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Everyone knew that the Harrington parties were a risky move. Eddie also knew this, but he was under the impression that the risk itself was getting caught dealing, because Chief Hopper had a habit of personally breaking up Harrington’s parties and absolutely could not be convinced to look the other way.
He finds out the hard way that there are greater risks.
Of course, the night starts out fine. It starts out great , actually, because it’s a celebratory weekend party for some competition win or the other so everyone is feeling spontaneous and generous, which just happen to be two of Eddie’s favourite business hours.
“How much for two?” someone practically yells over the music, and Eddie takes a moment to glance over her outfit before making up a price. She doesn’t question him, and takes the joints with a wild grin.
“How much do I need to get me high?” someone else asks.
“That depends,” Eddie replies, “on whether or not you’ve taken anything before?”
The boy shakes his head, and Eddie follows up with a short question and answer rally about his drinking habits—nonexistent, apparently—before selling him essentially half a joint. Better a disappointed customer than a dead one, he figures.
The evening continues in a similar fashion, and occasionally accepts people’s offers of trading expensive alcohol for his goods, because if he’s going to be here all night, he might as well have a little fun. He stays sober enough, of course, because he’s apparently the only one keeping track of how much everyone is taking.
Well, not the only one.
“Didn’t you just finish a joint? Cut that out,” he hears someone say firmly.
“God, don’t be a buzzkill,” another voice, far lighter and slower, replies.
“God, don’t be a corpse ,” the first voice retorts, followed by a loud groan and the stomp of a boot, which Eddie assumes is his goods being crushed. Shame.
Whoever they were must move their argument elsewhere in the time it takes Eddie to round the corner, because there’s nobody in the vicinity when he finally does so, and he’s quickly distracted by someone else approaching him.
The night moves on, and Eddie is pretty sure he’s sold something to everyone in the building before the stroke of midnight. But just when he decides to leave: “Munson!”
Eddie groans inwardly, but grins. “Hagan! What can I do for you?”
“Were you leaving?” Tommy asks, as if that hadn’t been glaringly obvious.
Still, he figures the ridiculous amount of money Hagan had spent earlier is finally catching up to him, so he nods. “Sold out, man.”
“Are you going to come back with more?” Tommy asks.
Before he can reply, the host of the party himself cuts in. “I don’t think so. We agreed on one round, Tommy.”
Eddie simultaneously realises two things. Firstly, the stern voice from earlier had apparently been Steve Harrington. And secondly, Steve and Tommy had discussed how much Eddie was allowed to sell at this party, which Tommy had most definitely not communicated with Eddie when requesting his presence. He’s not sure what exactly it means that Tommy is making arrangements behind Steve’s back, but he doesn’t think it can be anything good, and it’s nothing he wants to be involved in.
“Come on, bro, let everyone have a little fun!” Tommy grins, punching Steve’s shoulder.
Steve, unamused, glances at Eddie, who tries very hard to look as innocent as possible. “Go home, Munson.”
Tommy elbows Steve. “You’re ruining his business, man.”
Apparently stubborn in more areas of life than just sports, Steve shakes his head and looks directly at Eddie again. “How much would another round sell for? Actually, you know what, whatever you’d make from it, I’ll double it. Keep the drugs and go home. I’ll pay you before class on Monday. Win win, right?”
Eddie’s jaw drops, once again amazed by the things rich people can promise without a second thought. When Steve raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him, he clears his throat and lifts both hands in the air, fingers spayed in surrender. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, man. Win win. Works for me. Pleasure doing business with you, and all that.”
It’s not his smoothest moment, but Steve nods at him, and he takes that as his cue to leave.
“I swear I’ll call Hopper myself if you invite him back tonight, Tommy,” he hears Steve say behind him.
“You’d bust your own party just to prove a point?” Tommy replies, and Eddie slows his pace to hear the reply because, honestly, he’s curious about this weird rule too.
Steve huffs. “I warned you about the weed! It doesn’t mix well with the new beer, just ask Carol.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Tommy asks, once again echoing Eddie’s thoughts. Except he thinks he has the upper hand here, because he’s assuming that the second voice from earlier had been Carol, who he’s pretty sure is Tommy’s girlfriend.
“She’s been puking in my bedroom for the last hour, you moron.”
Eddie reaches the end of the hallway, but pauses just outside the door, curious to see where this will go.
“Why is she in your bedroom, man? You following in that camera creep’s footsteps?” Tommy sneers.
He doesn’t hear what Steve says next, and they either relocate or close a door, because he doesn’t hear anything further. Not that he cares, of course, because he’s above mindless gossip, but it’s mildly disappointing not to finish watching the elite squabble themselves into chaos.
Despite the deal he’d made, Eddie doesn’t go home straight away. The night is young and he still has some traded alcohol left to work through, which he sees no reason to waste now that he’s off duty. He makes his way to the back of the house—it’s not particularly difficult, the side gate is unlocked—and settles near the pool, watching the streetlight dance across the surface of the water.
He purposely leaves himself a good vantage point of the back doors, so he can quickly hide if any drunk party folk decide to venture outside.
He’s not sure if it’s the darkness or the chill of the air, but he doesn’t have to think about said party folk for a long while, none of them braving the outdoors, not even for the sake of privacy. Which is why, when someone finally does emerge, after there’s just enough alcohol in his veins for his brain to be softly buzzing, he forgets what his exit strategy had been and just freezes.
“I feel… weird,” Steve mumbles, stumbling into view.
“Yeah, you would,” Tommy replies, sounding far too gleeful for someone watching his supposed best friend’s face twist in confusion. “You paid for a lot of drugs, man.”
Eddie knows he hasn’t sold anything to Steve all night, and he doesn’t like where this is going.
“What—what’re you talking about?” Steve manages, blinking slowly.
Tommy laughs in response, the sound causing Eddie to involuntarily shudder. He watches as Steve’s face scrunches up in confusion, but he clearly doesn’t figure out that Tommy has stolen his money. “Why’d you bring me out here?” he asks.
The words are spoken fast and squashed together almost incoherently. It must be something Tommy is more used to because, by the time Eddie has repeated the phrase slowly to himself and figured it out, Tommy is halfway through replying, his voice quiet but dark.
Steve then squeezes his eyes shut. “I hate you,” he mutters after a moment.
Tommy just laughs again, as if this is a regular conversation. “You’ll thank me later, man.”
Eddie can’t even begin to understand which part of this scenario—he has a sinking feeling that he’s witnessing someone having drugged someone else with his supply—is something Steve is supposed to be grateful for.
“I’ll… I’ll call Hop. I warned—warned yo—oh, sh—” Steve cuts himself off, doubling over as he retches.
Eddie completes the phrase for him, then slaps a hand over his mouth, hoping Tommy hadn’t heard him. It turns out he hadn’t, because he’d been too busy processing Steve’s threat and deciding how to counter it.
As Steve is catching his breath, Tommy pulls him upright, and jabs a finger into his chest. “And I warned you not to get with Wheeler. Your sob story doesn’t mean the rest of us aren't allowed to have fun.”
Ouch . Eddie winces at the raw expression of hurt on Steve’s face, then audibly gasps as Tommy promptly shoves him backwards. Right into the pool.
It only dimly registers that Tommy immediately turns on his heel and is halfway through the back door before Steve even hits the surface of the water, because Eddie is in complete shock and the world narrows as he watches Steve disappear for several tense heartbeats before reappearing with a gasp and a splutter.
He manages to unceremoniously guide himself to one side of the pool—Eddie can’t help but being a little impressed when he knows he probably would have just flailed like an idiot—but can’t seem to get much further than that, apparently not strong enough to pull himself out. Eddie wonders, in horror, whether Tommy had anticipated this outcome as part of his little set up.
The sight of Steve’s grip loosening on the edge of the pool is enough to spur Eddie out of his horror, and he thankfully doesn’t have to move very far to grab onto his arms. “Hey, hey, Harrington, come on, man, pull yourself up. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he mutters desperately, because he’s not about to watch someone drown .
Steve blinks up at him, his eyes red rimmed, probably from both the weed and the chlorine. “My arms aren’t working,” he croaks.
Eddie bites his tongue for a moment. “I assure you they are. I’m holding them right now and, uh, they feel so strong. All this… muscle. You can do this. Come on, come on, you’re almost there, it’s just a little further up” he says, hoping they both forget how insane he sounds once the alcohol wears off.
There’s a brief moment after Steve is apparently persuaded by his insanity and begins to pull himself up that Eddie’s unprepared feet slide forwards and they both end up plummeting towards the water, all of Steve and a little of Eddie ending up underwater, but Eddie grits his teeth and plants his feet and tugs on Steve’s arms as hard as he can.
Steve gasps as he resurfaces and somehow finds the strength to join forces with Eddie and haul himself up onto the grass, all but collapsing against Eddie as soon as he does. He then promptly twists and throws up, and Eddie is oddly touched that, despite the mess his head must be, he’d made an effort not to vomit all over Eddie.
“You’re… so bad at… at… saving people,” Steve gasps, then shivers sharply.
Eddie chooses not to take offence, and instead lets go of Steve’s wrists. He prays he hasn’t left bruises, because he’s not sure sober Harrington would forgive him. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” he replies, but his voice is too high pitched to sound anywhere close to cool or sarcastic.
“Am I?” Steve asks, and his teeth promptly start chattering.
“You need to take your clothes off,” Eddie instructs.
Steve raises an eyebrow, and Eddie pretends his gaze doesn’t linger on his drooping fringe and the way it almost looks stylish. “Shut up, Harrington, not like that. You’ll get pneumonia if you stay in the clothes you nearly drowned in,” Eddie explains, glad that he has something to focus on rather than the near death experience he just witnessed.
“O—oh,” Steve says, then groans and retches again, his face visibly paling.
Eddie swallows his panic. He reaches forward and tugs on the hem of Steve’s polo shirt. “Come on, man, you’re going to get sick.”
“Won’t I… ugh . Won’t I get—get sick if I just… shirtless?” Steve points out.
Good point. Eddie curses, then shrugs off his jacket. “Right. This is leather. You won’t freeze, or get sick, if you put it on. Now come on , Harrington.”
It’s only a little awkward to exchange Steve’s shirt for Eddie’s jacket, and Eddie forces himself not to shiver as he watches Steve tug the jacket around himself, his hands shaking. He then collapses backwards, and laughs incredulously as he laughs up at the sky. “ What . The hell .”
“I don’t think even hell could make sense of this one,” Eddie mutters to himself, pleasantly surprised when Steve laughs. He figures things are weird enough already and collapses beside Steve. He reaches an arm up towards the stars and watches in fascination as his fingers tremble.
“You’re sha—king,” Steve whispers.
“I gathered,” Eddie replies, but not unkindly. “I bet you are too.”
He feels Steve shrug beside him, but he doesn’t lift an arm up, which is understandable because even he has to let his hand drop back down after a few moments, and he’s not the one who was just drugged and nearly drowned.
“I’m never dealing at your parties again, Harrington,” Eddie says eventually.
Steve hums. “Should I… pre—tend to be up—upset?”
Eddie laughs, and runs a hand over his face. “You should probably head inside and get warm.”
After a moment of silence, Steve sighs. His voice is small when he says, “My head… hurts.”
It takes Eddie a minute, but he understands Steve’s reluctance to re-enter a house full of noise and excitement when he really just needs somewhere quiet to sleep everything off. He’s momentarily tempted to just leave, to let Steve figure it out on his own, because he doesn’t owe him anything and he’s not responsible for jock fallouts, but he knows he’d disappoint both himself and Wayne and if he didn’t follow through with the whole saving someone’s life thing.
“You want me to call the Chief?” Eddie asks.
Steve must be as surprised as he is to hear that offer come out of his mouth, because there are several beats of silence before he replies. “You were dealing, right?
“They can’t arrest me if they don’t find anything on me,” Eddie says firmly, not sure who he’s convincing that this is the best decision. “Where’s your phone?”
Steve's eyes flutter open—Eddie hadn’t noticed them falling shut, which isn’t very responsible of him, really. “Kitchen.”
“Weird,” Eddie mutters before he can help it.
“Rude,” Steve mutters back, and not even unkindly.
Eddie finds himself chuckling, then abruptly remembers he’s meant to be saving someone’s life. “What do you normally say when you call him?” he asks.
Steve shrugs, and shivers. “Tell him… just… tell him I need him.”
And if that doesn’t tug on Eddie’s heartstrings. Except…
“You gonna be okay if I leave you here?” he asks, because Steve can’t seem to keep his eyes open for more than a minute at a time, and he’s not about to be accused of murder just because he’d tried to call for help.
Eddie almost regrets asking when Steve just stares at him for the longest few minutes of his life, his pupils alarmingly wide but his gaze strangely alert as he searches Eddie’s face for something to make sense of. “Call him. Please .”
It wouldn’t be fair to waste any more time, Eddie supposes. He nods, and pulls himself to his feet. He wobbles immediately, not even sure why, and Steve laughs from where he’s watching him.
“Shut up,” Eddie grumbles. “Okay. Just… stay there. Stay awake , actually. I’ll be back as fast as I can.”
“You will?” Steve asks, frowning.
Eddie pauses, then sighs. “I’m just putting that down to the drugs in your system. Stay alive down there, Harrington.”
He takes a deep breath and forces himself to sprint across the backyard before weaving his way through the dancing and laughing and swearing that now seems so much more sinister. He finds the phone easily enough—thank you rich people minimalism—and none too gently nudges past the two making out against it before dialling for the police station.
“Hawkins Police Dep—”
“I know, I know. Look, it’s urgent. Tell Chief Hopper that Ste—uh, that Harrington needs him. Like, now .” Eddie whisper-yells.
He ends up getting jostled immediately after that, the phone slipping from his hand, and doesn’t see a way to get back to it without drawing attention to himself and making his life harder. After a split second of frustration, he lets the crowd push him back outside, hoping with an inexplicable sense of responsibility that he’s done enough to keep Steve safe.