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“I’ll make a call, but you need to figure it out, Steven.”
His dad’s voice is static down the line, the distance and shitty payphone connection distorting it. Still, even with all of that, it’s impossible to miss the ice in his tone. Steve’s got two decades of experience telling him exactly what his dad would sound like if they were standing in the same room right now. What expression he would have on, down to the crease between his brows and the look in his eyes.
“Dad.” Steve rubs at his forehead. “I’m working on it, I swear-”
“Don’t work on it. Do it. I don’t want to hear about this again.” His dad says, and then punctuates it with the click of the receiver, leaving Steve in silence.
He curls in, slumps against the grimy wall of the booth. Stares down at the graffitied dick on the dirty glass. The plastic of the phone squeaks in his grip.
It’s late, the street lights just flickering on.
Steve’s got no idea where he is in the city. He hopped on the CalTrain back in Palo Alto and rode it until the loud speaker announced the end of the line. Stumbled off the platform and found the big sign letting him know he’d made it into San Francisco proper and figured maybe he’d like to see the ocean.
So he headed away from the bay, thought he could make it by sunset.
He was wrong about that.
Wrong about a lot of things these days, but well, he’s been walking for an hour and the houses haven’t stopped and the sun set behind the buildings, turning the sky all kinds of pink.
And now, well.
He’s supposed to be back at the house tonight, helping Tommy set up for their Spring Social, but putting up streamers and arguing over where the ice luge should go seems like a lifetime away. Still, he should’ve turned around, started the march back, so he could still make it ontime. Tommy was forgiving like that.
Instead, he went for the nearest corner store, broke a twenty on a Coke, the clerk serving him with raised eyebrows when he asked for the change in quarters.
And then he went for the nearest payphone, down a deserted side street, punched in his dad’s secretary’s number, and spent at least a dollar fifty before she answered him and connected him over, and another one waiting for his dad to pick up.
Tried to focus on the dial tone and not think about the midterm burning a hole in his backpack, a red 20/100 scrawled at the top, only the latest in a series of similarly scored tests.
Definitely didn’t think about the meeting he had with his advisor right after who reminded him that he was already on academic probation.
And then the call went through.
And then and then and then.
All he has to do is figure it out. Shouldn’t be that hard, right Steven? He just has to start understanding everything. Not hard at all. After his dad makes that call.
Another call. After all the calls that have been saving Steve since high school-
“Fuck.” He hisses, slams the phone back into its cradle.
The plastic cracks against the metal. So do Steve’s knuckles. It blinds him for a second, the inordinate rage that strikes, a rare thing, and he shoves himself out of the booth and into the crisp night.
Breathes through it. In through his nose, out through his mouth.
But God, what if he doesn’t figure it out? Isn’t going to figure it out?
He’s been trying to untangle all of this shit in his brain, but things like equity and liability and the entire subject of Statistics make no sense to him. He’s been spinning his wheels, waiting for that latent Harrington business gene to switch on, become Steve Harrington, shark in the water, just like his old man.
If anything, college, Stanford, go fucking Trees, should have done the trick, but he’s almost two years down the grind and nothing is clicking. Information just jetting in one ear and trickling out the other, a steady leak that he can’t seem to repair. Not with studying and not with the pep pills his friends press into his palms.
All that had been fine though, in the beginning. No one actually knew this shit, right? They were all just supposed to show up, look pretty, go to class, go to more parties, rub a lot of elbows, and at the end of their four years, walk across with a degree and more connections than they knew what to do with. That’s what Steve did in high school. Knew just enough to bullshit his way through and look good on an application, his last name carrying the weight his GPA couldn’t.
It was water-tight until it wasn’t. The other guys in his frat knew the language, made the right kind of small talk with each other at parties. Steve just got by with knowing looks, well timed laughter, even if it all made him want to rip his hair out. Still got invited out, was respected, which counted more.
That was his mom’s number one rule, her mantra she pressed into him from when he was old enough to stand all the way up until she left him in his dorm. Put her soft hands on his cheeks and told him that a reputation and his name would get him anywhere and everywhere in the world that his money couldn’t.
So yeah. He got his frat, his degree, his college admission, and a ticket to Daytona Beach for Spring Break all wrung out from his name, his smile, and a metric ton of bullshit.
And now? Now he’s also got the grades, the letter announcing his probation, and a note from his advisor to prove it was all built on unsteady land. That if he doesn’t figure out how to actually be a Harrington by the end of the year, he’ll be kissing Stanford, his degree, and his job all goodbye.
Even his dad’s buddy in the admissions office, the guy who vouched for him when Steve’s application hadn’t been enough, came knocking. Expressed ‘serious’ concern over Steve’s mediocre performance. Hinted that it would reflect badly on all of them if Steve were to continue down this path.
Because it’s Harrington first, Steve second, right?
And sure, maybe he had a choice somewhere in there, but he’d been asleep at the wheel and now he’s miles and miles away from any kind of turn off.
He clenches his fists against the thought, his nails digging into his palms. There’s a squelch, one of his hands wet. He lifts it to look. Finds where the skin splits over his knuckles, blood welling up and over, enough to drip.
It’s hot and sudden and the anger comes back with a vengeance. It flashes at the back of his neck, behind his eyes. The frustration hits in his pulse, his jaw, his teeth, aching with it. Makes him light headed.
Fizzes in his chest, swells until it’s impossible to hold in.
“FUCK!”
It tears out of him, coming from somewhere deep in his chest, scraping against his throat on the way out, painful but fucking good until the last bit of air is pushed out and he swims in the vacuum left behind.
He breathes.
And does it again, no words this time, just something guttural, because he has too much feeling and not enough air. Presses it out of himself from the bottom of the stomach, pushing all of it up and out and throwing it to the night, hoping it will know what to do with all that he has inside of him.
The last of it eeks out and Steve is left breathing harshly, throat raw.
“Nice pipes.”
“Christ.” Steve swears and whirls around, fists flying up. But there’s no one with him on the street.
“Easy there, big boy. Up here.”
Steve follows the voice up to a pair of beat up boots dangingly off a fire escape and a set of pasty hands draped through the railing. One’s got a cigarette and Steve watches as the owner, cast in shadow, brings it up to take a drag, the cherry blooming in the dark.
“I’m not complaining, but,” The guy leans forward, the line of his nose catching in the street light. “You do know this is a residential area, right?”
Almost as if on cue, a window gets thrown open across the street and someone yells down at Steve, telling him to shut the fuck up, before slamming the glass closed again.
It makes that rage bubble back up, and Steve has to grit his teeth against it. At this point, his dad would probably let him sit a couple nights in jail if someone decides to involve the police.
“...sorry.” He tries to say, tries to mean it. It comes out more like a croak, the skin of his throat more than a little wrecked.
The fire escape stranger seems to follow his line of thinking. He smiles, Steve thinks, a glint of teeth in the dark.
“Don’t worry, Stanford. No one’s calling the cops in this part of town.” He takes another drag. “Which begs the question, what are you doing all the way out here? I didn’t know you yuppies could just walk into the Castro. I thought you,” He waves the cigarette around, “bounced off Sanchez if you got too close, force field style.”
Steve frowns hard up at the fire escape, where the guy is still just a mass of shadows.
The hands fold, and the stranger leans forward, resting his head against his forearms. “Well? What is it? Nice boy like you, all alone. Bad part of town. Your girl dump you? Daddy cut you off?”
Steve’s teeth creak in his mouth and his jaw aches. Rage still stewing, bubbling up his throat and building into a threatening heat behind his eyes.
And still, behind it all, his mom’s voice swirls in his head, reminding him about being well-respected. He can feel the press of her nails against the skin of his cheeks.
“Fuck this.” He says to himself, his throat on fire.
He takes a breath and looks around. It’s becoming pretty vital that he gets out of here. The street barely looks familiar. He’d gotten here in a kind of haze and really has no idea which way he came from, but maybe it’ll be better to just walk away. Needs to reel himself back from the edge he’s teetering on here. He’ll just go, figure it out on his way.
“Wait, wait- hold on.”
Steve turns back to the fire escape in a fugue state, watches as the guy flicks his cigarette off to the side and tugs his feet up through the gaps, his boots making the metal of the platform shake.
Walk away. It sounds like Tommy H. Like how he says it when they go to parties they aren’t supposed to, get into shit their parents’ can’t know about. But all he can do is watch as the stranger swings one leg over the side of the railing and then the other. Twists and gets hands on the metal, shimmying himself down until his feet dangle above the ground, and then lets go.
He drops and stumbles a little, before dusting off imaginary debris and bows.
Steve just stares, his hands rolling up into fists.
“Man, I don’t want any trouble.” He says, and still thinks about throwing the first punch.
The guy steps into Steve’s pool of street light.
“No trouble, I promise.” The guy offers, hands up.
And he says that, but he looks the opposite.
The first thing Steve sees is all the hair, curly and unkempt and running to his shoulders. And then his eyes, a dark dark brown and glittering. They’re crinkled up just enough to look like he’s in on some kind of cosmic joke that Steve could never hope to understand. The smile only emphasizes it.
He can’t be much older than Steve and yet they couldn’t be more different, as if someone held up a giant mirror of opposites. Stanford polo vs. leather jacket. Faberge Organics vs. a 3 in 1. The only incongruity is that the scuffed up knuckles are on Steve, but he’s pretty sure they’ll both be bleeding by the end of their conversation.
All he needs is for the guy to throw the first punch, it’ll keep Steve’s name out of the incident report, make him the victim. The guy stands there, sizing him up. And there’s that metallic tang in the back of Steve’s throat, floaty feeling right behind his eyes.
It’s going to happen, Steve tenses for the first hit-
But instead of lunging or swinging out, the guy leans into Steve’s space, just enough for him to feel a little bit of the heat radiating off of him. Get a whiff of the smokes and cheap aftershave.
“That felt good, right?” He says, eyes big and sparklingly earnest. Still smiling.
“What?” Steve couldn't have heard right, almost feels like he physically stumbles.
The guy bounces on his toes. “That scream, dude. Looked cathartic as hell. And sounded fucking metal. You know how lucky you are? I’ve been trying to get myself to sound like that my whole life.”
“Metal.” Steve echoes. Even out on the street, the furthest he’s been from campus in months, people are still throwing words at him he doesn’t understand. He hates it.
“You know, like Black Sabbath? Metallica?” He gives Steve a critical eye. “Dio?”
“Dio.” Steve repeats, flat.
“Judas Priest? Music in general? No?” The guy waves it away. “Sorry, didn’t want to judge a book by its cover. That polo should’ve given it away.”
Steve frowns down at his shirt and then up at the guy, who is still fucking smiling.
“Let me guess.” He says, and then starts ticking off his fingers. “Wham! For sure. Tears for Fears. Maybe Eurythmics. Queen on a really good day. And then whatever they’ve got playing at the frat on a Friday night. Am I right?”
Steve rubs a hand over his face, already exhausted with the conversation. Realizes way too late that it's the one with his split knuckles. And all the blood.
The street around them is starting to come alive with the night, people stepping out to enjoy the turn of the weather for Spring. Someone down the street turns on a stereo, tinny music with a thrumming bass.
Laughter rings out.
And this guy is still just looking at Steve. Right through him, eyes glinting under the streetlight and bouncing around, from his shirt to his shoes back to his face, like he’s cataloging.
Assessing.
Steve’s hands go clammy.
Maybe they are going to fight. His heart hums at the thought, blood thick with adrenaline already.
“Everything good, Eddie?”
It shatters the… whatever completely. Steve jerks away from the guy, Eddie apparently, and finds a middle aged dude in cutoffs and flip flops. Just standing there, a paper bag of groceries cradled in his arms. He’s also giving them a look over the top of his glasses.
“Peachy keen, Murray.”
A hand comes down on Steve’s shoulder and he jumps at the contact.
“Just helping out a little lost sheep who wandered too far from the herd today.”
It should piss Steve off, send that rage that’s been bubbling on a low simmer rocketing back up his throat. Because yeah, he belongs somewhere, not like Eddie, with his leather and his hair. Once his dad makes that call, he’ll be all good.
But no, all Steve gets is a cold wash of panic, prickling across his skin. Sure, yeah, he looks like he’s got a part in a pack. But what if it doesn’t work this time? He’s used his dad as a lifeline like a fucking call bell and not like the emergency tap it was. Maybe the strings all frayed out now, no more pulls to make-
That’s a thought he’s kept in a steel box since he was fourteen, when he got put in AP classes and couldn’t make the cut-
Well, it had felt a little like life or death until his dad stepped in.
His vision goes a little fuzzy with that. He rubs his hands over his face, trying to physically ward off the thought.
His hand still has blood all over it. And again, it's all over Steve.
“Ugh.”
It brings him back to the street. Murray is still looking at them. It’s the second time Steve’s gotten the x-ray treatment tonight. He’s not a fan.
Whatever it is Murray’s looking for though, he seems to find it. Steve can’t find it in himself to care, still drifting a little in the panic. Murray doesn’t share, just gives Eddie a raised eyebrow. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see Eddie shrug, make a face back.
Murray sighs.
“Stay out of trouble.” He points at Eddie, before turning to Steve. “And you. You got a little something on your face.”
He gestures up to his forehead and then heads for the stoop, keys jingling as he gets them out.
“No trouble, I promise.” Eddie repeats, calling after him, still sounding way too fucking gleeful.
The door closes slowly behind Murray, the man having turned back around, eyes fixed on Steve.
It takes a small eternity for the door to finally click shut. It’s entirely possible that Murray is still standing behind that door using his x-ray vision to drill through the wood.
“Don’t mind him, he means well.” Eddie says.
Steve looks back to Eddie, who hasn’t moved an inch. He doesn’t remember the guy being so close. Doesn’t know what to do now that he’s standing here. Wants his bed, but doesn’t want to go back, because they’ll all know, smell the failure on him-
“You do have stuff on your face.” Eddie says, cracking through the cotton panic around Steve’s ears. The guy is still fucking smiling, like everything is a joke. Especially Steve.
It’s always Steve. It should stoke the fire, but it takes the wind right out of his sails. He’d been itching for a fight, to do something to get himself punched so he could punch right back, but now it feels like he might do something even stupider, like cry.
Steve can’t even keep a good rage going. Failure even with that.
It must show on his face, because Eddie shifts immediately, hands going back up, this time like he’s coaxing the wild animal that Steve apparently is.
“Look, no weirdness. I promise, for real. But I got paper towels and water for that.” He nods to Steve’s forehead. “Maybe a bandaid or two for those knuckles. Get you all patched up so you don’t get the cops called on you when you make it back down to Palo Alto.”
Steve looks down at himself, finds the zig zag rivulets where the blood from his knuckles had run down his arms. Soaked into his shirt. He doesn’t even want to know what his face looks like.
It’s stupid. The whole day is stupid. But Eddie has a very valid point. If he gets on public trans with this, well…
So he nods, letting Eddie lead him into the building, where Murray had disappeared into. There’s no hint of the guy in the hallway, no laser marks through the wood of the door.
He floats along, swimming along in Eddie’s wake, his brain still somewhere up near the stratosphere, no real thoughts, just cold overwhelm. The hallway is dingy, either from neglect or the dim lights. Either way, it’s seen better days. Better decades, probably, the wall paper dated and cracked.
Eddie leads him up the stairs and they creak under their weight.
“Sorry.” Eddie looks back over his shoulder and says with a smile, this one a little twisted. “It’s no Stanford Sigma Figma, or whatever.”
“... Theta Epsilon.” Steve supplies, for a lack of anything better to say.
Eddie waves it off as he reaches the next floor, takes him down another hall. “Important stuff, right? Names.”
Steve feels like ripping his hair out.
Eddie stops in front of a door, wiggles the handle. “Well, it’s no, what was it? It’s no Feta Apricot but welcome to 2B.”
Maybe it’s a little weird that this random guy is letting Steve into his apartment. Maybe Steve is a fucking idiot, and he’s about to get murdered, dropped off in the bay with a set of cement sneakers and no one will find his body.
Tommy would probably notice if Steve didn’t come back. It’d take a couple of days for him to ring the authorities. He was good like that, covering tracks.
At least Steve’ll die with his reputation intact.
Eddie finally gets the door unlocked and pushes it open with a flourish. “Or as we like to call it, The Dungeon.”
It’s dark and dank, but more in an illicit substance way than anything else. There are instruments spread around what clearly used to be the living room. They’ve got a sign nailed up on the wall, ‘Corroded Coffin’ spray painted across it.
“And that’s the name of our band.”
Steve nods. He can see it, kind of. Eddie’s got a presence about him. All that fucking smiling. And the, well everything.
“Or uh, would be. Our singer kind of quit on us last month. He got a better offer, bigger band, nicer venues.” Eddie says it like it's supposed to be casual. It doesn’t come out that way. “More blow. You know how it goes.”
Steve certainly does not, but he can imagine.
“That sucks, man.” He says and finds that he means it.
But it screws with the picture he had in his head. Because it’s easy to picture this guy up on stage, manning the mic. All that hair and the leather, screaming out into the crowd.
“You’re not the singer?” He asks. It still hurts to talk.
Eddie’s laugh is a gleeful thing and he slumps against the wall.
“Oh, I wish. I’ve been trying it, but it's a little hard to sing and shred. Plus, I sound more like Morrisey than anything and that’s a fucking tragedy in and of itself.”
Eddie gives Steve a warm look he doesn’t know what to do with. Maybe he’s imagining how he’ll disembowel Steve. “We need someone who can scream.”
Steve just nods, like he’s got any understanding about what Eddie is talking about, and continues to take in the space, the bong on the table, the band posters covering the wall. It’s not… nice but it's not not nice. The space clearly lived in and loved, all a collection of well-used and mismatched furniture and painstakingly hung decorations. There’s a piece of cardboard also nailed to the wall, ‘Band Rules’ scrawled across the top in sharpie.
“Speaking of names. You got one?”
“Harrington.” He says, automatic. “Uh- I mean, Steve Harrington.”
People usually start acting different after he drops that. Nicer, weirder. Steve hadn’t meant to lead with it today. It’s just a force of habit. But all he gets this time is a pair of raised eyebrows.
“Arlight, James Bond. I’m Goldfinger, but you can call me Eddie.” Eddie drawls, pushing off the wall and heading into the kitchen. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Steve hovers around the entrance, doesn’t know what to do with himself. Eddie’s making all kinds of noise in there, rummaging through the open fridge. He’s bent over, his black jeans riding low, pink boxers peeking up over his belt.
“You drink?” Eddie calls back, and Steve jumps.
“God, yes.” Steve says.
He emerges from the fridge with two cans of beer in tow and that ever present grin still in place. Steve wonders what it would take to make him stop. It's not a nice thought, especially when the guy never swung at him even though Steve had been convinced that was on the menu for tonight. He presses the cans into Steve’s hands before going back for a roll of paper towels, and then guiding him to the bathroom.
Despite all thoughts of murder, Steve follows him, passes by closed doors until the end of the hallway. Eddie ushers him in. The counter top is, frankly, filthy, cluttered with razors, uncapped shaving creams and all kinds of bottles, from shampoo to beer.
It’s just like the frat house.
“It’s no hospital but uh, it’ll do.” Eddie says, ripping off a couple squares from the roll and folds them up before running them under the tap. Then turns to Steve with them, makes an abortive movement, like he was going to maybe start cleaning Steve up himself.
Steve trades him the beers for the paper and faces the mirror. Nearly drops them, because he looks-
“Kinda metal, dude.”
“Sure.” Steve says, sounding more than a little hysterical, or as close as he can with his frog voice. “That’s what it is, metal.”
It looks like he’s the murderous psychopath, not Eddie. Hair everywhere and very distinctive fingerprints in the blood smeared over his face. He can’t believe this guy let him into his house.
“Very Ozzy of you.” Eddie offers, catching Steve’s eye in the mirror. “Metal guy. Bit a bat’s head off on stage? No?”
“Nope.” Steve says, “No idea. But I don’t think he looked like this.”
Eddie gives him a considering look. Hums over it. “Yeah, probably not. You look like you killed someone at the country club for touching your golf… sticks.”
He’s not wrong.
Steve tries to make a plan of action with his face. It’d probably be better if he could just hop in the shower, but that's looking like it’ll be a couple hours away at this point. Or take off his shirt, but the blood on his face is still wet. He sighs. The beer cans crack open next to him, and Eddie clears off a place on the counter to sit, sending a little tsunami of products clattering to the floor. He shrugs and offers up a beer.
Steve is nothing if not a professional at being handed alcohol and he takes a desperate pull from it, chasing the iron in his mouth. It feels awful against the ruined skin of his throat.
He takes another drink.
Eddie’s just looking at him, beer lifted in limbo. It’s getting a little tiring, watching someone try to puzzle him out. He’s not sure which part bothers him more, that the guy keeps trying or that he seems to be getting the picture. Like he might start asking questions and while Steve might be off the street, he’s still in tears territory.
“So,” Eddie says finally, thankfully, and starts going through the collection of items on the counter. “D’you play?”
“Sports?” Steve asks. He’ll just start from his forehead and hope for the best
“Do I look like I would ask about sports, Steve? Instruments. Music. C’mon.” He opens a tin and frowns down at its contents before setting it aside.
Steve rolls his eyes, tries to keep the drip from his face away from his white collar.
“A little piano, when I was a kid.” He leaves the part out about twice a week for ten years until he made the basketball team. “Got kicked out of choir in high school.”
“Yeah?” Eddie perks up at that, even when the next box doesn’t contain what he’s looking for. “What’d you do?”
Steve’s sure Eddie can’t actually be interested in this. He looks like he’s been kicked out of real things, like bars and school full stop. But, as long as Steve’s not being murdered, he’s cool to explain.
“I broke the drum set and was uh ‘disruptive’.” He says.
Eddie smiles and his eyes light up, and he scoots forward so he can dig around in his jacket pocket.
“The teacher also said I was too loud, couldn’t tone it down.” Not like it matters, at all, but Steve’s quick to add it in, like Eddie, who looks like he’s too loud all the time, will care. It’s the closest Steve ever got to real trouble at school, the only place that the boundary stuck, no amount of donation or Harrington name dropping could change it.
Which was a real bummer, because Steve actually kind of liked choir, sort of in the same way he liked sports.
“Well, I for one, can’t imagine that at all.” Eddie smiles and Steve is helpless to it. He raises his can. “To being way too fucking loud.”
Steve takes his own drink from the counter and taps Eddie’s can.
Then Eddie pulls a mangled joint from his pocket, and lifts an eyebrow in question.
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Steve’s used to the hard hit of coke, his frat brothers not so into herbal refreshment and more into the stuff that would keep them up and moving, make names for them at parties.
Steve’s not picky about these things.
Now though, he’s got a silly little smile on his face as he tries to clean up, his mouth curling up of his own volition.
It makes the process of washing all the blood off a little harder, especially as they pass the roll up back and forth, bathroom hazy.
But by the time they finish the joint and Eddie rolls another, Steve looks about 80% a stand up citizen and has a nice little high going on.
Sure, there’s blood dotting his collar that he’ll have to work some magic with a bleach pen, or just buy a new polo, and his hair is a mess, but it’ll work. No police on public trans for him, no sir. Eddie spends the whole time on the counter, running a commentary, telling Steve about his shows and being a complete hazard to the cluttered bathroom community with his flailing arms. It’s actually… nice. For being in a complete strangers house. The guys at the frat don’t monologue about anything and up until this very moment, Steve would have been happy about that.
Of course, he doesn’t usually smoke up while cleaning blood off himself but it’s actually a little meditative and he’s beyond thankful to have something to do with his hands.
The knuckles are where he starts to struggle. Eddie insists they need to be cleaned up with alcohol, because phone booths are cess-pools of disease, apparently. Even though Steve’s pretty sure there are a couple different types of bacteria growing in this bathroom currently.
It’s still a good point.
Eddie hands off the roll up, sets aside his beer and grabs Steve’s wrist with too warm hands, and gets to work, dabbing over the skin with alcohol. Steve can’t remember the last time someone helped him with something like this, hands on skin, cleaning up to clean up, not to cover up. Even after his less than stellar nights out with Tommy, they still cleaned up alone.
The cuts start to sting once Eddie gets the crusted up blood wiped away, the pain a creeping thing, building slowly until it has Steve gritting his teeth, jaw still sore.
“Shit, man.” Steve hisses, tries to pull away. “Give me a second-”
But Eddie’s grip is firm, steel. “C’mon. It’ll be over in a second if you just let me finish.”
And then Eddie’s dark eyes are pining Steve with a look that makes his heart jump right back to his throat, weed be damned.
Maybe the guy still is planning on killing him. Steve doesn’t know what to do with this kind of eye contact. The joint is still burning away in his un-injured hand and he takes a deep pull from it, holding the smoke in until he can’t anymore and exhaling over his shoulder.
“So.” He coughs, throat still reeling from the screaming and the beer and the weed. “What did you mean, about your singing? And sounding like uh, Mu-Mor-?”
Steve’s never been this awkward in his fucking life. But it’s the right thing to ask, because Eddie smiles. Doesn’t go for the kill.
“Morrisey? Well to be honest,” He gives Steve’s knuckles a final once over before grabbing some gauze. “That’s me punching up, guy’s got a voice, a whiny one, but still. It’s this whole thing.”
He packs the gauze around Steve’s hand, calluses brushing Steve’s palm.
“Like uh, I wanna be Freddie Mercury but I’m Madonna. Which is great, Madonna is cool and all but well, not for metal.”
It… sort of makes sense to Steve, so he nods.
Eddie takes the roll of tape into his teeth and tears it, then wrapping the final piece around Steve’s hand.
“I thought you said you had bandaids.”
Eddie smiles. He’s got canines.
“This works right?”
Steve nods, and takes another drag. Eddie plucks the joint from his mouth and follows up.
“So.” He says, once he exhales.
“So?” Steve asks, and steals the joint back.
“That scream, it felt good right?”
Steve’s not sure why they keep coming back to that but he actually thinks on it this time. That hadn’t been the reason he did it. There hadn’t been a reason, just a well of frustration and anger and after he let it out, well. Maybe it did feel good.
“I mean I guess.” He considers. “I’d need to try it again.”
He doesn’t really want to, hopes that he won’t ever feel like this again. But just thinking on it makes the whole day, whole quarter come back to him, wedging its way through the cracks in the nice little bubble of Eddie’s bathroom.
He rubs at his forehead, with his good hand this time, and sighs.
“Look man, I don’t know your story.” Eddie makes pointed eye contact. “But the way I see it is if you haven’t killed anyone, committed like, international levels of crime, or have a deadly disease, you can fix it. And even then, things can still get fixed. Miracles happen, or whatever.”
It’s a stupid positive thing for someone who looks like Eddie to say, and Steve is almost tempted to make fun of him for it. But Eddie’s genuine. For all of the hour Steve’s known him, he can tell.
Eddie claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay. If I can cockroach my way through life, well, look at you. You can do anything.”
It must be the high, but Steve smiles, even though it makes him sad.
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Steve steps off the stoop and back into the night. The neighborhood is alive now, music buzzing through the air. They head for the main street. As they go, Steve swears he can feel eyes burning through him. When he checks over his shoulder, he finds Murray, in the window of the first floor, watching them go in his recliner, a tumbler of something in his hand. He gives Steve a wave.
Steve tries to smile back.
They hit the main drive and people are out in droves, lots of young guys enjoying the night, arms slung across shoulders and leaning into each other.
He’s almost sad to go.
Eddie’s keeping step next to him and, what Steve is coming to suspect is just his normal way of being, has a steady stream of chatter going, points out places he plays with his band, the best burger joint in the neighborhood, and the spots where he’s thrown up on his way home from nights out. He’s also just nice, waving to people, yelling out greetings and dishing out smiles to more people than not.
It’s impossible to not compare it to Steve’s life on campus, the careful, snarky way they navigate parties or dining houses. Constantly wary of social pitfalls. He’s suddenly so deeply jealous of the ease Eddie gets.
Eventually, they turn away from the crowd and head out to another street, this one a mainline, packed with cars and walk until they hit the muni stop.
“Alright, Steve. This is you, you know which train you’re getting on?”
Steve wants to roll his eyes, but he’s still got a really nice high going so all he can really offer up is a smile and an affirmation. He sort of expects Eddie to leave him there, get back to his life, but he doesn’t. He bounces on his toes next to Steve and watches the street for the trolley. Steve’s content to let the night wash over him, the warm breeze coming down the block ruffling his hair. He tilts his head back, resting it against the plastic of the trolly stop hut and smiles into nothing.
He’s got so much shit waiting for him when he gets back to his house, but for now, it’s away and he’ll take it. When he finally brings himself back down to street level, he can see the single headlight of the trolley coming down the line.
“This me?” Steve asks.
Eddie cranes around Steve and nods.
It’s weird, the sadness that digs into Steve. He wants to thank the guy, do something weird like ask him to hang out but he’s probably like this with everyone. Is like this with everyone, if the walk over here is anything to go by.
Still.
There’s nothing he can do, really. He’ll get on the tram, then the train, get back to the house and do his best to sort his shit out.
The trolley comes to a stop in front of them and people start unloading.
“Well, uh, thanks man, I appreciate it, sorry for yelling and smoking your stuff.” Steve offers.
He holds out a hand, and Eddie clasps his forearm, eyes on Steve.
They let go and Steve makes himself turn for the trolley.
“Wait, Steve.” Eddie calls, coming up after him.
Steve pauses, one foot up on the platform.
“Listen, take it or leave it but-” Eddie reaches out for him again, gets a too warm hand around Steve’s wrist. He produces a sharpie out of thin air. “I just- I’m not like- okay.” He takes a breath, looks unsteady for the first time tonight.
“You getting on, kid?” That’s the conductor.
“Yeah.” Steve says, not looking over his shoulder.
“Look, you’ve got a voice, dude. And if you even feel a need to put that anger somewhere useful, you give me a call.”
He pulls the cap off with his teeth and scrawls out a number on the skin of Steve’s inner arm, the wet felt of the marker leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“We need someone who’s got lungs like yours.” Eddie says, finishing off with a flourish.
“C’mon, in or out.” The conductor says.
He finally looks back up at Steve. “Or anything. Singing or not. Give me a call.”
Steve nods, feels high and dumb and can’t look away from the way Eddie’s eyes shine with the passing cars.
“Let’s go, kid.”
Eddie finally lets go of Steve’s wrist and Steve steps all the way into the car. The doors clatter shut in front of him, but he can still make out Eddie through the glass.
“You got payment?”
It yanks Steve out of the staring contest they’re in, and he shoves a hand in his pocket, pulling out his collection from that twenty he broke earlier. Some go scattering across the floor, the coins feeling odd in his hand, his skin tight and cold and singing. He can hear Eddie laughing from the street as he slots a few in.
The conductor gives a gruff nod before pulling at the lever and sending them lurching away. Steve turns just in time to see Eddie still on the corner, watching them go.
______________
He sits on the trolley, then the train. It feels like an eternity as he watches the city chug past him, from impossibly tall buildings to houses to highways to open fields and back again. The bay sparkles with the lights from the city and he lets his high carry him through, finally fading a few stops before his.
It’s colder down south, when he finally hops off the train.
He should call Tommy, see if he’s sober enough to come grab him. But it’s near midnight and he’s probably already neck deep in a bottle of Patron.
Besides, now that he’s here, he can’t help the dread of going back to the house. It’s a new feeling.
So he walks, to delay the inevitable. Goes through the arboretum, tries to enjoy the night air against his skin, listens to the freshman giggling into the night. Then passes through campus, gives the business building a middle finger as he goes.
And finally, he hits his street. People are crowding the space and Steve can smell the spilled beer from here, feel the thump of bass. He meanders through the crowd until he gets back to his frat.
He stands in front of it, the big white letters hung up on the wall. There are windows looking into the staircases and he can see the steady stream of people going up and down, solo cups clutched in their hands. The way the lights flash, pulse with the music.
He takes a breath. Tells himself he’s Steve Harrington, you can do anything echoing in his head, and then goes and cuts the line. He flashes the guy manning the door a smile that feels not quite right, and heads back into the fray.