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Fuck everything.

Steve stares out the front window of the auto shop as the storm that’s been threatening all day rips open and spills thunder and rain all over Hawkins.

He’s already cold and uncomfortably damp from walking to and from the nearest payphone in the misty drizzle that had started up that afternoon after his car had crapped out. He’d already pushed his luck with the bad-tempered tow truck driver just getting a lift back to the garage where his car is currently being held hostage.

(Okay, maybe not so much hostage, but they’d arrived at the shop just before it closed, and the mechanic had said he wouldn’t be able to look at the Beemer until tomorrow, which leaves Steve without a ride until morning, at the earliest, so it certainly feels like a hostage situation. He wonders vaguely how much he’s going to have to pay to spring his car).

He’d figured he’d at least be able to walk home from here, but in this? He'll be soaked in thirty seconds flat. The rain is torrential. There’s wind. There’s goddamn lightning.

Steve sighs, turning back to the mechanic who’s been loudly closing up shop behind him, clearly hoping he’ll get the hint and fuck off for the night. “Can I use your phone?”

The mechanic sighs right back, like Steve’s asked to borrow fifty bucks. “Yeah, but make it quick. I’m trying to get out of here.”

“You and me both,” Steve mutters, moving around the front desk and finding the phone where the mechanic points him, buried under a small hill of receipts.

He punches the number in without much input from his brain; it doesn’t even occur to him who he’s decided to call until the phone is already ringing.

“Hello? ”

“Eddie. Hey, it’s – uh, it’s Steve.”

"Steve,” Eddie says, and Steve can almost hear that teasing smile that Eddie only ever seems to point at him, “to what do I owe the pleasure? ”

“I kinda need a favor.” Steve holds back the instinctive grimace that wants to curl over his face at the admission; he hates asking for favors. “I’m at Larry’s Garage, on, uh–”

“10th Street,” the mechanic offers from the other side of the room, not even pretending he hasn’t been listening in.

“–10th Street. Do you think I could get a ride home? My car’s out of commission until tomorrow.”

“At least,” the mechanic says. Steve ignores him.

“Oh shit, yeah, sure. Lemme find a jacket and I can be there in, uh – fifteen? ” There’s a muted rustling in the background, and Steve can imagine Eddie stretching the phone cord to its limit and plucking over the coats hung by the door, trying to tug his own jacket out from underneath Wayne’s heavier work jacket.

“That would be great, thank you. I’ll meet you outside the garage–”

“Nah, kid, I can’t have you loitering around outside the shop after I close up,” the mechanic says quickly.

Steve holds in a reflexive eyeroll and leans around the desk to look out the front window of the shop. Just up the road, he can make out the neon blur of a convenience store through the sheets of rain.

“Scratch that, I’ll meet you at the gas station on 10th,” Steve says, raising his eyebrows at the mechanic, daring him to say anything else.

The mechanic goes back to straightening up the two magazines in the waiting area, as if he can’t still hear everything Steve’s saying.

“Sounds good. I’ll see you in a few,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, see you then.”

Steve hangs up and glances back outside, where the rain hasn’t let up even a bit. He pulls his collar up as he approaches the shop’s door, preparing to step out into the flood.

“Don’t suppose you have an umbrella I can borrow?” he asks the mechanic.

“Sorry, kid.” The mechanic shrugs.

“Figured. Thanks for your help,” Steve mutters as he heads out the door; the mechanic can take it as sincerely as he wants (it isn’t, very).

It’s just as unpleasant outside as Steve had expected it to be. He’s drenched by the time he’s crossed the street, the clinging October chill making the rain fall like needles against his skin as thunder echoes around him. He can’t help but duck at the next bright flash of lightning, as if he could somehow dodge the bolt if it was aiming for him, and practically sprints for the relative cover of the overhanging roof of the convenience store.

Steve catches himself on the front wall of the store as his sneakers slip on the watery pavement, then leans back against it to catch his breath. His jacket is every bit as wet as the rest of him, but he pulls it more tightly against himself for whatever warmth it’s worth and looks out into the rain to watch for Eddie’s van.

On even the best days, there’s a high chance of Eddie becoming distracted from whatever task  is in front of him—Steve’s learned to add twenty minutes of wiggle room on either side of whenever Eddie’s said he’ll be arriving—but when it’s really important, you can count on him.

Of course, Steve’s not really sure how important his getting a ride is; he hopes Eddie considers it at least a little bit of a pressing matter, considering the weather. But all the same, he braces himself against the biting wind and settles in for a wait, just in case.

Normally, he’s a fan of thunderstorms. From inside, the sound of rumbling thunder and the steady spatter of rain is soothing; from outside, though– Steve’s a little less fond. It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s getting dark, and he just wants to change into something dry and pass out.

It’s to his great relief, then (if not a little bit of guilty surprise), that Steve catches sight of Eddie’s van rolling into the parking lot after what has to have been less than fifteen minutes of waiting. Steve waves at him, as if the dark blot of his jacket could be missed against the pale brick of the convenience store, and Eddie pulls around to stop with a splash, his passenger side facing Steve.

Steve braces himself and ducks down for another dash through the rain, nearly braining himself on the van door as Eddie leans over to pop it open for him just as he reaches the vehicle. Grabbing the inside handle, Steve slings himself up into the van and pulls the door shut behind himself with a breathless laugh.

“Man, I am glad to see you,” Steve sighs, settling back against the seat with a shiver. “Thanks for coming so fast.”

“Jesus Christ, dude, you’re fucking soaked,” Eddie says in lieu of any proper greeting.

“Oh.” Steve looks down and realizes he’s dripping all over the seat of Eddie’s van. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t even–”

“No, it’s – just, why didn’t you wait inside, where it’s warm?” Eddie cuts in. “Or at least dry.”

Steve shrugs. “I didn’t wanna miss you if you pulled up and didn’t see me waiting.”

This answer is, apparently, not satisfying. Eddie frowns at Steve. “I am literally here to pick you up. If I didn’t see you outside, I would’ve parked and come in to find you. Or, y’know, at least laid on the horn until you came out.”

Yeah, that tracks. Steve shrugs again, turning away. “You’re already doing me a huge favor just coming out here, wasn’t gonna put you even further out of your way. I can clean the seat for you later, if that’s a problem.”

Eddie shakes his head, muttering something that Steve doesn’t quite catch; his hearing isn’t as good on his left side anymore, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d suspect Eddie of using that to his advantage.

When Eddie speaks again, he’s loud and clear, insisting, “Look, don’t worry about the damn seat, it’s seen way worse than this–”

“Oh, great.”

“–but at least get your jacket off. You’re gonna get hypothermia or something.”

“Yeah, I get that wearing wet, cold shit isn’t going to help anything,” Steve says; lifeguarding and minor first aid training hadn’t left him clueless, after all. “But I don’t exactly have any other options.”

“Uh- here.” Eddie contorts around his seat to reach into the cargo area of the van with a grunt before yanking forth a ball of black fabric, which he promptly tosses into Steve’s lap. “You can put this on, instead.”

It’s a sweatshirt, Steve realizes, as he pokes at it. A large, very soft sweatshirt that feels a lot warmer than anything Steve is currently wearing, which is the main reason he strips off his jacket without further complaint and struggles into the shirt in the limited space of the passenger seat. By the time he’s got it over his head and is shoving his damp hair back out of his eyes, Eddie is fiddling with the dials on the dashboard.

“The heating in this thing isn’t what it used to be, but, uh… we’ll give it a shot.” With a shrug, Eddie cranks the knob all the way to the right and slaps his hands back on the wheel. “Alright. Onward!”

He throws the van into gear and takes off at a speed that has the van’s engine whining at him while Steve grabs simultaneously for the door and the dashboard, trying to brace himself.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve snaps. “I should’ve called Nancy.”

Eddie laughs at him, but takes the turn out of the parking lot and onto the street at a much more reasonable speed.

In spite of the slapdash start, Eddie does drive at least a little more carefully than usual in deference to the fact that visibility is currently shit. (How much rain can clouds actually hold, anyway?) Steve’s always been a terrible passenger, but he allows himself to relax marginally into the seat and watch the waterlogged scenery of Hawkins pass them by as the last of the sunlight slips away.

“Hey, are you hungry?” Eddie asks after a few minutes.

Steve thinks about it for a moment, searching for the sensation under all the other bodily discomforts he’s currently experiencing. “Starving,” he finally decides.

“Well, it’s not much, but I was in the middle of a frozen pizza when you called. If you want to come over, we can heat that puppy back up, maybe watch a movie?” Eddie offers. “You can borrow something dry to wear.”

Half of the offer is lost on Steve when he realizes exactly what time it must be; most people would be eating dinner after six p.m.

“Shit, man, why didn’t you tell me you were eating? I could’ve waited,” Steve says.

“Seriously?” Eddie tosses him an incredulous look. “It’s pouring out. It’s cold. I wasn’t gonna make you wait. I can just heat the pizza back up!”

“You can heat me back up!” Steve shoots back, and Eddie snorts into a round of surprised laughter.

“What? ” he wheezes, looking back over at Steve until Steve shoves him to get his eyes back on the road.

“You know what I– I just mean that I wouldn’t have died if I’d had to wait an extra half hour, Jesus.” Steve rubs a hand over his face, hoping if he does it hard enough, that’ll account for whatever redness is currently rising in his cheeks. “I didn’t mean for you to put your shit on hold just to come get me, you know?”

“Okay,” Eddie says once he’s caught his breath, and he keeps his gaze on the road this time but reaches out with one hand to grope blindly until he can wrap his fingers around Steve’s wrist and squeeze. “Believe it or not, Steve, you actually rank a little higher on my list of priorities than frozen pizza.”

For a moment, Steve isn’t sure what to say. Eddie has the strange ability to make almost anything sound like either high praise or the worst insult, and somehow it feels like there’s more to his statement than a comparison between his dinner and Steve’s well-being.

“Oh.”

Eddie hums. “So, you wanna come over, or not?”

“Yeah. That sounds– that sounds good, but can you just–” with a small amount of regret, Steve pulls Eddie’s hand from his wrist and puts it back on the wheel. “Both hands, Munson.”

“Oh my god, you are such a backseat driver,” Eddie snickers.

“I am not, I just–”

“Actually the worst.”

“The road is half water right now, excuse me for–”

“Are you sure you don’t wanna drive instead?” Eddie asks, lifting both hands from the wheel and leaning back a little further in his seat.

“Eddie, oh my god–” Steve lunges to the side, reaching either for Eddie’s arm or the wheel, whichever he can grab first, but Eddie’s already got his grip back on the wheel, cackling as Steve shoves at him.

“Don’t push me, I’m driving right now,” Eddie admonishes him, exaggeratedly stern.

Steve rolls his eyes, muttering again, “Should’ve called Nancy.”

“Yeah, but you’d’ve had a much harder time fitting into Wheeler’s sweatshirt.”

Just for that, Steve refuses to relinquish the sweatshirt for the remainder of the night (not that Eddie tries particularly hard to get it back; instead, he gives Steve a pair of sweatpants to change into, just as soft and worn as the shirt, while he throws the pizza in the microwave).

The storm is still roiling overhead when they finish their movie, and it barely takes any convincing at all from Eddie to get Steve to stay the night.

Steve will have to get back to the garage in the morning somehow, after all, and Eddie can give him a ride. Staying with Eddie is far less of an imposition, Steve reasons, than asking him to drive back out to Steve’s place in the morning and drop him at the garage.

It just makes sense. Logically.

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The smell of grease and sugar hits Steve in the best way the moment they step into the diner, and he’s already willing to buy into Eddie’s insistence that he’ll love the food.

A greasy spoon diner tucked off the highway outside the city limits hadn’t been what Steve had been expecting when he’d offered to take Eddie to dinner—“Anywhere you want,”—in thanks for giving him a ride after his car had broken down, but he couldn’t say he was regretting following Eddie’s directions so far.

Of course, Eddie had tried to say that he didn’t need anything in return. He’d even tried to say that the entertainment of getting to watch Steve verbally eviscerate the mechanic who tried to bullshit him over the work his car needed had been payment enough – and look, it’s not like Steve doesn’t know how he can come across—clueless rich kid with a nice car that daddy bought him—but he takes great pride in keeping his car running on his own. The breakdown had been a fluke; Steve likes cars, knows cars, and hadn’t been able to hold in the tide of caustic sarcasm that boiled up when the mechanic tried to upsell him on things he knew damn well weren’t a problem. (Steve probably isn’t welcome at Larry’s Garage anymore, but that’s hardly a loss.)

Eddie had watched the entire thing with a look of delight that said the only thing he’d been missing was a bucket of popcorn.

All the same, Steve had insisted, and so here they are, sliding into booth seats sheathed in cracked, blue vinyl and smiling their thanks at the waitress who drops a couple of menus on the table between them.

“How did you even find this place?” Steve asks, eyeing the kitsch that lines the walls—state license plates, road signs, vintage advertisements, photos of people Steve has never heard of—and looking back to Eddie, who doesn’t quite fit in under all the fluorescent and neon in his patched vest and ripped jeans. “It’s like something out of time.”

“Yeah, I had some, uh, reservations when I first came in—table’s kinda sticky, by the way, look out for that—but this place sells the best damn food in fifty miles of Hawkins, I swear.” Eddie hasn’t even picked up his menu, presumably already set on his order. “I found it just driving around one night when I couldn’t sleep, figured ‘what the hell?’ and dropped in. Never regretted it, man.”

Steve opens his own menu—also slightly sticky; he does his best not to think about it—and flips through its offerings. It’s about what he expects: pictures of tall stacks of pancakes covered in maple syrup, generous amounts of bacon, oversized burgers with piles of fries, chicken fried steak liberally doused with country gravy – the best that diners have to offer.

He squashes down the part of his brain that used to worry so much about calories and weight classes and the lean figure he’d felt was important to keep (it’s a quiet voice now, thanks to time and his friends and the power of having much worse things to worry about, but it still likes to nag now and then), and instead looks at the picture of a couple of waffles smothered in fruit compote and whipped cream, reminded of El.

“I bet the kids would love it here,” he says.

“Hm. Probably, yeah,” Eddie says thoughtfully, leaning back and spreading his arms out over the top of the booth seat.

“Never thought about bringing them?” Steve asks, glancing up from the menu.

Eddie shrugs, letting his head fall back over the top of the seat. “Nope,” he drawls, sounding almost careless if you don’t know him well enough. “You’re the first person I’ve shared this top secret location with.”

“Oh.” Steve looks back down, clearing his throat. “Cool.”

He’s so busy internally smacking a hand to his forehead over the awkward way the word had tumbled out of his mouth that he nearly misses Eddie sitting back up with a sharp grin on his face.

“We’ll see if you survive the meal, and then we can consider bringing the horde,” Eddie says, and Steve snorts.

“Awesome. I’ve always wanted to be one of those birds they send into coalmines.”

Eddie barks out a laugh. “Nah, think of yourself as more of a royal poison taster. Very important job.”

“Oh, well, as long as it’s important.” Steve shakes his head, closing up the menu as he sees their waitress approach the table.

He orders a burger with a fried egg—he’s always wondered what the hell that’s about—and a side of fries; Eddie asks for the cinnamon raisin French toast and bacon with a side of peanut butter, of all things.

“What do you need peanut butter for?” Steve asks after the waitress has left with their orders.

“To put on the French toast,” Eddie says; the “obviously” is heavily implied.

“Uh huh…”

“Is that a hint of doubt I hear, Harrington?” Eddie asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Not doubting you,” Steve says with a smirk. “I’m judging you.”

Eddie gasps as if Steve’s just slapped him, smacking a hand over his heart in overblown shock. “ Judging me? You, with the fried egg on his burger over here?”

“Okay, at least that’s, like, a thing! People do that!” Steve insists. “I’ve never heard of anyone putting peanut butter on French toast.”

“You poor, deprived man.” Eddie shakes his head, clucking his tongue. “First of all, it’s cinnamon French toast. That’s what really makes it. Second, you’re just gonna have to try some, so you can appreciate my genius.”

“Uh, no, thanks. I’ll pass,” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No, I’m serious, man. Best thing you’ll ever put in your mouth, guaranteed.” Eddie claps his hand on the table in emphasis, entirely ignoring the way a few other guests turn their heads to eye him.

Steve can’t help but let the smirk on his face grow a little. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yes, actually, including that. And get your mind out of the gutter, Steven.”

“You first, Edward,” Steve shoots back, imitating Eddie’s tone. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

“Uh huh,” Eddie says flatly, the picture of disbelief.

“I’m actually allergic to peanuts, so I doubt if your weird peanut butter French toast would be the best thing I ever put in my mouth,” Steve says.

Eddie snorts, but he sobers a bit when Steve doesn’t start laughing with him.

“Wait, shit, seriously?”

“Yeah, man, since I was a kid.”

It isn’t something Steve particularly likes letting out; Robin is really the only person he’s told, and that had initially only been to get her to take over putting peanuts on the sundaes at Scoops, but he finds he doesn’t actually mind sharing the information with Eddie.

“How allergic?” Eddie asks.

“Eh… enough that we’d probably end up finishing dinner in the hospital cafeteria if I ate any,” Steve hedges.

(Enough that he should technically be carrying one of those allergy pens around with him, something that Robin gets on his case about every time they go out to eat, but sue him if he’d figured the Upside Down would finish him off before the peanuts got him.)

Eddie’s eyes go wide. “Oh, shit.”

“I mean, it’s not, like, that big a deal,” Steve tries to play it off, but he’s interrupted by the arrival of their meals.

The burger looks amazing, the fries are clearly fresh, and even Eddie’s French toast looks pretty damn good. Their waitress lays down an impressive arsenal of condiments, including a little side cup of peanut butter, before tucking her empty tray under her arm.

“You boys need anything else?” she asks.

“Actually, yeah, would you mind taking the peanut butter back?” Eddie nods to the cup, perfectly polite in his request. “I just remembered that I hate peanut butter.”

“Did you, now?” the waitress asks, one brow raised in wry amusement.

Steve rolls his eyes and pops a fry into his mouth.

“Definitely.” Eddie nods. “Peanuts are the Devil’s nuts, y’know.”

Steve nearly chokes as he inhales his fry on the laugh Eddie startles out of him. He coughs, pounding a fist against his chest as both Eddie and the waitress turn to look at him.

“You okay over there, Steve?” Eddie asks; his face is impressively serious, but Steve can see the amusement bubbling up around his eyes.

“You–” Steve rasps, coughing again to clear the last of the potato from his airway, “you can keep the peanut butter, dude, it’s fine.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure peanuts are destroying the environment. Unsustainable farming techniques,” Eddie says, then looks back to the waitress. “But other than that, I think we’re in great shape, thank you.”

The waitress glances between the two of them before her face settles into the “I’m not being paid enough for this” expression common to all customer and food service workers, and she takes up the cup of peanut butter.

“Enjoy your meal,” she says, turning back towards the kitchen.

Steve shakes his head. “You seriously didn’t have to do that.”

“Dude, I’m not gonna keep something on the table that’ll put you in the hospital,” Eddie says, as if it’s an obvious choice.

“Well it’s not like you were gonna spread it all over my food,” Steve huffs. “I can’t sit here and ask you to give up something you want to eat just because I can’t have it.”

Eddie stares at him for a moment. “Well great, because you didn’t ask me to, I decided all by myself. Because, once again,” he pauses for dramatic effect, enunciating the next words carefully, “I don’t want to put you in the hospital.”

Steve tsks, sitting back further against the booth to cross his arms back over his chest. He doesn’t like people going out of their way for him, giving things up for him. It’s– it’s thoughtful of Eddie, but Steve doesn’t really know what to do with it.

“Y’know, it’s been years since I had to go to the ER about it, maybe I, like… outgrew it or something.”

“Steve, that’s not how food allergies work,” Eddie says, pinching at the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“How do you know?” Steve presses. “It’s my allergy. Or, uh – possible lack of allergy.”

It doesn’t seem like Eddie is going to dignify that with an answer beyond a quietly muttered “Jesus Christ” and a vicious bite of bacon, so Steve sticks another French fry in his mouth and chews moodily.

They sit in silence as Steve tries to figure out how to eat his burger without dribbling egg all over everything and as Eddie drowns his French toast in butter and syrup, and the food is good, but the atmosphere suddenly sucks. As much as Steve hates the idea of Eddie giving up something he wants just because Steve is there, he hates the sudden awkward silence even more. He reaches for something, anything, to break it.

“Are peanuts really ruining the environment?”

Eddie blinks over at him, a dripping hunk of French toast suspended on his fork two inches from his mouth. “Uhh.” He takes a second to take a bite, speaking briefly around his mouthful. “Fucked if I know. Was talking out my ass.”

Steve shakes his head, letting out a little huff of a laugh. “How do they even grow peanuts, anyway?” he wonders aloud. “Like, do they have orchards, or what?”

“Nah.” Eddie swallows his bite, shaking his head. “They grow under the ground, like potatoes.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Steve says, brows furrowed. “I thought they grew on trees.”

“Nope, straight out of the ground,” Eddie says.

“Trees do grow out of the ground,” Steve points out.

This time it’s Eddie who laughs, but he cedes the point. “Okay, you’re not wrong.”

“Anyway, nuts grow on trees. That’s how peanuts should grow,” Steve concludes.

“Yeah, but peanuts aren’t nuts,” Eddie says.

“Peanuts aren’t nuts? ” Steve parrots back, nearly offended on a number of levels. “Do you even hear how you sound? You just told the waitress that peanuts are the Devil’s nuts.”

He can’t keep a straight face through the entire sentence, and Eddie isn’t far behind him, both of them laughing breathlessly over the table like twelve-year-olds. Steve has no idea if Eddie is pulling his leg about the peanuts or not, but at least the awkward feeling has been shattered.

“Tell you what,” Eddie says on the tail of one last giggle, “we’ll ask Henderson when we get back to town. He probably knows about that shit.”

“Ugh, no thank you. I’d rather live in ignorance than deal with his I-told-you-so-Steve face,” Steve says, grabbing another French fry from his plate.

“Fair and relatable,” Eddie decides, his hand flashing out after Steve’s retreats to steal a fry from the dwindling pile.

Steve rolls his eyes but says nothing as Eddie pops it triumphantly into his mouth.

The rest of the meal is perfectly enjoyable.

Their waitress eventually comes to take their empty plates, promising to bring their check after they both groan and beg off dessert, and they each slouch back against their seats to wait, full and content.

“Hey,” Steve says, knocking against Eddie’s foot gently with his own, “thanks for this. It was good.”

Eddie shrugs, again pretending at carelessness even as a pleased smile curls up on his face. “Don’t thank me, man, you’re the one who’s paying.”

“No, like… thanks for sharing your top secret diner location,” Steve says.

“Oh. Yeah.” Eddie’s smile doesn’t fade a bit; if anything, he looks like he’s trying to stop it from growing. “Any time.”

“I might take you up on that,” Steve warns him. “I’m gonna want to come back, but I don’t think I’d come here by myself.”

This time it’s Eddie’s sneaker nudging at Steve’s beneath the table. “Any time,” Eddie says again.

Somehow, Steve doesn’t doubt that he means it.

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The doorbell is ringing, and Steve wants to die, actually.

The two aren’t really related, but the ringing of the doorbell isn’t helping.

He pushes his face back into his pillow and pulls another over his head, intent on ignoring the noise entirely. He isn’t expecting any deliveries, so it’s probably just someone trying to sell double glazing for the windows, or new siding for the house, or some take on God that’s so bad that they can only get followers by going door to door. Steve isn’t in the mood to answer any of that; he’s dizzy, he’s queasy, he’s got a fever, and his head fucking hurts.

Sinus infections are, without exaggeration, the literal worst. And Steve says this with the authority of someone who has been through some shit.

There is no possibility he’s just being dramatic because he doesn’t feel good.

He’s wondering if it’s worth sitting up to see if it’s time to take more decongestant when a thought occurs to him: what if it isn’t a door to door salesman?

What if it’s one of the kids? Or Nancy or Jonathan or – well, not Robin, she has a key, and she also knows he’s sick, but what about Eddie? Sure, they all usually call if they need him, or they radio if it’s an emergency, but it’s not like he’s really been with it today. He could’ve slept through the phone ringing, or the crackle of the walkie sitting on his bedside table half-buried in tissues. They might need help. It might be important.

Shit.

Steve drags himself from under his pillows and sits up, cocking his head to listen. The congestion is fucking with his hearing, and his left ear is almost entirely out, but he’s pretty sure the doorbell has stopped. He relaxes a little. Maybe it hadn’t been that important, after all.

Somebody starts banging on the door, and Steve groans.

Slithering out from beneath the blanket he probably shouldn’t have buried himself under in the first place, Steve stands, waits for the room to stop spinning, and heads for the door.

He runs one hand through his hair on reflex, trying to finger-comb it into something that might look less like a wreck, but he knows it’s a lost cause; it’s not like neat hair will offset his sweaty face or rumpled pajamas, anyway. Whoever’s at the door is just going to have to deal with Steve in all his infected glory.

It's not like he’d meant to let it get this bad; when the sinus headaches had started up, he’d thought they were migraines. The dizziness, the queasiness – these were all things he was used to from his usual headaches. Hell, he’d even gotten a runny nose from migraines before. It wasn’t until the fever and cough started up that he realized he may have miscalculated.

He’d tried to push through it with the power of Tylenol and determination, but Robin had taken one look at him when he’d tried to come in for work the day he’d taken a turn for the worse and had sent him packing with orders to go to the doctor “or else.” (Or else what had never been specified, but Steve fears Robin’s creativity enough that he hadn’t had to ask.)

The doctor had given him some kind of serious warning about flirting with pneumonia and sent him home with antibiotics and decongestants and orders not to go back to work until he’d been twenty-four hours without a fever.

And now there is someone at the door.

A very impatient someone.

“God, I’m coming,” Steve mutters as a second round of banging knocks starts up. “Jesus.”

He finally reaches the front door and yanks it open without really even thinking to check who’s on the other side first; if some shady government agent wants to take him out right now, they’re welcome to.

There’s no agent, though, nor even an exceptionally polite monster. It’s just Eddie, standing on his doorstep and blinking at him in surprise.

“Oh shit, you’re, like. Actually sick,” is the first thing Eddie says.

“What do you want,” Steve asks flatly.

Rearranging his surprise into a bright smile, Eddie holds up two shopping bags for Steve to see. “I come bearing gifts.”

Steve squints at him, uncertain of what’s going on right now. “Why?” he finally asks.

“Buckley called. Said you were dying and that you probably needed more tissues.” Eddie says, sidling into the entryway past Steve with his rustling shopping bags. “To be honest, I thought she was just being dramatic because she was bored while covering your shift, but you do, indeed, look like death warmed over. Looks like I got here just in time.”

Steve considers trying to get Eddie to leave, but now that he’s gotten through the door, it’s unlikely Steve will be able to get him out until he wants to go.

Besides, Robin had been right: Steve is running low on tissues.

“In time for what?” Steve asks, following Eddie as he shows himself to the kitchen.

“I didn’t just bring tissues, I brought all kinds of supplies,” Eddie says, dropping the bags on the kitchen island. “Soup, cough drops – y’know, sick person shit.”

As if set off by the mention of coughing, a tickle sets up in Steve’s throat that has him hacking into the crook of his elbow for a harsh minute. When he manages to look back up through watery eyes, Eddie is standing there looking mildly uncomfortable and offering him a bag of cough drops.

“Thanks,” Steve mutters, taking the bag. “You didn’t have to do all this, but – thanks.”

Eddie shrugs. “Figured you were here all by your lonesome, you might need some stuff. Or at least someone to make sure you don’t choke to death on your own snot.”

“Funny,” Steve grimaces. “Well, you came, you saw, you dropped off your care package, so you can report back to Robin that I’m not dead and get out of here.”

“Trying to get rid of me so soon, Harrington?” Eddie asks with a smirk.

“I’m…” Steve waves his hand vaguely, “releasing you of responsibility. Like, you don’t have to stick around.”

“I don’t really mind. I wasn’t doing anything else with my day, if you wanted some company,” Eddie says, and Steve shoots him a flat look.

“You don’t actually look like you really wanna be here, man,” Steve says, the last word catching and cracking on another round of coughing.

Steve braces himself on one of the counters when the coughing sets off the dizziness, and Eddie reaches out to steady him out of reflex, though he seems unsure if he should actually touch.

“I don’t actually have a lot of experience taking care of sick people,” Eddie admits once Steve’s steadied himself. “It’s always been just me and Wayne, and the man has an immune system like a tank. But I’m willing to try?”

Steve shakes his head, though he’s not quite saying no. “You’d be bored as hell, man, I’ve mostly just been blowing my nose and sleeping,” he says. “Boring and gross.”

“I’ve got shit I can do back in my van. I can keep myself busy. I really don’t mind staying,” Eddie says.

And Steve wants to believe him. He does. He wants to say yes, even. It sounds nice, having someone who might be willing to bring him Tylenol or a fresh glass of water, someone to talk to, or even just having someone nearby. He’s never really had that; even as a kid, his mom had made it clear that it was a huge imposition for her to cancel her plans and stay home with him when he’d been sick – and that’s exactly why he can’t quite accept.

He can’t bring himself to put that on Eddie, to be so needy as to make him cancel whatever plans he has for his day off.

Steve shakes his head again. “I don’t wanna put you out, it’s fine.”

“Steve,” Eddie sighs his name, sounds somehow exasperated and fond at once, “I wasn’t actually really planning to take ‘no’ for an answer. I was just asking to sound polite.”

Something in Steve’s chest loosens – not literally, he’s still congested as hell, but the feeling of the choice being taken out of his hands is somehow freeing.

“When have you ever cared about sounding polite?” Steve asks drily.

“You got me there,” Eddie says with a grin, coming forward to sling an arm over Steve’s shoulders and steer him out of the kitchen. “Come on, O Diseased One, let’s get you back to bed.”

“I’m not diseased,” Steve grumbles, even as he allows Eddie to prod him up the stairs. “’m not even contagious. Robin and the doctor are way too hyper.”

“Right,” Eddie drawls, bracing a hand in the middle of Steve’s back when he sways dizzily at the top of the stairs. “Because you definitely feel up to working right now.”

“Definitely,” Steve agrees, letting out another cough into the crook of his elbow.

The state of Steve’s room is some cause for embarrassment now that he’s seeing it through the eyes of a visitor; he hasn’t felt up to picking up over the last couple of days, and it’s overrun with used tissues, bottles and blister packs of pills, crumpled blankets, and abandoned cups of tea.

“Sorry,” Steve mutters, grabbing the overfull trash can and trying to cram more tissues into it, “wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

“Eh. Still looks better than my room on most days,” Eddie says, picking up a few empty water glasses and a mug.

“C’mon, man, you don’t have to do that. It’s my mess,” Steve says, putting down the trash can to reach for the glasses in Eddie’s hands.

“Up bup bup!” Eddie lifts the glasses above his head, as if he and Steve aren’t almost the same height. “You are sick! I am helping! You should be in bed.”

Steve levels an unimpressed look at him. “Really?”

“Yes, really. I’ll carry you there, man, don’t test me.” Eddie brandishes a mug at Steve. “I’m pretty sure I can take you when you’re this sick.”

The absolute only reason Steve actually turns back towards the bed is to clear away the thoughts that Eddie’s words conjure up for him (thoughts that veer far too close to the kinds of things he thinks about when he’s already in bed, all by himself, and not feeling like shit).

“Right. Mister Muscles over here. You’ll carry me a whole two feet to the bed,” Steve snarks, shoving the last of the tissues down into the bin.

“I’ll do it,” Eddie says; it might be mistaken for a threat if Steve couldn’t see the way he was trying not to laugh.

All the same, Steve sits down on the bed and spreads his arms demonstratively, raising his eyebrows as if to ask Eddie, Happy now?

“Thank you,” Eddie says, looking away to eye Steve’s small collection of mugs speculatively. “So do you want me to make some more tea? Or soup? Or, like… something?”

Steve’s stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of ingesting anything, and he shakes his head. “No, I’m good. Cleaning service is more than enough.”

Eddie hums but doesn’t argue and whisks all the glassware back downstairs, somehow managing to take the trash can with him. When he returns, the bin has been emptied and he pushes a fresh glass of water into Steve’s hands with the warning that he’d seen the antibiotics downstairs and “you are gonna have to eat something with those, you will appreciate my Campbell’s soup whether you like it or not,” at which Steve grimaces, takes one placating sip of water, and sits back against the pillows.

Eddie takes up residence in Steve’s desk chair after that, producing a book from somewhere, but Steve knows that chair isn’t comfortable—not much in his room is; it’s a shame his bed is in here, he probably wouldn’t stay in it otherwise—so he offers Eddie a seat on the bed.

Any awkwardness that might have otherwise been present is sanded off by his growing exhaustion and the return of his headache, and Eddie readily accepts (maybe he was really uncomfortable in that chair, or maybe—Steve can’t really quash the hopeful thought, the theme that’s been recurring lately when thinking about Eddie—maybe he just likes being closer to Steve), settling himself easily up against the headboard on Steve’s right.

They talk for a little bit about nothing at all as Steve slides further and further down against the pillows, his eyes drooping and responses becoming faint, but he’s unwilling to let the conversation go altogether. He likes hearing Eddie’s voice, likes the tangible proof of having someone nearby, and miraculously, Eddie seems to get it – he offers to read his book aloud.

“I mean, I’m right in the middle, so you’re not really going to know what’s going on,” Eddie warns, “but I’m not entirely convinced you know what’s going on right now, anyway.”

Steve hums, eyes already closed. “’m, like, five minutes from sleep. You’re gonna be more like a white noise machine.”

“Oh, flattering,” Eddie says, but he cracks the book open and starts to read.

He’s got a good voice for it—of course he does—and even though Steve really does have no fucking clue what’s going on in the story, he enjoys listening. He falls asleep feeling comforted by the sound, even as his sinuses pound along with the beat of his heart.

He wakes up feeling a little better – as if some of the pressure had drained away in his sleep.

Steve stretches a little and sits up, and immediately regrets it, because he realizes that’s exactly what’s happened: his sinuses definitely drained somewhere .

“Ah, he wakes,” Eddie says, somewhere to Steve’s right. “How’re you feeling?”

Swallowing thickly, Steve doesn’t answer, hoping that if he doesn’t open his mouth, he’ll be able to deny the mounting nausea in his throat.

“Steve?” Eddie asks, and the blankets rustle as he moves over to put a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Nope, it’s a lost cause.

Steve jerks out from under Eddie’s hand and lurches for the garbage can by the bed, grabbing it just in time to start gagging on all the mucus and bile his stomach no longer wants.

When he’s finally through, gasping for air over the bin, he feels disgusting; his eyes and nose are running, he’s sweatier than ever, and there’s a vile taste in his mouth. Above all that, though, is the sinking knowledge that Eddie will most definitely be leaving after this display.

If there’s one thing Eddie refuses to deal with, it’s vomiting.

(Steve had discovered this at the state fair a few months ago, when they’d driven the whole gaggle of kids up to let loose and have a good time. This had unfortunately resulted in Erica letting loose with her lunch after she’d followed the boys onto one of the whirling rides too soon after demanding her tithe of ice cream from Steve.

Eddie had immediately turned an alarming shade of green-tinged white and ducked behind Steve, giving him a sharp push in Erica’s direction.

“This one’s all you, Harrington,” he’d said quickly. “I don’t do puke.”

He’d promptly disappeared and hadn’t reemerged until a solid twenty minutes after Erica’s stomach had settled.

Steve is proud to say that there was only a moderate amount of teasing from him on the subject.)

It isn’t as though Eddie had been particularly prepared to deal with a sick person in the first place, so Steve won’t blame him at all for wanting to get the hell out of dodge at this point.

He is therefore surprised when a handful of tissues enters his field of vision, being offered up for him to grab. Almost on autopilot, Steve takes them, wiping his face before glancing over to where Eddie is hovering next to him. He’s greenish and grimacing, but definitely there.

“Get it all out?” Eddie asks, his voice a little watery.

Steve spits into the trash can with a wince and nods. “Think so,” he rasps. “You good?”

“Yeah. Yep! Fine. I’m fine,” Eddie says, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he is Steve. “Doing better than you, anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s not saying much,” Steve sighs, though he admittedly feels a bit better after having gotten some of that mess out of his system.

“No kidding,” Eddie says thickly.

Leaning over, Steve puts the trash can as far from the bed as he can reach, to be dealt with when he feels a little more grounded. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

Eddie shakes his head, not a negation so much as an effort to clear it. “I’m good,” he says, firmer this time. “Conquering my completely not-metal squeamishness over here. How’re you feeling?”

“Proud of you,” Steve decides, reaching over to pat Eddie lazily on the arm.

“That’s great, Steve.” Eddie cracks a goofy little smile at him. “But I meant with your mortal illness and all.”

“Oh.” Steve thinks on it for a moment; his head still hurts, he’s still congested, he still has the urge to cough, but mostly– “Feeling gross.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I’m gonna brush my teeth.”

With a minimal amount of wobbling, Steve gets himself upright and heads for the bathroom. He rinses his mouth and sets to thoroughly brushing his teeth before he can hear Eddie calling from over the rush of the faucet.

“Isn’t steam supposed to help with shit like congestion? What about a hot shower?”

And Steve is tired, and kind of lightheaded, and maybe a little high on just having Eddie here, so he doesn’t really think at all before he spits out a mouthful of toothpaste and calls back, “Are you offering?”

He’s rinsing his mouth again before he realizes that his quip has been met by nothing but a good thirty seconds of silence.

He then realizes that he’s just come on to Eddie. Like, blatantly. About five minutes after Eddie had seen him violently lose his metaphorical lunch, which is a move so classless that Steve is pretty sure he hadn’t even pulled it during the days when he still did keg stands at high school parties.

He pokes his head back out into the bedroom to see that Eddie is staring at him, looking… not disgusted, but a little startled.

Steve isn’t quite sure why it should be surprising – it’s not like Eddie doesn’t know Steve is into guys. It’s not like Eddie isn’t into guys. It’s not like they haven’t been circling whatever’s between them for months, constantly in each other’s orbit, but never quite meeting. Unless–

Unless Steve’s misread it.

Maybe that isn’t what they’ve been doing at all. Maybe when Eddie makes time to hang out with him, makes himself at home in Steve’s personal space, teases him and smiles at him in a way Steve thinks he doesn’t smile at anyone else – maybe that’s just what friendship with Eddie looks like. Maybe Steve’s read way too far into it.

He clears his throat. “I, uh. I didn’t mean–”

“Y’know,” Eddie cuts in, his expression shifting into something wry, teasing, “you could offer when you’re a little less…” he wiggles his fingers at Steve, “juicy.”

Steve’s face pinches in distaste. “Ew. Dude.”

Eddie shrugs unapologetically, and the smile on his face is so easy that Steve can’t help but relax. It isn’t rejection, it’s to be continued.

Later, when Steve doesn’t feel like death.

“A shower does sound good, though. I’m gonna do that,” he decides, moving to his dresser to pull out something fresh to change into.

“Cool. Take your time, I’ll clean up a little,” Eddie says, glancing at the garbage can, and Steve sighs.

“You really don’t have to–” He’s stopped short by the sharp look Eddie sends him, and he holds up his hands, full of pajamas, in surrender. “Okay. Thank you, then.”

The shower works wonders. Steve feels miles better just for being clean again, though he’s a bit baffled to step out into his bedroom to find it cleared and empty. Even the bed has been stripped. His pillows are gone.

“I don’t think being cooped up in this room is doing either of us any favors,” Eddie says, appearing in the doorway just as Steve is about to call for him. “Full offense, it’s like an optical illusion in here. Why are your curtains the same pattern as your wallpaper?”

“Ask my mom,” Steve says with a shrug.

“Sure, I’ll do that. In the meantime, we’re setting up camp in the living room. C’mon.” Eddie crooks a finger at Steve, gesturing for him to follow, and Steve does just that.

Downstairs, the couch has been set up with pillows and blankets, the coffee table overtaken by tissues and medication, a stack of VHS tapes waits by the TV, and the trashcan is nearby – emptied, because of course Eddie had taken care of even that.

Even if he knows the reaction he’s going to get, Steve can’t help but utter, “You really didn’t have to do all this, Eddie.”

Eddie shakes his head, walking over to flop down on the couch, one arm extended over the back and the rest of him sprawling like he belongs there (which– he does. He absolutely does). “But the point is that I wanted to,” he says.

Steve isn’t quite sure what to make of that, so he puts the thought away for now and joins Eddie on the couch. He doesn’t sit close, but he’s near enough for Eddie to lean forward and tug on his t-shirt, trying to pull Steve to his side.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, even as he allows himself to be repositioned beneath Eddie’s arm. “Apparently, I’m juicy.”

Eddie snorts. “As long as you don’t throw up on me, I’m pretty sure I’ll survive.”

“No promises,” Steve says, in spite of the fact the queasiness has mostly passed.

They sit for a while, flipping idly through what little daytime television has to offer, falling into a sleepy sort of quiet. Steve still aches, and he probably still has a bit of a low-grade fever simmering under his skin, and he knows Eddie is going to make him eat something later so he can take his meds.

Yet when Eddie turns to look at him after a bit and asks how he’s feeling, Steve just leans more heavily into Eddie’s side, letting his head drop onto Eddie’s shoulder, and answers, “Better.”

Chapter Text

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Eddie’s bed is fast becoming one of Steve’s favorite places to be.

Not even for the reasons you might think.

(Although yes. Also for sex reasons.)

It’s comfortable, is the thing. Eddie never makes it (insists he’s just going to unmake it again at the end of the day, so why bother?), and it’s covered in blankets acquired from places even he doesn’t remember, and Steve has been stabbed by a stray writing utensil or found a guitar pick stuck to his bare skin on more than one occasion, but it’s– it’s Eddie all over, and it’s perfect.

It matches the way he’s quickly made himself at home in his new room in the new, government-provided house he and Wayne now reside in (a sort of “sorry you almost took the fall for our mess and also almost died; our bad” consolation prize). The walls are already half-covered in posters and notes and drawings and photos, the floor is already cluttered, and the bed sits as a proud, debris-strewn nest off in one corner. It isn’t big or grand, but it’s home – far more like home than Steve’s ever managed to make his own house.

(The bed is, incidentally, where Steve and Eddie shared their first kiss.

A week or so after Steve’s sinuses had stopped trying to murder him and his respiratory system cleared up, Eddie had invited him over to the house, and then back into his room, where he’d actually picked up a bit, and had even made the bed. Steve had smirked at Eddie as he allowed himself to be led to sit on the end of it.

“I already know what a disaster your room is, Eddie,” he’d teased.

“Yeah, and it’s gonna be a disaster again, but this is, like,” Eddie had glanced around, motioning broadly, “a gesture.”

“A gesture.”

“A romantic one.”

“Cleaning your room is romantic?”

“Absolutely.”

Eddie had said it with such conviction, with such a ridiculous smile, that Steve hadn’t been able to do anything but kiss him. It had been quick and soft, a gentle starting point, and it had been followed by many, many more.)

The thing Steve really likes most about the bed, though—the thing he won’t say out loud, because it sounds sappy and stupid—is that when he’s in it, Eddie is too, and that’s really all Steve wants. He just wants to be near Eddie.

And he is, right now – curled up around Eddie in a tangle of limbs they’re not even slightly inclined to sort out, able to feel Eddie’s sleep-deepened breathing where his back is pressed to Steve’s chest, and Steve is about to follow him into dreams.

He’s safe and warm, in bed with Eddie.

And then he isn’t.

He’s on the floor, pinned down, and Hargrove is rearing up over him, face twisted in rage.

Hargrove is hitting him, again and again, but Steve isn’t losing consciousness this time. This time, he can still hear the kids yelling in the background, scared, screaming for Hargrove to stop, for Steve to get up, and fuck, Steve tries, he tries, but he can’t – and then it stops.

It goes quiet, and Hargrove leans in close, murmuring in his ear in a way that makes Steve shudder in revulsion, makes him want to writhe away, but all he can do is lie there as Hargrove asks him, “Who do you work for? ”

Steve’s mouth is dry and his tongue is thick as he tries to answer. “Scoops. I work for Scoops Ahoy.”

Hargrove pulls back, and his grin is a feral slash across his face. “Wrong answer, Harrington.”

Steve’s brain explodes in pain and terror, he tries to yell for Hargrove to stop, to get his arms up, to block the blows raining down on him, but he can’t, he’s tied up, tied down– but he can hear the kids again.

He can hear the kids shouting, and it sends a new shock of determination through him, because the kids shouldn’t be there, they shouldn’t, they aren’t safe and he needs to get them out.

Steve tries to heave himself up, swings back at Hargrove with every bit of strength he can muster, he thrashes against whatever’s got him tied, he moves, and the kids’ shouts have all melded together, calling his name.

“Steve! Steve! ”

Their voices shift, become one, become someone else’s voice entirely – someone familiar.

“Steve, wake the fuck up! ”

Something surprisingly soft smacks Steve in the chest and he finally, finally, shoots upward with a gasp, panting for air and glancing wildly around for assailants, for the kids, for– for– Where is he?

The room is dimly lit, warm and cluttered. He’s in a bed, utterly tangled in blankets. He’s clutching a pillow to his chest – is that what hit him? He shakes his head, trying to remember. He knows this place, he knows –

“Steve?”

The call is softer this time, tentative, and Steve whips around to see Eddie standing beside the bed, his pajamas skewed, his hair wild, his eyes wide with anxiety, and that’s when it all hits Steve (metaphorically, this time).

Fucking nightmares.

He’s in Eddie’s bed. He’s safe.

Steve slumps down a little, still panting like he’d just been running for his life, and Eddie relaxes a little bit, too.

“Back with me?” Eddie asks, and Steve nods.

Eddie puts one tentative knee on the edge of the bed but moves no further.

“Can I – is it okay if I touch you?” he asks, and all at once Steve feels ashamed.

He and Eddie haven’t been sharing a bed for very long; this part is still pretty new for them, and Steve isn’t even here every night. He hasn’t had such a violent nightmare in front of Eddie before – hadn’t even considered that he might, and now he feels ashamed and stupid, because of course this would happen, and of course it would freak Eddie out.

Steve pushes the feelings down and tries to give Eddie a reassuring smile as he reaches out for him, tries to hide the fact that his hand—that all of him—is trembling. He gets the feeling the smile falls short.

Still, Eddie takes his hand and gets back onto the bed. “Had me a little worried there, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says; his voice comes out hoarse, and he wonders if he was shouting.

“You don’t need to be sorry.” Eddie shakes his head, reaching for Steve’s other hand and stroking his thumbs over Steve’s wrists. “I get it. Fucking nightmares, man.”

“Fucking nightmares,” Steve echoes, looking down to where Eddie’s hands are wrapped around his own.

“Did you wanna… tell me about it? You don’t have to, but it looked like a fucking doozy,” Eddie says. “You were swinging pretty hard.”

Cold fear seizes up in Steve’s chest, and his eyes snap up to Eddie’s face, searching frantically.

“Oh god,” he utters, yanking free of Eddie’s grasp so he can reach up and push Eddie’s hair out of the way, get a better look at him in the dull light. “Oh fuck, I didn’t – Eddie, did I hit – did I hurt you ?”

“No! Nonono, hey,” Eddie babbles, reaching up to still Steve’s frantic hands. “I was already awake when you got to that point, I got out of the way fast, you didn’t hurt me, Steve. I’m okay.”

“But I could’ve,” Steve rasps.

There’s no way to hide the way he’s shaking, not with his hands cupping Eddie’s face, but he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“But you didn’t,” Eddie says firmly. “This may surprise you, but I’m actually pretty good at dodging hits.”

He’s trying for levity, putting a little dry humor into his voice, but somehow it only makes Steve feel worse – that he might be one more thing Eddie needs to worry about dodging. He can’t say anything in response to that, but the look on his face must say it all, because Eddie’s own expression falls, and then he’s reaching for Steve.

“C’mere,” he says, putting his hands on Steve’s shoulders and tugging. “Come over here.”

When Steve doesn’t move fast enough, Eddie meets him halfway, scootching across the mattress and pulling Steve to his chest, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close.

Steve’s own arms close automatically around Eddie’s waist, as if that’s where they’re always supposed to be, and he can smell the ghost of Eddie’s shampoo as his hair tickles Steve’s nose.

“I’m okay,” Eddie says quietly, his voice low and rumbling from his chest and into Steve’s. “You’re okay.”

The icy fear still clinging to Steve’s ribs begins to melt, leaving him feeling wobbly, leaving his eyes wet, leaving an undeniable shortness of breath that Steve instinctively tries to hide by burying his face in Eddie’s shoulder, even though that probably just makes it more obvious.

Steve has never broken easy, but one of the few times he ever lets himself cry is after nightmares – after the bad ones, when he’s still half asleep and terrified and he hasn’t been able to build his walls back up. It’s then and only then that he allows the sobbing and trembling and uncontrollable tears.

He’s never done it in front of anyone before.

His parents had discouraged crying when he was a kid, so Steve had learned to do it quietly. Then, as he’d gotten older and had gone through school, he’d learned that crying in front of anyone was social suicide, so Steve had learned not to do it at all.

But Eddie just holds him. He pets Steve’s hair, and he rocks a little bit, and he makes soothing noises that might actually be words, but Steve is too far gone to hear them. He isn’t trying to push Steve away, isn’t telling him to man the fuck up, isn’t acting like it’s a huge imposition – and for some reason that makes Steve cry harder. It’s a vicious fucking cycle.

Eventually, though, his energy wanes. His tears run dry and there’s an ache setting up behind his eyes and he feels absolutely scraped hollow. But even now that he’s stopped actively crying, Eddie still doesn’t push him away.

He keeps holding him close, and turns his head to press a kiss to Steve’s temple. “Okay?” Eddie murmurs there, against his skin.

For all Eddie had been entirely unprepared to deal with a sick person, he’s doing pretty damn well with a distressed one.

“You’re good at this,” Steve finds himself saying, half-mumbled against Eddie’s collarbone.

“At what?” Eddie asks.

“This,” Steve pulls back with a pitiful sort of sniffle, wants to die a little but holds the urge in, gesturing between himself and Eddie instead. “Comforting.”

(And he is, really, now that Steve thinks on it. Eddie isn’t always the most aware of his surroundings, or even of the people near him when he gets wrapped up in something, but when he is paying attention, he always seems to know just how to put someone at ease.)

Eddie reaches back towards his bedside table and nabs a few tissues to offer to Steve, smirking as he does so. “Hmm. Maybe I can rebrand myself. Cross off the ‘drug’ part on all my business cards and change it so it says ‘Eddie Munson: Hug Dealer’.” He holds his hands up in front of him, fingers posed in a little rectangle. “What do you think?”

Steve coughs out a watery laugh, still trying to mop his face up. “You’re a fucking dork.”

“I’m workshopping it, gimme a break,” Eddie says.

“You don’t even have business cards.”

“Well I’ll have to get some printed, then. I think you’re onto something here.”

Shaking his head, Steve looks down at his hands, nervously wadding the tissues up in his palm. “I, uh– I’m sorry about– all that, I just–”

“No. Come on, no.” Eddie reaches out, curling his fingers lightly back around Steve’s wrists. “I told you, you don’t need to be sorry.”

Steve shrugs. “Well… well, thank you.” He pulls gently out from Eddie’s hold for a second time. “I guess I should get going.”

“What?” Eddie blurts, twisting around to glance at the clock and then turning back to Steve. “Steve, it’s, like, two in the fucking morning. Where the hell are you going?”

“Uh.” Steve freezes in his efforts to extricate himself from Eddie’s many blankets; he hadn’t expected such a vehement response. “Home, I guess? I dunno, I just really don’t think I’m going to get any more sleep tonight, and I don’t want to keep you awake, so… y’know, I figured I’d go.”

“Ha. No.” Eddie grabs Steve’s forearm, tugging him off balance and making him sit back down fully on the bed. “You think I’d even be able to get back to sleep, knowing you’re out there alone and upset?”

“I’m not–” Steve starts to scoff, but stops at the sharp look Eddie sends him. He sighs. “Look, I’ve already fucked up your night enough, I just don’t want to make it worse.”

“’Worse’ would be if you left,” Eddie says. “Is it really that hard to believe that I want to be here for you?”

“No,” Steve says immediately. “Of course not, I just… I don’t know.”

“Steve, you put up with every single post-nightmare call I throw at you. You stay on the line with me until I feel like I can get back to sleep. You have literally woken from a dead sleep and gotten your ass into your car and driven over here in the middle of the night because I didn’t want to be alone,” Eddie says. “Why can’t I do that for you?”

It’s not like Steve doesn’t know what a colossal double standard it sounds like, that he’s allowed to comfort people but they aren’t allowed to comfort him, but he also doesn’t know how to explain to Eddie that none of that is purely selfless. Every time Eddie has called him, anxious, upset after a nightmare, wanting for company, something in Steve’s own brain has shifted, pushing him to stay on the line for as long as possible so he can hear Eddie’s voice – or, even better, just go to wherever Eddie is so he can see for himself that he’s okay.

And when Eddie tells him about his nightmares—about Chrissy, about the bats, about the mob out for his blood—it makes Steve shake with fear and anger, thinking about how close he came to losing this brilliant person. How close he came to not having this.

Sometimes Steve can’t settle until he’s had Eddie in his arms, solid and breathing and real against him, warm and close.

So the way Steve sees it, it’s pretty damn selfish, sitting up with Eddie whenever he calls.

He just doesn’t want to tell Eddie that.

“Stay, Steve,” Eddie says, breaking into Steve’s thoughts. “Please.”

If there’s a way to say no to Eddie when he looks at Steve like that, Steve hasn’t found it yet, so he nods.

(He thinks to himself that maybe it would be selfish to leave Eddie now. Maybe Eddie’s still a little shaken, too, and he wants the familiar comfort of Steve by his side. Steve can sympathize.)

“Okay,” Steve sighs, shuffling up to sit against the pillows. “So what do you usually do when you can’t sleep?”

“Call you,” Eddie retorts, sitting up next to Steve.

Steve snorts. “Besides that.”

Eddie shrugs. “I read. Play guitar if I’m really jittery – the acoustic,” he adds at the look Steve gives him. “Sometimes I’ll grab a notebook and see if I can get any work done on a campaign, or just do some writing.”

“Is that why I keep getting stabbed with pencils?” Steve asks.

“No, I put those there specifically to annoy you,” Eddie says dryly.

“I knew it ,” Steve declares, letting his head fall back against the pillows in false outrage. Beside him, he can hear Eddie snickering, and he lifts his head again. “Well, how about a book? I can read to you this time.”

“Yeah, sure, lemme, uh–” Eddie hops back out of bed, moving to the bookshelf Steve had helped him assemble when he’d first moved in, which had quickly grown crowded with books and papers, “lemme see what I’ve got.”

“Whatever you’re already reading is fine,” Steve says, but Eddie’s shaking his head.

“Nah, I want to start a new one with you,” he says, offhand, like the words don’t light Steve up from the inside. “Ah! Here we go.”

He pulls a thick book from the shelf and comes back to the bed, handing it to Steve for inspection.

Steve doesn’t know it by name, but he does recognize the author. He’s seen the kids toting around Stephen King books, has heard them talking about the twists and the bloody turns.

“Isn’t this horror?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow at Eddie.

Eddie raises one right back. “Were we planning to go back to sleep, anyway?”

Fair enough. Steve shrugs. “Alright, I guess.”

“Besides, I think you’ll like this one. Something about it might resonate,” Eddie says, and the sharp turn of his smile says he’s almost definitely poking fun at Steve.

“I can’t wait,” Steve deadpans, and Eddie’s smile rounds out into something a little more genuine.

He scoots into Steve’s side and lays his head on Steve’s shoulder, making a show of snuggling in. “Okay, I’m ready,” he declares. “Tell me a story.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, opening the book and flipping to the first page. He fumbles his way through the odd little poem at the start, appreciates that Eddie neither laughs nor tries to correct him, and it’s with relief that he moves on to the first line of the story.

“This is the story of a lover’s triangle, I suppose you’d say – Arnie Cunningham, Leigh Cabot, and, of course, Christine.”

Chapter Text

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No matter what anyone says, Steve does not hate metal music.

He doesn’t even dislike metal music. Prior to meeting Eddie, he hadn’t had strong feelings about it one way or the other. Now, after seeing how passionate Eddie is about it, how at home he is when he’s playing it, how he lights up every time he picks up his guitar – Steve actually has pretty positive feelings about it.

His brain, however.

His brain hates metal music.

It hates metal so much that apparently it’s trying to kill itself to get away from it. (At least, Steve assumes that’s why it feels like his forehead is about to explode.)

Or maybe his brain just hates being in an enclosed space while metal is being played live in front of Steve. Very loudly.

Considering prolonged loud noise is something Steve knows triggers his migraines, sitting in on one of Eddie’s band practices may not have been his wisest choice.

It’s just– the thing is, the rest of Corroded Coffin really hadn’t been sure about Steve at first. And that had been fair, Steve gets it; he hadn’t been a nice guy in high school, and even if he had never done anything directly to any of them, he’d probably stood by while his so-called friends had.

Not to mention they’re all a little wary of someone dropping by their practice sessions after Carver and his mini mob had crashed one of them. Also understandable.

When they’d finally softened up to the idea and Eddie had presented Steve with an invitation (seriously – a literal invitation, written on some lined paper in surprisingly nice cursive with a shitty felt-tip calligraphy pen; God, Steve loves this over-the-top nerd), Steve had unfortunately had to decline due to work.

He hadn’t been able to make it to the next one, either.

The third time, he could tell Eddie would probably stop asking if he said no again, so come hell or high water Steve had been determined to make it to watch the band practice.

So what if he’d woken the morning of feeling shaky and foggy? So what if muscle weakness and fatigue had set up in his limbs about halfway through the day? So what if his words had started stuttering and slurring about an hour before he was supposed to show up to practice?

That’s his own business.

He’d made it, he’s there, and that’s the important thing.

To Steve, showing his support for Eddie’s passion, maybe getting to know Eddie’s friends a bit – that’s important.

He wishes he could enjoy it a little more, sure, but maybe next time.

The only real problem is Eddie himself.

Steve had assumed that if he managed to keep a lid on the worst of his symptoms when he greeted Eddie and the other guys upon arriving at Gareth’s garage, he’d be in the clear. After that, Eddie would be too distracted by the music to notice if Steve wasn’t quite as present as usual, and it’d be fine.

By the odd looks Eddie keeps shooting Steve between songs, however, this may not be the case.

Maybe it’s Eddie’s uncanny ability to see through the people around him when he really takes a moment to look.

Maybe Steve just looks about as sick as feels.

Maybe it’s both.

Either way, when they stop for a break after forty-five minutes, Eddie approaches Steve where he sits on the ratty couch shoved up against the wall and sits next to him with a frown.

“You okay?”

“Mhm,” Steve hums an affirmative. Then he gets too fucking cocky and tries to say actual words. “’m ffffine.”

Eddie’s brows draw together in concern.

Goddamnit.

“You have a migraine.” It’s not a question.

“I’m okay,” Steve says, speaking slowly so his words come out clearly; it barely sounds less weird than the stuttery slurring, though. “It’s not so bad.”

“You’re pale as shit, Steve,” Eddie says. “I could tell from the other side of the garage that something was wrong.”

“It’sss not a big garage,” Steve tries to joke.

“Yeah, and it can’t be helping to sit in it while we’re wailing on guitars,” Eddie shoots back.

Steve’s not even sure why he’s trying to convince Eddie; the only person better at telling when he’s in monumental fucking pain is Robin, and that’s because they share a brain.

“I want to be here,” Steve says; he tries to sound serious, but it comes out a little petulant.

“I know you do,” Eddie says, pushing Steve’s bangs up and out of the way to press his hand against his forehead. “But I don’t want you to make yourself sick doing it.”

Steve sighs. He closes his eyes and leans into Eddie’s touch, the warmth of his palm a pleasant contrast to the chill of the early spring air. Finally, he nods and pulls away to stand.

“Okay. I’ll s-see you… after?” he offers, though he’s kind of hoping he’ll be asleep by the time Eddie finishes with practice.

“After what?” Eddie asks, staring up at Steve in confusion.

“After practice? Or did you not want me to go?” Steve feels like he’s missing something, thoughts moving sluggishly through the soupy mess his brain has become.

Eddie, on the other hand, suddenly seems to understand perfectly. “Oh, baby, if you think I’m letting you drive yourself home like this, you’ve got another thing coming.”

He stands up off the couch and, without pause, jams his hand into Steve’s front pocket.

“Hey!” Steve shouts in alarm, only to jerk and hiss at the bright throb of pain that blooms in his temples at the noise.

Eddie has the goddamn audacity to shush him as he withdraws Steve’s keys from his pocket and tucks them into his own. He leans up and pecks Steve on the forehead while he’s still bowed over in pain and then backs off.

“Let me just pack up my other baby, and then we’ll go,” he says.

A spike of panic jams itself into Steve’s chest, causing his breath to stutter. His leaving band practice early is one thing. Causing Eddie to leave band practice early is another, entirely unacceptable thing.

“No, Eddie, c’mon.” Steve reaches out for Eddie’s hand, but his reflexes are slow and his body is sluggish to respond and Eddie easily dances out of his reach.

“Nope, I’m getting my stuff,” Eddie says.

Steve huffs out a frustrated sigh. “You don’t have to leave just to drive me, okay? I can–” he thinks for a moment, grasping for a solution, “I-I can just take a nap in the car, where it’s quiet.”

Eddie ignores him, grabbing his guitar case and approaching his bandmates. “Hey, guys, Steve is sick. I’m ducking out early to take him home.”

The explosion of outrage that Steve expects—complaints, accusations, condemnations—never comes. In fact, all that does come out is a little laugh from Gareth, where he sits behind his drum kit.

“Oh, shit, I thought he just hated the music! He’s looked ready to pass out since we started.”

“And he’s ssstanding right here,” Steve can’t help but remind him, trying not to snap.

“Sorry, dude.” Gareth shrugs. “You do look like shit, though. Hope you feel better.”

The sentiment—mostly the “feel better” part—is echoed by Jeff and Oliver, and that seems to be that. Steve offers them an uncertain sort of thanks as Eddie ushers him toward the driveway, tossing a quick, “See you guys on Tuesday!” over his shoulder as he does.

Eddie gets his gear loaded into the back of the Beamer and then slides into the driver’s seat, leaving the passenger side to Steve, who is too busy stewing in his own anxiety to even properly cringe at the idea of Eddie driving his car.

The thing Steve really hates about migraines—more than the pre- and post-effects, more, even, than the pain—is that they make him feel unstable. Often, they send his anxiety through the roof, magnifying his fears and insecurities. Eddie has sat with him through more than one migraine-induced panic attack.

Eddie has sat through far more than that.

Steve can deal with the constant, low-level anxiety that has been his norm since November of ’83. He barely registers it anymore. But when it gets higher, his reaction is to reach for his tried-and-true line of defense: acting like a huge dick.

He’d spent most of high school clad in a protective armor of sarcastic comments and elitism and nasty, pointed remarks (Eddie isn’t the only one who can read people – but where he sees good things, things to encourage, Steve has always excelled at spotting weaknesses).

Acting like he’s above it all, like everything else is just an irritation, that’s always been Steve’s defense. He used to hate sitting through anxiety and migraines alone, because without a viable target, all that vitriol turns inward.

Now, though, when Eddie and Robin have both suffered through his bitchy comments and general foul moods, Steve sort of wishes he could go back to doing it alone. He wishes he was strong enough to tell them he could do it alone.

They don’t deserve that treatment.

(And Steve really doesn’t deserve them.)

Eddie must know Steve’s going to be impossible for the rest of the night, yet he’s just sitting there – driving, being so damn considerate.

He’s made sure the radio is turned down. He’s being quiet. He’s even making an effort to drive slowly.

Steve’s head is pounding, and the anxiety in his chest is writhing .

“Are you cold?” Eddie asks after several minutes of driving in silence; he hasn’t touched the heating knob, even though the car is chilly and he prefers it warm. “I know cold is better when your head hurts, but if it’s too much, we can turn on the heat.”

Steve snaps.

“Why aren’t you mad? ”

“About what? Your migraine?” Eddie glances over at Steve. “Oh, yeah, how dare you have a medical condition after getting multiple concussions while protecting literal children. You terrible person, you.”

“Fuck off, don’t try to make it s-sound heroic or some shit. It’s a fucking pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, fine, but it’s not your fault.”

“But it’s still happening, and because it is, you w-were forced to leave practice early, and–”

“Forced? I wasn’t forced, it was my decision.”

“D-didn’t seem like you thought you had much of a choice.”

They’ve reached Steve’s house now, and Eddie pulls into the driveway with far less care than he’s been using during the rest of the drive. He throws the car in park and turns to look at Steve.

“Why can’t I want to take care of you?” he demands. “Why is that not allowed?”

“Because I don’t understand why you want to!” Steve bursts out, loud in spite of the fact that even his fucking teeth hurt now. “It’s this huge burden! No one’s ever-r-really – not, not like you , and you just keep – you keep–”

“Steve, hey–”

Eddie’s concerned cut-in bounces right off of Steve as he pushes onwards, trying to get his point across even as the words tangle up in each other the faster he tries to shove them out.

“I make you miss shit, and do shit you hate and-and-and – and I–”

“Steve –”

“I– I don’t want you to make yourself unhappy b-because of me.”

Eddie reaches out and grabs Steve’s hands, uncurling them from the fists he hadn’t realized he’d clenched them into, and squeezes.

“I am not unhappy,” Eddie says firmly. “I am never unhappy when I’m with you, okay?”

When Steve looks up at Eddie, trying to read his face, he finds that his vision has gone so blurry that he panics for a moment, before realizing that his eyes have welled up with tears. It’s only partially from the pain.

(But it’s one hundred percent the migraine, he’s sure.)

“I really want to address some of the concerning shit you apparently have going on in your head, but maybe we can put a pin in it ‘til your brain’s not imploding,” Eddie says, reaching up with one hand to thumb the tears off Steve’s cheek. “For now, how about we get you to bed?”

Steve still doesn’t understand, not really, but he does know that Eddie is a great actor, but a shitty liar. Even in the midst of a blinding migraine Steve would be able to spot Eddie’s tells, and he hasn’t seen a single one – he says he’s not unhappy, and for some reason, he means it.

Anything else is too much for Steve to really think about right now, so he nods and begins to shuffle his way out of the car.

He’s a little surprised to find Eddie already waiting for him outside the passenger door by the time he manages to get out—christ, how slowly is he moving?—but he’s grateful for the steadying hand against his dizziness, even as he petulantly mutters, “I’m gonna throw up on you.”

Maybe Eddie can tell Steve is bluffing– maybe he can tell that the nausea hasn’t hit yet, and what Steve’s really feeling is raw and anxious and prickly, because all he says in return is, “Do your worst, Harrington.”

Steve does not throw up on Eddie, and they manage to get him into bed with an ice pack for his head with a sort of efficiency that is becoming smooth and practiced between them.

After the fit he just threw, Steve half expects Eddie to leave him to himself after getting him settled, but Eddie takes up the empty side of the bed just like always. There’s a pointed sort of stubbornness in the way he cracks open his book to read by the dim illumination of his tiny reading light, and he doesn’t offer to read aloud, but that’s fine; Steve’s not sure how he’d have reacted if Eddie had asked.

Instead, he listens to the soft turning of pages and to the rhythm of Eddie’s breathing, and he drifts, thinking about the question Eddie had asked him earlier.

Why can’t I want to take care of you?

Steve doesn’t know, but he wants to figure it out.

The space beside Steve is vacant when he wakes up, but the light coming through the crack in the curtains is still dawn-pale, and the sheets are crumpled and warm, so Eddie probably hasn’t gone far.

Steve takes a few minutes in the bathroom to try to feel a little fresher now that his migraine has mostly abated. He splashes some water on his face and runs a brush over the wreck of his hair and calls it good enough; a hot shower would be literally the best thing in the world at the moment, but Steve can’t quite muster the energy yet.

He pops a few Tylenol—they don’t help with the migraine, but they can soothe the sore muscles left in the aftermath—and heads downstairs.

Eddie is in the kitchen, pages from the Hawkins Post spread around him – shed in the effort to locate the crossword, Steve is sure. (Eddie can say whatever he likes about his grades, about having repeated senior year, but Steve thinks Eddie’s brain just works differently. He thinks sideways when other people are stuck in forward and back – and he’s great at crosswords.)

There’s a steaming cup of coffee beside Eddie, and Steve goes immediately to claim the remainder in the pot. Eddie waits until Steve has fixed his own cup and has sat up at the island across from him before he speaks.

“How’re you feeling?”

Steve takes stock: he’s got the usual migraine hangover—a small, residual headache; that strange, bleary, off-center feeling; exhaustion—but more than that, the outburst from yesterday is hanging over him.

“Kinda better. Kinda shitty,” Steve decides.

Eddie hums. “You hungry?”

“Not really, but I should probably eat, anyway. Haven’t had anything since…” Steve thinks over the past fuzzy twenty-four hours. He’d drifted for a while after he and Eddie had gotten back, before finally falling into a solid sleep sometime after dark. Everything about the evening is a bit nebulous. “…a while. What time did we get in yesterday?”

“About five.” Eddie shrugs.

Steve frowns. “Did you eat dinner at all?”

Eddie’s response to this, for some reason, is to laugh, just a fond breath of noise as he shakes his head.

“What?” Steve asks.

“You don’t remember?” Eddie raises his eyebrows at Steve, as if he’s trying to beam the memory to him.

And maybe it works, because the moment Steve opens his mouth to say he clearly doesn’t remember, the thought clicks into place.

Sometime during the swimmy part of the evening, Steve had rolled over and frowned up at Eddie for a bit, thinking.

“Time z’it?” Steve had mumbled.

“Like, eight, I think?” Eddie had answered with a glance towards Steve’s clock.

Steve had grumbled for a moment, thinking again. “You eat yet?”

Eddie had smiled over at him, shrugging. “I’m fine, Steve.”

“I’m fine, Steve,” Steve had insisted, then shook his head, trying to clear it. “’m fine, Eddie.” He’d reached over and given Eddie a shove then that hadn’t moved him in the slightest. “Go eat.”

Steve assumes he’d drifted back off after that, because he doesn’t remember much more than Eddie snorting at him in laughter.

“Well did you go eat?” Steve asks now, glancing Eddie over.

“Yes, mother, dear,” Eddie drawls, rolling his eyes. “I had a sandwich.”

“Oh, don’t start with that shit,” Steve groans, head dropping back in exasperation. “I’m nobody’s damn mother.”

It takes a moment, but when Eddie doesn’t take up the expected line of teasing, Steve looks back up to find him shaking his head.

“What?”

“I just… I don’t get it, I guess,” Eddie says, giving Steve a look that is at once fond and frustrated.

“Don’t get… what?” Steve feels like he’s treading dangerous water, though he’s not quite sure why.

“You do shit for me– for us all the damn time, you know that?” Eddie holds his hand up, shaking his head so hard his hair flies when Steve tries to protest. “No, you do. You give people rides and you feed us and you give us a place to crash, and you bitch and complain the whole time, yeah, but I know you love it. Why can’t anyone want to do the same for you?”

“That’s not– Eddie, that’s not anything special, that’s just basic shit,” Steve tries. “I can do it, so why wouldn’t I?”

“Right. Waking up to talk to me at whatever stupid hour when I have a nightmare is basic. And taking Henderson to a movie you know you won’t like because he’s having a bad day. And inviting Red over to help you cook dinner because her mom’s having trouble with the grocery bill and that’s the only way you know she won’t yell at you for trying to feed her.” Eddie ticks off on his fingers as he speaks. “Don’t try to argue with me, sweetheart, I know you. So why aren’t we allowed to do that shit for you?”

“Jesus, Eddie, you’re allowed, okay? I just–” Steve breaks off, trying to catch the tail ends of the thoughts he’d had between dips into sleep the previous night. “I don’t… I’m not used to being picked first.”

The quirk of Eddie’s eyebrows eloquently expresses how little sense that makes without context, and Steve shakes his head.

“Okay, yeah, no, you knew me in high school, you know I– I mean, yeah, I got picked first for teams in gym and I got invited to parties and I got dates, but that… that stuff was bullshit. When it really mattered, I just…” Steve leaves off with a harsh sigh. “No, y’know what, I’m being stupid. I just need to get over myself.”

“ No .” Eddie’s hand flashes out and grabs Steve’s where he’d been about to draw away from the island. “Finish what you were about to say.”

“What? You wanna listen while I sit here and throw myself a fucking pity party?” Steve snaps. “You want me to say that my dad has always made it perfectly clear that his work comes before me and my mom, and that my mom is– she’s always going to pick him over me? I mean, come on, I can’t bitch, they gave me everything, I get that.”

“I mean, not everything,” Eddie says, staring hard at Steve, who snorts.

“Yeah, okay. And then I can talk about all my great friends who dropped me the second I tried to stop being a shithead like them, and how the only people I really hung out with senior year were Nancy and a bunch of thirteen-year-olds. And Nancy–” Steve stalls out for a second, but pushes on. “Jonathan obviously would have been her first choice. And I– I get that, too. I’m grateful she gave me a second chance at all, but I just– and I dunno, man, even– even Dustin made it pretty fuckin’ clear I was his last choice for a monster hunting buddy, at first.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, low and a little hurt, and he’s let go of Steve’s hand now, but that’s because he’s getting up and coming around the island.

“But c’mon, we barely knew each other at the time, and it worked out fine. Great, actually. Hearing it at first kinda sucked, but that’s way past, and I told you I was being stupid, and I just–”

Steve finds himself being yanked down off of his stool and pulled into Eddie’s arms, where he lets himself wilt, wrung out but not quite out of words.

“I want to believe you when you do things for me, but I just keep wondering what the breaking point is gonna be,” he says quietly. “I’m going to ask for too much.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, clenching his hands into Steve’s t-shirt, “you haven’t asked for shit.”

A startled little laugh pushes up out of Steve’s chest, and Eddie pulls back to look at him.

“I’m serious! You have actively fought me every step of the way!” He sounds as amused as he does offended. “I want to do this shit for you. I seriously do.”

“You want to sit with me while I’m throwing up, or being a huge dick because I have a headache?” Steve raises one skeptical brow.

“If it means making sure you’re okay, then yeah!” Eddie reaches up, placing his hands on Steve’s shoulders, stroking his thumbs almost absently against the sides of Steve’s neck. “I just want you to be okay.”

The raw honesty that lives in Eddie’s eyes is lit by a tiny spark of desperation, the hint of a need to hold and be reassured of someone’s presence, to feel them solid and real after everything they’ve been through – and maybe Steve can understand Eddie’s motivations a little better than he’d realized.

Steve reaches up and takes Eddie’s hands to hold in his own. “I’m not… good at accepting things from people anymore,” he says haltingly; it might just be a statement of fact, but it might also be an apology.

“Yep, that is exceedingly obvious,” Eddie says, and Steve rolls his eyes. “But! I’m gonna be here right beside you until you figure it out again.”

“And what about after that?” Steve asks, squeezing Eddie’s hands.

Eddie squeezes back. “Oh, I’ll be there every minute after, too.” Stepping back in close, Eddie drapes his arms over Steve’s shoulders, promising him, “‘til you get sick of me.”

“Never,” Steve promises right back.

“Then we’re in agreement,” Eddie beams, leaning in to press his lips to Steve’s.

Eddie is smiling too much to really call it a kiss, but Steve leans into it anyway, wants Eddie closer, wants him like this and every other way he’ll let Steve have him.

And for the first time in a long time, Steve feels like it might—just maybe—be okay to ask.

Chapter Text

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It’s been a bad day.

Something’s had Steve’s subconscious in a bind all week (fucked if he even knows what at this point), and it’s been nothing but weird, anxious dreams at best and nightmares at worst.

The lack of sleep has kicked his brain in on the act and his hands have been shaky for the last couple of days, and a little jerky since this morning (it’s annoying, but it’s not such an uncommon symptom that it makes him worry; sometimes it means a migraine, sometimes it’s just… a thing. A thing that his body does now, after all the trauma he’s put it through. Just a thing).

He’d already been tired and on edge, and then the pool cleaners had called.

There’d been a family emergency, and they wouldn’t be able to make it out to do their regular maintenance this week, they hope Steve understands.

And Steve had said of course, no problem. Hope everything works out.

Except there had, actually, been a problem.

While Steve would have been perfectly happy to wash his hands of the pool entirely—fill it in with concrete or, even better, just have it all torn out and returned to dirt and grass and worms, like it had never been there at all—his parents still insist that it be ready for use at all times. And they are, of course, actually coming home sometime in the next week.

The pool cleaners are a little family-owned business; they’ve been taking care of the Harrington’s pool as long as Steve can remember, and they’re nice people. Steve isn’t about to let them face the blowback from one poorly-timed emergency just because he doesn’t like being in the pool. Or near it. Or looking at it, really.

He knows how to take care of the pool, after all.

So that’s exactly what he’d done.

It hadn’t taken long—routine maintenance: check the levels, check the chemicals, skim off some leaves and the larger dead bugs—but it had been long enough to throw Steve off.

Way back when, Steve had tried telling Nancy– he’d tried more than once to tell her that it hadn’t been her fault.

She hadn’t killed Barb.

She’d been young (young er . They were still so goddamn young when Steve really thought about it), and all she’d done was spend the night with a guy she liked. And somehow that meant she was responsible for her friend’s death at the jaws of an interdimensional monster that no one but a girl with literal superpowers had been able to kill?

No, no, Nancy hadn’t been responsible for it at all. She’d never been at fault.

(She’d never believed him, of course. She seems lighter now that she’s had the chance to shoot Vecna in the face, but he sees the guilt weigh on her sometimes still. Sometimes he worries that she’ll never let it go.)

But there are times when Steve looks out at the pool, when he can imagine Barb being snatched away by the Demogorgon, when he can imagine her body lying cold and alone in the bottom of the dried-out, ash-coated pool in the Upside Down (of all the times his imagination could pick to paint something so fucking vivid), and he can only think about what he could have done differently.

He didn’t have to push Barb to try shotgunning that beer – then she’d never have cut herself.

He could have been a better goddamn host and actually taken her to the first aid kit; he had minor first aid training, he’d have been able to wrap her hand properly – then maybe her blood would never have attracted the Demogorgon.

He could have let Nancy go with Barb when Barb had been worried. He could have walked Barb to her car because it had been dark, and he lives by the goddamn woods.

He could have, he could have, he could have.

But he hadn’t.

He hadn’t, and Barb had been murdered.

He winds up in his room that afternoon, curled up on his bed, back to the window, waiting for the sick anxiety in his stomach to ease, waiting for his hands to steady out again.

It’s getting late, and the shadows are lengthening, and Steve really doesn’t want to spend the night alone.

If he’s being honest, he just really wants to be with Eddie.

He twitches toward the phone before he reminds himself that the reason he’s not already with Eddie is that Eddie had had work this morning and had said that he’s going to take this afternoon and evening to plan the next leg of his D&D adventure– campaign. Whatever.

No distractions, he’d declared.

And Steve wants to respect that. He wants to give Eddie space when he needs it. And even though Eddie hadn’t called Steve a distraction, it just kind of felt like a given.

But–

But.

But Steve is having a really shitty day, and he doesn’t want to be alone, and Eddie has said—has said multiple times —that if Steve needs him, then he wants to be there.

Does this count as a need? Steve has no idea.

He picks up the phone and dials the number before he can rethink it.

It rings three, four, five times—Eddie’s probably up in his room, while the phone is all the way down in the living room—and then someone picks up.

“Y’ello? ”

The little smile that tugs across Steve’s face is reflexive, and he wonders if Eddie can hear it when he answers. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Steve! ” Well, Eddie doesn’t sound displeased to hear from him. “To what do I owe the pleasure? ”

Steve pauses, biting down on his tongue for just a second as he debates over how truthful to be. “I, uh. I know you’re doing your game plan thing tonight, but I was wondering if you’d wanna talk. For, like, just a bit.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” Eddie says, but some of the bravado has gone from his tone. “Are you okay? ”

“Just a bad day. I just really wanted to hear your voice,” Steve says.

“You know, you are among an elite few when you say that,” Eddie jokes. “You wanna tell me what’s been up with your day? ”

“It’s not important,” Steve says, then barrels on before Eddie can try to call bullshit on that. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“Like you said: coming up with my game plan, you goddamn sports nerd,” Eddie says, and Steve can’t help but laugh.

“Don’t call me that, that’s not a thing.”

“I’m making it a thing .”

“That’s never gonna catch on. It sounds ridiculous.”

“Nah, I think it really rolls off the tongue. Spoooorts neeeerd,” Eddie elongates the vowels obnoxiously, and Steve can just see him making a weird face as he does so. “Anyway, what level of distraction are we talking, here? You want broad strokes on the adventure, or do you want me to go into the intricacies of this awesome tavern I’m laying out? ”

Steve shoves his shoulder into his pillow, curling more tightly in on himself as he settles with the phone jammed right up to his ear, as if that will get Eddie closer to him somehow. “Tell me about the tavern.”

Eddie does not, as expected, launch into a grand verbal tour of his plans for the tavern that, if Steve has correctly interpreted Eddie’s past post-game rants, the party will either not appreciate at all or will break thoroughly. Instead, he’s silent for a moment, and then finally asks, “Do you want me to come over? ”

Steve sighs. “Eddie, this was supposed to be your night to yourself, I don’t–”

“I wouldn’t offer if I minded,” Eddie interjects. “Don’t act like it’s some hardship for me to spend some time with my boyfriend, sweetheart.”

The offer to drive to Eddie’s house instead sits on Steve’s tongue, but he swallows it back. It might be less of an imposition, but he’s exhausted, and his brain is fuzzy, and his hands are shaking pretty hard, and driving probably isn’t wise. (Yes, he’s driven in much, much worse condition, but those were extenuating circumstances. When he has the choice, he tries to be responsible.)

He grips the handset more tightly, trying to banish the tremble in his fingers, and nods. “If you don’t– yeah. If you don’t mind.”

“Give me twenty minutes.”

If Eddie asked, Steve would give him the moon. Twenty minutes is nothing. He gets up and heads downstairs to wait.

Since he likes to think he isn’t completely pathetic, he doesn’t wait around by the front door, but he does settle himself on the couch in the front room where he’ll be able to see any cars coming up to the house.

Steve remembers when he was a kid, when his parents had first decided he was “mature enough” to be left alone, he used to sit in the front room on nights when he couldn’t sleep, when the house felt like it was too hollow and too silent, and hope to see the headlights of his parents’ car pulling in even when he’d known they weren’t due back for days.

Eventually he’d broken himself of the habit; it would only make him feel emptier and angrier when no one drove up. It would only ache more.

The distinctive rumble of the old engine of Eddie’s van breaks Steve from his thoughts. A glance at his watch tells Steve it’s been nearly twenty minutes on the dot.

In spite of his own insistence that he wouldn’t be desperate enough to actually wait at the door, Steve is there to open it almost as soon as Eddie knocks. (And why doesn’t Eddie have a key? Steve should look into getting him a key cut. He belongs here as much as anyone.)

Eddie’s hands are on Steve almost as soon as he’s across the threshold, even before the door is shut, grounding Steve back in himself, giving him a point of focus that isn’t the depressing assortment of memories skewed across his house or his own swirling anxiety.

“You good?” Eddie asks, cupping Steve’s jaw and dragging his hands down his neck, his shoulders, his arms, before finally taking his hands.

Steve shivers under the touch. “Getting there.”

Eddie smiles at him. “What, just from little old me?”

He’s teasing, angling for something sarcastic and playful from Steve – trying to lighten the mood, Steve knows, but all Steve can really dredge up at the moment is sincerity.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Always you.”

Eddie’s grin falters, startled away, but then he leans in to press his lips to Steve’s. The kiss is warm and soft and lingering, and Steve feels a little dazed when they pull apart. He’s so off today, being so affected by just that little bit of contact, of affection.

“What do you need?” Eddie asks, his face still close to Steve’s.

“Just… talk to me?” Steve’s not actually sure if that will help, but he’s not sure what else would help, either. At least he likes the sound of Eddie’s voice. “About anything.”

“I brought my crap over, just in case,” Eddie says, shrugging one shoulder and drawing Steve’s attention to the backpack he’d missed when Eddie first came in. “You wanna hear about that sweet tavern live and in person?”

Steve huffs out a little laugh. “Sure.”

There had been a point in the not-so-distant past that Steve had only ever been a reluctant participant in conversations about D&D. He’d listen when Dustin and the others went on about it (usually just Dustin; he’s the only one who actually talked to Steve rather than roping him in as a consequence of merely being present), but there had always been a limit to his patience. With Eddie, though—as with many things—it’s different.

Eddie doesn’t talk to Steve about the mechanics as much as he does the adventure he’s crafting. With Eddie, it isn’t a math lesson Steve hasn’t studied for, or a strategic exercise he hadn’t asked to be a part of, it’s a story. It’s bright and engaging and it fills the space Eddie spills it into.

At least, it usually does.

Today, though – today, Steve still can’t focus. Even as he sits on the sofa across from Eddie and watches while he gestures wildly and spins up his tale, everything else is somehow louder.

Any noise that filters in from outside the house, any movement outside the window, any slippery new anxiety that slithers into the foreground of Steve’s consciousness – he can’t push any of it away. Even with Eddie right in front of him, Steve can still feel the crushing emptiness of the house around him, the feeling of the people who aren’t there, as if their lack is a physical presence, squeezing the air from the rooms until the house is gasping, until no one inside can breathe–

Steve can’t breathe.

He reaches up to claw at the bat tail wrapped around his throat, scrabbles at Vecna’s vines, and it hurts, and then something is grabbing his hands.

“Steve, hey, stop,” Eddie says firmly, and all at once Steve is back on the couch, Eddie staring at him with concern.

Steve sucks in a reedy breath. His throat aches. It does that sometimes. He hasn’t been able to figure out if it’s a real consequence of having been seriously choked twice in a twenty-four hour period with minimal medical attention, or if it’s all in his head, but mostly he figures it doesn’t matter. The end result is the same: sometimes it aches, and sometimes it still feels like something is squeezing and he can’t breathe, and sometimes he scratches his neck without realizing it, trying to dislodge whatever’s around his throat.

It’s usually not a huge issue, but the look on Eddie’s face tells Steve that he might not be able to brush it off this time. He pulls in another thin gasp of air, trying to push out some words.

Then, just as Eddie is opening his mouth—probably to ask what the hell is wrong with Steve—Steve finds his voice.

“Let’s get out of here,” he rasps.

Eddie blinks, going quiet for just a moment; it’s not a denial, he’s just changing gears. He blinks again and then stands from the couch, taking Steve with him since he’s still clutching Steve’s hands.

“Where do you want to go?”

It’s a fair question, but it isn’t so much that Steve wants to go anywhere, he just needs to be away from here.

Is there anywhere he wants to go?

“Somewhere I can fucking breathe,” he decides.

Eddie is thinking again, eyes narrowed as he stares right through Steve. Then he nods.

“I think I know a place.”

Hawkins isn’t tiny, but it isn’t big, either, and there aren’t many places around town that aren’t marred by the extradimensional terror of the last few years. They all have places they’d rather not set foot in.

Steve almost laughs, then, when Eddie drives them to the overlook of the quarry.

Most of the kids want nothing to do with this place ever again, and Steve can’t blame them. Seeing the body of your best friend dragged from the water—even if you later learned it had been fake—is some traumatic shit.

(And of course, there had been the other story – the one Dustin had told with a heavily faked sense of cheerful security—“Because El saved us, and it was badass”—about how a couple of bullies had forced Mike to jump over the edge or face the consequences in the form of a knife in Dustin’s mouth.

The entire thing had made Steve burn, had made him want to track down the little psychopaths who’d nearly committed murder and make sure they regretted it, kids or no – but the stronger urge had been to keep both Dustin and Mike in his sight at all times for the rest of the day, and that had been the one he’d given in to.)

Neither Steve nor Eddie had known the kids then, though, and the horror here is only secondhand, so Steve follows Eddie as he pulls a blanket from the back of the van and spreads it on the ground at a just-barely-reasonable distance from the edge. They sit themselves down, lean back on their hands, and look out over the water.

The sun is fully setting now, staining everything in purple and blue, like a steadily darkening bruise. There are stars just becoming visible in the darkest stretches of the sky, ready to take over when the sun has fully disappeared. The woods are rustling in the distance, moved by the evening breeze.

It’s actually beautiful.

“How’s the breathing coming along?” Eddie asks.

Steve takes a full breath in, holding it against the sore, tense muscles of his chest, then lets it out in a shaky exhale.

“Awesome,” Eddie says, and it sounds like he means it.

Sooner rather than later, Steve has to bow to the tremor still present in his hands and forearms and lean back on his elbows instead, which really just leads to him lying flat on his back, staring up at the sky.

Eddie follows him down.

“C’mere,” Eddie says after a moment, reaching out blindly and patting around until he finds Steve’s arm and tugs on it.

Steve scoots across the small space between them with a little laugh, moving until he’s pressed into Eddie’s side, still looking up but now with Eddie’s bicep pillowed beneath his head.

“Your arm’s gonna fall asleep.”

“An unavoidable misfortune. I don’t use that one for anything important anyways.”

Steve shakes his head but otherwise doesn’t move. He’ll listen to Eddie complain about pins and needles later if it means he can be close to him now. He pulls another breath in, letting the residue of the day—the nightmares, the weakness, the pool, the memories—begin to slough off.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, reaching over to pat Eddie somewhere on the chest, “finish telling me about your thing.”

“We don’t have to,” Eddie says. “I can work on it later.”

“No, I want to.” Steve frowns, turning his head to look at Eddie’s shadowed profile. “C’mon, you said it helps you work it out, to talk about it to someone. I want to listen.”

Now Eddie turns, catching Steve’s eyes in the low light. “Yeah?”

Steve picks himself up enough to lean over and kiss Eddie, pressing his certainty and his love to Eddie’s lips like a promise, like a seal.

“Yeah,” he says when he pulls away.

Eddie grins up at him, delighted in a way that makes Steve feel fuller just to see it, and he lays back down on Eddie’s outstretched arm, giving him his cue.

“Well, if you want to hear about it that badly,” Eddie drawls, and Steve rolls his eyes. “Okay, but I figure the tavern owner is gonna be into some shady shit, right? So…”

Steve lets Eddie’s voice wash over him, filling and settling the places that had only been churning anxiety before.

Eddie’s warmth at Steve’s side is solid and real, a reassuring constant that Steve, despite himself, is getting used to. Coming to rely on, even. When he turns away from the sky and lays half over Eddie, his ear pressed to Eddie’s chest, Eddie’s arm curls automatically around him, voice never skipping a beat, and Steve lets himself sink a little deeper.

Like this, it’s so easy to believe that Eddie will always make space for him – it’s so easy that Steve thinks he’ll take a little of that easy belief with him when they go home.

He thinks he’ll keep it inside himself and let it grow, until it’s the only thing he knows.

Lying here, seen and heard and loved, Steve really can’t imagine doing otherwise.