Work Text:
Steve notices it the third night Eddie sleeps on his floor, though the truth is he’s been aware of it from the moment Eddie showed up on his doorstep with a trash bag full of clothes and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The first night, Eddie tries to make it sound casual, like crashing at Steve’s place is just another reckless, half-baked Munson decision. He jokes about Wayne’s house being too quiet, about the way silence presses in on him there, about how the trailer still smells like smoke and metal and blood if you stand too still and breathe too deep. Steve doesn’t ask what memories cling to that smell; he doesn’t ask what Eddie sees when he closes his eyes. He just shrugs, steps aside to let him in, and tells him he’s got extra blankets, because that’s easier than acknowledging the sharp, unexpected twist in his chest at the fact that Eddie chose him. Out of everyone. Eddie Munson, who trusts almost no one, had shown up here.
The second night, Eddie doesn’t even bother pretending he’s leaving. He kicks his shoes off by the door like he belongs there, makes himself at home on the floor with borrowed pillows and a blanket Steve knows is too thin, and Steve lies awake longer than usual, listening to Eddie’s breathing from the other side of the room and wondering when exactly things shifted from shared survival to… whatever this is.
By the third night, Steve wakes up at 2:17 a.m. to the sound of pacing.
It takes a few seconds for his brain to catch up, for the fog of sleep to lift enough that the sound registers as real and not part of some leftover nightmare. Then he hears it again—bare feet on hardwood, the soft scuff and drag of movement, back and forth, back and forth, too restless to be anything but panic. Steve pushes himself up on one elbow and listens, his chest tightening as recognition settles in.
Eddie’s breathing is wrong.
Too fast. Too shallow. Like he’s been running from something that won’t stop chasing him.
Steve doesn’t turn on the light. He just sits there in the dark, heart beginning to thud harder as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and lets his feet touch the cold floor. The house smells like detergent and old pizza and the faint, stubborn trace of cigarette smoke Eddie seems to carry with him no matter how many times he showers. It smells lived-in, safe—and suddenly Steve is acutely aware of how fragile that safety feels.
“Eds?” he says quietly, keeping his voice low, careful not to spook him.
The pacing stops abruptly.
For a second, Steve thinks Eddie hasn’t heard him, that he’s too far gone in his own head to register anything else. Then—
“Sorry,” Eddie says, and his voice cracks just enough to make Steve’s stomach drop. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Steve frowns into the dark, already pushing himself to stand. “You didn’t,” he says easily. “I’m a light sleeper.”
It’s a lie. Steve sleeps like the dead. But Eddie doesn’t call him on it, and Steve wonders distantly if Eddie knows it’s a lie and is choosing to let him have it anyway.
“I’m good,” Eddie adds too fast, like he needs Steve to believe it. “Just—uh—getting water.”
Steve watches his silhouette in the faint wash of moonlight from the window, the way Eddie’s hands are clenched tight at his sides, the way his shoulders are drawn up like he’s bracing for something that never quite comes. He looks smaller like this. Cornered by nothing at all.
Steve doesn’t ask what Eddie dreamed.
He doesn’t ask why his chest is still heaving, or why he’s rocking slightly on his heels like standing still might shatter him.
Instead, the words tumble out before Steve can overthink them.
“You wanna come up here?”
There’s a pause so long Steve almost backtracks, almost laughs it off and pretends he didn’t mean anything by it. His heart starts to beat faster, louder in his ears, because suddenly he’s aware—painfully aware—that asking Eddie into his bed feels like crossing a line he’s already been toeing for days.
“What?” Eddie says, confused, startled.
Steve gestures toward the bed even though Eddie probably can’t see it. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s stupid. I’ve got a whole bed.”
And it’s true, but it’s also not the whole truth. The truth is that Steve can’t stand watching Eddie curl up on the floor like he doesn’t deserve comfort, can’t stand the idea of him being alone with his thoughts while Steve lies awake five feet away pretending not to care. The truth is that something in Steve’s chest has been aching ever since Eddie showed up, and this feels—dangerously—like the right thing to do.
Eddie lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half something raw and uncertain. “Man, I don’t think that’s—”
“Eddie,” Steve interrupts, gentler now, firmer too, because he can see it so clearly. “You’re shaking.”
Silence stretches between them.
Then Eddie’s shoulders slump, the tension bleeding out of him all at once like he’s been holding himself together on sheer force of will. He drags a hand through his hair and mutters, “You weren’t supposed to notice that.”
Steve steps closer, slow and deliberate, every movement careful, like Eddie might bolt if he moves wrong. “I notice things,” he says quietly. “It’s kind of my thing.”
Eddie huffs a weak laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. His eyes are too bright in the dark, reflecting more fear than he wants Steve to see.
Steve reaches out—not touching yet, just offering his presence, his space—and says, “Come on. Just sleep. You don’t have to talk.”
That’s what breaks him.
Eddie’s breath stutters, and for a split second Steve thinks he’s going to pull away, make a joke, deflect like always. Instead, Eddie steps forward and collapses into him like his bones have finally given up, like he’s been holding himself upright for far too long.
Steve catches him automatically, arms coming up without thought.
Up close, Eddie’s shaking is worse—full-body tremors, nerves lit up and sparking beneath Steve’s hands. Steve wraps his arms around him, solid and steady, anchoring him there, feeling Eddie’s heart hammering wildly against his chest. Steve’s own heart stumbles in response, skipping a beat at the intimacy of it, at how right it feels to hold him like this.
“It’s okay,” Steve murmurs, voice low, grounding. “I’ve got you.”
Eddie presses his forehead into Steve’s shoulder, fists twisted in the fabric of Steve’s T-shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He smells like sweat and metal and something sharp and frightened, and Steve thinks, distantly, that he would let Eddie ruin every shirt he owns if it meant Eddie stayed breathing like this.
“I’m not screaming,” Eddie whispers, like he needs to convince himself more than Steve. “I didn’t scream this time.”
Something tightens painfully in Steve’s throat. “That’s good,” he says softly. “But even if you did… it’d be okay.”
Eddie lets out a weak laugh. “Yeah. Sure. The neighbors would love that.”
Steve snorts, resting his chin lightly against Eddie’s hair. “Trust me, they already hate me. One more reason won’t kill them.”
That gets a real laugh out of Eddie—thin, but genuine—and Steve feels him sag just a little more into the hold, like his body is finally letting itself rest.
Steve guides them toward the bed slowly, carefully, like this moment might shatter if he rushes it. Eddie hesitates at the edge, uncertainty flickering across his face like he’s not sure he’s allowed something this soft. Then Steve climbs in first, makes space, and Eddie finally follows, curling in on himself instinctively.
Steve turns onto his side, facing him.
For a moment, they just breathe together, the dark wrapping around them, the quiet no longer threatening.
Then Eddie’s shaking starts again.
Steve reaches out, thumb brushing Eddie’s knuckles in a silent question. “Hey. You okay if I—?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says immediately, almost desperate. “Yeah. Please.”
Steve pulls him closer, chest to chest, Eddie’s head tucked beneath his chin. Steve’s arm wraps around his back, hand resting warm and steady between Eddie’s shoulder blades. His heart skips again at how natural it feels, at the unmistakable certainty blooming in his chest that this—this closeness, this need—isn’t just friendship. At least not for him.
Eddie exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.
They don’t sleep right away.
Eddie twitches every time the house creaks, every time a car passes outside, and Steve stays awake through all of it, counting Eddie’s breaths, anchoring them both in the quiet, in the simple fact that they’re here and alive and not alone.
After a while, Eddie speaks into the dark.
“I keep thinking I’m still there,” he says softly. “That if I open my eyes, I’ll see it again.”
Steve swallows. “What do you see?”
Eddie hesitates. “The sky,” he finally says. “It was wrong. Like it was going to fall on us.”
Steve tightens his hold just a little. “You’re here,” he says gently. “My room. Boring ceiling. No murder clouds.”
Eddie lets out a shaky breath. “God, you’re bad at this.”
Steve smiles into his hair. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”
The silence that follows is different—softer, safer.
Eddie’s breathing evens out. His body slowly relaxes, muscles unknotting one by one, until Steve feels the exact moment Eddie falls asleep, like a switch flipping off.
Steve doesn’t move.
He stays like that all night, heart too full, too aware, knowing with a certainty that scares him a little that whatever this is between them… it’s already more than he’s willing to lose.
*****
The next morning, Eddie wakes up with his face pressed into Steve Harrington’s chest and his leg thrown over Steve’s thigh.
He freezes.
For one horrifying, breathless second, he’s convinced he’s still dreaming—that this is just another trick his brain is playing on him, another cruel mash-up of comfort and terror designed to rip him apart when he wakes for real. His body goes rigid, every instinct screaming at him not to move, not to ruin whatever fragile thing this is before it vanishes.
Then Steve snorts softly in his sleep, arm tightening around Eddie’s waist like it knows exactly where Eddie is supposed to be, and reality crashes in all at once.
“Oh,” Eddie whispers.
The sound feels too loud in the quiet room, like it might shatter something.
He doesn’t pull away.
He should. He knows he should. This is Steve Harrington—golden boy, hero, the guy who always survives. This is not the kind of guy who wakes up tangled around someone like Eddie Munson. But Steve is warm in a way that sinks into Eddie’s bones, solid and unmistakably real, and Eddie’s heart starts doing stupid, traitorous things in his chest, fluttering and skipping like it’s forgotten all the reasons this is a bad idea.
Eddie lets himself breathe.
He can feel Steve’s heartbeat under his cheek, steady and slow, and it does something dangerous to him. Makes him ache. Makes him want things he hasn’t let himself want in a long time. Things like staying. Things like being held without it being a joke or a necessity or a near-death aftermath.
He tells himself he’ll move in a second. Just not yet.
Steve wakes slowly, like he always does, blinking against the morning light filtering in through the curtains. He shifts a little, and Eddie tenses, waiting for the moment Steve realizes what’s happening and pulls away.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, Steve looks down at him, then at their tangled limbs, his expression unreadable for half a second before something soft settles there.
“Morning,” Steve says, voice rough with sleep.
Eddie swallows. His throat feels tight, like too many words are trying to escape at once. “Hey.”
Steve doesn’t move away. Doesn’t untangle them. His arm stays where it is, warm and heavy at Eddie’s back, and the realization hits Eddie hard enough to make his chest hurt: Steve is choosing this. Even awake.
“You sleep okay?” Steve asks quietly.
Eddie nods, the movement small, careful. “Yeah. Actually. I mean—yeah.” He almost laughs at himself, at how ridiculous it feels to admit it. “Best I’ve had in a while.”
Steve smiles, small and soft and real, and Eddie has to look away before it gets dangerous. “Good.”
They stay like that for another minute, neither of them moving, the silence stretching thin and charged and full of things Eddie doesn’t know how to say. He catalogues the details instead—the warmth of Steve’s chest under his cheek, the faint scent of soap and laundry detergent, the way Steve’s thumb absently presses into his side like it belongs there.
Eventually, Eddie clears his throat, forcing the moment to crack before it swallows him whole.
“So, uh,” he says lightly, because that’s safer, “this doesn’t have to be a thing.”
Steve raises an eyebrow. “What thing?”
“This,” Eddie gestures vaguely between them, then at the bed, then at himself, as if any of that explains the mess in his head. “Me invading your personal space like a clingy raccoon.”
It’s a joke. Mostly. But underneath it is the unspoken plea: tell me I’m not crossing a line. Tell me I’m allowed to stay.
Steve snorts. “Eddie, you literally died in another dimension. You can hog my bed.”
Eddie laughs, the tension snapping like a stretched string. “Wow. When you put it like that, it really sounds like I’ve earned it.”
They separate then, slowly, reluctantly, like neither of them wants to be the first to break whatever fragile truce has formed between them. Eddie misses the warmth immediately, a hollow ache settling in his chest that he pointedly ignores.
Steve makes breakfast. Eddie burns the toast—twice—and Steve pretends not to notice while Eddie launches into a dramatic apology about culinary war crimes. They move around each other carefully, brushing shoulders, exchanging looks that linger half a second too long. They pretend everything is normal because neither of them is ready to name what this actually is.
But Eddie notices things.
He notices the way Steve keeps glancing at him like he’s making sure Eddie hasn’t vanished. Notices how Steve’s smile comes easier, how he doesn’t flinch when Eddie drifts closer than necessary. Notices how, for the first time in a long time, Eddie doesn’t feel like he has to perform to be allowed in the room.
That night, Eddie doesn’t even bother with the floor.
He hesitates at the edge of the bed, heart pounding, waiting for Steve to say something—to joke, to redirect, to give him an out.
Steve just lifts the blanket and says, “You coming or what?”
Eddie’s chest tightens, sharp and hopeful and terrifying all at once.
“Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
And Steve doesn’t let him leave again.
*****
By the fifth night, Eddie stops pretending he’s fine.
He stops joking it away when he startles at a car backfiring down the street. Stops brushing it off when his hands shake too hard to light his cigarette and he has to ask Steve for help instead. He still smiles, still cracks jokes, but they don’t come as easily now, and Steve can hear the strain underneath them, the way Eddie’s voice tightens when he thinks Steve isn’t listening.
By the seventh night, Steve starts noticing patterns.
The way Eddie flinches at sudden noises, shoulders shooting up around his ears like he’s bracing for impact. The way he always asks—softly, almost embarrassed—if Steve can leave one of the lamps on, never the overhead light, just a low glow that keeps the shadows from getting too deep. The way Eddie presses closer without quite realizing it, inch by inch, whenever Steve’s hand finds his back in the dark, like his body has memorized where safety lives now.
Steve never pulls away.
One night, it gets worse.
Steve wakes to the sound of Eddie gasping, sharp and panicked, like he’s been dragged up from deep water. Eddie’s hands claw at the sheets, at the air, fingers curling like he’s trying to grab onto something that isn’t there.
Steve’s awake instantly.
“Hey,” he says, firm but gentle, already turning toward him, already reaching out. “Hey, Eddie. You’re here.”
Eddie thrashes for half a second, breath coming in broken bursts, eyes wild and unfocused, before Steve pulls him close, wraps himself around him with deliberate weight and warmth. Steve presses Eddie’s face into his shoulder, one hand splayed solidly against his back, the other threading into his hair, anchoring him there.
“It’s gone,” Steve murmurs, over and over, steady as a heartbeat. “It’s gone. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Something in Eddie breaks.
He buries his face in Steve’s neck and sobs—raw, silent sobs that shake his whole body, like he’s been holding them back for days and they’ve finally found a way out. Steve doesn’t shush him. Doesn’t tell him to calm down or breathe or be okay.
He just holds him.
Lets Eddie cry into his skin until the shaking eases and the sobs turn into shaky breaths, until Eddie’s fingers loosen their grip on Steve’s shirt but don’t let go entirely.
When Eddie’s breathing finally slows, Steve presses his forehead gently to Eddie’s temple, still holding him like he might disappear if Steve lets go.
“You don’t have to be alone with this,” Steve says quietly, the words heavy with meaning. “Not anymore.”
Eddie swallows. His eyes burn, throat tight, because the instinct is still there—to deflect, to joke, to pretend he’s not unraveling in Steve Harrington’s arms. But he’s too tired for that tonight. Too tired to lie.
“Neither do you,” Eddie says softly.
Steve freezes.
“What do you mean?” he asks, though something in his voice suggests he already knows.
Eddie pulls back just enough to look at him, searching Steve’s face in the dim light, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the tension he never quite lets go of.
“You think I don’t see it?” Eddie says gently. “The way you flinch when something crashes. The way you never sleep on your back anymore, like you’re afraid of being trapped. The way you stay awake half the night pretending you’re just a light sleeper.”
Steve exhales slowly, the sound rough in his chest.
For a moment, he looks like he might argue. Instead, his shoulders slump.
“Guess we’re both messed up,” he says quietly.
Eddie’s mouth curves into a small, sad, fond smile. “Yeah. But… maybe not alone.”
The words hang between them, fragile and terrifying and hopeful all at once.
Steve meets his gaze, really looks at him, and Eddie feels that familiar ache bloom in his chest—the one that’s been there since the night Steve didn’t hesitate to catch him, since the night Eddie realized that Steve’s care wasn’t casual, wasn’t obligatory. It was chosen.
They don’t rush it.
Steve’s thumb brushes Eddie’s jaw, tentative, like he’s asking a question without words. Eddie leans into the touch before he can stop himself, breath hitching, heart pounding so hard he’s sure Steve can feel it.
“Eddie,” Steve says quietly, like he needs to be sure. “Is this… okay?”
Eddie swallows, nods once. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. It is.”
Steve leans in first.
The kiss is gentle. Careful. It’s all hesitation and soft breaths and barely-there pressure, like they’re both afraid of breaking something fragile—or of waking up and finding this was never real. Eddie’s hand curls instinctively in Steve’s shirt, anchoring himself there, while Steve’s thumb brushes Eddie’s jaw, then lingers at the corner of his mouth like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch him like this.
When they pull back, they’re both breathing a little harder, foreheads still touching.
“Okay,” Eddie whispers, voice shaky but certain.
Steve smiles, small and real. “Okay.”
They fall asleep tangled together after that, limbs fitted close, the warmth between them steady and grounding. The nightmares don’t vanish completely, but they stay at a distance, held at bay by shared breath and the quiet certainty that neither of them is facing the dark alone anymore.
And for the first time in a long time, neither of them dreams of falling.