Chapter Text
Steve had figured his gig at the Family Video was probably over after their annual week of interdimensional exploits, but it still stung. Losing a pound of flesh to a savage swarm of bats, and then saving the world in the same breath surely constituted some form of gratitude; instead, he was forced to hand over his vest and shut his mouth.
The government undoubtedly owed him some kind of stipend. He sure as hell wouldn’t be doing anymore monster-hunting for free.
Keith had, of course, been incredibly smug about his sacking, and had practically snatched the vest out of his hands. “I knew you were no-good, Harrington,” he said, curling his upper lip, derisive. There was a white speck of spit on his chin. “But you, Buckley. Disappointing.”
Robin had scoffed, throwing her own vest into Keith’s face. “Fuck off Keith. You smell like canned cheese.”
She had walked backwards out of the door with both middle fingers up in the air, and Steve had glanced back at Keith, raised an eyebrow, and then followed.
Déjà vu. Scoop’s Ahoy may have gone up in flames, but this whole rigmarole was becoming pitifully familiar. Keeping a stable job in a small town didn’t seem like it should be an issue – but this was Hawkins. If the multiverse could stay out of his shit for a moment, then he might stand a chance.
Luckily, it only took a few weeks for Robin to find them a diner downtown that was hiring servers. The Enigma Pig. It was kookie, run by a tall woman named Desiree Heller. She had a reputation to rival Munson’s, but she was the kind of pariah you paid to see – especially when she served such sweet French toast. She wore billowing chiffons and fringed shawls, strings of pearls, slitted dresses and dark red lip. A spinster of a kind, but not regrettably. It took Robin approximately six seconds to fall in love.
“She’s got violets tattooed on her thighs, Steve,” she had said during their second week, leaning across the counter to hand Steve his coffee. Frothy, with a shot of chocolate. “She showed me.”
“Showed you, did she?” Steve said, smirking. “Isn’t she a little old for you, Rob?”
She swatted at him with a silver teaspoon, but he stepped out of reach before she could land a hit. “It’s not like that. There’s just something about her. We have a kinship.”
Steve wasn’t surprised. There was a lot about Desiree and The Enigma Pig that reminded him of Robin, and despite the menial work and minimum wage, he was starting to see their dismissal from Family Video as a blessing. Robin was animated, happy and bright, and as more weeks passed, she seemed to gain a confidence even Steve couldn’t fathom. It became almost easy to forget the happenings of only a few months ago, felt almost natural to wholly slip into this new, heady and mystical reality.
Almost.
Because whilst there was a lot about The Enigma Pig that reminded him of Robin, there was also a lot about it that reminded him of someone else. It was in the peeling black lacquer on the tables, in the scuffed brown Biltons crockery. Sometimes the speakers would thud with a loud electric bass, and gooseflesh would explode across his arms and neck; other time Desiree would come into work wearing rounded purple shades, and Steve would completely forget where he was.
That was a real Ozzy move you pulled back there.
Eddie Munson had been their stark reminder that, whilst Vecna was dead and the gates were closed, Hawkins remained a landmark of chaos and slaughter. That it was rotten, fetid, ground saturated with blood and air still ringing with an awful eldritch keening.
In March, when Steve, Nancy and Robin had left behind the smouldering remains of Vecna and made it back to the grotesque, mucoid version of Forest Hill Trailer Park, Eddie had resembled mincemeat. He was the picture of gore, torn apart in a rabid frenzy and slick with so much blood that Steve was nearly overcome with vertigo. Nancy had been the one to ground him, digging her nails into his arm hard, sharp, until he was suddenly breathing again, air thick and foul. She’d also been the one to tear up her jacket and press it down into Eddie’s stomach, her hands disappearing into the blood, the mess. Had been the one to bark orders at them, had kept her hands on Eddie as they carried him on a makeshift stretcher, had resuscitated him on the other side of the gate when they had lost his pulse. Composed, efficient, clever.
The guilt had been unbearable, at first. That he had frozen, that something in Eddie’s slack, phantom-pale face had rendered him pointless – he couldn’t sleep, kept feeling the horrid sensation of someone else’s life slipping through his fingers. His organs were pits, his skin too tight, the notion that one second too late, one motion too clumsy might have been enough to kill someone. It was nauseating. And he had just stood there, directionless, gormless.
Thank the Lord for Nancy Wheeler.
Steve had made an effort to visit him in the hospital nearly every other day. There was a knot in his stomach, one that wouldn’t ease unless he was sat in that cramped plastic chair, Eddie Munson within line-of-sight. He had thought at first it was out of some sick sense of duty. But once Eddie had been discharged, wrapped up and wheeled out, packed into Wayne’s car and driven to his new government subsidised apartment… the knot had remained.
Still remained. He couldn’t explain it. Had tried to, had fumbled through the words one morning shift at the diner. But Robin had just looked at him, eyes soft, mouth turned down at the corners.
Eddie had been sure to make himself scarce once he was out of the hospital. Hardly anyone had seen him – Steve only once, and he wasn’t sure Eddie remembered it with how delirious he had been. Dustin in particular seemed troubled, disconnected; didn’t rave with his usual vigour or nag with as much voracity. It was unsettling to say the least, but Steve wasn’t one to pry… even if the knot deep in his belly kept twisting and convoluting the longer Eddie’s radio silence went on.
Perhaps Steve was ill. There was no reason for this sort of fuss – he hardly knew the guy, and Eddie hadn’t exactly been the most forthcoming when he had visited him in the hospital. He had quipped, sure, pain-hazed and slurring, had smirked and winked and thrust his arms about, but he hadn’t really talked. He’d deflected – classic, really – and Steve hadn’t meddled, hadn’t done anything about the sleepless bruises under his eyes or paper-thinness of his skin, or the way he had sat in his hospital bed coiled, ready to jump and run.
Because Steve didn’t know Eddie. And Eddie didn’t know Steve. Which was why he was surprised when, on a quiet, drizzly Tuesday morning at The Enigma Pig, the walkie-talkie on his hip crackled to life.
“This is Eddie the Banished, calling for King Steve. Eddie the Banished for King Steve.”
Steve blinked, pausing with his hand halfway to the coffee machine. To his left, Robin turned, frowning down at the radio. “Was that Eddie?” she asked, pulling the milk jug away from the steamer and placing it clumsily back on the counter. A dribble of foam splashed onto her thumb, and she flinched, cursing. “Holy shit, god. Can I go just one day without –”
“Eddie for Steve. You there, Harrington?”
Steve unclipped the walkie from his belt and stared at it. After they’d killed Vecna, Dustin had insisted they all bought one, and Steve hadn’t argued. He was surprised it hadn’t happened earlier, honestly, what with the constant drama Hawkins imposed on them all. But this was Steve’s personal channel, an emergency channel – no pointless nattering or meet-cutes on this frequency. He had made sure of that, had made it abundantly clear that whilst it would always be switched on and in reach, this line should stay dead unless there was a real problem.
Eddie’s voice came again, much quieter this time. Sheepish. “Steve?” said the radio, and then, “please?”
Steve took one look at Robin, one look at the diner floor, and then turned and marched towards the backroom. He was vaguely aware of Robin scurrying after him, mumbling apologies and genial ‘just coming through’s to the customers they passed, but his vision was pretty narrow, the only truly decipherable sound the irregular crackling of the radio.
“Eddie?” he said into the transceiver the moment Robin had locked the backroom door behind them. “It’s Steve. Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Harrington.” There was a short laugh, and then something that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
“No, you’re good.” He glanced at Robin, who raised her eyebrows. “Rob’s with me. You okay, man?”
An eerie silence. Steve was beginning to feel frantic, his grip on the walkie turning the tips of his fingers white. He was about to transmit again, when the answer finally came – small, quiet, unnerving. “No.”
Steve nearly up and left there and then, but a firm hand on his shoulder was enough to restore his common sense. Robin gently took the radio from Steve, clearing her throat. “Hey Eddie, it’s Robin. Can you tell us what’s wrong?”
The pause was a lot shorter this time, but equally as worrisome. “Shit. This was stupid. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called –”
“Oi, Munson.” Her voice was firm, even if her face was a little pinched. “Steve’s a certified mother-hen. He’s going to come running whether you like it or not, so you might as well offer up a few details.”
He snatched the walkie back and scowled. “Don’t listen to her. She’s a lunatic.”
Eddie chuckled. “Right-o, Stevie.” Another pause. A breath. “It’s… It isn’t important. I’m just… I’m sick.”
“… You’re sick?”
“Um. Yeah. Fuck, I’m sorry, I know how pathetic that sounds. But… I’m really, uh, not doing so hot, and I promised Wayne I’d get help if it… got bad. I didn’t know who else to call. Shit. You don’t have to come –”
“I’m on my way.”
“Wait, Steve –”
“Shut up, Munson.” He clipped the walkie-talkie back onto his belt and looked over at Robin. She had a strange expression on her face, pensive, shrewd, as if she was trying to figure something out. Steve found he couldn’t meet her eyes. “So… I’m gonna go. To Eddie’s.”
“Uh, yeah. I figured, dingus.”
“Are you good to…” He gestured widely at the backroom, and then at the door. “You know…”
She snorted. “Yeah, Steve. I’ll talk to Desiree.” He nodded, squeezing her shoulder. He was nearly at the door when she reached out, grabbing his arm. “Hey. Steve?”
“Yeah?”
She smiled softly. “Take good care of him.”
The apartment complex the Munson’s had been moved to was on the outskirts of town. It was plain, mostly red-brick, and had tiny, mucky windows and cast-iron balconies. A couple of older women were sat toking cigarettes on one of them, watching him from a pair of tacky fold-up chairs, whilst an even older man shook a stained sheet out and pinned it to the rail with a wooden peg. The government hadn’t exactly been magnanimous with its compensation, but Steve supposed anything was better than a haunted, blood-stained trailer with the remnants of an interdimensional rift on the ceiling.
The door to the building was cracked open with a crumbling bit of stone, so Steve was able to slip inside without any trouble. He’d swung by his own place first and raided the medicine cabinet and pantry, filling a knapsack with pills, Pepto, a pack of crackers and some cans of soup. Without any details on Eddie’s condition Steve had had no choice but to bring a whole arsenal of supplies. He was a walking pharmacy.
Eddie’s apartment was on the fifth floor, and the elevator was out of order. By the time Steve reached the top of the stairs he was beginning to break a sweat, the soupy mugginess of June only getting thicker the higher he went. He took a deep breath, shifting his bag further up on his shoulders, and began shuffling down the corridor, counting down the numbers on the doors until –
Apartment 5H. The Munson’s new place.
The strip light flickered above him, and for a moment Steve couldn’t breathe. But then it stopped, bright, solid. Just a faulty lamp, just poor timing. This wasn’t Hawkins’ monster-of-the-year, there were no sentient vines, ravenous bats or corpses crumbling in the air, bleeding from the eyes. This was just a friend with a normal, earthly sickness. Nothing more.
Steve could do this.
He reached up and rapped his knuckles on the door. “It’s open,” Eddie called from somewhere deeper inside, so quiet that Steve nearly missed it. He coughed lightly and pushed on the handle, peeking his head around.
It was dark. The living room was empty – barren, even – and the adjoining kitchen was silent save for the repetitive clang of water dripping into the metal sink. Steve closed the door behind him and took a survey of the apartment. Straight ahead there was another door, closed, that Steve assumed was Wayne’s; to the left a cramped hallway with two rooms. The first, a bathroom. The second, right at the end of the hall, door ajar. Steve could see the corner of a bed, the silhouette of a guitar, a pair of black jeans in a ball on the floor.
Bingo.
He knocked on the door frame, side-stepping into the bedroom. It was about the same size as Eddie’s old one and practically a replica. Wall-to-wall posters, cluttered shelves and scattered tapes, a giant amp in the corner. Cigarette butts in ash trays, silver chains, stained carpet. And amongst the same musty, mismatched blankets, one Eddie Munson.
“Harrington,” he rasped, arms tightening around the pillow by his chest. His radio was next to him, switched off and tossed aside. “It’s a pleasure.”
“You look like shit,” Steve said without thinking, and immediately wanted to kick himself. Ten points for sympathy, Steve. But Eddie laughed shortly, bringing a hand up to scrub at his eyes. He was shaking, face wet with tears, strings of hair plastered to his forehead. And Steve was beginning to notice the sour smell in the room, the greyish pallor of his skin. The sharp, bruised angles he consisted of.
How so very small he was.
“Thanks, Steve-o,” he said, and then groaned, curling in on himself. Steve moved forward on instinct, but Eddie held up a hand, stopping him. “Wait! Just… just stay there a sec, Harrington.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “I don’t care if you’re contagious, Munson.”
“I know. And… I’m not.”
“Then what?” Steve said, confused. “What’s wrong?”
Eddie closed his eyes and took a long, shuddering breath. He looked like he might start crying again any minute, bottom lip chewed up between his teeth, chin tucked close to the top of his pillow. “Um,” he started, swallowing thickly. “There’s something I should… probably tell you.”
“Okay,” Steve said, slow.
Eddie’s face began to crumple. He ducked down into the pillow, his next words coming out muffled. “I think it might make you hate me, Harrington.”
Steve was at a loss. He’d expected delirium, or puke, or tissues full of snot. He didn’t know what this was. He didn’t know what to do, if any of the pills in his bag could help. But mostly, he didn’t know why Eddie had called him.
Because Steve didn’t know Eddie. And Eddie didn’t know Steve. And even though Steve felt confused, felt like his insides were hot petroleum and that the world was abstract, felt like he was still in that hospital waiting for Eddie to talk, felt like everything was wrong, an inch to the left… Even though black lacquer and crockery and purple shades lit him up white-blue electric…
Steve didn’t know Eddie.
But he wanted to.
“Hey,” he said softly, perching himself on the edge of the bed. One of Eddie’s legs poked out from under the blankets. Steve wanted to touch it, to move his thumb back and forth, to soothe. “Eddie. There’s nothing you could tell me that would change anything. I promise you.”
“You can’t promise that Steve,” came Eddie’s reply, warped by the pillow.
“Sure I can.” He did reach out then, hand hovering above the blankets. “Eddie, please. You’re scaring me.”
And that’s when Steve noticed the blood.
There was a large stain about halfway up one of the comforters. Other, smaller stains on the sheets. It was no massacre, but there was enough there to scare the shit out of Steve Harrington, because this wasn’t delirium, puke, tissues or snot. This was blood. And he had no fucking clue where it was coming from.
“Holy shit.” He lurched forward, pulling at one of the blankets. Eddie seemed to clamp down on them tighter, sink further and further away. “Holy shit. Eddie, you’re bleeding. Fuck. Why… why are you…?”
“I’m sorry,” Eddie sobbed, and something in Steve broke. “I’ve been trying to get up, to do anything, but I can’t move.” He was gasping, pressing his fingernails deep into his palms. “I didn’t want to call, Steve. I didn’t.”
He shuddered, toes curling as he rode out another excruciating throb, and it gave Steve enough leeway to pull the blankets up to his waist. More blood stained the crotch of the drawstring shorts Eddie was wearing, some of it smeared on the insides of his legs. Steve paled. He couldn’t see a wound anywhere, and this wasn’t ordinary blood. It was thick, dark, and some of it looked sticky. Steve wasn’t stupid. This was an intimate problem, and he was way out of his depth.
He took a few seconds to collect himself. Rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, took a breath, held it, and then on the exhale turned back to the bloody sheets. Time to bite the bullet. “Eddie,” he said, calm, careful, “do we need to take you to a hospital?”
“No!” Eddie exclaimed, finally looking up from the pillow. “No, don’t. I don’t need a hospital.”
Steve nodded and made a conceited effort to keep his tone even. “Alright. Then, I won’t ask any more questions. Okay? It’s not important. Let’s just focus on getting you cleaned up.”
Eddie nodded, eyes blown wide. They were red-rimmed, glazed. Steve wanted to wipe the tears away with the pad of his thumb. Instead, he kept one hand on Eddie’s back as he struggled to sit up, movements stiff and painstaking, teeth clenched. He wavered once he was upright, whimpering, and Steve let him lean into his side, head on his shoulder. He found himself rubbing soothing circles into the ridges of his spine as Eddie tried to catch his breath, fingers clinging to Steve’s shirt.
Steve placed his other hand over one of Eddie’s. “Where does it hurt?” he whispered, once Eddie’s breathing began to even out. “What can I do to help?”
Eddie hummed, his grip on Steve’s shirt loosening. “’S my stomach,” he murmured into Steve’s shoulder, “and my lower back, mostly.”
“Think a hot bath might help?”
At Eddie’s affirmation, Steve lifted him off the bed, one arm around his midriff and the other under his legs. Eddie yelped, looping his arms around Steve’s neck. “Wait! Harrington, your shirt –”
“Munson, this will not be the first time I’ve had to wash blood out of my clothes,” he said, smirking. “I’m practically a laundry wizard by now.”
Eddie smiled. It was neither big nor bright, but Steve still took it as a victory. “‘Spose that comes with being a mom, huh?”
“Hey!” Steve bumped his elbow into the bathroom light switch. Eddie flinched as it came on, a harsh white, bare bulb, and buried his face in the crook of Steve’s neck. “I’m nobody’s mother.”
“And you didn’t just carry me like a baby to the bath,” Eddie quipped back, slumping over as Steve sat him down on the toilet. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Man… This fucking sucks.”
Steve’s lips twisted in sympathy. “Is the light hurting your head?”
“Yeah,” he sighed, shivering. “Forgot to mention that part.”
Steve flicked the bathroom light off and turned the one in the hall on instead, pulling the door to so that just enough spilled in for him to see by. “Better?”
Eddie let his hands fall, squinting up at him gratefully. “Much.”
Steve began running the bath, squirting a little shampoo into it. He looked back at Eddie as he ran his fingers through the water, stirring up foam. He had his shoulders up by his ears and both hands pressed to his knees, brows pinched as he breathed. Slowly, deliberately. Steve picked up a flannel from the edge of the tub and crouched beside the toilet.
“We should clean you up a bit first,” Steve said, grimacing as he gestured to the dried-up blood on Eddie’s inner thighs. “You’ll turn the water pink.”
Eddie tensed up further – impossibly, Steve thought – but he didn’t protest. He parted his legs slightly and turned away, staring resolutely at the chipped porcelain sink. Steve made sure to be gentle, wiping up to the bottom of the ruined shorts and no further. Eddie didn’t say anything. He just clenched and unclenched his fist, and when Steve stood up to rinse out the flannel, he snapped his legs shut.
The bath was full, and after a few dashes of cold water, Steve deemed it acceptable. He turned back to the other man, wringing his hands, awkward. “Do you need help changing?”
Eddie froze. His fist came up and down to knock his knee, over and over. Steve waited patiently as he struggled with the answer, as he looked anywhere but back at him. After a few moments of frantic deliberation, Eddie shook his head, a hand up in a wave of dismissal.
Steve hesitated. Saw again the clammy, ashen skin, the shaking, the blood-bitten lip Eddie continued to worry at with his teeth. Just moments ago he had barely been able to sit up, had cried in the aftermath of it, had clutched at Steve, folded nearly in half. But before he could point any of this out, Eddie was bent at the waist, groaning as another violent cramp tore through him.
“Yeah, right,” Steve scoffed, kneeling down in front of him again. He put a firm hand on his shoulder, rubbing back and forth. “Let me help.”
Eddie nodded, still staring down at his knees. Steve sighed, his fingers finding the hem of his t-shirt. Eddie sat up as far as he could, straightening his arms so that Steve could pull it all the way off, and then he was wrapping his arms tightly around his chest, quivering.
“You’ll be in that hot bath soon,” Steve said, moving quickly on. He undid the drawstring of Eddie’s shorts and stood to help him peel them off, placing them straight into the laundry basket. But when Steve went to hook his thumbs in his boxers, Eddie’s breath hitched.
He looked like he was about to be sick. And Steve thought, I’ve seen this before. The same abject terror, the same face. Back when they had first met in the boathouse.
He smiled reassuringly, like he had back then. “Dude, it’s okay. I’ve seen plenty of guys naked before,” he said, and then blushed. “Like, in… in the locker room I mean. Not…”
Eddie wasn’t listening. “I’m so sorry, Steve,” he choked out. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Steve frowned, lifting Eddie up again to slide the underwear out from underneath him. “It’s okay,” he said, setting him down again. Eddie stayed clung to his arm; the boxers bunched up around his knees. “Sometimes when we’re sick, we just need a little… help…”
Steve stared down at the underwear. There was something… there. A huge, blood-drenched sanitary pad, heavy and practically falling apart. He turned to look at Eddie, a question on his lips, only to find that he’d moved his hands down to cover his crotch, leaving his chest exposed.
Oh. Oh.
Robin had told him about this. About people who were born in the wrong bodies. That they took hormones, had complicated surgeries, just to gain some semblance of self. That they hid themselves, went to the ends of the earth just to be perceived as they were, without anyone ever knowing the difference.
It was starting to make sense. The tears, the blood, the brutal, shivering dread. How Eddie held himself, eyes squeezed shut, chin tucked and leaning away from Steve as if he was expecting to be hit. The gut-twisting way in which he trembled, harder and harder with each second of silence.
The apologies. The endless, unnecessary apologies.
Steve ducked down and pulled the boxers the rest of the way off. Tenderly lifting his feet, soundlessly balling them up and dropping them into the bathroom waste basket. Eddie’s eyes were open now, wide, watching him. “Think they might be unsalvageable,” Steve said, pointing at where the underwear sat in the trash.
“What?” Eddie said dumbly.
“The underwear.” Steve winced. “They’re a bit, well. You know. Bloody.”
Eddie blinked. “I don’t… understand.”
Steve sighed. Made sure to match Eddie’s unwavering gaze. “Look… I meant what I said, before. I won’t ask any questions. I just want to make sure you’re looked after. We can talk once you’re cleaned up and comfy, okay?” Eddie nodded, shoulders sagging a little. Relief. “And Eddie,” Steve said, stepping back over with his palms facing outwards, “you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I promise.”
Eddie’s lips pulled up into a wet smile. He wiped his eyes, sniffling. “Thank you, Steve.”
“No worries, man.” Steve held out an arm for him to grab on to. “Now – bath time. ‘Cause you’re kinda a mess. No offense.”
Something passed over Eddie’s face, then. Something warm, something adoring. And as he wrapped a hand around Steve’s forearm, for a moment, he forgot about it all. The hurt, the panic, the uncomfortable tackiness of the blood still left on his skin. Because Steve, Steve Harrington, former King of Hawkin’s High – suave, infallible, supposedly unpredictable Steve – had accepted him for who he was.
In a heartbeat.