Chapter Text
‘It’s not difficult, it’s actually really simple.’
‘Just because it’s simple does not mean it’s easy.’
‘Right, sure. But what I’m saying is that it’s potentially a straightforward fix, right? It’s not a million different things. It’s just. Just one thing.’
‘One simple yet difficult obstacle; is that how you’d like to frame your insomnia, Steve?’
‘I don’t like anything about it, but at this point, I’m trying to be more positive. Isn’t that what this has all been about?’
‘Do you think three years of therapy has been to make you more positive?’
‘Well. To get me there. Eventually, right?’
‘Walk me through the virtue of labelling your insomnia as simple, if you would.’
‘The insomnia itself isn’t simple, and I don’t like when you do this. When you… colour outside the lines to make me neaten up my own work. But all right fine. I can’t sleep. If I could sleep, I could eat properly, at decent times in a potentially social setting. I could make friends, meet people, go on dates. I could focus more. could get a job. More opportunities to meet people, do things that are fun. If I could sleep, I might not need antidepressants. I’d look better. I’d feel better. I would… maybe I wouldn’t have anxiety. I could make plans. Life would be good. That’s what I mean.’
‘Now tell me what about your insomnia is actually simple.’
‘It’s… I just… I feel so sure if I could just fix it, then everything else would reset in my life too. This is the big thing that’s wrong in my life. I’m positive about that.’
‘What else is wrong in your life this week?’
‘It’s all caused by the insomnia.’
‘Indulge me.’
‘So. Money. I’m running out now. Like really running out and while I may be pathetic, I’m not quite pathetic enough to go back to the government – which I wouldn’t even know how to do – nine years later and ask for another payout. If I could sleep, I could get a job.’
‘You could get a job that requires you to work nights.’
‘My focus is shot. The anxiety is really bad now.’
‘And that’s entirely caused by insomnia?’
‘What else would it be?’
‘Indulge me further about your week.’
‘Money is dwindling to nothing, and I have bills to pay, all kinds of shit. I’m. I’m so lonely it’s gutting me.’
‘We’ve talked about this before.’
‘I know we have.’
‘There are people in your phone book who would love to hear from you. Maybe even organise a meetup.’
‘They’ve all moved on. They’re doing cool stuff, living their lives. If they asked me what’s new in my life, I wouldn’t have anything to say.’
‘You could say you were seeing them. That would be new.’
‘When things are better, I will.’
‘And things will be better once you can sleep.’
‘Yes, obviously. It’s so much worse now. Even just the past year, I was thinking back and it’s gotten so much worse. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just… I lay down. It’s dark. The curtains are closed. And my brain won’t sleep. It won’t shut off. Alcohol, pills, running, long walks, even sex. Nothing helps.’
‘Let’s talk about sex.’
‘Do we have to?’
‘It’s a facet of human connection. If you’re uncomfortable—’
‘No, it’s fine, just don’t have much to say.’
‘You seem uncomfortable.’
‘Because it’s more of the same. Other people are having sex, other people are sleeping and working and living their lives and I’m just…’
‘Just what?’
‘Stuck.’
‘Where?’
‘Limbo. A nice pocket of quiet hell.’
‘Tell me what’s good about your week so far.’
‘Nothing.’
‘There’s good to be found everywhere.’
‘For other people.’
‘Steve, are you thinking about hurting yourself?’
‘No. No, I’m not. At all. I just want to fucking sleep. Pills would interfere with the antidepressants. I’m so tired and it’s killing me. It’s like rot inside me, spreading and touching everything and I know I need to kill it but I can’t, because the solution isn’t rage or strength or anger. It’s peace.’
‘When did you last feel peace?’
‘I know when it ended.’
‘We haven’t talked about that in a while.’
‘It hurts to talk about.’
‘Would you like to try?’
‘I. No. There’s nothing new to say. I let them down. I let everyone down. Nancy…’
‘It’s all right, Steve. Keep going.’
‘Nancy died. She died right in front of me. I watched him kill her. I can still hear Dustin screaming his name.’
‘Do you hear it at night?’
‘I don’t hear anything at night except my own heartbeat.’
‘Is that an offensive sound to you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Because you’re alive and she’s not.’
‘Because she would have made the most of her life. She’d be flying high, bright and incredible and doing all these amazing things. She would make people’s lives better just by being alive.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I know she wouldn’t be a fall-down mess like me.’
‘Steve, you went through an extreme trauma, several actually, starting at a very young age.’
‘Nineteen’s not young.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Well, everyone else is doing fine.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because whenever we talk on the phone, Robin tells me all about everyone, all of them, how they’re doing. They’re all little superstars. Even Dustin got past it. He’s training to become a teacher. Kid’s so fucking smart and kind, he’ll be the best teacher. Everyone’s moved on and I can’t because…’
‘Because?’
‘It was my fault. He wasn’t going for her. He was coming for me.’
‘Eddie Munson.’
‘It wasn’t Eddie when he came back, it. It was. You know I can’t talk about the specifics.’
‘You could if you wanted to. We have doctor patient confidentiality.’
‘I can’t talk about it. But he was different. Still him but, uh, wild, dangerous and out of his mind.’
‘Let’s say it was drugs.’
‘Sure. He was sky high, not himself. But he wasn’t trying to kill her. She saw him coming at me, during the whole… uh, gathering. And she ran in front, pushed me aside and he got her. He killed her, only she didn’t die right away.’
‘She died in your arms?’
‘Not in mine. But I saw. I watched.’
‘Does it give you comfort that Eddie died too?’
‘No.’
‘What would give you comfort?’
‘I don’t know what that word means. It’s like. A blanket is comfort, right? But I’m underwater. Blanket won’t help. Nothing does. Nothing works. I just need to sleep. It’s simple.’
‘Your life is anything but simple, Steve, and wanting to simplify it is entirely understandable. Why don’t you try leaving the curtains open this week?’
‘Sorry?’
‘In your bedroom. You said you close the curtains. Sometimes the dark can be stifling.’
‘Sure, why not add another thing to the list of I tried that, and it didn’t work. Sorry. I’m. I don’t mean to be rude.’
‘You weren’t rude. You’re exhausted.’
‘I am.’
‘That’s time unfortunately, but you did very well today.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Same time next week?’
‘If I can afford it.’
‘You’ll find a way. Let me know how it goes with the curtains.’
Part One
It’s a very neat one-bedroom apartment in Seattle and on clear days, Steve Harrington can just about make out the waters of Elliot Bay. It’s the highest apartment, right at the top. If Steve wants to go up on the roof, which he often does, he only needs to walk up twenty-four steps. The drop is dizzying. Unsurvivable in any way, shape or form. The view is vast; whole city fits into an eye. Steve likes it very much and couldn’t imagine living on the ground level, hates to picture it.
Ground level where anything could crawl through the window, where people can walk by at any time, no.
He couldn’t bear that.
He might not sleep well here but he wouldn’t sleep well anywhere and at least here, he feels safe.
Up high, hidden.
And he likes to look over the edge.
His Dad always used to say, if you’re falling, you may as well try to fly, and admittedly, his Dad was an overall piece of shit whose advice ranged from wildly useless to worryingly absent of morals and it all made a lot more sense when he revealed he had a second family, but still, the flying advice remains in his head whenever he looks over the edge, imagines the drop and how many seconds it would take until the splat.
It's not like he’s ever going to do it.
He might land on someone.
He might ruin someone’s life.
It’d get on the news.
An incredibly selfish way to go.
Steve wouldn’t do that unless there was no other option.
God he just needs to sleep.
And at a certain point, the thought of sleep becomes inevitably equated with other forms of sleep.
Rest.
Rest in peace.
It sounds nice, but he won’t, not least of all because it would dishonour her enormously.
Steve tidies his tiny one-bedroom apartment, TV on in the background for noise and then he writes in his diary because he’s on a sixteen-month streak and the therapist strongly encourages it. The only problem is, when he reads it back, there isn’t much there at all. Makes plain to him that if he were to vanish, absolutely nothing in the world would change.
Life is in this small place he’s barely holding onto.
It’s in the routine that sustains him.
The fragile belief that things will get better, despite there being no evidence whatso-fucking-ever to suggest that. And that belief is crumbling around the edges, but it’s not gone away just yet.
In the corner of the living room sits a rarely used computer. Maybe twice a week Steve will turn it on, make coffee while he waits and then he can check his email or maybe browse the local bulletin boards. It’s loud and it takes a while and he doesn’t really like it, but sometimes the kids will email him. Dustin is the one who talked him into getting it a few years back, said it’s the way forward of modern communication. Steve would take a phone call over an email every single time, but he knows they’re busy too, so he got the computer, spent time learning how to use it for himself. He’s pretty good on it, but doesn’t use it much, mostly because he’d just be checking his email all the time and it is frequently empty. He gets mail at most once a month and it’s only from Dustin now.
Checking in, dropping him a line.
Steve is an afterthought.
And he doesn’t mind that at all. It means Dustin has friends (new friends, better friends, more friends) and that he spends holidays with his girlfriend. He’s brilliant. He’s happy.
Steve is an afterthought.
It’s not on other people to make Steve’s life better and what’s so fucking annoying is that he knows he could, if he could just sleep.
He hasn’t slept properly since it happened.
And then it was all post battle, scrambling to be OK and support those who weren’t, so no one was really sleeping well except for Will Byers who was in a coma for a year, and the little girl with the powers, Eleven, who died to save them all.
And Nancy, of course.
But death is not sleep and Steve shouldn’t think like that.
It’s hard not to, though.
This is a lull period.
Post therapy, actually talking to someone, he always feels better, more stable, hopeful.
But tomorrow, it’ll wear off and the anxiety will creep in once more, shredding his focus, destroying his calm, eating away at his mood and ultimately ruining him so that when he tries to sleep at night, he’s a jangly ball of adrenaline and grief and confusion. Disjointed thoughts trying to smash together as he lays there, sweaty and shaky and hating himself.
He promised Robin he’d take the antidepressants, so he does.
But they don’t seem to do much.
His life is a slowly shrinking mess.
Nine years and nothing but an email address and a tidy apartment. No girlfriend, no job, no legacy. His Mom died and no one called him until after the funeral. His Dad is with the second family. Happy, settled, Steve barely exists.
Gets a card on his birthday with forty dollars inside.
From Dad.
The therapist is the closest thing he has to a friend, and yet he knows the second he attaches in any way, she’ll refer him.
So, it’s just Steve and the computer and the TV and the dead drop he fantasises about but won’t allow himself, and the increasingly brittle hope that things will somehow get better.
Not much to show for nine years.
‘It’ll get better,’ he says aloud, talks to himself often because what other choice is there? ‘It’s gonna get so much better. You’ll sleep and then you’ll feel good and then you’ll get a job, meet people. Be normal.’
His throat burns and his eyes sting but he smiles.
‘You’ll be really normal.’
It’s going to be OK.
It has to.
It’s dark outside when the chores are all done and the TV starts talking about a serious incident down on Pier Fifty-Four. Three men killed in a brutal and senseless attack, a robbery gone wrong, apparently.
‘Chet, we still don’t know the extent of the injuries, but one eye-witness said the attacker was “inhumanly vicious and out of his mind.” A store owner nearby said that the drug problem among homeless people is getting out of hand.’
Steve glances over at the TV, sees the reporter standing in front of police tape, red and blue lights flashing. It’s live TV.
He frowns, listening.
More eye-witness accounts, but they vary enough for it to be clear that no one actually saw anything. It’s surprising for downtown Seattle though. Three dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Resting.
Asleep.
No.
She died saving his life and his life will go on no matter what.
Whether it’s worth living or not.
Steve folds the last of his laundry, would do anything to put off what’s coming next, knows he has to try.
Bedtime.
The time he hates most.
But he has to try.
‘You have to try. Can’t give up.’
Maybe tonight will be the night.
Shower before bed, TV on low volume, it almost sounds like there are people nearby, he climbs into bed, guts coiling, heart beating fast and hard and heavy.
His brain goes wide awake, starts thinking determinedly pleasant thoughts but it’s like screaming poetry. Sunny days and the last time he went swimming and what it’ll be like when everything is good again, how food will actually have taste and life will come back into colour.
He thinks about good things.
Good thoughts.
Except they’re so loud, so big, it’s like he’s being shaken.
Hit.
Beaten to death by happy thoughts.
His heart is in his throat.
His throat wants to puke it up.
His body is sick of him.
Sick and tired and so betrayed.
Three dead on Pier Fifty-Four, why couldn’t that be him?
No, no, that’s fucking disgusting.
That’s hideous.
He’s bad.
So bad.
Rotten to the core.
Nancy was so good.
A screaming orchestra of pure hell settles front and centre in his brain and Steve closes his eyes, lets the tears fall.
It’s no life, but it’s all he has.
And then he remembers what the therapist said about the curtains, so he gets out of bed and opens them. His small balcony is rarely used, mostly because he worries about stray intrusive thoughts taking over, but it looks… nice, frames the city and the lights, makes him feel a little better about being awake.
Sitting up, arms around raised knees, Steve stares at the city lights and cries quietly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says to no one, everyone, her. Himself. His body. His brain. His poor, tired brain. His heart. The heart that does what it can until one day it can do no more.
He is a moon in waning orbit, slowly leaving, but it will take a while and he’ll see many more cycles before he’s truly gone for good, beyond recall, lost forever.
‘You are a lonely moon,’ he whispers, gripping the skin of his legs just to feel. ‘A lonely moon can still give light.’
Steve Harrington is so tired.
Staring at the city, he starts to feel dizzy and lightheaded, wishes painfully this feeling would give to sleep, but knows it won’t. Sometimes he gets like this, fever-sick with fatigue.
It’s going to be a rough night.
*
He never dreams, or if he does, they’re not dreams.
His mind might replay jagged shards of the past, hazy and poisonous, it’s always a horrible experience, but Steve thinks he sleeps sometimes during it, even if only a little.
He’ll take it.
Tonight, he’s back in the ruins of the mall, StarCourt.
They knocked it all down after the fire, fenced it off, but fences couldn’t keep them out so when it came time for the final push, that’s where they went.
Steve is wearing that jacket.
He feels so sure they’re gonna win, and they will.
But not without losing.
This is where Robin gets concussed, where all the clever stuff the kids have been theorising about comes due and only half of it was right. This is where Eleven dies. Where Jonathan breaks his leg, he’ll walk again but never run. This is where all kinds of stuff happens that Steve didn’t really get the importance of, but he knew it mattered, he knew if there was to be a fight, he was here.
His boot lace comes undone.
Silly, stupid, stupid.
And this… this is where Dustin sees Eddie again, only it’s not Eddie Munson anymore because Eddie died in the Upside Down and what wears his body is no longer him.
This creature has wings, a tail.
Monstrous. Strong. Merciless.
The big bad, the one they call Vecna, is controlling him.
Controlling Kas, the name Dustin determinedly gives him after the graveyard encounter, because Dustin loved Eddie and he cannot fathom his fallen friend hurting anyone the way… the way it went down in the graveyard.
Vecna controls Kas, but to Steve it looks so like Eddie.
Hair, face and mouth.
Eyes.
The eyes are red, but they’re still Eddie’s eyes.
The smile is still Eddie’s even though it shows sharp teeth.
His face is pale white with faint black veins.
His long hair is bedraggled, filthy and it moves as those wings flap, lifting him high when need be.
Everyone is focused on Vecna and protecting Will and Eleven while they do what they came here to do, but Steve is focused on Eddie, on keeping Dustin safe from him because he cannot allow that to happen, can’t let Eddie come for Dustin.
In the dream, he fights to change the outcome.
He wrenches this malleable reality with every ounce of strength he has left to make Eddie turn on him, and him alone, and to keep Nancy far away.
It almost works.
Only this… this Eddie looks different.
Older.
His hair isn’t the same, it’s longer, less curly.
His eyes aren’t red.
He’s broader, more built, musculature defined, he is…
The dream has shifted entirely.
No more StarCourt ruins… now it’s Steve’s bedroom and the open balcony door lets cool air inside. It drifts around them both while Eddie Munson stands over Steve, staring down with black eyes and strangely flat curiosity.
His mouth is smudged with some darkness Steve can’t make out but it’s blood, surely.
It was blood nine years ago and it is blood now.
Nancy’s blood.
He tore her throat out with his teeth and ate what he took.
Steve makes a weak sound of pained torment to recall details of it, something he typically supresses.
Eddie cocks his head like a dog, blinks just once.
Then he reaches down with sharp talons and touches Steve. He glides the razor sharp tips over Steve’s face with mild interest.
It lights Steve up.
Senses run fucking riot because imaginary touch is better than nothing even if it is from the monster who ruined his life.
The tip of Eddie’s index presses down into the cushion of Steve’s bottom lip until the pinch breaks the skin and he feels wetness spilling. Eddie lifts his talon and licks it, head cocking the other way.
Steve’s mind is slowly… very slowly… wondering.
He never dreams like this.
It’s always chunks of the past.
Sharp enough to cut.
But this… this feels unlike anything else.
He looks down at himself, still curled up, knees raised.
Eddie has on dark sweatpants but nothing else.
He smells… like rain, sweat and sky.
His body tightens.
His heart pounds.
His mind wakes.
‘You…’ Steve utters, realisation coming in thick and fast now, but he’s rendered useless by it, too astonished, too confused.
Eddie tenses up at the word and then he moves so fast Steve doesn’t even see it. A blur of motion followed by pain and movement, Steve is lifted by the throat, slammed into the wall and pinned there.
Now he’s wide awake.
This is real.
It’s—
‘Eddie,’ he chokes out, hand like steel around his neck, no air, legs dangling, back hurting, sharp pieces of plaster digging in. ‘E—glkk—Eddie!’
Eddie watches impassively, no recognition in those pitch-black eyes, but he leans in to scent Steve right under his jaw. Blood is trailing down his chin, thinner now. Steve squirms, lifts hands to uselessly claw at Eddie’s, but the grip doesn’t even falter.
He’s getting dizzy from lack of oxygen to his brain, heart in a manic rhythm, and it’s a real fucking bitch that right at the end, he decides he doesn’t want to die. It’s fucking unfair.
A rough, hot tongue traces the blood all the way to the source.
Steve shudders, eyes rolling back.
It’s been years since he was touched.
Not kissed or held or god forbid, sex, just touched.
Skin on skin.
His body reels and basks and responds.
Eddie licks over his mouth.
Anger blooms in Steve’s blood alongside distant disgust because that mouth ended Nancy Wheeler’s beautiful life.
But his wires are all crossed, and his body hasn’t felt anything like it in literal years, so his pulse races and unwilling warmth stirs between his legs, traitorous fucking feeling.
It’s humiliating and it’s unbearable.
It’s also probably the last thing he’ll ever feel because any second now, Eddie is going to kill him, sink those teeth into his throat and then pull till it gives and then… then Steve might see Nancy again. Dying the same way as she did holds some poetic justice, doesn’t it?
He sobs weakly, afraid of dying despite himself and all the wasted time swells into a big, ball of failure, wedged in his throat and for the first time it’s all so clear.
What a fucking loser he is.
What a coward.
The grip tightens to the point Steve sees white around the edges of his vision, heart in a tragic rhythm, mouth lax and open, eyes rolled back and Eddie is still licking up the blood, following the trail where it ends beyond the neck of Steve’s tee and there he stays, sniffing, scenting, smelling Steve deeply while he chokes to death, strangled and unwillingly aroused.
‘Who are you?’
‘S-Steve…’ he gasps, dying. ‘Steve Har-rrington.’
It all stops.
Steve is dropped unceremoniously, lands hard on the ground, spluttering and gasping, vision swimming. Eddie surveys him for a moment before turning and walking out of the balcony door where he then hops onto the railing and climbs up.
Out of sight.
Gone.
*
‘Come on, come on, come on,’ he mutters, phone pressed hard against his ear as he paces, eyes shut, ‘Please. Please answer the—’
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, h-hey, Robin? Sorry. I know it’s late. I’m sorry.’
‘Steve?’ she croaks. ‘It’s… Steve it’s four in the morning.’
He nods frantically like she can see it which she can’t. ‘No, I know, listen. I’m sorry, but uh. S-something just happened to me and I need you to tell the others, call them up, get everyone on alert because—’
‘Slow down, OK? Slow down, you sound crazy.’
‘No, I’m not crazy,’ he says, voice raised a little, can’t help it. ‘Robin, he’s back, Eddie is back!’
He hears her sigh down the phone and then, clearly talking to someone else because it’s muffled, she says, ‘Sorry, it’s this guy from my hometown, I’ll just be a minute. Yeah, I know. It’s OK. No, go back to sleep.’
This guy from my hometown.
He ignores how bad that hurts, focused on the necessity at hand, the danger at hand. His lip still stings.
His throat is incredibly sore.
He hasn’t felt so alive in years.
‘OK,’ she says, and it’s to him, he can tell because a) it’s clear again and b) she sounds really disappointed. ‘What’s goin’ on Steve?’
‘Eddie Munson just attacked me,’ he blurts out and he is trying to make it clear, even if he’s doing a bad job.
‘Uh huh and were in you in bed?’
‘Yes, I was, but—’
‘That sounds like a really bad dream, I’m sorry.’
‘No. I know how it s-sounds, but it was real. My lip is bleeding and there are bruises around my throat, it was him!’
‘Are you taking your medication?’
‘Yes, every day.’
‘Still seeing the therapist?’
‘Yes, Robin, please don’t patronise me!’ he snaps helplessly. ‘I’m twenty-nine years old, not a child! I know what I saw! It was Eddie or… or the Kas monster thing.’
‘Please don’t yell at me when I’m trying to help you.’
‘I’m—I’m not, but I need you to call Joyce and Hopper and get everyone on this because he’s back!’
‘Steve, listen to me. You had a bad dream. I know things are still really hard for you, OK? And I’m glad you called me because I’m always gonna be there for you, but this isn’t real. Eddie is dead. He died when we killed Vecna. We saw him die. Dustin did everything he could to bring him back.’
‘I know that, but we… we never dealt with the body.’
‘The government took care of it. Nothing has happened since. Nothing bad is happening now except…’ She sighs again, sounds tired. ‘Except in your head.’
It leaves him stunned, silent, breathless.
Takes at least five seconds to say, ‘That’s so harsh, Robin.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. But Steve, it’s been ten years.’
‘Nine years.’
‘OK, fine. Nine years. You should call your therapist.’
‘It’s… this isn’t… Robin, he’s alive! He’s back!’
‘I think you just need some sleep.’
‘Please don’t do this, please. I’m not crazy. I have the bruises on my neck, my lip is cut, he had me up against the wall!’
‘That must have been scary. If you’re hurting yourself—’
‘IT WAS HIM!’
Her silence on the other end is resounding.
Steve is breathing ragged and fast, trembling head to toe as he waits for her condemnation, knows he’s fucked it up so bad, made himself sound insane.
‘Please don’t talk to me like that,’ she says calm but tight.
‘Just. Just give me the numbers if you don’t believe me, I’ll call them myself.’
‘I don’t have numbers, Steve. I don’t see anyone, I get an email from the kids once a month. Hawkins was a long time ago. It’s done. You need to get over it.’
‘You… you told me you talk to the kids, that they’re all doing great, that everyone is fine.’
‘It’s what you want to hear most of the time. Dustin sends a group email out—’
‘Group email?’
‘—and that’s pretty much it. Everyone’s fine. Living their lives. You need to go see your therapist.’
‘You must have Hopper’s number.’
‘If you’re that desperate, email Dustin, but for god’s sake, don’t derail his life just because you had a bad dream. I. I’m sorry, I know that’s mean but you need to get a grip. It’s been ten years and nothing has happened. It’s over.’
Steve wipes tears, jaw tight. ‘Fine.’
‘Why don’t you call me tomorrow? We can chat during my lunch break,’ she offers, tone softer. ‘Maybe it’ll be good to—’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he cuts across in a dead sort of voice, ‘Sorry for calling.’
He ends the call, drops the phone onto the sofa and presses the heel of his hand into his eye before he goes into the bathroom once more to look in the mirror.
The bruises are still there.
Steve lets out a trembling breath of shaky relief.
‘It did happen,’ he whispers, touching them, pressing on them as if to make them last. His pupils are like pin pricks. His skin is pale, struck through with blotches of red and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a decade which is pretty fucking dead on. ‘You’re not crazy. He’s back. It happened.’
*
Despite being a little hurt by Robin, Steve does what he can to remind himself it was really late at night and he probably did sound insane. He tells himself she’s always been a good friend even if they have… kinda drifted apart the last few years.
And whatever else, she wouldn’t intentionally steer him wrong, so he does, in fact, call his therapist the next morning at nine oh five. He requests a callback from her secretary and then goes about making coffee, trying his best to stay distracted but it’s not working.
He turns on the computer.
Sits at the desk and once it’s up and running, connects to the internet, wincing as always at the sounds in his otherwise white noise quiet apartment and then navigates to the News section of AOL. He scans through to reach local news and it doesn’t take long to get to the article detailing the Pier attack.
He reads it quickly, knee jogging up and down.
Brutal and senseless attack.
Multiple wounds from knives or blades.
Suspect is still at large.
He back clicks and goes to the AOL Websearch. Steve thinks before he types, “Eddie Munson Hawkins Indiana” and hits enter.
No Results.
Not surprising. He remembers signing the NDA before he took the money, but he didn’t really think about what it meant for the people who died.
Hawkins Indiana 1987
This gets a few results, but it’s only a couple of local articles talking about the quake, the “electrical fires” and the tainted water sources as a result of the quake, which meant that Hawkins was declared uninhabitable. It was all a cover up.
Steve doesn’t know what the fuck he’s trying to find.
Jittery and impatient, he types a few other things.
Real life monster sightings
Hawkins lab doctor
Strange deaths Hawkins Indiana
What do monsters look like in real life
Why can’t I sleep
Insomnia cure
Most painful deaths
how long can you live without sleep
death by insomnia
what happens after you die
life after death
is god real
is hell real
A little ding makes him jump and in the top left corner he sees a message box that reads, You Have Mail.
Heart pounding, he navigates quickly to his email account, scanning for Dustin’s name, maybe Robin’s.
But it’s not them.
It’s his therapist.
Dear Steve,
I tried returning your call but your line was busy. If this is an emergency please call me back ASAP or call 911.
Sincerely, Dr. A. Merrick
Disappointed and also embarrassed because he forgot it’s either web or phone, he disconnects, shuts down and calls the office back, hand in his hair.
The secretary puts him right through.
‘Steve, hello,’ Doctor Merrick greets calmly.
‘Hi. I’m sorry, I was on my computer. Sorry.’
‘It’s not a problem. I’m glad you called back. Are you safe to talk to me for a few minutes?’
‘Yeah, yes. Thanks.’
‘Tell me what’s going on.’
‘OK, so. It’s gonna sound really bad. Like really weird and I know you’ll think I’m crazy but last night.’ He swallows, reaching for the best possible version of this story. ‘Last night someone entered my apartment.’
‘Please go on, I’m listening.’
‘I was on the bed, sort of dozing maybe and when I woke up, a man was there.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it Eddie Munson?’
His jaw drops. ‘Y-yeah. How did you know?’
‘I expected after our conversation yesterday you might experience intense memory recollection and vivid dreams.’
His heart sinks so hard it leaves him breathless. ‘No no no, that’s not what it was. I s-swear to you. I can prove it. I can. He cut my lip and grabbed me by the throat. I have the bruises. I. I can show you.’
‘Yes, I’d like for you to come in.’
‘You would?’
‘If you have time. I’m going to push an appointment if you’re able to come in within the next hour.’
‘But. You’re gonna let me explain, right?’
‘That’s what we both want, yes. You’re definitely coming in?’
‘I am yeah but this is serious. I. I really need you to believe me,’ he says, hand over his eyes, voice trembling.
‘Steve, I’m on your side, always.’
‘OK, all right. I’ll get the bus now.’
*
In her office, he tells her everything.
Everything except the parts that sound crazy.
She listens intently, makes a few notes and then when he’s done, she says, ‘My assessment of you is going to be hard to hear, but I want you to bear with me, OK?’
He sighs tremulously, already knows what she’s going to say. ‘You don’t believe me.’
‘I believe you, Steve. I believe it felt entirely real. I believe it still does. However, I have to safeguard your wellbeing first and foremost, therefore I think you had a mild psychotic break.’
‘A what?’
‘A low-intensity episode of psychosis would involve brief delusions and realistic hallucinations, paranoia, emotional instability and hypervigilance. This could be caused by overwhelming stress, triggered perhaps by what we talked about yesterday, but I think the real cause is prefrontal cortex dysfunction brought on by lack of restorative sleep.’
‘So, I’m… losing my mind then?’ he says, voice hollow.
‘No, but you are experiencing some serious effects of your insomnia now. I’m prescribing a short-term sedative alongside a low-dose antipsychotic. Halcion and Zyprexia. I want you to start taking them today and continue for two weeks.’
‘I don’t want that, it’ll interfere with—’
‘Steve, this is much more serious than your depression medication. I know you promised your friend, but she isn’t here and she isn’t a Doctor. I am, and this is what I am prescribing you. After three days of this, you’ll come back to me and I will assess you again. I’d like for you to email me once a day, think of it like a journal entry. Tell me how you feel, what you’re thinking and of course, if this happens again, call me immediately. I’m going to give you my pager number.’ She writes it down, rips off the paper and then does the same on another pad, the prescription. ‘I’ll write the intake schedule here too. Make sure you don’t skip or go outside of the schedule.’
‘Are there side effects?’
‘Side effects for the Halcion include mild memory problems, grogginess, dizziness, confusion and daytime drowsiness. One in one thousand patients experience rage, aggression, paranoia and suicidal thoughts, however, paired with the Zyprexia, which is a breakthrough anti-psychotic, we’re neutralising these elements. Zyprexia has a few mild side effects of its own like drowsiness which is good, plus weight gain and increased appetite which are also good for you at this point. Very rare side effects can include muscle stiffness, tremors and restlessness, but we hardly see it.’ She rips the paper off the pad with a flourish and then hands it to him. ‘Intake schedule is on the back. You’re going to be OK, Steve. I promise. You just need to sleep.’
He nods, trying to smile, even though his eyes are wet and his heart is bruised to fuck and that paper he takes feels like a nail in his fucking coffin. ‘That’s what I’ve been telling you.’
*
The schedule is very clear, insistent about the times to take the Halcion. Steve reads it all twice after he paid for and collected the medication on his way home. Now, in the apartment, it’s not even midday and he’s just staring at these fucking pills.
Nine PM.
He can take the anti-psychotic now, so he does, but then nine PM seems like it’s years away and it’s not like he has a job or a life or fuck all actually, so he says, ‘Fuck it,’ very clearly before popping the Halcion and downing it with water.
It’s a sunny day, feels nice on his skin for once, so Steve leaves the curtains wide open, the balcony doors too as he gets into bed, strips off down to underwear and settles beneath cool sheets, head on the pillow.
It actually feels … good.
Like he might really sleep.
And yes, he should have waited until it was night but a nap can’t hurt can it?
And if he was really… hallucinating Eddie, and hurting himself, then the sooner he gets better, the better.
Steve stares out at the city, bright and busy.
He’ll be part of it soon… he knows it.
Everything is about to get so… much… better.
*
From a dead sleep more closely akin to nothingness, Steve Harrington’s senses stir. It feels like he only just closed his eyes but when they open, the sun is setting outside, the cool bay breeze washes over his face and he tastes ozone, delicious collision of earthy musk soon to be drenched by incoming water from the skies.
His body doesn’t want to move at all, he’s so fucking comfortable, heart beating slow and rhythmic, mind like treacle. His mouth though… that fucker is dry, so he forces himself to lift a hand and reach for his half empty water glass where he brings it to his lips sideways and drains it all, relishing the spillage, feels nice, he’s overwarm and sleepy still.
He should get up and close the balcony doors because it’s night now, but if he moves he knows he’ll wake and its actually entirely possible if he closes his eyes, he’ll fall back asleep which… fuck yes.
Fucking god yes.
Steve sighs happily, jams his hand under the pillow, seeking cool spots and then sinks back into blissful blackness, at peace.
*
It’s dark when he wakes next.
Dark dark.
His only source of light is the blue city haze outside, bathed in a halo of rain. Breathing through his nose, Steve blinks himself awake enough to watch the rain fall, taste it on the air, feel the coolness of the wind brush over what of his skin is exposed.
‘You slept,’ he tells himself, biting his lip to curb the smile because some fucking victory in being proven wrong about the whole Eddie thing, and yet he doesn’t care. It feels too good. ‘You fucking slept oh my god. Just needed to get drugged the fuck up.’
He is definitely waking up but that’s fine, he’s gonna go pee, drink a lot of water and then take another one, see if he can go a full twenty-four hours.
That’ll cure him.
He just knows it.
Steve pads barefoot into the bathroom, sways a little while he pees, flushes, drinks straight from the tap like a psychopath and then returns to his bedroom.
He’s definitely gonna shut the doors now, his curtains are damp and so is the carpet close to the doors, but it doesn’t matter, it’ll all be so fine because he fucking slept and everything will be—
‘AGHHH!’
He’s yelping before he knows it, body way ahead of his brain for once as he clocks the pair of red eyes staring at him from a pitch-black corner of his room, the corner closest to the doors.
Steve stumbles back, knees gone weak, heart in his throat.
He shakes himself hard, scrubs his face.
The eyes don’t move.
They’re fixed on him.
Low enough that it’s someone or… something in a crouch.
When he backs away far enough that his shoulder hits the door jamb, those eyes narrow and a low snarl slips free.
Steve swallows thickly. ‘This isn’t real,’ he says, trembling all over. ‘Y-you’re hallucinating. You’re seeing things.’
The eyes rise up, and then from the corner, a figure emerges touched by the cool blue light from outside as he walks past the still open doors, curtains flattening against him briefly.
It’s him.
It’s Eddie.
The sleepy bliss is gone, replaced by adrenaline sharpened focus. Steve notes the hair, it’s wilder this time, seems wet. He seems less pale or maybe that’s the lighting.
Those eyes simmer down from siren red to dying coals.
He surveys Steve with a low lidded look of displeased interest, gives him a very thorough once over before advancing. Steve tries to step back but forgot the door jamb and his ankle catches on it, trips him up.
He falls hard to the carpet beneath, and Eddie is already above him, continues to walk over Steve while Steve crawls backwards, gaze fixed up.
They’re in his tiny living room when Steve runs out of space.
No more running.
Crawling.
Eddie bends down until he’s crouched directly over Steve.
‘Are you real?’ Steve whispers, just wants to know before… before he dies. ‘Eddie, are you—gllk!’
A hand grips his throat whipcord fast and Steve is pressed down into the floor, held there. From above, Eddie cocks his head, watching, choking him, impassive.
‘Again,’ Eddie says, surprising Steve, whose hands scrabble and claw to relieve the pressure around his neck, failing entirely, the grip is pure iron. The tone is soft but low, very low.
‘Ag-againnwhat?’ Steve splutters, eyes rolling back.
At least this time he’s not turned on.
‘Say it again.’
‘S-s-say what?’
‘The name.’
Vision swimming once more, Steve can feel his tongue swelling, mind going fuzzy, so he desperately tries to focus. ‘Ed-Eddie. Eddie. Eddie!’
Tears spill, his heart is full of brittle red and tainted hatred for this motherfucker above him, but the hand relaxes to release. Steve rolls onto his side, retching up nothing, gasping for air as his lungs try to pull up from the tailspin of encroaching death.
Eddie walks calmly around the living room.
He’s studying things.
Steve pushes up, face wet with tears, ears ringing.
He keeps his gaze on Eddie as he circles the small space, who stops now and then to study something before moving on.
‘Who are you?’ Eddie asks at length, voice strange, grating and yet undeniably pleasant in a subliminal way. Back to Steve, he picks up a framed photograph and stares before replacing it. When Steve doesn’t answer, Eddie turns to look at him, imperious and flat. ‘Who are you?’
‘Steve,’ he says, trying to swallow over the swollen pain of the former grip. ‘I’m Steve.’
Eddie stares, brow lifting slightly and then he makes a little face as if to say, who? Steve pulls himself up by gripping the couch. movements slow and obvious.
He’s shaking from head to toe.
‘Steve Harrington from… from Hawkins. We were. Eddie, you know me. We knew each other.’
‘When?’
‘Years back.’
Eddie turns to the shelf, takes down another picture. He’s still shirtless. The curve of his muscles cast small shadows on his own skin, he looks carved from marble and broader than Steve remembers, even when he was Kas. In the pale light from outside, Steve sees hundreds of raised lines sewn into the skin of his back, upper arms, shoulders and even the side of his neck, but most prominently, two massive grotesque ovals carved so deep they more closely resemble brands. They sit with maybe a foot of space between them directly over his shoulder blades. They’re easily the size of dinner plates.
‘No.’
‘No? No what?’
‘No.’
‘Right, got it,’ Steve grits out, irritated despite his own likely impending death. Eddie sets that picture down too, moving on. He comes to the computer, currently off. He stares at it with visible dislike and then returns to Steve, come full circle.
He gives Steve another very thorough down and up look, landing on his face. ‘Steve Harrington.’
Steve nods, mind racing, heart pounding.
Eddie’s mouth curls with strange disdain. ‘Why?’
‘Why what, motherfucker?’ Steve hisses, bravery creeping in the longer time stretches on without Eddie choking him to death.
‘Why you?’
‘What? What does that fucking mean?’
‘You…’ Eddie says with slow emphasis as he walks into Steve, forcing him to backstep, ‘are weak, sickly, drugged and broken. Why you?’
‘Why me what? Huh?’
Steve’s back hits the wall and Eddie walks further into him until they’re pressed together hard. Eddie’s expression is the same, unaffected, low lidded, almost bored.
‘I know your scent,’ Eddie whispers, seeking it as if to demonstrate, sniffing Steve under the jaw once more. ‘I know it, tracked it, found you. But you… are nothing. No one. Steve Harrington is nothing.’
It cuts way deeper than it should given that he’s about to die a horrible death, but Steve decides not to show it, and instead, thinking of Nancy, he slaps Eddie as hard as he can across the face. Eddie shows no visible sign of having felt it, let alone being hurt by it, although Steve’s palm stings as if he just slapped the wall.
‘Fuck you!’
Eddie cocks his head. ‘Why?’
‘Why what, you fucking psychopath?’
‘Too weak to breed and wrong,’ Eddie says as if that’s obvious and Steve is dumb, ‘Father has not permitted it, so why you?’
‘Who the fuck is Father? I don’t know what you’re talking about or… or what happened to you and I don’t care, but—’
Sharp talons trace over Steve’s mouth again, this time lightly pushing it open. They’re so sharp he goes pliant without realising it, body does not want to be cut to ribbons, so he opens up and goes still while Eddie… explores.
There’s no other word for it.
Those fingers push inside, swirl around and then retract.
Eddie sucks his own fingers, head cocked.
‘Drugged.’ He frowns intently, faintly red eyes moving rapidly between Steve’s own.
‘Do you even know who you are?’
Something arrogant comes over Eddie then, albeit distant.
‘I am Echo Three.’
‘You’re Eddie fucking Munson and you killed Nancy Wheeler!’
‘Who is Nancy Wheeler?’
‘She—she’s fucking dead now because of you!’ Steve blurts out, heart cracking around the edges. ‘You killed her, you were trying to kill me and you got her instead!’
‘Why,’ Eddie utters slowly, making clear he thinks Steve is deeply stupid, ‘would I want to kill you, Steve Harrington? You are…’ He looks around as if Steve’s small apartment proves his point, ‘no threat, no match, poor candidate. Nothing. No one. Sicky and weak, cannot be bred. Hollow death. So then why,’ he demands, moving closer once more, eyes narrowing as if Steve is to blame, ‘does red trail lead here to you?’
‘R-red trail?’
‘Your blood. I know your blood.’
‘Probably from when we fought, you fucking monster!’
‘When?’
‘It was nine years ago. We killed you, or… or you died when your master died, when Vecna—’
The hand is back, gripping tight again and this time it lifts Steve clean up in the air, feet dangling uselessly.
‘Master is Father and Father would not red trail to one like you,’ Eddie says, deceptively soft but it’s clearly a warning. ‘Echo Three is Father’s best weapon. You…’ he sneers, ‘are meat.’
Incredibly, Steve rallies enough to spit in Eddie’s face.
‘Fucking eat me then,’ Steve chokes out, determined to die with a little backbone even if it did come in kinda late.
Eddie is entirely unfazed, studying Steve with cold eyes. ‘What is it about you he wants?’
‘Maybe you just remember m-me, ever think of that?’
‘I don’t know you,’ Eddie says, so flat it can’t be anything other than honest. ‘Do not mention that word to me again.’
He lets Steve down once more, whose breathing is ragged, throat well and truly smushed, swelling already. Steve cradles his neck, fighting to control his breathing as he slides down the wall.
Eddie watches his pathetic journey.
‘Wh-what word?’
‘Master.’
Steve files it away but genuinely can’t take being choked again, so for now he gives a curt nod. Eddie goes into the bedroom. Steve glances at the phone, mind racing.
Call Robin, tell her Eddie is here, that he…
She wouldn’t believe him, though.
That’s the thing.
And it’s not like Steve can just ask Eddie to hop on and chat to her for a minute as proof. She won’t believe him. No one will.
Not unless he can get a photograph or something.
He still has a camera in a box in his closet. It’s nothing fancy, a throwaway he bought years ago, only half filled.
If he could just… but it’s in the bedroom.
The front door is directly to Steve’s left. He could make it.
Instead, once he can breathe, he gets up and walks into the bedroom. Maybe. Maybe this can be the good thing he does before he dies. Warning everyone, giving them proof.
Eddie is back in the corner. Steve’s eyes have adjusted to the dark enough to make out the shape of him. The rain is pouring outside, his carpet and curtains are more than a little damp. Licking his lips, Steve throws a glance towards the closet. The box is in the very back on the left. He’d just need to paw through it for maybe ten seconds.
‘Where were you?’ Steve asks, locked into the mindset now. He can do this, he can prove to them he’s not crazy.
The dark shadowy corner says nothing, but those faint red eyes are on him all the same, fixed. It’s still fucking terrifying, absolutely gonna give him nightmares should he ever sleep again and wake up from it. God, he had the best sleep before it all went to shit. Small comfort.
‘Are you not gonna answer me?’
Nothing.
Steve sits on the bed, stares out the balcony doors.
‘Sounds about right. We never talked much anyway. So uh. Were you in the Upside Down all this time? Or. Somewhere else?’
More nothing.
Steve sighs. ‘If you’re gonna kill me, just—’
‘Why would I kill you?’
‘Because you’re evil?’
The corner is quiet for a beat.
Then, very softly, Eddie says, ‘What is evil?’
Steve’s jaw works, gaze set unseeingly on Seattle by night as it’s drenched by the downpour. ‘Maybe it’s killing your friend while the kid who loved you screamed your name and begged you not to.’
‘I don’t know you.’
‘Yeah, I don’t know you either. The Eddie I knew was a goofball. Annoying as hell, but a good guy. He gave his life trying to buy us more time. I guess he really did die there. So.’ Steve sniffles, expression determinedly shuttered. ‘Tell me about you, Echo Three.’
‘No.’
‘Of course. Well, are you just gonna sit there all night or—’
‘Yes.’
‘That sounds really boring.’
‘Sleep, then.’
‘I’m actually all topped up, but thanks and gee I can’t imagine a scenario more conducive to a good night’s sleep than a literal fucking monster lurking in my room like a spider watching me with red eyes.’
‘Your body is weak.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Dying.’
Steve blinks. ‘What?’
‘Dying. Failing. Better than last night but still.’
He looks at Eddie. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Your body is close to the end. I know the rhythms.’
‘I’m.’ Steve shakes himself. ‘Fuck you, you fucking psychopath, you don’t know that!’
‘I know what song the body sings before failure. Yours is slow, drawn out.’ The red eyes cut away. ‘Should be brave. Do it quick. Better.’
Steve breathes fast, shallow breaths while his brain compartmentalises and boxes that right the fuck up. ‘Why are you still here? Either kill me or—’
‘Why would I kill you?’
‘Why would you kill anyone?’ Steve snarls, eyes wet.
‘Because Father says so.’
‘But Father didn’t say so this time? You’re fucking crazy.’
‘Red trail leads to you,’ Eddie says slowly, as if reciting it to remind himself. ‘But you would be a hollow death.’
‘And what the fuck is that?’
‘Pointless. No reward. No gain. No challenge. Hollow death.’
Steve runs a hand through his hair, stressed in ways he didn’t know he could feel. ‘Well, thanks. You always seem to know how to make me feel like shit.’ He throws a glance at Eddie again. ‘What happened to your wings?’
More nothing, but it’s loaded this time.
He can’t be sure but he senses the shadowy lump with red eyes is sulking.
‘They were fucking huge before, I remember—’
‘Wings are a hindrance.’
‘So, you cut them off?’
‘Be quiet.’
‘Only I can’t see how you could do that yourself, so I’m guessing Father was the one with the scissors, huh?’ Steve snaps, cruel as he can be sensing the smallest fragment of weakness. ‘Not like I fucking care anyway, good for him, but I remember how big they were, how you—’
‘STOP TALKING!’ Eddie yells, leaving the corner. He goes out onto the balcony into the rain and Steve fully expects him to leave again by climbing up, but he doesn’t. He just stands there inside, holding the rail, looking down.
The rain pours, drenching Eddie entirely.
Steve can see clearly the scars left behind from their removal.
And even though it’s obviously been a while since they healed, he can tell some sort of burning or branding was involved because the skin is mottled and melted, stretched in places.
Every other scar is slender and neat by comparison.
Long, almost artful.
What tiny splinter of sympathy twists inside Steve Harrington is yanked ruthlessly out and tossed. This is the monster who killed Nancy. Who fucking cares what he went through.
‘You remember my wings?’ Eddie says after a few minutes, voice controlled once more. He turns around and comes back inside, dripping.
Steve nods. ‘Yeah.’
‘How big?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How big were they?’
‘Fucking enormous. Each one was the size of my bed.’
Eddie seems to be thinking fast, considering things.
‘I never saw them that size.’
‘What?’
‘I only see what tries to grow back.’ He looks resentfully at Steve, something sullen and resigned. ‘Tell me of this Eddie.’
Steve narrows his eyes. ‘No.’
‘Tell me what you—’
‘No, I’m not telling you shit until you tell me something.’
‘I have told you much.’
‘Red trail and hollow death and daddy issues, no, you’ve told me jack shit. Tell me where you’re from. What’s the risk, you can just kill me anyway.’
Eddie seems displeased. ‘Killing you would be a worthless waste of my talent.’
‘Not that worthless,’ Steve says, sitting back on the bed, may as well be comfy. ‘You could eat me, right? Like you did those guys down on Pier Fifty-Four.’
Eddie sniffs, mouth twisting. ‘You are drugged. I would not—’
‘I’ll tell you what they looked like.’ Eddie falls quiet, expression softening in a strange way. ‘Your wings. I’ll draw them for you.’
‘Draw?’
‘Yeah. I can draw a little. Not much, but I will. If you answer my questions, I’ll show you what they looked like.’
He wants it, Steve can tell. This fucking monster wants to see what his wings looked like before they were cut and burned off.
After maybe ten more seconds of silence, Eddie gives a sharp nod and says, ‘Very well.’
Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes. Very well. As if he needed more proof this isn’t Eddie Munson.
‘Good. Where did you come from?’
Eddie perches on the end of Steve’s bed, testing it out before he sits cross legged. He’s getting the covers wet. ‘Home.’
‘And what does home look like?’
‘Clean, neat, simple, safe,’ Eddie says, casting a doubtful look around Steve’s very neat bedroom, fuck you, Eddie. ‘No windows. No soft things,’ he adds, poking the bed. ‘Water and food. Training room. Sleep room. Study room. Classroom. Home.’
‘Who is Father?’
Eddie wrinkles his nose. ‘Father is Father.’
Steve sighs. ‘Right. So how long have you been in this home?’ Eddie shrugs. ‘How many years?’ Nothing. ‘Do you track time? Birthdays? Christmas?’
‘What is that?’
‘What’s Christmas?’ Steve echoes, eyes wide. ‘Wow. I mean, yeah, good. Zero fucking Christmases for you. I’m impressed. So. Tell me about the red trail.’
‘Red trail is blood.’
‘I gathered that, but tell me how you knew my blood, tell me how it happened in the past.’
Eddie seems to visibly debate something before he answers. ‘Red trail is a game. Blood would be given, a small amount on fabric. It would be put in sleeping room. I would learn the scent and then,’ he says, hitching a knee to his chest, ‘I would get out.’
‘You escaped?’
‘Father wants it. He showed me the signs. I escape, find red trail, ask the name and then kill.’
‘He lets you escape?’
‘It’s a game,’ Eddie reiterates, borderline defensive. ‘I get out, track down the target, kill the target and then I’m caught.’
‘Caught as in taken back?’
‘Back home, yes. There is sometimes a reward.’
‘What kind of reward?’
‘No.’
Steve rolls his eyes. ‘Fine. So, Father lets you escape. Why don’t you stay free?’
Eddie looks at Steve like he’s a crusty slug. ‘Home is home. Father is Father. I am Echo Three, Father’s best weapon. I want to be home.’ He then softens in that strange way, expression rippling. ‘I would be home by now if I had got it right, but I don’t understand why you.’
‘All right, hollow death bullshit aside, why do you think you’re not supposed to kill me?’
‘You are Steve Harrington.’
‘Right, and?’
‘I always ask the name. It’s always a name Father mentions in the days before. He never said your name.’ His throat bobs, faint distress writ large all over him. ‘I don’t understand this game.’
‘Maybe it’s not a game. Maybe you fucked up and escaped when you weren’t meant to and now he’s furious with you.’
It’s cruel.
Steve wants to be cruel.
Eddie seems to sense his intent and shutters himself instead of letting it touch him, glancing back at Steve with jet black eyes, all traces of the red long gone. ‘Show me my wings.’
‘I still have more questions.’
‘For your pitiful amount of life remaining,’ he smirks coldly.
‘If I died tomorrow, I’d have lived a better life than you, you fucking monster. Who would miss you? Who would grieve? Who would even remember you other than some Father who hates you because you can’t even play his game right? You’re a failure, you’re a disgusting disappointment and no one cares if you live or die!’
He's breathing fast, rapid and shallow, cheeks red, blood rising. Eddie stares impassive as ever and then cocks his head.
‘Failure,’ he echoes softly, looking Steve over head to toe again, black eyes raking over him as if they see all the way to Steve’s core, ‘implies losing and of the two, you seem to be the loser.’
Steve is so angry he’s shaking. ‘Get out.’
‘Show me my wings.’
‘Die in a fire, you waste of skin!’
Eddie makes a little face as if Steve is impossibly annoying and Eddie is so above it. He then, astonishingly, lies back on Steve’s bed, facing up, hand on his chest. ‘No.’
‘I don’t want you here, so either kill me or get the fuck out!’
‘I will solve the puzzle and win the game,’ Eddie tells the ceiling, ‘and you will die your slow death alone, Steve Harrington.’
In stunned silence, Steve gets off the bed and goes out into the living room where he stays for the rest of the night, in the throes of fitful rage and impotent hatred until the sun rises and he realises he slept a very little for the last hour of night, curled up on the sofa, blanket around his shoulders.
Sleep can be disorienting, so at first he’s not sure at all what’s happening. Opposite him on the coffee table are two bottles of pills. Halcion and Zyprexia.
He vaguely remembers his therapist telling him about… hallucinations? Grogginess.
Maybe—
There’s a soft thud from somewhere behind the sofa. Steve jerks up so quick he strains his neck, wincing. His heart pounds as memories from last night rush in to fill the cracks.
‘Oh god.’
He peers over the back of the sofa and sees…
‘Oh god.’
Eddie fucking Munson is pawing through his things which are… absolutely everywhere. During the night, he obviously decided to start looking through Steve’s stuff and just tossed whatever wherever while he did it.
It’s a weird fucking thing to see him in the plain light of day. The skies are cool grey, still early but it’s full light that shows his pale skin covered in scars and lines. His broad shoulders are knotted with muscle and with his back to Steve, the oval scars are more obvious than ever.
Steve stares unabashedly, drinking in the details.
He has to tell someone.
He fucking has to—
‘I know you’re awake.’
Steve takes a deep breath. ‘Yeah, no shit. I said oh god twice.’ He lets resolve settle where it can, spite does the rest. ‘Why the fuck are you still in my apartment?’
‘Red trail leads to you for a reason,’ Eddie says, turning one of Steve’s sweaters inside out. ‘I have to find it.’
‘Don’t think you’re gonna find it in my Christmas sweater, you invasive asshole. Leave my shit alone.’ Steve gets up, blanket still around him because the apartment is freezing after having the balcony doors open all night. He walks into his bedroom and scowls at the mess. ‘Seriously, what the—’
‘Show me him,’ Eddie says, tone only slightly fraught. He wheels around to face Steve, eyes black but the whites are white once more and he could almost pass for human if human was a deathly pale chew toy. When he speaks, his teeth are less terrifying. He looks like one of those people who just have sharp canines. His hair is wavy, long and pitch black, no trace of brown. ‘Show me Eddie.’
Steve briefly falters. ‘I can’t.’
‘You have pictures,’ Eddie says, pointing to the box, the one from the back left of Steve’s closet, the contents of which are now all over the bed. Photographs are spread out all across the cover. The throwaway camera sits by the pillow. ‘I see no one like me.’
‘I don’t have a picture of you.’
‘Then you do not know me,’ he declares imperiously.
Steve bites back what would be an incredibly bitter smile. ‘I don’t know you, you’re right.’
‘And you did not know Eddie.’
‘I knew him for maybe a day before he died. I didn’t get the chance to take a snapshot.’
‘If he died then why don’t you—’
‘He wasn’t my friend. We barely knew each other. I was hardly gonna ask for a fucking picture to remember him by and the next time I saw…’ God, it still hurts. ‘The next time I saw you wearing his face, it wasn’t him anymore. It was a monster. You. And we beat you.’
Eddie listens intently, not hurt by any part of it. ‘There were others,’ he says softly, speculatively. ‘They would have pictures.’
Dustin absolutely would.
‘No one has pictures of you. No one misses you. No one cares. Everyone Eddie knew before is gone.’ The determination to not only contain this fucking thing but also end it solidifies, and Steve no longer wants proof or backup.
No code red.
Dustin is living his life, they all are.
Steve is the only one with nothing to lose.
This… this has to be why he’s still alive.
Why he’s lived this long despite the pain of it.
A purpose at last.
Or at least a reason.
‘Except for me,’ he says, a little louder. ‘I’m the only one, so if you want to know about Eddie or whatever, then you’re gonna have to play nice and ask.’
‘You lie,’ Eddie declares. ‘Your dying heart betrays you.’
‘No, I’ll tell you,’ Steve says, lets the truth of it fill him. ‘I’ll tell you about Eddie Munson because maybe it’ll cut you up to know what a decent human you were once. To know you had family, friends, a home that wasn’t a lab or a prison and to know it’s all gone now and you can’t even visit your own headstone.’
A tiny frown narrows those black eyes. ‘Headstone?’
‘Hawkins is gone. Condemned. It’s like you never existed.’ He knows he’s being cruel beyond measure now but he can’t help it, can’t stop it. Something grotesque and pent up and rotten comes to life whenever he’s near this fucking thing.
But all his cruelty seems to bounce off of Eddie like fucking Teflon. The meaner Steve is the more he seems at ease.
Eddie kneels on the bed, lifts a picture. Steve’s eyes widen when he sees who’s in it and he tries to snatch it back, but Eddie raises it beyond reach.
‘This is her?’
‘Give that back!’
‘This is your Nancy Wheeler?’
‘I swear to fucking god, give it back to me right now!’
Softly, Eddie says, ‘I don’t remember her,’ and Steve finally snatches it back so hard it rips in the corner, and he’s dry sobbing, ragged breaths from his scrunched-up lungs, heart a painful mess. He straightens the picture out, puts the torn piece back where it needs to go and then steps away.
‘Yeah, well,’ Steve gasps, trembling as he viciously wipes his eyes. ‘I fucking do.’
‘Why do you cry?’
‘Because I’m human,’ Steve grits out, gathering the other photos up and putting them carefully back inside the box. ‘Because I feel things. I’m not a fucking machine or a monster like you are.’
‘Humans are machines.’
Steve rolls his eyes, exquisitely not in the mood. ‘Whatever.’
‘You have a heart, veins, blood, a brain. You require fuel. You require energy. You can fail.’
‘Christ, will you just shut the fuck up? Nobody cares what you think.’
‘You are wrought with mechanisms,’ Eddie says as if he can’t hear Steve. ‘You are dependent upon them. You are a machine more than I am.’
‘Fine, fucking fine! I’m a machine. I’m a useless failing machine but at least I’m not evil! At least I’m not some government weapon! I might be a dismal fucking failure but I have a soul unlike you!’
Nose to nose, he’s never felt so angry.
Makes it so much worse that Eddie is so calm.
‘What is a soul?’
‘It’s what you had when you were still Eddie.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s. It’s fucking humanity. Messy, disappointing, beautiful humanity. It’s kindness and caring and crying and-and missing people who should be here but they’re not. It’s painting and music and pets and stories and stars and falling in love and…’ Steve’s voice cracks, breath giving out. ‘And dying when it’s time.’
Eddie blinks into a frown. ‘I don’t think I can die.’
‘Yeah well,’ Steve huffs, wiping his eyes and looking away. ‘If you ever want any help with that, let me know.’
‘Help to die?’
‘Yes, you fucking moron.’
‘What does it feel like?’
‘How should I know?’
‘You know about souls.’
‘I don’t know anything.’ He sits on the bed, head in his hands. ‘Just shut up, OK? Stop fucking talking to me.’
Eddie falls quiet, wanders away to pull Steve’s drawers out and go through his socks one by one. Steve stares for a few beats, jaw working, and then he tidies up the rest of the bed. Journals, pads, a file or two from back when he signed the NDA.
Steve goes still.
Stares.
And then he reaches for the file, glancing at Eddie, who is still rifling unapologetically through his things. Ensuring his back’s turned, Steve then scours the pages, searching for anything, an address, a phone number.
On page six he finds it.
A phone number and a name.
Doctor Owens.
Steve removes that page, folds it a few times and then tidies everything else up. He puts the folded paper beside his computer under the mouse,
Maybe he can’t kill Eddie, but he can have his Father come drag him home. It’s a decent enough plan if Steve doesn’t think about it for more than five seconds.
‘OK, I’m gonna make coffee,’ he says, mostly to himself because he’s used to that. ‘Are you just…’ Steve gestures vaguely, ‘living here now?’
Eddie seems to have given up, goes to the corner from last night and sits there, moody. ‘Where else would I go?’
‘Why don’t you just go back, you love it so much.’
‘I don’t know the way.’
‘Because they capture you each time after your red trail comes good,’ Steve says, filling in the blank. ‘Got it. Well. I guess you can’t drink coffee or eat toast, huh?’ The bitter smile comes into play as he heads into the kitchen. ‘Not that I’d offer it anyway.’
He makes breakfast for himself, considering whether or not to take the anti-psychotic, ultimately choosing yes, because he already had one yesterday and it did maybe sort of help.
He’s barely swallowed it before Eddie, apparently right behind him, says, ‘Why do you drug yourself?’
Steve flinches, almost chokes and turns around to shove him away, or try to, which fails entirely. He can’t even make Eddie budge. Fucker is a unit. ‘Jeesus, you fuckwad! Back off!’
‘Why do you—?’
‘Because I can’t sleep and it’s apparently killing me,’ he snaps. ‘This might help. The other pill definitely helped, but if I take that I’m just gonna fall asleep so this is medicine and I need it. Not that it’s your fucking business.’
‘I think it is.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I think you are my business,’ Eddie says, eyes keen and bright and jarringly interested all of a sudden. ‘I think this is a test to see what I’ll do without direct orders.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘That I’m going to do what Father would.’
Jaw working, Steve glares. ‘Which is?’
Eddie Munson takes a small, fortifying breath.
‘I’m going to fix you, Steve Harrington.’