Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eddie is walking down a freakishly long hallway. Tunnel? Whatever. 

It’s lined with steel girders and big, unmarked pipes. Very stark and industrial; kind of trying too hard with it, honestly. 

It feels dark, even though the place is flooded with fluorescent light. The tunnel’s unchanging features stretch so far into the distance that Eddie’s eyes cross trying to find the end. 

Somehow, he knows he is deep underground right now, and that awareness activates a primal sort of fear he can feel in his bones. It gets worse when he notices that Dustin Henderson is here too, keeping pace a few feet in front of Eddie. What is a kid doing in this creepy place?

“What are we doing here?” Eddie asks him. At least the kid has a brain the size of a planet and can probably figure out what’s going on.

Dustin stops and glances back. He looks… upset. But not in his typical, overblown, Dustin-y way. His expression is too serious, almost stony. Without a word to Eddie, Dustin takes off running.

“Wait wait wait! Wait for me!” Eddie yells. He breaks into a sprint and he can feel his lungs complain almost immediately. 

Oh shit, what if there isn’t enough air down here??

Their surroundings abruptly change from pristine steel to dark earth. It’s like someone hasn’t gotten around to finishing this part of the tunnel and now they are just running unprotected through a hole in the ground. Eddie can’t identify any light source, but he can still see Dustin running ahead. He can see that the messily carved out walls are latticed with wet-looking roots. Or vines, maybe. 

He quickly realizes it’s even harder to breathe in here; panic surges through him like live wires.

Dustin keeps running and Eddie just can’t manage to catch up. God knows neither of them are athletes, but Eddie at least has the height advantage! It shouldn't be this hard. “Dustin, wait!” he tries to call out. He ends up in a coughing fit; it feels like his mouth is full of ashes.

And then Dustin is gone. 

Eddie spins around on the spot and realizes he is surrounded by openings to a series of smaller tunnels, all spilling out in different directions. He has no idea which direction he just came from or where Dustin went.

“DUSTIN!” he chokes out as loud as he can. He whips around when he hears a noise behind him, ready to tackle the kid at this point to keep him from running off. 

It puts him face to face with what can only be properly categorized as a monster. 

The monster is sort of person-shaped, but way too tall. Its skin is mottled, translucent gray stretched over skeletal limbs that are too long and end in clawed hands that are too sharp. The worst part is it has no face. 

Actually, everything about it is the worst part.

Eddie wants to yell out, what the fuck?? But his voice has fully stopped working—he can’t breathe anymore, not at all. He falls to his knees, helpless, fear and pain wracking his suffocating body while the monster advances. 

Then its non-face unfurls, revealing a giant mouth (mouths?) riddled with dripping teeth. It lets out an unearthly, wailing, growling shriek as it jumps on Eddie with claws raised—

Eddie wakes up gasping for air.

The first thing he notices is sunlight slanting through window blinds, and he lets out a sound that is part exhale and part laugh.

He is laying in his bed. He is not trapped underground about to be eaten alive. 

He groans, curls up tightly on one side, and takes several deep breaths. It’s been a long time since he had a dream like that, probably not since he was a little kid. 

Nightmares are not uncommon territory for Eddie, but his brain doesn’t really do fantastical ones. And that’s despite his taste in books and movies, not to mention the many waking hours he devotes to crafting stories and music from the darkest, weirdest parts of his imagination.

Just last night he half fell asleep on his well-used Monster Manual. He had to wipe drool off a full color depiction of the demon Glabrezu before crawling into bed at three in the morning; giant, deadly pincers were probably reasonable nightmare fuel for the average person.

It’s just that Eddie’s worst dreams are usually about much more mundane shit, like Wayne kicking him out. Or, Wayne never kicking him out and being trapped in this shithole town forever. Or, good old fashioned violence at the hands of some Hawkins yokels. Worst case scenario, anything to do with either of his parents. 

‘Normal’ life—that’s what usually freaks him out. But his heart is still beating a little too hard, a dull echo of what felt like very real terror in his dream. “Get it together,” he groans to himself.

His voice sounds weird. Probably he should try drinking more water while late night campaign planning instead of pounding back Coke Classics.

He uncurls and sits up in bed, stretching his arms up and yawning. What he needs to do is write down everything he can remember from the dream before the details start to fade, because—tunnel maze? Faceless monster? That stuff was pretty sick.

He blinks his eyes open, instinctively looking to his right where he’s sure he left one of many half-used spiral notebooks on top of the accumulated trash on his bedside table. But the notebook isn’t there. 

His bedside table also isn’t there. There is a bedside table, but it’s pristine clean and looks like it’s real wood, nothing like the castoff Eddie salvaged from a curbside a few years ago. He takes in the rest of his surroundings with wide eyes. 

“Shit!” Eddie hisses. He jumps out of the bed, twisting up the blankets and nearly faceplanting on the lush, unfamiliar carpet in the process. 

He’s not the most coordinated person in the world, finger dexterity aside, but he blames shock for putting him out of touch with his own limbs. His whole body feels too heavy and too light at the same time.

He is shocked because he is not in his bedroom. A closer look through the blinds reveals he’s on a second floor—a luxury not to be found in Forest Hills, not to mention there is a giant pool in the yard.

Eddie is certain he fell asleep at the trailer last night. He remembers drooling on Glabrezu before going to bed!

His mind is always ready to come up with intricate plotlines at a moment’s notice, so it supplies a working theory: Maybe he had gone out last night but couldn’t remember, infiltrated a rich kid party to ply his wares, got too drunk or stoned to drive home and… was politely offered a very nice guest room to crash in…?

Yeah, no. 

He had been crossfaded off his ass plenty of times, but never once woken up in a strange bed he couldn’t remember getting into. And even if the first part is true, the odds of Eddie being invited to stay over at a place like this are astronomically small. 

You’re finally losing it, for real this time, is a handy alternative explanation. 

Eddie growls and stomps free of the tangled sheets, willing that part of his mind to shut the fuck up. With the same verve, he exclaims out loud, “Why is there so much plaid?!” because the frankly offensive fabric lines every wall floor to ceiling. 

He snaps his mouth shut. There is definitely something wrong with his voice. It’s pitched a little too high to his ears and it feels weird in his throat, like it’s round where there should be edges. 

He needs water, that’s all. He spots a half-open door that leads to an attached bathroom (yet another sign he’s in rich people territory) and stumbles over to it while clearing his throat. “Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3…” he tries. Nope, still weird.

He hits the faucet. It’s just instinct to glance in the mirror before bending down to take a sip. 

His voice may have sounded too high to him before, but that’s put to shame by several octaves when Eddie shrieks at the sight of Steve Harrington’s reflection looking back at him in the mirror.

Chapter Text

Eddie is somehow, inexplicably, impossibly Steve Harrington.

He’s done everything he can think of to prove that this is another weird dream: pinching himself, slapping himself, splashing cold water on his face, closing his eyes and repeatedly assuring himself “this is just a dream” out loud…

The slap hurt, the water was cold, and his words came out in the wrong voice every time. Harrington’s voice.

If it’s not a dream, he figures that leaves three possibilities. From most to least likely:

1. Eddie is finally having a total mental breakdown.
2. Eddie is dead and this is hell.
3. Eddie’s mind is somehow actually stuck in Steve Harrington’s body, for real.

He’s honestly not sure which option is least appealing. 

Of course Harrington is a morning person. It’s barely seven o’clock and Eddie can’t remember when he last saw this time of day from the morning side instead of the all-nighter side, but he feels alert with a steady energy, like this is routine. 

He is looking in a bigger mirror now (Harrington’s mirror) on the closet door (Harrington’s door). He turns back and forth, inspecting the outfit (Harrington’s clothes) he put together with increasing distress. 

Just when he had stopped panicking enough to think about his next move, the search for something wearable in a sea of colorful striped polos had nearly pushed Eddie back over the edge. 

What kind of person owns three different yellow sweaters but not a single black shirt of any kind?? 

He’d finally landed on an old pair of white sneakers, jeans that probably cost more than Eddie’s entire wardrobe, and a plain gray hoodie to cover up the ‘Hawkins High Tigers’ t-shirt he woke up in—and that itself is a small miracle. Eddie is not ready to deal with Steve Harrington’s shirtless torso right now. N.O. thank you.

He deserves a fucking medal for managing to take a piss without utterly spiraling. 

The whole thing feels like an episode of the Twilight Zone—the town’s scorned freak possessing the body of its golden boy. Walking a mile in the enemy’s shoes.

Well, Harrington has never really been Eddie's enemy, not specifically anyway. Eddie doesn’t think they’ve ever even exchanged words beyond the occasional begrudging weed deal or movie rental. 

But Harrington is unquestionably a huge dick. Not necessarily the one to knock the books out of a freshman’s hands or shout faggot while shoulder checking an innocent nerd, but always there guffawing along with his shitty friends who gladly did all that and worse for King Steve’s entertainment.

Steve Harrington ruled the social order of Hawkins High at one point—that puts him and Eddie Munson on opposite sides of an eternal, cosmic conflict. It’s the natural order of things.

And it doesn’t matter that the guy isn’t ruling much of anything these days, not since Eddie’s second senior year when Steve’s career as Chief Executive Douchebag ended with a whimper not a bang. Eddie would concede he became much more tolerable once he stopped barging around school like he owned the place. 

Harrington finished up his four-year sentence at Hawkins High (and Eddie isn’t jealous of that, not at all) kind of just… keeping to himself. Or his girlfriend, sometimes.

Ex-girlfriend. Oh, and her boyfriend. They weren’t exactly cozy together, but Eddie could recall Byers and Harrington conferring a ‘tough guy head nod’ upon each other on more than one occasion.

Eddie isn’t clear how Jonathan Byers even got involved in the briefly infamous love triangle when he was always resolutely friendless and even lower in the social pecking order than Eddie—which is frankly an achievement. Usually, Eddie knows those kinds of dull little details as a matter of survival. 

He keeps an eye out for the goings on among the cool kids, the jocks, and the other elite assholes of Hawkins, even when those goings on are boring and so mind-numbingly predictable Eddie could write the script. Because when certain fellow students go through a little break-up, or don’t get their way, or are otherwise in a mood , strategic retreat is a sensible freak’s best option. 

At 20 years old and looking like he does (“scary,” which suits him just fine), even upperclassmen are unlikely to start shit with Eddie anymore, but many of his little Hellfire sheepies remain tragically easy targets. Just last week, Eddie spotted Andy (who is a badass Dragonborn barbarian in game but a small and painfully shy sophomore in real life) backed up against his locker by two meatheads wearing the kind of smiles that usually lead to a nerd’s head in a toilet.

Eddie had jumped in with arms wide to make a dramatic entrance and announced in his loudest, deepest ‘hero’ voice, “ I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn! I am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor! Here is the sword that was broken and is forged again! ” 

On cue, he waved a drumstick in the assholes’ bewildered faces (Gareth was teaching him how to twirl it), with all the solemnity and implicit threat of a lost king wielding the real Andúril. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Munson?” Meathead #1 had scoffed (he’s a senior named Dave Miller, but they all become interchangeable to Eddie in these interactions). 

“Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly!” Eddie shouted. 

The boys had stared at Eddie like he had three heads but didn’t make a move, so Eddie pointed his drumstick-sword at Meathead #2’s neck, lowered his voice to a deep rumble, and insisted, “CHOOSE. SWIFTLY. ” 

It wasn’t much of a threat. Eddie wasn’t sure what damage he could cause with a single drumstick even if he was inclined to fight, which he definitely was not. No question, Aragorn had better odds against a whole host of Rohirrim than Eddie had against two jocks.

But that wasn’t his real weapon anyway. Eddie’s finest-honed skill is being so outrageous that it pulls all eyes to him, and then so fucking weird that everyone looks away again. When ‘the freak’ is fully unleashed, ‘normal’ people don’t wanna be anywhere near him. They just get embarrassed, they scoff, they say what’s wrong with you, and they fade back into their small, unimaginative lives.

In this instance, true to form, the meatheads had backed off, rolling their eyes at each other and muttering, “Whatever, freak.” Thus peace was restored, for a time. 

(And Eddie didn’t mind one bit when Andy looked up at him with grateful adoration, like he was actually heroic and not a deadbeat attention-seeking 2x super senior with a screw loose.) 

Eddie laughs thinking about it now, just a touch hysterically. Then he snaps his mouth shut because in the mirror, Harrington is the one laughing. 

He needs to get the fuck out of here. 

He steps away and sits gingerly on the bed, angling himself so he can’t see his reflection in the mirror anymore, and considers his options.

First choice—gotta be Gareth. Gareth is Eddie’s bandmate, a senior and only two years younger than him which makes him one of the other “grown-ups” in Hellfire, and he’s probably the person Eddie trusts most in the world (as much as Eddie is willing to trust anyone). Plus, Gar would be royally pissed if he found out Eddie was living through what is essentially a Star Trek B plot and didn’t tell him. 

But then… Eddie imagines Steve fucking Harrington calling Gareth’s house or just like, casually knocking on his front door and trying to explain that he’s actually Eddie in the wrong body. Gareth would be right to shut the door in his face, the rational explanation being a really stupid prank on Harrington’s part (even if jocks aren’t usually that creative). 

There's an obvious next choice, and this wouldn’t be the first time Eddie owed his continued existence to a ‘Wayne ex machina.' His uncle has pulled him out of some pretty miserable situations in the past. Because, that’s what family does. Apparently.

That had been news to Eddie, when Wayne took him in.

Just thinking about his uncle suddenly has Eddie wiping tears from his eyes.

Nope—Harrington’s eyes. Get it together.

They are family, unquestionably, and like Eddie, Wayne can be stubborn to a fault. Very much unlike Eddie, Wayne is a man who lives with both feet firmly planted on the ground. 

With those traits combined, he’s even less likely to believe this shit than Gareth. And after growing up poor in Hawkins and decades more of just scraping by, there was no love lost between Wayne Munson and the Harrington family. 

Eddie groans and falls back on the bed. No one is going to believe him. No one who cares about Eddie Munson is going to listen to anything Steve Harrington has to say. It’s like he’s been turned into a monster! Or cursed with a donkey head, like the guy from A Midsummer Night’s Dream (one of the few English class assignments he didn’t entirely hate). 

“Methought I was enamored of an ass,” he quotes out loud before groaning again.

Maybe he should just try to go back to sleep and give his mind or his consciousness or his soul or whatever it is a chance to like, float back to its own body. It seems like as good an idea as any. At least, until the memory of the nightmare puts a pit in his stomach…

Wait. He’s an idiot.

Eddie bolts upright and launches himself off the bed shouting, “Holy shit. Dustin!” 

He races out into the hallway and—wow this place is really huge, he goes the wrong way at first and has to turn back to find the stairs. Then he gleefully stomps down them while half-singing, half-declaring to himself, “Dustin Hendersoooon! The storm comes, and now all friends should gather together— especially the friends of Steve fucking Harrington!!” 

He jumps the last few stairs and sticks the landing too smoothly (stupid Harrington and his stupid athletic-ness) when it suddenly occurs to him that he might not be alone in this giant house. 

He stops short and calls out, “Mrs—uh, Mom? Dad?” Stupid. He sucks a breath through his teeth and quietly bangs one fist against his head, waiting.

After listening intently for a few seconds, all he can hear is his own heart pounding in his ears. The older Harringtons must already be gone for work or some weird high society activity like polo or whatever it is that they do. He doesn’t care. He exhales loudly and launches back into action.

A whirlwind tour of the fancy kitchen scores him a packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts. Yes!

While pillaging the front hall closet, he briefly considers donning an inky black, full-length, honest-to-god fur coat that must be Mrs. Harrington’s but would be totally glam metal with the right accessories. Then he tosses it aside in favor of a less ostentatious brown parka (which isn’t any kind of metal–but it’s January and it’s fucking cold out). 

He finds the damn holy grail on a table by the door. “Yesssssss,” he hisses, picking up a ring of keys and zeroing in on one key in particular, etched with tiny letters: BMW. 

He can’t help but laugh out loud when he sees that, sure enough, the Harrington showboat, his BMW 733i with its unnecessary turbo-charged 6-cylinder engine, is just ready and waiting for him in the driveway. 

Under normal circumstances, Eddie would not be caught dead driving a douchey car like this. Plus, he’s read that all the bimmers in this series handle like shit (it's still habit to keep up to date on fancy cars hitting the market each season—and their resale values).

That’s also how he knows Harrington’s car probably cost more than Eddie’s van, his Warlock, Wayne’s car, and their whole trailer–combined. 

He remembers all too well the first day Harrington drove her to school, the day after his 16th birthday, his collar popped, sunglasses on, and the smuggest possible look on his dumb, smug face. It was one of the very few times Eddie had ever considered actually using some of the ‘life skills’ passed down by his dear old dad, just because the thought of Harrington swaggering out to the parking lot after the last bell only to find his precious new car had been stolen after one day was hilarious.

When Eddie turns the key, the engine roars to life without hesitation. Eddie’s van always takes several tries in this kind of weather, if it starts at all. 

“YES!” he shouts, and bangs his fist on the roof above him for good measure before taking a moment to feel appropriately guilty for comparing his faithful chariot to this yuppie monstrosity. 

Heat pours out of the vents, and whatever insipid pop music Harrington has in the tape deck starts playing quietly until Eddie cranks it up, rolling his eyes when he recognizes ‘we can dance, we can dance, everybody look at your hands—’

Not what he’d choose by a long shot, but he’s not going to drive this thing without music. He turns it up even louder.

Even after nearly spinning out on an ice patch, Eddie makes it to Dustin’s house in record time (the bimmer really does handle like shit but it’s so fast). He shifts it into park and turns the terrible music down from blaring, but keeps his hand on the key without shutting off the engine.

The spark of hope that had him singing his way through the Harrington house is gone. He is abruptly, totally uncertain about what he’s doing here.

Eddie tries not to play favorites, buuuut… Dustin is his favorite. Of this year’s crop of nerds and outcasts doomed to 4(+) years at Hawkins High, anyway.

His fondness for the kid snuck up on him a little. Dustin gets so loudly, unabashedly excited about things—it reminds Eddie of himself, and how he wishes he was brave enough to be when he was Dustin's age.

The kid is also some kind of genius with math and science crap ( that part isn’t like Eddie at all) and equally shameless about reminding everyone at every opportunity, not to mention relentlessly curious. He’ll at least listen to Eddie instead of dismissing him outright. 

He grips both hands around the smooth, leather steering wheel. If he’s so sure of that, then why is he hesitating? 

Harrington is the problem, obviously. 

Eddie had spent a blissfully long time never thinking about him at all, bar the occasional rental from Family Video where Eddie would be polite only because he doesn’t believe in kicking a man while he’s down (and Harrington is clearly down if he’s doing this after graduation instead of making big nepotism bucks working for his dad). 

Then September rolled around with its fresh flock of disciples for Hellfire, and suddenly Steve Harrington was the subject of cheerful, offhand comments among the group on a near-daily basis.

Gareth and Jeff used to be on the same page, sharing perplexed looks and demanding answers whenever the young ones brought it up, but have long since given up or stopped caring. Eddie just can’t seem to do the same. 

Before, Harrington’s existence was just a rare but annoying reminder of the bad old days before Eddie built up thicker skin and a menacing reputation. Or of Eddie’s ongoing failure to graduate when even a literal dumb jock could do it on time. But this year it’s been a persistent, nagging puzzle that demands solving—and Eddie’s always been a completionist when it comes to games.

It just doesn’t sit right with him. More than that, it goes against every law of the universe ( including the Munson Doctrine) that a kid like Dustin would ever be friends with a guy like Harrington.

With Lucas? It kind of makes sense—he plays basketball, Harrington played basketball. And that in itself is a source of consternation, but Lucas is still a Hellfire member and Eddie isn’t about to oust any willing player. Eddie guesses the two of them bond over... being good at throwing things into other things. Or something.

The fact that even Mike will jump to defend Harrington’s honor, when the kid is a surly beanpole who barely admits to liking anyone or anything besides his alleged ‘girlfriend’ out in California, is way weirder.

Then there’s Dustin, whose admiration for Harrington is on another level. Even though Eddie knows from years of bitter experience that guys like Harrington just don’t care about kids like Dustin; at best they ignore them, and at worst they shove them into lockers. Or in a thousand ways make them feel like shit about all the things that actually make them interesting.

Whenever Eddie grills Dustin for clues to how this frankly unnatural friendship came to be and how he can be so sure that Harrington is good now, always keeping his tone cool and disinterested (because Eddie is cool and disinterested), the kid is uncharacteristically tight-lipped. 

I just know, he’ll say. Like that’s unimpeachable evidence.

And Eddie hasn’t been able to come up with a way to gather more intel that doesn’t involve intentionally spending time with Steve Harrington, so the mystery simmers at the back of his mind, a permanent itch he can’t scratch. 

Eddie is so startled he almost screams when someone bangs on his driver side window without warning. 

Then he catches his breath while rolling the window down and tries for an easy grin. (He has no idea if it’s working—even his face muscles feel all wrong.) “Dustin! Hey!”

Dustin appears almost twice his normal size thanks to what are evidently multiple layers of winter gear, possibly even two coats, and Eddie feels his smile become more natural. He’s met Mrs. Henderson a few times at this point and knows she is endearingly protective of her son in some ways while totally out to lunch in others.

“What are you doing here?” Dustin asks. He’s frowning from under the trapper hat tied under his chin, his breath coming out in white clouds in the cold. Is he annoyed? Or scared?

Eddie feels the smile slide off his face, frantically wondering if he has this all wrong somehow. Maybe Harrington isn’t Dustin’s friend at all. Maybe he is still a bully, and he’s messing with all these kids. Or blackmailing them somehow to do his evil, normie bidding.

Without really deciding anything, Eddie knows he’s not going to do what he came here to do—which is sit Dustin down and tell him the whole uncanny tale of waking up in the wrong body this morning, begging Dustin to believe him, and then begging him for help.

He can tell himself it’s for the kids, because he wants to make sure they are okay, which isn’t untrue. But what he’s really doing is taking advantage of this one, insanely improbable opportunity to put this whole frustrating mystery to rest.

“Uh… I’m driving you to school?” Eddie finally responds, wishing he could sound more certain about it. It's not an outrageous idea—he’s seen the Hellfire kids piling in and out of this very vehicle on multiple occasions, not to mention Eddie's angry little red-headed neighbor on occasion. 

“Why?” Dustin asks.

Eddie realizes he has no idea what Harrington would say to that, no idea what or how he says anything, and briefly panics. He feels his face get hot (of course Steve’s a natural blusher too—not ideal for subterfuge).

He has to say something, so he says the first thing that occurs to him, “Because… you are my good young friend and I care about you?” 

That doesn’t sound like something Harrington, or anybody, would naturally say. He steels himself for Dustin to hit him with the classic, what’s wrong with you? 

Instead, Dustin visibly relaxes and says, “Well you could have radio'd first, I was just about to get on my bike and it’s cold as balls!”

Dustin gestures sweepingly in a way that encompasses their entire environment and his own excessive outerwear, demonstrating his point. The gesture reminds Eddie so much of himself he can tell it’s a quirk Dustin picked up from him. He relaxes too, his smile creeping back.

The ‘radio’ comment is a little weird and Eddie makes a mental note. The new kiddos are all the kind of nerdy that overlaps with the AV Club (which they have in common with Jeff and Andy from Hellfire too), and Eddie knows his way around a ham radio in an amateur, not quite licensed or used for legal purposes kind of way. It doesn’t strike him as the kind of hobby that Harrington would be into.

Dustin opens the passenger side door and slides in, shoving his backpack into the back seat without asking, like it’s habit. Then he kicks one booted foot up to the dash, right on the heat vent that is thankfully still going strong (damn rich people and their well-functioning cars), and looks at Eddie expectantly.

Despite several examples to the contrary just from this morning, Eddie is not a total idiot, so he says, “Get your feet down!”

In truth, it gives him nothing but joy for Dustin to put his dirty shoes all over the interior of this snooty car. But Dustin snorts and drops both feet back to the floor, and Eddie knows he got it right.

Maybe this won’t actually be all that hard. He puts the car in drive and prepares to pull away from the curb.

“Where’s Robin?” Dustin asks.

Eddie is distracted, wracking his brain for questions he can ask that will reveal more information about Harrington without being too obvious, so he says, “Huh?” 

Fucking up again, and so soon after victory.

In response to his blank look, Dustin says, “Robin? The girl you are physically attached to at the hip but refuse to date? Don’t you drive her to school most days?” He sounds exasperated, but his face is creased with worry.

Eddie realizes it's the same expression Dustin wore when he first knocked on the car window—he wasn't annoyed, he was worried to see Steve unexpectedly. Huh.

Now he’s taking way too long to answer so he says, “Robin Buckley,” as confidently as he can.

He’s sort of acquainted with her. They met in concert band a couple years ago and would chat sometimes until Eddie had to quit after two months (playing mediocre classical guitar in the background of boring old music just isn’t his style). And he knows Robin is Harrington’s coworker at Family Video, so that could explain occasional carpooling.

The confusing part is that Robin is a full-tilt band geek from the wrong side of town (a little less wrong than Forest Hills, but not by much) who speaks like 12 languages and talks too much. 

And it’s not like they’ve ever discussed it, but Eddie is pretty sure Robin Buckley is about as well-suited to small town life in the boonies as Eddie. Which is to say: very gay but technically flying under the radar because the uncultured normies of Hawkins, Indiana don’t know what they’re looking at.

Is Harrington collecting weirdos?

“Did you forget Robin??” Dustin asks, incredulous. Before Eddie can even think about lecturing Dustin on his tone, it abruptly becomes sincere and full of concern when he asks, “Are you feeling okay, man? ‘Cause I read up on the side effects of head trauma, after, you know, last summer, and I don’t think—”

Head trauma? Eddie cuts him off before the kid can get any more worked up. “I was just messing with you, dude. I’m picking up Robin next, of course.”

Trying for a smile again. He thinks he’s got it now, like he’s getting used to which little muscles go where. There’s no way to know if it’s convincing or not.

It’s convincing enough, anyway; Dustin narrows his eyes and says, “Don’t fuck around with stuff like that, Steve.” His voice cracks just enough to give away some deep emotion.

Or, to give away that Dustin is still ongoing in his journey through puberty. Why is Eddie overthinking this so much??

Still, he feels compelled to say, “Sorry I made you worry.” 

Dustin nods, says, “Thanks,” and looks out the window, which Eddie takes as his cue to start driving. 

He must not be completely cursed, at least. By a totally random stroke of luck, Eddie knows exactly where Robin lives for professional reasons—her next door neighbor is an older woman who lives with her grandson, and that grandson is a perpetual stoner.

“All right, on to chez Buckley, and then to drop you kiddos off at school,” he says cheerfully. It earns him an eye roll and a small smile from the passenger seat. 

Eddie turns the volume back up on the music, picking out unfamiliar lyrics over grossly simple and repetitive synth notes: ‘Could it be somebody's in on your destiny, lately things have trouble looking the same…’ He bites his lip to keep from saying out loud, ‘Who knew these guys have more than one song?’ Because Steve knew, obviously.

Eddie is unquestionably in over his head. The impromptu ‘pretend to be Steve’ plan had felt so right at the time, but it's not even a plan. It's a curiosity. Actually, it’s curiosity and desperation mixed up with Eddie’s famous lack of impulse control.

Whatever it is, it will have to do for now.

Chapter Text

Eddie’s career in the Hawkins High concert band began and ended the second semester of his junior year.

Ms. Kelley encouraged him to sign up because he was ‘interested in music’ and it would ‘boost his GPA’—an offer he couldn’t really refuse considering he was barely scraping through most of his classes.

The counselor didn’t really get Eddie; she always wanted him to talk about his childhood or his ‘depression’ or whatnot instead of more important things (like how this new British band had recorded their debut album ‘Welcome to Hell’ in only three days and it was both a terrible mess and utterly redefining the genre, for example).

But she was the only adult in the whole school who talked to Eddie like she hadn’t already given up on him, so for two months he (usually) showed up at the band room with a loaner acoustic guitar. 

He sat in the back behind the brass section, glared stormily at any of the perfect, preppy little band kids who made it clear they didn’t want him there, and put in a good faith effort not to show the extent to which he was bored out of his skull. He really did!

Eddie clocked Robin Buckley as a fellow weirdo on his first day, even if she was trying harder not to be one back then. 

She played trumpet, apparently so well they bumped her up from the freshman band. Eddie recalled from a (mandatory) pep rally that she was in the marching band too. She took the whole thing about 1,000 times more seriously than Eddie. Like she had to prove she deserved to be there. 

Without a trumpet in her hands, Robin was skittish and clearly desperate to stay far under the radar. But Eddie could see her confidence when she played even if he knew fuck-all about brass instruments; the way her cheeks puffed in and out but she never ran out of breath, her fingers deftly creating way more notes than should be possible from three little buttons. 

It was impressive; Eddie could respect the artistry. Even if he would rather die than be caught within listening distance of a ska band.

So, there was a brief time back in ‘82 when Robin and him were… not really friends, but definitely allies; united by their proximity in the seating chart and a shared inability to keep snarky comments to themselves. 

The alliance ended when Eddie realized he would throw himself headfirst into the quarry if he had to quietly strum along to Canon in D even one more time.

He can’t imagine why someone like Robin, who has only gotten weirder (and butch-er) since freshman year, would consign herself to Harrington’s company every single morning on top of having to work with the guy.

Eddie also can’t imagine why anyone, once bestowed their diploma and therefore freedom from ever again entering the shadow of Hawkins High’s miserable walls, would willingly drive back there every day.  

When Robin slides into the passenger seat of the BMW (Dustin gives up his spot unprompted and without a single complaint, which must be a historic event) she’s already talking, like they were all in mid-conversation before she even got in the car. 

“—I always knew this town might kill me, not literally kill me, I do realize that’s on the table, but I mean just like, obliterate my life force, my joie de vivre , and my mom is determined to expedite the process—” Then she cuts herself off abruptly in the middle of buckling her seatbelt and levels Eddie with a quizzical stare. 

His breath catches and he wonders if he’s somehow transformed back into himself without realizing it. 

(Then he wonders why he’s panicking—wouldn’t that be a good thing? Isn’t not being himself the thing to panic about??) 

A glance in the rearview mirror confirms that no, he is still Steve. Alas.

Robin shakes her head, clicks the buckle in place and says, “You’re late, dingus. You should have called.” 

Eddie finds himself mumbling, “Sorry,” because something in her tone makes him feel actually contrite.

He takes a deep breath before looking over his shoulder to back out of the driveway. He catches Dustin raising eyebrows at him suggestively—suggestive of what Eddie cannot begin to guess. If Robin’s oversized coat and scuffed combat boots didn’t confirm his queer suspicions, then the last 20 seconds of interaction certainly did. This girl has dyke energy off the charts.

But then, it’s unlikely that Dustin or Steve know that. Especially Steve. Jesus. 

Eddie rolls his eyes at the kid, which seems appropriate, and tries to think of something he can say to keep the conversation going.

“So, about your joie de vivre situation…” he tries. If Robin picks up her monologue, she might drop some clues as to how a geeky lesbian from this part of town has managed to secure daily chauffeuring in a thirty thousand dollar car. 

Robin just snorts and says, “Wow. D'où vient-il, that accent? I thought you barely passed French.”

Shit. Eddie had barely passed French too, but he has a natural talent for imitating languages whether he speaks them or not. It’s endlessly useful for TTRPGs. Probably less useful for sports.

Robin, already moving on, asks, “What’s up with your hair?”

Eddie glances back at the rearview and winces. The famously coiffed brown locks hang flat and lifeless around his face, and with a sinking feeling he realizes he’s made yet another potentially fatal error. There is no way Harrington would go out looking like this. 

“Yeah, it’s a mess,” he admits, forcibly keeping his voice even. “Woke up late, I’ll fix it before I have to be seen in public.” 

“It’s not that bad!” Dustin chimes in. Which Eddie finds weirdly heartwarming. It definitely is that bad and Dustin usually takes every possible opportunity to be wildly condescending. The little shit. Eddie fondly glances back at him in the rearview.

Robin ‘harrumphs’ and says nothing, just shifts and fidgets in her seat. Eddie deduces that not talking might be uncomfortable for her. 

But why isn’t she talking?? Eddie's got zero intel so far except for two key pieces of information: 1) He is really bad at this, and 2) He’s an idiot for thinking he could pull it off. Thank god they’re nearly at school. 

“You’re sitting weird,” Robin blurts out.

“You’re sitting weird,” he shoots back. He self-consciously straightens his shoulders (which might not even be right; for all he knows, Harrington is a chronic sloucher) and muffles a frustrated sigh.

Why is it that he has the ability to spin a complex and tragic backstory for some NPC goblin street vendor on the spot, but he can’t manage to think of a single normal thing that Steve Harrington might say??

It’s stupid to be so nervous. There is literally no way anyone would guess that he isn’t the real Steve. Normal people (and he is loosely including Dustin and Robin in that category) don’t go around believing in things like magical transformations. 

Especially in a small-minded, small fucking town like Hawkins, where weird shit happens all the time but everyone is committed to pretending it doesn't. It’s enough to make Eddie bang his head against a wall (and he has, on occasion). 

Dustin, coming to the rescue once again, calls out, “Mom, Dad, please don’t fight!”

Robin grins and asks, “Steve’s the mom though, right?” 

“Obviously,” Dustin confirms, and they both laugh. 

Eddie’s panic drains abruptly and he allows himself to crack a smile. This is… nice, he realizes. Even with his unnecessary nervousness and Robin’s third degree.

Right now she’s more relaxed in the passenger seat, her legs kicked out and just kind of taking up space in a way that little Robin from concert band had tried so hard not to. Dustin seems at ease, still giggling in the back seat.

Is it possible that they both just like Steve? For real? 

Eddie flinches when he feels a hand lightly squeeze his knee; the touch of Robin’s ungloved fingers (fresh from resting over the heater) is blissfully warm through his jeans. 

He’s caught off guard when it ignites an immediate, powerful desire to have more of him touching more of her. 

Woah. What??

Robin may, bizarrely and improbably, like Harrington as a friend; there’s just no way her interest goes further. Eddie would bet his guitar on it. But if Harrington has a crush on Robin… can Eddie feel it, somehow?

He’s stupidly grateful that the electric warmth from Robin’s hand hasn’t gone through him and right to the worst place. It’s opened up a weird ache in his chest instead. Whatever he (or Harrington’s body) is feeling, sex isn’t part of it. 

Eddie tries to identify what would ease this weird, sort of unplaceable want… maybe wrapping his arms around Robin and smooshing his face against her neck and feeling her warm and breathing against him? That sounds good.

He’s never felt like this about anyone in his life, let alone a girl. Jesus Christ. 

“Steve, are you okay?” Robin asks quietly. 

“Yeah of course, why?” He tries for casual, but Harrington’s voice comes out shaken.

Finally, blissfully, he pulls into a parking spot in front of the school. He shuts off the engine on instinct, going through the motions and momentarily forgetting that he won’t be joining them inside because Harrington does not have school.

Dustin jumps out into the cold first but hovers nearby like he’s just giving ‘Steve’ and Robin a moment for whatever it is the kid thinks is going on. 

Eddie doesn’t know what is going on.

Robin’s hand is steady on his knee but she blurts out nervously, “You were late and you didn’t call me and your hair is bad and you’re sitting weird and you’re making about half as much eye contact as usual.”

Eddie takes a breath and then makes a point of looking directly into her eyes. One thing he does know is that Robin Buckley respects snark. “Anything else you want to add to that flattering list?” he asks dryly. 

She does smile a bit at that, some of the worry leaving her gaze. “You could have called,” she says, “I don’t like not knowing where you are.” 

He swallows and says, “I know,” even though he really doesn’t.

He feels bereft when she pulls her hand away and opens the door to get out.

“Three to close tonight, dingus,” she says like she's reminding him, “See you at two-thirty. My turn to pick the movie,” and slams the door behind her.

Dustin is immediately banging on his window, and Eddie groans and waves the kid away from the door so he can get out. He leans against the car and takes a deep breath of freezing air. 

“Three o’clock!” Dustin complains. “Are you gonna be able to drive me home first? I don’t have my bike, dude!” 

Shit. 

Earlier, when Eddie had been so certain about just casually pretending to be Steve and getting whatever dirt explained his unholy connection to Eddie’s Hellfire kids, he hadn’t bothered to think through what the pretense might require, like, logistically. 

He can’t just keep playing school bus or, god, go to work at the video store. Maybe it’s time to go back to Plan A and hope that Dustin forgives him for lying. 

“Listen, Dustin…” 

But Dustin’s eyes are focused somewhere behind him. “I’ll just see if Eddie can give me a ride.”

Eddie whips around. Sure enough, there is his own god damn van parked not too far away.

The van’s passenger door opens and, unexpectedly, his little red-headed neighbor jumps out. Max. He’s never offered to drive her to school before; they’ve barely exchanged words since the Mayfields moved to Forest Hills last year. 

Max looks utterly pissed (typical, as far as he knows) and stomps towards the school building without so much as a nod to the van’s driver… who appears to be none other than the van's rightful owner, Eddie Munson.  

SHIT.

‘Eddie’ gets out of the van and puts his hands on his hips. Eddie’s jaw drops when he realizes that his own dark eyes are zeroed in on him. 

Everything else that has happened so far has already made this the most batshit, craziest day of Eddie’s life.

But seeing himself at a distance, moving and living independently from his own will, makes him feel untethered from reality completely. Whatever little balloon string was still clinging on, tying him to the ground? It snaps.

And shit, he is stupid. He is so stupid. His life's work is scheming up complicated storylines and unexpected twists and this frankly obvious plot point occurred to him not once all morning??

This isn’t possession, or transformation. It’s not some jealous fairy’s spell, turning him into an ass. 

“Mind Swap,” he says, solemnly.

“What?” Dustin asks. Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin (Harrington's skin). He was so busy staring at himself and internally having a crisis, he forgot that Dustin is still just trying to figure out his ride home from school. 

“Nothing!” Eddie says quickly. 

To his increasing horror, ‘Eddie’ is now stalking towards them. Eddie fights a panicked urge to yank Dustin back into the car and drive off as fast as Harrington’s douchey car will go.

‘Eddie’ stops a few feet away, his hands back on his hips. He looks pissed, but not like, enraged. More like... Mrs. Henderson that time she caught Eddie and Dustin eating dessert before she served them dinner.

For several long, eternal moments, they just stare at each other. ‘Eddie’ has a knit hat crammed over his hair and he’s wearing Wayne’s old hunting jacket—probably because Eddie himself refuses to own a winter coat. (It doesn't fit his aesthetic.)

“What’s up with you guys?” Dustin demands, his voice cracking. “Are you gonna fight or something??” He rounds on Eddie and waves his hands in front of his face. “Hello! Steve, you’re not supposed to fight! Not unless it’s code red. ” 

Whatever that means.

He turns to Steve and says, “Eddie, don’t you dare let Steve fight you!” 

Eddie can only laugh at the idea of him letting Harrington do anything.

For all his douchebaggery, Harrington was never particularly violent when he was in school. Which might be why whenever he does get in a fight, he always seems to come out looking worse than the other guy. Two years ago there were even rumors that Billy Hargrove (RIP, but also, fuck that guy) had almost killed him. That could definitely explain Dustin’s anxiety.

But Eddie has been walking around in Steve’s annoyingly strong, athletic body all morning, and he is dead certain that under normal circumstances, a fight between the two of them would be laughably short and end with Eddie’s entire ass being handed to him.

Putting on the performance of a lifetime, Eddie manages to smile at Dustin and say, “Relax man, we’ve just got some business to take care of.” 

Dustin does visibly relax but he rolls his eyes. “You can just say you’re buying drugs, I’m not a kid anymore.” He turns to ‘ Eddie’ and says, “Can you give me a ride home after school?” 

“Sure,” ‘Eddie’ nods. He reaches out (Eddie’s hand!), mushes Dustin’s hat against his hair, then looks startled (with Eddie’s face!!), like he hadn’t consciously meant to do that at all.

Dustin just straightens his hat and says, “Oookay. Good luck with your business, I guess.” He gives them both a long, exaggerated reproachful look before running off.

The first bell blares out. There is an immediate uptick of movement around them, kids grumbling and laughing and stomping on half-finished cigarettes as they make their way inside. 

A few people give them odd looks as they pass. Which is reasonable; they are an odd pair. 

“Come on,” ‘ Eddie’ says with a sigh, and turns away. 

Two words. Two syllables. But Eddie decides that hearing his own voice come out of a mouth that isn’t his, or that is his, but that he isn’t controlling, is somehow even crazier than seeing his own body from the outside.

‘Eddie’ (Harrington) looks back, clearly expecting Eddie to follow.

“Christ,” Eddie mutters, “Shit. Jesus Christ.”

But he hasn’t thought any of this through so far, so why start now? 

He follows.

Chapter Text

Is Steve confused when he wakes up to an alarm that isn’t his and finds himself in a tiny, cluttered, and completely unfamiliar bedroom? 

Yes. Very. 

Not that it’s the weirdest place he’s ever woken up unexpectedly. That questionable honor goes to the backseat of Billy Hargrove’s car, where Steve painfully dragged himself into consciousness post ass-kicking and found himself on the way to set fire to a nest of monsters with a 13-year-old in the damn driver’s seat.

He feels kind of awful now too, not like he got beat to shit but just… off. Normally, he’s ‘bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed’ as soon as he wakes up (Robin’s phrasing; she always says it like Steve’s ability to function at 6 a.m. is personally offensive to her), but his brain feels syrupy and his eyelids are so heavy he doesn’t care whose bed this is as long as he can keep sleeping in it.

Is he shocked when he finally drags himself up, leans around a weirdly pointy guitar to peer in the mirror, and sees Eddie Munson’s face looking back at him? 

Absolutely. He spends several minutes fully freaking out about it.

Then he forces himself to breathe slowly, in and out (even though feeling the movement in a lanky chest and shoulders that aren’t his nearly launches him into Freak-Out Part 2), and tries to just think for a minute. 

He needs to look at the information he has and figure out what the hell is going on. That’s what Nancy would do, or Henderson.

Steve’s not exactly the ‘ideas guy’ in their weird little group, but contacting Robin or Nancy or any of the kids right now to drop the surprise, the next round of absolutely insane shit is here! news is the last thing he wants to do—to any of them. So he can try.

He starts pacing around the way he’s seen Dustin do dozens of times, nearly tripping over a pile of clothes left haphazardly on the floor. What info does he have? 

He woke up in Munson’s body, in what is clearly Munson’s bedroom judging by all the posters for what Steve assumes are rock bands (none he’s ever heard of) and weird fantasy shit probably related to the kids’ dragon game, or whatever. Most of the space is taken up by the bed and a big amp sitting on the floor. 

He can only imagine how loud that thing is when it’s plugged into the pointy guitar. 

His eyes catch on one poster in particular—it features the face of a very creepy looking goat (?) inside an upside down star along with the words ‘welcome to hell.’ 

Shit. Well, that’s one idea.

Everyone knows the rumors about Munson. Not just that he sells drugs (that’s more of a well-known fact than a rumor) or the one about how he once stabbed a guy who tried to underpay for weed.

The spookier rumors, the ones about cults and witchcraft and shit like that.

Munson’s always blasting his angry music, always wearing accessories that look like weapons and shirts with, like, demon faces on them. And, Steve recalls, he literally growls at people, just in the cafeteria or the hallway or wherever at school. For no reason. 

Eddie Munson doesn’t go out of his way to act like he’s not some kind of weirdo devil worshiper.

Steve doesn’t believe in ‘the devil,’ obviously. Monsters? Of course. But all that bible stuff? No. He’s stupidly grateful that his parents aren’t religious on top of being assholes. He’s never had to deal with more than occasionally being dragged to church on holidays (so his parents can schmooze with other assholes who are also pretending to care about church).

But monsters are real. And so are other dimensions, and super powers. Maybe ‘witchcraft’ or something like it isn’t totally out of the question. Maybe Munson was messing around with some… spell, or something, and this is a weird side effect. 

Maybe it's like if El did her psycho-projection stuff and accidentally came back to the wrong body instead of her own. That seems plausible! Right?? 

Steve’s not sure if this kind of thing has ever happened to El, but he’s definitely not going to call and ask her. Anything about her powers has got to be a touchy subject for the kid. Hey Eleven, long time no see. By the way, before you tragically lost your superpowers after saving everyone’s lives yet again, did you ever accidentally switch bodies with someone else?

Yeah, no.

And, if Munson really is out there walking around in Steve’s body right now, there’s a chance that it wasn’t an accident. That Munson did whatever he did on purpose.  

Steve can guess why. When he steps outside the bedroom, he can see that the entire home isn’t much bigger, and he can see the Mayfields' trailer out the window, right across the narrow gravel road, which confirms where he is.

The Forest Hills trailer park is a far cry from Loch Nora. 

Maybe Munson got tired of being broke and an outcast and wanted to try out the ‘pampered rich boy’ lifestyle. Maybe he thinks Steve’s life is just a carefree walk in the park.

“Joke’s on him,” Steve mutters. His (Eddie’s) voice feels low and gratey in his throat, and his hand catches on tangled curls when he tries to run it through his hair. 

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do now, but whatever it is, he’s not going to do it in Eddie Munson’s pajamas. (Even if the old t-shirt and sweatpants are really soft and thankfully, lacking anything Satanic-looking.)

He finds the tiny bathroom easily enough, startles at the sight of Eddie’s face in the mirror even though he knew it was coming, and then groans when he sweeps aside the shower curtain and finds only a bar of soap and a bottle labeled ‘shampoo + conditioner’ perched on the side of the narrow tub.

With all of this hair?? No fucking way.

He ends up digging through cabinets in the compact kitchen. His eyes light up when he spots a bottle of olive oil, about a third of it left. “You’ll do,” he says, grinning to himself.

And then he’s caught up in a vivid memory from a couple years ago of sitting on the floor with Nancy in the Wheelers’ kitchen, unable to stop laughing at each other with towels around their shoulders and their heads wrapped in shower caps, the whole room smelling exactly like it did when Mrs. Wheeler made pasta from scratch. 

Nance had gotten the idea from a magazine—apparently ‘deep moisturizing’ your hair with food products was a hot beauty tip, and olive oil seemed way less gross than trying it with eggs or mayonnaise. Steve insisted on joining the experiment, partially because he was always on the lookout for potential upgrades to his strict haircare routine, and partially because he knew it would make Nancy laugh.

After, his own hair had been shiny but too heavy, missing the trademark swoop he could rely on from his Fabergé products. But Nancy’s wavy hair had settled into curls, especially when she combed it with her fingers instead of a hairbrush (per the magazine’s orders), and it had been so soft to touch… 

That was back before she started perming her hair. And before they broke up, obviously.

“Should you be cooking breakfast this close to school?” The deep voice, dripping with that rural Indiana drawl you hear from farm families and other Hawkins ‘lifers,’ interrupts Steve’s thoughts and he whirls around, still guiltily clutching the bottle of oil.

An older guy stands a few feet away, clearly just having walked in the front door—he’s still wearing a parka that is stained with what looks like oil (motor, not olive) and a trapper hat which he pulls off to reveal scruffy, receding hair. He’s sort of familiar, but only in the way that most people in Hawkins are at least sort of familiar to each other, and he reeks of cigarettes. 

Even panicking feels different in this body. It’s not the sinking weight and steel grip in his chest that Steve's used to (probably too used to). It feels more frantic, like... a little bird trying to break out of a cage. 

He hadn’t been expecting to see anyone, to have to talk to anyone. At least, not yet. He never has to worry about that in his own house (Robin crashing in his bed every now and then notwithstanding). And he had no idea Munson lived with another person. It seems kind of crazy for two people to live in a place this small—

—that’s a shitty thought. Max and her mom share the same kind of trailer, literally across the street. Get it together, man. He tries to come up with a response.

“Oh, uh… no,” he says. He tries not to cringe at the odd sensation of Munson’s voice in his throat. “Nope. Not cooking. Just gonna shower.” He waves the bottle. “Gonna try this in my hair, it makes it, um, smoother? Someone told me about it. That’s all.” 

He realizes he probably sounds nuts. The older guy doesn’t have much hair and definitely doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would be interested in hair care even if he did.

The guy ever so slightly raises an eyebrow and says impassively, “Trying to impress someone, huh? A girl, maybe?” 

Steve nearly drops the bottle, then laughs nervously, “Uhhh yeah. Something like that.” Because saying, No, this ridiculous mane of hair isn’t mine and I need it to be more manageable, would definitely be insane.

He hopes that will be the end of this unexpected interaction. Instead, the guy comes closer and puts a warm hand on his shoulder. 

There’s no hint of a smile on his weathered face, but his tone is sincere when he says, “You’re a good kid, Eddie. I know sometimes you pretend you aren’t for your…” he waves a hand vaguely, “image and what have you, but you’ve never fooled me with all that stuff. Any girl would be lucky to have you.” He pauses thoughtfully and then adds, “Anyone would.” 

It’s so outrageously different from anything Steve has ever heard from his own family, he’s caught off guard. And he feels suddenly guilty, like he’s taken this moment that should have been Eddie’s.

Steve’s father has given him dating ‘advice.’ He’s done it since Steve was a kid, since before he was old enough to even think about dating. And it’s not really advice, but stuff like, don’t marry a girl who’s smart, she’ll only make you miserable. And, you can have any girl in this town, Steve, but never forget it’s only because they’re after your money.

It’s always said casually, even half-distracted while his dad reads the paper or watches golf on the television, like these are just basic facts of life that don’t require further discussion. Like it doesn’t matter that, even now, Steve will be out on a date and it’s like that shit is playing on a tiny loop in his head. It just makes him miserable about whatever girl he’s seeing, and even more miserable about himself.

Now his chest feels warm and tears start to pool in his eyes, which is bizarre. When was the last time he actually cried, tears and all?

Whatever he’s feeling, it’s just too big to express it any other way. “Thanks, Dad,” he says out loud, before he realizes he’s doing it.

Dumbass. This guy isn’t Eddie’s father; the local rumor mill would have been on high alert if Munson Sr. was getting out of prison anytime soon.

Steve reminds himself that, whoever he is, the man is not saying these kind things about him. But apparently he’s so pathetic that any random stranger who sounds approving and fatherly in his direction makes him crumble. Great.

The man pulls his hand off Steve’s (Eddie’s) shoulder, but it’s just so he can hastily dash tears away from his own eyes. Then he laughs and says, “Shit, kid, what has gotten into you?”

Steve doesn’t know what to say. Part of him wants to say something, anything, to get the guy to stay—to keep talking in this way that feels so unnaturally natural, and warm.

But then the man claps him on the shoulder and says, “I’m going to bed. Hurry up with that hair business or you’ll be late.” His tone is more brusque now, and Steve gets the hint that the little heartfelt chat is over. A strong sense of loss blooms in his chest, but the tears stop and his head clears.

It’s weird, almost like different parts of him (or Eddie?) are responding in different ways. 

‘Bed’ turns out to be a small, folding mattress in the living room. The guy must work night shifts and sleep during the day, which seems really rough when Steve tries to imagine it. He tiptoes back to the bathroom to finish getting ready as quietly as possible.

Being in this body is weird, but moving around in it is even weirder. Munson’s scrawnier than Steve, and kind of a klutz. Or maybe Steve’s just clumsy because these aren’t his own damn arms and legs.

After pulling Munson’s t-shirt over his head, he notices another weird thing: tattoos. Several of them, the blue-black ink harsh against Munson’s pale skin. 

Steve would never get a tattoo in a thousand years, so he’s surprised when he finds himself thinking that on Munson… they actually look pretty cool.

Showering is the weirdest. No question. But Steve tries not to overthink it (‘it’ being washing a naked body that is very much not his). 

It’s not that different from showering after gym class, or with the team after a game, right? You just kind of keep your eyes up and think of the least sexy thing you possibly can. Steve’s go-to has always been trying to do math problems in his head, or failing to think of any, picturing that creepy purple monster they use to advertise McDonald’s (because what the hell even is that?). 

Worst-case scenario, emergencies only, like Tommy H leaning over until they’re both under the same showerhead and flashing his shit-eating grin while insulting Steve’s moves during the game, and all Steve’s stupid, messed up brain can think about is the time in fifth grade his (ex)best friend kissed him as a joke—in that kind of emergency, picturing a demogorgon in vivid detail is a really successful boner-killer.

Steve takes a breath. It’s just a shower. This whole situation is unbelievably weird, but showering doesn’t have to be weird.

By the time he’s massaging olive oil into his (Eddie’s) hair, his mind is fully not cooperating with his attempts to focus on algebra and baffling fast food mascots. But his thoughts aren’t on Munson’s body either (and definitely not on any parts of it that are, Steve briefly allows himself to notice, surprisingly impressive). 

His thoughts are just on Munson. And how, actually, Steve doesn’t know anything about him.

He is aware of Eddie Munson, the occasional side character in local gossip circles with his weirdo, demonic schtick and his jailbird father.

And Eddie Munson, the super-super senior (Eddie was at Hawkins High all four years Steve was, including his second senior year which was Steve’s first and only, thank god). 

And Eddie Munson, the ‘freak’ (Steve has been personally, theatrically antagonized along with the rest of the basketball team), and the drug dealer (bought weed from him a couple times even though Munson always upcharges the jocks).

And finally, annoyingly, he is aware of Eddie Munson, the unlikely new role model to three of Steve’s gremlins.

He feels like he doesn’t know anything about Eddie Munson, the person. 

Figure it out, dude. What do you know?

He knows that Dustin’s eyes light up whenever he talks about Eddie—and Steve has to bite back his jealousy every time. Which is stupid. Dustin doesn’t belong to him, and the kid deserves to have more people in his life who care about him. And who can actually connect with him about his interests. 

Steve doesn’t have to feel threatened just because he doesn’t ‘get’ the dragon game, or because it feels like Henderson has been coming to him less often for advice lately and it’s probably because he has someone ‘cooler’ to look up to now…

And Wheeler is completely under Munson’s spell (but hopefully not literally). Growing his hair out, listening to noisy music Steve doesn’t recognize—which Mike loves to talk about in a superior tone if Steve asks.

Sometimes Steve asks even on the rare occasion he has heard of the band, just because Mike gets such a kick out of it. Plus it’s more interesting than all the nerd game or science stuff the kid usually goes on about whenever he deigns to drop the ‘moody teen’ act around Steve.

It’s kind of different, with Sinclair. The kid will still roll his eyes now and then, but back in September he came to Steve for help getting ready for basketball tryouts. Lucas perfected his power layup in just a couple hours, a move that he pulled off against an overexcited defender during tryouts which definitely helped him earn his spot on the team. 

Steve would love to see Eddie Munson try that! 

It sucks that Lucas is struggling to navigate between social cliques, and Steve doesn’t have much advice to offer. It’s not like he was ‘Mr. Open-Minded’ about socializing when he was in high school. A couple years ago he would have told Lucas to ditch the nerds and focus on looking good and getting popular. No question. But even if he doesn’t say it in so many words, Lucas wants to impress Eddie too.

So… Steve knows that Munson has the approval of three twerps whose judgment he (begrudgingly, somewhat, occasionally) trusts. And now, he knows that Munson lives with a kind parental figure who thinks he is a ‘good kid.’ Those parts aren’t exactly adding up with the whole evil-Satan-witchcraft-guy theory.

Steve nearly does a full-on victory dance when he finds a hair dryer under the sink. It looks ancient and like it might potentially set him on fire, but it turns on when he plugs it in. His mind is still racing as he dries his (Eddie’s) hair quickly and pulls on clothes he finds folded in a laundry basket in the bedroom (which he assumes/hopes are clean). 

Racing but coming up blank again and again. He needs more information, and as much as he wants to avoid it, he needs help from someone smarter than him to put it together. Robin cracked a literal secret Russian code in one day, maybe if she were here she would have already figured out what he should do.

Holy shit.

He’s struck with two critical realizations at the same time.

What if the Russians are back? What if they’re the ones behind this?? They could have some kind of, like, crazy brain-switching machine that they’re… testing out on the unsuspecting population of Hawkins before they use it to… like… destroy America!

He’s kind of proud of himself for coming up with that one. It sounds like something out of a cheesy sci-fi movie like the kids make him watch with them on the occasions they take advantage of his 25” TV and perpetually restocked popcorn and soda, but he saw the Russians’ giant machine opening a gate into the Upside Down with his own eyes. Anything seems possible at this point.

He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge that the scariest part about this theory, the thing that has that frantic-little-bird feeling beating in his chest again, is that the Russians could be back in Hawkins, period. 

They could be looking for him and Robin. Or worse, they could be looking for Dustin Henderson. Because Steve told them his full name.

For a moment it feels like the panic really is going to bust out of his ribs and take flight. But he manages to calm himself down from that old song and dance by focusing on his other critical realization: Robin needs a ride to school. 

Robin, very much unlike Steve back when he was a student, doesn’t just casually miss school. She’s still holding out for some scholarships that could get her out of Indiana for college. Steve tries not to think about it because his thoughts always end up in a dumb stalemate: if Robin leaves, he can’t imagine not going with her, but he also can’t imagine not staying in Hawkins to—

—to do what? Fight more monsters? Try and stop the kids from directly and intentionally running into danger? Protect them when they inevitably do it anyway? 

Usually he just forces himself to end that thought with ‘to keep an eye on things.’  

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to think about it right now. He just has to support Robin however he can, and that includes getting her ass to school on time. How would she respond if he just, like, showed up at her house as Eddie? Maybe he could say ‘Steve’ is sick and asked him to give her a ride…?

More likely, he’s going to have to tell Robin the truth and get her wrapped up in whatever horrible shit is going on. Again. 

He thinks about the feeling of waking up next to her, how much better he feels about everything when her head is pressed against his chest, her hair tickling his nose with the fruity scent of her shampoo. It’ll be after long nights of snacking and gossiping with dumb movies playing in the background, or after even longer nights of quietly freaking out in each other’s arms, taking turns being the ‘strong one' (because Robin knows, even without him asking, that sometimes he needs to be the one who isn't).

He always, always wakes up first, while Robin snores like a dead weight half on top of him getting her best sleep in the early morning hours. She usually kicks the covers off sometime before then, but she’s warmer than a blanket anyway. Steve’s happy to be her pillow in return, and to let her sleep until the last possible second.

It’s been a while since they woke up like that—a while since they’ve needed to. 

His (Eddie’s) hands shake slightly when he dials Robin number on the phone in the kitchen, his eyes on the figure snoring under a blanket just a few feet away. He keeps his voice as low as possible when Mrs. Buckley answers and he asks, “Is Robin there? This is, um… a friend from school.” 

It’s quiet like he intended, but also like, really low and kind of raspy. Steve’s pretty sure his own voice could never do that.

Mrs. Buckley sounds annoyed when she responds. Both of Robin’s parents work, so maybe he caught her on her way out the door. He quickly thanks her and hangs up.  

What she said was: Steve just picked her up for school.

It’s pretty freaky to hear her talk about ‘Steve’ doing anything that he did not do. And it raises a big question: If Munson really is running around in Steve’s body, why would he bother driving Robin to school? It doesn’t make any sense.

According to the nice (and, thankfully, still asleep) man, Eddie is supposed to go to school today too. (Why he keeps going back after failing to graduate twice is beyond Steve, who might actually prefer a second Russian invasion to suffering through another day of high school—nope, too soon.)

But it means no one will question ‘Eddie’ showing up there.

He spends what feels like eternity scrambling around for the keys to Munson’s van (before triumphantly locating them inside the pocket of a pair of jeans bunched up on the bedroom floor), grabs the first coat and hat he can get his hands on, and nearly falls on his face jumping down the trailer’s short front steps and running to the van. 

Then he loses another several precious minutes coaxing the old scrap-heap to start. Each time he turns the key, the van makes a high-pitched sound like it's coughing or protesting its own continued existence. And when the van finally roars to life, he’s treated to an onslaught of noise and incomprehensible yelling (that might be music) blaring from the tinny speakers and nearly has a heart attack. 

“God dammit, Munson,” he hisses, shutting the radio off and pressing one hand to his chest (before remembering it’s Eddie’s chest and snatching it away).

When he finally backs out onto the gravel road—with the heat cranked all the way up but somehow still only blowing out freezing air—he thinks that if he breaks every speed limit between here and the school, he might just be able to beat them there.

Then he sees a familiar flash of orange-red amidst all the winter gray, and his foot hits the brake (he’s relieved that the van stops short; at least its brake pads aren’t as worn down as the rest of it) because Max has just stomped down the steps of her own trailer and looks like she’s about to jump on her skateboard. 

Steve doesn’t even bother to think about whether or not it’s a good idea, he just calls out, “Hey! Mayfield!” while furiously cranking down the window. 

She turns to stare at him, arching one red eyebrow and saying nothing. 

“I’ll drive you to school,” he offers, “It’s too icy out here. You’re gonna break your face on that thing.” 

She somehow manages to look even more skeptical and shoots back, “What do you care?” 

God, it’s like he can see the walls she is throwing up around herself, shutting everyone else out. Maybe it shouldn’t hurt given that (as far as Steve knows) Max doesn’t know Eddie all that well, but somehow it feels just as bad as it does when she cold-shoulders Steve, or any of the rest of them.

He realizes abruptly that this is an unexpected chance to talk to her, maybe find out what’s going on and... he doesn’t know. But do something to help. Max has made it very clear she won’t talk to Steve or any of the boys. He hopes that she talks to El sometimes, but he has no idea. It’s not like he’s regularly placing long distance calls to the Byers house himself.

But if Max won’t talk to her friends, maybe she’ll be willing to talk to someone else.

“Come on dude, it’s freezing,” he says. Maybe a little too desperately, he’s gotta back off. Act like you don't care.

Max rolls her eyes and drops her skateboard so that it rests under her foot. “I take the bus, dumbass, I’m not skating all the way to school.” 

Oh. “Fine,” Steve says, this time like it doesn’t actually matter to him one way or the other, “If you’d rather start your morning being stuck on a smelly, crowded bus, that’s your choice.”

That gets to her, just like he thought it would; her whole M.O. lately has been avoiding people. At least ‘Eddie’ is only one person. She sighs angrily, kicks her board back into her hand, and says, “You’d better not be kidnapping me, weirdo,” as she makes her way around to the passenger side.

Steve grins and taps his fist on the steering wheel in victory before adopting a bored expression as she hops in and slams the door. 

“Seatbelt,” Steve reminds her. He didn’t even mean to do it, it’s just second nature at this point. Probably not something Munson enforces too strictly, if Steve had to guess.

Max rolls her eyes but locates the old lap belt and clicks it in place. Then she shoves her headphones over her ears and leans her head against the window, clearly uninterested in spending any of this time together chatting.

Steve drives fast, but not as fast as he would if he didn’t have a passenger. He just has to hope he’s not too far behind.

And he has to get Max to start talking somehow. They’re barely out of the trailer park when he asks (loud enough that he thinks she can hear it over her walkman), “So what’s your deal?” 

Max nudges one ear cushion aside and says incredulously, “My deal?”

“Yeah, you know,” Steve says like he’s not cringing internally at his own awkwardness. “Like… who are you? What do you like to do?”

Robin is right, he really does suck when he’s not just being himself. At first Max says nothing, and he wonders if she’s just going to ignore him. Which would be fair, honestly. 

Then she says, “Well, I’m Max Mayfield. And I like to not be interrogated by weird guys who have lured me into their van.” 

Steve barks out a laugh at that, the sound catching himself off guard. It’s a nice sound, Munson’s laugh. Feels deep and light at the same time. 

And it’s nice to hear Max sound like herself. Clever, kind of mean, but not angry.

He keeps going. “Why don’t you ever come to, uh,” for two seconds, he can acutely feel his heartbeat as his brain scrambles for the name of the club. Then, “Hellfire! Aren’t you friends with Dustin and all them?”

“No,” Max answers, her tone defensive. Steve glances at her, catches her eyes shifting to look back out the window. More quietly she amends, “I mean, yeah. I guess. We’re friends.” 

Huh. That could be kind of a good sign? “Didn’t realize that was a difficult question,” Steve says lightly.

“It’s not,” she snaps. Then, he can tell she’s softening her tone on purpose when she grumbles, “It’s just complicated, okay? Why do you care?”  

This time, Steve feels confident answering as himself. “I care about those shitheads, and they care about you. I don’t think they would do that if you weren’t worth caring about.”

Max snorts at ‘shitheads,’ and then says, “Right, Mike Wheeler seems like a really good judge of character.” 

Steve just smiles and says, “Mike’s got a good heart. When he’s not being a dick.” He’s rewarded with another snort and this one’s even closer to a real laugh. Then she shifts slightly, away from the window, and looks at him consideringly. 

“What’s your deal?” she asks. It could easily be her segue into a mean comment, but Steve thinks she’s being genuine. 

Which is great progress! Unfortunately, he has no idea how to answer that question. “Uhhhh, you know,” he says, even though he very much does not know. “I have my club thing, at school. And I…” he thinks back to the guitar in its place of honor blocking the mirror in Eddie’s bedroom, “Play in a band.” 

Max is staring at him now and silent for an excruciating moment before she observes, “You’re a lot more eloquent when you’re making speeches on top of lunch tables, did you know that?” 

Steve chuckles, relieved. “Yeah, well, I haven’t had coffee yet. I don’t really start jumping on furniture until then.”

When he navigates the van through the school lot, Max is actually (sort of) smiling. 

Steve is feeling downright triumphant as he smoothly pulls the van into a parking spot. “So, maybe you and the other kids should hang out more?” he says while he shuts off the ignition. The engine scrapes to a halt, and he turns to smile encouragingly at her. “I think they miss you.” 

At that, Max’s own almost-smile disappears. She grabs up her backpack and skateboard, shoves the door open, and snaps, “Thanks, I’ll let you know when I need more advice from someone who can’t mind their own business.” Then she slams the door behind her and stalks off toward the school.

Steve groans and rests his head on the steering wheel for a moment. That was terrible, and he still has no idea what’s going on with her. Hopefully he didn't make anything worse.

Then he looks up and sees it—his own damn car. And there's Robin, headed away from it toward the school. She looks totally normal, not like anything is wrong.

Munson really did just give her a ride for some reason. 

He can see Henderson, who is talking to someone (not hard to guess who) but looking past him, across the lot, and right at Steve. 

Does Dustin already know? Did the little smartass figure it out? Did Munson tell him??

Steve doesn’t freak out when he sees ‘himself’ turn around, or when their eyes meet. It’s like when he’s facing any monster: he doesn’t think, he just goes.

Chapter Text

Eddie feels a strange calm while trailing behind himself (or, presumably, Steve Harrington inhabiting Eddie’s body) who leads the way to the alley behind the gym. Ah yes, the time honored site of many over-dramatic showdowns between high schoolers in need of privacy. Where else would they go?

Eddie used to sell in this exact spot sophomore year until one close call with a nosy teacher forced him to abruptly swallow all the incriminating evidence. The nightmare 10-ish hours he experienced a bit later inspired him to claim an old, abandoned picnic table just off school grounds for sales after that.

Harrington is silent the whole time and doesn’t look at Eddie, whereas Eddie can’t stop staring—at his body briefly stumbling on a rock and then righting itself, his face scanning all around them with a sour expression. He watches himself lean back against the brick wall in the alley, exhale a deep sigh and, finally, turn to Eddie with a scathing look. 

That half-funny ‘annoyed mom’ energy has apparently been left behind now that they’re alone. Eddie finds himself retreating a few steps until he bumps up against the opposite wall. It’s an oddly severe expression to see on his own face; he’s pretty sure he doesn’t even look at the basketball jocks like that and he fucking hates those guys. 

He wonders if he’s about to be physically attacked after all, feels himself planting his feet so he’ll be ready to take the punch. Eddie has never prepared to take a punch in his life, especially when an escape route is right there.

And that would be kind of stupid, right? Why would Harrington injure his own body? Maybe Eddie is imagining the threat. Maybe this is just what other people see when they look at him, even without all his usual leather and sharp jewelry, the proverbial armor. 

Their breaths form silent white clouds between them, meeting in the middle just as they disappear. Eddie’s mind is casting about wildly for something he can say when he, Harrington, beats him to it. 

“Dude, what did you do to my hair?” he asks. 

Eddie feels his jaw drop open. If this isn’t going to be a fight, he had kind of expected the first words between them to be more along the lines of, what the fuck is going on? He hears himself respond, “Uhh…” intelligently. 

At least this confirms one thing, if he had any remaining doubts: no question that the person occupying Eddie Munson’s body is Steve The Hair Harrington. 

Harrington keeps going, clearly warming to the topic now that he’s found it. “It looks terrible, you can’t just go walking around like that,” he scolds Eddie— scolds! Then he pulls off the knit hat, steps forward to hold it out to Eddie with the clear implication that he should put it on, and Eddie watches his own hair tumble down around his shoulders in unfamiliar, shiny curls. 

Harrington’s voice shoots up an octave in Eddie’s throat. “What did you do to my hair?” he screeches.

His hair looks big, kind of like when Eddie teases it out into a glorious monstrosity before a show, but it’s so… nice. Did this guy just wake up in the wrong body, look in a mirror, and think to himself, goodbye Steve Harris, hello Sigourney Weaver ? 

And how did he do it? Eddie gasps, “Did you wash my hair? Did you take a shower??” 

“You didn’t shower?” Harrington shoots back, a question and an accusation. As if he’s the one who’s been wronged here!

Eddie thinks a sensible reaction to all this would be embarrassment, shame, maybe even disgust, but all he can feel is white hot panic; it flashes through him before settling heavily behind his sternum like a steel grip around his heart. Meanwhile, his brain short circuits trying to process that Steve Harrington, apparently, 1) has seen Eddie fully naked, and 2) is somehow offended that Eddie didn’t avail himself of the Harrington full monty in return. 

Is this normal behavior for straight boys or have they crossed into ‘bizarro world’ on top of switching bodies? That really seems like overkill, from a storytelling perspective.

Distantly, Eddie hears the second bell ring. He flinches when Harrington closes the space between them, but he’s surprisingly gentle as he tugs the hat over Eddie’s head. “Please don’t just walk around as me without bathing, man, my reputation can’t take any more hits,” Harrington grumbles. 

Without warning, he leans over and sniffs Eddie, his nose almost pressed into the skin exposed above his coat collar, and Eddie can feel the blood rushing to his face, his cheeks stinging with more heat in the freezing air. He jerks back, banging his shoulder into the brick wall, and warns, “Dude, do NOT smell me!”

“I’m not smelling you, I’m smelling me,” Harrington says, like Eddie is being dense, “And you smell really good, actually, so that’s a relief.” 

With a flash of anger, Eddie feels his wits come back to him (sort of). He dips into a sweeping bow, which thankfully forces Harrington to take a few steps back, and sneers, “And how grateful I am that King Steve Harrington’s reputation survives another day.”

Harrington doesn’t respond immediately, almost like he’s trying to suss out the meaning of Eddie’s admittedly theatrical response. Then he frowns and says, “Look, if you’re trying to take over my life or something—”

Eddie gasps out a wordless shriek, then, “You think I did this? Why would I do this!?” 

“I don’t know,” Harrington shrugs Eddie’s shoulders and has the grace to at least seem a little doubtful. “Maybe you’ve got some idea in your head that my life is perfect? Or something? I can assure you it’s not—“

“You’re the one acting like this isn’t the craziest fucking thing that’s ever happened!” Eddie snaps. “How do I know you’re not the one behind this? If your life’s so shitty, maybe you wanted to switch places with me.” 

“Yeah,” Harrington continues, still suspiciously casual, “but you’re the one with all the,” he waves one of Eddie’s hands vaguely, “Satanic shit. So if anyone’s doing weird magic spells it’s probably you, right?” 

He crosses his arms and looks so smug that Eddie, despite not being a violent person, considers smacking his own face.

But something about Harrington’s apparent confidence that there is an identifiable explanation has the story gears turning in his head. He remembers his grave realization back in the parking lot and finds himself thinking out loud, “Mind Swap is a spell, but neither of us has to be the one who cast it. Someone else could be doing this to us. A high level magic user.”

Harrington scrunches his brows and a traitorous thought passes through Eddie’s mind that the expression would be cute on Harrington’s own face. He mentally squashes that right away, imagines the (wildly out of place!) fondness is a cigarette under his boot—not helpful.

“Okay…” Harrington says, nodding slowly, “So we’re looking for, what? Some kind of wizard? Or something?” 

“We’re not looking for anything,” Eddie sighs, “because magic isn’t real.”

Harrington reaches up and gently grasps his shoulder. He meets his eyes and says, “This seems pretty real to me.” He looks regretful. Like he’s genuinely sorry to deliver this terrible news to Eddie. 

Eddie barely hears him as an electric buzz coils through his borrowed body. It’s like all of his nerve endings zing up to his shoulder until each point of contact between them feels like a hot brand against his skin and for a moment the only thought left in his head is WANT… which is crazy. Steve’s fingers are bright red with cold, would probably feel like ice cubes to touch, and Eddie can’t even feel anything through the dorky parka he has on. 

Weirdly, after the zing, he starts to calm down. The weight in his chest loosens a little.

Then Harrington gives him a ‘manly’ clap on the shoulder and lets go. He clears his throat and says, “Look, I’ve got a Russian angle I can start with, and you can work on the wizard angle.” Like they’ve simply been assigned a group project and need to divvy up tasks.

“I’m sorry, what?” Eddie asks, trying to stay calm—to match Harrington’s even tone, “What angles? What does Russia have to do with anything?” 

“Sorry, I’m not actually the best at explaining this stuff,” Harrington sighs. He runs a hand through Eddie’s hair, his fingers combing smoothly through the softened curls, and Eddie swallows.

What stuff? he doesn’t ask. Instead, taking a guess, he asks, “Then who is?” 

The third bell rings before Harrington can answer and Eddie groans. Now he’s officially late, which is one more point against him and any hope of finally getting out of this godforsaken place with a diploma. 

The words are tumbling out before he can think better of it. “Harrington, this is absolutely insane, but I need you to go to class for me. Please. I will do literally anything,” he presses his palms together to show he is actually begging, “I can’t get another unexcused absence.” 

Then he snaps his mouth shut—welp, that wasn’t all his cards on the table, but probably enough of them to screw him. Admitting desperation is about the same as holding up a giant sign with the words ‘TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ME’ written on it. And I’ll do ‘literally anything’? Really, Munson?

He can’t imagine what Harrington is going to say, what he might ask him to do (if he doesn’t just laugh in Eddie’s face). But Harrington shrugs and says, “Yeah, man, of course.” Of course. Like it’s just that simple. “And I’m screwed too, okay? I got a shift at Family Video today and my manager is looking for any opportunity to fire me. I can’t lose this job.” 

Eddie feels his eyebrows shoot up. Huh. He considers Harrington for a moment, suddenly clocking the way his chest lightly rises and falls too quick and uneven, just like Eddie’s always does when he feels backed into a corner. He solemnly reaches out a hand. “You go be me at school, I’ll be you at work. Deal?”

Harrington doesn’t hesitate, just grasps Eddie’s hand and gives it a firm shake, and Eddie does his best not to show how the brief contact feels like fire on his cold fingers. He’s the one who breaks contact, extracting his hand and resolutely ignoring the accompanying weird flood of feelings. 

“Deal. Please, please go home and wash my hair,” Harrington says sternly. “Don’t let it dry all flat and weird, okay? And you have to come back here by 2:30 to pick up Robin for work.” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re working 3 to close tonight. I got it, Harrington,” Eddie says. Having something to do helps more of his typical ease creep back in. “And don’t forget,” he adds, going for ‘stern parent’ voice, “You’re giving Dustin a ride home.”

He turns to leave, feeling like overall and against all odds, he’s managed to play this pretty cool, but Harrington calls out, “Wait! What classes do you have?” 

“Shit,” Eddie sighs, “Check your pockets.” When Steve starts patting around the hunting jacket he amends, “Your pants pockets, dude.” 

Eddie writes constantly, and he also both acquires and loses pens constantly, so there’s at least a 50/50 chance he left one in the jeans Harrington has on…

Harrington’s (Eddie’s) face lights up in understanding when he triumphantly holds up a ballpoint pen with teeth marks all over the cap.

Crit hit. 

Without being asked, Harrington pulls one arm out of his jacket and rolls up his sleeve, and Eddie spends the next minute scribbling his class schedule onto the skin of his (his, really) forearm while their warm breaths mingle close, trying not to spontaneously combust.