Chapter Text
There’s a reason Steve had a strict bedtime - no matter how much Robin made fun of him, Steve always went to bed at twelve. Twelve and nothing after.
The air. The silence. The weight in Steve’s chest he’s been trying to pretend isn’t there. That’s what the early mornings and the late nights bring, a hole that seems only to eat up at the loneliness that comes in the dark of his bedroom.
It settles in the space between his ribs like something choking and permanent; something sour and cold and clawing at the edges of his throat and closing it up like he wasn’t allowed to breathe ever again. The house is quiet—too quiet. Even with all the lights on, it feels dim. Hollow. Silent.
Robin’s not here tonight. She stopped staying over as much - much to Steve’s silent dismay. Said something about giving him space, like she could smell how restless he was getting, how he was starting to feel like a ghost haunting his own walls.
Maybe he was. Maybe, maybe, maybe. It was all Steve could think about. Maybes.
He’s lying back on the couch, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow, lazy circles like it’s mocking him. The only movement in the frozen world that’s his, cold and aching and bitter.
He’s not drunk. Not enough to make excuses for himself, at least. There’s a half-empty beer bottle sweating on the coffee table, but that’s about it.
After getting a call from Wayne, Steve doesn’t know what to do; not after what had happened between him and Wayne’s nephew. Sitting here, eyes half closed and unseeing…Steve doesn’t mean to call him. Not really. He hadn’t meant to pick up the phone, nor had he meant to memorize his number…
His fingers just… drifted. Muscle memory. Like they know where comfort used to be. Like it remembers late nights and shaky laughter and the quiet, fragile way Eddie had said, “You’re not as bad as I thought, Harrington,” like it was some kind of confession.
Maybe it was. Maybe Steve wished it was.
The dial tone hums in his ear before he fully registers what he’s doing. It’s past midnight; past Steve’s set bedtime. It was too lonely; too lonely, and the silence was becoming too mean again. Maybe he’s being stupid - maybe Eddie’s asleep, maybe his dreams are filled with things better than his own. Maybe he’s out.
Or—God, Steve doesn’t know. They don’t even really talk anymore.
Not after what happened. Not like they did right after.
Right after the Upside Down. Right after Eddie bled out and Dustin’s arms, rambling on about how he was able to be a hero. Like Steve.
Right after Steve stayed at his trailer for weeks straight, when they’d found him again, pretending it was about keeping an eye on him, when really it was just… easier than going home. Easier than being alone. Easier than needing something more than time apart.
But that was months ago. People move on. People heal.
Steve hadn’t - or maybe he just got too good at pushing people away.
Before Steve could rethink what he was doing and hang up, Eddie’s voice suddenly cuts through the static of Steve’s brain like it always does—tired, rough; Eddie sounded like sleep. Rough-edged and soft in the worst possible way. Like how he sounded during those first few weeks, when Steve would stay with him, making sure he took his meds, ate something, didn’t choke on his own nightmares.
“Hello?”
Steve swallowed thickly. Words caught in his throat like it’s dry, sticky and cold with nothing. Suddenly every excuse he had lined up feels paper-thin and pathetic; is it too late to hang up? Steve closed his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. Hard, because this was the first time in months Steve Harrington had heard Eddie Munson’s voice again.
Just checking in.
Thought I left something at yours.
Need anything?
I wanted to apologize.
All of it feels like a lie. So he said nothing. Just breathed, shaky and uneven. Silent and full of unspoken emotion, Steve couldn’t bring himself to say a thing.
On the other end, there’s a pause. A long one. Steve can picture him now—sitting up in bed, rubbing a hand over his face, already knowing. Knowing he was full of sleep, brain just as fuzzy as Steve’s.
“…Steve? You good?” Eddie asked, low and careful, like he already knows the answer is no, hesitant because it’s the first time Steve had even bothered to call.
The worst part is that he sounded worried. Genuinely worried. Like some part of him still cared, even now. Even after Steve let things go so quiet between them.
Steve hated him for that. Hated himself more.
Steve eyes are squeezed shut now; for some reason, he imagined himself sitting with Eddie, on that bed, in that messy room, with his cassettes that sounded like noise rather than music—
“Yeah,” he lied - stupidly. Soft, fast - easily.
And then he hung up.
Receiver tossed to the floor, dial tone ringing like an alarm, Steve sank back into the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling until his eyes burned and his body began to melt away.
The fan kept spinning. The night kept going.
And somewhere across town, Eddie’s now wide awake—blinking at his phone, frowning at his own receiver, wondering what the hell just happened.
Wondering why Steve Harrington called him at 1 A.M., — a time in which he was never awake — and couldn’t find a single word to say.