Chapter Text
Fall, 1985
Steve Harrington, former King of Hawkins High, had been missing for three weeks as of yesterday.
Now to be clear, this didn’t matter at all to Eddie. He didn’t like Harrington. No one south of the 'High School Prep' line did. He was a bigoted douche who was so caught up in his big hair and his bigger ego that he probably couldn’t even see the ailing peasants that littered the ground around his feet.
Not that he’d ever properly spoken to the guy. You just sorta pick this shit up by osmosis, yeah?
Anyway, when he disappeared, it was big news fast. Apparently, he didn’t show up for work which was apparently extremely unusual. One of his coworkers alerted the authorities and there was a search party out and combing within six hours of his missed shift. Which seemed ass backwards because Eddie’s first guess would have been ‘probably shacked up with some college babe and too hungover to function’ miles before he landed on ‘missing and in danger.’ But hey, what did he know about rich folk? Eddie could only imagine if any of the lesser citizens of Hawkins went missing- the response would have been different, that’s for damn sure.
But he didn’t actually have to imagine. That Barb girl a few years back? The mobilization for her was practically a whisper in comparison.
Well, that was the case at first anyway. It had been three weeks and Eddie hadn’t heard hide nor hair of the search efforts in a few days now. Once the fervor began to taper, it was a little gratifying to see that even King Steve wasn’t worthy of eternal panic and adoration. Maybe harsh considering the dude was missing but, whatever.
But now? It was just kinda… a bummer.
Like, teens disappeared from this shitwater town all the time but the locals couldn’t even muster their attention spans for a month when one of the royals goes bye-bye?
It’s a bit fucked, is all.
But really, Eddie didn’t care. He didn’t care when the missing posters got taken down at school. (Like people didn’t know what he looks like are you fucking kidding.) He didn’t care when the red headed band-gal started coming to class again, looking worn down and bereft in a way that sorta jostled him.
He did wonder for a second how a band chick even knew the King. Maybe it was a misguided crush ordained by fucked up societal expectations… or she was his cousin or something. Again, whatever.
He especially didn’t care when he drove by Grand Harrington Manor on his way home from school and eyed the dark windows and empty driveway with a distant sort of disgust.
His Uncle Wayne had made a comment about how the Harringtons’ Senior didn’t even bother coming home when they found out their son was AWOL. His Uncle had thrown back a finger of whiskey as he said Harringtons and grimaced in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol. It made a twisty sort of sense that the elders were a piece of work since they spawned a polo-wearing little shitbag.
…Okay, maybe Eddie was more bitter about the Hawkins Heir Apparent than was warranted. But in his defense he’d been in High School longer than most, and assholes like him and his ‘friends’ made it feel ages longer still. Harrington never directly gave him a swirly or called him a freak and a fag or whatever. But he never did shit to stop it either. Half the time the dude looked like his brain was in another galaxy entirely; just standing in the background while his little goblin subjects did the dirty work.
The point was, Eddie didn’t care about the guy. Not as far as he could throw him. Which he couldn’t even do, because he was missing.
See, it all adds up.
It was October and just getting cold enough that Eddie needed a real jacket over his shredded Bark at the Moon merch. Practice at Gareth’s garage was at 8pm and a glance at the clock said it was already 8:20. So, close enough.
He grabbed his cigs, shrugged on his battered leather jacket, and had a hand on the trailer door when his Uncle appeared beside him and patted his shoulder. Wayne looked at him in his quiet way that meant “be careful.” Eddie knocked against his hand to say “I know.”
Wayne Munson hadn’t forgotten that Steve Harrington was missing even if the rest of the town had. He was a good guy like that.
When Eddie pulled into the drive at 8:35pm, Gareth and Jeff were already cooking up a nice, easy high. They were loose shouldered and had their gear strewn across their laps. Eddie was eager to catch up, but had learned from experience that it was important to do some real practicing before he went to space. Playing Crazy Train was way harder when the strings were wriggling.
They suited up and did some discordant wailing to get the groove going.
It wasn’t a coincidence that Gareth’s parents were frequently out on the town during practice time. Their location was ideal thanks to the ample distance between neighbors, but after a few weeks of regular rehearsals they saw Mr. and Mrs. Gareth less and less. Eddie insisted that the distance would make their hearts grow fonder; they’d get those crazy kids out to a concert yet.
Jeff was giggling like a hyena before they even started playing actual songs and Eddie couldn’t decide if it was killing the vibe or enhancing it. He turned up the volume just to be sure.
They were practically in hysterics by the end of the third song and Eddie hadn’t even had a solitary puff--some nights were just like that.
Efforts thwarted by some truly excellent dope, they collapsed onto the shitty square of carpet that Jeff’s mom had so kindly dedicated to their cause “So that their feet wouldn’t get too cold on that concrete.” She was sweet that way.
Gareth was halfway through explaining why seduction should be a free action for wizards because of their inherent allure, when Jeff started coughing so hard that Eddie leaned over to pound his back a few times.
Gareth broke in with a smoke-hoarse voice: “Jeff my man, you should be an old hand at this. You’ve been sampling the Devil’s lettuce since we were in pre-school.”
Jeff continued to wheeze, his eyes tinged red and damp. He flipped Gareth off which was good cause’ it meant he wasn’t dying.
Eddie pounded on his back harder until he received a weak glare for his efforts. Good Samaritans never get the respect they deserve.
“I’m good. I’m good.” He managed between loud gulpy breaths. “I thought I saw something in the woods and breathed down the wrong pipe.”
“How many pipes you got in there? I didn’t even know that was something you could fuck up.”
“Shut up, Gareth.”
Eddie stood and craned onto his tip toes, peering into the dark with a hand cupped over his brow. “What did you see, lad? Is little Timmy stuck in the well?” He intoned in a falsetto.
“Jesus, I didn’t realize I was in a band with fuckin’ Abbot and Costello” Jeff muttered, taking a long pull from his Coors.
Eddie snickered and dropped his hand. He turned back to his bandmates only to be caught off guard by the look on Gareth’s face.
“Gareth, man you good? Did you leave the stove on or something?”
Gareth didn’t answer but he made a sound in his throat like someone was stepping on his nuts. A shocky gurgle. Eddie crossed his arms.
“Okay really dude, what happened? One second you’re all ha-ha hee-hee and next-“
Gareth’s hand darted out and grabbed Eddie’s ankle and he squawked. Before he could kick off his freshly zombified drummer though, the boy was pointing frantically and scrambling to his feet.
“What the fuck, what the FUCK, what the FUCK.”
Eddie swung around and behind him Jeff let out a hoarse shout that cut off at the middle.
Standing in the center of the driveway, lit up by the meager garage lighting and the yellowed moon, was Steve fucking Harrington.
Gareth shouted incoherently and shambled for the door into his house- to do what, Eddie didn’t know. He understood though. The urge to do something was screeching at every nerve and neuron that Eddie possessed because, from the looks of it, King Harrington had gotten into a fistfight with a fuckin’ bear slash monster truck hybrid or some shit.
And Eddie wasn’t an expert, but based upon the sheer amount of blood covering his formerly preppy attire, Harrington lost.
⇎⇎⇎⇎
Eddie had never seen the aftermath of a car accident or anything even remotely similar, but he imagined that it wouldn’t be too far off from what he was looking at.
Harrington’s signature hair was so matted in blood that it perfectly contoured the curve of his head in several places. He was standing with his weight clearly favored on one leg and had his right arm clutched awkwardly across his chest. That hand was wrapped in what looked like an old dishrag soaked in blood and grime.
He had jeans and a thin t-shirt on that were both so dirty and bloodied that in the dark, Eddie couldn’t have begun to guess their original colors. He was missing a shoe and the only sneaker he had on had no laces. His jeans were ripped in a way that could have been intentional if there hadn’t been obvious cuts underneath. And maybe most concerning was the fact that Eddie could hear the uneven rattle of his breath from where he stood. He’d never heard a “death rattle” before, but the brutal way that Harrington was sucking in air seemed fitting.
Gareth was still scrambling at the door, probably to call the police or the ambulance or a fucking exorcist and the Pope. Jeff had followed a moment later, scrambling on all fours like a spooked dog and trying to help while ultimately making it worse. The weed and their panic had mixed into a cocktail of inept cooperative door-handle management.
But Eddie was fucking frozen.
Harrington’s face was bruised all to shit and one of his eyes was swelled shut. The other one was open and alert, darting among the three bandmates who were all operating under different stages of ‘what the fuck.’
After a second that felt like a hundred years, Harrington lifted his good hand and…
He fucking… waved?
“Um, hi? Sorry. Shit, uh. Do you guys have a phone I could use?”
All of the action at the door, mercifully, stopped. Gareth and Jeff stared at Harrington like they couldn’t believe that he could still speak. Which was fair. He didn’t look like he should be able to anything.
His voice was hoarse- but not like he’d smoked a bowl. It was hoarse like he’d been in a desert for a month and spent his off time gargling glass. He took a frankly horrifically painful looking step forward that had Eddie stepping forward in tandem with his arms out to… catch him? Gently put him into a coffin? Who fucking knows.
In better light the scratchy voice made more sense. He had bruises lining his neck that looked like rope burn and for a second the words suicide attempt floated through Eddie’s slushed mind before he spotted matching burns on his wrists. So, not self inflicted probably.
What the fuck was he playing Columbo for holy shit Steve Harrington was bleeding out on Gareth’s driveway.
Gareth came back to reality first and stuttered something like “Uh, duh, hur, huh, yeah the phone is in here.”
When Harrington didn’t move in the direction Gareth indicated there was a standoff that was equal parts deeply awkward and just viscerally horrifying by the sheer circumstances alone.
Finally, Harrington cleared his throat. “Um, thanks. Do you think the cord will reach out here? I’d feel like an asshole if I tracked… gore… into your house.”
Gareth nodded dumbly and ducked back inside.
Jeff hadn’t closed his mouth in a solid minute and a half and if he kept that up his tongue would shrivel and die. And then who would do the backup vocals? Eddie stepped over and gently pushed his jaw upward until his teeth clacked together.
When he turned back he almost expected Harrington to be gone- a figment of one too many joints smoked over a short 19 years. But nope. There he was. Looking like he could literally die at any moment.
Eddie’s beer churned in his stomach and he immediately felt like a jackass. Yeah, looking at Harrington was a train wreck but being Harrington probably sucked way more right now. His good eye was roving around the garage in that weird sort of detached way that he used to look at other kids in the hall. Every few seconds he would sort of shuffle his foot and wince as he re-distributed his weight. Blood was dripping from the bottom of his shirt and Eddie couldn’t even clock where it was coming from.
He realized he was staring when the King himself caught his eye and fucking shrugged.
What the hell did that mean.
What the fuck was even happening.
Gareth re-entered the garage skidding like Wile-E-Coyote and holding the handset out. It was stretched to its absolute limit and Eddie sent a tiny prayer thanking Gareth’s mom for being a walk-and-talker. She’d shelled out for the extended cord so she could pace when she talked her sister down from terrible decisions and apparently it also came in handy when you were trying to prevent shag-entry-carpet from being defiled with premium Harrington Juice.
Hm, ew. He’d walk that back if he could. But the point stands.
Harrington twisted his mouth and Eddie couldn’t tell if they were being judged for their inadequate hosting abilities or if it was an attempt at a smile. It looked painful either way. The formerly-missing-man shambled forward like an Evil Dead extra and snagged the receiver. He was properly in the garage now and Eddie almost coughed from the overpowering scent of copper.
Harrington might be freakishly collected but this seemed really, really, really bad. Maybe he was in shock or something. Eddie vaguely remembered that concept from his driver’s ed course. Like, you can be operating on pure adrenaline or whatever with half your guts hanging out.
The way Harrington was clutching his stomach was not promising.
Even so, he deftly dialed a number that Eddie couldn’t help but notice was NOT 911.
After a couple of rings where Harrington just stood and twisted the cord like a tween on a midnight phone date, someone picked up. Eddie couldn’t hear the person on the other side, but Harrington’s whole posture changed.
“Hey Rob.”
Okay, now he could hear something on the other end. There was a shriek that sounded barely human and Harrington pulled the receiver away with a wince. After some shouting that Eddie couldn’t decipher, Harrington refitted the receiver to his ear and balanced it on his shoulder.
“Yeah, uh. Not dead. Also I don’t have a lot of time. I need you with me Rob. This is big. ‘Scoops Basement’ shit.”
The yelling cut off and this time Eddie couldn’t deny that Harrington was smiling. Well, sort of smirking. Half of his mouth was too swollen to move.
Gareth and Jeff were backing off a little trying to give Harrington some privacy, but Eddie still couldn’t shift his fucking feet. He could just picture his Uncle swatting him on the back of the head and whispering “manners ” into his ear. But he was stuck.
Harrington didn’t seem to mind. Now that “Rob” was on the line it was like he forgot where he was entirely. He spoke fast and hushed and said a bunch of shit that made no goddamn sense. The snippets Eddie could parse were “Will was right,” some shit about not telling people he wasn’t dead, and how they needed to get in touch with some other people in California ASAP.
At this point Eddie’s best guess was that Harrington owed money to the mob. Second guess was that he was a Russian spy who had somehow perfected a douchey Indiana accent.
Both seemed like absolute horseshit.
The conversation seemed to be winding down which was fucking insane considering at no point Harrington had said the words “help me” or “please oh god I’m bleeding to death.”
Eddie nearly fell on his ass when he, without even blinking, told ‘Rob’ he was “fine.”
He even repeated it.
“Yeah, no, Rob seriously, I’m fine. I can’t go home though. No, you can’t come to me. You know why. Shit, I know. Look. No, shut up for a second. Listen to me.”
Something about his voice had Eddie listening too. He wasn’t talking in that weird lackadaisical tone anymore.
“There’s a box in my closet. If I don’t make it back, hey shut up, I know. Jesus. If I don’t, I need you to take it. It’s got like, my final will and shit in it. And if I fuckin’ beef it or whatever my parents will throw that shit out faster than they… I don’t know. Do something really fast.”
Eddie was feeling properly queasy. Harrington was was rubbing at his temples like he was dealing with a shitty customer at the Family Video instead of telling his friend to be in charge of his fucking funeral. Holy shit.
He swung around to get some validation on how fucked up this all was but Jeff and Gareth weren’t listening in. The dickheads. Jeff had his head on his knees like he usually did before he hurled and Gareth was chewing his nails so aggressively that he probably wouldn’t be able to drum the rest of the week. He stared at them because frankly he didn’t really want to look at Harrington anymore. The initial horror was wearing off and he just felt fucking bad. Like the whole situation was just bad all over. Harrington was still saying absolutely fucked up heartbreaking shit in the background, telling this Rob guy he was ‘his best friend and that he loved him’ and to ‘be careful about what he says to Henderson’ and all this other personal shit that Eddie now felt slimy about listening to.
He should have been like Jeff and Gareth. They were right for once. It was easy to hate the King when he was a concept instead of a bloody dude just telling his friend he loved him. Like a human.
A telltale dial tone told Eddie the call was over and Jeff and Gareth looked at him like he was the designated Harrington Handler. Which made sense by proximity but fuck them. Reluctantly, Eddie turned back. Harrington was delicately dabbing at the handset, trying to get the blood off. But the cloth he was using was his shirt. Which was bloody.
It was so gross and pathetic that Eddie wanted to pass out.
Realizing it was a lost cause, Harrington sent Gareth a look that probably would have been apologetic if his face was working and then gently set the receiver on the steps to the house. The taut cord pulled back and re-curled. It bumped the plastic handset noisily against the concrete steps. The clattering sound was painfully loud in the silent garage.
Harrington cleared his throat again and Eddie wished he would stop doing that because the dude winced hard every time.
“Um. Hey, thanks a lot guys. I’m sorry for crashing your…” he squinted around the garage, “rock? Practice?”
Gareth made a sound like he was gonna say something but failed. Harrington didn’t seem to mind.
“So, I’m gonna get going.” He pointed his good thumb over his shoulder, “But, like you don’t have to worry about the cops or whatever. My friend is gonna… uh, handle that stuff.”
He moved like he was gonna put his hand in his pocket but grimaced when he touched the bloody denim. Instead, he sort of just rubbed his thigh for a second.
Was Steve Harrington fucking awkward? That seemed like it should be the lowest priority question but Eddie thought it anyway. If the dude wasn’t bleeding to death he would totally roast his ass about it.
…wait.
What the fuck did he just say?
Miraculously, Eddie Munson got his voice back after being silent for maybe the longest stretch of time in his entire life.
“I’m sorry, did you just say you’re fucking going somewhere?”
Harrington paused mid-pivot.
“Uh, yeah man-“
Oh man absolutely fucking not.
Pissed, Eddie stalked toward him. He raised a hand and opened his mouth to shout, but Harrington flinched a little. Eddie’s stomps faltered in confusion but he rallied quick.
“So what, you think you’re just gonna walk somewhere like that? Bleeding like you escaped a failed fucking crucifixion? In FIFTY DEGREE weather and in nothing but a fucking tee shirt and jeans?!”
Harrington’s good eye widened with each emphasis. He alternated watching Eddie’s flailing hands and his face. As Eddie got closer, Harrington took a few steps back.
That just made Eddie madder. He shoved a finger under Harrington’s chin and leaned in close.
“You have one fucking shoe on.”
Silence.
Jeff muffled a cough.
Harrington for his part looked shellshocked.
“Uh-“
Eddie stomped past him and threw open the sliding side door with a slam that would have made Lars Ulrich proud.
“Get in the fucking van, Harrington.”
With only an instant of wild-eyed hesitation, Harrington got in the fucking van.
⇎⇎⇎⇎
This was by far the most uncomfortable van ride of Eddie’s entire life and he’s driven in an ice storm with a hard-on. In leather pants.
Harrington had managed to drag himself up and into the seat without assistance and though he couldn’t totally pinpoint why, that had pissed Eddie off too.
Like Jesus was he too good to touch the freak’s hand even if he was bleeding to death?
Eddie blew a curl out of his face and took in a long breath. That wasn’t fair. The dude really didn’t deserve that kind of grudgey shit at the moment. He was clearly an insane person who had insisted no fewer than six times that he was fine when he was by far the least fine person Eddie had ever seen.
Fucking nuts.
Anyway, Harrington had settled into the seat with a quiet groan that was the most complaining he’d done through the whole ordeal. Eddie had barked some vague orders at Jeff and Gareth about hosing down the blood before it stained (not speaking from experience but he saw it in a movie once) and then jumped into the driver’s seat and reversed out of the driveway like he was transporting a goddamn four tiered wedding cake.
Once they got on the road Harrington was so quiet that Eddie was genuinely convinced that he’d gone and died like an asshole.
But no. It was hard to hear over the rumble of the van, but the strained wheezing breaths were still coming even if both his eyes had slid closed. They drove in silence for a couple of miles when Eddie realized he had no idea where the fuck he was even going.
“Hey man, where the fuck am I even going?”
Harrington let out a series of short wheezes that might have been a laugh.
“Idunno, Munson. I think the kidnapper gets to make that call. At least that’s been my experience lately.”
That shut Eddie up catastrophically.
A couple miles of aimless driving later and Harrington seemed to register what he said.
“Shit, ignore that. Uh. I actually was planning on bunkering down at a safe house that belonged to a… friend. It’s kind of like a cabin?” He sat up a little taller in the seat and jerked in discomfort. He was still bleeding.
Eddie regretted not putting down a towel or something. Concrete was one thing but he had no idea how to get blood out of vinyl seating.
Harrington haltingly gave directions out to the middle of fucking nowhere and Eddie followed them dutifully until a thought occurred to him.
“Holy fuck hold on why are we not going to the hospital.” He made to swing the van around and Harrington’s good hand flashed out and snagged the wheel.
“Woah, woah, woah sorry man, can’t do that.” He sort of pawed at Eddie’s hand but his grip was weak and shuddery. You know, like someone who should be in a hospital.
Eddie stared at him incredulously. He pulled the van over onto the shoulder and stared some more.
“Okay, your Royal Highness. Explain to me in twenty words or less why we’re not going to the goddamn hospital.”
The title had Harrington raising his eyebrows for a second, confused. But then after a beat he started counting on his fingers.
“Can’t do hospital. Too much media and attention. I would be a sitting duck. It could get me killed.”
He grinned loopily at Eddie.
“19 words.”
“… Jesus shit what is even happening.”
Eddie leaned his head on the steering wheel.
“…Munson? You okay?”
Eddie swung his head up so fast he got dizzy.
“Oh I’m Fine Harrington. This is absolutely how I expected to spend my Thursday night. This” he gestured between the two of them aggressively, “is a totally normal sequence of events that I’m sure every high schooler gets to experience.” Eddie did jazz hands to cap it off and leaned forward into Harrington’s space a little. The King was doing that wide-eyed staring again.
But instead of laughing or scoffing or whatever Eddie was expecting, Harrington closed his eye and tapped his forehead with his fist.
“Shit. Shit. You’re right. Shit, I’m so sorry dude.”
And to Eddie’s ever-loving horror Harrington started to get out of the van.
“No. No! Bad Harrington! Nope! Hey!” Eddie leapt out and ran around, trying to coax him back in, but the dude stood his ground and took a few steps towards the woods like he was gonna walk off.
“No man, you’re totally right. I shouldn’t have even asked to use your phone. I can’t drag anyone else into this shit. God, I wasn’t even thinking.”
The guy was in a proper froth now and was limping aggressively in what Eddie assumed was the direction of the mystery cabin. Eddie gestured at his back in silent rage. With a guttural huff, he followed after.
“Harrington. Harrington. Did you forget the one shoe? The van is not optional. Hey!”
He caught up easily because Harrington was dying and grabbed his shoulder. Harrington hissed and Eddie sprung back with an apology half-way onto his tongue. But Harrington beat him there.
“No. I. Fuck. I don’t even know how to explain this without actually explaining it.” He rubbed at his temples again and staggered in place. Eddie did that same little aborted move he’d tried at the garage and reached out as if to stabilize him. His fingers never even made contact though before Harrington stepped out of reach.
“Look.” Harrington looked right at Eddie then, and, in what must have been a fit of sudden and inexplicable temporary insanity, Eddie’s stomach flipped.
WOW nope. Holy fuck. That’s not gonna be a thing. Eddie shook his head to banish whatever the shit that was and tuned into Harrington properly. He was fruitlessly trying to run his hands through his bloody, matted hair
“There is some shit going on in this town that, the more you know about it, the more dangerous it becomes.” Eddie stared as Harrington sort of paced. It was more of a stumble.
“I can’t really say more than that, but every minute you’re here like, talking to me? That’s another chance for you to get wrapped up in this- this nightmare, alright?”
It was not alright.
“You seem like a nice dude, Munson. You’ve got a band and a nice Uncle and people who care about you.”
How does he know Wayne? Eddie managed to wonder in the middle of this deeply confusing action hero monologue.
“But once you touch this shit it’s like you’re marked. Cursed. I don’t know.” Harrington was staring into the woods now with a faraway look in his eye. Different from the familiar glazed stare from earlier. This look was sharp. New. And a little scary.
And to be perfectly clear it was not at all sexy. That would be ridiculous. The man looked like he’d been put through two different meat grinders in a single business day.
Eddie blinked and snapped the hairband on his wrist. Focus.
Harrington shook his head. When he looked at Eddie this time his eyes were sad. Like a sexy bloody puppy.
Jesus, knock it off shitlord.
“I’m sorry, man. I know you’re trying to help but I really gotta go. You should go back to your friends and make sure I didn’t like… traumatize them or something.”
Eddie snorted, “Sorry man, you definitely traumatized Jeff. Gareth will bounce back though.”
Harrington sort of smiled but his eyebrows were drawn together. Eddie chewed at his lip for a second, thinking of how to convince this idiot that he needed help. He looked off into the woods at Harrington’s trajectory. He didn’t even know there was a cabin back there and he’d lived in Hawkins pretty much all his life. It seemed like a solid hiding place.
It was dead silent out other than the consistent rumble of the van across the street and that wet, wheezy breathing. Some leaves rustled at Eddie’s feet and he kicked at them.
“…I’m taking you to the cabin.”
Harrington opened his mouth but Eddie held up his hands, forming an X.
“BZZT BZZT sorry man, the guy with working limbs, all his blood, and no gaping flesh wounds gets to make the final call today. If it makes you feel better I think your blood all over my van means I’m officially ‘involved’ in your shit. So no take-backs, ya know?”
Harrington looked perturbed at being “BZZT’d” into silence but after a moment he sort of looked down at himself and deflated.
Ha ha, gotcha bitch.
“Alright Kingy, let’s get you back into the bloodmobile.”
With a raised eyebrow and a defeated set to his shoulders, Harrington made the slow trek back to his seat.
But this time when Eddie offered him a hand up, he took it.