Archive of Our Own

1.

Eddie doesn't often talk about the time he came back from the dead. He thinks about it every day, though. Usually against his will.

The first thing that he thought when he woke up, his entire body screaming with pain and the cold damp of the Upside Down seeping into his back, was, "Huh. Just like Steve."

And then it's "what?", because he just woke up? Surely that couldn't be the case. He'd died here. He'd said his last words to Dustin, and he'd been so dramatic about them too, like he always knew he'd want to, and the poor kid had been sobbing and Eddie’s heart had broken, and then it had stopped.

It - yeah, right? His heart had stopped. He’d felt it.

God, it was really wet wherever he was. Pungent moisture soaked his hair, poked at his ear, and when he tilted his head slightly to the left, he saw that the ground around him was riddled with bat blood. Awesome. He couldn’t even remember where the things chased him to, just that they had, and he’d stopped like a fucking idiot - why didn’t he just run? What had he been trying to prove by facing them head on - that he can be impulsive? That he can be a hero? What good was being a hero when all it did was get you killed and make a kid cry?

Eddie groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. God, Dustin. He hoped that little freak got out okay. He hoped they all got out okay, the rest of them. The plan had been so scattered, and his recently-dead brain was still clouded and slow, and he had no idea how long he'd been lying here. All those people that he’s started to like so much could be dead.

He should be dead. Why isn’t he dead?

Keeping his eyes shut, he lifted his head as much as he could without adjusting his body at all, exhaling deeply with the effort. Every slight movement and twitch of muscle felt like a marathon - a constant, agonizing tingling sensation, like pins and needles but so, so much worse. Knowing that the blood and guts he could smell were his own only made the stench that much more overbearing. After a healthy amount of mental preparation - mostly consisting of him deeply frowning and muttering “C’mon, man, don’t be a loser about this,” - and another five minutes of measured breathing, Eddie managed to open his eyes.

It’s, well. About as bad as he’d expected it to be.

He’d almost laughed about it, even. Like, yeah, of course there were gaping holes in his sides and across his stomach. Of course those bats had absolutely gone to town on him, leaving him something bloody and disgusting and - is that a visible organ? He didn’t even know which one it was, but it was there, in his body, and he could see it.

How was he alive?

He blinked, his head falling back onto the wet ground, the world around him coming into more clarity with the gore-fest of his own body to shock him awake. "Well," he thought, "Steve survived."

At the time of his attack, Steve’s wounds had been pretty bad - he remembers seeing the chunks of flesh in the mouths of the bats, and flinching away when he realised he could distinguish the spots where they should go, like Steve’s torso had become the world’s most fucked up jigsaw puzzle. They’d all crowded him at the time, Nancy rushing to dress the wounds, Robin going on and on about disinfecting it all and him looking after himself for once, Eddie mostly not doing anything but hovering nearby for moral support anyway. In the present moment, however, Eddie kinda wished that they could trade places. He tried to imagine the others rushing to his side like they had to Steve, and felt something twist on his gut at the absurdity of it. Not that they would leave him here on purpose, it's just - they barely even knew him. They never got a chance to.

He twitched his fingers, trying to focus on the familiar weight of his rings instead of the air hitting his open wounds, and felt his lips twitch in a mockery of a smile. They had left him here. Probably unintentionally, bless their heroic little hearts, but here he was all the same.

Distantly, he realized he was crying - wondered if he ever really stopped, from when Dustin had held him. It pulled a dry little laugh out of him, one he didn't even want or feel, shooting fierce pains through his abdomen. Reminded him that he was still performing, even here, with no audience to gawk at him. Christ, that's depressing. It was too much to think about, really, how pathetic it all was. Eddie would very much like to stop thinking.

Then, for a lack of anything better to do, he turned his head to the right, and he saw a giant gate cutting through the ground and shooting into the middle distance.

And he thought, "Fuuuuuuck."

And he passed out.

.

2.

They're on Steve's shitty couch in his and Robin's cozy new apartment, Robin dozing in Eddie's lap, with one of Steve's shitty pop mixtapes playing, when Eddie asks, "So, why's Stevie taking up baking?"

From his position on the floor, Dustin puts down his pen and squints up at him. "Huh?"

"Keep doing your homework," Eddie tuts. He cards a hand through Robin's hair and feels her sigh against his stomach. "But it's kinda funny, right? Like, he's making us cookies right now. Greyhawk cookies. What happened here, y'know?"

If anything, Dustin looks even more confused. "Where have you been, dude?"

Robin turns her head a little and huffs a laugh into his leg, burrowing like a cat. Eddie blinks. "Wuh?"

"Steve's been baking since '85," she mumbles. Her double shift that day had really taken it out of her. Eddie runs his fingers over her scalp again, feeling dazed, and she makes a pleased little noise. "I taught him the ropes, but he surpassed me reaaallllll quick. I can only make, like, brownies."

"Two years ago? Before I even met him?"

Dustin rolled his eyes. "You knew him in school."

"What--" Eddie splutters, ignoring Dustin's idiotic statement, feeling like he's just swallowed glue. "What else does he make?"

Robin talks around a yawn. "All sorts. Uh, like, cakes and pastries and bread."

"And they're good?"

"Oh, yeah, man, holy shit. The best."

Dustin snorts. "I can't believe you didn't know that. Aren't you guys surgically attached?"

"You -- Henderson. Hen-der-son. Dustin," he grits out, reaching forward and shaking the kids shoulder with his free hand, folding himself forward. His torso pushes against Robin's head, and she pinches his side in protest, only to be ignored. Dustin huffs slightly to get Eddie's hair out of his face. "How could I have known. No one ever told me. That Steve can bake."

Dustin brushes Eddie's hands away with a scoff, and Eddie's too distracted imagining Steve in a pink frilly apron to be offended by his attitude. Holy shit, is he dead right now? "Yeah, man, of course he can. Steve can do all that girly shit. He knits, too."

From his lap, Robin says "Don't call it 'girly shit'," at the same time as Eddie says "WHAT?"

"Hey, Dustin?" Steve calls from down the hall, seemingly oblivious to the world-shattering event happening in his living room. "Help me carry these out or no one's getting any."

The sound of Steve's voice only exaggerates Eddie's incredulity. He feels his eyes bulging out wide, his foot twitching, his hand tensing in Robin's hair ("Hey, ouch, watch it--"), and most of all he can feel himself grinning like a maniac.

Predictably, Dustin pretends not to hear, simply shrugging his shoulders and keeping his eyes on Eddie instead. "Yeah, he made me a cardigan once. I never wear it outside the house because it's lame but it's, y'know, comfy. Well made."

Eddie chokes on nothing in particular.

"Oh, he made me one too! Did it have, like, a kinda flowery design? On the back?" Robin chimes in, apparently wide awake now. "I think he got the pattern from his grandma."

"No way," Dustin breathes out, sounding giddy. "Did he make one for everyone?"

Eddie grunts. "Well, I didn't get--"

"HENDERSON," Steve bellows. "Get your ass over here and help me carry these eyeball cookies! I only have two arms!"

And Steve's either a master of diversion, or he just knows Dustin too well, because this seems to immediately snap the kid back into focus. In less than a second he's on his feet, making strides towards the kitchen. "They're not eyeballs, they're beholders, how many times do I have to tell you that the big eyeball is just a part of the whole--"

The kitchen door swings shut behind him, and his voice becomes a muffled backdrop to the cacophony of noise happening between Eddie's ears.

"Hey," Robin says, reaching up to poke his cheek. She's rotated herself so that her hair is splayed out on his lap, the back of her head cushioned on his bony thighs, staring straight up at him unblinkingly. "Are you. Cool?"

This is nothing new, this level of casual physical affection between the two of them. After everything - which may be the most weighted use of the word everything that Eddie could conceptualize - they had gravitated towards each other so naturally that neither had thought to question it. Robin is weird and jittery, and probably undiagnosed with something in that goofy little brain of hers, and she's keeping a secret from almost everyone in the town. Of course he likes her. They're practically the same person.

It's especially good, right now, because the weight of her feels like the only thing stopping his soul from floating through the fucking ceiling.

At his prolonged silence, she squints. "You don't have a problem with Steve's interests, do you? It'd be pretty hypocritical, considering you're. Y’know." She does a weird little wiggling gesture with one of her hands.

Eddie scoffs, still busy processing this new information but taking the bait anyway. "Do I seem like some kinda gender roles warrior to you, Buckley? Must you think so little of me?"

"Well," she huffs, "I don't know! You just found out about Steve's housewife hobbies and you look like you're–"

She cuts herself off. Like you're dying, she nearly says, and Eddie hears it.

"Nah, I'm - yeah. Good," he says, the words tumbling out clumsily, his smile becoming less crazed and more quietly shocked. "Just processing. I really didn't know he liked all that stuff."

Robin seems grateful to brush over her mistake, nodding a little frantically. Like a kid trying to keep a secret, she scrunches up her nose and starts flapping her hands a little. "Maybe he, uh. Maybe he didn't want you to know?"

What? "What? You mean, me specifically? Why?"

"You're kinda... hard to read, sometimes? You get all uptight about his music taste and you make fun of him for talking about jock things. He probably didn't want you to think he's lame." She does a weird little approximation of a shrug against his knee. "Steve can get a little sensitive, sometimes."

Eddie blinks. "Of course I think he's lame. That’s what I like about him."

"Well, I know that, but--"

His mouth keeps moving of its own accord. "No, like, this is amazing. This is the best news I've ever heard in my life. I might love the guy."

"Huh?" Robin laughs, eyes suddenly wide, and then Dustin and Steve walk in.

Steve is, unfortunately, not wearing a pink frilly apron - it's actually a sickly shade of green, stained and faded from presumably years of use. It doesn't even have a funny slogan or logo on it. He has it double-tied around his waist, and when Eddie looks up from it he sees that Steve's hair has been all messed up from its earlier pristine state.

Eddie feels the corners of his mouth quirk up slightly more at the image of a stressed Steve in the kitchen, running his hands through his hair over and over again. Cute. Cute.

Steve's face is slightly red, and he has a plate in each hand, a couple cookies on each. Eddie tries to meet his eye, but Steve is, for some reason, stubbornly refusing to look at him - he glances, his eyes widen slightly, and he looks quickly down to Robin. Eddie feels a blush scratching up his neck, because what? Is there something on his face? A crumb? Open adoration?

Eddie grins and waves, hoping that Steve will at least see it in his peripheral, but he doesn't get a reaction, and fuck, Robin is still staring at him. It registers, then, what he'd just said to her - what he's just admitted, to her and himself - and he feels a blush spread across his face and neck like a nasty rash.

Dustin, for his part, just seems confused about why he and Steve are still lingering in the doorway holding cookies.

Clearing his throat, Steve strides forward and places the plates down on the wide table between the couch and the second-hand TV. "The little shit tried to spill them a few times, but we managed to split 'em pretty evenly between four." A pause. "After putting some aside for everyone else, obviously. Don't wanna be an asshole."

"Are they coming over?" Robin asks innocently. Eddie hears the implied "Is Nancy?", and from the looks of the wry smile he sends her, so does Steve.

"No, dearest. I would've told you if they were," he admonishes, and she just sticks her tongue out in retaliation. "But I'm seeing them tomorrow so I," he glances at Eddie again, flitting away when they make instant eye contact. "I thought I'd share."

Dustin lands heavily back in the same spot where he'd been sitting before, grabbing a cookie and devouring half of it in one bite. They really are impressive - Steve had obviously heavily consulted the official creature design (he'd seen Dustin sneaking Eddie's books to the photocopier in the library last week) and it had paid off. He's even iced red veins into the eye of every cookie, adding to the artistic value of it all. "I didn't try to spill them, by the way. Steve's just feeling dramatic today."

"Hey--!"

"He was really, really jittery about getting them out here," Dustin powers on, pinning Eddie with a pointed look before turning back to his textbooks. "For some reason."

Eddie rolls his tongue in his mouth, poking at the inside of his cheek, thinking real hard about the whole thing. What Robin said, and how anxious Steve looks right now, and how Steve has started hiding the cassettes in his car whenever he gives Eddie a ride. A small splinter of guilt pokes at his heart, and he finally manages to catch Steve's eye to grin at him, pouring in as much genuine admiration as he can.

It's amazing that Steve can bake. Baking is fucking difficult. He'd tried making pot brownies once without a strict recipe and nearly passed out.

"Aw, Harrington," he says, overshooting teasing and landing solidly in lovestruck, because that's what he is. "That's real sweet of you. I didn't even know you could do all this shit. Color me impressed."

Steve blinks back for a moment, his face slightly pink, before he splits into a grin - the kind that he does, sometimes, where his whole face creases up and he gets an actual goddamn twinkle in his eye. "Thanks, Munson," he says, happiness and good humor suddenly coming off him in waves. "You know I live for your approval."

Despite the sarcasm, Eddie feels himself go warm to his toes, and before he can say anything Steve is marching past Dustin and poking Robin in the stomach. She squirms. "Hey, Rob, you're in my spot."

Robin frowns. "What? Since when was this your–"

Steve is reaching around his back, untying the apron and leaving it in a pile on the floor. He tilts his head towards Eddie slightly, widening his eyes at her, probably thinking he's being subtle.

"Oh," Robin says, and then, "Ohhh," and suddenly she's scrambling off of Eddie's lap like he'd burnt her.

Maybe he had. Eddie's blushing so hard he feels like he's gonna explode.

Before he can prepare for it at all, Steve is maneuvering himself onto the couch, scooting so that his knees are hooked over the opposite armrest, and dumping his head in Eddie's lap with little ceremony. Eddie laughs a little hysterically, reaching up to fiddle with his hair instinctively. He pulls it over his mouth as if it could do anything to hide the embarrassing grin on his face.

"Hi," he says between weird, reedy giggles.

"Hey," Steve says back, a smile in his voice. His eyes are darting around Eddie's face like someone's gonna take it away from him, his hair messy and loose around his head. Seeing it coming out of its style like this always reminds Eddie of how long it is, and how badly he wants to run his hands through it. He doesn't, though, never does. He and Steve don't do things like that.

Eddie squints at him, letting his hair drop from his mouth. "S'there something on my face, Harrington?"

Steve hums, never changing from this look of genuine, content curiosity. "Nah. It's just your face."

"Then what's so interesting, huh?" Eddie says it like a joke, like he knows something, even though all he can feel is his heart jackrabbiting against his ribcage. He leans forward, pushing their faces slightly closer but maintaining enough distance to keep himself sane, and tilts his head. "You see something you like?"

Steve purses his lips, eyes happy, and says, "Maybe," because of course he would take the bait. Of course he couldn't let Eddie get the upper hand for even a second.

It's overwhelming, suddenly, and Eddie has to look up and away, away from Steve. His wide eyes immediately meet Dustin's, who's sitting right there, openly gawking at them. Behind him, Robin is also staring, but she's at least trying to be subtle about it. She tenses and looks away, mouthing a quick sorry as she does. Dustin, apparently, feels no such shame.

"Hey, is this," he starts, looking from Eddie to Steve and to Eddie again. "Are you guys, like–"

"Hey Steve," Robin says, a bit too loudly, because she has no tact, "do you have any black yarn? Eddie wants a cardigan."

.

1.

“Steve,” Dustin said from the doorway, his voice cutting through the beep, beep of the heart monitor. “I found it.”

Steve scrambled up in his chair.

Beside him, unconscious in bed, Eddie Musnon breathed through a tube. He didn’t react to Dustin rushing in holding his copy of The Fellowship Of The Ring, the one that had been read to him as a child, the one he’s apparently boasted about to Dustin a million times. He didn’t jump at the opportunity to gush about the detail-accurate hand drawn map on the inside of the cover, or the countless annotations that litter the pages. He didn’t make fun of Steve for asking for it, or Dustin for running himself ragged looking for it. He didn’t do anything. He just breathed.

Which is, honestly, good enough for Steve. That’s all he needs from him.

“Well,” Steve said around the rock in his throat. “Bring it over, then. Can't read it from over there, can I.”

He didn’t really know how he was gonna read it when it got to his hands, either, considering it was eleven at night, all the overhead lights were off, and they’d been forbidden from using the lamp. Apparently, it was inevitable that people would realize Eddie is here eventually, with all of the media attention on him and the fact that Hawkins only had one hospital, but they still wanted to keep it as low profile as possible. The room they’d put him in, an old unused room that they’d specifically had to fix on very short notice, was overlooking the parking lot - can’t risk a light being on, back here. Apparently. As if anyone cares about a stray light, right now, in the middle of all this.

The doctor had just left ten minutes ago, and it wasn’t someone that Steve had ever seen in Hawkins before. It was someone new, someone from out of town. Someone with government clearance and no nametag and a complete nonchalance towards supernatural bat bites. It didn’t really matter who he was - no one in the Party cared. He did his job, taking care of Eddie, and that’s all that mattered.

Dustin shut the door behind him with a soft click, as if he didn’t want to wake Eddie up, and shuffled into the room.

He hovered for a moment, glancing nervously between the chair on the other side of the bed and the one beside Steve. Steve broke the spell by gesturing to the one beside him, and Dustin immediately collapsed into it, dropping the book gently in Steve’s lap as he did.

Dustin was quiet. He’d been quiet for days.

Glancing down at the book in his hands, Steve sighed slightly, turning it around to examine the cover. The paper was cracked and ruined, the text on the spine completely unreadable. It looked loved. He wondered if it belonged to Eddie’s uncle, first, and thought he’d ask Eddie if he could.

When. When he could.

"How's Max?" Steve asks, because it’s so silent, and he feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind.

"She's OK. Alive. Lucas and Erica are with her."

“... How are you?”

Dustin didn’t say anything, for a moment. Some sniffling noises happen - the tell-tale ruffle of a sleeve rubbing at a nose, collecting tears - and Steve keeps his eyes firmly planted on the man in the bed, allowing Dustin a moment of privacy.

“He went so cold, Steve,” he said eventually, sounding younger than Steve can ever remember him sounding. “When he died. When people die, they just - they just go cold.”

Steve’s whole body feels heavy. “Did—“, he started, before choking on it. “Did he say anything to you? When he… ?”

Dustin heaves a breath.

“You don’t have to tell me, bud. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.”

“No, I. He did.” Dustin paused again, and it felt different this time - worse. The concern won out, in the end, and Steve turned to look at him.

He hated what he saw. Both of Dustin’s cheeks were wet with tears both fresh and dried, leaving tracks through the sweat and grime that he hadn’t had a chance to wash off in days, and his face was patchy and red. Some of his curls, usually so bouncy and maintained, were stubbornly stuck to his forehead, and his eyes were lifeless - wide open and devoid of any of his usual mirth. Underneath the uneven redness around his eyes and cheeks, he looked pale. Worst of all, maybe, is how he’d sat - body turned slightly away from Steve, hugging his arms and tensing his shoulders as if that could keep reality away, his knees pressed together and pointing towards Eddie. Steve felt like throwing up. Dustin was his - his something. His best friend. His brother. Steve would do anything for the kid.

There was nothing he could do about this.

“He said he didn’t run away this time,” Dustin said, “and he said he loved me.”

And Steve just - he saw red.

“Didn’t run away,” he said, surprised by his own voice, by the anger there. Pure, futile frustration about how unfair it all was. “That is such - that’s such bullshit. What was he supposed to do, stay with Chrissy and get arrested for murder? Run into the station and lock himself up? Run towards Vecna, towards the—“ He cut himself off, leaning forwards, putting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, running a hand through his hair. Dustin looked on at him, wide-eyed. “He ran towards those bats and it got him killed. He ran away from you. He should have stayed and - and protected you. Protected himself.” And the anger drained from his voice, and he felt himself deflate - felt the sadness settle in again, tight around his bones. “God. What an idiot.”

A tense moment passed in the wake of his outburst. Neither of them seemed to breathe.

“Steve, don’t,” Dustin muttered, still so quiet, “don’t be mad at him, okay? When he wakes up. He just wanted to help. He wanted to be a hero. Don’t be mad.”

It was all so unfair, and Steve - his whole body just sagged. Eddie didn’t need to be a hero. Steve had told him.

He turns back to Dustin. He tries for a smile, and doesn’t quite make the mark.

“I’m not mad. Promise. Just - get comfy, ok? Get those shoes off. There’s a blanket - somewhere,” he said, gesturing vaguely to a pile by the bed of jackets and bags and whatever else had been bought into the room when Eddie was. “I’m gonna - gonna read this stupid nerd book, and Eddie’s gonna hear me, in some back corner of his brain, and he’s gonna wake up. Any day now. Okay?”

Uncharacteristically dutiful, Dustin kicked off his shoes and curled up small on the chair. He seemed to chew on a thought for a moment, before he said, “I hope it takes a few days for him to wake up. I want all this to be over when he does, y’know? I want,” he stalls, for a moment, “I want to make that fucker pay. Like Eddie wanted.”

Steve set his mouth in a grim line.

“Tomorrow, ok?” He said, his voice soft, reaching a hand out and gently shaking Dustin’s shoulder. “Tomorrow we’ll meet the others, and - and we stick to the plan. Tonight,” and he grinned, holding The Fellowship Of The Ring up like it’s a trophy. “It’s storytime. For Eddie and you.”

Finally - finally - Dustin smiled, and it felt like a little victory. Something worth celebrating. “Sorry, which one of us has actually read this before? Which one of us is actually cultured?”

“Yeah, alright,” Steve rolled his eyes. “Ease up. Asshole.”

“I’m just sayin’,” Dustin raised his hands and his eyebrows in that shitty way of his (“It’s his tone, right?”), and he extended a leg to kick Steve in the shin. “C’mon, Steve, start reading already. Before you bore him to dea— to death.”

“Ow. Fine, jeez.”

In the end, Steve had to get up and grab a blanket himself. He picked up his chair and moved it closer to Dustin’s, draping the blanket over both of them.

And, true to his word, he started reading.

.

2.

"Steve Harrington, my good, good bisexual friend," Robin announces, because she has no tact, returning to her spot in the little circle on the floor and landing cross-legged. She holds forward a bowl of hot popcorn, which Steve immediately reaches for. "Tell me who turned you gay."

Steve deadpans at her, leaning back on his palms. "Seriously? You're gonna have to rephrase that if you want me to talk."

"It's a sleepover! We gotta gossip!" She defends, talking around some popcorn in her mouth. "I've never done boy talk before, it seems fun! Please?"

From across the room, he hears Jonathan huff a laugh, sees Argyle sway against Jonathan's shoulder, watches them lightly collapse together. From his left, he hears Nancy say, "It's a valid question."

He rolls his head to look at her. She's soft like this - cozy in some of Steve's old pajamas, her short hair clipped back, leaving her face completely unobscured. Her big, shining eyes intensely focused on him, with an amused quirk to her sharp mouth. Her nose is slightly red from the warmth of the radiator, still adjusting after coming in from the cold. Comfortable, content, curious about when Steve realized he had it in him to kiss a guy. Weird world.

Not quite having the energy for a full-body performance, Steve settles for a sharp sigh. "Et tu, Brutus?"

"I think it's 'Brute'?” She shrugs. "But yes. I'm curious, sue me."

They maintain eye contact for a moment, charged with a challenge. Nancy doesn't relent, and he's reminded - as he so often is - of why he fell head over ass in love with her, way back when. One does not experience being seen by Nancy Wheeler and come out of it unscathed.

(Bullshit, he thinks, thinks about what she saw when she saw through him, it's all bullshit, and yeah, he didn't come out unscathed at all.)

He swivels to look at Jonathan, who's too wrapped up in conversation with Argyle to even notice. Their foreheads are knocked together, and they haven't been sober since they disappeared into the garden an hour ago. Steve clears his throat. "What if I said it was Jonathan?"

Robin doesn't react, but Nancy barks a laugh, tipping her head forward. "What?"

"I'm serious!" Steve says, a smile in his voice. "Why not? You dated him! That was a whole thing!"

Nancy humms, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Alright, sure, I'll bite. When?"

"Well," Steve says, tapping at his chin and fighting back a grin. "It was pretty hot when he busted up my face like that--"

"Stop, oh my God, Steve, stop," Nancy giggles, swatting at his face. He swats back, and it becomes a game, for a minute or two, to sit and swing at each other like little kids.

Robin shuffles slightly, putting the bowl down in front of her. They're surrounded by piles of blankets and pillows, as is customary for a sleepover, and she leans back on the nearest heap. She's wearing a sports bra as a sleep shirt, and one of the straps rolls on her shoulder slightly. Steve tries not to laugh when he sees Nancy getting distracted by it.

"So, if what you say is true," says Robin, smug and smiling, "then your type in guys would be edgy, artsy outcasts you avoided in high school?"

Steve's smile dims slightly. Taking inspiration from Eleven, he tries and fails to explode Robin with his mind.

"Hey, I said 'what if' it was Jonathan," he shrugs, tapping his foot against the carpet nervously. "Didn't say it actually was. You haven't got shit on me yet, babe."

"Is that so," she says, her eyes squinting happily.

"So," Eddie chimes in, voice muffled, from the chair in the corner, and Steve nearly jumps out of his fucking skin. He'd honestly forgotten he's there. "If it wasn't him, then who was it?"

Steve studies him for a second, his heart in his ears. Eddie's curled up, his toes hooked over the edge of the cushion and his cheek pushed against his knees. His voice had been muffled because he's got a bunch of hair in each hand and is pulling them in the shape of a cross over his face, his eyes barely peeking over. He looks... small. Shy.

Thinking about the grand, theatrical dungeon master that he shows to the kids (yes, he knows what dungeon master means, Dustin) and the overblown freak he claims to be in front of the masses of Hawkins, you'd hardly think this is the same guy. There's always a performance, a grand effort to be something bigger than he is, to be something other.

Steve looks at Eddie, compact and quiet in the corner, and thinks that maybe this isn't a performance right now. Maybe Eddie is just comfortable. He'd like to think that Eddie can recharge around them, around him. It’s the least they could do for him, after all they’d let happen.

But he can't think about that too much, because Eddie is still staring at him with big, cautious eyes, and Steve still hasn't answered his question.

Robin jumps in before he can. "Was it Tommy? Did you have a baby crush on Tommy Hagan?"

"What? Fuck no!" Steve recoils, immediately snapped out of his internal ramblings. "Even when I was his friend, I still had standards."

"Was it," Nancy chews on her lip nervously, "was it Bi--"

"Oh, Jesus Christ, guys," Steve exhales, rubbing at his eyes with one hand.

"I had to ask!"

Steve just groans. "I can't believe you people hate me that much, to think I would have a crush on fucking Billy, of all the--"

"Wait," Eddie frowns, holding up a hand in a pause gesture. "Billy as in - you mean the guy from the mall fi - thing? That Billy?"

"Racist shitbag Billy that used to harass Steve and the kids, before he, uh. Yeah. Y'know the one," Robin says with a tight smile.

Eddie blinks. "What the fuck, Nance?"

"I don't know!" Nancy exclaims, leaning back and throwing her hands up in - exasperation? Surrender? Something like that. "Sorry! It was just a thought! Steve doesn't actually hang out with many guys our age, there aren't many options!"

"Ouch," Eddie mouths with a wince.

Suddenly feeling massively drained of his good humor, Steve struggles to keep his tone light. He remembers that he has work tomorrow, and wishes he was in bed. He wishes he was sitting by Eddie. He wishes he was in bed, close to Eddie. "Whatever, just - am I supposed to have an answer here? It wasn't that simple. There were a bunch of guys I liked as a kid the same way I liked girls. That's all. Did you guys seriously have, like, one singular person that awakened your gay?"

"Yes," Nancy answers a little too quickly.

"Yes," Eddie says, before slapping a hand over his mouth.

"No," Robin says, and then she swivels to look at Eddie. "Eddie?"

Eddie, who is already shaking his head, letting out a nervous laugh and getting to his feet. "Well! Lovely chat, everyone, but a guy's gotta get his beauty sleep--"

Nancy gapes. "Eddie, did... you're like me and Steve?"

"Nope. Like Robin. Uh," Eddie squeaks out, before clamming up again. "Muh. But, like, the other way around, obviously. Uhh. Yeah." The more he speaks, the more the persona comes out, and after a second he does a silly little bonk against his temple with the heel of his hand. "Never had a woman penetrate the fortress that is my mind."

There's a beat of silence where no one says anything, and Eddie mutters, "Poor choice of words."

Robin has her lips sucked in, glancing between Eddie, Nancy and Steve like she's waiting for a bomb to go off, as if this is something she's seen coming from a mile away but still hasn't prepared for.

Steve thinks he's forgotten what breathing looks, sounds, or feels like. He'd - well, he'd had his suspicions, obviously. Eddie has always had this energy about him - the kind you only get if you're hyperaware of what is expected of you at all times, like you're constantly watching your step and planning the next move, which is an inherently gay thing to have, as sad as it sounds. Robin has it in spades. He has it, at times. Nancy too.

He also loves to gush about the individual members of the bands he fixates on, and has never mentioned liking a girl the entire time they've known him, and used to be called things much worse than 'The Freak' when he and Steve were in school together. It feels obvious, when you think about it.

But he'd never let himself really consider it because, well - Steve is bisexual. Steve likes guys. Loves them, even. They're great, big thumbs up, got his seal of approval and all. He's had countless gay crushes, the same as he's had countless crushes on girls, but it's always been different because they've never been a option. He'd wait for Hell to freeze over before chancing asking a guy out in Hawkins.

(He can’t get into it, really, how he came to this conclusion. As much as he enjoys the easy, casual approach, saying yeah, I’m bisexual, yeah I’m queer, it’s not big deal - it was a big deal, once. It had been hours spent sitting in his big empty house crying, thinking about himself as a kid, about how he constantly edited and ignored himself, because he had been a kid and he wanted his friends to like him and he didn’t want his dad to hate him. It had been surviving Starcourt Mall and finding a new job with the platonic love of his life and, barely a week in, closing up early without permission because he needed to tell her and he hadn’t wanted any customers to walk in on her holding onto him like her life depended on it.

She had told him it was ok, then. That if he liked a guy, he could go for it. That if he could push her to talk to this girl from band, she could do the same for him, and it’s not sick or wrong, and he could be happy with whatever guy or girl he wanted. He hadn’t believed her, then, but she’d given him all the time he needed, and he does now.

Not in Hawkins, though. Never in Hawkins.)

But while Hell hasn't frozen over - the Upside Down has, in a way. And now there's Eddie. Eddie, who is gay. Eddie, who Steve thinks about all the time. Who Steve wants to see every day, and take care of, and buy gifts for, and all that cheesy stuff he’s always been a sucker for. Who will do the weirdest shit imaginable and still somehow look kissable doing it.

It's hard not to get his hopes up.

He collects himself, though, because Eddie just came out, and this isn't the time. "Wait, so - are we all queer in some kinda way?"

"We're straight," Argyle calls from across the room.

"No we're not, dude," Jonathan says. They're holding hands.

"Oh. We're not," Argyle replies with a pleased smile, like he's just been given great news indeed. To Steve, he says, "Nevermind."

Robin laughs nervously at the exchange, still looking spooked. She leans forward and gently tugs at Eddie's leg - not forcing, not even really asking, just saying it's OK, you don't have to leave, you're OK. Instantly, Eddie almost collapses, stumbling forward and joining the circle on the floor in a pile of limbs that eventually arranges itself into a normal cross-legged position. Throughout it all, Robin's hand somehow manages to stay on his knee, and it rests there while Eddie bounces it nervously - not holding him still, just holding him for the sake of it. Steve feels a bloom of fondness for the two of them somewhere deep on his chest. "I can't believe you told everyone by accident, while sober, on a random," she pauses for a moment, as if to remember what day it is, "Tuesday, for no reason at all. How are you guys coming out so easily? We had to be drugged."

Eddie twirls his hands a bit, going to grab for his hair again before stopping himself. "Just, ah. Following the flow of the conversation, I guess. And I wanted to tell everyone anyway, y'know? Ever since," he stutters to a stop, glancing up and meeting Steve's eye, knowing Steve would be staring and openly calling him out on it. "Ever since Steve did."

Steve feels his heart do a weird little double-step, and before he knows it, a grin is breaking out across his face - all cheese, big enough to pull on his cheeks, a slight joyous strain. He's been out to the group at large, instead of just Robin, for a few weeks now, and was starting to feel a little weird about it, so the admission is… comforting. Heartwarming. He suddenly feels responsible for a good thing in Eddie's life, which, yeah, is pretty fucking great. "That's awesome, man. Thanks for telling us."

"Yeah, Eddie, thank you for trusting us," Nancy adds, smiling with her cute little dimples. "It really means a lot."

Always one to fall for Nancy's charms, as they all are, Eddie grins back. His eyes look even shinier than usual, all dark and pretty. "Hey, no problem, Wheeler. Not like you guys would have a leg to stand on if you gave me shit for it, you know?"

With the other two distracted (other four? Jonathan and Argyle are basically on another planet right now), Robin makes a hissing noise to get Steve's attention. He flinches when she unfurls a leg and kicks at him, careful to avoid the bowl between them. He raises his brows curiously.

"Man?" she silently mouths, squinting at him. There's a judgemental curl to her mouth, and without having to say a word, she's saying: You're really calling him 'man' right now?

Steve frowns right back. I always call him that. What's the big deal?

Robin widens her eyes, jutting her chin forward and shooting a few frantic glances Eddie's way. You have a chance now, dipshit! Where's your charm?

Steve scowls and throws a popcorn kernel at her face. She catches it in her mouth, lightning fast. He's almost impressed.

Mid-chew, Robin goes still, struck by a thought - and then her face morphs into a wide, sinister grin, and she's swallowing and turning her attention back to Eddie. Steve doesn't know what she's planning, but he feels the urge to stop her anyway, widening his eyes and making an abort abort motion with his hands. It goes unnoticed. "Hey, Eds," she says, cutting short whatever conversation had been starting between him and Nancy. "Who was it for you, then?"

Eddie tilts his head curiously, a small habit of his that always makes Steve feel a little bit crazy. "Who was what the huh, now?"

"Y’know," she says, waving her hand around again, confidently this time. "Your gay awakening."

This time, Eddie freezes - and it's uncanny to see a guy who's usually so animated go completely still. Not a single muscle in his body moves for a very long, very tense moment. In the same way that he hadn't been expecting to tell everyone, he obviously hadn't thought through the implications of how he told them, and being faced with the consequences seems to shut him down completely.

Steve can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing his options, turning the question around in his mind, and the complete panic is admittedly making Steve curious, too.

Something ugly crawls through his chest, a creeping sense of irrational jealousy weaving between his lungs and around his windpipe. Who could have so much of an effect on Eddie, he wonders, that he would make a face like that?

And then, he looks up at Steve again. Catches his eye. Holds him there.

"No one," he says, not looking away for even a moment, watching Steve's every twitch and microexpression. "Just some dipshit from high school. Probably didn't even know I existed."

His eyes are giant and pretty and arresting. Steve is pinned - suddenly, he feels transparent, and he realizes that Eddie is seeing him, but unlike that night with Nancy, Steve can see him back. Eddie is laying him out on the table for examination, and then he's climbing up and lying down right beside him. They’re in a room of all their closest friends, and this is a conversation between everyone, but Steve is suddenly blown away by the complete assurance that Eddie's words are for him. Every single one of them.

He sucks some air in through his teeth. Because, well.

Isn't that something?

Two days later, Robin snaps.

"OK, yeah, but," Steve says for the tenth time this shift, chewing on his lip, leaning on the counter and holding his own elbows protectively. "That doesn't mean he's still into me, y'know? Like, I don't want to assume--"

"Oh my GOD, Steven, the man literally came back from the dead, he probably won’t be traumatized by something like this," she exclaims, slamming three copies of Re-Animator down on the shelf with a degree of rage he didn't know she was capable of. Her now-free hands gesture towards him wildly over the word 'this'. "Just ask him out already. What have you become?"

He's offended for all of five seconds, before he hangs his head with a pout. Because, yeah, fair enough.

All things considered, this is pretty trivial.

.

1.

The next time Eddie woke up, he was in a hospital bed, and there was someone trying to break the door down.

Or at least it sounded like it - several someones, actually, making a cacophony of noise reminiscent of the bats trying to get into the trailer, and he realized after a moment that they were screaming, too. Vitriolic streams of curses and words of God snaked through the room, bouncing against the pale blue walls and between his ears. It was hard to focus, and he was barely conscious again, but he could make out "cultist," and "serial killer," and "give that bed to someone who deserves it," and oh, he was back in Hawkins.

Someone had found him, he was back in Hawkins, and he was, inexplicably, still alive.

In his peripheral vision, he saw a heart monitor, beeping steadily but being drowned out by the - everything else. Beside it, his clothes that he wore to the Upside Down were clean and folded, piled up on a chair that looked really uncomfortable. Without the fresh blood and the thick layer of supernatural ick, the damage to them had become all the more obvious - his Hellfire shirt had giant rips and tears through the sides, and his jacket was ruined with stains and holes. Which wasn't the end of the world, exactly, but it kinda felt like it. It also registered that his clothes being there meant that he was wearing something else, and he jutted his chin against his chest to look at his chest blearily - and yup, hospital gown. A little hysterically, he wished they made those things in black. To protect his image, or something.

The blanket was tucked under his armpits and across his chest, leaving everything from there downwards covered, and fuck was he glad for that. Now that he'd been laying there for a minute or two, he could tell that he was completely off his head on painkillers, the kind of thing they used to give his Mom when she was in pain, so he couldn't really tell what state he was in anymore - and he didn't want to know, after the last time he'd checked. He hoped that, since there were seemingly no doctors around, that meant they'd managed to put him back together, at least. Stuff it all inside again.

He looked to his other side, squinting against the bright sunlight pouring through the curtains, and while there weren't any doctors around, he realized he wasn't alone at all. In two of those shitty chairs at his bedside sat his Uncle, dozing with his head thrown back like a sitcom Dad, and Dustin, leaning forward on Eddie's bed with his head cushioned on his arms. His hand was resting on Eddie's leg, so lightly, as if he was just making sure Eddie was still there.

Fuck, Eddie felt like crying again.

Running away from the sting behind his eyes, he turned to look at the door again, hearing that the banging had stopped and a distinctly male and familiar voice had cut through the rest of the noise, sounding so close that he must have his whole back pressed against the doorway.

"What is wrong with you people? This is a hospital!" Steve bellowed, sounding angrier than Eddie had ever heard him and also so, so tired. "Let the guy rest!"

"Why? He killed all those people," one man's voice retaliated - from the sound of it, it could've been the guy who works the counter at Woolco, which would suck, because Eddie had always kinda liked him. Thought he had kind eyes. "He killed Jason!"

"Eddie was miles away from that house," Steve seethed, somehow getting even louder, "and Jason fell into a fucking crator!"

Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, an unbidden smile pulling on his lips, fighting back a small giggle. Because he was alive and safe, and Steve Harrington was trying to reason with a mob for him, and he was so tired, and it was all really funny, actually. Genuinely hilarious stuff. His life was a goddamn comedy.

"Alright, that’s enough," a new voice interjected - one Eddie had never heard before, cold and uncaring and seeping with authority. He would assume that maybe it was someone Steve knew - some extra member of their secret monster club, maybe a friend of Jim Hopper - except for the complete disinterest in his tone, and the way Steve immediately fell silent. "This area is off limits to the general public. You, tell me how you got past security. Quickly."

Eddie inhaled through his teeth. Police? Military? Shadowy government men in black suits?

Something is said that got too muffled by the wall for Eddie to make it out, and then a woman says, "You're not from our station. Where's your uniform? Do you even have a badge?"

"My identity is none of your concern, ma'am," the man replied, still sounding so bored, like he had a million conversations like this every day of his life. "And if all of you don't return to the lobby, there will be consequences."

Ah. Shadowy government men, it is.

The back and forth continued for a few minutes, but Eddie's brain had started wandering elsewhere. Honestly, now that Steve wasn't talking anymore, Eddie didn't really care to decipher it all. None of the voices out there were as nice as Steve's.

He felt Dustin stirring slightly at his side and panicked, turning away and trying to relax his face. He wasn't ready to talk yet. He wasn't ready to know how he got here, or why, or what happened with that giant gate he saw. Steve was right about one thing - about most things - because right now, Eddie just wanted to rest.

Dustin's breathing evened out again, and Eddie focused on matching his pace, willing himself to slip away again, to pretend that everything was alright and normal. To believe that everything was over, and he had all the time in the world to just sleep.

He doesn’t know how long he spent lying there, his eyes closed, trying to calm down the storms of confusion between his ears. But he remembers the door clicking open, moments before he slipped under, and the light padding footsteps that approached the bed, and the big, warm hand that slipped into his own.

.

2.

So maybe worrying about things like crushes and dating and whether or not Eddie would like his goddamn baking was a bit trivial. Maybe after Dustin had begged El to do something, to save Eddie like she had saved Max, and El had nodded and lay in a tub and convulsed and screamed, and Steve and Dustin went to retrieve his body in the middle of the chaos to find that Eddie was breathing, he was back - maybe this was kinda stupid.

Maybe it should fill Steve with some kind of 'live every day like your last' urgency. But it doesn't. If anything, it just makes him want to preserve the peace.

Peace, right now, means Eddie curled up on Steve's bed reading a music magazine Steve picked up for him on the way home, while Steve sits cross-legged next to him and tries to budget out his paycheck for the month.

"This just keeps getting worse," Eddie says, his voice an almost-shrill whine. He rolls over and nudges Steve's hip with his temple. Steve ignores him. "Why did you think I'd like this?"

Steve shrugs. God, is that really all he can spend on groceries this week? Maybe he can convince Robin to split some meals. "I dunno, dude," he says out of the corner of his mouth, chewing on his pen lid. "It's music, isn't it?"

Eddie grins and crinkles up his nose, as if Steve just made a joke. "George Michael's on the cover."

Steve spares him a glance for the sake of glaring down at him. "Faith is a really good album, y'know. You should give it a chance."

Still smiling up at him, dopey and honest, Eddie rolls his eyes. "Oh, sure, because I've never heard it before. You've only listened to it every day since it came out."

He feels like maybe he should be insulted - the words themselves are sarcastic - but the way Eddie says them makes them sound almost complimentary. Like Eddie likes being bombarded with music that he hates, because Steve likes it, and he likes Steve. Maybe. Probably?

Steve's still puzzling that one out.

"Besides," Steve says with a sigh, pushing past the restless buzzing in his chest. He puts his notebook and calculator down, tucking the pen behind his ear, because it was stupid of him in the first place to think he'd get anything done with Eddie here. "You can always go out and, y'know, buy your own shit? Instead of coming over and expecting me to have bought something for you to entertain yourself with?"

Steve licks his finger and uses it to rub some ink off his palm. When he turns to look down at Eddie, he's watching Steve with so much fond amusement it's almost upsetting.

“I’m always right, though. You do," Eddie asks, so warm. "Every time."

God. God.

The situation, right now, is as follows: Eddie has been at Robin and Steve's apartment for two days now, and this is normal. He's lying on Steve's bed, after taking a nap there, wearing a pair of Steve's old basketball shorts and a t-shirt with an orc on it, with his head pressed against Steve's hip and his bony legs hooked over the side. This is also normal. He's giving Steve his undivided attention, staring at him with giant, unblinking dark eyes.

He does this all the time. It's almost painful how abnormal Steve feels about it.

The situation, in general, is that Steve is pretty much in love with the guy, probably. And Eddie probably at least still likes him, from what he can tell, but Eddie is also just generally like this with people he's comfortable being himself around, so there's not much for Steve to base anything on.

Cold hands and colder rings reach up his shirt, suddenly, cupping around his hips and rubbing at them gently. Steve yelps.

"Sorry, Stevie," Eddie breathes out, the words hitting Steve's now partially-exposed stomach. His eyes are trained on it, fully focused in a way that makes Steve want to fidget. "Just looking at something."

Steve just gapes down at him.

Every slight movement of Eddie's hands feels massive - projected onto the big screen of Steve's mind, flickering like he's back at that shitty old drive-through that he went to on his first date when he was thirteen. His fingers splay out across a cluster of small scars, many tiny bite marks, and Eddie's muttering to himself as they do. At one point, he curls his fingers, and his slightly-long painted nails scratch a little at Steve's hip.

They don't do this. This is Eddie-and-Robin levels of physical affection, where they could fall asleep spooning and not feel a single hint of awkwardness about it. It's different with Steve - they're affectionate, yes, but heads in laps and hugs and shoulder bumps aren't this. They aren't gentle caresses under his shirt. They aren't Eddie's breath ghosting over healed scar tissue. This isn't them.

After a moment of this - Eddie, looking, touching, and Steve, melting into an embarrassed puddle - Eddie jerks upwards, abruptly breaking the weird tension (that he didn't even seem aware of) and tumbling off of the bed. He lands on the floor in a pile of limbs with a solid thump. Steve's too baffled to be concerned, and even if he wasn't, this is pretty par for the course for Eddie. It'd be weirder if he went ten minutes without doing something physical and dramatic.

"You good in there?" Robin calls from the room adjacent.

Steve snorts, and he sees Eddie crack a smile against the carpet, breaking character for a moment. "Yeah, Eddie just died."

There's a beat of silence on Robin's end, and then: "Again?"

And Eddie starts cackling.

He shoots to his feet, hopping up to tap the ceiling with two fingers as he does, Steve's shorts twisted slightly around his hips from all the movement. Steve wants to reach out and fix them for him. Kinda wants to, like - crawl inside Eddie's body and live there, or something. Jesus Christ.

Before Steve can open his mouth and embarrass himself, Eddie's turning towards his wardrobe. "You got a jacket I can borrow? A cardigan, or something? It's fucking freezing in here."

Steve grumbles, remembering the notebook and his paycheck and bills. "Yeah, take whatever," he says, but Eddie's already got the doors open and is rummaging around like he owns the place.

He scoffs. "Of course you own a letterman. Denim, denim, deni - dude, how do you own more denim jackets than me? Oh, holy shit, wait–" He cuts himself off with a deep gasp, grasping at a hanger and twirling on his heel. He seems unperturbed by the fact that Steve was already smiling at him. "Steve. Stevie. Did you make this?"

Steve blinks, shifts his focus to the hanger in Eddie's hand, and ah.

It's a sweater - the first one Steve made, actually, all uneven and lumpy, clearly the work of an amateur. It's gray, with pink sleeves that were meant to be straight and narrow but ended up being bell-shaped through a convoluted comedy of errors. It's a women's size, but oversized in a way that was meant to look intentional - he'd made it for Nancy.

Last year, before and during Vecna and the narrowly avoided downfall of Hawkins, he had thought he could actually give it to her one day. It'd be part of a grand speech about how she made him better, how his feelings never went away for years, how he had all these grand dreams for the two of them with no consideration for what she wanted. Thinking about it now just makes him want to - to explode, or something, because he'd been so delusional. The fact that he had, in the end, said some of that to her face and expected it to go anywhere… he's surprised she's even still his friend.

He supposes he still could give her the sweater, but it feels wrong, now - she wouldn't know what it means, what his original intentions were, but he would. That thing holds too much meaning for him to ever even take it out of his closet. He'd made it with feelings that he doesn't have anymore, and feelings he's not even really sure he actually had at the time.

Not to mention it's ugly. Like, really poorly made. You could puke on it and probably make it look better.

But now Eddie's holding it up to his own chest, looking at it like it's a goddamn masterpiece, and Steve realizes that it would probably fit him.

"Yeah," he says around the lump in his throat, waving his hand dismissively. It seems like a wise decision to omit the whole convoluted 'I was creepily hung up on my ex' backstory. "That was my first one. You can keep it, if you want."

He doesn't know why he says that instead of just letting him borrow it, but it's worth it for the way Eddie instantly lights up. "You're giving me this?"

Steve feels himself blushing, which is mortifying. "Yeah, sure, knock yourself out," he says, as if it's not a big deal. He thinks Eddie can probably see right through him.

He's apparently too excited to call Steve out on it, though, because he instantly reaches for the hem of his t-shirt and starts to tug.

Steve makes - makes a noise, he's not sure what kind, but a noise. "Can't you put it on over the shirt?"

"Nah," Eddie says, shooting him an incredulous grin, which is rude in ways that Steve doesn't know how to articulate. He notices that Eddie's teeth are slightly crooked and wishes he could take a closer look, and then gets the intense urge to put his own brain in a blender. Eddie keeps talking, because he has no way of knowing how much of a freak Steve's being right now. "This is too small, dude. If I keep the shirt on under, it'll strangle me. Why'd you make it so small?"

"Made it for Nance," he says without thinking, because Eddie is suddenly shirtless and that's a lot for Steve's brain to contend with. Then he sees how Eddie tenses and he pales, because he literally just decided to leave that part out. "Uh, a few years ago. Before… y’know, a lot of things happened. Never gave it to her," he swallows, grinning a little helplessly, "obviously."

Eddie just stands there, shirt in one hand and sweater in the other, furrowing his brow at Steve like he's some kind of profound puzzle. "And you want me to have it… ?"

Instantly, Steve is thinking yes, of course Eddie should have it. Who else?

He doesn't say it, though, because his eyes are wandering down to Eddie's stomach. Logically, he knew that there would be scars there - it's just that Steve has always expected them to look worse than his. He had been relatively fine after his attack, walking around with that improvised bandage and getting on with it all as if it never happened, but Eddie had died, been mysteriously revived, and then gone into a week-long coma. Surely his had been worse.

But no. Turns out, they'd healed the same.

Eddie's scars are littered across his hips and belly like hatching marks - many smaller wounds coming together to indicate larger ones, the outcome of many little teeth going back in over and over again. There's one part that's unfamiliar to Steve - a particularly large scar to the left of his bellybutton where the flesh is sunken, which Steve knows is where some of his innards had been almost ripped out of his body, and is the reason he took so long to recover. Is the reason that he had died, if only temporarily.

(They still don't know for sure what Eleven had done to bring him back. When she'd emerged from that tub, exhausted and bleeding and so young, there had been bigger fish to fry - Vecna at their front door, demodogs and bats and gorgons flooding into sleepy Hawkins, dozens dead and countless injured. There just hadn't been time to go into it.

And when there had been time, when everything had settled and they'd retrieved Eddie's unconscious and mutilated - but still breathing - body, she didn't have the words. Eddie woke up from his coma and El had arrived to meet him face-to-face for the first time, and he had cracked some dumbass joke about meeting Superman, and El's face had just crumbled.

"Your mind," she'd said against his ear, crushing him in a hug, close enough that maybe only Dustin and Steve heard it where they stood directly beside the bed. "I saw it."

Eddie tensed against her, his hands going still on her back, but she kept going anyway. "You don't deserve any of that," she said, voice getting harder, so much conviction and empathy in her voice that Steve wondered how anyone could ever hurt her. "You never did. Not a monster. You're good."

Eddie had cried, then. Sobbed into her shoulder, being cradled by this girl he'd never met before, muttering "thank you," and "I'm sorry," over and over again.

Steve wished that he could've leant in, hugged Eddie himself, soothed his hair down and told him he didn't have anything to apologize for.

But that hadn't been Steve's place. Maybe it still isn't, but that's alright. He's just glad that Eddie's alive.)

Eddie just stands there, watching Steve watch him. "... Stevie? You, uh," he hedges, a small, nervous smile playing on his lips. "You still with me, man?"

Steve minutely opens and closes his mouth a few times, his throat closing up. When he finally gets a word out, he says, "We match."

Eddie's eyes go round, and he looks down at himself. "Oh," he says, sounding a lot calmer all of a sudden. Happy, even. "Yeah, that's what I was thinking a second ago. Gnarly, right?"

He can't help it - Steve laughs. "Gnarly? Us getting our guts ripped out is cool to you?"

"Well, yeah, could've done without that part," Eddie says, moving forward and sitting on the bed next to him, dropping his whole weight down at once. Steve bounces with the mattress, fighting to keep his eyes on Eddie's face. Eddie's face, which is suddenly a lot closer than before. "But having matching scars is pretty fuckin' metal, in my opinion."

Steve nods. "Ozzy," he says dumbly.

Eddie's eyes crinkle with mirth. "Very." He drops the shirt down on the floor and starts pulling the sweater over his head, and Steve melts when he notices him trying not to pull on it too harshly. "We're bonded now, Mr Hero. Same scars, same trauma, same shitty little kid. You couldn't get rid of me if you tried."

Steve scoffs, pushing in Eddie's shoulder lightly. "Whatever, man. As if I would."

With how their conversations usually go, that should be it - a bit of teasing, and then back to normal - so Steve tries to reach for his notebook again, but Eddie is in the way and he just isn't moving.

"Dude, c'mon, move it–"

"You really wouldn't?"

Steve blinks. "What?"

Eddie's eyes, trained on Steve's own, are round and searching, the way they always are, like Eddie can’t afford to take anything at face value. He leans forward even further, until their noses are almost touching. That stupid sweater is still hanging around his neck. "You like me that much, Harrington?"

And Eddie will do this, sometimes - flip the mood on a dime, completely changing the course of the conversation, leaving Steve confused and stumbling. There’s something fundamentally different about the way their minds work - Steve with his order and Eddie with his chaos. Steve wants to understand him so badly it aches.

Heat crawls up Steve's neck, scratching at his cheeks. "What? Yeah, I," he tries, clearing his throat. "Of course I like you, Eds. What's gotten into you?"

Eddie glances between Steve's eyes, just breathing at him for a second, and he doesn't stop. He stays, suspended, looking for something that Steve doesn't know how to give him. The undivided attention is making Steve feel too big for his skin, like something is wrong and he needs to fix it, so he reaches for the sweater and yanks it down over Eddie's chest.

Eddie splutters, reeling back and adjusting the material so it's less awkwardly taut. Steve stands up and moves across the room with no real destination in mind. When he finally gets a word out, his voice sounds scratchy and uneven.

"Your decency, dude."

.

1.

Eddie was lying in the lumpy white bed, the blanket kicked back, one knee in the air, examining his own hand like a nail technician. He was sticking his tongue out slightly, jutting it into his bottom lip, deeply focused. Not that Steve was paying attention.

Steve was reading his magazine.

Eddie fiddled with a lock of hair that kept falling in his face, huffed, and shoved it back. When it fell down again, he made a little grumbling noise and reached for a hair tie that was sitting on his bedside table. Gathered his hair up at the back of his head, holding the band between his lips. Took the band and looped it around his hair, making the world’s messiest ponytail, while looking up and meeting Steve's eye through his lashes. Smiled, happy and tired and warm.

Steve wasn't looking, though. Like he’d said - magazine. It was one he’d never heard of before, but had maybe seen his Mom holding once, or maybe a stranger in a waiting room - a random entertainment mag, open on a random page, talking about some random actress that he’s never bothered to learn the name of. Her face seemed familiar, and she seemed like Robin’s type, and he wished she was there so they could discuss that. Alone, he was just looking at this photo of a hot woman he would never meet wearing a revealing dress, and it felt kinda pathetic. He’d considered involving Eddie, but the idea was so embarrassing he felt the shame in his bones. Besides, she didn’t really seem like Eddie’s type.

The thought snagged uncomfortably in Steve’s brain. The woman in the photo had shiny brown hair, long and styled perfectly, and was smiling with a full set of blindingly white teeth. Eddie’s type was probably, like, rocker chicks with piercings and buzzcuts. The kind of girl that wouldn’t be caught dead in Hawkins.

Steve furrowed his brow, glaring down at the photo as if this woman was to blame for putting that thought in his head. He really, really doesn’t wanna think about Eddie’s type. At all.

"Did they leave my rings on the whole time?”

Steve glanced up at him. “Huh?”

“My rings,” Eddie replied with an easy smile. They’d let him change out of the hospital gown and back into his tattered - but washed - jeans. He’s shirtless, but only by strict definition - almost none of his chest is visible under the gauze and bandages holding him together. Steve wasn’t looking. Eddie held up the back of his hand and wiggled his decorated fingers goofily. “They're still on my hand. Never took ‘em off, never put ‘em back on. But they don’t leave your jewelry on when they slice you open, do they?”

Like he did most of the time when talking to Eddie, Steve blinked, feeling like he should be laughing and not knowing why. “They don’t. I put them back on for you.”

“You - put my rings back on?” Eddie's face was slightly pink - not dirty, not pale or sickly anymore. Pink and embarrassed.

“Yeah?” Steve tosses the magazine onto the floor beside him carelessly. It landed open on a spread about Bowie in Labyrinth, and Steve wished he could set it on fire. “You love those things, man. I thought you’d miss them, if you woke up and they were gone.”

"Oh," Eddie croaked out. Steve settled back in his chair, crossing his arms, and Eddie's blush got a little deeper at the attention. He fumbled with his words for a second, before: "Dustin said you read to me."

Steve nods. "A bit."

"Well." Eddie shifted forwards, resting his chin on his palm, wincing only slightly at how the movement pulled on his wounds. It was useless to scold him for it - Eddie had never sat still once in his life. "Did you like it?"

"Like what?"

"Fellowship."

"Uh," and Steve realized it was his turn to flush, this time out of shame. "I don't really - remember a lot of it. I was a bit distracted with… with everything." He grasped for something - an event, a character name, anything. "I liked the thing with the ring. It was cool."

Eddie snorted, grinned, and broke out into a full laugh all independently of each other. "You're so fucking dumb, man. Do you even remember who Frodo is?"

He did not. "I remember the wizard."

And Eddie just kept laughing.

"It's alright, Stevie. I'll explain it all to you sometime. The Lord Of The Rings lecture is standard procedure for being my friend, anyway."

Feeling something large and warm curl up and settle in his chest at the statement, Steve shot Eddie a bewildered smile. "'Stevie'? That's new."

"Nah, it's not." Eddie closed his eyes, leaning back on the bedframe and tilting his head back. Steve watched his throat move. "New to you, maybe. Been calling you all sorts of things in my head for ages."

Steve swallowed. Once again, he wished that Robin was here. "All good things, I hope."

"Oh, Stevie," Eddie grinned, his whole face creasing around it, his eyes still squeezed shut. "The best."

.

2.

And then it's a month later, and Robin, Eddie and Steve are sat in the middle of Eddie's trailer, and Eddie is being asked to give Steve a stick'n'poke.

Eddie having his own trailer, courtesy of the shadowy men dedicated to keeping his dimension-hopping mouth shut, has done more good for him than he could've ever predicted. For one, he doesn't have to sneak around his Uncle to do his business anymore - and thank fuck for that, because how else is he gonna make money in a town that would rather hunt him for sport than pay him minimum wage - and for two, he doesn't have to worry about who he brings over, or when he brings them, or why. So when he gets a call from Steve at 2am, saying he's with Robin and asking if he gave himself the tattoos on his legs, Eddie's inviting the two of them over in a heartbeat.

He's not convinced on inking anyone yet, though. He'd just leapt at the offer of the company.

"I dunno, dude," he says, eyeing Steve cautiously. "You seemed pretty out of it when you called. Don't wanna do this if you're gonna regret it tomorrow. Do you even know what design you want?"

He doesn't know what he's trying to achieve, saying all this. Maybe he's just trying to save face. Anyone who knows anything about Eddie Munson - new, improved, almost-1988 Eddie Munson - knows that he can't really say no to Steve. Not when those big, droopy eyes are focused solely on him. Fucking puppy-dog eyes if Eddie's ever seen any.

Steve furrows his brow at him, and it's a struggle not to cave right then and there. "I mean - yeah, I'm a bit high, but I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure about it. And duh, I know what I want. Go it sketched out and everything."

He unfurls a piece of paper from his pocket and holds it out like a kid presenting something to be put on the fridge. Eddie takes it.

And giggles. It's the most rudimentary sketch of a skull that he's ever seen in his life.

"Oooookay, so, I see the vision," he says, even though he does not, "but this isn't much for me to go on."

Steve gapes at him, leaning backwards slightly, as if his incredulity needs room to breathe. "What more do you need?"

"I mean - just a skull, Stevie? You don't want something more unique?"

Steve flushes, the same way he always does when Eddie calls him that. From the floor beside him, Robin says, "Hey, don't you have a skull? On your knee?"

Turning to her with a dramatic flair, Eddie puts a hand to his chest, aghast. "My skull is a work of art, thank you very much. I commissioned that design and everything. It has drama. It has flair. Besides, what do my tats have to do with anything?"

Robin sways slightly. "Yeah, sure, man. Whatever you said."

Eddie points at her and turns back to Steve. "How high is she?"

"A lot more than me," Steve shrugs.

Eddie heaves a sigh. "Alright-y, Buckley, let's get you to bed," he sing-songs, leaning down to pick her up under her pits like a cat.

She honest-to-God whines, but is apparently too tired to fight him at all. He gets her to her feet and starts dragging her into his adjacent bedroom. "But I wanna see the tattoooooo."

"You can see it tomorrow," Eddie gripes, grunting with the effort of dragging someone almost equal to his body weight and dropping her unceremoniously on his unmade bed. He shoots a glance back through the doorway at Steve, who stays put, just watching them. Eddie pokes at the inside of his cheek with his tongue and mutters, "If he even gets one."

“What was that?” Steve calls.

“Nothin’, sweetheart!” Eddie responds, as Robin slurs, “Don’t eavesdrop,” and rolls to push her face into the mattress.

Eddie hovers, wondering what the appropriate level of concern would be.

“‘M not actually that high,” she sighs, voice muffled by the sheet. “Just tired. It’s so late.”

“Yeah.”

Without looking, Robin raises a hand in the air and makes a c’mere gesture. Eddie kneels by the bed, putting their faces close, and Robin turns slightly to meet him.

“Don’t give him a tattoo,” she whispers, a furrow of genuine concern to her brow. “I don’t think he really wants one.”

“Not planning on it, honestly.”

She shakes her head slightly, looking at Eddie with something like love, something like sympathy. “I think he just wanted an excuse to come over.”

Eddie swallows, whispers with her. It comes out more like a hiss. “He doesn’t need an excuse.”

“He doesn’t know that,” Robin says with a roll of her eyes, but the effect is undercut by the yawn that chases it. “We've been over this, you need to tell Steve these things. He’s sensitive.”

For a moment, Eddie just stares at her, watching her eyes lose focus and her cheek squish against the spring in the mattress that he always complains about. Robin Buckley, his best friend, the complete authority on all things Steve. She keeps giving him this advice, all these little tips, nudges to tell him, just get it over with, and he just - he can’t take them.

Steve is far from unattainable. He had been, back in school - back when Eddie would watch him dribble a ball across the cafeteria and flirt with girls at mandatory pep rallies - but that’s a million miles away. Now, he’s the most attainable boy Eddie’s ever had feelings for by far. Beyond him not being straight, which had rocked Eddie’s whole worldview when he’d learned, he’s also just a very significant presence in Eddie’s life; they see each other more days than they don’t, Eddie has clothes in Steve’s drawers, Steve has his favorite cereal in Eddie’s cupboard. At all times, Steve’s less than an arm’s reach away. The problem is that he’s too close, now, for Eddie to do anything.

It’s pathetic, probably, to fall for your best friend - one of your best friends, and ain’t it novel that Eddie has more than one - and to keep it a secret. Not very metal of him, as Steve would say, because he can't stop overusing that word these days. But it's not like there's anything Eddie can do about it.

So that’s how it is. He can’t explain, Robin wouldn't listen if he tried, Steve is left alone to ignore Eddie’s feelings - they do this song and dance once a week.

(Eddie’s convinced Steve at least suspects that Eddie still has feelings for him. He has to. It’d make no sense for him to have missed it.)

(This is another thing that Robin refuses to understand.)

Eddie reaches forward and tucks a lock of hair behind Robin’s ear. “Get some sleep, freak.”

Snorting a laugh, Robin bats his hand away lazily, obviously already on the edge of unconsciousness. “Sure thing, dyke,” she murmurs happily.

Her eyes are closed, and he stays, watching her until her breathing evens out and she starts letting out these ugly little snores. He feels the burn of Steve’s eyes on his back the whole time.

Eddie slaps his knees slightly and lifts to his full height, letting a bodily sigh escape him - time to face the music.

Swaying back into the main room of the trailer, legs-first and loose and adding an extra swish to his hair for good measure, Eddie narrows his eyes at Steve, who has repositioned himself onto the couch. “You didn’t listen to any of that, did you?”

“What? No,” Steve says quickly, alarmed. He’s kicked his shoes off next to Robin’s and is sat with his whole body on the cushion, back against the armrest, knees up to his chest and his hands fiddling with the rubix cube Eddie had left on the table. It’s unfairly cute. “Dude, she told me not to. I’m not breaking her trust like that.”

The way that he says it is so earnest, the same way that Steve says everything, and Eddie huffs a laugh as he moves forward and falls onto the cushion next to him. They sit parallel; Eddie curls up one leg and unfurls the other, crowding Steve against the armrest with his knee. Steve doesn't seem to mind. “What a hero.” And Steve’s looking at him, and he’s sweating, so he asks, “Hey, do you wanna watch a movie, or something? You’re wide awake, man. Never seen you so wired.”

Steve goes from calm to skeptical real quick, glancing between Eddie’s face and twitching hands. “I’m wired?”

Which is fair. Eddie opens his mouth, closes it, repeats the process a few times. Grabs a chunk of his hair and twirls it about his hand aimlessly, between his fingers and around his palm. Shrugs and grins helplessly. “I’ve got Elm Street on tape.”

“I know, I rented it to you,” Steve says, before catching himself. “Hey, wait, no, I don’t wanna watch a movie. I came here for a tattoo, remember?”

Eddie sighs, repositioning himself, leaning forward with his elbows on the cushion between his knees and his head in his hands. Steve makes a gap between his knees to maintain eye contact, which kinda makes Eddie feel like he’s in Steve’s lap, or just underneath Steve, which is. Cool. Totally doesn’t make him feel crazy, or anything.

Right, tattoo. The one Eddie told Robin he wouldn't do. Get your head in the game, Munson.

“Yeah, I remember,” he says, putting something smug in his voice in the hopes of gaining the upper hand. “Why, exactly, do you want a tattoo? Doesn’t it clash with your whole preppy jock thing?”

Rising to the bait as always, Steve levels him with a look. “Can’t be a jock if I don’t play on any teams, man. I think my image will survive one picture of a skull.”

Eddie hums, his eyes wandering down to Steve’s arms for a second, before he catches himself and squints. “Okay, sure. So. A skull?”

Steve nods decisively.

“… Why?”

And Steve just looks back at him for a moment, but Eddie sees the gears turning in his head. Sees him consider the question, really consider it, for a moment. Then he seems to decide on something, because he puts the rubix cube down on the floor and leans forward, too. “You have a skull. Can’t you give me the same one?”

Eddie's laugh comes out strangled, manic. "You can't get a skull just because I have one, Harrington. C'mon, think for yourself."

And then Steve - who is mostly sober, and definitely knows what he's doing - pouts at him. "You said it was cool that we matched, right? What's wrong with it now?"

Eddie inhales sharply through his teeth, the question throwing him off-kilter. "Wuh?"

Steve runs a hand through his hair (don't be jealous of his hand, Eddie Munson, don't even go there–) and looks frantically between Eddie and the wall behind him. True to form, the second Steve gets anxious, he starts babbling. "It's like - OK, man, you have to have noticed by now that you drive me kinda nuts, and that's happened to me before with other people but that was, like, high school shit, or Nancy, and it's been - I don't know, almost two years now? Since you died? And if you hadn't - if El had somehow lost her powers again, or if we left your body there for ten more minutes, you wouldn't be here, you'd be six feet under, and we'd never have had a chance to be - be like this, you know? Be how we are. And that's so fucking scary. Like, I can't imagine you not being around, not anymore. We match, Eds, and you're right, that's metal as hell. It's important to me that we match. You're, like," he stops to take a breath, and he beats at his chest lightly with one fist. "You're here, man, y'know?"

Eddie nods, numbly, because he knows. He knows.

"I get it if that's a bit… much? We're friends, not - we're not even dating, I just–"

Fuck it all, Eddie thinks. Fuck his whole life.

"And it's not like I'm getting your name on me or anything - I'm not insane - so I really don't know why you're making such a big deal out of thi–"

"Steve," Eddie interrupts, his throat dry. "Stop convincing me."

And then he's leaning in, and Steve leans forward a bit too, and just like that, there’s a kiss.

It’s awkward: Steve’s knees knock against Eddie’s own, and it pulls uncomfortably on Eddie’s back to lean forward like this, but Eddie’s too distracted to care, because Steve is nudging himself forward and putting his hands around Eddie’s face and, and, and. And suddenly Steve's putting his tongue in Eddie's mouth. Which is a bit much, honestly - tongue right out the gate, Jesus, Harrington - but Eddie just pulls back enough to de-escalate, not disconnecting but reaching his hands through Steve's hair (finally) and tugging lightly at the little ones by his neck to signal himto stay where he is but to slow the fuck down.

Steve apparently doesn't grasp the meaning, because he falls back, only staying in place because his hands have somehow landed around the small of Eddie's back. "Sorry," he blurts out, face scrunched up in embarrassment. "That was a lot, I'm usually better at–"

"You don't need a tattoo to keep me around, man," Eddie says, not wanting to hear whatever excuse Steve was about to pull out of his ass. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You don't need to - to kiss me either. I promise."

He's giving Steve an out, before he can even think about it. Giving Steve a chance to back out of this, to pat Eddie on the shoulder and say yeah, man, it's good to have you as a friend, and to put a respectable distance between them and ask for a beer. Normal bro things, instead of tender confessions and mouth-to-mouth contact. Because he knows what Steve meant just now - for all his lack of experience and self esteem, Eddie isn't stupid. He just thinks that Steve might be. Thinks he hasn't thought this through, doesn't really know what he's asking for.

They called Eddie much worse things than 'freak' in high school, after all. And beyond that - somehow, beyond that - Eddie's never been dating material. He's never been a boyfriend. And that was before he was - was this, a reanimated corpse, a melting pot of PTSD and panic, constantly fighting fits of fear. Waking up crying about visible intestines and I didn't run away this time and news reports about the 'Munson killings' and Chrissy's eyes exploding.

Steve has his fear, too. Keeps a nail-bat in his car and holds onto his loved ones tight enough to squeeze. Turns all of the plugs off in his room at night to avoid any flickering lights, leaves his house everyday to avoid any echoing silence. But it's different, with Eddie. He can't explain why, but it is, it's worse. Steve doesn't want that.

But, fuck it, if Steve went there, if they're doing feelings, he'll go there too. In for a pound. "Seriously, I'm dedicated. And I'm kiiinda obsessed with you," Eddie says, swaying his head, feeling like he's on another planet. "You could tell me to fuck off and die and I'd probably, like, make you a lunchbox."

"I wouldn't say that," Steve frowns.

Eddie shrugs. "I'll make you the lunchbox anyway. Don't sweat it."

"I wouldn't–" Steve repeats, looking between Eddie's eyes almost manically, his face still close enough to almost blur in Eddie's eyes. "Eddie, I wouldn't kiss you to keep you around, what the fuck? Why would I do that?"

Eddie feels his own hands tremble, resting on the sides of Steve's neck despite himself. It's so warm. He tips his head back, grinning at the ceiling. "I dunno, Harrington, why do you do anything? Why do you still look after those snotty kids? Why do you drive Robin fucking everywhere, and pay for Nancy's therapy?" Looking down again, he tilts his head. Sees the confusion and fond weight in Steve's eyes. Wonders if his own are too telling. "You care about people, man. You want us to be happy, it's what you're best at. And you know what would make me happy." He rolls his eyes at himself good-naturedly. "I'm hardly subtle."

He expects Steve to dismiss it, to laugh maybe, the way he always does when these truths about him are laid out plainly. He doesn't expect Steve's face to harden, his grip on Eddie's sides (his hands are on Eddie's bare stomach, oh God how did they get there–) to tighten, doesn't expect him to shake Eddie like he's trying to wake him up. "Yeah, duh, I want that, but that's not - I'm talking about you, dude. How I care about you specifically." He widens his eyes, looking at Eddie significantly. "I wouldn't kiss you if I didn't mean it. Why would you even… do you really think I'd do that?"

Fuck, fuck, he's hurt. Eddie hurt his feelings. He's fucking this up so badly.

"I just – that's not it, it's not you, I just…" Eddie trails off, his hands sliding off of Steve and hovering in the space between them. He turns a ring around his pinky, over and over and over again. The words are too big for his throat. "It's like. I'm - me, you know?"

"I know," Steve says, blunt, confused. "You're you. That's why I did it. That's what I'm trying to tell you."

Eddie makes a strangled little noise in the back of his throat. "But that's. I'm."

He doesn't know how to explain it.

Steve stares at him for another moment, waiting for words where there are none. Eddie doesn't know what he sees - doesn't want to know, really - but Steve must see something, because the irritation is melting away into something different, something softer. Something so sad in those big, droopy eyes of his.

"Man, Eddie…" he mutters, before pulling Eddie into a bone-crushing hug.

Eddie falls into it easily, slight shock rocking his body, suddenly surrounded by Steve - his hair tickling Eddie's cheek, his arms tucked securely around his back, his legs tangling with Eddie's own on the sofa. Eddie's heart is beating so violently he feels like it's about to fall out: he can feel Steve's doing the same.

"Y'know," Steve starts, and because this apparently wasn't already surreal enough, he says, "I knew who you were. In school."

Eddie splutters, his hands fluttering before linking at Steve's lower back, fiddling with the material of his shirt. "You - what? Really? Dude, you didn't look at me once. We never even shared a class."

"We did, though," Steve says, and Eddie can hear the smile playing on his lips. "Once. I sat in on Mr Bowler's US History class once, for some bullshit reason - I just remember I was told to, and I was pissed about it because it was supposed to be my free period and I didn't want anyone to see me, so I came in last and sat right at the back. And you were there. Right in front of me.

"And your hair - it was so distracting, man," Steve laughs, tucking his face slightly into said hair, the exhale ghosting the shell of Eddie's ear. "Like, you have so much of it. I lost most of that hour just wondering how soft it was."

He took a moment to clear his throat slightly. Eddie feels a slight tug at his scalp - Steve pulling lightly in a curl, turning it around his finger. "When the bell rang," he continues, "and you stood up to go, I got a look at your face. And your - the rest of you. And I thought, woah."

Eddie laughs. "Woah?"

"Woah," Steve repeats, humourless, like he's processing what he's about to say. "And then - then I saw you get stopped at the door. Some shitheads from the swim team." He swallows. "Shitheads I knew pretty well. They grabbed you and called you - well. They grabbed you, and you almost cracked your head on a desk. Bowler had to intervene."

Eddie remembers that class. He remembers this fight. He didn't know Steve had been there.

He doesn't say anything.

Steve seems to shake himself, injecting some good humour into his voice. "After that, I started noticing you around. I'd see you coming out of the library, or in the cafeteria, or in the gym or whatever, and I'd think, oh, the hair." Another pause. "The. The hot guy with the hair. I always wanted to talk to you. I just - you know what I was like, back then. I couldn't. I'm glad I didn't, I would have been an asshole to you."

Focusing on an exhale, Eddie hooks his chin over Steve's shoulder, closing his eyes. Tries to dismiss the vivid and realistic mental image of younger Steve calling him a slur, because that’s not real, but it could've been. Steve had been repressed, and caught in a horrible social circle, and mean. It could’ve been. "What are you getting at, man?"

Steve doesn't say anything for a few moments, simply rubbing a small circle into Eddie's shoulder blade. "I know you think there's something - wrong with you, or something. But there isn't. There isn't, Eddie. It’s everyone else.”

Eddie scoffs. Steve sways him slightly, insistent. “No, seriously, listen. The way people talk about you is sick. You aren’t a murderer, or a cultist, or any of that shit people used to push about you, and you - you are a freak, but it’s. Yknow, it’s a good thing. That's what we all love about you.”

He trails off slightly, grasping at words, and Eddie sniffles slightly. He’s not crying, but the possibility is there. “They’re right about me being a queer, too,” he says in the face of Steve’s silence. “Can’t forget that one.”

“As if I could,” Steve says, and Eddie giggles, weird and tired.

They stay silent for a while, simply holding each other, rocking slightly to a silent rhythm. The moment feels weighted - their conversation was too heavy to carry, too heavy to put down, and it had no real conclusion. It just hangs around them, and they bask in it. Some things aren’t meant to be fixed with a few words of comfort; they know this better than anyone.

Eddie turns his cheek against Steve’s shoulder, looking up at the side of Steve's face, at the redness on the shell of his ear. He wonders if Steve’s ever been called pretty before, sincerely, or if he’s always been handsome, and thinks it’s a shame if that’s the case.

Steve says, “So. About that skull.”

And Eddie just huffs a breath. “No, man. Rob would kill me.”

With a small shake of his head, Steve pulls back slightly - just enough to look Eddie in the eye. His arms snake away from Eddie’s sides and slide up Eddie’s face again, swiping a thumb across his cheek for no reason at all. He chews on his lip, and Eddie watches him do it. “… A small one? You can put it on my back, or something. Somewhere it won’t always show.”

Steve just keeps touching his face, and Eddie feels his resolve crumbling. He groans, letting his head fall back, and he sees Steve break out into a grin as he does. “You’re not letting this go, are you?”

“Nope.”

“You are such a shithead.”

“Yup.”

“Fine! Fine. I’ll give you the stupid skull,” he grumbles, trying to level Steve with a glare. It’s hard to hide a fondness so strong it feels like it’ll strangle you, when the person you’re hiding from is close enough to eat you whole. Which is something Steve looks like he wants to do, right now, and Eddie really can’t handle that, emotionally. “If Robin sees it, it’s your fault, ok? And I’m not doing it tonight. I have no fucking clue where the stuff is.”

Steve lights up like a fucking christmas tree.

“Really? Seriously?”

Fuck, Eddie couldn’t fight off this smile if he tried - Steve’s happiness is so goddamn infectious. Eddie feels like his entire body is made of bees. He nods a few times, bobbing his whole head like a little kid. “Really seriously. Come by on - you’re off work on Tuesday, right? Come over Tuesday, we can make a whole thing of it. You’ll have to put up with me prepping a character sheet, though. Don’t know how you’ll cope.”

Steve wrinkles his nose in distaste, but doesn’t stop smiling for even a second. “Ehh, I think I’ll survive.”

Distractingly, Steve is still fiddling with Eddie’s hair. “I might even get you to make one. Hey, do you think Henderson would have a complete meltdown if I got you to play DnD when he couldn’t? I think his whole worldview would crumble.”

His voice comes out slightly scratchy - tired and achingly fond. Steve just hums. “I wanna say something smart, but you could probably convince me to do anything right now. You could actually sacrifice me to the devil and I’d be, like, completely cool with it.”

Eddie feels - he doesn’t know. Eddie feels. “Don’t really trust your ability to come up with anything smart, anyway,” he croaks out, because it’s better than saying holy shit, what the hell, let’s move in together, you’re the most embarrassing person I’ve ever met, I am going to kiss you for the rest of my life.

It’s a wonder when Steve laughs, a deep full-bodied laugh, and scoots closer. At this point, he’s basically on Eddie’s lap, which is as overwhelming as it is grounding. “Man, shut the fuck up,” he says, and it sounds like a compliment. He goes quiet again, then, tilting Eddie’s face slightly every now and then to get a new angle to look at, putting Eddie where he wants him. Eddie lets him - just looks right back, running his hands up and down the sides of Steve’s shirt idly.

He doesn’t know what they're doing. It feels nice, though, so he doesn’t think to question it.

“Hey,” Steve says, voice quiet. The air around them feels strangely delicate. “Rob’s passed out in your room, right?”

Eddie nods, swallows, matches Steve’s volume. “Yeah.”

“So we’re gonna have to sleep out here.”

For a moment, Eddie doesn’t process it, until suddenly he thinks oh, and he grins. Jutting his chin forward slightly, he watches how Steve watches him move closer. He thinks about what Robin’s always told him - that Steve’s sensitive - and tries not to laugh about it in the guy’s face. Maybe she had a point. “‘We’, Stevie? That’s awfully presumptuous.”

Steve, to his credit, barely reacts. Just blinks, and says, deadpan, “Oh, you don’t sleep? That’s cool. I’ll take the couch, then.”

It’s funny. This is all so improbable, and insane, and funny. Eddie laughs, ducks his head, looks at Steve, laughs again. He can’t stop.

Steve just smiles down at him helplessly. “What? What’s so funny?”

Eddie forces his laughter to slow down, shaking his head, answering honestly before he can even consider teasing. “I just can’t believe you kissed me, man. That’s so fucking crazy. I gotta write about this in my diary.”

“Man, don't write about that one. I can do better. I wanna get it right with you,” Steve says, his tone low, so calm, and Eddie believes him. He sees it, now, in Steve - sees the attention, the admiration, the open-eyed curiosity and pure interest, all directed at him. At Eddie, of all people.

Sometimes, Eddie thinks he’s still dead. When the flashbacks get particularly rough, or he’s left alone for too long, or people ignore him on the street, he thinks that he’s a ghost, or stuck in some elaborate slow-burn version of hell. Sometimes he stares at his walls and waits for them to start melting. For a moment, here, in this moment, he thinks he might have died and gone up instead.

But he didn’t. Eddie was alive, and real, and Steve was real, on his lap, his face inches away and glowing.

Fuck, who would’ve thought?

But Steve isn’t done. He swipes a thumb across Eddie’s cheek again, this time grazing the corner of his lip. “Here's the plan. I’m gonna make out with you for, like, an hour. Or until we fall asleep. Whichever happens first. And then I’m gonna ask you out, if that's alright with you.”

Eddie’s chest feels like - like a pot of water, boiling on the stove. Like a lit cigarette. Like a burning building. It’s all he can do to bite back a grin.

“Where’re you gonna take me, Harrington? Dinner and a movie?”

“There something wrong with dinner and a movie?” Steve raises a brow, and Eddie almost gets distracted counting the wrinkles on his forehead.

“It’s a bit all-American for me, don'cha think? A bit too apple pie?"

Steve rolls his eyes, actually rolls them, exaggerating it to hell and back. "Ah, sorry. My bad. Forgot you're too special and unique for the most classic and romantic date idea in history."

“Aw. I bet you say that to all the—“ he starts, and doesn’t get the chance to finish, because he’s suddenly preoccupied. Steve, as always, is staying true to his word.

It’s warm and safe in the trailer, and the couch is soft, and the world outside is quiet enough to think that it’d stopped turning. They fall asleep after ten minutes.