist.

It is not the same. He knows. But chronic pain is chronic pain and Eddie knows a little about what it's like to go to bed in pain without being able to find any relief in it, because the pain will be there tomorrow, too. But this is where Eddie's silence has brought him. Unable to reach out to Steve with understanding and kinship.

At least, at the moment.

Maybe he will be able to tell him about his own disability and chronic pain one day; a day where Steve isn't buried in pain.

"You're right, I don't," Eddie says, voice quiet. "I'm sorry." His hand hovers in the air above Steve's hair, hesitating, wondering if his touch is still welcome, still comforting after Eddie screwed up. Instead of keeping it in the air above his head, Eddie pulls it back, folds it on top of his lap. For a moment, his gaze follows it. Eyes falling to his knees. A weak pull of his lips, twitches upwards in an imitation of a smile. It feels foreign on his face, like it is something he has only ever observed others do and can only reflect a poor imitation back. He looks back up at Steve. "I only wanted to make it easier for you. I may be metal, but truthfully I'm a softie." He pulls a face. "I hate seeing others in pain."

"Even your former bully?" Steve turns his head and directs his words into the bucket. Every sound from his mouth echoes hollow and faintly inside of it, like a ball bouncing around inside of it. Back and forth, up and around. "Most would call it comeuppance."

"I may have cursed you once or twice, but you were far from the worst." At most, Eddie knew Steve to be someone to call other people names, to stand back and laugh, an easy arm raised, palm cupping the back of his own head, body leant back, braced against a line of lockers. The very picture of cool and unbothered. A few times, he might have seen him push someone down with sharp and cutting words with an ease few others wore, lounging against a wall of lockers; a glimpse of the king he was named after, falling over him. The crown he wore, his easy smile, handsome looks and charm that settled so comfortably around him. And they might not have shared classes then, but King Steve was known to be merciless on the basketball court, some helpless person on the other end of his shots in P.E. But no. Steve had never been a bully. He had always been more charismatic and magnetic, than cruel. And that is perhaps one of the reason he had been easy to hate. School and its hierarchies looked a breeze to him and he fell into his kingly title, rather than take it from the shaking hands of his classmates and acne-faced freshmen.

The look Steve sends his way is so small, so hesitant, Eddie raises his hand again and settles it at the nape of his neck, the heel of his palm on his neck, his fingers curled into his hair, treading through his locks.

"Doesn't make it okay," Steve mumbles. A pained grimace pulls across his face. Mouth pinching together and eyes squeezing shut.

"Sorry." A grimace cuts across Eddie's face. "Not exactly the best time to bring it up."

"'s okay," he mumbles into the bucket. "'m used to Robin's anxious ramble, whenever she forces me to let her stay."

"I guess you would be." He looks at Steve and carefully brushes his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. Eyes all gentle and soft.

Steve hacks and spits into the bucket once more.

"Any more coming?" Eddie asks after a moment.

"Don't think so," he says, shaking his head, voice rough and raw.

Eddie eases the bucket out from underneath him, whispers, "I'll be quick." And goes to wash out the bucket.

He comes back with the bucket, clean and empty, in one hand and the cup from before filled anew with cold water in the other. Stepping back into the room, shouldering back the curtain, he lays eyes on Steve, who, in the meantime, has buried his head in both of his hands.

Sitting back down beside Steve on his mattress, Eddie sets the bucket on the ground before him and holds out the cup to him. "Here," he says softly.

Steve picks his head up. Tired eyes land on the offering held up between them. A smile twitches briefly from his lips. It tugs at the corners of his lips, then falls away again. He reaches a hand out and takes the cup from Eddie.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Eddie asks as Steve swivels water around inside his mouth several times, before he drinks from the cup.

"Not really," he says between sips of water. He glances sideways at him. "Thank you, though."

"I could get Robin on your walkie for you?"

"No. It’s fine. Let her sleep."

"Are you sure? She’s not gonna thank you for it, you know."

Head bopping once, he huffs a quiet breath. "I know. But it’s not exactly a nightmare this time."

"If you’re sure."

He nods and swallows another mouthful of water. As he tips his head back down, he catches sight of the worried frown on Eddie's expression. His lips twitches. "Really, you've done enough, Eddie. More than. It's okay. You can go back to sleep."

"Do you—" he cuts off, then tries again, "What if you lied down again and I could brush your hair? Like last time?" he offers, voice soft. Eyes darting all over Steve's face, trying to catch the reaction to his words. "Would that be nice?"

"It won't make much of a difference." Steve shrugs. He looks down, eyes skirting away from him, settling on the cup in the end.

A small smile stretches from Eddie's lips. "That's not what I asked, Steve," he says, gently.

Tired, confused eyes lifts up and looks at him. The look inside of them is dazed and clouded, and Eddie can only imagine the pain he has to muddle through to focus on the words that pass between them. A twinge of guilt passes through him from having kept such conversation with him before. That certainly was not helpful.

Eddie's smile turns softer still. "I asked if it would be nice. Not if it would help."

"Oh." It takes a small moment. In that moment, Eddie cards through Steve's hair one more time. He even shifts his fingers forward, finds the spot he has seen Steve rub at before and pushes into it, digging the pads of his fingers into it.

Steve's eyes flutter closed. The tight expression pulling at his face slackens and falls away. Finally, he nods.

And so, when Eddie crawls back into bed, he leaves his arm dangling over the side of the bed, reaching out to Steve, who's curled up on the mattress beside the bed, as close to Eddie as he can get. Hand buried in Steve's hair, fingers brushing gently through his soft locks.

Eddie does not know if Steve falls asleep before he does, or if he sleeps at all that night, but Eddie keeps carding his fingers through his hair, until a cloudy fog drifts into his mind and pulls him under, carrying off to sleep, in its soft, dark embrace.

A few nights later, Eddie cannot sleep. Every time his eyes begin to fall close, fear shoots hot and fast through him. Adrenaline jerks through his veins, and his eyes slam back open. Wide eyed, he looks everywhere. Gaze darting all over the shadows and walls, convinced something is moving inside of them; convinced that vines or demobats are going to burst out of it and launch itself at him.

But there never is anything there.

Half the night, he spends with his heart in his throat. Breath a desperate gasp, rushing in and out of him. Loud inside of his own ears, it is like it is trying to drown him. He tries going back to sleep. Eyes falling hesitantly shut. Only to jerk open with a jolt of his heart, the image of leathery bodies or slimy vines or levitating, broken bodies in front of his eyes, so clear, he is certain they are hiding somewhere in the room, just waiting for him to fall asleep; ready to grab him and drag him down to a red, thunderous nightmare world.

Tears build up in his eyes. Frustrated, he hisses air out of his lungs and presses the palms of his hands into his eyes. White lights bursts into being in the dark world of pressure building against his eyes, prickling into them.

And he wishes he were anything but here. Wishes he was home in his trailer with the sound of his uncle returning home early in the morning, his boots thumping through the trailer, at the same time Eddie wakes up. Wants to be parked somewhere in Hawkins, on some unknown street or unnamed part of the woods, in the back of his van, blankets and pillows spread out on the floor, his duct-taped Walkman playing Black Sabbath or Iron Maiden or Metallica, with a six-pack on one side of him and a rolled joint or two on the other. He wants the forest and its many twisting shadows to stop staring at him. Desperately, wants to go back to that morning and never meet Chrissy in the woods behind Hawkins High; wants to never invite her to his home; wants to have never seen the fear and the clear desperation clinging to her, so he was never inclined to try and help her ease some of it.

Lying there, staring at shadows that move, even though nothing is making them; Eddie wishes it all away.

It is these thoughts that make him curl his hand into a fist and smash it against his head. Once, twice, thrice, his fist lands on the side of his head. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he hisses at himself and hears Coward, coward, coward in the air that rushes past his unkind fist. The hits slam into his head with each word, emphasizing them with a stab of pain through his head. Thump-thump-thump. Pain explodes through his skull. Shooting through him with a sharp stab. After the third punch, he leaves his curled up fist against his head. Almost clutching his head against knuckled fingers, when really, he is just burying squeezed eyes and the two frustrated tears that slips out past them in it.

It is a bad night. One of his worst nights, which is saying something, considering he has tinted the tips of his fingers yellow with nicotine at night several times, since they brought him here.

The other half of the night, much later, when his heart has finally managed to fall down and his eyes too tired to stay upon the twisting shadows, he spends in a strange haze. Half-asleep and half-awake. Drifting in some liminal space. Surrounded by a hazy fog, thick clouds rolling around him; day dreams and nightmares flickering in their depths, flashing before his eyes, filling his mind with strange, distorted dreams, even while he can feel himself lying down on the bed, mattress pressing into his back.

When the morning sun chases the night away from the corners of his eyes, the monsters of the night crawls underneath his skin and disappear from before his eyes, leaving him to fumble wrong-footed in the light of the dawning sun and in freefall in the grasp of a blue sky, instead of one of shadows.

Anger has never sat well on Eddie. Well, okay, it did when he was a kid and a young teen in his uncle's trailer, when anger burned along his skin like a wildfire every day, tearing up the air with a sharp, biting tongue, and angry words never meant for his uncle. Then, uncle never took the words to heart and never mirrored that anger back at him. He just let them tickle into nothing in the air between them, heard, but not held. More like sand between his fingers, than the tears he let absorb into his skin.

It helped that Eddie found someone to scream for him in the music he started listening to. It was like screaming, without ever having to open his own mouth to do it. It settled the anger burning in his heart and satisfied the buzz crawling all over his skin, enough that he stopped trying to tear the world around him down.
 Once Eddie grew older, anger turned from a wildfire into a dying flame and eventually even that faded. He kept the music, but now that was less about the anger, and more just music he felt in his soul.

After that, anger clung to him, malformed and heavy, like wearing someone else's skin. Instead of boiling underneath his skin, it just sunk heavy in his stomach, curling up tight and painful.

But this time. This time it burns through him.

It is an inferno that builds inside of his veins. Burns through him and buzzes in his ears. And everything grates at him.

Before they leave for school, Robin turns up a program on the TV and Eddie bristles at her, teeth bared until she turns it down, eyes wide and expression startled. Backpack half-packed and unzipped, slung over his shoulder, Dustin comes limb-running in from El's bedroom with excited eyes and a comic held in his hands, open to a certain page, colors flashing out at them. And Eddie turns his back on him and tells him to keep it the fuck down, and that, "—not up for being the entertainment today, so find someone else to bother," his voice hard and cold. And he never sees the fall-out, because he ducks into the kitchen, hunting for a beer in the fridge and downs it there, right over the kitchen sink.

Later, with the others in school, Will stands by the shelf filled with a myriad of board games, El by his side, and after a short debate he pulls a game down and turns, grinning at Eddie. "You want to join, Eddie?" he says and shakes the box, the pieces inside of it rattling. And Eddie sneers his rejection.

And he knows he's being a bitch. He knows he's being pissy and unfair and none of these people deserve his ire and anger, but it is like he's twelve years old again, left to nurse a bubbling anger and his broken hand with his dad in prison once more and his uncle with a brand new piece of paper that still smelt of fresh ink, declaring his custody over Eddie.

It's a wildfire that wrecks through Eddie and the heat blazes out of him, burning everyone around him and Eddie does not know how to stop it.

Game in hand and eyes a little too wide, El and Will retreat to El's bedroom, glancing at each other with unspoken words between them. Entering the room, they leave the door ajar behind them and music blares out into the cabin through it. Eddie stomps his way up to it, opens it far enough to stick his head inside and say, "Keep it the fuck down or keep the damn door closed." Barely looking at the startled expression his harsh tone brings forth, he whips his head back out from the crack and yanks the door firmly closed behind him with a sharp bang! that bursts through the cabin like the crack of a whip.

Ignoring the looks thrown his way, he stomps outside, swings the door open none too gently and kicks it closed behind him.

A beer bottle stands empty and abandoned on the porch by the stairs, as if someone was sitting there, drinking, feet propped on the lower steps, looking out at the forest.

Eddie walks up to it and kicks it. Barely watching the path it sails through the air. The can clangs and rings in the air, then clatters across the forest ground. Landing with a rattle, before rolling to a stop somewhere.

"Yo, my man, you okay?" a voice calls out.

Snapping his head to the side, he catches sight of Argyle and Jonathan sat on hood of one of the cars. Leant close together, arms braced against the top, overlapping. They are both looking back at him. Expressions folded into concern and worry. Two pairs of wary eyes search every inch of him, as if picking him apart.

"Not any of your fucking business," he snaps.

They turn, looking at each other.

He turns his head away from them. Hair falls over his shoulder and sways in front of his face, pointedly hiding him away. The back of his head stares back at them. Raising a hand, he touches his finger to the bridge of his nose, eyes falling closed. Air blows forcefully from his mouth. "Just leave me the fuck alone," he grits out and even that escapes angry and cold past his lips.

A faint whisper enters the air. Voices lowered, quiet and small, as they talk. The sound of it grates on his ears and he has to grind his teeth together to keep from lashing out at them any more than he already has. After a few exchanged words, they fall quiet and something shifts. Limbs thud against metal. Then feet land on the ground with a thump. Grit and dirt crunches under shoes.

He waits. Head turned away, eyes firmly fixed to the wall of the cabin. Their footsteps crunch over gravel and beaten down earth, as they walk nearer. They reach the steps and quickly jog up.

One pair makes its way into the cabin. The door opens and closes behind them, light and soft. Another pauses, lingering on the porch.

Eddie sucks in a breath and tenses up. Shoulders rising high, every muscle ripples with tension. Like a rubber band stretched to its limit. Breath held sharply in his lungs, prickling like angry ants against his lungs.

"Yo, we’re here for you, man, if you need it," Argyle offers and then finally makes his way inside. The door opens and closes one last time with a soft creak and thud.

The sound of the door falling closed and the footsteps disappearing behind it, is like the flick of a switch for Eddie.

He releases the breath caught in his chest. Air blows forcefully from him in a gust of wind. His body slumps. Muscles giving out, rippling through him with the force of his breath blowing from him.

He walks to the railing. Reaches out and curls his hands around it, hanging his head low and squeezes his eyes shut. White sparks bursts on his eyelids. "Fuck!" he yells and smacks a hand into the railing. Pain slams into his palm, stinging up his hand, past his wrist through to his forearm.

And still fire tears at him.

It burns through his veins, like his anger has formed into a beast, intent on tearing him apart, clawing at his limbs long enough to make him tear the world apart in turn. It burns inside of his chest; burning at him to grip his hair and tear at it; screaming at him to kick the railing until it splinters and breaks apart; to punch his closed fists at the wall of the cabin until something splits, either skin or wood; to leave something bleeding out into the world.

He keeps his eyes squeezed shut and his breath locked up in his lungs. As if he can just keep still and keep the inferno inside of himself before it burns everything around him to ashes.

He is not left to burn alone for long.

Once again, the door opens with a soft creak and the swish of displaced air. In the corner of his eyes, Eddie can just about see him, when Steve walks out onto the porch. Carefully closing the door behind himself.

Eddie barely spares him a glance. He snorts, sharp and derisive.

"Come on, man," Steve says, voice clam and steady, but giving nothing away. He does not reach out to touch him. Merely catches his eyes and jerks his head forward, down the steps leading to ground and out at the forest.

Eddie's lips curl cruelly at him. A sneer making its way across his face.

Keeping his head facing forward, Steve just begins walking down the steps, his shoulder pulled back, as if he is turned halfway back towards Eddie, but somehow knows his gaze over his shoulder would not be welcome.

Gritting his teeth, Eddie pushes off the railing with a hard shove and follows him down the stairs. Feet thundering against the wood and thumping loudly across the ground, a mere echo of the storm raging inside of him. He lands on the ground with a crash and keeps going. Each step tramping and stomping loud and angry against the earth.

Steve just walks him to his car and gets in.

Huffing, Eddie follows. He yanks the car door open and throws himself down onto the car, slamming the car closed behind him with a loud Bang! that shakes the entire car.

Staring out the windshield, Eddie crosses his arms across his chest. "Genius, Harrington, really genius. Now what?" he sneers, voice dripping acid. "Going to drive through town with a wanted murderer and town crucifix on your front seat like a fucking parade?"

Steve says nothing. Simply starts the car and begins driving, pulling down along the path that cuts through the woods.

As they drive, the beaten path crunches below the car, churning against the wheels. Trees trail past them, slow and rolling, Eddie could pick out individual branches and the occasional bird nest lying amongst them, if he wanted to.

It just makes him angrier.

The burn beneath his skin claws at him. It rips through his veins, picking up speed like catching the heat of a stray flame.

Eddie grinds his teeth together. A dull pain digs through his teeth and jaw.

Some ways down the path, past a curved hill and a bend in the road, Steve eases up on the pedal. The car slows to a stop with a small whine and a gentle roar of the engine cutting off.

"Brilliant," Eddie jeers, jabbing a hand towards the view before him, "just what I needed. Window shopping trees. Like a change of view from oak to elder trees is gonna make me feel better." He throws a glare at Steve, expression hard and cutting, full of vitriol and burning fire. "You always know just what to do. Really living up to King Steve today."

The moniker does not cut into him the way he expected it to. Steve simply looks at him. Impassive. Eyes steady and expression wiped clean.

Eddie scoffs loudly. Turning his head away, he glares out of the passenger side window, fuming with every breath he takes. He tightens his arms around himself. Muscles flexing and fingers digging into his own flesh, bruising and unforgiving.

"Why are you so angry today?" the calm in Steve's voice does nothing to douse the fire burning away in Eddie's chest.

"Why, I didn't know you cared, Steve," his voice is just a little too hard, a little too pointed. The following smile he throws over his shoulder too sharp, teeth bared and expression hard and unkind.

"Cut it out, man," Steve says, voice far too steady and quiet against Eddie's own. Like calm waves at shore washing over a wall of flames. "I know it's easier to hate and be angry at everything, but I don't think you really are."

A harsh snort scratches from Eddie's throat and he pointedly jerks his head away from him. "What do you know," he mumbles.

Steve, it seems, is unperturbed. "I haven't known you long, but Dustin's been talking nonstop about you since September. You're not a man of hate or anger, Eddie."

Baring his teeth, Eddie snorts, full of vitriol and venom. "You don't know shit about me, Harrington. Stop trying to be so high and mighty. I may be the Fool, but you haven't been King in a while. Get down from your fucking throne." He kicks his foot against the bottom of the car, stomping at the curved floor underneath the dashboard. The sole of his Reeboks slams hard into it. SLAM! The motion rocks through him. It feels good. He does it again. SLAM! Picks both of his feet up and kicks out. Slam! And again. And again. And again. Slam!-Slam!-Slam!

"I'm not looking down on you, Eddie."

"Oh, really?" he sneers and kicks out again just because he can. He's expecting Steve to yell at him. To get angry at him for damaging his car. To raise his hands; once used for ruling the high school court, but now only knows kindness and warmth and safety; to reach for old familiarity and use that knowledge against Eddie. The clawing beneath his own skin almost wants him to pick up the old coat of a bully and punch Eddie with fisted, cruel hands. To cut him.

And still, he is surprised, when all Steve does is glance at his legs, eyes following the move of his knees while they go up and down with every kick and stomp.

It kinda makes Eddie want to grab his perfect hair and tear it out of his perfect head.

His steady, calm gaze sparks the fire burning under Eddie's skin and it tears its way through him. Burning everything everywhere it goes; boiling in his chest, the pressure of it building and building. And Eddie wants to slap and shake him. Wants to push him until that kingly facade breaks and both of them are left bleeding and bruised.

Picking his feet up, Eddie slams his feet down into the bottom of the car again. They slam into the floor with a loud Thump! The kick jolts through the car, jostling them.

"I think you're angry," Steve continues, voice far too steady and calm, "but I don't think you're angry at us."

"You don't know fuck all," he spits, turning to him, neck snapping, expression hard and livid. Mouth pulled back, teeth bared and sharp.

It is like Eddie's nerves have been exposed all over, replacing his skin and he is a live wire; wires exposed, sparking and misfiring, just one wrong movement and everything will go up in flames. As if all the wires his father has handed him, when Eddie was still small enough to look up at him and young enough to want to; teaching him how to hot-wire a car. All of those electric shocks that burned his skin and shot through him, have all gathered deep inside of him, and instead of fading, they have built and built; a bomb of electricity and live-wires lying in wait inside of him, a bomb Vecna unearthed when he strung Chrissy up against Eddie's ceiling that night, and this is the spark that will set him off. One large, exposed wire underneath his skin, sparking electricity and lightning in his veins, just waiting for someone to get close enough to get scorched.

Eyes flashing, he glares at him, hard and angry. "Just shut the fuck up before I make you, Harrington."

"I've gotten a fist to my face, every single time we've been through this shit, man. I can deal with you taking it out on me, too."

The feeling in Eddie's chest bubbles. It boils hot and angry in his sternum. Crashes through his skin and burns in his lungs, like a tsunami of flames. Surges up his throat and curls around his voice. A scream claws and tears its way up Eddie's throat and he wants to let it loose. Feels that he will explode, if he does not.
  Muscles in his jaw flexing, he grits his teeth, grinding them together, keeping the scream behind his teeth. The sound of them clashing together clicks and grinds in his ears. Pain burns in his jaw from the hard pressure.

Breathing hard, as if having run miles, he curls his hands into tight fists. Nails digging into the bed of his palm, he grips so tightly his hands both shake from the force of it.

Steve's looking at him. Eyes, calm and steady, but burning into Eddie, as if they are seeing right through him. "I think, I get it," he finally says, quieter than before.

A harsh breath rushes in through Eddie's nose. Heat burns all over his skin, tearing his chest apart. His hands are shaking, what for he is not sure. "I swear to god, Harrington," he spits venomously, voice lowered dangerously, as if a too loud noise will set the spark that will finally set off the bomb in his chest to irreparable damage, "you say another word and I just might break my record of pu—"

"You're angry at yourself," Steve's calm voice bowls over him, completely ignoring his warning.

The anger boils, rushing to Eddie's head.

For a moment, all he hears is an echoing roar and the sounds of waves crashing at sea. Then it stops. Freezes, as if caught. Air squeezes tight in his lungs, chest tight, caught inside of him. Then, like the pop of a building pressure released, the boiling tide in Eddie's head drops. It rushes back down through him, dropping down to his stomach, where it curls up tight and tense and unhappy; coiling around and around, like a prowling animal caught in a cage with nowhere else to go.

Air squeezes from Eddie's lungs. Chest deflating, Eddie slumps back into the seat behind him. Every muscle in his body loosens with a rippling wave. The fire sputters weakly inside of his chest, then stays there. An old ache wherever the claws tore through him; now bleeding him raw, but slowly scabbing over.

"What do you know?" Eddie's voice is raw and rough, as if he has been screaming for hours, when he has been doing everything he can not to. The words come out weak and exhausted, far from the accusation they are shaped into.

Hazel eyes stay gentle on him. Looking him over. Gaze calm and steady. Then, Steve looks away, turning his head to the window in front to them.

"I get it. I've—" he breaks off, a hesitant expression falling over his face. Taking a deep breath, chest rising with air rushing in through his nose, he starts again, "You might not forgive me for saying this, because it's not the same, and I know it's not the same, but I've been close to where you are." Eyes fixed determinedly ahead, Steve's hands on the steering wheel clenches. Leather cracks and crackles softly beneath them. He falls silent. Waits.

Wary, Eddie stares at him. Just waiting for him to say the wrong thing that will bring the inferno back and finally make Eddie boil over; will finally make him snap. Or maybe, just maybe, he is looking at him, wary, because he hopes whatever he is holding in his hands, is enough to stifle the inferno burning inside of him; drown it in the steady, ever-calm waters of Steve's hazel gaze.

"When this all first started" —a finger taps lightly on the steering wheel— "you remember what happened then?" He throws him a quick, questioning glance. "Will went missing. Barb went missing. Some other people, too."

Still wary, eyes wide — as if caught frozen between Steve's voice and his empty hands — Eddie nods.

Looking back and forth out of the windshield, head turning left and right, Steve nods too. Gaze darting skittishly all over the place, never once settling on anything. "All those people that went missing were taken to the Upside Down by one of the monsters."

"The—" Eddie's voice cracks and he clumsily clears his throat, weakly wiggling a few fingers in the air "—the demogorgon thing?"

"Yeah, that." Steve nods. Head still swivelling all over the place. Finally, his head stills. It drops forward, dropping slightly, eyes stuck somewhere down low in his vision. "Anyway, um, that was '83. In '84 Nancy sunk the lab and Barb was declared dead with a story of leaked chemicals from the lab and government cover-up."

"I remember," Eddie says, voice small and faint. Eyes fixed wide on Steve, stuck to him.

"It wasn't. It was the demogorgon. It got her in '83." Steve swallows. The noise is loud and thick, struggling down his throat. "The thing is. We think it happened at my house."

Inside of his chest, Eddies heart flickers. Skittering at the touch of Steve's words. "Shit, really?"

"Yeah." He nods, all quiet and still. Small. "We weren't—, we don't really know. But, um. Nancy found a photo of her. Sitting by my pool. And Jonathan was there, taking pictures in the forest behind my house. He said, she was there one second and gone the next." Steve is looking determinedly away from him. Eyes fixed straight ahead, looking out the windshield. One of his hand grips at the steering wheel, like a lifeline. Bones white and stark against the skin on back of his hand. His other hand taps at the leather with nervous, twitching energy. Fingers tapping intermittently on the steering wheel. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Taptap-tap. A deep breath falls in through Steve's mouth. "I saw the picture once it was all over," he says, voice quiet. He finally turns his head to looks at Eddie. He meets his wide gaze with wary and tired eyes, the look inside of them almost enough to blow out the last of the winds in Eddie's sails. "The demogorgon. It was standing right behind her."

Steve runs a hand through his hair. Head ducked and eyes darting away from Eddie's. Dropping his hand, he looks back up at Eddie. A weak, pained smile flickers from his lips. Something pained and hurt flickers inside of his eyes. He quickly looks away again. "The thing is, she was only there because I was having a party with Tommy H. and Carol and I'd invited Nancy, who obviously wanted Barb there, so, of course—" he adds a little wildly, eyes wide and lost and a wild gesture of his hand in the air "—I invited them both. But we—, we all got drunk—" he stumbles over his words. A frustrated sigh blows forcefully out of his chest. He raises a trembling hand and rakes it roughly through his hair. Still not looking at Eddie.

Through it all, Eddie just stares at him. Wide-eyed and silent. Caught frozen between one breath and the next. Chest tight, all the air inside of it pushing out against his lungs. Like a pressure slowly building. Except Eddie is still breathing. Air goes in and out of his lungs quietly. It is something else, building in pressure inside of him. Something so unlike the anger that burned inside of his veins just moments ago. But he cannot name it. Not as he sits there, winded by his own wildfire and Steve's words.

"We all went inside. Except Barb. I thought she'd gone home. But, yeah," Steve continues, voice quiet, his head bowed, "I was with Nance upstairs all the while Barb was just sitting there, perfect for that thing to take her. The next day, she's just gone." One of his fingers snaps, small and gentle, flicking between finger and palm. The sound passes dull and faint through the car.

Sighing, Steve sinks further back into the car seat and drops his arms away from the steering wheel, letting them fall limp down by his sides. When he speaks again, his voice is oddly subdued and weak, "A year later, Nancy's blaming me for Barb's death and I'm thinking she's probably right to call me bullshit and blame me, but then I'm also thinking, if only Barb had been taken from somewhere else, maybe she wouldn't blame me for her death,” he says. Then, quieter still, barely a breeze, “Then, maybe Nancy would still love me.”

At this, Eddie's eyes grow wider. Not for his confession. But because it is a perfect mirror of Eddie himself. Like Steve has reached inside of him and pulled forth the ugly mess writhing and curling inside of him like a snarling, ugly monster, sinking its teeth into him and ripping him apart until nothing of Eddie remains; only the ugly monster that had taken up home inside of him. But now that monster is in Steve's hands; in Steve's hazel eyes, when he finally turns and looks at him, meeting Eddie's wide gaze. And in his reflection and eyes, it looks less like hate and anger. Less like a monster. More like something else entirely, even though Eddie cannot name that. It is kinder, though. Merciful. Maybe, that is what he sees in Steve's eyes. Mercy. Forgiveness.

"And I hate myself for thinking like that," he continues, voice soft and quiet, "but even though the thought is there and gone again, I can't stop hating myself. And I'm sabotaging my way through high school, where my grades are already pretty abysmal, and smoking and drinking by the quarry far too much and far too often, but with no one around to care. Then, Dustin comes to visit, and it's like a hurricane has torn through my house with the mess he leaves, but I'm smiling for the first time in weeks, and I catch myself thinking, 'I have a chance at something worthwhile here, I can't fuck it up'." A small, rueful smile crosses his lips, like the wisps of winds in early spring, carrying the first touch of warmer air.

A moment passes. Quiet. Almost stiff between them. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

Steve breathes out. The sound deliberately long and slow. He looks sideways at Eddie, gaze meeting his. Hazel eyes so clear and strong, they seem to pierce straight through Eddie, to the very heart of him. "What I'm trying to say," he says, voice soft and gentle, like he is trying not to spook him, when his voice has already doused the fire burning underneath his skin, "is stop trying to hurt yourself, man. I get it," he adds, something pained and knowing falling over his expression. "Hate and self-sabotage are simple, easy things in all this complicated mess—" he waves a hand broadly in the air, then drops it limply, head turning sideways, fully facing Eddie with that clear, hazel gaze that sees far more than it should "—but you're not the only one getting hurt." He falls quiet and his words settle over Eddie. Somehow they are both light and heavy on his shoulders.

Raising a hand, Eddie wipes at his eyes. He palms his face and pushes them up, pressing the heels of his palm into his eyes. "I kinda want to hate you right now," he says, voice choked up and raw, glancing at Steve out from beneath his hands.

"That's okay. Hate me if it helps—"

"No," the word blows hard and fast from Eddie's mouth. He shakes his head sharply back and forth, just once. More a jerk of the head, than anything else. And Steve's looking at him, eyes slightly wide, but Eddie continues before he can, "I didn't want anyone to help me or make me feel better. Didn't think they could, even if I wanted them to. But then you somehow manage to make it all better."

"Sorry." The smile he sends his way is too small and hesitant to be teasing, but the light in his eyes suggests it all the same. Smile ticking up in the corner, crooked, despite the small size of it, he says, "Should I let you wallow in self-pity and hate next time?"

"No." Eddie stares at him, eyes completely stuck to him and focused. A tiny ball of light slowly unfolding itself inside of his chest. It should have been impossible after everything he has already seen him do, but somehow, Steve managed to surprise him again.

Hazel eyes meets his gaze. Unrelenting, yet so very open.

Small minutes pass where they just look at each other and the ugly truth bared between them and the salvation each have found in each other's eyes. Understanding given, cupped in warm, open hands and kind eyes; understanding returned in hands rubbed red and raw, and eyes far too wide and far too skittish, only to be caught by hazel ones, just before the man behind them falls off the side of the Earth.

Eventually, after a long time just sat in each other's eyes, Steve pulls his away, starts the car up again and turns it around, slowly rolling it back up the dirt beaten path to the cabin. In sight of the cabin again, he parks it, but does not get out.

Silence lasts a little longer between them, before Eddie finally says, "Thank you, Steve," his voice heavy with far more than just gratitude.

And Steve turns back to him, with the same heavy weight in his eyes. "One thing about facing the Upside Down and saving the world together, means that neither of us will leave anyone to fight the monsters on our own. That includes you, Eddie." He waits a small moment, then adds with a small smile, "Wasn't that what you were trying to tell me the other night?"

Eddie's hands lie in his lap, caught restless together; fingers fidgeting, twisting and pulling on his rings. The metal clicks softly against each other with every pull on them; small and fidgety with restless energy, the frantic, desperate twists of this day gone. He casts a glance up at Steve. A weak smile flickers across his face. "Suppose I better get used to it."

"Suppose you should."

Soft snores and gentle breaths fill the air.

The sounds of night in the cabin he has become accustomed to, so distant from the night of the trailer park. Full of distant barks and calls of animals moving through the dark, and a TV playing from that one neighbour that never turns it off no matter what time it is or how much it must eat up his electrical bill, always loud enough to hear from several trailers away. And the shouts of that one couple that has at least two arguments a day, and usually one at night, too. It is the trailer park. Somehow never asleep, and yet never quite awake. Smothered in the mud and dirt that clings to every surface, as if drowning in its grasp.

The cabin is different. There is a hush lying over the cabin at night. As if, as soon as dusk sets its touch upon the cabin, every living soul within its walls breathes in and holds their breath; always watchful, always tense; a breath held and a body tense; like a tight fist curled around the handle of a nailed bat; like the quiet whispers of the wakeful in the arms of night, when nightmares and the eyes of monsters wakes them; like the guarded, watchful eyes of a soldier twice from war, and the soldier who never sleeps.

Such is the cabin at night. Half-asleep and half awake. But always watchful, keeping its breath held and standing quietly over their sleeping bodies, just waiting for a strange shadow to move.

This night has found Eddie in the kitchen. Cigarette held between two of his fingers, the burning end smoldering with a faint glowing red of embers. Smoke drifts from the tip, curling in the air and scratching inside of his nose with every breath he takes. Only the distant sound of rustling leaves, whispering winds and the snores from within the cabin reaches him.

Once again, he's standing over the kitchen counter. Arms leant on the table top, one lying across, folded near his stomach, hand lying in the crook of his elbow, body leant over it, bending over at the hip. Elbow digging into the counter, hand held aloft.

He drags the cigarette to him. Places it in his mouth, lips curling around the filter and takes a deep breath. Smoke pours into his lungs, curling up and down his throat, scratching faintly inside of his chest.

He turns his head away from the cigarette and breathes out. Smoke billows out past his lips in a thin, forceful plume.

Moving his hand to the side, he holds the cigarette above the ashtray sitting off to the side and taps a gentle finger against it. Ashes dislodge from it and tumbles down into the porcelain tray. Landing in a soft patter against the small bed of ashes already lying in it.

The night lies heavy and quiet around him.

A light above him chases the shadows to the distant corners of the cabin.

And everywhere else is filled with the hum of human breath and the occasional distant rustle.

He moves to take another breath of smoke.

A noise jerks through the house. Fwish.

Eddie's head jerks to the side. Eyes seeking the dark for the source.

A harsh breathing fills the air. Stuttered and scrambled. It rushes in and out, shaking through the air.

"Eddie?" A voice, small and frail calls out. Stuttering and shaking. "Eddie?" This time the voice trembles heavily. Rustles break out, rushing through the cabin with a frantic pace, chasing him just as his name does. "Fuck! Eddie?!" Footsteps hurry across floorboards. Padding loudly through the cabin. A heavy, loud thump-clunk-thump-clunk in rapid succession of each other.

Quickly, Eddie turns and snuffs out his cigarette, dumping it in the ashtray. Pushing away from the counter, he hurries back out through the kitchen, heading towards the curtain, where his borrowed bedroom lies behind.

Bursting from the bedroom, Dustin flings himself past the curtain. Fabric snapping in the air behind him.

Eyes landing on Eddie, he stops dead. Bare foot and boot skidding against the floor. Dustin stands there, as if frozen. Wide eyes stuck on him. Chest jerking with every rushing sound, his breath rises and falls rapidly. "Ed—" he hiccups, chest heaving, "Eddie," his voice is small and weak, shaking in the air. One hand lifts up and wipes at his nose. The other held out, bracing himself against the wall.

Eddie keeps going. Feet quickly swallowing the distance between them. Without a word, he throws his arms around him and pulls him into his chest. Gripping Dustin close and tucking him under his chin.

Burying his head in his chest, Dustin presses into him. Arms wrapping tight around him, his hands curl up in his shirt. Fistfuls of fabric clenched tightly between his fingers.

"Hey, hey," Eddie says softly, running a hand against his head, cupping the back of it in his palm. "It's okay, Dustin, I'm right here. Still right here."

"It was— I—, You weren't there. I woke up and you weren't there," Dustin hiccups against his chest. Every word shakes and stumbles from his mouth, trembling against Eddie. Hands curling up, he grips him tighter, arms around him squeezing.

"I know. I'm sorry," he whispers against his head, pressing his nose and cheeks down into his mop of curly hair, as if he can imbue him with the rhythm of his still breathing lungs, if only he presses hard enough. He grips him tighter, just in case.

For a short while, they just stand there. Arms tight around each other; once set grasping and desperate; another burying and all-encompassing.

Soft and loud snores fill the cabin. Drifting through it and bouncing off the walls. One set of snores have stopped. Grinding to a halt the moment Dustin called for him, Eddie noticed. A light breathing in its place.

Warily, Eddie turns his head, throwing a glance at Hopper lying leaned back on the Lazy Boy, his head tipped back and eyes closed; the picture of perfect, calm sleep.

Night after night, while Eddie has been curled over a kitchen counter with a cigarette in his shaking hands, he has proven himself a light sleeper. Often blinking himself out of sleep at the smallest of noises. A few times, he jerks awake, sitting bolt upright, head jerking wildly about as if searching the entire cabin. A few times they have caught each other's eyes, with Eddie standing in the kitchen, cigarette burning between his fingers, but they have never breached the other’s bobble. Something unspoken hanging in the air between them. As if they know, the other is best left to sort out their shit alone. Or maybe, just knowing someone else is awake, is enough.
  A few times, when Eddie has escaped the clutches of his nightmares and run for the kitchen or the bathroom, his shaking hands reaching for cigarettes, the Lazy Boy was already empty, Hopper's snores gone and himself nowhere to be seen.

Standing there with a shaking and gasping Dustin, Eddie almost expects Hopper to stand up and offer his help or comfort with the way he so sharply keeps an eye on the kids. But he remains quiet. Perhaps, thinking Eddie's the best man for it. Or trusting him to be.

Both sentiments feel undeserved, but then again, Hopper has always treated Eddie so differently than everyone else has. As if he has never seen the washed out, drug-dealer orphan kid the other cops did. But just a kid.

Keeping his head pressed against Dustin's, Eddie casts a glance through the cabin, glancing around the living room and its occupants. Joyce is asleep on the couch. Arm hanging out over the edge, drooping towards the floor and a blanket lying haphazardly on top of her. On the floor, air mattress blown up and rolled out, Jonathan lies curled up on his side with Will tucked under one of his arms. Mouth hanging open, snores grind against the former's throat. Right beside them, nearly curled up against Jonathan's back, Argyle lies on a ten-inch thin mattress beside them. One of those that you can roll up and take with you on camping that would not look out of place hooked on top of a boy scouts bag.

"Come on," Eddie pulls back and gives Dustin's shoulder a squeeze. Eyes drifting to the side, as if drawn magnetically and he just cannot help himself, his gaze lands just briefly on the figure curled up by the front door and completely conked out. Head tipped back against the wall and his usual malformed baseball bat tucked under his crossed arms. Throat bared and soft snores drifting out of his mouth. Turning back to Dustin, Eddie shakes his head. "Let's go back in, before we wake anyone." Hands curled around his shoulders, Eddie gently turns Dustin around and nudges him forward. Walking him back into the bedroom, feet right at his heels, swallowing his every footstep.

Neatly sidestepping the empty mattress on the floor, Eddie throws it a look and swallows the sigh that wants to escape. Instead, he quietly squeezes Dustin's shoulders and continue to steer him forward until they stand before the cot they share. Then, he lays his hands on top of his shoulders and gives him a gentle push, making him sit.

As soon as Dustin sits down, collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut, he sits down beside him — as close as he can without literally sitting on top of him — and throws an arm over his shoulder, tucking him into his chest once more.

Ducking his head, Dustin sniffs loudly, curling his arms around him once more, and generally making himself smaller than he is. As he curls up into him, Eddie is smacked in the gut with the feeling that this kid — all of these kids — are only 15. Just kids, really. It is wrong that he should wake up in the middle of the night, screaming for Eddie with the memory of him dying and bleeding out in his arms, echoing in his arms, like a phantom forever weighing his arms down.

A lump cuts into Eddie's throat and his heart squeezes and aches, as if a fist has taken a hold of it and is gripping it tight; trying to wring it out.

"Come on," Eddie says, voice soft and cracking slightly, squeezing Dustin's shoulder, "Talk to me, I'm right here."

"I know it's stupid," Dustin says, voice thick and shaking his head against his chest. "But I had a nightmare, and then I woke and you were both gone and—"

"No, no no," Eddie says, voice soft through his reprimand, squeezing him tighter. "First of all, that is not a word we use about ourselves or anyone else. First rule of Hellfire, man." He knocks his chin lightly against the top of Dustin's head and rubs his palm up and down his shoulder. "Second of all," Eddie continues, swallowing the lump in his throat before it can take his words from him, looking out into the barely lit room, chin placed on top of Dustin's bowed head, "what you've been through is far more than anyone should ever have asked of you. Any reaction to any of the shit you've seen and been through is not stupid. It could never be stupid. You had a nightmare and it upset you. That's okay. Understandable. Expected even. Dustin, it's remarkable any of you are still standing after four rounds with the Upside Down." Squeezing him one last time, he gently nudges Dustin and pulls him away from himself, until he can duck his head to try and catch Dustin's downcast gaze. "I think you're entitled to your nightmares and some tears."

"You've been doing fine," he sniffs. Hand rising through the air, he wipes at his nose, still keeping his head lowered and shielded.

"Ah, but that's because you've been catching z's when I've not been." That finally makes Dustin snap his head up.

"You've cried?" he asks, a little loud and incredulous, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"Like a baby." A small smile grows from Eddie's mouth and he gives Dustin a gentle shake.

"You're just saying that to make me feel better." Rolling his eyes and his head, Dustin looks down and toes the ground with his socked feet. "I know what it looks like. Steve does it all the time" he mumbles, all perturbed and sullen.

"Steve is currently sat by the front door, asleep on a chair with a nailed bat under his arm," Eddie says, softly. At his words, Dustin's head whips up. Eyes kind and gentle, Eddie continues, giving his shoulder a squeeze, "Now, why do you think that is?"

"He shouldn't do that." Turning his head, Dustin looks out, gaze falling on the curtain separating them from the rest of the cabin, backlit with the light from the living room behind it. Eyes narrow, every muscle in his body grow tight and coiled. Body going stiff and tense, his back straightens, going completely still beside Eddie. "He said he would take better care of himself," he says it more like a threat than a statement.

"And you can nag him about it tomorrow." Eddie gives his shoulder another squeeze.

Dustin glares at the curtain for a long second, then, like the flick of a switch, he tears his eyes away and every muscle gives out. He sags where he sits, but keeps himself in place, carefully keeping himself from falling back into Eddie's chest.

"You're not alone in this, Dustin," Eddie says, soft and quiet, keeping his arm around his back through his distance. "We're all struggling in our own way. It's okay that you are, too."

Dustin grows quiet. Head turned down, eyes seeking the floor.

Eddie knocks his knee into Dustin's. Lightly making his leg jostle from side to side. "Talk to me," he says, leaning closer to him, head ducking to catch his eyes.

"It's just so hard." He shakes his head. Voice raw and hoarse. "I keep seeing it. Seeing you." Head tilting up, he throws a glance at Eddie.

Something inside of Eddie's chest tightens. Claws rake his lungs to pieces. They scratch and rip at his chest. Wrapping his rips in a tight, suffocating grasp.

Beside him, Dustin starts to shake. Gasping softly, his body trembles and jaw quivers.

"Hey, hey," Eddie says softly, reaching out. "It's okay. Come here, Dustin." He wraps his arms around Dustin and pulls him close. "I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

"I hate it." Dustin folds himself into Eddie's chest. The words he speaks caught by Eddie's shoulder, his voice muffled against him. One of Dustin's hands finds purchase on Eddie's shirt. Fingers curling up in the fabric, pulling and stretching, clenching tight around it. His other hand quickly follows. Another handful of fabric grasped tightly, scrunches up against Eddie's back. "I keep having nightmares about you dying or just lying there, bleeding out in my arms and I can't do shit to help you and I'm just watching you dying. Or I'm in the Upside Down, surrounded by red light and vines and I can hear bats wings and you're screaming but I can't see you, and no matter how fast I run, I get nowhere, but you're still screaming." Dustin shakes against him. Air passes in and out through his mouth in sharp, jerking bursts. Hiccupping through Eddie in sharp, static jerks.

"I know," Eddie tucks his chin on top of his head. One hand cupping the back of his head, the other wrapped around him, palm pressing into his back. "I'm sorry. You never should have been there. Never should have seen that."

"I'm not." Dustin shakes his head. Curls rustle against Eddie. "Don't ever say that," he bites out, fingers clenching tighter in his shirt. "Don't you dare."

Eddie closes his eyes. Breathes in slow and deep. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay. I won't."

"I'm happy, I was there," Dustin continues. "You shouldn't have been alone."

Eddie swallows his words and just holds Dustin close. Every regret he has had about Dustin seeing him fall and being there to pick him up, burns and claws at his chest. It turns into an inferno that shapes every breath he takes into ash; another grave for Eddie to leave behind himself. But he burns on his own and keeps the flames away from Dustin, locking it up tight in his lungs. For him and him alone.

For a long while, they sit there. Dustin wrapped up tight in Eddie's arms, squeezing him tight and burrowing as close as he can, as if trying to attach himself to him, or merge them into one. Slowly shaking apart.

What finally pierces the silence between them is not either one of them.

Rustles sound from behind the curtain separating them form the rest of cabin. Wood and metal thunks loudly, clattering against the floor. Fabric shifts and soft shuffles shifts against wooden boards.

Eddie picks his head up and settles his eyes on the curtain.

Footsteps sound out. Feet pad softly over the floor, heading towards them. Finally, the curtain sways and wavers and Steve walks into the bedroom. Easing past the curtain, his shoulder lightly touches it, leaving the fabric fluttering in his wake. One hand is raised, rubbing at his eyes.

Pausing in front of the make shift doorway, Steve looks at them. His eyes quickly lands on Dustin. Expression softening, he comes forward and kneels in the space before him. "Dustin?" he asks, voice low, eyes searching Dustin's face, as if he can pull the answers out of the shadows lingering across his face, if only he searches long enough. "Hey." He reaches out and his hand lands by his shoulder, palm cupping the back of his neck. Fingers rubbing slightly back and forth. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he mumbles, giving a small shake of his head. A heavy shadow falls over his face, shielding his expression from them, his head turned down and eyes lowered. "Just a nightmare."

A soft, almost wounded sound comes from the back of Steve's throat. "That's not nothing."

"'m sorry I woke you, Steve," Dustin mumbles, eyes skirting the floor. "You can just go back to sleep again."

"Hey, no," Steve says, voice soft and gentle, "You know you can wake me anytime. We've been over this." His hand slides down from his neck, settling on his shoulder. Thumb sticking out, he rubs it back and forth. Smiling weakly up at him, Steve gives his shoulder a light shake. "Besides, I needed a wake-up call anyway. My neck will be thanking you in the morning."

"You shouldn't have been there anyway." Looking up at him, Dustin glares half-heartedly. Even from where Eddie's sitting, having to look down at him from the bottom corner of his eyes basically, he can tell how weak it is. "You told me you wouldn't do that again."

A grimace pulls across Steve's face. Painfully scrunching up his features. Fast as anything, it's gone again. Wiped away with a weak smile. "It slipped past me." He rubs his fingers in circles on Dustin's shoulder. His gaze darts to the side, briefly locking with Eddie's. For a moment, they stare at each other. Heavy understanding passes wordlessly between them.

Eddie presses his lips together, and carefully does not add that it is far from the first time, he has seen Steve sitting guard by the door at night, when the rest of them are asleep.

"You're right." Steve nods and tears his gaze away from Eddie, finally looking back at Dustin. "I'll try not to do it again."

Head lifted from the floor, Dustin looks at him. Mouth pressed into an unhappy line, his eyes search every corner of Steve's face. "It's getting bad again. Isn't it?"

"Hey," Steve says, voice still soft, "I thought we were talking about you, not me."

"We're talking about you, when you're being stupid," he shoots back. For the first time since Eddie drew him into his arms, he sounds like himself. There's a trace of his normal bearing in his tone, just a ghost of that all-knowing, superior and arrogant attitude he wears so often.

Beside him, Eddie shots Steve a look, already finding him looking at him with such a long-suffering can you believe this kid? kind of look.

Cracking a small smile, Eddie turns back to Dustin and gives his shoulder a light shake, jostling him. "What did I tell you, Henderson. We don't use that word about ourselves or our friends."

"I can when he's being stupid again." He jabs a hand towards Steve. "Staying up all night, trying to keep us safe. Always making sure we're okay."

Theatrically, Eddie rolls his eyes. "So he's just doing his job."

"He's—"

"Ah, ah." Eyebrow arching, Eddie holds up a pointed finger. "I thought he was your designated badass babysitter."

Dustin rolls his eyes.

Steve leans a little closer. Expression clearing and falling into something serious and grave. The hand on top of Dustin's knee giving a small squeeze, his eyes on his heavy and dark. "I'm okay, Dustin." He gives a decisive nod. Gaze steady and completely open on Dustin. "I promise, I'm okay."

Dustin searches his eyes. Expression heavy and impervious. "You'd tell me, before it gets completely bad again, right?"

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Eddie looks between them. Gaze darting from one to the other. Aware of everything unspoken hovering on the edge of his reach; a world they share that is beyond him. But he can guess well enough. Eddie may not have been told all about it and does not know where it all comes from, but Steve's struggles are written plain everywhere on him. It is in the way he, at times, watches the kids with hawk-like gaze, sharp and intense, as if for a moment, he is convinced, if he looks away, they will disappear between one blink and the next; in the way, he will walk from room to room in the cabin, in the middle of the day — and at night — peeking behind doors and curtains until he has laid eyes on every single one of the kids, before he sits down; in the way he, when he cannot sleep at night, instead of lying in bed, he goes to the front door and sits himself down right next to it, his trusted nail-ridden bat by his side, where no one and nothing can walk through the door without him knowing, while everyone else is sound asleep; in the way, he jumps and startles at loud, unexpected noises with this wild look in his eyes; even in just the way he stays at the cabin, making sure to drive everyone back and forth between their homes and this place, but always comes back himself, despite the big house waiting for him in Hawkins wealthiest street.

It is clear, Eddie is far from the only one struggling.

And still, they are far from the only ones.

At night, when Eddie has had trouble sleeping, or jerked out of a nightmare and retreated to the bathroom or the kitchen to smoke a cigarette (or two or three or four) until his breathing is normal again, he has heard signs of the others; soft whispers coming from behind El's closed door; the shift of restless bodies, turning around and over countless of times, somewhere else in the cabin; the soft patter of feet crossing the floor, followed by the soft creak of a door swinging open and a gust of crisp, night air, blowing through the cabin, before the door falls closed again with a soft thud; the way Hopper will sometimes sit up in the Lazy boy and soon after, El's quiet footsteps pad across the floor and settles on the chair with him, curled up in his arms with her head pillowed on his chest and a tired look on her face; Robin and Steve's voices whispering from the mattress beside Eddie's, or — when Robin has to sleep at home — from Steve's walkie, and Steve picks it up within three seconds — as if he is always waiting for her, ready — answering her with a bleary, tired voice and the two will go back and forth for at least half an hour, until Robin's voice is the first to disappear and Steve can shortly after fill out his position by the door, if he was not already sat there, when the call came.

And it is not only at night that the shadows of the Upside Down makes themselves known.

During the day, Eddie has seen the kids suddenly fall quiet. A sombre, heavy air falling over them instead. He's heard the grinding halt of Kate Bush cut off from the boombox, when her voice was suddenly too much or the song came on before they could wind past it.

At times, the kids are so loud Eddie wonders if they are trying to chase Vecna and his monsters away with just noise. Other times, they are so quiet, it would be hard to imagine there are actually kids underneath the cabin's roof.

In the evening, the times they sit down to watch a movie after dinner, they fall quiet and heavy. Everyone, not just the kids. Certain scenes will make them jump and several heads whip away from the screen. Even though they have been careful in the movies they have brought to the cabin and there's not one horror or thriller among them.

And they are all so tired. There is not a single face in the cabin, who does not drag dark and heavy sleeping bags around, as if they are the new accessory to have.

The haunted look in Will's eyes is particularly heavy. His eyes so big and so dark. A young face such as his holding so many shadows, Eddie sometimes has to avert his own eyes from him, on days where the shadows inside of his own are too many and too close. On those days, the dark hole in Eddie's chest that he seems to have picked up, seems to stretch and reach out, grasping for the shadows on Will's face and the weight inside of his eyes; as if seeing them reflected in someone else's face, is enough to make Eddie's own demons grow.

Those days are never good.

Hopper, too, carries his own nightmares. There is an invisible world weighted on his back, like Atlas holding up the sky. Although, Hopper has spent as much time away from the cabin as he has inside of it, these past days — busy with government meetings and drowning the weight in his eyes with the open woods around the cabin — Eddie has still seen enough of him, to see the haunted, distant look in his eyes.

El too is more quiet than not, but Eddie did not know her before and he has no idea if this is Upside Down shaped or just her. The shadows dogging her steps speaks of the former, though.

The worst is when Hopper — or occasionally Will or El — freezes, still and frozen with a distant look in their eyes; lost in thought.

It has jolted through Eddie like the strike of lightning. Freezing him up, making his own breathing static and erratic. Every time it happens, no matter who it is, it reaches through Eddie and tears through his memory, bringing Chrissy's murky, blinded eyes and her frozen stance forth. Always, a strange rush will roar past Eddie's ears. Heart hammering and pounding away inside of his chest. Each heavy thud tearing rapidly through him, as if trying to rip him apart. Sweat breaks out across the back of his neck and on his hands, skin turning slick and sticky with it. Until Hopper — or whoever — snaps out of it, blinking himself out of his daze. And the pit in Eddie's stomach turns and swoops, bringing him back up out of the darkness and everything around him is suddenly so much brighter and so much louder. Almost glaringly so.

It is a sight Eddie has seen before. The distant gaze and haunted look is so familiar to him, he almost sees his uncle Wayne in Hopper's shadow.

It has been many years, and Uncle Wayne is not struggling as much as he once did, but Vietnam still haunts his steps and Eddie has not forgotten the way it looks upon his shoulders, so it is easy to recognise now. Even if its name is different.

This is a weight that has laid on his uncle's shoulder for years. Not always, but sometimes. Especially when Eddie was a child. Back then, whenever he was smiling and his eyes were bright, his shoulders light, Eddie hardly recognised him.

There were days where he did not speak a single word. His back heavy and caved in, the look in his eyes so haunted and shadowed, Eddie almost cried the tears his uncle could not. But that was before Eddie came to live with him. When Eddie was just four, five and six, his uncle slowly turning away from the shadows and dark in time with Eddie growing, and by the time Eddie might have asked him about it, Wayne barely got lost anymore.

Though the sight is familiar, it is hard now, to see people get lost in thought and memory.

Twice now, he has snapped out at someone. Voice hard and panicked. Once he kicked Steve's foot dangling off the couch and the other time, he threw his hands on Nancy's shoulders and shook her, harder than strictly necessary, to being her out of memory and thought. Trying hard not to see someone else blinking back at him from her face.
Nbsp; Other times, when it has been Will, El or Hopper, and he dares not disturb them, aware he could still be a stranger to them. But he had to duck outside afterwards. Grateful for the sun still hanging in the sky and just stood there. Hands braced on the railing, head ducked low. Focusing on the air falling in and out of his lungs. Forcing himself to breathe long and deep, until the breaths he took stopped shaking and trembling.

So, it is easy, really, for Eddie to see he is not alone in battling demon shadows from the Upside Down; both in the light of day and dead of night. He only wishes he could do more for all of them.

And he knows he is not the only one. Steve's tendency to give and give and give until there's nothing left for himself, is hard to miss. Even now, in the middle of the night, after he's sat by the door, clutching a nail-ridden bat to his chest for who knows how long, he only has eyes for Dustin. Eyes open and earnest, darting back and forth all over Dustin, searching for the right thing to say.

"Yeah, I'll tell you," he says after a long moment, finally answering Dustin's request, "but only if you come to me, when you need me, too, alright?"

Nodding, movement subdued and small, Dustin says, "Yeah, okay, I'll talk to you."

"Deal?" Steve holds up a hand between them, elbow bent, palm open. "I'll do better and you'll talk to me?"

Considering his hand, Dustin looks at Steve, then at his hand. He gives a firm nod. "Deal." He raises a hand and slots it into Steve's own. Their clasped hands bop up and down once. Deal signed and sealed and then they fall away.

Glancing between the two, Steve waits a moment. "I didn't mean to intrude just now. I just wanted to make sure you were okay." For a moment, his eyes land on Eddie, gaze following the curve of his arm wrapped around Dustin. Understanding passes over his face. A grimace quickly follows it, flickering across his face. He turns his head away, expression lost to the empty space on his other side. Turning his head back, expression open and soft again, he brings his hand onto Dustin's knee, palm cupping around it. "Do you need to be alone with Eddie? I can leave. Give you two some space."

"No!" Dustin's head jerks up. Eyes wide. He pauses. Presses his lips thinly together.

Steve waits patiently. Looking up at him with such concern. Eyes soft and expression so open and vulnerable.

A sigh falls from Dustin. Body deflating with it. "Don't go. Please."

"Of course, Dustin." The hand on Dustin's shoulder gives a squeeze and his fingers flex against Eddie's arm. "Anything you need. You know that."

Twisting around, Steve rises to his feet and sits down on Dustin's other side. An arm comes up and wraps around him. Hand snaking in between Eddie's body and Dustin's, lying warm between them.

"Are we talking about it?" Steve asks.

"No." Dustin shakes his head. The hand he has lying against Eddie curls up, clutching at him. "No, we're not."

"If you're having nightmares about it more often than not, maybe you should try and talk to someone," Eddie gently suggests. "Doesn't have to be me or Steve," he quickly adds, lifting the hand lying on Dustin's knee, palm facing out in a quiet, placating gesture, before Dustin can voice any protest, "just someone. It's not good to bottle these things up." He jostles him lightly. Hand clenching around his shoulder, giving a small shake. "You're smart enough to know that, Dustin. Unlike other people, right, Harrington?" Raising his voice, he looks past Dustin and throws a grin at Steve on his other side.

He receives an eye-roll for his troubles. "I talk."

"About Grease and other shit, yeah."

"As opposed to what? The most effective weapon in your fantasy Unicorns and Unions game?"

"It's Dungeons and Dragons," Dustin stresses.

Steve ignores him as he does all the other times, he pretends he doesn't know the name of D&D and someone corrects him. He does throw a wink at Eddie behind Dustin’s back, though, so the fucker definitely knows what he’s doing.

Eddie crooks a lopsided smile at him. "You guys have been using it as an analogy for these Upside Down monsters since it all began, maybe I'm just applying it in the aftermath too. Could be therapeutic, you know." Eddie flicks his eyebrows at him. A small smirk curls from his lips. "What we couldn't smash to pieces in real life, we can in D&D. It's multifaceted."

"Multifaceted, my ass." Steve rolls his eyes again.

Eddie looks at him with a challenging smile playing across his face. Eyebrows arched high on his brow, he tilts his head to the side and clicks his tongue. "I'm sorry, weren't you just napping by the door with a bat as your cuddle buddy?"

Rolling his eyes again — really, he should be careful with that, they might get stuck like that one day — Steve's gaze lands back on Dustin. The expression on his face turns soft and gentle again. "Do you need anything?"

"I just need to sit here a little while."

"We can do that."

Eddie nods. "Definitely."

And so the three sit there on Eddie's borrowed bed. Surrounded by faint, silver moonlight and a yellow glow from beyond the curtain, the night wrapped around them quiet and heavy. Dustin in the middle of them, Steve and Eddie on either side of him. Arms wrapped around him. Steve's long and muscular arm overlaps with Eddie's and his warmth presses against his skin. Bare skin burning into his own.

Soft breaths fill the air between them. Chests rising and falling in tandem, like, for a moment, they are all sharing the same lung.

Despite the cries that brought them there, it is the most calm and at peace Eddie has felt at night, since it all began.

Much later, when they all retreat under covers once more, Dustin lies down on the opposite side he normally does. One arm thrown over the edge, reaching towards Steve below him and a hand curled into Eddie’s shirt, clutching at him, even when his breath quietens and he falls asleep.

The peace stays with Eddie all night and he gets to sleep the last few hours that remains before daybreak without any more nightmares.

"I'm going out," Hopper says as he swipes up a packet of cigarettes from the coffee table and a lighter. He throws on a jacket and reaches for the door handle.

Before he can even open the door, El, quick on her feet, comes running out from her bedroom, grabs a flannel and sticks herself to his side, as expertly and quickly as an octopus. A cuddle-obsessed octopus. Really, Eddie swears he heard suction one time, when they separated after El had gotten her daily dose of dad-back-from-the-dead hugs.

A sight like that is not unusual in the cabin. Especially not between the two of them. But Steve and Robin tend to do the same, and just as tightly, Eddie has definitely heard suction between the two of them, too. Sometimes whenever they separate after being cuddled up into a pretzel during movie nights when the kids gather around the TV. Or really any other time night or day, whenever they decide to just sit like that, as if there were no other seats available to them — which to be fair, is sometimes the truth, because the cabin is small and they are a lot of people in this monster hunting group so seats are scarce. Robin and Steve just tend to claim no other seats available before the kids swarm them all. But that aside, Steve and Robin tend to just sit all collapsed into one another, as if they were one and the same, no matter the number of available seats there are. And what's their excuse? Trauma. Probably. But that is still below back-from-the-dead hugs, even if only by a tiny margin.

Smiling at the two of them, Joyce comes bopping from El's bedroom, where she's been puttering around inside, much to Max's clear annoyance, if her snappy comments and sharp huffs have been anything to go by. "Stay nearby?" she says to the both of them, as she cups a hand on Hopper’s cheeks and presses a quick kiss to his other one. She takes a step away from him and drops a quick kiss on top of El's head, bidding her be careful.

"Within yelling distance," Hopper promises. Smiling gently, he squeezes her hand, and then he's gone, out the door with quick, heavy footsteps, El quick on his heels with much quieter footsteps. Both of them happy to leave the tidying to someone else — and Eddie cannot blame them, he would too.

At the kitchen table, occupied with paper and a pile of color pens once more, Will watches the two at the door, waves as they leave and turns back to his drawing. Shortly after their footsteps fade into the woods, Will rises from his chair, crosses to El's bedroom door, sticks his head inside and exchanges a few words with Max. He quickly returns to his chair after he's heard whatever Max had to say.

Following Hopper and El's exit out the door, Joyce closes the door behind them and turns her focus to the living room with a look that makes Eddie want to run for the hills. The kind of look that would accompany a playful smack on his back from his uncle and a comment about how he could keep his room as messy as he liked it, but not the living room and he'd better fix that right now or the radio would suddenly only be able to play sports commentary until he does. A quite effective threat, too. And one he uses regularly, too.

With the other kids — the worse kids, if you ask Steve, or the instigators, if you ask Eddie — at school, the cabin remains calm and quiet. Almost peaceful. Puttering around inside the cabin, Joyce tries to sort out the growing mess inside of it, Jonathan trailing near her, offering a helping hand and Argyle trailing after him, sometimes leaning right up to him and hooking his chin over his shoulder, as if Jonathan isn't busy bending up and down and moving all around, tidying; sometimes just talking about something or other that a strange figure or a patch of wall remind him off, or some buckwild story from back in California from before Jonathan showed up. Which does lead to a lot of wild stories. Eddie almost regrets setting a boundary for himself and trying not to use any drugs, because he would honestly love to get high with Argyle and just listen to the stories that dude has to tell. He's a fucking riot.

Eddie will admit he has not spent as much time with them as he has others.

Although the two of them spend a lot of his time in the cabin — occasionally leaving in the Pizza van with arms full of the blankets and pillow, only to return a day or two later — they are someone Eddie has not spend a lot of one on one time with. They talk and chat and exchange comments and stories over cereal, day’s old newspapers and reruns of jeopardy and Golden Girls, or a game or two of cards or board game.
  Despite the less time he's spent with them, Eddie finds he likes both of them. Argyle is easy to talk to and even easier to listen to, once he gets going on one of his nonsensical tangents. Jonathan is quieter. A little shielded and drawn, but lively when he's leant up against Argyle or laid out on the mattress with him, cocooned in his friend's exuberance it seems. But for some reason, Eddie, although happy to laze a day away with Argyle and Jonathan and trade stories with them over a game of cards or Stratego or what other board game they pick out on slower days, for some reason finds himself more drawn to Steve and Robin. Drawn, might not be the right word. Rather awake. Focused. He can drift and let the world blur out all around him, when he is surrounded by Jonathan's gentle voice and Argyle's chill enthusiasm. With Robin and Steve, he feels grounded. Entirely himself. In the warmth of their fire, he can grasp the parts of his soul that has been buried under layers of Upside Down spores, blood and shadows and wrench it free, brought back into the light of day with the sound of their voices and the light of their eyes.

Eddie continues keeping himself from the grasp of Joyce’s cleaning spree and entertains himself watching it happen instead.

In some way, it would be easier just to fade away in Jonathan and Argyle's presence, but there is something about the way he feels at home and cradled by Steve and Robin, that automatically just makes him spend more time with them.
  These days with Robin and the kids at school, Eddie does play more games with Jonathan and Argyle than he did before, and he finds himself more and more grateful for their chill and calm presence, but they are also clearly the most comfortable just the two of them, so when both Robin and Steve return — from wherever Steve have made himself busy all day, if he did not return to the cabin during school hours — he happily makes himself scarce and finds a way to insert himself near the two of them, while Robin makes her way through homework and Steve's unhelpful, needling advice about the same.

At one point, as they continue tidying the cabin, Jonathan holds his hand out for the pile of stacked board games in Argyle's arm and Argyle slaps his free hand into his and joins their hands together. Jonathan looks down at their clasped hands and grins. Shaking his head, he says, "I love you, man—"

Which earns him a bright grin from Argyle and a, "I love you, too."

"—but I meant for you to give me the board games."

"Oh! Yeah!" Argyle proceeds to give him said board games, still holding his hand. To which Jonathan can only laugh and shake his head fondly at.

Once Joyce finishes tidying, she ducks into the kitchen and pulls out a food form the fridge. Expertly, she assembles lunch on a plate, leaves it beside Will's elbow with a ruffle of his hair and turns to make more, hair harried and messy.

With nothing better to do and Steve still gone on some errand long before he is needed to pick the kids up from school, Eddie rises to his feet and heads to the kitchen. He knocks a hand against the counter and sends a quick smile at Joyce, when she glances at him. "Anything I can help with?"

"Oh, Eddie, if you would be so kind?"

"At your service, most effervescent queen of all." He sweeps his arms out and gives a small, theatrical bow.

Laughing lightly, Joyce swats a hand through the air. "You charmer. I'm no queen."

He folds his hands atop his chest. "You're the queen of my heart. And at least half of these kids." He glances behind him, catches Will's eyes and winks. To which he receives a roll of eyes, but also a twitching smile, so Eddie turns back to Joyce with a satisfied grin.

A humored, but well-practiced accepting expression falls over Joyce's face. "Well, then, the queen orders you to take this plate to Max and help her with it." She grabs the plate with cut out pieces of sandwich and pieces of chicken from yesterday's dinner and holds it towards him. "Please."

"Oh, Joyce, you were so close!" he crows. Grinning at her, he snaps his fingers. "I knew there was some theatre in you. With Will as your kid, there would have to be, but you let it go right at the finish line."

She rolls her eyes and waves him away. But she is smiling. "Go," she rolls her eyes. "Make sure she gets water too."

Turning on his heels, Eddie picks up the plate and salutes Joyce, as he walks out of the kitchen, passing by Jonathan and Argyle, arms now full of a load of sheets and blanket covers; Argyle enthusiastically showing him a new technique of sheet folding, even though they haven't been washed yet and most of them won't have the time to stay folded before a kid grabs it again. "Will do!"

At El's bedroom door, he sticks his head in through the door first, laying eyes on Max propped up in El's bed with a Walkman and headphones over her head and a blank look on her face, staring unseeing up at the ceiling. He knocks lightly against the door. "Hey, Red, I come bearing lunch. Oof, and you're lucky, there's even some leftovers from last night."

Head turning, milky eyes scan the area he stands in, as if she still has not quite been able to let go of the automatic action of seeking sound with her eyes, no matter how blurry and lost the world is to her eyes. She huffs and turns her head back. "I don't want it," she bites.

"Hmm." Eddie eases the door open and slips into the room. He leaves the food off to the side and goes to sit beside the bed on a chair he brings forward. "How come? What's going on?"

"Not any of your business."

"Max, come on. I'm not gonna force it down your throat, when you don't want it, but you could talk to me. Maybe I could help?"

"You can't help. No one can fucking help!" she shouts, head jerking up and whipping back and forth. Another jerk and her headphones jolt off her head, tumbling forward and off the bed with a rattle.

"Woah!" Eddie jerks forward and just saves the Walkman from hitting the floor. "Gotta be care—"

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up and leave me the hell alone!" Red splotches burst out on Max's cheeks, skin burning redder and redder, swallowing her freckles. Face twisted in fury and anger. Her head jerks against the supporting pillows behind her, the only movement she's really only capable of currently.

Pursing his lips, Eddie considers hers. "Well, maybe—"

"Arrgh!" she screams, her voice a near shriek. The word is loud and unintelligible. It tears through the cabin like the force of a small explosion. "Fuck!" She blinks rapidly. Eyes shiny and building with water. "I am so sick of this shit!"

Eddie takes in the scene with worried eyes. "Max, hey," he says carefully, itching to reach out and assure her, but very aware of how the smallest wrong movement would only make things worse.

Her head whips around towards him, her face a thundering mask, flushed red and angry. "Shut up!" she shouts, cutting him off. "I don't care how or who, just get me the fuck out of this room, before I suffocate!"

So Eddie does exactly that.

First, he quickly gathers up the dropped Walkman and leaves it on the foot of El's bed, then carefully eases his arms beneath her and transfers her to her wheelchair.

Face still a twisted up, thundering mask, painted with red, Eddie pushes her wheelchair out of the room, through the cabin and out of the living room.

They end up on the porch.

"Not good enough." She shakes her head vigorously, her voice sharp and cutting and thick, like she has to force it out of her throat to speak. Milky eyes squint out into the forest, the way she does when she is trying to make out the world from the limited sight before her.

"How about the forest? We'll go a little ways in?" Eddie offers.

"Yes, yes. That," she grinds out through gritted teeth. "Just get me the fuck out."

Taking a hesitant step forward, Eddie eyes up her wheelchair, arms half raised, wondering if he could lift both chair and her at the same time, or if he should take the chair first, then her. Frowning lightly, he begins, "How do you want me to—"

"I don't fucking care! I just don't want to sit on this fucking thing anymore!" She shakes her head vigorously. The jerk of her head echoes through her entire body in a quaking shake. She jerks front and back. Slamming her back into the backrest behind her. The chair wobbles and jerks beneath her flail.

"Okay, I hear you, Red, I hear you," he says, trying to sound calming, but not infantilizing the way so many others have done towards him, when he first started school and could not focus on his homework no matter how hard he tried; the way their voices sounded, when they tried to give him advice for the third time that week, or the way people roll their eyes, when Eddie forgets where he put his notebook, only to find it in the fridge later or in the cabinet above the sink with the cereal. Even the way half of his band mates either laugh like it’s a joke or shake their heads at him with such a 'Oh, classic Eddie' comment, when he arrives to band practice with dark circles under his eyes and jittery fingers, because he stayed up all night three nights in a row to learn the new Metallica song, because he was restless and unable to sleep, until he learned half of it and they laugh and smile, but they never understand. "Just sleep, Eddie. What's the rush?" they said.

Only his uncle never makes any of those disparaging comments. Only ever tries to help Eddie. "You can take your time, it's not going anywhere," he tries. But he never tells him to stop. Only comes into his room with water bottles and easy snacks to eat on a plate, leaving them beside his bed and reminds him to visit the bathroom between some of those notes. And, because he works nights at the plant, his arrival home brings him into his room to coax him away from his work for school.

Whether it's because Eddie is unable to rest, because he has to follow his train of thoughts to his current D&D campaign, scribbling viciously in his notebook until his fingers ache and are smudged with ink, or he has to learn a new song on his guitar, and he simply cannot focus on anything else no matter how hard he tries; his uncle understands. He never shakes his head at him or scoffs or tells him to try harder. He's just there. Taking care of Eddie.

After all these years, of picking up the pieces of Eddie's lose threads and jagged edges, Eddie can only hope, he has learned a thing or two from his uncle.

"Hang on a moment," he says, stepping away from her. "Let me make it nice for you." And so he ducks back into the cabin. Her sharp huff follows him on his heels as he gathers a musty, but thick blanket, and some of the pillows scattered throughout the cabin in his arms. Before he goes back out, he grabs Max's lunch from the bedroom and hands it over to a worried Joyce with an apologetic smile, and a quiet promise to try again later.

Promise given and lunch placed into the fridge by Joyce, he takes his loot of blankets and pillows — and the two water bottles Joyce hands him — with him outside.

A little off to the side in the forest and far enough away from the cabin that it only perks out in the distance between tree trunks and forest foliage, Eddie lays out the blanket and pillows. After laying it out, he comes back for Max, where she is sat on the porch, fuming. Shoulders raised and face tense and angry, the muscles of her jaw clamped tight, like gritted teeth.

"I'm going to carry you now," he says, approaching with slow steps. "Is that okay?"

"Yes! Just get me out of this thing!" She slams her back against the chair again. Making the chair protest with a thump and a slight wobble.

Stepping forward, Eddie eases one arm beneath her thickly casted knees and wraps another around her back. In his arms, she is a stiff board. And there is nothing to do, but balance her in his arms — careful of her broken limbs — and keep her balanced. A balancing act quickly learned within the first few days of her waking up in the hospital with all four limbs in a cast. Learned, from what Eddie gathered, by Steve — for some reason still doing the heavy lifting from day 1 despite his own new stitches and still smarting wounds and bruises, and Eddie knew they were smarting, his own were too after all — and Lucas and Hopper, the latter at least once he came to the cabin.

With a heave, Eddie lifts her up, straightening up to his full height with her in his arms, ignoring the small tinges of protests that still echo from his abused, stitched together wounds.

Feet thumping against wooden boards and then the crunching dirt of the ground, Eddie walks down the steps of the porch, across the beaten path and into the trees of the forest. Walking until he reaches the little spot he made for her.

Slowly, carefully, Eddie lowers himself to a crouch, one knee planted in the ground, bending the other. Bending forward, he lowers Max to the ground, careful of her stiff, broken limbs and making sure they hit the pillows he has arranged so carefully.

After making sure she is as comfortable as can be, he lies down next to her.

At first, the two of them lie there in silence.

A slight breeze blows over them. The wind wafts gust after gust of air through the forest, reaching towards them and grazing over their cheeks with a soft touch. It blows at their hair, picking up a few, fuzzy strands, sending them fluttering in its grasp.

After a moment, the quiet between them breaks. A sniffle comes from beside Eddie. It falls soft and quiet into his ears. Like someone trying very hard to keep quiet.

Turning his head, he looks at Max. The face greeting him is splashed red. Her freckles nearly disappears behind the flush staining her cheeks. A line of tears hovers in her eyes, wobbling and wet. Two wet trails run down the side of her face, into her hairline from each.

It freezes Eddie for all of one second.

Max is not one for crying. No matter how entitled she is to break down in hysterics and cry and raze at the world for the hand it has dealt her and what she's been forced to go through, Eddie has not once seen her cry in all the time they have both been under the cabin's roof. But he's heard her. Just once or twice. Once in the middle of the night with the voices of El and Lucas cradling her — and though Will was not heard, he was nowhere to be seen — and the second, in the arms of Steve.

And even though he barely knows her, it still makes him feel so wrong-footed. She was so stone faced, when she accepted Vecna's curse and offered herself as the sacrificial lamb. Expression closed off and impassive; a wall. Seeing, or even hearing, that wall crack, just makes Eddie feel anew just how out of their depths they are, with the scars Vecna has left behind himself in these kids. Like Max's tears — immovable wall that she is — make him all the more aware of just how fucked up this entire thing is.

It only takes a second, then Eddie pulls himself together. "Hey, hey, Red," he says softly, pushing himself up into a seated position. "I'm right here, you're not alone, I'm right here."

"I know. I'm just—" her voice wobbles. She heaves a breath. The sound rushes sharp and rapid through her mouth. A grimace pulls at her cheeks and her entire face scrunches up. "I just really hate being stuck like this," she says, voice thick and wobbly.

Eddie reaches out and grasps her hand. At least, what little remains free of the cast. He closes the tips of her fingers tightly in his own. For a moment, he uses his other hand to sweep across her forehead, brushing hair off her skin and briefly landing his palm against her head. Then, lets his hand fall away, settling empty in his own lap. Her fingers twitch and bend what little they can, grasping at his own. Another breath heaves in and out of her mouth. Her chest hiccups, jerking up and down with it.

"It's okay, you can talk to me," he says softly, giving her fingers a squeeze. Pushing closer to her on the blanket, he lays a hand on her shoulder and holds onto her tightly, much firmer than he can hold her hand.

"I'm just so—" her voice wobbles. "So scared," she whispers, her eyes shut closed. "What if I'll never be able to skate again? What if my arms and legs never heal? And what if they do and I'm still unable to skate or play games in the arcade or watch movies with Lucas or read Wonder Woman comics with El?" She begins to shake and tremble. Every puff of air jerks in and out of her chest. Breath pausing after every gust of air, as if it has to force itself in and out of her; as it has to start anew with every passing breath.

"Red—, Max—," Eddie begins, not knowing what to say. He pauses. "Can I give you a hug? Do you want that?"

She nods. Tears leak out of her squeezed-shut eyes, trailing down the side of her face and landing in the bed of her hair, fanned out behind her head.

Leaning over to her, Eddie reaches out, "I'm going to push you up now," he warns her and does just that, when she nods.

Gathering his arms around her, he lifts her upper body up off the ground and pulls her into his chest. Arms wrapping around her, keeping a careful hold of her and burying her in his chest. She ends up in his lap, sat sideways to him, her shoulder tipped into his chest and her stiff legs thrown out sideways over his own.

Turning her head, she presses her nose and forehead into his chest, her limbs lying clunky and awkward down her body, some pressing stiff and hard into Eddie. Which he could not care less about.

"It's okay. I get it." He rocks her gently from side to side. "Just let it out. I've got you."

The fabric of his shirt grows progressively more wet, the longer he sits with her.

"I just want to skate and play," every word she speaks shakes and trembles. They burst past a wobbling mouth and a thick, walled up throat. "I love skating. I love beating Dustin at the arcade. I love—" a loud sniff breaks her off, hiccupping against his chest. "What do I do, when I don't have that anymore? Vecna took Billy and— and Chrissy and Fred and Heather and Bob and all those people. What if he took those things from me too?"

"Then we'll figure it out."

A small sob breaks from Max's mouth. It cuts straight through to his heart and his chest tightens with a sharp, deep stab of pain. He has to blink, almost has to fight off his own tears. His arms tightens around her.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," she whispers into him.

"Me neither," he confesses with a small shake of his head. "Losing something you love is hard, no matter what it is."

For a moment, he is silent. The sound of Max's heaving gasps of air is loud between them and each gasp echoes out through the treetops. Her body shakes and trembles against him, it damn near breaks his heart.

Finally, he speaks again, voice quiet and soft, "I think, you mourn it. You miss it. And when you're ready, you find a new way to love the same thing. Or find something else to love."

"I don't want something else," she says sharply, her voice tight and thick with tears. Every breath passing out of her mouth shakes and shudders. Heaving gasps of air jerking through her. "I want to skate! I'm—, I just want to skate,” the second repetition is quiet and small. Fragile as it leaves her mouth. No other words follow. They get lost in the desperate cries that bursts from her mouth. Wrapped up in Eddie's arm, head tucked beneath his chin, she sobs. And every sob and gasp of air ripples through her to him. As if her grief is strong enough; determined to shake them both apart. And for a while, she just cries.

"I want my old life back," she finally says, between one gasp and the next, voice wrecked and raw and falling apart. The tips of her fingers twitch weakly at the blanket. "I want my mom and I even want Billy. I want this to have never happened and for El to have killed Vecna, before any of this ever happened! And I want to skate!" A heaving breath. "Please," she whispers. "I just want to skate."

Eddie palms the back of her head and runs his hand down the length of her hair. Rubbing in soothing circles. Turning his head down, he presses his cheek into her. "I know, I'm sorry," he whispers into her hair. "I'm so sorry. It fucking sucks. It’s alright."

Neither can find other words to speak.

For a long moment, Eddie holds her while Max cries herself dry of tears.

Once her sobs have quieted, and her breathing calmed, she turns her head away from his chest, freeing herself from burying it away, but stays curled into him.

"Is Steve back yet?" she asks, her voice so tinny and small, Eddie barely hears her.

Without thought, Eddie turns his head and looks back at the tiny spot of cabin barely visible through the trees, even though he knows Steve is not back yet. "No," he says, giving her a squeeze, turning his head back.

"Sorry. It's just—" she gasps a breath "—he's just—" she hiccups a small, humorless laugh, "he's Steve," she finishes quietly, with a small shrug of her head. "He's my—" she breaks off and knocks her head against Eddie's chest. "He's Steve."

"Of course." He gives her another squeeze. Tipping his head down, he presses his cheek into her head. "Tell you what." A teasing smile grows small and weak from his mouth, even if she cannot see him; he hopes she can hear it. "The second I see him, I'll tell you. If you don't hear that ridiculous car of his first, that is."

Her head nods, bopping up and down against his chest.

Water forms in her eyes again. It wobbles inside of her unfocused gaze. She blinks rapidly.

"I hate this. I hate this. I hate this," she cries, pressing her face into his chest. "I hate crying and I hate feeling shit about it."

He rubs a hand along her back. "You've been through shit. You're allowed to be upset, Max."

She huffs loudly. Air blowing in a forceful push against his chest. "I'm tired of being angry and upset."

"That's okay too."

"And I'm sick of being scared," her voice is tight, as if she has to force it out of a walled up throat. "I'm so scared, Eddie." Wide, milky eyes shine unseeing up at him. "What if he comes back? What if my eyes and my arms and legs weren't enough for him? What if he just wants me? What if he takes my life and we can't save me, this time?" She sniffles, rubbing her face against him. Reflexively, Eddie tightens his hand on her. When she speaks again, her voice is thicker, "What if—, I'm the party's zoomer, Eddie. What if they—" voice shaking, she stumbles to a stop. A great heaving gasp of air blows in through her mouth. Against him, her chest shakes, filling with trembling air. "What party needs a zoomer that can't zoom?" One of her arms lift, clunky and heavy, barely lifting before it falls back down, resting against their huddle and the ground once more. A sharp, forceful huff of air blows from her mouth and her voice is even tighter, even closer to tears, when she adds, "And I can't even dry my own face."

"It's okay, Red, it's okay," Eddie says softly. "Here." Lifting one of his hands, he gently touches her face and swipes at her cheeks, lightly cupping her face. Gentle swipes of his fingers pass over her skin. Wetness drags behind his thumb, smearing across her damp cheeks.

Her head droops down. The weight of it falls into Eddie's hands. Sightless, milky eyes drift unfocused before him.

“First of all,” he says, voice soft and gentle, “the party is never going to leave you behind or abandon you. You guys have been through hell and back. Literally. You’ve fought like heaven and hell itself to keep each other alive.” He brushes a hand through her hair. Gently, he tugs on the strands sticking to wet cheeks, freeing them from her face. “Trust me, those guys do not care if you’re zooming on a skateboard or in a wheelchair. Or on your own feet. They love you, they would do anything for you, Red.” He pauses and looks out, as if he might find a key to making Max feel better amidst the trees. Gaze falling out to the forest all around them. He pulls his eyes back to her and taps a gentle finger on her cheek. “When those casts come off, you bet they’re going to be the ones waiting outside the door, just waiting to give you the world's biggest and best group hug ever."

Max takes in a deep breath. It passes trembling through her teeth. Her chest rises in a quiver, pressing out against Eddie's.

“What’s that saying you guys used to use?” Since coming to the cabin, Dustin has dutifully tried to fill him in on their little monster hunting group. So this saying has popped up a few times. And he knows it, but that is not why he is asking, and Max knows it.

A loud sniff passes in through Max's nose. “Friends don’t lie," she says, voice thick and rough.

“Well, I haven’t been here that long, but I can tell you guys are following another one, even if it’s unsaid.”

“What’s that?”

“No man left behind.” He tilts his head to the side, and clicks his tongue. “Quite cliché for D&D, I know, but you fit it to a T.”

"I guess," she allows, voice small and subdued. She rolls her eyes, throwing them off to the side, as if the motion is still so familiar to her, the path is easy to follow, even now.

"I get that everything sucks right now," he continues. "Adjusting to losing your sight is hard, no matter how physically able you are. It all feels so much worse because your limbs are broken and in casts. But once those come off, you'll be ready to take on the world again." He ruffles a hand on top of her hair. She pulls a face at him, but lets him do it. "Sight or no sight, you're Mad Max, ain't nothing gonna stop you from terrorizing the streets and those friends of yours." He drops his hand away and sits back.

"I just—" she sighs and falls quiet, shaking her head.

Eddie waits.

"I just feel so empty, Eddie," she finally says. "I already felt so sad and hollow before. But now I just feel like I have nothing. And I can't believe it will ever get better again. How can it, when I'll never be able to skate again? Or see the dumb smile on Lucas' face? Or do any of the stupid things Dustin and Mike comes up with?"

"I don't know," he says quietly. He considers her for a moment, then finally says, "Have you thought about talking to Steve?"

A pause.

Brows furrowed, she says, "Steve?"

"Yeah," A small smile pulls at his lips. "Steve," he repeats. "He might not know what it's like to lose his sight or be scared in the way you are, but he has chronic migraines. He knows what it's like to stay behind while everyone else is having fun. He knows what it's like to go to sleep in pain, knowing he will, most likely, have to wake up to it in the morning." Eddie supposes he could tell her about his broken hand, but Eddie's new. He does not know her as well as Steve does. Maybe she needs someone she knows well and someone who knows her; who will then be easier to talk to and connect to. Steve and her already have that. Intimately, from what he has seen. Eddie does not. And if there is one thing Eddie has learned, it is that Steve loves these kids more than anything else, he'd do anything, to help her through this. Including baring his own pain.

"Oh," her voice is small and oh so quiet. "I didn't think about that."

"Hmm, just a thought to consider."

"Dustin—" she breaks off with a small headshake and starts again. "Sometimes Steve's had to cancel a plan he and Dustin had. Other times, we've all gone to his house for a movie night, and he's had to stay in his room and everything's so dark around him. We can't even stay with him in his room most of the time. He says even just another person's presence, quiet or not, makes it worse. At least, that was the way in the beginning after Starcourt. I wasn't there much last year. Not after the first months." Head turned straightforward, stiff and unyielding, she looks up with unseeing, milky eyes, blinking at thin air. Gaze as unfocused as it has been, since that night so long ago, yet so near, its presence still breathes freezing air against their skin, in time with their every exhale. The presence like a weight around their shoulders and back, forever heavy all around them and forever threatening to steal the air from their lungs, never to return it again. "Mostly Dustin just gets upset on his behalf. But I've seen how much he struggles trying not to feel disappointed, because he knows he can't help it." She tips her head forward, her lips press thinly together. "I guess, I never thought about how Steve might feel, being forced to cancel all the time. Being forced to stay locked up in his room, when he could be swimming in the pool, or hanging out with us, or going on dates."

He taps a gentle finger on her back. "So, he might understand."

They fall quiet. The air around them contemplative and still. Almost frozen, as if time has to move through mud to get to them.

"You know," Max eventually says, quiet and small, "he came around my house a lot, ever since we moved." She turns her head towards him. Milky eyes search the space for Eddie. "Steve." A small moment passes. "He just came to visit and took care of me, even though he didn't have to." She turns her head away. The tips of her fingers rub over the blanket below her hand. Nails scratch lightly at nubs of thread and use. "I was—" she breaks off and takes a deep breath. "Billy was my brother. But he never chose me. He always chose his anger and pain. Not me. Not ever. But Steve did. He chose to protect me and take care of me. Even when I was just that random girl on the back of Lucas' bike. But then he kept choosing me. Kept taking care of me. He did it when we were packing up to move to the trailer park. He just showed up out to the blue, when mom started packing up. Just began helping without ever saying a single word. And he helped me pack up Billy's room, when mom couldn't touch it. Even when I froze everyone out and I stopped talking to my friends, when I stopped hanging out with them, Steve wouldn't let me. He showed up once a week to check up on me and made sure I knew I wasn't alone."

And so Max tells him. About pulling away from her friends. Slowly sinking into the heavy, musty air of the trailer park with the scent of her mom's beer on her skin and the tang of mud clinging to her clothes. About turning Dustin, Mike and Lucas down and away, enough times that the light in their eyes went out and the smiles they sent her way turned from bright to dull; just like the houses they both came home to. Like her hands started to feel after the first month. Grubby and dirty. Like now that her feet touched the grass and mud of the trailer park, she started rubbing off on them to. Or maybe, it was the heavy guilt of Billy's death, clinging to her, as if she had found a way to keep the blood and gore that had covered him in the end and everywhere she touched, she rubbed his last heartbeat and breath off on them. Poisoning her friends as much as she had Billy and he had her, back when he was alive.

So she pulled away. Inch by inch. Until there was no one left to pull her back, when she took that final step off the edge. Away from the face of the earth — or in this case, her friends lives. But Steve. Steve had stayed. Steve had seen. Maybe he had recognized the shadows that hung around Max like a dark cloud, when no one had touched or hugged her for days on end. Or maybe, he recognized the shadows under her eyes and the guilt that slept under her bed. Or maybe, he just saw her.

Either way, Max tells him, about Steve turning up at the trailer park one day, without warning and without asking. A casserole in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. And he'd smoothly walked past Max, who was holding the door open and blocking the doorway, as if she had not been at all, and inserted himself into her trailer. Her mom was at work that day. But Max had not gone around the house yet and it was Saturday, not Sunday, so empty beer bottles remained cluttered on top of the dining and coffee table. And the dishes were unwashed in the sink and the fridge was empty and barren and the laundry was gathering dust and Max was wearing a shirt the second time that week and the jeans from last week. But Steve said nothing. He simply rolled up his sleeves and showed her how to remove burned bits from a frying pan. Showed her how to clean stubborn stains from white shirts and how to scrub a table clean without leaving marks in the wood. Helped her by teaching her simple, easy dinners that there would always be enough left of for the next night, too. Movements smooth and learned and so very practiced, it made Max remember his empty house and absent parents and truly think about what it all meant for him, even though she had never done that before.

The first time, he left her with a fridge filled with food and groceries — the bag he came with empty — a scent of cleaning soaps and laundry detergent, and the crooks and crannies in the trailer less heavy and sharp than before.
 After that, he started showing up once a week, helping her through the worst of it, when the one who should have been doing it, was out cold or at work. He understood. Without ever saying much of it, what it felt to have the phantom of your parents' hands lie like a cold ghost on your shoulder, but never the warmth of their touch.

That day, lying on a thick, used blanket, blanketed by trees on all sides and the wind swishing gently through overhanging branches with the whisper of hundreds of leaves all around them, Max tells him it all; so much, it feels more like the break of a dam, than the flow of a river.

The stream that comes out of her mouth feels like it has been a long time coming. Far longer than she has had the casts on. As if the words have just been building and building up inside of her into this massive dam, that's gone far over its capacity and still managed to hold it back, but now a chink has been made in the wall keeping it at bay and with Eddie, willing and asking and far more distant than any of her other friends — far enough way to not get burned by the touch of Billy and father still to not get swept up in the sharp currents of everlasting grief and despair — it all just floods out of her.

"He kept coming to check on me," she continues from where she is lying against Eddie's chest, where he propped her up, keeping her close but no longer curled into him. "To help me fix and clean the house. He filled our fridge and made sure I ate that day. He even came, when I was mean to him. I hurt him just so he'd leave me alone, but he kept coming back. Even though I didn't talk to him, he was still just there. Making sure I made it through the week. Making sure I knew he was there," her voice is thick and clogged, heavy with tears and emotion. "He's not my brother." Breath shuddering, she shakes her head, vigorous and determined. "That was Billy. And he was awful. I don't want Steve to be that. I want him to be Steve."

"I understand." And Eddie does. He wipes at her hair, tucking it out of her face and behind her eyes, glancing to check if any tears have escaped during her talk. If they have, they came earlier and have since dried on her cheeks. "Thank you for telling me."

That is the last she says of it that day, and Eddie does not ask further. She will talk when and if she wants to. All Eddie can do is be there when she does and make sure she knows it.

They stay out for a long time, but after that, they do not talk about heavier topics than Kate Bush, Siouxsie and the Banshees and Led Zeppelin; the dog Max used to feed at the trailer park, who she's really worried about after the earth quake and if it has somewhere to go and someone to look after it now; the strays Eddie used to take in and shelter during bad weather (and not so bad weather) — always giving them names after metal bands and singers — much to his uncle's — who does not care for them — and his own body's dismay, always sighing at him and reminding him of Eddie's allergy to cats, and that first time he brought one over during one of his visits and it shoved its fluffy tail right into his face and he ended up with a stuffed nose, itchy, red eyes and irritated skin for days; the air conditioning at the trailer park and how flaky it is and the awful water pressure after that, because it is nice to bitch to someone about it, who will bitch right back, as if it were a competition who had the most faulty trailer or the most duct-taped used to keep it from falling apart.

Hours later, when Steve finally pulls up outside the cabin, they are still spread out on top of the blanket. But in the time since Max's story, Eddie has slipped inside and nicked the boombox from El's room, which was much easier and with much less protests and whining than usual with Dustin, Mike and Lucas at school. (He also took the time to bring out Max's abandoned lunch from earlier, which she huffed at, but allowed him to help her eat, much to the great relief of Joyce and the heavy furrows across her brow and the pinched look between El's, who had since come back from her walk with Hopper). And they are well through a few of Max's tapes. Two of her Kate Bush ones and one of Stevie Nicks and The Pretenders. During the last bit of Kate Bush, Hopper came across them, just came walking from the trees from the left, laid his eyes on them, nodded at Eddie and walked on, ducking back into the surrounding trees without a word.

When the sound of a car pulling up nearby fills the air, wheels grinding against the crunchy earth, Joan Jett fills the air. An engine cutting off has Eddie whipping his head around.

"Guess who's finally decided to show up," he calls to Max above the music with a shit-eating grin.

"What a slowpoke," Max comments from where she lies.

"Yeah. Total grandma." He grins. Casting her a quick glance, Eddie catches sight of her snort. "What'd'ya say? Should I pick up grannie from the bus stop before she dies of old age?"

Max grins sharp and deadly.

Taking that as his answer, Eddie jumps to his feet and throws himself out of the boundary of the blanket. A car door slams at the same time he crashes into a tree and catches himself on the trunk. Arm curling around the trunk, he leans sideways opposite the tree, arm suspended, keeping him from falling over, as he directs his gaze past the trees to Steve and the cabin beyond. "Your highness!"

Steve turns his head, brow furrowing in concentration as he searches the woods for the source of the sound. He clocks Eddie amongst the trees deep in the woods, just at the edge before the forest swallows him whole. "Eddie?" he calls.

"Your majesty—" Eddie sweeps his free arm out in a grand gesture "—your presence has been most awaited."

"What?"

"You're a sight for sore eyes! We've been waiting for you."

Steve steps around his car and holds up a cupped hand by his mouth. "What?"

Eddie rolls his eyes and steps out, away from the tree keeping him from the cold fate of gravity and the hard forest ground. He waves his arms in a cutting motion through the air. Then sweeps them up, towards himself, waving Steve forward. "Come on!"

Steve turns his head to the side, facing his right ear towards Eddie. A screwed up expression of concentration over his face.

Eddie hangs his head back and groans. Loud and exaggerated.

"For fucks sake, stop being such dweebs. Just go and get him," Max calls from behind him.

"What if I'm having fun pantomiming?" Eddie throws over his shoulder, eyebrow crooked.

"We'd be here all day."

"Urgh, fine." He begins walking out through the trees headed to Steve, who's stopped trying to pick up his words in the air with his one fully working ear.

"Can you bring back some snacks, too?" Max's voice follows him out.

Seeing him coming, Steve steps away from his car and jogs to meet him. A few steps away from each other, between the trees, Steve's eyes fall past Eddie, searching the space behind him, but they quickly jerk back to him.

"Harrington." Eddie grins at him as they meet. "You getting tired of surveying your kingdom, seeing as you're here gracing us lowly peasants with your presence?" If anything, those words make Steve's brow furrow even further.

"What?"

"I said—"

"No, I heard you that time," he says, voice pitched in irritation as he flaps a hand about, batting his repetition away, "it just doesn't make any sense."

Eddie clutches a dramatic hand to the chest and leans away. "I'm just expressing my gratitude that you would grace us lowly vagabonds and peasants with your presence. And here I thought you had forgotten all about us!"

Predictably, Steve rolls his eyes. A small smile does tug at his lips though, so he does not fool Eddie even for a second. "I was just at High School and dropping Henderson and the shitheads off after school. No need for your usual dramatics."

"'You were just dropping Henderson off'—" Eddie mocks, lifting his hands and makes quotes around the words "—remind me again, why exactly it takes you—" looking down, he holds his hand out and pretends to study a watch he no longer wears, because his old one was destroyed by lake water and Vecna's horrible timing (although, that's up for debate, Eddie might have been dead now, if Patrick didn't—. No. Nope. That is a train of thought we do not follow. Shut down immediately, Eddie) "—all day—" he drops his arm back down and throws a look at Steve "—to drive a twenty minute long drive, if you're, and I'm just paraphrasing here—" tipping back on his heels, he lifts his hands again, does another round of air quotes "—'dropping the kids off'," he teases, even though he has it from a reliable source (Robin) that Steve likes to putter around and help at the shelter at high school while the rest of them are in classes, until he can pick them up and either return them home or bring them to the cabin.

"Shut up, you've made your point." Steve throws an elbow out and nudges Eddie away. "You know Ma Henderson keeps me hostage for like two hours minimum, if she gets the chance."

"And what, you were too slow to dodge her unforgiving grasp this time?"

"Something like that."

"Nah. You know what I think? I think you just love her fussing all over you." He ruffles a hand through Steve's hair, which he only makes a marginally small show of dodging. Mostly he just scrunches up his face in a funnily similar way to Max. "It makes you feel like a real princess." Interestingly, Steve's cheeks bloom pink at these words. Eddie perks up, expression brightening as he catches sight of this.

Steve's mouth opens in protest and he lifts a hand, clearly gearing up to block Eddie before he can continue, but they are both cut off before it can go any further. Well. Eddie is cut off. Steve just slams his mouth shut in response to Eddie turning as Max's voice falls through the air. Eyes searching Eddie's face for clues more than the forest behind him.

"Can you two hurry up, already?" she shouts from between the trees.

Eddie whirls around on his heel and throws an arm up in salute. "Yes, your majesty!" He turns and catches Steve's furrowed brow. Max , he mouths in explanation and Steve's expression clears, though a small furrow remains between his eyes, as he tries scanning the trees for a glimpse of her.

Turning back around, Eddie throws him a grin, then tips his head to the cabin. "Come on, I promised I'd pick you up and grab a handful of snacks." He does throw one last glance in through the car windows to the empty seats, though. "No dingus number 2, today?"

He just shrugs. "Home." Steve follows him inside. And even though he cannot see it, Eddie can still hear him roll his eyes. "As if we're unable to spend time apart."

"You'd almost had me convinced."

Audibly rolling his eyes again, Steve huffs loudly. "What were you even doing out there?" Steve lags behind a few steps behind him, as Eddie riffles through cabinets in search for the requested snacks.

Eddie throws a look over his shoulder. One of his eyebrows climbs up his brow. "We're just hanging out among the flowers and fauna. Do we need a reason beyond that?"

"Usually. But seeing as it's you, I assume not."

"Exactly."

After grabbing a few snacks from the cupboard, Eddie drags both it and Steve with him back out among the trees.

Steve goes to sit down at the very corner of the blanket. But Eddie stays on his feet and kicks him until he, with much bitching at his kicking feet, pulls himself forward on the blanket and settles down right next to Max.

"Jesus. What is wrong with you?" Steve asks, voice annoyed and loud.

Eddie throws another kick at him for good measure. "Everything."

Face twisting in distaste, Steve swats his leg away. "Stop that. What are you, twelve?"

"Five, but thank you," Eddie shakes his head out, all mock propriety. "I don't like the corner."

"What? Why?" Steve's expression folds into that familiar befuddled confused expression, Eddie so adores.

"I don't like the look of it," he sniffs. "It was looking at me funny."

A huff of incredulous laughter puffs from Steve. "What has that got to do with me sitting there?"

"Everything." He flaps a hand in the air. "Doesn't matter. Just stay there and we're good."

"Um, okay?" Steve still looks confused.

On the blanket, Max turns her head towards him, milky eyes following the source of his voice, and throws him a wry look, eyebrows crooked and arched.

"You—" Eddie was a finger at her and nudges his toes into the side of her stomach for good measure "—shut up. You were here. You know how snarky the blanket was earlier."

"I'm not sure I was," she says drily.

"Yes, you were. Shut up."

"Are you gonna bully the blind cripple now?" she says haughtily. "That's abusive and ableist, Munson. I should call child services on your ass."

"I don't think child services will be happy to find you here amongst the degenerate and lowlife criminals, when you should be at home with your mom."

"I can just say you kidnapped me."

"Aw, if you wanted to go home to your mother you just should have said so, I'm sure Steve could take you!"

Max has no response but to sniff at that.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." With that, Eddie throws himself down on the blanket and sprawls out long limbed and loose on the other side of Max.

After a moment of silence, Steve asks, "So, what are we doing out here?"

"We're chilling, Harrington." He throws him a look. "I know you're a harried single mother of seven, but you should remember what that's like from your days of old."

A deep sigh blows from the other side of Max, while the girl herself laughs.

And so they settle down. Max's tapes (and Steve's over-dramatic, clearly fake, bitchy comments about the selection of music) carry them on through the rest of the afternoon.

"Are you okay, Max?" Steve eventually asks, eyes more intelligent than they are usually given credit for.

She grimaces in response. When she does not answer, Steve cuts a glance at Eddie. In answer, Eddie grimaces and shrugs. As quietly as he can, he lifts a hand in the air and makes a so-and-so gesture. We talked, he mouths. Steve watches the shapes his mouth makes with such care. He looks back at Max, a tender and pained expression on his face. Eddie catches his attention again with another flap of his hand. He gestures between him and Max and mouths, She asked for you.

"You know I can hear you, right?" Max asks, voice dry and a little hard. "Stop talking about me behind my back, just because my eye sight's fucked."

A grimace twists across Steve's face and he turns back to her. "I'm just worried, Max. Sorry. You're right there, I shouldn't talk above you."

She sniffs and juts her chin out. "I'll run you over, if you do it again."

"You're still not allowed to drive my BMW."

"I've got my own wheels now, Harrington, who says I need your precious Bimmer to run you over?"

He smiles at her. "I'll watch the roads, then."

"You better."

Eventually, the darkening sky brings them back inside the cabin. But that's okay. By that time, the worst of Max's storm cloud have passed and the gloom have given away to lighter smiles and good-natured eye-rolls.

Steve is the one who carries her back inside, while Eddie makes sure the blankets, paraphernalia and her wheelchair gets back, too.

Pushing her wheelchair back into El's bedroom, Eddie pauses abruptly in the doorway. Stopped by the sight of Steve crouched before the bed with a hand on her shoulder and another gently taking hold of a hair strand and tucking it away from her face. He just catches it when he says, voice almost painfully gentle, "It was Billy's birthday some time ago, wasn't it? The end of March, right?"

"Yeah."

"And you're okay with it?"

She sniffs. "Why wouldn't I be? He was a racist dick."

Steve shrugs. "He was still your brother."

"I don’t care about him."

"Max, it's just me." He casts a quick glance at Eddie, but pulls it back to Max before it can be any more than that. "You don't have to pretend. I know it can be hard to talk to the others about it, especially Lucas since he was Billy's target. But you know , I don't care. He was your brother. You can't help feeling what you feel. And you should have the space to talk about it, too." He reaches out as if to touch her, but eyes the shuttered look on her face and pulls it back. Curling his hand into a fist and laying it across the bed near her instead, his other hand coming out to close around it. For a moment, he ducks his head and speaks to the bed. "You're fifteen. You're still kids. And sometimes kids are short-sighted and selfish." He shakes his head. Sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. Looks back at Max. "Why didn't you say anything? I could have sat with you."

"Because. Billy was an asshole. And a dick. He wanted to hurt Lucas. He nearly killed you. He threatened to kill the others! How am I supposed to tell Lucas, I miss Billy who was racist and awful to him? That I laid in the hospital, singing happy birthday and crying by myself, because I couldn't tell him or Dustin or any of the others about it?!" she shouts, face twisted and splotched red again. "They're happy he's dead, Steve! I can't share that with them. They hated him and I hated him, but I also miss him and I don't know what to feel and I can't talk to anyone about it, because Billy was a racist asshole!" Her breath shudders. Eyes fluttering closed, she takes a few shuddering breaths. Chest rising and falling in shaky, staticcy movements. "You're my—" her voice shakes and she cuts herself off with a sniff. "How can I tell Dustin I miss my brother, when he almost killed his brother?" The words hit Steve like a punch. They punch into him and he looks as if he has been smacked over the head. She waits, and when Steve remains speechless, she nods decisively. "I can't. That's what."

"Okay. Okay," he tries, voice rough and gravelly. A rough hand rubs violently against his face. When he drops it away, his skin is flushed with irritation. "But you don't even need to tell me. I'll sit with you. In silence or with music or a movie. And we can just sit, or talk or whatever you want. You don't even have to tell me why, just ask, and I'll be there." Hazel eyes jerk up and land on Eddie. Silently, Eddie nods, answering the question in his eyes. "Eddie, too. Us both or just one, whether I'm here or not. Just ask. Okay?"

A moment passes. Max's face is wiped impassive, shuttered and completely shut off from emotion. Eventually, she tips her head to the side in a way she has taken to mimic a shrug nowadays.

"Okay," Steve whispers for her. He tips forward and presses a kiss to her forehead.

The day after that, before her morning medicine can carry her off to a nap, Max asks Eddie, if they could go outside again. And so Eddie makes up their little spot once more and carries her there. They spend half the day lying there amongst the tree. While Max snoozes the midmorning away, Eddie reads and works at song lyrics. When she stirs and awakens again, Eddie returns to the Fellowship of the Ring and reads out loud to her.

Unlike the day before, they keep any heavy words to themselves, the air around them in turn remaining light.

At one point, she does ask him about a few things. Including his battle vest and how he got into heavy metal in the first place, another thing she never understood about Billy.

It ends up with Eddie explaining his battle vest to her and the culture behind it. It brings a considering look to her face and her eyebrows arching high, even if she cannot turn that on Eddie himself. "So, battle vests are a big deal for metalheads?" she asks.

"Very." He nods. "You'd offend less if you spat on their mother's open grave, than if you wore it without permission."

That brings a very interesting look on her face.

"And the fact that you let Steve lend yours for a day?"

Eddie's cheeks grow very red at that and he feels a little guilty about being thankful that she cannot see that. "It means I trust him, yeah," he says, struggling very hard to sound normal and indifferent, when Max has in fact just pointed out a very obviously glaring sign of his affection for Steve, when no one else has clocked that yet. "But I didn't exactly want him walking around without anything, newly wounded in the Upside Down, did I?"

"Sure." She tips her head to the side in that small shrug she does.

That's about as heavy as they get that day.

Another night falls over the cabin and yet again it brings Eddie to the kitchen with a cigarette in hand, trembles all through his body and a nightmare clutched in the shadows between his fingers.

At least, this night he is alone in wakefulness. Everyone else seems to have been escaped nightmares and insomnia tonight, often as those two haunt the inhabitants of the cabin, like particularly stubborn ghosts. Eddie is so used to seeing Hopper gone from the couch and his shoes by the door gone with him, it is almost strange to see him still asleep in the lazy boy. Strange too without El huddled up with Will on the mattress in the space left by Jonathan, or even just hearing Max, Will and El from behind the closed bedroom door, or occasionally the distant beat from a Walkman playing through the night.

Even Steve is asleep. Granted he is asleep on his stool by the door, but asleep nevertheless. Unexpectedly, when Eddie jerked awake from his nightmare the mattress beside the cot was empty. He had expected Steve to stay there all night with Robin staying over to keep him there. But both of them had been gone, when he opened his eyes. Instead, they are both huddled by the door. Steve on his usual night guard stool and Robin on the floor before him.

Back curled against the wall and head tipped down, chin on his chest, Steve sits. Eyes closed in exhausted sleep. His arms are empty. The familiar nailed bat abandoned on the floor. Robin’s presence explains that abnormality. She’s curled over his legs. Sat on her own knees and hugging Steve’s to her chest, her head tipped and laid on his thighs. One of Steve’s hands is buried away in her hair, halfway through brushing through it. His other hand laid beside Robin’s head, joined together with one of her hands. Fingers intertwined even in sleep. It is perhaps the third time Eddie has woken to find Steve by his post and Robin curled up against his legs, having sought him out after waking up and realizing Steve had left to sit by the door and gone to join him.

Leaving them to their sleep, Eddie turns his head back around and stares at the wall in front of him as he burns through his cigarette. The night quiet and heavy all around him.

He is halfway through his second cigarette when movement shifts in the corner of his eyes. Turning his head, he watches as Steve jerks awake with a gasp.

He jolts upright. Chest hiccupping through struggling breaths. It takes a few blinks, but he takes in the cabin and zeroes in on Robin’s head in his lap. Small, trembling breaths travel through the cabin as Steve focuses on Robin, pulling his fingers gently through her hair and trying to ground himself. Eventually, he pulls his gaze upwards and finds Eddie in the kitchen.

"Eddie," he says carefully.

Eddie tips his head towards him.

A moment passes thick and heavy past them. Eddie turns his head forward again, leaving Steve to himself, but he can still feel his gaze taking him in.

Another moment passes.

Finally, the heavy weight of Steve’s careful gaze leaves him.

Rustles fill the air and movement shifts in the gentle light of a single lightbulb and the shadows of night. Eddie turns his head in time to see Steve, risen from the stool, gently ease his arms underneath and around Robin and then heave her up into his arms, as he rises to his full height. Then he turns around and heads towards the bedroom, a still sleeping Robin cradled carefully in his arms and a tender look on his face as he walks forward, keeping an eye on her.

An elbow shifts the curtain aside and Steve disappears into the shadows past the doorway. Movement sounds from behind the curtain, filling the air with quiet rustles. Finally, after a short while, Steve steps back out, arms empty and Robin nowhere to be seen. He pulls the curtain back into place and steps out, heading towards where Eddie stands in the kitchen.

Head turned to the side, eyes tracking Steve's progress through the cabin, Eddie takes another pull of his cigarette and blows the smoke out through the side of his mouth.

Passing by the counter, where Eddie stands, Steve gives a tip of his head, eyes dark and gleaming in the night. Eddie gives a small hum and lifts a few fingers in acknowledgement.

Steve makes his way to the cupboard, pulls a cup from inside of it and goes to fill it by the sink. Cup held in one hand, he turns and leans up against the sink, his other hand behind his back, looking at him. Gaze so very steady and solid, simply just looking at him. "You okay?" he asks.

Breath shaking, Eddie pushes off the counter. He turns and leans up against it, head turned towards Steve.

He aches to reach for Steve, to lean up against him, to hook himself to his presence and steal a moment of safety and security from him.

He does not.

"It's, you know—" the hand not holding onto the cigarette wafts in the air, fingers fluttering, grasping for the right words "—whatever." Dropping his hand back down, he shrugs.

"Hmm." Lifting the cup, Steve takes a few swallows of water. Hazel eyes stuck on Eddie over the top of it. When he lowers it, he leaves it on the side of the sink.

Pushing off the counter, he comes to stand beside Eddie, close enough that the warmth of his body exudes from him, reaching out towards Eddie; close enough to touch. He settles into the counter lining his body up with Eddie's. Shoulder pressed against shoulder, arms lined up, they stay tipped against each other as if glued together. And they might as well be. Eddie will not be the one to lean away. He will not be able to.
 Even now, with his heart shaking inside of his chest, every vein underneath his skin echoing with its unsteady beat; a ghost left from his nightmares; his hand aches to reach out and grab Steve; to hold onto just some part of him. Eddie knows not all of that desperate want comes from needing safety in a world of living nightmares, thanks to his very unnecessary crush that only seems to grow and become more and more insistent as time passes.

Instead of following that sweet, distant birdsong of want and aches coming from his heart, he briefly flexes his fingers. Bones rippling across the back of his hand as he clenches it, then brings it behind himself, placing it between his back and the counter, leaning into it. The edge of the countertop digging into his soft palm, straight across it.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, Eddie tips his head back and blows out the smoke, watching the cloud blow from his mouth under half-lidded eyes.

"Can't sleep?" Steve asks.

Eddie huffs a humorless laugh. "What gave me away?"

"In a cabin full of people, who know exactly what you're going through, you think you're the only one who has nightmares?" he says it so calmly, his lips quirked in a small smile, it carries through to his words, his tone light.

"Hah, I know I'm not, Mr. Night guard."

Steve just rolls his eyes at that.

Looking at him, Eddie crooks his eyebrows.

Expression neutral and unrepentant, Steve just shrugs, grabs his cup of water and takes a few sips. Eddie's eyes on him heavy through it all, though he makes no sign that he feels the weight of his gaze.

Finally, Eddie pulls his eyes away. "I don't know," he says, voice raw from the stuffy touch of the night air lying heavy and musty inside of the cabin. Averting his eyes, he looks away, gaze shifting over the cupboards before them. With his free hand, he reaches out and picks at the grainy texture of the wooden counter behind him. Nail snapping picking at the uneven roughness, snapping lightly through the air. "Felt like I was the only one who couldn't cope. The rest of you have just been so strong. Unwavering in the face of evil." Eddie gestures with his shaking hand, cigarette trailing a path of thin, wobbly smoke behind itself, dangling from between two of his fingers. Glancing at his trembling hand, he grimaces and drops it back down.

"Dude," Steve says, voice emphatic but kind and tired beyond words. He shakes his head, but not directly at Eddie. Eyes diverted everywhere else and a sigh blowing hard and heavy from his lips. He rakes a hand through his hair, rubs it roughly over his face, groaning lightly into his palm.

With a thump, Steve sits down on the floor, slouching into the cabinets behind him. Legs pulled up, knees bent, arms balanced on top, dropping forward. He tips his head up, looking at Eddie. "Come on, man, sit down," he pats the space beside him, "I'm getting exhausted just looking at you standing there." Eddie glances at the spot beside him, considering it with a crooked eyebrow. Steve shrugs. "If we can't sleep, at least we can rest."

Eddie sits down. He brings the ashtray with him and sets it down on the ground to his other side.

As soon as he stills, Steve knocks his knee into his. The force makes his legs sway from side to side. When they come to a stop, Steve lets his legs relax and they ease up, pressing up against Eddie's bent knees.

Arm lifting up and out, Steve loops his elbow around Eddie's knee, successfully hugging his own and Eddie's knee towards him, leaving his elbow in the middle between Eddie's knees.

In his chest, Eddie's heart thumps. Eyes darting down to their knees, Eddie tries not to stare at Steve's arm overlapping with his body.

He does not succeed.

The touch seem to reach all the way through his legs, up through his stomach to his chest, where it curls up, tight and tense. Lungs prickling with a burning sensation.

Carefully, measuredly, he forces the air out of his chest. Blows it out past his mouth in a heavy gust, chest deflating and entire body slumping. Shoulders dropping, back caving, he leans fully back against the cupboard behind him.

After a moment of just looking at the kitchen in front of them, he lets himself look at Steve's arm.

It looks natural. Right.

Eddie does not look for it much; has actively tried not to look for it, since he woke up in the hospital, even though his eyes are always inevitably drawn to Steve himself, like moths to a flame, unable to burn himself against the image of it all; Steve's scars. The bruises and aches left littering his, Robin's and Nancy's skin, after their trip into the very heart of Venca's lair. At first, he couldn't because it reminded him too much of all the pains the so-called distraction could not save them from. After Eddie crumbled his masochism up into a tight ball and launched it into the sun, because not everything is about him, god fucking dammit, you selfish, dramatic prick; it was because these people have burrowed their way so far beneath Eddie's hard exterior they have ended up under his skin and every stretch of their hurt aches across his own, as if by merely looking at them, his own heart and skin aches and twists with a ghostly echo of their pain and it was simply too much to bear. So Eddie kept his eyes above Steve's throat and away from bare arms, skin and bones until the bruises faded and only ghostly marks remain and even those are easy enough to ignore, if only Eddie tried hard enough. But those times he did let himself look — or could not avoid the sight of them — in those early days, it was gruesome.

In the dim light of night and the single light bulb left on in the kitchen, Steve's arm looks fine. Unblemished. Just shadowed in the dark of night and the single lightbulb turned on over the small dining table. It's been long enough that Eddie knows those shadows of twisting vines going up and down his arms and legs have as good as vanished, though he knows in the bright light of day, small bruises still litter his skin here and there. All that remains is bare skin, splotchy bruises and a smattering of hair going up and down his arm, just barely visible in the light from somewhere above them.

The weight of it around Eddie's leg should be monumental. It should feel like every point of contact burns, searing itself to Eddie's skin and memory.

It does not.

It just feels right. Comforting. Grounding. Like the weight of it has hooked onto Eddie, floating a few feet above ground, pulled him down and firmly attached him to the earth once more.

The shaking deep inside of Eddie's chest slows down. Instead of slowly shaking him apart, it just feels unsteady. And even that no longer feels cataclysmic, not with Steve's shoulder pressing into him. Arm lined up alongside Eddie's, hooked around knee and lying there, touching his thigh, calf and shin.

It feels like Eddie could lean fully into him, simply melt against him and Steve would keep him together.

When his current cigarette burns down to just the filter, Eddie replaces it with his third one. Even with Steve warm and solid and steady beside him.

Tipping his head back, he blows out another breath, the sound loud in the quiet between them.

He raises a hand. Rubs the knuckle of his thumb into his eye, cigarette dangling from between his fingers. White spots explode on the back of his eyelid. "Shit," he says. Small trembles clings to Eddie's fingers, lingering there, ever-shaking, as if the earthquake that tore through Hawkins continues on through him. Has been since before it even came to shake Hawkins apart; since that first night, when he ran from a lonely, broken girl and dark shadows. "How do you do it, man?" his voice shakes.

"I slept with the nailed bat and the light in my bedroom and hallway on for months, before I was able to get through a night without reaching for a weapon at least once," he says. "And every morning, I put the bat back in my car and brought it with me everywhere. When I was finally able to sleep without the bat by my bedside, I kept it in the trunk of my car. I literally couldn't go anywhere without it," he says everything in a steady voice, but his expression is haunted. "I still can't sleep with the light off, and I jump when the electricity blips and the lights flicker. And now, after four rounds with it, I definitely can’t sleep without my bat within reach."

After a quick sideways glance at Eddie, he fixes his gaze straight ahead. Eddie keeps his eyes fixed on his face, unable to tear his eyes away, feeling as if the very air in his chest, push out against his lungs, threatening to burst and yet unable to; frozen; caught on Steve's every word.

"After that first Halloween, the first time a lightbulb flickered and burst, I thought I was having a heart attack and all I could think of was that thing." He jabs his hand in the air, but not the one he has hooked over Eddie's leg. "I ran from a flickering, dying lightbulb and drove around town, looking through drawn blinds and dark windows of every person I cared about and who I knew had been caught up in it. Watching until I was certain they were safe." Breath shaking, he brings a hand up, running it through his hair. "Been doing that a lot. Especially after the second and third time fighting this thing. Just, sitting in my car and staring at shadows of people through windows, trying to convince myself they're safe." He tilts his head back, leaning it against the wall. Air blows out in a forceful puff from his lip; shaking his shoulders and moving through the both of them with a small jerk. "Not sure I ever truly succeeded. But it was enough to bring me down and calm me in the moment." He raises a hand and pulls it through his hair. Locks shaking and jerking roughly around under the touch of his jerky hand. "And you've seen me, sat by the door at night." Rolling his eyes, his hand falls through the air, gesturing loosely back towards the front door and his usual post. "I wake up and I can't believe we're safe. So, I just sit there with the bat in my arms, until I can't keep my eyes open any longer and fall asleep." He falls quiet then.

A short moment passes where he does not speak. A moment where Eddie simply looks at him.

Ever since Eddie came to him with a cup of tea in hand and saw the tears it brought to his eyes; the night where he held him as he cried and they fell asleep in each other's arms, something happened in Steve. He has not exactly bared his pain for all to see. But he has bared it for Eddie. At least parts of it. Whenever Eddie has broken down and the cracks inside of him can be seen through his skin, bleeding out, instead of simply holding Eddie aloft, he offers parts of himself in return. Bares a part of his soul; lets Eddie look inside and see the cracks running underneath his skin. One hurt soothed with the weight of another that may not look the same, but fits just as well with it; as if they are pieces of the same puzzle, made to fit beside one another.

Not that Steve is obligated to share his pain and hurts with Eddie. Not that he has to smooth the sharp edges that keeps cutting Eddie's hands open with his own pain; all in the name of making Eddie feel seen and heard.

Eddie would hate it, if that was the reason behind the baring of his soul; more kindness and selflessness.

But even if it was, Eddie will also not tell him to stop. He is not altruistic and good enough of a person for that. And the matter of the fact is that it does help. Hearing Steve talk about his own struggles, his own nightmares and the weight of the Upside Down he carries around, like a second, invisible shadow, forevermore attached to his soul; it does make him feel better. Makes him feel seen. And soothes the heavy weight of it, as if just the knowledge of knowing someone else bears the same weight, is enough to lessen the one Eddie is bound to.

Like two Atlas's, bound to hold up the sky for eternity.

Maybe, if Atlas had had someone to share the weight of the sky with, it would not have been such a burden. Maybe then, he would never have been turned into stone.

But that is not what it feels like. It feels like a mirror. A pain bared for reflection they see of themselves in each other's eyes.

Turning his head, Steve looks at Eddie and meets his eyes. A small smile quirks crookedly from his lips. "What I mean to say is, I don't."

Eddie takes another deep drag of the cigarette. Smoke pours into his lungs, scratching lightly against them. Leaning his head back against the cupboard, he opens his mouth and lets the smoke pour out. One of his fingers taps against the floor, his nail tap-tap-tapping against wood. "When you were driving around. Anyone ever catch you lurking?" he finally asks.

Steve huffs a laugh and nods. "Dustin a few times." Smiling, he adds, "Whenever he caught me, he always came out and nagged me about it. The little shit would just not shut up until I came back inside with him and let him put on a movie and sit on the couch with me the rest of the night. And he'd practically sit on my lap to make sure I couldn't escape, once he fell asleep." The smile tinkles away as he falls quiet. After a small moment, he tilts his head to the side and concedes, "I never quite managed to get it past Robin. She always caught me. Came out in her pajamas or joggers or whatever, still barefoot and all. Just sat down in the passenger seat without saying a word and we drove around for a while." He makes a face, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "And I think Nance did once or twice." The grimace falls and he just looks contemplative. Quiet. "But she never called me out on it."

"Maybe she understood."

"Or thought I was that disturbed ex, creeping on her doorstep."

"Nah." Eddie turns his head around, rolling it along the cupboard behind him. Teeth bared, he grins. "Girl keeps guns in her closet. If she thought you were a creeper, she'd come out, guns blazing, until you were but dust, swirling in the air from where you had been. Just booking for the hills." Throwing his arm out, he sweeps it forward, gesturing and pointing ahead.

Head ducking down, Steve laughs. The sound quiet and rumbling from his chest. His shoulder shake against Eddie's. "Yeah, probably," he says, still chuckling.

Hand picking at his cigarette pack, Eddie fingers along the edge, considering fishing out another with his third nearly done. At the rustle and light tap along the top, Steve's eyes dart to where Eddie's hand fidget with the pack between his knees. So Eddie flicks open the top and holds it out at Steve. "Where are my manners?" he says. "You were once quite the party guy. This won't be new territory to you." And though it is far from the first time the two of them are sat side by side while he smokes through a cigarette or two, it is the first time he offers it to him. At his hesitance, he withdraws the packet and holds out his hand with the still smoking cigarette. "You could also finish me off, if you don't want all of one." Hand held out, cigarette tucked between two of his fingers. A thin single curl of smoke drifts out from the end.

"It's not." Steve barely glances at it. "But no." Shaking his head, he raises his hand and blocks Eddie's pass of the cigarette. "I don't smoke anymore."

"The King Steve don’t smoke?" Eddie emphasizes, dragging out the word theatrically. Leaning away from him, he drags his gaze up and down him. Tipping back, he tips into Steve, leaning heavily on him, crowding into his space. "You sure we didn't leave you behind down there and brought some kinda clone back home?" he teases, grinning widely, the skin by his eyes crinkling. He does retract his hand and the offering. Smoothly switches the cigarette from one hand to the other and holds it down by the floorboards, keeping it furthest away from Steve as he can without moving away from him.

Shaking his head, Steve looks down. His hand lifts up. It rakes through his hair, looking more like an automatic motion, than a choice. Huffing a laugh, he says, "Yeah, I'm sure."

"How come?" Eddie asks, even though he can guess at it. "If you don't mind me asking."

"It's fine." Steve shakes his head. He pulls his hand from his hair and brushes it hand through the air, swatting Eddie's concern aside. "It's all new to you. Makes sense you'd want to know stuff." His shoulders lift up in a small shrug. The one pressed against Eddie's drag up and down his side, shaking lightly against him. "Somewhere between my second and third round with the stuff, I just figured it was safer not to drink or smoke."

Quirking a brow, Eddie makes an inquiring noise.

Hand lifting in motion once more, as if he simply cannot stop it, Steve drags a hand down his face. Palm rubbing into his cheek and nose, he sighs into his skin. After a short moment, he drops it and finally says, "I never smoked much before. Not recreationally, at least. At parties and stuff, sure. A party smoker through and through. I smoked and drank a hell of a lot then. Went through a joint or two more often than not, as well." He gestures, a hand that sails through the air in a sweeping wave. He settles it back down on top of his other knee, loose and slack. "But outside of that, I tried not to smoke. Athlete, remember? I tried to keep my lungs and stamina intact. After the second time—" he shrugs again and pulls a face, a grimace twists across his face in distaste. "Didn't seem worth it to gamble between my ability to run and a pack of cigarettes."

"Ah." Eddie nods. Holding up his cigarette, he studies the butt of the cigarette, at the embers clinging to the ends of the paper, burned down to a quarter of its size. Swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat, he resists the urge to flick it far away from himself and takes another drag of it.

Eddie is years late to the party to save his lungs from smoke. Besides, his hands have finally stopped shaking and while he feels safer with Steve beside him, he is not yet ready to confirm, if he truly is enough to stop the never-ending tremors without the familiar weight of a cigarette between his fingers.

"And—" Steve continues, forcing air out of his lungs in a sharp exhale, making Eddie's eyes dart to his, finding him staring straight ahead "—I found it too easy to lose myself in the bottle." Eddie quirks an eyebrow at him. Steve sighs and shakes his head. "I didn't handle it well the second time around," voice bitter and biting.

"Tell me?" Eddie offers quietly.

Steve huffs. Shoulders lifting in a tiny shrug. "It was easy to just let the alcohol do all the thinking for me. So I drank. A lot. Just started drowning out the Upside Down and the howls of those damn demo-dogs in alcohol. The first time, it wasn't really an issue for me. I didn't drink then, because I just spent so much time trying to convince everyone around me that I was fine. That I was a totally normal teenager, who didn't watch the walls for monsters crawling out of them. A normal high schooler, who could sleep with the light off and didn't have trauma about fucking Christmas lights. I just wanted to forget it all and pretend it never happened. So that's what I did. Pretended I was fine. As if by convincing everyone else, I could just erase everything that had happened. Everything I had seen." Through all of this, he just stares straight ahead. Eyes dead and lifeless.

"The second time, I just wanted it to be gone. To drown it. And it was easy. Too easy to make it disappear with alcohol. And for a while I did." He swallows thickly. "I spent my days drowning myself in alcohol, just so I could sleep through the night. For a few weeks, I stumbled through classes, either drunk off my ass or too sleep deprived to see straight. And that was around the time Dustin started coming around to my house, so I hid it all from him, drank in the evening and at night, after he went back home." One of his fingers taps on his knee. Gaze distant, almost vacant, he stares straight ahead. Lost to something Eddie can't see.

"The first time Dustin stayed sleeping over, I made myself go to sleep without drinking for probably the first time in weeks. And he had a nightmare. Woke up terrified. I woke up as soon as he did and I was able to help and comfort him, because I wasn't drunk out of my mind. It kinda made me realize, I had a chance at something good with Dustin, and I couldn't mess it up, just because I was too scared to be alone with my thoughts with nothing to soften them."

As Steve talks, Eddie just stares at him, eyes soft and gentle with an ache in his heart that throbs more and more the more Steve talks; an ache that feels far too soft and tender for just a crush, but Eddie is far too gone in Steve's soft voice to examine that any further.

Steve pulls his gaze away from the past and throws Eddie a sideways glance. A small grimace pulls at his lips, twisting them up and tugging at the corner. "The more time I spent with the kids, driving them places and letting them swamp my living room, the more scared I got. What if the Upside Down wasn't over? What if it came back? What if I was too drunk to swing straight the next time and I was the reason it got one of the kids." He shrugs. "So I stopped drinking. And tried to stay clear of it, so I wouldn't get lost again."

"Shit, Steve." Eddie's hand finds its way to Steve's arm, the one still curled around Eddie's leg. Fingers curling around it, falling into place just above his elbow.

Glancing at him, Steve flicks a small, humorless smile his way.

"You can't take that shit on you." Eyes wide and concerned, Eddie shakes his head slightly from side to side, more of a twitch than a headshake.

Shoulders lifting up and down, Steve shrugs. "Someone has to."

Eddie keeps his eyes fixed on him. Fingers curling tighter around his own wrist. "Doesn't mean that has to be you."

The words make Steve's lips press into a thin, tight line. Eyes falling away from Eddie, he taps one finger against Eddie's knee. It bumps through his bone and echoes out into his leg.

Steve will not quite look at him. Keeps his gaze fixed away and down, eyes on his knees, where his arm hangs slung over, drooping and loose, curled around the joint.

For a short moment, they are quiet. The silence between them heavy and thick.

When Eddie raises his cigarette for the last puff it has to offer, Steve's eyes finally tears themselves away from his knee. It lands on his hand. Lazily follows the trail of thin smoke drifting from the end of the cigarette, carefully held between two of Eddie's fingers and delicately placed in his mouth, lips puckering slightly around the butt.

"I also can't get high, anymore," Steve adds with a small incredulous laugh, eyes still on Eddie's mouth, softly curled around the butt of the cigarette. Tearing his eyes away, he runs a hand through his hair, tugging harshly at the strands. Fingers forming furrows that run through his fringe. "It's crazy, man," he says. When he glances at Eddie, his eyes are wide and a little frantic. Eddie wants to reach out to him. Wants to take his hands and hold them. Wants to run his hands through his hair and soothe the pain of Steve's own touch. Instead, he listens, eyes intent on him. "They drugged us down there, you know?" Steve continues. "In the Russian bunker."

"Yeah, they said," Eddie says softly, watching him, "I remember."

"Dustin and Erica somehow got us out of there, and I barely remember the trip. It's like fractured scenes from movies. Cut and pasted." Finger fluttering, he points at his own head, gesturing loosely. "The doctor is there with a bone saw and shit," he continues, hand dropping limb back down. "Then Dustin charges in, yelling and pulls us out. We're in a car of some sort, but still underground in that endless fucking tunnel. And then we're in a movie theatre. Some crazy movie about fucking your mom playing." He rubs a hand across his face. The weak laugh that bubbles forth is lost to his palm. "But yeah. I tried getting high once. Some months later, when I just needed a break. I hadn't slept more than a few hours in two weeks and I just wanted everything to stop." A deep breath falls in and out of his mouth. Chest rising and falling with it. He looks straight ahead, head tipped slightly back, leant into the cupboard behind them. He glances sideways at Eddie. Expression blank and his eyes dead. It's a look Eddie does not like on him, but he's definitely seen it more times than he'd like.

"I don't remember much, but I panicked and, like, hyperventilated. Convinced myself Russians were walking around underneath my house and in the walls. Saw shit come out of every shadow and monsters hiding in my pool and things growing out of the dark. I panicked myself into unconsciousness. Woke up some time later in hot sweats and my house completely normal again." Cracking a smile that looks more like a grimace, he glances at Eddie. "Swore I'd never do drugs again. Not that I would be able to get myself to, even if I wanted to. It was already really hard for me to even think about being near drugs, after the Russian bunker, but after that one time, it got even worse. I started to sweat just thinking about my dad's liquor cabinet." Fingers pinching his shirt, he wafts the fabric back and forth, as if feeling phantom sweat breaking out all over his skin. He lets go. Drops his hand back down and lets it sag over his knee. He shrugs. "It's not that bad anymore. I can have a beer or two now, especially if I'm not alone at it. But yeah. It was rough for a while there."

Swallowing loudly, Eddie opens and closes his mouth, his tongue dry. "Yeah," he says faintly, clearing his throat. "I get it. I mean, I get where it comes from." With the cigarette well and truly dead now, he stubs it out in the ashtrays and drops it to lie there in the remains of its forefathers and itself. He very deliberately does not reach for another. But leans further into Steve, pressing himself firmly into him, nudging him. "It must have been hard to go through. Alone, too."

"I wasn't alone," he says, shaking his head and leaning closer to Eddie, as if emphasizing the fact; as if eager for him to know he was not. "I had Dustin and Robin, Erica too, but she's a kid, you know." Gesturing in the air, he flaps his hand up and down.

"I didn't mean down in the Russian base, Steve," Eddie says quietly. Besides him, Steve stiffens. Letting out a breath, his shoulders slump and his head drops forward. "I know those parties didn't happen, because your parents were home to fill up those rooms." And Eddie's seen Steve with the kids. Has seen the way he always makes sure to reach a hand out to them, to be there for them, but never asks for a hand in return. For gods sake, he's done it countless of times with Eddie, too. And Eddie is not delusional enough to think, he hasn't tried to shoulder Robin's shadows too without giving her any of his own. But having gotten to know Robin quite well these last few weeks, she would have wrestled them from him at the first sign of him trying to and smacked him over the head with them, until he let her shoulder some of his, too.

A shuttered look falls over Steve's face. His mouth closes up. A tight line hangs around the corners of his mouth and his eyes shoot away from Eddie.

It makes Eddie want to take his words back, but some part of him wants Steve to know with certainty that he has been seen; that Eddie sees him and will not ignore the things hanging unspoken around him, like invisible, fluttering moths.

For a while, they sit quietly side by side, pressed up against each other.

Steve's arm remains heavy and warm around his knee. A solid weight that anchors him to Steve.

Movements smaller and quieter than usual, Eddie fidgets lightly with the bottom of his shirt and the empty space around his fingers, where his rings usually lie. Steve simply exists next to him. Chest rising and falling in near perfect tandem with his own; shoulder shifting against Eddie's with every breath moving in and out of his lungs. Each breath shifts against him, grazing him with a soft, shifting touch.

Quiet pervades through the cabin. A faint wind blows outside, past the walls and the wooden boards, hammered into the windows. It sneaks through cracks in the wood and blows through the kitchen with a distant howl. With no other sound around them and his most recent nightmares barely just settled into his skin, it is too easy for the sound to curl up in Eddie's ears, forming itself into the distant screech of interdimensional demons. A tree branch smacks against the roof of the cabin and it is not a branch, but the clap of lightning, thundering across the sky.

Eddie's eyes slam closed. A breath rushes sharply through Eddie's nose and his chest jumps. Expanding with a jolt. A muscle pulls. His fingers twitch. They flick up and down. Searching the empty air for the strings of his guitar.

Forcing his eyes open again, Eddie slowly breathes out. Air falls slow and measured from his mouth. The sound of it faint and weak, barely audible even in the quiet pervading between him and Steve.

Forcing his fingers to still, he curls his hand into a tight fist. Fingers curling up one by one, until white knuckles stare up at him from around his knees, where his arms are loosely laid around alongside Steve's.

It would be easier, he supposes, to make the night and its many shadows and nightmares fade away with music. But when he first came back from the hospital and saw the heavy, dark bags under Max’s bloodshot, whited-out eyes, arms and legs in heavy casts, he gave the liberated Walkman from his trailer to Red.

He figures, she needs it more than him anyway.

She put herself on the front line, played the sacrifice. Eddie will be hard pressed to begrudge her anything. Even if she had not come out of it, limbs broken and as good as blind.

Most of the time, during the day, he does not need his Walkman anyway. There is always some noise making its way through the cabin. Either from the TV or from El's bedroom. Music from the boombox or the kids voices, raised in playful arguments, snarky jabs or steady conversation, drifting out through the crack El is careful to leave in the doorway.

When Max comes out of El's bedroom with Eddie's Walkman, the times it's in use instead of the boombox, she keeps the headset down, letting it hang around her neck, its tinny speakers blaring a tune from her collarbone. An act Eddie has been thankful for more than once, when he has been sat, lost in his thoughts, unable to focus on the book propped up and open in his lap before him.
  Some part of Eddie always settles whenever he catches music drifting through the cabin. Whether it's a stray tune from the Walkman around Max's neck, the TV or from behind El's door. No matter where it comes from, it drifts out into the quiet, filling the corners of the room, whenever the days of spring break wraps around them and the cabin; weighing on their shoulders like a heavy blanket or an overcast sky. It helps that the tapes being played are often the ones that were scavenged or burrowed from the Wheelers, Steve and Robin, not the ones brought from Eddie's home.

Now, with Max behind El's door, wrapped up in blankets beside the girl herself, asleep, his Walkman lying around her neck or somewhere beside her, Eddie wishes he had his Walkman. Music pounding into his ears as if determined to drill into his skull, to chase the crooked, sharp shadows in his mind away.

He used to lie on the roof of his trailer, turning the volume up so high it pounded through his skull, nearly tearing him apart at the seams, filling him with screeching instruments and pounding drums; the roof of the trailer either burning hotly against his skin, warmed by the summer sun, or burning freezing against him, cold rippling through skin and flesh until he shivers and his uncle calls him down with a blanket under one arm and a cup of hot cocoa held in his other hand.
 Even wishing for it, he wonders if that is lost to him too, the same as he fears his guitar is. If the Upside Down infected Eddie's music the same way it infected so many other things.

Steve is quiet.

Until he is not.

"I'm sorry, you know," he says so very softly, Eddie barely hears him. When Eddie turns to look at him, he is looking down, neck bent, staring at his hands. Briefly turning his head, Steve glances up at him, peeking past the corners of his eyes. He ducks down again. Throat working past a thick swallow. "When Dustin first came charging into Family Video, claiming your innocence — and the computer," he adds with a sideways glance that speaks volumes, "a part of me didn't believe him. Or well—" he tilts his head to the side, raising his head and looking ahead, a shuttered look falling over his face "—I didn't want to believe him. I wanted to believe you were guilty. We'd been through this three times before." Sighing, his head thunks heavily against the wall behind them. "The first time I had no idea what was going on. I just walked right into it. Literally. Right into the middle of a battle zone, right before the monster did." Raising his hand, he runs his fingers through his hair. It curls around the curve of his head and drops down, palm cupping the back of his neck. "The other times, Dustin basically just pulled me along. But this time, man, I don't know" —he swallows loudly, thickly, staring straight ahead, his entire body held carefully still and stiff, almost as if he has to force himself not to look Eddie's way— "a part of me was hoping you were guilty." A pause. "Because it meant that it was just some fucked up guy committing atrocious crimes and not—"

"—demons spawned from another dimension and the end of the world. Again," Eddie finishes for him, voice subdued.

Finally, Steve turns his head and looks at him, his eyes dark and heavy, the look inside them more tender than Eddie was expecting. "I'm sorry for that," he says, voice soft.

"For what?" Eddie tries for a smile. It feels stiff. More like a grimace than anything else. He keeps going. "Hoping you wouldn't have to go to war against horror movie monsters come to life for the fourth time running?" Shaking his head and huffing a small disbelieving laugh, Eddie knocks his knee into his. "Come on, Harrington, you know me better than that. I've been running this entire time. I don't blame you for wanting to do that for a hot second there." Even if there had been a time where Eddie could have dredged up some hatred at Steve about this, that fire has long since gone out and there's nothing but a deep ache for everything Steve has been through to end up in a place, where a washed out trailer park trash turned murderer would have been a relief.

Steve shakes his head.

Not knowing what he is protesting, Eddie continues, smiling self-deprecatingly, "Fuck, if it had been me, I would have wanted the same." Sweeping his arm out, he gestures to the quiet, night filled cabin around them; the shadowed corners and walls the lit light bulb cannot banish and all of the things hiding in its shadows and the world beyond it. Voice picking up, growing louder and taking on an exaggerated, theatrical quality, one that would not be out of place above the table at one of his D&D campaigns, and he whisper shouts, "Condemn, condemn away." Lowering his arm back down, his voice drops back into a gentler whisper and he continues quietly, expression sad and mournful, "Condemn half the neighborhood, if it meant I wouldn't have to face those monsters."

"I don't think you would, though," Steve says it so quietly, but so steadily, not a trace of doubt to be found in his voice. The words leave Eddie blinking wordlessly at him. Winded, his arm drops back down. It falls limply in his lap with a thump. Steve looks at him. Eyes serious and stripped back, fitting oddly well with his warm smile. "You're a softie, Munson, anyone ever tell you that?"

Acting affronted, Eddie clutches a hand to his chest, looking himself up and down, his body cast in a faint, golden glow. "Me? Metal head and town freak, high school repeater and local drug supplier, a softie?" Curls flying wildly about his face, softly smacking into his cheeks, he shakes his head. "No, no, no, Harrington," he waves his pointed finger back and forth, almost shoving it all the way into Steve's face, "you got the wrong guy."

"Eh," Steve waves a hand through the air, "that's all just dressings." Reaching out, he lightly taps Eddie's chest. At his touch, Eddie's heart lurches, as if it is beating out, trying to reach for Steve's hand; as if his touch shoots a hook through his chest that catches onto his heart and tugs at it, trying to pull it closer. With one last tap on his chest and a crooked smile, Steve adds, "Underneath all that leather and grease, you're soft-hearted."

Eddie looks down his chest, at Steve's hand and the place where his touch lingers like phantom warmth that prickles against his ribs. Breath shuddering, his chest shakes, rising towards Steve's palm.

Fingers fluttering, Steve withdraws his hand, his arm coming to rest around Eddie's knee once more.

Blinking, Eddie looks away from him, softly clearing his throat. "I never was one much for religion anyway."

Steve snorts.

Quiet settles between them for a moment.

"I'm still sorry, though," Steve eventually says, voice soft. When Eddie glances at him, his expression is full of regret. "Knowing you now, I never would have even entertained the notion. Not even if it meant accepting the Upside Down was back."

"You don't have to be sorry, Steve."

"I am though." The look on his face twists up with something that looks far too close to self-hate and self-deprecation for comfort. "You had enough hicks on your neck, you didn't need me doing the same. Even if it was only for a moment."

"You were hoping for a fucked up drug dealer turning out to be a murderer so you wouldn't have to face horrors from an alternate dimension. Again," Eddie says with a roll of his eyes. He leans into Steve's shoulder, crowding close to him. A humorless grin curls from his mouth. He puts his head right next to Steve and whispers, lowering his voice, all conspiratorially, "I think you get a free pass."

"Jesus," Steve mutters under his breath and rolls his eyes, head rolling with it as if the two are connected. He uses his elbow to gently knock Eddie back, pushing him away. Eddie lets himself tilt back, rolling with the push, swaying lightly back and forth, jostling Steve's shoulder, watching carefully as Steve's mouth quirks up in a small smile.

Steve rolls his eyes again. "Will you just let me apologize and then we can drop it?" his voice picks up the quirk of his smile and his frustration falls flat, light with humor. The warmth of his arm lingers on Eddie's, settling almost like a phantom weight against his skin, even after his arm settles back down by his side.

"Yeah okay, apology accepted, Harrington." Head rolling on his shoulders, Eddie looks at Steve, lips curling in a teasing grin. "Shit and you call me a softie."

"I said, what I said." He shrugs, grinning.

Quiet falls over them. It settles heavy and comforting around them, carrying that special kind of touch only found in the still of night. The world still and distant, out of reach for them.

For a long time, they just sit side by side, pressed up against each other, not saying a single word. Content to listen to each other's breaths.

Eddie does not close his eyes. But he rests his head against the cupboard behind them and just focuses on Steve breathing beside him. Chest rising and falling in tandem with his own. Feeling his chest and shoulder shift up and down, moving against him. A steady, solid movement that expands against him.

After a while, Eddie rolls his head to the side to look at him. "Are you going to sit by the door again?" he asks.

An uncomfortable look falls over Steve's face. His eyes shift to the side, catches him looking and quickly dart away. His head turns and drops, looking down. Eyes skirting away and falling down, seeking the floor.

"It's okay, if you are, you know," Eddie adds, voice quiet and soft. "God knows hardly a night passes without me seeking solace in a cigarette or two." He lifts a hand in the air, waving it back and forth, as if he has held enough cigarettes these last many nights for his fingers to keep an echo of them; as if the space between his fingers have formed to fit with a cigarette, flesh concave and hollow, leaving a divot with just enough space for a cigarette to slot between them; keeping an imprint for Steve to see. But they have not. The space remains as it always have, and only the phantom weight of his last cigarette remains clinging to his fingers, pressing invisibly between his two digits. Dropping his hand, he knocks his knee into Steve's. It does not really work, considering their legs are already pressed together and the move nudges at him more than knocks into him. Both of their knees sway back and forth. "I'm no Dustin, you don't have to pretend. Not with me." Ducking his head, he catches Steve's eyes.

A weak smile flickers from Steve's lips. He raises his head back up. Hand lifting up through the air, ruffling through his hair, carding through soft locks. A puff of air huffs from his lungs. His hand drops back down. It lands loose and limbs in his lap. "Thank you," he says, head tipped back into the cupboard door behind them, eyes looking up at the ceiling. "It's been so long. I guess, I've just gotten used to pretending. I've been looking after those kids for the last two years, driving them back and forth, to the arcade and Hawks and everything else," he falls into a pause. Eyes distant and distracted. When he speaks again, his voice is even lower than it was, like a whispered confession, brought out in the safety of night's embrace and his cupped palms, all for Eddie to take into his, "I've been with them, the last two times the Upside Down has thrown a monster at us. Every time, I've just been so desperate and focused on keeping them safe. To protect them. From the monsters. From their fear. From my fear." Another pause falls between his words. "It's hard to let go of that protection."

Eddie shuffles a little closer. Shifts into him and presses their sides together. Lays his own arms on top of Steve's, letting his elbow curve around Steve's knee. "It must have been hard. Being in that position."

"Harder to let them go after." A weak, fragile smile flickers across his lips. He keeps his gaze turned down and his head lowered. But his eyes flicker to the side and catches Eddie's.

Hunched at the back and shoulder, Eddie's curled forward, his own head lowered to match with Steve's. Eyes darting back and forth, trying to catch his gaze.

It is almost like they are both drawn toward each other, pulled together by a small force of gravity that orbits just the two of them.

A sigh blows from Steve. His shoulders sink and he sags. He lets himself fall back and leans against the cupboard behind them. He looks at Eddie. "It's hard to believe that they're growing up. That they don't believe when I tell them I'm okay any longer. Not if they can see differently." Eyes darting away, flickering over the floor and wall before them, his lips twitch, like they cannot quite decide whether to pull into a smile or not. A heavy weight settles in his eyes. They dart back, settling on Eddie once more. Despite the small light above the dining table, his hazel eyes are dark and shadowed, as if the weight inside of them is enough to pull at the shadows of the night and carry them too. As if his gaze holds its own gravity, drawing in the world like a magnetic field; the same magnetic force that usually pulls Eddie into Steve's orbit. A small shrug tugs at Steve's shoulders. "Hard to let go. Harder still to remember that they're beginning to look after me too. Even if all I care about is that they're okay."

Following Steve back, Eddie sags into the cupboard. He pulls his shoulder up and nudges it into Steve's. A small smile blooms from his lips. "You don't have to shoulder them all the time, Steve. You can let go."

"I know," he says simply, gaze locked on him. The look in his eyes is something Eddie cannot decipher, but god he wants to.

Tearing his gaze away from Steve's captivating hazel eyes, he turns his head and looks down at his hands. He fidgets. Presses his palms together and rubs them back and forth. When he speaks, he directs the words to his hands and knees, so much easier to speak, when he isn't looking at Steve and he can make himself believe his heart is safe, as long as Steve cannot look into his eyes and see it bared inside of them. "For what it's worth, I think you're a good babysitter, and an even better brother. To all of them," he says, voice soft and gentle. "I'm happy to share these kids with you. Shoulder some of their weight, so it's not so heavy." Lifting his head back up, he looks back at Steve. Locking their eyes together again. "I can lift some of yours, too. If you want. You hold the kids and bring them through the night. I can hold you."

It takes a while, but eventually, the two of them return to the world behind the bedroom curtain. Eddie crawls in a bed that is for once deprived of Dustin's motor snore, and Steve finds a way to curl up with Robin again without waking her.

The rest of the night feels easier to bear than they have been for the last week.

The day comes when Hopper brings Steve and Eddie back to the lab to get their stiches taken out.

Eddie is told to stay low and keep his hair tied up and hidden behind underneath his hoodie. But he is told that the day before, so he drags Robin to their bedroom and pleads and begs and uses all of the tricks he has from years of rolling persuasion or responding to players' persuasion or attempt at flirting with the monster he threw in their way and finally Robin's rolls her eyes, tells him he's a doofus but promises to go scavenger hunting for him. Which means she comes back early that morning with a bag full of treasures for him. So Eddie is able to sit down in Hopper’s car with his hair all wrapped up and hidden behind a sleek blonde wig Eddie swears he recognizes from drama, one of Steve's softest, nicest sweaters, a pair of massive sunglasses and all but one of his rings left in the cabin. He almost also paired it all up with a red lipstick, but Hopper looked like he was having an aneurysm, as Eddie decked himself out more and more and he thought it prudent to save the man from an early grave he had barely escaped from in Russia. If only to save El the heartbreak again.

The people at the lab do give him a funny look, when he enters, but he finds it hilarious to see their constipated faces as they pick out the stitches from his skin. If only some people had done their job better of keeping manhunts from forming or clearing certain people's names better post that failure, we wouldn't be here now would we, picking out stitches from a man in a blonde wig and heart shaped sunglasses.
  Not that there anything especially comical about his appearance, or even anything strange. He's not even wearing the heels or skirt he actually did ask for but Robin did not bring him because she couldn't get her hands on heels in his shoe size in the time frame and because she has no skirt herself and her mother caught her when she was rooting around in her drawers and she had to retreat strategically before too many questions could be asked or any skirts could be forced upon Robin's own person. It was a necessary retreat and Eddie respects it. The heart-shaped sunglasses make up for it anyway and are a major hit. His favorite. If it were not for Eddie's usual aesthetic, he might actually snipe the sunglasses and keep them for himself.

As they pick out his stitches, he has fun singing along to songs that come on the quiet radio until the second Doctor walks across the room and pointedly turns it off. Neither of them even appreciate any of his jokes, or the way he parades around like Frank’n’furter from Rocky Horror Picture Show. Grinches, the lot of them. Really, Eddie brings his entire self into the things he does, all the time. And what does he get in return? Nothing. Not even a tiny twist of the mouth. Honestly, no one appreciates the genius he brings to every room he enters.

At the end of it, he gets to join Hopper out in the hallway who is standing and talking quietly with Sam Owens. At his wigged-out and make-upped appearance, the two fall quiet. Sam offers him a small smile, gives Hopper a nod and then walks off. Hopper stands awkwardly with him. Silent and stiff. Eyes everywhere but on Eddie himself. Eddie revels in it. It is not every day he can reduce the former Chief to silence out of pure exasperation and awkwardness, and not the usual vexation-bordering-on-the-edge-of-impatience.

Steve and Robin join them a few minutes later, because, apparently, Robin cannot let Steve enter any buildings of this sort without hanging on his arm all the way and she certainly comes out of the room doing just that. The two of them make quiet comments at each other that make them laugh, even if the shadows in their eyes are longer and darker than usual and they cannot look at the walls without shrinking infinitesimally away from them and grasping each other tighter.

And that's that. The stitches are off. Their healing progress checked over and their condition discussed with the doctors one more time, who asks them several questions about any after effects to wounds from the Upside Down and how well they have been taking care of their wounds, all of which Eddie expertly lies to, because he has definitely not been using all the stuff they gave him as often as he should. But Steve and Robin are having Steve's discussion in another room, so there's no one here to correct or reproach him and certainly no uncle to smack him on the back of the head. It’s fine. Maybe the lie will make his uncle sniff him out with the sudden urge to smack Eddie's head and no apparent reason as to why, except the deep-seated, instinctual knowledge that his nephew is off being a little shit somewhere. Yeah, that sounds logical. Definitely makes sense. Fool proof.

The next day their stitches are removed, shortly after breakfast, Steve starts squinting at anyone who speaks directly to him and his eyes flicker all over the place, as if distracted. Around midday, Steve grows real quiet and before he can even move from the couch, he ends up curled up, an arm thrown up over his head. Robin ends up having to pull him up from the couch and guide him to the bedroom, because he can barely open his eyes.

He does not come back out again.

And so a day passes without any sight of Steve and only the smallest of Robin.

The day after that, in the afternoon, Eddie plants himself with his notebook on the couch with no intention of getting up until he's satisfied with this song. That may be shooting for the stars, but ego is Eddie's specialty. At least, according to his high school drama teacher and his uncle. And they both have quite a lot of credibility when it comes to Eddie, so…

It's quiet in the cabin, allowing for Eddie to — quietly — hum and drum away.

After school, with no Steve to drive them, none of the kids came to the cabin. Only Robin came stumbling in through the door with her bike left sprawled on the ground and barely a word said, as she sped-walked her way to the bedroom Steve has been shut away in since the day before.
When Eddie woke that morning, Steve was still buried beneath the blanket and pillows on the mattress beside his bed; a tight, hard expression over what little could be seen of his face and his eyes squeezed shut against the light, Dustin had allowed to slip into the room, when he left the curtain hang open just when Eddie was coming to.

It is perhaps the longest Eddie has gone without talking to him, since he woke up in the lab.

The cabin has taken on that hushed quality of air, when people are trying to speak in low voices and all sounds from radio and TV have either been shut off completely or the volume lowered enough, it is only a distant buzz of unintelligible noises, drifting through the air like flies buzzing lazily around. Dustin had to be driven to school by Jonathan and while they have called once or twice, none of the other kids have made an appearance for a while; first made to stay away by an ever-vigilant Hopper or concerned parents who want them home more since Spring Break, then by Steve's migraine.

As the time nears dinner, Robin appears once more from behind the curtain, wearing one of Steve's shirts, by the looks of it, and heads to leave through the door, again without another word, but is stopped in her tracks when Steve's voice calls weak and thready from the curtained off bedroom he shares with Eddie and Dustin (and occasionally Robin herself).

On the couch, Eddie looks up from his notebook, where he is doubled over, gnawing at the end of his pen and throws a concerned look at the curtain hiding Steve.

Pausing, Robin swirls on her heel and doubles back. Footsteps quickly swallowing up the floor, she disappears back into the bedroom, where Steve has been shut off inside all day. The curtain falling back into place behind her.

The soft sounds of Robin's quiet voice and Steve croaking in return drifts out from behind the curtain, too low for any words to catch on, but the sound of Steve's voice, finally emerging from behind the cloud of his migraine, has a tightness inside of Eddie's chest ease up and he breathes a deep sigh.

After a moment, Robin comes back out and she heads straight for Eddie, where he has been glaring daggers at one of his song verses for a good hour now. Daring it to unravel itself. It has not. But he's sure it will soon. His death glare is foolproof for this, he knows. Eventually, they all quiver beneath his glare.

But not this time. Because Robin comes to a stop right before the couch and crouches right before him. Knees cracking as she sets a hand on the cushion beside him for balance and Eddie's glare softens and jerks up to land on her.

Her soft gaze meets his own. "I really have to go. I promised my parents to be home for dinner tonight. But Steve needs me. He's better, but it's not completely gone yet. I don't think he wants to be alone right now. Will you sit with him, for a bit?" Wide eyes stare back at him. Her freckled face hovering anxious and nervous right before him. She gives a small shake of her head. "You don't even have to do anything, just sit and—"

"Yes. Of course." He nods, interrupting her before she can say anything else. "Whatever he needs."

"Thank you." She puts a hand on his knee and squeezes. Turning her head, she peeks over her own shoulder, looking back towards the curtains. Mouth pressed together in a tight line. "I hate leaving him now. Like this. But my parents want me home after the last few weeks and school and I—" she blows out her breath and shakes her head, looking down briefly at the floor below her feet. Wide earnest eyes jerk back up to meet his own. "It doesn't matter. Just walkie me, if either of you need me?"

Once Eddie has reassured her sufficiently that he will stay with Steve and he will contact her, if needed, Robin leaves, hurrying out the door with one more small smile at him and one last worried glance at the curtain separating her from Steve. The sound of a bike being picked up from the ground and cycling away from the cabin following behind her.

Previous promise thrown in the dirt and ground under his heel like a cigarette stump, Eddie jumps to his feet. Quickly, he gathers his stuff in his hands and makes his way to the doorway, where he pauses for a moment, looking into the room.

That morning, when Eddie woke up, he made sure Steve moved from the mattress to the cot, before he left to scavenge for breakfast in the remains of what the kids had left behind. (He did not get to bring Steve the breakfast offering he had been forming in his mind, as Robin got there first, before Eddie had even poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot Joyce had made).

He is still lying there, on his back in Eddie's — well, Hopper's bed — with an eye mask on his head, covering his brow, pushed up and away from his eyes. After the first severe migraine Steve had in the cabin — first severe, because Robin is convinced Steve's had others he did not tell them about and has grumbled extensively about it to Eddie — Robin and Steve had an argument. Robin had upended every single bag of their items onto Eddie's bed and trawled through the contents twice over. When that had not revealed what she was looking for, she dived into Eddie's bag, then Dustin's, and even went looking through the rest of the cabin with a furious look on her face that got more and more severe the longer she looked and her hands remained empty. In the end, she had just turned to Steve, "Did you even pack it?" Steve shrugged. Which was a mistake. Robin had been on him before his shoulders had even dropped and smacked him with the nearest book. Hands raised in defense, he jumped away from her onslaught. "It wasn't essential. I left it at home."

One more hard smack on his shoulder with the book. "It's essential to you." He remained unrepentant. Book apparently insufficient, she ended up throwing a few things at him. Including a hairbrush, a second book, and several pairs of rolled up socks. All of which Steve tried dodging and swiped away with a scowl on his face.

When she was done throwing things at him, she stormed out the door, threw herself down into the passenger seat of his car and sat there with her arms crossed, staring straight ahead with a glare to rival the sun and waited. Steve sighed and walked after her. They came back with only a little bag. The contents of which Robin dug out and left in the fridge in the most passive aggressive action Eddie has ever seen anything done.
 Eddie saw it the next time he went snooping for a snack, but laying eyes on it gave no answers. Steve's next migraine did. It was brought out along with his migraine medication. Turned out it was some kind of wobbly mask with this weird gel-like substance inside, which Steve wore over and around his head to help against the pain, he had told Eddie at his bewildered expression. No wonder Robin had hissed at him. Nonessential, his ass.

There were two of them. One that looked like this massive hat, shape oddly reminiscent of woolen bucket hats worn in winter. The other looked like a weird and big eye-mask. It covered his forehead, brow, the bridge of his nose and his cheeks with tiny holes by his eyes that just allowed him to see through, even if it looked uncomfortable with how much his eyelashes fluttered against them whenever he had his eyes open and the skin of his eyes squished against them.

"Steve?" Eddie calls softly now, shouldering past the curtain.

A hand lifts and waves him forward weakly.

Crossing the room, he sits on the bed by Steve's hip, leaving his books aside and turns to look at him, pushing his hands beneath his own thighs and sitting on them. "Robin sent me."

"I know," Steve's voice is thready and croaky from disuse. "She asked me, if she could."

Eddie hums. "Where do you want me?"

"Wherever." The hand flails in the air again.

Taking a moment, Eddie looks at him. Gaze falling him up and down. Slowly, he pushes himself up the bed and crawls into the space beside Steve, however small and cramped it might be with the two of them and how snug they have to lie to fit.

Once he sits back against the wall, a pillow — Dustin's, Eddie would like to be noted, because Steve has seized Eddie's, abandoning his own on the fold out mattress he usually occupies at night — pushed between his back and the wall, Steve turns onto his side and curls up, pressing into him. Bending his knees and pushing his legs into Eddie's, he brings his head forwards, smushing it into Eddie's thigh and hip, nose and cheeks squashed against him. One of his arms droops over him, lying loose across Eddie's thighs.

Eddie allows himself to look. Head tipped down, eyes soft and crinkled. A soft smile curls from his lips, gaze far too tender and telling, should Steve turn his head and look up at him.

After a moment, a sigh blows from Steve. It echoes through his body, chest and shoulders deflating with a soft jolt. "You know, you don't have to sit with me, if you don't want to," he says. "I'll be fine on my own."

Eddie hums and reaches for his books. He places them gently in his lap, above where Steve's arm lies. "I know. But I want to."

Turning his head away, he props the notebook open and flips the pages back to the song he was working on, before Robin called him in.

The title Hands of Hell The Gates of Hell stares back at him. The words scrawled on top of the page in his wonky handwriting. It always tilts. Like a runner leaning forward, sprinting the last distance, throwing his body forward, as if the weight of it all and gravity, will allow him to run faster. Like Eddie's words are all leaning forward, all tripping over themselves to come first. The ink splayed out at almost every letter, dragged across the page by his own hand in haste to write the thoughts in his head, before they disappear from him. At least they are, whenever he uses ink pens and not pencils.

The first verse and chorus written across the page sits silently on the page, waiting for the next sentence, the next word, the next letter, to join it.

It says,

[verse 1]
The gates of hell burn with red
The teeth, the break, the feast
Fiery arms and vines of hate, tear down the walls
Separating the two worlds
Impatient to reach the men that died before their time
As if the devil himself had them marked
Cursed to die lonely, afraid and arraigned
Sacrificed for the ego of smaller men

[chorus]
The gates of hell have come to call
They whisper, they chant, they shout
Calling for the creatures of night
To come home, come home
And bring the corpses
Of gods and satan's prize

[verse 2]
Years long, I have been the devil's man
A name they cast me in my mother's trembling arms,
And my father's dirty hands
Years past, they had me marked;
Freak, curse, outcast
I guess Hell got impatient and decided enough was enough
My time had come,
Come home, come home, devil-child, devil's spawn

[chorus]
The gates of hell have come to call
They whisper, they chant, they shout
Calling for the creatures of night
To come home, come home
And bring the corpses
Of gods and satan's prize

[bridge]
It reached for me with claws and teeth of poison,
I never knew if Hell was a place I truly belonged,
And I never got to know the answer,
For someone else took my place
Another name for the reaper to claim.
And I wonder if my life was worth it,
to see the brightest of lights snuffed out
right before my eyes
As she disappeared inside hells gaping maw of death and desolation.
Now her name is on my gravestone
And I'll never know if that fiery pit could have been my home
When nothing else ever held me
The way the names given to me have been promising
since I took my first breath

[chorus 2]
The gates of hell at my feet
Do I enter or stay in defeat?
Do I follow the people braver than me
Who have already breached its walls
Chasing answers to what has been haunting me,
Since Satan learned the shape of my name,
And the sound of my steps on pavement
Seeking me from the depths of hell,
As only the devil himself will,
When his children are lost to another world
Than his own hands

[outro]
Dark is the creatures that come for me
Born of the burning arms of the sun at dusk
Where its light meets the earth and king of night
Gaping maws with teeth from the mouth of Tartarus itself
and a touch that burns with the heat of Satan's blood
Hellfire, hell-home, hell-forth
Was I your child all along,
Or did the chant of the townsfolk condemning me, since I was born
Bring you to my door?

For a moment, he stares for it, thinking to pick it back up again, especially with that bridge he is dissatisfied with. But his mind wanders and the pen remains lying in the cracked spine of the book.

Instead, Eddie picks his hand up and lays it by Steve's head, burying his fingers in his hair, the best he can given the ice-pack eye-mask that covers his head. At this, Steve reaches up and frees the ice pack from his eyes, pulling it off and away with one quick swipe, freeing his hair and head for Eddie's hand.

Eddie grins down at him, but says not a word, as he allows his fingers to settle in his luscious locks.

At first, he presses his fingers into his scalp, massaging his head and temples in the way he's done a handful of times more, since that first night he woke up to Steve sick in a bucket.

Steve hums. The sound comes quietly from his throat and chest, rumbling against Eddie's side.

After a little while, Eddie's grip slackens, and he begins simply just pulling his fingers through his hair. Softly carding through his locks.

What could be well over an hour later, the cabin starts smelling of cooking and the sounds of Joyce at work in the kitchen fill the air, and Steve's face finally emerges from the pillow and Eddie's hip.

"What are you working on?" he asks, turning his head up and looking up at Eddie.

Glancing sideways, Eddie catches the glimpse of his hazel eyes for the first time all day and his heart skips a beat.

A small smile stretches from his lips as he turns his head and looks down on him. Reaching out, he touches the top of Steve's head, fingers carding through his hair once more and says, voice soft and quiet, "Just some song writing."

Steve hums. He turns his head back down into the pillow and Eddie's side, his arm around Eddie tightening in a small squeeze. His nose nudges into Eddie. "Read one of them to me?"

And Eddie does. He leaves the current song to settle onto the pages by itself and flips back through his notebook. Settles on a different page altogether, picking one of the first ones he finished inside of these walls.

Softly, he reads out his own words to Steve. The song passes through his lips more akin to a poetry reading in English class than one of his metal songs, but it is a little price to pay, to have Steve's body slumping against his own and feel the last tension in his shoulders finally letting go of him, as he seems to sink further into both Eddie and the cot.

When he finishes, silence sinks soft and comfortable between them.

A moment passes.

"Hmm, what's it about?" Steve mumbles, almost incoherently against Eddie's thigh, sounding half drunk.

"Well, I wrote it to be ambiguous and vague, so there's two ways to look at it. It's about a traitor on trial for turning his back on something or someone and he's being condemned to death, sent to the gallows, but the last verse affords a different perspective," Eddie says, voice soft and quiet. "It was never a person on trial, it was a man looking inside of himself and seeing a traitor. There was never anyone he betrayed, except himself. And he's lying there, in a lake, all alone, dying at his own hand."

"That's sad."

"Maybe I was sad, when I wrote it."

Around him, Steve's arms tighten.

Since that first time Eddie took Max out on a blanket, Max begins to ask him to take her back outside occasionally. Each time, Eddie dutifully lays out the blanket on the ground in between the trees and lays out a few pillows for her, then comes back and carries her there. Which turns out to be quite a lot in the beginning. As if, after that day of lying among the trees, Eddie opened the floodgates and now that Max has been shown the way, she seeks it nearly every day. Whether it is for just an hour as she snoozes away a medication induced tiredness or for several hours, accompanied by the boombox or Eddie reading out loud from the Hobbit.

The protesting twinge in his sutures that comes from lifting and carrying her back and forth, is worth it, to watch her shoulders sink on her back and the cloud of sadness hanging around her ease, even if it is just for a moment. Eddie will take a hundred more palm sized bite marks and face another swarm of demobats, if it meant she would find even just a moment of peace and tranquility.

For a while, they will just lie there, feeling the wind on their skin and listen to the trees. Eddie will look up and out and watch the wind catching on flowering, fluttering leaves or watch the rays of the sun, falling in through overhead hanging branches. Rays of sunlight hang almost like stained glass, where it cuts through the air between the leaves.

The more she asks him, the more he notices it is on the days, where she is particularly quiet or withdrawn, or when her voice explodes through the cabin in shouts.

Sometimes, some of the others join them. El is the first to hesitantly ask if she could. Then, the times he comes over after school, Lucas, and Will after him. The rest kinda hover in the periphery, as if scared to breach some kind of boundary. Surprisingly — or not so surprising, when he considers what little of their bond he has seen glimpses off from all the times Steve has taken meticulously care to wash her hair, ever since he took over her care and brought her to the cabin, and all the other little things he does for her — Steve finds a way to join them several times over without ever being asked by Max herself, just deducing from Max's pauses or the way her head turns towards his voice, while Eddie walks around the cabin, arming himself with the blankets and pillows he uses for her little sanctuary in the woods. And he always sits in the corner, careful not to encroach in her space, folding himself up like origami, as if he is used to taking up as little space as possible, until he is invited. Which is why Eddie kicks at his legs and prods with sharp, jabbing fingers, a teasing remark on his lips, until he stretches out his legs and sprawls almost as much as Max.

The times they join, Will and El often end up huddled around Max. The former with another pen in his hand, adding to the rainbow of colors of various drawings and sentences, scrawled across her casts. Souvenirs from all of the kids, growing more and more as the days pass, albeit slower with the other kids at school and home more often these days. The latter will often dig her fingers into Max's hair and braid it. On the days where the touch makes Max snap angrily at her, voice snapping through the air like a whip, Steve prods El's thigh with his foot and waves a hand at his own head of hair. It makes El grin wide and bright and she crawls across the space to sit on her knees behind him, fingers buried in his soft, floofy hair. It's too short to braid properly, but El tries anyway, even if it falls out of the braid she weaves it into as soon as her fingers let it go.

Will and El remain the only kids — aside from Eddie for obvious reasons — who have not returned to school. There's something there about a military branch that was after El and wanting to keep her safe, by keeping Will and the Byers' presence in Hawkins quiet, even though Jonathan has definitely been out in town with Argyle more times than Eddie can count on two hands. But their school situation remain up in the air, and though Eddie has definitely heard Joyce and Hopper discuss it after coming home from another meeting with the lab people, he carefully jumps away whenever he hears any of those snippets, just in case they start discussing his own situation. He has never really believed in ignorance is bliss, but as soon as it could apply to him, he ran towards it with arms wide open and dived into its embrace with relief on his lip and a haze in his eyes. He knows ignorance is truly suffocation and choking waters in disguise, but apparently, he's ready and willing to suffer later, if it means he can breathe a little easier now.

The things Eddie learns about himself in the apocalypse.

He still does not ask about himself. And though he has received weird looks from Joyce and Hopper, he has avoided any other talks about seeing his uncle again. Steve and Robin have somehow found out not to bring it up, even though he's never asked them not to.

That, too, is a relief.

Another day comes and Eddie brings Max outside again. With The Fellowship in hand, he picks up where he left off. Steve comes along too.

A little while passes where they just listen to Eddie read.

Between one chapter and the next, when Eddie is taking a small pause and having some water, Max asks Eddie to leave so she can talk to Steve, her voice low and raspy.

He does.

A heavy quiet settles between the trees. One that follows him inside.

Later, Steve is the one to carry her back to her chair and push her inside, Max's face a red and splotchy mess with dried tear tracks running down her cheeks that has not quite been erased yet.

When Steve has made sure Max is okay and settled in El's bed, surrounded by El and Will, he sidles up to Eddie, hands in his pockets.

"Max told me, you'd suggested, I talk to her."

"I did." Eddie picks at the skin around his nails with his teeth, eyes wide and round, looking up at Steve.

"Why? I mean, I'd do anything for her, if I thought it could help. I'll gladly talk and listen to her. But I don't know anything about what she's going through. I can't help her." Defeat and a heavy weight falls over his face.

"I think you're underestimating your own importance to her. How much you mean to her. Finding kinship or understanding in someone you're close to can do a lot." Eddie tilts his head to the side and adds, "And I remembered what you said about your migraines. And your hearing loss. I know they're not the same, but I thought, if anyone could make her feel less alone or understand what it's like to be left behind by your own body, it could be you."

That night, when Eddie jerks awake from a swirling nightmare made up of mangled faces, broken bones and bats bursting out from beneath a tarp-covered boat, Steve is missing from his mattress beside Eddie's once again.

Fingers shaking, he wipes at his sweaty face.

Tonight was a bad one. The nightmare was confusing and like someone had thrown all of Eddie's nightmares into a bag, shook them around and let them tumble out into his dreams, all mixed-up and conjoined. Like a Frankenstein nightmare. All cut up and stitched together. One part here, another part there. Chrissy’s mangled face. Patrick's bones breaking under Jason's hands. The swarm of bats swarming out from the boathouse, whose shadows haunted Eddie as much as the monsters and mob ever had.

Eddie heaves a sigh and swings his legs out of his bed.

For a while, he sits with his legs over the side of the bed, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, just trying to breathe in and out past the lingering rush of fear, shaking from his heart and trembling inside of his lungs.

When he finally pulls his head out, his heart may have given up on trying to pound its way out of his ribcage with sheer blunt force, but his hands are still shaking.

He fishes out his packet of camels — number, whatever, Eddie gave up counting how many packets he went through on his fourth night in the cabin — sticks a cigarette in his mouth and makes his way out of the room. Feet wobbling and stumbling over the floor, as if the ground the wooden beams and boards the house have been stacked in, changed into water during the night and Eddie's making his way across a sea-swaying boat.

He ducks under the curtain and is greeted by the two lights left on at night. The living room and the sleeping bodies of Jonathan, Argyle and Joyce lit up with one.

He notes, as he rounds the living room, heading for the kitchen and the figure hunched over the tiny dining table there, Will and Hopper are nowhere to be seen. But the door to El's bedroom is cracked and soft voices drift out from behind it.

Crossing over into the kitchen, he lays his eyes on Steve, lifting one hand to light his cigarette. It turns out Steve is not hunched over for no reason. He's leant over the table, arms folded over the wood, hands at work on rectangle objects around him, with small, colorful plastic tubes in hand.

On the table in front of him, there's a spread of cassettes and tapes. It is these objects, he's bent over, brow furrowed in concentration and his lips pressed together in a firm line.

Eddie takes a deep breath filled with smoke and nicotine and walks up to him. He steps right up to the chair and Steve's back, leaning over him to watch him.

Turning his head, he blows the smoke away, eyes still fixed on the empty cassette cases, tapes and Steve's hands at work. "Busy night?" he asks.

"Something like that." He stays hunched over, hands passing slower over the tape before him. Fingers wrapped carefully around a little tube, moving it up and down and swirling it across the surface of the tape.

Eyes skirting over the mess in front of Steve, Eddie tries to make sense of it, but he cannot quite pull his head from the nightmares and sleep that are making his head heavy. Taking another pull from the cigarette, he asks, "What are you even doing?"

"Something for Max." He doesn't pull his eyes away from his work and directs his words to the tape before him.

When Steve reaches the end, he finally straightens up and twists his head to throw a look at Eddie over his shoulder. Expression kind and sympathetic, he asks in a gentle voice, "Nightmare?"

Eddie hums, eyes still roaming all over the colorful lines Steve has left on some of the tapes. He feels Steve's eyes search his face.

"You okay?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"If you'll believe a lie or not." He turns his head the side and throws him a small, quirking grin.

"Probably not."

"Then no." Quirking an eyebrow, a small, private smile stretches across his lips. "But that's hardly revolutionary here."

Steve gives a small shrug.

Their gazes hold for a short moment. Then Eddie throws a glance at his work again. "No, but seriously what are you doing? Something for Max you said?"

Steve reaches for one of the tapes sat off to the side and holds it up in the air for Eddie.

Hesitant, Eddie grips it with fingers on the top and bottom, near the corners. Eyes squinting at the surface, Eddie angles it, gaze falling over its surface and the colorful, bulging paint that definitely does not belong on top of a Kate Bush tape.

"It's puff paint," Steve explains, as Eddie follows the written letters spelling out Hounds of Love on its surface. "After Max talked to me, I wanted to do something for her, to help her feel less helpless and scared. I thought this might help." A small shrug pulls at his shoulders. "In that way she wouldn't have to keep asking for help, when she wants to change the tape in her Walkman. She probably still has to, until the casts come off, but when they do, she won't have to keep guessing and changing the tapes until she gets to the one she wants." One of his nails taps restlessly against the table. Taptap-taptap-taptap. He eyes Eddie. "I went to buy those alphabet stickers. You know, those foamy like ones that bulge and are thick? But I saw this instead—" he nudges one of the tubes of paint "—and thought it would be easier to handle and wouldn't demand I buy as many packets, to fill out all her tapes."

Eddie looks at Steve over the tape with drying puff paint. He blinks. Inside of his chest, his heart thumps, heavy and light and warm all at the same time. As if to remind him, Oh yeah, hi, I'm still here, still incurably infatuated with Steve and everything he does. And, Oh will you look at that, another fucking mental picture of Steve being incorrigible sweet and a caring dork to commit to memory. All to the beat of his heart; thumping away inside of his chest, as if searing this image, this moment, to his very heartbeat.

Pointedly ignoring all of that and the heady beating of his heart, he arches his eyebrows at him. "And you're doing this in the middle of the night because—?"

"I just—" he breaks off with a small shake of his head and shoulders in some tiny imitation of a shrug. "I just wanted to do something for her. Even if she won't be able to use it for a long time."

Eddie hums and quirks a humored brow at him. "You're robbing her of the chance of hitting you when you present them to her, though."

"I'm sure she'll keep a tally."

"She's got one for Mike already, what's one more?" He flashes him a crooked gin and Steve's eyes sparkle in response.

The humor drops off Steve's face and he fidgets in his seat. Hazel eyes look at him. Wide and wary and hesitant. His shoulders rise up, rounded and hunched, as he's trying to duck beneath them and somehow hide away in a hollow of his own making. The tube of puff paint remains in his hand. "Is that— do you think that's okay?"

"Steve, " Eddie manages to say without his voice being all croaky and strangled. It is not really meant as a prerequisite to anything. It's just his name, because it is the only thing Eddie can say.

"Is it too much?" he asks, eyes wide and worried. "It feels like too little. But it's the only thing I could think of and I didn't know what else—"

Eddie steps from behind his back to the side of his chair. With his cigarette still kept between his fingers — only because he does not want to waste a second to dump it somewhere — he cups Steve's face in both of his hands. The second his palms slide home onto his cheeks, he just falls quiet. Words stopping mid-sentence, just staring up at him. Mouth slightly agape, eyes wide and a little shocked.

"I don't know how to tell you this, because it seems like those hits to your head did nothing to soften it up and make it easier to get things into that thick skull of yours," Eddie says, voice soft but in a normal volume, so he knows no words gets lost between them and Steve's hearing loss, "but you, Steve Harrington, are the most confusing and yet the sweetest, kindest, most wonderful person I have ever met." and I could fucking kiss you for it. He does not say that last part. But Jesus Christ he wants to.

Wide hazel eyes dart back and forth between Eddie's. While Eddie speaks, Steve manages to close his mouth, but it does nothing to quiet the rush of air falling in and out of his nose, faster and quicker than what is normal, but Eddie pretends he cannot hear it.

"You're a fucking treasure, Stevie and I can't believe I get to be one of the lucky few, who gets to be your friend." He pauses to take a deep breath and continues, "Max will love it. But she'll call you a dweeb and punch your arm for being a sentimental dork." He tilts his head to the side. "When she's out of her casts and able to throw a punch again, at least."

A tentative smile pulls at the corner of Steve's mouth. He ducks his eyes, gaze seeking the table before him and the work laid out before him on it. His fingers picks at the tape closest to him. The one he was just bent over. Something twists at his lips. Unhappy and miserable. "She won't even be able to use it for a while."

"No, but she will one day." Eddie keeps a hold of Steve's face, trying to get him to look at him and see the sincerity no doubt burning on his own face, but those beautiful hazel eyes stay resolutely on the tape he's fiddling with. With a deep sigh and one last swipe of his thumb across his cheek, Eddie lets go of him. He turns and leans up into the table, butt perched on the edge. Crossing his arms, cigarette forgotten and burning away to nothing between his fingers, he looks at Steve. Expression searching and heavy. "I don't know how to make you see that the things you do are kinda amazing, Steve. How can't you see that?"

"I'm just trying to help." A helpless expression falls over Steve's face and he shrugs. Eyes stuck on the table. "It's not anything ground-breaking."

"Not to you, maybe." At this, Steve tilts his head and gives him an inquisitive look, eyebrows arched in question. Eddie gestures loosely in the air with the hand keeping a hold of his quickly disappearing cigarette. "You give kindness away like it's something that just comes easy to you." Like it is something he has in excess. Like his heart is always overflowing with love, warmth and kindness and it costs him absolutely nothing to give it away, so he just keeps giving and giving, so full of love that he will never run out.

"I don't know." Steve shrugs again, eyes falling down, landing on the table once more. He shifts in the seat. "I just want those kids to be happy. To have a chance, even though shit people like Billy and Jason and the fucking Upside Down keeps trying to take it away from them. I'd do anything for them. I need them to know that I'm putting them first. Not enough people have."

God. Does he even hear himself? Is it any wonder Eddie literally has to take a deep breath and curl his hands around his own arm, to stop himself from reaching out and plant a kiss on the very lips, speaking those words?

Twisting at the torso and ignoring the twinge the action zips through his still healing scars, Eddie ashes his abandoned cigarette into the ashtray pushed off to the side on the table, stumps it out and leaves it there.

Another careful look at the table shows that the tapes laying out across it belongs to Max, but some, he knows do not. Some look like they belong to Steve, and Eddie thinks about Steve intentionally picking up every tape he donated to the kids’ piles and choosing to make it so they could be Max's as well. About Steve offering, not just his home up, but his heart.

He pushes off the table, goes around it and drops down into the seat on the other side. "Okay, then," he says, "how do you want me to do this?"

Steve lifts his head. Hazel eyes land on Eddie. Gaze deep and wide. The corner of his lips pulls up. Slowly tugging them up into a smile that gets wider and wider the longer he looks at him until Steve is beaming at him. Eyes warm and full of something Eddie dares not name, but which makes his stomach twist and turn with warmth and a swooping sensation.

Steve bends over the table and in a soft, gentle voice, guides Eddie through the process. The center of Eddie's chest glows with a gentle warm, like a bed of embers have taken up hearth beside his heart, built and nurtured by Steve's kind hands, warm eyes and gentle smile.

It is the middle of the night. The nightmare that woke Eddie up is long gone; banished by the man before him and the warmth of his kind heart.

It is the middle of the night and the two get to work.

The next day, Steve and Eddie wake up, practically on top of one another on Steve's thin mattress from where they both collapsed some hours before dawn. Noises from the other room and the light playing across the wall through slivers in the boards (and Steve's wrist watch that he grabs from the floor beside the mattress with squinty eyes and sluggish movement) tell them it's 11:21.

They get up with tired movements and barely any words. It is a rhythm they are used to, sleep deprived and insomniacs they are.

When Steve passes the couch, a few steps ahead of Eddie, he ruffles Dustin's cap-covered hair with a tired smile and takes the swats he returns with the same tiredness stretched a little wider.

"Have you seen the tapes?" Dustin — who has somehow found his way to the cabin even though he slept at home for once and Steve has definitely not been awake to pick him up — calls after them, perking up and straining his neck after them. "Are you the ones who did it? What is it?"

Yawning as wide as his mouth will go, Eddie claps a hand on top of his head and shoves him down, watching his body — and the comic book in his hand — flail back, as he falls down with a squawk.

"Hey!"

"We just got up, man. Give us a moment."

"But what's it for?" he whines, quickly getting his bearing and clambering off the couch, hopping after them, not caring one bit about the awkward heavy hops he has to do, with his fractured foot still in a cast boot. "We couldn't eat breakfast! We deserve to know why."

"So you ate elsewhere." Steve rolls his eyes and rubs a hand over his face. Sighing into his palm. Dropping his hand again, he gives him a look. "You didn't even sleep here, man. You had breakfast at home."

"You don't know that." Dustin scoffs. And continues to hop awkwardly after Eddie.

Eddie pauses by the kitchen counter. Gets slammed when Dustin isn't quick enough to halt his own halting, hopping walk. Shooting Dustin a crooked brow and an unimpressed look, Eddie points at Joyce, who has managed to fold herself into one of the kitchen chairs, despite the mess on the table beside it, and the mug she has cupped in her hands. "Tea?" he asks. Glinting cassettes and tapes cover the surface before her; each and every one of them displaying colorful words in drying puff paint. Turned to sit sideways on the chair and facing out into the kitchen, sideways to the table, she is very carefully keeping her arms and elbows well off the table.

Smiling gently, Joyce points past Eddie at the kettle and the pot beside it, which he finds is full of coffee. He thanks her, grabs two cups and fills both of them; one with coffee, another with steaming, plain water to which he grabs a flavor of tea he has seen used a lot.

Behind him, Steve moves around. Arms reaching in and out of cupboards and the fridge. After some rummaging, he emerges and turns to Eddie at the exact same time Eddie turns to him, a cup of steaming tea in hand. Steve, in turn, is holding out a bowl of cocoa puffs.

They pause and stare at each other.

Wordlessly, Eddie holds out the cup and Steve makes a face at it.

"You know, I don't like coffee."

"It's tea."

Steve blinks. "Oh." Carefully he slips his fingers beneath Eddie's and takes a hold of the cup and the offered tea bag. He stands still for a moment, blinking down at the cup in his hand. Staring almost uncomprehending at the tea bag tucked between his fingers. Then, he shifts and holds out the bowl of cereal.

Eddie takes it with a smile and a small ache in his chest. As soon as he takes it, Steve turns, picks up his own breakfast, which turns out to be two plain toasts with butter on top.

They bring their breakfast and drinks with them into the living room, where they collapse on the couch. Dustin, who has been shadowing their every step, immediately clamber up beside Steve.

"Will you tell us now what it is?" He crowds into Steve's space. Face shoved up into his and hands clasped onto his shoulder and arm.

Steve grunts. One of his hands lifts, plants directly onto Dustin's face and shoves him away.

"Asshole." Scowling, Dustin swats his hand away. "Just tell us already!" Gripping Steve by his shoulders, he shakes him.

"It's for Max, dipshit." Steve finally says, pulling his shoulder out of his grip, nose wrinkled in annoyance.

Dustin's nose scrunches up. "Why?"

"It's puff paint."

Eddie reaches around Steve and flicks Dustin's nose. "I thought you were meant to be the smart one, Henderson."

Dustin rolls his eyes. "Stop being assholes and just tell us!"

Funny use of plural, but considering Will's eyeing them from the floor where he's sat with a comic book and El's laying another Clock Solitaire beside him, and Jonathan and Argyle in front of the TV with their own deck of cards, too, casts small, humored glances their way, the us might be acceptable enough.

"It's so she can change her own music without needing someone else to tell her what's what, once she gets out of her casts."

Once he gets it explained and understands it his eyes light up like a fourth of July cracker and he bounces around. "Have you told her? Does she know? Did she ask you to do it? Can I tell her? Will you tell her?"

When it becomes clear, through Steve's eye rolling protests and dodges that no, Max does, in fact, not know about this, Dustin climbs halfway up Steve's arm. Hangs over his back and shoulder like an overgrown barnacle and tugs at his arm, vigorously shaking him around. Face split in an excited grin, eyes nearly completely buried beneath his chipmunk cheeks. "You should tell her. She'll flip out! Come on!" And he pulls Steve up from the couch, despite Steve's resistance to the fact (although, not so resistant, if he truly wanted to, he would not let himself be pulled up by a nerdy fifteen year old with noodle arms).

Dustin is very insistent.

Steve reluctantly pads after Dustin's insistent tugs on his arms. He throws a look over his shoulder. Expression tortured and begging as he looks back at Eddie.

Smirking, Eddie leans back into the couch, throws his arms up. Pillowing his head in his hands, he watches Steve get dragged across to El's bedroom door.

"Dustin, Dustin, wait," he calls and finally pulls himself free.

"She's not sleeping," he says, fast and rapid. "Not anymore, so you can still go in and—"

"It's fine. I will. I just—"

"Oh. Go on, Harrington." Eddie waves him onward. "You did this all for her. She deserves to know from you. Besides, someone else is going to tell her and you know she'll come after you, if it's not you, once she's more mobile again."

Steve heaves a deep sigh. Even from across the room, Eddie can see the strength of his chest rising and falling underneath it.

Before Dustin can shove him the rest of the way to the door, Steve ducks away. He goes back into the kitchen, scoops up one of the tapes — hopefully one of the first ones he worked on, before Eddie joined him, that has had time enough to dry — and comes back. He stops by the couch. One of his hands lands on the back by Eddie's head. He leans into it, head bending down to hover next to Eddie's. The softer top layer of the couch dips beneath the weight of his grip. It echoes out a soft imprint of his fingers into Eddie.

"You worked on them too," he says, voice soft. "Why don't you come, too?"

"Nah." A lax wave with his hand waves it away. "It was all your idea and your gift to her. Besides, she deserves to feel the love you have for her." Eddie makes sure to lock eyes with Steve as he says the next bit, "And just how far you will go to give her the world."

Steve goes.

So, Eddie is not there, when Steve tells Max of the tapes waiting for her. He does not know what Steve tells her or how, but he sees Steve come back out of the room, eyes rubbed raw and his face flushed red.

They do not talk about it. But their eyes catch and Steve sends him a wobbling, but blinding smile. Eddie tugs a piece of his hair in front of his face, hiding his no doubt besotted smile from view and tips his head towards Steve. A wordless acknowledgement.

Later that day, the camel’s back is finally broken.

Words snip and zip through the air between Steve and Dustin. Increasing in distress as Dustin desperately tries to explain the difference between a monster and a cryptid to Steve, who keeps asking increasingly dumber questions about it.

There's a glint in Steve's eyes though and a corner of his mouth keeps twitching. Eddie is convinced Steve is pulling Dustin's leg for the hell of it, but the kid, lost to his distressed tirade and wide, wild gesturing hands, is entirely oblivious to the humor in Steve's eyes.

Gleefully, Eddie watches it all unfold from the armchair.

After another thirty minutes and Dustin answers the dumbest question yet (so like, Vecna is a cryptic, right? with this pitched tone to his voice, as if imitating the dictation not unlike the bitchy girls from typical teen movies) with such desperation and horror, voice cracking with despair, Steve breaks with a snort.

Dustin's mouth drops open. Betrayal slams into his face. Squawking, he looks wide eyed and affronted at Steve. "You asshole!" he shouts, shrill and loud, as he flails his arms around in the air. "You've understood all along, haven't you?"

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, innocently batting his eyes at him. "I'm an idiot. Clearly, I don't know anything about cryptids and I could never understand the difference between them and monsters or its etymology. You should explain it to me for another thirty minutes, maybe I'll get it then."

"Asshole." Dustin shoves him. But a bright grin spreads over his face.

Laughing, Steve catches him and pulls him close. He slings an arm over Dustin's neck and pushes his head down into the crook of his elbow. Knocking the cap off his head, he pushes his closed fist into his hair and proceeds to noogie the life out of him, or — more accurately, Eddie suspects — the arrogant, smug attitude.

Dustin's bent over half. Arms shoving and pushing, he flails at Steve, slapping at his arms and back as he tries escaping the noogie. "Steve, Steve! No! Stop! Not the curls, man! Steve, seriously!"

Laughter shakes from Steve as he pulls and pushes Dustin around, raising his head up and away from his flailing arms. "That's what you get, when you walk around calling other people dumb, you shithead. Maybe you'll finally think twice before you speak, huh?" He grins. Scrubbing and scrubbing at Dustin's head with his fist. Curls shaking and wiggling desperately beneath his unforgiving hand.

"What do you expect from me, when you say shit all the time?!"

"What was that?" The grin on Steve's face spreads wider and even more wicked. He clearly grinds his fist even harder into Dustin's head.

"No! NO! Shit! Steve!" Stumbles around on his still limping, booted foot, Dustin wiggles and pulls and desperately tries shoving himself out of Steve's grip, but the other man's arm bulges with muscles popping in his upper arm and Dustin's stuck.

Eddie watches the two wrestle each other like a pair of bear cubs with a fond smile taking over his lips.

Legs bumping into each other, nearly tripping over each other, the two shuffle and wrestle (a one-sided wrestle, as Steve very easily keeps a hold of the upper hand) their way close to the couch. Right in front of it, Dustin places his hands firmly on Steve's back. The grin on Steve's face turns sharp and wicked. Dustin shoves hard against him. Steve's arm flies open and his hand releases him. A hard shove yanks Dustin away and he goes flying back.

A yelp bursts from Dustin's mouth. Wide eyes and an open mouth flash at Eddie and Dustin crashes into the couch. The momentum carries him up, over and down and he disappears over the back of the couch. Feet — and boot — goes flying through the air. Arms flail at nothing. And then a heavy bump echo. Limbs thump and bump against the couch. He yelps again and keeps rolling. His body crashes to the floor with a loud raucous and a final bump. The coffee table complaints with a smack and rattle of cups.

Quiet.

Then, "I'm okay!" he calls.

Laughter bursts from Steve. It slams into his chest. He bends over. Hand on the back of the couch, arm braced against it, he crumbles forward. Hooting with laughter. Face screwed up in humor.

Dustin pops back up from the couch and throws himself up onto his knees on the couch. He reaches for Steve over the back. Hands on his shoulders, fingers curled into his shirt and shakes him. Like a rattle. Loud complaints fly from his mouth, viper quick and dramatic.

Still laughing, Steve falls right into it and the two begin rough housing with the backrest of the couch between them.

Eddie watches it all happens with a grin on his face.

Steve pulls and pushes Dustin around, grinning and laughing with the kid. That's when it sinks into him. Warmth and a soft light burrows its way through his chest and settles into his heart, like the bloom of an entire sun, unfolding like a flower from the depths of his heart.

It fills his chest with a warm, gentle glow. Gently burning inside of his heart. Like a lantern in the dark.

It's not a new feeling around Steve. Not entirely. It's been here for a while. Slowly sneaking in through the backdoor and settling comfortably into place right inside of his heart. It's been here, glowing like a hearth inside of his chest; when Eddie sat and read Fellowship of the Ring, while Steve washed Max's hair with such caring, tender hands and a look of love in his eyes; when he laid on the couch, the day after his migraine and Eddie pulled gentle fingers through his hair; when another migraine brought him right back there; through their many talks and so many other times, the feeling has become synonymous with Steve. It is just there in his chest, as soon as Steve is in sight or by his side.

So the feeling is familiar to Eddie, even though he has never felt it before. But this is the first time he really, truly realizes what it means. Where he's been heading this entire time.

It hits him like a truck and everything around Eddie seems to freeze with a screeching halt, even though Steve and Dustin definitely keep roughhousing though it.

Oh. Fuck no.

Having a minor crush and butterflies in his tummy, whenever Steve smiles at Eddie a certain way or when Eddie needles him until he gets that beautifully confused look on his face was all well and good. Eddie could live with that. Has lived with it since a few days into his stay in the cabin. It is an inevitability when in close quarters with Steve Harrington and your preference is dudes. Oh, you like men? Here's the most lovable dork with a heart of gold and eyes of fucking sunlight, check back in in two days' time and you may be compensated for the crush that will soon ensue. Like, Jesus Christ. How anyone can stand in close proximity to Steve, when he's charging into danger to take the brunt of it, and not get a little starry eyed, Eddie does not know. And he is well past the Upside Down and Steve's heroism.

But a crush was all Eddie signed up for.

Fuck. This. What the hell is he supposed to do with this?

A crush on Steve Harrington? Expected. Disappointing, but expected. The guy’s a preppy jock for gods sake. He likes listening to the top 40 and he probably talks about the weather or the game last night (and which game, Eddie never knows, there's like a hundred of them) as small talk.

So. Crush. Urgh. Fine. If you must. But being in love with him? Gross. He didn't even know who Ozzy Osbourne was prior to biting a bat, which he should, if anyone cares to ask what Eddie thinks. If a guy is going to bite a bat and rip it in half, he should know the legend behind it before joining the ranks. How can Steve Harrington be the most metal guy in Hawkins and also be the most mundane, Eddie will never know but, apparently, he does not need to in order to fall in love with him. Apparently.

Urgh.

Well.

This is a car crash just waiting for happen. He might as well just have set himself on fire and call it a day.

That may be dramatic, but this is a very serious revelation and Eddie is entitled to a be a bit dramatic, okay? Just give him a minute. Honestly, Eddie has always been a bit of a dramatic bitch, but this might be a little bit extreme, even for him. Falling in love with Steve Harrington, that is. Not setting himself on fire. That may be just sufficient for such a discovery.

But, even as he stands there, heart pounding away and eyes wide, Eddie still cannot tear his eyes away from Steve and Dustin rough housing, shouting and laughing as they pull each other around like a pair of excited bear cubs.

Oh, well. Even if he goes down with the inevitable pain there is to come, which is staring him down like a death sentence, at least, he can go down in a blaze of sunlight and bright smiles.

It is the warmest, prettiest death Eddie has ever seen.

And as he looks at Steve laughing and smiling as bright as the sun, he cannot help but think he never really stood a chance, at all, did he?

The revelation changes everything and it changes nothing at all.

He cannot stop looking at Steve. More than he did before. And let's be honest, he was already looking at him more than an ordinary heterosexual boy would, but he can be forgiven, there's only so many people to stare at in the cabin and Steve is a distracting individual all on his own, never mind with what little else there is to look at in these small square feet. Hopefully, his indulgent little stares have gone mostly unnoticed in such close quarters.

Eddie carries this new revelation around, burrowing it into his heart and nursing it, like a hearth to be kept and looked after, keeping it safe and secure, tucked into his heart.

It should feel greater than it does, but perhaps it is not a surprise that it nestles itself, content and easy, into place in his heart. At home. And life carries on, the same way it has for the last few weeks.

Eddie wished he could say it protects him the same way he does it, but while it makes him feel all warm and fuzzy and like he swallowed a small sun, whenever he looks at Steve, it does nothing to keep the nightmares at bay.

Which means, that night, only hours after this newfound revelation, Eddie wakes with a scream clogged up in his throat and a monster under his bed.

Skin sweat-slick and flushed cold, Eddie rises to his feet with a pounding heart and a cigarette already held in his shaking hands. When he pads out through the living room, expertly stepping past huddled, sleeping figures and the furniture they occupy, he finds the kitchen table already occupied.

Speaking of queer revelations.

"Wizard Byers," Eddie says, stepping into the kitchen, eyes falling over the heavy, sunken figure hunched over the small dining table only ever meant for two.

Body jolting, like shot with lightning, Will startles upright. His head whips up. Wide eyes dart through the night and find him.

"Sorry. Just me." Eddie holds up one of his hands, an apologetic smile twisting from his mouth. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay." Will waves him off. "It takes so little these days. I'm not really surprised it keeps happening."

Turning his head, Eddie glances over his shoulder back at the living room and the people asleep in there. Eyes falling over the softly lit figures, lying in various shapes and forms strewn across the floor, the couch and armchair. He turns his gaze back to Will and considers the heavy bags under his eyes and the shadows on his face that have nothing to do with them. "Bad night?" he asks, eyes soft.

"Something like it." He shrugs.

Eddie lingers there in the middle of the floor, bouncing on the balls of his feet. One of his fingers taps against the side of his thigh, cigarette still in hand.

"You can smoke," Will says. "I don't mind."

"You sure?"

He nods. "My mom's always smoked and I got used to Jonathan smelling of weed all the time in Lenora."

With one last glance and a shrug, Eddie crosses the room. He goes to lean against the kitchen counter and holds up the lighter to the cigarette drooping from his mouth. A scratch-click from his lighter brings forth a flickering flame. Fire snaps and crackles lightly right in front of Eddie's face. The light pricks at his eyes in the age-old familiar way that has been his companion since he was fifteen.

Bringing the flame forth, he automatically cups the flame to keep it safe from the winds, even though the walls of the cabin have already done that for him. A motion that is as ingrained in his hands as picking his way across the frets and strings of his guitar. The cigarette catches the flame. It picks up the heat and burns with its own smoldering embers. A thin trail of smoke begins trailing into the air from the butt.

He takes his first breath of smoke and nicotine and tucks the lighter back into the packet of camels tucked into the high waist of his sock. Yes, his sock. It's not like his sleep shirt or underwear has any pockets. Eddie has to store the little shits somewhere during his routinely nightly trips, and the floor of the cabin is dirty and tracked with specks of dirt brought in through the door, seeing as no one but Lucas and Erica bother to take their shoes off unless they're bunking down for the night and Eddie does not want to walk barefoot on any of the shit littering the wooden floorboards. It is grimy and grubby and he hates how it feels against his bare skin. So, he sleeps in socks to save himself the frustration.

Which he is used to, honestly. In the winter the heat in the trailer likes to flake out on him and his uncle sometimes and it just shuts down sometimes and refuses to come on for a day or two, until Eddie or his uncle goes poking and wiggles the right wires or gives the whole heating system a thrawk at right spot, or by some miracle turns itself back on. It leaves the trailer freezing cold and makes their breath fog, every time they breathe and turn their fingernails blue, like it's trying to freeze them out or giving them the cold shoulder; as if that last elbow bump into the wall or kick against the door frame as Eddie stubbed his toe or the frustrated yelling at the shower that always takes, like, ten minutes to turn warm and only ever goes as high as lukewarm, was the last straw for a trailer that's seen them through worse shit than some cursing and Eddie's explosive metal music.

It means Eddie is used to sleeping with socks on. What he is not used to is sleeping with his socks on in a warm room, where he only has to wear a t-shirt at night and that's mostly for Dustin's modesty, who's often sleeping right beside Eddie and squashing his face right into his shoulder, back or arm with these gurgling, choking snores that sound more like he's trying to suffocate himself, than breathe. What's worse is that it is a pair of athletic socks. White with stripes around the top in Hawkins colors and Eddie knows they are Steve's, which, he can now admit, is the only reason he did not throw a fuss when they were given to him.

So. Socks. Easy and accessible storage room, in Eddie's opinion. Perfect to tuck a packet of camels into in the dead of night, when he needs a crutch against the shadows of the Upside Down and a girl’s dead eyes that seek him wherever he goes, but especially at night.

Body leaning over the counter, one forearm braced against the counter, the other held, keeping the cigarette hovering in the air before his face, he turns his head and looks back at Will. "Lenora. That where you went to live last year?" he asks, between one cloud of smoke and the next.

Will turns around in his seat, his body facing him sideways, but his head turning to face him. He nods. "Yeah, it was—" he trails off and waves a hand in the air, grimacing lightly.

"Shit," Eddie finishes for him with a snort. "You can curse, you know. I figure you've earned that card, after facing a monster or two." He taps his cigarette against the ashtray. A small patter of ash detaches from the end and drifts down into its grasp.

Face pulled into distaste, Will pulls a single shoulder into a quiet shrug. "It was okay."

Ever since those first few days in the cabin and Eddie finally got the chance to know Will, quickly recognizing parts of himself in him, he has wished for the same friendship he shares with Dustin, Lucas and Mike with him, if only to be able to share a part of himself with Will without scaring him off; without Will second guessing his words for the gift that it is and not the accusation others would use it as. Maybe he has a chance to open a window for Will tonight, for him to look inside Eddie and see this part that they share. Without having to tell him, what he has seen in him.

"You know," he says, "I may not look like it, but I do know bullies. We're quite close, actually." A wry grin spreads from his lips as he tips his head to the side. "At least, I know their slurs and fists quite well."

Skeptical eyes glance him up and down. "You've been bullied?"

"Where do you think my well beloved moniker 'The Freak' came from?" He grins and quirks an eyebrow, throwing his arms out as if presenting himself. "It came because I was tired of hearing people so unimaginative as to call me queer and fag, so I figured, if I weirded people out enough, they might finally decide fag just didn't cut it anymore."

It is as if his words make Will freeze. He just freezes on the spot. Every muscle in his body tense up and his eyes widen. For a short moment, he does not even breathe.

Eddie knows the feeling. That feeling of the floor dropping out from under you, your heart startling with shock and your lungs get stuck, unable to grasp any air for fear any movement will shatter the string holding you up and you'll fall.

Still smiling wryly, as if he has seen nothing of Will's reaction, Eddie continues, "Eventually, they got so used to seeing me as a freak, they forgot to see me as a fag."

Will fidgets. He ducks his head and glances up at Eddie. Eyes hesitant and afraid. "Don't you mind?"

"Not really. Not anymore, at least. Why should I care what people say or think about me? That would only make me unhappy, which is exactly what they want. I may be a loser, but in this, I can make damn sure there are no winners either." Eddie shrugs. "I am a freak. I like being a freak. If being normal means falling into society's expectations of you. Of being a good, Sunday-going Christian. If it means pretending and playing some part others have made for you, and having to like sports and girls and not playing D&D or reading fantasy books, or doing whatever thing you actually like. If it means, killing the truest parts of yourself, then I'd rather be a freak." He looks straight into Will's eyes. Meets his wide-eyed, searching gaze with his own, as steady and strong as it has ever been, when he's talked Dustin or Mike away from the voices trying to make them feel lesser for being who they are.

"I'm a freak, because I like different things than what society expects me to. Whether that's boys or D&D or fantasy books or drama. What's more, I'm a freak because I'm not quiet about being different. People don't care as long as they can ignore it. As long as everything they deem un-clean and un-pure happens behind closed doors, then they can pretend. They can pretend they're at the top of the world and convince themselves they're happier for it. But I don't allow them to have that closed door." One of his fingers presses into the counter. Finger pointed and stiff. "I kicked the door down, so hard it splintered into pieces years ago and people can't forgive me for that. For being different and being happy about it," he says every word quiet, as if it is a secret passed in confidence, meant for the hidden places, like notes passed under tables or kisses exchanged in the dark underneath the gym benches or in the janitors closet; like confessions whispered in blanket forts and in the dead of night to shooting stars; quiet but strong and firm.

"Can you imagine? I'm different. I'm a freak. And I'm not unhappy about it?" Eyebrows lifting high on his brow, he scoffs dramatically, throwing his head back along with it, body rocking with it. "People like Jason Carver would never forgive me for it. No way." Making a dismissive noise, he waves a hand through the air, dismissing that idea with a swat of his hand. "Freaks and fags are meant to be unhappy, meant to show every malleable, insecure kid out there, that they'll be better off, if they fall in line with everyone else, instead of being true to themselves." Eddie stills his widely gesturing arm and brings his eyes back to Will. Shaking his head, he brings his finger back to point stiff and firm into the countertop again. "But I'm not a part of that. I refuse to be a part of that." Finger lifting off the counter, he taps at the surface once. "Never." He gives another shake of his head. "And if people call me freak for it?" A dismissive expression cuts across his face and he gives another shrug of his shoulders. "So be it."

A hesitant expression falls over Will's face. "You still don't mind? Not when everyone believed you killed all those people?"

Pausing for a moment, Eddie lets the question hover in the air. He lets a contemplative expression fall over his face, as if he truly has to consider it.

He does not.

He knows the answer.

The ease of which the town seemingly all joined in a witch hunt for him and how a good half of those must have been ready to kill him themselves, if the cars filling the War Zone and the way Steve, Nancy, Robin and Erica all came rushing back into the van like the hounds of hell itself was nipping at their heels — something he knows they are acutely familiar with — had been anything to go by; it bothered Eddie. Of course, it haunted him. How could it not?

Eddie has always known he was different. And what he did not already know deep in his bones, he learned very quickly. People would look at his dirty shoes, his ripped clothes and the dirt from the trailer park clinging to his skin and in the corners of his nails, and see something wrong. Everything else has just been a nail in his coffin; his constant fidgeting and inability to fall in line when the other kids did; his taste for metal music and his eccentric choice of style; his love for D&D and how loud be has always been about that love; his love of theatrics and at least one weekly scheduled rant atop a cafeteria table; and that little something else, that made kids in middle school begin pushing him around and call him fag.

He heard the things they say about his kind in church, even if he has never gone. He knows what the pamphlets, concerned PTA moms, and christian fanatics say about the epidemic spreading through the country.

They may not have called him that for years, Eddie was clever enough to find a way to trick that slur from them and put another in their hands, but, it was still not a surprise that they would condemn him more, that they would hunt him down in the name of justice and peace; Eddie's been dead for years. At least to them.

That does not mean it did not hurt.

That does not mean, Eddie was not fucking terrified, when Jason showed up at Reefer Rick's house or when he followed him into the water and Eddie's heart was fluttering and racing away inside of his chest like a hummingbird heart; as if it was trying to catch up to all of the years of heartbeats it wouldn't get to live, before Jason came to snuff it out.
  But is Eddie going to say that to a kid, who is looking at him much the same way Dustin and Mike had the first time they heard him condemn popularity, societal norms and forced conformity with confidence to rival Satan himself and a devil-may-care attitude to match; a kid who is looking at him with eyes of burning hope and ashes that look too close to desperation to Eddie? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Eddie's finger tap the table. Hand lying lax and loose on top of it, no longer pointed like before. He hums considering and thoughtful. "I'm known as a drug dealer to half of Hawkins and the other half, I'm still a delinquent simply for my name and already having one family member behind bars, never mind I'd have washed my hands off of that scumbag years ago, if I ever got the chance to." He rolls his eyes.

"And in both of those groups, are the people who thinks they know me as a fag or just a plain freak and would gladly see me burn for it." He levels serious eyes on Will. "Why do you think it was so easy for the town to believe me capable of such gruesome murders? To most of them, I'm either the drug dealer, the delinquent kid from the trailer park or the fag. And to all I'm the Freak. It's a one and done deal for them, because of that." The hand holding his shrinking cigarette brushes through the air, as easy and light as shrugging lint off his shoulders.

"The jump from trailer trash Freak or Fag or whatever they call me, to murderer and cult leader is smaller than you'd think." Placing the cigarette back between his lips, he pulls another drag and blows the following cloud of smoke out into the air. "I was already a criminal in their eyes. Just because I live and breathe. Just because I kiss boys. Just because I'm dirt poor and come from the 'bad'—" he makes air quotes with his fingers around the word and rolls his eyes "—side of town. It was easy to believe me a murderer. I practically already was one." He shrugs loosely with one shoulder. Eddie has too much practice with putting on a show and pretending he is not bruised and broken beneath the heavy coat of his leather jacket. Not a single word is out of tune, not a single drop of blood of his hurt or stray flame of the simmering anger inside of his veins bleeds out onto his skin. Not even a twitch makes its way across his face to betray him.

Will looks at him with wide eyes. Taking every word in with this stunned look about him.

A moment passes, where Eddie's words settles in the space all around them and neither speaks. And Will does not ask.

He does not ask.

Lips pressed together, as if he has to fight the words to not make them burst forth, he does not ask.

He pulls his gaze away from Eddie and stares everywhere but at him, as if scared of what Eddie will find, if he allows him to look into his eyes.

But the question still lingers in the air all around. Hovering over his skin. Burning inside of his eyes. The need to know, if the people calling him slurs are right. Even if the word is not.

And Eddie has seen enough of him, these days in the cabin, to recognize this part of him. To know it does not come from a place of hate or disgust. But a desperate need to be seen and heard. A desperate, burning need to be understood by someone, whose eyes see the same thing your own do and whose heart is shaped like your own.

So, Eddie knocks the knuckles of his free hand lightly against the table and gives him a gentle smile. "Funny, huh? How it all comes down to that? Fag," he says with a quiet, rueful smile. "The only thing they ever did get right about me."

Like the pull of a magnet, Will's eyes dart from the side, jerking back to his. Wider than before, if that is even possible. He sits frozen. Breath held in his lungs once more, every muscle locked up tight and stiff.

Eddie shrugs easy and nonchalantly.

For a moment, Will is silent. He swallows thickly. The noise struggles down his throat, loud in the quiet, still air between them and the snores from the living room. He looks up and down. Gaze darting from the floor to Eddie, as if the gift in Eddie's hands is shining too bright to look at for more than a second, but he still cannot get himself to look away for too long.

"Thank you," he eventually says, with perhaps the smallest voice Eddie has ever heard, "for telling me." He gives a small, twisting pull of his mouth that looks more like a grimace than the smile he might have been going for.

"I figured you know enough about this stuff to keep quiet," he says, because he might have recognized the look in his eyes, when he looks at Mike, but he also recognized the fear that flashed in them, when Eddie first said the slur.

Eyes still wide, Will nods. He fidgets on the chair. Shifting back and forth on top of his seat, as if the ground beneath him is rippling, ever shifting. Eyes darting all over the place, as incapable of being still as Eddie himself is.

Finally, his gaze lands back on Eddie. A hesitant and almost drawn expression falls over his face, beneath all the shadows of the Upside Down and Vecna clinging to him. "Does anyone else know?" His lips press thinly together. Tearing his head away from him, he looks down at his hands, clenched together on top of his lap. "I mean, have you ever told anyone?"

"Sure." Eddie shrugs. "My uncle knows. I told him, when he first took me in. And one or two of my friends." Even though one of them was his friend from kinder garden to halfway through middle school, where he told Eddie his family was moving because his parents were getting a divorce and his mother got custody and didn't want to stay in Hawkins, so they were high-tailing it out of there, which was the part Eddie agreed with, all except the fact that she was taking his friend with her. A friend whom Eddie was nursing a three year crush on. So the last time he came around his trailer, Eddie kissed him, only to be shoved away with angry hands and an angrier look on his face and they never saw or spoke to each other ever again. But maybe he does not count, seeing as he is over 500 miles away and they no longer speak and Eddie never actually used his words back then. He used his mouth, just in a very different way than you would expect.

He taps his knuckles against the table again. A soft knock knock echoes from beneath them. "Steve and Robin, too. And I'd hope the boys I've kissed over the years knows by now, or I didn't make a very good impression on them," he says, rapping his knuckles against the counter again and cracking a crooked smile at Will.

Will looks back up at him. A shocked look smacks into his face. As if his words struck him or shaken something loose inside of him. "Steve knows?" he squeaks.

"Oh, yeah. Dude is a walking miracle. High school asshole and he comes out ready to throw down with demogorgons and homophobes alike." Smiling, Eddie shakes his head and huffs a small laugh. "But yeah, Steve knows. You can talk to him about me or whatever." He waves a hand in the air. "Him and Robin, and me, of course," he adds.

"What—" Will's voice is so very hesitant and careful and so very small. He draws in on himself, curling up and leaning back against the backrest behind him. "Why would I talk to them about that?"

"I don't know." Eddie shrugs, nonchalant and loose. "You kids need to keep so many secrets to yourself, even if you have a whole group to share it with, it can still be a lot. I don't want you to feel this is just another top secret thing, you can't talk to anyone about."

"Oh, okay." Will's head turns down. Gaze landing on his lap again. And Eddie genuinely cannot tell if he is disappointed or relieved by his answer.

Eddie's cigarette died some time ago, so he crushes it up in the ashtray and leaves it there in the ashes of its remains. "You okay?" he asks, eyes glancing Will up and down, taking in his rumbled clothes, messy hair and pale face, the shadows under his eyes so dark in contrast to his skin, they look as if carved into his face. "It's kinda late. Have you been up long?" He waves a hand in the air. "Before I came and disturbed your nightly solitude hour, I mean."

"Not that long." He shrugs, still keeping his head down.

"Hmm." Eddie taps another series of nails against the table. "It's okay if you're not sleeping, you know." He throws a sideways glance at him. "God knows, I've barely managed to sleep just one night without nightmares, and I've only known about monsters for barely a month. You've dealt with them, since they first got here."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Will nods. A grimace twists across his face. He fidgets. Fingers twisting up in one another.

Eddie crooks an eyebrow at him.

Sighing, Will shrugs again. Head lowered, eyes on the floor, he rolls his eyes and says, "I've only heard stuff like that almost every day for the last three years."

Eddie hums quietly in understanding. "Must have been hard. Dealing with monsters and an overprotective mother and brother."

Will gives another shrug. He seems to do that a lot, when it comes to this stuff. "It's fine. I know they only wanted to keep me safe and make sure I was okay."

Pushing off the kitchen counter, Eddie makes his way to the kitchen table and sits down across from Will. Elbows braced on tops of the table, hands folded together, Eddie scoots the chair closer and leans forward. "You can talk to me," he offers with a small smile and a tip of his head, leaning slightly forward to try and catch his eyes. "I know you have your mother, Jonathan and El and everyone else." He waves a hand in the air. "But maybe it'll help to talk to someone else, someone who doesn't know shit about any of this and doesn't expect anything from you."

From across the table, Will eyes him. Eyes skeptical and a twist to his mouth, he simply watches him for a moment.

Eventually, his shoulder fall down and his head lowers, gaze on the table again. "I don't know." He shrugs. "It's just harder this time." His fingers pick at the table before him, nails picking at furrows and grains on the surface. Tapping and clacking against the wood. "Knowing it was Henry—" he shakes his head "—Vecna, all this time. It makes his presence that much clearer. He's just here. Everywhere in Hawkins. Like his eyes are always watching, always waiting and I can feel them, like a weight hanging over Hawkins, like a ghost hanging over—" he breaks off. A sharp inhale shakes in through his mouth. Eyes dropping down to the table, he shakes his head and pulls his hands to himself, folding them tightly into his lap. "He's still weak. Wounded. But he's still watching. Waiting until he's ready. It feels like a game of chess. Like he's watching us. And he's just there, slowly lining up all of his pieces. Like this weight. On top of my shoulders. Always weighing down on me." In his lap, his fingers fidget with the bottom of his shirt. The fabric pulls taut and tight between his fingers, stretching and twisting up in his grasp.

"It must be terrifying, being able to feel him like that."

Will's head snaps up. For a moment, Will just looks at him. Sharp eyes dart all over his face, as if searching all the crooks and corners for anything lying in wait. As if he knows what it is like, to find monsters in the words people say, as well as the ones he's been running from since '83.

Eddie keeps his face open. Simply waits.

Finally, Will gives a small nod. Air falls from his mouth in a small rush and his back caves. Shoulders collapsing, like the weight on top of his shoulders, he is usually so careful to keep hidden from the people around him, is suddenly heavier, or as if, for a moment, he allows it to be seen by someone else.

"Mike, Jonathan, my mom. They're all watching me too. Like they're just waiting for me to break or fall apart. It's just like after the demogorgon. They would watch my every step, like they were afraid I would step in a shadow and disappear again." Shoulders drooping, he sighs. "This feels so much worse."

"And I bet Vecna doesn't make it any easier to sleep," he says, voice quiet and soft.

Will shakes his head.

Since Eddie is an almost-adult person guaranteed to be at the cabin at all times, Joyce pulled him aside the first morning, just before she left with Hopper to meet with the shady government suits, briefly telling him Vecna had his claws in Will once before, and while she knew he was gone for now, she was worried he would come for Will again. If he would mind keeping an eye on Will and make sure he was doing okay, while she was gone, she would feel better having to leave so often.
It was no issue for Eddie to agree, even if he would only keep the same eye on Will as he would on the other kids and not watch him like a hawk, because gods know that is probably the last thing he needs. So, he knows there is more to it, than Will getting taken by a demogorgon in '83. And that it had something to do with Vecna. (Duh. Like everything Upside Down is). He is fairly sure he's heard the words 'possession' and some sort of spy? somewhere in connection with all this. Which is just wild and mind-boggling. Like, seriously? A real life possession? Who, when and how the fuck is anyone still alive and ready to throw fisticuffs with Vecna and all his monsters after that?

Honestly, it is all very confusing and a fucking mess in Eddie's head and he has made no attempts to unravel it. Simply lets every Upside Down and Vecna related thing pile into one huge pile with no rhyme or reason to it, hoping he'll make sense of it one day.

"You know, we'll keep you safe, right?" Eddie asks quietly. "If he comes for you, we'll make sure to keep you safe. He won't get you. Not again."

The look that falls over Will's face is one that makes Eddie's veins flood cold. An expression of utter loss and grief falls like a curtain over his features and his eyes. As if Will has already seen the ending of this tale. As if he already knows, he is lost. And maybe he is; has been since that demogorgon first pulled him to the Upside Down and he was left in that hellscape Eddie himself barely escaped with three other people to keep him safe.

Looking at the loss carved like certainty into his eyes, Eddie feels utterly and completely helpless.

What can he possibly say to a kid, who has seen so much and lost so much, who has already fought this fight three times, to make him believe, there will always be people on the other side to pull him back to the right-side of Hawkins? To make him believe, he will survive, when he has a monster in the back of his mind?

Instead of platitudes that won't be believed, Eddie tries to give him something to hold onto.

"You know," he says slowly, as if mulling the words over, when he has already made this promise to himself, "when all of this is over, and we finally kick Vecna so far into his grave, there is no way he will ever be able to get back out again, which we will, I mean, have you seen this ensemble of monster hunters?" Grinning, he tilts his head and sweeps a hand through the air, turning halfway on his chair and gesturing back towards the rest of the cabin. "Miss 4.0 Wheeler with guns and a marksmanship to rival her grades; Hawkins best babysitter Steve Harrington and his trusty bat, and a frankly, terrifying sacrificial instinct it could rival Jesus Christ himself, and I say that as an atheist," he cracks with a grin and flicked eyebrows. Then continues, "Buckley, who's so scary smart, she cracks Russian codes and learns languages on her own in her spare time, for fun " He shudders comically. "The former chief of police, who escaped a top secret prison deep in the KBG, I mean—" he arches his eyebrows "—that alone can scare the demogorgons off; Your mother, who's a powerhouse of her own, scarier and smarter than all of us combined; Argyle, who's a walking survivalist book; El, who needs no preface and it would frankly be embarrassing for me to try; Your brother, who'd go through hell for you; You, who's survived more than the rest of us, and more than once. And all of your batshit insane friends, who are all Molotov trigger happy, it's a marvel they haven't burned down the cabin yet." Will does finally crack a smile at that and huffs the ghost of a laugh. Eddie offers him a gentle smile. "Vecna won't know what’s coming for him."

Eyebrows lifting up on his brow, Will blinks at him. Eddie blinks back. He drops his arm from his outstretched pose, hanging it over the back of the chair. "What was I saying?" He frowns. "Oh, yeah!" Perking up, he leans over the table again. "When this is all over, I'll get a campaign up and running again. You're a wiz at it, according to Mike and the rest of your party.” At Mike’s name, Will’s cheeks redden. Which Eddie gracefully pretends he cannot see. "I can DM, or you can, if you'd prefer. But, if we're not all tired of beating monsters, we'll all sit down and beat some more, with a lot more fun and a lot less demo-monsters. Yeah?"

A grin spreads across Will's face. "I haven't played, since I left Hawkins."

Eddie tuts playfully. "For shame, Byers, for shame," he says, playacting an exaggerated disappointed frown and headshake.

Smiling apologetically, Will shrugs. A flush rises in his cheeks. "Didn't feel the same to play without my friends."

The grin on Eddie's face turns lopsided. "Yeah, I bet it didn't." At his words, Will's cheeks burn even more red. "But what'd'ya say? We save the world and more importantly, we'll make a campaign for the history books?"

The smile on Will's face grows. Head bopping enthusiastically up and down, he nods. "Mike says you're a genius DM." The flush on his cheeks gives away to a large grin. "I'd love to be in your campaign."

"It's a deal, Wizard Byers." Eddie reaches a hand across the table. "We beat Vecna and live to tell the tale and I'll make sure we live to tell even more, enough so that you won't even remember Vecna anymore. He'll just be another monster in our D&D manuals." Lifting his other hand, he flutters his fingers in the air, like an imitation of a butterfly flying away, keeping the right one extended across the table. Even if the thought of sitting down and trying to pull monsters from his D&D manual, makes Eddie's skin crawl and he has to face his own shadows to do it, he will gladly do so, if it helps Will chase the monsters in his mind away with ones of make-believe. Especially, if the promise of it will give him enough to hold onto, if Vecna should come knocking at his door again.

Smiling wide and his eyes gleaming with light, Will puts his hand in Eddie's.

It's been a month.

Or, rather, he thinks it's been at least a month, is what Eddie should say instead.
Thinks because Eddie literally cannot think about it all without feeling like he is going to throw up, so he just does not.

But he knows it to be around that time, because one day, Hopper turns on the TV in the morning and there's this whole introspective thing going on. Looking back on the tragedies of Spring break and Chrissy Cunningham they call it, or something like that. Eddie would have been looking for Fred and Patrick in the program, too, but within the first two minutes, he is out of the door and far enough into the trees that he cannot hear even a distant buzz from the TV; his footsteps a cloud of dust behind him and his heart hammering away inside of his chest, as if he had run a marathon.

For the rest of the day, he does not come back inside.

That night, he does not sleep well. What little he does get…

Well. The less said about it the better.

The day after that is the worst yet.

Cracks inside of Eddie shake and tremble, threatening to split wide open and swallow him whole.

Eddie sits restless on the couch, beside Hopper and Joyce, both occupied; one with a newspaper and the other with images making their way across the TV screen. And he does not even have Steve or Robin to lean up lean up against, or the kids to distract him. Earlier, Steve left with Dustin, Will and Robin in tow, leaving the cabin in one of its quieter days, and Max and El shut off inside El's bedroom. Very inconsiderate of them. But really, it is all Eddie's fault for not opening his damn mouth and beg them to stay, when they were all prepping to leave.

Eyes unfocused on the TV, Eddie hardly takes note of the blurry figures moving back and forth on screen, much less the words they say. Legs bouncing up and down more violently than they ever have. Fingers fidgeting and pulling at every inch of loose thread, fabric and clunky rings they can get their hands on; tugging with such a vicious touch, it is a miracle he does not break skin. And he bites at his cuticle and the skin around his nails. Pulls and tugs on the bits that comes loose until pain sparks and lashes through his fingers in little sparks of lightning. It is not enough. It disappears as soon as it comes. Like the spark of electric shock through wires Eddie's father placed into his hands all those years ago, when he first taught him how to hot-wire.

Behind El's door, there's the bubble of tittering, startled laughter. The sound faint and small. Unexpected. It reminds Eddie of a bench in the woods behind Hawkins High and another spark of laughter that was startled for its unexpected arrival.

Like a shot, Eddie jumps to his feet. Surging up from the couch, as if jump-started at the glimpse of something white, green and yellow flashing across the screen.

Ignoring Jonathan and Argyle at the dining table, he grabs an armful of beers and goes outside.

Voices drift out of the cracks and covered up holes in the wall. It carries a gentle conversation between Hopper and Joyce outside to Eddie, where he's hunched over and laid back against the wall. A steady, humming buzz of music from the TV fill the air, flitting between their voices and drowning out their words.

Then, the world around him quietens.

He fills the air with the crack and fizz of can after can opening and washes the taste of one beer down with another. Tongue prickling and tingling, his vision turns blurry and soft. Everything fuzzes against his skin and inside of his stomach and chest and still he drinks.

Occasionally, he catches sounds of Hopper and Joyce as they do their own thing, even moving from outside to in, now and then, with cigarettes or coffee in hand. Sometimes they fill the air with a steady conversation, and sometimes they fall quiet with only the breeze drifting through the trees, rustling leaves and squeezing in past cracks in the walls, whistling through the world that builds to revolve more and more, the more Eddie drinks.

When afternoon rolls around, Eddie is sprawled across the floorboards of the porch. A heavy buzz makes its way through his veins, flooding his limbs and his head with its slurry-like grasp, like the fuzz of snow across a static screen or what it would feel like, if it coated everything inside of you with its smoothed over, slurry-like touch.

A concerning amount of empty cans of beer stands on the floorboards beside him. Some of them have toppled over and rolled across the porch, sprawling across the wood, leaving a small trail of drops of beer behind itself. Others are still standing next to each other, all grouped into one group, like a line of soldiers.

Music plays from inside the cabin. Cyndi Lauper and her Girls just wanna have fun makes its way through the boarded up windows and drifts out at Eddie, where he sits slumped against the wall, slouched so far down he might as well have been lying down. Shoulders pressed into wall and his head pushed forward, neck smarting with pain.

"'The phone rings in the middle of the night, my father yells, what you gonna do with your life?'" Eddie sings along, voice oddly pitched to fall into a mimic of her singing. Two strands of hair hooks onto his fingers and he plays with them, waving them around in the air in time with the music. "'But girls, they wanna have fun, Oh girls they just wanna have fun.'" Then, twirling a piece around his fingers on both hands, he pulls and tugs them in front of his face. Gaze fixed on the curly strands, he twirls them around, pulls them across his face from one end to the other, so they slash across his upper lip, forming an X under his nose, like a strange moustache.

"Eheh heh," he laughs through the music. "Lookie here, who are you, sir?" his voice drops into a deep timbre. Every word shakes with chuckles from his chest, bubbling with the buzz humming through his veins and the haze of his muddled head. He drops his voice into this comically masculine voice, affecting a character and says, "Have you seen Eddie the Banished? He was last seen around these parts. With a guitar shaped bag on his back. Mehehe."

He pitches his voice closer to his normal tone, but affects a drawling accent, like a true country hick. "Why, sir officer, I don' believe I seen this Eddie fellow 'round. I've got this moustache so I couldn't possibly know anything about him or be related to him in any shape or form. I must ask though, as a concerned citizen of this peaceful town, a guitar shaped bag? That would not be of any danger to us, good Samaritan Christian heterosexuals, would it?"

He pitches his voice low again and shakes his head out, prim and proper, chin lifting up, "No, sir, no. Nothing to worry about. Just, keep your eyes out and contact us, if you see anything suspicious. Oh, and plug your ears. Wouldn't want to risk exposure to radical music now, would we? Who knows what that would do to you."

"No, 'course not, officer."

He pulls the hair away from his face and upper lip. "Ahah, foiled again." One hand pumps the air in victory. "Eddie the Banished snuck one under the pigs once more and remains one step ahead of them."

He pushes himself a little higher up. Throws an inquisitive look at his line of cans, picks his hand up and taps the top of them back and forth as he mumbles, "Eenie, meenie, miney, moe, something something, I'm the best DM this land has ever known." He grabs the one his finger lands on, pulls it towards his mouth and tips it upside down. Nothing comes out. "Oh, you bastard." He throws it aside and grabs another one. This one gushes lukewarm beer into his mouth, when he tips it.

Between two large mouthfuls of beer, he pushes himself back up, sitting higher up the wall and jiggles the can back and forth. Beer sloshes inside of it. The weight throws itself around, weighing inside of his hand as the liquid splashes against the sides. He figures there's probably half a can left and sets it off to the side, near two other empty cans, just a little off from the rest of his discarded beer cans, so the little bastards can't fool him again. He knows their little tricks now, and he's got his eye on them.

He tips back into the wall and settles down once more.

When new voices fill the air, he's humming along to Janet Jackson.

Somewhere a machine grumbles. Wheels churn over dirt, grinding it underfoot with a steady crunch. A heavy body comes to a stop with a whine. Something clicks. Two doors opens, then slams closed with a cascading thunk-thunk. One behind the other like trying to mirror each other.

Feet walk across the ground. Dirt crunch beneath shoes.

"Munson." And suddenly, Steve is there, coming up the stars. Shoes stepping down on the wooden boards with little thumps.

"Harrington, hey!" Eddie calls, his voice thick and slurring.

Steve's brow furrow at him. "What are you doing?"

"I'm listening to your old friend, Janet Jackson." Grinning, he spreads his arms wide, then drops them again. Expression falling into heavy disapproval, he shakes his head and says, "That's not very friendly of you, if you can't even recognize her."

Frowning lightly, Steve tilts his head to the side. "With what music?"

"The TV?"

Eyes darting back and forth in the air, Steve searches for the sound. It takes a few breaths, but eventually he shrugs and steps further up the stairs. "Can't hear it."

"Oh, yeah, it probably would be," Eddie says, quietly. "I forgot." And then his muddled, beer-soaked mind thinks it was too quiet, when Steve's just said he couldn't hear the music and the thought makes his heart hurt painfully — which it should no longer be able to do, considering its supposed to be drowning in alcohol now, the betrayer — so he repeats louder than before, "I forgot!" And pouts up at him. "I didn't mean to. Sorry."

"You forget to eat and drink," Steve sighs, "I don't take it personally." With one last step, he mounts the final step on the stairs leading up to the cabin. Right on top Steve comes to a pause on the last step. One foot remains on the step below, the other stands on the porch, knee raised and bent. He looks at Eddie. Really looks at him. Hazel eyes scan him up and down, brow furrowed. "You doing okay?" A small frown pinches between Steve's brows and his gaze trail over the regiment cans of beer.

Eddie throws his arm out. A wide grin stretches across his face. "I'm gonna live forever and still die young, baby." A hiccup jolts inside of his chest. The stretch of his arm make him tilt to the side. The world around him tilts and throws him overboard. He tips over and falls to the floor with a resounding thud. Air blows from his mouth with a huffing fwoomp. "Ow," he says to the floor smushing into him. "Rude. That's rude. Someone's grumpy today. Trying to wane off caffeine again?"

"What?"

Eddie groans. He lifts a hand in the air and flaps it around. "I wasn't talkin' to you, Harrington."

"Um," he says, slow and confused, "okay?"

Eddie gathers his hands beneath himself. Pushing himself around, he comes to lie on his back, he tilts his head and looks up at Steve by the edge of the porch. His eyes fall on the piece of fabric hanging from Steve's hand. It's a familiar piece of denim, splashed and colored with pins and badges. The sight of it brings a smile to his lips. "Hey, you've got my vest."

Lifting his hand, Steve's eyes drop to the vest, his head turning down, as if he has to double check it, now Eddie has called attention to it. He drops it back down and looks back at Eddie. A small furrow builds in the space between his brows. "Yeah, I thought I would take the time to remove all the blood from it, before returning it to you."

Eddie turns his head, turning it down into the floorboards beneath him, smushing his cheeks into it and hiding the pout that comes across his face that makes no right in showing its face. Seriously? What is it with his body and betraying him today? Did his heart and face just choose murder today, when he 'woke up' today? Dear satan and all the princes of Hell. Backstabbers the lot of them.

Walking across the porch, Steve comes to stand before him. One of his feet touches one of the tipped over cans, nudging it away. It rolls over the floorboards with a small, metallic clacking sound and comes to a stop by the wall.

Feet in the space right before Eddie's smushed up face, Steve crouches down right in front of him. Hazel eyes stare down at him, darting all over his face. That concerned furrow digs deeper across his brow.

From the cabin behind them, the song Head Over Heels plays from the TV. Some fucked up god or Satan himself must be bored and then swiped the remote from the coffee table to switch to a channel currently running that song. Apt. But no one asked for a mood setting. Eddie certainly did not. And he will take it up with corporate. As soon as he can speak without tripping over his own tongue.

"That's nice of you," he mumbles into the floorboards. They gracefully take his quiet words and fold them into their wooden depths. A deep sigh blows from his mouth, joining his previous words in the pocket of secrets the porch keeps. "Too nice." He raises his head and looks up at Steve. When he speaks again, he says it louder, because he wants Steve to hear this, so he can stop doing it, "Don't be nice, it's annoying. I can't handle you being nice."

Steve frowns at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing, nothing at all, Stevie." He pops an arm in the air and waves it around, brushing it away.

"Okay, let's get you back up." One of Steve's hands grabs him by his flailing arm, catching it in the air before it can fall back down again.

"No," Eddie whines, turning his face around and burying it even more into the floor, letting his weight flop, really letting gravity drag him to the ground. "Just leave me here to die."

A puff of air blows from Steve. "Not gonna happen, I think we already made that clear."

"Urgh, you're no fun."

One warm hand grabs him by his shoulder, the other by his arm. Fingers digging into his flesh, Steve pulls him upwards, guiding him upwards.

The world tips and surges all around Eddie, swooping all over the place, as if trying to turn into a rollercoaster at the fair. He lets himself be dragged upwards. A small groan comes from the back of his throat. It grinds low and grumbling beneath the noise of leather rustling and his hair falling in a patter from his shoulder and down his back. Head dragging behind himself, hanging loose and limp on his neck, his throat long and bared.

One last heave from Steve pulls Eddie to sit upright once more and he comes to a halting stop right in front of him. Steve keeps him upright with one hand on his arm and another on his shoulder. Palms warm and solid against him. Seeping warmth into him that Eddie wants to burrow away in.

A small tip forward brings Eddie's head rolling around loose on his neck. He hangs, leaning forward, his head dropping low and hanging.

"Come on, Munson." A small shake ripples through his arms and shoulders.

Eddie flaps a hand in the air. Loose and sluggish. It flops against Steve's face. "Cool it, Harrington," he mumbles. "I'm fine." He rolls his neck around on his shoulders. Rolling it from one side to the other, then back around, staring up at the awning hanging overhead. One of his hands finds purchase on the back of his neck and rubs it, fingers massaging and pressing into a tense spot lying there.

"You don't look fine." Heavy raised eyebrows meet him, when he tips his head back around and looks at Steve once more.

"What, this?" Eddie flaps a floppy hand towards the line of empty beer cans standing off to the side. A cavalry of drunk soldiers. Look, there's even a good handful tipped over and lying dead in the trenches. Perfect artistic historic replication. "That's just a little rehear— ratio— re-cre-a-tio-nal substance abuse," the words stumble graceless from his numb mouth and he forms that one word really carefully, because it is the only way it consents to leave his mouth sensibly. He shakes it off with a quick shake of his head. Leaning forward, he touches a hand to the side of Steve's cheek and gives it a few light slaps. "I'm sure you'd have heard about it somewhere. It goes very well with trauma." He nods. All mock serious and somber. "You should try it sometime. Drown those demodog-gorgons in beer. I'm sure they'd love that." His hand stills. It lies against Steve's cheek and Eddie cannot quite think of a good enough reason to remove it, so he keeps his hand touching Steve's cheek. His thumb, cheeky opportunist it is, sneaks out and rubs against the high of Steve's cheekbone. Wide eyed, Eddie stares at where his own thumb smooths repeatedly over Steve's cheek, as if he cannot really believe it's his hand and his thumbs that rests there; cupping Steve's cheek.

Sighing, Steve reaches up and takes a hold of Eddie's hand. Fingers closing around Eddie's and slowly, he pulls it down, bringing it away from his face. To Eddie's surprise, he does not let it go. Just keeps holding onto his hand, letting them hang by his lap. Skin soft against his own and his fingers warm around Eddie's. "Mrs. Byers and Hopper know you're out here?" he asks after a moment, turning his head back and looking at the door.

"Sure, yeah," he says with a small shrug. Lifting his free hand, he taps a finger to his cheek and tips his head to the side. "Not sure they know juuust how many beers I brought with me, though." A jolt goes through Eddie and like a shot he sits up straight. "That reminds me." And he throws himself across the porch, grabbing for one of the beers standing a little off to the side. Only one of them is half-empty and he has to guess between three of them, again — even though he is sure he moved them so they would not be able to pull that identical twin trick with him again, but the bastards are evidently sneakier than Eddie gave them credit for — so when he lifts the can up into the air and there is a weight to it, liquid sloshing inside of it, he whoops. "Ahah! Jackpot!" he crows victoriously. Beer can lifted to his lips, he throws his head back.

"Woah!" A hand whips out, grabs the can and swipes it from his grip before he can get a single drop. "Hold on."

Eddie's fingers hang empty and disappointing in the air before his face, mouth hanging open and waiting for the beer that does not reappear. "What?" Confused, he blinks at his empty hand, fingers twitching opening and closed, as if the can might re-materialize, if only he blinks enough times.

"I think you've had enough of that, don't you?" comes from beside him.

Dropping his hand to his lap, he turns back and looks at Steve.

Wide, imploring hazel eyes are looking back at him. One of Steve's hands is raised high in the air, the can of beer held between curling fingers.

"Dude, that's my last can." Eddie pouts.

"Not anymore, no." Steve shakes his head.

"Why?" Arms crossing over his chest, he pouts even more petulantly. "You gonna drink it?" he challenges with an arched eyebrow.

"No."

"Well, then, give it here." Palm open, he reaches out, fingers curling, gesturing the can closer.

"In that case—" Steve breaks off. He tips his head back and brings the can down, touching the lip to his mouth. With two quirk swallows, he downs Eddie's beer. Loud, thick swallows makes their way down his bopping throat. Finished, he looks back at Eddie, smacks his lips and pulls the back of his hand across his mouth, keeping a hold of the can with the tips of his fingers around the lips, wiping glistening lips with his own skin. The wiping motion carries on and smoothly brings his hand forward and down to slam the empty can home beside the little army of its brothers and sisters in arms. It wobbles precariously back and forth. Metal clanging and clinking against the floorboard. Then comes to a stop with a final, small rattle.

Eddie stares at Steve. A betrayed expression slashed across his face. "Not cool, man." He shakes his head.

"You said to give it or drink it." Steve shrugs, showing his now empty hands with a pull of his shoulders. "So, I drank it."

Lips pursed, Eddie narrows his eyes at him. A dissatisfied stare twists his expression. "Alright," he finally says and shrugs. He throws himself across the porch, forearm braced in front of him and reaches for the last six-pack, fingers grappling for the cardboard keeping them stacked together.

"Nope." Steve's hand flies through the air and scoops it up from the ground. Arm stretched out behind his back, he holds it up in the air behind his back. "Nancy?" he calls, keeping his head turned forward, eyes watching Eddie's every move.

"I got it," her voice responds.

Pushing himself back up, Eddie watches Nancy appear out of empty air behind Steve's shoulder and take the six-pack from him. Which is. That is. Cheating, is what it is. He thought only El had powers around here. Now, suddenly, Wheeler gets to have them too? Just poof appear out of nowhere just when Eddie's about to convince Steve those beers are, in fact, much better off staying with Eddie? Lousy cheaters, the lot of them.

"Wheeler," he rubs a hand over his face and throws a glare at her over his fingers, "what a pleasure," he says, voice dripping.

"Hi, Eddie," she says, with the smallest of smiles and a soft voice. For a moment, her eyes are heavy and worried on him, her brow carrying that same frown Steve's did. "You've had quite a day, huh?"

He nods solemnly. "The day-est."

Tugging the six-pack to her chest, she turns her eyes on Steve and touches her free hand to his shoulder. "Do you need a hand with him?"

He shakes his head. "I got him, it's okay."

Hand on his shoulder, Nancy gives him a squeeze. The tendons on the back of her hand flex and stand in relief against her soft skin. "Okay. I'll see you both later, then." She pulls back and away. Clutching Eddie's six-pack to her, she throws a last glance towards him. A small smile twitches from her mouth. Then, she disappears back over Steve's shoulder. Her voice calls back, "Call if you need us." And Steve nods, not taking his eyes off Eddie. The sound of the door opening and closing swallows her and then she's gone.

A sigh blows deep and heavy from Eddie's lungs. It falls out of his mouth with a great rush of air. "That's unfair, you guys." He pouts at the floorboards. "Those were mine."

"Oh, you big baby, you've had enough to drink for half a party." The eye-roll he makes is so audible in his tone, even Eddie, in his compromised state, can't help but catch it. "Anymore and you'll end up in that grave we dragged you from."

"Eh," Eddie waves his arm through the air in a grand sweeping gesture, "sema— se—" he cuts off and frowns at the floorboards, as if they can give him the key to unlock his numb mouth and free it to form the words that usually come so easy to him. Huffing, he shakes his hair out and pulls his gaze away from its glare at the porch. "Details," he says instead. "I was doing just fine, Harrington." A thought pops into his head and he perks up. "Hey, Hair-rington, Harrington." A laugh bubbles from his chest. Face scrunching up with it. "Get it?" He lifts two hands, weighs one of them higher and says, "Steve 'The Hair' Harrington." He weighs the other. "Hair-rington."

Steve does not look impressed. "Yeah, real clever, Eddie."

Eddie nods self-satisfied. Pleased despite Steve's clear displeasure. "See, I thought so." Then, he lets himself collapse back into the wall at his back.

Arm sweeping upwards, Steve tosses something at him. Blue flies through the air. A heavy piece of clothing falls into lap. Landing with a flat thump.

Denim lies in a messy pile before him.

Frowning down at it, Eddie runs his palm over the fabric, smoothing it out and touching curled fingers to its creases. After a moment, he grabs a hold of his vest, lifts it up and shakes it out in the air. Pins rattle and clink. Fabric rustles. He lies it back in his lap. Folds it over his thigh and knee, letting the fabric lie almost like a small blanket across him. Eddie's handiwork stares back up at him. Patches he himself painstakingly sewed into the denim. Pins and badges he strategically picked out before clipping them onto the lapel glint up at him. Light catches upon the shiny surface of the pins and a glare reflects back up at him. One of his hands smooth down the back, running over that epically large Dio emblem.

That vest is so much a part of his identity. Build from scraps of everything that makes up Eddie. And yet, seeing it on Steve did not feel violating or wrong, the way it always has, when anyone else wore it or even touched it. Instead, it had made something warm burn like embers inside of his chest.

Having it back in his lap, almost feels like a gut punch. A sign of the certainty of Steve never wearing it again. It makes a lump form in his throat and, in this moment, he cannot quite bring his eyes to meet Steve's again.

"How— where'd—" he stumbles and slurs the words. Mouth working strange around his voice. Strangely numb and stiff. Like he has to work past stiff muscles that no longer work. "Where'd you even clean it?"

"Thought I would take it with me home for a bit and use those first grade machines my parents insists on buying, even if they aren't home to use it half the time and send their clothes to dry cleaning the other half." Steve reaches out and grabs onto a corner of the vest with two crooked fingers. Gripping it between two of his knuckles, he gives the fabric a small tug. "Might as well get some good use out of that house." There's a small pause, then, "And you better appreciate it," he adds with a teasing tone and one final tug on the vest, "had to sneak it under my parents and all. It was quite the perilous challenge. All for you."

Eddie's head whips up, looking at Steve with a furrowed brow. "Wait, your parents?"

A nonplussed expression falls over Steve's face. "Yeah?"

"I thought they weren't home."

"Oh, no. They came home like a week after we went after Vecna." The expression on his face wipes clean. Something empty and painfully blank falls in its place, like Steve is making an effort not to show any emotion on his face. It makes Eddie want to scream. And suddenly he wishes he had not drunk as much, so he could reach towards Steve and for it to mean something. So he could understand the empty look on his face. Steve's eyes falls off to the side, landing on the railing and the forest lying past it, gaze seeking outward. "Wanted to do damage control and everything." One of his hands waves loosely in the air.

"Ah, yes, the extravagant Harrington Empire. Wouldn't want to lose profits in the middle of Armageddon."

Steve rolls his eyes. "It's not an empire."

"Kingdom, then."

"Sure, yeah." He shrugs and mumbles, "Had to inherit that title from somewhere."

Eddie shakes his head and says, voice quieter and more pensive, "No, that was all you."

Hazel eyes jerk and lock with his. Staring deep into them, searching for their depths, like he needs to pick them and his words apart to understand them. After a moment, a sharp, almost self-deprecating look takes over his expression. It twists his lips into a strange pull, so unlike a smile, it looks wrong on his face. A puff of air huffs from him. "I'm not sure whether that's meant to insult me or not."

"Not that your ego have any room to grow much bigger. But I did mean it as a compliment."

He shakes his head and puffs out a sharp breath. “I hate that title.” A grimace cuts across Steve's face, twisting his features up even more than they already were. "I'm not exactly proud of the person I was back then. Or any of the things I did." His head turns to the side, his eyes disappear, looking as far away from Eddie as he can.

"No, maybe not," Eddie says, voice quiet. "But it takes charisma and like, affability and, like, personabib—, personhood to pull a crowd towards you like you did. Not that you did it for the right reasons or the right way, but it was still all you. It takes a certain type of understanding and intelligence of people to do that."

"I think I was just lucky. Airheaded enough to step forward and pretty enough to be allowed to stay there." Shaking his head, he rolls his eyes and looks down, head turning low. A heavy shadow falls over Steve, hanging from his shoulders and clouding his features.

Eyes stuck to Steve, Eddie still kinda hates that he is drunk for this conversation, when he has been so careful not to step into it before now. All that careful consideration and avoidance so quickly discarded in the wave of alcohol churning through his veins, blurring the invisible lines drawn in his mind. "I don't—" the words stumble out of his mouth, before he has the full shape of them in mind. "You shouldn't—" he frowns and huffs loudly. Heavy wrinkles furrow across his brow, cutting into his skin.

"Careful, Munson, don't think too hard, you'll hurt yourself." Steve turns his head towards Eddie enough for half of his face to be visible to him. A small, crooked twist of the lips plays lopsided across his face. It still looks more like a grimace, than the grin he tries to make it.

Eddie squints at him. Eyes narrowing and lips pursing. The shape of words in his mind blur and loop together, their edges blurring together, like writing in sand washed away by waves at the shore, before he can read them.

"You—" he tries again, his mouth moving sluggish and numb, one part of it buzzing and the other numb. "You shouldn't think too much. You were an asshole, but you aren't now. Shit. You used to hang out with people who called me faggot—" the words make Steve wince. Face twisting in a painful grimace. Like his words have physically struck him. Shaking his head, Eddie keeps going, bowling over it with the grace of a drunk driver "—but now you'd like, throw a punch if anyone ever called Robin or me or any of the kids that. You might even throw a punch, if it was said to a complete stranger."

The ghost of a laughter huffs from Steve. "Probably," he admits, tilting his head to the side and giving a small, bopping nod. The expression on his face stays twisted though. Hate and dislike burrowing so deep into his features, it's like it is carved into his very bones.

Eddie does not like seeing it on him. It does not go with his warm smile and bright eyes.

Eyes stuck to him, the frown on Eddie's brow furrow deeper, digging deep through his skin. "It's— you—"

"Eddie—" Steve sighs, shaking his head.

"No! Shush!" He whips a hand up, holding it out. "I'm trying to think." He squeezes his eyes shut, even if it makes the world around him spin dizzyingly. He fumbles for the words trying to turn to smoke in his mind. "The things you do to be a better person now, matters more than your past." Eyes opening, he drops his hand down. "I'm not saying the pain you caused then doesn't matter. It does. Especially to the people you bullied. But." He frowns down at his hands, trying to waddle through the sludge in his mind. "You shouldn't let your past dictate how you feel about yourself today."

A snort bursts from Steve.

Mouth open in protest, Eddie's head whips up. Affronted smacked all over his face.

Wearing a humored expression, Steve says, "If you turn all philosophical when you're drunk, I'd hate to see you high."

Dropping the protest on the tip of his tongue and face, Eddie shakes his head, grinning. "I can assure you, I'm a delight." He sweeps a hand through the air. "You don't know, what you're missing."

"I'm sure," he says, nodding, folding his expression into comical disbelief.

A moment of quiet.

Then, "Wait, you've already seen me high."

Steve laughs.

Eddie rolls his eyes. He turns his head back down, looking back on the vest in his hands, still spread across his lap. Hands smoothing up and down the back, right over that cut out from a Dio t-shirt, gaze following the movement. The fabric rubs against his palm. All at once smooth and scratchy. Seams, stiches and wrinkles catching upon his skin. Ruffling underneath his touch.

Eyes narrowing, Eddie looks closer on the fabric. The spot below his hands is clean and smooth against his skin. It does not scratch and ruffle against his skin, like it did prior to Steve's possession of it. "Aw," he says, looking back up at him, "you even got that old oil stain out."

"I've been doing shit on my own for years and running after those kids for nearly as long. And I've gotten good at getting rid of bloodstains after the three other times." He tips his head back towards the cabin. One of his hands knocks against the floorboards. Knuckles rapping a sharp tap-tap-tap over the wood. "Might as well put those skills to good use."

"Damn, you're near on both a housewife and mom, Harrington. It's enough to make a boy blush." He puts one hand on his chest and lifts the other into the air, fanning it on front of his face. Air wafts weakly into his face.

Steve rolls his eyes.

Before he can wonder if there really is a blush making its way across Steve's cheeks, Eddie looks back down at the vest. Eyes falling over the many patches. One of them catches his eyes. It's wrong. When Eddie sewed it on, he made it tilt towards the left side, hanging lopsided like a picture frame hanging on the wall from one corner. Now, it hangs straight. Smack dab, perfectly straight. There is also a bulge along one of its sides. A small part of it raised and scrunched, caught awkwardly underneath the stitches. Stitches that are in a blue colored thread. When Eddie has never had anything but black thread at home. When Eddie has always stitched every single patch on with black thread, wanting the thread itself to be as much part of his battle vest as any patch sewn onto it.

He blinks at it.

One of his fingers reach out. Smooths over the image. The puckering thread rubs against the pads of his finger.

"Oh, yeah. Um, one of your patches came off and I tried to put it back on right, but I couldn't remember exactly where it was, so if it's off, I'm sorry."

"No, it's—" he croaks, voice soft, "It's fine." He looks back up at Steve. Heart caught somewhere between his mouth and his throat. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

Steve shrugs. "You let me borrow it. Least I could do is bring it back to you in one piece. Robin told me about battle vests and how personal they are."

Eddie drops his eyes back down to the vest. "And you removed the oil stain," he repeats, distant and disbelieving. A somber expression falls over Eddie's face. Making his face heavy and dull. He drops his hands back onto the vest. One smooths over the back of the Dio logo, palm running against the softer fabric. The other lingers by the bottom, fingers rubbing back and forth where that oil stain used to be. A weak smile flickers from his lips. He glances up at Steve, then back down at the vest. "I'll almost be sorry to see him go. We've been companions for nigh on three years."

Steve sighs.

A pair of arms stick forward, leaning and bracing themselves against the floor. And Steve makes his way to sit down beside Eddie, leaning and pushing himself around on his arms. Turns around and lets himself tip back, falling onto his ass right beside Eddie. Air blows in a rush from his chest. Knees bent close to his chest and his arms thrown loosely on top of them, balancing his forearms on top of his knees. His back up against the wall of the cabin, sat on the length side of the porch, on the side of the cabin.

"What's going on, Eddie?" he asks, voice soft and quiet. One knee tips to the side and nudges Eddie.

It is like his words washes over his mind. Washes over everything cluttering his thoughts and distracting him from the big, glaring black hole. Just washes all of that away, leaving Eddie alone with that big, gaping hole and the cracks all around it once more.

Eddie drags a hand over his face. Palm tugging and pulling at his skin. A sigh blows from his mouth and fans across his skin. He hangs his head, dropping it low. "It was all a bit much today," he says in a small voice. A small shake of his head ruffles his hair, rustling it by his ears. "I just wanted it to be quiet. Just wanted to be without those images." His eyes fall closed. "I keep seeing her," he whispers. "Every time I close my eyes or the cabin gets quiet, I see her. Breaking apart on my ceiling. And I can't do anything. I can only stand there and watch as some fucked up supernatural force breaks into her and tears her apart. And even if I could help her, I'm just standing there. Watching." He opens his eyes again. Wide, distressed eyes find Steve's hazel ones. "Why don't I do anything?" he says quiet, but strained and tight. "I'm just standing there, Steve. Do you know how many times I come home and the first thing I do, is put on some music?" his voice cracks. His eyes grow wider. "So often." He shakes his head. "I play music all the time. But the one time it might have made a difference, the one time it would have been worth all those neighbors knocking down our door, complaining about the noise; I don't. This time, it's quiet." A thick swallow works loudly through his throat. He stares straight ahead. Heart pounding away at his chest, carving away at it. Afraid to look at Steve and see the look in his eyes.

His voice drops lower. Quieter. Almost as if they are quiet enough, his words will not be heard, even if he cannot bring himself to whisper below Steve's hearing range; even if he cannot seem to stop now that he has begun. "What if I'd put on a tape, the minute we stepped indoors? What if she could have heard something, she liked enough to find her way back? What if I'd driven slower and kept the tape in my car going just a little longer?" He stares almost unseeing out into the world. Eyes unblinking, stare distant and empty. "Why do I just stand there, Steve? Why don't I help her?" Tears flood his vision. Rapid blinks of his eyes sends them running down his cheeks. "And I just ran. I just left her there. All alone. Who does that?"

Steve stays quiet beside him. Just listens to Eddie's distressed babble.

Ants crawl all over Eddie's skin. Touch crawling and clawing and uncomfortable. Eddie goes to shift around. Needing to change position. It makes him fumble.

The world around Eddie tips and tilts. It swims around him, surging and sending him for a loop that sends him right into Steve's shoulder. Steve is warm and solid against him. And he's the only thing not swimming all around him, like the floor beneath him suddenly forgot to stay attached to the ground and decided to turn into a rollercoaster from the fair ground.

Turning his head around, Eddie smushes his face into him and taps him lightly on the chest with one of his hands in apology. "Sorry," he mumbles into him. "That wasn't me." He lifts his hand in the air, makes a pointed finger and swirls it around in a circle. "The world is spinning."

"That's okay." One of Steve's hand lands on top of his hair. Palm cupping his head, his rubs his thumb back and forth. Strands of hair rustle beneath his finger. Rubbing against Eddie's head. "You can just stay right there."

It's nice. Comfortable. Warm. Eddie would very much like to stay here, but the world is not done spinning and as Eddie turns his head to rest it against him without suffocating, he tips over. Air rushes past him with a whoosh. He falls and lands in Steve's lap with a fwoosh of air punching from his lungs.

"Or you can lie there," Steve's voice comes from above. "That's— that's fine too."

"Hmm," Eddie hums. He turns his head over and buries it in Steve's lap. Face pillowed in the space just above his knees. Moving from side to side, he rubs his cheeks against Steve's thigh. The fabric of his jeans both rough and soft against his skin.

He draws his arms underneath Steve's legs, as if pulling them closer to himself. A slight bend in his knees allows his arms to push underneath his thighs. And he wraps his arms around them. Hugging them to his face. Steve's hand comes to lie on his head again. Fingers rub lightly against his scalp. A palm cups the back of his head. A defeated sigh blows from Eddie. Falling out of his lungs, leaving his chest deflated and empty.

For a while, the two sit in silence.

Eventually, Eddie breaks it with a deep, sighing inhale.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles into his thighs. "I didn't want the kids to see me like this. You're so good for the kids. So constant and steady and good for them. And I'm just a fucking mess. I'm a high schooler at 20 and a fucking drug dealer and I smoke and drink and sometimes I drive while doing both of those things and I'm messed up. I'm so messed up, Steve," his voice cracks on his name. "I don't know what those kids see in me, or why they like me so much. They shouldn't." He shakes his head. Hair rustling and ruffling against Steve's leg. He looks out. Gaze following the curve and long length of his legs. Eyes wide with distress. "They shouldn't look to me the way they do. I'll only mess them up. Just like my father did me. I didn't want to. But I really am living up to that Munson name. It's the only thing I can do right, these days. Following in my father's footsteps. Before you'll know it, I'll have five sentences to my name and die behind bars in a stupid fucking deal gone wrong or because I annoyed the wrong person, which is very likely, I'm very annoying." A deep heaving breath rushes in through his mouth, filling and straining his lungs. Quieter, he adds, "Just as fucked up as he ever was."

The hand on back of head sweeps down his hair. "You're not a fuck up, Eddie."

"You don't know that." Turning his head around, he looks back up at Steve with wide eyes. "Just fucking—, look at me, man."

Hazel eyes dart downwards and lock with his gaze.

Caught in his gaze, Eddie swallows thickly, and continues, "You're driving the kids back and forth, so they don't go insane staying here and you take care of Max and makes sure she eats and you help Lucas, when it all becomes too much for him. You make sure the fridge is full and remind the kids to eat, even when they're having a bad day. And you're like the other half of Robin's sanity and you're just— you're—" he breaks off and leaves it at that, because everything Steve is will never be able to be put into words, no matter how good Eddie is at them, sober or not. "Just look at me." One of his arm flails in the air and he flops it wildly in the direction of the carcasses of his beers. "I'm having a bad day and I don't look to the kids, I just get drunk and make a mess of myself. When you have a bad day you check up on the kids like ninety times, or go for a walk with Robin so no one else fucking sees." He drops his arm back down. It lands on top of his chest with a graceless flop. "And you keep Dustin happy." He casts a glance up at Steve, finding his eyes staring wide back at him. It is impossible to keep looking into that earnest, warm gaze, so Eddie tears his own away, turning it up at the awning hanging overhead. Gaze falling over the worked and weathered wooden boards. They swim and spin slightly before him, almost like floating and bopping gently along the water of a moving river.

"Fuck," he gasps with a whoosh of air falling from his lungs. Shaking his head, he raises his hands and pushes his fingers into his face. Rubs his cheeks and pushes his fingers up into his eyes, pushing them into closed eyelids. Bright lights burst and flicker at him. Burning their way into the dark of his swimming eyelids. "I might be able to entertain him and shit, but you're like his brother," his voice turns rough and raw. Every word burns from his chest and lungs, falling like coal and embers and ash from his lips. Caught by Steve's hands or his own; they burn the skin they touch, leaving blood, bones and bruises in their wake. "That's the real shit, man. Dustin will forget about me in a year or two. I'll just be that fucked up dude, who could string together a reasonably entertaining D&D campaign and play the guitar. I was the distraction against Vecna, but that's all I am, man. Just a fucking distraction." Winded, chest tight and grasping for air, he lifts his hands away from his face, letting them drop lifeless and empty down by his side. His eyes remain closed. The world around him spins and swoops. Grey, dizzying darkness press into his eyes. The distant light of the sun catches upon his lids, chasing the darkness away with the two warring a war, leaving Eddie somewhere in their grey middle. Floating in the grasp of a numbing river.

Sighing deep and heavy, he adds, "And I'm just so tired, Steve." He shakes his head. Hair rustles and ruffles against the surface beneath him. "I can't sleep more than a few hours at night, before a nightmare wakes me. I'm just so tired."

A warm hand touches his brow. Fingers and palm cups his forehead, lying calm and steadying against his skin. Eddie's eyes flicker open. Light washes into his eyes, chasing the empty, bottomless grey pit away. He blinks at the ceiling overhead. The thumb at the base of his brow fall out. It touches the bridge of his nose, pulls up, drawing up along the bridge back to his brow.

Tipping his head slightly to the side, Eddie's eyes land on Steve. He's looking down on him with a worried, furrowed brow and eyes swimming in concern. "I just wanted to forget for a day," Eddie whispers to him, voice faint and quiet, even though he does not know how much of it he can hear with his good ear, but he cannot get himself to speak these words louder. He just hopes Steve still catches them, the same way he seems to catch everything else someone he cares about throws around, when they're in distress.

Eyes flickering, his gaze falls away, landing back on the mottled, weathered ceiling above him. It's only there for a moment, before he closes his eyes, letting the black of his eyelids and the dizzying world it carries catch his next words. "Forget all of it and pretend everything was okay again and none of this had happened."

"Did it help?" Steve asks so gently.

"Maybe." A pause. "I don't know." Air huffs from his mouth. He opens his eyes again and stares with blank eyes up at the blurry ceiling. "Everything's fuzzy, but I still can't forget Chrissy or how she looked in the end."

A hesitant hand touches his brow. Fingers graze softly against his skin. "I'm sorry you have to see that," Steve says quietly. "And I'm sorry I can't help you with it."

"That's okay. I don't think anything will ever take it away again. I'll be stuck with it burned into my mind for the rest of my life. Like my own little Vecna curse. It's still trying to kill me, just slowly instead. Just waiting for me to crack and break apart." He blinks, gaze looking down the length of Steve's leg. One of his hands moves up and comes to lie on top of his leg. Thumb rubbing back and forth, he draws a loose circles with the pad of his finger. "Besides, you're always there. Always clocking me when I'm losing my mind and you talk with me or sit with me until I'm better." He pauses for a moment. The next words are quieter. "I don't deserve it, but you do it."

Steve sighs. His fingertips graze across Eddie's brow again. "It's not about deserving, Eddie."

"Feels like it," he mumbles, turning his head and pushing his face into Steve's lap. A force builds, pushing into his nose and eyes, burning a small ache through him.

The hand on his brow stays. It moves around with Eddie's shift, and comes to rest on the side of his head.

Another small sigh comes from above him. "Don't you think it's time to call it a day, and get some sleep?" he asks, his voice soft and gentle. A hand combs through his hair, fingers gently tugging and brushing through a handful of curly strands.

"Don't wanna sleep," the words falling from his mouth get swallowed by his lap and they are barely audible in the air between them. "I'll just dream and see Chrissy again and I don't want to." He squeezes his eyes shut, as if it might help shut out the images in his mind as easy as shutting out the world before his eyes. "I can't handle seeing her calling me for help again or any of the other crap my brain throws at me." Pressing further into Steve, he shakes his head. Gripping him hard by his thigh. So hard pain shoots through his fingers, aching deep in his bones. "I can't," those last words escape forcefully and loud from his lips; an explosion ripped from his chest with all the desperation lying in his heart.

"You can't?" Steve repeats quietly.

Eddie just shakes his head. Throat tight and painful.

A moment passes.

Eventually, Steve says, "What if I stay nearby and I'll be there the second you wake up. I'll even wake you, if I see you struggling?" Fingers sweeping forward, he pulls at Eddie's hair, tugging it back and freeing the side of his head. Air blows gently into the side of his head. It falls over his freed ear and rushes over the bared skin of his neck. It is like a gust of fresh air against the heat and flush working its way through Eddie's veins, burning just underneath his skin. Two fingers clasp onto a strand of his hair and gives a small, prodding tug. "Would that help?"

"Maybe," Eddie allows, but only because Steve's hand in his hair is super nice, incredibly nice, so much it is nearly enough to make Eddie close his eyes on its own, when he has been too scared to close them again, since waking up in the early hours of dawn that morning with Chrissy's mangled face swimming before his eyes and the copy of Max's face it brought with it; an imaginary mirror, rising forth from the depths of her gaping mouth.

"Come on, then." The hand leaves his hair. It comes to grab him by the arm instead. With that Steve pulls him upwards, tugging him into a drooping, hanging position, and throws his arm around his own shoulder. So Eddie is just hanging sideways, sagging into Steve's chest with an awkward, un-corroborating arm around his shoulder, only kept in place by Steve's hand curling around his forearm, keeping it securely in place.

Another arm comes out and wraps around his back. It brings his hand right alongside Eddie's ribs, where his palm and fingers press into him. Warm, solid and firm. A different kind of warmth blazes from his hand, burning into Eddie's side.

Steve pulls his feet closer and braces them underneath himself.

"Aw, you gonna carry me to bed, Stevie?" he says, all sickly sweet, tilting his head to the side and batting his eyelashes. Which is a mistake. Steve is close. Very close. Warm air huffs from his mouth. Fanning across Eddie's cheeks, it blows softly over his skin and grazes his lips. The touch of his breath caressing and gentle.

Hazel eyes hover near his own. They stare down at him. Colors of green, brown and gold swirl in the depth of his eyes. Being so close to them is enough to lock Eddie in their intense gaze and trap the air inside of his lungs.

"I'm gonna need you to help here, Munson," Steve's voice frees him from his eyes.

Turning his head around and down, Eddie looks away. "Yeah, yeah, sure," he mumbles, blinking hazel eyes out of his vision, "whatever."

Steve redoubles Eddie's arm around his shoulders. Sort of bouncing it in place and tugging it firmer in place.

With a heave, Steve pulls him up from his half-sprawled, half-curled position on the porch and Steve himself.

Eddie scrambles after him. Feet scuffling and shuffling against the floor, skirting across wooden floorboards.

The world around him surges and doubles over. It spins around his head in a loop-de-loop that makes all the beer he has drunk the last few hours take a world tour of his stomach.

Keeping his eyes wide open, he stares at the textures in the wooden boards below his feet. Willing himself not to throw up. Seriously, Eddie has been through strange cocktails of whatever drink he's been able to get his hands on and drugs of almost every kind you can get your hands on and he has not thrown up in years. He may have thrown up a time or two in that fucking boathouse, but that does not count. That was not induced by inebriation. The Upside Down and Vecna will not take Eddie's high tolerance for vomit away from him. No way. It's his one source of pride, being able to down a cocktail of half an espresso, a shot and lukewarm beer, while high.

Steve waits. Which is very kind of him. But he supposes he has a stake in Eddie not emptying his stomach, seeing as he's well inside the splash zone.

The rollercoaster comes to a stop after a moment. Nodding, Eddie says, "Okay, I'm good." And they begin walking, every step they take small and shuffling, as if Eddie has picked up Dustin's remaining limp through the beers he's drunk, even though Dustin hasn't been anywhere in sight, since this morning.

The door opens with a reach of Steve's arm and a kick of his foot and they walk into the cabin. Well, when Eddie says walk, he means Steve walks, Eddie mostly just shuffles and stumbles his way forward. Feet dragging behind him, as if tied to weights, hanging onto Steve by an arm around his shoulder and Steve's grip around his back; kept upright by, Eddie suspects, a minor miracle and Steve's force of will. Perhaps, even helped along a little by those muscles in his arms, Eddie has admired on more than a few occasions. But who knows. Who knows. It is not like Eddie has stared at them every time Steve has stepped bare-chested out of the bathroom or every time Robin or someone else strong-armed him into letting them help him with his stitches, before they got taken out.

Voices rush over Eddie. The noise digs into his head in a senseless buzz, but no one is calling out, so Eddie assumes it is safe to ignore them and keeps his head down, staring at the floor and glaring at it, as if the strength of his unblinking gaze will keep it from rolling around in another loop-de-loop. He knows it could work. Eddie's stared lesser beings down. Including a spider weaving a web across the frets of Uncle Wayne's old acoustic, a handful of crumbs left across the dining table Eddie usually sits at and the clock. He's sure he can win this round too.

They trek across the cabin and before he knows it, Steve is steering him past the curtain to their borrowed bedroom and letting it fall closed behind them again.

"You gonna tuck me into bed real nice too, like one of your kids, babysitter?" he mumbles into Harrington's neck, tipping his head up and catching his right ear just in case he can't hear him.

A puff of laughter huffs from Steve. "Sure, Munson," his voice rumbles against Eddie, bubbling with a small chuckle. "If that's what you want."

They hobble another step forward in quiet.

Slowly, they navigate the last few steps across Steve's mattress flopped across the floor, and shuffle to a stop before Eddie's bed. Eddie stays standing plastered up against Steve's sides. He stares down at the bed.

"I think, I might hate myself a little bit," is what he finally says.

"And why is that?" Steve voice is distracted.

He eases Eddie's arm over his shoulder and guides him onto the bed. Hands hold firmly onto Eddie's arms, pulling him from his side and down, until he sits on the bed with a heavy thump.

Steve looks at him. Eyes careful, as he looks him over, checking one last time. Then, he moves to pull his hands away, leaving Eddie unmoored. The second Steve's hands leave him Eddie immediately tilts sideways.

"Woah!" Steve's hands whip out and grasp him by the arms. "Not so fast, Munson," he says. Strong hands grip his arms, pulling him back from his sideways lean.

Groaning lowly from the back of his throat, Eddie hangs his head loose from his neck. It drags slow and painful behind him, the back of his head nearly touching his back. "Nooo. Steeeeve," he whines. "You got me to bed, now let me pass out."

Steve rolls his eyes. One hand stays curled firmly around his upper arm, while the other lifts up, grabs his leather jacket by the lapel and pulls it off him. Lifting it up over his shoulder and easing it down his arm with practiced ease that would normally make Eddie raise his eyebrows, but Eddie also knows Dustin is a stubborn fucking kid and he can easily imagine how that kid would fall asleep in front of the TV or a book or whatever and Steve, unlike so many others, would not just let him sleep on the couch or arm chair and wake up in rumbled clothes and a crick in his neck. Not unless the kid had been particularly stubborn about staying up or been a hard-ass that day or a particular pain in the ass. Actually, Eddie would like to change his answer. Steve might leave the fucker to suffer no matter what and when the kid complains at him, he’d just tell him to suck it up or take better care of himself, he’s not a fucking servant. Yeah, Steve’s good at taking care of them, but he’s also a little shit sometimes. That’s probably how it goes.

"Uff, taking my clothes off now, are you? Saucy." Eddie smirks up at Steve and wiggles his eyebrows. "And here I thought you were a gentleman. At least, take me to dinner first."

"Just lift your arms, dude," Steve says, voice long-suffering and drool.

Eddie lifts his arms out to the side and gives a tug, trying to help Steve ease it off him.

With a few more tugs, Steve gets it off one arm, swings it around his back and pulls it off the other. Freed at last, Eddie lets himself collapse on top of the bed.

The jacket gets dumped on top of Steve's mattress. Landing there with a limp thump. But Steve does not return in front of Eddie. He walks to the foot of the bed. And Eddie almost asks about the view down there, but Steve's hands land on his foot and the words die in his throat. A heroic death, he is sure, too. Nimble fingers tug at his shoelaces. He brings a hand around to grip the shoe by the heel. Keeping one hand on his ankle, he tugs his shoe loose and gently lays his foot back down on the bed. The shoe is placed on the floor with a thunk.

He does the same with the other.

The warmth of Steve's hands lingers around Eddie's ankles like the touch of a ghost. It lingers, pressing into his skin, like the shadow of heat. A phantom touch.

It takes for Steve rounding the bed and coming to crouch before him, before Eddie can tear himself away from the memory of his hands on his ankles. But he finally does and immediately goes to wiggle his way underneath the blanket, wiggling in place until he's curled up on his side. He tugs one hand underneath his head and stares out at Steve.

Kneeling in the space right before him, Steve stares back at him. One of his hands reaches out and tugs the blanket up around his shoulder. The look in his eyes is one Eddie cannot understand is directed at him. Full of warmth and tenderness, belonging to such other generous things. Things Eddie is definitely not qualified enough to put a name to. But god he wants to. Desperately so.

Steve reaches out and draws his thumb across Eddie's brow. The tip of his finger warm and soft against Eddie's skin. It drags gently from one side to the other, pulling strands of his fringe away as it goes. He taps a finger against the very center of his forehead, then brings his hand back to himself, where he tugs it underneath his other hand, balanced on top of the bed in front of his chest. "Why do you hate yourself, Eddie?" he asks, voice soft and quiet.

"You know." He gives a small shrug with his free shoulder. "Because sometimes I wish this had never happened to me. That it was some other poor fool Chrissy died in front of. And I was never dragged into this and you guys never had to find me in the boat house and I never ended up here." Eddie looks out at him with wide, emphatic eyes. "Who does that?" he adds in a whisper, eyes widening further. "Who wants a sweet, kind girl to have died alone, just so they themselves can be free?"

"I don't think that's what you truly want." Steve touches a few fingers to his cheek. The tips of his fingers brush across his skin. They pluck at a few strands of his hair and tug them away from his face. The hairs sweep away from Eddie's skin with a soft whispering touch. Steve touches his hand to the side of Eddie's face one last time. Touch gentle and soft that feels like more than just a touch, but Eddie can't grasp its meaning.

Hazel eyes stare back at Eddie. Swimming with words too quiet and soft for Eddie to reach.

After a moment, Steve's hand retreats. He lays his hand back on the mattress, placing it in the middle between them, moving it that much closer to where Eddie's head rests. "I think, you're just tired and want to go home. I think, any of this, much less everything you've seen, is too much to handle for anyone and wanting it all gone, no matter what, is normal," he says, voice so quiet and soft, it is a wonder his words don't get lost in the space between them, however small it might be. Hazel eyes remain locked with him, as soft and gentle as his words. "I think, you're a very kind, very good person, Eddie. But even good people have a limit. Even good people get afraid of the dark, once they've seen what hides in it."

"Even you?"

"Even me."

All of the reasons to keep his hands to himself have been mercilessly silenced in the pit of beer swirling in his stomach, so Eddie reaches out and lays a hand on Steve's cheek. Tucks his palm snug against his face and cups his cheek. Thumb rubbing over his skin. "You need to stop being nice to me," he says, quietly. "I can't handle you being nice."

"You've said that."

"I mean it." Eddie pulls his hand up into Steve's hair. Gaze following his hand up into his hair. Watching as his fingers disappear into his floppy mop. Soft locks brush against his skin, fluttering with every gentle pull of his fingers.

Hand buried in his hair, Eddie's gaze falls down.

Their eyes lock.

Crouched in the space right before him, Steve sits frozen still.

A quiet puff of air escapes Eddie's lips and he brings his hand through Steve's hair one last time. The fall of his hand around the curve of Steve's head brings it back around and Eddie smooths his palm and fingers over Steve's hair, his ear, then his jaw and cheek.

Eyes darting from his hand cupping Steve's cheek, to his eyes and back again, Eddie flicks his tongue out, lightly swiping it across his own dry lips, wetting them.

In that still moment, the air passing in and out of their lungs is the only sound around them. Heaving and loud, despite how soft and quiet it is. Falling in and out in tandem. Even past the space between them and the edge of the mattress curling into Steve, Eddie can feel Steve's chest moving in time with their breaths. His own rises and falls to the same rhythm and he can almost make himself believe it is their lungs reaching for each other; drawn by a magnetic force invisible to the eye.

On Steve's cheek, Eddie's thumb sticks out and rubs over his skin. It swipes gently back and forth. Soft skin stretches out beneath the pad of his finger, making it near impossible to not lean across the space and press a kiss to that very same place.

The moment stretches long and thick between them. Like time has to move through syrup or molasses to reach them. At some point, Eddie's eyes dart to Steve's again and stay there.

Swallowing thickly, Eddie finally lets his hand drop. It flops on top of the mattress, lifeless and cold without Steve's soft, warm skin against it. His eyes keeps staring straight into his though. "You're too damn nice and kind and warm. You'll break someone's heart with that."

With that, he pushes himself around on the bed and turns his back on Steve. Tucking a hand beneath his pillow, he buries his head into it. "You can keep the vest," he says to it, even though he'd usually rather saw his own arm off, than hand anyone his battle vest. That settles it, folks. Eddie truly must have lost his mind. He still adds, "I like the way it looks on you," though, because Eddie is a masochist even on his good days and drunk Eddie has even less self-control than he does sober.

Just before he falls asleep, a hand touches his head. Fingers smooth over his hair, brushing it away from his face. The tips of them graze across his cheek, brushing over his skin. And then he falls asleep, sinking into a deep, bottomless pit of darkness that embraces him in an engulfing, all-encompassing embrace. He never does hear Steve walk away.

The next day, Steve comes to him.

He finds him sitting on the steps leading up to the cabin. Feet propped up on a step two levels below him. Knees bent, his forearms slung on top, balanced across his knees and his posture relaxed and sagging. The door behind him opens and closes with a small rattle and a thunk. Quiet and subdued, as if being guided by a careful hand.

Looking over his shoulder, Eddie's gaze follows Steve as he crosses the porch and lowers himself down onto the steps as well. A sigh falls from his lips as he flops down, stretching himself almost as long as he is across the stairs.

Their eyes catch.

Wordlessly, Eddie flicks an eyebrow.

Steve shrugs. Hands dug into the pockets of the light blue jacket wrapped around his arms and shoulders. The pocketed corners lift up with his shrug. An imprint of his fisted hands in its pockets just visible in the shadows and furrows that cut through the fabric.

Eddie leaves him be and turns back to the cigarette burning between his fingers, kept hovering in the air just before his face with his elbow balanced on top of his knees.

For a while, the two of them sit there in silence. Eddie puffs his cigarette and blows out cloud after cloud of smoke. The smoke hangs grey and putrid in the air before him. It disperses with a touch of the wind, blown away and spread out until the smoke gets so thin it can no longer be seen.

The only sound between them is the wind whistling through the forest, rustling leaves and tugging on branches, making the trees sway gently back and forth. Above them, past the treetops and swaying leaves, the sky stretches long and grey and forebodingly dark. The air around them heavy and damp.

A steady thrum of faint static and the quiet noise of distant voices and sudden laughter and applause comes from the cabin behind them. Drifting out past cracks in the walls and the boarded up windows. The sound falls over the two of them like a fuzzy, scratchy blanket. It buzzes distorted inside of Eddie's ears, in the way only low volume TV programs are able to do. Voices so low every word is strange and unintelligible, but still loud enough to be caught by his ears in the first place. Almost like the buzz of errant flies, buzzing all around in the air.

Heavy, almost musty air blows out at them from the forest. Huffing over them with small puffs of air, like the wind itself is breathing in and out. Blowing gust after gust of air over them, teasing at their skin and whipping at their hair, like it carries the spirit of something playful in its grasp.

When Eddie is nearly down to the filter, Steve speaks up for the first time. "You said a lot of things yesterday."

Eddie huffs. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?" Cigarette caught between two of his fingers, he rubs his knuckle across his forehead. Digs it deep into his skin and drags it across. A dull pain bursts behind its touch, trailing a burning path behind itself, blazing across his brow. Sighing, he drops his hand back down. He hangs it back over his knee. A thin trail of smoke curls from the end of his cigarette, drifting languid into the air from the knuckles between two of his fingers.

The details from yesterday are definitely fuzzy, but he remembers the words he said and the things he thought. He certainly remembers the images that brought him outside with his arms full worth of six-packs in the first place.

He also remembers his faux pas, when Steve helped him to bed and Eddie, like the fool he is, held Steve's face in his hand and basically coughed his heart up for Steve to take; a slip of the hand to reveal the heart up his sleeve.

But he is pretty confident that is not what Steve will focus on. Eddie's dangled his heart — or something close enough to it — right before his eyes enough times without him ever commenting on it. Doing so again hardly ever makes fear pump through his veins anymore. Somehow, Eddie still does not learn and keeps doing it, as if he does not have to swallow the pain of Steve's non-answer like it burns his hands, every time it happens. It is not like Eddie's never been accused of being quick. So it is hardly a surprise that he keeps picking at this particular scab. Like a cat hounding the same mouse, long after its found out it's nothing but a plastic tail attached to a stick.

"Do you want me to ignore it?"

Eddie throws a look at him. Head tipped to the side and his eyebrows arched high on his brow. He taps his hand against his knee. The final patter of ash pulls itself away from the end of his cigarette. It patters and flutters in the air, drifting down to land on top of his knee. "Do you want to?"

Steve's laid sprawled over the steps. Body laid out and sprawled across several of the steps. One leg is stretched fully out, foot on the lowest step. The other leg bent. Foot propped up higher on the stairs. Upper body propped up against the stairs, balanced on his elbow, jutting out and digging into the floorboard above his hip. A shrug pulls on Steve's arms. The blue clad rounded shoulders bop up and down with the motion. "Not particularly."

"Hmm." Eddie taps his free hand against the step he's sat on. Nail tap-tap-tapping against the wood. "Me neither." In the corner of his eyes, Steve picks his head up and looks at him. Hazel eyes almost burning back at Eddie. He can only offer him a small shrug. "I said, what I said," the words are quiet, so very different from how he would usually declare them in the most challenging, smarting and abrasive way possible. "Maybe it's a good thing, someone else finally heard everything that's going on in here." Lifting a hand in the air, he gestures in a loose circle, encompassing his head.

He falls silent.

Finally, Eddie grounds his finished cigarette into the step beside himself. He leaves it there, crumbled up and dead, on the step and tells himself he will definitely remember to bring it with him inside to the throw in the trash, even though he knows he will not.

Steve remains strangely quiet.

Glancing sideways, Eddie throws another look at him. Gaze trailing him up and down. A small smile curls from his lips. "Well, go on then," he says, arching his eyebrows at him. Smile drooping sideways, lopsided and teasing, even if it does not reach his eyes and feel half-dead on his face. "You must have quite a bit to say. You kept it all nicely to yourself yesterday, but you must be dying to do some mother-henning and fuss over the nearest wounded duckling."

Steve rolls his eyes. "I didn't say anything only because I doubted how effective it would be, considering how drunk you were."

"Good observational skills there, Harrington. Putting those age-old rumors about you to rest, there."

Hazel eyes, serious and grave lock on Eddie. Then, "Chrissy's death wasn't your fault, Eddie."

"Going straight for the headshot right from the start." A flick of his eyebrows emphasize his words. "You're certainly not wasting your time."

"Eddie."

As if Steve's singular use of his name is enough all on its own to cut all the strings holding Eddie upright, Eddie's shoulders curl forward, caving in. A sigh blows heavy and deep from his lungs. Chest deflating, he sags into his bent legs. He lets himself tip forward and places his forehead on top of his knees, letting his eyes slip shut. Darkness falls over his eyelids, washing away the world before him. "I know," he croaks, raw and rough into his legs. "Logically, I know." Pushing himself back up, he swings his head up, his hair flaps on his back with a limp, floppy slap. He looks back at Steve. Head turned to the side, tilted and tipped, as if the weight of his head is too much to hold.

Hazel eyes stare steady and calmly back at him.

Eddie pulls his gaze away from him. He shifts and fidgets. Hands zipping along to the storm of his thoughts. Fingers skirting across the wooden boards beneath the long reach of his arm. He sucks in a sharp, sudden breath and wrenches himself forward. Jerks his hand up and searches for his packet of camels, fingers desperate and jerky, movements static and stumbling. After a moment of graceless fumbling, he finally gets a hold of one of the cigarettes inside the packet. Pulls it out and a second comes shooting out of the box. Caught in the grasp of the other cigarette, it goes shooting out of the box. Tumbles through the air. Then thuds lightly against Eddie's leg and tumbles down, where it lands, limp and lifeless on the step by his foot. Eddie fumbles for it, picks it up from the step with shaking fingers and tries to stuff it back inside the packet of Camels with shaking fingers. It takes three times before it allows itself to slide back home.

Grabbing his lighter, he puts the other cigarette in his mouth, thumbs the sparkwheel and holds the flame that appears in front of the butt, until it catches the heat. A sharp, desperate breath pulls at the newly lit cigarette. Smoke and nicotine pours into Eddie's mouth and floods his lungs with its putrid, curling touch.

He sits there and breathes in and out. Bringing cigarette smoke into his lungs, then out into the world, until he can sit still and not feel like the words will tear him apart and burn him from the inside out. It takes longer than he would like and the cigarette burns past the halfway point before he can speak.

Finally, he throws a quick glance at Steve. "I know," he says, voice deep and heavy. Gaze barely flickering towards Steve long enough to catch a glimpse. He only just catches sight of him, sat on the steps, still watching him, before his eyes skitter away. "Logically, I know, I had nothing to do with her death. I know, Vecna would have gotten to her no matter what. If I never agreed to sell her drugs in the first place. If I never invited her to my trailer, when she asked for it. If I never thought—" he breaks off with a small puff of air. A small headshake brushes the stray thought away. "In my trailer or in her boyfriend's car or some other godforsaken place in this town. She would have died either way." He takes a few more puffs from his cigarette. Gaze falling out, landing on the line of trees across from them, past the beaten path.

Beside him, Steve shifts. He pulls himself up from his sprawled, laid back position and comes to sit near identical to Eddie. Feet propped up on a lower step, knees bent and body leaning forward, he tips his knee to the side and nudges it into Eddie's. A small pressure that joins the two from just that one spot. Wordlessly telling him, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

A lump forms in Eddie's throat. He swallows thickly. The sound moves thick and painful past it. For a moment, he hangs his hand, eyes following it down. Cigarette loose and drooping between his fingers. The thin line of smoke that trails from its ends looks especially miserable. "I tell myself, it might have made a difference, if I'd put on a tape like I do so often," he continues, voice raw and rough, "but who's to say it would have been loud enough to reach her. Who's to say, the song would have called enough to her, to help her back." He pulls the cigarette back up and breathes its smoke into his lungs once more. Breathing the cloud of smoke out, in a thin, forceful line from pursed lips, Eddie shrugs, carefully not looking at Steve. A tight painful grip wraps around his chest, like a claw had bloomed in his chest and wrapped around to squeeze the life and air out of him. It squeezes his lungs so painfully, he almost cannot breathe. Almost cannot draw a breath. Lungs burning, he keeps going, voice tight and pained, "I just have to keep thinking these things, because if I don't, then she's truly dead. It's like she's caught, frozen in time, on my ceiling and I'm still standing there, staring up at her, and if I only keep thinking of solutions, then I'll be able to reach her and bring her back. And she'll still be here. Smiling at me. Laughing at my antics. If I stop thinking—, if I stop remembering, then she's truly dead and she'll never smile again." He falls quiet once more. Carefully not looking at Steve.

For a moment, he just stares out into thin air. The images in his mind so much brighter and prominent than the world before his eyes.

Steve stays silent beside him. Apparently comfortable with sitting in the pain of Chrissy's death as long as Eddie is not alone in doing it.

The cigarette lays abandoned in Eddie's hand. It continues to burn. He lets it burn and does not pulls his fingers back, when the line of burning embers reaches the filter, where he holds onto it. He watches with detached fascination, as the last bit of paper of nicotine burns away and the embers reach his fingers. Heat flashes into his skin. Embers snaps and bites at his skin. Pain explodes through his finger, jerking through his hand.

Eddie presses his lips together. A shaky breath fall unsteady and trembling through his nose.

The line of embers goes out and the cigarette dies. Heat flares through his finger, chasing nerves and skin, eating away at him, and then it fades out. Pain lingers like a ghost of flame and fire, biting and nipping at his skin, where the cigarette burned his finger.

Finally, Eddie stuffs the filter against the step beside himself and flicks it out into the woods. Steve's gaze follow. Eyes sliding, tracking the filter sailing through the air and bumping along the forest floor like a poorly thrown skipping stone across the sea.

Pulling his eyes away from the ground, Eddie balances his wrist on top of his knee and flexes his hand. Fingers curling up and stretching out. The burned bit stretches taut and tight. The burn remains like nothing more than a prickling pain, like a particularly irate dog, nipping at his heels.

"She was terrified, you know," he finally says and drops his hand. "She went out there to meet me, terrified out of her mind, and it wasn't all at me. I could tell. I looked at her and I just saw this terrified girl, and I just wanted to help her." He tilts his head back and looks up at the sky with wet eyes. "God, I just wanted to help her." A choked laugh huffs from him. He raises a hand and pushes it into his face. Touch hard and unforgiving. Dull pain bursts from the pressure points, flaring through his cheeks, eyes and nose. "Look where that got me. Look where that got her." Shaking his head, he drops his hand back down and turns his eyes back on Steve, only to find him staring at him with concerned eyes and a pinched frown. "I know it's not my fault. Not really," he says, voice thin and reedy, as if he's just smoked through Reefer Rock's entire stash all on his own. "But I can't help, but think if I had been just a little bit better, a little bit less of a fuck up, then maybe she'd be here with us, punching Vecna to death with those colorful cheerleader props of hers." Just like back in the woods behind Hawkins High, he mimics shaking a pair of cheerleader props in the air in front of his head. Just a small, weak motion of his hand.

Chuckling lightly, Steve shakes his head. A small smile grows from his lips. "Yeah, that'd be an image."

"Comeuppance has never been more colorful, than in the body of a tiny cheerleader with a lot of rightful vengeance and a bright smile." Head tilted down, he smiles wistfully.

"You liked her a lot, didn’t you?" Steve's voice is quiet and gentle, his eyes soft and understanding.

"Yeah." Eddie nods. "She was so sweet. Bright. God, she was so bright." Tilting his head to the side, staring up at the grey sky through the trees, he adds, "Scared out of her mind and still managed to find a smile and have a laugh with the high school freak." Staring out into the air, he blinks. Eyes prickling and burning. The world before him swims and blurs. He lifts a hand and wipes at his eyes, huffing a small, empty laugh. "She had kind eyes," he says, when his hand has dropped back down. "Yeah, I liked her," he finishes with a sad smile. "She was impossible not to like." Huffing another small, empty laugh, he shakes his head and holds up a cupped hand, palm empty. "Immediately had me in the palm of her hand, man."

Steve shifts in his seat. Foot scuffing against the lower step. Dirt and tiny pebbles grit against the wood, caught beneath the sole of his shoe. He inches so close to Eddie their bodies’ line up. Thigh trailing along his own, hip against hip. Shoulder against shoulder. Arm pressed to arm. Burning Eddie's entire side with the warmth of his body. "I'm sorry," he says, voice low and presses his shoulder into his.

"Yeah," Eddie croaks, eyes burning more than before. "Me too." He tips his head to the side, slotting it into place on top of Steve's shoulder and, finally, he lets himself cry. Tears flood his vision. The world in front of him blurs and swims, floating and wobbling in the water building in the line of his vision. Water burns and prickles at his eyes. And he just stares out into the air. Looking empty and almost sightless into it, barely seeing anything before him. He hardly blinks. But the tears still fall onto his cheeks and runs down the side of his face, trailing a lopsided, skewed path across his skin, running over his nose and falling onto his other cheek, only to run a path across that too, before it disappears from his face and falls onto Steve's jacket beneath his head.

It takes a while before the tears run dry.

Finally, he takes one last sniffling breath and pushes himself off Steve's shoulder, sitting upright again.

"God, it's been weeks and I'm still freaking out," he huffs, a shaky laugh blowing from his lips. "Always thought I'd be metal, when Ragnarok came. Turns out I'm not."

He hardly hears Steve's quiet, "It's okay." The sound of his own shaky breathing rushing through his ears nearly drowns them out.

But he does.

A glance sideways reveals Steve looking steadily back at him. The look on his face open and soft.

Steve puts a hand on his back and rubs it in a circle. Palm pressing warm and steady into his shoulder.

Another puff of air blows from Eddie's mouth in the ghost of a laugh. Lifting his hands, he wipes at his face and eyes. Rough swipes at his skin smearing dampness across his skin. A breeze blows from the arms of the forest, reaching towards them. It catches upon Eddie's wet face and stings against his skin. The water on his cheeks prickle wet and cold at its touch. He keeps wiping it away. Pulls his fingers, palms and the back of his hand across his skin, wiping until the trail of wet tears have been smeared into such a thin layer of dampness, he hardly feels the cold of the wind blowing at him.

He pulls in a deep breath. Air rushes past his nose in a loud sniff.

He drops his arms back down, balancing them on the top of his knees.

Chancing a look, he glances over at Steve.

As if prompted by his glance, Steve asks, gently, "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." One of his hands lifts up, waving loose and limp in the air. "I'll be fine." Briefly, he rubs his palm across his face again. "Just, you know, going through it a bit. As you do," he adds, with a shaky smile, his voice imitating a weak attempt of brighter humor. His hand drops back down onto his knee. "Not much else to do after saving the world, but remember that you almost didn't."

"Yeah, it's—" a grimace twists across Steve's face "—ah, it's best not to dwell, I've found. It's enough to make anyone lose their shit."

Eddie cuts him a half-hearted look that is not the glare it once was. "You don't say."

Silence falls over the porch.

For a long while, the two sit quietly. Side by side. Bodies pressing into each other, warm, firm and solid against each other. Like pillars or anchors in a storm. Even if the current storm has passed for now.

When Eddie casts another look at Steve, he finds him staring contemplatively out into the forest. As he watches him, a wary look crosses his face. It falls almost like a curtain over his features. Twisting at them.

Quietly, Eddie waits for his words to make their way from his hesitant eyes to his mouth.

"There was something else you said yesterday," he finally says, voice quiet in the air. One of his fingers taps against his knee. It makes a dull thumping sound. Thump-thump, thump-thump. Like the echo of a heartbeat.

Eddie snorts. "I'm sure."

Neither speak for a short while.

Eddie waits some more.

It takes a little longer for Steve to find his words, but once he does, he speaks them, "Wishing that all of this didn't happen—" he waves a hand, gesturing magnanimous in the air "—or that it happened to someone else, it doesn't make you a bad person, Eddie."

The ghost of burning heat from days before, like catching the touch of embers, flashes through Eddie. Teeth gritting together, his jaw clamps tightly shut. "You would say that, wouldn't you, King Steve?" he says, voice sharper than he means it to be. As soon as the words fill the air, he deflates. The rush of fire disappears, like the breath of the wind sniffing out a candle flame. He presses a hand to his face, fingers pressing into his eyes.

Eyes falling shut, he takes a deep breath. Air rushes loudly in and out of his nose. Opening his eyes again, he looks back at Steve. "Sorry, I didn't—" he waves a hand in the air. Air leaves his lungs in a sharp gust. "Sorry." He makes a go on gesture, expression falling into something softer.

For a moment, Steve just watches him. Expression shuttered, his eyes wary. Finally, he takes a deep breath, air filling his lungs with a rush, then out, his chest deflating. "After the first time it happened, I spent so long wishing for things to just be normal, desperately wanting to go back to normal, that I started ignoring it had ever happened. I reached so desperately for normalcy that I stopped seeing what was around me. Real things. Things that mattered." He tilts his head to the side. "Not so bad that I pretended it wasn't real, but more, I stopped talking about it. I stopped seeing how it was messing me up and how upset Nancy was. I hated that I couldn't sleep at night, that I was burning all the light bulbs in my house, even though most of the time, I was the only one home. I hated that I couldn't go to bed without the nail bat right beside me and that I couldn't leave my house without making sure it was in my car again. I hated that I was sent right into a panic attack, if a light started to flicker. So much that I just pretended it wasn't real. That all of those things, just wasn't happening to me. I was fine, just fine."

A grimace cuts across his face. Arm hanging down beside him, he taps a finger to the floorboard one step beneath him. Nail tap-tap-tapping against wood.

Then he stops.

The sudden silence is heavy and stark.

Head tipping towards him, he throws a sideways glance at Eddie. One strand of his hair flops forward and hangs over his forehead. "I never managed to convince myself, but Nancy sure was." He leans forward, back bowing over, knees pulling up to his chest. Arms folded in front of him, braced on the top of his knees. He looks out. Eyes disappearing off into the woods before them. Something regretful, almost apologetic, falls over his expression. "Or, I don't know," he huffs with a roll of his eyes. "I was just so terrified that the government would drag us all away at the smallest misstep. So I tried so hard to look normal, to look okay, that I forgot that the NDA's we signed weren't all that mattered. Barb still mattered. Nancy mattered. We all mattered." Expression painfully neutral, he shrugs noncommittally. "I don't know. I was just trying to keep us safe. Instead, I just made everything worse."

Turning his head, Eddie looks at him. Gaze roaming over his face, searching his expression and his eyes. Something tight and tense curls up inside of his chest at the look on Steve's face. Everything is so much worse in the light of day now that he actually knows Steve and he has had time to wind his way underneath Eddie's skin; much too close to his chest and the vulnerable parts hidden away there, than when they were traversing their way through the dark, heavy air of the Upside Down and the only thing known about him, was the warmth in his eyes and his willingness to help a stranger in need.

With that feeling burning tight and painful inside of his chest, Eddie is unable to find a way to voice any words without them coming out raw and exposed, so he says nothing. Merely sits there with his throat clamped up tight and his chest burning with a different kind of fire, than the one that chased him outside in the first place.

"You're wrong, you know," Steve adds after a while, voice quiet and soft. "Me and Nancy. We were good, at least in the beginning, but we never would have worked. She's great and a part of me will always love her. But the people we are, the things we're looking for—" he shakes his head, breath blowing forcefully from his lips. "We never would have been happy, trying to find that in each other."

The words touch the tightness coiled around Eddie's chest and throat, and the two finally let up. Loosening with the air passing out of his lungs. And Eddie finally finds his voice again. "Hard to believe with the way you two were looking at each other."

"We've talked a bit through the years, since we broke up. But we've never really spent that much time with other, when the world wasn't ending. And I think, I've changed, grown up, since we were together." Steve shrugs. "I guess Nancy was just seeing that at a time, when she was feeling a little alone and needing someone. I was just convenient and close by with Jonathan so far away. And I will always look at her and love her a little bit. But I'm not looking for her in the people I date anymore, you know?" He looks to the side then, his gaze falling onto the steps below himself. Ducking down, he picks up something from the lower steps. It scrapes lightly against the floorboard, as his fingers closes around it. When he straightens back up, his hand is closed into a loose fist. Grey peeks out between the gaps of his fingers.

For a moment, Steve simply looks at the grey object in his hand. Holds it up to his face and turns it over between his fingers. Then he throws it lightly up and down. A small stone flies from his palm up into the air, then back down, landing in his hand with a small smack. Then again. Up in the air and down. The stone gets thrown in the air thrice. Each time it does, the sound of it smacks back into his palm. He throws it up one last time, then closes it up in his hand again, fingers curling around it.

Eddie has always been careful with how he has touched boys. Careful in how he looks at them, in how he hands them joints and cigarettes and beers. Eddie is loud, he always has been. A showman at heart. Interacting with other men has just always been another performance in of itself. He can be loud and exaggerated, tilt into their personal space, as long as he is loud and abrasive about it; as long as it is Eddie 'The Freak', doing the reaching, not Eddie, the man. Then maybe, just maybe, they will not notice Eddie's eyes lingering on them or the way he flexes and curls his hands into fists, stuffs them into his pockets to keep from touching them.
  It is like a magic trick; Eddie tells them to look one way, all the while, he hides what he does not want them to see in the palm of his hand or behind his back, while they are busy, following his pointed finger. Scarves hidden underneath his sleeve, cards hidden in the palm of his hand, stuffed bunnies in the hidden bottom of his hat; large grins and arms thrown around shoulders, face shoved into personal spaces; it is all the same magic trick.

A performance Eddie has perfected over the years.

And maybe that was why he looked Steve in the eye, pointed at Nancy and told him to see something there. Just another magic trick. A reason not to look at Eddie and see the same exact thing there.

Or maybe Eddie looked at Steve and Nancy with his heart in his throat and thought, if there is something there, then I will have no reason to break my own by looking at him any longer.

Magic tricks. Maybe he got so good at them along the way; he has started to fool himself as well.

Monsters and superpowered wizards come to life, as if risen from one of his D&D campaigns, does not change that.

Certainly not with a guy like Steve.

Especially not Steve.

Steve, who stripped and jumped in the lake without letting anyone else get a word in.

Steve, who throughout their explanation of monsters come to life and another dimension beneath Hawkins, looked at Eddie with such understanding in his eyes, smiling painfully at him, because of the gruesome reality of the story drawn and currently unfolding before them, but his eyes so very kind and understanding.

Steve, who was perhaps one of the biggest surprises of all, in the longest week of Eddie's fucked up life and who, for some unfathomable reason, continues to be there, now that the week is over.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to, like, throw you at each other or anything." Eddie fiddles with his rings. Fingers twisting and pulling them around. He glances down briefly. Light catches upon the metal, flashing up at him from the silver, glinting surface, while he moves it around. He bounces one of his legs. Knee jiggling up and down. The motion catches on his chain and a distant, faint tickling jingles from Eddie's hip.

Raising his head and eyes back up, he throws a quick glance at Steve. But only for a moment. Eyes skittering away, he pulls his gaze away from him and looks out. "Just thought I'd point something out that might help make you happy. Seemed like someone might as well be, if the world was going to end."

For a moment, Steve is quiet. Simply stares contemplatively down at the stone turning over in his hand. "Well," he says slowly, as if he has to test his words out carefully, "it's not ending and I think I am happy." Steve raises his hand, whips it out and throws the stone out into the woods. It flies, grey and small, through the air. Whipping forward, the stone cuts through the air. Filling the air with a soft whistle. Then it crashes into a cluster of leaves with a cracking rustle, and smacks into a tree with a dull thwack! It bounces off and lands on the forest floor somewhere. Rolling across it with a light rustle and cracking, before it finally comes to a stop.

Steve pulls a face. Expression twisting in distaste. "Maybe not happy. It's hard to be after the world almost ended again. But I'm okay. At least, I'm trying to be." He tips his head slightly to the side as if conceding a point. A grimace pulls at his face. Something heavy and sad falls over his eyes. When he speaks again, there is a strange edge and lilt to his voice, "I might not find a— a girlfriend between these trees, but I've got people, who know what I've been through. People who understand me." He throws a hand over his shoulder, waving at the cabin behind their shoulders. Shaking his head, he drops his hand. A smile curls from his lips. Leaning sideways, crowding closer to Eddie, Steve tips his knee to the side, nudging at Eddie and continues, tone normal once more, "I've got Robin and you and Dustin and the kids—" he rolls his eyes, expression still bright and good-humored "—even if a good half of those people drive me half mad most of the time and all of them are bleeding my wallet dry. For now that's enough."

A snort bursts from Eddie. It is almost a relief to let it ride him over the raw edges still burning inside of his throat and smarting with a dull ache inside of his chest; almost a relief to fall into the soothing waters of brighter humor and a lighter air, after the heaviness of yesterday and today have rubbed the edges inside of him raw and sharp, cutting Eddie with his every breath. "You're a pushover, you know that, right?"

Steve shrugs. Twisting expression far too fond to be anywhere near apologetic. "You try not to when you have five monkeys hanging on your arms and back, yapping at you until you give in."

"I'm pretty sure, I wouldn't give in as easy as you do."

"Hardly. You might be metalhead, Munson—" he knocks his knee into Eddie's "—but underneath all that leather and smoke, you're as soft as a feather pillow."

"Hmm, we'll see who caves first and lets the little sheep drink their first beer, shall we?" Eddie throws a sideways glance at him and quirks an eyebrow at him, smirk curling lopsided on his mouth.

"Jesus—" Breaking off mid-word, Steve rolls his eyes and rubs a hand over his face. A sigh falls from his mouth, which quickly forms into small chuckles, both immediately absorbed by his palm. Dropping his hand, he turns sideways, knees pressing into Eddie's, facing him more fully. "Sure, okay," he says, with a loose grin and a roll of his eyes, "let's see who gives in to underage alcohol consumption first. The jock babysitter or the smoking, drug-dealing," the word leaves his mouth heavy and emphasized, his eyebrows arching pointedly on his brow, "metalhead." With that, Steve holds his hand out in the space between them, palm open and waiting.

A chuckle bursts from Eddie's chests.

Ducking his head for a brief moment, he shakes his head, drawing the pad of his thumb across his brow. Laughter shakes lightly from him.

"Sure," he says, raising his head back up, laughter making his voice light and bright, still shaking his head, "it's a bet."

Their hands join together. Steve's grip is warm and comfortable around his own.

Eddie grins at him. Teeth sharp and shining. "So, what do I get when I win?"

A quirking eyebrow challenges his words. "You mean, when I win?"

Lips pursing, Eddie narrows his eyes. He playfully grips Steve's hand tighter. "Keep dreaming, sweetheart."

"Oh, I intend to."

Eddie purses his lips. He waits a moment. Caught in their stalemate. "So, the winner’s lot is..?"

"I'm sorry, do you need something more than keeping your honor and winning bragging rights?"

"I prefer to sweeten the deal with something a little more enticing." The smile on Eddie's lips pull into something more alluring at his words. A smile he might have pulled at a handsome face across the crowd in one of the more underground bars of Indianapolis or at the bar of the same club; on the heels of honey-sweet words, leaning into another warm body, whose glint in his eyes matched his own.

Steve throws him a crooked eyebrow and lopsided grin. "And here I thought beating the Steve Harrington was enough of a reward."

"I thought, you said your ego has been on its knees since '83 with no hopes of getting back up again?" Eddie tilts his head to the side and leans forward, bringing his face closer to Steve's. Tilting himself dangerously close to him. Hands still clasped between them. "What was that about having a low ego?"

"Maybe you just bring out the best of me," Steve says, with a winning smile and gleaming eyes.

"Or the worst, if you're making bets about getting underaged kids to drink."

An unapologetic look falls over his face and he shrugs. "I'm just seizing an opportunity here."

Eddie quirks an unimpressed look at him, even though they're so close their noses are nearly touching and every puff of Steve's breath fans out across his skin. Hot and warm. "You're a crap business man, Harrington, if your idea of a greater deal, is only playing for bragging rights and honor."

"Hmm." Smile crooking, Steve's eyes narrow playfully. "Maybe I've got bigger plans for future opportunities."

"Uh, mysterious Harrington," Eddie says, voice dipping into a deeper tone. "You trying to impress me?" He jerks his chin forward. It brings him even closer. Warmth exudes from Steve's body, his body heat reaching tantalizing towards Eddie, like a lure trying to lure him closer still. He hums. "Careful, someone might get the wrong idea."

"Well, that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

The grins across both of their faces are so wide it feels ridiculous. Sitting beside one another, turned inwards, facing toward each to her, their hands clasped in their middle and grinning like fools at each other and Eddie leant as close as he can without their noses touching. Tension zips between them. Its touch heady and entrancing underneath Eddie’s skin, chasing away the last of the heavy weight from before.

Steve keeps his gaze firm on Eddie, their eyes locked together as tight as their hands.

After what feels like an eternity caught in Steve's gaze and hand, Steve bops their hands up and down firmly once. A smile breaks out across his face. Their hands release at the same time. Falling away and retreating through the space between them to land home at their sides.

Eyes released from his, Eddie pulls back and glances away from him, gaze skirting the surrounding air. He clears his throat. The sound rubs at the back of his throat. With his hand freed from Steve's, he reaches for his pocket and pulls another cigarette loose from the packet inside of it. Tugging the lighter loose at the same time.

After a few puffs brings the scent of putrid smoke back into the air, scratching against his lungs even when he breathes deep without the cigarette placed between his lips.

After a moment of thick, heavy silence, a knee presses into his own, nudging him. "What about you?"

Eddie throws a look at him over his cigarette, eyebrows arched. "I'm gonna need some context clues, Harrington. You should be familiar with them by now, you've been playing detective with Miss Wheeler and Henderson for the last three years."

"Well, you were so invested in matching me up with Nancy. Any boyfriend waiting for you out there?" He tips his head forward, gesturing at the words with it.

Eddie can't help it. He snorts. It bursts loud and ugly from the back of his throat. He catches the confused, almost affronted expression that makes its way across Steve's face and he quickly tries to school his expression, but he knows he fails. Mirth leaks out in laugh lines and crinkles on his face. Laughter bubbles and hiccups from his chest, where he can't quite stifle it, dying a very slow death, despite his lackluster efforts.

"Sorry. It's just—" Eddie holds up a hand, mouth stretching in a wide, disbelieving grin, his eyes crinkling up. "My pool of eligible partners isn't exactly overabundant in these parts. Hawkins isn't really overflowing with gay men—" he tips himself sideways into Steve and presses his knee into his "—unless you count repressed, angry teens and depressed, middle aged men with three and a half kids and a wife at home." He makes a face. Making it excessively exaggerated and comical; the kind of mask that would normally bring laughter and grins to the kids. "Which I'd rather not. Thank you."

A sour grimace twists across Steve's face, as if he's sucked on a lemon. "You can't be serious?"

"Oh, darling," Eddie throws him a look, "you'd be surprised how many men force themselves into a heterosexual marriage and build your nuclear American family, only to get drunk one weekend and fuck his way into another man's bed."

A furrow forms on Steve's brow and he actually looks rather distressed. "Why?"

Eddie shrugs. "They're scared. And convinced homosexuality is a force of the devil. They've been convinced it's better to conform to the normalized, ideological nuclear family constructed by angry, hate-filled people in power. Too scared or too angry themselves to step out. Or they manage to convince themselves, that they really do love their girlfriend and never realize why they will always feel like they're missing something. Repression and internalized homophobia is just as powerful a fiend as fear."

"It's a shame." Steve is staring at the ground. Head turned down, his gaze stuck to his feet as if frozen. "No one should be made to feel afraid to be themselves or feel like they couldn't."

A hum comes from Eddie's chest. "It's a nice sentiment," he says, bitterness, that is not actually directed at the man beside him, overtakes his voice, coloring it grim and dark, "but it's as rare as a hen's teeth and you're better off without it. There are people like Carver out there, who'd beat you up for siding with us. Or accuse you of being a queer yourself. Not to mention most of them would gladly kill all of us off, if given half a chance. Which they have," voice bitter and shaking with barely repressed emotion, Eddie's hand curls into a fist. His other arm sweeps out, gesturing far and wide. "Just take a look at the news. We're dying and Reagan is doing shit about it." He looks out at the forest. Gaze distant, he sighs and shakes his head. "Face it, Harrington. I thank you for it, really, I don't think you know how much it means to people like me—" he tips his head to the side, thinking about Robin "—or maybe you do," he adds with a shrug. "But your opinion of us is one in a million. It's why we hide. And why some people end up in marriages they don't want with kids they don't love." Looking at him, he crooks an eyebrow. "Although, I will discourage you from questioning every married, apathetic man you meet. Not all of them are homophobic homos. Most of them are just plain assholes."

Steve nods. Expression more serious than Eddie expected. Eyes tracking every miniscule fleeting feeling making its way across Eddie's own face. "Yeah. I know. I'll be careful."

Tipping his head to the side, Eddie leans closer to him, a mask of conspiracy falling over his face, as if parting with a secret. "Besides, even if I had my pick of half the county. Freaks aren't really rated high on the local dating poll." Eyebrows crooked and grin lopsided, he throws him a look. "You'd know about it, you've been the man to beat since freshman year."

Steve snorts. He ducks his head and pulls a face. Expression twisting up, his tongue briefly sticks out at the ground. Picking his head back up, he looks back at Eddie. One of his eyebrows arches pointedly up his brow. "I thought you wanted to sink my ego, not inflate it?"

"Hmm, I'm flexible, I can do it both ways." A self-satisfied smirk plays across Eddie's lips and one of his eyebrows flick upwards at him.

Hazel eyes narrow on him. The expression pulling at Steve's face, confusion and knowing all at once, like he knows there's something hidden in Eddie's words; he just can't catch them.

It makes Eddie laugh.

A grin stretches across Steve's face. He tries to hide it by rolling his eyes and shoving Eddie by his shoulder. But Eddie catches it. He always does.

Shoved away by Steve's hand, Eddie sways and falls to the side, shoulder collapsing into the railing on the other side of him. And still laughter bubbles from his chest.

It is only when the sky splits and cracks open, raining heavy rain down on them that the two of them retreat inside. And even then, they huddle in the open doorway and watch the rain drop from the sky, slamming heavily into leaves and thundering against the earth where the trees open up enough, allowing the rain to slip past.

"Hah!" Eddie slams his final card down on the table with a victorious craw. "Defeated again, Miss 4.0!"

Across from him, Nancy makes a face like having sucked on a lemon and lowers her hand, her graceful fingers spread across her own little deck of cards.

Reaching across the table, Eddie begins pushing the cards together again. The edges catch up on each other with soft crack's and click's.

"What'd'ya say, Wheeler?" he drawls. "3 for 5?"

After a game of war with Dustin that turned into 5 games of war. Eddie was left sorting the deck by himself with Dustin abandoning ship so fast, he could have left a cloud of smoke in his wake and the door to El's bedroom slamming shut behind him with a resounding slam.

So while Eddie was making a big show of being abandoned to an audience of himself, the cabin's walls and the unsympathetic, half-ears of Nancy, Robin and Steve by the TV watching a rerun of some Golden Girls episode, Nancy walked up to the table with a half-smile on her face and her arms crossed loosely across her chest. Offering to play a round or two with a one-shouldered shrug. Which she surprisingly lost two for three.

"Sure," she says now, smiling, "why not?"

Grinning sharply at her across the table, Eddie tugs the final cards into the pile and pushes them into a neat stack.

As he is dealing out the next round, Steve walks by. He pauses by Eddie's chair and hovers in the space behind him. Eddie tries keep his attention on the cards before him, but it is very hard, when he can feel the warmth and presence of Steve's body directly behind him. It only lasts for as long as it takes for Steve to reach out and touch a hand to Eddie's neck. It is as if it washes through Eddie, freezing him on the spot. Eddie hands pauses. Cards caught between two hands, stilled in the middle of a shuffle.

Warm fingers curl around the collar of his vest. They ghost over the back of Eddie's neck and a wave of tingles shoots down his spine. "What's this?" Steve says, voice humored and bright, "I thought, you said I could have this." He gives a tugs on the fabric. It pulls and snags around Eddie's shoulders.

Eddie gives a small shake of his head, pulling himself out of the frozen hand of time under Steve's touch. He tips his head back and looks up at Steve. A wide grin spreads across his cheeks. "Thought I would take it for a spin, seeing as you've been neglecting it in favor of those poor polo's."

"Maybe I was just saving it for a special day."

"I'm not having you fuck around and wait for another demobat attack to wear it again, that's for sure. It's a miracle you got the blood out the first time. I'm a metalhead, not a maniac. I ain't taking those chances again." He throws him an arched look. "Not even to see you in your shirtless, bloodied glory again."

"It's a shame. I was beginning to like it." Grinning wide, Steve gives the vest another tug, then removes his hand. "And here I thought you were a man of your word, Munson."

"Eh." He waves a hand in the air and goes to shuffle the cards for another round. "We can share it instead."

"Hmm, let's hope you'll keep your word this time." The smirk so clearly spread across his face sneaks into the tone of his voice. "Maybe then I'll even wear it to that bar, you're gonna take me and Robin to someday."

In his chest, his heart hiccups, stumbling. Eddie does a double take and throws a look at Steve. But he's already turned away from the table, filling up a glass with water by the fridge and Eddie's left blinking startled at his back with half of the cards in his hands left to clatter uselessly onto the table.

When he walks past them again, he catches Eddie's eyes and throws him a wink. Grin stretching wide and mischievous across his lips. And mouths what Eddie's pretty sure are the words, Eyes in front, Munson.

Eddie is left to scramble all the cards together with a pounding heart and burning cheeks in front of an oblivious Nancy turned to watch the TV and the sound of televised laughter from the living room.

Wednesday, two days after his little drinking siesta, Eddie finds himself out between the trees on the blanket with Max once more. This time both Steve and El join them. Madonna and ABBA — favorites of the two girls — play from the boombox's speakers. Surrounding the air around them in a poppy, eclectic bubble, while El brushes through Max's hair with careful fingers. Red locks still damp from when Steve washed her hair earlier, before she asked to come outside. Once El is satisfied, she begins adding little braids to Max's hair.

Staring unseeing and even more distant gazed than usual up at the sky, Max just lies still and quiet on the blanket. Steve keeps sending her these little looks, well, not sending so much as just checking in on her, ever watchful of the closed off, distant expression on her face and whatever he finds on there that might give him an opening. But in the end, Max does not need his helping hand.

When El picks up strands to begin the fifth braid, she starts, "They said I might not be able to walk properly again," in a quiet and small voice. "That I might need a cane or a walker."

"Metal." Eddie nods, doodling away in his notebook on one of his pages assigned for 'miscellaneous shit to clean up the crap littering the synapses and allow the brain juice to flow' or other shit he might have said to Gareth when he stuck his nose into his business.

"Metal? No way," she says, sharp and cutting. "It's dumb." A sharp gust of air blows harshly in through her mouth and a grimace twists across her face. "I'll look stupid and dumb." She shakes her head sharply once. More a jerk than anything, really.

"I don't think you will," El says, voice quiet and calm. Letting go of the thin braid in her hand, she runs her hand through Max's hair in a soothing motion.

Huffing loudly, Max shakes her head sharply. The movement tugs her head an inch away from El's fingers. "It's dumb," she snaps.

El pauses. Fingers twitching in the air in her hesitation, but after a moment, she lays them back in her hair and tugs at Max's fiery strands to begin another braid, now careful and slower than before, as if each motion of her fingers is carefully weighed and calculated before she moves them. "Why is it dumb?" she asks, voice quiet and careful where Max's is firecracker and destructive. "Is it not meant to help you walk again?"

Max does not answer. She turns her head to the side, away from El's careful fingers.

El stops. Fingers freezing in the middle of pulling one strand below another. Wide eyed, she looks at Steve.

"You're right, El," he says with a gentle smile. "It is meant to help."

"Yes, it is," Max continues terse and forceful, almost dismissive. "But it's dumb. I'll be slow and in the way of everyone."

"Then, I do not see how it could be dumb," El tries, shaking her head and slowly resuming her little braid. "If it is—"

"Stop, you don't get it!" Max yells. Body jerking as if she cannot help the act of wanting to get up and get away, even though she's been with casts restricting her movements for over a month now. A tight, furious expression twists hateful across her face. Red prickles at her skin and turns her cheeks angry with color. Jerking, Max turns her head away. Pulling away as much as she can with her limited mobility.

In her hair, El's hands falter. After a moment, she pulls them out and retreats, letting her be. The expression on her face falls, turning heavy and sad.

Both of their expression stabs at Eddie's heart. Eyes darting between the two, he chews thoughtfully on his lips. "Hey, El," Eddie says softly. When she picks her head up and looks at him, Eddie pats the spot beside him. Then he reaches up, grabs onto a section of his hair and flails it at her.

Expression brightening, El crawls across the blanket and sits down beside him. Wide eyed, she reaches out. Soft, careful hands touch his hair, something Eddie has adamantly refused and expertly dodged. Up until now that is.

Across the blanket, he catches Steve's eyes. A careful eyebrow arches up on his brow.

Eddie lifts a single shoulder in response. A sort of, what can you do? Something he knows Steve is well acquainted with himself, when it comes to these kids.

Steve lips lifts in one corner. A small up-tick that winks at Eddie.

For a while, the four of them are quiet. The air around them thick and heavy.

El remains focused on braiding Eddie's hair, but her expression stays worried. A small furrow digs into the space between her eyebrows and her mouth presses into a tight line.

"Max," Steve is the one to break the silence. A small sigh falls from his lips. Shifting, he lifts himself up from his spot in the corner.

Max turns her head towards him. Her eyes do not seek him, but her ears do.

They must have developed a wordless system for communication, because Steve waits a moment, eyes watching her with a single-minded focus, and when Max does nothing else, he begins moving. Or maybe they just know each other well enough to just know what is allowed and what is needed.

Steve makes his way towards her and sits down on the blanket beside her head. Settling down a little to the side of her, turned inwards towards her. As he settles, he says, "I'm here," and touches a hand to her shoulder, quickly withdrawing it again.

Max sniffs in his direction, but says nothing. Her head jerks and turns back to face the sky.

"I know, we'll never truly understand, how you feel," he begins, voice heavy and gentle. "Everything you've been through, before and after Vecna. How it’s been these last few weeks." He pauses. A look of deep concentration falls over his face as he searches for the right words. "But you know we're here for you. Talk to us. Why would a cane or walker be stupid?"

"It just is," she sniffs.

"But it's not." El's hands whips out of Eddie's hair and she jerks, turning to face Max with this deep battle-ready face, as if she could fight all of Max's problems with her bare hands, if given the chance. "If it helps you walk, it wouldn't be stupid!"

Max rolls her eyes. But the expression on her face remains tight and tense.

El looks at Steve. Expression helpless and lost. Her eyes dart all over his face, as if, if she searches long enough, she can pull an answer from the depths of his skin. All she finds is Steve's own look of concentration and deeply furrowed brows.

"You know, I've mentioned my hand hurts sometimes?" Eddie says quietly.

In unison, Steve and El's head jerks towards him, but Eddie keeps his eyes fixed on Max.

"Yeah?" she asks, voice stuffed and thick. A trace of annoyance and frustration clings to it, making the word sound petulant and angry.

"Hmm, I haven't told you why. I actually broke it and almost lost the ability to play guitar," Eddie says, quietly. "I could tell you now. Or would it make you feel worse?"

"I don't know." Max turns her head towards the sound of his voice. "Tell it anyway."

"When I was a kid, I used to run away from home a lot. It was a shit way to live, so I ran to my uncle a lot. Once when I was twelve, my dad found out I was preparing to run away again, he found the money I'd hidden away and that made him angry," he says, looking down towards Max, but settling his eyes just beyond the boundaries of the blanket, fixing his gaze on a patch of grass. "He threw me around. That wasn't anything new to me. But this time it was worse." And so Eddie tells them how his dad smashed his hand into a wall and broke a good number of bones and messed up some stuff in there. How, when his uncle finally got him to the hospital 30 hours later, his hand was swollen blackened and blue. When they saw the x-ray, the doctor told him, he might not heal right and he could risk losing some dexterity and with it the ability to play guitar, since he got help so late. He had to wear a cast for a long time. It was the longest time he had ever gone without playing guitar and he spent the entire time terrified he had lost one of the most important things to him.
  When the cast came off, they could not afford the physical therapy, Eddie needed. But Eddie's uncle found some books at the library and asked some of his old veteran friends, who'd been hurt in Vietnam and been through physical therapy. And slowly, Eddie brought his hand back to life and was able to use it mostly like before, though some trauma lingered and occasionally flared up.

"But you didn't lose it," Max says, when he finishes. "That's the whole point. You can still play guitar."

"That's true. I can still play. But when I play for too long, my hand cramps and the nerves or ligaments or muscles or whatever—" he waves a hand in the air "—locks up and go stiff. And I end up having a claw for a hand for a day or two, and I have to massage it and use these exercise balls to loosen it up. And it hurts like a bitch."

"Oh," she says, voice small.

"It's not the same," he says slow and gentle, "I know. But I lived with that fear and I have days, where I can't use my hand like other people. It hurts like hell. And it's awful, just waiting around, feeling like life is leaving you behind, when all of your friends keep running forward and you have to sit on the side-lines, unable to do the same thing they can do."

As he falls silent, Steve catches his eyes. There is this look of deep concentration upon his face. Gratitude burns deep inside of his eyes and he tips his head at Eddie, in silent understanding and regard.

For a while, no one speaks.

Beside Eddie, hands fisted in the blanket, El looks lost and helpless. Looking at Max with eyebrows drawn and pulled close together.

"Come on, Max," Steve lays a hand on her shoulder and gives a small squeeze. "Why do you hate the idea of a walking aid?"

"I'll look stupid and be in everyone's way," she huffs.

"So?" Eddie says blasé, brushing her words away with a wave of his hand. "You'd love to be in everyone's way. You could finally make yourself into a true menace against those little gremlins you call friends."

A grimace pulls across Max's face. "I don't think it works like that."

"No, it is! Think about it." Eddie throws his arms out in a broad gesture. "You can use a cane to smack anyone, you don't want touching you and use it to threaten the boys, if they ever get mouthy. And—" he adds, lowering his voice a little, playacting conspiratorial tone "—I've heard you owe Mike a beating. Think of how much easier that will be with a cane!"

The corners of Max's lips twitch and lift up in a flickering smile.

"See? It's not all bad."

Air huffs long and hard from Max, chest deflating under it. "I just don't see the point." Her mouth press into a tight line. "I can barely even see, and then I'll be stuck using a fucking cane the rest of my life."

"And we'll make it the most metal looking cane in the history of the world," Eddie declares with a grand sweeping gesture that is lost on her, but not El or Steve, so he still does it. "We might even be able to find one of those sword canes for you, and you can be a badass rogue and make the boys jealous that you get to carry a sword all the time. If anything, think how sweet the spite will be."

Glancing up at him, Steve throws Eddie a small smile. The smile drops and he turns back to Max. He puts a hand on her shoulder. "Look, Max, you're scared and angry, I get it. We understand. But no matter where you end up. Wheelchair, cane, walker, on your own legs, we'll be there and help you through it. We've said it before, and we'll keep saying it, we won't leave you just because you walk different than you used to."

"I'm coming back," El says and scoots close to Max, ending up sat opposite Steve on the opposite side. "I'm here, Max." She puts her hands on her shoulder above where the cast of her arm ends. "I'm right here, and I'll never leave you. I don't care if you can walk or see. I can lift your chair and tell you what I see." Her hand tightens in a squeeze. "I felt so lost without my powers. But Will helped me. He was there for me. I'll be there for you. We all will. Friends don't lie."

"And friends stick together," Eddie adds. "Remember what I told you? You guys are textbook no man left behind."

Mouth pressed into a thin, tight line, Max gives a single, curt nod. "Okay," she allows. "I don't get it. But fine. I can wait to call it stupid until I get it."

"And until we get a chance to make it the Mad to your Max," Eddie continues, slightly silly and with a finger gun for emphasis. To which Steve rolls his eyes and Max scoffs loudly. Though the tight press of her lips eases up and makes way for twitching corners. So that was totally worth it, even though Eddie's very bones cringe.

Sighing, the tense, taut line of El's shoulders fall and her brow smooths out.

Eventually, Max asks El to go back to braiding her hair and El happily sits back down by her head and buries her fingers in her red locks once more.

Later, when Steve and Eddie are folding up the blanket and gathering the boombox and various tapes to bring back inside — after having carried Max to her chair, leaving her to El — Steve touches a small hand to Eddie's right arm, just as he goes to grab the boombox by the handle and rise to his feet. He pauses. Half-crouching, half-stooping, still on one knee with the other sort of hovering in midair. At the contemplative look in Steve's eyes, Eddie slowly lowers himself back down the ground— now free of the blanket folded up at Steve's knees — returns to a kneel and turns towards Steve.

Without saying a word, Steve runs his hand down the length of Eddie's arm. Touch barely even grazing him; a mere ghost that tinkles down Eddie's leather jacket until they reach his hand. Fingers curling around Eddie's wrist, he lifts his right hand up through the air and brings his other hand to meet it. A furrow grows between his brows. He looks intently down at their hands. Eyes fixed on them as he turns Eddie's hand around slowly, touching it from every angle, as tenderly and gently as nothing else Eddie has ever felt.

It shocks him to the core.

Eventually, Steve just tucks his hand into place against his own, palm to palm and runs his thumb in circles across the back of Eddie's.

Feeling incredibly out of sync and knocked off the side of the earth, Eddie breathes out shakily and asks, "Steve?"

"I'm sorry that happened to you," he replies simply. Hazel eyes look up at him where he stands, head slightly lowered and bent over their hands. At that, he tucks Eddie’s hands even more firmly into his hold, encasing it in both of his own, wrapping it up in warm skin and a gentle touch. For a moment, their eyes lock. Then Steve looks back down to where he holds onto Eddie's hand.

A lump forms in Eddie's throat. Not because of his hand or the man that once broke it. But because of Steve. Because of the pain inside of his eyes; a pain he took on for Eddie's sake; a lump grown from the tenderness of his touch and the care with which he has wrapped Eddie's hand up in his own. Like something of worth. As if it were precious and worthy of such tender care. "It's okay," Eddie manages to say. Words tight and croaking weakly from his walled up throat.

"It's really not."

"I'm okay," he corrects, winning a squeeze for his efforts.

Steve raises his head and meets his eyes. For a moment, they stand right before each other. Hands joined together and their gazes locked. Eventually, Steve gives his hand a final squeeze and releases it. He eases back on his heels, gathers the blanket up under his arm and rises to his feet.

Awkwardly clearing his throat and trying to center himself back to the earth's surface, Eddie turns his back on Steve. Cheeks burning red, he gathers up the boombox and cassette tapes with fumbling hands and even more burning cheeks.

Steve waits until he is on his feet and only then does he start walking back to through the trees to the cabin with Eddie right beside him. Probably failing to pretend his heart is not definitely not currently trying to beat its way out of his chest and into Steve's hands, no, not at all, what are you talking about? That would be crazy and totally, completely unheard of.

Only a few steps later, does Steve speak again. "Does it hurt often?"

"Only sometimes." Eddie shrugs. "When it's cold and when it goes stiff and cramps up."

Silence greets his words.

The cabin grows closer between the trees. Emerging between tree trunks, bark and rustling leaves. Dirt crunches beneath their heavy footsteps, joining the song of wind and leaves that fly all around them.

A few more steps and they cross the beaten path that runs through the trees by the cabin. And still they are silent.

By the stairs leading up to the cabin, Steve pauses by the railing and asks, "Those nights in the boathouse. And by skull rock—" he breaks off. The silence finishes his question for him.

"Yeah," Eddie says with a small sigh and a shake of his head. Those days and nights in hiding burned his hand worse than anything else has ever felt before. Like he had thrust his hand into the fiery pits of Hell long before it swallowed him up at the bottom of a lake. And kept burning through his hand. Eating at it and tearing it apart from the inside. A burning blaze of pain that ate away at him until he could no longer move two of his fingers and the rest were left stiff and practically useless.

He did not tell any of them then. A little pain in his hand hardly mattered, when he had just seen Chrissy be strung up like a broken marionette and others kept falling like flies. And the people who had come to scrape him off the floor of a moldy, dirty boathouse, all held such shadows and unfathomable understanding in their expressions, Eddie could hardly load them with one more pain, when they had clearly been where he was then, many times before.

Eddie is still occasionally struggles with guilt that he never told any of them, and even more so that he has since never tried to make amends for that. Letting them all believe he did not climb the robe for all the wrong reasons. And that he could ever be anything but broken.

Steve pauses with one foot on the first step. "Is that why you didn't climb back with Dustin?"

"You're quick, Harrington," Eddie says with a quirked smile and a pat-pat on his back as he passes by him. "Nearly as quick as Wheeler's trigger finger." Jogging up the stairs and heading in through the door, he swears he can hear Steve roll his eyes at his back.

A few days pass.

Eddie does not actually see a lot of Hopper. Half the time he (and Joyce) goes off meeting with someone or other. Citing that Owen guy at the lab or Murray — who does his absolute best to stay away from the cabin, Eddie cannot remember what he looks like, even though he swore that dude's smirk had been burned into his assholes to spite box, seriously, Eddie swears he has seen the guy like two times in all the weeks he's been out here — or no name at all and Eddie gets to flip a coin in his mind about what has Hopper away from the cabin that day without ever finding out, if he gets it right or not.

Other times — different to his regular walks — Hopper leaves the cabin without a word. Just stops what he's doing and stomps his way to the door with these hurried, angry steps, throws the door open so hard it bangs against the wall and bounces back and storms off into the woods. Whenever he leaves like that he never closes it behind himself. He's always out and gone within seconds. The door left wobbling on its hinges, bounced back from the wall and inching its way back into place in the doorframe, but always coming short, the momentum gone before it can fall shut.

A few times, Joyce goes after him with an apologetic smile at the rest of them. But mostly she leaves him alone. Just closes the door behind him and gives whoever's left to stare at Hopper's footsteps a tight smile, then returns to whatever she was doing without any more preamble.

Eddie suspects it's Hopper's own ghosts from the last few years, especially this last one, coming to haunt him. Mostly because one time during the first week, Hopper got dangerously close to shouting. Expression exploding with anger and red blooming on his cheeks, his voice booming through the cabin for barely a second before he cut himself off, jumped to his feet and ran out the door. He yanked his coat off the coat rack. Harsh, flurried tugs sending the hanger stand off its feet and tumbling to the ground. Hopper was gone before the crash was. Eddie cannot even remember what it was that set him off that first time, but something clearly had. He had heard something about that. Men coming home from war with shaking hands, distant eyes and a war still brewing beneath their skin, even though they were finally home from the real one.

His uncle had talked to him about it some. A few he had kept in contact with once he came home; a few he had found, who had not shared Home base with him, but that did not matter, Eddie learned. When it came to war, where you wrought it did not matter; the reflection in your eyes were the same and the phantom blood on your hands were too. That was all that mattered.
Nbsp; Uncle Wayne had not taken the fire of war with him home; only ever its shadows and ever-bleeding wounds. At least, from what he had allowed Eddie to see. Maybe, Hopper had taken a different kind of fire and flame from the Russian prison with him home. Demons and monsters different from Vecna and his bats, but demons all the same. (Although Eddie is pretty sure there had been a demo-monster in Russia too somewhere. Someone's has definitely said something of that matter, he's sure. But it's still a metaphor that works, just go with it).

Eddie spends more time reading or writing. On the porch, the couch or that spot between the trees with Max. Playing games with Jonathan, Argyle, Steve and Robin, Dustin and the other kids when they come over after school, whenever they are allowed to. He does lose his notebook and cannot find it anywhere, so he is cursed to scribble sentences on paper left from the kids' homework or El and Will's drawings, when lyrics come knocking on his brain or just admit defeat and let them fade into the ether, lost forever, and keep reading, playing games or other shit he finds to occupy his time.

Then, Thursday rolls around.

And Steve returns from picking up Dustin and Robin from school with a bruised face and split lips. Guided through the door with Robin's hand on his back and his own hand on the bone of his nose, head tilted back.

Barely a single foot in through the door, Eddie throws his book away. "What the hell happened?" Lurching to his feet, he jumps the gap from couch to door and comes to a stop directly before Steve. Arms up, reaching for Steve's face.

"Careful, careful," Dustin says beside him. One hand on Steve's elbow, another held out as if ready to block off any other strikes that might head for him.

"Jesus Christ." Eddie brings his hand to Steve's face. Cupping his cheeks in his palms, he tips his head up, gaze roaming all over his face. Blood clings to the inside of his nose. A small drop of it trails down, stopping halfway to his split lips, dried against his skin. A split seam of dried blood cuts straight through his lips and a blue-purple bruise blooms high on his cheekbone.

Thumb swiping out, Eddie touches at the blood drooping from his nose, gently trying to wipe it away.

"Nothing, it's nothing." Steve grabs Eddie by his wrists, fingers curling around and holding onto him. Eddie expects him to push his hands away, but he doesn't. Merely holds onto him and meets his wide eyes. "I'm fine, Eddie."

"Your face is the color of plums, Steve."

"And fruits are healthy." He taps two fingers against Eddie's pulse.

"Don't listen to him," Robin says from Steve's other side, still half-behind him, brow furrowed and eyes fixed to Steve. Body leaning into him, almost seeking him like a pillar of support. "It was a hard punch."

"Wasn't planning on it, Robbie."

Steve rolls his eyes at them. "It was just a small hit. Barely scratched me."

"Dingus," Robin mutters and shakes her head, but rubs at his back.

"You don't need any more head injuries, Steve." Hands cupping his face, Eddie keeps his eyes fixed on Steve's. Hazel to brown. There is something in Steve's eyes. Quiet and hidden, but there. Like glow-in-the-dark stars on a bedroom ceiling in broad daylight. Indiscernible. Almost like he is asking Eddie a question. Or asking him to take his outstretched hand. But everything is written in invisible ink and Eddie can feel it there, but not see it.

Finally, a sigh blows from his mouth.

That single step Eddie takes away from Steve is harder than he thought it would be. But he does take it. Hands falling away from his face as he does.

"Come on, then," he says, laying a hand on his shoulder instead. "We'd better get some ice on that."

As he starts pulling him forward — helped along by Dustin's grip on his arm, also tugging insistently at him — Robin's hand pats lightly on his back, following his every step. Her worried eyes peek at him from above his shoulder. Wide eyes stuck to Steve, as if it is impossible for her to look away from him, as soon as bruises mar his skin. Bottom lip pulled back, caught between white teeth.

As they move, Robin stays at Steve back. Keeping a supporting hand on his back and walking him forward.

Steve rolls his eyes. A lift of his arm rolls his shoulder around, as if trying to shrug off both Eddie and Robin's hands. "Seriously, Robin, I'm fine. It was just a punch. I've had far worse."

"Yeah, that's what concerns me, Steve."

Shuffling forward slowly, he rolls his eyes again. "I already have chronic migraines and partial deafness, how much worse can it get."

"I really wouldn't like to find out." Her hand stays latched to his back and she steps in time with his own, pressed so close to him they nearly walk in tandem, lined back to front, in a single unit. How they do not trip over one another, Eddie does not know, but they manage.

Finally, Steve takes a slightly bigger step forward. "Seriously, Rob." He turns, pulling out of both Eddie and Dustin's grasp, and grabs her hand, holding it on both of his. Folding it up so it is swallowed between his palms. Then looks directly into her eyes. "I'm fine, " he says. "Really. This isn't nearly as bad as last time. We're fine. We're out. We're not down there. We're safe. " Their eyes lock. It is as if everything else around them just disappears and they zero in on each other. Everything else fading to tunnel vision. Steve makes an effort to take a deep breath, projecting every little motion to her. Air rushes in through his nose. It fills his lungs, making his chest and shoulders rise. A deep and slow breath out brings the air out again and his chest deflates with a soft sound.

In front of him, Robin copies him. Wide eyes stuck to Steve. Body following his every move, as if they are tied together and she is bound to do so. Or as if she is drowning and only Steve can hold her afloat.

"We're fine," she repeats. "You're okay."

"I'm okay." He nods and gives her hand a squeeze.

A deep breath blows from Robin's mouth. Head dropping forward, she focuses on their joint hands.

Letting go of her hand, Steve steps closer to her. Arms wrap around her, pulling her close to him. They sink into each other, as if they had been born to fit together. Like two puzzle pieces with only one side made to fit with another, the rest smooth and un-linkable.

Steve wraps her up in his arms, tucking his chin in top of her head. Sighing quietly, she tucks herself into him. Head seamlessly slotting into place on his place. Hands curling into fists, she grips him by his shirt. Fabric clutches between white-knuckled fingers. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"No," he mutters, shaking his head against hers. "Don't be."

A small laugh bubbles form her. "I can't believe you're the one injured. Again! And you're the one comforting me!"

"Eh, I believe it." One of his shoulders pull up in a loose shrug. "It's pretty on brand for us."

"Probably." Clutching even tighter, Robin's hand curl up in his shirt, fingers winding up in the fabric, twisting and turning it, completely disappearing into its folds. Only the knuckles of her hand remain visible. Blooming white and barring tendons.

"At least it's not in a disgusting mall bathroom this time."

Robin huffs a small laugh. "You weren't comforting me then."

"You don't think you needed comfort?" Steve says them from side to side. "I believe it was a mutual comfort. Back to the Future was traumatizing."

"Especially on the KGB's special."

"Urgh, worst cocktail of my life." Small huffy laughs puff from the both of them. Then Steve lifts his head and drops a kiss on the top of Robin's head and keeps his lips there. Bruised nose squashed and pressing into her skull.

Watching forgotten from the sidelines, Eddie winces. That must be so fucking painful. And yet, he keeps his lips there. Pressing into her hair.

"Come on, then, dingus. Gotta get you patched up before Joyce comes home and berates you. Again." Finally, Robin's leans away, wounds her hands into his arm and pushes him into the kitchen, as Steve points out Joyce won't berate him, she'll just mother him, which she knows—

Eddie and Dustin quietly follow them.

In the kitchen, she pushes him forward, until he leans up against the counter. Half sat, half leant into the edge, with his hands behind his back, palms braced against the countertop.

Dustin goes to sit down beside Steve, but Steve catches him by the shoulder, makes eye contact with him and proceed to communicate silently with him.

"But—!"

"Dustin," he says. Hazel eyes unyielding on his.

"Urrgh! Fine!" He throws his hands up and limps back to the door, grumbling loudly, grabs his backpack and roughly swings it onto his shoulder, then continues on to El's bedroom door. "But you better tell me later, if it's worse, asshole!" he shouts, ducks into the bedroom and slams the door behind himself.

Sighing, Steve rakes a hand through his hair. Shoulders dropping with relief and face falling, as tension escapes him.

Robin wets a clean rag, pulls one of the dining chairs close to the counter, uses it to climb onto the counter, where she sits down beside him, half on top of him, half beside, practically glued to him, and begins cleaning his skin and smaller wounds. Feet on top of the chair, twisted and turned to face him, hands shaking and trembling no matter how hard she tries to glare them into submission. It takes three rough swipes of the rag across his skin, and then Robin drops her shaking hands and bows her head. Eyes stuck to her trembling fingers and the wet rag clenched between them.

Steve says nothing. Just reaches out and grabs her hands. Folding them up in his own. Tucked away and embraced in his hold.

Blinking water out of her eyes, Robin raises her head and meets his understanding hazel eyes. "It's okay," he whispers. "I've got it. You can let go." And he eases the rag out of her hands, holds his arm behind itself, ready to drop it off on the counter, but Eddie swoops in and grabs it from his fingers before he can. Freeing Steve to grab onto her still shaking hands with both of his own once more. He tips his head forward, touching forehead to forehead. Eyes of green and eyes of hazel closing at the same time, as they breathe in sync. Shoulders rising and falling like a quiet symphony for two.

"It's okay," Steve repeats in a whisper. "We're okay. We can hear the wind and smell the earth. I've got you, Robin. It's okay."

A wet sound escapes Robin's lips. "You've gotta stop taking hits, Steve," she says wetly. Through closed eyes, a tear falls. Trailing down her freckled cheek. "This isn't one of Erica's D&D campaigns. You know I can't handle it."

Eddie's mouth drops open. In disbelief, he mouths the words, Erica's D&D campaign. Does that mean what he thinks it means? That can't be right.

He mentally wafts a hand through those thoughts. So not the time, Eddie. Let it lie.

Turning his back on the two, he grabs a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. Quickly wraps it up in a tea towel, then comes to a stop. Hovering a few steps away from them. Not wanting to intrude and not really knowing what to do, if he should just leave all the care to Robin or take over, as it is clearly taking a toll on her.

He waits.

Cold weeps in wispy air from the frozen bag. Reaching through the towel and seeping into his fingers. Painfully making its way through his flesh and prickling him with its cold touch.

Finally, the two ease away from each other. Robin keeps her hands enfolded in Steve's. She leans herself sideways and just lays her head on Steve's shoulder. Ankle crossed with his.

Hands squeezing Robin's, Steve turns his face towards Eddie and flicks his eyebrows, as if beckoning him. So Eddie steps up. Holds out the frozen bag and puts it on Steve's cheek, carefully laying it on top of his bruised cheekbones.

A grimace cuts across his face. Breathing deep, he makes an effort to relax, shoulders falling and tension seeping away, as the grimace wipes away and not a single twitch of discomfort makes its way across his face.

Eddie's eyes roam over his face. As if he cannot stop looking at him, but can't decide where to settle his gaze.

When neither of them say a single word, Eddie raises a single eyebrow. "I'm waiting." he says.

A great sigh heaves from Steve's lungs. He goes to duck his head, but the frozen peas and Eddie's hand keeps it in place, crinkling in place at the movement. Freeing his hand momentarily from his and Robin's clutch, he lifts it up instead. Drags his thumb across his brow. Skin tugging and pulling at the heavy drag of his pad across his forehead. "Jason's goons were hanging around the parking lot. We were leaving as your uncle came around the shelter. They spotted him and decided they couldn't let him pass without getting a few comments in." He looks down. Dropping his hand from his brow, his fist clenches up tight on top of his thigh. "You know, how people like that are." Teeth gritting, Steve's jaw flexes. It shifts and moves under the bag of peas, rippling through the bag, shifting against Eddie's palm.

Robin frees a hand from Steve's remaining one long enough to grab his clenched fist and bring it back to their joined hands. A few rubs of her thumb on the back of his hand unclenches his fist. A few more brings it back into the fold of their grasped clasp. "They began loudly talking about you," she continues lowly. "Spat at the ground when he passed them and shit like that. Dustin couldn't ignore it and he tried to defend you, because of course he did. Steve stepped in in time to pull him away, but not in time to stop them from swinging in the first place. And they didn't like that Steve Harrington," she emphasizes with a roll of her eyes, "sided with someone like Dustin and you. So they swung twice."

The more they speak, the more Eddie's lips press into a thin, tight line. A harp breath blows out of his mouth. Looking down, he avoids Steve's eyes. "Jesus," he says, shaking his head. "That kid is far too loyal to be good for him." Because that is the easiest part of all of that to focus on.

"Tell me about it." Eddie's eyes jerk up and lock eyes with Steve. A small, twisted smile pulls at his lips. "When we were investigating that Russian shit last summer, and we went to look closer, I told him to step back, and he said, 'If you die, I die.'"

A snort bursts from Eddie, even if the cold reality of those words curdled cold and hard as stone in his stomach. "Sounds like him."

A tense quiet settles on their shoulders. Tense and taut.

The longer Eddie holds the bag of peas to his face, the more it thaws. Drops of icy water reach Eddie's fingers. Running down his hand. Trailing down to his wrist and down the length of his arm. Touch cold and tickling. Leaving a wet trail behind itself, making the air against his skin waft, drawing attention to its path with every tiny, infinitesimal gust of air touching him. Under his hand, the tea towel grows damp. Lying wet and cold against Eddie's palm and fingers. It bites at his fingers and nips coldly at his skin, barely keeping the biting frost at bay. Spreading ice cold into his fingers. A chill that slowly seeps into his palm.

Fingers flexing, he shifts the bag on Steve's cheekbone, setting it just a bit to the side, to reach another, higher part of the purpling bruise. The bag crinkles and crackles under his grip. In front of him, Steve remains still. Not a single muscle moves.

Eventually, Steve shifts. One of his hands reaches out and grazes Robin's leg.

Head lifting up from his shoulder, Robin pulls away and looks at him. A question quirks from her eyebrow.

Eyes darting out into the cabin, Steve presses his mouth together in a thin line. The two then continue to communicate wordlessly with each other through a mix of telepathy, sign language and facial expressions. It ends only when Robin makes a cutting grimace at him. Steve just keeps looking at her. Insistent and unbending.

Sighing, Robin leans forward, tips her forehead into the side of Steve's shoulder. "You're lucky I love you so much," she mutters, which Eddie is not sure is actually meant for Steve considering how low it was. "Okay," she adds louder and leans away again. "Fine, you win. I'll go check on him," she says with a tight smile and stands up from the chair.

Before she can take more than a small step away, Steve catches her hand and gives it a squeeze and mouths, Thank you.

Smiling, Robin squeezes back, then steps away with one last long look of his face and a glance at Eddie, as if checking to make sure he will stay there. Meeting her searching eyes, Eddie gives her a nod and only then does she fully turn.

Footsteps swallowing the floor, she makes her way across the living room and disappears into El's bedroom. Voices rising and falling behind her, as the door opens and closes.

Eyebrow crooking on his brow, Eddie turns to Steve.

"Dustin," Steve explains.

A quiet snort falls from his mouth. Shaking his head, he says, "You two are freakishly in tune with each other." He wafts a hand in the air. "Even without the sign language."

"You should see the looks we get in Family Video sometimes," he remarks with a humored grin.

Eddie grins, barring his teeth. "I bet, and it'd almost be worth the trip."

Steve rolls his eyes.

Both of their grins fade at the same time.

A small moment of quiet passes.

Eddie's eyes drift across Steve's face. Darting all over, unable to settle, until the split in his lips draws his gaze, settling there. Stuck to his busted lips. Frozen.

Shaking air falls in through his nose and his lips press into a thin, hard line. Head lowering, Eddie's haze falls down and lands on Steve's chest. Teeth clenched together. Jaw flexing and clicking.

"Eddie," Steve says softly. One of his hands reaches out. Reaching for the arm hanging slack and empty by his side. Fingers touch his wrist, grazing his pulse point.

Eddie shakes himself out of it. "It's fine, man," he says, still avoiding Steve's searching and worried eyes. "Don't worry about it." He looks back up at his face, but keeps his gaze off to the side, where the bruise lies beneath the bag of frozen peas. "We knew they still believed me to be the murderer. Even if they've cleared my name and Jason isn't around to stir them into a manhunt anymore."

"Doesn’t make it okay." Steve reaches up. Fingers grab onto the bag, pulling it from his face.

"Steve—"

"No." His free hand comes up and touch Eddie's chest. Fingertips pressing into him and they — more than the firm tone of Steve's voice and the sudden, unyielding look in his eyes — is what makes Eddie snap his mouth shut. He pulls the bag out of Eddie's hand and dumps it on the countertop beside himself. Still keeping his other hand held up, the tips of his fingers on Eddie's chest, as if that in itself blocks any of Eddie's attempts at retrieving the bag.

Empty hand dropping to hang loose and limb by his side, Eddie sighs. "You still need to ice that."

"Yeah, and I will, but you can't just ignore this." Arms crossing over his chest, he stares straight at him. Burning, hazel eyes look into his. Unyielding and unbent. Then they soften and a gentle look falls over Steve's face, washing away the hardness from before. "I know it bothers you, Eds." Eddie blinks dumbly at the nickname. Stunned into silence. It is just what Steve needs to barrel on. "Yes, you don't give a damn about this town," he says, rolling his eyes and emphasizing with a sarcastic tone, "but that doesn't mean it wasn't terrifying to have the whole town hunting for you."

A snort comes harsh and grating from the back of Eddie's throat and he jerks back. "You've seen my songs, man." Expression sardonic and twisted, he shakes his head. "It'd be dumb to deny it, when you've already read those." Lips pressing into a thin line, he lowers his head. Eyes seeking the ground. "But that doesn’t mean I can't willfully ignore it every once in a while. I'd go insane, if I let myself linger on it, every time the topic comes up." Head lifted once more, he rolls his eyes. "I know I'm traumatized to Hell and back. Quite literally, in our case. But I don't need a therapist to come at me, every time it comes up." He offers a small, almost apologetic shrug. "I just need a friend."

He looks down at his hand. Eyes burning, his hand curls up into a fist. Fingers flexing tight and tense, the knuckles nearly white. "You don't have to worry so much about me. Being hunted down and lynched is just an old fear of mine. It'll take some time to stop seeing a mob everywhere I turn." He takes deep breath and drops his hand. Carefully, his fingers releases. Fist unfurling to rest by his side once more. "Just an old fear come to pass. Really. Don't get bent out of shape. I'll be fine. When you—" cutting off, he blows air out of his lungs and resists the urge to curse Gag me with a spoon and drop the subject already. Strands of hair flap in the arms of his breath. Quietly, he shakes his head and meets hazel eyes past his lowered head, continuing, subdued but carefully within Steve's hearing range, "It's a fear I've gotten used to. It's never comfortable, but I've learned to life with it." Steve looks rather skeptically at him. "I'll be fine," he repeats quietly as Steve watches his mouth more than his eyes. "I promise."

When he raises his head again, Steve searches his gaze. Hazel eyes darting back and forth, seeking out every shadow and crinkle in the corners of his face. "Okay," he finally says, quietly. "Okay." And nods.

With that over and done with, Eddie wordlessly holds out. Palm open and flat before him.

A wry smile twists across Steve's lips. Rolling his eyes, he grabs the frozen peas and dumps them back into Eddie's hand.

Movement slow and careful, Eddie puts it back on his face. Holds it to the bruise blooming over his cheekbone, once more.

Their eyes lock. For a moment, they just look at each other. Caught in time. Silent and still.

The air around them turns thick and heavy.

For a moment, there is nothing between them, but the air they breathe. Tension sparks between them. Quivering with the unspoken growing between them. Made from locked eyes, long conversations and the bridge between them they have each help built for the other, when everything else was falling apart and they needed someone else to pull them away from the fraying threads of a trembling, broken Earth.
  Nothing between them, but the unspoken and unnamed thing slowly growing between them through days at the cabin. At least, it is what Eddie is hoping is building between them. The lines of platonic, intimacy and love blurring so much Eddie is forgetting where one ends and the other starts. So much so, he can almost make himself believe, that Steve is looking back at him, the exact same way Eddie is looking at him.

Eventually, Eddie tears his eyes away. Gaze landing back on the bruise spattered across his cheekbone and the dried blood on his face, one part still covered by the bag of frozen peas in Eddie's hand.

Breath blowing out of his chest in a forced puff of air, he shakes his head and allows a small, rueful smile across his lips. "You gotta stop taking fists to the face, man."

He snorts. "It's not exactly a choice I make, when I wake up in the morning. Come on, what do you think of me, dude?" He slaps a light hand against his shoulder. Mouth twisted in a careful smile. "I promise you, I'd rather be without." He rolls his eyes again. "But apparently I just have that kind of face."

"Yeah, a very pretty one." Despite his better judgment, Eddie boops Steve on the nose and the look he gets in return is gold. All scrunched up and long-suffering, despite the glint of humor in his eyes. "So you need to start taking better care of it. Like stop using it as a battering ram."

"It's not like things can get much worse," Steve grumbles and rolls his eyes.

"I sincerely and respectfully would not like to know."

"And you think I would?" He quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Your doctor must love all the business you've brought them the last three years."

Steve snorts. "Hah. Could be I'm just trying to make up for my childhood."

"How was that?"

"The worst. I definitely did not see the doctor as often as I should have. It took migraines and Robin to diagnose my dyslexia, when literally any teacher I've ever had could have noticed and raised some concern. But nope." He rolls his eyes theatrically. "I had to fight monsters, before I could fight a diagnosis."

Eddie clicks his tongue. "Yikes. I went through the apocalypse and all I got was a learning disability and chronic migraines," he recites.

Eyes bright and humored, Steve grins, his smile curled softly. "I don't think you could put that on a t-shirt. Talk about a mouthful."

"Eh." Eddie shrugs. "We can work on it. I'm sure we've got enough bodily trauma and injuries around here to make a club."

Smirking lopsided, he quirks an eyebrow. "Aren't we practically already a club? Or maybe not a club. A cult." He snaps his fingers. "Full of conspiracy and secrets. Robin keeps telling me we should start a radio show and pretend it's all fiction."

"That could definitely spice up the air waves." He cracks a grin. "You might even manage to get me to turn on the radio."

Steve throws his head back and laughs.

Finally, Eddie does pick up the rag left by Robin's shaking hands and cleans the dried blood and smattering of dirt off his face. The air all tense and quivering around them, as he cups his face in one hand and gently pats his skin with the wet rag with the other. Bright hazel eyes never once straying from his, no matter how hard Eddie focuses his gaze away from them. Heart palpitating and beating wildly in his chest, trying to beat out of his chest, as if it might get closer to Steve if only it beats hard and fast enough. Leaving him winded and struggling to keep his own hands from shaking.

Steve never does say anything about it, but the space between his knees seems to get hotter and hotter, and the space between their chests smaller and smaller, even if it never does close up.

Robin joins them shortly after that, plasters herself to Steve’s side, and does not let go for a long, long time.

Later, when Joyce comes home, Hopper in tow, returning home after one of their many walks, she catches sight of Steve and hurries to his side with wide eyes.

"Steve, honey," she says, taking his face in her hands and carefully angling it back and forth and side to side. Eyes darting all over his skin, the new bruise and split lips decorating it.

"I'm okay, Joyce," he says, hands lying on her wrist.

A disbelieving look falls over her face and she gives him a look that tells him just how little she believes him. She clicks her tongue and smooths fingers across the skin below the bruise on his cheekbone. "Have you iced it?" she asks.

"Yes." Steve nods. And he keeps nodding and repeating, "Yes, Joyce. No. Yes," in response to her rapid-fire questions and her wide, concerned eyes.

It looks so familial and tender, Eddie quickly averts his eyes. Even if Steve's slightly long-suffering look at Joyce's fussing, makes him bite his grin back and press his lips together to keep from laughing at the picture they make.

That night, Eddie lies awake. For once unable to sleep because his thoughts are racing and have nowhere to go and not because of monsters.

Restless, he taps his fingers on his stomach. Skin buzzing and buzzing and humming. Feet rubbing together back and forth and back and forth, over and over, and nothing helps to expel the frizzing energy inside of him and he just lies there, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to hum under his breath, too.

When Steve shifts on the mattress next to him — despite Robin's firm, clutching grip around his stomach — he is still awake. And still rubbing his feet together.

Rustling sounds from the floor. Movement shifts. Steve sits up. A shadow in the dark illuminated on one side. A deep sigh heaves from his chest and he slumps forward. Knees bend and arms curling around himself. Head bowed over with a heavy weight. Hands rub at his face vigorously. He shakes his head and drops his hands down to Robin's arms around his waist, slowly unwinding them. Despite the way Robin's arms tighten around him, even in her sleep. He pauses a moment. Looks down at her and searches her for signs of waking up. Then continues to pull gently at her arms, even more careful. The light turned on in the living room past the curtain allows some light to fall in through the fabric. Lighting up their bedroom with a soft, yellow glow. Falling over everything inside the room with its gentle touch, casting light over the walls, cot, the cupboard shoved off to the side, Dustin and Robin's sleeping figures, and yes, Steve, as he foolishly moves to get up.

"Steve?" Eddie asks, finally breaking his silence, when it looks like he will be successful in his escape attempt from Robin's grasp, who had refused to spend the night at home and could not be budged from Steve's side, once she came back to it after checking up on Dustin.

"It's fine, go back to sleep. I'm just getting some water." He barely turns his head to speak back at him, just continues to lift Robin's arms away from him and sling a leg out of bed.

Eddie purses his lips. Flipping through snapshot images of the times he has seen him sat silent sentry by the door; hunched over with bleary eyes open and distant and so very tired or slumped over his nailed bat in exhausted sleep, eyes shut and face drooping with heaviness usually concealed in the light of day.

Shifting around, Steve goes to rise to his feet and Eddie, in a panic, throws his arm out. Clamps a hand over Steve's wrist and holds on.

Steve pauses. Half bent over, stooped over at the waist for Eddie's grip on his arm. He glances down where their limbs meet and back at Eddie. Eyebrows quirked and lips twisted in wordless question.

"Are you really going to just get some water?" Eddie asks.

Posture slumping and shoulders caving, Steve sighs. Every muscle in his body gives out and he goes slack. A muscle in his jaw jumps. Hazel eyes look furtively away from Eddie, out into the darkness of the room.

He does not answer.

It is answer enough.

Eddie keeps his fingers clasped around his wrist. Glancing over his shoulder, he casts a quick glance at Dustin, who remains still and asleep. Then he, slowly and gently, lifts the blanket off himself, taking care not to remove it from Dustin, and slips out from underneath it. "Get Robin's so she doesn't fall," he says softly. And waits as Steve stares dumbly at him, as he shifts his legs to their mattress and slowly slides off the cot onto the incredibly small space left on beside their tangle. Only then with his legs easing slowly onto the mattress, does Steve move, shifting himself and Robin around to make space for him without pushing anyone to the floor.

At his touch and gentle tugs on her body, Robin shifts. Sniffing and grunting, Robin's head lolls around. Jerking towards Steve with a snort. "'teve?" she mumbles. Eyes still closed, her hand jerks, seeking him.

"It's okay, I'm still here. Just making some space," he tells her and drops a kiss on her brow.

"M'kay. 'ust don' go an'w'ere." She snuffles and rubs her head against his side, shuffling forward until it rests against his still upright chest. Seemingly accepting her fate of being shuffled around, even though the mattress clearly cannot contain the three of them. Seriously, the only reason it can hold Steve and Robin normally is because they practically become one, when they lie together with how close and tangled they end up. Eddie joining that tangle is questionable at best and a disaster at worst. Seriously, not his best work.

"Promise." And he drops another kiss to her hair and gently pushes her onto her side so she lies back to his chest. Lined up from top to bottom in a perfect spoon.

With Steve and Robin shuffled as close together as they can, basically one in top of the other, Eddie slides all the way off the edge of the bed and deposits himself, softly and gently onto Steve's mattress in that space between Steve and the cot.

"Eds, seriously, what're you doing?"

"Stopping you from going to that damn chair by the damn door. Because apparently even Buckley isn't enough to stop you. So all three of us are cuddling and no you don't get a say in it." He flaps a hand in the air. "So get comfortable, Harrington, 'cuz we're gonna cuddle the shit out of you."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Now lay the fuck down, Stevie and cuddle me."

"For fucks—"

"Do I have to wake Robin?"

"No. Don't—" a sigh breaks through. "Don't do that." And finally, finally does Steve lay down the rest of the way, Robin still curled up halfway on his chest. He shifts around, turning his back on Eddie and curls up around Robin, tucking her into place against him. Back to his chest and their legs curled up stacked together.

Huffing quietly under his breath, Eddie settles back onto Steve's pillow. There is just enough space to allow Eddie to curl up on his side too, slotting into place against Steve's back. Successfully boxing him in between the two of them. Also, it is the only way the three of them can possibly lie on the same single-bed mattress. So. Yeah.

He manages to find a way to wind his arms around Steve, tugging him slightly closer up against his chest and his arms can wrap around him, even with Robin lying right there, tucked up against him on his other side.

Chest to his back, Eddie ducks his head down and tucks it up against his neck. Burying away in him. Lips grazing the skin by his neck, he says, "You know, you don't have to go and sit by the door. Right?"

A sigh blows hard and heavy from Steve. Blowing hard from his chest so it jerks through him and Eddie. "You don't get it, Eddie," he says, voice rough and rumbling.

"I do, Steve. I really do."

"No," he says thickly. "You really don't." A small shake of his head. Hair rustling against the pillow. "Not all of it." He swallows thickly. It travels loud and heavy between them, struggling down his throat. "You weren't there. In that junkyard. "

A long heavy pause.

"We laid a trap for a demo-dog and instead of one, a whole army came and it was up to me and a fucking rusted up, junk of a bus to keep them safe! Just a bunch of broken fucking rusted metal and a washed out high school jock, for fuck's sake!" he says slightly loud with a veneer of incredulity and high-pitched hysteria pulling at his voice.

"You don't know how close it was. You really don't," he continues, quiet and subdued again, still rough with desperation and weight, but without that insanity and incredulity to it. "I promised that I would keep them safe and I almost didn't," the words fall choked up from his mouth, the weight of the world behind themselves. "They almost got us and they would have, if they hadn't been called away. I tried so hard—" his voice cracks "—to keep them out of the tunnels, even though I was terrified they were right and El and Hopper would—" he breaks off. "But then Billy came and fucked me up and I woke up when we were practically already in them. And again I almost let them get hurt, because I had to fight through only one working ear and my fucked up eyes. And Mike fell and Dustin almost inhaled a bunch of shit and— and—" voice stuttering and shuddering, he breaks off, words cracking in two. Body shuddering with the same of his words, he smacks a palm onto his face, grinding hard into his cheeks and nose. And still he keeps going, that desperation back in his voice, running like a river of mud beneath his every word, "I almost let Dustin and Erica get caught by Russian soldiers, and Robin did! Max almost died on my watch!" A heavy sigh blows from his chest. It shudders and shakes from him. Rippling through his entire body.

Carefully, Eddie reaches out. He slides a palm up Steve's arm, catches it around his wrist and pulls at it until Steve lets him pull it from his eyes, easing the pressure grinding into his eyes. Then he guides it forward, pulling it back to Steve's front, where he enfolds it into the hug of his own arms around Steve. Pulling him even closer.

With his hands gone, Steve turns his head back around and fixes his eyes ahead into the wall in front of their mattress. "It may be over for some of you," he says, voice rough and croaking. "Some of you may be able to move on and let it lie and not feel like you constantly have to watch everyone's back until it comes back again. But I will never forget the feeling of Dustin in front of me, as the demo-dogs charged past us. I will never forget Max's scream in that bus or Robin's confusion, when I kicked up a fuss in front of the Russians. Or her terrified voice calling to me when I woke up tied up to her. Or the feeling of her against my back or the needle piercing through my skin."

A deep shuddering breath echoes all through his body.

"I will never forget that I had to drag Max away from Billy's body or the expression on her face and how she kept hitting me, when I held her fast and wouldn't let her go. Or the way El crumbled to the ground, when Joyce came out of the burning mall without Hopper." Taking a deep breath, he turns his hand that lie on Eddie's arm, grabbing at his flesh and gripping painfully at his skin. "And now," he continues, voice choked and dying, "I keep seeing Dustin covered in your blood and how I had to fight him to even get to you. And Robin suffocating in the vines and how she cried out for me. I will always see Max floating before me, when I close my eyes." His hand twitches, gripping even tighter. Pain twists through Eddie's arm. Then, Steve lets go. He brings his hand back up and flattens it into his own face. Burying away in the palm. A deep, heavy sigh blows from his chest, out into his palm, sinking into his skin, so very tired. "My nightmares are never about dying," he whispers, slightly muffled by his palm; begging him to see; to understand.

"I never die, Eddie. The kids do. Robin does. I'm too late or too weak. I'm never enough and I fail and I lose them. Always." He swallows thickly. Movement shifts and rustles. Then another sigh. He moves his hand from his face and curls his arm back over Robin, seemingly seeking her even in her sleep and holding her tight. "I have to sit by that door," he continues, voice thick and struggling, "because then at least I know that I'll be there, if something comes for them. I'll be there and I'll keep them safe long enough for them to escape or come up with a plan. And if it doesn't, then they know I'm there anyway, keeping them safe through the night. I can't sleep, Eddie. But I can make damn well sure that they do." His words hit home in Eddie's heart. Aching and tearing their way through him, leaving behind a throbbing, hurting mess. It makes him want to cry. Eyes burning, Eddie blinks wordlessly at the back of Steve's head. Words feel inadequate for everything Steve has been through these last years. Impossible to hold and pass on to make all of that pain weigh less in his battered heart.

Tipping his head forward, Eddie puts his head up against Steve's. Face buried in his neck and hair. Carefully, he presses a kiss to skin. Impossibly gently. A whisper in the night. And squeezes Steve tighter. "We're safe here. Right now, we are safe," he says, finally. Carefully sounding our each word; picking then out with great care, as if handing them to him in fragile hands; one wrong movement and they crumble before they can reach Steve's heart, where he needs them most.

Thumb rubbing over his chest, as if seeking that heart and the best way to it, he says, "I know Vecna isn't dead or gone. Not completely and that doesn't help. But El and Will would tell us if he was back. They've got their own little freaky spidey-senses, and you might not get that reference, but it is so on the nose you'd marvel at my genius, if you could." A huff of ghostly laughter. "Point is, we'd know if he had something planned. We'd be ready. We wouldn't be caught in the night. You can rest, Steve." Hand flat on his chest, he presses it into him. Letting him feel him there. A resting place ready made in the palm of his hand, as if proving just how easy it would be for Eddie to keep a hold of the weight in his heart, while he rests and sleeps. He keeps his hand there and presses his head into Steve's neck. Lips grazing his skin, he repeats, "It's okay. You can rest."

Steve shakes his head. Cheek rubbing against his pillow and hair rustling against fabric. "I can't. I really can't. I've tried, but without Robin I'm useless. And sometimes even she can't do shit to help me. Clearly." And he gestures out into the room, himself and Eddie behind him. Then, drops his hand back down with a heavy sigh. Curls up even more into Robin and adds, quiet and brokenly, "The Russians broke something in me. I can't, Eddie."

Stirring, Robin shifts. "Okay, that's it. I can't keep quiet anymore." And she turns around in Steve's arm, chest to chest with Steve, legs slotted together so much Eddie feels both pairs shifting against his with no idea which is which.

"You were awake this whole time?" Eddie asks, lifting his head and peeking over Steve shoulder at her.

"Most of the time. Steve knew," she says flippantly and waves him off.

A small huff puffs from Steve's lungs. "I did."

"So I was the only one out of loop. I see how it is."

Perching up onto her elbows, Robin throws him a look. "And that's a surprise? Aren't you used to us by now?"

He opens, then closes his mouth. "You know what, yeah, I am. Never mind, continue." And he waves her on with a flourish of his hand and a bow of his head, then lays back down again. Where he begins running small circles up and down Steve's side and his stomach for want of any other comfort he could provide, now that Robin's awake and has something to say.

Sheets and blanket rustling and ruffling, Robin lays back down, putting herself even closer to Steve. Laid down right up against Steve, chest to chest. Almost nose to nose, she puts her head directly in front of Steve's, lays a hand on his cheek and seemingly stares deep into his eyes.

In a move that looks thoughtless and automatic, Steve lifts his hand and lays it onto Robin's cheek; mirroring her.

"You're not broken, Steve. I don't care how many times we have to pick you up or how many migraines you have or how fucked up your hearing is. I don't care that you can't stop yourself from sitting guard by the door at night. I don't care, Steve. All I care about is being right there with you. As long as we're both right here, we're okay. We can make it through anything. We made our way through a Russian fucking bunker. We can also find our way out of it, again. The same with the Upside Down. We survived a trip through Hell. We can find a way to keep our sanity safe through it, too. And if you can't find your own, I'll find it for you and you can keep mine safe. Yeah? That's what we do, remember?"

A swallow struggles thickly down Steve's throat. Breath heaving and stuttering in his chest. The two of them lie perfectly still. Perfectly in each other's grasp. Eddie just tightens his arms around Steve's stomach and buries further away in his neck. Every breath he takes, stuttering against his hold.

"I don't care how fucked up you are, because I'm fucked up right with you. Who walkies you, like, every night when we're apart at least once? Who stayed at your house two weeks following Starcourt and then begged you to come stay with her, when her parents wanted her home? Who literally starts shaking and loses track of what's real or not the second she see you bruised up and bloody? Hmm?" She shifts her head forward. Forehead to forehead. Air passing from her lungs to his, breathing life and the conviction from her voice directly into his lungs and blood. "I'm just as fucked up, Steve," she says softly, perfectly in range for his hearing while still quiet. "But that doesn't make us broken. Just fucked up and on the edge of insanity. And that's okay. As long as we're together. Yeah?"

"Yeah. I know. It's just hard, sometimes."

"I know." A tap of her fingers against his cheeks. She smooths it away with a sweep of her palm across his skin, then thumbs at his cheek. "But you'll steady my hands and I'll be your ears. That's the deal, remember? The earth to my air?"

He nods. "The earth to your air."

"And Eddie can be the water around us. Making sure we're both still here. The rain to my clouds and the rivers keeping you clean."

"So poetic, tonight. I feel so dreamy," Eddie can't help but chirp up.

"Oh, shut up, idiot." Robin slaps his arm, hitting Steve's chest in the process. "Be thankful I'm including you at all."

"Trust me, I am. That's like VIP status. To be included in your SteveandRobin ecosystem. I don't think I've ever felt more honored."

Steve snorts. "Yeah, you sound real appreciative."

"That's just my voice. I can't help if my tone falls into natural sarcasm, when I'm being completely, 100% sincere here. That's on you. For hearing differently."

"Wow. You're gonna blame the deaf guy for hearing wrong?"

"My bad. I should have been clearer. I'm blaming Robin. She's half your personhood anyway." Quiet, subdued snickers fill the air and the heavy weight over them lifts. Chased away by the sound.

Eventually, they do fall asleep again (or just asleep, in Eddie's case). Snuggled all up together, with Robin cuddled up close with Steve and Eddie spooning them from Steve's back. One arm snuck between the two of them around Steve's chest, the other laid out beneath both of their heads and curled somewhere with Robin's back. Somehow it is both the most uncomfortable and the most comfortable and at peace he has been in months, if not years.

Okay okay, okay! Eddie is officially fucking losing it. It's been good. He's been hanging on a thin thread for a while, but he's been hanging in there. And there has been some close calls and faux passes a few times, but he's been hanging in there. And someone should give him a fucking medal for that.

But with that said, he might actually lose it, if he has to stay in this cabin for one more fucking day.

During the night, Eddie must have taken more than just Steve into his arms. The shadows and monsters that usually pulls Steve to the door unless he has Robin there to keep him tethered — or trapped — in her arms and in bed, seeped into Eddie during the night. Like dead skin cells falling from Steve's body, pattering to Eddie's and instead of just lying like dust on top of his skin, the second they got into contact, it started seeping in through his skin, like poison. And the threads inside of him that have been keeping him tethered to the earth or his sanity corrodes and snaps.

Everything crashes down.

Really, it has been crashing down ever since Chrissy died, but Eddie's been able to ignore it — mostly — since arriving at the cabin. And suddenly he cannot.

And he unravels at the seams.

Fraying nerves and the weight he picked up during the night — despite how comforting it was to lie with Robin and Steve — merge together into one massive, clawed, monstrous monster. And it does not help that the restless, humming energy inside of him has been building the last few days. Burning inside of him, begging for action and movement.

Hand in hand, they take a hold of Steve's bat and swings at Eddie's mental state, like he's a birthday piñata, until he's fraying at the edges and hanging over the edge with the tip of his pinky.

He lasts until noon. And then he officially loses it.

He tries to read. Can't sit still. His leg bounces so much and so vigorously, the book shakes and bounces along with it. Jumping up and down in his lap, like it's trying to win the Olympics for most bounced book. He tries holding it aloft in his hands. But the vigorous bounce persists through his whole body and his arms shake with it like a ride in a horse cart on a bumpy road through a forest filled with twigs, branches, stones and mounds. It is like he's trying to exorcise a demon from his body, except he already knows the exorcism happened some years ago to someone else, and Eddie's not possessed by anything other than the same restless energy that has made him fidget and bounce his hands, legs and fingers, since he was first told to sit in on a chair and pay attention to something. Just. Cranked up to a 1000. It's like the highest setting on a speaker at a Corroded Coffin practice in Gareth's garage or the Hideout. Connected to a guitar and turned all the way up. And riffing a sharp hand down the strings sends music blaring out of it so hard, it makes the entire speaker shake and jump. It even makes the floor wobble and shake underneath their feet. And it sends the music echoing through their bodies, rattling their bones, as if trying to burst them from the inside. And it's like seeing God through their ears.

Just all of that without the music, humming and bursting from inside of his chest through all of his limbs, shaking so hard he cannot focus on anything and cannot sit still no matter how many times he gets up, walks around and sits down a different place than before, limbs all twisted and tangled up, as if, if he curls up in the right way, he might find some peace.

He does not.

After bouncing off the walls and being unable to focus on any book, TV program and board game inside the cabin (or the porch for that matter). Eddie marches out the front door, walks into the surrounding trees, far enough the cabin disappears entirely behind him and screams. Just throws his head back and screams his lungs raw.

The screams tears and claws at his throat. Rips into it with jagged claws and sharp edges, as if trying to rip his throat apart from the inside, and still he screams. He screams until he can't any longer and he's left gasping for air and still wants to burn the forest and the cabin to the ground, if only to stand in the flames to make then ones underneath his skin quiet.

Drug-dealer, murderer, grand theft auto. Sure. His CV can handle arson being added to the list, too. Why the fuck not.

He stays out in the forest. Paces back and forth somewhere near the cabin, as he has been told by Hopper, Joyce and Nancy repeatedly, since first stepping foot in that wooden prison. Still out of sight, because he would not like to find out how trigger-happy some of these people are; people who keep guns and nail-bats close at hand and even sleep with it a small lunge away. No thanks, he'd like to keep his head and to do that, he needs to be far enough away that any other scream that might claw their way out if his throat cannot surprise anyone in the cabin. Ergo, distance.

When Steve, Robin and Nancy creep forward from between the trees, tentative expressions on their faces, he is still prowling back and forth, like a cornered lion in a small cage. Arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked under them. He barely throws them a glance. "I swear to god, if any of you asks if I'm okay, I'm going to bite someone's head off and it might not be my own."

Steve holds up both of his hands. Palms out in surrender. "We're not going to," he says, calmly. And you know what? That might be just as bad as asking if he's okay. At his infuriatingly calm voice, the restless energy claws at Eddie's chest. So unlike the heat and burning inferno of anger that tore through him weeks ago — when Steve caught him and sat with him in his car until he got through to him — but it is no less destructive.

Eddie throws his hands up and claws at his head. Fingers digging into his scalp and nail raking at his skin. Sparks of pain shoots through his head. Prickling at his skin.

Steve throws a wary look to the side. Gaze locking with Robin's.

"We’re only asking, if we can do anything to help," Nancy says, worried eyes roaming all over him.

Robin hooks her elbow around Steve's. A small smile flickering over her face. "We're here, if you want to talk," she adds.

"Fuck talking man." Eddie turns and kicks at a tree. Not his smartest move. Pain shoots through his leg, stabbing through limb and bones. His toes throb and pulse in time with his heartbeat. Pursing his lips, he narrows his eyes at the tree. Weighs up if it's worth it, to gamble the chance of breaking a toe or two to kick it again in retribution for the pain it caused. He even goes so far as to shift weight from foot to foot.

"Okay, stop, stop." Steve rushes forward. Arms held up and out, his hands settle on Eddie's shoulder. Fingers gripping him tight, he pushes and turns him around, away from the tree. Head ducked forward, leant close into Eddie's space. "I don't think the trees deserve getting kicked around."

"It deserved it. It's looking at me funny," Eddie says petulantly and throws a glare at the tree for good measure.

"I'm sure it does. You can give it a good talking to another day." Steve pulls Eddie away from the tree. Pushing him forward a few steps, bringing him closer to Nancy and Robin. Both of them watching them with furrowed brows and gnawed lips. "Just tell us what's wrong, man. Maybe we can fix it. Or help you figure it out."

"I'm just—" he puts his hands on his head again and squeezes it hard. Releases them. Then shakes his hands hard and loud in the air. He stills. Finally, a gust of air blows forcefully from his mouth and he deflates. Drops his arms back down. Letting them fall into place by his sides. Hanging limbs and useless, as he bounces slightly back and forth on his feet. "I just feel like I'm losing my mind in there." He jabs a finger in the direction of the cabin. "I'm used to close quarters, but never being able to leave? Never being able to go outside and walk around town? Not being able to drive from one place to another in my van, blasting a tape so loud it makes my van shake? Not going to see the guys and being unable to spend hours in Gareth's garage playing music?" A sharp breath blows from his mouth and he shakes his head back and forth. Hair shaking and rustling against his ears. "Nah, man. It's fucking me up, is what it is. I haven't seen anything but trees and wooden walls in forever. And it's driving me insane. I need something to happen, like right now." He buries his face in his hands and groans into them. Then gives his cheeks a good slap. Waits. Nope. That did not help.

"Okay. So you need a trip," Steve says, simply.

Eddie's hands drop. He stops. Freezes. And just stares incredulously at Steve. Beside Steve, Robin jerks away from him and does the same and he has never been so happy to know, he's not the only one, who finds those words fucking insane.

Steve nods. Expression open and easy and flaps a hand in the air, all willy-nilly. "We could solve that easy enough."

Eddie looks back and forth. Gaze darting from Steve to Robin to Nancy and back to Robin. As if he needs to check they are hearing this too. They are. Thank god.

"Easy enough?" Robin says. Loud and incredulous. She throws her arm out, gesturing wildly at Eddie. "Babe, Eddie can't just go for a walk through the street. He'll have mob on him, before he reaches the first cross walk!" She pauses and tilts her head to the side. "Or he'll just give Owens and the entire lab an aneurism."

"I know that," he says, flapping Robin's hands away from him, barely restraining the sneer trying to break through his voice. "I'm not saying he should take a walk down Main Street," Steve says. The words are finally carrying a trace of the incredulity Eddie is feeling and he would feel vindicated, if he thought Steve's tone was caused by the same shit Eddie's is. "Obviously," he adds, rolling his eyes with the same expression he wears around Dustin, when the two fall into a loop of feeding exasperation and annoyance off each other. Robin opens her mouth again, but Steve swats her away. "But there are other things we can do. Other places we can take him to, to catch his breath, where he won't be seen."

"It's not as simple as that." Robin flaps a wild arm in Eddie's direction. "It's dangerous for him. He could get hurt. And he'd get taken by the lab and then all of this would be for nothing."

"Robin, you're not hearing me." Steve's eyebrows rise high on his brow and he stares imploringly at her. Grabs her hands, collects them between both of his, holds them between them and stares earnestly at her. "We can go somewhere, where he won't be seen."

"You can't guarantee that. None of us can." Ripping one hand out of his hold, she waves it all around, throwing it all over the place. "It's why he's here in the first fucking place!"

Steve keeps insisting. But Robin groans and throws her hands up in the air. "Omg, you're—" she groans again. Turning, she looks at Nancy, who has been uncharacteristically quiet through all this, and says, "Tell him this is a bad idea," while jabbing a hand back at Steve.

Nancy looks contemplatively at Steve. Brow not so much furrowed as it carries that one tiny line between her brows. The one that tells everyone to shut up so she can think.

"Not necessarily," Nancy says, voice quiet and distant. Focused more on the thought racing through her head, than the words coming out of her mouth, no doubt.

"Oh my god." Turning her back on all of them, Robin throws her hands up to the sky. "You're all losing it. And here I thought it was just Eddie." She turns back and looks at them. "I'm beginning to think I'm the sensible one, and it's been proven time and time again, I'm decidedly not, so something is wrong with this." Her arm flies through the air. Gesturing wildly at the space between them, as if the forest floor have opened up to hold the manifestation of everything they have said.

But Eddie is looking intently at Nancy and Steve. Eyes darting back and forth between them. Chest tight with air stuck in his lungs. He hardly dares to move or breathe. If Nancy is taking Steve's suggestion serious, then he could actually get out of these woods. He is not risking that. No way.

"You need to get out—" Nancy points at Eddie, a contemplative expression on her face "—but we can't risk you being seen." Eyed sharp and piercing, she looks between them, then nods. Final and decisive. A determined, stubborn expression falls over her face and she set her jaw. Chin lifted up and out. "Okay, we can fix this."

"We can?" Robin echoes in disbelief.

For a moment, Nancy paces slowly back and forth. Walking a fine, small line across a tiny perimeter of the forest floor. Brow furrowed and her eyes distant. Speaking lowly to herself, her voice barely more than a faint drone that flits in the air. All three of them watch her progress back and forth over the ground. Eddie cannot tear his eyes away. Wide with anticipation and fascination with this girl who can strong-arm her way through anything, including an other-worldly eldritch being and Eddie's restless energy. Beings of equal power he is sure.

"Okay, so," she finally says, turning on her heel and looking back at them, "this is what we do." Wide, earnest eyes dart up and jerk back and forth between them, pulling them into her plan. As she speaks, Eddie bounces on his heels, almost jumping on and down. Hair slapping against his back with a steady thump-thump-thump that falls in chorus to his bounces.

"Is that okay, Eddie?" Nancy asks at last, once she wraps up. Eyes following his bounce up and down. "Is that enough?"

"Mhm," he says, nodding his head and still bouncing vigorously, "mhm, yep, that's good, that's great. Love you, Wheeler. Always knew you were the best. In fact, you've usurped everyone else. You're officially the best Wheeler in town."

"I'm sure," she says with a mildly entertained, quirking expression all over her face.

Which is how they come to an agreement that Eddie will go for a field trip in the middle of the night with Steve, Robin and Nancy. It is also agreed upon that this is a decision the four of them will take to the grave.

When they walk back to the cabin, Robin and Nancy step in step several feet in front of Eddie and Steve, Eddie swears he hears Robin ask, "Jonathan and Argyle would love to join our trip. Shouldn't we tell them?"

"They would," Nancy's voice answers in a quiet chuckle, then falls quiet and subdued. "Honestly? I'd prefer if someone stayed behind with the kids. I know there's Hopper and Joyce, but I would just feel more at peace if they were, too."

And so it is just the four of them.

The promise of his incoming excursion for the first time since he arrived in the cabin, Eddie is able to calm down. Just a little. Restlessness still bubble inside of his chest and he cannot sit down without bouncing his legs and fiddling with his rings and any pen or minor thing lying within an arm's reach of him, including; Will's color pencils; a plastic piece from Monopoly; a pen that Eddie dissemble and assembles over and over again until he does it wrong and loses a piece under a piece of furniture and it stops working; a different pen he clicks constantly until all he hears is a non-stop clickclickclickclick; strands of his own hair, just curling and running it over and over on the same finger; the pins on his battlevest, rearranging them at least five times, only to end up redoing it the way it was in the beginning; and so much more.

It feels like the day is never ending and will never pass. But pass it does.

Night falls over the cabin. Wrapping it up in such a blanket of quiet and stillness that even the walls fall quiet and the only light that remain are the two lights burning from the kitchen and living room.

Eddie lies awake. Waiting. Trying not to rub his feet together so much it wakes Dustin, and finally, Steve grazes Eddie's shoulder with the tip of his finger without saying a single word. Already lying on his side, Eddie's eyes fly open and he meets Steve's eyes with a wide grin. Steve grins back at him and removes his blanket, revealing that he is still dressed in the clothes he wore all day. The only thing different is the green sweater he has thrown over it all.

Movements careful and slow, Eddie moves out from under his own blanket, keeping an eye on Dustin sound asleep and knocked out beside him. Careful of waking him, even as his eyes can't help but dart back to Steve and look at him, where the dim light in the room, sneaking in from under the curtain, touches him with a golden glow. Illuminating him.

Robin's already up. Waiting by the curtain, eyes looking out past a crack between the fabric and the wall. A hand held up, keeping the curtain pulled back.

As they tiptoe from the room, Steve's hand flail in the air, behind him. Fingers graze past Eddie's, and then he is reaching for his hand. Palm sliding over his own, squeezing as it falls into place, as naturally and easy as anything.

Feet whispering over the floor, they move around the curtain. Hand in hand, they move through the living room. Wide, secretive grins flashing at each other in the dim light, humor bubbling beneath their skin.

They keep their shoes in their hands as they cross to the front door. Feet padding across floorboards. Fighting their smiles and chests threatening to bubble over with laughter. It is a miracle they make it to the door without waking anyone and that is without taking Robin and her, at times, disastrous coordination into account.

At the door, Robin unlocks all the locks and turns the handle, carefully easing it open past the small squeaks the hinges still tend to make, despite how regularly Hopper oils it. Air rushes in through the doorway. Blowing gusts of air past Robin and smacking coolly against Steve and Eddie standing just behind her.

Robin glances back at them. Catching her eyes, Eddie makes a face. Pulls an ugly grimace, scrunching up his face and pushing his tongue out his mouth.

Robin grins at him. Teeth flashing and glinting white between her stretched out lips. Then she tiptoes around the frame of the door.

Steve and Eddie follow quickly behind.

Outside Eddie finally releases Steve's hand. He goes forward to join Robin by the stairs and sits down beside her, where they both quickly pull on their shoes. Both of them have kept their shoes laced up and just have to shove their feet down there.

Steve is a little slower. He turns to close the door behind them. Slowly closing it with one hand carefully braced on the wood and the other turning the handle so the latch does not catch, when it settles home in the doorframe. The dim light from the cabin fades and vanishes with a tiny rattle and a faint bump of the door falling shut. Then Steve steps forward and sits down beside Eddie.

"Oh my god," Robin says, her voice faint and wheezing, caught in a breathy laugh. "I thought, I was going to burst in there." Chuckles bubble weak from her. The sound static, almost hiccupping from her chest as she fights against them.

"You're awful." Laughing, Steve shakes his head. He grins widely and throws her a look. "No wonder you always ask me to come to yours. You'd never make it past your own window frame."

She elbows him and the two descend into mild, whispered bickering that shadows 90% of their friendship. All the while Steve takes his sweet time slipping his feet into his shoes and tying the shoelaces.

Robin throws him a look. "Babe, you're unbelievable. I can't believe you wouldn't even keep your shoes tied tonight, when we needed to be fast and efficient." The eye roll that follows her words is audible even in her tone of voice, it is almost impressive, but Eddie has spent the last month listening to Steve perfect the art of voicing his eye rolls in his voice.

"I don't want to ruin my shoes!" Steve hisses with a jerky gesture at his shoes. "You'll ruin yours, if you keep doing that."

A snort bursts from Robin. "Please, what do you take me for? Straight?"

Eddie snorts and stifles the laugh in his shoulder.

"I wouldn't dare," Steve replies with a huff of air. A yank on his shoelaces finally finishes tying his shoes. "Come on, then." He stands up and holds a hand out, palm open and fingers spread. "Nancy's waiting for us."

Crouched on the stairs, Eddie glances up at him, eyebrows arching. When Steve remains standing with his hand held out, Eddie thinks, Fuck it, it's not like holding his hand would put his heart in any more danger of heartbreak than it already is, it is far too late to save it for that. So, he reaches out and slips his hand into Steve's, rising to his feet at the same time Steve's fingers curl around the back of his hand.

They pad silently down the steps and keep padding slowly forward, even when their feet reach the ground. Steve steps in front of Eddie, arm hanging back, still holding his hand, and easily steps over the traps lying around the cabin.

Eddie and Robin fall into the step behind him, feet finding the footprints he leaves behind, like a line of mimes, repeating the movement of the first.

Eddie hangs onto Steve's hand. Fingers clenched around his. Warmth blazes into his palm and fingers from everywhere they touch.

As soon as they step over the last trap and soft earth gives way underneath their shoes, they break into a run.

Laughter bubbles in Eddie's chest. It remains a silent joyful bubble until the first chuckle bursts from Robin and then he is laughing, desperately trying to tamp it down and keep it quiet.

Quiet chuckles and bursts of laughter fill the air between them. It bounces in the small space around them, flits in and out like a sparrow taking flight, bopping up and down in the air, diving and pulling back up. Leaping with them as they run down the length of the beaten path road that cuts through the forest. Bubbling laughter and slaps of crunchy earth flitting in the air between them. Distant pinpricks of light hover between the trees further down the road. Bopping in time with Eddie's steps.

Then, the path curves and the lights burst into sharp relief. Blaring into Eddie's eyes from an idling car. Coming closer and closer.

They run a little further and there is the Steve's car, Nancy at the driver's seat. Just as planned. When Nancy went home earlier, she drove home in Steve's car, exactly so they would not have to start the engine near the cabin and risk waking anyone.

Robin runs around the car and throws herself onto the front seat. Steve throws open the door to the backseat and Eddie dives in. Laughing loudly. Face screwed up as laughter shakes and bubbles from his chest. Steve steps in behind him, pushing and shoving Eddie's long limbs away to free the seat. As he sits down, Nancy throws them a grin over her shoulder, shifts the gear and off they go. Hurtling past dark trees and darker shadows.

They wait until the car clears the last line of trees and for the world to open up before them, the forest left behind them, before they put one of Eddie's tapes into the slot of the radio and let the music carry them it into the night.

Leant forward, one hand on both front seats, keeping him balanced and upright, Eddie bops and throws his head around in time with beats from the speakers and anytime the car jolts over a pothole in the road. Chatting loudly and even singing along to the music.

"Jesus Christ," Steve says above the music, "sit down before you hurt something." A finger sneaks into one of the belt hoops on Eddie's jeans and yanks! Eddie jerks. Tumbling back into the middle seat. His limbs go flying and sprawls across the backseat. He lands right next to Steve. Body warm and solid right to him, pressing into him.

He laughs. Head thrown back and pushing into the seat behind his him. Glancing sideways, he catches sight of Steve looking down at him, so clearly trying to look stern, but his grin is far too bright and his eyes far too happy for that.

He catches Eddie looking and just throws an arm out, shoving his palm into Eddie's face and pushing him away. Smile and teeth still glinting at Eddie.

"Alright, alright," Eddie says, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'll behave, your highness."

The words make Steve roll his eyes. But he drops his hand away from Eddie's face.

Instead of standing back up in the middle of the car, Eddie slides across the seats, to the side of the car and rolls down the window and immediately sticks his head up to it.

Wind smacks into his face and behind him, Steve sighs. The sound loud enough to reach Eddie's ears, despite the wind roaring inside of them.

Sitting there, leant up against the door with an arm slung along the length of the open window and his face shoved right up to it, wind blasting into him with the force of a hand smacking into your face; he finds it quite fitting, to be sat beside Steve with Nancy at the wheel and Robin in shotgun. With the sound of one of Eddie's Metallica blaring from the speakers, carrying them off into the night.

They wind up at an open field by Hess's old farm, far from any trees and houses. The field has been abandoned since last summer, when Starcourt went down. Eddie has been reliably informed a couple of farms where bought out to house some of these smaller Russian bases. Eddie does not give a single fuck. He's just thankful it remains empty for a group of late teens in hiding from the public to take over for one night. Well. One teen in hiding.

From the trunk of the car, Nancy and Steve lift out a pair of lanterns. And they keep pulling. They just keep going, like watching a magician pull rabbits out of a hat. There's like four lanterns there. Okay, that's not that many. But Eddie was expecting to tumble around in the dark and try to feel the wide-open space and miles of open field without help from his eyes. Which would be in solidarity with Max, he realizes, but she's not here, so it would be an empty gesture that helps no one and would only invite Eddie's nightmares to come out and play, which is the exact opposite of what they are trying to achieve tonight. So. Yay, lamps!

They bring the lanterns away from the car and sets them in a loose, wide circle around them. The lamps are blessedly yellow too. Eddie may not have been there, but he saw the lanterns they bought to use in the Creel house, when they tested them, and blue light may have looked cool, but if he never sees it again, he'll be thankful.

The night begins with Eddie running all over the field and waving his arms around, screaming at the top of his lungs to the tape playing from the boombox Robin made sure to steal from the kids, before the door to El's bedroom closed for the night. It is, in Eddie's opinion, a very metal version of frolicking in the fields. With a lot of head banging, air guitar and riffing screams that itches at his vocal chords in a way that would have any vocal teacher in a 100 mile radius clutch their pearls to their chests and pray for the well-being of his voice.

They even put in a Queen tape and Eddie screams along with Freddie Mercury as he sings, "'I don't want to die, I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all'." And the song has always meant a lot to Eddie, but never before has he felt the lyrics as raw and true as then. Which is saying a lot. He's screamed and cried along to this song in a gay bar in Indy at seventeen, body bruised and blue from hateful hands and twisted words. Felt them deep in his bones at fourteen, on the roof of the trailer, headphones clamped around his ears, new scars along his thighs stabbing him with pain and the echo of blood still clinging to his fingers. Thought them as he watched a TV program about AIDS at eighteen, trying hard not to look at his uncle; trying to swallow his tears and the fear quivering in his heart, trying not to feel, as if he had taken something special from his uncle, just by loving a boy. When the song — and several others — are over, I want to break free gets a concert all on its own, too.

After that, they switch between a few songs from Eddie's tapes and some from several Mixtapes they brought along. And for once, Eddie is not complaining at the appearance of dead-beat Top 100 pop songs. As long as he can jump all over the place to the beat, he is happy. Which is a first, but his dignity died on the floor of Reefer Rick's boathouse. So he's really got nothing to lose.

By the time Eddie collapses on the ground next to Steve, he is gasping for air. Sprawling as long limbed as he is, like a starfish.

"You just ran a whole marathon in the name of heavy metal and pop," Steve says with a teasing grin and arched eyebrows, eyeing him up and down. He's leant back, half sat and half laid out on the ground, braced on both of his elbows. "And here I thought you were against sports?"

Eddie rolls onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. "When Ozzy grabs you by the balls, you have to listen, even if it means running the length of a football field twice."

Steve bursts into laughter. Face scrunching up, he drops his head forward and laughs at the ground. Laughter shakes through his body, making his shoulders jump up and down.

It's a cute look on him. Of fucking course it is. These days, a fucking trash bag would look good on him.

Picking his head up, he looks at Eddie, eyes small and tiny behind crinkles. "You know, I have no idea what the hell that means, right?" he says, voice thin and airy, filled with laughter.

Eddie shrugs. The expression on Steve's face is far too bright and happy; it is a hazard in close proximity. So much so, Eddie's heart hiccups inside of his chest. Quickly looking away from him, he picks up a handful of weeds or grass or whatever botany has filled the fields in absence of a caring hand for over a year, they are lying in and throws it in Steve's face.

The grass makes a weak flight through the air and smack lightly against Steve's cheek.

It causes Steve to make a face at him.

When the last few strands of weeds drift to the ground, Steve purses his lips at him. Eyes narrowing playfully, shining bright at him past the calculating look on his face. "If my face weren't still fucked up, I'd make you regret that."

"Ohh," Eddie says and makes a mystifying gesture at him, fingers waving back and forth, like a magic trick, "I'm so terrified, right now," he continues, voice obnoxious and sarcastic. He rolls onto his back and gestures dramatically. Throws an arm up and across his brow, like a damsel in distress. "You're just so threatening. I'm feeling so threatened." He pulls his arm down and clutches both hands to his chest. Eyes looking up and sideways, locking on Steve. "How fortunate that I'm safe from you. How fortunate—" he throws an arm out, hand grazing Steve's chest, and pulls his head to the side, looking away from him "—that you're a recovering trauma victim and that you would be chivalrous enough to honor your head through it."

Steve slaps his hand away from his chest.

Grin splitting his cheeks wide, Eddie rolls his head back and looks up at him.

"You done?" he asks, eyebrows raised high.

"For now."

Steve rolls his eyes.

Pushing off against the ground, Eddie sits up, pulling his legs underneath each other and crossing them over his ankles. "You can't blame me. I was a theatre kid, Harrington. While you were busy swimming and throwing balls around, I was busy learning how to be a tree and how to harmonize." At least, he was a theatre kid, until he listened to his first metal album and everything else stopped mattering. It came into his life at that sweet spot, where he had learned enough guitar to be considered good at it and so when he switched to electric, it was not Stevie Nicks and acoustics he carried on, but metal and rock that quickly evolved into heavy metal.

"You were a tree?"

"I know," he says dramatically. "I was always relegated to the bad roles." That's a lie. The first role he ever got was a major role, one of the two protagonists, but he spent half the time going off script and improvising, giving impassioned speeches he thought was vital to his character (plucked from the book it was based off, not the script) and demanding they change the moral majority the script practically worshipped for something far more interesting and honest, much to his teacher's suffering. In consequence, he was never again cast in a major role and doomed to be a tree or the smallest ensemble role until he stopped auditioning. All mock somber and comically sad, he shakes his head. "I've never met a teacher in my life, who didn't hold a grudge against me." A sigh blows from his mouth and perches his elbow on his thigh, chin in hand. "No one ever appreciates real talent, when they see it."

"I think, you're brilliant," Steve says. He looks at him with such an open, tender expression. Eyes wide and earnest. The look inside of them deep. His words smack into Eddie's chest with the grace and the weight of a freight train coming full speed down the tracks. It makes his heart twist and ache. It is incredibly difficult not to cup his face in his hands, lean in and find out just what those words and that bright earnestness taste like on his lips.

"No one likes a suck up, Stevie." He throws another handful of grass at him and sniffs. "You're just saying that to smooch up to me," he says, trying desperately to push the warmth burning inside of his chest down. To smother the embers Steve has left burning in his heart. "You see the tide turning and you want me to put in a good word with Henderson for you."

A crooked grin tugs at Steve's lips. "Or maybe I'm trying to smooch you over to my side."

Heat rushes into Eddie's face and flush against his cheeks. Lifting a hand, Eddie tugs at a strand of his hair and pulls it in front of his face. Hiding his smile behind it.

For the most of the time they spend in the field, Eddie just lies or sits and stares at the long stretch of darkness on all sides of him and the stars glinting in the sky high up above.

The night passes with long conversation, bright laughter and bubbling chuckles, as they chase Vecna and the many shadows of the Upside Down from each other's eyes.

At one point, Steve pulls a six-pack out of the trunk of his car and they all salute to the sky.

"To surviving Vecna!" Robin calls, can held high in the sky and her voice louder still.

"To putting Vecna in his grave once and for all," Nancy counters, raising up her beer.

"To heavy metal and freedom," is Eddie's sworn words.

"To new and old friends," Steve says with a gentle smile. Hazel eyes fixed on Eddie across the circle. In the light of the lamps, his eyes glint and sparkle at Eddie.

They reach out, bringing their cans together. Metal clinks against one another in the midst of their circle, swearing their vows in.

Later, when Eddie has thrown his fourth beer can as far as he can and the buzz is carrying him through the night, he tilts his head back and screams himself hoarse at the sky, as if he has not already screamed enough today, when he ran around shouting along to the music playing from the boombox.

"Shit! Eddie!" Steve shouts, ducking down in a jerk, as if the sound slammed into him. "What the hell was that?" he asks, when Eddie runs out of steam and slams his mouth shut, heaving for air.

"I'm screaming."

"Yes. I'm well aware. I'm only half-deaf, you know. I can still hear you," he says with this exasperated, annoyed look on his face. "But why? Are you trying to damage my ears more than they already are?"

"I'm putting all my frustrations and anger to good use." Eddie bounces on his feet. Whole body shaking and jiggling with the motion. Up-down-up-down-up-down. Continuously. A ball of restless energy and a desperate need to keep moving shaking through him. For good measure, he holds his arms out and wiggles them wildly around, too. You can never wiggle and bounce enough, after all.

"What good does that do?"

"Nothing. But if I feel like I'm going to lose my sanity, I might as well scream about it." He bounces one more time, takes a heaving deep breath and tips his head back again. A blood-curdling scream that could have been at home at a heavy metal concert or a boxing ring rips its way out of Eddie's throat, bellowing out into the night air. When it's over, he takes a smaller breath and adds, "FUCK!" because cursing makes everything better.

Robin comes running up to them. Laughing, she slams into Steve's back. Throwing one arm over his shoulder, she hangs over him, tipped to the side and swaying. Before she can tip herself too far, Steve catches her and heaves her upwards, so she ends up dangling with a slack arm over his neck and his arm around her stomach, seemingly the only thing keeping her upright. "Eddie!" she laughs. "What are you doing?"

"I'm screaming about how fucked up life is right now."

"Is it fun?"

"You bet, baby!"

"Can I do it?"

"Hell yeah!"

A deep breath rushes in through her nose, but before she can bellow, she stops. A contemplative look falls over her face and she looks back up at Eddie. "How do I do that?"

"Aren't you a lightweight, Buckley?" Eddie grins at her. He steps forward. Arms raised, he grabs onto Robin's hands and gently tugs her out of Steve's grasp, careful to loop her arm over his head and free him, before he's dragged along.

Eyes wide but excited, Robin stumbles along after him, feet scrambling against imaginary stones and other villainous objects that threaten to trip her up with every step she takes.

He only pulls her a few steps away from Steve, just enough to bring her upright again. He keeps a hold of her arm and just looks at her, grinning as he gives them a squeeze.

Grin blinding, Robin squeezes back.

"And now, we just scream."

"About what?"

"Anything and everything!" He declares.

"Why?" Steve asks, again, expression tortured and pained.

"What reason to you need?" Eddie flaps his arms wildly in the air. "It's cathartic! It's dramatic! It's theatrical!" He gives Robin a shake. "Just watch." Eddie throws up an arm in time with his head falling backwards one more time and screams.

"AAHHHH!!" Another voice joins the last half of his scream, overlapping with his. Voice tearing and scratching in his throat, Eddie turns and beams at Robin, her own mouth falling shut as her scream tapers off. "Fuck," she says, winded.

"How about," Eddie offers, tilts his head and shouts, "I can't sleep at night and I'm sick and tired of it!"

Nancy comes closer and joins in. "I'm sick of being scared of the light flickering!"

"Yeah! Come on, let's go!" Eddie howls and spins in place.

"I fucking hate being alone at night!"

Steve too. "I'm terrified of going underwater!"

"I can't look outside at night anymore and I'm fucking sick of it!"

Eddie bounces up and down. Excitement zips through him. Rushing through him like a hit to his bloodstream.

"Hell yeah!" He pumps a fist in the sky. "Keep going!"

"I miss liking Christmas lights!"

"I can't watch horror movies anymore! And Keith might actually fire me, if I change his chosen movie one more time!"

"I hate the dark!"

"Dogs freak me out now!"

"I'm scared all the time now, I've thrown up at least three times the last two weeks from it!"

"I can't relax unless I know where the kids are at all times!" Steve screams. He turns his wide eyes and scared expression to them, as if he can't even think about it, without the fear creeping forward and taking a hold of him. "It's driving me insane. I have to know." He slams the back of his hand into his palm. "I" —slam— "need" —slam— "to know" —slam-slam— "all the damn" —slam-slam-slam— "time." SLAM. Finished, his hands drop down. Head hanging forward, he brings his hands to his hair. Clutching at the strands. "Last week, when I went home with Dustin for the night. I didn't sleep until it was near dawn and then I slept for like two hours. I was knocked completely out. He went to shower in the morning before I woke up, and then I, like, panicked. I didn't hear the water running at first. So I ran through the house, trying not to pass out and scared Tews and Ma Henderson half to death. And then he was just in there. In the shower. Ma had to point it out to me. I had to sit outside the door with it cracked open and we sang never-ending story through the crack until he came back out." A deep sigh passes through his nose. His arms drop down and they hang limp by his sides. He doesn't look up from the found. Demeanor and entire figure shrouded in defeat and heaviness. "I feel like I'm losing my mind, man."

Robin steps up to him and slings her arms around him. The two stand together, swaying slightly to the beat of nothing but their own hearts. Even in the dark, Eddie can see how desperate Steve clings to her. Arms tight and tense, muscles bulging and his fingers digging into her back.

"I'm sick and tired of being scared," Nancy says. Hands clenched tight and awaking. Jaw clenched and teeth gritted. This burn inside of her eyes, as if she could set a blaze by her gaze alone. "Of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I feel like Vecna's looming over my shoulder. Always. Watching everything I do. Just waiting to pull me down, again. And I'm trying so hard not to talk about it or show it. Because I have to be fine. I have to be strong. I've always been levelheaded and strong. I can't fail now. Even the kids are fine! Somehow they keep distracting each other and finding something to hold onto, and I don't want to be the one to remind them that were living on the edge of the fucking world, waiting for it to drop off into Hell! I feel like I'm drowning, especially when mom keeps me and Mike at home, but I don't want to take anyone else down with me." Nancy curls her arms around herself. So small and so fragile for a moment. "I need to be strong. For them. All the time," she whispers.

A moment passes. Still and so very loud.

"Well, fuck that shit," Eddie says bluntly.

Startling, Nancy snaps out of her cave in, and looks at him. Eddie looks between her, Robin and Steve and back again. "Seriously, fuck that, shit." He throws his arms up. "Who the fuck cares! So what if the kids expect you to be strong! So what, hmm?" He holds out his arms and spins on his heel. "Who the fuck cares around here?"

"It's not that simple, Eddie," she says with a tinny smile that weighs heavy and sad in her eyes.

He throws his arms up in the air. "As long as you're with us, it is!" He steps up to her and lays her hands on his shoulder and gives her a good, rough shake. "Forget the kids, for a moment. Forget it all and just let go! We don't need you to be strong."

"Fuck, we all feel like that around the kids," Robin adds. "Steve and I literally can't be apart without having a breakdown and Steve sleeps guard by the door."

"Yeah," Eddie acquiesces, "we're all fucked up. In fact—" he takes a step back, cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "FUCK YOU, VECNA!"

"Shit." Robin winces. "Don't. You'll summon him."

"I don't care! I ain't scared of a shriveled, old wizard!" He gestures at the sky, beckoning it to challenge him and throws it a finger, too, for full coverage. "Fuck you, Vecna! Come on! Take on me for a size and see how you'll like the mess in my brain." He immediately turns on his heels, spinning back around to stare at them. He points a finger at them. "That's not true. I'm fucking terrified of him," he says in a much quieter voice, pointing back at the three others. "But I'm hoping he's like a black bear, you know. You have to stand still and wave your arms around and make lots of human noises and shit at them, then they'll turn around and ignore you."

"What the fuck?"

"I know, easy right? Actually not." He gestures back and forth between Nancy and Steve. "My uncle, he has this biker group. He was a part of it in the 60's before they sent him off to Vietnam and he didn't return to it, when he came back. But he meets with them every now and again, at the bar. They're like distant aunts and uncles to me." Eyebrows crooking, he adds, "Family dinners are a riot, let me tell you that. Anyway—" he waves a hand in the air, brushing it aside to return to his point "—this one guy, Doug, he told me he was at this national park one day and this black bear—"

"Eddie," Steve says and Eddie slams his mouth shut.

"Yep?" He lifts his eyebrows at him.

"While I'm sure it's a riveting story—"

Eyes wide, Eddie nods emphatically. "Oh it is, he even got a scar out of it," he points out with a lifted finger, "but not from the bear—" he whips his pointed finger back and forth between them "—that's a very important distinction he'd smack me for not making. They're misunderstood, you know." He drops his hand. Eyes widening, he quickly adds, hand whipping back up, "Not Doug! Well, I'm sure he's misunderstood somewhere. He's quite a bear of a man—" a grin slaps into his face and he laughs "—hah, bear. Black bear and a man bear." He shakes his head and gets back to it. "Anyway, he might be misunderstood too, but black bears, they're really not as dangerous as people think they are. Just take Doug!" He throws his arm out into the arm. The force whips through him and he stumbles to the side. He has to jump on one leg to correct himself and stop from falling over his feet, head and stomach swooping with alcohol. "That was what I was telling you," he says, straightening back up, "he didn't get the scar from the bear, he—"

Lips stretched in a humored smile, Steve settles his hands on his shoulders, immediately shutting Eddie up from his touch alone. Wide eyed and stunned by the combination alcohol and Steve's hands on him, Eddie looks at Steve's bright eyes, narrowed in mirth and humor from his rounded cheeks.

He doesn't get to look long.

Fingers tightening on his shoulders, Steve turns him around and leans into him. Warmth presses into Eddie's back, lining up with him from head to toe as Steve leans into him, chest pressing into his back and head placed beside his own, his hands still gripping him by his shoulders. "We were shouting fuck you at Vecna," he continues as if Eddie never interrupted him, "You can tell us all about Doug and the black bear that didn't give him a scar later."

"For sure." He nods. "We should curse Vecna out some more, he deserves it." A pause. "What was I saying?" he mumbles distractedly. "Oh yeah! Fuck you Vecna! I ain't gonna bend over for a goddamn shriveled raisin!"

"Eddie, oh my god."

"It's true!" Eddie's gaze jump enthusiastically from Nancy to Robin to Steve and back again. "Will told me he was like a stretched out raisin."

That puts silence between them.

"How— how does he know that?" Robin asks, wide eyed and scared.

The implication hits Eddie too late. Head lowering, his eyes settle on the dark grass below his feet. "He's never seen him, has he?" he asks, quiet and subdued.

"He wasn't with us this time. And Vecna's never shown himself up until Chrissy. He can't have seen him," Nancy says, careful and tight, "not unless—" she trails off.

They stand with it for a bit. Quiet and still. Frozen.

"Shit."

"Yeah. Shit."

Eddie turns and points at the sky. "And fuck you for fucking up Will! He's a great kid! Leave him the fuck alone! You— you—"

"Circumcised cock?" Steve offers.

"Yeah! Fuck you, you circumcised cock!" Eyes falling to the ground, his gaze skirt the grass. His eyes land on metal shining a few steps away, he takes a running leap and jumps onto the can of beer, tipped over and lying on its side. "And take that too!" He jumps again. Metal crunches and protests beneath his boots. It cracks and splits a part. He hops off of it and kicks it. The can smacks into his heavy toes and it sails off into the air with a whine and whizzing wind. Metal glints in the air, where it sails and then it crashes to the ground with a crash and metallic rattle. "Fucking overgrown wart." He crosses his arms and drops to the ground, petulant and fuming.

"You okay there?" Robin walks to him and sits down beside him.

"Yeah, I thought screaming at the sky would help, but it's just making me want to hit something."

"Does that mean were done screaming now?" Robin asks, nose scrunching up with wrinkles.

"I think so."

"Oh, thank God. My throat was starting to hurt and we're out of beer."

They bring out the boombox and music again after that.

Later still, Steve and Robin find each other in the middle of the field and begin to slow dance. It starts with the song Chiquitita from Abba, playing from the boombox, but they carry on long after it is over. They just hold each other close. Chest to chest. Steve's head pillowed on top of hers and Robin's tucked underneath his chin. Hand in hand and arms around each other's waists. Wrapped up in each other like they are the only people in the world. A pair of slow dancers in a ballroom for two. In the gentle, caressing light of the lanterns and the background of the distant stars twinkling in the night sky above them, they look like a couple hours after their wedding vows; slow dancing to the final echoes of their promises and each other's heartbeat. The boombox they had brought still plays one of Nancy's tapes, but Eddie is pretty sure he hears them both humming a song he would never be caught dead knowing the title off, but which he is pretty sure he's heard snippets off on the radio, when he wasn't fast enough to snap his own music on.

Eddie is surprised to find that he isn't jealous at all. Not even a little bit. It might have been easy, to be jealous, at first glance, but once you get past that first glance, it is very easy and quick to see that there is nothing to be jealous off. Okay, that's a lie. The friendship they have is one in a million and that intimacy and bone-deep knowing someone, a home within your favorite person and best friend, that Eddie is jealous off. For a kid who has always had nothing and been very alone, it is hard not to feel morose that he does not have something similar.

But it is so very hard to be jealous of something that makes his two favorite people so very happy. And as to his feelings for Steve — because yes, those are feelings, Eddie is admitting that now — there is nothing there to be jealous off.

The two even exchange a little peck lips on lips in the middle of it all. At this Nancy scoffs loud and disbelieving. Eddie throws her an arched eyebrow. It goes unnoticed. She is too busy staring incredulously at the pair and nursing her beer. "And they say they're platonic." She huffs loudly again and takes a hearty swig of her beer, looking a little murderous, or maybe just hurt. The lanterns do not cast enough light to help him differentiate between the two and Nancy already looks one wrong word away from murderous in broad daylight. Another scoff sounds under her breath. "Platonic, my ass. As if," she grumbles into the lip of her can and necks the rest.

"Just because it doesn't fit into your world view, doesn't mean it isn't there," Eddie says quietly, when she's lowered her beer. Her head turns and she looks at him. Mouth pinched shut but her eyes inquisitive, that much is visible in the limited light of the lanterns, at least. Eddie offers her a kind smile and tilts his head to the side in commiseration. "Just because your world does not have space for love like theirs, doesn't mean theirs don't. You don't have to understand it to accept it's there, but it's kinda disrespectful and a little mean to keep shoving your own world views on them, just because you don't want to expand the way you see things."

Nancy's eyes narrow on him. Her mouth purses. "I'm not shoving my own views on them."

Eddie sighs softly and shakes his head. "I'm not saying you're a bad person, Nancy, but words have impact. It's tiring to keep defending the way you love and your friendships to others. Especially people you hold dear." The words cut at his own skin and he hides a wince by pressing his tongue hard against the back of his teeth. That comes dangerously close to toeing the line between their current conversation and queer relationships. (Which, honestly, he could argue Steve and Robin's relationship actually could be. Even if it could not be without them explicitly naming it. But that aside). He can only hope she's a little too caught up to realize the implications lying beneath his words. Normally, he suspects she would be on him within a second, flat, but well, beer and two distracting people trying to merge into one helps him there. He wafts a hand loosely up and down in a mild shrug. "If they say they're platonic, then they're platonic. No matter what they do that you think makes them into something else."

For a while, she's quiet. She goes back to watching Steve and Robin slow dance, this time with a contemplative look over her face.

"I guess Mike was right," she quietly says, voice faintly amused, "You really do love your speeches." Tilting her head, she tips his can at him. "And throwing bricks at the moral majority."

He grins full of teeth. "It's my favorite past-time."

When they finish their slow dance, several humming repeats of the same song later, Steve twirls Robin around, their hands held above her head, catches her around the waist and dips her. She goes. Laughing merrily, as she throws her head back. Even in the dark Eddie can see the smile and tenderness blazing brightly from Steve's face. He is not sure he has ever seen Steve look so content and happy before. It warms his heart as much as Robin's laugh does.

Steve pulls Robin back up, catches her in another hug and lets them sway from side to side for another moment, Robin's arms now curled around each of his shoulders. Then he drops a kiss on her head and she cups the side of his face and kisses his cheeks, then and only then, do they pull apart. Well. Pull apart is relative. They step out of each other's immediate breathing zone, but keep in contact with at least one limb. Steve hooks an arm around her shoulders and she around his hip. And when they step out of that, they hold hands.

In the light of the night and the glow from the lanterns, side by side, they both look at peace and content. Happy, even.

Later, much later, moves away from the others and their conversation.

Away from the glow of the lanterns, Eddie lies down, hands pillowed behind his head and stares up at the stars. A faint buzz in his veins of the beers he had.

In the distance, Robin and Nancy's voices drift toward him, where they sit on the hood of Steve's car. The sound of their gentle conversation hardly more than a faint hum of low murmurs.

He does not lie alone for long.

Footsteps move near and weeds crunch underfoot.

Eddie turns his head back and looks up at Steve, who has miraculously managed to detach himself from Robin's back. Heavy shadows shrouds him in darkness.

"Want company?" his voice asks, small and soft.

"Anyone's company?" he says and hums considering. "Depends. Yours? Always."

It is a crime the night hides Steve's reaction to his words, but the dark figure standing in front of the night sky lowers itself to the ground beside him.

To his surprise, instead of lying down near him, he lays down with him. Head settling on Eddie's stomach, the weight of it comforting and warming, their bodies forming a T on the ground. The top of his shoulders press into Eddie. Warmth emanates from his body

For a while, they lie in silence. Taking a chance, he buried his hands in Steve's hair and cards his fingers through it. Soft locks brushing past his skin with every pull. Against him, Steve's body goes lax. His shoulders fall down, body rippling with relaxing muscles. A relieved sigh blowing from his mouth.

Steve's shoulder shift up and down in time with his breaths.

For a while now, Eddie and Steve has blurred the line between platonic and romantic, Eddie can't see it clearly anymore. Hope has long since buried its way into his heart, as deep as Steve himself has done, but far more brittle. There are days it burns bright and warm, enough to carry Eddie through a hard winter. Other days, it shivers and shakes, one wrong steps makes cracks crawling their way through it, and Eddie does not know whether to try and save it, glue together, before it can break apart and break his heart, or if it would be best to just let it go. A broken heart can cut and bleed him, but it cannot kill him after all and Eddie's already been to Hell. Heartbreak would be something normal to keep his feet firmly tethered to the ground, after the events of Spring Break.

But even if Steve wanted nothing more than this; nothing more but held hands, warm embraces and nights where they wrap up in each other, even with Robin on his other side of between them, Eddie would be happy.

A friendship as this, has been what Eddie has longed for through lonely days and long nights for his entire life. That he should find it in Steve, no matter how much Eddie longs for more, is nothing less than beautiful.

He's seen it between Steve and Robin, Jonathan and Argyle (although, the jury's still out on that last one, if there isn't something more buried between them, that no one else gets to see or touch). That he should be allowed to build something just like it, is a gift he did not expect to find at the end of the world, but he is thankful. Even if it should only exist in a cabin in the woods and in the dark of night.

Eventually, Eddie's hands still in his hair. But he does not remove them. He just keeps them buried in his locks. Fingers curled up and wrapped up in Steve's soft hair. Locks curled gently around his digits.

Something shifts, rustling in the air as Steve's shoulder rolls and moves against Eddie's chest. Fingers graze against Eddie's arm.

A breath catches in Eddie's chest. It gets locked up in his lungs. Chest tight and still.

Steve's hand fumble along the length of his arm, fingers falling downwards, touch soft and caressing. By his head, his fingers shift forward and curl around his wrist. Carefully, he draws Eddie's hand out from where it is buried in his hair. Pulls it down over Steve's head and holds it by his own chest, curling Eddie's arm past his shoulders. Intertwining his fingers with Eddie.

Hand clasped together, Steve brings them down and settles them on his own chest.

Finally, after an eternity, Eddie releases his breath. Air falls into his lungs at the same time he lets his fingers curl around Steve's hand, settling into place as naturally as if their hands had been made to fit.
The buzz and dull warmth in Eddie's entire body smooths over all the sharp edges and another's the ball of fuzzing anxiety, he feels grounded. Not adrift and distant, floating on a cloud of borrowed joy like weed makes him feel. More like he's entirely himself, but blurred out at the edges. Like a kid who can't stay within the lines of his coloring book. Blurred out and smoothed over.

He takes out a cigarette just for something to do with his other hand.

Not three puffs into it, Steve reaches out and plucks it from his mouth. He takes two breaths from it. Each inhale makes his stomach and chest underneath Eddie rise up, filling out and pressing up against him, then deflates again with the sound of breath leaving a pair of lips and a cloud of smoke that passes overhead.

They pass the cigarette back and forth like it is a joint. It isn't for the cigarette and the nicotine packed within it. Eddie knows. It's for the intimacy of shared breath. Of placing your lips right where the other did just moments before. Of skin brushing skin as their fingers graze each other, when they take the cigarette for their own turn.

Steve is the first one to break the silence blanketing the air around them. "Hey, Eddie?" he says, voice quiet, as if hesitant to breach the air between them.

"Hmm?" Eddie tips his head down, as if it might let him catch a glimpse of him, when the night has swallowed him up. The hand still buried in Steve's hair shifts and he pulls it through his locks. When his hair falls away and only air touches his skin, he brings his fingers back to his hair and cards them through again.

"You once asked us for our favorite song."

He had.

It was a bad day and Eddie was cracking at the seams. Desperately asking for Dustin's favorite song in a desperate attempt for something to cling to. Turning side eyes on the few who had been in the living room at the time and asking them the same. Robin had been the one to come to him and pull him off the ledge and stitch him back together. Lying on the bed behind the curtain, wrapped up in each other, melting gold with the warmth of her arms around him and used it to mend the cracks in his soul. Like kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing of broken pottery with gold, platinum or silver.

"Yes."

"Do you still want to know my favorite song?"

A gentle smile blooms from Eddie's lips. He gives Steve's hand a squeeze. "Always."

Even though Steve brought it up, it takes him a while to speak again. When he does, his voice is quieter still. "Everyone knows I like Rolling Stones and ABBA and Queen. But your favorite song. The song that saves you from Vecna. That brings you back through your worst memories and your nightmares. That song is meant to be more than just your favorite, right? It's your favorite, but it's also one that speaks to you. It speaks to your soul. And connects with you on a level nothing else does. Right?"

"I think so," Eddie says, voice just as quiet as Steve's.

Steve falls quiet.

For a moment, they lie, waiting.

"You don't have to tell me," Eddie adds. "Vecna's not here, right now, and I'm sure we can bring you back with Freddie Mercury's beautiful voice."

"I know," Steve says. "But I want to." Steve Harrington; town darling and local heartbreaker.

It still takes a few breaths, before Steve tells him. "Bruce Springsteen's Born in the U.S.A means a lot to me," is what he finally says, voice soft. "It speaks to me in a way few things does. The whole album does. Actually."

Ever since he brought the subject up and Eddie began carding through his hair again, he's been continuously brushing his fingers through his locks. Now, he stills. Hand going lax against his own chest, fingers still caught up in Steve's hair.

Eddie may not be the biggest Bruce Springsteen fan, but his uncle is a fan and has played the album enough for Eddie to pull the lyrics forth and find the message inside of them. "You know what, I can see that." He looks up at the dark night sky and lets them swallow his eyes as he sinks into Steve's revelation. He looks up and thinks of disillusionment with the American Dream; about masculinity and everything that could mean; about promises and never getting to those and what you do, when you find yourself on a dark road with no light to guide you; about desire and its many forms; about a fall from grace wrapped up in an album, reaching a part of Steve, speaking to him in a way nothing else could.

Bruce Springsteen, he thinks. Who else would Steve, the fallen king from Hawkins High with a nail-ridden baseball bat as his new crown and his own body as a shield to protect the ones he loves, find himself in but the boy from Jersey with a guitar and a desire to get the hell out of his hometown.

"I see that," he repeats.

"You don't think it's dumb?" Eddie can almost hear the recriminating expression twisting across his face.

"No." He shakes his head. Just a small shake back and forth that barely makes his hair rustle against the earth. "Finding yourself reflected in anything, whether it's a book or movie or music, is never stupid. Especially an album like Born in the U.S.A."

"You know it?"

"My uncle likes Springsteen. So his albums make a recurring performance in our trailer often enough." His fingers squeeze Steve's hand once more. "I can see what you would find in it."

"Hmm. I always felt like I was just, I don't know—" his shoulders pull up in a small shrug and a sigh falls heavy and loaded from his lips "—bullshit for finding so much comfort in an album."

"We all need comfort," Eddie says, gently. He cards his fingers through Steve's hair again. A gentle stroke that brushes soft locks over his skin. "It doesn't matter where we find it."

For a moment, neither speaks. Steve's words hang heavy and thick in the air around them.

A deep breath falls into Eddie's chest and he continues just as gently, his words like a gift cupped in his hands, "Sometimes music is the only thing that can speak to us. That can reach us, where we are. Just look at Vecna's curse. Nothing can reach you, when he buries you in your mind. But music can. I'd say that makes music pretty fucking important. And any album, any song, that can give that to you, that can reach you, even in the darkest corners of your mind—, Well, I think that's pretty special."

His words hang in the air. He lets Steve take all the time he needs to hold them and tuck them away, wherever he needs them to go.

"I didn't think about it that way," he says quietly. "Thank you."

He squeezes Steve's hand in response.

Steve squeezes back.

A moment passes.

"There another song," Steve says, breaking the quiet once more.

A hum rumbles inside of Eddie's chest.

"It's— don't tell Robin this," he breaks in, turning his head making grass rustle, as he seeks Robin in the night, as if checking she's well out of hearing distance before continuing "—she'd punch me and then she'd cry and then she'd punch me for making her cry."

A chuckle bubbles small and gentle from Eddie's chest and he smiles at the sky. "I won't," he assures him, tucking lightly on a lock of his hair, pinching it between his fingers.

"'Total Eclipse of the Heart'," he sighs, voice light with the shape of a smile on his lips. "That’s a song that also has a special meaning to me."

Eddie tips his head down, eyes falling down to the blob of darkness lying on top of his chest, as if he might be able to see the look on his face. Even if the sun was high in the sky, their position would hardly allow Eddie even a glimpse of his face. A small, gentle smile blooms from his lips. "Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah," Steve echoes softly. "I mean, the song is ridiculous and the reason for it even more so, but I think it could save me." Against Eddie, his head shifts. He tips it back, as if he too tries to look up at Eddie through the darkness. After a moment, he turns his head back around and looks back up at the sky. He shifts against the ground. Grit and dirt crunches softly underneath his jostling body. "If I got lost. If Vecna started drowning me in my worst memories. I think it could get me out."

For a moment, Eddie looks down at him, at the shapeless shadow of his head on his chest.

When he finally speaks again, he says, "Bruce Springsteen and Total Eclipse of the Heart," repeating the words in a soft, almost reverent tone, holding them like the gift they are.

Steve nods. Head rubbing up and down against his chest. "And Somebody to Love."

"And Somebody to Love," he repeats, nodding. "I'll remember." He waits a moment, then adds, "Thank you."

"It's just some songs." Steve shrugs. The movement ripples through him and echoes out into Eddie with a small jostle. "It's not like I told you an in depth analysis or life story about why they're important to me."

"No," Eddie says, voice as careful as the gaze he's still directing at him. "But you still told me about them and that means something. That's still something you've gifted to me. Still something you're trusting me with. Even if I don't know the full story behind them. And that is precious. Vecna or no."

After that, Eddie spends the night dozing on the ground with Steve. One hand buried in his hair, occasionally brushing through his locks, his other hand intertwined with Steve's, lying on top of his chest.
  Figures, even when he is brought out into the world and has a wide open space to his disposal, he finds himself beside Steve; finding a steady ground and comfort by the sound of his voice and the warmth that emanates from his body, when they stand close enough for it to drift out and reach towards him, as they tend to do more often than not. Not even the first wide-open space, Eddie has seen since he was brought from the lab to the cabin, is enough to bring Eddie away from Steve.

He should perhaps have seen this coming. It has, after all, been prevalent ever since Steve started breaking down the ghost of his former self that Eddie held against him, like a bouquet of dead, rotten flowers in hands, as if as long as they remained between them, he could nurse old beliefs; reluctant to believe Steve truly was a good guy and someone Eddie could let in, until, against everything Eddie had ever known to be true, one day in the cabin Eddie looked at Steve and finally saw him for what he was and let himself see it.

The girls come and pick them up some time after three a.m. and Eddie returns to the cabin, lighter than he has been, since this nightmare started.

Another day dawns, another morning passes; another Saturday where the kids loudly complain about school, their teachers and how much they miss Mr. Clarke and how his homework was never this boring or drawn out, and how high school fucking sucks, seriously how the hell did you survive for six years of this, Eddie?

Midday greets them between the trees and the complaints have long since been replaced by something far more fun and raucous.

Loud voices fill the air. Nonsensical words and shouts stream out into the air, filling the trees with a non-stop babble, you would think they were trying to shake all the leaves of the trees. Today everyone is here. Lucas, Dustin, Mike, Will, El and Max, the lot of them.

The noise of their revelry and good-natured ribbing streams out into the woods and stretches out towards the treetops, filling the air with nonsensical babble, laughter and the pointed tones of needling teasing remarks.

Under their babble, a small stream of music plays. The boom box sits on top of Steve's car, near where the kids have all set up camp for the day. Music plays from its speakers. Drifting through the woods, back towards the porch where Eddie sits, reaching his ears, distant and quiet. Just a garbled mess of instruments and the hint of vocals. The songs it plays nearly lost to the air between them. Leaving Eddie with a thin blanket of half words and the hint of a beat.

It plays as an undertone to the book he has before him. Once more, he has brought Ursula Le Quin's Earthsea with him outside, but it is one of the first times he has actually been able to focus on the words splayed on the pages before him. The buzz in his head, which has shrouded his eyes and made everything blurry and unreadable to him, every single time he has tried to read, since that first day he arrived here, have gone. Disappearing somewhere in the recesses of his mind, leaving the smallest of buzzes, that zips down his neck and out into his limbs, where he flicks his feet up and down, vigorously wiggling his feet. It is enough to pull him out of his head and still the wild river running through his veins, allowing him to focus on the story unfolding before him.

At one point, more than halfway through the book, movement in the corner of his eyes pulls at his gaze and Eddie glances up from the page.

Coming from around the side of the cabin is Steve. Sweater tied around his waist and bits of — wood? maybe? — hanging off his shirt and sticking to his pants. In the bright light of day, the bruise on his face has faded. It sits weak, barely a small splotch of purple on the high point of his cheekbone.

"Doth mine eyes deceive me or have you actually been working, Harrington?" Eddie calls with a lazy smile.

"What are you talking about, man?" If he wanted to, Eddie could make a scrapbook consisting only of Steve's confused expression. Ranging from fond befuddlement, to annoyed confusion, to genuine confusion, to—. Well, you get the picture. While Steve's pretty much in a state of constant annoyance, confusion follows close behind. Perpetual confusion and constant annoyance, Steve Harrington in four words, everybody. Stuck in the cabin, Eddie's been forced to find ways to entertain himself, and trying to find just how many different states of annoyance and confusion he can draw out of the man is one of them.

Rolling his eyes, Eddie rephrases. "I'm simply surprised to see you looking like a working man. Must be quite a different look for you."

"If this surprises you, you truly would have reveled at my scoops uniform."

"Oh, don't worry, I remember it vividly." Folding his arms behind his head, Eddie leans back. A shit-eating grin takes over his face.

Quirking his eyebrows at him, Steve steps up to the railing. "And you're such a fan of frozen delights you went by Scoops enough times to catch me in uniform, are you?"

"A fan of some kind of delight, sure." He shrugs, still grinning.

The look falling over Steve's expression is such befuddled confusion, searching Eddie's expression, as if trying to pull clear answers from the laugh lines etched into his skin. It makes Eddie laugh.

"Don't hurt yourself there, Harrington." He looks him over. A glance passing him up and down. "What have you been doing anyway?" Arching an eyebrow, he adds, "Wrestling with an Ent? Or have you just been frolicking and rolling around on the forest floor for the hell of it? And if so—" he points at him "—why didn't you invite me?" His hand drops and he adopts a disappointed look all over. "You know, I'm a big frolicker, man."

Steve's expression breaks into a surprised grin. He huffs. Shaking his head at Eddie, his eyes small and crinkled, he says," No frolicking, I swear. No, I've been" —a sheepish expression plays across his face and raises a hand, scratching at the back of his head— "I've just been helping Hopper." He throws an arm back to the side of the cabin.

"Hopper?"

"Yeah, despite raiding my house and the Wheeler’s basement, the blankets are running a bit thin and uneven, compared to everyone occupying the house." He rubs his palms together. Hands rub brushing off one another, bits of dust and pieces flying off, tickling down back to the ground. "The last few nights have been running cold, so Hopper thought it best to stock up on wood for the fireplace." He shrugs. "I offered to help." A grimace cuts across his face. "Not sure if I did any good, but—" he breaks off and gives another shrug.

As if summoned, Hopper walks out from the side of the cabin with a pile of lumber under his arm and a big smile on his cheeks that chases away the many shadows forever etched to his face and eyes. Stepping up beside Steve, he claps a hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't too bad," he says. Smiling wide, Hopper ruffles a hand through Steve's hair, playfully pushing at his head. "We'll make a real lumberjack of you yet."

Eddie snorts. "You're going to have your work cut out for you, then. Steve's spent years in a three story house with a backyard pool, I think his hands are a little too soft to hold an axe long enough to learn."

Steve challenges that with a pointedly arched brow. "I can manage to hold a bat well enough."

"That is true." Eddie points a finger at him. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."

Clapping Steve's shoulder one last time, and throwing one last look over his shoulder towards the kids further down the road, Hopper steps past him and walks up the steps to the cabin. Then pulls open the door and throws one last look over his shoulder at them, a warm smile still on his face.

Steve lingers on the porch. Standing on the steps, he leans back against the railing, hands folded behind his back, palms pressing into the railing.

"Need a drink?" Eddie asks after a moment of silence.

Turning his head, Steve arches a brow at him and Eddie holds up the cola he brought outside with him. The can cracked open, but still plenty full, distracted as he had been, swallowed up by Tolkien's world. He tips the can towards him. "I brought it with me, but haven't really gotten into it yet."

"Yeah, sure." Steve shrugs, then takes a long step forward across the porch, stoops down and scoops the beer out of Eddie's outstretched hand. Pushing off the porch, he steps back up to the railing by the steps, leaning back against it. "Thanks," he says, lifting the can and saluting him.

Touching two fingers to his head, Eddie salutes him in return. "No problem."

Later, after Steve has gone inside, he comes back out again, smelling of shampoo, soap and hair products. Dressed in clean clothes, he leans up against the wall. Head tipped back and his hands folded behind his back.

For a moment, it is quiet. Content. Then, the noise from the kids grow louder and more raucous.

A look thrown towards them shows them stepping out onto beaten path cutting through the forest in near the cabin, and a few steps further ahead of their huddle is Max in front with Mike on her side, sat stiff and attentive her chair with a smirk on her face and El behind her.

Like a bloodhound sensing prey—, or well, more like a St. Bernard sensing danger, Steve — as if El and Will, their very own Wonder Twins were not enough — whips his head up. Alarmed and already tensed for danger, he turns around and darts his gaze all over them. "Wait, what are—" he does not get to finish his rather alarmed question.

With a yell and sharp clap of the hands from Dustin, the two tear down the path. Flying ahead, her wheelchair a comfortable foot above the ground, Max hollers, her red hair streaming behind her in a fiery flag. Mike left in the dust behind her. Running up the path with his face scrunched in effort. Feet slapping against the ground and his run gangly and awkward.

On the porch, Eddie falls back against the wall of the cabin and laughs. Throwing his book aside, he lurches to his feet, throws himself into the railing and punches one arm in the air. "Go get 'em, Red!" he hollers, the railing cutting into his stomach as he hangs over it, looking up the path and watching the race with a bright grin.

Further up the path, Max grinds to a halt near a large tree with a sudden jerk. She throws her head back and shouts a wordless cry of victory.

Cheers and heckles rise from the cluster of boys left at the starting line. Loudest among them Lucas. Shouting with joy at Max, a hand on Dustin's shoulder as he jumps up and down in victory. Dustin grinning and hollering nearly as loud beside him.

"Shit," Mike gasps, coming to a halt halfway up the makeshift track. His feet skidders over the ground. Dirt and grit grinds loudly underneath the soles of his shoes. Gasping for air, he sags to the side, one hand clutching at his stomach, his face scrunched in misery.

"Hell yeah!" Eddie throws his head back and cackles maniacally, pumping another fist in the air, this time keeping his middle, ring and thumb touching his palm, the rest pointing out stiffly in a rock'n'roll symbol. Grasping onto the railing, he leans back, holding himself in a straight arm, swaying backwards with his head tipped back, still hollering and laughing to the sky. "Woohoo!"

When he is done, he tips his head back down and pulls himself close to the railing again. Placing his forearms on the wooden plank, he leans over it and watches Max roll magically back down the track, Mike trudging beside her.

The kids yell down the path. Words of victory and defeat, heckling the winner and loser alike.

On El's side is Will. Both smiling widely. A single drop of blood trails from El's nose, which she hardly seems to take note off, watching Will with a wide smile on her face as he talks, gesturing widely with his arms, pointing back up and down the track with grand sweeping gestures, drawing something before her in the air.

When Max comes to a stop in front of El, she jerks her chin at her, a wide grin on her freckled face. Eyes shining so bright, even Eddie can see it all the way from the porch.

With a grin almost as bright, El raises her own hand and touches a curled up fist to Max's softly curled fingers in a fist bump.

It does not take them long for them to line up the next race between Will and Max. The two eyeing and presumably goading each other, going by the way their faces twists into mock sneers.

Dustin claps a hand to Will's shoulders and lightly shakes him. Mouth moving quick and fast, speaking hurriedly into his ears. His own foot, still in a cast-boot presumably disqualifying him from the race. Not that he seems perturbed by it, if going by his rapidly moving mouth and his epically wild gestures through the air.

The girls huddle together beside them. El bends down and whispering in Max's ear to much head nodding from the latter.

"I'm not sure—" Steve begins, eyeing the whole setup with skeptical eyes.

"Come on, Steve," Eddie rolls his head on his shoulders and looks towards him, tipped to the side. "It's a little harmless race between friends. What could happen?"

Steve keeps his gaze forward, eyes tracking Max flying down the path once more, already laughing loudly, Will closer behind her than Mike by far, but not close enough. And Max pulls to victory by the tree once more, much to the jubilant shouts of the others. "Max already has both arms and legs broken," he says with a shake of his head, "I don't want her to break her neck, too."

Still leant on the railing with his forearms braced there, Eddie takes a few steps to the side, stepping closer to Steve lingering by the steps. Freeing one arm from the railing, he nudges an elbow into his side, a grin on his face. "Calm down, Stevie. Max is safe. El's got her. Besides, those kids would fall over themselves and break their own necks, before they bring harm to her." He gives him another nudge. "Come on. Let them have fun. Hang up the babysitter cap for the day."

A heavy sigh blows forcefully from Steve's mouth. Air whooshing from his lungs bringing his shoulders to fall down and tension clinging to the sharp line of his back eases up.

Reaching a hand behind him, Eddie claps him on his back. "Good boy."

If Steve reacts to those words, Eddie does not see it, because he turns back to watch the kids again. Where El is currently pulling Max in a victory lap around them all. To the chorus of loud complains groaning loudly from the boys. Except Will. He is just laughing at it all.

The race continues.

Hollers, laughter and hoots fill the air.

One by one, Max (and El) leaves the boys in the dirt. Each race leaving Max breathless and red faced from shrieking laughter. The more races that pass, the more the boys begin to cheer each other on so much so, even Lucas heckles the two girls at his own loss against them.

The final race has all the boys lining up against Max. They are even afforded a head start of a few seconds, but even then, Max comes tearing past them, red hair flying and snapping in the air behind her, and the boys all shout after her, their loud protests and curse words filling the air, just about audible underneath Max's cry of victory.

The tree marking their finish line looms ahead of Max and she comes to a grinding halt, like slamming into an invisible force. With a shout, she is thrown from her chair, colorful jacket and red hair all going down with her, and she lands on the ground with a heavy bump!

Alarm shoots through Eddie and he leans further over the porch railing, squinting down the path at her figure splayed out on the ground.

The boys further down the track all stare at her for a short second, then they tear up the path, nearly tripping over themselves with haste. All shouting and calling for her.

"Max!"

"Shit!"

"Holy shit!"

"Are you okay?" their voices explode through the trees.

At the start line, El stands frozen, a stricken look on her face, her hand hovering stiff in the air, where she let go of Max.

Steve tears himself away from Eddie's side and runs to the stairs.

By the time Max's bright laugh fills the air, Steve is halfway down the steps, a heavy frown on his face.

"Wait," Eddie calls to him softly and he freezes with difficulty. A foot on two separate steps, leant slightly to the side and gripping the railing with one hand.

The boys reach her, skidding to a halt by her figure, nearly collapsing beside her. They stand looking down at her with her laughter still bubbling from her, up at them.

"Holy shit!" Max laughs. "You guys sound so stupid right now!" More breathless laughter. "You're a bunch of dweebs."

Relieved chuckles and laughter bubbles from their huddle.

After a moment, they pick themselves up and help Max back into her chair to her added comment of, "That was so fun! We should do that again!"

To which Steve, still standing halfway down the steps, watching with a half-smile, half-frown, responds, calling down the road to them, "No, absolutely not." One of his hands cuts through the air. "It was dangerous enough the first time."

They are still far down the track, but they can still see Max sticking out her tongue at him and they do not have to be close to know what word shapes itself from her moving mouth.

By the starting line, El and Dustin stand side by side. Relieved smiles stretches across their faces, as they watch the others begin to trudge back. A steadying hand from Dustin on El's back.
 Slowly, the kids walk back. Lucas pushes Max along this time, returning her to El. The bloody trail falling from her nose that much thicker than when they began, but the smile she greets the returning group with, brighter still.

Gesturing wildly, Dustin and Lucas begin to talk loudly. Arms waving up and down in the air and sweeping grandly back up the track.

Sighing, Steve comes back up on the porch and sits back down. A breath blowing forcefully from his mouth with a whoosh, at the force of his collapse.

Eyeing him up and down, Eddie grins at him, "You going grey over there, Harrington?" A piece of hair caught between his fingers, twirling it in front of his face.

"It'll be soon enough." He rubs a hand over his face. "Those kids will be the death of me." His hand drops back down, landing limp in his lap.

"Ah, let them have their fun. It's no harm after all they've been through."

"Exactly why they should be more careful. Max is literally still on an insane amount of medication."

Eddie throws him a look. "Were you born a killjoy or are you just that much of a try-hard babysitter?" Pushing off the railing, he throws himself back down on the porch, landing with a small fwoomp and a whoosh of air, his back slamming into the wall of the cabin.

"So, what? I'm concerned and want them to keep all of their limbs intact past their twenties." Steve rolls his eyes. "Is that a crime now?"

"I'm sure it is somewhere."

The sound of the kids voices pick up. Over the railing, Eddie can just see them standing in a huddle, excitedly whispering amongst themselves, throwing a few concerning looks over their shoulders and even more concerning wild gestures towards Steve and Eddie on the porch. After a short while, they break their huddle and make their way toward them. El floating Max's chair over the ground to avoid a bumpy trip. After the race, the chair wobbles and shakes precariously in her shaky hold.

Feet thumping against wood, they clatter up the steps and gather in a cluster there. Looking at Eddie with wide, expectant eyes and innocent smiles.

An unimpressed eyebrow arches high on Eddie's brow as he looks them over.

Before any one of them can speak, Steve turns towards them, and upon catching sight of their expressions, cuts across them, "The arcade and anything worth your time in Hawkins is closed. So you can pack up those puppy eyes. It's not gonna get you anywhere," he says, voice drool.

Mike rolls his eyes so hard it's a wonder they don't just roll right out of his head. "We're not here for you."

"So you vultures are here to pick on Munson. Careful, he's still more Swiss cheese than human," he says with a teasing grin thrown at Eddie.

"What's up, sheepies?" he says, grinning, throwing his hands behind his head and leaning into his palms.

"If we get your guitar, will you play for us?" Dustin asks.

Eddie stills. Tensions shoots through his body like lightning. Every muscle tenses up and his breath catches in his lungs, caught up in the middle of his painfully tight chest.

Carefully, intentionally, Eddie lets his breath out. Slowly blows it out past his mouth. The muscles in his body slowly lets up. Like the careful, hesitant shift of slowly easing a foot off the break in a car after slamming to a stop, just in time before crashing.

"Aww, you running out of dumb shit to goad each other into?" He teases a playful smile their way, even though the way it sits stiff and awkward on his face makes it feel more like a grimace.

"Yes," comes from Lucas and Mike at once.

"Irrelevant," Dustin says, taking a step forward, his back straightening, his tone all arrogant, like draping on that tone of voice so familiar from him, as if it is a comfortable cloak. "The most metal concert ever cannot be a singular event," he says passionately, slamming a fist into the palm of his hand. "It is vital to the good humor and health of the party to replicate it."

Eddie quirks an eyebrow at him. The look he levels his way is close to the looks that once sent Dustin and Mike flinching away from him with their nerves exposed all over their faces. Although, with everything they have faced from the Upside Down the last three years, it is impossible for him to believe they were ever wary of Eddie, despite the fact that he was there every time they looked like that at him. "Is it now?"

"Yes!"

"I don't know, dude. Pretty sure the trailer's locked up tight now. Especially if they've caught onto our activity around there." He throws a lazy look towards them, gaze dragging lazily over first Steve, then Dustin, Lucas, Mike, Will, Max and El. "We weren't exactly subtle, when we came back out of the Upside Down after everything."

"How would you know! You were unconscious!" Dustin gestures dramatically at him. Both arms thrown out and his expression affronted.

"Eh, semantics."

"Eddie," Dustin whines, shoulders sagging, his whole body slumping, as if he is unable to complain without putting his entire body into it. "We want to hear you play."

Eyebrows arching, his gaze passes over the lot of them. Expression impassive and unimpressed.

Noises of assent and curiosity echo from their huddle.

He presses his lips together. Looks briefly away from them and out at the forest standing up above the railing before him, as if the trees and leaves might afford him the right stick for him to throw for the kids to follow, as if playing catch; one they will believe in and keep them off his back.

Something must pass over his face, because a sharp, groaning noise bursts from Dustin, jerking Eddie's eyes back to him.

"You can't end up like Steve!" he moans loudly.

Jolting, Steve holds up his own hands in surrender. Expression open and startled. "Woah, hold on!"

"He also never plays the piano—" completely ignorant to Steve's increasing alarm, Dustin throws an accusing arm through the air towards Steve, then crosses his them across his chest "—which is just dumb waste of talent!"

"Dustin!" Steve calls, voice incredulous and his hand held out in a what the fuck gesture. He looks at him with a pointed look. "Dude," he adds emphatically.

"You play piano?" Max asks, delighted, head whipping around towards him, seeking his voice in the air.

She is ignored by both.

"What?" Dustin stares back at Steve, eyes wide. Arms spreading out, his empty palms shows. "What?"

Steve groans. Drops his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks at Dustin over the knuckles of his hand. "I told you that in confidence, man."

Dustin's waves his arms about. Flabbergasted and perplexed.

Steve's eyebrows lift pointedly and he makes a very pointed expression, as he waves his hand some more.

The meaning of his words finally slot into place for Dustin. It is almost as if they slam into him with the way his expression twists up and falls. "Oh. Shit, sorry." He looks down. Feet shuffling over the porch, he scruff his foot against the floor of the porch. The soles of his shoes squeak and groan against the wooden boards.

At his changed demeanor, Steve's hand rises up in the air, mouth falling open and his expression easing up, but Eddie speaks before he can.

"Hey, hey." Eddie holds up a hand, cutting softly between them. "No worries, I'll forget I ever heard anything."

"I won't," says Max, expression somewhere between delight and mocking.

"Yeah, yeah." Steve rubs at his face, fingers grinding into his eyes. "You shitheads will never let me hear the end of this."

"No, they'll leave it alone," Eddie says, cutting a sharp glare towards them and their mix of befuddlement and shared glances that promises trouble, because even though he might not understand it, he still recognizes some of the tension clinging to Steve's corners. "If Steve doesn't want to talk about it, then he doesn't want to talk about it. You can mock him like your big brother all you want, but boundaries are a thing, yeah? Let's respect them."

Eyes are rolled and grimaces twists across faces, but several assenting murmurs fill the air. Clearly noticing the tight air buzzing disagreeably around Steve. Or the strength of Eddie's glare is just enough to chase the their protests away. It is after all a killer glare and he takes a lot of pride in it, so it would not be unprecedented, even if it is still baffling these kids can be glared into submission after everything they have seen and been through with monsters and the Upside Down. Seriously, how can a glare from a metalhead be terrifying after they have faced down the maw of a full grown demogorgon and a horde of demodogs? It is baffling and Eddie will never know the answer to that.

With that Will, El and Lucas turn around and begin ushering the others, turning the rest around with a few pointed elbows and hustling hand gestures.

"But—" Mike protests with a hand thrown out "—Eddie hasn't—"

"So not the time, Mike," Max cuts him off, still managing to sound out that roll of her eyes, despite the loss of her vision.

A few more insistent shoves from the more sensible ones, meaning Will, except, actually, he's not shoving. He just turns around and edges alongside them, walking back through the doorway, a small, humoured and apologetic smile thrown back at Steve, who, catching his gaze, raises a hand at him. Leaving Lucas and El to hustle the other two inside.

Only Dustin remains standing stiff and still, while the others make their way inside, walking in a circle around him.

When the youngin's have all gone in, he makes his way over to Steve.

Head ducked down, he nudges Steve. "I'm sorry, Steve."

"Hey, it's okay," Steve touches a hand to his arm, "I know you didn't mean it. Don't worry about it, yeah?" Reaching up, he ruffles Dustin's hair, palming at his head, lightly pushing it around. "I've got worse things to worry about than that old piano anyway."

Later, with Dustin long since back inside, Eddie turns to Steve, head rolled back and tilted.

"I may have gotten the kids off your back, but that's as far as my altruism goes." He flicks his eyebrows. "So," he says, tapping his finger on the back of the book lying closed in his lap. "Piano?"

Tilting his head back, Steve groans. "Never should have told that little shit anything."

Still looking at him, quietly observing, Eddie waits.

"Yeah," Steve eventually says, huffing his breath, chest deflating, "Piano. My parents made me play from like ages 7 to 14. Thought it made me distinguished or some shit. Or maybe they just wanted to prove the expensive piano they bought was more than just decor." Shaking his head, he drags a hand through his hair. Pulling his palm down and dragging it across his face. He pulls a face. "And of course it was this stiff fucking tutor. Giving me Mozart and Beethoven and Chopin to a fucking ten year old and rapping my knuckles with a ruler when I whined and stopped playing before the two hours were up."

Looking him up and down, Eddie hums. "I must say, I can't imagine you sitting prim and proper by the piano, playing Beethoven of all things. It paints quite a picture."

Steve snorts and forcibly rolls his eyes. "You'll know what to look at when you need a laugh then."

"Who says I'm laughing?" he says with a small, only somewhat teasing smile, nudging his foot into Steve's leg. "A picture with you in focus only makes a pretty subject."

Steve makes a face. He turns his head away and looks down. Still grimacing, he shrugs. "I hated it. Forced to sit on my ass and decipher music notes into the keys in front of me for hours, as if plain words weren't hard enough for me to read. Three times a week."

"Who would have thought," Eddie muses, voice dry. "The Harrington's golden boy brought forth and polished to shine in front of all those illustrious guests brought to that castle of yours."

A puff of air huffs from Steve. "Probably felt like that."

"Bad memories?"

"Something like that." Expression heavy and contemplating, he nods. Gaze looking far out and distant.

"Music's meant to be an escape," Eddie says, voice quiet, almost like an olive branch reaching gently out to him. "An expression of joy or sorrow or whatever shit you're feeling."

"Hard to escape, when it's what's causing the shit you're feeling," he grunts.

For a moment, they are quiet. The air between them heavy, almost lying suffocating all around them.

Head tipped down, Eddie fiddles with the book in his lap, fingers running over the spine and edges of the cover, fiddling with the worked and cracked cover.

After a while, he glances up at Steve. Gaze catching on the shadows clinging to the corners of his face.

"My uncle had this old acoustic guitar," he says, making Steve's eyes snap to him. "While my dear old dad was around, sometimes he would drop me off with him and leave for a few days. And my uncle was the one to introduce me to the guitar. He showed me how to play a few notes and stuff. Told me my mom and old nana would both have been better at it, but he'd do his best. Even if the off-notes would make them roll over in their grave." He takes a moment. Breath falling slowly, deeply in and out of his chest. Not so much for his mother. Who has only ever been a spectre; a ghost hovering in the corner of his eyes, when the days got particular rough and his skin particularly bruised and dark, and the what-if's crept forth, whispering at him from his walls. More so for his uncle. Who knows where he is now with the trailer still closed off and Eddie hidden away in the woods. Left behind with words much worse than freak and fag haunting the only family he has left. "But then my dad ended up behind prison bars one too many times with a longer sentence than usual and, I don't know how, because a small town government like Hawkins?" He waves a hand around. "I cannot tell you how little it cares for deadbeat kids like me. But my uncle finally got someone to sign custody over to him. And then it was just him and me. And I finally had time to just sit down and escape into playing music. With my dad not pulling me away every five minutes with some fucked up job he needed my tiny hands for." He uncurls his hands. Flashing them in the air with a billowing wave of his fingers.

The words hang in the air between them. Quiet and stiff. Then Steve breaks it, Eddie's words falling away, falling in a patter to the ground like the soft patter of falling rain, in his touch, "I'm glad you had that." Across the empty air, their eyes find each other and locks.

A puff of air blows from Eddie's lips. Sharp and sudden. Something acid falling across his expression.

Steve continues, "I've never been able to think of music as an escape." He keeps his eyes ahead, locked onto the wall of the cabin, somewhere beside Eddie. "Music itself, sure. But playing it? Playing piano? Never." His lips press together, pinching in a thin line. "But I'm glad you had that. I'm glad your uncle gave that to you, however little it was, it was something he gave to you."

Then, he falls quiet for a while.

Eddie keeps his eyes on him. Waiting. Feeling as if his words hang in the air. Unfinished.

After a while, air blows from his mouth. Chest deflating, he tears his eyes away from the wall. The distant look inside of them falls away and they focus on Eddie with startling clarity, but only for a moment. Just a quick glance of clear, burning hazel eyes, before they flit away again.

A hand lifts up in the air to tug at his hair, brushing it away and out of his face. He blows out another breath. "There was one Christmas morning, I remember so vividly," he says, head turned to the side, slightly away from Eddie. "It was a time where—, well—" he huffs a small breath and shakes his head, a sardonic smile hangs twisted on his face "—where my parents began caring less and less. It was the first year after my grandma died. And the whole house was quiet. Quieter than usual and I felt like I was back at the small hours after her funeral, where everything and everyone was heavy and quiet. After her death, it was like my parents just stopped caring." He looks out to the side, face turned away from him. Folds his arms on top of his knees and leans his chin on top of them. "I don't think they ever really cared, you know? I was just a placeholder for the Harrington name. A son for the family estate, but not for them. Grandma was the only one who ever really liked me just for me. When I reached a certain age and my grandmother wasn't around any longer, they just stopped pretending. Stopped pretending to care," his words are easy, but they leave the air heavy.

For a small moment, Steve falls quiet again. Staring out into thin air.

Eddie rises to his feet. Crosses the porch and sits down on the steps beside him. Presses his knee into his.

The corner of Steve's lips twitch and he presses his knee back into Eddie's.

After a while he picks up his story again. "That Christmas, with grandma gone, I was getting more and more desperate for my parents to pay me notice. To have them see me. Care for me. Love me. And they were always on me to learn piano. To be a good and studious student. That was the one thing they used to always ask about, when they called or came home from a business trip. So, Christmas morning, I sat by the piano, determined to prove to them that I was good. That I was worthy of—" he breaks off and shakes his head, a sharp breath blowing from his chest. "I sit down and begin to play. Stumbling over the keys mind you, because I hadn't practiced all Christmas break," he adds with a side eye to Eddie. "I barely play for a minute before my mom comes into the living room and slams the fallboard down." A weak smile breaks over his face. "Turns out playing early in the morning, when your parents are hungover isn't met with the warmest of receptions." Head turned down, he looks at his hands. Fingers stretching and twisting in the air before him. Hands open and spread out. "And turns out, you can break a finger or two, if they're caught under the fallboard."

A hiss falls from Eddie's mouth. Eddie's heard about living and breathing music, bleeding yourself dry for it. And he certainly has been known to run the skin on his fingers down. Playing for hours on end, until every fingertip stings with pain at the slightest breeze drifting across them, almost breaking skin. Heartbeat thrumming in his fingertips, like open wounds. Every hour of Eddie sat with his guitar, picking at the strings until his heartbeat throbbed in his fingers tips, has left his fingers scarred with toughened skin. The love he has for his guitar scattered across his hands in calluses. Like a constellation spread between his fingers. A constellation of what makes Eddie Eddie.

The calluses on Eddie's hands, small touches left by his guitar and the music he makes, like scars and strings, tying him to it. But Steve's memory of broken fingers is something else entirely. "Shit," he says. "That must have been really painful."

"It was." He nods, still looking down at his hands. Eventually, he drops them and looks back up. "And that wasn't even the worst part. My mom breaks down in tears and she's, like, inconsolable for hours and I can't even cry because I'm just in shock and I can't really believe her reaction? And suddenly it's all about her and how hard it was for her to look at my hands and how sorry she was. I had to do most of the talking at the hospital, because she cried whenever anyone tried talking to her about it, and of course, dad mostly just stayed by her side." He rolls his eyes at that last part. Lips pressed tightly together, despite the casualness he tries to cling to with his eyes.

Unable to think of what to say, because what could he possibly add that would make it any better? Sorry you had shit parents and a shit dollhouse childhood. I guess your high school persona makes sense now and it's even more remarkable you turned out alright?

Nah.

Instead, he reaches out. His hand moves to Steve's and he takes a careful hold of his wrist, fingers closing around it.

Beside him, Steve falls silent. His hand droops limp and loose in Eddie's grip.

Eddie draws his hand forward, shifting it across Steve. Skin smoothing over skin. Fingers still closed gently around his wrist, he smooths his palm over the back of his hand, his fingers drawing out, falling into place on top of Steve's.

A quiet, sharp intake of breath shoots through his ears. Steve's chest jerks. Air gasps through him and echoes against Eddie's shoulder.

Tipping his fingers to the side, Eddie lets them slide into place beside Steve's fingers. They fall into the spaces in his hand. Slowly, they curl up, curling into his hand, gripping him gently.

Steve's fingers begin to crook. Curling up slowly. Falling into place with Eddie's own, as if they have to move the slowest they possibly can, in case any movement would scare them away, like an easily startled prey animal. Who Steve is trying so hard not to scare away, Eddie does not know. But inside of his chest, Eddie's heart pounds away, as if it could be either of them. Every beat echoes inside of his ears and his chest is so tight, it is a conscious effort to keep breathing.

After what feels like an endless eternity, Steve's fingers close around Eddie's.

Steve breathes out a deeply. The sound is loud inside of Eddie's ears. Like it was missing for a while, and now that it has returned, it is impossible to abstract from. So loud and clear, directly next to him.

"I suppose, we match," Eddie offers, his mouth turning up in a small lopsided tug.

"I didn't end up with chronic pain like yours."

"Your mom broke your hand, my father broke mine," Eddie adds, voice soft and gentle, but loud enough so he is certain he is heard. He supposes he has had enough of this kind of conversation with Steve to learn where that line falls. The tug of his smile pulls further. He tips his head to the side and looks at Steve, squeezing his hand. "Your left hand. My right."

Eddie lowers their clasped hands and puts them on top of his knee, gently pressing Steve's palm into it and gives his hand a squeeze.

A small moment passes them by, quiet and still.

Then, Eddie tilts his head slightly to the side and locks his gaze on Steve. Eyes boring into him probably past what is comfortable for him, Eddie asks, "Do you ever play now?"

"Not much." His finger taps against his thigh. "For years it only brought memories forth that I didn't want to think about."

"Hmm, I get that."

A pause.

"Music's meant to take you away from bad thoughts, not bring them out," he finally says.

Steve snorts humorlessly. "My parents must have missed that missive, when they first signed my tutor on then."

Quiet settles between them for a while. Comfortable and warm, like a well-worn sweater.

Then, Eddie turns back to Steve. "You know, if you tried hard enough, I bet you could transfer Metallica to the piano."

Steve's laugh echoes through the woods and up past the treetops. Chasing away shadows of the past and birds alike.

Several nights later, Eddie wakes in hot sweat, his body flushed with heat, like he does so often these days. Skin dripping wet, his oversized sleepshirt clings to him like a second skin.

It takes a good while for his breathing to return to normal and his heart rate to fall, but when it does, he finally sits up and only then does he realize he is alone in bed. No Dustin.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he looks around the small bedroom. Light spills into the room from behind the curtain. It casts a faint, yellow glow through the room and Eddie hardly has to search, before he finds the bed beside him is empty, too.

On shaky legs, he makes his way across Steve's empty bed and to the curtain hanging limb from the rack.

The closer he gets, the more he hears faint voices drift softly in the air.

Nudging the curtain aside, he eases past it. The living room opens up before him.

A warm yellow light falls over the room. The couch is practically buried beneath awkward, long limbs. At the end of the limbs are Will and El, huddled close with their heads close together on the same chest. Swallowing up the couch, Jonathan lies as long as he is with the two of them on top of him. El and Will's hands clasped together on top of his chest. One of his arms around each of them, loose and sagging. Soft whispers fill the air around them, falling from El and Will's mouths.

Steve is sat on the floor, Dustin leant up against him on one side, his eyes closed and his mouth dropped open, his face slack and soft in sleep. Both of them leant up against the front length of the couch. The coffee table pushed forward and away, freeing the floor up to make space.

Off to the side, on Jonathan and Will's abandoned mattress lies Max. Her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling with every soft breath passing through her nose. A pair of headphones and a Walkman lies on the floor beside her head. The cassette popped open, as if it played to the end of the tape, and no one has been by it, to replace it or wind it back and play it from the start.

Argyle sits up against the side of the couch. The head side. As along its small side, not the length where Dustin and Steve are. His back to the couch and his head thrown back against the rolled arm, where it lies beside Jonathan's head.

Steve is the first to catch sight of Eddie.

He lifts his head enough to look towards him. A small smile grows across his lips.

"Eddie," he says, eyes scanning him up and down, "you okay?"

"Yeah," his voice cracks and the imperceptible shake of his head is so telling, even if the sweat cooling on his skin and his wide eyes had not already given him away. He clears his throat. "What's going on?" he asks, rubbing at his aching eyes.

On the couch, Will and El fall quiet. Their heads lift up and turn towards him. El's intense eyes stare at him for a moment before turning back to Will, who offers him a weak twitch of his mouth, before laying his head back down, eyes turning back to El.

"Will and El had a bad night and couldn't sleep," Steve says, voice quiet from beside them. "So we sat and talked for a bit, but then Dustin woke up and didn't want to go back to sleep. So we're all just having a bad night and making a bit of a sleepover of it."

Eddie's eyes jerk to Max. "What about Max? She okay?"

"El and Will accidentally woke her and she didn't want to be alone in there."

Nodding, he absently crosses his arms over his chest. The cool air cold against his skin, now that his body cooling down. A small smile twitches across his lips. "Got room for one more?"

"Of course." Careful of Dustin asleep on his shoulder, Steve pats the empty space beside him.

After picking up his blanket from the bed, he makes his way to the couch. Feet padding softly over the floor, he carefully steps around the couch and edges alongside it. Sparing a moment to thank Robin for adhering to her parents demand to have her more at home and thus freeing up Steve's other side, Eddie drops down in the space beside Steve and presses against the side of his shoulder, instantly soaking up his solid presence as if he is starved for it.

If the blanket wrapped around Dustin ever covered Steve, it does not anymore, tucked as it is so carefully around Dustin, covering him from shoulder to toes with barely any space of him left to the air of the cabin.

So, when Eddie settles down beside Steve with his own blanket around his shoulders, and because he has seen Steve take care of everyone else, so often, since he first threw him up against a wall and pressed a broken bottle to his neck, but rarely ever sees people other than Robin, keeping an eye on Steve in return; he makes sure to tuck the blanket around Steve. Leaning back into the couch, reaching behind him, he throws the fabric around his shoulders, making sure it falls over his opposite shoulder, even if it has to fall over Dustin too to do so.

Steve's shoulder presses into his chest. Eddie's touch makes him tense up. Muscles sharpening with tension, his back straightens like the strike of lightning.

Finished tucking the blanket around him, Eddie relaxes back against the couch. His arms stays half wrapped around Steve's shoulder, half balanced on the couch.

"I thought, you said this was a sleepover, Harrington," Eddie teases directly into Steve's best ear, his voice soft and low, a small smile falling over his lips. "Not much of sleepover, if you're going to sit tense like that all night." He gives him a light tug. "Come on, Steve," he adds softly and gives his shoulder a small shake. "Lay back, relax."

A puff of air blowing from his mouth, Steve shakes his head. And Eddie cannot see his face, but he can imagine him smiling softly.

Slowly, he leans back against Eddie, his muscles relaxing. Half of his back settles against the couch, the other half falls into Eddie, Dustin still tucked into his chest, head pillowed on his shoulder. Shoulder to chest, hip against hip.

As Steve settles against him, Eddie's heart jolts. Blood rushes through his veins with a breath taking rush.

Laying his arm more comfortably around him, Steve relaxes further into him. The warmth of his body is like a burning furnace against Eddie's body, impossible to ignore.

"I'm sorry to say, you missed hot cocoa." Steve's voice makes his eyes dart to the coffee table in front of them. It is filled with coffee cups. All stained with smears of dried cocoa. Courtesy of having raided the Wheeler's cupboards, Edie has been reliably informed.

"Hmm, maybe next time," he hums.

With Steve's body against his, the soft snores of Dustin and Max, the occasional soft whisper from Will and El behind him and Steve's breathing rising and falling right on top of him, Eddie's own breathing and the lingering trace of rapid heartbeats slows down and settles far sooner than it has every other night, when nightmares have chased Eddie from bed and made him reach for his lighter and cigarettes.

"Where's Hopper and Joyce?" he eventually asks.

"Hopper was already up, when we got here. They're outside." Steve tips his head back, nodding towards the front door.

With how often Hopper has been awake or jerked awake, while Eddie has been smoking in the kitchen in the middle of the night, it is no surprise to him.

Steve quietly takes his right hand and starts massaging it. Fingers digging gently, but deep into the tissue along his palm and the back of his hand.

Eddie blinks dumbly down at their hands. He opens and closes his mouth. Like a fish. Dumb and stupid. "Eer," he finally manages. "Steve, what'cha doing?"

"Massaging."

"Yeah, I can see that." A dramatic pause. "Why?"

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks quietly.

It takes him a moment to reply, only because he has to wrestle with himself over it. "No," he finally allows.

Steve keeps massaging his hand. From the corner of his eyes, Eddie sees the small smile tilting his lips upwards. Expression light and soft. "Your hand. It was hurting earlier today," he then answers. Not a question, just an observation. Like the simplest, most natural thing in the world. Like yeah, of course I noticed your hand was bothering you, so of course the next step is just to massage it without you ever asking me to. You know, simple and easy like that.

Eddie just sits. Heart in his throat, trying to tell himself that no, Steve cannot hear the loud, fast paced beat of his heart no matter how close they sit, seriously, Eddie, stop panicking, he cannot hear it, the guy is literally half-deaf, he can't hear shit, much less your fucking heartbeat, calm the fuck down.

Yeah, he is not very successful.

After some time of sitting there, quietly massaging his hand and breathing in sync with him. Chests rising and falling in tandem, Steve shifts. His fingers still their pressure into his palm. And instead of dropping his hand, what does this man do? What does he do? He fucking smooths his palm against Eddie's own, fits their fingers together and tucks his hand closer. Fingers curling around his palm and sliding into place in the empty spaces, neatly and easily intertwining their hands. Like that action isn't making Eddie's heart stutter and hiccup inside of his chest.

Eddie's breath catches in his throat; a soft sound that cracks from his chest.

If Steve notices, he does not pay heed to it. He simply tugs their hands closer to himself and folds them close, as if laying them in an embrace around them.

Eddie's heart should be racing away inside of his chest. He shoulder be burning from the inside out with his touch. But instead, he just feels safe and warm. At home, with Steve's hand in his own.

The night passes. Slow, gentle and soft.

Hopper and Joyce eventually come back inside, Hopper's face drawn and gaunt, haunted hollows beneath his eyes, but none of them ever get up to return to their beds.

When morning comes, the dawning sun finds them spread all over the living room, El with a place on the mattress beside Max, Will and Jonathan asleep on the couch. Dustin still tucked under Steve's arm and pressed onto his chest, as sound asleep as when Eddie found them. The only ones still awake are Steve and Eddie, their hands still joined together between them, and Hopper and Joyce, with each a cup of coffee between them at the table in the kitchen.

It might be one of the nights, Eddie has gotten the least sleep, but it is still one of his better nights.

The day after their little sleepover, Will comes to find him.

The day has brought Eddie outside on the porch once more. He has his notebook beside him. Rescued from the fridge after being unable to find it for two days straight, only to have it staring back at him from between two cartons of milk, when he opened the fridge that morning. Figures, it was time for another game of hide-and-seek. The little shit has a habit of disappearing into the fridge every now and again, so the only surprise is that he has been in the cabin for over a month and this is the first time he found it in the fridge. (Not the first time it has disappeared, though).

Despite finding it with one part of his cereal this morning and excitement at having it in his possession once more, he is not working on any songs today. Instead, he tries to tackle Earthsea, having decided some time ago to leave Fellowship for when he reads for Max, and actually manages to focus on the words once again. Just with the notebook tucked into the book. To prevent any further escape attempts.

When the front door opens, he's deep in the book, his hands tapping a ceaseless nonsense rhythm against his leg.

The small creak and the following thunk of the door falling shut, tears his eyes away from the page. Absentmindedly, he glances up, barely seeing more but a shape of colors standing by the door. Gaze darting back, his eyes lands on the page before him and the image takes shape in his mind. Immediately, he snaps his head back up from the page and throws a smile at Will. "Wizard Byers, what's up?" he says, finger still tap-tap-tapping against his leg. "Come to join me?"

"Eddie," he says, voice small and quiet. He looks back over his shoulder. Looking back at the closed door. Wide eyes darting all over the frame, like the skitter of a nervous squirrel. Then, he looks back at Eddie.

Posture tense and taut, shoulder raised high, the line of his back sharp and stiff. Wide eyes darting all over. Unable to settle. "I— um—" he tries, stumbling over his words. "I wanted to speak with you." He shuffles a little on his feet.

"Sure." Ever since their talk in the kitchen some time ago, he's been hoping Will would seek him out. That was why he told him what he did, so he would know Eddie kept a door open for him, should he want it. But he also knows how easy it is to get spooked, when you open up a conversation with this kind of intention in mind. He taps a finger against the cover of the book. Nail taptap-taptaping against it. He nods his head towards the trees in front of them. "Wanna take a walk?"

Will shrugs, then nods, some tension easing from his frame. "Sure."

"That's the spirit." A grin spreads across Eddie's cheeks. The book snaps closed in his hands and he jumps to his feet. Boots thumping on wood, as he practically jumps to Will's side. Throwing one arm over his shoulders, he sweeps the other out, gesturing to the wide open world of the forest before them. "Come along, then, Wizard Will. Our adventure awaits us." And then he sweeps forward, his arm still hanging over Will's shoulder, pulling him along.

For a while, they just walk. As soon as they clear the cabin steps and the beaten path in front of it, Eddie frees Will and just walk alongside him, hands hooked in the pocket of his jeans, walking quietly beside him. Occasionally, Eddie spots a funny looking stick or an obnoxious sized rock on the ground and he has to kick it. He just has to. They are right there, how could he not? It brings the sound of swooshing wind and thumps as stone and sticks sail through the air and crash back on the ground further into the forest. Slapping leaves and tree trunks on their way with a satisfied clunk. The few times Eddie looks over his shoulder at Will to prod a reaction from him, he mostly just rolls his eyes at him, but his mouth does twitch in reluctant smiles, so that's a win, as far as Eddie is concerned.

Wind blows through the trees, as they walk, rustling the leaves all around them in a gentle, whooshing sound, sweeping past them. Gusts of wind picks at Eddie's hair. Picking it up and flinging it wildly around with every few steps. The strands flail and flop in its grasp. Clapping limp down on his back with its release.

When the cabin is well and truly behind them and Eddie is pretty sure he has reached the limit to how far he has gone since he first arrived — at least on foot — he picks up a large stick from the ground. All gnarly and crooked, long enough to be used for walking. Damp and dark from the touch of the damp earth. "Now, this," he says, setting it in the earth and holding it before him in an outstretched arm, "this is a wizard's staff worthy of even Gandalf himself."

Stepping past him, Will throws a sideways, but humored glance at him.

A shit-eating grin spreads across Eddie's face. Both of his hands curl around the staff. He lifts it up into the air. Lets it hover for a single moment, then slams it down. It lands with a thump and a wet squelch. "You shall not pass!" he proclaims. Tilting his head to the side, he glances at Will. "At least, that's what Principal Higgins must have thought, the first time he caught me drawing on the toilet stalls. I'm telling you, that man knows how to hold a grudge."

"I doubt that's the reason you never graduated."

One hand releases the staff and he brings it to his face, tapping a finger to his chin. Acting all exaggerated, he folds his face in a mask of consideration. Then, he releases his chin and shakes his head vigorously. "No, I shan't consider it," he says. "Principal Higgins is the only reason I haven't graduated yet. And I will not afford him the courtesy of thinking him a better man, when he has never given me the same kindness." Another headshake flings his hair wildly about. "No, no. It just won't do." He places both hands back on the staff. "He is just another Balrog this Gandalf has yet to defeat." Picking up the staff with one hand, he flings it about. Rolls it on the back of his hand. Throwing it in a continuous circle that rolls around on his hand and makes it fly in the air, all from flicks of his wrist and clever tricks of his hands.

Will eyes the flying staff. Widening eyes darting all about to follow its quick flight through the air. "You're good at that."

"Nah." Eddie shrugs. He stills his hands. The staff comes to an abrupt stop and the sound of rushing wind disappears with a final fwiip and a smack of the stick catching in his hand. Slamming into his awaiting palm. The end of the staff settles back in the earth, as he leans slightly on it. "I was just a really bored kid with way too much energy and fantasy and a lot of time on my hands." He picks it up again, but slings it across his back instead of flinging it about. Settling it hard and stiff across his shoulders. Ends sticking out to both sides. Hands coming up, he curls his fingers around it, hanging onto it with both hands. The weight of his arms pushes it down into his shoulders.

They walk a little further. Every footsteps sways Eddie lightly from side to side. Staff lying straight across his shoulders, arms hanging from both ends, forcing him to maneuver weirdly around the trees to keep it from catching on them.

Not long after, Eddie sighs. He slings the staff of his back. Walks another few steps, using the staff with ever other step. Thump, thunk-thump. Sounds from his footsteps. Making his way to a large tree.

Planting the staff in the earth, he eases himself down onto the ground, leaning his weight into it. And lands with a thump and a sigh, leaning back into the large trunk behind himself.

Will lingers a bit. But eventually, he sits down near him, turned halfway, so he is not quite facing him, but also not turned fully sideways to him.

Fidgeting with his new plaything, Eddie gives his feet a small tap. Then lifts it up and holds it out in front of his eye, sighting down the twisting, crooked length, as if spying in the distance or studying its surface. "So, what did you want to talk to me about?" he asks, eye firmly on the staff, which is directed away from him.

"Oh, um," Will begins. In the corner of his eyes, he folds in on himself. Back hunching over and shoulders caving, making himself smaller. "You know the other night, some time ago," he speaks quiet and slow, every word measured and careful.

Lowering the long piece of wood, Eddie looks back at him. He leaves the staff off to the side, dropping it to the ground. A small clatter follows as it rolls across stone and smaller twigs. Meeting Will's eyes, Eddie gives a small nod.

"It—" A deep, measured breath blows in and out of his mouth. Shoulders rising and falling with the sound. "It meant a lot to me. To hear you say all those things. To hear you call yourself—" he breaks off, expression shuttering but full of so much longing.

"Queer?" Eddie's eyebrows rise up on his brow with the word. "Fag? Gay?" He makes a popping noise with his mouth. "All of the above?"

A weak smile quivers on Will's lips. "Ye— yeah," he says. Eyes wide and full of fear and disbelief. Feet scuffing against the earth, he pulls his knees to his chest. Wiry arms wrap around his legs. He tips his head forward and leans his chin on top of his knees. "I grew up with my dad throwing the word around, whenever my brother or I cried or did anything he thought was too girly. Especially me." He huffs and rolls his eyes, but his grip around himself tightens. "For a long time, I just knew it meant something I shouldn't be. Something I should be ashamed of. It was only later, long after he was gone that I learned what it meant."

Eddie stays quiet. Just watches Will. Breathing carefully and steadily, even as his chest grows tight. An ache wraps around his lungs and pulls tight. Squeezing his heart and lungs with all its might. There is such a look in Will's eyes; a look of such pain and rawness. Every word clearly difficult to speak, almost ripped from his very lungs, bleeding and raw, just to speak to someone who might understand and offer a kind of embrace he has never been able to find elsewhere.

Eddie has never been prouder of anyone else in all of his life.

"And when I first learned that. What it meant—" eyes darting up from the ground before him, he glances at Eddie, catching his gaze before quickly looking down again "—that fag means boys who kiss other boys, my first thought wasn't that it was disgusting, as everyone else clearly wanted me to think." His head gives a small shake. "I thought it made sense. I thought, well, 'why wouldn't I want to kiss another boy. I like boys'." A heavy sigh blows from him and he droops even further forward, curls up even tighter in his grip around his knees. A weak smile twitches across his lips, but it quickly vanishes again. "I didn't really realize how true that was until Mike and Lucas just started spending all their time with their girlfriends. I never got that. You know. Why they only wanted to spend their time just kissing them." Will's eyes dart to his again. Hesitation and wariness falls over his face like a heavy cloud.

A small, gentle smile falls over Eddie's face. "Yeah?" he asks quietly.

Swallowing thickly, Will nods. He pulls his knees closer to his chest. Hands clasped around each wrist. Gripping so tightly his knuckles burn white. "I like boys," he whispers to them. "I really don't like girls. I think—" he gives another shake of his head. "I have thought for some time now, that my dad was right, you know." Wide eyes dart up to Eddie's. "I am a queer. I am—" his voice breaks off.

"Hey." Leaning forward, Eddie reaches for Will. One of his hands settles on his arm, another on his knee. "You don't have to call yourself that. Queer and gay, all those slurs they throw at us. They don't have to be bad words. We can take them back and make them our own. They don't get that kind of control over us, you know? But only when we're ready. Only when we're okay with it." Ducking his head slightly down, he searches for Will's gaze, trying to meet his wide, rabbity eyes. "You don't have to force yourself to use those words. Not if you don't want to. Not before they start to mean something else to you, than what bullies want them to. Okay?"

Will nods.

Eddie squeezes Will's arm and his knee. "Thank you for telling me," he says. "Truly." He puts one hand on his chest and meets Will's eyes. Willing him to hear and see the sincerity burning from his heart. "It means a lot to me. I know how hard it is to say it out loud. No matter if you know the other person is gay themselves or if you already know they know and that they're okay with it. No matter the circumstance. It is always hard to say those words. Especially to someone else. I'm proud of you for getting that far. It is no easy feat."

Will nods. Eyes still wide and fearful.

Eddie waits for a small moment. Just long enough for some of that fear to fade.

"So, how does it feel?" he asks with a small smile and gives his knee a small shake. "Saying it out loud?"

"Good, I think," he says with a hesitant smile. "It's hard, to not just focus on the fear, but I've spent so many years knowing I was different, knowing I looked at boys different than my friends did and that I could never talk about a girl the way everyone else did. But I think, it feels good saying it. Nice."

"That my friend is the feeling of freedom." Eddie allows a grin to stretch wide across his cheeks and throws an arm out wide.

Will looks at him. Eyes wary and brow furrowed. "Freedom?"

"Hell yeah!" He sits back a little, easing a small step out of Will's space and settles in a crouch in front of him. "Queer. It's more than just a word people throw at us. It means being yourself. It means freedom to be yourself. It means love and revolution and reclaiming yourself from the hands of bullies and abusers, who believe they know where you belong and spend years of their life, trying to shove people into neat boxes, all because they don't know who they themselves are. Queer means 'I am who I am, I love who I love, and no one else gets to decide that but me.' Freedom," he finishes with a nod of his head. "Why do you think I'm so comfortable being the town freak and High School outcast?" Leaning back, he throws both of his arms out wide and open, presenting himself. "Because I'm queer. You think, I learned to turn a blind eye to bullies, because I got hit and thrown around enough to learn to take a hit? Hell no." He makes a face and cuts a hand through the air. "They don't get that credit." Will still eyes him. Eyes darting all over. Wary and disbelieving. So Eddie dials back a little back. Plops fully down on the ground, cross-legged and leant forward, all quiet intensity.

"Being queer taught me to be comfortable and confident in myself," he explains quietly. "It taught me to ignore the bullies slamming me into lockers and sneering at me from across the cafeteria. It taught me that it didn't matter, what people called me. Only that I'm true to myself and comfortable in who that is. Who the fuck cares what they say or think. Not me. That's for sure."

"Really?"

"Really." He nods. One of his hands waves back and forth in the air. "I'm not saying we're better than everyone else. That's white colonial Christianism, not queerness." Putting his hand on his chest, he tips his head forward and says, with quiet reverence, "But I learned confidence and self-esteem from my queerness. From other gay men, lesbians, transsexuals and drag queens, whether I spoke to them personally or not. Just from seeing other queer people living their life and thriving in their otherness. Other people learn it elsewhere." He throws a thumb over his shoulder. A wry smile twists from his mouth. "Steve learned it from the mouth of a fucking demogorgon."

A small puff of laughter huffs from Will. The tight line of his shoulders ease up and they fall down, relaxing.

"Queerness was the thing to teach me self-worth and to flip the bird at anyone who turned their nose up at me." He tips his head to the side. "That and a very nice drag queen, as well as a handful of queer men and women I met in a gay bar in Indianapolis."

"You've been in a gay bar?" Will's eyebrows shoot high on his brow.

"Hell yeah. Ain't no way I was gonna get drunk around these fools." He gestures in a loose circle, as if gesturing to all of Hawkins and not just some trees. "Also really wanted to try my luck picking up some guys and I thought my chances of picking up a fist to the face was higher, if I stayed in these parts." He leans forward again. Puts his arms over his knees, all slack and loose. "I cannot learn self-love and self-importance from anyone more equipped to teach me, than queer people. Whether that's a gay man, a lesbian, a transsexual or a drag queen. We learn to look at ourselves through a different lens than straight people. We have to drag pieces of ourselves from the hands of our bullies, abusers and neighbors, who have all tried to pick us apart and make us into something they deem more worthy and pleasant. The way they try to make us hate ourselves is just another way of remaking us." He rolls his eyes. "Queerness. Accepting my queerness, teaches me that I don't have to. It teaches me that I'm great the way I am. I'm actually fantastic." A calm, serene expression falls over his face. He touches a hand to his chest. Palm flat, fingers spread out. "And once I learn that, nothing they tell me, will ever matter, ever again."

"You make it sound all fantastical." A blanket of doubt and heavy loneliness falls over Will's face. Dragging down every fold, every shadow, every stretch of skin with a sadness so great, it is like every shadow in the forest doubles. Reaching for him to try and fold him into their grasp; as if reaching for one of their own. "I can't imagine feeling like that about it. About myself."

"I know it seems like a fairy tale." smiling weakly, Eddie huffs a quiet laugh and shakes his head. "Being queer and not hating yourself." He swats a hand through the air. "Hell, it took me years and a lot of self-hate to get to where I am today. And while it's more distant than it has been, it is still lesser." Eyes serious and intent, he looks ahead, meeting Will's shadowed gaze head on. "I know how hard it is. I understand. But it doesn't have to be a life full of heartbreak, sadness and self-hate." A small, gentle smile stretches across his lips and he offers him a kind, warm look. Leaning forward, he puts a hand on Will's knee. "When you're ready for it, queerness can teach you how to see yourself differently and how to love what you see, no matter what anyone else tells you," he says, voice soft and gentle. "Because what queerness can do for you, more than anything else, is teach you to be true to yourself. And there's nothing more self-loving and respectful, than being true to who you are and who you love. Even if you have to do some of that quietly."

A heavy quiet settles like a blanket around them.

For a while, they sit there in silence. Eddie's words hang in the air between them and he lets Will pluck and pick at them, pulling them apart to take them in at his own pace.

After a while, Will shifts. Arms loosening around his legs, he eases them away from himself, finally unfurling from his tight grip and hunched over position. "I never thought, I would meet anyone like me," he says, voice soft and quiet. Eyes darting up and down, shifting back and forth from the ground before his feet and Eddie. "I always felt so alone in it. Like everywhere I looked, I was just different. I'd never see myself in anyone else," every word falls small and hesitant from his mouth, finally released from his heart after being locked up so tight all these years.

Smiling gently, Eddie tilts his head to the side, trying to catch his furtive gaze. "I know it can feel like it," he says, voice quiet and just as sacred as Will's. "But you're not alone in it, Will. You never will be." Their eyes finally meet and Eddie looks into his with a burning intensity inside of his own. "Even if there's no one around you, you'll always know, there's someone else out there, whose heart looks like yours. There will always be queer people out there. We will always be queer. No matter what the church going fanatics and PTA moms and puritans are trying to tell you, we won't be wiped out and we aren't going to be." He swallows thickly. The noise works hard and stiff past his throat. Like a piece of rock has formed inside of his throat.

"I won't lie to you and tell you it's easy. It's not," he continues, giving a small shake of his head. Hair rustles lightly past his ears and against his leather jacket. Still keeping his eyes locked with Will's; letting his wide eyes latch desperately onto every word that falls from his mouth, like a drowning man at sea, hanging to a raft. "People will look and people will call you slurs. It doesn't matter if they're right or not, but it hurts more when they are. Some days, you will look at the people around you and wonder if they'd still be there, if they knew." The look on Will's face is open and raw, almost starved for every word that falls out of Eddie's mouth and Eddie's heart aches, knowing exactly what that kind of desperation feels like, latched in your heart. "But it does get easier. You'll find people, who will know the truth and they will love you just the same. You'll find people who loves the same way you do. And one day, if you fight for it, you'll learn to love yourself. All parts of yourself."

A thick noise moves down Will's throat. Water gathers in his eyes. It wobbles inside of them. Flooding them and shining out at him.

Eddie's lips turn up into a kind, understanding smile. "Loving men. Being gay. It is life itself. It is the dawn and the dusk. We may have to fight for our love, but our love is stronger, more beautiful for it. There are things we will find out about ourselves, because we've had to dig so deep to wrestle self-acceptance from the hands of bigots and bullies; something they will never have to do. And that doesn't make their bullying and hate okay, but it does mean that when we finally hold that acceptance and love towards ourselves, they can't take it away from us again." He pauses. Then, he sighs and shakes his head. "It's a hard world to be in, these days, when you're gay. Especially a gay man. But you'll never be alone in it. Not really. I can promise you that."

A blink dislodges the tears from Will's eyes. One fall from each eye and lands on his cheeks, where they run down.

Looking at him, the lumps in Eddie's throat twists and cuts deeper. Cutting sharp and deep into his throat, turning his voice raspy and tight. He continues, his voice tight and smaller than before, but he does continue, remembering a boy with buzzed hair from both long ago and not long enough, who ached to hear the same words, he is speaking now, "It won't always feel like this. Like something is wrong or broken about you. One day, you'll look at that heart you carry around and you can't see yourself without it beating with love for other men." As he speaks, Will's gaze dart back and forth between his eyes. Still flooding with water. Still sending tears running down his cheeks with every few blink. "It'll be something precious and so very wonderful, you wouldn't ever give it up, even if you got the chance to. Something to protect and cherish."

Breath stuttering inside of his chest, Will wipes at his cheeks and yet the tears keep falling. Not once tearing his eyes from Eddie, as if hooked onto his words; unable to tear his gaze away.

Eddie offers him a wobbly smile and adds, voice raw, "You'll fall for the boy at the bus stop and at the supermarket. You'll kiss some men in a bar or in the forest behind school. You'll crush on rock stars with too many tattoos and actors with too much product in their hair." And then because he has to tease him a little, his grin turns crooked, "You'll even crush on pretty ex-jocks, who turn out to be damn good babysitters."

Eyes darting away, Will's cheek turn red. But he quickly snaps his gaze back to him, just as starving as before.

The grin drops quickly off Eddie's face and he continues, serious once more, "And yes, you'll fall for straight boys. And it will hurt. But, one day, you will look at another guy and even kiss one, if you play your cards right, and it will all be worth it, to feel that piece of yourself, falling into place. Like the final, missing piece of a puzzle and everything will finally feel like it makes sense."

Blinking a few more tears out of his eyes, Will wipes at his cheeks. "It just feels like, I'll never stop being scared of this part of myself," he says, voice shaking. "Like I'll never stop looking over my shoulder. Whether it's for Vecna or because I'm scared someone will know I like boys, if they look too closely."

"I know it does." Shifting onto his knees, the earth beneath his knees furrowing and caving in at his weight, Eddie leans forward and wraps his arms around Will, pulling him into a hug.

Arms wraps around his back. Fisted hands push against his shoulders, pushing tight and painful into him. For a while, Will's frame shakes and wobbles against him. Breath shuddering wetly from his mouth. Fingers clenching and unclenching against him.

After a while, Eddie pulls back, but catches and grasps him before he can fall too far away. Hands on top of his shoulders, he meets his eyes, holding him out before himself. Tears paint tracks down his cheeks and cling wetly to his lashes. "We are not broken or wrong, Will," he says, quietly. Meeting his gaze steadfast and strong, even when his voice remain soft and gentle. "We simply are. And no matter what anyone else says or thinks, we are beautiful."

During his time in the cabin, Eddie goes on one other field trip.

He confesses to Steve one day, hands clasped between them, entwined, that he misses his guitar. Misses playing. He was scared to pick it up, at first. Ever since he woke up in that hospital-but-a-lab, the thought of playing haunted him with red lightning and screeches of monstrous creatures. But the thought does not make his hands shake as much anymore. He would like to try and hold his guitar again. Even if he cannot play it yet. Even if it will make his hands shake again and send him back among flashing red lightning and demon bats, he'd still like to have his sweetheart back. He's never gone this long without paying guitar. Not since he bought her. He is missing a part of himself and he thinks having his guitar again could make him feel at home, more like himself again. That part he does not say to Steve, but he thinks he hears it anyway.

So, Steve offers to go get it. To bring it back. And Eddie remembers a night spent on an overgrown field by Hess's farm. And the restless buzz in his veins being stifled and settled by Steve, Robin and Nancy's laughter and voices, carrying out into the night.

So, he asks, "Can I come with you?" He looks away. Avoiding Steve's far too understanding and far too knowing eyes. "It's just— it was good, when we all went out last week. When you took me away and let me have a night of free air and an open world around me. It saved me from the edge. But I'd kinda like to not end up there again. Maybe if you go get it at night, I can come with you and we'd get it together? I don't even have to go inside the house with you. I can stay in the car and hide and no one would see me."

The expression on Steve's face turns soft and tender.

Which is how Eddie finds himself in Steve's car, pulling to a stop by the infamous Harrington house.

Steve turns the key and the sound of the rumbling motor cuts off. He pulls at the handle and opens the door.

"See you in a bit," Eddie tells him, smiling.

Steve rolls his eyes. "Just get a moving." He waves at him. Gesturing up and down. "Pull your hair up or something. The lights aren't on." He waves at his house. The porch is empty and dark. It is just a large splash of shadows, merged together, falling like a heavy blanket all over the house. "No one's gonna see Eddie Munson, the town outcast step out of Steve Harrington's car and walk into his house, so no one's going to see you from just your silhouette in the dark." He waves his hand again. "Just hurry up."

So Eddie grabs a hold of his jacket and pulls it up, holding it like a shield above and around his head. The way that you do when it's raining and you hurry from one cover to another trying not to get wet, when all you've got on you is the jacket wrapped around your back and shoulders. Jackets; makeshift umbrellas and shields for wanted men. Or, well, not wanted men, just town pariahs.

Inside of the house, Steve toes out of his shoes and Eddie quickly does the same. He does not turn on the light in the hallway, but turns it on by the stairs.

He walks in front and gestures for Eddie to follow him. Hand waving in the air, pulling and tugging Eddie forward with such a small movement.

In the middle of the stairs, a picture pulls Eddie up short. It's an old picture. A woman in a blue dress stands on the left side, a man in a stiffly pressed suit and with an even stiffer posture on the right. In the midst of them is a kid, sat atop a stool. Ramrod straight and stiff, with a tight smile on his face and his eyes sad. Eyes sadder than Eddie has ever seen. The perfect family photo on the surface, until you begin to look a little closer. Much like the actual Harrington residence and family.

It also makes Eddie remember a conversation from not that long ago.

He touches a finger at the edge of the frame and thumbs at it gently. "Weren't your parents home?" he asks, voice soft and gentle.

Steve stopped three stops ahead of them, stopping as soon as he must have realized Eddie did. He turns back and looks down at him. The small smile on his face vanishes as he lays eyes on Eddie and follows his eyes and arm to the framed photograph. "My parents?" he asks, searching the air around Eddie in that way he does when he tries picking up their words, when he did not hear them. So Eddie repeats himself a little louder, but still gently. Steve shrugs and shakes his head. "They were. But even when I'm barely home, they try to escape as soon as an acceptable excuse pops up. A few weeks is not a lot, even by their standards. But I assume they wanted out of Hawkins, before they got stuck here." He comes to stand right beside Eddie. Eyes fixed forward, focusing on the photo. There's a pinch to the corner of his mouth.

He stands so close their bodies touch and overlap. Heat and warmth exudes from him, reaching for Eddie and touching him, even where Steve does not.

Eddie's fingers twitch. One finger jerk out. It twitches in the air, reaching for Steve's hand, right beside his.

Eddie's other hand is still raised, finger pressing into the corner of the frame. A dull pinprick stabs into his finger, where he touches it.

The people in the photograph really does look more like life-sized dolls or realistic mannequins. So dull and artificial. A lot of family pictures taken professionally in a studio often has that air of orchestration. But this is just lifeless. From Steve's sad eyes to the perfect appearance of his parents that could be at home in the same magazine this entire house came from. It hurts deep in Eddie's chest, to imagine how Steve grew up with that same lifelessness all around him.

Eddie lets his arm drop back down.

They stand so close his hand grazes Steve's. The backs of their hand shift and graze past each other. A small sway to Eddie's arm makes it move back and forth right beside Steve's, skin grazing over his.

If he was a braver person, he would reach for Steve's hand. He would wrap his arms around him, tuck him into his chest and just hold him tight.

Turning his back on the photograph, Steve moves to head back up the stairs. "Come on," he says, voice soft. "There's nothing good to come back to in any of these pictures."

Eddie wraps his arms around his own chest, tucking his hands under his arms and follows after him.

Steve trudges the rest of the way up the stairs, steps lackluster and heavy, like the photograph doused all the energy that brought him through the front door and had him hooking onto Eddie with shining eyes and gesturing hand waves.

At the top of the stairs, he reaches out, smoothing his hand along the wall, and flicks a switch. Light floods the hallway.

He leads Eddie through the hallway upstairs.

The slope of Steve's shoulder is hunched, almost collapsed in on itself.

The heavy, dark waters of regret floods through Eddie. Washing over him and burning like acid inside of his chest. He hates that he brought attention to the photo and doused the brightness in Steve's eyes.

He reached up and tugs a piece of his hair in front of his face. Pulls it across his mouth. It fits across the tight line of his lips, but not the heavy furrow on his brow.

In the middle of the hallway, Steve pushes a door open and steps aside, holding it open for Eddie.

Eddie steps through the door.

A light switches flicks on with a click. Light floods the room, bright and burning.

A long, black object catches Eddie's eyes and his gaze jerks to the bed.

In his chest, his heart thumps. Excitement shoots through him. Bright, like a shot of lightning through his veins. He jumps to the bed. Arms shooting up, reaching out. Before the bed, he collapses to the ground and kneels before it. Arms held out, he slowly reaches for his guitar. Cool, smooth metal touches against his skin.

He smooths his hand down the length of the body of his guitar. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, "I'm sorry for keeping you waiting."

"Thought I'd keep it safe here." Eddie throws a glance over his shoulder. Steve's gaze is on the floor. Head lowered, eyes stuck to the floor. Toeing at the ground with his foot.

"Thank you," sincerity burns in Eddie's voice. It makes Steve jerk his head up. Hazel eyes dart and land on Eddie.

He shrugs. "My parents haven't cared enough to go into my room since freshman year anyway."

"Still," Eddie says, meeting his eyes head on. "You keep doing all these things. You keep surprising me." Heat flushes in his cheeks. He turns back to the guitar, so Steve can't see what is buried underneath his gaze and his words. Even if his voice does very little to hide it. "Truly, I don't know what to do with you sometimes."

Silence falls between them.

For a while, neither of them move or speak. Steve remains near the door, giving him space.

Fiddling with the head, Eddie finally breaks the silence, "I still don't know how you got it past without Henderson noticing."

"Oh, I told him I heard something and made him go watch the road, then lugged the guitar and amp to the car while his back was turned."

Eddie snorts at the picture it paints. "And that worked?"

Steve shrugs. "He was really worried and really didn't want to risk getting caught and return to you empty handed. He even managed to forget there's no way I'd be able to hear anything less than an army marching down the road."

"Damn, you're a cold hearted guy, Harrington." He twists a crooked grin at him. "Can't believe you'd play him like that."

He shrugs. "Eh. It was for a good cause." A mischievous smile breaks out across his face. "Besides, he plays me all the time. His ego can take a hit."

Eddie lays his hands on his guitar. Excitement shoots through him. He runs his fingers over the strings. The only sound it makes is a little pluck of wires wobbling. It rushes through him. Jolting and wild. He turns to Steve wide eyed. "You know, you said the lab people were talking about destroying the trailer?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we make a pit stop?"

Steve is quick to catch his drift. Lifting an open palm, he protests. It only takes a few pleading words and wide, begging eyes before he caves.

Jogging back through the house and down the stairs, guitar strapped to his back, Eddie laughs lightly and looks at Steve over his shoulder with eyes crinkled in humor. "Oh, you're far too easy, Harrington, it's no wonder the kids push you around as much as they do."

"Yeah, yeah," Steve calls from behind him, voice weary and dismissive, but light with a smile. One of his hand waves back and forth in the air. "Keep going, Munson."

Twenty minutes later, they pull to a stop right outside the trailer park as close as they can get to his home without being entirely conspicuous. Steve turns to him, but Eddie is already looking at him with a wide grin and excited eyes. Eddie's joy spreads between them and latches onto Steve. Before long, Steve returns his grin.

"Ready?"

"Fuck yeah," Eddie whoops. "Let's do this." And he throws the car door open.

They step out to the car. Doors slamming behind them, and then they're running.

It takes five minutes for Eddie to whirl through his room and throw his most prized possessions into the two bags Steve brought for him. He ransacks his closet, not caring about pulling his clothes out and leaving it strewn on his floor like a small mountain. He opens the drawers of his bedside table and grabs notes and trinkets, a rubber ball made up of elastic bands he made that one day, where he was obsessed with it. Folded up pages with drawings and half written D&D ideas and bedtime stories that latched onto his brain like a leech, when he was trying to sleep. His set of D&D dice. Exercise balls for his hand. A pair of hand heaters, the ones you can break and they heat up. They really only work once, but Eddie's kept them and heats them up in a pot of boiling water, when it gets cold and his hand cramps up, which is just as good as using new ones.

And then he freezes.

Completely still with his heart in his throat and a vacuum around his ears.

He stares into the bottom of his drawer. Unable to blink or even breathe.

At the bottom of his drawer, there is a collection of polaroid's of him and his uncle.

Hand shaking, he slowly reaches into the drawer, slips his fingers beneath the picture and picks them up. Wide eyes caught on the first image. It is the one of him and his uncle in the living room. It is Christmas. A small plastic tree stands in the corner and there are Christmas lights all around them. Little Eddie grins directly into the camera with a gumless grin. Crumbs of cookies and paper plates of dry, store bought turkey lay in remains across the table. Only two gifts are present. A Garfield mug within reach of his uncle and Eddie’s first pair of D&D dice.

Still caught up in the image of his uncle, he turns his head halfway, and calls Steve's name in a raw and croaky voice, just barely managing to get it out.

"Yeah?"

Eddie points back towards the door and hallway and tells him to go get the box of photos that he knows his uncle keeps shoved under the couch. And Steve quickly runs to do just that.

Finally, when the bags are packed with Eddie's stuff and three of his uncle's favorite mugs — that miraculously survived the earthquake, even if some of the others were less fortunate — have been taken off the wall and put into the box with the photographs and Polaroid pictures, they make their way back through the hallway.

On the way out, Steve stops dead in the living room. He turns to Eddie. "You started learning guitar on an acoustic, right?"

Coming to a stop, Eddie sweeps the hair hanging in front of his face and huffs, turning to throw a look at Steve. "Yeah?"

"And you miss playing guitar, but you don't know, if you can play your own?"

Eddie stares at Steve with wide eyes and slowly nods.

Throwing him a quick grin, Steve ducks away and goes back into Eddie's bedroom. Leaving Eddie to stare dumbfounded after him.

After some rustling sounds, Steve comes out, holding his uncle's old, acoustic guitar in his hands. The smile on his face has turned sheepish and small, doubt like a shadow over his expression.

The sight sweeps through Eddie like a tidal wave. A beat of his heart thumps heavy and hard against his chest. He wants to kiss the sight before him and he is not entirely sure, if he stepped forward to do it, just where he would place the kiss; Steve's hesitant smile or the guitar.

If he's being honest with himself, it would be Steve. Truly, there is no competition there. Hasn't been since Eddie, reluctant and annoyed, dismantled the last remaining pieces of King Steve he held up in his mind like a shield or a sign to ward off evil — if evil was reformed ex-jocks with a heart of gold — within the first week of staying in the cabin and Steve truly began sneaking his way into Eddie's heart. Truly, the image was barely holding on with a few, fraying threads. Had been crumbling like sand in his hands, ever since Steve jumped into the lake, before anyone else could. And kept crumbling through their little holiday in the Upside Down, as they prepared to battle Vecna and the Upside Down Round Two; Return of the Bats.

Right now, surrounded by the familiar sight of his home, the weight of it still so comfortable and familiar, despite the memories that stains it like mud clinging to its edges; he looks at Steve and he knows, he is a goner.

Okay, yes, he has already admitted he is in love with the man. So he knows it's been sneaking up on him, he has not exactly tried to repress or smother it. But he's definitely tried to ignore it. Pretend it has not been building and building like a gently burning fire in his chest; a small hearth inside of his heart that keeps all of Steve's smiles, his laugh, his exasperated eye rolls and bitchy comments safe. All these days, Eddie has taken all of them in hand and tucked them into his heart, like something to be kept and nursed and treasured.

This is no exception. This sight before him. Steve holding the acoustic guitar with such a small, tentative smile and yet such light in his eyes, gaze roaming all over Eddie's face, as if he needs to catch all of the emotions flitting over Eddie just the same, as Eddie is doing with him. It is almost enough to make Eddie step past the line in the sand and ignore all the rules he has ever made to protect himself against guys just like Steve, who needle their way beneath his skin and make a home for themselves in his heart, without ever trying.

That guitar is everything to Eddie. His home. His uncle. All the times uncle picked up a scrabbed-up Eddie before he even had custody, took him inside and placed a guitar in his lap to calm the shaking of his hands. All the times uncle played a little something for him, even if his hands were rusty and poor at the strings, while Eddie's own was broken and trapped inside a cast. All the times he's been right there, listening when Eddie enthusiastically called for him to listen to these newly learned chords, for the fifth time in as many minutes that he swears will be the last but he just had to hear it.

Steve might as well have brought his uncle back to him, for the light it brings to his heart.

"I thought you might like to have this one too," Steve says. "Even if you don't, I remember you said it was your uncle's. It shouldn't be another thing lost to the Upside Down."

Small prickles and pinpricks stabs into Eddie's eyes. Water fills his vision. The world before him wobbles and turns blurry. Eddie presses his lips together and looks up at the ceiling. He barely even sees the crack the gate left in the corner of his vision. Too busy blinking the tears out of his eyes.

"Eddie?" Steve asks, carefully. "I'm sorry, should I leave it?"

"Don't you fucking dare," he says. The words are thick and heavy. Pressed together in his walled up throat, barely making their way out past it to reach his uncooperative tongue. He bounces on the back of his heels. Bouncing himself up and down, as if trying to psych himself up. When he really is trying not to break down right there on the dirtied floor of his home. "I fucking hate you." He raises his hands and presses his hands into his eyes. Pressure stabs into his eyes. Flashing white light and the hot stab of pain, chases the prickle from water away. "I hate you so fucking much. I'm going to cry."

"Shit, Eddie." Rustling fill the air. A guitar clangs softly against the floor. Footsteps cross the room and then Steve steps right up to him. Warm arms wrap around him. They draw him close and pull him near, pushing him right into Steve's chest. Wrapping him up tight and safe. Broad, open palms press into his back and shoulders. Grip warm and tight, fingers digging into him.

Dropping his hands from his eyes, Eddie quickly throw his arms around Steve and pulls him close. His grip around him tight, almost crushing. Hands closed into fists, pressing into Steve's back and shoulders, as if anchoring himself to him. He turns his head down, burying his face and his shuddering breath in his shoulder.

Steve turns his head down and nudges at Eddie with his nose. He gives him a squeeze. Arms tightening briefly around him, muscles pulling and tending against him. Body solid and warm against him, he might as well have encompassed every part of him for all Eddie knows. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry," his voice is low and muffled against Eddie's hair.

"I don't care, I really don't care." Clenching his hands into tighter fists, Eddie shakes his head against him. "You're amazing. I can't believe you."

For a small moment — a moment they definitely cannot afford, but take anyway — they stand there, wrapped up in a tight embrace.

Once Eddie's emotions have settled and his eyes are dry, he pulls away from Steve.

As he steps out of his embrace, Steve's hands linger on him. They slide from his back up to his shoulders where they lie. One smooths along the top of his shoulder and cups his neck. "You good?"

"I'm good." He nods and wipes at his face. Rubs his cheeks with his palms and drags the lingering trail of tears away with his fingers.

Steve gives him a gentle smile. Sliding his hands from his shoulders, down his arms, he grips him at his elbows and squeezes. The grin grows. "Then let's get out of here."

"Fuck yes." Air blows in a heavy gust from his mouth.

Steve gives his elbows one final squeeze, then steps away from him.

Bending down, Eddie grabs onto the two plastic bags he dropped.

Steve steps back towards where he left the guitar. He waves a hand at it and throws a questioning look at Eddie. "You want the guitar?"

"Hell yeah, baby, I want the guitar." He grins at Steve, crowing lightly and as low as he can.

One of Steve's hands lifts in the air, palm open and down. A small hushing sound falls from his mouth, but his lips turn up in a grin.

Bending down, Steve lifts the guitar in careful hands. He stills. For a moment, he looks between the guitar in his hands and the box of photos on the counter by the kitchen. Eyes darting back and forth, expression confused and furrowed.

"It's really not that fragile," Eddie says lightly and clicks his tongue. Walking up to Steve, he drops the bags on the floor again, then reaches out and grabs onto the strap hanging from the body of the guitar. He arches his eyebrows at Steve and waves the strap back and forth, dangling it in the air right before him.

Steve looks down on the strap in Eddie's hand, expression still so very clueless. A laugh huffs from Eddie. "Here," he says and draws the strap forward, lifting it up and over Steve's head.

Ducking his head forwards, Steve lets Eddie settle the guitar around his shoulder and neck.

Eddie grins at him, their eyes directly in front of each other and stuck together, as if drawn by magnets and unable to pull apart. "It would be so easy to tease you, if it weren't so cute." As Eddie smooths the strap into place against Steve's body, Steve lowers his head and looks down at himself, following the movement of Eddie's hands with his eyes.

"I thought, you only wear it like this when playing. Like I might damage it, if I carried it like this."

Eddie holds back a huff that would have been far too fond to be allowed access to the world. Figures Steve's cluelessness would come from care and thoughtfulness.

A gentle smile on his face, Eddie guides the guitar around Steve's shoulder, settling it upside down on his back. He steps back around Steve and claps a hand on his shoulder. "Just don't run into any walls and you should be fine, big boy."

Rolling his eyes, Steve steps away from Eddie, turns his back on him and picks up the box from the countertop, hefting it up in his arm with an ease that has Eddie eyeing the bulging of his arms through his jacket.

With the box in his arms, Steve walks to the front door, his steps smaller and more careful than they usually are.

Eddie gathers the bags in his hands again.

"You ready to go?" With one hand on the door handle, the box tucked between his arm and his hip, Steve throws a look back at him and grins.

A grin spreads across Eddie's face and he nods, bouncing on his toes.

The door opens and crisp night air blow at them from the dark.

With one final look at each other, they run back out into the night.

The dark swallows their grins, but laughter builds inside of Eddie's chest. It bubbles inside of him, bright and light and airy. It spills out of him like sunlight behind shutters and soon enough, he is laughing loudly to the sky.

Steve's laughter is quick to join his.

They run back got the car, hauling ass out of the trailer park, plastic bags and guitar in hand, like Satan himself is on their heels, laughing and cackling loudly.

When Eddie throws himself into the car seat, he is breathless and gasping for air. Chest shaking with quiet laughter.

"Holy shit," Steve breathes from beside him, after he has secured the guitar in the trunk, words breathless, lost between his chuckles and his breath. "That was so stupid. I can't believe we did that."

The grin on Eddie's face grows even wider. "I can."

A snort bursts from Steve. "Someone will have definitely noticed us."

"Then get us the hell out of here, before the pigs come to roast." He slaps a hand on Steve's arm. The grin stays spread wide across his lips. Cracking his face in half and making his cheeks ache.

"That's definitely not a saying."

"It is now."

Huffing a laugh, Steve reaches for the key still in the ignition and turns it.

Lifting himself off the seat, rising to his feet, Eddie turns and throws his bags of rescued goods over his shoulder, through the empty space between the car seats. It tumbles into the backseat. Bag rattle and crinkle, rustling loudly in the air. Before they land on the floor with two dull cascading thumps.

While he's on his feet and twisted, he throws himself across the space, grabs Steve by the face and smacks a kiss right onto his cheek.

Surprise smacks into his face just as the kiss did. Expression open and slack. His body freezes. Just goes still. It's like looking at a paused movie on the TV. With much less flickering static and fuzzy ants crawling all over it, but still.

Releasing Steve's face, Eddie throws himself back in his seat, sprawling all over it, limbs thrown and spread out.

The only thing that moves is Steve's eyes. They follow Eddie's sprawl back onto the seat. He barely even breathes.

A large grin splits across Eddie's face. Inside of his chest, his heart pounds rapidly against his ribs. Desperately trying to beat its way out of his body. Every beat thumps through his body and rips through his veins with a rush. Air rushes in and out of his lungs, chest heaving up and down and Eddie hopes Steve is too busy trying to step out of the situation without looking like a homophobe to notice how the kiss affected Eddie. "Sorry, I was excited," he says, trying very hard to sound dismissive and apathetic and knowing he fails. "Take it as my way to thank you." One of his hands waves in the air, brushing it aside.

Steve pulls himself back into life. A breath bursts into his lungs, making his chest jerks up and down. His head turns back and forth. Switching from looking out the window and at Eddie. Eyes flickering back and forth with unparalleled rapidness. He clears his throat and nods. Head bopping up and down, like a bobblehead. "Yeah, yep," he says, voice strangely tight and croaking. "That's— that's fine," he manages. His head shakes once and then he nods again. Finally, he turns his head to face forward. His eyes jerk to the side one final time. A sideways glance that lingers on Eddie. Before they flit away again and stick to the window like glue.

Eddie watches his reaction. Eyebrow arching up on his brow and an amused smile spreading over his face.

As Steve starts moving the car along, he sticks his eyes to the window, straight forward, and keeps them there very intensely and diligently.

The car rumbles all around them, driving them back to the cabin. All through the drive, Eddie twists and pulls on a strand of his hair, holding it in front of his face and tries not to read into the blush that stains Steve's cheeks red.

Hope has already snuck into his heart long ago; he does not need to make it any more comfortable than it is.

As they drive the occasional note from the strings of the two guitars flits through the car. Every note that rings out remind him that Steve was the one, who brought his guitar from his trailer to his own house, keeping it safe for Eddie; it was Steve, who drove Eddie across town to the trailer park, just so he could pick up a few more of his things and his uncle's acoustic; Steve who did all this, and keeps doing stuff like this, just for Eddie.

Every few minutes a bump or large stone in the road jolts through the car and jostles the guitars lying in the back and Eddie tries not to think about smooth skin against the palm of his hands. Tries not to think about the blush on Steve's cheeks and how he couldn't stop looking his way, but could not look him in his eyes. Tries not to hope.

He fails.

That Friday, Eddie finally unearths the vodka from the cupboard. Then he drags Nancy away from her study and increasing stress about the postponed but looming graduation, interrupts Steve, Robin — who was already dragged away from the same by Steve some time ago — Argyle and Jonathan's game to invite them to a little picnic in the woods (well away from the cabin to keep snoops, of which there are plenty, and underage kids from catching a whiff of alcohol and debauchery from the air); sets up a blanket between the trees, turns to the other teens and says, "Alright, so, tell me everything I've missed with all this Vecna and Mindflayer shit," and downs his first shot.

And that is how Eddie fills in the blanks of his Upside Down knowledge. With copious amounts of alcohol and a worrying amount of holy shit's and countless of tangents from Argyle about something or other that seems nonsensical but which he swears is connected to it all, really, just listen to this one time he—.

When they first sat up picnic with the vodka from the cupboard, Eddie turned to Steve with a small smile and said, "You don't have to drink, if you don't want to." He stepped close and tugged on the collar of Steve's shirt. Looking at him with a lopsided grin and warm eyes. Bodies far too close. The heat of Steve's body emanated out of him, like a magnet tugging on Eddie and whispering him closer; dangerous and an hour or two too early, considering Eddie had barely had more than a sip of beer and was not even drunk yet. "You can just stick to a beer or soda and let the rest of us get shitfaced. Could be fun." His grin turned crooked. "It might even be like herding the kids around after too much sugar."

"I know," Steve said, eyes locking with his, "but as fun as it would be to relive that with guys twice their size and weight, I don't need to. I can drink. It's not like it's as bad as it has been. And I'm not alone, so I won't get lost."

The smile on Eddie's face turned private and soft. He tugged a strand of hair forward and pulled it front of his lips, hiding his smile behind it. And told himself there was no way Steve was as flustered as him and it was just a trick of the light and the first shot speaking to him in his mind.

And so Steve joined them, slower and more moderate, but he still did.

Warmth that does not entirely belong to the heat of the alcohol spreads though Eddie at how simply Steve seamlessly hooks himself onto their presence and trusts them to keep him tethered through any memories the drink might bring of that whole drugged-and-tortured-by-secret-Russians thing. The way he and Robin keep a tight hold of each other's hands might have something to do with that, too, but still. It is hard not to be pleased, when Steve says stuff like that to him with that look in his eyes and a secretive smile on his face.

The night is dark around them. Two lanterns, both burning yellow, not blue, light up their assembly of increasingly tipsy entourage and collection of vodka and beers. One lantern sits atop a fallen tree trunk a little ways off to the side; another in the middle of their little vodka picnic, casting a glowing circle of golden light around them. Lighting up each other, the blanket they are sat on and the trees all around them. Darkness shrouds the world beyond the trees encircling them, well outside the reach of the lanterns. A darkness that, for the first time, since it all began, is not weighing heavy and oppressive all around him. As if the dark, too, remembers the echoes of their shouts chasing away the shadows of night the last time they escaped out into the night.

It feels like taking a deep breath after being stuck underwater for forever.

It feels like waking up, after walking around with a mind shrouded in fog and cotton, and suddenly being able to think clearly again.

It feels like being alive.

Part of that is the company, another the alcohol and the third, the stories they tell with the aided cheer and humor of the vodka flowing merrily through their bloodstream.

The more they drink, the wilder their tales become. At least, Eddie's pretty sure that is how it goes. Might be the other way around, though.

It involves things like,

"Henderson did what now?"

"Yeah, brought it home and fed it, raising it like a fucking house pet. It ate his cat, too."

"Evolved like Pacman," Robin adds in an undertone.

"You weren't even there," Steve shoots at her.

"No, but I've heard the stories," she says, primly shaking her hair out.

"Yeah, from me!"

Eddie's pretty sure Henderson's intentionally been keeping this little nugget away from him to try and keep himself cooler in Eddie's eyes. Or just to stop any other teasing he is bound to shoot his way, now that he knows.

And,

"You were chased down by the army?!"

"Shot at," corrects Jonathan far too calmly for Eddie's liking.

"Same difference!" he sputters, waving his arms wildly in the air.

"It was freaky, man," Argyle adds, voice slightly slurred and wonky from the weed he's been smoking. "We buried a dude in the desert. It's okay, though. I made him a headstone."

Eddie shoots him a look and barely refrains from hysterically telling him, That is not a comfort, dude!

And,

"You mean to tell me you faced interdimensional monsters three times and walked away unharmed, but entered three fights with a single person and came out worse for wear?"

And,

"I'm sorry, you lured how many demodogs to the junkyard with just cured slices of cow? And how exactly was that a good idea?"

"Dude, that's sick," Argyle pipes up. "How many showed up?"

Steve's brow furrow. "At least six?"

"Do you think you would have gotten more if you'd used pork? Or a different meat? Like are they partial to the meat they follow? That's some Hansel and Gretel right there." His face lights up. "Oh, at least we've got names for them, if we ever see them again. Hansel and Gretel."

Robin's nose scrunches. "I don't feel comfortable calling a demo-dog Hansel or Gretel."

"I think it suits them," Argyle says and waves a hand in a looping gesture in the air.

Eddie throws him a humored look. "Dude, do you even know what they look like?"

"They're dogs. Just, like, a nightmare version of it."

"Yeah," Robin snorts, "with tons of teeth and a face that opens up like a fucking tulip."

It is at this point Eddie sits himself upright and waves his drink in the air. "Okay okay, there's somethi'g I don't understand," he states, stumbling fearlessly over his words because his tongue has gone numb and he is finding it pretty difficult telling it what to do. He's pretty sure he manages to get the point across though. Four pairs of eyes dart to him. Some wide and questioning, some just waiting. "How the fuck have you—" he swivels his hand around and sticks two fingers out, pointing them at Steve "—won fights against demogorgons and other demo-monsters, but lost every fight you've ever entered with another person?"

"Oh my god," Steve whisper moans. His hand lifts up off the ground, finds his face and smushes up against it. "Not you too."

Eyebrows crooked, Eddie withdraws his hand and takes a swig of his drink, still staring at Steve over the rim of it. "Tell me that. Enlighten me." He swings his hand (and drink) out again. Movements large and exaggerated and slightly wobbly. "Because that makes no sense. Whatsoever, pretty boy."

Steve drops his hand and raises his eyes to him. His eyebrows lift high on his brow, incredulous and prompting. "Seriously?"

"Very. I'm very serious about knowing how you can rip a demobat apart with your bare hands and lose a fight to Byers over there." He tips his head, jerking it towards Jonathan. "No offense," he adds, with a quick darting glance at him.

Jonathan merely looks amused. A humored quirk to his lips and eyes crinkling with mirth.

Steve shoves him away and takes a drink of his beer, barely managing to hide his grin as he does so.

And they continue.

They even dip into not-Upside Down related things.

"You spent how many sleepless nights learning Master of Puppets on guitar?"

"Learned it though, didn't I?" The grin that appears at these words is self-satisfied and more than a little smug.

"Sure, yeah, okay, I'll give you that. But instead of just slowing down and learning it in daylight hours and getting a reasonable amount of sleep at night, you just steamrolled right over common sense and stay up 4—" one of his hands sticks up in the air, four fingers stretched out, as if to drive home his point "—nights in a row?" Steve finishes a little incredulous.

"Look, it was awesome and I wanted to learn it as fast as I could. And good thing for us I did." He sweeps his arm out, gesturing at the wide world around them. Dropping his arm, he continues, voice a higher pitched and plenty offended, "What else would I have played to lure those bats away? Fucking ABBA?" Sticking his tongue out, he makes a face. "Hard pass."