Archive of Our Own

Steve doesn’t like shifting anymore.

The fawn is unexpected, though. Later in the season, born on a too-cold for October day to a doe that was supposed to be sterilized. Piebald, like its mother. Lacking the extra teeth of its father, thank god; a giant, feral white stag that looks almost normal until his face peels open.

His furry body curls around the shivering baby while the mother licks at its head, all of them in the small herd long since used to his scent in both forms.

It’ll be fine if he can keep it warm.

**

**

You’d think, with the way Eddie grew up, that he thought a lot about money.

Eddie did not think a lot about money.

Not anymore, at least. He did, back when he got that first check, fresh off a signed contract, giddy with wonder and disbelief. But now they’ve got two hit albums and a world tour under their belt – Eddie lives in an apartment the label found him, has an intern that keeps his fridge stocked, and their manager takes care of his paychecks. Maybe, Eddie concedes, the reason he doesn’t think about money is because he doesn’t really have to anymore.

Eddie sinks into his couch with a spliff and says, “I’m gonna buy Wayne a house.”

Gareth says, “He’s not gonna let you buy him a house,” and Eddie tilts his head toward him in capitulation, because yeah. Wayne’s probably not going to let him buy him a house.

“I will buy a house,” Eddie says grandly, “in buttfuck Hawkins,” because Wayne’s fond of that shithole, “and never live in it. So Wayne’ll have to.”

“Might work,” Jeff says, leaning forward to slip the blunt out of Eddie’s loose hold.

“It will absolutely work,” Eddie says, waving a hand. He’s not above begging. Wayne’ll see right through it, but Wayne deserves more than that old, rundown trailer. More than that backwards, swamp water town ever gave him. Deserves to retire in style, in the grandest mansion Loch Nora can come up with. Eddie’ll even promise to come home for Christmas.

He just needs to find a realtor.

*

Management finds him a realtor.

Elaine is over six feet tall, skinny as fuck, of an indeterminate age, and seems to survive solely on menthols and Diet Coke.

She says, “Your uncle narrowed it down to this one,” and places a sheaf of papers in front of him at his kitchen table.

It’s a tiny cottage. Albeit with charming brickwork, but. “I thought we were looking at something bigger.”

“Mr. Munson said, and I quote, ‘Fuck those fancy-ass, soulless monsters.’ I’m unsure if he was talking about the homeowners or the houses.”

Eddie makes a face. Could be either, and he can’t really fault him. Living in Loch Nora would, unfortunately, give him fancy-ass, soulless neighbors, too.

“And this is all you could find?”

Elaine gives him a sharp look. She says, “It’s a solid three bedroom. One and a half bath, eat-in kitchen. Finished basement. On ten acres just off Denfield, by the county line.” She arches an eyebrow. “It has a pond.”

Eddie carefully draws the papers closer to him, starts shuffling through.

Elaine says, “The contract is in the back.”

The pictures are quaint. It doesn’t look like much has been updated since the 50s. There’s pink tile in the full bath, and Eddie kind of digs it. He says, “What’s the catch?” The house is charming, listed for what seems like market value, yet Elaine wants to low ball them.

She clears her throat. “Hawkins isn’t exactly a booming market after all the chemical leaks five years ago.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. Which is why market value is already so low.

Elaine’s fingers are nicotine-stained but perfectly manicured. She taps them on the table, sighs. Says, “It comes with a built-in land lease. Non-negotiable.”

Eddie scoffs. “You should go higher.” If Wayne really wants the house, Eddie’ll throw money at the seller until they have to say yes.

“Mr. Munson doesn’t seem to care,” Elaine says.

“How much of the land is leased out?” Eddie says, skimming down the contract. “Tell ‘em I’ll give them five grand over asking if they dissolve it before settlement.”

“I’m not sure you know what non-negotiable means, Eddie.”

Eddie grins at her, sharp. He says, “Ten.”

“You know,” tap, tap, tap, “Wayne warned me about this.”

“Oh, so he’s Wayne now,” Eddie says, but he shakes his head. He’d call Wayne and complain about it, but all Munsons are stubborn as fuck. If Wayne doesn’t care, Eddie’s gonna… try not to care, too.

Besides, leases don’t have to go on forever, and he can definitely afford to hire a lawyer if he needs to.

**

**

Not many people move out of Forest Hills outside of a coffin. It’s a depressing reality Steve sees nearly every day. One he’s resigned to, even though he squirrels away every little bit he can spare. Thinks one day maybe he can convince Hopper to help him build a little place inside the sanctuary. A daydream to indulge in while he waits for Diane to get out of the tiny bathroom of the trailer he shares with Diane’s boyfriend, Nate.

It doesn’t have the same buoying effect as usual, though. Mrs. Carnegie is sweet and too old and has apparently sold her house, all without telling him.

Steve idly cleans up beer cans and takes out the trash and thinks about not showering; he’s going to be late for his shift at Melvald’s.

He stands on the sagging front stoop and lights a cigarette, watches tiredly as a moving truck parks in front of the Munson trailer a couple lots down.

He’d gotten back late. One of the horses had cut his leg open; he can deal with a lot, but black ooze meant a call in to Owens, who sent in the calvary with hazmat suits, and the next thing he knew it was well past midnight.

He rubs the side of his fist over an eye, yawns, and hopes nothing bad happened to Wayne.

**

**

“This is ridiculous,” Eddie says, standing on the adorable stone patio out the back door. There’s a twelve-foot fence that he’s pretty sure is electrified maybe a thousand feet down a gentle slope, on the other side of a well-manicured lawn. “They’ve got the fucking pond, I thought that was a selling point?”

Wayne claps him on the shoulder and says, “Ever see a white deer? I swear the thing’s as big as a horse. Never seen anything like it.”

It’s cold out, breezy, but with full afternoon sun.

“You could go fishing,” Eddie says, hands on his hips. “You like fishing.”

Wayne huffs. “I can go up to Tippecanoe.”

Eddie flings his arms out. “You can go right here.”

“I don’t mind,” Wayne says, calm as anything, and Eddie knows he’s not going to be able to shake any sense into him.

He sighs, slumps down on one of the fancy Adirondack chairs Eddie had sent over as a housewarming gift. They’re uncomfortable as hell. He’s worried Wayne’ll get stuck in one, and makes a mental note to replace them as soon as possible. He says, “What the fuck is it, anyway?”

Wayne shrugs, takes a sip of his coffee. Says, “Hell if I know. Saw a horse the other day, too.”

“Deer and horses?” Eddie shifts his hips all the way up out of the stupid sloped seat and digs a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his front pocket. “Have you met whoever’s holding it yet?” he says, sticking one in the corner of his mouth.

Wayne stares off into the enclosure and says, “I know who it is. Little lost on the why of it, but I figure it ain’t my business.”

“It’s your land!”

“I’d say it’s your land, Ed,” Wayne says wryly.

Eddie shakes his head, cups his hands around the cigarette to light it. Off in the distance sits a white pickup truck; there’s a mud and gravel track leading from Denfield down to a massive gate, cutting right across Wayne’s beautiful lawn.

He watches as a figure emerges from the far-off stand of trees, on the other side of the pond. Trudges across the waist high weeds. He’s got a rucksack on his back, and the closer he gets to the truck, the more details Eddie notices: brown jacket zipped up to his chin, a shotgun braced above the pack, dark hair puffed up in the breeze.

It’s a shame Eddie can still recognize that swagger, even after five long years. “Jesus Christ,” Eddie says. “Harrington?”

Wayne just hums and says, “Wonder why he has the gun.”

**

**

Steve doesn’t take in predators.

It could be argued that anything mutated enough becomes a predator, but he hasn’t experienced anything that extreme. His white stag’s the closest he’s come to something eating him, anyway.

Dustin thinks he’s admirable, which, honestly, goes a long way for Steve’s self-esteem.

Nancy thinks he’s crazy.

Robin also thinks he’s crazy, but she understands why.

The fawn’s made the stag more territorial than usual, so Steve’s been shouldering the shotgun every time he treks through to replace their salt lick or hay and check on the horses. He’s going to have to build some kind of shelter for them, he thinks. It’s the first winter he’s had something other than strictly wildlife in the enclosure.

It’s been a couple weeks since he’s checked the fence line and he makes a mental note to try and get it done when he’s off on Friday. That massive undertaking had been paid for by the government, the single thing he’d asked for after the last shitshow with the Upside Down. They’d called it a grant, because it cost a shit-ton of cash and resources, and Owens deals with emergencies, but Steve’s been handling everything else – the lease, food that can’t be foraged, shelter, any upkeep across the seven acres.

He works a job and a half, when he can, and fields calls from all his kids like clockwork: Mike and Will from Berkley on Mondays, Dustin from MIT and Lucas from IU on Wednesdays, Max from Indiana State on Thursdays. El’s commuting to Bloomington – a concession from Hopper – and helps Steve out with anything he doesn’t want to involve Owens in. Robin’s doing grad work in New York, close to Nancy, and Jonathan’s the only other party member left in town. Sometimes Steve wishes they got along better. 

Jonathan shoves into the back of Melvald’s during Steve’s one and only break for the morning and says, “Mr. Munson wants to talk to you.”

“Uh.” Steve drops his pb&j back into his paper bag and says, “Why?”

Jonathan shrugs, grabs a coke out of the tiny refrigerator, then plops down at the table with a packet of crackers.

Okay, Steve thinks. Guess break’s over.

Wayne’s been really great about the property so far, but Steve’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Mrs. Carnegie had been leasing it to him for a steal – she’d gotten a kick out of the herd, the big white buck, and hadn’t batted an eye at the huge, electrified fencing and the massive trenches on the inside. She’d laughed and said, “You’d think you’re housing a tiger,” and thought Owens was charming.

Steve’s got a grand total of four hundred and some change coming in a month, because Hawkins is a shithole, and he pays Nate one seventy-five for a room in his trashed doublewide. A hundred bucks for seven acres is, honestly, too good to last.

Steve wipes his hands on his pants and tugs his apron back on before heading out to the front of the store.

Wayne looks the same as he did two weeks ago, when they shared a bus stop awning in the pouring rain. Steve holds out his hand for a shake, like a good little Harrington, and Wayne clasps it back, even though he gives him a weird look.

Steve says, “How’s the new house?” and watches a rare smile bloom across the craggy face.

“Can’t complain,” he says. “Eddie’s in for a few months, with the holidays.”

Steve nods. Thinks about Eddie Munson in high school, the last time he saw him – shepherding his nerds through imaginary quests on his third stint at being a senior. Dustin had moped through his entire sophomore year, bemoaning the fact that Munson had skipped town without a backwards glance right after graduation.

Wayne shifts on his feet, gaze drifting across the shelving behind them. Clears his throat.

Steve tenses up, sure he’s going to tell Steve to get lost. He knows Mrs. Carnegie added the lease to the sale of the house, but that doesn’t really mean it’s legally binding.

Wayne says, “Steve,” slow and thoughtful, and, “I’m not sure how to put this. I know you’ve been going through some shit—”

“Oh, I—”

“Don’t interrupt,” Wayne says, shaking his head. “Can’t lie to me either, son. Never quite figured out what was going on in this town, but I know whatever it is hasn’t been kind.”

Steve feels his eyes prickle. Says, “Wayne,” then cuts off at Wayne’s expression.

“I’d give you the land for free if I thought you’d take it,” Wayne says, and Steve’s chest cracks open.

Embarrassed, he pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to cry. “I wouldn’t,” he says, voice watery. Maybe if Mrs. Carnegie had offered, but she never would. Wayne’s spent his entire life in a hundred and fifty square foot box. Steve grew up in practically a mansion.

“Dollar an acre,” Wayne says. “Seven bucks a month.”

Steve says, “I can’t—”

“Sure you can. We’ll do it a year, see how it works out.” He reaches out, squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “Renegotiate next fall if we need to.”

Seven dollars a month. He could start saving for his own place, maybe.

Steve says, thick, “I, uh. I really appreciate it, Wayne. Are you sure?”

Wayne just squeezes his shoulder again and says, “I’ll write up some paperwork.”

*

The sanctuary isn’t too far from Forest Hills, and Forest Hills isn’t too far from his parents’ house, from the spread of woods along Cornwallis. There’s an invisible line, just before Mirkwood, just before all the rot from Hawkins Lab.

It’s the full moon. Steve hates shifting; hates shifting by himself even more. Can’t help it, at certain times.

He pauses at the boundary, paws kissing the prickle of magic, and howls. It’s really fucking depressing when nothing howls back.

**

**

Eddie’s technically on a break, but Hawkins is a dump, and the only thing keeping him there is Wayne, and the prospect of maybe seeing Dustin over the holidays, and also, okay, he really wants to find out what the fuck is up with Steve Harrington.

He calls Jeff every day until Jeff’s girlfriend tells him, lovingly, to fuck off. Gareth won’t answer his phone. He writes pages of terrible lyrics, holed up in his room, and feels, disgustingly, like he’s in high school all over again.

“That’s because all your lyrics are about Steve Harrington,” Grant says, the only one of his bandmates that’ll currently give him the time of day.

“Hawkins is a curse,” Eddie says. “Can I rhyme hair with hair?”

“How about you get out of the house,” Grant says.

“Everywhere in this town is, like, the scene of a murder.”

“That should give you plenty of inspiration that isn’t your high school crush.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, and sighs, deeply irritated. “I should take a walk.”

“Breathe in some of that good old Hawkins’ smog. I’m sure all the chemical leaks are long gone.”

Eddie ignores him. Says, “I’d take a walk on my own land if there wasn’t a twelve-foot electric fence around it.”

Grant groans and says, “If you make nice with Harrington, maybe he’ll let you pet the deer.”

*

This close to the fence, Eddie can see the deep, ten-foot-wide drop gouged out inside. Can see the barbed wire, the danger, electrical hazard signs. It’s really fucking suspect, actually. Why the fuck would deer need this much security? Nothing’s getting in, sure, but this is definitely more for something not getting out.

No expense was spared, as far as Eddie can tell. They must be some fancy-ass, bougie deer. The only reason Eddie can think of that wolves would care so much about them has, like, something to do with hunting, and it makes his skin crawl.

A single young deer is down by the pond, drinking. Mostly brown, with a couple odd splashes of white. The more Eddie looks at it, the more wrong it seems, even though he can’t quite put his finger on how.

There’s a crunch of gravel, the deep rumble of an engine, and Eddie finally looks up and over after it cuts off, after a door creaks open and then slams shut.

Harrington says, “Munson, hey,” like they’re buddies. Holds out a hand, but curls his fingers in and drops it with a shrug when Eddie just stares at him.

It’s criminal, how aging has only filled him out better. There’s a sturdiness to him now, when all Eddie remembers is the lean, athletic ranginess of a young wolf.

Finally, Eddie says, “Nice place you got here,” voice dry.

Harrington nods his head. Says, “Thanks,” and, “Oh, hey, the kids told me your band is doing pretty good? That’s really cool, man.”

Eddie doesn’t know what to do with Harrington’s smile. Furrows his brow and says, “Right.”

This isn’t going the way he thought it would.

Harrington squints one eye, turns to look at the dying sun, and rocks back on his heels. “So, I, uh, really should…” He trails off, runs a hand through his hair and then gestures toward the fence line.

Eddie clears his throat. He says, “What exactly do you do here?”

Harrington looks at him and blinks, says, “Uh,” like no one has ever actually asked him that question before. “Nothing. Feed deer? I mean.” He frowns. “It’s a sanctuary.”

“Sure,” Eddie says, and thinks about the creases at the corner of Harrington’s eyes right before he slides his sunglasses down off the top of his head, and wonders how terrible it would be to use sun-kissed in a metal song.

**

**

The next time he sees Eddie Munson, Steve’s got the mare hooked up to a post near the gate. She’d gone a little lame in her left front foot. Owens had told him to get a hoof pick, when he'd called, and now he’s gingerly trying to figure out how to clean out her hoof without getting kicked in the head.

“Is that a unicorn?”

“I mean, technically, no,” Steve says. It’s a horse with a bony protrusion growing out of its forehead. He wishes Debra was a unicorn, maybe then he’d be less afraid of her teeth.

Other than the horn, though, the mare looks mostly normal, brown all over with white feet; her blood is even the right color. For now. She’s two, and the growth had shown up about five months ago, so who the hell knows. Owens had paid two hundred of his own money to the Wrights for her, instead of orchestrating some kind of government quarantine again, and Steve’s gonna have to buy lumber, if he wants her and the other horse, Josh, to have a shed before winter really sets in. He’s been putting it off, but up this close Steve can tell Debra hasn’t really been growing a very good winter coat. He hopes and prays it isn’t because she’s going to lose all her hair and turn a sickly gray-green.

“Can I pet it?”

Steve glances over toward Munson, who’s leaning onto the front grill of his truck, ankles crossed. He’s got a pair of sunglasses pushing his hair back, like a headband. Eyes wide and curious.

Steve says, “No,” and watches Munson’s mouth fall into a pout, watches his arms cross, bunching up the material of his shirt, leather jacket caught under his elbows. Steve’s cheeks flush, and he jerks his gaze back to the sharp hoof he’s managed to wrangle between his thighs.

Munson hums, and Steve works at the muck in Debra’s foot until a sizable rock drops to the ground with an audible thud. Huh. That had to have been uncomfortable.

“Okay, but, like. What do you do out here all day?” Munson says, and now he’s hanging onto the wire of the door, fingers curled through the holes. “Commune with nature?”

“Are you trying to get electrocuted?” Steve asks. The door is a separate circuit, yeah, and Steve usually has it switched off when he’s inside, but normally the voltage is enough to take down a rhino, even though Hopper had a conniption about it.

Munson scoffs and rolls his eyes. “C’mon. Like you’d let me this close if it was live. I bet Henderson still calls you Mom, right?”

Steve grimaces and says, “The door is cut. You take a step to your left and I’m pretty sure your insides would liquify.”

“Metal,” Munson says, and there’s a hint of awe in his tone that makes Steve want to find a long stick and nudge him backwards.

Steve’s used to Robin, though, who’s more words than actions, and he has a feeling Eddie’s made of similar stuff.

He takes off the mare’s halter and lets her wander away. Places a hand on his hip and says, “Have you talked to Dustin lately?” and, “He said you guys had a gig near Boston,” and, “Did he make you play his nerd game while you were there?” and watches with a small smile as Munson staggers back, a hand to his heart, and says, “You can’t reduce the theatrical and immersive storytelling of Dungeons and Dragons to merely a nerd game, Harrington.”

“So that’s a yes,” Steve says, shucking his work gloves and stuffing them into his back pocket. He needs to move some bales of hay around to the other side of the lake, but he’s got plenty of time.

*

Steve doesn’t mind Munson hanging out, is the thing. The occasional company’s nice; it’s pathetic, how genuinely lonely Steve is on a daily basis. The government would pitch a fit if they found out, but it’s not like the buck would let Munson near enough for him to notice any mutations.

He’s not sure Munson would make much of it, anyway, considering his reaction to Debra.

So Steve lingers at the gate for an absurdly long time each morning, in the hopes that Eddie will catch up to him before he has to do his chores, and for a little while he doesn’t have to think about how every day Debra is losing more hair, and the buck still kind of wants to kill him, and there’s a concerning amount of active vines, even though he can’t find the source yet.

He’s still a solid two weeks out from the next full moon, but when darkness falls, his skin feels too small for his bones.

**

**

The basement in Wayne’s house has low ceilings and shag carpet and Eddie calls up Elaine and asks her to find him someone who can build him a recording studio down there.

There’re good bones and it’s a waste of space, considering the meager amount of belongings the Munsons have acquired over the years. All of Wayne’s mugs actually fit in the kitchen cabinets here.

Grant laughs when he tells him, says, “You’re moving back to Hawkins?” which is bullshit.

Eddie just wants to have a place to work while he’s visiting Wayne.

And if he can stare out the kitchen window and watch Harrington heft stacks of lumber out of the back of his truck, well. Maybe Hawkins isn’t as terrible as he remembers it.

*

Mornings are for chores, Eddie learns, since apparently he’s turned into a stalker.

He watches Harrington trudge out across the sanctuary, sometimes with hay, sometimes with nothing but a rucksack and a shotgun, very occasionally as a blur of gray, slunk low to the ground until he disappears into the rapidly browning weeds.

If Eddie’s feeling awake enough to be coherent, he’ll bring him coffee. If not, he slumps over the kitchen counter, or sinks down in a crippling Adirondack chair he hasn’t replaced yet and obsessively smokes until he sees Steve again.

Evenings are for even more chores, but Eddie gets to sit on the tailgate and watch him up close.

And the weirdest thing about it all is that Harrington doesn’t seem to mind.

Smiles when he sees Eddie. Waves and then waits for him, even if he’s just finishing up, like he’s got nothing better to do.

Eddie sprawls out in the truck bed, staring up at the smattering of stars just peeking out on the dark side of the sunset, and says, “You ever do anything for fun anymore, Harrington?”

He can see his breath in the cold.

Harrington’s so quiet, Eddie maneuvers up on his elbows to see if he’s still there.

“Sure,” Harrington finally says, hands on his hips, facing away. Staring off at the shimmer of orange on the lake, and the light reflecting eerily off the giant white stag. He glances back at him over a shoulder, grins and says, “You’re the one in Hawkins on vacation, man.”

Eddie gets the feeling that Harrington has no idea who Eddie is. Or, like, obviously he knows who he is, but. He’s a little offended Dustin hasn’t been bragging about him.

Eddie sits all the way up, crisscrosses his legs. Says, “Figure Hagan’s gone for college, right? Gotta be someone besides the twerps you’re hanging out with.”

Harrington leans against the open tailgate. “Get a few beers with Hopper sometimes.”

“That is,” Eddie cocks his head, “really fucking lame. Sorry, dude.”

“I work with Jonathan Byers,” Harrington says. “Does that count?” It’s getting too dark to clock his expression, but there’s an edge to his words, and his shoulders look tense.

Still, Eddie says, back straight, with his best imperious frown, “My liege. Your mortal enemy?”

Harrington snorts, relaxes. Says, “Get out of my truck, Munson. I gotta get home.”

**

**

Steve calls Robin and says, “Am I fun?”

“The funnest,” Robin says absently.

Steve thunks his head back against the thin trailer wall. “I’m serious. Munson said I was lame.”

“Oh, Munson, the coolest of the cool nerds,” Robin says. “Why do you care?”

He’s sitting just inside his room, phone cord pulled tight around the doorframe. “I don’t care.”

“Steve,” Robin says, low and slow, “you are not allowed to feel bad about yourself over Eddie Munson, okay?”

“Right.” He doesn’t feel bad about himself. He’s just…he’s been in survival mode for so long, he’s not sure how to feel normal, either.

He’s not going to tell Robin that, though. She probably already knows.

**

**

Eddie doesn’t want to believe it at first.

Which is stupid, because this is Steve Harrington, grade-A douchebag, and he should’ve known better than to let his guard down.

Here, in his hands, Eddie has absolute proof that he was right about everything he ever thought about him. And it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would.

He’s uneasy, paper clenched in his fist. Wayne’s signature at the bottom of a handwritten note. Harrington’s right under it, nice and neat, with an enormous fancy H.

Proof that Harrington truly is a dick who’ll take advantage of a kindhearted old man. The Harrington’s are loaded, and Steve’s somehow tricked Wayne into charging him seven bucks a month?

Eddie doesn’t really care about the money – never even bothered to figure out the exact lease amount before, and told Wayne to just collect it however he wanted. But the fact that that absolute asshole is paying practically nothing to do whatever the fuck he wants to Wayne’s land, to his land…

Wayne would give the shirt off his back if he thought someone needed it more than him, and Eddie wants to know how the fuck Harrington convinced him he was someone in need.

Actually, scratch that. He doesn’t want to fucking know. He’ll probably just end up yelling to Dustin about it, and Dustin’s irrational where Harrington is concerned.

He needs a cigarette. And then he needs to talk to Jeff, if that asshole will pick up the damn phone.

Outside, though, before he can even dig out his pack of cigs: Harrington’s halfway up the lawn toward him. Looking disheveled, dirty, and goddamn ruggedly handsome, all in ways Eddie really wishes he could forget.

“Hey, Munson, wanna grab…” Harrington trails off, frowning. “Are you okay?”

The grin stretching across Eddie’s mouth feels plastic and stiff. He’s gonna do this, huh? “Sure,” he says. “Just,” he holds up the folded piece of paper, still crumpled at the edges, “wondering why a fine, upstanding guy like yourself would give Wayne Munson just seven dollars a fucking month for most of his property?”

Harrington’s expression drops, skin pale. He says, “Munson, I,” and then can’t seem to say anything at all. Crosses his arms and looks off into the distance, like he can’t bear to look directly at Eddie’s face.

Eddie swallows hard. “You’re a piece of work, Harrington.”

Harrington nods. “I told him it wasn’t—”

“It doesn’t matter what you told him, Harrington.” Eddie shoves his hands through his hair. “Jesus Christ, I just convinced him to retire.”

Harrington nods, rubs a hand over his face, says, “Yeah.”

“I can’t believe I ever thought Dustin might be right about you.” Eddie shakes his head, chest tight. “We’re gonna fix this, and then you’re gonna leave us the hell alone.”

**

**

There’s something demoralizing about being really, truly poor, and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

Steve didn’t used to know this, obviously, and the Munsons have always known this, and ultimately it’s Steve’s fuck up – he never should have let Wayne talk him into that stupid deal.

Steve thinks about telling Owens, brainstorming ways he could downsize without having to create more fencing that the government definitely won’t pay for. If he abandons the sanctuary, they’ll just put everyone down and call it a wash.

He should do that, considering the contract Eddie slipped under the windshield wiper of the truck. There’s no way in hell he can actually afford three fifty a month, not with the animals feed and vet bills, not with his rent, not even if he tightens his food budget.

Steve’s been hungry before. That first lean winter, when all he could scrounge were spare hours at Family Video, before Joyce pulled some strings and got him something steady at Melvald’s. Skipping some meals should be a piece of cake.

The living situation is a little trickier, but doable. He gives Nate a couple of days’ notice. The lean-to is almost finished, he can bed down in his fur for a few months, just until he’s saved enough for a cheaper place.

He’s probably not going to find a cheaper place.

He packs a backpack full of clothes and essentials, and all of his other stuff fits in a single suitcase, which is fucking sad. A manila envelope of his personal shit his dad shoved at him, that last day. Pictures of his kids, a Walkman and a handful of tapes. The dreamcatcher Robin made him in her first college art class. He thinks about giving it all to Joyce for safekeeping, then realizes how terrible that idea is and gives it to Jonathan.

“Uh.” To his credit, Jonathan looks mildly concerned.

It’s been over five years since Vecna, nearly eight since the Upside Down shitshow began, but him and Byers never really clicked as much more than forced acquaintances. Mostly because Jonathan thinks Steve’s an asshole, and Steve thinks Jonathan’s a creep.

“I’m changing sleeping venues for a while, man,” Steve says with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant instead of fucking devastated. He’s putting off his meltdown until he’s in a form that can’t cry. He’s not going to cry over Eddie fucking Munson and, like, a reasonable adult request to pay his own way.

“Going wild, you mean,” Jonathan says.

“Elements aren’t good for important papers, right? It’ll be for a couple months, tops.” Steve scratches the back of his neck. “Just don’t tell your mom?”

Jonathan stares at him. He looks like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it and silently hefts Steve’s suitcase off the front porch. “Do the kids know?”

Steve clenches his jaw.

Jonathan says, “You should tell them.”

“I will,” Steve says. He’ll tell them later, if—when he’s found something new.

*

Wayne says, “You should come over for Thanksgiving, son,” and it’s not unheard of.

Steve spent last year at Robin’s, when she was home, but the year before was like this one—Robin working for double pay, saving up for a flight home over Christmas. Eddie hadn’t been home either, that year, something to do with recording, and Steve and Wayne had spent an awkward but nice afternoon eating dry turkey and too-wet stuffing.

Over Wayne’s shoulder, Eddie’s watching him carefully, arms crossed, mouth pressed in a grim line. His squared shoulders say Steve isn’t welcome, not anymore.

Steve flicks his gaze from him to Wayne and says, “Thanks for the invite, but, uh, I’ve got plans.”

*

Steve is a monster.

It’s not the first time he’s thought of himself like that; his parents certainly made it clear they thought that, too.

There’s something fundamentally wrong with him, no matter what Robin and Nancy and the kids say. He doesn’t like shifting, but it’s not like he’s got any other choice anymore.

It’s good he’s got his place in the dark of the forest, where nobody can see.

**

**

“You’re moping,” Jeff says, and Eddie has to plug his other ear to hear him over the buzzsaw and hammering in the basement.

“I’m not moping.” Some of the shine of staying in Hawkins has worn off, now that Harrington’s proved himself to be exactly how he’s always been, but he’s not telling Jeff that. Jeff’ll probably stop answering the phone again.

Wayne’s been asking him about Steve with concerning frowns, and Eddie’s this close to blowing up at him. Wayne’s always been a good judge of character, he doesn’t know how he got this so wrong.

Eddie rubs two fingers in between his eyes and groans. “Why are we on break again?”

“It was your call,” Jeff says, this time with real concern couched in his voice. “It was a good call, too, man, we were all getting burnt out.”

Eddie knows this, and yet. “Am I being stupid?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say yeah.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says on a laugh.

“Seriously, Ed, do you need me to come down there?”

Eddie wants to say yes, but Jeff’s in the wilds of Canada with Melanie’s family, and Eddie’s not going to let his shit mess that up. “Nah, man.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ll get over myself,” Eddie says, maybe in a million years.

Jeff snorts. “Gareth’s closest if you need an emergency hug.”

Eddie makes a face Jeff can’t see. Gareth still isn’t talking to him. It was funny at first, but now Eddie’s thinking about crawling in his bedroom window and kidnapping him. They’re fifteen minutes apart, for Christ’s sake. He sees Gareth’s mom at the supermarket!

It’s aways, “Gareth’s busy with his Legos, you know how he is, dear,” and Eddie does, which is why he actually does go over to Gareth’s house after he hangs up with Jeff.

He stares at the front door for a long moment, then shakes his head, unhooks the side gate and walks around to the back of the house. The strident guitar riff of “Thunderstruck” blasting out of Gareth’s stereo hides the sound of Eddie slipping down into the basement window well and kicking at the latch until it rattles inward. Slithering down into Gareth’s room, he gets stuck a little around his shoulders, because he’s not eighteen and a rail anymore.

Gareth yells, “What the fuck, Eddie,” as Eddie shimmies the rest of the way in with minimal scrapes along his back.

Gareth’s got a headlamp on, the rest of the room is bat cave dark, and he looks more irritated than pissed off. Cool.

“Your mom always says you’re busy!” Eddie says.

“That’s because I am!” He gestures toward several Lego… boats? Spaceships? Gareth says, “I’m attached to your hip, like, ten months out of the year, dude, I have hobbies,” but he dials down the stereo so they’re no longer shouting at each other. Sighs and slumps on his stool. He’s got a half-eaten sandwich at his elbow on his desk, and Eddie snatches it with an audible, “Yoink.”

“C’mon, man,” Gareth says tiredly, but there’s a tiny grin around his mouth, Eddie can see it.

He says, “If I promise not to talk about Harrington, will you come over and tell me how much room you need for your drums?”

“So Grant was right,” Gareth says, “you are crazy.”

Eddie takes an enormous bite of his ham and cheese.

Gareth scrubs his hands over his face, slips them up to yank his headlamp off through messy curls, and says, “Fine. Fine. Let’s go see whatever batshit insane thing you’re doing now.”

*

Eddie hotboxes the half-finished bathroom, stuffs painting rags under the door and slumps into the corner of the untiled shower with his sweetheart across his lap.

Gareth, leaning onto the uninstalled toilet, joint stuck to his bottom lip, says, “Man, I thought you weren’t going to talk about Harrington.”

“This could be a song about anyone,” Eddie says.

Gareth gives him as much of a knowing look as he can after two spliffs. He says, “You can’t rhyme hair with hair.”

“Fuck off, it’s just a placeholder.” Eddie’s stumped, but mostly because he still wants to write a fantasy epic, even though Steve Harrington fucking sucks.

Gareth sighs heavily. He says, “Say the word, Ed. I’ll come up with the drums.”

Eddie hmmms. Strums more of the melody he’d come up with, then trips into “Stairway to Heaven.” Says, “Whatever, man.” He needs to get out of this funk. This malaise. This disappoint over… what, really? Being right? Weed shouldn’t make him this depressed. He sets his guitar aside, sits all the way up and says, “Let’s order pizza.”

“And cheesy bread,” Gareth says, staggering to his feet.

“And cheesy bread,” Eddie echoes, nodding. “Let’s go to the movies,” he adds, inspired. He wants a blue Icee the size of his head, and three buckets of popcorn.

“It’s okay, you know,” Gareth says later, propped up against the brick alley of the Hawk.

Eddie’s crouched like a gremlin, shoveling popcorn into his mouth and trying to coax what he thinks is a cat out from under the dumpster. “What’s okay?” he says.

“To like. Like him. Harrington,” Gareth says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “My mom thinks he’s great. I’ve seen him at Melvald’s and he’s, like, weirdly charming to everyone. He even looks like he means it.”

He does, Eddie thinks, which is what makes it so sinister. He rubs his greasy hands over his jeans and straightens back up with a sigh.

Whatever. This stretch of insanity will all be over with after the holidays, and he can go back to New York, live out his wildest dreams, and forget Steve Harrington ever took up any space in his brain at all.

**

**

It’s Jonathan’s. Or—Steve thinks it’s Jonathan’s. It’s not something Melvald’s normally stocks, some kind of music magazine, and Steve stares at it with a sort of clammy, ugly feeling in his chest. It’s Eddie, looking objectively good, because Steve is a masochist, apparently, and Gareth, and that guy, Jeff, and some dude Steve vaguely recognizes but couldn’t tell you the name of at gun point.

Modern Metal On Fire, a banner across a two-page spread, Munson, shirtless in a denim vest, crouched down next to a guitar, smoldering.

They’re doing good, Dustin had said, which Steve realizes now was an understatement.

Steve has never been the kind of person you admire, he’s always had too much ego for that, so.

It’s fair, Steve supposes, that Eddie had made him feel terrible about the land lease thing, about shorting Wayne, even though it hadn’t been his fault. And now Steve realizes, sickly, that it wasn’t even about the money at all. That Eddie’s a dick, actually, and really hates Steve, and probably, okay – Steve snorts a small, semi-hysterical laugh – wants him so cash poor he’ll have no other option than to just fuck off and leave.

Jokes on him; Steve’s got nowhere else to go.

“Huh,” Jonathan says, looking over his shoulder. “There a reason you’re staring at Munson like he pissed in your Cheerios?”

Steve says, “He owns the land I’m leasing.”

“No shit?” Jonathan actually sounds surprised. Then, “Wait, is that why you had to move out of Nate’s?”

Steve shrugs.

Jonathan’s surprisingly sharp, mentally, for all the weed he smokes. He slumps against the counter next to him, says, “So he’s not giving you a sweet deal like old lady Carnegie.”

“No, he is not,” Steve says, very carefully.

“So,” he draws the word out, “what are you going to do?”

The clammy, ugly feeling balloons and pops, leaving him tired and resigned. “Nothing.”

It’s not like Munson is wrong. He doesn’t owe Steve anything. Steve’s problems, honestly, have nothing to do with Eddie Munson.

“I’ve been lying to Will, you know,” Jonathan says.

Steve’s mouth tightens. “You don’t have to.” Friends don’t lie, or whatever. That’s why Steve’s been avoiding all his kids’ calls. He fully expected it to leak out through Jonathan at some point, or even Erica, who’s been giving him dirty looks but hasn’t outright confronted him yet. Mainly because she hates Nate and wouldn’t step foot in the trailer, so it’s debatable whether even she knows… and anyway, there’s nothing stopping Munson from telling Dustin, either.

Jonathan bumps his shoulder with a fist. Says, “I do. Because otherwise they’ll fuck up their finals. God help you when they all descend here for the holidays.”

Steve wipes a hand over his mouth, voice slightly hoarse on, “I’m kinda looking forward to it.”

*

Steve showers at the Byers, because Jonathan is solid, when it comes down to it, and also Mrs. Byers thinks his water heater is broken.

Robin says, “You know my mom would let you sleep in my room,” during one of his daily treks to the convenience store payphone to call her. She’s extremely pissed about the whole situation, the vines, Munson, him moving out of Nate’s, but had calmly – almost too calmly – promised to leave it be until she got to town at the end of the month.

“Your dad hates me,” Steve says.

“My dad loves you. He thinks you’re going to marry me,” Robin says.

“He desperately hopes I don’t marry you, you know that, right?” He’d pulled Steve aside over the summer and basically told him he doesn’t think he’s good enough for her, and Steve wholeheartedly agrees, so it’s not like he could argue with him about it.

“Whatever, dingus,” she says on a sigh. “Just be careful, will you?”

Steve really isn’t a careful sort of person, at least not with himself. Still, he says, “Sure,” in an entirely unconvincing tone, ignores her answering scoff, tells her he’ll call tomorrow and hangs up.

He’s got just about an hour and a half to shift and do a sweep of the sanctuary before he loses the sun.

*

When he’s not worrying about Debra, or that the stag, normally aloof, has come close enough to try and bite him twice, he’s trying to track down where the vines are coming from without alerting El. Alerting El means Hopper will get involved, and Mike will know, and all his kids will find out all his problems way earlier than he wants them to.

Dustin isn’t supposed to be home until a few days before Christmas. He’s got three weeks to get his shit together. To make sure the vines are some kind of an anomaly. It’s been years since they killed Vecna and closed the last gate.

It’s concerning when he starts seeing the vines in clusters on the other side of the pond. Too close to the Munson house for his peace of mind. Like they can sense him, though, they retreat almost too fast for him to follow; almost.

The back of his seven acres butts up to the Wright’s farm, the far end of the pumpkin patch, a place Steve can clearly see in at least a third of his nightmares. It makes absolute sense when he reaches the parameter of his fence line and watches as the last of the vines slink into the ditch. He’s a little afraid to peer in, wolf balking. Can hear a sibilant hiss, like he’s sneaking up on a pit of vipers.

Steve hunches low to the ground, slowly creeping forward, the hiss gaining in volume until it’s echoing in his head and Steve realizes: it’s echoing in his head.

He only has a moment to think, oh shit, before something around his leg tightens, an eerily familiar grip, and he’s jerked forward and dragged down.

**

**

The one thing Hawkins has been sorely lacking this holiday season is Dustin, he’s taking far too long to grace Eddie with his presence.

He calls Dustin to complain about it, and Dustin says, “I’ll be back before Christmas, man,” and, “I’ll be home most of January, c’mon,” and, “Okay, but listen, have you seen Steve?”

Eddie exhales, leans back into the kitchen counter and crosses his ankles. “Not lately,” he says. “Why?”

The white truck is still a near constant presence across the lawn, but luckily Harrington himself has been scarce since Thanksgiving.

Wayne’s been concerned, and Eddie’s continued to tell him harmless little white lies, regales him with some Steve-sightings to keep him happy—kind of happy. Harrington’s a busy guy, Wayne doesn’t need to worry.

And Dustin definitely doesn’t need to worry; he’s got finals or labs or what the fuck ever.

Dustin says, “I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

“He’s a big boy, Henderson.”

“Yeah, but Nate said he moved out?” Dustin’s voice goes up. “And, like, he didn’t tell anyone he was moving, and Jonathan says he looks fine—”

“Then I’m sure he’s good, dude,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. He thinks briefly, who the fuck is Nate? but, “He’ll probably just get a hold of you when he’s settled.” Moving out of the sweet piece of glass and stone on Cornwallis sounds stupid to Eddie, but maybe daddy Harrington’s funding, like, one of those fancy new condos up by Loch Nora.

“Right.” Dustin doesn’t sound convinced. “It’s just. He missed all our calls for the past two weeks. And he called Max, which he never does, and El says Hopper says—”

“Henderson,” Eddie says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I wish I could help.”

He can hear Dustin breathing noisily, like he’s upset, and fuck Harrington for making everything about him, right?

Finally, Dustin says, low, “It’s okay. I’m. I know you don’t really like him, Eddie, but he told me what you guys did for him, and I just. Thanks for that. I’ve been really worried about him for a while, now that we’ve kind of all made him an empty nester.”

“Um.” He’s not sure what Dustin’s thanking him for. Making him pay a fair price for the land he’s taking from Wayne?

“Especially since, like, his dad’s a major douchebag. He doesn’t even have anyone to run with since they kicked him out of his pack. And god, saving all that money?”

Eddie feels suddenly wrongfooted, chest tight. “Uh, Dustin—”

“Oh man,” Dustin’s voice sounds looser and brighter, “I bet that’s what happened! I bet he told Nate to stuff it, moved into his own place. What if he moved into Wayne’s old trailer? Can you go check? Should I send Ma? Look—”

“I’ll check,” Eddie cuts in, just to get Dustin to shut the fuck up. “You sure he’s not at his dad’s?”

Dustin scoffs. “They set a barrier up. Just because he’s not—” There’s a crackle, and then a voice says, “I need the phone, Henderson, I said ten minutes,” and Dustin says, “Fuck off, Brant, shit, okay, Eddie, I gotta go, let me know what you find, bye!”

Eddie stares at the headset, hears the faint sound of the dial tone, and swallows hard.

It’s possible, even likely, that he’s fucked up.

*

If we’re talking Forrest Hills, if he thinks about how Wayne probably knows Steve, logically, then Eddie actually knows exactly who Nate is.

Graduated four years before him, moved into the Floris trailer once old George died. A washed-up jock, just like, apparently, Harrington himself, except Nate never outgrew his high school persona: he’s a gigantic asshole.

He sneers at Eddie and says, “Why the fuck would I know where Harrington went?” half-crushed beer can in his hand and a cigarette hanging off his lip.

“Just asking, man,” Eddie says, hands up.

Nate narrows his eyes at him. “You dealing?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then get the fuck out, freak,” Nate says, and slams the door in Eddie’s face.

Eddie would get mad except he doesn’t have the energy to spare. Nate’s a douchebag, and ultimately inconsequential to his quest.

The old Munson trailer looks haunted and abandoned, a ratty For Rent sign prominent on the brown patch of front lawn.

He’d driven past the Harrington house on Cornwallis, spotted a shiny white Mercedes in the driveway, and debated about knocking at the door. Dustin had said Harrington’s dad kicked him out, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he wouldn’t go crawling back, if he had to.

Eddie hates himself a little when he realizes, when he tells himself, Steve Harrington wouldn’t.

People don’t just disappear. But.

Eddie pauses, squints into the distance, down the dirt road that winds out of the trailer park; evergreens densely pack the main drag that leads back into the heart of Hawkins.

Werewolves might.

*

At Wayne’s house, a brown sedan is parked directly behind Harrington’s white pickup. He doesn’t recognize it, but he recognizes the shaggy head and curled shoulders of Jonathan Byers.

Slowly, Eddie walks down the lawn and joins Byers at the fence, staring into the bright sunlit field at a single dark horse.

Byers slants him a look and says, “So Steve is missing.”

Eddie swallows hard. “Is he?”

“When did you last see him?” Byers sounds tense, and Eddie finally notices the way he’s white-knuckling a baseball bat full of nails.

Jesus Christ.

“And don’t say before Thanksgiving, Munson,” Byers says, not only tense now, but visibly fucking pissed. “He was coming to work up until Monday.”

Eddie bristles. “Are you implying something, Byers?”

Byers keeps his gaze hard, but he deflates a little. Says, “I’m not implying anything, dude. Steve’s, like, incredibly stubborn. My mom would’ve given him Will’s room for free.”

So. Steve’s confirmed homeless, and technically it’s all Eddie’s fault.

Byers reaches over and squeezes his arm. “It’s not your fault.”

“I mean.” Eddie shrugs, shoulders tight.

“It’s kind of your fault,” Byers says, a reluctant grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. It doesn’t meet his eyes. “But this,” he gestures out toward the sanctuary, where the creepy dark horse is looking at them, “he can take care of himself. If he’s actually missing, that’s not your fault.”

Eddie still kind of feels responsible, anyway.

Byers says, “Have you seen anything weird lately?”

“Weirder than you brandishing a murder weapon?” Eddie waves a hand. “This is Hawkins.”

Byers sighs heavily. He says, low, like he’s talking to himself, “I should call Nancy. I should tell Hopper,” as he digs a key out of his pocket and sticks it in the keyhole of a little black box on the electrified door.

“Whoa, wait,” Eddie says, “where did you—”

“Steve keeps a spare in the truck.” The front of the box falls open and Byers flips a switch. He throws a glance over his shoulder at Eddie. “You coming?”

“In there?” He doesn’t know why, the place has, like, animals and shit in there, he’s asked Harrington multiple times before if he could come in, but now something feels off.

Byers ignores him and steps inside.

Eddie scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair and says, “Why the fuck not, I guess?” Jeff’s gonna kill him if he dies.

**

**

Steve wakes with a soft huff and a muffled whimper, tries to shake off the intense exhaustion with minimal success. Thinks about wriggling out of his little makeshift den, then thinks better of it.

He never gets far.

There’re too many vines, too many hissing, desperate murmurs pulling him back—he can rip a dozen to shreds and then two dozen take their places. Howls until his throat feels raw, until his body’s limp and useless.

The only good thing is that his brain shuts off when he collapses, when he digs into his den again, head throbbing, and he can no longer hear them clamoring stay stay stay.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been down there.

His heartbeat thunders in his ears when he sees a flash of white stumble by.

He inches out just enough to see the white stag, his white stag, head up, nervously swinging back and forth as it steps over the inert pulsing vines carpeting the Upside Down.

It’s the only living thing he’s seen down there, so far.

He thinks that might mean something, but he doesn’t know what.

**

**

They find a pile of Steve’s clothes in a crudely built lean-to just outside the circle of a dead campfire, and Eddie figures this is what Steve did with all the lumber. Next to the clothes is a stuffed backpack and a shotgun. Next to the shotgun is Debra.

“Yikes,” Eddie says.

Debra blows out a puff of air and snorts at him. She’s practically bald, no mane to speak of, but doesn’t seem unhappy about it.

Eddie says, “Does she look greenish to you?”

Byers shoves the nail bat at him, says, “Take this,” and stuffs several shotgun shells into his pants.

Eddie fumbles the bat, almost spikes himself, and says, “Are you going to shoot him?”

Byers gives him a look. “No.”

Something touches his foot and Eddie jumps, startled, then says, “What the fuck,” when he looks down to see a vine or tentacle wind itself loosely around his boot.

Byers curses under his breath.

He starts dumping out Steve’s backpack – clothes, a worn paperback, two flashlights, toothbrush, hairbrush, a little framed photo of all the kids, Christ – and Eddie says, “Okay, hold on, don’t you think that’s—”

“No time to explain,” Byers says, then stuffs the flashlights back in, along with what looks like lighter fluid, a book of matches, some sticks, and a couple pairs of Steve’s underwear.

“I’m not asking,” Eddie says, even though he’s dying inside.

Byers says, “Good,” and gets to his feet. Looks over at Eddie grimly. “Last chance to back out.”

“Back out of what?” Eddie says, flapping a hand, but at Byers continued silent stare, he just says, “Let’s go, Byers. I’ll follow you into Mordor.”

*

The bat is heavy and awkward and completely metal, even after he notices the suspicious stains.

Byers’ silence is tense with worry, and Eddie swooshes the bat through the air and says, “You ever actually use this bad boy?”

Byers glances back at him. Says, “A little. Mainly, it’s Steve’s.”

And isn’t that, like, weirdly hot? He holds it up against the dappling sunlight through the trees, turns it around. Yep, that’s probably old blood.

He thinks maybe there’s a seventy percent chance Byers will murder him out here. A seventy-five percent chance Harrington will help.

“You know, Wayne’ll look for me if I’m missing.”

Byers hmms.

“Gareth, too.” Probably. When he finishes his Lego spaceship or train or whatever the fuck he’s working on now.

“That’s good,” Byers says, absently. “My mom will, too.”

“Good, good,” Eddie echoes, nodding his head. His feet hurt, because his boots are more for show than, like, any activity at all. He’s kind of thirsty. There’s a good chance they’ll be walking back in total darkness, which is just great.

And then Byers stops dead in front of him and drops the bag, slumps down onto his knees, and Eddie notices they’ve reached the other end of the acreage, and that the trench does indeed go all the way around. Impressive.

“Shit,” Byers says.

Eddie carefully slides closer to the edge and peeks over. “Huh.” Below, the ground is split open with writhing vines like a pulsing wound. “Gross.”

Byers says, “Good news, the vines don’t seem to care about us.”

“How is that—”

“Bad news,” Byers squints up at him, “pretty sure that’s where Steve is.”

Eddie looks from him to the hole and back again. “Sure sure, or, like,” he waggles a hand back and forth, “fifty-fifty sure?”

Byers ignores him and shoots back up to his feet so fast Eddie stumbles a little to get out of his way. He shoulders the backpack again, gives Eddie a grimace, and then drops down into the trench.

He’s got an arm halfway through the roughly two-foot hole before Eddie can even skid all the way to the bottom. Eddie says, “Whoa, wait.”

“It’ll be fine,” Byers says, entirely unconvincingly, and fucking tumbles in and disappears.

“What the hell, Jonathan!” Eddie shoves the end of the nail bat into the hole, boggles as it meets no resistance, and then jerks it back out again. “Fuck.”

This is a bad idea. This is a really fucking bad idea, Eddie thinks. But he can’t let Byers save Steve alone.

*

Eddie crawls out, impossibly, like he’s climbing up out of a hole. “Are we… upside down?”

Byers, standing above him with the shotgun up and ready, swings around and says, “This looks different than the last time.”

“Last time?” Eddie says, scrambling himself upright and getting his feet back under him. The woods around them are eerily familiar. To the right, there’s a spread of fields filled with the corpses of rotting pumpkins. The air is murky, like twilight. It smells like smoke and dead things, and flashes of red streak through the sky like silent lightning.

Byers says, absently, “We killed a guy here once.”

“Sure,” Eddie says. Why not? He feels jittery, weirded out, but Byers is exuding an air of bewildered confidence, even as he kicks at a vine and mutters, “Still nothing,” to himself.

“Uh.” Eddie clears his throat. “What were you expecting them to do?”

Byers looks over at him, squints a little. “Henderson says they’ve got a hive mind, so.” He lifts a shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll know whenever we do something they don’t want us to do.”

Henderson, Eddie thinks, of course, and puts a pin in that for later.

A howl slices through the tangible, dense silence, and Eddie feels his whole body freeze up, goosebumps prickle across the back of his neck.

Byers just says, “Steve,” though, and then louder, “Steve!”

There’s something different in the way the vines slither past Eddie’s feet; they’re moving faster, more erratic. He stumbles, grabs onto Byers’ sleeve. “What do we think is happening here?”

Byers doesn’t answer him. He shouts, “Steve!” again, and starts moving further into the woods.

Eddie’s reluctant to move away from the portal to home, feels like if he turns around wrong he’ll be completely lost. He says, “You know, I didn’t figure you guys were this close. Sharing the same ex-girlfriend and all.”

“We’re not.” Byers grins at him, but it doesn’t seem happy. “Trauma bonding is a hell of a thing. Ready?”

“No,” Eddie says.

Something—Steve howls again, then it turns into a yelp.

Byers doesn’t bother waiting for him when he takes off.

*

The underwear, it turns out, and the sticks, and lighter fluid, and the matches, obviously, are because the vines really fucking hate fire. Like, duh, right, but Byers hobbles together a couple of torches and they go to town.

Then Eddie’s dragging a mostly unconscious Steve, or what he’s pretty sure is Steve – he couldn’t help the visceral, “What the fuck is that?” when they’d first found him, tearing into vines with several rows of teeth – by the front paws through heavy smoke and carnage.

His claws are dripping with black and red goo and seem way too sharp to be a wolf’s, but Eddie is not thinking about that.

He’s not thinking about how he’d dropped all his weapons when Steve had collapsed, whimpering, at his feet.

How Byers had sprayed the vines with what was left of the lighter fluid before tossing his own torch and scooping up the nail bat, grabbing onto one of Steve’s hind legs with his free hand because Steve is fucking heavy and, like, Eddie was making torturously slow progress on his own.

His mind is gloriously blank of everything but the strain on his muscles, he doesn’t even flinch when Byers smashes the bat into a vine that had wound its way around Eddie’s wrist, then all the way up his arm.

It convulses and lets go, and Eddie heaves himself backward, yanking the mess of blood and fur—Steve, this thing is Steve—with renewed energy, like he’s been shot through with adrenaline.

He feels too fucked up to be truly afraid.

When they finally make it to the hole, when he shoves Steve through and climbs out and clutches at Byers’ hand to help him up, they’re still not done.

Byers pants and says, “Eleven’s gonna be pissed.”

“Who?” Eddie’s breathing so hard he thinks maybe his chest is caving in; this might be his sign to give up smoking.

“C’mon,” Byers says, tossing the bag and then the bat up over the edge of the trench. “The vines aren’t going to stop now.”

**

**

Steve wakes up human and starving and in an unfamiliar bed.

He blinks at the off-white ceiling, the dull light in an elongated rectangle from a window somewhere over his head. He curls and uncurls his fingers along a soft blanket. His wrists hurt, and his mouth is dry and tastes terrible.

“You’re awake.”

Steve’s neck aches as he shifts on the pillows to look to his right. Eddie Munson is slumped over in an armchair, hands clasped between open knees.

“I think,” Steve says, voice hoarse.

He’s not absolutely sure. The last thing he remembers is… Jonathan with a torch. And a shotgun. And—

“You went through a gate?” he says, louder, but his throat feels like it’s been scraped raw, and he starts coughing.

Munson fumbles at the bedside table and then a firm arm is around his shoulders, his back, moving him up far enough to sip at a juice with a straw once he’s stopped trying to hack up a lung.

“I thought wolves heal fast,” Munson says.

“Yeah, well.” What the fuck is that echoes through Steve’s hazy memory, and even though he can’t properly picture Eddie’s horrified face, he can imagine it. “Not so much. Anymore.”

There’s a quiet, heavy pause.

Then: “So Byers has been busy with, like, damage control with someone who is, unsurprisingly, related to Hopper. So.” Eddie fluffs some pillows behind Steve and manages to slink back to his chair once he’s propped up under his own steam. “Wanna tell me what the fuck all that was?”

Steve says, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“The other dimension? Or the fact that you’ve been homeless for weeks.” Eddie’s scowling, but he looks more concerned than pissed off.

“Both. Neither.”

“Okay, but—”

“Not your problem, Munson,” Steve says tiredly.

“I mean. It kind of is.”  He waves a hand pointedly, and Steve can see the deep purple bruising around his wrist, circling his elbow.

Steve can make out a line of black tattooed bats underneath and says, soft, “Sorry. Just, uh. If you give me a few minutes, I’ll get out of your hair.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no. You’re not going anywhere, big boy. I bet your legs are spaghetti. Not to mention the fact that Wayne would kill me if I let you leave.”

“You don’t have to worry ab—”

“Uh, yes. We do.” Eddie slides his hands along his thighs and stands up, grimaces. “Apparently you’re catnip for those vine things, so, like, until this mysterious Eleven person can figure that out, I’m afraid you’re stuck in casa de Munson.”

“Right,” Steve says. “Sorry.”

“Stop—no, you know what.” Eddie holds up a hand. “Let’s move on for a moment. Do you want lunch?”

*

Over grilled cheese in bed, Steve learns that he’s been out for nearly two days, that Eleven thinks it’s only the one gate, and that Dustin is coming home almost a full week early.

“He’s mad,” Steve says.

Eddie shrugs. “Mostly at me.”

“I should have told someone about the vines.”

“Probably. But he, uh.” He ducks his head over his plate. “He knows about the money thing. He’s pissed at me, and, like, disappointed in you. He’s nineteen.”

“He’s judgey,” Steve says, nodding. “He spends way too much time with Erica.” He picks at the crumbs on his plate. “Listen, I—”

“I didn’t know about your dad,” Eddie says in a rush.

Steve makes a face. “I should have told you.”

“Maybe.” Eddie heaves a big, shuddery breath. “But I should’ve trusted Wayne’s decision. I fucked up. I don’t care about the money.”

“I know,” Steve says, watching a flush travel up, blotchy red, from Eddie’s neck and all over his face. “Rockstar, right?”

Eddie rubs a hand across his cheek with a groan. Says, “Gareth’s never going to let me live this down.”

“Uh, what?”

“No, it’s nothing.” He clears his throat, reaches for Steve’s empty plate. “You can stay here as long as you want, man, but, uh, just a warning. I think Mrs. Byers wants to adopt you.”

*

Eleven holds both his hands and says, “I think it was lonely.”

Steve blinks a lot. “Lonely?”

She squeezes his fingers. “Do not worry, I have made sure it will not open again.” She cocks her head. “Probably.”

He knows probably is as good as they’re going to get; it always is. He’s afraid to ask about the white stag. He didn’t mention it to Jonathan and Eddie, and it’s not like the stag was fun to have around, but it was his. And it was beautiful, despite all its terrible deformities.

El stares at him. She’s never very expressive, but her eyes are sad. “I want to run with you. Next moon.”

“El.”

“I can run very fast.”

“I know, super girl.” Steve sighs, glances over to where Eddie is trying very hard not to seem like he’s eavesdropping, nose buried in a book. Finally says, “I’d like that.”

El’s smile is blinding. “Good.”

**

**

Eddie has a plan. A plan to make everything up to Steve. To go back to the tentative whatever kind of friendship they were building before Eddie made assumptions. Before he was a dick and almost got Steve killed.

It’s not much of a plan, but he figures just showing up counts as, like, putting in the effort.

He didn’t account for Robin Buckley, though.

“Are you—” Eddie cocks his head at where she’s taking up the entire doorway with all her limbs. “Is this a normal place for you to be?”

Robin just stares at him.

Eddie tries to see around her and into the Byers’ living room, but Robin just moves with him, like some kind of creepy mirror image that looks nothing like him. Except for maybe the hair.

Finally, she says, “As Steve’s platonic life partner—”

“Life partner?”

“—soulmate, best friend,” she draws in a deep breath and crosses her arms, “you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Eddie vaguely remembers Robin ushering the kiddos off to the parking lot after Hellfire, but he never really put two and two together to make… some kind of really odd relationship, apparently.

Eddie says, “I do,” though. He says, “But, okay, listen, are you aware of, uh,” Eddie points down at the ground, eyebrows raised.

“The crazy hell dimension? Oh yeah.” She steps forward and jabs him in the chest with her finger. “Thank you for that. For getting him out of there,” she says, low and surprisingly vicious, “but I don’t think I can ever forgive you for making him cry.”

“Whoa.” A hand appears on Robin’s shoulder, tugging her gently backward, and then Steve says, “Nobody said anything about crying.”

“There better not have been any crying,” Dustin says, shoving his way around both Steve and Robin to throw his arms around Eddie. He hugs him tight and says, “I’m giving you a break here, because I know you’re a moron.”

“Oh, wow. Is that anyway to talk to your mentor, Henderson?” Eddie says, hugging him back just as hard. He hasn’t grown much more in the height department, but he feels more solid, and he’s cut off his mullet.

Dustin says, “Steve’s my mentor, jackass.”

“You called me an idiot five minutes ago,” Steve says, frowning. “You said you were gonna set up an emergency phone chain with your mom and Mrs. Sinclair if I didn’t agree to carry a walkie around with me again.”

“That’s because you apparently lack any of the survival instincts of your ancestors, wolf boy,” Dustin says.

Steve visibly flinches, but Eddie’s not sure anyone else notices.

*

Eddie ends up driving Dustin home from the Byers without doing much more than waving at Steve like a weirdo as Dustin practically pushes him off the porch.

And then Dustin fills him in on all the little details he didn’t ask for in between berating him and shoveling giant forkfuls of his mom’s pumpkin pie into his mouth.

Eddie tunes out a little around Russian torture because his heart and brain can’t take anymore—Steve’s a goddamn hero, just like Dustin always heralded him to be, and Eddie is a worm. A rat. Absolute dog shit.

Mrs. Henderson’s delicious pie settles like a stone in the pit of Eddie’s stomach.

Dustin nudges his plate with his fork. Says, “It wasn’t all bad.”

“Oh, it wasn’t,” Eddie says. He’s pretty sure he heard evil mind wizard in there when Dustin was wrapping up all the deaths that happened his final senior year.

“Yeah, I mean.” Dustin shrugs. “I met Steve, and Steve met Robin, and, like, we’re family, and I don’t think we would’ve had that without all the,” he circles his fork in the air, “death and destruction. Did I mention Steve almost got eaten by these mutant bats?”

“Of course he did,” Eddie says faintly.

“He’s got some gnarly scars, but, uh,” Dustin scrunches his nose up, “he’s kind of sensitive about his everything, so maybe don’t mention it.”

Which brings up the thing that nobody’s really talking about. Eddie can take some guesses - he’s seen Debra, Dustin has talked at length now about the demogorgon monsters that frankly sound nothing like actual demogorgons, and he can finally make some sense of that time the white stag hissed at him and looked… wrong. He’s dying, he wants to know so bad, but he also doesn’t want to make Steve flinch again or feel worse about himself. Eddie’s had a couple nightmares, threaded with guilt over his reflexive kneejerk reaction.

Steve Harrington isn’t quite a wolf anymore, and it has something to do with the hell dimension, and the little group of animals he’s hoarding, and his dad most definitely threw him out because of it.

Eddie is insanely curious, but it’s none of his business.

He takes a big bite of pie.

*

Eddie wakes up in a sweat in the middle of the night, fingers curled around his sheets like they were curled around Steve’s wrists in his dream – pulling Steve out of hell, human Steve this time, grimy and naked and perfect, strong hands, wide brown eyes, too-red mouth, and Eddie thinks fuck.

Fuck.

**

**

Steve selfishly stays away from the sanctuary for longer than he needs to, lets El and Hopper check in with all the animals and feed the horses.

El and Hopper have lives, though, and technically this is all Steve’s got, so he has to start going back at some point.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Robin says, hugging her arms around her body and shivering. “Thanks for warning me about Debra.”

Debra looks worse, Steve thinks, but also seems fine about it. Her skin feels a little slimy when he pets her nose. In the distance, he can see the herd of deer on the other side of the pond, the brightest spot now is only the piebald doe and her fawn.

“What can I do?”

“Stand there and look pretty,” Steve says, forcing a grin at her. “I’m going to get some hay, and then run the perimeter.”

“Fun,” Robin says, rolling her eyes, and then Eddie says, “How about I stand here and look pretty while Buckley goes up to the house and has hot chocolate with Wayne.”

Eddie’s leaning up against the back of the pickup, watching them. Steve’s heart does a hard thump and his throat goes dry.

Robin says, “Oh, thank god.”

Eddie arches an eyebrow at him. “What do you say, Harrington? Am I allowed inside the fence now?”

Robin yanks open the gate and flaps a hand to let him inside. She says, “Don’t make me regret this,” and Steve can’t say anything at all.

He hasn’t been just avoiding the void left by the stupid white stag. He’s been avoiding running into Eddie.

Munson’s seen a part of himself that he can’t change, a part that made his mother cry, a part that has, undoubtably, made it impossible for him to ever leave Hawkins. The part that he’s scared is maybe getting worse, after every full moon, in the same way that Debra’s slowly reforming. Mutating.

He watches Robin stomp her way up the hill toward the house until Debra nudges him in the middle of his back and makes him stumble.

He glances over at the truck, at Eddie still up against tailgate, stance open and waiting. He’s traded his leather jacket in for fleece lined denim, long hair tucked up under a beanie. The tight ripped jeans aren’t exactly conducive to hard work, and the flash of skin along his thighs, his right knee, make Steve’s fingers twitch and curl into loose fists.

Finally, Steve says, “Fine. But you have to help with the hay.”

**

**

Eddie can’t stand it.

It snows and Steve has Wayne’s driveway cleared before breakfast.

Wayne says, “I hope you invited that boy over for Christmas,” as they stand side-by-side at the living room window, watching Steve shuck his gloves and hat, unzip his coat – shoveling is hard, sweaty work, apparently, even in freezing weather.

“I did,” Eddie says, “but he’s going to Robin’s.”

“They an item?”

“Uh,” Eddie thinks about Robin’s emphatic greeting a couple days ago, “do platonic life partners count?”

Wayne gives him an odd look. “Probably not, Ed.”

“Then nope. Not an item.” Eddie takes a big gulp of his coffee and burns his tongue, feels Wayne’s judging eyes on the side of his face.

He just pats his shoulder with a sigh, though, and says, “Go tell him to come in for eggs.”

Eddie can do that, definitely, but Steve’s been a little jumpy around him lately, and Eddie can’t blame him.

Eddie slips outside, though, as Wayne makes his way back into the kitchen to start breakfast, and instantly regrets forgetting to pull on a coat. He tucks his hands up into his armpits and says, “Hey, Harrington,” just as Steve’s starting down the ruts his truck left in the path going down to the sanctuary.

Steve’s head jerks up. He grins, then drops his expression just as fast, and Eddie’s stomach flips over.

“Munson,” Steve says.

Eddie motions toward the door, tips of his fingers freezing, and says, “Wayne’s making breakfast. C’mon.”

“Oh, I.” Steve’s shoulders loosen. “I already ate at the Byers.”

“So eat again.” Eddie not only regrets the lack of coat, but the threadbare plaid pj pants and the, he looks down, yep, sock feet, standing on the concrete front stoop.

Steve’s waffling. He shifts the shovel from one hand to the other.

Eddie says, “Eggs, toast, and your choice of beverage, my liege. Coffee, tea, juice—”

“Water?” Steve says, walking toward him, a little smile on his face now. Eyes amused.

Eddie shrugs, feeling delighted. “Sure, why not. It’s freezing, dude, your charges can wait.”

*

Breakfast becomes a thing. Eddie loves it, even if he has to get up before 10 AM every single day to catch Steve before he goes down to the sanctuary.

He stays up late scribbling lyrics and picking through notes on his sweetheart, passes out in the guest room that’s steadily becoming just his, and shuffles into the kitchen to find Steve and Wayne in varying stages of eating. Yawns and presses a hand onto Steve’s shoulder as he goes past, marvels at how each day Steve startles less and less at his touch.

Smiles more when Eddie slumps into the seat across from him with a mug of coffee.

The near constant construction noise in the basement has tapered off with the onslaught of the holidays, and Eddie’s pretty sure they’re almost done, anyhow. He needs to call Gareth, and he needs to show him what he’s written, wants to get his drum set in the little glass sound booth, test everything out, but every time Steve looks at him now, he thinks up more words to sing.

It’s part infatuation, part knowing Harrington’s both decent and hot. And not completely immune to Eddie’s charms, maybe, considering the way he flushes around him.

“You better be serious, Ed,” Wayne says later, after Steve’s left to check in on the deer and feed Josh and Debra, and Eddie places a hand to his chest and says, “Are you giving me the shovel talk?”

Wayne arches an eyebrow. “Can you tell me you don’t deserve it?”

Eddie never fully told Wayne about the whole money debacle, the extortion, basically, but Wayne isn’t dumb. He most definitely figured it all out.

Also, Steve’s being stubborn about what he’d already paid Eddie for December, so Eddie’s taken to stuffing cash into Steve’s jackets and boots when he’s at breakfast, or in the glove box of his truck.

Wayne’s given him the stink eye about it a time or two, but hasn’t said anything out loud.

Eddie nods solemnly. Says, “I do deserve it,” and, “I really fucked up, Uncle Wayne.”

Wayne pulls him into a hug, pats his back, and says, “You’re a good kid, Eddie. I know you’ll fix it.”

*

Eddie sits down on a rickety crate he’s currently using as a table and shows Gareth all his stuff: the lyrics, the staff paper full of notes, chords, the acoustic bridge, the rough sketch out for the drums, everything he’d manically created the night before until he’d passed out around four am, sprawled out across the futon he’d shoved into the almost-finished basement.

Eddie eats at the ends of his hair as he watches Gareth go through everything, a little v of concentration in between his brows.

Gareth worries he lower lip over the staff paper. Taps his fingers on his knee.

Eddie says, “So?” after a solid five minutes goes by.

“You’re saying you want to pull an Extreme,” Gareth says slowly.

“I mean,” Eddie drops his hair to splay his fingers, “I’d prefer a Metallica parallel. Besides, I don’t think we could handle the harmonies.”

“My mom has that single, Ed,” Gareth says, rustling the sheaf of papers in the air. “My mom. And fuck you, we can handle the harmonies.”

Eddie grins. “You think?”

Gareth narrows his eyes at him. “You want to sing Harrington a love song.”

“Uh.” Eddie clasps his hands together, digs his rings into his chin. “Is that dumb?”

“I think it’s dumb as hell, Munson.” He stands up, grinning, and drops the papers back on Eddie’s lap. “I’m gonna fix the mess you made of the drums.” He rubs his palms together. “I should use a cajon. You get to tell Jeff and Grant. This is gonna be amazing.”

**

**

A couple days before Christmas, El meets Steve at the sanctuary at dusk. Parks her bright red hatchback behind Wayne’s truck in the driveway, and makes her way across the snow in boots and what looks like one of Max’s old track suits.

She says, “Hi, Steve,” as she tugs on a beanie and mittens.

“You sure you want to do this?”

She cocks her head at him quizzically. “Of course.”

Hawkins doesn’t have a lot of werewolves. His parents, he knows, still come home for the prestige of every full moon, even after the town went to shit. Steve used to run with Tommy, even after their falling out. With Hargrove, before Starcourt—he’d been a shitty human, sure, and kind of a psychotic wolf, to be perfectly honest, but a moon is a moon. And now Tommy’s at college and it doesn’t matter how many Hagans still roam the Harrington territory. Steve isn’t allowed in.

Steve rubs a hand over his face, sighs. Can already feel the itch under his skin, even though there’s still a streak of orange along the horizon.

He ducks behind the side of the truck and shucks his clothes and shifts, before he can think too hard about it.

He’s getting used to the different way his mouth moves, and the look of his paws, and the way his muscles bunch and release as he walks.

El looks at him the same as she always has, though, earnest and kind, and he waits patiently for her to close the gate behind them before they run.

**

**

It’s nobody’s business if Eddie tugs on Wayne’s heavy jacket and trudges down to Steve’s truck and hoists himself up on the hood sometime around five am.

El’s long since driven home—she’d stopped by the house first around midnight, flushed and radiating happiness, to ask Eddie to keep an eye out for Steve in the morning. She probably meant, like, from his kitchen windows, because it’s negative degrees out, but he’s got gloves and a knit hat and a burning curiosity.

The sun is slowly rising when he spots a dark form trotting out from the woods. Dog-shaped, but just as weird as he remembers.

Steve balks when he notices Eddie.

Twenty feet back from the fence line, Steve freezes like maybe Eddie can’t see him if he doesn’t move.

They have a silent standoff until Eddie breaks and says, “Um. You gonna stand there all day?”

Steve chuffs.

Eddie jumps down off the truck, grins, and says, “Seriously, dude, I don’t bite.”

As Steve creeps closer, Eddie very carefully doesn’t react to the size of his claws, the way his mouth opens too wide, with too many teeth.

Steve’s tail wags back and forth very slowly and he pointedly noses at the backpack left just inside the gate, keeping his gaze level with Eddie.

Eddie desperately wants to watch – will it be gruesome? - but it’s clear Steve isn’t going to shift until he turns away.

“You know,” Eddie says over his shoulder, “You look pretty badass, man.”

A solid silent minute goes by before Steve says, voice hoarse, “I look like a monster.”

“I mean, maybe,” Eddie says, shrugging, “but a fucking badass monster, right? With all the shit you’ve apparently dealt with over the years, I think that’d be a plus.” He hears the gate clang open and spins to see Steve pulling on a puffer coat, hair scruffed up in every possible direction, dark bags under his eyes.

He’s kinda smiling, though.

Eddie would definitely characterize the tired curve of his mouth as a smile.

“C’mon,” Eddie says, cold hands shoved into his pockets. “Wayne never sleeps in anymore. I bet he’ll make us pancakes if we beg.”

*

Steve shows up Christmas Eve with a wrapped box that says WAYNE in big letters and the shiny green and red gift bag that Eddie had left at the Byers that morning.

“You can’t keep stuffing money in my things,” Steve says, shoving the box into Eddie’s arms and pushing past him into the living room.

“I beg to differ, sir.” Eddie’s having some fun with it, now. He’d made an origami frog out of a twenty last night and stuck it on Steve’s dashboard.

Steve digs into his pocket and holds up a fistful of cash and says, “This is, like, over a thousand dollars, Eddie!” With his other hand, he shakes the gift bag. “And what the hell is this?”

“A Christmas gift.” He’d left a tin of cookies over there, too, for the rest of the Byers.

Steve’s eyes are wide and his face is pleading. “You can’t give me shit like this.”

Eddie frowns. “Why not? Did you not like it? Is it itchy?” It felt like a cloud to Eddie, but Eddie’s certified trailer trash, so what does he really know?

“It’s.” Steve tilts his head back to look at the ceiling, shoulders slumping on a sigh. “It’s perfect.”

“If it’s the wrong size, blame Robin.”

“It’s not.” He looks at Eddie again. “I still can’t take it.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It’s a sweater, Steve.” He was gonna go for something ugly and hilarious, but he selfishly wants to, like, put that sweater on Steve and go in for a long hug. Maybe nuzzle his face into his collarbone. Cashmere, Robin had said, and shoved it into his arms with a, “if you want to impress, Steve.”

He doesn’t necessarily want to impress him, but he figures from the twinkle Robin had in her eyes, she probably already knows that.

Steve stares down at the bag for a long moment and then over at Eddie again. “I don’t have anything for you.”

“I don’t deserve anything, dude.” Eddie hefts the present Steve brought over and says, “You got something for Wayne, that’s the only one of us who counts.”

“Eddie.” Steve frowns at him. “I got Wayne a mug.”

“Which he’ll love,” Eddie says, curling an arm around Steve’s back and dragging him further into the room. “Keep the sweater and come watch A Christmas Story with me.”

Steve frowns harder, tries to catch his feet on the rug as Eddie urges him closer to the couch, the TV, the bag of popcorn Eddie had just gotten out of the microwave mere minutes before.

“What about the money?” Steve says.

“You can leave it if you want,” Eddie says with a wink, “I’ll just find new and inventive ways to get it back to you.”

*

Grant laughs and laughs and hangs up on him, and Jeff says, “I’ll be there right after New Years, do you think your basement can handle all of us?” and Eddie isn’t even sure if the contractors finished yet, but of course he says yes.

Things are happening, and suddenly Eddie realizes he’s written a love song for Steve Harrington, that they’re gonna record it, and probably put it on an album, and Dustin will torture him about it for forever. Eddie hasn’t even asked Steve out on a date.

It seems too risky. Sure, he’d fallen asleep on Eddie’s shoulder Christmas Eve, and maybe Eddie had sniffed his hair a little bit, like a weirdo, but that doesn’t mean things would work out. Steve could punch him in the face.

He doesn’t seem like the type, but he also doesn’t seem like the type to own a nail bat, so who the fuck knows.

And besides: Steve’s not going to know it’s about him unless someone tells him.

The problem is Eddie can’t shut up about it to anyone else.

Mike says, “So this is about Steve?” sounding completely unimpressed, which means he’s rabidly jealous.

Eddie says, “Yes,” just to watch the red migrate up Mike’s neck and all over his face. He still can’t figure out if Mike’s got a puppy crush on him or Steve – it was exactly like that in high school. Mike always claimed Steve was an asshole unless anyone else claimed that too.

“Whatever,” Mike says, crossing his arms, slumping lower into the futon. “It’s okay.”

Unperturbed, Eddie says, “It’ll be better with all the vocals,” and strums more of the chorus.

Lucas shows up a couple minutes later with an armful of pop cans and two bags of Doritos dangling from his fingers. He says, “So is the cash swan on the kitchen table free game? I’ll consider it my Christmas present.”

“Fuck off, Sinclair,” Eddie says, smiling. “It’s Steve’s.”

“Steve,” Mike says, scowling. “You know he won’t even realize the song’s for him, right?”

Eddie arches an eyebrow, sits up straighter. “Dear Wheeler,” he says, “kindly fuck off.”

“Ooooo,” Lucas says, plopping down next to Mike, jabbing him with his elbow. “He means that one, dude.”

Mike sighs heavily and burdened and says, totally insincere, “Sorry.”

And Eddie takes it with absolute grace, of course, because Mike’s a sensitive soul; he’s just waiting for him to get less sullen about it, and more into, like, berets and beat poetry.

Later, though, after Will and Dustin show up with Twizzlers and a couple movies, and Gareth’s shown up with some pizza and weed, Eddie props himself up on the floor, back to the futon by Mike’s too-skinny spider legs.

Mike nudges his shoulder with a knee.

Eddie cocks his head, curious.

Mike just says, soft, “He’ll love it, you know. Just don’t be a dick about it.”

“Me?” Eddie says, mock incredulous, and bites his lip to stop grinning too hard as Mike just scoffs and looks away.

*

Robin says, “I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, will you,” Eddie says, even though he has no idea what she’s talking about.

“But I’m not saying anything about anything,” Robin continues loftily.

“Of course,” Eddie says, even more confused.

“Just remember I know Nancy, who shot a man.” She squints, tilts her head. “Person. Thing.”

“A noun?” Eddie says.

She scowls. “Don’t be cute, Munson.”

“Never.”

She stares at him, like she’s waiting for him to do something else. Eddie just came in to return some tapes, since someone left them strewn all over his basement.

Finally, Eddie says, “I’ll just. Go then?”

Robin puts a finger to the side of her nose, still staring. Says, “I’m watching you.”

“Sure,” Eddie says, and backs all the way out the door.

**

**

It’s hard not to feel in the way with Will home. Steve sleeps on the floor in Jonathan’s room, tucked into a sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling.

“I’ll get out of your hair soon, man,” he says. At some point, he’s given up fighting Eddie about the cash. Every time he gives some back, Eddie ends up just giving him more. He won’t be here forever, though, and if Steve saves up enough, he’ll probably be able to afford his own place again.

Jonathan says, “I don’t care.”

Steve’s never considered Jonathan a friend. He still doesn’t. He thinks they’re more like brothers, which is weird as fuck. He’s possibly closer to Jonathan than any of his kids except Dustin, and that’s more from, like, forced proximity and shared trauma than anything else.

It’s late, and Steve half wishes he’d taken Jonathan up on the weed offer, even though getting high still freaks him out.

In two days, it’ll be the new year.

In less than a month, it’ll be just Jonathan and him again.

Jonathan says, “Did you hear Eddie’s new song yet?”

“What, like on the radio?” Steve still can’t quite wrap his head around that – that Eddie’s songs play on the radio. That, according to Dustin, they’ve been on tour. He feels cut off, out of the loop. Dumb.

“No, man,” Jonathan says, and then doesn’t say anything else.

After a moment, Steve says, “I didn’t.”

Jonathan hums, sleepy. “You should, dude,” he says, slurring a little. “It’s good.”

*

Steve is a loser.

Washed-up jock. Barely reformed asshole. Mutant. Loser.

Robin yanks on a shank of his hair and says, “Stop it.”

“Ow, fuck, stop what?” Steve says, slapping at her hand.

“Thinking whatever you’re thinking.” She holds up a yellow button-down and says, “I can’t believe you own this.”

“Yes, you can.” He grabs the shirt and tosses it into the bottom of his closet. “I thought you wanted to borrow a tank top.”

“I do. I’m also here to kidnap you, so get out of your pajamas, Steve,” she says, gesturing toward the sweatpants and old gym shirt he’s wearing, “stop moping, and get ready to go.”

“It’ll be weird,” Steve says, but he catches the sweater Robin throws at him. The one Eddie gave him, that’s like a warm, velvety hug.

She says, “It’s not going to be weird, dingus. It’s just a small party. At your ex’s house. With her current boyfriend. Who you’re sleeping with.” Her grin is sharp.

Steve palms her face and shoves her away. “You suck.”

“I do not,” Robin says. “However, I have a sneaking suspicion Ed—”

“No, nope.” He takes his sweater and muffles her laughter, tackling her onto the bed. “Shut up.”

Robin elbows him in the gut until he rolls off her, still cackling.

Steve groans and rubs his palms into his eyes, and Robin scoots up until her head notches into his neck, drapes an arm over his waist.

“Seriously,” she says, “it won’t be that bad. The kids’ll be playing their nerd game, you can get drunk on the couch, moon at Munson.”

He’ll be dramatic, Steve thinks. “I won’t moon at Munson.”

“Sure, don’t moon at Munson,” she says. “You can watch him moon at you.”

“Robin,” Steve says, taking her hand in his and clutching it over his heart. “Stop saying moon.”

**

**

The air is crisp and cold as Eddie takes a breather but does not smoke, thanks, he’s trying very hard after running for his life.

It’s ten minutes to midnight. The kiddos have snuck enough alcohol to prove to him that they did not learn anything in college, that they’re eternal lightweights, and he figures at least half of them will be asleep within the hour.

Steve looks very fine in the sweater Eddie gave him, which is unfortunate for his heart. Because he’s also been looking very trapped and squirrelly all night, and he’s not sure if it’s from Nancy being home, and the way her and Byers disappeared up to her room an hour ago, or because Eddie can’t stop looking at him.

The door quietly opens and shuts behind him.

Steve says, “Hey,” as their arms brush.

The Wheeler’s warm yellow porch light makes their shadows meld together across the front lawn.

Eddie glances at Steve’s face and says, “Hey,” back. “Kids okay?”

“Lucas is puking out his guts in the basement bathroom.” Steve scratches the side of his neck. “I think Mike’s sobbing on Will. Dustin already passed out.”

“Happy new year to them,” Eddie says with a laugh, and he watches Steve’s mouth curve up in a little smile. He reaches out and gently tugs on the cuff of Steve’s sweater, just visible under his jacket. “This looks nice on you.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets, “thanks.” He pauses, pulls out the star made out of dollar bills Eddie had stuffed in there before he came outside. “Really?”

Several cheers go up from inside. Steve doesn’t make a move to check his watch.

Eddie says, “I guess we missed it.”

Steve shakes the star in the air and says, “Really?” again.

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone,” Eddie says, rocking back on his heels.

“Yeah,” Steve says, too serious, money half-crumpled now in his fist. “Yeah, of course I will.”

And, well. He’s just staring at Eddie, what else is he supposed to do? Steve’s jaw is hot against Eddie’s fingers.

“I think you’re the most badass person I know.” Eddie moves closer, tries to parse Steve’s exact expression. The flush on Steve’s cheeks could be the cold, but he’s pretty certain he isn’t going to be kneed in the balls for this. He wrote lyrics about this guy. He wrote an epic. He even gets to harmonize.

The kiss is soft. Steve’s arms are still at his sides, he looks kind of poleaxed, but his, “What the fuck, Eddie,” isn’t a stop, no.

Eddie kisses him again.                      

This time, Steve’s limbs get the memo, fingers scramble up to grab at Eddie’s arm, his neck. Murmurs, “I used to be good at this. I used to be cool,” against the corner of Eddie’s mouth.

“I think you’re cool as fuck, Steve Harrington,” Eddie says, cradling Steve’s face in his hands. “I wrote a song about it.”