Chapter Text
Max immediately spotted two things when she walked into Eddie's trailer.
One: Dustin sat at the kitchen island, reading a comic book and nursing a bowl of fruit loops.
Two: Steve and Eddie sitting back-to-back on the rug, their faces set into grim lines of displeasure, glaring at the opposing walls as though the choice of wallpaper was complicit in the global discontinuation of Farah Fawcett spray and eradication of the heavy metal genre.
She put a pin in that one, and slipped into the seat next to Dustin. "What's going on?" she whispered.
Dustin answered, "They had a fight," without looking up from his comic.
She flit her eyes down, from their faces to their hands. Their fingers were interlocked, Steve tracing the patterns in silver rings, and Eddie rubbing circles into the back of Steve's hand.
"They're holding hands."
"They get sad when they fight," was his nonplussed response, as if that were a complete and perfectly acceptable explanation for the scene, which—
Yeah. It kind of is.
The answer to how long Steve and Eddie have been in a relationship varies wildly depending on who's asked. Dustin would say eight months, whereas Max would say three weeks, and they're both technically correct.
Over the course of those eight months, Steve and Eddie have broken up fourteen times. Granted, their longest period of separation clocked in at a whopping twenty-four hours and fifteen minutes, but the full criteria of a break-up was met.
Something would happen, they'd bicker, one would take it too far, and the other would explicitly declare them dumped. Then they'd separate for however long it took them both to realise they'd made a terrible mistake.
The reasons—if one could generously label them as such—for these breaks ranged in severity from petty grievances to semi-legitimate arguments.
The first time the radio crackled to life with Dustin's shaky voice informing them, "Steve and Eddie broke up," they'd been in shock. The two had been happy together—legitimately, adorably, and so disgustingly in love that nothing short of a complete personality and memory wipe from a malicious, otherworldly force could've possibly torn them apart.
"We're hosting an intervention—now," Max had stated, and within an hour the group had assembled on Steve's front door step with a half-hashed out plot to dig for details on why they'd called it quits.
What they'd found instead was the allegedly broken-up duo lounging by the pool, snuggled up in a single deck chair and looking blissfully content. Like nothing had happened.
Lucas leant in closer to murmur, "Dustin, is your source for intel reliable?"
"Yeah," Mike agreed. "Who told you they'd broken up?"
Dustin jaw, which had been hanging open at the sight, clicked shut. "Steve did."
Stunned speechless and at a loss of how to proceed now the wind had been stolen from their sails and there was apparently no problem at all, they decided to stay put and keep an eye on things. Just in case this was Vecna or the Mind Flayer's grand encore.
But—
Despite the rumour that the newly-reconciled couple had—well, a reason to reconcile in the first place, they were as blatantly lovey-dovey as ever. Doubly so, if anything. They were practically all over each other; Eddie nuzzled his nose against Steve's ear, murmuring words that had Steve muffling a giggle into Eddie's shoulder.
"Well, whatever happened, at least they're happy," Lucas offered—half a statement, half a question. He shrugged with one shoulder.
Dustin's frown, with had made itself a permanent residence on his face, only deepened. It didn't make sense—why announce a break-up, only to reverse the decision less than an hour later?
When Steve finally peeled himself away from Eddie—to persistent protests from the latter—Dustin wasted no time in following him inside, determined for an answer. If he had tact, he'd tackle the subject with it, but he was past all that.
"So, uh—that fight you had with Eddie ... it sounded pretty serious."
"Oh, that.," Steve laughed lightly, waving a hand. "We're over it."
Over it? Just like that? Dustin stared at him. "You broke up."
"Aaand now we're back together."
That they were. Which—sure, okay. Maybe it really was that simple?
Dustin watched Steve saunter back onto the patio, where he was ambushed by a hug from Eddie, declaring, "You were gone so long, Stevie. I missed you."
Steve laughed, let Eddie drag him back into the deck chair, where they resumed their snuggling. In the sun. So—not the Mind Flayer. Too happy to be Vecna.
Maybe ... it really was just an insignificant blip in the relationship?
Ah, well. Steve and Eddie were together; happy, conflict-free. That was all that mattered.
By the time of the third break-up and subsequent reconciliation, the party had learned not to take the news with any seriousness.
"Steve and Eddie broke up again," was becoming a recurring phrase, followed by, "Over what, this time?"
Eddie was, by his own definition, not "relationship material", and Steve was too suicidal in his own happiness to assume anything but the worst when things got troublesome in paradise.
Sometimes, Max wondered if they were simply too insecure and stunted in the communication department to opt for a path of lesser severity first. Eddie had never been in a proper relationship before, and Steve's track record was an awful foundation for building something serious.
Or maybe they simply didn't know how to punish one another than to declare a melodramatic break-up.
Today, Eddie was miffed because Steve called his cat the wrong name.
It wasn't even his cat—it was one of the many felines roaming Forest Hills that he'd befriended. It was his favourite of the bunch: a plump ginger one he'd named Blaze.
However, Steve had called it "Bundles" and Eddie turned on him like a vulture.
Steve's reasoning hadn't helped his case.
"Sorry, man! Tammy had the same one, and—Blaze, Bundles, it's all the same. I got mixed up."
"You mixed up my cat with your ex's?"
"Eds, it's not even your cat—"
The bickering continued for nearly twenty minutes before Eddie declared they were over.
Steve sat on the porch with a sour expression while Eddie retreated into his trailer.
From their spot on the grass, the party observed and debated.
"Should we say something?" Lucas inquired, but Dustin shook his head.
"We probably shouldn't interfere. They're adults, they can handle this alone."
Max fixed him with an affronted stare. "That might just be the dumbest thing you've ever said. I trust them with our lives, but with their own relationship? They're completely hopeless. Remember last Saturday? Who breaks up over pizza?"
"Now, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Mike countered. "Pizza toppings between couples requires a serious negotiation."
"They've risked their lives for us," Dustin said. "The least we can do to repay them is to protect their relationship from their own stupidity."
Despite their conviction, their interference wasn't necessary.
Blaze slunk onto the porch beside their brooding babysitter, purring and rubbing their head against Steve's arm. Moments later, Eddie emerged from his own self-pitying and eyed the scene with an unreadable look.
"He likes you," Eddie observed. Then he shrugged, trying and failing to look nonchalant. "Y'know, animals can sense shitty people."
"Guess that officially makes a cat better at judging people than you."
Eddie looked guilty at that. He sat beside Steve, then after a minute's hesitance, rested his head on Steve's shoulder.
For a long time, neither spoke. Then they both looked up and met each others eyes.
They still didn't say anything, but the frenzied kiss they mutually dove into was an clear an indication as any.
The aforementioned pizza incident was their fourth break-up.
It was Saturday night, their scheduled movie night at Steve's. However, that day had also correlated with the VHS release of Aliens, and by the time Steve got home from a stressful day of work, his patience had reached it's frayed ends.
His rotten mood was amplified by Eddie's lack of an immediate answer to the question of which toppings he wanted. Nearly ten minutes were spent weighing the benefits of pepperoni versus Hawaiian, until Steve slammed his palm on the kitchen countertop.
"I can't live like this," he'd declared. "Is this my life now? I can't be with somebody so indecisive."
Eddie had clapped back with, "Well, I can't date somebody so bossy and impatient," and that had sealed the deal.
They broke up, Eddie left, and it lasted for as long as it took Eddie to reach the nearest payphone and call Steve.
"Baby, I didn't mean it. I want pepperoni, and I miss you."
Steve had gripped the phone, said, "I miss you, too," and that was the end of it.
During spring break, Jonathan returned for a guest appearance in Hawkins from NYU. Along for the ride came their honorary sixth ranger of the monster-fighting squad, Argyle.
Now, Argyle was many things; a weed connoisseur, a one-man activist for pineapple on pizza, a loyal friend to the end, a ride-or-die champion.
He was also an avid astrologist, which—tragically, but in hindsight, inevitably—was the crushed butterfly in the chain of events that led to break-up number six.
Draped in a circle in Steve's living room, the delights of purple palm tree delight lulling them into a false sense of security, Argyle had idly asked for Steve's astrology sign and, after a pressing moment of deliberation, Steve had answered: "Aquarius."
"Oh—oh no, man. Bad times on the horizon. Chart says if you get married, you're gonna die early. Condolences, my dude."
His ability to process a rational thought having abandoned his body and transcended somewhere into the outer galaxy, Steve had taken the revelation as well as somebody with a hair-trigger tendency to drive a stake through their own happiness could've been expected to.
It was their most amicable of break-ups.
Too baked to distinguish any difference between "marriage" and "relationship," Steve had turned to Eddie with harrowing seriousness and declared that, for the ensured continuation of their own lives, they were to break-up.
Eddie plastered a brave mask of composure to his face, held Steve's hands in his and managed to stammer out, "I understand, Stevie," before the mask shattered and the dams were bursting for both of them.
Clinging to each other like the world would fall apart with them if they dared to let go, they'd sobbed for half an hour, a string of apologies interspliced in the muffled wails.
It was a very sobering display. Literally. Before he knew it, Jonathan had sucked an entire joint down to the burnt stub, and questioned if he'd developed a spontaneous immunity to purple palm tree delight.
Unable to pull his stare from the blubbering duo, he'd reached for the phone and dialled Nancy.
"I think Steve and Eddie just broke up?"
"Again?" was her exasperated response. She sighed, and—in a testament to their years of unspoken camaraderie—it was all Jonathan needed to understand that no, he was not witnessing an unusual sight.
Once they'd cried themselves out, the two fell into a dead sleep; Steve curled around Eddie like a panda on bamboo, and Eddie with his face in the pizza.
When they woke up, blearily blinking and the memory of their break-up slowly dawning upon them, Steve had affectionately peeled a runaway piece of pepperoni off Eddie's cheek and vowed, "I'd risk dying tomorrow than spend another minute without you, Eds."
Clocking in at three and a half hours, break-up number six was behind them.
By the time they reconciled from a falling out over an inexplicable debate on shampoo of all things, any urgency the phrase "Steve and Eddie broke up again," once wrought had diminished.
The severity ranged drastically each time.
There was the time they'd been torn apart by tardiness; Eddie was hyped for the pumpkin patch all week, only be delayed by the full hour that Steve spent styling his hair. By the time they got there, the best pumpkins were claimed, and Steve ended up walking home when Eddie, beyond consolation, hit the gas and left him stranded.
When Eddie was finally ready to face daylight again—a whole eighteen hours later—he stepped out onto the front porch to an entire orchid of pumpkins in varying size and colour scattered over the entire lawn. It was deemed an acceptable apology.
Two weeks later came the day Eddie ate the last of the leftover Halloween candy; the coveted Reece's Cup. Steve, in indignance, had dumped him for twenty-nine minutes.
One of the more absurd reasons—which was a low bar to shoot for—materialised when Steve let the party host Hellfire in his living room.
El had successfully roped Max into making a character sheet with her, and without his usual spectator companion to make snarky comments with, Steve had dozed off on the sofa an hour into the campaign.
He'd woken up with a jolt and an oddly distressed expression. That was their first hint that doom was looming on the horizon.
Their second was when Steve failed to respond to Eddie's teasing, "mornin' Sleeping Beauty," with his usual smile. Instead, his jaw went taunt and stared at his boyfriend with an inexplicable dose of venom.
Then he stood up, gathered the empty snack wrappers, and left the room with a sour expression.
He even slammed the door. He was officially in a huff.
Eddie called a time-out and went after Steve. The party, piled on top of each other and peering through the ajar door, listened intently to the argument in the kitchen.
"You cheated on me," Steve said bluntly. "In my dream—you cheated."
Eddie looked as baffled as they all felt. "Oh. Sorry?"
It was apparently the worst thing he could've said, for Steve threw the dish towel in the sink and glared at him.
"Is that all I get? Sorry? I can't with you—it was the worst feeling in the world!"
The kids hadn't lingered any longer. Instead, they retired back to the basement and made bets.
Erica emerged victorious when Steve dragged himself out of his one-man pity party three hours later and returned downstairs to call curfew. Eddie flashed him puppy-dog eyes, and all was forgiven on the spot.
"Eds, I didn't mean it—I feel awful, I felt awful. I know you didn't cheat, but it felt like you did and it was the worst. I'm so sorry!"
"I'm sorry my dream-self cheated on you. I promise the real me will never."
"You'd better not, or I'm coming for your ass."
Robin woke up on an innocuous Wednesday afternoon for what should've been a slow, uneventful business day at work.
Then Steve pulled up in his car with a rain cloud over his head. She mentally set herself to listening-mode and got into the passenger seat.
"What did he do this time?"
"He went out without me."
"What a jerk," she said without any bite. "Why?"
Steve huffed. "So—he wanted to go out last night. Which is—fine, whatever. But we go to the Hideout every Tuesday, and I said hey, maybe we could stay in for once? and he was all no way, this stupid band I like is playing, we have to go. I told him we're not in high school anymore, we don't have to party all the time, and took that as a dig at him for graduating late. I just—I can't with that guy. He's right—he is stupid. I told him that, and the jerk dumped me. Can you believe that?"
Usually, they deemed it best to let the drama ride it's course. Once it burned out, either Steve, Eddie, or both came to the same conclusion as the rest of the party: breaking up was dumb, and they were madly in love.
Today, Robin dared to play the devil's advocate: "You know, couples don't have to do everything together. It's healthy to do things separately."
"Well, now he can do it all separately. 'Cause I'm done. I mean it this time, I. Am. Done. This is the end. I'm finding someone better for me. Somebody who likes to stay in from time to time."
He'd spent the first hour of their shift ranting to Robin about stupid Eddie, his stupid attitude, his stupid rings, his stupid music, his stupid stupidness, before he'd been struck by the crushing revelation that he couldn't stand to live without that general stupidity, and called Eddie immediately.
They were back together just like that.
As Nancy drove into Forest Hills with a bag of groceries for Max, the soft melody of Bruce Springsteen's I'm On Fire permeated the air.
Eddie only deviated from his usual heavy metal for two reasons: if Steve was there, or if Steve wasn't there.
She sighed and dropped off the groceries, assuring Max that, "I'll take care of it," and walked over to Eddie, sitting on the porch and strumming his guitar.
He was the visage of misery, barely looking up until Nancy sat beside him.
"What happened this time?"
"It's better this way," Eddie murmured, eyes haunted. "I'm not good enough for him. I can't give him the life he wants. Six kids, the RV, marriage ... he deserves someone better."
Oh.
This was leagues more serious than pumpkin patch dates or marijuana-induced misunderstandings. This was an actual reason, as misplaced as it was.
"Dreams change, Eddie," she countered gently. "Steve once thought I was the love of his life, but he loves you."
Eddie looked at her with such sad eyes that Nancy considered hugging him. Heartache was a tragic look on Eddie; he was vibrant, loud and always smiling.
"He loved you, right?" he said quietly. "Am I a replacement? He couldn't take his eyes off you during the Vecna stuff ... what if I'm not the one? Am I keeping him from true happiness?"
Steve was not a relationship Nancy regretted. They were good while they lasted, but they were vastly better suited to be friends than lovers.
When they broke up, it took them a long time to reconcile and forge a friendship. Apart from their brief flirtation during their latest near-death experience—which had been the product of loneliness and easy comfort than actual feelings—there hadn't been any second guesses about their break-up.
But with Eddie, he and Steve could barely stand to be apart.
Steve loved Eddie far more than he'd loved Nancy, and Eddie loved Steve more than anything. Sometimes, a little too much. His crusade to make Steve happy frequently clashed with Eddie's insecurity that he could never live up to those dreams.
This was beyond her expertise. Only one person could help Eddie see sense.
She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Talk to him. You'll see."
Nancy smiled, and Eddie didn't outright reject the suggestion, which was as good as she could manage.
If he didn't call Steve by the end of the day, she'd bring Steve to him and make them talk.
Like every other time, it was an unnecessary vow.
Nancy drove by later to drop the kids off for a sleepover at Max's, and Eddie was still on his front porch—this time with Steve beside him, clinging to his arm like Eddie would disappear if he let go.
She caught Eddie's eye and smiled.
They were a packaged deal by this point.
Max had said goodbye to the dream of having a real older brother when Billy died, but it had been reignited unexpectedly when a supernatural serial killer had forced her deranged metalhead neighbour into their motley group of misfits.
She had Steve, now she had Eddie, too.
Where one was, the other was bound to be. She'd gotten used to dropping by Eddie's on a whim, and finding Steve already there. If the trailer was empty, they'd be at Steve's. Or somewhere else around Hawkins, always together, usually happy.
Today was an exception.
Steve had offhandedly mentioned that he didn't find any appeal in Black Sabbath, a statement that Eddie had taken as well as if Steve had just shot his uncle.
"What do you mean? What do you not like about it?"
"I tried to like it, but it's kind of just—noise."
He'd been dumped on the spot.
Eight hours later, Max had been violently jolted from the vocal delights of Kate Bush by Steve driving past, blasting Diary of a Mad Man loud enough to rattle the windows on half the trailers in Forest Hills.
Eddie strolled onto the front porch, hair in a messy bun and a cigarette between his lips, eyeing the disruption like an early morning sunrise as he leant sideways against the door.
"What's all this noise?"
"Definitely not noise. You gotta listen between the notes—it's actually very nuanced—"
Eddie smiled, crushed his cigarette beneath his boot, and left the door open when he walked back inside.
Steve shut off the racket, followed him inside, and that was the end of that.
His nephew had a terrible habit of running away.
Never when he should, such as ticked-off cops or bullies. But always when he shouldn't—from the scene of a crime, or his own feelings. How befitting that the boy who captured Eddie's heart had a habit of running after him.
Wayne was on the front porch, a cigarette between his lips as he laced up his work boots, when a BMW pulled up outside. That, and the driver had become a new permanence in his life.
"Steve Harrington," he greeted the boy in question as he trudged up the dirt path. "Come to repent?"
Steve tucked his head, trying his best not to look embarrassed.
The debacle from that very morning, which Wayne had stepped into after work, had involved some inexplicable argument between the two boys. They had shut their mouths only to smile and greet Wayne home before turning on each other again.
He'd left them to it—well-acquainted with the ins-and-outs of their personal soap opera—and had a long, hot shower. By the time he was done, Steve had left and Eddie was moping by the far window.
"You boys break up?" he'd asked, already well-aware of the answer.
"I guess some people are just meant to be alone," Eddie had grumbled.
Normally, Wayne would offer him advice, but the only piece for this situation would be, "in a few hours, you'll have forgotten about this whole thing," which Eddie wouldn't be receptive to in his mood. So he'd offered his nephew a comforting pat on the shoulder and retired to bed.
Now there Wayne was, ready to head out again, and Steve had finally come running.
"I won't bore you with the protective parent routine," Wayne told him. "I know you're better than that. Consider breaking it off more often—his mopey attitude is a pain, but I could get used to him playing music I like for a change."
He smiled at Steve, who gave a small one back.
"He's inside. In his room."
"Thanks, sir—Wayne," he corrected at the older man's look. "Thanks, Wayne."
The walls of the trailer were thin; enough to muffle the raised voices inside, but not to conceal them entirely. It quickly died out. The sound of a door closing, then the familiar strumming of Dio.
Steve didn't emerge, and neither did Eddie.
It was as clear a sign to Wayne as any.
Young love, he thought. As capricious as it was addictive.
"This has gotta stop."
Neither Steve or Eddie were ever happier in their break-ups. They fought, they despaired, they were utterly miserable apart, which inevitably drew them back together.
This time was by far the worst. They'd broken up last night, and now it was late in the afternoon and they hadn't reconciled. Nearly twenty-four hours—it was their longest yet.
When Steve's radio silence persisted and Max confirmed Eddie was home alone, she and Dustin had raced to Steve's house, all but forcing their way inside to find him lying face down on his bed, blasting Knowing Me, Knowing You on an agonising loop and utterly distraught at the mere thought of spending his life without Eddie.
They didn't bother trying to gauge the reason for this break. Max just sat opposite Dustin at the top of the stairs, and they promptly got to scheming.
"It's simple; they're already miserable apart. We just have to get them together and the rest of the work does itself."
"I agree. But how? We couldn't even get Steve out of bed."
"Then we bring Eddie here. Watch and learn." Dustin got to his feet, picked up the telephone and dialled a number. Seconds later, in a distressed tone that clashed with his calm exterior, he proclaimed: "Eddie! Code red at home base—we need back-up right now! Over and out!"
Then he clicked the receiver before Eddie could reply. He grinned, and Max frowned.
"Wasn't that a bit harsh? He'll be panicking."
"All the better if he gets here quicker. Unless you'd rather put up with more of this?"
They spied Steve through the ajar door, where he had yet to budge.
"Point taken."
Ten minutes later, they'd managed to near literally drag Steve downstairs in time to hear the screech of tires in the driveway. Eddie leapt out the van, sprinted inside, and froze at the sight of Steve.
His hair a messy tangle and his eyes dull, Steve had taken one look at Eddie and burst into tears.
Eddie had been at his side in a flash, pulling Steve into his arms as he blubbered ineligibly into his shoulder.
Sharing a look of exhausted triumph, Max and Dustin metaphorically dusted their hands of the problem. Needless to say, a job well done.
It was an ordinary Saturday morning. They'd successfully wrung a promise out of Steve to take them to Illinois—Max had her eye on a new skateboard, and Dustin wanted to visit the new gaming store.
But as Dustin rode into Forest Hills to meet up with Max, who was practising a kick-flip in the road, she shook his head as he approached.
"Forget it," she said. "Steve's not coming. He and Eddie broke up."
Dustin tried not to groan, but his frustration knew no bounds. "Of course. Jeez, of all times. What was it this time?"
She shrugged. "No idea. Eddie was meant to stay at Steve's last night, but he got home around midnight. He had that look on his face. I didn't ask."
Well, there went their weekend plans.
Dustin took a seat on the grass, while Max resumed her practise session.
"Maybe tomorrow, then," he said. "Give it a few hours, and they'll be fine."