Chapter Text
In hindsight, he was going to run into Eddie again eventually.
They’d been circling each other for months now – not-so-strangers existing in the same social stratosphere. Steve had graduated three years ago; had walked that stage with the express intent of never thinking about English, or Chemistry, or Nancy Wheeler, or Eddie Munson, ever again – and it had worked, for a time. But suddenly the boys have joined this new D&D club with an amazing DM, and Max’s metal-head neighbour is helping her with the groceries, and Robin’s made friends with the drug dealer at Tammy Thompson's house party, and in other news – our top story tonight – it’s all coming up Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
So Steve had done what he’s always done, and shoved the idea of seeing Eddie again into his mental glove compartment, packed alongside the other looming inevitabilities that he chooses not to think about, like seeing Nancy with Jonathan, or Dustin going to camp in the summer, or Robin moving out of state for university.
Despite his graduating grade, Steve isn’t stupid. He’d known that he’d run into Eddie eventually. He just wishes it hadn’t happened while he was bickering with a high schooler.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Steve says, arms crossed, “no licence, no Beemer.”
It’s late. They’re arguing over the hood of Dustin’s mother’s chunky station wagon, lit only by the pale afterthoughts of a distant streetlight and the curtained windows of the Wheeler residence. It’s quiet here, tucked away in a peaceful pocket of suburbia – not a sound but the wind, the crickets, and the shrill, nagging voice of one Dustin Henderson.
“All I’m saying is that you wouldn’t have been late if you’d driven the Beemer straight here—“
“And all I’m saying is that you need to watch your tone, Henderson. Frankly, it’s off-putting. How about showing a little respect for the person taking the time out of his day to do something nice for you?”
“Yes, Steve, thank you, Steve, anything you want, Steve. Y’know, we’re really starting to sound like—”
A flurry of movement distracts Steve from Dustin’s ramblings – a figure; male, hunched low, adorned with a mane of ragged curls, scrambling out of the hatch to the Wheelers’ basement. Dusting himself off, the figure looks to the left, the right, then, with the exaggerated stance of a burglar from a Saturday morning cartoon, tip-toes his way out of the Wheeler’s backyard.
“—a broken record at this point, like, ‘no licence, no Beemer, no licence, no Beemer’ and ‘yes, Steve, thank you, Steve, yes, Steve, thank you, Steve— ”
Steve’s eyes dart back to Dustin. Then back to the figure behind him. Then Dustin. Then back again – until the figure escapes from Steve’s periphery and into Dustin’s. Steve straightens, offering a silent prayer that he won’t notice the increasingly obvious interloper currently parading off into the street.
“Eddie! Hey, Eddie!” Dustin hisses. Fuck.
Eddie freezes, his back to them – hair bobbing, shoulders pressed tightly to his ears like a skittish animal.
“Eddie!”
He spins on his heel with a flourish, eyes darting to Steve for just a second, before landing on Dustin. He gestures to himself in faux confusion. ‘Me?’ he mouths, like he’s not the only other person within earshot.
“Come over here!”
Eddie squints, tilting his head in deliberation. Tucking his hands into the pockets of his ripped jeans, he turns his back to them – makes out as if he’s about to walk away, before swivelling dramatically, bounding up to Dustin with a cheeky grin.
Sometimes, Steve thinks, Eddie has the energy of an alley cat – eyes steely, assessing, carefully blank. Other times, he’s like a peacock, strutting proudly across the lunch tables in the cafeteria, feathers preened in an offensive display of social self-defence. Today, he’s a scrappy raccoon – hurried, jumpy, cute, in a raggedy way – like the kind that Steve used to catch shovelling through the dumpsters behind Family Video.
“Dustin,” he greets, coming to a stop in front of them.
“Eddie, this is Steve. Steve, this is Eddie,” Dustin introduces, bouncing on his heels.
They lock eyes. Eddie’s body language morphs, almost imperceptibly, into that of the alley cat – eyes, still, shoulders, hiked.
“Munson,” Steve says, carefully. “Still terrorising the locals, I see.”
Dustin clears his throat. “He’s not exactly on the best of terms with Mrs Wheeler,” he explains, “so we sneak him in and out for D&D nights.”
Eddie rolls his head towards Steve. “Not all of us can have your sterling reputation, Harrington. Least of all with the Wheelers.” He offers a pitying smile. “I heard about you and Nancy. Sucks, man.”
Steve feels the muscles in his jaw clench. “Yeah, well…” he starts. The end of the sentence escapes him. He isn’t sure it existed in the first place.
A silence stretches taut between them.
“Steve’s teaching me how to drive,” Henderson announces.
Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Is he now?” He glances at the station wagon, then back to Steve.
“I’m not allowed to drive the Beemer yet,” Dustin explains, surprisingly civil, “even though it’d be quicker—” Nevermind.
“No licence, no Beemer,” Steve echoes. “If I have to drive to yours first and pick up the HenderSedan for you, then that’s what I’ll do.”
“HenderSedan?” Eddie scoffs. “You haven’t changed one bit, Harrington.” A smile peeks out from beneath his curls – familiar, knowing – and it warms Steve as much as it rankles him.
“I have, actually,” he says, frowning. Then, because he can’t help himself— “Not that you’d know.”
Eddie’s gentle smile falls. Something hot and sharp coils tightly in Steve’s chest.
Eddie turns to Dustin. “You wanna drive the van instead?” he offers, twirling the keys around his fingers. Dustin’s eyes widen, but Steve’s already herding him into the driver’s seat of the HenderSedan.
“Steve, have I told you how much I appreciate— Steve, wait— Steve,” Dustin whines with all the force of a toddler in a teenager’s awkward body as he’s shoved unceremoniously against the gear stick.
“Absolutely not,” Steve says, shutting the driver's door on Dustin. He points an accusing finger at Eddie, the other hand slung against his hip, “Why’d you have to offer that, man?” he grits. “You and I both know that thing is practically a hearse.”
“Maybe once upon a time,” Eddie replies, “but I did a bit of work on the transmission a couple years back and she runs smooth nowadays.” He meets Steve’s eye. “Not that you’d know.”
Steve scoffs. “And whose fault is that?”
The challenge that had been burning in Eddie’s eyes withers away. Eddie nods to himself – once, twice, thrice – toying with the ring on his middle finger in a gesture so familiar it tightens the coils in Steve’s chest once more. “Right,” he murmurs, so softly it almost gets drowned in the silence.
Steve swallows. “Look—”
Eddie bounds up. “I’ll get out of your hair, Harrington,” he says, tapping the roof of the HenderSedan. “Adios, Dustin,” he proclaims.
“Bye Eddie!” Dustin yells back, muffled by the car window. Eddie chuckles, before striding down the street, raising his arm in a goodbye. Steve sighs, dragging a heavy hand down his face, as the sound of Eddie’s footsteps draw further and further away. He chews on his lip.
“Hey, Eddie,” Steve calls. Eddie stills, before turning to look back at him. Under the dim light, his eyes are wide and dark. Steve looks away, scratching at his chin. “It was good to see you, again.”
It’s silent for a beat, and Steve glances at Eddie to find him gazing back under furrowed brows, hands bunched into his pockets. “Yeah?” he asks, unsurely, as if speaking it aloud would make Steve take it back. The tension in Steve’s chest starts to unravel.
Steve nods. “Yeah.”
--
A passing streetlight scans past the interior of the HenderSedan as it rattles its way down the road. Dustin, slumped far too casually in the driver’s seat, peels his eyes off the road every few seconds to glance meaningfully at Steve.
“So…” Dustin drawls, fingers tapping against the steering wheel, “do you want to talk about it?”
“Sorry, talk about what?” Steve replies.
“Your temporary insanity back at the Wheeler’s, with Eddie? Did you bully him in high school? Is that what all of that was about? Because that would be so embarrassing, Steve, you have no idea…”
“No!” Steve protests, “No, I didn’t bully him, it wasn’t like I bullied people in high school.”
“So you’ve never shoved someone into a locker before?” Dustin asks. “Or put gum in someone’s curly hair? Or called a guy a ‘spineless freak’ to which he replies, 'Actually, I’m only missing my collarbones,’ to which you then threaten to knock out his two front teeth—”
“What, no! Dust – is someone bothering you at school? I told you, if you play it cool enough they’ll get bored eventually and pick a different target."
“I’m not being bullied. And I am very cool, Steve,” Dustin lisps. “Gnarly, even. One might even say, radical—”
“Keep going on like that and I might have to get back into bullying, Henderson,” Steve interrupts.
“Aha! Back into bullying?”
“Right.”
“So you were a bully?”
“No, I mean— turn right, here.”
“Oh shit.”
Steve grasps the passenger side door as Dustin swerves the HenderSedan too far to the right, then again as he overcorrects to the left, before holding her steady. They let out a synchronised exhale as the car rattles onward.
“So, hypothetically,” Dustin starts, “if someone were to be bothering me at school…”
Steve sits up straight. “Who is it? Is it Jason again? I swear to God, I'm gonna—”
“What, give him a stern talking to?” Dustin waves him off. “Lame, Steve. It’s not Jason, it’s just some mouthy football jock in the grade above. It's fine.”
Steve folds his arms. “It's bullshit is what it is,” he mutters, slumping back in his seat. “He's just some hairy-brained loser, Dust,” Steve continues, to which Dustin mouths ‘hairy-brained?’ under his breath. “You can’t let him get to you.”
Dustin chews on his lip. “Eddie says the school's social hierarchy is transactional. He says the only definitive way to make him stop messing with me is to hold something of value over him.”
“What, like drugs? Don’t tell me he’s asking you to deal drugs. I can’t believe you’re doing drugs, Dustin, I thought you were smarter than this!” Steve rushes.
“I’m not doing drugs, Steve,” Dustin huffs. “He only sells weed now. And last time I asked to buy from him he just laughed at me,” Dustin pouts. “I just wanted one mary-jooana. Just one!”
Steve lifts a finger to correct him, then thinks better of it, curling his hand by his side.
“What Eddie meant was that as long as I have something that football douche wants, he can’t touch me.” Dustin continues.
Steve scoffs. "He would say that," he mutters. Then, a moment later; “You told Eddie?”
“Uhh, of course I told Eddie. He was like, king of the freaks in your year, wasn't he? He’s kind of an expert at this stuff," Dustin replies. He glances over at Steve, once, twice, before casting his eyes back to the road. “Is… is that a problem?”
“No. No! Of course not,” Steve lies.
A beat passes.
“Are you sure you didn’t bully Eddie?” Dustin asks, eventually, “because he looked spooked when I introduced the two of you—”
“Yes, I’m sure, Dustin. I—” Steve swallows. “I left him alone.”
Dustin falls silent, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, and for a second Steve thinks the conversation's over, before: "You promise?"
"I promise."
--
Steve’s had a shitty week. His parents are up his ass about college and sports scholarships and ‘applying himself’, threatening to cut off his allowance if he doesn’t shape up his grades. He’d struck out pretty spectacularly with a girl on Friday – a girl that he’d actually liked. He had invited her and her friend to a pool party, but somewhere along the way he’d messed up, said the wrong thing, and the gathering was over almost as soon as it had begun. By Monday, the high school social wheel had weaved its wicked web, spun by resident gossipmonger Carol Perkins herself, and it was like all anyone was talking about was the newly red mark on the King’s once-perfect pickup record.
Now, he finds himself trudging morosely through the woods behind Hawkins, away from the whispers and the side-eyes and the chirps from Tommy that toe the line between friendly banter and character assassination. But as he emerges into a familiar clearing, he notices that he’s not alone.
Crouched in Steve’s own personal make out spot – the appropriately nicknamed ‘Skull Rock’ – is a boy. His figure is tall and lean, with a mass of curly dark brown hair that just clips past his ears, wearing a patchwork leather-denim jacket over a threadbare shirt. He’s dripping in jewellery; rings, ornamenting his fingers, chains slung from his hips, and a cigarette between his lips.
Eddie Munson. Nicknamed ‘The Freak’. Steve had been a freshman, and Eddie, a sophomore, when the older boy had staged a protest in the cafeteria because the school had scrapped lime Jell-O from the menu. He’d arrived at lunch dressed as a grey-robed wizard, yelled ‘Fireball!’ and proceeded to sling several wads of mashed potatoes at the faculty. Eddie was promptly exiled from the cafeteria for the rest of the school year, and forced to eat his lunch at the picnic table behind the school, where he made a very different name for himself as a purveyor of illicit substances. Now, as a senior, freed from his banishment, he’s adopted a less violent approach to his lunchtime antics, opting instead to prance atop the cafeteria tables, performing loud, improvised stage plays about the affliction of the bourgeois to unlucky passersby.
In other words - not exactly the person Steve was expecting.
“You can’t be here,” Steve says, marching into the clearing.
Eddie startles, blinking at him from under wide eyes. He pulls the cigarette from his lips. “Uh—and why’s that?”
“This—” Steve pauses, huffs in frustration, “this is my spot, okay?”
Eddie pushes himself off the rock, scoffing. “Oh, it’s yours, is it? Forgive me, your Highness,” he intones, “my peasant’s feet hath sullied thy sacred grounds.” He bows, mockingly.
Steve stares at him for a beat. “What.”
“Never again,” he monologues, “shalt mine filthy talons lay upon—”
“Are you fucking with me?” Steve interrupts.
Eddie blinks. “Uh— very clearly, yes?” He sighs. "C'mon man, I was really building up to something there."
“No, I mean…” Steve trails off, his foot tapping incessantly against the forest floor. “Did you write this?” He holds out a torn scrap of paper from a ruled notebook, adorned with a few, curly words.
Can we talk? Meet me at Skull Rock after school – Nancy
Eddie scans the note, eyebrows raised. “Not me,” His brows pinch as he leans closer. “And from the looks of it, likely not Nancy either. It seems someone’s pulled one over on you, Harrington.”
Steve blinks down at the note.
“You think Nancy Wheeler writes outside the lines like this? No way,” Eddie continues. Before Steve can react, Eddie snatches the note from his grip. Tracing the scribbled penmanship with his thumb, Eddie nods to himself. “But I can tell you who does.”
“Who?” Steve asks, making to grab for the note again.
“Nuh uh—” Eddie says, pulling the note away from his reach, “I’m gonna need an apology first.”
Steve chuckles, razor sharp. “For what, Munson?”
Eddie shrugs. “Interrupting my little ‘me time?’” he says, wiggling the cigarette between his fingers. “Amongst other things.”
“I’m allowed to be here,” Steve huffs, “it’s a public place.”
Eddie grins, feral – a predator, cornering his prey. “So now it’s a public place, is it? No longer a part of your kingdom, oh Steve the Terrible?”
“Fuck off,” Steve grits.
“Gonna need an apology for that one too, buster.”
Steve takes a breath. “I’m sorry,” he starts, squeezing the words out like they’re the last bit of toothpaste in the tube, “that you feel the need for an apology.”
Eddie takes a drag from his cigarette, and the smoke obscures his face for a moment as he exhales. “You’re not very sincere, are you?”
Steve jolts. A memory, a few days old, assaults him like the cloud of cigarette smoke, and fades just as quickly. ‘You’re being an insincere jerk right now, Steve,’ Nancy had said, her expression stormy, fingers clasped gently around her friend's wrist. He remembers the two of them, leaving him to sit by the pool, his brows furrowed, watching drops of blood turn dark and wispy in the water.
“What does that even mean, anyway?” he’s saying before he knows it. “What does it mean to be insincere? Because, let me tell you, I genuinely could not care about whatever is happening here, so by all accounts, I am being totally sincere.”
Eddie tuts, circling Steve. “That little tantrum wouldn’t have anything to do with this note here, would it?” he says, waving it in front of him. “Or perhaps a rumour I heard about a certain somebody striking out at a pool party?"
He twirls his fingers around a lock of his hair in his best impersonation of a gossipy schoolgirl. "Come on now, spill!” he jests, in a gesture that’s in complete contradiction with everything Steve’s associated with Eddie Munson, devil-worshipping mega-freak. Steve feels the corner of his lip tug upwards.
“You’re weird, man,” he says.
Eddie’s tongue peeks from between his teeth. “I’ll tell you who wrote the note if you tell me what’s got you all…” he swivels a finger in the air, “...wound up.”
Steve's hands fall to his hips. “What’s it to you?”
Eddie shrugs in response. “Colour me curious.”
Steve sighs. Something about Eddie makes Steve want to bare his chest, kneel to the ground - confess, like a sinner in church. "We'd had a few beers, shotgunning, right? Nancy's friend, she fumbled with the knife and ended up cutting her hand open.”
"Nancy’s friend? Wouldn't deign to know her name, would it?" Eddie scoffs.
"B- something? Betty?" Steve sighs. “And okay, fine, maybe it was more of a gash than a cut. There was a lot of blood. I just… asked… her not to get any in the pool.”
Eddie cackles, stumbling towards Steve, a finger jabbing at his chest. “That is what we in the business like to call an asshole move.”
Steve huffs, crossing his arms. “Hey, I apologised! It's not my fault Nancy didn’t take it well.”
“You apologised to Nancy?” Eddie guffaws. “Oh Harrington, you are certainly living up to the kind of insincere bullshit that your family’s famous for.” He shakes his head, disbelievingly. “Apologising to Nancy,” he mutters, “hah!”
“As opposed to what, Munson?”
“Uh, apologising to Barb? Which is her name, by the way, if you cared enough about us lesser folk to know.”
“Okay, fine! I'm an asshole, I get it!” Steve scoffs, tossing his hands up. They fall back to his hips, and he sighs, the fight draining from him like a sink, unplugged. “I'm not trying to be,” he mutters, petulant.
Eddie must see something in Steve's expression, offering him a pitying smile. “Look man, take it from me. All anyone wants from anyone else is to be understood, and least of all, respected. Treated in kind.”
“And how do I do that?”
“You could start with an apology,” Eddie suggests. “A sincere one, this time.”
In any other world, Steve would make some snide remark - spit back like a hissing animal, cornered. But in this clearing it's just the two of them, together alone. A sanctuary, displaced from the real world; one where he's not King Steve anymore. Just Steve.
He takes a breath. “Well I'm sorry,” he says, firm and forward, “for saying that you shouldn't be here.” He swallows back the lump of embarrassment forming in his throat. “And for, uhh… being an indifferent asshole in general, I guess.”
Eddie raises his eyebrows, tilting his head in muted surprise. He knocks his shoulder into Steve's, granting him a gentle smile. “Apology accepted, Harrington.”
Steve nods. “So…” he starts, twisting his wrists. “The note?”
Eddie chuckles, shaking his head. “This, my friend,” he announces, holding the note out between his fingers, “is a Tommy Hagan original.”
“What?” Steve says, snatching the strip of paper back. He blinks at it. “How do you know?”
Eddie shrugs. “It’s his handwriting.”
“Fuck.” Steve runs his fingers through his hair. “He’s such a dick.”
“Preaching to the choir, pal,” Eddie quips. “He has quite the penchant for pushing me into lockers.” He pulls back his hair, revealing an angry-looking spot on his temple.
“Shit,” Steve offers, “I'm sorry.”
Eddie grins. “Look at you,” he says, letting his hair flop back into place. “You're an expert already. Nancy will come around in no time.”
Steve nods to himself, tucking the note into his pocket, and a comfortable silence descends upon the two of them. Eddie takes another drag of his cigarette, gazing out into the woods.
At school, Eddie’s like a circus act, all fanfare and no filter. The loudspeaker-laden ringleader of the local freakshow - a title he embraces with violent enthusiasm. Here, in the world outside, he’s calmer. Peaceful. A boat, docked in the harbour, bobbing with the tides.
“You’re alright, Eddie Munson,” Steve admits, rolling the name around on his tongue.
Eddie scoffs. “And you’re entirely adequate yourself, Harrington,” he replies. “Steve,” he corrects. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
Steve feels like a magnet, meeting resistance as he tries to pull away. Something about the woods - the world outside this clearing - feels less inviting, now.
"Yeah,” he says, turning to leave, “maybe.”
--
In 1985, Steve got his first job fresh out of high school as a scooper for a particular sailor-themed ice-creamery. He'd gotten into an argument with his parents, one that had started with 'What do you mean you’re not going to college?' and had ended with '—and don't think you're getting another dime from me!' And so, reluctantly, he'd spent his first summer of freedom at Starcourt Mall slinging scoops for sticky children (who would bother him incessantly) and pretty girls (who wanted nothing to do with him), all while dressed in the bluest, littlest, unsexiest sailor costume Hawkins had ever seen.
But it was also at Scoops Ahoy where he’d struck up an unlikely friendship with resident band geek and head honcho of the Harrington hate club, Robin Buckley herself. It’s unclear to Steve why she’d hated him in the first place, or the reason she changed her mind, in the end. But somewhere in between the heckles and the laughs, the afternoons spent mopping floors and wiping countertops, chatting about everything and nothing at all, he’d endeared himself to her. And her, to him.
In 1986, Starcourt Mall burned down in the middle of the night. A curler had been left on in Starcourt’s hair salon, which soon set fire to the neighbouring bookstore, which quickly ignited the neighbouring liquor store, whose explosive end tore the whole building down in a rain of fiery embers. With their place of employment turned to ash, Steve and Robin applied for the next best minimum wage job in the area - a Family Video - where he quickly came to the realisation that the sailor's hat was never responsible for his dating plight.
It was like Steve stank of desperation, of ego, of the very specific scent of someone who peaked in high school, had his heart broken, and spent his days ferrying a gaggle of children to and from the arcade. Whatever it was, it seemed to do a great job of repelling all eligible bachelorettes in the local Hawkins township, with the exception of Karen Wheeler, whose increasingly suggestive rental history forced him (and by extension, Robin) to quit Family Video in 1987.
Which is how they find themselves now in their third minimum-wage job - Rebel Records. Sandwiched between a sandwich shop and another sandwich shop, the music store sits in a nigh-abandoned shopping strip at the edge of town, patronising only the most dedicated of rockers, punks and metalheads. It’s like time passes differently here; prolonged and painful, like the slow insert of a needle in his eye. Like Steve will leave to pick up Henderson from D&D and he’ll instead be met with a greying old man, shaking his cane.
Day in, day out, music of the screaming variety assaults Steve from all directions, inescapable and unrelenting. A single lilting fan twirls lazily from the ceiling like a ball on a string, succeeding only in wafting hot air around an already stifling room. Yet despite these adversities, the most torturous issue of all is that when Robin gets bored, she rambles. And rambles. And rambles.
“—my grandmother was the seventh child of my great grandmother who was apparently a gypsy who used to travel with the circus—” she’s saying, barely stopping to take a breath.
“Uh huh…” Steve says, flicking through a magazine. He pauses on a spread of a scantily-clad Madonna, dog-earing the page.
“—and then when my mother was born, my grandmother said she used to speak to the walls as a baby—”
“Mhm…” He flips the page. A shirtless, long-haired Eddie Van Halen smirks back at him. He dog-ears the page without thinking.
“—and now she’s saying that because I was born on the thirteenth, that I’ve inherited some sort of cosmic sixth sense? She calls it my ‘mind’s eye’. But that’s obviously ridiculous…” she trails off, looking at Steve expectantly.
He glances up at Robin, then down at the magazine. Then up at Robin, flipping it closed. “Right, yes.”
She sighs. “Were you even listening?”
“I was!” Steve protests. “You’ve got magical gypsy powers, that’s great!”
Robin wiggles her fingers in front of Steve like a crotchety fortune teller. "Ah yes, I can see it clearly,” she drawls, croaky. “The woman of your dreams is about to walk through that— Eddie?”
The door jangles as it shuts behind Eddie, who marches into the store, chin high, face set in stony determination. Steve straightens, and he feels Robin do the same, like two nervous attendants at a fancy hotel.
“Buckles, Steve,” Eddie addresses, coming to a stop before them.
“Hey Eddie. You know it’s Thursday, right?” Robin says, cryptically.
“I am aware. But I just couldn’t stay away from the sweet siren’s song,” Eddie croons, gesturing widely. Behind him, the shredding of a discordant guitar shrieks in the ensuing silence. He smirks at Steve - a challenge, offered. "Gotta say, I didn't believe Buckles when she told me you worked at Rebel. Guess I just never took you for a rocker, Steve.”
Steve bristles. “Oh, me? Big fan. Of rock,” he replies. “Roll, too.”
“Uh huh…” Eddie replies. “Who’ve you been listening to, then?”
Steve puffs his cheeks, letting the air escape as his eyes trail around the room. “Oh, you know, Metallica… Black Sabbath...” He drops his gaze to the magazine in front of him, squinting. “…ACID C?”
Eddie grins. “Do you mean AC/DC?”
Steve squints further. Huh.
“No…” he replies, digging himself a hole, “everyone knows ACID C. Robin and I were at their concert just last week. Right Robin?”
Robin’s head turns slowly to face him, her panicked eyes locked behind a smiling face. “Mhm!” she lies. She turns to Eddie. “I love ACID C.” She coughs. “They’re a … local band. From Hawkins.”
“Is that so… “ he says, looking between the two of them curiously.
Steve and Robin stand stock still - cardboard cutouts of themselves.
Eddie sighs. “Well, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to,” he says, gesturing over to the aisle of metal records behind him. With a flourish, Eddie spins on his heel, striding out of earshot, and Steve’s shoulders slump as he leaves.
“What is up with you two?” Robin asks, as Steve picks up his magazine again.
“Nothing,” Steve says, flicking it open to stare blankly at the words on the page. “Nothing’s up with us two.”
“Steve. I may be awful at social cues but I can recognise a pattern when I see one. Every time I’d mention him you’d make that one pouty face. You know, the one with the—” she gestures wildly at ten distinct points on Steve’s face. Steve frowns. “Yes! That one, exactly! And don’t get me started on Eddie – I’m pretty sure he’s memorised our rosters so he knows to come when you’re not around.”
Steve’s frown deepens. “He only comes to the store… when I’m not here?” Robin bites her lip.
“Well, yeah…” she trails off. “I guess… it makes a girl wonder…”
Steve narrows his eyes at Robin from over the lip of the magazine. “Wonder what?” he asks.
“If you— um… bullied him. Back in high school.”
Steve groans. “Not you as well. I told you Robin, I wasn’t like that—”
“I know! I know,” she hisses. “But after that tragic interaction the only other thing that makes sense is if you two were—” She glances around, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper, “—ex-boyfriends or something! But that’s obviously ridiculous…” She throws him another meaningful look. It careens over Steve’s head.
“I just don’t think he likes me that much, that’s all,” he scoffs. “At least Nancy and I can have a civilised conversation without sniping at each other.”
“Is that right? So if Nancy Wheeler were to come through that door right now…?” Robin asks.
Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “What would Nancy be doing in a Rebel Records?”
“She’s… uh… looking for a cassette! For Jonathan! And she comes up to you and she’s like,” Robin clears her throat, pitching her voice up, “Hello Steven, long time no see.”
“The only person who calls me Steven is my dad.”
“Steven, please. I’m taking creative liberties.”
“Christ, fine. I'd say…” Steve pinches his brows together. He drops his voice to a stilted drone, “Hey Nancy, how have you been?”
“Oh Steve,” Robin croons, “I have something to confess. It was me. I started the Starcourt fire.”
“...what?”
“And now I have come to finish what I started!” She grabs her own magazine from the counter, rolling it up in her grip and wielding it like a cleaver.
“Robin—”
“Robin is dead. And soon, you will be too!” she announces, hacking mercilessly at his shoulder.
“Nancy, no!” Steve protests, wincing at each strike. “Is this because I stole your Farrah Faw-Cetting spray? Because you know I have that thing about my hair!”
“So I know I’m meant to be a Satanist nerd and all,” Eddie interrupts, standing adrift in front of the counter, cassette in hand, “but even I can’t endorse this kind of role-play.”
Steve’s magazine slips out of his grasp and crumples gently to the floor. Slowly, like she’s trying not to startle him, Robin wordlessly collapses into a wheelie chair and drifts backwards into the break room, magazine cleaver in hand.
Steve clears his throat, tilting the CRT screen in his direction and pulling the keyboard towards his chest. “Did you find everything you were looking for?” he asks, typing ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’ into the customer search bar. The tapping of Steve’s fingers on the keys does nothing to hide the embarrassment creeping up his neck.
“And more,” Eddie replies, grinning. He hands Steve the cassette, and his jewellery glints under the fluorescent lights.
“New ring,” Steve murmurs.
“Oh! Uh, yeah. I suppose. You’ve got a new... uniform.”
Steve glances down. ‘Family Video’ his vest reads. Huh.
“Rebel Records, you know,” he says, nodding to himself. “I’m… rebelling.”
Eddie snickers. “Metal.”
“It’s polyester, actually,” Steve drones as he rings up the purchase. The edge of his lip quirks upwards.
“I was talking about the ring, actually,” Eddie retorts. A surprised huff escapes Steve, and he shakes his head as he hands back the cassette.
“Alright, you'll need to bring this back in a week or we'll start charging late fees.”
“After that performance, how could I stay away?” Eddie says, wearing a cheeky grin. He makes to leave, but pauses at the door, casting a final look over his shoulder. “But if you ever want to experience some real role-play,” he adds, “I can show you a much better time.”
He winks, and a chime rings out as the door shuts behind him.
Steve blinks. Slowly, his head falls to the countertop, laying against it with a solid knock. A sheepish Robin wheels herself out of the break room.
“I understand that you think you have a sixth sense sort of thing,” he mumbles into the counter, “but it would really be great if you could continue to use your other five every now and again.”
“Hey, you didn’t notice him standing there either,” Robin protests, unrolling her magazine and flicking it open. “It’s nice that he’s giving you a chance.”
“He’s giving me a chance?” Steve mutters.
Robin waves him off. “Either way, I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing him around more often. Whether you like it or not, Eddie has a way of crawling into your life.”
--
Eddie is, quite literally, crawling back into Steve’s life.
It’s another D&D night, and Steve’s stood on the Wheeler’s porch, trapped in a conversation with the matriarch Karen Wheeler herself. A few feet to his left, Eddie is being pushed unceremoniously out of the hatch leading to the basement by an agitated Dustin, rolling onto the grass with a soft, “Ooft”. It’s dark out - the only source of light; a hanging lamp, beaconing from the porch like a spotlight from a guard tower.
“—she’ll be visiting from college in a couple months, but of course, you must know that already…” Mrs Wheeler rambles, oblivious to the quiet chaos occurring behind her.
“Yeah, definitely…” Steve replies, side-eyeing the shaggy-haired escapee currently army crawling his way out of the Wheeler’s front yard, camouflaged behind a convenient row of shrubbery.
“—but it’ll be so nice to see her after all this time— I mean, she calls every other day but you know how a mother gets when her daughter’s away from home, in another state— your mother must be so glad that you’re going somewhere local…”
“Yeah, totally…”
“Oh, but what college do you go to, Steve?” she continues, eyes fluttering.
“I, um…” he forces his eyes off Eddie, “I’m not at college, at the moment. Just, uhh… figuring stuff out.”
The front door bursts open, revealing a harried Dustin, who putters up to Steve with an expression of put-upon nonchalance. He peeks out onto the street, briefly, before shooting Eddie a covert thumbs up as he rolls out of a thicket of bushes and absconds into the night.
“Oh, but you must be so lonely, with all your friends out of Hawkins,” Mrs Wheeler consoles, her hand reaching down to lay softly on his. Steve looks down at it in alarm. “You must know you’re welcome here any time.”
“Thanks,” Steve replies, pulling his arm away. “I’ll keep that in mind. We’d better go, right Dustin?”
There’s a beat. Steve looks to Dustin, and finds him assessing Mrs Wheeler with barely concealed suspicion.
Steve coughs. “Right, Dustin?”
"Yes…" Dustin drawls, backing slowly towards the HenderSedan. "Bye Karen. Say goodbye to Ted for me. Your husband ."
"Oh, I will!" Mrs Wheeler replies, waving them off. "What a lovely boy," Steve hears her say to herself, as she turns away.
--
“So…” Steve drawls, fingers tapping against the dash of the HenderSedan, “are you looking forward to summer camp? You know, I used to love camp as a kid—"
“It’s not a summer camp, Steve. It’s a Dungeons and Dragons live action role playing experience," Dustin says.
Steve frowns. “A what now?"
"It’s called LARPing," Dustin explains, “it’s basically a Middle-earth-inspired RPG meets improv theatre.”
“Oh,” Steve replies. “That sounds cool.”
“You didn’t get any of that, did you?”
Steve goes to protest, but shuts his mouth instead. “Nope,” he admits. “Where’d you hear about this LARP thing anyway?”
Dustin shrugs. “Eddie.”
“Of course, Eddie. Your new best friend Eddie Munson,” Steve mutters.
Dustin sighs. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to get to know him a little better. You only have two friends in this town and they aren’t going to be sticking around for much longer.”
“Wow, gee, thanks Dustin.”
“I'm just saying! Robin’s a week from leaving for college, and it won't be long now till I've—”
“Left.”
“—left Hawkins myself. Yes, Steve, I can finish my own sentences, thank you.”
“No, I mean— make a left turn.”
The tires squeal against the pavement as they swerve, and Steve’s shoulder knocks into the passenger door. The car rights itself with a shaky breath as they pull into the street. “You know Steve, a little clarity might be nice,” Dustin grits.
Steve puts his hands up, innocently. “Hey, this is the kind of shit those driving examiners pull, okay? I’m just preparing you for the worst.” He pauses, crossing his arms with a pout. “And it would be nice if you thanked me for it, every now and again.”
“I thanked you last week, Steve,” Dustin huffs. “Three times, in fact.”
Steve raises an eyebrow.
“Do I really have to— I mean, every time?” Dustin argues.
Steve stays determinedly silent.
Dustin groans out a long-suffering sigh. “Thank you, Steve.”
Steve sticks his chin up. “You’re welcome.”
A silence follows them for a few blocks.
“Mrs Wheeler was totally hitting on you, wasn't she?” Dustin sighs.
“Yes,” Steve exclaims, tossing his hands up, “thank you!”
--
The second time he hangs out with Eddie Munson, it’s Steve who arrives first. He’s leaned up against Skull Rock, his faux-casual appearance betrayed by the nervous tapping of his foot against the dirt. It’s late afternoon on a Friday, and the after-rain sun peeks through the trees and glints against the dewy grass.
The peace is interrupted as Eddie stumbles into the clearing, freezing as he sees Steve. He rights himself, dusting off his jacket.
“Can't say I was expecting to see you here again,” Eddie says.
“Yeah, well I can't say I was expecting your advice to actually work, but here we are,” Steve replies.
“Here we are…" Eddie echoes, fidgeting with his rings. They stay like that for a moment, staring each other down, before Eddie jolts, reaching into his pocket to produce a pack of cigarettes. He pulls one out and sticks it between his teeth, flicking open a lighter in his other hand. There’s a pause. “You want one?” he offers, through his teeth.
Steve waves him off. “Swim team.”
‘Ah,’ Eddie mouths. He lights his cigarette under cupped hands.
“Look,” Steve starts, looking determinedly away. “I need your help.”
“Oh?” Eddie answers, amused. “From me?” He looks around, gesturing to himself as if he’s not the only person within earshot.
“No, the forest creatures,” Steve snarks. “Yes, you. It’s just—” He sighs, dragging a weary hand down his face. “You knew what to do last time, okay? And even though Nancy’s talking to me again, it’s a whole lotta ‘That’s nice, Steve,’ and ‘Did you do the homework, Steve?’ and not a lotta ‘You’re an idiot, Steve,’ which is kinda what I’m going for here.”
Eddie tilts his head. “You want her to think you’re an idiot?”
“What, no! That’s— if a girl says that it means she likes you, Munson,” Steve answers. His leg shakes - heel, tapping against the ground in a nervous rhythm. “Maybe this was a mistake…” he starts, getting up to leave.
“Hey, now! Don’t give up on me just yet,” Eddie hums, his hands up in front of him like he’s pacifying a feral animal, "King Steve is having trouble talking to girls, is he?”
“Oh lay off it,” Steve bites, pinkness creeping up his neck.
Eddie bounds up to Steve, circling him like a vulture, and Steve puffs out his chest on instinct. Eddie looks him up and down, studying him with an almost unbearable intensity, before stepping back to fold his arms against his chest.
“Do you have any hobbies? Any passions?” Eddie asks, tapping his chin. “Anything interesting going on under that thick head of hair?”
Steve lets his back fall against Skull Rock once more. “I like cars.”
“Cars.”
“Yeah, and sports.”
“And—” Eddie sighs, involuntarily, “and sports. What a surprise. Your parents really got out the cookie cutter with you…”
Steve frowns. “What has this got to do with anything, Munson?”
Eddie shrugs in return. “I’m just trying to work out why all the girls find you so interesting. But I suppose a handsome face goes a long way to dressing up a flavourless personality.”
“Alright, fine! If I’m so boring, what about you then?” Steve protests, pouting.
“My interests?” Eddie grins, and his teeth look sharp under the afternoon light. “Oh you know, Dungeons and Dragons, art,” he lifts his sleeve to flash a poorly-drawn doodle of a skull, inked on his arm in a thick black marker. “...Fashion” he strikes a pose, fanning out his leather-denim jacket, and Steve ducks his head to huff out a laugh. “And the big one, obviously.”
“The big one?”
“Music, man! Rock. Metal. Dio, Black Sabbath, Van Halen, and my own band, of course - Corroded Coffin.” Eddie's bouncing as he speaks, thrumming like a string, plucked. “There's a whole world out there, a whole movement, nay, a whole generation of people daring to fight, to disrupt, to offend. To scream their soul out to the world and have it scream back.”
Eddie’s grin lights up his face. There’s a heat radiating from him, warm and inviting, like a sunbeam on a chilly day. It’s like Steve’s pulled into his orbit, trapped in his rhythm - blinded, bewildered, with no choice but to nod along in agreement.
“That’s… cool,” he manages. “I love... screaming.”
“Oh man, I've got to take you to the Hawkins Howler one of these days,” Eddie says, generously ignoring Steve’s failed attempt at conversation.
“The what now?”
“The Hawkins Howler, man! Every year, a whole group of us go out to the quarry at night and take turns playing into the lake,” Eddie explains. “The acoustics there are just—” he smacks his lips in a chef's kiss. “And at the end we all scream our lungs out into the water in the most beautiful car crash you’ve ever heard.” He mimes an explosion with his arms. “A fuckin’ symphony of noise.”
“I’ll— uh—” Steve huffs a laugh, “I’ll take your word for it.”
“So,” Eddie says, taking a breath, “let me ask you again. What are you passionate about?”
Steve glances away, folding his arms to scratch at his neck. "If we’re talking like, passions… I guess... I've always wanted to be a big brother.”
Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Big brother Steve, huh?”
“Yeah, like, having a little shrimp following me around. Playing catch. Teaching them how to drive. That sort of thing,” Steve murmurs. “I never did get a sibling in the end, so I actually, um— I wanted to learn how to be a counsellor for summer camps, instead. It’s the same kind of thing, right? And I used to love going as a kid. But my parents never let me apply.” He drops his head. “Ah,” he huffs, “it’s dumb.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Munson replies, softly. In a blink, his expression shifts, taking on a wide grin. “And it’s the perfect story to tell Nancy.”
“Yeah?” Steve replies, hopeful.
“Absolutely,” Eddie announces, “chicks dig all that paternal shit, man.”
“Oh like, ‘Steve’s your daddy now,’ that kind of thing?” Steve grins, wolfishly.
Eddie’s expression collapses into one of abject horror. “Absolutely not, please never do that again.”
Steve cackles. “Alright, alright,” he placates, arms up in the air.
A comfortable silence falls upon the two of them. Eddie gazes out into the woods, hands bunched into his pockets. The butt of his cigarette lays crushed on the dirt beside him, having long been put out. A minute passes - the two of them, silent, sharing the empty space. Eventually, Eddie turns to Steve.
“Is this going to be a thing, Harrington?” Eddie asks. “You, encroaching on my sacred after-school ritual? Me, giving you advice on your woeful corn-fed white-bread courtship of Nancy Wheeler?”
Steve shrugs. “If you’re offering,” he says.
Eddie thumbs his lip in consideration. He waits a beat, then one more, before circling in on Steve, one ringed hand outstretched – a handshake, offered.
“Fine,” he says, generously. Steve makes to grasp his hand. Eddie snatches it back. “But!” he exclaims, “I want something in exchange.”
“What is it?” Steve sighs. “Money? Girls? Popularity? Because, I’ll be honest, man – with your— uh— reputation… there’s only so much I can do.”
A Cheshire grin curls across Eddie’s face.
“A favour.”
Steve’s eyes narrow. “A favour,” he repeats. “What kind of favour?”
Eddie shrugs. “Haven’t yet made up my mind. But I promise it’ll be easy."
Steve eyes Eddie, cautiously. Despite all evidence to the contrary - the dealing, the nerd club, the general aesthetic of 'grungy devil worshipper' that has suburban housewives praying under the covers at night - Steve has to admit, Eddie knows his stuff. Maybe, all Steve needs is a change of tack. Maybe, all Steve needs is the Eddie Munson method.
“Alright,” Steve says. Eddie lowers his hand, and Steve grasps it, firm. “A favour for a favour.”
Eddie beams.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself a deal.”