watered it in fears

by monkkeyslut

Summary:

The first lie Steve tells him is this: “Nothing is going to change.”

 

Autumn, 1984; Eddie is angry with wanting, and Steve is just angry.

Notes:

it takes a fucking village, as they say, and this fic would not exist without the help from:

mads, who created most of the wonderful ephemera you'll see within the fic and did all the hard work of uploading it in, who listened to me bitch about this thing and never told me to shut up. you are a saint and ilu for sticking around <3

lydia, who combed through my nightmare of a doc and found something worth salvaging, encouraging me and helping me work out the story beats every step of the way. tysm lydster <33

shoutout to vivisea for steve's halloween costume suggestion!!

for a bit of clarification, since we don't get steve's pov: his arc follows pretty closely to the one in canon during this time period, the only difference is that he isn't dating nancy, just friends with her. it's also only ~loosely~ connected to the fic i did for steddie week 2024.

aaaaaand, without further ado: part two!

 

 

Part II: Autumn, 1984 

“And so that was what love led to. To wound and be wounded.”

 

            - Dorothy Bussy

 

 

 

 

The first lie Steve tells him is this: “Nothing is going to change.”

It’s firm and determined, whispered into the curve of Eddie’s neck, which is still sticky with sweat and spit from Steve’s mouth. The hours are whittling away, the sky growing darker outside, and soon Steve will need to leave so that he can perform his back to school ritual (a hair wash, picking out the right outfit, going to bed at a decent time—all things Eddie mocked him for when he sheepishly admitted it earlier in the day). When they wake up tomorrow, it will be the start of senior year, and school will officially be back in session.

He squeezes Steve’s waist in lieu of responding, unsure what will come out of his mouth if he unclenches his teeth. For Eddie, nothing will change. The next several months will be the exact same as they were last year, a role Eddie has played even if he hasn’t quite perfected it. He will sit through the same classes with a host of new faces, including the one currently breathing against him, and he will keep an eye out for the new flock, and he will try very, very hard not to be angry about all of it.

Eddie understands the necessity of secrets, and has since the first time he fisted his own dick thinking about another boy. Queer boys don’t get love stories the way straight ones do, especially not in small town Indiana. Queer boys don’t get any sort of story in small town Indiana when people know about them.

He understands the value of secrets; Chief Hopper’s breath reeks of whiskey more often than it doesn’t and he has a soft spot for the pre-rolls Eddie always has on him.

He understands the consequences of secrets. In his dreams, she is bright-eyed and gap-toothed and healthy, always healthy. In his nightmares, there is a sickening give to her skin, a clamminess he still feels when he wakes with night sweats.

What he isn't used to are lies. Not really, anyway. Not from the people who matter to him.

They haven’t talked about the upcoming school year beyond a few comments here and there. It feels a little like a glass has shattered and they don’t know where all the pieces are, feet treading carefully around shards that will bury deep if stepped on.

Steve says that nothing will change, and Eddie knows that he will at least try and make it so that’s true. If he’s proven nothing else in the last few months, it’s that he enjoys spending time with Eddie. In his mind, nothing will change because it’s easy right now.

Steve doesn’t mean to lie, Eddie’s sure. But it’s a lie all the same.

---

---

Eddie is quick to anger, always has been.

The Munsons are an angry bunch, Wayne likes to remind him. There are scars across his knuckles and dreams that keep him working the nightshift that prove it. Each time he brings it up, Eddie knows it’s a cautionary tale. Anger is what made him enlist; anger is what drove Al to crime, to turning a blind eye when Elizabeth asked for something that would make the pain stop, just for a little bit.

Eddie doesn’t want to be like that. He doesn’t want the poison of it, has seen what it looks like when it eats a person alive.

The hard part is how good the world is at pissing him off. Eddie gets angry when the water runs cold mid-shower just as quickly as he does when Click commends him for being on time in front of the whole class. He’s angry at the fact that he needs to go back to school for another year, and he’s angry when Gareth can’t learn a goddamn song.

It’s stupid shit, sometimes, but not always.

School serves to be the most infuriating of places for him, a constant series of pokes and prods that have him considering whether or not it’s even worth it to get his diploma. His teachers are tired of him (except for lovely Ms. Hanratty in the drama department, who Eddie equally adores), his ‘peers’ wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire, and his—Steve insists on being frustratingly attractive in a place Eddie isn’t allowed to act on it.

Honestly, it’s for the best that Eddie never saw Steve working as a lifeguard, because there is knowing the guy you’re hooking up with in secret is a hot commodity, and then there is seeing it in real life. Whatever stumble in popularity he had the previous year was not enough to keep him down this time around. Throughout the first month and a half back in school, Eddie watches no less than four girls stuff handwritten notes into his locker. The new freshmen this year are practically running a fanclub, and Tracy Bellaire spent the entirety of third period weeping into the cupcake batter they were mixing in Cooking (the cupcakes were delicious, at least) when Steve apparently told her he wouldn’t be able to take her out that weekend.

Their gym classes run at the same time, so Eddie also has the distinct displeasure of seeing Steve commit some of the most homoerotic acts outside of the bedroom. He had no clue that basketball was so...touchy. It’s obscene, quite frankly, and Eddie thinks they should all be ashamed of themselves.

He’s not jealous, of course. That would be stupid.

“I think it’s kind of hot,” Steve tells him, wiping his mouth with his arm. He smears cum in the dark hair there. Eddie can feel his eye twitching at the sight of it, and he wants to press his finger there, work it into the skin more so it looks less like a smear of cum and more like—something else. Something less damning. He doesn’t even register the other stupid shit coming out of Steve’s mouth until he’s back on his feet, tucking Eddie’s softening dick away and patting him on the crotch with a little smile.

Eddie blinks a little unevenly, still trying to catch his breath. Steve doesn’t even look phased over performing what might have been the best blowjob of Eddie’s life, which is a little rude. He feels a little fond and wistful for the days where Steve was a blowie novice.

He looks away when Steve leans into his space, pressing damp little kisses along whatever skin he can reach. “It can’t be hot, because it doesn’t exist.”

“Uh huh,” Steve nods, nose brushing along the apple of Eddie’s cheek. “Totally. So you didn’t care when Kristen Samuels asked me to carry her books to class?”

Scowling, Eddie reaches up and squeezes Steve’s cheeks between his fingers. “It was Kiersten Emmanuel and she stalked you from class to class for three days before she dumped them in front of you, actually! Which—that’s insane behaviour, I’ll have you know. Like. Who even does that? Carry your own goddamn books!”

He shakes Steve’s face for emphasis, then groans when Steve smiles, big, looking like a chipmunk with the way Eddie has his cheeks squished. He releases Steve, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes as he leans away, falling back against the picnic table. “Oh god, just leave me here to—”

“—knew you were jealous!” Steve crows, crawling after Eddie so he can hover on all fours above him. “You big dummy, you could’a just said, you know.”

Eddie glances at him from the corner of his eye, unable to bite back his own smile at the sight of Steve’s. It’s big and happy and a little goofy. They’re out in the woods, away from school, and while it’s still not safe to be like this, the need to be apart is less heavy out here. If Eddie tries, he can pretend like they are completely alone in the world.

Maybe that’s why he pulls Steve down against him, guiding his hips into a roll. Maybe it’s why he bites his lip hard—not enough to break the skin, but enough that it comes away red and a little swollen, so anyone who looks at it for the rest of the day wonders who.

Steve sits up, planting himself on Eddie’s hips as he pulls down the zip on his jeans and frees his pretty cock, the head red and wet at the tip. “Can you pull your shirt up?” Steve asks, panting slightly as he takes spits into his palm and then takes hold of himself.

Eddie rushes to comply, ignoring the bite of cold as his back is bared against the wood beneath him. His shirt is shoved up beneath his chin, revealing his belly and nipples, which Steve gazes upon like he’s seeing God or something equally astounding. “We need to bring tissues out here or something,” Steve grunts.

They certainly do. Steve cums across Eddie’s belly and chest and for all of a minute, they both get a little moon-y eyed over it, and then they realize Eddie only has a gas station receipt to mop it all up with. He does what he can with that, then scoops the rest up with his fingers and sucks them into his mouth, much to Steve’s horror.

“What?” Eddie asks, fingers still in his mouth. He sucks hard as he drags them out, scraping his teeth over the pads. “You just did the same thing.”

“It’s cold?” Steve points out. “I got mine straight from the source.”

Eddie can’t help the laugh that rips out of him, doesn’t even have the words for the way Steve’s lifting his nose up at the thought of Eddie eating his few seconds old spunk. He ambles over to Steve and catches him in a headlock, tries lifting his shirt back up. “C’mon, it’s not that bad.”

Steve is stronger than him and in seconds they’re actually wrestling on the ground, breathless with laughter and the effort of trying to pin each other down. They only stop when Steve has Eddie face down, planted firmly on the small of his back with one arm twisted behind him. “Whatcha gonna do now, tough guy?” He mocks, leaning down to bite at Eddie’s ear.

Eddie sighs, enjoying the weight of Steve along his back. “Now I think we’re getting detention, babe.”

He feels Steve freeze up, and then the weight is removed from Eddie’s back as Steve rolls over and glances at his watch. “Aw, fuck. We’re so late.”

Eddie laughs as Steve drags them both to their feet, collecting their things as they take off through the trees. It’s been long enough since lunch ended that they should be okay coming out of the woods together, but Eddie knows Steve will stagger it anyway, just to be safe.

He trots along ahead, careful of the roots beneath his feet but eager to get to class. They’re getting detention whether they show up now or twenty minutes from now, but the difference is that Wayne doesn’t even get phone calls home when Eddie gets one, and Steve’s parents will almost certainly receive a call.

Whatever; it was worth the hour they’ll need to spend after school, in Eddie’s opinion. He spies a little mark on Steve’s neck and he knows his bottom lip is bitten red, can’t help the way something satisfied and happy burns in him, fever-hot.

The anger from before feels far away now, imaginary and small. How can he hold onto it when it's so clear that no matter how popular Steve is, Eddie is the one he wants?

(Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice, at first. He doesn’t think he’s seen Steve angry, not really. Not the anger that Eddie is used to, anyway.

Steve’s anger burns slow, the sort of heat you don’t notice until your skin is bubbling, the damage already done.)

---

---

For all that they sometimes slip away during lunch hours or before Steve has to go to swim or basketball practice, the two of them don’t see much of each other during the day.

High school is a delicate ecosystem. Steve, former monarch, is still popular, for all intents and purposes. His fall from grace didn’t keep him from the swim or basketball teams, which means that he still hangs out with all those jocks. The only slight deviation from his norm is when he eats lunch with Jonthan Byers or walks Nancy Wheeler to her classes, and that was last year’s gossip.

Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson suddenly becoming chummy with one another? That’s cause for ecological collapse.

It would be nice to be able to talk to him throughout the day. There are a hundred things on his mind at any given moment and Eddie wants to regale Steve with all of them. He'd like to be able to joke with him at lunch or tangle their feet together under any library table, not just the one hidden in the back of the stacks. 

It’s fine, all things considered. Eddie knew he and Steve would never be able to walk hand in hand down the halls of Hawkins High, and he doesn’t really want to deal with the fallout of the Hellfire guys realizing he’s become a hypocrite and befriended a jock, the same way he’s sure Steve doesn’t want to do the same thing with his own friends. There is something illicit about their relationship—if it can even be called that—and Eddie sort of likes that. He likes the way he can feel Steve’s heartbeat thudding in his throat when they hear someone walking by a classroom they’ve ducked into. He likes the sweat on his palms, making it harder to scale the side of Steve’s house to reach his window.

He’d like for it to be different, sure, but it can’t be. Besides, sneaking around is fun.

Or—most times, it is.

And then there are times when Eddie is reminded why it’s necessary. Not an abstract idea painted in his mind as he falls asleep, or the passing reference on the news at night, Wayne’s gaze heavy on the side of his face. No; a stomach churning, breath-stealing reminder of just how bad it would look to be found in his boxers in Steve Harrington’s bedroom, sprawled across his bed.

“Let me explain something to you,” Mr. Harrington growls, low and mean.

Eddie sits curled at the bottom of Steve’s closet, crushing a dozen pairs of shoes beneath his bony ass, surrounded by the scent of him. Some of the shirts above him sway, still caught in the momentum of his panicked dive inside, and Eddie reaches slowly up, pinching the ends of them between his fingers to force them into stillness.

His breath is held tight in his chest, hand digging into his lips. Before this, Eddie didn’t think dread could have a sound, but it’s there in the heavy silence.

Steve’s father continues, low and angry. “You live in my house. You have my name. That car you drive was bought with my money, even if it’s your name on the paperwork. Everything you do in this town reflects on me.”

“I know,” Steve says, quieter, smaller. Twenty minutes ago he was laughing hard at some joke Eddie made, tears gathering fat in his lashes. His voice had been smoke-rough, face flushed with something like happiness. There had been spunk dried in the webbing of his fingers, missed in their rush for a post-orgasm joint.

Steve makes a noise like he’s been hit, though Eddie doesn’t hear the tell-tale smack of flesh on flesh. Mr. Harrington doesn’t seem the type, anyway, to hit his kid; he’s smart enough to know that some marks don’t get overlooked. No, Eddie imagines him darting forward to curl a hand in Steve’s hair, fingernails scraping his scalp as he gets a good grip and yanks him close.

“Explain to me why I come home and it stinks of skunk, Steven. Is that what you’re doing when we aren’t here? Is that why your grades are pathetic? You need a sports scholarship because God knows you won’t make it into any college, and if they test you for anything, you’ll be off the team. Do you understand that? The one thing you’re half decent at, and you’re pissing it away for a little ditch weed.”

Steve hitches out a breath, sounding more like a little kid than an almost grown man when he whispers, “It was just—I didn’t mean to—dad, I promise, it was just one joint, okay? I know I shouldn’t, but—”

Eddie hears him whine again, listens as the bed squeaks. He wants to press his hands to his ears, block out the noise. Steve wouldn’t want him hearing this. Eddie doesn’t want to hear this.

“I—I—uh—um—do you hear how fucking stupid you sound? Real men don’t make excuses, Steven. Real men own up to their mistakes.”

“Dad—”

“Give me your wallet.” Silence follows the request for a heartbeat, and then the bed creaks as Steve must lean over the side to reach his bedside table, where Eddie remembers him dropping his wallet and keys. There is another brief silence in which Eddie imagines Steve handing the wallet to his father, and then there is a thwap as it’s tossed back towards Steve. “Let’s see how much dope you can buy without the handouts I give you.”

Steve says nothing, and Mr. Harrington laughs meanly. “No more bumbling, Steven?”

“Daniel,” a new voice hisses. “That’s enough.”

“Camille, when I need your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Hell, if you stayed home once in a while, maybe Steven here wouldn’t be—”

“This is not on me,” Mrs. Harrington snarls. “And you damn well know it.”

Another stretch of silence, fraught with a history Eddie doesn’t know. Is this how it always is, when Steve’s parents are home? He thinks of the way Steve had complained in the summer about going away with them, how Eddie’d given him a hard time for it, called him spoiled. Now, he wonders if this is normal for Steve’s parents, if his dad is always this cutting and mean, if his mom only steps in when his dad goes too far.

Mr. Harrington inhales deeply, holds it, and then exhales. “You can have your credit card back when I return from New York.”

“I—what if I need money for gas? Or food?”

“You should have thought about that before you spent it on marijuana, Steven. There are groceries in the house, and maybe walking around town will remind you just how generous we’ve been.” There are footsteps, coming closer to the closet, and Eddie has to coach himself into breathing slow, staying perfectly still. He doesn’t want to give—

“Whose jeans are those?”

Eddie might throw up. Something acidic burns in the back of his throat, crawling up his esophagus. Steve’s parents were supposed to be gone until late, so neither of them had rushed to get dressed after they hooked up. Eddie can’t remember if the lube is still out, fallen somewhere in the comforter, or if he left a mark on Steve’s chest with his mouth.

Silence, the loud sort again. What must Steve’s face look like; has he gone pale with fear, or bright red in embarrassment? Did his eyes dart towards the closet where Eddie is hiding, or is he playing it cool?

“I bought them for him ages ago,” Mrs. Harrington snaps. Eddie’s startled by the realization that she’s still in the doorway, and then by the realization that she’s lying for Steve. The jeans are very clearly not the type of thing Steve would wear, even if he picked out his own clothes. The puddle they fell in when Eddie took them off might not reveal the chain attached to his belt, but the rips are unmistakable. “Steve, clean this mess up.”

A pause, and then, quietly, “Yes, mom. Sorry.”

“You’re always sorry,” Steve’s dad says around a mean laugh, and then he and Mrs. Harrington are gone, the door closing with a final sort of click.

It feels like ages before Steve is kneeling in front of the closet, pulling the door open quietly. His face is flushed an angry red, hair fucked up along the side like someone had their hand in it (and Eddie hates that he was right about that). When he brushes aside some of the hanging clothes to see Eddie’s face, his eyes are wet but his expression is carefully blank, unbothered.

“Steve...” Eddie begins, voice catching in his throat. He looks towards the bedroom door, still shut, and pitches his next words lower. “Are you—”

“Yeah,” Steve cuts him off, waving a hand as though what happened was no big deal, just a run of the mill night in the Harrington household. He crawls away from the closet, reaching for Eddie’s jeans so he can pass them over. Eddie is still squatting in the closet, eyeing him warily.

“You should get dressed,” Steve points out when Eddie doesn’t move. He stands, grabbing his pajama pants from where they’re draped over the edge of his desk chair, stiffly pulling them on over his boxers. Eddie wants to plaster himself to the tense curve of Steve’s spine, wrap his arms around him and hold him until the stiffness fades.

He’d known the Harringtons weren’t great parents—nobody who leaves their kid home alone as much as they do can be considered anything close to good—but he didn’t expect that. Maybe a dad who didn’t give much of a shit, who didn’t know Steve’s friends or his grades, who was more preoccupied with his job or wife or mistress than his kid.

There’d been something insidious and cruel in the way Daniel Harrington spoke to his son, an ease that spoke of many conversations just like it. Even the way Steve is acting is strange—not hurt or upset by it, but rather embarrassed that Eddie overheard the whole thing. Or, no, not embarrassed. Steve looks wound tight, tense with energy that has nowhere to go. It’s strange, to see anger in someone else, how different it can appear. In Eddie’s family, they yell at each other, but here Steve’s father has the last word.

Carefully, Eddie drags his jeans on, keeping hold of the chain hanging from his belt so it doesn’t rattle. Steve shuts his overhead light off, then makes his way over to the window, hauling it open. Each of his movements are forced, more noticeable for how much he’s trying to hide it. He won’t meet Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie leans down, pulling his shirt free from where it was kicked under the bed in their haste to make it there earlier in the evening. Thank God neither of his parents noticed it; the Metallica logo would have definitely given the whole game away.

“I’ll come out with you, give you a hand down,” Steve says as he peers out the window into the yard below. Steve’s roof isn’t anything to fuck around with, steep as it is, but Eddie hasn’t fallen off it to splatter onto the cement below yet.

“I’ll be alright,” Eddie murmurs, coming up beside him. Steve doesn’t look at him, instead focused on the trees outside, brows drawn heavy over his eyes.

They don’t talk about shit like this. That isn’t what he and Steve are; it’s not what they have. At the end of the day, they aren’t boyfriends, aren’t anything more than a couple of queer guys in a place that hates them, finding comfort in one another because it’s not safe to try it elsewhere. Eddie can feel bad about Steve’s dad being a piece of shit, but he doesn’t have any right to ask Steve about it. If Steve asked him anything about his own parents, Eddie knows he’d shut down, shut him out.

But Eddie thinks of New Year's Eve, and how Steve had looked as they pulled up to his dark house. He wanted to say something then, and he didn’t.

“Come on,” Steve says, bringing a foot up to the sill so he can hoist himself through.

Eddie’s grabbing his arm before he can do so, stopping him. Steve glances over, brow furrowed in question. Eddie chickens out a hundred times in the space between one blink and the next, then asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Steve lies, not meeting Eddie’s eyes. He pulls his arm out of Eddie’s grasp, running his hand through his hair. “Let’s go, man.”

“You can talk to me about it. I...he shouldn’t--” Eddie sighs, scratching at his head. He doesn't know how to do shit like this. “That was fucked up. You know that, right?”

“Will you leave it alone? It doesn’t matter. It was nothing,” Steve snaps, glaring at Eddie. “I was smoking weed in the house, of course they’re gonna be pissed. Now will you go before they come back inside and see you here?”

He jerks his chin towards the window, gaze darting back and forth between the door and Eddie.

Anger burns through Eddie, the kind that spreads hot and fast, destroying everything in its path. He wants to shove Steve away from him, snap at him for defending his shithead parents, shake him and hopefully rattle some fucking sense into him, but it all gets tangled up in his chest and smoke clogs his throat. Maybe for the best; Eddie doesn’t know that what he would have said or done wouldn’t have earned him a punch in the teeth.

Instead, he crawls through the window and painstakingly makes his way across and down the roof to where he can hang from the edge and drop without breaking his ankles. When he’s made it to the shadowed edge of Steve’s backyard, he glances up at the window once more. Steve still stands there, clearly watching him.

Eddie doesn’t wave, because he’s still angry, even though he isn’t sure he has a right to be. He has half a mind to step back, disappear among the trees and take the long way home so he can really freak Steve out, but the sentiment sours just as quickly as it forms, and Eddie creeps his way along the edge of Steve’s yard until the window disappears from his sight.

---

---

Eddie chews his gum, moving it around his mouth as loudly and obnoxiously as he can. Each time he opens his mouth, the noise gets just that little bit louder, and a muscle in Steve’s jaw twitches.

He’s being weird, has been for a week now since his parents came home and Eddie had to hide. Eddie’s sort of over it at this point, wants to shake some sense back into him. His parents came home and Eddie heard some shit he shouldn’t have, and yeah, it’s fucked, but Eddie’s not running for the hills, is he?

It’s a bit of progress that Steve sat at his table in the library today, at least, even if he’s far enough away that they can’t play footsies under it. Maybe by the end of the week he’ll have Steve close enough that Eddie can—

“You’re driving me fucking nuts. Quit it,” Steve hisses when Eddie pops his gum again. He shoves his books away from him, sinking lower in his chair. Eddie matches him, and if they both stretch their legs out, the toes of their shoes just touch.

Eddie smiles. Steve doesn’t scowl. It’s progress. “You wanna see what I made you?” Eddie asks, swallowing his gum. He swipes his hand across the table to get rid of the shavings.

“What is it?” Steve asks, twirling his pencil around his fingers. He has a skeptical look on his face. He’s wearing a vest. It’s all very charming, and Eddie kind of hates it.

“You gotta come over here.”

Steve glances around, pursing his lips. “If you—if you like, wet willy me, or something—”

“No, no, nothing of the sort! Come hither, good sir. Look upon my works and be glad.”

Steve’s brows furrow like he kind of gets the reference Eddie made, but just as he’s standing to come over, a voice interrupts them.

“Steve?”

They both look over at the gap between bookcases, caught off guard. It’s a reminder that they’re in public, never so far away from other people as they might think. Nancy Wheeler glances between them with a confused look on her face, then turns her attention back to Steve. “Can I talk to you, please?”

“Uh...yeah? Sure. Of course,” Steve stutters, glancing down at his books, then back to her. Eddie watches this whole thing with a fist clenched around his guts. “I’ll be right back Ed—Munson. Can you make sure nobody touches my stuff?”

“Oh, I’ll guard it with my life, King Steve.”

The look he gets is venomous once Nancy has turned her back, but Eddie only offers a sunny smile back. It falls quickly when they head off and he leans across the table, watching as they disappear into one of the private study rooms.

Fucking Wheeler. Eddie glowers at the blinds as they snap shut, and then turns back to his own books, which are unopened. He picks his compass back up, digging the sharp end back into the table where he’s been etching out Steve’s initials beside the dick and balls already carved there by some other genius. His own initials are on the other side; he likes the idea of someone sitting here one day and wondering if they’re all connected, even though Steve is currently sequestered away with his ex-girlfriend.

They’re only in there for a few minutes (it’s actually six, if Eddie’s watch is telling the truth), but when Steve comes out he seems frazzled, more annoyed than he was before he went in. Nancy leaves the library and Steve comes back to the table, shoving his stuff over until he’s seated next to Eddie.

It’s closer than they’ve ever sat, and Eddie watches, wide-eyed, as he slumps into the seat and drops his head down on his folded arms, sighing gustily.

“...you good?” Eddie asks, poking him with the pencil end of the compass.

“Fine,” Steve mutters, turning his head so he’s looking at Eddie. He pouts. “What did you make me?”

Eddie wants to push. He wants to know what Nancy said to him, what made him move closer, what made him look so sad.

But maybe not here, where they can be overheard, or where their presence so close together will already be questioned. Later, Eddie will ask him about it.

For now, he leans back and waves his hand with a flourish to his art piece, grinning when Steve barks out a laugh.

---

Tina’s Halloween Bash is the last thing Eddie wants to attend, but he’s learned his lesson in telling Steve no to things where they can actually sort-of hang out in plain view of God and the Hawkins social hierarchy. Instead, he schedules a DnD session for the evening and says, aw, fuck, when Steve reminds him about the party. Nice and clean and Eddie can pick Steve up at the end of the night, bob for something a little more exciting than apples.

He leaves the session with a little pep in his step, hopped up on sugar and the anguished cries of his club. The night is young and he’s feeling generous, thinks he might stick around Tina’s for a couple free beers before he whisks Steve off into the night. They have school in the morning, but Eddie has grand plans to miss homeroom, and he’s sure he can convince Steve to do the same with a little persuasion.

The party is rowdy when Eddie gets there, and he suspects it isn’t long for this world, given the amount of people spilling onto the front lawn or into the backyard. People might put up with a little more commotion on a night like tonight, but they won’t suffer it too late. Not with the kiddies heading to school in the morning.

It’s easy enough to blend into the crowd on a night like this. Eddie’s not the odd one out, dressed in his ripped jeans and shit-kicker boots, his ugliest band tee on and hair a ratty mess around his head. He’s pretty sure he still has fake blood smeared around his mouth from earlier, which he’s sure Steve will just love.

Eddie squeezes past a couple making out in the doorway and slips into the house proper, grimacing at the heat and smell of alcohol. Someone’s thrown up, recently, and he avoids that puddle as best as he can without toppling over the people in front of him. He can’t see Steve anywhere, but there are a group of people on the dance floor so it’s possible he’s among them.

Just as Eddie is about to make his way to the kitchen, where he can see a lovely bowl of punch, someone with big hair steps in front of him.

“What,” Tina says, “the fuck are you doing here?”

“Hi Tina,” Eddie grins, giving her a little once over. A cheerleader, how quaint. “I’m here to get ‘sheet-faced’.”

Tina makes a face like Eddie just belched in hers, casting around for one of her friends to share in her mortification. When she finds no one, she sighs, rolling her eyes. “Do you have a joint?” She asks, pitching her voice low. “You can stay if you give me one.”

Eddie produces a joint; Tina only buys from him around the holidays when she needs a little something to encourage her appetite. She snatches it from his hand, disappearing back beneath her bridge for the next unsuspecting visitor.

The punch is rancid, so Eddie grabs a beer from the case, grimacing at the warmth of it but not willing to complain about a freebie. Steve’s not in the main room, and when Eddie passes by a couple girls smoking against the wall, he catches the words Nancy and drunk and Steve.

He glances over, but he’s already far enough away that he can’t hear their whispering anymore. Still, the beer sours in his gut and he leaves it on the fireplace mantle as he makes his way towards the backdoor, where a group of guys are standing around the keg.

At first, Eddie thinks maybe Steve isn’t out there either. If he came and braved a party just for Steve to go home at a respectable hour, he’s gonna be pissed. Especially when he catches sight of the gleaming, wet chest of the new California Ken doll. He’s got a cup in hand and a snarl on his face, listening to whatever bullshit the basketball boys are brewing like he would enjoy being literally anywhere else.

That’s a recipe for disaster; Eddie’s met him approximately once in the week that he’s been in Hawkins, an interaction in the woods where Eddie got a very thorough once-over that started in a grimace and then ended with a well, if I had to kind of look, which Eddie sort of appreciated, all things considered. Mostly, though, he thought Billy was a dickhead.

He steers clear of the crowd, eyeing it as best as he can without looking too interested, but Steve is also not there, which means there’s a good chance he’s gone. Eddie groans, scratching at the dry fake-blood around his mouth, and then heads inside the house once more, unwilling to hop the fence to escape when the backyard is full of jocks who will, almost certainly, notice that.

Inside, Eddie plans to make a quick break along the edge of the party when he spots Steve by the punch bowl.

Success, Eddie crows internally, grinning as he shoves his way through the crowd in the middle. Fortune really does favour the late, because Steve is disheveled from a night of partying, and it only enhances the absolute masterpiece that is his Indiana Jones costume. The camo-green button up he has on is loosely tucked into his brown pants, undone almost all the way down his sweaty, sweaty chest. He has a fedora on his head tilted at a jaunty angle and a whip made of black electrical tape and, Eddie suspects, a skipping rope, hanging at his waist.

It’s a little embarrassing, the way his body reacts to the sight of him, and Eddie wills his dick to calm down before it gets them in trouble.

A couple shove into Eddie from the side, laughing and groping each other. It distracts him enough that by the time he looks back up, Steve is gone from in front of the punchbowl and instead making his way towards the front door.

Eddie frowns, hustling after him. There’s a cup in Steve’s hand that sloshes over onto the ground, but he seems uncaring of the mess he’s making, or how it drips down over his fingers. He muscles through anyone in his way, and Eddie trails after in what he hopes is not an obvious pursuit to anyone watching.

Outside, it’s easier to catch up to him. “Steve, hey,” Eddie calls, jogging to his side, fingers pinching at the thin material of his shirt. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

Steve stops, turning to look at Eddie, brow furrowed. “You’re here?”

“Surprise,” Eddie says, giving a little wave of his fingers. Steve doesn’t smile. “I thought I’d come and pick you up.”

The look Steve gives him: a snotty little once over, eyes dragging from Eddie’s booted feet to his messy hair, tells Eddie all he needs to know about Steve’s current level of sobriety, and he feels something defensive rise up in him as Steve drawls, “No costume? Here I thought this would be your type’a shit.”

He tips back the cup in his hand, red juice dribbling down along the sides of his mouth. When he finishes, he crushes the plastic cop and tosses it onto the grass, rubbing his arm across his mouth as he turns and sets off down the road.

For a second, all Eddie can do is stand there and stare in surprise. He hasn’t been around Steve much at parties, and they’ve only gotten drunk together a couple of times on lukewarm beer, but whoever that was just then isn’t the same Steve Eddie has been hanging around with for months now.

Quickly, Eddie catches up with him. “What is up with you?”

There’s an unhappy twist to his mouth as he searches for something—his car, Eddie thinks, and that is a bad idea right now—and he doesn’t acknowledge Eddie’s question. Maybe one of the other guys pissed him off; Eddie knows Tommy H. has been up the new kid’s ass, so it’s possible he said something to Steve during the party. Tommy mostly left Steve alone in the summer, but having someone new to boss him around might have also given him the courage to act like a dickhead.

When they reach the Beemer, Steve shoves a hand into his pocket, pulling his keys free, and it’s only his lack of coordination when drunk that Eddie is able to wrestle them out of his hand. “Steve, you’re not driving anywhere, what the fuck? Look at you.”

“Yeah, yeah, look at me,” Steve laughs, reaching for Eddie’s fist. “Steve the fucking joke. Give ‘em here, man.”

Eddie steps away, squeezing the keys so hard they bite at his palm. It puts him closer to the car, and soon Steve is pressed right up against him, Eddie’s hand sandwiched between the window and his back. This close, Eddie can see how flushed Steve is, how red his eyes are. His breath is too sweet, smelling of fruit punch.

“I’m serious, Steve,” Eddie grits out, his free hand fisted in the front of Steve’s shirt. Nobody is out on the front lawn at the moment, but it doesn’t mean nobody is watching. Eddie doesn’t want this to turn into a thing, and he doesn’t need the cops called. “You’re too drunk, you aren’t driving anywhere.”

He manages to shove Steve back, and he stumbles slightly, heels catching up against the curb. He falls onto his ass with a groan, and Eddie lurches forward, hands outstretched like he might try and help him back up.

Steve doesn’t move, though. He drapes his arms over his knees and stares hard at the side of his car, where his warped reflection glares back.

Slowly, Eddie squats in front of him, his back resting against the car. Steve’s eyes flit up to his, then dance away over his shoulder. Eddie exhales shakily, pocketing Steve’s keys. “What the fuck is going on with you? You’re acting insane.”

This is not the night Eddie had in mind when he left Hellfire, that’s for damn sure. Part of him is glad he was here, that he caught Steve before he could do something stupid like get in his car and drive home. He knows better than to do something so stupid.

“It’s all bullshit,” Steve says, rubbing a hand over his mouth. There’s something lost in his expression, like a kid repeating a word his parents said without understanding its meaning. Eddie thinks of the gossip he overheard, of Nancy and Steve earlier in the week, arguing in the private study room.

“What’s bullshit?” Eddie asks, not really wanting to know. It’s entirely possible he’s talking about not being allowed to drive home, but Eddie suspects it’s not something so simple as that. Does he mean the two of them and whatever they’ve been doing for months now, or does he mean Nancy and Jonathan? Eddie thought—but then, no, he didn’t, did he? Or he’s been trying not to, anyway. He shouldn’t be thinking of himself and Steve the way he thinks of Nancy and Jonathan, because no matter what they are to each other, it isn’t that.

“Me.” The thump of Steve’s fist against his chest is loud, startling him back into the moment. Eddie blinks at him, frowning. “I am bullshit, Eddie. I’m bullshit and a—a fucking murderer, and the scum of the earth, apparently.” He laughs, but it’s a wretched sound, torn from his throat.

Eddie scowls, warring between indignation on Steve’s behalf, and vicious jealousy, because he knows that Nancy is the one who said those things to Steve. They don’t talk about her much, but when she has come up in conversation, Eddie can tell how much Steve admires her, wants her to like him, be proud of him.

It doesn’t make any goddamn sense to Eddie, who would have laughed in Nancy’s face after whatever went down last autumn. Steve never told Eddie what, exactly, happened, but considering she and Jonathan were dating not long after everything went down, he can read between the lines. Eddie has no clue how they’re all still friends after that.

Maybe they aren’t anymore.

“I don’t know what happened, but whoever told you that is wrong,” Eddie says, wishing he had something better. It doesn’t feel like enough for how Steve looks, how he sounds, but anything else feels too much like showing his hand.

Steve doesn’t say anything, only hunching in further on himself. He looks well and truly drunk now. How much has he had to drink since he’s been at the party? “Come on, you need to sleep,” Eddie says, getting to his feet. He holds out a hand, and is only a little disappointed when Steve ignores it, pushing to his feet on his own.

Their chests brush, but Steve is the one to step away, up onto the curb. He gives his car a dirty look, then glances down the street, where Eddie’s parked half on the grass. “You’re driving.”

It’s not a question, but Eddie hums in agreement anyway, knocking their shoulders together. Steve doesn’t smile, even when Eddie reaches carefully for his hand. It’s dark enough that they can get away with it, and Steve loves that sort of thing, doesn’t he?

His fingers are limp in Eddie’s hold, though, and when they get to the van he doesn’t say anything to Eddie as he hauls the door open for him.

“Hey,” Eddie says, leaning in to watch him buckle himself up. “You wanna come to mine? I can drop you off in the morning to get your car.”

“No, I’m good,” Steve says, then pulls the door shut in Eddie’s face.

---

The next couple days are tense and strained between the two of them.

Steve is being fucking weird, still hung up on Nancy for whatever goddamn reason. If Eddie hadn’t thought it before, he fucking knew it when she called him like a dog out of the gym the very next day and he walked back in with big, sad eyes.

Eddie refuses to admit what’s burning hot in his chest, making him snap at his friends and ignore their conversations in favor of staring a hole into the side of Steve’s head at school. Putting a name to the thing won’t make it any less infuriating, and Eddie’s felt it in varying degrees all his life. Feeling it because Steve Harrington is hung up on a girl isn’t any different than feeling it because Steve Harrington’s getting a shake of the head instead of detention when he’s late to class.

Nancy and Jonathan aren’t at school on Thursday or Friday as far as Eddie knows, and he bites his thumb bloody watching Steve stress about it all day. They steal about twenty minutes beneath the bleachers at lunch, where Steve pretends like he isn’t upset about whatever he’s upset about; when Eddie deigns to ask, Steve snaps that he’s fine.

“Fuck, between you and Nancy—” Steve cuts himself off, reaching up to fist his hands in his hair. He looks a mess; not just sweaty from gym class, but tired, too. Pale. Any other time Eddie might think about commenting on it, might ask what’s keeping him up at night, but all he can focus on is the name Nancy.

Eddie grits his teeth and glares at Steve, who at least has the decency to look embarrassed. “You know, you’ve been all Wheeler this and Nancy that. Maybe you should be talking to her about this shit instead of me.”

“I’m not talking about anything, I told you, it’s—”

“Oh, right, right. It’s nothing.”

Steve growls, pacing back and forth. He looks like some caged beast, ready to tear Eddie’s throat out if he says anything else. If anyone were nearby, they’d probably be putting on quite the show.

“It’s not nothing, okay? It’s fucking complicated, and I can’t get into it.”

“Gotcha,” Eddie says, snapping his fingers. He shoves a hand into his pocket, pulling out his pack of smokes. His hand shakes when he pulls a cigarette free, and his lighter refuses to catch the first couple tries, which only adds to his anger. “So first it’s nothing and now it’s complicated? Right on.”

“Jesus Christ, you sound like a fucking needy girlfriend.”

It’s like all the sound in the world is swallowed, muffled. Eddie’s head feels full of smoke or cotton or some other soft, stupid thing, and all he can do is stare at Steve in shock. There’s no goddamn way he just said that. Eddie is a needy girlfriend? Steve’s the one who keeps hinting around something being wrong but never telling him about it. Steve is the one with all his messy fucking feelings.

He doesn’t even have the decency to look shocked at what he said, and he doesn’t back down when Eddie steps in his space, snarling, “What the fuck was that?”

No, Steve looks just as angry as before. He tips his chin up, looking down on Eddie despite the fact that they’re of a similar height. “You deaf, Munson? You sound like a needy fucking girlfriend. You really wanna know what’s going on? What’s happening?”

Steve’s eyes are bloodshot, his hair damp with sweat. He smells like he spent the night in the drunk tank and he’s trembling slightly, too. Eddie knows he should back down, let Steve win this one and come back to it a few hours or a day from now, but he—he can’t. Eddie thinks of years of torment, not from Steve himself but from guys who threw their weight around and said whatever they wanted because nobody would stand up for themselves.

Eddie isn’t a needy fucking girlfriend, but he is something to Steve, even if he refuses to acknowledge it most days. He’s not gonna just sit back and take this.

Before Eddie can say something, Steve barrels on. “Nancy’s convinced that we’re the reason Barb Holland died, is that what you wanna hear? She thinks I’m a big fucking joke, thinks I don’t care. And you know what? Maybe I don’t. Maybe I couldn’t give a fuck about whether or not she was taken or—or eaten, or whatever. I’m bullshit and this whole thing is bullshit. Fuck you, and—and fuck her.” He takes a step back, breathing heavily, eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck this.”

And this is where Eddie should leave. He should grab his backpack and storm away, let Steve fall apart beneath the metal bleachers on his own, show him who the needy girlfriend is. This isn’t what Eddie signed up for.

But Steve’s shaking all over, chest hitching on each inhale like he can’t breathe, and the anger and hurt drains from Eddie so quickly he feels dizzy with it. He steps forward, cupping his hand against the back of Steve’s neck. “Hey, you’re okay, Stevie. Just breathe for me.”

“I didn’t—I thought she left,” Steve whispers, pressing the heel of his palms to his eyes, like that might stop whatever is threatening to fall. “I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.”

“Steve—”

“And now her parents, they’re selling their house. They’re putting all this money into finding out where she went and we can’t—we aren’t allowed to—” he gasps, the panicked noise of a dying thing, and Eddie uses his grip on Steve’s neck to turn him, pull him close.

He half expects Steve to resist him, but he collapses against Eddie like all his strings have been cut. Hands fist in the back of Eddie’s jacket, and Steve’s wet face presses against his neck.

Eddie shuffles them further into the shadows of the bleachers, aware that the bell will be ringing soon. He doesn’t know how they’d explain this to anyone who happened upon them. He doesn’t even know what the fuck is going on, himself.

He’s not going to, he understands, when Steve pulls back eventually and clears his throat, rubbing his hands roughly across his face. “Sorry, I—I haven’t been sleeping well, and I’m hungover. I just—I’ll deal with Nancy, okay? And then I’ll see you this weekend.”

“Steve—” Eddie protests, mind a cacophony of anger and hurt and concern, each emotion warring for control until they all bleed together into helplessness.

Before he can think of something else to say, something that might keep Steve there, he’s gone.

---

---

Eddie doesn’t see him for almost a week.

In the first few days, Eddie’s fine with it. He uses Friday night to cool off, driving around and wasting gas so he doesn’t sit at home and piss himself off more. Gareth comes for most of the ride and listens to him bitch about everything and nothing; he doesn’t know about Eddie and he certainly doesn’t know about Steve, but it’s easy to get riled up over just about anything when he’s in a mood like this, so he makes due.

The weekend passes, and Eddie only caves once: calls Steve’s house Saturday night because that’s when they usually hang out. The answering machine picks up; Camille Harrington’s voice lets him know that they aren’t in right now, but if he leaves a name, number, and brief message, they’ll get back to him as soon as possible.

When Eddie goes to Jeff’s house instead, he catches sight of Steve’s BMW outside a nice house he knows is probably Nancy Wheeler’s, and it all goes downhill from there.

Eddie misses school Monday and Tuesday, too busy getting absolutely fucking plastered in Indianapolis to give much of a shit about anything else. He sleeps in his van and gets a parking ticket and blows through whatever cash he had. Wayne gives him an earful when he gets home and a smack upside the head to boot, but it doesn’t mask his concern.

Wednesday, Eddie’s back in school, a husk of a human being, but alive. The same cannot be said for Steve, who is glaringly absent and has been since Monday, apparently.

The fight is all over school; Billy Hargrove saunters around with two black eyes and a split lip, only says he got into a fight with Steve, nothing more than that. Most people seem to think Steve is dead somewhere, or that he’s been hospitalized, and Eddie takes in Billy’s subdued, angry expression and guesses that might not be so far off.

Nobody answers the phone at the Harrington house, or the door when Eddie shows up on Thursday night, bruising his fist on it. The BMW is out front but none of the lights are on inside, and Steve’s window is dark when Eddie crawls his ass up the side of the house.

He might be fucking dead. He’s probably not, but where is he if he’s not at home? Could be that he’s with Nancy, of course, and that’s a crying shame, but god. What if he’s hurt somewhere? What if he’s in the hospital?

Eddie thinks about it all night Thursday, then all day Friday. Wheeler and Byers are at school and he so badly wants to ask them what the hell happened, knows they must be aware of it, or at least have some idea, but his own fear stops him. Why should he care where Steve Harrington is?

He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t. Except for the last several months he’s been hooking up with the guy, and maybe that means something more than Eddie’s willing to admit.

Ultimately, he doesn’t do shit. His fingernails are bitten down to the quick and bleeding in places and his curls have frizzed out beyond any hope of redemption from how much he’s run his hands through them, and Steve Harrington remains in the wind, no closer to being found.

---

Steve’s face is mottled black, blue, and purple, made worse by the limited light in Rick’s living room.

Eddie made a big show of being unconcerned, of playing it cool when he first saw him, but since his breathing evened out and his body lost the tension it’d been holding, Eddie hasn’t been able to look away.

He’s curled up small on the other end of the couch, shoulders hunched and arms crossed over his chest, face pressed into the cushion, despite how it must feel against the bruising. It doesn’t look very swollen anymore, but it still looks painful and tender. There are cuts beneath his jaw and across his forehead, another hidden and stitched along his hairline. His nose is bandaged, clearly broken.

Whatever happened, Hargrove did a fucking number on him. Eddie wonders what the kids at school will think when Steve finally shows back up; will they see his bruises and Billy’s relative lack thereof and realize how unfair the fight must have been? Or will they just see Steve, beaten down and stripped of his title, another year where he spends the winter and spring with his tail between his legs.

The journal Eddie was working in has been tossed to the table, and the TV has been turned down low. He wanted to turn it off completely, but it’s less creepy if Steve wakes up and catches him looking with the TV on, rather than the other way around.

Eddie wants to know what happened very, very badly.

His mind twists in on itself, mapping out a hundred different reasons why Steve would get his ass kicked by Billy Hargrove. Nobody was there, as far as Eddie has heard; no witnesses, the fight didn’t happen in public. Eddie thinks of the way Hargrove watched Steve at school, how he looked at Eddie in the woods when he came to buy weed.

It’s likely that Steve won’t tell him what happened. Not the whole truth of it, anyway; if he’d wanted to do that, he would have come to see Eddie earlier in the week. His parents must be away right now, because there’s no possible way Billy Hargrove would get by without an assault charge. Does that mean that Steve got his shit rocked and then went home to an empty house? Eddie would bet whatever meagre savings he has that Steve didn’t go to the hospital, but then who would have stitched him up? Did anyone clean the cuts on his face? Did he do all of it himself?

Is he hurt all over, or just on his pretty face?

Leaning over to wake him up wouldn’t do any good, but Eddie wants to, just as much as he wants to close his eyes and forget about it, go back in time and pretend like he wasn’t home instead of meeting Steve on the front porch when he heard the tires turn down the drive.

Steve didn’t want to be friends, he’d said, way back when Eddie was sure he was just another notch on Steve’s bedpost.

Friends tell each other these things, and they aren’t friends. Boyfriends probably confide in one another, but they aren’t that, either

They aren’t just a couple of guys who fuck each other, though, are they? Steve wouldn’t have come here if they were. But then...what had he said?

I don’t think I’m up for anything tonight.

In his lap, Steve’s ankles rub together, the rasp of his socks loud in the otherwise quiet room. Each exhale through his nose has a little whistle, and every inhale through his mouth sounds like the beginning of a snore, never fully realized.

“What do you want from me?” Eddie whispers, running his thumb along the curve of Steve’s foot.

---

---

Eddie’s not a violent person, but he thinks he might like to be one when it comes to Billy Hargrove.

“Just leave it alone,” Steve tells him the first time he mentions it. And see, Eddie would leave it alone, but Steve says it while lying in his dark bedroom, a cold washcloth over his eyes while a migraine rips through him. All week he’d tried to pass it off as allergies, a change in pressure or some bullshit, like Eddie couldn’t see all the signs of one in plain view.

It’s been nearly a month since his fight with Billy, and Eddie’s become a sort of mother hen about the whole thing. He makes sure that Steve is taking his medication (that he only got after Eddie practically bullied him into going to the clinic a few towns over), and eating, and trying to sleep at night, though it’s becoming increasingly clear that Steve doesn’t do much of that. At school, Eddie is constantly seeking him out either with his eyes or with little notes shoved messily through the slots of his locker, no better than the girls who are obsessed with his stupid hair.

Truthfully it’s all fucking mortifying, but Steve seems to like it, so it’s difficult trying to convince himself to stop.

Steve seems better, for the most part, though Eddie suspects his headaches are more common than he says they are, and he knows that the lights at school have been exacerbating whatever head trauma he has. Billy, meanwhile, is walking around like his shit doesn’t stink, no worse for wear and more popular than ever. He isn’t as loud as he was and he doesn’t say a fucking thing to Steve, but he also doesn’t seem very sorry.

Eddie would kinda like to make him sorry.

There are ways he could do it; guys his dad knew, guys Rick knows. He probably wouldn’t even need to come up with much of an excuse beyond he fucked with my friend.

But Steve would hate it, and as much as Eddie wishes it didn’t, it matters to him that Steve would hate it.

Still, it’s hard not to think that way when Steve is still trembling from puking his guts up not once, but three times since Eddie found him slumped beside his car in the driveway. He’d been in his own van killing time, waiting for Gareth to get out of the building to drive him home when he saw Steve stumble to his car after school. He couldn’t make his legs work to go and knock on his window, even though there’d been plenty of time for it, and by the time he’d worked himself up over it, Steve was pulling away.

“I just think he deserves some sort of punishment for putting you through all of this,” Eddie grumbles, leaning down to scoop Steve’s clothes off the ground. He tosses them into the hamper by the window and then stands there, arms crossed as he tries to figure out his place here. Maybe he could make Steve some soup? Get him some water?

“S’fine” Steve whispers, the words slurring together. Eddie watches him wriggle around, clearly trying to get the blankets out from under himself. He stops when Eddie bats his hands away, smiling faintly as Eddie gets the comforter free and covering him.

Eddie tucks him in, fussing a bit with the way it lays over his feet. “No it isn't, man! I bet if I asked Nancy how she felt about it, she’d agree.” Not that he plans to, of course. Steve says they’re good now, but Eddie still can’t get the sight of Steve calling himself bullshit out of his head.

Steve sighs, shifting under the blankets to be more comfortable. All of Eddie’s hard work keeping his feet warm is gone to waste when he curls into a little ball on his side. He puts the damp washcloth on the bedside table, pulling the blanket up to his nose. When he opens his eyes into little slits, they glare beadily out at Eddie.

“Can you just lay with me? Please?” Steve asks miserably, voice doing the wobbly thing that usually precedes tears.

It’s more a request than an order, but Eddie is grateful to have some sort of direction. He strips down quickly and then crawls into the bed behind Steve, curling up along his back.

---

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, don’t go down there—”

Eddie wakes with a start, heart already racing and body moving before he can fully comprehend what’s going on. The blanket is torn away from him, and he gets thumped good by the fist Steve has swinging. It sends him reeling back, slipping off the low mattress and onto the floor in a heap, his mouth stinging.

On the bed, Steve is sitting up, panting as he stares over at Eddie. Sweat glues his hair to his forehead, and his eyes are wide and frightened, the whites glossy against the darkness of Eddie’s room.

Neither of them say anything for a long minute, and then Eddie hears a knock on his door, a muffled, “Everythin’ alright in there?”

“Fuck,” Steve hisses, scrambling off the bed to where Eddie is still sitting, stunned. His hands flutter wildly for a moment, and Eddie flinches back instinctively, cursing himself when Steve draws them back to his lap. “Fuck, I’m so—did I get you? I’m so sorry.”

“You’re fine,” Eddie mutters.

The door opens slightly, Wayne’s voice coming through clearer, harder. “Eddie.”

“I’m good,” he calls back, leaning over to shove at the door. Wayne resists for a moment. “Seriously, it was a nightmare. We—I’m good. All good in here.”

When Eddie turns back, Steve looks petrified, staring at the door in horror. “We’re okay, right? Stevie.”

Steve blinks, looking back at him. He croaks out, “yeah, sure,” and Eddie finally hears Wayne move away from the door.

His uncle must have gotten off work early, if he’s home before dawn. Eddie wonders if they woke him up, or if he’d only just gotten home when Steve had the nightmare.

“He—is he gonna tell—”

“He ain’t gonna say shit,” Eddie says, inching forward. He reaches for Steve’s hands, fisted in his lap. “Are you okay? What was that?”

The last thing Eddie remembers is Steve’s sleepy snuffling against his shoulder, reminding Eddie to set an alarm for an hour from then so he could sneak back into his own house. Obviously, Eddie did no such thing.

When Steve only blinks at him, Eddie squeezes his hands. “C’mon, handsome, talk to me. What happened?”

Steve shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. His fists flex beneath Eddie’s hands, and then he pulls away completely. “Just a nightmare, it’s fine. I—I gotta get home. If they see I’m missing when they wake up, they’ll lose it.” Just as he’s about to stand, his brow furrows and he takes Eddie in. “Wait—are you okay? Did I get you?”

Eddie raises his hand to his mouth, then thinks better of it and waves away Steve’s concern. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

“Eddie,” Steve starts, brow furrowed. He cups his hand along Eddie’s jaw, tilting his head. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine, baby, you’re fine, it was a nightmare—”

“Yeah but...but I hit you.”

Eddie touches the hand on his face, slotting his fingers alongside Steve’s. “I promise you, I am fine, Steve. Can...let’s get water, then go back to sleep, okay? Or—we can just lay here and talk, maybe?”

Leaning forward, Steve kisses him, gentle and soft. He leans his forehead against Eddie’s and sighs. “I gotta go home.”

“I think you should stay.”

Steve stands now, reaching for his clothes, which he pulls on quickly. Eddie scrambles up after him, catching his arm as he begins to pull on his jacket. “You shouldn’t drive.”

Steve grimaces, pulling gently away from Eddie. “I’ll be fine, I promise. If my dad catches me sneaking back in, or sees that I wasn’t home, he’ll fucking lose it.”

And Eddie gets that, can remember the cadence of his own father’s anger, knows just how horrible Steve’s can be. Still, he hates the thought of Steve, rattled and worried and driving home in the dark. “Can...can you call me when you get home? Just so I know.”

Steve blinks in surprise, then a small smile blooms across his mouth. “Yeah, I’ll call you as soon as I get in.”

“Good,” Eddie nods, leaning forward to kiss him again. He lingers this time, tastes sleep and the cranberry juice he had before they fell asleep. Their lips move gently against each other, wet and soft and perfect. Eddie remembers a time when he hated that this was all they did, but now he thinks he would kill to kiss Steve all the time.

“Okay.” Steve pulls back, grinning when Eddie follows him. “Okay, I gotta—go, c’mon.”

There’s still some tension around his eyes, and a frailty to his smile, but he seems less shaken as Eddie walks him to the door. Wayne is nowhere in sight, which means he’s probably lingering in the bathroom or his own room, waiting for Eddie to be alone before he strikes. Eddie is grateful for that; he doesn’t want to see the look of terror on Steve’s face again if Wayne wants to chat with both of them.

“Call me,” Eddie tells him, hanging in the doorway as Steve makes his way across the frosty ground. The Beemer is parked down the road along the shoulder, like that’ll somehow make it seem less obvious that Steve Harrington is hanging out in Forrest Hills, and Eddie watches as he makes his way down there, doesn’t close the door until the lights are on and he’s pulling back onto the main road.

When he comes back inside, Wayne is waiting for him in the hall.

“Ah, come on, man. Can we do this tomorrow morning?”

Wayne lifts a brow. He’s still in his clothes from work, though he smells like toothpaste. “It is morning, in case that slipped your mind. Was that your boy?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It was...a boy. That I’ve been, like...hanging out with, I guess. We didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Uh huh. And what made him shout?”

“A nightmare.”

“Awful sort of nightmare for a kid like that,” Wayne points out, rubbing at his goatee. “The Harrington kid, right?”

Eddie winces. “Please stop asking me questions about him.”

“Why? Cause you’ll have to start thinking ‘bout the answers for real?” Wayne lifts a brow, and Eddie slouches further against the wall, wishing it would give away and send him sprawling to the dirt outside. Wayne always thinks he knows everything. Eddie doesn’t even know everything about this. He stays mum and Wayne sighs, reaching out to flick Eddie between the eyes. “Get to bed, you dumbass. You got school bright and early.”

“I’m feeling a cold coming on.”

“You’ll be feelin’ a cold when I drag your ass outta bed in three hours. Now get.”

---

Eddie is inspecting his scraped knee, the scab lifted at the edge while he tries to decide if it’s infected or supposed to look like that underneath when the phone rings.

He startled, tearing the scab a little more than he planned. It sticks up awkwardly on his knee, saluting him, aching to be peeled off, but he resists long enough to lean over and grab the phone off the side table. “Yeah?” he barks into the phone without thinking, eyeing the clock on the wall. It’s eleven at night, almost certainly Wayne calling before he has to go on the line, threatening Eddie against using his amp for the third night in a row. Ms. Jacobs next door doesn’t like it much, apparently. Eddie doesn’t like watching her walk around naked. Wayne is uncaring, obviously.

It’s not Wayne who says, “hey,” all subdued and quiet-like. It’s Steve.

Eddie pulls the scab off, biting hard on his lip and watching blood well up on the surface. “Uh, hi. What’s—are you okay?”

“Fine,” Steve says. “What are you doing?”

Eddie debates lying, but he’s inspecting the wound a little closer and it definitely looks infected. “I’m picking a scab.”

“Ew,” Steve says, not at all grossed out.

“If it’s yellow, let it mellow right?” It’s only a small part of the cut, but the yellow is pretty toxic-looking. This is what he gets for all his dramatics; Gareth, the little shrimp, shoved him the other day, and Eddie fell to the ground, groaning about how strong he was. Steve had been in the parking lot to see it, chatting with Jonathan Byers against his car.

There haven’t been any more sleepovers, but there have been a few of these late-night phone calls. The Harringtons are sticking closer to home now that the holidays are approaching—there are parties to throw and parties to attend, after all—but whenever he’s alone in the house and can’t sleep, Steve will give Eddie a ring. Eddie, who sleeps only when he literally cannot physically stay upright anymore, always answers.

It’s never usually this early, though.

“That’s piss, babe.” Is that fondness in Steve’s sleepy voice? Eddie shudders to think.

“Shit, I thought it was puss.”

“You need to clean whatever you’re looking at, and then stop picking the scab when it grows back.”

“But picking the scab is so fun,” Eddie says, laying the scab lovingly on the coffee table. He’s sure Steve picks his scabs; his knees are a fucking travesty of scar tissue. Eddie would love to pick his scabs. “What are you doing awake?”

There is muffled shifting on the other side, and Eddie can picture Steve on his own couch, blanket pulled around him and TV on in the background. His parents are in New York for the weekend at some gala, but he knows it’s been a long week for Steve with them home. Eddie doesn’t know if they said anything about the lingering hurt on his face, or if they chalked it up to some stupid teenage fight.

“Just...couldn’t sleep, I guess. There’s nothing on TV.”

“Would you like me to entertain you?” Eddie asks, clearing his throat. “I’ll take requests for the first song, but the rest will, unfortunately for you, be Dio’s Greatest Hits.”

“So silence, then?”

Eddie guffaws. “There goes your request!”

Steve chuckles, and the sound of it warms Eddie through. He starts with Dancing in the Dark, still remembers Steve listening to the new cassette all summer, how he’d learned the songs within a week and wouldn’t let Eddie change it, even when bribed with kisses.

“You’re so stupid,” Steve says fondly, and Eddie belts it out louder.

---

---

There are very few things as good as fucking Steve Harrington. Eddie could write sonnets about it, entire anthologies dedicated to all the things he loves about it; the tight clench of his hole or the noises he makes, the way he wears everything emotion on his face or how he likes it when Eddie moves him around, holds him down. Sometimes they have to be quick, but then there are times like this, where Eddie’s spent what feels like hours working them both up to it.

Steve pants beneath him, arms trembling where they reach up to grip his headboard. They really need to invest in restraints, but Steve can be such a good boy and follow instructions that Eddie’s hard pressed to spend the money. He’s just waiting for the day that Steve drops his arms or disobeys an order, and it’s harder to look forward to something like that with a silly thing like ropes doing the job for him.

His thighs are a mess of bruises, some of them little blobs and others in the shape of Eddie’s teeth. The hair there is slicked down and Eddie has swirled it into shapes: devil’s horns and curlicues and Fibinaci’s spiral.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, man,” Steve whines, lifting his hips as though he might be able to angle his dick into Eddie’s grinning mouth. “Or I’m gonna die. Please just fuck me already.”

“We still have so much time,” Eddie tells him, sitting up so he can shove Steve’s legs forward again. His hole is wet with lube and Eddie’s spit, clenching down on nothing because Eddie’s been periodically fucking his fingers in and out of him. The last time he’d gotten to four, the fingers of his free hand tight around the base of Steve’s weeping cock to keep him from cumming.

Steve growls something, feverish-looking. With his arms stretched above his head, Eddie has a gorgeous view of his arms, the subtle bulge of muscles, the dark hair beneath his pits. There are freckles and moles dotted along his torso and more hair, thick across his chest but thinning out the further down it goes. His bush is neatly trimmed, damp and dark with sweat and precum.

He looks like a fucking treat.

“Okay, yeah, actually, we can go again later.” Eddie nods, feeling a little dizzy himself. He reaches for the bedside table, scooping out some Crisco (Steve hasn’t had a chance to buy lube in a few weeks and he stopped complaining about using Crisco around the same time Eddie refused to fuck him with just spit to guide the way) and slicking it along his dick.

Steve sighs, pressing his face into his arm. “We can go as many times as you want as long as I can cum now.”

“Hold your horses,” Eddie grunts, bending Steve in half. He’s so flexible, it’s honestly a bit criminal. He smooths his thumb along Steve’s hole, biting his lip as the ease in which he can slip it inside. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m serious, my baby is so beautiful, fuck.” He presses the head of his cock to Steve’s hole. “Look at you, sucking me inside. You really need it, huh?”

Steve nods, his hair falling across his forehead with the motion. “Please, please, please—”

“Okay, honey, I got you.” And he does; he kisses at the side of Steve’s knee, scraping his teeth as he sinks into Steve. He doesn’t need to go slow, knows Steve wants him to plow him into the mattress yesterday but there’s something so satisfying in the slow sinking, in the way he can feel Steve’s thighs trembling where they rest against Eddie’s arms.

“I’m not gonna last,” Steve tells him when he’s fully seated, eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration.

Eddie, who is currently counting to ten in his head in an effort not to blow his load into Steve without even fucking him, just nods. “Yeah, I’m not long for this world either. S’okay.”

He kind of wants to lean forward and kiss Steve a bit, thinks it would distract away from the pleasure burning in his gut, but the angle isn’t right for it and he cannot bring himself to pull out so they can rearrange themselves. Instead, he pepper’s Steve’s leg with kisses as he starts to fuck Steve in earnest.

Eddie has only just built up a good momentum when they hear the doorbell ring.

They both freeze, staring towards Steve’s open bedroom door. His parents are in Indy for the night for his dad’s annual Christmas party, so who—

“Ignore it,” Steve snarls, crossing his legs behind Eddie’s head. His heels dig into Eddie’s spine. Eddie lurches forward, groaning at the way Steve squeezes around him. “Do not—”

“Who would be here?” He snaps, trying to look back at the door, like the person might suddenly appear and see them, sweaty and stinking of sex and also doing sex, Jesus Christ. The doorbell rings again, and Eddie pulls out a little further.

“Twelve year olds! Or—or carolers, or something! Ignore it—” Steve whines, smacking him on the arm when he pulls out completely. His legs fall to the bed and he squeezes at his cock like it’s painful, which it might be. “Do not make me go downstairs.”

“Do you want me to go?”

Steve glares up at him. The doorbell rings for a third time, very pointedly.

In a flurry of limbs and clothes, Steve drags a pair of sweatpants up his legs and a shirt on—Eddie’s, actually—before storming towards the hallway and the staircase beyond. Eddie watches, a little horrified at the erection Steve was sporting in those sweats, and then he dons his own clothes, creeping into the hall so he can overhear who is at the door.

Each of Steve’s stomps down the stairs are an exclamation mark, a physical representation of how pissed off he is to have his orgasm ruined. And listen, Eddie gets it, he isn’t happy either—but Steve all angry and huffy coming back to bed after whoever it is at the door fucks off? He’s kinda looking forward to that.

Although he can’t see from his vantage point around the corner, Eddie can imagine the attitude with which Steve throws open the front door.

“About time. You get lost in that house?”

“Was busy,” Steve snaps. Eddie wants to peek around the wall so badly, see if Steve’s opened the door all the way or if he’s hiding behind it slightly. Is his boner dead, or is he still pressing against the crotch of his sweats? “What are you doing here?”

Eddie is no less hard for all the drama, which probably says something about him.

There is a long pause, and then: “Uh huh. El said she left a book here when they were around over the weekend. You got it?”

He clocks the voice, then. That’s Chief Hopper at Steve’s front door, asking for a goddamn book. “Yeah, gimme a sec to go get it.”

The upstairs landing is open concept, so Eddie can see Steve walk back towards the den, where the book must be. Who the hell is El, and why is Hopper coming to pick up a book she left here? Maybe it’s a friend of Steve’s mom, some new lady Hopper’s taking around. That might make sense—older ladies do book clubs, right? And Steve’s mom is the type who would run one, though Eddie doesn’t know how much reading must get done.

Still, was the book integral to a good night for Hopper? Did he need to roll up at eight in the evening looking for it?

On his way back to the front door, Steve glances up and catches sight of Eddie standing against the wall. His dick has indeed deflated, but there’s still no denying what they’ve been up to; Steve’s hair is a fucking disaster and he’s still flushed and sweaty.

The book in his hands is a thick novel, but Eddie can’t see much from where he’s standing.

“Here, this one, right?”

“Yeah, thank Christ. She’s been on me about stopping by to get it.”

“Well, you got it.”

It’s strange to hear Steve so disrespectful, especially to someone with authority. Maybe Steve’s had one too many parties busted by Hopper, but even still; he sounds more than just annoyed at having been interrupted.

“You feelin’ better? All healed up?”

“What’s it look like?”

A laugh, though Hopper doesn’t sound very amused. “Jesus Christ, kid, I’m asking a question. You got your head bashed in, and you refused to press charges—”

“It was the last thing we needed, and it was fine. I’m fine. What do you even care, anyway?”

“I wouldn’t have forced you to stay with me and the kid if I didn’t give a shit, Steve. Just looking out for you.”

“I got it covered, thanks.” Eddie blinks at the ice in Steve’s voice, the subtle fuck off he just gave Hopper. There’s a stretch of silence that Eddie knows in his bones is filled with a long, hard look from Hopper. He’s had his fair share of long looks from Hopper, usually before he’s scruffed like a cat and brought back to the trailer. Eddie wonders if Steve is baulking at it, or if he’s giving him a look right back.

He suspects the former when he says, a little quieter, “Tell El I’ll see her soon, okay? I have company over.”

Hopper hums, the drawls, “Thought you might. Is that Munson’s van parked in front of your house?”

Eddie stares at the wall opposite him. It’s beige, the way everything else in this house is fucking beige, no family photos dotting any of the walls, nothing to focus his mind on beyond the sickly beige and the knowledge that Hopper clocked his van down the street.

“Bye, Hop.”

“Merry Christmas, kid. Give us a ring if you need anything.”

Steve sighs, and Eddie doesn’t hear the rest of their conversation as the door is pulled open again and Steve follows Hopper onto the front steps. Somehow, Eddie drags his feet back to Steve’s bedroom, where he collapses on the end of the bed.

Hopper knows he’s here and he probably guessed Steve was having sex, and unless he also thinks they’re double-teaming some chick up here, he also probably figured out that they’re fucking queers. It’s a terrifying thought; Eddie does his best to stay out of Hopper’s way, knows they have a bit of mutually assured destruction going on. Hopper buys from him once a month usually, but he also knows exactly where Eddie’s getting his supply from. He isn’t really a bad guy, Hopper, but a cop is a cop is a cop and Eddie knows how fucking quick a pig can turn.

He hears Steve before he sees him, racing back up the stairs. “That guy sure knows how to step on a moment, holy shit.” Eddie watches him come back in the room, sweatpants already shoved down his hips. He practically walks out of them, grabbing at his half-hard cock with a little grin. “Ready, baby?”

In a second, he’s in front of Eddie, shoving him back against the bed. He’s got Eddie’s sweats halfway down his legs before Eddie gathers whatever brain power it takes to sit up and grab him by the shoulders.

Steve blinks, pauses. “Uh...you good?”

“Dude, what the fucking fuck was that?!” Eddie hisses, shaking him. “He—we were—”

The furrow in Steve’s brows smooths itself out and he rolls his eyes, finishing taking Eddie’s sweats off. “Oh, don’t worry. Hopper won’t say anything.”

“Wha—how do you know? Steve, how do you know?” Eddie snaps, scrambling back and away from him. It does the job Eddie needed it to; Steve stops fucking around and actually looks at him, realizes that he’s freaking the fuck out.

“Well...I dunno. I know Hop, I guess, and he’s kept secrets for me before. I stayed with him and his daughter after Billy beat me up so he could make sure my brain didn’t like, deflate or whatever.”

Daughter? Hopper let Steve stay with him? “What the fuck?”

“He’s actually alright,” Steve adds, shrugging. He looks unsure of himself now, Eddie’s pants balled up in his hands. “I’m sorry, I should have made him think you were someone else. I really don’t think he’ll say anything, though.”

Eddie wants to tell him not to be so naïve, but Steve looks like he believes in what he’s saying, believes in a guy who kept him safe for a weekend while he was concussed out of his mind. Maybe he’s right, and Hopper is someone they can trust. Eddie hopes so, at any rate.

“Okay,” Eddie murmurs, rubbing a hand over his face. He grimaces when he remembers it’s got fucking Crisco on it, Christ. “Uh...do you wanna shower?”

Steve frowns a little; clearly he’s ready to keep going, but Eddie doesn’t think he could get hard again right now, even though his balls clearly want him to, if the discomfort there is anything to go by. Maybe in the shower he can suck Steve off, make up for the way he snapped on him.

“Sure.” Steve stands, reaching his hand out for Eddie. “Are...I mean, you’re sure you’re okay, right?”

Eddie takes the hand, slotting their fingers together as he stands. He presses his lips to Steve’s in a chaste kiss, and when he pulls back, Steve is smiling again. “I’m fine,” he says, hoping that if he says it enough, it’ll make it true. “Let’s go wash off.”

---

Eddie watches as Steve traces the hair below his belly button, smoothing it up and then down in a distracting, ticklish movement. Each time he does it, Eddie’s spent dick gives a little twitch, like it thinks they’re superhuman and ready to go again. Each time, Eddie needs to remind it that they have a refractory period of at least twenty minutes.

Steve is uncaring. Steve would suck Eddie’s dick until it crawled back inside him for a chance at reprieve if he could. Steve’s refractory period is a grand total of six minutes.

“Hey, uh...do you guys do a big thing for Christmas?” Steve asks, glancing up at Eddie with big, warm brown eyes.

Eddie snorts, reaching down to card his fingers through Steve’s hair. “Nah, we usually just have a big breakfast and open whatever we got each other. It’s mostly just any other day, ‘cept we spend it together. Sometimes Wayne will go to Mr. Ericson’s down the way for drinks, but mostly we stay in.”

Steve hums. “My uh, my parents are flying out after breakfast on Christmas. Dad’s friend has a chateau he rents in Aspen or something, so they’re going skiing. I thought maybe if you weren’t doing anything you could come by, that night? Maybe—maybe sleep over, or whatever.”

If he closes his eyes, he can imagine it. The big tree in the Harrington’s living room, decorated in warm golds and old, wooden ornaments that probably cost a fortune. All hand-painted, beautiful things from places in Europe that Eddie couldn’t even pronounce. There’d be a present under it for Eddie, he’d bet, wrapped all nice. He tries to guess what it’d be, but everything that comes to mind is too expensive for his blood.

He didn’t get Steve anything for Christmas. Even if he had the money to be able to afford whatever he’d want, he wouldn’t have a clue what to get him. Steve has everything he needs.

“Yeah, maybe,” Eddie says, swallowing. He doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes, instead dragging them up to the ceiling, where a water stain stares back at him. “I don’t like to leave Wayne, y’know.”

He could ask Steve to come here, spend the night and have a couple beers. Wayne wouldn’t mind, and Steve wouldn’t be alone, and it’d be the right thing to do.

But he thinks of Chief Hopper clocking his van down the road from Steve’s house and has to wonder how many others noticed it, wondered about it. Hopper’s a shit cop on a good day, but the richy rich of Loch Nora? They’d sniff out a poor person before Eddie could even lift his leg for a piss on their lawn.

He thinks of his own trailer, and how obvious the Beemer would look parked out front, how sketchy it must seem parked down the road.

He thinks of the stories he hears on the news, the whispers at the bars before he stopped going, too wrapped up in the boy in front of him to consider the trip worthwhile anymore.

So he doesn’t invite Steve to come on Christmas, and he doesn’t ask Wayne if he’d be alright with Eddie going over, and when Steve calls to wish them a Merry Christmas midafternoon, Eddie doesn’t linger on the phone.

---

The arcade on a Saturday is just the thing Eddie needs to break up the endless week between Christmas and New Year, so when Jeff suggests they do a tournament of sorts with the money he got for the holidays, Eddie is quick to agree.

They grab Grant and Gareth on the way; the other Hellfire guys are nice enough, fun to play DnD with and good for an easy chat at lunch, but these are the guys Eddie’s gonna make it big with one day. Corroded Coffin might not be at its peak just yet, but Eddie’s got big plans for ‘em, and even if it goes nowhere, at least he knows these guys will stick around.

As per usual, the arcade is stupid packed with a bunch of kids, but Eddie doesn’t mind that as much as Grant or Jeff do. They’re funny all riled up, like a windup toy that goes on and on and on. Eddie loves the chaos of the place, the overstimulation of noise and colour.

He doesn’t love Keith, who wanders around like a lost soul offering advice as they play, or smearing his weird, dust-crusted fingers on the screens, but whatever. Eddie can live with it.

Gareth pushes his way through the crowd to Dragon’s Lair, already bragging about how he’s going to kick their asses. It’s always nice to see him jazzed up about stuff like this, considering he was a scared little twerp the year before.

They beat a group of kids to the game, Gareth crowing about snoozing and losing. Eddie nods along sagely as the kids—probably about fourteen years old—pass by and call them ancient.

“I think you mean wise,” Eddie tells one of them, a red-faced kid with a mouthful of braces. “Now, if you wanna watch how it’s done, feel free to stick around.”

The kid says some shit about watching paint dry, but Eddie’s already turning away, slinging an arm over Jeff’s shoulder.

It goes like that for a while; Gareth’s pretty good at the game so it’s fun to watch him creep closer and closer to beating his high score. Every once in a while, Grant will jostle his elbow or Jeff will offer some advice meant to fuck him up, but Gareth is a determined man and he ignores them easily.

Eddie hears cheering over at Dig Dug. When he looks over, he has to blink a couple times.

Steve is staring back at him while a tiny red haired girl smugly turns to her adoring fans, a group of boys who are shouting and jumping at whatever feat she just accomplished. Steve seems less impressed, more focused on the arm Eddie has slung over Jeff’s shoulder.

He’s wearing a dark green sweater, something new and soft-looking, Eddie thinks. It pulls at the line of his shoulders, making them look wide and broad as he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the side of the game. He wiggles his fingers at Eddie, who swallows and tips his chin up.

“Is that Harrington?” Jeff asks, shifting to stare over at him. “What, is he hanging out with middle schoolers these days?”

“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs, turning away. He twists Jeff’s head in the opposite direction, towards Pole Position. “Let’s go play something, I’m getting bored.”

“Fuck you,” Gareth calls over his shoulder, distracted. “You can’t mess me up, man. I’m on a roll. Princess Daphne’s gonna be—”

“Hey,” Steve says, suddenly closer. Eddie and Jeff jump, both turning to look at him with wide eyes, though surely for different reasons. On Gareth’s other side, Grant narrows his eyes. “Merry Christmas, guys. It’s nice to see you.”

Grant says, “I think it’s a trap.”

Dragon’s Lair cheers its victory as Gareth fumbles whatever he was doing. They all turn to see his score, wincing. Gareth snaps, “He wants his ass kicked,” with so much vehemence Eddie thinks he might actually be considering it.

Steve laughs, a little awkwardly. Eddie can feel the way he’s looking at him, wanting some sort of guidance in navigating this whole thing, but Eddie feels just as adrift as Steve. His friends are watching him, waiting to see what he’ll say.

“Definitely a body snatchers type deal,” he hears himself saying, looking Steve up and down. “Why else would he think we wanna hear from him?”

As soon as the words are out, he wants to reel them back in, swallow them back down where they can choke him. Stupid, fuck he is so stupid, no better than the people he hates, and fuck if Steve doesn’t look embarrassed, heat spreading across his cheeks even as his eyes narrow, like he might say something back.

The boys chuckle, and Grant wrestles Gareth away towards another game while Jeff lingers at Eddie’s side, clearly ready to back him up if he needs to.

We’re dating, Eddie imagines himself saying to Jeff. He’s my—

“Right, well, enjoy the rest of your break,” Steve says, nodding his head. He turns back to the kids lingering by Dig Dug, shoulders hunched up around his ears.

“Weird,” Jeff mutters, shuddering like he’s been freed from a spell. “You know he told McKinley off for me, before the holidays? We were in the washroom and McKinley made some comment about me checking out his dick, just trying to embarass me or whatever, and Harrington told him to knock it off. Said something like, ‘he’d need a magnifying glass’. I got the hell outta there when McKinley turned to tell him off, but it surprised me.”

Eddie swallows around something sharp, his jaw clenching. “Yeah, that’s—he’s different, I guess.”

“Not bad for a jock,” Jeff shrugs. “Now come on, I wanna see if Gareth can redeem himself or if he’ll be crying for real on the ride home.”

---

On New Year’s Eve, Eddie invites Steve over to celebrate.

It’s an apology, even though Steve insisted it was fine when Eddie snuck into his bedroom the night they saw each other at the arcade, a thousand excuses on his lips. It’s also a test for himself, because Wayne is staying in tonight.

Eddie feels a bit like he’s introducing his boyfriend to Wayne, even though that’s not what it is. It’s more like—introducing Wayne to a friend, which Steve is, by now. Someone Eddie cares about, certainly.

More and more, Eddie wishes he could lay his thoughts out somewhere and put them in order, try to figure out what, exactly, he wants. He knows what Steve wants, knows what Steve thinks is happening, and he—Eddie doesn’t not want that, right, but it’s so hard to imagine a thing like that. It doesn’t seem like real life, just some fantasy Eddie has drawn up a hundred times across a thousand journals, the same story in a different voice.

Last New Year’s Eve, Steve got a slap in the face and Eddie drove him home to an empty house. This year, Eddie’s determined to make it different.

To his horror (but not surprise), Steve and Wayne kick it off right away. It’s not much of a surprise; Eddie’s pretty sure that Wayne was a jock in high school, even though he denies it whenever Eddie accuses him. He might not be a dickhead like most of them, but he’s an active old bastard who loves to talk sports, a guy’s guy through and through and, unfortunately, so is Steve.

It’s awkward for the first few minutes, when Steve’s refusing to take any cash for the pizza and wings he picked up (Wayne gives it to Eddie with express instructions to put it in Steve’s wallet later when he isn’t looking), but it eases up as they begin to eat and Wayne asks about the basketball season. Steve isn’t playing on account of the head trauma, but he’s still part of the team, attending games and practices.

Eddie suffers through a bit of that, stuffing pizza in his mouth and taking Wayne’s insults on the chin when he spies the meat Eddie left on his wings. He’s not a fucking animal, can’t bring himself to gnaw on the bones and pull the darker bits away, but he doesn’t mind watching Steve shove them in his mouth and pull them out, clean and glistening.

Everything is going well, which is probably why Eddie fucks it up.

It starts with Steve touching him. They’re about three beers deep each, loose but not drunk, and Steve sits beside him on the couch. Right beside him; not a cushion over, not a few inches of space between them. Steve sits pressed up against Eddie from knee to shoulder, leaning into him as they watch a movie.

At Steve’s house, Eddie’s all over him whenever they watch something. Or, fuck, whenever they’re near each other. But here, it feels obscene. Wayne is sitting on the couch, watching the same movie with a beer in his hand, a book of sudoku puzzles that Eddie got him in his lap, and he doesn’t seem like he cares but—he might.

He might, and Eddie cannot relax into the cushions, cannot hold Steve’s hand back, cannot breathe around the panic in his chest.

Steve must notice, because he eases off slowly, bringing his hand back over to his own lap, where his fingers knot together. As the movie goes on, he inches further away on the couch until there is some space between them.

He doesn’t seem bothered when Eddie glances over at him, only concerned, and that’s almost worse, maybe. Eddie doesn’t need concern, he needs Steve to—

“Need another beer,” Eddie grunts, shoving himself up from the couch. “Anyone?”

Wayne lifts his empty can, which Eddie takes on his way over to the kitchenette. Steve stands as well, following him. He comes to lean against the counter while Eddie grabs new beers for each of them. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Eddie says, cracking open his. He gulps it down, feeling the carbonation burn down his throat, then slides Steve’s across the counter. “What’s wrong with you?”

Steve lifts a brow. “I’m fine, actually. You’re the one freaking out over here.”

“Not freaking out,” Eddie mutters, glancing over his shoulder at Wayne. He’s doing a fine job pretending like he isn’t listening. “Can we go to my room?”

The air feels less oppressive in his bedroom, but Eddie still knee-walks across his bed to shove open his window, leaning there for a second to breathe.

“Is it...the touching?” Steve asks quietly behind him. Eddie can picture him there, arms crossed over his chest, frown on his face. “I can lay off, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well yeah, I’m kind of a touchy guy, Eddie. I like to touch my bo—I’d like to be able to touch you without worrying that you’ll have a panic attack.”

“Wasn’t that long ago you were panicking at the thought of Wayne hearing you in here,” Eddie snaps, squeezing his eyes shut at the word Steve bit off. Can he taste it in his mouth? Does it taste like blood?

“What is wrong with you, Eddie? Do we have to fight every single time something happens? I swear, we get two steps forward and I finally think I know what’s going on, then you drag me half a dozen steps back because—what? Because Wayne saw me holding your hand?”

Eddie turns to look over his shoulder, scowling. “Wayne’s not my concern.”

“Who, then? Hopper? Your friends?”

“It’s everyone, man! This sort of thing is meant to be a secret, not something you rub in other people’s faces!”

“Do you think I don’t know that? I hate—” Steve cuts himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose as he looks around Eddie’s bedroom. “I just hate that I can’t do it the way I normally would, you know?”

Eddie frowns. “What, like making out against the lockers? Your hand in my back pocket, or you bringing my books to class? Steve, even if we could do that shit, it ain’t me.”

“Well it is me,” Steve snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Sorry,” Eddie laughs meanly, incredulously. “Is this not living up to your expectations, King Steve? We’re two guys fucking in Indiana. What dream world do you live in where you think we’re out here holding hands with each other?”

“Don’t call me that! And this isn’t us out in public, Eddie, it’s us in your house with your uncle who clearly cares about you, who doesn’t give a shit that you’re gay. What are you so afraid of?”

Eddie is full of fear; a horrific, writhing nest in his belly, in his mind.

“Tell me what happened with Billy,” Eddie blurts out, watching Steve. The light is off; neither of them turned it on when they came inside, and Steve is a shadowed thing, illuminated only by the thin sliver of light that’s coming in through the open window. He stares back at Eddie, made of stone.

“He came looking for his sister and beat me up when I stopped him from attacking one of the other kids.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Steve stresses, taking half a step forward. “It’s the goddamn truth.”

“It’s not why you have nightmares.”

“Well...that has nothing to do with Billy. That’s—I can’t talk about that. I’ve told you that.”

“Won’t, you mean.”

“What do you want me to say?” Steve asks, exhausted and beat down and looking for all the world like he has something to say.

Eddie wants to ask him to tell the truth. He wants to tell Steve everything that’s tangled up in his chest, but he can’t. Eddie’s secrets have always been too difficult a thing to say.

“Well, you’re lying to me,” Eddie says instead, trying and failing to sound cool about it. He can’t look at Steve as he says it, can’t blink away the burning in his eyes fast enough. “So what’s the harm if I do it?”

Shaking his head, Steve turns towards the door. “I can’t do this with you, Eddie. I can’t—every time I think I know what you want, you fuck me around. It’s not fair.” Steve’s voice breaks on that last word, and he hesitates with his hand on the door.

Get used to it, Eddie wants to say. He’s never known anything in his life to be fair.

“You said nothing would change,” Eddie grits out, scrubbing at his face. How silly he must look, standing here with tears on his face and a boy who cares about him for whatever reason lingering in the doorway, waiting for him to ask that he stay. “You lied.”

Steve shakes his head, sniffling. He doesn’t sound like he’s crying when he speaks, though Eddie can see the tears on his cheeks. “I didn’t lie, Eddie. Nothing’s changed. You made sure of that.”

Eddie chokes out a sob, turning away from Steve.

“I need you to figure out what you want,” Steve tells him. The creak of his door opening is final. “Then we can talk.”

He leaves, then, and Eddie sits on his bed, dropping his head in his hands. There’s muffled conversation in the main room, then the sound of the front door opening, Steve’s car starting, then pulling away. Eddie doesn’t know how long he sits there, crying like a fucking loser before Wayne comes into the room, sitting heavily beside Eddie.

Wayne doesn’t say anything, which Eddie is grateful for. He just lets Eddie cry, rubbing his back the whole time, and he doesn’t ask for more than that.

Notes:

...i know, i know!!! i promise it'll only be up from here 💜

once again, thank you to my beautiful friends for all their help with this. mwah!!!

comments and kudos are appreciated 💜

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of a litany of secrets