The Wreckage of You (I No Longer Reside In)

by ahoysteve

Summary:

Over the course of four years, Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson's lives keep colliding in ways neither of them can explain. or walk away from. Between bruises, late night rescues, and a quiet force pulling them back into each other's orbit, Steve fights to keep the horrors of the Upside Down a secret. But no matter how hard he tries to protect Eddie from the truth, circumstance keeps throwing them together.

Notes:

i literally never write anything remotely involving the upside down so this is crazy actually. also this is not an original concept at all its been done like thousands of times but this is MY take on it OKAAAY.

Chapter 1: 1983 - 1984

It's December. The week that hangs weightless between Christmas and New Year's, the air brittle with cold and the taste of spent fireworks.

Somewhere beyond the tree line, muffled pops and faint crackles still detonate like afterthoughts, setting Steve's nerves on a hair-trigger.

His parents are out of town visiting his uncle, leaving him in the house alone with a silence that doesn't feel like silence at all. Not after Will. Not after that thing.

Not after Barb.

He couldn't talk to Nancy about any of it. Not now. Not when she was somewhere inside her own grief, unreachable.

She hardly came to the phone anymore when he called. She was always busy. Always elsewhere until she decided not to be. And Steve just had to wait.

They hadn't spoken since Christmas Eve, since the awkward exchange of wrapped boxes and half-smiles, both of them pretending it still meant something, that it was still the season it used to be.

It hadn't felt like Christmas at all. No music seemed right, no lights felt warm, and the quiet in his house was the wrong kind even when his parents had been there. Too wide, too deep, the kind that made the ticking clock in the kitchen sound like a metronome for something he couldn't name.
Even the gifts, neatly stacked in the corner of the living-room, looked less like presents and more like things accidentally left behind by someone already gone.

He hadn't slept properly since it happened. Sleep only comes when he's sure the house is clean, the yard undisturbed, the perimeter unbreached.

So he patrols. A headlamp strapped to his forehead, its beam jerking with each movement, the weight of a nail-studded bat sweating into his palm. The woods behind his house feel close and infinite at the same time, the frost-rimed air so sharp it makes each breath feel like it's trying to carve something inside him.

A twig snaps.

A sound so sharp it cuts straight into his spine. He freezes. Then his grip tightens and he swings the beam toward the noise, breath heaving in quick bursts.
The crunch of leaves, closer now, and his pulse spikes. He pulls the bat back, ready to swing, eyes squeezed shut against what he might see.

A shape, sudden in his periphery, and—

"Woah, woah, woah! Stop! Stop!" The voice, breaking, raw—pulls him back from the edge.

Steve's eyes snap open.

Eddie stands there, face screwed up against the glare of the headlamp. Steve lowers the bat just enough to speak, still catching his breath.
"Jesus, Munson! I could have killed you! The hell's the matter with you?"

Eddie blinks into the light, arms half-lifted in protest.
"The hell's the matter with me? The fuck are you doing out here in full Indiana Jones getup?"

"It's—the woods behind my house. It's basically my backyard. The fuck are you doing out here?"

Eddie shields his eyes with the heel of his hand.
"Can you turn off your—head lamp? I can see the backs of my fucking eyeballs."

Steve clicks it off, drags the straps down his face until it hangs limp around his neck. Darkness swallows the space between them, and in that absence of light, Eddie's voice seems closer.
"I was—on my way back from—something. My van's fucked. This is a shortcut. I do it all the time."

Steve shakes his head, still scanning the trees as if something might emerge at any moment.
"You shouldn't be out here, man."

Eddie tilts his head, a half-smirk tugging at his mouth despite the cold.
"And what are you? Lone ranger, keeper of the woods?"

"I'm just—" Steve stops, searching for words. "Look, you need to go. You can't just—wander through the woods on your own at night, okay? It's—dangerous."

"Harrington, I'm big enough and ugly enough to take care of myself. Okay? This is not my first rodeo." Eddie's voice softens just slightly.
"But hey, I appreciate your concern. Y'know, weird shits been going on. A lot of scaremongering that the—small minded among us might find scary. But I'm not some—kid who fell off his bike and got lost for a couple days. I'm a little smarter than that."

Steve's eyes narrow. "You have no idea what the fuck you're talking about."

Eddie exhales in a laugh that isn't quite a laugh.
"Wow. Okay. You wanna chill there for a sec? You're being a little dramatic, even for you, Harrington."

"I'm serious." Steve's voice is low now, edged with something brittle. "You don't know what's out here. You don't know—"

"Then enlighten me, man. What the hell is out here that has you creeping around in the middle of the night like some kind of—mall cop with a death wish?"

The woods are still except for the shivering of the bare branches in the wind, each sound carrying farther than it should in the brittle December air. Breath clouds drift between them, dissolving almost as soon as they form. Somewhere far away, another firework rattles the air.

Steve stands half in shadow, half in the wash of moonlight, his headlamp dangling loose now, forgotten at his collar. He doesn't speak. He can't. And even if he could, he's afraid to say it out loud.

Eddie's eyes glint faintly in the dark, like he's half-amused and half-exasperated.
"You're kidding," Eddie scoffs, the sound short and sharp in the cold. "You're seriously gonna go all stonewall on me?"

Steve's jaw works, molars grinding together in that small, tight rhythm Eddie's seen before. Back when Steve was deciding whether to say something or bolt.
"I can't—I can't tell you."

"Oh, come on." Eddie takes a step forward, closing the space just enough that Steve's breath feels warmer on the air. His eyes narrow, like he's trying to read him in the dark.
"What? You part of some secret government tree-watching task force now? The Harrington Initiative? Should I be saluting you, Lieutenant?"

Steve's lips twist, his scoff more tired than amused.
"Sure. Okay. This is obviously all just some big joke to you."

"Well, yeah. S'kinda hard to be anything else given—y'know." Eddie gestures loosely toward Steve's bat, his headlamp, his general posture. "How you look right now and your general demeanour."

"Great." Steve's own scoff this time is sharper, the air cutting off the end of it.

"I mean, you're being fucking weird. Talking like some kind of doomsday prepper, the fucking bat. And then when I have the audacity to even ask, you shut down on me? You're acting crazy, man."

"Yeah?" Steve snaps, the word so sudden it seems to hit Eddie like a gust. "Well, maybe I fucking am."

Eddie doesn't move right away. Just stares for a moment, something softer flickering over his face before he smooths it away.

"I'm not doing this because I want to. I'm doing it because I have to. You being out here—it's not safe." Steve's voice drops, but his shoulders are still set, still rigid.

"Then tell me why!" Eddie's voice rises, scattering through the trees like startled birds. "God, Steve, what the fuck is going on with you?"

"I can't tell you," Steve says again, quieter this time, almost like he's speaking to himself.
"I don't even think I'm allowed to. Like—officially I can't. Even if I could, it's better if you don't know."

"And I'm, what, supposed to just accept that?"

"Yeah."

Eddie exhales hard, the breath catching in the cold before vanishing. He shakes his head, the movement shadowed by the moonlight.

"What happened to us, man?" His voice is quieter now, not quite a question, not quite an accusation.

"What?"

"We used to be friends. Real friends." Eddie's voice drags on the word like it still means something.
"Before you got cool. Before Tommy and Carol. Before you decided it was easier to pretend like we never knew each other and I didn't exist. Before you just—fucking forgot about me."

"I didn't forget about you," Steve says, almost reflexively.

"Oh, no. Course not. It's just, one day we were hanging out behind the bleachers and the next you're giving me the cold shoulder in the halls like I was contagious." Eddie shifts his weight, the frost crunching under his boot.
"You used to tell me everything," he presses, his tone edging bitter.
"Your mom, your dad. What you were thinking. How you were feeling. All of it. And then—nothing. You disappeared. And now you're hanging out in the woods like a—like a ghost with a light strapped to his head and a hero complex and you won't even tell me why?"

"I didn't—" Steve's voice catches. "I didn't mean for it to happen that way."

"Well, it did."

Steve sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across his jaw.
"I didn't even think you cared."

"What?" Eddie asked, incredulously.

"I didn't even think you cared that we weren't friends anymore. It's not like—we had that much in common. You hated everything I liked, I hated everything you liked. I just—thought it was a convenience thing."

"Seriously?" Eddie's voice sharpens, cutting the air between them. "You think I didn't care?"

"You didn't say anything." Steve shrugged.

"I was fifteen, man!" Eddie's hands go up, palms flashing pale in the dark.
"You dropped me like a bad habit overnight. I didn't know how to ask why. And then it was all—hairspray and polo shirts and locker room talk with Tommy fucking Hagan. Following Nancy Wheeler around like a lovesick puppy. At what point was I supposed to worm my way in to remind you that I existed?" He breathes out, ragged.
"Do you even know what that felt like? You were the only person who ever talked to me like I wasn't a freak. Like I was an actual human being. A person worth listening to. And then you just—flipped the switch. Like it never mattered."

"It did matter," Steve says, the words breaking unevenly, almost as if they cost something.
"You mattered. I was just—"

Eddie's jaw is tight, the tendons in his neck pulled taut.
"Just what?" Eddie practically seethes, his voice low but edged, like the words themselves are trying to push past restraint.

"I was just—trying to survive high school without getting eaten alive." Steve's eyes dart briefly to the ground, as if he might find some safer answer there.

Eddie lets out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite.
"Yeah, well. While you were running around trying to save yourself from the unfortunate fate of being unpopular, you left me behind. And now you're here. One ounce of crazy away from wearing a tinfoil hat and hoarding non perishables in your garage." He steps back as he says it, his hands lifting in a wide, dismissive gesture toward Steve, the space between them widening with the movement.

"I know that—all of this—looks crazy. It is crazy. I feel crazy. But—it's real, okay?" Steve stammers, his voice stumbling over itself, almost pleading.

"What's real?" Eddie's head tilts slightly, the question sharp and unblinking.

"I can't tell you. I wish I could. I really, really wish I could. But I can't. I can't"—Steve's voice frays at the edges, his hands opening helplessly.

"Why." Eddie presses, flat and insistent.

"Because if I tell you that makes it real for you too. And I don't wanna do that to you." Steve meets his eyes then, and Eddie squints, like he's trying to measure the shape of the truth behind the words, trying to decide if the fear there is genuine.

"I just—I'm just asking you to trust me."

"Trust you, yeah. Okay." Eddie laughs, short and humorless.

"Eddie"—Steve starts, but the word feels too thin.
"I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Eddie mutters. "Me too."

He turns, boots crunching through a layer of frost-hardened leaves as he starts to walk away. The sound seems too loud in the silence that follows.

"Eddie, wait!" Steve calls after him, his voice cutting through the trees.

"Oh my God, what?" Eddie stops, turns halfway, his shoulders hunched against the cold, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Steve swallows, his throat tight, eyes catching on Eddie before darting away. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, the breath he exhales coming faster now.
"Can you just—do me a solid and—stop walking through the woods at night. Stick to the streets. Suburban areas. Lit ones."

"Jesus, Harrington. Are you fucking serious?"

"Yes." Steve's answer is immediate, unflinching.

"You don't get to roll back into my life like some cryptic warning sign and suddenly start barking orders at me. I'm not your teammates, I'm not some guy working at your daddy's country club."

"I'm just trying to keep you safe." Steve's voice is quieter now, almost swallowed by the wind.

"From what, Steve? If it was that bad, if I was in real danger you'd say it." Eddie's voice cracks on the words. "You won't tell me. You won't let me in. You just want me to follow orders like I'm some clueless idiot you have to babysit. You're doing the same thing you did in freshman year. Deciding for both of us." He shakes his head, his hair catching the pale light.
"Y'know, you wouldn't know this because you haven't fucking been there. But something new about me is that I make my own fucking decisions now."

He steps back again, the cold air flaring white from his breath.
"Have fun on your night watch." Eddie sneers before turning, his boots breaking through another thin crust of frost as he disappears deeper into the dark.

***

The hum of the chest fridge was the only steady sound in the cramped, over-bright gas station.

Steve stood with its heavy door propped open, the sharp smell of cold air and faint hops seeping out, curling against his face. He reached for a four-pack of beer, the cardboard slightly damp at the edges, tore it open, and pulled out a single can. Without thinking, he pressed the cool aluminum against the side of his swollen eye, the one that still felt like it was pushing against its socket.

Billy had done that. Billy and his fists and the dizzy aftermath Steve was still walking around in. He rested his forehead against the inside edge of the fridge door, exhaling into the chill, letting it numb more than just the pain.

Then, from behind him, voices cut through the low electric hum.

"No, man. No fucking way. Skittles are a subpar snack." The tone. Lazily argumentative, with that warm undercurrent of mischief was familiar enough to make his shoulders tense.

"Subpar? Do you hear yourself when you talk? Skittles are elite." A younger voice this time. Higher, quick with that teenage eagerness to win the point.

Steve stayed very still, wishing the linoleum under his sneakers might just open up.

"No. They are not."

"You just hate them because they're too joyful for you. You like boring, beige snacks."

"You wound me, truly. You know I can pound back a bag of M&M's."

"Skittles are just sweeter M&M's!"

"Blasphemy."

Steve turned just enough to glance down the aisle, trying to map out a clean exit before the inevitable happened.

"Harrington?"

Eddie's voice was like a stone dropped in water. Ripples rushing out, impossible to stop.

Steve turned, slowly. Eddie was standing an aisle away, a teenager beside him with frizzy, mouse-brown hair and a mouth full of braces. The kid's eyes went wide, almost cartoonish.

"Jesus Christ." The teenager's laugh burst out before he could smother it.

"Shut up." Eddie's voice was sharp, his hand smacking lightly against the kid's chest. He turned back to Steve.
"Are you good, man?"

"Uh—yeah. Yeah. M'good." Steve mumbled.

"Are you sure? Because you look—" the teenager started, leaning forward.

"What happened, dude?" Eddie cut in, eyes narrowing just a little as he looked Steve over.

"Uh—"

"Or is this another one of your secret, mystery affairs?" Eddie teased, and Steve could almost hear the smile in it.

"No, no. This, uh—this won't be much of a secret by Monday when everyone finds out Billy Hargrove levelled my ass." He shrugged.

"Oh my God." The teenager's laugh rang higher this time, until Eddie shoved him harder, enough to make him stumble a half-step.

"Will you—stop."

"Ow." The kid rubbed his arm with exaggerated indignation.

"Go wait in the van."

"But the snacks—"

"Wait in the van." Eddie glared at him.

The teenager looked between Eddie and Steve before he trudged toward the door, dragging his steps.

Eddie moved down the aisle toward him, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, the small space between them charged with something quieter now.

"Eddie, it's fine. I'm fine. I'm—fairly confident I have a concussion and I can't feel my eye, or—my face. But—I'm fine." Steve's voice caught between self-deprecation and exhaustion, the can of beer still pressed lightly to his cheek.

Eddie's gaze roamed over him, quick flickers from his swollen eye to the split in his lip, like he was mentally cataloging damage.
"Steve, you're fucked up, man. You need—you need a hospital—" Eddie's voice was all blunt edges, but his eyes kept searching Steve's face like maybe the answer was written there.

"No. No hospitals." Steve said it too fast, shaking his head just enough to regret it when pain shot through his skull.

"Steve—"

"No, I can't. If my Dad sees—if he looks at the insurance bill and finds out I—fucking squandered money on a concussion and some bruises he'll fucking kill me. He'll make this look like a picnic." His words came clipped, breath dragging a little at the end.

Eddie exhaled, a long sigh that sounded half frustration, half something else.
"Okay, well—you need—something. I mean, I don't know what the fuck that is, but—you can't go home alone like this."

Steve's eyes lifted from the beer can to Eddie's face. "How'd you know I'd be alone?"

"Uh—well, because I know your parents and the many, many excursions they take." Eddie's mouth tipped into a grin, quick and a little crooked.

Steve looked past him, through the glass door, at the shape of Eddie's van under the orange parking lot lights.
"Look, you—clearly have plans—"

"Consider them cancelled." Eddie said it like it was the easiest decision in the world.

"Eddie—"

"Steve." Eddie's tone was firm, enough to close the gap between the offer and an order.

They stood there for a moment, the hum of the fridge behind Steve and the muted shuffle of the cashier somewhere in the background. The pain in Steve's head seemed to recede, not gone, but dulled to a murmur under the weight of Eddie's gaze.

"Hey, you buying those?" The gruff voice of the gas station guy broke in from behind the counter.

Steve looked over at him sheepishly before glancing down at the floor. Anything to avoid the way Eddie's stare pierced through him.

"Come on. I'll take you back to mine. We have a—pretty decent assortment of first aid supplies. My skills are—basically not good, but—I can try." Eddie's smile this time was softer, patient.

"Okay." Steve nodded once, the motion small but decisive.

"Better than—whatever this is." Eddie gestured toward the beer in Steve's hand, his tone light but his eyes still sharp on him.

***

Steve was sunk deep into the corner of Eddie's couch, shoulders rounded, one knee drawn up a little as if that might somehow take the weight off his face.

The cushions smelled faintly of smoke and detergent, their give familiar but not entirely comfortable. Eddie was perched on the arm beside him, leaning in just enough to work with the shallow bowl of lukewarm water balanced on his lap.

The washcloth in Eddie's hand moved with unhurried precision, coaxing away the crusted blood that had settled into the edges of Steve's brow.

"Ow!" Steve winced, snapping his head away from the cloth.

"Relax, man."

"It hurts."

Eddie didn't answer, just steadied the bowl with one hand and brought the cloth back. When it met the gash near Steve's eyebrow, Steve flinched again, shoulders jerking like the memory of the hit had come back in full.

The washcloth was replaced with a dry towel, a few brisk presses against his skin before Eddie uncapped a small brown bottle and poured something clear and stinging onto a ball of cotton.

Steve hissed, jerking away. "You trying to kill me?"

Eddie rolled his eyes so hard his whole body swayed with it.
"Yes, Harrington. That's exactly what I'm doing. I lured you into my lair with the promise of Neosporin and now I'm going to clean you to death."

"It stings," Steve whined, sliding lower into the couch cushions.

"Yeah, that's because you've got a fucking split eyebrow, dumbass."

"Do you think it needs stitches?"

Eddie pulled back just far enough to give him a flat look. "What do I look like? A medic?"

"Just tell me if I'm gonna have a gnarly scar. Girls dig scars." Steve tried to smile, the expression lopsided with swelling.

Eddie snorted. "You got your ass handed to you by a guy with the personality of a monster truck commercial. Maybe hold off on bragging about the war wounds."

"I'm not bragging," Steve said, his voice pitching upward in mock indignation as Eddie's fingers worked carefully around the purpled skin of his cheek. "I'm asking if I'm permanently disfigured."

"You're fine." Eddie's voice was quieter now, and tired.

"I don't feel fine. I got beat up."

"You got beat up again. I seem to remember that Jonathan Byers kicked the living shit out of you last year too."

"Yeah. I remember. I was there." Steve rolled his eyes, wincing when the motion tugged at his face.
"Ow."

"Which implies a pattern, Stevie. A habit. Maybe even a kink."

"Stevie." Steve's smile crept in, unplanned. Eddie's hand faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes flicking down.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?" Eddie pressed, laughing a little under his breath.

"You always used to call me Stevie."

"So?"

"I just—forgot what it sounded like."

Eddie drew in a sharp breath. "That tends to happen when you disappear off the face of the earth and I just get to know who you are now from whispers in the hall."

"I'm sorry." Steve's voice was steady, but low.

"S'okay."

"For what it's worth—I don't hang out with—Tommy or Carol anymore." Eddie's hands kept moving, dabbing at the last flecks of dried blood. "And, uh—Nancy dumped me."

"Oh." Eddie said it without inflection.

"Well, actually—she obliterated me. Straight up just—ripped my heart out of my chest and put it in a meat grinder for the entire world to see. And now I'm fairly certain her and Jonathan have something going on which I probably should have seen coming. And now I, uh—I don't really have anyone." Steve's mouth twitched into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace. "Just me. Steve. Not even King Steve anymore. Just—Steve. The loser."

And then Steve realised he was a lot of things, these days. A loser, an ex-boyfriend, bullshit. A murderer. None of which he actually had a say in.

"Steve 'The Loser' Harrington. Has a pretty good ring to it. Maybe you'll join my ranks alongside Eddie 'The Freak' Munson." Eddie's grin was quick and crooked.

Steve narrowed his swollen eye at him. "Are you enjoying this?"

"Me? No." Eddie said, mock serious.

"It's fine if you are. I deserve it." Steve attempted a shrug.

"Nobody deserves their face looking like a smashed tomato. And I certainly don't deserve you bleeding on my good towel."

"You only own two towels."

"And now I only own one," Eddie snapped, not looking up. "Don't move. I'm putting on more ointment."

Steve leaned back, groaning as if the preparation alone was worse than the injury, already flinching before the cotton came near. "Ow!"

"Oh my God," Eddie muttered, holding Steve's chin steady with a grip firm enough to keep him from squirming. "You're worse than Jeff when he had that sinus infection and insisted it was brain cancer."

Steve pouted, the expression childishly stubborn beneath the swelling. "At least he didn't get punched in the face by Billy Hargrove. That guy fights like he's mad at the whole Earth."

"Well, good news," Eddie muttered without looking up, his voice dry, almost lazy. "You've absorbed at least seventy percent of his rage through blunt force trauma. So congrats. You're now legally half–vengeful spirit."

Steve groaned, letting his head fall back into the couch cushion, the sound as much performance as pain. The dim lamplight caught the edges of his jaw, the hint of stubble where Eddie's cleaning hadn't quite reached.

Eddie sighed. "Look, you're gonna be fine, alright? I've had worse. You remember the drunk guy that clocked me outside the Hideout?"

"No."

"Exactly. You're lucky if it scars a little. Gives your whole pretty-boy thing a tragic twist."

Steve's head rolled forward, his one good eye narrowing in mock suspicion. "You think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're bloody," Eddie said, standing and crossing the cramped living room to dig through a small pile of mismatched first aid supplies. "And loud. And weirdly into being fussed over."

"You think I'm pretty," Steve teased, grinning now, the edges of the smile heavy with exhaustion. It felt like he'd had three beers—warmth in his limbs, his thoughts moving slower, his defenses slipping without permission.

Eddie didn't answer, just shifted slightly, the bandage between his hands as he started wrapping Steve's bloodied knuckles with practiced, almost impatient care.
"No. You're hideous. This—" he said, loosely gesturing to Steve.
"Is absolutely unsalvageable."

Steve smirked. "So I'll need someone to take care of me. Out of pity."

Eddie shoved his shoulder, not hard, but enough to tilt him off balance. "You're the worst patient alive."

"I think the painkillers are kicking in at least," Steve said, watching Eddie's hands more than the bandage itself.

"Could've fooled me." Eddie reached for a plaster and leaned in, pressing it harder than he needed to, to the split above Steve's brow.

"Ow!" Steve seethed as Eddie laughed.
"You did that on purpose."

"Just testing." Eddie's mouth twitched. "I should hope they're kicking in. They're pretty much the heaviest shit you can get."

"Really?"

"Yeah. They're Wayne's. Got them earlier this year when he fucked his knee up at work. Definitely not some over-the-counter shit. He's got a whole hoard of them. Just don't operate any heavy machinery in the next—probably two days and you're golden."

"Duly noted." Steve nodded slowly, then after a beat: "I lied."

Eddie's hands stilled, his touch falling away from Steve's face like he wasn't sure what he'd just heard. "About what?"

"I'm not completely alone."

"No?" Eddie busied himself with the coffee table, shifting bloody towels into a loose pile, the bowl of pink water trembling slightly in his hands. He perched back on the arm of the couch again, watching Steve without watching him.

"I've—somehow adopted an entire group of pre-pubescent children. Which is—kinda the reason I'm in this whole mess."

"What?"

"Billy's sister. Max. I was—kinda—hiding them all away at the Byers' house."

"All?"

"Max. Nancy's brother, Mike. Lucas Sinclair. Dustin Henderson. They're all, like, friends. I was—put in charge of them. I dunno. I was—supposed to keep them safe. Like—that was my job. Keep them on the bench, stop them from getting into—crazy shit. Then—Billy came looking for Max and absolutely rocked my shit. I blacked out. Next thing I know I was in the back of Billy's car with Max driving. I lost my shit. She drove us to this—" Steve stopped himself abruptly.
"I dunno. Doesn't matter."

"Keep them safe from what?"

"Nothing. S'fine—doesn't matter."

"Ah." Eddie's tongue clicked against his teeth, his nod slow, deliberate. He stood and crossed to the kitchen, his steps echoing lightly in the otherwise quiet room.

"What?"

"We're still doing this." His voice came from the kitchen, followed by the sound of running water as he poured the bloodied bowl down the sink.

"Doing what?"

"The secret-keeping lone ranger shit."

"It's not—personal, I swear—"

"Sure, yeah. No, it's all—totally normal and not weird at all that you've been bunkering away with a bunch of middle schoolers."

"It makes sense if you—understood—"

Eddie came back, standing just inside the threshold before stepping closer. "Then help me understand."

"I can't." Steve said solemnly.

"Okay, fine. Whatever." Eddie huffed. He lifted his arms, letting his hands slap against his thighs.
"Well, you're all done."

"Please—don't be mad." Steve winced, leaning forward slightly.

"I'm not mad."

"You're mad."

Steve was still collapsed into the couch cushions like the couch itself was the only thing holding him together, his legs sprawled, head tilted back, eyes half-lidded but fixed on Eddie in that lazy way that made it seem like he wasn't watching at all.

"I'm just—confused, Steve. And—I guess a little frustrated? Maybe? I don't even know." Eddie's sigh came out like it was heavier than his lungs could carry.
"I mean—what the fuck is going on? Huh? Because last time I saw you, you were—swinging a fucking bat around at 2 a.m. in the woods like you're at a fucking Yankees game." Eddie was in the middle of the living room, pacing as though there wasn't enough space to hold his thoughts. He dragged a hand over his face, stopped, started again, his boots making the same tired line in the worn carpet.

"Then—I just get glimpses of you at school like I'm constantly on the outside of you looking in. Like—you're wearing this impenetrable mask. Always happy, always laughing. Always fine. And then—I find you at a gas station fucking—bleeding out like it's no big deal. And now this"—

He gestured vaguely, as if the mess between them were physical, something you could point at.
"All these secrets. All this—weirdness. And, what's gonna happen now? After this? You go home, I don't see or hear from you for another year? We just—forget about this and pretend nothing happened? Just like—how it was when we suddenly stopped being friends?"

Steve's voice was quieter than the air between them. "Were we ever really—just friends, do you think?"

Eddie froze mid-step, his heel pressing into the carpet as he turned. "What?"

"Like, I'm asking. Did it—feel that way for you?" Steve's gaze dropped to the floor, the question almost shy.

"I don't—I don't understand." Eddie's words stumbled over each other, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.

"Okay, forget it. Doesn't matter. S'stupid." Steve shrugged, his shoulders jerking up like he was brushing it away. His palms rubbed against his jeans in quick, nervous sweeps.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Eddie's voice sharpened.

"I'm just saying"— Steve's jaw shifted, teeth against teeth.
"I don't know what the fuck I'm saying."

"You're seriously starting to freak me out, man."

Steve gave a crooked little laugh, the kind that sagged halfway through. "I'm always freaking you out. S'nothing new."

"No," Eddie said, shaking his head.
"This is—I don't—Jesus, Steve, just say what you mean."

"I don't think we were ever just friends," Steve mumbled, barely louder than the hum from the old fridge in the kitchen.

Eddie blinked like he was coming out of sleep. "Okay."

"Or maybe it was just me. Like, I think I pretended I thought that. For a while. But even then—it was different."

Eddie recoiled, just slightly, like he'd been caught in too much light. "Steve, you—
You can't just—say stuff like this while I'm—well, ever actually. But especially not when I'm—this"—

"Okay. I won't. Sorry."

Eddie exhaled and crossed the room, lowering himself onto the edge of the coffee table. The space between them felt almost visible now, taut, vibrating with what wasn't being said.
"Look. You're literally high out of your mind on prescription codeine and adrenaline and post-fight endorphins. It's fine. I don't know why I'm trying to pull a conversation out of you right now. Let's just—forget it."

"Okay." Steve nodded without looking at him, eyes trained instead on a loose thread at the hem of his shirt that he started twisting around his finger.
"But—I think I was in love with you a little." The words barely left his mouth. "I think that's partly why I ditched you."

Eddie went rigid. "What?"

"I meant it when I said I didn't forget you existed. But—I wanted to. I tried to."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't know how to be around you without wanting more. And—I didn't know if I was allowed to."

"More what?"

"More you. More of—whatever it was." Steve's voice softened like he was telling himself instead of Eddie.
"It was—so good. Being around you. It was like this—constant drip of morphine. I don't know. It sounds stupid." Steve sighed.
"But then it was all just easier when you weren't around too."

"Jesus fucking Christ, man." Eddie muttered, grimacing slightly as his pupils darted across Steve's face.

"I know. Steve nodded.
"I was just—scared."

"Of me?"

"Just—everything." Steve's head shook weakly, the movement almost collapsing in on itself. "Of what I wanted. Of what you made me feel like I could have. Maybe."

"And now?" Eddie's voice was quieter, but not softer—there was something braced in it, something afraid.

"Now I'm—scared all the time for entirely different reasons. Trying to survive in different ways." Steve laughed, a small, hopeless sound.
"Suddenly being wrapped up in all this makes everything else seem really small when you're convinced you're gonna die all the time.
I can't even remember the last time I got a full night's sleep. Or was able to—sit in a dark room by myself. Or not have to talk myself down from being so fucking afraid I throw up." Steve rambled, barely in control of the words leaving his mouth.
"I miss my life. My stupid, ignorant fucking life where all I cared about was—getting a breakfast bagel every single morning before school. Planning ragers with Tommy H. Buying a new pair of sneakers the day that they drop just so I could be the first guy at school to have them. Because—for some fucking reason that meant something. I hate it. But I miss it. And I'm so scared I'm never going to feel like myself again."

"Steve"— Eddie began, but didn't finish.

The latch clicked. Both of them turned toward the door as it swung open.

Wayne stood framed in the doorway in his oil-stained boiler suit, his eyes scanning the room with the quickness of someone used to walking into situations half-formed.

"Mr Munson." Steve exhaled, pushing himself upright, swaying a little. "S'good to see you."

"Yeah, I would say the same to you." Wayne's voice was low and gruff, measured.
"You, uh—you alright there, kid?"

Steve almost forgot about the state Wayne was finding him in.
"Oh, yeah. I'm all good. Eddie was just, uh—helping me. With—my—face."

"This one of those 'you should see the other guy' moments?"

"Oh, no. No he's completely fine. Probably." Steve shrugged, the gesture loose, almost careless, though it didn't reach his eyes.
There was a lull—one of those thin, stretched silences where everything in the room seemed to wait. Steve's gaze went to Eddie, who immediately looked away, finding something else—anything else—to focus on.

"I should, uh—I should get going." Steve's voice was too bright, as if he could make leaving sound like a normal, casual thing.

"Woah, woah. Slow down, man. You can't just—leave." Eddie's tone was sharp, but his face betrayed a flicker of something more unsettled. He was staring at Steve like the very idea disgusted him.

"Eddie, it's fine. You've done—more than enough. It's chill." Steve waved it off, though his hand hung limply before dropping back to his side.

"How are you gonna get home? You're just gonna, what, walk alone at night? Isn't that what your whole vendetta was about? Not doing that?" Eddie's scoff wasn't amused—it landed heavy, closer to frustration.

"Oh. Yeah." Steve nodded slowly, like he was only now fitting the pieces together.
"I didn't drive here, did I?"

"No. You didn't."

Steve squinted, as though he could see the memory somewhere in the air between them if he just looked hard enough.
"Did I drive to the gas station?"

"Okay, yeah. No. You're gonna stay here tonight." Eddie didn't even hesitate.

"Eddie, I'm fine"—

"Steve, you can't even remember something you did or didn't do, like—an hour ago. I'm not gonna let you go home on your own. That's fucking crazy shit."

"Okay." Steve nodded once, a faint, almost reluctant smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
"Thank you."

***

Steve was on Eddie's bed, sinking into the mattress, the cotton of an old shirt of Eddie's soft against his skin, loose around his shoulders. Baggy shorts pooled around his thighs.

From the other room, the low hum of voices—Eddie and Wayne talking. Their words were muffled by the walls, but the cadence was familiar, grounding.

He heard footsteps in the hall, a steady rhythm that drew closer, then Eddie was there, filling the doorway before stepping inside.

"Is he mad?" Steve asked, watching as Eddie clicked the door shut behind him.

"Who? Wayne? No. He's fine." Eddie's answer was clipped, casual, and he brushed it off with a shrug as he crossed the room.

"I missed him. He's—always been a really cool guy." Steve's eyes followed him, tracing the easy way Eddie moved in his own space.

"Don't let him hear you say that." Eddie's mouth quirked briefly before he crouched to tug open the wardrobe. He pulled out a pillow and blanket, tossing them to the floor beside the bed without ceremony.

"You don't have to sleep on the floor, y'know. You invited me to stay. I should sleep on the floor."

Eddie didn't bother answering, just gave Steve a look, flat but not unkind.

"Okay." Steve's voice softened, almost sheepish, as he nodded.

He slid under the sheets, lying flat on his back.

"No, prop yourself up more, idiot. I don't want your brain leaking out of your nose in the night." Eddie's voice came from right above him now, his hands brisk as he fluffed the pillows and angled them so Steve sat more upright.

"Okay, okay." Steve let himself be moved.

Eddie leaned over him a moment longer, his gaze lingering, scanning Steve's face as if memorising it.

"I'm good. It's—fine." Steve said meekly, eyes locked on Eddie's.

"Okay. Good." Eddie said. The words were quiet, almost an afterthought.

Then he shifted back, reaching for the lamp.

"No, no"— Steve's voice came out quickly, almost too loud.
"Can you just—leave the lamp on? Please. I can't sleep without it."

"Yeah, okay. Fine. Sorry." Eddie said quickly, moving his hand away as though it had been scolded.

"Thanks." Steve's voice dropped again.

Eddie lowered himself to the floor, peeling off his shirt in one smooth motion, then kicking his jeans aside. Steve caught the shape of him in his periphery before looking away sharply, eyes finding the ceiling.

"Goodnight." Eddie grumbled.

"Yeah. Night."

The room filled with the soft rustle of Eddie settling in, the occasional creak of the bed frame as Steve shifted.

"Thank you." Steve's voice floated down into the space between them.

"It's fine."

"No, really. You should—you could have just—left me. Y'know. Went about your night. But you didn't. So—thank you."

Steve heard Eddie clear his throat, shifting around as he pulled the blanket up to his jaw.
"You're welcome."

***

Eddie woke to a sound he couldn't place. Soft, frantic, like something tearing itself out from the inside.

His body was stiff from sleeping on the floor, every muscle complaining as he pushed himself up on one elbow. For a moment, he just listened, heart hammering in the dark.

"The fuck?" he muttered under his breath, turning his head toward the bed.

The lamplight—left on at Steve's insistence—pooled across tangled sheets, and there he was, caught in the throes of something terrible. Steve's head shifted violently on the pillow, his breath ragged, words spilling out in broken, shapeless sounds.

"Steve—" Eddie was already on his knees, reaching for his hand. The skin was warm, damp. "Steve," he tried again, firmer this time, but Steve only twisted away, lost in it.

"Jesus Christ." Eddie got to his feet, the ache in his joints an afterthought. He leaned over the bed, close enough to feel the heat rolling off Steve's skin. "Steve, wake up." His voice was a low hiss, urgent. "Wake up. Steve—"

His hands hovered for a moment, then settled on Steve's shoulders, shaking gently. "Hey—hey, come on, wake up, you're dreaming, man, it's okay—"

Steve's body jerked upright like it had been yanked by a wire. His eyes were wide, unfocused, like they didn't know what room they'd landed in.

His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, breath catching, and then—he broke. Sobs ripped through him, not polite or contained but raw, as if whatever had been chasing him in the dream had followed him out.

Eddie recoiled slightly, stunned by the force of it. "Jesus, man, what the fuck—?" He leaned forward again, softer now. "Steve, breathe. You gotta breathe, man. Look at me. Watch me." But Steve wasn't breathing, not really, his whole body was locked in some invisible vice.

"You're okay. You're good, yeah? Just—try and calm down."

"I—" Steve's hands shook as they dragged over his face, like he could scrub the dream away if he pressed hard enough. "I thought—I thought I—"

The words collapsed before they could finish, replaced by a sound of frustration, a strangled noise in his throat.

"Okay," Eddie said slowly, like he was afraid to startle him. He sat on the edge of the mattress, their knees almost touching. "Gonna need a little more to go on than that."

Steve wasn't looking at him. He wasn't looking at anything. His gaze seemed fixed on something far beyond the room. "They were screaming," he murmured, voice sandpaper-rough. "I didn't—I couldn't help them. It's like I couldn't even move, like—like my legs weren't working or my body was too heavy or something."

Eddie felt something crawl along his skin. "Who?"

"I thought I left them down there," Steve whispered.

"Left who down where?" Eddie's voice was sharper than he intended, but Steve didn't answer.

He folded in on himself, elbows digging into his knees, head sinking into his hands. The sobs were smaller now, stifled, but no less gutting. "I couldn't find the way out."

Eddie swallowed hard. "Steve. You're safe, alright? You're not—anywhere. You're in my bed. No one's screaming. You didn't leave anyone. Nothing happened. You're safe."

"You don't know that." Steve's head snapped up suddenly, eyes shining with a fevered anger.

Eddie's stomach turned over. "You're right. I don't. Because you won't tell me. Steve, I—I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help you. Please, tell me how I can help you." Eddie pleaded, throat tightening.
"You just appear with your face looking like a crime scene and you lie through your teeth and act like everything's fine. It's killing me."

The words landed like a blow. Steve actually flinched.

Eddie's voice softened. "Look, man, I'm not trying to kick you when you're down, alright? But you're scaring the shit out of me. Like, really. I am not equipped for this. You're having full-body breakdowns in your sleep. You're bleeding, you're bruised, and you keep saying weird shit about things and people I've never even heard of. Just—what the fuck is going on?"

Steve dragged his sleeve across his face, breath catching, shoulders trembling like the dream still had its claws in him. Finally, he managed, "I can't tell you."

"Jesus Christ." Eddie scrubbed both hands over his face, exhaustion settling in his bones.

"I can't—"

"Why not?"

Steve shook his head, the words coming out hollow. "You wouldn't believe me."

"Try me."

Steve's mouth opened, closed. He shook his head again. "I can't, okay?" His voice cracked, and there was something almost physical in the way it seemed to hurt him to keep the truth locked away. "It's not just mine to tell. And if I told you, you'd—you'd think I'm crazy. Or worse.”

"Worse than crazy?"

Steve's eyes, too tired, too knowing for seventeen—lifted to meet his. "You'd try to fix it. You always try to fix it."

Eddie's reply never came.

The silence stretched, filled only by Steve's uneven breathing.

Then Steve laughed—a brittle, hopeless sound. "You were this—this safe thing I had. You always knew the right thing to say, the right thing to do. Even if it came from a place of—you just being a cynical asshole who hated the world. But it—it meant a lot to me. You mean a lot to me."

"Steve—"

Steve's hand found Eddie's, fingers curling tightly around it. "But you can't fix this. You can't. I don't want you anywhere near it. Okay?"

"Steve, you're freaking me the fuck out—"

"Okay?"

Eddie hesitated, then nodded once. "Okay."

"I'm so tired," Steve murmured, and before Eddie could react, he was leaning forward, pressing his face into Eddie's chest. Eddie's hand rose instinctively, resting on the back of his head, fingers threading lightly through his hair.

"I know," Eddie said softly. "Come on. Get back into bed." He shifted, ready to move.

Steve's hand moved to Eddie's wrist, holding him in place.
"Can you—can you sleep next to me? Please?"

Eddie's breath stuttered, he cleared his throat. Wet and wracked with uncertainty.
"Okay."

Steve shuffled over without lifting his gaze, his weight dipping the mattress toward Eddie as if the movement itself was an admission.

He made just enough room, barely a sliver, before peeling back the sheet, careful not to let it brush Eddie's arm until he lay down. The space between them collapsed instantly, shoulders pressed, knees knocking in small accidental bursts of contact that neither moved to correct.

"I think it's—gonna be okay now, anyway," Steve said, his voice pitched low, like he was afraid of waking someone else.

Eddie turned onto his side to face him, his hair tumbling forward. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Steve gave the smallest nod, his cheek brushing the pillow. "I think we fixed it."

"Well, that's—good," Eddie said, the hesitation written across his furrowed brow.

"Now I just—have to hope my face clears up in time to take Dustin to the Snowball." Steve's eyes flicked toward him, gauging the reaction.

Eddie's mouth twisted. "Take who to the what?"

"Dustin. One of the kids. I said I'd take him to the Snowball. It's the middle school winter dance thing." Steve's smile twitched at the edges, self-conscious.
"It's super lame, but—it's a big deal to him. Y'know. He wanted—advice about girls and dating and all that shit. I don't know why. S'not like I have anything to show for any of it. But I said I'd be his wingman."

Eddie let out a short breath, amused.
"So you're just gonna—rock up to a dance full of children to try and get them to dance with each other."

"You make it sound really weird," Steve said, turning his head more fully toward him, brows knitting.

"It kinda is, man."

"Why is that weird? I'm not a creep." Steve's frown deepened as his shoulder brushed against Eddie's again.

"You can't just—go to these things. You have to put yourself down as a chaperone."

"A chaperone?" Steve repeated, incredulous.

"Yeah. And you're like—in charge of all the kids. Not just one of 'em. You're responsible for keeping them safe, keeping them in line. Helping out the teachers."

Steve's eyes went wide. "No, no. No I won't be doing that. I can barely handle four let alone an entire gym full of kids, Jesus." He let out a dry laugh and shifted his legs beneath the blanket. "Maybe I'll just—drop him off outside and give him a pep talk or something."

"Sure, okay." Eddie chuckled, his expression softening as his gaze lingered a little longer than he meant it to.
"I like this side of you though."

"What?" Steve angled his head, uncertain.

"This—caring, big brother type thing you have going on. It's—sweet."

Steve looked down at his hands, shrugging one shoulder. "Yeah, well. I dunno. You'd probably like 'em. They're into all that—nerdy shit. Star Fights and dragons and whatever."

"Star Wars?" Eddie's grin was sly.

"Sure."

"Do I read as a Star Wars guy to you?" Eddie teased.

"I don't even know what that means but it's definitely a trap." Steve's laugh cracked the tension for a moment, warm and quick.

"How are you feeling now?" Eddie asked, his voice dipping.

"Yeah. Good. Better.” Steve's small smile didn't waver, his eyes fixed on Eddie's as though looking away would break something fragile.

"Good." Eddie said it like an affirmation.

Steve exhaled, gaze falling to the strip of space between them that didn't quite exist. "I always—" He faltered.

"What?" Eddie's tone softened.

"No, nothing. S'stupid."

"Don't fucking do that. Just—say it." Eddie's voice sharpened, but his eyes didn't leave Steve's.

Steve inhaled like the words were a plunge into cold water. "I meant what I said, earlier. About—how much I liked you. Like—not just as a friend. Or—I don't know. I don't think as a friend."

Eddie swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. He was sweating. Skin prickling, fingers twitching.

"I used to think about—what it would be like to kiss you. Like—all the time. Especially when you'd lean in to tell a joke and your hair would fall in your face and I'd think—Jesus Christ, I'm so fucking screwed." Steve laughed.

"Steve—" Eddie's voice caught.

"I know. I just—" Steve's hand twitched where it rested near Eddie's. "I kept wondering what it would feel like. If it'd be different. Kissing a guy. Kissing you. I thought about it way more than I should've."

Eddie closed his eyes, teeth catching on his lip. "I don't know what you want from me, man."

"Nothing." Steve's answer was quick, almost desperate. "Nothing, I swear. I'm not trying to push anything on you."

Eddie stared at him, silent, the air thick.

"I'm not expecting you to say anything back," Steve continued, quieter now. "I just figured if I didn't say it now, I'd keep wondering what it would've felt like. Or what would have happened."

"Steve." Eddie's voice was steadier now, but heavier.

"Yeah?"

"I don't—" He hesitated, then forced it out. "I don't like you like that."

"Okay." Steve's nod was quick, but his eyes betrayed the sting.

"I don't—I don't like guys like that," Eddie added, pressing the point like it needed to be carved in stone.

"Right. Got it." Steve said, voice clipped.

"I'm not trying to be an asshole, I just—I don't care that—you do. Okay? I seriously don't. It's not—a big fucking deal, okay? You're—you. That's fine. That's great. You can—like guys. I'm not gonna judge you for it. But it's not me, man."

"I don't think I even like guys. I think I just like—you." Steve's voice trembled but didn't waver.

"I'm sorry." Eddie exhaled.
"I just don't—I don't wanna lead you on."

"Yeah. No—thank you. For—saying. That's really—that's good. It's good we—talked about it. Now I can forget about it. It's all good." Steve gave a short, brittle laugh that didn't reach his eyes.

"Steve—"

"Seriously, Eddie. It's fine. I feel—I feel way better now that I said it out loud. So that's good."

"Okay." Eddie nodded, disbelieving.

Steve shifted slightly, gaze returning to the ceiling.
"Actually, do you mind sleeping on the floor?"

"What?" Eddie turned toward him fully, confusion breaking through.

"It's just—kind of hot in here. And crowded." Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll probably sleep better if I've—y'know, got the bed to myself."

"Yeah. No, that's—that's fair." Eddie nodded quickly.

"Cool. Thanks." Steve said, voice clipped and unsteady.

"You want a fan or something?" Eddie asked, already half-sitting.

"Nah, I'm good. This is good. This is—perfect." Steve rolled onto his side, back facing Eddie.

Eddie bit down against his lip, clamping his eyes shut as he reckoned with the last few seconds of his life.
Then he stood, settling back down on the floor.

***

Steve woke before the first light had even touched the edges of the curtains, the room still thick with that fragile, heavy quiet that felt like it might break with the slightest sound.

He lay still for a moment, eyes closed but mind already moving, pulling itself out of the fog. He peered over the side of the bed at Eddie's sleeping form.

Mouth agape, blanket down by his waist exposing blanched flesh. A hand resting beside his head, the other draped across his stomach.

He was beautiful, Steve thought. Always had been.

He was painful to look at.

His hands trembled slightly as he tore the duvet away from himself. He got up, reached for the crumpled clothes Eddie had left tossed on the chair. Carefully, almost reverently, he peeled off Eddie's shirt, the fabric warm and faintly scented like him.

He folded it slowly, placing it neatly on the edge of the chair as if not to disturb it too much. His fingers lingered a moment on the soft cotton before moving on to the shorts, tugging them off with quiet care.

Now bare, Steve reached for his own clothes. He pulled the shirt over his head slowly, feeling the rough fabric scratch at his skin, grounding him. The jacket followed, the weight of it oddly comforting against his back.

As he pulled his jeans up, his movements were careful and deliberate, like a man dressing to leave not just a room but a memory behind.

When he was fully dressed, Steve took a long, quiet breath, eyes flickering once more toward the floor where Eddie still slept. Then, without a sound, he slipped out of the room.

He moved down the hallway, the walls closing in like a secret corridor, and stopped at the bathroom door. Pushing it open just enough, he slipped inside. The faint smell of soap and bleach mingled with the stale warmth of the barely morning.

His eyes scanned the cabinet above the sink. He opened it quietly, and there they were: the orange bottles of codeine with Wayne's name clearly printed on the label. His fingers closed around them like a lifeline. Without hesitation, he shoved the bottles deep into the pocket of his jacket, feeling the weight settle there.

He lingered a moment, looking at himself in the mirror. Eyes shadowed, tired, distant. Face tinged with violent reds and purples.
Then, as if the house might catch him at any second, he slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.

In the living room, Wayne was sprawled on the pull-out couch, breathing slow and even in sleep. Steve tiptoed past, heart pounding, the quiet scrape of his jacket barely audible.

At the front door, he paused, hand on the handle. The world beyond the door waited. Dark and vast, full of unknowns. Not like the safety and the peace he felt being with Eddie.

He stepped out, closing the door gently behind him.

***

Eddie woke to the pale, unripe light of morning seeping through the thin curtains, the kind that made everything look both too sharp and strangely hollow.

The sheets above him were rumpled but cool, the shape of Steve's body still faintly impressed in the mattress. Shoulder dip, hip press, the ghost of a presence.

For a moment he lay there, blinking against the haze of sleep, waiting for the sound of a breath that wasn't his. Nothing. No muffled shuffle in the kitchen, no water running in the bathroom, no low hum of someone moving about the room. Just the creak of the trailer settling and the faint metallic taste of a night that had gone all wrong.

He sat up slowly, dragging himself up and perching himself against the edge of the bed. Hair falling forward, one hand pressing into the place Steve had been like he could warm it back to life.
His rings clicked softly against the sheet's weave.

The air smelled faintly of him. Soap, something sharp and clean under the heat of sweat. It hit Eddie with that muted ache, like the fading edge of a bruise.

The door was closed. The blanket at the foot of the bed had slipped halfway to the floor, and Steve's jacket was gone from where it had been slung over the chair. No note. No explanation. Just absence, quiet and heavy, pooling in the corners of the room.

Eddie just sat there. Bare feet planted on the cold floor, staring at the stillness. It felt less like Steve had left and more like he had been erased. Gone before the day had even really begun, leaving Eddie with nothing but the press of memory in the mattress and a gnawing question he didn't know how to ask.

 

Chapter 2: 1985

Notes:

ugh hey divas sorry for my silence you all got so used to me being here 24/7 but i somehow landed my dream job and now im in the office 5 days a week and its weird how suddenly your dream job gets tainted by COMMUTING like id rather die

Also please read the tags because this chapter revolves around addiction

There were several things that Steve knew to be true.

1. Eleven closed the gate.
2. The lab got raided and shut down by the military. Disgruntled men in white coats were run out of town, to never be seen or heard from again. (Hopefully.)
3. Nobody would ever know the truth. Everything they went through was glossed over and made palatable to the unsuspecting people of Hawkins. Damage control. Putting out fires. The diffusing of the small town panic.
4. The boulevard was bustling in anticipation of Christmas. Twinkling lights lined the streets. Everything was just mulled wine, brightly coloured decals and snowflakes made out of paper.
5. Life was supposed to go back to normal.

But instead, Steve's house became a long corridor of sleepless nights.

He moved through it the way one moves through a dream that refuses to end. Carefully, half-afraid, half-hoping something would break the spell.

He told himself he'd cut back on the night patrols, that he didn't need to walk the perimeter anymore, didn't need to stalk the shadows in case something came back.
But then there were the stairs. Always the stairs.
Up and down six times, sometimes more. Because what if he'd missed something, what if the lock wasn't fully turned, what if the noise he'd heard had been real?

By the third or fourth pass, he couldn't remember why he'd started. He only knew that to stop would mean letting the wrong thing in.

Winter break was slow and airless, the kind where daylight barely touched the windows and nothing seemed to move unless he moved it. He would've sworn it was going to be another season of nothing but silence until Dustin Henderson showed up at his front door one afternoon, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world, and asked if he wanted to hang out.

Steve didn't know why he said yes. Maybe because Dustin had shown up in the middle of the day, maybe because the house felt heavier when he was in it alone.

He told himself it was just a favor, the same way he'd told himself the Snowball had been a favour. Walk the kid into the gym, let him feel cool for a night, then leave. But the thing Dustin wanted wasn't an escort to a dance.

It was something else entirely.

He found himself in Dustin's room, sitting on the floor with his back against the bedframe while Dustin hovered over him like a tiny, excitable professor. One by one, he held up action figures. Heroes, villains, some Steve thought he recognised and others from universes he'd never heard of—telling him who they were, what they could do, and why it mattered.

When the figures were done, Dustin brought out notebooks full of diagrams for experiments, cross-sections of impossible machines, scribbled formulas that might have been nonsense or genius or both. Steve didn't interrupt. He just nodded, listened, let the kid's voice fill the space, because it was better than the silence.

It wasn't the kind of friendship Steve had expected, but then, nothing about that winter had gone the way he'd expected.

The migraines came not long after. They'd start as a dull press at the base of his skull, a slow, insistent throb that, by the hour's end, could eclipse the room. Sometimes his vision bled at the edges until all he could see was a vague, flickering blur.

There were nights when his stomach gave up before his sight did, when he'd find himself on the bathroom floor, braced against the tile, retching until there was nothing left. The only thing that brought relief was the dark, but even that came at a cost.

The dark wasn't empty for him anymore. It was a place where the shape of something could be hiding, waiting. Until it decided not to wait anymore.

The first time he took one of Wayne's pills it was because his head really was splitting. The kind of ache that felt like punishment. It dulled the edges just enough to let him drift off without counting stair steps in his mind.
The next night, the pain wasn't as bad, but he took another. It wasn't about the headache anymore. It was about the way the world seemed to go quiet, how the jitter in his body eased, how sleep came without a fight.

Soon, it didn't matter if he was in pain or not.

The pill was part of the ritual. Like checking the locks, like the walk up and down the stairs. One a night, without fail. He told himself it was just until things got better. Just until the headaches stopped.

But he'd started noticing how much earlier in the evening he was thinking about it. How his body leaned toward the promise of that warm, slow quiet before it even came. How the thought of running out of them made the panic sear in his chest so violently it almost knocked him over.

And then the evenings turned into days that turned into mornings.

He was going to have to think of something. Wayne's supply could only get him so far. He was going to run out eventually. He needed to plan ahead.

His own bathroom cabinets were lined with things that wouldn't even touch the sides. His mom's daily vitamins, his dad's pills for his hypertension. He was going to have to take matters into his own hands.

***

He hated how easy it was.

The waiting room still smelled faintly of antiseptic and old carpet, exactly like it had when he was twelve and had come in with a sprained ankle from basketball.

The same crooked stack of outdated National Geographics sat on the corner table, the same muted hum of the fish tank filter in the corner, the same bored receptionist who didn't even glance up when he gave his name.

It should've been comforting, the sameness of it, but it only made him feel like a fraud walking a stage set he'd long outgrown.

The doctor smiled when he came in, a practiced smile. Warm enough to feel like concern, detached enough to not invite intimacy.
"So, what happened?"

And Steve heard himself say it, without hesitation, without even thinking it through.

"Basketball," he said, letting the word land flat, like it was something he said all the time.
"Took a nasty fall—twisted wrong, landed on my side."

The lie came so easily it almost scared him, like slipping into an old jacket you'd forgotten still fit. He touched his ribs as if to punctuate the story, grimacing just enough.

The doctor nodded sympathetically, asked the kind of questions Steve could answer without thinking—When did it happen? Any trouble breathing? Sharp pain or dull?—and all the while Steve felt like he was watching himself from a distance, an actor reciting lines he'd rehearsed in his head on the drive over.

"I'm just looking to get something for the pain. Nothing over the counter seems to be helping."

The prescription pad came out with barely a pause, the pen scratching across it in a quick, efficient rhythm. The tiny, square piece of paper was passed to him like it was nothing, like it wasn't going to be the only thing he could think about until he had it in his hand in pill form.
"There. That should help with the discomfort."

Steve leaned forward in his chair, the paper between them like some kind of test.
"That's—these aren't gonna cut it. I've had it before—it doesn't even touch it. This is—this is bad. I can't sleep. Can't move without feeling it."

The doctor hesitated. Steve knew exactly how much to let into his eyes, just enough exhaustion to sell it, just enough tightness in his voice to suggest he'd been enduring something unbearable for days.

"You're sure?" the doctor said, but it wasn't really a question. Steve nodded, quick, as if the answer was obvious.

There was a small sigh, the faintest shake of the head, and then the pen moved again. Different name this time, one that would hit harder, one that would quiet everything. Steve felt it before he even took the paper, a slow relief in his chest, the way you might feel if someone told you the nightmare was over and you could go back to sleep.

"Be careful with these," the doctor warned, the way they always do, as if the words could anchor themselves anywhere inside him.
"You shouldn't really be driving when you're on them. Sometimes they can impair your vision, slow down your reflexes. Don't want you getting into any nasty accidents."

Perfect.

"See if you can't get a friend or your folks to drive you around the next week or so while you heal."

"Yeah. Totally. I will. Thanks."
Steve folded the prescription neatly and slipped it into his pocket. He gave a nod, a polite smile, and left.

***

Steve tried not to think about Eddie these days.

It was easier to let the thought dissolve before it could form. Like turning away from a song he used to love because the opening chord was already too much.

Still, it happened without warning. A profile in a crowd. A flash of dark hair at the edge of his vision. A voice two aisles over in the grocery store, rough in a way that made his chest tighten before he even realised he was moving toward it.

And then nothing.

A stranger. A mistake. Just his own mind pulling tricks on him.

He'd missed him. Missed him in the way you miss a season you can't quite remember, only that the air smelled different and your skin felt alive in it. Missed the sarcasm, the too-loud laugh, the feeling of being seen in a way that didn't demand anything back.
But missing him came with the sharp aftertaste of shame. Because what could he even say if they crossed paths again?

Sorry for bleeding. Sorry for vanishing. Sorry for stealing your uncle's pain meds. Sorry for making you care, even for a minute.

He pictured Eddie moving on, leaving him behind without even meaning to, folding him away into the dusty corners of memory where inconsequential things go.

Steve told himself Eddie had probably forgotten he even existed, and some days he almost believed it. It was better that way. Cleaner. Easier to be the one who remembered than the one who had to be reminded.

He went back to school in January like someone returning to a place they'd once lived but no longer belonged to.

Everything was where it had always been. The cracked linoleum by the gym doors, the half-dead plant outside the main office, the clusters of kids orbiting their own little planets. But the geometry of it had shifted. Or maybe it was him who had.

He passed Nancy in the halls sometimes. They didn't stop. She was always with Jonathan, their heads bent together, moving in tandem as if they'd rehearsed it. And every time, there was that strange moment of recognition. Here's someone you used to know in a way you can't unknow, and yet you might as well be strangers now.

Eddie was rarer still. Sometimes just a blur across the field, a flicker of movement between classes. There was never enough time to know if Eddie saw him too. Steve would keep walking, pretending he hadn't looked.

Dustin was his only friend now. The only one who called him, the only one who wanted to hang out, who waved like he actually wanted to see him. It should have been pathetic, an eighteen-year-old with a soon-to-be freshman for a best friend. It didn't feel pathetic. Not exactly. More improbable. Like some fluke of the universe had made this kid, with his fast-talking certainty and big, impossible ideas, the one person who made Steve feel less like a ghost walking through his own life.

Dustin's mom would come into his room with little plates of snacks for them both. Always asking how Steve was and how his week had been. It was strange. Alien, almost.

Their fleeting conversations felt like the first trickle of water through motherless pipes that had been dry for years. She'd ask about school, about girls he 'likes the look of.' What his plans are after graduation, what he wants to do. Not telling him what to do. And Steve would answer, finding himself talking more than he thought he would. She didn't pry, and maybe that's why he kept letting her in.

***

Steve lay flat on the carpet in Dustin's room, cheek pressed into it, feeling the slow hum of the painkillers threading through him, the edges of everything softened, muffled.

Dustin was narrating his tidying under his breath, moving pieces from one shelf to another, breaking up invisible arguments between toys.

Steve could hear the shuffling, the clink of plastic against wood, the boyish seriousness of the task.
His eyes were closed when Dustin asked, out of nowhere, "Do you think a girl's ever gonna wanna marry me?"

It cut through the fog in Steve's head like cold water, not sharp enough to wake him, but enough to make something inside him ache. He didn't open his eyes right away. Just pictured Dustin there, halfway bent over his desk, holding some tiny thing in his hands like it was breakable.

"Of course," Steve said finally, voice heavy, lazy. "Why wouldn't she?"

Dustin made a noise, small and unsure.
"I dunno. I'm not—tall. Or cool. Or..." He trailed off, and Steve could hear the way he was trying to make it a joke, failing at it.

Steve sat up on his elbows, slow, his head swimming a little from the shift.
"Hey," he said, catching Dustin's eyes.
"You're smarter than every guy I know. You actually give a shit about people. You're gonna find someone who's into that."

"Yeah, but—"

"No buts," Steve cut in, a little firmer now.
"The right girls gonna think you're the coolest person in the room. You won't even have to try."

Dustin looked down at the floor, fiddling with a Stormtrooper, and Steve could tell he was pretending to be focused on its helmet so he didn't have to show he believed it.

"I just—" Dustin began, voice small in a way Steve didn't hear often, "—I look at everyone else, y'know? Lucas has Max. Mike has El. I'm just—here. The funny one. The one people keep around but never—never really actually choose."

Steve didn't answer. He just listened, the rhythm of Dustin's voice filling the room, spilling over in stops and starts, circling the same fears from different angles like he was trying to trap them in words.

"I try not to care. And my mom says I'm too young, that I've got time, but then I see the way everyone looks at each other, and I—" He stopped to take a breath, the kind you take when you've just realised you're saying more than you meant to.
"I start thinking maybe there's just—something wrong with me. Like maybe people can tell something about me I can't see."

Steve flopped back down, staring at the ceiling.
"You know what your problem is?" Steve murmured, his voice sluggish but steady.

"What?" Dustin asked.

"You keep thinking people are supposed to notice you the second they meet you. But it's not like that. It's like—you're a—song or something."

"What?" Dustin giggled.

"Yeah. Y'know. It takes a few listens before it's someone's favorite. Doesn't mean you're not worth listening to. Just means you're not background noise, and that's harder for people."

Dustin blinked at him, stunned into silence.

"You don't wanna be some—overplayed, mainstream shit that's playing on every single station. You gotta do your own thing. Be your own thing. You wanna be a song that—someone hasn't heard before and they're like, 'woah, who is this. I've never heard this before.' Or a song that maybe someone used to love but forgot about, and finding it again makes their whole entire week."

For a second Steve thought maybe he'd said something dumb, maybe the meds were making him sound weird. But Dustin just stared at him like he'd handed him something heavy and unexpected, something he wasn't sure what to do with yet.

Steve didn't even notice. His head fell back against the carpet, eyelids dragging shut.
"You'll be fine, Henderson," he muttered, already half-asleep.
"Trust me."

***

By summer, Dustin was gone. Off to camp for four weeks, his goodbye loud and full of promises to call. The house felt emptier than it should, and the days stretched thin. Steve kept thinking about the absurdity of it: this kid, his only friend, and even he had more people waiting for him, writing him letters, missing him.

Scoops Ahoy wasn't exactly a dream job, but there was something about the rhythm of it, the clink of the metal scoop against frozen tubs, the faint smell of waffle cones lingering in his hair that softened the constant hum in his head.

He worked alongside Robin, who at first seemed to treat him with this polite but impenetrable coolness. She had a way of looking at him like she could see straight through whatever front he was putting up, and for the first couple of weeks, he was convinced she couldn't stand him.

But somewhere between the dull shifts and the lulls between customers, the air changed. She'd start talking to him about music, books she was pretending to read over the holidays for school, stupid things her band friends said.

He'd counter with stories from high school, or gripes about customers, or idle questions about whatever random thought she'd just dropped. And in those moments, leaning against the counter, elbows brushing, watching the clock. He found himself enjoying her company without even trying to.

Steve found himself going days without reaching for the painkillers. Like he actually wanted to be here. Be present.

He started driving her home after closing, just so she didn't have to bike in the dark. The car rides became their own little world. Headlights carving through empty streets, windows cracked to let in the summer air.

They'd talk about life and the strange cruelty of being a teenager, about how no one ever really prepared you for the years after high school when you were supposed to just figure it all out. With her, it felt simple. Safe. He wasn't the kid counting his footsteps up the stairs, or the boy who palmed codeine before bed. He could almost believe in the version of himself who never saw the things he saw.

Then one night, after a slow shift and an even slower drive, Robin looked at him sidelong and said, "I just—I don't wanna give you the wrong idea or anything. I like girls. Like, that's—my thing."

For a moment, he blinked at her, unsure if she was joking. But then she kept talking, awkward and stumbling in her explanation, and something in his chest loosened. He didn't even know why he was so grateful to hear it. Maybe because it took all the weight out of the space between them. No pressure, no pretending, no second-guessing himself.

Instead of the awkward letdown he might have expected, he felt elated. Relieved in a way he couldn't explain. She'd just told him, without meaning to, that this friendship was allowed to be pure, untangled, entirely its own thing.

And in that moment, Steve realised how rare that was in his life.

***

The stall was too small for both of them, knees knocking against each other, the smell of bleach sharp in the air, the fluorescent light above flickering just enough to make everything feel like it might be tilting.

Steve was slouched back against the cold partition, his head tipped to one side, eyelids heavy, hair falling in his face in damp, messy strands. Robin sat cross-legged opposite him, her sneakers almost touching his hips, her arms wrapped loosely around her shins, face flushed in a way that was half from laughter, half from whatever drug the Russians had pumped into them.

"Okay, okay, okay. Wait wait wait"—she said, her words tripping over themselves, hands fluttering before she caught one wrist with the other, grounding herself.
"Have you—ever been in love?"

Steve grinned, slow and almost lazy, like the words reached him a second after she said them.
"Oh yes. Yeah. Stupidly and—painfully. Woefully."

"Woefully? Damn." She tilted her head, squinting at him like she was trying to decide if he actually knew what that word meant.

"Mhm."

"Let me guess. Nancy Wheeler."

"No, actually." His tone shifted. Less smug, more thoughtful, his eyes darting down toward the space between them.
"No, I uh—I don't think I was ever in love with her. I loved her. She was—great. But—I don't know. It was different."

"Okay. So—who?"

"Do you, uh"—he wet his lips, leaning forward slightly.
"Do you know Eddie?"

"Eddie"—her brows knit for a split second.

"Munson."

Robin's eyes went wide. Then she burst—laughing so hard she almost toppled sideways, hitting the partition with her shoulder.
"Wait—what?! Eddie Munson?!" She was wheezing now, doubled over, hair falling forward like a curtain.
"Weird band shirts, and dice and freakin' warlocks Eddie?! That Eddie?"

"Yeah."

She slapped the floor with her palm, unable to stop.
"Oh my god, that's—what? Since when?! Was this, like, some dramatic secret forbidden love in the cafeteria?"

"It's not a joke, Robin." His voice cut in low, a thread of steel in it.

She tried to reel it in, pressing her lips together, but another laugh slipped out.
"No, I know, I just—" she broke again, giggling, head bowed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just—Eddie?! Really?!"

"Yes. Really."

"That's so weird, I can't—oh my god"—she drew in a shaky breath, leaning her head back against the wall. "This is a lot to process."

"Yeah. I realise." Steve said flatly.

"Did he, like, hex you? Is that what this is? Did he seduce you with his, like, satanic riff powers?"

"Okay, forget it." Steve shifted like he was going to stand, but the tiny space and the sharp throb of pain in every inch of his body made it impossible.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. I swear. I'm just—this stuff makes everything stupid funny and my brain's all floaty and—God, Steve, I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

"I just—really?" she said softer this time, tilting her head toward him.

"Oh my God, y'know what"—

"No, like—you really loved him?" She interjected.

He nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"You ever tell him?"

"Uh—yeah. Yeah. I did. I wish I didn't though." He said softly, drawing his knees further into his chest.

"What happened?"

"I was doped up. Pain meds. After Billy—" he broke off, swallowing hard. "He beat the crap out of me last year. Eddie saw me at the gas station, took me back to his for the night 'cause my parents weren't—whatever."

"So what happened?"

"I honestly—have no idea. Everything hurt and the ceiling kept moving. It was just after this whole other thing with the kids, and Will, and the lab. Fucking tunnels. I said some stuff. I think I did. I don't even remember all of it, just—I remember him freezing up. Like—physically moving away from me."

"Well, did he say anything?" She pressed.

"Literally nothing. Told him I loved him. Or that I thought I was in love with him at one point. Got the 'I don't like guys like that' speech. That was it. I was so embarrassed I just—I couldn't face him. I left the next morning. Haven't spoken since." He shrugged, the motion small in the cramped space.
"I see him sometimes. Like, at school, hanging around outside the Hideout. And I just—keep my head down and cross the street. Classic Harrington win."

Robin didn't say anything for a while. Just stared at him, her gaze steady in a way that cut through the haze in the air.

"Did you die?" he asked finally, nudging her shin with his foot.

Her eyes blinked back into focus, sudden and sharp.
"Wait—wait, wait."

"What?"

Robin's body went slack with thought. Like she was therapising him suddenly. Sneakers wedged under the toilet tank, arms loose around her knees. She was looking at him like she'd already decided she didn't believe a word he'd said.
"Eddie Munson said he doesn't like guys?" she asked finally, voice skeptical, as if waiting for him to crack and admit he'd misheard.

Steve didn't even hesitate. "Yeah. Pretty clear, actually."

Robin scoffed under her breath, shaking her head. "That's insane."

"Thanks," Steve said dryly.

"No, I mean—it's insane because Eddie's definitely gay."

Steve blinked at her like she'd just suggested gravity might stop working if they thought hard enough about it. "No, he's not."

"Steve." She said his name like it was a fact in itself, like she could stop the argument there just by saying it.

"No, he literally said—verbatim—'I don't like guys like that.' I was there."

Robin's mouth pulled into a smirk, like she'd been saving this. "Yeah, and I was there when he was talking to me about this drummer in some band he was looking at in a magazine. A male drummer. Who he was very not subtle about."

Steve shook his head, still unconvinced. "Yeah, but that doesn't count. Celebrities aren't real people. I can say Patrick Swayze's hot and nothing would happen. It's just a fact."

"And we were talking about shitty high school crushes one time," Robin went on, her hands animated now, her voice warming like she was piecing a puzzle together in real time. "He said something all dramatic about being 'doomed from the start.' He never specified the gender of said person, ergo, he was definitely talking about a guy. Straight guys never pass up an opportunity to objectify women."

Steve squinted. "What?"

"You're the doomed-from-the-start guy, Steve. C'mon."

He let out a sharp laugh, too fast, too defensive. "No, he—he said—he looked right at me and said he doesn't like guys like that."

"Well, maybe he doesn't like you like that. But he definitely likes guys."

Steve's gaze dropped to the floor, where a crack in the tile ran between their shoes. "Oh, great. Thank you."

Robin's body seized up once she realised, shoulders drawn up to her chin, legs going ramrod straight in front of her.
"Shit. I didn't mean it like that. It's the drugs."

"No, it's fine." He laughed again, but it rang hollow, like something meant to fill space. "Actually, it's perfect. That means he just doesn't want me, specifically. Nothing confusing about that."

"Steve—"

"No, really, it's great. Clears things up. Makes it simple." His voice caught on the word simple. "I wasn't rejected because he's straight. I was rejected because I'm me."

"Hey. No, that's not it. Maybe he was just—scared. Caught off guard."

"It's fine." He leaned his head back against the tile and closed his eyes. The sting behind them was sharp, sudden. "Everything's fine."

For a while, neither of them said anything. Steve could hear the slow drip of a faucet somewhere outside the stall, the muted echo of a fan whirring overhead somewhere within the ceiling tiles.

"I shouldn't've said anything," he murmured at last.

"Stop." She scolded, rolling her eyes.

"I should've just kept my mouth shut. Like always. That's what I'm good at." He muttered, picking at the skin of his thumb as his hands lay idly in his lap.

"You were honest. That's not a bad thing."

"Yeah, well—look how it turned out. Now he knows. And he still didn't want me."

"That doesn't mean there's something wrong with you."

"Doesn't it?"

Robin didn't answer, and the silence pressed in again.

"Maybe if I were smarter. Or weirder. Or, I don't know, less me. Maybe then he wouldn't have looked at me like I'd just kicked his dog."

"Steve—"

"He said it like it was obvious. Like it was ridiculous that I'd ever think he'd feel the same." His voice cracked on the last word. "Do you know how that feels?"

Robin's face softened. "Yeah," she said quietly. "Actually, yeah. I do."

He exhaled, shaky. "Sorry. That was dumb of me to say."

The stall felt smaller the longer they sat in it. The fluorescent overhead lights hummed faintly, too bright for Steve's throbbing head. He exhaled slowly, his voice unsteady.
"I just—keep trying to be this guy who's—good. Who's changed." His gaze fixed somewhere between his sneakers and the floor drain, words catching in his throat.
"But maybe I'm just—" He stopped, swallowed hard, the sentence almost breaking him.
"Maybe I'm still that same asshole who peaked in junior year and got his heart broken at a stupid fucking Halloween party."

Robin's mouth quirked, not in mockery but in a way that meant she'd been here too.
"No. You're not. And I can attest to that. Because I used to despise you. I literally used to—sit behind you thinking about your head exploding like a watermelon. And now we're here, having a blast."

Steve barked a laugh despite himself, the sound cutting short almost instantly.
"Then why does it keep happening? Why does it never work? What is it about me that people don't want? I'm tired of being almost." He let out another laugh, but it was bitter, small.
"Almost loved. Almost good enough. Almost right."

There was a long pause, Robin watching him like she was weighing whether to push or let him sit in the quiet.

"You are good enough," she said at last, softer. "He just didn't see it. That's not on you."

"It still hurts like it is," Steve murmured.

Robin's foot shifted, and then she leaned forward to poke him in the shin. Her smile tilted sideways.
"You are—so much mushier than I thought."

"Shut up." But there was a smile tugging at his mouth now, almost despite himself.
"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"The whole—gay thing." He said, as though it was some anomaly or Bigfoot.

"With great difficulty." She smirked.

"Great." He scoffed, shaking his head.

"But it's not all bad, y'know," she said, settling back against the wall of the stall.
"Like—it doesn't have to be this terrible thing that keeps you up at night. It can just be—I don't know. Something just for you. Having a different perspective on life and the world and the people in it. Being able to see beyond that stupid—black and white, 'this is how it is' shit." She gave him a crooked grin. "S'kinda a superpower if you think about it."

"Yeah, no. I've met someone with actual superpowers and I don't think this is anywhere close." Steve rolled his eyes.

"Well, my point is—" She stopped mid-sentence, squinting like she'd just misplaced it.
"Okay, I don't know what my point is." She paused again, shrugged.
"My point is you're gonna be okay. There'll be more Eddie Munsons."

"And there'll be more Tammy Thompsons," Steve said, lips twitching.

"Okay, actually—I think we picked the two most weirdly unique human beings alive." Robin snorted.

"Yeah, I think you're right."

They burst into laughter. Loud, uncontrollable, the kind that left them gasping in the cramped air of the stall. It was ridiculous, too loud, but it felt good.

The door to the bathroom banged open and Dustin appeared with Erica right behind him, both of them staring at the scene before them.

"Are you kidding me, right now?" Dustin's voice was a perfect mix of disbelief and annoyance, but it only made them laugh harder, shoulders shaking as they clung to the stupid absurdity of it all.

***

The curtains rip open with a noise like tearing paper. Eddie's silhouette fills the window, his hair wild, his eyes narrowing in instant confusion before they harden into something sharper.

The dark, untamed tendrils of his hair were flattened on one side from where he had been sleeping. Eyes puffy and glazed, lips plump and red in that way that made Steve feel like he could collapse at any moment.

Steve is standing below, hands in the pockets of his Scoops uniform shorts that are clinging to him like a second skin. His face is pale under the streaks of blood and vomit dried in fragile crusts down his neck, his breath visible in the cold air. Eddie pushes the window up in one quick, irritated shove, the frame rattling.

"Jesus Christ." The exhale comes with a grimace, Eddie scanning him from head to toe like the sight is almost offensive.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Can I come in?" Steve's voice is ragged, too thin to sound casual.

Eddie doesn't answer. Just steps back from the sill, confusion prickling in his expression.
The sharp breeze of summer nights cuts between them before Steve gathers himself enough to climb.
He hauls himself up clumsily, catching his knee on the ledge, slipping when his sneaker skids on the floor. His balance is a momentary loss until Eddie's hands grab his arms, holding him steady without thinking.

"What the hell are you doing here? What the fuck happened to you?"

"I don't know!" Steve exclaimed.
"I mean, I do know. But I don't know why I'm here." Steve pushes a hand into his hair, pressing hard against his own scalp, pacing across the cramped carpet like he can't stand still.
"I should be at the hospital, or—I don't know, sleeping for a month."

"So why aren't you?" Eddie's tone is skeptical, guarded.

"Because I can't stop thinking about you. About what you said. About how you looked at me like I was some fucking joke." Steve seethed, stopping dead in his tracks.

Eddie's head tilts, brows drawing together in irritation. "What? When?"

"The last time we saw each other." Steve says in annoyance.

"Steve, seriously? This is—you came here for that?" Eddie asks incredulously.

"Yeah!" The word bursts out of him, short and sharp.

Steve watched Eddie sigh, dragging his palms down his face.
"Look, I didn't mean it like that—"

"Didn't you?" Steve cuts in, stepping closer.

"Steve—"

"No." He firmed. Nostrils flared, lip quivering. "You don't get to look me in the eye and tell me you don't like guys and then go tell Robin the exact opposite like I imagined the whole thing."

"Robin?" Eddie's eyes narrow, genuine confusion cutting through his frustration.

"Yes!" Steve bellowed.
"Robin. Robin, Robin. Robin Buckley."

Eddie's face contorted in confusion. Frown lines prominent even in the dark of his room.
"I didn't tell Robin anything. At least—not outright, anyway. So whatever information she thinks she has, she's created it herself."

"You made me feel stupid!" Steve's voice cracks against the edge of anger.

Eddie exhaled a low growl of frustration, fingers pulling at his hair from the roots.
"Jesus, Steve. What are you mad about? The fact that I said I wasn't gay or the fact that I said I don't like you?"

"Both! Okay?! Both." Steve's voice is loud now, filling the room, and Eddie actually leans back a little.
"Because you lied. And then you made me feel like an idiot for believing something that—you—" His hands gesture wildly, fingers curling into his palms.
"You looked at me like it was insane that I even tried."

"I didn't ask you to try! You were just—here. Bleeding and rambling about shit and kissing me like I'm supposed to just roll with it!"

"I didn't kiss you!"

"You wanted to!"

"Yeah! I fucking did! For like, years! And you acted like I'd imagined all of it—like every time you looked at me like that, or laughed too long, or touched my wrist and didn't let go, was just—nothing."

"Because it was nothing." Eddie's voice was low, cutting.
"I'm fucking sorry, Steve. But it was nothing."

Steve goes still. His chest rises and falls hard, jaw set so tightly the muscle jumps.

"Look, I don't know shit, man," Eddie says, the anger fraying.
"You act like I had all of this figured out and I was messing with you on purpose. I've been trying to figure out who the fuck I am since the minute I learned people like me don't get to be honest."

"So lie to the whole world, not to me," Steve snaps.

"Oh, fuck off, Steve." Eddie scoffs out a laugh.
"You think just because you suddenly caught feelings I'm supposed to rip open my chest and hand you mine? You think you're entitled to something from me because what—because you finally decided I was worth your attention again?"

"That's not fair." Steve said, the words catching in his throat.

"No, you're right. It's not. Nothing about this is. And you showing up here like I owe you some perfect, graceful truth is bullshit." Eddie spat, chest heaving.

"Just—tell me the truth." Steve croaked out, barely summoning the energy to look him in the eye anymore. If his face didn't hurt so much he would probably burst into tears.
"Please. I don't want to feel like this—ginormous fucking idiot, anymore."

Eddie's eyes flick away, his voice coming out quiet and tight.
"Okay. Fine. I admit it. I lied. About the gay thing."

Steve's breath stutters, eyes locking on him now, wide, but Eddie keeps going before he can speak.

"But you can't be mad at me for not wanting to be with you."

Steve's jaw tightens further, his silence saying more than he means to. The way he looks at Eddie, it's like that part still cuts deep.
"I'm not mad about that," he says at last.

"Yes, you are," Eddie snaps back with a cutting laugh.
"You're furious. Because you thought this was gonna be some big moment, right? Thought I'd fall into your arms or whatever the hell. And I didn't. So now I'm the asshole." Eddie says, pacing again.

"I never expected you to fall into anything," Steve says, voice low.

"Then what do you want from me?"

And that was the question wasn't it. Because Steve didn't really know.

Was it too much to say he just wanted to be engulfed by his everything? Dragged into his orbit? Not caring if he disappeared inside of it like being taken in by a black hole?

That even now, in all of Eddie's fury, Steve thought that witnessing the sight of Eddie's collarbone peering out of his worn shirt was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. And that he wanted more of that.

How even if he wasn't allowed to touch him, or hold him, or love him—just being in his presence felt like a privilege unlike any other. That he needed him around because he reminded him of warm weekends with half hearted water fights and ice pops. Sticky and red, melting down his hand and drying against his wrist. Laughing until his ribs ached in a good way, for once. Waking up on the floor of Eddie's bedroom when summer and spring breaks felt endless, when adulthood felt far away, and seeing the lines from the creases of his pillow kissing his cheeks. Hoping and praying that one day Eddie would grant him permission for them to be replaced by Steve's lips.

He wanted all of that again. Whatever it meant.

"I just—needed someone." Steve exhaled.
"I needed you."

Eddie's pacing, hands cutting the air in jagged gestures, his voice sharp enough to slice through whatever weak defense Steve's been holding onto.
"But why, Steve? Why me? You fucking left, man. Okay? You—disappeared." His weight shifts forward like he's trying to close the space between them but stops himself.
"What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? I can't spend my whole life chasing after you!" He points a hand at Steve, then drops it, like even touching this conversation feels dangerous.
"You can't stand here and say that you need me when you won't even fucking—tell me anything! I can't do anything with that! It's like—there's this whole other part of you that I can't know about! Tell me what I'm supposed to do with that!"

Steve's breathing hard now, the kind of breath that tastes like metal. His voice softens, almost cracking.
"Because you used to know me before all this shit. Before I got good at pretending I was okay."
His eyes flicker over Eddie's face, searching for some sign he's being heard.

"I can't"—Eddie shakes his head, a quick, frustrated motion.
"I can't do anything with that. I knew you before, yeah. But I have no idea who you are now. I have no idea what the fuck I'm supposed to do when I see you once every six months covered in fucking blood!"

Steve's hands clench, nails biting into his palms. "Okay, fine." The words are short, clipped, the edge of a blade.

Eddie freezes.
"What?"

"You wanna know where I've been? What I've been through?"

"Yeah, actually, that'd be a great start." Eddie's voice is dry, almost sarcastic, but his eyes don't leave Steve's.

"I got kidnapped by evil Russians."

Eddie's eyebrows shoot up, his mouth parting. "What?"

"Yep." Steve's pacing now, unable to stand still, voice spilling faster than he can control it.
"There was this secret base under the mall—like deep under it, cold concrete and lights that never turn off. I got beat up, tied to a chair, drugged. They thought I was a spy or something, but really I just work at Scoops, obviously. You get it. This is the Scoops uniform. You know what Scoops is."
He gestures vaguely at himself like the ridiculous sailor outfit is proof.

"And Robin was there too. And Dustin, and Erica. Snowball Dustin. And Erica is Lucas' sister. She wouldn't stop fucking talking about her uncle's party and someone called Tina. And I threw up more than I've ever thrown up in my life."

"Okay, uh"—Eddie blinks, rubbing his temple. "Did you—take something before coming here?"

"Well, yeah. They drugged me."

"The evil Russians?"

"Yeah. To get me to talk."

"Drugged you with what, exactly?"

"I don't know, Eddie!" Steve's voice rises, sharp with frustration.
"I didn't think to ask when they were threatening to cut off my fingers!"
"And there was this monster. Like an actual monster. Teeth the size of my head. It was made up of like—people. Melting through walls. One of them used to be a lifeguard."

"Right. Got it. You're high." Eddie nods in acceptance.

"I'm not high!" Steve's hands go out like he's trying to physically hold the truth between them. "I mean—I am. Maybe, still. I don't know. I think it's still in my system but that's not—it's fucking irrelevant!"

Eddie's voice turns flat.
"Steve, you just climbed into my room looking like—like a rejected sailor from a war crimes museum yelling about Russians and monsters. Forgive me if I'm trying to locate the reality in all this."

"See! This is why I didn't say anything! You don't believe me!"

"Because it sounds insane, man."

"It is insane! That's the whole point!" Steve's pacing again, each step restless.
"I got thrown headfirst into some nightmare dimension and watched a twelve-year-old explode a monster with her mind! Her name's Eleven, she came from the lab. She's got like—superpowers. She csn do shit with her mind. I've literally seen people die. I don't sleep anymore, Eddie!" His voice cracks under the weight of it.
"And you—god—you sit here acting like I'm just being dramatic. Like I'm some loser who caught feelings and couldn't take rejection. But I've been fighting for my life. I've been dying, basically, and all I could think about the whole time was that I left things weird with you. That I never got to fix it. Do you know how insane that is?"

Eddie finally sits, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hands drag down his face, fingers tangled briefly in his hair. He exhales, slow but unsteady. Steve stays standing, his body still buzzing with adrenaline.
"Look, Steve. I'm a pretty open minded guy. But—even this is—this is a fucking stretch for me, man. I'm really trying here."

"Ask me anything. Ask me anything and I'll tell you." Steve says frantically.

Eddie tilts his head, still skeptical.
"Ask you about what?"

"Anything!"

"Okay, fine." Eddie leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
"So, there was a—like, a base? Under Starcourt?"
"Yeah."

"With Russians?"

"Yup."

"Like—actual Russians. Speaking Russian. Guns and everything?"

"Yes, Eddie. Actual Russians."

Eddie's voice isn't cruel so much as relentless, a tide that doesn't stop pulling even when Steve's already half under.
"And they kidnapped you?" His tone is flat, almost indulgent, like he's humoring a child explaining why they couldn't do their homework.

Steve's talking before he even has time to breathe.
"They kidnapped me after Robin and I cracked their secret code and we ended up in this booby trapped elevator that went all the way fucking—beyond underground. It just kept falling." He gestures with his hands like he's tracing the elevator's drop through air, his fingers twitching with the remembered jolt in his stomach.
"And they had this—weird radioactive goo in these glass containers. Like—fuck tonnes of it. To power this—generator thing. They beat the shit out of me. Broke a rib, I think." He doesn't look at Eddie when he says it, just stares at some fixed point over his shoulder, like the only way to get the words out is to speak them into the air, not into Eddie's face.

"And—there was a monster?" Eddie's voice tilts on the question, part skepticism, part mockery.

"Yeah." Steve's eyes widen, his tone jumping a half-octave.
"A big, slimy, sharp-teethed one. The size of a fucking skyscraper. It's just this—big lump of flesh that bleeds black goo." His mouth is moving faster now, hands restless.
"This isn't even the first time. This is just what happens here now."

"It's happened before?"

"When Will Byers went missing," Steve says, the words tumbling over each other like they're tripping to get out.
"He wasn't actually missing. I mean—he was. But—he was basically taken by this weird inter-dimensional monster thing and he was in Hawkins, except it wasn't Hawkins. It's like—a different version of Hawkins. And the body they found? It was fake. It was a plant. That's why he came back. Because he wasn't even dead." He's looking at Eddie now, desperate, but Eddie's expression hasn't shifted. Steve feels himself pushing harder, frantic.
"Uh—you know Bob? Bob Newby? Worked at Radio Shack?"

"Uh—yeah."

"He didn't die in a car crash. He was eaten by this—monster dog. The kids call it a demodog. It's just this smaller version of the big version. A whole load of them just attacked him on his way out of the lab. And he was there with Joyce because Will was possessed by this—smokey version of the flesh monster."

"Smokey version," Eddie repeats, dry.

"Billy's dead. Like—actually dead. He was possessed by the fleshy monster. And Hopper. But he wasn't possessed. At the mall tonight. They fucking died." Steve's chest is tight; his hands have curled into fists without him noticing. "The whole place got raided by the military and they're gonna cover it all up and say it was something else. That's what they said about the lab. The chemical leak that killed Barb? Wasn't a chemical leak. It was the same monster that took Will. It literally happened at my house and that's why Nancy broke up with me because—because she thinks we killed her. Maybe we did. I don't know. But it wasn't like—on purpose. And we had to lie to her parents for like, a year and they thought she was still out there."

Eddie tilts his head slightly, like he's turning the whole thing over in his mind just to toss it aside. "Okay, so—why haven't I seen any of this? Why does nobody else talk about it?"

"Because we keep it from people. For this exact reason. We aren't allowed to say anything. We signed like—actual paperwork when they thought they fixed it the first time. But they're like—everywhere. Watching."

"So what—there's like—some shadow government monster squad now? Are you in it? Is this, like, a job?"

"No, Eddie. It's not a job." Steve laughs once, a sound with no humor in it.
"It's just my life now. Free trauma. No benefits."

Eddie stares at him, still, for a beat too long. Then he laughs. Not bright, not warm, but thin and worn out, like the kind of laugh you make when you've stopped believing in the punchline.

"Why are you laughing?" Steve asks, sharper than intended.

"Because this is just—so fucking stupid. Like this whole thing is just so stupid." Eddie shakes his head, one hand rubbing at the corner of his mouth.
"After all the times I asked what was going on you just"—the laugh breaks through again, bitter this time—"you give me some crazy-ass story like this? Like I'm supposed to buy it?"

"Eddie, I'm not—mocking you. I'm telling you." Steve firmed.

"You know what this sounds like, Steve?" Eddie leans back, spreads his hands as if inviting Steve to fill in the obvious.
"It sounds like someone who's high off his ass. Like—I've seen some crazy trips before, man. But this is—this is something else. It's fine. It's the Fourth of July. People go hard."

"I'm not high. I don't do drugs!" Steve bartered, frustration teeming.

"Bullshit. You think I don't remember October? You think I didn't notice Wayne's pills just magically went missing?"

Steve's mouth opens, then shuts again. He stares at Eddie, blank, unable to shape an answer that won't make everything worse.

"Yeah. I noticed. I notice things," Eddie says, quieter now but without softening.

"I was in pain. That's different." Steve says, quieter now.

Eddie stands finally, his movements slow, loose, as if nothing Steve has said has landed with any real weight. He circles once, not menacing, but deliberate, and Steve feels the air shift as he moves behind him.
"And now what? This? This is some kind of extended hallucination? Monsters and Russians and some little girl with powers? You think I'm stupid?"

"No, I think you don't want to understand."

"No, I think you're sick, man. I think you never stopped. You've just been out here losing your mind and calling it trauma."

Steve feels the heat rising up his neck, a sharp, bright flush that has nothing to do with the summer night.
"Okay, fine. But what do you think happened to my face then? If you don't believe any of that then surely how I look right now provides some evidence."

"The same thing that always happens, Steve. The same thing that's happened twice before now and will probably happen a dozen times again." Eddie's voice is calm, almost gentle, but the words sting worse than shouting.
"You go toe to toe with someone you can't fight back and you get your shit rocked. The Harrington special."

Steve's jaw locks tight. His breathing shallows. There's a sudden, bright glint in his eyes, the kind you get when someone says something that lands like a slap.
"You really think that little of me?"

"I think you need help. I think you're not fine. And I think this whole thing is some long, messed-up excuse for why you keep pushing people away."

"I told you because I thought you were the one person who might believe me. Who might care enough to try." His voice is sharper than he meant, but he can't reel it back in. The heat is already there in his throat.

Eddie doesn't even flinch.
"Then maybe you should've tried telling me the truth when it mattered—before you started stealing pills and talking about shadow monsters." His eyes don't waver, don't soften.

"I'm not fucking addicted to painkillers." Steve seethed.

"Oh, yeah?" Eddie leans in, almost smirking, but not in amusement, more in disbelief.
"I saw you, Steve. You were high at school, like—most days. You couldn't even keep your head up. Everyone else might've thought it was a bad flu or some hangover bullshit, but I knew."

"Yeah? You knew?" Steve's stepping forward before he can think better of it, closing the space until they're toe to toe.
"Then where the fuck were you?" His chest is heaving now, the anger making his hands clench without asking permission.

"Don't twist this, man."

"Fine. Yeah. I took them. I was taking them." His words come fast, spilling over one another, almost tripping.
"Because I couldn't sleep. I couldn't fucking breathe. I get these fucking—headaches that just—blind me. They knock me on my ass for days. I needed to numb everything that was going on inside my head. You want to throw that in my face now, months later, when I've been through hell and came here hoping you'd just listen?" His breath catches, but he doesn't stop.
"Like—okay. Maybe I had a fucking problem for a minute but this isn't that. Like—you're not even looking at me. You're not even trying to believe me!"

"I am looking at you, Steve. I've been looking at you. And you look like someone who's been trying to disappear."

It wasn't just doubt in his eyes, it was that slow, careful distance, the kind you leave for strangers who might be dangerous.

Eddie had always been game for the impossible; they'd once argued for hours about whether aliens would be more likely to land in New York or Kansas, whether wizards could die of old age. Their voices had cracked with laughter, faces lit by the cheap flashlight they'd passed back and forth like a torch in some sacred ritual of imagination.

Back then, make-believe had been their shared country, and neither of them ever needed a passport to get in.

But this—this wasn't the kind of story you wanted to play along with. It was too raw, too heavy. No dragons with silly names or heroes with cloaks. Just blood drying on Steve's skin, the metallic stink of it filling the space between them. There was no room for pretending here, no safe way to suspend disbelief without feeling its weight.

And maybe Eddie, the Eddie who would've leaned in, grinned, asked him what the monster looked like, was gone. Or maybe that Eddie was only ever a kid, and kids didn't stay.

Steve felt the truth of it press into him, sharp and cold: the door back to that place was closed, and even if it swung open again, he wasn't sure he'd be welcome. Eddie wasn't going to follow him into this. He wouldn't want to. Not when the map was written in blood.

Steve looks away, jaw tight, his eyes tracing anything that isn't Eddie. The carpet. The corner of the couch. His own shoes.

Eddie shifts, the air between them changing. He starts toward the bedroom door, slow and deliberate. "Look—maybe I should call someone"—

"No!" Steve's moving before the thought fully forms, his hand closing hard around Eddie's arm and yanking him back.

He feels the resistance in Eddie's body, the surprise, the wince when Steve's fingers dig too deep. Eddie pulls back and rubs the spot, and Steve feels the guilt and the fear collide in his chest, but he pushes it down.
"The fuck's the matter with you? Did you not listen to a single thing I just fucking said? They're listening, Eddie! They'll blow through the fucking ceiling in seconds!"

"Steve." Eddie's voice is softer now, careful, like he's speaking to someone teetering on the edge. He steps closer, sets both hands on Steve's shoulders, his thumbs pressing lightly into the fabric of Steve's shirt. His eyes search Steve's face.
"Do you hear yourself? Because you're—you're really freaking me out.

Steve jerks back, shoving the contact away with a frustrated groan, his head tipping back toward the ceiling like it might keep everything from spilling over.
"Oh my fucking god."

"I'm really trying here, man," Eddie says, but it sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as Steve.
"But—you need help, Steve. I wanna help you, but I can't—I can't on my own. I have no idea what to do. You're paranoid. You're tweaking, man." His hands spread helplessly.
"Let me help you."

"Eddie"—

"Just—tell me what you took. Pills? Tabs?"

"Are you serious?"

"If you just tell me what you've taken I'll know how to help with the come down. Just—I dunno, man. Do you remember who you got them from?"

Steve lets out a short, incredulous laugh, stepping back, shaking his head.
"Y'know what. Fuck this." His voice has gone flat, the heat cooling into something harder.

He moves toward the window, his movements quick and decided.
"I don't want your help. I don't need your help. This was just—this was a mistake."

"Steve"— Eddie's right behind him now, catching his wrist before he can climb out.
"Steve, don't go. You shouldn't be on your own right now."

Steve glances down at the hand on his wrist, then back up to Eddie's face. His voice is quieter now, but edged.
"Just—tell me something."

"What?"

"Was I 'doomed from the start' guy?"

Eddie's grip loosens immediately, his hand falling away like it's been burned.
"What—who?"

"Robin. She said you had a crush on someone and you said it was doomed from the start. Was it me?"

"No." Eddie's eyes flicker away.
"No, it was—it was someone else."

"Okay. Good. Thanks. That's good to know." Steve nods once, not really at Eddie, more at the floor between them.
"I won't bother you anymore."

He climbs out the window in one fluid, practiced motion, the night air rushing in to fill the space he leaves behind. His shoes hit the dirt outside with a muted thud, and he starts walking across the trailer park without looking back.

"Steve, wait"—

But Steve doesn't even pause.

***

He slams the door harder than he means to, the sound rattling through the empty house like it's mocking him for coming back here, for having nowhere else to go.

His shoes are gone before he's even halfway into the hallway, kicked off without looking where they land. He peels off his shirt, the fabric sticking briefly where the blood's dried, the air hitting his skin and making him shiver. The shorts next. Socks. Everything in a pile he doesn't care to step around.

The sob catches in his chest before he can swallow it down, and then there's no stopping it. Just this raw, stupid sound he makes as he stands there in nothing but his underwear.

He moves through the house turning on every light, one after the other, even in rooms he won't enter.

In the bathroom, the mirror tries to catch him, but he doesn't look. He twists the shower handle until steam clouds the air, and steps in before the temperature's even settled. He sits right down on the tile, back against the cold wall, the water hitting him hard on the crown of his head and rushing over his face, his shoulders, his chest.

He doesn't move to soap or scrub. He just lets it happen, lets the heat lift away the blood and the vomit and whatever else he doesn't want to name. The tile warms under him slowly, almost reluctantly, while his skin prickles under the spray.

When the water's done more for the mess than he ever could, he turns it off and steps out, his hair plastered to his head. The mirror's fogged but his reflection waits underneath. He wipes a strip clear with the edge of his hand and finds himself.

His face mottled red and purple, a thin smear of dried blood still along the side of his mouth, one eyelid already folding in on itself with swelling.

He takes a washcloth from the rack, wets it, and begins to press it to the split in his lip, then the new cut along his brow. Each touch makes him hiss or bite down harder on his teeth, the sting blooming like it wants to remind him he's still here. His breathing is uneven, caught somewhere between a sob and a growl.

He wants his mom. Not because she'd help, she wouldn't. She'd ask what happened, who did it, why he was out, why he never calls, why he keeps getting himself into trouble.

She'd ask until the wanting turned sour. But there's something instinctive in it, something he doesn't want to admit. That even if she wouldn't fix anything, there's a part of him, small and stupid, that still thinks most people want their mother when they're in pain.

He walks to his bedroom without bothering with a towel, the wet on his skin cooling faster than he can bear but not enough to make him stop. The air feels sharp against him, each step leaving a faint print on the floor. His drawer sticks for a second when he pulls it open, the wood swollen from years of humidity, but then it gives, and the sight inside is hollowing.

Empty bottles. The rattle he's used to is gone. He picks one up, turns it in his hand like maybe the weight will change, and then he's throwing them.

One clatters against the wall, another falls short and skids across the floor. The sound isn't satisfying, not the way it should be. It's too light, too pathetic. He sinks onto the bed, elbows to knees, face in his hands, and lets the tears come without holding back.

This can't be it. Can't be what he's worked his way toward. Can't be the shape his life has decided to take.

He tells himself that over and over, but it doesn't land anywhere. It just sits in the air above him like a truth he's refusing to see.
He stays there for a while, long enough for the air to dry his skin in uneven patches, leaving him chilled. The house is so quiet it almost swallows him whole, until the ring of the phone cuts through it, sharp and sudden.

He stumbles up, not caring what he looks like, not caring at all, bare feet hitting the stairs too fast. The phone is heavy in his wet hand when he picks it up.

"Hello?"

"Can I—come over?"
It's Robin. Whispering, like she's in a room where someone else might hear.
"I just—I really don't wanna be alone right now."

For a moment, he doesn't answer. Just stands there in the dim hall light, the phone cord coiled around his fingers, water still dripping from the ends of his hair.
"Yeah. Me either."

 

Chapter 3: 1986 Part 1

Notes:

if you'll see i very subtly changed it from 3 chapters to 5 chapters because nobody could have predicted (everyone predicted) i wouldn't actually be able to stick to the very STRICT chapter limit i set myself. literally everything i have ever written was intended to be a one shot or a ficlet and then bam 150k words later i've written a novel. anyway after this i'm gonna do a follow up to 'the language of hands' with steve at college and eddie in hawkins cos you've all been begging for it so if you havent read it yet knock yourself out and if you have then just know i listen and i dont judge

also once again directing you to the fact that i never write about canon events and you're all like it's cos you'd make it too sad NO it's because there are simply so many components that just suck the life out of me i start adding shit and changing things and getting science involved and i have to physically restrain myself cos im like... yeah how DID they get out actually? and i'll spend days thinking about it because genuinely HOW DID THEY GET OUT AFTER THE GATES DESTROYED EVERYTHING but anyway i have my answer and it'll be in the next chapter.

im also having major imposter syndrome at my new job like i went from a very low paid very understaffed sector to like some swanky office that has an actual fridge and milk and a fucking coffee machine i cant even enjoy my successes of getting there because im like oh im dumb! because i dont know everything immediately (ive been there a week) and not everyone immediately wants to be my friend (they dont know me and i dont speak unless spoken to) and i come home everyday completely burnt out. also idk if any of you work from home but i genuinely feel like it destroyed my brain and made my anxiety/agoraphobia way way worse cos i never left the comfort of my home and it made doing anything or going anywhere IMPOSSIBLE and now i have to leave the house 5 days a week and i come home so burnt out its an actual nightmare. if you've been in this situation please tell me it gets better because im like dragging myself along rn

anyway sorry for venting you guys arent my therapists enjoy the story

Steve crouched low, the flimsy cardboard box balanced on his thigh as he lifted a new stack of VHS tapes onto the shelf.

His hands moved quickly, automatically, the clack of plastic cases filling the empty aisles of Family Video. He kept his focus narrowed on the neatness of the rows. Spines aligned, titles visible, no crooked outliers because it was easier than acknowledging the shadow following him, the little set of sneakers squeaking in his wake.

Dustin was right behind him, orbiting him the way gnats hover near fruit.
"Why not?" Dustin snapped, that insistent pitch that meant this wasn't just casual conversation, it was pleading dressed up as indignation.

Steve didn't look at him. He shoved another tape into the shelf.
"Because I have better things to do than drive you dipshits back and forth so you can play your stupid board game. It's a Friday night."

He could hear Dustin's sharp inhale before the rebuttal came.
"It's not a stupid board game. It's life or death. It's the end of Eddie's campaign. We've been playing for months. This is a big deal!"

Steve sighed and finally turned his head, letting his expression twist into a parody of concern. "Oh, for real? Months?"

"Months."

"Golly. Well, then." He rolled his eyes, already feeling the familiar knot of irritation curling behind them.

Dustin plowed on, unbothered.
"Eddie doesn't half-ass anything. He built this whole side-quest that linked back to the main villain, except you didn't even know it was the villain, right? Because he seeded it way back in, like, session three, with these cursed dice rolls, and then later it all connected, and everyone's minds were blown."

Steve kept moving down the aisle, grabbing another box. He didn't even bother to turn around.
"Wow."

"And then there's the maps—do you even get how detailed this guy is? Like, he hand-drew every single one. Hours, Steve. Days. And then there were the NPCs—so many voices! The man's practically a one-man show. And the puzzles, forget it, Henderson's law of probability couldn't even—"

"Uh-huh." He shoved another tape into place. His jaw ached from clenching against the onslaught.

"I'm telling you, it wasn't just a campaign, it was like—an experience. That's why it took so long. You don't rush genius."

Steve straightened up, stretched his back, and gave Dustin a flat look over his shoulder.
"I'm waiting to hear why this has suddenly become my problem."

Dustin, undeterred, shuffled closer.
"Please? My bike chain is screwed and my mom's
out tonight. I literally wouldn't ask otherwise."

Steve snorted, lifting another box.
"Uh—yeah. You would. You always ask."

"Steve, please. I'm literally begging you. I already asked Eddie for a ride and he can't because he's got plans after."

"Well, so do I." He didn't, but it felt good to say it.

"Oh, yeah? What? Hot date with your secret girlfriend that's so totally not a secret?"

Steve spun slightly, a tape still in his hand.
"For the millionth time. Robin is not my girlfriend."

"Sure."

He stopped completely this time, glaring down at Dustin. The kid didn't flinch.
"Okay, fine. I don't have plans. But that doesn't make me suddenly available to be your chauffeur. I graduated last year, did it ever occur to you that I don't want to step foot in that place again?"

"You don't have to step foot. You don't even have to get out of the car. Keep the gas running."

"No."

"What, so you're just gonna let me walk home alone in the dark? After the biggest basketball championship game in years? With drunk jocks roaming the streets that could jump me and throw me in the quarry? Not to mention after everything we've been through?"

Steve scoffed, slamming the box down on the shelf harder than necessary.
"Oh, stop. That shit's over now. You can't use that as an excuse anymore."

Dustin dug into his pocket, pulled out crumpled dollar bills, and held them up like an offering. "Three bucks. It's my lunch money."

"I'm not gonna take your lunch money, Henderson." Steve deadpanned, staring at the money like it might bite him.

The kid just held his gaze, eyes widening, softening, perfecting the look. The kind of look that made Steve feel like the mean older brother in a bad afterschool special.

"Fine! I'll give you a ride!" he snapped, louder than he meant to, voice echoing between the shelves.

"Yes!" Dustin punched the air, beaming.
"I owe you one."

"You owe me like—ten."

But Dustin was already darting off, a blur of sneakers and excitement.
"Whatever you say!"

"Watch the—" he started, but it was too late. Steve winced as the cardboard cutout of some C-list action hero wobbled, then toppled with a crash.
"Displays."
He exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face.
"Jesus Christ." He muttered it under his breath, already stooping to put the damn thing back together.

***

The parking lot was chaos, a blur of sweat-slick jerseys, cheerleaders still in uniform with pom-poms tucked under their arms, parents clapping shoulders, kids shrieking victory chants that bled into one another until it was nothing but noise.

Steve sat in the car with his elbow braced against the window ledge, chin against his hand, eyes narrowed against the floodlights.

He was searching for the curly head of Henderson in the crowd, impatient, though it wasn't impatience he felt so much as a low, grinding discomfort being here at all.

Hawkins High. The stink of gym sweat, cheap cologne, waxed linoleum. Like it had never let go of him.

And then he saw him.

Not Henderson, not yet.

Eddie.

Walking loose-limbed through the fray, Dustin beside him, talking fast, hands flapping in their usual eager semaphore. Eddie nodded, smiling wide, those teeth flashing under the sodium lights.

Steve's gut turned. He could practically hear the sound of his own molars grinding; his jaw ached.

He looked away too fast, sinking back into the driver's seat, willing the headrest to swallow him whole. Of course Eddie was here. Of course Eddie was grinning at Dustin like he was the only person in the world worth listening to.

The slam of the car door startled him. Dustin was beside him now, face flushed, curls damp with sweat, energy still ricocheting off him.
"Hey," Dustin said breathless, grinning.
"What a rush."

Steve didn't return the smile. His voice came out flat.
"You said ten."

Dustin blinked.
"Yeah?"

"It's ten after. You're late."

"Wrapping up took a little longer. It was very intense." Dustin shrugged, already digging into his backpack like the entire evening was just beginning.

Steve sighed, reached to turn the key.
"Okay, let's go."

"Oh, shit—wait!" Dustin's voice cracked with urgency.

Steve groaned.
"What?"

"I forgot to give Eddie this book I said I'd lend him. One sec." And before Steve could stop him, the kid was out the door, sneakers pounding against asphalt.

"Jesus." Steve dropped his head back hard against the headrest, eyes squeezed shut.

"Gimme a second!" Dustin called, already halfway across the lot.

Steve opened his eyes just as Eddie's van roared to life across the way, headlights flooding his windshield, white spots blooming in his vision.

He squinted through them and watched Eddie lean out the rolled-down window, Dustin leaning in, words spilling out like he had a lifetime to unload.

Steve's stomach burned with irritation.

Too long.

Way too long. His palm slapped the horn, long and sharp.

Dustin jumped, thrust the book into Eddie's hands, then sprinted back across the lot, nearly tripping over himself in the rush.

He slid back into the seat, out of breath again.

Eddie's van was still idling, still there. Always there.

"Can we go now?" Steve asked, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice.

"Yes."

Steve turned the key, backed out of the space, forcing himself not to glance again at the van's headlights in the mirror. Wondering if Eddie felt the same bile in the back of his throat.

"I still don't get why you don't like him," Dustin said after a beat, the words dropped casually, like they weren't meant to land heavy.

"Who?" Steve asked, though he already knew.

"Abraham Lincoln," Dustin said with mock gravity. Then, sharper:
"Eddie, obviously."

"Because he's just—" Steve cut himself off, his hand tightening on the wheel.
"He's arrogant."

"You're kinda arrogant."

Steve let out a laugh, one sharp exhale through his nose.
"I'm the perfect kind of arrogant. I'm not delusional in my arrogance. I know when to stop. He doesn't." He hesitated, jaw tightening again. "Plus he's weird."

Dustin twisted in his seat to stare at him.
"How is he weird?"

"Because—he's like—twenty years old and spends his time playing board games with children. That's weird."

Dustin scoffed.
"You literally spend, like, most of your time with children. And also, I'm not a child anymore, I'm in high school."

"That's different."

"How is that different?"

"Because—" Steve shook his head, searching for a reason that didn't make him sound insane, didn't give away the real one lodged somewhere in his throat.
"I don't know, it just is."

"Yeah, these aren't valid reasons," Dustin said, crossing his arms, the way he did when he was winding up for a debate.

Steve kept his eyes on the road, mouth tightening.
"Whatever."

"Y'know, if you actually bothered to get to know him, you guys would probably get on."

"I'm good." Steve dismissed.

Please stop talking.

"I'm just saying. You probably have more in common than you think."

Steve laughed, that low, dismissive bark that came out when he didn't want to admit a hit had landed.
"Yeah, somehow I doubt that."

"Okay, just—hear me out."

"No."

"For one thing," Dustin gestured between them as though illustrating some invisible theorem on the dashboard, "you both care way too much about your hair. Like, borderline obsession. Eddie's got the whole shampoo routine, the leave-in conditioner, the flipping it just right so it covers his face in that mysterious way—"

Steve groaned, one hand rubbing his temple, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror where taillights streaked like smudged stars.
"That's a stupid reason."

And the worst part was that Steve already knew that. Had already seen the hair products propped up against the bath tub in Eddie's trailer.

"Not stupid. Accurate. And also—you both act like you're cooler than you are, but deep down you're just soft." Dustin's voice grew faster, brighter, as if the words were pushing each other out.
"And you pretend like you hate kids but actually you like hanging out with us more than your own age group."

Steve let out a slow sigh, the kind that felt like resignation.
"That last one's not exactly a brag, Henderson."

Dustin ignored him, already riding the current of his point.
"Oh! And you both do this thing where you pretend to be annoyed but you're secretly having fun."

Steve shot him a sidelong glance, lips quirking just slightly.
"Sounds like you're just describing people who put up with you."

"Exactly!" Dustin said, triumphant, like the circle was complete.

Steve didn't argue. He couldn't. He just kept his eyes on the road, the white lines zipping beneath them like it all might unravel if he looked away too long.

Eddie's name had been in Dustin's mouth the whole ride, tossed lightly, carelessly, as if it weren't heavy as stone for Steve. Like it didn't press in his chest, raw and unresolved. Like it wasn't a word that still hurt to hear.

***

Steve liked Saturdays with Robin. When the store felt less like work and more like their clubhouse.

She was already leaning over the counter when he came in, hair pulled up haphazardly, a lollipop in her mouth she hadn't bothered to pay for.

They argued half the morning about which movie to play on the overhead screens. Robin, predictably, wanted something weird, something French that would have customers glancing around uncomfortably during long silences and cigarette smoke. Steve lobbied for something with explosions, something loud and uncomplicated, the kind of movie you didn't need to think about.

The complaints came easily, too. The way Keith always left the register sticky, or how he'd dumped returns in a bin instead of reshelving.

Robin picked up a box of Whoppers from behind the counter, tore it open, and they ate candy that technically belonged to customers.

And it was easy. It was the kind of ease Steve sometimes forgot was possible, where nothing was loaded, where nobody said Eddie's name, where friendship meant air in his lungs instead of a knot in his chest.

The tape wound down, the hiss and static swallowing the last seconds of the movie. Then, without fanfare, the screen jolted back to Channel 6.

A woman stood in front of a trailer, the mid-morning buzzing behind her with flashing reds and blues, the camera wobbling against the wind.
Breaking News.

Steve squinted, frowning, trying to piece the shape of it. Her face lit too harshly, the metal siding, the pale blur of police tape curling against the cold.

And then he knew. Knew it by the peeling paint, the angle of the steps, the door half-off its hinge. Eddie's trailer.
White suits in the background, faceless, bent over some unseen task.

"What the fuck?" Steve exhaled, almost to himself.

"I know, right?" Robin was perched on the counter, legs crossed, eating from a bag of Skittles they weren't supposed to touch. She chewed slowly, the colors staining her tongue. "This is—insane. A student?"

"No, no. I mean—yes. But—fuck—" His voice broke, his hands restless on the counter like he was looking for something to hold onto, something to anchor him. His stomach had dropped somewhere far below his feet.
"Robin, I gotta go. I need you to cover for me."

He was already moving, his vest half-off, keys jingling in his hand.

"What? Why?" she called after him, still holding the Skittles like a question mark in her palm.

"Just—cover for me!" His voice echoed back as the glass door smacked shut behind him.

***

Steve's car fishtailed into a space and he was out before the engine cut, feet pounding the slope, lungs scraping for air.

The place was alive with people: neighbors crowding at the edges, cops threading yellow tape, radios crackling.

He caught sight of Wayne; head bowed, cigarette unlit between his fingers, talking to a cop with the air of a man already worn through.

"Wayne!" Steve hollered, throat raw, pushing through.
"Wayne!"

The older man looked up, squinting under the weight of the sun.
"Steve?"

Steve stumbled up to him, breathless.
"Wayne, what—what the hell is happening? Where's Eddie? Is he okay? Is he—please tell me he's not—"

"It wasn't Eddie," Wayne cut in, voice sandpapered, certain.

"It wasn't Eddie?" Steve's eyes were darting everywhere. The trailer, the suits, the tape. Like maybe if he looked hard enough he'd see proof, Eddie standing there with that crooked grin.
"Are you sure? Because the news—there was—they said about a murder, and they said it happened here, and I—"

Wayne dragged a hand down his lined face, eyes bloodshot, not from drink, but exhaustion.
"It wasn't him. It was—some girl. Cheerleader, I think. I dunno her name."

Steve swallowed, mouth dry.
"Jesus, what?"

"The cops are saying Eddie was the last one to see her. That he ran."

Steve blinked, as though the words themselves didn't compute.
"What? No. That's—he wouldn't—"

"Look, I know the kid. You know him too. He wouldn't hurt a damn fly. But they've got it in their heads already. They're tearing this whole place apart." Wayne's eyes flicked past Steve toward the trailer, toward the shadows moving through it like vultures.

Steve's chest ached. He could feel it, the suspicion, the whispers hanging in the air, neighbors watching, the uniforms filling the park like a tide.
"Do you know where he is?"

Wayne's voice dropped, quiet.
"No."

Steve stepped closer, his urgency spilling over, hands curling into fists at his sides.
"I need to find him. Wayne, I need to—find him. See if he's okay. I mean, obviously he's not okay. He must be—fucking terrified."

Wayne shook his head, voice raw.
"I don't know where he goes, kid. I don't—I don't know anything. I wouldn't even know where to start."

Steve's breath came fast, his hands braced on his hips, eyes darting as though he might bolt into the woods right now, like Eddie might be crouched behind the tree line waiting for him.

"If he's runnin'," Wayne said, voice worn down to gravel, "he's not comin' home. He knows better than that."

"He's not running from the cops," Steve muttered, half to himself, jaw tight.
"He's running from whatever—whoever the hell did this."

Silence followed, thick, pulsing with sirens and murmurs, the smell of smoke, the crack of radios. Wayne gave the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, but it landed heavy.

And Steve knew he was already going to be leaving, already running again.

***

He drove for hours.

The roads of Hawkins, endless spirals he knew by heart, looked unfamiliar under the thin orange wash of the streetlamps.

The familiar places, Eddie's places, blurred past his windows, each one empty, each one promising nothing but silence.

He circled them twice, three times, as though persistence alone could conjure him: the junkyard with its hulks of cars stripped bare, the woods where mist curled over the ground, Skull Rock where kids scribbled names and carved out afternoons.

Empty. Always empty.

He drove with one hand loose on the wheel, the other tapping against the door, eyes scanning the trees, the shadows, as if Eddie might step out of them like some apparition.

The exhaustion was gnawing, but worse was the panic threaded into his bones, so constant now it felt like the car's engine noise, low, insistent, inescapable.
"Come on," he muttered, jaw tight, leaning closer to the windshield as if that would help.
"Where are you."

The lake appeared like a sheet of black glass under the moonlight. Houses dotted its banks, lights snuffed out as though the entire town had chosen to sleep early.

He pulled up against one, killed the engine, sat for a moment with the tick of cooling metal and his own pulse rushing too loudly in his ears.

Nothing stirred. No car in the drive, no glow in the windows.

He got out anyway.

The night was damp, the smell of wet earth clinging to the air. He circled the house, peered into the windows, pressing his palms against the glass, squinting into empty rooms. No sign of him.

He was about to give it up, chalk it to another wrong turn, when he caught it: the outline of a small boathouse at the edge of the water, its door just barely ajar.

His feet carried him down the slope before he could second-guess it. The air grew heavier near the water, full of algae and mildew. He pushed the door with two fingers, slow, cautious.

The wood groaned. Inside it was darker, the smell of damp wood and stagnant water pressing in.

"Eddie?" he whispered, the sound caught in his throat.
"Eddie, are you in here?" His voice was softer now, searching, ricocheting off walls that gave nothing back.

"Please, please be here," he muttered, almost to himself, a prayer he didn't believe in.

He let out a sigh, half-defeat, already turning to leave when something yanked him backwards, the collar of his shirt tightening against his throat.

His breath snapped out of him, choked, before he was thrown hard to the ground, his skull clattering against concrete. Stars burst across his vision.

God, this is gonna fucking hurt. He thought, already anticipating the migraine that was around the corner. But he didn't have time.

"Stop, stop!" he shouted, palms flying up in front of him. The figure above him, a blur, came into focus: Eddie, wild-eyed, holding a broken bottle in his fist like a blade.

"It's me! It's me!" Steve wheezed, his chest heaving.
"It's me."

Eddie's arm faltered. He stared down at him, his face pale, cut through with shadow. The bottle lowered slowly, his fingers still trembling around it.
"What—" his voice cracked, disbelief roughening it.
"What are you doing here? Why are you here? Why—"

"I had to—I had to find you." Steve stayed on the ground, his palms spread against the damp floor, eyes locked on Eddie.
"I just needed to know you were safe." A laugh caught in his throat, brittle.
"Please don't kill me."

Eddie's gaze lingered, unreadable, before he finally set the bottle down with a clink. He extended a hand, the gesture almost perfunctory, and pulled Steve upright. His head was spinning.

Eddie didn't meet his eyes, just turned and walked further inside, shoulders hunched, collapsing into himself.

Steve brushed dirt off his jeans, swallowed hard, and followed.
"I saw Wayne," he said quietly.
"I went to the trailer park. I—I saw it on the news."

Eddie slumped against the wall, his knees pulled close, his hair falling like a curtain over his face. He didn't look at him.

"What happened?" Steve pressed, stepping closer.
"Eddie—"

"I don't know!" The words tore out of him sharp, startling. Steve flinched, his chest tightening. Eddie's hands dragged down his face, trembling. "I don't know, I don't know. I just—" His breath fractured, the sobs catching.
"It doesn't make sense. None of it makes any fucking sense!"

Steve crouched down, hesitant, like approaching something fragile and feral at once.
"Eddie—"

"No. It's crazy. It's crazy, it's not—it's not normal—"

"Hey." Steve placed a hand lightly on his knee. Eddie's eyes shot down to it, fierce, startled. Steve withdrew, lifting his palms.
"You're talking to crazy. Remember?"

Eddie shook his head, hair sticking to his damp face.
"This is different. This wasn't—your weird monster bullshit. There wasn't a monster. This was—I don't know."

"I'm listening," Steve said. His voice was steady, a lifeline.
"I swear."

Eddie's breath rattled as he tried to form it into words.
"She wanted—drugs. She came to me for—for some weed. And then she wanted more."

"Who?"

"Chrissy."

"She wanted more, what?"

"Something stronger. Harder shit."

"Drugs?"

"Yeah. I told her I could get it for her. That I had some at home." His voice faltered, cracked.
"She just—she was fine. One second she was fine. We were in my van, we were talking, I was giving her shit about jocks and, like, she laughed—she laughed, Steve. And then we got to the trailer, I left for literal seconds to go to my room. Just a couple seconds, I went into my room. And she was all—catatonic."

"Catatonic?"

"Like—she was standing there. Like she was there but it's like—she wasn't. And then her eyes went weird and her body—" He broke off, swallowing hard, bile rising in his throat.
"Her body lifted off the fucking ground."

Steve's chest went still. He didn't blink, didn't look away. He'd heard worse. He knew this terrain.

"And then her bones started snapping." Eddie's voice cracked, jagged.
"Snapping. Her arms—her jaw—she—" The words strangled in his throat, gagged by memory.

Steve leaned in, carefully, as though reaching across some fragile bridge.
"Okay, okay. It's okay. Don't." His voice softened. "I believe you."

Eddie's head jerked up. His eyes, red-rimmed, startled, clung to Steve's face like he'd misheard. Silence stretched between them, jagged.

"How can you believe me," Eddie rasped, "when—I don't even know what it is that I saw? This was—this was not human," Eddie said, his voice shaking with a feverish edge, like each word had to break through his own disbelief.

He was on his feet now, his back to the wall, shadow blotting him out in the thin light that spilled through the cracked boards. His hair was plastered damp against his temples, his hands restless, clawing through it only to drop uselessly to his sides again.
"This was like a nightmare or some—fucking—exorcist-level shit. I don't even know if you're real! I don't even know if I'm—having some kind of psychotic break."

"Hey." Steve lifted his hands slowly, palms open, like he might steady Eddie with nothing but the gesture.
He took one step closer, careful, like he was approaching a stray dog that might bolt or bite. "I'm real. Promise. See." He tapped his own chest, ridiculous as it was, as if flesh and bone could prove anything.

Eddie's head tipped forward, his voice dropping low, almost hollow.
"They think I did it, don't they? They think I killed her."

"You didn't," Steve said quickly, the words too sharp, too eager. He felt them come out like instinct.
"I know you didn't."

"It doesn't matter!" Eddie snapped, his eyes glinting in the dim. His voice cracked and carried in the empty space, too big for the boathouse. "They're all gonna think I did!"

Steve leaned in, the urgency rising, pulling at him like a riptide.
"We can fix this." His voice softened but pressed, insistent.
"I promise. We'll figure out what the hell that thing was and it'll be okay. I promise."

"Fix what, Steve?" Eddie erupted, the word a curse spat into the damp air. He shoved himself away from the wall and launched into pacing, his boots knocking dully against the wood. His hands tangled in his hair, yanking hard enough Steve winced just watching.
"What are we even fixing?!" His voice was breaking now, each sentence cracking in half.
"I don't even know what the hell happened! I watched a girl levitate and then—then her body just—broke like a goddamn puppet with its strings cut! You don't come back from that! You don't fix that! The entire town is gonna be out for my blood!"

Steve swallowed, forcing the weight of Eddie's panic into his own chest until it throbbed there. He took one step forward, slow, steady, like testing ice.
"We're not gonna let them get to you," he said, almost quietly. He didn't even know if he believed himself.
"I'm not."

Eddie froze mid-pace, his hair wild, his chest heaving. He looked at Steve like he was seeing something impossible. His voice shrank into a whisper.
"You keep saying 'we.' Who the hell is we?"

Steve met his eyes, felt the words forming and stalling in his throat.
"Wh—"

A bang snapped the air apart.

A muffled voice followed, then another, closer, carried across the water. Steve's head whipped toward the door, his pulse spiking.
"Hide," he hissed.

Eddie blinked at him, wild-eyed.
"What?"

"Hide," Steve said again, sharper now, his voice leaving no room.

Eddie darted without another word, climbing into the fishing boat and fumbling the tarp over himself, the fabric crumpling loudly in the silence.

Steve's eyes scanned the shadows, his breath shallow. He grabbed the nearest thing. A heavy old flashlight lying on the ground. Its metal casing was cold in his palm, solid, reassuring like a club. He thought about the nail bat in his garage. How he swore he would never have to touch it again, and now he missed it more than anything.

He moved toward the door, pressing his back against the wall beside it, breath rattling through his teeth as footsteps closed in.

Another murmur. Hushed. Too low to make out. Then the door creaked wide.

"Don't come any closer!" Steve barked, surging forward, the flashlight raised like a weapon.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the hell?!" Dustin's voice cracked, loud in the dark.

"Steve?" Robin's voice, incredulous, unmistakable.

"Dude, what are you doing?!" Max added, incredulous and sharp.

Steve froze mid-lunge, his arm suspended stupidly in the air. He stared at them, wide-eyed, like a kid caught stealing. His voice came out strangled.
"Oh my god. Oh my god, you guys—I almost—"

"Bludgeoned us to death with a flashlight, yeah." Dustin's brows shot up, his arms thrown wide. "We noticed!"

Robin stared flatly at the object in Steve's hand, her mouth twisting with unimpressed disdain. "Really? Again with the household objects?"

Behind them, the tarp shifted. Eddie peeled it back, his face emerging from the shadow, his hair a wild snarl, eyes gleaming at the sight of them. Everyone turned at once, silence tightening the space.

"Eddie?" Dustin breathed, his voice teetering between relief and disbelief.
"You found him?"

Steve's hand dropped, the flashlight heavy and stupid now, dangling at his side.
"Yeah, y'know. I was, uh—yeah." He fumbled, the words stuttering, like his mouth had forgotten how to form them.

"How?" Dustin pressed, suspicion sharp in his eyes.

"I was, you know. Just. Out." Steve's voice faltered, useless, the sentence crumbling into fragments.

Robin turned her head slowly, her eyebrow arching so high it was practically an accusation carved into her face.
"Right."

Steve deflated, sighing, the flashlight drooping low until it hung like a dead weight in his hand, his last shred of dignity clattering with it.

"You brought backup?" Eddie asked.

Steve shook his head slightly, his voice just as low.
"I didn't bring anyone. They brought themselves. That's kind of how this works."

***

They had been at it for nearly an hour.

Dustin, Robin, and Max crowded in front of Eddie like a tribunal of too-young prophets, unraveling the whole impossible history of Hawkins.

The Upside Down, Demogorgons, the Mind Flayer. As if words alone could make it bearable.

Their voices overlapped, explaining, correcting one another, tugging Eddie deeper and deeper into a story that had no bottom.

Steve kept to the edges, leaning against a warped beam, arms crossed, lips pressed into silence. He watched Eddie's shoulders sink with every revelation, his knees pulled up to his chest as if he could fold himself small enough to vanish.

With each detail, Steve could almost see something inside him splinter, little hairline fractures forming where the world had once made sense.

And it hurt.

It hurt in a way Steve couldn't say aloud: that this was what he had wanted to shield him from, to take on himself, to lock away like a secret. And now here it was, this thing that had broken all of them, breaking Eddie too, right in front of him.

"I think it's probably safer if you stay here tonight," Dustin was saying, his voice firm with that too-adult conviction he wore sometimes. He ticked points off with his fingers, practical, rehearsed.
"Lay low. We'll figure out what's going on out there. We'll come back tomorrow with food, supplies—"

"I'm gonna stay here," Steve said suddenly, the words escaping before he could measure them. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere on the floor, not at their faces.

"What?" Robin's head snapped toward him, her voice sharp, almost incredulous.

"Someone should—probably stay with Eddie." He felt the heat of their stares but didn't look up, only pushed the words forward like a shield.

"This is a lot to dump on him. I don't think he should be alone, y'know. He's been through a lot." His voice softened at the end, almost pleading.

There was a pause.

Dustin exchanged a look with Max, who shrugged.
"Uh—okay," Dustin said, the word long with confusion.

He dug into his rucksack, pulled out the battered radio, and lobbed it toward Steve, who caught it clumsily.
"Take this. Channel 3. Don't turn it off. Again."

"I won't," Steve said quickly. Dustin arched an eyebrow at him, the silent challenge lingering between them.
"I said I won't," Steve repeated, sharper this time, though it sounded defensive even to his own ears.

The group shifted, the momentum pulling them to their feet. Eddie didn't move, didn't even lift his head. Steve walked the others toward the door, each step heavy, reluctant.

"Can we talk?" Robin's hand caught his sleeve, tugging him outside. Max and Dustin kept walking, their voices carrying faintly toward the road. The cool air hit Steve's skin, sharp after the damp closeness of the boathouse.
"The hell are you doing?" Robin's voice was low but urgent, her eyes fixed on him, reading him the way only she could.

"What?" He knew what. His chest already tightened.

"Why did you come out here alone?" Her words were quick, pressed like stones into his chest. "We don't know what the hell we're up against, and you thought now was a good time to get all Action Man?"

Steve dropped his gaze, shame prickling at his neck.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"You didn't call. You didn't tell anyone anything. And now you're looking at him like he's made of glass and you're the only one that's allowed to touch him."

He swallowed, rubbed the back of his neck, tried to keep his voice steady.
"I just—I saw the news and I panicked, okay? I thought it was him. I thought he was dead. And then I couldn't just wait around while everyone argues about flashlights and snacks again."

Robin stared at him, unblinking.
"And staying with him? What, are you Eddie's new bodyguard now? The hell are you gonna do if that thing comes back?"

Steve's breath caught. He wanted to answer, to say anything, but all that came was a quiet truth, small and stubborn.
"You're right. We don't know what's out there this time. But Eddie's never dealt with this before. It's not fair to leave him alone like this. He's scared out of his mind. He needs someone." He hesitated, voice almost breaking.
"I'm just trying to do what's right."

Robin let out a sharp breath, looked away toward the water, then back at him. Her shoulders dropped in resignation.
"Okay, fine." She jabbed her finger against his chest, firm.
"Stay in contact."

"I will," Steve said, holding her gaze for the first time, almost grateful for the command.

***

The boathouse smelled of oil and damp wood, the kind of smell that seeped into skin and wouldn't leave.

The tarp crackled each time Steve shifted it, trying to arrange it into something softer, something less like survival and more like care.

He stacked a coil of rope for padding, spread the canvas flat, then stood back with his hands on his hips as if surveying a piece of furniture he'd built. It looked pathetic. A nest, if you were feeling generous.

"Here," he said at last, brushing his palms against his jeans, trying to shake off the frustration in his hands.
"I tried to shift some things around. S'not gonna be the comfiest thing, but—should work as a makeshift bed for now."

"Thanks," Eddie muttered, his voice so low it barely scraped the silence.

"You're welcome," Steve answered quickly, a little too brisk, like politeness was all he had to hold onto.

Eddie didn't move. He was still on the floor, knees drawn up, head bowed as if the weight of the room or of everything they'd said in the last hour was pressing down on him.

"What about you?" he asked finally, not lifting his eyes.

"I'm fine," Steve said. He gestured vaguely toward the bench where the radio and flashlight sat, a soldier's post in this war of waiting.
"I'm just gonna keep watch. You should try and get some rest."

Eddie nodded, once, then sank back into silence. Steve crossed to the bench, picked up the flashlight, felt its weight in his palm, checked the beam against the floorboards. Then the radio, its antenna squeaking as he turned it upright. His rituals. His armor.

"I should've believed you."

Steve froze, the words halting him mid-motion. The air seemed to change weight. He turned slowly. Eddie was looking up now, his eyes red, his face tight in that way people get when they're holding back too much, for too long.

"I shouldn't have—God, I was so fucking—"

"It's okay," Steve cut in quickly, like if he said it fast enough it might land.

"It's not."

"Eddie, that's not important."

"I was awful to you," Eddie pressed, shaking his head, his voice fraying with each word.
"I thought you were just messing with me, like this was some big prank or mind game or—I don't even know what I thought. I just—"

His voice cracked, and he let out a bitter laugh, dragging his hands down his face, as if he could scrape it all off. His eyes brimmed now, not performative, not even controlled. A break.

"And you still came after me," he said, his voice trembling.
"Even after I treated you like shit, even after I basically told you you didn't matter."

Steve's chest tightened. He swallowed, tried to summon something measured.
"It's not exactly something that comes up easy in conversation. It was a—fairly reasonable reaction, I'd say."

But Eddie was sniffling, dragging his sleeve across his face, his words rough and small.
"Is Wayne okay?"

Steve looked at him then, properly. Paused, because the truth carried too many edges.
"He's—shaken up. Scared. He didn't know where you went."

Eddie closed his eyes at that, his hands curling into fists on his knees.
"I didn't—I didn't even think. I just ran. I didn't think about him. I just left. The fuck's the matter with me? Something could have—it could have happened to him. And I wasn't there." His voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands.
"He probably thinks I'm dead or—worse. He probably thinks I did it."

Steve moved without thinking, drawn toward him. He sat down beside Eddie, back to the wall, knees pulled up like a mirror. Close enough for Eddie to feel him there without needing to look.

"He doesn't," Steve said gently.
"He's been defending you since the second the cops showed up. Said there was no way you'd ever hurt anybody."

Eddie let out a shaky breath, the sound hitting Steve deeper than anything else had.
"He didn't sign up for this," Eddie whispered. "He's just—he's a good guy who works night shifts and makes sure I eat breakfast once in a while. He doesn't deserve to get dragged into any of this."

Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floorboards.
"Neither do you. None of us do." He hesitated, softer now.
"But he loves you. You're all he's got."

Eddie swallowed, nodded, but didn't trust himself to speak. He wiped at his eyes again, looking away as though ashamed of how undone he was, but Steve didn't move. He stayed, anchored, letting the silence stretch between them without filling it.

"What's the, uh—success rate for things like this?" Eddie asked after a long while.

"Success rate?" Steve repeated, not quite catching.

Eddie nodded, staring at the ground.
"Yeah. Y'know. Kids getting hunted by shadow monsters. Demonic possession. Hell portals. That kind of thing."
He gave a laugh that was more breath than sound, and it fell flat.

Steve didn't smile.
"Not great," Steve said at last.

Eddie's jaw tightened. He nodded like he'd expected it.

"But better than it should be," Steve added, after a beat.

That made Eddie glance up, finally meeting his eyes. Steve shrugged, tired, but honest.

"I've seen people make it out when they shouldn't have. People who were terrified. People who didn't think they could fight. People like me. And I'm still here. Somehow."

Eddie shook his head, swiping at his face with his sleeve.
"I'm not like you, man. I'm not brave. You guys run toward it. I ran away."

"You ran because it was fucking horrifying," Steve said firmly.
"That's like—a normal reaction."

Eddie looked away, his voice shrinking into a whisper.
"What if I mess it up? What if I can't handle it?"

"Then we carry you," Steve said, softer now. "That's what we do."

Eddie's voice came hollow, worn thin.
"All that stuff you were trying to tell me—about the Russians, the monsters, all of it. And you've been dealing with—with all this actual nightmare shit for years and just—carrying it."

Steve exhaled, a tired breath he didn't know he was holding. He shrugged, like it was nothing, though it wasn't.
"Yeah, well. Someone had to."

Eddie nodded, still crying, but quieter now. Not panic. Just wreckage.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Steve looked over at him. Something eased inside him. Not forgiveness, because he'd never needed it. More like recognition. A relief that Eddie finally saw it.

"You should try to get some sleep," Steve said quietly.

"Okay." Eddie's voice was raspy. He hauled himself up with a groan, his movements heavy, like gravity had doubled.

"I'm here. Y'know, if you need me," Steve added.

Eddie turned back, pausing in the dim light, his face pale and streaked but his eyes clearer.
"I know. Thanks."

Steve watched him settle on the tarp. Watched his shoulders finally loosen, his breaths deepen.

And he thought, not for the first time, that maybe the hardest thing wasn't the monsters, wasn't the Upside Down. It was sitting here, holding still, while someone else's fear broke your own heart.

***

The boathouse was half-dark, shafts of pale morning light cutting through the slats of the boarded windows. Dust moved in the beams like it had nowhere else to go. Steve shifted, wincing at the stiff ache running through his back and shoulders.

His body felt as though it had been poured into a mold and left to harden overnight. Upright all night, guarding Eddie's uneven breaths, counting the ticks of the clock that wasn't there.

In front of him, Eddie stirred. His hair fell forward over his face as he sat up slowly, groggy, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm.

He blinked at Steve like he was some apparition, something conjured out of the dream he'd just clawed himself awake from.

"Hey," Steve said softly. His voice cracked around the edges, too tired to hold itself together.

Eddie's mouth twisted.
"Great. So it wasn't a fucking nightmare." He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, not looking at Steve.

"No," Steve said.
"Sorry."

There wasn't an answer. Eddie shifted suddenly, a restless energy animating him, and climbed out of the boat, his boots hitting the wood with a dull thud.
"I need a cigarette," he muttered, patting his jacket down, slapping his pockets. His voice was sharp, desperate for distraction.
"Fuck."

"What?" Steve asked, though he already knew what was coming.

"I lost my pack," Eddie snapped.
"It must have fallen out when I was fucking running. Fuck my life!"

His voice reverberated off the wood. He kicked at a coil of rope, hard, and the sound made Steve flinch in spite of himself.

Eddie began pacing, his hands twitching like he didn't know where to put them, hair falling into his face, shirt wrinkled, half untucked.

"I talked to the guys on the radio earlier," Steve offered, still seated, keeping his tone neutral, steady.
"They're gonna be bringing us some food. So that's good, at least."

"Yeah. Fucking amazing," Eddie muttered, sarcasm spitting out like sparks from a fire.

Steve ignored the sting.
"Did you sleep okay?"

Eddie's head snapped toward him. His hand flew up, palm out like a stop sign.
"Can you just—fucking shut up?" He squeezed his eyes shut, turned his face away.

"Sorry," Steve said quietly.

"How the hell are you so calm right now?" Eddie demanded, spinning on his heel, every line of him tight, quivering.

"I just—I dunno, man." Steve rubbed his palms on his jeans, grounding himself, willing his voice not to betray how tired he felt.

"No. Seriously." Eddie's voice was rising, breaking in places.
"You're sitting there like we're camping. Like this isn't completely fucked! There's a dead girl in my house that people think I killed, and I'm hiding in a goddamn boathouse! My face is probably all over the news!"

Steve didn't move. Didn't blink. He just wiped his hands again on his jeans and said, low and even, "Because losing my mind isn't gonna help you."

That caught Eddie. He faltered mid-step, his wild energy snagging against the calm. He laughed then, a bitter, desperate sound, running both hands through his hair.
"God. Are you even—are you even processing this?"

Steve's voice was flat.
"I've processed it. This isn't my first monster-related crisis."

Eddie froze, staring at him, chest heaving.
"How are you even real?" he said, almost to himself.

Steve leaned back against the wall, conserving energy the way you do when you've been through this too many times to count. He didn't answer.

"This might be normal for you," Eddie went on, voice cracking.
"But it's not normal for me. I don't get to switch off and go stoic badass mode, okay? I don't know what the rules are, or who to trust, or what the hell we're even hiding from!"

Steve pushed himself to his feet, slow but deliberate. Calm, not cold.
"Then listen to me. I've done this before. You want to freak out? Fine. But you're safe here—for now. And I need you clear-headed in the event that that stops being our reality."

Eddie's breath was ragged, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Steve softened his tone.
"I'm not trying to scare you. I'm trying to keep you alive and out of jail."

Eddie shook his head, retreating a little.
"I can't talk to you. I'm sorry, but—you're pissing me off right now."

"Okay. That's fair." Steve nodded once, as if conceding ground in a fight he wasn't willing to escalate.

And then the door to the boathouse banged open. The slam ricocheted through Steve's chest. He jumped, his heart seizing, his whole body braced for the worst.

"Jesus!" Steve hissed, breathless.

"Fuck you, dude!" Eddie barked at Dustin, balling his fists against his head, turning away like the world had just gotten a little louder than he could stand.

"Sorry," Dustin giggled, unfazed, holding up a bag.
"We come bearing gifts."

"We need to get, like—a knock or something," Steve muttered, rubbing at his forehead, still coming down from the jolt.

"How you holding up?" Nancy asked Eddie, her voice soft, but her eyes sharp, assessing.

"Oh, yeah. Great, great. I'm doing really great," Eddie said, his sarcasm spilling over as he tore into the bags, ripping open wrappers, eating like the food might disappear if he didn't.

And then the flood came.

The voices, all at once, filling him in, laying it all out: the news, the rumours, the police crawling over Hawkins, the unspoken certainty that Eddie was the name they hadn't yet printed. They were none the wiser as to where he was, but they were closing in. And one tip off would destroy everything.

Steve watched Eddie shrink into himself as the noise pressed closer. He stopped eating. Stopped leaving the boat. The weight of their well-meaning explanations was crushing him.

Steve's patience snapped.
"We need to leave," he said abruptly.

The voices stopped. Nancy turned.
"What?"

"Eddie can't stay here. We need to move him."

"I'm literally standing right here," Eddie muttered, gesturing at himself like he was already half a ghost.

"Yeah, I know you are. That's the problem," Steve shot back, then turned on the others.
"You think no one's gonna see you guys crossing the damn lake with a cooler? We're lucky someone's not out there with binoculars and a police scanner."

Eddie stood behind Steve now, quiet, eyes darting. Max looked from him to Steve, gauging the tension.

"So what do we do then?" she asked.
"You said this place was safe."

"It was safe," Steve said, shaking his head.
"But now we've got a rotating door of teenagers and half of Hawkins looking for Eddie. It won't take long for someone else to figure out Eddie's connection to Rick the same way you guys did. They're gonna put two and two together eventually."
He drew a breath.
"We need to move. Soon. Somewhere nobody would think to look."

Dustin's voice was high, anxious.
"Move him where? There's cops everywhere. Roadblocks. They even searched the school today."

"Then we'll have to figure something out," Steve said, quiet but firm. His tone left no room for argument.
"Bottom line is Eddie can't keep running from place to place. It's not gonna work. And it's just added stress on top of everything else we're dealing with. So it needs to be secure. Out of the way. One less problem to have while we hunt down—whatever his name is."

"Vecna," Dustin said.

"Sure. Whatever."

Nancy spoke up.
"I mean, we do have access to a very empty cabin in the woods."

Steve looked at her.

She raised her brows.
"Benny's old hunting place. Hopper and El were living there. Nobody's touched it in years. It's got a gaping hole in the ceiling and the place is a mess. But that kinda makes it perfect. It's far enough out people would forget about it."

Steve hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"Alright. We'll leave tonight."

The words settled over the group like a verdict, like the air had shifted and the day had already begun unraveling toward night.

***

The cabin breathed dust. Every surface seemed to have gathered the weight of years left untouched, every corner sagging under mildew and woodrot.

Moonlight spilled through the jagged hole in the ceiling, a pale square of sky overhead that made the whole place look like a ruin left behind after a fire.

The air smelled of damp earth, pine needles, the faint musk of a place abandoned long before either of them had stepped inside.

"Wow," Eddie said, his voice echoing too loud in the emptiness. He tipped his head back at the yawning ceiling.
"She wasn't lying. This really is a shit hole."

Steve moved further inside, his eyes already scanning for supplies, for tools, for anything that could make this place less of a death trap.
"Yeah, well. This shithole is officially your home for the foreseeable. Until we track down and kill Vecna and everything goes back to normal again."

"Right," Eddie muttered. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, hair falling into his eyes, the moon casting his face in sharp angles.
"And how long is that going to take exactly?"

Steve bent over a drawer swollen with damp. It resisted, then gave suddenly, a scattering of silverware clattering inside.
"Next question," he said.

His fingers found a bundle of candles at the back, their wax cloudy, warped. He held one up.
"You got a light?"

Eddie patted at his pockets, dug out his lighter, and tossed it. Steve caught it with one hand, lit the stubby candles, and set them along the table. Flame softened the room, spilling over Eddie's tired face, throwing shadows across the walls.

"You could be out there with them, y'know," Eddie said. His tone was casual but carried an edge Steve knew wasn't casual at all.

"What?"

"You should be," Eddie said, half-shrugging, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Robin, Dustin, Max. Nancy. They need you. You're their—like, their emotional support jock. You shouldn't be babysitting me."

Steve sighed, rubbing the heel of his palm across his jaw. The candles sputtered faintly, one guttering low.
"You're not a babysitting job."

Eddie snorted. No humor in it. Just a sound to fill the silence.
"Right. Just a fugitive wanted for murder hiding out in a shack in the woods."

Steve ignored it. He moved toward the couch, started pulling dust-caked pillows into a stack, shaking out a blanket. The dust rose in a cloud and caught the candlelight like smoke. He thought if he just kept working, if he didn't look directly at Eddie, it would keep things from tilting into something raw.

Eddie's voice came softer.
"Would you rather be out there?"

Steve paused. Looked at him a long time, candlelight cutting Eddie's face into something sharp and then soft again. When he spoke, his voice was low.
"No."

He sat down slowly, sinking into the edge of the couch.
"They've got each other. They've got a plan. Robin's smarter than me. Dustin's smarter than all of us. I'd just be hovering." He glanced sideways, his voice dropping even lower.
"But you're here. And you're scared. And you're not used to this. And—if it were me? I'd want someone who's been through it sitting in this cabin with me."

Eddie swallowed, throat bobbing. He looked away, collapsed onto the other side of the couch like he couldn't hold himself upright anymore.

His voice cracked when it came.
"I just keep thinking—I should have said no. I should have just—turned her away when she asked for something stronger. I mean—what the fuck was I thinking? Giving her fucking drugs when she was clearly going through some shit."

"Don't," Steve said quickly. His chest tightened at the sight of Eddie folding into himself, hands worrying at his knees. Steve leaned forward, elbows on his thighs.
"Don't do that. What happened to Chrissy—it would have happened whether you were there or not. There's nothing you could have done. Destroying yourself trying to think of ways you could have stopped it isn't going to help."

Eddie finally lifted his eyes. For a moment, they just looked at each other, a silence that felt like the barest thread stretched too thin.
"I don't understand how you don't hate me," Eddie whispered.

"I could never hate you.
Steve let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He shook his head once.
"And for the record, I'd rather be here with you—making sure you don't get thrown in jail or your eyes sucked out of your head. So I'm not going anywhere."

Eddie's voice was quiet, as if saying it too loud might break whatever fragile thing was holding them together.
"You grew up."

Steve blinked.
"What?"

"Like—you just grew up," Eddie said. He slumped back into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "These kids rely on you, man. They love you. You're like—a God to them."

Steve huffed a laugh, shook his head.
"Yeah, well—I probably wouldn't be if none of this shit ever happened. I'd probably be the same asshole I was when—" He broke off, rubbed at his temple.
"Bottom line is that all this shit ties us together. Whether we want it to or not."

Eddie didn't answer.

Steve stood, brushing dust from his palms.
"I'm gonna work on seeing if I can fix up this hole."

By torchlight, he found planks of wood, a ladder half-rusted, a hammer that looked older than he was. His movements became automatic: climb, balance, nail the wood in place, stretching tarps across the gaps where the roof sagged open.

Each strike of the hammer echoed hollow through the woods outside. Eddie sat on the couch, one leg pulled up, holding the flashlight steady, following Steve with the beam like he was tracking him across a stage.

When Steve came down the ladder, wiping sweat and dust off his forehead, the cabin looked marginally less like a sieve.
"There," he said.
"At least now if it rains we won't get drenched. Even though Hop's probably spinning in his grave right now."

Eddie was staring at him.

"What?" Steve asked."

"Nothing. Just—surprised."

"About what? My impressive DIY skills? Please, we'll be lucky if that shit doesn't collapse in on itself in the next two minutes."

"I just—since when are you, like—this guy?" Eddie's hand moved vaguely, gesturing at him.

"What guy?"

"Mr. DIY survivalist."

Steve shrugged, set the hammer aside.
"I dunno, man. Somebody's gotta do it."

Eddie shook his head slowly, almost smiling but not quite.
"No, see, that's the thing. Somebody's gotta do it, yeah, but that somebody's always been me or, y'know, anyone but you. Since when does Steve Harrington roll up his sleeves and play handyman?"

Steve didn't answer right away. He looked at the patched ceiling, the crooked door, then back at Eddie, the flashlight resting loose in his lap. He thought maybe the question wasn't about doors or ceilings at all.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" he asked, voice too sharp, betraying the thrum under his skin. "Like it's impossible I could be this guy?"

Eddie had slouched deeper into the couch, one arm thrown across the back, his rings catching the weak candlelight.
"I'm not saying it's impossible, man, I'm just—"

Steve cut him off, feeling heat rise up the back of his neck.
"No, you are. You're still looking at me like I'm the same dumbass I was in high school. Like nothing's changed." The tarp above groaned, shifting. His own words sounded brittle, louder than he meant them to.

"I didn't say that," Eddie answered, steady but not defensive, as if that steadiness itself was a weapon.

"You didn't have to." Steve could hear himself digging in and hated it, but couldn't stop.
"You keep acting like me knowing how to do basic shit is some kind of magic trick. Like I couldn't possibly have gotten my act together unless I was faking it. People needed me, so I had to show up. I had to grow up, Eddie. You just don't wanna believe it."

God, I sound like Dustin, he thought, and almost laughed except it would have sounded bitter.

"Maybe I don't," Eddie said at last. He shrugged, but there was nothing careless in the gesture. Iy was armor, plain as the leather around his torso.

"Yeah. Well, that's on you, not me."

"Yeah. Maybe you're right."

Steve narrowed his eyes, skeptical.
"Wait—you're actually admitting that?"

"Don't get cocky." Eddie tilted his head, eyes glinting in the low light.
"I'm just saying—yeah, maybe I didn't wanna believe it. Y'know why?"

Steve let himself drop onto the far end of the couch, the cushions sighing beneath him, a cloud of dust puffing up around his knees.

"Why?"

"'Cause every time Henderson opened his mouth it was Steve this, Steve that. How you drove him around, helped him with girls, how you were basically his goddamn babysitter-slash-big-brother-slash-hero. Drove me insane, man."

Steve blinked, then let the corner of his mouth tug upward despite himself.
"You were jealous of me?"

"Well, yeah. Or at least of the version of you he kept bragging about." Eddie leaned forward now, elbows braced on his knees, like confessing required momentum.
"The guy who—apparently—grew up, knew what he was doing, cared about people. Cool Harrington. Responsible Harrington." He huffed a humorless laugh.
"I used to get so mad I'd have to pretend I didn't care. Like—sure, yeah, the hair guy's teaching you how to woo chicks, big deal. But secretly? Drove me nuts."

Steve couldn't help it; the smile widened.
"You thought I was cool?"

"I literally didn't say that," Eddie smirked, though his ears flushed under the spill of moonlight.

Steve turned his body toward him, legs tucked up onto the couch, arm slung along the backrest. He could feel the gap between them. Small, but alive. "Y'know, for what it's worth—I used to get mad too."

Eddie's brows arched, his mouth already forming the tease.
"At me?"

"At Dustin," Steve said, eyes steady on him.

"Every time he went on about you. How funny you were, how smart, how you made him feel like he belonged. I'd act like I didn't care, like it was just Dustin being—Dustin. But inside? I hated hearing it."

Eddie grinned, leaning back, tapping his rings against the wood of the armrest.
"Ah, so you're saying you were jealous of me?"

Steve breathed out a laugh, his chest tightening even as it came.
"Maybe. Or maybe I just hated the idea that you were out there making him laugh while I was stuck trying to keep him alive. You got to be the fun one. I was the guy patching him up and grounding him when he stayed out too late."

Eddie's grin softened into something else. Quieter, less sure.
"Huh." He nodded, as if cataloguing that truth somewhere private.

"So yeah," Steve said, voice dropping, thoughtful now.
"I guess we both got mad for the same stupid reasons."

"Guess so," Eddie said.

"Doesn't feel so stupid now, though," Steve admitted, almost to himself. He leaned his head back against the couch.
"I never told him, y'know. About us."

Eddie tilted his head.
"Us?"

"How we used to be—friends."

Strangers. Friends. Subject of my unrequited love. Enemies. Strangers, again.

"I didn't say anything."

"Why?"

"Because—I dunno." Steve's voice was low, each word scraping against the walls he usually kept up.
"Thought maybe you wouldn't want me to. Thought maybe you'd be embarrassed. Like it'd ruin your whole—thing. Eddie Munson, dungeon master extraordinaire, suddenly tied to some washed-up jock."

Eddie looked at him for a long time, the kind of look that pinned you even when you wanted to wriggle free.
"That's what you think of yourself?"

"That's what I figured you thought of me," Steve murmured.

Eddie shook his head, slowly, like disbelief. "Harrington, you're a lot of things. Embarrassing isn't one of 'em."

Steve let out a short, dry laugh.
"I don't know, man. I seem to remember climbing through your window last year—covered in blood and vomit, by the way. Crying about how you didn't wanna be with me. That's—that's pretty embarrassing."

Eddie scoffed a laugh, dragging a hand over his face.
"Jesus, Steve."

"What? I'm just saying. If we're keeping score on humiliating moments, that one's mine."

"That wasn't embarrassing," Eddie said quietly. "That was—"

"Pathetic?" Steve supplied, before he could stop himself.

"No." Eddie shook his head firmly.
"That was you. Raw and bleeding and real. And I—didn't know what the hell to do with it."

Steve's chest went tight again. He stared at the candle flame nearest him, how it bent and wavered in the draft.
"Yeah, well. Neither did I."

"I wasn't laughing at you, man." Eddie's voice came softer still, softer than the tarp's sigh.
"I was—terrified. You showed up like the world had already ended, and you wanted me to hold it up with you. I didn't think I could."

"You didn't have to." Steve looked at him then, finally, his throat dry.
"I wasn't asking you to save me. I just—needed someone to see me. Like actually see me."

Eddie's gaze dropped.
"And I didn't."

"No. You didn't. You looked at me like I was a fucking problem you didn't sign up for. Which, is technically true."

Eddie was silent for a beat.
"Maybe I did. Maybe I was too much of a coward. Too selfish. Too—young."

Steve nodded like he understood, though something inside him balked.

Eddie's eyes moved past him, toward the black gap of the window, as though speaking to the trees. His voice came low, almost a confession the room wasn't supposed to hear.
"I did like you. Back then."

Steve blinked, still as stone. It took him a second to register what Eddie meant. Not like. Like. His heart stuttered.
"What?"

"When we'd hang out after school or on the weekends," Eddie said, words hesitant but unstoppable now.
"You never wanted to cycle home because your dad was being a grade A asshole that day. When he'd tell you to be back by six but you always stayed late anyway. You'd talk about Indiana Jones like you hadn't already seen it a hundred times. And then when we got a little older and we'd just—sit. Side by side in my room listening to music. Or you'd ask me to read to you so you could get some sleep because your parents kept you up all night fighting."

He huffed out a dry laugh, shaking his head at himself.
"And I'd get all—weird. Stupid. I thought it didn't matter. 'Cause I figured I'd grow out of it or whatever."

Steve didn't speak. Couldn't. His throat was tight, like words would splinter if he tried to force them out.
"But then you stopped calling," Eddie went on. "You got cool. Tommy and Carol showed up, and I figured that was it. You moved up. I stayed weird."

The candles they'd lit were sinking low now, wax dripping onto mismatched saucers he'd scavenged, shadows lurching across the walls each time Eddie shifted on the couch.
Eddie turned his head toward him then, the angle catching his cheek in the candle's glow. His eyes were wet, glassy, like something too heavy had been resting there all night.
"I didn't say anything 'cause I thought—what's the point? You already made your choice."

Steve sat very still, his hand gripping the edge of the blanket between them, the fabric rough and frayed, the only thing that kept him tethered. His chest felt strangely hollow, like he had been holding his breath for years without realizing it.

"I didn't know," he exhaled. The air left him slower than he expected, like giving something up.

Eddie shrugged, as if to say it doesn't matter now, like it had calcified into some old fact. His mouth twisted, humorless.
"Yeah. Well. I wasn't exactly dropping hints. And it's not like it would've mattered. You were—you. You had girls lining up to write their numbers on your locker. And I had—dice." He laughed.
"Just figured I should probably share that little tidbit of information in the event of—y'know. So you know you didn't imagine it."

Steve shifted closer before he even thought about it, the couch springs creaking beneath him. His voice was soft, cautious, like he was stepping out onto something fragile.
"If you're even thinking about—one of us, I dunno, dying. Then stop. I'm not gonna let that happen."

Eddie shook his head.
"Look—the fact of the matter is..." His voice trailed, heavy, and Steve could feel his own pulse climb into his throat waiting for the rest.
"I don't know how to trust you."

Steve's mouth parted, caught off guard, but he didn't speak. He sat there in the pause Eddie left, waiting, bracing. Eddie's eyes dropped to the floor.

"You used to be my friend. And then you weren't. No explanation. You just—vanished. Like I didn't matter anymore." His voice was breaking at the edges, turning rougher with each word.
"And I know that was years ago and now I'm wanted for murder and the world might be imploding again or whatever the hell is happening—but it still hurts. It's still in there. That part doesn't just go away."

When Eddie finally looked at him, jaw set tight, Steve couldn't bear to look away.

"I'm scared, man. I was scared. And it feels stupid to be scared of this when there's whatever the hell is chasing us, and I have no idea what's gonna happen next. But I'm scared you're gonna leave. That this is all temporary for you. Just another heroic notch in the Harrington belt."

The jab landed, sharp, but Steve didn't flinch away from it. He absorbed it, let it stay lodged inside him.

"Even now, I don't know what you want from me. Or if this—thing between us is just nostalgia, or guilt, or convenience. And it's messed up, 'cause I want to believe you. I want to believe you mean it. But I don't know how."

The silence stretched again, thick as smoke. Steve forced himself to breathe before answering.
"I don't blame you." His voice sounded different to his own ears, smaller.

Eddie looked away. Steve steadied himself with another breath.

"I don't expect you to just forgive everything. Or to trust me right away. Or maybe ever. But I'm not leaving, Eddie. Not this time. I promise."

Eddie broke the tension with a sudden, casual lilt, the way he always did when things got too sharp.
"Well, maybe we could hit the Olive Garden after all this. Hang out. I'll wear a ski mask. You can get a fake mustache. Real low profile."

Steve practically guffawed, not expecting it.
"Okay. I like the sound of that," he said, playing along, grateful for the reprieve.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I mean. Olive Garden wouldn't be my first choice, but sure." He shrugged, leaning back.

"What the fuck's wrong with Olive Garden?"

"It's just—processed shit. It's so—cheesy and fatty. It fucks my stomach up for days after."

"That's literally the best part."

"Hey, man. Whatever you want. I'm game," Steve said, smiling despite himself. For a moment, it felt like the old rhythm between them again, like childhood resurfacing.

"You'd really wear the mustache?"

Steve smiled, small, restrained.
"If it meant getting to sit across from you and eat breadsticks without someone trying to kill us? Yeah. I'd wear the mustache."

"So—if I don't get eaten by some inter-dimensional monster, but I do get arrested for murder—would you come visit me in jail?"

Steve raised an eyebrow.
"Obviously. I'd smuggle you in a harmonica so you could start a prison band."

"Oh, see, now that's a real friend right there." Eddie laughed.

Steve chuckled, sinking further into the couch. "I'd drive like three hours to whatever hellhole they lock you up in. Every week. Bring snacks. Listen to your dramatic retelling of lunch meat sandwiches and prison laundry politics."

Eddie clutches imaginary pearls.
"You'd suffer through my weekly breakdowns and monologues?" He asks, mock touched.

"I already am."

Eddie grinned, despite himself. He wiped his nose with his sleeve, snorting.
"You'd get bored of me."

"Unlikely."

"C'mon. A month in, I'd be writing like ten angsty letters a day. Cataloguing how I'm just losing my mind."

"Can't wait. I'll pin them on my fridge."

"Bet you wouldn't even put money in my commissary." Eddie teased, eyes narrowed.

"I'd fund your ramen empire. Don't test me."

Eddie let out another laugh, small but real. The sound seemed to settle something between them for a moment. Then quiet returned, heavier now.

"I'm serious, though. If it comes to that."

Steve looked at him, steady.
"Then I'll still be there. Doesn't matter where you are."

He hesitated, his voice softening further, sharpened with something pointed.
"Do you think you could ever like me again?"

The pause that followed was unbearable. Eddie bit his lip, staring at the floorboards like they might give him courage.
"I don't know."

The words sliced through Steve, not because they surprised him, but because he had been hoping for something else.

"A part of me wanted to. To—give into you. To give you what you wanted. But there was so much stuff in me that still hurts, and I can't just—switch it off."

The cabin was so still that Steve could hear the faint whistle of the wind slipping through the places his patchwork repairs hadn't held.

Eddie's words still hung between them, sharp at the edges, and Steve nodded slowly, willing himself to swallow them whole, to show that he understood. But he could feel the pain of it anyway, like a bruise pressed by accident. And Eddie saw it.

"I'm not saying I won't ever trust you again, Steve. I'm saying—it's gonna take time. And right now we don't exactly have a lot of that."
His laugh broke out, bitter and dry, the sound of someone who'd stopped expecting much. He dragged his hand over his face, like he could scrub the whole thing away. The conversation, the memories, the fear.
"And yet here I am, spilling my guts at the end of the world. So maybe that says something."

Steve tried for a smile, small, crooked, the kind that wanted to be braver than he felt.
"It says something." His voice was softer than he intended, almost lost in the hush of the cabin.

They sat there in the quiet after, not fixed, not broken, but stripped down to something simpler: just the truth between them, raw and unsettled.

Steve spoke before he knew what he was offering. The words came out like he was reaching across some invisible gap.
"Let's just—agree to"—His tongue stumbled over the unfinished thought. He forced it forward.
"Be friends. Again. If you want that."

Eddie turned toward him, not fully, just enough to catch him in the dim light. His eyes narrowed, intrigued, like he was weighing the offer in his hands.

"We're gonna need each other," Steve continued, finding more certainty as he spoke. "To lean on each other. To—get each other through this. And especially after. That's the worst part. When you're in your house and you're alone and you're scared of every single dark corner. When the cuts and the bruises and the broken bones start flaring up out of nowhere and keep you awake at night. It'd probably be a lot less difficult if we weren't still holding onto shit and resenting one another."

Eddie's shoulders sagged. The fight in him seemed to loosen. He nodded once, simple, almost resigned.
"Yeah. Okay."

Steve tilted his head, searching his face.
"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We can be friends." Eddie's voice carried no theatrics, no bite. Just plain, even.

Steve breathed out, a little lighter, though it didn't ease the ache entirely.
"Okay. Good."

The word friends rattled around inside Steve's chest like something both too small and too heavy to bear.

Friends.

As if that could contain what he felt, as if that could cover the restless tug in him that only grew sharper the longer Eddie sat across from him, his face half-buried in shadow, his voice roughened by honesty.

Friends, when all Steve wanted to do was lean forward and close the impossible space between them, press his mouth against his, and never let him doubt again.

But how could he? How could he when Eddie had already laid himself bare, admitted he couldn't trust him yet? When Eddie's wounds, older than the Upside Down, older than the panic of this week, were still open, bleeding silently beneath his words?

Steve knew the shape of his own desire; it was too large, too consuming, splitting him open in ways he couldn't hide. To want Eddie this much was already a kind of selfishness, and selfishness was the last thing Eddie needed from him now.

What Eddie needed was steadiness, quiet loyalty, a presence that wouldn't slip away when the dust settled.

So Steve nodded, and he told himself friends was enough. He told himself it had to be. That the way Eddie's voice softened on his name, or the way his smile tilted lopsided when he was tired, or the way his hand kept brushing absently at the hem of his shirt. None of that was his to hold onto, not now, maybe not ever.

And yet, even as he sat there, keeping his body still, keeping his face neutral, keeping his heart muzzled. Some secret, reckless part of him whispered that this was how it always started.

That to be what Eddie needed now was the only way forward, even if it meant swallowing whole the ache that came with it.

To love Eddie in silence was better than losing him altogether.

 

Chapter 4: 1986 Part 2

Notes:

this is a lot of fucking words. like mostly words. i forgot how much i'd have to like describe things even though we all know what fucking happens anyway i hate it this is why i dont do CANON STUFF

People kept dying.

First Chrissy, then Fred, then Patrick.

Each time Dustin's voice cracked over the radio with another name, it was like someone had placed a fresh weight on Steve's chest, one more stone in the already impossible load he was carrying.

The numbers never changed in their favor, only against. And with each death, Eddie's eyes seemed to lose another fraction of their light.

Steve tried not to notice, tried to keep the conversations light, the games going, even when the cards bored him, even when Eddie's jokes no longer carried much laughter behind them.

He didn't know how long he could keep Eddie's morale up, how long before the dread finally smothered them both. Every time he caught Eddie staring into nothing, lips moving as if in silent bargaining with himself, Steve wanted to shake him, to promise him it would end, that they'd make it through.

But promises felt like lies now, and Steve wasn't sure Eddie could survive another lie, not from him. He felt useless, watching Eddie shrink under the weight of a terror Steve couldn't fight with fists or nail-studded bats. All he could do was sit there, pretend there was still something ordinary to cling to, while the world outside burned through people like matches.

***

The candles sputtered in their shallow stubs of wax, their light so faint it made everything look worse, dingier, smaller than it already was.

A board of cards lay scattered between them on the cabin floor, bent edges curling like they had been soaked at some point years ago. Dust floated everywhere, even in the faint glow; it was in Steve's nose, on his tongue, in the sweat that kept pooling at his hairline.

The stink of himself, of Eddie, of this place—they were steeped in it. Soap in a sink could only go so far, and Steve hated that he was aware of it, hated the sour, lived-in smell of his own body.

He held his cards loosely, barely seeing them, pretending to play Go Fish. Eddie looked more invested than he was, but only just. His head tipped against the wall every so often, as though he couldn't keep it upright, his knees pulled in toward his chest.

"I need to go find them," Steve said suddenly. His voice cut into the silence, sharper than he meant, his eyes fixed anywhere but on Eddie.

Eddie blinked, head tilting toward him. "Who?"

"The others." Steve's throat tightened even as he said it, the words feeling heavy, selfish, guilty. He rubbed his face hard with his hand, threw the cards down.
"I can't just—sit here anymore. I feel useless."

"I get it." Eddie exhaled, sitting up straight. "I was wondering how long it was gonna take, honestly."

"I'm sorry," Steve said, glancing at him, guilt already creeping in before the words even left him.

"Don't be." Eddie's voice was plain, even, as he set his own cards down too. Then, more firmly: "Because I'm coming with you."

Steve's head snapped up toward him. "What? No way—"

"Well I don't fancy sitting here waiting for it all to blow over for much longer either, Harrington." Eddie's mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, but there was nothing funny about it.

"No." Steve's voice was sharp, final.

"Come on, man—"

"I said no, Eddie." He leaned forward, his tone stiff, the authority in his voice one he used on the kids more than he liked to admit. "You need to stay here where it's safe."

"Nowhere is safe. Not for me." Eddie's voice came quieter, the conviction breaking into something more fragile. "The only reason I feel safe right now is because you're here. And even that's pretty touch and go, man."

Steve froze. Something clenched hard in him, like a rope pulling taut around his chest. He didn't know what to do with that, how to answer without giving away everything it lit up in him.

Eddie went on, eyes fixed on the candle flame rather than Steve: "They're all out there busting their asses off trying to clear my name. The least I can do is help."

"Yeah, they're out there trying to clear your name. So you need to lie low, not make things worse. That would be helping." Steve could hear the edge of desperation in his own voice now, the fear under it. He hated how transparent it made him feel.

Eddie shook his head. "I'm not staying here on my own, Steve. You all have each other. I have no one." His voice cracked slightly on that last word, but he pushed on. "If they find me it's not just gonna be one person, it's gonna be a whole group of 'em. And I can't defend myself. Not like that. At least with you guys my odds are a little higher." He turned, finally meeting Steve's eyes, the flickering light carving shadows into his cheekbones. "Please"—

"Okay," Steve snapped, more harshly than he intended. Steve swallowed hard, the word knocking the fight out of him. He stared at Eddie, at his raw plea, at the fragility Eddie tried to bury under sarcasm and sharp words. And he couldn't keep the hardness in his own tone any longer.
The silence after felt bruised. He exhaled, softened. "Okay." His voice came lower this time, almost careful. "I'll get Dustin on the walkie. Find out where they are. And we can go from there. Okay?"

Eddie nodded once, letting out a breath. "Thanks."

Steve looked at him for a long moment, too long, until Eddie glanced away and the candles sputtered again, their flames bowing in the draft that crept through the broken boards.

***

Steve didn't really know how he ended up on a boat with Robin, Nancy, and Eddie in the dead of night.

What began as a seemingly endless hike through the woods; the sound of snapping branches under their shoes, the smell of wet earth clinging to their clothes, had delivered them here, to the middle of Lovers' Lake.

The water lapped quietly against the boat as though mocking the urgency of Dustin's latest theory. Steve could still feel the chill of the night seeping into his bones, but it was the silence of the lake that unsettled him most: wide, black, unbroken. Waiting.

"Alright," Steve said, standing. The boat rocked under his weight, wood creaking, water hissing softly as if warning him. He tugged his sweater off in one motion, dropping it to the floor.

"What are you doing?" Eddie's voice came sharp, incredulous, eyes flashing under the sliver of moonlight.

"I'm going in. What's it look like I'm doing?" Steve replied, too casually, though his fingers trembled faintly as he tugged at his laces.

"Absolutely not." Eddie scoffed, laughter that wasn't laughter spilling out like a defense mechanism.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you wanna do it?" Steve asked, glancing at him, then to the others. "Anyone else? Any takers?" His gaze skipped over Robin, then Nancy, waiting.

"I'm good," Robin shook her head, immediate, nervous.

"See?" Steve gestured toward her as he sat again, tugging his shoes off with quick, jerky motions.

"Are you out of your mind? You have no idea what's down there." Eddie leaned forward, almost falling toward him, his voice more fierce than Steve expected.

"I know. That's why I'm going down there." Steve tried for calm, casual again, though the words barely carried.

"Can you—talk some sense into him please," Eddie turned to Robin, desperate, as if someone else could get through where he couldn't.

"I mean—" Robin started, but Steve cut in.

"Eddie, it's fine. I'm a strong swimmer. Stronger than all of you put together. It makes the most sense." He kept his voice steady, though part of him was aware of Eddie's eyes still locked onto him.

"Yeah. In a pool, Harrington. What, now you've suddenly decided to audition for Baywatch: Haunted Lake Edition?" Eddie shot back.

Steve looked at him, exasperated. "Somebody has to check it out, Eddie."

"Oh, right, right, of course. Go ahead, Harrington. Why don't you get eaten by some aquatic Cthulhu while you're at it?" Eddie's voice dripped with sarcasm, but his hands fidgeted against his knees, rings glinting in the faint light.

"A—cth—what?" Steve squinted, caught off guard.

"Seriously, man. What if it's, I don't know, a—giant squid? A cursed whirlpool? A—" Eddie flailed a hand at the rippling dark surface, desperate to name anything that could hold Steve back. "—a second gate that just, like, eats you alive? You ever think of that?"

"I did think of that," Steve snapped, sharper this time, tugging his socks off, his chest tight with irritation he didn't want to show. "But one of us has to go down there, and frankly, I'd rather it be me than any of you."

"I just don't feel like explaining to Dustin that his beloved babysitter went belly-up in Lovers' Lake like a discount trout. That's all." Eddie's words were bitter, but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying him.

"You're so dramatic."

"I'm dramatic?"

"Yes! This is what we came out here to do! What, you thought we'd just sit here for a while, admire the stars, have deep meaningful conversations?"

"Y'know, even Indiana Jones had his limits, Harrington."

"Oh, please—"

"Oh my god, would you two just—stop with the lovers' tiff already? Now is not the time!" Robin burst, her voice slicing through the air.

The boat stilled, water rocking gently as if laughing at them. Heat rose instantly in Steve's face, his ears burning. Eddie jolted at Robin's words, sputtering into a half-laugh-half-choke, his whole body giving him away.

"It's not—" Eddie gestured wildly between them, rings flashing, his voice too quick. "This isn't a lovers' tiff."

"Yeah," Steve added, too quickly, his throat tight, his voice cracking on the word. He swallowed, eyes fixed on anything but Eddie. "We're just—we're just figuring out strategy."

Nancy, arms folded, her hair mussed by the damp night air, spoke first, calm and deliberate: "If Steve thinks he can do it, he can do it. Like he said, it makes the most sense."

But Steve felt the bristle from Eddie before he saw it. Eddie laughed under his breath, brittle, sharp, like glass snapping in the dark.
"Oh, well, if Wheeler says King Steve can handle it, then who am I to argue?" His arms spread wide, smile too big, every word soaked in something Steve couldn't quite name, or maybe didn't want to.

"What the hell is going on?" Dustin's voice crackled from the radio, cutting the tension but not dispersing it.

Steve sighed, shoulders heavy, torch in hand. "I'll be fine. I'll be back soon. Two minutes. Tops." He said it looking at all of them, but his eyes lingered too long on Eddie, like they always did.

"You can hold your breath for two minutes?" Robin asked, doubt threading her voice.

"We're about to find out," Steve said, forcing lightness, wrapping the torch in plastic. He barely gave himself time to think before he dove.

The water closed over Steve's head in an instant, cold as glass and so heavy it felt like he was sinking through a different kind of air.

For a moment, he heard nothing but the muted thrash of his own arms, the pulse in his ears, the clumsy drumming of his heart that seemed to grow louder the deeper he went.

The lake wrapped around him like a fist, squeezing the heat from his body, pressing against his ribs until every breath he hadn't taken yet felt like it had already run out.

The light from the torch cut a narrow path through the murk, trembling with each kick of his legs, and even that began to look thinner, more fragile, as he pushed deeper. Algae drifted like torn fabric, strands brushing against his bare arms, cool and alien, and he had to force himself not to flinch, not to lose momentum.

Then, below him, something opened. Not the lakebed, not the black silt he expected, but something else. A tear in the world itself, pulsing with a red glow that bled out like smoke into the water. Tendrils curled and reached from its edges, writhing slow and deliberate, like the lazy flick of snakes.

They clung to the rocks, wrapped around themselves, opening and closing like they were breathing. And the light; that violent, impossible red, seemed to pulse in time with his own heartbeat, dragging him closer, closer, as if the gate itself had noticed him.

Steve hovered there, lungs screaming, watching the way the lake water bent and shimmered around the thing, as though the gate were sucking every current, every molecule toward it. It wasn't just an opening, it was a hunger. Raw and patient and endless.

He thought, for one wild moment, of Eddie's voice still echoing in his head: What if it eats you alive? And in the quiet of the lake, suspended above that throbbing red wound in the world, Steve wasn't sure it wasn't already happening.

He swam back up, lungs burning, the water clawing at his chest, the cold biting. He hauled his arms over the side of the boat, splashing hard enough to make Robin and Nancy jump, Eddie's hands clenching at the edge in frustration and worry.

"See. Alive." He panted, shivering and gasping, hair plastered to his forehead, teeth chattering.

"Jesus Christ." Eddie muttered, clutching his chest.

"And is anything else alive down there?" Robin pressed, her fingers gripping the edge, eyes wide in the reflected moonlight, trying to measure just how much of a hero—or fool—Steve had been.

"Well, Dustin's gonna be positively thrilled about the fact he was right. That's definitely a water gate." He said, trying to sound casual, shaking out his soaked hair. He didn't meet Eddie's eyes, though he knew the other boy's gaze was fixed on him, calculating, protective.

"Okay, great. Amazing. Now can you get in here please." Eddie's voice cut through, firm, exasperated.

"Eddie, you need to rela"— Something grabbed his foot. The water jerked him sharply down, and Steve yelped, eyes wide, heart hammering. "What the fuck?"

"What was that?" Nancy called, reaching toward him.

"I don't know." Steve exhaled, squinting into the endless murk.

"Get in the boat!" Eddie yelled, leaning even further, fingers clawing the side, his voice tight with panic.

The water tore him down before he could even suck in another lungful of air.

One second Steve's hands were clutching the edge of the boat, the next his foot was yanked with such violence it wrenched his whole body back into the lake.

The water rushed over his face, filled his ears, blinded him. He thrashed wildly, kicking, shoving at what felt like ropes or hands or tendrils tightening around his ankle, dragging him deeper.

His chest screamed for air, his throat burned, his arms flailed for the surface that already seemed too far above him.

For a brief, unbearable instant, Steve was sure this was it. He saw flashes of their faces above. The panic in Robin's wide eyes, Eddie leaning so far over the boat it looked like he might tip, Nancy's hand outstretched as if she could reach him.

Then the world inverted. The lake itself seemed to vomit him out onto the wet, slick ground of the Upside Down.

The air here was sour and thick, like every breath was scraped with ash. He staggered to his knees, dripping, disoriented, when he heard them. High-pitched screeches slicing through the trees, the sound of something winged and wrong rushing closer.

The bats came in a swarm, black shapes tearing through the air, their wings beating in a frenzy. The first slammed into his back, knocking him forward, teeth snapping at his neck.

Steve twisted, grabbed it, flung it down, only for two more to sink their claws into his shoulder. He shouted, raw and strangled, as another coiled around his throat, its tail constricting, choking off air. His hands clawed at it desperately, nails scraping against slick hide, but the thing only tightened.

Pain exploded sharp and white-hot as teeth tore into his side. Then another at his arm, another at his calf. Every nerve screamed.

He fought. Wild, panicked, striking out blindly with his fists, tearing one off only for two more to latch on. His throat filled with the sound of his own gasps, the fluttering, leathery wings battering against his face, the wet pull of his blood leaving him. He was drowning again, only not in water this time but in teeth, wings, suffocating airlessness.

His chest burned, his vision blurred at the edges. Somewhere far off, he thought of Eddie's voice yelling his name, Robin's, Dustin's, all of them.  But here there was nothing but him and the bats, clawing the life out of him. And the sick thought that slid into his mind as he felt another bite tear open his neck: I'm going to fucking die here.

He heard a commotion, muffled and chaotic at first, but it slowly sharpened into something he could recognise. Voices, frantic shouts, oars splashing, the thwack of something hard hitting wings.

And then he saw them. Nancy lunging, hair plastered to her face, eyes wide and determined, swinging an oar with every ounce of strength she could muster.

Robin, crouched low, twisting her body, bashing at the bats as they circled like living nightmares.

And Eddie.

Eddie, furious, sleeves rolled up, rings glinting in the faint red light, yelling, kicking, swiping, swearing, all at once. They were drenched, soaked through to the skin, wild and beautiful in their fear and rage.

The chaos didn't last long. The bats, beaten back, shrieked once or twice more, then scattered into the oppressive shadows above. Silence fell, heavy and sticky, the kind of quiet that left ears ringing and chest aching.

Steve sank to his knees, hands on the wet floor, hair plastered to his face, chest heaving. He could hear his own breathing, loud in the void, and then the slow, rasping inhales of Nancy, Robin, and Eddie around him. Everyone was drenched, every muscle trembling, every eye wide with the mix of fear, fury, and relief.

Nancy held out a hand, firm and insistent, and he took it, letting her haul him to his feet.
"Thanks." His voice was rough, rasping, spitting out flecks of blood.

"Jesus, man," Eddie muttered, already moving toward him, fists balled, eyes blazing. Nancy stepped in front of him, cutting him off, fingers probing the gash in Steve's side.

"Let me see."

"Oh my god, oh my god—" Robin paced in tight, agitated circles near them, muttering to herself, eyes darting between Steve and the dark, oppressive sky above.

"Jesus. That's deep," Nancy murmured, inspecting the wound.

"Nah, s'fine. It'll be fine. Just a scratch." Steve shrugged, trying to downplay it, even as his body shivered from the adrenaline still coursing through him.

"This is bad. This is so very, very bad," Robin rambled, hands twisting at her hair.

"Scratches don't tear through your flesh like that," Nancy said firmly, voice cutting through the tension. "We need to clean it before it gets infected."

"Yeah, I don't know about you, but I don't think there's gonna be much down here in the way of first aid. Just a hunch," Robin exclaimed, eyes wide, pacing a tight circle around the boat.

"Maybe give him some air, Wheeler," Eddie said pointedly, stepping closer, jaw tight. Steve turned to him, feeling the familiar flare of irritation.

"I'm just making sure he doesn't pass out, Eddie," Nancy snapped back, hands steadying the wound.

"Yeah, well, crowding him like a mother hen isn't exactly helping, is it?" Eddie shot back, voice low but sharp. His eyes burned.

"Guys, I'm fine. Let's just—focus on figuring out how to get back," Steve tried, voice gruff, scanning their surroundings, the shivering dark pressing in.

"You're not fine, Steve," Nancy said, eyes narrowing, tone cutting.

"Real glad you're here to state the obvious," Eddie muttered under his breath.

"Eddie. Chill, man," Steve said, voice raising slightly, wincing as another pulse of pain throbbed in his side.

"What? I said it was a bad idea, didn't I? And now—look. You're all torn to shit, she's playing nurse freaking Nightingale, and I'm supposed to just stand here like this isn't exactly what I was worried about in the first place? You were the one who seemed to be on board with the idea of him playing deep sea diver if I recall," Eddie spat, fists clenched, gaze darting between Steve and Nancy.

"We don't have time for blame," Nancy said, firm, her hands moving deftly, "we just need to clean him up."

"Right. Fine. Clean him up. Great. Just—next time, maybe someone listens when I say things," Eddie muttered, molars grinding.

"Guys, please stop fighting. I literally can't handle it right now," Robin whined, hands tugging at her hair, still pacing like a caged animal.

"Steve's an adult. He's more than capable of making his own decisions," Nancy said, firm, almost motherly.

"Yeah, at the expense of himself! Which you all seem to be completely fine with!" Eddie shouted, voice cracking, eyes blazing.

"Can you both stop talking about me like I'm not fucking here?" Steve snapped, frustration bubbling over. He stepped back from Nancy, shoulders tense, every muscle coiled. His gaze swung to Eddie, then back to Nancy, and his voice dropped low, sharp. "Robin's right. We need to go. Before those assholes come back and take chunks out of all of us."

***

The air was thick with that strange, cloying weight only the Upside Down could produce, each inhalation tasting faintly of rot and iron.

The dead leaves crunched under their shoes. Above, the sky pulsed red, light dripping like molten wax through the skeletal branches. Nancy and Robin moved ahead, flashlights swinging in slow arcs, carving the darkness in hesitant slices.

Steve and Eddie lagged a few paces behind, side by side, their silence stretching thin between them.

"Here." Eddie's voice broke it first, a small, almost shy sound. He shrugged off his denim vest and held it out to Steve.

"Thanks." Steve murmured, slipping into it, the edges of the vest rough against his damp skin.

Eddie cleared his throat. "So. How's your neck? And the, uh—gaping hole in your abdomen?"

Steve glanced down, noticing the smear of blood seeping through Nancy's makeshift bandage wrapped around his stomach. He shrugs  it off with a practiced nonchalance. "It's fine. Sore."

"Jesus Christ, man," Eddie snorted, voice tight with a mixture of exasperation and something unnameable.

Silence fell again. A few steps.

"Why were you ripping into Nance like that?" Steve asked finally, voice low, careful, but with a hint of frustration.

"What? I wasn't."

"You were." Steve's tone hardened, just enough to leave no room for debate. "She was just trying to help."

"Well, excuse me for being a little pissed that you almost got yourself chewed up by a flock of demonic bats. But sure, let's focus on how I sounded," Eddie snapped, the sound of his voice sharp against the eerie quiet.

"Jesus, enough with the sarcasm," Steve huffed, tugging at the flashlight in his hand, feeling the strain in his shoulders.

"What do you want me to say, man? Sorry that watching you get dragged under water in less than a millisecond and taken to some freak alternate dimension with monster bats that were trying to kill you made me lose it for a second," Eddie barked. "I was freaking out. That enough for you?"

"I'm just saying, you didn't need to snap at her like that. We're all freaking out."

"Not really my strong suit, is it? Saying things the right way." Eddie grumbled, voice low, almost to himself. Then, softer, "Sorry that I trampled all over your vibe."

Steve blinked, trying to catch the nuance, to parse the layers Eddie always seemed to bury himself in. "What?"

Eddie shrugged, trying to downplay it, kicking a small rock along the path. "I mean, you and Nancy. Just—you two were giving off a vibe."

Steve's brow furrowed. "A vibe?"

"Sure." Eddie's voice carried a bitter undertone, light enough to hide the sting beneath.

Steve considered it for a moment, slow, deliberate, weighing what Eddie was trying to admit. "She's with Jonathan," he said finally.

"Yeah, sure. But, I dunno, she looks at you like—like she remembers something. Like it still means something," Eddie said quickly, almost too quick.

"She's Nancy. She looks at everything like it means something," Steve replied, voice even, tired, but steady.

Eddie let out a short, humorless laugh, kicking another rock along the path, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "She also couldn't wait to get her hands on you and fix you up real nice," he muttered, not meeting Steve's eyes.

"Jesus, Eddie. There's nothing going on between me and Nancy. She's a friend. We're friends," Steve said, tone firm, but he could feel thetension threading through his chest.

"Yeah. You have a lot of friends," Eddie said, voice low, almost accusatory.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just—I dunno. I guess I thought—maybe you'd want that again. The whole hero-gets-the-girl ending."

Steve didn't answer right away. He kept walking, shoulders squared, gripping the flashlight tightly, letting the silence stretch until he could finally say it quietly, almost to himself: "I did want that at some point. I wanted that because I thought it meant I'd be okay. That if someone like her picked me, it meant I was doing something right."

Eddie glanced at him, quiet now, the bitterness in his eyes softening into something unreadable.

Steve kept his gaze forward, the shadows of the Upside Down painting his features in stark, angular relief.

"But she didn't. And it turns out—that wasn't really the point anyway," he continued softly.

Steve slowed, letting his words fall in the void between them. "Even if Nancy did have feelings for me—which she doesn't—they wouldn't be reciprocated."

Eddie's eyes flicked over, sharp, mocking, though his voice betrayed a hint of vulnerability. "Right. Of course. Not like she's every guy's dream girl. Pretty. Smart. Badass."

Steve snorted, careful not to meet his gaze.
"I'm serious. That whole chapter—Nancy, high school, pretending like I had everything figured out—that's not me anymore." Steve's voice was low, deliberate, trying to pierce the fog of tension that hung between them, and in his chest, a quiet ache twisted at the edges of his ribs.

Eddie shuffled a few paces forward before answering, voice quiet, skeptical, challenging. "Okay. Then what is you? Aside from—y'know. Throwing yourself in the face of danger every other day."

Steve turned, finally, catching the streak of dirt along Eddie's cheek. "I don't know. But it's not her. Not anymore. And if I was gonna—if I was gonna want something real again, and if it was gonna be with someone I already lost, it wouldn't be her."

Eddie's breath caught, subtle but audible, and his gaze darted away, lingering on the tangled roots and gnarled tree trunks before snapping back to Steve. "Okay. Noted."

Steve let a small, private smirk curl at the corner of his lips, a secret against the oppressive darkness. "And the good thing is I have a lot of choice. Could be Heidi, or Aimee. Sarah, Rebecca. Julie—"

"Okay, okay. Calm the fuck down, lover boy," Eddie interjected, laughing but sharp, the sound bouncing against the red-lit sky.

The laughter subsided as the silence stretched for a beat longer, like the woods themselves were holding their breath.
"You're kinda cute when you're jealous," Steve said softly, letting the words fall between them like pebbles in still water.

Eddie sputtered, affronted. "I'm not jealous. I was—"

"Oh, sorry. Worried," Steve mocked lightly, holding his hands up in mock surrender, letting the shadow of a grin linger.

"Shut up," Eddie seethed, though Steve caught the almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrayed him.

Steve smiled, just for a heartbeat, but it vanished quickly, lost to the weight of all the unsaid things between them, all the times they might not get the chance to speak.

Then Robin's voice rang out, urgent, distant but cutting through the tension like a blade. "Guys, quit falling behind!"

"Yeah, yeah, we're coming," Steve replied, his own voice quieter, slower, as though he were allowing himself to be left behind in thought even as he moved forward.
"You were still jealous as fuck though," Steve nudged, half-teasing, half-testing.

"Oh my god. Fuck you, dude," Eddie scoffed, though his shoulders loosened fractionally.

"When Nancy said I could do it, you made this face," Steve teased further, exaggerating a scrunched-up grimace, fond despite himself.

"That was not a face," Eddie groaned, trying and failing to keep his lips from twitching.

"Oh, it was a face," Steve said, grinning now, wider, softer.

"You're insufferable," Eddie muttered, letting a small laugh escape despite himself.

"Maybe," Steve said, his grin fading into something quieter, warmer, almost tender. "But I'm right."

Eddie shook his head, muttering something Steve didn't catch, but he didn't move ahead. He let Steve fall into step beside him, their footsteps finding a hesitant rhythm on the broken, leaf-strewn path.

"I'm just saying. You don't have to be," Steve said, voice steadier than he felt, careful, offering a bridge across the tension.

"Good. Because I'm not," Eddie said, curt but softer than before.

"Yeah, no sure. But just so you know. I'm not in the market for being Nancy Wheeler's boyfriend again."

"Okay. Good for you," Eddie replied simply, and Steve could hear the faint rattle of disbelief in the edge of his voice.

Steve weighed what he was about to say, feeling the gravity in the quiet spaces between them. "There's another curly-haired, intelligent, paranoid, stubborn person I have my eyes on," he said without looking at Eddie, letting the words hang in the air like a delicate promise.

Eddie didn't respond immediately. Steve glanced up, reading the confusion in his profile.
"You said we were friends," Eddie muttered, voice rough, not meeting his eyes, just keeping his pace.

"We are."

"So—which is it, Harrington? You wanna play buddy-buddy or you—" He cut himself off, teeth clenched against the words, the tension in his jaw echoing what he refused to say aloud.

Steve felt the sting of it, sharp, as if the world itself had pressed against a bruise that hadn't healed yet. "Both," he said softly, after a long pause, letting the words settle like stones in the air between them.

Eddie huffed, shaking his head, moving faster now, trying to outrun the conversation, the truth, the feelings too heavy for this place. "That's not how it works, man."

Steve followed without pressing, letting the light from his flashlight catch the slope of Eddie's determined profile, the stubborn set of his jaw, the tension that refused to ease.

***

Steve crouched on the ground beside the RV, the smell of gasoline sharp in his nose, clinging to his hair and clothes.

He stuffed rags into a bottle, his hands trembling slightly despite his effort to focus. Beside him, Robin shook another, the liquid sloshing with a soft, ominous sound. She grimaced at the scent, her lips pressed thin, eyes narrowing in concentration.

Across the small clearing, Eddie and Dustin were in their own chaotic world. Eddie, wild and theatrical, swung a trash-can shield as though performing for an audience, and Dustin doubled over in laughter, clutching a long stick like a sword.

Steve's chest tightened at the sight. Even in the middle of all this terror, their joy was almost unbearable in its normalcy. He felt something twist in his stomach, hands froze mid-motion.
"He can't go down there," he said quietly, almost to himself, his voice carrying a weight that made Robin look up sharply.

"What?" she asked, tilting her head, eyebrows drawn together.

Steve's eyes remained on the field, on Eddie laughing with reckless abandon, Dustin's small body shaking with each guffaw. "He shouldn't—he can't go down there." His voice was low, tight, fraying at the edges, each word heavy with dread.

Robin studied him, silent, her hands still on the bottle, her expression softening, sensing the depth of his fear. "That's not the plan, Steve. He's with Dustin. They're bait."

Steve finally turned his gaze to her, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. "I know the plan," he said, his voice a whisper almost lost to the night. "But what if the plan goes wrong? What if something changes? What if they're faster this time, or we miss something?"

Robin set the bottle down, leaning closer, her presence calm but firm. Steve figured she could see the tension etched into his every line, the way his shoulders hunched as though carrying the weight of the world.

"So tell him. Tell him he needs to stay out of it," she suggested softly.

Steve shook his head, a bitter laugh catching in his throat. "He'd never listen. Not now. Not when we're all in it. Plus, someone has to stay with Dustin. He'd think I didn't believe in him. That I didn't trust him."

"Do you?"

He exhaled, barely audible. "Yeah. That's the problem."

Her hand didn't leave his arm. "Look at me, Steve. I need you to be here. With me. Right now."

He finally met her gaze. He swallowed, the knot in his throat tightening.

"I know you're worried about him. I get it. I do. And if there were any other way, I'd vote to stuff him in a closet with a Walkman and a joint and pretend none of this was happening," she said.
"But you can't protect him from this," Robin continued, voice soft but firm. "Not all the way. Not without blowing the whole plan. And if we don't stick to the plan—"

"Then people die," Steve said quietly.

"Then we all die."

In the distance, Eddie tripped dramatically into the grass while Dustin stabbed at him with the stick, both of them oblivious to the heavy weight pressing on the two of them crouched in the shadows.

Steve's eyes lingered on the scene, a thousand unspoken things swirling inside him: regret, fear, an ache that felt like it might split him open, and something softer, more fragile, that refused to be named.

"He doesn't even know what he's walking into," he muttered.

"Neither did you," Robin replied gently, nudging his shoulder. "You didn't know either, the first time. And look what happened." She gestured toward him: the scars, the molotovs, the makeshift armor of survival. He had become someone else entirely, shaped by fear and courage in equal measure.

Steve's fingers curled around the neck of the bottle, feeling the weight of it in his hands, the rough glass biting lightly into his palms.
"You think he'll hate me? If I told him I was—worried? About him?" Steve's voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter something.

Robin's eyes, steady and clear, met his in the dim light. "I think when we make it out of this, which we will, he'll never let you out of his sight again."

Steve let those words hang, tasting them, holding them against his chest. "You sound so sure of it."

"I have to be. I left my best eyeliner in your glove compartment."

Steve laughed, letting it fill his lungs, then exhaled, releasing some measure of tension he hadn't realized he had been carrying.

His shoulders relaxed fractionally, and he lifted the bottle again, testing its weight, steadying himself. He let himself believe he could survive it. That they all could. Because they had to. Because maybe, just maybe, Eddie would be waiting on the other side.

***

The group filtered out of the RV, one by one, armed to the teeth. Steve lingered behind as Eddie grazed past him.

His fingers dug into Eddie's arm almost without thinking, the tug urgent, desperate, as if holding onto him could somehow keep the world from tipping further into chaos.

Eddie stumbled, blinking up at him, a flicker of alarm in his gaze. "Jesus, Harrington—what, you trying to pull my arm out of its socket?" Eddie's voice cut through the thick, stale air of the RV, sharp and incredulous, but Steve didn't answer.

The others' voices faded behind the thin walls as the door closed, muffling the clatter and chatter outside.

Steve's chest heaved; the space felt too small, too confining, and he paced, fists flexing at his sides, breaths coming in quick, jagged bursts. He needed to make himself heard. Needed Eddie to understand, really understand.

"What's going on?" Eddie asked cautiously, studying him.

Steve stopped, the movement abrupt, and turned, letting his gaze settle hard on Eddie. His voice came low, tight, frayed at the edges.
"You can't die out there."

Eddie's eyes widened, startled by the blunt intensity as he let out a low laugh. "O-kay. Noted."

Steve ignored it, his jaw tight, the words spilling out despite himself. "I'm serious, Eddie. You—you don't get it. These things—we're not going into some fight with assholes in masks or government guys with guns. This is—worse."

Eddie bristled, the defensiveness sharp, a reflexive armor against worry. "You don't think I know how serious this is? You think just because I didn't grow up in your nightmare dimension, I can't be useful?"

"No, that's not what I—Jesus." Steve pressed his hands to his face, taking a second to steady the tremor in his voice. "I don't care if you're useful, Eddie. I care if you're alive."

Eddie's defiance faltered under the gravity in Steve's eyes. Steve stepped closer, careful not to crowd him yet needing to close the distance.
"I just—I needed to say that. Before we go down there. Before any of this happens."

Eddie's jaw tightened. "Why? So you don't feel guilty if I don't make it out? You just want me to alleviate you of that and say thank you? I mean, Jesus, Steve. Am I that much of a liability?"

Steve shook his head quickly. "No. So you know. So if it all goes to hell, at least you know." His voice broke slightly on the last words. "I'm scared for you. That's not a weakness. That's not me thinking you're incapable. It's just—what it means when you care about someone. I'm gonna be thinking of you the whole time. Whether you're safe, or hurt, or—scared. How I can't get to you."

Eddie swallowed hard, voice quieter now. "Steve—"

Steve cut him off, not out of cruelty but because the words needed to leave him. "So just do me a solid and—stay alive." His chest tightened further, and he let the confession slip, almost a whisper yet loaded with every pulse of fear and love in him.
"Because I love you."

Eddie froze, eyes wide, mouth parting but no sound escaping, and Steve felt the weight of the silence pressing down, almost suffocating. He hurried to fill it. "You don't have to say it back. Now or ever. I know this is—god, I know it's not the time. But I couldn't go down there without you knowing that."

Eddie's throat moved, an attempt to speak, but the words were trapped somewhere inside, tangled in the shock.

Steve watched, a knot in his chest, then let himself nod almost to himself, a silent answer to the question he already knew. "You don't owe me anything. I didn't say it so you'd feel like you had to. But we're about to run headfirst into some death trap, and I'm trying not to fall apart. And I'm just hoping that that's enough to make sure you get yourself and him to the other side."
He managed a small, sad smile, one that didn't reach the tired shadows under his eyes, and waited as Eddie processed it.

"Okay." Eddie's voice was soft, tentative, but it carried

The door swung open, and they stepped out together. Eddie went first, moving with a stubborn grace, leaving Steve to close the door behind him. The night air hit, sharp and wet.

"You guys done with the mother's meeting?" Dustin's voice called out, the rest of the group's attention snapping to Steve, waiting.

***

Steve left Dustin and Eddie in the shadow of the trees with the kind of weight pressing into his chest that felt bone-deep, like he'd swallowed something heavy and sharp and now had to carry it inside him.

He didn't let it show. Not fully. But he knew it was there. He could feel it in the twitch above his brow, in the subtle pull at the corner of his eye that he couldn't quite control. Every step away from them, toward the Creel house with Nancy and Robin, felt like betrayal, like peeling himself away from the two people he'd least wanted to leave.

Eddie had looked at him with that half-daring, half-terrified expression, and Dustin had been all nerves under his sarcasm, and Steve—he was supposed to be the one who didn't crack.

He ached in ways he hadn't even known he could ache, a slow, throbbing pulse that lived somewhere under his ribs.

But he couldn't be scared. Not here. Not when Nancy walked a stride ahead, her flashlight unwavering, her jaw tight and stubborn like it always was when she decided she was going to win. Not when Robin, jittery and restless beside him, kept muttering the steps of the plan under her breath, her mind whirring like a machine that refused to stop.

They needed him steady, needed the calm front, needed the lie of it even if his insides were clawing themselves raw. So Steve straightened his shoulders, blinked out the twitch, and bit down hard enough to force the fear quiet.

They followed the plan. Step for step, turn for turn. Wait for the cues, wait for the signals. Easy. Too easy.

The house rose in front of them, looming and dark, its windows blank as sockets, its timbers groaning under the night breeze. Every direction they'd mapped out, every marker they'd agreed on. It all lined up. And yet, Steve felt it: the wrongness humming low in the air, in the silence that stretched too cleanly around them, in the way his heart kept beating faster no matter how tightly he reined it in.

It was working, yes. But things that worked this smoothly in Hawkins never lasted. Not for long.

The house seemed to breathe around them, as if every floorboard and broken pane of glass had lungs of its own, exhaling the musty air of things long buried and refusing to stay gone. Steve felt the walls pressing in even as he tried to keep his steps measured, his breathing steady. His heart thudded like it was trying to signal ahead of him, as though his body knew before he did what waited inside.

He told himself over and over—calm, just calm—but the word was useless, a broken prayer in his mouth.

And then they were there. In the attic, where the air was thinner, colder, and every shadow seemed to crawl.

He saw him. Vecna in his grotesque, still form, suspended like some terrible dream someone had nailed to the ceiling. His eyes shut, his body both brittle and monstrous, as if he had been made out of flesh and stone all at once.

For a moment, Steve almost didn't believe it. That something so horrifying could stand so still. That they could be this close to him and still breathing.

His instinct was to wait. To watch. To let someone else move first. But his blood betrayed him. It coursed hot, impatient, unwilling to stand idle. He thought of Eddie, of Dustin, of what he'd promised in that stupid RV with his chest caving in under the weight of it. He thought of Robin's voice, sharp with reason but always soft where it mattered, urging him not to come apart. He thought of Max, fragile and waiting in her own private hell inside this house. If he faltered now, if he chose stillness, it would all collapse.

So he willed himself forward, shoulders tense, forcing his body to act before his mind could stop him. The lighter hissed, the rag flared, and the Molotov burned bright in his hand. He hurled it, and the sound it made when it shattered against Vecna's flesh was unlike anything else he'd ever heard—wet, searing, final.

Robin followed, then Nancy, each explosion of fire catching, blooming like terrible flowers on his body. The flames licked up his limbs, blackening, curling, the smell of it sinking into Steve's nose, choking him, even as he forced himself not to look away.

But Vecna didn't scream. Not at first. His body convulsed, tore at its own bindings, and then his eyes snapped open, a hellish glare that cut through the smoke. Steve stumbled back, arm thrown over his mouth. It wasn't enough. It wasn't going to be enough.

Nancy was there before he could think. Her rifle cracked in the air, sharp, relentless, her face carved into something unreadable as she fired again and again, each shot pounding into Vecna with a violence that belonged to no one but her.

Steve watched, stunned, as her body absorbed the recoil, as if fury itself steadied her. And then—Vecna reeled back, staggered, the flames consuming him as the bullets tore through. With a sound that seemed to shake the bones of the house itself, he fell backward, his body crashing through the glass, disappearing into the night beyond the window.

For a second, Steve couldn't breathe. It was done,
or it seemed to be. The silence afterward pressed against his ears, and then the world itself betrayed them. The floor beneath his boots shuddered. The house groaned, deep and terrible, like something waking from slumber. The ground began to quake, plaster falling in sheets, dust choking the air.

Steve's mind shot elsewhere instantly. Away from the fire, away from the gunsmoke, away from the trembling beams. To Max. To her small, breakable body down in the Creel house, sitting in the heart of it, waiting for something none of them could stop. He saw her wide eyes, the way her hands twisted together, the way she refused to say out loud how afraid she was. He felt the tremor in his chest match the tremor of the earth and thought: if this house falls, if she doesn't make it, none of this will matter. Not Eddie, not Dustin, not the fire, not the plan. Nothing.

And yet he couldn't move, not yet. He could only stand in the attic's wreckage, lungs burning, ears ringing, watching the night air pour in through the shattered window where Vecna had fallen. Watching and waiting, and knowing it wasn't over.

***

The air was thick in his lungs as Steve tore through it, the landscape of the Upside Down stretching endlessly in dull grays and red streaks of lightning overhead.

His feet barely seemed to touch the ground, his chest pounding, the sharp smack of his sneakers swallowed by the eerie stillness that lingered after the storm. Behind him, he could hear Nancy and Robin, their steps lighter, more cautious, but keeping pace. The silence was wrong. The air too still, too stunned, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Steve narrowed his eyes, straining to see through the gloom. The trailer sat like a ghost ahead of them, hunched and blackened at its edges. He almost convinced himself there was nothing there, that the quiet meant safety. But then—movement. A figure bent low to the ground.
And then—
"Steve!" Dustin's voice cracked apart on his name, shattering what stillness was left. Desperate, ragged, a sound pulled from the bottom of his chest.
"Steve, help!"

Steve froze, his breath catching, a knot rising so violently in his throat he thought he might choke. His eyes locked forward, squinting harder, willing himself to be wrong. Then the truth set in. He could see Dustin's small frame hunched over something larger. Eddie. Lying limp.

"No." The word tumbled out of his mouth, thin, useless, almost childlike. His body surged forward again, faster this time, his legs carrying him before his mind could even catch up.
"No, no, no, no—"

The ground blurred beneath him until he was there. Until Dustin's tear-streaked face lifted to him, blotchy and broken, hands clamped tight around Eddie as if holding him together by will alone.

And Eddie. Eddie was torn apart. His shirt shredded, his skin slick with too much blood, pooling beneath him in a dark, seeping halo.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck." Steve dropped to his knees so fast the jolt rattled through his bones. His hands hovered, shaking, over Eddie's body, brushing over his chest, his arms, his sides. He didn't know where to touch, where to start, what would make a difference. His fingers grazed blood and fabric and flesh, slipping, searching for something to hold onto. His vision blurred.

"Steve—" Dustin sobbed, his whole body shaking.

"What happened!" Steve's voice tore out of him, louder than he meant, jagged, filled with something between fury and grief.

"I tried to stop him!" Dustin yelled back, his words mangled by hiccuping cries. His grip on Eddie tightened, as if the confession might undo itself if he let go.

"Uh, okay. This is okay." Steve's voice splintered, words coming too fast, too shallow. His hands skimmed across Eddie's chest again, desperate, clumsy. "It's okay, it's okay. He's okay. He's gonna be okay." He wasn't talking to them. Not to Dustin, not to Eddie. He was muttering to himself, like he could conjure truth if he said it enough times.

"Robin!" His scream cut into the stillness, harsh and raw, pulling her forward. She appeared seconds later, her steps faltering as soon as her eyes landed on Eddie.

"Oh god." She stopped short, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Robin, I need—" Steve broke off, his chest heaving, words stalling before they could form. His lungs refused to fill. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. "Help. I need help, we need to get him out. I need help getting him out."

"Steve—" Her voice was soft, careful, but it made him bristle.

"No. Stop. He's not dead. He's not going to die." His words came fierce now, his face streaked wet. He looked at her like daring her to contradict him. "We're getting him out. I'm not leaving him. He's fine. He's gonna be fine, okay? So just—help me."

Robin's face twisted, pain flickering across it as she took a slow, cautious step closer. Her voice trembled, though she tried to make it steady.
"I don't—I don't even know how we would—he's losing a lot of blood, Steve. We don't even know how deep those wounds are—"

"I don't care!" Steve's roar cracked through the air, wild, desperate. His hands pressed uselessly against Eddie's shirt, his palms red now, soaked, slipping. "We are not talking about him like he's—like he's already gone. He's not. He's right here." His head bent low, his voice broke, words catching like splinters. "He's right here and he needs us."

Nancy arrived then, her face pale, her eyes darting between all of them. She knelt, but slower, more measured, her voice quieter, betraying a calm that barely held.

"If we don't move him soon—if we can't find help—"

"Then we find help." Steve's head snapped up, his voice frantic, guttural, as though the words themselves might keep Eddie's heart beating. "We find a way. I don't care if we have to drag him halfway across Indiana, we're not letting him die. I won't."

He bent lower over Eddie, hands pressed to his chest again, as if the force of his touch, of his will alone, could hold him here.

***

He had Eddie in his arms, the weight of him heavier than Steve had expected, though he supposed it wasn't just Eddie's body pressing into him but everything that came with it. The blood soaking through his shirt, the faint tremor of Eddie's shallow breaths against his chest, the way his head lolled against Steve's shoulder like it took too much to even hold it upright. Bridal style, awkward and clumsy, but it was the only way. His arms burned from the effort, but he didn't loosen his hold. Not once.

The trailer was wrecked, splintered wood and broken plaster everywhere, the air clogged with smoke and dust. Steve staggered inside and saw it. The rope, dangling, cut clean, and the mattress gone. Now there was only bare floor and the hole yawning open in the ceiling, jagged and impossible, the path back.

He laid Eddie down as carefully as his shaking arms would allow, lowering him onto the dusty ground like setting something fragile onto glass.

He shoved the mattress back into place, his fingers clumsy and slipping against the fabric, before nodding at Robin and Nancy. They didn't hesitate. They grabbed a chair, climbing, fumbling. Their movements jerky and too quick, because none of them could pretend time wasn't running out. Robin went first, Nancy steadying the chair until she pulled herself through, then following herself. Their faces vanished into the other side.

That left Steve and Dustin, Eddie stretched between them like a body they didn't want to admit was already halfway gone. Dustin's hands were sticky with blood, his face a mess of tears, and together they lifted him, hoisting him up toward the hole. Steve's arms strained, his muscles screaming, pushing him up toward the ceiling like he was some kind of offering.

He pushed harder, higher, until he felt the tug of Robin and Nancy's hands pulling Eddie from above.

"Careful," Steve muttered, though his voice was barely sound at all, more breath than word. He didn't even know if anyone heard him. He wasn't thinking, not really. Just moving, just forcing his body forward because stopping wasn't an option. If he stopped, if he let himself think, he would shatter.

Steve and Dustin pulled themselves through to the other side. Steve, clasping his hands together for Dustin to step on to before he was dragging himself up with the last bit of energy he had left. Not wasting a second before he was hoisting Eddie into his arms again and out of the trailer.

And then—her.

At first he thought he was hallucinating, some leftover vision from the poison haze of the Upside Down. A woman, alone, walking through the debris like she belonged there. A phantom in a neat suit, or an angel who had taken the wrong turn. She was speaking, her voice brisk and clipped, carrying a name which was the only thing he heard.

"Max Mayfield."

Max.

Steve froze. Eddie still in his arms. His throat clenched, and before he even understood it, he was crying. Not soft tears but sharp, guttural sobs that bent him forward, his whole body wracked with them. He hadn't cried like this since he was a child, when pain was pure and unstoppable, before he learned how to hold it all in.

Nancy was speaking. Or at least he assumed she was. Her lips were moving, he just couldn't hear anything through the searing pain that was forming at the front of his brain.

Then, before he could even draw another breath, there were more. A team. People swarming out of nowhere, faceless, efficient, hands everywhere, voices sharp and certain.

Eddie was taken from him, carried, placed in the back of a blacked-out van before Steve could even say wait.
And then he was being ushered too, herded almost, Nancy at his elbow, Robin close behind, Dustin half-dragged because he wouldn't stop clutching at Eddie's arm until someone pried his fingers away.

Steve didn't fight. He let himself be guided, numb, his body still running on whatever instinct had gotten him this far. Doors slammed, an engine roared, and suddenly the four of them were moving, shut inside the dark belly of another van.

He sat wedged between Robin and Dustin, knees drawn up, the metal floor vibrating beneath his boots. He couldn't see out the windows. Blacked out, sealed tight and maybe that was a kindness, because he didn't want to know what they were passing through, how much farther Eddie was being taken from him.

He stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on nothing, the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears. He wasn't thinking anymore, not in words at least, just blank space, an unbearable stillness in his chest that felt like he was floating somewhere outside his body. Disassociating, he realized dimly, though the word felt clinical, too clean for this.

Beside him, Robin shifted, her leg brushing his. Nancy sat stiff and straight across from them, her hands knotted in her lap, jaw clenched as though she could hold herself together by sheer will.

And Dustin.

At first Steve thought Dustin was being quiet because he was in shock, the way he was sitting small in the corner, his arms wrapped tight around himself. But then he heard it, soft at first, almost imperceptible: the sound of someone trying not to cry. A quick intake of breath, a muffled sound against the back of his hand, like he wanted to keep it private even here, in this suffocating dark.

Steve turned, saw the tears streaking Dustin's cheeks, the way his shoulders trembled, and it hit him harder than anything else had. Harder than the sight of Eddie on the ground, harder than the blood, or his lifeless, glazed eyes.

This. Dustin trying to hold it in, trying not to make it worse for anyone else, was unbearable.

Without thinking, Steve reached out and placed a hand on Dustin's knee. Not firm, not forceful, just steady. A silent weight, saying I'm here, I've got you, without having to put it into words. Dustin's breath hitched, a tiny sob escaping before he bit it back again, but he didn't pull away. He let Steve's hand stay there, an anchor in the dark.

***

Everything blurred into urgency. The four of them were rushed down sterile corridors lined with blinking monitors and folding cots. Hands on Steve, dragging him away before he could even process what was happening.

Some kind of makeshift hospital out of town, run by scientists rather than doctors or nurses. The smell of bleach was everywhere, burning his nose, clinging to the back of his throat. He was shoved outside for decontamination.

The hose water hit him like glass, sharp, freezing, punishing. It pelted his skin until he gasped and stumbled, but he didn't fight. He let it happen. He let them strip the blood off him, the filth of the Upside Down, though Eddie's blood felt like it was burned into his skin now, into the lines of his hands.

Needles followed. Tubes. Swabs shoved up his nose, pressed against his tongue, scraping at the insides of his cheeks. He sat numbly, eyes glassy, watching his blood fill vials, dark and thick.

Doctors. Or agents. Maybe scientists. He couldn't tell which—prodded at wounds he'd forgotten he'd taken. His ribs, bruised and tender. The cuts along his arms and back. His neck, raw from where the bats had torn into him. His stomach, still open and gaping. He didn't flinch. He didn't ask questions. He just let them.

Because all he could think, through the ache of his body and the sting of the hose, was Eddie. Eddie's weight in his arms. Eddie's blood on his hands. Eddie being pulled away from him down that corridor, swallowed whole by strangers and walls and doors Steve couldn't pass through.

***

Steve shifted slightly on the stiff plastic chair, the scratchy fabric of the white sweater they'd given him rubbing against the back of his neck. The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the silence, a metronome that both reassured and tortured him.

Eddie lay there, still as if the world had paused around him, his hair neatly brushed back, a contrast to the untamed curls Steve remembered, the hair that used to fall in his eyes when he was laughing or sneaking around doing something reckless.

Now it was slicked and tamed, a clinical perfection that made Steve's chest tighten. He couldn't see what lay beneath the hospital gown, and he didn't need to. The thought of stitches and bandages, of the body he had carried and feared he had lost, was enough to make him shiver. Pale skin stretched over bruises Steve imagined, some faint, some deep, all invisible to him but present in the weight he felt pressing down on his chest.

Steve's fingers rested limply on the edge of the bed, hovering, afraid to touch, afraid that any movement might shatter the fragile peace of the room. Each flutter of Eddie's eyelids sent a rush of relief that made him dizzy, made him want to laugh and cry at the same time. He could almost see the way Eddie's chest had risen and fallen under his hands when he had carried him, the way he had fought, the way he had surrendered in the end, and now here he was, serene and silent.

The white sweater itched, the plastic chair dug into his thighs, the fluorescent lights hummed faintly, and Steve stayed like that, caught between exhaustion and awe, between relief and the fear of ever leaving this room, afraid that if he moved, if he blinked too long, he might miss the fragile heartbeat of the person who meant more than he could name.

He wanted to memorize every detail. The tilt of Eddie's head, the curve of his eyelashes, the faint rise of his shoulders with each measured breath. He would carry this image like a talisman against the cruelty of a world that had nearly taken him away.

Steve didn't move when Robin stepped quietly into the room, didn't even glance up, as if looking away for even a second might make Eddie vanish.

"Hey," she said softly, the hospital mandated slippers making no sound on the tile, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.

Steve let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, eyes still locked on the bed.

"Any updates?" Robin asked again, stepping closer, her voice tentative, almost afraid of disturbing the fragile quiet.

Steve's jaw tightened. "Something about monitoring for infection. Sepsis. I don't know. Whatever." His voice was low, strained, like the words were scraping against his throat. He turned slightly, the flickering overhead light catching a sheen of sweat along his temple.

Robin winced, her gaze moving over the tangled wires and tubes surrounding Eddie. She hovered near the other chair, reluctant to sit.

"No one's saying shit. They just—keep doing tests. Keep saying 'we'll see.'" Steve's voice dropped to a whisper, almost lost in the hum of the machines. "He's hot. Burning. And he keeps—twitching. I don't know what to do."

Robin finally sank into the chair, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, mirroring his posture, her eyes never leaving him.
"You should sleep. Just for an hour," she suggested softly, her words almost a plea.

Steve shook his head, the scratchy sweater tugging at his skin. "I can't. I close my eyes, I see it. I see him in the damn trailer, bleeding out, and I'm not—" His voice broke, faltering under the weight of the memory. "I don't wanna leave him."

Robin's hand hovered over her lap. Quietly, gently, she said, "He's not gone, Steve. He's still fighting."

Steve's jaw clenched, the tension pressing against his ribs. He turned back to Eddie, whispering, almost to himself, "How's Max?"

Robin blinked, startled by the question, then straightened a fraction, her own tension tightening her shoulders. "Not good."

"Fuck." The word escaped Steve before he could stop it, a rough, raw sound.

"They don't know how long. Or if—" Robin trailed off, the impossibility of the situation lingering between them. Steve didn't ask her to continue. He stared down at his hands, knuckles pale, gripping the edge of the chair.

"She's just a kid," he muttered, voice barely audible.

Robin swallowed, nodding, understanding without needing to say more. Silence settled around them, punctuated only by the monitor's beep.

Steve's voice broke again, low, reflective, as if speaking it aloud could somehow make sense of the chaos inside him. "This whole time I thought—if I could keep them safe, if I just kept showing up—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "It wasn't enough."

Robin turned her gaze toward him, softer now, a hand resting lightly on her knee. "You did more than anyone else ever could have. You got him out."

Steve didn't respond. His eyes flicked to Eddie's still face again, tracing the line of his jaw, the freckles dappled just beneath his eyes and the apples of his cheeks. Delicately, he reached out and touched Eddie's wrist, grounding himself, letting the warmth under his fingers anchor the storm in his chest.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do if they don't wake up," he whispered, the words fragile, almost breaking apart in the air.

Robin leaned closer, placing her hand gently on his back. And so they sat, the two of them in silence, Steve's gaze fixed on Eddie, holding onto him with every ounce of himself, as if sheer attention could keep him whole.

***

Robin had gone to get coffee a few minutes ago. Or maybe it had been hours. He wasn't certain. And now, Steve was storming out of Eddie's room like a tempest. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and simmering rage, voice raw from hours of shouting and fear that had metastasized into something hotter, sharper, static under his skin.

Dustin and Nancy were just outside the door, whispering, trying to make sense of the chaos, but Steve could hear every careful inflection, every measured word.

"Are you kidding me? We're still talking about him?" Steve's voice cut through the quiet corridor, echoing against the linoleum floors.
Dustin flinched, a small, startled step back. Nancy looked up, wary, sensing the storm coming.

"We went through all of that. All of it. The goddamn bats, the Upside Down, the broken bones, the blood—" Steve's hand jabbed toward the hospital bed behind him, his voice cracking with the weight of memory. "—and it didn't even matter. He's still out there. We didn't stop him."

Nancy's tone was careful, measured, trying to steady the wildfire. "We hurt him. He's weakened. That's something—"

Steve's laugh was bitter, hollow. "Yeah? Try telling that to Max and Eddie." He pointed again toward the door behind him, shoulders trembling with the force of his words. "I watched him almost die. He still might. Max is in a fucking coma. And you want to talk about what's next like any of this was a win?"

Dustin's small voice trembled through the tension. "We have to be ready. If he comes back—"

"He never left, Dustin!" Steve cut in, spinning on his heel. The hallway went unnervingly quiet. A nurse glanced over her shoulder, her expression wary, but said nothing. Steve's hands ran through his hair, tugging at the strands as if trying to wrench the chaos out with them, chest heaving, jaw tight. "I keep thinking—if we'd just done something different. If I'd stayed with Eddie. If we'd gone back for Max sooner. If I'd—" His words caught in his throat, jagged, incomplete.

Nancy stepped forward, gently, voice steady against the storm. "You did everything you could. Everything."

Steve shook his head, eyes glistening, fury and grief entwined, hands flexing at his sides. "Then why does it still feel like we lost?"

The silence that followed was dense, oppressive. Nothing answered, nothing could.

"Steve. Stop it." Dustin's voice barely rose above a whisper.

"We need a game plan. If Vecna's still out there, we don't get to rest. Not for long. We figure out how to hit him while he's weak—" Nancy began, firm, determined.

"Fuck the game plan, Nancy!"

She blinked, startled, a small falter in her posture.

"You think I care about some map with red pins and stupid little theories when he's in there—" He jabbed a finger toward Eddie's pale, still form. "—hooked up to a million machines and Max is in a coma and we don't even know who's next?"

Nancy opened her mouth, but Steve barreled past her words.

"I'm done acting like this is just another round of some stupid game. Like if we just strategize better, we'll win next time. This isn't a game."

Her tone remained firm, careful: "It's not. But if we don't think—if we don't plan"—

"Then what? We lose again? 'Cause guess what, Nance—we already did." His voice trailed off, heavy, soaked with everything he couldn't fix, couldn't control. He rubbed his face, exhaling sharply, the rawness of it all pressing down.
"I don't want to talk about battle plans. I want him to wake up and be okay. I want something to actually be okay for once."

Steve whipped around, stormed back into the room. He pushed the door closed with a force that rattled the hinges, pressing his back against it like it could keep the chaos outside, like it could hold back everything clawing at him from the hallway.

His knees buckled slightly, and the dam inside him broke. He was crying so hard it shook his shoulders, hot tears streaking down his face, mingling with the grime and exhaustion.

His gaze landed on Eddie, pale and fragile beneath the tangle of wires and blankets, chest rising and falling in shallow, fragile breaths. Steve shook his head, voice low and rough, muttering over and over again like it was a prayer, a curse, a confession.

"Fuck you," he whispered, almost to himself, almost to the world, almost to the impossible odds that had brought them here.

Chapter 5: 1986 Part 3

The room was dim and hushed, the kind of hospital silence that wasn't silence at all but a patchwork of thin sounds stitched together: the the intermittent blip of a machine, the shuffling of rubber soles somewhere down the hall.

Steve sat rooted in the chair at Eddie's bedside, his hands slack in his lap, his gaze pinned to some indistinct middle distance beyond the pale green curtain.

He wasn't really seeing, just existing there in the after of it all, too hollow to sleep, too wired to leave. His body wanted to collapse but his mind was still pacing the Upside Down, still hearing the wings, still pulling Eddie's blood-slick frame from the dirt.

Then—sharp, ragged, alive. A breath.

Steve's head snapped around, the sound like a thunderclap in the muffled air. Eddie's chest hitched; his lashes flickered like a shutter struggling to open.

He was there, still tethered to the world, even if only barely. Steve's body moved before his brain caught up. The chair screeched across linoleum as he lurched forward, hand fumbling until it found Eddie's wrist, pressing, grounding.
"Eddie." His voice broke on the name, not much louder than a whisper. He leaned in, desperate to be the first thing Eddie saw, to fill the confusion etched across his dazed eyes. "Eddie, hey. Hey. It's me. I'm here."

Eddie's lips parted, cracked and pale. The word rasped out like gravel dragged over stone. "Harrington."

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me." Steve nodded quickly, swallowing down the tightness swelling in his throat. Relief flooded him, fierce and sudden, almost unbearable.

Eddie's hand twitched against the sheets, the faintest attempt to push himself upright. The motion was clumsy, pained.

"Don't, don't—" Steve's words spilled out, sharp and urgent. He pressed his palm flat to Eddie's hand, gentle but firm. "Don't move. You've got like—a million stitches."

"I do?" Eddie's voice was a child's, lost, like someone waking into a story they didn't remember beginning.

"Yeah." Steve's mouth tilted into something like a smile, though it barely lifted the corners of his lips. "They put you back together pretty good."

Eddie's gaze dropped, unfocused, and his fingers crept clumsily toward the center of his chest, brushing the hospital gown as though to feel the proof of Steve's words.

"No, don't. Don't touch." Steve caught his hand, cupping it, steadying it. The contact lingered longer than necessary, warm against the cool skin. "I'm gonna call someone, okay? So they can take a look at you. Yeah?"

Eddie blinked, heavy, fighting the fog in his head. "Okay."

"Okay." Steve echoed, nodding, as if to convince himself too.

The next moment he was on his feet, heart hammering, pushing into the hallway, searching.

His eyes landed on a nurse, maybe. He wasn't sure. She was wearing white so he figured she must know what she's doing. Her back straight, posture composed in that infuriatingly calm way that hospital staff always carried.

"He's—he's awake," Steve blurted, almost breathless. The words stumbled over themselves, louder than he intended, jagged with relief and fear.

The woman didn't startle. She merely nodded and followed him back into the room, her stride measured. Steve hovered at the door, ready to trail behind, but her hand lifted, halting him.
"Would you mind just—waiting outside for a moment?" Her tone was soft, practiced.

"But—"

"Just a moment." She smiled, a small, professional thing that offered nothing, explained nothing.

Steve's body sagged back into the chair in the hallway, his knee bouncing with an uncontrollable rhythm. A moment. Just a moment. He clung to that, counted the seconds, the minutes, tried to anchor himself in the promise of imminence. But time stretched, elastic and cruel, until the moment had lost all shape.

When she finally emerged, Steve sprang up so fast he nearly stumbled. "What—what's happening? Is he okay?"

"He needs to rest," she said simply, as though that could contain the enormity of what had just cracked open inside Steve.

"Okay. Well, can I go back and sit with him?" The words tumbled out, rushed, as if permission might vanish if he hesitated. His body thrummed with adrenaline, a leftover current with nowhere to go.

"I don't think visitors should be on the cards for him at the moment. With this level of bodily trauma—he's going to need constant monitoring for the next few days. It's not gonna be pretty."

The words landed heavy, clinical, impossible. Steve's chest tightened. "What does—what does that mean?"

Her voice was even, unshaken, as though she were describing the weather. "There's still a high chance his immune system could reject the stitches, leading to severe infection. We just need to keep a close eye on him, see how his body responds to treatment. We're still not entirely sure of the nature of what the bites from the bats can do to a person—their saliva. Potential transmitted diseases. We just need to be able to make an informed decision on how to move forward. And more importantly, what's going to be best for Eddie. How we can help him feel comfortable while he recovers."

Steve's breath came short, like he was being edged out of the very thing he was clinging to. "I mean—I can just sit there, can't I? I'll be quiet. I'll let him sleep. You guys can—change his dressings and whatever I'm not gonna get in the way."

Her hand came down on his shoulder, grounding and dismissive all at once. "Steve. Go home. Get some rest. You've all been through a lot."

He shook his head, panic prickling under his skin. "When—can I come back?"

"We'll call you in a couple days, okay?"

"Days?" The word snagged in his throat, breaking. "What if—what if something happens and I'm not here? I should be here. What if—"

"If anything changes, we'll find a way to let you know." Her voice was calm, practiced. Too calm.

Steve latched onto something else, anything else. "What about Wayne? Eddie's uncle, he needs to know—"

"Mr. Munson is still staying in the temporary residence we set him up in. Agent Stinson is still trying to—figure out the components on how exactly to handle this with—people who aren't in the know, so to speak. I'm sure we'll all have some more information soon."

Steve exhaled, a ragged sound, his eyes drawn back to the sliver of Eddie's room visible through the cracked door. Another nurse had slipped inside, changing the bag on his IV. Eddie looked impossibly small in the bed, swallowed up by tubes and sheets.

"Go home," the woman said again. "We'll call you."

Steve nodded once, woodenly, but his legs didn't move. Inside, Eddie was breathing. Alive. But Steve couldn't shake the bone-deep fear that if he left, even for a night, he might come back to find that breath gone.

***

The corridor leading to Max's room was dimmer than the others, as if the hospital itself was conspiring to muffle sound, to hush movement.

Steve slowed as he approached, his sneakers squeaking faintly against linoleum, the fatigue in his bones dragging at every step.

The kids were there, all of them, in a crooked row outside Max's door. Lucas hunched forward, elbows pressed to his knees, head bowed into his lap like he was holding himself together by the weight of it. Dustin leaned against the wall, restless hands tugging at the hem of his hoodie. Mike and Will stood side by side, tense, as if waiting for news that might never come.

Steve stopped in front of them, his voice breaking through the stillness. "Come on."

Mike's head jerked up, hair falling into his eyes. "What?"

"Gonna take you guys home," Steve said, firm but tired.

Dustin shook his head instantly, words tumbling out. "We can't—"

"We're going home," Steve cut him off, tone final, though his voice softened around the edges.

"Not exactly like we even have a home anymore. The whole town's been ripped apart." Dustin grumbled.

"Robin already left, last I heard she was calling your parents to let them know you were at the hospital. With any luck they didn't go to Hawkins General looking for you." His gaze flicked across their faces—hollow-eyed, too young for this much grief. "You can all stay at mine. But you need some rest. We need some rest."

Then his eyes lingered on Lucas. He looked breakable, smaller somehow, as though the hospital walls had stolen all the air from his lungs.

"She's in good hands, Sinclair. I promise." Steve crouched slightly, forcing himself into Lucas's line of sight. "You're not gonna be much use to her when she wakes up and you're a dead man walking."

For a long moment, Lucas didn't move. Then slowly, with an effort that looked like it cost him, he lifted his gaze. His eyes met Steve's, wet but steady. A nod. Slight, but enough.

***

The house was too quiet. It should have been comforting, that hush after chaos, but instead it pressed against Steve's ears like static.

He had left the kids downstairs, curled in blankets and silence, too spent for anything else. Upstairs, in his room, Steve moved with the restless urgency of someone trying to outrun himself. He opened his closet, sifted through clothes he barely registered. Jackets, shirts, the faint ghost of cologne clinging to the fabric.

Things he had worn around Eddie.

That old gray tee Eddie had once tugged at with a laugh. A flannel Eddie had leaned against, cheek pressed close in some forgotten moment. The thought alone hollowed him out. He shut the closet too quickly, as if that might shut the memories back inside.

"Steve."

The voice was small, raw. He turned. Dustin stood in the doorway, his figure framed by the hall light. His face was pale, features tightened into something older than his years.

"You okay? You need something?" Steve asked, words tripping over themselves, too quick. "I've got—more pillows in the linen closet—"

"No." Dustin's head shook, curt, final.

Steve's chest tightened. "What's up?"

For a long time, Dustin only stared at him, like he was trying to peel something back from Steve's face, force the truth out of him without words. When he spoke, his voice cracked. "Why did he do it?"

Steve inhaled sharply, chest seizing. He looked away, swallowing hard, jaw clenched until it hurt. "I don't know."

"It's like he—wanted to die. Like he was trying to—" Dustin's voice broke completely. His hands fisted at his sides. "I'm so mad."

"Yeah." Steve nodded, his own anger raw and useless in his veins. "I'm mad too."

Dustin blinked rapidly, then squared his shoulders. His voice, though frayed, carried more force. "Are you gonna tell me the truth now?"

Steve's brow furrowed. "Truth about what?"

"I'm not stupid, Steve. And I'm not a child. Even if you like to think I am."

"I know you're not." Steve let out a nervous laugh that died too quickly, leaving the air heavier than before.

"So, what is it?" Dustin stepped further into the room, his voice tightening. "One minute you hate him, the next you're volunteering to stay with him. Having all these secret conversations, thinking that nobody's noticing. Not leaving his side at the hospital. Going ape shit at everyone around you. What's the truth?"

Steve's mouth went dry. His shoulders lifted in a half-shrug, the kind you give when there's too much behind it. "I don't know."

"Bullshit." Dustin's voice cracked, fierce. He moved closer, bridging the distance.

"Henderson, I don't—"

"Tell me."

Steve raked a hand through his hair, exhaling through clenched teeth. "It's complicated."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm smart." Sarcasm, sharp and shaky. "Tell me."

The room seemed to shrink, pressing him against the bed, against his own thoughts. Steve sank down on the edge, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him the words. Finally, he said, quiet: "We were—friends."

"What?" Dustin blinked. "When? How?"

"Seventh grade through to the beginning of high school. I dunno." Steve's voice was flat, tired.

"You were friends and you didn't say anything?" Dustin moved closer, standing right in front of him now.

"There wasn't much to say. We weren't—we stopped being friends. We barely spoke. It wasn't worth mentioning."

"So why'd you stop?"

Steve laughed once, bitter, humorless. "Because—I was a fucking asshole." He scoffed, shaking his head, not wanting to go there but dragged anyway. "I ditched him. For Tommy H and basketball. For popularity. For parties and girls. Because I thought—I thought that shit mattered. And—Eddie didn't fit. He couldn't fit. Because—" His voice caught. He pressed his knuckles against his lips, forcing the words out. "Because he made me feel different. I was a completely different person when I was with him and I didn't like it."

"Different how?" Dustin's tone was softer now, but insistent.

"Just—different." Steve's voice was low, almost ashamed. "Something I was afraid of." He finally lifted his head, meeting Dustin's eyes fully. "But I never stopped caring about him."

"You had a funny way of showing it." Dustin's laugh was sharp, wet. "Ragging on him at every given opportunity, making fun of him, calling him weird."

"I didn't mean it." Steve's voice rose slightly, desperate. "I was just trying to—" He broke off, grimaced, the words tangling in his throat. "I don't know what I was trying to do."

Trying to forget him. Trying to pretend none of it had ever happened.

But Eddie had stayed lodged there, buried under years of noise and arrogance.

The words still echoed in Steve's chest, reverberating long after they'd been spoken, like a bell rung too hard.

"He's one of my best friends, Steve. And all I wanted was for the two of you to get along. And you couldn't even give me that because of—pride or whatever." His voice cracked mid-sentence, not from weakness but from the strain of holding himself steady.

Steve's hands balled into fists, then opened again. "It's not about pride, Dustin." The words sounded hollow, thin.

"So what, then?" Dustin shot back. His foot shifted against the floor, impatient.

"My relationship with Eddie was—it was different to your relationship with him." Steve's throat felt raw.

"Different how?" Dustin demanded, his chin jutting forward.

"I don't know—"

"Different how." He pressed again, relentless, eyes narrowing.

"It's hard to explain!" Steve's voice broke, frustration clawing its way out of him.

"Then try!"

The silence stretched taut between them until Steve snapped, the words tearing out like they'd been waiting years to be spoken. "Because I was in love with him!"

Dustin froze. His face changed all at once. Shock first, then something softer, confusion, an attempt to piece it together. Steve could see it all happen, could almost hear the gears shifting in his head.

"It was—it was hard," Steve stumbled on, voice catching. His chest heaved with every breath, his pulse a drumbeat in his ears. "I never meant to hurt him, Dustin. I was scared. And I can't take it back. I tried. Believe me, I tried. The last couple years I just—I was trying. But it's—it's complicated." He dragged a hand over his face, as if that might slow the flood of words. "And all I can do now is just—is just show him that I'm here and that I care about him and just—hope to god he sees that. And then maybe—maybe I'll have a chance to—just do right by him. To show him that I care. But I can't do that from here. He's there—alone. And I'm here. And I'm fucking— I'm useless."

The tears came before he could stop them. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes but it was no use; his voice shook as he forced it out. "So yeah, I'm mad at him too. Because I thought that—I thought I would be enough for him to—" His voice collapsed, shredded.

The mattress dipped beside him. Dustin sat down without a word, his shoulder knocking gently against Steve's before he let his head rest there. The gesture was small, awkward, but it broke something loose in Steve's chest.

"I'm sorry." His voice cracked, nearly inaudible.
Dustin nodded, his cheek brushing Steve's shoulder.

"I won't tell the others," he said quietly, almost conspiratorially, as though the walls might be listening.

Steve nodded back, wordless gratitude tightening his throat. "Thanks."

***

Steve and Dustin walked in silence, their footsteps echoing faintly, the sound bouncing between the walls. When they reached Eddie's room, Steve stopped short. His body pulled taut, unwilling to move forward.

"You're not coming?" Dustin asked, his hand half-reaching back toward him.

Steve shook his head, his voice low. "You go. I'll wait." He lowered himself onto the chair outside the room, the vinyl squeaking beneath his weight, and leaned forward, elbows on knees.

Steve sat there. Ten minutes turned into half an hour. Half an hour turned into an hour.

From inside, faint laughter drifted out, Dustin's voice weaving through Eddie's in broken snippets Steve couldn't quite make out. It was enough to imagine it. The easy rhythm, Eddie's sharp wit colliding with Dustin's eagerness.

The sound hollowed him out and filled him at the same time, like a reminder of what was his to lose, what maybe had always been slipping through his hands.

Dustin emerged, eventually. His face was softer, calmer, like he'd set something down inside the room that Steve hadn't yet dared to carry. "I'm gonna go sit with Lucas and Max," he said, his voice quiet.

Steve nodded. His throat felt thick. He watched Dustin walk down the corridor until he disappeared around the corner.

It took minutes. Long ones, stretching, folding in on themselves before Steve could move. He willed his legs forward, one at a time, and pushed the door open.

Eddie was sitting up now, hair pulled back into a haphazard tie, eyes fully open, glinting with that familiar mischief that made Steve's chest ache.

The bandages were visible against his neck, pale skin bruised and raw around them, and still Eddie looked at him like he was nothing more than an intruder in his space.

"Harrington." His voice was gravelly but steady. His lips quirked into a half-smile. "You here to give me my morning bed bath?"

Steve froze just inside the door, the words hitting him with the strange relief of normalcy, of Eddie being Eddie despite everything. He managed a faint huff of air that might have been a laugh, though it broke halfway out.

"You can come over," Eddie added, eyes watching him, sharp but kind. "I'm not contagious."

Steve's feet wouldn't move, but his heart lurched forward anyway, dragging everything in him closer.

Steve moved slowly, awkwardly, like every step carried the risk of saying too much. His hand brushed the chair as if he needed to confirm it was there, real, before lowering himself into it.

"No, I know." His voice cracked, thin, as he shook his head to himself, still not meeting Eddie's eyes. "How you feeling?"

"Oh, y'know." Eddie smirked, lips tugging into a semblance of the old grin. "A little draughty. With all the holes and such."

Steve's mouth twitched. Almost a smile, not quite. "Yeah, I can imagine."

Eddie tilted his head, eyes half-lidded but sharper than Steve wanted them to be. "What about you?"

"I'm fine." Steve shrugged, the movement too quick, too rehearsed.

"Fine?" Eddie's eyebrows lifted, disbelief softening into something like curiosity.

"Well, nowhere near as bad as you got it."

"Oh, it's not all bad." Eddie's voice carried that dry humor that always found a way to make Steve's chest ache. "They're finally letting me go piss on my own. Catheter no more. I'm a free man."

Steve nodded, lips pressed tight. "Glad to hear it."

He looked down then, hands restless in his lap, his leg bouncing uncontrollably. The hum of the machines filled the pause.

"I don't look so good, huh?" Eddie asked after a beat, his tone flat, testing.

"What?" Steve's head snapped up.

"You can barely look at me."

"It's not—it's not that." Steve's words stumbled. He felt his jaw tighten as he searched for the truth. "I guess I'm just—confused." Steve said, though it came out as more of a question than a statement.

Eddie leaned back slightly, wincing at the pull of his stitches, his eyes fixed on Steve with unnerving patience. "Care to share?"

Steve shut his eyes, lips pressing into a line, debating. Then the words slipped out, low. "Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?" Eddie's smirk was faint, defensive, a mask he put on like armor.

"Eddie, please—don't. Don't fuck with me." Steve's eyes slammed shut again, his voice rough with the effort of containing himself.

"I thought it was the right thing to do."

"The right thing to do was to follow the plan."

"Yeah? Well the plan wasn't going so great. I had to improvise, like all great DM's do."

Steve's anger flared, sharp and hot. "This isn't some—fucking dungeon game campaign. You almost got yourself killed. You were basically dead when I got to you." His voice rose with each word, the memory dragging him back to blood, dirt, and Eddie slipping away beneath his hands.

"I didn't think I had anything to lose." Eddie said, as though it wasn't the most outlandish statement Steve had ever heard. Like it was common knowledge.

"You—nothing to lose?" Steve's voice echoed, incredulous, hollowed out by disbelief.

"Jesus, Steve. Seriously? Do I have to spell it out for you?" Eddie's face hardened, his voice bitter. "I'm a fucking failure. I failed senior year twice. Heading for a third. The entire town thought I was a murderer on top of them thinking I'm some—faggy satanic freak orchestrating some kind of sacrificial cult. They were never gonna let that go. That's all I'm going to be for the rest of my life. I was never gonna make it out of that shithole town alive. So I thought why not take matters into my own hands. Let them fucking—spit and dance on my grave. At least I won't be around to see it." He looked down at his bandaged chest, his fingers twitching as if they wanted to tear it all apart. "I have—nothing, man."

The words burst out of Steve before he could stop them. "You have us. Me. I'm here. We're all here."

Eddie's eyes flicked up, startled, unreadable. "I did it for you."

Steve surged to his feet so suddenly the chair legs screeched against the floor, nearly toppling. His body trembled with fury. "Don't fucking say shit like that. Don't even—don't. I never wanted you to do that. I told you—" He broke off, pacing away, one hand braced against the wall like it could keep him upright.

"I wanted to give Dustin a chance of making it out." Eddie's voice was steadier than it had any right to be. "Because I know how much he means to you."

"Fuck you." Steve spun, finger stabbing the air toward him, rage burning hot in his chest. "Don't put that on me. I never made that choice. You made that choice."

"Yeah, well—someone had to."

"You have—no fucking idea how painful it was seeing you lying there like that. Thinking you were dead. That I wasn't there. That I was gonna have to—leave you there." Steve's voice cracked, shattered. He clenched his fists until his nails bit his palms. "It fucked me up, Eddie. I'm fucked up. I carried you! I dragged you out of there! Me!" His words tore out, raw, unrestrained.
Eddie's expression stayed stoic, but Steve could see it. The fracture beneath, the fragile edge threatening to break.

"And—Dustin." Steve's voice rose again, almost pleading. "What, you don't care what that did to him? He's just a kid, Eddie! No matter how grown up we have to be out there he's just a fucking kid who was watching the person he admires most in this world die in his arms!"

"I never asked to be a role model, Steve." Eddie's words came quiet, sharp, like a blade hidden in cloth.

"God. You're so—selfish you can't even fucking see beyond your own self-hatred to realize that there's people who love you. People who need you. Wayne. Dustin. Your friends." Steve's voice broke again, unraveling.

Me. I need you the most, he thought, the words sticking in his throat like glass.

"Is that all?" Eddie asked after a stretch of silence, his eyes lowered to his hands.

"Yeah. That just about covers it." Steve's voice was ragged, drained.

"So, what. You hate me now? You never wanna see me again, or whatever?" Eddie muttered, almost sulking.

"No." The word came sharp, without hesitation. Eddie's eyes lifted, startled.

"I'll be here," Steve continued, his voice steadying with each word. "Every hour of every day I'm allowed to be. And then when you go home I'll be there too. Fluffing your pillows. Making sure you're drinking enough water. Checking for fevers. Making you soup and grilled cheese sandwiches even if you tell me you're not hungry. Until you get sick of me and wish you'd never done this in the first place. Maybe even until you wish you'd never met me."

"Do I get a say in any of that?" Eddie asked, a flicker of amusement ghosting across his face.

"Not really, no." Steve shrugged, the movement easy this time, almost reckless.

"Okay." Eddie nodded after a beat, eyes softening.

"Okay. Good." Steve exhaled, the words almost a vow, and lowered himself back into the chair beside him.

***

The room had become a small universe of its own, a fragile bubble where the chaos of the outside world seemed to pause, giving them all a moment to exist without constant threat or fear.

Steve sat quietly, a silent orbit around Eddie's gravity, his presence a steadying force more than anything else. He didn't need to talk; he didn't need to fix things. He just needed to be there, to watch, to catch the small movements, the tiny shifts that meant Eddie was recovering, that meant he was alive and still stubbornly stubborn in his way.

The kids, no longer kids in any real sense, filled the room with noise that bounced off the walls like sunlight off water. Campaign ideas tumbled out of their mouths, half-coherent and absurd, punctuated by shouts and laughter. How cool of a dungeon master Eddie was going to be now with all his gnarly scars.

Every time Eddie flinched at some sudden movement, Steve would be there in an instant. Moving. Worrying. To the point where Eddie would just laugh and say things like: "Harrington, I'm fine. I just have an itch on my back."

So naturally, Steve would put a hand on his back, scratching just behind the shoulder blades, the spots Eddie couldn't reach. Every time. Eddie would grumble out a thanks and Steve would lean back in his seat, entirely unfazed.

Robin, patient and gentle, would braid his hair back so that it wouldn't stick to the sweat on his forehead or fall into his eyes, tucking each loose strand behind his ears with soft fingers.

Eddie moved slowly, a cautious meander punctuated by the dragging of his fluids across the floor, a metallic rattle marking each step. He joked about feeling like some kind of robot, and Steve would chuckle along quietly, letting the humor carry some of the weight away.

When Eddie complained about the food—overly cautious, flavorless hospital fare—Steve became a covert provider, sneaking off for vending machine snacks and returning with small treasures of chips and chocolate, watching the way Eddie's eyes lit up like a little candle flickering in the sterile light.

Wayne arrived eventually. The shell-shocked look of a man seeing the damage done to someone he loved combined with the entire world as he knew it, imploding, clear in his expression. But Dustin did a good enough job of explaining the things nobody else really wanted to talk about. Especially not Lucas.

Steve would step away, gave them the space to speak, standing near the door but remaining tethered by his presence. When Wayne emerged, patting Steve lightly on the shoulder in quiet acknowledgment, Steve nodded, understanding the unspoken thanks. Then he would slip back into Eddie's orbit, the room his center of gravity, where Eddie's small smiles and quiet murmurs held more meaning than anything else in the world.

Eddie was getting better. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, like the change of seasons you only notice when you step outside and the air feels different on your skin.

The grayish cast of his face began to soften, replaced by a faint flush of color that made him look less like a ghost and more like himself again. His hands no longer trembled when he reached for things, his laughter wasn't cut off so quickly by pain, and his eyes had started to glint again with that restless, irrepressible light.

All he seemed to want was pudding pots.

Chocolate, vanilla, whatever they had stocked. He asked for them with mock-seriousness, demanded them like they were essential medicine. Steve would roll his eyes, muttering about how the sugar was going to undo all the doctors' hard work, but he'd go and fetch them anyway, tearing back the foil lids and handing them over like contraband.

Eddie ate them with a grin that crinkled his eyes, spoon clinking softly against the little plastic cup, and for Steve, it was enough just to sit there and watch him enjoy it.

The tension that had once coiled tight between them began to ease. It dissipated like smoke fading into air, leaving behind something quieter, easier. They joked again, not like they had in middle school when everything was sharp-edged and defensive, but gently, almost carefully, as if they both knew how fragile this new balance was.

Steve was grateful for it, grateful for the way Eddie smiled at him without bitterness, for the way their silences were no longer loaded but just comfortable.

Eddie never brought up what Steve had said, that eruption of truth torn out of him in the heat of panic. Because I love you. The words still echoed sometimes when Steve lay awake at night, his pulse quickening as if he'd shouted them only minutes before. But Eddie never mentioned it, never teased, never pressed. He let the words hang somewhere in the past, unacknowledged, untouched.

And Steve didn't bring it up either. He didn't know if he ever would, if there would be a right moment again, or if this was just how it was going to be now. This strange almost-peace, where his love was folded away inside him, invisible but present, stitched into every quiet gesture, every pudding pot fetched, every long hour spent sitting by Eddie's side.

He told himself it was enough. That maybe this—this fragile, tentative closeness—was safer, kinder, than risking it all again. And still, beneath it all, he felt it burning, steady and unresolved, like a secret he carried not because he wanted to, but because he had no choice.

***

The apartment didn't feel like a home. It felt like a waiting room where life had been paused, beige walls and brown carpet pressing in from every angle, the blandness of it making Steve think of a hotel room stripped of the noise of its former guests.

Everything smelled faintly of detergent and stale air, nothing lived in, nothing carrying the texture of Eddie or of memory. But it was safe, an hour out of Hawkins, far enough from the whispers, the pointing fingers, the weight of the town's hatred. For Eddie, it was perfect. For Eddie, it was exile disguised as safety.

Steve's hand hovered too deliberately at Eddie's waist as they crossed the threshold, steadying him in the way one might guide someone fragile, though Eddie's stubborn body resisted every bit of help. Steve's shoulders ached under the weight of Eddie's rucksack, the straps digging into his collarbones. He told himself he didn't mind. He would've carried ten more.

"Careful, careful—" he murmured, leaning in, as if the words alone could cushion Eddie from pain.

"I just missed a step, Harrington." Eddie scoffed, pulling away with mock offense. "I know how to walk, it's not my first day on the planet." His eyes scanned the room as he stepped into the bland living space, and despite everything, he grinned, palms brushing over the surface of the leather couch as though touch alone could give the place meaning. "Wow. Trauma really pays off, huh?"

Steve followed his gaze, uneasy in the room's emptiness, watching the way Eddie's fingertips ghosted over surfaces as if searching for proof that they were real.
"What's this?" Eddie pointed to the cardboard boxes stacked neatly against the wall.

"Oh, I uh—I went back to the trailer. Couple weeks ago. Just to see what I could salvage." Steve shrugged, feigning nonchalance though the memory of stepping into Eddie's wrecked life still lodged in his throat like grit. "It's not—it's not everything, but—y'know. Better than nothing."

Eddie paused, his smirk slipping into something softer, more fragile. "No, this—this is great. Thanks, man." His voice held no teasing this time, only sincerity that made Steve's chest tighten.

"All good," Steve said quickly, nodding once, cutting his gaze away before the weight of Eddie's smile undid him. For a moment they lingered there, silence expanding between them like something that wanted to be filled but couldn't.
"You, uh—you want a drink or something? Maybe something to eat?" Steve asked, his words fumbling to fill the gap.

"Uh, no. I think I'm gonna take a shower. Kinda the only thing I've been looking forward to." Eddie's grin returned, crooked, careless.

"Right, yeah. Good idea."

"Why? Do I smell?" Eddie teased, raising a brow.
Steve barked out a laugh before he could stop himself.
"You didn't deny it," Eddie said, pointing an accusing finger, grin widening.

"Just—go take your shower, man." Steve shook his head, the laughter still spilling from him.
And Eddie did.

Steve stayed behind, trying to make himself useful, moving the boxes into Eddie's room, folding shirts into drawers that still smelled of factory varnish. In the kitchen, he filled a glass of water, leaving it on the counter for Eddie. He moved like someone rehearsing a role, each gesture carefully practical, because if he stopped moving, he'd start thinking. About how small Eddie had looked, about how easy it was to imagine losing him.

The hiss of the shower drifted down the hallway, a steady, calming rhythm that filled the apartment with sound, as if trying to trick them both into thinking things were normal. Steve let himself breathe.

Then he heard a crash. A muffled thud against tile.

Steve dropped everything, and was at the bathroom door in seconds, palm flat against the hollow wood, his ear pressed to the seam.
"Eddie? You good?" His voice cracked against the doorframe.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." The answer came muffled, forced.

"You sure?" Steve pushed, hearing the hollowness in Eddie's tone.

"Yeah."

"Look, if you need a hand—" he didn't know why he'd said that. Because ultimately, what was he going to do that wouldn't have made either of them entirely uncomfortable? Hold Eddie upright whilst he stands beneath the stream entirely naked? Wash his hair? All things he wanted to do. All things he wouldn't mind doing if Eddie asked.

"Steve, just—I'm fine. Leave me alone." The words came sharp, the edge of something fragile breaking.

Steve closed his eyes, forehead pressing briefly to the cool door, fingers curling into fists at his sides. "Okay," he said finally, his voice dropping.

He returned to the sofa, sinking into it heavily, staring at the blank wall across from him. The water still ran and Steve sat there, restless, his leg bouncing against the carpet. Every part of him wanted to break the door down, but he stayed still.

When the shower stopped, Steve held his breath. He heard the shuffle of feet, the low creak of the bathroom door. Eddie emerged fully dressed, damp hair curling against his neck, his face closed off. Without a word, he crossed the living room, slipped the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Steve stared at the thin strip of light beneath it, watching the shadow of Eddie's feet disappear into the expanse of the room, chest heavy.

He sat on the couch for what felt like hours, the cushions giving beneath him, staring at the closed door down the short hallway. Eddie still hadn't come out.

Finally, he pushed himself up, crossing the carpet with steps that felt heavier than they were, pausing in front of Eddie's door. His knuckles hovered just a moment too long before rapping against the wood.
"Eddie? I'm—I'm gonna head out." His voice sounded flat, rehearsed, like he was trying to convince himself more than Eddie.

"Okay." Eddie's muffled voice, distant, unconvincing.

Steve pressed his palm against the frame, leaned in a little. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine."

He paused, exhaled, the kind of sigh that collapsed something in his chest. "Look, I don't wanna—I don't wanna push you, but I just—can I come in?"

Silence.

"I just wanna see you're okay, man. Y'know. For peace of mind."

The door whipped open. Eddie stood there, retreating a step back into the room as if the act of opening it had already been too much. His eyes were red, his face raw.
"See. I'm fine. You can go now."

Steve's stomach tightened. "Have you been crying?"

"God, nothing gets past you, does it?" Eddie scoffed, bitter laughter spilling out like something curdled.

"What's the matter?" Steve asked gently, stepping into the doorway.

"What's the matter? You wanna know what's the matter?" Eddie's voice cracked, sharp, rising like it had been waiting to break free. "What's the matter is that I'm—I'm fucking hideous!"

"What?" Steve blinked.

"I saw myself! In the mirror! Before I got in the shower and I just—I'm fucking—I can't even look at myself." Eddie's voice tore itself apart.

"Eddie—"

"No! Don't." His hands flew up, frantic, as though even Steve's sympathy was too much to bear. "There is nothing you can possibly do or say right now that's gonna make any of this better, so don't fucking waste your breath."

"You're still healing. It's gonna look—rough for a while. It's just a shock, that's all." Steve tried to steady his voice, to be the calm Eddie didn't want but needed.

"Jesus Christ," Eddie groaned, dragging both hands over his face like he could scrub himself out of existence.

"You haven't been able to look at yourself or adjust. It would freak anyone out seeing themselves like this. It'll get better."

Eddie pulled at the hem of his shirt, yanked it over his head with a kind of violence, and dropped it to the floor.

Steve's breath caught. The sight of him—stitched, red, shiny with scars that twisted across his chest and ribs—was brutal, like looking at a body that had been undone and patched back together by someone with shaking hands. He forced his face to remain stoic, even as something inside him wrenched.

"You think this is ever gonna get better?" Eddie demanded, eyes blazing. "Huh? I'm—fucking deformed, Steve! I'm fucking hideous! Like the inside of a butcher shop or a science experiment gone wrong!"

"No, you're not." The words left Steve too quickly, as though saying them fast enough might make them true.

"Shut up."

"Eddie, you're not hideous."

"Oh, that's real fucking easy for you to say, Harrington." Eddie's voice dripped with spite, shaking with fury and despair. "You've been—what—Mr. Hawkins High since you were, like, twelve? You're tall, you're broad, you're tanned. You've got that stupid perfect hair. You're a fucking walking wet dream. You walk into a room and people look at you for the right reasons." His lip curled, his laugh hollow. "God, I wish you'd just fucking—let me die."

"Don't say shit like that!" Steve's voice cracked, louder than he meant, anger spilling over from fear.

"You don't get it. You've never had to get it. You don't know what it's like to be stared at like you're a freak, or like—people are waiting for you to slip up just so they can laugh. And now—now I've got these fucking scars carved into like I'm leftovers from a Thanksgiving turkey. And you—you're still sitting here, looking like you belong on the cover of some shampoo ad, telling me it doesn't matter."

Steve stood there, as if one more word might undo everything. He wanted to reach out, to close the space, but his hands stayed rigid at his sides.

His chest ached, his throat burned, but he held himself still, because he knew if he moved too quickly, Eddie would bolt, and the fragile thread between them would snap.

Steve faltered, his voice barely above a whisper. "You think that's all I am? Hair and—height? Seriously?"

Eddie's chest heaved as he glared at him, eyes sharp, red-rimmed, alive with a fire Steve could almost touch. "I just think it's easy to preach when you're never gonna look in the mirror and see—this. When you've always been—beautiful. And you still are."

The words landed like stones in Steve's chest, heavy and unrelenting. And then Eddie said it, flat and final: "Get out."

"Eddie—"

"I said get the fuck out!" Eddie's hands shoved him back with the force of frustration and desperation. "Get out!"

Steve stumbled into the hallway, the door slamming behind him, sealing him out and leaving only the faint, muffled sound of Eddie's cries.

Steve stood there for a long moment, hearing the sound and feeling completely useless, trapped by the walls of the apartment, by the helplessness crawling in his chest.

He paced, unable to stand still, his steps dragging over the beige carpet like they weighed a hundred pounds each. His temples throbbed. His chest felt impossibly tight.

He ended up in the bathroom, rifling through the cabinets, fingers hovering over bottles of painkillers. It smelled faintly of steam and metal, the mirror still fogged from Eddie's aborted shower, drops of condensation slipping down the glass like the room itself was sweating. He hated himself instantly for even considering them, a ghost of the past whispering in his head.

Then his gaze caught on Wayne's electric razor, innocuous in its cup, and something inside him snapped.

He grabbed it, flipped it on, and the buzzing filled the small bathroom, vibrating against his bones.

His reflection stared back at him, the perfect hair he had always relied on now a target, a symbol of everything Eddie hated in him.

Without thinking, without hesitation, he pressed the blade to his scalp and dragged it down the middle.

Hair fell in thick clumps into the sink, clinging to his damp palms. He kept going, the clumps piling, the sound of them falling like some twisted music of liberation.

He didn't stop, even as the charged footsteps came down the hall.

Eddie appeared in the doorway, damp hair clinging to his neck, eyes wide, mouth open, as if the sight of Steve hacking away at his own hair had torn a hole in the world.
"The fuck are you doing?!" Eddie yelled, voice raw with disbelief and fury.

Steve didn't look at him. He watched his reflection, the half-shaven head, the uneven lines, the hair still clinging in patches. "Making it fair," he said simply.

"What?"

"Now I can't hide behind my stupid perfect hair."

"Stop!" Eddie's voice cracked, urgent, panicked.

"No use stopping now. I'm basically done." Steve flicked off the razor and turned to face him. "You said it, Eddie! You said I don't know what it's like—so here! Now I'll know! Does this make me ugly enough for you? Huh? Does this finally make me fucking real?"

"You're fucking crazy!" Eddie's voice broke, sharp and small, like glass.

"Yeah, well at least now you won't have to look at something beautiful pretending to understand you!" Steve's voice was raw, unsteady, trembling against its own edges.

He exhaled, trying to pull himself back from the precipice. He put the razor down against the porcelain of the sink, rubbing a hand over his face. Feeling the shards of hair imbed themselves in the pads of his fingers. "My hair's gonna grow back. I know that. This—" he gestured to his scalp, the uneven, shorn patches, "—this is temporary."

Eddie froze in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth parted, unable to find words.

"But you?" Steve lowered his voice, softening, trembling but firm. "You're probably gonna look like this for the rest of your life. You don't get the reset button. You don't get to wait six months and pretend it never happened." His gaze locked on Eddie's through the mirror, holding him, holding his words. "You cannot spend every single day hating yourself for it. It'll kill you. It nearly fucking did. But you're still here and you're acting like that's some kind of punishment!"

He stepped closer, floor cold beneath his feet, voice shaking but unwavering. "I've always thought you were beautiful, Eddie. Always. For years. Before all of this. Before I even saw what was underneath your clothes."

Eddie flinched, face twisting, eyes darting away as if the words scorched him.

"And now I have," Steve continued, softer, quieter, but unflinching. "And guess what? I still think you're beautiful. It doesn't change anything. Because it's never just been about what you look like." His throat tightened. "You will always be beautiful to me. Always. You can scream at me, throw me out, hate me for saying it—but it won't change. It's just who you are to me."

His hand twitched, longing to reach for him, to touch, to erase the pain he saw there, but he held it at his side. He shook his head almost bitterly, almost laughing, soft and broken all at once. "You think I don't get it? That I don't understand what it's like to hate what you see in the mirror? I do. I've been there. But you—" His voice trailed, caught somewhere in his chest, unspeakable. "—you have no idea."

"Steve, please. I don't—I don't wanna do this right now," Eddie muttered, miserably, eyes darting anywhere but at him, the floor, the fog, the walls.

"You don't get it, do you?" Steve swallowed hard, stepped forward, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "You walk into a room and it changes. People feel you, Eddie. Not because you're—fucking hiding scars or showing them, but because you're you. Loud and alive and—you make people want to look at you. You think that comes from your face? From whether your skin's smooth and perfect or not? No. It's you. It's always been you." His voice rose, firm, almost a demand, as though sheer insistence could hammer the truth into him.

He closed the distance, chest heaving, his voice breaking open now. "And I don't care what's on your body or under your shirt. None of it matters. Because every time I look at you or I'm around you I still think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." The words cracked like thin ice under weight, trembling but unyielding.

Eddie didn't move. His eyes skated past Steve like he couldn't bear the sight of him, his silence thick, the kind that pressed against Steve's chest. Steve paused, waiting, heart pounding too loud in his ears.

"Maybe my opinion doesn't matter," Steve went on, quieter, trying to thread his voice through the silence. "Fine. Maybe I'm just—too close to it, or too stubborn, or whatever. But what then? What happens the day you want to—" He stopped, throat tightening, the word catching like a thorn. "—to date someone? To be with someone. To let them in. You're gonna spend every second terrified of what happens when you take your shirt off? When you've got no way to hide? You'll keep waiting for that look—that flinch—that you've already decided is coming."

He shook his head, breath trembling, pleading without meaning to. "You can't live like that. You can't spend the rest of your life bracing for someone to say the thing you've already said a thousand times to yourself. Because maybe—maybe they won't. Maybe they'll look at you and just—see you. And you'll miss it if you're too busy hating yourself to believe them."

The words seemed to hang, suspended in the steam. Eddie finally spoke, voice quiet, breaking the stillness. "You're right." He laughed then, but it was hollow, humorless, a sound scraped raw. He rubbed at his jaw, like he couldn't believe himself.

"What?" Steve asked, frowning.

"I said you're right. I can't live like that." Eddie's voice slowed, deliberate, heavy with something else. He glanced up at Steve, eyes darker than the room, baiting almost. "So maybe the solution's simple. Maybe I'll just have to be with you."

Steve stiffened, the words striking wrong. "I don't—I don't understand."

"Makes sense, doesn't it? That way I don't have to question it. Don't have to wonder if someone's gonna flinch. You already know what I look like."

Steve's face twisted, hurt. He stepped back, shaking his head. "Don't say shit like that to me if you don't mean it."

"I do mean it."

"No, that—Eddie." Steve's hands flailed uselessly in the thick air, words tripping over themselves. His chest burned. "You—you can't just say that like it's some easy fix. Like you're making a joke."

"I'm not joking," Eddie pressed, his voice firm.

"What does that even mean? You can't just say you'll date me like it's—like it's nothing, like you're picking a movie to watch. That's not—"

"I'm not! I'm serious!" Eddie's voice cracked into a yell, his eyes burning.

Steve recoiled, heart hammering, confusion ripping through him. "This doesn't make sense. You've spent all this time—god, and now you're standing here saying you'll just date me like it's—like it's some kind of convenience? You don't get it, Eddie. You have no idea how long I have loved you. You don't—" He stopped himself, too furious, too lost, pacing the small bathroom like a trapped animal.

"I do." Eddie's voice dropped low, raw. He stepped closer, his face set. "I do get it. More than you think."

Steve froze. His throat worked, but no words came. His fear felt suddenly small compared to the way Eddie's eyes bored into him, sharp and unflinching.

"What is happening?" Steve whispered, his voice shaky, almost scared.

"I've thought about you, Steve. Not just once, not just last week, not just because I'm all scarred up now and you shaved your fucking head like an idiot to prove a point. I've been thinking about you. For years. You know this. I said it!"

"Yeah, but like—in the past tense. As in you did like me and then you didn't! You don't like me right now." Steve's voice was frantic, grasping at logic that seemed to slip through his hands.

"I just—I didn't know what the hell to do with it—so I did nothing. I let you walk away, let myself pretend it was easier not to want you, not to remember you climbing through my window bleeding and begging. And maybe I'm a coward, maybe I'm late as hell to say it, but I do mean it. I want you. I've always wanted you. That's what I'm saying." Eddie's voice cracked now, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach out but didn't dare.
"And you know what else?" His voice rose, shaking, tears cutting at his eyes. "You pissed me off. You pissed me off more than anything when you told me you loved me right before we went into that goddamn—fucking shit show. Because all I wanted to do in that moment—the only thing I wanted to do—was to kiss you. And there wasn't time. There was never any fucking time." His laugh was sharp, bitter, punctured with tears. "You dropped that on me when we were walking into hell, when everything was falling apart, and I couldn't even—I couldn't even have one second to show you I felt the same. You think I didn't? You think I don't? Christ, Harrington, I've been carrying that shit around like a bullet lodged in my chest."

Steve's chest tightened, the air gone, words scraped out of him like gravel. "What?"

Hair—Steve's hair—lay in uneven tufts across the sink, small drowned clumps clinging to porcelain like evidence of some reckless crime. It was the only thing he could look at.

"And then I got mad. Mad because I knew if I did say something or do something, it would maybe be the last thing either of us ever felt or did. And I was terrified of wanting something that much. So I just—I did nothing."

Steve's chest ached with the words, too much pressure all at once. His voice rose, sharper, furious only because it hurt. "You said you didn't want me. You said you didn't want to be with me. I gave you an in and you didn't want it!" The sound tore out of him, louder than he meant, and it cracked immediately, like his throat couldn't hold the truth any longer. His hands shook where they hovered at his sides, useless.

"I was scared!" Eddie yelled back, eyes wet, stepping forward but not far enough, his face tightening, torn open. "I was so fucking scared, Steve, and I—I didn't want to see it. I didn't want it to be real. So I looked away. From you. From all of it." His voice was shredded, raw, and the tears came unchecked now. "You think I don't hate myself for that? For laughing in your face? For calling you sick, when you were—when you were begging me not to leave you alone with it? I should've been there. I should've stayed. But I was a coward. I've always been a coward." The last words dropped lower, hollowed out, almost a confession to the tiles, to the fog.

Steve's shoulders sagged, fury draining from him until only exhaustion was left. His voice was low now, tired, each word fragile. "You said you didn't know how to trust me. After I left you the first time." He shook his head, not at Eddie but at himself, his eyes burning, voice brittle. "I hurt you. I let you think that I wasn't worth trusting. And I don't know how to stop hearing that in my head, Eddie. Even right now, even when you're saying all this—part of me still thinks you'll wake up tomorrow and decide I'm nothing but the guy who left."

Eddie snapped, sharp, desperate, cutting him off before the thought could breathe. "Yeah, I said I didn't know how to trust you. Because it hurt like hell, Steve. Because you did leave, and it ripped me apart. But that's not all there is. That's not the whole story." His voice trembled, panic more than anger. He moved closer, almost stumbling, his hands twitching at his sides before one of them finally caught Steve's wrist, firm, shaking but certain. "I wanted to trust you. I never stopped wanting to. And you—showing up, still coming to me even when I'd pushed you away? You fucking—carried me out of some alternate shit scape when I was basically dead. You saved my fucking life. You haven't left my side." His voice broke entirely, but the grip on Steve's wrist held. "So don't stand there and tell me you're just the guy who left. You're the guy who came back too."

And then, like it couldn't wait a second longer, like it had been burning holes in his mouth for years, Eddie blurted it. "And I love you too."

Steve froze, blinked, his lips parting but no words came. His laugh was short, sharp, breathless, disbelieving, more like air giving out than amusement. "What? No—you—you don't—"

"Stop," Eddie cut in, voice suddenly iron, terrified but steady.

"No!" Steve exhaled, defeated, desperate. "I don't want you to mistake—how you're feeling for the fact that—I saved you. I don't want you to feel, I dunno, indebted to me or something. I just want it to be real. Actually real."

"It is real." Eddie's eyes locked on his, fierce, wrecked, trembling but certain. "It's real."

And then he kissed him. Hard, clumsy, almost frantic, like if he waited another second Steve might vanish, like he was afraid of losing his nerve.

Steve froze, his brain short-circuiting, the world collapsing to the space between their mouths. And then it hit him. This was real. Eddie was kissing him. After years of wanting, of swallowing it down, of pretending not to.

"I love you too," Eddie whispered against his lips, before kissing him again, desperate now, like he was making up for all the time stolen from them.

Steve kissed back, fingers threading into Eddie's damp hair, tugging him closer, his other hand anchoring Eddie's shoulder. Eddie's hands fumbled along Steve's jaw, his arms, everywhere, as if to assure himself Steve was solid, here, not going anywhere.

When Eddie finally pulled back, Steve was crying, tears blurring the bathroom lights, the mirror. Eddie clung to him, pressed against his side.

Steve glanced at his reflection. His bare head, jagged and uneven, his eyes red. He laughed through the tears, miserable and self-deprecating. "I can't believe I shaved my fucking head." Eddie laughed, actually laughed, still hanging off of him. "Jesus Christ. It looks awful."

"It definitely needs a little—tidying." Eddie said, running a hand over the back. "You got some clumps back here. Kinda rocking that burn victim look."

"I had no idea my head was this shape." Steve rubbed at his scalp, still staring at himself, crying even as he tried to joke. "Y'know I don't think I've ever been bald. I just came straight outta the womb with a full head of hair. It freaked my mom out so bad. Like she was giving birth to a rug or something."

"Yeah, no. I believe it." Eddie smirked, voice softer now, hand rising to cup Steve's cheek, forcing him to look away from the mirror. "You're still pretty perfect by most standards." His thumb brushed Steve's jaw. "Shall I do mine?"

"No!" Steve blurted immediately, panicked. "Don't even joke about that shit, man."

Eddie's grin widened. "Oh, so you only like me for my hair? Is that what you're saying?"

"Shut up," Steve muttered, still crying, still smiling, still holding on.

The mirror was still streaked from steam, a haze softening both of their faces, though not enough to blur the rawness of what they saw. Steve stood shoulder to shoulder with Eddie, the fluorescent light humming faintly above them, illuminating every ragged edge of stubble, every cut and scar, every shadow under their eyes. He could feel the heat of Eddie at his side, could almost hear the weight of Eddie's breath before he spoke.

"Maybe when the scarring is—less intense I can just—cover as much of it up as I can with tattoos." Eddie's eyes didn't leave the mirror, like saying it directly to Steve might have been too much.

"Yeah. That'd be cool." Steve nodded, forcing his own reflection to hold steady, though his chest tightened at the thought. Tattoos over scars, as if ink could disguise the truth of what Eddie had survived.

"We look a mess." Eddie laughed, short and jagged, like it wasn't really funny at all.

"Oh, yeah. Big fucking time." Steve tried to match it, but his voice cracked, betraying the exhaustion hanging in him.

Then Eddie's laughter died. His reflection shifted, his mouth softening, his eyes suddenly too open. "I never stopped wanting you."

The words landed in Steve's chest like a stone dropped in water. He frowned, staring at their reflections side by side, trying to figure out if Eddie meant it the way it sounded. His heart didn't trust his ears.

Eddie's voice grew slower, deliberate, like he'd been holding these lines for years. "Every time I told myself to move on, every time I thought I finally did, something—some kid, or Henderson's big mouth, or just the memory of you showing up all bloody and gross at my window—would drag me right back. And I hated myself for it. For not being brave enough to just—fuck—do something about it."

Steve's throat burned. He scoffed, quiet, brittle, as if mocking himself. "So you let me think I was crazy. That it was all one-sided."

"I didn't let you." Eddie finally turned, no longer looking at the mirror, but directly at him. "I was just too much of a coward to prove you right."

His gaze didn't waver, not even now, and Steve felt pinned by it.

Eddie's voice softened, almost a vow. "I don't wanna be a coward anymore."

***

Steve pushed the door open with his hip, balancing two mugs, the smell of coffee sharp in the air.

Eddie was propped up against the headboard, his hair an unbrushed halo, his chest still bandaged under the shirt Steve had helped him wriggle into. He set a mug down carefully on the nightstand.

"Hey, baldy." Eddie smirked, lips curling with just enough bite to make it sting.

"Stop." Steve scoffed, rolling his eyes as he set the coffee down, though the warmth of Eddie's smirk lodged itself somewhere deep in him.

He lingered, hand on the edge of the nightstand, caught between leaving and staying. Eddie's eyes were already on him, waiting.

"You gonna get in or what?" Eddie asked, patting the empty space beside him.

"That depends. Are you gonna carry on making fun of me for being bald?" Steve arched a brow, but his mouth betrayed him with the ghost of a smile.

"Probably." Eddie's grin widened, unapologetic.

Steve sighed, crossing the room and climbing carefully into bed, every movement measured so as not to jostle Eddie's injuries. The mattress dipped, and he settled into the warmth beside him. His hand strayed to his head again, palm sliding over the rough stubble, as though reminding himself it was real.

"S'kinda freeing actually," he said, thoughtful, voice quieter. "Like—shaving away all the shit. Makes me wish it was as easy to get rid of everything else." He stared at the ceiling, but he could feel Eddie's gaze pressing into him, as though Eddie could hear the things he didn't say.
"It's not over, y'know," Steve added.

Eddie turned his head. "What?"

"He's still out there. Somewhere." Steve shrugged, jaw tight. "He's gonna come back." He finally turned to Eddie, their eyes catching in the dim light. "And when he does I don't want you anywhere near it."

"Steve—"

"I'm serious." His laugh was sharp, brittle. "I'm not—I'm not doing this again. No fucking way. I need to know you're safe."

"Okay. So we all leave." Eddie said it like it was simple, like packing everything into a bag could erase the ties holding them to Hawkins.

Steve's eyes darted away.

"Seriously?" Eddie admonished.

"I have to. The kids, Dustin. Nance, Robin. They need me. I can't walk away from them." His voice had softened, but it was solid with conviction.

"So what the hell do I do? Sit at home twiddling my thumbs waiting for you to call?" Eddie's voice rose, rough with frustration, his hand curling in the blanket.

Steve sat up, turning to face him, the air sharp between them. "Eddie, it'll be way worse for you than it is for me to go back to Hawkins. Stinson and the cops, sure they cleared your name. But there's still gonna be people out there who don't believe it. Who don't believe you. If you go back it's just another risk we can't afford to take. You can't afford to take."

"I don't want to have to watch you walk out the door not knowing what's going to happen to you." Eddie's voice cracked, the honesty spilling unguarded into the room.

"You have to." Steve's reply was low, steady, like a weight laid on the bed between them.

"I can fight. Okay? By the time he comes back—I'll be fine. Like Henderson said, he's like—beyond wounded. I have time. He's not gonna come back half dead. I won't do any stupid shit again, I swear. I'll play by the rules."

"I don't want you to." Steve shook his head, sharp, almost panicked.

"Jesus, Steve." Eddie groaned, frustrated, pressing his head back against the pillow.

Steve leaned closer, pleading now, his voice a raw edge. "Just do this one thing for me. And I'll never ask you for anything else ever again. Please."

For a long moment Eddie was silent, staring at him, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Then he sighed, turning his head on the pillow to meet Steve's eyes.
"Okay."

Notes:

thank god thats over im never writing canon again