Chapter Text
The first time Eddie drove, he was seven. His dad was asking him to hit the skinny little pedal with his foot as hard as he could.
He’d never been on a roller coaster. Still hasn’t. But it had felt like he imagined a roller coaster felt like.
The last time Eddie drove, he was taking Chrissy fucking Cunningham back to his trailer to see if he could scrounge up the ket he got like a year ago and never sold. It had been a dumb choice — expanding beyond weed and some shrooms and acid for the aging hippies. Historically, he makes a lot of those, dumb choices.
Wait, no, that’s not right. The last time Eddie drove, he was actually driving away from Chrissy’s mangled body with that skinny little pedal pushed all the way to the floor.
Anyway, he dies, so Eddie isn’t ever going to drive again.
Or, well, he lives. They stitch him together with cadaver skin and fill him with so many pints of blood and milliliters of drugs that he bloats up and can’t talk right. He doesn’t get out of the hospital for months — well, weeks, four weeks, but it feels like months. The scary government doctors say he might be able to do little things like walk, write, and play guitar again if he gets physical therapy.
But first, he has to face down the Bene Gesserit, or well, the secretaries who deliver legal documents for the CIA or whatever. The FBI. The Department of Energy. The central federal department of security against inter-dimensional lich-lords.
Eddie hasn’t really been one to follow federal laws in the first place.
The car he drove when he was seven? Yeah, it’s not like his dad owned it.
With a cane and his uncle’s hands under his armpits like he’s a little kid again, Eddie hobbles into the two-bedroom double-wide the government bought for Wayne.
“What did they even say? Hey, sorry a portal to hell ripped your trailer apart, here’s a slightly bigger one,” Eddie says.
“They didn’t mention the portal to hell,” Wayne replies, dry as stale toast.
Like at the hospital, Eddie mostly sleeps and suffers. Nancy Wheeler, who held her own clothes against all the gushing wounds on Eddie’s body like a human tourniquet, brings him a schedule and a stack of books and folders.
He takes the books, puts them next to all the shit he can’t unpack from the white cardboard boxes the fédérales put it in.
Eddie will never complain about how much tattoos itch again.
See, the thing is that they did give him pain killers. Wayne settled him on the couch, the one that used to be outside on his smoking porch, and went back to get all his prescriptions from the truck. But Eddie has sold Vicodin. People love Vicodin. He doesn’t want to love Vicodin.
Eddie goes a week without shitting. He feels like his bones are on fire. He can feel his skin growing in his sleep. He sleeps two or three hours a night and wakes up sobbing.
He’s never going to drive again.
He’s never going to hold a pencil or press his fingers down on a fretboard.
The physical therapist is in Fort Wayne and appointments are in the morning, but not the early morning. They’re at 10 a.m.
“We’ll make it work,” Wayne says.
“Fuck,” Eddie says, “you can’t quit your job. Not for this, come on. I can walk! I’ll be fine!”
Eddie cries about it. He cries about everything — the pain, the nightmares, Chrissy, Dustin, not being able to hold a pencil.
The kids visit all the time. Nancy brings him summer school work that he doesn’t do.
Jock king and non-douchebag Steve Harrington brings Dustin and Robin around. He wiggles his fingers at Eddie in an awkward wave from the doorway. Eddie thinks, meanly, that Steve doesn’t want to lower himself to be in a trailer home. But he calls Wayne “sir” and “Mr. Munson.” Eddie sees him helping the medical transport bring Max home.
Eventually, Steve comes in. He sits on Eddie’s bed and looks around at the freshly painted walls and the cardboard boxes.
“Real different from your last place,” he says, while Dustin is using the restroom.
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Haven’t had time to unpack.”
Steve’s eyebrows go up. He bounces a few times on the bed, then springs to his feet.
“Mind if I?” he asks.
Eddie watches Steve’s shoulders and his back. He’s got this red, white, and blue polo shirt and jeans that look painted on. Very apple pie, fireworks, all-American beauty.
“Where does this go?” Steve asks, pulling out a fishing tackle box that Eddie stores jewelry in. Then some amp cables and two pedals. Then an old can of shaving cream.
With hands that broke Eddie’s ribs and forced his heart to keep beating even when all the blood was trying to leave his body like a swarm of rats fleeing a burning building, Steve fucking Harrington unpacks the boxes in Eddie’s new bedroom while Dustin talks his ear off about the campaign Mike Wheeler is writing.
Somehow Dustin finds out that he’s not going to physical therapy, which means that Mike finds out. Which means that Nancy finds out. The kids don’t understand, but notably they also can’t drive.
“I’ll take you,” Nancy insists. “You can work on some of the makeup work while you—“
“Yeah, sure, and when you leave?” Eddie asks. “When you go off to college in two months?”
“Jonathan!” Nancy says. “Jonathan is staying. He can do it!”
Her hands are in little fists at her sides. Her big, blue eyes burn like a gas flame.
“Did he agree to that?” Eddie asks. “Does he know you’re volunteering him as a taxi service?”
“Well, no,” Nancy says, “but…”
“I can do it,” Steve says. “Fort Wayne, right? That’s not far.”
Eddie glares at the doorway and Steve gives him a stupid little wave again.
“You don’t have anything better to do?” Eddie asks, because he’s an asshole.
“Nah,” Steve says.
“Still unemployed then?” Eddie says, digging into it.
“Yeah, got it in one,” Steve says. He puts his hand up and touches the top of the door frame as he enters.
“Got a call back from one place, but…” Steve shrugs.
He has big hands. Hands that pushed so hard on Eddie’s sternum that he made Eddie’s heart beat. If Eddie thinks about it, he’s going to start screaming or crying.
Being alone in a car for hours with all-American, basketball-captaining, keg-standing, prom king Steve Harrington who breathed air back into Eddie’s lungs and forced his heart to beat and saved his life when Eddie wanted to throw it away —
Not, like, in a suicidal way.
But if it made a difference. If it saved Dustin. If it saved anyone.
— sounds like a fucking nightmare.
And that’s before Eddie finds out what Steve listens to when he drives.
“Of course you listen to Journey,” he says, because he was born ungrateful and has been resurrected ungrateful.
Well, he did thank Wayne for making him the appointment at least.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve asks.
“It means you’re a square,” Eddie says. “It means you just listen to whatever the radio spoonfeeds to you. You don’t think for yourself.”
Steve frowns. “Well, we can’t all listen to Izzy or whoever.”
“It’s Ozzy,” Eddie says.
“Whatever,” Steve says.
He turns the music off.
That’s worse, Eddie realizes. The quiet. The hiss of the tires over the hot asphalt.
It makes his torso scream just to lean toward the radio. The seatbelt digs into him. Eddie’s fingers don’t want to grip the knob. He knocks his fist against it instead. The tape deck makes that familiar little click and whirr.
Steve looks over at him with his brows drawn together. Eddie has to be very still to try and catch his breath. There are tears in his eyes.
Fuck, this physical therapy shit better work.
Physical therapy fucking blows.
Forget the government secretaries, the nurse at the VA clinic is the one working for the Bene Gesserit. Or maybe Olog-Hai, based on looks. His therapist is a huge dude who moves Eddie’s body parts around and measures his range of motion like he’s a geometry problem.
It’s basically fucking torture. But he gets some lotion to put on his hands and arms, for the scar tissue. And this weird little ball to squeeze. There are papers with exercises that Eddie has to do: more homework.
Someone wheels him out to Steve’s burgundy bimmer.
“You know, I used to think about how much money I could make if I jacked your car for parts,” Eddie tells him, in a somehow even more foul mood than before.
“Thanks for not doing it,” Steve says. “My dad would’ve killed me.”
They pull out of the parking lot, which Steve pays for. He calls the parking attendant “sir.”
“Found a record store,” Steve says. “If you’re up for it.”
“Huh?” Eddie asks.
“Like, I tried to find stuff that you like,” Steve says. “But I wasn’t sure if I was remembering correctly.”
Eddie blinks. “What?”
“Music?” Steve says. “You know, with the…”
He bobs his head and makes a sound that Eddie realizes is supposed to be a guitar riff.
“Music? Rock?” Steve says. “Metal?”
Eddie feels like his muscles are going to melt out of his body through the sweaty, raw scar tissue on his legs, arms, and belly. His lung is going to fall out of the space where he used to have a nipple and half a tattoo.
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “I’m up for it.”
He almost throws up, but — importantly — he doesn’t. Steve puts Eddie’s arm around his shoulders and his hand on Eddie’s waist. They fit through the door somehow.
“I found Dio,” Steve says. “But I didn’t know what you’d want.”
“You found Dio?” Eddie asks.
Steve walks him over there. Lets Eddie flip through the tapes at his own pace, even though his hands don’t work great. They work well enough, until he wants to pick up a tape. Holy Diver slips through his fingers once, twice.
“Shit,” Eddie says.
“That’s the one?” Steve asks.
“Yeah,” Eddie says.
His stomach hurts. Everything hurts. His hands especially. He’s slick with sweat. He must smell awful. Steve’s right up in his armpit, like he doesn’t notice, and picks up “Holy Diver” very carefully.
Together, they hobble over to the register and Steve pulls out his wallet.
“I thought you were unemployed,” Eddie says.
“Got the job,” Steve says. “Starting in a few days.”
“Oh,” Eddie says.
“I told her I’m busy on Tuesdays and Fridays,” Steve says. “If I take a shift, it’ll be closing after we get back.”
Eddie is going to cry and then throw up.
Back in his car, Steve digs around for the case and puts away the Journey tape.
“Let’s trade off,” Steve says. “You want Tuesdays?”
“Sure,” Eddie says.
Steve grins at him. It’s like staring into the sun.
Eddie does some of his exercises. He does the hands ones! He tells Steve about it after the second appointment. During that appointment, his tormentor — the day-walking troll — tells him that he’ll definitely play guitar again if he does his exercises and works on his scars. He tells Eddie that he used to play bass in a band with his buddy in the service. His buddy plays the trumpet. Eddie thinks of Robin Buckley.
He gets back in the car and says, “This is Metallica.”
“Oh, yeah, Dustin told me about them,” Steve says. Then he nods his head along to the music like he’s actually listening to it. Eddie can’t take his eyes off him.
The thing is that Steve Harrington is everything Henderson said he was and a little bit more. It’s unfair, really. A guy like this actually exists and in Hawkins, fucking Indiana. A guy like this actually exists and wants to be Eddie’s friend. Or, like, somehow feels so bad for broken, shunned, miserable little Eddie Munson that he’s acting like a friend. Is it a pity thing?
Eddie doesn’t know what to do with that. He has friends. Jeff and Freak stop by and help him unpack stuff, which Steve started. Gareth’s mom won’t let him see Eddie.
“Because of Jason,” Jeff explains. The guy will be leaving soon for college, but he promises to stop by whenever Eddie needs him.
“I owe you, man,” he says. “We all do.”
The kids bike all the way out to Forest Hills II when Steve or Nancy won’t drive them. Eddie sees Henderson at least twice a week.
“I told my mom I’m at Lucas’ place,” he says. “It’s fine.”
Even Lady Erica Sinclair pedals herself over to Eddie’s place.
“I told my mom I was going to visit Dustin about this, but I actually want your advice,” she says.
It feels kind of illegal to be alone with a sixth grader, but Eddie’s a fucking invalid. What’s he going to do? He can’t even lift his arms all the way over his head with weight in them. Lady Erica could hand him his own ass and make him eat it. He knows it. She knows it. She has a dungeon map she’s working on.
“I wanted to repay Dustin,” she says. “So, duh, obviously, I can’t show him.”
“Repay him for what?” Eddie asks.
“He got me into the game,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He even got Robin and Steve to play this one time when — well, it’s none of your beeswax.”
“Steve Harrington plays Dungeons and Dragons?” Eddie asks.
“Of course he does,” Erica says. “If I tell him to jump, he better ask me, ‘How high?’ He just doesn’t play with losers.”
She gives Eddie a look, just in case he missed that he was the loser in this equation. Eddie can’t even think. He just looks over Erica’s map.
“Passages are kinda narrow here,” he points out, “and here. You’re forcing the party into a single-file line. Is that what you want?”
Erica frowns.
Then, she gets erasing. She’s got one of those really nice rubber erasers, like for artists. Eddie stole a couple from the art room when he had periods to fill up with time between the requisite classes he just couldn’t pass. He’s not passing them this summer either.
“You’re not a loser after all,” Erica says.
“Yeah, but am I cool enough to play D’n’D with Harrington and Buckley, you think?” Eddie asks, leaning heavily on the cane the hospital gave him.
Erica looks him up and down. “Nah.”
She drops something on the Mayfield doorstop before getting on her bike and strapping on her pink and white helmet with the My Little Pony stickers on it.
During their next trip to Fort Wayne, Eddie looks over and thinks about asking Steve about Dungeons and Dragons. Instead, he waits for the goddamn Hall and Oates tape that Steve put on to get to the end of the fifth track. There’s usually a lull before Steve will flip the tape over, if he doesn’t change it.
“How do your parents feel about you driving me around?” Eddie asks, instead.
“Huh?” Steve says. He glances away from the road to give Eddie a fully baffled look. It’s kind of funny.
“Man, I don’t know,” Eddie says. “But if one more person we know tells me how their mom doesn’t want them hanging out with, I think I’m going to call the feds again and go into Witness Protection.”
Steve’s expression just… Drops. He looks sad for Eddie, which is weird because Eddie’s not sad. He’s irritated.
“That sucks,” Steve says. “Whose moms was it?”
“Henderson and everybody,” Eddie says. “Even Gareth’s mom and I’ve known her since he was in middle school.”
Somehow, Steve Harrington looks even sadder about that.
“Well, I don’t really, uh, know Gareth’s parents, but I can talk to Claudia,” he says. They’re driving fully five miles under the speed limit so that Steve can scratch his cheek and chat with Eddie. It’s making Eddie more annoyed but with Steve.
“And your mom?” Eddie asks.
“I mean, she’s kind of a big deal,” Steve says. “Like, she makes a lot of donations and she used to run the Hawkins Women’s Organization. But, uh, she hasn’t been back since before the… Before Vecna. Dad’s trying to sell the house, actually, so I don’t think — what does she think about me driving you around? She doesn’t know who you are, Eddie, and if she told me I couldn’t…” Steve trails off.
Eddie watches Steve’s eyes turn to the road. His jaw muscles move. He holds the steering wheel so seriously. It’s not the stealing an RV look, but the walking off to fight a fucked up mind wizard in a dimension of shadows that looks like their town kind of look.
He doesn’t know what to do with that, so he does the only thing he can think of. He pops the tape out and flips it over. Within a minute, good ol’ Hall and Oates are singing about keeping their heads above water. Eddie’s resting his head against the passenger side window. Steve keeps looking out at the road like he’s driving into a war against the moms of Hawkins for Eddie’s honor.
There is one mom in Hawkins who doesn’t think Eddie is the devil. Eddie calls Jonathan Byers.
“You want to come over and smoke,” Eddie says. “We’re going to have to go get the stuff, if you do.”
“Your stash is gone?” Jonathan asks.
“Feds took it,” Eddie tells him. “I got my stuff, but not any of the quote-unquote drug paraphernalia.”
“Aw man,” Jonathan says.
“Yeah, Jon-boy, it blows,” Eddie says.
“Don’t call me that,” Jonathan says.
“So,” Eddie says, twisting the phone cord around his finger. “I assume you already blazed through everything your pal Argyle left, and you probably want another link.”
Jonathan sighs into the phone.
After he agrees, Eddie’s cane falls off the wall where it was leaning. Getting it back up off the floor is a whole fucking ordeal. He can walk around the trailer without it, sure. There’s tons of stuff to grab onto. He’s mostly stable on the leg that got really chewed on.
They have to drive to Rick’s place and break in. Jonathan seems almost blase about it, but Eddie kind of hates it. The spare key that he was using to stay here in March has disappeared. They have to check the windows until they find one that’s open and then both of them wiggle it up. Jonathan climbs through and then goes around to the back to let Eddie in through a door.
“If I put you back in the hospital, I think Nancy will kill me,” Jonathan says.
“Not if Steve gets to you first,” Eddie says.
Jonathan laughs. “Ah, I could take him.”
A rumor that Eddie heard years ago bubbles up from the depths of his memory. “Wait, is it true? Did you actually fight him once?”
Jonathan’s mouth twists, not with laughter or smugness, but discomfort. It’s not a frown, but Eddie doesn’t really know what it is. He’s made Byers uncomfortable. That’s all he knows.
“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “It was stupid. I mean, I would do it again — he said some shit about Will, about my brother.”
Now that sounds like the Steve Harrington that Eddie expected. That’s the guy who laughed along with all his shitty little friends when Eddie tripped and dumped his lunch tray everywhere, like that shit wasn’t four dollars out of Eddie’s own pocket. That’s the guy who played every ball sport with guys like Billy Hargrove and Tommy Hagan.
“Will’s a good kid,” Eddie says.
“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “He wouldn’t really love me fighting Steve on his behalf, though, I should have let Nancy handle it.”
Eddie whistles. “I can’t really imagine those two fighting.”
“Oh, she slapped him,” Jonathan says. “Like, she didn’t want me to punch him, but she definitely hit him first.”
His eyebrows are somewhere in his hairline and his overgrown bangs feel like they’re poking him in the eye. “What the shit.”
Now, Jonathan smiles again. They dig the triple-sealed gallon bag stuffed full of bud out of Rick’s freezer together, but decide that the lake house just isn’t the spot to smoke it.
“Uh, Wayne’s sleeping right now,” Eddie says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He’s been trying extra, extra hard not to fuck up his uncle’s life anymore than he already has. Sure, the feds took care of the hospital bills and they’re covering physical therapy. But Eddie’s not bringing in any money right now and he knows Wayne didn’t get a lot of hours while Eddie was in the hospital for a month. He hasn’t asked how they’re keeping the lights on right now. He’s sort of afraid to.
“My mom’s at work,” Jonathan says. “I think Mike and Will might be at the house — they couldn’t decide where they wanted to watch some movie. El spent the night with Max, and I think Steve is the one bringing her home. Either that or my mom is getting her after work.”
“We could go to the quarry?” Eddie suggests.
Jonathan frowns. Maybe he looks a little paler and sweatier, though Eddie’s not sure how that’s possible.
“My room will be fine,” he says.
“What about Will and Mike?” he asks.
Jonathan shrugs. His frown doesn’t really go away.
When they get there, the boys are in the living room. Mike Wheeler springs to his feet with his eyes wide.
“Eddie!” he says. Eddie notices Will Byers’ brows scrunch up. He barely knows this kid.
“Uhm, hey, what are you doing here?” Mike asks.
“We’re going to hang out,” Jonathan cuts in, when Eddie doesn’t answer fast enough.
“Oh,” Mike says. “Can we… Could we join you?”
The look on Mike’s face is so pleading and desperate that Eddie feels frozen. If he smokes weed with Nancy’s little brother, she is definitely going to murder him. Yes, being taken out by Nancy Wheeler would probably be as badass as going out via evil interdimensional eyeless spider bats. However, Eddie is pretty attached to being alive again.
“Uh,” Jonathan says. He adjusts the bag on his shoulder which is holding the gallon bag full of frozen bud.
Behind Mike, Will’s judgmental eyebrows turn on his own brother.
“Jon’s helping me study,” Eddie says.
“Yeah,” Jonathan says, nodding like one of those trucker dashboard dogs. “GED stuff, you know? Boring.”
Mike’s expression falls. “Oh.”
“Come on,” Will says, “we were in the middle of watching something you picked.”
“Oh yeah,” Mike says. For a moment, he looks almost embarrassed. But when he turns around, he’s trying to smile. Will sighs and doesn’t smile back.
“I think your brother hates me,” Eddie says, behind the door to Jonathan’s bedroom.
Jonathan just shrugs. “Uhh… Is Mike always like that around you?”
Eddie shrugs. He feels like he barely knows Mike Wheeler, and what he knows wouldn’t fill up half a composition notebook. Honestly, even that is mostly like this:
His sister is Nancy who keeps guns in her old shoeboxes, keeps bringing Eddie summer school work he can’t do, and apparently is dating Jonathan Byers even though she’s also got this whole thing with Steve Harrington.
Mike Wheeler also has this whole thing with a girl who has literal actual superpowers. While Steve Harrington was restarting Eddie’s heart the old-fashioned way, Mike Wheeler’s X-Men girlfriend was doing the same for Max Mayfield but with her superpowers.
Honestly, Eddie can’t understand why any girl who has superpowers would want to swap spit with Mike Wheeler, of all people. But he doesn’t really understand how or why Nancy would fully throw herself into the jaws of death for Harrington and then just blow him off the second Jonathan got back in town. No offense to Jonathan, he’s an alright guy — kind of a burnout, but definitely a rung or so up from Eddie.
“I think he thinks I’m cooler than I am,” Eddie explains. “Which, like, that’s his mistake to make, I guess.”
Jonathan shrugs. “You’re pretty cool, man.”
Eddie laughs and falls hard onto Jonathan’s rented mattress. “Man, I was pretty much Hawkins’ least favorite high schooler before I ended up a cripple accused of Satanic serial murder.”
“I think to be a serial murderer there has to be a waiting period,” Jonathan says. He pulls a grinder out of his bedside table. Eddie thinks about how they should probably warm the bud in the microwave or an oven first. But that’s not really doable at the Byers’ house.
Well, it’s not like it can get much worse.
“Where’d you hear that?” Eddie asks.
“Nancy,” Jonathan says.
Eddie nods his head against Jonathan’s bedspread covered pillow. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
“She’s…” Jonathan trails off and starts digging around for rolling papers, which apparently aren’t in the same place with the grinder. Eddie is not in the position to judge another guy for his organization skills.
“She’s certainly something,” Eddie says. “Are the two of you ready for her to head to college?”
Jonathan’s shoulders shoot up to his ears. “I guess.”
“She’s kind of terrifying, now that I know what I know,” Eddie says, “but she’s a really good person. She’s trying to help me get my diploma, but I can’t really do my assignments. My hands are seriously fucked up.”
Jonathan looks at him. He blinks.
“You could tell her that,” he says. Then, “You want me to roll these, then?”
Jonathan does literally all of the work to put the joints together. He lights one and takes the first hit. The smoke comes out of him like a cloud. Eddie takes the joint between his fingers and inhales as much as he can.
His physical therapist would probably be pissed.
“She even offered to drive me to physical therapy, you know?” Eddie says. “She volunteered you to do it when I pointed out that she was going to go to college.”
Jonathan’s eyes widen. “Oh shit, man, I could totally do that. I mean, I have the two jobs and I’m supposed to be studying for the GED test, but I—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Eddie says, handing off the joint. “No need to fret your pretty little head, Jonny, I have a ride.”
“Yeah?” Jonathan asks. He takes another hit.
“Yeah, Harrington takes me,” Eddie says. “Hawkins’ most reliable chauffeur.”
Jonathan coughs. “Seriously? Why would he do that?”
Your girlfriend was there, Eddie thinks. That’s why.
“He’s just a good guy,” Eddie says.
Jonathan snorts. Eddie smacks him in the knee.
“Are you calling into doubt my judgment?” Eddie asks. “After I have shared with you my bounteous offering of ditch weed?”
Jonathan coughs again and starts laughing. “Come on, man, you know Steve kind of… He kind of sucks.”
“No,” Eddie says, feeling weirdly worked up. “He doesn’t, man, he almost died like a billion times over Spring Break. He walked around the Upside Down without shoes and with his guts falling out his sides.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Jonathan says. “I forgot, he saved your life, right?”
Oh, is that why Eddie feels so defensive?
“Well, I guess maybe he sucks less now,” Jonathan says.
“He doesn’t suck at all,” Eddie insists. “You suck.”
Jonathan just shrugs that off. “Yeah, man, probably.”
He gets up and puts on some punk shit that makes Eddie groan loudly.
“It’s my room,” he says. “I get to pick the music.”
“Next time, we’re smoking when Wayne is at work,” Eddie declares.
They talk about music, then, while passing the joint back and forth between them until it’s the tiniest little roach that burns to ashes in a ceramic ashtray shaped like a castle. Eddie likes it, but he doesn’t ask about it.
The sun goes down. They smoke two more joints, and try very hard to be normal through a dinner where Will Byers, El the superpowered girl, and the undead chief of Hawkins PD all definitely know that Eddie is high out of his mind.
“Hey, Mom,” Jonathan says. “Is it OK if Eddie spends the night?”
Joyce Byers thinks that’s a great idea.
“Can Mike stay over?” Will asks.
Weirdly, Hopper vetoes Mike staying over, but not Eddie. Mike acts like he expected this. Will and El, or Jane, or Eleven, both seem pissed off. Eddie is way, way too high for this.
He goes back to Jonathan’s room. They smoke more ditch weed. Eddie thinks his scar tissue wants to fuse with Jonathan’s bedspread.
“You know,” Jonathan says. “I’m glad Steve doesn’t suck, because it used to freak me out that I had so much in common with him.”
“Huh?” Eddie asks. “Like what?”
“Well, Nancy dated him,” Jonathan says, “and we’re both omegas. Probably the only male omegas in this town.”
Eddie blinks. Then blinks again. “Huh?”
“You do know guys can be omegas, right?” Jonathan says.
“Yeah, man,” Eddie says. “I have seen porn.”
Jonathan snorts at him. “God, you really are a freak, I guess.”
“That was a joke!” Eddie insists.
“Yeah, when Nancy told me that, I think she wanted us to be friends or something,” Jonathan says. “But all I could think of was that I didn’t want to have anything in common with Steve Harrington, especially not that.”
“Do you think Steve wanted Nancy to tell you?” Eddie asks. “I mean, that’s kind of personal information.”
Some way too chipper music with super depressing lyrics is playing in the background. It reminds Eddie vaguely of music his mother listened to when she was alive or the really angry country songs Wayne likes about how the Vietnam War was a crock of shit.
“Probably not,” Jonathan says. “He probably wouldn’t want me telling you, either, though, if it’s so personal.”
Eddie rubs his scarred hand over his face. “Shit.”
So, Steve Harrington is a male omega.
Jonathan sleeps in the twin bed beside Eddie but under the bedspread. Eddie lies on top and thinks about Steve Harrington until sleep sneaks up on him and knocks him out.
Jonathan drives him back home, right when Wayne is getting ready to sleep the afternoon away. At least he has his own bedroom now.
“We should do this again,” Jonathan says, behind the wheel of his latest lemon. Guy always drove absolute bombs in school.
“Yeah,” Eddie agrees. “I’ll figure out a supplier if Rick doesn’t get early release. I need to make some cash, but don’t worry — you’ll get the friends and family discount.”
“We’re friends?” Jonathan asks, like he’s surprised.
“Sure!” Eddie tells him. “All my wee baby sheeps want your brother to play D’n’D with our little group, and you’re dating my personal chauffeur’s ex.”
Jonathan rolls his eyes. “If Nancy was here, she’d kill you for that.”
“Yeah,” Eddie says, grinning. “She would! We should make it up to her.”
“Huh?” Jonathan says.
“We could actually study together,” Eddie says. “Summer is a bust, but I’m going to do night school in the fall.”
“Oh,” Jonathan says. “Sure?”
He gets out of his car to help Eddie hobble up the steps.
“Morning,” Wayne says to both of them, but Jonathan slips back out like a shadow. Eddie hears the engine of his car struggle and sputter into a start. A loose belt screams.
“Morning, Wayne,” Eddie says. He leans against the wall for a moment to shake off the way his worse leg feels.
“You eat there?” he asks. “Cause we got breakfast here, too.”
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Dinner. It’s fine.”
He hears Wayne sigh as he putters around the kitchen. He’s eating something right out of the frying pan with a plastic spoon. Eddie can hear him setting down the pan and the rattle of other plastic utensils.
“Come,” Wayne says. “Have a sit.”
It takes Eddie a moment to get his bearings, but he goes and has a sit.
“Did you thank those people for feeding you?” Wayne asks. “Or did you just run off with your friend there?”
Eddie sighs. “I wasn’t the only one there for dinner, and it wasn’t like a planned thing.”
“Well,” Wayne says, “I’ll be sure to thank Joyce when I see her, since you didn’t think of it. But there’s someone else you ought to be thanking and I don’t see them around much.”
Eddie scrapes at the hash browned potatoes and scrambled eggs in the pan. He tries to think of who his uncle could be talking about. Not Nancy, because she definitely sticks around long enough whenever she visits that Eddie can give her a cup of coffee. It can’t be any of the kids, because they’re just kids. Eddie’s so fucking grateful for their visits, but it’s not anything Wayne would be bugging him about.
“That Harrington boy has been hauling your ass to the VA clinic for a month now,” Wayne says, clearly sick of watching Eddie try to riffle through his own shitty memory.
“No way,” Eddie says. “It has not been a month.”
“Son,” Wayne says. “It’s nearly August.”
“No,” Eddie says. But they both look at the new calendar Wayne brought home from Sr. Margaret Ellen, because the last one didn’t make it through the whole place getting split in half. She didn’t even charge them for it, since the fundraiser was long over.
“Well,” Wayne says. “I suppose it’s only mid-July.”
He eats a few bites of scramble while Eddie sits there and tries to figure out how so many weeks have slipped him by. With no disrespect to Sr. Margaret Ellen: Jesus shitting Christ, how is he still so fucked up if he’s been doing this physical therapy shit for weeks?
Eddie sits with his uncle and morosely eats the scramble. Gooey strings of cheese dangle from his lips and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away.
Night school will start in September, after Robin and Nancy and Jeff all head off to college. He’s got to be able to write by then or he’ll never pass. It would also kind of suck if he couldn’t get up from the desk by himself. Eddie thinks of the papers he got from his Olog-Hai tormentor. They’re somewhere in his room — the room that’s mostly been unpacked and organized by Steve Harrington, even if Eddie would really like to give his bandmates some credit too.
“Why don’t you invite him for dinner some time?” Wayne asks.
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “That sounds good.”
He chews on his lower lip as much as he does his late breakfast. Once he’s washing the pan and Wayne is showering, Eddie realizes he got cheese in his hair somehow.
“Motherfucker,” Eddie says to no one.
He showers and washes the cheese out of his hair, but he has to wait a while because the water heater has to get its shit together after Wayne’s shower. Eddie uses the walls and doorways and all the bolted-down furniture to pull himself through their little home and his actually-much-larger room. The Corroded Coffin banner is back up, at least, and Eddie absolutely doesn’t think about the little flash of skin that appeared between Harrington’s polo shirt and his jeans every time he looks at it now. That would be weird, right? And Eddie’s not going to be weird about this.
He finds the papers with the exercises. There are diagrams.
Eddie snorts.
“Holy shit,” he says, “why does this look like fucking?”
The paper calls it a “bridge.” He can vaguely remember doing them at his appointments — or rather, he can remember his therapist’s giant hand at the small of his back trying to hoist him up while his thighs and calves quivered like Jell-O.
Honestly, now that he looks it over, it’s all kinds of stuff that he already knows how to do. He could — he should be doing it, right?
Eddie sits down, because the sitting one looks most comfortable. He lifts his foot up about three times before he regrets not putting music on. He has to grab onto a shelf nearby and then the bed to get fully upright. It’s humiliating.
For the length of “War Pigs” to “Iron Man,” Eddie does his stupid little exercises until his legs hurt. Then he wobbles his way to the shower where he can scrub off the exercise sweat and the cheese grease and the weed stank under glorious hot water for at least ten minutes.
Then, somewhere along the way, Eddie gets distracted. He can vaguely hear “Rat Salad” playing from his bedroom. He shouldn’t be wasting the hot water like this. Or, really, the water in general.
But, he’s so warm and comfortable. He’s up on his feet in a way that, for just a second, Eddie can pretend like he can stand and walk and function like any other man — like he used to. (Like he’s never going to again, he thinks.)
And he’s thinking about Steve Harrington, about Steve Harrington being an omega. He’s not supposed to know that, but he does. He’s been trying to put it out of his mind, really, because he knows what they say about omega guys can’t be true.
Steve and Jonathan both dated Nancy Wheeler, so clearly omegas don’t have to like guys just because… Just because…
Eddie’s hand works right at the base of his half-hard cock.
Just because they can take dick — huge, throbbing, alpha dick — like they were built for it. That’s even what it says splashed in big, bold letters over the pictures. He can see all the magazine pages in his mind. He can imagine the knot the size of a fist at the base of some super endowed alpha and then the way it just disappears inside the smaller omega man on the next page. The way the omega guy’s head tips back and his throat is exposed while a big hand pulls on his nipple. It’s so easy for Eddie to imagine Steve’s head tipped back, the beauty marks on his throat displayed like targets.
Maybe it’s so easy because Eddie has already had plenty of practice.
See, back in the day when Steve Harrington ruled the halls of Hawkins High, everyone said he was an alpha. It was obvious! His dear ol’ daddy was — everyone knew that — so the apple must have fallen right there next to the tree. He sure walked like an alpha, played sports like an alpha. Girls talked about how he fucked like an alpha. So, Eddie had thought about how it might feel to hold Steve Harrington down by the throat and grind his knot up against another alpha’s.
The magazines showed that, too. The idea is that two alphas would clash, their sexual energy matched yet unmatchable.
Eddie has actually pinned Steve Harrington by his throat, now, and it hadn’t been very sexy. Nothing about Spring Break had been sexy. Honestly, Harrington deserves to win back Nancy Wheeler purely off the fact that he didn’t look like absolute shit after getting chewed on by monsters and then running barefoot through hell with only Eddie’s battle vest — may she rest in peace — to protect him.
Somewhere along the line, Eddie comes and then splashes shower water over the semen with his foot so it will all get down the drain. He towels off. He changes the tape in the janky little stereo that has to be thumped pretty hard to open or shut its tape deck.
He lies down in bed, even though it isn’t even noon yet. He tried not to think more about Steve Harrington, who isn’t an alpha at all. He tries to think about his physical therapy exercises instead.
He doesn’t succeed.
Over the next few weeks, Eddie adds leg raises and bridges to the hand stretches he’s been doing. He also tries to think of how to ask Steve Harrington to eat a meal with him and Uncle Wayne without it feeling like he’s asking the boy of his dreams to come meet the family. Not that Harrington is the boy of his dreams. That would be ridiculous.
“Do you know what a bridge is?” Eddie asks.
Steve glares at the asphalt of Route 16 as it stretches before them.
“I’m not that stupid,” he says.
“Man,” Eddie says. “Do you know who’s talking to you? I don’t think you’re stupid at all.”
Steve’s whole face changes. He blinks.
“Also, I don’t mean the like… the kind they put roads and train tracks over,” Eddie says. “Like not the Bridge of Stonebows, man, the exercise.”
“Oh,” Steve says. “Yeah. It’s good for your glutes.”
“Glutes?” Eddie asks, even though he’s pretty sure those are —
“Your tush,” Steve says.
Eddie snorts.
“I used to be killer at holding a bridge,” Steve says. “We had to do them for summer conditioning. That and wallsits.”
“Wallsits?” Eddie asks.
“Yeah,” Steve says. “That’s when you sit with your back against the wall, but there’s no chair under you.”
Eddie has not done that in physical therapy, but he definitely remembers it from gym class. He gags. Steve just laughs.
“We had gym together, you know?” he says. “When I was a freshman.”
“What?” Eddie asks.
“Coach Rippeon was always pissed at you for skipping,” Steve tells him. “He used you as the scary bad example of kids who smoked and did drugs, you know? It was so shitty that I swear it just made me want to smoke more.”
Eddie blinks. "You smoke?”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “Since like seventh grade, I think, but not all the time. Just socially, you know? And when I’m drinking. I’m not addicted.”
“Oh, same,” Eddie lies. His dad gave him his first cigarette, like a parting gift, like he knew that he was going to get caught and sent away and there’d be no one to take care of Eddie. When the lady from the county finally showed up, Eddie had enough clothes and books to fill a garbage bag, a nasty case of head lice, and a daily craving for Camels. He’s still got that last one.
He wonders who gave little middle school Steve Harrington his first cigarette.
“How’d you get started?” Eddie asks.
“Hagan,” Steve says, with a sigh and a roll of his eyes. “But I used to steal the cigarettes from my mom.”
“Wow,” Eddie says. “I am learning so much.”
Steve doesn’t ask how Eddie got started, which is almost a relief.
“Wayne hated that I did that,” Eddie says. “But no matter where he hid the cartons, I’d find them. He tried to quit so that I’d be forced to do the same, but it never stuck. Eventually, I just started buying my own.”
“Same,” Steve says. “That was high school, I think, like sophomore year after I won my kegstand crown.”
“Is that like a real, physical thing?” Eddie asks.
“Man, I don’t know,” Steve says. “I blacked out and puked all over my bed that night, so if there was a crown I definitely lost it.”
Eddie makes a sound like a cat that just ate grass. “Oh man, puking in bed sucks.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the high price of popularity.”
They swap stories from parties and all the people they’ve seen hurl, all the times they’ve hurled in someone’s yard or on the side of the road. Eddie even tells the story about how he and the old members of Corroded Coffin — the ones who have all graduated and moved away — ate day-old pizza that their original drummer Jake left in his van and they all got food poisoning.
“I was shitting liquid for days,” Eddie tells Steve Harrington.
It’s totally not the kind of thing that Eddie would tell a guy if he wanted to romance him, right?
Certainly no one is thinking of romancing Eddie when he comes back from his appointment with his shirt pits soaked in sweat. The black shirt has faded enough that it’s super visible — the sweat around his collar and across his chest. His underwear is also soaked. The therapist says he should stop wearing jeans to his appointments, but Eddie isn’t about to wear his flannel pajama pants in Harrington’s car for two hours.
But, fuck, it’s so wet in the pits. He just knows he must smell awful.
They’re halfway to Hawkins when Steve asks him to help change the tape.
“You can put in something you choose,” he says, even though it’s a Friday.
Eddie grabs the Queen tape, because it’s Steve’s choice but he doesn’t hate it. Who doesn’t like Freddie Mercury?
“Queen?” Steve asks. “Really?”
“My uncle says I should invite you to dinner,” Eddie says, changing the subject.
“Well, I’m off on Sunday.”
“Cool,” Eddie says. “You like meatloaf?”
“Who doesn’t,” Steve tells him.
So, Steve Harrington is coming to dinner. He tells Wayne when he sees him on Saturday morning. Wayne’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. Eddie acts like he doesn’t care, but he does pick up all the laundry that has escaped his room. He keeps taking his shirts off in the living room and just sleeping on the couch when he’s too tired to pry himself up and go to bed.
Eddie freaks out for all of Saturday and then all of Sunday morning. He receives no visitors to help him keep his mind off the impending dinner. He does his leg lifts. He squeezes a hard little ball in one hand and then the other. He applies his lotions and potions.
“Come mash some potatoes,” Wayne tells him, clearly sick of this shit.
Shockingly, Eddie can hold the giant serving fork that they’ve always used to mash potatoes. He even has the strength to mash the potatoes.
“Huh,” he says. He pours milk from the jug and then from the measuring cup without spilling more than the usual amount.
“Good work, kid,” Wayne says.
Hours later, Steve looks at Wayne and says, “These mashed potatoes are really good, sir.”
“I can’t take credit,” Wayne says. “Ed made ‘em.”
Steve looks him in the eye. “You can cook?” He’s smirking.
Eddie’s heart goes tap, tap, tap against his sternum.
At the end of dinner, Steve offers to help wash the dishes. He even uses some paper towels to dry the dishes already in the rack so there’s space for everyone’s plates. They each have a beer and, with Steve’s vote, end up watching some program about World Cup Soccer.
“You know,” Steve says. “Robin plays.”
“Robin?” Eddie asks. “Plays a sport? That involves this much running?”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “She’s done it since she was a kid. Like me and swimming.”
“Fascinating,” Eddie says into his bottle of Sterling, Wayne’s favorite.
“Uh-huh,” Steve says. “Nancy used to be a cheerleader.”
If Eddie had been drinking, he would have choked.
“Only during freshman year, though,” Steve explains. “It didn’t last.”
When the program nears its end, Steve looks at him and says, “Didn’t you used to be in the marching band?”
“Yeah, he did,” Wayne says, while Eddie sinks into the couch and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
“Played the trombone, ‘cause of his long arms,” Wayne offers without any further prompting.
“Like noodles,” Eddie says, wiggling his arms at Steve, who is sharing the couch. He maybe hits him across the chest.
“Want to see pictures?” Wayne asks, and Eddie is helpless to stop either of them. Just like with ESPN, he gets outvoted.
Steve doesn’t leave until nearly nine, and even then it’s only because he says he has work in the morning.
“See you on Tuesday, Eddie!” he says, and he smiles all brilliant and white — like a toothpaste commercial.
“You know, Ed,” Wayne says. “I can see why you tolerate that Harrington boy. He seems alright.”
“He’s pretty alright,” Eddie says.
That night, he sleeps on the couch with no shirt on. He lies there and doesn’t think about how he’s guaranteed to see Steve twice a week and, if Wayne starts wanting to have him over, then Eddie would see Steve even more than that. Or, at least, he doesn’t think about it much.
In between educating Steve on Judas Priest during their Tuesday commute, Eddie gets his core absolutely demolished by his villain of a physical therapist.
“Have you ever heard of this exercise called a plank?” Eddie asks, as Steve helps him from the wheelchair to the passenger seat of the bimmer. Steve just hisses through his teeth.
“Man, no wonder you look like that,” Steve says.
“I think I’m dying,” Eddie says.
“You still wanna stop by the record shop for a tape?” Steve asks.
“Of course I do,” he says.
When Jeff, Freak, and Gareth stop by on Wednesday for an indoor game session-outdoor jam session, Eddie can’t wait to tell them all about how Steve was actually tapping along on his steering wheel to “Breaking the Law.”
“No offense,” Gareth says, “but I don’t fucking believe you.”
“Yeah, well,” Eddie says. “I’m not the one lying to your mom about where you are today.”
“It’s cool that he’s helping you out, man,” Freak says. He’s drenched in sweat from having to take over the lead guitar parts and the fact that it’s eleven a.m. in mid-July.
“If anyone could get a normie to like metal, it’d be you.”
Eddie preens a little, flipping his sweaty curls this way and that. He has to sit on a folding chair that Jeff carried out for him. But he’s been thinking of a lot of lyrics. If only he could write them down. It’s nice to sort of just scream melodically along with whatever Freak plays as Jeff and Gareth try to keep pace. This is the best they’re probably going to get before Jeff leaves for college in August.
That evening, over pizza and chips and cans of Mountain Dew, Eddie talks his bandmates through a locked door mystery: a masquerade party on a ship, a deep lake, a beautiful heiress’ life cut short. It’s nice, because they don’t really need a map and he can mostly just pull the characters from his brain. He uses some old notes when he needs them, but mostly he doesn’t.
He expects them to figure it out — it’s the jealous cousin who is secretly a sorcerer — but as midnight creeps toward them, Jeff says he needs to be getting home.
“We can continue this, right?” he asks. “I’d really like to finish it.”
They haven’t finished a campaign since before the spring.
“Yeah, of course,” Eddie says, as Gareth starts shoving papers into his backpack.
“I liked the duke,” Freak says. “I think he knows something.”
“The one Eddie keeps insisting is handsome?” Gareth asks, his voice muffled from the way he’s bent over putting his stuff away.
“Yeah, him,” Freak says.
“You think he’s the killer?” Gareth asks. “Because—”
“No, no, I think he knows something,” Freak says. “That doesn’t mean —”
“I think it’s the fiancee,” Jeff says. “What was his name? Jocerin?”
“Oh yeah,” Gareth says. “He’s a total dick, it could be him.”
“No, he passed my perception check,” Freak says, “and I rolled a fifteen with a plus two, so I think he couldn't have done it. He was with his friends.”
“Isn’t the duke one of his friends?” Gareth asks.
“No, they’re just from the same principality,” Jeff offers.
“They were soldiers together during the crusade against the Astoz the Lizard King,” Eddie reminds them. “Comrades in arms.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re friends,” Freak says, just as Gareth says, “That’s why I think it was the duke!”
“Alright, then be wrong,” Freak tells him. “You want a ride, or is Jeff taking you?”
“I already put my drums in the trunk of your car, man, come on,” Gareth tells him.
Eddie makes it to the door to see them off. He’s tired, but he at least does his hand exercises and the leg exercises that he can do in bed.
They don’t get back to the boat for another two weeks, but it’s Freak who finally suggests the cousin. They stay up until two in the morning solving it. Jeff’s parents even call and say that they’re staying up, waiting for him.
“I told you it wasn’t Stellahn,” Freak says, nearly knocking Gareth down the stairs. “We totally would have solved it sooner if you hadn’t insisted he was suspicious.”
“He was!” Gareth cries.
“Hey man,” Jeff says, lingering at the doorway.
“Hey,” Eddie says. He’s leaning hard against the wall. How is his leg so tired from sitting?
“You’re looking a lot better,” Jeff says. Eddie laughs.
“I mean it,” Jeff says. “You looked like… Like rancid cat food there for a while.”
“Oh, thanks,” Eddie says.
“Has the doctor said, I mean, do you think…” Jeff looks at his feet.
“Physical therapists aren’t doctors,” Eddie says. “I think.”
“Yeah, well, did your physical therapist say you’re gonna be able to play guitar?” Jeff asks.
Eddie’s heart sinks, but he’s not sure why.
“Yeah,” he says, because the guy totally has said that.
“Have you tried?” Jeff asks.
Holy shit, why does he feel like he’s going to throw up?
“Sorry,” Jeff says. “I just hoped… I mean, if you wanted. I just. I don’t know when I’ll be back — hopefully Thanksgiving, but it might not be until Christmas.”
“I’ll try,” Eddie says. “Or, like, I’ll ask the guy if I should try.”
“Yeah,” Jeff says, still staring at his feet. “Okay, Eddie, I gotta go. Take care, man.”
“Night, Jeff!” Eddie says. “Drive safe.”
Jeff leaves in two weeks, he thinks. Night school starts not long after that. He looks at the fabric calendar hanging on the wall. His stomach drops further and further. He uses the doorknob, the shelving, the door to the storage, the kitchen counters to pull himself through the house. His knee feels like it’s made of water.
He makes it to his bedroom. There, his notebooks and art supplies — all neatly organized by Steve Harrington and collecting dust — stare back at him. His acoustic, beautiful as she is, seems to lean mournfully against the wall like a woman in despair. He feels his legs give out and he just sits on the carpet.
His one arm is pretty strong now, so he shuffles forward on his ass.
He picks her up, gently, and holds her curves against his body. His fingers press down on the frets. It hurts, but he can do it. He pinches his index finger against his thumb to brace it.
“Holy shit,” Eddie says. “You’re so out of tune, baby, I’m sorry.”
That day, Eddie sleeps an hour at a time, waking with a start just as he dreams of sharp teeth and red light. Eight in the morning feels like nine feels like twelve. He showers around three in the afternoon and makes himself some toast.
Toast won’t make him feel like throwing up, right?
“You alright?” Steve asks on Friday.
“No,” Eddie says.
Steve looks at him, but doesn’t say anything.
“Did I tell you Robin’s going to this Mennonite school?” he asks.
“Mennonite?” Eddie asks. “Are those the ones that don’t believe in telephones and, like, make butter?”
“I think those are the Amish,” Steve says. “But maybe? I’m not really sure.”
Eddie asks his physical therapist about playing guitar. About writing. The guy suggests Eddie bring his guitar to his next appointment.
“You can work on it here,” he says. “Play for us.”
“I’ll have to tune it first,” Eddie says.
“You know any Springsteen?” another patient asks.
Eddie scoffs. “Of course! But have you heard of Metallica?”
For some reason, no one really feels like throwing a party before heading to college. Steve says he’s having a movie night with Robin. Between complaining about how metal all sounds the same to him and how Eddie’s weed sucks, Jonathan admits he’s planning a special dinner out of town for Nancy. Jeff just wants one last Corroded Coffin jam session.
Eddie calls Jonathan for a ride.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’ve got work then.”
He sighs.
“It’s fine,” Eddie says. “I’ll figure it out.”
Wheeler says her parents will both be out, so she doesn’t have a car. Eddie already knows Robin doesn’t drive. He doesn’t even know if Harrington will be home to answer the phone.
“Harrington residence,” Steve’s voice answers on the second ring. “This is Steve speaking.”
“Steeeeeeve Haaaaarington,” Eddie says. “How are you on this fine day?”
Steve makes a sound that Eddie knows goes along with a shrug of his broad shoulders. In his mind’s eyes, he can even see the little twist of Steve’s lips that he would make.
“Can’t complain, I suppose,” Steve says. “How’ve you been?” “I could complain,” Eddie says, “but I won’t. You hear enough of that already.”
Steve huffs something that’s almost a laugh.
“I know this is, like, all I ever ask of you, but do you think you could —”
“Sure, man,” Steve says. “When do you need a ride?”
“Wednesday,” Eddie says. “Like, in the afternoon?”
“Hm,” Steve says. “Alright, I’ll tell Kathy.”
“Who’s that?” Eddie asks. “Hot date?”
Steve makes a sound of disgust. “That’s my boss, man, I’ll just change shifts with Margaret. She prefers the evening anyway, and I’m always taking it because of our Tuesday-Friday thing.”
“Sorry,” Eddie says.
“Don’t be,” Steve tells him. “Margaret sucks at closing.”
“And let me guess,” Eddie says, twisting the phone cord around his fingers, “you’re an expert closer?”
“Obviously,” Steve says. “So, where will I be driving you?”
“My friend Jeff’s place,” Eddie says. “Last band sesh before he heads to Indy.”
“Huh,” Steve says. “Do you guys play music like, you know, Ozzy and Halford?”
“Why Steve Harrington,” Eddie says. “I never would have thought you’d ask — actually, we do play music like Ozzy and Halford. Also, Mercyful Fate and Metallica and even…” he taps his fingers against the wall in a little drumroll, delighting that it actually works. “Dio!”
“Oh, that’s your favorite, right?” Steve asks.
“Yep,” Eddie says. “That’s my favorite.”
“Cool,” Steve says.
“We even, uh, play some Corroded Coffin originals,” Eddie says. “Things that I wrote, well, I mean, we all write songs together, but I write the lyrics.”
“Do you sing?” Steve asks.
Eddie scoffs into his ear. “Do I sing? Do I, Eddie Munson, sing?”
“Yeah,” Steve says, “that’s what I’m asking.” Eddie can hear the smile in his voice.
“Of course,” Eddie says. “I’m lead singer and — well, usually I’m lead guitar, too.”
“That’s really cool, man,” Steve says. “You think I could hang out and listen?”
Eddie’s heart bangs against the cage of his ribs like a wild gorilla in the zoo. He swallows that shit down fast.
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “I mean, I’ll ask the guys, but they’ll probably be okay with it.”
He calls Jeff immediately.
Jeff tells him it would be fun, actually, and is there anyone else he wants to invite? It could almost be like a going away party.
Eddie calls Henderson after that, who pretty much screams into his ear about it. So, Eddie and his acoustic guitar end up squished into the back of Steve’s Bimmer with Henderson in the middle and Mayfield behind Buckley.
“Why does it smell like cigarettes in here?” Robin asks, glaring at Steve. “In my seat?”
Eddie just smiles to himself.
Steve gets a cooler out of the trunk after they park. Then, Sue Sinclair pulls up with Lucas, Erica, Mike, his superpowered girlfriend, and Will.
“What’s with the middle schoolers?” Gareth asks.
“Excuse you,” Dustin starts up, “most of us are going into 10th grade this year and we’re going to be sophomores.”
Jeff’s mom comes out and greets Lucas and Erica’s mom with a big hug.
“I brought some dip,” one mom says.
“Oh, that’s just lovely, Sue, you can bring that in,” the other answers.
They set up in the garage, with Steve pulling chairs out of places Eddie didn’t even know there could be chairs. How does he know where to find them?
It’s a really quiet set, all acoustic to match Eddie’s guitar. He would have expected everyone to be kind of annoying, but it’s like if one of the kids even thinks about saying something while they’re playing Robin stares them into silence with crazy eyes.
Eddie wishes he could take note of what everyone thinks, how their faces change, whether they like the music or not, but he has to watch his fingers to be sure they are where he means to place them and he’s pressing down hard enough but not too hard.
They play maybe three songs, if that, before he needs a break and has to stretch his wrists and fingers.
“Did you bring your lotion?” Steve asks.
“Oh yeah,” Eddie says.
His fingertips bleed by the end of the afternoon. His throat aches. He pretty much spends the whole time on a folding chair that Steve pulled out from behind some plywood in Jeff’s garage.
But Eddie can’t remember the last time he felt like this: happy.