Chapter Text
They’re in his bathroom when Eddie says, “I don’t think we should keep doing this, Steve.”
Steve blinks. Meets Eddie’s eyes. Blinks again.
His heart feels like it’s stopped in his chest. The taste of bile coats the back of his throat. He stands there, caught. His fingertips feel numb. His ribcage feels tight.
Maybe he’s cursed to always be dumped in a bathroom.
“Oh,” Steve says.
He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say. It’s like he’s standing, useless, watching Nancy smear the red stain on her white sweater bigger and bigger. He feels the same way he had when she looked up at him, eyes half-lidded and mouth pinched, slurring the word bullshit at him. He feels like he’s been told all over again his love isn’t real; that it’s all pretend.
Except this isn’t Nancy. This isn’t Tina’s house for some stupid Halloween party he doesn’t give a shit about. This is Steve’s home. This is Steve, standing in the same spot he brushes his teeth and shaves his face.
He looks sideways, sees his own pale face reflected in the mirror. Every line of worry and concern is etched into his face, alongside his scars.
Eddie hasn’t moved from where he’s standing, less than two feet away. He’s not saying anything, letting the statement hang in the air, awful and incomprehensible, and really fucking devastating. He seems to be waiting for Steve to respond; waiting for Steve to say something about whether they should keep doing this.
Steve tugs a hand through his hair.
Maybe he should have seen this coming; Eddie’s been acting weird all evening. He’s been jumpy and uncomfortable, unable to settle. He kept flitting between the lounge and the kitchen, bouncing up from the couch, then back again with an overanxious energy. It was Steve who suggested a shower; he thought the hot water might relax Eddie, calm him down enough to settle back into his own body.
Eddie agreed, and now –
Now, Steve is regretting everything that’s led them here.
Eddie’s hair is wet, hanging in loose strands around his face; a stray water droplet traces the sharp line of his cheek, dripping off the edge of his chin. He hasn’t put his jewelry back on yet, so his hands are ringless and naked. His feet are bare.
He looks like someone who belongs in Steve’s life.
He doesn’t look like someone who should be saying they shouldn’t keep doing this anymore. Except, he is. Eddie is saying they shouldn’t keep doing this anymore.
Steve’s anxiety is building. He can feel his muscles tensing, the fight or flight kicking in. At this point, he’s used to fighting. He’s used to running and punching and taking the loss. He’s used to outrunning monsters.
He’s not used to having quiet conversations in his bathroom with wet-haired boys.
“I, um –” Steve swallows. It’s an effort to speak. His throat is very tight. “Do you – did something, like, happen?”
Steve doesn’t know if he can keep dealing with this kind of rejection. He wants to put his fist through the mirror. It’s bullshit.
Eddie bounces on the balls of his feet. His expression is unreadable. Steve hates that he can’t read it; he thought he could always read Eddie’s expression. Looks like he’s re-evaluating everything he thought he knew, tonight.
“Nothing happened. It’s just - Steve, man, what are we doing?” Eddie asks.
“I – I thought we were having a good time,” Steve says. His voice comes out as something small. Something quiet.
“Having a good time?” Eddie’s voice is biting. “Yeah, sure. I have a real good time when you wake up every hour of the night sweating and jumpy, refusing to tell me what’s wrong. I have a real good time when Robin fucking Buckley crashes through your door like she owns the place, and you insist on hiding me upstairs like your dirty little secret.”
“Robin and I aren’t together, or anything.” Steve says.
Eddie snorts, shaking his head.
“I’m serious!” Steve says. “She’s my best friend, that’s it.”
Eddie chews his lip, breaking their eye contact. He puts a hand into his hair, tugging on the wet curls in frustration.
“Fuck. Steve, I know. I know she’s your best friend, but that’s, like, the fucking point! She’s your best friend, so, uhh, why can’t I meet her? I’m not asking you to tell her we’re fucking – but – we’ve been together six months. We were hanging out for two months before that! But, what? I still can’t spend time with you guys? You know how much of a fucking loser it makes me feel to not even be able to exist in the same goddamned room as you and the other people you, like, give a shit about?”
“It’s not like that –”
Eddie holds up a hand, cutting Steve off. He’s worked up now, eyes are dark and dangerous in the dim light.
“No, like, you know what? It’s whatever, Steve. Forget the fact we’ve been hanging out for almost a year, but I’m not allowed to tell anyone I know the first thing about you. Forget the fact your best friend comes over and I have to hang out quietly upstairs on my own like a massive fucking waste of space, just in case she realizes I’m here.”
“Eddie – I’m –”
Eddie’s pacing now. He won’t meet Steve’s eyes.
“Forget it! We are having a good time! I feel really fucking good every time you freak out, and I ask you what’s wrong, and you pass me off with some excuse you’ve pulled out your ass. Seriously, Steve? How the hell am I supposed to spend any time with you if you won’t fucking tell me anything? Do you, like, actually give a shit about me? Or have I just been fucking kidding myself here, man?”
Steve’s heart is pounding.
He wants to press Eddie against the marble of his sink and hold him there. Wants to keep Eddie’s body in the circle of his arms. He wants everyone to see the two of them together; wants to pick Henderson up with Eddie in the passenger seat of his car, their hands tangled together over the center console. He wants to take Eddie to the drive-in and kiss him in the backseat of his car, wants to laugh so hard his ribs hurt.
Steve wants Eddie so close their bodies fuse together. He wants his ribcage to open like a Demogorgon’s mouth, flowering out to make a home for Eddie’s hands. He wants to press his bones to Eddie’s until they crystallize, connected forever in a tiny, shared pocket of time. He wants to wake up every morning to Eddie’s hair on his pillow, and Eddie’s smile, and Eddie’s hands, and. He wants –
It doesn’t matter what Steve wants.
It doesn’t matter, because it isn’t fair for Steve to want those things.
Eddie threw his arms open and let Steve see all his jagged edges, but Steve can’t repay the favor.
Sure, he told Eddie about his absent parents and his shitty high school friends. He told Eddie about the stupid shit he said to Jonathan, the crappy way he treated Nancy. He told Eddie about the regret, black and heavy, coating every hour of his life –
but.
He hasn’t told Eddie about the kids, the way he loves them like extensions of his own body. Hasn’t told Eddie that he stays up at night reciting their names over and over, some fucked up prayer to keep them all still breathing. He hasn’t told Eddie about the Upside Down, the constant terror; the way he steps into a room and can’t relax until he’s scanned every edge of it, until he’s sure there’s nothing lurking in the shadows.
Steve has only let Eddie see the smallest fragments of him, the pieces he can make look sensible, normal.
He wants to explain. He wants to let Eddie know why he can’t sleep at night; why flickering lights make bile rise in his mouth; why he’s always on edge; why he’s always ready to run, to fight.
He wants to explain why he keeps the pool in his backyard covered year-round, even in the middle of summer when the air is scorching hot. Wants to explain why he froze when Eddie asked about going for a swim, once.
He wants to say that Barbara Holland didn’t die in Hawkins Lab; she didn’t get too close to a chemical leak. He wants to tell Eddie she died in his pool, and sometimes when he closes his eyes, he thinks he can hear her out there.
Screaming.
Steve wants to explain to Eddie that sometimes, he looks out to the woods behind his house and sees Will, twelve years old and shaking with fear. He wants to say sometimes he jerks awake to the imagined sound of a Demodog scream.
Wants to tell Eddie that he can’t go to the doctor’s anymore, that he’s claustrophobic and quick to panic, that elevators make him feel sick. Wants to explain he tried to get his blood taken two months ago, and the sight of the needle made him faint in the chair.
He wants to, but he can’t. He can’t tell Eddie anything.
He can’t tell Eddie. Not because of the NDAs, or the hush money weighing down his bank account. Not because of the lines of confusing paperwork, or the government threats towards people he cares about.
He can’t tell Eddie, because Steve wants to keep him safe.
He can’t tell Eddie, because the second you know about the Upside Down, the second it’s claimed you.
Look at Max – with her tiny, round cheeks and piercing blue eyes. Look at her, sitting in a bus in the junkyard, facing down a Demodog. Look at her, standing in a burning mall, watching Billy’s heart get ripped out of his chest.
As soon as you know, you stop being able to live a normal life.
Steve wants Eddie to stay normal.
He takes a rattling breath in.
“I’m sorry, Eddie. I – I know I’ve been unfair and shitty to you, and I can’t explain all of it, but I’m not trying to keep you a dirty secret. I –”
He can’t put into words the feeling in his chest.
Steve cares about Eddie’s wellbeing more than he cares about his own. The people Steve loves keep flinging themselves headfirst into danger, and he can’t see anyone else make the fall. The list of people Steve would die for is as long as his arm, and Eddie’s name is right at the elbow.
He just wants one thing untainted by fear, or torture, or the acidic, rotting smell of the Upside Down.
Sighing, Steve forces himself to look Eddie in the eyes. He stutters out a half-baked excuse for his behavior.
“I was – I am - still processing the fact I’m queer.”
It isn’t the truth. Not really.
Steve has been processing the queer parts of himself since he hurled the word at Jonathan in an attempt to say the most hurtful thing he could think of someone being. He’s been unpicking the feelings inside him since Robin came out to him on a grimy bathroom floor.
He’s been processing the slow slide into everything since he started hanging out with Eddie, since he let himself notice the small mole behind Eddie’s ear, the curve of Eddie’s smile, the shape of Eddie’s ribs.
Still –
Accepting the feelings within himself and telling other people about them are different things. Steve hasn’t been ready to share with anyone else yet. It’s not like there’s much space carved out for queer people in Hawkins.
He knows he has people who would love him, accept him. He also knows there’s just as many who wouldn’t.
Eddie sighs. “It’s okay if you need time to process everything, Steve. I’m not saying you have to rally against Anita Bryant or start fucking me in the middle of the 21 Club. I just need to know you’re gonna give me something, here. Something real.”
“I don’t – I don’t know who Anita Bryant is,” Steve says.
Eddie runs a hand through his hair, tugging in frustration.
“Jesus Christ, Steve, Anita fucking Bryant isn’t the point!”
“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay, I –”
“I’ve heard you talk about Robin; I know how important she is to you, and the fact I can’t hang out with the two of you together sucks. You keep me at a fucking distance from every aspect of your life! I found out your mom and dad were back in town last week because Dustin mentioned it in a Hellfire meeting. Fuck, man. I didn’t even know you knew Dustin until he started talking about you driving him home. I mean, what the fuck, Steve? He talks about you like you’re his long-lost brother and I can’t even tell him: oh, yeah, I know Harrington too?”
Eddie spreads his arms out wide, then lets them drop to his side again. He looks defeated.
“I keep thinking we have something real, and then I find out another thing you’ve been keeping from me. It just. It hurts, Steve.”
“It is real. What we have – it is real.”
Steve hates how desperate he sounds. Hates the way his voice cracks, the way he steps closer to Eddie, pulled by some invisible force. His hands find Eddie’s waist and he squeezes, tightens his grip.
Eddie steps away from the touch. He looks Steve in the eye, defiant and unyielding.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, Steve, we’ve got something real. Can you tell me what the hell is up with you? Why you’re so fucking tense, or jumpy? Why you worry about those kids so much? Can you tell me anything about your life except the shit everyone else knows?”
Steve drops his shoulders. He shakes his head. Says nothing.
“Yeah,” Eddie replies. “That’s what I thought.”
It’s like someone’s smashed a plate over his head again, like the world is spinning and lights are flashing. Like someone’s pushed their fist into his eye, shoved a foot into his stomach. He’s down in the tunnels, choking for air.
“So, that’s it, then?” he asks. “We’re over?”
His voice comes out small and cramped, no strength to it at all. Eddie looks at him for several moments, and his lip wobbles. Steve is pathetically relieved to realize he isn’t the only one affected by this.
“Fuck,” Eddie says. His voice breaks. “I don’t – I’m not –”
Eddie tugs his hands through his hair, pulling it over his face and sighing. His nails are bitten down to the quick, and Steve wonders how long he’s been sitting on this, how long he’s been thinking about this.
“Steve, it’s been – it’s been months. I keep waiting for you to tell me something, anything. I don’t want this to be it; I want you to talk to me.”
Steve doesn’t know how to talk to people anymore. Other than Eddie, everyone he spends time with understands what he’s been through. They understand the night terrors, the random spikes of fear.
Even then, he struggles to open up to everyone else. He doesn’t want them to know how weak he is, how tired he is, how fucking guilty he feels.
It’s what brought Steve to Eddie’s doorstep in the first place. After Starcourt, Steve was fucked up and anxious, desperate for something to chill him out a little; he and Robin did some asking around, and Lisa Hinkley assured him Eddie Munson from the trailer park had the best bud this side of Indianapolis. So, Steve sought him out.
Eddie sold him the drugs with a quirk of his brow and a flourish of hands, and Steve –
Steve had fallen pretty fucking hard.
“There isn’t anything to talk about,” Steve says. “I’m fine.”
Eddie’s whole face scrunches up.
“No, you’re fucking not,” he snaps. “People who are fine can go swimming in their own fucking pool without shaking. People who are fine can talk about what they did over summer break without looking like they’re going to barf. People who are fine don’t act like you, Steve!”
There’s silence, heavy and thick in the room.
“Look,” Eddie says. It’s soft, gentle, almost. “I know whatever went down in Starcourt fucked you up, okay? You survived a fire, that’s going to mess anyone up. I’m just – I’m just asking for a little more. I just need you to tell me when you’re feeling fucked up, okay?”
Steve feels frozen, rooted to the spot. Eddie looks at him, like he wants Steve to do something, anything.
Steve can’t move.
The minutes pass, awful and tense and difficult, in a way things have never been between him and Eddie before.
Eventually, Eddie huffs out a long sigh. He turns around, stalking out of the bathroom. Steve hears the noise of him gathering his clothes, picking his rings up from Steve’s nightstand. Taking all the pieces of himself back out of Steve’s bedroom.
A few minutes later, the front door slams.
When he hears Eddie’s truck motor spluttering to life, Steve sinks slowly to the floor, pressing a hand over his mouth, trying to stop the flow of tears.
He’s been around long enough to know the sound of someone leaving his life.