Chapter Text
October 31, 1984
It’s bullshit, rings through Steve’s mind. Nancy, breath smelling of jungle juice, telling Steve that she doesn’t love him. That it’s all bullshit. Steve feels like she cut out his heart and left it bleeding on the bathroom floor.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, crushing leaves under his booted feet. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The last “fuck” is more of a squeak as Steve, stomping through the woods, tries to push aside a looming branch and it rewards him by smacking him in the face. He rubs at his forehead, frowning, and forges ahead.
He’s heading to Skull Rock with plans to chain-smoke until his head is too clouded with nicotine to think about Nancy, until the cavity where his heart used to be is filled with smoke.
He starts pulling his crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds from his pocket when he’s just a few paces away from the looming rock formation. He’s got a slightly-bent cigarette between his lips and is patting down his pockets when he realizes that he left his lighter in his car.
“Fucking fuck fuck!” shouts Steve. He drags his fingers through his hair, combing through the hairspray-coated strands. He feels like there’s a scream trapped in his throat.
“Woah there, Harrington,” comes a voice. A figure shifts in the shade of the alcove underneath the rock formation. Languidly, the person unfolds and emerges from the shadow, coming toward Steve. It’s a boy, leather-and-denim clad, with a curly brown mullet. “You good?”
“Munson,” Steve says. The Freak, people call him. Steve’s never actually spoken to him before. “Perfect. What are you doing here?”
Eddie Munson spreads his ringed fingers wide in a gesture of surrender. “Put the fangs away, pretty boy,” he says. “Didn’t know I was trespassing. Figured that rocks were public property.”
Steve wants to hit something. He wants to be alone. He doesn’t want to justify his claim over this stupid rock, because of course he doesn’t own it, but it’s his–– where he goes to hide, his refuge. And now Munson, all long limbs and long fingers, denim and leather, and the clinging, cloying scent of weed is here, in his haven.
“It’s fine,” Steve manages. “I’m fine. It doesn’t matter.”
Eddie surveys Steve’s appearance for a moment, the tension Steve’s holding in his body, and seems to come to a decision. He nods toward Steve’s unlit cigarette and says, “Need a light?”
Eddie, haloed in moonlight, pulls a silver lighter from his pocket. It clinks against the rings lined up on his fingers. After a moment of silence on Steve’s part, Eddie flicks open the lighter and drags his thumb against the teeth of the flint wheel, sparking a small flame. He holds it aloft, tilted toward Steve.
Steve takes a small step forward and leans in, letting Eddie light his cigarette for him. He sucks in, smoke filling his lungs, and lets the nicotine soothe him.
Steve notices that Eddie’s eyes are very brown in the pale light that the moon casts, dappled by the cover of the leaves.
Steve exhales, and smoke curls up from his lips toward the starry sky. “Thanks,” he mutters.
Eddie nods. “Seemed like you needed it,” he says. He leans back against Skull Rock, crosses his arms, and begins drumming his fingers against the sleeves of his leather jacket. “What brings King Steve all the way out here?” he asks, expression hidden as he looks away.
Steve levels him with a glare. “Don’t call me that.”
“Aw, Stevie,” Eddie says, jutting out his bottom lip in a pout. “If you take that tone, you’ll make me think you don’t like my company,” he nods toward Steve’s cigarette and says, “Gotta keep me around in case that goes out.”
Steve sighs. Begrudgingly, he fishes his pack of Marlboros from his pocket and offers it to Eddie. “Do you want one?”
Eddie’s eyes light up with delight. He snatches the pack from Steve and digs out a cigarette. “Betcha offer party favors to all the girls, right?”
A surprised laugh escapes from Steve. “Oh, right, sure.”
Eddie lights his cigarette. The flame briefly illuminates his features in red-gold.
Steve’s never been around Eddie. He’s seen him, sure, watched him climb onto the cafeteria tables and spew his mocking tirades. He’s heard the basketball team talk shit. They say Eddie’s only good for the weed he sells, that Eddie’s a monster, that he’s a queer, that he worships Satan–– all sorts of things.
Here, in the night, Steve looks at Eddie and doesn’t see a monster. He’s seen real monsters. Eddie is just a boy.
“D’ya ever feel like… nothing you do matters?” Steve asks. “Like, no matter what you do, everything you care about slips through your fingers anyway.”
Eddie’s eyebrows pull together. “A little heavy there, Harrington.”
“Nevermind,” says Steve.
“What’s King Steve got to worry about?” scoffs Eddie. “Your kingdom falls, you can just buy a new one.”
Steve inhales sharply, stung. He pulls his cigarette from his lips and ashes it on the rock. “Thanks for the light,” Steve says. He turns on his heel, ready to leave, because what the fuck does Eddie Munson know?, when Eddie catches Steve by the wrist to stop him. Eddie’s rings are cold against Steve’s skin.
“I do know what you mean, Harrington,” Eddie says, voice low and measured. “I get it. Seems like you’ve got more to lose, though,” he lets go of Steve’s wrist, but Steve can still feel the memory of his touch. “You’ve got farther to fall,” Eddie finishes.
“Nancy dumped me,” Steve blurts out. The words escape from his lips, unbidden.
Eddie’s eyebrows hike up in surprise. “No shit?” he says. “I figured you’d do the whole life thing together. Get married and have a whole litter of little princes n’ shit.”
Steve shrugs his shoulders up toward his ears, suddenly uncomfortable with the vulnerability. He doesn’t know why he’s talking to Eddie about this. “Yeah, well,” Steve says. “Seems like we were both wrong to think that.”
Eddie plucks Steve’s half-smoked cigarette from his fingers, lights it, and hands it back to Steve. “You’ll win her back,” Eddie says. “Do your whole charming apple-pie-American-boy thing. Bring her flowers or something, she’ll come back.”
Steve looks down at the cigarette smoking in his fingers, considers for a moment, and then puts it back between his lips. “She said she doesn’t love me,” Steve admits. “Or as good as.”
“Ouch,” hisses Eddie. He moves then, hunkers down and sits under the cover of the rock and pats the ground beside him. “C’mon, sit, you can tell me the whole sob story, get it out of your system.” Steve makes a face, and Eddie barks out a laugh. “Kindly untwist your panties, Harrington, I’m not gonna go around spewing your secrets,” Eddie says. “I can keep a secret. Besides, even if I did go around talkin’ about Steve-and-Nancy’s big break, ‘Aw, poor Stevie, so sad, he cried on my shoulder all night, boo hoo!’, no one would listen. No one would care.” Eddie grins at Steve, his white teeth cradling his cigarette. “Nobody cares what The Freak has to say, right?”
Steve hesitates for a moment. He looks up at the moon and feels the hollowness in his chest. He sits under the rock beside Eddie, crushing dried leaves underneath him, and he starts talking.
He omits the monster-hunting, the end of the world stuff, Barb’s death, all the guilt and the terror and the nightmares. He leaves out his fear that things are starting up again, that the Upside Down is creeping in once more.
He tells Eddie everything else because Eddie’s right–– no one cares what The Freak has to say. He tells Eddie about Tina’s stupid Halloween party, about wanting a night with Nancy to forget, to just be teenagers. He tells Eddie about Nancy downing jungle juice like it was her job. He tells Eddie about their fight in the bathroom, about Nancy calling their relationship bullshit, about Nancy reaching into his chest and tearing out his heart. Them, together–– that was what he understood. That was what made sense to Steve. It was his path forward, his future. Now, he didn’t even have that.
“I told Jonathan to take her home,” Steve says. “Knew he’d get her home safe, but I couldn’t be there anymore. I just got in my car and started driving.”
By then, they’ve smoked through the majority of Steve’s cigarettes. Steve’s throat feels raw, and his head feels like it is stuffed full of cotton. He tips the last cigarette from his pack of Marlboros and holds it up for Eddie to see. “Last one. Wanna share?”
Eddie’s grin is arresting–– wide and surprised. “What if I have cooties, Harrington?”
Steve raises an eyebrow. “I’ll chance it, Munson.”
Steve takes the first drag, leaning in to let Eddie light it. Eddie does everything with intensity–– every action is deliberate and measured, coated in a careful veneer of ease. Steve finds it a little fascinating.
Steve passes the cigarette to Eddie and watches as Eddie takes a drag.
Eddie looks up and catches Steve’s gaze. He exhales smoke into Steve’s face, and Steve waves it away, laughing. “You’re different than I expected,” Eddie says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Less of a dick,” deadpans Eddie.
“Gee, thanks,” laughs Steve. “High praise.”
“It’s nice to find out that you’re human, dude,” Eddie says. “Because you’re, like, this god at school. King Steve, revered by all his disciples. Guess I figured you’d be an asshole.”
“I’ve dabbled in being a douchebag,” Steve says. “I’m trying to be better. Nancy…” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Eddie’s eyes follow the movement. “Nancy helped,” Steve continues, “but that’s over, now.”
Hours have passed by now. The moon has arched its way across the sky, and Steve can feel fatigue like a weight on his chest. “What time is it?” asks Steve.
Eddie checks the watch on his wrist, his rings flashing silver in what’s left of the moonlight. “Four thirty-six,” Eddie says.
Steve leans his head back against the cool rock behind him. “I’m gonna close my eyes for a minute.”
Eddie chuckles. “Alright, Harrington. Don’t fall asleep on me, now.”
Steve closes his eyes. He can feel Eddie’s presence beside him, the warmth radiating off of him, and he doesn’t feel quite as hollow anymore.
*
When Steve wakes up, the sun is high in the sky, and someone is snoring very loudly right next to his left ear.
Startled, Steve scurries away, disrupting the sleeping form beside him.
“Fuck!” exclaims Eddie as his head thunks solidly against the rock. “Ow! What the fuck!”
Heat rises high on Steve’s cheeks. He fell asleep, here, with Eddie Munson. He’d slept under a rock, in the woods, surrounded by bugs and leaves and Eddie The Freak Munson. He’d had his head on Eddie’s shoulder. He’d slept like that, using Eddie as a pillow.
Steve clears his throat. “Good, uh, morning.”
Eddie looks at Steve like he’s grown horns. “No it fucking isn’t? I hit my head, I might have a concussion, and I can’t feel my ass, like, at all. It’s completely numb.”
“You don’t have a concussion,” says Steve.
“I might! You don’t know that,” replies Eddie.
Steve squats next to Eddie, who’s still seated, and holds up three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asks.
“Fuck you,” Eddie responds.
“See? You’re fine,” says Steve.
Eddie throws up his hands in exasperation. Steve stretches, working the cricks out of his back, and then says, “I’m gonna drive home. Do you need a ride?”
The look Eddie fixes him with is equal parts confused and amused. “Aw, Harrington. Do you drive all the girls you have sleepovers with home? What a gentleman.”
“You’re not a girl, and that wasn’t a sleepover,” Steve says. Embarrassment prickles under his skin. “It was an accident. Sue me for being fuckin’ courteous.”
Something flashes over Eddie’s features–– it might be hurt, but it’s gone before Steve can inspect it further. “So, it seems chivalry isn’t dead,” Eddie says, standing up. “It just got better hair. How much hairspray do you use? Swear to god, it’s, like, crunchy. I couldn’t sleep, it felt like I was using a chip bag as a pillow.”
“Well, you snore,” retorts Steve. “Sound like a goddamn trash compactor.”
The two boys look at each other. Eddie’s the first to break, collapsing into riotous laughter.
“You’re alright, Harrington,” Eddie says once he’s finished cackling.
“Yeah, yeah,” says Steve. He’s suddenly very aware of Eddie’s presence, of his warm brown eyes, of the space he’s taking up. He doesn’t know what to make of Eddie. He doesn’t know how he ended up here, opening up to Eddie Munson, spending the night under a rock sleeping in the dirt. He feels a bit like he’s gone off script–– deviated from some pre-written narrative. “You need a ride or not?”
“Nah, I’ll walk,” Eddie says. He affects a high-toned voice and clasps his hands together, batting his eyelashes at Steve. “But thank you soooo much, Stevie! You’re such a dreamboat.”
“Shut up,” laughs Steve.
He leaves Eddie in the woods and drives home, and something that feels curiously like hope blooms in his chest.
November 11, 1984
They’ve saved the world again. It’s strange to think that, but it is true. Steve even had his part in it–– mostly shuttling around children, but at least it’s all over now.
The world-ending part, not the babysitting part. Apparently, Steve remains a babysitter.
It’s 8:35 on a Sunday morning, and Steve saved the world less than a week ago, so he expects to be allowed to sleep in.
He is wrong.
At 8:34, Dustin Henderson calls Steve’s landline. At 8:35, Steve’s mother is banging on his bedroom door.
“Stevie!” she shouts. “Phone call for you!”
Steve drags his pillow over his face in order to muffle the sound. It has the unfortunate side effect of severely restricting Steve’s ability to breathe, but if he’s able to sleep for longer, so be it.
“Stevie!” shouts his mom, even louder and more shrill. “Dustin Henderson is on the phone for you! Something about a… what was it, dear?”
Steve decides that if he pretends hard enough, this will no longer be happening and he will fall happily back to sleep.
“He says it’s a, um, a Code Red, honey!” says Steve’s mom.
Steve is suddenly more awake than he has possibly ever been. He jumps out of bed, sprints to his door, and throws his door open so quickly that his mother yelps and jumps back in surprise.
Steve snatches the corded phone from his mother and holds the plastic against his ear. “Henderson, the world better be actually, literally ending,” he says.
“It might as well be!” replies Dustin, his voice grainy over the line. “I ran over a nail last night–– my bike’s front tire is totally flat!”
Steve wipes the sleep from his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m supposed to meet everyone at The Palace at nine! My mom’s already left to visit Aunt Cyn––”
“I’m not a chauffeur,” interrupts Steve.
Dustin continues, entirely unbothered, “––thia, so I really, really need a ride.”
Steve decides that he hates children. He hates children so, so much. “You called me practically at dawn to ask me to drive you to the arcade?”
“Please?” tries Dustin.
Steve sighs, exasperated. His mother is still there, pretending not to be eavesdropping. “I’ll be over in fifteen minutes. And you owe me one, squirt.”
“Thank you, thank you!” cheers Dustin. Steve can picture the kid’s goofy grin; he pretends that it doesn’t make him happy, that it doesn’t mean the world to him that someone cares about him like that.
“Fifteen minutes! And if you’re not ready by then, I’m going back to bed,” Steve says and hangs up the phone.
“It’s nice that you’re hanging out with some new friends,” Steve’s mom says, wringing her hands nervously. “I never did like that Tommy H and Carol–– too loud for me.”
“Mm-hm,” agrees Steve. He goes back into his room to pick out clothes, and his mother hovers anxiously in his doorway.
“What’s this Dustin like?” she asks.
Steve throws a polo onto his comforter and returns to rooting through his closet for a suitable belt. “Short,” he says, “and annoying. Also, he’s thirteen.”
“He’s–– what?”
Steve looks up at his mom and her confused expression. He contemplates telling the truth, realizes how absolutely insane that will make him sound, and settles on, “I’m babysitting.”
His mother smiles. “Oh, that’s sweet. Well, have fun, okay?”
“Can’t promise anything,” Steve says. “These kids are nuts.”
*
They’re sitting in the parking lot of The Palace Arcade, with Dustin in the passenger seat clutching a bottle of hairspray like it’s a particularly fascinating scientific specimen.
“My mom says that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar,” Dustin says.
Steve makes a face. “Well, one: this isn’t vinegar, it’s hairspray,” he says, “and, two: you aren’t trying to attract flies, you’re trying to attract a girl.”
Dustin inspects the bottle. “Farrah Fawcett Hairspray,” he reads, “With Vitamins and Minerals, by Fabergé.”
“See, vitamins and minerals,” encourages Steve. “Totally good for you. Seriously, trust me, alright?”
Dustin shrugs. “Fine, work your magic, Steve.”
With a grin, Steve snatches the aerosol can from Dustin’s hand and starts to go to town on Dustin’s unruly curls.
Coughing, Dustin protests, “Roll the window down, for fuck’s sake!”
“It’s all good for you!” Steve says. “Vitamins and minerals, remember?”
“Not to ingest!”
After a few minutes of arguing and shaping, and half a can of Farrah Fawcett hairspray, Dustin is left with something poofy that vaguely resembles the shape of Steve’s own hair.
“Ay voola!” says Steve with a flourish.
Dustin blinks at him. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It’s like, uh…” Steve wracks his mind for an adequate comparison and lands on, “It’s, like, French for ‘bada bada boom’.”
Dustin’s eyes are wide and owlish with shock. “Do you…” he starts, floundering for words. “Do you mean ‘et voila’?”
Steve waves the comment away. “Yeah, sure, close enough.”
“Not even a little bit! What are you talking about?” protests Dustin, aghast.
“Whatever,” says Steve. “Here’s what’s important: you gotta know when to crack out the zhuzh.”
“Gesundheit,” replies Dustin.
“No, I didn’t sneeze,” scoffs Steve. “Zhuzh. It’s a move, you gotta time it. If some girl catches your eye and you want her to notice you, you do the zhuzh.”
“But what even is a zhuzh?”
“Alright,” says Steve, sitting up straighter. “You look at the girl, right in the eye, right?”
“Right.”
“And then you just…” Steve pushes his hair back from his face, fluffing it slightly, and peers out from underneath his eyelashes, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “Zhuzh.”
“You look stupid,” observes Dustin. “That’s, like, a really dumb face.”
“I promise you, it works every time,” Steve says. “Seriously, give it a try. One hundred percent success rate.”
“That’s unrealistic,” Dustin says, expression absolutely serious. “How are you collecting this data?”
“Are you getting out of my car, or am I driving away with you in it?” Steve asks, throwing up his hands.
The look Dustin gives him is exasperated but kind. “You’re coming in to play with us, obviously?”
And what is Steve supposed to say to that? Of course he’s going to go play some stupid arcade games with Dustin. He’d probably do whatever the kid asked. He grumbles and grouches as he turns his car off, but even he isn’t really buying his own protests.
There isn’t much of a crowd inside, because it’s nine a.m. on a Sunday morning, so Dustin’s friends are easy to spot. They’re crowded around Dig Dug–– a small sea of bowl-cuts cheering on that one redhead who looks like she would delight at the opportunity to kick Steve in the shins.
Lucas is the first to spot them, and when he sees Dustin, he bursts out laughing.
“You look like George Michael!” howls Lucas.
“I like your hair like that,” Will says. “It looks… fluffy.”
“It looks fuckin’ incredible,” Steve says. “And I will hear no more of it. Go back to Dig Dug-ing.”
“Yeah, Dustin, pay attention,” Max says, hands flying across the game’s controls. “Pay attention as I absolutely destroy your high score again!”
“No fucking way!” shouts Dustin, rushing to the machine as Max howls victoriously.
Steve leans against the side of the machine, ignoring the shouts of the children–– “Steve, stop, you’re jostling it!” shouts Nancy’s brother with the bowl-cut–– and surveys the arcade.
There’s a small, snotty kid absolutely bombing at Frogger in the corner. The pimply manager is playing Centipede by the bathrooms with a single-minded fervor that’s honestly a little frightening. There’s one more group that’s hidden behind a row of machines, but Steve can hear them shouting–– older boys, by the sound of it. One says, “I’m gonna get some more quarters,” and then rounds the corner, and it’s Eddie Munson. Steve tenses at the sight of him and feels acutely uncomfortable that he knows exactly what Eddie smells like.
Eddie seems to find Steve’s appearance similarly shocking. He pauses for a moment, and then, carefully and deliberately, he salutes Steve with two fingers.
Steve feels a bit like he’s swallowed a cotton ball. He hesitantly responds with a nod of acknowledgment in Eddie’s direction.
Eddie, seemingly satisfied, moves toward the quarter machine, not sparing Steve a second glance.
“Do you know that guy, Steve?” asks Dustin.
Steve looks down at four curious gazes with dismay (Max is still fixated on demolishing the Dig-Dug high score). He’s suddenly struck by how strange it is that he’s a full head taller than his closest friends. “Uh… not really,” Steve says. “I mean, he’s in my class.”
Mike stares openly at Eddie’s retreating frame. He makes a face. “His hair is weird,” he says. “He’s got… bangs.”
“He’s that guy that worships Satan!” says Lucas.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Will says, “I think he just listens to loud music.”
“His hair is really long,” Mike observes.
While Lucas, Mike, and Will argue over whether or not Eddie’s hair is odd or not, Steve overhears Max and Dustin talking.
“Your hair,” Max says, gaze still fixed on the Dig-Dug screen.
“Yeah?” prompts Dustin.
“It’s cool, like that,” Max says. “It’s, like, tall.”
At this, Dustin practically glows, his chest puffed with joy. Steve wants to kick himself for how parentally proud he feels.
Steve lifts one hand to fix his own hair and looks up, accidentally catching Eddie’s gaze as he passes by again. One of Eddie’s hands is heavy with quarters, but he uses the other to salute Steve once more as he walks past. “See you around, Harrington,” he says.
Steve, shocked, manages to spit out a surprised “Bye!”
Steve feels awkward and weirdly sweaty. He hasn’t felt like that in ages. He idly wonders if all the time he’s spending with children is causing him to regress.
He looks down and immediately spots Dustin scrutinizing him.
“What?” Steve asks.
Dustin frowns, deep in thought. “You did the zhuzh,” says Dustin.
Steve freezes, his hand in his hair, caught in the act. “No, I didn’t,” lies Steve.
“You did! You’re still mid-zhuzh!” says Dustin.
“I was just adjusting it!” protests Steve. “Sometimes I need to adjust it!”
“Hmm…” considers Dustin.
The face Dustin is making is setting Steve’s teeth on edge. “Get your head in the game, Henderson,” says Steve, pointing toward the Dig-Dug screen. “You’re up next, right? Max’s hard to beat.”
“Impossible,” corrects Max. “Impossible to beat.”
Dustin is mercifully distracted by this taunt. “Oh, we’ll see about that, won’t we?”
Steve’s left alone with his thoughts then. He didn’t zhuzh at Eddie. Eddie had just been in the vicinity of the zhuzh when it happened, he wasn’t the catalyst–– but then, what was?
Steve pushes the thought from his mind. It isn’t important. What’s important is dissecting whatever Eddie had meant by “see you around”. Did that mean in general? Like ‘around’ as in around Hawkins generally, or was it an invitation?
Eddie and his friends leave an hour later, and Steve’s still thinking about what Eddie said, but he’s no closer to determining what Eddie meant. It’s very frustrating.
Eddie looks back at Steve as he leaves, a soft smile on his lips. Eddie has very brown eyes. Steve still does not know what to do about that.
*
He goes to Skull Rock that night, and he feels like an idiot about it.
He feels like an idiot as he’s driving there, he feels like an idiot when he parks, and he feels like an idiot as he stomps through the woods to get to the rock formation.
Steve tries to justify it to himself–– it’s not like he’s going there just on the off chance that Eddie might be there. Steve goes to Skull Rock all the time–– he used to bring girls there, before Nancy. Nancy didn’t like kissing under a rock in the woods, and then she didn’t like Steve, so no more girls accompanied Steve to the rock. But Steve’s gone by himself here before he even knew Eddie hid out there too. Many non-Eddie reasons exist for Steve to be going to Skull Rock.
It doesn’t matter anyway, because Eddie is there when Steve arrives.
“Hey,” Eddie says as he hears Steve approaching. “Didn’t know if you were gonna come.”
“I didn’t really know if I’d been invited,” admits Steve.
“Of course,” says Eddie, spreading his hands wide. “Mi casa es su casa, Harrington.”
“It’s not really your ‘casa’, is it?” asks Steve. “What was it you said? Something about rocks being public property?”
“So you’re quoting me, now?” taunts Eddie. “See, I know that I’m supremely wise––”
“Shut up––”
“Not to mention intelligent, handsome––”
“Shut up––”
Eddie cuts Steve off, saying, “Sit down, Harrington.” He pats the ground beside him. “Stay awhile. I promise I don’t bite.” His grin grows wide and wolfish. “Unless you ask nicely,” he adds.
Steve makes a face. “Gross,” he says, but he’s sitting down beside Eddie anyway.
*
“Alright, favorite… bands,” Eddie says. “Top three.”
Steve draws an X on the ground with a stick and then hands the stick to Eddie. They’re playing tic-tac-toe.
“You first,” says Steve.
“Easy,” Eddie says, “Dio, Megadeth, Motörhead.”
Steve has no idea who any of those bands are, but he imagines the music they make is loud and angry, and the musicians probably wear a lot of leather.
“See, I’m not even gonna answer this question because you’ll just make fun of me,” complains Steve.
“It can’t be that bad,” Eddie says. “What, are you just, like, a Journey superfan or something?”
Steve frowns and crosses his arms over his chest petulantly. Eddie begins to cackle.
“No way!” Eddie laughs.
“I didn’t say anything!” protests Steve. “I didn’t confirm or deny anything.”
“I bet Duran Duran’s in your top three too,” Eddie says.
“I bet every song you listen to is just screaming,” Steve says. “And, like, blood and death and yelling and all that.”
Eddie’s expression turns incredulous. “Wow. Okay. I’m bringing my Walkman next time, and I’m gonna educate you on Dio.”
“Oh yeah?” challenges Steve.
“Oh yeah,” confirms Eddie. “We’re gonna listen to all of Holy Diver, and then you’re gonna eat your words, Steve Harrington.”
“Then I’m gonna bring my Colour By Numbers tape,” Steve says.
Eddie groans. “If you make me listen to Culture Club, I will actually throttle you.”
“What’s wrong with Culture Club?” asks Steve.
“What’s wrong––” Eddie starts, and then turns his voice high and pitchy, “Karma karma karma chameleon!”
“If you sing it like that, of course it’ll be bad,” Steve protests.
“Everyday is like survival,” sings Eddie, voice nasally. “You’re my lover, not my rival!”
Steve laughs and feels warm to his core. Eddie’s eyes crinkle with mirth as he continues his horrible rendition of Karma Chameleon.
Steve decides that it’s nice to have a secret like Eddie–– something simple, something without world-ending consequences. Something secret and nice and his.
“You good, Harrington?” asks Eddie. “You’ve got this, like, dopey expression on your face.”
“Shut up,” says Steve, but he doesn’t really mean it.
December 15, 1984
“Here we are,” Steve says as he pulls in front of the auditorium entrance. “So, remember, once you get in there…”
“Pretend like I don’t care,” Dustin says.
“You don’t care,” confirms Steve.
“I don’t care,” repeats Dustin.
“There you go, you’re learning, my friend,” Steve says. “You’re learning.”
Dustin reaches up and tilts the rearview mirror so it’s facing him.
“Hey,” protests Steve, pushing Dustin’s hand away.
“What?”
“You look great, okay? You look great,” Steve says.
Dustin, clearly nervous, nods.
“Now, you’re gonna go in there,” Steve says.
“Yeah,” confirms Dustin.
“You look like a million bucks––”
“Yeah!”
“And you’re gonna slam down,” finishes Steve.
“Like a lion,” says Dustin, and then he does his weird feline purr.
“Yeah, uh, don’t do that, okay?” Steve says.
Dustin nods, chastised. “Yeah.”
Steve offers Dustin a hand. “Good luck.”
Dustin claps Steve’s hand and nods solemnly like he’s embarking on a dangerous mission. He pushes open the passenger side door and leaves the car, walking toward the noise and color of the Snow Ball that’s occurring in the middle school auditorium.
Steve watches Dustin as he enters the building, and then he spots Nancy.
She’s chaperoning, because of course she’s chaperoning. Her hair’s up, and it’s all curly and soft looking. Steve allows himself a moment to look at her–– she’s laughing. She’s wearing a red dress. She looks happy.
Steve takes a deep breath, blinks away the image of her, and drives to Skull Rock.
*
He’s smoking a cigarette and leaning against the bluff of Skull Rock when Eddie arrives, shouting, “Naughty boy!”
Steve makes a face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You started without me, King Steve!” says Eddie with a flourish. “Naughty, naughty! Especially when I was nice enough to bring presents!”
Steve scoffs and passes Eddie the cigarette. Eddie takes a long drag and Steve watches as smoke curls, dragon-like, from Eddie’s pink lips. “You brought me a present?”
Eddie stubs out Steve’s cigarette, and Steve protests with a non-committal, “Hey!”
Eddie hefts up a metal lunchbox and presents it to Steve. “Ta-da!”
Steve raises an eyebrow. “You brought me… what? A PB and J? Thanks, Mom.”
“Steve Harrington,” Eddie says, affecting a voice and bowing slightly. “Would you do me the honor of doing drugs with me?”
“Oh,” says Steve. He’s smoked weed before, but it's been ages–– getting high was always more of Tommy H’s wheelhouse than Steve’s.
Eddie seems to read hesitation in Steve’s expression. “Obviously, you don’t have to. This isn’t, like, peer pressure or anything–– say no to drugs, if you wanna–– I just figured I’d offer.”
Eddie seems genuinely nervous that Steve will react poorly to the offer–– he’s shifting from foot to foot with restless energy. It’s almost… endearing.
Steve, a wry smile on his face, replicates Eddie’s bow. “The honor would be mine,” he says.
Eddie whoops and plops down on the ground. He opens up the lunchbox and withdraws a joint from a nest of baggies of bud. Steve sits across from Eddie and watches as Eddie wiggles in delight as he brings the joint to his lips and lights it. He takes a drag and then smiles softly, sated. He hands the joint to Steve.
Steve draws the joint to his mouth and wraps his lips around the crutch. The paper is a little damp from the wetness of Eddie’s mouth, and Steve tries his best to ignore it. He sucks the sweet smoke into his lungs and tries to hold it there, but he’s out of practice. He coughs and feels the uncomfortable scratch and burn in his throat.
“Woah, there,” says Eddie, taking the joint from Steve.
“Sorry, it’s been a while,” says Steve, voice hoarse.
“Don’t worry a little hair on your perfectly coiffed head, Harrington,” Eddie says. “Happens to the best of us.”
Eddie’s got the joint between his teeth, and Steve feels like his edges are blurring a little.
“Your face is all red,” observes Eddie.
“Just pass me the joint, jackass,” mutters Steve. Eddie obliges, and Steve takes another hit. This one burns a little less, and Steve doesn’t cough quite as much.
“There you go, Stevie,” Eddie says. “Gettin’ the hang of it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Steve. He takes another hit, lets the sweet smoke gather in his lungs, and then passes the joint to Eddie.
Eddie smokes with a single-minded focus. His cheeks hollow in the inhale, and then he starts blowing smoke rings directly into Steve’s face.
“Dude, what the fuck,” laughs Steve as he swats aside the smoke. “Show off.”
Eddie cackles, kicking his feet on the dirt like a little kid. “You wanna see something really impressive?”
Steve scoffs. “Who’re you tryin’ to impress here, Munson?”
Eddie raises an eyebrow at Steve. “Obviously you, Harrington,” he spreads his hands wide as if to demonstrate the lack of other spectators. “You see anyone else here?”
For some reason, that makes Steve’s cheeks hot. “Whatever,” he says. “Show me what’s so impressive, then.”
Eddie grins. He takes another inhale, lets it escape in an opaque cloud from the ‘O’ formed by his lips, and then sucks it back down.
“The other one, the rings, that one was better,” Steve says.
“Breakin’ my heart here, Harrington,” Eddie says, clutching at his chest dramatically. “But yeah, the rings are my best trick, you caught me.”
“Do you just, like,” Steve mimes blowing smoke out of his mouth in short puffs. “Like that?”
“Nah,” Eddie says. “It’s–– I can just show you, if you want?”
“Yeah, okay,” Steve says. He’s expecting Eddie to just demonstrate, but instead, Eddie grabs Steve by the jaw and places the joint between Steve’s lips.
“Take a hit, but don’t inhale all the way. You want it to be in your throat but not your lungs,” Eddie says. He’s still holding Steve’s jaw. With his other hand, he reaches forward and traces his fingertips on Steve’s throat. “You should feel it here, it might burn a little.”
Steve’s burning all right, but it isn’t his throat–– he feels like everywhere Eddie’s touching him is on fire.
Steve does as he’s told, and draws the smoke into his throat. Eddie pulls the joint from Steve’s lips and balances it, cherry still smoldering slightly, on his knee.
“You’re doing good,” Eddie says, and Steve feels a little electric at the praise. “Now you’re gonna pull back your tongue.”
Steve pulls his tongue to the back of his mouth. Eddie’s gaze is focused on Steve’s lips, and Steve wants to bottle this moment up, put it in his pocket so that he can pull it out later and figure out what the fuck is happening.
“Don’t do anything yet, just listen to me first, okay?” Eddie says. “You’re going to shape your mouth into an ‘O’. Then you’re gonna force the smoke out, but not exhale it. It’s more of a throat thing, like when you’re choking a little and it constricts.” Eddie presses his thumb into the hollow at the base of Steve’s throat, applying pressure there. Steve feels a little light-headed. He wants Eddie to hurry up so that he can breathe. “You’re gonna feel it here. You got all that?”
Instead of answering, Steve attempts what Eddie’s trying to show him. He shapes his mouth into an ‘O’ and constricts his throat. A wobbly ring of smoke escapes Steve’s lips. It’s not perfect, but it is something.
Eddie releases his grip on Steve and grins, pleased. “I’m an awesome teacher,” he says.
Steve’s skin tingles where Eddie was touching him. “Maybe I’m just an awesome student,” Steve says.
Eddie laughs. “Oh, we both know that’s not true.”
*
A few hours pass, and they smoke another joint and a half. Steve never really gets the hang of blowing smoke rings, but every time he tries Eddie’s eyes light up, and he grins at Steve like Steve hung the moon.
“Woah there,” Eddie says. By this point, Steve feels like his head’s been stuffed full of cotton, and his vision has gone a little wobbly. “You okay, Harrington?”
“Think I…” Steve’s tongue feels bone-dry in his mouth. “Think I smoked too much.”
“Oh, shit, really?”
“There’s a small desert in my mouth,” Steve informs Eddie, tone matter-of-fact.
“Alrighty then, let’s get you home, Harrington,” Eddie says, standing up. He offers a hand to Steve, and when Steve doesn’t react, he says, “Dude. What’re you doing?”
“Standing is for… what were you talking about earlier?” Steve tries to concentrate, but his brain feels like it’s adrift on a lazy river. “Fascists. Standing is for fascists.”
Eddie barks out a laugh. “Standing is not for fascists. Stand up.”
When Steve makes no move to stand, Eddie reaches down and grabs Steve’s wrists, then hauls him up with a grunt. “You could at least try to stand, Harrington.”
Steve is not pleased about being suddenly upright. His legs feel like jelly. He flops vaguely in the direction of Eddie, who catches him with a grunt. “Christ! Harrington!”
“Jelly,” Steve says, by way of explanation.
Eddie wraps an arm around Steve’s back, supporting his weight, and then starts walking in the direction of Steve’s car. Eddie’s wrist is tucked under Steve’s armpit, and his fingers are splayed wide across Steve’s pec.
“I’m driving you home because you sure as hell can’t drive right now,” Eddie says.
“I like your hands,” Steve says. He really does–– Eddie’s hands are strong and calloused, decorated with oversized silver rings. “You have nice hands.”
Eddie looks at Steve like he’s grown a second head. “What the fuck is happening?” he mutters to himself.
Steve isn’t really paying attention anymore. He’s thinking in broader strokes, in shapes and colors and smells–– the slope of Eddie’s nose, the pink fold of his cupid’s bow, his weed and wood smoke scent.
“Where are your keys, Harrington?” asks Eddie. Steve hadn’t even realized that they’d made it to the car.
Steve pats at his pockets in a half-hearted attempt to locate his keys until Eddie groans impatiently and starts searching through Steve’s pockets himself.
“Ah ha!” he exclaims when he finds them, holding his prize aloft. “Alright Harrington, get in the car.”
Eddie buckles Steve in–– “Safety first, Steve-o!”–– and then drives Steve home. Steve sleeps through most of the ride, only waking once to hear Eddie muttering to himself–– “God, Munson, what are you thinking? What are you doing? What the fuck!”
Eddie helps Steve to his front door, unlocks it for him, and then deposits the keys in Steve’s outstretched hand.
“How are you getting home?” manages Steve, leaning against the door jamb. He feels like he could fall asleep like this, no matter how ridiculous it is–– surrounded by Eddie and the cool night air, his brain pleasantly clouded.
“I’ll walk,” Eddie says. “Don’t worry about me. You go to sleep, Harrington.”
Steve does go to sleep–– he’s not sure how he gets to bed, but he does get there–– and when he wakes, he can’t remember much of the evening.
All he can remember is the blur of smoke and the curve of Eddie’s mouth. He feels warm with the memory.