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Part I: Fall, 1983
“In the dream I don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap.”
Richard Siken, Crush
The first secret he keeps is this:
I’m sick, she tells him, which actually means something else, something that he can’t conceive of at six years old. In his memories of her, she is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, but in this one she is small and frail, the valleys beneath her hazel eyes bruised. On the table in front of her are the things his dad brought, the things they fought about before she started coughing and he left with tears and a snarl on his face. It makes me feel better, but you can’t tell Uncle Wayne, okay?
Okay, Eddie says, because he loves her and he is six. It is not the most important secret he ever keeps, far from it, but it’s the first one that ever felt heavy. It’s the first one with consequences.
(Never, not once, does he hate her for it. He probably should, but he doesn’t.)
He never tells anyone, though. Not the next day when Uncle Wayne comes by with their groceries and comments on how she looks a little better, and not three months later when the fire department break down the door, and find him laying beside her on the mattress.
The only time he thinks about it is a dozen years later when a boy he loves asks him to lie just a little bit longer.
Steve Harrington is his thousandth secret; his longest secret; the one that matters both too much and not enough. Sometimes, Eddie wants to put it all down on paper, tease out the threads until they lay flat and he can see the beginning, the middle, the end, understand how they got here and there, how it both started and ended with the sharp press of a beer bottle to the stubbled skin of Steve’s throat.
It might make him feel better. Might make everything fucking worse.
Regardless, Steve is a secret, and Eddie keeps him.
For whatever that’s worth.
Eddie likes to think of himself as an agent of chaos.
Not like, the mayhem and madness type of chaos, of course. That’s a little unruly for shitty little Hawkins, and Eddie’s a freak but he’s not trying to be a “chase the guy outta town” kind of freak. For all that he complains, Wayne doesn’t mind the plant and the guys he works with there, and while Eddie would love nothing more than to escape small-town purgatory, he knows he’s still gotta like, prepare for that shit. Save money, make a plan. That sort of thing. Probably graduating high school would be a good start.
Nah, Eddie’s brand of chaos is a little more simplistic: never let ‘em know your next move.
...in that he, himself, doesn’t know his own next move.
It’s a more mysterious and interesting way to say that he’s a complete mess.
Eddie doesn’t have much of a routine to his life, but it’s fine because other people do. Wayne is meticulous in his organization: work schedule posted up on the fridge, specific days for groceries or laundry—all little things that make his—and therefore Eddie’s—life a little easier. The Hellfire guys meet up at lunch, then Tuesdays and Thursdays for band practice and every other Friday for DnD sessions. He gets new shit from Rick every third Sunday and a stern talking-to from Chief Hopper or Officer Powell once a month. In between it all, Eddie brews a little chaos and acts a fool and it’s fine, because eventually something pulls him straight for a little bit and he can scrape by in whatever class he’s close to passing, or maintain a job long enough that he can throw it on the good ‘ol resume. Life moves on, nature heals, and then the cycle begins all over again.
So while Eddie loves a good shake up, a little pandemonium, he also relies on people following their predestined routines. The normies say things to Eddie under their breath and the jocks say things with their outside voices and Steve Harrington does not, under any circumstances, interact with Eddie Munson.
“Are you having a stroke?” Eddie asks when Steve appears at the end of his table in the library, looking battered and more pathetic than normal. Eddie’s not really up on the happenings of Hawkins High gossip, but even he heard about the double whammy King Steve suffered last week, losing his girlfriend and a fight against Jonathan Byers all in one weekend.
His bruising has faded slightly, but it still looks painful.
Steve glances over at him, squinting like he’s miles away and not just four seats. “Pardon?”
Maybe he is having a stroke. Eddie waves a hand to the rest of the library; there are a few people scattered about, but it’s empty enough that Steve could have his own table if he wanted to. “You,” Eddie says slowly, enunciating each word. “Look a little lost, Harrington.”
Instead of nodding and skipping on his merry way, Steve makes a big show of looking around. “Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ a little bitchier than Eddie was prepared for. “Would you look at that? I’m in the right spot.” He drops his backpack on the table, kicks a chair free, then sits heavily.
To be fair, Eddie is in the best seat of the house. It’s the only table in the library that’s tucked away, meant to be some sort of quiet study area that people mostly use to sleep or makeout. Eddie is back here avoiding third period P.E., working on a comic strip he’s planning to leave for Wayne that explains why, exactly, he should go to Indy overnight this weekend for a concert. Very important business, really. He can’t afford the distraction that is Steve Harrington.
And Steve Harrington is a distraction.
Eddie’s gearing up to say something shitty when Steve bundles his jacket up in his arms, then drops his face into it.
There is real consideration then to be his most annoying self: tap the table with his pencil, jog his leg so the whole thing moves, start humming or whistling or just lean across and jab his finger into the side of Steve’s neck over and over until a vein bursts or he fucking moves. It might not actually be his table, but he’s certainly not about to share it with the same douchebag who swans around with people who have made Eddie’s existence miserable.
And he would, right, is actually, seriously planning it, but then—
Then Steve snores a little, and Eddie’s an asshole but he’s not...not that much of an asshole.
With an angry sigh, he turns back to his comic.
One of his more mortifying secrets:
Eddie’s known he was gay since he was ten, even if he didn’t know the word for it. You can only look at nudie mags for so long and have no reaction beyond what the fuck is that before you get the hint.
Eddie’s known he was fucked since he was thirteen and saw Steve in his stupid little shorts at the public pool. To Eddie’s astonished fury, he’s only gotten prettier as the years stretched on, and it’s the smallest of blessings that his personality is so goddamn awful.
Their little dates continue.
It seems like every time he decides to skip a class, Steve is there thinking the same thing. More than once, Eddie finds him passed out cold at the table in the library, mouth open and wheezy little snores coming out, just loud enough to draw attention to himself. Most often, though, Steve is there staring into space or working on an assignment, looking more and more frazzled as Christmas break approaches.
The library isn’t the only place they see each other, either. Everywhere Eddie looks, Steve and his hair are lingering in his periphery; hanging by his locker, which isn’t that far from Eddie’s, or in the parking lot long after school ends, waiting for Nancy Wheeler to be finished whatever after school club she's in. Which is funny, because Eddie’s pretty sure she’s dating Byers now.
Eddie catches him buying shampoo one night, and burgers another, and he hates it. He hates it! Seeing each other in the world that exists outside of Hawkins High is one thing, but Eddie refuses to tolerate it at school.
“Man, enough is enough. Get fucking lost.”
Glancing up from the books spread out in front of him, Steve gives him a look like Eddie is the one out of line.
“I was literally here first this time,” Steve snaps. “You don’t own the only good table in the library.”
“Sure I do.” Eddie stabs a finger into the E.M. carved into the table, tucked lovingly alongside a dick and balls and a little heart. “Now scram.”
A year ago, Steve would have chewed Eddie up and spat him out. Hell, a year ago the prick wouldn’t even be caught dead in a library unless he had his hand up a skirt in the back stacks.
Completely against his will (Nigel is cool for a sophomore, but far too interested in the politics of high school for a Hellfire member—truthfully, Eddie doesn’t see him lasting into the new year), Eddie heard that Jonathan Byers stood up for Steve during lunch earlier in the week when Tommy called him a pussy. In an unrelated incident, both their cars got egged.
Eddie was suspended for two days at the beginning of the week for cheating on an essay for history—one day for the actual cheating, and a second day for the tone he used when he argued against it (and really, is it cheating if you used the same one you submitted last year? He thinks not!)—so he missed all of the fun.
Now he just has sad sack of shit Steve looking pitiful at his table when he should be napping the next two periods away.
Steve’s face falls, brows furrowing as he looks down at his work. He mumbles something that Eddie doesn’t hear as he walks to his spot and drops heavily into the creaking chair. “Unless that was a ‘sorry, I’ll be on my way’, I’m not all that interested.”
“I don’t—I gotta finish this paper, man. I can’t concentrate anywhere else.”
Don’t get Eddie wrong, okay, he doesn’t like the guy. He’s a prick of the highest order, and while he might not have actively done anything to make Eddie’s life worse, he always hung out with guys who did. Steve was one hundred percent part of the problem, and Eddie doesn’t feel even a little bad that he’s fallen from grace.
But he’s fucking pretty when he looks sad like that. Does he know he’s pouting? Does he know his eyes go all liquid when he’s pitiful? Probably, if Eddie’s being realistic.
“What’s it for?” Eddie asks, leaning his chair back. He braces his knees against the edge of the table, balancing himself expertly. Steve does not look impressed when Eddie waves at this feat. “Also doesn’t skipping class to do work for a class kind of defeat the purpose?”
“It’s cooking.”
“The paper?”
“The class.” Steve sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like Eddie is exhausting. Ha! He flinches away from the minor bite of pain it probably causes his still-sore nose, glaring down at the blank piece of paper in front of him. The bruising has mostly faded, but there is a small scab still, peeling at the edges. “The paper is for English.”
Eddie offers a smile, which he knows is unpleasant, if the grimace Steve answers him with is anything to go by. Excellent. “And how come you’re not asking your girlfriend to write it for you? That’s the kinda shit you pull, isn’t it?”
Steve glares at him. “She’s not my girlfriend, and—not anymore. It was like, one time, and Debbie offered. How was I supposed to know she’d get caught?”
“Uh, maybe when the woman who was reading your dogshit essays all year finally looked at a good one?” Steve rolls his eyes, turning back to his blank paper. Eddie’s chair drops to the ground with a loud thud, drawing his gaze back. Eddie knows what he’s about to say is wrong, but he can’t help the words that bubble up: “Is Nancy like a timeshare for you and Byers?”
“That’s fucking nasty,” Steve snaps, pointing a finger at Eddie. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
Rage has filled Steve’s face with life again; a flush across his cheeks, teeth bared in a snarl. Eddie feels guilty for talking about Wheeler like that; they’ve never spoken to each other but she’s also never been actively hostile towards him. But for every bit of guilt he feels, there is a little curl of delight at seeing Steve so angry.
“Sorry man, s’just weird, right?”
Steve scoffs. “You have no idea.”
Eddie takes too long to respond, so they awkwardly begin to do what they came to do. Eddie skips over his two-period naps, doesn’t like the idea of sleeping in front of Steve—being vulnerable in front of someone who once cried with laughter after the contents of Eddie’s backpack were upended in the dumpster seems like a recipe for disaster—and instead pulls out his notebook and a handful of pencils rattling around the bottom of his bag.
He’s in the process of creating a map for a quest he’s planning to give the other Hellfire guys, has spent the last few nights sketching it all out, coming up with names, and now he needs to do the tedious part: outlining it all. Did he need to do this shit for the session? Absolutely not. But it was that or algebra and nobody should have to suffer algebra.
So for a little bit, he and Steve work in silence, using the library for what it’s actually meant for. Eddie’s focused on tracing out all the small islets around the bigger piece of land on his map, cursing himself for even adding them in the first place, when Steve sighs heavily and says, “Have you read The Great Gatsby?”
“Uh, yeah, the one with the green light, right?” Eddie mutters, looking around for his red pen. Where the fuck did it—
“It’s in your hair,” Steve drawls. Eddie reaches up, fumbling around the elastic band that’s holding his hair up and—yup, there’s the pen. “And I think it’s about the 1920s. The Great Depression. Is that what you wrote about?”
Eddie blinks at him. “The green light at the end of Daisy’s dock...set during prohibition in the Roaring 20s?” Eleventh grade seems so far away, but English is the only class he’s somewhat decent at. Gatsby wasn’t his favorite read, but it was the first one they read, so Mrs. Williams beat the symbolism into them.
Steve groans, sinking into his seat. “I’m so fucked for this, dude.”
For once, Eddie kind of has to agree with him.
Eddie turns up at Tommy Hagan’s New Year’s Eve party with clear instructions from Rick: sell something.
Usually, Rick is a pretty chill guy; he’s a big gardener, loves chai tea, fills out the crossword every Sunday, really hates when Eddie doesn’t sell the shit he gives him. And okay, maybe Eddie’s been slacking a little the last couple months, and sure he’s sold less than he usually does, but it’s hard to sell the good stuff when you actively avoid parties.
So Eddie’s got a backpack full of fun party drugs to try and push on the Hawkins High elite and a go-getter attitude (re: fear of disappointing Rick, who is a drug dealer at the end of the day and has, once—quite memorably, Eddie might add!—curb stomped someone who stole from him).
No one really pays him much attention, which is nice. It’s always hit or miss at parties like this. Eddie either shows up and blends into the background, passing out goodies to whoever has the cash, or he gets stared at until he slinks out the back door like a dog who pissed on the carpet, back to his van before anyone can get any ideas.
Lucky for him, some of the footballers are in a good enough mood post-season to buy some coke, and a couple of regulars who haven’t been so regular grab some acid off him; sure, it’s not the haul Rick probably wants but it’s definitely more reasonable for a highschool party. He might be able to swing by the Hideout after the ball drops and sell a bit more, but he’s fairly happy.
He’s in the kitchen stealing a couple of beers from Hagan’s absurdly well stocked fridge when he hears a commotion out in the den. He takes advantage of the distraction it causes, swiping an unopened bag of BBQ chips alongside his beers. It takes a little finagling to stuff them all into his backpack, but by the time someone comes wandering in, a little dazed and clearly in search of water, Eddie is on his way out with a suspiciously full bag—
—just in time to watch Carol Perkins backhand Steve.
The room is already loud; most of the party has gathered in the den, the minutes ticking away to midnight forgotten in the excitement of a fight, but the roar that erupts at first contact is fucking deafening. Eddie doesn’t hear the slap, but Carol’s got rings on her fingers and a whole lot of gusto when she swings her hand into Steve’s mouth, so Eddie knows it hurt.
Beside him, two jocks are howling with laughter, leaning into one another with tears on their faces as they watch Carol verbally abuse Steve in front of the entire crowd. For the life of him, Eddie will never understand the excitement of standing around and watching people fight. As someone who has gotten his ass kicked more times than he’d like, he has no interest in watching it happen to someone else. Steve won’t hit Carol back, but she looks ready to lay into him more, and Eddie catches sight of Tommy pushing through the crowd, face flushed puce with anger. Whatever’s about to happen isn’t gonna be pretty, and Eddie doesn’t plan to be here when the cops inevitably show up.
He doesn’t feel bad for Steve. Or he’s trying not to, at least; Eddie’s seen him in the periphery of fights before, smirking or looking bored or actively cheering people on. He’s not a good guy, and this sudden foray into loserdom doesn’t make him one, so Eddie leaves and doesn’t look back, doesn’t give a shit—
Eddie yells “COPS!” as he’s passing through the front door, takes off running towards his van. There aren’t any cops on the street, of course, but the people close enough to hear him echo the call through the house. Panic is a hell of a thing, Eddie knows, and it doesn’t take long for others to spill onto the front yard. They’ll notice quickly that there are no lights flashing or cop cruisers pulling up, but hopefully it gives Steve a chance to escape.
He’s halfway down the street when he feels someone barrel into his back. Eddie’s ready to turn and glare, remind the person that they’re all trying to avoid a night in the drunk tank or a walk of shame to the front door, caught up in the adrenaline of his own lie, when he catches sight of messy brown hair and feels a hand curl around his bicep, dragging him along.
“Where’s your van?” Steve pants.
Eddie stumbles at the new arrival, but Steve doesn’t let him fall, hauling him up and across the lawn of someone’s neat house. Snow crunches beneath their feet, revealing the path they’re taking, but Eddie is less concerned about that and more concerned by the rush of heat in his belly at the sight of Steve dragging him along.
“Go through here,” Eddie barks, shoving Steve to the right. They have to cut through someone’s backyard, but Eddie was smart enough to park on the next block over and it’s the quickest way.
Nobody is chasing them. No cops, no angry teens; still, there is a sense of urgency in their movements, a need to get as far away from the party as they can.
They make it to Eddie’s van, slamming into the side in a tangle of sweaty limbs and huffing laughter. The rest of the street is quiet and still, the only sounds coming from a block away as people begin to realize the cops aren’t actually there.
“C’mon, Harrington,” Eddie says, a little breathless. He straightens up and reaches for the passenger door, jerking it open. “Let’s get you home free.”
Neither of them speak in the eight minutes it takes to bring Steve home. The clock on the dash tells Eddie it’s twenty minutes past midnight, which means the new year came and went in the time it took Carol Perkins to slap Steve. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask if Steve tried to get her kiss at midnight when they pull up to his house.
Casa Harrington is nice but dark, no lights on and only the Beemer in the driveway. Steve must have walked to the party, Eddie realizes a little belatedly, or he bummed a ride off of someone.
“Your parents gone for the night?”
“For the week,” Steve corrects, making no move to unbuckle his seatbelt. “They’re gone to Cabo for New Year.”
“No kids allowed?”
“Never.”
Eddie hums, flexing his hands on the steering wheel. Steve is making no move to get out, hasn’t stopped staring out the passenger window since they got in the car. He doesn’t seem drunk, but then Eddie hasn’t actually witnessed Drunk Steve up close, only on the outskirts of parties; lingering in the doorway when Tommy or some other schmuck bought dope from him, crowing from the middle of a crowd whenever he was gracelessly let down from a kegstand, making out with a different girl in the corner or on the couch or in the bathroom of whatever party they were at. Maybe he’s a crybaby drunk, or someone who feels sorry for himself. Seems like the latter, based on his general...ness lately.
What he needs to do is tell him to get lost, wish him a happy new year and be done with Steve Harrington.
Instead, Eddie turns to face him, watching his profile carefully as he asks, “Are you okay?”
“Splendid,” Steve tells him, raising a hand to press at the split in his lip. There is a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth, a rictus grin. “Do I not seem okay?”
When Eddie doesn’t say anything, isn’t sure what to say, Steve huffs out a laugh. His eyes are fever-bright when they meet Eddie’s; high or drunk or a combination of the two. Something tells Eddie he should circle the block a couple more times, or follow Steve inside his house. Ask are you okay again and mean it this time.
Instead, he looks away from Steve, and the moment is broken.
“Thanks for the assist,” Steve mutters, shoving open the door. “Happy New Year.”
Eddie doesn’t wait to see if he gets inside.
January slides by in a flurry of ice and snow, a miserable month made worse by the increasingly obvious awareness that he will not be graduating this year. It isn’t said like that, exactly, when he’s finally wrangled and shoved in front of the guidance counselor, Wayne sitting anxiously by his side, but that’s the gist of it.
There’s a lot of talk about attempts at an early intervention, meetings Eddies missed, assignments he never handed in. Their answering machine has been broken for months now, too expensive to bother replacing, so all calls have gone unanswered. The notes from Eddie’s teachers were never delivered and are probably still living in the bottom of his locker.
Wayne doesn’t yell at him when they finally get in the car and head home, though maybe that’s worse. He took time off of work to go to that meeting, lost out on wages so he could hear that the kid he was saddled with fucked up big time and won’t be graduating alongside the rest of his class. He should be angry.
Al Munson’s anger was loud and incandescent, a thing to be feared. Never far from the surface, especially after she died and he became the sole caretaker of a kid he didn’t really like.
Wayne isn’t like that. The truck cools as he turns it off, winter seeping in through the vents. Eddie itches to throw himself onto the frozen ground and run until the burn in his lungs is from lack of breath and not panic, but he knows that Wayne isn’t sitting there for his own health.
His hands uncurl from the wheel, and he claps them on his thighs. The dry rasp of them rubbing against his jeans is loud in the truck, scraping along Eddie’s nerves until his shoulders are creeping up around his ears, teeth grit. “What do you wanna do?”
Eddie blinks, glancing away from his hands and up towards Wayne’s face. It doesn’t reveal anything. “What do you mean?”
“With your life, son. What do you wanna do after school ends?”
Get the fuck out of here, Eddie thinks, biting hard on the inside of his cheek. It’s not exactly the truth, but it feels more honest than anything else he can come up with.
Hawkins is old-fashioned in all of the very worst ways, but it’s safe enough; Eddie can go to school and the kids don’t fuck with him much anymore; there are jobs he could do if he got his act together, positions available at the Bill Hannerty’s garage or the factory alongside Wayne; there are people here who love him, despite all the reasons they shouldn’t.
But there are cities out there where Eddie can kiss a boy, or play his music to people who actually want to hear it. There are places that would inspire more stories than Hawkin’s forest or backroads ever could. Sprawling countrysides and terrifying mountains and an ocean that stretches on as far as the eye could see. There will always be more people, but there won’t always be this person.
Wayne watches him carefully, the way he always does. There’s no pressure to respond, no hand at the nape of his neck shaking him like a dog, yelling go on, tell me. Tell me! There’s just his uncle, the best guy Eddie knows, asking a question.
“I don’t know.”
Nodding, Wayne turns back to the windshield. It’s beginning to fog up, obscuring the trailer before them. “That’s a good thing, y’know. Means you can do whatever you want.”
“I guess.”
“No guessin’. You just gotta get your head on straight, kid. Go to school, do the assignments, show them assholes you ain’t the loser they think you are. Then, when you’re shovin’ that diploma in their faces, you can do whatever the hell you wanna.”
Eddie’s eyes burn, and he has to grit his teeth together to keep them from chattering in an embarrassing display of emotion. He nods, once, sharply, and Wayne nods too, a little slower. “Right then,” he says, reaching for the door. “Sloppy Joes for dinner?”
“Is weed good for migraines?”
Eddie blinks, then looks over Steve’s shoulder, scanning the yard in front of his trailer like it might suddenly produce an answer as to why he’s there. All Eddie spots are his burgundy BMW and the broken lawn chair he and Wayne have been meaning to get rid of.
Wayne is already gone to work for the evening, but Eddie still glares at Steve and says, “How the hell should I know?”
Steve’s brow furrows. “...you sell weed?”
“That a question or a statement?”
“It—why are you being annoying? Can you sell me some pot or not?” It comes out a bit like a whine, which should absolutely not be hot in a dude Steve’s age, but Eddie is a weak, weak loser.
Typically, Eddie doesn’t deal out of his trailer, or anywhere near Forest Hills. The people here don’t need anymore cops lurking around, and besides, they’re all fucking gossips. The second Eddie’s caught doing anything ‘bad’, they rat him out to Wayne, and after the towel fiasco (Eddie didn’t know they could grow mold, and if he did, he wouldn’t have piled the dirty ones in the corner, he swears), the last thing he needs is another really, son? Sometimes he thinks he’d prefer his dad’s rage to Wayne’s quiet disappointment.
At any rate, his regulars know not to come calling at the trailer, but Steve isn’t a regular. Eddie’s sold his friends weed and coke, but never the guy himself. It must be a little humbling for him to come all this way to do his own dirty work, and Eddie can appreciate that sort of thing, on occasion. It’s like seeing a dog walk on its hindlegs. Oh, how the mighty fall. “Get inside,” Eddie sighs, reaching for Steve’s jacket to haul him in, slamming the door with more force than necessary.
Steve flinches, hand lifting like he’ll ward something off, but it drops back to his side quickly enough. Eddie eyes him warily, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Steve shrugs away from him with an awkward little smile, gazing around the trailer with wide eyes.
Eddie allows himself a second to take Steve in, greedy for it. The split on his lip from New Year’s Eve has healed, all the bruising from earlier in autumn long since faded. There is a light coating of stubble along his jaw and above his lip, less intentional and more like he forgot to shave that morning. His hair is just as artfully insane as it usually is, smelling faintly sweet when he runs his hand through it.
He looks tired. Eddie wonders if it’s actually that obvious or if he’s just creepy enough to notice it now that they’ve spent more time together. There’s something slumped in his shoulders, an exhaustion around his eyes.
“Don’t tell me Perkin’s little smack gave you a concussion.” Eddie says it to fill the sudden silence, aware of Steve’s heavy gaze as it roves over the trailer and all its majesty. His eyes linger on all of Wayne’s collectibles hung around the room, lips twitching up slightly.
As a New Year’s resolution, he promised himself he wouldn’t have Steve Harrington-related thoughts, and yet here he is, doing it anyway.
Steve snorts, an ugly and inelegant noise that Eddie blinks at, mouth tugging into a grin before he can force it back into something normal. “No, uh. I just...it’s just been hard to sleep, is all. I have nightmares.”
Eddie’s brow furrows. “About what?”
Scruffing a hand through his hair, Steve shrugs. “It’s nothing, I just can’t relax enough to sleep and I don’t like the sleeping pills my mom got me. They make everything...fuzzy. And when I don’t sleep, I get these stupid migraines. It’s such a fucking mess.”
Eddie makes himself busy, fetching the weed from his lunchbox in his room. When he comes back, Steve has sat himself down at the kitchen table. “You have one right now?” Eddie asks as he takes the seat across from him.
“No, but I can tell when they’re coming on.” He rubs at his face, looking tired. “Usually I just lay in a dark room or the shower, but I got a math test coming up and I can’t afford to call out sick for it. I just need like, two joints or whatever.”
Eddie waves a bag around, the buds rolling inside. “This ain’t a five star experience, baby. One gram and you can roll yourself some.”
Steve hesitates, eyeing the bag and then looking away. “I don’t know how to do it.”
“Byers does,” Eddie says. “Ask him.”
Steve spent more time with Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers than Eddie thought was really appropriate, considering Byers stole his girl. The least he could do is roll Steve a couple of joints.
Eddie’s about to tell him this when Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes falling shut. When he sighs, his whole body deflates with the exhale. It is, possibly, the most pathetic he has ever seen King Steve, and it’s a thrilling sort of experience to witness it first hand. The untouchable boy, the king of Hawkins, reduced to a mess at his kitchen table, suffering from migraines because he can’t win a fight to save his life.
Eddie’s gonna roll him these goddamn joints, and he’s only a little bitter about it. He starts to do it, doesn’t really expect Steve to explain why he won’t ask Byers, but then Steve mutters between his palms, “I don’t want Nancy to know. She’ll worry.”
Eddie grinds the weed, watching Steve’s shoulders inch higher and higher at the sound. “About you smoking weed?”
“About my migraines. Or the nightmares. They’re—it’s not so bad, really. I just...she would worry, and she doesn’t need to.”
Eddie really puts his back into it, the metal scraping together obnoxiously. Steve lifts his head to glare. “Oh, sorry. I thought they weren’t that bad.”
Steve’s glare lessens when he realizes what Eddie’s doing. Five star experience; Eddie even tucked a filter into each one, wouldn’t want Steve to inhale anything he wasn’t supposed to.
His eyes drift over Eddie’s shoulder, focusing back on the small living room. Does he see the years of movie nights spent on the couch, or records played on Wayne’s coveted player in the corner? Or does he just see the worn blankets thrown over ratty sofas, the threadbare carpet and water stain on the ceiling? He wants to ask Steve what he thinks, turn it around and make him feel bad for gawking, for daring to look in on Eddie’s life, but there isn’t anything cruel or disparaging in his face, only a sort of curiosity.
Eddie’s nearly done rolling the joints when Steve murmurs, “I’m just being a baby.”
The words aren’t his own, Eddie knows that much. He wonders if it was his dad who said it to him, if he saw Steve curled up in the dark of his room and called him a pussy for being unable to get up and go to school.
“My mom used to get them,” Eddie tells him, the secret out in the air between them before he can think better of it. Steve’s heavy gaze falls onto him, surprised, and Eddie shrugs, nudging the joints across the table. “She’d be out of it for days, so I don’t think you’re being a baby, dude. They’re shitty.”
Steve’s mouth twists to the side. “Yeah, they are. Thanks for rolling these for me.”
“It’s fine.” Eddie busies himself with cleaning his mess. His cheeks feel warm. “Feel free to tip.”
“How about you smoke one with me?” Steve offers instead, holding one up.
The obvious answer here is no, which is probably why Eddie says, “You still have to pay for it. I’m not running a charity.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve sighs, rolling his eyes. “Will you do it, or do I need to go home and do it by myself?”
Eddie gives a long suffering sigh, pretends to think it over, but he knows he isn’t fooling Steve. “Do you at least know how to light it?”
Steve laughs, and Eddie is in so much trouble.
That’s the first secret Steve gives him. A breath held and let go, a softening of the edges. I have nightmares. I get migraines, Steve says and it doesn’t feel like much of a secret at the time; there isn’t any weight to it, no real drama, but it’s given anyway. A chip in King Steve’s crown; a wearing away of stone.
He is at the quarry, weaving his way through his graduating class with no real destination or person in mind. There’s half a case of cheap beer sloshing around in his gut and the joint he smoked has left his head buzzing.
These people graduated earlier today. Eddie was not among them. Alongside the beer and weed there is something tar-thick and insidious boiling away in him; Eddie doesn’t care about graduation so much as he cares about another year in a place that hates him.
If he were to look with any sort of effort at his motivations for being here, Eddie would know he was looking for trouble. He’s shouldering past people, sneering at their raucous joy, kicking aside graduation caps whenever they come across his path. Eddie is spoiling for a fight, and Tommy Hagan provides a nice one.
Eddie overcharges him, but Hagan isn’t like Steve or any of the other richie-riches; he doesn’t come from wealth or an endless allowance, he comes from chores and hard work on the weekends. The price Eddie tells him is preposterous, and Hagan tells him as much, but Eddie’s the only one here with weed, and he isn’t budging.
He expects Tommy to buckle, because he’s a lot of bark and only a little bite, but he jerks his chin at Mike Jones and they slink off back to the party. Eddie grits his teeth at their retreating backs, loathing the thought of spending another school year with the likes of Tommy and Mike, this time in classes with them instead of avoiding them in hallways or at lunch. It’s enough for him to clench his hands into fists at his sides, take a half step forward, and sneer, “Can’t afford it, you cheap pricks?”
They pause a few feet away, the light from Hagan’s flashlight shivering as he clenches his own fist. Mike turns first, asks, “The fuck you just say to us?” He’s a footballer and looks it, a hulking mass of shadow blocking the flicker of orange light from the bonfire behind him. If Eddie were smarter, and not full of liquid rage, he might turn tail and run, take his chances through the woods.
As it is, his feet are planted in the dirt and he doesn’t flinch when Hagan raises the flashlight to shine in his eyes. He is, in that moment, very much his father’s son; his chin lifts and he bares his teeth as he repeats his words, and he doesn’t flinch when the other boys barrel into him.
“Eddie? What the fuck?”
He looks up, squinting into the darkness. Time has slowed to a molasses-thick drip, making everything around him surreal and vaguely nightmarish; the stretch of pale orange beyond the trees, either daylight or the bonfire; the jittering of branches as wind tears through them; the syrup-stickiness of blood congealing on his face. How long has he been here? It could be hours, or minutes, or days.
Steve’s hair is immediately recognizable, even if the rest of him is not. He squats at Eddie’s side, hands fluttering, pale and skeletal. Eddie must look a fright if he’s afraid to touch him, or maybe there is something filthy and foul about him, something Steve Harrington doesn’t want to catch.
Eddie slurs something that sounds vaguely like Steve’s name, and it earns him a rough noise of concern. Those hands finally touch him, fitting themselves carefully under his pits, and Steve starts the laborious effort that is dragging Eddie to stand.
“My bag,” Eddie grunts as he leans heavily into Steve, head rushing with the movement. His whole body is trembling with the struggle of being upright, tears burning his dry eyes. “S’got my stuff in it.”
He can hear the words come out of his mouth but they’re garbled and wrong. Steve seems to understand enough, because he props Eddie against a tree and scours the forest floor, kicking around and sweeping his hands through the dirt. “Nothing here, man.”
“Fuckers,” Eddie slurs, heated and angry. Of course they stole his shit. He curls his hand into a fist, then cries out when his finger refuses to move.
“Okay,” Steve mutters to himself, coming closer. “Okay, okay, okay. We’re fine. Let’s get you home, yeah?”
Eddie nods as best as he can, letting Steve drag him through the trees and downhill, more a hindrance than a help. They stumble more than once, Eddie’s ripped jeans doing little to save his shins from the sharp gravel, but eventually they arrive at Steve’s car. Eddie is unceremoniously dumped into the front seat, and he’s vaguely aware of Steve’s slide across the hood of the car, which would be impressive if Eddie’s brain were functioning. The pain is beginning to soak in, staining everything muddy and dark around him.
There is the sensation of moving, but Eddie’s eyes have fallen shut, his body slumped into the door as Steve takes him...somewhere. Home, probably. Even in his fucked up state, Eddie can imagine the look on Wayne’s face, the utter disappointment and disgust as he takes it all in. If it were Eddie’s dad opening the door, he’d probably laugh or leave him on the steps. If it were Eddie’s mom—
But it’ll be Wayne, who will purse his lips and sigh heavily and take his weight from Steve. He wonders if Wayne harbors his own dark secrets, ones Eddie will never be able to touch. Does he regret taking Eddie in? Does he resent the kid whose mom died, whose dad was a piece of shit and left both voluntarily and forcefully? The kid who can’t pass high school or hold a real job or do anything goddamn right?
Probably. Eddie’s glad he doesn’t have access to those secrets.
He drifts for a while. Something lyrical and nice is playing on the radio, nothing he would typically put on for himself. Steve’s anxiety is heavy in the air, thick and cloying on the back of Eddie’s tongue, but he’s so far past giving a shit about it. How did you find me? He wants to ask. Did you come looking?
Imagine that, would ya? Steve Harrington, former king of Hawkins High and yet still miles above Eddie on the social ladder, looking for him at a party. Maybe he was looking to score. Maybe Tommy made a joke about the puddle of blood and meat he left behind the trees. Maybe Steve was going for a piss and the dampness on Eddie’s pants isn’t his own.
Eddie, in those long, stretched moments between the quarry and his home, thinks of Steve on New Year’s Eve. sitting in the passenger seat of his van. If he could go back, he thinks he really would ask if Steve were okay.
He flinches into wakefulness when Steve jostles his shoulder, slamming himself into the passenger door and away from the hand that touched him. Steve stares back at him with wide, guilty eyes and whispers, “We’re here.”
Here: Steve Harrington’s house.
“Why?” Eddie asks around a thick tongue, feeling stupid. Did he agree to this? It’s very possible he said some stuff while he was floating in the ether.
Steve turns the car off. “I don’t think you should be by yourself right now, and you mentioned your uncle would be pissed.”
“Did I?” Eddie asks, brow furrowing. He probably did; Wayne would want to know exactly who did this to him, and why, and Eddie would be incapable of answering either of those questions. It still doesn’t explain why Steve would be willing to bring him here. If it were Eddie—well. It wouldn’t be Eddie, probably.
“You did,” Steve says, getting out of the car. Eddie watches him round the hood and come to his door, then open it slowly. The only reason Eddie doesn’t fall out is because he’s been buckled in. Steve must have the patience of a saint, or he’s planning to kill Eddie in that house and all the bullshit Eddie’s putting him through is just a really big lead up. Is he getting off on this? Eddie chances a glance down to his tight jeans, but—nevermind.
Eddie allows him to take his seatbelt off and haul him out of the car, but he manages to walk to the front door mostly on his own. He trips walking into the house over a pair of shoes left haphazardly on the mat, and from there it’s a little blurry again.
Steve’s house is bright. Every room they enter, another light is flicked on and Eddie’s eyes are assaulted by the burning glow. The bathroom is by far the worst, a sterile room of all white that Eddie dirties simply by being Eddie Munson.
He is propped against the bathtub by Steve’s gentle hands. “You look like shit,” he comments idly, hauling out what is frankly an absurdly large first aid kit from beneath the sink. “Why did Tommy do this?”
“Why does Hagan do anything?” Eddie asks, watching as Steve wets a washcloth. “Are you a nurse? Do you have a medical license?”
“I have some practice with injuries.”
They make a strange pair, sprawled on the floor of Steve’s bathroom like this. Eddie’s got his legs spread wide, knees bent and bracketing Steve, who scoots even closer to begin wiping the blood from his face. It hurts, but Eddie suspects anything would right now, and he doesn’t want to interrupt the careful look of concentration on Steve’s face.
His tongue is poking out of his mouth, caught between his teeth. It’s very pink.
Steve works meticulously, asking occasionally if Eddie is okay. Uh huh, is all Eddie ever offers, aware of the rasp of the towel on his face and the heat of Steve between his legs, of the pain that is becoming less and less dull. His side pulses like it has its own heartbeat, and his head is aching so badly that his eyes won’t stop watering.
His mouth goes dry when Steve lifts his shirt, wincing and hissing through his teeth at what must be some spectacular bruising. There isn’t much he can do beyond rubbing in some ointment that radiates heat all along his side, and then Eddie is being pulled up and brought across the hall, gently laid out in the plaid insides of some monster.
“Are you Scottish?” Eddie asks, rolling over in the bed and inching his way up towards the pillows. The walls are plaid, the bedding is plaid; when he settles himself and looks over at Steve, his boxers are plaid. “Oh my god.”
“What?” Steve asks, hands on his hips. He isn’t wearing a shirt. Is Eddie dead? He might be dead, Jesus Christ. “Dude, take your boots off.”
“I am injured,” Eddie announces, kicking feebly at his boots, unable to look away from Steve’s soft, hairy belly. It’s covered swiftly by a sweatshirt, and then he pulls on plaid pajama bottoms. Unbelievable! Is he unaware of the plague of plaid? He must be. Eddie supposes he might like it.
Steve huffs a sigh and comes closer, unlacing Eddie’s boots and tugging them off with ease. He then begins the difficult process that is pulling down Eddie’s pants. He wrestles with Eddie’s belt and then complains about how tight they are—they both freeze when his boxers slip after an aggressive tug, revealing wiry pubes and a poorly done stick and poke smiley face on his hipbone. Slowly, Eddie hitches them back up over his hips, and Steve finishes removing his pants, tossing them into the corner of his room.
Does he do this for all his drunk friends, or all the friends who get their asses kicked? Maybe Jonathan Byers or Nancy Wheeler did this for him after Jonathan beat his head in, and now he feels as though he must pay it forward. It is incredibly strange, and if Eddie weren’t so fucked up, he would probably be sporting at least a semi.
Steve disappears, and Eddie curls into the blankets, only unearthing himself when Steve hands him painkillers and water. Then, very carefully, Steve lowers himself on the other side of the bed, which is much smaller than it should be, since Eddie has not kept to the unspoken rule of bed sharing: pick a side. He’s sort of curled like a pill bug on an angle.
They don’t touch, but it’s a near thing and Eddie suspects they will at some point throughout the night.
Tomorrow morning's problem.
The next morning, Eddie does the shitty thing and tries to sneak out before Steve gets out of the shower.
It’s a Herculean task; his whole body is one big ache, head splitting with a migraine and ribs definitely fucked up. He barely keeps from puking all over Steve’s—thankfully not plaid—carpet, and pulling his clothes on leaves him dizzy.
By the time he’s sliding down the stairs on his ass, Steve is done in his shower and standing behind him, steam drifting towards the ceiling and a towel slung low around his hips. Eddie squints up at him, but says nothing.
Steve sighs. “You were going to walk to the quarry?”
“I was going to walk to the quarry,” Eddie confirms, voice hoarse. The clock said it’s noon, which is a fine enough time to sift through the dirt for his bag. If Rick finds out he lost half his stash, he’s gonna—
“Wait like, ten minutes. I’ll drive you.”
Eddie woke up spooning Steve, a wet drool mark on the neck of his sweater, and Eddie’s middle finger pressed gently into the dip of Steve’s belly button. They’d sprung apart when they both realized what they were doing, then lay in a weird, shame-filled silence for a few minutes. Eddie was half-hard, but he didn’t look at Steve to confirm whether he was. Not that it really matters; a warm body is a warm body.
He wonders, sitting on the steps and leaning between his bent knees, if Steve would have done all of this if he knew Eddie was a queer. He suspects not. The thought makes his mouth water, acid inching up his throat, and it’s only Steve’s approach that stops him from spewing all down the stairs.
The ride to the quarry is silent, just Steve’s music playing and the occasional hum from him as he sings along. Eddie sits against the passenger seat, not unlike last night, except now he’s watching Steve with a shrewd expression, trying to figure out what he owes him.
“You good?” Steve asks when Eddie doesn’t look away from him, turning down the path where they all park. There are a few cars scattered along the shoulder, Eddie’s van among them. “Are you gonna yak?”
“Why are you doing this?”
Steve pulls onto the shoulder, parking the car and turning it off. His hands are curled around the steering wheel, gaze focused straight outside the windshield. He says, “I’m just trying to be nice.”
“This is beyond nice. And, in case you came down with a case of amnesia, you aren’t nice.”
His hands flex on the wheel, knuckles going white, before he releases it and presses them to his jean-clad thighs. “I know. I’m...trying, I guess. What Tommy and Mike did was wrong.”
“Do you know,” Eddie says, slower and meaner than he intends it to sound. “Chris O’Malley once made me drink toilet water? He and Lionel dragged me into the bathroom, into a stall, and they forced my head into the toilet until I choked. I was sick for three days.”
Steve looks stricken, face gone pale as he stares at Eddie. “I—I didn’t know.”
“Really? ‘Cuz you and Chris were friends, weren’t you?” Friends is maybe a stretch. Chris O’Malley was a star swimmer and Steve was on the team, hung out in his circle until he graduated and Steve found one of his own, one he could control. Eddie remembers Steve and Tommy on the first day of ninth grade, just as nervous as the rest of them but a little better at not showing it as they walked down the halls.
“I was—it was ninth grade. I didn’t know any better.” Steve shakes his head, hair flopping, and Eddie realizes it isn’t styled. He’s never seen it so...undone. That, combined with the tight stretch of Steve’s jaw, the way his fingers are curling into claws against his jeans...it unsettles something in Eddie. He doesn’t want to feel bad for Steve Harrington, but he does anyway.
“Maybe you didn’t hold my head in the toilet or jump me for my weed, but you sure as fuck never put a stop to it. You didn’t need to pick me up and take me home last night, man. I can take care of myself. Sorry I made you think we were fucking friends because I let you sit at my table.” Eddie shakes his head, curls flying. He reaches for the door and is about to leave when Steve speaks up.
“You helped me at Tommy’s party.” Steve’s voice is hard, his eyes flinty when Eddie turns to meet his gaze. “You’ve been...kind of nice to me, even though I don’t deserve it. I...I dunno, I thought maybe we were friends, or something.”
“We’re not,” Eddie snaps, has to turn away when Steve flinches. He squeezes his eyes shut, and tries very hard not to think about the little boy who saw golden boy Steve Harrington at the playground and desperately wanted to be his friend. Too little, too fucking late.
You shouldn’t even be here, he thinks, the misery of not graduating, of being a disappointment, comes creeping back in. He wants to crack open the cage of Steve’s chest and dig out the secrets he keeps in there: the lights and the empty house and the semi-permanent exhaustion; the fall from grace and the inability to find a place in the world; the ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend and his interest in Eddie fucking Munson. Maybe knowing the truth of him would make knowing the truth of himself easier to swallow.
Steve makes a noise, like maybe he wants to say something, but Eddie can’t listen to anything else. He nods, not meeting Steve’s eyes, and shoves the door open. “Thanks for the ride, Harrington.”
Eddie is sitting on the couch, hand scratching idly at his belly. He’s home alone for the night and half-considering jerking off, but the dread of meeting up with Rick tomorrow has gone from a low-level hum in his limbs to a full out panic. Nothing is holding his interest—not the campaign he’s sort of writing, the books he got from the library earlier in the week, or the reruns of Jeopardy that he usually loves.
Rick is gonna be pissed. He might be a little sympathetic when Eddie tells him he was jumped, and he probably will want to know the names of the idiots who did it, but this is Hawkins, Indiana, not New York or Chicago—there’s not chance in hell he’ll be getting his shit back or taking care of it himself. Eddie can fuck up a couple of teenagers because he is one. If Rick does it, especially to a kid like Tommy, whose dad is pretty well-loved in the community, he’s asking for trouble.
He’s in the middle of pressing his fingers into the bruises on his face, wishing they’d turn darker instead of the sickly yellow-green they’ve faded to, when there is a knock on the door.
Stretching, Eddie tries to see through the window, but the person is a blur of color through the shitty glass. He rolls himself off the couch and ambles towards the door, trying to remember if Wayne mentioned someone would be coming by. It’s very rare that anyone actually comes calling at Casa Munson.
Which is why it shouldn’t be a surprise to see Steve standing on his doorstep.
He’s in a t-shirt and shorts, kind of scruffy looking and sweat-damp in the fading summer light. He looks like every summertime boy, like the kids they used to be when they’d all end up at the baseball diamond to throw a ball around, even if they weren’t friends when they left as the street lights came on.
He has dirt on his shirt, and his left knee is skinned. “Hey,” he murmurs, deja vu in the way he’s standing at Eddie’s door twice in several months, two times more than Eddie ever thought. He produces a black backpack. Eddie’s black backpack. “I got your stuff back.”
Eddie steps aside and allows him into the trailer, watching in silence as he slides past. His arm brushes across Eddie’s chest, and this close he smells of sweat and deodorant. “How’d you get that?” Eddie asks, the panic from earlier leaving him so swiftly that he feels a little weak from it. “They just give it back?”
Steve drops the backpack on the floor beside the couch, turning to face him. He’s smirking slightly, a teasing thing at the corner of his mouth that speaks of too much enjoyment. “Nah, they weren’t happy, but whatever. It’s not like they stole your comics, man. This is your...well it’s like your job, right?”
“Yeah, kind of. It all still there?”
“It looked like it, but I don’t know for sure. I left some cash in the front pocket just in case.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Eddie tells him, brow furrowing.
“Yes, I did.” Steve has his hands on his hips, his focus on Eddie intense and consuming. “I actually wanted to apologize to you.”
“Don’t gotta do that either.” Eddie looks away from him, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying at the cut still there. It won’t heal like most of his scabs, because Eddie cannot for the life of him stop picking. He can’t just leave it alone.
Steve makes a frustrated noise, moving closer. “Eddie, the shit you said...I get it, okay? I know I’m a piece of shit, or that I was, but I want to be better. I’m trying so hard to be better. I thought we were friends, but you’re right, we weren’t.”
“Steve, I shouldn't have said that. I was pissed off.”
“No, you were right. And I—I don’t wanna be your friend,” Steve mutters, not meeting Eddie’s eyes. His jaw is set and his gaze is focused somewhere over Eddie’s shoulder. He looks like a damn mess, like he hasn’t slept in days, and there is a bruise at the edge of his eye that speaks of a fight. Tommy and Mike didn’t give the bag up easily, then.
Eddie wishes he wasn’t hurt by the words, wishes it didn’t make his eyes burn or his throat tight.
“I’m getting this wrong.” There is a desperation in Steve’s voice, a thread of something like panic. “Why do I always get it wrong?”
“Sounded pretty right to me,” Eddie mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pretty clear, too.”
“No,” Steve disagrees, shaking his head. All at once, he seems to come together: deep inhale, shoulders straightening, eyes meeting Eddie’s. “No, it’s not.”
Eddie expects a punch in the face. He expects to be spat on, or sworn at, or put down.
Instead, Steve Harrington kisses him.
He closes the distance between them like a man on a mission, big hands rising to cup Eddie’s face and draw him closer. The kiss itself is too hard, teeth clacking loudly in the otherwise silent trailer, but Steve softens it almost immediately, pulling back to curse himself out and then diving back in.
The second kiss, the real one, is softer; his lips press chastely to Eddie’s, kind of chapped but not in an unpleasant way. Eddie, frozen as he is, can’t do much more than purse his lips.
“Please tell me I’m not wrong,” Steve whispers upon pulling away, still close enough that Eddie can feel the heat of his breath across his chin.
It takes a moment, and then Eddie shakes his head. “No,” he whispers, leaning back in, lips brushing against Steve’s. “You’re not wrong.”
This is the second secret, breathed between their mouths, held tight in Eddie’s lungs. Kept: bottled and stored, only for Eddie to see.