Chapter Text
Day 92 - February 6th, 1987
10:33am
“You’ve seriously never had it before?” Steve asked again, measuring out his third cup of flour and dumping it in the mixing bowl.
How was it supposed to know that? To its knowledge, Eddie had never even heard of the dish before, so how would he have tried it? Then again, perhaps he had eaten it before, but hadn’t known what it was called at the time. It tapped its index and middle finger to its thumb and shrugged.
No.
“I’m telling you, it’s even better than pizza,” he grinned as he prepared the yeast. “I mean, my mom’s is. And I don’t really remember Nonna’s, but Mom says I begged her to make it whenever we visited, so…I haven’t made it on my own before though, so we’ll see how it goes.”
There was no doubt in its mind that Steve’s would be just as good as theirs. Everything Steve did was gold, everything he touched ripened to perfection. Yes, Mrs. Harrington’s meals were the stuff of dreams, but a humble serving of Steve’s scrambled eggs nourished something inside of it that it couldn’t quite name. Perhaps it was biased (in fact, it knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was), but how could it not be when the cook in question was the start and end of the spectre’s existence?
Still, if it was his first time, wouldn’t it stand to reason that they use a guide? It slipped from a stool at the island and padded along the floor to the drawer with the lovingly maintained recipe box, only to be stopped by an indignant scoff.
“We don’t need that. I’ve seen Mom make it a million times. If you wanna help, oil up the pan, yeah?” He offered, nodding his chin to the olive oil and loaf pan by the sink.
With a light hand, it did as it was told, attention flicking between its simple task, and Steve as he set up the electric beater, humming and bopping gently to a tune in his head. He was a beautiful singer, it knew that much, but it was so rare that it was graced with the gift of hearing it.
The last week seemed to have been kinder to Steve than usual. He was mostly sleeping through the night, and when it awoke to find him out of bed, he would often quickly heft himself up from his crunches or push-ups and join it once more under the sheets. The bruises under his eyes were lightening, he was smiling more, laughing more easily, and accepting touch more readily. It wished more than anything in that moment to be able to sing with him, or at least vocalize as it didn’t know the words, but when it tried, it couldn’t even muster a croak. Instead, it contented itself in watching Steve’s face screw up as he hit falsetto notes Eddie could have never dreamed of reaching.
As it watched, a small twinge of a smile wrapping about the corners of its lips, it pressed its fingers into the oil and slowly spread it along the pan in a thin sheen. Eddie had cooked with his mother once or twice, but he hadn’t been allowed to touch the oil after an incident when he was about three. Starved for entertainment, he’d somehow gotten into it and used it as fingerpaint and the cabinet under the sink as a canvas. She’d laughed at the time and taken photographs that she’d promptly gotten developed and tucked into a photobook, but it had been a large waste. It rubbed its oily fingers together for a moment, reaching far, far back into Eddie’s memories, hoping to hear that laugh once more. It had been throaty and booming, hadn’t it? Or perhaps reedy and high pitched. She hadn’t laughed very much in her final years, and why should she have? If Eddie had dipped into the oil again in her last days, and painted on the wall across from her bed, would she have giggled, or smiled sadly at the boy she knew she had to leave behind?
“No, man, you need way more than that,” Steve corrected from beside it.
It tipped its hand again, putting maybe another teaspoon into the pan.
Steve huffed good naturedly and took the bottle from its grip, nearly filling the bottom of the pan with it. “It looks like a sh*t-ton, but it, uh…yeah, we’ll need more later.”
The humming was slow to start again as Steve got his hands dirty, coating the sides with the thick pool at the bottom. Had he done something similar to Eddie in his youth? If not fingerpainting with oil, maybe he’d knocked over a container of flour, or used it as makeup after having watched his mom do hers at her vanity. It could see it so clearly, little Steve covered in white powder, primping his hair, asking his mom if he looked pretty when she caught him. There had to be a treasure trove of memories like that between Steve and his mother, the two of them probably thick as thieves before Steve ascended to the throne of Hawkins High. They had to have had a thousand moments like that, didn’t they? They’d had more time together to make them.
Steve sidestepped it to the sink, custard cup in hand.
What now?
“Warm water,” he mumbled, putting his wrist under the flow of water.
How many?
“Some,” he shrugged, letting an inch or two into the cup before dumping it into the mixing bowl.
Yes, there had to be a proverbial dragon’s hoard of memories in the kitchen alone. Little Steve Harrington with perfect, fluffy hair and argyle sweater at Mrs. Harrington’s feet, watching her cook, asking the same questions the spectre was, and receiving the same answers. Maybe he’d watched his nonna as well, staring up at her with large eyes and chubby cheeks, whining about how long it was taking to prepare. Maybe she’d been as kind-hearted as Mrs. Harrington, and had pinched those flushed cheeks as she told him to wait, or maybe she was where Steve had picked up his attitude, and had lovingly snapped at him that it would be ready when it was damn well ready.
Steve flicked the electric mixer on, filling the room with such a terrible noise it wanted to unplug it from the wall and toss it from the window.
“Come on, man, you’re on pesto duty,” he ordered, nodding to the mortar and pestle on the windowsill.
The spectre washed off its hands and took the materials back to its seat at the island. The Harringtons made their own pesto? Had Eddie tried pesto before?
“Garlic, oil, basil, parm,” he muttered, placing each ingredient in front of it. “How much garlic…?”
It tugged its lips into the best frown it could as it poked at the peeled cloves.
K-N-I-F-E?
“No, just grind it,” he scoffed again.
Wouldn’t it make more sense to cut it up into tiny pieces before mashing it? Wouldn’t that make things faster? It shrugged and followed the orders, slowly crushing the garlic with the pestle.
“Mom’s gotta have pine nuts lying around somewhere,” he mumbled as he flicked the mixer off and went to scour the pantry.
The spectre continued its task, beginning to feel it in its shoulder. Perhaps it ought to join Steve in his push-ups to fix its lacking physique. It didn’t have to be able to run a marathon, but it would be nice to be able to perform fairly simple tasks like grinding garlic without sweating.
When was olive oil meant to be introduced? Surely it should come after the pine nuts, but what about the basil? Did it have to grind the cheese into the paste as well, or would that be shredded in at the end and stirred in? Had little Steve sat in a small kitchen chair watching his mother getting similarly instructed and corrected by her mother?
It tossed some basil in and took the pestle in its left hand to continue the job. Steve had started humming again, but it was a new tune now, a familiar one. The spectre still couldn’t find a name for it, but it knew the lyrics and sung along in its head, nodding to the beat. Were Eddie in its stead, he would don a large, smarmy grin and coo and tease Steve for finally picking a good song. Steve would have probably rolled his eyes and smacked at his shoulder, but ultimately continue to serenade him with Rob Halford’s words, and Eddie would have probably joined in, leaning into a comically exaggerated impression. But it wasn’t Eddie, and it couldn’t form a single noise, so it continued to nod, continued to grind, continued to wish it could play out that little fantasy.
As the song petered out, it chanced a look up at Steve, and felt its heart squeeze in on itself. In the shadow of Steve’s cupid’s bow sat a smile that Eddie had once believed was reserved just for him. Upon being caught, Steve smiled wider, his eyes melting like chocolate in the sun as he passed the pine nuts. Were its ears as scarlet as Eddie’s would be? Was that why his eyes flickered away momentarily, and his smile developed a self-satisfied quirk?
“Trust me, it’ll be worth it,” Steve assured quietly, readjusting his glasses. “It takes a while, but it’s worth it.”
Of course it would be. With Steve at the helm, how couldn’t it be?
“And,” he continued in a strained, blasé tone, “y’know…I got that python movie you like so much. I thought we could watch it while the dough rises.”
Python movie?
“The Python’s Grail, or whatever,” he clarified.
The first time Eddie had watched that movie was the day his dad was locked up by Hopper on his third drunken disorderly. His mom had picked him up from school early that day, and agreed to let him choose whichever movie he wanted from the Family Video if he promised to eat the frozen peas she would fill his plate with that night. Despite the peas, it had been one of the most cherished days of Eddie’s life. Wayne had called to check in with him (a rare treat at the time, considering the long-distance costs), his mom had made meatloaf and Idahoan potatoes as well, and he’d even managed to make her laugh until co*ke came out of her nose.
“Is that alright?” He prompted with a small smirk.
What was Steve’s favourite movie? Had he discovered it with his mom as well?
It nodded. Who was it to refuse its host?
10:00pm
From its seat on Steve’s floor, it could hear the opening jingle for the ABC Friday Night Movie. If it had to make an educated guess, it would say Mr. and Mrs. Harrington were sat at opposite ends of the creamy leather couch, both with a book in hand, neither paying particular attention to the television. Perhaps Mr. Harrington was in his armchair by the window, perhaps Mrs. Harrington had taken to the floor as she seemed to enjoy, but regardless of their positions in the room, they would not interact with one another. A perfect date night.
Yet even with the volume of the television, and the stereo in the corner of Steve’s room quietly playing British Steel, they had to remain as quiet as they could, lest either of his parents decide to put an end to the farce and retire to bed. They sat together, backs against the side of the bed, legs splayed out on the carpet in front of them, nearly touching. It never failed to amaze the spectre just how differently they were built. Steve’s skin was golden with soft hair whereas it was nearly translucent with a few light hairs scattered about. Where Steve’s thighs were thick with powerful muscle, its were wiry at best, and perhaps only half the size. Even with the careful eye Steve kept on its diet, Eddie’s body was naturally lithe, and there wasn’t ample opportunity (nor motivation) to regain any musculature he may have had in life.
“Seriously,” Steve huffed with a wry smile, “she was so mad I thought her head was gonna pop. But, I mean, it’s not my fault your kid hid the tape from you, and I’m not gonna waive late fees just because you know my dad.”
A fair point. Who in Hawkins didn’t know the name Harrington?
“Whatever. Robin said she tried the same thing with her last time, so…I’m actually surprised Keith hasn’t cancelled her membership. Can we do that?” He pouted, brow pinching as he thought.
Steve Harrington was beautiful. Eddie had known it, Nancy had known it, everyone in all of Roane County had to know it, but Eddie had known it in a very special, unique way. Steve had shown him things he hadn’t shown others, it had to assume, just by nature of what they were to one another. Now it knew Steve and his beauty even more intimately than that, didn’t it? It could glut itself on his beauty every single day. It spent mornings flipping through photobooks, and holding little trinkets in its cold hands, convincing itself it could feel his warmth through them. It spent afternoons listening to his tapes, reading the lyrics Eddie had written about him and adding to them in its head, filling in any gaps Eddie’s ignorance had left unfinished. It spent nights in his bed, watching his beautiful eyes drift closed, and (if it was lucky enough) witness the small twitches and smiles he wore in his sleep.
The spectre was lucky in that way. Lucky, in a sense, that Eddie had died, if only so it could now know Steve, Steve, Steve Harrington the way it did.
Steve seemed to blink himself out of his stupor, or at least cotton on to its stare, his cheeks going a little rosy. He ran a hand up and down his thigh and caught its eye, a small, tender smile poking through his pout.
“I think there’s still a couple cookies left. You want one?” He offered, sounding every bit as beautiful as he looked.
It nodded emphatically, stomach clenching at the memory of the moist chocolate chip cookies Mrs. Harrington had baked in the wake of another snippy argument with Mr. Harrington. Steve chuckled at its enthusiasm and hopped out the door, closing it gingerly behind him.
Once alone, it licked its lips, chasing any lingering hint of the cookie it had eaten several hours prior. There was nothing to taste, of course, but it could imagine. It rested its head back against the side of the bed and forced a small sigh, still somewhat perturbed at how little it sounded like Eddie. It tried again, engaging its diaphragm on the exhale, but there was still no hide nor hair of him. Would it ever learn to sound like him? Was that something it wanted? Was it something Steve wanted? Steve, who was under the impression that it was Eddie, and that they were building a relationship together that meant something; that was based on something. Could Steve be contented knowing that he had created a new relationship with a spectre, or would he revile it for its theft?
It sighed again, as loudly as it could, and let its head loll to the side. There, against the wall just under the bed, something hid. It hadn’t left Eddie’s notebook there, had it? Had Steve found it? If so, why hadn’t he confronted the spectre about it? Curious, it lounged onto its side, and poked itself underneath the frame to grab a hold of it. As it righted itself, it found it was both pleased and confused to be holding a copy of Frankenstein. Lazily running its thumb along the pages, it noticed a receipt (from a Barnes & Noble, dated mid-April 1986) acted as a bookmark. The spectre quirked its head, eyes skimming the page.
Although her disposition was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.
Steve entered slowly with two water bottles and cookies in hand, a small, confused frown playing at his lips as he closed and locked the door behind him.
“Where’d you find that?” He asked as he rejoined the spectre on the floor.
Under bed.
“Ahh, yeah, that…that sounds right,” he muttered, handing it a cookie. “Max, she, uh…I used to read it to her when she was in the hospital. We never ended up finishing it.”
Eddie had never finished it either. He’d watched the film maybe a half-dozen times and incorporated some of the imagery and ideas into his lyrics, but Mr. Cobb had a knack at making even the most interesting books sound torturous. If it remembered correctly, Eddie had barely made it to page twenty.
You like it?
Steve breathed in slow, munching on the cookie as he thought it over. “I mean, it’s alright. A lot of that flowery old timey language goes way over my head, but, y’know, other than that it’s…yeah. Yeah, I really liked it.”
There was something hiding (perhaps not hiding per se, but thinly-veiled or subdued) in the shrug of his lips. That thing was beautiful, as all things were with Steve Harrington, but it was also familiar; it was something Eddie had held within him as well. It placed the book in Steve’s hands and received a co*cked brow and skeptical grimace in response.
“What?”
R-E-A-D to me? Please?
Steve’s lips twitched, but that little light (that quiet thing under the bushel) flashed brighter, if only for a moment. Though it wasn’t entirely certain if the smile meant to distract from the light was of fond disgruntlement or genuine distaste, it wasn’t very convincing.
“Dude, seriously?” He snorted.
You like it. I want to H-E-A-R.
“No, you don’t want me reading this to you,” he protested weakly, “I’m not a good reader. I take way too long, and I don’t know half the words, and I’m not a theatre dweeb so I don’t know how to, like, make a character, or—”
S-T-E-V-E.
Please?
It hadn’t seen that light so bright in a while, nor had it seen the pleased flush quite so pink on those high cheekbones. Perhaps it wasn’t Steve’s favourite book (if it asked, would he tell it what was?) but it was something he enjoyed enough to keep. Why shouldn’t it want to be better acquainted with something dear to Steve? Why shouldn’t it want Steve—whose voice was its favourite lullaby, and greatest source of joy in this new life—to properly introduce it to the spectre?
“I swear, if you laugh, you’re dead,” he warned lowly, turning to the first page.
Why would it ever laugh at Steve? Why would Steve ever assume he was something worth laughing at?
“I am by birth a Genvese,” he paused and tried again, softening the g, “Genvese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics, and my father—”
S-Y-N-D-I-C?
Steve shrugged. “I dunno, I think Max said it was like a…like an official, or something.”
It nodded and shoved the cookie into its mouth, wishing it could moan in delight.
“Uh…” He paused with a deep frown, tracing his finger along each word as he went, “syndics, and my father had filled several public situations and honour and reputation.”
If Steve was being so vulnerable with it, shouldn’t it extend him the same courtesy? Shouldn’t it show a modicum of bravery in turn?
The spectre snuggled itself into his side, pressing close and resting its cheek on his shoulder. If it turned its head a fraction of an inch, it could press its lips against the muscle. If it wanted, it could sink its teeth into that Midas-kissed skin and tattoo the imprint of its bite there forever. It could do any number of things (could beg Steve to let it do any number of things) but it wouldn’t. Until Steve explicitly and unequivocally invited more, this would suffice. This single moment, this single day with rosemary and pesto, Eddie’s favourite film, slow reading, and tender closeness was more than enough.
“So damn cold,” Steve grumbled, resting his cheek against the crown of its fuzzy head.
April 11th, 1983
“So, listen…”
A small frown caught in the corners of his lips as he parked under the old oak tree on their sideroad. There was something he couldn’t quite read in Steve’s tone; a distance, or front of some kind that hid something away. A hot, prickly thing took home just beneath his sternum, churning and crawling slowly as he unfastened his seatbelt and turned to face him. If his dad taught him nothing else, it was that there was nothing more dangerous than uncertainty. So, he watched with careful, narrowed eyes as Steve’s mole-kissed cheekbones lit up a soft pink, waiting for any crack to form that would give him some hint as to his intentions.
Though he had given him no reason to distrust him, not really, that thing in Eddie’s chest tensed as Steve pulled something from the interior pocket of his windbreaker. Hazard of the job, he supposed, never quite knowing what stunts his customers would try to pull for free sh*t, or whether the basketball team would make good on their threats of fists and knives. But this was Steve, his Steve, so watching him roll the thing over in his hands shouldn’t have stoked that apprehension.
“Hope you don’t have that one,” Steve offered through a forced chuckle.
Without another word, he passed him the object, leaving Eddie reeling alone. That thing in his chest dissipated, bringing the heat up to his ears, and the prickles to the pit of his gut. Steve Harrington had gotten him a gift. A Sabbath tape. Though he did, in fact, have it (he could say with the utmost certainty that that very tape was in the centre console between fast food napkins, a pocketknife, and a mostly empty bottle of Advil), what he held in his hands was far more precious than that.
“Thanks,” he muttered, fighting off that mortifying thing that insisted he break the gift into small pieces, and swallow it down.
“Yeah, no problem,” Steve exhaled, relief washing over him. “I figured, since I missed your birthday…”
Jesus Christ.
“Plus, you’re graduating soon,” he added with a shrug. “That’s something to celebrate, right?”
Steve Harrington had gotten him a gift. When? How? The shop downtown didn’t have any metal (why should it when the demand was so low), Eddie had to drive half-way to Indy for a decent selection, and Steve didn’t have a car, or a licence. What string had he had to pull all for the sake of getting something just for him? Something purred in his chest, reverberating in his ribs, and sending chills down his spine.
“What are you gonna do?”
“Huh?” Eddie asked, head drifting back down from the clouds.
“After graduation,” he clarified, finally turning to face him directly. “College? Apprenticeship?”
A brief, bitter laugh left him before he could think to catch it.
Steve didn’t know, how could he, but he’d knocked over a saltshaker and gotten a grain into Eddie’s open wound. If Higgins’ recent lectures were anything to go by, he might not graduate until the nineties. While the man tried to command respect, probably thinking he was scaring Eddie into keeping his head down and nose in a book, all it had done was stoke the flames of his discontent. No amount of blustering from a self-righteous red-blooded patriot with a picture of Reagan and Falwell Sr. shaking hands on his desk would make polynomials legible. Sure, he had Wayne’s full support (come Hell or high water, he’d be the first Munson to graduate high school), but that didn’t make it easier for him to crack The Scarlet Letter open and last more than three pages before returning to Tolkien’s comforting arms.
Maybe he’d beat Higgins to the punch, and just drop out. It’d disappoint Wayne to no end, but at least then he wouldn’t have to stomach the Eddie won’t be graduating with his peers talk in that stuffy office with his uncle by his side. Why give the blowhard the satisfaction when he could just flip him the bird and march out the doors on his own terms?
“I’m still a junior, Steve. You trying to get rid of me?” He teased with a smarmy grin, something inside of him mournfully howling at the idea of Steve counting down the days.
His response was instant, emphatic, thunderous. “No!”
The purring grew louder, his ears hotter, his heartbeat faster.
“No,” he tried again, pausing briefly to let out a terse sigh. “Just wondering.”
Right. Even in the dark he could see how deep the rouge on his cheeks was growing.
“Dad wants me to work for him one day,” he continued, running his hands down his thighs. “I guess I was just wondering if you had anything lined up too.”
Wayne probably didn’t want him at the plant, but what else was there for someone like him? Unless the band made it big, or he could somehow spin being a Dungeon Master into a career, what future did he have? He tried to swallow down the spikey ball of hope in his throat that insisted he could build a future with Steve if they both really tried.
“Thanks for the tape,” he smiled, running his thumb along the jagged spine.
“Yeah, no worries,” Steve shrugged, returning the smile.
There was no future for them that wasn’t shrouded in secrecy. Steve already had a future anyway, with college, a girlfriend, working for his dad, the house at the end of a cul-de-sac, marriage, kids, dog, retirement, grandkids, et al. There was no room in that life for Eddie, and even if they could force him in somewhere, it would be just as it was now, with stolen evenings, and carefully measured eye-contact in public. What kind of life was that?
“Hey, uh, can I get a smoke?”
Just about the ugliest snort he’d ever made ripped itself from deep in his throat.
“Oh, that’s what this is about,” he drawled, waving the tape in front of him. “You’re just bribing me.”
Steve, to his credit, looked horrified at the accusation. “No, I just—”
“What would mommy say if she caught you walking into her home with a joint in your pocket?” He hummed, leaning into Steve’s space, relishing the burn in his chest when Steve didn’t move away.
“She’s not home, man. Neither’s my dad,” he confessed quietly with a slow lick of his lips.
The purring halted, making way for the beginnings of a growl that he had to tamp down. When had his hearing gone fuzzy? Why was his face pulsing and hot? Yes, Steve’s parents weren’t home. He’d just told Eddie that they weren’t home. Why had he just told him they weren’t home?
“Bit late for a party, don’t you think?” He asked, praying Steve didn’t see through his even tone, and deep into the heart of his festering, bloody hope.
“No, no party. Just me,” he hedged, staring dead into his soul.
“Oh,” he breathed.
Could Steve feel it too? That shift in the air between them, where Steve was inhaling each of Eddie’s exhales, and Eddie, desperate and clawing for more, glutted on Steve’s air, so as not to be without him.
They’d done so much already, shared so many moments beyond what they were owed. Steve had nearly ripped his clothes off in school in January, had nearly kissed him in February, had asked if they could spend his birthday together in March, and now he’d gotten him a tape and was telling him his parents weren’t home. Steve wanted him in some fashion, Steve missed him to some degree, even if he couldn’t quite put it into words yet.
Just say the words, just say them.
Hungry and yowling for it, the weighty thing in his chest expanded, gnawing at his bones, threatening to eclipse his body and consume everything it met. If Steve would only say the words, if only he’d invite Eddie into his home, then he’d never have to question what the boy thought of him ever again. It would be the ultimate act of trust, of loyalty. People in their situation—whatever their precarious relationship was—weren’t granted intimacy, not in backwater Indiana. Whatever it was they were doing running around Lake Jordan, and in the bathroom by chem lab, and imbued into every little note Steve shoved between the slats of his locker, was a constant push and pull of ultimate danger and safety. The fear of exposure was ever-present, and necessitated a space between them where the personal and emotional couldn’t live.
If Steve invited him in, it would be tantamount to leaving himself completely bare. Once the words were said, they could never be undone, could never be unknown by Eddie. Even if, God forbid, he said no, the invitation still would have been extended. The thing in his chest ate and ate and expanded, and growled in a low, raw tone, throbbing, aching, bleeding for the words.
Hope, he’d learned, was a poisonous thing. Steve may have done all those beautiful things, but he still maintained that space, and in fact, seemed to chip away at it whenever he could. He’d told Eddie he couldn’t see anyone else, but Steve still got to take Becky to The Hawk on Thursdays and hold her hand in the hallways. Steve could peaco*ck for Tommy, and smirk when he and Carol made loud, obnoxious jokes about his sex life, but Eddie had to be a good little queer and keep his stupid mouth shut. Steve could still hold the mantle rex, and Eddie had to find contentment in staying a silent, faithful paramour.
Steve couldn’t and wouldn’t say the words. Saying them meant what they were—what he felt—was irrefutable. Inviting him into his home was as serious as a marriage proposal, wasn’t it? Why should he ask if he wasn’t even ready to say he missed him sometimes?
Refusing to be bested by that creature that was feasting on his guts, he pocketed the tape, reached into the back of the van and grabbed his lunch pail, ignoring the change in Steve’s breathing, because it would be odd to notice something like that. Once righted, he grabbed the best joint he had, and handed it over, refusing to look at him. If Steve saw him, if he had to stare at those stupid hazel eyes a moment longer, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hide the hope away, and the last thing he needed was the kill one of the only good things in his life.
“I meant a Camel,” Steve corrected with a weak laugh.
Eddie shrugged and pulled out the best smirk he could to keep the shakes at bay. “Well, I left my pack at home, so that’ll have to do. Just don’t expect you’re going to get free sh*t every time you pull something like this, Harrington. You’re cute, but not that cute.”
He scoffed as he tucked the joint behind his ear. “Yeah, right.”
Yeah, right.
“D’you have any plans?” He continued, hands still running up and down his thighs.
Eddie couldn’t stop staring at them, his throat drying up and sealing tight with the consuming ache of want. He could still feel the imprint of Steve’s fingers all over him, the back of his neck, his hips, his ribs. All he knew of those fingers was how they grabbed, and pulled, and dug in, seeking muscle and bone. What did they feel like when he touched just to touch?
It took a moment for the words to catch up with him, but when they did, he gritted his teeth. No, no more hope tonight, he was only making small talk. The quiet thrill in his gut had to subside, the crackling need in the well of his chest needed to be tempered, lest he be set alight. Maybe one day Steve would say the words, but certainly not tonight.
“No, not really,” he muttered, fighting off the image of Steve lounging on his bed in his cluttered room, listening while Eddie noodled on his guitar.
“Cool,” Steve nodded with a distant, but sincere smile. His fingers skimmed along the door handle, unhurried and gentle. How long would it be before those fingerprints branded themselves into the material like they had deep into Eddie’s sinew? What did it feel like when those fingerprints etched themselves into something Steve thought was precious?
He was slow to get out of the van, silently killing the last of the hope that tonight would be the start of something different. Steve wanted to be with him, but not too much. Steve wanted to keep him around, but only when he wasn’t busy with someone else. Steve wanted him, that should have been all that mattered.
“I checked them out, you know,” Steve tossed out, casual and unbothered.
Eddie frowned briefly, the heady cloud of SteveSteveSteve, still keeping him warm and dizzy. “Who?”
Steve’s eyes trailed down from Eddie’s, pausing briefly on what he only hoped was his chapped lips, before landing on his chest. Confused, and a little unimpressed, he followed Steve’s gaze to his British Steel shirt. The cloud grew hotter, denser, larger as the realization came over him. Blinking, his attention snapped back up to Steve, who was now sporting a charming lopsided smile that was equal parts co*cky, genuine, and most of all, fond.
“Night, Eddie,” he bid.
Before he could drum up anything close to a response, Steve shut the door and sauntered off down the road.
With a thick swallow, he ran his fingers up and down the spine of the cassette case. Another gem for his hoard. That chittering thing inside of his chest purred and wagged its tail, even as he fought off the heedless want. Steve didn’t want him in his home just yet, but he’d listened to Judas Priest and gotten him a Sabbath tape. If being invited into the Harrington home was tantamount to asking to be exclusive, this felt damn close.
His fingers wrapped tight around the case, hugging it as he watched that silhouette wander away from him. Before rounding the corner, Steve (beautiful, confusing creature that he was), turned back around and shot him a quick wave. Eddie hardly had the time to wave back before Steve was gone, leaving him under the cover of a great oak tree with fingerprints gently weaving themselves into his lungs.
Day 121 - March 6th, 1987
5:43am
There was nothing worse than waking to an empty bed. At least, that was what it had learned in its time in the Harrington household. In Steve’s absence, the lifeless grey sheets turned to a prison from which it couldn’t escape fast enough. Things had been better for a while, Steve choosing to spend most nights doing push-ups or sit-ups next to the bed, rather than leaving it completely, but the last week or so had the spectre waking utterly alone every single night with no trace of its host to be found.
Tonight marked the ninth in a row, and so it took itself to the stairs, stopped mid-way down and sat, watching the door with wide eyes, waiting for Steve’s return. Was it perhaps pathetic to wait by the door like a dog? Did that matter when the bed was so empty without that welcomed weight next to it?
It sat in shadows, waiting even as the sun rose and bathed it in its rays. Dutifully, it remained at its post, even as its sit bones and lower back ached. Even as it felt the pressing need to use the restroom. Even as its eyelids grew heavy. It waited, as it always would, for Steve, Steve, beautiful Steve Harrington.
Patience, virtue it was, was always rewarded. As the birds began their songs, Steve slipped through the front door, panting, and soaked through with sweat. For how long had he run? When it left the room, the clock had read just after half-past three, and though it couldn’t be sure of the exact time, it knew it had to have been well over an hour since it rose. Silently, it watched as Steve gingerly closed the door, the only noise being his ragged breaths. Why would Steve want to stay quiet? Wouldn’t he want it to know he’d returned? How would it hear the front door if it were asleep in his room with the door closed? Was he hiding?
When Steve finally turned to face it, he startled, eyes blowing wide, stiff body knocking back against the door. Its stomach swooped, the beginnings of a frown prickling at the corners of its mouth as it watched Steve’s haunches rise like a cornered cat. Like the spectre was a predator, something to be feared and reviled. Though he thawed somewhat around the edges, there was still a rigidity, a wrongness in the way he held himself, those hazel eyes were still so wide, still so intensely, distrustfully focused solely on it. What had it done to frighten him? What could it do to revoke that fear?
Unsettlingly aware of itself, it rose slowly, chest cracking at how Steve’s breaths drew shallower. The spectre—loyal dog it was—lowered its head, wanting to show its master—handsome cat he was—that it could be trusted; that he could unpin his ears from his skull, and retract his claws. It was nothing to fear, hadn’t it proven that in their time together?
Bed.
When Steve Harrington was quiet, the whole world stood quiet with him. When he blinked sluggishly, and shed his cheap headphones, the world held its breath, rapt and hungry for any word from those pretty lips. Arrogant creature, it thought itself better than the world, and took a step down the stairs. For its transgression, it was punished with a flinch and stutter in those puffing breaths.
We go bed. You need sleep.
Afraid and exhausted as he was, Steve Harrington still looked inhuman. He was weak, he was wary, he was tense, but in his sweaty hands, he still held a flaming sword.
Please.
Those hooded eyes finally left it, flickering towards the stairs for the briefest of moments before returning its gaze once more. Steve Harrington wasn’t human, never had been, he was the Archangel Michael with clipped wings. Powerful, righteous, but ultimately weakened by the human shell.
“I’ve got to shower,” he mumbled, brushing past it and starting a half-jog up the stairs.
Like the healed man before Jesus, the spectre stood at the foot of the stairs, watching as its saviour ascended. It signed swiftly, feeling the weight of each movement in its hands, its cracking heart, its facsimile of a soul.
U-N-W-O-R-T-H-Y.
8:07am
The spectre had learned in its time with Steve that it—much like Eddie—had a propensity towards hypervigilance. Why shouldn’t it take up the torch? Was it so unreasonable that it be completely, irrevocably aware of Steve Harrington when Eddie had been constantly, minutely aware of him in his life? For years, he could measure every move from every distance; from across the cafeteria, to the breaths between them in the shadows by Lake Jordan. Now that it was under the same roof, often in the same room, shouldn’t it stand to reason that it too keep dutiful tabs on its everything to ensure his every happiness?
Most days, it could discern how his shift had gone by the set of his jaw alone. The smallest twitch in his left eye would betray just how hungry he was. A gentle pull in the corners of his lips broadcasted the breadth of his grief. Perhaps others would miss the signs and would accept the mask he donned for their sake, but it couldn’t afford to do so. It knew, it always knew, it had no other choice.
So, as Steve whisked their eggs just off tempo of the pop-rock playing on the radio, it knew something worse than even he was used to still haunted him. It knew, but didn’t know how to approach it, or if it even could. The nightmares had gotten worse, gotten louder, but it couldn’t discern why. What were they tormenting him with, and was there anything it could do to bear that cross for him? It couldn’t go on runs with him, no matter how early he took them—and it wasn’t healthy enough, nor did it have the capacity for prolonged cardio regardless—but was there something it could do in the window it was left alone?
It trailed a finger slowly along its mug of bitter coffee, watching as Steve navigated the kitchen. A fresh pot was brewing in the Spacemaker, his mug having already gone empty twice before. Was it the spectre’s responsibility to cut him off, or would that only widen the rift between them? Who was it to admonish Steve for the methods he employed to excise his demons? There were worse ways to keep one’s head above water than working out and occasionally imbibing absurd amounts of caffeine.
With a brusque sigh and shake of his head, Steve poured the eggs into the pan, the cracking and sizzling replacing the devastating wordlessness between them. Had it played a starring role in that night’s visions? Was that why even now, he could barely stand to look at it? Its head grew fuzzy at the mere thought. How could it soothe the aches and pains of the man both it and Eddie worshiped when it was at the heart of that which plagued him?
It moved to take a sip, but was clumsy in its attempt, coffee spilling down the sides of its mouth, running down its neck and burrowing into the fibres of the borrowed Hawkins High gym shirt. It watched, heart thumping hard against its sternum as the material turned a dusty charcoal. Licking its teeth, blood buzzing in its veins, it made a V with its fingers and smacked the backs against its forehead.
Stupid.
11:51am
How long had it been sitting at the altar?
Long enough to wonder, it supposed, and it would continue to wait until it was finally able to rustle up the courage to move. In a sense, it was pathetic to resort to this, wasn’t it? And all for what? For attention? To satiate the greedy curiosity it had held inside itself four long months? Eddie had never taken that old adage about the curious cat to heart, and evidently, neither had it, but what else was it to do when its only source of stimulation—its only source of muted joy—had spurned it for no discernable reason? Television would be far too loud in the stiflingly silent house, Steve didn’t own any books it felt inclined to read on its own, and if nothing else, perhaps accepting this sudden cold shoulder would bring itself back into Steve’s good graces.
Patient dog, loyal dog, stay silent until you are beckoned.
Through the gentle crack in the window, it could hear a few cars puttering about, and some squirrels chittering through the wood. Life flourished outside of the perfectly manicured Harrington house, even as inside was as cold as the Upside Down. Still, the spectre sat reverently at the mouth of the closet, staring into its depths at the box in the thick garbage bag that mocked it for its weakness. It was being weak, wasn’t it? It was weak to the will of its host, weak to his whims, wants, and dreams, and the spectre knew this, but it simply couldn’t bring itself to stop. Perhaps it was made to be weak, if only to highlight Steve’s strength.
Careful and measured with its movements, seeking to make as little noise as possible, it pulled the box from the back of the closet, and set it in front of its crossed legs. Finally, the eucharist was removed from the tabernacle. Did it have the courage to take it? Of course it could, if only it borrowed a modicum of Steve’s strength. With the grace and steady hands of a ghostly confessor, it peeled the bag back and opened the lid.
When it had thought of the box in its moments alone, it had pictured many things, each more outlandish than the last. Old trophies, gifts from his nonna, clothes he meant to donate but never got around to, memorabilia from his time with Nancy, even a button collection he’d been too embarrassed to admit to himself. What it found was much worse than anything it could have dreamt of.
Bafflingly, and earnestly laid atop the rest of the contents, sat a denim vest. The vest from a jacket Wayne had gifted Eddie several years prior (a jacket he’d co*cked an unimpressed brow at the next day when Eddie proudly wore it with the sleeves carefully removed). The vest Eddie had lovingly stitched his favourite Dio shirt on, and that he’d somehow valiantly kept free of the bloodstains from each prick of the needle into his inexperienced fingertips. The vest Steve, Steve, Steve Harrington had worn in the Upside Down, heaving, sweaty, and covered in blood like everything Eddie had ever wanted and more.
A spark crackled inside its diaphragm like Pop Rocks, sizzling and jumpy as it removed the vest to see what lay underneath. Notes. Not very many, not enough to call a proper collection, but enough to say he’d tried.
The sparks grew hotter, more intense as it stared down at the shrine, the smoke from its flaying skin travelling up its spine and into its skull, twirling and twisting as it went. Steve had kept his own box of mementos. Eddie, desperate and wanting, had tucked each hastily scribbled note tenderly into that old shoebox knowing that Steve would never feel one one-hundredth of the care Eddie felt for him (and had spent the rest of each night trying with gritted teeth and stomping heart to convince himself that knowledge didn’t hurt him as much as it did). But Eddie had been mistaken, as some part of Steve had clearly wanted to keep him.
The vest it could understand—how do you return something like that to a grieving man who would have a million and one questions for you—but the notes were something else entirely. They’d been penned years and years ago, could have so easily been disposed of without any thought, but Steve hadn’t done that, no, he’d kept them.
The smoke grew denser, storming behind its eyes, tainting its vision.
It thumbed a note, its brows coming together and teeth gnashing as it stared and stared and stared once more. Eddie had never been very good at math, so it wouldn’t imagine it was either, but things weren’t adding up regardless. Steve kept a box of trinkets, but now couldn’t stand to look at it? He made its favourite meals when he thought it was upset, but held his shoulders taut when he scrambled their eggs that morning? He slept beside it every night, but had flinched at the mere sight of it hours ago? What was it meant to make of that?
No, it had never posed any questions of him, but Steve had never offered any answers. Even with the undeniable proof of his sentimentality in its fingers, it still couldn’t be completely certain of where Steve stood, not really. It couldn’t be so naïve as to assume he hadn’t kept them purposefully, but why keep them for so long? Pity? Guilt? An unspoken, misguided want he’d been too cowardly to voice when Eddie was still alive? Did he feel the guilt still? Was that the reason he kept the spectre around, was that guilt? Parasite through and through, it had stolen Eddie, and had perpetually stolen from Steve, Steve, Steve Harrington. Steve Harrington, who kept a box of notes from the boy who felt an ache carved so deep into his bones that it had nearly killed him. A boy who had begrudgingly imbibed the fetid tannins of distance Steve had put between them in the day for the divinity of knowing him in the night.
Crimson ink bared its teeth and jeered.
Take better care of yourself.
“What are you doing?”
Its gaze was slow to find Steve in the doorway, the crackle pumping through the thin flesh of its intestines and burrowing itself into its bloodstream. Steve, whose jaw was set in ire, and eyes wide in a panic. With as much grace as it could manage, it stood, the fog leaving it dizzy.
What is this?
“What, you’re invading my privacy now?” He demanded, roughly crossing his arms over his chest.
Why hadn’t Steve told anyone about the spectre yet? Why hadn’t he even broached the subject with it? Why had he kept the notes tucked away in the dark?
Why?
He pursed his lips before muttering a bitter, “What?”
Why you I-G-N-O-R-E me today?
“I’m—” He heaved a gruff sigh. “I’m not ignoring—”
Lie.
Steve scrubbed at his nose, scoffing again as it spelled the word for him. “No, I’m not.”
You lie. Why you lie?
“I’m not!” He hissed, hackles rising once more.
You I-G-N-O-R-E me today but keep N-O-T-E-S? Why?
“Why are you snooping through my stuff, hm? How about that?” He snapped, a cat with a broken paw and sharpened teeth.
The prong collar had dug so deep that the tendons and muscles had healed around it. The dried blood had irrevocably changed its skin tone. The fire burned it from the inside, flaying its stomach lining and filling it to the brim with that hot, heady smoke. When had Steve become so cruel?
S-T-E-V-E. Why?
“Drop it,” he warned, readjusting his glasses.
How could it have been so mistaken? Steve Harrington was no god, nor angel, he was man. Full of fault and sin, of disgrace and wickedness, of betrayal and cowardice, and cowardice, and cowardice. The dog bared its teeth at the prideful cat, a growl caught between its fangs.
You M-I-S-S me?
“I’m not talking about this,” he huffed, jaw twitching.
You M-I-S-S me?
“Eddie, I’m not kidding,” he warned, cracks forming on the firmament.
Steve had kept the notes, had shoved them away into the darkest corner of his life, selfishly hiding them until he had use for them. How dare he be so callous. How dare he puff out his chest, and lie to its face, self-righteously refusing to answer such simple questions? Its blood bubbled and curdled in its veins, ears screaming scarlet, chest heaving with the force of its panting. How dare Steve leave him in the moonlight by Lake Jordan, hands jittery, breaths aborting themselves in his throat, keening into the dark, begging a god he didn’t believe in to just bring Steve back to him, please, please God, please, I promise I’ll be good, I promise I’ll live for you, please, please let me have him, please let me keep him, please, teach me how to be good, please God, please let me be kept, please, please, please God, God why didn’t you make me good enough so he could love me?
You leave me!
U-P-S-I-D-E.
D-O-W-N.
You leave me! Why you leave me there? You keep N-O-T-E-S but leave me!
It was as though the spectre had shot him. Steve stumbled on his feet, face crumpling into something ruinous, something unsalvageable, with parted lips, furrowed brow, and haunted eyes. Even still, the rage burned within it, singeing its humours and offal, a mirthful streak shooting through its liver as Steve scrubbed at his nose and threw himself down the hall. Something sour and soft to the touch (a moss, perhaps) bloomed on the back of its tongue, and consumed the flesh, the smoke pumping into the raw wound.
The rage was Biblical, storming inside of it and coming out in droves, waves crashing against the ark, sulfur burning down Sodom, a plague of fire rained upon Egypt as the front door slammed shut. Who did Steve Harrington think he was treating Eddie the way he had? Who did that man—impure, unholy, vitriolic—think he was playing with and discarding him like he was nothing?
The radio was heavy, its hand shaking from how hard it had the talk button pressed. In its rage, it tried to draw a moan, a growl, anything from its chest, but all it could manage was the harsh panting that made it light on its feet. How dare Steve Harrington leave him behind? How dare he abandon him when his feet were finally being held to the fire?
S-O-S.
S-O-S.
S-O-S.
Lying, malicious, spiteful—
“Hello? Hello? This is Dustin. Over.”
—vile, hateful, inconsiderate—
The plastic groaned as it squeezed, huffing into the receiver.
S-O-S.
“Lucas? Come on man, is that you? Over.”
—nasty, self-centered—
S-O-S.
—slimy, worthless piece of sh*t!
“E-Eddie?”
All at once, the world returned to it, the smoke having cleared, the bitter thing on the back of its tongue healed over, its insides doused in ice.
“Eddie, is that you? Eddie, do you copy?” He begged, voice wobbling under the weight of his aching need.
What had it done?
A disbelieving, hysterical half-laugh crackled through the radio. “Holy sh*t, holy sh*t, holy— Don’t worry, I’m coming! Stay where you are, I’ll find you, OK? Eddie, I’ll find—”
Unthinking, it threw the radio across the room, denting the wall, and sending the batteries clattering to the ground. What had it done? What in God’s name had it done?
It landed in a heap next to the box, pins and needles prickling at its mouth and nose as breaths came harder and harder to come by. How could he have done this? As permafrost blanketed it, all it could see was Steve’s devastated eyes as he fled its accusations, all it could hear was Dustin’s hopeful voice, all it could feel was the crushing weight of its unforgivable betrayal.
The red inked note stared up at it, proof of Eddie’s indignant, consuming attraction. Full of tempered fury and a swirl of poisonous self-hatred, it signed.
D-I-S-G-U-S-T-I-N-G.
February 28th, 1983
It was pathetic at times (most times, if he was brutally honest with himself), how often he was filled with the urge to beg after Steve to confess that he missed him. In a moment of weakness, he’d asked once before, and though he hadn’t planned for the words at the time, he’d never particularly regretted having said them. If he could choose, maybe he wouldn’t have said them so desperately, but they were nothing if not desperate, vulnerable, inevitable. He gave himself completely to Steve Harrington every time he so much as thought the words, rolling onto his back, and pleading to be shown his soft underbelly in turn.
There was something there, wasn’t there? Yes, Eddie was wont to find narrative threads where there were none, and he often fell willingly into delusion, but maybe this wasn’t one of those times. Steve had been looking at him differently recently, he was almost certain of it (his gaze sweet like toffee rather than molasses in the rare moments they spent alone together). There had to be something bitter steeped into those notes, something honeyed in those desperate touches under the canopy of night, or at the very least an itch under his skin that only Eddie could satiate. But actions and subtext couldn’t be enough anymore, he needed to hear it, even just once. One word could sustain him for as long as Steve would have him.
When Eddie pulled under the oak tree several streets from the Harrington home Steve, for once, didn’t immediately jump out, instead unclipping his seatbelt and lounging back with a quiet sigh. A small warm thing with blunt claws scritched at the base of his sternum as he watched Steve wiggle his shoulders to get comfortable. Uncertain, he followed Steve’s lead, leaning back into his seat as well, letting the van idle and Judas Priest continue their serenade.
It wasn’t completely unheard of for them to steal an extra moment or so together, but never somewhere so conspicuous. Even the Harrington home, as isolated as it was, wasn’t so far removed from life that they could escape notice. Hell, their spot wasn’t too far from Benny’s Burgers, so anyone could drive by, really. If he made the wrong move, the house of cards could come crumbling down around him, and he’d be left with the mess while Steve was somewhere incomprehensibly far away. But even more than that acrid unsteadiness, he found a comfort in the danger (or perhaps in Steve’s acceptance of this danger). This proved there was something, didn’t it? This was more subtext, it had to be.
In a moment of weakness, he lolled his head towards Steve and saw those large, earnest eyes already fixed on him. Outside the van, life thrived—dogs barked in their white picket fenced yards, their classmates were probably shirking their homework, somewhere a man was kissing a woman breathless—but it paled in the wake of those hazel eyes equally bathed in moonlight and Steve’s inherent sunshine as they flitted across his face. It was nice to be seen, he thought as he traced Steve’s silhouette in turn, it was nice to be seen by a beautiful boy, even if the dark of night concealed most of his features.
Steve’s brow knit together, sending Eddie’s chest into a spiral as he searched for any hint of what Steve was looking for. His patience was rewarded as a golden hand reached between them, and a finger looped through a loose curl. All at once his gut churned with something hot and tacky.
It was well overdue for a trim. In fact, he’d been putting it off for so long that he’d completely forgotten about it, so his split ends were probably half-way to the roots already. Times were tight again—what, with Rick in jail, and Wayne’s shifts getting cut as he healed his broken ankle—and the shampoo from St. Andrew’s foodbank wasn’t exactly top shelf stuff, so it couldn’t have been nice to the touch. Besides that, they were having plumbing issues again, and the guy they’d called couldn’t make it in until the end of the week, so Eddie hadn’t gotten to shower in a couple of days, so what wasn’t brittle was probably greasy, and Steve was probably used to touching salon quality hair, so why should he enjoy touching Eddie’s?
But he was still holding onto it, his thumb delicately joining his forefinger so he could rub the strands between them, his hooded eyes completely focused in on his actions. It was simple and sweet like honey, coating Eddie’s insides, soothing the aching burn of shame, and transforming it into the sticky, languid warmth of devotion. Maybe Steve was blissfully unaware, or maybe he knew exactly what he was doing, but in the safety of his old van, Steve shifted slowly towards him, and Eddie in turn, melted with him. Fresh lemon bubbled amidst the honey, caramelizing it until the cabin was full of a heady, nutty haze as Steve’s eyes shifted from the strand to Eddie’s lips.
Was this the breath between moments he’d heard so much about? It felt exactly like it had been described, with lightning in clouds, and butterflies beating the underside of his diaphragm. In that little pocket between ticks of the second hand, it all felt inevitable. They would collide together and explode outward, recreating the world around them as Steve finally gifted him the affection he so dearly craved.
The cinnamon eyes lingered, his pretty lashes fluttered, and his chin tilted up so subtly Eddie wondered if he’d maybe imagined it. All at once, he was acutely aware of just how unprepared and voracious he was for it. If they were about to share their first kiss (Eddie’s first kiss), he wanted it to be perfect, and leave Steve hungry for more. He wanted to leave him dizzy, and wanting so he would steal increasingly longer and more tender pecks; wanted Steve to thread those fingers through his hair at the root, and cup his jaw with ease. But he hadn’t shaved in a few days, and his lips were chapped. What would Steve want with a rough canvas when he was so used to the softness of pretty girls? Starved for beauty, he flicked his tongue out to smooth as much of himself as he could, praying the artist could find something worthy of indulging in.
In a cruel twist, that seemed the exact wrong thing, those hazel eyes loaded with precious jades and topaz blinked awake, having been reminded of the space that ought to be between them. Steve pulled gently on the curl until it went straight before taking his hand away again to rest in his lap. Eddie watched in his periphery as the hair slowly coiled itself back into its messy, loose state.
“You had something…” Steve’s words petered out as his gaze flitted away.
Sure.
The honey simmered against his guts, sticking between his vertebrae as he leaned back against his seat. It was unfair, really, just how beautiful Steve Harrington was without trying.
“It’s gotten kind of long,” he noted, softness still clinging to his smile lines.
He couldn’t stop himself from snorting, brow quirking as that familiar rose painted itself along Steve’s cheekbones.
“No. No, I mean, I like it, it, uh— it looks good.” Steve insisted between his soft, self-deprecating laughs.
Eddie hummed quietly. “Yeah? Look who’s talking. When’s the last time you got a cut?”
Steve huffed in good humour and stretched his arms out in front of him in a perfect pantomime of exhaustion. All he could think about as he watched those muscles move under golden skin was how Steve’s arm so casually draped over Laurie’s shoulders, and his thumb ran small circles on her upper arm. She was beautiful even he (with the howling green monster poorly hidden under the façade of indifference) could admit that. Her smile was bright, her dimples like craters, with earnest brown eyes that crinkled endearingly in the corners when she smiled. She had a fresh perm every few months, soft looking skin, and a confident tilt of her chin that made her look perfectly at home at the king’s side, even if that king didn’t look at her with the same deference and adoration.
Steve looked at him like that sometimes, though, didn’t he? When they locked eyes in the hallways, there was a smug streak, but it was always underscored with a longing (it was longing, wasn’t it?) that made his skin come alive. The quiet bubble they’d just found themselves in had been imbued with more tenderness than anything he’d seen he and Laurie share. Steve Harrington had to like him, miss him, and want to be with him, otherwise why would he come crawling back to the shade of the oak tree? Why risk exposure (and so, so much worse) to squirrel away in some far corner on the edge of town nearly every other Monday if you didn’t want to be with that person?
No dates, no practice, no movie nights with friends ever stole him away from their standing reservation. Steve was always there, always waiting, always humming to himself on the long drive to their spot, always quick to blush and squirm in his seat. All of that meant something, it just had to.
“D’you ever miss me?” He breathed with a hardened edge.
So much happened in so little time it left his head spinning. Rob Halford’s voice turned nearly silent in the wake of the buzzing something between them; Steve’s amber eyes squinted, and blew wide, and shut, his lips pursed tight before falling open, sneering, and wounded; most importantly, he recoiled and erected a boarder between them, shutting him out, shutting himself down, removing any and all possibility of the words Eddie was so starved for.
When the honey, having so thoroughly imbedded itself into his bones, cracked, it shattered his spine along with it. The butterflies, once alight with mischief and tender apprehension, had become demons, sucking on the fat and lining of his stomach, littering him with holes as he watched that mole-kissed skin go crimson. Was he imagining the hurt, the panic, the horror, the desperation? Maybe he was protecting his heart, or had found himself reflected in Steve’s expressions, but was he so worthy of hatred that Steve should so completely revile him?
“G’night,” he muttered, clamoring out of the van.
Stupid, pathetic boy, how had he not yet learned his love wasn’t worth wanting? He could beg until his throat bled, and lungs shredded, and body returned to the earth for Steve to put him out of his misery, but the words would never come. All they had were actions, and he should just be content in those. It was useless to plead for snow in the slow, rolling heat of mid-July, it would be foolish for Lucifer to beg forgiveness of the father he’d betrayed, and trying to coax gentle, caring words from a beautiful boy in the middle of rural Indiana was far more fruitless than either of those.
“Sweet dreams,” he wished, as the silhouette of the one thing he could never have disappeared around a corner.
Day 121 - March 6th, 1987
4:44pm
Looking back on its time with Steve Harrington, it realized now that it had never felt true loneliness. Isolation from the friends Eddie had made in the last few days of his life had been difficult, yes, and being shut away in Steve’s room, only allowed to stretch its legs when his parents were away, or under the cover of night hadn’t been ideal either, but it had been so nice to have a little secret kept only between them. Isolation from Steve Harrington, however, was something unbearable. Rarely had he shut it out, usually only when the urge to run hit, and it awoke alone in plaid sheets, but he never ignored it during the day, and especially never those infrequent occasions that both of his parents were out of town.
Now, every passing second wrapped itself tighter and tighter around its chest, stealing its breath with little regard for the fallout.
One. Two. Three. Four…
The afternoon bled together in a strange, and disappointing myriad of tableaus. The fury, loathing, and guilt had been subsumed once more by the nothingness it had become accustomed to when Steve went for his second run. Alone, alone, horribly alone, it had hidden the radio away and sat patient with a hot, gnawing something growing in its heart as it listened to cars and birds through the open window. The twin Staffordshire dogs had stared at it from Mr. Harrington’s China cabinet as it forced down Mrs. Harrington’s baked ziti, their beady, tawny eyes drilling through its chest, revealing the Steve-shaped hole it had tried so fruitlessly to hide away.
Eddie, is that you? Eddie, do you copy?
It slammed its eyes shut and rubbed at them with the heels of its hands, trying to push the voice back, hide it away so it could find some rest. Selfish, brutish, childish creature, how could it force Dustin Henderson to reconfront his demons? Why hadn’t it had the foresight to hold its tongue? No amount of spite could justify ruining yet another life.
Don’t worry, I’m coming! Stay where you are, I’ll find you, OK?
The boy was bright, far too bright, of course he would immediately understand that it was ‘Eddie’. It thought of the missing posters Wayne had put up for his boy, how he had to have spent dozens if not a hundred dollars on printing them, and his scant free time in search of a boy that had willingly hidden itself away. The Garfield pencil topper grew heavy in its watch pocket.
Steve’s return didn’t bring with it a continuation of their conversation as it may have hoped. Instead, he forewent the dining area, and stormed to the back patio. It followed as it always would (dog on the lead it was) and watched as his shaking limbs tore his shirt from his scarred body and dove into the pool. The Staffordshire figurines cackled from their prison, delighting in the scorching iron that bubbled in the well of its gut.
One. Two. Three. Four…
The spectre sat curled up on the scratchy carpet by the sunroom door as Steve did slow laps around the pool. It kept time, tapping its blunt nail against its elbow for every passing second, piling them one on top of the other, each weighing heavier and heavier on its shoulders until it felt soldered to the floor. With each unwilling break Steve took—standing in the shallow end, doubled over, panting desperately into the deck—it felt the downy feathers roost in the space between its ribs. Perhaps this one, it would think, would be the last leg. Perhaps now he would be ready to talk. But each time Steve’s eyes slid to meet its gaze, a phantom possessed and perverted his features, and he dove back in, the clock beginning again with the steady tap, tap, tap on its elbow.
Did he see them still? Those hateful, vicious accusations it had thrown at him. Those nights it awoke on its own, had Steve been roused from sleep by visions of Eddie’s corpse, drenched in adipocere, wasted away in that other place? If it found Eddie’s voice in its throat, could it find any combination of words that might soothe the punishment Steve was inflicting on himself?
The seconds piled so high it had lost track. The sun moved, the shadows bled out on the deck, Steve’s breaks grew longer, its joints fused together until all it could move were its eyes, and the even tap of its index finger. When Steve climbed out of the pool, it was with great difficulty, and choked back moans. If it were any stronger, it would have hopped to its feet in an instant, and carried the man to the shower, but it was weak through and through, and so it sat, scrawny and soft, with watchful, pleading eyes as the man it wanted more than anything slipped past it, out of the sunroom, and up to the bathroom.
The water ran through the house, rushing through the pipes behind its back. Steve’s showers tended to range from three to fifteen minutes, depending on the severity of the nightmares. With how their afternoon had gone, it wondered if perhaps a new record would be set, and he would stay there long after the water ran cold, and his lips turned blue.
One. Two. Three. Four…
The patio door remained open, and its eyes trained on the wood beyond Mrs. Harrington’s garden. Life flourished, as it always would outside of the cold walls of Steve’s childhood home; birds chirped, squirrels bounded across the lawn, the trees danced in the gentle, westward breeze. If it focused on the noises, on the life, it convinced itself it could expunge the fungal rot that took root in its veins. Maybe if it forced itself to find patterns were there were none on the carpet, it could chase out the spores that leaked into its sinew and whispered that maybe in that exact moment, Steve was haunted by those callous words it had spat.
If it let Steve shove it into the pool and hold its head under until the bubbles stopped, could its soul be cleansed? Could its willing sacrifice act as the absolution he so desperately deserved?
A cough sounded from the mouth of the room, pulling its attention immediately. Even with the exhaustion weighing down his bones, Steve was glorious. Once it had thought of him as an old forgotten god, but it hadn’t been able to pin down what he was god of (sunshine, or fatherhood perhaps). Though it knew now that Steve Harrington was just a man, it also knew he was one of kindness, of softness, of martyrdom. It licked its lips as it watched him—nude chest Midas-kissed and hairy, glasses perched delicately on the bridge of his nose, hair wild and damp—as he approached, and took a seat next to it. Could it truly hear the fibres of his sweatpants tensing as he pulled his knees to his chest or was it imagining it to fill the silence?
The Staffordshire dogs yipped from their place in the dining room. The wind picked up and dropped off again. Something warm scratched at its sternum as Steve took square breaths. It waited.
One. Two. Thr—
“How, uh, how are you?”
It chanced a look over to him and weighed its options. What could it say, really? Did it disclose how its chest was tight, and gut had cooled over from the molten crimson of its rage? Did it admit it shouldered a guilt that rivaled that of Judas? Steve rolled his tense shoulders back, but kept his eyes fixed on his socked feet, watching as he wiggled his toes up to play with the hem.
OK.
The unspoken buzzed in the tips of its fingers, its vision prickling around the edges as it tried to hold them back. What good would come of the truth? Hadn’t the truth hurt them to this point?
Mad.
Steve scoffed. “Yeah, well, can’t say I blame you for that, man.”
Man. When had Steve decided it should go back to man? What happened to the tender way he wrapped his lips around the false name Eddie?
No, S-T-E-V-E. Not at you.
“Why not?” He protested lowly. “You have every right to be.”
It most certainly did, there was no question about that, but it hadn’t wanted to be. Of all the emotions it could have first fully embodied after its resurrection, fury was the last it would have chosen. Why could it not have basked in the balmy heat of love or adoration? Why would it’s knee-jerk not be love, or curiosity, or fear, or—
I have Q-U-E-S-T-I-O-N.
Steve grunted, but otherwise didn’t react.
First night I came. You see me. You W-E-I-R-D.
He furrowed his brow and nodded for it to continue.
You no S-C-R-E-A-M.
No F-L-I-N-C-H.
No F-I-G-H-T.
Why?
The Upside Down had defied understanding, and Steve’s reaction to Eddie’s supposed rebirth even more so. A cloud, heavy and rumbling, passed over Steve’s features as he mulled its words over. In response, its gut tightened as if to hold its insides within the confines of its slender frame.
Steve sighed and scrubbed at his nose before letting out a defeated, “I dunno.”
The grip around its gut squeezed on instinct. It couldn’t handle any more lies, any more evasion, it just couldn’t, not about something so important.
“I guess,” he continued slowly, pulling it from its mounting spiral. “I guess I was so used to hearing you that, I dunno, that it wasn’t much of a stretch to think I’d start seeing you too.”
Hearing?
My V-O-I-C-E?
“Yours, yeah,” he muttered as he pushed his glasses up the strong bridge of his nose.
Why?
“’M not sure,” he shrugged, lips twitching.
Lie.
“I’m not…” He slammed his mouth shut again, teeth clicking together. “I’m not lying. I don’t know why it’s…It’s always been there, I guess, just quieter. Then when you…when you died…I don’t know. It became you.”
How could it repent for a sin it hadn’t known it had committed? Did it confess that it would rip Eddie’s vocal cords from Steve’s mind if it could, and lick the blood from its hands as penance? Steve rolled his tense shoulders back, but kept his eyes fixed on his socked toes.
“What are you thinking over there?”
Why was it so difficult to piece something together? Nothing felt right, each word far too small and limited for the scope of what it needed to convey. Why was it made to compromise its message for the ease of understanding?
I H-A-T-E it’s me.
H-A-T-E it.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” he muttered, “I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you like— Jesus.”
Steve huffed, eyes pinching tight, lips pursing into a severe white line. When he collected himself, he relaxed back against the wall, and lolled his head to catch its eyes. There was an anger there, yes, still curled around the irises, but it looked so different than it had that morning. It would do whatever he asked to rid him of the rest of that anguish, but without the request, it didn’t know where to start.
Tell me? Please?
What I say?
Something in its chest crackled and unwound as Steve bit out another terse sigh.
I hear V-O-I-C-E-S too. When I can’t sleep. They are L-O-U-D.
Tell me E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G I do wrong.
E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.
It couldn’t remember a time Eddie hadn’t heard them—those little demons whose sole purpose was to remind him of his greatest failings and punish him for them in perpetuity. Eddie’s failings, his lack, his sins, anything, and everything, all of it, always.
Eddie’s inability to be someone Wayne Munson could ever be proud of. The disappointment on his face the first time Hopper dropped him off on the doorstep with a gruff warning. The brutal, crushing silence that consumed the rest of the night. The way Wayne shook his head when their eyes met over dinner. How even the reassuring words the next day (that he wasn’t like his daddy, and no amount of run-ins with the Hoppers of the world could change that, that he just had to be smarter, and keep his nose clean) had to be out of pity and misplaced guilt; that Wayne hadn’t really meant them, why would he? Of course he would end up like his dad, the sins of the father, apples falling close to trees, ashes to ashes, and so on.
Eddie’s inability to build a good, loving family. How he told his dad he didn’t want to come on ride-alongs anymore, that mom said it wasn’t a good idea, and he didn’t want to upset her. It was his fault they’d gotten into a shouting match that night. His fault for not shutting up and doing what his dad told him. His fault for not being in the room with her, sword and shield in hand to keep that thing that lived in the mole on her neck from spreading under her skin and consuming her whole under that scratchy canary blanket.
Eddie’s inability to be there for Chrissy. How he’d ignored her silent cries for help and brought her to his trailer to score a sale, rather than getting to know and care for her. If he’d just stayed at that bench with her and kept her chatting, maybe he could have learned more about her. Maybe he could have come to know what it was she needed so desperately to escape from, what poison Vecna had found inside of her to exploit. How if he’d even just asked her favourite song to break the ice, maybe she would be sitting in her home listening to that very song at that moment, singing along with her quiet, precious voice.
“Guess it’s normal, right?” Steve mumbled, flexing his hands. “How are you gonna get better if you don’t know what’s wrong?”
Certainly.
But how do you bloom when you’re nipping the buds?
“I’m sorry it’s you. I am. I wish it wasn’t, and I wish I hadn’t told you, and—” His breath hitched, eyes going glassy, hand coming up to scrub at his nose. “I should have— It should have been m— I didn’t even go back for you. Why didn’t I go back for you? Eddie, I should’ve—”
Blood coiled and curdled in its veins, head pounding as it reached out to grab his hands. It held them tight, the words dying in Steve’s throat, eyes widening with unspoken questions. The hands were warm, even if it couldn’t feel it, it just knew it. Warm, and large, and calloused from years of baseball and battling monsters. Though illogical to a fault, it imagined licking the prints from each thick finger, and kissing the wounds, worshiping at the altar of a sinner Eddie had once sought salvation from. Instead, it wove their fingers together, and squeezed gently, hoping to coax a similar affection.
The words were appreciated, needed even, but as much as it wanted them, it wasn’t the time.
Steve’s cinnamon apple eyes melted, caramelizing under its fondness. He leaned into its space, and the spectre followed, their shoulders pressing tight against one another. Rob Halford sang softly in the back of its cotton-filled mind, crickets chirped low, the homey smell of the busted-up van fresh in its nose. In the dim light peeking in from the crack in the door, Steve looked like a warm February night. The dull ache of need drummed its ribs, pleading for the man to take mercy and bless it with the sanctity of two blushing lips against its own.
“You know you’re important to me, right?” He implored, his voice so small and childlike in its earnestness.
How could there be any question after everything they had shared in their time together? Every careful touch, every quiet laugh, every steaming heap of scrambled eggs in those first weeks together were imbued with a kind of care that Eddie would have fought to the death for. Even in the wake of their fight, it knew of that care, and it basked unabashedly in it, consuming each little fragment with equal measure of the bloody hunger of a life-long sinner, and the modest piety of a saint. The more important question was if Steve knew of the full extent of its feelings. Did the man have any idea of its devotion? Of its need to please, and revel in the kindness he showed. When he looked upon the spectre, did he see a fig tree, barren and unyielding, or a mustard seed, sturdy and in full bloom?
Once, Eddie’s insides had been coated in honey and his canvas untouched, waiting for the painter’s permission to change colour. Now it sat in Eddie’s stead, and the sticky feeling in its gut was the burnt tar of molasses, and now it was the artist, gazing watchfully at the fresh sheet as he begged to be transformed. While yes, Eddie was an artist, he’d always prioritized writing, so pen in hand, it leaned closer to the golden page, where to its surprise, Steve’s eyes grew hooded, a shuddering breath puffing shared between them. Pausing just before the consummation, it squeezed Steve’s hands again, tethering them together before the poet finally consumed the muse.
Steve’s eyes slipped closed, his chin tilting towards him, an open invitation it was more than ready to take.
“What the hell?”
The heavens opened, giving way to a great blaze. God had promised divine punishment, and they had laughed in the face of the sulfur. In the patio door, Dustin Henderson stood slack jawed with flushed cheeks and a burning stare. A frozen fist hooked underneath its navel and yanked its spine from behind it, the dog in its chest clawed its way through its marrow, the dragon spewed lava down its throat, filling it up, up, up to the bursting point and—
“You’ve been…” Dustin gawped, chest rising rapidly.
“Dustin,” Steve started frantically, leaping to his feet, blocking him from entering further. “Dustin, I can— I can explain, OK, I—?”
“No. No! f*ck you, Steve!” He screeched, shoving his way past the man. “You’ve been— You’ve—”
Spineless and weak, it watched as the boy’s eyes whipped back and forth between the two. Hysteria was cresting the horizon, his fingers curling and uncurling into fists as tears threatened to spill. It couldn’t undo what it had done, but it couldn’t move forward, it couldn’t do a thing, couldn’t lift a finger, couldn’t breathe, the angels had bestowed their righteous fury, and had rendered it a pillar of salt.
“How long?” He demanded.
Antique claws dug into glass in the China cabinet, the dogs snarling with delight at its misery.
In the silence, Steve readjusted his glasses before putting his hands on his hips, staring silently at Dustin. What could it do? Nothing it could say would stave the wrath of the boy who loved Eddie enough to enter hell. Nor could it protect Dustin from the harm they’d both had a hand in causing. It could have gone behind Steve’s back and revealed itself long ago. It could have at the very least not have disturbed the new sense of peace Dustin had made for himself in a life after Eddie, but it hadn’t, it had chosen Steve before, and it had fallen victim to selfishness. In the beginning of its half-life, it had been unsure if it had the capacity for selfishness. Now, cast in the shadow of a burning sinner’s paradise, it recognized that it was a being born of, and only capable of selfishness.
“Goddamn it, Steve, how long?” Dustin barked, breaths coming louder and louder.
“Uh…” Steve paused, his voice seeming weighed down by the forthcoming words. “Four months.”
Like a child of Cain, Dustin threw himself at Steve, hurtling them both into the lounge chair, and beat him. Sloppy, furious and inexperienced, the boy leaned into each blow, landing them wherever he could.
“Liar! Goddamn lying sack of sh*t! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” Dustin’s screams weakened as his hits slowed, but still, he wailed, and wailed, and wailed against the man he’d once thought brother. What was worse, was Steve just lay there, taking every punch, every word, every droplet of spittle without protest. He lay, barely propped up in the chair, and let the boy have his fill, even as his glasses cracked, and nose popped.
Somehow (if only by the grace of God, and the fire reshaping its insides) it broke the shackles, and launched itself to its feet, grabbing Dustin by the shoulders and pulling him off. The sudden stand left its head spinning, and pin pricks obscuring its vision, but it persisted.
“Eddie. Eddie, you can go home now,” he sniffled, pressing against its chest in an attempt to guide it out the patio door. “You don’t have to stay anymore. You can go home.”
It had ruined everything. Its time with Steve. Dustin’s life. Wayne’s life. Eddie’s life. All it knew was how to take, and have, and destroy. Why should it do any more to break the boy? Why force itself into his life? Why not hide itself away where he could never be bothered by it again? Horrid, disgusting creature it was, why should it find peace anywhere?
No. I S-T-A-Y.
“What?” Dustin frowned with a squint.
“He wants to stay,” Steve translated weakly.
“Like hell he does!” Dustin snapped, hands shaking at his sides.
The spectre clapped sharply, drawing the boy’s attention back in an instant. He was brilliant, but he didn’t know the little sign it had come to understand in its months alone; it should have remembered that. With slow movements and wide eyes, it pointed at its chest, tapping over its heart for emphasis before pointing to the ground underfoot.
“What did you do to him?” He breathed, casting one last glance to Steve, who was only just beginning to sit up.
“Dustin,” he pleaded with watery eyes, “Dustin, I never—”
“Save it,” he spat before storming back out the door.
Even before its indiscretion (sin, trespass, desecration), it was only a matter of time before they were found out. They couldn’t stay away together forever, no matter how hard it wanted (ached, yearned, needed), how hard it screamed (bayed, howled, wept), it wouldn’t matter; it hadn’t mattered. It had spat in the face of everything it had ever wanted; spurned the gift horse, torn the hand that fed it at the root and supped of the flesh. Why, why, why hadn’t it been satisfied in their aloneness? Now Steve wouldn’t even look at it, nor did it look like he was breathing, not that it could blame him. How could a man look in the eyes of he who had sentenced him to death?
“Code Red! I repeat, Code! Red!”
5:33pm
Neither said a word.
Steve paced slowly around the room on shaky limbs, sucking uneven breath after uneven breath as his face swelled. Once or twice, he doubled over and dry-heaved, but ultimately stood and returned to his aimless walking. He had refused the ice pack it had tried to offer, refused to speak to it, refused to even so much as raise his eyes from the carpet.
In the silence, it mourned the loss of their privacy, and consumed itself alive with the guilt. The dragon, though dormant, coiled in its gut, growling in threat. The dog with the prong collar snarled pitifully, its mangled tail curled up under its belly.
Everyone would know that Eddie had returned, by whatever measure. They would all know that it had been back and hadn’t bothered to reach out to any of them. They would all jump to conclusions just as Dustin had and lay the blame solely at Steve’s feet as though the spectre hadn’t been complicit in its captivity. Not that it could blame them. Who would believe a bird would choose the cage? Wasn’t it so much easier to imagine the keeper clipping its wings and forcing it inside to sing pretty songs for his amusem*nt?
It may have been foolish to imagine they could keep their secret forever, but was it so outlandish to hope the whip be brandished against it as well as Steve?
The Staffordshire dogs bayed with ceramic laughter.
6:01pm
The first wave came with screeching tires and heavy, rushed footfalls of steel-toed work boots.
In their last moments together, it looked to Steve, finding his hollow gaze fixed on the patio door. A cold, trembling thing in its chest wanted to scream at him to run, to stave off the punishment that it had so callously summoned, but it couldn’t find Eddie’s voice inside of itself. Perhaps Steve had reckoned with his demons in the silence, and come to the conclusion that if they ran, it would only be a matter of time before they were caught up with. Perhaps he’d already begged God’s forgiveness, and for the Lord to be with him when the Romans came.
Idolatry, it reminded itself as Steve let out a shaky steadying breath, was one of the worst sins.
Wayne Munson, ruddy faced and panting, stormed into the sunroom and froze at the mere sight of it. Before seeing the man in the fading light of day—before being close enough that in a few short paces they could hold one another—it hadn’t had the faintest knowledge that frost had taken home in its bones. Now that it saw Wayne and was truly seen by him—now as the man took an unsteady step towards it, his sunken eyes bloodshot and impossibly wide—it was blessed with that beautiful gift, and terrible curse of awareness. Just how long had it been frosted? How deep had it taken root in it that it had not yet noticed?
“Eddie,” he breathed, reedy voice cracking over the word.
Eddie.
The man crossed the scant distance between them slowly, as one might approach a wounded animal. Perhaps it was an animal in a sense, wounded or otherwise, but it was so tired of feeling so.
“It’s you, right?” He continued, pressing a warm palm around the curve of its jaw.
Warm.
The palm was warm, and it could feel it. The heat bloomed from the divots of those fingerprints and through every fibre of sinew in its cheek, bleeding further still into every crevice of its being. The frost cracked, giving way to the dew of new light. Wayne Munson was warm, and everywhere and everything it could have ever asked for but hadn’t known it had so dearly needed.
“Son?”
Wayne’s healing palm remained there, weighty, leathered, and undeniably warm.
It nodded. What else could it do?
The man’s lips twitched up into a horrific, sorrowful grin. The old Eddie, with his dull, imperfect eyes would have missed the nuance, but it saw everything, every miniscule flex and ounce of anguish the man had been made to endure for nearly a year. It saw the hope, the dread, the elation, the elegy all wrapped into one exquisitely tortured parcel carefully placed at its doorstep. Wayne was a tired, kicked mutt, and his hope was a bloodied bird between his teeth.
Finally, Wayne pulled it in for a hug that lasted a thousand years. Its tenderness, its desperation, rang through centuries and realities, remoulding each with its reverberations. Months ago—weeks, days, even—it would have felt like a parasite, stealing this precious moment from Wayne and Eddie both, greedily gulping down each shuddering breath and subtle squeeze meant for the bereaved and his dead boy, but that was then, and this was now, and now the dew had dissipated, and in that water, it was baptized anew. Never had the spectre felt more at home in the skin it had so selfishly stolen. Without thought, it melted into the affection, winding its arms around that slim, sturdy waist, clinging to the familiar flannel as Eddie had the night his uncle had shaved his head and taken him in for good.
Wayne. Wayne. Eddie loved Wayne.
It liked Wayne too.
When they parted, he huffed a disbelieving laugh, cupping its face in his hands again, squeezing gently. Under the affection, a spark took light in the corners of its lips, gracing them both with a small, real smile. This was Wayne. Eddie’s Wayne. Its Wayne. Even with the tickle in the back of its head reminding him of Steve’s presence, and the potential danger therein, it couldn’t help but nuzzle into those blessed palms, and lap at the salvation like a lifelong sinner.
“Let’s get you home,” he muttered, squeezing it once more.
Home.
Its home was with Wayne, wasn’t it?
In a moment of weakness, it turned its attention back to Steve, furrowing its brow, searching for any hint of something. Permission to take leave, a plead to stay holed away together, anything, really, but it was met with silence. Steve wasn’t looking at him, his eyes locked on Wayne, Wayne, who it found was staring right back. The spectre should have anticipated it, but it hadn’t, and so there was nothing it could do to stop Wayne from co*cking back and decking Steve in the mouth, sending him stumbling back into the reading chair in the corner. As Wayne reeled back for another, it darted, putting itself squarely between the two.
To its memory, Eddie had only ever seen Wayne so mad once before; the night he’d shown up on his stoop with a shaved head, and a hand-shaped bruise on the back of his neck. Violence wasn’t in Wayne’s nature, but that night for just a moment he’d become something unrecognizable, his gaze going dark and flickering to the shotgun by his favourite chair. Tonight, it knew he would cheerfully beat Steve to a pulp, chain him to a radiator and burn the Harrington home to the ground, laughing as Steve screamed for mercy. But Wayne didn’t know (how could he) that Steve wouldn’t beg for his life, he would provide the shackles and lighter fluid himself, apologizing if there wasn’t enough.
A shadow passed over Wayne’s eyes, but it couldn’t be certain of its core. Confusion, hurt, some twisted form of hatred and pity, all, or none of those, he did not know. Did it entirely matter what the crux of the look was when it was so scalding?
Wayne took it roughly by the shoulder and ushered it out the patio door. Like a dog ripped from its master, it fought to look back, fought to see Steve—a bloody thirst gnawing and tearing into its chest, demanding to know that he was OK—only for Wayne to take it by the scruff, and ensure it kept its face forward as he rushed them to the truck.
As they rounded the corner, it caught sight of Robin—all flushed under her freckles, hair cropped shorter than Eddie had ever seen it—who dropped her bike on the Harrington’s lawn as they made eye-contact. Her eyes bugged out of her skull, her lips falling open as she stared, unabashed, her body stiff as they approached her. Robin, Robin who loved Steve, and who Steve loved. The spectre tried, so valiantly tried, to tell her that he needed her. It looked pointedly back to where they’d come with a mounting panic as they drew closer to the truck. Steve was still trapped inside a place it had called home, bloodied, alone, alone, so painfully alone, and possibly sobbing, and there was nothing it could do to help. But Robin could help. Robin loved Steve, Steve loved Robin, they loved each other, she had to help him, she had to be there for him where it couldn’t.
Wayne helped it into the bench, nestling it between him and Dustin.
Still, it watched Robin.
Still, Robin watched it back.
Still, it prayed.
It prayed, and prayed, and prayed again until it forgot how, that Steve wouldn’t spend the night alone.
November 11th, 1982
Gamedays at Hawkins High were hell on earth. Desperate to numb the tedium, and drum up school spirit, classes would be cancelled for the afternoon to watch the basketball team either dominate whatever sorry saps were bussed in from some Podunk town, or get their teeth kicked in by much taller, better, fitter guys from out closer to Indy. Whatever the outcome, the bleachers were filled, and the same name echoed off the walls, King Steve, King Steve, King Steve.
And God help you if you were caught outside the gym on those most sacred of days. Let the wrath of the Lord be upon those who shirked their Tiger Responsibility of cheering for those brave boys in green and white. And the Lord said, “Prostrate yourself at the altar of basketball, and slaughter the fattest lamb in your flock, or be banished to the fire and brimstone of detention, for ever, and ever, amen.”
The disciples of the ball, while unbearable most days, became unfathomably more obnoxious in the morning leading up to those games. And God help the teachers who dared attempt the mortal sin of teaching on those most hallowed of morns. And the Lord said, “Lecture not of parabolas, and iambs, unless they be of the arch of the ball towards the laundry basket, and the poetry thou must write-eth of King Steve and his most glorious buckets.”
Screw that.
“Good one, Harrington!”
Eddie’s attention was stolen from his talk of Tolkien with Jeff towards the sea of green and white letterman jackets across the hall. As sickening as it was to admit, gameday looked goddamn good on Steve. Though he was still only just settling into his crown, he wore it with pride, his chest puffed out, and loose grin on his lips as the cheerleaders and teammates alike laughed and chatted with him. Eddie could practically see the blood vibrating in his veins and hear the gentle purrs in his chest as he preened amongst his admirers.
And the Lord said, “Lo, blessed are those who have caught the favour of King Steve, for his undivided attention is the stuff of dreams. Amen.”
“Jerk,” Jeff grumbled, leaning against the locker next to him. “Can’t believe we’re gonna have to deal with him as king.”
“Please,” he scoffed easily, patting his friend on the shoulder, “what does Harrington know about nobility? His reign will end as quick as it started.”
The gentle jeer was rewarded with a quiet laugh and eye-crinkling smile. Jeff Hewitt was proving to be a tough nut to crack (not that he could particularly blame him, that self-conscious hierarchical frame of mind came with your class schedule and locker the first day of freshman year) but the fractures were already starting to show.
“Now don’t waste any more of your precious time thinking of the likes of him,” he encouraged.
Another round of laughter sounded off behind him as he opened his locker to fetch his biology textbook. Normally he wouldn’t have bothered collecting his prop, but Wayne had already been called in that year for Eddie’s ‘behavioural issues’, and Mr. Brown was a hardass that played fast and loose with the pink slips. With a week of graveyard shifts coming up, the least he could do for his poor uncle was bring a book to class.
Unexpectedly, a small, folded-up bit of lined paper was waiting just inside his locker door. As quickly and casually as he could, he snagged it, tucked it to his chest, and perused it, delighting in the small, familiar handwriting.
Nice shirt. Nine Monday? S.
Jesus Christ. It was hard not to readjust the Holy Diver raglan he’d plucked from the top of the laundry pile that morning, but he managed.
Their first time together the night of that stupid party in Loch Nora had been awkward and terrifying in the same breath. With fumbling hands scared to hedge towards second base, and the weighty panic in the well of his gut calling for him to look over his shoulder with every other touch, expecting some basketball dickhe*ds to break into his van and smear his brains on the concrete, it had been difficult to fully appreciate and enjoy the time they’d spent. But having those pretty eyes on him, and those shaky, uncertain breaths huffing in his ear, it was hard to not think of that night with some fondness. Neither of them was very experienced, especially not Eddie, especially not in a town like theirs, packed to the gills with mouth-breathers who made watching The PTL Club a personality trait.
Their second time had been marginally better, with both of them having acquired a taste for that specific breed of danger. The spectre of ‘what if’ still sat thick in the muggy air between them, but at least Eddie knew Steve was committed to this mutually assured destruction. Once, he supposed, could be written off as drunken exploration, but twice was flirtation with (and an explicit invitation of) life-long consequences should either breathe a word of their escapades.
Now that a third encounter was being suggested, he wasn’t totally sure where they stood, but wherever it was, it was warm, and made his chest squeeze and his head go light.
Another chorus of barking laughter sounded from behind him, but he ignored it in favour of the black ink.
“Morgoth,” Jeff mumbled, pulling his flannel tighter around his middle.
He only just caught the wince between his teeth before it gave him away. Yeah, Harrington was getting a little more brazen and leaning into the dickish jock shtick, but he wasn’t evil incarnate. Desperate for attention? Yeah. Starved for praise? Absolutely. But evil? No. Never. Even if it was being slowly subsumed by the mire of high school popularity, he knew that there was some good in Steve Harrington. Anyway, he couldn’t exactly blame Jeff for the poor comparison, he’d only just gotten to reading The Silmarillion. Eddie was a lot of things, but he wasn’t about to be a jackass and correct his friend on the intricacies of Tolkien’s lore. Not yet.
With a quick, sharp breath to build up courage, he looked to the false king once more, only to find Steve’s eyes were already on him. Were this a campaign, Eddie would have said he’d rolled astronomically low, because he felt himself immediately succumb to the thrall. Looking away wasn’t an option, it was nigh impossible with that private, quiet smile ghosting across the corners of those soft lips. The tips of his ears burned Mordor-hot, a mortifying inheritance from his mom that betrayed him every chance it got. He shook his hair out as nonchalant as he could to hide his ears, only to be met with a teasing smirk, and Steve subtly mimicking him. Jerk.
Steve finally broke his gaze, pointedly looking at the note still held against Eddie’s chest and co*cked a brow. Something small and hot popped in his lungs as he offered a subtle nod in reply. A third time together couldn’t hurt, not really. At the very least, it gave him a taste of what it felt like to be wanted the way he always hid away inside of himself.
“Ar-Pharazôn,” he corrected Jeff gently, closing his locker once more.
Day 121 - March 6th, 1987
7:59pm
“He’s different,” Dustin breathed, bent over a borrowed mug.
Wayne grunted, pouring himself another cup of coffee.
The spectre curled its legs towards its chest, melting into the familiar worn couch. The smell of home was baked into its every scratchy fibre. The smell of Wayne’s alcohol-heavy aftershave, and cigarettes, and stale Airwick Magic Mushroom. The third of these was strange, in that he was the one with the taste for Magic Mushroom, where Wayne had preferred their pine Stick Ups. Warmth battered its way through its ribs, and nestled there as it closed its eyes, basking in the love steeped into the room.
“He’s…I dunno, it’s like he’s possessed, or something,” Dustin continued, blunt nails scratching idly against the side of the mug.
Did Dustin think it couldn’t hear him? The sitting area and dining table weren’t worlds apart, it wasn’t Castle Harrington. Even with the small indignant something grumbling in its chest, there was a comfort in knowing what they were saying about him. Their thoughts, their feelings, their voices, all of it mattered so dearly that it found itself grateful for the privilege of hearing them.
“Is.” Wayne stopped short, and after a settling breath, cleared his throat. “Is that a possibility?”
A possession, wasn’t that a thought? For months it had felt like a monster ambulating an otherwise uninhabited frame. Now though, as the golden light of the lamp in the corner bored into its pores, and the ghost of Wayne’s touch still wrapped itself around its shoulders and burned deep into the sinew and bone beneath his cheek, he began to question the possibility more seriously. Could it be that the ‘self’ and the body were finally coalescing into one? Was there a world in which it could live under Wayne’s roof—fill its belly with Wayne’s food, and watch Nightline from his place on Wayne’s floor—and transform itself alchemy-like into Eddie? Would that be its final act of cruelty, or a long-awaited homecoming?
It didn’t feel like a demon, but had Lucifer before he was cast out?
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
A heavy, weighted sigh followed the boy’s words, a loud gulp coming immediately after.
“So, this uh…this ‘Upside Down,’” Wayne huffed again, knuckles rapping lightly at the table, “had demon dogs, ‘n bats, ‘n people looking things, ‘n a guy who killed kids with their thoughts and it…it kept Eddie alive? Mm. Nah, that dog don’t hunt.”
Dustin cleared his throat. “That…that dog…?”
“It don’t make no sense,” he clarified.
“It doesn’t,” Dustin agreed. “But it’s never made any sense. El opened a gate with her mind, we didn’t even know about Vecna then. It’s gotten worse, and worse every year, and we only barely squeaked out alive. We almost lost Max, we lost Ed—”
Wayne grunted loud and knocked twice at the table, killing the words in his throat. How many times had he done that to Eddie growing up?
It snuggled farther into the couch, stopping just shy of burying his nose in the arm.
“But he’s back,” he amended softly.
How was Steve in all of this? When Robin stormed past the threshold into the sunroom, had she iced his lacerations and listened to his explanations, or had she spat on him and rubbed salt in the wound? If she played the part of the disappointed but unconditionally loving best friend, would Steve allow her to touch him gently and whisper words of admonishment and encouragement? Would he accept her proffered absolution, or would he turn her away, contented in reveling in the torment he’d made with his selfish, loving hands? Steve Harrington, fallible, imperfect Steve Harrington, deserved to be shriven. It could only pray from its resting place that Robin donned the chasuble and offered his last rites.
“Gage,” Dustin muttered, rearranging himself in his seat. “Mr. Clarke, he taught us about this guy, Phineas Gage. There was an accident, a pole went through his head, and he lived, but…but he changed. He was No Longer Gage. Maybe…maybe he…maybe Eddie’s—”
“Nope,” Wayne cut, sounding equal parts Abel and Cain. “No, no, that’s still my Eddie. Doesn’t matter how different he’s got, he’s still my boy.”
Gage.
Once, it would have considered itself Gage. With snow crunching under its feet, and the stench of November gripping it with cloying hands, it would have taken on the mantle readily. Not Quite Gage. Not Quite Eddie. Stuck in some limbo between living and dead, man and spectre, have and have not, it would have taken on that name in an instant, glad for some way to describe its new state of being. Now, as its cheek still held the memory of Wayne’s palm, and its insides churned at the thought of Steve Harrington alone in that empty house (shying away from Robin’s kindness or taking on her flagellation) it knew it could no longer amuse those words. Wayne was right, it wasn’t Not Quite Eddie. It may not entirely know what it was, but it knew it couldn’t be that.
“It’s getting late,” he continued pointedly, “don’t want your mama getting too worried.”
Their chairs scraped along the linoleum as they called their evening to an end. It wondered, as they made their way to the door, if it should open its eyes, or offer a kind farewell to the boy who cared so much about him. No, it decided, even thinking of facing Dustin (having to look him in the eye, and watch that hope and twinge of horror in his eye flourish at the mere sight of it) made it ill. No, instead it pressed itself even further into the couch, hoping that it could one day rot into the material so Eddie’s body and the little pink flowers could decay into one mass.
“Can I come back tomorrow?” Dustin asked from the porch.
If it fused into the couch, would Wayne run his fingers through his hair, and hum that most cherished song he’d taught Eddie to love? Would Steve steal into the trailer while Wayne was at work to lie with it and tend to the adipocere with quiet words and furtive touches?
“Give it another day,” Wayne replied. “Need some time with my boy.”
Would Wayne break bread with the refuse?
“Right,” the boy breathed, shoe scuffing at the porch.
Would Steve kiss the carrion flies?
“Sunday,” the man offered weakly.
At the very least, it prayed its remnants would smell clean, and be pretty to look at. If it was to push up daisies, the least it could do was match their scent.
“Sunday,” he returned, voice quiet and unconvinced. “And Mr. Munson?”
Wayne grunted.
“Whatever you do, don’t talk about him on the phone. They could be listening,” he warned.
“Sunday,” he mumbled one last time before closing the door on Dustin.
In the silence, it could hear prayer; Wayne’s, Dustin’s, Steve’s, its own, all keening and echoing through its marrow. They pleaded together for solace, for respite, for communion.
Wayne sighed long and gruff, scrubbing a hand down his mouth, scruff bristling against his calloused palm. In a moment of weakness, it cracked an eye open to see the man he loved. His thin back, slumped shoulders, and bowed head. If it could speak, it would call to Wayne, beg for his attention and luxuriate in it. It wanted to hear that rough voice garble a half-spoken, half-sung rendition of that country song like he had when Eddie was a child. It wanted to feel those warm hands again and tattoo their kindness into its ligaments. There was a great deal it wanted, but more than that, it wanted to be done with its selfishness, and so it closed its eyes once more, and allowed Wayne the privacy he deserved.
The man cleared his throat once, twice, and sniffled before returning to the dining table and slurped at his coffee.
9:41pm
Where others may see a humble manger, it knew the Munson trailer to be a bassinet. Though changed by the sealed gate, and patchwork job that fixed it up, was as home as it ever had been. The couch, the mugs lining the walls, the cot in the corner, Wayne bent over a pot on the stove, it was all undeniably, indisputably home.
The evening was much the same as it had been when Eddie sat in its stead. The two were curled on the couch, a terrible TV movie on the screen, silently shoveling pop and Wayne’s mac ‘n cheese down their throats. Just as Mrs. Harrington had learned the perfect ratio of crushed tomatoes, herbs, and aromatics for her sauces, Wayne knew just how much Ketchup to add to Eddie’s humble bowl of mac ‘n cheese. The dish tasted nothing like what it had been plied with the last four months, but it was just as lovingly prepared (if not arguably more so).
The only differences between those nights before the Upside Down and this particular night was how the wordlessness was charged by something unfamiliar to the trailer. It was something he recognized from his first night with Steve, and now wondered if it should become familiar with when around others as well. It was the sort of quiet born of a question and the refusal to pose it. The quiet that existed only because if the words were spoken, the difference their aftermath wrought would be undeniable, unignorable.
There was also, of course, the difference in that it sat in Eddie’s rightful place. It wasn’t quite Eddie, was it? But it couldn’t claim to be a spectre anymore either, it knew too much now. The Mountain Dew can was cold against the pads of its fingers. The macaroni was hot against the ridges on the roof of its mouth. Wayne was warm, warm, warm. Even seated with a solid foot or so between them, he was still warm. It came off him in waves, cresting its thawing shore over and over, punishing and unrepentant. The warmth was everywhere, in its nose, in the back of its throat, on the apples of its cheeks, everywhere. It would gladly let Wayne pull him out to sea to drown in that warmth.
Wayne swallowed down a burp, breaking it from its contemplation. On the television, the protagonist brandished a gun at a man with a grey windbreaker and polo shirt. Something unbidden and fizzy simmered in its heart, each beat sending the trembling bubbles through its veins. It shoveled down another spoonful with shaky hands, Ketchup catching on its upper lip as the protagonist fired.
10:04pm
At some point, watching the movie turned from a distraction to an exercise in masochism. The feeling in its veins only grew worse, the zizz turning electric, crackling and white-hot, the shakes in his hands becoming so bad it tucked them under its thighs. On the screen, the protagonist’s son—a scruffy looking kid with cropped hair—ran into his arms and clung to him with shaky fists. Maybe it was the physical proximity to Wayne (the way it could still feel that body heat sinking into its skin and wrapping around its bones), maybe it was the screeching I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, looping in its head, or the phantom hand on the back of his neck, maybe it was a myriad things that bled into one, but as Wayne took his millionth peek at it, cracks finally formed.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry, W-A-Y-N-E. I can’t be him.
Its signs were slow at first, rendered illegible with the mounting shakes, and the longer Wayne stared (brow pinched, lips pulled into a grim frown), the sloppier, the messier, the more overbearing they became.
Don’t know what I am.
I don’t know. I don’t know. I want to be your S-O-N.
Wayne blinked hard, turning completely to face him, arm resting on the back of the couch, calling it forward. “Eddie?”
I don’t know. Want to be your S-O-N. Want to be him. Please. Please want to be him.
Love me. You love him. Love me too. Please. Please. Please love me the same. Pleasepleasepleaseplease love me, pleasepleaseW-A-Y-N-E-pleasepleaseplease—
“Whoa, whoa, there, what are you saying there, Eddie?” He asked, sunken eyes flicking from its eyes to its hands and back again.
Of course he wouldn’t know, of course, how could it forget? It grabbed the Garfield notebook and accompanying pen from the coffee table, flipped to a new page and wrote slowly, focusing on each letter to obfuscate the tremors.
I’m not possessed. I’m not Eddie
Foolish, hateful boy, disgusting, vile, selfish boy. It scratched, and scratched, and scratched at the words until the pen ripped clean through to the next page before continuing its note.
I’m getting better. I will be better.
There was no choice, it had to become better. It had to learn to be better. It would learn, wouldn’t it? Couldn’t it become better? Please, God, all knowing and merciful, please let him get better.
Wayne clapped a heavy palm on its shoulder, squeezing gently. Was the gesture for its benefit or his own? Why not both?
I didn’t kill them.
“I know,” Wayne chuffed, hand coming down to cover its. “Never doubted that for a second. Don’t matter what the folks in town say, ain’t none of their opinions worth a plug nickel.”
Eddie would have laughed at that, but all it could do was ache with a nostalgia it wasn’t sure it was allowed to feel.
“Dustin. He said you were a hero. Guess I didn’t know what that meant ‘til now,” he chuckled dryly, squeezing its knuckles with what was probably all he had.
The guilt sat hot and heavy in the well of its throat, the smooth edges of it caught between its collarbones.
I didn’t mean to leave you. I’m sorry.
By God was it sorry. Would it have done anything different if it had known the outcome? Maybe not. But had it been fair to jump into the fray without one thought of what hell Wayne would be made to reckon with? Weathering a town’s hatred, never truly knowing what happened, visiting an empty grave, living in a tomb surrounded by that loss, losing the last of your family, spending the rest of his days fighting to find a balance between indulging in the fantasy of Eddie’s return, and trying to built a new life after his nephew.
“Don’t you apologize,” he warned. “What’d I tell you, hm? Don’t you ever apologize for being you. Not to me, not to your daddy, or God. Not to nobody.”
Swallowing became nearly impossible as its throat dried and sealed itself above the stone. As that leathered hand squeezed it, the stone slipped down, down, down its guts, and splashed heavy in the pit of its pelvis, where each organ latched on and coiled around it. Even with that calloused weight pinning it down, its hands shook as its blood hissed and turned to smoke that billowed up and up, filling it, threatening to leak from each pore. The first time Wayne had said that Eddie had been knee-high to a frog, and the last time he’d said it, he’d had one of Wayne’s flannels draped around his narrow shoulders, and a freshly evened-out buzzcut.
“Saw a lot of sh*t in ‘Nam,” Wayne started around a deep sniffle. It couldn’t remember the man ever talking with Eddie about his time over there, only ever complaining about men in suits not willing to dole out CO status. “But I never saw a man jump in the line of fire for someone else. But you did. You’re a hero. You saved them kids. Hell, way Dustin’s talkin’, you saved the damn world. You did that, Eddie, you did that ‘cause you’re you, and ain’t no one in this town even half as brave as that.”
Even in the darkest times (the times the wounded mutt inside of himself had gnashed its teeth, and clawed at the furniture, snarling and biting at Wayne’s arm, hoping for undeniable proof that everyone gave up on him at some point) Wayne had loved him. Not once had he turned Eddie away, muzzled him, thrown him in a crate, or even threatened him with a newspaper. No, Wayne had always been patient, kind, and kept no record of wrongs, always protecting, trusting, hoping, and persevering, nursing those wounds, feeding him, treating his mange, taking him on walks, petting him, showing him a love he thought he’d lost with his mom.
“You’re my son, Eddie,” he stressed, fat tears falling from his eyes, his bulbous nose going cherry red, “nothing’s ever gonna change that.”
Wayne. Eddie loved Wayne.
Eddie loved Wayne.
He loved Wayne too.
Loved him so, so, so unbearably much.
The pen fell from its hand, clattering to the floor as the shakes ran up its arms and into its chest. The cracking in its blood electrified him, the smoke in its gut was everywhere, choking him from the inside, filling it to the brim and then some. It was in his lungs, its muscles, its nails, its hair, its every breath, every single aborted, hiccupping breath. The smoke curled and coiled tight, tight, tight in its chest as goosebumps puckered along his arms, and pins and needles prodded at his mouth and nose.
“Whoa there, Eddie,” Wayne breathed, holding tight to its hand.
The smoke. It couldn’t see through the searing, zipping pain of smoke. It boiled under its skin, bubbling against the bone, destroying that stone and rendering its organs mush. It was so loud, so deep in its ears and throat, a groan forming and dying in its chest, pounding in time with his heart, frying its soft palate.
“Hey, hey, shhh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he promised, pulling it to his chest, holding it tight enough to break.
Then the humming started. That slow, familiar tune seared into his forehead with a warm, prickly kiss.
I’ll meet you in the morning by the bright riverside when all sorrows have drifted away.
The moan doubled as the shakes ripped down its spine. It convulsed with them, stomach clenching, bile catching in its throat.
The first time the Hawkins police telephoned Wayne Munson to tell him his brother was going to be locked up for a few months, Wayne had dropped everything and driven the seven-and-a-half hours from Iaeger to backwoods Indiana. Lungs lined with generations of coal, the man had ripped up the deep roots of the Munson clan and replanted himself in Midwestern soil, trading blackened hands for the scars and calluses born of heavy machinery and long graveyard shifts. His dad had left for a fresh start with a new pool of suckers, but Wayne had left for Eddie, all for Eddie, everything, all of it, all of Wayne, had all been for Eddie.
“Dad.”
Finally, God, finally, the noises in his chest took form. The letters slurred together, sloppy, and wet as its throat readjusted to speaking again, but the word was there, undeniable, and branded deep inside of him.
Wayne’s humming stuttered for just a moment, a breath catching under his Adam’s apple. Then the hug grew tighter still, and the song continued on.
“Dad,” it whined, the word still nearly unintelligible, “dad, dad, dad, dad, daddaddaddaddad…”
Yes, Eddie had loved Wayne like a beaten dog loved its new master, but he’d also loved Wayne in the quiet way where the word was steeped into every act of care. The chores he did when his uncle was too tired to think, the constant insistence Wayne take his goddamn room back already and let Eddie sleep on the cot, the radio he’d painstakingly carved out of a car in the junkyard to replace Wayne’s when it busted, the bills he slipped into Wayne’s wallet after a really good sale (the same bills Wayne grumbled about and shoved back in Eddie’s hands), it was all love. Though they rarely said it, it was always there, always felt, the phantom coating every inch and crevice of their lives together.
But it loved Wayne now too. It was pure, it was raw, it was a throbbing, aching wound with lacerated edges, blood, viscera, and offal. The love mauled and crushed him so completely there was nothing left for him to give. He loved Wayne how Eddie had loved him.
You’ll know me in the morning by the smile that I wear. When I meet you in the morning, in that city that’s built four square.
Maybe it was Eddie, and maybe it had been Eddie all along. Maybe it had just needed that reminder from the one person who saw and knew Eddie. There was no other explanation, was there? It wasn’t a spectre, a spectre couldn’t feel so deeply for another being, it wasn’t Gage, how could it be when he had finally started to feel like himself again, he wasn’t anything but himself, because he couldn’t be anything else, could he?
“Dad,” it—he—rattled, “daddaddaddaddaddaddad…”
“I love you too, son,” he replied through a wet, strangled laugh. “Loved you all your life, ‘n I ain’t plannin’ on stopping anytime soon.”
When I meet you in the morning, in that city that’s built four square.
Love, love, love, he loved. With each repetition of the word, more and more of the smoke cleared, more and more of his blood settled, more and more of his breaths evened out. The love was felt so deep and weighty inside of himself that he heaved and sobbed, the word tripped over itself as he fisted Wayne’s flannel and hid his face in his shoulder. He smelled so much like home, he was home. Nicotine, alcohol-heavy aftershave, and the faint scent of machinery was all home.
You’ll know me in the morning by that smile that I wear.
Wayne, he loved Wayne.
Dustin, he loved Dustin.
Wayne, Dustin, Wayne, Wayne, Wayne, Dustin, Wayne, Dustin, Steve—
Steve.
Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve who was sleeping alone for the first time in months. Steve, who lost sleep because Eddie’s voice—his voice—kept him up, telling him he was worthless. Steve, who wanted nothing more than to protect his loved ones and threw himself headfirst into the fray to take the brunt of the harm, he loved Steve.
“Breathe, Eddie, breathe,” Wayne reminded firmly, his hand stroking up and down his spine. “You gotta breathe, son. Slow ‘n deep.”
Steve, whose only sin was misplaced but earnest love, was alone again in that big house that held such dysfunctional love for him. That house that was more fit for a furniture catalogue than a family.
When I meet you in the morning in that city that’s built four square.
“Dad,” it whined, digging his blunt nails into those shoulder blades.
Wayne, ever-patient, ever-kind Wayne pressed another prickly kiss to his forehead with a quiet, “Love you, son.”
January 16th, 1982
While lunch wasn’t his favourite part of the school day (that being the moment the final bell rang), it certainly provided the most entertainment bar none. On the most boring days, he chatted with the other freaks and poked at whatever lunch he’d scrounged up for the day, but on the best days he got to blow off some steam with whatever jock decided to start something with him.
Today, though thoroughly mundane to that point, made a turn for the better as the basketball team saddled up to his table, the captain—a blond with thin lips and chiclet teeth—pulling up to the front with a haughty smirk.
“Hey Munson, how are you doing?” He asked slowly.
Unperturbed, he continued lazily ripping bits off his roll. “Finer than a frog hair split four ways. How about you?”
The cronies exchanged bemused and equally haughty glances as the captain drew himself taller.
“Well, that’s just great. Don’t know if you’ve heard, but the plague’s making its way to Indiana. Might wanna get yourself checked, freak,” he jeered, his band of merrymen chuckling to themselves.
“That’s mighty kind of you,” he dismissed, turning his attention back to his friends.
They’d spent the better part of the period debating the best albums of ’81, which somehow hadn’t turned to a blood match yet, but was well on its way to becoming one. It was obvious; Sabbath had squeaked into that spot with their near last-minute release of Mob Rules. Some of the seniors, however, were under the delusion that Def Leppard, of all groups, had dominated with High ‘n’ Dry, which was blasphemy, plain and simple. He barely noticed the way the captain’s hands clenched around his lunch tray, far too into tearing Def Leppard a new one for their focus on aesthetics over lyricism.
“Y’know, I’ve been thinking,” the captain tried again, louder now, drawing more eyes to his little show, “maybe it’d be better for everyone if you just stayed home for a bit. Wouldn’t want you giving anyone your gay cancer, freak.”
His use of the nickname, of course, incited a chorus of the word through his little cohort, and a few of the neighbouring tables. If they were so dead set on tormenting him (if that’s what they were going for) they could at least do him the service of being creative about it. Could they crack open a thesaurus, maybe? Think about the things they said before they said them? Hell, he hadn’t heard ‘hom*o’ or ‘fairy’ in a while, he’d take one of those for Pete’s sake, just anything to spice things up. But no, God forbid they put any thought into it, no, just parrot the same thing your beloved leader says, because having your own unique thought is hard and scary.
Bored, he let his eyes slip around the group as they gnashed their teeth and laughed around their oh-so-clever words. Amongst the sea of laughing faces, though, tucked close to the back of the group, was Steve Harrington, who was frowning and muttering into a junior’s ear. The guy (about six feet tall with frizzy hair and the pathetic start of a mustache) grimaced and scoffed at whatever he said before he rejoined the mindless laughter, chatting, and boos tossed Eddie’s way.
On Steve’s other side, a freckle-faced guy was jeering at him with the rest, and perked up when he realized he caught Eddie’s attention. Freckles instantly launched himself into Steve’s side and whispered something with a cruel smirk, earning him a half-hearted smack on the chest and what looked to be admonishment. The smile died on Freckle’s face, replaced with a curious grimace before he ultimately shrugged and returned to the chorus as well.
Huh.
OK.
From Eddie’s side, one of the freshmen he’d taken under his wing encouraged him to ignore them. But how could he when Steve Harrington was staring at him now, lobbing a half-wince, half-smile his way. What in the hell was that supposed to mean?
Screw it.
“Still pissed I stood you up, princess?” Eddie cooed at the captain with a theatrical pout.
The laughter died slowly, the guy’s face going scarlet in an instant, his teeth grinding, muscles tensing, jaw working. Why did they all make it so easy to get under their skin? Time and time again they did it to themselves, and he was still somehow blamed for prodding at the open wounds.
“Queer,” he shot.
“Dipsh*t,” he laughed, playing with the ends of his hair.
A loud whistle sounded off behind him. “Munson!”
Yeah.
He caught the captain’s eyes again and soaked in the slow bloom of that sh*t eating grin. It was almost funny, really, how much the guy enjoyed flaunting the get-out-of-jail-free card that came with the stupid green and white jersey. Did he really think that detention tore Eddie up inside? Did he cackle to himself thinking of just how much scarlet ink coated Eddie’s so-called permanent record? How boring it must be to be one of the star players; beloved by teachers and girls alike in his two-story house in the middle of a cul-de-sac, so certain he’d amount to jack sh*t after high school, but so dearly afraid of punishment that he flexed what miniscule small-town talent he had to keep himself out of the hot seat.
“Detention. After school,” Mr. Cobb snipped.
Obviously.
Detention with Mr. Cobb was always the same. Wipe down the chalkboard with the eraser, then with a damp cloth (a damp cloth, Munson, not a wet cloth), beat the erasers outside until a thick layer of chalk coated his lungs and stained his clothes beyond repair, then write about five pages of lines related to the infraction. In this case, I must not disrespect the faculty, my peers, and myself with inappropriate language. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. He’d done the routine so often he was shocked Cobb still bothered with him at all and didn’t just immediately send him to Higgins’ office. Whatever, that wasn’t his business.
When he was finally finished it was nearing four, and his hand was cramped to hell, which threw a major wrench in his plans to write up notes for his latest campaign, but whatever. It was only a little bit of a struggle to open his locker, but when he did, he found a crumpled-up bit of paper next to his lunch pail. Lined paper. He only ever used graph paper unless explicitly threatened by teachers, and notes weren’t typically in the repertoire of his so-called bullies (they were far more into visible humiliation). His few friends never wrote him notes, either, preferring to keep their support verbal and emotional, so it couldn’t have been any of them. Curious, he unfolded it and scoffed. The words were so small he had to squint and bring them up almost up to his nose to read them. The handwriting was neat at least, so when he could finally focus in on the letters, it wasn’t so hard to decipher.
What Les said was way out of line. I think you’re great. Steve.
Huh.
Licking his teeth, he flipped the scrap to make sure he didn’t miss anything. Nope. Nothing on the other side. He read over the little message again, and read it through once, twice, three, even four more times before grunting. What was the punchline? Whoever the author was hadn’t stuck around, the hallways were completely empty save for himself and the janitor, and there was no way in hell Mr. Buckley would pull something like that. So, the point wasn’t to rush him and laugh that he got his hopes up for an invisible ally (unless it was a long con, which he doubted anyone had the patience for).
If it wasn’t a joke, then what was it? Piecing the puzzle out would have been a lot easier if they hadn’t scribbled their name out (at least, he assumed it was their name, it was the only thing that made sense). Running his tongue over his upper lip, he leaned against the neighbouring locker and wracked his brain. Most of the student body had been in the cafeteria for the back-and-forth, and even if most of the room hadn’t heard the commotion, it wasn’t like Eddie took stock of everyone in the surrounding tables, so that didn’t help narrow things down.
Whoever wrote it had initially thought to sign it but changed their mind. Maybe it had been a last-minute snap decision, and they hadn’t had time to rewrite it before shoving it in his locker. The scrap looked like it had been hastily ripped out of a notebook and had maybe sat in a pocket or at the bottom of a bag for a while, so maybe that meant they’d debated on even bothering to deliver it. So, social status had to mean something to them, right?
The biggest clue was the S, and the fact that they’d decided to leave the initial behind at all. They wanted enough of a veil to hide behind to claim plausible deniability, but they clearly wanted him to know something about them, right? Maybe they wanted him to catch them, but keep it as a little secret between them, hidden from prying eyes.
All he could think of was a golden, square jaw and a pretty, pink blush under twin beauty marks.
Jesus Christ.
All he could think of was Steve Harrington, who’d shot him an apologetic smile, and tried to distract (maybe even express dissent to) an older player, and smacked Freckles after his presumably cruel words. Steve Harrington, who smiled at him in the hallways sometimes, and got all flustered when Eddie caught him looking at him through the bathroom mirrors, and who hadn’t been afraid to share a cigarette with him.
It was pure speculation, of course, with a dash of pathetic, hopeful thinking on his part. Any of those things he’d noticed in Steve could have just as easily been indication that the guy was so uncomfortable with the mere idea of Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson that he didn’t know what to do with himself. Anything was possible, of course, and it was stupid to assume that Harrington would want anything to do with him. The note could have been from any number of people, really. Sam the mathlete, Sandra from the Christian Fellowship Club, Shelly, or Sheila, or whatever her name was from biology class, literally anyone. It didn’t matter that he barely knew any of them by name, and that they all either sneered at or averted their gaze from him in the halls, because maybe they were just kinder on paper.
Still, the fantasy of Steve Harrington—It Thing, freshman on first string, family with more money than the Loch Nora crowd—bent over his notebook, careful to keep his words so small his chucklehead buddies on the team couldn’t pick up on that kindness, was hard to dispel. As were the butterflies in his stomach, and the excited whine that caught in his throat at the idea of Steve Harrington waiting until the hallway was completely clear to hurriedly tuck his soft words into Eddie’s locker.
More carefully than he’d care to admit, he tucked the paper into his beloved notebook and shoved it deep down in his bag, furious that he couldn’t fight the heat that bled from the tips of his ears.
Day 132 - March 17th, 1987
3:47pm
“Whatchu want for supper?”
Eddie frowned at the Indiana Gazette as he considered the question. A cheese sandwich sounded pretty good, maybe a handful of chips and a pop, too. Burger King also sounded great, but that was a solid half-hour drive, and there was no way in hell he was going to ask Wayne to waste that gas for what would be—at max—a five-dollar meal. Did they have any bologna in the fridge?
“’M not making you a bologna sandwich for your birthday, boy, pick something special,” Wayne warned before taking a loud sip from the Worlds BEEEEST Uncel!!!!! mug Eddie had decorated in third grade art class.
He huffed, earning a knowing chuckle. What else was there, really? Clearly something humble wouldn’t sit right with Wayne, but in the week-and-a-bit he’d been back in the trailer, he’d found it was the small things that meant the most to him. Besides that, Wayne had already filled him near-bursting with sausage, eggs, mill gravy, and buckwheat pancakes at breakfast, rendering lunch out of the question, so he hadn’t even thought about what he might want for dinner. As he considered his options, he nodded his chin to the ASL phrase book next to Wayne and waited for him to pull up the bookmarked page. His uncle had quickly learned to cross-reference between the alphabet chart and Eddie’s hands, but he hadn’t memorized the signs yet, so with each letter, he often mumbled and mirrored the sign.
“K…i…l…t…l…e…t…sh*t, that was a new word…Let…t…? Now, was that two Ts or—” A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he shot Eddie a fond, put-upon look. “Kilt lettuce isn’t a meal, it’s a side.”
Eddie rolled his eyes indulgently and donned a smirk to match his uncles. He signed a slow and, before continuing.
“P…e…p…p…e…r…o— You want your pepperoni rolls?” Wayne checked, voice frying in the back of his throat.
He nodded emphatically, the promise of Pillsbury crescent rolls (just a little undercooked in the middle) and maybe some cheese tucked in with the pepperoni sending a growl through his stomach. If Wayne took some of the sausage grease he’d set aside and poured it on the mixed greens, and got some Mountain Dew and a handful of chips, Eddie would be in absolute bliss.
“D’you want a Betty Crocker cake? Shoot. Shoulda thought about all this before, sorry son,” he grumbled, running a hand down his maw.
No C-A-K-E.
P-O-T-A-T-O.
C-A-N-D-Y.
Please?
Wayne snorted, fiddling with his Garfield pencil topper as he translated. “Two rolls in one meal? Alright there, Eddie, it’s your birthday.”
With another nod, Eddie turned his attention back to the newspaper, and flipped to the funny pages as Wayne mumbled his grocery list to himself. He pursed his lips to keep from letting out a breathy little laugh at the punchline in the Garfield strip. Getting a date from a wrong number seemed a silly thing in theory, but he could easily imagine Steve finding himself in that exact scenario. A shock ran through his heart at the thought of Steve (beautiful, brilliant Steve) leaned against the kitchen counter, phone in hand, successfully wooing some equally beautiful, brilliant girl who’d dialled his number by mistake. Eddie swallowed down that dry, bulky pill and snipped the strip from the page, pasting it into Wayne’s scrapbook. They were quickly running out of pages, he realized as he jotted down the date, hoping Wayne still had a sturdy stock of replacement books tucked away somewhere.
“You gonna be alright here for a bit?” Wayne asked, shrugging on one of his lighter flannels as he stopped just shy of the door. “Shouldn’t be more than a minute.”
Eddie waved him off and blew him a little kiss, earning himself a hearty eyeroll and kiss of his own before Wayne slipped out the door.
In some ways it had been easier hiding in Steve Harrington’s home than in the Munson trailer. Though he’d had to spend most of his time holed up in the gingham room (lest his parents find out he was harbouring a fugitive), it was by no means small. More than that, when Mrs. Harrington was out of the house, he’d had free rein to move about as he pleased. It was a large piece of land on a nearly empty road, so he hadn’t had to mind the windows or doors, and in poor weather and in the dead of night, he could slink out into the woods and stretch his legs under Steve’s strict supervision, of course.
The Munson home, by contrast, came with several limitations. Certainly, he could move about has he liked, and there was more space in the whole of the trailer than in Steve’s room, but the park was much smaller. If he wanted to go from his room to the living room, he had to be slow so the curtains wouldn’t flutter, he had to stay light on his feet, and he had to make sure to avoid certain angles in certain lighting so he didn’t cast a shadow. Wayne had talked about getting shutters, but it’d take a bit to save up for good ones.
Sitting at the dining table, he found he was struggling to pass the time. In the beginning, he flipped backwards through Wayne’s book of Garfield strips, trying to memorize everything he’d missed the last year. The tabby cat had never really been his thing, but how could he not love the damn thing when it was so entwined with the only person Eddie would ever fully love? Maybe he’d get a Garfield or Pooky tattoo for him, or (more realistically), maybe he’d never get a tattoo again because he’d never get to fully integrate back into polite society. He might be better off asking Wayne for a pack of Garfield stickers for Christmas.
What would Wayne want for Christmas, or his birthday, for that matter? What could Eddie give outside of the present of his presence? He couldn’t exactly stroll out the door and take a jaunty trip to Melvald’s for a pack of Camels and a Hallmark card. Hell, he’d probably never get to walk out the trailer door again. Dustin claimed he’d tell Hopper any day now, and that he’d know how to go from there (maybe he’d call on his government contacts to make a cover story), but he still hadn’t done so yet. To his knowledge, the only people in the whole world who knew he was even still alive were Wayne, Dustin, Robin, and Steve. For all he knew, they’d be the only people who would know for the rest of his life, but he wasn’t about to ruin everything by walking out the door.
Anyway, even if the government could come up with some bullsh*t story to shove down Hawkins’ (and potentially the State’s) throats about him being a victim of mob-mentality, that wouldn’t mean everyone would buy it and suddenly forgive him for his perceived transgressions. Christ, it would only egg on the conspiracy theorists, and probably end up costing both him and Wayne their sanities. In a way, he was shocked no one had tried to burn the trailer down on principle.
“Picked up a couple of strays,” Wayne interrupted, kicking the door shut behind him.
Strays?
“Before you come in, you have to promise two things, alright?” Dustin’s voice came from the porch, low and threatening. “Don’t ask any questions. And don’t tell anyone.”
Dustin?
Eddie waved for Wayne’s attention, but he was too busy preparing the rolls to notice Eddie’s confusion. Who was Dustin talking to? Who would he have brought to witness his resurrection, and more importantly, who would Wayne trust enough to agree? Robin knew, Steve knew, Nancy had to be off at college elsewhere, so maybe it was another one of the kids? Max was barely out of her wheelchair the last he’d heard, and it wouldn’t make sense to only bring Mike or Lucas, would it?
“I’m not kidding,” he warned, tone as grim as Eddie had ever heard it.
The silence that followed his words planted a healthy amount of dread in his gut, but the roots couldn’t take hold for too long, as the front door slowly swung open. Dustin entered first, wearing a gaudy windbreaker over his Hellfire shirt (a fitting outfit for an impromptu birthday party, he supposed). They were only just able to exchange a small smile before the mystery attendee came through the door.
Jeff.
He looked so different. He’d grown his hair out, the curls looking looser, bouncier. What had he called the style? Jerry-something? Jheri curl? That sounded right, didn’t it? How much begging had he been made to do for Mama Hewitt to agree to it?
Eddie hardly had any time to take in the wide eyed, slack jawed horror in Jeff’s face before he shot out of his chair and pulled his best friend in for an impossibly tight hug. He’d changed his aftershave from something overwhelming and salty to a much subtler, more woodsy smell. It was nice, Jeff was nice, and he was there, he was there, and with him, and they were together, and in that moment, that was all that mattered. His grip was stronger too, he noticed, as Jeff seemed to come into his senses, and hugged him back. They held one another for what had to be moments, years, decades, as Dustin let out a quiet huffing laugh. When the moment passed, Eddie pulled back and squeezed his upper arms, brow furrowing before he met his eyes; his wide, disbelieving, haunted eyes. The band had all had a similar musculature—they’d had to with how they all lugged their equipment around—but he was undeniably different.
“I kinda got into some sports while you were,” Jeff hesitated for a moment, grappling to find the right word, “away.”
Sports? His nose wrinkled on instinct, and he set to work spelling the word with as much derision as he could muster. Jeff watched, brows pulling together, upper lip curling back in some understandable mix of confusion and wariness. From the kitchen, Wayne slowly translated each letter, pulling Jeff’s attention for only a moment, and inspiring a quick laugh when the message was revealed.
“Yeah, uh, I started with racquetball, and it kind of spiraled…I met a guy through D&D, and his dad has a dojo near campus, so now I do karate! Sensei says I’m almost ready to test for my yellow belt!” He grinned, his eyes going crinkled and kind in the corners in a way that left Eddie aching.
He’d shed the braces, too, and was wearing what looked to be a new jacket. Jeff had always been undeniably handsome, but freshman year of college looked great on him. Without thinking, he pulled Jeff in again, holding him as tight as he could with his admittedly weakened physique.
“Sorry I didn’t get you anything,” he laughed wetly, quietly, for Eddie’s ear only. “Mama made you a cupcake and everything, and I ate it.”
As his eyes slipped closed, he found he could picture it so perfectly. Mama Hewitt in her favourite green apron surrounded by mustard yellow appliances, icing the cupcakes she’d made for a dead man accused of mass murder. Wayne had never doubted his innocence, Dustin had lost four months of his life combing through Hawkins to find him, and Mama Hewitt still had enough love in her heart for him to make some cupcakes for his birthday. His hands curled into fists, knuckles going white, hands shaking as he held on even tighter. A soft sob ripped itself from his throat, echoed quickly by Jeff. Though they’d never hugged much, Eddie had had more than his fair share from Mama Hewitt, and as Jeff braced his large palm between Eddie’s shoulder blades, he could practically feel her through him.
Eddie licked his lips as he pulled away, and turned to Wayne, signing.
“Why…You…Here?” He translated uncertainly.
The corners of Jeff’s lips twitched down; tears still perched heavy on his waterlines.
H-A-W-K-I-N-S.
“Oh,” Jeff breathed after Wayne clarified. “I wanted to be here for Wayne. And, y’know, the guys and I were gonna hang at Gareth’s…Man, the guys, how am I gonna keep this from them?”
Dustin clapped a hand on his shoulder, lips twisted into a knowing grimace. “It’s hard, but you just kinda do it.”
Jeff winced, attention snapping to the sophom*ore. “How long have—”
“Jeff,” he reminded, “no questions.”
The warning was met with a slow nod, and clenched jaw.
In the quiet, Wayne offered the ASL book to Dustin, and nodded the three off to Eddie’s room. Even with the joy of catching up with Jeff—learning about the D&D group with the DM who couldn’t hold a candle to him, about karate, about the girl he’d met through racquetball who he maybe, kind of, sort of started to flirt with within the last month—and the laughter the three shared, there still lived a stark, unignorable emptiness. Every moment he was achingly aware of the incomplete piece of the day that left his skin crawling. Like a phantom limb, he found himself reaching out to make contact, only to be bereft of the gift. Weeks ago, he had hoped, perhaps naively, that he and Steve would finally spend one of his birthdays together, but just like every other year that he’d held that hope, he was proven to still be that stupid boy, desperate and wanting, running to his locker in the futile hope of a note that would never come.
11:53pm
Since moving back in with Wayne, Eddie had taken to reading again. What else was there to do, anyway? There was no campaign to write, he couldn’t play his guitar or watch too many movies at night, Dustin could only come over once a week, and Wayne didn’t want a parade of teens coming in and out regardless, lest they arouse the suspicion of the neighbours, or worse, the government. All that was left, really, was to hunker down and read, read, read until the letters blurred together and his chest got tight.
It was strange, though, coming back to each book. Most of them had cracked spines, dog-ears and notes in the margins. Some were so faint he had to focus to make them out, others were penned in red ink and bold against the time-stained page. Many were from second-hand shops as well, most gifts from Wayne and his mom, each of them in the habit of dating and writing a little note inside the cover of each gift, which he appreciated as he tried to fully come back into himself. Each day, he read each little scribble just as raptly as he read the text itself, thirsty to reacquaint himself with who he had been before the Upside Down.
Having run out of stories, he’d moved on now to the several small stacks of poetry books he’d kept hidden under his bed. As he was growing up, Wayne had wanted to nurture his love of writing, and (at a loss for any other way to help) had picked up any poetry book with a cover that seemed to align with Eddie’s alternative tastes. Though he’d probably floundered every time he entered a Salvation Army or Value Village, pawing through stacks of romance and ye olde English paperbacks, he’d somehow always managed to strike gold. Poe, Coleridge, Whitman, Radcliffe, and more recently, Baudelaire.
Les Fleurs du Mal perched on his chest in his loose grip, the words becoming more familiar with each passing page. Yes, Wayne had forgotten to leave a light on to help him read, but the lamppost wasn’t so far away that it was impossible, just annoying. With a soft sigh, he flipped another page and was confronted by what could charitably been called a crime scene (and more accurately, a slaughterhouse). The Head of Hair was highlighted and circled multiple times over, with a small, furious STEVE violently penned underneath. Where the rest of the book to that point had softer, subtler notes (some scribbled lyrics here, an exclamation mark there, a pinch of underlining), this poem was dripping red. The final stanza wept with the crimson of Eddie’s favourite pen; the page indented with the force he’d inflicted.
For hours? Forever! Into that splendid mane
let me braid rubies, ropes of pearls to bind
you indissolubly to my desire—
you the oasis where I dream, the gourd
from which I gulp the wine of memory.
Below read Urn of Stilled Sorrows which, though just as bloody, held less rage, and more sorrow. He ran his fingers over the two brief stanzas and wondered if maybe the page had once been soaked with his tears as well, or if he’d bitten inside of his cheek until it bled, refusing to let Steve Harrington, of all people, make him cry again. The book was dated for his eighteenth birthday, so there was a high probability that he had cried as he annotated the pages, or that at the very least he’d scrubbed the tears away as violently as he could as he tore his pen through the book.
Looking over his work, one might assume that he’d hated Steve Harrington, but even in his darkest, gravest moments, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Even after he’d used him up and cast him aside their last night at Lake Jordan; even after he’d summoned Eddie after his break-up with Nancy and refused to acknowledge his blatant, bloody wanting; even after being locked away in the Harrington castle and finding a shrine shamefully erected and hidden in his name, he could never hate him. He wasn’t so sure it was in him to hate Steve, even before he grew to know him more intimately than he ever could have imagined. No matter how much anguish he’d wrought, no matter how many tears Eddie had been made to shed, so long as he lived, Steve would always be wanted.
Was that perhaps a bit pathetic? Yes, almost certainly. But that wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.
The tape whirred to another stop, the Walkman’s play button jutting out, filling the trailer once more with that midnight quiet. Dustin had chosen the perfect birthday gift, an Iron Maiden cassette released after his sudden death, and had been generous enough to bring him even more music, despite his adamant (though silent) protests. It was exciting to get to catch up with nearly a year’s worth of music, but flicking through the collection with bats, skeletons, and hell spawn on the covers, he found that he missed the bright colours, and faces mugging at the camera. Journey, Queen, Billy Idol, Springsteen, hell, even Wham! were missed, not that he could ever admit that aloud. Maybe if the weather grew bad enough one day he’d steal into Steve’s home and tape a tape or two, but for now he heaved a quiet sigh (which he delighted in knowing sounded so much more like himself than it had the last four months) and put his book aside.
A gurgle sounded off in his stomach as he shed the headphones, which was as surprising as it was annoying, considering how many rolls he’d packed away at supper. Whatever, he thought as he began to heft himself off the couch, on top of the pinwheels, Wayne had made enough cracker candy to feed an army (the memory of which had his stomach going off again).
A skittish knock sounded at the door. He froze in his half-stand, eyes trained on the unmoving door as his heart jackrabbited in his chest. Who would knock at the trailer door? No one. Wayne was at work, Dustin and the others would be asleep, Max wouldn’t be able to navigate her way to his place, and if there was an emergency, she would have radioed the others rather than amble her way down the uneven path alone in the middle of the night. From what Wayne said, the neighbours avoided their place even more since Chrissy’s murder, and a retired couple had moved in next door, so who, who, who could possibly be knocking on his door at this hour?
Another knock sounded, a little surer now, though still quiet. Something leaden stirred in Eddie’s gut as a warm, liquid terror sloshed about inside his chest. If the person on the porch peered through the window, would they be able to see his outline through the curtains? What would he do if he got caught? He was still a wanted man, but more importantly, he was a dead man. If they were found out, Wayne would be arrested for aiding and abetting a criminal, if not harbouring a fugitive. Whatever the erroneous charge would be didn’t matter, all that mattered was that Wayne would be stolen away, and it would be entirely his fault.
The stranger on the porch slipped something under the door; a small page ripped from a pocket-sized notebook. Eddie bit his lips into a firm line to keep from breathing too loudly, his attention moving to the door handle. They hadn’t attempted to jimmy it yet, and forcing their way inside didn’t seem to be their intention to that point, but if they did try it, he could do something, couldn’t he? Well, he wouldn’t be able to run and hide in his room without making noise, he couldn’t incapacitate the person, no matter how small or weak they were, and he didn’t want to regardless, but if he had to in order to keep Wayne safe, then—
Then nothing. Nothing but the sound of retreating footsteps; a half-jog down the dirt path, and farther, farther, farther away until he couldn’t hear a thing. Still his heart pounded, and sweat beaded along his hairline, thighs aching as he held his half-stand, waiting, waiting, and waiting again for the other shoe to drop. He counted a minute, then another, then a third, and fourth before he felt safe enough to move. Slowly, so slowly, he made his way to the door, ducked in a crouch to just to be safe. Even with the curtains practically nailed to the walls, he couldn’t take a risk.
With shaky breaths, and steady hands, he bent the last two inches and snatched the paper.
Happy birthday, Eddie. Steve.
The leaden thing in his stomach erupted into something softer, bigger, warmer, that caustic bile in his chest turning to honey that oozed and coated him in the most delicious, overbearingly syrupy way. There were indents elsewhere on the page, like he’d written something on a page overtop. Eddie flipped the note over and ran his fingers along the grooves hoping to divine what Steve could have possibly written. Had Mrs. Harrington written a grocery list? Had Steve penned a reminder to himself, or perhaps had he drafted a special birthday message to him only to toss it when he decided it was too intimate? Maybe he’d wanted to say I miss you, or I wish I was there with you, or please come home. Would it be so foolish as to wish something so wonderful? Could he not indulge his fantasies on his birthday?
Indulgent or not, he brought the scrap to his nose and inhaled deeply. In an instant, the honey gave way for that fuzzy, sporous moss of nostalgia. Steve’s cologne, the faintest wisps of Mrs. Harrington’s cooking, and the muted smell of Steve’s bedroom lingered in the fibres, stoking the moss, fattening it on the honey and warmth in his gut. If he focused, if he let his eyes slip shut for just a moment and indulge, indulge, indulge, he could imagine Steve worrying the page with his thumb under the dinner table, wearing away at the outermost layer of pulp, imbuing it with a frantic, tender longing. His ears went scarlet at the mere thought.
The moss spread itself to the back of his throat and deep into the pith of his bones, panging there for his attention. Satisfied, and wholly incapable of being satiated, he sauntered back to his room. As he climbed into bed, he pressed the page to his heart, the heat of the shoebox under his bed radiating through the cheap mattress, joining that sticky, fuzzy mess inside of him. The moss hummed in time with his heart as Steve’s fingerprints bloomed across every single corner of him, inside and out.
November 19th, 1981
Eddie had never been one to keep up with the popular crowd, and as far as he could see it, that would never change. Everything he knew about the comings and goings, ebbs and flows, tempests and calm of the high school hierarchy was against his will, most of it being gossiped about in detention or overheard from his hiding place under the bleachers by the track. So, when news hit that there was a freshman who had made first string of the basketball and baseball teams and was making a name for himself on the swim team, he knew of it, but wouldn’t be able to pick the kid out of the crowd.
Gun to his head, he couldn’t even be sure of the guy’s name.
Stanley, Stephen, Sean, Simon, whoever he was, he was (for the time being) inconsequential. When he grew into his letterman jacket and developed a bloodthirst for popularity at expense of the peons, then he would be Eddie’s problem. For now, he was just another drop in the bucket of loser one-time jocks who’d peak in high school and fade into middle-management-white-picket-fence obscurity. Nothing to get excited over.
What was something to be excited over was second period history with Mrs. Click. Not the lesson itself, no, that went down just as well as a spoonful of cough syrup, just without the decency of a floaty-headed high. The thing that was exciting about that chunk of time was that it was the perfect time to goof off. The perfect class to doodle in, the perfect class to catch some shut eye, and the perfect class to skip out on and hide in the bathroom by the chem room to indulge in a nicotine habit his dad had planted in his lungs from before he was born. His mother had quit after her first late period, but dear old dad had kept it up, and made up for her abstinence.
When Eddie finally became a man (at the ripe age of eight) his dad had handed him his first cigarette, and laughed as he sputtered around the acrid burn in his throat. It had been cool at the time, for his dad to let him in on the adult things his mom tried to shield him from (smoking, the odd sips of beer here and there, and even hot wiring), but now that he was on his own, and buying his own supply, he couldn’t help but feel like he was pissing money down the drain. Whatever.
“Jesus Christ,” he groused as he tried for the nth time to get the flame to catch.
Thinking on it, he’d probably had the lighter for a good four months, which was pretty damn alright, so it didn’t really owe him anything. Still, he didn’t want to have to make the trek to 7/11 to pocket a new one. Sure, the guy at the counter didn’t really keep a close eye on him—much preferring to slowly turn the dial on the radio behind the counter, but it was a solid half-hour walk from the trailer park, and it was getting colder and colder every day. Then again, when the thing threw what had to be the thousandth hissy fit (and he struggled not to huck it across the room, shattering it into a trillion pieces), he remembered that desperate times called for desperate measures.
Calm down there, Eddie, no need to get all bent outta shape.
Right, Wayne was right, he was always right. Closing his eyes, he took a deep, deep, deep breath in through his nose, held it for as long as he could, and huffed it back out through his teeth. Everything was fine, it was just a lighter, just a cigarette, just a little inconvenience, the world wasn’t ending. After another deep breath, the frustration melted out of him, replacing itself with the slowly cresting waves of tepid acceptance. As the final bits of himself were lapped up by the water, the door opened, and someone slipped into his small oasis.
Lips twitching, he let his eyes crack open again and frowned at the intruder. The first thing he noticed was the silky, soft hair that hung somewhere between Princess Diana and Robert Redford. The second thing he noticed were the moles on soft cheeks. Jesus Christ, the guy was kind of (very) beautiful, and disgustingly pretty, and absolutely his type. The third thing he noticed was the letterman jacket and Jesus Christ, indeed. Of course he was a jock, why would someone as attractive as him be anything other than a jock? Hell, he was probably the new It Thing freshman whose name was on everyone’s lips and slid in one of Eddie’s ears and out the other every time it was mentioned. Harr-something.
Harr-something smiled tightly at him and walked past to get to the sink, washing his hands slowly.
Finally, the flame caught, so as fast as he could, he brought it up to his cig, and puffed quickly until it took. Any lingering remnants of irritation went up with his smoke as he exhaled it slowly from his chapped lips. With the way his day was going—and if he could guarantee he wouldn’t get Hopper sicced on him—he probably would have dipped into his supply and smoked a jay. Then again, times were tight, and he needed every penny he could pinch together, so maybe this was for the best.
“Can I try?”
Eddie’s eyes immediately caught the freshman who was slowly drying his hands.
“I haven’t smoked Camel before, just Parliaments,” he explained as he tossed the paper towel.
Oh, so not just a jock, but a rich jock. What a joke.
Vaguely amused, but mostly annoyed at himself, he made a real show of pulling his pack from his interior jacket pocket. As he opened it, he donned the largest, snarkiest pout he could muster, and showed it off.
“Well sh*t, would he look at that?” He drawled. “My last one. If you want it that bad, it’s gonna cost you.”
“Oh. Can I just get a puff of yours?” Harr-something asked, pretty eyes wide and sweet.
What in the hell was the guy’s problem? Had his people not warned him about The Freak yet? He’d thought for sure that after the initial hazing ceremony, that beating in ‘avoid Munson unless you need to score’ would be top priority of each baby jock’s education. Didn’t he care about his social standing? Besides that, being caught talking to him, and being caught sharing a cigarette with him were two extremely different things. The first could be waved away as the lead-up to a joke, or just building up the courage to buy a dime bag. The second was an explicit invitation to be knocked all the way down the social ladder right next to Eddie (and a one-way ticket to being accused of having GRID).
If nothing else, Eddie wanted to see how far the baby jock was willing to go. Wordlessly, he handed the smoke over, watching every little breath and blink, waiting for the moment he flipped the script. Even with his insatiable curiosity (and shameful hope that this pretty boy with moles on his cheeks and square jaw was different), there was always the chance that this could turn ugly any second. Maybe he’d flush the cigarette down the drain and laugh at him, maybe he was a distraction, and the basketball team would come pouring in any second, each of them trying their hand at shoving him down the nearest toilet. Not that any of them had succeeded to that point, all attempts aborting the moment he threatened to spit on them.
It must not have been a joke, because the moment Eddie went to snatch his cigarette back and shove the guy out the door, Harr-something wrapped his lips around the butt and took a deep inhale. Any and all confusion and intrigue Eddie may have held for the guy and his blasé attitude dissolved and was replaced by smug, derisive laughter as the guy promptly hacked up a lung.
“Camels are a bit stronger than Parliaments,” he smirked, tamping down the real smile that threatened to make itself known.
“Yeah,” he huffed, massaging at his chest, “you can say that again.”
After another weak bout of coughs, Harr-something leaned over the sink and spat directly down the drain. From Eddie’s vantage point, he could only just catch the last three letters on the back of that stupid green and white varsity jacket.
Ton.
So, Harr-something-ton.
“You’re, uh, you’re Eddie Munster, right?” And goddamn, his smile was so sheepish and gentle that it threw him off guard.
“Yeah, sure,” he shrugged, unable to fight off the real laugh cracking through his pithy smirk. “My dad’s Frankenstein, my mom’s a vampire, and we all live on Mockingbird Lane.”
Harr-something-ton’s face pinched, his lips falling open a touch as a blush painted itself on the apples of his cheeks. For a moment, just one moment of weakness, something panged in his chest. Something an awful lot like want; something an awful lot like regret for his off-handed quip.
The bell trilled through the halls, followed quickly by the sound of rushing feet.
“Uh,” Harr-something-ton, started with a small smile, “I like your—”
Another outsider forced their way into his oasis, a blur of blond hair, letterman jacket, and muscles clapping the freshman’s shoulder. “Steve, buddy!”
If he’d had any doubt before, it was summarily eradicated with those two brief words. This was Steve Harr-something-ton, the freshman who made first string, the newbie who still hadn’t learned to steer clear of the queer, the pretty boy with the pretty smile, and pretty eyes, and pretty hair.
“Freak,” the intruder sneered as he made his way to the urinal.
If he’d had any doubt before, it was summarily eradicated with that one brief word. This was Steve Harr-something-ton’s future: a half-baked personality made up of one parts asshole, two parts unoriginality, and a quarter cup of holier-than-thou. Maybe they hadn’t ruffled up the soft, earnest edges of the guy’s hide just yet, but it was only a matter of time before they made a monster of him.
With a half-shrug, he finished off his cigarette, not dignifying the jock’s disdain with a response.
“C’mon, man, Leslie and I’ve got something to show you,” the senior grunted, clapping him on the shoulder again as he strode past them to the door.
Eddie wouldn’t call himself a paragon of health, but he at least had the dignity to wash his goddamn hands. Not that that was the point (it also wasn’t the point that Steve’s face screwed up in disgust at the shoulder the senior had slapped with his unwashed hand). No, the point was that he was alone with Harr-something-ton again, and the distaste was melting, making way for a pensive look that had his gut clenching. It was probably the same look Eddie sported when he got too in his head about his lyrics, but it wasn’t nearly as pretty as Steve’s.
“I like your shirt.”
Huh?
Thrown for a loop, he peeked down at himself, having forgotten what he’d thrown on that morning.
“You listen to Judas Priest?” He asked skeptically.
“What? No. Just…the design…the crown…it’s cool,” he explained with soft eyes and a wave in his direction.
Eddie blinked hard, watching carefully as Steve slowly moved to leave. The bold white letters spanning across his shoulders stood as proud as the wearer would learn to become.
HARRINGTON.
Steve Harrington.
As he stamped the butt out on the radiator behind him, Steve Harrington turned back around, his eyes quiet and curious as they stared holes through him. A heavy, hot thing formed in his guts, weighing him down, pinning him still so he could keep being seen. It was different from how everyone else stared at him. There wasn’t any hint of malice, or loathing, not even some oblique fascination, just something Eddie couldn’t quite get a handle on, but that made his blood squirm under his skin.
A rosy blush bloomed under the soft skin on high, freckled cheekbones, and spread across the apples, growing a deeper and deeper rouge until a flustered half-smile graced his slick lips. Could Steve see the twin blush burning his ears? The second bell tolled, and in a blink, Steve was gone, tripping over himself in a rush to get to class, or Leslie, or anywhere that wasn’t a stupid bathroom by chem full up with the mingling stenches of smoke, piss and cheap soap.
With a shaky exhale, and even shakier hands, Eddie pulled his final cigarette from his packet and went to light it once, twice, three times, before his lighter stopped shooting up sparks.
Jesus Christ.
Day 142 - March 27th, 1987
The door to the sunroom was unlocked again. Months ago, he’d thought it strange, though convenient for his purposes. Now, however, it stoked the ever-growing concern and indignation about a man who seemed to invite in every malicious force in the world and beyond with open arms. Steve Harrington, for all his goodness, seemed to thrive on the sad*stic thrill of worrying him.
Once inside, the smell of the Harrington home that he’d ached for these last several weeks invaded every nook and cranny it could find inside of him. Though the physical warmth was new, the emotional warmth was an old friend, the smells of ground beef, Parliaments, and a wisp of amber perfume all kind smiling faces that rolled around in his chest, fading in and out for one another, melding and mixing until it was all he could remember. Though the smell was much the same, there was an immutable difference in the air. The lounge chair was no longer a place he could curl up and watch the odd squirrel or bird wander around the patio, now it was the last place he’d seen Steve, bloody, bruised and most importantly, refusing to look at him.
It was much more than that, though. The carpet didn’t feel like it had as much give under his feet, the air tasted cleaner, like Mrs. Harrington had spent the day with the windows open, even the Staffordshire dogs were silent in their glass prison. It was as though the house had undergone an exorcism. In a sense, it had, hadn’t it?
Intuition had always been a strong suit of his, but his imagination also often ran away without him. Maybe it hadn’t changed much at all, and the only difference was within him, or maybe the place truly was nothing like it had once been, but did any of that matter? No, he decided as he ascended the familiar staircase, nothing else mattered when the white door at the end of the hall was left partly ajar. Nothing else mattered when he slipped through the door and saw Steve face-down in a crooked heap on his bed. Nothing else mattered when Steve’s clothes were so soaked, they clung to him like a second skin, and he hadn’t even had the energy to take off his runners. Nothing else mattered when Steve, Steve, beautiful Steve Harrington was drowning in his own sweat and every breath sounded like a privilege he fought to earn.
Even on his absolute worst nights, he’d never seen Steve so terrible. Had things always been this bad, and he simply hadn’t been awake to see it? Was Steve still at war with sleep? Had he slept at all in their weeks apart? Was he still contending with Eddie’s voice in his head telling him he was a monster? Was his voice that much louder, that much angrier in his head now that he didn’t have Eddie next to him with soft, silent reassurances.
A whip cracked across his chest, branding him deep down with the searing, poisonous sting of shame as he thought he would give anything to not be that voice, even if the price was Steve keeping those thoughts. At least if it were Mr. Harrington, or his nonna, or Nancy Wheeler, it would be so much easier for Steve to hear him when he said there was nothing to repent for.
As silently as he could, he closed the door behind him, watching raptly as Steve’s eyes slipped closed, quiet whimpers falling from between his pretty lips. It simply wouldn’t do. Someone like Steve Harrington shouldn’t be capable of feeling pain, let alone be left to stew in it. People like Steve (or perhaps, just Steve) deserved fineries. He deserved to sup of delicacies, and lounge, and be doted on, not be made to bear the brunt of forces far beyond his control. He deserved to be adored, and loved, and cherished, and so like the woman in the house of Simon, Eddie happily took on that dutiful role, caring for him from the bottom up, building as strong a foundation as he was capable.
Slowly, he sunk to his knees and began to remove his shoes. The sudden movement sent a jolt and pained whimper from Steve, Steve, perfect, fallible, wonderful Steve.
“Eddie?” He wheezed, struggling to look over his shoulder.
Once he laid the shoes at the foot of the bed, he rose and took better stock of him. The smallest twitch looked like agony, there was no way Steve could stand, and even less of a chance that Eddie would let him sleep in his own filth. A long, cool bath would be ideal, but with his parents sleeping just down the hall, how was he to care for him in that way without being found out? In lieu of that, he resolved himself to fetching a face cloth and whatever he could scrounge up to act as a basin.
“No, no, no, no, please,” Steve whined feebly, struggling to roll onto his side, “please don’t leave.”
Any irritation he may have felt about him having left the patio door unlocked shriveled up and decayed the moment he saw that beautiful, broken face. He’d seen Steve with black eyes and swollen nose before (three, maybe four times, if he remembered correctly) but this was the first time he’d ever been the indirect cause of it. Seeing the yellowing bruise and cut brow stirred something smoky and acidic in his gut. The stirring brewed into a tempest as he watched Steve fight to remove his shirt, his attempts cut off by him dry heaving at the effort.
I.
C-L-E-A-N.
You.
“No, Eddie, Eddie, please, please don’t leave, please stay, Eddie, Eddie, please stay, please, please, please, stay, please,” he babbled, reaching weakly for him.
In what world could he refuse that? With a small, dissatisfied twitch of his lips, he joined Steve on the bed, helping him shed the shirt, and discarding it. As he tossed it towards the hamper in the far corner, his eyes caught the little black notebook sitting primly on the dresser across the room.
“Found it after you left,” he muttered, his words still shaky through the force of his tremors. “I was gonna give it back to you on your birthday, but then I just…didn’t.”
A chemical leak sprung in the pit of his gut, slowly eating away at his stomach lining. The note he’d been left had been short, sweet, and everything, but they could have spent the night together. There were so many things they could have shared in the dark of the trailer if Steve had just been brave enough to bring the notebook, and breathe his name through the crack under the door. They could have eaten potato candy on Wayne’s old couch, or read together, or smoked in his room and lay quietly beside one another on the old, well-loved sheets, passing the cigarette back and forth, enjoying the soft of the night, and the warmth of one another’s bodies.
They could have done any number of things, but they hadn’t. Maybe in some way they had the last several months, and maybe they could again tonight. Birthdays came and went, but tonight was tonight, and he had to be grateful for that. There was always next year.
“I didn’t read it,” he breathed with stifling severity.
Of course he hadn’t that was never a question. The Steve he knew—even the Steve he’d known in high school—would never even think of doing something like that. Every iteration of Steve Harrington, from womb until present day, was kind to his core. The Steve Eddie knew was respectful and cared so deeply about other people it hurt to look at. Even in his grouchiness and impatience, he was good.
Eddie pulled his shirt off, and lay back down, offering a small, reassuring smile. Carefully, ever so carefully, he dabbed at the sweat on Steve’s brow with the material.
Who was the Steve that Steve thought Eddie knew? Who was it Steve saw when he looked in the mirror? Why was that iteration so hideous he felt compelled to clarify that he hadn’t opened Eddie’s private notebook? The time they’d spent secluded together, he’d gotten an even more intimate understanding of Steve Harrington than he ever dared to dream, and to his mind, all it had done was bring them closer together. Even when emotions were impossible to process, and Eddie didn’t even recognize himself, he always recognize Steve. Why was it he knew Steve so well when the man in question seemed a stranger to himself?
“I missed you,” Steve admitted under his breath. “I always missed you. Every time.”
There was nothing that could compare to holding that knowledge inside of himself. Though he’d known it all along—known it from the second time Steve suggested they meet at nine on Monday, and that night in his van they had very nearly kissed, and even the first anonymous letter from spring of ’82—hearing them in Steve’s voice, seeing the words take shape on Steve’s lips, was something new entirely. The leak turned sickly hot in his pelvis, crackling, and popping, filling him to the brim.
Steve missed him. Steve had always missed him.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he huffed a self-deprecating laugh. “I mean, I do, I’m selfish, but…I don’t know why I can’t just be better.”
Eddie kept his attention on his ultimately futile task, slowly wiping the trembling muscles down each time a new sheen of cold sweat replaced it. There wasn’t much that could be done, the thing was already mostly damp, and he didn’t want to risk pressing down too hard, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. That heat inside of him cooled slowly, soldering the crack from which the leak sprung, but still maintained its slow, quiet broil.
“I keep thinking I’m getting better, that…that I’m fixing myself, but then I turn around, and it’s like…I turn around and realize everything I’ve done is just bullsh*t. Different bullsh*t, but still bullsh*t.”
In what world could the Steve Harrington that lay in front of him now be capable of bullsh*t? Even in the height of his cruelty, even when he hid Eddie away like his most hated sin, and made him feel like less than nothing, he wasn’t bullsh*t. His actions, yes, himself, no. King Steve may have been a purveyor, but even he was kind at his heart; and the Steve that seized and convulsed, whimpering for him in the dark could never, for a single moment, be capable of it.
“I just…I’m sorry. For everything,” he whispered, chest heaving in stuttered breaths. “Everything.”
How was he to respond to that?
Truly, what words could he possibly string together that would capture every bit of nuance needed? How could he tell Steve succinctly, in a way that mattered that even with everything he’d put him through (the lies, the secrecy, the shame) that the apology was appreciated, but unneeded. How could he possibly tell Steve Harrington that those words were coming far too late, and that he had grown beyond the need for them?
The weeks after Steve left him at Lake Jordan, he would have pounced on the words, digging his teeth into their flesh, and feeding, making himself sick on them. A while after that, he would have turned them away even as that broken dog inside of him lapped them up. Now, after all they’d lived through, and the time he’d spent on his own before the Upside Down, and in the months following his resurrection, he’d become this new version of himself that neither craved nor abhorred the apology. How could he tell Steve he’d already forgiven him some transgressions, and had licked his wounds of the ones he couldn’t bring himself to forgive?
Steve’s eyes drifted closed, his lips twitching down in the corners as he winced. Was he accepting Eddie’s silence as rejection? With soft, coaxing fingers, he stroked Steve’s cheek, pulling his attention back, haunted eyes staring through him once more. Maybe there wasn’t anything he could do to convince Steve that he’d healed himself.
I.
W-R-O-T-E.
S-O-N-G-S.
About you.
Steve’s brows pinched together, the rouge along his cheekbones growing deeper. “Me?”
A small, dry smirk tugged at his cheeks. Was it so unreasonable or unexpected? Hadn’t he made his feelings abundantly, overbearingly clear? Even without counting the unfinished drafts, Eddie had written more songs about Steve Harrington than he’d ever care to admit. Even when they’d evolved beyond the seedling of Steve—his eyes in the dark, the sound of his laugh as it echoed down the hallway, the pang in his liver that called Steve’s name on Monday night drives back to the trailer—he was always, always, always the muse. The infuriating, wicked, blessed, lulling muse that plagued Eddie’s dreams from the moment they met. How could he not write songs about Steve Harrington?
After some consideration, he rolled off the bed and took his precious notebook from the dresser. As he joined Steve back on the bed, he flicked through pages for a draft of something to convince Steve of the depths of his affection. Finally, he landed on a very rough copy of a ballad he’d penned about being caught in the thrall of a siren’s gaze, and being petrified by Medusa’s honeyed amber stare, and laying himself bare under the watchful eyes on the cross. Eddie was a consummate professional, and performer at his core, so he signed his heart out, revelling in the fond snort he earned as his little show came to a close.
“You like my eyes that much?” He teased weakly, lips twitching into the smile Eddie had written countless poems about.
He nodded along, discarding his shirt and the notebook. Of course he loved Steve’s eyes, how could he not? They were warm earth dappled by the mid-afternoon sun. They were the fire Prometheus coveted. They were the North Star that led the shepherds. They were the idols he would be gladly sent to damnation for. As he lay back beside Steve, a twinge of something foul marred those perfect doll’s eyes.
“I…” He paused briefly, swallowing hard before the words came tumbling out, crashing into one another. “I want to be good, but I don’t think I know how to.”
A terse huff escaped him before he could catch it between his teeth. Despite his curtness, he reached in the scant space between them, and wound his pinky around Steve’s with deliberate gentleness. Steve deserved to be handled delicately because he too, was a delicate, cherished thing. Damn Mr. Harrington’s China cabinet in the dining room and everything in it, damn the jewels in the jewelry boxes, damn the antiques, damn the lovingly kept recipe box with generations of knowledge, Steve Harrington was the most precious thing in the home. How could he ever doubt his worth? How could he ever for a single moment forget that he was so much more.
To his delight, Steve melted immediately into the kindness, lashes fluttering at the contact. He watched, heart stuttering in his chest as Steve’s eyes trailed down, down, down to their joined pinkies between their chests.
“I think I’m just always gonna be this. I don’t think I can be more than this,” he admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of the words. “Just as selfish, selfish person who doesn’t…”
As he squeezed Steve’s pinky, half-punishment, half-reassurance, those pretty, slick lips fell open again.
“I dunno,” he whispered, nose wrinkling as he fought off the tears welling in his eyes. “I love you. I’m sorry, but I do.”
In the poems and books he’d read, and films and television he’d watched with his mom, the moment in the wake of such a confession was often depicted as the world pausing on its axis, or fireworks, or any number of Biblical, life-altering, explosive events. In reality, the world kept turning, there was no difference in the room or in himself that he was aware of except that the words now existed outside of Steve, and inside of him.
In reality, he could see the blood pulsing behind his eyes, and hear every brush of Steve’s skin against his sheets as he brought his free hand up to tug on his nose. In reality, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard him correctly, and couldn’t help but think that he’d imagined them in some way. Then Steve fixed him with a sad, patient little smile that told Eddie so much more than he ever could have wanted to know. Steve, loving, endlessly giving, brilliant, imperfect Steve wasn’t waiting for reciprocation, he was waiting for hatred, disgust, and rage.
Eddie blinked, his heart finally catching up with this new life in the wake of the confession. It thrummed in his chest, building up speed and power until it shattered his ribcage and rendered his insides a bloody, pulpy mess. Steve loved him. The question of how long didn’t matter so much (though that growling hunger Steve inspired long ago was howling, impatient to uncover that), for now all that mattered was that unwavering fact. Steve Harrington loved him. Loved him in spite of the months of silence, loved him despite the cruel words he’d spat about Nancy that last night together, loved him despite what it meant to love someone like Eddie Munson. How was a creature like him meant to contend with that sort of affection?
Without thinking, without breathing, without anything but that honeyed moss in his gut, and the half-lidded eyes that he’d coveted for years boring directly into his, he inched closer to Steve. Steve, for his part, didn’t shy away, nor did he move closer, he simply stayed where he was, chin tilting a fraction of an inch, inviting the inevitable. For a moment, they lay together, breathing one another’s air as they had time and time again, how he prayed they would continue to do so for time immemorial.
Steve loved him. Somehow, some way, he’d found it in himself to love him. With the bubbling, healing softness of that knowledge, Eddie closed the remaining distance and finally, tenderly captured those pretty lips in a gentle kiss.
Somehow, he tasted like everything Eddie had ever dreamed since meeting him in the bathroom of Steve’s freshman year, and he tasted like everything he’d come to love in their time together the last several months alone. He tasted like Carmex, and Mrs. Harrington’s baked ziti. Quiet December mornings, November afternoons, and February nights. Steve tasted like a thousand unspoken promises, splintered half-truths, and a future that was only just beginning to take shape. It tasted like the first kiss they were always meant to have.
Though nigh impossible, he pulled away once more. In a moment of quiet, a breath of a laugh left Steve’s lips, sailing right between Eddie’s and deep down into the heart of him. Then, oh then, he was blessed with that radiant smile he now knew beyond doubt was reserved just for him. The boyish thing that looked like Burger King at Lake Jordan, the gentle shift towards one another in an old van, and a note carefully tucked into his locker, apologizing for things beyond his control. What he would do to live and die by the light of that smile. What he wouldn’t sacrifice at the altar of that smile.
As it faded, he stole into Steve’s space once more, pressing their lips together in a chaste peck. He lingered there until it faded from kiss to connection and supped on the tannins of the fruit of knowledge, its pulp catching between his teeth, making a home in his gums.
“Steve,” he rattled, his voice still scarcely more than a spectre.
Those eyes Aquinas would pray to glut on widened slowly. The shock of the noise seemed to grow from nearly imperceptible ripples to crashing waves against a craggy cliffside. He felt those lips tremble against his, felt the soft puff of warm breath skate down his tongue and heal all the broken, jagged little edges he’d hidden away inside of himself.
“Love you too,” Eddie returned in desperate hope of resurrecting that smile.
He wasn’t disappointed.
