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This doesn’t happen often. The tub filled almost to overflowing, a CD playing quietly on the stereo, Steve sitting next to the tub, still fully clothed. Sometimes, when the mood strikes them both, Eddie and him will tetris their way into the tub together, but tonight’s bath isn’t one of those. Tonight has Steve, with his sweatshirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, complaining when Eddie splashes him out of nowhere and then asks Steve to pass him his washcloth with an audacious amount of innocence. And because that’s the role he’s fulfilling today, Steve does, with only minimal grumbling about how Eddie’s going to be mopping later.
All things considered, Eddie doesn’t typically ask for help bathing. It probably happened more often in the beginning, when Eddie was fresh from the hospital and still living with Wayne. Stev remembers seeing that white plastic bench in the trailer’s shower stall—there was no tub there—the kind his grandfather had in his bathroom when he got older and a nurse had to move in with him.
They have one of those now, bought it at Walgreens when they first moved. It was an upgrade from the camping stool Eddie insisted was more than enough back in the old apartment they had in Indy. He’d left his old one back at Hawkins for Wayne after a bad shift threw his back out one time too many, said he’d figure things out.
“Don’t worry about it, Wayne. You’re going bald, old man.”
“Figures since you already turned me grey.”
Steve can still see it even now, that tiny bathroom with the avocado green tile and mildew spots on the ceiling that used to make Steve itchy just from looking at them. They had made it work for Eddie and Robin and Steve, all of three of them putting themselves together outside of Hawkins. Some days had been rougher than others, living on top of one another in that one-bedroom apartment, Eddie and Steve sleeping in the living room turned second bedroom.
They might not be swimming in money these days but they have enough to indulge (though Steve doesn’t think any of what they have count as indulgences, not remotely, because they’re necessary to making life better over all).
They could afford to be more selective when they were apartment hunting, hold out for a place with a working elevator and halls big enough for Eddie’s wheelchair the days walking’s out of the question, and stairs that aren’t so steep or narrow that make maneuvering on crutches a hazard. They have a decent sized bathroom and a landlord that didn’t give Steve shit for installing a handrail or changing out the sliding doors for a shower curtain.
“My very own Bob Vila.” Eddie joked when Steve tried to pry the glued down hardware and ended up cracking off whole pieces of fiberglass along with it. Eddie had almost made himself sick with laughter, nearly crumbled to the floor, howling his head off.
“We’re definitely not getting our security deposit back at this rate, big boy.” He’d said later, sitting out in the hallway as he liked to do when Steve was working on a project.
Eddie knew his way around under the hood of a car but he steered clear of home improvement tasks as a rule, said he couldn’t be trusted to resist the urge to kick a hole in the drywall just because. (“Y’know, like in the movies.”)
“Are you kidding me? This guy should be paying me.” Steve insisted, squinting down at the How-To book he’d checked out of the library, fiddling with the trowel he’d bought to fill in the holes he’d made in the shower wall.
Installing a handheld showerhead was world’s easier, thank god, even if Eddie bitched about how it was excessive. “My shower cup has never failed me, Harrington!” Because Steve was always Harrington when they were arguing about money.
“You can still have your shower cup.” Steve argued back, incredulous they were fighting about this at all. “I’m not saying you can’t have your shower cup. I’m just—you don’t always have to pick the harder road, man. This isn’t going to ruin your cred or something.”
Eddie had gone silent at that, sharp-eyed and brittle, grabbed his crutch and left the apartment with a slam of the front door. He didn’t come back until hours later, breezed pass Steve and shut himself up in their bedroom.
Steve had slept on the couch that night, frustrated and heart-stung, all his work making this place work for them both apparently useless because Eddie didn’t want it. Didn’t need it. And it wasn’t like Steve needed Eddie to need him , that wasn’t what this was about. And it wasn’t about never needing to help Eddie in or out of the shower, or help him rinse his hair when his arm hurt too much to hold it over his head. And it wasn’t even about throwing money they barely had at their problems, no matter what Eddie said when he was pissed.
“What’s it about then?” Robin asked him the next morning over the phone, whispering even though she wasn’t remotely audible outside Steve’s ear.
Steve shrugged, missed his best friend who was all the way in California and not here, sitting on the couch beside him, listening to his woes.
“I just, I want this place to be good.” He said, feeling stupid and too young. “I want to make it a good home for us.”
Because Eddie made it a good home for Steve. Even before they lived together Eddie was finding ways to make Steve comfortable behind closed doors. Leaving lights on at night and accepting the modified bat that lived under his bed, keeping the radio going at all hours because full quiet made Steve antsy.
It had been a lot of back and forth after, Steve prying the words from his chest to tell Eddie why these things mattered to him, Eddie mumbling about how he felt sometimes. “I don’t want to just be someone you’ve always got to take care of.”
“You’re not.” Steve insisted, because Eddie was always Eddie to him. Whether it was a wheelchair day or a crutch day or a day when Eddie moved around without any type of aid. Eddie might be lying on their bedroom rug with a heating pad on his thigh and a frozen gel pack his forehead while Steve kept him in Yoohoo, but that didn’t make him any different from the Eddie who sat with Steve when his head was killing him, the shades drawn and the A/C droning because the white noise helps even in the middle of winter.
He’s always Eddie.
Funny and theatrical and always a little bit weirder than people expected him to be, smart-mouthed and quick-witted and judgemental almost to a fault. The guy Steve was going to spend the rest of his life with.
They looked after each other. Equal footed partners as they tried to put together a life they enjoyed sharing.
Hawkins was years behind them, sure, but the marks would always be there. Whether it was in the form of the injuries that Eddie would be dealing with for the rest of his life or the dark moods that came over them both, that bitter sadness and foggy apathy and irritated frustration that seemed to come out of nowhere and needed to be handled with care.
“You two take care of each other.” Wayne Munson said to them both when he helped them move to Indy more than a decade ago.
And they try. God, do they try.
For two people who grew up having to be self reliant for vastly different reasons, it’s been a hard-learned lesson.
Steve’s still accepting that asking people for, and accepting help, doesn’t diminish his reliability. And Eddie still struggles with recognizing that the things he can do alone changes from day to day, situation to situation, and that asking for help the days he does need it, doesn’t make him a burden.
Steve thinks they’re figuring it out. Bit by bit. Day by day.
Enough that they can be here now, Eddie sitting in their tub, half risen out of the steaming water, telling Steve about his meeting with his editor while he scrubs at his legs.
Freelance writing affords Eddie the flexibility he needs, the ability to jump from one topic of interest to another. It isn’t what he pictured for himself when they first started out, but Eddie’s always had a strong voice for storytelling, whether it’s an imaginary quest he’s taking a bunch of nerds on or writing a review for an album.
“Jules is always harping on the commas. I keep telling her it's a stylistic choice.” He says, referring to the piece he’s been working on for weeks now, a longer form article on an up-and-coming band making a splash in Chicago’s metal scene.
Steve hums, doesn’t have a strong opinion on commas either way. Assisting people in physical therapy doesn’t require him to proofread that many articles, thank fuck, and Eddie usually only has been read stuff to check “the flow”, not the mechanics.
Steve reaches out, dips his fingers in the tub. The water’s still comfortably warm, sudsy with soap. “Want me to wash your hair?” Steve asks, extending the offer the same way he would ask Eddie if he wants chicken or pasta for dinner. No wrong answer in sight.
Eddie tips his head to the side, considering, face at ease. He invited Steve in here tonight, so chances are even he’ll say yes, but maybe he just wanted company, conversation to keep him occupied while he gets clean.
He’s tired enough to go for a full bath instead of a shower, but not so drained he went with a baby-wipe once over before crashing into bed.
There’s something to knowing the nuances of their life together, the parts they’ve figured out over the years and know well enough to have them be a kind of second nature, as unpredictable as so much of their day to day still is.
“Will you get my back too?” Eddie asks, and Steve nods, moving towards the other end of the tub, picking up Eddie’s shampoo, his conditioner.
His hair is even longer now than it was in ‘86, grey coming in at the temples, and overall less frizzy than it once was.
The 80s was hell on everyone’s hair, Steve thinks, frowning to himself when he thinks about his own mullet of yesteryears. Eddie still teases him about how long he takes on his hair these days, but it’s nothing compared to what he used to do. He’s pretty sure the ozone layer thanks him for it.
He washes Eddie’s hair first, gets his hair thoroughly wet with the showerhead, works the shampoo between his palms before he starts massaging it into Eddie’s scalp. Eddie sighs, leans into Steve’s hands, lets his neck go loose when Steve applies his fingers there, working at the tense muscles.
The bath water goes cloudy with shampoo runoff, but Eddie’s relaxed, sitting with his legs outstretched, resting his weight against the side of the tub.
Conditioner next, worked into the ends of Eddie’s hair, Steve combing it through the strands carefully before he twists it over his fist, winds it into a loose coil at the base of Eddie’s neck, secures it into place with a butterfly clip.
Eddie hums softly under his breath. “You’re always so good at that part.” Eddie praises, almost dreamily. Steve laughs. He always says that.
“I’m gonna start charging you for my services.” He says, massaging at Eddie’s shoulders, over the spiderweb of scar tissue that extends over his left scapula. It gets so tight after Eddie’s spent the day writing. He digs his thumb into a knot, gets it to release slowly. Eddie’s hiss ebbs into a sigh when Steve rubs at his shoulder blade, gets the circulation going.
“I like to think I pay you back in kind.” Eddie says, voice thick in his throat, rolling his shoulders back.
“Oh yeah?” Steve shoots back, just the edge of something suggestive in his voice. He works Eddie’s other shoulder, smoothes his palms over the slick skin. He could get better pressure if he had Eddie laying in their bed, but Eddie usually only asks for that when he’s really hurting. Or when he’s trying to get laid. As if he needs any kind of pretense to get Steve’s hands on him. Or ever lets anything stop him from touching Steve.
“Yeah.” Eddie replies sultrily, shoots Steve a smoldering look, “Who sews those old ass sweatpants you refuse to throw away a hundred times?”
Steve laughs, hands falling away from Eddie’s shoulders. He flicks at the knot of Eddie’s hair, still held securely at the back of his head. “You got me there.”
Eddie chuckles, so pleased with himself. He grins at Steve, as ridiculous as he was at twenty, and Steve can’t help himself, leans forward and presses a kiss to Eddie’s crooked mouth. Eddie reaches up, dripping water over the edge of the tub, wet fingers briefly grabbing at Steve’s face, holding him in place for a second before he lets go with a miniscule grimace.
Steve doesn’t ask Eddie if his hip is bothering him, trusts Eddie will tell him if it’s bad, busies himself with working the bar of soap into a proper lather against Eddie’s washcloth.
“Jeff called me the other day.” Eddie says lightly, leaning forward so that the full expanse of his back is exposed to Steve.
“Yeah?” Steve follows up, setting the soap aside, beginning to run the washcloth over Eddie’s shoulders, across his back. The old scars. The new tattoos. Covers the pale breadth of his back in soap suds and then rinses them off with the shower head. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s working on another album.” Eddie says, excited disbelief threaded through the words. “Some indie label out in Seattle heard his first. Wanted to see what else he has in him.” His voice is full of pride, but there’s a wistful note there too that Steve can’t just ignore.
Eddie still plays, gets together with a couple of guys he met at the bar they frequent, their performances housed in living rooms and backyards. He worked so hard to get as much dexterity back in his left hand as he could. Steve never heard him play before, he knows Eddie still sometimes compares himself and his ability to who he was before the bats.
Once upon a time he wanted to play to sold out crowds, but that kind of blatant attention isn’t what he seeks anymore. “All those eyes on me. Makes me want to crawl out of my skin, y’know.” Still, Eddie loves music the same way he loves the nerd games he still plays, the books he reads, the articles he writes. Even if the dream’s changed, the love remains the same.
Still. Steve knows what it’s like, thinking back on old dreams. Even ones you’ve outgrown. There’s still a part of Steve that wonders who that guy might have been if those dreams had come true. Six kids and a winnebago. A full house and an office job. A seat at some country club and his parents fawning over his wife at holiday dinners.
“He wanted to see if I was interested in working with him. On a few songs.” Eddie continues, worrying at his cuticles while Steve rinses the conditioner from his hair.
“Like to write them with him?” Steve asks, easing himself upright, stretching his legs after nearly half an hour crouching next to the tub. “You’ve got it from here or do you want me to stick around?” He asks, gesturing at Eddie, still sitting in the bathtub.
Eddie extends his hand. It’s not always a two-man job, it isn’t even really a two-man job today, but Eddie seems to want Steve close, has probably been holding on to Jeff’s request since he called. Thinking it over. Seems to want to talk things out more than he needs help bathing. He needs that sometimes, same as Steve, needs to say things out loud, bounce ideas back and forth in order to make sense of them.
Eddie holds onto the handrail to stand up, water cascading down the length of his legs, takes Steve’s arm to steady himself as he steps out of the bathtub.
“Yeah.” Eddie shrugs, pulls on his bathrobe while Steve releases the tub stopper, lets the water drain away. Eddie closes the robe around himself, hugs the soft fabric close. Robin bought him for his birthday last year as a kind of joke, but Eddie honestly loves the thing.
(“Accept it Munson, you’re bougie. You’ve got a taste for the finer things in life.”
“You could say that.” Eddie teased back, slinging an arm over Steve’s shoulders. Robin, nonplused after years of innuendo, simply said, “Let’s be real now, Steve’s probably retail at best.” )
He cinches the belt, sits on the closed toilet lid to rub a towel over his dripping hair. “He mentioned maybe playing a little bit on, like, a backing track.”
Steve dries his arms off, watches Eddie twist and turn the towel into a neat headwrap holding all his hair on top of his head to dry. “Whoa! That would be so cool.” He says, because it would be. An incredible opportunity, made all the better because it’s Jeff asking. Eddie loves Jeff.
“Yeah. He sent me some of the stuff he’s started working on already.” Eddie throws his hands up wide, fingers miming an explosion. “And it’s already pretty awesome.”
“He gonna come here?” Steve asks, thinks about their spare room that mostly acts as a home office for Eddie. It’s packed with an absurd amount of Dustin’s crap from when he visits but Jeff’s stayed with them before, knows not to touch the fish tank where Dustin’s ‘specimen’ live. (“Dolly and Jolene are not test subjects, Henderson! They’re our friends.” “I thought they were Hall and Oates.”)
Eddie’s excitement dims, just a little, but enough for Steve to notice. “Well, we talked a bit. Like logistics. I’d, uh, go out there. To Washington. Maybe a month or two. Since he’s got the studio space secured already.”
“Ah.”
Eddie nods, stares up at Steve with his familiar dark eyes, uncharacteristically quiet.
They’ve been apart before. Of course they have. Eddie’s done overnights in different cities for work, visited Wayne back in Hawkins, gone up to Boston to hang out with Henderson when Steve couldn’t get the time off work.
And Steve’s flown out to California to see Robin a couple of times now. And he tries to visit New Mexico once a year to see his mom now that his dad’s passed.
They’ve been apart.
The days when Steve didn’t think he could bear to have the people he loves most apart from him for any length of time are long behind him. He had to weed out the fear the Upside Down had rooted in him, reframe the quiet left behind by his parents every time they packed their bags and left town.
Moving to Indy helped. Robin taking that job in California helped. Uprooting their lives in Indiana and starting again in Chicago helped. Eddie demonstrating how it was possible to love and leave and come back helped.
But after nearly twenty years their days together out number their time spent apart.
Steve’s going to miss Eddie. Simple as that.
“Can I do your hair?” Steve asks, reaching over, motioning at Eddie’s towel. Eddie gives a tiny nod, lets Steve pull his hair free, the wet strands stuck together in thick locks. He feels the dip of Eddie’s head under his fingers as he combs them through Eddie’s hair. He hears Eddie clear his throat. He starts at the bottom, makes sure there aren’t any major tangles before he gets out a comb.
Eddie is quiet for a bit, just the sound of the CD playing in the background, the occasional wet wick sound coming off his hair as Steve combs it out, section by section so it’ll dry sometime tonight.
“I haven’t—I don’t think I’ve ever been away from home for that long since I was, uh, in the hospital. Back in Hawkins. Remember?”
Steve snorts. “Hmm, Hawkins? Hospital? That vaguely rings a bell.” The spring of ‘86 was, hands down, the longest period of Steve’s life. Between Max, Eddie, and the infection running rampant in his own wounds, Steve saw more of the hospital than his own house during those long weeks.
“Pretty sure Jeff will make you lime jello if you ask him nicely.” Steve says dryly.
“Babe, it wasn’t the lime jello I was excited about.” Eddie snickers, but his shoulders are still uneasy. Steve waits for him to gnaw on whatever else is on his mind. Sure enough Eddie eventually says, “Old me would be kicking my ass for even hesitating, y’know. Like. Am I really thinking about how I’m not going to have my bed. Or my pillows. Or my Steve?”
Steve kisses the top of Eddie’s head. “I’m not going to judge you for listing me third. Our bed is pretty great.”
Eddie tips his head back, looks at Steve head on. “Is it lame of me that I’m mostly excited to rock out with Jeff again? Like the album is cool and all. Like really cool, and I’m going to write about it and pitch around to everyone, but seriously, I just miss playing with the guy.”
And that right there is more than enough of a reason for Eddie to. Because Eddie misses his friend and he misses making music with him. Steve understands that.
Steve smiles, pushes Eddie’s damp hair back, away from his face, secures a piece of it behind his ear. “You’re asking a man who sometimes wishes he was still working retail jobs with his best friend.” Does he actually miss folding over priced blouses in ugly prints at that so-called boutique in Indy? Not remotely. But time spent with Robin will always be highly prized in Steve’s mind.
And there’s worry accumulating in Steve’s belly without his permission, thoughts of whether Eddie will have everything he needs, whether there will be a ramp at the studio or whether Jeff’s still living in that top floor apartment in the place with the shitty elevator and whether or not Eddie will be mad if Steve asks. Eddie knows how to prepare for trips, he’s been doing it for years. But Steve can’t help worrying. Or the urge to be helpful. He just knows better than to act on it. It isn’t Eddie’s problem to deal with.
“You could come too.” Eddie says quietly, hands going to Steve’s hips, maneuvering him so that he’s directly in front of him, standing between Eddie’s knees. Eddie wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, pulls him forward, close enough that Eddie can rest his chin against Steve’s stomach. “Maybe for a long weekend or something. Or I can fly back—” Eddie tips his face fully against Steve’s sweatshirt. Groans. “I don’t like thinking of you here by yourself.”
“Hey, it’s gonna be okay.” Steve tries to assure him, something warm growing in his chest to think that part of all this is Eddie’s concern for him. That he doesn’t want Steve to be alone.
We take care of each other.
“You think Jeff has, like, groupies?” Steve wonders out loud as Eddie takes to his feet. He’s still holding on to Steve, wrapped around him. Steve’s happy to be held.
“You trying to audition or something?” Eddie asks as they leave the bathroom, step into their bedroom. The lights are dimmed, the curtains drawn, their wonderful bed waiting for them.
“I mean, if this album takes off…” Steve ponders, laughs when Eddie bites his shoulder through his sweater.
“No way, Harrington. If you’re going to be anyone’s groupie, it’s gonna be mine.”
Steve’s still laughing as Eddie sits down on the edge of the bed, attempts and mostly fails to pose seductively. Steve’s still chuckling as he asks if Eddie plans to put on clothes tonight. Eddie spreads his legs wider. Steve tosses a pair of boxers at his face.
“No, you’re right, you’re right, I’ve already put in the hours here.”
Eddie grabs at him again as soon as Steve’s within reach, yanks Steve close and sends them both toppling sideways onto the mattress. “Exactly, big boy. You’re better off sticking with me.”
Steve pulls Eddie into a kiss, sweet and unhurried. “Yeah, definitely. No question.”