Chapter Text
“Her dirty paws and furry coat
She ran down the forest slope
The forest of talking trees
They used to sing about the birds and the bees
The bees had declared a war
The sky wasn’t big enough for them all
The birds they got help from below
From dirty paws and the creatures of snow”
- Dirty Paws, Of Monsters & Men
“The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell.
Unfortunately we don’t have that kind of time.
Forget the dragon, leave the gun on the table, this has nothing to do with happiness.
Let’s jump ahead to the moment of epiphany,
in gold light as the camera pans to where the action is,
lakeside and backlit, and it all falls into frame, close enough to see
the blue rings of my eyes as I say something ugly
I never liked that ending either.”
- Litany in which Certain things are Crossed Out (Crush), Richard Siken
“Forgive me Lord, forgive me Lord, forgive me Lord…”
-Joe Keery as Gabe, Henry Gamble’s Birthday Party (2015)
Steve Harrington has never uttered a curse word.
Not fuck.
Not shit.
Not crap.
Not bitch.
Not damn.
Not asshole.
Hell is spelled out the long way ‘round as ‘H–E–double hockey sticks’ and only spoken aloud to warn against dissolution or read from a passage at the lectern to the Sunday crowd. In neat slacks and squeaky loafers. Glasses wiped clean like the soul he’s been conditioned to cleanse ad nauseam.
You can never be too careful.
At Bible study.
In the back of his father’s office when he’s behaved immorally and deserves a stern talking to. Sodden eyes trained on the crucifix as the belt or paddle land on his sullied skin. Violet bruises burning shame into the backs of his knees. Welts rising like crested ocean waves crashing against a ship that’s bound to go down without a fight.
Nobody sees.
Punishment is silent.
Punishment is the common thread woven around the congregation in a binding knot.
The avoidance of it.
The habit.
Quiet acts of betrayal met with ordained violence. It’s his parent’s God given right to love their son through the virtue of discipline. No matter how bloody. No matter how much it wounds him beyond repair.
Slaps to his cheeks. Cigarette burns on his spine. Time spent in isolation to mimic the empty void of purgatory. Classroom rulers swatting his wrists.
Committing casual assault to his mind, body, and soul, and then, they sit down to dinner like one big happy family. Pass the mashed potatoes, salt the Earth, thank God for the meal on the table.
Anything appears normal in the right environment.
Anything.
If you haven’t been beaten into submission then you aren’t truly loved. At least, that’s what they teach him and his peers.
The elders. The doctrine. The father who snores down the hall from him.
Clean up. Get dressed. Go to church. Greet everyone with a smile. Go home. Repent. Pray. Bleed.
When he cries out in pain, his parents tell him he deserves it.
He’s been bad. He’s misbehaved. He’s a sinner. He’s a coward. He’s useless if he’s not covered in purple, red, green, and yellow.
How else is he to make up for his wrongdoings?
Steve’s mouth tastes like a mean bar of soap whenever he accidentally hears someone swear in passing.
He cringes, sighs heavily, twists his purity ring where it reverently sits on his left hand. Stringent silver engraved with Matthew 5:8 ‘ Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God .’
One day he’ll marry a girl from the church and replace it with a proper wedding band. Gold. Simple. Tasteful. Nothing fancy.
They’ll move into a house down the block from his parents’ at the end of the cul-de-sac where the weeping willows grow.
It will be quaint, free from vanity, a retreat from the modern flashy decorum that so many fall prey to. A quiet, orderly life for his wife and children.
Hopefully, a son. Perhaps, a daughter. Two and a half kids or however many God grants, but two and a half is mandatory.
Repentance is an avid part of Steve’s daily routine.
Like brushing his teeth in the morning, kneeling for the hour of family prayer that proceeds dinner, stumbling into the ensuite bathroom in the middle of the night when the Harrington house is coldest and shrouded in shadow. Haunted and vacant.
He falls to his knees, clasps his palms together, prays that God may cure the world of such evils and swigs mouthwash to cleanse the dirt from his own tongue. A diligent and vicarious process. God forgives those who atone with sincerity in their hearts and fear in their veins.
Rapture is coming.
Steve thinks about rapture a lot.
The end of days. The second coming.
It is said in Thessalonians.
It is the very truth Steve clings to when his mind starts to wander to unsound places like those of a broken compass.
South to North.
East to West.
Is there a world that exists beyond the boundaries of Hawkins and the church? Has anyone gone to discover it?
North to East.
West to South.
End times are nearer than anyone could possibly imagine.
There’s a vial of holy water in his pocket tucked safely behind his field guide pamphlet and pocket knife. Each morning he refills it and each evening he gives it to his father to bless for absolving tomorrow’s sins.
For sin envelops him in a violent torrent of lapsed judgment, low hanging fruit, and coalescing transgression. Sin is inherent ,inevitable, as much a part of his form as the limbs that stem from his aching body.
And, oh, do they ache.
Religiosity bleeds over into all that Steve Harrington does.
He grows up homeschooled by his mother at their kitchen table. Each lesson begins and ends with a prayer, a Bible verse, a song. No matter how irrelevant that may be. No matter how loose the connection. She finds a way.
Celia Harrington always finds a way.
The chapter on evolution is torn out of his tenth grade biology textbook.
The chapter on the human reproductive system is lost in translation.
The chapter on the Big Bang theory is extracted with a pair of kitchen scissors.
He doesn’t know why.
He doesn’t know what’s missing.
He just knows something should be there and it isn’t.
Celia skips past it without a word.
Onto the next.
He doesn’t have many friends, but those he does have are from the church or Scouts.
They are the brainwashed children of choir singers, ushers, and Sunday school teachers. They break bread. They talk about Jesus. They share stories of religious experience—their encounters with the Holy Spirit.
They’re nice, but that’s it.
Steve isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to talk about with them other than God. He’s not sure what else he’s supposed to be interested in.
When you grow up in a bubble, there’s no reason to question anything. This is the world as he knows it. As they all know it. Him and his friends that know nothing about him.
Steve Harrington has never had sex.
Steve Harrington has never had an orgasm.
The ring on his finger means everything to him or so he thinks.
Steve Harrington has been kissed once, close-mouthed, and never again. By a girl his parents selected for him. By a girl he felt no tangible attraction towards. Arranged together like the thorny floral centerpieces that his mother stages the dining table with whenever his father hosts Bible study.
The girl– MaryAnne –accompanied him to a church dance put on for the middle and high schoolers. All homeschooled children taught by their mothers. Shy. Quiet. Awkward.
Steve wore his father’s navy dress shirt, a stark white tie to signify his innocence, a green tinged bruise on his hip where he’d been hit with the belt for forgetting to pray before grabbing a granola bar for snack earlier. Patent leather loafers and gel slicked hair that his mother insisted was necessary. A crucifix pinned to his lapel—passed down by his grandfather and rusting around the edges.
He didn’t look in the mirror before leaving the house. Afraid to indulge in the beauty that may be reflected back at him. A beauty that has not yet been realized by its beholder. Tawny hair, amber eyes, soft full lips, moles that connect in delicate constellations across his torso and thighs.
The dance itself was drab, gothic, and stuffy.
Party balloons drooped to the floor before the kids arrived. Streamers unfurled quickly as if absorbing the sterile energy in the room. The punch had a powdery aftertaste and the cookies were clearly store bought despite MaryAnne’s mother claiming they were ‘homemade.’ The air reeked of artificial experience; plastic tablecloths, linoleum, single use cups that would pile up in the landfill and pollute the Earth. Leading to great demise.
Even then, Steve saw a crack in the illusion.
Everything felt apocalyptic. Everything felt on the verge of breaking.
The chaperones—parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, older siblings—circled the adolescents like guiding shepherds herding their lost sheep. The music was performed live by the choir and the floor became sticky with a substance no one wanted to stop to identify.
MaryAnne kissed Steve on the mouth during a slow song about the miracle of Lazarus. The woman playing the tambourine was off-tune. He caught his father’s disapproving eye over the girl’s shoulder and saw him shake his head back and forth in boot-faced criticism.
Be a man.
Steve tried to do better. Tried to figure out where his hands should go, but figured he’d do something wrong so he left them hanging at his sides in limp indecision. To touch or be touched gently made his stomach sick. Like the aftermath of a dizzying carnival ride and one too many corn dogs.
Undeserving. Unworthy. Sinner. Impure. Filthy.
The kiss was dry. Lonely despite the fact that not an inch of space existed between their lips.
The kiss was supposed to seal their fate.
To bind them together as a couple. To act as the prelude to marriage, vows, family, children, the house at the end of the cul-de-sac.
It didn’t.
The girl reached out to squeeze his hand and he froze. Excused himself to vomit in the dusty boy’s bathroom. Remained in the stall until nothing but bile and hot air came out of his mouth. Knees bruised from the amount of time he spent heaving and questioning everything he’d ever been told about love.
MaryAnne cried afterwards, ran to her mother and hid behind her floor length skirt.
In front of Steve’s eyes, she transformed from a budding wife to a thirteen year-old girl who was far from ready to agree to that special promise at the altar. Her mother slapped her wrists, tugged her out the door by the ear, and glared at Steve like he was truly something rotten.
On the other side of the assembly room, Steve felt like a monster. Like he’d violated her. Like he’d done something unforgivable. Mouth hinged open to catch flies. No amount of punch could rid him of the bitter guilt swirling in his gut.
He went to his parents. He went to God. He begged for forgiveness. He confessed his sins.
No one explained anything. No one answered his questions. God didn’t send him a sign despite his many requests.
The girl wallowed on the dew damp front lawn and the night went on. Uninterrupted. Unscathed. He drank another glass of powdery punch. Danced alone. Stayed well past his usual bedtime to clean up the mess. His father beat him in the chapel. Bent him over a pew and brought the paddle down on his thighs until he’d prayed his way to forgiveness. His mother sat in the back row with her nose in the Bible and let it happen.
Time goes on.
Steve Harrington is eighteen years-old.
Taller. Covered in sunshine and moles and freckles. Broad shouldered. Strong and muscled. Trained to inherit his father’s small town empire.
Plenty of girls like him.
Plenty of girls whisper about taking his hand in marriage and daydream about becoming his doting wife someday.
He’s handsome. He’s important. He’s God fearing.
What else could they want in a husband?
He doesn’t talk to them. He avoids them. He keeps to himself as much as he can. Spends time out on the lawn watching the clouds, dreaming of imaginary places, and dreading the moment he’s inevitably called back inside to repent.
Steve Harrington is freshly graduated from high school. Top of his class of one.
He can’t tell you why the DNA of monkeys and humans is so closely related, but he can lecture you for hours on original sin, the second coming, and the words of Leviticus.
There are angel wings on his shoulder blades. A pair of scars that his father, the well-respected local Pastor, once gave him as penance.
To teach him the value of suffering. To teach him the value of pain.
He doesn’t like to think about why or how he got them, but they serve as a constant reminder to be obedient to the Lord, the good book, the Scouts.
Joining the Hawkins, Indiana scouting troop was never an option.
Steve was born into it.
Thrust into it as soon as his tenth birthday arrived.
Candles blown out, party favors dispersed, and his only gift from his parents was his first of many khaki colored uniforms. Complete with the BSA (Boy Scouts of America) insignia proudly patched over the left shoulder, an untouched merit sash patiently awaiting proof of accomplishment in the form of badges, and a bloodred neckerchief.
History ready to be made. He had no choice but to agree with a winning smile.
Notably, Steve was never to smile too big for that would have made him a narcissist, a glutton, a heathen.
Modesty, humility, integrity; important in all aspects of life.
These are the values that keep him safe.
These are the values that will one day earn him a seat in Heaven.
These are the values that shelter him from temptation in all its devilish forms.
Bad apples, wandering hands, lingering stares, teeth sinking into softness, flesh upon flesh, liquor, cigarettes, whispered words that raise goosebumps, gossip, false idols.
Though not technically associated with any particular religious denomination, the BSA moral code heavily reflects those preached about in the Bible. Born from a long-line of God fearing, small town living, sermonizing men and women; Steve’s fate was decided for him decades before he officially entered the world.
His father was a Scout.
His grandfather was a Scout.
His great-grandfather was a founding member of one of the first Scout troops in the U.S.A.
Steve stood no chance.
The story of his life was a book written with divine clarity.
A book absent of choice, feeling, rage, love, pleasure , independence.
A book dated, signed, and bound by Pastor Harrington, himself.
Steve Harrington is never supposed to leave Hawkins, Indiana.
Steve Harrington is never supposed to explore.
Steve Harrington is never supposed to dance in a gay club with all the lights off.
Steve Harrington is never supposed to find pleasure.
Steve Harrington is never supposed to fall in love.
Steve Harrington is never supposed to get what he wants.
Everything changes the day he meets Eddie Munson.
Everything.
❋
It’s hot as absolute fuck in Hawkins.
Spring usually provides a slow and steady progression into the blinding heat of summer, but, for whatever reason, Indiana is hellbent on inflicting premature torture onto its people this year.
The AC’s shot to shit so Eddie’s eggs are all in one basket that rests upon a finicky box fan.
A box fan that insists on throwing in the towel every few hours and sparking up dangerously in protest. Like a tantruming toddler who just got denied a second cookie. Eddie’s jar is well past empty and he has nothing to sacrifice on the altar in exchange for cool air. Nothing to slaughter for relief.
Eddie’s impatient. Notoriously so.
It’s a poor gamble, but it’s all he’s got until Mark—his shady landlord who never remembers his name and most often calls him Edwin—decides to actually send someone by to fix the problem.
Given his track record, it’s likely to be months before anyone shows up. At least, that’s what happened with the roaches, the leaky faucet, and the busted pipe—which was really the worst of them all since Eddie had to shit in a bucket or run to the neighbor’s place until the plumber dealt with it.
If Nancy was still around, he’d be relaxing poolside at the Wheeler’s house in that giant ass backyard of theirs. He can practically feel the water around him. Temperate. Not too hot. Not too cold. Heated year ‘round, because Karen Wheeler actually loves her kids and wants them to experience things like circumstantial happiness and friendship.
Go fucking figure.
He’d be sharing a joint with Nancy on one of the many lounge chairs if her mom was out for the afternoon, stealing white cheddar popcorn from one of Mike’s Scout tins in the basement, and chatting his best friend’s ear off about the new Metallica album that dropped last week or the guy that won’t call him back.
She’d pop open the umbrella, flip through yesterday’s paper, and point out the seemingly unimportant local events as Eddie snoozed beneath the sun’s rays wearing a pair of her sunglasses. Oversized, blackened like midnight, perfect for feigning attention.
She’d drop an ice cube down his swim trunks when she finally realized he wasn’t listening anymore. Caught in plain sight. Chasing each other around the deck of the pool until they fell in and officially declared war.
By the time the sun went down, Eddie’s skin would be burnt, he’d be high as the moon, and giggling maniacally at Nancy’s weird obsession with drinking pickle juice after smoking a joint.
“It’s not funny,” she’d say, laughing anyways and spitting pickle juice onto the floor, “Why can’t you just accept me for the way I am? You’re so judgemental. Jesus Christ, Fox.”
Fox.
Only in his dreams does she still call him that. Tinged in a sepia glow. Molding, rotting, decaying; as the number of days without her accumulate like cigarette butts.
“If I didn’t make fun of you, we wouldn’t be friends,” he’d say, like he always says.
“You look like a lobster! I warned you!”
Point taken.
She’d force him to slather on aloe vera gel and promise to call in the morning to recap the day’s events.
He’d pull her in for a hug, say goodnight, and then end up sticking around for another hour to talk to Mike about D&D lore while Nancy snacked on potato chips and a mason jar of pickle juice, because she’s a fucking heathen.
By the time Karen got home from the mall or dinner or a date with some guy she met at work, the three of them would be asleep in a dogpile on the lofty sofa. Assorted infomercials and Eddie’s whistling snore acting as their soundtrack while they dreamed of lives bigger and better than the ones they lived out in Hawkins.
Quaint. Drop in the bucket. Nothing much to write home about. But, they had each other and they were family.
There used to be three of them.
Fox, Owl, and Hare.
Nancy was just about the only good thing in his life anymore.
Thinking about her in the past tense is easier than thinking about her in the present.
She’s not dead or anything, which is a nightmare he constantly wakes up from in a cold sweat and tears.
They’re still best friends. They still call each other three times a week to catch up. Nance visits for practically every major holiday, Eddie’s birthday, her own birthday, her brother’s birthday, her sister’s birthday, and occasional weekends.
She flies home. Eddie picks her up from the airport in his beat up van and they belt showtunes until they arrive at Wayne’s condo for dinner.
Laughing and joking like nothing bad has ever happened to them. Like life is an easy sitcom in which every problem is resolved by the end of a thirty minute episode cut with commercial breaks. He and his sister. The sister he never had. The sister he made out of imagination, fear, loneliness, dread, a treehouse taller than the moon, and something great. Something irreplaceable.
But it’s different now.
They’re different.
It took Eddie five days to process her announcement. Tuesday through Saturday. Some of the worst days of his life besides the obvious.
Nancy leaving left him with nothing.
Nancy leaving left him cold, scared, alone in the woods with no one else to hold onto.
“She’s part of me, but living here—it’s too much. I see her everywhere I turn. Down by the lake, on Strawberry Hill, outside the mall,” she’d said remorsefully on his front porch looking as young as she was when they’d originally adopted each other like stray cats in the fourth grade, “It’s an opportunity I have to take. I’d be writing for a real publication like I’ve always dreamed of. But, more than that, I need a fresh start. I need to get away from here—at least for a little while. It’s not goodbye,” she forced a smile, “You can visit me! We can go to Central Park and I’ve heard the nightlife there is insane. Like, way crazier than anything they have in Indy. There’s drag shows and BDSM clubs and themed bars and no one cares about who you go home with at the end of the night. Boy or girl—”
Unable to say anything else, blinded by the agony of repetitive loss, Eddie got up and slammed the door in her face. It broke him in half to shut her out.
“Fuck you,” he’d murmured as the lock clicked shut.
Deep down, he knew why she had to leave. He understood—more than anyone—Eddie understood what it was like to see ghosts in the places you used to love. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Wild daisies woven into his hair and hers because it helped if she had something to do with her hands.
They’d loved her.
They’d loved her so damn much.
New York offered a life Eddie was never going to be able to give Nancy. A life he couldn’t follow. A life curated by new experiences, flashing lights, people who didn’t know the tragedies lurking in her past, the hustle and bustle of the big city. Plentiful distraction. Color. A life in bold.
There, she could rename herself. There, she could forget. There, she didn’t have to be Nancy Wheeler.
There, she didn’t have to be haunted by the girl with strawberry stained sneakers and a promise she couldn’t keep.
Murdered in cold blood right outside the pristine walls of Hawkins’ New Beginning’s Church. For being different. For loving someone who loved her back. For daydreaming about a magic school bus and a one-way ticket out of town.
Losing Chrissy broke Nancy.
Made her heart raw and open to a whole world of pain she didn’t know how to cope with.
Losing Chrissy numbed Eddie.
Made him callus, desperate, strange. People stayed away from him for more reasons than one.
He’d been furious and couldn’t help but tear open old wounds. Drank to the bottom of the bottle night after night. Smoked his way through packs of cigarettes and extra ounces of skunk weed—samples Rick let him try out before releasing them to their local clientele. Left blundering, hurtful voicemails on Nancy’s answering system at odd hours while trying to keep his balance.
It’s not a time he’s proud of.
It’s not a time he likes to talk about.
The court house. The handcuffs biting his wrists. The accusations.
He would never have hurt Chrissy. He would never have done a thing like that.
One evening, Karen picked up the phone and talked Eddie down, let him cry, dropped off a casserole the next day to help him move through the period of mourning.
She hugged him, came in and started cleaning up the empty bottles of liquor without judgment. Tossed them in the garbage while trying her best to cheer him up. Sunny disposition no matter how many clouds hung in the sky.
“This is good for her. I know it hurts. We’re all gonna miss her like hell, but Nancy’s happiest in motion. She needs the change. New York’s gonna kick some life back into her. You’ll see. She loves you, honey. She needs you just as much as you need her. Always has.”
Her hair was in rollers and Eddie smiled at the grays sprouting near her temples in the nest of dyed blonde.
Karen was like that. Treated him like a fourth kid. The mother he’d yearned for until she came along. His left when he was two years-old to overdose on opiates somewhere along the West Coast. Shortly after, his father followed in her footsteps.
“You’ll be okay, baby dove. And if you think I’m not going to expect you to come by for Shabbat dinner every Friday you’ve got another thing coming. Just because Ms. Fancy Nancy’s moving ‘cross country doesn’t mean you aren’t part of the family anymore,” Karen ruffled his curls and kissed his forehead like a real mother would do, “It’ll all work out. Time heals.”
That was her motto.
Time heals all wounds.
Eddie liked the sentiment. He just wasn’t sure he believed in the power of it when it came to someone as fucked up as he was.
He and Nancy made up the next day.
❋
“Why is looking at dicks all day so exhausting?” Nancy sighs into the phone, crunching her way through a chopped salad, “I feel like I ran a fucking marathon when all I did was wander around an exhibit and daydream about gauging my eyes out. I never need to see a dick again. Ever.”
Eddie can practically smell the lemony vinaigrette she just finished whipping up in her pint-sized kitchen. Karen's recipe passed down the family tree like a ripe apple tumbling its way to new soil.
Eddie has it committed to memory: two lemons from the tree down the street, ¼ cup olive oil, minced garlic, tablespoon of dijon mustard, few sprigs of thyme, salt and pepper to taste. Pairs well over fish which Eddie, again, only learned because Karen took him on as one of her own children from the time he was nine years-old.
“It’s not exhausting. Quite the opposite. I’d say it’s rather—”
He fishes around for the right word and gets lost in the rich current of his imagination. Zones in on a dirty black-book of stored images—moments of past exploration; hairy thighs, deep ‘v’s leading to angry looking cockheads that leak prettily for him, cum coated stomachs, tear stained faces begging for release.
Eddie’s been around the block.
He knows what he likes and that’s torturing beautiful boys under the toes of his platform boots, spitting down the gutter of their wanton throats, and folding them up for his sick pleasure like origami swans.
“Invigorating,” Eddie settles upon with a snap of his fingers, “It’s invigorating, Nance.”
Nancy makes a noise of disgust and Eddie hears the fork clink against the inside of her bowl. Probably one that Mike made to earn his pottery badge in Boy Scouts a couple years back.
Every single solitary bowl, plate, and platter came out wildly crooked, dented, or smushed; but Nancy loved them. Stocked her cabinets in New York full of Mike’s abstract art and refused to eat from anything else.
“Please don’t make me hang up on you,” she grumbles, but there’s no malice behind it.
“I’m a homosexual, Nancy! Sue me! You can’t talk about dick and expect me not to react. I’m only human.”
“An incredibly horny one,” Nancy counters and Eddie mumbles his way through a ‘touche.’
“If I told you I visited the big fat pussy exhibit, you’d be foaming at the mouth to get your rocks off, too. Admit it.”
“Quit your yapping, I’m trying to complain about the misfortunes of my life. This isn’t about you. I know that may be hard to believe.”
“Your suffering should go down in the history books.”
“Like of all people—they sent me to MoMA to take notes on Archipenko’s interpretation of the phallus? Make that make sense!”
“It doesn’t. I can’t. You’re a raging lesbian who gets a lady boner over even the slightest implication of tits. If the mountains look too boobish you’re automatically horny,” Eddie smirks at his joke and Nancy growls out something unintelligible, because he’s being an unhelpful dipshit.
“I’ll be sure to include that in the article. Thanks. Making that my byline as we speak.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Too late.”
“How much you got written?”
“Three hundred words which is nothing. The article’s supposed to be five thousand words. I’m in such deep shit.”
“Hmm. Sounds like it’s time to take a break, buy a plane ticket, and come home to see your best friend,” Eddie flips upside down on the sofa and lets his curls dangle towards the carpet like a human mop. Phone cradled between his shoulder and pierced ear.
“You are the clingiest girlfriend I’ve ever had,” she laughs and it’s painfully true, “I already told you—I’m coming home for Mike’s Boy Scout thing at the end of the month. Isn’t that soon enough? Have you no patience?”
“I stopped listening after you mentioned Boy Scouts. I’m fresh out of caramel corn and itching for a fix. Tell Mike he better keep his stash well hidden this time.”
“Oh my god. You’re ridiculous! I’m hanging up! I mean it!” Nancy threatens, though Eddie knows she never would without saying a proper goodbye. It’s not in her nature.
She’s an angel.
The only good thing in his life.
“Love you, Wheely.”
“Love you more, Eds.”
❋
Capture the flag is all fun and games until it’s time to clean up the equipment and Steve is wandering through the woods trying not to infect himself with poison ivy like the better half of his troop did an hour ago. Now being treated by their resident Scoutmaster/Chief of Police–Jim Hopper with calamine lotion and an eye roll.
He’s out on his own.
Strategically voyaging through the underbrush in search of the blue team’s flag. It’s the last one on his list and he’s dying to get back to basecamp to snag a refreshing post-win lemonade with the rest of the troop. Already salivating from the promise of tangy sweetness.
The sun is about to set. Sky blushing pink while the owls hoot from the branches of pine trees. Calling out to each other in harmonious song as the day comes to a close.
Steve’s back is sticky and warm from directing the game. His cheeks are flushed, exposed thighs bitten up by mosquitoes despite multiple reapplications of Deet, and his glasses keep slipping down the bridge of his nose from the slick sweat coating his brow bone.
To be honest, despite the itchy heat and craving for something ice cold down his throat, Steve looks forward to rare moments like this one.
In which he can breathe easily in the reverie of temporary independence. No one to perform for. No one to stop him from humming a tune under his breath and stopping every so often to investigate a patch of blooming elderberries. No one to chastise him for plopping an unwashed piece of fruit under his tongue and taking his time to savor the sweetness. No one to point fingers and accuse him of gluttony.
Out here in the quiet, Steve can pretend all that exists are the mourning doves, rabbits running from foxes, and the subtle breeze kissing the lakeshore.
He’s content.
He’s at peace.
He’s—
He’s choking on his spit at the sight of the terrible scene in front of him—two men dancing with Satan beside a picnic table.
Two men entangled in an inconceivable fashion.
Two men running their hands over each other’s skin; half naked.
Two men—
Together.
Together in the way that only a man and his wife are supposed to be once they’ve married in the church, sworn vows, and moved into the modest house at the end of the cul-de-sac beneath the weeping willows.
Steve racks his brain. Unfolds the information—the proof from the good book—that every belief he holds relies on.
The verse, he thinks—thoughts spiraling out of control, ingrained savior complex kicking in, What about the verse? Don’t they know it? Didn’t their parents warn them? It’s—Hebrews 13:4; ‘Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled for God will judge the sexually immoral and adulterous.’
They’ve yet to notice him. As if he’s camouflaged amongst the pine trees. Khaki blending in seamlessly like he’s just another part of the natural landscape.
In a sense, he is.
The first of the two men sinks to his knees like he’s praying for mercy as Steve has done all his life in the back of the chapel.
He gazes up at the other man like he is God. Like he alone holds the divine power to cleanse sin, turn water to wine, and carve Eve from Adam’s rib.
Except, Eve doesn’t exist in this version of the story.
Eve is nowhere to be found and Steve feels like he’s entered a parallel universe where none of the former rules apply. Where this strange subset of humanity has scorched the Earth, burned the devoted ones at the stake, and anarchy now reigns.
The second stands above him in the widened prideful stance of a known pariah who foolishly believes he can outrun impending rapture and escape eternal damnation if he is clever and quick enough on his feet.
Steve can’t see his face, because similarly to the vile act he’s committing, the man is concealed by a vexing darkness. Curly tendrils of wild hair obscure his identity.
It’s odd. Unlike anyone else Steve’s ever known. Overgrown and hanging well past his shoulders. It doesn’t make sense. Only girls are allowed to wear their hair like that. Boys like this—boys like him get sent away for such infractions. Excommunicated for their betrayal to patriarchal norms. Men are supposed to look like men.
This man does not.
This man seems to toe and test every line and boundary like nothing can touch him.
Steve tries to get his feet to move so he can turn and run and disappear into the forest like the rest of God’s innocent creatures—the field mice, the deer, the fish in the pond—find somewhere hidden to seek asylum and preserve his fragile righteousness.
But latent curiosity slithers around him like a serpent with a fatal bite.
No cure. No remedy. Steve has no choice. All logical thought abandons him and perhaps for the first time in his life, he allows himself to simply watch and feel.
The man who doesn’t look all that much like a man leans a ring-covered hand back onto the rickety table like it's his personal throne and feeds his—his—genitals to the parted lips of the first.
Steve brings a hand to his own gawking mouth, ducks behind a tree to better shield himself, and tries to stall his racing heart.
“Lemme fuck your throat, baby. Open wide—wider. C’mon now play nice for me. If you’re not gagging on my cock then you can take it deeper,” the man rasps out as he thrusts his hips forwards and ensnares his black tipped nails into the hair of the kneeling man like vicious talons, “Good boy—there we go. Someone’s learned their lesson since last time, haven’t they? Stay open for me, sweetheart—keep that tongue nice and relaxed.”
Easily coerced like a puppet on a string, there is no fear in the eyes of the man on his knees. Steve expects him to put up a fight—to bite down in refusal, to beg, argue, or—at the very least—shake his head ‘no’.
Instead, he follows the instructions given to him. Opens his mouth as wide as possible like he’s about to have a root canal at the dentist and engulfs the other man’s genitals until nothing can be seen but his bobbing head and twitching jaw.
Steve wonders if he should step in. If he should preach to these men about their wrongdoings and lead them back to the church so they can properly atone.
“Such a sloppy fucking mouth—Jesus Christ—being such a good boy for me.”
Two things of immense prominence crash into each other like a junebug to a windshield in the middle of a record breaking heat wave.
Eddie Munson—Steve recognizes him the second this first event occurs—throws his head back in a whiplashed motion and reveals his familiar face to the forest.
And as for the second event, well, Steve hadn’t realized he’d stepped out from behind the tree as his curiosity about the two men rose.
So, when Eddie—the town’s known Satanist, petty criminal, cult leader, nearly condemned killer, drug dealer, and all around villain—meets Steve’s unsuspecting gaze and winks while licking over the sharp edges of his canine teeth; a mysterious warmth spreads through Steve’s lower belly and everything turns upside down.
The man on his knees either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that Eddie’s focus is lasered in on something else entirely.
Someone else entirely.
Steve squirms, toes his hiking boot into the dirt, tries to silently pray for wisdom.
But, he can’t.
Can’t run.
Can’t hide.
Eddie Munson has him—suddenly and completely—trapped beneath the pad of his thumb.
When he moans, it seems to act as a seismic shockwave that Steve can only prevent from coming out of his own body by biting down so hard on the corner of his bottom lip that he tastes iron on his tongue.
When his chest heaves, Steve’s does too. Rises, falls, collapses like a burning building. His ears, fingertips, cheeks, genitals; all aflame.
“You poor thing,” Eddie says without breaking eye contact, but Steve knows he’s not talking to him—he’s talking to the man on his knees, “So needy and helpless and only I can save you.”
Steve’s purity ring must be the wrong size, because it’s too tight. Constricts and pinches at his skin in a way it’s never done before—perhaps, his hands have gotten bigger.
When he goes to twist it and whispers the inscription to himself; Eddie tilts his head and almost frowns. Lips tugged downwards for a fraction of a second.
“Get yourself off on my boot,” Eddie orders and the language—the way he employs it—is foreign to Steve, “Just my boot,” he warns when the man reaches out to grab for him, “And keep your dick in your pants. I don’t want you cumming on the leather like last time.”
Like last time—
Eddie’s done this before. The man on his knees has too. Which explains why he didn’t fight back—he’s choosing to be here. To do this. To be together like husband and wife.
“And none of that spitting shit either. When I cum, you swallow,” Eddie hits the man with the back of his ringed hand which he groans at as a red mark forms on his cheek, “Or there’ll be no more party favors for you. Understood, slut?”
The man does his best to nod and then, Eddie unleashes something wholly erratic.
His expression goes slack as his hips stutter forward into the boundless, unknowable tunnel of the stranger’s throat.
His hair mimics that of a lion’s mane; shaken out behind him as he shudders, rocks, and moans these deep gravelly sounds that Steve’s only ever previously associated with devastating pain and suffering.
A stream of expletives explode out of him and he won’t stop using that phrase—
“Good boy, ” Eddie rolls his hips forwards and tugs on the mussed blond hair of the man on his knees like he means to cause him great harm and maybe he does, “That’s a good boy. I’m so proud of you. Taking my fat cock like a goddamn champ. If only your little girlfriend could see you now—I’m sure she’d be very impressed. Don’t ya’ think? Oh fuck, baby—I’m gonna cum—”
As he says it, Eddie becomes truly possessed.
His allegiance with Satan readily on display for Steve and the birds and the breeze and lake that’s gone still.
Eddie writhes, grips onto the table, and thrashes hysterically while a thick, milky white substance paints the obedient lips of the blond man.
The man continues desperately grinding his pelvis into the laces of Eddie’s platform leather boot. Gasping for air when Eddie finally cleans himself off with a black handkerchief and zips up his pants.
He abruptly draws his stare away from Steve to gruffly address the man in the dirt.
“Alright, time’s up,” Eddie taps his watch dramatically and drops a baggie of—what Steve assumes is—drugs in front of him, pulling his foot back and laughing darkly when the man slumps forwards onto his hands and knees, “Don’t give me that look. We had an agreement—get outta here.”
Despite deferring to Eddie’s wants and wishes throughout the interaction, the blond man grumbles defiantly over this request. Rubbing a palm over his jeans and glaring at Eddie with resentment.
“Fuck off, Munson. Just let me cum, I’ll be quick,” he whines, but Eddie dusts his hands off and cackles wickedly—lighting a cigarette with a lighter that materializes out of nowhere.
The sun disappears behind the trees as blue dusk settles over the area. Sky changing with Eddie Munson’s mood. Commanded by him. Darkening with the hurried snap of his black tipped fingers and exhale of thick smoke between his ruddy lips.
Looking at him hurts.
Looking at him makes Steve ache between his legs and he doesn’t yet know why.
But he wants to—
“I’ve got business to take care of. Places to be, people to see and unfortunately, you’re no longer one of them,” Eddie smirks, kicks dirt in the guy’s face and steps on his fingers which he cries out at, “I’d say you could just go home and fuck your girlfriend, but—oh that’s right—you can’t get hard for her, can you?”
The man continues to protest, scrambles around in the dirt like a confused ant sprayed with repellent–meek, useless, destroyed by a poison designed to isolate and rot him alone.
Eddie Munson is poison.
Eddie Munson is venom, heat, itchy warmth, heady darkness.
Steve’s body and mind tardily communicate. Finally allow him to move. To hurdle back towards reality. Leaving deformity, sickness, and squalor behind.
He needs to strip down, shower, bathe in the hottest water possible, and burn the sin out of his skin. Apply calamine lotion to his wounds. Rinse and repeat.
As he turns to run, tastes bile and pennies in the back of his throat, he swears he hears Eddie Munson’s silver tongue flick out one final time.
“See you around, Church Mouse. ”
❋
Eddie is Fox.
Nancy is Owl.
Chrissy is Hare.
At school, they fulfill their necessary roles as freak, teacher’s pet, and princess; respectively. Staying inside the carefully drawn lines of their designated peer groups because it is safest and best for survival.
Meanwhile, they strain to ignore the muffled symphony drumming within each of them—the symphony that calls upon them to join hands and dance beneath the light of the fullest moon. Alleviating pain, restoring broken energy, fitting their missing pieces together like that of a sardonic jigsaw puzzle.
No one knows how beloved they are to each other.
No one knows how much magic they’ve stirred up and stored inside each other’s veins. Like lightning bugs in a cracked mason jar—ebbing and flowing with a flickering golden light. Ephemeral in essence. Disappearing in the blink of an eye.
Fox, Owl, and Hare.
The forest’s best kept secret.
No one knows, and this is the trick of it, that their locker combinations are each other’s birthdays. June 23 for Eddie, September 2 for Nancy, October 13 for Chrissy. When they entered junior high, they wrote the dates on strips of lined notebook paper, crumpled them up, tossed them into Eddie’s baseball cap and assigned their individual fates. Cast spells and made promises.
No one knows that on the way home from a day spent hiding in plain sight; the three meet up on the path behind Chrissy’s house in Loch Nora, bump shoulders whilst still carrying their lumpy backpacks, and erupt with gleeful laughter at the fact that they’ve once again convinced their peers they have human hearts beating inside their chests. Instead of the animal ones they know to be true.
Only in the treehouse—the dilapidated castle they found and repaired years prior—do they shed their skin, abandon reality, and divvy up whatever treasures they’ve discovered along the way.
Sometimes, it’s nothing more than a candybar Chrissy’s purchased from the supermarket with spare change or extra lunch money that her parent’s hand her without another word as she makes her way down the street to catch the bus. A Snickers or Hershey’s bar—which is preferable because it’s easiest to break into thirds.
Often, it’s a bag of Cracker Jack’s Eddie’s stolen from the school’s vending machine with a simple trick he learned from his older cousins. They take turns searching for the charmed toy buried beneath the avalanche of sticky caramel and peanuts. Whooping and howling like wolves when the chosen one—whoever it may be on a given day—unveils the prize. Passes it around for all to see and wonder at.
Other times, it’s one of Nancy’s mom’s erotic romance novels—'borrowed’ from her bedside table—that the three squeal over, turn tomato red at, discussing classroom crushes and what it would be like to embrace them in the way the beefy man on the cover holds the scantily clad woman.
Eddie’s eyes linger on the man’s muscles. The way he seems to possess an almost superhuman level of strength. The prominent bulge between his thighs. The smirk playing out over his lips.
Chrissy and Nancy’s eyes linger on the woman’s softness. The swell of her corsetted breasts. The artful curvature of her fleshy hips. The smoothness of her long legs. The delicate jewelry adorning her hands.
They admit these fascinations to each other long before they grow brave enough to admit them to anyone else. For the world is cruel and callous to those who are different. To those who dare desire what is branded as grotesque, unorthodox, and diseased.
On weekends and in the summer months—when days feel simultaneously longer and shorter—the three meet early in the morning and stay out until well past dinnertime.
They clamber over fences, embellish each other’s natural features with cheap watercolors from the craft store, paint their initials onto the wood plank walls, race down to the lake to wash away the mess, and go stargazing at the top of the hill where the strawberries grow. Collapsing in a heap of hyena-like laughter when they inevitably smush red berry juice under their backs. Staining their clothes or bathing suits and snacking on unwashed fruit until they are groaning from bellyaches and the hilarity of the situation.
Fox is fastest. Clever. Bold. Quick on his feet. Able to shift and change and distract like no other. Stealthy, musical, protector. He concocts schemes. Pulls wool over the eyes of the unsuspecting. Cuts deals, locates loopholes, bares his canine teeth at anyone who poses a threat. Outcast from the crowd once they finally realize he’s a cunning vagrant from the other side of the tracks. Dirty pawed and blue collar.
He wears an old pair of green swim trunks with a hole in the knee. A black bandana secures his rebellious curls and allows the sweat to drip off his neck. There are many days where he is barefoot—ornamented only by a stick-n-poke tattoo of a lavender sprig and the braided anklet Nancy wove for him while she was away at summer camp in July.
Owl is smartest. Intelligent. Perceptive. Sharp as the knives she throws. Wise beyond her years. Lover, fighter, origin of logic and reason. She makes plans the others cannot conceive of. She organizes, delineates, and leads with an iron fist. Shoved into a box by her teachers and peers because they fear her potential. Her masterful wit. Her imagination and the places it leads.
She carries a checkered picnic blanket under her bony arm. Prepared for anything. She smells of sunscreen, hairspray, and boy’s deodorant—it makes her feel more real. More alive. A faded, threadbare pink scrunchie encircles her wrist. It’s Chrissy’s. One she leant her years ago during a sleepover and never asked for it back.
Hare is loveliest. Adored. Cherished. Sweet as pie. Coated in honey. To know her is to love her. But to love her is not to know her. On the outside, she is perfect teeth, hair the color of spun gold, charm, grace, and elegance. She is captain of the cheer team. All American beauty. She kisses her boyfriend goodbye in her driveway and dashes upstairs to open the window for the girl trying to crawl through it. Kisses her too. Everything becomes complicated.
She sings made up songs while Eddie plays the guitar. Humming and giggling lyrics that don’t make sense to anyone but the three of them. She wears cutoff denim shorts, a heart shaped locket around her neck that claims devotion in the form of two tiny photographs, and white sneakers tarnished by splotches of strawberry juice. There is a wildness in her green eyes that only seems to find peace when Fox and Owl are next to her.
It’s a gorgeous day in the middle of August.
Just past Eddie’s eighteenth birthday on which he got his first real tattoos. Chrissy and Nancy pooled their hard earned money together to drive Eddie into the city for the surprise.
With tears of gratitude in his eyes, he’d told the artist to draw up designs of two animals—an owl and hare. They each held one of his hands as the man inked the images onto the insides of either wrist.
He’s careful not to let the artwork dip below the line of the water. Nancy plays at splashing him and Eddie growls at her as Fox comes alive in the stillness of the forest. Chrissy smiles and leans over to kiss her girlfriend on the forehead. Taming the beast at last.
The lake water feels crisp and cool like the first bite of a green apple. There’s a mess of paint surrounding their bobbing innertubes. Sunset orange, burgundy red, yellow of the mustard weed on the shore. They’ve floated down to a place where they can be alone. Drifted off from the hoard of screaming children, sunstroked parents, and classmates who weaponize sticks, stones, and words.
Here, they can be honest.
Here, they can escape for a little while.
“We’ll travel the country in an old school bus or something,” Hare dreams aloud, romantically, as she is prone to doing, “And then, when we make it to San Francisco—we’ll find a place with a treehouse in the backyard and that’ll be it. We can live in the damn treehouse if we want. Who’s gonna tell us not to?”
Owl draws shapes in the water with the tips of her fingers as if she’s taking notes.
“It sounds great in theory, but do you really think your parents would let you do a thing like that? Your mom hardly lets you out past ten o’clock anymore. I highly doubt she’d be okay with you moving across the country with the two of us. Especially since she started going to that new church and getting all holier than thou’,” Owl sighs, unable to blind herself from the confines of rational thought. Staring into the sun with her big doe eyes and identifying every last flaw in creation. She’s not a pessimist, but she is a realist. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference.
“It’s not—the people there are nice. They mean well,” Hare corrects, quietly confronting Owl’s criticism.
“Nice?” Owl folds her arms over her chest and peers judgmentally over her bulletproof sunglasses, “The Pastor's a total fucking prick. Like, a scam artist type prick. How else do you think they afford that McMansion? I’m telling you he definitely steals from the congregation.”
He's never seen the Pastor or cared enough to ask for his name. Stays as far as way as possible from Bible thumpers and their places of worship.
But, Fox sees through her rage. He knows Owl’s temperament like the back of his hand. She’s hurting—has been hurting—for the past year. Hare can’t bring herself to tell the truth. While, Owl’s told everyone close to her. Everyone important. Karen knows. Mike knows. Wayne knows. Even, Holly—the littlest—knows. Hare swears she’ll do the same some day, but as the months pass and she and her boyfriend—Jason—stay together, it’s harder and harder to believe her.
“You’re being mean, Nance,” she whispers as if she’s afraid to be caught saying it, but can’t quite hold it in.
“What’s mean is the fact that Jason Carver is still—for all intents and purposes—your ‘boyfriend’,” Owl huffs, cheeks flushed with rising frustration,“He gets to have dinner with your parents every week at the club. He gets to walk in through your front door like an actual guest. He gets to call you on the house phone. The actual fucking landline. And, why’s that? Because he’s a boy and he’s exactly what your parents want for you. God fearing, religious as shit, blond, Republican asshole. So, sorry if I don’t feel like participating in your little fairytale, today.”
Hare frowns. Tucks her chin low. Sniffles. Fidgets with the locket around her neck like it's an ancient amulet and can give her all the answers she’s desperately looking for. She looks small. Doll-like and pale.
“Hold on a second,” Fox hastily intrudes on a conversation that shouldn’t concern him, but does because watching either girl in pain makes his heart bleed, “We can figure this out. It’s a lot. It’s been a lot for both of you.”
“You have a magic wand you’re gonna wave and make it all better?” Owl snarks.
“No, but—”
Fox pivots. Swerves. Dodges tragedy.
Trying to make light and hold strong to the dreamy days of their youth, he does what he does best. Distracts. Plays out a scene that will make the group laugh and forget their woes.
“How ‘bout this—the day I fall in love and find someone to bring along with me is the day we go to San Francisco in Chris’s magic school bus, because I am not third wheeling with you two for the rest of my fucking life. As much as I love you, I’d rather die,” Fox darts his gaze between them in an accusatory way and dips his hair back into the water to cool off—shaking his curls out like a wet dog,“Besides, imagine being trapped with me for hours on the open road in an enclosed space. One or both of you would kill me. No question. In fact, you’d probably team up, murder me, and drop me over some cliffside never to be found.”
Owl snorts. Covers her nose, adjusts the little hoop of silver that Eddie pierced for her the previous summer. He’d done it in the treehouse. She’d sat in Chrissy’s lap and iced it afterwards with a bag of frozen peas. It made her look badass, harsher around the edges, multidimensional like he knew her to be, but other people often questioned.
Karen smacked him over the head for doing it. Only to follow up the punishment with a motherly kiss to the cheek and a cut of brisket she’d been slow cooking since the wee hours of the morning. After a glass of white wine and a round of cards, she was pinching Nancy’s cheeks and telling her she looked beautiful.
“Oh, fuck you! That’s such an exaggeration. I wouldn’t murder you. I’d just duct tape your mouth shut and tie you to the top of the bus for the duration of our trip. I’m a bitch, but I’m not evil,” Owl grins deviously and flips Fox the bird with her chipped blue nail polish on display.
“You’re gonna regret that, Wheely!”
Fox paddles his feet to get closer to her tube. Bites her finger and dunks her underwater in the same instant. Feeling brutish, potent, and playful as he basks in the illusion of a carefree life. In which hiding isn’t necessary. In which they can dance and howl and tumble and burn recklessly. In which the forest usurps established society and everything is shaded in vibrant green and fresh air.
Such a place doesn’t exist. Not in Hawkins. Not even in San Francisco. But when they’re together, anything feels possible.
At least, until Fox realizes—always the most aware of his surroundings—that Hare is toweling off on the sand and slipping on her mucked up sneakers. Socks tragically dampened which nobody likes squishing around in.
“Chris! Where are you going? Sun’s still gonna be out for at least the next few hours.”
He cocks his head to the side in genuine confusion, because he can’t remember a time when Hare walked away from them of her own accord. Any excuse to be free of her mother’s lecturing, ridiculing, and nitpicking was one she promptly took.
“Nowhere special,” she says as if they’d ever accept such a vague and elusive answer.
Fox is concerned. Anxiety spiking beneath the pleasurable waves licking at his back. There’s a strange look to her that he won’t soon forget. A sureness settles over her face. Certainty, courage, and a hint of mischief.
She smiles—brilliantly, blindingly.
Her bikini is patterned with blood-red cherries. Her hair is wrapped in a striped towel. The gold of her locket is starting to tarnish from too much time spent splashing and skinny dipping in the lake, but she refuses to ever go without it. Swears she’ll wear it until it snaps in half and even then, she’ll simply string the pendant onto a new chain.
Owl moves towards the shore languidly like they have all the time in the world to mend and heal and recover, but softens her tone—which tells Fox—she sees it, too.
“I fucked up. I got mad. I’m sorry—you don’t have to leave. We were having fun. We can have fun again. Please, babe? I miss you, already,” Owl’s speaking in that rare, saccharine way that only comes out around the love of her life.
“I’m sorry, too,” Eddie jumps on the bandwagon and squints in the sun—his sunglasses broke when he was running from the cops a few weeks ago, after a risky deal and he’s yet to buy a new pair, “If I pushed it too far with the jokes. I know I can do that, sometimes. I know I can be mean when I’m trying too hard to be funny.”
Hare smiles, shrugs her shoulders, and picks at a scab on her knee, before slinging her backpack over her shoulders. Embroidered with her initials—'C.C.’ and a tiny white rabbit.
“I’m not angry. I promise. But, I do have to go,” she says, eerily calm.
Neither of them know that it’s the last time they’ll see her smile.
Neither of them know that their trio is destined to become a duo. Written in the stars. Out of their slippery hands.
The forest is calm. The water trickles slowly downstream. No hint of violence on the horizon. The world—as they know it—was made for them to inherit and shape in their gentle paws. Related by way of shared treasures, ink, secrets, smushed strawberries, and love.
Neither of them see it coming—not for a damn second.
“I love you both,” she admits as she spins towards the treeline like a dancing ballerina in a jewelry box, “I’ll meet you at the treehouse tonight at seven and then, we’ll find Eddie a boyfriend and figure out where to buy a magic school bus!”
They wait up all night. Haunting the treehouse like ghosts.
Hare never shows.
The next morning, hand in hand, they find out she’s dead.
❋
Popcorn and poison ivy season unfortunately overlap.
And, while Steve has been able to avoid the latter, the former has become a sort of default responsibility on his lengthy Assistant Scoutmaster’s to-do list. Except, unlike leaves of three, he can’t quite avoid this one.
This is supposed to be Mike Wheeler’s route.
Up Kerley, across Heraty Bridge, make a right on Mirkwood, the Byers’ house is the last stop.
But, Mike’s currently at home itching up a storm. Calamine lotion’s only capable of doing so much to soothe the irritating reaction.
He’ll likely have to tough out another week of ice baths and ointment before his skin is back to normal and clear of angry splotches.
In the meantime, Wheeler can take small consolation in the opportunity to commiserate and empathize with his fellow troop members. Henderson, Sinclair, and Byers stumbled upon similar patches of ‘three.’ Similarly afflicted by prickling blisters, an itch they can’t seem to scratch, and parents who’ve forced their grimy hands into oven mitts to prevent scarring.
Which is how Steve ended up pulling Mike’s weight—literally pulling his weight in the form of a little red wagon full of hefty popcorn tins in assorted flavors—traipsing around town in his BSA uniform which the locals love to openly laugh at for some reason.
They find it hilarious.
Steve finds it sweaty, exhausting, and gross.
Especially, because time alone with his thoughts is typically spent praying, atoning, or offering up his suffering for the souls stuck in purgatory. Ensuring his entrance to the pearly gates. Preparing himself for the dignified position of eventual pastorhood like his father and his father’s father.
Faith is to be at the center of his life. Even when it comes to the most mundane, drab, or innocuous everyday tasks. Faith is a lived experience. A journey that should be deepened with every additional step he takes—whether that be in hiking boots, BSA standard loafers, or barefoot in the shower. As a disciple of Jesus Christ, he is to spread his savior’s teachings to all those who have yet to enter under the shelter of his grace.
It is to be his supreme focus. Singular mission. Sole purpose. The reason he wakes and sleeps is only to rise, again, and spread the message to a broader audience than the day prior.
But, the problem is Steve can’t quite focus on his spiritual practices.
Steve can’t quite focus on anything of substance.
It’s kind of impossible, actually, when Eddie Munson’s genitals have overwhelmed and consumed his brain like swarms of locusts are said to do at the end of days. Buzzing and whirring around his mind in an annoying hive. Louder and louder. Nothing to quiet them.
For the past week, Steve has fitfully fallen asleep replaying the scene in the woods on a sickening loop. Lies face down and screams into his pillow in the wee hours of the morning, because Eddie Munson has cursed him or vexed him with an incurable evil.
It takes everything in him not to ask his father to perform an exorcism on his soul, because he can’t stop thinking about Eddie Munson.
He can’t stop thinking about the man on his knees for Eddie Munson like a peasant at the throne of a King. Gazing up at him beatifically. Lovingly. As if they were hosting a beautiful wedding ceremony where all the flowers grow in neat little rows and everything turns out wonderfully. Bride and groom and their house down the street.
Constant. Monotonous. Sacred.
He can’t stop thinking about the monster lurking in the woods. Ivory fangs stapled to the insides of his hollowed cheeks as he bit back wounded groans. The thicket of dark hair sprouting around his pelvis. The wild curls haloing his head and sheltering him from eternal damnation. Hidden from the world’s judgment like a fallen angel protected by Satan. Sold his soul at a staggering price.
His hands.
Like a fruit fly in a spider’s web, Steve gets caught in the grasp of those hands more often than he cares to admit to himself. Planetary orbit thrown sideways by the sudden concentration of fine silk spun around his head. No longer lucid. No longer human. Plans to do good, be good; apprehended by another’s hungry belly.
Eddie’s hands aren’t too far off from an arachnid’s spindly legs if he thinks about it.
Long painted fingers reaching backwards to grasp onto the edge of the table. Knuckles whitening. Silver rings catching in the light. Tempting lowly creatures—moths, gnats, and mosquitoes to fly closer and get snagged in his menacing clutches.
He’d probably bite their heads off, suck the marrow from their bones, slurp out their innards and flash that terrifying smirk while doing it. He might even laugh. Bloodthirsty tendencies staining and dripping from his soft lips as his head tipped back in euphoric celebration. Reaching an obscure and unsettling crescendo.
Violin with snapped strings.
It’s the infected part of Steve’s brain that whispers in foreign tongues and confesses the secret belief that those hands are beautiful. That those hands might look nice resting around his waist or roughly combing through the sandy locks of his hair like he’d done to the man on his knees.
His voice.
Steve hears the purr of it seeping in through the cracks in his bedroom walls. Slithering beneath the doorframe and softly caressing the shell of his ear. A warm breath that tickles the junction between his throat and jaw. Makes him hollow—carves out space to chant and relentlessly echo that wretched phrase, now, pitted inside his chest like the core of Eve’s infamous apple.
Good boy. That’s a good boy. Such a good boy for me…
Raspy. Low. Rough as sandpaper; the memory of it smooths out Steve’s edges and prods at his weak spots. The equivalent of his Achilles heel.
Buried deep within this illness is the faintest idea that Steve might want to be good for Eddie Munson. Whatever that means.
When he squirms around in bed, tosses back and forth beneath the condemnation of the crucifix hung up across from his headboard, it’s Eddie’s voice that drives his hips into the mattress.
It’s Eddie’s voice that detestably possesses him and guides him towards Hell. Hand in hand. Fist curling around fist. These are the shackles he wears. Clanging heavily against his, previously indisputable, morality.
He never lets it go as far as the Devil wants it to. He’s still strong enough to fight back. To flip onto his back, twitching and warm all over; dousing himself in holy water and shame.
Most of all though, Steve fixates on Eddie’s cruelty.
His sense of command. The way he elicited submission, reaction, and desperation from the man on his knees.
The way he grabbed him by the jaw and forced his mouth to open impossibly wider with a carefully placed hand.
The way he slapped him across the face and seemed not to fear retaliation for even the briefest of moments.
The way the man begged and pleaded for something that Eddie ultimately refused. Walking off without an apology. Walking off without a hint of regret. He’d cleaned himself up, lit a cigarette, and rolled his shoulders back with the utmost confidence. Nothing bothered him. Nothing plagued him. Immune to the powerless cries of those below him.
Like a God.
❋
When Eddie begrudgingly gets up to answer the door, there’s a half-second in which the small shred of optimism—that’s somehow survived in his body after all this time—thinks it might be the AC repair guy standing on the other side. Tote of tools in hand, written report as is mandated by his landlord, and the solution to his suffering. Prayers answered. Problem solved. Nirvana achieved. All that religious shit.
In fact he’s so fucking mindlessly hopeful that there’s a smile—an actual smile—on his face when he unlatches the lock and flings the thing open. Sun blinding him instantly.
“Munson residence, how can I help y—” he stutters, halts full stop, and slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle the gritty moan threatening to exit his esophagus.
Church Mouse stands in front of him with a little red wagon of popcorn tins in tow and order sheets in hand. Not a hair out of place. He looks like a Disney princess ready to corral sheep.
The last person he’d ever dream would come knocking at his place of residence.
And, to make matters worse, the kid’s decked out in his dorky ass uniform just like he was the first time Eddie officially crossed paths with him.
Khaki shorts so tight his toned thighs must chafe if he wears them for too long. Matching shirt busting at the seams as the buttons fight desperately not to reveal too much skin. Merit sash slung over his torso and loudly promoting all of his ‘wilderness accomplishments.’
Navy blue knee-high socks pinching the widest part of his hairy legs and squeezing the fat in a way that Eddie can’t help but want to sink his teeth into and draw blood. A stupid little red bandana knotted tightly around his pretty throat that Eddie—Lord, forgive him for fuck’s sake—is dying to gag him with until it’s soaked through with drool and several loads of the sweet boy’s virgin cum.
The utilitarian outfit clings to Church Mouse’s body in a way that probably slashes right through whatever vows he’s sworn in that fucking assbackwards church Eddie knows he's a part of.
But, it’s more than the outfit.
It’s a lot more.
It’s the smattering of moles decorating his cheeks, jaw, neck, arms, and legs. Eddie yearns to trace them with his tongue, to connect them like constellations, to make him howl towards the moon while he comes undone and loses control.
It’s the outline of his thick cock which he likely has no idea is visible to the public, but it’s so painfully obvious and Eddie can’t tear his eyes away. Kid probably wears tighty fucking whities and his balls probably sit so pink and perky and heavy in the cotton fabric. Begging to be sucked, teased, and flicked with the piercing on Eddie’s tongue. Big dick dripping above the perfect pair of them. It’s a fantasy for now, sure, but Eddie would bet good money he’s right.
It’s the cleancut, never been touched, goody two shoes gleam this kid has about him. The wire-rimmed glasses sitting high on the bridge of his nose and the way Eddie could definitely make them fog up with filthy desire if he ever got the chance to bounce Church Mouse up and down on his dick like a common fucking whore.
The kid eyes him quizzically and fans his baby face with the stack of order sheets.
It’s hot as shit out and he’s drenched in sweat which probably smells fucking fantastic. Eddie would give up pretty much anything to have the opportunity to pin the Pastor's infamous prodigal son face down onto his dirty mattress. He’d sit on the backs of his meaty thighs and inhale the, no doubt, pungent musk saturating his clothes.
“Oh, um, hi,” the kid shifts the weight between his feet and avoids direct eye contact with Eddie, which shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, “Sorry. Is now a bad time? I can head on over to the next place on my list if you’d rather not be bothered,” he scrambles and almost drops the pamphlets in his hands. Ducking his head to retreat the way he came. Loafers squeaking on the aluminum stairs.
“You’re not bothering me. Pardon my surprise,” he drops a demure hand over his heart and wiggles his painted fingers, “I’ve just never been lucky enough to have a man in uniform show up on my doorstep. It’s like waking up from a wet dream. Like I’m pinching myself, but, damn, I don’t think I wanna wake up. That ever happen to you? Wake up all horny with nowhere pretty to stick your cock? Fucking tragic, if you ask me.”
Church Mouse blanches. Coughs into his elbow.
There’s a rawness to him.
Void of exposure to reality—far beyond the obtuse degree Eddie had already conceptualized. It’s like he’s trying to comprehend an alien dialect. Nothing in his expression points to the acknowledgment of shared experience. There’s no laughter. No hint of understanding. Everything flies high over his head and combusts into futile shrapnel. Lost in translation.
“So, you want—you want me to tell you about the popcorn, sir?”
Jesus, fuck. I’m gonna cum in front of the entire neighborhood, aren’t I? Eddie thinks to himself; trying and failing to sober up from the intoxicating rush that word has flooded his senses with.
Sir.
Listen. Eddie will take what he can get, but, in a perfect world, like to fuck that word into and out of this kid until he’s shooting blanks into his virgin hole.
“Uh. Put the popcorn on the backburner for a second,” Eddie smacks the top of one of the tins to punctuate his request which Church Mouse launches into the air at, “Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart. But, lemme ask you something—were you expecting someone else?” He’s shameless about the way he drags his insatiable gaze over Steve’s figure like an artist studying his muse for creation, “Or, am I just not your type?”
“Ex–excuse me ?”
It comes out as a squeak.
Eddie’s a dead man.
“You’re excused. Thanks for asking so politely,” Eddie winks and revels in the pink flush that starts at his neck and blooms upwards to the tips of his cute ears.
It’s adorable to watch him stammer, fluster, and fidget under the blasphemous microscope of Eddie’s stare. Taking him apart like a favorite toy and slowly, mercilessly putting him back together.
“I’m—I don’t usually do this. My troops got poison ivy last week. I’m just filling in for one of the younger Scouts,” he explains unnecessarily as if truth serum has been forcibly poured down his gullet, “I’m the Assistant Scoutmaster which is an entirely different role–”
“Ah. That explains the slutty little uniform. Got it,” Eddie blows a mouthful of smoke—from his forgotten joint—into the kid’s confused face, which makes him automatically hold his breath and wave an annoyed hand through the resulting cloud.
The urge to play comes about so naturally. Like late spring rain or biting into the last slice of cake. Eddie can’t resist. Dips his dirty paws in, because there’s no one else around to stop him from ruining such a pretty thing.
A pretty thing who clearly has no idea how pretty he is.
Moles. Tanlines. Curved hips. Thighs. Those damn knee socks and coiffed hair. Amber eyes that twinkle with naivety and wonder.
If he didn’t have such a stick up his tight ass, he’d be the fantasy of anyone with a pulse and working vision.
He’s got an attitude, though. Kind of a bitch. Thinks his shit doesn’t stink, because his Daddy blessed it to be so.
“There a problem, Scoutmaster?” Eddie taunts when he doesn’t respond, taking another elongated hit.
The kid exhales loudly and rolls his eyes. Huffs and puffs. Still won’t look Eddie in the eye as if he’ll be made into a statue like a victim of Medusa.
“Don’t want to get contact high. That’s a thing y’know,” Harrington stamps his feet into the ground which is not nearly as threatening as he likely intends for it to be, “And I’m not the Scoutmaster. Jim Hopper, the Chief of Police, is the Scoutmaster,” Eddie resists the urge to ‘oink,’ “I’m not even old enough to be the Scoutmaster, yet. I’m Assistant Scoutmaster. There’s a huge difference. You wouldn’t understand. It’s much more complicated than—”
Eddie doesn’t really give a shit about the ins and outs of the Scouting hierarchy.
“Oh, yeah? Interesting. Super interesting. And, how old are you, Mr. Assistant Scoutmaster?”
“Why do you care? I’m not—I’m just trying to help sell enough popcorn so my troop can afford to go on their end of summer adventure trip at Philmont Ranch. It’s the largest Scout base in the nation. If you’re interested in buying, great. If not, I have plenty more houses to hit before my route’s done with and I’d rather you not waste my time. It’s a very busy season and I have to stay on schedule.”
Eddie’s not an idiot. Well, okay, maybe he is, to an extent, but he’s clever enough to recognize when he’s pushing someone’s buttons with such a frequency that they’re moments away from sticking it to him.
And, if there’s one thing he really doesn’t want, it’s the Assistant Scoutmaster leaving.
Because, as much as he hates to admit it, he can’t get the little shit out of his head and he’s made himself sick with it over the last seven days.
Nervous butterflies. Skip in his step. Daydreaming in the midst of conducting business with miscellaneous buyers. Twirling curls around the ends of his fingers. Flipping through the local paper in case there happens to be a feature on the local Scout troop so he can jack himself to Church Mouse’s picture or frame it for his bedroom wall.
He needs to know what’s awaiting him underneath all those carefully constructed layers of khaki, chastity, and Bible thumping.
It’s been a long time—too long—since he’s found someone worth chasing after and Church Mouse makes the perfect, most appetizing, prey.
“Hey!” Eddie calls out after him, as Church Mouse starts to tug his rattling wagon in the opposite direction, “I was curious! That’s all! Don’t have a lot of friends left around here, so I thought maybe—”
Turning on his heels, Church Mouse cocks an eyebrow, pushes his nerdy glasses up with one finger—Lord have fucking mercy—and when, Eddie sees the swell of his ass accentuated by the small pockets on the back of his shorts—he knows he’s absolutely, completely, head over heels, fucked.
He’s never going to recover.
This is it.
This is it.
“I’m eighteen. Graduated high school in December. My name’s Steve—Steve Harrington,” he mirrors Eddie’s stance and crosses his arms over his chest which illuminates the full roundness of his biceps—bronzed and glistening with even more of that delicious sweat that Eddie craves on his tongue, “Do you want the popcorn or not? Because I really need to get going and I’m not supposed to be out past sundown. My parents are strict and they won’t be happy if I’m not home in time for dinner to say grace.”
Eddie’s hardly listening, because he’s now earned himself two essential pieces of information.
The very two pieces of information he’s been wondering about since he first found Steve watching him in the woods while Paul sucked him off in exchange for coke and degradation.
Eighteen.
Steve—Steve Harrington.
Eighteen.
Legal. Just old enough to be fingered, kissed, fisted, fucked, and sucked into oblivion.
Eddie’s twenty-five. A whopping seven years older than Steve Harrington. His sweet, sweet Church Mouse.
He’s robbing the damn cradle. He’s gnawing on innocence like a tasty chicken bone.
He’s got his jaw locked around purity and he’s going to shred it into unrecognizable filth.
“My parents also don’t like me hanging out with strangers,” Steve says with a grave seriousness plastered across his face and it takes Eddie a second to realize he isn’t kidding—there’s no zesty punchline at the end of the joke, because this is no joke, “Last chance. Popcorn or not? Like I said, I—”
“Kinda rude to blow me off like that. Don’t y’think?”
“Huh?” Steve narrows his honey colored eyes, “Blow you off like, what? I don’t understand. I’m still offering you the popcorn.”
Eddie shakes his head and twists the skull ring sitting on his middle finger as if deep in thought.
“Not what I meant. Calling me a stranger’s what I was referring to,” he watches Steve gulp—Adam’s apple bobbing nervously, “I’m Eddie. Eddie Munson and according to my calculations—” he pretends to count on his fingers, tapping obnoxiously on each ring, “You and I have met before.”
“N-no,” Steve vehemently denies, but the hitch in his breath communicates everything Eddie’s suspected from the start, “I–I don’t know you. We’ve never met. You must have me confused with someone else. Perhaps, another Scout. Same uniform. It can’t have been me.”
“Maybe, so—you’re right. Forget it. I’m probably confused,” Eddie smacks a palm to the center of his forehead to display his faux idiocy and Steve flinches at the motion—scared, so Eddie softens his tone and rewinds, “Say, about that popcorn though, looks like you’ve got quite the variety of flavors in there,” Eddie kicks the wagon with the toe of his boot, “What are my options?”
Like he doesn’t have them all memorized from the countless nights spent in Nancy’s basement. Hurling fistfuls of popcorn at each other to see how many kernels they could catch in their mouths. Nancy—far more coordinated than Eddie since birth—remained the reigning champion.
“You’re serious? You actually want me to tell you?”
Eddie leans against the doorway to highlight the length of his limbs. The desire he has to wrap them all around Steve Harrington like a black widow going in for the kill.
“Popcorn’s not gonna sell itself without you. Go on. I’m listening.”
“Are you a former customer or is this your first time purchasing BSA popcorn?” Steve adjusts the knot on his neck bandana thing and finally looks Eddie in the eye like it’s company policy.
“It’s my first time,” the opportunity for an innuendo is not missed by him, “I’m afraid I’m a Boy Scout virgin. How do you feel about popping my cherry? You nervous, sweetheart?”
Again, it’s like a key isn’t quite fitting into the lock it was made for. Steve doesn’t react. Almost as if he doesn’t hear Eddie. Almost as if his brain filters out any sacrilegious content and replaces it with elevator music until appropriate conversation resumes.
Eddie’s being a stupid prick, but it’s locker room talk. It’s high school. Homophobic as they were, many of his male classmates—no matter what group they belonged to—made sexual jokes at each other’s expenses. It was commonplace. A strange way of showing affection, because kissing and hugging were too taboo and threatening to their masculinity.
“Is that a rhetorical question?” Steve speaks up, at last, “Because, I really don’t care to investigate that with you. It’s very unbecoming if you’re trying to go to Heaven.”
“I gave up on that dream twenty-five years ago.”
“Going to Heaven?”
“I don’t meet the qualifications. Highly doubt they're going to waive the hefty entrance fee for a guy like me.”
Eddie’s highly aware of his reputation around town. It’s impossible not to be. He wonders what Steve knows. What he’s heard through the pearl clutching grapevine.
“Jesus died for our sins. He could heal you. I’ve seen it happen—” Steve starts proselytizing.
“It’s cool. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, ‘kay?” Eddie shuts him up quickly before he cries or holds a prayer circle or sends him a burning bush or whatever the fuck, “Let’s cut to the chase. You have popcorn to sell. I’m a potential buyer. You need my money. So, sell it to me, sweetheart. Convince me that I need that popcorn more than I need oxygen to breathe,” he flicks ash at the ground, which Steve frowns at, “I’d expect the Assistant Scoutmaster to be pretty damn good at his job. I’m sure the other kids worship you like you walk on water or something.”
“Not a kid. I’m eighteen,” it’s a useless argument, “That’s the beginning of legal adulthood—for your information.”
He’s such a bitch.
“Oh, I’m very aware you’re legal, but thanks for the reminder,” Eddie snarks back—two can play at this game, “Now, are we gonna stand here chit chatting ‘til the cows come home or are you gonna make yourself some money?”
Steve straightens up, puts on a professional smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and taps the tops of the tins with blunt fingernails as he delivers his commercialized spiel. Designed to lure in customers by pandering to their gluttonous appetites. Nobody on God’s green Earth needs to consume that much popcorn—let alone multiple flavors of it. One tin is enough to feed a family of five for a month and give them the wherewithal to survive the zombie apocalypse.
Which is why, when Mike used to bitch and moan about Eddie and Nancy snacking on his stash, Eddie would shrewdly reassure him that it was for a good cause—that he was feeding the needy; aka Eddie and Nancy. He figured spewing a little bullshit every once in a while didn’t hurt anybody. Mike could dish it—did dish it all the time. It was only fair.
“We offer a total of six tasty flavors, but our best seller is, a fan favorite and timeless classic, caramel corn. It’s crunchy, sweet, and always hits the spot at the end of a long day. Great for a quick and easy midnight snack,” he pauses to yawn and wipe a smudge from his glasses—Eddie imagines cumming on them and making him lick it off like a treat. He’d make such a cute puppy.
Steve sounds bored.
Steve sounds like he’s repeated this same speech a thousand times and the performance is slowly rotting his soul from the inside out.
“Additional options for those with a bit of a sweet tooth are white chocolate and kettle corn—both of which taste amazing. However, if that’s not your thing, no problem. For our savory lovers, we have buffalo cheddar cheese, white cheddar, and the standard; unbelievable butter. But the best part is, each tin is reasonably priced at seven-dollars-and-fifty-cents, which means you can try as many flavors as you please without too much harm coming to your wallet! Remember, every penny spent is a penny you’re contributing to furthering the exploration and development of Hawkins’ local Scout troop.”
Steve sounds like he’d rather be brutally tortured as a prisoner of war trapped in a far off country than participate in this bullshit for the next however many years of his life.
He’s eighteen.
He’s still doing this.
If you think about it, Eddie’s being rather charitable by making this little interaction all the more interesting for him. Breaking up the routine. Throwing a wrench in perfection and demolishing it.
“Bravo. That was certainly something,” Eddie golf claps in slow motion, “Do you give out samples to good boys with lots of money in their wallets?” Eddie purrs, half-chub swelling in the front of his ripped jeans.
His joint is nothing but stubby ash at this point so he drops it to grind into the ground under his foot—looking up at Steve while he does so.
“Don’t worry, junior ranger. I’m responsible. I know my place. Wouldn’t want to start a forest fire. Arson’s not one of my vices, you’re in luck. You won’t have to tattle on me to Chief Hopper. I’ll behave.”
Steve scrunches his nose up incredulously and smacks his lips together, hands coming to rest on his hips.
Pissy asshole. He’s probably never had a genuinely good time in the whole of his eighteen years.
“Great. Which flavor would you like to try?” he sighs exasperatedly, lifting the lids of the sample tins and gathering a couple of paper cups. As if this is the single worst possible way he could be spending the end of a spring afternoon.
“Just one?”
“It’s protocol. Two samples, max. Anything over that and I could get in serious trouble,” he whines.
“Well, we definitely wouldn’t want that.”
“I’m going to pray for you. I hope you know.”
“You should. Someone should. Nobody ever prays for Satan and he's the one who needs it most," Eddie says, "Though as I said, I fear I may be a lost cause.”
“Prayers are only lost on those who don’t believe in the goodness of the Lord,” Steve says earnestly, “If you’re a believer, you can be saved. Only Jesus holds the power to absolve you of your sins.”
Another thing that really shouldn’t turn Eddie on, but here he stands adjusting his cock in his jeans as subtly as possible. Arousal pumping through his veins like molten lava all headed in the same southern direction.
“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Eddie tuts, “Didn’t mean to get you all hot and bothered.”
The phrase is lost on Steve, of course.
“It’s ninety-five degrees out today and I’ve walked over three miles in the heat,” he responds, plainly. Factual. To the point.
“Oh. Well, I was—that’s not—did you want to come in? I have the fan going. AC’s broken, but it’s definitely cooler than out here. We could pop open some sodas while I make my selection?”
“I don’t drink caffeine. Thanks, anyway.”
Of fucking course, you don’t—
“Water, then! How’s a nice cool glass of water and a spot on my couch?” He tries not to sound too glaringly desperate, but his tone pitches significantly higher as the proposition tumbles out, “You’ve gotta be exhausted after towing that thing around all afternoon. Three miles would practically put me into cardiac arrest. Especially in this weather. Why not take a short break? Surely, the Scouts would support that after all you’ve done for them.”
He’s talking straight out of his ass.
Steve hesitates. Shifts. Appears to be assessing the potential for danger in Eddie’s stance. Eddie knows he must look crazed behind the eyes. He must look dejected, at his wits end, burdened by the deep, unhinged desire to touch and be touched by this boy. A drowning man. A scoundrel. The big bad wolf with rows upon rows of deadly teeth.
“I suppose, a short break can’t hurt,” Church Mouse agrees—whether pulled to the decision by curiosity, the need to please, or genuine thirst; Eddie’s not sure for the time being, but he aims to find out.
“I won’t tell, if you don’t. Scout’s honor, sweetheart.”
And, down the rabbit hole, they go.
❋
They’re seated beside each other on the small, paisley print sofa.
The trailer stinks of marijuana—which Eddie seems keen on smoking at an alarmingly constant rate—and inescapable humidity. The box fan in the corner does next to nothing to prevent the heat from acting as a second skin. The trailer isn’t exactly paradise compared to the sweltering conditions outside, but Steve’s innate curiosity has gotten the best of him just like it did in the woods.
Eddie’s decorated the space with a unique flair—boisterous, demanding attention, and unapologetically cluttered. Quite like the man, himself.
Yet, despite the obvious mess, everything seems to have a place.
When he goes looking for a pair of glasses to fill with tap water and a few cubes from the tray of ice he keeps stashed in the freezer; he doesn’t wander over to the set of cupboards above the stove like Steve assumes he will.
Instead, he unhooks two novelty mugs from the rack of odds and ends hanging in the entryway. Hops over a pile of laundry to reach the sink and prepares the drinks as such.
It’s unlike anywhere Steve’s been before.
Profane posters cover the walls. Offensive art pieces—if you can call them that—litter the space as if aimed to convert the viewer to Satanism. Themes of death, nudity, drugs, and sensationalism spread like wildfire across the front room. Clouding Steve’s vision and giving him little else to look at, but his own lap.
There are animal skulls, raw crystals, bundles of dried flowers. The head of a rat acts as the centerpiece to the three-legged kitchen table.
Records and cassette tapes are stacked amongst fantasy novels and pornographic magazines like Eddie’s spent years collecting banned media as a side hobby.
A tattoo gun rests on the counter, which Eddie assures him isn’t a ‘real’ gun and won’t grow legs to tattoo him without consent. Apparently, in his free time he likes to give the neighbors illegal ink for a low rate. Great. Just great.
Needless to say, choosing to sit amongst the disorder feels like an act of sin, in and of itself. His father would kick him out if he knew. On the street with a sack of clothes and five bucks in his pocket—seated miserably on the next bus to nowhere. The backs of his thighs surge with phantom pain; the memory of past infractions. Hard to forget when there are frequent scars and bruises to reconcile.
“Do you live alone?” Steve asks timidly—raking a hand through his hair to push it out of his face and bouncing his knee.
He’s not sure what he wants the answer to be. Whether he’d feel better about this whole situation knowing Eddie had a roommate or not. Whether he’d breathe easier with the knowledge of a secret girlfriend or wife.
“Not entirely.”
He joins Steve, passing him a Garfield mug, and settles comfortably onto the couch with his knees spread wide.
It’s as if he wants to take up as much space as possible to intentionally pester Steve who has one leg crossed neatly over the other. The guy lives to stir up trouble. To break norms, bash tradition, and violate the righteous.
“Do you have a roommate or something?”
A moment passes with Eddie circling the rim of his own mug with a ringed finger. Silver pig making tiny sounds against the ceramic. Steve wishes he wasn’t so hypnotized by it. Those fingers have haunted him for a week and seeing them again isn’t helping his situation.
“Well, Agatha’s my part-time roommate, but she tends to use and abuse me without much thanks. She doesn’t have any manners,” Steve doesn’t say what he’s thinking which is ‘kind of like you,' “She comes by whenever she feels like it, steals my food, scratches the fuck out of my arms when I don’t give her what she wants. Total asshole. Mostly I’m alone. Yeah. But, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate the company every once in a while. Contrary to popular belief, I am human and I do get lonely.”
“Agatha?” Steve arches an eyebrow in question and chokes on the feminine name; mind a blur of paranoia and envy, “Is she—is she your girlfriend?”
There’s a thunderous emotion rising up in his belly, but it’s distinctly separate from how he’d felt watching Eddie berate and intimidate the man in the woods.
This feeling isn’t one that sends blood rushing below the line of his khaki shorts.
This feeling is nameless to Steve. Undefinable. It tastes bitter and vengeful. Substantial. Something he’ll have to pray about, later.
This whole afternoon is turning out to be something he’ll have to spend weeks—maybe, even months—praying about, later. Repenting in the chapel. Burying his head between his elbows and making peace with God. Forgiveness is a road laden with obstacles and Steve’s never been good at looking himself in the mirror. He’d prefer to be two-dimensional, flat, and stagnant. Unafraid of change, because it was never going to come to someone with a story set in stone.
“Girlfriend?” Eddie grins, laughs along to a joke only he’s aware of and Steve flushes crimson at the flash of silver jewelry on his tongue—worn like a regular snake charmer, “She’d definitely resent you saying that,” he pulls his hair up off his neck and into a low bun which shows off the additional piercing—a small silver hoop—hanging from his right ear which seems like a significant choice,“No, ‘fraid not. Nothing of the sort. She’s this stray cat living in the neighborhood. I’ve been taking care of her for the past few years, but it’s always on her terms and she doesn’t like staying indoors for more than two hours. After that, she’s scratching and screaming at the door to demand escape. Hence, why she’s only a ‘part-time’ resident of the Munson household.”
Steve’s not sure why that makes his heart ache. Why his pulse accelerates at the gentle implication that Eddie Munson contains multitudes he’s only just beginning to understand.
“Agatha. I like—I mean—I’ve always really liked animals,” he says softly, as Eddie scoots closer to him on the couch so the outer edges of their knees are bracketing each other like parentheses.
Even in the pews at church, nobody sits this close to each other. The husbands and wives keep a Bible between them to keep up modest appearances around the rest of the congregation.
Eddie’s skin is ghostly pale beneath his virtueless clothing. An ivory canvas destroyed by shameless ink. There are scattered images lining his lanky arms, poking through the shredded places in his black jeans, creeping up the side of his neck and wrapping around the decorated shell of his ear.
Fangs of a succubus above his collarbone. Salivating at the base of his throat. It’s enchanted by the abiding nature of the permanent ink to want for him endlessly. Insatiable hunger that shall never know relief.
A heart shot by an arrow surrounds the name ‘ Wayne ’ and rests on the outside of his tricep.
Steve wonders, pointlessly, who Wayne is. If Wayne is the name of the boy, Eddie vacillates between praising with showered affection and slapping across the face. The boy kneeling in the dirt who looked up at Eddie Munson like the church congregation looks at the eight-foot tall crucifix mounted above the altar.
Impassioned. Subservient. Profound.
Divine.
An owl and rabbit on the delicate insides of his wrists—gorgeously detailed and accompanied by miniature, illegible inscriptions.
“I like animals, too,” he strokes over the creatures surrounded by thin blue veins, “I get along with them better than I do with people. People don’t—uh—don’t tend to flock to me.”
“Me too,” he doesn’t admit the fact that his Scout troops—the kids—are his only friends outside of the people he distantly mingles with on Sundays.
“I’m sweet, though,” he extends his middle finger in Steve’s direction to display a pair of cherries that sit on the knuckle of his middle finger, “Some might disagree, but the proof is permanent.”
Supple. Ripe. Good enough to eat. Summer fruit that stays fresh all year ‘round.
Steve wonders what it would taste like to have Eddie’s finger on his tongue. He’s never wanted anyone’s finger on his tongue. He’s never even bitten his own nails for fear of germs and contamination.
“I don’t know you well enough to say one way or the other. It wouldn’t be fair—”
Eddie drops his voice to a whisper as if anyone, but the finnicky cat will be at risk of hearing them.
“Shh. I’ve been sweet to you. Don’t deny it,” he breathes a mouthful of smoke onto the shell of Steve’s ear while he speaks smoothly; dripping syrupy heat as he continues,“And, I think, deep down beneath all that khaki and your goody two shoes image—I think—you want to be sweet to me, too.”
A tortured whine tries to emerge from the new part of himself. Though, he can’t seem to find the capacity to name it.
Despite dissociating it from his true identity, he knows he wants to sing for Eddie. That much is clear. He yearns to caw and purr and growl like an untamed thing. Take off his clothes and show him all the places where wreckage hides. The evidence of sin. The disillusion of grace.
But, he snaps out of it quickly. Reminds himself that this man is a criminal.
This man is a bandit on the run. This man should be publicly condemned for the things he’s done. This man dances with the Devil and brings others to their knees to do his bidding. This man speaks with an unholy tongue, willingly damns himself, and walks in Satan’s shadow.
This man is cruel. This man is sinister. This man is evil incarnate.
There’s insurmountable blood on his hands. There are skeletons in his closet. There is a malevolent current running through his veins.
Forbidden.
Steve is forbidden to get any closer.
He tells himself this over and over.
His father would not approve. His mother would not approve. The congregation would not approve. God would not approve. Accepting this fate would mean the execution of a comfortable life. A life he knows and believes he loves.
For now.
Even as Eddie wraps an arm around the back of his couch—mere inches from resting across Steve’s broad shoulders.
Even as Eddie rambles on about Agatha, the cat and his unconditional love for her.
Even as Eddie’s thumb tenderly brushes the back of Steve’s sweaty neck in a singular, smooth circle before retreating back to the cushion.
This has to end.
He should never have followed Eddie in through the door. He should never have agreed to leap into the lion’s den knowing there would be consequences.
Steve Harrington is pure.
Steve Harrington is a child of Christ.
Steve Harrington is the Pastor’s son.
Steve Harrington should not want the things he wants.
But, oh, he does.
❋
Eddie’s dick is harder than a fucking rock.
Scratch that— Eddie’s dick is harder than a fucking boulder tumbling its’ way down from the tippy top of the summit on Mount Fucking Everest.
He’s hornier than he’s been in a goddamn century and it’s crazy, because this kid—Steve—is fully clothed next to him.
In head to toe khaki, no less.
There has to be something seriously wrong with him. Maybe Nancy's right. Maybe he should pay a visit to the local shrink—if only he could afford it; shit’s expensive.
Usually, Eddie gets off once or twice a day—depending on his work schedule, how much weed he’s smoked, if he’s been able to convince one of his devoted patrons to suck his cock for a discount on the high-quality goods Rick provides him to sell or not—but, right now, after ‘accidentally ’ brushing the flat part of his thumb across the nape of Harrington’s neck; a cool breeze could probably make him jizz his pants like he did a handful of times as a teenager.
And, yeah, Eddie’s not an arsonist, but that’s not to say he doesn’t like lighting things on fire. Like algebra textbooks, cigarettes, and pretty boys who are far too young and naive to spell anything but trouble for him.
“That’s the last one,” Steve says, stacking up the six empty sample cups on the coffee table—Eddie convinced him to let him try all of them—when he bends forward his shirt rucks up and Eddie’s both disappointed and aroused by the fact that he has a crisp white undershirt tucked into the high waistband of his shorts, “Which flavors would you like to order and how many of each? They’ll be delivered to your door within the next two weeks or so.”
“Does that mean I get to see you again as my delivery boy?”
“That’s the troops’ job. Let me remind you, I’m not a troop. I’m the—”
“Assistant Scoutmaster. I get it. You’ve tattooed it inside my brain. I’m fucking around.”
“You’re difficult to read. I don’t typically interact with people who joke around the way you do,” Steve shuffles in his seat and when his hip bumps into Eddie’s so they’re pressed side to side, he doesn’t move away which has to be on purpose, “Nevermind. What’ll it be?”
Steve’s eyebrows are raised as he waits for Eddie’s answer. Ticonderoga poised over the form to tally up his bill and take down his address for future delivery. The pencil’s missing its eraser, so Eddie really needs to think this through.
This is permanent. This is terminal. As enduring as the thick black ink lining his pale skin. As immortal as grief, guilt, and a little thing called—love.
Fucking popcorn.
“I’ll take—”
Eddie pauses.
He’s barely scraping by as is. Business hasn’t exactly been great lately, not with Hawkins PD’s increasing suspicion around Rick’s operation. Money’s tight. Tighter than it’s been since he was a kid and Wayne was working daily doubles to keep the lights on and the fridge cold.
Unfortunately, Eddie’s also a sucker for pouty lips, overripe fruit, and apparently, boys named Steve Harrington in fucking khaki.
“Um, wait. How much popcorn did you say you still needed to sell for your ‘adventure palooza super extravaganza’ thing?”
“It’s the end of summer adventure trip, not extravaganza,” Steve amends in his bitchy little tone that makes Eddie want to strangle him. Gag him on his tighty whities until he’s red in the face.
“My apologies, didn’t mean to offend your people,” Eddie rolls his eyes and messes with a strand of hair that the fan keeps blowing too close to his mouth, “How many for the adventure trip ? What’s left—another, five or six tins? With that speech you gave earlier, I’m sure this shit’s selling like Wonder Bread.”
He chews on the side of his thumb. Bad habit. Thin skin. Spit slick and rude with a guest around.
He doesn’t care.
He wants Steve and he wants him to know how wanted he is. He wants him to know much he wants to stick his long, musical fingers in his mouth so his pretty baby has something nice to suck on while he gets deflowered.
“Oh, gosh no,” who the fuck says ‘gosh,’ “The troop needs to sell at least fifty more tins, but this year, it’s seeming like we might have to dig into our own pockets to make that happen,” Steve frowns in genuine disappointment over the fucking popcorn, “People aren’t buying as much as they normally do. Can’t figure out why. Maybe we’d have better luck with ice cream. It’s been so hot out,” Steve rambles and Eddie can tell this shit actually means something to him—it matters, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to ramble. That was probably way more information than you wanted.”
“Why wouldn’t I want you to ramble? You have a pretty voice, Steve.”
Compliments hit him like a shot of whiskey and, for a boy who probably doesn’t drink much, the reaction is strong. Potent. Gets him fuzzy and porous. Anything could slip in and convince him to overthrow that lengthy list of morals he sits high and mighty upon.
“Pretty—um. Boys can’t be—boys aren’t pretty. That word is for girls and boys aren’t supposed to say it to other boys. Just, um, so you know. In case you didn’t—”
“Aw, that’s cute. You’re trying to save me,” Eddie postures as a damsel in distress; batting his lashes in Steve’s direction, “Haven’t been struck down yet, have I?”
“Um—”
A vein pops on the side of Steve’s neck. Pulsing with life and fear. Eddie, preemptively, decides that he has to lick it or he’s going to die.
Around Steve Harrington, Assistant Scoutmaster Extraordinaire; his inhibitions are scaleless, his natural affinity for flirtatious banter escalates past a reasonable boiling point, the motivation to toy and tease informs every decision he makes. He’s volatile. Destructive. Bull in a chinashop.
“Baby, how badly do you wanna sell those fifty tins?”
He thumbs over Steve’s nape, again. Imagines sucking the finger into his mouth to taste and then rubbing it over the kid’s full bottom lip. He’s soft. Sweat slick. The tendrils of his hair tickle the back of Eddie’s wrist.
He doesn’t flinch away. And, perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but Eddie swears he leans back into the touch. Asking for more.
“Really badly. I want my kids to have the opportunity to go to Philmont—it’s the coolest place. There’s a zipline course and nightly campfires and canoe racing. It’s like something out of a dream,” he says, and oh—Eddie’s such an asshole. Identifying Steve Harrington’s weak spot like a splotch of dried blood on crisp white linens.
“Then, how’s this? I will buy every last tin—all fifty, in cash. That’s three-hundred-and-seventy-five dollars,” Steve’s eyes practically pop out of his skull at the utterance of the number and Eddie thinks the kid might break down in tears over a small town dream come true, so he cuts to the chase, “If and only if, you give me something in return. A favor for a favor, let’s say.”
Steve leans into him. Fully presses his weight into Eddie’s side and turns to face him with a dopey look. It’s like he’s smoked too much and now everything’s making him giddy except the only thing that’s entered his body since he arrived on the porch is tap water and Eddie’s filthy words.
Yet, he bounces on the couch in childlike excitement which makes his perky tits jiggle beneath the khaki and Eddie openly stares without remorse. Gravitating towards him like a swinging pendulum. He keeps the pad of his thumb pressed to the nape of his neck and inhales, oh fuck, his natural scent. As musky and humid as suspected.
“You’d—you’d do that for the Scouts? Are you serious? That would, like, that would be incredibly generous of you. Thank you so m—” he glazes over and forgets the fact that he hasn’t heard the stipulations of their agreement.
“Woah, woah, woah. Slow down. I’m not a saint,” Eddie pinches the back of his neck between two fingers to get his attention and Steve flat out yelps like a wounded animal—glasses askew on his face, “An eye for an eye, right? That’s what they say in that holy book of yours. You have to do your part to earn your reward, Little Lamb. Sacrifice for the greater good.”
“And, what’s—what’s that? What do I have to do for you, Mr. Munson?”
“Dude, chill. I’m only a few years older than you. Mr. Munson makes me sound old as shit. Eddie’s fine. I’m not a fucking dinosaur—”
A few years, seven years—same difference.
“—and, oh, it’s simple, really. Nothing crazy,” Steve tenses up and Eddie hushes him which really isn’t helping the whole age gap issue, “Don’t worry, I’ll play fair. No tricks up these sleeves. All you have to do is answer three questions while I rub out this big knot out of your neck,” he presses down on the spot with a trio of fingers to emphasize his point and rubs in a circular motion like he’s working at a girl’s clit, “You seem stressed and I just, I’d feel like a real asshole if I sent you on your merry way without helping you relax. I know I can be kind of—oh, what’s the word—intimidating? I can’t blame you for getting worked up. And, once I’m done here, you’ll have all the cash you need riding along in your little red wagon. Philips Ranch, here you come.”
“Philmont Ranch. And, that’s—that’s really all I have to do? I don’t see what could possibly be in it for you.”
“Therein lies the magic, Steve Harrington. Let the mystery remain a mystery.”
❋
Three questions for three-hundred-and-seventy-five dollars.
And, a...neck massage?
The rules of the game seem suspiciously stacked in Steve’s favor. Unfairly so. Especially for a guy like Eddie who is scarily fluent in the languages of conning, scheming, and fraudulent behavior.
But, he’d have to be an actual idiot to pass up the opportunity to award the Scouts with that much money for their upcoming trip to Philmont Ranch.
Dustin, Mike, Lucas, and Will cross his mind.
Their smiling faces. The laughs they’d share. Late nights by the campfire spent stargazing and roasting s’mores. Rehashing the events of the day—hikes to waterfalls, tree climbing accomplishments, cabin shenanigans, and inside jokes. Sipping apple juice and passing around the banjo which none of them play very well, but the fun is in trying to make music that sounds even halfway decent.
Eddie Munson is willing to give him that.
To give his troops that.
So, Steve listens. Obeys. Lays back against Eddie’s couch and assumes the position as he gets up to stand behind him.
Because, if there’s one thing he’d never do, it’s deny his Scouts—the best and only friends he’d ever had—the experience of a lifetime. Whatever he has to suffer through in the meantime is worth it.
Maybe, suffer, isn’t the right word—
Maybe, suffer, isn’t entirely the truth—
Eddie’s hands are tentative, at first. Gentle. Like the wings of a moth landing on his chest. Candenced. Deliberate. Hardly noticeable if he weren’t breathing hotly against Steve’s hair. Maneuvering with a certain surgical precision that transports Steve to the waiting room of a doctor’s office. Visit for a routine check-up. Due for maintenance. It happens all the time. There’s nothing to be afraid of here.
“Shirt’s too tight,” Eddie runs his fingers under the collar and wiggles them to examine the fit—barely able to move which apparently isn’t suitable for a massage of this fashion, “Gonna have to loosen you up so I can get my hands inside where I need them.”
“I’m not taking my shirt off—” Steve protectively jerks away from Eddie who pulls him back in a furtive game of cat and mouse.
“Stop bratting out. Nobody said anything about making you strip down to your tighty fucking whities, sweetheart. Lighten up and c’mere.”
Now overly aware of the exact style and color of his underwear, Steve glances to his lower half to make sure his clothes are still on, because how else should Eddie know what type of underwear his mom keeps stocked in his top drawer.
Steve leans back into the sofa, sucks a breath in helplessly, and focuses on the sound of the fan whirring pitifully on its last leg.
“Mmm,” his captor hums, “Good boy. Scouts taught you well.”
Steve’s body goes slack.
Like a ragdoll. Like a puppet for Eddie to necromance and fill with nightmares.
His eyes roll back. There’s a rush of heat to his core—flooding with abundant warmth and innate thirst for more.
He takes on an identity of longing.
Shapeshifts into a creature of ceaseless want. Tucks his lip into his teeth and bites down to prevent the shock of a scream. In a sprawling fantasy Steve envisions things he’s only heard whispered about by folks that never stuck around long as members of the congregation. Banished. Rumored to be perverts, pedophiles, and addicts.
“Good boy? Your good boy?” he’s uncharacteristically sleepy for an hour as early as this; yawning into the crook of an elbow.
“I thought I was the one asking questions, today, Harrington.”
There’s a velvet drawl hugging his tone. It wraps Steve up in a warm embrace and shoves a spoonful of sugar under his tongue to make the medicine easier to swallow.
“Sorry, sir.”
Eddie doesn’t correct his manners. Makes a thoughtful little ‘hm’ and continues on like nothing out of the ordinary happened.
“Let’s keep that anxious mind occupied while I do this. Otherwise, I’m going to have to tie you up and—as skilled as I’m sure you are at knots—I doubt you’d be very happy with me–”
“I have the expert level badge for knot tying,” Steve interrupts and locates it on his merit sash in hopes that Eddie will tell him how good he is again—maybe even say that magic phrase, “ ‘s this one. Worked hard for it.”
Tongue tied, Eddie sputters. Leans over Steve’s shoulder to investigate the badge, but doesn’t touch the way Steve kind of wants him to. Remedies the moment by patting the couch next to his shoulder and muttering a ‘congrats.’
The longer Steve hangs around, the more light is shed on Eddie’s mercurial attitude. The ups and downs. Highs and lows. As varied and maladapt as the temperament of a tropical storm. Completely unpredictable. A punch or a kiss are just as likely.
Not that Steve would kiss him.
“First question. Has anyone ever seen you naked?” as Steve opens his mouth to answer, Eddie amends, “Besides the obvious; parents, doctors, other guys in the locker room at school. Those don’t count.”
Eddie doesn’t know Steve was homeschooled, but he doesn’t want to hear an earful about how strange that is compared to the mainstream kids who followed the bus route to and from Hawkins High for four years.
“What does count?”
“You really need me to spell it out for you?”
Eddie sighs, ignores Steve’s panicked silence, and runs his thumbs over that spot on Steve’s neck that he seems a bit too fond of.
“Getting naked for sexual purposes, Steve. Getting naked to fuck or grind or stare at each other’s parts because you got curious. Hell—I’d even say skinny dipping counts. Ever done a thing like that?”
“No. I’m saving myself for marriage,” Steve holds up his left hand for Eddie to see the ring.
“Of course you are, sweetheart. That’s what makes you so good.”
The fuzzy feeling spreads throughout Steve’s body at the additional praise. Remedies his fears. Gets in deep between his tensing muscles and Eddie hasn’t even started properly rubbing out his neck. A domino falls somewhere deep within him and triggers a satisfying catastrophe.
His eyes go heavy. His arms tingle pleasantly. The room is lit only by a couple of candles on the mantle and the dying sun.
“Thank you for answering honestly. Only two more questions and I’ll let you go.”
“Mhmm. Yes, sir.”
Any remaining opposition disappears the moment Eddie reaches around to undo the top two buttons on Steve’s uniform shirt like he’s a mother helping her child get dressed for Sunday school.
That’s what Steve’s mom did until he was fourteen or fifteen and she, finally, gave into the idea of her son picking out his own outfits for church. In place of dressing him herself, she analyzed him for error before allowing him to step out the front door. Kept a keen eye out for wrinkles, creases, lint, stray threads, mismatched socks.
Suffice it to say, Steve learned quickly that it was best to color inside the lines where his parents were involved.
When Eddie’s hands start working at the taut muscles along Steve’s neck and shoulders, his mind fully drifts.
He loses sense of time, space, reason.
“You’re so tight, baby boy,” the pet name sends electricity below Steve’s navel as Eddie’s thumbs rub deeper, “Need someone to take care of you more often. You got a girlfriend over at that church of yours? Hm?”
“Is that the second question?”
It’s hard to keep track. Hard to remember a lick of information with Eddie’s palms kneading at his skin and persuading an unexpected moan to purr out from the base of his throat. He makes a squeak of embarrassment.
“Shh. It’s okay. It feels nice, sweetheart. Why shouldn’t it? Make all the noise you need,” Eddie digs in and Steve physically feels himself unwind like a spool of tangled yarn, “Yes. That’s your second question.”
“No girlfriend. I’ve been on a f-few dates, but they were chaperoned by my parents. Never had a girlfriend.”
Eddie’s giving him vertigo. Whiplash. Uses his well-intentioned hands as a sedative to keep Steve’s mind off of the growing erection in his khaki shorts. The swell of it. The ache. How all consuming the urge to find friction becomes.
“Would you look at that—we have something in common,” he creates a false sense of closeness between them and Steve forces himself to remember whose fingers are actively memorizing the map of constellations on his neck—Eddie Munson; criminal, thief, liar, Satanist, “I’ve never had a girlfriend, either. Go figure. The freak and the Scout aren’t so different after all.”
The caveat of the man on his knees doesn’t help Steve’s surprise. Certainly, a man as handsome and domineering as Eddie, would have won a girl over by now. If not by charm, then by force or threat.
And, then, it occurs to him—lines crossing, points connecting, everything converging in a backlit flash—
“What about Chrissy Cunningham? She was your girlfriend, wasn’t she?”
Steve hears the old rumors in his ear. Distant and garbled.
Chrissy’s parents sat in the front row—mourning in all black. Mrs. Cunningham’s face was veiled. Mr. Cunningham blew his nose into a floral handkerchief found in his daughter’s bedroom. He said it smelled like her perfume.
Steve’s father reverently blessed the closed casket. Speaking in tongues, channeling the Holy Spirit as he put her to rest.
Her body was too broken, too gory, too unrecognizable to be viewed by the already, disturbed, public.
Memories of protest, rage, tragedy, and Jason Carver sobbing at the altar. Blonde hair sticking straight up, eyes rimmed red, and burning with hatred as he passed the blame to a boy Chrissy had been seen with down by the lake—
Eddie Munson.
It was during the eulogy that Steve heard his name for the first time.
It was during the eulogy that Steve started associating evil with the boy who was said to leave Hell in his wake.
Lover’s Lake.
The spot Hawkins’ residents went to escape the heat, find respite on the shoreline with their toes in the sand, and eat sub sandwiches from picnic baskets.
That’s where Chrissy was said to have ran off to on the scorching afternoon that preluded her death.
With Eddie Munson—
Had he kissed her? Touched her? Stolen her purity like everyone claimed? Performed a Satanic ritual to lead her away from God and into the arms of something far more sinister?
The trial took months.
People spoke in hushed tones. Paranoia spread like a disease. Doors were locked. Security alarms purchased in bulk. No one felt safe anymore. The church was at capacity. Standing room only. Fuller than it was on Christmas and Easter which Steve had never dreamed possible.
Jason Carver was the last person anyone suspected.
The doting boyfriend.
The future husband.
The town hero.
Until, after hours and hours of deliberation and evidence and woeful testimony, Eddie Munson walked free.
No handcuffs. Clean slate. Out of the courthouse and back into society without so much as a mark on his record.
And, Jason—
Jason’s dirty fingerprints sent him to prison for the rest of his life.
The congregation was none too happy about that.
“Don’t talk about her. She’s off limits.”
It’s less a request than an order.
He’s struck a nerve. It makes him feel guilty.
Worse though, he’s blundered the opportunity to get Eddie to talk about something real. Something honest.
To bypass his antics, theatrics, and melodrama and locate the missing piece of the story. The missing piece to who this man really is beneath the curls, silver, and inky distraction.
“Eddie,” his name tastes sour and gaunt—past the expiration date, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep—”
“You should leave. It’s late. The sun’s about to set. I’ll get you the money and you can go. I shouldn’t have fucked around with you in the first place.”
The absence of his touch is as startling as its initial presence.
Steve doesn’t want to leave.
He wants to bang his fists against the shoddy coffee table and beg Eddie to let him stay a little longer. To chat face to face like real people. Like real friends. To get answers and meet in the middle.
Eddie’s standing in front of him. Pulling him to his feet. Frantically buttoning up his shirt and dusting lint off his shoulders in lieu of explanation. He pushes his glasses up on his nose for him and tucks a thick wad of cash into the pocket of his shorts without counting the bills.
“Eddie—”
“Look, I’m trying to be as cordial about this as I can be, but I’ve—you gotta go. This isn’t up for debate,” he hurries Steve along.
“It was a mistake. I didn’t know—”
“Steve,” he grabs him by the shoulders, “Go home. ”
“But, you never asked me the third question.”
Steve needs a nap. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to sleep on Eddie’s paisley couch or the stained carpet in front of the failing box fan.
“Safe travels. Stay out of trouble,” Eddie ignores him; blankly staring, “Good luck, Church Mouse. Don’t come back here.”
The door slams shut.
Steve Harrington walks home alone.
Sun at his back. Knife in his side.
❋
“Are you ill? You look ill, Eddie,” Karen hovers over him with the absolute love and terrifying affection only a mother could possess, “Do you think it was the chicken? The green beans? You don’t eat enough vegetables—I keep telling you, your body is going to go into shock one of these days—”
“Dinner was delicious. It’s not the food and I’m not sick. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”
Karen doesn’t take that statement lightly.
“Oh for fuck’s sake! Who’d you knock up? Or, is it drugs? Did someone overdose? Don’t tell me—did Mike get a cucumber stuck up his ass, again? I refuse to pay another one of those hospital bills—”
“Mom! Please! My friends are here!”
“Keep the produce section out of your orifices, son!”
Mike groans as the rest of The Party snickers and jokes at his expense.
They all know the story. They were there—crowded together in the back of Eddie’s van trying to calm the cucumber victim down—when he picked up the little shits from Dustin’s house, because an ‘unspeakable emergency’ needed to be taken care of by a ‘responsible adult’ and Mike was hellbent on not telling Karen.
She found out anyway, because the hospital needed to inform a legal guardian of the incident for billing purposes.
“One, I didn’t knock anyone up. Two, no drugs were involved. And, three, if Mike gets a cucumber stuck up his ass again, that’s his own damn fault and I’m not playing ‘ER rescue mission’ to get him out of it like last time,” Eddie snacks on a piece of homemade challah and dips it in a vat of hummus.
“I offered to drive,” Max says, like it was ever a feasible option.
“Then we really would’ve needed an ambulance,” Lucas quips through a mouthful of vanilla pudding.
“You’re going to need one if you keep up the attitude, Sinclair,” Max swats him like a mosquito.
“Quit it! You sound like Steve. I don’t need two babysitters. One is more than enough.”
It was bound to come up sooner rather than later. Eddie just didn’t expect to feel so gutted at the sound of his name.
“Steve’s cute,” Max is obviously trying to get a rise out of Lucas who has been her off and on boyfriend for the past six months—currently off.
“Harrington ?” Dustin gawks in defense of his friend, “No way! Steve Harrington is the opposite of cute.”
“I agree with Max. He’s handsome. I like his smile,” El rushes to pledge her allegiance, because Mike’s been a dick about making their relationship ‘official’ despite Eddie’s best efforts to counsel him on the matter.
Karen clinks her fork against her wine glass and sloshes a bit onto her plate which she mutters, "Christ on a Cross" at, before addressing the table.
“Ladies, that boy is way too old for you and trust me—you don’t want to get anywhere near that church his Daddy runs,” she eyes them with a warning and notably, doesn’t mention Chrissy’s name though it sits between them like an elephant, “and, gentlemen,” she glares through the dramatic lens of false eyelashes and fire engine red lipstick, “treat your ladies with respect, or they might just leave you for the sexy plumber with a Brooklyn accent.”
“What the shit, Mom? Did you have to go there?” Mike again slams his head into the safe haven of his elbows.
“I’m teaching you all an important lesson, Michael,” he hates when she uses his full name, “No son of mine is going to be a lousy ass cheater and that includes my adopted sons. Watch it,” she finishes her glass of wine.
Karen, of course, is referencing the end of her own marriage.
Ted was out of town on business. Mike clogged the toilet. Nancy called a random plumber from the Yellow Pages and, by the time Ted arrived home, Karen had his stuff all boxed up and put out on the lawn.
Which, really, Ted should have seen coming, since he’d been cheating on Karen with his executive assistant for the better part of a year.
“Now, go play downstairs. I need to have an adults only conversation with Eddie,” Karen throws a piece of challah at Mike’s head as the kids get up in a flurry to clean their plates and disappear down to the basement, “and make sure to include Holly!” she calls after them, “I don’t want her getting left out! Assholes don’t get into Heaven!”
“I thought Jews didn’t believe in Heaven?” Will asks as he passes the table; also having grown up Jewish.
“We don’t, sugar, but Mike doesn’t know that. I’ve been borrowing that one from the Christians since he was little to scare him into behaving.”
“Got it!” Will scurries after his friends, yelling, “Mike—we have to get into Heaven! Go find Holly for game night!”
Karen swivels around in her chair. Passes Eddie a cigarette after lighting her own. The kids' voices can be heard faintly roaring with laughter and ill timed jokes. Dustin and Lucas are arguing about which movie they want to watch later on in the evening and everything should feel perfectly fine.
This is his home away from home. This is his family, for better or worse. Chosen, instead of given to him by blood. The Wheelers, Mike’s misfit friends, and Uncle Wayne.
“Okay. What gives? You’ve been pouting since you got here. Don’t make me pull teeth. I’m your mother—I know when something’s bothering one of my babies,” she cups his face and blows smoke over her left shoulder.
Eddie wishes he could tell her the truth, but that would involve discussing how Steve ended up on his couch in the first place and that’s not a conversation he’s willing to delve into at the moment.
Especially not when it makes him sound like a total perv and weirdo—which, maybe he is.
He never claimed to be an angel. That said, confessing one’s sins to their maker—aka, Karen, who basically raised him alongside Wayne—isn’t always easy.
“It’s Chrissy shit,” he takes a long drag off his cigarette and coughs to give himself time to think about what he wants to say next, “Someone asked me about her the other day.”
Karen wears a strong poker face, but there’s a gleam in her eyes that conveys how she really feels—devastated, heartbroken, still just as shocked and confused as the day it happened.
“Were they asking about your involvement with the trial?”
She navigates carefully.
“No,” Eddie says solemnly; playing with his rings to process the rigid anxiety paralyzing his body, “They wanted to know if I ever dated her. If she was my girlfriend,” Karen inhales sharply, “I freaked out. I started panicking. Y’know. It was an innocent question—I don’t think the person meant to hurt me, but—”
He trails off.
Steve’s perplexed expression is taxidermied inside his brain. Haunts him like a ghost. Frozen and stuck in subspace as Eddie pushed him out the door with little purpose, explanation, or formality.
He couldn’t stand it.
He couldn’t allow Steve to witness him at his worst. They hardly knew each other—mere acquaintances who stumbled upon each other at the wrong place and time.
“Baby dove,” Karen stills his hands with hers across the table and leads him through a few deep breaths, “Grief takes time. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I was cruel. I shouldn’t have been so cruel.”
She lowers her voice conspiratorially and squeezes.
“Have you ever heard of second chances?”
❋
Steve goes back to Eddie’s trailer.
He waits four days. It almost kills him. He’s a nervous wreck. Impatient. Snaps at his parents. Gets the belt across his thighs. Presses on the resulting bruises when he’s alone, because if he can’t touch himself where he wants to—where he wants Eddie to—then this will have to do.
Steve thinks of Eddie when his father hits him.
While the leather stings his tender skin.
Thinks of Eddie’s sharp teeth and the bite marks they’d leave behind. Imagines Eddie holding him down for punishment and whispering that idyllic phrase—good boy—into his reddening ears.
How much more beautiful that would be than his torturous reality.
The Devil has taken over—that’s why Steve wants these things.
That’s why he craves destruction and casual massacre. His blood on another man’s teeth like a sugar coated delicacy. To be won at the fair, savored, and exuberant under the twinkling ferris wheel lights.
The Devil’s name is Eddie Munson and his hands were crafted in Heaven.
The Devil owns his body and Steve’s hopes to perform exorcism via method of dedicated prayer is proving futile. Virtually useless as the arousing virus continues to swell between his legs. Thick and pulsating with a pain unlike any other.
Erection; that’s what the older Scouts used to call it.
This disease. This incurable sickness.
Steve’s pajama pants won’t stop tenting with an erection—stiff, hot, uncomfortable—whenever the intrusive thoughts win and he envisions the lurid details of a certain man’s cocky attitude.
He knows what happens if he touches himself down there. Below the starched cotton of his plain white briefs. Through the thicket of soft brown hair.
He knows it’s an agreement to walk with Satan.
To join him like a thief in the night, raping and pillaging his own innocence. Purity forgotten under the impulse to stroke and burn.
His parents sat him down the day he turned twelve. Told him that his body would change and that there would be temptations to touch and that he must fight against them or there would be serious consequences like eternal damnation and a one way ticket to Hell:
“When you marry, you will consummate the holy union with your wife. Only then, once you’ve been properly wed in the church, should she touch you there—so you may impregnate her with children under His divine guidance and blessing.”
Steve remembers his father sitting tall at the kitchen table; remembers how afraid he was to do wrong in front of the most devout man in town.
Remembers thinking about getting his future wife pregnant and vomiting birthday sprinkles into the sink. Not understanding the connection at the time. Reciting psalms as the paddle came down on his backside and his father counted to twenty. Starting from the top whenever Steve faltered.
Bile still around his mouth from retching out the secrets he couldn’t admit to himself.
Secrets he was able to keep until he wandered into the woods by fate or chance.
❋
It’s a smoother trip, this time.
There’s no hefty wagon to haul with him. No popcorn to sell or samples to pass out in tiny paper cups. No fake smile to employ for prospective buyers. No volcanic blisters on his heels to slow his pace.
Steve drives which alleviates the potential for heatstroke and exhaustion. Freshly showered and clean and smelling far less like B.O. A spritz of his dad’s cologne on his collarbones.
He hopes Eddie will notice the difference—the efforts he’s made to be presentable.
Steve tells his parents he’s attending a last minute Scout meeting. Fabricates a story about Hopper coming down with a nasty cold and needing to fill in as ‘Acting Scoutmaster’ for the better part of the afternoon.
They don’t question the legitimacy of his claims. His mother keeps her eyes on the stew she’s preparing and his father doesn’t look up from the local paper. Steve’s not the type to sneak out, deceive, or get involved with the ‘wrong’ crowd.
He’s a God fearing boy from a God fearing family. He knows the rules and follows them in a straight, perfect line. There’s no reason for his parents to assume he’s going to fail them now.
Little do they know…
Steve promises to be back before dinner. The guilt makes him nauseous. He’s never done anything like this.
Steve wears his uniform.
Partly, because it’s much more convincing if he’s allegedly headed to the campsite for official business—dressing to code is mandated for all Scouts, but especially those in leadership roles, like Steve.
Mostly, because Eddie complimented his uniform—or at least, he thinks he did, he’d called it ‘slutty’—and glued his eyes to Steve’s khaki shorts like they were made of designer silk. Something to be coveted.
Eddie told him not to come back.
Eddie told him to stay out of trouble and this is the very definition of it.
When Steve pulls up outside his place and turns the key to remove it from the ignition, he’s taking out the trash on the side of the trailer. Where weeds grow in dying patches as if the sheer proximity to the home of unapologetic sin is killing them. Spoiled rotten by Eddie’s shameless irreverence.
His curls are piled in a messy bun; a few hanging loose around the tops of his cheekbones. Tied up like a ballerina that woke up late for practice and didn’t have time to bother with the formalities of hairspray and intricate bobby pins.
In threadbare sweatpants and a white tank top—that’s incredibly see through in the sun—Eddie appears relaxed. Casual if not a bit downtrodden. Lacking the telltale arrogance that usually trails him like big city smog.
Steve tries not to look at Eddie’s nipples, but they’re pierced with silver barbells that beg for attention and naturally, he’s curious—
He wonders if it hurts to have fabric brushing against them. If it makes him shiver and whine like Steve sometimes does when he soaps up his chest in the shower. He wonders where one would even go to get a thing like that done. Why it would be necessary.
Eddie’s halfway up the stairs to the front door when Steve staggers back to life, jumps out of the car, and calls his name.
No turning back now.
Shielding his eyes with one hand and pinching a cigarette between two fingers of the other, Eddie turns to face the guest he didn’t invite. Impossible to read. Stoic as a statue.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he leans against the railing of the porch stairs, “I thought you were an undercover cop.”
Steve doesn’t ask why an undercover cop would have any interest in staking out Eddie’s trailer, but it definitely comes to mind.
“Doesn’t look like it. You hardly flinched.”
He wanders over to stand in front of him—leaving several feet between them, because if he stands any closer he fears he’ll fall under that hazy spell again. The one that made his head feel full of cotton and his body obey Eddie’s every command.
The one that made him ache for Eddie to claim him as his good boy.
“What are you doing here, Harrington?” His name is spoken like an insult, “Come back to save my soul? I told you to stay away, didn’t I?”
A muscle in Eddie’s jaw twitches. He sucks in smoke and blows a cloud of it into Steve’s face as if he’s about to perform a vanishing act.
It’s mean. It’s a trick a bully would pull.
Steve likes it.
Steve leans into it—lets the smoke fill his nose and tickle his lungs. Sees through the facade. Opens his eyes and Eddie’s still standing there. Pissed off. Hip cocked to the side. Nails chipping black.
“Kinda rude to blow me off like that. Don’t y’think?”
Steve impersonates Eddie; reckoning back to their last meeting when the roles had been reversed.
There’s a curious smile on Eddie’s face. It’s subtle, but it’s something.
It’s an in.
“Well played. I’ll give you that,” there’s a distracted sense to the way he says it; like Steve’s an out of focus figure on his list of priorities, “you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here, though.”
“You never asked me the third question,” Steve kicks a rock with his shoe and lies through his teeth, “I was on my way home from a Scouts thing and thought I’d stop by.”
“I gave you the money, Harrington. You got what you came for. I’m not really in the mood to fuck around right now,” he frowns, “I’ve got shit to do.”
“I won’t bother you for long. Give me five minutes, ask me the question—I’ll answer, and then, I’ll be out of your hair!”
“My end of the deal’s been taken care of.”
He stubbornly shakes his head at the ground causing a couple more curls to come loose and Steve’s automatically compelled by the trepidatious desire to tuck the orphaned strands behind his pierced ear.
“Sure—"
The particular angle of the sun, at this hour, overlaps their shadows in the dirt—like the scene before a shootout in an old western movie. Tension at its peak. Laced with romantic violence and concluding with a bullet lodged in the antagonist’s heart.
“—but, you didn’t. Fair is fair. Three questions for three-hundred-and-seventy-five dollars. I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking what I didn’t rightfully earn. That’s not how my parents raised me. It would be a—a sin.”
Eddie drags his free hand over his face and Steve notices black makeup ringing his eyes.
It’s smudged out. Smoky like the dying embers of a late night campfire. Like the campfires his troops will get to have at Philmont Ranch thanks to the Devil, himself.
An homage to his morosity. Eddie exudes messy elegance, an undead beauty, and muted gore.
He’d fit right in at a cemetery.
Boys aren’t supposed to wear makeup.
Boys aren’t supposed to do any of the things Eddie Munson does, but as he’d said, days ago, he’s ‘yet to be struck down.’
“This really isn’t the place for someone like you,” he raps his knuckles against the railing as a scrappy dog howls in the distance, “I’m not good company to keep.”
“What’s that mean—someone like me ?” Steve implores, feeling a bit silly in the uniform he’d worn just to impress someone who doesn’t look all that impressed or interested in the slightest.
“You know exactly what it means,” Eddie impolitely spits phlegm over the porch and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth while maintaining stringent eye contact, “You’re the Pastor’s son. You’re a fucking prude. You’re waiting for marriage, sweetheart. You’re the little Prince of Hawkins, Indiana,” Steve’s khakis fit tighter as Eddie continues—reacting too easily to the name calling which doesn’t make a lick of sense, “People like you and I don’t stay friends for long.”
“But, you said you needed a friend—” Steve tries to climb the stairs to reach him; to grab his hand and draw a line of connection. To make nice and play.
“I changed my mind,” Eddie puts his hands up to form an imaginary barrier and Steve wonders if he’d actually shove him if he stepped any closer, but he keeps his feet planted—too afraid to find out, “so, you can quit throwing yourself a pity party and move along to the next victim.”
It’s eating him alive.
Steve has to find out what would have happened had he not brought up Chrissy Cunningham and the rumors that used to swirl around her name and Eddie’s or he’ll never get a normal night of sleep, again.
“Question number three. What was it? What were you going to ask me? You don’t have to be my friend, but can’t you give me that?”
“Steve—I’m not—I’m not doing this, man. I’m not. I don’t even remember—”
“No, Eddie! You do remember! I know you do! You just don’t want to ask me, because I said her name,” he doesn’t dare make the same mistake twice, “and I don’t know what happened between you two, but—”
Eddie straightens, stalks up the last step and tightens a fist at his side. Cigarette burning into nothing but a dead end in his opposite hand.
For a half second, Steve thinks he’s going to punch him.
“I said I was sorry and I am, Eddie! I wasn’t thinking. My head was all fuzzy and weird from the massage—I–I can’t explain it—”
Upon mention of the massage, Eddie’s face crumbles, softens, and it’s evident in the crease between his brows that there’s something he wants to say, but can’t quite find the words for. Unable to articulate the thing decomposing inside of him before it’s a lost cause. Swallowed up by ash and dust and impending moonlight.
“I don’t want to be your enemy,” Steve pleads in an attempt to remedy the damage he’s done.
“You’re not my enemy, Steve,” Eddie says as the door creaks open; a deep sorrow emanates from him as he tosses Steve to the wind and her unlikely currents, “but, I’m asking you to let me play the good guy for once.”
For the second time that week, Eddie’s door slams shut.
❋
Eddie breaks his own rule, which is just about some of the dumbest shit he’s ever done.
Because, like, he knows better than to think he can simply waltz on into Steve Harrington’s stomping grounds without reinstating his perverted fascination to the max.
He absolutely knows better than to agree to be Nancy’s plus one to Mike’s Star Scout ceremony, which Steve is not only in attendance for, but stands center stage for the entire duration of—helping pass out merit badges and tediously relighting the seven candles that represent truth and knowledge and honor and other useless bullshit that Eddie’s not paying one iota of attention to.
It’s been half a month of, essentially, edging himself to the point of near tears over his sick daydreams—most of which involve permanently staining a cute pair of khaki shorts with two or three loads of hot cum.
The modest amphitheater is filled by parents dressed in formal attire snapping blurry photos for their scrapbooks, a few screaming babies who play siblings to a handful of Scouts, and friends who somehow had nothing better to do than watch Jim Hopper lead a cult-like initiation process on a Saturday morning.
Eddie’s hungover, half-asleep, and, wearing a pair of sunglasses that really shouldn't have ever left that drawer in the very back of his closet, but he was desperate. They’re obnoxiously oversized and pinch his temples like a bitch, but it’s worth it to deal with the massive headache that's currently plaguing him.
“You look like such a dick,” she said to him when she picked him up with coffee and egg sandwiches from their favorite deli an hour earlier.
“I am a dick, Nance,” he kissed the top of her head, murmured a ‘thank you,’ and through a mouthful of sandwich said, “Mike better pay me for waking up at the asscrack of dawn for this. I expect free popcorn for life.”
He left out the fact that he already acquired enough Scout popcorn to last a lifetime or two, but Nancy really doesn’t need to know the details on that one.
Popping a boner before lunch in a room full of WASPy elitists feels remotely illegal.
And, with the Chief of Police, valiantly leading the whole shebang—in addition to being sandwiched between his best friend/sister and adoptive mother/guardian angel—Eddie would literally never live it down if he got ‘cuffed for wanting to fuck one of Jesus’ disciples and being stupidly obvious about it.
His caveman brain simply cannot be in charge right now or he’ll die of embarrassment.
Too late, Nancy’s elbowing him in the side.
“Ow.”
“Why are you being weird?” she says through a tight smile, spoken out of the side of her mouth.
“Huh—what—I’m not being weird,” and then to drive it home with all the emotional intelligence and maturity of the children on stage, “You’re being weird, weirdo.”
“Eds, you’re, like, blushing and you’ve been antsy since we got here.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe—”
It’s no use defending himself, because Jim Hopper is signaling for Steve to pin the Star Scout rank badge onto Mike’s merit stash and Karen is holding up her homemade sign—‘Proud Mom of a Hawkins Star Scout’—sucking all the attention in the room towards Steve Harrington and his stupid coif.
Nancy groans and stands up with her polaroid camera to capture the big moment, whispering to Eddie, “We aren’t finished with this conversation, FYI.”
“Shh. I’m trying to focus,” Eddie pushes the sunglasses up his nose dramatically and points to the stage.
“We are honored to present Michael R. Wheeler with his Star badge,” Hopper booms over the mic, “By accepting the rank of Star Scout, you are officially taking on more responsibilities to this troop and its many successes. As a Star Scout, you’ll be looked upon as a role model for younger Scouts—a difficult role, but an incredibly important one—”
Karen’s voice in his ear makes him almost jump out of his skin and sprint off into the surrounding woods.
“He’s kinda hot, isn’t he?”
Oh, no.
No. No. No.
“Notmytype,” Eddie blurts out while his heart rate skyrockets.
She totally caught him openly staring at Steve’s bulge.
Karen, his adoptive mother, caught him being a creepy fucking weirdo and it’s written all over his face.
She can always read him, he should have known she’d catch on. He’s wearing sunglasses for a reason—and not just because he’s hungover—but now his cover’s been blown and she’s never gonna let a freak like him come over for Shabbat dinner, again, which fucking sucks because there’s, like, a whopping total of three Jewish families in Hawkins and his is one of them and—
“I’m sorry,” he tacks on as an afterthought as if it’s going to save him from the consequences of his disgusting actions.
Yeah, the kid’s legal, but, for fuck’s sake, he’s only eighteen.
Freshly eighteen and—those shorts of his have definitely shrunken in the wash. Was his dick that big the last time Eddie saw him? He looks good. The veins in his hands are so pretty and his eyes are practically sparkling. Look at that cute little purity ring, as if that would stop Eddie from railing him against a tree outside while he prayed for forgiveness—
Karen and Nancy sit back down as the final Scout gets initiated into the fold and Steve pats him on the shoulder.
“It makes sense you’re not attracted to him,” Karen claps absentmindedly, “He’s way too old for you. Now, me, on the other hand, I love that whole rugged thing he’s got going on—looks like he could kill a bear with one punch. Ted had no paternal instincts, whatsoever. When our house got burglarized, it was up to me and my garden shears to save us—fuckin’ moron.”
Too old for him? In what world is Steve Harrington too old for him? And, now, Karen’s interested—
“Gross, Mom. Hopper’s literally dating Joyce and she’s your best friend,” Nancy clears up the confusion, leaning over to snap her fingers in her mom’s face, “Stop eye fucking him—I’ll throw up.”
The dominoes keep tipping and Eddie can hardly keep up.
His head’s screwed on backwards and, for someone who normally thrives on being the center of attention, today he wants nothing more than to shrink down to microscopic levels and disappear into the grass. Hidden amongst parasites, amoebas, and the like.
Steve lines the Scouts up for a celebratory salute and catches Eddie’s gaze across the room as he shuffles the kids into place. Will’s laughing about something Lucas said and Dustin can’t seem to figure out how to knot his red neckerchief.
There’s no way Eddie can be normal about him.
There’s no way Eddie can suppress the arousal sending electric shocks to his twitching cock.
Steve’s eyes are hazel. Accentuated by a set of lashes that flutter delicately like gossamer tulle in the breeze. There’s desire in them, petulant need.
Eddie yearns to wrap a hand around his throat, to watch those eyes widen with betrayal of innocence, to meanly squeeze the length of his shaft through his khakis. Ruin him for anyone else.
But, then, he thinks about Chrissy and the fact that she’d still be alive if she’d never gotten involved with him and Nancy—
They were supposed to go to San Francisco in a magic school bus.
They were supposed to set her free.
She was supposed to live forever or as long as mortality allowed.
She wasn’t supposed to die before the age of twenty. That’s for sure.
So, as much as Eddie wants Steve, he can’t be selfish.
He can’t let that happen again—be the cause of it.
“Joyce says Jim’s a real tiger in bed,” Karen taps him on the shoulder, makes a claw with her hand, and he stifles a choked sound into his elbow.
“I’m going to have Eddie take me out back and shoot me, but it was nice knowing you!” Nancy gestures with an imaginary gun to her head as the ceremony wraps up and a final applause is carried out by the audience.
Steve’s watching him. Steve doesn’t understand. Steve thinks Eddie’s an asshole who likes to play with pretty boys in his free time and, while that’s true, there’s more to the story.
He’s a Grade A idiot for agreeing to come to this. Nancy should take him out back with the gun.
She’s always been the better shot anyway.
❋
If God’s out there, then he’s clearly got a serious bone to pick with Eddie Munson.
There’s no good reason why a snot-nosed group of dorky fourteen and fifteen year-olds should require a post-Star Scout ceremony brunch in Eddie’s humble opinion, but the amphitheater patio appears to think otherwise.
So, this is where my popcorn money went. Cool. Fucking fantastic.
He’s not that hungry, but the compulsive urge not to walk around empty handed at a social event is rather high due to his inability to be around Steve Harrington without spontaneously combusting.
His internal monologue, as he takes stress driven bites of fruit salad and finger foods, is something along the lines of:
Fuck me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m so royally fucked. Kill me. Don’t get a boner in front of all of these people. Shut the fuck. Don’t be a creep, Munson. Oh my God. I’m so dead. Fuckkkk.
He stands on the outskirts. Half listening as Nancy complains about her co-worker who won’t stop leaving rotten egg salad sandwiches in the break room fridge.
Eddie goes through the motions; smiling, nodding, copycating phrases to make it seems like he has any idea what’s going on.
“—and then, Candice, my boss—you remember Candice, right? Red hair, squeaky voice?” Nancy tugs on his sleeve, “Earth to Eddie Munson, are you listening?”
“Candice,” he barely saves his own ass, “She’s—your boss. I—yeah—I remember.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“No. Are you?”
“Don’t play games with me, Eddie.”
Dustin Henderson bulldozes into him and spills punch down his jeans which has the unfortunate effect of making it look like Eddie’s pissed himself.
“Shit! Sorry, man,” he clumsily stumbles, “Are those expensive?”
“No, they’re not, Henderson,” Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose while Nancy laughs hysterically, “How may I help you?”
Dustin’s rosy cheeks are covered in cookie crumbs and pizza sauce. There’s a bouncing excitement to him like he’s about to announce a lottery win.
“I want you to meet Steve! He’s the Assistant Scoutmaster who pinned our new badges on,” Dustin proudly displays his with a puffed out chest, “Pretty neat, if I do say so myself.”
Okay, listen.
Eddie’s a decent actor, but he’s certainly not the type of guy Hollywood execs would be dying to cast in a feature film.
Though, years of swindling and dealing for Rick have given him the practical skill of bullshitting his way out of anything and putting on a damn good poker face.
No pressure.
He just has to use those skills to pull off the performance of a lifetime.
“Yeah. Sure—sounds cool. Which one is he?” Eddie wonders if the assortment of parents would find him smoking a nervous cigarette offensive; probably .
“Dude,” Dustin looks at him funny, “he’s the guy that wasn’t Hopper. Literally the only other adult up there.”
“Mmm. Didn’t notice him, sorry. Guess he blended in with the rest of you rugrats.”
Parents mingle around them. Chatting amongst themselves about the amazing accomplishment of their little nature darlings. The reception may be outside, but Eddie’s feeling immensely claustrophobic.
“Whatever. Eddie was hardly alive when I picked him up this morning. He’s not really a morning person,” Nancy comments and Eddie could kiss her for covering for him, “Lead the way, Dustin. Let’s meet this Scoutmaster Mike won’t shut the fuck up about.”
Dustin grabs each of them by the hand and drags Eddie to sudden death.
“By the way, Nancy,” he says over his shoulder, “Steve’s Assistant Scoutmaster. There’s a huge difference.”
Eddie bites his tongue.
❋
When Eddie walks over with his arm around Mike Wheeler’s older sister, Steve panics. Tosses his full plate of food into the trash and readies to excuse himself to go to the bathroom.
It doesn’t work.
“Wait! Steve!” Henderson calls after him, waving his arms unnecessarily—he’s mere feet away from the table Steve’s been chatting at with the rest of his troops, “Hold on! I want to introduce you to my friends!”
Hmm. Maybe he isn’t so lame for hanging out with fourteen year-olds all the time if Eddie apparently does it too—apparently with the same fourteen year-olds which makes this whole thing even weirder.
Eddie’s standoffish, wearing giant sunglasses, and visibly tense when Steve turns to greet him. In place of the silver hoop is a silver snake that dangles from his ear. Creator of original sin.
Mike’s sister leans into his side and rests her head on his shoulder like they’re an old married couple. Tired and bored of the day.
It makes Steve see red.
“Hi,” he manages a tight smile, “I’m Steve Harrington—the troop's Assistant Scoutmaster. Nice to meet you and thanks for coming to the ceremony. Always nice for the Scouts to have family and friends in the audience on their big day.”
Dustin pulls Eddie forward and almost sends him flying into Steve’s chest.
“This is Eddie and this is Mike’s sister, Nancy!” He introduces the two enthusiastically.
“Great,” Steve drums his knuckles on the back of his chair, “It’s a—it’s a real pleasure to meet you both.”
In actuality, he’d like to throw Eddie into the mud and demand answers, but Steve’s pious morality has a tight hold around his neck for the moment.
“I assure you,” Eddie shakes free of Dustin’s grip to outstretch his hand, ripping the sunglasses down so there's nothing obstructing Steve’s view when he winks, “the pleasure is all mine, Sam.”
Wow. Eddie can’t even be bothered to remember his first name. Awesome.
“Sam?” Nancy remarks, “You already forgot his name? It’s Steve. You sure a meteor didn’t fall out of the sky and give you permanent brain damage this morning?"
“Ah. Technicalities,” Eddie shrugs and keeps his gaze on Steve.
“Not really, asshole,” she snaps, “Anyways, Steve,” she stresses his name so Eddie won’t have as easy of a time ‘forgetting,’ “It’s nice to finally meet you, too. Mike talks about you like you hung the moon. You must be a pretty stand-up Assistant Scoutmaster.”
Steve blushes. Posy pink like the budding petals that bloom around the lake.
Not because he’s attracted to her, but because Eddie’s cologne is smacking him in the face and he can see down the front of his billowy shirt—which is more akin to a women’s blouse than a men’s button down and entirely sheer, and accepting compliments without feeling instant guilt for indulging in vanity is not his strong suit.
“Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you from your brother—all good things,” he smiles tightly, envy still rimming his view despite how nice Nancy seems.
“Speaking of Mike,” Dustin pipes up, scanning the patio area and darting his head back and forth like a chicken, “Where is he? He, like, totally disappeared after the ceremony ended.”
“He’s with Will. He’s fine. They went over there,” she indicates in the general direction of the tree-line, “to go test out their model boats or something on the lake, but there’s no way I’m leaving my mom here with Chief Hopper to go looking for him. I don’t trust her to not to try to fuck him in the bathroom,” she slaps a hand over her mouth, “Sorry. Shit. Language. I—my bad—my mom’s, uh, kinda wild.”
It’s then that Steve finds the golden excuse he’s been looking for to leave the premises. To get out of dodge as fast as possible and escape Eddie Munson’s looming presence.
Steve turns on the charm and wrings sweat from his hands on the hem of his shirt, “No problem. I completely understand,” he really doesn’t, because his parents would never do a thing like that, “It’s my job as Assistant Scoutmaster to keep all the ducklings in a row, so I’ll go look for them and make sure they get back safely. Lovely to meet you, Nancy.”
Eddie glares at him. Steve imagines talons popping out of his fists. He postures like a killer. There’s smeared gold beneath his eyes. Makeup or metamorphic tendencies—Steve’s unsure which.
“I’ll join you,” Eddie says parasitically; attaching himself to Steve’s side and looping their arms together, “You wouldn’t believe the rumors I’ve heard about the monsters that hide in the woods.”
Somehow, Steve thinks he just might.
❋
“Did you pee your pants?” Steve asks childishly as Eddie pushes them past the tree-line.
“Henderson spilled punch on me. Don’t be a dick. Keep it moving.”
There’s lavender in the air. Birds nesting in the trees. A calm breeze relieving the sticky heat beneath his clothes.
It soothes the ache in Eddie’s heart. Reminds him of Chrissy’s softness, the honeyed tone of her voice, the flowers she’d braid into his curls as they lounged on stolen rafts in the lake water. The cherry print bikini she wore the last time he saw her. The little trinkets they’d exchange in the treehouse before dinnertime. The light at the end of the tunnel.
It’s this ethereal montage of her—filtering through his indecent behavior—that gives him reason not to bend Steve Harrington over the picnic bench like he so desperately wants to.
“Are you going to explain what’s going on or are you going to keep up the guessing game until I’ve officially lost my mind?” Steve bitches.
They’re at a crossroads of sorts.
Not physically—physically they’re in the middle of the woods with the birds, bees, mice, and deer.
But, when it comes to the nature of their relationship, Eddie realizes the ball is burning a hole in the center of his court and if he doesn’t do something about it he’ll have nothing left to stand on. Not a leg, not a shoe, not a square inch of flooring to support his questionable urges. Nothing.
And, Steve Harrington?
Well, Steve Harrington, is kind of—everything.
“Eddie,” he complains; accompanied by a sniffle produced by spring allergies, “I’m not getting any younger.”
Thank God, you’re not getting any younger, he thinks, or I’d be in solitary confinement for looking at you the way I do.
Eddie doesn’t have a middle name.
His parents didn’t think it was important enough to give him one. They also did a shit ton of drugs, got pregnant with him accidentally, and missed the abortion appointment, so, yeah, he wasn’t top of the priority list.
But, if he did have a middle name it would be ‘impulsive,’ because not a day in his life has he really thought things through before throwing himself straight into the fire.
Steve’s knee socks are pinching his pretty thighs and rolling down so frequently that he’s going to have a hunch in his spine by the time he’s Eddie’s age from bending over to roll them up over and over.
The natural solution to this problem would be the addition of a garter belt to his little uniform, but Eddie really doesn’t see Steve Harrington being all that open to the prospect of men’s lingerie.
“You’re killing me, Harrington.”
Steve’s ass is pointed to the air—perfect, round, looks like it would reverberate from a well placed slap. He’s tugging at the socks and grunting with frustration at how quickly they roll back down his thighs and Eddie is, well and truly, foaming at the mouth.
“You’re the one who made me follow you into the middle of the woods after ignoring me for weeks and slamming the door in my face,” he dusts his hands off on his knees, “which, really,” Eddie’s wants to rip his heart out and kiss everything better—violent and crazed with a hint of wicked romance, “wasn’t cool, man. I tried to apologize and then, you asked me to let you ‘be the good guy’ and that’s funny—y’know, because—in my experience, ‘good guys’ don’t ban innocent people from their property without any explanation.”
If he keeps grunting and groaning over those socks, this conversation isn’t going to go anywhere good. Truthfully, there might not be much talking going on at all if Steve Fucking Harrington doesn’t stop pushing his ass out like a dumb slut who has no idea what he’s doing to Eddie’s straining cock. It kicks up in his pants, begging to be touched.
He’s beautiful. He’s so fucking beautiful and Eddie’s never been a strong man.
“Son of a bitch—I can’t fucking focus. You and those stupid socks. Hands above your head,” Eddie can’t stand still, he’s fucking humming with agony and need and he’s supposed to be good—he’s supposed to leave the slutty Pastor’s son alone, “go stand in front of that tree,” he points to the one nearest to the bench, “and stop touching those fucking socks or this is gonna go downhill fast.”
Steve scoffs, but doesn’t question the command. Well adapted to the idea of following orders blindly after years of praying to a God that may or may not be listening.
He walks up to the intended pine tree, lines his spine up with the trunk, and rolls his hips back to meet the bark. Like a sultry nymph posed for an upcoming issue of Heavy Metal magazine. In Eddie’s hands, those pages would be crusted over with layers of cum and torturous fantasies.
“You win, man,” Steve’s shirt isn’t tucked in like usual so it rucks up as he pins his fists above his head like the great martyr from the Holy book he lives by; exposing a soft stomach peppered with moles, delicious hair, and the waistband of his underwear, “What are you gonna do now? Tie me to the tree and cover me in honey for the bears to come eat? Is that how much you hate me? Certainly feels like it.”
“Goddamnit! I don’t hate you, Steve!” Eddie pivots on his heel to face Steve and stalks towards the tree, closing the gap, blood running hot in his veins, “I’m trying to protect you! Don’t you get that? I’m trying not to be the monster I know I can be.”
They’re practically nose to nose.
Close enough that Eddie can feel and smell Steve’s minty breath on his cheek and it’s deja vu.
It’s his living room and the popcorn samples and Steve’s sweaty skin beneath his fingers; rubbing out knots and desire and everything Eddie couldn’t have.
Time warps. Stands still, hurtles back, and speeds up to meet them in the jarring notion of the present, again. Bending, breaking, reinventing truth.
“You followed me out here for a reason,” Steve sneers and bares his throat for the taking, “What. Do. You. Want.”
“Wow, Church Mouse,” Eddie bends towards his ear, scenting his sweet musk, “Didn’t think Heaven’s favorite angel had it in him.”
“You’re not the only one with secrets.”
“Oh, please. What are yours? Drinking communion wine when your Daddy’s not looking? Using the Lord’s name in vain?”
It’s quiet.
A tree could fall and drown out the near silent void of their alternating breaths and conflicted heartbeats. Playing tug-of-war with each other’s emotions, because neither wants to be the first to give in—to accept the blame.
“You forgot my name,” Steve’s voice cracks like a teenager in the peak of puberty.
Developing, changing, constantly lost in the unfamiliarity of one’s own body. Unrecognizable in the mirror.
“You really believe that?”
Eddie gently presses the pads of two fingers under his chin and guides him back to sincere eye contact.
Steve nods cautiously and Eddie’s heart stings like the fabled wasps that buzz around the lake in the summer.
“Steve Harrington,” it’s a breathy release, “Your name’s the only thing I’ve been thinking about. Half the time, I don’t even remember my own, but I don’t fucking care, because yours is so much prettier. So much lovelier.”
“Liar. You’re messing with me, again. Quit it and go home, already.”
“Why would I lie about that? Why would I go out of my way, follow you into the middle of the woods, and make you stand against a tree if it wasn’t true?” Eddie spits harshly.
“I–I don’t know.”
“Maybe, I like you, Steve. Maybe, I’m mean to you, because I don’t know how to be nice without breaking my own heart. Maybe that’s the problem, here. Maybe, just maybe, that’s why I can’t leave you alone!”
Steve’s chest rises and falls. His mouth hangs open. The disbelief that was painted there is absolved and evaporates into the thin breeze on the horizon.
“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to break your heart,” Steve’s expression is glazed over and glowing with red warmth. The sun lives inside him, “Just like my name better the way you say it.”
“Steve Harrington,” Eddie pants against his neck, careful not to touch because he’s terrified of breaking him—fragile, pretty thing, “Steve. Steve. Steve.”
“Yeah. Like that,” he shudders and when he jerks his head back to smack against the tree, Eddie’s lips accidentally brush skin.
He waits for a noble bystander or undercover cop to take him away for the crime he’s committed.
Like an art thief in the Louvre—touching what doesn’t belong to him, getting his dirty fingerprints in the acrylic paint and permanently altering a world renowned masterpiece.
“I knew her,” Steve doesn’t elaborate on who the ‘her’ is, but Eddie instinctively knows—blonde waves, heart of gold, white sneakers stained by strawberry juice and bad decisions, “She—she wanted to leave the church. There were rumors,” Eddie doesn’t stop him even though it hurts, “rumors about her and another girl being in love the way a husband and wife are. I never believed them, but—but now I think I might.”
“Steve—”
“Eddie. I want you to teach me.”
“Teach you what, Steve?”
“How to be a good boy for you,” he looks up towards his wrists that are bound by nothing but the need to behave for Eddie—freely submitting to a man he hardly knows, “How to get out of Hawkins alive like she dreamed of. Without you, I don’t stand a chance. Please? I can’t stay here forever. I can’t.”
Eddie grimaces. Steve’s begging is lyrical, vigorous, and echoes percussive need. As difficult to ignore as a deafening orchestra.
It’s the offer of a Pyrrhic victory, casualties unknown. An honest gamble.
“Wanna be good for you, Eddie. Really wanna,” Steve whines and it’s his breaking point.
Eddie moans in the back of his throat—an untoward symphony. Growls, claws at his jeans, conflates arousal and impulse.
No matter how much he loves Chrissy Cunningham, no matter how much he wants to do better by her memory—and save himself from making the same careless mistakes, no matter how much the scent of lavender fuels his head with velveteen dreams—Steve Harrington’s jumping pulse and sanguine obedience is driving Eddie off a steep, winding cliff and there’s nothing he can do, but relinquish himself to freefall.
“Answer this for me—the third question. Fair’s fair,” and, this is the road to ruin, “Why didn’t you leave, Church Mouse? That day. I was right there by the picnic table and Paul was sucking me off. Why’d you stick around if everything I am goes against everything you are? Why watch?”
Steve blinks in slow motion. Licks over his bubblegum lips. Gasps this short, sweet thing that could kill a man quicker than a bullet to the heart. Could obliterate a legion of trained soldiers within mere moments.
This boy is lethal.
“Because, I’m sick like you,” he swallows softly like the dulcet angel he is, but Eddie’s learning—finally starting to understand—there are layers, “Like Chrissy and the girl she loved.”
“You’re nothing like me.”
Unconvincingly, Eddie attempts to be the antichrist, the nemesis, the frontman of the devil’s hegemony. Bares his teeth, rattles the cage, tries to instill a fear wretched enough that Steve will run and hide and decide this isn’t at all what he thought it was.
But, Eddie Munson has always been a penumbra of his own creation.
A lunar eclipse—the edge of the Earth’s shadow; light and dark at the same time.
For what Steve lacks in worldly experience, he makes up for in persuasion.
“That’s not true.”
Steve can’t use his hands, but he has teeth.
Pearly white like the gates to Heaven and when he bites down on the hinge of Eddie’s jaw; Eddie knows he’s wild too.
Wild like the three of them used to be.
Dancing, frolicking, sharing loot, protecting, mending wounds.
Licking sweat and blood and tears and nightmares.
Seeking shade beside the bramble bushes and flicking thorns at those who dared try to tear them apart. Sticky fingers looped together to forge unrealized promises.
“Do you believe me, now?”
Steve illustrates a bloody line across Eddie’s cheek to the corner of his lip with the tip of his pinky. Face tucked into his shoulder.
It’s a mean bite. Ivory pinpricks subduing doubt the moment they break skin. The kind a mother wolf enacts on her worst enemies. Meant to kill and mark and defend territory. Protect the pack at all costs.
Eddie’s natural inclination is to hit him or choke him out for misbehaving, for acting like an animal, but he can’t.
Instead, he trembles, off balance, and lost in a daze. Aware, distantly, that this may be a dream within a dream. Nothing feels real.
When Steve draws back, there’s blood on his tongue.
Eddie’s face throbs where a trickle of red rains down to stain his chest and shirt.
“You wanna know why I stayed? Why I didn’t sound the alarm back at camp? I liked watching you, Eddie. I liked seeing you get mean. I liked the way it made me feel—I didn’t know I was capable of feeling so much, but now—now, I know.”
Steve suckles at the wound with rounded lips like he’s licking up a cherry flavored lollipop at the candy store and Eddie presses a hand to the middle of his chest. Breaking the trance and returning to the vacant shell of his body.
“Don’t—”
It’s the exact opposite of what he wants to say; ‘keep going,’ ‘let me make you mine,’ ‘I’ll ruin you if you let me.’
“What do you want to do to me, Eddie? What would you do if you found me out here, all alone in my uniform?”
Steve rolls his hips forward and Eddie feels it.
“You watched me. You could have watched Paul, but you kept looking at me. What did you want from me? What would you have done if Paul hadn’t been there?”
The hard line of his dick stretches beneath thick khaki material. The perfect head of Steve’s untouched cock swelling in his shorts and pulsing against Eddie’s upper thigh.
A shiver travels through his body and he loses control. Loses everything that’s kept him sane and unleashes pandemonium. Hairline trigger.
“I would’ve taken this,” Eddie glides his fingers over the loop of Steve’s red neckerchief—tied expertly, because he’s been doing it for years,“and gagged you on it—would’ve shoved it into your bitchy mouth and kept you quiet so nobody could come rescue you. So no one could hear your pathetic screams.”
Steve keens. Pure pleasure forcing his hips forward, but Eddie taps his cheek in warning. Lightly, curiously, but clearly deliberate in the message it carries.
“If you’re gonna be my toy, you’re gonna have to learn how to play by my rules,” Eddie darkens his gaze and presses a hand to the side of Steve’s head on the tree bark, “If you cum, it’ll be from my words. Nothing else.”
Steve nods. Eddie bleeds. Jaw dripping crimson onto his chest in a slowing stream like the pond behind Chrissy’s old house.
There’s no way he’s getting that stain out of his shirt; not that he really wants to. He likes the thought of Steve’s impetuous violence sticking around. Imagines he might need it as a tangible reminder when he wakes up tomorrow and struggles to differentiate between reality and fantasy.
“You wouldn’t stop there. I’ve seen you,” Steve whimsically compels him and Eddie’s cock might actually break the zipper of his jeans if he keeps up the innocent, lost little boy in the forest act, “You would’ve stuffed this in my mouth and then, what?”
“I would’ve been selfish. I would’ve been mean,” Eddie gasps for oxygen, losing it too quickly in the mirage and Steve moans salaciously.
“Yeah?” Steve’s confidence blossoms and it’s a gorgeous thing to watch, bottom lip chewed up and marred by the very idea of being touched and undone, “How mean?”
“Oh, baby boy, my Little Lamb ,” Eddie itches to grab him by the throat and bite everywhere like a wayward demon—callous and demoralizing, “I would’ve teased you so bad. I would’ve whispered the filthiest things in your ear,” he brushes Steve’s hair back to show him, “I would’ve told you all about my plans to turn Pastor Harrington’s adored son into a needy, sloppy slut. ”
“W-what else?” Steve’s glasses are foggy from the way he’s panting like a bitch in heat.
“I would’ve made you take me with no prep, no warning,” Eddie moans disgustingly and drool comes out of his mouth at the end of it, but Steve doesn’t seem any less interested.
“I would’ve sliced open these little shorts with my pocket knife and stolen your tighty whities for later before fucking you like a whore and filling you up with my cum. I would’ve made you thank me for it. I would’ve stopped you up with a plug and sent you off to do all your dignified, Scout duties.”
Steve sobs beautifully as his eyes roll back in his head—overtaken by want.
“And, no one would’ve known,” Eddie cups his face delicately and rubs over his wet lips with his thumb, “No one would’ve known that you’d just finished taking rough cock from the freak in the woods. No one, but you and me, angel. Meanwhile, you’d be squelching and sticky and praying for forgiveness, but do you wanna know what the worst part is?”
He uses his free hand to apply the lightest, faintest trail of pressure up and down Steve’s side—practically nonexistent touches to his stomach, chest, arms, and inner thighs.
“What’s the worst part?”
He slurs, quivering as Eddie torments him further, using the blunt edges of his nails to trace Steve’s collarbones. He licks the beaded sweat off his thumb and moans at the divine taste. Drunk and spinning.
“The worst part is,” Eddie pulls him in by the belt loop and finalizes the torture with the simple tip of his ring finger skating over the stiff swell of Steve’s clothed cock, “You’d feel gross, corrupted, fucking tainted by my hands. It would keep you up at night—”
He speaks the last words against his mouth in complete mockery of the way Steve purses his ruddy lips to posture a kiss. Doesn’t give it to him. Refuses.
“—you’d burn from the shame. You’d be eaten alive by the fact that it was me who did this to you. You wouldn’t even be able to look your Daddy in the eyes and yet—”
“And, yet?” Steve repeats, dumbly.
Fucked out like he’s taken multiple rounds of Eddie’s cock and his hole is stretched wide and puffy from overuse.
“And, yet, you’d still come knocking at my door begging me to use you however I want the very next day. You see? That’s the sad part, Church Mouse. You’d let it happen again and again and again until I’d broken you. All because nobody’s ever told a sweet thing like you what a good fucking boy you are, but I would. Oh god, baby, I would. ”
Eddie drags the very tip of his tongue over Steve’s mouth and feels him melt into a puddle of golden ichor and degradation.
Tears staining his sweat stained shirt as something deep within him dissolves, cracks open, and wreaks havoc on his soul.
Abruptly, Steve sinks to his knees.
He shakes violently. Hands still clasped above his head as he whimpers, bucks his pretty hips, and releases a shriek that causes the birds to evacuate from the branches.
“Holy fuck,” Eddie’s so stunned, he can’t even confront the urgency of his own cock’s need for release, “Go ahead, baby. Go ahead. It’s normal, honey—what you’re feeling. It’s healthy. You’re such a good boy. Perfect boy. Never met anyone so good. So beautiful like this—”
It’s no surprise when he slumps against the stump of the tree and sobs maddeningly as a damp patch spreads across the front of his shorts.
“What’s—what’s happening to me, Eddie?”
Steve seizes, groans, twitches through the aftershocks and splatters more cum along the inseam of the khaki. He’s drenched in it—the cum that Eddie coaxed out of him with gentle fingers and foul words. Hasn’t even seen him naked. Hasn’t even held his thick cock in his hands.
“You’re okay, sweet boy. I’m here. I’m right here,” he kneels in front of him and rakes a hand through Steve’s soft brown hair, “You came, Little Lamb. That’s cum in your pants—the sticky, warm stuff. It means I made you feel good. It means your body likes those dirty words. Nothing to be ashamed of. You’re so good. So very good for me—”
He babbles praise to try to neutralize the situation, because even Eddie Munson—heathen, devil, killer, criminal, liar, fox—isn’t prepared for the immaculate, religious experience—the fucking miracle—of making Steve Harrington cum for the first time in his eighteen years.
It scares the shit out of him.
“I can’t go home like this. Need you—need you to help me—”
And, it’s only the beginning.